#its a relatively simple fix

[peaches-and-honey-and-the-moon]

With the help of my boss I might not be totally fucked, but I'm still fucked.

[starlightshore]

Man coding truly is a gambit. If you fail at it, it's the worst thing. Ruins my day. I felt lost and confused, having a drive to be creative but unable to do anything because I know. I know couldn't get that damn piece of code to run right.

But then when it DOES work? Magic. I'm on a cloud. My crops are flourishing. I look at it and I'm constantly amazed like, how is this working? I know the answer and it still feels unreal.

The epic highs and lows of code...

[deconstructthesoup]

One thing I absolutely adore about Dead Boy Detectives is the immaculate costume design. Specifically, how it perfectly encapsulates who the characters are, both as a whole and who they are in the moment.

From the very first scene of the show, we know immediately that Edwin is a bookish, somewhat stuffy guy from the Edwardian era who attended a boarding school, and Charles is a punk from the 1980's who's most likely the wildcard between the two of them, just going off of the way that they're dressed. Both of them have distinct color schemes and different styles, but the general shape of their outfits is actually relatively similar---both of them have collared shirts (Edwin's dress shirt, Charles's polo), something over those shirts (Edwin's vest, Charles's suspenders), a jacket of some kind (Edwin's suit jacket, Charles's flannel thing), a longer overcoat (Edwin's traveling coat, Charles's peacoat), something around the neck (Edwin's bowtie, Charles's necklace), slacks, and nice shoes. They're distinct, yet matching, two clearly defined separate characters yet part of a set.

Edwin's prim, proper, buttoned-up personality lends itself to the way he dresses throughout the season---in the first episode, he only dresses down when he's in the office with Charles, aka his safe place and his safe person, and he doesn't really dress down like that again for a good long while after getting stuck in Port Townsend (though, if my memory serves me correctly, he does take off the suit jacket while watching TV with Niko). But in episode six, he's changed up his usual look for a cozier, casual-looking sweater and a little bit of collarbone, and in episode seven... well, he's in his nightclothes, and he's about as open, raw, and vulnerable as you can get. Edwin's color scheme is also predominately blue, which lines up nicely with his logical and practical, yet deeply sad and closed off personality, and the only time he really wears anything other than his normal blue-and-brown outfit (willingly, that is) is when he's in that green sweater in episode six. And, uh... all I can say is that it's quite telling how blue and green---or, well, teal---are the main colors of the gay/mlm flag.

Charles, by contrast, dresses down a lot, and that makes a lot of sense when you consider the fact that unlike Edwin, he feels comfortable pretty much anywhere. On any given episode, he goes from wearing his peacoat to just wearing his flannel to ditching the flannel to not even wearing the freaking polo---though, again, the latter is something that only happens when he's in the office with Edwin. Safe space, safe person. And, well, plenty of people have analyzed Charles's polo shirt going from red to burgundy to black over the course of the series, and there being a little bit of red under the collar of his coat that's only visible when Edwin fixes it, and then it goes back to burgundy, and then it's red again when Edwin's out of Hell... for good reason! It's color symbolism at its finest! Not to mention, the red and black not only perfectly contrasts Edwin's color scheme, but it also lines up with Charles's personality---he's a rebel, he's hotheaded, he's bold and brash and loud... and yes, he's angry, but he's also so, so loving.

When we first meet Crystal after she loses her memories, her outfit choices feel very deliberate. They're stylish and vaguely trendy, they're arty and a little bit witchy---pretty fitting for a psychic who's also a showbiz kid, even if she doesn't know that last part. But all of her clothes appear thrifted, or at the very least vintage, and the patterns and the general vibe all feel natural and comforting. Her makeup's always fairly simple, her hair's either down or up in a couple of cute space buns... overall, this Crystal looks like the kind of person who'd make you tea when you're in a bad mood, who'll listen when you just need to vent, and who may not always know the right thing to say but will understand what you're going through. But when we see her in the flashbacks, her clothing's flashy and prioritizes high-end trends over comfort, she's either got her hair up or has it straightened, and she not only has dramatic makeup, but acrylics. This is a girl who talks shit about you behind your back, who's bitter and cynical and wants everyone to feel the same way, who makes up for the lack of love and stability in her life via material things. It's also worth noting that Crystal's color scheme has a lot of purple, which is a color that connects to wealth and luxury, but also creativity and magic---which, yeah, fits her two conflicting sides pretty damn well.

You cannot talk about Niko Sasaki without talking about her outfits, and the meaning behind each of them has already been talked about at length. However, one thing that really stands out to me is that the reason they're so iconic isn't just because of the monochrome color schemes, but because they're out there. They're weird, they're eclectic, they're a little mismatched in style sometimes, and they're so unapologetically her. Niko wears heart-shaped sunglasses, unironically. Everything about the way she dresses speaks to how, even though she's a recovering shut-in who initially doesn't want to be perceived, she's still very sure of who she is.

Jenny's design, like Charles and Edwin's, is a design that gives you the key information you need the minute she first appears onscreen. The dark makeup, the silver jewelry, the leather apron, and the hairstyle all point to a person who's tough, doesn't take anyone's shit, and has long since given up on caring what other people think---in other words, she's a badass. But the butterfly tattoo hints at a softer side, a side that we see time and time again throughout the series as she shows that she cares about Crystal and Niko, and even the boys... eventually. Also, Jenny's design is perhaps one of the most clearly queer-coded in the series, to the point where her being a confirmed lesbian is pretty much a no-brainer.

Esther's design oozes camp, from top to bottom. The fluffy coat, the bustier, the boots and the cane and the everything, speak to a woman who's kept with the times and yet has seen it all. There's really not a lot I can fully say about her design, other than what Charles has already said: "She looks like a witch... like, kind of a sexy witch, who smokes a lot." (Or maybe I'm just tired and running out of steam at this point, idk, I love Esther's design and I can't really put it into words.) It's also pretty fitting that her color scheme has a lot of yellow in it---after all, she's always striving for more, so what better color for her than the color of gold?

Everything about the Night Nurse's design speaks to a woman who follows rules and discipline above all else, from the pantsuit to the pinned-up hairstyles to the tie to the heels. She's also the most muted out of the main cast in terms of color, dressing mostly in browns, dull greens, and duller browns---and while I don't have a lot to go into detail about there, I feel like that's kind of a symbol of her narrow-minded and bureaucratic worldview.

And the animal characters... Jesus Christ, I fully forget that they're all being played by human actors. Tragic Mick dresses like a man who's always spent his life by the sea, layered denim and all, and it's never a stretch to see this sad, bushy-bearded, baggy-clothed fisherman and imagine him as a walrus lounging on a beach. Monty, at first glance, seems to only wear black, which would be perfectly fitting for a crow, but when he's in better lighting, you see that he dresses in layers of red and blue, calling to how he envies Charles and Edwin and clearly longs for something more---and this might just be me, but I think that even though his outfits seem fairly normal at first glance, they feel kind of like a costume for Monty more than anything else, like he's trying to emulate a teenager that he's seen on TV more than someone in real life.

The Cat King fits this just as well, with all of his outfits aligning perfectly with whatever his cat form is at the time---when he's a fluffy ginger, it's always sequins and fur coats and clothing pieces that are specifically designed to take up space and call attention, and when he's a black shorthair, it's sleek styles and shiny leather and pieces that are designed to cut an intimidating yet more subtle figure. And while I could go into detail about all of those, what really stands out to me is how clearly queer everything is---more than Jenny's alt lesbian attire, more than Esther's campy coat and corset. From the very first scene he's in, he's wearing a skirt, and it looks natural. Nothing about the way the Cat King presents himself is exaggerated, nothing about the way he dresses is played for laughs---he's flamboyant and feminine and flirty, and he looks so fucking hot while he does it. It's gorgeous.

So... yeah, uh, all the awards for the Dead Boy Detectives costume designers!

[mrfoox]

My simple view on things sometimes is really a problem and I forget majority of people dont follow my logic....

[shotmrmiller]

Toni... Blue collar worker simon....

i'm thinking of a plumber simon who doesn't (but can, obviously) fix toilets and whatnot. no, he usually installs plumbing systems in homes that are currently being built and he can do gas pipes too.

simon owning a van that has a bunch of long PVC pipes on top is making my head spin for no reason.

anyway, he gets up real early in the morning, depending on how far the job is he could be up as early as 4 am, packs his cooler for lunch which consists of sandwiches, a can or two of soda, two water bottles and a bag of spicy sunflower seeds. his lunch is shit because a lady tend to pass by in her food truck to sell the guys a proper lunch (they taste like simple home cooked meals) and its relatively cheap.

he buys lunch more often than not because of you, the lady's daughter and you're the prettiest little finch he's ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.

you're a shy thing too, mumbling back a hello when he tosses you a greeting while waiting for his lunch to be warmed up. he likes when your eyebrow twitches every time he waits until the last possible second to ask for a drink to wash down his food.

a pest, truly.

(if only you'd give him a chance, you wouldn't have to be in that truck slaving away in the heat when he could keep you nice and comfortable at home with the ac as low as you like)

[transmutationisms]

this is probably shaped by my limited frame of reference, but im really fascinated by witnessing the real-time development of adhd as a diagnosis. people attribute so many symptoms to it now or maybe they always did? i was wondering if you have any thoughts on what is the use of adhd specifically as a category within psychiatry. I'm esl so sorry for any confusing wording

no you're right imo; diagnostic categories are always somewhat in flux ofc but ADHD is one that has seen a particularly pronounced shift in the last couple decades. obviously this is multifactorial but my observation goes something along these lines:

'hyperactivity' has been dx'd in children since about the 1950s (also when Ritalin hit the market) but the ADHD dx doesn't really take off until the 90s (also when Adderall, a 2nd-gen reformulation of the 'obesity' drug Obetrol, hit the market). so, it's not all that surprising that 20 years later you see increased patient awareness of the diagnosis, increased popular interest in it, and shifting / expanding ideas of what it means and what ADHD 'is'. it's a relatively young dx.

part of the reason it's young is because it's basically a 'biopsychiatric' dx, meaning it diagnoses certain behaviours as being a 'brain problem' rather than having social causes or context. in practice this is complicated because psychs do use pharmacological approaches in conjunction with psychodynamic ones all the time; nevertheless, the central promise of DSM ADHD and its pharmaceutical treatments has consistently been that the ADHD subject has a physiological, neurological disorder / dysfunction / aberration, and that the drug treatments on the market fix it. that none of this is actually empirically supported is conceptually inconvenient and entrenched by the research process.

the biopsychiatric narrative is worth paying attention to because the context here is one in which it has become commonly accepted that behavioural 'disorders' and affective distress of various kinds can be, basically, either of pure biological origin, or else Your Fault. in the case of childhood hyperactivity, Your Fault historically also included Your Mother's Fault; part of the reason many mothers embraced Ritalin in the 50s and 60s was because the proffered pharmaceutical narrative explicitly challenged the idea that these mothers had done something 'wrong' to result in their (mostly) sons exhibiting disruptive and hyperactive behaviour.

this dichotomy of biology vs personal failing is very overtly present in quite a bit of discourse around ADHD today. if it's my brain being 'wrong' or different, then it's not something I've done wrong but a disease with a simple chemical fix. in this context I don't think it's surprising at all that a lot of popular and patient conceptions of ADHD have seen a considerable widening over the past few decades. often people like to blame this on pharmaceutical companies, and it's true that industry benefits from these discourses and frequently invests in them (eg, via instruments like ADDitude mag). however, that's a pretty simplistic explanation on its own and doesn't really account for the ways in which patients and potential patients also find this diagnostic category personally useful, for reasons ranging from identity-formation to the desire to access prescription amphetamines. ADHD increasingly shows up as a biologised explanation for behaviours ranging from 'eating too many sweets' to 'postural sway' and so on. you can see in such examples how invoking the idea of an aberrant ADHD brain is both reassuring to people who have been made to feel ashamed of certain behaviours, and provides a sense of shared identity and community with others.

all of this is to say: I don't find it surprising at all when I see a relative broadening of notions of ADHD, almost always expressed in biological terms (the 'ADHD brain' operates differently, 'seeks dopamine', causes this or that). ADHD is in some ways a particularly blatant distillation of this general trend in popular psychiatric discourses, for reasons relating to expectations about childhood and child behaviour, and the historical and present relationship between the ADHD label and the regulation of amphetamines. but much of what's happening with ADHD in terms of popular discourses about it can also be seen with many, many other psychiatric diagnoses, to varying extents and in various ways.

my experience writing about ADHD on this website leads me to close by explicitly stating the following: I do not think any ADHD behaviours / symptoms are people's 'fault' or an individual failing; I do not think using drugs for any reason is morally bad or needs to be justified; the fact that I do not think ADHD is a 'brain disease' does not mean I think people are 'making it up' or exaggerating wrt any difficulties they experience personally, professionally, emotionally, &c.

[merakiui]

me & you, beyond a horizon so blue.

scaramouche/wanderer x (gender neutral) reader cw: slight angst, brief and vague mentions of scaramouche's past and the shouki no kami fight, you and wanderer have adopted a child together, this fic takes place before scara tries to erase himself in irminsul note - after he's defeated in a fight against the traveler, scaramouche wakes up in the distant future and learns a few things about an emotion he's always felt undeserving of.

It’s dark until he has the courage to force his eyes open.

Immediately, he wants to shut them. Near-blinding, the afternoon sun beams into his room through a part in the curtains. If he were human, it would have caused some sort of irreversible retinal damage. He’s not—though he isn’t spared the impending irritation—and so he’s able to adjust with relative quickness, his indigo eyes soon finding comfort in the brightness. It means a new day has dawned. He’s not dead—if that mortal concept can even apply to a puppet like him.

With a weak groan, Scaramouche drags a hand down his face and, like a sluggish, reanimated corpse, sits up in bed. The sheets are clean and soft, a soothing balm amidst the unrest that vibrates through him. It has been a long while since he’s slept through the night, preferring the shadows over the sun. Nocturnal like nature intended. A creature created in gloom can change and adapt, but it will always seek familiarity no matter what. 

Intrinsically like a rooted habit.

It’s only natural he would be forced into sleep, considering the fall was not pleasant, nor was the inevitable impact. He brings his fingers to his cheek, presses against the area, and assesses for injury. Nothing is damaged.

But then nothing is fixed. Not internally.

Having expected the dreary interior of an infirmary, he’s struck with bewilderment when he makes note of the bedroom he’s currently confined to. It’s furnished like a typical residence, unlike that of any inn he’s ever known, and there is a strange sense about this space. As if he’s always known about it and has just recalled it, destined to wake here one day and submit himself to its simple charms.

This can’t be right.

He’s never seen this bedroom before, let alone slept in it. Until now, that is. Perhaps a part of him has subconsciously willed it into existence with all of his fruitless wishing, the result of some illusion weaved from the intricacies of hopeful dreams.

Scaramouche glances at the bedside table, his brow furrowed in the beginnings of a wary scowl. Something is so obviously, painfully not right. He knows it has something to do with this room and the fact that he’s alone and unguarded. Lesser Lord Kusanali is not a fool, no matter how much he’d like to comfort himself with that delusion, and so he knows there should be no reason why he’s here instead of where he’s meant to be. 

And then he hears them—voices. Three of them, actually. One is high and giggly. It’s a little girl. Judging by the intonation of the other, an adult. Her guardian, to be more exact. He can’t place the third, especially since it’s one that sounds so grossly affectionate. He’s never heard anyone, human or not, speak with such tender warmth. 

He’s never known such a thing. Not in a long while. 

Scaramouche throws the covers off at once, stumbling from the bed in a panicked flurry. Watching it like it’s a threat, he clutches his chest. He doesn’t feel a heartbeat; rather, it’s the crackle of Electro deep within the core of his being that resounds, fizzling like snapped, angry circuitry. His fingers dig into wrinkled fabrics and he takes pause, realizing his actions.

To think something as mundane as a bed could startle him.

To think comfort would feel like a curse. 

What a joke. Even here, I’m not allowed the peace of a lonesome parting. 

He walks on intact legs, bidding the room a final glower before throwing the door open and stomping outside. Wherever he’s found himself, whether the mortal coil or a place beyond, he’s determined to get out. He pays no attention to the picture frames on the wall as he stalks down the hall, his mind working twice as fast to conjure a plan. If this place proves to be foul, there will be casualties. Three of them. 

Bloodshed is nothing new. 

What is new, though, is the scene he walks into when he approaches the kitchen, stepping through the threshold and immediately stopping short when he sees himself. 

Only…he’s different.

“You’re in poor shape,” his other self comments, almost conversationally, as if this sort of talk is casual. He’s dressed in breezy colors: whites and blues, the prettiest of hues. It’s a color scheme he would never entertain at present, but it sings of free skies with fluffy cumulus. An unburdened soul, light as a feather. 

Scaramouche opens his mouth to retort—so are you—and shuts it because that’s not true. His other self looks better than ever as he sits at the table. He looks healthy. 

He looks happy. 

“Whoa! There are two Papas?!” 

He flinches, horribly rigid, every sense on high alert. His gaze pans over to the little girl peeking out from behind your legs. She looks at him like he’s a wonder to behold—like he’s someone worth adoring. 

It’s different. It’s not the fondly fearful gaze of a devout follower, nor is it the clinical stare of a mournful creator or a deranged doctor. It’s something else. 

It’s…

What is it? What is that emotion—the one that has evaded him for the entirety of his existence?

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead. We were beginning to wonder when you’d wake up.”

He turns to look at you. A smile softens your features. Coupled with the glorious sunlight filtering in from the window, you are the most seraphic creature he’s ever seen. Horrified at the development of his thoughts, he hardens his face into a vicious glare and tamps down the weakness that rises to the surface.

“You were expecting me?” he asks, but it sounds like a demand. “What’s the meaning of this?” 

“Why don’t you take a seat? I can fetch you a cup of tea,” you offer, your voice gentle and coaxing. He glances at the little girl. Her gaze is worn down with worry.

“I will do no such thing,” he snaps, folding his arms across his chest. “You have no authority over me. I’ll sit if I so please, and I do not please. So I will not sit, nor will I indulge in tea.” 

His other self barks out a laugh. “To think I was like that… I was intolerable.”

“Still are,” you reply with a cheeky grin. 

“You’re just as bad,” he snipes back, but there isn’t any heat to the remark. There’s that emotion again, reflected so clearly when he’s looking at you. His other self smiles—genuinely smiles—and then addresses him next. The smile tightens into something serious. “Relax. We’re not going to bite.”

“No, but I can and I will. Don’t think for a minute that just because you’re me I won’t—” He stops himself when the little girl tugs on his shorts, peering up at him with more wide-eyed concern. Rather awkwardly, he does his best to bring his attitude to a child-friendly level. “I… I’m fine.” He searches the silence for her name. 

“Aaliya! Nice to meet you, Papa Number Two!”

Scaramouche nods mechanically, moves to bend down to her height, and then straightens again, thinking better of it. “What is all of this?” His hand sweeps across the room. “Just who are you?” 

Like clockwork finely tuned, you and his other self exchange a furtive glance before nodding. It’s some unspoken language Scaramouche can’t decode. He frowns as he watches this interaction, even more suspicious than before. 

“Aaliya, could you draw something for me?” you ask, guiding her from the kitchen towards the neighboring sitting room. Aaliya grabs a notebook and pencil from the countertop as she goes, humming her compliance. “We need another masterpiece to hang up, and you’re the best artist we’ve got.”

She giggles. “You can count on me!”

The sound calms him. He almost allows his shoulders to drop. Almost. 

Scaramouche watches from the doorway, observing the way you interact with the girl. It’s parental and adoring. You care for this child, and she cares for you. 

Just what is that elusive emotion? Why can’t he place it?

Once Aaliya has been successfully distracted with the allure of art, you return to take your seat beside his other self. Scaramouche stares between the both of you, utterly lost. 

“You don’t have to sit—not like I could get you to after you’ve made up your mind—but, at the very least, let’s talk.”

Scaramouche’s eyes narrow. “Speak.”

“So entitled…” His other self sighs. “I shouldn’t expect anything less. I am you, after all.” 

“Was,” he corrects astutely. “This isn’t the present day, and it can’t possibly be a dream.” He scrutinizes his surroundings, slowly fitting the pieces together. “It’s gone on for much too long.” 

His other self tilts his head, playful. “Are you sure you’re not just stuck under Buer’s thumb?”

Right. Dreams. Lesser Lord Kusanali can poke her nose in and out of dreams as she pleases.

“Plausible, yes. But this is too detailed. And you—” he gestures to Blue Scaramouche— “are different. I wouldn’t dream of something so inane. Something like…this.” 

Something so carefree and content, he almost tacks on as an afterthought, but he refrains. Weakness. 

“Oh, but of course. You’re too good for good things,” his other self jeers, sardonic in a way that incites violence. He pushes that urge away. There’s a child nearby. “For what it’s worth, we’re still the same person.”

“Do not compare me to a weakling like you.”

“Hah? You think I’m the weak one? I’ll show you—”

“Wawan, relax,” you say, moving your body to obstruct his view. 

Both look on, horrified. 

“Wawan?” Scaramouche ventures, brows furrowed. 

“You…” He turns away with a huff. 

“What? It’s cute! You like it!” You smile and nudge him.

Scaramouche is in awe, nearly slack-jawed from witnessing such a bold display. If anyone were to do that to him—to the fearsome Lord Harbinger Scaramouche—they would not get away unscathed. In fact, he’d subject them to a death so brutal they’d beg for release even in the afterlife. No one lays a finger on him unless they’re actively seeking a bloody finale. More importantly, no one reduces his being to such flowery nicknames. 

Disgusting. 

His other self—this Wawan fool—recovers from his flustered state and clears his throat. “Wanderer,” he says, hurrying the syllables before you can make any more comments. “The name I go by. You should know it because you’ll use it one day.”

“I will do no such thing.”

Wanderer’s expression softens at that—out of sympathy, he realizes. Uncharacteristic, Scaramouche thinks. I do not soften, nor do I sympathize. 

“You lost, Balladeer. There is no future for the god you hoped to become because he doesn’t exist. Not anymore.”

He bristles, suddenly defensive. “And who’s to say I haven’t already achieved godhood? Your claims are as useful as a corpse. You have no valid proof.”

“But I do. I’m you.”

“Even so, you’re woefully uninformed if you can so carelessly prattle on about—”

Wanderer sighs again, and this time you offer your hand. He hesitates, looking between Scaramouche and you, before his hand slips into yours, holding tight. Scaramouche’s face twists. 

Foul. 

“You failed, and this is the result of that—the future neither of us could have foreseen.” 

“Failure is a strong word,” you chime in, running your thumb over the top of his hand. You look at Scaramouche next. “You didn’t succeed, yes, but you can learn from your mistakes and grow.”

“And grow I so apparently did,” he mutters, bitter and resentful. “Into a weakling who…” He pauses, his tongue heavy in his mouth, eloquence escaping him. “A weakling who… Who shackles himself to idyllic nonsense with nothing but…” His fingers curl into tight fists. “Nothing but filthy weaknesses to show for it.”

Nonplussed, Wanderer submits to temporary silence, to the comforts you provide. There’s a feeling sprouting between the both of you. Neither of you says anything, but you understand regardless. It’s a silent sort of communication, an undeniable connection. An understanding fostered from that despicable emotion. 

With an offended scoff, Scaramouche turns swiftly on his heel and freezes when he finds Aaliya standing there. She peers up at him, studies his poker face, and presents him with her drawing. 

“Papa tells me love is hard, but it comes easy when you’re with the right people. You need to be willing and accepting. When you are, love will find you and you’ll find love.”

She presses the parchment into his hands. Shakily, he beholds it. It’s a poorly drawn family portrait, but Aaliya’s artistic talents mean nothing to him. It’s the first time he’s ever been willingly included in a portrait. A family portrait. The only time someone has bothered to document a side of him that isn’t the vindictive, villainous, ever-raging tempest he’s known for. The one time he’s ever known what it means to be loved. 

Ah. There’s that emotion. That temperamental, difficult, stormy emotion. It’s love.

In this future, he is treasured and cherished. He has a family. He has love, and he feels it and it’s reciprocated. Or Wanderer feels it, that is. But Scaramouche can see it: the quiet intricacies of your relationship—it’s all the result of love. You love him. Him—a being who was never created for the sake of loving. A being who has always been undeserving, unfit for the burden of divine admiration and reverence. You love him, and he loves you. Godhood and power and control—none of these things matter when compared to love itself.

Scaramouche stares at Aaliya next. He folds the drawing into a neat square, clutches it in a trembling fist, and—

And he cries.

Silently. His shoulders do not shudder. He does not gasp and wail like a newborn. It is entirely soundless, a reaction delayed by years. Tear trails streak down his porcelain cheeks in steady streams. His lip wobbles.

And he cries. 

He cries as he brushes past Aaliya, ignoring her protests and your mumble of, “Let him go. He needs space,” while he flees, beelining for the bedroom. He cries when he unfurls his fingers to cradle the folded square in his palm. He cries when he thinks of the life he’s lived—the suffering and the lies and the tragedy and the backstabbing and the manipulation. He cries because he can’t hold back anymore. Because he failed. Because he will never be a god. Because he is inadequate in the eyes of the divine—as unsubstantial as a common pest. 

He cries because he’s loved. Because someone has found something within his fractured being that’s worth loving. 

He cries into the night, curled in on himself to protect what’s left of his exposed weakness.

It’s dark when he closes his eyes, and unlike before they remain shut. Because if he opens them—if he doesn’t patch up the damaged floodgates—he will cry. 

And it hurts to cry.

And Scaramouche, for all of the pain he’s dealt, has never enjoyed being on the receiving end of agony, self-inflicted or otherwise.

It is a long, sleepless night punctuated with the soft pitter-patter of rainfall.

He’s lying sprawled like a defeated starfish when the first few rays of sunshine poke through the window. Groaning, he slides his arm over his eyes. He knows himself, even if Wanderer is a version of himself he has not yet experienced, and so he doesn’t expect to be checked on. The silence is both a comfort and a curse, smoothing his nerves and chewing through to the core of his being. 

He thinks I’ll come to him first. How utterly foolish.

Scaramouche turns his back towards the sun and presses his face further into the sheets, drained of energy even though he’s just woken up. His ears prick at the sound of a girlish giggle and he lifts his head slightly, his eyes sliding towards the window. Aaliya skips down the pathway, carrying a basket in one hand and holding another girl’s hand with her other. 

A friend, Scaramouche observes, watching the girls until they’re out of sight. He hears you call out to them even though they’re already long gone: “Be back before dinner and don’t get into any trouble!”

He peers at his own hand and flexes his fingers experimentally. Is everyone this feeble in the future, or am I just too strong?

There’s a knock on his door next. He intends to lie back down and block the world out, but instead he sits up and stares. 

“Balladeer, I’ve put a pot of tea on. You’re more than welcome to have some if you’d like.”

He won’t dignify you with a reply. Or that’s what he initially thinks, but then he’s covering the distance to the door before he can stop himself. He yanks it open, much to your surprise. 

“I—” he starts, his scowl mellowing into a reflection of the cold and cruel Fatuus he’s known to be. “I…will have a cup,” he finishes, oddly subdued.

“You don’t have to force yourself to talk. You can glare at us if it makes you feel better. Just make sure to take care of yourself, okay? We’re here for you if you need anything.”

He scoffs, straightens his posture into something regal, and pushes past you. “I was feeling much better until you opened your mouth and spat that irritating dross.”

You exhale through your nose, tentatively stepping into his path. For a minute he considers sweeping past you, but deep down he knows that he—the one he supposedly becomes in the future—would regret it. He would hate to push you away when you’re making an effort to be close—an emotional proximity he’s so clearly avoiding.

“You’re always welcome here.”

“Considering the circumstances, you have no choice but to be hospitable. It’s pointless to feign sincerity just because I’m here. I’m not fragile. Do not treat me as such.”

“You’re right. You’re far from fragile.”

He opens his mouth to argue that point and then pauses, absorbing your words with a dubious frown. 

“You may not believe me, but you’re very resilient and so strong. I should know because I wake next to him every morning, and his existence is enough to remind me that he’s come a very long way.” 

Smiling, you continue onwards. Scaramouche stalls, wondering what that could possibly mean. A very long way from what?

He’s not sure he wants the answer to that.

As if it matters.

“Without spoiling too much, I’ll say you’re in for a world of development,” Wanderer says once Scaramouche has graced the kitchen with his arrival. He’s sitting at the table, which is set for three people and adorned with the usual Sumerian snacks. The scent of tea hangs in the air, fragrant like perfume. “Lots of fun things.”

“Fun,” Scaramouche parrots, his nose scrunching. “What an unconventional way to refer to countless days and nights of agony.”

“I never said it’d be easy.”

“You never said it’d be difficult either.”

“Both of you,” you cut in—vocally and physically, you’re standing between the two of them— “no fighting at the table.”

Wanderer takes your hands in his when you lower into the seat beside him, his thumbs tracing delicate patterns into your skin. “Do you see how troublesome he is? Did you really have to put up with him all those years ago?”

“He’s part of you, Wawan.”

He scoffs. “No part I particularly care for anymore.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest so the couple in front of him won’t pick up on his discomfort. “I’m not asking to be cared for or coddled. Hate me all you want. I don’t intend to like either of you.”

“Well?” Wanderer raises a brow, a smirk lazily tugging at his lips. “Insufferable.”

“Bitter like your tea,” you agree, to which Wanderer and Scaramouche huff in unison.

They glance at one another, searching the other for an indication of mutual tolerance, before turning away.

“I suppose,” Scaramouche says after a beat of silence, “I shall indulge. Be grateful.” He steps closer towards the table, lifts his cup from its saucer, and brings it to his lips. It’s lukewarm and just as bitter as the tea he’s enjoyed in the past. “It would be a shame to let tea go to waste after your efforts to prepare it.”

He nods in your direction and you beam under his approval.

“Thank you, Balladeer.”

His brow raises, but he doesn’t ask. You fill in the blanks yourself.

“This is the current you. Right now, Wanderer and I, this entire home, the life we share, and even our dear Aaliya—none of it exists in your present. If anything, we’re just a dream to you. So who else are you if not The Balladeer?” 

Who else…

“Obviously I’m no one in this…reality.” He frowns. “If I’ve become that, there’s no need for any of my current aliases.”

“Perhaps not, but you’ll see for yourself when you get there.”

“I’d rather not. I’ll simply shut my eyes.”

“Avoidance is a common symptom of unresolved trauma,” Wanderer oh-so-helpfully adds.

“Oh, you’re a comedian now, are you?” But he isn’t laughing. 

“Just passing on a fact I learned. You’ll hear it for yourself one day. Why not share it in advance? Soften the blow a little.”

“And you’re so perfect?”

“I have no intention to be.”

“Sure.” Scaramouche sips his tea, swallowing the torrent of insults weighing heavy in his mind and on his tongue. “I suppose all of this just fell into your imperfect lap then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Before they can continue their petulant bickering, you gaze sharply at Wanderer and then at Scaramouche. He’s never felt compelled to obey anyone; he’s never needed to heed those who have always sat below him on the hierarchical pyramid. But for some reason he shuts his mouth and lowers his gaze to the floor.

This is pointless. I must find my way out of here at the earliest convenience before he drives me into the ground with his irritating sentiments.

“Arguing isn’t going to solve anything. He’s our guest, first and foremost. We should treat him like one.”

“I guess it can’t be helped. If this truly is our reality for the next few days, there’s no point in living in denial and self-loathing,” Wanderer concedes with a huff.

“Which is precisely why we should welcome this opportunity. It might not come around again.”

“Let’s hope it never does,” Wanderer and Scaramouche admit at the same time.

That elicits a giggle from you, and they turn on you with disapproving glares. “Sorry, sorry. It’s not funny—I know. I just couldn’t help it. You’re the same person, yet so different. Even your stares hold different feelings.”

Scaramouche won’t acknowledge your observations with a response. Instead, he watches his reflection as it warps and wavers in the tea. And then he drinks.

This is by far the most excruciating dream I’ve ever had the displeasure of experiencing.

There is no pain or death in this dream. No power tantamount to that of a god. He may as well be an apparition without an apparent place in this world. But there is domestic bliss and that is by far the most torturous aspect of this dream.

To think anyone could look upon my visage with such tenderness… You must be out of your mind.

“It’s not like I particularly care, but you seem to lead a quaint life.” Scaramouche sets his empty cup down and leans against the wall, his arms folding impetuously. “Why?”

Wanderer, troublesome menace that he is, bats his eyes and pulls you against him in a possessive half-hug. “Difficult to believe, isn’t it?”

Scaramouche wants to scowl, but he refrains. “I wasn’t asking you.”

“It’s mostly quaint,” you cut in, smooth as alabaster. “Life is always busier when you’re with your loved ones and there’s plenty to do—never a dull moment, as they say—but I don’t mind it. I like busy days.”

The delivery sounds rehearsed, but Scaramouche suspects it’s the truth. Your eyes soften and your smile mellows into something adoring when you nudge Wanderer. He almost retches outright when his other self nudges you back, discreetly reaching for your hand beneath the table. He won’t comment, but it prickles his skin with disgust when he watches this display. His other self fancies you so openly… The current Scaramouche would never.

Could never.

“Also, busy days prevent useless idling.”

“And keep boredom at bay,” Wanderer finishes. He assesses Scaramouche with a fleeting once-over. “You’ve always been a sad, lonesome existence. Your busy days were but minor distractions meant to fill a bottomless void that could never truly be filled.”

“What of it? I prefer solitude.”

He exhales a humorless breath. “Centuries of solitude and all it took was a single vase of flowers… Neither of us could have guessed.”

A vase of flowers? he wonders, bewildered, but too prideful to ask for an explanation. When will I ever receive flowers?

“You don’t need to worry about that right now,” you say, sipping at your tea with a cryptic smile. “Good things come to those who wait.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “I’ve had enough ‘good things’ for the rest of my life.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Even if you don’t think so, you’re deserving of good things. Everyone is, even if they’ve done something bad.”

He waits for the gutting punchline. It never comes.

He watches the world beyond the window: fluffy clouds, grass rustling in a breeze, a bird hopping about on the ground. His reflection frowns back at him. “I don’t agree.”

Wanderer shrugs. “If you say so.”

“That’s okay. If that’s what you think, who are we to judge your opinion?”

Briefly, Scaramouche wonders how you can have the patience to put up with him. With Wanderer, he thinks, even though he knows he’s just as troublesome, if not more.

He finishes the rest of his tea and then rises from his seat.

It’s not as if it matters. He doesn’t fit in this family portrait. He never will.

But he does in some distant future.

How peculiar…

Scaramouche wakes on his third day in a rather pleasant purgatory. As it happens, he’s still stuck in this unusual cottage with a bizarre doppelgänger.

So be it, he thinks, sitting up in bed. It occurs to him that he hasn’t been very resistant since he was plucked from his timeline and dropped here. But what is there to resist? You and his other self? This comfortable home? Family? Happiness? Love?

I should get back to my world as soon as possible. That’s my priority. Do not get distracted.

Ideally, he’d like to imagine that’s where he belongs, but he knows there’s no place in this world—or any other world and timeline—where he’s wanted and accepted. At the very least, there’s some semblance of home in his timeline. Even if it isn’t the most welcoming.

When he wanders into the kitchen, he finds you standing over the stovetop. Strips of meat sizzle in a pan. Sitting at the table, doodling on a blank page, is Aaliya. He hasn’t spoken much to her since his first day, and she hasn’t come to his room to pester him. 

“Let him settle in,” you and Wanderer tell her whenever she stalks past the closed door. 

Still, he feels the beginning of a smile pull at his lips as he watches her kick her legs to and fro to an imaginary tempo. 

I’m looking after a child in this timeline. Me. A parent…

He struggles to fathom it.

“Oh, Papa’s back!”

“Already?” You whirl around, a greeting on your tongue. “Ah, no, honey, that’s our visitor. The Balladeer is his name. He does look like Papa, though, doesn’t he?”

“B-Balla… Ballaba… Babadeer?” She scrunches her face up, perplexed.

Scaramouche offers her a gentle, understanding smile. “You may call me ‘Baba’ if it’s easier to pronounce.”

She lights up immediately. “Okay! You’re Baba and Papa’s Papa!”

He finds that the term is more endearing than any alias he’s taken on in the span of his lengthy existence.

“Speaking of, where is he? I would assume he’d be smart enough not to leave me by my lonesome.” 

“He’s out for the day. Won’t be back until later.” You lift the pan from the stove and proceed to distribute breakfast between two plates. He shakes his head at you when you attempt to fix him a plate. With a shrug, you add, “You slept in. How was it?”

“Acceptable,” he admits, lowering into the chair beside Aaliya. “I suppose it’s better than most places.”

“I’m happy to hear that.” You place a cup of tea in front of him. “Bitter. Just how you like it.”

Scaramouche eyes it like it’s poison. “Your hospitality is…appreciated.”

“What do you think?” Aaliya lifts her drawing, proudly showcasing the portrait she’s sketched of you.

Scaramouche is a critic of many things. Art is not one of them. Still, he takes the page in his hands and spends a moment admiring the shaky linework.

“Very wonderful,” he praises, and he means it. “You should become an artist.”

“I want to, but I also wanna be like Papa. He’s really smart.”

“Is he now?”

“Mhm! He’s studying at the Akademiya. My friends told me only really smart people go there.”

I’m a scholar? Truly? He looks to you for confirmation. The proud smile on your face is answer enough. To think this is what becomes of me in a distant reality…

“A commendable occupation. You should always do your best in your studies. They’re very important. But most of all…” He hesitates. Thankfully, his other self isn’t here to listen to his encouraging words and ridicule him. He’s certain he’d never hear the end of it. “You should pursue what you enjoy.” He reaches out to pat her on the head. “Always dream, Aaliya.”

“I will! I promise.”

Scaramouche doesn’t do promises, but somehow he’s convinced by this one.

You sit across from him. “Time to eat, my dear. You can finish your pretty drawing later.”

She nods and pushes her pencils and crayons away in favor of focusing on her plate. Scaramouche watches, stiff and awkward. Family meals are not an unusual occurrence, but it’s been so long since he’s spent quality time with another living creature. With humans.

Am I really so foolish that I’d willingly indulge in a life with humans? Don’t I know better?

“Wawan told me your arrival might be linked to a faulty Ley Line. We’re not sure when you’ll return to your world—if that’s even a possibility—but until we know more you can stay here with us.”

“If I must. Although I assumed that was already established.”

You chuckle. “Is that right? Then it looks like you’ve gotten comfortable in the three days you’ve been here.”

He rolls his eyes. “Your singular deeds are not enough to earn my veneration.”

“I’m not trying to.”

With a huff, he averts his eyes. An uncanny feeling crawls up his throat and settles on his cheeks. You hide your playful grin behind your utensils and eat alongside Aaliya in peaceful silence.

If only everyone could see him: a puppet now named Wanderer, who attends the Akademiya and has a family of his own. A puppet who seems complete when he surrounds himself with his loved ones. It’s impossible to live in denial when all of it is unfolding before his eyes like a fantastical tale in a storybook. He really can’t believe it.

“Tell me—am I fulfilled in this reality?”

You blink back at him, and suddenly he regrets asking. There’s vulnerability in a question like that. An open wound waiting to be exploited.

“Will knowing put you at ease?” Before he can snap back with a defensive reply, you add, “I suspect you’re already aware of the answer.”

He stares at the amber-colored tea in his cup. “I am,” he confesses quietly.

“And do you feel any better?”

“Am I supposed to feel that way?”

“I can’t tell you because there’s no right or wrong way when it comes to emotions. You just…feel them.”

Just feel them?

“I’m more conflicted than anything else. That Wanderer fool… He can’t truly be me. I would never allow myself to grow so weak. To surround myself with weaknesses… How utterly thoughtless.”

“What you see as weakness is his strength.”

Scaramouche’s gaze slides from the tea to you. “And he… And I… I’m happy here? This isn’t a grand farce?”

“As absurd as it seems, this is to be your reality. You’re not always going to be happy. Sometimes you’ll dwell on the past. Sometimes you’ll feel angry and upset. It’s all part of existing.”

“That sounds horrendous.”

“What does?”

“Existing. Isn’t it tiring? I’ve never understood how humans do it.”

“It’s tiring, yes. But it’s also very rewarding. To exist is to cherish happiness and weather hardship. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough. Sometimes all you need is enough.”

What if I’ve never had enough? What if I’ve never had anything?

He shuts his mouth. So many questions flit around in his head, but he already knows the answers to most of them. He just doesn’t want to hear it from himself.

To have enough when you’ve never had anything—when you’ve never felt like anything substantial—he surmises Wanderer can sympathize.

The first few drops of rain patter dry earth. Like dolls moved with wire, you and Scaramouche turn towards the window to watch water beads pearl on verdant fronds.

“Oh, it’s raining!” Aaliya exclaims with a delighted giggle. 

Scaramouche reaches to touch his cheek. A single tear wets his fingertip.

“Huh,” he mumbles. “So it is.”

Sitting on the stoop, watching worms wriggle in wet soil, Scaramouche sighs.

“Did you know the worms sometimes lose their way when it rains?”

“Is that right?” he murmurs, glancing at Aaliya who scoops one up from the stone path and places it in the grass. He smiles at her kind impartiality. “It’s very admirable of you to help them.”

“Mhm! Papa tells me even worms need homes, so it’s important to help them when the rain washes them away.”

He breathes a laugh that sounds more like a scoff. “I really said that? That’s difficult to imagine.”

Ironic, too.

“If no one helps, how will they find their homes?”

“They’ll find their way. Everyone does eventually.”

“Even you?” She blinks at him from where she stands in the grass, worms held in her palms.  

He exhales slowly and gazes skyward. The clouds have opened to let in the tiniest peek of sun. “If worms can find their way, then so, too, can I.”

He’s not sure he trusts it. Not now, at least. But it’s just as inevitable as the shifting seasons—an undeniable, irrefutable fact. He’s changing, if only slightly, and soon he’ll be in Wanderer’s shoes—a puppet with a home and a family. With all of life’s greatest joys and sorrows at his fingertips.

Aaliya sets the worms down in the grass before meandering over. She lowers to sit beside him, resting her head against his arm. “I believe in you, Baba.”

“Thank you.”

Soft as rain, subdued like a snuffed candle, his voice doesn’t waver. For the first time in a while, Scaramouche is defenseless. He’s not so sure he believes in himself. Wrapped in waning sun, listening to the hushed sway of grass, he tries on a smile. Albeit awkward, it fits.

He knows why his future self has become the wind, free and flowing, gentle and tumultuous all at once. Liberated from the past.

Even though he has his doubts, he knows he’ll get there soon.

The sky clears up just as Wanderer’s form comes into view. At first, he’s an insignificant pinprick against a blue sky. Aaliya jumps up from her spot on the stoop to run the rest of the way, calling out to him in an eager voice.

“Feeling any better?”

He keeps his eyes pinned stubbornly ahead. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

“You’re our guest, silly. Of course I’m going to be concerned if you’re not comfortable during your stay. Ah, but I expect you’re coming up on the end of that, aren’t you?”

He blinks at his hands and realizes they’re transparent. “So it appears.”

“Does it?” you tease, patting him on the shoulder. Or you try to, at least. Your hand goes through him. “Guess it wasn’t very funny.”

“Not in the slightest,” he snaps with a scoff. He checks to make sure Wanderer isn’t within earshot. He’s kept occupied with Aaliya, who jumps around him like an energetic bunny. “But… Thank you…for everything. I’m aware I wasn’t the most grateful guest, nor the kindest.”

“You don’t have to be. As long as you felt safe and secure during your time here, despite everything that’s happened in your timeline, that’s all that matters.”

Scaramouche stares at you. I suppose it was a worthwhile escape. Unnecessary, but worthwhile.

“It wasn’t as hellish as I thought it’d be.”

“I’m glad. It was nice having you.”

Just then, Wanderer approaches. Aaliya sits proudly on his shoulders, her fists in his hair. “Glad to see everything’s still in one piece. No atrocities today?”

Suddenly, any sort of security Scaramouche might have been feeling evaporates. He’s reminded that it’s impossible to endure his other self for more than a few minutes. It’s actually impressive you’ve put up with him for this long.

Love is weird like that.

“Go back to the Akademiya and maybe you’ll learn a better sense of humor.”

“Aren’t you a bundle of joy?” Wanderer chuckles and levels him with a playful smile. His next words are tender and truthful. “Good luck on your journey. Have lots of fun.”

What sort of fun could possibly be found in pain? I don’t want or need your sardonic optimism.

“Oh? Baba’s leaving already?”

Scaramouche and Wanderer share a look. You smile behind your hand.

“Baba?”

“P-Pay it no mind!” He reaches for his hat in hopes of relieving everyone of his flustered expression and stops short. He’s not wearing his hat. He hasn’t had it this entire time. Refusing to admit he forgot such a crucial detail, he turns away and folds his arms over his chest. “It matters not.”

“Sure,” Wanderer concedes, but Scaramouche can tell he’s thinking something snarky. “We’ll go with that.”

“Thank you for visiting us,” you interject before the two of them can argue semantics. “Even though our time together was short, it wasn’t any less enjoyable.”

“I’ll miss you, Baba!” Aaliya extends her arm for a high-five.

“Careful now,” Wanderer warns, steadying her on his shoulders. “I suppose, though you’re more trouble than anything, it wasn’t so bad seeing my past self again.”

“You’re a welcoming lot,” he says with a curt nod. “It made this entire debacle slightly tolerable.”

“Only slightly?”

“Your presence didn’t add anything of substance. Don’t get it twisted.”

“Hmm. Perhaps not. At least I get to say I saw you once more.”

At that, he rolls his eyes. Am I supposed to feel flattered?

Wanderer smiles, but Scaramouche can’t place the authenticity. Maybe it’s there and he just doesn’t want to confront it.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I know the feeling well enough.”

“And live every day one at a time. There’s no rush,” you advise, sweet like a real parent. 

“I believe in you, Baba! You’ll find your way just like the worms.”

Wanderer raises a curious brow, but instead of ridiculing him he takes your hand in his and squeezes. Aaliya giggles and pats Wanderer’s head. The three of you make a family. Togetherness. Love. It’s everything he’s never had.

Now he understands. When Wanderer is with you and Aaliya, he’s whole. He’s happy. Free. He’s turned a new leaf. There are still so many apertures and questions—so much he’s missing from a puzzle not yet pictured to completion—but he isn’t worried. Equipped with this new information, he finds himself at peace with the present situation.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever have the chance to meet again in this timeline, but if we do let’s not dwell on the past.”

Scaramouche can feel his consciousness slipping from this realm, every sense pouring in like light through the gaps in trees. Just before he can make sense of it all, he notices the pendant glowing just above Wanderer’s chest.

Impossible… Is that what I think it is?

“You have a lot to look forward to, so next time let’s talk about the future.”

Suddenly, he’s not so sure he wants to leave. Scaramouche steps towards his other self, hand splayed, and wants to say something. Anything. A million words and phrases stick to the roof of his mouth.

I’d like that, he thinks just as the rest of his corporeal form vanishes in a blip.

Scaramouche comes to in the infirmary. He lifts his arm towards the ceiling, observing shattered fingers and broken joints. Thin cracks run along his arm—surface injuries as far as he’s concerned. They’ll be gone within the day, a testament to his self-sufficiency.

You’re very resilient and so strong. Someone once told him that. But who? And why does it warm him so?

“Oh, you’re up!”

He gazes sidelong at Lesser Lord Kusanali, the God of Wisdom, past the wellness bouquet on the bedside desk, and his features harden with antipathy. “Buer.”

“Did you have a nice dream?”

“Dream?” He scoffs. “I don’t dream. Not anymore.”

But it feels like I’ve been asleep for ages… Just what have I been doing all this time?

“Everyone dreams—even when they’re awake. Dreams are what give us hope.”

“Not me.” He turns on his side and shuts his eyes to block her out. “I have no need for childish dreams and misguided hope.”

What does it matter? I have nothing. I am nothing. There’s nothing for me in this rotten world.

Her hum of acknowledgment reaches his ears. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Scaramouche scowls. Stop poking around in my head. You have no authority over my thoughts, Buer. Get lost.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m here to give you a second chance.”

“I don’t want it. It’s pointless to put me on the path to redemption. Inane, even.”

“Redemption starts with recognition. If you realize that what you’ve done is wrong and are willing to change, redemption will find its way to you.”

He inhales a long, weary breath. “What more is left for me?”

Scaramouche, despite his grandiose title, feels small lying here and contemplating the worth of his existence.

“Plenty of things—good and bad—that you’ve yet to experience.”

He tries to envision what these things could be and turns up blank.

Strange. I was so certain… He sits up in bed, clutching the space where his heart would be if he was human. I could have sworn there was something…

He gazes at his palms next. What happened while I was unconscious?

Surely he witnessed a joyous scene. Otherwise why would he wake feeling so…hopeful?

Inhaling a resolute breath, Scaramouche decides it doesn’t matter.

“Why don’t you take some time to think about it? I may not know the full extent of the turbulence in your mind, but I do know it’s not something to treat lightly.”

The void is both loud and quiet when she departs, and now he’s forced to come to terms with his reality. He lost. Even as a manufactured deity, he was still unfit for godhood. It was a moment so short-lived it was practically a blink—insignificant in the colossal tapestry of time.

“What a joke,” he spits, glaring at the wall ahead. “All of that for nothing…”

He sits back against the cushions and drowns in the silence. It doesn’t comfort him.

Don’t be so hard on yourself. Where has he heard that line before?

Perhaps it was just another delusion.

Scaramouche’s gaze is drawn to the bouquet next. The flowers are fresh and vibrant, each blossom a representation of good health and happiness. Someone placed these here. Someone went out of their way to assemble a bouquet in his honor and then send it over. He wonders if this is the work of Lesser Lord Kusanali.

Who else could muster the empathy for a sorry creature like him?

Will knowing put you at ease?

He thinks it might. At the very least, it would soothe a restless part of his being—the part that craves a connection and yearns to be wanted despite everything he’s done. He wants a heart and a home. He wants to feel the rays of the sun stinging his skin and bathe in the exhilaration of being alive and in the moment. He wants to finally know all of the sweetness he was deprived of in life. The sweetness that comes from love in all its many shapes and forms.

Scaramouche reaches for the bouquet and pauses. He could swipe it off the table and watch rumpled petals scatter amidst shattered glass in a puddle. He could ignore it and pretend it’s not worth his time or attention.

He wants to act like it doesn’t matter, but something’s nagging at him.

For once, the feeling isn’t terrible. For once, he has something to look forward to—an anchor to cling to in this vast, wild sea.

And he isn’t going to let go.

[ana-rinray-art]

"Outlines" [00-04]

Where did it all go wrong? Did Ishida’s arrow miss its target? Or Zangetsu didn’t strike true? It doesn’t even matter now. The worlds are slowly, inevitably falling apart.

Kurosaki Ichigo and Aizen Sousuke, the last living beings in the dying Universe, are spending their last moments in quiet conversation. But not even death is so simple with these two.

This is a Bleach fan comic, an alternate TYBW ending time travel fix-it. Plot-heavy angst with a relatively happy ending and with a lot of sad music. Can be read as platonic AiIchi. Will contain some loose lore interpretations and possible OOC (very subjective). Ignores CFYOW. No NSFW, PG-13 for canon-typical violence&gore.

[05] Next >>

Music: Saudade by Ólafur Arnalds

Support me on Patreon! Read all pages here

[frutigeraerosims]

"A tropical ocean paradise loved by divers for its colorful coral and fish and more recently by scientists for its unique marine life. With plenty of large and small fish, this is an ideal diving location."

Hi, I’m Catherine and this is my first Sims 3 world! My intention was to create a smaller world that can be used to play the Island Paradise expansion pack in a more compact way. (It’s technically medium-sized, but a lot of that is water.) I based this world on the area of the same name in the game Endless Ocean: Blue World, granted with quite a lot of creative liberties taken. Gatama Atoll is situated in the fictional country of the Pelago Commonwealth, which is in Micronesia.

Isla Paradiso is stunning and there are great fixes out there, but I still prefer to play smaller worlds for the sake of performance and convenience. So here’s a small world meant for boats, houseboats, resorts, lifeguards, merfolk and of course diving!

While Gatama Atoll now features a town, the original area is still for diving, with 5 dive lots based on some of the areas in the game. On the islands surrounding the dive lots are small nature areas similar to those found in the original Gatama Atoll — you can find animals here.

Nearby is Nineball Island, a relaxing and homey place, ready for divers to move in and make it their hub of operations. This is also an area from Endless Ocean: Blue World.

The town features all the base game rabbit holes as well as a few community lots and the Festival Grounds, and empty lots for expansion. Additionally, there are houses situated right near the water, and ports for houseboats. The empty 64x64 lot is intended for you to build your own resort (or place one you downloaded), though of course you can place your resort elsewhere if you wish.

Like Isla Paradiso, Gatama Atoll has mysterious islands surrounded by fog, waiting for discovery. Only a few, though; one unlocked through diving, one through resorts, and one through lifeguarding (exact way to get each island will be included below).

Gatama Atoll requires Island Paradise, Seasons, Pets, and Sunlit Tides. I specifically made this world with blam’s ea store files, as my decrapped sims3packs did not work in CAW. Therefore, I believe this means you also need the Sunlit Tides store files to be non-decrapped in order to play this world. My recommendation is to just pick them up from blam.

This world definitely isn’t perfect, considering it was made by a complete novice. Here are some disclaimers:

The landscaping is relatively simple, both because of performance concerns and because I lack skill in this area.

The only lot I made is Nineball Island + I edited the houseboat. The other lots are all from Sunlit Tides or Isla Paradiso.

The world is also definitely on the smaller side and doesn’t have room for a lot of extra lots.

Also, you need to be farther out in the ocean to snorkel, you can’t be close to the beach.

The notifications when your sim levels up their diving skill are gonna say the Isla Paradiso diving spot names (e.g "Rocky Reef"), not the Gatama Atoll diving spot names. Please refer below for a proper guide on when you can access each diving spot.

This world was made in version 1.67 (Steam)

Required mods

NRaas register - with this mod, ban horses, unicorns, paparazzi and deer for a smoother experience. You don't want that stuff in this world.

Dive cave reset fix - I used one and only one dive cave in this world. With this mod, you need to reset that dive cave when you see it, just once. Please do not forget to reset the cave so that your sim doesn't get reset when trying to enter.

Interact on sloped terrain - The world is kinda curvy so I think having this is a good idea.

Recommended additions

Surf’s Up Sun and Fun Collection - so your sim can surf, and also have some cute CAS stuff.

Sun, Surf and Sand - cute beachy buildbuy stuff.

Island Villa - ditto^

Tiki dining room - tiki buildbuy stuff

Tiki living room - ditto^

Tiki outdoor living - ditto^

Yoga mod by twinsimming - for the tropical paradise zen.

Mermaid Power mod by xantak22 - improves mermaid gameplay.

4t3 Island Living conversions - look around for some if you need more buildbuy or clothes.

Feel free to do whatever you want with this world! I have no conditions. You’re welcome to tag me so I can see, too :)

Download 🐠

Notes

Here is when each dive spot is unlocked:

Atoll Gate: available at level 2 of the diving skill

Spring Garden: available at level 4 of the diving skill

Doughnut Reef: Available at level 6 of the diving skill

Blue Cliff: Available at level 8 of the diving skill

Cabbage Patch: Available at level 10 of the diving skill

Here is how to get each hidden island:

Diving island: At level 10 of the diving skill, explore the cave in Cabbage Patch. Reset the cave before going in.

Lifeguard island: Rescue 35 sims as a lifeguard.

Resort island: Have a 5-star resort.

[1moreff-creator]

Extra DRDT CH2 Episode 12 Thoughts

Heya! After making my last post where I just live-blogged my immediate reaction to the episode, I had a few more thoughts that I figured I should write down somewhere. They’re all too small for their own posts, but I still think they’re worth sharing.

Spoilers for CH2 EP12

CW: Murder, hanging, suicide.

The Water Thing

This episode brought up two interesting points which had rarely, if ever, been discussed within the fandom: Arei’s body swinging, and her body temperature and its connection to water. And while I’m relatively sure I saw one or two people mention the swinging at some point, the temperature issue is certainly a new one.

The swinging was explained in the trial: Arei’s body was hung shortly before it was found. But J says something interesting; the corpse should have been warm, unless it was drenched in water and dried. Paraphrasing a bit, but you get the point.

However, I actually don’t think this is a big deal, just adds a slight addendum to previous murder theories. We know the killer dumped the fish in the playground to confuse time of death, so I believe the killer likely splashed Arei with the water to cool her down. This is assuming they even thought about the body temperature, but I don’t think this is a large assumption to make.

I have seen people claim that Arei’s hair looks somewhat wet in the BDA, which… maybe? Anyways, this idea would explain that as well.

This might even give us Possible Explanation Number I Lost Count for the damn missing glove. Maybe it got particularly wet and the culprit worried it wouldn’t dry quickly enough? If people discovered a dripping wet bowling glove, the whole “using fish to confuse the time of death” thing would kinda go straight out the window. I have no idea if that makes any amount of sense, I don’t see why the glove would dry any slower than the rest of her clothes, but oh well.

Arturo’s Talent, and his Recap Foil: Levi

(Here’s the link to the original Recap Foil Theory post by gleamingtempest, in case you don’t know what I’m talking about).

Kinda forgot this was a thing when first watching the episode, but now looking back on it, there’s some neat foiling going on. Levi and Arturo’s backstory already were somewhat opposites in some aspects: Arturo got away from home himself while Levi was disowned, though Levi seems to hold a higher degree of respect for his family in comparison to Arturo. Levi is (now confirmed!) a murderer with no remorse, while Arturo accidentally caused Felicity’s death to some extent and clearly feels guilty about it. Etcetera.

Well, we can add a new detail to this foil! Arturo’s been training his talent since he was twelve, while Levi has admitted since introduction that he’s “a novice to fashion.” Neat detail, and certainly adds to this theory.

Terumin VS Xanvid

Thanks to Haru for pointing this out, but Teruko’s “I’ll fix my mistake” echoes Min’s “I’ll fix your mistake” from her Argument Armament. As I mentioned in the linked post, it’s cool that Teruko is taking a sort of Min-like attitude to her mistakes while calling Xander out, while David is taking Xander’s side in the same trial he calls Min pathetic. Foils and all that.

(Doomed Yuri V Doomed Yaoi, fight!)

This makes me hopeful that Min will still have some importance later. But I’m probably just coping.

What Was David Cooking?

I am kinda sick of talking about this man, frankly. I blame the almost three hour video I made on his MV. But oh well, he’ll stop being center focus soon enough. For now, His Deal is still one of the most central aspects of the episodes, so discuss him I will.

There are two big points of contention with what he said this trial. First, what does he remember about Xander? Second, what was he actually trying to do by pretending to be Arei’s murderer?

The first is pretty simple to assume, I think. David remembers whatever Xander did to become the Ultimate Rebel, and respects him as a result. Especially since Xander’s numeral I in LGI, the Footnote 14 code solved by y-prime, is “I have always looked up to you.”

I don’t think David has Hope’s Peak memories, despite his weird wording with “even if you all lost a year of memories.” He specifically says he and Xander had never met in his Prologue introduction, before they had any real reason to believe they’d lost memories. The LGI video also doesn’t add anything, because… well, it’s not a Milgram MV. It doesn’t come from his memories, it exists purely in meta. This is evident from the comments referencing Byakuya, Nagito and Kokichi, characters these people should have no knowledge of as Veronika claims not to remember anything like the DRDT killing game happening before; certain references to conversations and details David shouldn’t be aware of (mainly in numeral placement), etc.

(While I was writing that, the dev seemingly clarified that David does not have Hope’s Peak memories, then deleted the tweet, so. Just in case, there’s the full reasoning)

The second one is trickier. David is following Xander’s ideals, but that’s all we know. We don’t have a concrete idea of what Xander’s ideals really were, and it’s even harder to know what David thinks Xander’s ideals were.

David: I’m sure he had a good reason. I believe that he did. Xander is not the kind of person to do anything for frivolous purposes.

He believes Xander had a good reason for trying to kill Teruko, he says he’s sure of it, but he never implies to know exactly what the reason was. And if he doesn’t know the exact reason, he can’t for sure say what ideal Xander was upholding by doing what he did.

But, he knows what Xander was trying to do; kill everyone. Because if it was just Teruko, he wouldn’t have tried to mislead people with the CD thing. Although, Xander was following that one note that said to “kill Teruko Tawaki,” so it could potentially be targeted.

So, taking credit for Arei’s murder to try and kill everyone is because Xander tried to do something similar. But the deeper reason he gave, about the nature of the killing game, is it true?

(Apologies in advance for the particularly horrible collage. I am without a reliable computer atm)

David [Annoyed]: Ugh, fucking fine. You want an answer so badly? Any answer?

[Face covered] …

I…

[Sweating] Ah… We’re… in a television show, after all. That’s… what MonoTV said, right?

“Entertainment” is an ongoing show.

If Min successfully got away with the very first murder and escaped while we all died, isn’t that way less interesting for a TV show?

What’s the point of roping 14 other people into one murder, only to kill them all off immediately?

The killer is supposed to fail and get executed. We’re all supposed to catch the killer, again and again, and participate in trial after trail. You’re *supposed* to try to survive.

All of you, who are trying to slice these class trials to continue living on are playing straight into MonoTV’s hands.

[Confident] As if I’ll accept that.

I don’t care how low I’ll sink, or how despicable I’ll have to become. I’ll do anything to carry on Xander’s ideals by ending this killing game, even if it means that I have to dirty my hands.

Oh, this man is lying out his ass.

This is not an answer you hesitate over if it’s true. The words David is saying are neutral; the show is meant for entertainment, and it’s not entertaining if people die early. There’s no controversy there, no reason to be nervous. Especially since Eden’s already come to the same conclusion.

Veronika: You know, Eden once thought of an interesting plan to end the killing game. Based on everything we know, it could theoretically work.

[…]

To make a television show so boring they have no choice but to shut it down.

All we have to do is nothing.

You’re not supposed to be sweating when you’re effectively repeating something Eden said, even if under a different context.

First, David says he’ll give “any answer”, already making anything he says shady. Then, he seems to deliberate on what to say, which is already suspicious.

The most notable thing is that when he starts talking about the TV show, and what it means for it to be entertaining, he still hesitates. If his plan really was to make the TV show boring, once he decides to spill the beans, there’s nothing to hesitate about.

He only regains his confidence at the end, ironically when he’s saying the actually insane stuff. He finally finds the character he was trying to play and actually says something true; he wants to uphold Xander’s ideals and end the killing game. But I really don’t think it’s because he wants to make it boring.

In other words, he’s not lying about wanting to follow Xander and end the killing game, but his explanation about the entertainment has nothing to do with that. It’s way too simple of an explanation for the amount he hesitates. At least, that’s what I think, I may be wrong.

That brings us to the question; if he didn’t take the blame to make the game boring, why did he do it?

Well, currently and without too much confidence, I believe it has to do with Xander’s secondary goal; killing Teruko Tawaki.

One of the most well-accepted theories in the community is that David’s secret, “everything in your life is worth killing over [and] the killing game is all your fault,” isn’t Xander’s, but Teruko’s.

(In fact, side theory: I’m betting (on little evidence) that by the end of the trial, it will be David with his fanboy knowledge to point out that the “survivor’s guilt” secret that Min “received” was actually Xander’s, and reveal by process of elimination (since it’s likely going to be revealed in the trial that Hu has Veronika’s secret and Veronika has Hu’s, assuming those theories are true) that Min has the poison secret. It’s a bit of a wild prediction, but I think it’s a reasonable possibility to how the series would go about confirming the secrets of the dead)

That, combined with the fact that Xander followed a note that told him to kill Teruko, would certainly be enough for David to decide that Teruko’s gotta die. And killing everyone in the class trial is probably the best way to ensure that happens, since David probably doesn’t hunk attacking her directly is a good idea. If Xander, physically the strongest student in the cast, couldn’t get past Teruko’s luck, what the hell is David supposed to do? Especially now that she carries a knife, though I’m not sure David knows that.

It’s not even that out of nowhere; in the LGI video, Teruko’s numeral XIII appears next to a quote regarding the child of Omelas among other things. Very long story (skip to 1:22:22 in this video for the full explanation), but the child of Omelas is someone who must suffer so everyone else can live in a perfect world. It’s possible David thinks of Teruko, for one reason or another, as the Omelas child; she’s gotta die so everyone can be happy. She is someone “deeply unloved” after all.

Now, is this a stretch? Certainly. But I don’t think David’s telling the truth about his motivations, and I think this is one of the more likely options as to what exactly he was cooking here. I’m sure there’s better explanations out there, I just haven’t seen them :v

David VS Whit

I kinda skipped over the “Red Herring pun to David Freakout” line at first, but I think it’s pretty interesting that David gets so mad at Whit’s behavior. They are Recap Foils, so it makes sense they’d have strong emotions towards each other.

In particular, I’d like to point out how David gets mad at Whit for something similar to what he does as a motivational speaker.

I mentioned it in the previously mentioned section of my LGI analysis, but I believe part of the reason David hates Teruko is that he sees himself in her (pessimistic, thinks the world won’t change, etc), and this would be the other side of that. David constantly says things he doesn’t believe to make people happy, and he considers that to be pretty stupid, so it makes sense for him to get frustrated when seeing Whit doing something similar, trying to raise spirits by telling jokes. Looking at Whit is sorta like looking in a mirror, and David hates that. The mirror in LGI is labeled “reflection is due” for a reason.

I’m not fully sure this works 100%, but I think it’s at least worth considering.

Updates on Eden!Culprit Levi!Accomplice

In case you’re new here, here’s a link to my post detailing the Eden!Culprit Levi!Accomplice theory, which I came up with alongside some other theorists, and is what I currently believe the murder to be. My thoughts on possible character motivation and the such have shifted a bit since then, but the important part is the physical evidence. In particular, the combination of Lockdown Logic to determine Eden most likely took the tape from the gym and the Fish Timeline to determine someone else must have helped her get the fish, combined with the overly complicated murder method which I describe in detail, leads me to believe Eden is the blackened, and Levi helped her kill Arei.

I’m not going to talk about other theories, I’ll let the dedicated theorists perfect them with the new evidence in their own time. But, how does this theory change?

On the surface, uh, not much. We haven’t talked method much, after all.

(Side note, I know some people are bothered by how long that’s taking, and while I kinda get it, I’m not bothered by it. We’re in no rush; I prefer it if all the character conflict is addressed at some point, even if it delays talking about the actual method. Better than it going unaddressed, after all)

The only change is adding that they splashed Arei with water to hide her body temperature, but as discussed, that’s a minor change.

The big wrench thrown into this theory is the end, because… I’ll be honest, dear audience, I have no clue what Levi’s cooking here. Like, at all. Zero read on why he’s revealing his secret. I could try to speculate, but I can’t find any fully satisfactory answer even outside the Levi!Accomplice theory. Nothing makes sense to me, so I’ll just wait for the next episode before trying to read into it.

There is one unrelated thing I want to bring up, though, and it’s related to Levi’s possible motivation. I know this is one of the biggest sticking points in the theory (obviously), so I’d like to talk about it.

As a refresher: although alternate ideas have been offered, my current guess is that it has to do with his desire to be a good person, and the fact he considers Eden a good person. Cue the whole “A Good Person” hidden title behind “All That Glitters.”

Levi: Perhaps I messed up yesterday. But I want to move on. I want to keep trying to become ‘a good person,’ like you, Eden.

The idea goes like this. Levi thinks Eden is good, and so he wants to do good by her. Based on the secret quote in the code of his character page, we can tell he prefers to speak through actions. He’s a bold action man, and that can cause him to come off as heartless.

Levi: I always believed that a person is defined by their actions alone. But maybe that’s just a poor excuse for my heartlessness.

My personal theory (again, other Levi motives are possible) assumes that Levi believes someone will win the killing game eventually (and this is an assumption, I won’t deny it), and if only one persona can escape, he’d rather it be Eden than anyone else. Again, “good person.” Levi will die, sure, but unless he becomes a blackened himself, he’s going to die regardless whenever someone gets away with murder.

Now, this isn’t anything drastically different than what I said in the theory post, so why am I bringing it up?

Well, the thing is… Doing something horrible, throwing away your own life and those of most of your peers, all for the sake of the one you’ve deemed to be “a good person”…

Now where have I heard that before?

David: But doing “good” things requires sacrifice. Sometimes that sacrifice is being seen as a good person.

Even if doing something makes you hated, if that action is for a greater good, then it’s an action you have to take.

Xander is a good person. He’s the only good person I’ve ever known. I swear, I’ll follow in his footsteps and—

Huh. Funny how that works.

My point is that not only is “doing good by the only good person here” now a pre-established line of reasoning these characters can have, Levi doing such a thing for Eden would be a very interesting parallel to what David tried to do for Xander.

This isn’t evidence, to be clear. Just because one guy does it, doesn’t mean a completely unrelated dude is gonna do it too. But I’m calling it now as a potentially interesting parallel to explore, either in canon if I’m right or, like, an AU if I’m wrong :v

That said, I will point out that Hu’s capital G Girlboss Moment is directly after this, the one where she chews David out for deciding what’s best for all of them without consultation. And a little bit afterwards, Levi starts acting weird, apologizing for being useless, revealing his secret, etc. These two things could be connected, if Levi is, like, having second thoughts after that.

I could see a world where Levi’s trying to bring the conversation towards the right answer without fully committing to it, only for something or someone to somehow convince him back to accomplice-hood middway through it. I find that immensely unlikely, to be clear, but again, I genuinely have no idea what Levi’s trying to do right now, so.

All in all, a pretty neutral episode for this theory. Next one could completely break it, though, so I’m excited. I might have to come up with new theories! >:D

God I missed DRDT. And the only drawback of coming back is re-opening LGI trauma :D /silly

Anyways, thanks for reading! See you on the flipside!

[rosegoldenatlas]

Fuck you *analyzes Stan and Ford even though everyone has done it at this point*

Friendly reminder that Stan is literally a traumatized genius. Like yeah Ford may have been good at science in school and did some nice notes on weird shit he saw but to build his portal he needed to get tricked by a demon whom he knew was super dangerous.

Meanwhile Stan taught himself how to build it ALONE in just 30 years when before he barley got by in school and he only saw A THIRD of the blueprints throughout most of building it. Stan was kicked out of his house due to an actual accident and due to that has some clear issues that lead him to a life of scams and crimes because he wanted to prove that he wasn't a failure. He went to jail in 3 countries and has successfully conned SO MANY PEOPLE. He ran a successful business of only fakes and cons for 30 years, hasn't paid taxes in who knows when maybe he never has paid taxes. He literally had EVERY ONE OF HIS CRIMES LISTED ON PUBLIC TELEVISION AND STILL GOT AWAY WITH IT. Also he is ballsy as shit. Like this man hasn't feared death in decades I'm pretty sure. Even though he has clear issues he still is able to be a good person (not legally but yk what I mean). He had been betrayed by Ford and his life was ruined since highschool due to that and his first instinct after hearing Ford call for help (just like he did when he was younger and being kicked out) is not to pull the curtains and look away but to go all the way Oregon and ask what he needed help with, saying that he will understand what's going on, offering support- and then is tossed aside AGAIN. He finds out that even though he made that mistake years an years ago Ford has been relatively well off and has a house and the money to build this giant machine. While Fords taking a blind eye to Stan getting kicked out ruined his entire life and shoved him directly into a life of crime without much of a choice.

Of Course he bitter. He was betrayed twice! So he gets into a fight and gets angry and makes his second mistake, pushing Ford. He didn't mean to do it. He didn't know how it worked but it happened. So he immediately tries to fix his mistake. This time he has to do it right. So he teaches himself Advanced science only learnt by one person from an inter dimensional chaos demon well enough to build the machine using a third of the blueprints and sheer force of will.

When he finally gets Ford back after 30 years he's expecting a thank you and being allowed to keep the shack that he's had longer than Ford at this point. Instead he gets a punch to the face and is being told off. Being told off by doing exactly as he was told 'just do something!' Ford had said before. And now he was being told that he shouldn't have? After 30 years of work? Yeah I'd be pissed too. But Stan holds it together for the twins.

When weirdmageddon happens he has one request, say thank you. He doesn't even care if its an actual thank you any more. He just asks for it and starts the ritual. He's angry and upset and he's always being cast aside as the dumb sibling and he thought he was away from that but Ford ruined it and Dipper was definitely thinking that Stan was the dumb one. But Stan mumbles on last comment and still does the ritual. And then- grammar Stanley. Its like spitting in has face and saying 'even after all of this, your still the dumb one, still the screw up. Can't even keep up with basic grammar and always angry always the dumb, strong one'. But now he's not even stronger because of Fords alien space dimension hopping trip. Now he's just the dumb one who cheats his way through life because he can't do anything the right way. Its a punch to the gut that after all he had done he got a half assed 'thank you Stanley' and then told in fewer, more simple words 'you're still the screw up of the family'. Yeah not the best time to be pissed but I completely agree with Stan when he lashes out and attacks Ford.

Then even after all of that he still says that he wishes Bill would go in his head instead. He says that he agrees that he's got nothing up there. And Ford doesn't disagree. He didn't comfort him. He just goes 'oh yeah but he doesn't want your stupid thoughts he wants mine'. And I don't care what anyone says, it was Stans idea to swap clothes with Ford. Stan is the con guy. He get his memory wiped.

In the last few minutes while everyone is getting their endings, Ford says that he wants to make the Stan o' War 2 and go off and sail. Its not exactly what Stan wants, he wasn't treasure hunting, of course he does. But anomaly hunting is all he knows he can get at this point. So he goes. He never gets told the things he needs to be told like 'you're not a screw up' or 'you're not stupid Stanley' he gets one thing. He gets 'you're our hero Stanley'. Which wow. Stanley gets to be the one thing he never got. He didn't have anyone backing him. He had Soos eventually, but Soos was always like a kid to him (hell yeah Stan adopt Soos I think its such a cool idea please). Dipper and Mabel technically have his back but they are literal children who do not need to hear their grunkles trauma more than they already have. Its always just been Stan watching out for all of them as best he can. He has Ford at the very end on the boat. But he still has a lot of issues to sort through.

While Ford, we don't have much on Ford. He isn't in the series a bunch and I haven't been able to get my hands on the book of bill yet, even then I don't know how much new stuff we learn about Ford other than the confirmation of his indistinct and ambiguous relationship with Bill. (I was right they so fucked). But I will try as hard as I can to sympathise with Fords side of things (I was one a fan of Ford before I started digging into Stans lore more).

-

In Fords perspective, Stan intentionally ruined his project to keep him in Jersey to finish their boat and treasure hunt. He doesn't believe Stan when he says that it was an accident because it matches up too well. Stan gets kicked out that night, Stan asks for Ford to help, but Stan had always been the stronger one. He would be fine. So he pulls the curtain closed. He goes to a different college than what he wanted to but still earns his degrees and even is able to get his hands on grants that most scientists would kill for. Its enough to build a house and keep him fed and well off for YEARS without a second job and even after all of that he still has enough for his gadgets (not to mention his giant underground lab that must've cost a fortune to build). He makes a friend and they work together trying to learn more about the anomalies. He hits a wall.

He can't find out any more that he already knows. So he summons a demon that he knows is OP as Fuck and can kill him. But the triangle called him smart and is telling him new things. So he listens. He doesn't question what he's building a portal to. He just makes it. Only when his friend gets irreversibly traumatized by what lies on the other side he begins to question, but its too late- he already fucked the triangle and the portal is finished. So he shuts it down and begs for help from the only person he knows would help- Stan. Sure they didn't part on good terms but Stan had always looked out for him.

When Stan arrives he's paranoid, Bill could be anywhere. Bill wants to be on earth. Bill will destroy everything. He shows Stan the portal and hands him the last of his journals he needs to hide. He tells him to sail far away, to keep him and his research safe. Stan is angry with him. Still? After all these years? He hardly remembers that part of the night. He remembered the morning more for obvious reasons. Stan is yelling at him, and for what? That was years ago and the fate of the world is much more important that a family spat.

Stanley takes out a lighter and pulls it to his journal. All of his research could be gone in an instant. Years of work all in a blaze. What if something happened and he needed that information? What then? So they fight and Stanley gets hurt by the hot brand on the side of the metal work table. All of his anger drains in an instant. He didn't mean to hurt Stan. He just- he didn't want all he had left to be destroyed and got angry (parallels, huh). Stan hits him. He's floating. He's going to- he going to go through the portal. He panics and throws the book back mid air 'Stanley do something'. And he goes through.

He spends years in space. We aren't told how it goes explicitly but he gets better at fighting, a lot better so we can assume there was a lot of that. But he remains the same person if a little tougher, there are no major scars or personality changes. So we can assume he is relatively (I use this very loosely) unscarred by this time.

When he's brought back he's still scared, if that's what is on the other side of the portal, what could happen of that came to earth? Stanley took a huge risk. He risked everything for what? Him to come back? That isn't worth it. Stan doesn't understand the risk he took opening that portal on purpose. He fights, he shuts down the portal, he disassembles the portal and catches the rift. Every precaution is taken. Stan doesn't understand what is happening, he doesn't understand the danger they're all in. And he wants to be thanked for it? For putting everyone at risk? Why the hell would he do that.

During weirdmageddon he prepares the circle, everyone is compliant but Stanley. Stanley is being childish. Asking for a thank you of all thing while the world is ending. But he swallows his pride, he is right but that doesn't matter now, not when the world is at stake. 'Fine, Thank you,' he mumbles and they grab hands. He hears Stanley spit out a 'see, between him and me I'm not always the bad twin.' And he had already lost so much today, he falls into an old habit 'between me and him, grammar Stanley.' Then there are hand on his throat, Stanley is shouting at him. He's ruining everything. This was childish! It was one comment! Can he not act like an adult for once in his life?

Bill arrives, their locked up, and Stanley crumples. Blaming himself. Ford says down next to him. He was the idiot who made a deal with Bill in the first place. Its not all Stanley's fault. They pass a flask between them. They toss around last second ideas. None of it would work. And then 'what I he went into my mind, its not good for anything' he laughs, it would never work. 'Its not your mind he wants' he sees something flicker in Stans eyes. An he suggests something, a new scam, a new way to cheat the system. Might as well try it.

It works. He had to erase stans mind but it works. After everything. After all of it. Stan is a hero and he doesn't even know it. They walk back to the trashed shack with tears in their eyes. Mabel is desperately trying everything she can, Dipper is dead silent, Soos is on the verge of a breakdown. He just feels resigned, he's lost a friend to the memory gun before and he's lost Stan before. Maybe he can get through this too.

Stan remembers. Stan remembers and he's back to how it was before, Ford is looking now, he sees the way Stan is clearly posturing for the kids, for everyone really. How had he not noticed before? The way Stanley was speaking and acting, it was kind of like their dad. Tough and stern and impossible to impress. But Stan was that at a level that wasn't suffocating. He was so different from the Stan from their highschool days, and he hadn't even noticed the change until now. It was disturbing how much was different from before that he hadn't even seen because of being in his lab. It felt weird not knowing this Stan. So he made up something on the fly, anomalies in the ocean he said, the Stan o' war version two he offered. The disbelief in Sans voice when he asked if he was actually asking this was saddening.

---+---

Anyways, my real reason for preferring Stan over Ford is this: Stan had a more fleshed out character, he had arcs and he didn't even need a redemption arc. We just needed to know more to see why he was acting the way he did. He isn't a bad person. He's just a person. Yeah he breaks the law but he is a kind guy. He has so many layers and he's much much more that was originally let on. While Ford was shown much less on screen, from what I did see I could tell that he thought he was better than Stan. He puts him down constantly and can't bother to build relationships by reaching out first. Dipper was friends with Ford because Dipper had to reach out again and again. Stan tried reaching out the olive branch to Ford but when it didn't work and he was 'betrayed' twice and insulted a lot. Ford didn't even try to fix this when it is clearly his responsibility to do so. If we had more time after the series showing character growth over time from Ford I might think different but alas.

[ndpreservation]

Well-Meaning Interventions

Here are some frequently encountered DIY repairs that, while well-meaning, are, alas, misguided interventions that exacerbate damage and some alternative approaches that better promote ongoing usability.

While scotch tape is great for wrapping presents and many other tasks, when used on book pages and documents it typically creates problems. The adhesives in clear, pressure-sensitive adhesive tape tend to degrade and discolor over time, resulting in significant damage to the paper. A clear example of degraded tape damage is this 1862 letter from Confederate soldier M.A. Harvey to his wife, “My Dear Eva”.

While this letter would have been relatively straightforward to mend with kozo paper and paste, the tape caused permanent damage, and days of work were required to stabilize the letter so that it could be mended appropriately.

When the boards of a beloved volume become detached, simply applying duct tape to reattach them might seem like a swell solution.

Though duct tape can temporarily reattach book covers, it tends to create significant damage and shorten the book’s lifespan. Similarly, where the spine of a book has become loose or detached, at first glance it might seem that adhering a loose spine covering directly to its text block would be a simple fix.

However, the spines of most modern books are not actually glued to the spine of the text by functional design. Adhering the spine covering directly alters the book’s mechanical structure and impedes its functioning, resulting in stress points that create further damage as the book is used. 

In order to retain loose book covers or spines, consider tying the book with cotton twill tape, positioning the knot along the head, tail, or fore-edge of the book.

Even better, alkaline book boxes from a preservation supply vendor offer protection from further damage or loss while helping to moderate acidic degradation processes. The repair of books that one wishes to remain functional over time is best left to trained conservators or technicians. For further preservation resources, preservation supply vendors, and information on locating a conservator, see the Hesburgh Libraries Preserving Private Collections guide.

Applying leather dressings such as leather conditioner, neatsfoot oil, or shoe polish to leather books hampers their preservation. While one may enjoy the appearance of polished leather spines in a bookcase, in the short term, leather dressings may darken leather and over time tend to further dry out the skin as well as cause stickiness and/or significant discoloration to the leather, known as leather bloom. 

If a leather-bound book is exhibiting signs of leather decay such as red rot (crumbling leather that creates a dusty mess that can transfer to the book pages during use), consider ordering an archival alkaline box for the book or consulting a conservator for further advice on preservation and treatment options. 

Using books as a place to “preserve” newspaper clippings, flowers, etc.

Placing newspaper clippings or other items inside the protective pages of a book might seem like an ideal place to keep the item flat and secure. However, most newspapers are printed on poor-quality paper that quickly becomes highly acidic, and over time this acid will migrate into the pages of the book, chemically degrading and visually staining them. A more effective place to store treasured clippings is within alkaline folders that offer both chemical and physical protection.

[plor-bindery]

Bound: Under Giant Mountains by wolfpants

The delightful, evocative, and thoughtful Under Giant Mountains by @wolfpants is up next in my tour of wolf’s fic I bound. This landscape of this fic is soaring: mountains and dragons and wilderness. But at the same time, its subject matter is as small and carefully contained as Harry's postwar pain. This is a Harry who is struggling, and struggling to even admit he's struggling. At the risk of spoiling anything, the way wolf writes Harry's breakdown and surrender is so, so soft and sweet and real. I love a Harry who confronts any danger head-on except the danger of what's going on inside him.

(Fun fact: this fic was posted while I was in the midst of writing Polar Night/Midnight Sun and I was like OH GOOD WOLF HAS DONE THE DRACO IN NORWAY THING AND DONE IT BETTER THAN I COULD, I CAN STOP WRITING NOW but of course, I didn't stop; I let wolf's words inspire me onwards, and this is another reason why I love fandom: the overlapping of writerly worlds, the echoes and resonances we experience as creators and fans.)

For this bind, I chose a relatively simple aesthetic, but couldn't resist inserting little tiny dragons as scene breaks.

More process and materials talk under the cut.

Materials: This was my first go at making bookcloth! I had purchased a little remainder scrap of forest green cotton at the fabric store and only noticed after ironing it out and laminating it to the tissue that there were stripes of sun damage on the creases of the cloth, sigh. I had to start over. I used mulberry tissue but some of the fibres are palpable through the cloth, which I am not wild about. Still -- homemade bookcloth! Fun!

Text block is printed on 24 lb cream letter cut down to a quarto bind, and is actually the first bind I did where my grain direction was correct. (I know, I know...) Sewn on two linen tapes with waxed linen thread.

Endbands (which I neglected to photograph, apparently) are machine made.

End papers are just scrapbook paper, nothing special.

The decoration is gold HTV. Hoo boy. More on that shortly.

Process: My first quarto bind! First bookcloth making! First bind with the grain direction correct! So many firsts!

That being said, there was nothing particularly special about this bind's process. My biggest struggle (which is visible) was the gold HTV. I think I've since cracked the code more on how to apply larger bits of HTV without making marks in it (short version: higher heat, less pressure, more patience) but I was still struggling here, as you can see. That being said, I do love the sort of hobbity vibe of the rune-ish font and the dragon/mountain.

I made myself a copy of this as a test first, and the HTV is even more messed up on that. :| Also, I realized when reading it afterwards, I fucked up the page order in one signature. This is fixed (god, I hope it's fixed) in wolf's copy.

Signature length is a tricky thing with case binding/sewn binding in general. I wound up needing a bunch of blank pages at the back of the typeset so I did something I have since done in other binds: added a "selected praise for" section where I copy/pasted AO3 comments into the text block like literary reviews. I love this so much: the juxtaposition of the formal literary trope with the squee and all-caps and hype of fandom commenters. I am not the first to do this, of course, but you'll see it appear again in future binds from me for sure. (And of course I put my own comment first. OF COURSE I did. Binder's privilege!)

[mustainegf]

→ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐 —➤ 𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑮𝑬𝑻 𝑴𝑬 𝑵𝑶𝑻

At last, the thick forest thinned, and a small clearing showed up ahead in which sat a small camp, a fairly strong looking tent with a makeshift fire pit. A wreath of smoke rose lazily upwards from the embers to greet us.

James slid off the horse first, then turned and helped me down. The strong hands that had always been so gentle in their touch braced against my weakness now, helping me to stand firmly so that I didn't fall from exhaustion. "Here we are," he said in a soft voice. "Ain’t much, but it's warm.”

I nodded and swept my eyes over the camp. My first nervous feeling gave way to a relatively simple setup. It was promising to say the least. He led across the fire on a log and sat beside me. "Let's get you warmed up," he said, deep voiced and with clear concern.

Almost the instant I seated, the warmth of the flames crept into my flesh. James bustled about the camp, feeding the fire until at last it was large enough to free his attention for me. He knelt before me, his eyes scanning my face, his brow furrowed in worry.

"You've got a nasty gash on your head," he said gently. "I'm going to clean it up for you, okay?"

Confused, I reached up to touch my forehead, and my fingers brushed against sticky, warm blood. I flinched at the unexpected sensation. I hadn't even realized that I'd cut myself when I fell. "I didn't even Know…" I murmured. I felt a little dazed.

"That’s alright, dear," James said. "But we need to get it cleaned up."

He hobbled to a little pot he had put on the fire with some water in it. It was warming up, so he got out a clean cloth from among his supplies. His movements were very homely, eased, so that alone spoke of reason to trust him. With every move he made, that sense of safety I had started to grow stronger.

When the water was warm enough, James soaked a bit of cloth, wringing out the excess. He came back around to my side and knelt, his eyes catching mine with a slight, reassuring look. "This should sting a little, but I'll be as gentle as I can."

I nodded, bracing myself. He laid the warm, wet cloth on me, and I winced at the initial sting, sucking in a breath through my teeth. But true to his word, James was very gentle. Then he cleaned the blood off my face, his weathered features tensed in his concentration.

Though it hurt, there was something reassuring in the way he looked after me. His hands were firm, yet capable, but within them was something that told me I was safe.

"You're doing great, hun," James murmured, his voice like some kind of soothing balm. "Just a little more and I'll have you all cleaned up.” Something about how gentle he was stirred an unknown feeling in my stomach.

I let my eyelids shut, letting myself be sunken into the moment. Something within the warmth of the fire, something in James's tender care, brought me a safety I’d never quite known before. At least none that I could remember.

"There," James said a while later, he pulled back and surveyed his work. "That should do it. I'll need to keep an eye on it, but you'll be alright."

I pried my eyes open and managed a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Sheriff."

He smiled back, crinkling the corners around his eyes, and said, "Don’t call me that, honey. Just call me James." I gave a soft nod, eyes still fixed on his face, his loving smile.

By now the warmth of the fire had reached my core, but the cold air still nipped at my exposed skin. Not quite involuntarily, I shivered and wrapped my arms around me to stay warm. James noticed immediately, stood up, and shrugged off his heavy coat. Large, well worn, and speaking of countlessly harsh years within the wilderness.

"Here, take this," he said, draping the coat over my shoulders. Its weight was comforting; the warmth it brought immediate.

I looked up at him, smiling a little nervously. "Thank you… James," I murmured, pulling the coat closer to me. His scent was on this fabric, the smell of leather, woodsmoke, safety, security, all the things James had represented to mein this short time.

Holding my gaze with his own, James returned to his place beside the fire. "How you feel now?" he asked softly.

"Better," I nodded, feeling the warmth from the heavy coat swallow me. I turned slightly toward the horse, who was tethered to a nearby tree, grazing on some dead, brown grass that poked up from beneath the snow.

The shiny mane, the soft eyes, everything about the creature seemed to fascinate me. "What's your horse's name?" I asked, feeling comfortable enough to ask now.

James followed my gaze and smiled. "That's Maverick," he said. "He's been with me for years. He’s my buddy, been through a lot, him and I."

I nodded, watching as Maverick flicked his tail and snorted softly. "Beautiful," I said, my voice soft in breathy admiration. "I’ve always loved horses..."

James's smile lengthened. "Maverick’s a good one. He'll get us through whatever."

I felt the layer of exhaustion upon me, and each breath was a fight against the tiredness yanking on the rim of my energy. At this moment, with the soft crackle of the fire, I found myself slumping into James,my face soon cuddled into his shoulder. His chest rose and fell in calm breathing, with his arm, he pulled me closer, making sure I was steady on the log.

Feeling me grow tired, James said, softening his tone, if it could even get any softer, "You're tired, my dear. Let's get you to the tent so you can lie down properly."

I nodded, too tired to quibble. Letting him haul me onto my feet, his arm stayed steady around me as he steered me toward the tent. I was insulated from the outside world, chilled and dark.

James opened the flap and helped me inside, his movements careful and considerate. "There you go, sweetheart. Let's get you settled in."

His use of that name sent a warm flutter through me. He guided me to a makeshift sleeping bag laid out on the tent floor, and I sank down into it, feeling the soft fabric envelop me.

James squatted beside me, trying to get me comfortable. He tucked the flaps in about me so I was warm and snug. "There ya go."

I looked up to him then with heavy eyes. "Thank you, James. You've been so kind.”

His eyes warmed, and he smiled. "You're welcome, my dear. You just rest now. There are things to discuss in the morning."

His hand reached and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from my face. "Goodnight"

"Goodnight," I murmured, my voice barely more than a whisper. The pendulum of exhaustion finally won, swaying me off to the comfortable clutches of sleep.

With him watching over me, I let myself believe that somehow everything would be all right.

I remember only the last thing: the soft rustling of the flap of the tent, as James got out into the evening, leaving me to rest in the warm, safe tent. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I slept peacefully.

I woke up to the sound of shuffling close by. Outside the tent, the sky was black as ink, stars were visible, and dim. I lay there for a brief moment, disoriented, with the remnants of sleep still trying to pull me back in. Then I saw the dark silhouette of James moving quietly within the tent.

"James?" I whispered, the softness barely audible in the quiet of the night.

He half turned in my direction, sort of careful, not exactly hurrying. "Sorry to wake you," he whispered, a little low. "S’okay honey just go back to sleep. I'm just turning in for the night."

I nodded tiredly, staying awake with difficulty. "It’s okay…" I mumbled.

James knelt beside me. The struggling fire outside, the embers now dying, dimly lit his older features. "You should go back to sleep. You need your rest," he said, soft and encouraging. "In the morning, I want to talk to you about something important."

Hearing his words, I became interested, but I just didn't have the will to form a coherent response. I nodded again and heaved a soft sigh. "Okay" I managed to say, as sleep pulled me once more.

James smiled reassuringly and settled down beside me, wrapping himself in his blanket. I knew I would be able to sleep well with James by my side.

I woke to the light call of birds, bringing with them the new morning. The bright light had invaded the tent, lighting the air. I blinked off the remnants of sleep and turned to see James lying beside me, his breathing slow in the quiet morning.

It must have been very early indeed, as James was still sleeping. I felt something as I gazed at him. His face appeared to be peaceful, no furrows, and creased with the light of dawn. There was something handsome in the lines creased into his face by countless years of fighting against life.

His brow was smooth, his blonde lashes lying gently against his skin, and a few stray whiskers from his white mustache for whatever reason, made me smile.

I couldn't help edging in a bit closer to him and my heart did a slight thump at the proximity. I was inches away now, close enough to feel the warmth of his exhale.

I reached out with a gentle smile and laid my hand against his cheek, stroking it lightly. His skin was rough and cool to the touch, quite the opposite in texture compared to my smooth fingertips.

His cheek was cold. I felt shame. I glanced down to notice that I was still wrapped up in his thick, warm jacket. He had offered to lend it to me without hesitation, putting my comfort before his own. This man had given me so much.

Slowly, I wriggled out of the coat and didn't do anything to awaken him. The morning air was sharp, so I shivered just slightly as I was freed from the warmth of the jacket. I spread it over James, covering him gently. He moved a bit but kept his eyes shut, still breathing deeply.

"Thank you," I whispered softly, my voice hardly heard even by myself. If he couldn't hear me, I hoped that my actions showed him how grateful I was.

I just lay, my hand still lightly against James' cheek. His features were raw and creased, lines and wrinkles telling of a life well, and strongly lived. There was softness, too... hidden in the smooth curve of his lips as they slightly parted in sleep.

While he was several years older, I could not overlook the fact that I felt a bit of an attraction to him. But it went much beyond the physical, but rather his kindness to me, and the way he would care for me as if that was usual.

These no doubt fluttered my heart as I could not but help smiling softly, continuing to feel his skin texture and stray whiskers of his mustache under my fingers on his cheek.

I shook my head to rid it of the thoughts. It was too early, confusing, too wrong. Instead, I reached for what he might have meant to say. He had said something important before falling asleep, and I couldn't help but wonder what it was he wanted to talk to me about.

Had he found out something about my past? About what happened to me? Did he have a plan for what we would do now? As I stared upon his peaceful sleeping face, no matter what the conversation was going to be, I knew that I trusted him.

There was just so much I couldn't remember, so much that remained a mystery. And here I was, laying with this older man who saved me from the cold wilderness, feeling this inexplicable sense of connection.

The birds outside became more insistent in their chirping. James stirred a bit beside me, his brow furrowed just a little, then set flat again. I pulled my hand back, I didn’t want to wake him just yet. He had taken care of me, and I wanted him to take this earned rest.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @roseydoesypoesy @metallicaloverrr @behindanotherdoor — comment or dm to join the taglist!

[performativezippers]

Hello again!! :D i was wondering, what makes a story feel lifeless? i mean, not the plot but the text itself. My writing feels like a bunch of facts one after the other: the sky was blue, it smelled like cinnamon; This happened and then That happened, now they're doing This etc. Despite including sensory details and the protagonist's thoughts, it still feels monochromatic and devoid of personality :( and like? too quick?? in a bad way (not sure why). How can i change this?

Great question! I love this one! Here are three things that come to mind for me.

Based on what you've written, it seems like what you might be missing is emotionality--without the right emotion beats, it's no wonder its feeling lifeless to you. You've got the senses nailed -- the sky is blue (what they see), it smells like cinnamon (scent, evocative! curious: why does it smell like that, i wonder as the reader, that's good!). And you've got plot points coming one after the other, also good.

So maybe your paragraph looks like this (obviously I'm just making this up):

Jane followed Maura into the farmer's market. It was a hot day. The sky was bright blue and the air smelled like cinnamon. Maura took a long time looking at all of the vegetables. Jane bought a Red Sox onesie for Frankie's baby. Maura spent a lot of money, and Jane was ready to go long before Maura was.

Here are three things I'd do to make this seem more alive, more emotional, and take longer (if you want it to):

1. Vary the sentence length. This is a great an easy fix to writing that sounds wooden. Read it out loud. Notice the steady tempo of the sentences above; they're all relatively similar in length. Breaking that up can give a more unpredictable rhythm that makes the reader's breath catch in their chest. After you read the above paragraph out loud, read this one. Notice that none of the words have changed, only the punctuation (and things like "and"):

Jane followed Maura into the farmer's market on a hot day. The sky was bright blue, the air smelled like cinnamon. Maura took a long time looking at all of the vegetables, and Jane bought a Red Sox onesie for Frankie's baby. Maura spent a lot of money. Jane was ready to go long before Maura was.

That's a little more lively, a little more of an emphasis comes into "Maura spent a lot of money," and there's a bit of a dance to "the sky was bright blue, the air smelled like cinnamon" in a way there wasn't to the first version.

Okay, simple fix done. Now to the more complex ones.

2. Tie specific emotion and memory to each sensation. So it smells like cinnamon, so what? So the sky is blue, so what? What do those things mean for Jane? Why are we calling those out? What can we learn from/about Jane and the scene from her reactions to those things? Maybe now it looks like this (new/modified stuff in blue):

Jane followed Maura into the farmer's market. It wasn't until they were approaching the first fruit stand that Jane realized how long it had been since she'd been here. Jane was surprised to find that she missed it, missed watching Maura touch every single damn zucchini and then buy none of them. It was nice, actually. It was the hottest day of the summer so far; the sky was bright blue, and the air smelled like cinnamon. Maura took a long time looking at all of the vegetables, as always, and Jane wandered away in a fit of boredom, returning with a cheap Red Sox onesie for Frankie's baby that made Maura mutter something under her breath about synthetic fabrics and infant skin. Jane didn't bother not to smile. It felt like old times. Maura finally found some berries up to her standards and spent more money than even Jane expected her to, and Jane eventually had to drag her back to the car.

Okay, so that's very different, right? Thinking about each detail, each action, as something that's specific and makes Jane think of specific things, to compare and contrast to how it might have gone before. That's going to give you lots of life and emotionality. We learn, without you having to tell us, that Jane expected it to be boring, stilted, long, and not very hot outside. That tells us a lot about Jane. Plus, we learn that not only was nice and kind of emotional and hot and Maura spent so much money, but also how Jane feels about those things, those expectations she had gotten wrong. That tells us even more about Jane!

And then the final thing that comes to my mind right now is:

3. Connect what's happening to the broader plot or tension of this scene. Why are they at the farmer's market? What is Jane needing to happen, or hoping doesn't happen? Let's say Maura has dragged Jane out because Jane has been stuck inside the precinct for a week trying to find a clue that's evaded her on a tough case. The unsolved case is weighing on Jane, and Maura is a firm believer that fresh air and exercise will give Jane's brain the breath it needs to find the clue. Jane is very grumpy about it. So that's tension: Jane wants to be at work saving lives, and Maura has dragged her here, using Jane's love for Maura to manipulate her into coming to the market. So maybe now it looks like this (new/modified stuff in purple):

Jane reluctantly followed Maura into the farmer's market. It wasn't until they were approaching the first fruit stand that Jane realized how long it had been since she'd been here; Maura used to drag her here almost every weekend, but that was before Casey. Before everything with Maura's dad. Before their relationship was stretched taut like a rubber band and then very nearly snapped in two. Jane was surprised to find that she missed it, missed watching Maura touch every single damn zucchini and then buy none of them. It was nice, actually. It was the hottest day of the summer so far; the sky was bright blue, and the air smelled like cinnamon. Inside the precinct, at her desk, it was always dark and smelled like a gym locker. Maybe Maura was right, not that Jane would ever admit it to her. Seeing the sky, smelling the pastries and coffee and ripe peaches--maybe this was what Jane needed to crack the case. Maura took forever looking at all of the vegetables, as always, and Jane wandered away in a fit of boredom, returning with a cheap Red Sox onesie for Frankie's baby that made Maura mutter something under her breath about synthetic fabrics and infant skin. Jane didn't bother not to smile. It felt like old times, like maybe one day they'd get back to the banter and easy affection they'd used to have. Maura finally found some berries up to her standards and spent more money than even Jane expected her to, and Jane eventually had to drag her back to the car, because murder can only wait so long, after all. The sunshine and stone fruit and the hot, humid breezes of summer would all still be waiting for her once she'd solved this damn case.

So by (1) varying sentence length, (2) making things tied to specific memories and details, and comparing/contrasting with past experiences or current expectations, and (3) tying the entire situation into the broad tension of the scene/chapter/fic, we've been able to add a lot of liveliness, character depth, emotionality, and slow down the pace so that we're not rushing from one thing to the next.

What do you think? What do you all do to add life to your scenes?

[stemmmm]

Close to a year and four rewrites later, I present to you...

Stem's Thoughts on the Game Design of Harvest Moon on SNES

I’m not going to lie, if you don’t like farming sims, you won’t like this one. At their core, every farming sim (at least in the rpg genre) is nearly identical, and that’s because of this game. In a way, I might dare to say that Harvest Moon for the SNES is the perfect farming sim because it has every one of the usual elements in their most simplified form and it just works straight from the get-go. It works so well in fact, that after this game came out in 1996, four more entries to the series were released before the year 2000.

If you are someone who does like farming sims, I can’t recommend this game enough. It’s simple and to the point, with a fast pace and enough random events and points of intrigue that the game kept me relatively engaged for my whole playthrough.

Also, by nature of this being the first game and therefore hard to cover concisely and by nature of taking so long to write this... it's long as hell! Enjoy! :) <3

I can’t say my appreciation of this game doesn’t come with a few caveats. I’ve intermittently played HM games all my life, starting with the GameBoy port (GB1) all the way to Pioneers of Olive Town, so while I don’t know exactly how the series has evolved, I’ve seen it at some of its earliest and at its latest. My vague childhood memories of GB1 (a game I didn’t own and didn’t play much of) were that it was pretty sparse and bland, so knowing that this original game was allegedly the same thing but with a little more content, I was expecting the bare minimum. I was prepared to never even be able to leave my farm, but the first thing the game did was shuttle me off to the nearby town and blocked the exit until I talked to everyone there. 

(Maps of the town, mountain, and farm via The Spriters Resource)

You learn everything you need to know about the game right here at the beginning; Firstly, that this town is small as all hell and has hardly anyone in it aside from the five girls you can marry and their immediate family members. The next thing you’ll learn is that there’s a fence on your farm, and you need to be taking care of that. Of the few repetitive lines of dialogue any given person in town has to share with you on any given day, a fair amount are devoted to reminding you to fix your fence, to make sure it’s in good repair. There was just a big storm so watch out! Remember to check it every day! Are you chopping enough wood? Because you’ll need it for that fence!

I’m being dramatic of course, you aren’t reminded about it that much, though the thin variation of dialogue means it comes up a lot. The emphasis on your fence does exist, and it isn’t for nothing: while it doesn’t matter as much if all you do is grow crops– if you keep animals, the game tells you that the ideal thing to do for yours and the animal’s happiness is to put the animals outside to graze. Animal feed bought from the livestock shop will keep them fed, but it's nothing compared to fresh grass grown on your farm. You can’t even buy animals without a certain amount of grass planted! And sure, you can cut the grass to store for later, but it’s at its best straight out of the ground. However, the way the game is programmed, the animals only eat when the day rolls over, so putting animals outside for the day and taking them in at night isn’t an option, and on top of that, there’s things that come out at night that can hurt your animals. This is where your fence comes in.

The Utility of Fences

At the entrance to your farm is a cluster of buildings: your house, a small lumber shed, a barn, coop, and silo, a tool shed, and an old, dried up well. Just barely surrounding all of these is a little wooden fence that looks more like a row of upright logs than anything else. Despite this farm having presumably been abandoned, the fence is in perfect repair. You’ll quickly discover that the fence as it is won’t work out; there’s hardly space to plant anything within it, and with the well dried up, you’re forced to hop it to get to a water source to fill up your watering can. It’s pretty clear that you’ll need to expand your fence, and it’s easy to do with all of the tree stumps littering the massive field that it’s blocking off. 

On top of needing to expand the range of your fence, the individual planks eventually will rot away and leave useless stumps. They show up more frequently after rain or a large storm. The posts don’t rot away completely so they have to be manually removed, but replacing them is as simple as smashing the old post with a hammer or ax and popping a new post in its place. It becomes a very natural part of your daily routine to run a lap around the farm’s perimeter before you go to bed to make sure everything looks safe and secure. It’s a good way to ensure your animals are put away and debris is cleared out, too! It slotted very nicely into my daily schedule until a certain point.

With how much time you have to spend hopping over the logs to get to the rest of the area too large to fence in, you might be tempted to leave one out of place for easier traversal. When night comes, it’s clear why that would be a mistake. Sometimes when you go to bed, you’ll hear your dog barking. It’s a small detail, one that took me a long time to notice because I didn’t always play with the sound on. There are wild dogs that prowl around the wilderness surrounding your farm, and only at night do they dare to come close. Your dog, if left outside, isn't able to do anything other than warn you of their presence if they show up. There’s nothing to notice during the daytime if it happens, unless you happened to leave one of your animals outside. There was one night that I left my chickens outside, having thought my fence was in perfect order and repair. I went to bed and heard the dog barking, followed by a horrible crunch. When I went out in the morning, I saw where my chicken had been before, it had been replaced by a pile of feathers. On the north side of my farm was a rotted fence post I’d failed to fix. 

The Reality of Fences

After losing my chicken, a cluster of pixels on my screen it may have been, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving my animals outside. I didn’t want to take a risk again, the sound and sight of feathers was upsetting enough. On a more logical note, the chickens didn’t even lay eggs if left outside so there was no value in it. Cows were a pain to put back inside the barn too, because of some silliness with the game’s collision. As much of a disappointment as it was to not have my animals roam around, it was just easier. At the time, I was focusing on upgrading my house anyways, so I didn’t have time to take care of my animals outside where time would pass when I could use that time gathering wood, and everything I had was being saved up for the house so I didn’t have any extra materials to repair my fence with. My fence was all rotting away. Because it was inconvenient for getting to my crops, I started smashing all the old posts as they went, too. That’s when I noticed something: the wild dog wasn’t coming anymore.

I didn’t pay much attention to it until I was looking up a completely different mechanic and discovered a forum explaining how the fences were broken. Rotted posts attracted the wild dog, they said. It didn’t matter if you had gaps in your fence, or even a fence at all–in fact no fence was the best kind to have because the mere existence of posts that could rot was a liability. 

I was hesitant at first to test this concept, after all there wasn’t much I could gain from it. My chickens wouldn’t lay outside, and my cows would be too challenging to get back in if the forecast called for rain. The thing that got me to finally try it was when I was trying to hatch more chickens. My coop felt like a nightmare to navigate due to its current population. I wanted less animals inside that I had to feed, so I threw a couple chicks outside–they weren’t laying yet anyways. Lo and behold, the dog didn’t come. More days passed and more animals were left outside, and it never came. My fence had rotted until there was nothing left at all. No dogs could ever come to my farm again. And I realized that the game’s own insistence on its mechanics was all a lie.

How You’re Told To Play - How The Game Lies

Of course, my animals didn’t stay outside. For a minute it was fun having a crowd of cows milling about while I tended to my crops, but letting them wander free and uninhibited made it impossible to find and milk all of them without any trouble, and there were the rainy days to watch out for. After the novelty wore off, they went back inside and stayed there. The thing is, that didn’t make a single bit of difference in how much they liked me compared to how they were living in the barn. On top of that, they didn’t seem to care whether I was feeding them grass or store-bought food either, though I mostly stuck to the grasses since they were cheaper and easier to get. Nothing about how I was told to care for animals really mattered past feeding them every day, petting it and maybe brushing it, if it was a cow.

It gets worse. The most basic aspect of the game is the fact that time passes. The story takes place over 2 and a half years, running through each day until the end, and these days last from 6AM to 6PM according to the game’s own internal time setting. After 6PM, all of the shops aside from the bar will close and you lose the ability to sell anything as you’re told it would rot in the shipping bin overnight, so there’s nothing to do but sleep until the next day. Issue with this is that when the days stop at 6PM… they just stop. Time doesn’t flow anymore. The game doesn’t give you any kind of clock to know the exact time it is until after you’ve upgraded your house, so all you have to go by before that is the color of the environment and whether or not your character has played an animation to eat something (you’re automatically fed when you wake up, at noon, and at night). I discovered this because I was curious if I could actually see the wild dog by staying out, and left the game running for probably 20 minutes in real life only for nothing to happen. Because of the time freeze, the time after 6PM actually becomes really valuable for farm logistics. You can’t sell anything, no, but you can pull up all the weeds on the farm, water your crops, fix your fences, feed and care for animals if you hadn’t already, and harvest wood for fences and house upgrades which would have taken a lot of valuable time to get during shipping-hours. The only thing that gets in the way of doing all that is you running out of energy.

Your energy is what allows you to use your farming equipment like your ax or watering can. Running out of it doesn’t mean you fall unconscious or anything, but your character will play an animation of them stumbling over and will fail to use any tools. The most obvious fix to this is to simply go to bed, as sleeping gives you a full recharge. You can also, however, recharge it by going to the hot spring on the mountain, or by eating food bought at the restaurant in town or foraged for in the forest. You can’t tell easily how much is refilled, as there’s no visual indicator like a health bar, but you’re able to eat more than once, and jumping into the hot spring seems to count whether you did it or not more than how much time you spend in there, so you can hop in and out a couple of times and call it good. 

Individually, time freezing at 6PM and energy being endlessly replenishable aren’t bad things. Even together, they’re not the worst. Having free time to focus on profitless chores is nice, and I think it’s important to be able to replenish your energy in case you have a limited amount of time to do things like for example, cut all of your grass before winter kills it. What makes an exploit out of these is the fact that the resources in the forest will never run out. Every time you re-enter the forest, all forage items and tree stumps are respawned. The infinite amount of forage makes for infinite energy refills, and could also make for an incredible money exploit if you didn’t have a very limited amount of time to ship things. You don’t have a limited amount of time to cut up tree stumps though. If you wanted to, you could run up to the forest after 6PM, chop every stump, then simply reload the area, and everything’s back. You can get all of the wood you would ever need to fully upgrade your house in one night. It’s a bit of a grind to do all at once, but it’s a grind you’d be doing over time anyways. It’s not the worst exploit in the world, since you still need money to pay for the house upgrade, but arguably because of how you have to focus your energy elsewhere for most of the game, the wood is the harder thing to get. Additionally, when the game has very little to do in both fall and winter due to the lack of crops, this exploit takes away just about any reason to play those two seasons other than to take care of animals. It’s an optional exploit of course–as all exploits are–but once you learn about it, it’s hard to resist the desire to get the grind out of the way all at once and mess up the pacing of the game.

The Charm of the Game

Learning that the fences were completely broken as a mechanic was a huge disappointment for me. From the moment I got a grasp on how the game was supposed to work, I wanted to eventually surround my whole field with fencing and keep my animals outside so I would have some life on my farm while I worked. I didn’t just want this, I was excited for it! This was something I’d never done in a farming sim that didn’t already manage putting animals in and out for you like Stardew Valley or newer Story of Seasons games do. My routine is always the same: I go into the barn and coop to tend to each of my animals, I take care of my crops outside, then run straight to town to talk to everyone, and go to bed. The change in routine that would come from taking care of the animals outside and patrolling the fence every night felt fresh to me. It made me feel that even though this was the first game of its kind, it was different and required new things of me. But in the end, I played it exactly the same.

Harvest Moon is still very different from all of the games that followed it, though. In many ways, it’s because it has less “stuff” in it– both in terms of items and things you have to do. But I wouldn’t say that it feels incomplete. Harvest Moon runs over the course of 2 and a half years before your work is evaluated. Until that happens, you have the ability to farm four different crops, you can raise both cows and chickens, you can upgrade your house to have more features, upgrade your working tools, build relationships with the townspeople to a small extent, go to town festivals that happen each year, and you can get married to one of the five girls living in town with whom you can have up to two children. Everything that you would come to expect as a fan of games like this is already here from the very first iteration. The most notable lack this game has, and one that seems to be completely unique to this game, is that there aren’t any crops in the fall or winter, which means that unless you have animals, there’s a whole half of the year that you don’t have anything to do. The game is clearly aware of this though, because in an average playthrough, this is where you’ll start to run into the story events.

There isn’t much of an overarching story in the game, past the general concept that you’ve run away from home to work on an abandoned farm. The conclusion rests on how good of a job you actually do. In between those two points are smaller events, usually tied to when you get tool upgrades or special ones for each of the romantic interests. The first event you’re likely to run into happens on the very last day of summer, where one of the woodsmen comes to your house in the morning to ask if you’re okay because he heard a huge crash at night and you should check your farm. What I found was that a tree in my field had fallen over, and its remaining stump had a big empty hole in it. When I inspected the stump, I was suddenly underground in a cave filled with loud and industrious music, and I was faced with two, little green people–Harvest Sprites, though I don’t know if they’re called that yet here. One asked me if my scythe worked well, and when I said yes, told me that they had made it and that I should check my shed tomorrow for a better one. Other tool upgrades are obtained in similar fashion; one comes from feeding a starving sprite a mushroom and another comes from another hole in the farm opening up to reveal another part of the cave system that has a couple of hints on how to unlock other things. 

The events for romantic interests happen at less scripted times, as they’re tied to how strong your relationship is with each girl. Each girl only has one event, and it only triggers when your relationship is high enough that you would ask her to marry you. The events usually take up a whole day, and don’t necessarily add much to each character. Ellen’s revolves around how she’s no good at keeping pets– something established on your second day at the farm when you get your dog from her, Eve’s hammers in her fraught relationship with her grandpa, and Ann’s is about losing the chicken weathervane, or “weathercock” which sits on the roof of her workshop and goes missing every time there’s a storm. Conversely, Nina and Maria’s scenes bring up entirely new events that bring up a number of questions while providing no answers. Nina disappears while looking for a medicinal plant because her mother is apparently sick, and Maria vanishes for days until you find her hiding away with the woodsmen for some reason. All of these events, whether they share new information or not, manage to add some greatly appreciated depth to each character by giving them more room to speak and be sincere than their short and repetitive day-to-day dialogues do.

The dialogue in this game is simple, to the point, and sparse– probably because there was only so much memory that could be reserved for approximately 15 people who all have multiple lines of dialogue, and only so much money to pay someone to write more. There is simple dialogue that doesn’t tell you much more than “hello, how are you” would, more dialogue that I’d label as tutorial text, and a few lines that I truthfully couldn’t understand well because of the sub-par translation this game received for english. The dialogue that exists to inform the world really manages to create a unique vibe though. Nina’s dialogue, almost always about plants, goes into forays about how they’re creatures with wills to live, too. Ellen’s uncle who runs the ranch shop tells you that it’s much better to feed your animals fresh grass if you try to buy any from his store, and if you decline to purchase he laughs as if he’s won something. There’s even dialogue referencing the silent player! Multiple lines exist to comment on him not paying attention, and inspection prompts have people telling you not to touch something rather than being an item description. It was the last thing I expected, to get the same level of personality out of the main character as I did from each of the girls, albeit very subtly. He went from a kind of nothing, self-insert into being what I perceive to be a hyperactive boy, akin to a border collie who was let out into a field of sheep for the first time–the exact kind of person crazy enough to take on an abandoned farm and succeed.

It’s these short little character details that bring life into the game. Each day, you’ll really only see one line of dialogue from each character, be it new or old, with that dialogue usually only changing if there’s a change in season or festival coming up. The repetitive, pretty mindless routine of the game can turn into a sort of meditation if you let it, where you spend your time working thinking about the folks in town and what they had to say to you the previous day. The developers took this concept in stride and gave the side characters loads of dialogue about life, about God and religion, and about… very basic morals, but morals nonetheless. It’s a children’s game after all. When you take the thoughts, questions and prompts the characters give you back to the farm to do your long and tedious routine, you have to ask yourself– what are you working so hard for? For the feeling of accomplishment? Recognition from your peers? For the sake of some higher power, if you worship one? For me personally, it was to write this essay, but it was also for a good grade on the high score screen at the end, so to be honest a lot of this stuff was lost on me until just now when I was reviewing the game to get screenshots.

Setting The Standard - Why You Should Play HM SNES

You may read all of this and still think, well, it doesn’t sound like the game has much in it. And you would be right, it’s a very small game, but it’s also extremely quick. On average, my days only lasted about three minutes of real life time. Everything flew by, and I think I finished the game in 20 hours or less. I barely got a chance to notice that there wasn’t much going on because every second of my day was spent busy doing something, and when I wasn’t busy, the break was appreciated. I didn’t start to run out of things to do until I was finished with the second year, and when I looked up what I needed to do to get a decent ending, I was already most of the way there. It was easy to push through those last two seasons to get to the end, and it was so, so worth it. 

As I mentioned earlier, the game ends with a high score screen, meaning it has to track all of your accomplishments. These include, but are not limited to: the number of things you ship, number of each crop you grow, number of animals you have and how much they like you, how upgraded your house is, who you married, how much all of the girls in town like you if you didn't get married, how many kids you have (which basically equates to how long you were married), your happiness score (increased by going to festivals and decreased by having animals die), and how many times you’ve pet your dog. In addition to these being tallied up and presented to you, you get special cutscenes not just for each one of these accomplishments, but additional ones for if you managed to do even better! I got a cutscene for having a cow, followed by one for having lots of cows, followed by yet another for having cows that loved me! Watching them play one after the other felt like taking a victory lap even without getting the best possible result. Seeing all of my numbers come up at the end made me want to try again to actually get those other cutscenes, not to get to see them, they’re so easy to find on Youtube, but because the game made it feel like an accomplishment! If I weren’t following this game up by immediately playing its GameBoy port, I absolutely would have started a new file right away. I’ve been playing the Harvest Moon series since I was a little kid and this was the first time I’d actually managed to beat one of these games. I struggle to think the finale of any game following this will feel as good as this one did.

I started writing this whole thing about the fences because it was an easy and silly entry point to get into my core issue with the game, and so I could have an opportunity to dig into game mechanics and the way the knowledge you have of them will completely alter your playstyle, because that’s all fun and interesting for me to talk about. Another reason why I focused on that was because it was near impossible for me to pick any kind of focus point when talking about this game. After all, I’m trying to study a whole series of games that spans multiple decades, and this is not only the first game in that series, but a game that created the whole genre of farming sims and defined that genre so thoroughly that you can see its DNA in every single game that followed.

 I didn’t expect much to come out of my experience with this game. My expectations for it before I even picked it up were that it was going to be basically featureless, as informed by my experience with one of the first games I ever played as a child, Harvest Moon GB, which I will get into next. This game was not that at all. I think that everything it did manage to get working right came together just about perfectly. Harvest Moon is exactly what it wanted to be, and where it wasn’t, it lied about how it worked to try and make you play the correct way anyways. When I believed that lie, my time playing was even more enjoyable. Maybe if farming worked just a little bit more like how you’re told it’s supposed to, and if there was just a little bit more story, those would cover the things I felt wanting for the most. But maybe a little flexibility and ambiguity is a good thing. Maybe actually maintaining a fence is just too hard, and maybe if the girls were more fleshed out, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy filling in their gaps in my head.

There are many more things I could say and wanted to say about this game, but this has grown far too long already so I'm cutting myself off here. I'm sure my later entries aren't going to get near this length. If you managed to get to this point, thank you so much for reading!