#pretend it's coherent

[discodeviant]

BILLY HARGROVE / STEVE HARRINGTON Modern College AU | Mature | 3.1k

Watched Free Guy with some peeps last night and came up with this as a result! Enjoy :)) <3

Read on AO3

Only so many people knew the true founder of Upside Town. A blog, a game, an allegory into one man’s life that went unnoticed for most of its uptime. It wasn’t for anybody but himself, really. Billy needed an out that wasn’t posing in front of cameras for photographers who wanted too much from him. He needed something of his own, something for himself that couldn’t be tainted by greed or false promises. And, being as stubborn as he was in his senior year of high school, the town was born.

He was in college when Upside Town became a well-known title. A video went viral, said it was a hidden gem of the part of the internet no one seemed to know about. It was cruel and gruesome and unforgiving but genius in a way nothing else had ever been. It was unique. It was something. Billy didn’t know how to take it. Suddenly eyes were on him in the form of a pool boy possessed by demons inside and out, crawling through a dark and murky world where nothing was safe. Nothing was sacred but the sound of his own voice, and even that fell short most days.

He was The Flayed. Riddled with black and blue veins that were like lightning bolts on his skin, a golden eighties-style mullet and moustache to match. Physically and mentally devastated by another plane of existence whose flora were its fauna, and both were equally unforgiving. Both were voices in his head that he didn’t recognize were outside of himself until it was too late, and then the real game began.

Life and death and torment aside, escaping to college allowed for one thing, and that was his first taste of intimacy. Perhaps not the kind he’d have liked—not the kind his mother gave him as a child—but it made him feel whole, one night at a time, with no restrictions or strings attached. He thought he might have been in love at some point, but that wasn’t the kind of guy he was then, and neither was the man he thought he loved.

By the time he graduated, Upside Town was his life in more ways than one. It was sensational and overwhelming, yet still only a hobby in between shifts at the bar and his internship at a San Francisco publishing firm. They didn’t know about his real passion either, and he’d have liked to keep it that way.

Then his phone rang one night while he was in the shower, and he let it ring because he could call back if it was important. When it stopped, a text message came through, and he rolled his eyes. Maybe it was Heather needing girl advice again, and Billy was, ironically, not the worst choice. Or it could have been Max wanting to talk for a bit, plan another time to meet in LA. So he cut his shower short to see who it was, and his heart did its damnedest to jump out of his throat.

A voicemail left behind by one Steve Harrington (pretty, pretty boy).

Wonder Billy never deleted the last part, but he never wanted to.

“Hey. Long time, right? Heh… um. Sorry if this was a bad time to call, I, you know, I don’t know what you’re up to these days, but, um—listen, I got something you… I guess you left it in my dorm or something, um. I don’t know, I could mail it to you if you want, or—or maybe we can meet, catch up somewhere, I don’t know. You tell me, alright? Call back whenever. Or text. Either way. Alright. See you, Billy.”

The text message was from Max, and he sent one back before sitting on the couch in his towel to contemplate the voicemail that he listened to sixteen more times before it drove him insane.

He always hated that about Steve, the way he was so vague and tip-toed around things he was afraid of. Billy had to initiate their first night together because Steve was too chicken-shit to say that he wanted to fuck. Steve was too chicken-shit to let Billy know he had a girlfriend too, and that was only a week before they broke up. Now Steve was too chicken-shit to tell Billy what he could have possibly left behind two, three years ago that Steve bothered telling him about in the first place. He was surprised Steve even had his number anymore; the last time was supposed to be the last.

“What is it?” Billy sent back. “That I left.”

Steve’s reply was near immediate. “i dont really know”

“That doesn’t help man”

“i mean idk it looks important” “or it would have been before but maybe it still is” “just like notes or something”

“Notes?”

“yeah”

Billy rolled his eyes and couldn’t help laughing to himself. “We can just meet if you want to meet. Don’t need to make up an excuse to ask”

“well fine but im not making it up” “u still in sf?”

“Never left”

“café on 5th saturday? i can do 6”

Oh, Billy didn’t know what came over him. “It’s a date, pretty boy”

He laughed harder when Steve sent back, “ok”.

Time couldn’t have gone by any slower if it froze. Three days, and Billy thought it would be years before Saturday came around. At long, long last, however, it did, and he was way too anxious to be anywhere in public, let alone the very place he had the first inkling of being in love. That made it worse, and he knew so, but that was in the past. Those were the days of all-nighters and fancy red wine. They weren’t the same people as they were back then. Billy didn’t even wear the same cologne.

Arriving early gave him some time to calm down in the bathroom. He ordered an iced decaf latte, sat by the window, and waited for the preppy kid that made his heart soar and his dick hard, but that boy never walked by. If Steve had just passed at a glance, if he hadn’t been carrying Billy’s washed denim jacket under his arm, Billy wouldn’t have known it was him at all. Maybe because it was dark out already and he wore a long coat that blended him into the night. Maybe the beard. It was definitely the beard.

Steve’s smile when he walked in would have melted the goddamn sun itself and put every star to shame. Before Billy could say anything, he held the jacket in front of him and said, “See? Not making it up.” He was out of breath, Billy took the jacket, and then the smile faded. “I’d have bought your drink if I knew you’d be here already.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Let me get yours.”

“You sure?”

“When have I ever not been sure?” Steve couldn’t say. “Exactly.” Billy pulled a ten from his wallet and gave it to him. “Treat yourself, Stevie.”

“Mm. Thanks.”

When Steve turned around, Billy closed his eyes and breathed hard, clutching the jacket in his hands like his life depended on it. Running his fingers along the trim, thumb over the button that kept the cuff rolled just like he had it that night two years ago. Steve had rolled it up for him, said he liked Billy’s arms, and Billy said there was more to see if he wanted to take the jacket off.

The memory gave him chills—how could he forget? That same smile in the dark of Billy’s dorm room, nothing but lights from the closed curtain to make it any brighter. Hands and lips that became addictive from the first time they touched, and Billy didn’t know how to ask for what he wanted any more than Steve did. They were both kids then. Hell, they were still kids, but two years without Steve felt like the rest of his life now that they were there again. Somewhere close, anyway. At their café. It was close enough.

Steve returned with a steaming cappuccino and huddled in on himself when he sat down. “How’ve you been, man?”

“Good. I’ve been good. Just busy with stuff, you know.”

“Yeah…” Steve’s eyes were wide and focused on Billy alone, who was trying not to crack.

“I’m… working at that office I interned at for a while. Still at the bar too. Part-timing both, you know how it goes.”

“A lot on your plate?”

He shrugged. “Enough to keep me busy, I guess. What have you been up to? Still working with kids?”

Steve nodded with an air of pride that wrapped Billy in down feathers. “Swim coach now, actually. Still lifeguarded a bit after graduation, but my boss there got me in with another school downtown, so. Pays well, and the kids like me a lot, thank god.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me.” They laughed, both relaxed and equally reserved around one another after so long. Suddenly two years felt like two days, and they were right back where they left off.

They talked for a while longer, nearing two hours before they took a bathroom break—one at a time since it was a decently small café with limited facilities. Billy left the jacket on his chair when he went, then held it in both hands again when Steve had his turn. Once they were both at the table again, and the conversation had no set direction, he said, “You know, I didn’t expect you to call me about clothes.”

Steve raised his brows. “What do you mean?”

Billy held up a rolled sleeve. “Come on, you know what this is.” Steve smiled around a piece of muffin in his mouth. “Guess I didn’t think you’d bother keeping it.”

“I mean—well you never asked for it back.“ Steve swallowed and ran the tip of his tongue between two tightly-pressed lips, which meant he was thinking about something; Billy figured that one out quick when they met. “Look, okay, it wasn’t the jacket that—that I called about.”

“No?”

Steve shook his head. “Left pocket,” he said, and Billy was getting nervous all over again.

It was a sheet of paper folded as small as it could go, worn at the creases and ripped in places Billy recalled getting wet with tears. He didn’t have to unravel it to know exactly what it said about the blue-clad sailor with a heart of gold whose hands held the only power strong enough to free the cursed of their anguish. An early Upside Town idea that was scrapped except for a tiny ship in the corner of the webpage. That was something else that only Billy knew the meaning of, and Steve handing it back to him was hilarious and gut-wrenching all in one breath.

“I don’t know what that is. I just found it in there the other day when I called. Thought you might want it back.”

“Did you read it?”

Steve answered too quickly: “No.” Billy stifled a grin.

“It’s okay if you did. Doesn’t mean anything.” He’d gotten good at lying about things when he got careless, and Steve was too oblivious to pick up on them.

“A little bit,” Steve said then, a confession that scared Billy more than he was willing to admit. “I’m not good with big words, man, you know that.” His thumbs twiddled before he ate some more muffin. “I don’t know, I just wanted to see if the jacket fit—“

“Does it?”

Steve thought for a moment. “Actually, yeah, it does. Perfectly, because you buy clothes two sizes too small.”

Billy cackled and shook his head. “Shit, you never would have given this back,” he said, which was neither confirmed nor denied. Steve looked down at his hands before Billy tapped his shoe under the table. “It’s fine, Stevie. I promise. Hey.” He patted Steve’s knee under the table, denim hanging over his hand. “Keep it.”

“No, man, it’s your jacket.”

“I’ve got other jackets that fit me better.”

After looking at it for a few seconds, Steve asked, “You sure?” and Billy gave him that look, what did I say?, and nodded.

“Alright. Thanks.” He couldn’t help laughing.

Billy went home that night with the tales of his sailor tightly in his hand, and he only let go once he was at his laptop again.

There were times in the past when Billy wondered if Steve really did know that he was behind Upside Town or if certain things he said were just coincidence. Billy wondered if there were things he made too obvious until he remembered that he’d told Steve things that no one else knew during weekends when they lay together in bed, talking into pillows, each other’s hair, comfortable under a bed that wasn’t meant for two people in the first place. Really, he didn’t think he’d mind if Steve knew. Seeing him again brought back the happiest moments of his life—shining glints of gold in the dark, warmth that scared the monsters away.

By the end of that night, the ship in the corner would have somewhere to sail.

Two-and-a-half months.

Steve and Billy kept in touch after the café, hanging out every weekend and texting in between. Days together ran later and later, reminiscent of college without sex and parties and shitty beer. Steve invited him over for the fancy wine again, and they laughed and laughed, and Billy almost wished they were in college again, if only he could lean over to kiss Steve like he would have then. Maybe with different connotations now, but it ached not to taste sweet berry on his lips. A bottle just wasn’t the same.

Someone in a fan-run forum discovered the ship’s addition almost immediately, and Billy wasn’t surprised. Questions of whether it had been there like that the whole time were answered and theorized and searched so hard for answers that only he would ever have—and Steve if he were to find it, but that was unlikely. He decidedly lived under a bigger rock than Billy did, and Billy’s was the size of a mountain.

So it was possible that the sailor would remain on the open ocean for a long while, blind to the yearning depths beneath him; The Flayed as one being, a vessel for everything else in the world that knew how to speak through all but himself. The ocean, the breeze, the moon and stars above it. The sun belonged to the sailor; it belonged to Steve.

Two-and-a-half months, and they had drinks at Billy’s apartment on a Friday night. Steve brought his wine because he said it would taste good with the whiskey, and he was goddamn right. So the love seat bore their weight between berry-bourbon and Chinese takeout, and The Godfather ran softly in the background. Not exactly a romantic backdrop, but it wasn’t a romantic evening. Not inherently. Not purposely.

Steve slouched against Billy somewhere during Part II, only drunk enough to ask, “Am I Steve?”

Billy laughed, the oblivious one for once, and said, “That’s your fucking name, isn’t it, Harrington?” but Steve didn’t laugh back.

He smiled, though—a tipsy, leaning grin that was more lips than teeth, more shy than confident. “No, I mean… ‘This is a love letter to you, Steve.’” Billy’s heart stopped for a brief second that cleared the fog in his head to see how deeply Steve was staring into him. “Are you… am I the sailor? Because, if I’m not, then this is gonna be really embarrassing…”

Maybe his face was flushed from the alcohol, but it deepened when Billy didn’t say anything back for a while. A short while, but it was languid as Billy dragged his tongue by the bootstraps to form a sentence. “You found it?” Steve nodded.

“I remember you told me… shit, when was it…” Words slurred, voice trembled, but heart came through clear as day. “I don’t know, you said something like, ‘Oh, I’d sail with you upside down,’ or whatever… you were wasted as hell, by the way.” They laughed again, and Steve leaned in even closer, booze on his breath that drew Billy in. “So, I don’t know, I thought it was the alcohol talking. And I found that thing way before I called you, I just… I didn’t—“

Billy didn’t realize how much he missed Steve until he kissed him to make him stop talking. Steve sagged over him and leaned right into it, making no attempt to finish his thought. He didn’t need to; everything in his head, he told through his lips and his tongue and his hands that lay over Billy’s shoulders. Like college, it was deep and immediate. Unlike college, it was tender. It was slow. Steve took charge and kissed him like it was the first and last time all over again.

Billy held Steve’s waist and kept him flush against his torso, close to tears when the lump in his throat was too much to bear. Two years and two-and-a-half months was too damn long, but not long enough to forget about the ardor they were both too stubborn to face before. They pulled away for air but kept their noses against one another, sharing hot breaths and fruity air. Steve’s hand rested against the cheek that came away wet with his palm when he said, “I love you, Billy.”

“How long?” he asked, suddenly so fragile, waiting for fingers to snap, thunder to crack, something to break him out of this moment because it was too good to be true.

And then Steve said, “I never stopped,” and the second kiss was better than the first, better the last and the last. They kissed until they fell asleep on the couch, having forgotten the movie entirely, desperate to make up for lost time even if they had so much more. Holding Steve this close again was better than college by a long shot. They weren’t shy about their love now. They didn’t have to be.

Upside Town’s sailor wasn’t alone on his ship anymore. The pool boy stood beside him, no longer The Flayed. Perhaps the world had other monsters, but those were no match, and the sailor made sure of it.

[slingbats]

you had your chance but you turned your eyes away again

happy birthday, Oswald (26/7)

[shorthaltsjester]

having thoughts and feelings about perc’ahlia and their could-be-but-would-never-allow-the-other-to-destroy-themselves-enough-to-actually-become-the-briarwoods parallel/foilism. particularly with vex and delilah and potential places this season might go but also just vex’s “it’s like i’m a bad omen” and the fact that like. vex has full awareness of her feelings for percy and alludes to them to him. but then after she has sex with him it is so so compelling to me that vex is like. this is all i can have with him and i’ll take just this even if maybe it’s flying too close to the sun. and something something the shot of delilah embracing sylas after she’s brought him back, looking over his shoulder into a mirror where it looks like she isn’t holding anything at all and just . god. the like oppositional threads of delilah refusing to lose sylas and holding on tight at any cost and vex holding herself so far from percy to deny the pain that would come with losing/hurting him and the like. venn diagram cross over of something is lost anyway.

[beaft]

wish it was more socially acceptable to just... stop talking. not forever, just for a while. sorry. no more words today. all used up. don't bother asking me questions because all i will do is stare at you

[lover-of-mine]

“No, I was just the guy standing there when it happened who couldn't do anything to protect him.”

(insp.) (Eddie's Version)

[inklore]

pen telling colin she loves him in the heat of an argument because she knows it to be the truest thing in that moment. she doesn’t have all the answers right now, neither of them do, and what they’re going through they both don’t know how to handle and there’s so many feelings and emotions and life altering things happening all at once. but she loves him. at the end of the day she loves him. and the look on colin’s face upon hearing it and then after hearing it again and the way his eyes flash down to her lips and he gets that intense look on his face he only gets when he’s overcome by emotion from the woman he loves and that intensity coming through in their kiss and how passionate these two are about their feelings even when they’re both scared, hurt, and lost is something so personal to me.

[asoulwithadream]

[bunny-banana]

ok the REAL capvers cocaina are those post-war reunions where Cap is so so so happy and relieved to see Havers made it and ofc hes sooo impressed by all of Havers' achievements like thats HIS it girl right there ofc he'd made Major what else and while Havers is ofc also happy, theres a certain apprehension there. bcs there is a part of him genuinely worried that the scars and all the trauma he now carries with him might diminish all the affection Cap used to have for him. which is LAUGHABLE bcs Cap loves him regardless, Cap loves him for the scars bcs they are a testiment of survival, and whatever nightmares torment him now could never scare Cap away like HELLO DO YOU GUYS HEAR MEEEE

[peoples-problem]

If you think about it, meaning wise, "Steve is going to London" and "The entertainment's here" are the same, just like "Pretender" and "The trick" but then you have "The good part" and "Next up forever" that are complete opposites

Like, "Steve is going to London" and "The entertainment's here" are about distracting the thoughts with other stuff and keep getting distracted just to stop (over)thinking, "Pretender" and "The trick" about lying about how you are to get people to like you, but then "The good part" talks about how you want to click all the process to get somewhere because you don't know wtf you are doing while "Next up forever" talks about wanting to live in the anticipation of what's coming next instead of living it and those are way too separate moods that can't coexist. I just think it's really funny

[painted-bees]

Margie's previous homelessness is mentioned once in a while, but we never really get to hear a lot about her struggles with being unhoused. She bounced all the way from Montreal, so I can't imagine it's been all easy for her. I guess I'm just surprised. It's such a big character thing that hasn't gotten a lot of elaboration.

oough... I mean, you're not wrong, I don't think... I dunno why I haven't gotten super deep into the weeds about these years of Margie's life. I know she, personally, kinda glosses over a lot of it herself. She never considered herself to be "really" homeless. In her mind, she could always go back home if things got "bad enough", and [in her mind] the fact that she had that option meant she wasn't homeless. She's never had to stay in a homeless shelter, and mostly shied away from those kinda of communities and resources. Sleeping in a grayhound station "doesn't count", because she could just as well be a paying commuter..! (Though--she had been kicked out of grayhound stations before...for -not- being a paying commuter).

She's definately had to endure some all nighters due to not having a place to stay (and not wanting to sleep outside...and so wanders, trying to find things to pass the time instead), and she doesn't like recalling those nights because they are just not fun to remember! But they were very temporary, and she internalized them as "well, this is what I get for not thinking ahead and trusting that things would just ""work out"" like they always do." And so, for that, they are also kind of embarrassing to recall...like it was a personal failing that she hadn't found a place to sleep those nights.

But, she is an outgoing and open person with a very non-threatening air about her. It's pretty easy for her to make a fast friend who'll let her crash on their couch for a night or two. Never mind that these "fast friends" are people she often met that same day--and she has absolutely found herself in uncomfortable/compromising/stressful situations by trusting the wrong stranger. But just as I am right now, she glosses over these memories as being "akward, but not the worst". At least one of her romantic relationships was established because of shelter as a motivation. As well as a handful of "fwb" relationships (Colby, the person texting her in the "place to stay" comic was one such relationship). Irrefutabley exploitative--but Margie herself doesn't reflect on them that way. They were just realationships that were fine--until they weren't, and she bad to leave. She hasn't really dwelled on the nature of these relationships, nor has she entertained the thought that those guys were never...actually... friends. But--in that same token, she doesn't talk about those relationships/arrangements. She's embarrassed by them, but she hasn't really unpacked why she'd prefer no one knows about those experiences. Especially odd considering how much she loves to overshare about everything.

I think a huge part of her reluctance to stay at Raf's place for long [alongside her fear of ruining the friendship by being a sloppy nightmare roommate that he'll resent] is because she didn't want their relationship to become just...like those previous arrangements.

Like--there's this thing that happens with guys who are only your friend because they want to sleep with you, where--once they know they can talk about and perform the fuck with you, it becomes the only thing they're interested in doing/discussing with you. And like--we all know Margie loves sex. But boy... she hates that.

But she feels bad for being a shit roommate, and so she tries to make up for it where she can--which like...being sexually available seems like a real easy way to do that--and it's something she enjoys doing...but then the relationship just keeps degrading because a relationship isn't what the other party is after, really. So there's nothing else. And, you know...they get bored. And then annoyed. And then she's gotta find somewhere else to sleep.

But even knowing and being self-conscious that this is the cycle she consistently finds herself in, she still managed to continue this trend with Raf; taking it upon herself to initiate a "FWB" relationship with him. She can't help that she finds comfort and validation in it. The difference is...he actually enjoyed the "friends" part far, far more than the "benefits".

[exhibit-ayyy-look-at-this-nerd]

reading @logans-old-tie’s fic the rise of a king and the fall of a queen & this scene was very endearing to me so i wanted to doodle it ^^

[lucky-clover-gazette]

just spent three hours verbally outlining a revised star wars sequel trilogy with several nerd friends and i love our version of ben solo that doesn’t exist

[murderbees]

just a thought abt Rinzler's fighting style and flips

No one needs to do that many flips and spins and kicks. It's extra and inefficient and uneeded. Showmanship is one thing, but Rinzler seems to always find some extra spin or jump he can do. It's a waste of energy, and I wonder if that's some sort of protest in it's own way. Wasting energy, taking more time, even if it's very little. Under all that recoding, maybe Tron is fighting to sabatoge at every turn, even if it's taking one more step than needed.

When he needed to be, Tron's fighting style was direct and quick. He went for it and didn't stop until the deed was done. Even verbally, in Uprising, he finds other programs vulnerabilites and exploits them when needed (Lux, Beck, Cyrus). Sometimes it's to help, sometimes it's to hurt, but it's a skill he has.

Rinzler is flashy, showy, and takes his time. He's doing the same thing, finding vulnerabilities, but instead of aiming for them, Rinzler avoids them. Goes for non lethal shots to drag out the game, flips when he doesn't need to, and is only direct when there's no way around it.

Those small pieces, bits of control he took back, cycle after cycle after cycle until it became the new norm, maybe those pieces are what he was fighting for. Fighting against himself to save every piece he could, and waiting until the day there was a crack.

Maybe Tron was exploiting his own vulnerabilities and nailed the lid on the coffin with a short line (that he knew Clu would say)

"Finish the game"

[lorenzo-waterman]

I thought I was done but no I'm still thinking about Immortan Joe.... One thing I love about him is the fact that he's actually quite the pushover when it comes to people close to him - In Fury Road the People Eater is obviously irritated with him and the Bullet Farmer outright mocks him and in Furiosa his own son gets up in his face and acts like a petulant arrogant manchild, but Joe doesn't chide any of them or even seem particularly bothered by it. It's interesting, you'd think that behavior would go against his "all powerful God emperor" image but Joe actually heavily relies on his myth rather than his own cruelty to maintain power. He's not a particularly cruel leader, just negligently callous and unable to see other people as anything but property - we see this in how he treats his wives, too. He teaches them to read and gives them access to a wide variety of books as well as instruments and other forms of entertainment from the old world. A lot of people gloss over this "softer" side of Immortan Joe (understandably considering How He Is and What He Does) but it's very interesting for me to think about.......

[biggest-bara-tiddies]

Watching ABC news's post debate commentary and one of the first thing they're talking about is that Harris didn't explain why she changed her policy positions instead of like the fact that she had to endure Trump questioning her race to her face and managed a coherent response that didn't involve physically attacking him. Like Trump spent the entire debate incoherently rambling about racist nonsense, making a complete ass of himself by flat out refusing to answer questions, attempting to spin his failures as president in the most pathetic way imaginable, yelling, and being a complete loon which all gets summarized as him being "angry and defensive"

[seyaryminamoto]

Fiction is really powerful. It has helped me across so many years of anguish and stress over real life matters that only seemed to get worse and worse as time went by.

I admit that, when I started writing Gladiator, there wasn't a single braincell in me that recognized the actual weavings of my personal experiences that I was pouring into that story. It was just a fun story to work on. It was about my favorite ship. I could do whatever I wanted within that space and explore things on my terms.

The longer it went on, the more reality and fiction seemed to blend together. The easier it became to recognize my life's greater villains in the monsters I was creating fictionally.

It may be a melodramatic way to announce that my country has yet again been subjected to an electoral fraud of a scale beyond measure. Where the official count is giving the current president a 51 over 44 lead, the truth is much more likely to be 30 vs. 70, NOT in his favor. He still announced himself the winner. There's no auditing the process because everyone fucking knows they've cheated as cheaply as possible. There's no stopping their frauds because they've already done this a thousand times over and they'll do it a million times again until there's nothing left of the country to sack and destroy with the modern, absolutist dictatorship they've imposed upon us.

What is the connection between this and that? Why... probably the fact that, without my awareness, my chaotic fic became my political power fantasy. Because the characters I write about aren't simply tools at my behest... they're representative of something greater, something that reality continues to deny to me, my family and countless people I love. I went to bed last night with the greatest dread and a spark of hope... woke up after a mere three hours to find the dread had won over, and the hope had been crushed under its heel.

I don't know if my reality will ever change. I don't know if the country I was born to will ever be free. Twenty-five years are not the same as a hundred, sure... but it shouldn't take a hundred. No power should be able to sustain itself on lies, corruption, greed and cruelty for that long. And yet everything in my reality screams that it will happen.

It's so much easier to fight this in fiction. To let your mind wander and imagine outcomes that are profoundly cathartic and blissful instead of the agonizing emptiness that I feel now. I can't sleep again. I can barely eat. I'm terrified of what's coming next. If we fight, the consequences will be as awful as they ever are. If we don't, the same is true. There is no way out. There is no solution. There is no dashing hero with the ability to break the chains of oppresion and change the world. No opening the eyes of the willfully blind supporters of this atrocity: they know what they're supporting. They simply do not give a shit as long as they can pretend they're still winning.

But fiction is a powerful thing.

Think of my work what you will. Think of my efforts to build up a nuanced political conflict what you may. It's speaking of a reality you might be unaware of. Of a pain you're very lucky to never have experienced, if you haven't.

Because, if you have, you long for someone to fix what you know is broken. You long to feel the power to change a reality that refuses to budge. You long to see every corrupt piece of shit thoroughly punished for every misdeed they've inflicted upon you, across the years and years of helplessness.

I don't have the power to do that in real life.

But I can tell stories.