#mad. mad without source. mad without solution.

[rxttenfish]

extremely mad at my RP dash lately and would do something about it if my options werent 1. delete my blog or 2. immediately receive a callout post

[cyclesprefectpress]

[image description: photos of The Disco Elysium Tarot, printed letterpress in an edition of one from handset lead type and linoleum blocks. It is a complete 78-card tarot deck printed primarily with white text and illustrations on medium grey cardstock, in a custom dark grey hardcase box with a hand-marbled orange and yellow endsheet. The backs of the deck are decorated with an illustration of a sprig of may bells, and a quote from Smallest Church in Saint-Saëns: "None of this matters at all." The interpretive meaning of each card is expressed on its face with a small excerpt of the game's text. The Minor Arcana are divided into four suits of Harry's Attributes—Motorics, Psyche, Physique, Intellect—and each card in that suit is a quote from a skill under that Attribute. The Major Arcana are assigned quotes from other sources like NPC dialogue or Thought Cabinet problems & solutions. Pips for the Minors are counted with diamonds like the game's skill points; each actor or title is printed with their in-game color, but made shiny & metallic with bronzing powder.

each piece of text was set in handset lead type, assembled from individual pieces for each letter and space, and printed relief on a chandler & price clamshell press. end description.]

🎊🎊 Desert Bus for Hope starts for 2023 on nov. 11th and i have made an item this year for the craftalong that will be up for giveaway between 6am-12pm on Monday the 13th! 🎊🎊 It is a full tarot deck based on Disco Elysium and it has several pieces of my heart & soul in it but NOT my blood because i put a bandaid right on that :) donations for this and any other auctions & giveaways for Desert Bus go to Child's Play Charity.

notes: i did not make a whole new interpretive model for this deck, apologies, that was outside of my scope. it's generally compatible with a Rider-Waite model, with Motorics for Wands, Psyche for Cups, Physique for Swords, and Intellect for Disks. (full distribution of text listed by card, linked below. any spelling or transcription errors you find there, i promise i fixed them in print—that's copied from my digital mockup which was copied hastily from screenshots.)

i also do not track hours on these kinds of projects because that way lies madness, but i will say: i knew how much time it would take to print it. it was a lot but i was not worried about it, i know how to print. i was very worried about how much time it would take to absorb the sheer amount of text, and distribute it across the cards, and really get an array i believe in. i was right to worry, and i have absolutely had a few anxious nightmares about discovering the Perfect excerpt that should've gone in and i missed it, and the suit of Intellect made me want to lay on the floor a few times, but still! i believe there's many versions of a deck you could make from this game and this one is a good one.

i think the Minors fit really well with the double-edged sword of Harry's skills, their advice, their priorities. the circular way the Fool-World assignment works out makes me smile every time. The colors on The Star came out so nice. i think Justice fulfills some of my favorite things about Kim's character & purpose in the story. i worried sometimes that editing to such short clips would lose too much of the politics of the game, but of course you can't really take them out and they're especially present in the Majors—the Devil and the Hierophant, The Star and The Sun. i've wanted to design a tarot deck for years and i love this game deeply and i let this idea percolate for a few months and it never stopped making me laugh so here it is, & given a beautiful purpose :)

i also literally could not have done this without xyrilin's Disco Reader and the FAYDE On-Air Playback Experiment to navigate the dialogue and skill checks. Really couldn’t have tied the whole concept & colophon in its final bow without the Disco Reader :)) thank thank thank, they're so fun to investigate that it was honestly very difficult to focus on my task instead of veering off and exploring every branch in an extremely disorganized way.

actual printing went well honestly, very few problems! i think that means i'm getting pretty good at planning one of these monstrosities, although perhaps it also means i'm not challenging myself enough. hmm. no that's silly there's 78 ding dang cards in this thing. anyway the drop & replace formes worked well, no registration issues. mum convinced me to overprint another half a deck's worth of cards when I was printing backs & borders and of course she was right :/ there were a handful of cards that actually had better line breaks and fewer lines total in true type than in the digital mockup, so i needed all the spares I had to put those new short quotes into the appropriate border breakage. next time i will not question her.

handset in Garamond, Eden Bold, and secret Neuland.

WIP : full text card assignments

bonus photo of the kind of trash notes i always take to plan things like how many borders were printed with space for short excerpts vs long excerpts, and how many of those are majors vs. minors, because they have a slightly different frame at the bottom edge, etc.

[image description: they are truly garbage notes, i tell you. half of it is written at angles to the other half, many numbers in the math problems are not labeled, mistakes are scribbled over. it gets me there but it doesn't look pretty. end description.]

[aledanshi]

I made my friend suffer thru my rambles of this whole eggnapping arc from the perspective of the brazillians and I thought "wait a minute I should post this so I don't have to be the only person going insane"

When you think about this whole situation in terms of RP, someone fucking kidnapped kids, possibly the organization that monitors and controls every. single. step. you take, and the parents have absolutely no clue to where they are or if they're even alive, them and the rest of the residents are grieving and are starting to revolt, the president they elected in hopes that things on the island could maybe get better has gone mad and has been reduced to a drug-riddled maniac at best and a crazed domestic terrorist at his worst.

The lights suddenly turn to Cellbit, the leader of the organization that has the objective of helping people go against the Federation, with everyone hoping that somehow he will find a way to solve their problems, but he's exhausted, his mind is in shambles and he's slowly losing what's left of his sanity. He lost his son, he lost his best friend and the person that he trusted the most on the island, and when he wakes up on wednesday he'll know he just lost another friend, another member of his family.

Of all the parents of Richarlyson, Forever is the most "mother", and the grief of a mother is one of the most devastating things to ever feel, Forever's whole world revolves around Richarlyson, all the things he did, everything he's been through, it all only has one objective, protect and make Richarlyson happy. Without him, Forever's world loses all of it's colors and everywhere he looks, everything reminds him of his son, who's been the only constant from day 1. Now he's broken, completely, drugged or not he will never be the same Forever from before, the drugs don't keep him stable, they keep him delusional, just enough to not destroy everything in his path. In the back of his mind, he's still counting the seconds that his son has been missing, every time the clock gets louder he has to forcefully shut it down, he's losing himself in the process of numbing his pain, and I can't fault him from taking the pills anyway, even when he knows he shouldn't, that it'll only make things worse, but it hurts, it hurts so much.

Pac feels like he's buried in hopelessness and feels that he can't do anything, he's not as smart as Cellbit, not strong-willed as Mike, not resourceful as Forever, he can't bring joy to others when his own source of joy is missing, his own son. He knows he's losing everyone in his family, but he can only hope that he won't be the last domino to fall, because he knows he won't be able to pick up the pieces. He's going to use the only thing he has left, himself, in hopes that maybe he can create a path for a solution, even if he can't achieve it himself. Either way, the only other option is to silently watch the hours pass by, as he stares at empty green and yellow chairs, just listening to the distant hums of machines and feeling the rustling of leaves on the wind. It has never been this quiet on Ilha Chume Labs before.

[talisidekick]

I saw a post of someone, as far as I could tell they were transgender, getting mad how people are letting the current tumblr fiasco (see any post tagging predesterone, avewy, or predestrogen. TL;DR trans girl got banned off the site for making a 'threat' to Tumblrs CEO while suffering a months long harassment, bigotry, and stalking campaigne without Tumblr lifting a finger to help. Tumblr responded with a ban citing reasons already disproven by their own process.) distract everyone from the current situation in Gaza, which is a coming mass assault. And I do get the frustration. But lets put both in perspective beginning with the 10 stages of genocide from

and

The Stages are as follows taken directly from the sources above:

"Classification – The differences between people are not respected. There’s a division of ‘us’ and ‘them’ which can be carried out using stereotypes, or excluding people who are perceived to be different.

Symbolisation – This is a visual manifestation of hatred. Jews in Nazi Europe were forced to wear yellow stars to show that they were ‘different’.

Discrimination – The dominant group denies civil rights or even citizenship to identified groups. The 1935 Nuremberg Laws stripped Jews of their German citizenship, made it illegal for them to do many jobs or to marry German non-Jews.

Dehumanisation – Those perceived as ‘different’ are treated with no form of human rights or personal dignity. During the Genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda, Tutsis were referred to as ‘cockroaches’; the Nazis referred to Jews as ‘vermin’.

Organisation – Genocides are always planned. Regimes of hatred often train those who go on to carry out the destruction of a people.

Polarisation – Propaganda begins to be spread by hate groups. The Nazis used the newspaper Der Stürmer to spread and incite messages of hate about Jewish people.

Preparation – Perpetrators plan the genocide. They often use euphemisms such as the Nazis’ phrase ‘The Final Solution’ to cloak their intentions. They create fear of the victim group, building up armies and weapons.

Persecution – Victims are identified because of their ethnicity or religion and death lists are drawn up. People are sometimes segregated into ghettos, deported or starved and property is often expropriated. Genocidal massacres begin.

Extermination – The hate group murders their identified victims in a deliberate and systematic campaign of violence. Millions of lives have been destroyed or changed beyond recognition through genocide.

Denial – The perpetrators or later generations deny the existence of any crime."

Now, these ten stages don't need to be done in order, and all ten aren't required to classify a genocide. If you have all 10 present, you failed to stop it and it's either happening or over. Just ONE stage present is enough to claim it's genocide. Not all genocides are bloody, they can be quiet, slow, and unnoticeable to those not the targets of it.

In Palestine, you have all 10. It's happening. No one listened, no one cared, and now innocent blood is spilled that was 100% preventable. And we, the world, get to watch that failing in action. We're seeing a bloody genocide. A violent one.

With transgender people in many places in the world, the stages present are: Classification, Symbolization, Discrimination, Dehumanization, Organization, Polarization, and Preparation. Seven, out of ten. 7/10. 70% of the way there to "too late".

So why is the predesterone/predstogen/Avewy/Rita situation important? The US, where Tumblr makes it's office. Avewy is transgender. The US is solidifying the Discrimination stage, and depending on who's elected next, even sanctuary states could feel the full pressure of the federal government. Please note, it's bad enough in the states that certain ones are offering sanctuary from others. Avewy isn't a US citizen, yet despite reporting discrimination, has so far had her reports denied and been removed from the site. So have many other enbies, trans men, and trans women.

Now Tumblr isn't a government institution, however, genocide is as much a government act as it is a social one. And private institutions, companies, corporations, and people make it happen. So getting mad saying something to the effect of "Palestinians are dying and this Avewy issue is distracting from meaningful actions being taken to prevent this nex upcoming mass assault" is aiding in allowing the same thing to happen to another minority by paving the path up to the genocide stage of Denial. How do you think the Palestinian genocide came to be? People kept saying their issues weren't important enough, and denied that there was a problem. The ongoing genocide NEEDS TO BE STOPPED but not at the cost of allowing another genocide to continue to take place.

And if you haven't figured it out, this is why anti-discrimination laws exist. Any sign of inequality in a society, whether thats based on race, creed, religion, gender identity, sexual orientation, sex, disability, etc. is the starting sign of a possible genocide. This is why equality is so important. This is why Pride exists, this is why the racial equality movement is important, this is why people get on stage in protest and show up to rallies. Failure to uphold equality leads to erasure, and often to blood spilled. If you don't like that 70% of transgender people of all ages are at risk of suicide when not supported, or the higher rate of systemic violence towards people of colour and other minorities, then learn to recognize discrimination and speak up. Because failure to do so puts lives on the line, and we're all in this world together.

Free Palestine, Trans Rights Are Human Rights, Black Lives Matter, Stop the Genocide. All these statements can, should, and need to coexist on the same world stage. When ones in crisis, show up, because it only cascades and gets worse.

None of us are free unless all of us are.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

A "secure" system can be the most dangerous of all

Two decades ago, my life changed forever: hearing Bruce Schneier explain that “security” doesn’t exist in the abstract. You can only be secure from some threat. A fire alarm won’t protect you from burglaries. A condom won’t protect you from mass shootings. It seems obvious, but how often do we hear about “security” without any mention of who is being made secure, and from which threat?

Take the US welfare system. It is very “secure” in that it is hedged in by a thicket of red-tape, audits, inspections and onerous procedures. To get food stamps, housing vouchers, or cash aid, you must navigate a Soviet-grade bureaucratic system of Kafkaesque proportions. Indeed, one of the great ironies of the post-Cold War world is that the USA has become a “Utopia Of Rules” (as David Graeber put it), subjecting everyday people to the state-run bureacracies that the USAUSAUSA set endlessly ridiculed the USSR for:

https://memex.craphound.com/2015/02/02/david-graebers-the-utopia-of-rules-on-technology-stupidity-and-the-secret-joys-of-bureaucracy/

(The right says it wants to “shrink the US government until fits in a bathtub — and then drown it” — but not the whole government. They want unlimited government bloat for that part of the state that is dedicated to tormenting benefits claimants, especially if its functions are managed by a Beltway Bandit profiteer who bills Uncle Sucker up the wazoo for rubber-stamping “DENIED” on every claim.)

The US benefits system has a sophisticated, expensive, fully staffed anti-fraud system — but it’s a highly selective form of anti-fraud. The system is oriented solely to prevent fraud against itself, with no thought to protecting benefits recipients themselves from fraud.

And those recipients — by definition the poorest and most vulnerable among us — are easy pickings for continuous, ghastly, eye-watering acts of fraud. These benefits are distributed via prepaid debit cards — EBT Cards — that lack the basic security measures that every other kind of card has had for years. These are simple magstripe cards, lacking basic chip-and-pin defenses, to say nothing of contactless countermeasures.

That means that fraudsters can — and do — install skimmers in the point-of-sale terminals used by benefits recipients to withdraw their cash benefits, pay for food using SNAP (AKA Food Stamps), and receive other benefits.

It’s impossible to overstate how widespread these skimmers are, and how much money criminals make by stealing from poor people. Writing for Businessweek, Jessica Fu describes the mad scramble benefits recipients go through every month, standing by ATMs at midnight on the night of the first of every month in hopes of withdrawing the cash they use to pay for their rent and utility bills before it is stolen by a crook who captured their card number with a skimmer:

https://www.bloomberg.com/news/features/2023-06-28/ebt-theft-takes-millions-of-dollars-from-the-neediest-americans

One of Fu’s sources, Lexisnexis Risk Solutions’s Haywood Talcove, describes these EBT cards as having the security of a “glorified hotel room key.” He recounts how US police departments saw a massive explosion in EBT skimming: from 300 complaints in January 2022 to 18,000 in January 2023.

The skimmer rings are extremely well organized. The people who install the skimmers — working in pairs, with one person to distract the cashier while the other quickly installs the skimmer — don’t know who they work for. Neither do the people who use cards cloned from skimmer data to cash out benefits recipients’ accounts. When they are arrested, they refuse to turn on their immediate recruiters, fearing reprisals against their families.

These low-level crooks stroll up to ATMs and feed a succession of cloned cards into them, emptying account after account. Or they swipe cards at grocery checkouts, buying cases of Red Bull and other easily sold grocery products with some victim’s entire SNAP balance.

Some police agencies are pursuing these criminal gangs and trying figure out who’s running them, but the authorities who issue SNAP cards are doing little to nothing to stop the pipeline at their end. Simply upgrading SNAP terminals to chip-and-pin would exponentially raise the cost and complexity that thieves incur.

Indeed, that’s why every other kind of payment card uses these systems. How is it that these systems were upgraded, while SNAP cards remain in mired in 20th century “glorified hotel room key” territory? Well, as our friends on the right never cease to remind us: “incentives matter.”

When your credit card gets cloned, it’s your banks and credit card company that pays for the losses, not you. So the banks demanded (and funded) the upgrade to new anti-fraud measures. By contrast, most states have no system for refunding stolen benefits to skimmers’ victims.

In other words, all of the anti-fraud in the benefits system is devoted to catching benefits cheating — a phenomenon that is so rare as to be almost nonexistent (1.54%), notwithstanding right wingers’ fevered, Reagan-era folktales about “welfare queens”:

https://blog.gitnux.com/food-stamp-fraud-statistics/

Meanwhile, the most widespread and costly form of fraud in the benefits system — fraud perpetrated against benefits recipients — is blithely ignored.

Really, it’s worse than that. In deciding to protect the welfare system rather than welfare recipients, we’ve made it vastly harder for benefits claimants who’ve been victimized by fraudsters to remain fed and sheltered. After all, if we made it simple and straightforward for benefits recipients to re-claim money that was stolen from them, we’d make it that much easier to defraud the system.

“Security” is always and forever a matter of securing some specific thing, against some specific risk. In other words, security reflects values — it reveals whose risk matters, and whose doesn’t. For the American benefits system, risks to the system matter. Risks to people don’t.

It’s not just the welfare system that prioritizes its own risks against the people it exists to serve. Think of the systems used to fight drug abuse in clinical settings.

Medical facilities that use or dispense powerful pain-killers have exquisitely tuned, sophisticated, frequently audited security systems to prevent patients from tricking their doctors or pharmacists into administering extra drugs (especially opioids). “Extra” in this case means “more drugs than are strictly necessary to manage pain.”

The rationale for this is only incidentally medical. Someone who gets a little too much painkiller during a medical procedure or an acute pain episode is not at any particular risk of enduring harm — the risks are minor and easily managed (say, by keeping a patient in bed a little longer while they recover from sedation).

The real agenda here is preventing addiction and abuse by addicted people. There’s a genuine problem with opioid abuse, and that problem does have its origins in overprescription. But — crucially — that overprescription wasn’t the result of wimpy patients insisting on endless painkillers until they enslaved themselves to their pills.

Rather, the opioid epidemic has its origins in the billionaire Sackler crime family, whose Purdue Pharma used scientific fraud, cash incentives, and other deceptive practices to trick, coerce, or bribe doctors into systematically overprescribing their Oxycontin cash cow, even as they laundered their reputation with showy charitable donations:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/12/monopolist-solidarity/#sacklers-billions

The Sacklers got to keep their billions — and people undergoing painful medical procedures or living with chronic pain are left holding the bag, subject to tight pain-med controls that forces them to prove — through increasingly stringent systems — that they truly deserve their medicine.

In other words, the beneficiary of the opioid control system is the system itself — not the patients who need opioids.

There’s an extremely disturbing — even nightmarish — example of this in the news: the Yale Fertility Clinic, where hundreds of women endured unimaginably painful egg harvesting procedures with no anaesthesia at all.

These women had complained for years about the pain they suffered, and many had ended up needing emergency care after the fact because of traumatic injuries caused by undergoing the procedure without pain control. But the doctors and nurses at the Yale clinic ignored their screams of pain and their post-operative complaints.

It turned out that an opioid-addicted nurse had been swapping the fentanyl in the drug cabinet for saline, and taking the fentanyl home for her own use.

This made national headlines at the time, and it is the subject of “The Retrievals,” a new New York Times documentary series podcast:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/06/22/podcasts/serial-the-retrievals-yale-fertility-clinic.html

If the pain medication management system was designed to manage pain, then these thefts would have been discovered early on. If the system was designed so that anyone who experienced pain was treated until the pain was under control, the deception would have been uncovered almost immediately.

As Stafford Beer said, “the purpose of any system is what it does.” The pain medication management system was designed to manage pain medication, not pain itself.

The system was designed to be secure from opioid-seeking addicted patients. It was not designed to make patients secure from pain. Its values — our values, as a society — were revealed through its workings.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/13/whose-security/#for-me-not-thee

[Image ID: A down-the-barrel view of a massive, battleship-gray artillery piece protruding from the brick battlement of a fortress. From the black depths of the barrel shines a red neon 'EBT' sign.]

Image: Bjarne Henning Kvaale (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Oscarsborg_28cm_Krupp_cannon_4_-_panoramio.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

[whumpshaped]

Concept: beck becoming anemic after being fed on for a while and helle being thrown because huh, that had never happened before? Saw it as a side effect in your guide and was like OOH

not terribly long after this

masterlist

tw vampire whumper, sickfic i guess, blood transfusion, hospital setting, needles

Tired, tired, tired, always so fucking tired. Beck thought he was going to go mad with this constant, mind-numbing exhaustion. At first, he really assumed it was just the monotonity of his dire situation. He'd heard of people getting used to bad situations, then eventually their bodies shutting down 'out of nowhere'. It was never out of nowhere, of course. Prolonged abuse like that would've taken a toll on anyone's body.

But he tried to push through it, given he had no solution or end in sight. More sleep, as much as he could get away with while working during the day and entertaining a vampire during the night. More coffee, as much as he could drink without his anxiety skyrocketing and sabotaging his work. More fresh air even, something he had been stubbornly disregarding for the first 25 years of his life.

It didn't work. His skin continued to get paler, if that was even possible, his heart continued to act up, which he'd chalked up to the coffee, and he kept getting winded from the three flights of stairs leading up to his apartment. Even Helle's mild annoyance was slowly turning into proper concern.

"You will go to the doctor tomorrow," they announced one night. Beck groaned, but didn't argue.

"Okay."

"And I am not feeding from you tonight."

Well... that was good news, at least. "Do I really look that bad?" Helle sighed, almost exasperated, as though Beck should've known how heavy this had been weighing on their unbeating heart or whatever. Maybe he did look that bad, from the outside. "S-sorry. Thank you for, um... caring," he finished quietly, unsure of the wording.

They scoffed. "I am not condemning myself to drinking from some sick human." They grabbed his phone from the table and shoved it into his hands. "You should actually look up your symptoms. Now."

"Helle, I don't know how to explain this... online medical stuff is not the best source of–"

"That is why you are going to the doctor tomorrow. But until then–" They nodded towards the phone, still looking at him expectantly. "I want to know, too. What I can potentially expect. Is it deadly? Do I need to be looking for a new human? These are important things, you know."

Beck unlocked his phone and started typing in the name of the most trustworthy page in this realm of the internet that he could think of. He wondered whether Helle had ever had to deal with a long-term bloodbag getting a little too sick. Or had they always been a one-off kinda vampire? Surely, they should've been aware that this sort of thing could have severe health complications.

"So?" God, they sounded so impatient.

"Whatever it is, I'm not gonna die from it tonight. I swear."

Helle rolled their eyes and continued pacing. Why were they anxious about this? He should've been the one pacing and fearing for his life! And if he had been able to muster up the energy for it, he would've been.

"Anaemia," he said after a few more minutes. "That's the most likely, and um... it... it would make sense, I suppose. I probably should've thought about that..."

"Anaemia," Helle repeated, lost in thought. They didn't say anything for a long moment, and Beck didn't know whether that was a good or a bad sign. "I am not waiting until tomorrow. Get dressed."

"Wh– what?"

"I said get dressed."

It wasn't often that Helle sounded so serious. Whenever they did, Beck always got this sense of impending doom, like something utterly terrible was going to happen. What else could make an immortal, aloof vampire act so... weird?

He silently got up from the sofa and went to his bedroom, putting on some random clothes and a mask as quickly as he could. Was this thing deadlier than he realised? Had Helle lost many bloodbags to severe anaemia before? He didn't know, he was too afraid to ask, and he chose to believe it was simply an out of touch vampire's buyer's remorse.

"Are we going to a hospital?" he asked timidly as he stepped out of the bedroom, and Helle nodded. "In the middle of the night?"

"Are there no emergency care facilities in the whole of the city?" they snapped, and Beck decided to just let them do whatever they wanted. The worst that could happen to him in an ER was a bit of a scolding for wasting time. The worst Helle could do? Well. He knew which one he was going to choose.

He just hoped Helle wasn't about to threaten any nurses in the name of his... health.

-

Severe anaemia. Blood transfusion.

Beck stared at the nurse as they brought out the needle to take a sample of his blood, still in a daze when it pierced his skin. If Helle hadn't trained him better, he might've jerked his arm away.

What was going on?

The charmed employees gave no reaction to Helle's little joke about his blood being 'A plus, I mean, positive', just as they gave none to their presence in general. They moved through protocol as though everything was normal, giving Beck a rundown on what was about to take place and how.

"It could take up to four hours, but we might help it along a little. It's a wonder you were walking around like this without... well, dropping dead."

Beck gave a nervous chuckle. "Um, yeah, I guess... I don't know, I thought I was just not getting enough sleep."

The nurse gave him a look. "Of course. I assume the vampire bite scars on your wrist have nothing to do with the anaemia."

Right. He forgot that she could just... see that. "Uh..."

"I'm not here to judge, you're neither the first nor the last victim I treat. But it's good to be honest with healthcare professionals, yeah? I know there's a bit of a stigma around it in certain places, but the emergency room is not one of them."

Beck nodded mutely. He didn't dare look at Helle. Despite them causing the anaemia in the first place, he had to admit that he was grateful to them for forcing him to come in. Who knew how long he would've continued walking around like that? Maybe he would've dropped dead.

Once he was left alone in the room, Helle cleared their throat. "Well..."

"Thank you," he said without much prompting, knowing perfectly well that was what the vampire wanted to hear. It was easier to say now, when he actually felt grateful, as opposed to all the times when they wrung the words from him through sheer terror. "I wouldn't have come in without you. Definitely not to the emergency room, but... not even to my GP."

Helle leaned against the wall with a smile on their face. They seemed pleased. "Oh, do continue. I love praise like that."

"Will you stay? For the... the entirety of the four hours?" He nodded towards the needle, shifting uncomfortably. "I, um... I could use the distraction. Please."

"Are you afraid of needles?"

"Could you sound a little less excited about it?"

Helle shook their head, the amusement never leaving their face. "You do know you will get transfusions a lot, yes? I mean, most likely. Bloodbags and thralls get them a lot."

"Could you not remind me?" he asked, even whinier.

They laughed, then walked over and sat in the other comfortable chair next to his. "Would you still like me to stay?"

"If you're just gonna make it worse, then, then maybe not," he muttered. "No, wait– I changed my mind, I don't care. You can make it worse. I just don't– I don't wanna be alone."

"Oh, I have full permission?" They leaned over and poked the tube a little, and Beck almost yanked his arm away. Again.

"D-don't mess with the needle!" God, he was so trapped. He couldn't just run away with an IV in his arm. "I meant– I don't care what you say, but don't– don't do that! Please!"

"But it looks so tasty. I could rip it out and use it as a straw."

"Okay, maybe I do want you to leave."

Helle grinned, very satisfied with their own performance. "I am quite good at making others uncomfortable, am I not? It is a skill I have perfected over three hundred years."

Beck could only nod, miserable and exhausted. "Can you... not put all that experience to use for just two minutes? Respectfully."

"Two minutes? My darling, darling Beck. You want me to sit here and chat away for four hours." They sighed dramatically. "But yes, I suppose I could dial it back a little. Just for you."

~

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @the-cyrulik @pirefyrelight @there-will-always-be-blood @pigeonwhumps @echo-goes-mmm @whumpycries @morning-star-whump

[radiocreature]

📻 The Freedom To Be Whatever We Want (Radiorose Week Day 6) 🌹

Word count: 7,738

Summary: Alastor has been in hell for eight years. His friendship with Rosie developed quickly, the two bonding much faster than they could have anticipated, and they're riding high together. After a perfect night of dancing, Alastor asks Rosie out again twice in quick succession, but something about him seems less comfortable, and Rosie is determined to figure out why.

Warnings: cannibalism, unbeta'd, this will be getting a massive edit/rewrite on AO3 after I've had some time to SLEEP.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56617597

@radioroseweek

The Freedom To Be Whatever We Want

Nothing happens in Cannibal Town without Rosie knowing. Sometimes she knows what people plan on doing before they know themselves. The honest ones will seek her out first. The less honest ones will get a visit from her if their plans may harm others. One of her most reliable sources of information arrives to her fresh on a silver platter from her favorite clients: good, old-fashioned gossip. And right now, something has the young cannibal beaus and belles all atwitter.

It starts with an influx of singles’ advice. How to tell if they like you back, how to make the first move, what does this or that very-specific behavior mean? Then, three young men in relationships with women book her on the same day to ask what to do if his partner looks at other men, how to tell if she wants to break up, the signs of cheating, all of which leaves Rosie concerned after they leave. Her nicest, most expensive dresses and suits fly off the racks with urgent requests of custom tailoring. By the time her head and hands stop spinning, the entire town feels alight in a way it hasn’t in decades.

At first, her pointed questions get her nowhere. “Oh, it’s probably nothing.” “Oh, it’s just wishful thinking.” “Oh, it’s no one in particular.” “Oh, it’s a shot in the dark.” Then, “it” gets a gender. “He’s just so handsome.” “He caught my eye so long ago.” “Everyone wants him.” She drives herself to the edge of madness trying to find answers and solutions to a problem that might not even be a problem.

And then Susan, of all people, comes in clutch. Sometimes blunt has its uses. “It’s that fellow with the stupid voice and puny antlers, they all think he’s fixing to court someone. All the ladies want it to be them, for some reason, and all their men are rolling over. If that prude could handle seeing another person naked, he wouldn’t be goin’ for no dames, I can tell ya that.”

And sometimes blunt people have no more of a clue than anyone else. If Alastor wanted a relationship, Rosie would know years before he figured it out himself. She saw him two months ago, not long before this hullabaloo started, and he made no mention of it. Alastor claims very few friends, but she knows without a doubt he considers himself closest to her. The idea of him seeking out a relationship without consulting her not only sounds out of character, but also strikes a nerve somewhere near her heart.

Whatever inspired this, the cannibettes have it all wrong. Though she must admit, imagining the look on Alastor’s face when she tells him what’s had the town all out of sorts gives her a good laugh.

With perfect timing, he calls on her soon after for a night of “sorely-needed” music and dancing. “I’m feeling rather boisterous, and it’s been a while since we upstaged an entire room of people, don’t you think? Wear something extravagant, my dear, and let me know the color so I can match you.” He never fails to charm her into saying yes, not that she ever has any objections to his plans. Their tastes align to an uncanny degree.

As a challenge, she tells him red and white: a dress he’s never seen, that she’s sat on for years, waiting for the right extravagant occasion. A multilayered and tiered evening dress with an uneven hem falling to her ankles in the back and rising to midway up her shins in the front. She dyed the fabric herself to get the perfect fade, from pure white at the neck down to a bold crimson when it reaches the skirts. It gains more jewels and beads every year in her failure to leave it alone. She twirls in the mirror a few times to watch it move, fantasizing of how it will catch the light when Alastor tosses or spins her. She chooses shorter, chunkier heels to stick the landings, a pair of black pumps with a web-like design pattern over the foot that ties at the front with a bow. Ornate, but not too distracting.

He arrives in a striking white pinstriped suit, with a red waistcoat over a white undershirt, red-tipped white shoes, a red bowtie and pocket square, and a wide-brimmed white hat with a single black stripe, his antlers acting like hat pins to keep it secured to his fluffy head. She stands in stunned silence for a moment before squealing with delight and spinning him around.

“Oh my stars, don’t you look gorgeous!” She says.

“I believe I’m meant to say that to you, my dear,” he laughs, petting her back with his free hand hand. The other digs his microphone cane into the ground to prevent them toppling over, as can happen when Rosie forgets her strength.

“You can say that about me every day. I have to wait for you to clean yourself up, first, and don’t you just clean up so nicely!” She smooths out his coat when she finishes smothering him.

He bows for her to hide the anxiety in his amused chuckle. “And you, darling, just when I think you can’t possibly be any more beautiful. I can hear the hearts breaking already.” With his microphone tucked behind his back, he offers her his arm. “May I have the honor?”

She giggles, slipping her arm through his. “I suppose you’ll do.”

As a general rule, she avoids leaving Cannibal Town for prolonged periods. The peace her people enjoy relies on her as a permanent fixture. She can leave for a few hours to attend meetings or make social calls without worrying, but will return at the first drip of uncertainty. And, not for nothing, she spent a long time carving her own niche into this corner of hell. She promised the cannibals protection, and in exchange, they dedicated themselves to her vision. While not a utopia, the residents of Cannibal Town avoid the stress and suffering of other sinners by crafting their own reality.

Alastor spent an entire year as a fixed resident, but his ambitions and wanderlust coaxed him back out into the greater city, even as the shifting culture started to displease him. Cannibal Town’s singular place in time will turn into a safe haven for him, but for now, Pentagram City still has the best jazz clubs.

Some new developments leave him feeling sour, but he took to the evolution of jazz and swing into the 40s very well. They’ll jump, jimmy, jive, shake, shimmy, and swing until their feet fall off, or until they collapse, though she can’t see him ever tiring from dancing. Given the tension in his body for the entire walk to his favorite club, he needs the release. Slaying Overlords won’t fix everything—much to his chagrin, she imagines.

The arrival of the infamous Radio Demon brings the dancers to a halt, or tripping over one another, but the band plays on. Alastor tips his hat to the bartender, who waves a hand before grabbing a bottle off the top shelf. She allows herself a smug grin, something she may allow herself many times tonight. The last (and first) time she visited this club, when he found it several years ago, they treated him like anyone else. Now, with the identity of the Radio Demon known, he gets treated different everywhere, but the composure of the barkeep and the band suggest they see him as a VIP rather than a threat. The VIP treatment suits her well, too.

They start with drinks to assess the crowd, the bar patrons putting space between them. It thinned down a little when they entered. The standees all watch them, and the dancers keep eyes on them when facing in their direction. She wants to think it’s because they out-dressed everyone here—no one else even tried—but she can’t ignore the Overlord effect. Especially when Alastor’s antlers grow more points.

They finish their drinks after sizing up the place. Dismissing his microphone staff, Alastor bends at the waist and holds out his hand in invitation. She takes it, and lets him lead the way to the dance floor. The other dancers give them a wide berth. The band changes songs on a dime, starting them off with a classic Charleston number. With matching smiles they face each other and kick into the rhythm.

Weight falls off her with every movement. She watches Alastor shake weeks of tension out of his limbs. They never had the pleasure of knowing each other in life, but she gets a glimpse of his vitality when they dance. Bold movements of simultaneous control and abandon, colorful and vivacious and bursting at the seams with spirit. Dancing makes it easy to forget her ill fate, the pain and the sweltering heat and the personal torments and the insatiable, ravenous hunger that curses all of cannibal kind. Dancing with Alastor, though, makes her feel alive again.

For the first few songs they stick to fancy footwork and simple hops or skips. Exhausting themselves in the first thirty minutes of the night won’t do. They pace themselves as the band takes them through different styles of jazz and swing, challenging them to get creative. Building towards more demanding moves.

Years ago, the first time he tossed her, she went over his head and lost her grip on him. She expected to fall on him, or get dropped, but he caught her with ease and corrected her position to land her on her feet. After that, she trusted him with anything. She loves rolling over his back, or flipping upside down to kick her leg behind his neck. He often uses that momentum to flip her around his head instead of working against it, then spins back to his full height.

As if reading Alastor’s mind, the band transitions into a fast-paced jive with snappy drums and the type of taunting, choppy brass that precedes a wild tune. Rosie beams when she catches his pupils dilate in the dim light. They wink at each other and take their starting pose. Over years of improv, trial, and error, they perfected their own Lindy Hop routines. The slight points to his pupils tell her everything she needs to know about how he plans to lead, and her veins thrum with anticipation. He wants them to wipe the floor with everyone here. When the brass kicks to life, so do they. Pulling, pushing, circling, and twisting light on their feet with snaps of their arms and hands for balance and flair. The wind from her dress flowing with her movements sneaks a squeak of excitement past her lips before she can stop it. Their controlled chaos never threatens to bump into any of the other dancers, but the crowd clears the floor and forms a circle to watch with slacked jaws.

Alastor signals her for a lift. Well-past the point of warmups, she aligns their bodies and lets him flip her up and over his shoulder in a somersault. The crowd whoops and cheers, stress and tension giving way to fun at last. They join hands again to keep circling one another. Once they have momentum again, she signals him with a request to go low. She bends her knees and he whips her with one arm, her lead leg and free arm extending out to graze the crowd. Some scoot back to give her room, others reach out their fingers to meet hers. He leaps over her when she reaches him, spins into the movement, and scoops her back onto her feet.

They separate for a segment standing side-by-side to dance in synch. A chance to soak in the joy and wonder from the crowd cools the ache in their lungs. Rosie adds a few extra wrist movements to wave to those waiving at her. They transition to facing each other, mirroring one another’s kicks and flairs.

It takes Alastor hours to break a sweat sometimes, the fit bastard. Some strands of his hair cling to his forehead now—hers adhered to her skin after three songs. They breathe as one, steady and deep to fuel their frantic moves, their grins stretching to their maximum points. She keeps her eyes locked with his as long as she can. She loves him like this: the most candid of his smiles, the red of his irises consumed by blissed-out pupils, The Radio Demon left at the door. His right hand takes her left, his left hand pulls her in by her shoulder blade, and for a moment it looks like he means to kiss her. She hops and skips into the next steps, letting him push and pull her with the momentum from his larger frame. Their tempo increases in unison with the band, the frills of her dress almost invisible from the extra speed. The song ends soon, and she dares Alastor with her eyes for a big finish.

Delighted, he spins her by her arm above her head, and spins her, and spins her, stopping her by her hips with her back to his front. She bounces on her toes, then leaps as he lifts, kicking her legs out to clear his head when he tosses her up and over. His hands await her when she lands. One bunny hop to keep the rhythm, then she launches herself as high as she can, his arms twisting to help pull her into a somersault. When her hips meet his shoulders, he pushes out, allowing her to straighten her legs and flip straight up and down back over his head. For a few airborne seconds, their joined hands are their only point of contact.

Though she sees it upside down, the heartwarming smile he flashes vaporizes the last of her bodyweight. High on his smile, his scent, his energy, his unwavering, grounding grip on her hand that promises never to drop her, she relaxes into the motion and lets him guide her back to the floor.

She bends her knees to absorb the shock, rolls backward into his parting legs, and releases her hold on him. As he bends down, she continues rolling back, parting her legs and letting him guide them around his torso. With his arms hooked around her legs, she lifts from her core when he straightens his back, resulting in him swinging her straight out from his middle. They both release her legs so the lift lands her back on her feet, their hands joining in the air again.

She sinks to her knees again, pulling his arms with her. He goes over her shoulders this time, springing from the balls of his feet up and over. He rises to his feet out of the somersault in one fluid motion, hoisting her into his arms. She strikes a pose midair on the last beat of the song.

The crowd loses their fucking minds.

They bask in the glow of the whoops, cheers, whistles, and claps for a few seconds before looking at each other. Chests heaving, muscles aching, grins from ear to ear. Alastor’s hair got tousled during their big finale and his pupils still swallow up most of his irises. The static and crackles emanating from him get a little louder when their gazes lock. Heat rises to her cheeks.

She throws her arms around him and hugs him as tight as she can from her horizontal position. Laughing, he spins her around one more time to put her back on her feet. They join hands for a bow and curtsy, her free arm lifting her skirts while his tucks behind his back.

They head straight to the bar. Emboldened audience members follow to strike up a conversation. Someone offers to buy their first round so they can ask for pointers, questions about how much to prepare versus improvise, and improving their dancing in general. Someone else buys them a second round to keep the conversation going. It feels so good, so good, to have a normal conversation again outside of Cannibal Town. They both love the cannibals, and the Overlord treatment has its up sides, but others evading them when they go out to socialize gets frustrating.

Hours of dancing mix with top shelf booze, warming her from head to toe and liquifying her muscles on the way. Lightheaded, she leans against Alastor for support. His arm slips around her waist and pulls her closer, letting her head rest against the side of his. Her heart lurches, heat rushing to her face. From the booze. Definitely.

After a third round, Alastor and his unparalleled stamina look ready to keep dancing. He can drink himself senseless and still dance like he’s sober. With the way alcohol sloshes around in her stomach and her tendons wilt like noodles, she has to decline. Summoning his microphone, he offers her his arm, and they bid the club farewell.

With no sun down in hell, it doesn’t appear much different at night. The Pride Ring’s crimson red sky darkens some in the night hours, but the city’s bright lights keep it looking like daytime. Still, the crowd thins out at night, giving their walk a quiet start. She stays close to him to keep from swaying too much.

They walk past the movie house right as an audience leaves. Half of them light up smokes, puffing out clouds of putrid gas in their path. Alastor’s gums show through the disgusted curl in his lips. Rosie tries to make out the posters next to the ticket booth.

“Have you ever seen that Fleming fellow’s pictures?” Rosie asks.

“I haven’t,” Alastor says. “I never cared for them. I prefer the pictures in my head painted by the radio plays. If Orson Welles ends up down here Hell might finally get some culture.”

“I’m torn on whether to build a picture house in Cannibal Town. I know there’s interest, and you know I’d do anything for my clients, but where to put it, how to make it match,” she waves her hand in an et cetera gesture, “what to play. The worst of them get down here before the directors are even dead, like that Fleming fellow, and some of them are just garbage. Don’t watch Birth of A Nation.”

“Duly noted.”

“I think I saw a flyer for that one,” she nods towards the last poster on the end. “It looks like a romance. I don’t think I’ve seen a romance before, no one’s making those once they get down here. Wonder what he did.” The possibilities bring a smile to her face.

“Directed a romance?” Alastor says, earning a laugh from Rosie.

They walk in comfortable silence the rest of the way back to Cannibal Town. A low, dark saxophone tune reaches their ears when they round a corner, dancing around their heads as they approach. Alastor tosses a coin in the busker’s open case. They hold on a note to tip their hat, and the pair give courteous nods.

Rosie pulls Alastor into a tight embrace when they reach her front steps. “This was fun. I didn’t know how much I needed a night of dancing until we got there.”

His whole body turns rigid. Static and radio feedback try parting the alcohol fog in her brain. She knows Alastor’s dissonant relationship with touch, and her sober self usually waits for him to initiate or gives some indication first so as not to alarm him like he is right now, and she should let go, but his friendship makes her so goddamn happy—

—His hands rest on her shoulder blades, careful not to dig sharpening claws into her dress. Static dulls to a hum as the tension leaves his thin frame.

“It was a wonderful night, thank you for joining me,” he says. “I couldn’t ask for a better dance partner.” His hands slide down to the small of her back, then rest on her hips.

He snaps out of the embrace, tension back in full force. She blinks. With a bashful cough, he folds his hands behind his back and flashes his default charming smile.

“Have a good night, sweetheart,” he gives a slight bow before disappearing into a cloud of smoke.

Her mind struggles with what just happened. She regrets that last round as she heads inside to bathe, change, and try to commit the evening to memory so the alcoholic fog doesn’t make her lose anything. They must have made quite the pair on that dance floor with their coordinated colors and flawless routines. She removes her dress with care and hangs it back up in her closet after her bath.

A memory jumps to the front of her mind, of a split second where it felt like him pulling her in for a kiss. A delayed reaction to this hits her now. If he had meant to kiss her, she would have let him.

She climbs in to bed with a tipsy sort of befuddlement. He held a genuine smile the entire night and never once felt uncomfortable, until their hug goodbye, when he tore himself away from her and slipped a mask on. When his hands cupped the swell of her hips.

“Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh,” she slurs, and giggles to herself. Whether he intended to touch her there or not, either way, he spooked himself. A few more giggles bubble out from her.

“Dammit! I forgot to tell him about the cannibettes!” And then she passes out.

She rides the high of a perfect evening for several days. The next week, another young bachelorette books a session with her to ask for relationship advice. The new dating trend of seeing more than one person at once confuses and frustrates her. She wants to know how to tell the difference between someone looking for friendship and looking for a romantic partner.

“They do look similar nowadays, don’t they?” Rosie empathizes. “It comes down to intent. If you’re not interested in dating someone, but you think maybe they are, or vice versa, ask them for clarity. It might feel awkward, but it’s the easiest and most surefire way to set expectations.”

The rest of the day she spends working the floor of the Emporium. Assisting with garment fittings, helping people pick out the right snacks or raw ingredients, upselling her recipe book, and anything else her customers need. She has help on the weekends, but during the week she prefers running the store on her own to prevent downtime. Locking the door behind the last guest at the end of a long day on her feet brings immense satisfaction.

Not long after she secures the deadbolt, a swirl of black smoke slips under the door. Alastor materializes in a spiffy red and black suit. A solid burgundy coat and trousers over a black collared shirt, with a red bowtie and red-tipped black shoes. A visible sliver of the waistcoat suggests a more crimson red, with light red or pink stripes.

“Shop’s closed,” she teases, still counting the till.

“Pity,” he says, admiring his nails, “I had such grand dinner plans.”

“Should have planned better.”

He laughs, approaching the counter. “Well, since a nice home-cooked meal is out, how about this instead?” He holds out two tickets to the theater downtown, the same one they passed on their way to the jazz club last week.

She takes one of them. “You bought us tickets to the movie house?” She looks at him quizzically. “You bought us tickets to the movie house?”

“You pointed that one out on our way home last week, and tonight’s its last night. I thought you might like to go.”

“I do,” she says, “but do you? It’s a romance, dear. Your eyes twitch when you see couples holding hands near you.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “My mother listened to her romance stories on the radio all day, every day, my whole life. I’ll survive one more. They told me it’s based on a play, which gives me hope for the writing, at least.”

She beams. “You’re a peach, Alastor.”

His nose crinkles. “On second thought—”

“NOPE!” She grabs his collar so he can’t escape while she rounds the counter. “Too late! You’re coming inside for a snack while I get changed and then we’re going!” She chuckles as he stumbles along in her grip, knowing full well he could turn to smoke if he wanted out.

She fixes something quick for him to eat in the kitchen while she gets changed. She has a burgundy gown that deserves to go out for a spin. Pink chiffon on the neck and chest with black trim separating the neck piece from the body of the gown. A simple black tie at the waist adorned with a small skull accentuates her curves, matching the black stripes at the end of the skirt. The puffy red sleeves tighten into pink chiffon cuffs midway down the forearm. She pairs it with an umbrella and her favorite hat.

Alastor lifts onto the balls of his feet when she emerges from her room. “You look wonderful, dear,” he says with a soft smile, “I fear no one will be watching the picture but us.” He offers his arm.

“Always such a charmer,” she says, slipping her arm through his.

“Keep it up and I may have to marry you.”

“Oh, I’d never restrict like that. A woman of your integrity should never be chained down by a man.”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” she teases, “you’re just afraid of ending up like my first husband.”

“Your first three husbands, if I recall.”

They poke fun at one another and gossip their way down to the theater. They arrive early enough to wait in line for concessions, ordering a popcorn to share, two beverages, and some candy for Rosie. He lets Rosie choose their seats. When the lights dim and the opening title card announces Sol Lesser Presents: Our Town, he nudges her with his elbow. He reaches into his jacket to reveal a bag of fried fingers he snuck out of her kitchen to bring with them. He winks and takes one to nibble on. Giggling, she takes a few and snaps them into thirds to mix in with the popcorn.

She sneaks glances at him throughout the runtime. He puts on a good front, but his discomfort shows through at the most amorous scenes. The story takes its time setting up the romance of the main couple, from courtship to marriage. They both snack throughout, with him losing his appetite during the more amorous and poetic moments. His eye twitches at the first kiss. And every subsequent kiss.

The film lasts for an hour and a half. She enjoys staying for the trailers, but the fuzzy radio crackling emanating to her left encourages her to leave without them. Wrapping her arm around his confirms the tension in his body. His arm stays rigid at his side while they make their way to the front of the building.

Outside, he takes a deep breath, and exhales. He looks down at their arms. “Oh, pardon,” he says, relaxing his arm to free her from its death grip. They carry on walking with an appropriate hold. “I hope you enjoyed it, dear.”

“It was cute,” Rosie says. “Thank you for taking me, and for putting up with it. Even when I hear about things I rarely think to actually go out and see them. Maybe I should be getting out of Cannibal Town more frequently.”

“Not at all,” he says. “It’s where you’re comfortable and where you’re needed, no one will fault you for that. Live theater performances will always be superior to these picture shows, and Cannibal Town has some of the best theater in Hell.”

“All our props are real,” she laughs. “The film seemed harmless, though, and I overheard someone say the director’s not dead yet. I wonder what he’s doing up there that let us get it this early.”

“There’s a war on, from what I’ve gathered,” Alastor says. “I’ve acquired some fresh souls recently with the same type of shell shock I saw after the Great War.” He smirks. “Promise them never to have to fight in another war and they’ll shake your hand without even asking for a contract. It almost feels like exploitation.”

“Almost, eh?” She shoves him with her body. He shoves back.

Back at her home, she gives him a hug on the stoop again, with proper warning this time. He hugs back, still a little hesitant.

“Where are you staying right now, honey?” She asks as she pulls away, fishing out her keys to unlock the front door. “I know you move around a lot. You know if you ever need somewhere—”

“I’m set up at the radio station right now,” he says with a hint of pride in his voice, “I converted part of the second floor into a living area. Since they won’t be needing so many broadcasters anymore. But I appreciate your generosity, as always.” He takes her hand to kiss her knuckles. “I can’t say I enjoyed the film as much as you did, but your company is all I ever need. Have a good night, dear Rosie.”

“Goodnight,” she says, clear and calm despite the odd emotion caught in her throat.

He dissipates into a cloud of smoke, his shadow lingering behind to wave at her before catching back up with its master.

“Huh,” she breathes. That has so many wonderful implications, and she can’t wait to analyze all of them instead of sleeping tonight. He never fails to give her much to think about.

Dearest Rosie, I hope you’ve been well. As you may have heard from my broadcasts, I’ve been quite busy. Please allow me to treat you to lunch next Saturday afternoon. I know a good spot in Pride Rock Park where we shouldn’t get disturbed by any dissenters with no taste. I know you’ll insist on making something, but don’t strain yourself, it’s my treat to you. Yours truly, Alastor

Another Overlord falls victim to Alastor’s broadcast a few days after their outing. In all honesty, she expected this one to end up as one of his special guests a lot sooner. He treats each Overlord like an episode of an anthology series, spinning a tale for them that they will help perform by way of their screams and pleading for mercy. Some stories conclude in one broadcast, others take several days to conclude. This one, he savors. He switches between the little sketch he prepared and airing out the true reasons why this one ended up on his broadcast. All the distasteful transgressions that built up over years, most of which harmed others, not Alastor himself. How this one Overlord embodied so many things he cannot stand, and will not tolerate anymore. This one’s story took over the airwaves for nine days before reaching its conclusion.

Eight years in Hell, and Alastor has rewritten so much of it. Entire power structures, dominant for centuries, gone overnight in comparison to how long they endured. Every year his power grows, and each new voice on his broadcast demonstrates it. Though they’ll never admit it out loud—to each other or themselves—the other Overlords started fearing him long ago. He took nine days to declare even the oldest and most powerful among them shouldn’t get comfortable.

Rosie uses it as background noise to make her signature “strawberry” “lemonade” and brew sweet tea (unsweetened, though it always tempts her to sweeten it and watch Alastor’s face pucker).

His letter inviting her to lunch in the park told her not to go overboard, since he intends to treat her, but she knows he’ll forget refreshments. She also wants to try out a new recipe on him, so she makes enough for two. Extra plates, napkins, and silverware sit on the counter as a reminder. The last time he treated her to a picnic, he forgot to pack the utensils.

She rushes to the door the moment she hears the knock. “Come in, come in!” She exclaims, pulling him inside by the arm holding the picnic basket. She registers another new outfit on him, a red-on-red-on-black three piece that she will pick apart later. Peaking inside shows he remembered everything this time. “Oh good, we’ll actually be able to eat.”

“It was one time, and we still ate,” he says.

“After having to run down the street and buy new utensils.”

“Which I needed anyway.”

She makes room in the basket for the beverages. “Which you wouldn’t have still needed if you lived somewhere.”

“I do live somewhere,” he goads.

She waves kitchen knife at him before dropping it in the basket. “You’re lucky you’re cute, mister.”

“Why are you bringing that.”

“I’m not,” she suppresses the urge to laugh as she takes it back out and replaces it in the knife block, “that’s just how crazy you make me.”

He balances his microphone staff with the same arm that holds the basket so he can offer her the other. “Well, crazy loves company.”

“That is not how that expression goes,” the joy with which she takes his arm contrasts with her grumpy tone.

According to the plaque, Pride Rock Park takes its name from one of the stones cast at Lilith by Adam when she left him for Lucifer, which heaven threw at them again when they banished the couple to Hell. Casting stones became a common practice for punishment against sin. The rock in the park could crush an entire house, so either humans in the Garden of Eden started life as giants, or the rock here is symbolic.

They set up their blanket under a tree. Despite the heat in Hell not coming from a sun, settling under trees in parks remains a habit for a lot of sinners. The breeze off the toxic saline lake deters others from picnicking near it, but having both grown up by the ocean, they both find the scent pleasant.

Alastor throws down the blanket, using his microphone to hold down the side against the breeze. Rosie spreads out their meal. Her mouth waters at the sight of all the treats Alastor made. Cannibals all throughout hell know Rosie’s famous cooking, and will travel from halfway around the ring to get a taste. The fact that Alastor is a better cook than her—something she has said aloud to him with no shame—stays their secret. She takes great pleasure in knowing sides to him no one else will.

They start the meal in silence, savoring every bite and enjoying one another’s company without need of conversation. She tells at least one cannibal a month that sitting in silence with another person reveals a lot about your true comfort levels. She and Alastor can sit in silence together for hours: reading together, listening to the radio, or enjoying a picnic.

And yet, he seems… off. Stiffer than last time, unsure how to position himself, and unsure what to do with his hands when not holding a fork or plate. Each time he adjusts his position, he inches closer to her, but it also adds to his tension. She relaxes her posture, opening her body language more, and leans back. Mirroring her appears to take some of the tension out, but his gaze never quite reaches her eyes.

After finishing most of their meal, they sit back and enjoy the post-feast sluggishness. Some light helpings remain that they’ll pick away at before returning home. Both of them planned their day around this, intending to spend all of it here with each other.

“I’ve never actually seen a boat at that dock before,” he says, nodding towards the lake.

“Maybe someone drowned,” she says, amused by the thought.

Alastor stands and offers his hand. She looks up at him with suspicion. “Seriously?”

“It’s been an age since I was last on the water,” he shrugs, “care to join me?”

Her eyes stay narrowed, but she smiles, and takes his hand. She takes her parasol, and he conjures his microphone back into his hand, but otherwise, they bring nothing else with them. Lifting her skirts, she steps into the boat, keeping a hold on one of his hands until she sits. Once inside, he pushes them off the dock with one leg, and rows them out towards the center. The lake stretches long enough for them to lose sight of their belongings, but anyone stupid enough to steal from a cannibal cookout deserves what it gets them.

“The cannibettes have been all atwitter the past couple months,” she says as he rows them further and further, “took me days to figure out what had them all acting up.” She considers her words. “They got it in their minds that you were looking to court someone, so they all started asking for relationship advice and buying up my best clothes. I had no idea where they got that from, until I saw you with three new suits in a row and you took me to see a movie.” Rosie puts her head in her hand and smirks. “A talkie, no less, and a romance. You barely tolerate silent films, I know that was torturous for you.”

“Silent films at least have a dream-like quality to them,” Alastor lambasts, “you don’t get distracted by whatever drivel the characters say at each other. Why are we listening to something we’re meant to watch.”

She giggles. “I’m not saying I haven’t enjoyed all of this, because I have, very much. We became friends very quickly because we have a lot in common, and we trust each other, which isn’t something I take or do lightly. I think it’s safe to say we’re close to each other.” Her smile falls a bit. “I know you well enough to know you were uncomfortable that whole day, and again today. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

His eyes pinch as he tries to maintain a charming countenance. He pulls the oars in so he can let them go, then takes a moment to crack his back and stretch out his legs. One hand wipes down his face, shifting his expression to something conflicted. A smile that doesn’t understand the effort it takes to maintain. His hands dangle off his lap.

“‘There’s someone out there for everyone,’” he breathes down at his shoes, as if quoting or reciting a rule. “My mother always told me that everyone has someone. Another person they’re meant to fall in love with and marry. Despite raising me alone and never remarrying after my father abandoned her.” Those last few words come out in a slight snarl, his lip quivering to reveal some of his upper gums. “I had several acquaintances whose parents permitted me to call on them, or others who wanted to introduce me to their daughters, or so on. I tried a few times, but I didn’t really care to get to know any of them better, and mother always said I’d know when it was the right person.”

He combs his fingers through his hair, scratching at the bases of his antlers; a stress response, not one she sees often. He keeps his gaze pointed down. “Down here there’s a higher concentration of degenerates, but it’s much the same as up there, couples courting, marrying, having sexual relations, all of that.”

“And mariticide,” Rosie says.

That gets an amused huff from him. “That one I understand. My mother wanted me to be happy, and she was certain meeting ‘the right person’ was the key to my staying happy after she was gone. She died before she got the chance to see me marry, or have the grandchildren she always wanted. And I died young.” His fingers clench and relax as he talks, trying to grasp something that keeps slipping through the cracks. “Besides my mother, you’re the first person I’ve been this close with, in life or after. It didn’t require any thinking, so it took me some time to realize how much we’ve….bonded. How I enjoy your company.”

At long last, he looks at her. “How I trust you. I thought that was the ‘knowing’ she spoke of. And she had me read all the etiquette guides when I was a boy, so I’d know what to do for what came next. How to court a lady properly and be a gentleman so we might both marry for love, not solely as an obligation.”

“It doesn’t sound like you find any of it appealing,” Rosie says, keeping her tone soft.

“I find you appealing.”

“Oh, well thank you, darling!” She teases. “Don’t you just know how to butter a woman up. Learn that in one of your etiquette guides, did you?” He stares at her while she has a laugh at his expense. She chooses her next words with care, keeping her tone fond and earnest. “Alastor, sweetie, listen to me. You’re dead. None of those silly rules matter anymore. There’s no books to follow, no laws or societal expectations or cultural norms to force you into a position you don’t want to be in. Not for you or for me. As weird as it is to say, down here, we’re free of all that.”

She meets his eyes and holds them. “So, what do you want? Right now. For yourself, or for our relationship.”

He stays silent while he thinks, his hands still trying to close around something out of reach. “I think… I like us how we are. Is that… is that alright with you?” The worry in his eyes makes her want to fling herself across the boat to hug him, but she knows touch would overwhelm him right now. “I don’t… want any of this to have impacted our friendship, or to hurt you if you were hoping for more with me.”

“Ha! Don’t flatter yourself.” Oh, how she wishes she had her Rolleiflex to capture his bewildered, affronted expression. “I’m just kidding. No, I’m not upset at all. I like us how we are, too.” She smirks. “Why mess with perfection?”

Palpable relief washes over him. He sits up straight, smooths his hair out, and takes up the oars again. “My thoughts exactly. What do you say we get off this lake? I’m curious if anyone tried stealing our stuff and, frankly, I hate boats.”

“Why the blazes did you bring us out on a boat, then?”

“Saw it in a picture, once. My old boss at the radio station used to call them the devil’s handiwork, I’m starting to believe him.” He joins her in laughing, this time.

Back at the dock, he hops out of the boat with a fresh spring in his step, and offers his hand to help her step out. They return to their blanket to find nothing stolen, which almost disappoints them. A hunt would have made for a fine afternoon.

She sits against the tree, and he sits next to her, all tension dissipated. The difference in his demeanor feels light night and day. They watch the other sinners enjoy the park, commentating while munching on their remaining snacks and giggling like school children. He summons some books from his library for them to read. And when the food coma hits him the way she expected, he starts to slump into her. Putting her book aside, she pulls his head down into her lap, scratching his scalp with her free hand while the other brings her book back into view. He tries to continue reading but dozes off in less than a minute.

The large park sits far enough away from the city that, when night begins to fall, the park will darken some. When the incandescent street lights flicker to life, she wakes him. They pack all of the containers and plates up, fold the blanket, and lock arms for the walk back to Rosie’s. The loud, bright, bustling avenues of Pentagram City give way to the quieter, oil-lit streets of Cannibal Town not a moment too soon.

She expects him to resist coming inside with her, but he follows without complaint. In the kitchen, after he helps wash and put away her beverage containers, he pulls her into a hug. It stuns her, but only for a moment, before she hugs him back twice as tight.

“Thank you, Rosie,” he whispers.

She rubs his back. “Thank you, Al, for being the best friend a girl could ask for.”

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind,” he mocks distaste, wrinkling his nose and standing up straight, “I don’t think I like this friends business, either.”

“Oh shut up,” she swats him with a dish towel, then flicks it at the picnic basket, “and hand me all that. You’re staying here tonight.”

“Rosie—”

“Nope. I’m not done with you. I don’t care if you’re staying at the studio, you fell asleep at the park, so you haven’t been sleeping at the studio. You sleep when you stay here, so you’re staying here tonight. Not up for debate.”

His shoulders sag in defeat, the fight leaving his body. He dries dishes while she washes, placing all of his belongings back in the basket when dry. The night clothes she keeps for him stay in the dresser in the guest room. When they retire for the night, he gives her a kiss on the cheek. His shadow stays behind to wave at her before joining him in the guest room.

“Huh,” she says again. More shadow behavior to ponder.

She takes her time with her night routine, starting with drawing a bath. As she removes her clothes and folds them on the counter, she hears the water turn on in the guest room. Smiling to herself, she slips in and soaks the day away, knowing her companion does the same.

Alastor shows little interest in connecting with the other Overlords, or many other sinners in general, but they gravitated towards each other early on, and haven’t left each other’s orbit since. Whatever the future holds for them, however their relationship develops from here, she has no expectations, but she knows one thing for sure: they’re going to have a bloody good time together.

[fruitymocha]

Laboratory of Love

Starring: Idia as The Creation, Ortho as The Assistant, and You as The Mad Scientist

Warnings: Yandere themes, mental instability, mentions of corpses and general post-mortem shit, violence/violent tendencies, murder, and psychological torment (both self inflicted and from an outside source). I DO NOT CONDONE ANYONE’S ACTIONS IN THIS STORY. THIS IS PURELY FICTION AND SHOULD NOT BE EMULATED. DNI IF YOU ARE YOUNGER THAN 16, ARE EASILY FRIGHTENED, OR DO NOT LIKE DARK/YANDERE THEMES.

A/N: you guys! As of writing this author’s note, Little Songbird has over 90 likes! Thank you guys so much for the interactions, it means a lot, especially since I was kinda worried it wouldn’t be received well when I first posted it. Also yes, I know it’s been a year, but it’s fine, just go with it. This literally has been sitting in my drafts collecting dust since last October, so it’s about time I resurrect this thing (yes this is a purposeful joke). I hope that you guys enjoy Laboratory of Love just as much as Little Songbird, and without further ado…

Round and round we rewind the reel…

Y/N L/N. That is my name. My mission is to investigate the world of the living and find the spark of life.

Unfortunately, the people outside are cold and unyielding to modern science. They are stuck in their old ways, believing my research and experiments to be… sacrilegious.

Hence why my secret lab is hidden away in an abandoned tower. It’s close enough to the city that I can easily acquire modern equipment and resources, but also foreboding enough to keep people away. Or did my reputation do that for me? Who knows.

“Ortho, have you acquired the book?”

“Yes Doctor. The Book of Shadows, as you requested,” The young boy handed me a thick leather book, his fiery blue hair flickering in child-like joy.

“Thank you, Ortho,”

“You’re welcome, Doctor,” I flipped through the pages, hoping to find its alchemy section. “Doctor, do you think science and magic are compatible?”

“There’s only one way to find out, Ortho, and you know what it is,”

“Aren’t you worried about what could happen if you use dark magic?” I sighed.

“Ortho, we’ve been over this,” I said, focused on the alchemical symbols in the Book of Shadows. “I don’t believe in ‘dark’ magic. There’s no such thing as ‘light’ or ‘dark’. Society simply deems ‘light’ to be the ‘safe’ and acceptable type of magic, while ‘dark’ is more dangerous and selfish. But if humanity never trifled with danger, we would never be where we are today. We would still be at Nature’s mercy,”

“I understand now, Doctor. But please be careful!”

“You know I will, Ortho. They may call me mad as much as they want, but I have no death wish. I know how to take precaution,”

Ortho. Another societal outcast. Allegedly cursed with his fiery hair, and considered a bad omen. They said his blue locks were from the fires of Hell. So I took him in as my assistant, and I found him to be quite curious and inclined to help. A perfect job for him. Society may call me many things, but to call me cruel would be untrue.

“Doctor, what do you plan to do?”

“Learn the ways of Nature, and acquire that power for myself,” I said simply

“…why?” I thought about it hard. Then I knew.

“My time in university could not satisfy my thirst, so I will seek out the solution myself,”

“It’s only been a few months since your graduation, Doctor,”

“Yes, and that means all my higher education is still somewhat fresh in my mind, Ortho. It will help me,” I stared off for a moment before something struck me as odd.

“I still don’t understand why you call me Doctor, Ortho… I have not earned a doctorate degree,” I said slowly

“Because I think you deserve the title, Doctor,”

I closed the Book of Shadows, and silently turned to the setting sun out the window.

“Ortho?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

I thought for a moment. Am I sure I want to do this?

I sighed, and said it anyway.

“Where is the nearest cemetery?”

~*~

“Are you sure we won’t get caught, Doctor?”

“To be quite frank with you Ortho, getting caught is a very real possibility. If you’re not up for the risk, you can go back to the lab-”

“No. I- I want to help you,” I sighed while looking at the blue-haired boy.

“Okay. Let’s find some corpses,” I handed Ortho the smaller of the two shovels I brought. “Let’s get digging,” I walked in a random direction, with Ortho following close behind, looking for recently dead, young male bodies.

First Gravestone

We dug down and inspected his body. Unfortunately he wasn’t a good candidate. He died of plague.

Second gravestone

He was missing chunks of skin.

Third gravestone

His head was smashed, face unrecognizable.

Finally, we reached the fourth gravestone. We dug with less enthusiasm and more difficulty than when we started. But all the effort was worth it. The body was tall, skin sallow, head shaved. But his body was unmarked by plague or brutality. He was not rotting… yet.

“He’s perfect,” I whispered to myself.

Ortho and I loaded the corpse onto a wheelbarrow, but not before wrapping it in inconspicuous cloth tied together with rope.

We were lucky not to get caught.

As we made our way back to the lab tower, I thought about what I would do with the body. Create a puppet, perhaps?

No.

Better.

Create a sentient being.

Ambitious, but The Book of Shadows would likely have the power I need.

Now all I needed to do was find the right spell, get the materials, and do what needed to be done.

~*~

With the corpse strapped on the gurney, attached tubes and wires connecting to monitors and rudimentary electrical machines, and Book of Shadows in hand, I was ready to commence my ambitious experiment.

Thunder rumbled and rain pelted outside. I paid it no mind. I had drawn the sigils in my own blood and placed them on different areas of the body, just as instructed. Blood sigils were also drawn and dried upon my palms. Keeping the book open, I read aloud the incantation.

“Withering Corpse, cold as night

Your early death has caused you strife

I avenge your soul, I’ll make it right

I give your body the gift of life”

A blue glow began to radiate within the room, and I could feel the surge of power coursing through my veins.

The rain pelted. I paid it no mind.

The body in front of me became surrounded in a magical blue glow.

The wind shrieked. I paid it no mind.

The sigils on my palms thrummed and the drawn sigils on the corpse pulsed like beating hearts. Ortho looked on in amazement.

The thunder roared. I paid it no mind.

Any signs of the corpse’s state of death seemed to disappear, instead in a seemingly peaceful slumber.

But then lightning struck through the glass ceiling, and I did pay it mind as it struck the body.

A smaller, stray ray of lightning struck me too, and the last thing I remember was the pain of hitting the ground, and getting rained on by rainwater and broken glass.

~*~

I awoke to the sound of soft rain and Ortho by my side.

“Dr Y/N please wake up!”

I opened my eyes to see that I was in one of the spare hospital beds in my laboratory. I got out of bed, much to Ortho’s shock and worry. When my feet touched the ground, a small shock coursed through my body, and I convulsed briefly.

“Dr Y/N you need to rest, you were struck by lightning!”

“Ortho I must see him!”

Ortho sighed, but reluctantly handed me a wooden staff. I suppose it should do as a walking stick. With the stick’s support on my dominant side, and Ortho staying close by my other side, I shuffled my way to the Enrichment Room.

The Enrichment Room was a room co-designed by Ortho and I, meant for intellectual stimulation without putting too much strain. A less sophisticated way of referring to it would be The Brain Break Room. It was filled with leisure novels, puzzles, riddle books, and other activities that require some form of focus and thought.

Sitting there on the ground in a strange and twisted position, fiddling with a metal handheld puzzle, was The Creation. Instead of normal hair, he had long, blue fire, very much similar to Ortho’s. Hair from the depths of hell. His eyes were striking yellow, not unlike Ortho’s. His skin was still quite sallow, but at the very least it wasn’t post-mortem pale like it was just hours before. His mouth was slightly open, exposing his pointed teeth. Ortho also had pointed teeth, a fact I had grown accustomed to as he stepped into the role as my lab assistant.

I decided to attempt to carefully approach The Creation.

“Hello,” I said.

He looked up at me with wide, curious eyes.

“I’m the one who gave you life. You can call me Y/N,”

The Creation put down the metal puzzle and reached out a hand. The fingers were spread wide in an awkward position. It seemed that The Creation was struggling with fine motor skills. I took his hand, only for him to pull me down with him, walking stick rolling off to the side. His physical strength was remarkable! He stared, fascinated at my dominant arm, which bore red, jagged, bruise-like marks from the lightning strike. He then placed his palm on my upper arm, his own arm completely outstretched in a strange position.

“We should give him a name, Dr Y/N,” Ortho said, coming closer to The Creation. I looked into his eyes. Unaware, void of knowledge or experience, but curious.

“Ortho, I think when the time is right, he should choose his own name,”

The Creation croaked out a deep noise from his throat. I supposed he was trying to talk like Ortho and I. His existence is fascinating indeed.

When I went back to bed, I heard the creaking of footsteps, and Ortho speaking, though it sounded muffled as this was happening on the other side of the door, far from the bed.

“…be careful…need rest…tomorrow…this way…”

I turned to my side in bed, and I tried to relax so I could focus properly tomorrow. However, that proved to be quite difficult. Breakthroughs and discoveries wait for no one.

~*~

As the days went by, I noticed that The Creation had taken an interest in my work just as Ortho had. Occasionally, I would ask him to retrieve items or hold something. Otherwise, he spent many of his days in the Enrichment Room playing with the various handheld puzzles. One by one, he’s started to solve them, and I wonder just how intelligent he is.

I was just about to open one of the ingredient containers when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. The Creation looked over my shoulder, hunched, and maintaining that gloomy default expression.

“What is it?” I asked him. He pointed to Ortho, who spoke for him.

“He wants to learn how to talk,”

I looked at him for a moment, but then smiled to myself, shaking my head.

“Of course you do. And I would be more than happy to help,” I said to The Creation.

He smiled, in his own awkward, sharp-toothed way. It was charming, in its own way (though most of society would likely beg to differ).

And so, I taught him how to speak.

~*~

Weeks went by as I taught him how to be human. He learned to read. He learned to write. He soon mastered all the puzzles I had, and contented himself with disassembling and reassembling things in his free time.

He named himself Idia.

And he treated Ortho like a brother.

“Y/N,”

“Yes, Idia?” I asked, studying the Book of Shadows once more.

“I have come across this concept of ‘love’. What does it mean to love?”

I halted my study for a moment, turning to him. “Love can be many things. There is love for your family. There is love for your friends,”

“I mean romance, Y/N,”

“…that is something you will come to know when you meet someone very special,” I said finally.

“Is there anyone you love like that?”

“…in university, I knew someone, yes. That person is long gone from my life now,”

Idia stayed silent. I returned to my studies, disheartened by the conversation, and wanting to distract myself.

“…will I find someone to love me?” He asked.

I thought for a moment on how to respond.

“…I…don’t know,”

“Why not?”

“The outside world is not kind. It has not been kind to me, or to Ortho. They don’t be kind to you either,” I said, perhaps a bit harshly.

Idia did not respond anymore.

When I had time to look up from what I was doing, he was already gone.

~*~

A year has gone by since Idia’s creation. And he’s become something of a mechanical genius. He’s now the one who builds and fixes my machinery. How convenient.

But as the seasons have passed, he has become increasingly attached. Perhaps not healthy behavior. But what am I to do? His hair is blue like the flames of hell. He would be an outcast before anyone ever gave him a chance.

I felt the autumn breeze coming in through a window.

“Ortho, please close the window”

The window did slam shut. But when I looked up, it was not Ortho who shut the window.

“Idia? What brings you into the lab?”

“I’ve read more books. About love,”

“…And?”

“I want someone to love me. Make me my other half,”

“Idia, creating Life is not a simple task. Do you know what happened the night I created you? You got struck by lightning and so did I. If I do it again, especially in inclement weather, it’s very possible something could go wrong. Do you know how hard it is to find a body undamaged? Unravaged by plague? No part of this process is easy, Idia,”

“I don’t care how hard it is.” He said firmly. “Make me a lover, or I’ll make my own,”

I swallowed. It felt like my mouth was stuffed with cotton. He was serious.

“…alright. I’ll see what I can do,”

“You have one week,”

And with that, he left the lab.

~*~

It was considerably more difficult to find the second body. But I managed.

…but guilt was slowly consuming me. Idia was my best creation. A lovely, fascinating, raw creation. Proof of my conquering of Life.

But I couldn’t do it again.

So I took the body with me, and I used a rowboat to get to the center of the lake.

It was there that I dumped the sacrilegious body. I watched the corpse sink below the tides, never to be rediscovered.

I felt relief for once. Despite Idia’s threat before, I felt relief that I disposed of that body.

That relief was very short lived, and before I realized what was happening, I blacked out.

~*~

When I awoke, I was strapped to a gurney. Ortho looked at me, concerned.

“Doctor, I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop him,”

Idia emerged from the shadows, wearing my lab coat and protective gear.

“I told you I would make my own lover. And guess what, Y/N? I have,”

“Who did you hurt?!”

“I didn’t go into the town, don’t worry. They are stuck in their old ways. Unyielding to modernity. Unwilling to embrace progress. But you were,” he smiled his sinister, shark toothed smile. He and Ortho looked like brothers. But knowing what my dear creation has become, that comparison felt unfair.

The restraints on the gurney unlatched, and I stumbled off.

There was an unnatural pallor to my skin.

My limbs were somewhat rigid.

Something was wrong.

I scrambled around, looking for a reflective surface. I needed to know what happened. And I found a small handheld mirror. There was dried blood on my head. My skin was unnaturally blanched.

My eyes held the blue flames of hell.

“Idia…what have you done?”

“…I only meant to knock you unconscious. I am much stronger than I thought. But it’s okay, I found your Book of Shadows. I fixed it,”

I looked at him intensely.

“…you learned from the Book of Shadows?”

“Yes,”

“…and it worked…you…you’re incredible…” I said in awe.

“Doctor, what does this mean?”

“…It means Idia, my creation, has become a creator” I said.

“Just as you reshaped me and gave me new life, I have done the same to you, Doctor Y/N,” Idia smiled a satisfactory smile. He had made me into a creation. Like him. It had finally dawned on me. He remade me in his image. The “lover” he made was me.

And I laughed. I laughed until I couldn’t breathe. Until I forgot why I was laughing. Until I started to cry as I laughed. I laughed such a laugh they would have called me mad.

Well, they already did before.

Maybe they were right.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

As long as we all held the blue flames of hell in our bodies and souls, none of it mattered.

~Fin~

[rainbow-lite]

TW // medical play/mad scientist, needles, drugging/aphrodisiacs

part 1/3

the doctor spending copious amounts of time isolated in their basement lab was something that, as their submissive, you rather despised. this past week has been particularly quiet and boring, with the majority of their free time being spent on a "personal project."

one evening, you decide you've had quite enough.

though you aren't technically supposed to enter their lab without permission, it's been so long since you've seen them, much less had some fun. so, you creep down the hall towards the basement door.

you pause just outside the door, turning your head to listen. it's... quiet? you wait a moment longer. that's strange. are they even in there?

with shallow breaths, you press your fingertips against the door. it opens easily, and you're suddenly at the top of the stairs. carefully and excitedly, you descend.

as you reach the bottom, you feel the cold tile against your bare feet. a blacklight is the main source of light in the room, and it occupies the space with an eerie purple glow. the lab is filled with... things. beakers and tubes and jars and tools of various sizes clutter every surface, with sheets of notes strewn in between. there's much to take in - but a soft green glow has already caught your gaze.

you slowly approach the counter from which the green light emanates. you can now make out a tube - a syringe full of bright green solution. next to it, a note. you read it.

"i trust you can administer this yourself. do so, then wait for me."

huh? give yourself an injection? this injection? what is this stuff anyway? questions start to flood your mind.

you take a breath. questions aren't the only thing on your mind. a desire - no, a need - to obey has been growing in the pit of your stomach. you trust the doctor completely, and they've done so much for you. at the very least, you could be a willing test subject. it can't be that bad... right?

the syringe is sinking into your thigh before you've thought about it a second time. you push the plunger slowly, letting the liquid spread.

you remove the needle and discard it, giggling at the thought of the doctor reprimanding you for not wearing gloves or disinfecting the area. your giggling turns to laughter. your laughter turns to panting. what the hell?

a warm sensation has embedded itself in your core, and it's quickly spreading. waves of heat rip across your body, leaving a tingling feeling in their wake. your legs shake. your panting amplifies to moans. the needle. what was in that needle?

[helly-watermelonsmellinfellon]

*SPOILERS* ARLECCHINO STORY QUEST!

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So, ppl are mad the Traveler lost to Arlecchino...

The Traveler bodied Childe and Signora in simple 1 V 1 fights. Even when their opponents got to use power-ups, the Traveler remained the same.

Scaramouche, when by himself and not capitalizing off of Tatarigami in the atmosphere, is not a threat to the Traveler despite what he thinks. The people was the most threat to were Fatui grunts and random civilians without Visions.

People need to be honest about his Boss Fight. It was cool and flashy, and also lame. When ppl try hyping him up as soooo dangerous because the Traveler failed to defeat him in a dream 168 times, they conveniently ignore how his ass got so easily tricked into a dream in the first place. They ignore a lot about his Boss Fight actually.

1.) His own body was insufficient for 'godhood'. He needed to rely on a group of 'feeble humans' to create a better puppet body for one. He couldn't do it.

2.) That larger puppet body was capable of channeling multiple elements, which he was not shown to be capable of at all in any of the times he showed up prior to that. Signora even said he only had his rank because he could take more pain and suffering than most and was effectively impossible to kill/destroy.

3.) The puppet body was powered by a Gnosis, which was not his and was not original intended for his use specifically. The Gnosis was used to amplify the larger puppet's elemental abilities.

4.) He was hooked up to that larger puppet for months and had the scholars funneling all kinds of canned knowledge into his vessel to make a new god. None of that information was learned by himself. He needed humans to hook him up to a system they created and needed them to inject it into his mind for him. He did none of that work.

5.) The Shouki no Kami was a result of the efforts of a bunch of humans. All he did was sit there and let them shove tubes in his back. It was probably painful but becoming a 'god' was through barely any personal effort of his own. It was other people doing all the work.

6.) The people of Sumeru City were forced into a 168-day Samsara to collect knowledge, wisdom, and jnana energy for the larger puppet body. Dragging the Traveler for needing all 168 versions of the dream fight to be in their mind and having 1K ppl crowd-source a solution for the official fight, isn't it. Scaramouche needed 168 days of content from those same 1K people to help power his fancy mech suit in the first place.

The Traveler defeating him makes complete sense. Dude somehow lost even with a Gnosis in his possession and the Traveler didn't have a Gnosis to use. The Traveler wasn't even using all the Elements they have access to. Or a better weapon.

Arlecchino has her Blood Fire Curse, a Pyro Vision, and a Pyro Delusion all going at once. She is way more powerful than Childe, Signora, and base Scaramouche all put together. Her curse thing gives her power we don't even understand. We cannot properly evaluate her true threat level because we don't know what it does, or how it works.

The other three were predictable in battle once the Traveler got used to them. That's cuz the power sources make enough sense. Vision = primitive Gnosis that grants specific Elemental Power. Delusion = Vision Wannabe + negative health effects. Gnosis = Elemental Power Amplifier for gods. But the Blood Fire Curse thing? That's new. There's nothing like it anywhere else for the Traveler to learn about it or compare it to.

Also, the Traveler was not going all out because Arlecchino was not going all out either. The Traveler knew that she was testing her children and also knew the fight wasn't really theirs. She had already planned for the fight to happen and wanted the Traveler to protect the children if the time came, but it was not really their fight because they were not enemies. That's why Lyney, Lynette, and Freminet's attacks all appear during the battle and why they're talking the whole time. This was their fight with the Traveler as a back-up.

The children had to show a sufficient level of skill and improvement for Arlecchino to change the punishment they were due, but she was the one to choose when the demonstration ended. The Traveler was the only one still standing by the end, and Arlecchino used her curse to make eye contact and Tsukuyomi them and then manipulated their body into being unable to move(bloodbending???) to defend themself while she came at them.

How do you fight what you do not know? The twins got bodied by the Sustainer... because they didn't know what her powers were or what they were capable of. If they went into that battle with all the knowledge already, it probably would have ended very differently. That's just how it goes. That's why everyone wonders what the rematch will be like, especially with all the Elements and that weird golden power on the Traveler's side.

Ranks actually matter for the Harbingers. Arlecchino being #4 means she's very high up there. The Traveler has defeated every Harbinger Boss up until now and it's actually good that they didn't win this one. Even if it wasn't a real fight on their behalf, they got a good look into what the highest-ranking Harbingers are capable of. And that will serve as a lesson. She was only #4, could do all of that shit, and there are still 3 people above her.

This served as a good lesson on the dangers of hubris imo. If the Traveler beat her with all that shit she did while the Traveler wasn't trying their best, I'd be pissed.

[mariacallous]

Russia’s renewed and much broader assault on Ukraine’s energy sector this spring, which has now destroyed roughly half of the country’s electricity generation capacity, represents an explosive blow to Kyiv’s resilience, civilian morale, and industrial production. What’s worse, the ongoing Russian attacks on the vulnerable energy system offer few prospects of a quick fix that could right the situation before Ukraine enters its third winter of the war.

Since early this year, Russia has set out to finish the job it failed to complete in early 2023—the destruction of Ukraine’s civilian energy sector, especially the power plants that provide light and heat for millions of Ukrainians.

Beginning in March, Russia has specifically targeted Ukraine’s biggest power plants in six massive waves of missile and drone strikes, wiping out about 9 gigawatts of electricity generation, or half the country’s total. Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky told a reconstruction conference in Berlin on Tuesday that Russian strikes have wiped out 80 percent of Ukraine’s big coal- and gas-fired power plants and one-third of its hydroelectric facilities.

Especially as a result of the last two big attacks, in early May and early June, Ukraine has had to ration electricity for industrial and residential consumers, leaving many with power for only short periods of time; some cities, such as Kharkiv, on the country’s eastern front line are virtually powerless. Russia’s assaults, which the U.K. ambassador to the United Nations has argued are in part an attempt to terrorize civilians, are even a subject for the U.N. Security Council.

As bad as Russia’s attacks have been so far, they could get worse. Russia has already hit some of Ukraine’s natural gas storage facilities—underground bunkers that are used to store fuel both for domestic needs and to backstop European consumption. Further Russian strikes there could expand the pain of energy attacks beyond Ukraine’s borders, right at a time when Europe is scrambling to find a solution for gas transit flows across Ukraine into landlocked Eastern European countries, especially Austria. 

The other big worry is that Russia, after having already destroyed Ukraine’s main sources of baseload power generation, will finally knock its remaining three nuclear power plants off the grid. (Russia has since the early days of the war occupied Ukraine’s Zaporizhzhia nuclear power station, using it as a shield for its occupation of south-central Ukraine, but the station—Europe’s largest nuclear facility—is in shutdown and not generating power.)

“It sounds mad to attack the nuclear power stations, but Russia could hit the transformers near the nuclear plants. If they did this, the power system will lose its unity, and the country will be split into different energy islands, some with spotty power and some entirely without,” said Andrian Prokip, an energy expert at the Wilson Center’s Kennan Institute in Kyiv.

The undeniable success of this year’s Russian assault is a sharp contrast to its ultimately failed bid in the first winter of the war to freeze Ukraine into submission. Russia has thrown more ordnance at more vulnerable targets this time around, leading to longer-lasting damage that will be far costlier to repair. Only after the big strikes in early May did Ukraine have to start rationing power to residential and industrial consumers. There is concern among big industry, such as the country’s once-vaunted steel and iron industry, that the power outages could kneecap what appeared to be a miraculous wartime recovery of industrial output.

“The difference is that before they mainly targeted transmission lines and substations and now they are destroying power generation plants,” said Slawomir Matuszak, a Ukraine specialist at the Centre for Eastern Studies in Warsaw. “The previous attacks were relatively easy to recover from—a question of days or weeks. But you’re looking at one to two years now for a real rebuild, if that even makes sense, because they can simply be attacked again.”

For Ukraine’s leaders, the renewed Russian strikes pose a threat to the country’s already strained ability to sustain years of unremitting bombing assaults, social and economic disruption, and the increased mobilization of service members. The new campaign has redoubled Ukraine’s desperation to bolster its air defenses in order to protect what’s left of its energy system. 

“Russia’s goal hasn’t changed—they seek to destroy our energy system and use it as a weapon against our citizens,” said Kira Rudik, a Ukrainian parliamentarian who leads the pro-European party Holos and who described the constant disruptions to daily life from the power outages that come atop Russia’s ceaseless use of stand-off weapons to batter civilian residences across the country, including her own. (Zelensky said Tuesday that Russia had launched 135 glide bombs in just the last day.)

“So we are saying, get us the F-16s, get us the Mirages, get us to this luxury point where we can go to bed and know that we will wake up in the morning,” Rudik said, referring to U.S.- and French-made fighter jets. “In Ukraine, we do not have this luxury.”

The increased pace of Russian attacks on Ukraine’s infrastructure has also injected fresh urgency into the question of how and when to leverage Moscow’s frozen assets for Ukraine’s assistance. U.S. and European leaders are working on a plan to turn the proceeds of frozen Russian cash into a large loan for Ukraine. For those on the receiving end of Russian attacks, even discussions such as those at the reconstruction conference in Berlin seem too focused on rebuilding Ukraine after the war, rather than reinforcing Ukrainians’ will to resist now.

“We need the money now,” Rudik said. “We have a simple task before us: to survive the summer and get through the winter somehow.”

Some Western countries are heeding Ukraine’s pleas for more air defense, which could help protect both cities and critical infrastructure from Russian attacks, especially after the devastation unleashed in the May and June strikes. Germany is now mulling the dispatch of a fourth Patriot air defense battery, with Chancellor Olaf Scholz urging allies to do more; Italy is preparing to send more air defense systems of its own, while even recalcitrant countries such as Spain are sending more air defense ammunition. Late last week, the Biden administration included more air defense missiles in its latest aid package for Ukraine.

Getting more air defense is a necessary but hardly sufficient condition to begin rebuilding Ukraine’s battered electricity sector. Even at big plants that had an air defense umbrella, such as Kyiv’s critical Trypilla generating station, Ukrainian forces simply ran out of ammo under Russia’s big assault in April; the plant was demolished. But even with better air defenses, energy experts doubt more than 2 to 3 gigawatts of power generation capacity could be rebuilt before winter. That would still leave a big shortfall in power generation, not to mention the ongoing damage to combined heat-and-power plants that provide central heating during Ukraine’s brutal winters.

One short-term, but expensive, fix would be to rely on more electricity imports from Europe. Just before this year’s Russian assault began, Ukraine was actually exporting excess electricity production to Europe—but that was soon reversed. Today, Ukraine can import about 1.7 gigawatts of electricity from Europe and in a pinch can even get more than 2 gigawatts of power. The problem is that imported electricity is more expensive than the subsidized power Ukraine generated at home, exacerbating the country’s already strained finances. 

The other solution, long broached in Ukraine, is to build more small, decentralized power plants, including small gas-fired turbines and renewable sources such as solar and wind power. The push for more renewables has actually increased during the war, and especially in the wake of this spring’s Russian onslaught, as Ukraine seeks new sources of power generation. 

On Tuesday, members of the G-7+ Energy Coordination Group and Ukraine’s government outlined plans to make the electricity sector more resilient, including through more distributed generation. European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen said Tuesday at the Berlin conference that Brussels is raising money for urgent power sector repairs as well as a host of small-scale generators. “The aim is to help decentralize the power system and thus increase resilience,” she said.

The biggest advantage of replacing hulking, centralized power plants with a lot of smaller, widely scattered sources of power is that they are a lot harder to blow up with scarce Russian missiles.

“If you have sources of microgeneration, and lots of them, then Russia will not have enough missiles to hit all of them, even if they knew where they were,” Prokip said. “So distributed generation is the right way to go, but the government didn’t take enough steps to do this when it could.”

[flubnuggetpurple]

Dove Cameron’s Alchemical album is so fucking bat coded I feel like a conspiracy theorist.

(This went off the rails at one point, so WARNING: vague mentions of sexual assault and being drugged without consent)

First song: Lethal Woman.

Cass, all over, right? The bridge is “she walks like a saint, floats like an angel, sharp like a knife under the table”

c o m e o n

Second song: Still.

“Man on the screen, they only see whatever you want them to see” and “Supernova self-erasing, hourglass is always draining”

Could be either Tim or Bruce, but I lean toward Tim because of “how dare you, dare me to love you, if you jump I will too” because whenever Tim decides he loves someone, he’s the ride or die, ends of the earth type, even if they don’t even know who he is. A) how and why he became Robin in the first place, B) The Cloning Thing, C) an argument could be made for the Captain Boomerang thing (but now that I think of it, I think I’m mostly basing this off fanon oh well ontotgenextone).

Song Three: Breakfast.

I will admit out the gate that this one’s a reach, so I’m just going to leave Selina here.

Song Four: Sand.

For this I’m thinking Tim or Jason, for different reasons.

For Tim;

“I saw the end when we began, you couldn’t love the way I can, I tried to bargain with the stars, for more than half your heart but you have more pieces of me than the dessert has sand, and I have less pieces of you than I could hold in my hand” and “our love’s misaligned, ‘cause you’re on my mind every night, I stretch out the time, and now I know why.”

I’m just making it obvious I read the Red Robin run, aren’t I?

For Jason:

“What's worse, being wanted but not loved, or loved but not wanted? What's worse, hearing what you wanna hear, or hearing what's honest?” And “What hurts, is the one thing that you wanna do, is the one thing that you shouldn’t do”

Pre-death Jason, but like, right after the Garzonas thing.

Song five: White Glove.

Okay hear me out.

This is part one of the Dick Grayson saga; the persona he shows to the public. This is Richie Wayne. This is every honeypot mission he went on too young, every woman he’s had to seduce for information (it’s one hundred percent happened before don’t fight me) every source of sexual trauma (that one I’m ninety percent sure is canon) that keeps him up at night.

And this guy’s been a vigilante for over twenty years, he can absolutely recognize drugs by sight, smell, and how they feel when he’s too late to notice something slipped in his drink. He’s felt nearly every strain of fear toxin and every one of Ivy’s pollens. If anyone knows their drugs it’s pretty boy Richie Wayne and Robin.

Song six: God’s Game

This one I’m definitely taking some lines out of context, but for Jason, “Just a boy with a man's face, playin' God's game” is when he’s taking over Crime Alley, pit-mad and trigger happy. “I prepare with so much care, I was runnin', it was stunnin', I am desperate from delusions, not much of a solution, never knowin' what the truth is, oh, God” is when hid plans start to fall apart, when Bruce slits his throat with a batarang, when eventually the pit-madness eventually starts to wear off and he realizes what all he did to Tim, who was a child at the time, not to mention Robin.

He nearly became what the Joker was to him to the next Robin, and I feel like at some point that would occur to him.

Song seven: Boyfriend.

(…Admittedly, I don’t think this one has any grounding in canon and if it does, feel free to educate me.)

So, obviously I could mention Kate Kane at this point, but I know basically nothing about her, so instead I’m going to talk about Steph.

So Steph has definitely had some shitty experiences with guys, right? Like, her dad to begin with, but also the guy who got her pregnant (at like fourteen? Maybe I’m just sheltered, but I don’t think anything about that relationship was heathy—again, I haven’t read many of the comics, so correct me if I’m wrong), then Tim, which, I love him as a character, but didn’t he date her in the mask for like, months, and I have some vague recollections of some dickish things he said (i know i know i need to read more comics)—whatever. Men are shitty.

I have a scene in my head. Like, Steph’s in college, at a bar with friends or something, maybe it’s an under cover op, idk, and there’s this girl she’s been lowkey watching all night. She doesn’t quite know why, but she just keeps catching her eye, and okay, it’s not like she’s never questioned her sexuality, she knows Cass. There have been Extensive conversations with Babs on the subject.

Anyway, so at some point, there’s obviously some sort of argument between the girl and the guy she came with and the girl’s crying, and Steph just Can’t Handle That.

She goes up to her, comforts her, makes a new friend, listens to the whole story.

And at some point, she has the thought.

“I could be a better boyfriend than him.”

She doesn’t necessarily do anything about it that night, but now that she’s had the thought, it won’t leave her alone.

Yeah. So. Maybe I’ll write that story later.

Song eight (last song): FRAGILE THINGS.

Dick Grayson part two; So your mentor (dad) just died, leaving you an angry murder child, another one hanging on by a thread after losing eighty percent of his support system, a grieving butler (grandfather), and a mantle the size of the Most Dangerous City in America. Any direction you move is going to hurt someone, and one kid is more likely to snap and murder people than the other, and hey, if you have to be Batman anyway, might as well let your brilliant kid brother be Nightwing, right? Except, whoops, you forgot to mention that last part and now Timmy thinks you just replaced him without telling him and fuck you knew you were forgetting something and now there’s a goddamned imposter Bruce and—

“Love is like a house of fragile things, where hearts can be broken as easy as antiques, and now there’s glass all shattered at my feet, what we built together, you left in smithereens.”

Anyway. This got kind of incoherent (or maybe it was from the start?)

I accidentally added a poll at the bottom and can’t figure out how to remove it, so.

[sirfrogsworth]

People are debating me over whether Elon is a rocket engineer or not.

I can't personally vouch for his engineering skills. That is just the information I was able to uncover. I don't have the energy to find it right now, but a Redditor did a huge deep dive on Elon's qualifications to call himself "Chief Engineer" at SpaceX. He did a great post with sources and links to interviews. I'm sure with some Google Fu you can find it. But he found many quotes from some of the most renowned rocket scientists in the world and they all said basically the same thing... Elon was an impressive rocket engineer. Some said he knew just as much as them. That he memorized textbooks. They even claimed he could do the CAD drawings if he needed to.

I would be happy to find something to debunk this. I have looked. But everything I found basically validated my initial findings.

I think people really really want Elon to be an idiot in all things. And he is... minus one. Him being good at something does not negate his awfulness. In fact, I think because he is good at one thing, that makes him believe he knows everything about everything.

Someone said he isn't an engineer because he doesn't act like a "real" engineer because he cuts corners and doesn't care about safety. Unfortunately, there are plenty of licensed engineers that purposely do sub par work for various dubious reasons. Shoddy engineering has been the impetus of many a lawsuit.

If you are saying he doesn't have the "spirit" of a real engineer, I would probably agree with you. He's certainly not an ethical engineer. Someone said he is a mad scientist rather than an engineer. Which is apt. But I think finding a proper description for him is obscuring the overall point I was trying to make.

Because he is talented and knows what he is doing, that makes his actions much more malicious. He was told that he needed to put in a flame trench or at least wait until the water-cooled steel plate was installed. But when he assessed the situation and determined he could probably get all the data he needed without those safety features, he chose the faster, cheaper solution.

I don't want to argue the semantics of what a "real" engineer is. He knows how to build rockets. And everything I've read says he builds them faster, cheaper, and better than the competition. And I think the reason for that is because he is willing to advance the technology without any concern for safety and ethics.

I don't think the problem is if he is an engineer or not.

I think the problem is that he is a horrible CEO. His unethical managerial skills are the issue.

I had a follower from NASA tell me that working with SpaceX was a huge headache. That even though they have many talented engineers, communicating and getting on the same page and meeting deadlines can be a nightmare.

Elon's chaotic management style is the problem.

Perhaps he should have memorized a few textbooks on how to be a good boss.

[nahalism]

when you are groomed by a society that calls leveraging people influence, or power, the commodification of self and other becomes the standard. people know what it is to win or acquire, but forget what it is to grieve. as such, they never learn that it is knowledge of death that teaches them how to live, until it is too late. — if, as implied, a person must die to grow, and do so many times before their physical death, we can perceive man made society for the pose holding contest it actually is. unconcerned with growth, and ever outrunning its own end, those who successfully function within it strive to imitate the curated parameters of personhood before them. aka. they perform their humanity, rather than living it — the mechanism of leverage, influence, and power that society uses to protect and self proliferate, becomes the only tool at its peoples disposal. as such people mirror the machine they operate within, learning to protect themselves, not knowing that without their humanity intact, there is nothing to protect. those who are committed yet unsuccessful, waste their life and waste the fruit that momentary encounters with the chance to change brought them. those who are successful, protect themselves so well they buy into their delusion. unlearning and unchanging, the substance of their life is diluted (legacy), and like all living things, they die. however unlike all living things not all get to truly live. this is what it means to lose.

its easy to blame or be mad at people who move in this way. its natural to be frustrated in the face of someone protecting themselves at the cost of you or others. but love is the only solution because its the only emotion strong enough and true enough to transcend the grasp of the illusion such individuals function under. as such, lovers must always love more. this is not a curse, but a gift, for we get what we give. more people dedicated to love over self gain need to stand in conviction of this and take pride in the purity of the love they give. realise you have been sold a lie. love is not a labour, but an honour to enact. each time you stand firm in your capacity to love, you do more than express your internal affections. you shift reality, and those who function in it, closer to toward fundamental nature. do not succumb to the idea that having the love you give be mistreated, or go unreciprocated, is be a source of embarrassment or a reason to love less. no love is wasted and nothing is given in vain. this is bigger than you, and bigger than the person(s) you may have allowed to misuse your love. take ownership, be self aware, and replace shame with pride. know the great value and rarity of not only what is it you have to give, but your willingness and capacity to actually give it.

[driftward]

Log entries 15-38

Log Entry 15

Her essence ebbs when nobody is present.

I first noticed on day three, when everyone left. From what I could understand, they did not intend to be gone long. Just wanted to give the Madam Commander a chance to rest, and also to discuss important matters. I thought about going with them. Would that have been spying?

It is so weird, being present not present. I am used to not experiencing the world as they do. I am not used to not being a part of it altogether.

Maybe I could go spying. I wonder what the Chirurgeon does when nobody is watching.

The Madam Archon was the first to notice. The rest were quick to figure out what was wrong. I had a solution, but I could not share it.

Resonance.

It is a simple matter of resonance.

She just needs another source of living aether nearby to remind her soul what it is to be alive.

Fortunately their is now a rotation. She is never left alone. And now her essence is slowly building. A few more days, perhaps she will be self sustaining once more.

I hope.

Log Entry 20

Madam Commander spoke for the first time today. There was a discussion in the room. The one she thinks of as a child was the one speaking. Which is weird. I do not know why she thinks he is so young. His soul is clearly fully quickened and mature. Still though. He said a swear word.

She did not wake up, but she did mumble “language.”

The others found this very funny. I found it funny how mad he got. And then he swore a whole lot more.

Log Entry 23

The Madam Commander woke up for the first time today.

Log Entry 24

The Madam Commander is non-verbal. She seems aware of her surroundings, though. I do not feel any distress from her. She seems comfortable. She reaches out to touch others a fair bit. Unusual for her. Some Field Scholars like to be hands on, others maintain a distance. She was the sort to be hands on with a patient, but otherwise she always kept a distance.

I wonder if this means something.

She feels content, though. Especially when certain people are around. I think she favors the Madam Archon, the Leftenant, and the Adept. A twinge of concern for the Crystalficer and the Assistant. Very mixed feelings, swirling, regarding the Chirurgeon and her Commander.

She sleeps a lot.

The other fairies still cannot see me. I thought the Madam Archon might be able to. She can not.

I have taken to inspecting the soul armature. I can feel the lesser part of myself inside of its soulwell. It is the same as me, it is different. I can see the Madam Archon’s mark upon its essence. It is not strong enough to awaken once more just yet, but maybe when it does, I can try talking with it.

There is so much to discuss.

Log Entry 29

I am a fairy construct. I was created by the Madam Commander and the Madam Archon to be an able familiar, to provide able tactical advantage, to perform field assessment, to be a ready medical assistant. The Azure is my natural home, the rivers my natural fields, aether the light of my reality.

Which makes it all the more frustrating that somehow the Amalgam -and- one of those Auri people keep being able to enter and leave the room without me noticing!

I think the Amalgam can even see me, but I cannot seem to interact with them. They just stare.

This is a severe shortcoming in my capabilities, and I will be talking to the Madam Commander about it.

Oh, on that note, she is talking now. Not to me though. She does not know I am here.

Frustrating.

Log Entry 35

I love them. I love them all. They are her friends, her comrades, and I feel as close to them as I do to my fellow fairy constructs. They keep her close, they keep close to one another. They are warm, their essences full, their energies flowing so free. Seas, each of them, flowing around her, sharing with her, keeping her close, reminding her of who and what she is, and now.

The Madam Commander is finally fully lucid. And it is thanks… to them.

Log Entry 38

The Madam Commander is mobile these days. She still needs assistance. I want to help. I do not know what veil keeps us separated.

I try to touch her sometimes. Sometimes I try our link, and I get brief glimpses of what it is like to be her. It is very confusing. She sees everything weirdly. And she is so tall!

We have fallen into a routine, now. One of her comrades helps her walk a certain distance. Someone is there to tend to her meals. Her sleep to wake ratio is growing closer to what I would consider normal. I have nothing to do, so I try to investigate what it is that keeps us separated, or why I cannot interact with anything, or try to talk to her, or try to talk to anyone, or inspect her essence, or inspect the essence of her friends.

Her essence. It is still so concerningly low. Fortunate whatever malaise is affecting her is not affecting me. I am fine. Great, even. Rich and full of aether.

Which is stupid. I do not need so much.

Madam Archon is concerned about it as well. She speaks with the Chirurgeon about it often. The Leftenant is often there. She listens.

I hope they figure it out.

-*-

Klynt’s rough, calloused hand ran gently across Zoissette’s, a thumb caressing her palm, fingers rubbing gently against the back of Zoissette’s hand.

“How’re you feelin’?” she asked, a gentle rumble in the quiet of her deep voice.

Zoissette just stared at her hand a bit. Klynt waited. She had long ago learned to be patient with Zoissette. Zoissette could be an awkward swan of a woman. Strong, elegant, powerful. But also weirdly delicate in some ways.

“Fragile,” said Zoissette at long last. Her voice had a slight croak to it. Mathye had said it was from disuse. Apparently, there had not been much need for conversation out in the space between worlds. “I get tired so fast.”

Klynt just shook her head a little. “There’s no need for you to do anythin’ ‘cept rest,” she said.

“I know,” said Zoissette.

They were quiet again.

“I am so, so sorry.” said Zoissette.

Her voice was so, so quiet. And Klynt instinctively responded in kind, even as she let go of Zoissette’s hand to wrap the woman in a hug.

“Don’t be,” said Klynt. “You did a dumb thing, we got you back, and you’re alright.”

Zoissette shuddered in her arms.

“I hope Lavender is okay,” she said, hoarsely. “I can still feel her, but…”

“We got you back,” said Klynt. “We’ll figure her out too, if we have to. But right now, you have to rest.”

Zoissette just nodded into Klynt’s shoulder, wetting her with tears. Klynt pretended not to notice, and just held Zoissette for a time.

-*-

I like the Leftenant. I think they are good for each other.

[princess-of-the-corner]

Thoughts?

https://www.tumblr.com/miraculouslbcnreactions/755012092183117824/hey-there-what-do-you-think-of-the-show-pulling-a?source=share

so within universe

The reason that they had Alix leave was because Monarch's last use of the Dog Miraculous had been to tag the Rabbit. If the Rabbit is in the same time as him, he can just use Fetch to recall it.

Now, I do think there may be alternate solutions. Such as giving the Rabbit to Future!Alix to keep safe. But you could argue some timestream nonsense of her trying to hold onto two Rabbit Miraculous.

So I can kinda roll with the bullshit. And as much as I joke 'they had to get Alix out because she's the class's one brain cell and wouldn't let shit get this bad', her being here or not really wouldn't have changed things because everyone's wild this season she'd be swept up in the class hivemind and not be able to argue logic outside of a snarky comment.

Now on the whole, ML is.... a hot mess with its Time Travel rules. There's One True Timeline, but also things can go fucky on that timeline without any outside input changing it, but also there's alternate timelines, but also the world can be rewritten by the Wish, and so on and so forth.

So they try to give a 'the Rabbit can't interfere because this is how it's supposed to go', but also she can interfere as she wants and we're going to make this setup so she can't anyway.

Really they need to hammer out more solid rules for the Rabbit and Timelines and stick to it, but when has this show ever done that?

Gabe suddenly caring more about beating Ladybug than saving Emilie /could/ work, even with his previously-established character through Season 1-3, as it's a sign of him spiraling down into madness and focusing more on 'winning' than fixing things or seeing the Wish as the only way to fix things even when handed other options. But Season 4-5 Gabriel doesn't have this character trait anymore and supposedly never did because *gestures to the retcons with the sentikids plot*.

I will give a point on the 'Nathalie didn't /see/ Gabe choose fighting LB over saving Emilie' bit. She shouldn't know that he did that. I can only assume that she guessed by the fact that like. Gabriel was with her in the present, and said that he was going to go back and save Emilie, but somehow failed. But there's no way that Ladybug would've been waiting to lay a trap for him in a time where he'd be able to save Emilie because LB doesn't know who he is or what he wants. Gabriel would've had to seek out Ladybug for her to get the drop on him again.

Overall.....

Yeah I do think that the team of 18/19 Heroes is a LOT. I try to balance it in my fics but tbh if I were to go back and make ML from scratch I think I'd cap it at half of that.

And with the Rabbit in particular, it needs some rules in place to keep it from being overpowered. The initial premise of a 'One True Ever-Retconning Timeline™, therefore it can only interfere when something causes it to diverge' is totally fine, as long as they stick to it! This would mean cutting the Shadybug Special, and giving an explaination for why things diverged in Chat Blanc, but I'm fine with that!