#retracing atla

[aero-sense]

.....okay but funny how katara, sokka, toph, and etc, all manage to argue or disagree with aang's viewpoints without taking shots at his culture unlike zuko whenever he opens his mouth

[atlaculture]

Hi! I’m making a water tribe oc and was wondering if it would be disrespectful if I gave her traditional Inuit tattoos?

I'll be honest: I do not feel qualified to answer to this question. Mostly-Mundane-ATLA has a great post about this topic here.

In general, there's always going to be a spectrum of opinions within any group on how certain aspects of their culture should be handled or depicted. However, if you do plan on incorporating traditional arctic tattoos into your character's design, please do research on the meaning and context behind each marking. Here are some useful sources:

Kakiniit - Wikipedia

Tunniit: A guide to Inuit markings in Greenland | [Visit Greenland!]

Reclaiming Inuit culture, one tattoo at a time | CNN

Tunniit: Retracing the Lines of Inuit Tattoos | (unikkaat.com)

Tattoos & Seals – an Inuit Woman’s tradition - PIC&D (proudlyindigenouscrafts.com)

Behind the Inuit tattoo revival: Once banned, now the ancient markings are making a comeback | National Post

Face Tattoos in Indigenous Cultures: Meaning and History | POPSUGAR Beauty

Kakiniit: The art of Inuit tattooing | Canadian Geographic

TATTOOS OF THE HUNTER-GATHERERS OF THE ARCTIC | LARS KRUTAK

Symbolism in Inuit tattooing - The McGill Daily

BENEATH THE SKIN - Mythogynist Media

Articles - Greenlandic Tattoo Culture - Nú Ninja (nuninja.es)

[stabbyfoxandrew]

mer au plsss

WIP Wednesday (9/25) | Mer Roadtrip AU (Part 73)

Once they're back in the car, Abram digs through his bag to pull out a very worn road atlas and passes it to Andrew who turns it around in his hands a couple times. "You really use this thing?"

"Yeah. Got a better idea?" Abram asks, starting the engine again.

"Little thing called a GPS could be handy."

“Never had one. Don’t wanna be traced.” Abram sighs out a breath. “Which is also why I didn’t want a phone.”

"You’re kind of neurotic. Don’t worry, I like it.” Andrew says with a grin. “But I don’t think a GPS would tattle on you.”

"You never know." Abram says, then he takes the atlas back from Andrew and opens it. California is still dog-eared, so he flips to the right section and traces a diagonal path from Santa Monica to Las Vegas, nodding to himself. Finally he looks at Andrew. "Can you read a map?"

Andrew retraces the same route with his finger and shrugs. "We'll see."

-

It turns out Andrew can read a map, but he's absolute ass at giving directions. At least, in Abram's humble opinion. God, he finally understands the many times his mother knocked him in the head for taking too long to determine which road to turn on to. But they make it to the interstate without dying. It's a good sign.

As soon as they're headed in the right direction, Andrew props his legs up on the dash and pops open a can of Pringles. He crunches them loudly, like he's trying to get on Abram's nerves.

Abram thinks he is.

"How long is it to Vegas?" Andrew asks after about half an hour on the road. Until now, they'd been listening to the radio. And Andrew's inane chomping.

"Uh, my guess is about five hours. Maybe... Maybe six. I can't be sure," Abram says, watching a Honda creep up behind them in the rearview mirror. It’s been behind them for a while. “Andrew, who’s driving that blue car behind us?”

Andrew moves to sit on his knees and look out the back glass. “A one-hundred year old woman. Maybe one-hundred and one…”

“Thanks.” Abram lets out a breath as Andrew flops back into his seat. Andrew’s hair swishes as he cracks his neck and he inhales, making a face. “What?”

"Hm. Does this car have a smell?"

"Yeah. Like..." Abram sniffs the air. "I don't know what."

“Oh,” Andrew laughs. "Weed. It smells like weed. It seems dear Brian might've been a toker."

"Are you?"

"No, I just know how it smells."

"Is that sarcasm?"

"Maybe." Andrew crunches another couple of crisps. "I smoked weed once. Gave me the giggles and I ate a bag of chips and an entire carton of ice cream. You?"

"Never."

"I think you should try it, it's supposed to help you unwind."

"I can't afford to unwind."

"It's not that expensive. Besides, I've seen your trust fund. You could buy a marijuana farm. A small one, but still."

"You know what I mean. I'm literally being hunted, Andrew. Dead or alive," Abram huffs. "I don't have time for fucking with drugs."

[nobodieshero-main]

another old snippet <3

"How is traipsing through the unknown in any way appealing?" He grouched, refusing to acknowledge the eggshell cracking of his voice.

Puberty was a plague he was impatient to be cured of.

"I'm just saying." Ahuru said, graciously sparing him from her teasing as she pulled a jar down from the shelf, frowning at the label. "There's nothing wrong with a little adventure.

▪︎

Years later, Keika blinked awake to the crisscross of branches across a dawning sky, feeling aged in a way that had nothing to do with time.

He could still feel the shape of his response on the back of his tongue, the dry aftertaste of teenaged dramatics. "I've already had enough adventure to last me a lifetime."

Now his destination loomed above the trees like the jagged spine of a cornered animal. The X on a map he'd wanted to burn.

From the shadows of his ribs, nostalgia crept, childish eyes tracing the curves of foreign mountains and finding the echoes of home.

Home.

He missed its quiet streets, and the mornings spent covered in flour. Missed the way stepping into the library felt like the thunk of a lock sliding into place.

Beside him, beneath these unknown trees, beneath the shadow of the end, Atlas slept on.

He was an ugly sleeper, all squashed up lips and drool, morning breath that could put Guppy to shame, and eyes that stayed bleary and crusted for hours after the sun rose.

(It seemed, no matter how many blinks that man had spent asleep beneath the open sky, he had still not lost the indulgent habits of his noble upbringing.)

There were pieces of Keika, jagged and small, that still yearned for sunlight, and those pieces ached with an affection that took his breath away. Twisted his stomach in knots.

It didn't feel fair, how much Keika loved him. Not when it felt as though they'd be nothing but strangers in a handful of days.

Keika tore his eyes away from where the freshly cut curls of Atlas' hair stuck up unnaturally, a quiet punishment. It was cruel to even entertain the idea that Atlas wouldn't escort him home, wouldn't retrace his steps all the way back to the end of the world just to make sure he got there safely.

They still had entire turns of the moon together. He could wait a little longer before he mourned what if's.

Movement to his left warned him that the subject of his thoughts was preparing to wake, and Keika turned to watch the scrunch of his brow before he'd even thought to.

He wondered if Atlas had ever made bread.

He watched the flutter of Atlas' eyelids as he struggled to peel them open, looking gross and disgruntled. A cloudy sky waiting for the sun to break through.

Keika rolled his eyes so that he wouldn't smile, reaching out to pluck a leaf out of his partners hair and watching with deeply hidden delight as Atlas leaned into his touch. And there was the sun, hidden in the uneven lines of his smile as he forced his eyes all the way open. As if he couldn't bear to go a second longer without seeing him.

He wondered if Atlas would get along with Marlow, if he would let Keika teach him how to make bread.

[reblrths]

SNOW'S MANSION, AFTER HOURS OF THE BALL.

maxim is no stranger to waking up in unfamiliar places. with a pounding head, fuzzy memories of just what happened before, and a mouth as dry as the deserts in 5 — safe to say this is no different. it doesn’t feel any different, not until he recognizes how silent it is. it’s never silent. there’s always indistinct and muffled voices, cars in the distance, music faint in the background, but this — this? it’s the kind of silent where your brain tricks you into thinking it does hear something.

and once he recognizes the silence, he also recognizes the restraints digging into his wrists.

TRIGGER WARNING: torture, drug and alcohol mentions, death, grief, mild mild emetophobia (literally just mentions it)

his eyes adjust to the light in the room and it feels twenty times as bright as the sun, the headache already forming in his head made instantly worse by it. his skin crawls and his neck aches from the way his head hung until he woke. one, two, three rough pulls on those restraints and all it does is hurt worse, like they’re getting tighter the more he resists. the panic sets in, delayed as it is. he’s struck with the events of before — caesar flickerman, a man max has become so acquainted with, announcing the death of four. among them, rhea crane. selenia ripley. women maxim knows, one of whom — his mother. his mother. the desperation claws at him, the denial — surely that’s wrong. surely there’s been a mistake. there’s hope somewhere in him, too — she’s alive. she’s still here. she can’t be gone, not after — not after the interaction he’d had with her just hours before. not after she’d approached him, asking about the clear scene he’d made with auggie, not after he’d blown up and made another scene in her face, not after—

so all it takes is a big argument with augustus at the president’s mansion to be seen by you? is that it?

it’s a blur after that. the entire night is muddled. the one moment he’d been alone (a mistake he never usually makes anyway and certainly won’t again after this) is the moment he could hardly remember. that makes it scarier. flashes of how spiteful he’d been toward rhea and the next he’s drinking, all the way to pathetic protests about the force with which he was dragged to this room, stumbling and completely out of it. he must not have put up much of a fight, hardly deemed threat enough to immediately strap into the chair, but threat enough to interrogate him anyway. all he can remember is this: as soon as they’d thrown him into this room, he’d collapsed onto the ground. from fear, overwhelming shock, or a mix of both with an addled mind added to it, who fucking cares — when he’d woken, he was strapped to a metal chair.

and when dilated blue eyes blink and squint and settle on that all too familiar white uniform, unwelcome memories flash across his mind. he holds onto the denial hope that she’s still here. she’s still here. he'll prove it -- he'll get himself out of this mess and find her himself.

maxim’s brain is pounding as he tries to retrace his steps through the night — what had he done? drinks and pills and more drinks. who had he talked to? livinia, atlas, dante, auggie… auggie. fuck, is that why he was here? fuck. fuck! 

he gives those restraints a rough pull again and a nervous laugh escapes his lips.

“guys, you-" maxim’s voice shakes, is he shaking? his mouth pulls into a small quirk as he continues to pull at those restraints that feel too tight and ignores how cold his blood feels. “you gotta give a guy a warning before you steal him away from the crowd. there’s a line of people waiting to talk to me, my mom just died, didn't you hear? you’re gonna have to take a numb-“

the crack against his temple makes him nauseous, the white room spins and he barely registers the grumbling coming from the peacekeeper that approached him. don’t be a smart ass. you aren’t here to make jokes.

“pray tell, then, why am i here?”

maxim realizes then that there are two of them. he tries not to showcase his fear, tries to keep that nonchalant attitude he carries about everything. don’t show them they got to you. don't think about your mother. until he’s seen her body with his own eyes, he won’t think of her. he won’t think of the flash of hurt he’d seen across her features when he called her terrible, when he’d said just about anyone else would have been better than she had been, or how he and liv had talked about her earlier. he was right, what he'd said. how many times had she talked to him in the past year? hell, the past ten years? he could count on both hands the amount of conversations he's had with his mother that wasn't necessary for cameras and publicity. how dare she look hurt? he won’t apologize when he sees her next. but he cannot help the confusion, too. why had they targeted her at all? she was no rebel. she was hardly anything at all.

“what were you talking to augustus crane about earlier in the evening?”

maxim smiles. dazzling, golden boy smile that works like a charm on everyone else, why shouldn’t it work on a couple peacekeepers? it’s worked on a few before. he knows it won’t now, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try. “senior or junior?”

“don’t play fucking stupid,” one of them growls. maxim shudders, too familiar scenario that this is, but he’s trying. he’s trying. dante’s words continue to ring through his mind, ones that he’s told himself a million times before when faced with any type of adversary, but somehow hold even more meaning because the victor spoke them just hours earlier. don’t show them they got to you. don’t show them they got to you.

when maxim’s eyes close, the other one decides to speak up. “we know that’s hard for you, considering. but i’ve got a feeling you aren’t as dumb as you look, mister crane.”

“mister crane?” maxim laughs, fits of shaky giggles as he looks up at the peacekeeper now. “i didn’t think we were so formal, considering. i don’t even know your name, how am i supposed to address you in the same way?”

he’s simply buying himself time. it doesn’t work.

“i would rather not do this the hard way,” a little too late for that. “but we will. just answer the question. what were you talking to your sibling about? have you heard of the nightlock makeup stunt some are talking about? this is something augustus may have been directly involved in. and you’re particularly close to dante, aren’t you? he is from the district they style for. and that fight — it seemed heated. have you always had problems with your sibling?”

maxim is steadily preparing himself to act like he knows nothing, put those acting skills he learned sitting next to caesar and sycophant capitolites to use. and then— he goes silent for a moment. “what’s that noise?”

“there is no noise.”

“there’s—" a window, a small window through the door and he only just barely catches it. then he hears it, that sob. “is that— liv? livinia?! no, no, no—"

he struggles against the restraints again, knowing the skin is practically worn down to nothing. maxim falters for a moment, his cries are cut short yet again by a blow to the temple — same spot. familiar stars cloud his vision and he can’t help but think about how he’s supposed to be on television in a few days for these games. this bruise won’t do him any good. head damage won’t either. and that’s if he’s even alive in a few days. is he going to die here? is liv? fuck, fuck fuck. the pain is barely even registered as the white-hot fear grips him with vice and doesn’t let go.

“god, are all the crane’s made up of just a bunch of smartasses? the other two are tough, but i thought you would have been the easiest to break.”

through dizziness and nausea, maxim’s gaze snaps up. “what did you say?”

there’s a grin. an evil, evil thing and if maxim thought his father was bad then this man in front of him, whether because of the drugs or the blows to the head, fills him with so much unease he wants to scoot the chair back as far as it can go to get away from him but it’s bolted to the fucking floor. this grin, it’s evil but it’s knowing — they got him.

“no, no, no,” maxim pleads, he pleads with them, tears spring to his eyes instantly. fuck not showing them they got to you, this was the fucking way to do get to maxim crane. not his mother’s death. not fear for his own life. his siblings. and now they know. now they know that despite the fact that they will fight like children and hit each other where it hurts the absolute most, maxim’s weak points are them. now they know. and maxim may have gotten himself and his siblings killed because he kept talking to augustus about ambrose and that fucking makeup and-- and he yelled at his mother that she could have disappeared and nothing would have changed and now she was might be dead. when was the last time he told her he loved her? she disliked him. but he loved her.

when was the last time he told auggie he loved them? or livinia? would he die knowing the last words he’d said to auggie were hateful, that the last ones he’d said to liv was about fucking nail polish? he wants to yell it now, scream it so that maybe they’d hear him from whatever room they’re in, terrified of losing even more time. maybe that would be enough.

“they didn’t do anything,” he cries, but it’s not what they want to hear. he doesn’t stop even as they close the distance, voice panicked and loud. “i started that fight, that was me, not them! auggie? augustus! augustu-“

another crack.

it goes on for so long maxim loses track of time. every question they ask is one he can’t, or won’t, answer. ones about seneca, about lysander, ones that seem fucking pointless and lead to nothing, about makeup and avoxes and dante and kaleb and— he’s wheezing, every breath short and clipped because that one spot at his temple was not enough, they’d gone after his torso as well — they couldn’t have him too lucid from the head trauma. how many hits now? he can’t remember. he can’t tell if the cries he hears are his mind making things up or if they’re real or if they’re entirely his own. it all blends together into one big line of interference, his vision had begun to darken three hits ago and he knows he won’t be able to wear anything but long sleeves and a fuck ton of coverup for a while after this. he cries out for his brother, his sister, his mother, and he can’t tell if that was kaleb’s smart-ass voice he heard down the hall or if maxim’s mind simply supplied it to ease his panicked brain. nevertheless, he has a single goal if he gets out of here: he needs to find them. he needs to find them.

he’s given them parts of the truth: we fought over a boy, we fought over our father — that’s just dumb enough that they’d believe that’s all they spoke about, family drama and boy drama, god knows the crane’s have more than enough of both, and absolutely nothing to do with max throwing avoxes in their face or talking about makeup. but the longer it goes on, the more he can’t remember. nails digging into his chest, backed against the wall. auggie’s angry, tear filled eyes. atlas’ casual nonchalance. hickey on their neck — yes, a boy, they were fighting over a boy. 

“we’ll ask you once more, mister crane,” one of them says, he can’t tell them apart now, and if maxim is ever called mister crane again he’ll lose his fucking mind, but the metal pole he holds is all maxim can focus on and— what do you know about the district two makeup stunt pulled tonight?

“auggie didn’t……” what? what didn’t auggie do? maxim struggles to get the words out, struggles to focus on anything that isn't how he wishes they'd just finish this already. he wheezes, hunched over. all he can think about is them. “they didn’t do anything. livi— livi didn’t do anything. we didn’t do anything. please.” maxim shakes his head. it makes it worse.

he looks up, and the peacekeepers look angry, angry he hasn’t given them the confession they want. angry and just about tired of this back and forth, as if maxim begging for his life is an inconvenience. i didn’t ask for this, he wants to say. he wishes he could feel victorious over the fact that they finally, finally, seem done with him. if he had the wherewithal to grin, he would. but he’s shaking, he can’t breathe, this was the worst come down from a high of his life, and he can hardly make out the two peacekeepers in front of him. he has no strength left to be a smartass or to egg them on, ask if that's all they got. he can't be here any longer. he’s past it all — he just wants out.

“i’ve told you everything,” he pleads, praying they won’t see right through him. praying that begging works, show them they've broken him. praying the others don’t say anything else. praying they're alive. this is so much worse than the lashes on his back, his head feels like it might explode. he looks to his left — is that his vomit on the ground? when had he-- “please let me go. please let me go. please let me go.”

he’s practically whimpering now, words coming out as whispered prayers than outright pleads, and he knows he looks pathetic but he cannot manage to bring his usual hubris into this. he suddenly recognizes the silence once more. no more screaming, no more noise. he thinks he’s worn them out — he thinks he hears them sigh. he thinks this is over. he thinks he’s won, but at what cost?

the cost is another blow to that spot at his temple strong enough to make his vision mercifully fade for good.

[strongfuck]

Sleeping at Last - Saturn, Venus, and 9

first of all you are so evil for suggesting sleeping at last to me, every single song i have heard from them has always driven me to misery (i don't actually think you're evil, i'm just IN PAIN OVER RHYS FEELINGS)

Who am I to say what any of this means I have been sleepwalking Since I was fourteen now as I write my song I retrace my steps honestly, it’s easier To let myself forget Still, I check my vital signs Choked up, I realize I’ve been less than half myself For more than half my life

Nine is making me go insane thinking about how Rhys felt he HAD to succeed at Hyperion or else he'd have wasted whole years of his life being there

So show me what to do To restart this heart of mine How do I forgive myself For losing so much time?

and how after the events of tftbl he tries to be more of himself. sure, he's never ENTIRELY himself 24/7-- but what is a sense of self, anyway? and how do you know that you're always true?-- but he's certainly more than he was when he was at hyperion. he gets to pursue his own interests. he gets to do good with tech just like he's wanted

To know and love ourselves and others well Is the most difficult and meaningful Work we’ll ever do

and considering he takes the time to get to know the people of promethea in canon-- the ordinary people that he chooses to protect, btw-- he's so aware that there are humans around him. that they aren't just population numbers. and as he gets to be more "rhys-like" in his everyday and starts to feel more comfortable in his skin, he feels genuine affection and duty for the people he's decided to dedicate himself to. man is literally the only CEO ever to choose protecting his company and his planet over seeking out a vault in the vault-obsessed borderlands, and i think that's significant

I couldn't help but ask for you to say it all again I tried to write it down, but I could never find a pen I'd give anything to hear you say it one more time That the universe was made just to be seen by my eyes

also GOD Saturn makes me think about Rhys missing his friends-- his friends who gave him the tools to realise he has worth outside being a hyperion stooge-- and how alone he is now as Atlas' CEO, because nobody around him knows him as Just Rhys any more, nor are they really interested in the "man behind the moustache", so to speak

With shortness of breath I'll try to explain the infinite And how rare and beautiful it is to even exist

and like-- the fact that he's dedicated himself to making a planet better? he fucking revived a planet that was worse than pandora and turned it into "the most advanced planet in the galaxy" in FIVE YEARS. he opened a vault and not only made atlas thrive with it, but also poured it back into the planet that atlas had forsaken. COME ON

I was a billion little pieces 'Til you pulled me into focus Astronomy in reverse It was me who was discovered

and VENUS, oh my GOD, this is rhys falling in love and i'm never going to forgive you for making me think about this in context of him. my tears are watering as i'm writing this even, lmao. there's something so innocent about love grounding him; rhys spends so much time with his head in the stars, thinking about the future and how to make things better for others, that taking a moment to stop and just... consider his own happiness? to consider the happiness given to him by another? is so quiet and gentle, every time

thanks anon. shit hurts

[sapper-axtual]

I hear what you're saying- and you're right, but...

Lance missed Keith first.

The Keith before the Blade of Marmora. The Keith that was easy to rile up, moody and edgy, but malleable and open-minded. The Keith that would play along with his teasing and give his attention back tenfold to whatever stupid way he was trying to get under his skin.

He wasn't distracted and burdened, scared of who-what he was, and what that meant for the team. The Keith that was accepted by Allura uncritically as the hero he was without any question to his heritage, that needed Lance's level-headedness and strategic thinking to help keep him balanced, that wasn't pushed into a premature position of leadership to fill the role of his beloved mentor and brother who was believed dead.

Lance missed the Keith that he caught up to. The boy he had chased for years and finally found level ground with before it all shifted out from under them.

Lance missed the Keith that he could follow- that he could protect- before he ran off with a clandestine organization of space recon operatives that could easily sacrifice their own members and would leave Keith behind without batting an eye about it.

Lance missed the Keith that was on his way to being more openly-vulnerable and trusting, that would've hugged him after two years apart instead of closing off even more.

The Keith that could admit Lance's plan was better. The Keith that would hold his hand and smile so softly at just the idea of being a team.

The Keith that would race him in a blind nosedive just to see who could fall faster...

Because Lance really hadn't expected Keith to pull up first- he probably hadn't even noticed how fast they were falling until he was suddenly on his own with the truth of it and that had to sit so sickeningly heavy while Keith was gone with the Blade- to who knows where.

He pushed it down, refused to look at the wound that caused- didn't confront Keith about it in the aftermath of everything because Keith wasn't the same person- was barely recognizable. Focused and balanced without needing his help, but also- cold, standoffish (and not in a fun way), closed-off again tighter than ever.

"You ran away!"

Well- what did he run away from, Lance?

The responsibility? The pressure?

Or you.

Lance knows it's not just him that Keith left behind- but that doesn't stop it from feeling that way. Feeling like something important- something vital and fragile was severed when Keith walked away from Voltron, something he can't replace- doesn't have the tools to rebuild.

They never mapped out where they were going to be able to retrace those steps.

Every time they interact, they clash or miss. Their fractured ends were chipped in new ways while they were apart and the jagged pieces just don't fit anymore.

So- is it any surprise he fell into Allura?

When one door closes another one opens and who could blame a guy for falling for her? She needed to be loved by someone who valued her and he needed his love to be valued, so...it worked. While it lasted.

But, she had a part to play for the universe and he'd never hold her back from it, so he was alone again and...resigned to loss.

But, maybe it wasn't the loss that changed him...because he'd been here before: he knew what it felt like to watch someone he loved walk away from him...

But, Keith only sees the change now...

After he's grounded the team and refused to let the paladins take any missions on Atlas' voyage home; cleared their schedules and reserved time with the ship's counselor for each of them. He only sees Lance's mourning after he's decided Lance is mourning...

Maybe it's the way Keith looks at him like he's changed. Like he expects Lance to fall apart any second. Like he's fragile.

And he is, but...

he was mourning long before Allura left.

Can you imagine how deeply Keith misses Lance post war?

But not the Lance of that moment, no.

The Lance of before the war ended. The one that was his right hand/co leader, the one that kept him afloat when shiro went missing again, the one that he'd grown close to.

Because now all he sees when he looks at the boy he loves, is a shell.

In his dreams it's always the Lance without the marks, the Lance that had a smile actually reach his eyes, the Lance that would laugh genuinely and so bright.

Keith goes on a mission to find some lost object and it leads him to a woman known for helping do just that.

She throws Keith and his team into a blank dreamscape saying the guardian of lost things will take shape of ones deepest trust. Ones deepest love, ones deepest wish.

The gaurdian takes the shape of Paladin Lance. The one that used to confide in him, the one that used to spend so much time with him.

Keith is frozen still as he looks at a Lance that's so happy, so playful. Nothing at all like the Lance he'd grown used to seeing now.

The guardian dances around him teasingly with Lances voice, with his smile, with his laugh.

Someone asks why it's Lance and the gaurdian chuckles in a way Keith hadn't heard from real Lance in years.

"because..." Those blue eyes focus in on Keith with the brightest twinkle "Keith missed me the most~"

The guardian steps closer running a hand across Keith's arm as he walks around him in observation. "I simply took the appearance of his heart, he trusts this face so I will Keep it as I guide you."

No one says anything else and Keith's eyes never once leave that face. No Altean markings, no visible depression, no dulled skin.

He's so unfairly alive it hurts. Keith never thought he mourned someone still living so deeply but he did. He was mourning a Lance that no longer existed.

Once the objects location is shown to them the gaurdian turns to Keith for the final time. This time he wears a gentle smile, eyes soft and filled with worry "you love him don't you?"

Keith doesn't even have to think "I do."

The gaurdian is silent for a moment as if milling over its options "speak to him, he is lost too."

And they wake up with the missing object sitting safely in Keith's hands.

All he can think about though is Lances face, young and free.

[ostensiblynone]

Building ghosts are the imprint and last impression of a demolished building, and offer traces of the past lives of that place. Physically, building ghosts are architectural remnants that could only be found in a rowhouse city like Philadelphia, where the loss of one structure leaves a tangible mark on its neighbors. Since 2013, I have been documenting building ghosts in the city of Philadelphia. In 2020, I was awarded a grant from the Sachs Program for Arts Innovation to support a project to investigate, mourn, and celebrate the ghosts that existed in Philadelphia during one particular four-month span. The project will result in a book that uses maps, architectural street photography, and archival research as a form of forensic storytelling to retrace the ghosts’ structures and selves. In doing so, the project aims to spark a conversation about shared experiences and divergent neighborhoods across our city, dwelling in the moment between a place’s loss and its erasure. The project has been covered by Atlas Obscura.

author: [Molly Lester]

[aero-sense]

Knowing that the creators deliberating lightened Aang's skin color as he was based of Sifu Kisu's son, a Black/Chinese american, and in a sense Aang has always been whitewashed from the start...

we could have had Blasian Aang. we could have had it all.

[arablit]

The Launch of 'Country of Words: A Transnational Atlas for Palestinian Literature'

On October 17 of this year, Stanford University Press published Refqa Abu-Remaileh’s “Country of Words: A Transnational Atlas for Palestinian Literature,” which is available online at countryofwords.org. The project, made available through the press’s “Stanford Digital Projects” imprint, is an “an interactive digital archive that allows us to retrace and remap the global story of Palestinian…

[retphienix]

Alright got my info, and a slight spoiler but I kind of assumed as much but really neat to find out:

So I guess once upon a time resetting would mean losing all access to prior galaxies while spitting you into a new one.

No real idea if that's how the center worked as well- but a lot of posts and info about how the Atlas Path would result in you losing all your old bases.

THEN not so much, they updated it so you can just freely go between galaxies whenever- so the literal toll of the action is null it seems (a bit disappointing but I get it).

But no yeah the thing I was actually trying to look up before this spoiler of sorts- I apparently need to make another star and then I can get to the dialogue again.

I thought on that, just didn't try- I'll try retracing my steps or finding a new station to do it but it seems saying no just means doing it again from that step or around there- not the entire quest line pilgrimage, so that's nice.

I shall have my reset lol

[atrdrill]

Utilizing the Potential of Top Hammer Drilling Tools Offered by ATR Drill:

A Collaborative Approach towards Enhancing Productivity in Rock Drilling Operations

In the realm of top hammer rock drilling tools, such as open-pit mining, quarrying, tunneling, and related activities, top hammer drill equipment are widely regarded as reliable and indispensable assets for achieving favorable outcomes. The components that comprise drill systems include drill bits, drill rods, shank adapters, and coupling sleeves. These essential elements play a crucial role in ensuring optimal drilling quality, stability, and long-lasting performance.

We would like to present ATR DrillTech, a company that serves as both a manufacturer and a dependable collaborator in the realm of top hammer rock drilling instruments. These instruments have been skillfully crafted to effectively direct high-frequency impact energy towards the rock. The efficacy of their performance stems from their capacity to optimize rates of rock fragmentation, depth of penetration, and overall production.

Now, let us get into the pertinent details:

The button bit material consists of a combination of Tungsten Carbide and Structural Alloy Steel, which can be likened to a crucial ingredient or "secret sauce."

There exists a variety of connecting thread types, including R25, R28, R32, R38, T38, T45, T51, GT60, ST58, and ST68.

The focus of this discussion pertains to various types of drill bits, namely Standard, Retrac, Reaming, and Tapered, with an emphasis on their adaptability.

The available options for skirt designs encompass the refined selections of Standard, Retrac, and Straightrac.

The various options for face designs include Flat, Drop Center, Uni-face, Reaming, and Cross Type, providing a wide range of choices.

The Evolution of Button Shapes: A Transition from Spherical to Ballistic, Conical, and Composite Buttons.

The head diameter has a broad range spanning from 28mm to 152mm.

Consider envisioning a symphony characterized by its meticulousness and potency:

The drill rod material is composed of structural alloy steel, serving as the fundamental component of the drilling rig.

Types of Threads: Various thread types, such as R22, R25, R28, R32, R38, T38, T45, T51, GT60, ST58, and ST68, facilitate the establishment of a reliable connection.

There is a wide range of rod types available, including Extension and Drifter rods, MF and MF Drifter rods, Guide tubes, and Drill tubes.

Body Types: The available design possibilities for the body are Round and Hexagonal shapes.

The diameter of the spectrum ranges from 20mm to 87mm.

The range of lengths spans from 260mm to an impressive 6400mm.

And now, the essential element:

The shank adapter material is constructed from structural alloy steel, providing a reliable connection for drilling operations.

Several renowned rock drill manufacturers, such as Atlas Copco, Sandvik, Tamrock, and others, offer a wide range of compatible rock drills.

Types of Threads: The available thread sizes encompass R25, R28, R32, R38, T38, T45, T51, GT60, ST58, and ST68.

Types of Shank: In the field of manufacturing and engineering, shanks are an integral component of various tools and equipment. Shanks Regardless of whether the thread is male or female, one may be certain of its adaptability.

The diameter of the object under consideration spans from 32mm to 90mm.

The range of length, spanning from 370mm to 835mm, exemplifies the concept of flexibility.

Furthermore, in order to establish a cohesive connection between the aforementioned elements:

The coupling sleeve material is constructed from structural alloy steel, which serves as a reliable and essential component.

This study examines many types of threads, including R32, R35, R38, T38, T45, and T51, that are commonly used in industrial applications.

There are three types of coupling designs available: Semi-bridge, Full bridge, and Crossover.

The diameter of the spectrum ranges from 44mm to 72mm.

The available length options span a range of 150mm to 255mm.

The ATR Drill offers more than a mere selection of tools; it facilitates the establishment of a collaborative collaboration. The regular and heavy-duty series of top hammer drilling rig instruments offered by the company serve as valuable assets in effectively navigating various rock formations and challenging operational environments. The proficiency of their thread design, whether it be in the form of a rope or trapezoidal structure, guarantees the efficacy and reliability of each drilling operation.

The rationale for employing the ATR drill for rock drilling requirements.

The ATR Drill is renowned for its exceptional craftsmanship, as it embodies cutting-edge production technology, state-of-the-art equipment, and a highly proficient technical workforce.

ATR Drill demonstrates unwavering dedication by conducting thorough real-world tests, focusing on the enhancement of raw materials, optimizing heat treatment techniques, and refining manufacturing processes, all of which are informed by useful customer feedback.

Navigating Your Path: ATR Drill not only engages in the sale of tools, but also provides specialized expertise and guidance to its customers. The professionals provide assistance in choosing appropriate tools and construction techniques that are specifically suited to the individual circumstances, so assuring optimal efficiency and cost-efficiency.

ATR Drill's rock drill equipment has garnered a highly esteemed standing within the industry. The tools they produce are renowned for their exceptional durability and ability to withstand wear, placing them on par with top international brands. Indeed, in specific domain comparisons, ATR Drill tools have outperformed even the most reputable brands, garnering significant acclaim from contented clientele.

Now, let us engage in a discussion regarding the future:

In an era heavily influenced by technological advancements, ATR Drill stands as a prominent symbol of innovation within the drilling sector. ATR Drill, with its established track record of outstanding performance and unwavering dedication to innovation, is positioned to assume a pioneering role in the industry for the foreseeable future. It is acknowledged that the achievement of the individual is intertwined with the achievement of others, and they are committed to accompanying and supporting one another along this journey.

[outofthiisworld]

[🐰] Hah— ooh, man oh man! Rabbot’s laughter eased up with both a sigh and a muttered ‘phew!’

Now, Arlo was a lot of things: a troublemaker, a goofball, and especially a wise-cracker. He was also a people’s person. Always had a knack for picking up on those little things, even back when he was younger and dumber— when his old team couldn’t catch how someone with a brave face trembled or that twitch of a finger when someone lied.

So, the tension in the other hero hadn’t gone unnoticed. Neither did the edge of his voice when he further questioned Rabbot (and it stung). Weren’t they getting along just fine? Arlo retraced his steps all under a fraction of a second. What was said and what was done.

Oh.

Arlo frowned underneath the helmet. He laughed a lot, hadn’t he? Especially after the other admitted to a shocked-he-wasn’t-a-robot reveal. Well. That wasn’t cool of him.

“Yeah, it is kinda dorky, huh?” Rabbot sheepishly scratched the back of his neck, but his voice kept that casual air about him. “Can I be real with you, man? A good bud at ATLAS was the one who came up with it. I was, uh— ya’ know … stuck in a rut after the whole legs thing. Thought that was that for me, cause I mean come on— a speedster without their legs?”

Another laugh almost bubbled out. Rabbot kept it in this time.

“But then the dude shows up at my door, with these paw-blade blueprints and this whole new hero-schtick he cooked up to go with it, right? Something to stop people from asking ‘what happened to Hotshot?’ and get ‘em to be like ‘oh groovy, a rabbit who hops with metal legs!’ ”

Now Rabbot chuckled at the memory of Giuseppe that night. Man, what a good guy.

“AND DUDE— LIKE!!! It was midnight and he’d been toiling away to get my ass in gear while I was wallowing around. Guess we got so excited, the whole mistaken-for-a-real-robot thing went over our heads!”

"Huh...Hotshot sounded cooler," said the man who walked around calling himself Coldsnap.

He watched curiously as the wafer cones just...disappeared into that rabbit-like helmet. Coldsnap himself couldn't do that. The helmet was part of his transformation. He'd have to de-transform just for a nibble.

But then Rabbot laughed.

Coldsnap tensed up. So he misunderstood. And now Rabbot was laughing. Was the other hero laughing at the situation....or at him? Rabbot wasn't making much sense to him really. But then again he wasn't around from Bayfloat so he supposed that was only reasonable.

"Why call yourself Rabbot. If you are not... a robot?" There's something defensive creeping into his voice now. There's a muffled sound behind his mask before he continued.

"Who are you trying to fool?"

[vomara]

just saw somebody physically retrace another person's fanart to make it the pairing that they like... ugh

[custacean-remade]

weh

[ohmyc-monster]