#modern day humanity still mentally trapped in ignorance

[chaoticgeminate]

Black Vultures (iii)

Summary: When your plane to a beach resort vacation crashes, nowhere near your destination, you have to depend on a stranger to protect you from horrors you never could have imagined.

Pairing: Pero Tovar x f!Reader

Rating: Explicit (Chapters with smut will be marked)

Notes/Warnings: Series involves general survival, cannibals, violence, and gore with body horror elements. This is based loosely off 'The Forest' and while I may have used a picture of Pero in armor we are working with a modernized Pero here.

**ILLNESS AND FAIRLY GRAPHIC VIOLENCE WARNING**

Written for @yearofcreation2023

Series Masterlist | Year of Video Game AUs Masterlist

i am the eye of the storm (3.7k)

He didn’t know what the hell to do, the sheen of sweat on your skin -which was already hot to the touch- told him what he needed to know, but not how to fix it. Your hands were still pink and inflamed around the injuries from the glass, it was only sheer luck -or maybe you were just that damn determined- that he could rouse you enough to drink water and eat the vegetation he managed to forage and clean. It had been two terrifying days of waking up at the slightest change of your breathing, of waking up when you fell too silent, and Pero was exhausted but he was also scared.

The cannibals -what else was he supposed to call them?- had been edging closer and closer to the stand and only the litany of new traps he kept setting each day seemed to deter them. It was not a great thing for him to be back in this place mentally, taking lives so… carelessly. He didn’t even have the blanket reasoning that he was doing it for the sake of his country or at someone else’s command, this was killing for the sake of survival but it was still killing. Taking the lives of native people to this area for the sake of survival, as if he had more of a right to live than they did when he’d invaded their home even if it wasn’t intentional, and he knew that he was going to need a lot more therapy following this venture.

If he made it out of this alive.

Pero looked across the field, his binoculars offering him a better range and a better chance at spotting trouble sooner, and he was only mildly relieved that the people seemed to be willing to ignore your presence for now. What worried him was the fact that he was seeing more of those monsters around, the horrific ones with hooked feet and no faces as well as hulking deformed ones with stunted arms and shambling walks due to their bloated bodies. Some even had four pairs of legs, were just a hunk of body with legs, like someone had been ripping humans apart and putting them back together.

He had only ever seen anything remotely close to this once, when his squadron had been tasked to assist the Chinese military in an investigation of an underground cave system, and even then it was animals that they’d discovered and not people. His fidgeting stilled and Pero wondered if the two countries had begun experimenting with what they’d managed to bring back, whispering curses as he began to fiddle with his satellite phone again, and he glanced at you once more.

Still sleeping, breathing labored, still feverish; each moment that you went without medicine, without proper care, was another moment that increased the likelihood you weren’t going to make it. He grabbed the journal from his grandfather, with survival tips and recreated pictures of things like edible plants, and searched through the pages to see if he could at least forage something to help you. He stopped on cleavers, or galium aparine as his grandfather so helpfully included, and whispered a soft promise to your unconscious form as he began to descend from the stand to start hunting in the immediate area.

Pero ignored the ringing in his ears, the way his heart was racing as horrific memories of what he’d experienced before started to resurface in the face of… this. The gun he’d found was a comforting weight against his lower back, a promising and guaranteed kill on the human threats at the bare minimum, and Pero began to hastily search the various weeds and plants while praying to whatever God could hear him that they showed mercy on you.

He spent hours looking, until he had no light, finding only a few small sprigs of the plant and hurrying up to where you were shivering and terrified. You startled badly when he pulled himself up, likely thinking he was a threat, and Pero captured your hands when you tried to shove him away. He watched your half-lidded eyes blink rapidly in the dim twilight as you began to recognize him.

“Pero?”

“Por favor, bonita, I need you to rest.” He boiled the plants down in water, uncaring how low his mini-propane tank was starting to run at this point, and carefully supported the cup when it had steeped long enough so you could drink. He could feel himself shaking, hating that he couldn’t get his body to remain calm anymore now that you were in such bad shape, and Pero made sure you drank all of the tea before feeding you some of the beef jerky and trail mix he had left in his pack. If you were going to survive you needed protein, more than what foraged plants would offer, and he wasn’t going to let you go out without trying his hardest to do something.

Your breathing evened out after another few minutes with him lightly carding his fingers along your scalp and he began singing you a soft lullaby, not remembering the name or the English words, and you fell asleep to the soft Spanish tune. Pero looked over the edge of the stand into the dark, seeing the eyes of the people shining back in the darkness when he used his flashlight to inspect the empty space, and he watched one of the idiots step right into the spiked pitfall. The wet sound of wood tearing through skin and bone, the loud scream of pain, echoed in the dark and Pero watched as most of the others left after retrieving the body carefully.

But there were more of those mutant things lingering around and he only managed to get a few hours of rest, waking up whenever the sound of cracking sticks or the flutter of wings of birds fleeing their perch broke the noise of the insects that had become a constant background noise. His hope for survival was starting to fade as your fever evened out, as your breathing sounded worse, as another day passed by and his inability to get long hours of rest began to take its toll on him.

“Can anyone… found remnants… survivors?”

His satellite phone crackled in the early morning, rousing Pero enough from his first deep rest in a week, and he quickly snatched the device up to try and get a better signal while looking over the edge of the stand for any signs of danger.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” The grip he had on his sat phone was so tight he was worried he might break it, carefully checking your temperature again, and you blinked up at him with a little bit more clarity on your face today. A small blessing, even if you were still burning all your calories shivering, the cold combined with your illness was delaying your potential recovery. He was certain that if the weather was a little bit better you would have started to recover by now.

“Pero? I don’t feel good. I think my cuts got too bad.” He had hoped you weren’t the type to have the knowledge of how long an infection could go untreated before it got risky, that you’d be blissfully unaware, but he should have known better than that. Even if you weren’t an outdoorsy camping type, or if you were you hadn’t been prepared for anything this extreme, you probably knew as well as he did how short the fuse was in situations like yours.

“You’re going to be okay, bonita, I promise.”

“Copy, we’ve adjusted our signal, can you hear me sir?”

“Yes, I can. Please, I have someone who is suffering from an infection and needs medical help as soon as possible.”

“We’ve got your location signal, dispatching a team now, please comply upon meeting to avoid unnecessary aggression.”

“Understood, please hurry.”

He understood the reason for the request, everything here was an unknown, even if he didn’t like the idea that they would potentially be aggressive with you in your condition, so Pero began cleaning and packing up everything he could to make it that much easier to get out of here. He hoped that they had either seen the cannibals or mutants, so that they didn’t think the two of you had lost your minds, but he also hoped they didn’t. It was terrifying, the truth of what could exist in the wilds, and he was torn between wanting it to be known and wanting as few people as possible to be scarred by the horrors of knowledge.

Thunderous sounds were the warning, Pero looked down to see one of the shambling things charging toward the base of the stand; the entire structure rocked dangerously as it collided with one of the thick base legs, somehow missing all the traps he’d set in the process. His curse was loud as he pulled out the gun, aiming down and shooting where the base of the neck was supposed to be, the creature made a sound similar to an angry bull and began backing away due to the shot.

This time it hit the edge of a spiked pitfall, dropping into the pit and impaling itself on the sharpened wooden spikes, and Pero was about to radio back to whoever was supposed to rescue them when he heard the sound of helicopter blades over the screaming as what looked like a horde of blood covered cannibals ran across the field from inside the woods. The chopper was mowing them down with its gun, while two soldiers were on either side of the open doors to fire their own weapons, and the chopper began to hover when the pilot noticed him waving.

The gun was powerful and Pero hunched over you with his ears covered, your hands on your own ears, as the weapon kept firing; he heard the softest whimper escape you and kissed your forehead, promising you over and over under the hail of gunfire that you were okay and it was almost over.

When only the sound of the helicopter blades and the feeling of the wind remained Pero dared look, seeing the vehicle landing among the piles of bodies and the sea of blood, soldiers in hazmat suits jumping out of the side doors. After confirming the rescue on his SAT phone he scaled down with his bag first, dropping it on the ground and going up to fetch you next. You were clinging to him, draped over his shoulders, and when he touched down the soldiers that had begun traversing over stopped. Pausing just at the line of trees upon seeing the spiked pitfalls that had been walked through already, he hoped to hell they didn’t take that as a reason to hurt you, the soldiers raised their guns and Pero stayed as still as he could with you on his shoulders.

“Are there more traps, sir?”

“Yes, I had to keep us safe-“

“Understood, please come to us and move slowly. Keep your hands where we can see them.”

Pero kept his grip on you, using the toe of his boot to make sure he didn’t accidentally trip one of his own traps, and as he began to set you down where it was safe your legs just refused to work; you sat down gracelessly, leaning against his legs and wheezing softly, with your arms weakly up in the air and the two hazmat clad soldiers approached slowly.

“We’re going to cuff you, a precaution only until we know what we’re dealing with, and bring the two of you back to base camp where you’ll be given health checks and nutrients.” He knew why it was necessary, any safety precautions were going to seem extreme, since there was no telling if it was a sickness that caused those things or what even if Pero was pretty sure that wasn’t possible.

He nodded and you looked up at him, brows pulled together in fear, but you didn’t have the energy to fight even if you tried and Pero didn’t want to risk you getting hurt because he refused to comply; one of the soldiers helped you up, allowing you to lean on them as they walked you back to the helicopter and Pero was asked to hold his bag as he was escorted back with the other one who kept his gun raised. The sight of the bodies on the ground, the blood staining the bottom of your sneakers, made him think of the nightmare he endured in China but Pero shoved that down.

It was a short ride to base camp and Pero’s brows shot up when he saw a uniform clad man talking with a petite woman in blue, both of which he recognized, and William’s surprise turned into a smile. One that was both apologetic and amused, it was naturally some sort of crazy bullshit that would put them in his path again.

“Pero, I never thought- we’ll get you both taken care of and then we can catch up.”

“Indeed, you’re safe now, Pero.”

With Lin and William here, Pero knew that he had to be dealing with something like the tao tei, his best friend had stayed with Lin and taken up the role of a specialist in matters like this while Pero had signed multiple NDAs and gotten out. You were taken to a different tent and he couldn’t help the way his throat tightened or his body went rigid now that you were out of sight, he trusted William but not anyone else here.

Not with you at least.

You weren’t in the best shape, your head hurt and everything was still very fuzzy, but you did as the medical professionals requested as best you could with your wrists cuffed. It hurt and though you felt slightly better it wasn’t great at all.

“Did any of them bite you?”

“No, I- I stabbed one of them with broken glass from the plane window though. The glass cut my hands, even though I’d wrapped it in a shirt.”

“Okay, thank you.”

As much as you wanted to know what they were testing you for… you also didn’t want to know. Each little blood vial, each skin scraping, each saliva swab were run through a litany of machines as they hooked you up to an IV. After what felt like eons, but was more reasonably only an hour, they undid the cuffs on your wrists and began using a wet rag and warm -clean- water to get the dirt and grime off your skin.

“It looks like you got lucky, we’re giving you a high dose of antibiotics via IV to blanket treat your infection and we’ll have you under monitoring for a week before attempting to move you. Let’s get you cleaned up, comfortable, and we’ll get some food in you.” The relief you felt at being okay made you nod, tears forming in your eyes, and once you were brought to the main treatment tent where Pero was talking with a man and woman as he washed himself off the tears fell faster as your body shook from relief.

“¡Bonita! Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Pero’s tone was sharp as he glared at the woman wheeling you over to where they were, more than ready to rise to your defense, so you hurried to reassure him before he got himself hurt.

“Okay, ‘m okay, just happy that its over.” He nodded and tapped his forehead to yours once you were settled, looking equally relieved and yet not offering an apology to the medic, and he finished cleaning up before taking the MRE that was handed to him as well as yours to prepare them. It felt good to just cry, to know that you were safe and that you could go home, that while you were forever going to question what was real and what was fake you weren’t alone in that position.

Once you managed to get yourself under control Pero began feeding you, promising that he’d taken the worst of the two menu choices, and you listened as he talked to you the entire time. His friends were still there, sitting quietly on another cot, and you felt safe for the first time in a week.

“I was a soldier, joined the Marines right out of high school to get out of my small town, I wanted to see the world and that seemed like the best way. To see mi mama’s home city in Spain, to go to Greece, it was fulfilling even if it was shit conditions and leadership that didn’t care about us. I signed for ten years, the wars led to me being kept on of course, but then William and I were sent to China.” He had a very steady cadence, with you not interrupting as he fed you the tasteless elbow macaroni in tomato sauce, his ‘cheese tortellini’ looked worse so you were more than okay with what he’d picked for you.

“It was a show of good faith to work with the Chinese soldiers, to quell the rumors of war that people were spreading all over the internet, and we found cave systems filled with monsters. Nothing like this but not entirely different either, I was given the choice to walk away and I took it, we’re both going to have to sign a litany of NDAs. We’ll have to negotiate therapy, unfortunately.” You nodded, unsurprised that the military was going to be stingy with allowing you mental health assistance after this, and Pero chuckled ruefully as he began preparing some of the snacks and sides from the MRE.

“Pero was a hell of a friend to have out there, facing the tao tei, but there are times I wonder if I should have done the same as him. I’m William Garin, by the way, and this is Lin Méi. We’re part of a special task force that… handles things like this. When the first rescue chopper was brought down it was decided to dispatch our team.” You nodded at the two others and noticed that Pero seemed less relaxed than he should have been, you were safe so you didn’t quite understand the reason he looked so tense.

His eye had been treated, the butterfly bandages replaced now that the area had been cleaned properly, but it didn’t look infected so that couldn’t be what was bothering him.

“Bonita, you will be safe here. I am… I am going to be joining William and Lin Méi to investigate a potential cause of those monsters. Promise me that you’ll listen to what you’re told, unless it is something entirely out of line, and that you will be here when I get back.” His voice was soft and pained, like he didn’t want to go, and that nervous energy under your skin got worse even as he fed you the strange crackers and cheese.

“I don’t like it, I want you safe Pero. You don’t have to leave, you’re not active service anymore.” The idea of him not being here was terrifying, he’d been the only reason you even made it this far, and you didn’t know any of these other soldiers at all or if they were decent people. You also knew that it wasn’t supposed to be protocol that he went with them, which meant he volunteered for whatever reason and his friends were indulging his demand. Even the thought of being away from him had your panic rising, you knew it was just trauma causing you to feel safer with him around, you couldn’t get your body to calm down.

“Bonita, listen to me. While you’ve been ill all I could do was observe those creatures, I know more about their habits and their behaviors and will be an asset to William and Lin. It will help guarantee that we all make it out of this okay and potential shut down whatever has led to this happening. I do not want to leave you but I want to ensure that you, and everyone else, is safe from this nightmare.” He gripped your hands and kissed your newly bandaged palms, watching your face carefully, and you found yourself looking away from him and nodding. You knew he was right, you knew it made sense, but you still didn’t like it.

“I will come back to you, I will come back for you, I promise.”

Pero didn’t stay long after that, long enough to make sure you’d eaten your entire meal and downing his, but after that he disappeared to get changed into a spare uniform and stopped by without Lin or William following him. The medical tent was mostly quiet and Pero cupped your chin, his touch was gentle, and his cocoa eyes softened before he drew closer to you.

“I promise, Bonita, I will return.”

“You had better, Pero. I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.”

Watching his lashes flutter slightly, feeling his breath against your lips, you closed the gap yourself between his lips and yours, with what was out there you had no idea if he would come back and you weren’t going to risk not knowing what his kisses were like. Pero’s lips were chapped and rough but you didn’t care, he made a sound against your mouth before overwhelming you as he cupped the back of your head to angle you the way he wanted you and deepen the kiss. It was like an all out attack and you found yourself unable to do anything but surrender to the intensity of his mouth on yours.

His eyes were hooded when he parted, not too far from your mouth like he couldn’t stand to be too far away from you for even a second, but he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips and stood up before squeezing your hand.

“Wait for me.”

“Don’t make me wait long.”

When he nodded and turned around, leaving through the tent flap, your eyes started to water and your hands shook when you heard the various commands being given about who was going where. Until the ATV he was assigned to took off, leaving you at the camp with only soldiers you had never met and a fear that he wasn’t going to come back.

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[ericleo108]

05/26/2023 Click here for Spotify, Apple Music, or Youtube. “John Wick” is my 45th official release. This song is edutainment, or educational entertainment which is music that teaches you. The song is intellectually stimulating but dark and contains an all to common story of what those who are trafficked experience. The song was self-recorded, and mixed and mastered by Keyano. The beat is from Retro Beatz, and the cover art is made by Zain from Fiverr.

This is a remake from ‘The Chalice Mixtape’ I made in 2017. I have more songs from the mixtape and demos from SoundCloud on the way. The theme of ‘The Chalice Mixtape’ was gender equality which human trafficking broadly falls under. We all have that feeling of wanting to stop evildoers but the truth is this the solution is simpler, being as trafficking will probably continue to prosper until we legalize prostitution.

As the song enunciates, pimps entrap girls from a young age and the practice of prostitution is illegal so they can’t get assistance from the state, they’re seen as criminals. Then due to their criminal status they’re not able to get a job and are tapped in a life controlled by a pimp. This means the current law gives power and economic control to usually male abusers in an unregulated market.

Pimping/illegal prostitution is all driven by money. If you take away the money you take away the motivation and agency. This is why I support legal brothels. The current economic model of prostitution depends on pimps that have no competition, don’t pay taxes or payroll, and are violent against women. How is this capitalism? I support legalizing prostitution because its the only way to put human trafficker’s out of business.

Prostitution is natural.   Prostitution is the oldest known profession. When you introduce money to monkeys the rich ones will pay for sex. We are denying people’s humanity by making prostitution illegal. Sex work is work and women deserve to be paid well for their work in a safe environment just like any other worker. In America if you pay for sex, it’s illegal, unless you film it, then it’s porn and legal. If you would like to help victims of human trafficking you can donate to wearethorn.com

You can see me talk about this blog post from last Sunday Update here:

Lyrics:

A threat to justice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere

Ain't shit changed since the days of slavery

Still got the modern-day slave trade functioning every day

Low risk, high profitability 

More slaves today than ever before in history 

Girls get taken, 

Liam Nelson don't save um 

We look to Ashton Kutcher to search for their placement

I'm just telling you cuz I want Thorn paid big

Human trafficking, a fact you see

A tragedy in the vicinity 

Forced prostitution, involuntary servitude

Tell me bought your conscience, and what it really do for you

Millions oppressed

In a life of regret  

Under duress 

Exploited for sex 

Seventy percent women

Most are children 

Man I’d be god damn if I don’t stop the villain

Batman wouldn’t kill, put another murderer in the world 

But forget it I’m a kill 'em, I’d rather save the little girl 

Being a victim is like falling asleep

And having Freddy Krueger stuck in your dreams

I’mma go hard, change the laws, and stop this

Like someone stole my car and killed my dawg, John Wick

Being a victim is like falling asleep

And having Freddy Krueger stuck in your dreams

I’mma go hard, change the laws, and stop this

Like someone stole my car and killed my dawg, John Wick

A daughter at play 

She gets taken away 

Is forced to obey 

Becomes mentally estranged 

While the world ignores this

She gets sexually exploited

Addicted to the endorphins 

She got forced in

Feed drugs so she’s addicted

Does anything for her fix again 

She don’t know who the victim is

Cuz she’s been in it since she’s a kid 

Prey are the vulnerable

Children who run from home 

Kids from foster care

That get lost and no one cares

Needs money to survive 

Trapped in this life 

Coerced for prostitution 

Soon enough, what she do is 

Gets caught, at fault

For breaking the law 

Spends years in a vault

While her pimp gets to walk

Being a victim is like falling asleep

And having Freddy Krueger stuck in your dreams

I’mma go hard, change the laws, and stop this

Like someone stole my car and killed my dawg, John Wick

Being a victim is like falling asleep

And having Freddy Krueger stuck in your dreams

I’mma go hard, change the laws, and stop this

Like someone stole my car and killed my dawg, John Wick

You can get mad at me 

Not understand these things 

But I’m here for you girl we’re family

Thirty three billion in traffic 

Where’s that money from the taxes? 

I’m for legal brothels 

So we protect what we got there

Oldest job in history, it’s called employment 

Look I know your business, I’mma force you to quit

I wonder what would happen 

If we gave Philip Defranco a gat then

Told him in three states it’s legal to track down 

Petafiles, sex offenders, you can kill’um if you act now

I’d be with Phil laughin, admiring his passion 

After we beat them senseless

Tortured their senses 

Broke their mentals 

And cut off their genitals, 

But for real all my real friends kill on the weekend 

Pop a beer, eat the heart out of the deceased then

Hang’um from a tree, peel the skin off, disembowel them 

I’m really thinking of you pimps and how it all will end 

Human skin has the texture of pig flesh 

What you gonna do when I want it from you next 

Who crazy, who knew, I have schizophrenia fool

And I just want you to know that I’m thinking of you 

Being a victim is like falling asleep

And having Freddy Krueger stuck in your dreams

I’mma go hard, change the laws, and stop this

Like someone stole my car and killed my dawg, John Wick

Being a victim is like falling asleep

And having Freddy Krueger stuck in your dreams

I’mma go hard, change the laws, and stop this

Like someone stole my car and killed my dawg, John Wick

[harrelltut]

卍 I Celestially ENGINEER RINGS AROUND [RA] My HIGHLY ADVANCED [HA = HARRELL] SYSTEMS of Astral Technologies from the UNSEEN Radiation of NEPTUNE [SATURN] in 2020 as I Cosmically RELEASE the Retrograde Vortex ENERGIES [VE = VENUS] from MERCURY'S Elemental [ME = U.S. Michael Harrell = TUT = JAH] UNIVERSE [JU = JUPITER] since I BEE So Astronomically INTELLIGENT [A.I. = ANUNNAKI] like Nubian Archangel [NA = NĀGA] SATAN who Angelically MATERIALIZED from Planetary SATURN II Earth in COSMIC DARKNESS 卍

[inkdemonapologist]

So from what I understand about your understanding of Sammy both in canon and the escape au, a lot of his hesitation about leaving this awful situation was due to the stigmas of the time(mental illness/health and homosexuality)/ his demeanor. If the game took place in more modern times that were/are more accepting and less bothered towards people with Sammy’s temperament, do you think it would end better for him? Everyone? Would Joey have any real power over him in this scenario? Or would Sammy’s inner turmoil doom him to same fate as canon.

Living in modern day doesn’t mean Sammy would suffer no stigma for his pretty visible neurodivergence, or that he would even necessarily accept being autistic, or get medication/therapy for whatever mental disorder is making him certain that a cartoon mascot is Watching Him. I do think Getting Therapy That Works For Him would be the most likely to make a difference in his life, but that’s more because Sammy… has a lot of self-sabotaging behaviour that he could really benefit from unpacking.

There’s a lot of factors to the composer’s demise, but I think some of it was just… personality. I tend to read Sammy as, deep down, preferring “safe” to “happy,” and tbh I don’t think he treats happiness as a high priority. Since TIOL, I’ve definitely read into the song Lawrence & Fain perform – a song explicitly about sticking with a bad friend because at least you know where you stand with him – and I think that attitude fits with what we know of Sammy already from BatIM. Trapped in a violent world of monsters, Sammy invents a religion and willingly becomes a loyal disciple of the monster that seems most powerful, remaining faithful as that monster ignores him for years. This is a man who desperately needs structure and something to believe in, who doesn’t believe he can survive on his own – and I think that was still true when he was human, even if it manifested differently.

Joey absolutely could still have power over his employees. And, like, even if you took Sammy out of the closet for a modern day incarnation, abuse hasn't exactly stopped being a problem in the entertainment industry today. Relationship or not, I don’t think Sammy would be one of the people coming forward; I think he’d be one of the people defending Joey’s mistreatment and manipulation as part of a normal, tough workplace… because otherwise, he would have to admit to being a victim, and he would have to cut off his own safety net. That’s not to say he’s doomed, but things sure could play out the same.

I guess the real question is, if Sammy lived in a world where he was significantly more free to fully be himself, would he then be able to value himself, trust himself, enough to leave? It would still be a really hard choice, I think.

[guqin-and-flute]

[I am once again giving you an unrelated fanfic. Have some Modern married Xiyao.

Potential CW: poor anger coping skills?, very brief mention of suicidal ideation in internal dialogue. It's an errant thought and he doesn't actually mean it]

Jin Guangyao is upset. What's more upsetting is that he doesn't know why he's upset--this lack of information rankles him more than the feeling. He's used to feeling badly. That's how life is. But without a name, there is nowhere to file it away neatly. It is easier to ignore the sharp sting of a newly noticed cut than this fucking awful malaise that has apparently decided to settle over him with no rhyme or reason like he's some stupid idiot in an artsy French film, slowly choking down filtered cigarettes on some rusty balcony against a sunset or something.

That's not what he does. He is efficient. He is useful. And when he is like this, he is not.

And he still doesn't know why. And the fact that he cannot categorize and escape this has the ennui sliding slowly into a slow boil of tooth grinding fury.

Had it been the morning traffic? The fact that the library had emailed to inform him of a delay on his inter-library loan? The fact that his overpriced coffee was just a tiny bit burnt? The fact that Zixuan had taken a sick day today and so had not brought the soup his wife had promised Jin Guangyao for lunch? It shouldn't be, because these are all so horrifyingly trivial.

He has a tension headache beginning to string itself along his temples. He hates that the receptionist has a perky goodbye ready. He hates that the sun is shining so brightly. Then, he hates that the shadows of the clouds when they pass make things look grungy and dull. He hates that there is a flap of leather from his steering wheel that has peeled up in the back from his picking and he can feel it rubbing against his index finger as he stares, white knuckled and unblinking into the brake lights ahead of him as this bubbling pique crescendos as slowly as one of Xichen's beloved classical music pieces.

In fact, one is playing on the radio, softly, just within hearing range. The quiet, shrill edge of violins makes him want to kill something. Maybe himself. There's a bridge coming up in half a mile. He, very sanely, presses the button on the dash that turns it off instead of doing any of those things. The thought of Xichen has a voice of reason suggesting that he might meditate, while trapped here, 10 minutes from home.

Instead, he jabs a button on his fancy, stupid steering wheel with this thumb. An attentive computer noise beeps. The sudden noise in the relative silence of the car makes him dig his nails into the leather. "Text A-Huan," he snaps.

"Okay! What would you like the message to be?"

Jin Guangyao is going to find whoever programmed this faux-friendly robot voice and make them watch him drown their entire family in a toilet. "I. Hate. Everything."

Beep. "Okay! Your message reads; 'I hate everything'. Send?"

"Yes, send," he seethes before it can fully finish.

There is no plan to this. None at all. He just needs something real to sink his metaphorical teeth into. A reasonable anchor to reality to tell him whether or not he's being stupid and terrible for no reason at all.

Even though he already knows that he is.

The response returns in 43 seconds. Jin Guangyao had been counting. The cheery beep sounds just as the very stale green light turns yellow ahead. He presses the gas. "One message from A-Huan."

The light blinks red while he is only 1/4th of the way through the intersection. The lead car of the adjacent left turners beeps and he bares his teeth at her because he isn't fucking invisible, he's in a high profile gold Lexus and she had definitely seen him fucking coming. He stabs the button that makes the car read him the message.

"'Oh no. Bad day? Want to call? Blue heart emoji'," the female robot voice chirps in a butchery of his husbands words and no, no, he does not, because, at this point, it would simply be a minute long sustained scream of rage over literally nothing at all. He should have kept it to himself and found a quiet place to throw rocks at a wall or something until he wasn't such a repellant time bomb.

He does not reply because if he hears that robot voice again, he's going to commit vehicular homicide. And being arrested would not calm him down.

Finally, traffic parts and he pulls into his driveway--he notices how the bush on the side of the house's branches are creeping up to scrape the window of the kitchen and makes a mental note to send a curt text to the landscaper about his pruning habits. Why are they paying him several hundred dollars a month to let a stupid bush get unruly enough to damage the paint on his window trim?

When he slams his door shut, he hears a loud CLACK that announces that he has just closed his seatbelt in the door and lost the last tenuous thread of his temper. Heaving the door back, he plants his other hand up on the black plastic next to the window and smashes it shut again with all of his strength. Repeatedly. CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK--Chunk.

Breath hissing between his teeth, he jerks his suit jacket straight, loosens his tie and stalks to the house. The garage door groans to life behind him. Xichen had been watching.

Perfect.

He's nowhere to be seen when Jin Guangyao slams through the backdoor like a vicious thundercloud, which is good and probably intentional, because it allows him to wrestle off his shoes, jacket, and tie in privacy. This does nothing to release any pressure, because it must be intentional wrestling--controlled and confined so he doesn't pop off a button or rip a seam or scuff the shining black leather. Now he's seething in their immaculate, state of the art kitchen, hating how the cold tile feels against his black dress socks and the fact that it smells like tea. Which is stupid. Because he likes tea. But not right now.

Stop being a piece of shit, he snarls at himself. You've already probably fucked up the car and Xichen doesn't deserve this. He balls up his fists so tightly that the bright pain from his nails sinking into his palms leaks up his arms. Be better.

He has no idea how to do that because he has no idea what is wrong.

Reason says to steer clear of Xichen until he can get a hold of himself and behave like a fucking adult. And in the early days of their relationship, he would have. He had. Whenever he got like this, he would shut down or not have inflicted himself on Xichen at all with a smooth lie, and no amount of prying would get anything useful out of him because he would not be a bother. There had been Talks. Long, extensive Talks about trust and love and wanting to take care of him. He had even believed some of them. That's how they can be married, now, years later--Xichen knowing just how close he is to this at all times. How thin his veneer of manners and pleasantries actually is. (He can't truly know, though, can he. If he knew how much none of it makes sense, there is no possible way someone as kind and intelligent as him would choose to stay.)

Xichen would purse his lips if he said this out loud; somewhere between exasperation and sad fondness. Jin Guangyao doesn't tell him, anymore. Most of the time because he doesn't actually think this.

This is not most of the time.

Yes, reason says that he should suck it up and become a human being before burdening Xichen.

But his husband has long, cool hands and soft eyes and a brilliant mind that can solve any problem just by holding it and maybe he just wants to be small and angry and ugly and pathetic and selfish in the comfort of his own home while someone reminds him that there have been, in fact, good things that have happened in his life and he had been, at one time, happy--believe it or not.

And if nothing else, it compounds his streak of bad decisions.

The smell of tea intensifies when he reaches their room. The curtains are drawn. It renders the deep, dusty blues of the bed spread and the armchair black and the aged gold accent pieces muted, except for where the warm light pouring from their open bathroom door paints them bright again. Xichen sits on the edge of their bed in the soft, expensive loungewear Jin Guangyao got him for his birthday last year, one ankle on his knee, watching him with eyes just as soft as he had been expecting. A mug of tea is tucked into his hand and a plate with round, lumpy shapes sits by his hip. Beside that lays spread out the absurdly oversized and absurdly soft heather gray shirt that Nie Huaisang had gifted to him as a joke but was, in fact, one of Jin Guangyao's guilty pleasure sleep shirts.

With his perfect voice and his perfect logic and his perfect way of being the only good thing on this entire, worthless planet, his husband says, "I think you need to scream into this pillow."

'This pillow' is, in fact, one of theirs, dark blue with a thread count that was higher than any savings he ever had in college, perched on a bundle of blankets that is the perfect size to throw himself upon like a sulking romance heroine. He hates it. Hates that this is known, that this might help.

So he fucking does it. He deliberately stalks around the bed, climbs up, smashes his face into the pillow and screams as loudly as he can. With every single ounce of rage in his body, curling him up like the shriveling of a raisin in fast forward, like the curling of a scorpion tail, like throwing up, wringing every last scant molecule of oxygen out of his lungs.

When the sound peters out and he has to drag in another breath, he curls tighter, the claws of his hands reaching over the top of the pillow to fist in his hair. It presses the plush of it firmer over his face and bites it until his teeth ring with dull pain, and his jaw aches and his head throbs and his eyes sting. His scalp burns from the pull on his hair and his throat is raw and tight.

Tearing himself away, finally, he gasps in a gulp of cooler air. Xichen has turned so he is now cross-legged at the foot of the bed, watching him with a mix of calm and understanding sympathy. "Lay down?"

There is a ragged, hollow hole in him that still has scraps of rage clinging to it like disgusting lichen--but the visceral, all consuming hate seems to have been absorbed by his pillow. So he lets himself roll sideways, eyes closing. Xichen gets off the bed--Jin Guangyao assumes, wearily, that he's putting down the tea mug and hopes that he uses a coaster--and then returns by knee walking up the bed to his side. Then, those cool hands he had been hoping for pick open the tiny hard buttons of his shirt. Each pop releases a a tension across his skin and he feels that he can breathe easier with every one.

Jin Guangyao can hear him breathing, slow and measured, through his nose and thinks that it's probably the most comforting sound that he's ever heard in his entire life--now that he's willing to be comforted. Able to be. The reminder of Xichen's continued existence is the only sound he will ever need to be calm again.

The button up is abandoned in favor of undoing his belt--breath, more of it, infiltrating him deeper and deeper--popping the button on his slacks, tugging them down his legs in a warm slide. The quiet clink of it being tossed somewhere. A closing quiet as Xichen leans in and presses his smooth lips to his forehead. Then the corner of his eyebrow. Then the bridge of his nose. Different points and planes of his face like he is unlocking a combination that will open him up and allow him to purge the rest of the awfulness that lingers.

What it mostly is is exhaustion, now. "A-Huan," he groans--whines. Ugh.

Before disgust at himself can settle in, his husband takes this as the invitation for what it is and kisses his mouth, gentle and slow. Jin Guangyao moves his mouth back, halfheartedly, mostly parting his lips to allow him access to do whatever. But all he does is kiss him chastely. Lovingly. He tastes like green tea. Then, Xichen murmurs against his lips, "Would you like a bath?"

He vents a negating grunt, lolling his head back and forth. Baths are so much work. Even when Xichen offered to wash his hair or read to him or even join him, you still had to keep it hot, you had to endure cold when you left, get yourself dry. Too much change, too much sensation and movement.

He should be shaking himself awake. He should be apologizing for his terrible, pointless mood. He should be trying to kiss him back, love him back, pay him back. Thank him.

Xichen merely lifts his hands and presses the heels of his palms into the hinges at Jin Guangyao's jaw, inexorably grinding the tension out of them. Jin Guangyao allows himself to melt. When those cool fingertips slide into his hair, he lets them tug him upright, so Xichen can slide off his button up and slip him out of his undershirt. He shivers against the chill of the bedroom air, but he doesn't feel a surge of utter hatred for the sensations so, well, that's something. In no time, Xichen has coaxed him into the oversized shirt, removed his socks and bundled him up against the padded headboard, tucked into Xichen's side.

Jin Guangyao allows this. He allows himself to allow the blanket to be tugged up over his bare legs, Xichen to tuck the warm mug of steaming mint tea into his hands, and wind his fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep, shuddering breath before sighing it all out. Xichen's fingers rub soothing circles across his sore scalp.

"Open?"

He cracks one eye to see a cookie hovering at mouth level. It's too dim in the room to properly tell what kind it is, but because Xichen has been perfect in literally every other way, he simply obeys and bites down. Browned butter and sea salt and semi-sweet chocolate ooze across his tongue and the instant spike of sugar satisfaction warms his chest. Jin Guangyao chews with utter contentment, swallows, and opens his mouth again.

"Good?" Xichen's amused voice vibrates warmly through his chest as he indulgently feeds him another bite.

"Mm. Very. Did you make them?"

"I did, earlier today. I just got lucky with the timing." His nails scrape oh so gently across his scalp. "How are you doing?"

Instead of answering, Jin Guangyao blinks up at him and his sweet, kind, ridiculously gorgeous face that is graced by a light smile and a gold edge light from the bathroom.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Being terrible."

"You're never terrible."

"I was today. I think I fucked up the car."

Xichen chuckles, smile crimping to a knowing press. "I saw. It won't be a big deal. We'll deal with it later."

"...Thank you."

"Of course, A-Yao. Do you still hate everything?"

"Mm-nn." He snuggles down deeper against his ribs, looping an arm around Xichen's warm waist. He has the best husband in his arms, his dark-sweet scent is in his nose, chocolate on his tongue, and 1000 count sheets against his skin.

What is there to hate?

[saanphoenix]

“Why do so many old-school FFVII fans think that Cloud took Zack’s memories?”

Alright, so first things first. We gotta start from the beginning. We gotta start with Jenova.

Jenova is the name given to the alien entity known as the Calamity. “Heaven’s dark harbinger.” This being, assumed to be female because of the body she was in at the Crater, was basically godlike in her natural abilities. Historically, she was able to shapeshift. She was telepathic. She had a nigh indomitable will. And she used her abilities to infect the race of human(oid)s that happened upon her crash site--the Cetra.

Now, Ifalna, within the English translation of the OG, states that Jenova turned the Cetra into monsters, nearly wiping them all out, and that the wee few that remained basically had to be sacrificed to seal Jenova away before she could do anymore damage to all life on the planet. The notes Sephiroth finds within the Shinra Mansion seem to corroborate this version of events, as he tells Zack that the Cetra chose to fight the Calamity while the other humans “hid”, thus being spared Jenova’s shenanigans, allowing them to become the dominant race on the planet, but ultimately being cowards unworthy to be the shepherds of any star, to quote Emet-Selch from FFXIV. Stay with me now.

We also know that the notes Sephiroth reads within the Shinra Mansion do not, in any way, call Jenova the Calamity. They still refer to her as a Cetra. Meaning that those notes are outdated, before the discovery of a living Cetra, a Cetra who is 2000 years removed from her own people’s history. Right? So.

(’Ah, but what about Genesis point-blank telling Sephiroth the truth? He knew what was up!’ Yes, because Hollander and Hojo found out from Gast’s recordings, and Ifalna herself, what Jenova actually was, and then Hollander told Genesis, who then said some stupid ass shit to trigger Sephiroth into looking into the wrong information, and now Nibelheim is not Nibelheim anymore and Cloud is missing one more family member than he was when he joined Shinra. Also, fuck Genesis. Anyway.)

HOJO, yeah? Hojo, in two separate novels written by Nojima himself, states to Aerith and Tseng separately that Jenova 1) will inevitably infect all life on the planet with her “cells” because of the very nature of the Lifestream and 2) turned the Cetra against each other via subtle manipulation and illusions of their loved ones, dead or alive, conceived from their own memories. She didn’t show up looking like the Eldritch horror with the eyeball nipple, she showed up looking like a run-of-the-mill Cetra. And she would further disguise herself as people a Cetra knew in order to gain their trust. And then, after she had gained that trust, she would say shit like, “Hey. Your friend over there hates you,” or, “Hey. Your friend over there wants to kill you.” And thus the Cetra, at the very least morally but probably also physically, became monsters and tore themselves apart.

You ever wonder why everything the Cetra had was booby-trapped and hidden behind riddles and self-sacrificial bullshit like their Temple? My guess is because Jenova made it so they couldn’t trust anyone, even themselves.

“Why did I read all that? What does that have to do with Cloud voring Zack’s memories?”

Because we gotta understand the mechanics of this bitch first so that we know what to look out for.

Now, we have an alien in stasis--presumed dead but definitely not--and a buncha scientists who really want a coveted spot sucking President Shinra’s dick as head of the Science Dept. who all think that taking the genetic material of a Cetra and splicing it into a modern-day human’s DNA will give them a Geiger counter to the Promised Land. Which they want to use as fuel because only some of them really understand what mako is and the others are just fucking stupid. Anyway, my guess is that they archeology their way to Jenova’s still-kinda-alive corpse and do some DNA testing and go, “Ah! We’ve found a Cetra. It has to be one! She’s by the crater, after all, and that’s where some of them were nuked by a Meteor! :) We’re geniuses!” And Jenova, in the Lifestream, went, “GOTCHA, BITCH!”

And through the power of dino DNA, out pops a lot of nonviable lifeforms, some monsters, and, eventually, a relatively normal kid with a flare for the dramatic who will become wholly obsessed with apples and very boring literature that he will insist on repeating every five goddamn seconds. As he was no Geiger counter to the Promised Land, out pops another relatively normal kid who will grow up to have dreams, and honor, and steal food from his neighbors because he was so damn honorable that he just could not ask for a handout.

With Hollander and Gillian’s experiments not producing anything of note other than children that need love and support, Hojo and Lucrecia decide to take a slightly different sample of Jenova’s cells and just start sticking them everywhere. They’re in Lucrecia. They’re in Lucrecia’s fetus. And...something strange starts to happen.

Lucrecia starts to feel the effects of Jenova. Lucrecia’s mind and body start to kind of deteriorate. Not the way that Genesis’ and Angeal’s do later on, but she is plagued by shit like severe depression and fatigue. She falls out on the floor multiple times. Her bodyguard is a little late on pulling the trigger of the gun aimed at her husband and, instead of doing anything productive about her husband proving he’s an amoral murderous fuckhead, she just decides to play doll with her kinda undead bodyguard, get even sicker, and then, finally, pops out a very strange looking baby. In fact, he looks a little alien.

“No, seriously, what does this have to do with anything?”

Genetics. How Jenova cells work. Whatever clump of cells they injected into Lucrecia, clearly different from those used in Project G, seemed to focus more on the mental fuckery aspect of Jenova than the physical, shapeshifting aspect of Jenova. I would also argue that one of the reasons Lucrecia was so adversely affected by the cells and Gillian was not is their mental well-being. Gillian, even when we meet her, seems very upbeat and doing pretty okay despite her husband having died from exhaustion a coupla years back. Lucrecia was depressed and very subservient even before she married Hojo. Losing her mentor--Vincent’s father--probably exacerbated that. And, later in Advent Children, that sort of mentality--hopelessness and despair--is what Sephiroth’s Geostigma feeds off of. That and thoughts of death/dying. But that is more speculation than anything.

So, Sephiroth’s cells are different from Genesis’ and Angeal’s, and they were all three bred differently, but they’re all kinda chimeras of Jenova’s. And once Genesis learns about his origins, it’s like the lightbulb goes off. This guy’s creating clones by infecting his 2nd and 3rd Class SOLDIERs with his own cells. And when he does that, their physical appearance becomes his own. As does their will. Whatever Genesis wants, the clones also want. And then he just grows a wing for shits and giggles. Once he tells his BFF Angeal the sitch, behold! He’s got monster clones--maybe because he realizes how fucked up overwriting a human being with yourself is--and wings, too. ...Why?

The power to do all of this shit was always there. It was genetically always there. They just had to be made aware of it, to have the puzzle piece put into place. When Sephiroth dies, that puzzle piece is put into place. And then he starts fuckin’ with shit. And turns into monstrous angels. And then dies again. And then comes back and finally grows himself his own wing. He did it, fellas. He’s a big boy now.

But we’re not here to talk about Sephiroth--ignore how much I talked about Sephiroth and his mommies previously--we’re here to talk about ZACK and CLOUD.

“What’s up with Zack and Cloud?”

First, what we must realize is that even though Hojo says that both Zack and Cloud are failed clones because they 1) didn’t take on any physical characteristics of Sephiroth, 2) didn’t seem controlled by Jenova (or Sephiroth) and, 3) didn’t exhibit the other signs of a Reunion impulse like the other clones in Nibelheim that does not mean that Sephiroth’s cells, Jenova’s cells, are not working on them.

As we’ve observed in other 1sts, abilities do not always manifest immediately or even noticeably. Clearly, Sephiroth’s physical appearance is a bit of a hint, but Genesis and Angeal look pretty damn normal and, if it weren’t for their mako injections, they probably wouldn’t be showing that much of an increase in physical capabilities. Theoretically. Maybe 10-year-old Angeal had biceps the size of a man’s head. I mean. Pff.

Zack’s tolerance to Jenova was strong due to his previous exposure in the SOLDIER program. Cloud’s mind broke pretty early on. Neither of these results matter to the fact that they both now have Sephiroth’s cells within them--just as Genesis’ and Angeal’s clones had theirs--and that their very wills are now going to be affected by Sephiroth’s. But they are also going to be a little bit like him in terms of power.

Zack’s hair, when ingested by a Genesis clone, a clone of a Type-G SOLDIER, transforms that clone into a monster. Zack doesn’t even have to do anything. The Jenova/Sephiroth cells within his body can just Do That, cause that change in another life form, of their own accord. I’m honestly shocked that, whenever they gave Zack these S-cells, HE didn’t turn into a monster. But that’s neither here nor there. I wanna talk about Cloud.

Cloud has mako poisoning, which the Remake describes as his spirit/soul being stuck between his body and the Lifestream. Weird. Anyway, he’s not fully aware of his surroundings at all times, and he clearly can’t control his body that much. He somehow has the ability to kinda get his feet shuffling, and I’m going to go on a limb and say he can chew whatever food Zack gives him, but most of the time, he’s a puppet with cut strings.

But he is also still recovering from a mind break caused by Jenova cells. The same cells that are just chilling in his body, like they are in Zack’s. And all the months Zack is dragging his ass across a continent, an ocean, and another continent, they and Cloud are listening to whatever the fuck Zack is saying. Cloud is also constantly in physical contact with Zack.

In The Kids Are Alright: A Turks Side Story, Kadaj has the power to not only read surface thoughts and memories just by being near someone, but he can also read deeper ones by making physical contact with someone. Because Jenova. And Sephiroth, whose cells Cloud and Zack have, in the OG demonstrates that he, too, can glean thoughts and memories from others. Because Jenova.

If this power is a genetic trait, as it is with Genesis and Angeal, then, sitting pretty underneath their skin, Zack and Cloud have this ability. Dormant. Snoozing. Kinda like the 1st Class Trio’s wings.

But Zack has a high tolerance and a high ignorance to Jenova and just what he might be capable of. Cloud’s mind is floating in and out at best. He’s not in control of himself. And when you have a situation like that, it is very, very easy to come to the conclusion that Cloud’s Jenova cells are passively absorbing the memories of Zack’s time in Nibelheim. That they are knitting these memories together with what little remain in Cloud’s head. That when Tifa comes across Cloud at the train station and calls him by name and remembers who he is that Cloud’s Jenova cells latch onto those memories in Tifa--as Sephiroth tells them they did--and they knit those memories with Zack’s and Cloud’s and the end result is the man we get at the beginning of the OG.

Because Cloud has visual memory of shit he never saw. It’s not just a visual medium telling a visual story. You wanna know how I know that for a fact? Because, in the Remake, Cloud remembers Sephiroth walking up to Jenova’s tank in the reactor from Sephiroth’s perspective. He is looking through Sephiroth’s eyes, through his memory, up at “Mother.” In that moment in the Remake, Cloud is Sephiroth. He’s not Cloud anymore.

Cloud sees Sephiroth delivering the speech of being an Ancient. Cloud wasn’t there. Cloud didn’t see that. Zack did. That is Zack’s memory.

The man writing the Remake is the same man who’s been at the head of MOST FFVII writing. He was on the OG, he wrote Advent Children, he wrote the novels, he wrote Crisis Core, he’s writing the Remake. He knows what these cells can do because he’s crafted this world-building for decades.

Cloud didn’t take all of Zack’s memories. He didn’t need to. Kadaj, in the novel, doesn’t glean everything from someone right off the bat. Because he doesn’t need to. Only when he needs to learn something else does he go digging. The same is probably true for what Cloud’s cells most likely did to be able to know what he knows. Hell! Kadaj gets punched in the novel and he ACCIDENTALLY picks up the emotions and memories of the guy who punched him. He didn’t want ‘em but he got ‘em!”

There is evidence within the OG, and even more within the Compilation, that lend weight to the theory that Cloud unintentionally read Zack’s mind when it came to the events of Nibelheim.

For years, people have wondered, “How the hell does Cloud know that if he wasn’t there?” For years, people have wondered, “How can he use the Buster Sword if he was just a little grunt that used a gun all the time?” The logical answer is, “Because of his Jenova cells. They can just do that shit.”

[sl-walker]

All right, since I’m in the middle of a flare and have to work manual labor for the next four days despite it, I figured I would make myself -- and hopefully other people -- laugh by talking about one of my favorite OG Captain Marvel stories. Namely, from Whiz #50, with a cover date of January, 1944, meaning it was probably produced sometime in late 1943.

I want to share it because why not, this is some absurdly charming stuff.

I’ll get more into why it’s one of my favorites as we go, in the form of running commentary. So, full story (with said commentary) under the cut. If you wanna just read the story without my commentary, stick to the pictures. XD

First, let me say that the cover and splash page definitely live up to the story, though the cover’s a bit more sensationalized. But the premise is pretty damn simple: Our intrepid hero and his newsboy alter ego are on vacation. Cap decides to go swimming. It goes hilariously wrong and thus ensues a bit of a madcap adventure, no puns intended.

Second, the fact that Cap and Billy are depicted as essentially different entities makes what Billy does next the ultimate trolling:

Gee, airing out the stolen laundry on the radio? Really? I’ll leave it up to you, gentle reader, whether Billy actually was trolling his own alter-ego for ratings or whether he was just innocently sharing the story while his other-self winced quietly in whatever ether-space he exists in when not front-and-center.

Either way, I love it.

Continuing on...

I get a kick out of the fact that Billy’s monologue is that he’s no dare-devil. One, because that’s so obviously not true in any way -- (that kid is awesomely, sometimes recklessly brave on the regular even without Cap) -- but two, because the bridge is actually named Dare-Devil Bridge. We aren’t given any reason why this dangerous potential death-trap is there, hanging without so much as a gate or a warning sign or anything, because we don’t need one. It’s there specifically for what happens next.

Which, of course, is Billy calling in Captain Marvel, who does some light complaining about the situation Billy left him in. There’s no bite to it, which I find adorable -- Cap actually does get frustrated once or twice in other issues with Billy calling on him for mundane stuff, though he’s never mean about it -- but there is a bit of the sense of being put-upon there that’s just-- I dunno, cute. It’s something I miss a lot in the various post-crisis takes on the character: That duality, that difference in personality, and the way each of them responds to different situations. Often, they’re on the same page, but notably, sometimes, they aren’t.

Someday, I promise, I need to sit down and write how I think that works between those two without being a truly frightening mental illness manifested, what with them being the same person but not the same person. Because I have so many ideas, and I’ve only had since the early-2000s to percolate them. LOL! But until then, just enjoy this.

Here is another reason why I love the Golden Age Captain Marvel books and why I love this specific story: This is an absolutely normal, mundane thing to do. It’s the human thing to do. These aren’t the actions of some super-serious superdude. These are the actions of a pretty shockingly normal guy doing something mundane. And a whole story is built around that normalcy.

It’s cute. It’s funny. It’s the reader already knowing that he’s getting himself into a situation that he absolutely could have avoided, but also completely understanding how it happened anyway. It’s pretty brilliant writing: I say this as a pretty damned good writer myself.

So much of the reason why, I think, Cap was so endearing as a hero is that humanity. He’s got pretty much god-tier power in the Golden Age, once his powerset is established. He’s utterly invulnerable to all physical harm while powered up. But-- he’s human. He knows he’s human. He acts like it, and decides, “You know what? I’m going skinny-dipping.”

He and Billy are both characters it’s so easy to empathize with.

Also, a reminder that the art under Chief Artist C.C. Beck is really, really good. (He had a whole stable of artists to help produce this stuff!) Ignoring registration issues on the printing press, the actual line art is amazingly good; proportion and perspective and consistency.

But anyway--Cap does get to enjoy his swim. But, then, oh no.

I love the idea of a world where the prime hero -- and he definitely is in that world -- can take off his suit and go swimming, and where someone else is bold enough to steal the damn suit off of him. The first time I read this, I started laughing here. Not at him, but at the situation he’s found himself in. At the idea that some random passer-by saw Captain Marvel’s costume and went yoink!

Another thing I love about this particular story is how much Cap and Billy have to work together, just by necessity. Like-- it’s just really good. But anyway, thank everything Billy Batson is on the ball, coming to the rescue.

Sheer bad luck via the weather keeps this story rolling along in hilarious misdirections. Realistically, that uniform probably wouldn’t be all buttoned together (we see Cap take off pieces of it aside the pants in other issues, including socks!), but who cares? The point of the story is that giant bear rug on the floor’s gonna get put to use.

Man, when have you ever seen Superman creeping naked through some stranger’s house wearing nothing but a random polar bear because he went skinny dipping? No wonder these comics sold so well. This next panel is when I start wheezing, though, and pretty much keep wheezing.

“A lady, too! I’ve got to get away from here!”

I’m dying at this point. That’s such a characteristic response, and yet, I think that’s why it’s funny.

Anyway, because this is an excellent story (I mean this without an ounce of irony, too), our dynamic duo stumbles across a plot in play to rob the hotel they’re staying at.

Here’s a big part of why this is such a good tale: Everything fits. Even when it isn’t explained, like Dare-Devil Bridge, it still fits. Why is the tree down? Because there was just a thunder storm, the same one that blew Cap’s suit into the room with the gangsters.

I don’t know if this is Otto Binder’s story, but I wouldn’t be surprised in the least. It’s a complete story told in relatively few pages that accomplishes everything it’s meant to.

Anyway, using foliage as cover, Cap gets to be heroic----then Billy gets to get back to the business of trying to stop the robbery of the hotel and get his heroic alter-ego dressed again.  Which leads to a rather adorable and funny scene of Billy not only trying to describe what Captain Marvel wears, but what size it would need to be tailored in.

(Cap is supposedly a 44 for a suit coat, we find in some earlier appearance, which would refer to his chest size.  So, an XL for shirts and suit-coats.  He’s a big guy, but he’s actually not a hulking huge guy.  But more on that later.)

I love the fact Billy tries to like-- use himself as a model.  Maybe in another ten years, kiddo.  Billy’s actually pretty buff for like a 12-14 year old, he’s not a scrawny kid at this point, but yeah, no.  LOL!

Another thing I also really, really love about this style, though, is that they draw Captain Marvel as being strong, as having a powerful build-- but not as a dehydrated body-builder with deep cuts. He’s got human proportions, regardless of his strength; he’s got a human build, not a superhuman one.

C.C. Beck had a lot of things to say about superheroes who were just muscles on top of muscles, all clearly defined, and he didn’t like it.  As someone who first got into comics in the early 90s with Jim Lee’s X-Men--

I do get Beck’s point.  I not only get it, but I really highly approve of it.  He maintained to the end that he drew (and oversaw) the Marvel family to look like high school and college athletes, and I can see that.  I think the one person who’s gotten it right in the modern era is Evan “Doc” Shaner, who did Convergence: Shazam!  He not only nailed that strong-but-not-hulking build for Cap, but also how young he looked.  College-age, in fact.

But anyway, enough digression into art and why I like this better than most modern takes on the character.  Also, that’s just a cute set of panels.

I also like that there wasn’t an easy fix there.  Cap’s still in his not-birthday suit, and Billy’s still stuck running around trying to solve the issues at hand.  Next comes some other really good panels:

-snorts-  He’s locked in.  Yeah, that’ll hold him.

Anyway, what I really liked here was again that tandem working; Billy can’t punch through a wall, but Cap can.  Cap can’t crawl out while he’s au natural -- well, he could, but he’d probably rather die first -- but Billy’s got no such issue.  It’s just fun when you get to see them doing something like that.  You have to really think for a minute about the trust each of them must have in their alter-ego.

ANYWAY, we get the rare treat then--

--of Captain Marvel not only yoinking a dude into a dark room, but then stealing his clothes.  Except, not his underwear.  Because that’s nasty.  LOL!

I love that in this series, you do actually get to see him wear other stuff.  Go incognito.  Get his red suit messed up enough to take it to a dry cleaner’s, wherein he ends up dressed like a musketeer after.  Jerry Ordway’s series is, I think, the only other time we see Cap not wearing his famous suit, but it happened enough in the Golden Age that it wasn’t a shock.

Like, I hate to be the one to say this, but I do think DC drops the ball often on just how much you can do with Captain Marvel (or Shazam, depending on timeline, but that’s the wizard’s name to me so mostly I’ll stick with the original name) if you unbend enough to.  It’s not just the costume change, or the duality of him and Billy being the same but not, but also his inherent, essential humanity.

But I am digressing again, sorry. XD  I just feel strongly enough about these versions of these characters to spend hours writing this.

Anyway, only a single panel later:

And that’s that!  Billy Batson has just outed his own alter-ego’s most embarrassing moment to whomever’s listening to WHIZ radio -- thank everything podcasts and the internet weren’t available then, ha! -- and we get to see a recounting of a very fun story.

Like I said earlier, I love this one for its essential humanity.  The hero got himself into this mess, he and Billy got him out of this mess, and stopping the criminals was actually just kind of a lucky stroke thrown in there.  But even though Cap got himself into this, the story never treats him like he’s stupid.  It never treats him like he’s some kind of idiot.  You’re laughing, but-- not in a mean way.

I love how human it is.  How complete it is.  How genuinely funny it is.  It’s a thousand times more funny when you genuinely love and respect Captain Marvel and Billy Batson, too.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this dissertation on a skinny-dipping hero.  LOL!  I enjoyed sharing it with you.

[thatboomerkid]

Giff -- SpellJammer Race for Pathfinder

Giff -- SpellJammer Race [19 RACE POINTS] for First Edition Pathfinder

Known to the gnomes of Markovia as the nilski konj vojnici, to the Hin plantation-owners of Covington Farms as los mercenarios gigantes del río, and to the human field-workers laboring near New Arvoreen most-often simply as “those big goddamn bastards,” the giff -- as they are called in their own guttural, roaring language -- represent a recently-contacted species of huge, violent, powerfully-built, terrifyingly-focused, and dangerously cagey combatants.

In the little-over-a-century since their discovery by the Hin, platoons of giff have already carved a bloody name for themselves across the wilds of Verdura -- and far beyond -- as unparalleled river-guides, rowdies, strike-breakers, mob debt-collectors, private enforcers, heavy-weapons units, siege engines, bodyguards, and elite soldiers of fortune.

Brought to you absolutely free to enjoy, to test & to share – as always – by the fine folks of my Patreon.

original image by the incredible Claudio Pozas, here

Type: Monstrous Humanoid (3 RP)

Ability Score Modifiers: Mixed Weakness (-2 RP)

+2 Strength, -4 Dexterity, +2 Constitution, -4 Intelligence, +2 Wisdom

Size: Large (7 RP)

Giff gain a +2 size bonus to Strength and a -2 size penalty to Dexterity (already included above). Giff also suffer a -1 size penalty to their AC and a -1 size penalty on all attack rolls; they gain a +1 bonus on combat maneuver checks and to their CMD, and suffer a -4 size penalty on Stealth checks.

A giff takes up a space that is 10 feet by 10 feet and has a reach of 5 feet.

Base Speed: Normal speed (0 RP)

Languages: Standard (0 RP); giff speak their own eponymous, curiously poetic language, and most are -- in the modern day -- also conversant in Low Kozah-Talosii (usually spoken with a thick, pompous Verduran accent).

This bastardized dialect, the so-called “Common tongue” favored across Pyrespace for use in international, intercultural, and interplanetary trade, is a degraded mongrel variant of High Kozah-Talosii: the ancient root-tongue of both Arvorean and Brandobarin, still employed by the Church of Yondalla for use in sermons, hymns, and in all official records.

Big Damn Guns: Giff are treated as gnomes for purposes of the Experimental Gunsmith Archetype. (0 RP)

Darkvision: Giff have 60 ft. darkvision (0 RP); giff have relatively poor eyesight while out of water, which is easily corrected with simple lenses -- such as a monocle -- for use while reading. This vision is not poor enough to impart a mechanical penalty on Perception checks or attack rolls made by the giff.

Natural Armor: Giff have +3 natural armor (4 RP)

Natural Attack (Headbutt): Giff receive one natural attack, which is treated as a gore attack that deals 1d8 bludgeoning damage. (1 RP)

Natural Swimmers: Giff have a swim speed of 30 feet and gain the +8 racial bonus on Swim checks that a swim speed normally grants. (1 RP)

Powerful Charge (Headbutt): Whenever a giff charges, it deals twice the standard number of damage dice with its headbutt plus 1-1/2 times its Strength bonus. (2 RP)

River-Sense: Giff can sense vibrations in water, granting them blindsense 30 feet against creatures that are touching the same body of water. (1 RP)

Slow On Land: Giff often select the Clumsy, Easy Target, Magically Inept, Nearsighted, and Slow Reflexes Major Drawbacks (0 RP)

Spell Resistance (Greater): Giff have spell resistance equal to 11 + their character level. (3 RP)

Sporting: The species-wide love of warfare exhibited by the giff draws a sharp line of distinction between “sporting” and “unsporting” combat (see below). (-1 RP)

Sporting combat includes arm-wrestling, fisticuffs, darts, cards, dice, checkers, chess, billiards, cricket, rugby, skeet shooting, tennis, and golf, alongside tests of boasting, carousing, headbutting, toast-giving, swimming, push-ups, and a complex, ritualized sort of thunderous, unarmed mixed martial-art performed solely while stripped down to breeches & undergarments, usually in ankle-deep to waist-deep water, ending in pin or submission, which -- up to a point -- also serves as a type of flirting.

The military mentality of the giff even makes special allowances for a variety of “sporting” duels to the death. Establishing a proper duel requires a huge number of complex ritual elements that -- in the end -- mostly boils down to both giff formally acknowledging that:

Both giff are armed with approximately the same quality of weapons & armor (warhammer, combat knife, pistol, full plate, etc.)

Both giff have equal access to military support, including healing

Both giff have a grievance, no matter how petty

Both giff are suffering approximately the same level of injuries

Both giff have made arrangements for their estate, and for the treatment of their body after death

Once a “sporting” challenge to the death has been agreed-to by both parties, anything up to and including outright murder of one’s opponent is considered fair game.

Several major holidays each year celebrated by the giff include a “violent dueling festival” as part of their celebration; to outsiders, these events have a very bizarre, genteel, 1800s-Victorian-Teddy-Roosevelt-meets-The-Purge sort of feel to them:

“Happy holidays, friend; best of health this year to you and to your kin. And I say, old chap, don’t suppose it’s high time for a kukri-duel, eh, wot wot? Seeing as you got drunk on my finest brandy, made a pass at the missus, wiped your prodigious buttocks with my table linens, and micturated in my hedge-row as of Christmas last, well ... in lieu of an apology, what say I have Jenkins fetch the carving blades, eh? See which of has the moxie, shall we? Cheerio and have at thee then, old sport?”

If this formal challenge to a lethal sporting-duel is declined, the challenger must make all possible accommodations to guarantee the immediate physical safety of the giff she just challenged (at least until such time as the two giff part ways once more): providing the giff with weapons, armor, food, water, medicine, reading materials, a place to sleep, liquor, smoking tobacco, and anything else a gentleman or lady of high breeding could reasonably expect to have access to (even while imprisoned).

In short: if the challenged giff dies immediately after declining a duel, it is considered very embarrassing for the challenger.

For his own part, the declining giff must treat her challenger with the very utmost level of respect ... or risk being guilty of unsporting conduct, a fate far worse than mere death.

Any giff who finds herself about to violate the terms of properly “sporting” conduct instantly becomes aware of the error, just as if she were wearing a phylactery of faithfulness and, at all times, actively contemplating the thought of doing bodily harm to another giff: this behavioral limitation is not built as a trap for players to accidentally stumble into, but -- instead -- as an interesting roadblock to navigate around.

If two or more giff find themselves forced into a position of armed conflict against one another on a battlefield, both groups traditionally retire for at least a day of drinking and sorting-out ranks; on rare occasion, one platoon will join the other; more likely, all giff involved in any part of the operation will quit their current hirings and look for work elsewhere.

Any giff who engages another member of her own species in any type of unsporting combat -- attacking another giff with a weapon, for example, or with magic -- immediately suffers a -2 penalty on all skill checks, ability checks, attack rolls and saves; she continues to suffer this penalty until such time as she is able to make amends: presenting her victim with a formal written apology, or seeking our her victim’s family to beg their public pardon.

Each month, this penalty increases by 2. Guilt is a poison that grows by degrees, after all: ever-gnawing.

While she is suffering penalties in this way, if the giff is presented with the chance to punish herself – or a non-giff opponent! – while presented with something that reminds the giff of her betrayal, she may find herself compelled to do so regardless of the consequences:

Any time her betrayal is directly brought to her attention, the giff must make a Will save (DC = 10 + her character level + the Charisma modifier of the wronged giff). Failure means that the giff falls into a rage of abject self-loathing, completely focused on her own guilt for a number of rounds equal to the DC, above. Until she has finished with this exercise in hate, the giff can take no action other than to harm the reminder of her failure or enable herself to harm it: grappling a human shipmate who mentioned her old friend so that she might headbutt the human while strangling them, for example, or calmly loading a shotgun so that she might shoot the human dead in cold blood.

Note that the giff, while wracked with guilt & grief, is not required to do anything or harm anyone: she may simply stare at an old photograph and feel sad, for example, ignoring everyone around her.

During the fury of this black tempest, the giff suffers a -2 penalty to her AC.

Once the giff successfully makes amends, either with the wronged party or with the victim’s next-of-kin, all of the above penalties are removed. Entire subsets of giff society -- mediators, arbitrators, and negotiators -- are explicitly adapted to making absolutely certain that any errors in sporting conduct among giff are resolved quickly, and to the satisfaction of all parties. 

Should she fail to make amends before her death, any giff who has harmed another giff in an unsporting way invariably rises again as an undead horror of some kind (often a blood knight or graveknight): reborn as a rotting, lurching mountainside of infinitely destructive hated.

Note that the Sporting Racial Trait is not purely social, but rather acts as a species-wide ingrained psychological virtue: two giff living on Fenris who never expect to see the wide rivers of Verdura again are still bound by the rules of “sporting” conflict; neither could shoot the other in the back any more than either of them could grow wings and fly to the moon.

Undead giff do not possess the Sporting Trait, which is seen -- by living giff -- as the most abhorrent and disturbing quality imaginable.

Note, also, that the desire to behave in a sporting manner extends only to fellow giff: Chaotic Evil giff will routinely massacre unarmed non-giff by the thousands, bellowing with laughter as they do so, and even a Lawful Good giff will rarely think twice before sucker-punching a crude human making drunken threats and impolite remarks at the bar.

-------

Giff Timeline:

1603 A.D. (118 years ago): The colony of New Arvoreen is established on Verdura; giff make contact with Hin (and their human servants) for the first time.

1620 A.D.: First generation of giff who have always known about the existence of Hin, humans, and -- most importantly! -- firearms fully comes of age.

1636 A.D.: New Arvoreen is significantly expanded.

1667 A.D.: Nation of Markovia -- the technological-marvel nation named for its Founder, Monarch and Supreme Leader, Dr. Adlai Markovitch -- founded on Verdua; diplomatic trade established with New Arvoreen.

1669 A.D.: City of New Arvoreen significantly expanded.

1702 A.D.: New Arvoreen significantly expanded; land officially cleared for Covington Farms, soon to be the largest agricultural facility in the system; rates of forcible immigration of indentured humans to New Arvoreen tripled.

1721 A.D.: (current year)

original image here

Giff Ranks: Lieutenant, General, Colonel, Major General, Lieutenant General, Lieutenant Colonel, Captain General, Brigadier General, Field Marshall, Major, Captain, Sergeant Major, Commandant General, Wing General, Lieutenant Colonel General, Staff Sergent, Master Sergent, Master General, Grenadier General; note that “Lord” may be added to any military rank, alongside the designations of “First” and “First Class” (for example, “First Lord Brigadier General First Class”)

Giff military ranks are, effectively, meaningless noise to everyone except the giff themselves: every member of the species is a decorated officer of some complex rank within some elite military company or another, but such ranks are largely ceremonial and may be inherited, purchased, or passed through elaborate, bombastic ritual.

Further, the only thing preventing a young giff from forming an entirely new military organization & immediately naming herself -- of example -- Supreme Acting Field Commander and Secretary General of the Armies and Navies at Wartime is -- up to a point -- her own willingness to do so.

Male Giff Names: Any invented male Hin name.

Female Giff Names: Any invented female Hin name.

Giff Family Names: Any invented male Hin first name

Society

The giff are military-minded, and organize themselves into squads, platoons, companies, corps, and larger groups. The number of giff in a platoon varies according to the season, situation, and level of danger involved.

A giff "platoon" hired to protect a gambling operation may number only a single soldier, while a platoon hired to invade an illithid stronghold may number well over a hundred.

The giff pride themselves on their weapon-skills, and any giff carries a number of swords, daggers, maces, and similar tools on hand to deal with troublemakers.

A giff's true love, however, is the gun. A misfiring weapon matters little to the giff (occasional fatalities amongst soldiery are simply to expected); it is the flash, the noise, and the damage that most impress them.

Even unarmed, the giff are powerful opponents. Against non-giff, they’ll often wade into a brawl just for the pure fun of it, tossing various combatants on both sides around to prove themselves the victors.

Once a weapon is bared, however, and the challenge becomes “unsporting,” the giff consider all restrictions off: the challenge is now to the death.

The giff prize themselves as top-quality mercenaries, and to that end take great pride in owning -- if not always wearing -- elaborate suits of full-plate armor. These suits usually include massive helms featuring hyper-detailed, semi-realistic images of exotic monsters on the crests, inlaid with ivory and bone along the largest plates.

Armor repair is a major hobby among the giff, although great skill at the craft is surprisingly rare.

The giff are deeply suspicious of magic, magicians, and magical devices; their legendary foes, the Five Tiger Princes, are despised for their esoteric abilities as much for their wicked deviltry.

image here

Family

The giff are, for the most part, happiest among fellow members their own race, intermingling broadly with the Ghoran -- whom the giff utilize as an edible, inexhaustible workforce -- and the Tengu: another unofficial “servitor race” of the giff, most often used as messengers and household servants.

Ghoran living on giff lands are stoic: dutifully tending the fields of the giff in exchange for protection from ten-thousand other, vastly more predatory dangers. For all that giff treat the ghoran as disposable -- a ghoran living on Verdura produces one seed each year, and can grow a new member of the species in a single month -- the giff do not want the ghoran hunted to total extermination. That, for the ghoran, is saying something,

Tengu, on the other hand, are deeply prized by the giff as staff, usually in the roles of personal assistants, groomers, decorators, butlers, bartenders, man-servants, attaches, major domos, and maids. Since all giff are “wealthy land owners,” to one degree or another, the true power & prestige of a giff can be accurately measured by the number of tengu he employs.

Giff otherwise consider anything larger than them deeply threatening, yet also complain bitterly -- in private -- about the fragility of the smaller races. Outside their own platoons, the giff are happiest among military organizations with a strong chain of command.

For this reason, giff hold the Church of Yondalla in exceptionally high regard.

Giff especially despise the catfolk: although they don’t speak of it to outsiders, a century ago the giff were on the verge of extinction: hunted for sport and trophy by servants of the Five Tiger Princes, their people nearly cut to nothing and their lands held by only a few remaining families. Since their acquisition of firearms -- and the arrival of the Hin -- the catfolk have broadly retreated.

Every giff -- male, female, and giffling -- has a rank within their greater society, which can only be changed by a giff of higher rank. Within these ranks are sub-ranks, and within those sub-ranks are color-markings and badges. The highest-ranking giff gives the orders, the others obey. It does not matter if the orders are foolish or even suicidal: following them is the purpose of the giff in the universe. A quasi-mystical faith among the giff -- who claim to worship, in a vague way, the Golden General Bahamut, who was killed and eaten by the cowardly Five Tiger Princes in order to steal his strength -- confirms that all things have their place, and the place of the giff to follow orders.

This makes the giff very happy.

Giff platoons can be hired from their sprawling, palatial riverside plantations and mountain hunting-lodges by anyone looking for muscle. The social leaders among the giff are contractors: these specially-trained giff review prospective employers according to ability to pay, then make a recommendation to powerful warlords and famous adventurers among the giff. The leaders, in turn, consider the danger of the job, and whether taking it will enhance their giffdom.

Giff jobs are usually paid in firearms & gunpowder, though they often will accept other weapons and armor. Aboard ship, the giff require their own quarters, and will often request to bring on their own large weapons. They favor fire-projectors and bombards for ground work, and will happily blaze away at opponents regardless of the tactical situation.

The giff require the ships of others because they have -- for the most part -- no spellcasting abilities among them.

Giff of both sexes serve in their platoons, and both fight equally well. Giff young are raised tenderly until they are old enough to survive an exploding arquebus, then are inducted fully into the platoon.

The giff practice equality among the sexes in battle and in childrearing. They live about 70 years, but do not take aging gracefully. As a giff grows older and begins to slow down, he is possessed with the idea of proving himself still young and vital, usually in battle.

As a result, there are very, very few old giff.

[ephemerlskies]

the lighthouse | jjk

⇢ pairing: reader x jungkook

⇢ genre: one shot, fluff (what's new), strangers to "lovers", mutual pining, so much sap you're gonna have to shower after reading this, ANGST, jungkook is a literary scholar (?) of sorts

⇢ word count: 12k

⇢ warnings: as stated before, it's Cheesy with a capital C, lots of introspection, brief mentions of death, explicit language, mommy issues, (((major plot twist)))

⇢ summary: you and jungkook had one thing in common: you were both lost souls stagnant in the search of some fulfillment. the one of many differences was that your story had been written on your sleeves, while jungkook’s was a story needed to be unriddled. was this going to be another disappointing chapter in the book of unattainable desires or could your encounter with the mysterious man who lived in the lighthouse lead to something much more?

a/n: i'm super proud of how this turned out even though it ripped my heart out of my chest... this was probably my favorite fic to write and ahh im so happy to release it!!!! i hope you lovely little angels enjoy!! :) <3

What makes us human? This question posed by your philosophy teacher had been stalking your thoughts hours after class had ended. As the rain padded against your umbrella, you piled in a few answers to this question. 

What makes us human? A question that would seemingly have a clear cut answer, but when you got down to it, there was no distinct characteristic that differentiates humans from other animals. It was easy to say something such as how we have complex linguistics or industrialized civilization, but that is to discredit how the packs of wolves howl to each other, the birds sing from tree to tree, the beavers diligently construct their dams, or the dirt cities in which ants build their own societies not much different than humans. 

You pondered the idea that we love so deeply, even when it is often unreturned, but there is no denying the way a mother bear strikes down any and all enemies to protect her baby cub is anything other than true love.

So, what makes us human? You sat on a bench placed on the sidelines where you could witness small scenes of the lives of passing strangers. This sonder might be what makes us human. The knowledge that each person lives and loves and cries and fears and speaks and dies in ways with which you will never begin to familiarize. Life continues on around you despite how unimportant it may seem to the rest. 

Does a lion waste any moment of his time wondering how the deer had found its way to the shallow pond, whilst preparing to strike? Of course not. 

You watched a couple clinging onto each other and wondered where they met. You then were captured in the peace of an old woman prodding around in the grass with her golden retriever; perhaps it was her last companion. Then, your eyes drifted towards the two boys pushing each other over but with the gentleness one could only assume that was out of friendship or perhaps brotherhood.

And then you saw him. 

Gentle fingers tracing the stacks of magazines lined in a perfect column; an arm that disappeared into the sleeve of his dark, wool coat. A tweed newsboy hat sheltering his eyes, and deep chestnut Oxford shoes stepping lightly, nearing a tiptoe, between the cracks of each cement plate, weathered by the infinite other shoes that tread on those very grounds. A body so magnetizing and moving as if it were a secret, and you couldn’t imagine why no one else had been ingested by the enigma that is this man. You longed for him to reveal these secrets that hid underneath his hat and coat, though if he wouldn’t, which he most likely wouldn’t, you had no problem with seeking them out yourself.

In a city filled with young souls draped in modern streetwear, jeans, bright colors, and converse or Dr. Martens or perhaps high heels, catching this needle in the haystack plugged into every synapse of wonderment. The muted tones of his clothing gleamed the brightest out of the sea of strangers.

This is what made you human. Your desire to know everything that lies barely beyond your wingspan. Everything you could hold was close to nothing in meaning, and everything your arms could not reach was always all you could ever want. The rise of your legs, the way you replicated his every movement, running your fingers along the stack of magazines, fastidious prancing in the spaces between the cracks, and your subtle pursuit of the man just out of reach was what made you human. 

Bodies bustling through your path failed to untether you from this chase. It felt far beyond your power to stop yourself from the rising excitement and allure in your chest that pulled you towards him. The man was quick and swift to dodge oncoming bystanders, however your eyes became a missile fixed on a target. 

The unexpected turn he took had you floundering for you had been trapped behind an older lady and a couple walking side by side. Sadly, your memorization of the streets and landmarks had been admisal, so you found yourself in uncharted territory. Each road sign and corner store had been displayed like a foreign language, and you mentally cursed yourself for letting your silly lust for learning what shouldn’t be learned lead you into this difficult position.  

You stood defeated, the man had evaded your fragile trail behind him with ease. You lost him, or maybe he got away.

It was still midday, prompting you to make an end of this means. Your eyes discovered the coast set along the edge of the town, and though this was the furthest you had ever gone, you dared to go further. This mishap of yours granted you the opportunity to introduce yourself to the shore, and the waves have always delighted your interest. So, you found it just to walk down to the sand. The sound of the water pressing into the wet sand was calming; it was something you could find yourself getting used to. Luck presented itself kindly, giving you a moment unencumbered by the rain that had ceased not long after you stepped foot on the beach. 

You took this time to be with yourself and sort out all the problems that have been worrying your mind these past few weeks. Your best friend, Chaeyoung, had an upcoming birthday that had snuck up on you before you had the chance to even think about getting her a card, let alone a gift or celebration. And you would be disappointed with yourself if you failed to outdo last year’s efforts. There was also the test in your Chemistry class scheduled only a day after her birthday, curtailing your plans of staying out late because there was no way you would allow for anything less than your very most on this exam. Then, there was the essay on what makes us human that you denied any chance of regaining priority to your list of worries, knowing it would gnaw at your mind until you forcibly shut it out.

And the man that willed you to seek him out, and that wore the title of his stories as if he intentionally wished to spark your wonder to learn them.

That should have been the last of your worries. It should have been. 

The day began to fade into a warm, orange dusk. Skies once gloomy and grey now covered in blankets of clouds reflecting the sun’s gentle rays and you found yourself reunited with the calming feeling similar to when you first stepped on the beach. 

Not long after registering how far you had traveled along the shore, you noticed a quaint lighthouse with a house-like structure at the base. The off-white stones cemented up until a red paneled roof covered it, tempting you to know what lies behind those walls.

It looked like it was about to rain again.

Are lighthouses closed off from the public? 

There’s a house, there must be someone inside that could help me find my way home. 

All these comments to yourself made to premise the conclusion of entrance into this lighthouse. As you approached the door, framed in oak lining and painted red, the clouds appeared heavy once again. A few drops of condensation was enough persuasion that what was about to be done was for the good of your well being. You pushed it open and a creak echoed around the room inside. 

The walls were covered with stone bricks and there was one table in the center of the room. Other than that, this house was barren and if it weren’t for the second door that you guessed led to the lighthouse you would have called a car to take you home. 

Your walk was pensive and mouse-like; there was some quality about this structure that made you feel like you weren’t alone and sudden movements would disrupt an established peace. Your hand turned the cold, gold-plated handle and pulled open the door, soon being met with a warm gust of air that engulfed you into the lighthouse. 

This part of the building was exponentially more decorated than the room that preceded it. A staircase cemented into the sides of the lighthouse plastered with shelves upon shelves of books spiraled along the cylindrical walls, paired with dull lanterns that illuminated each level of railing had you drawn into its magnificence.

You stared up to what looked like a platform that held a place in which one would rest and look out into the ocean. There was no one in sight, and you assumed permission to climb up the staircase. Your eyes scanned each spine, creased and slightly warped from the moisture of the air, like they had been read over and over again. Your breath became heavy and your stare was focused on the books to ignore the dizziness settling in.

Reaching the top of the staircase came as a blessing, your lungs were close to catching fire. There were two armchairs, side by side, one fashioned a knitted blanket and the other was used as a table for five to seven or so novels, and the walls behind buried in high stacks of more books. There had to be at least seventy in the first half of piles you accounted for, and before you had the chance to snoop around the rest of the room you heard a voice coated with alarm behind you.

“What are you doing in here?” Your breath halted as you turned around, about to explain why you had let yourself into this building, however no amount of words could fully justify this invasive act. 

You recognized the wool coat and the tweed hat now resting in his hand instead of on his head. His eyes were shrouded in a youthful innocence despite his attire that implied he was a sophisticate of some sort. 

“Are you going to answer me or do I have to call the police?” The boom of his voice was chilling, sending shivers along your neck and chest. 

“Sorry, I’m-” How could you possibly defend your intrusion without sounding juvenile or absolutely insane? “I was… It was raining and I just was walking on the beach so-”

“So, you decided breaking and entering was better than getting a little wet?” His barbed responses hurdled how you plaintively stuttered around excuses. Despite his efforts to seem menacing, you couldn't let go of his boyish facial features. It was absolutely astonishing to you that someone who looked young enough to attend your own college and handsome enough to garner quite a bit of attention had anything to do with this dingy, aged lighthouse.

“No, I was going to come in here to ask for directions. I’m lost.” The pitiful temperament of this comment was not intentional, but the man who now stood in front of you felt itched by it. He couldn't ignore how your legs trembled, partly from the cold but also because of his raised voice directed at you, and how that admittedly aroused some guilt.

“It’s fine. Just-” He sighed deeply, placing his hat on the side table adjacent to the left armchair, “You can just wait here until the rain stops. Though, I have to say it looks unrelenting at the moment.” The man’s attention was captured by how the heavy rain seemed to wage war against the raging tides. You caught a glimpse of a smile. The slightest upturn of the corner of his lips almost compelling you to reveal you had spotted him in the town earlier today, and that you found yourself enamoured with his every movement, and he was ironically the reason you were stuck here.

“Are you sure? I can go, I shouldn't have been here in the first place.” The words escaped from your mouth quickly as if they were trying to race each other to be spoken.

“No, I said it’s fine.” The suddenness of this offer hushed you. He then removed his wool coat, unveiling the clothes he wore beneath it. The burgundy crew neck sweater layered tastefully over a collared shirt was just as old fashioned as every other article of clothing he sported. How intriguing.

“I'm sorry.” Your muscles grew sore from suppressing how aggressively you would have been shaking from the cold. “Thank you.” Him granting you shelter gave you motive to keep the umbrella that would suffice to protect you from the rain under wraps. The option he presented was far more favorable.

“Sit down. Please, use this blanket.” He gestured towards the throw draped over the right armchair. His eyes avoided you as much as he could manage though you had this glow emulating from your wanting eyes and soft looking skin that crept to the corner of his vision too brightly to ignore. Consequently, this comment soothed both your body and mind for he unguarded a kindness that was hidden when he first spoke to you. 

“My name is ___.” He was facing the window that displayed the sea, now thrashing and falling into itself, and without moving his head, his eyes drifted towards you.

“I know who you are.”

“Wh- How?” Maybe accepting an invite in a secluded lighthouse on the beach wasn’t the safest thing you could be doing on a Friday afternoon. Anxiety pioneered a place in your breathing, turning it rushed and choked.

Before your mind could theorize all the ways in which you could make an escape from this room or how quickly you could use your hidden umbrella as a weapon he said, “I noticed you following me in the town’s square earlier today.” You sighed, releasing the terror that pricked your lungs. If anything, it was he who should be afraid of you.

“I’m not a stalker!” That weak defense was all you could push from your throat before any well constructed explanations could be put forth. 

His laugh, along with his cryptic gaze towards the waves, made you feel even worse about your actions.

“You were just so stunning and I wanted to know what kind of person still wears a newsboy hat without trying to make a statement.” Your lower lip tucked between your teeth stopped the nervous laugh about to spill and expressed worry that the more you tried to explain yourself, the more this man believed you should be charged for stalking not to mention trespassing.

“Stunning?”

“I mean, like, someone I’d want to meet.”

“What were you planning on doing once I stopped somewhere, or noticed you?” He questioned you only because he relished how you were scrambling to a proper defense. He knew you weren’t any threat to him, not many people were, however he enjoyed your chatter more than the silence that would have taken its place.

“I don't know, maybe just… introduce myself?” This sheepish, yet honest, reply had you drowning in humiliation, while the man before you seemed as if he were floating effortlessly along the surface. 

“I’m Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.” Relief replaced the worry that he would turn you away, leaving you to the hands of the storm outside. The fact that any other person would have done so led you to believe Jungkook held a lot more compassion than he let on. You held your hand to greet him, finding it only polite to execute this formality. His, however, remained folded behind his back, notably denting your ego as you retracted your hand quicker than you extended it.

“Okay.” You muttered to yourself in slight embarrassment from this trivial rejection. “So, do you live here or something?” Your question was first replied to with a breath of annoyance. Jungkook was kind enough to allow you a sanctuary from the rain, exemption from the intrusion and stalking, and now he found himself having to entertain you.

“Yeah, something like that.” All this disinterested answer did was persist your attempts to break his catatonic gaze. However, his reserve had been solidified steadily over the years, so this venture was going to be tough.

“I didn’t know you could live in a lighthouse?” Your inquiry was spoken with the hopes this would ignite a lasting conversation. 

“It’s not a lighthouse, technically.” Jungkook’s affirmative tone flew right over your head, conjuring even more annoyance that oddly enticed him to continue responding to your dense questions.

“Well, it looks like a lighthouse. It’s shaped like a lighthouse. It’s on the beach, just like a lighthouse.” A chuckle joined the sigh of his breath and his head that shook at your shallow observations. Jungkook eventually turned around and made his way towards the stacks of books, trying to preoccupy himself from whatever this exchange was. “All signs point to this being a lighthouse.”

“Well, it’s not. Lighthouses are meant to send signals to the ships out at sea. This doesn't,” His curt response tickled your amusement, only encouraging you to further aggravate him. “Therefore, not a lighthouse.”

“Okay,” You sounded agreeable, but this was soon followed by a doubtful comment whispered just loud enough for Jungkook’s ear to catch it, “It’s a lighthouse.” He found his stoicism melting away due to your spiteful attitude and conniving giggle in the face of his frustration. You wanted to get a rise out of him, and he knew this, and you were doing a fine job at it.

“It’s not-” His voice elevated with excitement, but he soon tamed the defensiveness threatening to spill from his lips, “Do you want to go back out into the rain?” 

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” Though, you sounded all but remorseful. The sly smirk resting on your face matched Jungkook’s satisfied expression, despite these smiles surfacing for different reasons. You couldn’t deny how humorous it was to distemper this man. How all the worries you laid out like the pebbles and seashells on this beach were washed away by the tides. Meanwhile, his grin provided little contribution in masking his enjoyment of your company and relentless curiosity.

You now sat in the right armchair, bundled in the blanket. It was not necessarily a thick blanket, but the chills once disturbing you had dwindled almost immediately. You were still entranced by Jungkook's movements. His hands were now occupied with a book from one of the stacks he’d been eyeing; the way he cradled the book like it was a newborn baby further revealed he had a somewhat protective attitude towards them. 

“What are you reading?” His eyes remained between the pages and lines of the book, but his focus was yet again thieved by your incessant curiosity. Jungkook thought it irritating similarly to how one would find a cat disrupting their owner from work, annoying yet ever so endearing, and adorably distracting.

“I’m not reading, I’m being bothered by you.” His snark was meant to damage your brazen pestering, but unknown to him it merely fueled it.

“Boohoo.” No matter how elementary that retort was, you still managed to fever him and hold hostage his attention.

“I’m reading The Odyssey.” Jungkook surrendered to you, placing the book on his lap that was now sitting in the armchair next to yours. “Why do you ask so many questions?” His eyes laid on you the same way they laid on the sea, filled to the brim with fascination. 

“I just wanted to know what you were reading.” Even when he expressed a clear indication that he was past your nonsense, it went unnoticed like the particles of dust flitting around the darkened room. This oblivion of yours prompted your next question. “Could you read it to me?”

His eyebrows furrowed at this request. Jungkook had already found himself exhausted by your persistence, and predicted ‘no’ would not be accepted as a viable answer. He just sighed and began to read aloud.

His soft voice somehow drowned out the sea’s commotion. The words flowed off his tongue as if he wrote the book himself; such poise for a young man lured you to immerse yourself in his narration and time grew more and more abstract. 

After a bit, Jungkook paused to examine how you'd received his reading and he was pleased to find your chin resting in your palm and your eyes and ears fixed onto him as if he were reading the gospel. This made it difficult, impossible, to deny entry for the subtle blush working its way on his cheeks.

“Are you satisfied?” He closed the book, peering out of the window to check if the weather had eased since you arrived. Though the intensity of the storm hadn’t lightened in the slightest, there was a new tranquility adopted by the drizzling sky waters that sank and fed into the waves.

“Never.” You replied with a hungered conviction twisted into your words, “What happens next?”

Jungkook laughed in shock of how eager you were to hear more of this story. It was unlike someone who wasn’t well versed in literature to genuinely enjoy listening to this archaic novel. 

“Why are you laughing? Read more!” Your whine came off a bit childlike, but succeeded in its goal. 

“It’s getting late.” He commented with a gentle sternness, though he proceeded to reopen the book. Your peculiar attention naturally drew him to oblige your desires. Even in the midst of a storm, even as the hours slipped by and the evening had been born, he continued to read.

You settled back into your chair in rejoice that you’d get to spend a bit more time with Jungkook. He was practically a stranger, and still there was a climate of comfort and intimacy that took the place of the crisp, winter air when he read from his book. He felt it too, and that was reason enough to allow you this company.

Throughout the chapter he had been working to finish, he snuck glances to find your eyes growing heavy with sleep as each page turned. Jungkook halted from reading and was trapped in the flush of your cheeks and lips and how your mouth hung slightly ajar as you inhaled the cold, wet air of the lighthouse. The puffs of breath that billowed from your lips had him yearning to know a warmth so full with life and curiosity.

“Are-” Jungkook tensed at the idea of disturbing your sleep, as if you hadn’t barged into his life without a hint of permission. “Are you asleep?”

Your head lifted slowly, then held stiff to maintain consciousness, “I was just resting my eyes. I’m not tired, I want you to read more.” You said this in spite of knowing you would drift asleep if he did.

“I think we are done reading for now.” The book closed for the last time, his hands pressing against the cover to seal his assurance. “You should head home.”

��But, I don’t know how the book ends.” This weak argument came from a place of jaded desperation. Regardless, he almost fell victim to your subdued urgency but any sensibility he could garner warned him not to allow this. You were quite obviously tired and he prefered you be safe in your own bed before the night advanced.

“Well, that’s because I only just started this book and it is very, very long.” Jungkook hoped this would usher you out even if that meant the return of loneliness would seep between the pillows of the right armchair after you left him with his solitude. 

“Well, I won’t be able to get these questions out of my mind unless I finish the book.” Another weak argument drained from your inventory of excuses. Maybe a change of subject would present an opportunity to linger in his company. “Also, why do you live here all alone?”

“I just do. I feel like I don’t have to explain this to you.” Jungkook was bewildered at his admission to give you, an unannounced and uninvited visitor, any explanations and still he was close to doing exactly that. “You’re quite invested in my personal life.” As much as that was true, his withdrawal from your curiosity wasn't all that effortful. Living in secrecy and desolation had the feeling of companionship nearly vanishing from his memory and you reunited him with  that warmth. And, he had not realized how it had nearly been forgotten or how much he missed it until he finally felt it again. 

“You seem like someone who has better things to attend to.” The lament that stained his words bore such heartache that was soon displaced in your chest. 

“No, no. My life is boring, and I don’t know. What person wouldn’t be interested in the personal life of a hermit who lives in a lighthouse?” You stood and paced around the platform towering over the swirling bookshelves below, towering over what felt like the entire world with Jungkook. The end of the blanket trailed your footstep as your drooping eyes skimmed the multicolored novels which were remarkably arranged alphabetically by author. How he had the time or patience to organize the hundreds of books he owned was beyond your comprehension. Every detail you acquired from Jungkook was stored in a compartment of your heart, almost as if it were assigned by fate. They were told in riddles and secrets and everything else meant to be deciphered.

“Not a hermit, and not a lighthouse. I couldn’t imagine someone like you being bored with your life.” His voice had become welcoming, with a hint of genuine interest, and this transition felt imminent ever since you first introduced yourself. The tilt of your head signified your agreement with his last statement and implied there was something that bothered you about this truth.

“Someone like me?”

“Someone like you. Curious, young with your whole life ahead of you. It's hard to believe you should be bored with that.”

“You say that as if you aren't the same age as me.” Jungkook shrugged lazily and scuffed his shoes against the rug as he now stood against the window sill, observing your interest of his books.

“I shouldn’t be a lot of things, and yet I am all those things. Bored, curious, and I’m here talking to a complete stranger that totally has the capability to murder me like in those movies instead of going back home.” Your comment that snuck out had wrested a soft chuckle from Jungkook. They were absentmindedly thrown into the air that filled the space between you and him, nurturing his reciprocated fascination with you. Your diligent grazing of each book had distracted how the weight of your eyelids heavied by the minute.

“It’s not like I don’t have great people in my life or a quality education that takes up most of my time, I just,” Your brief pause was to turn your attention over to Jungkook, who did not hide how he was listening intently to these confessions, alleviating from a place in need of emptying. His eyebrow was arched in a manner that jolted you back to your senses. You’d revealed one too many privacies to someone who you had been acquainted with only hours ago. Mortification would have bathed your body if not for the way Jungkook seemed to strongly engage with your openness.

“You just?” He staged his interest overtly to correct the imbalance of how your genuinity left you hanging lower than him on the emotional scale. Jungkook believed that was the least he could do to mitigate the embarrassment about to silence you. 

“Uh, I just never seem to be satisfied with what I have. And that makes me seem like a greedy, spoiled child which makes me even more frustrated with myself.” You admitted, pulling the blanket over your shoulders tighter as if that would shield you from the compromising guilt slithering out of your body. “And that’s how I see myself. Ungrateful and spoiled.” This certainly scraped the barrel of your deep rooted disgust with yourself.

“Not spoiled, just lost.” His response felt like a soft and thoughtful embrace, granted that this was meant to ease the tinge of reproach in your heart. The words he spoke caressed your cheeks and told you that every horrid thing you thought of yourself was flawed.

“I’ve certainly been in your position.” He euphemized what he really wanted to say to you, that he saw himself in you. Even though you spoke very little on this, he felt himself living every experience you alluded to as if he had been right beside you your whole life. Or rather that you had witnessed his life and suffered identical desires and grievances and adversities and were simply retelling his story down to the most intricate detail; and somehow you made it sound brand new and a thousand times more aching. He was stranded in a state of amazement, ambushed by your pain and how even in moments of emotional destitution, you were unquestionably beautiful.  

Likewise, this stranger, who was no longer estranged, and his kind words nearly compensated for the billions of people you could never meet, all the dreams you wanted but could never alter into incarnation, and all the disappointments that plagued your heart.

And you felt held by his words, his voice, him.

“You’ve been in my position?” You requested confirmation.

“I was. Certainly.” And he confirmed.

“Where are you now?” In turn, you wanted this to suggest, ‘where can I find you?’

This question carried profound sentiment on both the giving and receiving end of it. To you, this yearned for advice. Any piece of wisdom would gladly, gratefully be accepted to ease this rampage of constant dissatisfaction. To him, it resurfaced a series of speculations long undisturbed until you had asked this question; a place intentionally void of all attention because it was sometimes too grim to remember. A haze of difficulty crowded a definite answer, though he knew there was one. He couldn’t place his finger on a fitting response and found himself next to you in search of the answer.

Where are you now?

This haunted his mind for a bit, leaving him speechless and albeit impressed, for once, by your curiosity. 

“It’s hard to say. Somewhere in between, I suppose.” Whatever meaning this carried did not resonate as sound to you. The mere idea of being on the end of perpetual longing, waiting for a clear path to the end that promised fulfillment, made it implausible to settle on being somewhere in between the two. Again, you were left unsatisfied and feeling a burden placing itself on your shoulders and wallowing a fit of disappointment in the pit of your stomach. Jungkook noticed how your eyes fell from his, down to the maroon accents of the rug, and felt out of place. Out of place, in his own lighthouse, all because your gaze and attention he’d grown used to in this short time wasn’t directed at him.

“That’s the kind of ambiguity that leaves me so hungry.” He nodded in agreeance with the twisted cruelty of his response you had pointed out. Jungkook didn’t know how or why he’d come to turn every corner and check each crevasse to find what could settle your appetite. This whole time, though, he sailed through this painstaking search without a trace of uncertainty. His illusion of disinterest and annoyance soon dissolved into the floor that your eyes hadn’t strayed from. 

“Maybe if I lived in a quaint, not-lighthouse I would be satisfied with that answer, but I don’t. I live a normal, normal, normal life.” The repetition of your words stressed your fatigue of this dullness, your desire for everything just inches away from your fingertips.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a normal life. I think it’s wrong that we have put the idea of drama and excitement on a pedestal.” This outlook, unlike the last, did gain traction in stripping the thick ambiguity around Jungkook’s mind. To your surprise, you could be satisfied with the small pieces of this man’s mystery being chipped bit by bit. 

He was well aware of his deep rooted appreciation that accompanied your eyes as it moved towards him once again. There was some sense of purposefulness in this glance that demoted his callousness to tender captivation.

“Can I ask one more question?”

“I have a hard time believing you only have one more question.” His doubtfulness didn’t seem to discourage you, or him.

“For real! Only one more, it’s important.” The only way to prove whether or not this question was truly important was for you to ask it. His head nodded his approval.

“What do you think makes us human?” Before he could answer, a swell of perplexity had overtaken his thoughts on this. You could tell, out of everyone, Jungkook would have a profound answer that could save you hours of contemplation over your philosophy essay’s prompt. 

“That’s an interesting question.”

“An interesting question in need of an answer.” You prodded him for his response, though this was pointless if there was no response that could possibly be constructed. Not a response of reason that you seemed to require, but of feeling. Like an instinct, and that in itself made it inapplicable to this question.

“Ask me again some other time. I don’t know if the answer is that simple.”

But, of course, it was. The answer, in his eyes, was blindingly clear.

“I’ll hold you to that!” He gladly took accountability for that commitment. An unfamiliar contentment with the unknown had lodged in your chest when the promise of spending time together emerged through the once conditional circumstances. The promise that transformed those conditional circumstances to voluntary acts.

This humbling discovery left a wide grin on your face, beaming directly towards Jungkook. 

Jungkook peered over to the antique clock placed on a shelf next to the window. The aversion of his eyes was to save face from how your soft smile that projected praise and attachment had effectively unnerved him; he stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide his fingers that twitched out of pure elation. 

The hour hand stationed on the twelve carved in roman numerals verified how his company had erased any discern for the hours that passed. They had floated away so silently, slowly that you could have sworn time froze altogether. 

“Oh shit, it’s midnight? Fuck me.” The decibels of your voice boomed against the walls, it could have shaken the stacks of books down to a pile of mess. “I’m sorry, shit. I didn’t even realize it was so late.” You unraveled yourself from the blanket and collected your belongings in a bit of a frenzy. 

“It’s alright. I, um, I had a nice time.” He distanced himself from you swiftly as you dashed across the room to the edge of the stairs. Even in a hurried state, you still looked back to him and offered a smile, unsure if that was enough to suffice for a proper gesture of gratitude. 

“Me too.” The words were close to inaudible, but you knew he heard them loud and clear, along with the string of implications that were laced in them. 

“Oh and by the way, make good use of that umbrella. It looks like it could start raining again.” Your ears felt engorged with flames when he’d revealed his knowledge of your little secret. It was foolish of you to believe you could outsmart Jungkook because what you thought obscure was well within his range of astuteness and the umbrella, still damp from the rain, was apparent from the beginning.

You didn’t catch how he’d been smiling when you turned away bashfully, strutting down the stairs in an attempt to portray false confidence. But if you did, you would have picked up on his mutual indulgence in your visit, the absolute bliss laden in his eyes. You grasped tightly to the joy evoked from the thought of seeing him again, however your nerves held a tighter grasp that did not allow you to express this to him. Perhaps your giggles of excitement, surely heard by Jungkook, spilling from your throat as you rushed out the empty room or the way you clutched your umbrella to your chest in admittance you had purposefully kept that fact from him would give Jungkook a clue of how thankful you were to meet him. And even more so to be able to see him again.

As you parted from the lighthouse that was not a lighthouse, something in between, you felt that the comfort you once had taper off with the growing distance from the not-lighthouse. You were fraught with a gentle yearning to turn back, run up the spiraling stairs, settle yourself back into the right armchair, and ask humbly to stay a while longer.

Little did you know, Jungkook’s hopes coincided with yours like two concentric circles. 

(One week later)

If it wasn’t the question left unanswered that motivated you, it was the fact that you missed the view of the beach from the window. Or maybe it was the countless supply of book titles that you didn’t get to finish inspecting. Perhaps it was that you missed how the soft blanket complimented the feathery cushion of the right armchair. 

Any of these excuses could be suited to explain how you rushed through the town, determined, goal-oriented and passing down streets now ingrained in your memory, with a destination clear in mind.

But it definitely couldn't be how dearly you missed the sound of his voice when he read to you or his smile or the way he studied the waves with gentle affection. No, it couldn't be that.

Either way, you arrived at the base of the lighthouse. It had been a week since your first visit and you hoped that the invitation still stood for your return. Making your way through the empty room felt quick since you hadn't wasted time to notice how the table now had a vase of flowers in the center. Nor did you notice the new mat placed in front of the interior doorway to the lighthouse.

Your heart dropped from your chest when you reached over to the door knob only to find it was locked. You turned the handle back and forth as if that would miraculously function as a key to unlock the door. After a bit of knob fiddling had proven itself useless, you turned away with a huff of air releasing your frustration. 

The click and turn of the handle had you twirling around optimistically and seeing him made all that disappointment dissolve. 

“You’re back again.” He was smiling at you, then cocked his head to say come in. The moment you stepped into the lighthouse, its lackluster disappeared as if by magic. But Jungkook knew it wasn’t magic at all; it was the person that hid their umbrella, and asked him to read and promised to return as much as he promised to let you return.

“I believe you promised to keep reading to me.” 

“Did I?” The reasons for your return weren’t all that important to discuss, both you and him were just glad to make your way up the stairs to the two armchairs once more, hearts both racing not because of the physical exertion from the stairs but from the excitement rasping through yours and his bodies.

“Yes, but this time I won’t fall asleep.” 

“We’ll see about that.” There was no question that your intense focus wasn’t because you cared about the book he had been reading. In all honesty, you would not be able to summarize any bit of the plot if someone asked. You probably would have a hard time even naming the author of the book because what sank you into the words on the pages wasn’t the story itself, but the voice that read them. Jungkook made those languid paragraphs sound like the first words ever to be spoken; he reinvented the English language through his unique dialect, inflections and phrasing that had the words of Homer dancing off the pages. So, of course there was no question that you wouldn’t be able to name any of the characters or recognize the writing style of Homer because those details faded away, leaving only the memory of his voice with you.

This time, Jungkook didn’t have to offer you a seat. He made it clear that this spot had been reserved and waiting for you by the way the blanket had been folded and worn by the arm of the chair and the new pillow resting at the base of the chair’s backrest. You planted yourself on the cushion that felt more plump than the last time you sat in it and faced towards the large window that showcased the ocean’s energetic swaying.

“I would never get tired of this view.” You commented while Jungkook pulled back the curtains further to widen the seascape. He too was drawn to the deep blue waters making their way to and from the shore. 

“I usually don’t leave the windows this open, but my love for the scenery of the ocean has rekindled.” When he said this, your eyes hadn’t budged from the window unlike Jungkook’s that peered over to you. You pretended not to notice that or the way your heartbeat had taken a quickness that had your skin growing warmer. 

“How could it leave in the first place?”

“It is well known, especially by you, that having an abundance of something lessens your appreciation for it.” A corner of your lips lifted at this, knowing exactly what he had been referring to. Each wave passed by and in a comatose-like state, you wondered where on the shore it would land.

“No need to call me out already, Jungkook.” He had left the window and retrieved The Odyssey that hadn’t left the side table since the night he read it to you. This broke your trance, and you shifted to face the left armchair.

“You made it too easy, ___.”

“Okay, Hermit.” Your smile did wonders to ease the irritation in Jungkook’s chest to tenderness. Though he refused to admit it, this otherwise taunting nickname sounded affectionate coming from you.

“Technically a hermit is-”

“Technically, I don’t care about your technicalities. No amount of facts will persuade me that you aren’t a Hermit.” Jungkook dug his tongue into the side of his cheek to resist from joining in with your laughter. He’d been fidgeting with the book that was waiting to be read, but neither of you seemed to mind putting that off.

“Ho- How was your day?” You shouldn’t have felt as proud as you did for making a man who could read aloud for hours stutter over his own words, and nonetheless you were extremely flattered by this.

“It was good.” Good never really meant good, and Jungkook knew this.

“And what’s the truth?” Your playing field had once again been unleveled, the advantage returned into the palm of Jungkook’s hand in the blink of an eye. His perceptiveness had been bordering on annoying but still remained on the side of impressive.

“Well,” You bunched the blanket in your fists as an expression of worry, “My mom called today.” Anyone who could hear would be able to tell you sounded unhappy about that.

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?” Jungkook articulated his question to get the answer he’d been looking for, finding the hostility in your voice far more interesting than the actual conversation between you and your mom.

“You don’t know my mom, but she projects her over achieving personality onto almost everyone she meets, but most of it goes onto me.” Your back had straightened when mentioning your mom, almost as if it were a reflex, like Pavlov’s dog, that you were conditioned to be on guard at the thought of her. “I don’t know why I get so mad at her when she does that because I know it comes from a place of love.”

Jungkook hummed softly, granting you space to continue talking. 

“Yeah, it probably comes from a place of love but part of me doesn’t believe that. Part of me thinks every time she calls to check on me it’s really just a ploy for her to nag me on what I could be doing better.” You scoffed as the conversation from earlier in the morning played out in your head again. Envisioning the back and forth between you and your mother only fueled your frustration but you couldn’t help yourself. There was no stifling the seething anger imploding before Jungkook’s eyes. “She always says stuff like, ‘Maybe if you applied yourself more you would be doing better than this.’ or ‘I told you that you should have done this or that and now it’s too late’ or the infamous ‘Do you not care about your future?’ lecture that just gets under my skin. She’s so good at saying the wrong things at the wrong time. I don’t know how she does it but she always manages to rub dirt in the wound.” 

“So, she’s never satisfied with you?” Jungkook observed.

“No, never! And you’d think a mother would be supportive or happy with all the things her child had already accomplished but somehow it’s never enough. And she knows what she’s doing. That makes it worse. She knows how she weaponizes my guilt against me.” You held your tongue from the much longer rant about to digress, feeling a sudden discomfort in the way you’d been complaining to Jungkook. You couldn’t understand why it was all too easy to talk of these kinds of things to him, why he looked so interested in what you were saying even when anyone else would have grown tired of you by now, why you found in him a warm confidant much more comforting than you’d expected, yet there was no way to dismiss this reality.

Jungkook did not offer advice, or tell you that you should be thankful or that maybe you were handling these situations poorly. He did none of that. His silence was more thoughtful than any number of things he could have said. He simply listened. 

You rose from the chair to get a closer view of the sea. Past your reflection in the glass, the consecutive tides seemed to grapple over the next and the next; the previous wave always just short of reach to tackle the immediate wave. He had followed you without a word, living up to your desire to have him at your side. There was no need for mindless comments or condolences to fill the silence, only mindful amity, at your side, because watching the ocean with you was enough.

“So, that was my day.” It was the first thing spoken after a period of quiet, perfectly timed and delivered for it to bear a dry humor in its intention. Jungkook and you laughed, finding this the long needed release of tension in your head. 

“Is this going to become a habitual thing?”

“What’s that?” 

“Me complaining to you about my personal struggles that would have gone in my journal or somewhere far more private than this.” All said while your and Jungkook’s gazes didn’t wander from the view of the window. “Me inviting myself into your lighthouse, or not-lighthouse, whatever.”

“I wouldn’t mind that.” Two heads turned towards each other almost as if it were on que.

The way your pupils dilated and softened conveyed every bit of thanks you held in your heart but couldn’t muster the courage to voice. Jungkook’s doe-eyed smile thanked you likewise and confessed the gratitude for how you had rescued him from yet another lonesome afternoon with a curtained window, an unused blanket, an empty chair, and a melancholic silence as he read his one of thousands of books. Not including The Odyssey, that was for your ears only.

“You wouldn’t?”

“Maybe a little.” His tease succeeded to provoke that smile of yours. And even though that was a favor on his end, he was the one that felt graced by it. Realistically, a smile costs nothing yet there grew an enormous debt in his heart; and even though he couldn’t afford it, all he could do was bask in every detail your smile, of the crease of your eyes, and of the way your cheeks took the form of a sweet Spring Peach, and the scrunch of your nose and brows. Before he sank himself deeper in debt, Jungkook beckoned for the two of you to return to your seats and read all your worries away.

---

Who would have guessed that The Odyssey, of all things, would be the thing that would occupy most of your Fridays through the rest of the winter? Sometimes you visited a Sunday, and other times you’d find yourself needing to hear The Odyssey on a Wednesday evening or a Monday morning. The days on which you swung by the now familiar lighthouse would vary, but they remained a weekly occurrence. 

Jungkook had grown comfortable with this routine, reading to you while you watched him and the waves, but mostly him. Occasionally, his reading would cease to an interruption of his own doing to ask how your day was in a very specific way that only Jungkook seemed to exhibit. He’d ask you say anything but ‘good’ or ‘boring’ and he’d clarify that he wanted you to not leave out any details. 

“Why?” You would ask. And he’d look at you as if you set yourself on fire.

“It’s important to me.” He’d reply as if it were that simple, or the answer you were looking for. Still, if it was important to him you didn’t need any more persuading.

Like when you told him you stopped by a coffee shop, he’d tell you to specify which drink you ordered and how it tasted. 

“Cinnamon.”

“Is that your favorite?”

“No, I prefer peppermint but sometimes I combine those flavors and that becomes my other favorite.”

“That sounds sweet.”

“It absolutely is.”

“Does that make you happy?”

“It makes my insides feel like Christmas.”

“Is Christmas a feeling?”

“It is to me!” He smiled at your childlike enthusiasm because it made life seem a lot more appealing than he’d ever believed. Before you, the world was a little greyer. After you, suddenly full of vibrance, saturated to the grandest extents.

Or the time you brought a candle to fill the air with something a bit more pleasant than the smell of the old, wet stones of the lighthouse.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a candle, vanilla and patchouli.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I don’t remember. I just found it in my house and thought this place needed something sweet.”

“But you’re here.” Your teeth bit down on your tongue when he said this. You almost fallen trapped in figuring out what motivated him to say this, but the flattery of his comment was all too pleasing to ignore.

“But I don’t smell like vanilla and patchouli.” You said, only to save face from the fact that you suddenly felt like a deer in headlights when he looked at you, bracing for when he would crash into you and hoping to god you can absorb the exhilaration of souls colliding; and hoping to god he would crash into you.

“Could you light it, then?”

“Of course.”

And the room filled with a sweetness that complimented your company finely. Now, whenever he would smell the scents of vanilla and patchouli he would think of you, and you of him.

He would continue asking these simple questions, and so on.

Why he thought it was essential for you to relay these almost invaluable intricacies was beyond you, but it did make you feel heard; it made you feel held as it always did. It made the value of your life gone without the need to be earned or proven, the value of the smaller moments that fell between bigger moments. 

It made it all okay that you felt like you stripped the clothes from your whole life off for him to revere and that he’d rarely ever display such emotional nudity for you; you were okay with lying bare before his eyes, vulnerable and pliant to his every whim. Even when you wanted to know all of these things about Jungkook and he’d hold them captive or he’d only offer half sufficient answers, you collected as many bits of the puzzle as possible to try and piece together his story.

“How are your parents, Jungkook?”

“Long gone.”

“Oh, Jungkook… I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I watched them grow old and content and that softened the blow.” 

“Are you lonely?”

Yes, it’s excruciating when you are not here. I am tormented in your absence and all too plagued with despondency and I wish you knew that.

“I’ve grown used to it.”

“So you have.”

“So I have.”

You did not want him to be lonely; you didn’t want him to ever be sad but you wanted him to be able to say that he was to you. You wanted him to be able to tell you he was lonely; you wanted him to want you to know his heart. You wanted him to feel as naked as you felt. Vagueness was all you could ever manage to arrest from his gated mind. 

And for once, the little he had given was more than you could ever ask for.

Sunday mornings with Jungkook were your favorite. The ocean was tame during this time on Sundays specifically and sailed you into its calmness; you were half asleep, resting on the sill running along the base of the window panes. Spring had been approaching which meant there were radiant glimmers of the early sun that reflected and glided along the ripples of the waves. Jungkook once said that every time he looked at these little pieces of diamond rays, he believed the sun and the sea performed in devotion for you and him alone. 

“I love that.” And indeed you did. The idea that no one else witnessed this ocean, not this one, not the way you and Jungkook had, was a greedy disposition but felt so true.

“Would you like me to read?” He said in place of, Is my voice properly fitting for something as lovely as this moment?

“I want you to talk, but not of books.” You blinked slowly at Jungkook, “Could you tell me about yourself? Just one thing, anything you choose.” He saw those specks of diamonds glimmering in your irises. He felt so close to you, sitting on the other end of the window, and close enough to finally surrender a bit of his gated mind.

“When I was a child, I knew my days were numbered. The details of why aren’t important, but I digress.” You stuffed a scoff down your throat at the assertion that the details weren’t important. Him, of all people, claiming the details were unimportant had you whirling in a paradox. “With this in mind, I did my best to fulfill everything any child would have wanted. And I don’t think I’ve ever stopped because that list of desires was never ending.” 

Was this what he meant when he said he was in my position once? You wondered.

“I spent all my time looking for the next best thing I could achieve, because the best things that I had was, as you know, never enough. One week, the best thing would be finding a four leaf clover to give to my mother. The next, it was being the first in line for the new, long awaited comic book. Or, it was the time my father took me fishing on the lake, and then seconds after it was the first fish I caught and threw back into the water, and that best thing was soon replaced by my father’s proud smile.”

Your throat tightened as you visualized a young Jungkook sitting on the dock with his father, full of youth and excitement, and how nostalgia had ripened into your heart even though you had no place in this memory of his. This dream-like sequence had compelled a few tears to fill your eyes, fogging your vision of the older Jungkook that sat before you. 

“When I grew older, in my adolescent and teenage years, the next best thing was fulfilling a newfound passion. It prompted me to buy out almost the entire library and major in World Literature. I spent the rest of my days from then on immersed in reading, as you can see. It was the only place I felt like I was achieving the next best thing, and it was cruel when I came to realize there was no way in hell I could finish all the books I’d collected in time.”

“In time for what?”

“In time... for the next best thing to come along, I guess.” This answer appeared fabricated, but was subtle enough to pass through your mind without a second thought. 

“And did it? Did it come along?”

It would have made no difference if your question had been asked to a brick wall because Jungkook brushed it off as he did every other question that would have given you another piece of his puzzle. He took precautions to avoid a defeat to your pouting by walking over to the left armchair and burying his face in the book’s fortitude. Before you had the chance to reiterate your question, Jungkook began to read, making it all too clear he was evading.

“Jungkook?” You whined to which he paid no mind by continuing to read.

“Is he being serious right now?” Again, you might as well have been talking to an inanimate object. There was nothing to be done when he lodged his restraint other than joining him in your armchair, quietly, permissively.

Every day, like this one, spent with him had you convinced it couldn’t be surpassed in enjoyment. And every day, your expectations had been exceeded. That was something you’d never think could happen. Soon, the cares and worries of this Winter melted as the avenue of Spring had unfolded before you. A long path, surrounded with flower blossoms and diamond coated seas, or in other words, the unfathomable had fallen into your hands.

The remainder of this pleasant Sunday had been consumed by The Odyssey and Jungkook’s voice singing its words as smoothly as the waves surrounding the lighthouse and small conversations during the pauses of his reading. One struck you into reminiscence of the first night you met.

“You never answered my question.” He paused, flipping through the many unanswered questions he’d left with you. Jungkook raised his brow to order specification of which one you referred to.

“What makes us human?” The due date of your essay passed over two months ago, however this didn’t diminish your curiosity to know his answer.

“In all honesty,” He paused and looked to assure you would believe his answer would be honest, or honest enough to cater your satisfaction. “I think it’s our desire to achieve the last best thing.”

Every fiber in you compiled its own list of questions in regards to his yet again ambiguous answer, though you had grown to accept that as a part of Jungkook. And you sure as hell accepted Jungkook, ambiguity and all.

“Hm.” It didn’t take a mind reader to know you had theorized any and all connotations branching off from his answer and he didn’t mind that you could be lost in search of whatever the actual meaning of it was. 

The moon was in its fullest bloom tonight, and tomorrow, it would begin to wane into a crescent then into nothing but an empty space full of new and perhaps fortunate opportunities. Jungkook found the romance of this lunar phase well equipped for the dusty instrument he discovered in the base of the lighthouse. 

“I found something that I think you’d like.” Your ears perked like a dog when it’d been presented with treats. “But you have to go get it. It’s in the other room.”

Whatever this surprise was, it had excited you enough to ignore how you’d have to descend and re-ascend the many stairs that would surely tire you. Your eager legs would have jumped right from the platform to the bottom of the lighthouse if the reality didn’t result in broken bones. As you rushed to the door to the other room, you pushed through and discovered a telescope standing in the corner of the otherwise empty space. A few moments later you were hustling back up the stairs, the telescope making the re-ascension of the stairs ten times as strenuous. All the while, Jungkook just stared in amusement at the way you struggled your way to the platform.

“No, I don’t want any help, thank you!” You said sarcastically through grunts of exertion before positioning the instrument in front of the window.

“Well, I didn’t offer you any, so, you’re very welcome.” He stood on the other side of the telescope, admiring the way you fell so easily in love with it, hands scaling the length of the scope.

“Do I just?” You pointed to the eyepiece at the end of the rod and he nodded. You brought your eye to the magnifying glass which was flooded with the enchanting glow of the stars. You’d never seen them this close, but this little gift of Jungkook’s had catapulted you into the illuminated abyss of the night sky. A measly woah was all that squeaked from your voice, because all the other words were stolen by the stars.

“Can you find any constellations?” He’d seen all the stars in the galaxy; that he was sure of. But none had shone brighter than the person he couldn’t tear his eyes from. Three o’clock had crept onto the antique clock, this late hour had worn down Jungkook’s walls completely as the soft glow of adornment laminated his eyes. 

“I think I see ORion's belt. That’s the only one I know other than the Big Dipper.” You laughed at your own lack of knowledge of the stars. Knowledge didn’t seem to matter though, the beauty of the stardusted sky had taken care of that deficiency. You lifted yourself away from the telescope, allowing Jungkook a turn to stargaze.

“Have you heard of the Astral Plane?” Jungkook asking you something other than, ‘how was your day’, was a rare occurrence which most likely meant this was of some importance.

“I’ve heard of it, but I think I’ll need you to refresh my memory.” You really did need clarification on what exactly the Astral Plane entailed, though you mainly just wanted to hear him explain it. 

“Some say it lies in the fourth dimension. It isn’t tangible or something that can be touched. It lies between everything, every atom, every cell, every city and forest and mountain and even between the crevasses of one’s own mind and soul. A place like this is full of divinity and complete attainment and the way it is reached has been theorized by many.” Jungkook’s meticulous readjustments of the telescope had you wondering which constellations he was searching for, or maybe he’d been looking for Venus or Mars or the Moon. “Some say you arrive there in your dreams, or when you reach enlightenment, or when death draws its curtain on you…  I-I don't know why but I’ve always thought that it was stitched into the sky. Far beyond our galaxy, maybe the Astral Plane has situated itself in between each star, just like it does our souls, and exists as the vastness of outer space.” It turned out he wasn't looking for any of those things, he was looking for the Astral Plane.

Could the heat rising throughout your body be merely adoration, or was it something along the lines of a forlorn longing? When he spoke, you felt this sensation growing dense in your bones; you felt a gravitation towards him.

“Seems about right to me.” Fondness had stained your tone which filled some void in Jungkook’s hungry heart, and he’d failed to predict you were the one that would be able to settle it. “Maybe we’ll never reach the Astral Plane, but at least I’m here with you.”

When you said this, the hairs on his arms pointed towards the ceiling. For once in a very, very long time, Jungkook felt a euphoric resurgence striking through the catacombs of his soul and hot tears dripping down the expanse of his cheeks, to the tip of his chin, and onto the glass scope that was shielding this sudden emotional combustion. He blinked away the tears to the best of his abilities and turned away from you and the telescope and the sky. Jungkook felt the push of air from your movement towards him, but he shifted further away. 

“Are yo-”

“I found a cluster of stardust, go look.” He averted you from him and you always fell victim to every trick in his book. 

“Wow, that’s amazing!” The grip you had on the telescope was firm, like you were trying to hold onto the stars themselves.

“Amazing.” He said. This reiteration wasn’t for the stars, however. He wondered if you knew that. He wondered if you could feel how consumed he was by your magnificence under the full moon that reigned with gentleness over the waves. The once wild tides, now moving with the same serenity and romance embedded into Jungkook and this lighthouse. He wondered if you could see he had been emotionally disrobed and bearing all his affection for you. And he wondered how he was so okay with that.

Six o’clock didn’t feel like six o’clock. Your eyes that struggled to keep open told you otherwise, so again you and him were parting ways as the sun had begun dawning over the horizon and there were no more stars to fill the hours slipping away. Jungkook did all he could to compose himself. He’d offered to walk you out; you reached the door that led to the dewy, Spring air awaiting your departure from the lighthouse.

“Wait, ___!” This exclamation echoed louder than the beating of his crimson heart. After stepping through the threshold, you turned to meet his gaze, teary-eyed from what you guessed was from lack of sleep. Teary-eyed from what he knew was because of another egregious goodbye. “Thank you.”

This moment seemed fitting to test the theory that actions speak louder than words. This moment called for the lapse of courage in need to act, not speak. This moment was the moment when you finally expressed the thankfulness that, to you, seemed to outweigh his by pressing a tender kiss to his cheek. It was much colder than your lips and the docile warmth of the morning, but once you pulled away the warmth had stained his cheek. 

Jungkook felt like every cell in his body was evaporating into the space around him. Like the way a fire would extend its heat into the air or the way Spring melted away the frost ridden Winter, your act had covered him in a blanket of love and refuge from the loneliness once vaulting his heart. And it certainly spoke louder than words; all the words in every book Jungkook had ever read and the words left unsaid and the words passing between everyone in the universe.

“I’m the one who should be thanking you, Hermit! You helped me see Orion’s Belt up close and personal!” You called as your strides began a slow fleet from a laughing Jungkook. You waved, now standing a generous distance from him, and he found this gave him the space needed to finally let his tears fall. 

“I love you.” He whispered, hoping the wind would carry it to your ears and heart.

A revelation had overcome him, and no matter how many times he tried to wipe the tears away, they’d be instantly replenished like a stream of water rushing from a conquered dam, spilling over endlessly, with all control suspended in the air around him.

Was it finally here? The last, best thing?

---

A week after the stargazing, your mind had mapped out the stars as you too searched for that Astral Plane. To you, Jungkook’s proposition of it being strewn in the night sky was the only theoretical that made sense. You wanted to flaunt your newfound passion for this concept he’d introduced, and admittedly - and more importantly - you wanted to kiss him again, leading to yet another blissful walk down the seashore to the lighthouse. The air was warm but not humid, carrying a breeze that evened out the sun’s heat nicely. A few pillows of clouds were cascading through the sky, never staying in one spot for too long; you’d come to appreciate each one’s temporary presence and when they passed, you grew to appreciate that as well. The gaze once fixed on the sand had now traveled to the waves of much gentler motion than ever before. 

This walk, unlike the dozens of others, felt different. The streets looked lovely and the air felt clean in your chest, giving you a pleasant journey far more intimate than the last. Then you realized, it felt like you were walking back home.

When you grew closer to the lighthouse, you noticed the curtains had been drawn which was strikingly unusual for a sunny day such as this one. This was a passing observation as you made your way to the base of the lighthouse. 

Through the door to the room before the lighthouse, you were taken aback to find your armchair sitting in front of the table. you walked up to discover a single, folded parchment sealed with a red wax stamp labeled with your name along the top of the paper.

This felt eerie, for some reason, and you called out his name only to be met with silence, before sitting yourself down and unsealing the note.

It read in his voice:

My Dearest, ___

I wrote this to relay a lot of things left unsaid. The first being goodbye. I’m sorry to have to leave you like this, though no amount of remorse could possibly appease my actions.

Your heartbeat had grown rampant, until your eyes read those words. It was then when it stopped altogether. Still, you continued to read.

I kept things from you like the fact that our encounter in the town’s square was all but coincidental. The truth is scary, and my truth would have turned you away from the beginning. It was selfish, I admit, but I do not think I could have endured such a loss. Forgive me for keeping you in the dark all this time, but I am beyond gratified for what you granted me in spite of that.

Maybe it might seem cruel. You are not alone in feeling that — never alone. But, we were never meant to spend every Sunday morning, or Friday evening, or Wednesday afternoon together to watch the waves float along with the hours lost reading to you; I knew this was not the end of your story, just mine. 

The books I have read over and over have imprisoned me in search of the “next best thing”. To my dismay, I thought I had run out of time to find it. But then you came along. You helped set me free by allowing me to live out a few more “best things” through the way you shared your life with me, unselfishly, warmly, kindly— You helped me move on.

I know you too will move on from this. I hope I could at least leave you with the tools and courage to find each “next best thing” in store. If not that, then this lighthouse, open to you and only you, and a myriad of good memories to ease our parting. I know in my heart you deserve nothing less.

I hope you find contentment somewhere in the sea or on the sand or in the stars, or perhaps somewhere in between.

Once you do, we will meet again within the Astral Plane, my love. I swear it. And if you miss me, just look through the telescope and find me woven in the spaces amidst Orion’s Belt.

Thank you. Again and again I thank you and it is still not enough. Thank you for you, for your warmth, for your salvation, for your smile, for your endless questions, for re-introducing me to the aroma of vanilla and patchouli but it was not as sweet as your companionship, for putting good use of the right armchair and the view from our window, for making the odyssey a little less lonely to read, and thank you for stepping into my lighthouse and my life.

Don't you see, it was you. You were my last, best thing.

with love and sorrow,

Jeon Jungkook

Before you got to the end of the letter, you were racing up the spiraling stairs, ignoring the burn in your tightened chest, how the air in the lighthouse had suffocated your lungs. The dizziness that blurred your eyes had not slowed your climb up the stairs, and the wetness of your tears now seeping into his letter.

You reached the top, The Odyssey greeting you on the chair Jungkook would have been seated in. Your breaths were staggered and warm, filling the mournful emptiness of the lighthouse. 

“Jungkook.” You whispered. You begged for a reply. The curtains were drawn over the window, like never before, and exposed a bronze plaque peeking out from the end of the fabric. You pushed the drapes aside to read what was engraved into the metal plate and the first page of The Odyssey that hung below it.

In loving memory of our beloved son, Jeon Jungkook. May he rest in peace. 1918-1942.

The note below read: 

The Odyssey

Jeon and ___ Lighthouse.

You pieced the puzzle together, finally. And with that, came the final picture, so beautiful and mesmerizing and everything you could have ever hoped for, and more.

“Jungkook.” You repeated as a bid of farewell, with a heart full of satisfaction and content, and Jungkook. You pressed the letter to your chest in hopes his words would mend your aching heart. 

And it was true, he was not your last best thing, only one of them. 

But he was undoubtedly your most cherished and beloved best thing.

[swordoforion]

Orion Digest №42 - The Crossroads of Human History: Why We Should Persist

The events of the past few centuries have brought the threat of extinction closer than it has arguably ever been. War, pollution, disease - as much as the human race has come together with modern innovations, we have also opened the door to the end of human history, and our choices now will determine the future of billions, if not potential trillions. Will we die in a hate-fueled inferno, or stride atop the surfaces of distant planets? Will we drag all of life on Earth down with us, or will we learn to find harmony with it? While there have been many tumultuous times in the history of our species, the idea of it coming to an end makes this time especially vital.

And yet, there are many who argue that perhaps humanity does not deserve to live on, or that it simply cannot. There are some who object to our past and current actions, and believe that human nature prevents us from living peacefully and logically. They think that even if we did survive, we'd be at each other's throats, and it would only spell suffering for many at the hands of few. Others raise the moral flag in regards to our effects upon other species and nature, citing our haphazard destruction as grounds for us to die so that other species may live. Some believe that existence itself simply isn't worth the costs it requires upon the individual.

It is hard to deny that human history has been filled with suffering, and what is worse, unequal and unjust suffering. There have been many souls who, by their mere appearance, have been condemned to live life treated differently than others, spending their days in fear, and working their whole lives just to find some semblance of comfort. Progress has been made on some social fronts, but that fight is far from over, and with a great many problems of our own design on the rise, it is safe to say that the toughest times of humanity may not yet be behind us. The world is getting hotter, the disasters are becoming rougher, the class divide and associated required labor from the working class is increasing, and we still haven't yet cracked the goal of equality.

The situation, admittedly, can seem rather hopeless. And, with the storm on the horizon, we might have the first opportunity in history to stop the race entirely - before things get worse, we have the option to end the human race through whatever means are available, and be done with all of it. We, as the human race, stand at the crossroads of human history, and are granted two choices - accept our destruction, guaranteeing an end to suffering, or persist on, going into the unknown and chancing that our circumstances will worsen. It is a question that has been asked many, many times.

So, what reason do we have to persist, in the face of all that is horrid and terrifying in the world?

As painful as life can be, most people choose to keep living it. Buried beneath the poignant pains and toils, there are brighter things in the world. Large joys that give us purpose, small joys that brighten our day. There is even meaning in pain - by knowing what it feels like to lose or hurt, we appreciate much more how it feels to win or remain safe. The grand knowledge of all that there is and could be in the world - the sights around us, the stories we tell, the friends we love, the memories we cherish - when simply put to the background of our perception, they may not seem worth as much, but to weigh those below the void of non-existence, they are rather valuable.

What is more, we assume that we must go on without improvement, that this crisis we face is all that humans can be or amount to. What is past cannot be changed, but the knowledge of our past gives us the ability to learn from it, and we have proven time and time again that the human mind can conquer anything in its path given time and reason. If we have the ability to subjugate ourselves, to put ourselves in so grave of danger that it could spell not only the end of Earth's dominant species, but potentially most of life on Earth, surely we also have the ability to undo what we have wrought. It is merely a matter of how we order ourselves and where we shift our weight. Given the knowledge and push, the suffering we believe is inevitable could be lifted, Earth made a utopia.

It is a risk to rely on the hope that humanity will settle its issues, but the chance becomes more assured the more we believe in it, the more we support it. If we assume it to be impossible, something unachievable, then it will become so. All those who argue that human nature is to be violent, angry, and spiteful see only a sample of humans forced to resort to their animalistic natures for survival. When one is forced to fight tooth and nail for food and shelter - as one must do in the job market so they may earn money for necessities - they will of course put their survival as a priority. Raised in a world where the value of wealth and luxury is placed on so high a pedestal, it makes sense that people would rush to assure their security, even at the cost of others, for how many would risk their own downfall for a stranger when raised to do the opposite?

However, the unique quality of humans is that with our intelligence and empathy, we can overcome these instincts and fears, rising higher into levels of psychological need and actualization, where we see the strings that hold the puppets. We can come to understand that the system of economy, if managed adequately, could easily be made to support all who live under it, and that with understanding, we could prosper together. We may have within us animal instincts, but if we can understand them, we can control them. Human society already does, in its own way, harness the power of human behavior, manipulating each and every citizen to act in a way that perpetuates its qualities, positive and negative.

The toils and struggles of human existence, that drive many to wish that they had never been born, are human in origin. We are aware of this fact, and while a difficult task, we could one day hope to create a future in which new generations are born, still laboring and having their own individual struggles, but never unjustly, and never without the accompanying joy and hope. It is one thing to push a stone up a hill, and another entirely to do it in chains. It is hard to envision a better world when you have spent your entire life in one; for all you know, it is entirely imaginary, and impossible to achieve. You have spent all your time meeting maybe a handful of people (if any who don't ultimately buy into the flaws of the system in some way; how could there conceivably exist an entire society who behaves as such? From an insider's point of view, flawed is all humanity might ever be.

But that is just it - humanity is both gifted with the ability to see past our mundane perceptions and illusions, as well as to allow our minds to settle into them. It lets us have the foresight to know that the illusion can be shattered, and that we can overcome what we believe to be absolute, while also not being so overcome by such presence of mind that we view life in terms of numbers and psychology, savoring the joy and feeling true the fear. Our emotions and logic affect one another, with the realization of change accompanied by hope, and the frustrating monotony of the world bringing about hopelessness and fear. The same world can cause one mind to imagine life as a purposeless bout of pain, while bringing another to see the beauty and majesty that does exist, and can exist in even greater measure.

The difference in the two is circumstance - what side of the world are you raised in, and what do you see? We know, through logic, that our problems are based on economics, government, and the socialization bred via layered ignorance. A child can be raised in a healthy manner, given the chance to learn about the world around them and respectfully form their own identity, and have the belief that life is indeed worth living, with happiness worth the pursuit of it. However, that same child could have instead been thrown through different traumatic events, and trapped by the demands and expectations of the world around them while they still struggle to process it all. The second child will know the world as cruel, and may lack trust - for what would trust bring them but possibly greater pain? Pain they could not hope to bear?

Which side is right about the world, and not merely the constructed world of humans, but the metaphysical world that is existence itself, in all its infinite potential? If we made such relatively small adjustments as changing how we view mental health and allowing for more personalized models of labor, the entire universe for one person could change, the grand picture of existence reshaped by something as small as policy and structure. While able to understand the concept of things beyond our own point of view, the truth is that these bleak ideas of nihilism come from a perspective that only views the world through a small lens, that sees the horrors and mistakes we have made, but not the capacity to change, if we knew we were able. It is a self-perpetuating cycle - we created a hopeless world which convinces us it is hopeless, and so we continue to create a hopeless world which convinces future generations, and so on, but if we were to break the cycle and take advantage of our ability to change the world, no longer would people be convinced and raised to act so terribly.

At this crossroads of human history, the question is asked - if we brought ourselves to the brink, should we just fall in, rather than potentially making it worse? This question is asked by those who have only ever known the cruel world, watching others taught that it is acceptable to treat others with such disgusting indifference. However, to broaden the lens and see that it was ignorance that caused the first misstep, bringing us through a domino chain to where we are today, tells us that if we are capable of destroying the world, we are certainly capable of changing it. Which option we take is ultimately a matter of which we believe in. If we believe that humans can be good and overcome our animal natures, I have full faith that it will happen. If we believe that humans are incapable of doing so, then we may very well perish.

Between the two options, I have given much thought. For the sake of those that might come into this world just to suffer, I hesitate to say it is worth it for those who might come afterwards in an improved world - sacrificing lives not just to death but torture, all for the happiness of those who have not yet been born. However, this assumes suffering will become an eventuality, and if we were to actively seek humanity's demise, so would suffering result in the inter-rim. To give up hope entirely ensures things will not get better; to persist means that very well could. Instead of wasting time arguing about how bad things could get if we fail, it would do much better to get up and fight to ensure that we don't. Even if we are unsuccessful, is it not better to die in hope than in misery?

And so, I believe that when faced with the choice of dying here at the crossroads or continuing onward into the unknown depths of the future, the latter choice is entirely worthwhile, despite the sentiments of others. We cannot wipe off the stains of our history and ignorance, but we can ensure that the deaths of all those who perished under the sword of injustice do not go unavenged. New children could be born one day, the groundwork for a better and more informed start beneath their feet, and live the lives their ancestors dreamed of, carrying on that hope. And those that march on in the future will appreciate our decision to fight on another day more than we can ever know.

- DKTC FL

[mediawhorefics]

it's my darling @ardentlyadmire 's bday today so first of all you should all wish her a happy birthday!!! but secondly, i wrote her a little weird torchwood drabble as a gift. feel free to look away this is so fucking niche i doubt anyone else is interested. 

@ eline i've already sent you private wishes so i won't gush too much but happy birthday !!! i love you and i'm so lucky to have you in my life. i'm sorry your bday gift is weird as hell. i have no excuse. here's 2.6k of ianto being annoyed @ norton with a hint of past owen/norton. & some jack/ianto angst. timeline wise this makes like.... zero sense because it's set before coe & outbreak. i dont remember everything about outbreak but i think it's technically ianto & norton's first meeting?? so yeah just.... ignore that. hope you'll enjoy ianto being an annoyed little bitch, i'm sorry it got kind of sad at the end rip rip. (i might post this to ao3 but again it's so niche it was basically written for an audience of one so idk) ANYWAYS HAPPY BIRTHDAY I HOPE YOU’LL LIKE IT 

Oh, there is no need to pout quite so dramatically pet. You’ll be back in the dear Captain’s arms in no time. I can assure you.” 

Norton Folgate’s flippant and overly confident tone does nothing to calm Ianto’s nerves, quite the opposite. What initially started as mild anxiety at the thought of being trapped somewhere in the mid-1950s had blown into irritation at the realisation that Norton – with his flip-flopping and projecting all over the 20th & 21st century – was the only one with the knowledge and experience to help him make his way back. The entirety of Torchwood One at their disposal and Norton Folgate is the only one who can help? It sounds like the start of a bad joke.

That was a few days ago though. Long enough for that tiny prickle of irritation to grow and fester, long enough for any traces of decorum Ianto Jones might have had left (and Ianto loves his decorum!) to vanish into thin air, not unlike he had done when he touched the damned alien artefact. 

Why on Earth did he touch the damned alien artefact? He knows better than that. He’s not a young recruit, still green and inexperienced, eager to prove himself. 

Alright, alright, maybe he is still eager to prove himself, a part of him always will be after spending so long in the shadows, treated like part of the decor rather than part of the team. It doesn’t change anything though. Ianto doesn’t make those kinds of mistakes. Oh, he makes plenty of mistakes, thank you very much. But his tend to be the almost letting a cyberman take over the world because he was in love with the human said cyberman used to be or condemning his boss to a cruel death on an alien planet in a grief-induced rage kind. Not the silly accidentally pushed a button type of stuff. It’s so undignified. 

Except he did. He touched the thing and woke up near the Thames in what was clearly no longer Cardiff or the modern age. Turned out he turned up near a very popular hookup spot and having to run away from the police even though he was clearly alone was almost as embarrassing as bumping into Norton in said popular hookup spot. 

All in all, Ianto would describe it as quite a bad day. 

Norton offered little compassion in the face of his predicament, waving his lover away with a small “business calls love, you understand”. For Ianto, he had nothing more than a patronising laugh to offer after hearing his tale, accompanied by a mocking “surely you’re more experienced at handling alien things than that”, dripping with innuendo. 

That was the first of many times Ianto seriously considered murder while stranded. 

A couple of arguments with Torchwood One higher-ups later and Ianto was officially Norton’s responsibility. The rest, as they say, is history. 

Deep breath, Ianto mentally tells himself. He’s the only one who can get you home unless the Doctor miraculously shows up. 

For a second, Ianto does wrack his brain trying to remember if Jack ever mentioned travelling to the 50s with the Time-Lord before he shakes his head. He’s being foolish. They’re almost done. Soon, he’ll be free. 

“Returning to Jack is not my only concern,” Ianto still replies through gritted teeth, unable to let Norton have the last word. He likes it way too much. Though, if Ianto is quite honest with himself, getting back to Jack is high up on the list. “I have a life in the future,” he adds quite emphatically. “And a team that needs me.” Maybe if he says it strongly enough, it’ll feel true. 

Norton rolls his eyes dramatically in response, letting go of the frankly alarming machine he’s been fiddling with for days now to gesticulate flamboyantly in a manner that seems to perfectly embody a sarcastic “yes, yes, of course”. 

Ianto surprises himself by realising there is one of Jack’s exes he hates more than Captain John Hart. 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Ianto asks instead of continuing down that train of thought. Only misery lies there and God knows Ianto is miserable enough right now. 

He thought this would be more fun is all. Not that he ever imagined he’d actually get here. But he’s always been nostalgic, he can’t help himself. It’s one of those random things he and Jack have in common, one of those threads that pulls them together, that Ianto tugs on a little when insecurity comes knocking and he wonders why Jack even bothers with him. Jack’s timeless qualities, the sense he belongs in years gone by, was part of the initial attraction. Ianto can admit that to himself. Which means that mixed in with the panic and the irritation, there was also a little bit of subdued excitement. He wouldn’t have wished this on himself, of course not, but now that he’s here… Part of him hoped he’d have a good story to tell. Yes, maybe the thought, after the initial Bollocks! moment, that he’d have a wander through an era long gone and enjoy it, revel in the nostalgia for a few days, before being sent back home with the memories of a lifetime and stories to tell crossed his mind. Something to share with Jack. 

Instead, he gets Norton and his quips. Norton and his cramped flat. Norton and his inappropriate comments about Jack and their past. Norton and his even more inappropriate flirting. 

Even worse, he gets the reality of the past instead of an idealised vintage postcard version. A world of prejudice and suspicion. And he thought growing up queer in Wales in the late 90s was terrible… He’ll keep his old movies and his imagination, thank you. As little as he trusts the machine Norton has been fixing up  – and he trusts Norton even less – Ianto is starting to be really eager to get back home.

Norton gives him an exasperated look. “Would have I agreed to babysit you if I couldn’t even send you home?” he asks matter-of-factly, pressing a few buttons in an expert manner. He does look competent for a second there, but instead of reassuring him, all it does is make Ianto miss Tosh with a fierceness he can’t fight against. “Now be a dear and shut your pretty mouth,” Norton adds, one finger up in warning. “This is a delicate part of the process.” 

Ianto calls every ounce of restraint in his body and somehow manages to stop himself from huffing. He does however fold his arms over his chest and leans back against one of the desks in the workshops they’ve borrowed. He refuses to call what he’s doing pouting. But it’s close. 

An eternity later – fine! maybe thirty minutes later – Norton lets out a triumphant yell. 

“There! All fixed up!” he declares, turning around to face Ianto with a beaming smile. “You are good to go back to…” he hesitates, wrinkling his nose, “well whatever it is you all do in the future.” 

Ianto opens his mouth, to say what? he’s not sure, but Norton interrupts him with a snort.

“Oh no, I can easily imagine,” he says teasingly, stopping him. 

Ianto closes his eyes, putting a hand to his forehead. He’s developing a headache. He’s sure he is. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” he finally says, leaning off the table and walking back towards the thing that is supposed to get him home.

 “Yes, let’s,” Norton nods.“Oh, this reminds me, do say hello to that grumpy doctor for me when you get back,” Norton adds, purrs really, and Ianto feels it like a knife to the heart. “I do like a man with a great bone structure,” he continues, blissfully unaware, somehow still fiddling with the machine he claims is ready. Ianto still can’t believe he’s going to trust it to take him home. 

It takes a few seconds for Norton to realise something is wrong, used as he’s become to Ianto’s relatively difficult attitude these past few days. But the silence stretches past the point of comfort and it is out of character for Ianto to go so long without complaining (not that he’d own to it) so Norton glances back up at him, mouth opening to mock, most likely, when their eyes finally meet. He realises his mistake straight away. 

“Oh,” Norton exhales quietly, a shadow passing over his face, a suddenly terribly human and vulnerable expression in his eyes. 

Ianto swallows hard. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Least of all with Norton. But it is slightly comforting to notice an actual heart beneath the flippant exterior. 

“Time travel,” Norton finally sighs, shaking his head. “One never quite wraps one’s head around it,” he adds quietly, almost like a confession. Ianto is surprised to find there’s actual grief in Norton’s words, not the performance of it for Ianto’s sake. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he continues, voice still low and he immediately goes back to the settings on the machine, eyebrows furrowing when what looks like an error message in some alien language pops up on the little display screen attached to the tech. 

Again, Ianto can’t believe he’s putting his safety into the hands of this man and his otherworldly linguistics abilities. 

“How did you know Owen anyways?” Ianto says, a bit more brusquely than intended. He’s not sure why the thought of them knowing each other suddenly irritates him, a weird sense of possessiveness settling in his lower belly. This is his team Norton is talking about. He has no right to mourn them alongside Ianto, has no right to the emptiness Owen and Tosh have left behind, the hub now haunted by their absence. Who does he think he is?

Norton smiles sadly. “Oh, you know me,” he says, the cheerfulness in his voice now obviously forced. It always seemed like a mask, of course, a carefully curated persona Norton puts on to defy others and their judgement of who he is so blatantly and for all that Ianto finds him a bit unbearable, there’s admiration there too. He’s not sure he’d be so obviously himself, so exaggeratedly so, if he’d been raised in a time like this. He hasn’t even told his family about Jack yet, scared they’ll put him in not quite the right box and he won’t be able to make them understand. There’s fear of things not being the same, of being seen differently, of course, but also… Ianto doesn’t want them to dismiss Lisa. Not when what they shared and her loss shaped his whole life. Most of all though, he’s scared. He faces bloody aliens for a living and he’s fucking scared. But here is Norton. Loud. In a time where it’s illegal for him to be so. Yet, for the first time, the loudness finally seems fake, something buried deep underneath it that Norton is clearly trying to hide... Ianto almost wants to poke at it. He would if he wasn’t worried of getting his head bitten off. 

After quite a long pause, Norton finally continues. “Always playing with things I shouldn’t touch and projecting to times I shouldn’t visit. It’s how I became friends with Andy. And how I met Dr Harper.” 

The use of the official title somehow bothers him and Ianto stays silent a beat too long. It’s only when their eyes finally meet that Norton betrays himself. Oh, Ianto thinks, surprised. “He never said,” he says out loud, realising half a beat too late it might come across as insensitive.

“That we knew each other?” Norton rolls his eyes to hide the hurt on his face. “Doesn’t surprise me. He wasn’t very chatty, was he? Oh, he always had a snippy remark and a smirk, but it was quite impossible to get him to say anything of substance, wouldn’t you agree? He certainly wasn’t the most emotionally open of men.” Norton puts emphasis on the past tense, still typing frantically on the alien screen like maybe he’s trying to convince himself Owen is really gone. Though of course, for Norton, he hasn’t even been born yet. 

Now that’s a mindfuck. 

Ianto briefly wonders if this is what it feels like for Jack sometimes, trying to understand the world in a temporal dimension no one else around him can fully perceive. Except maybe the Doctor. 

“But then again,” Norton continues, unaware of Ianto’s internal musings over the temporal permanence of the man he still hasn’t summoned the courage to call his boyfriend, “aren’t we all like that?” 

When their eyes meet, Norton arches an eyebrow pointedly and Ianto feels his mouth drying a little. 

“We?” he echoes, suddenly aware that he doesn’t really want to talk about his attraction to men, to a man in particular, with this ghost of the past. 

“Torchwood agents,” Norton clarifies, tilting his head and oh, right. The whole secret government agency thing. “We get quite good at lying and pushing it all away, duty commands. But maybe we get too good at it, so much so we can’t let go of the habit when it really matters.” 

He seems remorseful as he says it and Ianto can’t help but wonder if he’s talking about whatever it is he shared with Owen that Ianto clearly will never be privy to, or if he’s thinking of someone else. Or many someones. Perhaps, not unlike Ianto, he can see a parade of faces he’s been emotionally detached from because his country asked him to. Maybe he’s thinking back on years of lies and deceits. 

Norton sighs, a small thing. “Still, I liked Dr Harper,” he admits. “Owen,” he adds in a softer voice. “I can imagine his absence has left quite a void in your team.” 

Ianto swallows, hard, instead of replying. “I…” he tries, fails. 

Their eyes meet again, Norton’s filled with understanding. He nods, offering Ianto a sad smile. 

“But we don’t have to talk about it, of course, I was merely offering my condolences, which I have done. As well as fixing this little bug, so you’re quite good to go now.” 

Ianto widens his eyes, giving Norton a disbelieving look. “Somehow, I don’t trust it.” 

“Of course you don’t,” Norton replies dismissively. “You don’t trust me. But I’m your only chance.” He pauses, dramatically, before grabbing the complicated machine, its many parts spilling over Norton’s arms like a mechanical octopus, the screen looking like some head to this monster. “So, what will it be Ianto Jones?” 

Ianto exhales. “I suppose I don’t have much of a choice,”  he says, irritated. 

“Well, you can stay,” Norton says and for the first time, it doesn’t sound like aggressive flirting, the way almost everything else out of his mouth does.  

“Here?” Ianto laughs, disbelieving. He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” 

“Might be safer,” Norton whispers, the tone of his voice sending uncomfortable chills down Ianto’s spine. 

It sounds like he knows something. Well, he would. Jumping up and down the timeline as he does. 

“It’s Torchwood,” Ianto shrugs, a tremble of fear and discomfort caught in his throat. “There’s no such thing as safer.” 

Norton looks at him, really looks at him, not a hint of mockery or amusement on his face. He seems solemn. “Quite right,”  he finally agrees after a beat, taking a step forward to wrap the mechanical legs of the octopus around Ianto’s torso. “Now this is going to hurt I’m afraid,” he adds, both patronising and teasing at the same time. 

Ianto laughs on a nervous exhale. There he is, the insufferable Norton he’s been trapped with for days. 

“I wouldn't expect it any other way,” Ianto replies, arching one eyebrows. 

Norton nods. “Well, off you go then Mr Jones,” he says, holding out his hand for Ianto to shake. 

“Mr Folgate.” Ianto nods back, holding the other man’s hand a beat too long. Finally, when he lets go, he says: “I’m sorry for your loss too Norton.” 

He barely has the time to see the flash of surprise on Norton’s face before he vanishes in an explosion of light. 

[dropintomanga]

The Manga Life over the Suburban Life

As a kid-to-early teenager growing up, I was enamored by Highlander: The Series. I was fascinated with the idea of immortal beings who went through notable historic periods that are alive today and fighting one another in modern urban settings. Out of that love, I went into other series/franchises with a modern fantasy element. 

One of those series was BLEACH. I was impressed with the idea of a evil-spirit hunting modern-day teen hero fighting to protect his home, Karakura Town. However, I was more enamored with the introduction and exploration into Soul Society, a world that’s more in-line with an ancient world and with fascinating characters to boot compared to Karakura Town’s suburban vibe and cast.

So what am I getting at here? I read something fascinating of note last year regarding children’s literature. The article in question was about why the setting in most children’s books don’t take place in suburban areas. 

There’s some good arguments on why that’s the case. One argument is that cities, when compared to the suburbs, have more things to do and different types of people to see. Another argument suggests that suburbs aren’t ripe for exploration as they’re not surrounded by nature, but by houses/garages/malls/etc. I do think the best explanation for why suburbia isn’t that popular for a children’s book setting is because it’s just downright boring.

Now back to BLEACH. Imagine if the entire story took place in Karakura Town. While seeing more Hollows and Soul Reapers duke it out at a local high school is cool, it feels limiting because fans will start to wonder where did all these spiritual beings come from and what those worlds are like. Fans want to see what those areas are like. The human mind loves to come up with theories. Plus suburbs tend to be smaller in size than cities. The nature of suburbia being small and somewhat enclosed creates somewhat of a creative wall.

I also think back to Highlander as the series took a location shift every mid-season from the urban settings of Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada to rich and vibrant Paris, France. The fight scenes feel nicer in some ways because in Vancouver, you get fights in alleys and abandoned buildings. In Paris, the fights feel a bit more magical because the places Immortals fight at usually have hundreds of years of history attached to them. 

Another franchise that came to my mind when it comes to the limitations of suburbia in well-recognized fictional media is Final Fantasy VII. While I know there was a remake that took place entirely in the game’s initial setting, Midgar (a clear reflection of what real-life cities are like today), the real beauty comes after that part in the original game where you get to go on the world map with an entire planet to explore, learn important things about the environment around us and have an excellent main theme that encourages you along the way. 

Back to the subject of books, manga isn’t exactly children’s literature. Yet it’s a good and influential visual medium full of great series that ignore suburbia even if they have some presence in the grand scheme of things. There’s a lot of talk about the psychology of suburbia with regards to its effects on teenage youth - i.e. the major audience for manga in the West.

While the suburbs are technically safe, their inherent structure involves people having to isolate themselves from others as they strive for extrinsic goals. There’s no genuine desire to have communal groups as zoning laws create barriers with unintended consequences (i.e. segregation). Everything feels the “same.” For children born to parents determined to live in suburbia, this can have serious ramifications on their mental health. When you’re very well-off like most suburban residents, life starts to lack some kind of purpose. Teens striving for  that purpose in their suburban area may end up doing harmful things that jeopardize their psychological well-being as their parents are busy dealing with their own lives to care. 

It’s like being trapped in a carefully crafted bubble that’s supposed to protect you from “threats” that actually get you to question the meaning of it all. 

A disclaimer here - I grew up and live in New York City suburbs. To be fair, I don’t mind it as long as I have the internet to access all my fandom needs and wants. However, as of late, I learned how much of my current neighborhood’s residents have beliefs I don’t agree with. I can’t stomach living in the city though as it’s so compact. I can’t stand a constant stream of NYC’s lights and noise. If you’re an older adult, it’s okay if you want to live the suburban life as long as you keep your imagination and social ties active.

I sometimes feel we’re not fostering the imagination of kids living in suburban areas enough in positive ways. I think about the many young fans who live far from cities and can access manga. I don’t want to say they’re lucky compared to what I went through to read manga at their age. I think they deserve it. They get that the “normal life” adults want them to live isn’t always the best choice. The fantasy worlds young fans discover through manga give them an escape into possibility - a possibility that they can do more with their lives outside of suburbia and realization - a realization that there’s more to life than their daily routines.

Suburbs restrict possibility and realization. The best children’s books usually don’t involve suburbia because the point of them is smashing all kinds of walls a la Attack on Titan. The same goes for manga and its appeal to teenagers. Yes, freedom can be very frightening if you’re unprepared for it, but it’s also exhilarating.

The potential freedom presented by books (literature/manga/etc.) for children and teens is something that should be passed down because they remind them that their voices do matter in a time where adults still have way too much say in things. To quote a now 102-year old Holocaust survivor, Helen Fagin, on books saving lives.

“There are times when dreams sustain us more than facts. To read a book and surrender to a story is to keep our very humanity alive.”

[irispublishersmedicaljournals]

Iris Publishers - Current Trends in Clinical & Medical Sciences (CTCMS)

Can Emergency Medicine Become Redundant?

Authored by Andrew Hague

Injury and illness

Injury and illness are the two medical problems. Injury can be sudden and requires emergency treatment. Illness is incremental and treated progressively.

Doctors are role models

Much work is done to prevent illness. We see this in better hygiene, personal and social; washing hands and sanitation. Lifestyle affects health and people are advised on diet and exercise. The equivalent advice from doctors about emergencies and injuries is missing. In all societies, doctors are role models. We all grew up thankful for the attention of a doctor at some stage. They brought us into this life and will see us out. Seldom do they pronounce on politics and although they have a good income are never seen as having more than their fair share of wealth. People respect doctors and this status should be used by doctors to influence behaviour. Doctors, whether they like it or not, are role models. What they say, is influential.

Causes of injury

There are four classes of causes of injury:

4. Misfortune

From the first of carelessness to the last of misfortune, the chance of avoiding disaster gets less which means that a doctor has less influence. Nevertheless, statements by doctors will be heeded and when it is understood that the doctor invites redundancy this advice will be respected. We wish for the same from the police and fire brigades. Indeed, the fire service devotes a lot of effort to inspecting buildings for fire safety. Do the police invest time preventing crime or is that left to the deterrent effect of sentencing and punishment? In many cases, it is hoped that people will be careful to avoid injury but still they turn up at the A&E in pain and talking about accidents. Investigators admit that the truth is there are no accidents, only mistakes that were avoidable.

Consequences

A child has no concept of consequences. Over time, by trial and error coupled to imitation, the process of conditioning adds to the memory bank and the child becomes an adult aware of the consequences of their actions. People who have not acquired this knowledge should be recognized by doctors for their ignorance which will become evident in frequent visits to the clinic. Their teachers will have already identified these people at school as slow learners. It is in these encounters that doctors have a role to play. Interestingly, the accident prone are not always those scoring low in education. There are many explanations for mistakes. The person who does nothing may stay safe but achieve nothing and the ambitious may push the boundaries of sense to explore beyond. This is the consequence of having the brain we acquired when we mutated into homo sapiens.

Carelessness

There is an assumption that tidiness is safer than a mess. Do more accidents happen in a messy or tidy workplace? I do not know but from my own experience and this includes owning a factory for many years, a mess is not the cause of mistakes and tripping over wires. Where there are obvious dangers, people are alert and avoid them. When there is deceptive safety, one’s attention can wander letting the day dreamer trip or walk into a half open door. Our brains are not born to cope with neatness. The cave and the jungle floor are always a tangle and walking depend on watching where to put your feet for every step. Only since manufacturing required orderliness has a clear path become essential. This allows carelessness.

There is the often-quoted story of two mountaineers trying to find their way to the Royal Geographical Society through the back streets of London. These men had climbed the world’s mountains and then one of them tripped over the kerb when crossing the road in London and broke his leg. As a doctor, what can you advise to prevent such mishaps? Obviously, the fellow was safer on Mount Everest than the paved streets of London.

I visit many countries and complain when I cannot drink the tap water and walk at ease in the towns because of the holes in the pavements. However, I do admit that the locals never seem to fall on those pavements and neither did I; I had to watch where I was going. Carelessness is thus a response to a deceptively safe situation. Add some dangers, as our cavemen-forebears expected, and there should be fewer accidents. Modern manufacturing which is as automated as possible has reduced the chances of injury. Earlier methods often allowed the operator to injure themselves.

Working a fly press involves placing the component under the press tool and swinging the handle to bring the tool down with a load of anything from 5 to 50 tons. Repeating this cycle ten times a minute creates a rhythm of complacency. When the left hand moves before the right hand instead of the other way around, the hand can be under the press with disastrous consequences. Later improvements were to install guards; the guard came down before the press. That resulted in some cases of the guard trapping the hand preventing it being withdrawn from danger. The operator had to wait a second, which can be a long time in these circumstances, for their hand to be amputated in one blow.

Eventually, designers arranged for the descent of the press to be controlled by two buttons, one a shoulder’s width away from the other so that both hands had to be on a button before and whilst the press came down. The release of one button would stop the descent of the press and interrupt the cycle. Automatic pick and place machines have mostly replaced human press loading and it is only where labour costs are so low that investment in automation cannot be justified that workers are exposed to dangers. Automation is criticized for creating unemployment.

It increases productivity and safety. Only the setter, the person setting the tools under the press, is in danger when preparing a new tool in the production process. As the setting task is not repetitive with each step having to be thought about, the injuries are fewer. Setters were in danger if someone switched on the machine not realizing there was a person at the back or inside. These calamities not only resulted in death but led to claims of manslaughter incriminating the person who switched on the machine and the employer. The answer was for the setter to isolate the machine and withdraw a key to the control box, lock it and keep the key in his pocket so that the machine remained inactive until the setter switched on again.

Recklessness

This is where we remember the story of the boy cycling around the house and as he takes his hands off the handlebars he shouts, “Look Mummy, no hands”. A few minutes later he reappears and shouts, “Look Mummy, no teeth”. Due to his bravado, he had crashed. The same happens driving cars at speed, playing with knives or generally showing off. The need to be reckless, seen more in youth than maturity, is shuffling into pecking order to find a place in the hierarchy of society. Less skill means more crashes and you slip down the scale of ability. Balance a football on your nose and the crowd will cheer. Humans play these games because they position each person where they can best support the tribe.

Modern society does not depend on physical skills. The computer nerd is today’s leader. When a doctor explains to the children at the local school that fooling about is dangerous, some sense may prevail and lead to fewer injuries. Recklessness will persist because the desire to show physical prowess is innate. With education essential for survival today, the clever ones are revered, and this will influence our species as physical strength and agility is less desirable in the gene pool compared to mental ability. All species adapt to the environment or become extinct.

 The human environment is changed by our own behaviour and we are these days in the midst of an evolutionary shift. The damage we inflict on the environment causing climate change is expected to lead to our extinction. It certainly will but only if it kills us before we kill ourselves by preventing deaths through extended longevity so that adaptive mutations cease. This is a medical emergency beyond the ability of emergency doctors.

Aggression

Lack of fear and aggression goes together. When a wild dog approaches a group, it will sense the meek one who is afraid and attack. This is enabled by the electrical circuits and magnetic fields by which brains operate and is how humans and animals can relate to each other. As a doctor, you will have learned little about this at medical school and yet it is fundamental to behavioural studies and cancer [1]. Aggression is useful in primitive society when dealing with predators, less so in a civilised society. The military employs soldiers trained as commandos, to operate behind enemy lines and, where necessary, kill with their bare hands. Such a person, who can emerge from an assignment and look unperturbed is almost unknown. When the fictional James Bond peals off his diving suit and walks nonchalantly into the bar for a drink shaken and not stirred, he is nothing more than entertainment. The brain does not work that way. An actor can play the role to the cameras but in real life, the adrenalin and tension involved dominates the soldier and, for many of these people, rehabilitation is difficult.

As a doctor, dealing with the effects of aggression, especially when coupled with alcohol and drugs, is a nightmare. To stop it would amount to eliminating those people programmed to be aggressive. Either they find a role in the security forces and we hope they obey the law, or they become useful to organized crime. The doctor will sense these attributes in a young person. I doubt they can be ameliorated. The only way is to direct that person into a role where they can be useful, and the military is an opportunity.

Misfortune

This is being in the wrong place at the wrong time. There is little a doctor can do to prevent victims being struck by misfortune. Awareness of danger is everywhere. Entertainment media dwells on buildings exploding, cars flying off the road and rolling down the mountain, jumping out of a plane and landing safely in a haystack. I feel that this awareness diminishes the sense of danger rather than creating risk avoidance.

News programs refer to natural disasters. They are not disasters. Avalanches, earthquakes, floods and forest fires are natural phenomena that have occurred since the earth was formed and will continue after our species is extinct. In many cases, they are predictable and thereby avoidable. Modern weather forecasting can give two days’ notice of a cyclone or hurricane, time enough to move people to shelter. Living on the side of a volcano where the soil is fertile is always tempting but the gases rolling down from the crater can be poisonous and when the volcano erupts the lava is destructive. You don’t need to be a doctor or a geologist to warn of such dangers.

This is where the sober, thoughtful advice of a doctor carries a lot of weight. Every community has its danger areas. It may be the high cliffs, a motorway, a mosquito ridden swamp, places where the unsuspecting can get into trouble. Tell the community leaders. They will listen to you. Fences can be erected at the edges of the cliffs and busy road and the swamp can be sprayed to control the mosquitos. Always present a solution to the problem and be sure you have no relationship with the contractor who will carry out the work.

Psychology

Preventing injuries involves more psychology than physical medicine. Psychology still falls within the skills of a doctor. There is little scope for direct action. The best a doctor can do is influence and advise and it is by being a doctor that notice will be taken of your advice. The inevitable conclusion will be that humans are accident prone and seek rather than avoid trouble. The doctor is then expected to repair the injuries just as a garage would fix a car damaged in a crash.

I have left their hyperlinks in place. The extent that the injuries can be traced back to psychological causes differs. Certainly, a disturbed mind leads to suicide and violence and very likely to road crashes. Many years ago, when I was teaching sociology to an adult college class in which we were studying criminology, I proposed a cure that I still believe is the only cure and is in most cases impossible; the cure for criminality is to sentence the criminal to a good home. Here is a murderer. Please love him. The explanations were made by John Bowlby in the 1960s and earlier. His best-read book is Child Care and the Growth of Love [3]. Only by parental love can a child acquire empathy and be able to pass love on to others. These bonds are essential in human groups and exist in all animals. Recent botanical research adds to this insight by finding electrical relationships between plants. A person who grew up unloved can be expected to not fit into society. They will not accept the common rules of behaviour and be unaware of others’ feelings. Without empathy, cruelty is easy. Should this individual become a parent, the children will also lack bonds.

Doctors will recognize these people and their disruptive, often temporary, families. They are crimes and injuries in the making. What can a doctor do to prevent future mishaps? On the face of it, very little. Most doctors work inside a bureaucracy and there will be no scope for interfering in a patient’s private life, for that it is how it will be perceived. In earlier times, religious leaders would step in, but their leadership has given way to the smart phone screen which cannot love, only excite and provoke. Sociologists call it alienation and anomie; being cut off from society and having no feeling of belonging. If this were the lack of vitamins or a virus infecting the blood, a doctor could and would do something. The affected (instead of infected) patient is equally in need of help but seldom is a doctor seen as the person to turn to. Eventually, it will be the police and their aim are to pass to the courts, then prison. Society offers no cure despite knowing the cause and suffering the consequences. If what cures is medicine, then here we need social medicine. I contend that doctors apply medicine. If it is not the police to become involved, at least it will be the emergency doctor stitching up knife wounds.

Even amongst well brought up people there is a range of temperaments from placid to impetuous. Impatience can cause injury. Think of bad driving or pushing in a queue. Does such an irritable person need a tranquilizer? Theoretically, extreme behaviours could be chemically restricted, a technique sure to cause ethical arguments. People self-administer their personality shift with alcohol in one direction and caffeine in the other. I advise against both drugs, but they are popular. Medically there is no safe upper limit for alcohol. Coffee is fully accepted, approved and big business. Politicians create laws, companies lobby politicians and consumers accept laws. I love coffee, its taste and smell, but I read my own senses, and something tells me to be wary; minimize on coffee. Look after the brain for a healthy body. Anything that affects the brain is dangerous. This does not include listening to Beethoven.

I have little sympathy with addiction because I see it as selfinflicted. More compassionate souls feel sorry for those who cannot stop doing something. In the context of injuries, think of speed and racing. The winner is the one who placed their life most at risk. That is stupid but the audience loves it and next time greater risks will be taken. Confined to a racetrack, only the participants get hurt. On the open road, you and I can be hit. I remember a doctor assigned to a Formula One racing team explaining that every bone in their star driver had been broken at least once. Didn’t that put him off? No, he is addicted, and nothing will stop him. At the end of the line, the publicity was increasing the sales of something.

Trauma Infection

The first action on a trauma patient brought into Accident and Emergency on a stretcher, assuming the bleeding has been staunched by the medics, is to treat with a CellSonic VIPP machine to kill all and any infection. The intense pulses will penetrate to catch germs thrust into the wound. Importantly, stem cells of the right type in the right quantity will be delivered in the blood to exactly the right place by the immune system responding to the pulses. The blood will automatically have more oxygen and growth factors to aid healing. All this can be done before the doctor arrives to inspect the patient.

Professor Richard Coombes, an orthopedic surgeon of Charing Cross Hospital in London always said that CellSonic VIPP machines should be standard equipment in all emergency units. After the wounds and bones have been set, use the CellSonic again to kill any infection. This can be instead of antibiotics or allow a much lower dose of antibiotic. The benefit is saving the patient from developing antibacterial resistance and reducing the contamination of local rivers whereby antibiotics travel through the patient and the sewage system to rivers where fish and surrounding land are contaminated.

Conclusion

Doctors can help to reduce the demand for emergency medicine. It requires an extension of their usual skills into the therapy of psychology and social manipulation. Humans have brains which search for change. In the process, they hurt themselves and each other and call upon doctors in an emergency. If a more placid life is desirable, emergencies will be rare but that is not the current trend. Expect more horrors. To read more about this article: https://irispublishers.com/ctcms/fulltext/can-emergency-medicine-become-redundant.ID.000503.php

Indexing List of Iris Publishers: https://medium.com/@irispublishers/what-is-the-indexing-list-of-iris-publishers-4ace353e4eee

Iris publishers google scholar citations: https://scholar.google.co.in/scholar?hl=en&as_sdt=0%2C5&q=irispublishers&btnG=

[spirit-science-blog]

Let us begin first with the Demiurge. The Demiurge is an ancient Greek and Gnostic concept describing a consciousness that is essentially the creator of the physical reality, but not the supreme creative force behind all things.

An excellent way to explore this idea is through the Matrix, a Science-Fiction story that suggests everything we think we know of as the real world is nothing but an illusion, a false world within which most are imprisoned, unable to identify what is real effectively. As people go about their day to day lives, they think that their world is real, but every individual is plugged into an artificial reality severed from the real world. While people suffer, there is a tremendous benefit to the ruling overlords, who were a form of AI in the film. As it relates to us, this AI is, in essence - the Demiurge.

The Demiurge was described as a force, a deity, or a consciousness responsible for creating the physical world. However, in a way, it had imposed itself over top of the actual reality, the supreme oneness that created all things. In this, it was a false god who had assumed authority over the world, masking the living beings - namely us - from the supreme truth, the highest order of creation, and making us believe that what we experienced as real, the physical reality that we’re a part of, was the actual, authentic reality. Depending on the school and belief of the different Gnostic Sects, the Demiurge was seen either as something evil, deliberately trying to deceive us, or something that was merely ignorant or misguided of its place in the universe and of the rest of creation, which led to us becoming lost in the illusion as a result.

Said in simple terms - the Demiurge was the force behind the physical universe. Still, within our consciousness, so long as we perceived that physical to be real, we were slaves to the illusion of the false or at least incomplete reality.

To that end, these ancient people, at least those who were a part of the old mystery schools, believed that the physical reality was an illusion. They sought to liberate themselves from the illusion of reality through varying spiritual practices, from meditation to plant medicine ceremonies and everything in-between, to connect with higher realms of existence, and break free of the false world by finding the truth: the supreme oneness within. This is because even the demiurge and the physical universe still stemmed from the ultimate oneness, and the light of Truth could be found within. Known to the Gnostics as Sophia, meaning Wisdom in Greek, it was the act of awakening this divine spark within us to return to the higher realms that were the ultimate goal of many Gnostic Schools.

This is where we find the roots of Enlightenment and like-concepts from around the world, which teach that within this world of suffering, we can release ourselves from the illusion through various forms of mastery and self-discipline (physical, emotional, mental). This, of course, takes considerable effort and intention to do so. In essence - transcendent people do what is hard, and that’s why their lives are comfortable. People in suffering do what is easy, and that’s why their life is hard.

Fast forward to today, there is a tremendous volume of voices from across the internet, exploring ideas, concepts and sharing a metric-buttload of memes. But amidst the voices of the masses, we find a new concept emerging and being discussed in scientific and even some mainstream circles… an idea that proposes that the entire universe as we know it is a hologram or a simulation of some kind.

Scientifically speaking, if we look at the cosmos from the perspective of quantum mechanics, there is a general acknowledgment that we don’t understand the universe like we thought we did. We are seeing the building blocks of the universe, the subatomic particles, the waves, behaving in ways that do not make sense in the context of Classical Mechanics, which reveal discrepancies in the laws of physics. Yet, physics laws still stand and apply in a practical sense when talking about our macroscopic world, but the fabric of the reality that we live in operates by rules we have yet to uncover.

The holographic universe seems, in principle, to be very much like how you might expect a movie and a projector to work in tandem. When you watch a movie, you enjoy it linearly, going through it one frame at a time, usually at 24, 30, or 60 frames per second. The stories on the screen follow a narrative of some kind and generally speaking, there are definite laws that make-up the universe you are experiencing in the film.

Yet, the quantum world, on the other hand, is like observing the entire film, timelessly at any point, which includes zooming in on individual frames, playing things backward, forwards, the sequels, the prequels, all at the same time. The particles and waves that make up our reality are non-linear and could potentially imply notions of retrocausality. While they also follow their own set of laws, they are different from the world. We exist at a macro level. Another example of this is computer code. What you see on your computer or phone screen at any given time is a filtered projection of what is going on underneath, designed to be easy for you to interpret.

Yet, under these machines' surface, there is an incomprehensible computer language to nearly everyone. Languages like Binary and Machine Code are too simple to make complex algorithms effectively. Instead, programmers use ‘higher-level languages’ designed to be understood by humans to write code that is then translated into the lower, base-level machine code, then binary at the bottom. When you look at your phone or computer monitor, what you see ultimately comprises mountains of ones and zeros that lay under the surface of the digital world, just like what is under the surface of our reality.

You might be familiar with the ancient wisdom teaching, As Above, So Below. A concept that applies on several levels, describing that which exists in higher realities is a mirror of lower realities. With machine code and binary, ultimately, all of that computational code is equal to and actively creates the digital experience on your devices, but they are two entirely different paradigms.

This is the great challenge of modern science today, unifying quantum mechanics and general relativity because we are unable to comprehend yet how the physical world with tangible substance, continuity, gravity, life, time, and consciousness emerge from this flux field of quantum information, which appears to operate by a very different set of laws related to statistics and probability. Yet… are they so different?

The question then becomes, as many are theorizing today - could our entire reality be nothing more than a simulation? An artificial reality that our consciousness is plugged into? Some oddities have been captured on camera that some people believe are glitches in the matrix. Maybe it’s fake, who knows, but we do have this curious clip of a bird perched in midair without moving before flying away.

There was also news footage from Russia many years ago that someone caught an individual levitating on camera, but when the guy with the camera called out to them, the girl dropped down and ran away. Now again - I’m not trying to say this is hard evidence of a real-life matrix, but it indeed compels curiosity, and this is what it’s all about - humanity living in the question, in the mystery of life, and these strange occurrences that beg us to ask the question… What is the true nature of reality? Now on that note, I encourage you to please do your research, go down these rabbit holes for yourself, and make up your mind! In this way, you become a conduit of free thought, rather than following in the herd mentality of that which has been established for you by the powers that be. Even if physics laws as we know them today say that this is impossible, we also understand that physics laws are incomplete. We don’t even know how to fit Gravity into our standard model of physics properly… Perhaps unlocking these secrets will change everything for us.

And this brings us to the primary key of our conspiracy theory of everything, the basis from which everything to come will build off. The demiurge is, in essence, a lesson about the illusion of reality. As we conceive it to be, the entire world is based on what we perceive with our physical senses. A limited experience of the totality of that which exists in the whole universe. This idea suggests that this illusion of the cosmos is incomplete, and as long as we believe in only it by itself, we too shall remain incomplete. We live within a material universe, but there is more to the cosmos than just that, and as long as we choose to believe in this false reality, we will continue to perpetuate its existence. Only by embracing what we don’t know and asking the right questions can we begin to break free of the constraints that bind us.

In the Emerald Tablets of Thoth the Atlantean, there is a great deal of discussion that describes the human soul as a light trapped in a veil of the night, a metaphor suggesting that the night is the illusion of separateness, the soul disconnected from the supreme oneness, or trapped in illusions in general… basically, anything that is not the highest truth. It is the unilluminated mind that actively creates the reality that it perceives to be real. As such, humanity lives out its days in the darkness, veiled in the illusion of one's own beliefs, disconnected from a higher reality.  

This was portrayed excellently in Marvel's Dr. Strange when Steven denies anything beyond the material universe and then is shown a glimpse of the multidimensional nature of reality and that thoughts are things. He shows that we steer the reality field by our conscious intention, but as we become complacent in creating our lives, we give up control of the driver's seat, and who then is driving the ship? Anyone, and everything else. Jung called it the collective unconscious, the collective mind-field of everyone whose thoughts and feelings influence our very own decisions and actions by calculating their energetic weight. Whether it be the media, the news, advertisements, what your family or friends tell you, or things you happen across on the internet… Ultimately, all of it goes into our egos, shaping who we think we are, as we disconnect further from the nature of our being.

So the question then becomes, what IS the truth, what is the higher reality, and how do we connect with it? The ancient wisdom teachings describe that the quest for wisdom, or enlightenment, or the true nature of being - is a continuous journey into the unknown, and the illumination that we are active creators of our lives, not merely beholden unto the preconceived patterns that we’ve been following in.

The great truth we must understand about the demiurge is that we are the ones who actively perpetuate its existence by believing in the physical universe as the ultimate reality. Your beliefs shape the truth that you experience, as Dr. Bruce Lipton has demonstrated through his work with The Biology of Belief - the thoughts and ideas we hold in our minds can be scientifically proven to affect how our DNA and Cells express themselves.

If you believe you are a lowlife with nothing going on and will die alone and miserable, guess what kind of life you will lead? If you think you can change the world, imagine what kind of life you will lead? To break free of the limitations that we feel are imposed upon us, we must first believe that it’s possible to do so. We must open ourselves to a greater truth, a greater reality, one that is beyond the demiurge, and perceive a cosmic truth that forever changes life as we know it…

Yet, humanity is not paying attention to messages like this in mass, and there’s a reason for it. It is a very significant and critical thing. This one piece of the puzzle must be resolved for humanity to truly advance as a species and break free of illusion collectively…

Our journey down the Rabbit Hole is only just beginning…

[theritualofourexistence]

Odes to Old Gods

I started this year intending to journal about things I survive. Then at the end of the year, I could look back on my challenges and think about them in a more positive way--wow, look at what I overcame! The plan was to document everything, both good and bad, so that I could think about them more as experiences and lessons learned than as... good and bad. 

Needless to say, I stopped keeping track of those things in April. 

Earlier this month, I pulled out the journal again to update the list. I ended up quitting on that too. 

I do think, though, that in a less chaotic year, thinking about my life this way would be good practice. So, here I am, sharing my list with you in the form of an end-of-year, wrap-up blog post. 

A few quick caveats: 

This year was hard for literally everyone except maybe Jeff Bezos. 

It is not healthy to compare challenges or struggles or suffering.

I am not sharing this because I am looking for sympathy... I believe that being vulnerable is a very important part of the human experience but we can all also use a reminder that we never really know all of what anyone is experiencing. We shouldn’t need that reminder to treat others with love... but the older I get, the more I think those reminders might be necessary.

Things I have survived in 2020:

- A bit of a stalking experience in January which has since been resolved.

- Losing my job, hunting for a new job, securing a new job, training for the new job.

- My first Harry Potter tattoo for my ten-year tattooiversary.

- The fires in Australia.

- An absolutely wonderful trip to NYC with my dad when I got to see both Beetlejuice and Hadestown and have an enormous strawberry cheesecake milkshake from Junior’s. 

- Losing Kobe Bryant.

- Parasite absolutely CRUSHING the Oscars.

- Having a really, really good visit with my grandparents in March before all hell broke loose. 

- Weinstein being convicted and sentenced.

[Everything after this point happened during a global pandemic.]

- Losing Grandmom. I was unable to attend her funeral and still have not had the chance to grieve this loss with my extended family. 

- Losing my health insurance.

- A Zoom party for my Grammy’s 80th birthday.

- Losing Breonna Taylor. And George Floyd. And so, so many others. This is the first year I have really committed to understanding the current race-related issues this country faces and BOY, do we have work to do.

- The stress but success of orchestrating a safe family trip so that I didn’t have to go an entire year without seeing my brother.

- Losing my shifts at my primary job due to virus-related concerns.

- Countless other family happy birthdays over Zoom.

- My 60-year-old mother returning to work face-to-face with a student population that largely ignores all virus-related guidelines despite her working tirelessly for months this spring to offer UHS providers an adequate work-from-home option. 

- Being diagnosed with hypertension.

- A nightmarish friend trip. Despite our best laid plans for a safe and healthy visit, Mother Earth decided to trap me 90 miles north of my best friends for 4 days. I eventually got to see them for about 12 hours and honestly, it was worth it. That is the only time I’ve gotten with them all year.

- Losing Ruth Bader Ginsberg.

- The selection of Amy Coney Barrett to the Supreme Court.

- Our sweet girl Clio being diagnosed with a seizure disorder and then coming down with a life-threatening upper respiratory infection. 

- Learning that my grandmother would be voting for Trump in the 2020 election.

- The actual election.

- Losing Rooster, my sweet, sweet boy.

- Learning that my uncle has been diagnosed with esophageal cancer.

- Missing Thanksgiving with my extended family.

- Getting really excellent holiday gifts for my favorite people.

- Missing Christmas with my extended family.

- Safely spending some holiday time with my immediate family.

That is FAR from everything. But I don’t have the energy? Capacity? Time? to sort through everything.

Here are the things from this year that I am still currently surviving:

- A global pandemic! And all the associated chaos. With my asthma and high blood pressure and obesity, I am considered high risk and am still not able to safely return to my primary job. 

- Hypertension! More on this later.

- Grieving Rooster. In the days after we said goodbye, I wrote a memorial that I will eventually share here. Psychology has recently analyzed data suggesting that losing a pet can be equivalent to losing a relative... I have never felt grief like this. It’s been over a month. I cry every night. 

- Managing Clio’s health. She is still adjusting to her seizure medication, which she gets twice a day, and is still on medication to help with lasting symptoms of the respiratory infection. She is fussy about food and her weight fluctuates a lot week to week. She is also a feral rescue who has only ever been handled by me, my mom, and our vet. If mom and I are ever going to vacation together again, we will need to find someone who can manage catching and pilling her twice a day... no easy feat. Fortunately, at the moment, vacations aren’t really a thing for either my mom or I and I am working hard to approach these concerns in a cross-that-bridge-when-we-come-to-it way.

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This year has been overwhelming. The last two months alone have been overwhelming. And they would’ve been overwhelming without the added spice of a global pandemic. The number of Americans we have lost to this virus has doubled since I last posted here in mid-August. Some time this week we are likely to reach a point where we’re losing 4,000 Americans per day. PER. DAY. This year has been overwhelming.

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There were some good things this year, of course. I am so, so thankful for all the time I got with my immediate family and the very brief but vital time I got with my friends. Fortunately I am only ever a text away from my closest friends and we are able to message pretty much every day. I am also extremely glad to have found a place in the fantasy enamel pin community. The family I’ve found in pin-land has carried me through some of my lowest points this year. I spent more time in view of the ocean than I typically do in a given year... even though much of that time was still riddled with anxiety. I did art this year. I read books this year. Some really important ones, in fact. If you read nothing else in 2021, read The New Jim Crow. I also got tattooed! I’m going to include those here because I think the significance of each reflects something interesting and important about all I have survived and am surviving this year.

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In January, I got my first Harry Potter tattoo! My favorite quote from the entire series is delivered by Hagrid during the Triwizard tournament:

”What’s comin’ will come, and we’ll meet it when it does.” 

I got that incorporated into a tattoo. In January. 

Also in January I got a “Prisoner of Donuts” tattoo... because life just wouldn’t be manageable at all without donuts.

In March, I got a bird of prey carrying a book to represent one of my all time favorite poems, “On Thought in Harness” by Edna St. Vincent Millay. The final lines of that poem:

“Soar, eat ether, see what has never been seen. Depart, be lost, but climb.” 

In July, I was able to safely navigate getting a tattoo that symbolizes the saga told in The Lord of the Rings trilogy. LOTR is my first and oldest fandom and the story is still so, so important to me today. The lessons I learned from Tolkien when I was a kid also carried me through some of my hardest moments this year.

Also in July I got a Plumpy tattoo. That’s right. Plumpy. From Candyland. If you haven’t played the game in a while, you may not remember Plumpy. He’s one of the first characters you meet on the game board... and one of the worst cards to see when you’re close to winning the game. You could be three damn squares from the finish line and pull the Plumpy card and back to the beginning of the board you go. Plumpy is a really great reminder that even when we have no choice but to lose ground, we can gain that ground back again. And hey, once you pull the Plumpy card from the deck, you likely won’t see him again for a good long while. 

In October, I was able to safely navigate getting my second Harry Potter tattoo. Neville has always been one of my favorite fantasy characters and I chose to carry him with me permanently. His courage, despite so, so much bullshit, inspires me every day. I also got a nautical tattoo for my mom’s ancestors who came to this country and fought in the Revolutionary War. Just as my family has a long and proud history of fighting for what matters, I too will carry that banner, even if it looks very, very different in the modern age. My third tattoo of the appointment is a cuckoo holding playing cards, a nod to one of most important stories I’ve read: Ken Kesey’s “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” This book has informed not just my personal journey with mental illness but my passion to work in the field as well. My final tattoo of my October appointment, less than a week before the 2020 election, is a weeping Lady Justice. 

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This year has made me look critically at things I very comfortably ignored for a long time. I would hope that it has done the same for most of you. Very little if any of this year was easy for me... but the most important lessons are never easy to learn. I’ve spent this year more worried and more angry than I’ve ever been before... and all I hope to do moving forward is use that fear and that anger to make this country, this world, a better place. Miss me with your resolutions this year. Every single day we should prioritize surviving and treating others with understanding and active love. I worked hard to do that this year and I will continue to work hard to do that every day. I’m proud of the work I’ve done. And in case it wasn’t clear, I’ll be dragging as many of you as I can on this journey with me. If you really feel the need to make a resolution this year, resolve to learn. Resolve to understand. Resolve to read The New Jim Crow and then TAKE ACTION. Take action with your votes and your voices and your money. Resolve to act.

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This year wouldn’t let me escape it without being put on blood pressure medication, despite my best efforts to lower my blood pressure without it. Although I had gotten back down into a healthy range for a few weeks, RBG’s death and the landslide of utter shit that followed that completely wrecked all the progress I had made. I’m not happy about adding a new medicine to my regimen. I’m not happy about adding a new chronic diagnosis to my already lengthy laundry list. I did not expect 30 to look like allergy pills and three daily moisturizers and foot stretches and Metamucil and acid reducers and migraine medication and iron supplements and six prunes a day and chronic pain and blood pressure medication... but here we are. I’m exhausted from working so hard to be healthy just to have all that work not be enough. I feel very much like my body is giving up on me... and that is a feeling I am struggling with a lot right now. My soul is a vibrant but powerless passenger in a car speeding towards the edge of a cliff.

I’ll keep trying though. I start my new medication tonight. Hopefully it helps. Hopefully the side effects are manageable. I don’t really feel like I can handle much more... but I guess we keep going until we can’t.   

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I have no expectations for 2021 to be better. I don’t have much hope for it to be better either. This vaccine will saves lives and that’s really good news. But a lot of other things will be difficult, will stay difficult, will become difficult. I’m going to try to keep fighting, and I hope you do too. 

“What’s comin’ will come, and we’ll meet it when it does.” 

[exgaytherapysurvivor]

HOW EMILIE AUTUMN’S ASYLUM FOR WAYWARD VICTORIAN GIRLS HELPS EX GAY THERAPY SURVIVORS

DISCAIMER: If you are actively considering harming yourself it might be wise to postpone this journey into my own little corner of the Asylum for Wayward Victorian Persons. Instead, reach out to a mental health professional or call your country’s crisis hotline. Best wishes for your recovery.

As a conversion therapy survivor I tend to look at the world through different lenses than a lot of folks. And that includes how I consume books and music. Recently it struck me that Emilie Autumn’s book The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls and it’s corresponding songs are practically tailor made to be relatable for CT survivors such as myself.

The plot revolves around Emilie Autumn in a modern day psych ward, and her Victorian era counter part Emily with a Y, who’s letters she finds in her note book. Accounts of the psych ward and Asylum letters are interspersed, and similarities between modern and old time psychiatric “care” are frankly discussed.

Besides the other girls that are falsely considered mad, for reasons elaborated on in the song Girls! Girls! Girls!, which I will get to shortly, a number of the girls are lesbians and what is being done to them certainly fits the definition of conversion therapy in some of its most pernicious forms. The main character Emily seems to be falling for her fellow inmate Veronica before Veronica’s death at the hands of Doctor Stockill.

Autumn herself is bisexual, and outspoken about her love of the ladies, particularly during her shows. I even got to interact with her on Instagram when I made a post about being an inmate by virtue of my conversion therapy experience. She commented saying,

“I am so proud of you, and honored to march by your side, my fellow inmate.” Now that I’ve set the stage let me move on to the music, and the songs I think most apply to the queer experience.

PRIVATE PRACTICE: This song takes place in the modern mental hospital, and is a conversation between Emilie and Dr. Sharpe. In the song the doctor tries to gaslight her into thinking her usual psychiatrist isn’t any good and she has more wrong with her than just Biplolar Disorder.

“let me help you Emilie, let me fix you Emilie!” Sound familiar? The song even contains religious imagery when Emilie Autumn sings,

“I know this illness is my curse to wear, my cross to bear.” Of course he has ulterior motives, which she figures out by the end of the duet.

SPIDER’S FACE: This one is a metaphor for organized religion. Doctor Stockill brags that he’s going to infect the world with the plague and then bask in their money and adoration when he gives them the remedy. They’ll never ask where it came from. Sort of like how religion creates so much shame around sexuality and then promises to cure what it created with various ineffective and sometimes harmful means.

GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! : Beside admitting straight out that some of the girls are there because they are lesbians, the whole flavor of the song reminds of the dark underbelly that often accompanies ex gay therapy: child exploitation.

GASLIGHT: The title is both literal in the sense that the Asylum is lit by gas but anyone who has looked into narcistic abuse knows the other meaning of this word, which is essentially to try to make someone feel like they are crazy when they are telling the truth. The stark reality of a queer person trapped in a conversion camp really comes through in the lines,

“I hold tight to any hands I see, but nothing is alright, their always watching me. And no one’s coming to take me home.” The imminent possibility of death and the frustrating ignorance of people when it comes to the cruelties taking place under their very noses are also discussed.

I DON’T UNDERSTAND: This is a duet between Emily and Thomson, a man hired to photograph the girls at the asylum. It’s musically beautiful, and reminds me of the way the LGBT community expressed concern and pity upon seeing me broken. It’s a reminder that there’s always humanity even in a broken world

FROM THE GUTTER TO THE STARS: Another duet, this one between Emily and Veronica. It expresses the strength of will queer people express in order to survive and make beauty in the worst of times. Also worthy of note the line,

“Yes I know they could separate us. They don’t even hate us, it’s just what they do.” How many times have we all heard lines like “Hate the sin, love the sinner” and “This is for your own good” coming from people who are hurting us horribly.

TIME FOR TEA: I included this one not for its profundity but for it’s sheer satisfying factor. Finally some justice is befalling the tormentors of the inmates. Many of the implements mentioned as the inmates arm themselves are things that are used in aversion therapy; now they are turned upon the abusers.

START ANOTHER STORY: A softer song about trusting your truth and leaving the past behind as you recover.

ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER: Where to even start with this one. So inspirational, I’m tempted to write all the lyrics out right here, but I’ll just say that it perfectly encapsulates the process of recovering from trauma. Learning to live without an enemy to fight, committing to your own values, and building something beautiful out of the wreckage are central themes.

“How do we change the world to what we want it to be? How do we move beyond all of this misery? One foot in front of the other foot…”

INSPIRATIONAL SONGS FOR CT SURVIVORS FROM FIGHT LIKE A GIRL AND OPHALIAC

FIGHT LIKE A GIRL:

1. The title track, Fight Like a Girl, is a girl power anthem for the ages, but still includes boys who have been through suffering

2. If I Burn is a revenge promise for those who torment the innocent and drive them to madness and suicidal thoughts. “If I burn, so will you.”

3. The Key, “It’s time this house was ours, it’s time we take it back, it’s time for bloody war, IT’S TIME FOR THE ATTACK!” Need I say more?

4. Time for Tea, for reasons previously discussed

5. One Foot in Front of the Other, previously discussed recovery chant

OPHELIAC

1. I Want My Innocence Back, though dark in the sense that the writer has been grievously wrong, is also a bold “don’t fuck with me” statement, promising ruin on the person if they can’t return what was stolen

2. Misery Loves Company is pretty light hearted, and may seem at first glance like a song about a relationship, but contains the lines “pray for me you fucker if you fucking dare!” A familiar emotion to those of us in the queer community, especially those who have been told to “pray the gay away”

3. Gothic Lolita is one that requires discretion, as it discusses the painful subject of CSA, but if you can handle the themes, the pay out in the form of retribution on the villain is worth it.

4. I Know Where you Sleep seems to be about a fake narcissistic person whose public image depends on the silence of their victims. This song breaks that silence. With a bang.

In conclusion I would highly recommend checking out the book and the music for yourself. Follow Emilie Autumn on Instagram and be blessed by her love and creativity. All the best to you my fellow survivors.