#resistor cannot

[lmr2owell]

Surface mount resistors, chip resistor manufacturers, Types of Fixed Resistors

WSL Series 2512 1 W 0.007 Ohm ±1% ±75 ppm/°C SMT Power Metal Strip® Resistor

[kayvsworld]

!!!!! TRANSISTOR SPOTTED !!!!!!

TALES OF SUSPENSE REFERENCE LETS GOOOO

(the ones next to that one are a battery and a resistor, i believe)

i love him i cannot possibly imagine the usecases for this nightmare of a keyboard. absolute madman.

TRANSISTOR CAMEO!!!!!!

[spinchip]

Never the Dark

CHAPTER 17

Read on Ao3

Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16

warnings: discussion of past child death, drug abuse/addiction

HOW BEAUTIFUL, THESE THINGS YOU DO // IN CASE THEY HELP, THESE THINGS YOU DO...

Tumbling headfirst into another Realm is never a graceful thing.

Wu’s words before he’d sent Zane flying through that portal are playing on repeat- He can see his face drawn and shuttered in sorrow as he splattered the realm tea across the throne room floor, “I am sorry I couldn’t protect you,” He says as the ground under the Ice Emperors feet grows unstable, “I am so proud of all you are, Zane- The white ninja, the first nindroid, my student, and my friend. I hope one day you can forgive me.” Zane has never seen Wu cry before.

the ground vanishes beneath him, and he’s falling.

Nindroid. Nindroid. Nindroid.

NINDROID.

He’s a nindroid. He’s- he’s-

The impact is not gentle. He lands in mud at least, the cushion of it just barely enough not to snap his spine with the force of it. Back first he crashes on the side of a wet hill, a mound of earth slick with muck that he tumbles down until he rolls to a stop at the base in a mess of broken armor and tangled limbs. His mouth tastes like old blood and oil and he can’t think- can’t- can’t calm the utter horror and panic crawling up through his wiring-

Memory floods his processor hot and uncomfortable, his world expanding from a tiny cold pinprick to an unfathomable reality of loss. He didn’t realize what he was missing- couldn’t understand the absence of it. Now it's all he can feel. A gaping chasm opening up in his chest that eats and eats until all that remains is the memory of a good man and the bloody remains of a bad one.

He’s Zane. He’s Zane Julien, Dr. Juliens son- he’s supposed to protect those who cannot protect themselves. He- oh FSM all those people- the krag- Blood blood blood. Blood and ice. A flash of that awful blade when he didn’t feel bothered to freeze, a flash of the blade when he needed to make an example out of the insignificant resistors- no,no, no, he didn’t do that. That couldn’t have been him, please.

He rolls onto his hands and knees and dry heaves. He hasn’t eaten in sixty years, nothing comes up. Everything aches, his body buzzing with the echoes of power that burned out everything that he was. The delicate sensors lining his body are raw and frazzled, overwhelmed with a constant flux of power that leaves his synthetic nerves overworked and raw. It feels like each of the tiny nodes had been scrubbed down to its copper insides with steel wool. His head is pounding as if he were a human who’d cracked open his skull. He’s half convinced if he reaches up to touch his forehead his fingers will turn wet with his coding- spilling out of him like blood.

The staff was gone. Not in his hands. His thoughts- so nebulous and thready while on the throne- connect together again with the humming under his skin contained and the remaining pieces of his sanity back. He feels so dizzy and wrong footed, everything in the world turned on it’s side and it will never, ever be right again. What did he do what did he do-

There. In the dirt, only a few feet away. The staff glows faintly, enticing him.

His body shudders with the afterimage of a constant, brutal ice-burn.

His stomach rolls with the taste of blood.

He lunges for the scroll, white-hot panic overwhelming every sense in his body until he’s got the delicate parchment in both hands. He tears it in two before going back again, rending it to pieces until every drop of that caustic power flickers and dies. He keeps tearing it far past that, until the pieces are so small there’s no chance it could ever be reconstructed. He’d tear it to atoms if he could get a better grip on it. He can still feel it in his mind. He can still feel blood on his hands. What has he done?

His vision is obscured by black spots. The panic and fear won’t subside. The soul crushing agony of who he’d become is suffocating him. He can feel his fans kick on into high gear in a desperate attempt to cool his insides down but it’s no use. He doesn’t even know where he is, if he’s safe-

Did any of the people under his rule ever feel safe? Does a monster like him deserve to feel safe? 

Wu didn’t think so.

His chest spits sparks and Zane gasps in pain before his elbows fold and he finally, mercifully passes out.

He wakes up in a cave. That should alarm him, but he’s so exhausted all he does is blink blearily up at the ceiling. It’s still hard to breathe- to move air through his aching, hot insides- but in a different way from panic now. It’s as if he doesn’t have the strength to force his fans to turn. His limbs feel heavy in the absence of the scroll's power and he’s so numb to everything around him. The ceiling above him flickers from the light of a fire. It’s warm, wherever he is. A face appears above him and he can’t focus on it- featureless, smooth, empty.

”Rest.” A voice orders, but there’s a motherly lilt to it that has Zane closing his eyes.

Part of him worries he might die here.

What does he deserve?

The next time he wakes up he’s scrambling out from underneath the blanket of furs cocooning him so he can dry heave onto the floor again, his whole body is trembling in pain. The numbness has retreated and in its place a bone-deep ache that leaves him wrung out and hung up to dry. It’s as if his wires were torn out and ran through a washing machine before being haphazardly shoved back inside. His vision is muddled with black-and-gray splotches, all blurry on the edges, and all he can hear is the sounds of his fans straining to cool his inner mechanisms. He’s deaf and blind and so vulnerable it makes his power source stutter. Fear fades away into pain and confusion- where is he? Why is he here? What did he do? He can’t keep his head on straight to answer any questions. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He hurt so bad he was certain he would die.

A hand rubs circles between his shoulder blades.

The final time he wakes up, he still feels exhausted. Not so bad that he would immediately fall asleep again, but it’s lingering. A thick weariness that lays across his shoulders like twenty pound weights. His skeleton aches and his sensors cramp- despite how lifeless he feels, his body is still wound tight with tension. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking in the green firelight.

He’s laying on his side this time, and there’s a bucket by the pile of furs he’s sleeping on. His head is still pounding and he has to continuously dismiss blaring red WARNING pop-ups from his vision as he struggles to sit up. The amount of effort it takes to get his uncooperative hands underneath him is monumental, his joints refusing to listen to him. A baby treehorn just learning how to walk flashes across his mind, and he almost smiles at the thought. It’s only once he’s vertical and leaning back against the cave wall that he realizes he’s not alone.

They’re sitting just on the other side of the fire, staring at him through the dark eyes of an expressionless mask.

His body is too exhausted to fight, so he simply stares back and tries to measure up the person across from him. His mind races- this was the same mask as before. This person was trying to- to help, “Were you the one who took care of me while I was incapacitated?” He says slowly into the space between them. His words crackle in the fire.

They don’t acknowledge him, simply looking down and continuing to stir a pot set near the fires edge, in the warm pale embers. The air smells sharp with spice and it makes Zane’s weak stomach turn.

He waits for a long moment, “My name is-“

”Don’t care.” Her voice comes out cutting and disinterested.

He wants to ask her more questions, but he bites his tongue. She didn’t seem like she was in the mood to talk, and frankly neither was he. Even mustering up those two sentences was a monumental effort. He allows silence to fall and tries to pool his strength, looking her up and down to try and glean any information.

She’s dressed in thick green wraps and furs, and on top is a set of carefully crafted armor. It’s the same off-white as her mask. If Zane had to guess, he’d say bone considering the texture. The bone of a massive creature, that is. It’s painstakingly carved and sanded down smooth and sharp in all the right places. Fully articulated gauntlets that don’t hinder her work over her dinner, an intricately whittled chest plate and pauldrons, arm guards, shin guards, plated armor sitting over her hips and stomach. Everything is lined with decorative curves and swirls. He doesn’t ask her about it, even if he wants to.

He fidgets awkwardly, looking around the cave next. It strikes him suddenly just how… lived in the place feels. It’s not a temporary camp, but a home.

Below his sleep mat was long pieces of burgundy wood and when he shifts, he feels the tell-tale flex of raised flooring. The fire she cooked in was recessed into the ground and surrounded by stone bricks to protect the wood around it, and a hole has been meticulously chipped into the ceiling to allow smoke to pour out safely. The cave is large, stretching deep and wide and other than her own bed across the fire, the space is filled with all sorts of luxuries and amenities. Furs are spread across the floors like rugs and there’s a space along the wall where sheets of paper are hung to dry- there’s a whole space for paper making, large jars filled with lye and pulp and frames for sifting. Next to that is a station for making paint and brushes. Next to her bed there’s a woven basket filled with rolls of hand-dyed fabrics and sewing supplies and the fruits of that labor are all around the home- pillows in bed, cushions at the table, curtains by the bath and laundry basin, even what looks like a bean bag made from the furry hide of some speckled animal sitting near his bed with a clutter of paper, charcoals, and other art materials pilled messily in a basket next to it.

There’s clearly a kitchen area tucked away in the far corner, wood shelving filled with rows and rows of dried herbs and spices, preserved fruits, breads and crackers and blue rice. A low counter of stone for food prep, Knives, spoons, pots and pans- two cups set out to drink from, two bowls and two spoons. She had everything in duplicate, even the stone table had two cushions on either side for another person to sit. There were more woven baskets, wooden chests, a laundry hamper, dying flowers in vases, and-

To his left, at the foot of the bed, is a stuffed pigeon hand sewn from soft fuzzy fabrics. It’s rumpled and bald in some spots. Well loved.

He blinks and his eyes flicker to the decor hung on the walls. He’s skimmed over them first, not really looking- but he does now.

All of that handmade paper is taped up and filled with child-like drawings of animals and plants and two people holding hands. The most prominent is a drawing of a large, poorly drawn armored woman wearing the same mask as the woman across the fire wielding a sword and protecting a smaller figure from a large monster trying to attack them. In nearly illegible script, with arrows pointing to the two figures respectively, they are labeled “MOMMY” and the other “ME.”

Without thinking, he reaches out to touch one when the woman speaks again.

”Do you eat?” She asks sharply, snapping him back to attention. He blinks, confused, “You aren’t human. Do you need to eat?” She clarifies, sounding almost annoyed.

”Yes, I can eat.” He answers.

She jerks her armored hand towards the table, “Sit.” She orders, taking the pot of soup over to the table and settling onto the green cushion with her legs crossed.

Zane is slow to follow because his whole body still aches. He stops short of the table when he notices the staff of forbidden spinjitzu propped up against the wall. It’s just a normal staff now that he’s torn the scroll off. That feels… wrong. Too anticlimactic. It should have ended another way.

She motions to the seat across from herself and he lowers himself onto the red cushion gingerly, wincing as his knees hit the ground harder than he intends.

In front of him, scratched into the stone in that same childish script, is the name Kiryu.

She serves him a big bowl of the food she’d prepared, covering the name completely. His stomach is still feeling touchy, and the strong smelling food does nothing to entice him to take a bite. He doesn’t technically need to eat, under normal circumstances. Nothing about what has happened is normal, though, and his body is begging for fuel to burn. So he picks up his spoon.

She’s mastered the art of eating under her mask, keeping her face completely covered while she picks at her dinner. It’s mustard yellow, thick, and filled with mystery chunks. When he finally hypes himself up enough to take a bite, he’s surprised at how bland it is. He might actually be able to stomach this. After his first swallow, his hunger makes itself apparent and he starts to eat a little more animatedly than he had before.

The woman finishes first, pushing the nearly-full bowl away and wiping her mouth off on her sleeve, “Do you know where you are?” She says finally, after watching him eat for an uncomfortable amount of time.

He places his spoon down slowly, unsure where this conversation could lead, “No, I do not.” He answers respectfully.

She regards him for a long moment, “You are in the Realm of Madness. You were sent here because you did something terrible, I imagine.”

The world stalls.

“What?” he says blankly. Sure, this place was- was strange, weird, whatever but- of course Wu didn’t send him back! He wouldn’t unleash the ice emperor on ninjago, no- but he thought- why would he think he had any chance at going home? His stomach turns violently against the food he’d just eaten.

“Calm down.” She orders sharply, and he hates the part of himself that latches on to that. The part of him that wanted someone else to tell him what to do.

He balls his hands into fists and consciously moves his internal fans, the equivalent of taking a slow deep breath.

“We all call this place something different. Exile, eternal prison, hell- the kids from Chima have this silly, flowery name for it. Tomb, or something close. Ninjargons the only one that doesn’t call it what it is- a form of punishment.” She stands up, going into the kitchen and taking out two cups and a leather bag, “They only send the worst of us here to suffer. They consider it kinder than death. I used to agree.”

He focuses on the one thing in this conversation that doesn’t make him want to scream, ”Who is they?”

She sits again, popping the cap on the leather bag and pouring a dark spiced rum into her cup, ”Anyone who opposes you. The good people, the ones who don’t have the stomach for blood.” She caps the bag and slides it closer to him, offering.

He can hardly swallow past the lump in his throat, ”I did not want to hurt anyone-“

”Don’t make excuses for yourself.” She says coldly, any trace of maternal inflection replaced by a viscous intolerance for pity. She looks at him hard, “I know what that was.” She nods to the staff by the wall, “I know what you are. That staff in the hands of an elemental master- well, it’s not hard to connect the dots.”

He shakes his head, “no- it was not like that-”

“What, then?”

Zane swallows hard against the accusation in her tone and tries to organize his thoughts, “I- lost my memory, I did not know who I was-”

“So you hurt people.” She finishes flatly. He flinches. “And you were good at it, too. That’s why you’re here. None of that other shit matters, kid- all it comes down to is that you were a monster they needed to destroy.”

There’s no words he can string together to make anything okay.

She lets out a mirthless chuckle, “At least some people had their reasons. No memory, huh? So you did all the things you did… because you could.”

Neither of them say anything for a long time. The fire grows low. She stands up to tend to it, leaving him alone at the table.

”What am I supposed to do?” He asks softly.

”Suffer.” She says bluntly. “Survive. Pay your penance. There are plenty who take the easy way out. I don’t care.” She gets up to tend to the fire.

”Why am I here?”

Another log goes on the fire. She looks up at him like he’s irritating her, “I just told you.”

He winces again before clarifying, “No, why am I here, In your home?” She stays quiet so he adds, “You helped me, and I am beginning to understand that is not something you typically do.”

She snorts at that. Another long pause, “I was there. I saw you fall. Scavengers would have found you in no time and you’d be dead by now.” She motions to his body, “Mechanics are scarce. Mechanics as good as yours even more so. If you want to survive in this place, you’ll need to hide every part of yourself or they’ll tear you apart and barter with your insides.”

A life in hiding. A life in constant fear.

Alarm bells ring in his head, “What do you want from me?” Because he was vulnerable and helpless and if she wanted to rip his head off and offer his hard drive to the highest bidder- well, he couldn’t defend himself.

Part of him wonders- would you even try?

“Nothing.” she answers without hesitation, but there’s no insult at his insinuation. “A few years ago, maybe I’d have killed you myself. Not now. I’m too tired for that.”

He doesn’t understand.

“I am not a kind woman.” She continues slowly, “I never claimed to be. My cruelty cost me everything. Perhaps part of me wanted to do something good in the end- a drop in the bucket weighed against all my transgressions. What good does a monster saving another monster do? I don’t know.” she shifts the embers at the edge of the fire, her voice taking on a contemplative lilt, “and what good have I done you, preserving a life for you here?”

“...Thank you.” he offers.

She doesn’t laugh. He thinks she might want to, “I don’t deserve your gratitude. I have done nobody any good my whole life.”

“I don’t believe that’s true.” Zane argues softly, eyes straying over to the stuffed pigeon plushy again.

She’s follows his gaze. Without a second glance, she stomps out the embers that spread too close to the wall of the fire pit, “You should sleep. Tomorrow you will be on your own.” She adds a log to the fire and places a cover over the top to keep the fire burning longer.

He gets up slowly from the table, making his way across the floor on aching legs before gingerly laying down on his bedmat. She doesn’t take off any of her armor as she settles under her own blankets.

Exile. Eternal prison.

Hell.

this isn't hell. he'd been in hell in the never realm, when he was on that throne. Still, this is a punishment. The worst kind of punishment that could be executed.

Wu sent him here, to this place. He must have believed he belonged here.

Blood flashes in his mind's eye. Exposed organs, death rattles from punctured lungs, bodies thin with starvation after frost killed any crops-

He does belong here.

Monster.

The next morning- is it morning? Zane has no idea- he wakes up alone. It isn’t until he musters up the strength to climb the rocky opening to the surface that he finds her. She’s sitting near the opening of the cave criss cross, with her back ram-rod straight. In front of her is a massive wall of mist, reaching past the clouds in the dim purple-red sky. He doesn’t know what to do other than sit next to her, so he does that.

She doesn’t acknowledge him.

She’s holding a picture in her hand- not a modern photo that he knows, but something older. Something fragile.

“Is that your son?” He asks.

“Yes.” She says quietly. He’s maybe seven in the photo, still so young, with skin so pale it’s translucent and wisps of bright blood red hairs poking from his head. Veins, ribs, and organs are all visible through his skin where she’s posing with him. She’s wearing her mask and holding him close, and he’s smiling at the camera with too many teeth- some sharp and jagged. Behind them is a strange forest- this photo was taken here, in the Realm Of Madness.

“He’s gone now.” She says simply.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as much as I am.” there’s nothing else to say, so they watch the day pass.

She reaches up and pulls her mask off.

Her face is bumpy and fuzzy, almost like felt, with a hundred colors overlapping and banding in random waves that follow the raised ridges along her skin. Colors blend and mix in bright, technicolor bursts similar to the sheen on an oil spill- and they move along her face and neck in pulsing flashes like currents shifting on the ocean floor. It looks like someone had taken the way her reflection looked on turbulent water and shaped her skull from it, nothing about her symmetrical or smooth- she has no nose and he can’t find her mouth of eyes, but he knows she has them. They ate together. She lookers at him. Old feathers poke out of her skin in sporadic patches and he can’t tell whether or not shes grown them or simply lost all her others. His processor can’t comprehend what he’s looking at- it doesn’t compute. Every time her tries to formulate an opinion it’s as if he hits a computing error and he has to start all over again.

Her head expands and contracts as if it was breathing.

He can’t stop looking at her. She doesn’t seem to care.

“The Realm of Madness is not a mercy.” She says, her face splitting in half to reveal perfect white teeth- jarring in the mess of the rest of her, “It changes us. I have held on for a long time, But I am tired now, and I miss my son.”

She stands and deliberates for a moment before she tosses her mask and the feather cloak around her shoulders to the ground at his feet, “Take these. I don’t need them anymore. The others of this land call me Birdy- hide in that too.”

”You are leaving?” Zane asks, scrambling to his feet.

”I am the original monster in this realm- I am the first. My suffering is done, and I am going to rest now.” Birdy says, voice light with the relief of an ending, “I’ve paid the price. I’ve paid it all.”

She turns towards that abrupt wall of mist and takes her first step forward, heading straight for the thick wave of release waiting for her.

Zane stands as quickly as he can and follows her with the intent to do- something. He doesn’t know what. What was the mist? What did it do? It sounded like death- he couldn’t just let her do this- a loud red warning pops up in his vision the moment the gas contacts his inner workings.

WARNING ‽‽‽‽‽‽‽‽ RADIATION FIELD Processing failure imminent Motor function failure imminent Power source failure imminent RAM failure imminent

PROCEED WITH CAUTION

He steps back and stares into the mist, looking for her retreating back for several moments.

She’s gone.

He stays in Birdy's cave longer than he cares to admit. It feels wrong, but he just… doesn’t know what to do. For nearly a whole week after Birdy's disappearance into the mist, he’d still been reeling from the damage to his body from… everything that happened. His self repair programming wasn’t designed to tackle the mess he’d made of himself, but it should work well enough that he isn’t constantly leaking power and weak.

There was also the minor issue of massive emotional breakdowns he was struggling through every few hours, when he couldn’t stop thinking about everything that happened. He wasn’t exactly at his best. Compartmentalization takes time, and sixty years was a lot to pack away.

He spends most of his time putting away Birdys things- packing up the drawings on the wall in a wicker basket wrapped in leather to preserve the art work, folding old clothes and packing them inside too- there were baby clothes here. Shirts and shoes for toddlers, tunics for a child. He wasn’t going to stay here forever, and the way she spoke about scavengers… he didn’t think any other person in the realm would treat these precious items with the respect they deserved. So he bundles it all up and hides it under the wooden floorboards.

He finds a stash of handmade candles and lights two for Birdy and her son. Hopefully they are both at peace now.

The idea of staying here indefinitely crosses his mind, but he can’t quite bring himself to truly consider it. No matter how much he wants to just curl into a ball and turn to dust here, safe in this tiny little home, his skin crawls at the idea. This wasn’t made for him. The bed he’d been using wasn’t his. Zane was sick of settling into a place that wasn’t his to take- the throne he’d spent sixty years on wasn’t made for him, either. It was already bad enough that he was going to take her mask and her cloak, maybe even her name- but that was different from her home. The things she wore were a disguise, hiding away the honest pieces of herself.

Her home was where she was herself, genuinely. He couldn’t make a space for himself here. It wasn’t right.

Three weeks after everything, he puts on the mask.

It’s hard to see out of, and it feels awkward on his face. It wasn’t hand carved for him, but Birdy's warning sits bright and clear in his mind. He had to keep his face covered- he’d tried cloaking, but the hologram projectors along the nape of his neck and down his back were all damaged too badly and the image came out glitched.  He clasps the feathered cap over his shoulder and prepares to venture out into the hostile world he’d found himself in.

Hostile. right. 

He needed a weapon, and the only thing here… the only thing he truly felt confident wielding was the staff. Two more days pass before he can bring himself to pick it up. With the scroll gone, it’s just a normal staff with a normal blade that he used to gut a man who made an attempt on Vex’s life-

He slams down his mental shields on that memory before he can taste the blood it left behind. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what you are.

Monster.

A day after that, once he’d found a pale canvas bag and filled it with food, spices, and a few other essentials he might need, he finally steps out of the hole and back into the world.

The wall of mist is still there, calm and steady. He’s not sure what else to do so he just… starts walking. He keeps the mist to his right and travels parallel to it, waiting for the swath of empty flat land to change to… anything else. The world is dim and bland, a colorless expanse of darkness that seems to go on forever. He keeps walking. His mind drifts back to the Never Realm but the memories burn.

He tries to think about something else, but the only other thing that jumps to the forefront of his mind are his friends, and that hurts in a different, just as painful way. He’s not ready to think about them. What would they think of him now?

He didn’t want to hurt anyone.

Don’t make excuses for yourself, monster.

He keeps walking.

Two days pass before he sees a forest. He almost hesitates to leave the mist behind… it was ultimately familiar now, a security blanket of sorts. The mist held a threat he knew. The jungle was filled with possibilities, and in a place like this none of them could be any good. He detaches himself from the mist anyway and treks across the broad empty expanse of no man’s land between the two biomes before he steps in a place with deep red trees and strange flora.

He’s always been good with animals, and he attributes that to why he’s able to catch himself before he stumbles right into a predator's strike range. He avoids the tree that trembles with the weight of something massive up in its branches, he turns away from the distant sound of buzzing because nothing good sounds like that, and when he notices a large shape lumbering through the bushes up ahead he presses himself against the red bark and waits for it to pass. He keeps his mind focused on the world around him and doesn’t think about anything else.

That’s when he notices the strange oblong fruits hanging from a coiling vine growing up the side of a tree. They’re orange in color and are covered in thin hair-like protrusions. Zane reaches out and carefully runs the back of his finger over the fruit- the hair is soft and flexible, almost sleek. He grasps the fruit on one hand and plucks it, noticing how it comes off the vine without a fight. He tucks it in his satchel and keeps moving, now with his eyes peeled for more vegetation.

A string of bead-like vegetables here, completely flat speckled fruit there, a corkscrew tuber that’s twisting itself out of the ground. Zane may have been a homicidal maniac for the past sixty years, but he was also a chef. He’d have to analyze his haul later to make absolutely certain it’s edible so that the others can eat-

The sharp stab of pain feels almost physical as his processor stalls. He stops walking, sliding down the trunk of a tree to sit on the soft ground. There is no one else to cook for.

Loneliness crawls up his chest and sits in the back of his throat.

What have you done? He asks himself, staring blankly at the dark forest around him. You have ruined everything.

He doesn’t know how long he stays sitting there before he stands back up and moves on, more subdued than before. He’s been alone before, in the empty space after his father died and before Wu found him. He’d survived that loneliness then. He could survive this too. He was good at surviving. He keeps exploring the forest. It’s absolutely massive, and seems to go on forever- so he just keeps walking.

His internal navigation system is acting strange- it’s keeping track of his movement through the forest, and it seems to continuously loop over on itself even though he knows he hasn’t been walking in circles. It must be broken too.

Twenty six days pass before he comes upon a small camp set up between trees, large swathes of thickets cleared away for enough room for a fire and a few tents. He doesn’t notice that at all, not at first.

What he sees first is a strange animal. Despite his misgivings about the fauna in the forest, he can’t help but move in for a closer look. It had a fat body, broad neck, and a pointed head. It was precariously balanced on four spindly little legs. Stranger still, the long hair along the back of its neck was braided, and the tail sticking out from its hindquarters matched. Thrown over its back was a saddle. It looked similar to a saddle used for a walloper, all leather and straps with a blanket laid underneath for the animals comfort. It made a strange, apprehensive sound as he approached it from behind so he slowed down and stepped along the side so it could see him better. It shifted on its hooves but seemed to calm down when it's dark eyes were able to clock him.

It had strange colors, piebald black and white with a pink nose. Its tall ears pointed towards him, flicking as it sized him up.

He’s not at his best. If he were, he probably would have realized what exactly a saddle means- this animal belonged to someone. If he had realized that, he would have been on the lookout for the owner, and probably wouldn’t have boxed in so easily.

He’s still a ninja through and through, and while he may have been completely enamored by the strange beast he was nervous enough that his processor was still hyper-vigilant of the world around him. A subtle twang, the hiss of something fast-

He jerks his hand back half a second before an arrow whizzes past his fingers, burying itself in the tree directly behind him. He whips around and flicks the staff in his hand to grip it better, preparing for a fight- but the silence that settles after that is heavy and so, so still. There’s movement in the trees around him, at his sides, and when he strains his hearing as much as he can there’s the barest hint of footsteps behind him.

The bushes on the other side of the camp rustle and then part as a woman and a man approach him almost casually. Confident they have the upper hand- which they did. Zane is tense and stiff as they come to a stop in the middle of their camp, sizing him up casually. He wasn’t certain he could fight effectively enough to make it out of this in one piece.

“Hello there, stranger.” The woman says with a lazy smile. Tall, dark skin and salt and pepper hair, covered in a plethora of extra eyes that roll and dart as she speaks.

The massive wolf at her side bares his teeth and looks at Samira like she’s lost her mind, “Let me chase her off, Samira. She was trying to steal Cowie.”

Finally, Zane gets a good look at the man-

He’s not a man at all. Not a human, at least. He was an absolutely massive wolf- taller than Zane by at least two feet with ruddy gray fur. His ears, face, and basically anywhere Zane could see were striped with old battle scars, but the thing that stood out the most was the way one of his arms dragged along the ground, digging gouges in the hard packed dirt with the massive bone shards that spilled out of his skin in even spaces. With his head turned, Zane could see these bone spurs poked out of each vertebrae in his spine as well.

It changes us all. Right.

“Wox, darling, you need glasses.” The woman says airily as she steps closer. Zane backs up as far as he dares with the threat behind him still hidden, but she doesn't pursue any further. She stops walking at Cowies (?) side and she looks relaxed, but her hand is sitting purposefully on the hilt of a wicked looking knife. Zane imagines he doesn’t look too friendly with his staff in an iron-grip, but Birdy had told him pretty explicitly that the people here would gut him if he gave them a chance. She gestures to him, “Where’d you get that mask?”

Wox looks confused for a moment, scrutinizing Zane until he seems to realize that he’s not the original owner of the mask. He’s still glaring at him hatefully and Zane knows he has to stay aware, just in case the guy swings at him with the morning star that makes up his arm.

“It was a gift.” He says truthfully.

She stares at him for a long time. Her eyes make her nearly impossible to read- but it seems she has no problem seeing straight through him, “What’s your name?” She asks next.

He hesitates. Zane… Zane doesn’t feel right, anymore. Not after what he did. He couldn’t use any of his old nicknames either, and he’d sooner take a punch from Wox than tell her to call him Emperor. “Call me Birdy.” He says finally, awkward and more than a little unsure.

Her jaw works as she mulls that over. “Were you trying to steal my horse?”

Horse. So that's what that thing was. He shakes his head, “No ma’am.”

“Oh, he’s polite!” Samira brightens at the formality before she turns to her companion, “See, Wox, he wasn’t trying to take her!”

“Then what was he doing?” Wox growls, pinning him with a distrustful look.

Birdy feels a little silly and childish as he admits, “I was attempting to pet her.” He nearly cringes at his own words, shuffling on his feet and trying not to look guilty.

Samira grins, and there’s a spark in her eye, “You can pet her.” She says graciously, beckoning him over. She drops her hand from the hilt of her knife, “She can be a little skittish around new people, but if i’m here she should be fine.”

There's a long moment where no one moves before Birdy finally takes a step forward. Despite everything, he was still a sucker for a good pet. He approaches slowly, keeping his eyes on Wox, before he reaches out a gloved hand and runs it down the horse's thick neck. He can’t feel the texture very well through his gloves, but he feels when she presses closer to the touch and he can't help the small smile that blooms under his mask.

“My name is Samira.” She introduces herself kindly, but she’s watching him- looking for any sort of reaction to her name, “Here, pet from her nose up. She likes that.”

Birdy follows her instruction, watching in fascination as the horse makes an adorable whinny sound at the affection.

“I have to apologize for Wox. he can be a bit protective of our things.” She says with a wince, “He means well.”

“It is alright.” He pulls his hand away, “Thank you for allowing me to pet her.”

Samira grins wide at him, with a bit too many teeth, “Of course. It’s nice to meet you… Birdy.”

He inclines his head.

She hums a little, “We’re headed back to Oasis here, soon. Would you like to accompany us?”

“Oasis?”

She smiles that same, too-wide smile. As if he’s playing right into her hand, “It’s a refuge for the people stranded here. I’m like the mayor, you could say. Wox is my second in command and Barath- he’s around here somewhere- is the brains of the operation. We built it so the people here could have a community and a place to call home.”

The look in her eyes feels sickly similar to Vex’s, but Zane shoves that thought away immediately. Vex’s cruelty was too fresh, too raw and recent. He shouldn’t let Vex warp his view of Samira- besides, there’s no cord connected to his head for her to rip out. She couldn’t take his memories. He wouldn't allow himself to become even more of a monster than he already was.

He rapidly runs through his options. They were… extremely limited. Sure, he could decline- and she seemed willing to accept that answer and allow him to leave with no trouble, but then he’d be right back where he started. Alone, walking through this forest without a clue of what to do or where to go, without any knowledge of the realm. Aimless wandering.

Maybe one of his biggest weaknesses is that he craves a purpose.

“If you do not mind my presence, I will accompany you.” He says formally.

Wox snorts roughly, “We’re taking in strays, now?”

Samira makes a motion with her hand and more people come trundling from the forest around them and begin breaking down camp, “I took you home, didn’t I?” She responds with a mischievous smile, then adds, “Besides, he’s not a stray. He’s one of us.” She says with a wide grin.

They only start moving when Barath returns. He’s a strange man, with a pair of thick glasses that only seem to enhance the way his eyes dart around wildly. He’s almost constantly taking notes, scribbling down observations from the world around them. When he first sees Birdy, he cocks his head to the side like a curious dog would and says, “Did you kill her?”

Birdy jerks at the question, “No.” He says, too defensive, “She gave me her mask willingly.”

“That is not like her.” He says simply, squinting at Birdy. A moment passes before he flips to a new page in his little notebook and scribbles down a new note, “I don’t believe you.” He says simply, and walks away before Birdy can say anything else.

He hangs back and tries not to get in the way as people collapse tents and stamp out the fire pit. He would offer to help, but the people here are whispering to themselves and throwing him unwelcoming glances. It seems Barath is not the only one who believes he’d bloodied his hands for this mask.

“You’re quite the sensation.” Samira says as she slings a pack over Cowies back, “Don’t be discouraged by their attitude. It’s been a long while since we’ve had a newcomer sent here.” She looks at him curiously, and Birdy doesn’t realize she’s fishing for information he shouldn’t give.

“I did not mean to make anyone uncomfortable.” He murmurs, all but confirming his recent arrival.

She smiles sharply, “We’re villains, Birdy. Skepticism is in our nature. They’ll come around.”

He shifts uncertainty at the reminder of who exactly he’s surrounded by, and Samira tracks that movement with knowing eyes.

Barath pulls out a heavy looking dial from his bag and holds it up for a moment before he begins walking away from camp, disappearing into the woods. Wox notices immediately, “Oy, wait for the rest of us!” he snaps, and the small party scrambles after him.

The trek though the forest is a strange thing- Barath twists and turns randomly, cuting a strange path through the foliage that Samira, Wox, and the others all dutifully follow. When Birdy checks his internal systems, he realizes the looping path problem he’d been facing is nonexistent now. Samira watches him quietly from on top of Cowie. She’d asked him to stay close to her, and as they walk her eyes stay fixed on him.

She misinterprets his body language, “We’re not walking in circles.” She informs him.

“I know.” He says without thinking.

There’s no reaction from her other than a curious hum, “Do you?”

He wisely stays quiet this time.

Another hour passes before Samira speaks again, “Do you know why we have to take a path like this?”

He shakes his head.

“We call it the evershift.” She says, and proceeds to spend the next few minutes explaining the way this realm is designed to drive a person crazy. Straight lines become circles. The cardinal directions are meaningless. To navigate through this place, you have to understand how the earth shifts. One wrong move, and you’ll be lost. “Barath invented a compass- he doesn’t like it when we call it that, but I've never been mechanically inclined. I’ll call it like I see it. It helps us navigate through this place accurately.”

Birdy redirects more power into his navigation system so he takes on more information, making a map and comparing the way the ground moves so he can begin to travel on his own. It’s a slow process, but now he has an idea of how to start.

“Tell me about yourself.”

He glances at her uncertainly.

Even his hesitation seems to please her, “Alright. I’ll tell you about myself first, hmm?” she leans back, “I was born in Cloud Kingdom centuries ago- I know, I look fantastic for my age. I was, essentially, a daycare worker. I took care of the children of the scribes in the main hall.”

Wox glances back at her but doesn’t comment.

“I saw a great deal of destiny's written… and I came to disagree with the system.” She says lightly, “War, famine, death, sickness- why must we write it? So I started a rebellion. The elders weren’t happy about that, so now I am here.”

She looks at him expectantly, and Birdy hesitates. “I am from… the Never Realm.” He says, stilted.

“Not originally, hm?” She asks, “You don’t speak with the right cadence.”

“...Ninjago has not been my home in a very long time.”

There’s an intrigued light in her eyes, “Just who are you, Birdy?”

“I do not know.” He admits, the truth of it making his circuits curl in sharp pain. He used to be Zane. He used to be the Ice Emperor. Now he was stuck in a realm he didn’t know wearing a mask and hiding in a name that wasn't his. He didn’t know who he was.

“There is plenty of time to figure it out.” She says kindly, and allows him to mull over his identity crisis in peace over the rest of the trip back home.

His first impression of Oasis is that it’s far larger than he anticipated. He didn’t expect this realm to be filled with so many people- were there really this many people banished to this place? All ages, all races, hundreds of people who were so horrible they were exiled to this hell to never return? He follows the group quietly as they pass through a set of large gates and wind around deep halls until the reach the entrance to a stable. Samira dismounts Cowie and greets another woman who was waiting for her return.

“Ila.” Samira smiles as she hugs her friend.

“How was the mission?” Ila asks, the tentacles pouring out of her belly wrapping around Samira in greeting.

“Very successful. We were able to extract four funeral flowers before the mist became too caustic.” She grins triumphantly.

Ilas two toned eyes peek over Samiras shoulder curiously, zeroing in on Birdy.

“And,” Samira adds, “We ran into a new arrival.” pulling away, she motions to Birdy.

He steps closer, “Hello. Call me Birdy.” He offers his hand.

“You’re not afraid?” Ila says in wonder, pushing her curious tentacles down so she can shake his hand with her own.

Birdy was good at surviving, and part of that meant adapting and doing it quickly, “I am not.” he says truthfully, even as her tentacles wiggle free to touch his gloves and the edge of his sleeve inquisitively.

“Ila is my personal assistant and chef.” Samira introduces.

Birdy feels himself perk up, “Chef?”

“You like to cook?”

“I do.” He says sincerely, carefully extracting his hand before Ilas tentacles can wiggle under his gloves and touch bare metal.

Samira smiles at that, “Why don’t you show our friend the kitchen while Barath, Wox, and I take the flowers to the lab for processing?”

That’s how Birdy ends up here, deep within the halls of Oasis palace marveling at the foreign technology set up around the room. Most of it is old, traditional ways of cooking- brick ovens, rooms for drying and preserving meats and spices, fire pits with huge pots and pans, a well dug into the earth that brims with strange not-quite-right water. The only bit of actual mechanical engineering in the room is a massive metal freezer filled with fresh meats and vegetables.

“This,” Ila points at the strange hairy fruit he’d pulled from his bag, “Is called filler fruit. Packed with protein, it’s a good, hearty meal.” They’d been going through the things he’d scavenged in the forest and taken from the original Birdy's home slowly. “Not much can be done with it flavor wise, though.”

She teaches him about everything in his bag that’s edible and some things that aren’t (“It makes for a nice perfume if you soak it,” She says about the strange corkscrew tuber, “But it’s toxic to eat.”) She goes down the line until she stops at a jar of pale purple ground spice, “Oh, this is basically mustard seed.” She sighs wistfully, “I used to make candied fruits using mustard. The kick it adds is divine.”

Birdy blinks before he pushes it a little closer to her, “You are welcome to keep it.” He says sincerely.

She smiles thinly, “You’re very sweet, but I can’t.” She hesitates for a long moment, “Barath hates the taste, so I don’t even keep it in stock.”

Not long after this, Wox appears in the kitchen, “I’ve got your room ready.” He says gruffly, obviously unhappy that Birdy will be staying under the same roof as he is.

“My room?”

“Samira insists you stay as long as you like.” He jerks his chin, “Follow me.”

He falls into a routine here, accidentally. He helps Ila with breakfast and lunch before she has to attend to other duties, he joins Samira at her private table for dinner at her insistence, and he learns all he can about everything the realm has to offer. The longer he settles in, the more irritated Wox becomes. Even Ila starts to subtly prod him about his conversations with Samira- but there’s not much to tell. She’s firmly established herself as a friend and doesn't push for information or say anything uncouth or untoward.

One day, after dinner, she invites him to her office.

She pours herself a generous cup of some type of whiskey, sipping it slowly as they sit in companionable silence.

“It was chaos when I first came here.” She sighs softly, a wave of exhaustion weighing down her shoulders ““There was no community, no society- just violence and lots of pain. You’ve noticed it, I'm certain. We’re all… different, here. Our bodies have been changed by the realm- that is the nature of madness.”

He shakes his head when she offers him a glass, but she’s not offended. “Mutations are hard on the body, Birdy. Uncomfortable at best, agony at worst.” She fishes a key from her pocket and uses it to open a hidden compartment in her desk, “You’ve toured the Jelly farm. You asked me what we were farming… well, I think you’re ready to know. When I first saw a jelly, I watched her use the poison on her lures to take down an undertaker.” She fishes out a small vial made of dark glass, impossible to see what’s inside. “Paralyzed it and ate it right up, and it gave me an idea. She numbs you first, before she eats you. If I could use her poison, refine it just right, maybe I could take that numbness and use it to take away that pain.” She uncorks the vial and tips it over her palm, a small pink marble rolling out to settle over her heart line, “And with a bit of help from Barath, I did it, and I built Oasis around this thing right here. It’s amazing how easy it is to bring people together when pain is out of the equation.” He studies it for a long moment, “That is a noble thing to do.” He offers quietly. “After everything I’ve been through, Birdy… I know pain. I can see it.” She takes a moment to really study him, “You’re in a lot of pain, Aren’t you?”

His throat feels tight and he struggles to swallow. She holds the pill out, “Here.” Samira says gently, “it works on emotional pain, too- and it’ll help you later on, once the chaos of this realm sinks its teeth into you. It will only get worse from here.”

There’s no guarantee it’ll work on him. There’s a possibility it will. Maybe he’ll be able to sleep again, without nightmares- maybe he could think about his friends without his chest feeling like it’s caving in on him. He’d been keeping himself distracted, had been doing everything in his power to keep his mind away from the brutal parts of his life that threatened to tear his heart from his chest. He was in pain. A constant, bruising agony that ate away at his processor in quiet moments that threatened to kill him with it’s cruelty.

Monster.

Suffer.

Penance.

What does he deserve?

He reaches out and slowly, tenderly closes her fingers around the pill and pushes it back towards her chest, “Thank you, but I cannot accept this.”

She looks at him strangely, her expression unreadable.

“Okay.” She says finally, dropping it back into the bottle, “...But the offer still stands. The first one is always free.”

“You’ll have a few hours from the first entrance before the mist induces irreparable delirium and you’ll be too confused to leave.” Barath says jovially, “If that happens, try and make it as close to the exit as you can so I can have someone go in for your body. It’s been too long since I've done a decent dissection.” He says with a bright smile.

“...I will do my best.” Birdy responds.

“Don’t listen to him, you’ll be fine.” a woman to his left reassures him, wrapping thick straps of leaver over her hands.

“No, you should definitely listen to him.” Wox remarks sourly, “He may be a nutjob, but he knows his science.”

“I’ve been in the mist plenty- I’ve got a good feel for it.” Lena continues, “I can get us out before things get to the point of no return.”

This is the first and only time Birdy has seen Samira look anxious, “The flowers are deeper than they’ve been before. Are you sure you’ll be able to reach them?”

Lena frowns at the ground and finishes wrapping her hands, “Just have some of the pinks ready for me when we get out,” She says, her fingers drumming on her thighs at the thought of a brand new sleeve of pills waiting for her. She shakes out the tension in her shoulders and smiles at Birdy, “Ready?”

When Birdy had volunteered to go into the mist, he’d had a good idea of what he was signing up for. He knew this was a risky thing- Samira said there were people who refused to go back in, even if she offered them a cure pill in return. Barath knew it was some type of toxin in the mist that attacked the flesh, preying on organic material with extreme prejudice. He hadn't quite realized it was radiation, and Birdy wasn’t able to explain how he knew that so he couldn’t say much.

What stuck out to him the most about Baraths notes on the graveyard was that it wasn’t so hard on inorganic material. You didn’t get much more inorganic than a robot. Theoretically, he should be able to last far longer than anyone else- even if his own systems were certain he would eventually go down like anyone else. Part of him insists that this doesn’t make any sense- he has to remind himself this is the realm of madness. Nothing makes sense. That was the point.

He inclines his head. Lena gives him a thumbs up and, with Baraths compass in hand, they plunge into the mist.

There’s no talking in the mist- keep breathing shallow and even, and don’t do anything strenuous. Nothing that could move the mist through your system faster than necessary. Absolutely no running. It’s a painfully slow affair. The little flickers of life he sees in the mist is strangely familiar- green grass. Brown dirt. If he were in the height of delirium, collapsed on the ground and struggling to get his bearings straight, he might think he was home again.

He can feel the mist seeping inside his mechanics. It feels strange and unsettling, like fingers brushing over his ribs and internal wires- but so far there’s no confusion, and he doesn’t have that strange buzzing feeling Barath describes as symptom zero. Lena, however, does seem to be feeling something. She keeps shaking her head like she’s trying to flick water out of her ears- but ever the professional, she soldiers on.

Deeper and deeper they trek, and as they walk Lena gets more and more lethargic.

There’s a weight settling over his skeleton too, but he’s still able to keep moving at a steady pace. She has to keep pausing to read the compass, changing directions every now and then into a winding route through the mist. She stares at the compass longer and longer each time, like trying to read text that’s too small. She's shaking her head more often.

The flowers Lena signs to him, pointing at the tall white buds rising out of the mist in front of them. Moving her hand in the proper configuration to convey that message seems to be a monumental task.

You okay? Birdy signs back, worried.

She looks confused, like she’s unable to understand what he said. She just turns around and goes to the flowers without responding, taking out a small paring knife and cutting them free at the base. Birdy follows suit- each cut spits out a fresh cloud of mist, thicker and whiter than the air around them.

He cuts another flower.

Why was he cutting these flowers again? There’s a reason, isn’t there.

Holding three in his hand, he stares down at the delicate petals. They’re pretty.

He blinks and shakes his head hard- he was on a mission. He cuts another before his processor catches up with him and reminds him to check on… on the girl who came in with him. Lisa?

He glances over and for a second he’s not sure what he’s looking at. There’s a lump on the ground. She’s got only one flower in her hand.

The flowers are so pretty. Why were they taking these?

A red warning pops up in his vision and he can't read it, the words too jumbled and wonky to piece together. That doesn’t make sense- his automatic systems weren’t damaged in the fall. Yet, he can’t understand the warning. The mist. He needs to get out of the mist.

When did he get on his hands and knees?

He stands up on unsteady legs and there’s a brief moment of clarity- he had to get out. They both had to get out, now. He stumbles over to Lauren and grabs her around the waist, hauling her up and holding her loose limbed body in his elbow like a football.

“Nn.. no.” She groans, clawing at the ground until she can wrap her hands around the flowers he’d dropped to grab her, “Need… need pinks…” she slurs desperately, clutching the delicate buds to her chest.

“We have to get out of here.” He argues, surprised at how steady his voice was. He still had time. The mist that the flowers spat was concentrated and strong, but now that he’d stopped harvesting them the fog had receded enough to allow him space to think. He has to wait until she’s got the flowers before he can walk, her struggling making it hard to keep his steps straight without falling.

He starts moving while he can think somewhat straight again. He doesn’t have time to spare to study the compass- each passing second threatens him with that looming confusion. His internal navigation is still steady. He has to trust that the mist hasn’t ruined that yet- so he focuses all his brain power into following the path back out. Less twists and turns, now that he’d mapped the way in. he should be able to get them out fast.

He needed to get them out fast. He was okay, he knew that-

Her nose is dripping with blood, bright red and harsh against the pale orange fur on her face. She’s panting and muttering something- Too far. I went too far. I had to- i needed pinks- i need- we went too far- and her time is running out. His arms feel heavy, but he can still carry her. He won’t leave her. He won’t.

Eons pass. It feels like years. Part of him whispers that it would be so easy to lie down, a homesick urge to rest among familiar green grass and dirt. It would feel so good.

He breaks out of the mist into fresh air and his knees hit the dirt again. He drops Lena in a heap on the ground and coughs up white mist until his internal fans run clear again. Thankfully, he still has the presence of mind to shift his mask to keep his face covered while he spits out thick white mucus.

Samiras knees hit the dirt beside him, “Birdy-” She reaches for him but he sits up, batting her hand away.

“I am fine. Tend to Lena.” He says roughly, swaying in place.

When he looks at her, she’s wide eyed in shock, “You can still form sentences?” She asks, awed.

“How long were we in there?” he asks.

“Twelve hours.” She whispers, “Every other team was unable to return before they hit eight.”

Samira insists he and Lena both ride Suncup back to Oasis even if he argues that he’s fine to walk. Halfway back, he’s grateful for her forcing him on the saddle. His head is still pounding, but he’s mostly happy that being up on horseback makes it easier for Samiras and Wox to field Baraths burning desire to poke and prod and interrogate him on exactly why he was so unaffected by the mist. He can’t think of a suitable lie with the exhaustion still weighing him down, so he’s grateful for the obstacles between the two of them. It also gives him a chance to monitor Lena- she hadn’t woken up yet, and her nose was still dripping blood on Suncups gray coat, but she was alive.

Barath wasn’t certain she’d make it back. They just had to monitor her until they could get her to Oasis’s infirmary. As long as everything went smoothly, Birdy was sure she’d be okay. Her vitals were stable.

This is the Realm of madness, and he’s part of the ninja. That’s a double whammy that ensures nothing will go smoothly.

He’s pulling Suncups reigns before he really even processes that everything has gone to hell, yanking the horse off the beaten path and into the underbrush. He whips Suncup around a tree and into the foliage and leaps off, pulling Lena with him and tucking her in the roots of a massive interwoven bush before he rushes back out to help the others.

It looks like a sand eel, almost. The same massive, gaping mouth and tiny eyes, but that’s where the similarities end- the rest of it is thick with fat, it’s twelve legs segmented and hairy and ending in long thick claws for climbing trees like a sloth. One wouldn’t have been bad, but six had dropped around them. Pack hunters. Wox smashes one on the side of the head with his mutated hand and it’s skull cracks and gives- a gruesome sight as blood splatters across the floor.

Barath is standing off to the side dodging debris and eagerly taking notes in his little booklet, more interested in documenting the creatures strange chittering communications than stopping the ambush. The handful of other warriors that’s accompanied them are trying to beat back the rest of the horde to little effect.

Samira jumps to the right, rolling across the dirt as the largest of the beasts attempts to flop its body on top of her- it’s preferred hunting method, it seems. Crushing its prey to death with its massive weight. She leaps back to her feet, turning around too slow- she doesn’t expect it to roll.

Birdy throws himself across the clearing and into Samiras side, the two of them sliding across the ground out of range of the beast's death roll. Birdy is back up in record time, and a wave of vertigo rolls over him. The mist is still lingering in his system- but there’s no time to breathe. The eels are eager to eat, and they don’t care for a fair fight. The alpha zeroes in on Birdy and charges, massive muscles bunching under it’s thick skin with deadly intent.

He hasn’t used ice since the Never Realm. He couldn’t bring himself too- it had been a tool of oppression for so long that the idea of even forming a snowflake made Birdys skin crawl. There was no other option here, though. Not with the beast bearing down on him, not with how weak he still was. He’d have to run after this, take off away from the group- if they’d kill him for his mechanics, there was no telling what they’d do to use his powers.

He reaches deep in his chest, in the cold space that’s always been there-

He flings his hand out. He’d freeze the ground. Their claws were too wide and flat to grip ice. Without traction, it wouldn’t be able to fight. None of them would. That had to be enough. So he draws up from that well deep in his heart and prepares himself to run and hope that Lena will be okay-

-And nothing happens.

The world stutters to a stop.

Ice, the one constant in the past sixty years- the one thing he could truly rely on, even in his darkest moments. His faithful companion during the good at the bad. It didn’t respond to him anymore. The cold chill in his chest is a echo of something he used to have. There’s an empty cavern inside him that expands suddenly, like realizing it was there has allowed it room to breathe and now its crushing his power core and all his internal wiring with the nothingness growing inside him. It stretches down his arms and legs, out to the very tips of his fingers until he is a hollow husk of a man who used to be someone important. Every piece of his body feels fragile and thin, everything he is suddenly a threadbare piece of cloth so thin and insignificant one wrong move will crumble him to dust. He is powerless.

He is alone.

It’s autopilot that saves him and Samira both. The deep set need to survive has him springing away from the beast's path, arm looped around Samiras waist to drag her with him, and it’s his one stroke of good luck that he’d been in front of a tree when the thing charged him. It smashes into bark and it squeals in pain, blood running from its mouth in thick rivulets. It begins to claw up the same tree it’s just dented with its head, chittering a strange song that has the four remaining beasts all pull back. The alpha scrambles up the trunk and leaps across the canopy, the rest of its pack scurrying after it until there is only their little scouting party and the fading crackle of shifting tree branches left.

Mourning has become such a constant part of his life here that he should be able to shelve the loss of Ice and continue on as normal, but he can’t. It feels so much more visceral than what has happened so far- he’d lost everything. Why this, too? Why?

What have I done?

What does a monster deserve?

Suffer.

He swallows down the scream that threatens its way up his throat. He needed to distract himself, he needed to put this away for a moment when he is alone and can fall apart in peace. he can't think about it. he's good at not thinking about things.

He stands up and looks to Samira, who’s already up and briskly brushing the dirt off her pants. Birdy jogs over into the woods where he’d left Suncup and Lena, pleasantly surprised that the skittish horse hadn’t booked it the moment they’d dismounted. He offers the horse a shaky pet before he eases Lena out of the bushes he’d hid her in and back onto Suncups back, leading the two of them back to the main path. Another party member had been injured, and Birdy insists he ride with Lena the rest of the way back to town.

It’s a quiet, somber affair now- everyone on edge, prepared for the next attack that never comes.

Ila waits for them in the stable, and when they arrive with injured she rushes out to fetch the nurses to help. Birdy accompanies Lena to the medical wing- he’s not sure why. He feels responsible for her now, after protecting her. He just had to see it through to the end. He has to make sure she was okay, after everything. They allow him to sit with her after they check her over.

Two hours after they finally make it back, Lena wakes up.

“How are you feeling?” Birdy asks quietly. The room is lit with only a few candles, and Lena still squints against the brightness.

“Did we get the flowers?” She asks instead of responding, whispering it the way people with strep throat whisper. He remember how raw his insides felt after the mist- it would be doubly worse for someone not so mechanically inclined.

“Yes, you did.” Samira answers for him, stepping into the dark room at the perfect time.

Lena straightens up at the sight of her, “My payment?” She asks with a weak smile, eyes flashing with need. Samira produces another of those black vials and hands it over to Lena, who struggles to pop the cork so she can pour all six pills into her palm with a happy sigh.

“As for your payment…” Samira turns to Birdy with a tight frown, “Not only did you get the flowers, but you saved Lenas life and mine. I… owe you.” She bites out the last two words, like it’s agony to say it. Like she wanted nothing less than to offer those words.

By his side, Lena gasps.

“So,” Samira continues, pulling out a small leather bag, “I am going to give you this. Then we’ll be even.” She tosses him the bag.

He catches it automatically, curiously opening the top to reveal an oblong black pill. “Samira, I do not want any painkillers-”

“It’s not a painkiller.” Lena says, voice dripping with longing.

“You survived the mist longer than anyone else ever has.” Crossing her arms, Samira looks away, “There was another like that- his trips to the mist changed him faster, damaged him far more quickly than the rest of us. That’s what happened to you too, isn’t it? You haven't been here the same time as the rest of us, but if you ran into Birdy then you were by the mist. You’re mutated, and it’s far along.”

Lena leans forward, “It’s the cure.” She says reverently, “It takes away the chaos and the pain. It returns you to who you used to be, before this realm destroyed you.”

He looks down at the little pill. So unassuming for the respect it demanded, for the amount of good it could do.

But he was a robot, and he didn’t need it. He was a monster, he wouldn't deserve it.

He picks up the glass of water by Lenas bedside and holds it out to her, dropping the pill bag onto her lap, “Take it.” he says simply, “I do not want it.”

He’d be a fool to ignore the way Lenas face twisted with pain each time she moved- her skin was thick and heavy from the realm, and it weighed so much it threatened to slough off her body each time so moved too quickly. She was covered in silver-white striped stretchmarks under her fur and scars from where her skin had gotten so heavy it’d torn free from her muscles underneath. Her tail was docked halfway down- it’s grown too heavy and had dragged along the ground to the point it was raw and weeping blood too often for her to salvage it. Leather wraps, tight clothes, anything compression helped- but eventually her body would grow so heavy that she wouldn’t be able to move. With the cure, she could be okay for a while longer.

“No!” Samira snaps angrily, immediately taking a dangerous step closer, “You can’t just- give it away. That was my repayment to you, for what you did for me.”

Lena scrambles to take the pill before Samira can make a move for it, swallowing it dry before following it with a hasty gulp of water.

“You gave it to me, so it is my choice what I do with it.” He argues back.

Samira snarls, “That is not how it works. I didn’t do anything for you, now! I still owe you!” she waves her hands around angrily.

“I do not care about repayment!”

“That doesn’t matter!” She lets out an explosive breath, pinching the bridge of her nose like fighting an oncoming headache, “Fine. fine! I’ll repay you some other way!” she spins on heel and storms out of the room, a vacuum of fury being sucked out with her.

Birdy stares after her, confused and irritated. He didn’t want pinks, he didn’t want the cure!

“Thank you.” Lena says quietly. He turns around to face her- her skin hasn’t changed much outwardly, but there's a blissed look of relief relaxing the constant furrow of her brow. A pink pill is missing from the pile in her lap too, “I owe you.”

He feels a fresh bubble of frustration well up his chest, “No, you do not.”

She relaxes back onto the pillow in her bed, “Yes, I do. That’s how it works here. You do something for someone, and they owe you- the bigger the favor, the more you can ask for. For a cure pill, I’ll give you whatever you want… anything you ask.”

He rests his hand lightly on hers, the anger fading into exhaustion, “I do not want anything from you.” He says quietly.

There’s a long moment of silence, “I have to repay you so… I’ll let you in on a secret, okay?”

“You do not have to-”

“Samiras the bad guy.” She mutters softly, “She wants you to think she’s this reformed philanthropist, but that’s not true. She wants control. It’s all she’s ever wanted, and this is how she gets it.” She begins to languidly put the leftover pills back in their case, “Pinks are painkillers, yeah, but they’re also the most addicting thing you can put in your body. It only takes one, and you’re dependent on them- everyone wants one all of the time, and Samira controls the production. She and Ila are the only ones who actually know how to formulate them, so no one else can replicate it. Oasis isn’t a town, it’s her territory- and there’s a price to be paid by everyone who steps food on her soil.”

“A price?”

She shrugs, “food, spices, textiles, labor- all of it is promised in exchange for pinks. If we don’t comply, we don’t get any. It’s how she maintains control- and no one has any dirt on her, so no one can leverage anything to change the status quo. Ila is completely loyal to her, so if Samira is killed I think she’d let this place burn before she blabbed. No one can do anything but live by her rules.”

“Samira has never owed anyone a serious favor… until you. I imagine you won’t be able to get anything too outrageous, but it’s the principle of the matter. Everyone will know she owes you before long, and that’s not a good look for her. If people realize she's not infallible they'll start to get ideas.”

She pins him with her brilliant gold eyes, her gaze intense and focused, “You need to be careful, Birdy. You have a target on your back now- she’ll go to great lengths to discredit you and lower your reputation. You might even be in an ‘accident’ soon… you’re in the lions den, kid.” She smiles at the irony of that statement coming from a lioness, “Don’t let your guard down.”

“And maybe, if you can… get out of town.”

[schraubd]

Blamed for Surviving

A new book tells the gripping story about a Polish Jew and brilliant mathematician who, during the Holocaust, pretended to be a member of the Polish nobility to survive the Nazi occupation. Janina Spinner Mehlberg's deception actually ran two layers deep: she worked for a Polish welfare organization during the war, while secretly being a member of the Polish Underground -- but in the Polish Underground, she maintained her cover as a Catholic "Countess" in order to hide her Jewish identity from her fellow resistors. There's much that could be said about this story, not the least the lengthy period where publishers ignored it out of a general disinterest in hearing survivor narratives. But I want to focus on something slightly different.  In her "public" role during the war, Mehlberg regularly worked with the Nazi occupiers, negotiating for more food or resources to enter the work camps by arguing that it would serve the interests of the German war machine (non-starving workers could replace German men sent to the front, for instance). Even this at best indirectly benefited Jewish inmates, who were typically slated for direct extermination -- the hope was that some of these provisions would end up reaching the entirety of the camps and so improve the survivability for Jews as well as ethnic Poles. Mehlberg, in short, may not have saved any Jews at all. And her "arguments" were ones expressly framed around aiding the Nazi's military ambitions. Yet I cannot imagine anyone reading her story and not thinking she acting bravely and heroically. This is why, whenever I see some soulless cretin on the internet running the "Zionists collaborated with Nazis" narrative, with a smirk and a sanctimonious "see how evil they are and always have been!", I positively radiate with fury. In the most horrifying circumstances imaginable, yes, Jews were forced to negotiate with Nazis -- and negotiate from positions of weakness and supplication. The "deals" we got obviously were not good ones, but that didn't make them any less necessary. To treat this as cowardice or betrayal is not just to miss the point, it is to act with an almost impossible cruelty towards the survivors and the Jewish community writ large placed in truly impossible circumstances. It blames survivors for surviving, and trying to help others survive as well. Even if I thought, with the benefit of hindsight and comfortable distance, that the deals were objectively "bad" (and I make no such claim), I would still never dare indict those who made them. I cannot imagine having the hubris or the heartlessness to do otherwise. I do not judge Mehlberg for doing what it took to survive. I do not judge her for trying her best, in the best way she could, to save innocent lives. It was not her who placed her in those circumstances. Anyone who tries to make her, or those in analogous circumstances, into a villain, is beneath contempt. via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/KXDZVcW

[valtsv]

The original post seems to be about something other than the tropes around revenge being bad. Not many people will disagree that revenge is dangerous, not always productive and often selfish. That's not the same thing as "you're just as bad them" which is not only an unfortunately common trope, but also not only a trope, it's an idea, a belief.

We see this idea when strikes inconvenience other people, when we're intolerant of bigots and even when taking about revolutions killing their despots. We got to the point that people sided with Mussolini's family and followers against people sharing a photo of him hanging.

If we cannot empathize with the people of Italy for beating their fleeing dictator, instead condemning them as equally bad for using violence and seeking revenge, but can empathize with him and his followers, then I believe there's something of ourselves that we see in the oppressors that we don't see in the oppressed. That it would be easier for us to be collaborators than to be resistors.

Sometimes it's just a trope, yes. Batman won't kill the joker as he progressively does more and more harm because "that's not that kind of story", but the fact that almost all stories in the mainstream are "not that kind of story" and the real life examples of people and media criticizing revolutionaries, protesters and other people lashing out against oppression show that this is not just about good and bad storytelling. Some people believe these ideas to justify the status quo.

i completely agree, and i want to stress that i don't actually totally disagree with the tweet (i worded myself a bit badly when writing in the tags because i was rushing, and that's my bad) but i think that 'getting revenge makes you just as bad as the person you're seeking revenge against' is more nuanced than it appears on the surface. a better way of expressing what i mean would be "getting revenge can lead to you becoming arguably 'just as bad' as whoever you're seeking revenge against, if you end up losing sight of the reasons you're seeking revenge and start to perpetrate the same violence and abuses of power that whoever you're seeking revenge against did in your quest for satisfaction".

i believe those stories have an important place in the world and as a member of marginalized groups who wants to assist in fighting back against my and others' oppressors and oppression i consider them very valuable in helping to remind me not to get caught up in feeling right and justified and forget to ask myself if i'm actually helping myself and others. i'm going to make my own post to explain it, but i was using that tweet as a discussion point (hence why i wrote in the tags), not arguing with it.

[tiptapricot]

Alright. Finally getting my thoughts together about Mando S3 episode 6! Forewarning this is a very critical and disappointed view on the episode, however I do try and be as nuanced and explanatory as I can, as just like with the rest of this season there is so much potential, so much I almost love, but it’s just not carried through or is handled in a way that makes me confused and frustrated.

This is somewhat organized, but not overly edited, so if things jump around a bit or if there’s typos, excuse me. Other than that, let’s get into it.

So this episode brings a first two seasons side quest vibe to stuff, which personally I enjoyed as I think those side quests (while many ppl see them as filler/a distraction from the main plot) are more ab exploring our characters under different stressors and circumstances and seeing how they act/react as a result. The design for Plazir was gorgeous and intriguing, and it was fun to see Jack Black and Lizzo and Christopher Lloyd. Similarly to a lot of people I had a “HEY I KNOW THOSE GUYS” moment, and it made me smile and laugh.

But then you get into the plot and I just. I was so icked out and uncomfortable and baffled at how it was handled. Plazir is, as it’s set up, an absolute fucking dystopia. Star Wars has never been good with its droid issues, something that always makes me extremely mad and uncomfortable, but beyond the Solo story, I think this may be one of the worst handlings of those issues yet.

I’ll be sharing ideas with the video “The Traegedy of Droids” by Pop Culture Detective pretty consistently in passing here, so please check it out if you haven’t or aren’t aware of what I’m talking about with “the issue with how SWs handles droids.”

The mini plot of this episode is, in summary, our main protagonists helping to carry out a targeted physical oppression of a droid revolution in order to maintain the droid’s enslaved class status and allow the citizens to continue living on free labor. Not only that, but the revolution and fighting back is revealed to not be a choice, but a drugged reaction from an evil human source. The droid bar literally called The Resistor is not, in fact, an underground place for droids to find community and power and push back (despite the fact that it proves they have off time and desires for relaxation and comraderie) but a place for our mains to be reminded that droids actually just love being an enslaved class, and that oh yes these violent push backs actually make them look bad, and what if they’re forced not to work anymore? No they care about their oppressors and couldn’t imagine fighting back. Action like that has to be forced out of them by humans and is unnatural to their regular existence.

And none of this is framed in the dystopian way it should be. Plazir and it’s leaders and citizens are not framed or presented in a negative light, and the moral is not put on helping the droids to not be the forced labor class for a whole planet. The interesting and terrible ideas presented are taken at face value of how the ruling class sees it, and we as the audience are meant to root for Din and Bo as they chase after a droid Din harassed into fighting back, who is running for its life and defending itself, who they kill. We are meant to be happy when they shoot it, feel triumph, see these outbursts the same way those on Plazir/our mains do. We are meant to see droids as both the enemy and as rightfully subservient.

And that’s. Absolutely fucking wild? Similarly to Solo and L3, I cannot fathom the thought process going through the writers brains while setting up a plot that focuses on droid revolution and freedom, only to treat it as a joke, or to end up condemning droids to a fate worse than death/to a content slave class. And all of this, again, our protagonists go along with.

Bo and Din never once question droid rights or sentience, never once go “oh hey we should actually help these guys out.” They stop the uprisings, Lizzo knights Grogu, and the story goes along its way like it was just an unimportant side quest, and not a nightmare. The mains don’t care, the writers don’t care, the world is telling the viewer not to care.

This is exemplified, unfortunately enough, with the use of the cameos. That reaction of “Omg haha! Lizzo! Jack Black! Mr Lloyd!” add to the comedic/trope-y framing of this episode. The acting was great, this is not against the actors present, I was happy to see them, but their presence added to the episode’s unserious/comedic/don’t think about it too much tone. Seeing celebrities we like takes the focus off of the content of the plot and onto “Haha people I like!” And that sours their presence for me.

And like. Droid stuff not being serious has always been around, with protagonists playing into/joking about droid oppression right from the original trilogy, but hating droids has within the mandalorian itself been built up to be unreasonable and a flaw.

Din is droid-racist. That’s been part of his character since the start, and it has been something he has grown with, that the story has attempted to show him working against despite his prejudices. Yes, he is not over his hate for droids, trusting a few will not change his views on them all, and his actions still being violent and prejudiced this episode are not totally out of character. But he’s been shown to be working on that, and the issue comes with the fact that these actions are not seen as an issue past being impulsive. Kicking a line of workers until one lashes out, saying “if they’re programmed right they shouldn’t mind,” threatening to kill a droid bartender, not questioning forced labor, being excited to kill droids, are all framed as funny or correct or just regular “fighting before talking” type characterization, and not as the deeply flawed and bigoted actions they are.

I’ve seen people in fandom saying “well it’s because of his battle droid PTSD” “din still hates droids that wasn’t resolved” “he’s not just going to be fine around the droids that killed his parents” and like. Yeah, sure. But that doesn’t excuse the actions. They should still be seen as a big fucking issue, as him acting grossly out of line and holding up a “one bad experience means the whole group is bad forever” mentality. Not just a character quirk or something funny or an excuse. The best I can liken it to atm is racism from war vets against the group they fought against. You may be able to understand the distrust and trauma associations but hey guess what! Doesn’t excuse the racism/xenophobia/etc.! But the plot and story framing sure does, and it’s been effective, because the fandom has been doing the same thing too! And it’s. Wild to me!

Like I get many people don’t think about stuff, because again that’s how the world frames it, but you gotta? You gotta see the messages being pushed here?

And from a narrative standpoint you can’t just introduce a storyline like this without dealing with the implications it therefore burdens the story with discussing. Otherwise you end up with something reductive, trivializing, and at its core really really ideologically gross, which is what we got here.

This also doesn’t even touch on:

—The further use of the amnesty program in a way that doesn’t fully dig into the messed up results or the irl parallels to operation paperclip

—Ugnaughts being the only organic labor class we see besides those monitoring security, another group that’s framed as loving to work on the things the ruling class don’t want to, and also living in the dark underground

—The implications of direct democracy and non-militant societies being seen as weak and unreasonable

—Leaders finding loopholes in their laws to intact violence into a revolting class without having to answer for the repercussions of rule breaking

Mainly because I don’t have the brain to unpack all of it. But hey! Just shows how much they introduced with no real thought of how big a can of worms it opened up from a political and social perspective. Something that while a constant in Star Wars at this point never makes it alright. It’s lazy and shows the underlying racist/capitalist politics running through most main pieces of the universe, of which this episode I’d say is probably Mando’s most outright example of. (There are exceptions, Andor being a huge one, but lord is that an exception with everything around it)

And like in concept a neo-noir detective story/procedural with the mando cast sounds awesome, that’s one of my favorite genres, but this was just good old fashioned copaganda and race/class fumble episode with no real nuance, point, or lingering effects on our characters and their view of droids. When I’m fully able to say Detroit become human did a better job handling the ideas of robot sentience/freedom/uprising/changing sides, I think you need to take a good hard look at your story.

So just. That’s that part of the episode. And that’s already so much, but then we have the ending/it’s ties into the overall plot.

From the start we get no real explanation for why Din is with Bo and no one else, what the fallout of the armorer’s decision and reveal of Bo’s place in things had on the covert or on Din and Bo. We just jump in. Then you have Din and Bo showing their individual leading strengths in the episode, the balance between diplomacy and action, heavily implying some joint ruling need, or even showing Din finally showing leadership skills.

But then we get to the final scene with the Axe and Bo fight, and I’ll say I loved that combat! Beat each other up! It was great and I think shows their competence and the statement that fighting makes in mando culture, as well as asserting Bo’s place leading her group. But then we also get two really fucking stupid things.

The first is Axe saying Din isn’t a real mando because of blood even though that? Has never really been a staple of the culture??? This opens up an idea that the night owls have different views on Mandalorian culture than the larger consensus that understands it as a religion, a culture, a people, but not a homogenous group with direct biological descent. Foundlings are huge! So where is this coming from? What’s the background there?

It muddies up a lot of character stuff, culture stuff, and the analogies Mandalorian culture has to real life groups like the Jewish community, various Indigenous and colonized communities, etc. As with so much of this season, Mandalorian culture and politics is begging to be explored, to be fleshed out and dug into in a deeper way than it has been already, and even with new ideas the writers decide to use, it’s given almost no focus. It’s frustrating and disheartening.

Second, ofc, is the Darksaber hand off. I have talked previously about one of the largest issues this season being the writers wrapping up Din’s arcs and plots with no real focus or fanfare, and this was another slap in the face in that regard. Officially, every single important thing from the end of S2 has been wrapped up either in a spin off series that shouldn’t even have had sm Din focus, or in the second episode of the third season. Everything that poised Din for a huge character arc at the end of season 2, at a fundamental change and exploration in himself, has been tossed aside. And it makes no sense to do that. So let’s go through them each!

1. Grogu. Throughout the first two seasons Din and Grogu’s relationship was a focus. It was about Din breaking rules and getting into danger to save this kid, his drive to protect him, to connect him with his people, and then to save him from Gideon. We get that line “He is more important to me than you will ever know,” and then Din has to give him away. This sets up exploring how Grogu has changed him, how that relationship has affected them both, how Din now operates without him.

But then he was reunited with Grogu relatively easily, and there has been no focus on how the newfound understanding of Grogu’s importance to Din affects their relationship now. He hasn’t even recognized himself as Grogu’s father yet, and there’s been no real bonding moments past some in the first two episodes and the background shallow cute moments in others. There’s been no side interactions of Din asking about what Grogu learned, or treasuring having him back, or reflecting on his place as a parent, or making sure he doesn’t lose him again. In episode 6 Din even leaves Grogu with strangers he’s just met for the entire episode and that has no fallout or recognition, despite one of them being an ex-imperial.

2. Breaking the creed. Throughout the first two seasons, again, Din’s faith and his adherence to the CotW’s beliefs are a huge focus. From episode one and on we get variations of the question “Why don’t you take off your helmet?” “Just take off your helmet” “don’t mandos never take their helmets off?” And we see Din is willing to die rather than break that, rather than not be Mandalorian anymore in his eyes. But he does anyway. For Grogu. A testament to not only his growth because of him, but to his commitment to Grogu over all else.

And he is in some ways hopeless because of that. He willingly takes off his helmet again to show Grogu his face before he says goodbye, because he is all Din has left at that point, all that matters in the moment.

But, of course, there is no lasting effect. Bathing in the waters, built up to be a season long arc, was aborted to being finished in episode two with relatively extreme ease, and even then, had no lingering focus on what being redeemed meant for Din. There was no questioning or clinging to faith, no discussions of how much this meant for him, no lingering on the bathing (because it was turned into a rescue action scene for Bo’s story!), no discussion of how being accepted back and cleansed affected him. One of the largest parts of the character since his introduction is. A footnote.

3. The darksaber/ruler of Mandalore story. This one’s just. Nothing. Also resolved retroactively in episode 2, and with no plot presence otherwise. To start this out, no I didn’t think Din was going to have this great rise to being Mand’alor, that was never really where the plot was going in my eyes. But no matter where it should’ve gone or what it should’ve been, it should’ve been something. Yes! He doesn’t want it! So show us why, show us what that responsibility or implication means to him, why his sect of culture doesn’t care about it, why he doesn’t believe himself to be the one to rule or unite. Make him giving it up feel as earned as if he’d kept it. This is one of the most frustrating aspects of this episode and a final straw in my vendetta against the writers.

The dark saber doesn’t even make an appearance between episodes two and six, it’s that unimportant. There is no conversation with Paz or the Armorer, who both know Din has it. There is no discussion about what it means with Jedi vs Mando history, or with Bo Katan about her history with it. This therefore makes Din having it pointless. It did nothing beyond maybe some combat scenes and the brief Butt up against Paz in BoBF. Another case of more actual plot engagement being in BoBF than the main show. There was no point for it to change hands to Din, because him having it changed nothing, made no one grow, made no one think. It affected Bo, which I’ll touch on again in a bit, but the story blooming there could’ve come around by many other means and was not tied to Din at all.

But before I dig into that aspect, the amount of times I’ve seen “Din never wanted the saber that’s why hes finding an easy loophole to give it up” “Din likes being a side character” stuff is so!!! Like!!! Yes! He doesn’t want it he doesn’t want action and responsibility and he doesn’t care about it but he is not making choices he is not real he is being written lazily! This is the writers not wanting to engage with their own character that they built up and created and set the arcs in motion for.

A show can have multiple mains, can shift character focus, but “The Mandalorian” at its inception was referring to Din Djarin and there was no precident for that focus to completely shift. This isn’t a show that changes protags every season, he used to be a shape in the title, is on the merch and the branding. And if there is meant to be a protagonist shift it has to be gradual, and to still involve his development in the impact on that other character. The explanation of “Well it’s called The Mandalorian not Din Djarin” just makes me really mad cause yeah? It is? But it’s also called Star Wars and not Luke Skywalker but we still understand he is the main protagonist, even if other characters develop and are present alongside him.

And there’s no excuse to sideline Din, because the truth is he does have growth to get, he does have arcs to explore, the only reason he’s so flat and has nothing to work towards right now is because the writers threw that away. Specifically in ways that did not make sense from a character or writing perspective.

And why is that? Because they wanted to write someone else, they wanted to write Bo Katan.

Which is exciting! I love Bo as a character from what I’ve seen of her. She is complex and flawed and has a deeply fucked up past that’s intrinsically connected to Mandalore and it’s future. That is a fascinating character to work with, and I don’t mind her being more present in Mando as it tracks for the goal of bringing Mandalorians together. But! This plot is not doing her justice either.

Throughout this season Bo has been dragged along through the shallows in her own journey. There has been no discussion of her past, of Death Watch’s terrorism and torture and murder, of Satine, of her several past attempts to lead Mandalore, of her history with the civil wars and with clan Viszla and with so much more. Which is wild, because you’d think a season which has chosen to focus on her would? Give a shit about her? Would actually engage with the character she is and what she brings to the table?

Instead she’s been handed every plot point, reduced to a girlboss leader, and her rise to getting the saber again is not only forced with no real discussion or nuance, but she’s once again been given it on a technicality. Just as Din giving up the saber is not a decision and shift earned by development, Bo getting it again isn’t either.

And as I mentioned earlier, she was affected by Din getting the saber in that it led to her people leaving her, and led her to question things, but it being Din having the saber means nothing. The same thing would’ve happened had anyone else gotten the saber, or had it been vented off into space or lost or hidden or whatever. By giving it to a specific character, that begs for interaction over that ownership, for discussion and reflection and connection with that character.

And yet there has been nothing. Bo and Din have had some good interactions, yes, but the development the show seems to want for Bo, seems to want the audience to be rooting for and going along with, is not being shown.

To make all of this more basic, the issue with this episode and this whole season thus far, is that it refuses to engage with its own ideas to a fault. It doesn’t want to get its hands messy, doesn’t want to untie the complicated and fascinating and fucked up knot it’s tied for itself. Instead it’s slicing through all of those Gordian style and leaving us to wonder about what might’ve been, about what the story seems to want to be.

I love a lot of the concepts this season, I love what it could be. I love the characters and the world and the religion and the politics, but I have to actually see what is set up, what is set in motion, what is built, to feel like I am watching the show I loved at the start.

And though it’s not as relevant to this episode, it feels relevant here: This should’ve been a Mandalorian politics season, not a new republic politics season.

Yes, they are intertwined, but at the moment the new republic development feels like a main focus, meant to set things up for further installments in the franchise or retroactively explain pst choices, and the mandalorian culture a side focus, and this has caused a detriment to both. Neither gets explored in their full complexity and nuance, and the story feels unfocused and weirdly disjointed as a result.

I’ve seen people upset by the great divide or presence of fandom negativity lately and I get that, but I feel there needs to be an understanding that people aren’t hating just to hate, this is a serious disappointment with the tanking quality of the show and it’s lack of commitment to itself. When something doesn’t deliver on what it markets itself to be, what the writing lays a basis for, that breaks trust and engagement and enjoyment, and leads to people being pissed. It happens. You can still enjoy the show, while also recognizing there is a boatload of valid criticism and issues and flawed messages that are making people uncomfortable, disinterested, and angry.

And having expectations doesnt devalue those criticisms either. I’ve seen a lot of talk of like “you wanted it to be something it’s not” and while that’s true in some cases, I had no solid ideas for this season beyond… what it showed it was going to do. And I am trying to engage with the ideas it is presenting. Again, I like the hypothetical arc at play, but the execution just. Isn’t it for me. The writing quality isn’t good and isn’t smooth and as I hope I’ve laid out, isn’t living up to its own potential or ideas.

So. Yeah.

I just want a show to be what it was begging to be, what it set itself up to be, what the characters and plot threads are wanting to be, but aren’t able to reach in their entirety. I want stuff that makes sense, that makes me think, that isn’t bigoted and lazy and frustrating. But I haven’t been getting that. And that really sucks.

TLDR: a train wreck in motion, but it was carrying cargo I would’ve loved to see.

[legobiwan]

Whumptober Salvage: Episode 3

Well, I'm back. Finally. More life happened in the past week-and-a-half than I had planned for, but here we are!

Today's theme: Restraints

Today's author commentary: The concept of Luigi [redacted due to story spoilers] is something I got from a fic I read a while ago on fanfiction.net whose name I absolutely cannot recall at the moment. But I love fallout fics like this and it's not an impossible consequence of the events of SPM if things had gone in a certain direction.

Warnings: No real warnings here, I'm just excited about this one :D

Index: Episode 1; Episode 2

~~~~~~

It’s good hardware. Great hardware, even. 

Tensile strength? Check. Double check that, he corrects himself with a grimace, pulling at the twin sets of heavy shackles around his wrists and ankles.

The yield strength was high. High enough, he couldn’t even begin to calculate an exact number. (Liar, the voice in the back of his mind corrects. You can’t concentrate on calculating an exact number.)

To reach the malleability threshold must have required something beyond simple fire. Lava would have been his first guess, but he doubts these restraints are a product of the Darklands. Use of an electric current was a feasible concept - maybe - but it would have necessitated one hell of a resistor to produce the heat required to bend this kind of metal into a proper restraint. 

This leaves a few less palatable options. 

The temperature inside a star would certainly get the job done. But he only knew of one person with even the slightest hope of developing a technology to harness the cosmos in that manner, and Luigi has to believe, for his own sanity, that E. Gadd has no involvement with his current predicament. 

Unfortunately, this leaves magic as the only other viable option.

Luigi grits his teeth, absently running his fingers over the cool, smooth surface of the heavy cuffs. No. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t. It had been outlawed years ago, far before he had landed in this strange world. They would have had to strike some kind of deal with the enemy, or spend more coins than he could imagine to acquire this level of restraint. And why did they even have these on hand in the first place? How could they have possibly known - 

After everything. Everything he’s done for them. 

He’s been kidnapped. Tied up and thrown in a dungeon. Has been bruised, burned, cut, and broken in seventeen different ways. Has been manacled, trussed, bound, caged, buried, boxed, restrained, surrounded.

And it was supposed to be that way, alright? It was all part of being a hero.

Luigi plays at the long chains falling from his wrists, a line of solid, squarish links extending back to a thick, leather belt secured around his waist. 

He hadn’t wanted to be a hero. Swooping in and saving the day, getting the pretty girl, marching in parades and receive=ing accolades from a grateful population. It wasn't...him.

No, he had never wanted to be that person.

But was it so wrong to want to be seen as an equal?

He sags against a cold, stone wall with a hoarse sigh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, his fingers digging into the soft collagen of his eyeballs. The movement produces a percussive, dullen ripple as the chains linked to his wrists fall over another, doubled lines of looping metal drooping from his midline to his shackled ankles.

I guess it was. He huffs out a hollow laugh at the thought, picking up one of the chains, inspecting the dense links at eye level.

There was an art to welding. Not the same kind of art those kids over at LaGuardia used to pump out at all hours of the night - weird, insectile sculptures whose disjointed end result of legs and limbs and tentacles mashed onto a misshapen thorax resembled a creature out of Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. 

No, the art in welding came from the marriage of form and purpose, in the perfectly rounded curve of a plate face, in the smooth aerodynamics that resulted from a nearly seamless, but unbreakable fusion of two disparate materials.

The art was in the flight of a machine never meant to fly, in a silohoutte never meant to be replicated in such vicious form.

Luigi pulls at either end of the metal links. Whoever had forged these chains knew what they were doing.

The only thing he can’t quite wrap his head around is the belt. Not that a belt in itself was a confusing item. He’s worn belts almost his entire life, a constant war with drooping pants and scolding family. You should eat more. You’re too skinny. You look like a girl. You’re going to get your ass kicked one of these days if you’re not careful.

Sure, he knows about belts. He’s a plumber, right?

And there's nothing too odd about the one he wears now, save the enormous engraved buckle sitting right below his belly button, the nexus point of the chained tentacles unfurling to the four endpoints of his wrists and ankles.

He was told it was meant to bind his magic.

A dark chuckle vibrates beneath his sternum.

Magic. A ludicrous thought.

Magic isn't real. 

And I couldn’t pull a rabbit out of a hat if I tried.

A heavy door squeals open on the opposite side of the dark chamber. A short, robed figure enters first, followed by two familiar beings of similar height. The guards, who he’s nicknamed “Click and Clack,” (a memory of slow, sultry summer days, his too-long legs dangling off the rusted metal of a fire escape, the crackling static of his little radio fighting against the tortured grumbles of the nearby D train) take their usual places on either side of him, their domed heads only reaching as far as his mid-tricep, their pointed, well-honed spears towering tall above Luigi’s own head.

The third visitor is one he’s not seen before, his long, embroidered robes pooling in eddies of velvet at his feet. He spares a single, disgusted look in Luigi’s direction as he pushes a pair of little, round glasses up his nose.

“It’s time,” he says.

Click and Clack take him roughly by either arm, their odd little entourage an awkward three-legged race in slow motion, the trio limping behind the robed being, who has turned back towards the open door, his steps solemn, measured.

This is it, Luigi thinks, his gut churning.

There will be an audience, for certain. Beings who will be all but salivating to witness him dragged into the light, shackled and accused. 

He used to think he knew where the line was, that unshakable boundary between enemy and ally. 

He realizes now that perhaps that line never existed at all, or if it did, it only served to separate him from everyone else.

The light of the interior chamber is harsh, too bright to be natural. Luigi squints his eyes, letting his head drop towards the floor as he’s led through a deluge of camera shutter clicks that sound like the wings of a thousand frenetic cicadas, past the murmuring tributaries of whispered accusation and barely-shrouded invective. 

He can feel their eyes on him, all of them. As Luigi approaches a bare, wooden seat, he senses his gaze, a thousand unspoken words in an unmet, silent question. Luigi tenses his shoulders, making for the stripped down chair that is both the source of his salvation and damnation. There’s no threat, no promise in this universe or any other which could convince him to answer back, to meet that too-familiar pair of azure eyes.

You let this happen.

The next moments pass in a blur. He sits, then stands again at the prompting of Clack (or is it Click?), who remains steadfast at his flank. Finally, he sits one last time as a low, sonorous voice to his left produces a slurry river of speech.

“...your duty today…”

“...beyond a reasonable doubt…”

“...the defendant must be found…”

Reality crystallizes around him in one horrifying, frozen moment.

This is really happening.

“Ms. Shiitake, what is today’s case?” the severe-looking Toad judge asks.

A stout, female Toad in a drab olive uniform steps forward, clipboard in hand. For a brief moment, her image is overlaid by another, beige skin darkening into a periwinkle shadow crowned in a bun-topped fuschia. 

Luigi shakes his head, trying to bring his focus back to the room. 

“Your Honor,” she begins in a bored monotone, “today’s case is The Mushroom Kingdom versus Luigi Marionetti.”

“And what are the charges?”

Nothing. I didn’t do anything!

“High treason and crimes against the state as they relate to the events of the appearance of the Void, the Chaos Heart, and Mr. Marionetti’s actions taken against representatives of the Mushroom Kingdom, which include, but are not limited to, attempted murder of our head of state.”

A wave of discontented grumbling washes over the packed courtroom, a young Toad in the back climbing onto his chair, pointing at Luigi with a fiery gesture.

“Traitor!” he yells before being pulled back into his seat by a small gang of nearby onlookers.

“Order!” The judge raps his gavel three times in sharp succession. 

Luigi swallows over a swollen lump in his throat. Please. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. I didn’t want to hurt anybody.

“Is the prosecution ready?” the judge asks. 

“Yes, your Honor,” a sharp-suited Toad in red replies as she stands.

Are you so sure of that, the other gravelly voice in his head retorts, an inverted mirror of his own.

The judge turns to the other side of the room. “And is the defense ready?”

Another Toad in a black suit and purple tie stands, fixing Luigi with an inscrutable look before answering, “Yes, your Honor.”

I don’t…I can’t…I don’t know what happened.

“Then the prosecution may proceed.”

Yes, the dark voice chuckles. Yes, you do.

[sibyl-of-space]

HP 13 Stream: RAM Upgrade?

I'm getting very far ahead of myself here but I have a bit of a project in mind for the future.

Currently I have a piece of crap HP nothingbook that came out 9 years ago and was a glorified scam to get people to buy OneDrive storage. It has two gigs of memory and the worst operating system known to man (Windows 8.1) but it came with like a year of lots of free OneDrive storage or some shit. Anyway I didn't buy it, it ended up in the E-Waste at work for understandable reasons, and I respect its owner for holding on to it for this long despite it being a piece of junk.

I put Ubuntu on it so it's infinitely more usable already. It can run my game because my game is potato certified. It cannot, however, do much of anything else. So once I no longer need it to bug test the Linux build (for which its service has been invaluable) I wanted to look into whether I could make it a slightly more usable machine for if I just want to play around in Linux.

Unfortunately and unsurprisingly, the ram is not in a slot you can swap out, but it's soldered directly onto the motherboard. This is usually referred to as "non upgradable" RAM (as in if you want more you are shit out of luck and are supposed to just buy a new laptop) because it is such a pain to try and swap out that it might as well not be, but technically it IS often upgradable, there's just a lot of asterisks and "ifs," "ands," or "buts" about the process. I've only just started my research into it so I'm not going to pretend to be an expert.

I did however open it up and I am honestly impressed by the sheer gall.

Those four empty slots on the left there.... They straight up have the room for four more chips of RAM. Like the term "non-upgradable" is a straight-up lie here. You don't even have to remove the existing RAM and replace it, you just have to get four more chips, solder them on (ball soldering is an entirely different beast than soldering iron jobs, but still) and then probably move some resistors around that tell the motherboard how much RAM it has.

I knew this HP Crapbook also had a 4GB model so I was pretty sure I'd be able to upgrade it to 4GB somehow, but I didn't expect to literally see that only half of the chips were put on the motherboard. The sheer audacity here....

Anyway, I won't attempt this repair until I don't need the laptop to test my game anymore, because I'm fully aware I might end up cooking the motherboard or shorting something or otherwise irreparably damaging it. But it would be nice if I could get that extra two gigs because I think with even just 4GB of RAM it would be perfectly usable for just random dicking around in Linux purposes

[srkizer]

how does shadow control his boots.

he certainly does not have additional joints attached to his feet (no extra fingers on feet) to press the buttons and turn the handles inside his boots. maybe it is the case, and that is why he never puts his boots off, but that sounds horrible. besides, if that was the case, if shadow was unconscious but someone was falling with with him, they can put their hands into his boots and turn the knobs to fly.

if he flicking foot is enough to activate his boots then he won't be able to tiptoe at all. if a specific sequence of toes' movements control his boots then that's gonna cause so much trouble when his toes itch.

if it's controlled with audio, then it makes shadow capable of making sound out of hearing range. in main universe that will essentially disable rouge to so many extents so this cannot be case.

if it's controlled with telepathic waves then shadow hovering will constantly drive silver crazy, or at least mildly annoyed. none of that happened; in fact it's the other way, as in silver annoying shadow by existence for a while.

maybe his red stripes on ends of his arms and legs are covers for underlying conductors, and when peeled, it would expose conductive terminals capable of supplying power and signals. it can be done with 2 terminals (vcc/gnd) but that would require so much caring to control the output. to delegate the details in control, it should have at least 2 more terminals (tx/rx). the gold rings are actually handles for rotational variable resistor. putting them off after rotating is purely for dramatic effects. he gotta act cool after all.

maybe the terminal layouts make him easily compatible with eggman robots. no need to fight them hard; just find their debug terminal, put his boots off, and step into it. boom, the eggman robot is now essentially an exosuit for shadow.

[cosmichighpriestess]

Call Of The Ancient – Body Changes

We are changing on a molecular level. (Cellular transformation) Many of you are experiencing headaches, nausea, dizziness, loud ear ringing, feeling of spinning and loss of emotional centering. A fundamental change is taking place in your house meaning we are changing our DNA while living in it. We are genetic engineers of the New World species.

During cellular transformation re-pigmentation of our skin will begin to occur many will see unusual marks on the surface of their skin… brown, red, white etc. this can occur on young people as well as older bodies. This is a temporary re-pigmentation that will allow the skin to come into its true purpose. This is brought on by the blood cell membranes being enriched by oxygen and bringing them closer to the surface.

We’re coming back to our original time sequence as we were in the past. Currently, the changes we are all feeling are happening internally in our infrastructure and we are feeling them physically. These changes are taking place in the following places: Cellular system in the blood, CNS (central nervous system), bone marrow, how the brain is firing and how it receives information from Source. These are the changes that are currently happening and it’s causing massive confusion not to mention physical discomfort. Many can tell a change is occurring but we cannot see it in the mirror. But, this internal change will begin to bleed through to the external body. This is where the base must first be built.

Some people will experience weight gain or loss. The body knows how to readjust and reorganize because this process is quite natural. Meaning, this information has been coded within the cells of the body. The greater you are aware of this transformation the more you can assist.

Some are seeing a weakening of their immune system. This is brought on by the human body being re-calibrated at a higher frequency while still being bombarded by the dense, heaviness of this 3D realm. We are experiencing an unbalance in our nervous system and some are dealing with this with explosions of anger, frustration etc. I call these people the resistors who choose to fight this transformation. We will see different kinds of nervous disorders during this rewiring process accommodating the increased intensity of Light that is now able to enter our bodies. What’s happening is there is a greater acceleration of energy being absorbed by the body and this acceleration of energy is being sent through the Central Nervous System. Some will deal with this well and some will not. As we take on this new body of Light most organs and glands will no longer be needed and eventually disappear.

As this acceleration of energy enters our physical body the CNS will immediately try and attempt to dissipate some of that energy by sending it out thru the spinal cord. This energy could fire out thru the muscular system which would cause tightness, soreness and cramping. If these energies fire out through the blood vessels restriction could occur. If they fire through the skin you could experience abnormally hot or cold prickling. Our bodies are constantly trying to remain in a stable state during this process. It’s trying to catch up with the increased frequencies. Our bodies are literally washing away the old format. We are in the process of building something indescribable. I’ve said this many times the Central Nervous System is incredibly important to this process this is why the controllers are targeting it.

We are seeing humanity stray away from heavy dense foods such as meats and heavy proteins which stay in the body longer which creates the body to stay in heavy density longer. But, as a biological dense being the heavier protein will be needed for some. Many heavier grains will also be an issue for some. Remember, the goal of this process is returning us to Light. I know some of you are having issues with digestion of heavy, greasy dense foods because these foods don’t vibrate with the higher body vibration. Your body’s needs and your appetite will change within this process. But, everyone is different so listen to your body. Meaning, one day you might need a heavier, denser protein and some days not. Your body is trying to keep up with this higher vibratory rate but the difficulty in this 3D realm is the lag we experience.

We all know and are experiencing incredibly crazy sleep patterns that’s all I need to say about that. Also, our memory is also changing. We all think it’s a bad thing to lose our memory but what is currently happening with many is that we’re transitioning to depending on our intuitive knowing and less on our memory. We are experiencing intuitive insights and flashes of memory. I am notorious at being in mid-sentence and completely forgetting about what I wanted to say next. Basically, as this cellular transformation takes place it will be harder to reference your past through your memory system. All useless data is disappearing from our memory files. Referencing past data was useful because acceptance of past reality based beliefs and prior experiences. Referencing data of the past is falling away.

We are also going through a process which we call the thinning of the veil. As this protective device thins we are finding out that there are no boundaries between our physical body and our higher self. Many people are not only experiencing contact with beings from other realms but are experiencing contact with your higher self. So, listen to your body, listen to that intuitive voice it’ll get stronger and louder as the veil thins. We are experiencing something absolutely amazing and monumental on a scale most cannot believe with this process of DNA activation. This process of DNA activation is what I named “Call of the Ancient.” Many are hearing and feeling that call which eventually will bring us back to balance. We are in the process of being downloaded and activated with incredible insight, wisdom and knowledge of our Ancient past and we have just begun.

[lunarsilkscreen]

Electricity, Resistance, and Tunneling

What is Quantum Tunneling? The ability of elections to break barriers and this through walls?

Yes. Exactly. However; This is how electricity works. (I feel like I keep repeating myself here).

Electrons (or current) follows along a wire towards a positive charge (Voltage). And we use resistors in order to control the flow of current in a circuit.

The resistors discourage electrons from one side of a circuit to the path of least resistance. (Lol, geddit?) By disconnecting this wire "without resistance" (the quotes are because you cannot get rid of Resistance entirely) the current can go straight through the resistor.

Electrons travel *through* metal (or another conductive medium) it's simply how electronics work.

And so; when we get to tiny enough circuits, that Resistance is harder to create. And electrons go through the resistor, even when there's no power.

Which means they're also affected by latent static charge as well as the power that we want to control.

The "Wave" we keep hearing about has a bunch of different topics it covers. Light waves for one, waves created through a medium. But the one I haven't covered yet is what engineers, electricians, and mechanics would call "Phase".

"Phase" is a term used specifically for A/C(Alternating Current) and in order to generate multiple streams of power.

A basic generator has a single phase and can be recorded as a single waveform of high(positive) and low(negative) creating a back-and-forth pulling of electrons where voltage is present.

However many systems, such as aircraft, have multi-phase generators. This means that multiple different electrical waveforms are generated from a single generator.

The standard multi-phase generator is 3-phase.

And for the most sensitive electronics on the aircraft, the phase position can actually affect the operation of the equipment. As some are put specifically on certain paths with certain phases for a reason.

This harkens bank to early computer screens and oscillators used to generate images. But it'd be too complicated to go in depth here.

These phases, usually labeled A,B, and C are about 45° off from each other. Since they pull no current at the source, the generator, they don't interfere with each other.

Reference material states that it is if these phases add up to zero.

And so--what I have left to explain; Is exactly how this understanding of electric phases correlate with quantum mechanics and *states*

This will have to be done with a more coherent explanation of how current flows along voltage, and may not always flow through a path created from voltage (as above).

[mightdeletelater]

The current discourse surrounding the cost of living crisis seems somewhat incomplete to me. When it comes up in the media or in discussions around me, it is consistently framed in terms of individuals' financial constraints, addressing what people can or cannot afford. I am not disputing that at all; that perspective is undeniably valid. In fact, I would argue that livable wages, affordable housing and rental control, neighbourhood resources, adequate public transit, high-quality education and efficient and productive health services are all very prevalent issues that fall under public safety.

But aside from all of that, when thinking about the cost of living crisis, I find myself asking: Why must we pay for everything in the first place? Today, I read this article highlighting local repair shops evolving into community hubs for free assistance in fixing gadgets and clothing. It prompted reflections on a bygone era when reciprocity thrived in communities, emphasising mutual aid rather than profit.

The individuals interviewed in the article are far from being revolutionary figures. Their actions echo sentiments reminiscent of historical resistors of industrialisation, like the Luddites (a word I learned from an English professor I hated) from the 19th century. Their resistance took various forms, some violent, but it takes one Google Scholar search to show that many chose to assert the mentality of: 'I do not need your money as desperately as you think, for I have systems of kinship outside this monetised economy.' The viewpoint of acknowledging that while currency is nice to have and it provides things, it really does not meet the majority of my needs right now is one that I am newly trying to adopt every single day. For me it's about starting small. I constantly think about that one viral Tumblr post about the commodification of friendship. It says:

the commodification of friendship is the most annoying thing to come out of the internet in ages. like actually i love to break this to you but you’re supposed to help your friends move even if it’s hard work. or stay up with them when they’re sad even if you’re gonna lose sleep. you’re supposed to listen to their fears and sorrows even if it means your own mind takes on a little bit of that weight. that’s how you know that you care. they will drive you to the airport and then you will make them soup when they’re sick. you’re supposed to make small sacrifices for them and they are supposed to do that for you. and there’s actually gonna be rough patches for both of you where the balance will be uneven and you will still be friends and it will not be unhealthy and they will not be abusive. life is not meant to be an endless prioritization of our own comfort if it was we would literally never get anywhere ever. jesus.

No, it isn't talking about the cost of living crisis, per se, but I like that the writer has specified how important community is and how yes, it may be unbalanced at times, and you won't gain from it monetarily, but that's OK. I'm constantly trying to remind myself that the human experience should be about giving. And I try. With my family. My friends. And in my community.

And so back to the main point: Does a significant portion of the cost of living crisis lies not just in our inability to afford things but in the imperative to afford everything. The issue transcends high prices; it's about the pervasive commodification of all aspects of life. It's about everything having a cost to begin with: whether that is physical items (like the things people were working on in repair shops) or emotional support (commodification of friendship). Capitalist logic has infiltrated to such an extent that almost everything is now part of a monetised economy. That's just so lame to me and not a trap I want to fall into.

[moose-mousse]

The Universal Serial Bus is often not universal...

So there is this problem you often run into when doing development. You come up with a solution. You research the solution, and find only tiny amounts of people talking about it, and/or they seem to say many different things and disagree. Most of the time, that is for 2 reasons 1: it is a very novel solution, so no one have tried it much, and everyone who have, has made very custom versions of it. 2: There are variables that makes it impossible to do it in one single way. I needed a rechargeable battery system to power my robot. These can get... VERY complicated, and pre-made solutions can quickly be expensive and you might end up with batteries catching fire, or destroying the batteries so they can never be used again. You need protections on them, but which kind depends on a bunch of things. I know electronics, but I am mainly a software guy, and I know when I do not know enough about electronics to do it myself. This being such a case. So, I came up with the idea to use powerbanks. One for each steppermotor, and one for the microcontroller(so the noise fromt he motors could not cause issues).If I use ones that can output enough amperage, they should just work and they are cheap. They are meant to be used by normal costumers, so have all the protection needed, and are quite idiot-proof(Which is a very handy thing when you are an idiot, like me) so should be easy to use. But I could not find much info about doing this... and I did not realize I was looking at reason 2. Basically, BECAUSE powerbanks are idiotproof, they do not want to discharge themselves unless there is a real device at the end of the USB cable. So if they cannot detect one, they turn off after about a second. How do they determine if there is a real device? Depends on the power bank.... No really, there is NO standard way to do it, as far as I can tell. And it does not depend on the power bank MODEL. I have 2 identical power banks, bought at the same time, and they do NOT behave the same. Which means that when I connected the powerbanks to supply my system, they (SOMETIMES) did not supply anything. Some check how much current is being drawn, which can be faked with a resistor wasting some power. 500mA was being quoted a lot, but that is more of a "That is probably enough to get it going". Others check for impedance(Basically, also resistance, but from frequency dependent sources). Those can be "faked" by having a coil or a device that acts like one to the faking resistor. I wanted a tiny 5 volt fan to cool the stepper motor drivers anyway, so I had one power bank also power that. That ensured that it actually stayed on (But if I used the other, (identical!) power bank it just turned off anyway). The other one could be connected up directly. If I used the powerbanks lower amperage socket. If I used the high amperage one, it just turned off. So now it works... I have 2 powerbanks for the motors, each with painters tape marking which powerbank and socket to use for what. Took me a week longer than I had hoped to figure all this out and do all the experiments. Sometimes, things that should be simple are just headaches.

[i-am-deeply-poem]

“ Sisyphus “

I want to be alone forever

To another heart, myself I will never again fetter

I crave utter isolation, compared to my experienced fragmentation

Do you have the strength to persist? Do you know how it feels to no longer want to exist

Is forging not a divine miracle?

Can dopamine be an overdoses neurochemical?

Why do we every night sit alone in dark empty rooms?

Our faces lit by pixelated screens of hope swallowing monsoons

The prison’s walls are transistor velvet

The floors resistor beige

Lifestyle of excess any way you sell it

Cannot escape, so immersed at this stage

I’m cursed forever to sleep on a bean bag chair in my parents house

Not forgetting who I owe for being able to live, and never get out

Every day I’ll push the boulder up the hill

Far beyond broken, exhausted and drained of will

“Why?” I wonder, would God curse me to exist

But even so, my true curse is to persist.

[azula-omnipotens]

You vs Adam Smasher

So I been sitting for a while to study this question. And now I can for sure say I, most likely, will have enough firepower to destroy Adam Smasher, but getting to his precious metal ass will not be that easy, of course, knowing Adam Smasher has superhuman reflexes, reactions, speed, scanners and modern weaponry which, of course, may obliterate me. The only scenario where I win is by, you know, stealth ranged lightning attacks. Let us analyze: I may create heat, thus rendering heatscanning and heat-seeking projectiles useless against myself, and that may win me an ability to do a lightning strike undetected. I am not aware of how powerful are 2077's resistors, but... I also didn't see tesla weaponry or something that hits directly with lightning there, so it may work, overheating system, but my main goal will be reaching the explosives. As I am aware, Adam Smasher uses rocket launcher and hand cannons along with conventional firearms, so I would go for explosion and then, before he has time to retaliate fully, I would go for suppressing fire, which will effectively melt his arm cannons and himself. Let us just say my fires are over 3500-4000 degrees hot, because I they are supernatural, so even carbonated plates will not save and the arm cannons cannot be fully made of carbon. Also, I will hope for blinding Smasher's sensors with my suppressing fire, because otherwise he may take me down as well... bullets may not have enough time to melt or explode, I guess and they're flying at extreme speeds. And only in that scenario, if everything goes well, I may take down that cyberpsycho peasant. After all, it's 2077, not 40000 and my abilities are still more powerful than your weapons. What I am lacking there is defense. Otherwise, if I will not be aware of who my enemy is, and how exactly his weapons work(how would I realistically, right?), if he will directly engage me in combat, he will just shoot me. His supreme scanners and aiming tech will trace any endeavors of my evasion and bullets will kill me instantly before I'll be able to do something. He can just shoot a couple rockets into my throne room and the explosion will be enough to finish me and everyone else there off.

[theresa-of-liechtenstein]

things that were delightful at school today:

some guy using the optical microscope while watching the most obnoxiously loud chinese game show on his phone (he cannot watch it if he’s sticking his eyes up to an optical microscope…) and the whole office space of the lab bursting into laughter

student had an aha moment about combining resistors

violas folding paper cranes during very long rests in That One Piece and every time i looked over at their section there were more little paper cranes on their stands

conductor letting out the most exhilarated laugh when the strings did exactly what she wanted out of a tango

snow on the mountains