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historia-vitae-magistras · 1 year ago

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I'm curious on your take on the Ratman and ratlings' relationship with animals. Do you think they'd keep any and risk becoming attached? I feel this would outwardly effect Jack the most considering his love for all the weird shit they got in Australia but I think Arthur is also the type to be really hurt by the loss of a pet. But in a dad way. Like he'll begrudgingly take in the fucking cat one of his kids brings to his home out of the rain and the animal ends up being his partner in crime. He's stone-faced when it passes away and it takes a while for the pain to subside but he doesn't let it show for even a second. I don't imagine Matthew could handle the mental load of losing a beloved pet. Alfred is too fucking busy to properly care for one. Zee probably has a few birds whose babies she cares for for generations maybe a kiwi lol

TW for pet death

Alfred has had horses his entire life. He's got a ranch in his name somewhere where the descendants of the pair of horses, Liberty and Justice, that Matt gave him during the Civil War live. Justice got shot out from under him in 1864 but he went full Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie, dropped dead of idk, the shits and when he was feeling better Liberty was getting her hump on with a local stallion so he just made a ranch there and their descendants still fuck amongst the grasses or however the prairies work. Liberty is immortal because fuck I already killed one horse this post and I'm already emotional.

Matt... He just kept trying. Nations have semi immortal pets. All he wanted was a goddamn friend. François gave him a lap dog when he was little. It died in its first Canadian winter as was often the fate of anything smaller than a terrier. He tried a newfie. It drowned. Finally, around the 1780s he had a little black and white working dog he named Sel et Poivre who lasted a decade. But eventually he got ripped up by a wolverine and Matt was damned to eternal loneliness until Arthur had mercy on him and got attached enough to the wee fat house lion he named Flufferton he didn't die. Matt's best friend for awhile and favourite heat source at his father's. Cue 1980 with Canada finally getting it's full independence and Jan dropping him like a hot rock and Alfred got him a Samoyed puppy in the aftermath. I've called this dog Kuma, Bud and Buckwheat before. The neighbor backs over him by accident! and Matt low-key has the worst mental breakdown of his life like he's 20 seconds from getting the axe and ending up in grippy sock jail. Then the pupper pops up licks him and Matt has the happiest sob fest for like a solid week. Finally! Immortal pupper. No more perishing.

Jack is a fun example because he's very in tune with the circle of lire and his favourite pet was a tortoise named Harriet he's had on and off since 1830 when she died in 2006. So when she finally died of natural causes he was absolutely fucking devastated. Didn't get out of bed for a week after the funeral, cried his eyes out every time he saw a turtle or tortoise for years. She was his baby since he was a baby. Closest thing to losing a childhood dog a nation can express. He had plenty of snakes and spiders and dogs that passed on and they made him sad but oh Harriet 😭.

Zee has a budgie named Pavlova that Jack got her when she finally dropped the family name. Just so she can say she owns Pavlova. It spent a week with Uncle Matt during hockey season and went back to Mum telling everyone, "Give your balls a tug, tit fucker" and making nondescript sobbing sounds. And the singular devotion with which New Zealand intervenes in its bird's well-being? Oh yeah, they're her children. Entire genomes of Kiwi-birds and Kakapo and Kea. She personally hunts rats that threaten their population like it's 1916, flashlight between her teeth, knife in one hand, Arthur sweating like mad somewhere. Bird watching is something she and the old man have in common so he probably does jokingly call them her grandchildren. Zee gets beat in the shin by a screaming kiwi-bird, and he just picks it up like, "Now that's no way to treat your mother, lad! Mind your manners." Before it toddles off and any on-looker is just pure, what the fuck.

#the ask box || probis pateo #arthur and the children || bilge rat and his bouncing baby bilge rats

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helloofromthewired · 7 months ago

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No Matter Where You Go, Everyone's Connected

At its very core, SEL is about connection, I think.

SEL was originally created by aBe to appeal to both Western and Eastern audiences, but for Western and Eastern fans to have very different views on it. It was kind of meant as an attempt to show how different West and East (specifically America and Japan) are, but I think it kind of backfired for the exact same reason it succeeded at the same time. Contradictory, I know, but stay with me here.

Lain has many connections across the series: some personal, but the vast, vast, vast, vast majority are impersonal. They're connections that exist, but that she doesn't necessarily feel connected to; they're the billions of people in and connecting with the Wired, which thanks to Protocol 7 has implanted itself in the subconscious mind of humanity as a whole. These connections aren't as important to Lain as her personal connections are; or, to expand on that a bit, the connections she wants to have.

Alice is a key example of this, and I think that she's Lain's most important relationship: Lain loves Alice from the bottom of her heart. It's a very deep and very important love for Lain; it's the only thing that could've realistically broken her from Masami's control, and we see it happen. Likewise, Alice loves Lain; if not loves, then at least has incredibly deep, caring, and complex feelings for her. Throughout the entire series, Alice is the only person we see actually care for Lain Iwakura: not Lain of the Wired, or Lain-as-God, or "Lain". Even her own father kind of kind of haphazardly dismisses her, her mother downright hates her, and Mika couldn't care less about her. Taro is interested in Lain, primarily for the Lain of the Wired as well as his role as a servant of the Knights, but I can't say he actually cares about her. Alice's friends more or less hang out with Lain because Alice does. Masami doesn't care about Lain in the same way that Alice does; his "care" is incredibly selfish, incredibly toxic, and incredibly abusive.

(TL;DR: they're lesbians, your honor)

At the same time, though, is the connection that Lain has with the rest of the world not important? In that vein, not potentially more important? We can comprehend Dunbar's Number: we can maintain social relationships with about 150 people. We can't comprehend the millions of people we connect with every day; we watch the same videos, we look at the same images, read the same books, watch/read the same news, laugh at the same jokes, play the same games, and so on. Even since the beginning of widespread international... well, connection after the Agricultural Revolution, humanity has been interconnected in some way or form.

It's not a direct connection. I know jack shit about any random 30 year old living in Jakarta or a 13 year old living in Tehran, aside from the fact that they live in Indonesia and Iran. But it's still a connection: it's a connection across time, across borders, across nations. When I'm reading, say, Marx, I'm reading the same books that people in the 1800s read; that inspired Lenin, Stalin, Mao, Luxemburg, Foster, and others (some of whom weren't even socialists, like Ataturk or Mussolini); that changed western philosophy in the last two centuries. I'm connecting with the millions, if not billions of people who have also read Marx; be they from 1856, 1917, or 2024. When I watch a video with 30 million views, I'm connecting with 30 million people; it's an indirect and impersonal connection, but we're all connected through watching that video.

The internet connects billions of people simply by its very existence. When you log into an internet connection, you are connecting to 5.35 billion other people. SEL understands that. Everybody in SEL is connected to the Wired; not just through hooking into it, but through Protocol 7 connecting all of humanity subconsciously, as well. Lain herself is the amalgam of that; she is not just a product of the Wired, or the God of the Wired, or God at all: she is the output, the child of that connection. In a sense, the connection itself.

That's what "Let's all love Lain!" really means, I think. It's a meme; an idea spreading from person to person in a culture. Or, contrary to what aBe might've expected, multiple cultures. It took over MAL about a year back, and it's become popular in both Japan and the States. "Let's all love Lain!" is the ultimate meme in SEL; it is the connection point, ultimately what connects everybody together in the end; their connection to the Wired, their love for Lain, their link to all other 8 billion people in the world.

"Protocol 7 is expected to allow the seamless transfer of information between the Wired and the real world." The message immediately after that?

#serial experiments lain #analysis #media analysis #let's all love lain #sel #anime #anime analysis

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lcmplightcr · 1 year ago

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for if you hide under the covers you might never see the day but if a spark can start inside your heart then you can always find the way so when life is getting dreary just pretend that you're a leerie as you trip a little light fantastic with me

ind. sel. very low key jack the leerie from mary poppins returns

lit by gabriel

sideblog to @aercnaut

#*005. support my brand // self promo.#disney rp #disney roleplay #mary poppins rp #mary poppins roleplay

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poorguysheadisdoingwhatnow · 10 months ago

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Kiss in the moonlight with dot? Thanks man we stan

it’s been idk even how many years since you sent this ask originally (at least a billion); here’s the latest gift you’ve ever received bestie ily

----------

1900

They meet on the Manhattan side of the bridge, this time. Spot is standing down by the riverfront, staring at the reflection of the moon on the water. It’s nice out tonight, still warm, the last vestiges of summer beginning to give way to fall. It’s late, almost midnight, but Spot doesn’t mind. He’s always been a night owl despite his job requiring an early start, and there’s something about the night, a certain calm that’s different than that of the dawn. It’s difficult for him to be alone in the mornings, anyway, with the bustle of the other newsies, and his walks across the bridge on certain evenings allow him to sink into his own thoughts, if only for an hour or so.

He’s lost in thought now, still staring out at the water, when a hand on his shoulder startles him. He spins to see Davey, who looks surprised but is already smiling.

“Sorry. I scare you?”

Spot scoffs. “Hardly,” he retorts, but there’s no heat in it. He smiles back at Davey and puts a hand on his upper arm, giving it a fond squeeze. “Good to see ya, Mouth. Been a while, huh?”

“Yeah, too long. Sorry,” Davey says again. “It’s just… it’s been hectic lately.” He doesn’t have to say anything else; Spot knows him well enough. Davey’s dad started working again a couple months after the newsies strike ended the previous year, which meant his mother wanted him and his little brother back in school. Davey and Les still sell papers in the mornings, though, and Sarah works full time as a seamstress. And Davey has been studying much more lately, preparing for…

“So when do you start?” Spot asks.

“In a couple of weeks.” Davey sighs. “Still not even sure if I’m gonna go.”“Of course you’re gonna go,” Spot says, more roughly than he intended. “You’d be stupid not to, Dave. You’re booksmart, it’s part of your charm. Now you get to use it.”

“It’s gonna be so different,” Davey says, staring out at the river like Spot was earlier, a wistful expression on his face. “I mean, it’s college, Spot. I won’t be able to hawk papers anymore, and I won’t get to see… well, see anyone, ya know? And my folks, and Les and Sarah, what if something happens again, and—”

“You’re babblin’,” Spot says, and he places his hands on Davey’s shoulders. “Look at me, Dave.” Davey does, tearing his gaze from the water. “Your dad’s workin’ again, so is Sarah, so is Les, even. And it’s not like you’re gonna be gonna be a thousand miles away. It’s what, an hour, hour and a half walk from your folks’ place? Hell, get a job down there near the college, bring money back to ‘em, and when you get your fancy reporter job, you’ll be makin’ more than you even know what to do with.”

Davey doesn’t say anything, and Spot gives him a gentle shake. “You hearin’ me? Change is hard, Dave, I get it, but you’re gonna get yourself a good life this way.”

At this, Davey cracks a smile. “You sound so wise, Spot. You sure you don’t wanna come with me?”

Spot drops his hands from Davey’s shoulders. “Like they even would.”

“You’re plenty smart, you know that.”

“College ain’t for me, I don’t think,” Spot says. “And I still got kids to look after.”

“Yeah.” Davey takes one of Spot’s hands and holds it in his own. “You ever think about the future, Spot?”

“I do,” Spot admits, “but it’s not here yet, is it?”

“I guess not.”

Davey looks downtrodden. Spot squeezes his hand. “We’re all gonna be alright, Dave. You know that. Hey, how’s Jack, by the way? Still goin’ for that art school he’s been talkin’ about?”

Katherine finally convinced Jack to pursue an art career beyond political cartoons, and Governor (or Vice President now, rather) Roosevelt had put in a good word for him at one of the new private schools, practically ensuring him an acceptance letter and a scholarship.

“He’s excited,” Davey says. His smile hasn’t returned. “He won’t be selling papers for much longer either, I guess.”

“Race and Crutchie and them got those kids well in hand, though, I bet.”

“Yeah. And Jack says he wants to propose to Kath after he gets out of school.”

This surprises Spot, only a little. “Her dad gonna go for that?”

Davey snorts. “Like Katherine would care. Or Jack, for that matter. Anyway, that means they’ll probably take off in a couple years, too. Jack never did stop thinking about Santa Fe, ya know?”

They’re all growing up. It’s a sobering thought, but growing up isn’t that bad, Spot thinks, especially since there was a time when he wasn’t sure he’d get the chance.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Davey says. “College, I mean. Getting older. It’s exciting.” He pauses, like he’s thinking about something. “You’ll… you’ll come visit, right? I mean, like you said, I won’t be far away at all, ‘specially with all the walking we do anyway, but what if I can’t get to Brooklyn, or I want to—”

This time, Spot shuts him up by leaning forward and pressing his lips to Davey’s, soft and quick. When he pulls back, Davey is blushing so fiercely Spot can see it in the dark.

“‘Course I’m gonna visit, Dave,” Spot says. “See you at your fancy college, readin’ your fancy college books and everything? It’ll be like finally seeing you in your natural habitat.”

Davey finally smiles again. “Then it’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, it will.”

They stand in comfortable silence for a long time after that, holding hands and watching the moonlight dance on the water.—1905

The room is thick with cigarette smoke, and Davey feels slightly embarrassed as he suppresses the urge to cough; many of his classmates in college smoked, and most of his coworkers do as well, but he has never understood the appeal. He had tried it once, his first year at school, and immediately coughed so hard he thought he might vomit. Spot had teased him for weeks.

Davey stares into his drink, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips at the memory.

“Amazin’ you haven’t hacked up a lung yet, Dave.”

“...Shut up, Spot.” Davey clears his throat again in an attempt to get rid of the persistent tickle and hands the cigarette back. “Don’t know how you do it.”

“What, this?” Spot takes a long drag, smirks, and blows the smoke up into the air. “Brooklyn boys was practically raised on the stuff.”

“So that’s why you all smell so bad.” That earns Davey a punch in the arm, but he just laughs.

“Just full’a jokes, aren’t you, Mouth?” Spot flicks a bit of ash off the end of the cigarette. “Hey, wanna see me blow a smoke ring?”

“Thinking hard there, David?” Bryan Denton, editor at The Sun and Davey’s new boss, lays a hand on Davey’s shoulders and startles him out of his reverie.

“Just, uh… thinking about old friends, Mr. Denton.”

“No need for the ‘mister,’ David, I’ve told you that,” Denton says. “Old friends, you say?”

“Yeah, a kid I knew back when I was in school.” Davey doesn’t quite know how to quantify his relationship with Spot, and he certainly won’t talk about it to his boss, anyway. “We actually sold papers together for a bit before that. You remember when I told you about the strike?”

“Oh, yes.” Denton takes a sip of his own drink. “Quite an affair, wasn’t it? Shame I was overseas at the time, but that Plumber—I read her articles, you know, once I returned. Fantastic stuff. It’s no wonder she moved up into investigative journalism so quickly. At her age, and as a woman—it’s something to really admire.”

Davey smiles. “It is.” He knows Katherine travels now, selling her stories to newspapers all across the country, really making a name for herself. Jack always sounds so happy in his letters, so proud of Kath’s accomplishments.

“And how are you faring?” Denton asks. “I know sometimes everything feels like it’s moving far too quickly, but that’s the beauty of the news. It’s always moving, and it’s up to us to capture it and give it to the people who need to hear it.”

“It’s fantastic.” And Davey doesn’t have to fake the enthusiasm in his voice. It’s so strange to think that once he was just hawking the news, and now he’s writing it. And with more assignments coming his way every day, he has ample opportunities to make sure he tells people’s stories right.

“I’m glad,” Denton says. “You know, I see a lot of myself in you, David. You’re going to go far. Just make sure to keep your head up and your words honest.”

David feels heat rising in his face and takes another sip of his drink, hoping Denton will think it’s just the alcohol. “Thank you, sir.”

“Good lad.” Denton reaches over and gives Davey’s shoulder a warm, brief squeeze. “I will see you tomorrow. Early day and all that—the news never sleeps.”

“The news never sleeps,” Davey agrees. Denton gives him a nod before rising from the table. Davey watches him gather his coat and hat and leave the building. He should leave, too, he thinks, even as he orders another drink and sits back in his seat, watching other patrons come and go.

Some time later, Davey has finished his second drink, and the smell of smoke is beginning to make his head pound. He gathers his things and is headed for the front door when it opens again, and another group of men floods in.

Dockworkers, probably, Davey thinks, noting the smell of seawater wafting into the room as well. He waits for the crowd to thin so he can leave, and when it doesn’t—surely, the saloon is not large enough for all these people—he resorts to pushing his way through. He is nearly to the door when someone bumps his shoulder and he staggers.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” the man says, and Davey is about to wave him off when he realizes he knows that voice.

“Spot?”

They stare at each other for a moment; Spot looks as surprised as Davey feels. But then Spot’s shock quickly melts and he gives Davey a grin and a hearty clap on the shoulder.

“Dave! How are ya? It’s been…”

Too long, Davey thinks. He and Spot had lost touch somewhere in Davey’s second year of college, after Spot got a job at the docks and Davey got busy with the school paper.

“It’s been ages, huh?” he says. “It’s good to see you, Spot.”

“Wow, I haven’t heard that name in a while,” Spot says, taking his hand from Davey’s shoulder. Davey pretends he doesn’t miss the warmth. “Mostly Sean now, down at the docks.”

“You know, I didn’t know your real name for months after the strike,” Davey says. Spot laughs, and it’s a wonderful sound.

“I was probably the one who told ya, wasn’t I?”

“I think so. I asked Jack once, but he said, ‘he’ll soak me good if I let it slip, Mouth.’”

“And he was right,” Spot says, but his voice is light.

“Hey, Conlon!” a burly man close to the bar interrupts, waving toward them. “You gonna order?”

The spell of the moment is broken. Davey suddenly feels like an intruder; he’s not in Spot’s life anymore, they’ve both moved on.

“I should go, Spot,” he says, turning back toward the door. “It was, uh, it was good seeing you.”

Before he can change his mind, he gives Spot’s arm a subtle, fleeting squeeze and pushes through the crowd.

He opens the door and escapes into the crisp evening air. Winter hasn’t tightened its grip on the city yet, and the night is cool but comfortable. Davey takes a moment to breathe, pushing away the guilt that has begun to encroach upon his thoughts. But he’s only taken a few steps when the door opens behind him.

“Dave, wait.” Spot’s voice is enough to make Davey hesitate for a moment, then Spot’s hand is on his shoulder again.

When Davey turns, Spot looks sadder than he’s ever seen him, his eyes suspiciously shiny under the dim light of the waning moon. To Davey’s embarrassment, his own eyes prickle almost painfully. He glances around; for the moment, they’re alone in the street. But before he can gather his courage, Spot surprises him by leaning forward first. Their lips graze each other tentatively, and Spot starts to pull back, but now Davey is ready. He tangles his fingers in the front of Spot’s sweater and drags him closer, and this time their lips crash together. The kiss is deep and hot, desperate and soul-crushing and perfect.

When they finally separate, Davey can see the tears on Spot’s cheeks. He realizes this is the first time he’s ever seen Spot cry, but he doesn’t mention it; his own face feels damp and there’s a lump in his throat.

“I can’t lose you again, Dave,” Spot croaks.

Davey laughs, raspy and relieved. He had forgotten what this felt like—what Spot felt like. He closes his eyes and leans forward until their foreheads are touching. His hand finds the back of Spot’s neck and stays there, squeezing gently.

“You won’t.”—1910

Sean walks briskly down the street, straightening his cap for what feels like the hundredth time as he dodges another pair of people walking too damn slow. It’s his first night of shore leave, and the moon is full and high in the sky. The weather is perfect, a warm breeze carrying the promise of summer drifting between the buildings, but Sean barely notices it; he just wants to get home. He tries to resist the urge to jog, but once his apartment building comes into view, he can’t help it. He runs the last couple blocks and wrenches open the front door, nearly bowling down his elderly neighbor.

“I am so sorry, Miss Leary,” he says, taking off his cap and nodding his head in apology. But she just laughs.

“That is quite all right, son.” She gives him a wink. “I saw your friend get back just about two hours ago; he looked just as excited as you do. Better get upstairs.”

Sean feels his cheeks heat. He grins and nods again, then holds the door open for Miss Leary as she leaves. Then he’s hurrying up the stairs two at a time until he reaches the seventh floor.

He passes Miss Leary’s apartment and then he’s standing in front of the door at the end of the hall. He turns the knob and enters the small but well-organized living room, places his cap on a nearby wall hook, drinks in the sight of home. And there, in one of the armchairs that faces the large windows overlooking the rest of the neighborhood, sits David, scribbling away in one of his many notebooks. A small pile of the things has already accumulated on the floor beside his chair.

“Still working?” Sean can’t suppress his smile as David jumps, obviously startled. “I thought this was supposed to be a break.”

David recovers quickly and jumps up from his chair, dropping his notebook carelessly on a nearby end table as he crosses the living room. Sean meets him halfway, his fingers tangling in David’s hair as he presses his lips to David’s own. They take a moment like that, then David pulls away just enough to smile at Sean.

“Hello, sailor,” he says cheekily.

Sean rolls his eyes. “Hello yerself. How’s life on the front lines?” He tries to keep his voice light, but he can tell by David’s falling expression that he didn’t quite succeed. David knows his job as a war correspondent for The Sun worries Sean, and Sean’s naval duties aren’t much better at the moment. But there will be time to talk about that later, Sean decides.

“Never mind,” he says, pulling David close again. “But you gotta stop workin’ so hard; I’m sure the news can survive a couple nights with you, huh? I only got a few days on shore, after all.”

“Yeah, it can wait.” David toys with Sean’s neckerchief. “I’ve missed you, Spot.”Sean laughs at the old nickname, but it warms his heart to hear it again. “I’ve missed you too, Mouth.”

Now it’s David’s turn to laugh, and it’s the best thing Spot’s heard in months. This is the first time they’ve seen each other since their jobs took them to opposite sides of the world near the beginning of the year, and Sean is going to enjoy every moment of it. He pulls David toward the windows and they stand together, staring out into the darkness. The city looks better at night, Sean decides, when it’s lit up only by the streetlamps and the light of the moon.

“I’ve always liked this time of night,” David says, as if reading Sean’s mind. “Especially when the moon is full.” It illuminates his face and reflects off his eyes until they almost seem to glow.

“Me too.” Sean leans over and kisses David’s cheek. If he had his way, they would stand here forever, under the moonlight. “Me too, Dave.”

#newsies #david jacobs #spot conlon #dot newsies #a newsies fic? from me? in 2024? it's more likely than u think #ignore any historical inaccuracies i simply Do Not Care anymore #i just wanted to make these idiots kiss

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