#prime tinfoil

[nulnoildrinker]

On the question of who the descendants of Dunk are, the answers seem pretty clear cut.

Brienne is his spiritual successor. She is abnormally tall, a defender of the downtrodden, and a true knight, despite the role society tries to force upon her. Also Evenfall Hall had Dunk's shield lying around in a very "grandpa's old stuff"-type of way.

Hodor, a giant of a man, whose grandmother could have been in the perfect time and place to have been ✨️dunked✨️.

And last of all the Lannister siblings. Because Dunk was at his most Fabio-esque when around Tywin's grandmother, Rohanne Webber.

I'm not saying that Tywin necessarily descends from a bastard line of house Lannister, but what I am saying that Tywin shared Grandma Rohanne with his cousin/wife, Joanna. As such, the chances that our favorite trio of siblings descend from our favorite Lunk is twice as big.

But why, you might ask?

Because "The Giant of Lannister", the nickname given to Tyrion by Shae is an obvious clue left to us by GRRM himself. It is known.

Because banging his sister was deemed "sinful", Jaime would have to look for a more distant relative. In his defence, thie case of incest between him and Brienne would be less severe than the one between his parents.

Because much like Dunk, Cersei's head always was thick as a castle wall; but as the books have progressed, the rest of her has followed suit. 😳

[peachnecrosis]

does nobody understand how truly fucking insane he is. how much of a spectacle he’s made and continues to make of himself (neutral connotation.) look at this shit. the creepy uncle shtick that he admits to doing on purpose later in the video, the absolute non compos mentis unsoundness that leaks off this abhorrent clip. this shit is something parallel to recovered footage from tapes left behind by a serial killer for the cops purely to taunt them. when people were discussing the björk stalker from back in the 90s due to a resurgence in interest via the unrelenting vigor of society’s greatest defibrillator, pop culture (smiling friends episode parodying it) talking about how he made video diaries doing kooky shit like shaving his head and painting himself, this is some bs i’d imagine to be muddled in there. and the tragicomic musical choice. i won’t even touch on the weapon and unique clothing because it speaks for itself. whoever says that he’s not a freak anymore, that he’s been neutered and caged and leashed, you spew falsehood. i can’t wait for the day he actually goes off the rail and starts bludgeoning people in broad daylight, because this is truly some silence of the lambs shit. would you have monogamous sex with me? i’d have monogamous sex with me.

[lets-try-some-writing]

A Brother In Need

A gift for @nova--spark and a partial continuation of this post by her (ft. my fic blurb for it).

Sometimes, when things are dire, the Matrix can tear through the very walls between worlds. It can call out to others, summoning Primes to aid a brother in need.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

Optimus grunted as another shot scorched his armor. The upgrades he’d received were doing nothing against the raging force of nature that was Megatron. A jetpack was useless against a forged flyer. The Magnus hammer, which he’d not so quietly borrowed, was doing slag all do deter his foe.

Being taken prisoner had done nothing to calm Megatron or make him less of a deadly opponent. With Ultra Magnus out of commission, all Optimus could do was try to buy time while the Autobots got themselves organized. The battle had already raged for almost five minutes, a near eternity for Optimus, who, as much as he hated to admit it, was certainly not built for war. He could only hold off for so long, and with no allies en route, he was essentially a sitting duck.

Every dodged attack slowed him down. Each hit he managed to land seemed to bounce right off of the warlord. Even with the Allspark resting within its casing around his neck, providing him with energy he sorely needed, he was still losing. Bit by bit, he was pushed back closer toward civilian regions. It had never gotten this bad, not even on Earth.

“Foolish Prime. You will learn the meaning of suffering for daring to put me in chains.” Megatron flew at him yet again, and all Optimus could do was struggle to keep his frame from overheating as he forced himself to dodge. Unfortunately, Megatron was faster, hitting his jetpack with a well timed strike and finally sending him careening toward the ground. Optimus adjusted mid-fall, slowing his descent and landing on his pedes. However, as he attempted to get back into the skies in the hopes that it would limit civilian casualties, his jetpack failed to function. It puttered uselessly against his back, reminding Optimus again of just how dire things really were.

“I’m not going down without taking you with me!” He taunted his foe, running as far away from housing districts as possible. The Allspark weighed heavily around his neck, thrumming with strange energy he did not understand. It did little to aid him, but its glow reminded Optimus of what he was fighting for. 

Megatron could not win. Not while Optimus still functioned.

“I will strip you of your armor, one plate at a time!” Megatron roared in outrage, landing with a thunderous crash that left Optimus reeling. He clutched the Magnus hammer, not letting himself focus on the faint tremor of his digits as he raised the weapon high. He checked his comms, frantically letting his optics flicker around the area in hopes that someone, anyone, would come to his aid.

He saw and heard nothing. No one was coming. He was alone.

“I’d like to see you try.” He could sense the stress warnings for his servos running across his vision, but Optimus dismissed them. He needed to keep fighting, to buy more time for Sentinel to get things in order as acting Magnus. He doubted his former friend would actually aid him, but if Optimus could do something to give the Autobots a chance, then he would gladly put his life on the line yet again.

He took a deep vent, the world slowing around him as Megatron unsheathed his blade and leapt forward. Optimus distinctly recalled wondering if there would be anything left of his frame once the battle was done as the warlord’s blade met his hammer. 

The shock rattled his entire frame, knocking his shoulder from its socket. He didn’t have time to cry out in pain before he was forced to try and block another hit, then another, and another. He tried to fight back, but every time he tried to land an attack, Megatron’s blade cut through his armor like it was made of tinfoil. He was covered in gashes, each burning as they bled. He stumbled, trying to keep his balance as Megatron smiled, stalking forward and pushing Optimus up against a wall. 

“This is what happens when you play soldier, Optimus Prime. Now, you will die like the disposable pawn you are.” Optimus spit up energon, coughing as he clutched a particularly deep wound with one servo. The Magnus hammer was held weakly up in front of him, his entire arm shaking from the effort as he prepared to block. Part of him hoped that his team would arrive and save his sorry aft. The rest of him was praying for a decently quick and honorable end, perhaps a blaster shot to the spark.

Unfortunately for him, Megatron had other plans.

The warlord swung his blade, sending the Magnus hammer flying away from Optimus’s grasp. He cursed, getting into a combat position despite how battered and tired he was. His vents were flared wide, his fans running on their highest setting as he panted and tried to play hero. Everything ached and burned, his vision flickering from energon loss. But he was not given a chance to even try to preserve his honor as the hilt of Megatron’s blade collided with his helm, knocking him to the ground.

He cried out in pain, no longer able to stifle the agony of his failing frame. He heard Megatron laugh as a kick landed on his abdomen, sending Optimus flying against the wall behind him and leaving him to purge what little he had in his tanks before coughing up energon that had to have come from something internal being ruptured. 

He shook in terror that he could no longer mask as the warlord loomed above him, his towering frame now no longer anything close to the storybook villain Optimus had come to know. He prayed for salvation as Megatron took his time, hitting him again and again and kicking him around like some sort of training dummy. Every hit broke something else, shattering plating or snapping components that were likely vital. 

Optimus tried to be brave. He tried to keep being snarky, if only to buy time. But as he lay utterly beaten amidst the rubble of their battleground, he could only cry while pulling himself into a sitting position. There was nothing he could do now except try to die with a small iota of dignity. 

“Ratchet, Bulkhead, Bumblebee, Sari… I’m sorry I won’t be coming back to all of you.” A choked sob broke through his tortured venting. As Megatron cackled, Optimus touched the container the Allspark still sat within. He prayed in silence, hoping that the phenomenon that gave him life would heed his quiet plea. 

He wasn’t religious. He had no god to worship as the humans did. But he still hoped… that maybe, somehow, the thing that made him would have mercy on his spark.

“Goodbye, Prime.” Megatron’s blaster powered on, sickening purple and flooding Optimus’s vision as he raised his helm in one final act of defiance. If he were to fall, he was going to do so, looking death in the optic. He would not cower, not even in his final moments.

He stared down the blaster barrel, uncaring of how it made his optics flicker due to the brightness. But as he watched his death come closer, he felt warmth emanate from the container around his neck. He dared not look away from Megatron, but as blue light began to drown out the purple, Optimus could only gasp in awe at what occurred mere nano-kliks later.

A shot fired, but it was not Megatron’s blaster putting Optimus six feet under. Instead, bright blue energy impacted Megatron’s armor, scorching his seemingly untouchable plating and earning a cry from the warlord. Optimus gawked, his agony momentarily forgotten as he followed the source of the shot, his optics setting on a figure that towered over even Megatron.

A faint blue figure flickered in and out of existence, becoming more solid with every passing moment. Optimus’s optics widened as the mech stepped forward, his frame setting into reality as he held his arm up, the limb having transformed into a blaster without so much as a klik of hesitation. He stood proudly, his armor battered and scarred but still strong. His shoulders were sharp, and an autobot badge stood out clearly amidst the scratches and dents. His legs were long and built for combat; his waist was thin but his torso was heavily armored. A crack ran along his windshields, but it seemed to mean nothing for the mech who stood so powerfully on the battlefield.

Optimus watched in complete awe as the mech stalked forward, a battlemask firmly in place on his face as he fired shot after shot at Megatron. With grace that Optimus had never seen in anyone before, the mech strode forward, breaking into a steady run as his arms turned from guns to blades. In an instant, the mech, who looked so much like Optimus in color and overall design, met Megatron in combat. Their blades sparked, their grunts of exertion echoed across the battlefield.

Megatron tried to push back, but the mech was swift with his blades, cutting through Megatron’s defenses and slashing his armor clean open with rapid movements. Megatron stumbled back, screaming a curse in a language Optimus did not know. The mech, his counterpart, responded in kind with a quick kick to the chassis, sending the warlord sprawling after a pitifully short fight. It seemed that despite his failure to bring down his foe, Optimus had indeed tired him enough so that his counterpart had little issue bringing him to his knees.

A smug part of his spark flared in glee at the revelation.

“Serves you right, you glitch.” He raised a middle finger in Megatron’s direction as Autobots finally appeared in the distance. His counterpart knocked Megatron upside the helm, forcing the Decepticon leader into temporary recharge. Then, without a second thought, he came to kneel before Optimus, his battlemask slipping away.

“I apologize for failing to assist you sooner, little brother. The call of the Matrix can be slow at times.” Optimus carefully reset his optics, but the scene did not change as his counterpart tenderly picked him up as if he were but a newbuild. The Allspark pulsed against his chassis in response.

“It seems your reality has different rules than mine, but you need not fear. We are one and the same, merely separated by time and a barrier between worlds.” The other mech, the other Optimus, smiled in a soft manner before holding Optimus close. He coughed weakly, the pain slowly overwhelming his senses as his counterpart held him close. He wanted to speak, to ask who this mech really was.

But he found his questions answered as the other Optimus carried him to his team, passing him off to a very worried Ratchet. He stared, still in shock, as the other Prime began to flicker and fade, his existence starting to vanish like smoke.

“Rest well, young Prime. May Primus light your path.” With those final words, the other Prime disappeared as if he’d never been there in the first place. Megatron was bound and carted off, Ratchet strapped him to a gurney and rushed to get him hooked up to an IV. All the while, Optimus stared up at the sky uselessly.

He didn’t know how or why, but through the thing that hung around his neck, Optimus had been saved by another version of himself. A mech who carried his name, his burden, and his rank.

He’d had his life preserved by a brother.

[eatingfireflies]

Had to pull this quote up while talking to a friend about an interpretation I disagreed with, namely: Ratio never sought the gaze of Nous, Margaret was stupid for even interpreting Ratio's character story 3 as him being disappointed about getting invited by the IPC instead etc etc. and his self-deprecating laugh was only because he's so disappointed that he was invited by Capitalism Company despite all his achievements proving his ethics (but do they?)

I disagree, this is Margaret slander. That woman was Ratio's assistant, I doubt she was stupid.

Tell me this man is not bothered by it. Tell me it's not a sore point, even if he's over it by now he was/is bothered enough to actually talk about it.

Honestly I was gonna make a light-hearted joke about Aventurine being that person who shows off his relationship with Ratio, 'He's always like that, please don't mind him ☺️' 'He's the one who understands my way of fighting best ☺️' 'I thought you'd given up on this dream you've never told anyone else about except presumably me because I'm just dropping it in conversation so casually like this ☺️'

But let's talk about that anti-planetary weapon

I hand tinfoil hats to everyone who clicked on read more. Please don't believe anything I say. Especially under here where no one else can see us.

- No mention of what affiliations Ratio had before the invitation from the IPC. If we trust HSR timelines (which we shouldn't but we have nothing else), Ratio was already a full-fledged professor in Veritas Prime University before Aventurine became a Stoneheart. So: before he joined the Intelligentsia Guild, his main affiliation was with the university.

- The anti-planetary weapon was already completed when he received the IPC invitation

- Which still leaves us the question: whom did Ratio develop this weapon for and why?

There's some echoes of Chadwick in there that I think is probably a coincidence but something we might want to keep in mind. Ratio also provides schematics on how to turn the Express into a weapon.

One thing tho: Chadwick was a Genius Society member. Ratio is not.

- Minus the Astral Express weapon (which we do see in action in the Penacony Boss fight ? So like was that connected? 😂), everything else Ratio has done that we know of is mostly about improving people's lives. That anti-planetary weapon is like a blight on his otherwise stellar CV.

- My conclusion: he developed that weapon solely to catch the gaze of Nous. And he failed and it was a moment that felt like selling his soul for one corn chip. The IPC invite was a nail on the coffin: this is what he sold his ethics for.

Like the 'Ofc Ratio laughed because he can't believe the audacity of Capitalism Company asking him to join them when he's completely against everything they stand for'

But my friend, he joined the IPC. He's an IPC delegate. He's married to an IPC superintendent.

Ratio had to give up on the Nous deal and had to go with the next best thing. But Ratio from Story 3 was young and probably still felt some pressure to prove something, or meet expectations. The Ratio we met in 1.6 knows better.

[lanymme]

it 1000% feels like, for the lack of time/aid/skill, the translators end up using machine TL for events, and that image you posted as an example feels like a prime candidate for that

fiammetta's file lines to this day are awkward and stunted because they're almost word for word machine TLs

Okay I was gonna wait a little while for this post but you hit the nail on the head.

My (apparently not-so) tinfoil hat theory about this game: nearly all of it is machine translated.

While reading Dorothy's Vision in preparation for Lone Trail, I came across a (probably infamous) stretch of critically story-relevant text that was not translated at all. A friend of mine directed me to the arknights story reader, where I looked into the EN translation and, yep, that's still Chinese. So I ran it through a Machine TL to get the jist of it. It was serviceable, a lot of the terms translated surprisingly well, but the moment to moment writing was obscured to me by the TL quality.

And in a moment of dread I realized it read EXACTLY like any old bit of Arknights story, and everything clicked. The problems I have always had with the sentence structure and word choice feeling strangely disjointed, lacking in logical flow--all of it showed up the same from this raw machine translation.

Y'all. We've been getting a poorly touched-up machine translation of the Chinese text this whole time. All the effort you have to put in to just figure out what's being said--it's not your fault, the story is not too smart for you, it's because you're being asked to read a machine translation, without the context that it will be rough and full of holes.. Everything that writing is--beyond merely conveying information or a sequence of events--we get none of that.

Think about all the nuance we missed of your favorite characters. Your favorite moments. How much of their nuance and depth did we miss?

How many other characters and moments did you dismiss or skim because the writing couldn't convey their emotional core? How many of those could have been as important to you as your current fave?

The fact that Kal'tsit comes across as unintelligible--does she instead sound wise and poetic, in the original?

How much of the full text of Arknights do you think is available to us? 80%? 40%? Who can say.

But I can say one thing. What we have now is not acceptable.

Edit: hey, it’s been put forward by people with actual expertise in this field that MTL is highly unlikely here, and I realize I was a bit bold for this. If this is coming up in your feed pls seek out their explanations of things instead of reblogging the root! Thanks!

[saintbleeding]

i have donned my tinfoil hat i am ready to say normal things.

ok so. i am admittedly basing a lot of this on this line from colin from 19:

COLIN: (voice shaking, on the verge of manic laughter) No, what I need is to not be seen. He sees too much already. Doing mummy and daddy Stasi proud, I’m sure. Not that anyone cares, as long as it all balances, right? (inhales quickly) Not too much mercury or the world ends, not too much sulfur or we all go mad –

(emphasis mine)

so the three primes in alchemy (on which topic i am not remotely an expert, soooo) are sulfur (which corresponds to the soul and the idea of combustibility), mercury (which corresponds to the spirit and the ideas of fusibility/volatility), and salt (which corresponds to the body and non-combustibility/non-volatility). their symbols, respectively, are 🜍, ☿, and 🜔.

and.

[id: a cropped section of the OIAR crest, showing these three symbols centrally in the design, which is itself an inverted version of the alchemical symbol for the philosopher's stone. end id.]

so i started thinking, what if """""the fears"""""" in this universe have to do with balance and imbalance of the primes (or, potentially, a lot of alchemical elements):

LENA: (speech-like:) The world is full of opposing forces. Some benevolent, most not. In order for the wheels to keep on turning, all these forces need to be monitored and balanced. That is where we come in.

in this conception, bonzo's man feast might be a sulfur one (based on equating combustibility with literal consumption), but dr webber might be mercury (fusibility = irrevocable bodily transformation). possibly the oiar is trying to bring about a salt-state: non-volatility?

i know this sounds very broad compared to the granularity of the existing categorisation system, but my thought on that is that given this universe seems to Just Have Tulpas Running Around (nobody knows who named bonzo???), there's a lot of stock put into studying something into submission (and thematically, "maybe if we understand this thing we can stop it" would be... linked. to tma.)

the sudden introduction of, say, 14 or maybe 15 new elements that are entirely novel in this universe could definitely Cause Some Problems.

idk is this anything.

[thoughts-and-gayers]

here's how the freaky mortys theory can still win. (aka, what i'm calling the friendly mortys theory.)

(carrying over a lot of connections made by @trucknoisettes and @glitteringcrab)

so, its no secret that evil morty tends to play up his 'mortyness' when he needs to appear innocent. most recently seen in unmortricken, where he pretends to be morty prime and the first words out of his mouth are "aw jeez".

its also no secret that morty's been ping-ponging a bit between s1/2 personality and s5/6 personality.

i posit that the moments where he's seen acting more like the cliche morty is the moments where its actually evil morty overcompensating, and the moments where he actually acts like morty prime are, yknow, morty prime.

this would, of course, require that they be swapping places off-screen throughout season 7.

or, and this is where i get full tinfoil-hat, theyve been doing it even longer than that.

while rick was off having his anime crow arc in season 5, morty was doing... something. the show doesnt really dwell on it, except mention that morty was on the citadel at some point. its entirely possible that morty got to talking with people on the citadel, maybe even making some friends. maybe one of those friends just so happened to be the president.

evil morty didnt have a clear reason to invite our rick and morty to dinner before he destroyed the citadel. i doubt that he had a soft spot for rick c-137, but maybe, just maybe, he had a soft spot for morty prime. the morty who stood up to his rick and had been complaining about being left by him only a few days ago.

obviously morty hadn't known EM's actual plan. he probably didnt know too much about EM at all. but there's no way that EM, the character who just wants to be alone, would invite a total stranger along with him out of the cfc.

but no. morty declined.

what if the second seat wasnt a toilet. what if he had built a second seat in order to take morty with him, but lied to protect his reputation.

so imagine, our morty, morty prime is reeling from everything that happened. and as horrified as he is, maybe he also understands. just a little bit.

and evil morty, he built his base, he's finally left alone, but maybe he's also a bit lonely. after all, the robot butler also clearly was programmed for conversation.

so, maybe partway through season 6, evil morty talks to morty prime. they make up. they agree to switch places on occasion. after all, morty needs a break from all the bullshit sometimes, and EM is probably curious what morty's family, and indeed rick c-137, is actually like.

and so when evil morty comes to that base where rick and morty are, morty obviously isnt going to act like they know each other. so he overcompensates just like EM can, but in the other direction.

like, come on, can you really believe that morty prime would act like that with no provocation? he may have a violent side, but it doesnt just come out of nowhere. and yes, the blood vortex was horrifying, but clearly EM isnt here to attack either of them right now.

now, if he was, say, exaggerating his dislike of EM so rick wouldnt get suspicious, then this makes a lot more sense. morty's not really a good liar! in fact, they could even be swapped right then! this seems more like what EM would say in this situation, doesnt it?

now, while i was reading @trucknoisettes unmortricken analysis, i was wondering why morty would jump from being openly hostile to EM to agreeing to temporary mind control, but if the hostility was all an act? if he already had some precedent for trusting EM? well, a whole lotta things start making sense.

so, to summarize this wild speculation:

- evil morty and morty prime have been friends since after season 5 episode 9

- at some point in season 6, evil morty made up with morty off-screen.

- after making up, the two of them started switching places on occasion throughout season 6 and 7

- morty prime's hostility to evil morty in 7.5 was an act

and perhaps ive taken a few too many liberties, but yknow. i'm here to have fun and ship evil morty x morty not make perfect sense.

[theherdofturtles]

Fandom: Hetalia Prompt: therapy session Rating: G Word Count: 6,412 England goes to family therapy and regrets everything. Especially when Ireland shows up. This had more comedy in it than I expected. @badthingshappenbingo

It was in Haltwhistle, in a grim grey gloom of early morning mist from an earlier morning drizzle. The pale street was darkened by the moisture, and the sun added a silvery tinfoil glow to the cold concrete through the thinning clouds. England was waiting outside the building, about six minutes late to the appointment.

An all-morning headache throbbed behind his eyes from what he knew was to come and England stared dead at the doorknob.

His fingers touched the cold brass and opened the door painfully slow, resonating every ear scraping squeak of the hinge through the waiting room inside.

This was not appreciated by the blank-faced human, who stood behind the counter, and ever-so-slightly dropped their fake smile.

England closed the door behind him, approached, and tapped his fingers on the desk.

“Sir Kirkland,” the human nodded. They were straight laced, holding a practiced pearly smile that anyone could choke on. Every non-English human looked almost exactly the same to him… this one was no different. German. England only entertained this for Germany's sake.

The person clicked diligently on their computer, then gestured for him to follow, “right this way." They stepped in front of him to lead him to a hidden, deeper door down the hall. "I must remind you that you are not permitted to harm any living being in these premises or carry a weapon.”

England scowled. He wasn’t unreasonable, he asked beforehand to be certain was all. Having no weapon made him feel naked.

They came to a door, which had the homeliness of an office space. On the white, plexiglass, clouded window door were the printed and unimpressive block words, "The work you do today determines where you will be tomorrow." England stared at it with half-lid judgement for a moment.

England reluctantly steeled himself for the upcoming migraine. It took him a moment to mentally prepare, focusing on the words being spoken in two different, but familiar, accents behind the door. The memories came back, the sentiments, listening very carefully. Then he pulled himself forward. The human opened the door.

“Take a seat…” the human said.

He entered with a sigh, and sat down with a firm resolve.

"This was your idea," Scotland growled.

England scowled.

This was a mistake, was what. England wished he'd never brought it up, he wished he could go back in time and slap himself with a brick. Who thought any of them were capable of sitting still and talking about feelings for an hour? Why did he consider it could even help? Some things were so broken they didn't deserve fixing.

And now the three of them were flopped onto light grey therapy couches rather ungentlemanly, sinking into the cushions as if throwing off a long day. Unfortunately, this day wasn’t even close to finishing and he couldn't deign himself to treat this activity with respect.

"It was a good idea," Wales encouraged. His eyes were brighter than everyone elses and he swayed as if dancing in his chair.

Of course he thought it was a good idea. He'd given England the final push to mention it to the Prime Minister. He couldn't backtrack, now. This was Wales's fault, too.

"Blame Wales." England tossed his brother under the bus. "He said I should bring this off-hand idea to the PM."

Scotland tossed Wales a betrayed, questioning look, as if asking for a defense or for the real truth… maybe he was even willing Wales to give him a lie.

Wales gave him the sheepish, apologetic half-shrug he didn't want. "It was a good idea."

Scotland rolled just enough to face away from both of them, unseen, looking suddenly rather weary behind a blank shuttered mask.

Wales went to stare at his feet, and England went to stare out the window.

The day was middling in more ways than one and if the therapist didn't show up soon a war would start. The peace of the British Isles was unhappily in the hands of one human with a measly pHD. Sorrows. Story of the modern world. England should've stayed in bed today. A thousand things that were better left alone were spinning in his head, and above all those writhing half-baked thoughts hung the rather large and block-like fear of potentially having to share the thousand things that were better left alone.

This truly had been a miserable idea.

When the thought to try therapy had first struck him, it had been suggested by a human being at a pub and drunkenly accepted as sound. He'd written the whole idea out in barely legible letters on a stained napkin: a two way plan to be a normal family. He'd almost tossed the paper into a bin the following day, certainly would've if Wales hadn't found it first, managed to read it, and then went and mentioned it to one of his former EU peers. After which the news travelled down low through the ranks. 'Very mature,' they said. Everyone was shocked. Out of character. Then the boss found out and considered the gains. Everyone except England loved watching him squirm his way into an awkward family dinner, but then he felt a need to prove them all wrong.

The door opened. He casually looked up, expecting the therapist. Instead England almost choked.

A man strode in with the doctor, mid-speech. "The lads caught the fish foaming at the mouth, thinking it was cursed. Once beached they pelted it till it dried out in the sun and I haven't seen so many spiders in one place since," the last man England wanted to see explained with flapping hands to the therapist.

Ireland. In all his lacking glory.

He hadn't taken his tweed coat off inside, he kept one hand shoved into a pocket and had a pair of sunglasses sitting on the bridge over his nose. Mind you they were inside while the weather was currently clouded. His dark red hair scattered windswept over his face and was fully unbrushed as if he'd rolled from bed and then let a cow lick it for good measure.

How was he here?!

England gaped and stared and Scotland and Wales jumped to their feet like proper siblings.

"Ciarán!" Wales shouted. He nearly tripped over the table to clasp Ireland's outstretched hand, giving it a hearty shake before falling into a sideways hug. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"A rumor caught the butt of my lung and I couldn't miss a day as dour as this." Ireland turned to grin. He quickly found England, and looked down on him. He flipped his useless sunglasses up to meet England's cold, sharp eyes. "He's destroyed, surely," Ireland muttered.

Just because he signed for therapy didn't make him destroyed.

Scotland grinned and said something fully unintelligible to England, but which made Ireland laugh.

He didn't know what they said. Habit knew it had to be at his own expense, though. He straightened in his seat and squared his shoulders. “What is it?! Say it to my face,” England growled.

“Would you like to see a health specialist?” Ireland asked.

“What does that mean?!” England pushed himself up from his comfortable spot on the couch.

But nobody got another word into the budding fight. At least, nobody worthwhile. The human being who'd been given the grand task of fixing the mental discord of the United Kingdom plus Ireland, apparently, politely interceded.

"Thank you all for coming today. I am doctor Christal. If you are prepared to begin, I will start by asking if you know about different psychotherapy techniques, or if you are fully new to therapy," the human said. She carried herself tall and casual, with a rather impartial tone that was obviously trained. It must be their default response to derail conflict. England felt he was three steps ahead of this human, and therefore, he felt he'd be too intelligent for therapy to work on. He felt the discord between his siblings would be too much to fix, anyway, which added two more reasons to why this had been a terrible idea.

“Yes… I'm sure I know the basics…” England sat down once again. He never had to do a thing to his siblings, yet his actions were always received negatively. That was fine with him… he'd lived with it for years, he could live with it longer. Especially after the day inevitably fixed nothing.

His siblings also came to sit, two to teach side of the room, turning the therapy lounge into a four way staring competition.

Wales sat next to England, quietly in the corner and carefully keeping the attention undrawn to himself. Scotland faced across from England with every limb on his body crossed, and Ireland, facing Wales, sat with his head leaned back over the top of the couch letting the air dry his tongue.

"Everyone's progress in treatment is subjective," the therapist said. She sat at the head of the table, turning their staring square into a five-star circle of tension. "And the best results come if you do your best to cooperate. Today, I would be happy to support you in addressing improving meaningful family communication, but you should not be discouraged if progress is, at first, slow. Learning how to communicate in any relationship can be difficult."

Scotland had a great interest in the wall; Wales listened intently to the therapist; Ireland had an incomprehensible smirk on his face.

He just knew he was going to hate this day forever.

"Structured exercises that encourage communication can benefit relationships. The exercise I've prepared today can help start to strengthen abilities of expression. Each of you will be given an equal number of legos-"

"legos?" England raised a brow. "What do toys have to do with anything?"

"Honest to God, this'll be a great game," Ireland promised without looking at England. His head still lay tilted back, still staring at the ceiling with his stupid smirk. Under his sunglasses England had no clue if his eyes were closed for a nap or wide alert.

"Shut up, you weren't supposed to even be here," England retorted. Ireland clearly wasn't taking this seriously. He didn't know how or why Ireland had even shown up if it was a game to him, but England would get to the bottom of it. One of his brothers must have tipped Ireland off to this event… he suspected Wales. Wales tossed him under the bus and a tooth for a tooth would do the trick. England wouldn't let any of them get away with this.

"Your boss gave me an invite," Ireland simply said.

"Lies."

The therapist patiently waited, but the therapist also did not care for their spat. "I will explain their usage in a moment," she said, cutting between them, back on track. "The player who starts first will draw a card, read it aloud, and respond to it. If two or more other players decide the response is appropriate, the player gets to place a lego piece on their base. If less than two decide the response is appropriate, no lego piece is placed. Play moves to the next player. The next player draws, and we repeat. We play until one player has his base covered, and that will be the winner."

"What's the prize?" Scotland finally pitched in. He briefly put his attention into the room, dragging his brooding thoughts from whatever depth of detail on the wall they'd fallen into.

"One month of no government paperwork."

Audibly someone sucked in a breath.

One month of no paperwork? England hated paperwork. Paper cursed the modern world, he missed being able to do anything and go anywhere without filling out boxes or filing requests. Back then, the king or queen just waved everything off, the perfect system. Who would do his paperwork while he was free? Decidedly, England did not care. His heart already lurched greedily after what it wanted, and England had to have it. He did more than his siblings, it was only fair. He worked late nights breaking pencils and ruining his eyes on pixels. They did so much less for this country.

England cast a quick glance at Wales, and Wales cast one to him, then to Scotland. Each cast glance was precarious, hesitant, but determined. Everyone wanted a blessed free month. Nobody was sure they were willing to sacrifice what it took to get it. England steeled himself for a new type of fight: bonding. Ug.

Over in his corner, nobody could tell what Ireland was thinking hidden behind his sunglasses.

England was starting to think him a clever bastard.

"Is there a volunteer to go first?" The therapist asked.

"I can," Wales half lifted his hand. It withered back a bit, shrinking before even being protested against. "I'm just curious. I could also wait."

Wales was rarely first to anything, or one to speak out about opinions. It almost surprised England how quickly he'd responded. But then he remembered that Wales was the most willing to trip over himself in order to save another person any level of discomfort. It meant Wales was usually the first of his siblings to fall and least likely to leave.

She gave an encouraging nod and nobody else protested. They all eagerly watched to find out what would happen.

A stack of cards was proffered to Wales, which Wales took and placed onto the centre table. Wales slid the top card off and flipped it over to read:

"Tell about a time that you were emotionally hurt."

Wales nervously smiled, slightly. Wales, equally nervous, chuckled. "Not sure what I expected? Therapy couldn't be easy." He shrugged.

He placed the card down into his lap and tapped his thumbs together in thought, staring off, but leaving just enough of himself present to indicate he was participating.

England could tell the moment he latched onto a thought to begin.

"This happened several times…" he paused "I've never been invited to a meeting. Or asked for a diplomatic opinion, of course. Because I don't have official autonomy. But I've tried to give diplomatic advice at least once, and you've all said… that I wasn't a real country. You don't even hear me out. I think that stings."

Wales looked to each of them, and his fingers slowly creased the edges of the card in his lap.

They were all quiet for an awkward moment. No one dared say anything. As a matter of fact, if no one ever spoke again that would be grand. England didn't know why hearing Wales share his personal struggles sucked the air from him because England didn't even really care. He felt annoyed and—he wanted to dig out of the room. Why'd he ever think this was a good idea?

"Thank you for sharing," the therapist said.

Wales smiled, half shy and relieved for any response at all.

England was going to toss himself out of the window before the day ended. There was no way he'd survive this. Oh, but he wanted that month of vacation—but the thought of sharing anything with his siblings sounded worse than a paper cut to the eyeball. But he wanted that vacation.

"Now we're started," Ireland said, "very sorry about that, Wales. We'll have a drink sometime and I'll hear you." He waved at the therapist. "Give the man a lego."

Scotland gave a nod of agreement, and England gave the stack a sliding, terribly wary eye as Wales put down the brick on his plate. A terrible restlessness crawled under England's skin, compressing his itching chair into a stringed cage, taunting him with the stupidity and uselessness of this whole game.

Everyone looked at him.

He felt the stares and the restlessness grow worse, but England had the guts- or stubbornness- to not fall short under anybody else's expectations. He resisted the urge to tap his foot.

Reaching for the card and turning it over to read, England stared at the prompt and silently read. The quiet, hidden tension slowly left his shoulders.

That wasn't bad. That was so easy. England could easily do that. This was stupid as he thought, he could easily survive the day.

"Compare this family to a musical instrument," he read aloud.

He gave a little pleased smile to the therapist, as if he'd won a lottery and had some fortune to show for it, and was beating the house at their own game.

Wales hummed with sincere attention all on England. England's smile shifted into a more hesitant mirroring frown and he discarded the card in his lap.

Why was Wales looking at him like that? How could a question like this garner that kind of attention? It wasn't important, was it? Surely not.

He cleared his throat. "An untuned kazoo."

Wales looked less happy, like the answer wasn't what he wanted and England had no idea why.

"Does one need to tune a kazoo?" Ireland mused.

"I don't know," England snapped, "we've managed to untune it."

"Managed most the work yourself," Scotland said.

England seethed quietly and folded the card in half. "Well, that's my answer. Live with it."

"No lego for the man," Ireland declared. He announced with the same smile and volume he'd commended Wales with, and Scotland, once again, nodded agreement to the eldest's judgement.

"What?! I answered fairly!"

"But why? Why's it an untuned kazoo?" Wales asked. "You have to explain at least."

No. He shouldn't need to explain, it was straightforward enough—they all annoyed one another, and nobody wanted to listen. A kazoo was equally annoying and nobody listened to it in their free time, either. No respectable instrument would be caught in a composition with one, and if another instrument happened to be forced to work with them, their family wouldn't even be tuned enough to make the proper harmony.

He crossed his arms and turned his head away. "I don't have to explain anything."

"Mr. Kirkland, creating a meaningful experience today may require attempts at difficult or seemingly unnecessary communication."

Screw the therapist, too. His brothers were all going to gang up to keep him from winning.

"We can wait as long as it takes for you to form an answer," Wales helpfully informed. England felt like shooting someone.

"This is pointless," he muttered, "pointless. But if you have so little ability to solve it out, it's because untuned instruments fail even when performed to the exact instruction; they're unable to play in a composition. And kazoos are annoying."

Ireland nodded in mock serenity. "You're still a caterpillar. Break up your boy-band. Solo should do you kinder."

Wales snorted a laugh, and Ireland smiled at Wales, pleased with himself.

England had no clue what he meant, but once again, he knew this was at his expense. England felt his cheeks flush with hot blood, blooming red, and skin being whiter than white, everyone knew every time anyone got to him. He was going to shoot more than one someone, and he didn't know if he'd spare himself in the aftermath.

"Give me my brick," England demanded.

He got his brick. It was only fair, Wales had said. England added the child's toy to his plate and noted the off-colourness between brick and base, and found the film of the brick's unwashed surface highly agitating. Both heightened the noise of restlessness in his body, traveling up through his fingers.

Next was Scotland, who took a card as calm and bored as he'd take a cigarette.

"What do you like about the way you fight?" Scotland read carefully. He put the card back down onto the table and crossed his arms. "I don't talk words," he said. "Only do action."

His cold green stare steadily focused on England before boredly drowsing back to the wall.

England held his hands closer. Scotland fought more in actions, but at the end of the day, that was Scotland's weakness, too. He learnt that long ago. Scotland got to fighting before he'd even read a room, he struck quick and clean, which made him venerable but easy to out-maneuver with a document and speech at Whitehall.

Back when England was backwater and weak he used his words to his advantage. England had always been best and warfare in language, and that made Scotland's answer one England, too, appreciated.

Never change, England snidely thought.

He didn't like the bruises their scuffs got him, though. He should nag at him. "Make him explain more, he didn't give enough words," England said.

If England should suffer, so should the rest.

"… I think that one explained itself," said Wales.

Ireland gave Scotland a thumbs up. "I'd drink health to that. Simple, easy, and the type of spat that can be done with quickest in this family."

This response affirmed all of England's obviously correct calculations. His siblings were gained up on him. Irleand and Wales had backed Scotland but failed to back him.

England should not lose in the field of words.

Therapy was his antithesis… the plain, true speech of morons stripped the power of information withheld. Nobody kept their cards close. England thrived so long as he kept his cards close… all warfare was deception.

Scotland added his brick, and Ireland rubbed his hands together before taking his card.

"What is something that you would not give up?" Ireland read and shook his head pleasantly. "Several things, though one presently needing declaration. So I'll have you a riddle! There are two skulls in Ireland, one of a person when he was a boy of ten years, and the other of the same person when he grew to be a man." He raised two fingers in demonstration as he said it. "They sit kindly side by Cromwell's under a loose stone in my wall."

England blinked. His brows furrowed.

An indignity caught a spark and burned into a sudden blaze.

"I asked you to give me my skulls back! You said they were lost!" England stood to his feet.

"I'm your devil when your head's astray. You shouldn't've lost a head twice at my house."

England was shooting himself first. Then he was shooting everyone else.

"I can't believe you--"

"Why do you want to keep those?" Wales interrupted.

"Because he's psychotic," England said. He was psychotic and orderless.

Irleand tapped two fingers to his lip in thought.

"At his age ten, I was an island born from druids and fed by Catholics. Call it indulgence… I even kept mother's finger. We like our dead." Ireland, oddly pensive, frowned. "But at his adulthood, I wanted to curse him." Ireland suddenly fell from his odd spiel with a grin.

Curse?

"What did you put on me?" England narrowed his eyes.

"You would love to know, wouldn't you?"

Pressuring would prove him correct and England felt particularly petulant. An injustice had been committed against him. He brought a quick hand to his current skull to feel it, flat against his forehead.

"That first part was oddly touching," said Wales, "the second one wasn't, but it was understandable. We've all cursed one another at least once. Nothing debilitating."

Who put Wales in charge of mediating? What was the therapist doing?

England looked at her and she looked at him.

Her blank, unreadable face bore a hole in him.

England looked away.

The sight that greeted him was worse: Ireland got a brick and Wales got a new card.

"Do you say 'I'm sorry' before you are ready?" Wales put the card down. "I think so… or… I'm not sure. Sometimes I say it to end a fight, that may be readiness. I don't want to be responsible for perpetuating any hurt or conflict."

Once again, the reigning choir of crickets arose gloriously from three completely dead silent brothers. Nobody wanted to say anything to Wales. Each time Wales spoke, England irrationally wanted a shovel. For himself. To get out of the world.

"That must have been uncomfortable," the therapist said, saying what no sibling wanted to say.

She could be interacting with Wales the most. England tried to remember how she'd responded to each of them, and he suspected he was right, as usual.

"When we apologise before the time is right, we can still feel empty inside afterwards. But holding onto our anger can gave us a harmful, and false, sense of control in difficult situations. We should acknowledge that we apologise in order to help us forgive ourselves. If we cannot forgive ourselves yet, or feel no need to do so, an apology may be too early."

England wanted to snap any response of denial possible.

"I don't believe in apologies," England said. He couldn't stand this pat-on-back seasick sharing fest. "Apologies are selfish. People do it to feel good about themselves."

"Is feeling better about oneself bad?" She asked.

"It's selfish," England repeated.

Ireland stared at England, and England could already hear his voice. Bold words from a selfish man. England knew what his brother thought of him. He knew what all of them thought.

"Just give Wales his lego so I can fail to win a week off paperwork," he grumbled and swiped a card from the deck.

"Are you so determined to win that you don't listen or really look for a solution? No. I'm not. I listen, I find a solution, then I win."

"Load of shite," Scotland said, staring at his wall.

"Has yourself, or another, been put in danger to achieve one of your victories before?" She asked.

"Ha! I'm a soldier, what do you expect the answer to that is? That's all I ever do." He ought to leave. This day was indeed a waste, he was determined to remain unsubdued. Why? He never had to think about why. He didn't know, he couldn't stop throwing words away. He hated a comfortable smile, it wouldn't be reasonable to accept. It wouldn't change anything. He hated anyone who promised otherwise. Those moments he felt he was being lied to, and he only entertained a good lie when too smashed drunk to remember it.

"Do I get a brick or not?" He demanded.

The circle of silent, undisturbed faces said the answer was no.

He was right. They disliked him because he was right. An apology wasted breath… he couldn't count how many words and treaties everyone had broken. A spat ended with never again,, I'll change,, we'll make it better, but the very next day the war continued. They should skip the formalites.

"Forget it, go on, Scotland," England snapped.

The unbearable moment sponged into the resuming, tense air. They were acclimated to it, they didn't bother with it.

Scotland took the next prompt and read, "Do you fight someone else's fights?" He shook his head. "Not if I can't help it."

His finger tips rubbed together as if he wanted to roll tobacco into his mouth. Instead Irleand rolled a lego into his hand.

Ireland, ever untouched, moved freely despite the tension. He escaped the world without leaving the world, tearing England's speech from his tongue. The air was warm for him wherever he went, so privileged and natural like nature itself had given him an edge over everyone else. England didn't matter to him. No voice, decree, or weapon could damage the high head he carried and each room he entered he navigated easily as water changing shape.

England breathed through his nose and focused on his empty hands.

"Tell about one of your most frightening experiences," Ireland read. He dropped the card and leaned backwards, hands laced behind his head, falling to where his sunglasses caught a glint of the artificial lights. "Ah, there was a year at Colman's college I took, passing for a student, when I realised the boys hadn't got a word of gaelic. All my years before that day, there never came a minute I thought of Gaelic as being in danger. It struck me so sudden. How the old people were heading off, and there would be a generation with both languages, and then a generation that hadn't got gaelic at all. Then my island sounded like a foreign country. I almost preferred going to a foreign country, living there rather than see a land without a word of Gaelic in it. Ah well-- I did what any would do, finding sudden isolation on their brink. I dug me heels in. Never going to let the amount of my own language fall to nothing. Do chum glóire dé agus onóra na hÉireann. I'll keep the words close to heart until the people have them again."

Both Wales and Scotland would agree. They did agree. Every problem Ireland had they had also had, because both of them were stuck to England. And every problem they had had, they had either conquered or learned to deal with through an imitation of one another.

England was the only odd one out, because England had no common problems with them… nothing he had discovered or would share.

Everyone was then one piece ahead and England had no more reason to entertain this place with his time other than for show.

"What was one of the happiest moments of this last century. Oh. Hm. I don't know." Wales never said he knew. Wales continued onward with what he knew. "Sri Lanka sat on a bench with me in Rome, we argued over who had the better flag."

"Alright, and then?"

"That's it."

"But who won?"

Wales shrugged. "I don't remember if we did."

"Ah, I see." Ireland leaned over the table with his grin. He did most of the interacting today, the therapist did some pointers but had lost interest in her job compared to Ireland. Scotland engaged only if he had no other choice.

The bricks kept stacking.

And then it was England's miserable turn again. The only comfort he had was the lack of initiative he felt for this so called 'game.' England had no reason to answer with the truth, or answer at all.

His new card read: I wish I were less __ with a big, awful blank on the end. One short void for one short answer that he could never fit on a card. The space provided was too small and England didn't have enough graphite to fill it. It burned through his fingertips.

He blinked at it several times, resisting the urge to tear it.

"I wish I were less blank," he read. Agressive, incompetent, well-known, difficult, vocal… England scowled. "Short."

He should never have to answer this question.

He could use an extra few inches.

Shave himself away, replace it with a new stature. Maybe he'd find the respect he wanted to give himself and take from others, then. Maybe that would fix it. He crumpled the offending question in his hand.

The council reluctantly gave him his little lego brick and moved on without pressure or questioning.

Scotland's next card had to do with quotes, and he said something in a language England didn't know.

After, Irleand talked about a riot in Dublin, and a trial, against him the council written in the English law. He bragged of denying his guilt before the unclever court.

And the brothers talked, barring England. He skipped his next turn and Scotland got his question:

Tell about your greatest concern for this family.

He flatly informed them all that it was England which earned them amusement.

Another story came around about an idiot who flew through Iranian airspace, and required international attention.

England was having a strenuous day, and was becoming wary of any voice at all.

Each click of a tongue or shuffle of a foot scraped under his skin. England couldn't settle it, his head tilted slow, very slow, side to side as if trying to escape it.

"Do you pretend that the fight isn't important or laugh about it?" Ireland immediately agreed. "Of course. Most spats aren't worth losing a year to the pain."

England sunk deeper. He didn't know what he wanted. He wanted to leave.

Wales got another card about fighting, yet another, all about fighting. He knew the day was to adress family fighting and communication, he didn't want to talk about fighting again. Who do you fight with best/worst? Wales didn't understand how he could answer the question and took his first veto.

That left him second to last, and only Ireland and Scotland to fight for a first.

For the hell of it, England took up his next question and regretted it immediately.

I will feel accepted and part of this family group when _.

He felt the same, familiar, irritated muchness with the world filling his stomach. It felt empty, full of nothing. Everything was distorted, out of proportion to the cause. England didn't want to continue this. Not for two rounds.

He folded it in half and leaned back into the couch.

"Play on," he said.

Nobody questioned him. He hated that worse, he was so, deeply, terribly relieved. Instead there was a huff and a sense of patience wearing thin. The noise rubbed worse on his eardrums.

Scotland began his next reading:

"I feel most loved when, blank." He grumbled under his breath. "when I have scotch, a fireplace, and m' dogs."

His fingers rubbed the couch armrest. England didn't want to be here. Any moment spent longer in the room while he could think of nothing else became intolerable. He saw the cards, each scrape of paper scratched his ears. England didn't want to be here. His feet planted stiff on the office floor and England had to, he couldn't be here longer. They'd talk about it but he couldn't stay. England stood.

Several gazes hit him at once. Ireland's hidden gaze was worst of all because he couldn't tell. England hated being unable to tell. What he was thinking, if he was actually gazing.

He held his breath under their gazes, and only breathed easily when he slipped through the door to leave.

England felt a thin pin prick of annoyance in his chest. His frown deepened.

In the warm artificial light outside, in the hall, England stood straight in a firm immobile stance, in the usual strung-up orderly manner, keeping his appearance composed. Everything itched. The room behind him murmured. His siblings maybe talked about him. They maybe said nothing about him. Two outcomes England immediately noticed and decided he couldn't take. He didn't even know why he had to leave. Nearly two thousand years of life and these were the things that bothered him through it all. What a pathetic existence.

The door opened again.

Wales steadily closed it, carefully. England never realised his carefulness until the world burned and every sound was too much on his nerves.

"You lied," England said.

"I didn't."

"You said you apologise to end fights. Nobody does. Not in this family."

"Do you want an apology, Arthur?"

"Do it. I don't care. I'll keep accusing you of being a liar. I'll bring it up tomorrow. This family doesn't drop anything."

Wales came forward and- and- hugged him.

He flinched. It travelled like a jolt through his spine, quick and shocked and discontent. The jolt settled and spun and then it vanished, like seafoam fizzling away after a wave. England was left stiff.

Stop.

Don't ever leave.

England relaxed.

"I can't stand you," England said. And he meant it. He couldn't stand anybody, he always wanted them around when he was terribly alone and always he wanted them gone when they were with him. The isolation got worse the more people he had in his life, the isolation got worse and he looked for more people and ruined his hopes worse.

"Then we have a conundrum. Because I can stand you, and I like you, even," Wales said. He let go of England and took a step back. "But I think you like us too. I don't want to believe otherwise."

England thought, standing in the hall, under an artificial light, he didn't want to think about it. The world had been a better place and the ice thickened only just enough to keep war from cracking through between them, but he imagined the plunge was but a few reckless inches away. It was thirty years ago he shot Ireland… Ireland had peeled him off by pretending he didn't notice; Ireland got a certain perverse joy from continuing to remain indifferent to his existence. Like it didn't matter. Like England wasn't but a minor inconvenience, a slapable fly. The taste for righting wrongs was in Europe's reluctant air.

England turned down the hall to leave, walking out and into the same lobby past the same human who barely acknowledged them with a customer nod. Wales followed.

"He wants to annoy me to death, he didn't have to be here. I give him a bullet he gives a grin—came to screw with me, that's why he's here." "He wants to support your choice to sign for therapy." "He could've done that with a card." England crossed the threshold into the street.

A wet glisten sparkled in the road where his foot landed and England blinked. Water. Yes, water, always water, but glinting water. The road sparkled in the sun.

He looked up at the sky.

Blue sky.

A clear patch cleared through the early white grey wisps of clouds overhead, receding the early morning haze into the lime-green earth.

He heard Wales sigh behind him. "What a day." Wales smiled, breathing in the clay-wet air, basking in the golden sun. His palm cupped flat to the open sky, feeling for an already fled rain.

"Indeed… what a day," England murmured, watching him.

'I don't know why you're still around,' he thought.

[transmasculinizing]

(disclaimer this is literally not a big deal and it didnt take away from my enjoyment of the episodes. im just being a nerd)

its actually insane how the 2012/1987 crossover tried to convince us that the dimension x in both shows are the same dimension x and that 87 krang is the same kind of krang as the the 1s in the 2012 show. like kraang sub prime even said 87 krang was his cousin that he banished to the 87 dimension for sucking. the dimension x's in these shows r completely different and plenty pf things contradict this being the case so heres my tinfoil hat conspiracy theory:

the shows do have different dimension x's but 87 krang at some point moved to the 2012 dimension x and was adopted by kraang sub primes family and was then banished for sucking. that is so funny to me

[dontcallmethuperboy]

CR’s Raven Queen & the old god of death: A History & Theories Part 3

Ok now time for the 2 crack pot theories. Everybody put on your tinfoil hats - its about to get weird.

RQ, YOU ARE THE FATHER

This theory posits that the Empyrean is actually the old god of death and RQ’s child, and that Matt has further changed the lore around Empyreans in a way the audience isn’t privy to yet.

This can be split into two versions: the first is that RQ’s son was untameable and after he was sent to Pandemonium, RQ thought this was too much of a punishment and in an effort to get back her child she ascended as part of a long con plan to free him. 

However, sometime after her ascension, when she went to get the Empyrean he was already so corrupted RQ couldn’t bring him back to the Prime Material plane lest he wreak havoc on everything, so she leaves him there - not having the heart to kill her son, the only family left from her time with the old god of death

The second version is that the Empyrean’s creation was part of RQ’s ascension process. I don’t even want to touch this one with a 10ft pole but it is still a theory. Why don’t ya chew on that? Think on the horror of pregnancy ascension ceremonies for a bit instead of the state of current politics.

RQ, YOU ARE NOT THE FATHER

This feeds mostly into previous actually plausible theory #3. The Empyrean is completely unrelated to any of this and is purely an abandoned love child between a tyrannical god of death and another god.  He was dumped into Pandemonium when both decided they didn’t want to/couldn’t commit to the bit (of beng actual fucking parents) and was left in Pandemounium to rot. RQ didn’t know he existed, or didn’t care so she just kinda left him there too.

This explains why no one picked up the Empyrean from the Pandemonium summer camp but it makes me sad :(

No matter what I think there’s more to this family drama than just Betrayer vs. Prime when it comes to the Raven Queen. I’m excited to see what else Downfall has in store.

[thirddeadlysin]

THIS!!! Can you imagine how SICK with worry Wayne has been?!!! He finds a body in his house, his boy is nowhere to be found and the subject of a manhunt, the town has freakin imploded, and NO ONE. NOT A SINGLE FACKIN SOUL THOUGHT “Hm. I bet Eddie’s uncle would want to know what really happened to him.”

COME ON!!!! WHAT THE FUCK GUYS!!!

Like, at the very least, Nancy would have told him. Nancy who spent so long trying to find Barb and eventually a way to tell her parents because she was absolutely tormented by their directionless grief? (Nancy whose first instinct on seeing Jonathan after Will's disappearance was to comfort him????) Nancy who sat with Wayne with an unsurprising amount of compassion directly after he found a gruesome scene and saw that his prime instinct in that conversation was to protect Eddie? Nancy didn't find a way to tell him???? Like, also Steve let Dustin do it alone?? After this 15 year old literally held his friend/hero as he died horribly in a hell dimension, no one is shielding Dustin from the next most gut-wrenching experience, one that seasoned medical staff have trouble with irl? None of the adults in the know or even the ones who think it was just an earthquake went to find Wayne? Where is Hopper?? Joyce???? Mods!!

Anyway that's why I'm glad Eddie isn't dead because how awful. *adjusts tinfoil hat*

[nulnoildrinker]

Howland Reed was the knight of the laughing tree, and his mysterious wife is secretly Rhaegar, who was secretly turned into a woman by a witch.

Something, something moving castle; something, something, fire (Billy Crystal) and blood.

[sapphire-weapon]

I may be putting a tinfoil hat, but I've been noticing that some shippers started pushing a lot of new anti-Ashley posts on social media or creating weird headcanons. I can't believe it that people keep saying how Ashley and Leon are sibling coded. I went in RE4R blind without feeding myself with the fandom takes, and I kept seeing how the RE4R is purely about Ashley and Leon, and it has so many teasing moments with them. But with Ada and Leon, I just couldn't see it. In fact I actually enjoyed Luis and Ada together and could tell that they had an interesting chemistry going on, and I think he was the one who showed her that she doesnt always have to do everything Wesker tells her to. She was simply following Leon like a tail because he mostly kept solving the path to Amber for her, he was in the way and she took the opportunity to follow him around so he would clear her path and she got her thing.

ding ding ding ding ding ding ding

Separate Ways put the final nail in the Aeon coffin, and:

1. Put Luis/Ada and Wesker/Ada moments in instead as though to prime the fandom for seeing her with men who are not Leon

2. Kept the focus on Leon and Ashley's shared arc whenever Leon or Ashley came up at all

3. Put in that scene of Ashley watching Leon's fight with Saddler with the incredibly romantic imagery

So, yeah, the backlash has gotten pretty violent because people aren't ready to let go.

Now, to be clear and fair, one thing that I didn't mention in my big meta post about Ada is that she is a sentimental person. Yes, she's selfish, but she does also create sentimental attachments to people and circumstances.

She does have the tiniest of soft spots for Leon. She does feel that it's important to honor Luis's dying wish. The reason why Wesker's threats hurt so much is because he has been such a constant in her life, and it hurts to think that he's just tossing her aside all of a sudden.

But none of that sentiment overrides her Chaotic Neutral urge to look out for herself and her own interests first, and that's really what the point of my initial post was.

Aeon is dead and Ada doesn't care because a relationship with Leon is restrictive, and she values her own autonomy above all else.

[daenerysstormreborn]

One of my most tinfoil hat takes that I truly genuinely believe is that George wrote asoiaf in a way that would give him room to go in many directions because he isn’t sure exactly how he’ll resolve a bunch of different plot threads. So he built the groundwork for multiple paths but in a way where choosing one won’t make it seem like some other thread was abandoned.

Like for just about every prophecy, there are many possible interpretations. I don’t think this is George trying to create red herrings but instead giving himself options. Is the mummer’s dragon Young Griff or is it Jon? Who is the younger more beautiful queen? Was Alys Karstark really the girl in grey or could it yet be Jeyne or Sansa?

We can argue about these until we’re blue in the face (and there is a LOT of arguing) but I don’t think anyone is misinterpreting here. I think the same can be said about things that seem like foreshadowing. There are a lot of these charged scenes with potent imagery that seem to suggest something, but they all could be nothing too. You can’t determine whether or not something is foreshadowing and what is being foreshadowed until that thing comes to pass. I think people have picked up on these different potential threads George has written and that’s why we have so many fan theories and analyses that contradict each other despite all being logically consistent and using evidence from the text.

Because we know there are examples of George having written the groundwork of things in the final versions of the books that he didn’t follow through on. Prime example is Sansa and the Hound. George himself said he was playing with the idea and there was something there. The shippers picked up on this. We have no idea how many different ideas George played with and wove into the text.

[broadway-dave]

we are tinfoil hats ON tonight people

i repeat tinfoil hats the fuck on

were dropping sick conspiracies out here like you wouldnt believe man

when are we doing a boston tea party

except its like a can town cake party

or well it would also be a tea party dont they serve cake at those?

fuck if i know

anyway enjoy

lyrics under the cut

Strange time we're living in, panic and hysteria Poor man learn the rich man don't care for ya Narcissist mindsets spread like malaria

(DS: OBAMA)

Sit back and watch the show, America!

Earth C split through fickle shit A government of hypocrites These Crocker-picked politicians sit In parliament, not adequate

Needlessly bleeding resources all dry Turn a blind eye if it means a pay rise "Oh what a shame it would be I would die" If Crockercorp factories burned in a fire

Only joking, only messing, don't be stressing I'm a peaceful adolescent, there's no need to be unpleasant Write my thesis in a rhyme scheme To analyse the brain While my fingers on the trigger of a money game

Oh rain, rain, rain, rain A storm, it comes our way And those who rise through distorted lies Poisoning the veins But we like to point the blame, blame, blame, blame It's easier to blame But point the mirror at ourselves We're all part of this old money game

Money is a game and the ladder we climb Turns a saint into a sinner with his finger in crime I'll break it down for you motherfuckers line by line This is business economics in a nursery rhyme

She sells seashells on a seashore But the value of these shells will fall Due to the laws of supply and demand No one wants to buy shells 'cause there's loads on the sand

Step one, you must create a sense of scarcity Shells will sell much better if the people think they're rare, you see Bear with me, take as many shells as you can find and hide 'em On an island stockpile 'em high until they're rarer than a diamond

Step two, you gotta make the people think that they want 'em Really want 'em, really fuckin' want 'em, hit 'em like Bronson Influencers, product placement, featured prime time entertainment If you haven't got a shell then you're just a fucking wasteman

Three, it's monopoly, invest inside some property Start a corporation, make a logo, do it properly "Shells must sell", that will be your new philosophy Swallow all your morals, they're a poor man's quality

Four, OBEY, SUBMIT, CONSUME Send drones, cut wombs, resist, big boom

Five, why just shells? Why limit your self? She sells seashells, sell oil as well!

Six, guns, sell stocks, sell diamonds Sell rocks, sell water to a fish, sell the time to a clock

Seven, press on the gas, take your foot off the brakes Run to be the president of the United States

Eight, big smile mate, big wave that's great Now the truth is overrated, tell lies out the gate

Nine, polarize the people, controversy is the game It don't matter if they hate you if they all say your name

Ten, the world is yours Step out on a stage to a round of applause You're a liar, a cheat, a devil, a whore And you sell seashells on the seashore

Rain, rain, rain, rain A storm, it comes our way And those who rise through distorted lies Poisoning the veins But we like to point the blame, blame, blame, blame It's easier to blame But point the mirror at ourselves We're all part of this old money game

[rabbitcruiser]

National Moon Walk Day/Moon Day

Every once in a while, the human race achieves something truly remarkable, and Moon Day celebrates the occasion when we first left footsteps upon our nearest neighbour.

It’s probably best to gloss quietly over how long it is since the last visitors landed there, but that’s no reason to skimp on the celebrations. After all, there’ll never be a better excuse to launch firework rockets over your neighbourhood and dress up in a tinfoil suit with a fishbowl on your head. Alternatively, you might prefer to drag a telescope out into the garden, or maybe sit in a circle howling like wolves as the moon rises.

Be careful who you invite to your Moon Day party, though, as there’s bound to be one guest who insists the party is not really happening and that you are faking the hot dogs and beer in a film studio somewhere in Nevada.

Learn about Moon Day

Neil Armstrong became the first man to step down onto the cratered surface of the moon and he said the following words:

“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

These are words that pretty much everyone around the world is familiar with!

When this happened, it was one of the most monumental occasions in our history. On Moon Day, we celebrate the historic landing on the moon that occurred on the 20th of July in 1969. We also take the time to consider the monumental effort that it takes in order to get a space program off the ground. You may have thought that we would have made millions of space expeditions since then, but it simply is not that easy!

On Moon Day, we take the time to remember the profound and quirky moments in space that resulted in the United States being the first country to have their flag planted on the moon. This is definitely something to be proud of!

History of Moon Day

In order to understand the history of Moon Day, we first need to understand the history of such space expeditions. On the 25th of May in 1969, it was announced by John F. Kennedy, who was president at the time, that the Apollo space program would start. This initiated NASA’s work on a manned lunar landing. He stated that it was his plant to make sure that there was an American on the Moon by the end of the decade.

After this, Americans were treated to the very first television images of the surface of the moon. This was possible because images were transmitted by Ranger 7, which was NASA’s unmanned probe. Americans were then able to watch as Apollo 8 repeated its orbit ten times around the moon. This was the first manned flight.

The historic first took place when Apollo 11 landed on the moon for the first time. The world held its breath when three men became the first humans to step onto the surface of the moon. However, it was not all systems go, as NASA ended their Apollo program with Apollo 17. This was the final Moon landing mission, which happened in 1972.

However, in recent times, we have started to see more space programs initiated, so we could start to see more space activity from now on. This has been made possible because NASA has partnered with commercial companies in order to ensure that there is the funding needed to keep these projects going.

SpaceX is a prime example. Owned by Elon Musk, this company designs manufactures and launches advanced spacecraft and rockets. Their aim is to colonize Mars, and we have seen a lot of incredible innovations that they have brought to the fore. If you do not know a lot about this, we recommend using some of your time on Moon Day to find out more.

How to celebrate Moon Day

There are a number of different ways that you can celebrate Moon Day. One of the best ways to do so is to head to your local planetarium. This is the best way to get up close and personal with the moon. All you need to do is a quick search online to find the nearest planetarium in your area.

These are doomed theaters, which come complete with huge telescopes, enabling you to see all of the incredible objects in the sky that you cannot see with the naked eye. This will encourage you to learn more about the universe. It really is an educational, unique, and exciting experience. There is so much to learn!

Another way to celebrate Moon Day is by watching a film about landing on the moon. There have been a number of different films and movies that have been created about this incredible event, so we definitely recommend checking some of them out. The obvious place to start is with Apollo 11.

This film was directed by Todd Douglass Miller, usually powerful visuals to retell the story of man’s first trip to the moon. This includes images such as Neil Armstrong being reflected in Buzz Aldrin’s helmet, the American flag being planted on the lunar surface, and the blast-off moment. You may think that this is simply going to be another remake of a story that you have heard about plenty of times, but it is more than this.

It actually uses sound and never-before-seen footage from the mission, which has somehow been scanned and restored. This means you get to enjoy the occasion from a whole new perspective, which is incredibly interesting to say the least.

There are a number of other interesting films about landing on the moon. Another one to consider is The Dish, which was released back in 2000. Although a true story, it does have a bit of fiction mixed in as well. It tells the story of how an Australian observatory played a critical role in ensuring everyone around the globe would be able to watch the first steps that humankind took on the moon. Other movies to consider include First Man, The Last Man on the Moon, and For All Mankind.

Aside from the suggestions we have already mentioned, why not see if there are any astronomy clubs in your local area? If so, there are bound to be some events that are going on for Moon Day. You will have the perfect opportunity to enjoy a discussion with people who share the same passion. If you do not have an astronomy club in your area, do a bit of digging online to see if you can unearth any interesting forums where you will be able to engage in discussions with people who are passionate about astronomy. We are sure that a lot of people will also be posting on social media on Moon Day, so why not get involved in the discussion and share your own opinions as well?

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