#highly uncharitable

[iteratedextras]

This is going to be a quick and rough post...

They're still trying to exploit this for leverage against men, and for some reason, for leverage on race. "Look at how sucky and oppressive they are!"

Briefly, people who post that stuff may think that they're socially adept, but what it usually means is that they don't understand men, and thereby how to inspire them, lead them, and convince them to invest in personal growth and development.

It's basically nagging, and in general, men want to avoid nagging.

Sometimes the nagging gets very extreme, such as "kill all incels" or whatever, but no amount of nagging will actually convince men that it's worth the effort of becoming attractive, or tell them how to become attractive.

It's important to realize that nagging in this context does not represent social skill and understanding, but rather a lack of social skill and understanding. It's possible to use inspirational charm, and it's also possible to use inviting and disarming charm, but this nagging is neither.

Nagging's method of action (again, very rough and quick post) is being annoying, and then gaining leverage by implicitly promising to take that annoyance away in exchange for compliance. Thus nagging is only well-positioned to work on someone who is already close in the social graph. If someone is not on the social graph, then they'll just avoid or rebuke nagging people.

From what I've seen, men tend to seek higher-risk professions with more hours, while women tend to seek lower-risk professions with more work-life balance. This is not because either men or women are evil, or suck, or whatever. Each has practical reasons why their approach makes sense. ...and this is a generalization. Individuals vary.

I believe this is another case of the empty space at work.

It isn't that they're deliberately not being charming. They don't know how. It isn't that they're deliberately performing actions that make it less likely for men to try to become someone they want. They don't realize that's what they're doing.

Many straight men and women both take a customer rather than a creator/cultivator perspective towards the opposite sex. Someone else was supposed to produce a desirable partner and they're very mad that this mysterious manufacturer has not been putting the right product out on the market!

This lack of understanding offers a potential opportunity for someone who can teach charm and inspire others.

As for the universities, if male enrollment is collapsing, that's not a good sign for them.

For the record, if I heard a woman was a veterinarian, I'd have more respect for her than I would for a GP. Vets know all sorts of things, and they do surgery (I think)! However, I think that a lot of men think that if they're in the same career as a woman, and earn less or hold a less prestigious position, the woman will not respect them and will resent them. (That's not "being intimidated," that's "not wanting to deal with the risk of." Usually, "being intimidated" is just a "men suck" framing.)

Why aren't we talking about the real reason male college enrollment is dropping? (Celeste Davis, Oct 6 2024)

"White flight is a term that describes how white people move out of neighborhoods when more people of color move in.

White flight is especially common when minority populations become the majority. That neighborhood then declines in value.

Male flight describes a similar phenomenon when large numbers of females enter a profession, group, hobby or industry—the men leave. That industry is then devalued.

Take veterinary school for example:

In 1969 almost all veterinary students were male at 89%.

By 1987, male enrollment was equal to female at 50%.

By 2009, male enrollment in veterinary schools had plummeted to 22.4%

A sociologist studying gender in veterinary schools, Dr. Anne Lincoln says that in an attempt to describe this drastic drop in male enrollment, many keep pointing to financial reasons like the debt-to-income ratio or the high cost of schooling.

But Lincoln’s research found that “men and women are equally affected by tuition and salaries.”

Her research shows that the reason fewer men are enrolling in veterinary school boils down to one factor: the number of women in the classroom.

For every 1% increase in the proportion of women in the student body, 1.7 fewer men applied.

One more woman applying was a greater deterrent than $1000 in extra tuition! (…)

Since males had dominated these professions for centuries, you would think they would leave slowly, hesitantly or maybe linger at 40%, 35%, 30%, but that’s not what happens.

Once the tipping point reaches majority female- the men flee. And boy do they flee!

It’s a slippery slope. When the number of women hits 60% the men who are there make a swift exit and other men stop joining.

Morty Schapiro, economist and former president of Northwestern University has noticed this trend when studying college enrollment numbers across universities:

“There’s a cliff you fall off once you become 60/40 female/male. It then becomes exponentially more difficult to recruit men.”

Now we’ve reached that 60% point of no return for colleges.

As we’ve seen with teachers, nurses and interior design, once an institution is majority female, the public perception of its value plummets.

Scanning through Reddit and Quora threads, many men seem to be in agreement - college is stupid and unnecessary.

A waste of time and money. You’re much better off going into the trades, a tech boot camp or becoming an entrepreneur. No need for college. (…)

When mostly men went to college? Prestigious. Aspirational. Important.

Now that mostly women go to college? Unnecessary. De-valued. A bad choice. (…)

School is now feminine. College is feminine. And rule #1 if you want to safely navigate this world as a man? Avoid the feminine.

But we don’t seem to want to talk about that."

[iteratedextras]

I think part of what Americans find so outrageous about all this is that...

So the joke about rednecks in America, about "trailer trash," is that they have shotguns, which they will use to defend the perceived dignity of their daughters, and that they may be too trigger-happy about threatening to use them.

In fact, the contemporary mythology of America is that everywhere in America, from the inner cities, to the decaying rural towns, to the shadows of the shuttered factories in Detroit, the poor are armed, and not only are they armed, but they are over-armed.

So obviously, abuse happens in America, and obviously, a fatherless child is more vulnerable to exploitation.

But in America, we can console ourselves with the knowledge that if someone poured gasoline over someone else's kid, if there's a father in the picture, even if he's not reliable, he may show up to decide that's not going to happen anymore.

In America, at any time, a man might show up with a gun.

In America, even if the politicians don't care, and the police don't care, and the news don't care, if the girl's father cares, if he's willing to wager his life and his freedom on it...

In America, we look the other way when our poor people hurt each other. We write off their suffering as caused by poor impulse control or disordered lives.

But in America, that goes both ways.

In Britain, if a father somehow used a kitchen knife to overcome five men who had poured gasoline on his daughter and threatened to light her on fire, my impression is that this would be considered terrible. How could he do something like that?

In America, that's just a bad weekend in Chicago. "Oh, they poured gasoline on his kid and threatened to light her on fire? Those fucking dumbasses. What did they think was going to happen?"

Oh, we might prosecute him. We might even throw him in jail for multiple homicide. Process is important, don't you know? You're supposed to go to the police! But those fucking dumbasses, what the Hell did they think was going to happen?

[david-talks-sw]

Note: The meta below wasn't written by me, it was sent to me as an Ask by an anonymous user. It was so good that sharing it without adding some images I had lying around and extra formatting (boldening/italics) to it would've been criminal, so that's my only contributions. Thank you anon, and enjoy the read folks :)

What more could the Jedi have done?

I think a lot of the discourse about the "Jedi being slavers" comes from a deliberately uncharitable and bad faith reading of them.

I agree with you that TCW raises these questions and chooses not to go through with addressing them because it is ultimately a kids show that isn't trying to tell a story about the clones' situation but about [the Clone War itself].

But whenever I see people choose to go into these deeper ethical debates, they almost always assign an unfairly disproportionate amount of blame onto the Jedi who are, for the most part, in the same boat as the clones. Even the clones themselves seem to understand the nuance of the situation and most are grateful to the Jedi for coming in and leading them.

Although, yes, the clones do have it much, much worse, the Jedi are still there, fighting, protecting and dying right alongside them.

The Jedi are blamed for being part of the Republic in spite of all its issues, far more than the Senate is for being the Republic, even though the Senate is the one with all the power.

I wonder what it is people wanted the Jedi to even do for the clones...

OPTION 1: Leave the Republic?

And let the Separatists (whose originally legitimate grievances have been hijacked by the Sith) freely commit mass atrocities and enslave other planets with their humongous droid army?

OPTION 2: Overthrow the Republic?

And then what?

Take control of the Senate and become literal dictators and the very things they sought to destroy?

And during this whole takeover process, does the Separatist army just magically pause committing its mass atrocities?

So in the middle of a galactic war, the Jedi, with their limited numbers and resources, decide to start another one against the Republic to free the clones and ignore all the other planets getting destroyed and enslaved, and then...? [Also] the Republic citizens were largely unwilling to fight their own battles and preferred to leave all the fighting to the Jedi and the clones. So, now:

Do [the Jedi] force their new "Republic" to make its own army to fight the Separatists? Do they enforce a draft on the "natborns"?

All of this ⬆️ is premised on the Jedi even being willing to throw away their democratic values, and on the clones even WANTING THEM TO DO SO. Yes the clones are in a terrible situation, but the harsh truth is that, canonically, they do share the same values as the Jedi.

People can argue that they're brainwashed into this, and I would even agree. But that doesn't make it any less true that these are still their values. Most of them want to fight for the Republic.

They should have the choice available to pursue another path if they wanted, but the show - and thus the clones and the Jedi - barely have the time to consider all these issues because they are in the middle of a war.

In the show, [the clones] are the conveniently available highly-trained army that the Republic was going to use with or without the Jedi because it was all a trap set by a Sith Lord.

The Jedi, who were supposed to be some hybrid of social workers, peace-keepers and diplomats, were drafted into a war they did not want, and did not fight [the draft] because they had made an oath to the Republic, and because the alternative was letting billions get killed.

They were between a rock and a hard place and chose to prioritize trying to end the immediate war first before fighting for the rights of the clone army (which - again - is not even their job! Padme, Mon Mothma and Bail and all the other politicians are RIGHT THERE!)

The Jedi were a minority religious order whose own situation in the Republic was precarious, as evidenced by the fact that the citizens were willing to cheerlead their genocide just a couple of years in and gleefully bought into anti-Jedi propaganda en masse.

A more charitable reading of the Jedi would take all this ⬆️ context into account before declaring them slavers/slavery-enablers and surmise that... no, they did not agree with how the Republic was treating the clone army.

They were most likely hoping the Senate would enact a democratic solution to this after the war, so they tried to end the war as quickly as they could.

And no, they didn't "selfishly decide to overthrow/kill Palps just because they found out the Chancellor was their religious enemy when they were unwilling to do so for the clones."

It was because they realised that - all this time - they had all been under the control of a Sith Lord who had orchestrated a sham war to destroy them and take power for himself.

[velveetacrackncheese]

I know it's been like forever, but are you still a fan of Viv and her work

Honestly when it comes to her, no. Even if there's some things I've learned to appreciate in some of her more recent stuff (Except Hazbin S1, I thought it was genuinely awful and the more I think about it the more disappointed I truly am with it.) my main gripe is that it seems that Viv still treats people like crap. My opinion of her has continuously waned over the years from someone who was obsessed and having had a parasocial relationship with her and her work, to the point where I felt obligated to defend her for the sake of the "fandom" back then. Pretty wack behavior coming from myself honestly, and like I said I was a prick! I treated naysayers and critics of ZP like garbage, and while there was venom being flung towards me and other fans as well, some of it also being cruel and uncharitable, I can't pretend I didn't contribute to the toxic culture emanating from her fanbase. It's very interesting to see that the more modern incarnation of Viv's fanbase is arguably still just as toxic, but on a bigger scale. People no matter where you go, and regardless of when in time, seems to have a strong opinion of her. Either love her to death or hate her to the point where that becomes its own obsession. Well, unless you've actually had a connection with her, it seems like you're either one of her favorites, or someone who she burnt bridges with.

There's of course the genuine non-drama stuff, like ohhhh fuck dude, she drew some weirdo shit which I could honestly care less about. There's reasons to not like her, and it isn't that. It's not even really her work period, but more so allegations regarding how she's difficult to work with, cruel to certain past associates to an almost comical degree, and is still pretty uncharitable to even her most charitable critics. The stuff with KenDraws kinda was the nail in the coffin for me, transphobia is not going to get a pass from me, sorry! I don't know how true this is in particular, but how The Hunicast was treated after the Hazbin pilot also left me with a pretty real sense of disgust. It's wild seeing a show like Hazbin Hotel flourish through A24 and Amazon, all the while trying its damn hardest to cleanse itself of its indie roots. Apparently donations to the Hunicast was used to fund the pilot, and after the pilot it kinda seemed like Viv just didn't really appreciate how much they contributed to that project. Honestly, I don't think Hazbin would be what it is today without The Hunicast.

That, and of course there being all the dollcreep stuff, the way that the fandom at the time wrongfully demonized dollcreep and took Viv for her word to the T, following what was a highly uncharitable read from fans which led to harassment despite the drama between the two being personal, and that being made into a public concern when it reallllllllllly should not have been. Transphobia also being an abundant issue in this regard. JoJo as a character was created as an extremely petty way to bash Jo and in hindsight, is incredibly revolting, and ohhhhh also transphobic. The Erin Frost situation, in which of course featured Viv devotees to also take her testimony as uncharitable and lies despite having never worked with Viv herself. Employees being paid like... what, $35.00 per second of animation which is crazy. So not only a toxic work environment, that toxicity just festering cuz Viv herself is toxic. Her tendency to seemingly just bully the people she surrounds herself with, hell even getting people blacklisted apparently? I'm sure there's a lot more I can get into in all honesty, and what's being mentioned here is barely scratching the surface! There was a point in time where I had agreements with what were, back then, blogs dedicated to critiquing Zoophobia and in hindsight, yes, there was a lot to rightfully criticize. Lot of stuff in that webcomic was genuinely not great and despite the immature attachments that I had back then, there were points I'd openly conceded to. Which led to Viv blocking me, and that led to me being pretty sad! Honestly thought I'd did something wrong or that I like... "Betrayed" her which is fucking insane. It was something I ruminated on for literal weeks. I look at my older posts on here and it's so fuckin clear that I was not mentally stable, at least to me, and that was reflected in the wild ass shit I was saying. I'm glad I've changed but dear god I was such an asshole, and it's crazy to think that I was some kind of figurehead in the fandom at that time. Nobody should've been looking up to me, cuz holy shit I was a stupid teenager.

Also, generally speaking, this doesn't have much to do with Viv as a person as much as the early fan community surrounding her work that existed from like 2015 into 2018, particularly on tumblr, but I'd developed relationships with other people in the fandom that led to some pretty traumatizing experiences for myself and for others that I knew personally. I won't get into details about that, but the culture for the fandom at the time housed some SERIOUSLY sketchy people, and there were people who were just open and active groomers. Zero accountability for any of that btw, yeah awesome fucking community, guys. "Like and Reblog if you're a true fan." jfc.

So uh, yeah. Naw I can't say I'm much of a fan, and I'm not convinced that she's actually some nice, pleasurable person, who conveniently stumbles into situations where her alleged good nature is CONSTANTLY put into question due to actions that are pretty well documented and accounted for. I've still watched Helluva Boss episodes, although at this point it feels like I'm beating myself because I've progressively grown more disenchanted with it as time has passed on. Despite that, it's still Spindlehorse's best stuff. I say Spindlehorse in particular because while I don't really respect Vivienne, I respect the crew who are the backbone of those episodes. Hazbin has some narrative themes that I'm not particularly fond of, the pacing is a mess, and the character writing is not good. Characters have entire musical numbers dedicated to them despite either serving a very minor role in the story or just being absent for the entirety of the season. I'd go on and list my gripes with ZP, but it feels weird to bash something that is nearly a decade old now. Probably doesn't represent Vivienne's current capacity for craftsmanship, visually speaking, and in regards to the writing; Were I to go back and review what those old critique blogs had to say, I'd probably add onto them instead of being as dismissive as I was.

Also, something I can attest to personally, and you'll have to take me for my word on this, but I used to be a $50 patron to her Patreon. One of the benefits was that you got to be a part of her discord server where she'd chat with fans once a month and I got to be in a few of those vc chats. I recall her being petty even then, and if my memory doesn't fail me, there was a time where she like... called someone's older brother a f*ggot because he insulted Kesha and her general preferences in music lmfao. She genuinely got upset and all teary over that confrontation and ended the call early, and the other people in the vc were tryna comfort her. Looking back that now, feels so.... weird. Shit, I mean charging people so they have the chance to just talk to you, monetizing that feels weird, and kinda gross. Wish I could have my money back for that, ngl. No Bueno.

[kaftan]

not to get lost in the amy dallon racial coding sauce again but I keep thinking about her hair being specifically described as “frizzy;” I highly doubt much consideration went into that word choice (if I was being uncharitable I’d say I think maybe the wrong kind of consideration went into it) but it immediately strikes me as a signifier of another site of alienation for her: of course the lily-white dallons had no idea what to do with her curly hair, of course carol in particular never bothered to learn how to style it, and amy probably grew up doing the same things to it that victoria did and wondering why it worked so awfully on her. frizz being what happens when you neglect curly hair or treat it like straight hair. nothing like a physical reminder that you Will Never Belong

[occatorcreator]

Second Chances

Links - 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

2 - Lonely Purpose

Purple seeks out a new purpose in the wake of his mother's passing and makes a new life in the world of Minecraft. Through it, he ends up crossing paths with a group of stick figures in need. Content Warnings: Character death, grieving, canon typical violence

Purple returned to the city to bury Orchid. There was no body to bury, but a grave was something Orchid requested in her end-of-life plan, and Purple would honor her last requests. 

It didn’t change the hollow feeling he had standing before her grave. He had cried all of yesterday, and his eyes felt raw and painful, but he couldn’t summon any more tears. So he simply stewed in his emptiness.

He was the only one there for her funeral. 

I mean, of course he wouldn’t show up, Purple thought. I should be glad to not see him… it would just be awkward. As if he cares that his ex-spouse is gone.

The lawyer reached out to Navy regarding the death. Navy should have learned of Orchid’s passing and Purple’s destitution. But of course how could one reach someone who left without any contact for over a year? Purple would be a fool to hope to see him here.

So, why was he so upset that Navy failed to show?

I can’t be here, Purple turned away, the numbness turning into an unexpectedly painful vise in his chest. He left his mother’s grave and the cemetery behind as quickly as he could, bolting down the sidewalk until he had no energy left to run.

He leaned against a wall, watching as stick figures passed by with faded interest. He stood as still as a statue, watching passerbys go into the stores. There were parents holding little kids by their hands, groups of friends chatting close to each other, lovers holding hands and laughing...

Everyone was lively and moving around like usual. The day was bright and sunny, birds were chirping. As if this wasn’t the worst day of Purple’s life. 

A group of teenagers passed by him. When Purple watched them, he recognized all of them as old friends from school. All but one. A tall, lanky orange hollow head towered over them and chatted with arms waving animatedly. Their eyes briefly met Purple’s and for a split, terrifying second, Purple thought they were going to try to rope him into small talk.

But they didn’t, they just waved and continued walking with their group. A couple of others looked back at Purple, and Purple tried not to notice their confused and judging gazes. The teens turned a corner, but Purple caught his name whispered among them.

“Hold on, was that Purple back there?” 

With heavy limbs, Purple followed behind them. He moved silently, trying to be discreet in the fact he was following them.

It has been five months since I dropped out, Purple realized. It had to be summer break now.

“Do you know them, Peri?” The orange hollow head asked.

“Yeah, he disappeared before you transferred in, Second,” the stick figure Purple knew as Periwinkle said. “He was in my financial elective...”

“And he was a total scumbag,” a dark violet stick figure jumped in.

“Saffron,” Periwinkle admonished.

“What? It’s true!” The oddly named Saffron said. Purple recalled her brazenness. She was Periwinkle’s annoying younger sister and highly protective of her softhearted brother. Any slight against him, no matter how small, earned her ire.

“What did Purple do?” Second asked.

“Ah, Purple is someone you wouldn’t want to get close to,” added a brown stick figure beside them. “He acts friendly at first, gives gifts to buy your affection. But he’s highly controlling. The moment you don’t do what he wants or if you inconvenience him, he dumps you and goes after the next sucker.”

Chestnut… Purple grimaced at his ex-friend’s bitterness. He lagged behind, increasing the distance between them.

“I think that’s being a little bit uncharitable,” Periwinkle added, “I think he really admired you, Chestnut.”

“Ugh, don’t even joke about that, Peri?” Chestnut said, punching Periwinkle in the arm. Her disgust was hard not to hear from this distance.

“Why are you even defending him? Do I need to remind you how Purple borrowed your prized umbrella?” Saffron said, “and you never got it back even after asking about it?”

“I never forgot that…” Periwinkle nodded, and Purple saw his shoulders slump. “Gosh, it still hurts to think about it. I spent so much money getting that, it was one of a kind.”

“Exactly! And now it’s gone because of him! You’re being too nice!”

Second, sensing that their friend group was getting agitated, coughed in their hands.

“Anyways, I asked Mango this morning, and he said I can go to the arcade with you all!”

Saffron pumped her hands in the air while Periwinkle clapped. “Awesome!”

“Yeah, enough about Purple,” Chestnut said, not leaving much alone, slinging her arm around Second’s shoulders. “Be grateful you never met him. He’d be horrible to you too.”

“Chestnut,” Second scolded.

“Sorry, I’ll stop,” Chestnut finished.

Then they chatted about arcade games. Purple didn’t catch anything else as he stopped in his tracks, watching as the group retreated. He couldn't stand to listen anymore as he felt like he was close to decking one of them.

Why… was the whole school glad I was gone for months? Purple thought,  clenching his fists. Was I really that awful to you?

He and Chestnut certainly had a falling out, but he swore his attempts at being her friend were genuine. Complimenting and giving gifts- how else was he supposed to make friends? It wasn’t his fault they had incompatible personalities! Not everyone can be so blaisé about everything! Was it a crime to expand his social circle?

Not like those sticks liked me for long… Purple thought, recalling how he fell out of that clique faster than he did with Chestnut.

Periwinkle was nice; Purple did intend to only borrow the umbrella since he had none that rainy day. But of course, with his horrid luck, he ended up breaking it on the way home and feared how Periwinkle would react. How was he supposed to know that it was a special one of a kind?

Stupid idiot’s too obsessive over umbrellas, Purple grinded his teeth. If he and his sister blow a gasket over a lost umbrella of all things, then no sane person should deal with them!

He felt raw and scratched, scoured by their claws. How he hated them. Truly hated them all. Especially that Second kid- what a stupid name. While he didn’t know anything about them, he hated how the three people who he couldn’t befriend clung to them so easily. He hated how Second had to only look at him to ruin his horrible day even further. He hated that they had some parent to come home to after fun at the arcade with friends while Purple was all alone.

I hate you! Purple thought with bared teeth. I hope you all suffer like I did! Hope your days are as rotten and horrid as mine!

I hate all of you!

=

Alana reminded Purple that he could stay on the desktop for as long as he liked. That arrangement worked out for Purple because he had no reason to leave the computer. He didn’t want to return to school, and he had no desire to find a job and be a cog in some miserable system in the city. On the desktop, he had more freedom to do what he wanted.

And he just wanted to lie in his bed and wallow in his sadness.

He let the grief drape over him. It made his limbs heavy as lead and turned his mind to static. Food and activities were bland; he had no desire to do much of anything. Aside from Alana, there wasn’t anyone checking on him. He had no idea where the villager caretaker went or if they were somehow deleted, but he couldn’t even begin to care. 

How odd it felt to be purposeless. How the drive and desperation to find a cure for his mother vanished with her body, leaving behind exhaustion and nothingness.

The only time he felt anything other than despair was when he dreamed. The dreams were both cruel and relieving. He dreamt of being a prince in a grand castle. His mother and friends were there in that castle to greet him and go on fun adventures. Waking was painful, as it brought those sweet dreams to an end and dumped him back to the cold, lonely reality. The more he slept, the longer the dreams went and more intense the pain of waking became.

I wish I could stay in my dreams…

But then one night, they changed. Instead of continuing the fantasy, he dreamt he was in a void. A light shone above, with pink petals floating down around him.

Orchid petals? Purple thought, holding a hand out to catch a petal. Mom?

Instinctively he looked around, trying to find Orchid in the pitch dark, only to flinch when he saw Navy standing before him in the gloom. 

“Why are you here?” Purple raised hands up defensively. He had not dreamt of his father once in his fantasy world. It was as if he was banished from his dreams.

Yet Navy stood before him, staring. The stare was all too familiar, that cold, guarded stare before he walked out of Orchid and Purple’s life.

“What?” Purple demanded, “what do you want? What right do you have to judge me?”

Navy said nothing. He should have said something by now. 

“Be gone with you!” Purple waved, “Do what you always do and just leave me already!”

To that, Navy’s gave a disappointed sigh.

“You can’t even keep your promises,” he said, “that’s it, I guess. I’m leaving.”

He turned and walked away into the void.

“What?” Purple never recalled him saying that before. He didn’t understand. “Wait!” Purple took a step forward. “What do you mean by that? Answer me!”

Navy kept walking; Purple couldn’t catch up. Despite telling him to leave, he still chased after his father.

What promise am I breaking?

When Purple awoke, he remembered his mother’s dying breath: she’d asked for Purple to take care of himself.

Sleeping in bed, shutting myself from the world, Purple’s heart hammered. I’m not keeping to that promise.

And he loathed that a dream version of Navy could be right! 

For the first time since he left his mother’s grave, the drive fueled him. He thought he lost it to grief. That dream, his father’s words criticizing his ineptitude, gave him something for his churning anger to sharpen itself against.

I’ll take care of myself, he thought, no, I’ll do better, I will thrive. He’d prove his father, those teens, and everyone who ever doubted and looked down on little Purple wrong!

He would be great.

Purple crawled out of bed. His muscles protested at the exertion he was unused to after months of laying around. He forced himself to hold his head high.

“How about…” Purple said as he spotted the remains of his and Orchid’s castle. “I finish that castle of mine.”

=

Purple wanted to play Minecraft legitimately. No cheats, no spawning things. He was going in to play like any other player. He had a new goal for his playthrough. He aimed to become a true king of Minecraft.

He started with only the essentials and got to mining. He had his basic goals set for making his kingdom: get enough cobblestone and wood to build his castle and starting houses, locate some villagers, and… well he hadn’t figured out step three yet, but the first two were going to be huge.

There were enemies. Fighting them wasn’t as bad as Purple initially feared. If anything, felling the zombies, creepers, and skeletons, then the tougher ghasts, endermen, and wither skeletons, made Purple feel powerful.  All those rusted fighting skills he neglected were sharpening and, for once, he enjoyed the combat. With the right equipment and enchantments, enemy encounters hardly concerned him.

He found some zombie villagers too and, desiring to build a village the proper way, successfully escorted and cured those zombie villagers. And, oh, how he was praised for his heroics! The cured villagers bowed to him as their savior, Lord Purple!

Not the pathetic Purple I was before now, huh? Purple thought, puffing his chest in pride.

But the joy never lasted. The glory he got from fighting turned dull as the enemies were no match for his sword. The villagers had children. Seeing happy little kids running around while their happy parents watched, filled Purple’s hollow heart with venom. Their praise towards his greatness suddenly felt shallow and fake, especially knowing how much he loathed to see them prosper when he still felt horrible.

It didn’t help that the next day, all those kids grew into adults. The very sight of this rapid aging caused Purple to retreat into his castle and remain there for three days. He glared at the wall, unable to sleep and failing to calm himself down. Once again, all the motivation deserted him, and a part of him wanted to burn this fake village and false castle to the ground.

“Why?” He asked a portrait of a bizarre wither skull formation, “why is it that I’ve accomplished so much more than I did in school, and I still feel this way?”

The skull painting did not answer, but Purple suspected it knew fully well why. 

Purple imagined his mother telling him that he was pushing himself too hard, but the thoughts of her words just made him curl further in a miserable ball. How could he enjoy even the false, temporary victories of a game when she wasn't there to see them?

Only Navy’s words spurred Purple out of his funk on the third day when he fell asleep. You can’t even keep your promises... 

“Right. Castle and village is done. I need a new goal,” he said and eyed the skull painting. It was such a peculiar piece that he wondered if it was a hint that if he made something like that he’d summon something like an iron golem. Something evil.

If so, if I make this and defend the village from this beast, Purple thought, then I’d be a legend to them!

Plus, he’d like a challenging fight for once. Time to visit the nether and grab some skulls.

=

“Ugh, finally!” Purple said as he successfully pried the third wither skeleton’s skull off and it didn’t disintegrate to ash. “I swear, hunting for skulls is such a pain.”

But he finally got three skulls and the soul sand. He was done with his nether trip. Time to head back and figure out what he’d summon-

Bang! Bang!

The nether caverns echoed with the sound of rhythmic thumping. Purple felt the walls around him tremble as the thumping grew louder and louder. He looked around, clutching the wither skull to his chest, as he tried to find the source of the noise.

“The hell is going on?” Purple gasped.

Suddenly, there was a scream. Purple only had a split second to turn towards that scream before a stick figure dressed in armor landed right on top of him and knocked him to the ground.

“Yeouch!” Purple wheezed. His health went down to half from the impact, and he shoved the stick figure off of him. Before he could get a good look at them, more screams were heard, and additional stick figures landed next to him, narrowly missing his battered body.

Why is it raining stick figures?! Purple looked bewildered between the group of stick figures. The green, blue, and yellow stick figures lay on the ground, their health at half a heart. The blue and yellow sticks were dazed, diamond armor shattered to pieces around them, while the green stick figure only had a cracked diamond helmet left.

The green one was moving, able to rise up because his fall was cushioned by landing right on Purple. He coughed, pushing himself on shaky arms and legs.

“Yellow? Blue? You-” he paused when his gaze met Purple’s. “-alive?”

Purple stared back and, unable to think of a better response, waved.

The stick figure, he presumed named Green given the naming convention, waved back. “Um, hi?”

Bang! Bang!

Purple and Green looked up at the ceiling where the noise came from. In the gloom, Purple could make out the stick figure shaped holes they fell through. A fine layer of dust fell from above.

“I take it you didn’t mine straight down,” Purple mumbled.

“Oh no!” Green forced himself up and ran to shake Blue and Yellow violently. “We don’t have time! Come on, get up!”

“What’s going on?” Purple asked, shouting over the thumping.

“Um, it’s a bit of a long story!” Green yelled back as he lifted Blue to her feet. She was waking, as was Yellow, but neither of them were in any good condition to stand for long.

“Condense it then!” Purple pulled out a potion of healing and threw it on them. The cloud restored their health to full instantly. The three stick figures leapt up, looking at their now healed bodies in shock.

“Woah! How did you do that?” Blue asked.

“Not now,” Purple waved his hands and pointed at the continuous banging above. “What is going on?”

“Ok! We found this game icon on our desktop!” Green explained, pulling out a sword. The tip cracked apart and caused him to pause as he tried to fix it.

“And we were building things with the stuff that came out,” Yellow picked up. They pulled their ax out, only to despair as it crumbled apart too, “taking turns and all that.”

“But when we gave the game icon to Red,” Blue said, staring ruefully at the busted bow in her hands. “She attacked us.”

“Attacked you?” Purple asked.

“Yeah, she wasn’t acting like herself!” Green rushed, “She just went wall eyed and hoarded the icon. We tried to stop her but…”

Bang! Purple heard blocks from above fall to the lava.

“She’s now piloting a giant block stick figure and ended up shoving us down here.” Yellow finished. 

“I don’t think we have much time before she follows us here,” Blue added, clutching her head. “Oh, what are we going to do?”

Yeah, that seems like your problem, Purple thought, heart hammering wildly. He wanted a fight earlier, but given the sounds of what was coming, he opted to flee. He turned about to run before Green snatched his arm.

“Let go of me!”

“Please! You don’t have to fight for us, but we don’t have weapons or armor!” Green said. He clasped his hands together. “Please, can you lend anything?”

“I don’t have any extra swords!” Purple exclaimed. “I barely have enough potions after all the fighting I did!”

Bang! The other stick figures looked nervously at each other, rifling desperately through their belongings and finding little to help, fishing rods, crafting tables, jungle trees…

Yeah, they’re screwed, Purple thought, looking for his way back to the desktop.

 “Look, I'm just going to head to the portal,” Purple said, “and if you guys have any sense, you’ll join me! Hopefully, Red will be too big to enter!”

The others looked at each other with mixed expressions, confusion, nervousness, and disdain.

“We can’t do that,” Green said, “she would be stuck here if we did that!”

“And how do you know she couldn’t smash her way through?” Yellow added.

Purple stared at Yellow and found himself glaring when he realized it made too much sense.

Ah! What do I do then? Purple thought, looking down at his wither skull helplessly. But as he stared at the empty eye sockets, Purple found an answer in them.

“Hold on,” he said, “I think I have an idea to help you with your problem.”

=

The plan was half baked given that they only had seconds to execute it. Yellow and Green set it up so they were ready to lure Red to the nether fortress while Purple and Blue made the wither skull statue.

Red came down from above and the very sight of the behemoth in obsidian blocks was almost enough for Purple to return to his “let’s flee to my village” idea.

“So, you are sure this thing we're summoning will be enough against her?” Blue asked.

Purple nodded even though he hadn’t a clue if the summoning would even work. “When we see their signal, just put down the last wither skull.”

Blue bit her lip, glancing from the obsidian stick figure chasing down Green, back to Purple.

“Is there a risk it would kill her?”

Purple blinked. “Aren't you trying to fight her?”

“Fight her, yes, not kill her!” Purple could see a glossy sheen form in Blue’s eyes. “I don’t know what will happen if she dies here.”

“She’ll respawn at her last checkpoint,” Purple said, but his stomach clenched. Assuming you have a respawn point set to begin with.

That didn’t give her any relief. Blue wordlessly sniffed and wiped her eyes.

In the distance, Purple saw the fishing rods fly and snag the head of the obsidian tower. “Ok, now!”

Blue placed the last head down. Upon doing so the statue turned into a three headed skeleton that let out a horrific howl. It glowed blue and was blinking rapidly.

Oh no…

“Uh, what do we do now?” Blue asked.

“Run!” Purple yelled, grabbing Blue by the hand and running away from the fortress. He cupped his hands and shouted at Yellow and Green. “Run!”

They could hardly react to the warning before a thunderous kaboom sounded behind Blue and Purple. The Wither was airborne, screeching and hurling hissing skulls right at them with wild abandon.

This is dumb! This is so dumb! Purple thought as he and the others scattered to dodge the projectiles. Why did I think summoning a giant enemy to fight another giant enemy was a good idea?!

The Wither did not discriminate. It targeted the stick figures as well as the obsidian figure. Its skulls landed right on the head and exploded it to bits. The explosion sent the red stick figure inside flying across the Nether.

Ah, I’m glad I didn’t summon that thing by my village! Purple thought. That thing is tearing through obsidian like tissue paper! 

Blue raced down the walkway and held out her arms to catch Red before she landed. Yellow jumped from a ledge above to snatch the Minecraft icon that was knocked out of Red’s hands. 

Despite receiving a skull missile to the face, Red was alive and kicking. She wasted no time in kicking Blue’s hold off of her and tearing after Yellow. Her expression was flat, yet her movements feral. She twitched and then lunged at Yellow, clasping at their leg. They fell to the ground with a thud and tossed the Minecraft icon further down the path.

“Oh, come on!” Purple lunged down and snatched the icon. Turning around, he saw the Wither gaining, and, in panic, he held the Minecraft icon. He visualized something stronger than obsidian, and, out from the icon, he blocked the attack with a wall of bedrock. 

He protected the group of wrestling stick figures from the impact, yet his action only earned Red’s attention. Locking her fixed expression on him, she let go of Yellow and charged at Purple.

“Ah! Green, catch!” Purple tossed it just as Red pounced on his back. “Get to the portal!”

Green caught it, and started running, using his fishing rod to move across the Nether’s gaps with ease. Red, no longer interested in Purple, raced after Green. She nearly closed the gap between them with her inhumane speed, only for her to be hit down by a skull volley from the Wither above.

“Red!” Yellow and Blue exclaimed, racing to her pick her up. Even injured critically, she continued to wrestle against them, eyes locked solely on Green and the Minecraft icon.

How is she not even down? Purple thought,  smacking the Wither’s volleys back as Blue and Yellow dithered.

“Come on! Leave her and get out of here!” Purple yelled.

“But-“

“No buts!” Purple turned and shoved the three over, pinning Red down to the ground. “To the portal now!”

It took a stern look and the Wither’s fast approach to cause the two to run off. Not like Purple could hold Red down long enough, as she shucked Purple off and raced after them. 

I can’t let her attack my village! He thought as he ran in pursuit. He lunged his sword at her, narrowly missing her back.

“Stop! Don't kill her!” Green shouted.

Of course that idiot waited by the portal! Stunned by his stupidity, Purple wasn’t ready for Red’s quick roundhouse kick to the hand. His enchanted sword clattered far away from him, and Red ran towards the stick figures just waiting by the portal.

“No! Stop!” Purple abandoned his sword, equally as stupid as Green. “Get in the portal! Hurry!”

So many things occurred at once- Red collided into her friends, knocking them into the portal frame; Purple bowled into her back, which shoved the group through it; and as they entered, the Wither hit the portal, closing it completely behind them.

The group fell sprawling on the desktop, gasping and grunting. Purple clutched his head, wincing at the sharp pain of hitting the ground. Before him, Green, Blue, and Yellow were slowly getting up. Green held the icon. It was shuddering in his hands, glowing a bright white before suddenly fading, as if the portal did something to it.

Red lay limp on the ground. Then suddenly she jerked and writhed. A translucent outline of a Steve player avatar leapt out of her repeatedly before finally falling to the ground. As it let out a dying breath, Purple caught sight of its dead, white eyes before it poofed away. 

Red was limp once more.The other three looked at her, expecting her to get up, but she remained still on the ground. They dropped the items they carried and crowded around her. Blue lifted her head up.

“Red? Red!” Blue jostled the stick figure.

“Come on, speak to us!” Green begged. Purple felt something form in his throat at the familiarity of his desperation.

“What’s happening to her health?” Yellow gasped as they held her hand. 

Indeed, all the hearts of Red’s health turned black and were ticking down. An effect called “withering” was applied on her.

It’s going to kill her! Purple realized and whistled loudly. The sound spooked the three grieving stick figures, but not as much as the sudden crowd of villagers appearing out of nearby houses did.

“Lord Purple? You’re back?”

“I need a bucket of milk, stat!” Purple hollered and clapped. “Don’t waste time! A stick’s dying here!”

And no time was wasted. The villagers were quick to mobilize and toss a milk bucket to Purple. He snatched it and quickly tossed it to Blue.

“Feed it to her!” Purple quickly exclaimed, “It’ll cure her ailment.”

Confusion gone, Blue brought the bucket to Red’s lips. Indeed, the milk stopped Red’s decaying heart meter just in the nick of time. With only half a heart left, the withering effect faded, and Red let out a shuddering cough.

“G-guys?” She croaked out.

“Red? Is it really you?” Yellow asked.

“Um, yeah,” Red looked around, dazed and then pained, “I’m so sorry for what I did…”

“Shh, no, no,” Blue hushed before pulling her into a hug. Green and Yellow also wrapped their arms around the two.

“I thought we’d lose you…” Green said, muffled.

Purple watched from the sidelines as the four hugged each other. He watched until his heart couldn’t bear the sight of it.

How lucky they are.

“You’ll have to share how you saved these folks,” a villager said as they stood next to him. 

“Yeah…” Purple couldn’t meet their eyes, “maybe later.”

He did a good deed, a brave one even! And yet he still felt horrid.

If only milk could cure a heartache too.

[iteratedextras]

The "revenge immigration" model, the looking the other way on internal ethnic conflict because of the previous history of colonialism, is degrading to everyone involved.

Immigrants who are allowed to commit crimes with weak or no sentencing do not actually improve as people and do not become peers worthy of respect.

High-level left/cultural-liberal leaders abandon their duty to protect and nurture the weak members of their own society.

Lower-ranking members of left/cultural-liberal coalition bend themselves into rationalizing the wasteful suffering of weak natives, the act of which makes them worse as people.

Weak natives get the shit beat out of them but aren't even able to fight back, and are forced to eat their rage.

Without a firm, philosophically-liberal leadership to oppose the practice, less intellectually powerful natives may resort to racism to try to protect themselves... which degrades them by turning them against innocent people.

This is obviously disordered and it needs to end.

If there is no other model, then a new model for immigration and addressing former colonialism must be devised.

[mitigatedchaos]

Thanks for providing an example of the problem.

The policies are only racially discriminatory if they make it even worse for minorities, which they were not going to do,

In other words, you can hurt "whites" as much as you want, on the basis that they are "white," with absolutely no evidence that this will close long-term racial outcome gaps whatsoever, and this is somehow miraculously "not racist."

No termination conditions. No measurements. No possible chain of evidence that would convince you to stop. Nothing.

You're just going to discriminate against them, blindly, based on a bunch of numbers that you made up, for the rest of their lives.

When I and other high-IQ liberals pre-2014 supported non-racism and individualism, we didn't do this to "hide white privilege." After all, there are other racial or ethnic groups in the US that earn more money or live longer on average. We did this because we didn't think either you or the right-wingers could handle it, intellectually, and, well... re-read what you just posted.

Power is not held by races collectively as monolithic groups. A racial group is a statistical abstraction, and any individual can be utterly destroyed by racialized violence even if the group's average risk for victimization by racialized violence is lower.

Elon Musk having lots of money doesn't magically protect a poor white kid from doing drugs and dying of an overdose. Elon Musk, being healthy, smart, and wealthy, is also much better positioned to deflect the effects of any "corrective" racial discrimination against "whites" than a poor white kid is.

When you were told, "It's impossible to be racist to white people, because white people hold power," you should have immediately questioned this. Declaring that specifically racial harms against one race "don't count" was an obvious warning sign.

Observing that huge amounts of the population are apparently either unwilling or unable to learn a meta-level rule, like "don't demonize people for their race in general," was a real eye-opener for me.

I'll be honest; it was a bit of a black pill.

There's currently a debate among people capable of meta-level reasoning on what to do about this. Most of the meta-level people on Tumblr don't like your racism, but are convinced that it's basically just a meaningless fad, and are voting for Kamala in order to preserve social programs or due to concerns about the questioning of the democratic process. Most of the meta-level people on Twitter are convinced low-quality racism like yours is the new long-term strategy of the Democrats (unless it is stopped) and are voting for Trump in order to weaken the racial organizing power of the Democratic party. Some of them have also moved to the far right, although I believe that this is short-sighted given the trajectory of present technological advances.

For my part, I don't see how this gets fixed without Democrats taking electoral and institutional losses, but I'm willing to gamble that your racism is shallow, and once we turn off all funding sources in favor of it, you'll forget it in favor of whatever the new organizing basis of the Democratic coalition is.

I think you'll block for this response, because I don't think you're capable of understanding "don't be racist" as something more than 'selfish enemy propaganda.'

Since you're not self-reflective about how you decide on your political positions, you may end up adopting some pretty nasty political positions down the road as technology advances.

They know they're authoritarian, and they're proud.

[calebwittebane]

i had a dream id gotten conned into becoming a god and proceeded to try and design a world without suffering or pain. i really really struggled with this one. no matter what i did, it seemed like bouncing between endless suffering and highly sheltered sensory deprivation state with all functions for every person reduced to a minimum. eventually the author--it turned out i was in a fictional work, and the author was a sneering cynical asshole who enjoyed seeing me suffer--started mocking me, saying that a real demiurge really in control of things through unlimited possibilities wouldve figured that out, but i'm just a loser who spent a long time being human and therefore my mind has very human limitations. i started arguing with the author, saying that theyd written me this way and have no right to mock me, that despite this attitude they have this clearly is some form of venting theyre doing through art, and they need to take something seriously for once. my limitations are simply a reflection of theirs, and their mockery is their pained wailing in disguise. they were like well i dont like your attitude so because youve decided to be a little bitch about it i will now punish you by making you experience every death that ever happened to anyone and WILL have happened to anyone. so i did. it was awful. the prophetic visions of what sort of carnage famine disease and freak accidents the future has in store for humanity, they were almost as bad as the historical part. reminder: i feel pain in my dreams. anyway once that was done, and it did in fact feel to me like actual centuries were passing, actual centuries of nothing but agony, i told the author they were a vindictive bitch, incapable of comprehending the suffering theyre inflicting. if they ever felt even a fraction of what they dish out without much thought, they would curl up and cry and never do anything again. they told me i just objected to the way i'd sculpted my own consciousness. that to be a human, advanced and philosophy oriented as we are with our proportionally large complex brains, is to reject all inevitability as barbaric. i said that was stupid--humans are still, despite our unique traits, simply part of the animal kingdom, and more broadly made of the same matter as the rest of the universe, a continuous lattice of reactions among many other, a sustained chain that hasn't stopped since the very first instance of reproduction occurred between two organisms. the author just favors the human perspective because theyre biased and write what they know.

then the author felt like doing something petty once more so they decided to put me in a situation where im trying to buy art supplies but my dad is also there undermining everything i say. i said: this wont get to me--author, it seems you dont know me all that well, for buying art supplies was indeed one of the only type of occasion where my dad Would just let me do what i needed to do and would more or less trust i knew what i was doing. the author laughed and said, and yet you were able to summon a version of events where he does act poorly in this context. how cruel and unfair of you, to imagine something so uncharitable. how can you be sure of anything you remember? and i was going to give a reply but things around me started glitching out. people got spaghettified and turned into like. ok imagine a coral reef but its people.

i think i mustve argued with the author about some technical accuracy in their depictions of trains? i got to experience some train crashes as punishment

so yeah im awake now and i dont feel like ive gotten a lot of rest considering i just escaped time prison

[cinnamongorll]

a fragile line - chapter 2

read on ao3! (111k words) | previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC

Tags: extreme slow burn, age gap, older man/younger woman, protective joel, jealous joel, hurt/comfort, pov third person, mutual pining, angst, sexual tension, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, feral joel, parental abuse.

Fic synopsis: three years ago, Juliet escaped her father's religious survivor camp, ending up in the Boston QZ. Juliet created a life for herself in Boston, desperate to forget the trauma of her upbringing. One day, Juliet arrives home to find a mysterious letter which forces her to return to her home town. Juliet can't travel the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape alone, so she enlists the help of the grumpy and, at times, frightening man she works alongside: Joel Miller.

Word count: 2.4k

Chapter 2: ‘Put It On Me’

Joel Miller: cold, aloof, and famously uncharitable. 

Not a man you could ask for a favour. Especially not to join a stranger in a highly dangerous and potentially deadly journey across the country.  

But Joel, despite his reputation, was not a god, he was only a man and that meant he could be bribed or blackmailed, perhaps. 

Drugs or alcohol were not an option. Despite being the most sought after product in the Qz, Joel wouldn’t be interested. He was the one who sold them. 

A dull ache had begun to spread across the back of Juliet’s skull. She dropped her head onto the table and felt the sweat coating her skin stick to the glossy paper of the map. 

The spiral turning in her mind started to pick up speed again, her darkest thoughts now gripping her lungs. Juliet forced herself to take a deep breath, and another, and another. Her father knew where she was now, she had to get out of her apartment and out of the QZ, fast. 

Juliet thought back to every interaction she could remember having with Joel, every time their eyes met or every time he looked away too quickly. Joel was impenetrable, always holding his thoughts close to his chest. 

Juliet sat up quick, her hand instantly reaching to her forehead to calm the wave of dizziness that washed over her. 

She remembered something: 

Abe, a kind but pliant man, worked the radio for the QZ and held ‘office hours’ on weekdays. Anyone in Boston who wanted to contact another QZ waited in a large queue in the dusty hallway outside Abe’s apartment. 

Not Joel, though. 

Juliet was walking through the building a few days ago when she shuffled past the line of bored residents. With no intention of stopping, she kept her head down and avoided eye-contact, as always. Her pace slowed, however, when she heard a familiar name. Juliet turned her head and noticed two men complaining, not very discreetly, about Joel: 

“This isn’t the first time he’s done this,” grumbled a tall man who leaned against the peeling wallpaper. 

His friend grunted and moved closer, “he just walks past, skipping the whole line like we ain’t even here” he replied, rolling his eyes. 

The tall one snorted, “As if he’s the only bastard in Boston who needs to use the radio.”

Juliet paused, now incredibly interested in the conversation of the two whining men. Joel was sending messages out of the QZ? To who?

Juliet continued to walk past the queue and rounded the corner until she could safely tuck into a dark corner and attempt to catch a glimpse inside Abe’s apartment/office. 

There he was. Joel Miller, sliding a piece of crumpled tin foil across Abe’s desk.

It didn’t take a genius to know what was inside. 

Joel sat forward, his elbows now resting on the dark oak as he watched Abe open the silver package. She was only able to catch a glimpse of his profile but Juliet could still make out the hard clench of Joel’s jaw, locked in place, as he waited for Abe to take a puff. 

They started to talk and Juliet inched forward, careful to remain in the shadow of the corner, but she was too far away to hear any part of the conversation. It was clear it wasn’t going well - for Joel, at least. 

Seconds later, Joel abruptly rose from his chair, the screech of metal rang out along the hallway, and he stalked out of the apartment without looking back. Terrified she might be caught snooping, Juliet was gone before he reached the doorway. 

Juliet shook her head, she had forgotten all about that strange observation, having been immediately caught up in another Firefly ambush when she left the building. 

Now though, the memory flushed her body with adrenaline. She sat up straight, the ache in her head had begun to recede. A plan started to take form in her mind, the different puzzle pieces clicking together. There was someone important to Joel outside of the QZ. If she found out who that was, she could use that information to her advantage.

That meant she had to pay a visit to Abe. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t share intel for free. 

Juliet turned to the window on her right, the glass was clouded, aged with the building. Still, Juliet could make out the dark blue sky as night rapidly descended on Boston. Shock had dulled the passage of time, the minutes silently passing around her. 

Juliet walked to her cupboard, her steps quick as she grabbed her hidden backpack filled with supplies ready to be used at a moment’s notice. With one last mournful look at her apartment, Juliet made her way across the hall to Kenny’s door, the neighbour who didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. 

He broke into her apartment on more than one occasion. It was only fair she repaid the favour. 

Juliet pulled a hair pin from the inside pocket of her jacket and started to work on Kenny's rusted lock. Her neighbour was notorious for arriving back home seconds before curfew, always narrowly missing the enforcers. So Juliet had some time, less than an hour to be exact. 

Seconds later, Juliet heard the familiar metallic pop and she was in. Similar to most in the QZ, Abe was very receptive to bribes. She had witnessed it first hand when Joel expertly slid that tinfoil in his direction and Juliet watched a lazy grin glide over Abe’s face. 

Good thing Juliet knew someone else Joel sold to and good thing that person was stupid enough to leave his supply on his dining table where anyone with a hair pin could find it. The small, chalky white tablets were now safely tucked in her jacket pocket. 

Juliet made her way out of the apartment, cringing as the old linoleum creaked under her cautious steps. She took the time to lock the door behind her before tiptoeing down the stairs and past Margaret’s apartment. Juliet prayed no shadows under Margaret’s door announced her departure from the building. 

Outside, the streets were quiet, most residents of the QZ probably now tucked away in their apartments. A peaceful night of relative safety was taken from Juliet the second she picked up that letter. 

She was on borrowed time anyways, Juliet always knew her father would find her eventually. 

Tendrils of doubt and fear threatened to creep back into her mind and destroy the numbness which currently clouded her thoughts. As she moved through the murky streets, Juliet wasn’t just racing against time.

When she arrived at Abe’s building, Juliet sacrificed a precious moment to rest her back against the red brick wall and let her eyes fall closed. Juliet was not a naturally hostile person, she always prioritised indifference in her daily interactions. But she was a survivor, which meant that she would do anything, be anything to ensure her safety and the survival of the people she loved. Meaning, for Ethan, she would wear a mask of hostility. 

She entered the building and hugged shadows to Abe’s apartment. Juliet didn’t wait for an invitation to enter before she stalked through the unlocked door. 

“Abe, I need a word,” Juliet declared, she kept her voice clipped and steady.

Abe stood by the radio and turned quickly at the sound of Juliet’s entrance. A puzzled expression took over his face, his mouth turned downwards. 

“Juliet? What are you doing here? It’s almost curfew,” he said, his voice cushioned with a cautious tone. 

When Juliet just stared back, Abe released a heavy sigh and walked over to his desk. He pushed back his chair and dropped himself into the padded leather. 

“Take a seat,” Abe huffed as he pointed across his desk at the vacant chair.

Juliet approached at a leisurely pace as she took the seat opposite him. She placed her backpack on the floor, leaned forward in her chair and placed her elbows on the table. Then she straightened her back, attempting to imitate the air of intimidation she had witnessed from Joel. 

“I’ll keep this short,” Juliet asserted. “I need information about Joel Miller.”

Abe’s furrowed brow deepened, confusion now etched in the fine lines of his face.

“Joel?” He asked, before sighing.“I don’t deal in information, Juliet. I just listen to the radio,” Abe replied, dismissal clear in his tone, as he shifted in his chair, moving to stand.

“Stop,” Juliet commanded. She raised her left hand and willed it to stay steady as she reached her right hand into her pocket, pulling out the pills. Just like Joel, Juliet locked eyes with Abe as she slid the contraband.

A smug smile twitched at the corner of her mouth as she leaned back in her chair, folding her arms over chest. 

“Like I said,” Juliet maintained, stretching out the words, giving Abe time to make the right decision. “I need information on Joel Miller.”

Abe stared back at her and for a moment, one terrifying moment, Juliet thought he would throw the pills back at her. But no, Abe’s irritated expression eventually transformed into a sly smile to match her own. 

“Okay. What do you want to know?” he asked, already reaching for the drugs. 

Relief was sudden and intense, it settled deep in her stomach and relaxed her tight muscles. Juliet was careful to not let it show on her face. 

“I know he has someone on the outside he’s contacting,” she paused.“I want to know who.”

Abe whistled low then tossed back one of the pills with a swig of water.

“Well, that’s a whole can of worms,” he replied. 

Juliet raised her eyebrows and made a vague gesture with her hand - go on. 

“He’s got a brother,” Abe began, swallowing rough. 

Once again, Juliet willed her features to remain neutral, to show no sign of the shock now coursing through her body. A brother? 

“He stopped responding to Joel’s messages about three weeks ago,” Abe continued.“Not like him, he usually replies within a couple days. Got Joel all worried.” 

It was Juliet’s turn to be confused. Joel, worried? Juliet had yet to see a glimmer of emotion on the man’s face. He was always so stoic, always so detached. It was a surprise to hear there was someone he cared about, someone he worried about. 

Unaware of the turmoil that raged behind Juliet’s steady features, Abe continued to speak as he rambled something about Joel’s accusation of his incompetence. Juliet collected this new information about Joel and held it close as though it was the key to getting to Ethan. It might well be. 

“I told Joel not to go after him, that it might just be a fault in the signal. But of course he wouldn’t listen,” Abe muttered, rolling his eyes. 

Juliet perked up, tuning back into the conversation… Joel needed out of the QZ.

“Where does his brother live?” coaxed Juliet, attempting to exude only vague curiosity. 

“Wyoming,” Abe replied, shaking his head. “He can’t be serious if he thinks he can travel that far alone…” he trailed off, resting his hands on the desk in front of him.

Wyoming… Juliet’s fledgling plan became a concrete shape, igniting a flicker of hope within her. Her old community, her father’s community, was in Iowa. After years of studying old maps, Juliet was almost sure that it was about halfway between Boston and Wyoming. 

This could work.  

“Is he planning on going alone?” Juliet asked, eagerness seeping into her tone. 

Abe’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes, he’s been dealing for a car battery, no luck though. He can’t wait around much longer,” he replied. 

Juliet nodded as she placed her sweaty palms on the dark wood of the desk and pushed herself out of her chair, grabbing her backpack.

Abe leaned back, rolling a pill between his fingers.

“Juliet… Joel’s a capable guy but there are worse things than infected out there. I hear everything on the radio. There are raiders, there are slavers…” he trailed off again. 

Juliet knew this all too well. 

“I appreciate the concern, Abe, but that’s not what I paid you for,” cautioned Juliet. “Keep this quiet,” she warned, turning towards the door and out of the building.

She didn’t look back. 

Outside, curfew was now in place so Juliet pulled her hood up and moved silently through the dark streets. The pressure in her chest was slowly building through her entire conversation with Abe. Now, it threatened to burst. Juliet stopped on a corner and tucked herself into an alleyway. The rain had started, it splashed off the pavement and dampened her jeans. Juliet’s skin was buzzing, electrified by the string of new information about Joel. 

For years, Joel was a mystery. Juliet had learned more about Joel in that five minute conversation with Abe than she had in the three years they worked alongside each other, and now she had to use her newfound knowledge against him. 

Juliet had no other choice. She would use Joel’s desperation to sedate her own. 

Juliet looked up towards the night sky, letting the rain glide over her skin. She took a long breath, licked the water from her lips and moved out of the alley. Juliet danced along the sides of buildings as she headed towards Joel’s apartment.

She had watched him head home a few times after their shifts, his apartment in the same direction as her own. This time, though, it appeared before her so suddenly that she had to force herself to stop, to calm her racing heartbeat as she made her way to the front door. 

Shivering, Juliet gripped the door handle into the building, turning it open as her heart continued to pump more adrenaline straight into her gut.

Juliet stalked up to Joel’s apartment, releasing a trembling breath from her damp lips. This was all happening too fast, the puzzle pieces forming her plan had clicked together so quickly. All she could focus on was the bigger picture. But what about the smaller details? What would she say to Joel? Would he even recognise her? Should she knock the door and risk his neighbours hearing her? 

Juliet didn’t have to agonise over those thoughts for long. Without warning, the rapid sound of multiple locks consecutively turning reverberated through the dark hallway, before the door swung open. 

Joel Miller stood before her, one hand on the handle, the other on the chipped wood of the entryway. Juliet released a strangled gasp, her eyes widened at the sight of his permanent scowl and furrowed brow. 

“Juliet?”

[under-the-weirwood-tree]

The Mummy 1999 AU.

This was inspired by a post from another tumblr user. I can’t find the post, but when I do, I shall link it.

———

The desert stretches out in front of them like a golden ocean. When Alicent pulls in a shallow breath, the air is dry, tickling her throat. Her temples are throbbing, a layer of sweat and grime under her light clothes, her body tense and stiff on the horse. Alicent shifts uncomfortably, hyper aware of how close she is to the woman behind her. Rhaenyra’s hand is resting casually on her spread thighs, fingers wrapped around the reins as their horse plods along. Beside them, Gwayne sits on his own horse. Alicent shoots an uncharitable thought his way, remembering his apologetic look when he had told her they only had enough resources for two horses instead of three.

The sun dips lower towards the horizon, casting the sand in a ruddy glow. Rhaenyra shifts, chest brushing up against Alicent’s sweaty back. She stiffens, eyes widening as she feels the softness of the other woman’s breasts. She is entirely too close for a person that Alicent is barely acquainted with. It’s indelicate.

Her mind casts back to their meeting, only a few days previously. The dust mots had been drifting lazily in the dim shaft of light cutting across the stone floor as Alicent slipped books back into their rightful places from her perch on the sliding ladder. Abruptly, the serene silence was interrupted, the doors slamming open. Alicent clutched the spindly ladder, heart leaping.

“Sister,” Gwayne’s cheerful, round face appeared below her, another person standing at his side. “I have some marvelous news.”

“Gwayne,” she snapped. “You gave me a fright. What have I told you about disturbing me at my work?”

“Apologies,” said the person beside him, tilting their head back to look Alicent in the eye.

His companion was a woman in simple archeologists’ garb: worn trousers, a felt hat, and scuffed boots. Her hair is pulled back, blue eyes bright in her slightly tanned face. All together, a somewhat odd person.

“Your brother led me to understand you were in need of a guide?” The woman continued, eyes absorbing Alicent’s appearance in a similar fashion. She felt her cheeks heating. I wonder what she sees when she looks at me.

“This is Rhaenyra Targaryen,” Gwayne emphasized the name, expression ecstatic. And indeed, the name was a familiar one. A highly respected family name in the field of archaeology.

Alicent started climbing down the ladder, surprised to find the other woman extending her hand when she was half way down. Tentatively, Alicent accepted the other woman’s hand, allowing herself to be helped off the ladder.

“He said you found a map,” Rhaenyra said, palm still warm against Alicent’s skin.

And now here they are, traveling across the desert together, her hapless brother snoring next to them on his horse, the sun below the horizon, the sky a beautiful blanket of stars. Surely this is not what her father pictured for the both of them. He would be so disappointed that it was Alicent who had continued to study instead of Gwayne. And yet you still persist.

“You alright?” Rhaenyra’s voice is soft, her breath touching the clammy skin at the back of Alicent’s neck.

“Perfectly,” she responds, voice stilted. It feels as if every conversation between them has been difficult and fraught. Alicent is hyper aware of how every word will land; what every expression on Rhaenyra’s face might mean. It’s exhausting. How aware she is when the other woman is in the room. When she is speaking. When her eyes are on her.

“You seem tense,” Rhaenyra continues.

Alicent can see her hands, reaching out to touch their horses' flanks. Her fingers are strong looking, skin rough and calloused. She knows from the few times they have touched. She shivers, the sweat of the day cold on her skin now in the desert night. She’s still warm under her breasts, between her spread legs.

“You’re cold,” Rhaenyra pulls back. Alicent can hear her shrugging off her jacket.

“Really, you don’t—” Alicent protests, face flushing with mortification. She knows what the other woman is about.

“I insist,” Rhaenyra drops her jack loosely over Alicent’s shoulders. It’s warm from her body, and it carries the mixture of her scent: horse, sweat, sensible soap. Very unfeminine. Father would not approve of her.

“Thank you,” she says stiffly.

Rhaenyra hums softly.

“You can sleep too if you want.”

Alicent does not trust herself to sleep.

“I shall stay awake and take my rest during the day.”

Minutes stretch agonizingly slow. She’s hyper aware of the woman behind her. The silence of the desert, the shifting of the horse under their bodies.

“I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you for accompanying us on this venture, Miss Targaryen.”

“Rhaehyra,” she corrects, again. “And no thanks are necessary. The map your brother found is something my family has been searching for years. Seeing this through is important.”

“I take it you do not subscribe to the curse?”

“I have a great respect for legend.”

As the conversation peters off, Alicent’s eyes begin to droop. Maybe hours later, she drifts awake, a line of warmth across her belly: Rhaenyra’s arm keeping her in place. In her sleep, she m leaned back on the other woman’s shoulder, mouth open. Mortified, Alicent jerks upright.

“Pardon me,” Alicent gasps.

“Don’t worry yourself,” Rhaenyra says calmly. The sky is gradually starting to go from purple to pink casting the desert in an ethereal glow.

———

[spectralpluto]

It would be fantastic if people stopped putting words in Ashton's mouth and interpreting every single one of their actions in bad faith or meaning the worst intentions. The amount of uncharitable scrutiny they get on a weekly basis is astounding.

Ashton did not outright or even imply that he agreed with what Ka'mort said (emphasis: what KA'MORT said, not Ash). All they wanted was a perspective from a different party, i.e. the Titans/elementals, because they believe that perspective matters (because, you know, they're part-Titan, an unchangeable and undeniable fact of their existence that a literal god told them meant something).

Is it possible that Ashton doesn't quite understand the full picture? See for the forest for the trees? Sure, absolutely, that's an incredibly valid criticism to have, in fact, it's one that I share. Someone could probably analyze this far more eloquently than I could. But for fucks sake, they're not the fashy Darwinistic boogie man people desperately want them to be.

I fully believe Ashton was telling the truth when he said that they fight for the weak and forgotten, and I highly doubt that they're going back on what they said. The same goes for their moral code.

Personally, I'm gonna wait for Ashton to fully unpack his interpretation of that commune before making extremely cutting and scrutinizing judgments. But that's just me i guess.

[sephirthoughts]

Vincent's New Kid Just Dropped CH7: Back in the present, Nero, Sephiroth, and Cloud go to the grocery store.

rating: mature (for now) CW: implied/referenced incest

(right after Deepground Flashback Part 2. maybe i should start properly numbering these)

EDIT: I PROPERLY NUMBERED AND LINKED THEM YAYYY

🕷️🪽🥀 the Valentines 🥀🪽🕷️

Nero had never been to a grocery store, but he knew of them conceptually. Not that he had any burning desire to experience one firsthand, now, but Sephiroth made it clear he didn’t have a choice, and told him to go get ready. 

With as bad a grace as possible, he went upstairs and came back down again, dressed in some of the clothing the obnoxious blonde man purchased for him. In the face of Nero’s utter indifference and flat refusal to choose anything for himself, Cid had evidently decided the young man’s theme color would be purple, and made his selections accordingly. 

Thus, Nero now wore a dark-purple hoodie, black, acid-washed motocross jeans, purple converse high tops, and a black turtleneck, to hide the Shinra-made restrictive collar, which supposedly prevented him spitting out clouds of people-eating darkness miasma, or at least reduced the ability somewhat. 

“Ah-guh!” the hyper-alert noise machine announced, over the shoulder of the little blonde (as Nero uncharitably thought of Cloud, despite the fact that they were the exact same height), alerting everyone to Nero’s entrance. 

He shot the baby a glare, then his eyes fell on Sephiroth, and his lip curled. “Why do you look like that?”

“Keeping a low profile,” Sephiroth said tranquilly.

His boyfriend smirked. “Meaning, he’s the most famous war-criminal in the world. He can’t be seen in public looking exactly like his wanted posters.”

The hitherto silver-haired giant was dressed in his usual white v-neck t-shirt and black jeans, with the addition of a leather jacket, but his long hair had changed to jet black, and his eyes were now crimson, like those of the rest of the Valentines. With their coloring coordinated, Sephiroth’s resemblance to Vincent was downright unnerving. He looked even more like him than Nero did.

“Look at your brothers, Ollie. They're almost as pretty as you,” Cloud cooed to the baby, who gurgled and drooled about it.

Nero gave a ‘hmph’ and went to lean on the wall, with his arms crossed, unconscious of the fact that this was among his father’s most characteristic behaviors, and one highly recognizable to his associates. 

Cloud and Cid looked at Nero, then at Vincent, then at each other, and had to cover their mouths to stifle laughs. Vincent appeared bewildered and asked what was so funny, which only made them laugh harder.

Before the young men could depart on their errand, there was the ordeal of transferring the baby from Cloud’s arms to Cid’s, which took a measure of sleight-of-hand and trickery, and to which she took great umbrage. She made her displeasure known by turning bright pink from head to toe and howling like a banshee, despite Cloud’s assurances that he’d be back soon.

“Nero,” Vincent said, as the three young men walked out the door. 

Nero stopped and turned back sullenly, prepared for the highly unsurprising lecture about behaving himself and not harming civilians and blah blah blah. 

Vincent, however, failed to produce the expected admonitions. He only pushed something into Nero’s hand. It was a pair of dark-lensed sunglasses. Nero looked down at them and back up at the man, in blank perplexity.

“It’s bright outside,” Vincent said simply. “The polarized lenses help.”

Then he turned around and went back in the house, without another word. Nero stared after the man, as the door swung shut, muting the baby’s raucous wailing inside.

His vision went red, teeth clenched tightly and hand shaking, around the black sunglasses, as a big, ugly knot of pain and rage and other unidentifiable emotions surged up in his chest, choking him and making his eyes sting with tears. 

He wanted to smash the stupid things to fragments, hurl them at the door and scream curses at that man. Rip open his bleeding chest and force his so-called father to look at the mangled insides of the ruined creature he brought into this world, and then tore away from the only person in it that he’d ever loved. 

Then the cold reason of his dark side rose up, black flowing into red, and cooled the rage. Calmed the storm. Reminded him of his objective and the tasks before him. He needed to gain these people’s trust, if he was to get back to Weiss. Childish outbursts would only hinder his purpose. Patience. Patience.

“Nero, are you coming?” Sephiroth called out, drawing him from his ruminations.

Nero shoved the sunglasses onto his face, to hide his pink-rimmed eyes, and stalked gloomily to the vehicle. 

The little blonde had arrived on a motorcycle, but that was an impractical means of conveyance, for their errand, so the three of them were to drive to town in one of the many vehicles that belonged to the Valentine-Highwind household. 

This one was a small work truck, with a pickup style bed and cab that technically seated three. Technicality butted heads with reality, however, when Sephiroth was one of the three involved. 

Cloud was driving, since neither of the others had a license, and Sephiroth’s six-foot seven-inch frame was already pushing the limits of the truck's capacity, even in the passenger seat. As a result, Nero wound up packed like a sardine into the middle seat, between his ostensible elder brother, and his brother’s former-nemesis-slash-current-boyfriend. 

He very quickly began to suspect this was some method of psychological demolition. Because, if the entirety of the prison system had coordinated its efforts, it could never have contrived a more devilish torture for him, than this exact situation. 

Not only did Cloud drive like a lunatic, causing Nero to be constantly bumped and jostled about between the two, but Sephiroth kept reaching over him, to fiddle with the radio dial, simultaneously invading his personal space, and causing all kinds of disjointed snippets of songs to blare briefly from the vehicle’s speakers. 

Finally, much to Nero’s relief, Cloud smacked Sephiroth’s hand away. “Cut that out. I’m driving, so I get to pick the station. Besides, you have the absolute worst taste in music.”

“I do not,” Sephiroth contended.

“He does,” Cloud intimated to Nero. “He was raised on nothing but classical music, for optimum cerebral development, and now he’s taking revenge by soaking his super-brain in the most atrocious, top-forty pop garbage imaginable.”

“The music you claim to prefer is full of screaming, and instruments that sound like rusty bandsaws,” Sephiroth put forth. “I simply do not enjoy music with such an aggressive sound and violent themes.”

“Said the most violent man on the planet.”

They went on like this for the remainder of the drive, with Nero seething silently between them, his eyes squeezed shut behind his sunglasses (for which he was very grateful, now), and darkness tendrils stuffed into his ears, against their affectionate banter.

At long last, they arrived at the grocery store. It was a massive, fluorescent-lit, commercial monstrosity, that a corporation had christened Mid-Mart without a hint of irony. They paused, just inside the entrance, and Sephiroth tore the grocery list into three parts, handing a piece each to Nero and Cloud.

“We can get this done more quickly and efficiently if we spread out,” he explained. “Everyone take a basket, gather your items, and we will rendezvous at the Mt. Nibel Dew display, in thirty minutes. Understood?”

Cloud returned a jaunty salute, and before Nero knew what was happening, he was handed a red plastic basket with black handles, and then left on his own, in a grocery store full of innocent, unarmed civilians. Him. The known terrorist, official enemy of society, and former de-facto leader of Deepground. Like his custodians were mentally deficient. 

Luckily for them, now was not the time to make a move. He had his own plans, and no intention of playing his hand, just yet. Storing the sunglasses in his hoodie pocket, he studied the list of items, and began the daunting task of searching for them, in the glossy, chaotic fever-dream that was a modern grocery store.

Shopping was not as difficult an undertaking as had it seemed, at first blush. The aisles, though arranged according to no logic decipherable by man, were labeled with their general contents, and items tended to be grouped together with other, similar items.

Following this pattern, he quickly gathered the first several things. Next, his list had ‘maple syrup’ and ‘strawberry jam’ on it, which were in the same aisle as breakfast cereals and granolas, but not the peanut butter or honey. 

As Nero turned into the aisle, he encountered the little blonde, choosing canisters of something called ‘rolled oats.’

“Hey,” he hailed, as Nero approached. “Finding everything ok?”

“Yes,” Nero answered, putting a jar of strawberry jam into his basket. “It isn’t a particularly challenging task.”

“So, um. Sephiroth told me a bit about you,” Cloud ventured. “What happened with your brother, and all that.”

Nero’s crimson eyes flickered to his face, then away. “And?”  

“And…nothing. I’m just sorry you had to go through that. I know what it’s like to lose your only family member.”

Ugh. Concerned sympathy from a fellow griever. Nero was repulsed by this kind of thing. He knew how to shut it right back down, though. “Weiss is more than just a family member. He is my lover.”

“He’s…what?” Cloud asked, confused.

“Weiss is my biological half-brother. He is also my lover,” Nero said slowly, pronouncing every syllable clearly, as if defying Cloud to take issue with it.

Cloud balked, blindsided by his frank assertion. “Y—you mean…”

“Yes. I mean exactly that.” Nero narrowed his eyes and tilted his head questioningly. “Is me sleeping with my brother—the only person who has loved me and taken care of me, in my entire life—somehow stranger than you sleeping with the man who burned your hometown to the ground, and murdered your mother?”

Cloud’s golden brows lowered angrily, but he swallowed whatever sharp retort was on his tongue and took a deep breath, before he answered. “Look, I didn’t mean to come off like I was judging you. I don’t know about your relationship and it’s none of my business. I was just caught off-guard, is all.” 

“I am not offended, I was merely illustrating a point,” Nero said serenely. 

“Which is?”

“The heart can be neither ruled by law, nor governed by reason. Thus, reason and law have no place in the dominion of love, which will reign over a man’s heart, one way or another—whether it is as a ruthless tyrant to a captive slave, or as the benevolent sovereign of a willing subject.”

Cloud blinked. “Uh…”

“Pickles.”

“Huh?”

“Pickles are the next item on my list,” Nero clarified. “Do you know where they can be found?”

“Right. The ones Cid likes are pickled cucumbers, in the refrigerated section, with the cheese and cold snack foods. The ones Vincent likes are Chinese-style pickled vegetables, which are in the international foods section, on aisle thirteen.”

For the briefest moment, Nero’s curiosity got the better of him and he paused. “Is he—”

“Half Chinese. Grew up bilingual. That’s why everyone in the house speaks Mandarin. You didn’t wonder?”

“I don’t bother myself about what others are doing,” Nero replied, with a haughty toss of his head. “If learning languages amuses them, then so be it. It’s nothing to me.”

“Maybe you should try learning a little, too,” Cloud suggested. “It’s part of your family’s heritage.”

“Those people are not my family,” Nero said icily. 

“Yeah, sure,” Cloud snorted. “Whatever you want to tell yourself.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you don’t know them as well as I do. Once they’ve decided you’re one of their own, they won’t ever give up on you, no matter how much you kick and scream. Trust me, I speak from experience.”

Nero gave a mirthless laugh. “Yes, well, thank you for the sage advice. If you have nothing further to add, I am going to collect the rest of the items on my list.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode off, leaving Cloud feeling flustered and annoyed, and rather glad to be rid of the intractable, unpleasant young man, who seemed so much older and wiser than himself, but was actually several years his junior.

In aisle thirteen, where all the Asian foods were grouped together in one section, Nero found the pickled vegetables, without much trouble. To his exasperation, however, there were spicy and regular varieties, and no one had specified which was wanted. 

On the other side of the aisle, as he was deliberating, there was a woman near a partially filled cart, with a girl of around two years old, sitting in the child seat. The woman was talking on her cell phone, whilst perusing the products on the shelves, with her back to the child. 

As such, she failed to notice that the little girl had got loose of the safety restraint, and was reaching for something on the shelf, stretching her little hands out further and further, till all of a sudden, she toppled out of the seat, headfirst.

Quicker than sight, Nero’s darkness tendrils shot out and caught the small girl, just before she cracked her skull on the tile floor. He was setting her gently back in the cart, when the mother turned around and let out a bloodcurdling scream, dropping her cell phone and snatching up the child. The child, startled by the scream and being yanked around so abruptly, immediately burst out sobbing.

“My baby!! Help! Help!!” the woman shrieked. “This monster is trying to take my baby!!!”

Nero sighed and placed the jar of pickled vegetables (spicy variety) in his basket, now deeply regretting that he hadn’t just let the child fall and break its stupid neck. 

Meanwhile, footsteps came clattering from every direction, as the store employees, manager, security guard, and curious onlookers stampeded over to see what the commotion was. Fortunately for all of them, Sephiroth and Cloud arrived faster, and got between them and the extremely volatile bio-engineered weapon, in a purple hoodie.

“What’s—what’s going on, here?” the rather portly manager panted. “Ma’am, are you alright?” 

“He’s a monster!” the mother intoned, clutching the bawling child to her bosom. “He tried to snatch my Sally, right in front of my face! He grabbed her with these horrible tentacle things, like some kind of demon!!”

The gathering crowd turned on Nero, muttering and glaring at him, with open hostility and disgust. There were cries of ‘damn freak!’ and ‘arrest him!’ 

“Everyone shut up!” Cloud bellowed, in his rather impressive command voice, giving the manager and security guard (who were already sweating, looking up at the towering Sephiroth) a jolt. “Did anyone here actually see what happened?”

There was general murmuring from the crowd, but it was apparent that no one had. 

“I saw!” the mother said furiously. “I already told you what happened! Were you not listening?”

“Ah…ha. Let’s not be hasty, ma’am,” the security guard attempted, in a conciliatory tone. “Is it possible you saw wrong, or—”

“Why are you questioning me instead of arresting this man!” the woman interrupted. “Look at him! Look at his eyes! He’s clearly dangerous!!”

“Nero, what happened?” Cloud asked, while the manager and guard were attempting to soothe the woman.

“Didn’t you hear?” Nero sneered. “I’m a dangerous freak. I tried to snatch a baby with my monster tentacles.”

“That attitude isn’t helping,” Sephiroth told him, in an undertone. “If the police get involved and assault charges are filed, you’ll be in violation of your house arrest, whether you’re guilty or not.” 

“Fine,” Nero sighed, as if he was being sorely put upon, and pointed to the mother. “That idiot was on her phone, not paying attention to the child. It fell out of the cart. I caught it, before it landed on its head, and put it back. Then she started screaming nonsense at me and making a scene. In hindsight, if she’s going to raise it to be another fool like herself, it would’ve been better to just let it crack its skull on the ground, and end its misery.”

“How dare you!” the woman scolded. “You’re calling me liar and victim blaming?! And wishing harm on an innocent baby?!”

“Sir, this store has security cameras, correct?” Cloud asked the manager. “Shouldn’t a review of the feed clear all of this up?”

“Ah…ah, yes! In my office. W—we can look at the footage in my office,” the shiny-faced, balding man stammered, nodding like a chicken pecking rice. 

The woman tossed her head. “Hmph. I know what I saw, but fine. It’ll just prove I’m telling the truth.”

“Right this way, right this way,” the manager said, directing the involved individuals toward the back of the store. “Gerome, disperse the, uh…other guests, please? Thank you.”

The security guard waved people along, as the group followed the harried manager back to his office, which as turned out, was a rather tight squeeze, for five adults and a baby. Everyone wound up inelegantly clustered together, over the bank of monitors, while he scrolled back through the international foods aisle footage, to a few minutes ago.

The video showed the incident more or less as Nero described it, save for the fact that his darkness tendrils didn’t show up on cameras, so there was a bizarre moment when it looked as if the child stopped its fall and hovered in midair, then floated back into the cart, of its own accord.

“Ma’am, is that satisfactory?” Sephiroth asked, looking down at the woman, who was packed in between himself and the manager.

The woman’s lip trembled, and tears welled up in her eyes again. “I—I thought…I just saw tentacles grabbing my Sally, and this man with scary, red eyes. I can’t be blamed for thinking the worst, right?”

Sally, meanwhile, seemed to be enjoying all of the excitement, very much, and was busily yanking on Sephiroth’s long, inky-black hair, with both tiny fists. 

“Sally, no—we don’t pull hair,” her mother chided, gently prying the baby’s hands open. “Sorry about that, she grabs everything these days.”

“It is quite alright,” Sephiroth replied mildly. “My little sister is about the same age. I have to wear my hair in a braid at home, unless I want it all to wind up in her mouth.”

“Oh, I can imagine, with long hair like yours. That’s why I’ve cut mine short. It’s just easier that way,” she smiled, softening at finding common ground with another (sort of) parent. Then she hesitated, glancing awkwardly at Nero. “Look, I apologize for overreacting. We keep hearing these horror stories about people coming back from the frontlines deranged and with all these horrible mutations, and attacking people right in the streets. I lost my husband to the war, and Sally’s all I’ve got now. If I lost her too, I just—I don’t know what I’d do.”

Nero, however, was looking the other direction, studiously ignoring the conversation.

“All’s well that ends well, so there’s no sense in dwelling on it,” Cloud answered for him. “I’m sure we’d all just like to finish our shopping and get home.”

After the woman and baby had gone away, the manager apologized and sweated profusely, at the three gentlemen, for a few more minutes, and even went so far as to offer them a twenty percent discount on all their purchases today, by way of compensation for the trouble, though it looked like it cost him a pang to do it. 

“So. Your first foray out of the house, and you saved a baby from getting seriously injured,” Cloud remarked to Nero, as they drove homeward, a little while later. 

“I didn’t mean to,” Nero scowled, behind the dark sunglasses that he’d put back on, the moment they exited the store. “I acted without thinking. Needless to say, I won’t be making such a foolish error again.”

“Our father will be very pleased to hear of your good deed,” Sephiroth put in, looking exceedingly smug. “It seems you’re already making progress toward becoming a productive member of society.”

Nero crossed his arms disconsolately, shrinking down in the cramped middle seat. “I hate this stupid family.”

“It’ll grow on you. You’ll see,” Cloud chuckled, as he swatted Sephiroth’s hand away from the radio, yet again. 

NOTES:

Sephiroth picture: user screenshot by MrsPika with a mod for black-haired Sephiroth. No idea what they used for the eyes when ollie says "ah-guh" that's ollie for "er-ge" which is mandarin affectionate for "second elder brother", pronounced like "ahr-guh"

LINK TO CHAPTER 8

[dotthings]

Here's the thing. While it's great to encourage an environment where different approaches and nuanced variances on the canon are welcomed and prompt more discussion, there comes a point where chronic negative misreadings set in, and it becomes an echo chamber. Projections. Bad faith readings. People unable to discern themselves from the characters' pov. People unable to discern between their fears on what the character's intentions/motivations are vs the character's intentions/motivations. Not all of this is on purpose. But there are some truly nihilistic, chronically negative takes, and bad faith takes, and this is something that has eaten the fandom since the beginning of the show. I'm referring here to something different than people getting pissed at a particular episode or arc--spn is imperfect and sometimes it is an aggravating text. There has to be room for criticism, and space made for people to disagree.

But room for criticism and space to disagree doesn't mean having to throw the doors wide open to every chronic bad faith, nihilistic, or highly negative reading that comes along.

There is such a thing as a canon and throwing spaghetti at the wall, and protecting it under the idea of "interpretation," when that is protecting chronically negative, worst faith readings heavily based in projections, isn't how media discussion actually should work. It gets to the point where certain chronic uncharitable readings get popularized and it results in a miserable environment where anyone who sees it differently gets driven out of fandom space after fandom space just for not hating the way others hate. It's not joyful. It's stressful.

It's not about Dabb era. It's not about S15. It's not about The Trap. It's that I've had to see this in spn fandom over and over and it's been there since Kripke era.

Just pulling out one example. The discussions over The Trap. Most takes, chronically, since that ep aired, have tipped over into either far too blaming about Dean, or far too blaming about Cas. I'm not sure which character has in fact gotten the worst most chronic unjust reading, I just know I've witnessed it in stereo, from the Cas stan side against Dean, from the Dean stan side against Cas.

It's nails on a chalkboard reading some of those takes. It was back when those seasons were airing and it is now, 4 years after spn has ended. It's a record scratch on the canon song, over and over and over. It's chronic.

And it is wrong. I'm just going to say it. Both sides have been wrong. And they are wronging both Dean and Cas and they are wronging the story told by a whole team of writers who cared about the story and the characters. I actually don't care that much what people think of me. I do have a right to assert myself there, and defend myself, but that isn't what this is about at the core.

I can't just shake this off.

Dean and Cas both deserve better and the story deserves better. They're both deeply complex characters, neither is a villain, neither is [insert whatever bad faith unfairly harsh distortion of their canon selves one side or the other tripled down in clinging to this time].

I have to triple underline how CHRONIC THIS IS. (Not just on Dean and Cas).

It's been in every era of SPN.

But right now late SPN is still a hot topic, it's the most recent, its ramifications are still rippling, it comes up most often in my orbit and pocket of fandom.

I am consciously trying to keep my own bitterness about the "antidabbnatural" chronic takes contained so it doesn't distract from the actual reasons I'm here and what I want to focus on, but sometimes it is really hard, it's like I'm never going to escape from it, and like, of course, people are allowed to be angry, at the characters or the creative decisions, but at a certain point it tips over into chronically nihilistic negative hot takes that leaves little room for anything else.

Maybe people who came in late also don't know just how bad it got during the airings of those final seasons, how much hatred there was, how many attacks there were on good faith meta writers.

I don't have spoons for it any more, so I insulate myself and curate really strictly. Even with all my curating, it's not enough. It's a cycle that's inescapable.

Can't do anything about what other people do or what their takes are on the canon, this isn't a tone police or oppressing people or saying they can't post whatever the heck they want. I'm saying I'm allowed to have feelings about it and react to chronically negative takes.

I also am fed up with people having to apologize for liking S12-15.

Anyone who doesn't like that I actually appreciate the work of the writers room and the end results that wound up on screen, that I don't hate that era, that I've had my own grievances with it, but also have with Carver era, Gamble era, Kripke era, is just going to have to cope.

And let me make this completely clear: Dean is my favorite. He's been my favorite since episode 1 aired. Dean's been the character whose pov I consider first since the beginning. That doesn't mean I don't relate to or feel for Sam or Cas's pov, this is me being realistic and honest about being a Dean fan--not in the sense that I only care about Dean, in the sense that Dean has been my heart center of this show, and the most dominant lens of my entry point into the story. Not the sole entry point. But my heart center. I've been an spn fan for almost 20 years. Dean is my very favorite. That doesn't mean I have to throw other characters under a bus and capitulate to what bitter Dean stans think I should capitulate to.

And one of the reasons I like the final seasons is Dean's arc.

It is because of Dean. It's not despite how Dean was treated, I like it anyway. It's because of Dean. Because of his storyline. Because of the compassionate, painful arc the canon took him through.

I have seen "antidabbnaturals" go off on why they hate those seasons and they shout about how Dean was portrayed, treated, and depicted, and it puts flames on the side of my face because they are being reductive and insulting. Not the canon. Stans. Or it's Dean stans or it's Cas stans, going on another bashfest against Cas or against Dean.

But I want to make this absolutely clear, my so-called "apologism" for those seasons isn't about Destiel. It's because Dean's story, most of all, that I find it compelling. There are things I wished had been done better, or more completely, things that got short-changed. Mostly that concerns the ending, and I'm also not saying there are no problems at all. But I'm absolutely exhausted from seeing Dean's arc attacked by "Dean stans" and I'm exhausted from the cycles of Dean bashing or Cas bashing and exhausted from writing/episodes I really love being ripped to shreds, chronically. Non-stop.

It went on for four seasons in a row of non-stop hate and 4 years after spn ended I recently got a reminder it's all still out there. It's not that everyone involved was being that chronic or that hateful, but there's always an inevitable chain reaction and it brought the old hatred to the yard. I had to block more accounts. I'm just so done with it.

Anyway, this is my personal perspective. What people do with it isn't my problem. But I really needed to say it.

[mitigatedchaos]

The rockets either lift more payload to orbit or less payload to orbit. The bridges either take less time to build and last for longer, or take more time to build and don't last as long. The power grid either has more uptime or less uptime.

When we speak of "merit," we are speaking of whether there will be a higher probability that a particular mission will succeed or have a greater extent of success, or a lower probability.

A credential is not "merit." A credential is a low-dimensionality construct that we may use to estimate merit.

A man who undermines the standards for a credential reduces its correlation to merit.

Money is not "merit." Money is a low-dimensionality construct that we may use to estimate merit.

Given that the world is complex and markets are anti-inductive, it's actually quite challenging to find a profitable niche and then act on it in such a way as to become rich. On the other hand, because it's so challenging, it's true that it does take a lot of time - leaving less time to learn about other things.

Obviously, a formal ruleset implemented by an institution is also a low-dimensionality construct. It is, by necessity, less complex than reality. Institutions don't exist independently of people, and the rules or standards don't come "from nowhere." The idea had to exist in the mind of some specific, individual person.

Reality is constantly changing, so unless the ruleset or standards of the institution are updated, they will gradually become less aligned with reality. One way this happens is that actors within an institution may pursue their own personal interests rather than the organizational mission, unless someone deliberately keeps personnel aligned with the mission (such as firing the guy that hasn't showed up in six months but who keeps collecting a paycheck).

When the underlying reality has changed so that the rules or measures are less aligned with reality, someone who is closer to reality will necessarily be less than 100% aligned with the current rules or measures.

This new success will usually be observable, even though it may be less legible within the existing framework.

I initially wrote up a diagnostic question, but I think you would have found it deeply insulting. Instead, I've decided to provide you with a political gotcha question which cuts your post on the other axis.

Which "Merit" is Boeing?

OK "Merit" can involve a bit of equivocation. On one hand there's "IQ", "G factor", whether you are part of the Calvinist elect, how much money you have earned, how close to the future god-AI you are, how pure your pure white blood bloodline is. This is one thing that people mean by Merit, you just gotta put Elon Musk in charge and everything will be fine.

On the other hand "Merit" can also be expertise, domain knowledge, accreditation, whether you are a actually doctor or you are selling snake oil out of the back of a truck, whether you should trust that doctor to give you legal or financial advice.

[kaftan]

need to hear more of your victoria and amy thoughts!! what do you think victoria’s *perception* of their relationship was like before she was aware of the true nature?

You’ll want to ask me again when I’ve gotten the full scoop on their backstory through worm, because there are glaring gaps in my knowledge regarding their childhood (most notably: Amy’s trigger event; I only know the bare basics from my friend), but given what I’ve already seen, I like to read their relationship as a highly exaggerated take on the classic older sibling/younger sibling dynamic, and under that lens — Victoria is the archetypal big sister.

She does as a big sister does. At her best: loving, protective, the very definition of a safe space, an avenue for connection, a source of advice and positive mentorship. At her worst: alternately overbearing or irritable and shut off, uncharitable, manipulative,* carelessly presumptuous, lacking understanding of her younger sister’s interiority.

*a word which here means “crafty and careful about getting someone to do something she wants.” Most obviously applicable to her use of Amy’s powers to bail her out of the consequences of her own actions. Not a value judgment.

But to get to your question: before Victoria becomes aware of Amy’s feelings, she views her exactly the way an archetypal older sibling views her younger sibling. For better and for worse. There’s nothing malicious about the way she patronizes Amy and assumes she knows what’s best for her, just like there’s nothing malicious about the way Amy views her as an untouchable paragon, but it creates a false image that she interacts with over her actual sister — Ames, not Amy (see: Vicky, not Victoria). She never makes it past that constructed image to the real Amy — not because she doesn’t care to, but because through it she believes she already knows all there is to know. Why wouldn’t she? She’s the big sister!

Amy’s possessiveness over Victoria draws a lot of buzz, but Victoria exhibits it to a similar degree — the reason it doesn’t raise eyebrows with her is because she expresses it normatively, within the expected framework. Of course, that framework of “normal” is exactly what blows everything to pieces, knocks over the last domino, etc. Victoria pushes past Amy’s last remaining boundary like it’s nothing — again, not to be malicious, but because she genuinely can’t imagine Amy drawing that line between them, not when a younger sibling is supposed to be hers to protect and comfort and guide. And catapults the rest of the tragedy into motion.

We’ve all heard by now about the nuclear family being the real villain of this story arc, but a special mention should be given to sibling roles in particular — the way they warp interpersonal understanding between family members by replacing the complex truth of selfhood with an attractive, simplified lie. An autonomy-robbing lie. An identity-stifling lie. In this case, a relationship-ruining lie.

On a lighthearted final note, speaking from my own experience as an older sibling: older siblings, in their immaturity, often suffer main character syndrome (with younger siblings being sidekicks). Victoria has a severe case of this pre-11h. Doesn’t help, of course, that basically everyone around her affirms this worldview. She’s Glory Girl, after all!