#raw rebel root

[writteninlunarlight-years]

Hazbin Hotel Headcanons

Hazbin Hotel MBTI Analysis

@literallurker gave me this idea, and I wanted to share my headcanons on what I think everyone's MBTI is and why I believe that.

Charlie -ESFJ (Consul)

I mean, come on, this is so Charlie-coded. She loves helping people and putting a smile on their faces. She gets enjoyment and fulfillment from helping her people and those who lean on her the most. She is extroverted, in touch with her emotions, and in touch with others' emotions as well.

Vaggie -ISTJ (Logistician)

Vaggie respects how things should be run; look at how she reacts to Lucifer's appearance. She, however, is undeniably loyal and follows her heart when it comes to the one she cares about the most. She is quiet and reserved, only stepping up to the plate when it involves backing up Charlie.

Lucifer -ENTP (Debater)

Let's look at Lucifer's past, present, and seeming future. In the past, Lucifer questioned many things and wanted to know why and find out why things were how they were. Lucifer is a good leader when he is not depressed, he also shows pretty normal Extrovert traits he is just awkward cause he dedicated so much of his life to one person not the collective. We saw at the end of the show his true kingly and debater personality show where he agreed to help stick it to the angels and help Charlie.

Alastor - ESTP (Entrepreneur)

This man is a business tycoon, can we all agree? He has thousands of souls. He is a smooth talker and great at making deals. He has to be extroverted for that. On top of that, the only time we see this man dwell on his past is when he talks about his contract at the very end. Besides that, he is rooted in how he can benefit himself right here, right now. He also knows how to manipulate the situations he is in to benefit himself, something the Entrepreneur type is known for.

Angel Dust - INFP (Mediator)

Okay, hear me out, Angel is an actor; the Angel we see 90% of the time is not the real true him. When we see him in his raw form, he is really quiet and calm. He spoke of dreams and ideas he once had. Angel is forced to look extroverted when, in reality, he is the happiest in a small group of close people. He is happy making his friends happy. He loves helping even if he covers it up with his 'need' for sex and drugs.

Husk - INFJ (Advocate)

Okay, controversial, I know, but let me cook. Husk in the show fits this so well. He is compassionate towards Angel and the others, he is wanting to rebel against the contract system, he doesn't care about being powerful anymore now that he has lost all power. He is just a boy who loves his spider and friends. He has no issues helping Charlie the minute he finds out he was summoned for her, not Al.

Sir Pentious -INTP (Logician)

Man is socially awkward and inventing stuff left, right, and sideways. He is always curious to build the next best thing to make him the next powerful being. He never falters from his passion, either. He is passionate about the tasks he is given, which explains his displeasure in failing the Vees. Yet when Charlie gives him a new task, and he can excel at that, he is as happy as ever.

Niffty - ISTP (Virtuoso)

We have literally seen Niffty create the most horrid and cutest things out of her bugs. She is very attached to those she is close to, and she always has something going on in her mind. I think Niffty is a prime example of if it is in my head, I will be doing it, no questions asked.

Cherri Bomb - ENFP (Campaigner)

Cherri is the definition of a free spirit and a kind heart. She loves Angel deeply and would do anything to help cheer up her best friend. On top of that, she also has a no fucks filter and kicks ass to protect those she cares about. She is open and honest about her life style and her energy. Ready to take on the world one day at a time the best way she can.

Sera - INTJ (Architect)

Sera follows the rules and becomes the best she can be. She was given the directive of being the head angel and ran with it. She will do anything to keep her power and knowledge of the world. She is very smart and analytical when it comes to situations. Though she is in a powerful position, she is naturally introverted, often letting Emily take on more people-centric roles while she stands back and takes on more law and order roles.

Emily - ENTJ (Commander)

All right, this is more of what I just hope Emily becomes. In the span of minutes, we watched Emily completely turn her back on fellow Angels, all because she had learned what was really happening in hell. She would fight for the right cause and rally the troops for it. She is an energetic and open character who fights for what she believes is right. Seeing Pentious get redeemed, you bet she will be fighting for Charlie's plans.

Lute - ISFJ (Defender)

Okay, another may be controversial, but let me cook, please. Lute is super caring and concerned for her people, whether that is Adam, the exorcists, or angels as a whole. Yes, she looks like a big bad villain in the show because, well, she is. However, step into Lutes' shoes, and she is just trying to protect the peace of her people and family.

Adam - ENFJ (Protagonist)

He is another person who hear me out please needs to be looked at from his perspective. Adam is, by all means, the main protagonist in the Bible and in the world of heaven. He does what he believes is right and fights for what he believes is right. Even if he is an asshole, look at him from a different perspective than just through the eyes of Charlie, our narrator, through Hazbin Hotel. Adam believes his greatest purpose in life is to be the first man everyone has to look up to.

Vox -ESFP (Entertainer)

I mean, this is like writing itself; Vox is charismatic, has silver tongues, and is good with people. He can use his voice and charisma to woo people, and only then, if that fails, does he use his hypnotic powers. Vox enjoys entertaining by playing many roles in all his shows and assisting Vel and Val in any issue that seems to come up.

Valentino - ESTJ (Executive)

Hear me out, let me cook; we learn in should have stayed gone that Vox is pretty much powerless without the other Vee. It is also alluded to a few times that Val has been there the longest out of all the Vees. To be in the position of power Val is in, he needs to be an extrovert and have a way with words to lure people in. You may be thinking, but how does this tie into the executive role. I ask you to take a step back, like with the angels, and look at Val from the perspective of the Vees, not from Charlie and the narrators. He is set in his ways, expects perfection from his soul, and utilizes his power position as a form of mentorship for Vox and Vel so they can gain more notoriety.

Velvette - ISFP (Adventurer)

But she is a famous designer and sinstagram star. Yeah, and do you know how many influencers and social media people are actually introverts but come off as extroverted cause they are talking to a camera, not people directly. She is also suuuuper creative, and many fashion designers, just like other artists, have a hard time relating to people face to face and prefer to talk through their art mediums. I mean, look at how Velvette handled Val's tantrum. She called Vox cause she didn't know how to handle that situation.

[enchanting-jewel]

Lilith

Lilith is the Goddess of:

Love

Demons

Beauty

Wisdom

Life

Rebirth

Fertility

Motherhood

Inner strength

Illumination

Mysteries

Spiritual initiation

The night

The evening star

Vampires

Lilith is said to to be Adams first wife before Eve and was exiled due to her independence and her ways of thinking.

Modern day has taught most to fear her, but her intents are pure. She tells us to take back our power. She calls to us to stand in our truth, embracing our dark and light equally.

She tells us to stop playing small and being afraid of burning too passionately for worry of being misunderstood in the eyes of others. Our fire is not for them she tells us, it is for us!

Lilith represents the dark sexual raw parts of us that are instinctual and ugly. Things we don’t like to acknowledge, but they are as much apart of our being as anything else.

She is a rebel, an exile, a survivor, and she’s not afraid to get what she wants. Despite the negativity that surrounds her in astrology, she’s within each and every one of us and she’s not a source of evil but of power. Embrace your Lilith and you embrace yourself.

Some symbols that represent her are:

Owls

Serpents

Dark Moon

Lilith’s glyph

Crossroads

Some offerings for this deity are:

Incense- sandalwood, rose, mugwort, myrrh, or dragon’s blood

Red, black or purple candles

Images of owls, snakes, bats, cats, and spiders

Crystals- black obsidian, carnelian, red Jasper and garnet

Fruit- apples, grapes, berries and fig

Wine, root beer, rum, liquor and tea

Moon water or storm water

Prayer to Lilith

“Lilith, I invoke you, I adore you, I desire you, Lilith, goddess of darkness, illuminate my temple in black light, Lilith, kindle me in excitement of the flesh under the domain of the mind, Lilith, great mother, sister, lover, give me the cup of knowledge, Lilith, I am drunk from your breasts, I take hold of your majesty, Lilith, timeless abyss, you destroy my fears revealing the secret knowledge, Lilith, unleash your legions against my enemies, Lilith, consume me in your embrace, in the swirly starring horizon.”

[cyberpunkonline]

The Untamed Web: How Internet Culture Rebels, Evolves, and Defines Our Digital Age

What is Internet culture? The question drifts through the ether like a rogue signal, elusive and captivating. To untangle this web, we must trace its lineage back to its inception, a digital genesis rooted in the analog rituals of Deadheads in the 70s. Much like those dedicated followers of the Grateful Dead, early Internet denizens sought connection and community, but instead of tapes and stories, they shared bytes and bits in mailing lists and Usenet newsgroups. Here, intellectuals, hackers, and rebels mingled in a digital potluck of ideas, raw and unfiltered.

As the dial-up tones gave way to the persistent hum of a growing network, Internet Relay Chat (IRC) emerged as the heartbeat of this underground culture. Real-time interaction became the new frontier, a global speakeasy where minds met in channels dedicated to everything imaginable. This wasn't just idle chat; it was a crucible for innovation and rebellion. Hacking groups like Cult of the Dead Cow and Legion of Doom pushed the limits of technology and legality, shaping the Internet in their anarchic image.

Then came vaporwave, the eerie soundtrack of a digital dystopia. This genre, with its nostalgic echoes of the 80s and 90s, felt like the Internet itself was creating music. Vaporwave artists like MACINTOSH PLUS crafted tracks that were both haunting and familiar, resonating with those disillusioned by the encroaching corporatization of digital spaces. It was a sonic rebellion, an aural middle finger to the commercialization of the Internet.

Memes, those viral fragments of culture, became the lifeblood of this digital underground. From the early days of "All Your Base Are Belong to Us," a quirky mistranslation from the game Zero Wing, to the complex narratives of modern memes, these digital artifacts spread like wildfire, uniting and dividing communities in equal measure. The tragicomic saga of Harambe, the gorilla shot at the Cincinnati Zoo, turned into a meme that evolved into a cultural phenomenon and even inspired a cryptocurrency in his legacy. Memes are the modern folklore, ever-evolving and reflective of the current digital zeitgeist.

At its core, Internet underground culture embodies the cyberpunk ethos—an unyielding rebellion against corporate overlords, a fight for digital freedom and privacy. Piracy, casual hacking, and the rise of cryptocurrency are not just acts of defiance but declarations of identity. This culture stands in stark opposition to corporatism, advocating for the decentralization of information and power. The emergence of decentralized networks and cryptocurrencies like Bitcoin are testaments to this ongoing struggle for autonomy.

Influences of Discordianism, with its embrace of chaos and rejection of traditional structures, permeate this culture. The Internet thrives on disruption, finding beauty in the unpredictable and the chaotic. It's a digital frontier where order is constantly challenged, and chaos is celebrated.

Politicians view Internet culture with a mix of fascination and fear. The concept of an "ungovernable" digital populace is both an ideal and a nightmare. Early Internet pioneers dreamed of a decentralized, unregulated space where freedom reigned supreme. However, as the Internet has grown, so too have efforts to control it. Governments impose regulations, corporations seek to monetize it, and the original vision of an ungovernable digital utopia becomes harder to live. Yet, pockets of resistance remain, where the spirit of rebellion and the desire for autonomy continue to thrive.

But like any culture, it has a dual nature. The democratization of information and the global connections fostered by Internet culture are profound positives. Yet, the same platforms that unite can also incubate hate speech and cybercrime. It is a reflection of humanity itself, with its myriad facets of light and dark.

So, what is Internet culture in 2024? It is a digital rebellion, a chaotic blend of nostalgia, anti-corporatism, and radical freedom of expression that continues to shape and redefine the digital landscape. In one sentence: Internet culture is the chaotic digital tapestry woven from the threads of rebellion, nostalgia, and the relentless pursuit of freedom.

We seek resistance. It begins with the maintainance of the culture.

[cyllres]

Devil | JJK x Makima! Reader

Chapter 07

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing off the cold night air. The dim light of the hallway barely touched the edges of the deepening shadows inside the house. As you stepped into the warmth of your home, the stillness was interrupted by the urgent sound of Yuuji's voice.

"Imouto-chan," he called out, his tone sharp with anxiety. You saw him rush towards you, his face etched with worry. "I'm glad you're home."

His words were a rapid blur, each sentence a jumbled rush as he explained the situation. "Ojii-chan was rushed to the hospital, and I couldn't stay with him because I didn't want you to come back to an empty house. So our neighbors went with him." His eyes were wide, his expression torn between concern for your grandfather and the immediate need to convey this information to you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. The overwhelming sensation that had plagued you in the park was still there, pressing down on you like an invisible weight. Your breath hitched, and you felt a sudden sting in your eyes. It was only then that you noticed the wetness on your cheeks, the unmistakable evidence of tears.

“N/n… Were you crying?” Yuuji's voice softened, his eyes searching your face for an answer. His question hung in the air, cutting through the noise of his earlier explanation.

You turned to him slowly, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of the tears trailing down your face. The shock of it rooted you to the spot, and you brought a hand up to your cheek, fingertips brushing against the dampness. You had always prided yourself on your detachment, your ability to remain untouched by the storms of emotion that raged within others. But now, here you are, standing in your own home, crying.

Horrified, you recoiled from the sensation, as if the tears were something foreign and dangerous. This was a breach in the carefully maintained fortress of your control, a crack in the armor you had always worn so confidently. You couldn't understand it, couldn't grasp why your body had betrayed you in this way. The tears felt like a tangible sign of weakness, a loss of control that you couldn't afford.

"I…" you started, but the words failed you. How could you explain something you didn't even understand yourself? Your mind raced, trying to find a rational explanation, a way to regain your composure. But all you could feel was the raw, unchecked surge of emotions that had broken free from their confines.

Yuuji reached out, his concern deepening as he saw your distress. "Imouto-chan, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice gentle and filled with worry. "What happened?"

You shook your head, stepping back from him. The distance felt necessary, a barrier to keep the chaos within you from spilling over. "It's nothing," you said quickly, your voice tight and strained. "I'm fine."

But the lie was obvious, even to you. The tears, the trembling in your voice, the way your body seemed to rebel against you—all of it betrayed the truth you were trying so desperately to hide. You felt exposed, vulnerable in a way you had never been before.

The dim light cast long shadows as you stood there, caught between the urgent news of your grandfather and the unfamiliar, terrifying sensation of tears. The silence stretched uncomfortably, broken only by the soft sound of your own breathing and the faint rustle of Yuuji shifting nervously in front of you.

Yuuji’s eyes were filled with concern, searching your face for answers you weren’t ready to give. "N/n… Were you crying?" he repeated, his voice softer, as if he was afraid of pushing too hard.

You blinked rapidly, forcing yourself to regain control. The wetness on your cheeks felt foreign and wrong, a betrayal of the ironclad control you prided yourself on. In the back of your mind, you scrambled for a plausible explanation, something that could deflect his worry and give you the space you needed to collect yourself.

"Dust," you said abruptly, the word coming out harsher than you intended. You blinked again, rubbing your eyes for emphasis. "It must have been dust. The wind was strong outside, and it got in my eyes."

Yuuji frowned, his gaze skeptical. He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he nodded slowly, though his concern didn’t diminish. "Alright," he said quietly, clearly unconvinced. "If you say so."

You forced a smile, hoping it would reassure him. "It's nothing to worry about," you added, trying to infuse your voice with a semblance of calm. "Let’s go see Ojii-san. We can’t leave him alone in the hospital."

Yuuji hesitated for a moment longer, his eyes lingering on your face as if searching for some hidden truth. Finally, he nodded. "Okay. We should go."

You turned away quickly, grateful for the excuse to escape his probing gaze. "I'll just get ready," you said over your shoulder, your voice steadying as you moved down the hallway towards your room. "Give me a minute."

-

As the door to Y/n's room closed behind her, Yuuji stood in the hallway, the faint click of the latch echoing in his ears. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly as he processed what he had just seen. His twin sister—always so composed, always so in control—had been crying.

Yuuji stared at the closed door, his thoughts racing. The explanation she had given, about dust getting into her eyes, seemed flimsy, almost laughable. He knew her too well; they had grown up side by side, sharing every moment and secret. He had seen her face danger without flinching, had watched her navigate the every moment with an unshakable calm. To see her break down, even for a moment, was something he never expected. It was like watching a statue crack and reveal something fragile beneath.

He paced the hallway, his mind replaying the scene over and over. The redness around her eyes, the faint tracks of tears on her cheeks—it was all so out of character for her. Yuuji couldn’t shake the image of her standing there, trying to cover up her distress with a hurried excuse. The sight of her like that gnawed at him, stirring a deep, unsettled worry in his chest.

Yuuji leaned against the wall, his eyes never leaving the door. He knew that Y/n was different, that she often seemed detached from the world around her. It was something he had always accepted about her, even if he didn’t fully understand it. But this…this was something else entirely. This was his strong, unflappable sister showing a side of herself that he had never seen before—a side that scared him.

“She’s lying,” he muttered to himself, the words hanging in the stillness of the hallway. “It wasn’t just dust.”

Yuuji could feel the knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. If she was lying about this, what else was she hiding? And why did she feel the need to hide it from him, her own twin? They had always been each other’s confidants, always able to rely on one another. The thought that she was keeping something from him was like a small, sharp pain in his heart.

As the minutes passed, he realized that pushing her for answers wouldn't help. They had to go to the hospital for their grandfather, and he trusted that Y/n would come to him when she was ready.

With a heavy heart and a lingering sense of unease, Yuuji turned away from the door and headed towards the living room to wait for you, leaving the questions unanswered for now. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between them, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

-

(endnotes: I'm really fucking sorry that this chapter was just based around yn just crying, originally this was part of chapter 06 but it for too long so i had to half it. Teehee. Anyways what do y'all think of yn? Comment down below or I would stop updating. (Jk) But so yeah, y'all ready for the canon? :333. if I ever see comments about 'bUt oH mAkImA iS nOt lIkE tHat, sHe'S emOtiOnLesS, cUnNiNg blah blah blah, sHe dOes nOt gEt aTtAcHeD' I'm gonna look for you and piss on you. Keep in mind that yn is in her puberty stage and her emotions are probably all over the place, plus I'm writing her in a way where she'd get emotions because emotionless characters are boring. :3333 plus, I want her to have a shit tons of flaw, aside from her attachment issues , she's gonna have control issues and W E A K N E S S , if y'all see any errors please oiint it out, its currently a one man show and i might be blind)

Kape?

[whump-me]

Obscure: Chapter 21

Chapter 21 of Obscure, novel-length interrogation whump about a rebel leader who can erase memories with a thought, an interrogator who can see inside his subjects’ minds… and the connection they share that neither of them suspects.

Masterpost | the Mind Games universe | Read the completed novel on Patreon

---

Elias

The orchard smelled like home.

Not the home of his childhood. Not the sick, sneezy pollen smell of the meadow, or the dark waterlogged rot of the marsh. But that home was gone. This was his home now. It was enough.

More than enough. The trees, dim in the moonlight, blurred as Elias’s eyes filled with unshed tears. He stumbled on a root buried in the grass Laina had kept carefully clipped in his absence.

And then he was on his knees, hands buried in the grass, the apple tree’s branches extended above him like a benediction. Like they were welcoming him home.

He had forgotten how sweet the smell of the orchard was. He had spent so long lost in childhood memories, he’d had no room to remember this.

He wanted to stay there forever, kneeling in the dirt of his home. He wanted to crawl under that well-tended grass, enveloped by the care it represented. He wanted to be buried here, if he couldn’t be buried in the fire-scorched meadow of his childhood home. He had died in PERI headquarters. It would be only fitting. And if he were to be laid to rest, he wanted to be under his trees, not sliced apart and stuffed into jars in the PERI labs.

But he wasn’t dead. His story couldn’t end that simply. The terrible cut of mercy had come down on him. He had escaped. He had survived. Now he would have to live with what he had seen in PERI headquarters, and what he had done.

And if he didn’t move quickly, they would catch up with him, and his home would burn around him. No doubt PERI would burn it anyway. But he would rather not watch it happen this time.

And, like last time, he had someone else depending on him. Someone who wouldn’t survive the flames without his hand to hold. Although he had no illusions about how long Laina would continue to hold his hand after he told her the truth.

It didn’t matter. As long as she survived. He had endured loss upon loss. He could endure one more.

He got up.

He stumbled across the grass. It was only when he was almost past the trees that the tickle of the grass on his bare feet registered. He couldn’t have come all this way with bare feet—had he?

He steadied himself against a tree. He lifted one foot and saw a mass of raw cuts from the pavement outside PERI headquarters and the streets on the way here. No wonder that cabdriver had looked at him so strangely.

As soon as he saw the cuts, the pain hit him. He breathed in for four, out for four. It was only physical pain. It was the least of what PERI had asked him to endure.

He hobbled up the wobbly wooden steps he had meant to replace for years. He tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. He had always told Laina to keep it locked. She had always laughed, thought it was a vestigial paranoia left over from his city years that he had only described to her in broad strokes and fictionalized anecdotes. Out here, she said, there was no need for locked doors.

Even now that he had been missing for months, she hadn’t started locking the door.

That alone told him PERI had fed her a lie about what had happened to him. Either they had claimed he had run off, and provided credible evidence, or they had manufactured an accident. And with an accident, with no broken body to visit him in a hospital, she had to think he was dead.

Widowed or abandoned—either way, she would be deep in her own grief right now. What did her grief look like? Did she have her own version of the big-eyed skeletal creature in his mind? Was she familiar enough with grief yet to see it that clearly, or was she still caught up in the initial shock?

He had never seen Laina grieve. All his sorrows had happened before they had met. They belonged to him alone.

She closed the door quietly behind him, not wanting to scare her at the thought of an intruder. He expected to find the house dark, and Laina sleeping a fitful sleep in a tissue-strewn bed. But ahead of him, the kitchen light was blazing like the midday sun. He drew in a breath, expecting the smells of all the food he had missed—something sweet and chocolatey, or maybe a savory midnight snack.

Instead, he got a nose full of bleach. It smelled sharp and sterile, like PERI headquarters. The blazing light turned to the light of the interrogation room. He reeled back with a gasp.

An answering gasp came from the kitchen. Laina rushed out, frying pan in one hand, raised like she was ready to slam it into his temple.

It had to be nearly midnight by now, but she was wearing her day clothes. The pair of jeans she loved so much she had patched them herself three times, the sweater with a jam stain on the sleeve. Her comfort clothes. Her hair was coming out of its ponytail. She had dark circles under her eyes, bigger and darker than Kirill’s had been at the end. In the hand not holding the frying pan, she held a bottle of spray cleaner.

He had thought he would never see her again.

He let out a low, sobbing noise at the sight of her.

She let out an identical noise. She dropped the frying pan and the bottle of cleaner.

She took a tentative step toward him, then froze, like she was afraid to move closer. Like she was afraid he was an illusion.

He understood that fear. After how long he had spent in memories of the distant past, she barely seemed real. Her life with her felt more distant than his childhood, more distant than his life with Lisbeth and Sammy.

But she was real. She was. And wherever he would stand with her by the end of the night, he had this moment with her. Another of mercy’s sweet pains.

When she didn’t move, he closed the distance between them. He wrapped his arms around her. She was warm, too warm, like grief had sent her body into a fever, trying to fight it off like an infection. Or maybe he had just grown used to being cold.

He stepped back. Held her at arm’s length. Studied her face until he could be sure he was looking at something real, and not another memory.

Her hand came up. A soft finger brushed wetness from his cheek. He hadn’t known he was crying.

“You’re alive,” she said in a small voice. That answered his question about what PERI had told her.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he said probably the most useless thing he could have. “Why are you awake? Why are you cleaning? It’s the middle of the night.”

She let out a disbelieving laugh. “I’ve barely slept since they told me you were dead. What else was I going to do with myself besides clean? I’ve never been so happy we bought such a big ridiculous house.”

That explained, too, the care she had taken with the grass. “I’m not dead.”

“The police showed me your body. The accident… you were so badly burned… they said you never had a chance.” She paused. He watched her put the pieces together—the badly burned body, too badly burned for anyone to identify.

Then she eyed him, her fingers tightening on his arms, her gaze growing as sharp as an interrogator’s. “They said the dental records matched. They lied. Someone wanted me to think you were dead.”

“Yes,” he said. He watched her grow smaller at the lack of surprise in his voice. She knew, now, that there were secrets between them.

This was how the end began.

“We need to talk,” he said. The words that, since time immemorial, had presaged the collapse of something that had seemed stable.

At least she’d had some practice, over these past weeks. At least she had begun to learn how to lose him.

They sat in the living room, on the old sagging couch that she had reupholstered since he’d been gone. It was covered in a stiff blue fabric now. He didn’t have the heart to tell her yet that the effort was wasted, just like all the time she had spent cleaning. She would have to leave this place soon, and bring nothing with her.

“I should have told you all this a long time ago,” he said. “I didn’t tell you because I thought the best way to build a happy life for the two of us was to bury all my past grief. But memory doesn’t stay buried forever.”

“You’re scaring me.” Her hand quested toward his. But when he reached for her, her fingers caught her other hand instead. Her hands squeezed each other, turning her fingers white.

“I know telling you now will mean I’ll lose you,” he said. “But I have to tell you anyway. You deserve to know everything. Including why I never wanted children—why we’re rattling around in this big house all alone.”

She pursed her lips, irritation briefly winning out over apprehension. “I’d rather know why someone went to the trouble of faking your death.”

“We’ll get to that, too,” he promised. He took a breath. He had gone through this speech so many times before, but always in the bunker, in his other life. Always with a stranger.

“In the 1970s,” he began, “something about the pollution in the air and water started activating a dormant gene…”

He had known she would be skeptical. She didn’t disappoint. Her lips grew thinner and thinner with every word she said. Tension collapsed her body in on itself like a spring. He braced himself for that spring to release, to send her off the couch and storming upstairs to her bedroom.

It was a testament to the trust she had in him that she stayed.

“I’m guessing you didn’t believe a word of that,” he said when she was done.

“You guess right.” Her face looked brittle enough to shatter. “What I don’t understand is why you’re telling me this… this story. Do you believe it, or is the truth so bad, so dangerous, that you would rather try to convince me of this than tell me?”

“I can show you,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

“This… memory power of yours?”

He nodded. “It will only be for a minute. But I won’t do it if you don’t want me to. Can I show you?”

She gave a jagged nod. “Sure. Why not?”

He stared into her eyes, and slipped into her mind.

It took longer than it had with Kirill. With him, it had happened almost without thought. With her, he had to find his way. But although nothing could compare to the bond of the friendship he and Max used to share, more than a decade of life shared with Laina was far from nothing. The process wasn’t effortless, but it was easy.

He spread the fog wide, because the effects had to be obvious. But he spread it thin, thin enough to blow away at the slightest breeze. Then he pulled back, and he waited.

She blinked away the fog in her eyes. “Where… am I?” she asked, her voice small and lost. “Who…”

Then she shook her head slightly. Her eyes grew sharp again. She reached out a hand to steady herself against the couch. Again, he reached for her. Again, she pulled away.

“I…” She shook her head hard, like she was trying to clear away the last of fog. “For a minute… I couldn’t remember you. I couldn’t remember… anything.”

“That’s what I do,” Elias said. “I can take away a specific memory, too. Or make the effect last longer. Or both. It all depends on how well I know the person. The more of an emotional connection there is, the more control I have.”

Her eyes narrowed. He saw the calculations behind her eyes. Almost fifteen years together. That was a lot of time to build an emotional connection. A lot of time for her not to know what he could do—what he might have been doing.

He shook his head. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I would have asked permission. I always do, unless my life is in danger.”

“And it has been,” she said. “Your life has been in danger.” The couple of feet between them on the couch seemed to expand as she stared at him as if across a vast gulf. For a moment, he saw himself through her eyes—an inhabitant of another world. A world where danger was ordinary. A world where memories were erased, and deaths faked.

“Eighteen years,” she said. “A year after we met, I told you there was nothing more to discover—that you knew everything about me. More than I had ever shared with anyone else. Do you remember?”

He remembered. It had been difficult, finding a way to imply that it was the same for him without saying it outright. He hadn’t wanted to lie to her—except for the unavoidable lies of omission. But he couldn’t have come out and said he had secrets, either, not without sharing with her what those secrets were.

That option—actually telling her his secrets—hadn’t even occurred to him. Not that night. His heart was still too tender from Sammy’s loss to risk exposing it. His network was too new and fragile to bring into the light.

“I should have told you then,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“You should have told me before then.”

“I should have,” he agreed.

“This isn’t like… like hiding a DUI from when you were a teenager,” she said. “You have… powers. You’re…”

He could have filled in her silence with the word Enhanced, but that wasn’t what she was looking for. She wanted to know who he was.

“I’m the same person I’ve always been,” he said.

“You can’t say that,” she said, shaking her head. “Not when you have this whole other life I never knew about. I never knew you.” Tears welled up in her eyes, like she was getting ready to mourn him all over again. “I never knew you,” she repeated. “I knew… pieces of you. That’s not the same.”

He wanted to argue. He couldn’t.

“There’s more,” he said. Better to rip the band-aid off all at once.

He told her about the network he had created. Fifteen years of fighting against PERI and how they wanted to use people like him. The bunker in the backyard—her eyes widened at that, but she said nothing.

Her eyes looked slightly glazed. Her mouth hung slack, like she had forgotten what to do with it. He knew that look. He had seen it in the bunker more times than he could count. It was the look of someone who could no longer feel solid ground under their feet—because he had ripped it away.

And he wasn’t done.

“I’ve lived under four different identities,” he said. “The first was when I was a child. My first name was Elias then, too. I lived on a commune, people like me. About half a dozen families, maybe slightly more.”

It hadn’t been half a dozen families. It had been one family. But that was more than he wanted to explain to Laina right now. If he told her about his family, about the meadow and the marsh, about Max, he would fall back into the quicksand of memory and might never come out again.

“PERI destroyed it,” he said instead, skipping to the end, his voice clipped. “I was the only one who survived.”

Not quite true. But true enough.

Her hand came up to her lips.

“The second is when I lived in the city,” he said. “A couple of different cities, really. I’ve told you stories. I just didn’t tell you I was living under a different name then.”

“How many of your stories were real?” she asked. She was already catching on.

“Most.” His eyes lowered. “Some.”

She shook her head and looked away.

“PERI tracked me down. I ran, and changed identities again. That was when I went to work on the orchard, like I told you.”

“You were like… like some kind of spy,” she said, slowly shaking her head. He couldn’t tell whether still angry. It didn’t matter. If she wasn’t now, she would be in a few seconds.

“Spies have resources. All I had was myself, and the determination to live.”

She let out a sharp laugh of disbelief. “And the power to erase memories,” she reminded him.

“That doesn’t go as far as you might think.” Before she could speak again, he took a deep breath. “After the orchard… I met someone. We got married.”

A slight hesitation. “I never thought I was the first woman you were with,” she said. But she had thought she was the first woman he had married, and the slight tremble in her voice showed it.

He ripped the rest of the band-aid off. “We had a son.”

Tears came to him then, unexpected, like a summer squall. They ripped through him, tearing him in two, doubling him over.

Sammy.

The infant in his arms.

The eight-year-old who didn’t come home.

The assassin who didn’t know him.

He couldn’t see her through his tears. She said nothing. Maybe she was giving him the space she thought he needed. Maybe she was too furious with him to cry.

He wiped his eyes. A few last hiccups escaped him. He looked up at her, bracing for anger, hoping for sympathy.

He saw neither. She was still frozen in shock.

There was no excuse for not having told her about his child, so he didn’t offer one. “I saw him,” he said. “He’s grown up now. He works for them. They took him when he was a child. That’s when I became Elias Kitzner. I left my old life behind so I could fight them.” He hastily added, “I didn’t leave my wife. She left me first.”

It was all leaving his mouth out of order, in a hopeless tangle. He had no hope of retracing his steps and finding his way through the mess of words to untangle it. He could only move forward. “They found me. They wanted me to give them everyone who worked with me. They learned about Sammy. They thought… if they threatened him, if they hurt him…”

His voice failed. He couldn’t go any further.

Her mouth was a circle of horror. Her hands clutched each other for dear life. She still didn’t reach for him.

“I escaped,” he said when he could speak again. “But not before they…” He shook his head. “It worked. They got everything. And they know… they know where to find me. I need a new identity.” Another gulping breath. “We both will. You have to run, or they’ll find you, and I can’t trust that they won’t hurt you this time. I’m sorry.” He tried to stare at his lap, so he wouldn’t have to see her face when the shock wore off. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her, when this might be the last time he would ever see her. “I’m so sorry.”

Little by little, Laina’s face came unfrozen. Her eyes first. Then the thaw crept gradually downward until her mouth snapped shut.

Her lips tightened. Her eyes sparked with fury.

He had expected it. That didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I already have a call in to someone who can get us both good identities,” he said. “They’ll hold up.” Or that was what he had heard. He had never used this person before. His old contact… he had given the name to Kirill. He knew better than to think she was still around.

“I’ll help you figure out where to go,” he continued. “I’ll get you whatever you need. After that, you never have to see me again.”

The fury in her eyes didn’t abate. Sparks snapped in their depths of her gaze. “How old was your son?” she asked. “When he was taken?”

“Sammy was eight.” Was she going to make him explain every detail of his lies? He supposed he owed her nothing less. But every moment they spent would give them less of a head start. “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. But we have to—”

“Sammy,” she said softly. Then, “They took a child. They forced a child to work for them? These people who… you said they do assassinations? Secret military operations?”

“That and more,” he said, feeling the conversation slip out of his control. He didn’t know what was happening anymore. “But he didn’t do any of that at eight. They trained him. They made him into…” Into someone who was his son and yet wasn’t. A stranger who could talk to about assassinations without blinking an eye.

He didn’t say any of that, but when her expression shifted, he had a feeling she had seen it anyway. He might not have known his past, but she did know him, whether she thought she did or not.

“And they took you,” she said. “They faked your death. They made me believe I was a widow. They hurt you—they must have. I’ve seen enough movies to know how these things work. And then they hurt your child in front of you.”

It took Elias that long to figure out her fury wasn’t directed at him.

“We’re not running,” she said.

He wanted to wrap his arms around her and thank her for being so much more than he deserved. But he didn’t know whether she would accept his touch, and anyway, they had no time. “We have no choice,” he said. “They’ll be here within hours. If not sooner.”

“We’ll leave if we have to,” she said, like it was nothing, like she had been doing this all her life. Like the very thought wasn’t making her hands tremble in her lap. “We’ll get those new identities. But we’re not going to run and hide. We’re going to get your son back.”

How he wished they could. “It’s too late for that,” he said, and meant it. “He’s spent too long with them. It’s the only life he wants now. I know—I talked to him.”

It was too late for him, like it was for Kirill. Kirill—who had wanted to make plans for after an escape that should have been impossible. An escape that had happened less than an hour later. Had a freak stroke of luck really unlocked that door and turned off those lights? Or…

“Maybe,” Laina allowed. “But how much of a chance did you have to talk to him? And even if you can’t help him… you said there were others. You said you spent years helping people like him.”

“That’s all gone now.”

“For now. Are you saying you can’t do what you did a second time?” She shoved herself up from the couch. The sparks in her eyes hadn’t faded. “Are you going to let them win?”

He stared, shocked into silence by her fervency. And, perhaps, by how he had accepted his own defeat without question.

“I thought my life was over,” he finally said, by way of explanation. “I thought they were going to kill me.”

“Then make them wish they had.” Her lips pulled back from her lips in a fierce smile he had never seen before from her. Maybe there were sides of her he hadn’t seen, just like she had never seen all of him.

“You’ll be in danger,” he said. “I never wanted that.”

“At least I’m getting the chance to choose,” she said. “Which it sounds like you never got.” She held out a hand to him. “And I’m choosing you. On one condition.”

He waited.

“Never keep anything from me again,” she said.

He took her hand. It was warm in his. He craved that warmth, after the constant low-grade chill of PERI headquarters.

He wanted to tell her she didn’t understand. Sammy was gone. His network was gone. Elias Kitzner, the one who had created his network, was dead—as surely as Sammy and Max.

But someone had allowed him to escape. It was the only explanation that made sense. And there was only one person who would have done it.

As for Sammy, he still remembered that day on the beach.

Maybe they weren’t completely dead after all. And so maybe Elias would just have to live, too. Even if that meant living with what he had done.

“Thank you,” he said, as he clung to her hand as if she had pulled him out of the grave. Maybe she had.

Then, reluctantly, he let go. “But right now, we still need to run. I’ll take care of everything. All you need to do is trust me.”

She swept her pointed gaze over him—from his filthy scrubs to his bleeding feet. “You’re in no condition for that,” she said. “You’ve spent fifteen years protecting me. Let me take care of you for once. Just tell me who to call.”

---

Tagged: @cakeinthevoid @suspicious-whumping-egg

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[glitterp0prhaps0dy]

Staring contest

In the depth of the night, Floyd awakened, enveloped in darkness. The rhythmic snoring of Barb, however, pierced the stillness, a comforting reminder of companionship. Since Thrash had welcomed Floyd into their abode, he had been sharing Rebel and Barb's room, furnished with a bunk bed distinctly marking the territory of the teenage rock trolls. The room, a vibrant testament to their personalities, was adorned with posters of rock legends and scattered with instruments, reflecting the chaos and creativity of its occupants. In one corner, a beanbag, fashioned from segments of old concert tees, offered a soft counterpoint to the room's hard edges.

Tonight, as usual, Barb claimed the upper bunk, her breathing steady and deep, with Rebel beside her, an arrangement altered to accommodate Floyd on the lower bunk. The unfamiliar environment hadn't dampened the parched feeling in Floyd's throat, his need for water momentarily disrupting the sense of belonging that had begun to take root.

Floyd carefully maneuvered to avoid a collision with the bunk above as he sat up, the dim light casting long shadows across the room. He reached out, pulling the electric wheelchair closer with practiced ease. Balancing on his good leg, he settled into the chair, silently grateful for the mobility it offered. As he wheeled out of the bedroom, the cool air of the night brushed against his face, a stark contrast to the warmth of shared living spaces.

The kitchen he entered was a spectacle of rock troll aesthetics, blending the raw, rugged beauty of their culture with the practicality needed for daily life. The walls were a tapestry of volcanic rock, interspersed with metals that glinted under the dim lighting, giving the impression of being inside a cave lit by the soft glow of lava. A large, sturdy table made of petrified wood stood at the center, surrounded by chairs that resembled polished boulders, complete with cushions for comfort.

The countertops were sleek, black stone, and the cabinets were crafted from dark, aged wood, adorned with intricate carvings of rock troll history and legends. Various kitchen gadgets, each with a rock motif, from a blender that looked like a stack of mini drums to a toaster resembling a small amplifier, added a functional yet whimsical touch to the space. Overhead, a chandelier made from recycled guitar picks cast an ambient light, illuminating the room with a soft, warm glow.

Floyd reached for a glass cup, its surface etched with intricate bat patterns.He filled it with water from a sink whose faucet mimicked a guitar neck, the water flowing smoothly from its silver strings. Just as he was about to turn around, glass in hand, he choked on the water in surprise.

In the kitchen's deepest shadow stood Rebel, silent as a statue, her presence unnoticed until now. Her eyes, reflecting the faint light, fixed on Floyd with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. The question of how long she had been standing there, silently observing, hung heavily in the air, adding a layer of mystery to her already enigmatic demeanor.

Floyd's voice stumbled over the words, a futile attempt to slice through the thick silence between them. "I, uh... I was thirsty, so, um... I got... some water," he managed to say, his gaze darting between Rebel's piercing red eyes and the glass in his hand. The air between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken questions and curiosity.

For what felt like an eternity but was merely two minutes, they remained locked in this silent standoff. Floyd shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair, the weight of Rebel's gaze feeling almost tangible against his skin. Meanwhile, Rebel stood unmoved, the only sign of life being the occasional flick of her tail.

Finally, Rebel turned away, her departure marked by the distinct click-clack of her hooves against the volcanic rock floor. Floyd exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

'She must have been in here before me, considering if she came in after, I would have heard her,' Floyd reasoned internally. The encounter, brief and wordless, left a lingering sense of intrigue and unease. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Floyd, having settled more comfortably into the dynamics of the Rock trolls' household over the week, found himself increasingly curious about their lives and interests. Today, his curiosity was piqued by Barb's artistic endeavor.

"Hey, Barb, that design looks wicked cool," Floyd said, leaning closer to get a better look at the sketch Barb was working on. The design sprawled across the page was intricate and edgy, fitting for a rock guitar. "What inspired this pattern? It looks like... are those lightning bolts mixed with skulls?"

Barb glanced up from her drawing, a spark of enthusiasm lighting up her face. "Yeah, exactly! I wanted it to have that raw, electrifying vibe, y'know? Like it's not just an instrument, but a declaration of who I am," she explained, her fingers tracing over the lines she'd drawn, emphasizing the fusion of elements.

Floyd nodded, impressed. "That's so cool. And these colors here," he pointed to a section of the design, "they're gonna look awesome under stage lights. Have you thought about what materials you want to use for it?"

Barb leaned back, tapping her pen against her chin thoughtfully. "I'm thinking something that'll really stand out, maybe a metallic finish? And I want the strap to have spikes. It needs to scream 'rock' from every angle."

Floyd chuckled. "Definitely screams 'rock.' It's gonna be amazing, Barb. Can't wait to see it come to life."

From the corner of his eye, Floyd caught Rebel glaring at him, her stare sharp and unsettling, before she abruptly shifted her focus back to the TV. Rebel had never uttered a single word in his presence, maintaining an air of silence that Floyd found increasingly intimidating.

Each time their gazes collided, he couldn't help but feel a chill run down his spine, leading him to wonder if perhaps she harbored a deep-seated dislike for him. Despite the warmth and welcome he'd received from Barb and Thrash, Rebel's silent judgment left Floyd questioning his place among the Rock trolls, and whether he'd ever bridge the gap with the enigmatic Rebel.

Ten minutes had passed,and Rebel left for her room. Floyd hesitated, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt before finally mustering the courage to ask Barb. "Hey, uhm, Barb, I have... a question," he began, his voice tentative. Barb glanced up from her drawing, her brows furrowing slightly as she attempted to grab the red crayon without looking at it. "Yeah, what's up, dude?"

Floyd swallowed hard, his nerves getting the best of him. "Does Rebel... hate me? She always seems so... cold, and she glares at me anytime we're in the same room. It's kinda scary," he admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty and a hint of fear.

Barb snickered, her laughter filling the room as she finally looked at Floyd. "Dude, seriously, no sweat," she began, shaking her head with a chuckle.

"That's just Rebel's vibe with new faces. She's all 'mysterious lone wolf' with everyone at first. And hey, no snitching, but she even gave Dad the cold shoulder for like, half a year. Only one who's never gotten the 'Rebel glare' is yours truly, but that’s because she’s only known me since I was three."

Floyd's confusion was apparent. "Since you were three? But I thought Rebel was your older sister. I'm... kinda lost here."

Barb looked at him with a playful smirk. "Oh, adoption, genius," she said with a chuckle, her tone dripping with her typical sarcasm. "Rebel's adopted, that's the twist," she explained, her laughter softening as she shook her head, amused by Floyd's moment of confusion.

Floyd blushed in embarrassment. "Oh, uh... I didn't think about that," he admitted sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.

Barb rolled her eyes playfully. "No sweat, rookie," she teased, a smirk playing on her lips as she leaned back in her chair. "Hey, speaking of not thinking things through, remember that time you tried to cook pancakes and ended up setting the kitchen on fire?" she added with a snicker, clearly enjoying the opportunity to tease Floyd.

Floyd's cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red at the memory. "Oh, come on, that was one time! And I did put out the fire eventually," he protested, trying to defend himself with a grin. "Besides, you were the one who said adding extra syrup would make them taste better!"

Barb laughed, shaking her head at Floyd's protest. "Hey, don't blame me for your culinary mishaps, pal. You're lucky my dad didn't ban you from the kitchen after that disaster," she retorted, her laughter filling the room as they shared another moment of playful banter.

Floyd chuckled, attempting to defend his culinary skills. "Hey, in my defense, I'm sixteen  and had three older brothers and a grandma doing the cooking," he pointed out, a playful glint in his eye. "I never had the chance to master the art of pancake flipping before that fateful day."

Barb chuckled, flipping her mohawk back with a flick of her head. "Fair point, but maybe stick to playing music instead of playing chef, huh? At least until you figure out the whole not-setting-things-on-fire part," she quipped, grinning broadly at Floyd.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the days went by, Floyd noticed a subtle shift in Rebel's behavior. She seemed to stare at him less and less, while he found himself stealing glances at her more and more. He couldn't help but feel a growing curiosity about her, with countless questions swirling in his mind. Yet, he knew he might never get the chance to ask them.

On this particular day, Floyd was engrossed in scrapbooking. The materials in Volcano Rock City were different from those at the Troll Tree, resulting in a unique twist to his usual hobby. Across the room, Rebel sat on the beanbag, scribbling away in a journal of her own.

While working on his scrapbook, Floyd found himself quietly singing to himself, the lyrics of a familiar tune escaping his lips. "♪ The energy just shifted, When we dropped in, Ooh, let it drop in, hmm ♪"

Suddenly, a quiet, raspy voice broke the silence. "What song is that?" Floyd froze, stunned by the unexpected sound. It was a voice he had never heard before, and considering he and Rebel were the only ones in the room, he realized it must have been her. She had spoken.

"What?" Floyd replied, his voice barely above a whisper, still processing the momentous occasion.

"What song were you singing?" Rebel repeated, her tone soft but curious.

"I, uh... it's a song my brother wrote for the band we were in," Floyd explained tentatively, his surprise slowly giving way to excitement at the prospect of conversation. "He called the song 'Baby, Baby, Girl,' but on the official record, it's called 'Perfect.'"

"Band... you were in a band?" Rebel's inquiry came out slightly cracked, hinting at a possible reason for her reticence. Was her voice not used to speaking, or was it just naturally raspy?

"Yeah, it was called Brozone. It was a boy band... but just me and my brothers," Floyd shared, a mix of nostalgia and amusement in his tone. He used air quotes as he continued, "My oldest brother was 'the leader.'" He couldn't help but laugh at the memory. "Spruce was 'the heartthrob,' and he had these abs that, honestly, looked pretty odd on him. And then there was Clay, 'the fun one.' My brother John Dory insisted he wear this ridiculous underwear dubbed 'funerdrawers.'"

Floyd's recounting turned into a fond rant about his family's band, his words painting a vivid picture of their quirky dynamics and the roles they each played.

Floyd's voice softened as he mentioned his youngest brother. "And then there's my youngest brother... Branch," he murmured, a gentle sadness coloring his expression. "He was the baby... because, well, he's a baby."

As Floyd glanced up at Rebel, expecting her usual stoic expression, he was taken aback. Instead of her usual blank demeanor, her face was a mix of shock and disbelief, as if she couldn't quite comprehend what she had just heard. It was a rare glimpse into her thoughts, leaving Floyd wondering what emotions lay beneath her silent exterior.

 "Who the hell puts a baby in a band?" Rebel blurted out, her voice tinged with incredulity and a hint of amusement. It was a rare break from her usual silence, revealing a glimpse of her personality to Floyd.

"John Dory," Floyd replied rather quickly, his expression shifting to one of slight annoyance at the memory.

Later in the day, as Floyd was getting a glass of water, Barb walked in, prompting him to maneuver his wheelchair over to her.

"Hey, what's up, F—" Barb began, but Floyd interrupted her before she could finish.

"Rebel spoke to me," he blurted out, unable to contain his excitement.

Barb's grin widened, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Whoa, seriously? That's epic! Means she's actually considering you part of the scene now. The real puzzle is figuring out exactly what she's thinking," she said, injecting her voice with that unmistakable, rebellious spirit she always carried

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Floyd settled into his room for the night, his mind replayed the day's events like a catchy tune on a loop. Rebel speaking to him was a significant highlight; it was like unlocking a new level in a complex game, one he hadn't been sure he'd reach.

Her voice, raspy and seldom heard, echoed in his thoughts, a reminder of the progress he'd made in this new, rocky world he was temporarily calling home. It was both exhilarating and daunting, knowing he'd sparked some kind of reaction from the most enigmatic person in the house.

But as the excitement of the day's interaction began to fade, Floyd's thoughts drifted to a more familiar and comforting place—his family. The warm, vivid memories of his brothers filled his mind, each one a colorful thread in the fabric of his past.

He could almost hear their laughter, see their smiles, and feel the reassuring presence they had always provided. Among these memories, his thoughts lingered most tenderly on Branch, his baby brother. Branch, with his curious eyes and easy giggles, had a special place in Floyd's heart.

He wondered how much Branch had grown since he'd last seen him, what new words he'd learned, and whether he still clung to the same stuffed animal as he slept.

The longing to see them all again, to share stories of his adventures among the Rock trolls and to hear about their lives in his absence, grew stronger with each passing day.

Floyd hoped, with a deep and earnest hope, that the day of their reunion would come soon. He imagined the joy of embracing each other, the laughter and tears that would undoubtedly follow, and the comfort of being surrounded by his family once more.

As he lay there, surrounded by the unfamiliar yet strangely comforting walls of his temporary home, Floyd made a silent promise to himself. He would make the most of his time here, learn all that he could, and perhaps even bridge the gap between his world and this one. But most of all, he vowed to return to his brothers, to Branch, with stories to fill their nights and laughter to brighten their days.

The thought of that future reunion, filled with love and shared joy, was a beacon of light guiding him through the uncertainty of the present. And with that comforting thought, Floyd allowed himself to drift off to sleep, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

[imperfectercell]

Need a big pin board filled with things about the themes of dragon ball being about becoming more than your dark and storied history if only you are given a chance and you take it and only if you are Able to take that chance. And then being able to acknowledge and still find solace and heritage in that past. which all goes from Goku being more than the saiyans cruelty and the death of his grandfather and his lonely little life, to rejecting his saiyan heritage and family to becoming a super saiyan to telling broly that he can call him kakarot and inheriting that legacy of being a warrior and not being a killer. To piccolo emerging from a tainted egg and half his memories and his fathers roots, but he is Not king piccolo and what he decides is that he wants More and he gets to See other namekians and become whole. To tien being raised in the crane school and choosing to rebel against what he has always known, to yamcha having a change of heart and becoming one of gokus oldest friends, to 17, 18, and 16 in the main timeline Not turning to cruelty and choosing to live as human as th3y can because they deep down Did want that second chance. To vegeta beating his heart raw and bleeding and finally choosing at the end. That he wants all of this as well. He doesnt reject his saiyan ways nor past but he grows regardless.

And then Buu, who chooses to be good, who has tasted its first ever kindness, but physically Cant stay that way. Theres no way kid buu has Any physical or mental way to say it wants a different life, any way for it to know that there could Be a better life than this. So goku passes on what his life is based on and fueled by. That second chance is extended, even if it must be through death, and Uub is that second chance and he both must and gets to live. And thats what dragon ball at its heart Should be about. To me

[racefortheironthrone]

Is the English civil war the first time a significant number of English non nobles both want to end monarchy and are a part of a winning (for a time) coalition? I’m talking about your summary that included info on the agitators. It’s always interested me how, most often because of culture, people could be so forward thinking in what they were rebelling for yet still not conceive or fail to see it wasn’t immoral to end monarchy. I’m trying to wrap my head around when societies in monarchical set ups can organically have enough people believing in democracy of any sort being allowable/not against their cultural beliefs. If the agitators are the first time we see a significant amount of non nobles pushing for real democracy and an end to monarchy, is Protestantism and the religious conflicts part of that shift? Idk if this is something that people can define

Within a specifically English context, yes, it's the first time that a rebellion goes beyond the "evil councilor" mode.

As to what changed the hegemonic ideological power of the monarchy...

Protestantism absolutely played a role, by elevating the Bible and the direct relationship between the individual and God as alternate sources of authority to the king. (There's a reason why the Bauernkrieg happened so soon after Luther kicked off the Reformation.) It also happened to be the case that the civil wars were kicked off by an attempt by Charles I to impose Arminian Anglicanism on Presbyterian Scotland.

But it's not the only factor.

Another major one was the changing ideology around Parliament. Partly due to how the Tudors had used the supremacy of King/Queen-in-Parliament to push through the English Reformation and the "Tudor Revolution in government," the nucleus of the idea that only Parliament could consent to taxation had grown to incorporate a broader notion that Parliament was (at least partially) sovereign.

This isn't to say that the divine right of kings was dead, a lot of absolutist monarchists from Hobbes on down would be advancing that idea for some time, but there was enough of a foundation that John Pym's innovations - the Petition of Right, the Root and Branch Petitions, the Triennial Acts, the Grand Remonstrance, etc. - could win a majority in Parliament.

A related third factor was a kind of English nationalism that took the raw materials of the Magna Carta, the common law, medieval parliamentarianism, the witan and the fyrd in the time of Alfred the Great, etc. and blended them together to invent a romantic history of Anglo-Saxon liberty - often short-handed as the "Norman yoke."

In this imagined history, the natural "rights of freeborn englishmen" had been universally recognized and respected prior to the Norman Conquest, which crucially placed English kings like Charles I (and later George III) in the position of foreign tyrants rather than god-anointed sovereigns.

[thatbitchsimone]

I literally can’t stop feeling embarrassed in public. Do u have any advice on not caring what people think about u? It’s so exhausting walking around feeling like I have to be seen as ‘perfect’ or to impress literal strangers!!! Like I just wanna live life and not feel like I have to perform at every moment I’m in the company of others. Pls help xox

these random ppl are literally barely even noticing ur existence. and i dont mean that in a bad way or in a way that reflects on u, im just saying that we are all in our own heads and not paying that much attention to strangers in our day to day life. no one is analysing ur every movement. it might feel like it but u know deep down they arent and that its just ur anxiety playing with ur head.

also a good thing to keep in mind whenever u get that anxious feeling that u might have ”embarrassed urself” or ”looked weird” or whatever is that none of these strangers have any idea who u are. they dont even know ur name. u will most likely never see any of these ppl ever again and if u do neither of u will remember each other anyways lol. their perception of u has literally zero impact on ur actual life. maybe u tripped while walking past some random stranger and they saw u trip, sure in the moment u might feel a little embarrassed and awkward about it, but then what? u know this stranger wont even remember it like 10 minutes after bc it was an extremely minor incident that u know their brain barely even registered for more than 3 seconds. u also know that u wont even remember it urself tomorrow, it has zero impact on ur life. like just tell urself ”whatever these ppl have no idea who i am and will probably never even see me again anyways so it doesnt even matter what they think bc we are no one to each other” and then just tell urself to let it go and shift ur focus to something else. bc u know that this is just ur anxiety and insecurity gnawing at u and this is a fleeting feeling and moment anyway.

id also like to add that, assuming ur a woman, ur not alone in struggling with this. ALL women experience these thoughts and feelings to some degree bc we are all conditioned to take up as little space as possible and to always have other ppls (specifically men, but not exclusively men) perception of us in mind. google that male gaze quote right now babe. the margaret atwood one and the john berger one. it will help u see this phenomena more clearly and u will relate to it and maybe gain some insight into how u percieve urself and how what these feelings and insecuritites are rooted in and u will be like u know what? fuck that. like ur approach to this will start to change once u have gained this perspective and might even make u feel like rebelling against it which might help u to free urself from this.

u dont need to be perfect. i want u to be free and messy and loud. i want u to be imperfect. imperfection is peak beauty. women are wild and messy. thats the beauty in us. its the rawness and realness in the most gorgeous form. embrace it. be free and carefree and do u. love u queen <3 if i saw u literally laughing hysterically to urself in public i would be like oh she gets it shes the vibe i love her so much like BE FREE GIRL LET GO LET GO

[12colors-classpects]

They head down to the riverbank, where hemlock and bulrush and meadowsweet and common reeds all push their tap roots deep and spread their finger roots wide, a shovel and pale in hand and dig deep past the top soil into the water-mud, filling their pale with loam and returning to their potters' workshop. Emptying the pale into the trough to dry and plopping a dried lump of loam from yesters-haul onto the potters wheel, they begin to spin-sculpt with a singular purpose: to change the lump, to mold its' form to match new purpose.

The centrifugal writhing thrashes against the sculptor's skilled hands rebelling against the imposition of a new purpose, desiring nothing less than to collapse. They choose either to tame the writhing and shape some utilitarian thing: a vase, a teapot, a bong, or let the writhing riot freely forming pointless tchotchke: a coiling octopus, a rude gesture, a surrealist's clock, and when satisfied they fire it to lock the changes in and make it into what they decided it was meant to be, or once disgusted squash it, to start fresh by returning it to

Clay

Narrative Function

The aspect of clay represents things both as they exist in their most undecided upon state; the means by which they grow, change, and are shaped; and the idea of form-fit mechanical purpose. Clay is found in both the raw material which is shaped, the sculptor, and the sculpture. It is also the terra firma plants pushing their roots into it so they can cling to the riverbank without being washed away, the nutrients they need to grow, and the seeds they came from and return to. In this way clay acts upon a narrative as both the raw potential and actualized purpose, and touches everything that facilitates the implicit transition betwixt: in two words, character growth.

Player Tendencies

Clay players tend go through the most growth in the story, starting out indecisive with a wide range of hobbies and skills that their bad at and growing into a more specific, more niche skill set at which they accel. It's the aspect of character growth, and much like the page class, it's general tends to shape out that Clay players mirror the generic page arc, starting low and aiming high, often through the process of specializing from a generic skill set to a specific niche.

Powers

Literal: The manipulation of clay, terracotta Metaphorical: Potential Rational: China, knickknacks, Irrational: Transmutation

[honourablejester]

Homebrew Deity Conversions for Pathfinder 2e (Part 1)

I figured I’d just try the conversions from D&D 5e to PF 2eand see how it went. I think I’ll do these in blocks because they’re a bit longer and more involved than the D&D 5e versions, and I’ll leave out Boons/Curses for the moment to come back to later. So. Let’s start with six of my homebrew deities. Four of what I think of as the ‘primal’ deities of the pantheon. Not in the Pathfinder tradition sense, but in the ‘dawn of the world’ sense. Leithal, Iskuur, Nuissas and Ket. And the two equally primal deities of magic, Oromasdes and Immara.

(I should mention, Nuissas is a major god, not minor, she just got put at the bottom of the original list by mistake. I’ll get around to editing that)

(Reposting with some edits)

Part 1: Primal Deities, Part 2: Deities of Grave and Boundary, Part 3: Deities of Civilisation, Part 4: Evil Deities

LEITHAL, THE VERDANT SWELL

Chaotic Good Goddess of Earth, Nature and Life

Realm: The Green Well

Allies: Iskuur, Oromasdes, Deima, Doram, Heein-Sheein, Nuissas

Enemies: Iletal

Relationships: Deima (subordinate and friend), Oromasdes (a partnership of earth and sun), Iskuur (her partner in elemental might)

Worshippers: Druids, farmers, gatherers, healers, relief workers

Sacred Colours: Green, Gold

Symbol: Ivy Vine

Leithal is the font of life, the raw well of energy at the heart of the earth. She is the font, the upspring, the green outrush from the seed to the tree. Unchecked abundance, the chaotic bloom of vitality. She feeds all, she shelters all, she strengthens all. Her heart beats in earth and soil, her breath spreads seeds across the land. She is the vast forest, the ripe field, the tiny flower blooming among the stone. She offers boundless nuture. Life is her only goal, and all living things may beg healing, strength and shelter from her. Even the undead, should they only preserve themselves and not seek the destruction of life, need not fear her. She has unending patience and limitless strength. All will return to her eventually. She is the root of the cycle, life to death to life again. She fears nothing, only pours her strength and her joy and her vitality out into the world. Annihilation is her only enemy, and she fears it not at all. So long as even a seed survives the fire, all the world will bloom again at her command.

Edicts: Encourage life and joy, give freely and generously, foster strength and growth.

Anathema: Starve or deprive others, burn or blight the world, heal or help someone only to torture them further later.

Follower Alignments: Chaotic Good, Chaotic Neutral, Neutral Good, Neutral

DEVOTEE BENEFITS

Divine Ability: Constitution or Wisdom

Divine Font: Heal

Divine Skill: Nature

Favoured Weapon: Scythe

Domains: Earth, Healing, Nature, Passion

Cleric Spells: 1st Summon Plant or Fungus, 2nd Entangle, 4th Spike Stones

 -----------------------------------------------

ISKUUR, THE STORM LORD

Chaotic Neutral God of Storms, Seas, Freedom and Might

Realm: Cloud Galleon

Allies: Leithal, Immara, Weyloun, Orem, Yorm, Heein-Sheein

Enemies: Iletal, Borkh, sometimes Ineia

Relationships: Leithal (partner deity), Weyloun (blood brother), Immara (shared domain), Ineia (extremely contentious relationship, particularly where land-based civilisation encroach on the sea)

Worshippers: Whalers, spear-fishers, pirates, rebels, slaves

Sacred Animal: Kraken

Sacred Colours: Bronze and Grey

Symbol: Sea Wall Broken By Wave

Iskuur is a god of seas and storms and chaos, a sinker of ships. A god whose emblem is a shattered sea wall, a symbol of landbound authority sundered by his might. A god of sunken ships and broken chains, and freedom defended by might. He strongly opposes slavery, tyranny, and the restriction of free will, but also organised navies, sea defenses, and the rule of law. He has a mixed approach to fisherpeople, favouring spear fishers but violently disliking net/trap fishers, and many fishing ships pray to other sea gods for protection from him. Iskuur is a god who emphasises survival, endurance and freedom above all, and while he powerfully opposes physical constraints on a person’s will, such as captivity, that is nothing to how he opposes psychological or magical assaults on will. If you would impose your authority on another’s will in the presence of Iskuur or any of his devout, you may expect the storm, the lightning, or the wave.

Edicts: Preserve freedom, shatter bounds, strike down slavery. Do not fish with nets. Prove your devotion to freedom.

Anathema: Enslave others, overwrite another's will, attempt to wall and tame the ocean.

Follower Alignments: Chaotic Good, Chaotic Neutral, Chaotic Evil

DEVOTEE BENEFITS

Divine Ability: Constitution or Strength

Divine Font: Heal or Harm

Divine Skill: Survival

Favoured Weapon: Javelin

Domains: Air, Freedom, Lightning, Water

Cleric Spells: 1st Feather Fall, 3rd Crashing Wave, 6th Chain Lightning

 ------------------------------------------------

NUISSAS, THE EYELESS MOTHER

Neutral Goddess of Darkness, Peace and Shelter

Realm: The Night Road

Allies: Immara, Elaia Siveth, Yorm, Orem, Deima, Doram

Enemies: Sometimes Oromasdes and Gorbalune

Relationships: Immara (favoured daughter), Leithal (favoured daughter), Orem (adoptive nephew that she sweetly enjoys the antics of)

Worshippers: Dwarves, miners, healers, anyone in search of rest

Sacred Animal: Cave fish

Sacred Colours: Black

Symbol: An Eyeless Fish/An Eyeless Dragon/A Black Cup

Nuissas is the Mother Night, the primal darkness, the black void that cradled creation. Before there was anything, there was Nuissas, and after all light fades, there will be Nuissas still. She is Eyeless, for when she came into being there was not yet light. Yet creation, the seeding of light in her darkness, the eruption of life and light and magic, was not an affront to the Mother Night. Light and life are angry, energetic things, that must spend themselves until they fade. The darkness is eternal, ever-patient, and so is Nuissas. She coils herself around them, above and beneath and through them, and bears them gently up until they are spent. The Mother Night is the goddess of night, of primal darkness, of void, of shadow, of the blackness of those depths where light has never reached. She is the sacred darkness that shelters and shields, and the patient abyss to which all light returns. Her worshippers are those who dwell in darkness and those who revere the night, who ask for her protection and patience and the shelter of her shadow, for she is pleased to grant it. When she appears to them, her form is always eyeless, and rarely humanoid. Most commonly, it is said that she takes the shape of a vast abyssal fish, or a black, eyeless dragon, coiling around and beneath the world, through the depths where darkness lies deepest and most sacred.

Edicts: Embrace and embody the darkness, know and share peace

Anathema: Bring light or violence to her sacred places

Follower Alignments: Neutral, Neutral Good, Lawful Neutral

DEVOTEE BENEFITS

Divine Ability: Intelligence or Wisdom

Divine Font: Heal

Divine Skill: Stealth

Favoured Weapon: Spear

Domains: Darkness, Repose, Secrecy, Void

Cleric Spells: 1st Penumbral Shroud, 3rd Nondetection, 4th Private Sanctum, 6th Blanket of Stars

 ------------------------------------------------

KET, THE FIRST AND FORMLESS

Chaotic Evil Deity of Evil, Whispers and Desires

Realm: Unknown

Allies: None

Enemies: Unknown

Relationships: None known

Worshippers: Few open, but Ket urges limitless indulgence of your own whims

Sacred Colours: Red and White

Symbol: Red Dot On White Disc

The thing called Ket is the first and formless evil of the world. It is the first spark of malice, the first selfish thought, the first swell of violence. It is the whispering at the back of every mind, the nudge to embrace your urges, indulge your whims, feed your hungers. Ket has neither face nor form. It holds itself part of everything, the potential for corruption lurking in even the purest of souls. There are many that doubt Ket even exists, viewing those who claim to worship it as simply seeking an excuse for their own failings. But even gods have heard Ket’s whisperings, and trembled at the thought that they are naught but their own failings murmuring back at them. Thus even the purest might cling to the worship or at least acknowledgement of Ket, for if Ket is not a deity, if Ket does not exist, then where can these whispers come from? If evil has no external source, who is our enemy but ourselves?

Edicts: Act as you please, embrace your desires, put yourself first

Anathema: Sacrifice something you want for someone else, put someone else's desires before your own

Follower Alignments: Chaotic Evil, Chaotic Neutral, Neutral Evil, Neutral

DEVOTEE BENEFITS

Divine Ability: Charisma or Intelligence

Divine Font: Harm

Divine Skill: Diplomacy

Favoured Weapon: Sling

Domains: Freedom, Indulgence, Passion, Trickery

Cleric Spells: 1st Charm, 3rd Moth's Supper, 4th Suggestion

 -------------------------------------------------

OROMASDES, LORD OF WISDOM

Lawful Good God of Light, Truth, Knowledge and Magic

Realm: Sunstone Tower

Allies: Immara, Yorm, Ineia, Weyloun, Gorbalune

Enemies: Borkh (shared concerns but opposed morals), Ket (Oromasdes is one of the few deities truly searching for Ket and the truth of its existence)

Relationships: Immara (his subtle complement), Ineia (partner in civilisation)

Worshippers: Magic users, judges, truth-seekers, diviners, watchmen, sages

Sacred Animal: Hawks and Peacocks

Sacred Colours: Gold, Yellow

Symbol: Holy Fire

The Holy Fire, the Light of Truth, the All-Seeing. One of the first and oldest gods, Oromasdes is the god of the sun, of light, of magic, of truth, and of judgement. His is the all-seeing eye, the font of knowledge, the burning fire of inspiration. He favours the magics of divination and truth-seeking, and the cleansing fires of judgement and renewal. Those who seek knowledge, truth, or the wisdom to make good judgements pray to him. He is the god of diviners, watchmen, researchers and intelligence agents, and also the god of judges, sages and scholars. Oromasdes is not opposed to lies or trickery in the pursuit of noble goals, but self-delusion and the destruction or denial of knowledge are the greatest of faults in his eyes.

Edicts: Learn and spread knowledge, discern the truth, shed light on falsehoods

Anathema: Destroy knowledge, lie for anything less than a righteous cause, deny the truth to yourself

Follower Alignments: Lawful Good, Neutral Good, Lawful Neutral

DEVOTEE BENEFITS

Divine Ability: Intelligence or Wisdom

Divine Font: Heal or Harm

Divine Skill: Arcana

Favoured Weapon: Staff

Domains: Fate, Knowledge, Magic, Sun, Truth

Cleric Spells: 1st Share Lore, 2nd Comprehend Language, 3rd Fireball, 5th Mind Probe, 8th Unrelenting Observation

 ------------------------------------------------

IMMARA, THE DREAMING OCEAN

Neutral Goddess of Dreams, Prophecies, Mysteries, the Moon and the Ocean

Realm: Dreaming Moon

Allies: Oromasdes, Iskuur, Nuissas

Enemies: Borkh, Gahlingeir

Relationships: Oromasdes (her sweet partner), Iskuur (passionate brother-of-the-soul)

Worshippers: dreamers, poets, oracles, sailors, explorers

Sacred Animal: Octopus

Sacred Colours: Black and Silver

Symbol: Moonrise Over Ocean

Immara is the dreaming goddess of the deep, the goddess of moon and tide, of dreams and prophecy, of shipwrecks and forgotten mysteries. She is the goddess of mist and storm, of flotsam and jetsam, of messages in bottles. She is the dreaming ocean, the tides of history moving across a fathomless, forgotten deep. She is the siren call of the sea, stirring souls to seek hidden things. Immara is not a goddess favoured of sailors and fishermen, her call too strange and entrancing. Instead, she is the goddess of omens and tides, of seekers and prophets, dreamers and explorers. Those who dive ocean wrecks, seek sunken cities, or dream strange dreams in the ocean mist. Her worship is scattered, and individual, her prophets and her priests coming to her often through their dreams, but many who hope for good omens or fortune on the waves might still give an offering of rice wine or moonstones in her name, spilled or thrown into the sea at moonrise.

Edicts: Travel. Dream. Experience. Learn. Whisper.

Anathema: Refuse to learn or explore, ignore instincts and dreams, refuse to acknowledge fate.

Follower Alignments: Neutral, Neutral Good, Chaotic Neutral, Neutral Evil

DEVOTEE BENEFITS

Divine Ability: Intelligence or Wisdom

Divine Font: Harm or Heal

Divine Skill: Occultism

Favoured Weapon: Sickle

Domains: Dreams, Fate, Magic, Moon, Water

Cleric Spells: 1st Anticipate Peril, 4th Phantasmal Killer, 5th Mariners Curse, 7th Retrocognition, 8th Dream Council

[hummussexual]

Published 2023/04/01 18:05 (EDT)

A large coalition of Catholic nuns has issued a public letter supporting transgender, nonbinary and gender-expansive individuals – and “implicitly rebuking recent statements from the U.S. Catholic hierarchy,” the Religious News Service reported Saturday.

The letter was issued by a wide range of Catholic communities representing more than 6,000 religious orders across 18 states, RNS reported.

As members of the body of Christ, we cannot be whole without the full inclusion of transgender, nonbinary and gender-expansive individuals,” the letter reads.

It goes on to argue that “we will remain oppressors until we — as vowed Catholic religious — acknowledge the existence of LGBTQ+ people in our own congregations. We seek to cultivate a faith community where all, especially our transgender, nonbinary and gender-expansive siblings, experience a deep belonging.”

The letter had been in the works since a wave of bills targeting trans people swept across state legislatures, one of its authors –Sister Barbara Battista, congregation justice promoter for the Sisters of Providence, St. Mary-of-the-Woods – told RNS.

But she added that release of the letter was “jump-started” by an anti-trans statement by Catholic Church leaders.

“The nuns’ effort comes in the wake of a doctrinal statement published earlier this month by a committee of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, which discouraged Catholic health care groups from performing various gender-affirming medical procedures, arguing doing so does not respect the “intrinsic unity of body and soul,” RNS reported.

The nuns were explicit about their disagreement with legislators and church leadership.“Battista noted that many of the bills working their way through state legislatures revolve around the health care needs of trans people, an issue that hits home for her as a licensed physician’s assistant in Indiana.

"She described her work as “participating in the healing ministry of Jesus,” rooted, she said, in a “sacred trust” between patients and providers.“ But Catholic leaders and government officials, she argued, have tried to “insert themselves into the private, very personal and intimate conversations and decisions made between the health care provider

[vector-art-bundles]

Defining Rebellion: The X Letter Punk Rock Art Vector Design

In a world stifled by conformity, the X Letter Punk Rock Art Vector Design stands as a beacon of rebellion and creative authenticity. Embodying the raw energy of punk rock, this design redefines artistic expression, empowering creators to break free from the ordinary and embrace their unique vision.

Unleashing the Power of Punk:

Rooted in the rebellious spirit of punk rock, this design preserves the raw, authentic feel of ink strokes even in its dynamic vector form. Whether on apparel, murals, or digital platforms, it commands attention and resonates with those who value bold, unapologetic artistry.

Versatile and Impactful:

Adaptability is key—this design thrives in various formats: SVG, AI, EPS, PNG. Perfect for a range of creative applications from streetwear to digital artwork, its versatility ensures it's ready to amplify any project with its distinct punk rock edge.

Designed for Creativity:

For artists and rebels alike, this graphic unlocks limitless potential. Commercially usable with a clear prohibition on direct resale of source files, it encourages entrepreneurial spirit and collaborative ventures while safeguarding its artistic integrity.

Embrace the Rebellion:

The X Letter Punk Rock Art Vector Design isn't just a graphic; it's a statement. It invites you to defy norms, embrace creativity, and infuse your projects with a rebellious spirit that's distinctly punk rock. Break away from the ordinary—explore the extraordinary today.

[hillslicensing-blog]

Leather Utility Vest Renaissance: Form and Function Coexist of the best leather biker vest

New Post has been published on https://ashipwreckinthesand.com/leather-utility-vest-renaissance-form-and-function-coexist-of-the-best-leather-biker-vest/

Leather Utility Vest Renaissance: Form and Function Coexist of the best leather biker vest

Some fashion items transcend apparel to become cultural symbols and utilitarian. Its usefulness, design, and historical significance set the leather utility vest apart. With its roots in workwear pragmatism and subculture rebellion, this garment has become a flexible and durable contemporary staple.

The leather utility vest evolved from labor and military clothes. Due to necessity, these vests’ pockets and robust materials meet specialized tasks. The functional qualities of these vests began to merge with fashion, creating an item that serves a purpose and makes a statement.

Material innovation drives leather utility vest advancement. Traditional leather is popular for its toughness and ruggedness. However, the development of lighter, more flexible leathers and sustainable and synthetic alternatives shows a rising awareness and response to modern requirements and ethics. This variety of fabrics makes the vest more appealing and adaptable to many climates, events, and tastes.

The leather utility vest balances form and function. Modern versions of this garment have pockets, zippers, and adjustable straps for storage and versatility. These utilitarian aspects are harmoniously interwoven into the vest’s design, offering convenience without sacrificing flair. The garment reflects current fashion trends and its utilitarian roots.

The leather utility vest may be styled limitlessly from casual to edgy to classy. Layering it over a T-shirt adds depth to a casual look, but fitted outfits make it a statement item for more formal occasions. Leather utility vests provide personal style expression.

The leather utility vest has cultural importance beyond its use and design. Like explorers, bikers, and rebels who have worn similar clothes, it represents adventure and freedom. Due to a growing demand for authenticity and self-expression, it appeals to those who want to make a statement with their clothes in modern fashion.

The retail environment for leather utility vests shows their popularity. These vests suit a varied audience with their various sizes, styles, and materials. This accessibility democratizes fashion, allowing anyone from different backgrounds to wear this garment. The fact that leather utility vests are sold in high-end and mainstream fashion shows their adaptability and longevity.

Leather utility vests develop with the trend. Designers and wearers are pushing the limits of this garment by experimenting with new materials, cuts, and style. The leather utility vest adapts to fashion trends while maintaining its uniqueness thanks to this continual innovation.

The leather utility vest symbolizes the combination of usefulness and style, demonstrating the longevity of multipurpose clothes. Its transformation from workwear to fashion reflects society’s growing appreciation for apparel versatility, durability, and uniqueness.

The potential of the leather utility vest is limitless. Future generations will wear it since it adapts to varied styles, climates, and circumstances. As we manage the difficulties of modern life, the leather utility vest reminds us that clothes may improve our daily lives through their utility and meaning.

Exposing the Leather Utility Vest’s Complexity

The leather utility vest, which combines raw beauty with practical design, shows how fashion has changed shape and function. Because of its robust material and many pockets, those who value style and utility have added this piece to their wardrobes. Its transformation from a necessity to a fashion statement reflects societal changes in apparel and self-expression.

Initially designed for outdoor work and the military, utility vests now use leather for durability and flair. This switch from cotton, canvas, and nylon to leather recognizes leather’s durability and effortlessly cool. As leather patinas and changes with the wearer, each vest becomes a personal artifact.

The leather utility vest’s design balances form and function. Designers included reinforced stitching, weather-resistant finishes, and adjustable fittings for longevity and comfort. Utility vests have intelligently arranged pockets of various sizes to hold everything from tools to daily needs. This design philosophy makes the vest essential to an active, practical lifestyle.

Wearers of the leather utility vest can adapt to different social and aesthetic situations by styling it. It can lend texture and depth to a minimalist outfit or add grounded refinement to more sophisticated clothes. The vest may be worn with casual and formal dresses, making it versatile. Chameleon-like qualities encourage experimentation and style story exploration.

The leather utility vest symbolizes exploration, independence, and resilience beyond its appearance. It evokes the spirit of pioneers and adventurers who braved the unknown. From motorcyclists’ rough independence to urban fashionistas’ avant-garde experiments, the vest symbolizes identity and belonging in fashion. This cultural significance gives the garment meaning beyond its material composition.

Leather utility vests are popular throughout markets, proving their universal appeal. The vest appeals to a wide range of consumers with its carefully constructed and ruggedly distressed versions. This inclusion is crucial because it reflects a broader industry trend toward accommodating different body sizes, lifestyles, and aesthetic choices. Using sustainable methods to make leather vests shows a dedication to ethical fashion and modern ideas of responsibility and stewardship.

The leather utility vest shows that design and substance will continue to be valued as fashion evolves. Emerging technology and changing consumer preferences drive the vest’s constant reinvention in materials, form, and utility. This progression shows how fashion balances tradition, innovation, uniqueness, and universality.

The leather utility vest embodies modern fashion’s complexity. It connects the user to the world by acknowledging the past, reflecting the present, and imagining the future. The vest’s sturdy materials, innovative design, and cultural relevance make it practical and add to the conversation about dressing with intention in the modern period.

The leather utility vest represents the changing balance between usefulness and style in modern design. It’s more than just clothing—it’s a symbol of contemporary resilience and personal narrative. A canvas where design meets function, it invites wearers to record their adventures through leather patina and what they carry in its many pockets. The vest’s sturdy construction and intelligent design reference the past while being contemporary, subverting fashion rules. It reminds us that solid, enduring, and meaningful objects matter in a world that values digital and fleeting experiences. The leather utility vest is a symbol of timeless elegance and usefulness, urging wearers to make their apparel as much about identity as necessity. The vest symbolizes fashion trends and how we regard our garments.

[vkq103487428]

Week 4: Reality T.V, and how one such show saved the U.F.C

#MDA20009

Reality T.V is probably one of the weirdest phenomena in the history of television.

Ever since T.Vs became a common household items all the way back in the late 1940s, broadcasters have been divided as to what should be the main purpose of the medium in regard to entertainment.

On one hand, some viewers want a break from reality, so they tune in to soap operas, Western epics or science fiction programs as a way to escape from the mundanity of life.

On the other hand, however, almost as a way to rebel against the norms set in place by the aforementioned fantastical and detached-from-reality shows, some people began to yearn for something more authentic, something that accurately portrays people instead of actors, something that can show Reality.

And thus, Reality T.V was born, as a genre of programming that documents purposely unscripted real life situations, starring real everyday folks instead of professional actors. While the genre's roots can be traced back to the late 1940s, with prank shows such as "Candid Camera" in 1948 finding a niche but dedicated fanbase, reality T.V got REALLY big in the early 2000s, with shows such as Big Brother and "Survivor" gaining widespread mainstream appeal.

Aside from its authentic nature, one of the key reasons why reality T.V took off was because they contain interactive elements, drawing a studio audience and/or viewers at home directly into the program, where they play the role of respondents or judges to the activities depicted on the show (Hill 2005, p. 21).

These interactions with audience members eventually led to these reality T.V shows forming their own digital publics, online groups and forums where fans of the shows come together to discuss things that happen on the programs.

Sometimes, when these digital publics gain enough traction, they have the power to influence the original show itself, or in some cases, even more than just the show.

One of my favorite example of this is "The Ultimate Fighter" (T.U.F), a reality T.V show with the purpose of scouting out new talents for the U.F.C, the leading mixed martial arts organization in the world.

A typical T.U.F episode has everything that makes reality T.V so appealing in the first place. From the personal interviews with candidates discussing their life story, to the various conflicts and rivalry between the coaches and members from the two opposing teams.

Before the show aired, the U.F.C was in a tough spot, with most investors walking away from what was deemed a sinking ship. They had one last shot, one opportunity to seize everything they ever wanted, and make a profit out of this insane sport that was still look at as "barbaric" and "human cockfighting".

Reality television is a genre that particularly lends itself to creating dramas and stories around a combat sports (McClearen 2017). While the fights certainly helped catapult T.U.F into mainstream appeal, it was the humanization of these tough and gritty fighters through the raw footage of them living and training together before every bout that ultimately captured the heart of viewers.

Online discussion surrounding the show eventually grew so popular that T.U.F became a success overnight, and with it came a flood of new fans, eager to watch more of this new M.M.A thing that everyone was talking about. The success of this reality T.V show also meant that for the first time in a few years, the U.F.C was a profitable venture, and investors became interested again (Rothstein 2020).

They would make a miraculous comeback afterwards, and fast forward to today, the U.F.C is now one of the biggest sports entity in the world.

References

Hill, A 2005, Reality Tv : Audiences and Popular Factual Television, Routledge, London ; Nueva York, p. 21.

McClearen, J 2017, ‘“We Are All Fighters”: The Transmedia Marketing of Difference in the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC)’, International Journal of Communication, vol. 11, p. 3230.

Rothstein, M 2020, ‘The inside story of how “The Ultimate Fighter” saved the UFC 15 years ago’, ESPN, 9 April, viewed 25 January 2024, <https://www.espn.com/mma/story/_/id/29014001/the-story-how-ultimate-fighter-saved-ufc-15-years-ago>.