#or be given more reference points

[lover-of-mine]

So. first off - I your colour theory posts are amazing, they are the first thing I ever saw of yours and I immediately fell in love.

Secondly, I just saw your recent response re: your thoughts about 7x04 & 7x05 and am wondering if maybe things will make more sense, or at least be easier to articulate, once 7x06 is out.

Hi, first, thank you, I'm so glad you enjoy them 🩷

But, yeah, probably. Because the more data points on something the easier it will be to figure out what they mean. It was easy for me to figure out how to articulate all I wanted with my blue and green posts because the blue and green is being used since season 2, so there's a lot resolved for me to look at to figure out patterns. But this season, we are using new rules. Like, for instance, Buck being canonically bi, makes Eddie a love interest officially, so they have different rules being applied to them now. I think the show might be creating a whole new category of stuff there because we never had a proper triangle before. I have some theories, but I don't have anything to back me up on them fully yet, because this development is in the middle, so trying to write something now kinda feels like I'm trying to write a summary on a book I didn't finish reading. Everything about the season so far is telling me that Buck and Eddie are gonna get together but they need to figure out they are queer first. Or at least tell the audience that. Like, they have enough space to say that Eddie already knows he has feelings for Buck in some degree, in all degrees actually, they can argue Eddie from fully in denial to aware of something he needs to deny to fully in acceptance that he thinks Buck can't love him back, but they would still need to figure out a way to tell the audience that outside of Buck (as in not in a scene with Buck) so that the "Eddie turned gay for Buck" argument can't be used. Because I can't turn off the writer side of my brain trying to guess where this is going narratively while doing analysis like that, and I think, for instance the blue and yellow is telling me something on that, but since I don't think the show has used this combo like this before (and I hadn't had the time to fact check my current theory) I don't have a resolved plotline to use, so I'm kinda speculating on a lot more than just the pattern since this season is in the middle and we don't have the story they are trying to tell yet and I don't love going down that line alone. Like, it was fun writing about the sun within the construction on sunset theory, but I think the actual yellow/gold the keep putting around Eddie and behind Buck is being used for something more than that but I don't know how to explain why I think that.

There's also the way they are handling the blue and green thing this season, I can't tell if they proved me right and they have been completing the blue and green thing with other elements of the scene, since we had Henren in blue and green with both of them using both blue and green down to their shoes or the patterns of their clothes this last episode, we had bathena completing it with pants, we had Buck with a green coat and Eddie surrounded by blue things, even the date between Buck and Tommy, Buck usually is in solid colors, but his shirt was patterned where Tommy's was solid, or if they decided to expand this season and the shit I pointed out before are coincidences. The season being in the middle means it can turn in any direction, so I'm kinda unsure of what to say because right now I feel like I'm completely off base and that makes me not feel confident enough in what I'm saying when I try to write on 704 and 705, and if I'm not confident of what I'm saying, then how I'm supposed to convince y'all of anything? Does that make sense? Like I have more thoughts on 704 after watching 705, the same way both gave me thoughts on 701, but they still sound like gibberish to me so I know they will sound like gibberish to you, so I'm waiting and letting the thoughts simmer.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Shout out to all artists who had to work without any strong direction or instruction.

I wish you a merry “the client likes it anyways”

[gbirrd]

6/9 - Jason Todd tarot card designs for Complete Candor by @vexfulfolly as part of the @batfam-big-bang

Read the fic here!

Other cards:

1-Babs 2-Cass 3-Bruce 4-Tim 5-Damian 6-Jason 7-Duke 8-Steph 9-Dick

Image IDs

Image 1:

A design of "The Devil" tarot card. It has the texture of recycled paper and reads "THE DEVIL". A symbol of a gravestone is visible behind the numeral "XV".

A young Jason Todd in his Robin uniform tugs at a thick chain around his neck that comes down from the top of the frame. Matching shackles are around his wrists and he is buried up to his waist in dirt. His head is tilted up towards the chain. There is blood on his hands, arms, chest, and dripping down the right side of his face as well as from his nose.

Image 2:

A design of "The Devil" tarot card. It has the texture of recycled paper and reads "THE DEVIL" upside-down. A symbol of a flame is visible behind the numeral "XV".

Jason Todd faces forward, filling most of the frame. He is in his Red Hood uniform and has narrowed pupil-less white eyes. He is holding the end of a thick chain in his right fist. Flames fill the background and bathe him in an orange light. The entire card is upside-down.

[lunarin64art]

That feeling when he can't stand to see you that way, no matter what you do, no matter what you say😩😭💔

[thereareotherwaysofpersuasion]

The Storm of Vengeance Which Consumes

Yeah. It's that scene. The swiss cheese scene. The Sushseidon scene. But it's Poseidon POV with a lot of internal emotions. This was written as part of a personal series I'm working on where one of my OCs is looking into Poseidon's history and experiences this memory.

A lot of this was inspired by the various fanarts/animatics I've seen. Such as Gwendy's use of Hermes' sandals, HAH Studios' Get In The Water (specifically Ody's hand on Horseidon's nose), sloansloan's Ody pulling Poseion's hair. So if you're reading something and are like "hmm, this seems familiar" it was probably inspired by something. The discorporation is part of the lore in my series.

Enjoy!

Words: 2300 Warnings: Torture (obviously), graphic descriptions of violence, uhh. Yeah. It's that scene, soooo Characters: Odysseus and Poseidon (with various others mentioned/referenced)

Anger consumes his heart, his mind sharp and clear on the currents of vengeance. The mortal escaped him once. But not this time. His shadow consumes the single man on a raft, his towering figure of water imposing an air of terror. At long last, it will be over. At long last, he will have his revenge. 

“We’re both hurting from loss. Why not leave this here and just go home?” the mortal offers, pain in his features as he pleads. 

The words make the god hesitate. The anger that has carved a home in his heart leaves his chest aching. The minuscule hope that he could let this pain go, that he could be free from it; it tempts him. Could it really be that simple? And yet— “I can’t,” the near broken voice of Poseidon leaves his mouth. 

The mortal dares to raise a hand in offering. A soft gesture. 

And despite himself, the god leans down towards it, ready to receive it. He’s desperate for the relief from the storm, desperate for it to finally be over with.

“Maybe you could learn to forgive,” the mortal offers a gentle smile. 

He stops short, his face a mere few feet from the mortal. What is he doing? Is he, the King of the Seas, swayed by a few silver words and a decade of chase? Is his resolve so fragile? His eyes sharpen. “No.” He pulls back, his form cracking and growing as more water rushes up to join his form. 

The seas grow rougher, almost becoming like solid glass pillars. The wind swirls around harder, creating tornadoes of water.

“Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves,” he declares his mantra once again as he raises his trident, spinning it before plunging it into the water. “Die!”

The water shatters into thousands of rugged pieces. The raft on top of it falls into the depths. 

He watches the mortal that has evaded and outsmarted him at every turn finally sink beneath his power, finally drowning under his wrath. A sharp sense of satisfaction stabs at his heart, adding to the burden of vengeance he carries. But he counts it as worth it. Because he finally did it. His mission is complete. His anger is satiated. 

At least it should be. Why does it feel like he’s not done? He killed the man. He enacted justice. For his son’s pain and his own pride. Why does he not feel satisfied?

The wind continues to whip around, stringing out his long wet hair. The storm rages on. Both outside and within. At long last, he turns to leave.

“Poseidon!” a voice screams in anger behind him.

He turns, his eyes widening. 

The mortal floats high in the air, windbag in hand and Hermes’ winged sandals on his feet.

Fury fills the god as the mortal has once again escaped his demise. He bares his teeth and turns fully around. He barely gets to raise his trident before he feels himself being pummeled. 

Though the mortal’s weapon can’t break his skin, the speed at which each blow is delivered leaves him dazed. Like six hundred men are beating his body. Like the souls of the mortal’s lost crew have come back for revenge of their own. Water is knocked from his form in showers of droplets from every strike. His eyes try to track the mortal, but he’s nothing more than a blur in the air.

In the span of a mere few seconds, his form has been beaten down to its smallest height. His concentration has been shattered, his vision spinning as he falls from the sky, landing on a rocky outcropping.

The first thing he notices when he opens his eyes is the storm of his design raging around them. The second is the mortal standing at the rock’s edge, looking out at the consequences of his actions. A twisted sense of irony and victory worm their way into his heart despite his aching body working to heal itself from the borderline magical onslaught. 

And he laughs. 

“You idiot,” he spits at the mortal, pushing himself up by the rock behind himself. “Can’t you see? You sealed your fate just to beat me!” he continues laughing. The pitiful thing about mortals. For how clever they think they are, their hubris will always be their doom. “You really thought you could control my storm? That it would bow to your whims, King of Ithaca? You will never get back! And it is all by your own hands. Just like the lost lives of your crew.”

The mortal’s head slowly turns towards the god drunk on power. “You’re going to call off that storm,” he growls as he stalks towards him.

A scoff leaves the god. “Or what? You can’t kill me.”

The mortal bends down towards the golden trident laying between them. “Exactly.” He picks it up.

The trident shines in the hands of the descendant of Hermes.

The god’s eyes narrow in confusion at the statement. But as he looks at the prongs coming closer to him, then the mortal’s no longer human eyes, a new sensation fills him. One he hasn’t felt in centuries. The predatory steps unlock something almost human within him.

Terror.

“Wait.” The god starts trying to get up. “Wait!”

But he isn’t fast enough. In his arrogance, he let the mortal breach his weakness. In his own hubris, his own haughtiness over his immortality, he forgot the warning of Prometheus’ fate. Immortality can be a curse.

The metal embeds itself in his chest, pinning him to the rock. For the first time in eons, the cosmos hears him scream. For the first time since Titanchomy, he feels real pain. The sting of a death he cannot have, the tearing of flesh, the warmth of ichor seeping out of his wounds like currents withdrawing from oceanside caves at low tide.

And when the barbed ends are withdrawn, it pulls his body with it until a foot on his stomach stops him. He gasps as the metal is freed, but the relief— if he can even call it that— doesn’t last long. He sees the next blow coming and raises his hand to stop it. 

But the mortal sees this and aims directly for the shoulder.

His arm goes numb, limply falling to the side as he cries out again.

“How does it feel to be helpless? How does it feel to know pain?” the mortal mocks as he dislodges the weapon with a struggle, the barbs getting stuck again and pulling more flesh with them.

His ears burn at the humiliation, his chest tight as he breathes laboredly. His mind is assaulted with the sting of pain, an overwhelming force like none he’s ever experienced before. No one dares to strike the King of the Seas, especially not in a truly hazardous way. No one… except Nobody.

The next stab plunges into his stomach, slicing through muscle and intestines. His own howls join the chorus of wind and thunder.

It is no doubt music to the mortal’s ears as he continues to lay out the god’s sins against him, as he continues to enact his justice.

The god slides further and further down the rock, his eyes and markings glowing as his body desperately tries to heal itself. He’s never been discorporated before. He’s never had his physical form stripped away from him. He’s never experienced the shame of being trapped in his own domain from his failures. But as his body is torn to shreds by the overzealous mortal, he fears for the first time that this may actually be it. This may be the first time he experiences as close to death as gods get.

His power is split between trying to heal himself and trying to start a counter attack. An earthquake, a tidal wave, anything. 

But the mortal, once champion of the Goddess of Wisdom, accounted for that too. And he strikes where he knows it will hurt. The soft flesh of the abdomen, the already broken ribs and pierced lung, the knee, the other shoulder. Every blow breaks the god’s concentration, keeping him trapped against the rock. “Look what you’ve turned me into!”

The god can’t help but comply, staring up at the monster of a man he made. A mortal pushed too far, a man immeasurably beyond his breaking point. It’s almost in slow motion as the god’s gaze fixates on a droplet of rain washing his ichor off the mortal’s face. He can only breathe laboriously, unable to attempt to stop the trident from sinking into his collarbone.

The mortal grabs his hair, pulling the god’s head back to look at him. “Look what we’ve become.” 

His eyes sting, his throat raw from his screams. He’s lost the strength to even try to turn his face away, to fight back for control of his head. The warm vengeance that kept him on the shores of Ithaca for ten years has been transferred into the mortal, leaving the god cold and broken. 

Like a forest that has been consumed by wildfire, leaving fragile dead trees in its place. Like a hurricane that levels towns, like tidal waves that wash everything that was once held dear out to sea. The god has lost everything. A new monster was birthed from his storm of vengeance. 

And even when he thought he finished it, even when he got what he wanted, it didn’t feel like enough. He was left disappointed, unsatisfied. Killing the mortal didn’t end the storm. His revenge has consumed them both, eating them alive as the god’s father had once devoured him.

Up until now he thought Zeus stripping him of his divinity and enslaving him to a mortal king was the worst blow his pride could be dealt. But another mortal king is proving him wrong.

The mortal throws the god’s head backwards into the rock, twisting the trident as he pulls it out.

The god gasps, clutching his stomach. This has to end. He has to make it stop. Before he fully experiences defeat. Before he takes on more shame. “Enough,” he orders.

But who is the king to stop? Who is wielding the trident? And so the mortal continues his assault, reopening half-healed wounds in the god’s shoulder.

The god squeezes his eyes shut, a long groan of agony leaving him, “Stooop!” He feels sick as his voice dips further and further into desperation, pleading with the mortal, begging of all things. He cries out louder, as if the mortal couldn’t hear him the first time over his ranting.

But no. The mortal did hear him. The begs were clear as day. And they were ignored. “You didn’t stop when I begged you!” The trident’s aim is true, an extension of the mortal’s emotions, plunging into the god’s throat and left eye at the same time.

The god’s body locks up, convulsing. His whole head is engulfed in pain, the sharp point that penetrated his eye having sunken into his skull. His remaining eye widens as what would have been his loudest scream is silenced by the prong piercing his vocal cords. The sweet metallic taste fills his mouth and drips off his lips. 

The scene goes black. For a moment, he feels himself slipping away. No. He can’t give the mortal that satisfaction. He can’t let him win. Even if he already has. He barely hears the distant words of the mortal, though is mouth is slowly moving, “You…”

“You told me to close my heart! You said the world was dark!” The mortal makes an upwards strike with the trident, lifting the god’s body off the ground a bit to glare at him.

The god weakly glares back with one blue eye flickering in its glow. “Monster!” he cries out, hoping that will break the man, hoping that will end this torment.

But instead, it just seems to fuel the monster in the man as he rips the trident out. His response to the accusation comes in the words the god was so fond of as he raises the trident, unknowing how close he is to finishing the job, “Didn’t you say that ruthlessness is mercy upon our—”

And the god’s resolve shatters. His own words being used against him are almost more painful than his own weapon. “Alright!” he cries out.

The mortal hesitates, trident raised overhead.

The god forces his remaining eye open, though his sight of the mortal is obscured by rain and blood. “Please,” he rasps, brought to his lowest of lows. Subjected to begging for mercy from a mere mortal.

The mortal grips the trident tighter before dropping it with a clang.

The wind and waves die down as the god’s vision flickers. His head slumps forward as the scene turns dark. He barely feels his body hit the cold rocks. Every muscle pulses in pain. He doesn’t know when the mortal flew off on Hermes’ sandals. He doesn’t know how long he laid there trying to heal. Perhaps Apollo would be gracious enough to tend to him. But as time goes on, no one shows. He’s left alone on the tiny island, laying in his own ichor. Olympus has shunned him, probably mocking him.

The god finally begins to move, though immediately crying out as a sharp pain flares in his chest, a crack sounding like something broke. He lays back down, but the pain doesn’t lessen. His head gets lighter and lighter. His body gets weaker. It feels like fluid fills his lungs. Which shouldn’t be a problem, he can breathe underwater. But apparently he can’t breathe ichor.

There’s no storms for months. The tides are the calmest anyone has ever seen. Not a single earthquake is recorded anywhere. For the God of the Sea was nowhere to be found in the mortal world.

[imagoddamnonionmason]

CIA SAFE HOUSE

Jodie “Bell” Hall, MI6

52.5200 N, 13.4050 E, West Berlin

1981

Do not repost without permission!

[loracarol]

Poseidon isn't in God Games because in The Odyssey Poseidon was off in Ethiopia receiving sacrificial offerings when Athena asked Zeus to intercede on Odysseus's behalf.

But at that moment, Poseidon was among the Ethiopians, very far away, those same Ethiopians, the most remote of people, who live divided in different groups, one where Hyperion goes down, the other where he rises. Poseidon went there to receive a sacrificial offering to him— bulls and rams—and was now sitting at a banquet, enjoying himself. But other gods had gathered in the great hall of Olympian Zeus.

(source)

Which like, yeah, it would be cool to have had Poseidon in God Games, but the fact that it's canon to the Odyssey made me laugh.

But also now I'm picturing an Epic AU where everything is the same, but in Get in the Water, Poseidon is wearing a dumb little party hat and still snacking on sacrificial offerings & he's pissed because he had to leave a party early for this fuck u Odysseus.

[whollyjoly]

for some reason i can't explain i know saint peter won't call my name

nothing that lives, lives forever - an immortal soldier!alton more au

(1.1k of snippets from my old guard(ish) au where alton more is old, too old, and has been living and fighting far longer than anyone should. full description/other thoughts at the bottom. tw: blood, violence, mentions of death)

Alton clicked the lighter closed, running a thumb over the silver case. The night was warm, sticky in a way that he never could get used to. He sucked in a breath from the cheap cigarette, letting his head fall back against the rough side of the barracks.

It was quiet. Typically, there would be no end to the commotion coming from the small building, one of many that littered Camp Toccoa. The wall of sound was ever-present, no matter if it was shouting or laughing or snoring. But whatever the cause, there was always noise. 

No matter if it was a blanket of noise he knew well, unchanging except for the language and the scenery. Soldiers are soldiers, and some things are a constant. It could almost be comforting, if it didn’t also mean that the need for soldiers was a constant as well.

However, tonight was a Saturday, and it was one of the few weekends that Sobel had allowed Easy the use of their weekend passes. Almost every man in the company had jumped at the chance to get off base, to travel home if they could and spend time with loved ones. The ones with farther-flung hometowns had spirited off to Atlanta, happy to spend their time drinking and dancing and fucking instead of slogging through another run, three miles up, three miles down.

Normally, Alton would have joined them in their carousing - it was easier to pass the time with the effortless camaraderie built during a training camp than bored and alone. 

But today had been a bad day. The sound of swords and the shift of sand beneath his feet followed him out of his nightmares, the humid summer of Georgia morphing itself into the baking, dry heat of the desert. 

His shouts must have been real, because when a hand came to shake him out of his dream, the first face he saw was not that of a grouchy NCO, but of a blood-caked Saracen, eyes alight with righteous fury. 

Alton didn’t think. He had grabbed the knife from under his pillow, an old thing that had been sharpened more times than he could begin to count, and was on the man in less than a breath, pressing the blade into the side of his neck. The familiar thrum of blood beat against his fingertips, the grit of sand scratched his gums. He knew what he had to do, had done it a thousand times, a thousand thousand times, what was a little more bloodshed spilled across his feet-

Alton had blinked, and came to himself in a rush.

Instead of an unnamed Saracen, the ashen face of Johnny Martin stared up at him, eyes wide behind the knife.

Alton drew back his hand, retreating almost as quick as he had lunged earlier. He mumbled a quick curse and apology as he stepped out of arm’s reach from the man. It wasn’t until Martin’s eyes widened even farther that Alton realized his tongue was slipping out Arabic of all things.

Usually, Alton was better about remembering himself, who he was almost as important as where he was. But for whatever reason, his demons had decided to catch up with him that night.

After a quick smile and some quip about the Krauts in his dreams, he managed to wave an only-slightly-mollified Martin off. The shorter man apparently hadn’t forgotten it though, if his watchful eyes during chow that morning were anything to go by.

Alton was just glad that no one else was awake to see it, at least. That was the last thing he needed.

And so, instead of joining in on a weekend of broads and booze, Alton found himself waving away the invitation by an eager Smokey and bemused Alley. When the horde made their way out of the barracks, fantasizing in bawdy terms about their planned misadventures, he felt like he could breathe easy.

Fucking finally.

~~

Alton took another drag from the cigarette. He watched the smoke curl, up and up until it faded into nothing amongst the darkening sky.

The lighter was a welcome weight in his hand, grounding him to this time, this life.

The design was worn by now, details barely visible after a half century of worrying. It still managed to amaze him, sometimes, what people could do with the smallest of canvases. Alton didn’t feel the same wonder however, wasn’t as mesmerized by the beauty man could create as he once was.

But in the quiet moments, he could still appreciate the time some French craftsman took to transform a hunk of metal into a small token carried around by a dead man.

Luz had spied the lighter one weekend, and laughed at him for using something so old-fashioned. Alton just shrugged, not caring to admit that he was still getting used to having a light at his fingertips. It wasn’t all that long ago when he was still lighting a pipe with a flintlock pistol, and not so long before that when he would carry around a flint and steel.

Time was passing all the more quickly these days, technologies changing and advancing, and everyone was obsessed with needing things to be quicker, cheaper, simpler. Alton scoffed. He could hardly find it in him to care.

He glanced down at the lighter in his hand, shifting it back and forth in a practiced motion and watched as the light skittered across the sides. 

It had shown flowers, once. A veritable garden of carnations, daffodils, and lilies of the valley, with leaves spilling across the front panel onto the back. They represent good fortune, he was told. Good fortune, luck, and hope. 

When the merchant described it to him, eyes ablaze with a passion known only to those with wares to sell, Alton didn’t try to hide the snort that escaped his throat. 

Fortune and Luck had abandoned him long ago, and hadn’t returned since waking up in a battlefield abandoned by all but the dead, sword in his chest and blood in his mouth. 

And what the fuck was Alton supposed to do with hope?

It was the quote on the back that had caught his eye, all those years ago in a street market in Reims. The beveled edges had faded with time, the familiar letters Alton traced were more memory by now than any physical mark. Une vie honorable est une vie éternelle.

An honorable life is an eternal life.

Alton couldn’t help but stare at the message, both then and now. He hated that goddamn word. Immortal. Unending. Eternal. 

They were such flowery words, used by people who craved what they couldn’t have, what they shouldn’t. The romanticized idea of the everlasting, the fountain of youth, the gift of life! Alton was sick of it.

This wasn’t life. He was a fucking dead man walking. And he sure as hell didn’t do anything honorable to deserve it.

months ago, while thinking about the absolute insanity of the almost...cavalier? attitude we see alton more have over the course of the series, an idea hit my brain: what if there was a reason nothing seemed to phase him - not panzers, not being a breath away from a car wreck, not bastogne, not speirs? what if this wasn't his first war? that thought spiraled me into a minor insanity that is this: my immortal soldier!alton more au, loosely inspired by the movie the old guard (2020). the idea is that, once upon a time, there was a soldier in a land many centuries ago. one day, he died in battle. and then, he woke up. and then he died. and then he woke up. over, and over. drawn to countless battles, conflicts, and wars, each one etching itself into the core of his soul. a never-ending cycle...until one sweltering summer, where he found himself at a training camp at the foot of a mountain. anyways. at some point, i plan on writing this as a full story, but that is admittedly a long ways away. however, in celebration of alton more's birthday today, i wanted to post my favorite scene that i've written for this au! it's set sometime at the beginning of the story, in the early days of camp toccoa. mostly, it's just a character study of this version of alton more. hope you enjoyed! and of course - happy birthday alton more!

(song insp.)

taglist: @sweetxvanixlla @coco-bean-1218 @bucky32557038ww2 @georgieluz @samwinchesterslostshoe @xxluckystrike @next-autopsy @ronald-speirs @land-sh @ronsparky @panzershrike-pretz @theredrenard @kyellin

[skeletalheartattack]

so for like, a decade plus, i've been searching for a youtube video i remember seeing back in 2007, and i've finally managed to make some headway:

good news: i've found it

bad news: it's lost media

[orcelito]

Ykno when ur lookin at an artist and ur like "man, I want to commission art from You, Specifically"

I have something in mind for a scene that's coming up in ITNL (whenever I start writing again) that would be really cool, & I know Exactly who I'd want it by... except they don't have open commission slots 😭😭😭

I can be patient, though... I have been patient before...

[longagoitwastuesday]

I actually like the last chapter. I think the ideas are very good. I have my qualms on how some things were managed, as I always do, but I think shonen authors get tangled in the expectations of a shonen to the point it jeopardises their writing, often even when they're not lacking in skills

[weptsorrow]

// ivan is canonically only 22 y.o. but honestly in some verses i'll probably age him up a little.....

[scarletjudgement]

HxH and HTTP Status Codes

The HTTP 403, 404, and 405 references in the Hunter Exam (as foreshadowing or character-summaries) is so sickening, but at the same time it's hard to deny that Togashi probably was referencing them, considering that the manga came out in 1998 while HTTP codes were a thing since 1992-1993 (and he spent a whole page explaining what the internet and computers were). It could definitely be a coincidence, but the definitions of what 403, 404, and 405 end up meaning is something we see as the stories have progressed.

For context, these are the Error Codes, and as the reader I think you may already guess and connect the dots on why I find the correlations so intriguing:

403 Forbidden: Leorio

The request contained valid data and was understood by the server, but the server is refusing action. (Wikipedia) The client does not have access rights to the content; that is, it is unauthorized, so the server is refusing to give the requested resource. Unlike 401 Unauthorized, the client's identity is known to the server... re-authenticating makes no difference. The access is tied to the application logic, such as insufficient rights to a resource. (Mozilla)

404 Not Found: Kurapika (We all know this)

The requested resource could not be found but may be available in the future. Subsequent requests by the client are permissible. (Wikipedia) A 404 status code only indicates that the resource is missing: not whether the absence is temporary or permanent. If a resource is permanently removed, use the 410 (Gone) status instead. (Mozilla)

405 Method Not Allowed: Gon (Though I think the name of the error can speak for itself)

The request method is known by the server but is not supported by the target resource. (Mozilla) A request method is not supported for the requested resource. (Wikipedia)

Further thoughts:

While it's possible that this can definitely be a stretch or a coincidence, it sure is an interesting way to look at it. And even if Togashi did not intend for these to connect, it makes me even more interested to continue reading HxH to see how long they'll connect until they're no longer applicable.

404 interests me because of "temporary unavailable" and "it may be available again in the future", so I wonder if that's applicable not only to Kurapika himself but to the Kurta Clan as well, considering we're entering the Dark Continent and I've already seen a theory on the Kurta Clan originating from the DC one way or another (reddit links)

Think of these as an allegory or metaphor

Mozilla page on HTTP Response Status Codes / Wikipedia page on HTTP Status Codes

[screambirdscreaming]

The thing about programming is that there's a level on which it feels like total wizard shit, like you're grappling with concepts directly on an abstract plane, splitting them apart and restructuring them into more elegant and fundamental forms, limited only by your own comprehension which you can practically feel expanding as you synthesize constructs and destroy them and remake them

But it is also, simultaneously, one hundred percent pedantic bullshit all the way down.

[bijoumikhawal]

People discussing Israel's racist policies and Israel's policy of fucking over non Rabbinic communities and fucking up the transmission of diaspora cultures (such as the teaching of languages) is not the time to go "we don't need gentiles in our intracommunity politics". Foundational to Israel is "maintaining a Jewish majority". These communities are attacked in lathe part because they are seen as not being as Jewish as White, Ashkie, Western European Jews (with respect to how Eastern European Jews are also often mistreated), or their Judaism is otherwise seen as deficient. The maintenance of this majority is also why Palestinians generally, cannot really get an Israeli citizenship, even if they wanted to, and sometimes even if they can prove they are of Jewish descent. "Who is a Jew and what is a Jewish culture" is a constructed boundary: for the past 70 odd years it has been a boundary used for violence. If you want anti-zionists to have politics informed by the needs of Jews, they must be party to these discussions.

[ghost-in-the-corner]

Sometimes I'm reminded of the fact that Dick is only canonically Romani thanks to D*vin Gr*yson and that when she wrote it she included a bunch of harmful and offensive stereotypes and then I get sad that something so good in theory was twisted into something much worse

:(