#but its wasting so many resources every time to make it

[chiquilines]

Horikoshi pick up the phone i just wanna talk peacefully about Momo's costume design

[mostlysignssomeportents]

MIT libraries are thriving without Elsevier

I'm coming to BURNING MAN! On TUESDAY (Aug 27) at 1PM, I'm giving a talk called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE!" at PALENQUE NORTE (7&E). On WEDNESDAY (Aug 28) at NOON, I'm doing a "Talking Caterpillar" Q&A at LIMINAL LABS (830&C).

Once you learn about the "collective action problem," you start seeing it everywhere. Democrats – including elected officials – all wanted Biden to step down, but none of them wanted to be the first one to take a firm stand, so for months, his campaign limped on: a collective action problem.

Patent trolls use bullshit patents to shake down small businesses, demanding "license fees" that are high, but much lower than the cost of challenging the patent and getting it revoked. Collectively, it would be much cheaper for all the victims to band together and hire a fancy law firm to invalidate the patent, but individually, it makes sense for them all to pay. A collective action problem:

https://locusmag.com/2013/11/cory-doctorow-collective-action/

Musicians get royally screwed by Spotify. Collectively, it would make sense for all of them to boycott the platform, which would bring it to its knees and either make it pay more or put it out of business. Individually, any musician who pulls out of Spotify disappears from the horizon of most music fans, so they all hang in – a collective action problem:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/21/off-the-menu/#universally-loathed

Same goes for the businesses that get fucked out of 30% of their app revenues by Apple and Google's mobile business. Without all those apps, Apple and Google wouldn't have a business, but any single app that pulls out commits commercial suicide, so they all hang in there, paying a 30% vig:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/15/private-law/#thirty-percent-vig

That's also the case with Amazon sellers, who get rooked for 45-51 cents out of every dollar in platform junk fees, and whose prize for succeeding despite this is to have their product cloned by Amazon, which underprices them because it doesn't have to pay a 51% rake on every sale. Without third-party sellers there'd be no Amazon, but it's impossible to get millions of sellers to all pull out at once, so the Bezos crime family scoops up half of the ecommerce economy in bullshit fees:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

This is why one definition of "corruption" is a system with "concentrated gains and diffuse losses." The company that dumps toxic waste in your water supply reaps all the profits of externalizing its waste disposal costs. The people it poisons each bear a fraction of the cost of being poisoned. The environmental criminal has a fat warchest of ill-gotten gains to use to bribe officials and pay fancy lawyers to defend it in court. Its victims are each struggling with the health effects of the crimes, and even without that, they can't possibly match the polluter's resources. Eventually, the polluter spends enough money to convince the Supreme Court to overturn "Chevron deference" and makes it effectively impossible to win the right to clean water and air (or a planet that's not on fire):

https://www.cfr.org/expert-brief/us-supreme-courts-chevron-deference-ruling-will-disrupt-climate-policy

Any time you encounter a shitty, outrageous racket that's stable over long timescales, chances are you're looking at a collective action problem. Certainly, that's the underlying pathology that preserves the scholarly publishing scam, which is one of the most grotesque, wasteful, disgusting frauds in our modern world (and that's saying something, because the field is crowded with many contenders).

Here's how the scholarly publishing scam works: academics do original scholarly research, funded by a mix of private grants, public funding, funding from their universities and other institutions, and private funds. These academics write up their funding and send it to a scholarly journal, usually one that's owned by a small number of firms that formed a scholarly publishing cartel by buying all the smaller publishers in a string of anticompetitive acquisitions. Then, other scholars review the submission, for free. More unpaid scholars do the work of editing the paper. The paper's author is sent a non-negotiable contract that requires them to permanently assign their copyright to the journal, again, for free. Finally, the paper is published, and the institution that paid the researcher to do the original research has to pay again – sometimes tens of thousands of dollars per year! – for the journal in which it appears.

The academic publishing cartel insists that the millions it extracts from academic institutions and the billions it reaps in profit are all in service to serving as neutral, rigorous gatekeepers who ensure that only the best scholarship makes it into print. This is flatly untrue. The "editorial process" the academic publishers take credit for is virtually nonexistent: almost everything they publish is virtually unchanged from the final submission format. They're not even typesetting the paper:

https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s00799-018-0234-1

The vetting process for peer-review is a joke. Literally: an Australian academic managed to get his dog appointed to the editorial boards of seven journals:

https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/olivia-doll-predatory-journals

Far from guarding scientific publishing from scams and nonsense, the major journal publishers have stood up entire divisions devoted to pay-to-publish junk science. Elsevier – the largest scholarly publisher – operated a business unit that offered to publish fake journals full of unreveiwed "advertorial" papers written by pharma companies, packaged to look like a real journal:

https://web.archive.org/web/20090504075453/http://blog.bioethics.net/2009/05/merck-makes-phony-peerreview-journal/

Naturally, academics and their institutions hate this system. Not only is it purely parasitic on their labor, it also serves as a massive brake on scholarly progress, by excluding independent researchers, academics at small institutions, and scholars living in the global south from accessing the work of their peers. The publishers enforce this exclusion without mercy or proportion. Take Diego Gomez, a Colombian Masters candidate who faced eight years in prison for accessing a single paywalled academic paper:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2014/07/colombian-student-faces-prison-charges-sharing-academic-article-online

And of course, there's Aaron Swartz, the young activist and Harvard-affiliated computer scientist who was hounded to death after he accessed – but did not publish – papers from MIT's JSTOR library. Aaron had permission to access these papers, but JSTOR, MIT, and the prosecutors Stephen Heymann and Carmen Ortiz argued that because he used a small computer program to access the papers (rather than clicking on each link by hand) he had committed 13 felonies. They threatened him with more than 30 years in prison, and drew out the proceedings until Aaron was out of funds. Aaron hanged himself in 2013:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aaron_Swartz

Academics know all this terrible stuff is going on, but they are trapped in a collective action problem. For an academic to advance in their field, they have to publish, and they have to get their work cited. Academics all try to publish in the big prestige journals – which also come with the highest price-tag for their institutions – because those are the journals other academics read, which means that getting published is top journal increases the likelihood that another academic will find and cite your work.

If academics could all agree to prioritize other journals for reading, then they could also prioritize other journals for submissions. If they could all prioritize other journals for submissions, they could all prioritize other journals for reading. Instead, they all hold one another hostage, through a wicked collective action problem that holds back science, starves their institutions of funding, and puts their colleagues at risk of imprisonment.

Despite this structural barrier, academics have fought tirelessly to escape the event horizon of scholarly publishing's monopoly black hole. They avidly supported "open access" publishers (most notably PLoS), and while these publishers carved out pockets for free-to-access, high quality work, the scholarly publishing cartel struck back with package deals that bundled their predatory "open access" journals in with their traditional journals. Academics had to pay twice for these journals: first, their institutions paid for the package that included them, then the scholars had to pay open access submission fees meant to cover the costs of editing, formatting, etc – all that stuff that basically doesn't exist.

Academics started putting "preprints" of their work on the web, and for a while, it looked like the big preprint archive sites could mount a credible challenge to the scholarly publishing cartel. So the cartel members bought the preprint sites, as when Elsevier bought out SSRN:

https://www.techdirt.com/2016/05/17/disappointing-elsevier-buys-open-access-academic-pre-publisher-ssrn/

Academics were elated in 2011, when Alexandra Elbakyan founded Sci-Hub, a shadow library that aims to make the entire corpus of scholarly work available without barrier, fear or favor:

https://sci-hub.ru/alexandra

Sci-Hub neutralized much of the collective action trap: once an article was available on Sci-Hub, it became much easier for other scholars to locate and cite, which reduced the case for paying for, or publishing in, the cartel's journals:

https://arxiv.org/pdf/2006.14979

The scholarly publishing cartel fought back viciously, suing Elbakyan and Sci-Hub for tens of millions of dollars. Elsevier targeted prepress sites like academia.edu with copyright threats, ordering them to remove scholarly papers that linked to Sci-Hub:

https://svpow.com/2013/12/06/elsevier-is-taking-down-papers-from-academia-edu/

This was extremely (if darkly) funny, because Elsevier's own publications are full of citations to Sci-Hub:

https://eve.gd/2019/08/03/elsevier-threatens-others-for-linking-to-sci-hub-but-does-it-itself/

Meanwhile, scholars kept the pressure up. Tens of thousands of scholars pledged to stop submitting their work to Elsevier:

http://thecostofknowledge.com/

Academics at the very tops of their fields publicly resigned from the editorial board of leading Elsevier journals, and published editorials calling the Elsevier model unethical:

https://www.theguardian.com/science/blog/2012/may/16/system-profit-access-research

And the New Scientist called the racket "indefensible," decrying the it as an industry that made restricting access to knowledge "more profitable than oil":

https://www.newscientist.com/article/mg24032052-900-time-to-break-academic-publishings-stranglehold-on-research/

But the real progress came when academics convinced their institutions, rather than one another, to do something about these predator publishers. First came funders, private and public, who announced that they would only fund open access work:

https://www.nature.com/articles/d41586-018-06178-7

Winning over major funders cleared the way for open access advocates worked both the supply-side and the buy-side. In 2019, the entire University of California system announced it would be cutting all of its Elsevier subscriptions:

https://www.science.org/content/article/university-california-boycotts-publishing-giant-elsevier-over-journal-costs-and-open

Emboldened by the UC system's principled action, MIT followed suit in 2020, announcing that it would no longer send $2m every year to Elsevier:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/12/digital-feudalism/#nerdfight

It's been four years since MIT's decision to boycott Elsevier, and things are going great. The open access consortium SPARC just published a stocktaking of MIT libraries without Elsevier:

https://sparcopen.org/our-work/big-deal-knowledge-base/unbundling-profiles/mit-libraries/

How are MIT's academics getting by without Elsevier in the stacks? Just fine. If someone at MIT needs access to an Elsevier paper, they can usually access it by asking the researchers to email it to them, or by downloading it from the researcher's site or a prepress archive. When that fails, there's interlibrary loan, whereby other libraries will send articles to MIT's libraries within a day or two. For more pressing needs, the library buys access to individual papers through an on-demand service.

This is how things were predicted to go. The libraries used their own circulation data and the webservice Unsub to figure out what they were likely to lose by dropping Elsevier – it wasn't much!

https://unsub.org/

The MIT story shows how to break a collective action problem – through collective action! Individual scholarly boycotts did little to hurt Elsevier. Large-scale organized boycotts raised awareness, but Elsevier trundled on. Sci-Hub scared the shit out of Elsevier and raised awareness even further, but Elsevier had untold millions to spend on a campaign of legal terror against Sci-Hub and Elbakyan. But all of that, combined with high-profile defections, made it impossible for the big institutions to ignore the issue, and the funders joined the fight. Once the funders were on-side, the academic institutions could be dragged into the fight, too.

Now, Elsevier – and the cartel – is in serious danger. Automated tools – like the Authors Alliance termination of transfer tool – lets academics get the copyright to their papers back from the big journals so they can make them open access:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/26/take-it-back/

Unimaginably vast indices of all scholarly publishing serve as important adjuncts to direct access shadow libraries like Sci-Hub:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/28/clintons-ghost/#cornucopia-concordance

Collective action problems are never easy to solve, but they're impossible to address through atomized, individual action. It's only when we act as a collective that we can defeat the corruption – the concentrated gains and diffuse losses – that allow greedy, unscrupulous corporations to steal from us, wreck our lives and even imprison us.

Community voting for SXSW is live! If you wanna hear RIDA QADRI and me talk about how GIG WORKERS can DISENSHITTIFY their jobs with INTEROPERABILITY, VOTE FOR THIS ONE!

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/16/the-public-sphere/#not-the-elsevier

[fiber-optic-alligator]

GOING TO TRY AND SLIP THIS IN REAL QUICK

Uh can I request some first contact au soft vore swindle (any) with a human he found maybe when humans first started getting taken?

It took me ten years and I am absolutely exhausted but HERE IS THE SWINDLE FIC!!! I, um, forgot to add vore, but there is an allusion to it, so I hope you'll still enjoy this! I'm so sorry it took me so long to write :(

How To Discover A New Species And Make Money Off Of It (Totally Ethical Strategies Which Break No Laws)

Pairing: Swindle x Human Reader (First Contact Au)

Word Count: 2462

Summary: After traveling to Earth on a mission to locate rumored Energon deposits, Swindle discovers a new species in which he quickly realizes he can make quite a big amount of money off of...and they are called humans. Capturing you and deciding you will be the ambassador of his newest endeavor, you have no choice but to let Swindle rope you into a twisted plan where he hopes to turn humans into the popular Cybertronian pets.

  The planet is a small, diminutive thing: a piece of space rock cast out into far reaches, reeking of organic growth that shows itself in shades of dark green, desolate brown, deep blue, and patches of puffy white swirling above everything else in the form of physical moisture. Its closest neighbors are all wastelands, either long abandoned by their inhabitants, or completely devoid of anything to begin with. Earth, as it is registered in Cybertron’s database, is the only planet in this backwater area of the galaxy to host life. It’s an insignificant sphere, circling an insignificant sun, in an insignificant solar system. No one would be caught here, simply because there is nothing to see.

  Yet, here Swindle is, doing just that. Staring out at the mud puddle planet, he wonders how he ever thought accepting a job here would turn out to be profitable. The talks of Energon deposits being found on Earth had been too much to ignore. Such claims are typically rumors started by mechs with far too much time on their servos: fables of the purest Energon ever discovered hiding deep beneath the soil of places such as this one. If he were younger, Swindle would have fallen for the stories on the spot. Many newbies do. They think they’re making it big, wasting energy blasting off to no-name systems, ready to pour their resources into expeditions that always yield no crop. Fads fade. Stories end. And Swindle is not new to his trade.

  He does his research. He interviews those he deems noteworthy. He takes notes. He’s careful. Ultimately, results prove Earth definitely has something. Energon? Eh, he’s not too sure. But his intel tells him it's something he can make shanix off of. A boon. A land mine of opportunity.

  So he’s taken the chance. But now that he’s here, with his ship gradually getting closer and closer to the planet, he’s beginning to believe his research might have yielded false information. Earth is looking far from profitable, and he can tell no Cybertronian faction has made contact with its surface yet. It surprises him; Autobots and Decepticons, despite their countless differences, are extremely good at the art of colonization, whether accidental or intentional. It seems like practically every planet in the universe has been touched by his species in one shape or form. But no such thing can be found here. His ship’s systems aren’t picking up on a single Cybertronian satellite or base. It might very well be possible that he is the first to ever lay optics upon Earth.

  This was a bad idea, he thinks. High chances will be that his search will bring up nothing. He could turn his ship around now and head off to places where his time will be better spent. He won’t regret it. Probably.

  He continues looking at Earth and vents a frustrated exhale through his intake. Whatever. He’s here anyway. Might as well take a look around.

  The forest his ship lands in has various creatures frantically darting out of harm’s way when it makes contact with the ground and stabilizes its support footing. With a hiss, the bay doors open, and he steps out slowly, his optics quickly adjusting to take in Earth’s light. It's all…very green. There’s a slight wind whistling between the leaves, making them rustle with a strange noise Swindle isn’t used to. He cringes and considers retreating back aboard the ship, then decides against it. His external diagnostics register no visible threats in the immediate area. He’ll be fine. After all, what organic would pick a fight with a giant alien robot such as himself?

  He types some instructions into his data pad. A panel opens on the side of the ship, and out comes a scouting drone, the perfect way for him to get a Seeker’s eye view of the terrain. “Alright,” he murmurs to himself. “Here we go. Let’s see what this planet is hiding.”

  The drone cycles and whirrs, then darts up into the air. Its video feed translates onto the data pad, giving him a clear aerial picture. At this vantage point, he can see that this forest he’s landed in stretches on for a long time. The drone picks up on various sorts of metals: his universal translation tool registers these as iron, copper, even gold. Sounds quite expensive, but they aren’t what he’s looking for. He types in a primary locating directive. Find Energon.

  A few cycles pass, and still, he locates nothing. Just more green and strange lifeforms he couldn’t care less about. Swindle grumbles and wishes he brought some drinks with him to pass the time. There definitely isn’t any Energon here, and that frustrates him beyond measure. But it is a big planet by organic standards…just because Energon isn’t in this immediate location doesn’t mean his search is a total loss. He worries at his lower derma in thought. Perhaps he should check the polar caps next…or maybe the equatorial region?

  Snap.

  His audial processors immediately pick up on the noise. Intrusion. Whipping around, he has his gun out in an instant, the barrel revving up with pulsing energy, eager to incinerate whatever is in its path.

  What stands before him-or below him-is a lifeform. A strange, fleshy being standing on two skinny legs with equally skinny arms. It stares up at him with big, alien eyes, and it’s flappy mouth parts in what he can only assume to be surprise. Swindle blinks, then slowly lowers the gun.

  “Well, well, well,” he says, snapping the weapon away and crouching down with a curious tilt of the helm. “What…are you?” All of the natives he's seen so far are either quadrupedal or avian. This animal is neither; it stands like he does, yet clearly displays the qualities of subpar intelligence. It hasn’t done a single thing so far. It’s just…there. Staring. Perhaps a fright response? Does it think he can’t see it because it’s so still?

  “You certainly aren’t Energon.” He clicks his derma, thinking. “But you are interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever seen something quite like you before.” He wonders, is it friendly? He does a quick scan and comes to the satisfying conclusion that the creature-you-doesn’t harbor any natural defenses against his kind. He could break you in half like a stick with little-to-no pressure required. He extends a servo, intending to be friendly.

  You finally snap into action and stumble back, letting out a yelp. He can’t help laughing when you fall over onto your aft, minuscule digits digging uselessly into the forest floor. Primus, you are pathetic. No claws, no antlers, no wings…what purpose do you serve for this planet? Your species definitely must be at critical risk of extinction.

  Yet…he feels his spark soften when he observes your trembling body and listens to your soft squeaks. You…you’re adorable. Swindle is a hardened soul, one who doesn’t fall for the idea of cute easily. Yet you’ve managed to make him want to say “Awww” after looking at you for less than five cycles. Is this your way of self-preservation? Can you somehow influence the feelings of others in order to escape danger?

  He wants to know more. He’s intrigued by you. Snapping his digits, he reaches forward. “C’mere, little thing. Let’s get a better look at you.”

  Your face contorts into an expression of pure panic, and you fumble away from his looming servo, a startled shriek leaving you. But unfortunately for you, he’s far too quick, and snatches you into a fist before your tiny brain can keep up with his movements. You immediately begin struggling, letting out these sharp squeaks and desperate chatters. Swindle sighs and gives you a very patient look. “Quit squirming, alright? I swear I’m not going to hurt you as long as you don’t hurt me. Though I’m guessing you probably can’t. You’re barely taller than my index digit. Why are you so small, huh?”

  He turns you over and observes you from every angle, being careful not to rough you up too much. You wear fabrics over your body and a weird sort of bag against your back. Swindle easily slips it off of you and holds it to one optic, scanning its inner contents. Just paper books and a weird ocular device. He snorts and throws it away, disinterested. You don’t seem to like this and begin pushing at his digits with a frantic desperation that has him chuckling.

  “That’s not going to do much for you.” He brings you closer to his face and inhales your scent. A pleasant, woodsy aroma that only seems to permeate from organics fills his olfactory sensors and makes him shiver with delight. “How wonderful. You smell amazing. Almost on par with Energon.”

  Oh. That reminds him. He’s here to find Energon, not ogle at weird little Earth creatures. He sighs and shifts you to his left servo so he can recall his drone. “Not much here to see besides you, pipsqueak,” he mutters as he watches the vessel speed back over to his ship and return to its charging panel. “Let’s go do some further exploring of this planet, alright? I think I’d like to hold onto you for a bit longer.” He smiles down at you. “You’re kind of cute. You don’t mind hanging out with good ol’ Swindle, do ya?”

  You certainly do mind, with the way you continue to wriggle around with your arms flailing. Scared squeaks turn into angry growls, with you narrowing your eyes and puffing up to express your indignation. He watches you, then revs his engine and bares his denta, growling back at you with such a loud rumble, it sends a frenzy of avians flapping from the tops of the trees.

  You snap your mouth shut and shrink back, any rebellious bravado previously displayed disappearing with the avians. Swindle grins satisfactorily. “You try and bite,” he says. “I bite back harder. Now be a good Earthling and enjoy the ride, alright? I’ll let you go once I’m bored of you.”

  He walks slowly, taking his time not to accidentally knock a tree over or step on an accidental organic. You are quiet and oddly still, except for your constant vibrations which almost have him feeling rather guilty for scaring you into submission…almost. Glancing down at you, he watches the way you lower your head to hide your face beneath the cover of your hair. Liquid drips down onto his digit.

  Ah. You’re leaking from your eyes. Crying. He didn’t know Earth animals could do that. He raises the end of his thumb and runs it lightly over your cheeks, wiping them away. “Don’t do that, little one, come on,” he says in the most soothing tone he can muster. “You don’t have to be scared of me. I’m just your friendly neighborhood salesbot, yeah? Just a guy trying to survive like every other punk in the universe. Why would I hurt you?”

  You sniffle and peer at him with those big, soulful eyes. And oh, now you’ve done it. You’ve struck an arrow straight into his spark. A soft gasp escapes him, and he tilts your head back further. “By Primus, I have never seen something as cute as you. So soft…so small…” He ruffles your hair and earns himself a chirp as you swat his digit away. “Ha, and feisty too. I wonder…just how much would a bot pay to buy you as a pet?”

  The gears begin turning. A new idea shows itself to Swindle as the prospect of a tantalizingly lucrative step into an industry he hasn’t bothered contemplating until now. Cybertronians, for all of their ingrained brutality, love pets. He thinks it's because his kind are so war-torn, so used to the bloody, the disgusting, the traumatic. So many veterans on all factional sides own cuddly therapy companions which aid them in their long road to recovery. Helio hamsters, cyber dogs and cats, even glitch mice and turbofoxes…not to mention various other non-Cybertronian native animals hailing from other planets across the cosmos. Yes, the pet trade for mechs is quite popular, and he knows it won’t lose its momentum any time soon.

  So why can’t he get into it?

  If Swindle was to suddenly return to Cybertron with a new creature…a tiny, delicate lifeform from the distant Earth, advertised as the perfect companion for any bot…he could begin a whole business. Gentle, squishy, and oh-so cute! A lifelong companion who engages with you and offers the ultimate form of loyalty! Buy one for your sparklings, your conjunx, or yourself! Yes, yes, he can see it now! He could make millions if he plays his cards right! Perhaps even billions if it really takes off!

  He brings out his data pad and holds it over you. If you’re going to sell, you’re going to need a proper name to sell with. “Scan lifeform,” he orders. “Identify.”

  The data pad is slow with it. Its light casts over you and makes you wince, giving a long, contemplative hum as its AI races through the Cybertronian web and searches for a clear species identification. When it finally lets out a pleasant beep and reveals all found information, Swindle swears he sees shanix flashing before his optics.

  Species: human. Homeworld: Earth. Status: Critically endangered. Not protected by the Prime Universal Protected Organisms Law. Known clients are estimated to start at…20,000 shanix.

  “20,000!” He whistles and grins delightedly. “Good Primus, you’re worth that much? Who knew I had such an expensive little twerp sitting right in the palm of my hand?” He laughs, ecstatic. Forget the Energon. What he can make off of you and the rest of your kind is twice as much as a regular run would get him. This is what has been hiding on Earth. This is the boon. The opportunity.

  He leers at you, not even seeing you as just a fascinating animal anymore. You’re a product to take advantage of, to sell, to milk for all of your worth. Swindle’s done it before. He likes to say it’s nothing personal, because it isn’t. After all, he’s just surviving, trying to earn a life like anyone else. When he looks into your terrified eyes and sees the way you go pale at the sight of his nearly crazed expression, he thinks about how many bots will be won over by this face, how he’ll be rolling in dough by the time he’s through with Earth.  “Listen to me, little one,” he says. “You and I are going to be very good business partners from now on. I think I’ll keep you as a showcase specimen. Which leads into my next question…where can I find more of you?”

[postmoe]

MORE OBEY ME FICS!! PLS I BEG!! PERERABLY ONE WITH DIAVOLO IN IT PLEASEEE MY LIFE IS YOURS!!!

I LOVE THEM SO MUCH Let's do a little world building

sex for favour, contracts, apocolypse au, religious references, yandere

You really, really, really hate using your contracts. Not only does it take a toll on your body, a part of your soul being syphoned out each time but, the aftermath is also unpleasant.

Your story is typical, home demolished by Angelic monsters, rejects cast down from Heaven that didn't quite make it to Hell. Family and friends gone, only some survivors remained that were either not in your village or left with less body parts. The killing blow to your ideals was learning that the Capital had denied help from Exterminators, their best exorcist too far away and no one else willing to fight against a Throne of all creatures. No one even came to look for survivors since it was a waste of resources on a gamble not worth betting on.

Angels trudged all along the Earth, the lowest orders scattered around like pests. Middle orders tend to be the 'boss' of these groups. The highest order, Thrones, were much like natural disasters; sudden, with little warning.

It wasn't easy, and though many still prayed to the Heavens for help and despised any anti-religious behaviour, you had separated long ago from that group. An outcast of an exorcist, making deals with demons to gain enough power to kill angels. Years have gone by and no one knows how you manage to keep Avatars of Sin on your side.

No one knows you've had to sell yourself to young King of the Devildom, either.

You can harness their powers into your weapons, your soul used as fuel for very powerful attacks. To bring of them to aid you in battle, however, costs a little bit more.

.

Your arm is torn at the shoulder, fingers on your right hand bent backwards, broken. Your right eye was swollen shut, and your left leg had a flag pole through the thigh.

Ribs broken, blood coughing from your mouth, this Throne was more powerful than any other you've faced. You wonder if Lucifer could handle it, already knowing he requires your help with Thrones alone. Or maybe that was just him being a nuisance to you? You're not sure, and you're not really in a position to risk it now.

The angel before you rises, a dark mass covered in mouths, constantly laughing as you had sliced and cut through its body. When you thought you were doing well, it had suddenly stopped its incessant cackle, the hundreds of mouths on the castle-like mass opening wider than any creature you know, red veined eyes appearing and staring at you unblinkingly. Pure horror had struck you, though you were still able to force yourself to fight. Lucifer's power had damaged it enough, you really did think you won.

... Until it shed it's crust. Wet, tar-covered wings rose from the inside, two, four, eight, sixteen in all sorts of directions. You were lucky to not be hit, the tar latching to any living thing it flicked to and devouring it, turning it to a walking corpse. You were blinded by a golden light, more cracking of the crust, dust shredding once it finally propelled out. Your jaw slacked, it was somehow even bigger, the carnage of a mansion, houses, farmlands, all nothing but a playmat below it. Four of its wings dragged on the ground, the feathery limbs surrounding wheels of golden wings, mouths laughing at you, eyes unblinking and twitching in every direction. The very middle was a pair of black lips, human teeth like eyelashes over the outside of a giant, weeping eye.

You wonder if you can even pull this off?

Exhaling all your nerves, trying your best to focus as you sit slumped in the mud against a cracked boulder, you close your good eyes murmur under your breath, the words bubbling through blood, "In the name of the Exterminator, (Y/n), I call upon the aid of the demon monarch. Come forth, please, Diavolo."

Silence follows, as though a rushing river is hit with a sudden calm. When you finally open your good eye, you see Diavolo in all his glory, a low whistle reaching your hearing as he places his hand on his hips and admired the creature before you, "Just what have you gotten yourself into this time, Miss (Y/n)?"

You open your mouth to speak, only for your lungs to concave and more blood pushing up your oesophagus. The spell was apparently too much.

Diavolo smiles kindly at you, holding one of his hands up, a soft light from his palm sending all the aches and pains away, "Rest now, Miss (Y/n). You've done well to get this far."

If it weren't for the serene spell he used, you would have felt scared to become so vulnerable before a demon and an angel, contrarily you were all but eager to rest your head against the boulder and sleep.

.

When you next awoke, you were tucked into bed. Your fingers were back in place, you had bandages around your legs, arms, torso and neck. What was broken and out of place had been promptly fixed and the terrible, hellish pain you endured was now dull compared before.

You also didn't miss the way the demon lord was lapping his wet tongue between your legs, giving kisses to your clit before making out with your pussy.

His eyes met yours as his tongue delved deeper, an appreciative moan eliciting from him as you clenched around his tongue. Another kiss before he pulls away enough to talk, "Apologies, you weren't waking up and it's almost been 24 hours."

As much as you want to bark at him to get off, you recognise the pact. You needed to provide some sexual favour for the demons within 24 hours of summoning. It was embarrassing, demeaning, you felt horrible about it. They seemed to thrive off of all these feelings.

If you didn't do it, the energy depleted from the experience would double each hour, putting you out of commission for a longer time.

"I'm surprised you didn't wait," you croak, jerking when he goes back to tonguing your insides like a creature in love, "You would have gained more... food. Or, whatever it is you get out of this."

He chuckles and moves up, your thighs going over his own so he could take out his thick, throbbing cock and smack the fat of it against your stomach, "Believe it or not, I don't want to make you suffer just yet, I'll wait until I have you in my castle for that. Besides, I'm quite busy as the King." Your lips part when he nudges the head between your lips, rubbing up and down to gather your slick so he can push in nicer. The smile on his lips was too nice for a demon, "I'm quite surprised you lasted that long before summoning help, though."

Your stomach bulges from the length of his cock, humping into you upwards to really feel your body around him. His large hands graze over your hips, squeezing the flesh of your stomach before coming to cup your cheeks in a gentle embrace. Your tits rub against his pecs, and though it feels really good, you keep talking about what just happened, "It wasn't like any other Throne I've fought, hah... I think they're getting stronger."

"Throne?" He laughs, kissing you deeply, tongue tasting before his lips retreat with a wet smack, "That was no mere Ophanim, dearest. You were up against a creature on par with the Cherubim."

Of course, you knew the rankings of angels in the Celestial realm, everyone who has been forced into this situation does. It was just easier to name the monsters after those rankings. A lot of people didn't like it, though it didn't stop anyone. "Ngnn~" You move your hands to his shoulders, looking for purchase as his cock rubs deliciously inside you. You can feel your energy draining, the way Lord Diavolo holding you was like he was trying to cage you to him. "I thought only Throne rankings had made it to earth?"

"Cum for me, dearest. Only think about the pleasure you're feeling right now," he orders, biting into your neck and sucking on your skin. His lips move to below your ear, tickling you with a light flick of his tongue. One of his hands had trailed over your ribs, past your belly button and began circling and pinching your clit. Your toes curl before stretching out in pleasure, panting while you clench down around his cock, feeling the weight of his balls push into you as he empties his cum as deep as he can. You feel the trickle of your own fluid down your thighs from your orgasm.

His lips are panting over your own, though you know he isn't anywhere near as out of breath as you are. "Should I be worried?" You questioned, wishing he would avert his loving gaze from your own tired eyes.

Lord Diavolo gives you one more kiss, his cock slipping out and letting his cum overflow onto the sheets, "I have it on good intel that something big is coming. If you come across another Ophanim you must call one of us, if not multiple. And be careful..." he ominously states, standing to fix his regale, tucking away his satisfied dick, "I think a Seraphim might be visiting soon."

[postmortem-dca]

Huitzilopochtli, the god of war.

[Past] Eclipse. It is based on the god Huitzilopochtli, the god of war according to the Aztec religion. One of the most important gods for the Mexicas. For humans.

Eclipse, called War in this AU. He was Killcode's first son. The god of destruction.

→ ORIGIN

To explain the origin of War we have to go back thousands of years, when the first gods were looking for a way to create life on Earth. These gods had created humans several times, many wasted attempts that could only exist for a few hundred years if they were lucky.

The reason why humans died in such a short time was not because of a lack of food, or natural resources, or the sun.

It was a more worrying problem. Something the gods could not control. A withered storm.

The storm was located underground. It was practically a parasite that fed on life within the earth. Killing anything that was alive, plants, animals, humans. Everything was eventually devoured by the storm again and again, wiping out humanity again and again and again.

The gods were tired of every attempt by humanity ending up dying because of this storm, so they decided to find a way to destroy it. They failed multiple times to destroy this storm, making it stronger.

And while the gods were searching for a way to destroy the storm, War appeared one day. He never said where he came from. He simply said that he was meant to destroy the storm.

Thanks to him, the storm was destroyed shortly after its appearance, with the help of the other gods. War at this point had no purpose now. His goal had been successfully completed. But then, Sun proposed him to be part of them. Be a god like them. Participate in the creation of humanity.

And War really had nothing else to do with his existence. So he accepted, expanding the team with one more member.

Sun (Sunrise) Star (Lunar) Fauna (Earth) and War (Eclipse)

→ CREATION

How Star existed thanks to the first star that appeared in space, how Fauna existed thanks to the collision of two planets, War also has a how it was born.

War was born from the blood of Killcode, the supreme god of destruction. To the other gods, being a child of Killcode is disgusting, repulsive. An impure son, born of an impure god, of evil, of destruction, of darkness.

War never told them where he really came from. The others didn't insist either, they didn't need to know something so unnecessary. Even if they had suspicions from the first moment.

→ EXTRA

• War was one of the first gods to interact directly with humans. Humans had great respect for War, making sacrifices in honor of this god. They even created their own temple to be able to communicate with this god. War used to "help" humans when they were at war by protecting them to achieve victory as a sign of his gratitude. He was also "responsible" for the creation of Tenochtitlán.

• War can control snakes. No matter how dangerous, violent or venomous they are, War can control them physically and mentally like a puppeteer. Snakes will never attack War no matter if their lives are in danger. Even snakes feel safe around this god.

• War's body is made of pure blood which solidifies to form a body. When he suffers any damage he can recover faster than any other god.

• War has a weapon based on the macuahuitl. It is a wooden sword with ends made of obsidian. The feature that makes him unique is that his weapon is made with magic. Magic prevents the obsidian from breaking when he uses the weapon, making it virtually indestructible. This weapon was a gift to War from the other gods.

→ REFERENCES AND CONCEPTUAL ART

Representation of Huitzilopochtli according to the Aztec/Mexica religion.

Macuahuitl. The Aztec sword.

Questions are always welcome here.

[postmodernbeliever]

stalker - fox mulder x female reader

at the fbi, your job is to watch who you're asked to. but on your own time, you watch fox mulder... and little do you know, he's watching you, too.

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my ao3 | word count: 3,518

content tags: sneaking around, embarrassment, stalking, longing, fox mulder is watching you, you are watching fox mulder, fox is a freak like you, fox likes weirdos, obsessive behavior, suggestive themes, you and fox just kinda eyefuck and nothing happens but god should it, cross-posted on ao3

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they all call him spooky mulder. what a nickname, spooky- even in its mainstream use, it has not lost its effect. there was always something off about him, something unsettling, which piqued your interest. you liked it so much that you paid special attention. it was your nature to keep tabs; you watched him come and go from his basement office, all the while pretending to be down in the gutter of the j. edgar hoover building for any other suspicious reason than taking mental notes on him. 

sure, it may sound creepy, but this is your job- this is why the fbi has you on the payroll. you’re what they call “the eyes and ears”, and in a sense, you don’t really have a job. your cover is to work in the filing department, faceless and nameless, and keep things organized as they go off to different sectors. you are the one sending weapons to evidence (or elsewhere) and case files to agents (or not) at the heart of the organization, where you just become the signing-off signature. but that office, where you blend in, is how they use you best. orders directly from the top tell you who to watch and when to come forward with information. but they never assigned you to special agent fox mulder. as was his infamous passion project dubbed the X files, this was your unassigned interest within the bureau- he was your freakish fixation.

you followed his case files as they came to inconclusive endings. you noticed when his hair grew too long. you knew he liked the coffee from the break room by a.d. skinner’s office, but he liked the creamer they kept on the first floor, so he traveled cross-complex to make the cup taste just right. you’d read every report and drowned in his philosophical, metaphysical droning, admiring the prose so overdosed on sleep deprivation and the ramblings of a transcending mind. it was like twisted poetry, how he explained what each case had imparted upon him. the way he viewed sociology, the way he viewed intervention both divine and damned, the manner in which he proposed the forces at play work and how they are ever-changing and insurmountable… god, he really is a genius. everyone may think he’s insane, or that his work is a waste of valuable resources, but fox mulder’s mind was one to be entertained, one to be challenged. to let his power go misrepresented or his purpose go any less than unabated would be a crime (if anyone asked you.)

see, this is why it could be considered weird. you revered him like a deity, unapologetically idolatrous of his brainpower- and from a more internal, girlish yearning, you loved his face. god, that face. you had examined his personal files many times in the safety of your office, tracing invisible lines over the photographs of him; caressing the scrapes and bruises documented from altercations with suspects, drooling over his academy polaroids stashed away from old physical exams. he still looked as young and charming as he did in his old school photos. a young oxford man, beautiful, traumatized, in need of proof. his work demanded his darkest instincts and most disgusting thoughts, and you loved him for it, or at least the idea of what it turned him into. and as far as word travels, fox mulder bars no personality incontinuities. after all the stories of the blood he’s tasted at crime scenes and the horrific pictures of murders and monsters plastered on the walls of his murky office, he was more than just spooky. he was freakish, and uncomfortable, and alluring.

now, fox is no idiot. in fact, to even think your interest was going unnoticed was a major misjudgment of his perceptive abilities; the man is the best analyst in the crime division, for god’s sake. he's never missed a clue. yet somehow, in the midst of your innocent stalking, you’d imagined he never saw you standing in his basement hallway, or mingling in the first-floor break room by the irish cream. naivety never crossed into your work, but it clouded your visions when it came to him. he’d seen you every time, shifty eyes fidgeting with blatant secrecy. when the man who didn’t believe in random events saw you more than once, he began following your lead. 

fox mulder kept copies of your personal files on his desk and sifted through them often, trying to get any information on you to substantiate why you paid so much attention to him. aside from his widespread suspicion, he also had a sense for intent, and he felt you were of no harm. even lurking in the shadows, there was a comfort to your presence. that might be his creepy personality being used to unsettling beings, but he didn’t mind. he liked catching you looking. he liked the way your suit jacket never matched your pants, but always somehow coordinated even in clashing patterns. he liked how your hair curled like french fries at the bottom, wide and loose. he liked how your manicured nails were always dark and sharp, and blatantly against bureau policy. fox knew you were as new to the fbi as he, so not new at all, but a child to seasoned agents; he learned of your ridiculous retention of information, and that you read twice the clocked words per minute of the average american. he knew of your graduation from yale and your speedy completion of the academy, as well as your elevated skill for firearms, which immunized you from a majority of field training. he knows about your secret connection, yet not who it’s with, and that it’s ushered you into a disguised deep-level position. in less legal ways of determining, the agent discovered you were the president of your high school’s history club, as well as the chief editor of the newsletter, and your family had a summer cabin on the oregon coast. you were smart, valuable, integral, even- and your talents were being wasted under cover of the monotonous filing department. he knew more than you realized. but even with his disturbing understanding of you, fox couldn’t figure out why it was him you watched- you had no connection to him, no link to his work or anyone who aimed to sabotage it. of all your secrets, he seemed to be the biggest.

you’d never expected anything to come of your little infatuation, but fox mulder didn’t like to let things linger. so when you just so happened to be venturing into the basement for something in the archived evidence room, he went into pursuit. you swiped your key card in the automatic door, and he followed you inside and made sure to close it nice and loud behind you. the lock clicked, causing you to jump out of your skin, and he laughed.

“not a fan of followers, huh?” the man teased.

“you just locked us in here, sir!” you nearly choked. you’d never seen him up close and personal. his shirt was a wrinkled mess, but it looked so nice rolled up on his fair-skinned arms, and his hair was a lot darker in person than it looked in the pictures. so were his eyes. 

“sir? no, nobody calls me sir.”

“what should i call you, then?” you groaned.

“agent mulder. spooky mulder. basement boy. whatever floats your boat!”

“well, then, agent mulder,” you elected, “you just locked us in here!”

“is that what you’re worried about? don’t worry, i'm sure agent scully will come down soon enough. or maybe not. maybe you’re stuck in here with me.”

you pivoted and began walking down the first aisle of archives, trying to come up with something to grab to avoid blowing your cover. fox kept at your heels, poking his head playfully into your eyeline.

“looking for something… you?” he inquired.

“that’s agent to you.”

“no name? ooo… spooky,” he wiggled his eyebrows, and you suppressed the fluttering in your stomach. you thought in frustration, how dare he make wordplay hot?

“says you.” you negated.

“so you do know me!”

“everyone knows you, agent mulder.”

“oh, sure… but you’ve been watching me, haven’t you?”

you stopped between the alphabetized boxes marked by Hs and Js, biting your tongue. you watched as fox sauntered around to the front of you, leaning nonchalantly against the filing shelf and smirking. his hand raised to wipe his mouth, and you analyzed the rough calluses and ink splotches carving uniqueness into his knuckles. a deep cut rested along his thumbnail down to his wrist. you recognized it as a healed-over wound from an inconclusive case months ago- something he claimed to have involved lizard men.

“i- i’m not sure what you mean.”

“you’ve been following me around, taking note of what i do. i see you every day. sometimes in the break room, sometimes in the bullpen by the car desk, sometimes shooting guns down at the range room on saturdays like i usually am. you’re always… floating around.'' fox mused, running a hand through his thick hair. a few pieces curled agonizingly over the frame of his face, and you felt like dying.

“must be coincidences.”

“you know well as me that there are no such things as coincidences,” fox stated, “there are simply events that occur, and more often than not, they occur causally, or in my case, through spurious correlation, but nobody can ever seem to pinpoint the third invisible factor that links one event to another, except for me.”

“speak english, agent mulder, would you?”

“you’ve been following me, which caused me to notice you, which caused you to pretend you haven’t been, and so forth,” he sighed, “but you know what i’m saying, don’t lie. you’re a yale alumni, graduated summa cum laude with a double major in psychology and international affairs. you’re one of the smartest women in the building. so why are you acting dumb?”

your stomach flipped as he stepped closer to you, leaning down in all his six-foot glory to meet your gaze. swallowing thickly, you shoved your hand in a box labeled CONFISCATED Ka-Kz and fished out the first object you grasped: a bloodied kazoo. wincing in embarrassment, you waved it in his face and grimaced.

“i'm just down here for this.”

“for a murder kazoo.” he deadpanned.

“…yes.”

you turned away and began heading for the door, but a strong palm wrapped around your wrist, halting your stride. fox tugged you back, and you tried to keep your drooling gaze to a minimum at how handsome he looked when he was searching for answers.

“if you tell me what you want from me, i'll let you go.”

“i don't want anything.”

“bullshit,” the agent rolled his eyes, “everyone wants something, agent, even you. you’re a bad liar, you know that? that’s why you’re not under deep cover.”

how little you know, you thought with a smirk. “well, not everyone is made for danger.”

“no. you’re just made for stalking.”

you seized up, “i am not stalking you!”

fox grinned, liking how worked up you were becoming. “then why are you always in the corner of my eye, agent?”

you huffed in desperation, weighing your options. you could,

a) keep lying.

b) tell fox the truth.

c) bang on the locked door and scream until someone saves you from spooky mulder.

none of your options were appealing, but you weren’t getting out of here if you didn’t choose. option A would drag it out, and option C would get him fired, so you only had one path if you wanted to control casualties and your level of embarrassment in one shot.

as he stood patiently waiting, tie so horrendously knotted that it took all your willpower not to tug him down by it, you gave in. 

“well, agent mulder, you… you’re interesting.”

“am i?”

“y-yes. you do amazing work. you catch killers. and you… write beautifully.”

fox chuckled softly, “you like my writing? what, are you the one who files my field reports or something?”

now may not be a good time to admit you tweaked the computer system to always assign you files submitted by agents between L and P in the alphabet just to be the sole individual who received fox’s files, so you withheld the truth a bit. it will come back to bite you in the ass when he looks into the signatures on his official paperwork, but oh, well.

“every so often,” is what you settled on. “you have something to say, and you say it like you’ve been contemplating the proper phrasing forever. it’s always so eloquent and intelligent and… fascinating.” you stopped praising him, feeling shame wash over you like a bad shot of vodka.

“well, aren’t you a regular fan?” fox rested his head against the filing shelf, eyes raising to the ceiling. his neck stretched open far enough that you could watch his adam's apple bob as he spoke. “glad to know my conclusions aren’t just the ramblings of a lunatic.”

“quite the opposite, agent mulder.” you blushed.

fox looked back down to you, and his puppy dog eyes bore holes into your cheeks. “i know a lot about you, you know. i know where you went to high school. i know you also use the irish cream for your cup of joe every day. i know you drive that baby blue car out in the garage, with the stupid “honk if you love labs” bumper sticker. but what i don't know, agent, or rather what i can’t figure out, is why you’re working in the filing department when you should be on an analyst team, or why you’re so insistent on following me around work. so, can you enlighten me with the truth?”

the truth. even when encountering you, his true colors show. you would be frustrated if it wasn’t so attractive how he interrogated you.

with a shaky breath as support, you said, “i want to know you.”

“is that all? you just… want to know me?”

“we don't work together. you’re too off-limits. my orders require me to stick to the mundane and watch from afar. but you, agent mulder, you are never mundane. you sit down here every day and crane over horrific cases, imagining the unimaginable, and all in the stuffy confines of a basement office that people would rather die than visit you in. y-you’re terrifying, you’re… fresh air.”

fox would never admit to it, but his entire body experienced pins and needles at the sound of your voice. in the least creepy way possible, you reminded him of the school librarian from his childhood- thin glasses, a loose blouse, and a voice thick and sweet, just how he liked his coffee.

“well, as the resident spooky one around here, i'd say you’re more freakish than me. you’re quite the stalker.”

“that's my business.”

you put the kazoo back in the box, frustrated you even attempted to jeopardize the secrecy of your nature for being down in the basement. fox’s hazel eyes followed your lethal nails as they replaced the object, and he wondered if they hurt when they grazed skin. a part of him really wanted to find out.

the man huffed, “so that’s it? no plans to kill me, or turn me in to the boss for my beliefs?”

“nope. just… watching from a distance.”

“you could watch up close if you wanted to. i could really benefit from someone so smart as you are, and someone who has such a knack for detail,” he teased. “you seem to have a way with words yourself, agent.”

“well, i appreciate the offer, but my hands are full as it is, agent mulder.”

“call me fox.”

in a flustered blackout, you blurted, “but no one calls you fox!” and the agent’s pupils blew wide.

somehow, deep inside, the idea of you knowing his secrets without ever speaking to him turned him on. you were a watcher, and as a profiler he’d even go so far as to call you a creep- a girl with a case of muldermania following his every move and sniffing the air when he walked past. he saw it in how your hands shook before him, how you craned your neck back in submission, how your eyes darted between his eyes and lips with fervor; how you swallowed nothing every five seconds in what he couldn’t discern between fear and anticipation. you had slightly sick motivations, so driven by the feeling his writing gave you and the idea of what it must be like to be inside his mind. and he liked it. he liked being studied, and understood, and having no say in it being done by a pretty girl like you. the man took another step closer this time, and you didn’t budge. this was one of his personal space invasions he’s so famous for- the kind people complain about when they’re put on the job with him. also the kind you’d dreamt of since you learned of his existence beneath the bureau.

“but you do when you think of me, don’t you?” he crooned, knowing how to play you from one freak to another. “when you think of watching me when you’re alone, and how we might interact. you call me fox in that pretty little head of yours, right? so say it.”

“w-well…”

“come on, don’t leave me hanging.”

you licked your lips as the heat of his breath danced across your face, and you flushed. “a-as much as i'd love to stay and talk, i have my obligations. not everyone is at your whim, fox.”

in a hormonal lapse, fox let out a soft, “mmm,” and flashed his adorable grin for you to fuss over. “that's too bad, then.”

“but,” you interrupted, “if you ever need, um, proofreading… or help, i can- you can, uh, maybe leave me a note? or something?”

“on your desk? in the filing department, right? in that office with the blue walls and the photograph of you and your chocolate lab, the one who inspired your bumper sticker, agent?” fox revealed, showing his intellectual hand.

with a dry mouth, you mustered a meek, “yeah, that’s the one.”

“good. maybe i'll spray it with my cologne, so you can savor the moment.”

“excuse me?” you squeaked.

“come on, agent,” fox winked, “just a joke. unless you’d like that, y’know, i won’t judge.”

and of course you would. he smelled like dust and paper, with a little sugar left from the coffee he drinks, and a little smoke from the candles he lights when they turn the lights off on him overnight in that dark hole of an office.

“you live up to your name, spooky mulder,” you bit your lip.

“so do you,” fox agreed, “what would we do without our eyes and ears?”

“… what did you just say?” you could barely muster a voice.

“you heard me.” 

fox slipped a hand in his suit pant pocket and revealed your business card- not the filing office one, but for your cover. you have no idea how he’d gotten one, because the only place you keep them is in the locked safe beneath your desk. you were in bold, with your full name, position, boss, and reserved extension line. you thought of fox breaking into your office at night- while you were at home having dreams you’d never admit to- and sifting through your belongings, touching all that was yours, cracking open your secrets. you shuddered as he placed the card gently in your hand, his fingers trailing against the veins at the center of your wrist, where he could feel your pulse hammering.

the man slid past you in a split second, heading for the evidence room door and jiggling the handle upwards. when it unlocked, he shot a premeditated glance towards your mortified face and said, “somebody ought to get this fixed. see you around, agent.”

just about shaking, you stood in the aisle, dizzy from the sound of his departure and how every word fell from his lips with such intention. after a moment of weakness in which you let yourself lean against the filing shelf and catch your breath, you straightened out your blazer and made for the door. when you came into the hallway, you saw spooky mulder standing in his doorframe, thumbing through a file with his silver-rimmed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. you turned quickly towards the stairs and left him to his devices, those being the file that was full of pictures of you.

all this time admiring from afar made you feel like a fool. now you were stuck with a lingering conversation and the overwhelming urge to visit the archives again, because someone downstairs had his eye on you. he knew you by way of his own eyes and ears, and there are a few things that aren’t in your files he’d like to learn. 

and to think you were the stalker!

[thatfrenchacademic]

OK so about this "34, unmarried and childless" article about Taylor Swift. Let me tell you about Scam Academia.

TL;DR: some mediocre dude had a half baked opinio nabout Taylor Swift that everyone hated, but like Mother Nature I let nothing go to waste.

Here is the take you have not heard yet, about this opinion: this guy is actually a good case study on how to develop your academic literacy, aka how to recognize a true academic from a scammer who presents themselves as an academic, but is just a crook. In a world of pseudoscience and pretend experts that have enough resources to organize their flat earth conference, let me walk you through the world of Scam Academic, where for a few thousand dollars, you too can claim to be a researcher with a doctorate! Follow me down a rabbit hole that I hate with my whole heart!

Preamble: I have zero skin in the TS game. I don't get the hype, the lore, the obsession with those 2000s bracelet or dissecting every single line or every single song.

But then. Some guy had to write an op-ed stating Taylor Swift was not a good role model for girls ("in the US and beyond"), and it is a terrible take on so many level, but here is the thing. Whiny conservative think-pieces about highly successful women who should get back to the kitchen and think of the children are nothing new. But this one is different.

This one is fucking terribly written. It's just an abysmally written blog post. Genuinely one of the worst thing I have ever read, and I read hundreds of undergrad essays every year for a living. It contradicts its own arguments in every paragraph. It over-explains concepts like it's a high school essay and he's trying to meet the word count. It says "this is a valid question worth asking" but does not actually explain why it is worth asking. It is so, so, so bad.

Conservative writers are usually more the "high brow, drowning you in grandstanding" kind of writers. They are, usually, good technical writers - it's the one thing that helps make their talking point sound legit and palatable. So an abysmally bad conservative writer? Ok, I am intrigued.

The author is one John Mac Ghlionn. I look up the guy on Google and...

Oh.

Oh no, John.

Spewing conservative bullshit at women AND a researcher? You're in my turf now, John. You could have continued to cover UFC Pillow Fight Championships, or alien technology and other riveting subjects, but you had try to connect two brain cells to argue a thing, and slap "researcher" on top of it. Now I'm offended, as a researcher.

1. I am sorry, researcher WHERE?

Ok so if one is a "researcher", it means one conduct "research". and contrary to what backyard conspiracy theorists think, "researcher" is an actual job. It is an actual professional occupation. You get an actual contract, and you are paid actual money. By an actual employer: public (University), private (Think tank, private company), or a mix of both (at Unviersity, but on a privately funded project, for example).

So where does our John Mc Ghlionn work?

Well. Nowhere, as far as I can tell.

John does not list any affiliation. Usually, when they write, academics will state their exact position (Researcher, Doctoral Researcher, Associate Professor, Chief Engineer, Head of Department, Research Director...) and where they work. For example:

That's what it is supposed to look like.

But John? Nope, no affiliation anywhere, on anything he ever published. That's a pretty massive read flag. Research takes ressources: at the very least, time and access to database and documentation, even in social sciences in humanities. You may not need a lab, but you sure as hell need money and full access to JStore at least.

So I thought he was just one of these "I google therefore I research" kind of dude. But then, out of nowhere:

I am sorry. He has a WHAT.

2. I am sorry, a Doctorate from WHERE?

So. One thing to claim to be a researcher when you are just a professional yapper. Another to claim a DIPLOMA.

And not any diploma. A doctorate.

Let's pause. "Doctorate" is actually a really broad umbrella term of all doctoral-level degrees. The most famous (and most prestigious, for better and worse) is the PhD, but a PhD is technically just one of many Research Doctorate of, theoretically, the same level (cue this helpful reddit post). A second category of doctorates are the Applied Doctorates, and while there is Discourse on where they sit vis-a-vis PhD, the easiest is to consider that they are not research-oriented. They are hands-on, practice-oriented degrees. For example: you can practice medicine with an MD. You don't need a PhD. You can still call yourself a doctor, though.

Alright, so which of these does our friend Johnnie has? Or is currently enrolled in? And in which University?

You will notice that John does not go by "John Mac Ghlionn PhD" or even "Dr John Mac Ghlionn", when you just KNOW he is the sort of person that would but that shit everywhere. And no shade here, because I, for one, do put that shit everywhere. Maybe he is just currently enrolled in a program and has not graduated. Fair.

Since John does not list affiliation, I had to switch from academic to internet sleuth, and dig out this article:

But we learn that in 2021, John was a "PhD Scholar" in "Parkmore Institute". "PhD Scholar" is not a title I am sued to, but it's also not raising any red flag: ongoing PhD researchers can be "PhD students", "PhD fellows", "PhD researchers"... It varies from country to country and from institution to institution, so why not "PhD Scholar".

Let's check out the Parkmore Institute.

Ok, they are not a traditional university, but they appear to be more of a postgraduate institution: offering only higher level degrees, not undergrad courses. Once again, not necessarily a red flag. They are usually very heavily research focused, and embrace the "research" side of academia more than the "teaching" side. In Germany, the Max Planck Institutes are research-only institutions who deliver PhDs. They conduct cutting edge research, in part because their researchers rarely have to spend time teaching.

But that is NOT the Parkmore Institute. First of all, let's see what programs they offer:

None of them are legit.

And I mean, none of them are recognize as even Applied/Professional Doctorate by the National Science Foundation (US based). And while a PhD in Human sexuality would be perfectly valid, but I'm going to on a limb and say I have some serious doubts about "Bodymind Healing" as an academic field.

These are not legit academic degrees.

What they are, is an excellent money-making opportunity for anyone working at the Parkmore institute. Students will pay, at the very least:

And 60% of this goes to their " faculty mentor". The Parkmore institute provides no research fund, no desk or office space (they are entirely digital), no access to any resources or library, not even a Zoom account. There is also no mention of any timeline: how long a PhD take to complete? Who knows. 6 months ? A year ? 5 years? What are the requirements to graduate ? Who knows ! And I would need to pay $200 to get in touch with them, so I sure as fuck won't know any time soon!

But let's get back to our friend John. Remember that he stated, in that 2021 publication, he was a "PhD Scholar" at Parkmore ? Well that's a shame because Parkmore does not deliver PhDs. Ain't that a bitch.

ALSO. Parkmore helpfully has page with all their Doctoral Recipients! And guess who is NOT HERE ! That's right, our Johnnie !

How can this be ? Well, three possibilities:

John is still not done with a PhD. After 4 years ? In a crank university where I am pretty sure I can submit the first draft of a litt review and graduate ? Nah

John never completed the thing. Boo, that would mean that John is lying, when he says he has a doctorate. Bad, bad.

John did graduate, and obtained his doctorate in [scrolls back to check] psychosocial studies, and then was not put on the website or was withdrawn some time before today, as Parkmore institute ended their affiliation with him, as per this bit in their application form

A shame, really. If John had been affiliated with the Parkmore Institute, it would give a shred of legitimacy to anything he writes to anyone just skimming.

Now, I would love to get in touch with the Parkmore Institute and ask to see John's doctoral work, which they DO have, since the application for also has this very interesting section:

(definitely very legit, very normal).

But I am not sure how I would even phrase that request without transparently going

"hey, would love to see what bullshit research is being done over there, since one of your graduate decided to go all Handmaid's tale for the last 2 years".

If anyone feels like sending that email, I am begging you to keep me in the loop.

3. Back up, back up, what's up with that article?

Remember the article where he was listed as a "PhD Fellow"?

Well, about that... No. Welcome to the world of predatory publishing, one more cog in the Bullshit Academic ecosystem.

First: not at article. It's a "commentary". Could be worth something ia good journal, but still would not be a piece of research. But that is the least of its sins.

Its sins are being published in a journal called "Sociology and Criminology-Open Access", by a publisher called "Longdom". Longdom publishing has a bunch of journals on a lot o different fields, with the particularly of being predatory; they will publish absolutely anything you send them, as long as you pay their Article Processing Charges:

There are entire lists of Predatory journals on the web, you can find on here and another here , Longdom Publishing is in both.

This is how John can publish this last minute, Redbull-and-weed-induced essay in an actual journal, with an abstract that, I kid you not, finishes with "Please find the paper attached." He slapped together a shitty essay about people in India are poorer and therefore more likely to exhibit psychopathic traits and therefore engage in corruption, purely base on vibes. It does not even deserve be given any consideration, not even to be debunked. There is nothing to be debunked. This would be a failing grade for a 1st year intro class.

CONCLUSION

On the surface, John Mac Ghlionn is the poster boy of failed edgelords who really wish they were Jordan Peterson, but unfortunately are just Doug, the guy for 10th grade who failed the Literature class and decided it was because litterature was too woke today anyway.

Beneath the surface, John is a case study in Scam Academia, and the proof that no matter how bad actual academia is, Scam Academia can always get worse.

A quick checklist to go through whenever someone claims be a researcher, an academic, a fellow, a doctor, a PhD or anything of the sort:

What is their affiliation? Is this a legitimate organization?

Do they have a PhD? Another doctorate degree? From where?

Have they published ? Where is it published?

[aquaquadrant]

Why do I feel like Etho and Patho would actually really get along well. Like there'd be a minute of "oh shit" then they'd be making some weird machine together.

Also any chance you would be willing to share the story about Patho's clock and maybe info on Hels Bdubs?

(honestly? true. patho isn’t bothered enough w the concept of being a doppelgänger so he’d be chill w etho if etho was chill with him. and etho’s like. always chill. anyway idk if this’ll answer ur questions but here’s uhhhh something)

~*~

patho pauses at the top of the netherrack hill, boots hissing briefly as he shifts off a magma block.

xyz: -12,485.167 / 67.09835 / 253,295.942

the coordinates ever-present within his field of view tell him he should be another hundred or so blocks away in the z axis, but he can already see the jungle’s grown since his last visit. it’s been slowly overtaking the neighboring nether waste biome for a couple decades, now. rate of growth has held constant, unchanging. that's something, at least.

patho slowly scans the horizon. words and numbers flash across the left half of his vision as his cybernetic eye rapidly processes new information based on visual input: netherrack, netherrack, crimson nylium, grass, jungle wood, jungle wood, jungle leaves, weeping vine. light level 3, 3, 3, 2, 1, 2, 3, 4. there's a lava pool eleven blocks over in the x axis; light level 15.

he starts walking again.

153 fps t: inf fancy-clouds b: 15x15 3 tx 3 rx c: 695/41672 (s) d: 16, pc: 000, pu: 00, ab: 42 e: 23/109, b: 0, sd: 9 p: 18 t: 109 error fc:0 xyz: -12,487.331 / 65.21091 / 253,375.987 block: -12,487 65 253,375 chunk: -780 15 7,835 facing: south (towards positive z)(1.5/5) client light: 5 (0 sky, 5 block) biome: error:nether waste local difficulty: 6.75//0.00 (day error404 not found) sounds: 5/247 + 0/8

the data shifts with every step. he's learned to tune most of it out by now, only paying attention to the biome indicator as he crosses the chunk threshold.

biome: error:crimson jungle

particles and sounds immediately jump up a couple degrees. glowing red specks dance slowly in the air, mingling with the ambient noises; hoglins rooting around in the brush, parrots calling unseen from the canopy above, lava bubbling in a pool nearby.

p: 35 sounds: 23/247

the temperature is warmer here. patho shrugs off his jacket, letting it hang at his elbows as he picks his way through the jungle. he doesn't even need to think about where he's going, coordinates left ignored at the edge of his vision. he's taken this path many times before, and he never has to wander very long.

his boots crunch softly on the nylium and grass terrain. jungle leaves and crimson fungus alike brush at his shoulders as he ducks underneath branches, taking care not to get tangled in weeping vines.

this is his favorite jungle. it's not the only crimson jungle he's ever come across- not to mention the warped jungles- but out of all the biomes he's seen, it's the one with the greenest leaves. something about this jungle sustains the normal trees just as well as it does the fungi, allowing the grass and leaves to stay bright and full instead growing in wilted and brown. it makes a lovely contrast with the blood red fungi.

not for the first time, he's thankful that the jungle is far enough away from spawn to be left alone. if other players knew about this place, with its well-sustained passive mob spawning and greenery, they'd destroy it for resources for sure. but he never worries too much about that possibility, because no mob or player sets foot in this jungle without permission from-

a weeping vine suddenly sprouts from the ground and lashes around patho's leg.

it's quickly joined by several more, snaking out from the undergrowth to wrap around his other limbs. before he can blink, he's lifted off the ground and pulled up into the trees. he doesn't struggle, doesn't panic- this is nothing new to him. the vines string him up among the highest branches, where a familiar figure is crouched in front of him, nothing but a pair of glowing red eyes beneath a heap of moss.

<player>dat -7063fdce-39ac-4a12-d836-a990c45b2bb0

"hey, dbubs," patho says casually.

the figure straightens up, hood falling back to reveal his face. his huge red eyes are sparkling with excitement, despite the dark circles lining them, and his mouth falls open in a wide, sharp-toothed grin. vines of varying shapes and sizes curl lazily around his body, small tendrils sprouting from the mossy cloak he wears. a couple veins of red discolor his skin, crawling up his neck and across his face. his messy hair is a bit whiter than the last time patho saw him, tinged red at the roots. a clock hangs around his neck, to match the one hanging from patho's hip.

"patho!" dbubs practically shouts, throwing his arms out.

sounds: 24/247

before dbubs can say anything else, patho asks his usual question. “what’s your name?”

“what’s my-” dbubs blinks, works his jaw for a second. “GODSLAYER666,” he proclaims loudly, puffing his chest out. then he pauses, frowns. “wait, no, i- i don’t know why i just said that. uh…”

it’s somewhere in the middle, then. not as bad as his worst days- at least he’s aware he’s lying, even if he has no control over it. and patho has to admit, that's one of the most entertaining responses dbubs has ever given to his little test.

"uh huh." patho shifts in the web of vines. they're holding a bit tighter than normal. of course, he could still easily break out of them. if he wanted to. "did you miss me, dbubs?" he asks instead, his voice teasing.

dbubs throws his head back to let out a sharp laugh, sending a shower of red particles fluttering through the air. "what?" he demands incredulously, his eyes blown wide. "miss you? i d- eugh, n'you stupid- i- i didn't even notice you were gone!"

patho hums with amusement. "then you don't wanna, like, kiss me or anything?"

"no," dbubs insists stubbornly, even as he comes closer. he steps boldly into patho's space, hands coming up to grab his face. "no, no of course not, i don't..." his long eyelashes flutter as he looks patho up and down. he smells like moss; like old vegetation and decay. there's soil and dried blood caked under his fingernails. "why would i- you ha- you have a lotta nerve..." dbubs tugs at the left strap of patho's mask, tilting his head. "do i- uh, do i get to see ya?" he asks, expression suddenly eager.

"yeah," patho chuckles.

dbubs grins widely, pulling patho's mask down. for a moment, he just looks at him. his calloused hand scuffs along the metal parts of patho's face- the entire ramus of his left mandible and most of his cheekbone, lost in the explosion that took his eye. the remaining skin is rough with scar tissue. dbubs strokes his thumb along that, too.

"i lo- um, i- i hate your stupid face," dbubs mumbles before he finally kisses patho. he seems to process his words a second later, breaking away with a small gasp of "oh! i d-", but patho simply leans in again, reclaiming his lips.

he knows what dbubs meant.

~*~

dbubs spares patho the trouble of walking, simply having the vines carry him to the hideaway. it's a difficult base to categorize: part tree house, part nest, part garden. in some places the floor is made of wood- in others, just a thick layer of leaves. there are potted plants and hanging vines everywhere, interspersed among stacks of barrels and moldy bookcases. little red mushrooms sprout from walls made of thatch and tree trunks. a couple of shroomlights provide gentle lighting as glittery particles drift through the open air; red, from the biome itself, and green from the spore blossom that patho brought him last year.

the vines unceremoniously drop patho onto the makeshift bed- a mat of moss and old, shredded banners. he's barely gotten settled, pulling his mask up and pulling his jacket off, before dbubs flops onto him with a heavy wuff.

"so!" dbubs starts loudly, propping his elbows up on patho's stomach. "what brings ya to see ol' dbubs today, huh?"

patho huffs a laugh. "what, i can't just stop by to say hi?"

"oh sure, okay." dbubs rolls his eyes, one of his vines flicking through the air dismissively. "you j- yeah, okay, be all secretive, then! see if i care." his haughty demeanor doesn't last long, though, as he shimmies up a little further, arms folded on patho's chest. "d'you- uh, do you wanna hear what i've been doin'?"

patho sighs good-naturedly, shifting so he can tuck his arms behind his head and lean back against the wall. "alright, go ahead."

dbubs beams at him and immediately starts telling lies. he tells patho about all the amazing things he's built (the jungle looks the same), all the incredible battles he's fought (no one's entered the jungle in years), all the wonderful places he's gone (he can't leave the jungle).

but patho doesn't mind that it's all lies. he's content to listen anyways.

they carry on like this until dbubs suddenly pauses, scrambling for his clock. "uh oh! gotta schreep."

patho glances at his own clock; dbubs is right on time, as always. that's one thing he never lies about. "okay, okay," he says, pushing dbubs off- he hits the moss with a soft thump. "lemme get my anchor."

"well, hurry up already!" dbubs shouts impatiently, vines swatting at patho's arm as he pops down his ender chest.

after placing the anchor and setting his spawn, patho reaches up and presses his finger directly into the center of his left eye, shutting it off.

he doesn’t regret putting a data processor into his cybernetic eye; the information it’s given him is invaluable. but every now and then, he needs a break from it. even when his eyes are closed, the display is still active, showing blank values on the back of his eyelid. turning the eye off is the only way to make it go away- of course, at the price of half his vision. so he only does it if he’s sleeping somewhere fully secure, and if he’s alone.

the jungle is an exception. dbubs has full domain out here- no mob or player can come close to his home without him allowing it.

"finally," dbubs huffs as patho settles back down. he's quick to cling with both his arms and assorted vines.

patho can't help but chuckle. "what's that you said about not missing me?"

"oh, shut up!"

~*~

patho abruptly reenters consciousness, emerging from a deep, dreamless sleep. with a soft groan, he fumbles to turn on his cybernetic eye, wincing at the sudden influx of data.

149 fps t: inf fancy-clouds b: 15x15 3 tx 3 rx c: 695/41672 (s) d: 16, pc: 000, pu: 00, ab: 42 e: 1/109, b: 0, sd: 9 p: 52 t: 109 error fc:0 xyz: -12,587.412 / 96.77253 / 253,401.623 block: -12,587 96 253,401 chunk: -783 15 7,845 facing: north (towards negative z)(1.5/5) client light: 7 (0 sky, 7 block) biome: error:crimson jungle local difficulty: 6.75//0.00 (day error404 not found) sounds: 27/247 + 0/8

"goooood morning!" dbubs calls, over on the other side of the little nook. he's busy rummaging through barrels, perhaps trying to find some breakfast. it’s unlikely he has any food stored; when he’s hungry, he hunts, and the jungle always provides.

"mornin'," patho says, rubbing his face. he sits up- and then pauses. there are weeping vines wrapped tightly around his legs. he sighs. “dbubs, you’re doing it again.”

“what?" dbubs manages to sound surprised. "no! no, i’m not, i’m- i’m just over here, minding my own business, crafting a loom.”

“a loom,” patho repeats flatly.

“yes! for um, for banners.”

“do you even have any wool?”

“do i ha- uh, of course! yes, of course i do.”

“can i see it?”

“no. no, i- i just ate it, actually. um-”

“you ate it?”

“yeah. sorry.”

patho sighs again. he kicks the weeping vines away. "i uh, i didn't mean to be gone for so long," he says, rising to his feet. "but, you know, i- i got held up with a job."

"a job?" dbubs glances over his shoulder at patho, squinting. "what kinda job?"

patho stretches his arms above his head, hearing both his natural and mechanical shoulder joints pop. "some guys out west are tryin' to make a portal out of hels."

"a portal?" dbubs's mouth falls open. "oh, for goodness sakes- and you call me a liar!"

patho knows better than to take offense. "it's true. they've got a player who came here from another world."

"uh huh." dbubs scoffs, but he can't quite hide the anxious shimmer in his eyes. "yeah, yeah, sure... so- i mean, did you do it, then? make them a portal?"

"basically." patho shrugs. "i uh, i told them everything they needed to know, to make one."

"right. you told th- okay." dbubs nods, bites his lip. "um- you didn't stay? to see the portal? or, uh…”

patho chuckles, crossing the distance to put his arms around dbubs's waist. "nah. i mean, come on, you know me, dbubs. i'm a- i'm a hels player, through and through. what's the rest of the universe got that's better than this place, right?"

dbubs grins at that, slotting his arms through patho's. "oh, you- you're such an idiot! y'know, i uh, i've been outside'a hels before and i- um, let me tell ya, you're missing out!"

"mhmm." patho smiles even though his mask is on. he knows dbubs can tell.

"yeah! "dbubs nods vigorously. "and, uh, there's- i got a whole world that's just mine!"

"is that right?" patho rests his chin on the top of dbubs's head. "tell me about it."

"it's a beautiful world, of course. my perfect builds, i ha-"

"of course."

"- uh, hey! quit interruptin'!"

"sorry, sorry."

"i di- thank you. so i um, i built a big ol' crastle, with a- hyeugh, a sorta um, horse course... y'know, with th- with the fastest horses anyone ever saw, one-stick horses, and- and uh, everyone was really impressed…”

this won’t last forever. it’ll only be a matter of weeks, months if they’re lucky, before patho won’t be able to ignore the itch to wander again. before the comfort and familiarity of the jungle becomes unbearable. before dbubs grows so used to his presence that the jungle itself tries to overtake him, the way it has dbubs- vines and veins of red.

he’ll leave without warning in the middle of the night, while dbubs is sleeping, because trying to leave while dbubs is awake never ends well. he’ll leave without a word and try not to think about the frantic whispers he knows dbubs sends him on lonely nights, despite knowing patho will never receive them (it’s the only time he regrets fusing his communicator with his arm- but how was he supposed to know he’d hear it in his mind? how was he supposed to know that disabling the chat was the only way not to lose himself completely to the endless flood of data?)

he’ll stay away long enough for dbubs to shatter apart, losing himself to the wildness of the jungle, and come back together. he’ll wait until dbubs has recovered from his grief, so that the next time dbubs sees him there will only be joy. because no matter how many times patho hurts him, dbubs always forgets it eventually.

“… so, you see, ol’ dbubs been workin' on a new technique, using the uh. grade- uh, gradient? block palettes... to create depth. ah hah! so- so listen, now, to teacher! it all starts with the color scheme..."

this won’t last forever. so for now, patho closes his eyes and listens.

error fps t: b: tx rx c: (s) d: , pc: , pu: , ab: e: , b: , sd: p: t: error fc: xyz: / / block: chunk: facing: ( )( / ) client light: ( sky, block) biome: error: local difficulty: // (day error404 not found) sounds: 1/247 + 0/8

~*~

[script-a-world]

Submitted via Google Form:

How reckless could a race of people be if they could heal rapidly? If someone got hit by a car in real life and needed a few months to start walking again, and over a year to do anything like martial arts again, for these people, they'd be walking in a few days and doing martial arts in two weeks. If they would die on impact, then yes, they would die. If they would die in an ambulance, it depends but they would still have a chance. In real life, cuts that take a few days to heal will be healed in several minutes. They definitely do feel pain of course, but as a whole, the general populace has pain tolerance just below those of elite athletes in the real world. I'm imagining these people might be the daredevil type.. could it be very common to get cuts and bruises, not strange to see some of the worst kids or teens getting cut nearly every single day, multiple times a day. I mostly want to focus on the injured = not a big deal bit. Or getting injured as part of normal daily life. But what else might this affect? More surgeries happening because people decide the recovery time isn't an issue (doesn't eliminate other factors of course) How about piercings? If someone goes half a day without piercings, their hole would close. Maybe... medicine that stops the healing process? But how expensive could those medicines be vs getting pierced again?

Tex: So there’s this plant, called plantain. One of the common varieties is known as Plantago major. One of its primary uses in herbal medicine is to heal wounds - and it’s very good at it!

A little bit too good, unfortunately, and it often comes with a warning to clean out wounds first before applying it, because it has the tendency to work so quickly at encouraging skin to knit back up that infections can easily be sealed underneath. This is a problem, because in order to heal the infection, the skin must be cut back open, lest someone risk the infection spreading to the blood and causing sepsis (if not, in bad cases, necrosis).

“Super healing” has many of the same flaws. In practice, the process of healing is rather complex, and while there is some overlap in steps (excess blood cleared away, immune system response to pathogens, phagocytosis, signals sent to regenerate broken tissue or other affected organs), doing too much of only one process can have detrimental effects on the patient in question. It’s the reason why in first aid you clean a wound first, then apply medicines, then apply bandages.

Things like bones, and the squishier bits called organs, take time to heal, because they’re not only reallocating resources to grow new cells (i.e. neurogenesis, osteogenesis, etc), they’re also going through the entire pathway of fighting infections (i.e. B cells, T cells, etc) and checking for cancerous markers of cells that duplicated incorrectly (uncommon, but non-zero possibility). It’s a lot, lot more than “add calcium to bone” or “make skin whole”.

Regeneration of tissue is also rather itchy, and uncomfortable. That, barring anything else, is going to make a lot of people think twice about how many injuries they’re willing to risk. Compounding injuries compounds the discomfort, and most people wish to avoid being uncomfortable if there’s any other option for a situation.

On top of that, rapid regeneration would require a large amount of resources for both calories and micronutrients. This translates to being hungry all the time. Humans can generally heal quickly with a good diet and enough sleep (the brain regulates the flushing of metabolic waste during sleep, Patel et al.), which is why it’s seen as a good sign for hospital patients to have an appetite and also to have a regular sleep schedule.

You can handwave as much of this as you like in your worldbuilding, but to borrow SAW’s general rule, “you break it, you bought it” in terms of internal consistency.

[dumbass-tumbler-cryptid]

   Hello! So my little rant from the other day inspired a concept for a whole new fic and I just couldn't resist writing it! I have no idea what to call this which is why I'm posting it here before a03. If anyone has any suggestions let me know. (I was thinking sins of the father but i think there's already a Quaritch and Spider fic with that name)

Anyway the premise is that the recoms were grown on Pandora instead of Earth. Instead of just killing them it's decided that they'll just keep them comatose in their pods. Until a system failure wakes them up. Spider is only seven in this fic.

Edit: I have since named this fic. It's called Visited on the Son (thank you @nilnether for helping me pick the name) and you can find it on Ao3 here

Enjoy!

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 He always felt calm in the tank room under the blue glow of the synthetic amniotic fluid. The only sounds came from the steady heartbeats of the sleeping Na’vi and the idol chatter of his best friend Kiri as she talked to her comatose mother. Spider sat, staring up at his father floating peacefully in his pod. He placed his hand on the glass, as if his touch could make the man wake up. But he never would. He wasn’t allowed to wake up.

     “I went to the village today,” the seven year old said in a hush. “Me and my friends made bracelets! Until their sa’nu made me come back here. I don’t like here very much sempu. It’s….cold. But at least Kiri came back with me for a little bit. Until she has to go back home, to her family…..”

     The door burst open making both children jump. “Miles!” Spider shrank in fear as his foster father stormed up to him. Mr. McCosker grabbed Spider’s arm, yanking him to his feet so hard he thought his arm would rip from its socket. “Did you go to the village without permission again!” The little boy whimpered, trying to avoid the man screaming in his face. “Answer me!” Nash shook him.

       “Yes,” Spider cried.

       “How many times do I have to tell you! No one wants you there!”

       “I want him there,” Kiri yelled, “and so do my brothers!”

        Spider smiled despite the tears in his eyes. Nash growled, “well the adults don’t want him there. And you know better than to just run off…”

        “But you were busy,” Spider said timidly, “I just wanted to play…”

         Nash roughly pulled on his arm again making Spider yelp, “oh you just wanted to play,” his foster father mocked, “you can play by yourself! Do you have any idea the trouble you cause every time you do this!” Nash spun him around to face his sempu. “You're just like your father. A wicked little beast. Why they even bother keeping these things alive is beyond me. It’s a waste of time and resources. Just like you.” Spider’s bottom lip trembled but he didn’t shed a tear. He was used to Mr.McCosker’s angry rants. “Now come on! I hope you like your room because you're gonna be spending a lot of time in there thinking about what you did. And you can forget about dinner….” 

       Spider locked eyes with Kiri as he was dragged from the room. He waved, giving her a sad smile, mouthing bye. He knew she wanted to fight for him. They’d been through this all before and so she knew that Spider would rather she stay out of it. Still she smoldered with rage, fist clenched at her sides. Spider spared one last glance at his father’s tank before being completely taken from the room. Bye sempu. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

       That night as Spider tried and failed to sleep with his painfully empty stomach an alarm sounded through all of Hell’s Gate having the entire base up and moving in moments. Spider covered his ears burying himself under his blankets as red lights flashed. This had never happened before. What is this? What should I do? He could faintly hear his foster parents through the noise, Mr.McCosker stomping through the apartment and out the door, Mrs. McCosker pacing the living room as she made a call. But Spider didn’t want to go to them. He didn’t want to be anywhere near them.

     He focused his attention through the small window above his bed. The floodlights were on outside as people ran back and forth. He knew deep down that something was seriously wrong. But it couldn’t be too bad if his foster parents hadn’t come to get him. They wouldn’t just leave him behind, right? Eywa help me, he silently prayed.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

     The first thing he was aware of was the heaviness of his own breathing. Then came the sound of his heart beating slow and steady. Next was the feeling of floating. Finally as his senses returned he opened his eyes to a mix of soft shimmering blue light and harsh flashing red. What in the fuck, Miles thought as he took it all in. He was in a tank. He raised his fist to beat on the glass, making him see his body for the first time.

      Ain’t this a bitch. He was na’vi now. Which only meant one thing. Focus he willed himself. First order of business was getting out of the tank. He’d deal with the rest later. Miles placed his hand on the glass, getting a scene of its thickness. Too thick to break. He looked towards his feet then above his head finding exactly what he’d hoped. An escape hatch. A few good twists was all it took for him to spill out of the container onto the linoleum floor of the labs.

      His eyes roved his surroundings. The computers blared a message of system failure. No doubt the reason he woke up. To his right was the exit. To his left a row of familiar faces all wide eyed and banging on their tanks for release. Miles stumbled as he rose on unsteady alien legs. He persevered making his way to the other tanks, freeing his team one by one. “What’s going on boss,” Lyle said.

      “Isn’t it obvious? We died. And now we're back.”

       Lyle rolled his eyes, “I get that but this…”

       “We weren’t supposed to wake up,” Z said, staring at the computer screen, “and if we’re only waking up because of a computer glitch….” She let the implication hang in the air as they all sprung into action, dressing in whatever clothes the avatars had left behind, making weapons from broken chair legs and glass shards, each looping a na’vi breathing mask around their neck.

       “Alright people,” Miles said when they were ready, “for our sins in our past life we have been brought back as the enemy. In enemy territory no less. We don’t know what things look like past those doors so be ready for anything. Head on a swivel,” his team nodded, “alright. Let’s move out.” They made their way down the red lit hall in formation, Miles leading them. Aside from the alarm it was eerily quiet. All the personnel must have been off somewhere dealing with the system failure.

         It only took a few quick glances for Miles to know exactly where he was. Hell’s Gate. Home sweet home. He knew this place like the back of his hand. He led his team not to the control center but to the living quarters. They’d surely be able to take some hostages there, grill them for more information. How long had it been? Who was in command? What happened to the R.D.A. His team's survival hinged on these answers.

        The hallway of apartments was deserted, doors left ajar from hasty exits. They searched the rooms one by one, not a soul in sight. “Maybe we should just run while we have the chance,” said Lyle, “we don’t need masks to breathe out there anymore. We can survive…”

        “I’m not runnin’ like a coward,” Miles growled. He needed to know what happened. Not only in the war but also to…

        They entered the final apartment on the right hand side of the hall. Just like all the others the place had been fled in a hurry, all the doors left open. Except for one. Miles raised his fist signaling, hold tight on me. Cautiously he opened the door to find a child’s room. The furniture was small, made for a toddler but the few articles of clothing strewn about the room suggested a child in the age range of six to eight. Miles’ eyes zeroed in on a form, too big for its little bed, curled up in its sheets. “Prager,” he called, “kill that alarm would y’a.” Prager nodded, expertly having the wires of the screaming red light out and severed in seconds plunging them into blissful silence. 

         Who could leave a child behind like this, Miles thought as the form shifted. Big brown eyes peaked out at him, wide and curious, not an ounce of fear. Miles dropped down to the kids level, “hi there,” he said gently reaching out to pull the cover back.

         “You're awake,” the child said in an awed hush.

          That made Miles still, “you know me?”

          The kid nodded under the covers, “they said you’d never wake up.”

          “Who said that?”

           “Jake, Norm, the McCoskers. Everyone. They said you were too bad to wake up. So if you're awake does that mean you're not bad anymore? Or was I bad enough to be put to sleep…”

          A chill went up Miles' spine, “why would they put you to sleep? You're just a kid.”

         “Because I’m bad. The McCosker’s tell me all the time. And Mrs.Sully says I’m a demon's son…

         Miles sucked in a breath. Mrs.Sully. Jake’s little na’vi girlfriend, the one that made him turn traitor. He knew exactly who would draw her hatred enough to damn a son for their father’s sins. A dangerous hope flaired to life but he fought to push it down. It’s not him. They would have sent him back to Earth. “Can you sit up please so I can get a look at you,” he coaxed the boy. 

        He complied, wrapping the sheets around his shoulders. The boy reached out a little hand touching Miles face, “your real. You really woke up sempu.”

      Miles hardly knew any na’vi but he knew that word for sure. He studied the boy in front of him knowing in his gut that he was his. He had his father’s brow and nose. His mother’s cheeks, her smile. Most importantly their son had the brown eyes of Miles’ lover, the woman he knew without a doubt was dead. She’d never leave her son behind like this. Wouldn’t let this little boy's long, dry, blond hair, start to mat in places. The kid's stomach rumbled. She wouldn’t let him go hungry. “Miles?”

         He nodded, “yeah, but people only use that name when I’m bad. Most people call me Spider.”

        Miles hid his scowl, masking it with a huff of a laugh, “why do they call you that?”

        Spider perked up, giving him a sunny smile that melted his father’s heart, “because I like to climb!”  Miles chuckled for real at his son’s clear enthusiasm. It’s just a nickname, he reasoned with himself. It would be easier than having two Miles’.

        Spider’s smile slipped as his stomach growled again, making him wrap his arms around himself. Miles scowled. “Who’s closest to the kitchen,” he called.

        “Me,” Mansk answered.

         “Grab somethin’ for my boy to eat would y’a…”

         “But…The McCosker’s will get mad at me. I’m in trouble for leaving and if I…”

         “Who are the McCosker’s,” Miles asked with an undertone of malice. Who ever they were he already hated them.

         Spider averted his gaze, mumbling, “they’re my foster parents…”

         Miles lifted the boy’s little head looking him square in the eye, “well daddy’s back now. And I say you're gonna eat.” Mansk entered with a sandwich cut in half. “Come here.” Spider watched curiously as his father stood but clearly panicked when the man picked him up, sitting on the bed and settling Spider on his lap in one swift movement. Miles took note of his son’s clear distress. He was rigid in his arms, blank faced. The father bounced his son on his knee trying to calm him down. Mansk handed the sandwich to Miles who then offered a bite to Spider. Hesitantly he took it.

         “Good boy,” Miles said gently, rubbing his son’s back. Whether it was the praise or the touch Spider slightly relaxed. “Is it good?” Spider gave a small happy nod. Miles smiled back. “Good. Now what do you say to uncle Mansk?”

        Spider turned to the recom, “thank you.” 

        He sounded so sweet that the hardened soldiers in the room couldn’t help but melt. “You're welcome,” Mansk said. 

        “Spider,” Miles called, drawing his son’s attention, “how old are you now.”

        “Seven,” he answered absentmindedly, enjoying his meal.

         Seven. Making it roughly six years since the war. “A big boy,” Miles bounced his son again, eliciting a little giggle from the boy that made his father grin, his heart warming. “You know when you were little I was in charge around here. Do you know who’s in charge now?”

        “Jake,” Spider said without a care. The rest of the room quietly took in this information. If that traitor was running things now then they’d have to play their cards right if they wanted to get out of this one alive. 

        “He’s quite the fighter. I know we couldn’t take him, or his army,” Miles said keeping his tone light hearted for his son’s sake. His team was smart enough to catch on to what he really meant. Spider nodded his agreement. “Say, why’d Jake keep us asleep?” Miles said while tucking his son’s hair behind his ear so he wouldn’t accidentally eat it as he devoured his food.

       Spider shrugged, “I heard him say once that only a coward would kill a man in his sleep. That’s why I guess.”

       Miles could respect that. If Jake was honorable enough to not strike when they were most vulnerable, Miles was willing to bet that Jake would at least put them through some sort of trial before executing them. And that would open up a whole world of possibilities. “That was mighty kind of him. I’d sure like to thank him for keeping us all alive and thrivin’.”

      Spider’s eyes lit up, “you do?”

      Miles nodded, “sure I do!” His team displayed a mix of emotions as his real intentions set it. They were surrendering. 

      ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

        Jake led the recoms like dogs on a leash, their hands bound and bodies tied together in a line, avatars keeping them on track with loaded guns. “Quite the trek gettin’ to your little village,” Miles said.

       Jake scowled, “don’t talk to me.”

       “What’s the matter Jake? We can’t have a nice conversation together?” Jake pointedly ignored him. “You all really let my boy walk all the way to the village by himself?”

       “He’s not your son,” Jake hissed.

        “I beg to differ. You can’t call him a demon’s son then turn around and say he doesn’t belong to me.” Jake smoldered with rage but stayed quiet. “Unless you're saying that I am not in fact Miles Quaritch, in which case me and my team can’t be held accountable for the actions of our genetic predecessors…”

      “Of course your Quaritch,” Jake snapped, “that body is nothing but a blank slate. It’d sleep forever without some kind of driver…”

     “So that means I’m Miles Quaritch, father of Miles “Spider” Socorro….” Jake growled, walking faster, harshly tugging on his leads to make the recoms do the same. The recoms all snickered. “I should thank you though Jake for not slandering me in front of my son. He knows I’m “bad” but doesn’t seem to know how bad…”

      “It wasn’t intentional. How the hell are you supposed to tell a kid his father is responsible for the deaths of hundreds.”

      “Fair.” They quieted as they approached the village. The Omatikaya lined the walkway screaming and hissing as the recoms were led to the heart of the village. Their tsahik Mo’at waited there with her daughter at her side, Neytiri’s teeth bared and snarling. Miles inclined his head to her as the recoms were lined up, “Mrs. Sully.”

      “Demon!” Neytiri lunged at him, knife in hand.

       “Daughter,” her mother held up her hand, placating Neytiri. She backed down but still stood ready to strike. Mo’at fixed them with a hard stare that even Miles felt uneasy under. She walked around them picking at their ears and tails, analyzing them coldly. Once she was satisfied she stood before them, the entire village waiting with bated breath for her verdict. To the shock of all, the tsahik laughed. “Ah, the great mother knows what she’s doing. You demons who so brutally destroyed our home and slaughtered our people. With no respect for the great balance! Eywa has made you one of us so you could connect and feel the devastation you brought among the people!” The villagers all screamed their agreements. “I can think of no greater punishment than to make you learn our ways. Make you understand and feel what you have done until you are so remorseful that you weep at the foot of the Tree of Souls and beg the great mother for forgiveness!” The village roared.

       Miles stood there in shock. He’d expected to have to plead his case. Argue that his team were clones of their predecessors. That they couldn’t be held accountable for what they’d done. “So…your not gonna execute us?”

       Mo’at looked at him in confusion, not understanding his words. Jake said, “Na’vi don’t do executions. They banish their criminals to the ash lands. But I’d tried to convince Mo’at to make an exception for you.”

      Miles grinned, “well it looks like you failed…” Mo’at raped him with her walking stick right between his eyes making Miles stumble back. 

     “Do not think you are getting off easy! If you want to live then you will learn our ways. If you refuse I have no issue banishing you from this land. Then your fate will truly lie with Eywa.”

     “Yes ma’am.” Miles bowed his head to her, the other recoms following suit. 

     “You will come back here tomorrow and every day after until your insanity is cured,” they nodded their agreement, “good. Now away with you!” The clan jeered and hissed as Jake led them back towards Hell’s Gate.

      When they were well away from the village Miles spoke, “well, now that that’s settled, let’s talk about my boy…”

       Jake scowled, “no..”

       “I want back custody…”

        “Absolutely not!”

        “Tell me Jake, what happened last night?” Jake paused. Knowing exactly where this was going he stayed silent. “I know Hells Gate better than anyone. If anything goes haywire the systems automatically reroute power to keep the control room and the cafeteria powered and oxygenated. That’s what happened last night and those damn McCoskers left Spider behind to die! How long do you think it would’ve taken for the living quarters to run out of oxygen….”

       Jake sighed, “Where having a meeting with the McCoskers when we get back…”

       “And I want to be there..”

       “No.”

       “He’s my son! They sure as hell don’t want him! Do you want him Jake?” He shifted uncomfortably, choosing not to answer. “How about you? Do you want my kid,” Miles asked Norm. Norm also stayed quiet. “Is there a single person on that base that could give my son a lovin’ home…”

       “We’re going to work something out…”

        “Yeah you're gonna give me my kid.” Jake clenched his jaw, choosing to ignore Miles for the rest of the walk.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

         “We don’t want him anymore,” Nash said, “he’s too wild. We’re having our own baby soon…and now that his father’s back…”

         “Quaritch can’t have Spider,” Jake said.

          “Why not? We’re not executing him, we’re not really imprisoning him and he wants the kid. I say let him have his little bastard…”

          “Don’t call him that!” Jake yelled, fighting to maintain some level of calm.

           Norm gave his friend a sympathetic smile, “we can’t let Spider stay with Nash and Mary anymore. Not after last night…” Nash didn’t even seem guilty over leaving a child to die, “….and remember the last time we had to find a placement for Spider…” Jake most certainly did. No one had been willing to take the boy. They’d had to twist Nash’s arm just to accept Spider in the first place, which was now blowing up in their faces in spectacular fashion. 

          “I don’t want Quaritch to win here…”

          “It’s not about that Jake. It’s what’s best for Spider..”

          “How could that monster be what’s best for him!”

           “It’s better than nothing!” Jake scoffed, “We’ll watch Quaritch like a hawk. If anything happens to Spider we’ll take him away in a second…”

          “Oh come on now,” the man in question finally said, “i’m a lot of things but do you really think I’d hurt my own child!”

         “We wouldn’t be having this conversation otherwise,” Jake snapped.

          “You put Spider in the custody of two people who left him to die! Who let him starve! What else have they been doing right under your nose?” Jake had the decency to look guilty.

         Nash waved him off, “let him have his kid Jake. It’ll be enough punishment for him.” Jake had to stop Quaritch from lunging across the table to throttle Nash, the recom turning purple from how incensed he was.

       “Fine!” Jack shouted if only to stop Quaritch from committing murder, “you can take custody of Spider! But if you hurt him I swear…”

       “Pff..” Quaritch shook him off, “please. I couldn’t do any worse than you.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

        The recoms were locked into the avatar quarters for the night. Not that they minded. It finally gave them a chance to speak openly after their first chaotic day in their new bodies. “So we’re really just gonna go along with all this boss,” Prager asked.

        Miles nodded, “the R.D.A is gone. For now at least. We hang tight, learn the savages way, worm our way into the rebels' operations. We’ll be sitting real pretty when the company makes their comeback.” Everyone grinned, a few cheering for their new found mission. Miles couldn’t help but smile back, “alright now get some shut eye. We got a long day tomorrow.” The others nodded agreements before settling into bed. Miles did the same. He smiled to himself thinking about tomorrow. First they’d have their silly ass lessons in the village. But then they’d start renovations on Miles' apartment from back in the day, getting it all ready for Spider to move in. A home for me and my son. He couldn’t wait.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Hope you liked it! I do know how I'm ending this fic already but if you have any ideas for bonding/learning moments that you'd like to see I'll be happy to write them.💞  

[rebeccathenaturalist]

What Are Lithophytes?

Originally posted on my website at https://rebeccalexa.com/what-are-lithophytes/

Ask most people what plants need to grow in, and they’ll say “soil” or “dirt”, right? And for the majority of terrestrial plants that’s the case. But given the sheer scale of biodiversity and the ability of species to make use of any niche–no matter how small–left unoccupied, there are of course exceptions. Take epiphytes, for example, that cling to the bark of trees and other plants. Rather than drawing nutrients and water from soil, they instead absorb what they need from the air. Psammophytes also get what they need from the air, but instead sink their root system into shifting sand dunes.

I am especially fascinated by lithophytes. “Litho-” means “stone”, and so a lithophyte is simply a plant that grows on stone. There are two main types of lithophyte. Epilithic lithophytes grow on a stone’s surface, and a crevice in the stone may be populated by endolithic lithophytes. Some of these plants can only grow on stone, so they’re described as obligate lithophytes, but their facultative lithophyte neighbors are those that are able to colonize both stone and soil or another substrate at the same time–some lithophytes can even live as tree-dwelling epiphytes instead!

Like epiphytes, a lithophyte may have some ability to absorb water and nutrients from the air. But they also capitalize on anything that ends up washed into their roots by rain. Endoliths may find that over time debris accumulating in their crevice offers a much-needed resource boost. As part or all of a lithophyte dies, the surrounding plants extract nutrients from the decaying matter–nothing goes to waste in nature, after all. They do not, as a general rule, have a negative effect on the rocks themselves; while some rock-dwelling lichens may chemically weather the stone beneath them, lithophytic plants simply use the rock as a convenient surface to take root.

Arbuscular mycorrhizae within a root as seen under a microscope

What I find really cool is that lithophytes can be mycorrhizal! Their roots are pierced by colonies of various arbuscular mycorrhizal fungi that draw up nutrients from the soil and share them with the plants. While this is a very common relationship in nature–four out of every five vascular plant species uses arbuscular mycorrhizal networks–lithophytes seem to have cultivated a greater concentration of these helpful fungi.

A moss-covered rock is often someone’s first encounter with lithophytes. Lacking proper roots, mosses hang onto the stone with tiny rhizomes. Over time they might cover its entire surface, and if said surface is relatively flat and protected from weather and other erosive forces, their decaying remains could be the very beginning of a new patch of soil.

But it’s not just the little bryophytes like mosses that can eke out a living on a rock. More complex vascular plants may also take root on or within stone. One of my favorite ferns, the licorice fern (Polypodium glycyrrhiza) commonly grows as an epiphyte on trees in the Pacific Northwest, but given the right opportunity it will colonize a suitable crevice in a cliff. Orchids may have a reputation for being difficult to care for in captivity, but in the wild there are a lot of lithophytic species. Many, like Dendrobium teretifolium or many Phalaenopsis species, can also live quite well as epiphytes on a tree or other plant. And the wallflower, Erysimum cheiri, got its common name for its tendency to grow out of cracks in rocky slopes.

Nepenthes campanulata

Unsurprisingly, some carnivorous plants make their homes on rocks, and their carnivory allows them access to much-needed nutrients in an otherwise limited setting. The pitcher plant Nepenthes campanulata often grows in colonies on cliff faces. Heliamphora exappendiculata, another pitcher plant, will happily grow both in wetlands and on constantly damp rocks. Sanderson’s bladderwort (Utricularia sandersonii) doesn’t eat insects, but instead sucks up microscopic organisms using bladders the plant buries under nearby soil or sediment.

One more thing: are the plants you see growing in gravel also lithophytes? Not necessarily. There may be soil beneath the gravel that the plant is exploiting. Or the gravel itself may be part of a mineral soil–one that has a lot of stone and not much organic material. A true lithophyte is going to be attached to a rock or rooted in its crevice, though it’s possible to find lithophytes growing on stones that, through weathering, may be feeding fragments into a nearby mineral soil over time.

Did you enjoy this post? Consider taking one of my online foraging and natural history classes or hiring me for a guided nature tour, checking out my other articles, or picking up a paperback or ebook I’ve written! You can even buy me a coffee here!

[ramu-ego]

Yo ramu i saw your latest post about ego and it made we wonder how he would as a dom you don’t gotta answer btw 😏

(nsfw) THE EGOIST DOMMING :: fem!Reader

the only sub reader you'll ever see from me bc this man has me under lock and key like it's unreal 😩 ♡ -askbox open cw: fem!Reader, sub!Reader, bdsm dynamics, sexual themes, unedited word count: sloppy headcanons character(s): Jinpachi Ego

DNI :: minors, blank blogs + m!Reader blogs

big talk and calculated action - full lazy dom

he's not interested in expending inordinate amounts of energy to "tame" a sub so brats are for the most part not his thing

not to see he doesn't enjoy a little cheekiness in the moment

greedy greedy greedy man

has a bit of a....backwards way of thinking though in terms of fulfilling his greedy egotistical nature

he wants the best and by any means does what he needs to to get it that way

Ego wants you sopping wet and clenching around his dick like a personal cock sleeve and really the only way to achieve that is to overstim you to the point of perfection for him

accidental service top but don't tell him

he thinks little of your pleasure but it comes so naturally bc the wetter, tighter and eager you are to please him well- then he's in a gluttons heaven

not a fan of elaborate positions or too many things that might force him to break a sweat

sees no issue with tucking you under his desk to leave you to nurse on his cock while he works diligently on what he wants to

but also demands a break every now and then from doing the same thing so nothing spices it up like putting you in that chair and fingering you until his seat is sopping wet so he can belittle you a little bit for making a mess

that he has no intention of cleaning up himself either

loves to waste company time, money and resources to fuck you on the clock at Blue Lock

its honestly probably a kink at this point

control through skirting the edge of utter dehumanizing degradation and just enough praise to keep you in line wanting more of his praise

he's very good with his words

if that's not enough he's not above fucking you to the point of tears and quite enjoys the unraveling of the human mind when confronted with so much pleasure

you on top is almost always his go to position and he doesn't care if you already came on his fingers because that was just prep for his main course

leaves him free to lay back and enjoy with minimal effort as well as double down and hold you still to fuck you senseless if he doesn't like how you're doing it

not so secret breeding kink

one that's worsened at Blue Lock when he's mentoring all those youngsters

loves the humiliation of you cumming to quick or watching your body betray you for what he wants from it

full of taunts and quips about how you're his and his alone - extremely possessive

you're at his beck and call but it's hard to see it as a bad thing when he can leave you fucked out of your mind from a quickie in the office or a full fledged fuck in those cramped little sleeping arrangements

and you bet your ass he's threatened to record you while he fucks you just to get your reaction

[inbarfink]

I mean, at the end of the day, technically almost every single Zim Vs. Dib episode is an embarrassment to Zim. Because Zim is a full-grown probably-centuries-old highly-trained-(former)-elite-alien-soldier armed with superior technology. The fact that he considers this Literal Child to be a threat to his plans would actually be extremely humiliating if Zim could ever admit the reality of the situation. Both in the cases that he’s right (cause having a child, even one with partial access to whatever-passes-for-advanced-technology on this planet be your worthy opponent is Extremely Lame) and in the cases that he’s wrong (because in those cases Zim just wasted a whole bunch of his resources - including a pimple with hypnotic powers, an all-powerful mini-mech and perfect virtual reality and a literal goddam time machine - on a 12 year old that no one listens to anyways)

I mean, jeez, how many times has Dib technically saved the Earth - not by stopping Zim’s latest scheme - but by being the target of it? Making Zim waste resources that should’ve gone into weakening Earth’s defenses or targeting its leaders and instead channeling all of that technology and Zim’s general malice and mayhem at this sixth grader? Again, Zim developed temporary hypnotic powers and wasted them on getting Dib to identify a flaw in his security system that he found. So while Dib technically lost that one battle against Zim…

He also kinda indirectly saved the world from a Zim who would use Pustulio’s Power for literally any other more useful purpose.

But, of course, if Dib could ever come to that revelation - he would absolutely hate it. Dib wants to be the cool hero who saves the world from a dangerous alien invasion via his wits and brainpower

Not the useful distraction that keeps Zim too occupied with one-upping him to actually be a credible threat to Earth. That would be very bad to his ego.

‘Enter the Florpus’ is kind of a great demonstration of that whole thing, actually. Because Dib claims to be ‘all that stands between Zim, and the annihilation of our world’ and despite ‘Florpus’ being kind of a more traditional heroic narrative for Dib - that still couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Because despite Dib being undisputedly the main character of ‘Enter the Florpus’, pretty every major action taken to foil Zim’s plan in the movie was performed by another member of Team Membrane

Such as Gaz

And Tak’s Ship

And Professor Membrane

And even Clembrane

And the most useful thing Dib actually did himself in that whole movie? Chase Zim for a bit 

That whole chase scene had them basically equally-matched for the whole of it, Dib didn't really get any closer to getting his hands on Minimoose and then he pretty thoroughly lost (before his dad came over to save his butt)

But you know, that was still probably an invaluable part of Zim’s defeat. Because Dib chasing Zim around for a bit was a distraction preventing him from somehow making things worse before Professor Membrane and Gaz and the other Competent People could come over to actually stop him.

Dib wasting time and then getting his ass kicked was so vital to Zim’s defeat and the salvation of the Earth - but he’d probably die from despair and embarrassment if he ever had to truly confront that fact.

[teddymoon06]

Desperate measures

Title: Desperate Measures

Y/N’s POV

The air inside the base was stifling. Every day seemed to drag on, the threat of monsters lurking outside and the tension among the survivors gnawing at my nerves. I knew Kang Seok-chan didn’t trust many people, least of all me, but in a world like this, trust was a luxury few could afford.

Seok-chan was always one of the strongest among us, not just physically but mentally. He kept his distance, rarely showing any emotions. But I had caught glimpses of him watching over the group, his eyes calculating, always planning.

Lately, though, the pressure had been mounting. Resources were running low, and arguments between the survivors were becoming more frequent. It was only a matter of time before something snapped.

And that’s exactly what happened tonight.

A fight broke out between two of the residents over a measly can of food, and that’s when I decided I needed a break from it all. The chaos, the fear, the constant threat of death—I just needed to clear my head. I thought about sneaking out quietly, slipping past the guards, just to get some fresh air.

So I did.

The night was cold, the wind biting at my skin as I moved through the ruins outside the base. I hadn’t gone far, just far enough to escape the noise. But the dark streets carried their own dangers. The sounds of monsters echoed faintly in the distance, sending a shiver down my spine.

I had promised myself I wouldn’t be out for long, that I’d head back before anyone even noticed I was gone. But, deep down, I knew this was reckless. I just didn’t care at that moment.

Kang Seok-chan’s POV

"Where is she?"

The words left my mouth, cold and controlled, but the rising panic underneath my calm exterior was impossible to ignore.

I stood in the main hall, my eyes narrowing as the residents fidgeted nervously. They didn’t have to say anything; I could already sense something was wrong.

One of the residents stepped forward cautiously. "Y/N… she’s not here."

I cursed under my breath. I had been keeping an eye on you, always from a distance, always making sure you stayed safe. This world was too dangerous to take unnecessary risks, and you had just gone and done exactly that.

"How long?" I asked sharply, trying to rein in the frustration building in my chest.

"A while," they answered nervously. "No one saw her leave."

Of course, no one had seen you leave. You were good at slipping away, even when I thought I was watching you closely. But now, you were out there, alone, with monsters prowling the streets. And I couldn’t let that slide.

Without wasting any more time, I grabbed my gear, not bothering to explain myself to anyone. They knew better than to question me when I had that look in my eyes. I was going after you, and I’d bring you back.

Y/N’s POV

I didn’t go far—at least, that’s what I told myself. But the further I walked, the more disoriented I became. The streets all looked the same, the crumbling buildings casting long shadows in the moonlight.

I felt a chill run down my spine, and not from the cold. There was something out there, lurking just out of sight. I could feel it.

The sudden snap of a twig behind me made my blood run cold. My heart leaped into my throat as I spun around, my breath catching in my chest. For a moment, I saw nothing but darkness, but then my eyes adjusted. In the distance, barely visible, a monstrous figure moved, its grotesque body shifting unnaturally in the dim light.

Panic surged through me, and I did the only thing I could think of—I ran.

The streets blurred as I sprinted, my footsteps echoing through the empty city. I didn’t know where I was going; I just knew I had to get away. My lungs burned, my legs ached, but the sound of the monster’s growls behind me kept me moving.

Suddenly, I stumbled over a piece of rubble, crashing to the ground. Pain shot through my ankle, but I bit back the scream threatening to escape my throat. I had to stay quiet. If I made too much noise, it would find me.

I scrambled to my feet, limping forward, the sound of my heartbeat loud in my ears. I had to keep moving. I couldn’t stay here.

Kang Seok-chan’s POV

I moved through the streets with purpose, my eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of you. Every noise, every distant growl set me on edge, but I pushed it aside. The only thing that mattered was finding you and getting you back to the base.

Why did you always have to make things so difficult? I wasn’t blind to the way you felt trapped inside those walls. I had seen it in your eyes, the way you looked out at the world beyond, like you were craving some kind of escape. But this wasn’t the time for that. Not in a world like this.

A part of me was furious with you. Furious that you had put yourself in danger, that you had made me feel like this—worried, scared, angry. I wasn’t supposed to care this much. I had sworn not to let anyone in, not after everything that had happened.

But here I was, running through the streets, trying to save you.

As I rounded the corner, I spotted something in the distance—movement. My heart raced, and I crouched low, my grip tightening on the weapon in my hands. For a moment, I thought it might be one of the monsters, but then I saw you.

You were limping, your face pale with fear, your eyes darting around as you struggled to move forward.

I felt a surge of relief so intense it almost knocked me off balance. But that relief was short-lived when I noticed what was following you—a monster, its grotesque form closing in fast.

Without thinking, I ran.

Y/N’s POV

The growls were getting louder. I could feel the monster getting closer, the terror building inside me with every step. I was trying to move faster, but the pain in my ankle was too much.

Just as I thought it was over, a figure appeared out of nowhere.

"Kang Seok-chan?"

He moved so fast, his presence so commanding, that I could hardly process it. One moment, I was on the verge of being caught, and the next, he was there, his weapon raised, his expression hard and determined.

The monster lunged at him, but Seok-chan didn’t flinch. With a swift, practiced motion, he struck, taking it down with brutal efficiency. It fell to the ground with a sickening thud, and the world around me went silent.

For a moment, I just stared, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my mind trying to catch up with what had just happened. Then Seok-chan turned to me, his eyes blazing with fury.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. I had no excuse, no explanation that could justify what I had done. I had put myself in danger, and worse, I had dragged him into it.

"I—" I started, but he cut me off, his voice low and dangerous.

"You could have been killed." He stepped closer, his eyes locking with mine. "Do you even realize how close that was?"

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I couldn’t hold back the tears that welled up in my eyes. "I’m sorry," I whispered. "I didn’t mean to—"

"Save it," he snapped, his voice cold. "We’re getting out of here. Now."

Kang Seok-chan’s POV

You were crying. I hated it. I hated seeing you like this—scared, vulnerable. But more than that, I hated the way it made me feel.

I was supposed to be angry. I was supposed to be furious with you for leaving the base, for putting yourself in danger. But all I could think about was how terrified you looked, how close you had come to dying.

I wanted to yell at you, to tell you how reckless you had been. But instead, I found myself reaching out, pulling you into my arms.

You didn’t resist. You just stood there, trembling, your face pressed against my chest. I could feel your heartbeat, fast and unsteady, and it took everything in me not to lose my composure.

"Don’t ever do that again," I whispered, my voice harsh but soft at the same time. "I can’t protect you if you keep running off like this."

You nodded against my chest, your hands clutching at my shirt like you were afraid I’d disappear. "I won’t," you whispered back, your voice barely audible. "I promise."

For a moment, we just stood there, the world around us fading into the background. It was only the two of us, standing in the middle of the ruined city, holding onto each other like it was the only thing keeping us alive.

Then, slowly, I let you go.

"Come on," I said, my voice rough as I tried to regain control of my emotions. "We need to get back to the base before

[mamthew]

Some thoughts on Metaphor: ReFantazio. I avoid spoilers for the most part.

It’s maybe impossible to overstate how much I love Persona 5. It’s my favorite game of all time, and directly started me down the path to being a radical. It’s got some flaws – many of which were fixed in its rerelease, Persona 5: Royal – but it’s such a fantastic package in terms of story, gameplay, art design, music, and thematic resonance that it’s hard to fault it for them. I’ve played and enjoyed subsequent P5 material, but none of them are nearly as devoted to a political message as the original, meaning that even though they’re all good, they ultimately fall short of what I love about the initial game.

Metaphor: ReFantazio is a 2024 RPG by a good number of the folks who made Persona 5, and you can immediately tell. It has a very similar art style, uses many of the same sound effects, has a similar battle system, and is built around the calendar/social links/social stats system that the Persona series is known for. It is essentially a Persona game, but set in a fantasy world rather than contemporary Japan, and without Persona’s emphasis on Jungian psychology and the tarot. It’s also thoughtfully political, but in a way that’s maybe less engrossing and blisteringly relevant than Persona 5. That said, what it does have to say is worth engaging with, as it uses its more traditional fantasy setting to comment on the ideological underpinnings of RPGs as a genre and games more broadly, as both an artistic medium and an industry.

In many ways, Metaphor is “Persona does Final Fantasy.” It’s clearly an homage to Final Fantasy at its core. It may have Persona 5’s battle system, but it’s got FFV’s job system, and it’s reworked the “one more” mechanic to feel more like the Brave/Default system from Bravely Default, or the Conditional Turn-Based system from Final Fantasy X. The job system is especially interesting. There are 14 basic jobs, with each job having 1-3 class change upgrades that unlock at specific Social Link levels with the job’s corresponding character. Every party member can use any job, but have very individualized stat spreads that make certain jobs more viable than others. For example, Strohl starts with the Warrior job, which hits hard and doesn’t do much else. He could use the Mage job, but his physical attack is like double his magic attack, so that would probably be a waste of his massive attack stat. That said, some players might opt to train him through Mage anyway, because at level 20, Mage gets a skill that increases MP by 15%, which they could equip to Warrior so he can use more of his big hits that spend MP. I, on the other hand, trained him in Pugilist, which has powerful physical moves that spend HP instead of MP. It’s a bit more risk/reward, but Strohl has considerably more HP to spend. And that’s one of the seven party members, each of which has their own unique stat spread.

That customizability is fun and rewarding, but limited by the use of a Persona calendar system. I’m less inclined to experiment and try training characters in weird directions when I only have ten in-game days to reach the end of the current dungeon and only have about an in-game year to reach the end of the game. Due to the FOMO brought on by the time constraints, I spent about eight hours just mindlessly bashing enemies in old dungeons in order to unlock all the jobs, which was pretty decidedly unfun, and I ultimately only got to play around with maybe half the fully upgraded jobs in the end. Persona’s time-management (which often translates to some occasionally brutal resource management in dungeons) has always ratcheted up the games’ tension and forced a level of deliberateness in decision-making. That works fine in Persona, but dampens the freedom of choice I associate with job systems. The calendar generally feels like a weird thing to keep. On one hand, the narrative and mechanics have been built around it, but on the other, part of what I enjoy about the calendar in Persona is the mundanity of it. The changing of the seasons, interspersed with real-world holidays, as experienced by a protagonist who is attending high school and therefore at the mercy of the calendar, all help to complement the familiar contemporary setting of a Persona game. In Metaphor, there are no seasons or holidays, the weeks have five days instead of seven, and the one-year cutoff for the action is arbitrarily enforced by a spell rather than by familiar societal norms, so the days tend to blend together. This calendar has all of the anxiety of Persona’s system with none of the novelty, and that’s not a great place to be in.

That said, what Metaphor loses in variety from the calendar it gains from its much larger world and its travel mechanics. Each chapter of Metaphor is set in a different city, and the characters must travel to each city using their gauntlet-runner, a land-based version of the classic Final Fantasy airship complete with a pilot who’s clearly Atlus’s take on a Cid. Each city has several dungeons, landmarks, and surrounding towns that the party can travel to and explore as side-jaunts to juggle as options within the time-management system. Some of these can take several in-game days to reach, but traveling has its own activities that raise social stats, craft items, or even develop social links with party members. In Persona 5, many of the side activities had their own unique content but wasted precious days to do, and travel-time feels like a way to alleviate some of that sense of waste, by limiting you to just “bedroom activities” like reading books, cooking, tending to plants, doing laundry, cleaning the floor, bathing, or inviting party members to hang out. You have to go to the extra dungeon either way, so you’re stuck on the gauntlet-runner either way, so you might as well raid the pantry, use the shower for a small Exp bonus, cook some fermented meat with Hulkenberg, do some laundry with Heismay, and then read a fantasy novel while you’re there. Much of the traveling system feels like an iteration on the central premise of Persona 5: Strikers, allowing the characters to go on a road trip and see a bunch of cities but without the dearth of things to do outside of dungeons from which Strikers suffered.

Metaphor is in most ways an improvement on Persona 5. It’s a much bigger game, with a more strategic battle system and prettier visuals. That said, its dungeons are generally a bit less interesting. They’re more straightforward, without the verticality that made especially Persona 5: Royal’s dungeons shine. They’re also less colorful, less surreal and – I guess a bit ironically – less metaphorical. That makes sense, since all the dungeons are actual locations within the game’s world and must therefore follow the world’s logic, but it’s weird infiltrating a giant fantasy airship and being struck by how much duller it is than Persona 5’s Diet building – a real-world place known for being boring. The music, too, is less interesting than Persona 5’s. It’s still technically solid, and there are certainly some bangers, but because the soundtrack is aping Final Fantasy in genre and instrument choices, it’s much less engaging than the acid-jazz of Persona 5. Metaphor also has less to do than Persona 5 or especially Royal. The game doesn't require that you grind up relationship points with social links, which cuts out a lot of the frustration of the social link system, but also means that there's no reason to take characters on dates or to the movies or to play darts. The world feels less varied because the activities are much more clearly laid out by which social stat they increase.

Both this game and P5 are punching way higher than their weight class in terms of budget and team size. They’re both essentially AA games that have been catapulted into the AAA space, and both are a generation or more behind in terms of actual graphical power. Both games made up for that discrepancy with stylish artistic flair, and while that papering over succeeds in both games, the stylizing of Metaphor feels less relevant to the game than with Persona 5. Persona 5’s intentional use of color and effects make it feel both pulpy and like agitprop material, which are two of its major artistic influences. Metaphor’s stylings, however, mostly make it feel like Persona 5, which clashes a bit with its more classical fantasy setting. I’ve seen a number of people complain about the game’s graphics being outdated, and I think the fact that it retreads so much stylistic ground is why the unimpressive graphics are more noticeable this time around, even though it’s much better graphically than any previous Atlus entry. The game’s reuse of many Persona sound effects aggravate this issue. Those sound effects feel punchy and contemporary, and work great in the context for which they were created: a game that turns rpg genre conventions on their heads by using a contemporary setting. Here, in a game that’s purposely leaning into more classic genre conventions, they instead feel lazy and out of place. The game clearly had great sound designers; there are plenty of new sound effects as well as the old. I wish they’d had those sound designers replace the reused sound effects as well. The game's localization, however, does set it apart from Persona 5. Metaphor is another JRPG to outsource its localization and English voice work to the UK, rather than the states. Most of the characters are voiced by UK voice actors, and they all do an outstanding job. Honestly, the weakest link voice-wise is the protagonist's voice, which was clearly directed to try to be fairly flat and unaffected. Still, I'm just so happy to have a voiced protagonist that I didn't mind all that much.

Metaphor opens by posing a question to the player: does a story have the power to change the world? I figured when I started the game that this question was referring to Persona 5, and the difficulties of creating a story with a specific, clear political message and having to deal with its audience agreeing with the message and longing for that change but not working to bring it about – or even worse, a chunk of its audience refusing to acknowledge it as political at all. While Metaphor was clearly inspired by that initial tension, it addresses a much broader question than that: why do video games – works in a medium that tends toward fairly radical political theming – seem to attract audiences that refuse to engage with their theming? Much of the game’s use of Final Fantasy elements is in service to this question, since Final Fantasy is sorta the seminal RPG. The game’s antagonist, whose name is frustratingly spelled Louis and pronounced Luis, represents in some ways the ideological underpinnings of Final Fantasy and is even designed to look like the FF1 Warrior of light, with long flowing white hair and curved horns. The main plot of the game involves a powerful spell that forces the kingdom to hold a democratic election. When the king is assassinated, his voice thunders down from the sky that the crown will go to whomever the most citizens believe in their hearts should be the next king in about a year’s time. The protagonist enters the race because he opposes the two frontrunners – Louis and the head of the very racist Sanctist church.

The protagonist often reads from a utopian novel and communes with the novel’s imprisoned author, a man named More, probably because he represents the demand that society improve and offer us more. The novel discusses the workings of an idealized version of our contemporary liberal democratic system, and all the party members fight in some way to try to realize that system. The novel itself was banned and all its copies burned, while More was arrested and sentenced to exile for writing it. While both the protagonist and Louis love the book, they had vastly different takeaways from it. The protagonist and his party see the book as calling for a society built around caring for its citizens, protecting and providing for those without the means to protect or provide for themselves. Louis, on the other hand, sees the book as calling for a society built on “true equality,” where all are forced to fend for themselves and only the strong survive. In both cases, the circumstances of one’s birth theoretically don’t matter, and leadership isn’t decided by a bloodline, which makes both visions look preferable to the world of the game: a heavily racially stratified monarchic theocracy. With the crown up for grabs, both characters have the opportunity to try to realize their visions of this utopian system, if they can convince the populace to back them.

This conflict is, deliberately, the conflict at the center of liberal democracy: is our system meant to be more individualistic or more collectivistic? Does the “liberal” mean that individuals must fend for themselves without a societal support structure? Does the “democracy” mean that the strongest must sacrifice the fruits of their advantages to provide for those without the same advantages? That the game takes the side of the whole over the part is unsurprising, given that it was made by the folks who made Persona 5. And hey, that’s the side I agree with more, so no skin off my back. But, using liberal democracy as the basis for its core theming makes Metaphor feel considerably less radical than Persona 5 did. Most of the oppressor/oppressed relationships in Metaphor are ones for which we have answers, which stands in stark contrast to the real-world-inspired conflicts in Persona 5, and when the characters look to the utopia of the novel for a solution, they’re looking to the answers we already have. And as Persona 5 already told us, those answers are insufficient.

That said, what feels backwards about the game’s theming becomes more interesting when we consider it instead as a metacommentary on the politics of RPGs. Louis, the villain who looks like the Ur-FF Protagonist, is an individualist to the extreme. His vision for a perfect world is one where all compete to live and only the strongest survive. That’s barbaric to most folks whose brains haven’t been poisoned by weird sectarian internet communities, but it’s also pretty much how RPGs operate: you keep fighting guys who are weaker than you to make yourself stronger until you’re the strongest, and then your character uses that strength to change the world the way they want. This is – crucially – also how this RPG operates. The protagonist might oppose Louis’s vision, but he still has to do so on Louis’s terms. It turns out that the conflict at the heart of liberal democracy is also the conflict at the heart of many power fantasies: we imagine ourselves being strong enough to make the world fairer, but in doing so, we engage with an individualistic framing. When looking at the metaphor of Metaphor, we can think of the protagonist as the story of a game and Louis as the narrative told through its mechanics; ultimately, what a story says is still constrained by what the game does. So the question of whether a story has the power to change the world is complicated by the introduction of the constraints placed upon a story by its medium. Why didn’t Persona 5 change the world? Metaphor implies it’s because its audience is primed to see its brand of power fantasy as apolitical – not even about the world to begin with.

I think increasingly often about a time I got into an argument with the admin of a Persona 5 Facebook meme page. He’d posted a meme complaining about people’s need to inject politics into Persona 5, an otherwise apolitical game. I found this absurd. The game in which you infiltrate the Japanese Diet building to stop a fascist from stealing an election is apolitical? The game where the personification of humanity’s tendency toward rebellion leads the party into battle to destroy the god of wealth at the center of a panopticon? It was beyond comprehension. But an art form that constrains most of its narratives to center around accruing power through conflict in order to elevate oneself as an individual has maybe inevitably attracted an audience that’s allergic to the idea that fiction can and usually does say something about the real world. And when I say “allergic,” I don’t simply mean “unwilling.” We’ve crossed into a political moment where the arbitrarily-defined level of “woke” in a piece of media determines whether a chunk of people will deign to engage with it at all, but based on my googling, Persona 5 is hilariously considered “not woke” (though Royal is simultaneously both “woke” and “anti-woke,” the remake of Persona 3 is too “woke” to bear, and Metaphor ReFantazio is under scrutiny but they seem to be leaning toward “not woke”). So the line in the sand is whether or not a game comments on the real world, but that line is drawn by people with shockingly low media literacy.

One element of the story that confused me clicked into place once I considered this angle. The game’s world is plagued by huge and brutal monsters called “humans.” In the game's world, the word “human” refers only to these monsters, while the sentient denizens of the game’s world call themselves “people,” or refer to themselves by their fantasy races. It’s bizarre to hear characters talk about “humans” and mean big weird giants that massacre towns and aren’t recognizably human at all. But when we consider this through the lens of a metacommentary on games, this choice comes to make sense. In an RPG, the player is a human roaming through a world of non-humans. They’re infinitely stronger than everyone around them, and in the end, only the human’s decisions matter. Everything exists to placate the human, and if the human refuses to engage with a story on its terms, then that pretty much destroys everything the story is trying to do. Those characters who exist solely to make the human feel something become fodder, to be ground up and discarded by the human. If we look at the relationship between art and audience from the perspective of the art, the audience becomes something like a kaiju, applying its own warped reading to the text, forcing it to submit to that reading. A story only gets to change the world if it first wins that battle with the human, and humans are getting increasingly combative. Obviously, there’s story reasons for the word choice that I won’t spoil here, but they align pretty nicely with my reading.

I really enjoyed Metaphor. It took me 110 hours, and I managed to complete all the social links, beat the extra boss, and unlock every class with the protagonist. A run that doesn't do those things probably could finish it in like 85-90 hours. Either way, it's shorter than Persona 5. I still prefer Persona 5; its politics are much sharper, obviously, but it also has a much bolder and more unique style. But anyone who really enjoys Persona or old-school Final Fantasies should give Metaphor a shot, since it's a pretty fascinating merging of the two, and it uses those associations to comment on the video game medium, the purpose of art in fomenting societal reform, and the shortcomings of liberal democracy. And if you haven't played either, it's a long, complex, standalone RPG in a new ip, which makes for a pretty good jumping-on point to Persona, from which it takes many of its mechanics.

[pop-punklouis]

i’m sorry but the people who were in blue state echo chambers being so throttled and surprised by trump having so many votes makes me feel like i’m living in a simulation where the fuck were you guys the past four years?? he’s only gotten stronger and his followers have only gotten more spiteful. insane takes to be like “idk how he won when kamala had every advantage.” I DO? because the democratic party does nothing but underestimate republicans and yell at each other in an echo chamber.

i mean, yeah. put simply….. yeah.

those who are not anywhere near red states or red areas that hold his supporters and never had to face them on a daily basis and see their ideologies in real life and experience how fanatic and driven they are of course were surprised. i think there is so much to be said about echo-chamber territories and mindsets within the democratic party and its voters because it’s quite clear to me that the third party votes, this time, did not hinder the election. even republicans didn’t hinder it. which is shocking i know. they came out in the same goddamn numbers they always come out in. it was the democratic vote that just. collapsed. point blank. undecided voters just stayed home or voted against kamala. a portion of our own democratic voters became silence voters and lied in polls while voting for trump. and the party just. failed. having an impeccable grassroots movement means nothing when it comes to this kind of election. putting out a near perfect campaign the last three months means nothing when it comes to this kind of election.

the democratic party failed to utilize funds and resources here in a way that republicans always do. we didn’t do! shit!!! we didn’t target the right audiences. that was apparent with how the stats showed kamala having the highest blue favors in the wealthy and educated markets while failing spectacularly when it comes to lower-middle class and poor communities. we didn’t ride hard enough on certain policies that could’ve swayed our voters instead of wasting time on this delusional “conservative republican woman” demographic we funneled billions of dollars into only for them to not give a single fuck and vote for trump like they always do. we didn’t bring any dimension outside of biden for her campaign so a lot of people just completely attached her to biden and his presidency. we didn’t prime her for this because we allowed biden to stay in for as long as he did which only hurt her chances more. we completely ignored regular states and focused solely on battle ground states which fucked us on both fronts with voter turnout. we did not lock-in with smaller, liberal media outlets and keep a constant message going through them as the year wore on.

we didn’t do a lot of things, and the lack of even a close tie (let alone a fucking blowout like some people thought) should make every person in the democratic party take a very long pause and try to understand why this happened and why it happened so jarringly. democrats have relied on the same old mantra for three election cycles now, and “not being bad like that other guy” isn’t cutting it anymore. it isn’t swaying votes. celebrity endorsements only further create the narrative that democrats are for the wealthy elite. the unwillingness to step on anyone’s toes and vocalize real ideas for change that affect these lower demographics and how that will occur only breeds less voters and less voting confidence. the democratic party just needs a hard reset. that’s the biggest thing i’ve learned the past 24 hours. the democratic party needs to build up from the ground because what we’re doing is not working. it’s not connecting. and for biden to have done better than kamala in a lot of key voting demographics, that should tell you something about the state of our party and the country right now (besides america hating women and hating black women etc.). it’s just unfortunate and sad and bleak, but like you…. it doesn’t surprise me. it horrifies me but it doesn’t surprise me that trump pulled out a win here. republicans did everything in their power to win this election, and they did. the democratic party did not do that. we have got to become more likable and accessible and approachable. or nothing will ever change for this party. and that’s sad, because we have so many amazing people in this county who want to do good and spend their lives trying to fight to make america a better place to live- including those in the democratic party. we're just not resonating anymore and people are tired.

but i mean clouds are white. the sky is blue. it's not anything others haven't said before.