#external memory comic

[externalmemorycomic]

In honour of webcomic day, here's one of my favourite longer comics I've made, called "the worst ice cream in town". As always, you can find many more comics on my patreon, which is linked in my pinned post.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lan Wangji goes to Lotus Pier (No relation to the AU of the same name)

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[silverwhittlingknife]

superboy: the man of tomorrow 1 spoilers

(it's just one panel but below the cut just in case)

memory identification: go!

[scarletspider2the2ndpower]

Ben Reilly: Scarlet Spider (Vol. 1/2017), #22.

Writer: Peter David; Penciler and Inker: William Sliney; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Joe Caramagna

[lovers-rck]

little secret | abby anderson x reader.

summary abby anderson likes to read, and you like abby anderson. | friends to lovers, +18.

okay.... this is the longest fic i ever written (i think)

enjoy

but before, help palestine with one click.

☆

You met her in winter. The immensity of the stadium they called home impressed you, a reconstructed civilization within an abnormality hard to ignore.

Even though she was the most respected soldier in the place, your memory ranks her welcome as the warmest. Between fluffy sweaters and worn leather jackets, Abby showed you a warmth that made Seattle's monstrous winter seem like a light summer breeze.

In addition to showing you the place where you would now live, immense and so functional it was frightening, Abby showed you more than the visible. As time passed, shyly, Abby took her time to show you her jokes, her favorite books, (of which there were many, you decided) her strange ways of combining food to kill hunger longer, her wounds; the internal and the external.

The personal library that Abby had begun to assemble when she arrived at W.L.F. was now familiar to you. When responsibilities left and the moon was present in the atmosphere, the two of you spent the night in that place. The bookshelves acted like skyscrapers over your bodies sitting on the floor, filled with books and comics that the W.L.F. soldiers encountered on their daily patrols.

"I think they're going to end up together" Abby mutters, her nose buried between the pages of an old red-covered book.

"You said the same thing about the other book last night" You replied. Youdidn't share the same passion for reading as Abby, but you enjoyed listening to her tell you about her new readings and her theories about what might or might not happen in those pages.

You liked that contrast with the soldier Abby, the one everyone knew, and the Abby you knew. During the day her posture was steady, stone-eyed and scrutinizing every movement nature had to offer, attentive and ready to pull the trigger at any danger, but when night fell, her posture changed completely; usually hunched over, her features softer, more relaxed.

"It's not my fault that everyone writes the same thing" Abby rolled her eyes, putting the book aside but not before folding a corner of the page, marking where it was left "I guess it was a popular idea back in the day"

"You should write a book."

Abby let out a groan, leaning back against the bookshelf behind her. The two of you were sitting on the floor, facing each other, separated by a pile of books scattered on the library's newest acquisition: a worn purple carpet.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes" Abby blurted out.

"Why?" you asked "It wasn't a joke anyway"

"Because of Manny. He was out of control today during patrol. He almost got us killed"

You rolled your eyes "You know what he's like" Abby massaged her shoulder absently, you could see her muscles twitch "I'm sure it was nothing, you just can't stand it when people don't follow your orders"

she looked at you, her eyebrows raised "Excuse me?"

Ypu laughed lightly "It's true. You're a serial controller."

"I'm not a serial controller, for your information" Abby said "It's just not a place for jokes"

"If you say..." you mumbled, pulling your knees up to your chest and dropping the conversation; knowing Abby, she would never admit it.

"What?"

You shrugged, smiling graciously at Abby's accusatory look "I didn't say anything."

"You don't believe me" Abby scrutinized you with her gaze.

You shook your head "I didn't say that".

"But you thought it"

You rolled your eyes "Now you're a mind reader? I can see why you're considered the best soldier ever"

"There's nothing wrong with being controlling, Abs. That's the way you get everything you want. Everything you have" you continued.

Abby let out a sigh, her chest heaving, "Yeah, whatever"

The room fell into a deep silence for a couple of minutes. You decided to grab a book, trying to read it and make some sense of the words, but Abby's gaze on you prevented your brain from synapses.

"What?" you said in an accusatory tone, resting the book in your lap and looking at that blonde girl.

Now it was Abby's turn to shrug, a slight smirk planted on her face "I didn't say anything"

"Whatever."

Abby considered picking up her book as well, but saw no point in seeing the very predictable ending that the last few pages held. Your words were still echoing in her head; everything she wanted.

She, in fact, didn't have everything she wanted. Abby thought she lacked a handful of essentials; a reasonable sleep schedule, a meal that with all the proteins, a partner who wasn't a complete idiot on patrol.

But hey, those were luxuries given the circumstances.

To no one's surprise, you caught Abby's attention from the very first moment. She remembers with tenderness the first time she saw you, wet and covered with blood, hidden among the large leaves of a strange plant that had been born thanks to the combination of vegetation and fungus, with a look that Abby would never forget.

She felt the need to protect you, not because she considered you weak, but because a strange feeling led her to position herself in front of you when in the patrols you heard some infected too close, or that time when a Seraphite appeared unexpectedly and hurted you, and Abby kept chasing Mel through the corridors to remind her to be extremely careful with you.

"I know what I'm doing, Abby" she remembered how Mel told her one night "She's going to be fine"

Abby tried to convince herself that it was just that she had grown too attached to you, but something inside her told her it was something more than that, something deeper, more intense.

Abby thought she lacked a handful of things that were essential to her life, like you.

"You know, you read too many romance books" you said, snapping Abby out of her thoughts "Are you in love, Anderson?"

"Oh my god" Abby muttered "You should go to sleep, the lack of it is affecting your reasoning."

"So, is that a yes?"

"I don't choose what to read" Abby replied "I don't know if you noticed, but we're in an apocalypse. I don't have too many genres to choose from."

"You still haven't answered my question!"

Abby's muscles tensed as she could see how you moved from your position and sat closer to her, next to her. Abby could feel your arm brush against hers.

"So..." You murmured, your breath hitting Abby's lips "Tell me your little secret."

"My little secret?" Abby murmured, forcing herself to look only into your eyes.

"Who do you like?" And Abby snorted, rolling her eyes "Is it Nora? I've seen you two together a lot recently."

"No, wait, i know. It's mel, isn't it?" You continued. Your knee bumped into Abby's thigh.

"I'm not in love with Nora, or Mel, dumbass. They're my friends."

You emitted silence for a few seconds, and then:

"Is it Manny?"

"Are you kidding me?" Abby replied with a tone that made you burst out laughing, combined with all those laughs written on worn pages

"I'm sorry. I had to say it" you said with a chuckle.

Abby shook her head slowly, a smile planting itself on her face. Fucking Manny, she thought.

"So?" You said after a few minutes. Abby looked at you, her blue sapphires piercing your gaze. "Who is it?" You muttered, your voice coming out weaker than intended.

Siddenly the library became the quietest place in that giant structure. Every whisper, every sigh felt too aggressive, too loud; something that threatened to break the intimacy that the proximity of your bodies had created.

Abby slowly denied with her head, closing her eyes for a second. When she opened them again, something had changed in her gaze.

"You're not going to tell me?" You whispered. Your hand rested close to Abby's. At some point, you doubted whether your bones had turned to magnet and Abby's to metal because of the way a supernatural force was compelling you to be close to her.

She denied again, but the way her eyes flicked to your mouth for a microsecond gave her away.

"It's okay" you whispered "I think I have an idea."

The first time you saw her, that winter, you noticed that Abby had a tendency to lick her lips constantly. It didn't seem odd to you, as the winter in Seattle was very dry and lip balm was not something they were equipped with at the W.L.F, but as time went on you noticed that Abby had a tendency to lick her lips only when she was with you; when you pretended you didn't know she was looking at you, when you got close to her face to apply a lipstick you found in one of the patrolling days, when you gave her a kiss on the cheek on the morning of her birthday.

And now, just before your lips meet hers.

For the first few seconds neither of you move. Your lips linger on hers shyly, too terrified to move but refusing to pull away. Abby has to muster all her strength to move her hand to your jaw, holding you, and suddenly every shred of fear leaves her.

Your lips instantly reciprocate, too hungry, too thirsty for her taste. Abby thinks that now that she finally knows what it feels like to kiss you, she fears not being able to stop.

Her hand, which initially started on your cheek, travels down your body to your waist squeezing the flesh viciously. Her fingerprints savor every touch your body provides, skin that has been reserved for so long just for her enjoyment.

When Abby's hand makes contact with the exposed portion of skin, the air circulating through the stadium feels insufficient. Your body takes on an inhuman heat, a heat worthy of the iron emanating from the gates to hell, a heat that only she can cease.

"Abby" your lips release, a strangled moan.

"I know" She replies.

Your body was now a mass that Abby could mold as she wished. She is overcome with a sweeping euphoria as she becomes aware of the control your body offers her, and thinks maybe you were right; she likes to be in control.

You try to keep up with her movements. You touch her skin, her arms, afraid to ruin the pattern of freckles that rest perfectly on her rosy shoulders.

In a matter of seconds you end up on her lap, your legs hugging her thighs, clinging to the new sensation that Abby's shyness deprived you of for so long. Between kisses, you can hear the moans the blonde's mouth emits, weak but guttural moans.

"Can I..." Abby murmurs, her mouth on top of yours "Can I touch you?"

Your throat fails to find the strength to elicit a sound, so you just nod, eager for anything that comes from her. Instantly you feel Abby's fingers undoing your belt and unbuttoning the button of your pants, but just as you're ready for the next thing, Abby's fingers linger in place.

"What's wrong?" you ask, strands of hair interrupting your vision. Your hair feels so tousled "You don't have to if you don't want to Abs."

Abby shakes her head, her eyes drift to her hands lying in your lap, fiddling with the button "It's nothing" she murmurs "It's just.... It's been a while, you know?"

And you understand. Your fingers stroke the backs of Abby's arms.

"I understand. You don't have to be nervous" you say, trying to get her to look at you "It's just us."

Abby nods. She looks at your abdomen, the way your t-shirt hugs your waist.

"If it makes you feel any better, I never did this" you whisper, and that's all it takes for Abby to look at you.

"Never?"

you deny "Never"

"What about the redheaded girl last month? You told me things happened."

You stifle a laugh, embarrassed. Now it's your turn to look away from Abby and focus on the pattern on her shirt.

"It was stupid. We didn't do anything, it scared me" you can feel her tuck an unruly lock behind your ear, her fingertips caressing your face "It was just a silly kiss."

Abby nods slowly, her gaze still on you "Okay. Okay."

Behind the library doors, women and children walk the halls, leaders give orders and soldiers disappear behind the massive doors while others return from adventures. The world is functional again.

"Do you think it's stupid?" you mutter.

"What? No" Abby denies "It's not stupid. It's fine. Besides, it's not like we have a lot of time for that kind of thing around here"

Your lips let out a chuckle. "Yeah, that's true."

Your eyes match Abby's gaze, who smiles slightly. Her smile is sweet, friendly, you can feel the warmth that is so characteristic of her, nestling between the corners of her mouth

This time she starts the kiss. This time it is calmer, less desperate, but just as passionate. Her fingers return to what concerns them, and navigate between your pants and the elastic of your underwear.

Her fingers are cold, so you stir in her lap at the sensation and Abby laughs, apologizing softly. You quickly forget about the sharp change in temperature because you have Abby where you want her most.

Even though it's been a long time since the last time, Abby is quick to pull your panties to the side and find a rhythm that has you moaning in seconds. Your lips break the kiss several times, moans seeking air and space to make themselves present.

"Is this okay?" Abby murmurs into your neck, wet kisses planting themselves on your skin.

Your hips move against her hand, desperate "Yes Abs" the hot air of your breath hits against her ear, and Abby almost lets out the most obscene sound ever uttered "Please, keep going."

Abby's free hand massages your breasts, squeezes and fondles them. Her tongue plays with the sensitive skin of your neck, sucking and marking every inch.

The euphoria and pleasure of the moment makes you feel invincible, and your hand darts toward Abby's pants, unzipping them and finding her black boxers.

"What are you doing?" Abby says, choked words.

You ignore her and continue your task, reaching inside her underwear and trying to mimic the move you do to yourself on nights where your body lies too warm on the sheets of some room at the W.L.F. Your movements are clumsy, but they work wonders for Abby, who stifles her moans into your neck.

As her nature defines her, Abby is a competitive girl in every way, so when she feels an immense heat who tries to collapse her under your effects, her fingers pick up the pace and pull desperate moans from your throat.

There was no way Abby would finish before you.

"Abby" you moan, your fingers losing rhythm "Abby"

"I know."

It doesn't take too many seconds before your body shudders under Abby's control and moans and groans come out of your mouth, which you choke on her shoulder.

Pleasure blurs your vision and senses, so you can't anticipate when a trembling, whimpering Abby pulls your hand from her intimacy and her muscles contract accompanied by a long, shuddering moan.

You and her breathing evens out, both of your breasts moving to the rhythm of the beat that is their hearts tuned to the same station.

You look at her. She looks at you.

Abby thinks this ending is better than any book she's ever read.

[pparacxosm]

stream of green

(stanfordera!tashi duncan x fem!nursingstudent!reader; tw injury; me taking my headcanon and furtive desire to be an english major and making it everyone’s problem; tw art donaldson typical guard dog behaviour; tw iced matcha dependency; anyway you get it; some of you have seen this before; everything is about wanting to kiss tashi duncan, except for wanting to kiss tashi duncan, which is about war and peace by leo tolstoy)

Tashi's Literature course is doing Tolstoy.

In the book, Natasha frolics in fields in a dandelion dress. She sings on her balcony at Otradnoe.

Natasha simply sits in an opera box, and she inspires white hot desire like dribbling crimson from a fresh wound. Raw and unequivocal.

Everyone could hate her. Hate this beautiful thing wrapped up in silk in lace and purity; Natasha has all the opportunity in the world. And there is something to ruining a beautiful thing.

Smouldering rose petals. Butchered sonatas.

Destroy it so nobody can enjoy it.

But they can't. They can't, right?

Because Natasha's vivacity persists like a man parched and desertborne. And Natasha's tremendous joy exists independent of any external condition. And Natasha is a courageous young woman who is willing to pay the price for giving her heart. And it pays off. Her kindness and tenacity and charm and dreams of flying to the moon will pay off. It all pays off. It has to.

And—okay—Tashi hasn't finished the book. She's bad at finishing books. Always has this lingering sense of dread that something's bound to give. So she'd like to think that Natasha's passion will pay off, in the end.

But her knee gives in the second set.

With a visceral pop that makes her gaze fizzle like static TV.

The poky infirmary is tucked away in a hushed, tepid corner of the school. Tashi stares at the smudged carcass of a smacked bug, a fingersized smear against a gleaming white brick on the wall across from where she sits and rots. She thinks of things once living and now dead, and her eyes, pinkrimmed and tender, begin to water again.

Art hangs his head beside her, wincing when she whimpers as her leg twitches. Tashi is glad to know that he feels so bad over what's happened.

Natasha is beautiful, young, ripe for the taking. She's engaged, sure, but not taken yet. Anatole doesn't let Natasha's commitment to Andrei get in the way of his wanting. Art chases Patrick off like a stray hopefully pawing at the door. Tashi is glad for that, too, as much as she can be. She gets the sense she won't be too glad at anything for a long while.

Your sneakers squeal against the linoleum floors as you walk in, clipboard held comically close to your face. You've only just gotten new glasses frames, but they pinch your nose bridge like a bitch, and you keep taking them off and forgetting where you've set them down.

“Okay...” you trail off, lowering the page, having gleaned fuck all from Nurse Roche's already hieroglyphic handwriting. “Uh, who's the patient here?”

One of them strikes you as more of a Natasha Zola Duncan (Deacon? You squint at Nurse Roche's scrawls. No, Duncan, definitely Duncan) than the other, but you're taught not to make assumptions, in your field.

Tashi is halfprone on the bed, stiff as sediment. Her knee is cloistered in thick layers of bandages, propped up upon a folded towel. Her face is pale with shock and steelsolid.

She parts her dry lips, a quiet ferocity in her tearweary gaze, but what comes out is a thin whistle.

“Maybe the one whose leg is wrapped up in enough gauze to clothe an inuit village.”

It's pretty stark imagery. It's sort of funny, but you think better than to laugh. She sounds harsh. She sounds rattled.

You have this sudden flash—a fragment of a memory of a large, sprawling poster on the cafeteria wall, the aptly emboldened text of DUNCANATOR!!! printed beneath a picture of a girl, clear and hot as freshblown glass, crowing like a gladiator with a racket in her hand.

You can't be certain it's even her. You're not good with faces, nor have you ever cared about tennis.

This girl, pensive and seething and lachrymose, her blonde acolyte seemingly too scared to dote on her properly, even as he clings to their proximity, bears little resemblance to the indomitable Duncanator who is said to glissade across campus with all the grace of Misty Copeland and the colonydecimating rage of Joan of Arc.

You only smile.

“Exactly. So why the friend?” you say as kindly as possible, gesturing vaguely toward him with your pen.

There's a pretty strict rule about nonfamilial tagalongs. One too many drunken partygoers convinced they're practically kissing the gates of death, ushered in by two dozen members of what they claim is their inner circle. The room is only so big.

“He's emotional support,” she says firmly.

You raise an eyebrow.

You hate to be anal. But you'd rather be a bit of a bitch to a peer who won't remember you than shoulder another warning from Roche and risk losing this shadowing gig.

“Boyfriends really aren't allowed in here,” you try again.

“What are you going to do, kick her out of the ER?”

It's the boy now. He's glaring at you with all the intensity of a water jet. You glance off to the side, halfawkward, halfjaded. You've seen your share of the white knight playlet.

Tashi pays him little mind. “I want the nurse.”

“Unfortunately, she's quite busy today,” you smile, “So it's me, or another hour wait.”

Her eyes narrow to serrated slits of amber. “Fine.”

You round the bed to stand to the right of her. The boy sits in direct obstruction. You gesture to a seat across the room with your pen.

“Could he sit over there? Might be a bit easier to see your...” you trail off, squinting at the clipboard again, “Right leg.”

She nods at him sharply, and you're a little tickled by his silent obedience, standing from his place at her side and jogging around the bed to sit at her... other side.

“Not quite where I pointed,” you note.

“Can you just order an X-ray or something?” Tashi's voice is frayed at its edges and clinging to its hardness. She feels like crying again, like letting loose those tears stuck at the corners of her eyes. But she doesn't. If she started now, she'd never finish. “I'm in pain and I have work to do.”

“Sounds important,” you say, reaching for the little first aid box latched to the wall beside her and unsheathing a disinfectant wipe.

She scans your profile, and you cannot tell if she wants you to notice her scrutiny. “Because it is.”

She doesn't seem to believe herself.

“If I had talent, I don't think l'd bother with coursework,” you muse aloud.

She seems, at once, pleased and disgusted by this sentiment.

“Well, people need skills beyond just hitting a ball with a racket.”

Beside her, the boy shifts at this choice of words. He runs a pale, feverish hand over and through his wheat field hair. He blows a thick and heavy breath out of lips bitten raw.

“Maybe,” you shrug at length, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Now, let's see what we're working with...”

Tashi, with a barely concealed wince, shifts her leg closer toward you, and you sweep gently over her skin with your hands. Her skin is very warm.

“Are you a nurse? Or, like, an intern?” she asks.

You smile, crouching down to be eye level with her knee. “Neither. Student.”

“So you're aspiring,” her boy supplies uselessly. You can't be sure if he's inquiring or stating. You hum an acknowledgment in any case, shrugging. To aspire seems such a daunting word.

Tashi levels you with a look laden with... something.

Then she hisses in pain when your thumb prods a little too hard through the bandaging.

“That's the most painful area,” you say, and it's more of a statement than a question.

“Obviously!” she groans, and the boy beside her fixes you with a territorial glower.

You think to try telling him to kick rocks again, but you only sigh, pursing your lips to the side pensively.

“On a scale from one to ten, ten being the worst, how bad is the pain?” You're still holding her leg, but you're no longer pressing.

“One hundred,” she replies.

“Is she always like this?” you smile, and cast her golden consort a wry glance.

He seems to have some choice words for you.

“Art, go,” she says.

Was it something I said? you want to say. But he's gone—hesitant, but dutiful nonetheless—before you can land. Probably for the best. Tough crowd, the two make.

“Just get me a brace and call it a day, please,” she huffs.

“I don't have that kind of authority,” you muse, which isn't totally true, but you need to follow the checklist of wound assessment protocol before you make any sort of call. Even though she will probably be needing a brace. “Can I ask you to rotate your leg for me, like this?”

She watches you straighten, and gather a bit of the fabric of your skirt, drawing the hem upwards and twisting your leg in demonstration. She shakes her head promptly and firmly.

“We need to be able to determine what we think is wrong, to specify what the techs are X-raying. If you could move your leg, l'll have a better idea,” you say, cringing sympathetically. And you mean it, the sympathy, but she's sort of not buying it.

“It's going to hurt. I don't want to do it,” she says.

“Are you crying because the pain is that severe?” you frown. “Or do you just want me to feel bad for you and stop asking to move your leg?”

“I'm not crying,” she grunts, wiping the tears on her cheeks. They quickly replace themselves. Like this perennial stream. Like she has just emerged from water, over and over.

“Right...” You give her a look. “So that's, what, spontaneous moisture on your face?”

You write something on the clipboard, and she makes an obvious effort to see what it is.

“You shouldn't be a nurse. You're too annoying.”

You don't know, yet, if you're gonna let that hurt your feelings.

She hadn't meant it meanly, just honestly. She could be nice—she is nice—but you're, decidedly, not making her bad day much better.

You smile, sort of laughing. “Move your leg. Please? I can give you something if it's that serious, the pain you're in.”

“Of course the pain is serious! Why the hell else do people come here?” she snaps. She's snapping now. Gnashing teeth like a cornered dog. But, really, you think she reminds you more of a wounded bird.

Tashi feels something queasy in her stomach, the prelude to dryheaving. She feels a new set of tears well in her eyes. She feels betrayed by her body. And that stings. Of all the things that have happened to her, of all the bruises, scrapes, of all the disappointments, that probably stings the most.

“You'd be surprised,” you smile. “Let me go find a real nurse.”

Natashas are meant to repent. Or, at the very least, suffer a tragic, agonising loss of self. The world is their oyster, but they can never see any of it through. All they can do is accept their miserable lot in life. It's pure prose.

“Alright, here we are,” you walk back in with a backpack on your shoulder. You should be knocking off in a few minutes time.

You're holding a little paper cup with two pills inside.

“What is it?” Tashi holds it under her nose.

“They're pills, they don't smell,” you say. “And they're an extra strength ibuprofen. Might make you a bit woozy.”

“Sounds like a real trip,” she mutters. She swallows the pills on their own, and takes a courtesy sip of the water you offer after.

“Roche is gonna come soon to undress and clean your knee,” you say, slumping your bag on the edge of her bed, careful not to disturb her throbbing leg. “So I'm gonna try and move it now. Can you bear it?”

“Have I not been bearing it?” Her teeth are gritted like padlocked prison bars.

In the dim room, one small window casts a narrow shaft of light across her face. The whirring AC renders every breath of air glaciercool and clinical. But Tashi's skin seems clammy with fever, her face beaded like a tapestry with the sickly sweat of pain and shock. You don't quite like the look of her. Especially as your fingers ghost her wound.

“You take ELIT?” she asks, her voice thick with saliva and strained like tensed elastic. You think she's hoping to distract you as your fingers approach the painful spot again. You hope she's distracting herself, even if it's inadvertent and spiteful. “1048?”

“Uh,” you pause, holding her leg. You're a bit unnerved at the pointedness there. You can count on your two hands how many times you've attended your English Literature lectures this semester. “Yeah.”

You clear your throat.

“You're flunking,” she grits, eyes closed, and she's not really asking. You don't totally appreciate her tone, but you don't suppose you can hold it against her in her state.

“Uhm... no, actually,” you say.

“You're just, like, antisocial?” And that does sound like a question, at least. Or maybe an assessment.

“Maybe,” you say, at length. Then, “Yeah.”

She clicks her teeth. “Gotta come to the lectures,” she says, and you don't make the face you want to make out loud. “You don't get a pity degree for being antisocial.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“You read the book?”

She doesn't say it in any sort of way, and you try not to take it in any sort of way, but you are stricken with the sudden biting suspicion of her opinion on you. Does she think you aloof, or uncaring? Maybe you're a little uncommitted. You're no star athlete, that's for sure. Tashi's knee throbs like a beating heart in your hands.

“Um. I mean, I read it in high school,” you say. You cough.

Her eyes shoot open, but they are narrowed and pained and maybe growing fatigued.

“Did you just cough on me?” Tashi pulls back. “You're a nurse, you should know better.”

“Sorry, sorry,” you mutter, “Aspiring.”

“Oh, sure.”

A pause.

“You should read the book,” she says.

“Yeah,” you nod, reaching for your bag and slinging it back over your arm. You know better than not to wear it on both shoulders. Your first year portfolio for your Health Systems Sciences course was on scoliosis awareness. But still.

She is either subsumed by a sudden ache, or she is displeased with your dismissal of her advice, because she sort of grimaces. And are you being dismissive? Maybe. But she's talented and beautiful and probably clever. And you're not a nurse yet. So you think you get to be a bit shitty.

“I have to leave you,” you say. “Think of me while you get better.”

Tashi's eyes linger bitterly on you, like she's trying to calculate whether she'd feel better if you dropped dead before you made it out the door.

She settles that, in fact, she would not.

When her shoe's sole gave way like it was on ice, Tashi had been struck. Not by the pain—there hadn't been pain right away, though; in that moment, that wretched, fleeting moment, she had felt a strange sensation of nothing at all—but by the noise. A horrifying crack like a wet towel smacking a wall in a fetid locker room. Echoed and nauseating.

And she thought, in that moment, she heard Patrick's voice in her ear, whispering sort of feverishly, okay, I'm sorry, you psycho!

It had sounded like something worth clinging to.

But what she hears now doesn't sound like Patrick at all.

“Just breathe, young lady.”

She wishes you'd have told her, before you left, how Nurse Roche is a heavyhanded, unsympathetic, cigarettestenched shrew.

Tashi thinks she's fighting off the medicine. She can almost imagine her fists swinging wildly, even has they lay stiff beside her, gripping the sides of the bed with the absent ferocity of a corpse.

It's almost like she wants to punish herself. Scratch that, of course she wants to punish herself. She's a Natasha, after all.

Nurse Roche unwinds the wrappings around her knee.

They cling to her stubbornly with a putrid crust of brownred. She's been bleeding, and the thought makes her a little uneasy. Nurse Roche has to tear the cotton from her skin.

A fresh trail of tears cut a swath through Tashi's face.

She cries like a waterfall.

Nurse Roche is binning the gauze when Tashi sees it.

The swelling, a violent red and angry purple like spilt wine. The bruising, a deep blue and the blackest black. The joint itself, deformed and swollen. Swollen as it is, a few parts of the structure of her knee are still visible. Should she take a closer look, she wonders, through the miserable morass of her drugaddled brain.

Nurse Roche says she's seen a few swollen knees in her time. But nothing quite this bad.

Even in her suffering, Tashi Duncan is remarkable. She'd laugh if she had the strength.

“Fuck...” is all she manages, before her head falls back on the pillow and she closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, it's late afternoon and the room is empty. Vivid orange light pours in through the window and washes the walls in panels of warmth and sunheat. Tashi can hear birdsong. She thought she'd be happy to see the sun kissing the tops of the university buildings through yellowgreen leaves, but she's just okay about it. Coming back from what she was sure, for a moment, was the brink of death hasn't changed her outlook that much, it seems.

Tashi lifts a heavy hand to her bruised knee. They've rewrapped it now, tight and neat. Still, the bruises pulse angrily, making themselves known to her. She scratches a little under the top seam of the gauze, even though she knows she shouldn't.

“You shouldn't do that.”

Someone is standing in the doorway. Coming in, to be precise, and holding a cup of iced coffee? No, matcha. Tashi feels her dry mouth go slightly damp. It's you. You, with your backpack on both shoulders now. A sweater you weren't wearing before. You're smiling. Tashi feels so relieved she nearly falls back asleep.

“Hey, sleeping beauty. Your parents are here. They're gonna take you to the hospital to get your X-ray,” you inform her, coming close to the bed.

You rest your fingertips on her forehead briefly. Tashi turns her head to avoid your touch, but not in any earnest way, and your fingers move to her jaw, then under her jaw. It’s almost clinical, but, if it were, you’d be using the backs of your knuckles. This feels sort of tender, Tashi thinks.

“Your fever's down, at least,” you say, sitting down in the vacant chair beside her. “Roche's glad you got some sleep. She said you were basically speaking in tongues while she redressed you.”

Tashi wets her lips. She feels feverish anyway. She tries to speak. “Where'd you go?”

“Good question,” you reply, and she's sure you're being friendly, but she still bristles a bit in her fogginess.

She's so muzzy and paranoid, when you reach into your bag, she thinks she wouldn't even mind if you unsheathed a pistol and put her out of her misery. But you don't. You take out a dense paperback novel that has seen better days. You hold it in her field of vision like that's supposed to mean anything to her.

“Bought it just now, at the secondhand library,” you say. And then, feigning longsuffering, planting your elbow on the hard, thin mattress, just beside her head and resting your cheek in your palm, looming over her, “I thought you'd be pleased.”

Her eyes flutter closed, but she turns her face toward you, a sheet of copper sunlight catching her eyelash and gilding it. She is, actually, so beautiful. You were able to give her poster a proper look today, when you left, and you think it doesn't even do her justice. Even as she lays here, lifeless and forlorn. Her skin is absolutely smooth. Like tepid, gleaming, milky tea. Her lips look like fruit flesh in early summer. When she notices you admiring her, she makes this pout, like a reproachful duck.

Her eyes, three-quarters-lidded, are watching you, through her lashes, with the intensity of a wildcat. She is not in the mood to be admired, they say. But they're pretty all the same.

“And I ran into your boyfriend,” you smile, your finger idly tracing the clothed bend of her knee.

Tashi looks like she wants to kick your head off. But she remains as still as midnight in a prairie, a light clench of her jaw the only indication that she's heard you at all.

“Patrick?” she whispers after some time.

You make a face. “No,” you say, dragging out the syllable. You don't know what you're supposed to do about that. Well, you guess you don't need to do anything. It's not like you're her boyfriend. Instead, patting her knee and eliciting a tiny, shuddering whimper, you say, “He told me you don't drink coffee, only matcha. He asked if he can come see you.”

Tashi resents being asked after by fucking Art, of all people. But her curiosity takes precedence. “What did you tell him?”

You look down, embarrassed. “I said he can't come see you...”

“You...” she starts, but cannot repeat the whole sentence, as if the words are part of a madeup language.

“You didn't seem any more or less emotionally supported when he fucked off, is the thing. And Roche says it was like an exorcism, getting this stuff on you.” Your fingernail scratches almost imperceptibly over the coarse beige surface of the crepe bandage. “Said you were sweating and spitting and cussing her out like a flank eruption.”

Tashi's body twitches. Once. Twice. And it is with a guttural moan that she heaves her body, seeming at once leaden and weightless, to face you, curling in on herself with what strength and dexterity she is able, like a stilltailed foetus. Shuddery and nascent.

“I wouldn't want my boyfriend to see me like that,” you say.

Tashi feels something like nausea, even as her belly whines with hunger.

She reaches an aimless hand up, and it flails in feeble slowness until it lands on your shoulder.

Her face must show that she is absolutely pleased, because you laugh. And the motion of it makes her hand drop with a lifeless thunk against the mattress.

“Don't worry,” you say, turning to grab her matcha, and the rattle of the ice against the plastic cup makes her eyes, mucus laden, flutter fully open like an activated sleeper agent. “I don't expect a thank you,” you say, “If it makes you feel better, I didn't go to that much effort. He seemed a bit spooked about the whole thing anyway.”

It doesn't make her feel better. You stab the straw into the lid of the matcha. You carefully lower the mouth of it between her teeth. She sips in earnest, and a stream of green dribbles down the side of her face.

“Patrick?” she asks again wearily. You tug the hem of your sleeve over your hand and use your clothed knuckle to swipe at her cheek. She is so pallid that her skin blooms with a faint streak of red where you'd wiped. But it's hard to see. The room is getting dimmer.

“Patrick...” you repeat in thought.

You have a bit of a guess. There was a tall, dishevelled, dark haired guy, skulking out the room all shellshocked and marooned shortly after what sounded like a bit of commotion in here. You think you'd heard a yell, something that sounded like ‘Patrick’, but you can't be sure. Still,

“I wouldn't leave the light on for Patrick,” you say, bringing the straw to her parted lips again.

She suckles with the breathy listlessness of a newborn. She doesn't appreciate the commentary on her love life, but she knows she asked.

“Why are you here?” she says, teeth green and voice, despite the lingering slur, as fullbodied as it's sounded in a while.

You glower down at her in wry disapproval, using your damp sleeve to swipe her lips again. Little flecks of skin come off, clinging to the fabric of your jumper.

Tashi regards you. “You said you didn't expect a thank you,” she reminds you.

You two stare at each other in silence for a few uncomfortable moments.

At length, you speak. “I couldn't not come back. I felt bad. I feel guilty. I don't know.”

You have no reason to feel guilty, but Tashi nods as though you do, anyway.

“Oh, poor you,” she says.

You smile.

“How's the pain now?” you ask, “On a scale of one to ten?”

Her leg twitches again. Like a bug smeared against a wall. Halfway alive. You glance at the amorphous slope of it beneath the bandaging.

“Twelve. It's at twelve,” she hisses.

You look up at her face, a little taken aback.

“That's a lot better than a hundred,” you say encouragingly.

“Fuck you,” she returns.

“I'm sorry for hurting you,” you sigh.

“I'm sure you had a very hard time.”

You bring a palm, cool and wet with the condensation from the cup, and splay it upon her forehead. You drag it up, upwards, slicking her tousled hairline. On the poster, she has a slicked back ponytail, a thick, dark braid cascading down her back like a foetal tail.

“Duncanatorrrrr,” you whisper in a low growl, the corners of your lips twitching.

Tashi scowls. Her eyes trace your form as you stand, taking the book—War and Peace, she is now sound enough to discern—and stuffing it into your bag.

She nods, a curt, jerky, miserable motion. She can hear her parents' warbled voices from beyond the door. Her red eyes scream with the sting of going damp again.

“You have a boyfriend?” she asks.

You sling your bag over one shoulder. You're about to thread your other arm through, but you pause at that, humming in question.

“You said...” she trails off, blinking blearily.

“Oh!” you say.

You smile, shaking your head.

It takes the strength of a battalion, but she hoists her head just barely, and swivels her neck to trace your receding form. When you reach the door, you wave goodbye, your shadow turning bright and disappearing in the sunlight.

Natashas everywhere must suffer.

Tashi drops her head heavily back onto the bed as it if were the chopping block. She eyes the iced matcha, condensation creating a wet ring on the sidetable, the bitten straw. She lets herself feel the torment. It's survivable, as tortures go.

Clung to the side of the cup, gathering water, is a little sticky note. Tashi makes out the first few digits of a phone number. She closes her eyes and hears her parents bustle in. They sound relieved, and concerned.

“Oh, Natasha!” wails her mom.

[zahri-melitor]

What can you infer about the editorial meddling Young Justice went through?

Oh god. It’s like the old quote about pornography: you know it when you see it. Spend enough time reading comics and you can just tell.

Notable problems with the Young Justice 2019 run that smack of interference:

You can really tell there was external pressure to include Steph in the run and that she was not originally intended to join the team or appear any further than occasional cameos such as the flashbacks at the Hall of Justice as a link to Tim’s final scene in Tynion’s Tec run. Structurally her story makes no sense whatsoever for how to put a plot together. Steph’s not an original Young Justice character, the run already was supporting two new female characters plus a reboot of Amethyst introducing Amy to a new generation, even before we look at the crossovers from other titles in the imprint. The fact they ended up throwing in a single issue entirely about 'what Steph has been up to and her fight against Cluemaster' in the last section of the run makes it even worse, as that was valuable page time wasted pandering that could and should have been used to give Jinny Hex or Keli Quintela more development.

The entire ‘Drake’ situation, which for a costume change had very little build up, was under-designed, and then disappeared with Tim back in the Robin costume between two panels. It was a test balloon from someone that was comprehensively shot down by some mix of the fandom and editorial, and I remain convinced that DC is gunshy about a new costume and identity for Tim all the way up to the present day because of how badly it was handled.

It was being used as the anchor for Wonder Comics, leading to the required mega crossover (that also spilled over into Bendis’ Action Comics to give it some more space), putting even more pressure on the title to be telling a big crossover story when it was still trying to re-establish “your favourites are back” and suggesting potentially expanding the Young Justice lineup out to around thirteen characters, a massively oversized team that the title was not set up to handle.

Lost in the Multiverse was where the story started to get bogged down by being pulled in too many directions by expectations.

It’s also super telling that the last third of the book got turned over to essentially doing one-shot character pieces about the Core Four, the last defence of a run that can see cancellation coming and doesn’t feel confident launching a new story arc they don’t expect to get to finish. Some of this stuff was clearly background character work they would have preferred to have dripped out over a longer run.

Also I know I’m repeating myself, but having the Tim piece focus on Steph mostly, in the frame of Tim and Steph’s relationship? That’s not where I’d be spending my time when looking at Tim Drake in the focus of Young Justice. How he’s coping with his returned memories of having two or three different lives now? Thinking about what ‘Tell Conner you’re sorry’ means? Discussion about his feelings in terms of moving on from being Robin or not? Nah let’s talk about Steph's problems with her dad instead. That’s not a natural fit compared to what everyone else got and does not follow from any of the preceding story.

Still ropeable that the whole set of storylines about regained memories and alternate timelines doesn’t get to intersect with Lois Lane (which spoilers but also is committed to storytelling about ‘people have memories of other places bleeding through’ prior to the full Infinite Frontier retcon) or explore how those memories change things for Tim, Bart or Cassie (Kon at least does get a story about reconnecting in Action).

And that’s just off the top of my head, ignoring any of the more subtle signs.

I love Young Justice 2019. It is a run that adores Bart, Kon, Cassie and Tim (and particularly Bart. I cannot explain to you how much this story adores Bart if you’ve never read it) and the opening 6 issues make me feel warm and fuzzy every time I read them in terms of how cleverly it works to explain how we get everything back. There are clever subtle moments in the text that give a lot more depth to the story that are implied rather than spelled out: how Cassie suddenly remembers Bart when Bart comes near her, suggesting that her returned memories are a Speed Force side effect from being a lightning rod to Bart; Cassie and Tim sense Kon using TTK and recognise it as familiar, something the new characters cannot; the fakeout in the art where when Tim’s memories are restored, he sees Cissie in his memories, but unless you know the exact YJ98 page being referenced you’d think it was Steph; etc.

But gosh it would have been so much better if it had not been required to devote so much page time to crossovers and to pandering to fans, among other elements.

[writing-with-sophia]

How to get into the mind of a character? Honestly this can be for your OWN character or a fictional character. I'm wanting to write for characters- headcanons and fanfictions- and I'm so afraid I'll write them so uncanny to how they actually are.

How to get into the mind of a character?

To get into the mind of a character, you have to understand that character, believe in that character, and even "live" the character's life. But we all know each individual is different, and we cannot live different lives. A normal person who grew up in peacetime cannot fully understand the hardships of a warrior, and a doctor cannot know the thoughts of a mafia boss.

So, how can writers create believable characters? How can they possibly offer a believable soldier, cop, detective, alcoholic, or any given character type if they themselves haven't lived as them? How can they possibly offer a believable character in a situation that they've never been in?

Here are some tips you can use to get into the minds of characters:

Tip 1: Observe real-life people

To create well-rounded characters, observe real people around you. Pay attention to their behaviors, mannerisms, speech patterns, and thought processes. Take note of how they express emotions, handle conflicts, and make decisions. Drawing from real-life observations can add depth and authenticity to your characters. You can also search for novels and movies with different themes, study how characters with different pasts, biographies, occupations, and personalities act, behave, gesture, and speak. The best way is to prepare a small notebook and a pen so you can carry it with you wherever you go.

Tip 2: Create a detailed character profile

Develop a detailed character profile that includes information such as their age, background, beliefs, values, goals, and fears. Consider their relationships with other characters and how these dynamics influence their thoughts and actions. Delve into the character's past and explore significant events that have shaped them. Consider their upbringing, traumas, successes, and failures. These can provide you with a roadmap for understanding the character's mindset.

Tip 3: Use internal monologues and journaling

Imagine the character's internal thoughts and dialogues with themselves. Consider what they might be thinking in different situations, their hopes, dreams, and fears. (And why do they dream of that? Why are they afraid of that thing? What in the past made them afraid? Always asking questions.) Writing internal monologues or journal entries from the character's perspective can help you delve into their mindset and gain insight into their unique voice.

Tip 4: Consider their external influences

Characters are influenced by their environment, culture, and society. Reflect on how external factors such as family, friends, societal norms, or even the story's setting impact their thoughts and behaviors. This will help you portray their worldview more accurately.

Tip 5: Study the source material

If you're writing about an existing character from a book, TV show, or movie, immerse yourself in the source material. Pay attention to their dialogue, actions, and interactions with other characters. Take note of their personality traits, motivations, and backstory. This will help you develop a strong foundation for understanding the character. For example, recently I suddenly became interested in Nightwing (do you know him? Nightwing from the Batman series!), and I wanted to write a few short stories about him. So I found all the comics and movies that featured Nightwing and watched them one by one. I don't take notes because I have a pretty good memory (especially for characters I like), but I still recommend taking notes on special things to note.

Tip 6: Practice free writing

Set aside time for free writing exercises where you write from the character's point of view. Allow your thoughts to flow without judgment or editing. Just write, write, and write. You can reread and make corrections after you're done. Remember to gather your posts in one place; otherwise, you'll lose or forget them (like me!).

Getting into the mind of a character is an ongoing process that requires continuous exploration and refinement. The more you invest in understanding your character's thoughts, feelings, and motivations, the more compelling and authentic your writing will become.

Additionally, you can read my articles on how to write an effective character here:

How to create a superbad villain

How to make a villain's appearance memorable

Basic questions for your character

Describing a villain's appearance in a natural way

Create an effectively past for character

Common character motivations

How to create a good main character

How to avoid the instance where a secondary character stands out more/ is more lovable?

Character flaws

Writing a good Anti-Hero

Character positive traits

How to write an elderly main character?

Protagonist who is a ballerina

How to write a believeable egotistical character

[raayllum]

graphic novel focus breakdown

because it's a tradition for like 5 pages to get 1k of meta at this point, Dreamer's Nightmare edition.

First, what can we glean from the pages themselves?

The town of Noct (meaning "night") has had a recent change of leadership. The previous mayor, a friend of Sarai's, has recently passed and his son, Otti, is now taking over. The royal family — consisting of Harrow, Amaya + Gren, and Callum and Ezran — have come, unawares that the town is likewise plagued by well, nightmares of a sort. We also know that while the comic will heavily feature both brothers, it will ultimately be Ezran centric.

First I'm going to talk about predictions for the comic itself, and then how it may relate to upcoming seasons.

The Comic: timeline wise

Timeline wise, Ezran seems to be about 4-6, putting Callum at 9-11 (maybe even 12) due to their varying age gap of 4-5 years. We see the boys stumbling out of the bushes, wet, from a recent misadventure featuring waterfalls and raccoons.

This is, of course, a reference to the story Callum (angrily) shares in 1x09 about Ezran's animal talking abilities, as he states, "And a few years ago" (from the present age of 9-10) "I realized I could understand them." This reaffirms the age timeline.

However, we do have a small contradiction here between 1x09's take and the comic's. Callum explains that:

However, the comic insinuates that this sort of thing has happened before at least a few times (although this is the first time Harrow has heard about it):

C: Seriously, every time I listen to you, I end up soaking wet! [...] What, Ezran? What is it this time? Bait told you? A horse? A burrow bug? [...] The raccoons again. It's always the raccoons. I've already told you, Ez! Animals can't talk. Can't believe I fell for it again.

Now, this could be due to few things: 1) while Callum's memory is extraordinarily good for visual things, he regularly forgets spell names (written down in his spellbook for consultation across s4 and s5), and also what he or other people have said to him like anyone else; 2) the incident with the waterfall was the one that stuck out in his mind the most and was the biggest incident, so Callum enhances it as the first real time this sort of thing happened; 3) while Callum says "every time" there haven't been that many, and other negative encounters because of raccoons (as noted) have happened before, so this isn't actually what's being referred to in 1x09.

(The realistic one is that things get shifted slightly, like Ezran's age, from materials, and that Callum being as much of a jerk here as he is is a lot more sympathetic if he's frustrated because of multiple incidents rather than one). Moving on:

The comic, conflict wise: interpersonal

While Puzzle House was mostly centred on Claudia's internal conflict with Soren as a tag-along, it seems that the brothers' will equally have internal and an external conflict to solve (more similar to Rayla's adjustments in BH or her and Callum in TTM). Although Runaan and Ethari had to adjust to their new daughter in BH, as adults they were equipped more so with skills and go on less of an arc than Rayla does.

Here, it seems (according to the summary) that "both princes have something to prove" as well as issues to resolve with each other, as Harrow reveals that, "[The boys] haven't been getting along. I thought a trip might be good for brotherly bonding".

For Callum, I'd imagine his 'something to prove' will be about his place of belonging among his family unit / possibly even adjacent to his bio dad (more on that later). For Ezran, he seems to be struggling to speak a bit, even with his brother and Harrow (who responds kindly and gives him plenty of time to gather his words, indicating this isn't a new or rare occurrence). Ezran has always read as Autistic to many people (myself included as an Autistic person) and delayed speech or speech impediments often effect people, particularly when they're younger, so maybe that's part of him learning to communicate better verbally? (Since we know Callum can't, of course, be convinced that Ez is telling the truth about animals, otherwise that throws 1x09 really out of sync.)

It also seems the brothers will have to reconcile and depend on each other. This could also pull in conversations or callbacks to Amaya (whose surely fought with but also lost her sister) and Harrow ("I know your brother can be frustrating, but let him be a kid as long as he can; one day he'll be king. Don't forget that" / "I know your brother's tempter can get the better of him sometimes, but Callum is loyal and true; he loves you more than anything"). The likeliest way this'll be resolved is Callum reaffirming his protectiveness and patience with Ezran, and Ezran perhaps acknowledging that he needs to be more careful about what he is talked into / talks other people into.

Either way, the brothers are gonna hug and I'm gonna cry, tbh.

The comic conflict: external

So the problem with Noct is that something strange is making adults fall asleep, while children catch only glimpses of what seems like a nightmare. My first thought was that maybe if you're young enough sleeping spells don't work on you (hence why Claudia's didn't work on Zym in 4x08) but it remains to be seen. If this is the case, Ezran would likely be spared and Callum might be on the cusp (dreams also have nightmares, after all) as he's a little older.

@kradogsrats noticed that the circular eye-thingy the town's statue lifts up looks like the moon-eye on the graphic novel's cover, so it seems that whatever is going on is intrinsic to this town. The previous mayor just passed, so there could be something with lingering spirits, but I'm currently more inclined to think there's a magical (moon?) related creature here that's had their routine disrupted and is subsequently lashing out. This would also provide Ezran an opportunity to speak with it and use his abilities for good.

We do know that the issue is recent given that the mayor, Otti, only sent a notice for the royal party not to come maybe a week ago, so it probably hasn't been going on for than 1-2 months at absolute most. Otti himself is also a point of interest, as people have pointed out his resemblance to Callum in his hair and eye colour, scarf, and general appearance. I'd place bets on him being an uncle or cousin of Sarai's if the resemblance was intentional. This might help push Callum's feeling of discontent and belonging; is he really Harrow, Sarai's, and his bio dad's son when he feels so disconnected from all of them?

However, what I find most interesting is his scarf and more than that, his staff.

Thus far every character we've seen with a staff in any way has been a mage. I've headcanoned Callum's bio dad as being a (dark) mage in the past, so if there is a mage on his father's side, I'll be exceedingly pleased. If the mayor is a mage, we'll have to see whether he uses primal (primal stone other than Sky we haven't seen before? Or he gives the royal party the sky primal stone as a thank you after everything?) or dark magic, or both.

Another reason I lean towards him being a mage other than the staff is his scarf. Since it looks rather while Callum's scarf (although to be fair, the old Katolis' king scarf from the 4x04 flashbacks also had a resemblance to Callum's) this could infamously be where he gets it from. It having a connection to either Sarai or his bio dad would be very sweet.

If it has a connection to him showing his first interest or affinity for magic, though... Maybe Otti will mention something to Harrow about it, and that'll be what gets Harrow thinking "Hm, maybe there's something I could give him someday" and we know he's thinking about the rune cube / Key of Aaravos.

That's all I have for actual comic predictions, so now onto the juicier stuff: how and why does this comic possibly tie into S6 and S7.

Why now?

Even for the prequel graphic novels, in choosing what gets rolled out when, the crew has typically leaned towards publishing graphic novels that are most in-line with ideas they want to explore in future seasons.

For example, Puzzle House was originally scheduled pre-S5, which makes sense given it 1) features Kpp'Ar heavily in name and mention and 2) also alludes to Soren's sickness, two things that are introduced within the show's canon in S5.

Bloodmoon Huntress was released pre-S4, but highlighted the cycles of loss and leaving that Rayla perpetuated in being gone in S4, how Runaan and Ethari's relationship mirrored Rayla and Callum's ("I've known since we met that nothing this is Runaan's calling, and nothing will deter him from his duty" -> "I have to go after him" "I know"), and that Rayla was getting her parents' coins back. Other elements also showed up prominently in S5, most notably Kim'Dael (though in-show canon her connection to the Moon fam hasn't been brought back) and "We are stronger together"'s callback.

So it seems Dreamer's Nightmare will probably have to do with stuff moving forward into S6 and S7. What can we glean so far? (Spoilers for 6x01 thanks to con info, stop reading here if you don't want to know anything.)

Star magic's dream associations have largely been a guess up until now — dreams have mostly been connected to dark magic, though Janai's nightmare seems to somewhat combine the two. We know, though, that Callum has been having nightmares about Aaravos in 6x01, so that having such a prominent display here in the graphic novel may tip stuff off for the future. This is what I'd hoped for when we got the title and synopsis as well.

If the book does set up what will become Callum's mage arc — the scarf from another mage, maybe cube allusions the way Puzzle House helped show how Claudia managed to track down the unicorn — then that of course will come full circle in S6 as he has to reconcile with what being a mage truly means. All of it, good and bad.

It's been confirmed in either s6 or s7 (I believe s6) that we'll learn a bit about Callum's bio dad. I don't think there's much to learn — I expect he was a nice person, maybe artistically inclined, probably got sick — but if we do see him in a flashback or vision that Callum has while at the Starscraper, introducing some of his family here could be possible.

Sometime in S6 and S7 Ezran is going to have to confront Runaan's survival and revival. We know thanks to "Deep Below" that he's probably not going to take it well, especially not at first. Having a graphic novel highlight more of Ezran and Harrow's bond would only make Ezran's loss and subsequent anger feel all the more earned/valid than it already is.

This is the one that makes me the most excited, but I've been gunning for a broyals conflict since s3 and veering into S6 and S7, it seems like it's finally here. Showing how and why the brothers may fight, and also how they can come back together again, would be a perfect parallel for the upcoming seasons. They'll fight and won't always see eye to eye, but they'll always love each other and put one another first when it matters / come around.

And that's about it for now!

(Onto the trailer next, I guess!!)

[externalmemorycomic]

(If you wanna read more comics, I’ve posted over 400(!!!!) of them on my patreon where you can read daily comics for just 3€ a month! I use my patreon income for bills and stuff and any contribution makes a really big difference. Check out the link in my pinned post if you want to join!)

[cantsayidont]

The original "Mirror, Mirror" episode of TOS is revealing for what it says about the priorities of the Federation and Starfleet, but the return to the Mirror Universe in STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE, ENTERPRISE, and DISCOVERY is mostly indicative of the intense hypocrisy (and acute moral failings) of modern STAR TREK writers in addressing the conceptual structures in which the franchise operates.

DEEP SPACE NINE's Mirror Universe episodes are predicated on the idea that mirror-Spock did eventually succeed in reforming the Terran Empire, but it produced a worse result: The Alpha Quadrant was conquered and the former worlds of the Empire enslaved by the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance. The writers of DS9 have been explicit about how they intended this to be interpreted: According to Michael Piller, who is the credited co-writer of the script, in Ira Steven Behr's words, mirror-Spock "actually screwed things up" by bringing about "a much more gentle empire that was conquered and taken over by the Klingons, the Cardassians and others." (This is per Captains' Logs Supplemental: The Unauthorized Guide to the New Trek Voyages, as quoted in the Memory Alpha page for "Crossover.")

The idea of showing that the TOS characters were not infallible or always correct is by no means unreasonable; it's certainly true that throughout TOS, Kirk often attempts to enact dramatic, sweeping changes in other societies based on snap judgments, and it's fair to suppose that some of those decisions didn't turn out well (which is something the DC STAR TREK comic examined at several points). However, it's revealing, and dismaying, that the one DS9 chose to pursue is "Mirror, Mirror" rather than, for example, "A Taste of Armageddon," "The Apple," or "Return of the Archons." After all, what could be more emblematic of the liberal values of STAR TREK than the Kissingerian argument that fascism is justifiable where the alternative is disorder and instability? I don't hyperbolize when I say that this is the most morally indefensible position presented in DS9, although it's also sadly consistent with the franchise's political position overall.

To make matters worse, Robert Hewitt Wolfe, who contributed to the script, later asserted (in the Deep Space Nine Companion):

Empires aren't usually brutal unless there's a reason. There are usually external or internal pressures that cause them to be that way. So I just thought that if the parallel Earth was that brutal, there had to be a reason. And the reason was that the barbarians (the Klingons and the Cardassians) were at the gate.

This statement is so abhorrent I don't even know where to begin, and it makes an argument much darker than anything in "Mirror, Mirror," whose depiction of the Terran Empire is singularly horrifying, leavened only by the campy cartoonishness of its presentation.

The storyline of the ENTERPRISE Mirror Universe episodes, the two-part "In a Mirror, Darkly," is clearly shaped by Doylist (real-world) priorities — specifically, to nostalgically revisit the aesthetic of TOS — and the admittedly amusing spectacle of the regular cast playing comically evil variations of their Pollyanna-ish characters. It mercifully doesn't take Wolfe's bait about the rationale for the Empire, instead indicating that the divergence between the Prime and Mirror Universes dates back to before the events of FIRST CONTACT. However, "In a Mirror, Darkly, Part II" ends up strongly implying that the main reason the Terran Empire of Kirk's time is so similar to the Prime Universe Starfleet is that the Empire has captured (and presumably eventually reverse-engineered) a time- and dimension-displaced 23rd century Starfleet vessel, the doomed Defiant from the TOS episode "The Tholian Web." DISCOVERY muddies the waters on this point, but the ENTERPRISE episodes tend to undermine the idea that the Terran Empire is simply a different version of the Federation, instead implying that its technology and knowledge is stolen from its future "good" counterpart.

Then we have DISCOVERY's Mirror Universe episodes. Hoo boy. DISCOVERY acknowledges the ENTERPRISE storyline without really answering the questions it raises beyond indicating that knowledge of the captured Prime Universe ship is a closely guarded secret ("Vaulting Ambition"). However, DISCOVERY makes a series of extremely troubling attempts to argue that the moral failings of the Mirror Universe reflect differences in the structure of that universe (for instance, the utterly absurd assertion that the Mirror Universe is literally darker than the Prime Universe, rendering Terrans unusually photosensitive) and even the biology of its inhabitants. "Die Trying" indicates that by the 32nd century, Starfleet believes that "a chimeric strain on the subatomic level in the Terran stem cell" gives Terrans a biological inclination toward duplicity. Yikes! This is a ghastly eugenicist argument, if anything even more repellent than Wolfe's apologia for tyranny: Some people are just biologically predisposed to be evil! Thanks, I hate it!

Again, this is much worse, and much more facile, than "Mirror, Mirror." In "Mirror, Mirror," the Mirror Universe and its brutal Terran Empire serve as essentially a moral bellwether for the Federation and the familiar STAR TREK characters. Its condemnation of fascism is not deep ("the illogic of waste"), but perhaps the most valuable point it makes is that the (relative) goodness of the Federation and Starfleet is not a state of being, but rather the product of an ongoing series of moral choices. This is the other part of Kirk's argument to mirror-Spock: When mirror-Spock remarks, "One man cannot summon the future," Kirk immediately retorts, "But one man can change the present."

DISCOVERY takes the opposite position: The evils of the Mirror Universe are intrinsic and immutable, and its resemblance to the Prime Universe is largely a coincidence that is rapidly diminishing ("Terra Firma" indicates that the universes have diverged so greatly after the DS9 era that crossover will eventually become impossible). Its principal ethical or moral relevance to the Prime Universe is simply to be an obstacle and an affirmation of the Prime Universe's utopian goodness rather than an examination, even a flawed one, of it might actually mean.

[cleabellanov]

Jet-Skiing Through Identity: A deep dive into Mobius M. Mobius (part 3) 🛥️

But why am I doing this? What is it that's so calling about Mobius's character?

Simple short answer: a lot of things. Simple but slightly longer aswer:

- His relationship with Loki being the only constant in the show, the only things we as viewers knew we can actually follow through the episodes. Being the one to treat "the villain" differently, Mobius already wins some ground from Loki's fans.

- He is relatable. Now of course, relatibility differs from viewer to viewer. But Mobius just has the charm of getting closer to you without really doing anything special.

-He is comforting, and I don't really need to bring arguments when that's his way of being. Also, we all know that if Loki can be comforted hy this character, so can we. Little variants of their own, these broken hearts... :))

Now, we got to the part where Mobius doesn't just give up when the hard thing to do is the thing that has to be done (just wait until I get to season 2. It'll get crazy).

The last episodes of season 1 are the ones in which this choice and internal conflict reach the climax.

After he gets pruned and ends up in The Void, Mobius doesn't let go without a fight. Actually, he quickly finds a car to get him away from Alioth and helps Sylvie along too. But why is he doing this?

The rush of adrenaline, the resolution that Renslayer: his friend for eons, just ordered his pruning, and the obvious life or death situation he is in. They all call the survival instinct - but also the adventurous side of Mobius - to action. I would like to insist on the second one, though. You can wipe a man's memory thousands of times, but that doesn't mean you wipe him the way he is. Those memories still exist, even though not in Mobius's present consciousness.

Then, his line in "Journey Into Mystery" is one I will never forget:

He has known so many timelines that got pruned, traveled in time and apocalypses, yet when it comes to change, it's never too late.

<<It's never too late to be what you might have been>> (George Eliot)

And again, why? Where does this strenght of character come from?

This willingness to change, this spark also has a lot to do with Loki. When he was saying that, he was talking to the other Loki variants. A simple man among them, yet one they seemingly trust. Seeing how his Loki was able to change and looking at these variants of him, he probably believes he can do the same, be an example for others that might need it. If the God of Mischief was able of "the word of a friend", Mobius is able of turning away from the very thing he diverted his life to. And that's because he know the truth now.

However, where Loki is an external factor, Mobius's strength and courage are an internal one. None of this wouldn't happened without him. Actually, things would've ended pretty quickly without the 1, that person to give Loki a chance. And, as I said before, the rest is history.

In the beloved miraculous historical scene where they hug, Mobius first gives out his hand. A signal that he's not very familiar with touch, and I imagine they don't often give hugs at the TVA.

So it has to be Loki that makes it into a hug. Mobius accepts that wholeheartedly, and I am so very grateful we got to see it on screen. The characters needed it as much as we did. And still do.

I had to put that in here, you can never get enough of them.

So here we are, at the end of the season. This character has come a long way, from the analyst that plays the comic relief at times - to the trusting, rebellious and loving companion, working with the opposite side to bring down the front on which he used to be fighting. More than ever, he is ready to fight for free will.

But there is still a longer way to go, because good characters never just stop playing with our hearts and evolving into someone new.

Therefore, see you for parts 4 and 5, because we're getting to SEASON 2 MUAHAHA

[the-skybrary]

Our head protector, Raph, wanted to make a comic documenting some of his personal experiences, since he's a unique case to our system. Part of it was to vent and get the thoughts out of his head, but mostly he just wanted to send a positive message out into the community. We hope it finds you well.

Transcript of the dialogue below the cut:

I’m not like everyone else here. Most of this system is made up of various versions of the core, and they all look like some alternative of the body. A sporty version, a goth version, a punk version, a motherly version. But all of them are her in some way, shape, or form. 

There are some fictives here, too, of course. The ratio is about 4:1 though. A majority of the fictives have little to no source memories. They aren’t exactly who they’re based on, they’re their own individual, and they are able to separate themselves from their source. 

I can’t. I’m an outlier here. 

I have pseudo memories. I remember a life before I came here, and that makes things complicated. Especially because I have a very important job to do. 

As a protector, I stand by to help us through everything we’re going through externally. I have experience with dealing in heavy survival-mode situations, and that’s why I believe I was chosen to be here. But…it also means I ended up being given a lot of trauma memories from the body to hold onto, in addition to my own. 

I’ve made my peace with my role here. I like it, actually. I have a partner, and a family, unique to this system. I have friends, and I’ve even been able to meet and talk to my source family in other systems. 

Although I can’t ignore the way I feel sometimes, living in a body…in a life…that is not my own. 

I can’t ignore the real emotions I experience when my source updates. Seeing my family in distress or danger, and being unable to do anything to help causes me intense anxiety. Sometimes if body is having a bad day, the memories will sneak up on me. Other times we’ll see a part reblogged and it will trigger an intense emotion. Sometimes it gets so bad that it affects the entire body and system even when I’m not at front.

I would like to clarify, though, that I’ve never blamed the artist/creator for any of that. As a matter of fact, I think I lucked out with Cass’s Apocalyptic Series being my source. They’re good to me, to my story, and my family. It’s just hard some days, being able to see your life laid out like that to the world.

I feel like a river that was once whole, and then forked to become two. Suddenly I’m going in a different direction, and the path is unfamiliar. I’m me, but I’m not him. I’m us, but I’m not her. I have both memories from source and from body, and it makes me feel…wrong. 

I don’t belong here. I can’t mask well. I don’t know how to walk in a body this small. My voice is    too feminine when I speak. Being without a shell makes me feel naked, even with clothes on. My claws and strength are gone. All of it is just reminder after reminder that I’m not truly Raph anymore. If I ever even was. ‘Pseudo’ means ‘false’. Fake. Pretend. Unreal. 

But I’m Real. The me that exists here and now is real. I eat, I dance, I have hobbies and favorite TV shows. I talk to people in our life, and I form unique relationships with them. I exist. I am a part of this system, and that in turn makes Raph real.

I can’t explain why I have memories and emotions linked to my source. I can’t explain why I formed so differently than the others here. I’m struggling with my identity as I try to balance my job as a system protector with my place in the Outside World, and it’s a lot. Some days I feel stupid and ashamed. Some days I feel okay with it. Some days I don’t care. 

I don’t think there’s a right or wrong way to be an alter in a system, no matter what your relationship is to that source, or even based on what your source is! You’ll figure out your own answers with time. They may not be easy answers, and they might make certain things difficult, but I think the most important thing is how you choose to move forward with it all. 

We have a saying in my family: Antawa Hitorijani. I guess I just wanted to let you know, if you’re out there and you relate to any of this, that you are not alone. And that I’m not alone either. None of us are.

~ Raph

[anticmiscellaney]

no pressure to answer and im sorry if you've said this before but where did the title new/old/rare come from?

It's named after a very average record label compilation that I bought way back in 2002 because it included a song I couldn't get anywhere else by a band I used to go see all the time. I always liked the title and it seemed appropriate for this project for a range of thematic reasons, but also Blueline Medic came from a band called Caustic Soda, who wrote a song called Photocopied, which was the first song I successfully turned into visual artwork, and I discovered Jawbreaker from the sticker on the bass guitar when I saw that video on Rage one night as a teenager, and then when I finally saw Jawbreaker in April 2022 I came home and wrote this comic about Louis seeing them in March 1996, which led to me figuring out the overall story of what had up until then just been a series of loosely connected drawings.

Before everything was available on the internet, releases being old or rare often meant you couldn't get them, you might not ever hear/see them, and new releases may take months or even years to become available to you. Part of being into film and music was searching, archiving, collecting, sharing, bootlegging, waiting, and speculating. These days I likely wouldn't have to buy a whole CD just to hear one song. Smalltime local band singles are available on Bandcamp, not just at their shows. Archives of old or niche films are often hosted on streaming sites, or even lovingly restored and rereleased. This is all cool and I enjoy it, but it's new. Please remember that it's new, that in my relatively short lifetime it has changed hugely.

People have always cared and now it's so much easier to share these things, but there's still value in things being tied to times and places, in parts of life being ephemeral and transitory. I think you need external markers of times in your life that you can revisit or avoid as you choose, otherwise you'll end up adrift. Something being rare or limited isn't always bad; of course we don't get to experience everything we'd like to and it's important to pursue and value what you can. I pursued live music single-mindedly from when I was 12 or 13 until I moved overseas at 19, and while I've never stopped going to see bands or being very into music, that particular time of my life was unique. I can't replicate it and I don't want to because as much as I joke I've not changed (and wear band t-shirts I bought in 2001), I'm not the same person. I still remember though.

This story is partly about the balance between digging through the past and making space in your life for new things, about handling change and choosing what to let go, what to archive, what to keep, what to keep looking for. It's also literally about music and film.

Most of the places I used to go are gone now of course, and most of the bands have broken up and moved on. I'm gone too, I live on the other side of the world, but I like to put references in my work. I guess it's my way of saying this happened and it was important to me, these things other people made, those places, that time, they were small and brief but they mattered and I remember. Some things don't come back and all you have is memories of them, but sometimes bands who broke up in 1990 do a reunion show and you score a ticket.

Don't count on it though. Enjoy what you can when you have it, and if you miss it, don't dwell too much. Looking for the next thing to be excited and intrigued by is the best way to find it.

In the comic linked above, when Neil says they'll have a chance to see Jawbreaker together soon, he's wrong: Jawbreaker broke up a few months later and didn't play again until 2017. I think they would have gone together then though, I think they both remembered.

[duckapus]

[a few days after the CCC Avatars and their games are taken, most of the characters relevant to the situation (notably all the Avatars except for the missing ones (obviously) and all the SMGs except 7 and 10 (for spoiler reasons)) are called to a meeting at 4's Meme Factory (since it's one of the few places that many people can meet comfortably) by Susie]

SMG3: Alright, why'd you call us all here?

Susie: I'm glad you asked *starts rummaging through a storage device* As you know, I've been studying code samples from the missing Avatars in the hopes of finding out the reason behind their memory suppression-and hopefully a cure for it-since before they were taken. And as it happens, a bit before I was informed of their capture I managed to synthesize this! *pulls out a large beaker of faintly glowing green liquid with lines of binary occasionally scrolling through it*

Several audience members: Oooooooooooo...

Mario: ...What is it?

Susie: This is a replica of the trojan program used to lock their memories, written is such a way that it can be represented as a liquid for ease of analysis. *she sets it on a table behind her* Most likely a similar method was used to administer their doses in the first place, possibly as some form of penetrating projectile designed to dissolve into their bloodstreams upon entry. AND, it just so happens to be completely identical to the code that made up the energy field generated by Lawyer Kong's so-called "firewall." Thus, the cure is obvious; Memes.

SMG6: But...we tried that already. It only worked for a few minutes, and only once.

Susie: That would be because of the one way the two afflictions differ; the firewall was an external source that people could be shielded from, while the trojan program is internal and needs to be overwhelmed and purged, and the latter will require a far more potent Meme than the former.

Which, unfortunately, is my current roadblock. See, if we make the memes too potent, they'll trigger a Meme Overload. That wouldn't have been a problem before they were captured-well, apart from Juliano given his condition, but still- but now they have to be administered while we're rescuing them from wherever they ended up, and we most likely won't have the time to bring them back down to manageable levels of insanity in the middle of that. So, we need to figure out the exact right dosage of Meme Energy that will cure them without making them go crazy.

Bob: ...Which means you need a test subject.

Susie: *nods* Now, in the interest of fairness I've put the names of everyone here who isn't an OC into a random number generator so-

???: *minecraft potion drinking sound* Mmm, kiwi flavor.

*everyone slowly turns with a comical creaking sound effect to see Franky holding the now-empty beaker*

Lily: We probably should've seen that coming.

Franky: *after a second or so there's the same audio and visual effect as when Mario got firewalled in the Lawsuit Arc, causing Franky to fall to his hands and lack-of-knees as the energy takes hold. His model slowly reverts to his old look as a generic Toad with glasses, and when the transformation is over he falls onto his face*

Desmond: FRANKY! *runs up to him and picks him up so he can see his face* Are you okay?

Franky: ...Who's Franky?

Everyone: *stares very intensely at Susie*

Susie: *weakly* ...Well...that's one way to choose I guess. *feels Peach, Toadsworth, Sage and Desmond suddenly looming ominously behind her* Right, let's go see about cooking up that cure, shall we? *grabs all the SMGs, Franky and Luigi and Books It deeper into the factory* Alright team, to the Meme Kitchen on the double!

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

Rant under the cut

At the time this posts, I will have had an appointment with a new PCP, discussing several medical concerns that I’ve encountered in recent years.

I feel scared. Scared that I’m wrong, scared that I’m right. And angry. Angry, both at the systems that require me to work past what I can handle and beg for help, and at my body, for not being able to hold me up. I’m ashamed of how much I am capable of doing. I’m ashamed of the recovery time I need. I’m ashamed that I’m still grappling with this internalized ableism, because obviously I would never say this shit to a friend about their needs or capabilities. And yet. Here I am. Thinking this about myself.

There was a comic I came across on here, years ago, about a person struggling with depression. They compared themself to a chipped tea cup: damaged and in need of repair, but not damaged enough to warrant immediate or intense repair. Like the chips in a cup, their symptoms were mild enough that they could be ignored or left untreated. They were still functional, albeit not as well, and not without issues. As a result, they felt small and shunted aside, both afraid of taking up space in depression communities, and angry that their clinicians and peers kept saying “it could be worse! you’re so functional! you don’t need (insert treatment here).”

I feel a lot of solidarity with this person’s experience in this moment.

I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. Google searches give me several answers which vaguely fit some of my symptoms, but nothing fits all of them. Either they fit the bill nominally but are way more severe than what I have going on, or they have a bunch of other symptoms I don’t have. I’ve looked at pages for so many chronic pain related disorders by now, and I still don’t have anything I can walk into the office with and say “I think something like this might be going on”.

When I was getting my autism diagnosis, I knew I was autistic. By that point, I’d known for over a year. It was just a matter of getting a clinician to verify it, so I could access accommodations. This is an entirely different beast. Everything I have is vague and hard to explain. I don’t have any diagnosis that I know of to reference, or another person like me to ask questions to. I don’t have EDS, at least. I’m not nearly that stretchy. That, at least, is easy-ish to check. I probably don’t have POTS, or PCOS, or endometriosis. That’s all the things I know my friends have. Beyond that, I can’t really ask people for their personal experiences with their own disabilities and compare notes. Because it’s incredibly invasive to ask random strangers about their medical history. But with my autism diagnosis, I knew several people who were already self-dx or professionally diagnosed with autism. I could easily talk about my experiences and compare it to theirs. It was easy to tell my clinician what was going on, because I’d already explained it and been told “yeah that sounds right for me, too”. People already knew. There was a lot of external validation for my experiences. It was a lot easier to trust myself, knowing that people I was close to agreed with me.

Now, I don’t have that luxury. Yes, my friends believe me, but they also don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. Nobody does.

And then there’s the added wrinkle of coming to terms with my existing dissociative symptoms, which have possibly been going on for years without me recognizing them as dissociative, because I explained them away by “just being tired/loopy” or “ADHD memory gaps lol”. Working on mitigating my dissociation made my pain symptoms immediately and measurably worse. I have the dual-pronged issue of not being properly aware of my body’s condition, and losing large chunks of time and memory to something I can’t really control.

How do I even give a timeline for how long I’ve been in pain, given that? Or a baseline level? Do I just draw on post-grounding data?

I’ve been making a google doc with a list of everything I can think of. Hopefully I can give that to my doctor, and it’ll be more helpful.

And what if it’s something that isn’t easily fixed, or is poorly understood? Like fibromyalgia? Am I just screwed? I have a future I’ve been working towards. I want to get a PhD and join a clinical practice. I want to move to a new city where my friends are and get a job there and afford my rent. If I actually do have something beyond normal aches and pains, will I be able to do that? What if it’s something progressive, and I have to move back in with my parents? I won’t have a partner to rely on in the future to help take care of me if I need it. I know this is already the reality for a lot of people, and I don’t mean to imply that their lives aren’t worth living, or that they’re tragic figures for needing full-time care. I mean that, for me, moving in with my parents would limit or reverse a lot of the things in my life that currently bring me joy.

And all of this is assuming that I’m not making this up, or exaggerating or hyper focusing on normal life events and conditions, and that this new doctor believes me even if I’m right. Yeah, I was in a lot of pain after standing up for hours at a concert, but wasn’t everybody? Yes, I’m still sore two days later, but isn’t that normal? Yes, my fingers, wrist, and elbow are all sore and tingly hours after doing homework; I was coloring a lot. Maybe my pencil grip is just bad? Maybe it was just a lot of work? It did take me 4 hours. Yes, I run out of energy quickly and want to lay down after one or two big tasks, like grocery shopping or going to class. Doesn’t everyone get tired running errands? What’s the threshold for being tired? What if this is just an autism/sensory thing?

Honestly I’ll be lucky if I can get to even ask these questions. I’ll be happy to get this doctor to look past the number on the scale and actually recommend me something besides cutting down on sugar and carbs.

I guess the central conflict is, I need to somehow convince a stranger to believe me, and I don’t even know if I believe myself. Heaven help me. We’ll see what happens.