#script book for scale

[joycrispy]

One thing I love about Crowley --never stated, but consistently shown-- is that he is, at heart, an engineer.

I have a few different things to say about that. Let's unpack them.

As the Unnamed Angel, we see his designs for the Pillars of Creation are millions of pages long, comprised of cramped text, footnotes, diagrams, schematics, etc. It's very...Renaissance polymath, in the way it implies a particular intersection of artist and inventor.

Also: in the naked romanticism with which he views his stars.

We already knew he made stars, but in s2 we learn that he did NOT sculpt each of them by hand. He designed a nebula ("a star factory," he says) that will form several thousand young stars and proto-planets, and all --aside from getting the 'factory' running-- without him lifting a finger. We also learn that these young stars and proto-planets stand in contrast to those made by other angels, which are going to come 'pre-aged.'

...I'm reminded of Hastur and Ligur's approach to temptations. Damning one human soul at a time, devoting singular attention to it over the course of years or decades, and how that stands in contrast to Crowley's reliance on, quote, 'knock-on effects.'

Ligur: It's not exactly...craftsmanship. Crowley: Head office don't seem to mind. They love me down there.

Hm.

I'm also reminded of the M25.

The M25 may not be as grand as a nebula (sentences you only say in GOmens fandom...), but LIKE his nebula it's an intricate, self-sustaining engine that does Crowley's work for him, many times over. Again.

That's some pretty neat characterization --and so is the indication towards Crowley's disinterest in victimizing anyone tempting individual people. It takes a considerable amount of planning and effort (and creeping about in wellies), but in accordance with his design the M25 generates a constant stream of low-grade evil on a gigantic scale.

Cumulatively gigantic, that is. Individually? Negligible.

But no other demon understands human nature well enough to parse that one million ticked-off motorists are not, in any meaningful way, actually equivalent to one dictator, or one mass-murderer, or even one little influential regressive. That's the trick of it. Crowley gets Hell's approval (which he NEEDS to survive, and to maintain the degree of freedom he's eked out for himself), and at the same time ensures that any actual ~Evil Influence~ is spread nice and thin.

It's some clever machinery. And he knows it, too:

The Unnamed Angel and Crowley are both proud of their ideas.

(musings on professional pride, Leonardo da Vinci, the crank handle, and 'the point to which Crowley loves Aziraphale' under the cut)

In the 1970's Crowley gives a presentation on the M25, projector and all, to a room full of increasingly impatient demons. Maybe the presentation was work-ordered; the 'can I hear a WAHOO?' definitely wasn't.

Before the Beginning, the Unnamed Angel can barely contain his excitement about his nebula. Aziraphale manages a baffled-but-polite, "....That's nice... :)"

11 years ago, Hastur and Ligur want to 'tell the deeds of the day,' and Crowley smiles to himself because (according to the script-book) he knows he has 'the best one.'

(Naturally, his 'deed' has nothing to do with tempting anybody, and everything to do with setting up a human-powered Rube-Goldberg machine of petty annoyance. Oodles of 'Evil' generated; very little harm done.)

Hastur and Ligur don't get it, of course. That's also consistent.

Nobody ever knows what the hell he's talking about.

It didn't make it on-screen, but, in both the novel AND the script-book, Crowley was friends with Leonardo da Vinci. The quintessential Renaissance polymath. That's where he got his drawing of the Mona Lisa --they're getting very drunk together, and Crowley picks up the 'most beautiful' of the preliminary sketches. He wants to buy it. Leonardo agrees almost off-the-cuff, very casual, because they're friends, and because he has bigger fish to fry than haggling over a doodle:

He goes, "Now, explain this helicopter thingie again, will you?" Because he's an engineer, too.

(It is 1519 at the latest, in this scene. Why the FUCK would Crowley know about helicopters, and be able to explain them, comprehensively, to Leonardo da Vinci?

...Well. I choose to believe he got bored one day and worked it out. Look, if you know how to build a nebula, you can probably handle aerodynamics. And anyway, I think it's telling that this is his idea of shooting the shit. 'A drunken mind speaks a sober heart,' and all. He probably babbled about Aziraphale long enough to make poor Leo sick)

Apart from Aziraphale, Leonardo da Vinci is the only person Crowley has any keepsakes or mementos of.

Think about that, though. Aziraphale's bookshop is bursting with letters, paintings, busts, and personalized signatures memorializing all the humans he's known and befriended over 6000 years (indeed: Aziraphale has living human friends up and down Whickber Street. He's part of a community).

Crowley doesn't have any of that. It's just the stone albatross from the Church (for pining), the infamous gay sex statue (for spicy pining), the houseplants (for roleplaying his deepest trauma over and over, as one does), and this one piece of artwork, inscribed, "To my friend Anthony from your friend Leo da V."

To me, at least, that suggests a level of attachment that seems to be rare for Crowley.

...Maybe he liked having someone to talk shop with? Someone who was interested? Someone engaged enough to ask questions when they didn't immediately understand?

...Anyway.

There's also the matter of the crank handle.

This thing:

This is one of the subtler changes from the book. In the book, Crowley knows Satan is coming and, desperate, arms himself with a tire iron. It's the best he can do. He's not Aziraphale; he wasn't made to wield a flaming sword.

The show, IMO, improves on this considerably. Now he, like Aziraphale, gets to face annihilation with what he was made for in his hand. And it's not a weapon, not even an improvised one like the tire iron.

He made stars with it.

[both gifs by @fuckyeahgoodomens]

If you Google 'crank handle,' you'll get variations on this:

Crank handles have been around for centuries. Consisting of a mechanical arm that's connected to a perpendicular rotating shaft, they are designed to convert circular motion into rotary or reciprocating motion.

Which is to say they're one of the 'simple machines,' like a lever or a pulley; the bread and butter of engineering. You'll also get a list of uses for a crank handle, archaic and modern. Among them: cranking up the engine of an old-fashioned car... say, a 1933 Bentley. That's what Crowley has been using his for, lately. But he's had it since he was an angel and he's still, it seems, very capable of it's angelic applications.

Stopping time. For instance.

(This is conjecture on my part, but, I like to imagine that Crowley has the ability to stop time for the same reason I can --and should-- unplug my computer before I perform maintenance on it. Time and Space are a matched set, after all, and in his designs in particular, one feeds into the other.)

I know everyone has already said this, but: I REALLY LIKE that when he needs to channel the heights of his power, he does so not with a weapon but with a tool. Practically with a little handheld metaphor for ingenuity. One from long-lost days when he made beautiful things.

(And he loved it. Still loves it --he incorporated that metaphor into the Bentley, didn't he?)

Let Aziraphale rock up to the apocalypse with a weapon: he has his own compelling thematic reasons to do exactly that. Crowley's story is different, and fighting isn't the only way to express defiance. And if you've been condemned as a demon and assumed to be destructive by your very nature, what better way than this?

He made stars. They didn't manage to take that from him.

Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale are fighters, really --they have no intention of fighting in any war. They'll annoy everyone until there's no war to fight in, for a start. But between the two, if one must be, then that one is Aziraphale. Principality of the Earth, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Wielder of the Flaming Sword... all that stuff. Even if he'd prefer not to, it's very clear that Aziraphale can rise to the occasion, if he must.

Crowley was never that kind of angel. He wasn't a Principality. He doesn't have a sword.

...And yet.

It's Crowley who protects. He's the one who paces, who stands guard, who circles Aziraphale and glares out at the world, just daring anyone else to come near.

In light of everything else I've said here, I think that's interesting.

Obviously part of it is that Aziraphale enjoys it and, you know, good for him. He's living his best life, no doubt no doubt no doubt. But what about Crowley? What's driving that behavior, really?

Have you heard the phrase, 'loved to the point of invention'? Well, what if 'the point of invention' was where you started? What if where you end up involves glaring out at the world, just daring anyone else to come near? What is that, in relation to the bright-eyed thing you used to be?

What do we name the point to which Crowley loves Aziraphale?

...Thinking about how an excitable angel with three million pages of star design he wants to tell you all about...becomes a guard dog. Is all.

[onlycosmere]

*In response to a meme about a tv show adaptation of a book being written by a writer who had not read the book*

Brandon Sanderson: I have a fun story here. Early in my career, someone optioned the rights to make one of my stories (the Emperor's Soul) into a film. I was ecstatic, as it's not a story that at the time had gotten a lot of attention from Hollywood.

I met with the writer, who had a good pedigree, and who seemed extremely excited about the project; turned out, he'd been the one to persuade the production company to go for the option. All seemed really promising.

A year or so later, I read his script and it was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. The character names were, largely, the same, though nothing that happened to them was remotely similar to the story. Emperor's Soul is a small-scale character drama that takes place largely in one room, with discussions of the nature of art between two characters who approach the idea differently.

The screenplay detailed an expansive fantasy epic with a new love interest for the main character (a pirate captain.) They globe-trotted, they fought monsters, they explored a world largely unrelated to mine, save for a few words here and there. It was then that I realized what was going on.

Hollywood doesn't buy spec scripts (original ideas) from screenwriters very often, and they NEVER buy spec scripts that are epic fantasy. Those are too big, too expensive, and too daunting: they are the sorts of stories where the producers and executives need the proof of an established book series to justify the production.

So this writer never had a chance to tell his own epic fantasy story, though he wanted to. Instead, he found a popularish story that nobody had snatched up, and used it as a means to tell the story he'd always wanted to tell, because he'd never otherwise have a chance of getting it made.

I'm convinced this is part of the issue with some of these adaptations; screenwriters and directors are creative, and want to tell their own stories, but it's almost impossible to get those made in things like the fantasy genre unless you're a huge established name like Cameron. I'm not saying they all do this deliberately, as that screenwriter did for my work, but I think it's an unconscious influence. They want to tell their stories, and this is the allowed method, so when given the chance at freedom they go off the rails, and the execs don't know the genre or property well enough to understand why this can lead to disaster.

Anyway, sorry for the novel length post in a meme thread. I just find the entire situation to be fascinating.

[jackoshadows]

Brandon Sanderson on why TV adaptations of fantasy works end up being so different to the source material:

I have a fun story here. Early in my career, someone optioned the rights to make one of my stories (the Emperor's Soul) into a film. I was ecstatic, as it's not a story that at the time had gotten a lot of attention from Hollywood. I met with the writer, who had a good pedigree, and who seemed extremely excited about the project; turned out, he'd been the one to persuade the production company to go for the option. All seemed really promising. A year or so later, I read his script and it was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. The character names were, largely, the same, though nothing that happened to them was remotely similar to the story. Emperor's Soul is a small-scale character drama that takes place largely in one room, with discussions of the nature of art between two characters who approach the idea differently. The screenplay detailed an expansive fantasy epic with a new love interest for the main character (a pirate captain.) They globe-trotted, they fought monsters, they explored a world largely unrelated to mine, save for a few words here and there. It was then that I realized what was going on. Hollywood doesn't buy spec scripts (original ideas) from screenwriters very often, and they NEVER buy spec scripts that are epic fantasy. Those are too big, too expensive, and too daunting: they are the sorts of stories where the producers and executives need the proof of an established book series to justify the production. So this writer never had a chance to tell his own epic fantasy story, though he wanted to. Instead, he found a popularish story that nobody had snatched up, and used it as a means to tell the story he'd always wanted to tell, because he'd never otherwise have a chance of getting it made. I'm convinced this is part of the issue with some of these adaptations; screenwriters and directors are creative, and want to tell their own stories, but it's almost impossible to get those made in things like the fantasy genre unless you're a huge established name like Cameron. I'm not saying they all do this deliberately, as that screenwriter did for my work, but I think it's an unconscious influence. They want to tell their stories, and this is the allowed method, so when given the chance at freedom they go off the rails, and the execs don't know the genre or property well enough to understand why this can lead to disaster. Anyway, sorry for the novel length post in a meme thread. I just find the entire situation to be fascinating.

[celtrist]

This was a planned thing I had around the time I had this little rant (appreciate everyone who's bothered reading that thank you!)

Seeing as we have three canonically Asexual characters, I thought each of them having a different romantic orientation (and varying asexuality on the scale) would be fun and neat to show the variations to the orientations! But I was really stumped on Mammon since I was pretty set on Alastor and Octavia, but Mammon not being any form of aromantic didn't feel right, not terribly ooc, just definitely felt a bit more like "he's the leftovers" sort of thing when divvying up the romantic orientations. But lo and behold, the new episode of Helluva came out and helped solved that little quandrie. So here are my thoughts below on each!

Alastor (Loveless Aromantic) If you've seen my rant, you probably have a good idea why I labeled him as a "loveless aromantic" (meaning in this sense I'm talking about, he just wouldn't have any form of romantic affections or go into something like a QPR or the like). And I do genuinely think he would be! But I know there's A LOT of bias for Alastor NOT being aromantic (or at least open to some sort of relationship), and I will admit I might've been a bit biased here too! I've just seen a lot of love for only specific parts of the aro spectrum that "allows" Alastor to get with someone, and I wanted to give some love to the aro spectrum that gets little to no appreciation (plus I do just genuinely think he'd be this). If you don't agree, all is fair ദ്ദി（• ˕ •マ.ᐟ The point is, I realize I'm probably in the minority here. Plus, it's all a guessing game more or less until something is officially stated, which probably will never happen for any of these three.

Anyway, like I said, I just don't see Alastor really getting as close to anyone even as a QPR. At the VERY LEAST, not in a QPR that has a lot of romantic parts to it (kissing on the lips, cuddling, etc.). My man wouldn't have any interest in marriage or anything romantic, he's very happy on his own and probably gossips about OTHER people's love lives. Then again, he seemed pretty close to cracking when he heard Charlie ranting about her own love life... With that said, I do think he DOES like the company of others, he's VERY social after all. But actually, getting intimate with someone? Mmm, that doesn't feel right for him to me. A kiss on the cheek or PERHAPS a cuddle here and there at most, but nothing like bathing with someone or kissing with tongue. He's also a man of the roaring twenties, so you KNOW how he thinks about intimacies that might have no romantic/sexual connotations by themselves (like bathing with someone) are romantic on their own just because being that close to someone was seen that way in his time. Plus again, I just don't think he'd be interested in that stuff as is (potentially he could be both touch-starved and touch-aversed. And oh boy, wouldn't that be a conundrum!) On one hand, I like and can see Alastor being sex-repulsed, on the other I can also see him just feeling nothing towards it. Considering Angel's "advances" in both the first episode and the pilot, he does have a bit of a strong reaction towards sex, but nothing crazy either. I can see him being lukewarm to the subject (so he could read a book or read a script out loud with sex in it), but he could be repulsed when it actually INVOLVES HIM. I can definitely see him somewhat annoyed with the subject for how everywhere it is though.

Octavia (QPR Aromantic) It's a little hard to pinpoint, but I can personally see Octavia getting into a close QPR sooner than Alastor, but maaayybe only be a hair. Octavia could possibly get into a platonic relationship with someone that would have remnants of seeming romantic. I do think she's probably the most sex-repulsed of the three, if in part because of her father's inclinations that he doesn't seem to hide even when she's around. Honestly, I feel like we still haven't seen enough of her to get a good grasp on this aspect of her character in if she would be interested in getting as close as to a QPR with someone. But I'd certainly like to think so, because damn does our girl need it. Her falling into some sort of relationship would probably be hard seeing as how her parents' relationship was so awful. So she could be hesitant about doing something like that.

Mammon He was the big toughy! And while his advances on Leviathan might have been meant in a more platonic way or just for show to go against Ozzy's and Bee's romantic relations, I'm going with what's there! So Mammon seems like he could be straight or bi/pan. But I don't have a hard grasp on which so I'm tossing that in the air. I don't think he'd be sex-repulsed just because of how "sex makes money". Like, there's no question that sex appeal is a big part of business even if something isn't even that sexual. So while I think he's not largely interested in doing anything sexual, I can see him being okay or even lukewarm to the subject, maybe just not getting the appeal entirely. Maaaayybe he's sex-favorable? Of the three I would imagine he would be the most likely to be sex-favorable, but I dunno.

I like the idea of Octavia being the only one aware as to what her orientations are. Alastor is... well he's Alastor, and Mammon doesn't seem like he'd be too interested in the details of things. Just that "there's straight, gay, and the between area".

[flawseer]

3000 AS character drawings

(Clearsight, Listener, Thoughtful)

I suppose this might be a new collage? Probably not a complete one, but I would like to draw some of the characters from this time period that I liked or found otherwise notable.

I wanted to include Clearsight's parents in this post, but the prospect of drawing five full-body pictures of dragons in one post filled me with some kind of emotion, so if I do that, it'll likely happen later.

Clearsight

The mother of pantaloons herself. She is described as slender, beautiful, and as having purple eyes. The graphic novels so far have one depiction of a Nightwing using future-sight and it shows her eyes glowing an eerie white while she does it. Clearsight's method of using her clairvoyance is very unorthodox, but I like to imagine she still gets this effect when she looks ahead at future events. Only in her case it looks less ominous and much more casual. I picture her sitting at the dinner table with her eyes lighting up every few minutes, until her mother finally goes "now dear, we've agreed; no future-vision during meal time." So she sighs and silently continues eating her beet salad.

Also, obligatory mention that the silver scale in the center of her forehead is, once again, a reference to my partner @flamebringer0 's theory about Nightwing powers and indicates the presence of prophetic powers, like eye scales would mark a mind reader.

Listener

Clearsight's bestie is described as large, long-necked, and curvy, and seems like a good extroverted foil to someone who spends most of her time cooped up inside her own head. She comes across as a bit of a romance-obsessed airhead, but some of the things she tells Clearsight are actually pretty reasonable, and I like to think Clearsight becomes more appreciative of Listener's ideas and influence once she departs the continent and they are separated.

Apparently she later writes a scroll about Clearsight being the most brilliant prophet who ever lived. I would like to know how that affected her life, considering the Nightwing tribe probably remembers Clearsight as "that lady who was fawning over the crazed warlock we all ran away from". Did Listener catch push-back for publishing a laudatory script about someone like that?

Thoughtful

Here is glass boy. The book describes him as handsome with circular glasses. I accidentally drew him a bit more chubby than I intended, but honestly, I think it suits him. He looks very pleasant and friendly, which seems to be in line with his general character. I am actually very happy with how this drawing turned out.

Also, he is not bipedal in this picture. He is resting his weight on his two hind legs and tail. I think of this as "tripod stance"; it's a body posture a dragon can assume to free up their front legs to do precision work. It is relatively stable, but grows uncomfortable if you stay that way for too long (tail cramp).

Also, you can't really walk like that. To walk on their hind legs with any kind of proficiency, a dragon has to place both of their wings on the ground to substitute their front limbs.

[gargoyleandgremlinpress]

This past summer, I participated in the @renegadeguild Tiny Book Bang! This tiny book was created from a typeset (digital formatted file) made by another guild member, @fantailpress. It's fanbinding but not ficbinding in this case, since it's an excerpt of a podcast script.

The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity and Mortality is a series of stories told in the format of a museum audio guide, so I staged my photos in a rough approximation of a museum exhibit. (Canadian quarter for scale.)

This particular episode segment is a Pied Piper story, told in overlapping, layered voices, and the typesetting reflects that in a very cool way. I've tried to echo the inside text with the static-style paint on the cover.

One of the nice things about tiny books is that you can use all sorts of scraps of material. Commercial book cloth, title and images stencilled with acrylic paint (I used a site to generate colouring book pages to turn the pied piper image into an outline to stencil), and endpapers are from a scrap pack a friend sent me, picked because they remind me of something you'd see in a kids' fairy tale collection.

Also, I got the sneaky glee of making something for a friend who didn't know I'd picked her typeset. (She was only the one who recommended the podcast to me, after all!)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Google reneged on the monopolistic bargain

I'm on tour with my new novel The Bezzle! Catch me TONIGHT in SALT LAKE CITY (Feb 21, Weller Book Works) and TOMORROW in SAN DIEGO (Feb 22, Mysterious Galaxy). After that, it's LA, Seattle, Portland, Phoenix and more!

A funny thing happened on the way to the enshittocene: Google – which astonished the world when it reinvented search, blowing Altavista and Yahoo out of the water with a search tool that seemed magic – suddenly turned into a pile of shit.

Google's search results are terrible. The top of the page is dominated by spam, scams, and ads. A surprising number of those ads are scams. Sometimes, these are high-stakes scams played out by well-resourced adversaries who stand to make a fortune by tricking Google:

https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/tech-news/phone-numbers-airlines-listed-google-directed-scammers-rcna94766

But often these scams are perpetrated by petty grifters who are making a couple bucks at this. These aren't hyper-resourced, sophisticated attackers. They're the SEO equivalent of script kiddies, and they're running circles around Google:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/24/passive-income/#swiss-cheese-security

Google search is empirically worsening. The SEO industry spends every hour that god sends trying to figure out how to sleaze their way to the top of the search results, and even if Google defeats 99% of these attempts, the 1% that squeak through end up dominating the results page for any consequential query:

https://downloads.webis.de/publications/papers/bevendorff_2024a.pdf

Google insists that this isn't true, and if it is true, it's not their fault because the bad guys out there are so numerous, dedicated and inventive that Google can't help but be overwhelmed by them:

https://searchengineland.com/is-google-search-getting-worse-389658

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Google has long maintained that its scale is the only thing that keeps us safe from the scammers and spammers who would otherwise overwhelm any lesser-resourced defender. That's why it was so imperative that they pursue such aggressive growth, buying up hundreds of companies and integrating their products with search so that every mobile device, every ad, every video, every website, had one of Google's tendrils in it.

This is the argument that Google's defenders have put forward in their messaging on the long-overdue antitrust case against Google, where we learned that Google is spending $26b/year to make sure you never try another search engine:

https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2023-10-27/google-paid-26-3-billion-to-be-default-search-engine-in-2021

Google, we were told, had achieved such intense scale that the normal laws of commercial and technological physics no longer applied. Take security: it's an iron law that "there is no security in obscurity." A system that is only secure when its adversaries don't understand how it works is not a secure system. As Bruce Schneier says, "anyone can design a security system that they themselves can't break. That doesn't mean it works – just that it works for people stupider than them."

And yet, Google operates one of the world's most consequential security system – The Algorithm (TM) – in total secrecy. We're not allowed to know how Google's ranking system works, what its criteria are, or even when it changes: "If we told you that, the spammers would win."

Well, they kept it a secret, and the spammers won anyway.

A viral post by Housefresh – who review air purifiers – describes how Google's algorithmic failures, which send the worst sites to the top of the heap, have made it impossible for high-quality review sites to compete:

https://housefresh.com/david-vs-digital-goliaths/

You've doubtless encountered these bad review sites. Search for "Best ______ 2024" and the results are a series of near-identical lists, strewn with Amazon affiliate links. Google has endlessly tinkered with its guidelines and algorithmic weights for review sites, and none of it has made a difference. For example, when Google instituted a policy that reviewers should "discuss the benefits and drawbacks of something, based on your own original research," sites that had previously regurgitated the same lists of the same top ten Amazon bestsellers "peppered their pages with references to a ‘rigorous testing process,’ their ‘lab team,’ subject matter experts ‘they collaborated with,’ and complicated methodologies that seem impressive at a cursory look."

But these grandiose claims – like the 67 air purifiers supposedly tested in Better Homes and Gardens's Des Moines lab – result in zero in-depth reviews and no published data. Moreover, these claims to rigorous testing materialized within a few days of Google changing its search ranking and said that high rankings would be reserved for sites that did testing.

Most damning of all is how the Better Homes and Gardens top air purifiers perform in comparison to the – extensively documented – tests performed by Housefresh: "plagued by high-priced and underperforming units, Amazon bestsellers with dubious origins (that also underperform), and even subpar devices from companies that market their products with phrases like ‘the Tesla of air purifiers.’"

One of the top ranked items on BH&G comes from Molekule, a company that filed for bankruptcy after being sued for false advertising. The model BH&G chose was ranked "the worst air purifier tested" by Wirecutter and "not living up to the hype" by Consumer Reports. Either BH&G's rigorous testing process is a fiction that they infused their site with in response to a Google policy change, or BH&G absolutely sucks at rigorous testing.

BH&G's competitors commit the same sins – literally, the exact same sins. Real Simple's reviews list the same photographer and the photos seem to have been taken in the same place. They also list the same person as their "expert." Real Simple has the same corporate parent as BH&G: Dotdash Meredith. As Housefresh shows, there's a lot of Dotdash Meredith review photos that seem to have been taken in the same place, by the same person.

But the competitors of these magazines are no better. Buzzfeed lists 22 air purifiers, including that crapgadget from Molekule. Their "methodology" is to include screenshots of Amazon reviews.

A lot of the top ranked sites for air purifiers are once-great magazines that have been bought and enshittified by private equity giants, like Popular Science, which began as a magazine in 1872 and became a shambling zombie in 2023, after its PE owners North Equity LLC decided its googlejuice was worth more than its integrity and turned it into a metastatic chumbox of shitty affiliate-link SEO-bait. As Housefresh points out, the marketing team that runs PopSci makes a lot of hay out of the 150 years of trust that went into the magazine, but the actual reviews are thin anaecdotes, unbacked by even the pretense of empiricism (oh, and they loooove Molekule).

Some of the biggest, most powerful, most trusted publications in the world have a side-hustle in quietly producing SEO-friendly "10 Best ___________ of 2024" lists: Rolling Stone, Forbes, US News and Report, CNN, New York Magazine, CNN, CNET, Tom's Guide, and more.

Google literally has one job: to detect this kind of thing and crush it. The deal we made with Google was, "You monopolize search and use your monopoly rents to ensure that we never, ever try another search engine. In return, you will somehow distinguish between low-effort, useless nonsense and good information. You promised us that if you got to be the unelected, permanent overlord of all information access, you would 'organize the world's information and make it universally accessible and useful.'"

They broke the deal.

Companies like CNET used to do real, rigorous product reviews. As Housefresh points out, CNET once bought an entire smart home and used it to test products. Then Red Ventures bought CNET and bet that they could sell the house, switch to vibes-based reviewing, and that Google wouldn't even notice. They were right.

https://www.cnet.com/home/smart-home/welcome-to-the-cnet-smart-home/

Google downranks sites that spend money and time on reviews like Housefresh and GearLab, and crams botshittened content mills like BH&G into our eyeballs instead.

In 1558, Thomas Gresham coined (ahem) Gresham's Law: "Bad money drives out good." When counterfeit money circulates in the economy, anyone who gets a dodgy coin spends it as quickly as they can, because the longer you hold it, the greater the likelihood that someone will detect the fraud and the coin will become worthless. Run this system long enough and all the money in circulation is funny money.

An internet run by Google has its own Gresham's Law: bad sites drive out good. It's not just that BH&G can "test" products at a fraction of the cost of Housefresh – through the simple expedient of doing inadequate tests or no tests at all – so they can put a lot more content up that Housefresh. But that alone wouldn't let them drive Housefresh off the front page of Google's search results. For that, BH&G has to mobilize some of their savings from the no test/bad test lab to do real rigorous science: science in defeating Google's security-through-obscurity system, which lets them command the front page despite publishing worse-than-useless nonsense.

Google has lost the spam wars. In response to the plague of botshit clogging Google search results, the company has invested in…making more botshit:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/16/tweedledumber/#easily-spooked

Last year, Google did a $70b stock buyback. They also laid off 12,000 staffers (whose salaries could have been funded for 27 years by that stock buyback). They just laid off thousands more employees.

That wasn't the deal. The deal was that Google would get a monopoly, and they would spend their monopoly rents to be so good that you could just click "I'm feeling lucky" and be teleported to the very best response to your query. A company that can't figure out the difference between a scam like Better Homes and Gardens and a rigorous review site like Housefresh should be pouring every spare dime it brings in into fixing this problem. Not buying default search status on every platform so that we never try another search engine: they should be fixing their shit.

When Google admits that it's losing the war to these kack-handed spam-farmers, that's frustrating. When they light $26b/year on fire making sure you don't ever get to try anything else, that's very frustrating. When they vaporize seventy billion dollars on financial engineering and shoot one in ten engineers, that's outrageous.

Google's scale has transcended the laws of business physics: they can sell an ever-degrading product and command an ever-greater share of our economy, even as their incompetence dooms any decent, honest venture to obscurity while providing fertile ground – and endless temptation – for scammers.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/21/im-feeling-unlucky/#not-up-to-the-task

[astrstqr]

バラ ͏ ͏ ᐢ ᐢ ͏ ͏ ͏ dr things to script ͏ ★

yonce speaks : update! more things ive added to my drs or plan on adding lol

✶　the many many many songs inspired by me or for me

✶　the name for my duo grp during my haitus is 2kool

✶　im the daughter of ohsun in drs

✶　my own future company. name not decided yet

✶　i talk shit at the 2025 grammys adressing the haters about bey (that was her win!!) and im the host too lmaoo

✶　redid my whole discography

✶　my name is extraordinary that it was never heard of before & archaeologists find my name in a old book with a dead language

✶　the elder scrolls games have better story-telling, immersion, more fleshed out quest/storylines etc

elder scrolls 6 came out in 2024 (starfield was never made) and i have a character inspired by me

✶　my license plates are PRNCSS and LKYGR1

✶　my very detailed wikipedia

✶　was on Produce 48 and placed 13th place. then also appreared on Dream Idol and placed #1 at the end of the show (then debuted on may 2O22 after)

✶　perfume line is called silk&sage, and silk veil

✶　i brought arabic scales to kpop

✶　my fave title star girl

✶　ONLY beef with bad bitches

✶　expanded SASKI. now fashion, bags, beauty, jewelry, perfume, my idol merch, & lookbook

yonce speaks 2 : just few, kinda wanna give you guys my full my script but idk if someone is gonna copy or not lol but it is a good base for ideas.

[faeriemarie]

Hello, I love your blog! Sorry, english not my first language. I want know more about your WR. I want shift to my WR but I don't understand how work, where is it, how are the time and similar questions, can you explain me, please? Thanks you so much ☺️

technicalities of my waiting room ☕

I. WHAT

a waiting room is like any other reality, the process of shifting to one is the same and the experience is REAL! waiting rooms are typically small-scale and minimalistic, but the possibilities are endless. in my case, my waiting room is just a house and a forest.

II. WHERE

i live with my s/o in a house with endless amenities where simply nothing else exists except this house. the forest outside stretches out forever like a minecraft world, but i could never walk that far anyway, so it doesn't matter. no one else exists in the world except us two even though i have lots of woodland animal friends :)

logically, i have no idea where in the world we live because the temperature is always attuned naturally to my wants and needs. i never have to go anywhere for anything as all i could want magically appears before my eyes and every room is cleaned when i close the door. basically 2020's quarantine if everything i needed was already hidden in my house and also it was idealized

III. WHEN

for simplicity's sake, i am my same age and the date is the same as cr. time moves in the same way as cr, so new movies and books and shows are coming out all the time (even though no one is making them in my specific reality. i'm kind of on an interdimensional internet-thing). i also still celebrate holidays and experience seasons as they pass just because i think it's fun.

IV. HOW

reality is SOOOOO flexible! if i can blink and get everything i want, why wouldn't i? attune your waiting room to the things that you like and would want if you could have anything and money didn't exist. for me, that's endless media to consume. more movies, more books, more music, i want it all. i could lock myself away for years alone to finish it all and with a waiting room, i finally can. no responsibilities, no expectations, limited social interaction 🥰 just me and my art forever and if i forget to script something, baby that's why i have my lifa app (see this post for more information)

[georgescitadel]

George R.R. Martin on the process of creating A Game Of Thrones

You hold in your hands the second volume of A Song of Ice and Fire… but not the second volume as originally intended. Although I wrote the opening of A Game of Thrones back in the summer of 1991, as related in my introduction to the Meisha Merlin edition of that volume, it was not until October of 1993 that I drew up a proposal for my agents to take to publishers. There is no mention of any book titled A Clash of Kings in that proposal. In 1993, I was under the impression that I was writing a trilogy.

Trilogies had been the dominant form in epic fantasy ever since J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings had been broken apart by publishers and released in three volumes. And the story that I wanted to tell divided quite naturally into three parts; much more so, in fact, than The Lord of the Rings, which is actually one fairly seamless narrative, and not a trilogy at all. I planned to title the books A Game of Thrones, A Dance with Dragons, and The Winds of Winter. I knew right from the start that they would all be large books. Huge books, even. But there were to be only three of them, and…and none were to be called A Clash of Kings. Sometimes the author is the last to know.

As I write this, I am halfway through the writing of A Feast for Crows, the fourth volume of my ‘trilogy.’ There is no mention of that title in my 1993 proposal either. These days, when pressed, I confidently assert that A Song of Ice and Fire will ultimately run to six books… but behind my back I know my lady Parris is smiling knowingly and holding up seven fingers. She may be right. Though I may dream of six books, plan for six books, work toward six books, the only thing that truly matters is the story. And the story needs to be as long as the story needs to be.

In Hollywood, the suits will tell you how long that is. A television show has to fit within its allotted time slot, of course, and you cannot beg, borrow, or steal an extra minute, no matter how much the story needs it. Running times are somewhat more flexible for films, though not as much as one might think. For the most part, the studios still want movies to run about two hours, so they look for screenplays of 120 pages or less, and demand cuts in any scripts that come in longer. My own screenplays and teleplays were almost always too long and too expensive in first draft, so in my later drafts, along with addressing the inevitable notes from studio, network, and producers, I was constantly trimming. In the end, I would deliver a shooting script that was the right length and under budget, but it was never a happy process… and I often went away feeling that the earlier drafts were the better ones.

The size of A Song of Ice and Fire was in no small part a reaction to ten years of trimming. I wanted to do something epic in scale, something at once grand and sprawling and complex and subtle, with a cast of thousands, huge battles, mighty castles, gorgeous costume, lavish feast, great rivers, towering mountains, vast fields… all the things I could not do in television. In short. I wanted to make a world. And for that you need a bit of room.

In my original proposal, I estimated that each volume of the trilogy might run as long as 800 pages in manuscript. The novels that I had written during the 70's and 80's, before Hollywood, had generally come in at 400 or 500 pages or thereabouts, so an 800 pages book seemed very lengthy indeed. The three books of the trilogy would be structured around the long, slow seasons of Westeros. A Game of Thrones would be summer’s book, A Dance with Dragons would take us through autumn, and The Winds of Winter… well, the title says it all. Even in the Seven Kingdoms, where a season can last for years, 800 pages ought to give me enough room to reach the end of summer and conclude the part of my tale, I reasoned.

‘Twas a lovely plan of battle… but no plan of battle ever survives contact with the enemy, it has been said. Writers know the truth of that as well as any general, though our wars are fought on blank white sheets of paper and empty computer screens. For the map is not the territory, the blueprint is not the house, the recipe is not the dinner… and the outline is never ever the book.

- George R.R. Martin, A Clash of Kings Limited Edition Introduction (2002)

[graceofgondor]

since a couple of you (@nectarinesinthesun444 @perksofbeingpoet) asked, I figured it was worth posting

my dps ✨️hot takes✨️

disclaimer bc people get mad: these are just my opinions, if you disagree, that's okay!! people are allowed to coexist with different opinions. this is a post for friendly discussion only. please don't start discourse or block me just bc you disagree, I enjoy the fact that we all interpret this media in our own way. thank you.

alot of people flat out don't understand charlie as a character and mischaracterize him as a result. (hint: if you see him as just the funny one you need to watch the movie again)

I dislike movie knox just about as much as book knox. he's still entitled and selfish, and I don't think he deserved redemption. (I simply cannot see him in a fanon lens, I just don't like him)

I do however, wish he was written better. In that his character became all about chris, and less about his friends, which lost his character a bit, because occasionally I do see the potential.

while i like her more... i dislike chris. I obviously feel bad for what happened to her, but she is kind of a shitty friend if you think about it. she was constantly ditching ginny for boys (ergo: why i don't ship them) and quite literally cheated on her boyfriend, who was in fact, her friends brother.

relating to that, chet may be a meathead asshole just in general, but he did absolutely nothing wrong when it came to knox and that is a hill i will DIE on.

oh!! hey!! we shouldn't joke about the paddling scene!! literally ever!!!

the "except sex" line is taken way too far. it's not (canonically) gay. boys joke about sex. let's move on.

relating to that... i don't fault anyone for shipping anything legal—but some ships simply have no evidence in canon. (knarlie, chrisginny) and I'm absolutely terrified to say that... but it's true

in that same vein, many people mistake charlie's disapproval toward knox's methods with chris (especially the phone call scene) as jealousy—when in reality, it's just that—disapproval. this is a bit of an inconsistency issue, because this was much more evident in the book/original script—that charlie tended to push knox around a bit, especially about that, but regardless it's still disdain.

charlie isn't in love with everyone. he's just like that.

also— sexuality headcanons are also obviously fine. but if you say charlie is bi/gay/etc. ONLY (allow me to repeat—ONLY) because of his flamboyant tendencies, that is extremely stereotypical and rubs me so far the wrong way.

its okay to not like cameron for what he did. obviously he's not pure evil, but people are allowed to dislike a character for doing a bad thing. its not okay to be ignorant, but it is, in fact, okay to understand and still dislike a character.

already went over this kind of, but literally every poet (+the girls) gets mischaracterized and/or generalized on a large scale. like, why is half the fandom convinced pitts is braindead? and somehow, todd is incapacitated and has anxiety about everything?? I feel like the movie makes a point to say that these characters are nuanced and multifaceted, and yet they continue to be shoved into one box like two-dimensional high school archetypes.

[chernabogs]

Threnody

Inc: Malleus x Reader, with a lil bit of Lilia parenting Warnings: Existential crisis, anxiety mentions, allusions to death, dabbling in insecurity, post-blot coping WC: 2.9k Summary: There is trivial difference between storms of a Fae’s misery and those of a Fae’s joy—both are adorned in catastrophe for those caught within.  Part 1

The gasps of spring’s last moments found closure under summer’s blade as she sliced through the tolerable weather into that of stifling, uncomfortable heat. Despite the way it made his skin itch beneath his uniform, or the way it left an aroma of sweat and humidity on those he surrounded himself with, Malleus was apt to linger on the Isle of Sages for slightly longer than necessary this time. Of course, Housewardens were always the last to leave anyway—someone had to make sure the dorm rooms were cleared out and prepared for the coming fall. 

Last to leave, first to arrive. 

Even then, there was more motivation than the years before for him not to depart so hastily back to the cooler, darker halls of Black Scale Palace for all of three months. Motivation which was presently situated on one of the couches of the Diasomnia lounge, basking in the fresh air from the open windows as Malleus arranged the last of the disarrayed cushions to his liking. 

Yours had come to be a strange relationship in the aftermath of his uncomfortable realization post-overblot. He had bit his tongue like a man cursed and ensured that you had not caught wind of the idle thoughts turning in his mind as he had observed you, so patient and so giving, sitting next to the cot he had been delegated to in that medical ward. 

Your idle chatter had been efficient at keeping periods of silence from stretching for too long. Those periods of silence would have been the trigger to make him shoot off his mouth at you, ejecting his revelations like a psalm that no one was ever meant to read. 

… He wanted you. He wanted you, so much so that it ached in his body …

Such thoughts were akin to ones that a man in torment would have, writhing between the battle of want and learned conservativeness. 

He had admittedly avoided you for a week upon being released. His excuses were mainly that he wished to focus on the reparations duly owed to everyone that had been caught in the prison of his insecurities. Internationally, he had a script written for him by some of the more political of Briar Valley, apologizing for his actions and ensuring he was taking the steps to never fracture again. Privately, he fumbled over words in the dark to the three he had hurt the most, his voice breaking as fingers twisted the hems of his sleeves. He had been more nervous asking forgiveness from Silver, Sebek, and Lilia than he felt speaking to an international stage.

He had not asked for forgiveness from you, despite the fact that you and Grim had been on the forefront of this conflict, alongside the Shroud brothers and STYX. Your presence by his bedside had felt like absolution already granted, and so to plead for it would be a waste of fragile breath in the end. 

“Have you marred the cushion enough?��� A teasing tone snaps him sharply from his ruminations as he pauses, his mind sluggishly returning to the present. He holds the couch cushion in his hand, its form warped from the original due to his constant pushing and remodelling. Malleus clears his throat before dropping it unceremoniously and nudging it with his knee. 

“It was due for some rearrangement.” His voice is less light as he assesses the rest of the dorm before his gaze drags itself back to you. The sunlight dapples across your skin as you watch him, the faint smirk on your lips doing little to hide the tiredness that rests in your eyes. Like him, you too have fought battles this year. It was selfish to bemoan his own hells when you have been in levels far deeper. 

“Sometimes you seem more meticulous than Riddle. I should be thankful I don’t need to memorize a rule book for Diasomnia as well.” You still continue to poke fun even as you observe him with a sharp stare. This is a look he has grown familiar with since his overblot. Perhaps born of concern, or perhaps born of paranoia, but you have been dissecting every comment he’s made as of late in a more clinical fashion. 

Malleus does not deign to give you a reply as he drifts around the lounge, readjusting candles or shifting books ever so slightly on the table. He wouldn’t say he’s overly anal about how things operate, but he does appreciate a sense of order. He has dealt with enough chaos this past year that the thought of more feels like a weight on his back. It’s when he enters his third lap of the room that you speak up again.

“Malleus.” His name slips from your lips like a lure, causing his attention to move from the lounge to your form once more. The smirk is absent from your lips as a sterner expression rest on your face. He still enjoys the sight of it. Smiling, stern, or despairing—he struggles to find flaws in your complexion. “Is there something on your mind? You seem quite restless.” 

That terrible impulse to speak true rears its ugly head once more as deeper thoughts bubble up to his tongue. Want, want, want, want—

His upper lip curls into an expression he doesn’t mean to give—disgust—and he see’s the consequence of this by the hurt that flashes in your eyes. He turns to face away as an ugly feeling embraces his body.

... You cannot speak with them, or hold them, or tell them how much they mean to you ...

“Nothing, Prefect. I’m merely thinking about what still needs to be done.”

_______________________________________________

There is trivial difference between storms of a Fae’s misery and those of a Fae’s joy—both are adorned in catastrophe for those caught within. The skies above are a roiling mass of grey as the scent of rain perfumes the air. Malleus observes it with fraught silence as he taps painted nails along the windowsill. That ugly feeling is still wrapping its arms around his body. He has showered several times, scrubbing his skin until it was raw in an attempt to remove the heat and the unseen slickness that is holding him hostage. The failure to do so has set him in a foul mood—one that the entire world can now sense.

This can be easily written off as a last spring storm, intending to make the season’s death a performative one. At least, those who have not been alive for several hundred years would think so.

He can feel a gaze on the back of his neck for a while before he finally rolls his eyes and decides to address the elephant in the room.

Or, more accurately, the bat.

“If you intend to surprise me, you’re doing a poor job at it,” Malleus mutters wryly as he finally looks back to the shadowy corner. Red eyes glint in delight before being accompanied by a white smile as Lilia moves to stand by his side.

“I was trying to surmise if I would be allowed to approach, or if you’d try to fry me with a lightning bolt first.” Lilia clasps his hands behind his back as he leans forward to look at the skies above. His expression is quite relaxed for someone fully aware of the turmoil going on in the man next to him. Lilia’s brush with death in the recent months had caused him to be more open-minded to the possibility. “You’re going to make move out day a very unenjoyable experience if you keep this up.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Malleus’ voice is dry as he taps his nails again, his attention fixating on the skies. The ugly feeling churns alongside the clouds above and for a moment it makes him feel satisfied to see a physical reflection of his state.

“Malleus.” There’s a sharper, more paternalistic tone now behind Lilia’s words. Malleus can feel the disapproval rolling off of him the longer they stand here in a stubborn silence. In the aftermath of the blot, Malleus had agreed to be more communicative of his moods to his family, and so it’s with a reluctant grunt that he speaks again.

“I don’t feel good.” His words are just as sharp as Lilia’s as his expression darkens. “I don’t know why.”

“Have you visited the medical ward?” Lilia’s hand flits out to touch Malleus’ forehead, as though checking to see if he’s feverish. The gesture causes the prince to scowl and move his head back. “Oh, come now, don’t get moody with me. I’m concerned.”

“Is it concern, or do you just wish to fuss over me?” He grumbles back as he bats his guardian’s hand away. “I haven’t visited the medical ward, no. I’m not too sure if there’s cause to do so.”

“Then at least tell me what you’re experiencing. Perhaps I can provide some insight.”

Lilia would be the most probable to give some sort of answer. Malleus knew the cause already, but his denial of the fact makes him speak up regardless. “I feel... unclean. Hot. Restless. There is a twisting sense of anxiety in my stomach that has made sleep quite evasive as of late, and it only is growing with each passing day. It’s as though I’m afraid of something—but I have yet to discover what.”

Lilia frowns as he looks from the window to Malleus. There’s a seriousness to him that comes from those many, many years of experience. “Is that so? And is there something you think of that seems to make this feeling grow?”

Malleus’ jaw clenches at the question as memories briefly flash in his mind. Sunlight dappling on skin, lips curled in a faint smirk, and idle chatter at a hospital bedside.

“Malleus?” Lilia’s voice is softer this time. Malleus knows that in this moment, he is playing traitor to his own thoughts. He looks to his guardian, and his silence is all the answer the other man needs.

“Am I ill?” He asks, and it’s when Lilia’s expression becomes one of faint sympathy that the ugly feeling becomes clearer.

“... no, not ill.”

Lilia’s repetition of the same answer he gave Malleus so long ago feels like cruel irony in this moment. Malleus barks out a laugh before waving dismissively at the other, who takes his cue to vanish away.

Not ill, no. But foolish, most certainly.

_______________________________________________

Ramshackle is no longer a dorm of ruins. The school year and your tender care has given it new life, something that many may have thought would never occur. No longer can he hear floorboards rotting or cement cracking under the weight of time. Although he mourns the loss of such precious tribute to the end, the prospect of rebirth is invigorating all the same.

He draws to a stop by the iron gates and takes a deep breath, looking to the dorm in silence until he see’s a figure step out and stand on the porch, waiting for him.

He does not make you walk to him this time.

Malleus’ hand grasps that iron gate and forces it open so that he may step through. He walks with purpose towards the porch where you stand, a mug of something in your hand as you watch him in the dying light. Birds sing their last songs and grasshoppers begin their own chorus as he stops just at the edge of the steps and looks to you appraisingly.

“Are you ready to retire?” He asks.

“Depends. What brings you to my home tonight?” You counter, smirking wryly from over the rim of your mug. That expression makes his nails dig into his palm behind his back as he clears his throat. He feels more nervous standing before you now than he felt speaking to an international stage.

How funny.

“Walk with me.” The words come out more as a demand than a question, and for a moment he balks, thinking that the authority in his tone may have just cost him an opportunity. But then you take a sip of your drink before setting it down on the porch’s banister.

“Please?” You hum, and Malleus clenches his jaw, looking to you with an unwavering gaze.

“Please.”

_______________________________________________

The nights silence, often welcoming, now feels as though he’s standing on a stage before an audience held in rapt attention. The two of you walk silently down your usual route as his mind turns and tosses his thoughts like a restless sea. He wishes to know if you feel a similar turmoil to what he presently does—and yet you are moving in perfect ease by his side.

“... and I can tell you, he wanted to make another contract with Azul over this. He was making faces at the man the entire time we were in the Lounge and Floyd looked ready to drag him to the backrooms.” You’re chattering away about your two other friends as you walk. He finds the situation grimly humorous. He’s having a crisis, and you’re filling him in on how ridiculous the antics of your companions are.

“Is that so?” Malleus murmurs vaguely, if only to keep you speaking, if only to keep hearing your voice. The two of you continue on your route as he remains in a trance like state.

No, not ill.

Lilia’s words are an omen hanging over his head. His guardian knows, and although Lilia is very skilled at keeping secrets, the fact that another is involved in this only makes his anxiety grow. He looks to you briefly. There’s a time limit left on how long you will remain by his side, both for tonight and for the future. You may return home, or you may embark on some grand adventure around the world, drinking in all the sights that Twisted Wonderland has to offer while he’s forced to remain in a palace on his own.

Everyone misses the ones they love when they leave us.

His grandmother’s comment in the mausoleum also comes to the forefront of his mind as he ruminates on this. He will miss you, and that’s an uncomfortable fact. He will miss you, and he cannot place if this is because of genuine care or because he’s so goddamn terrified of ending up on his own, that he cannot come to terms with the loss of someone by his side.

He doesn’t even register the two of you coming to sit on a bench by the main street, doesn’t even register how empty it is. He doesn’t register anything at all until he feels the sensation of your warm hand on his and it pulls him so harshly from his thoughts that he fears he may have whiplash.

“Hey?” You’re looking at him, and it seems that at some point you had stopped talking about your friends, stopped talking about your day. There’s concern in your eyes and it’s such a warm feeling, to be worried about, but for some reason it makes Malleus want to shrink back into the shadows even more. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem like you’ve been in a whole different place this entire walk.”

No. He wants to say. No, actually. According to my guardian I am not ill, and yet the very prospect of watching your form grow smaller on the coast of this Isle as I return to the Valley is one that fills me with such abysmal fear that I cannot even comprehend it. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I do know that you are the centre of this all.

You will die. So will I, in the end, but yet it’s this childish fear of seeing you fade away while I still remain that I cannot seem to get past.

Please, show me how to get past. Let me know, so that I may know you.

The words that had fought so hard to escape him so far now shrivel on his tongue as he looks to you. Your gaze flickers around his face, focuses on his lips, and it’s that action that makes a bolt of heat shoot through him. But before that bolt can ignite to something more, the ugly feeling wraps its hand around his throat and wrenches his head back. He jerks his face away and stands from the bench, his body stiff as he clears his throat.

“No, I think I may be coming down with something. It would be best to head back.” Even his words feel fabricated—traitorous! —as he speaks them aloud. This is not what he wishes to do. He wishes to thread his fingers through your hair, to pull you in and to lose himself within you until he can no longer differentiate where he ends, and you may begin. He wants to taste your words before they leave and know your thoughts before they’re spoken. He wants you, so much so and it aches and—

“Malleus,” you begin again, moving to go to his side, but he raises a hand to you sharply.

“Now.” He chokes out before setting off down the path, uncaring to see if you’re truly following or not. His mind is in turmoil and his body feels as though he has no control over it any longer. All that lingers now is the way your gaze went to his lips and the silly, hopeful thoughts such an action provoked.

Please.

[barryogg]

The story goes like this

Earth is captured by a technocapital singularity as renaissance rationalitization and oceanic whoops sorry, wrong script

The story goes like this: during the Cold War, the USSR pumped vast amounts of resources to recruit sympathetic people as agents to attack and subvert the US government. Didn't hurt that FDR was largely sympathetic to Stalin. The early wave resulted in the Soviets getting important military plans, e.g. for the nuclear bomb.

This infiltration was an actual thing that happened. This is worth reiterating, because people often claim that McCarthy was fighting against nonexistent enemies. Because people in Hollywood were often captivated by the ideas of communism, as artistic types often do, in retaliation they vilified him forever in popular culture. (Although it's worth noting that he probably was an abrasive person, so that didn't help).

By the 70s, there were multiple active leftist terrorist organizations in the US. And we're not talking about some 21st century "riot around, semi-accidentally set fire to some buildings, is you kill a guy it makes national news" weaksauce. No, it was

The 1970s underground wasn’t small. It was hundreds of people becoming urban guerrillas. Bombing buildings: the Pentagon, the Capitol, courthouses, restaurants, corporations. Robbing banks. Assassinating police. People really thought that revolution was imminent, and thought violence would bring it about. [...] Most ’70s of the bombings were done as protest actions. Unlike today’s jihadists, ’70s underground didn’t try to max body count. And ’70s papers didn’t really give a shit. A Puerto Rican group bombed 2 theaters in the Bronx, injuring eleven, in 1970. NYT gave it 6 paragraphs.

(Source. I really should finally read that book.)

The endeavors at this scale can't be backed by revolutionary fervor alone. You need logistics, you need financing, you need friendly lawyers. Weather Underground (originally Weatherman, but that -man suffix was deemed sexist. Plus ça change) sprung out from a socialist student organization.

By the time the USSR fell, the radical organizations have metastasized into vast patronage networks. Many became academics, lawyers. In some cases it was almost dynastic - remember Chesa Boudin, a New York DA? His father was a Weatherman, in jail for felony murder. He was pardoned by Cuomo in 2021.

There were more pardons. Some made by Bill Clinton. Some made by Obama. Remember back 10 years ago, when Hamilton was the Apex of lib culture. Lin-Manual Miranda took care to reserve seats for FALN bombers.

The last link goes to David Hines' twitter. There's another drum he's been banging repeatedly: righties don't know how to organize and cargo-cult it. They see all the successful actions of the left and assume that they just happen, ignoring the fact that, again - those require logistics, money, and backing of a sympathetic press and lawyers. Instead of building a network and then utilizing it, they start from shouting their intent publicly then beclown themselves.

But what if that was the case because the left had a multi-decade headstart in networking, due to support from a now-dead rival empire? What if the patronage networks built over multiple generations were suddenly broken? What if they were growing unopposed by the neocons, who happily let them be as long as the Republicans got to bomb some brown people while in power during the 90s and 00s?

If this was true, then the current upheaval would mean that the current victory of the radical MAGA wing was a fluke, but that it also was a victory made in an insanely uphill battle. It would mean that if the existing patronages are broken, going forward you'd need much less activation energy to win. That hundreds of little things that tipped the scales in one direction would just... cease.

It's hard to be surprised that some people are getting downright giddy these days. Sure, the networks are embedded so deeply that it takes a lot of collateral damage to rip them, but can you imagine, for the first time in your life, an actual victory?

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

Well, that's a story. I mean, the in-between points are real: the Rosenbergs are real, all the bombings in the 70s are real, the pardons of those are real. But weaving the common thread through them, that's a story one may tell. Every political faction has a story that they like to tell about themselves. This one's may not even be the story that most MAGAs tell themselves, many are probably perfectly content with torching the commons to own the libs.

But I think that this is approximately the story many people would tell about the past two weeks. ESR, Travis Corcoran, the aforementioned Hradzka. Eigen.

And I think that it's important to understand the stories people tell about themselves and their beliefs, even if you don't believe them.

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Wait, i am just reading the script book. And the preface is by Neil, written before season 1 was even aired… but I thought Prime only sold the season 1 script book and the season 1 DVD because they needed money. Does that mean they already knew they would have budget problems before season 1 was aired?

Sorry i just try to understand why season 1 get a dvd, Funkos and a script book and season 2 not…

Hiya! :) When they were shooting they were indeed short of money to shoot the Agnes scene, but fortunately Neil stood his ground and came up with the solution of doing the script book and the companion for the money:

“But it was interesting, because sometimes we’d come up with other solutions. I remember we were told that we couldn’t shoot the Agnes Nutter sequence in 17th century… with the witch burning and the explosions, all of the villagers – everything like that. We were just told ‘We don’t have the money for that’ – and i checked in with the phantom Terry Pratchett on my shoulder and he said something very rude!

“I thought, ‘Well, Terry wrote that bit and that has to be in there’. So Rob Wilkins, who is Terry’s representative on Earth, and I and the BBC put our heads together and we agreed that we’d do the Good Omens Companion Book and the Good Omens script book and we would put all of the money from those books into the production.

“So anybody who buys the Good Omens Companion Book or the Good Omens script book is actually contributing to the cost of blowing up Josie Lawrence!” (x)

As far as I know the DVD or Funkos were not part of it. Funkos tho came much later so those are still a possibility. DVD I don't know. Maybe we need to write to Amazon and BBC on a mass scale :) (if in January there are still no news of the S2 DVD let's do it 😈)

[creature-wizard]

How Project Monarch fails the "Six Ways To Debunk Any Conspiracy Theory" sniff test

The 2017 article Six Ways To Debunk Any Conspiracy Theory lists six characteristics of conspiracy thinking that break down with a small amount of critical thinking. (I recommend reading the whole thing for yourself!)

If we compare the claims made about Project Monarch to the six items on this list, we can see that they meet five of the six items all six items, including:

No Leaks: The type of programming methods associated with Project Monarch have allegedly been practiced for at least seventy years in numerous countries (including but not limited to the US, the UK, Canada, Germany, and France) in all levels of society, yet no documents containing evidence proving its existence (such as documents containing alter scripts, programming and ritual protocols, programming session notes, alter access codes, and various memos) has ever been leaked.

Evidence Gap: Investigations of cases where we might expect to find evidence of Monarch-style programming have never found any such thing. If this was happening in the way people claim, we should expect at least some criminal investigations (including but not limited to investigations of child abuse, drug possession, and murder) to also uncover the aforementioned document types. We should also expect the more obvious programming tools and props (such as human-sized cages, ETC devices, ritual sites done up to look like UFOs or whatever, programming tapes and audio files, etc) to turn up in conjunction with such documents. And of course, we should be finding a lot more animal and human remains, with all of the ritual sacrifices they're supposedly performing.

Inconsistent Capabilities: Believers claim that programming cults are so hypercompetent that can hide or destroy all physical evidence of their existence, and apparently never place any digital literature on unsecure devices or file servers. Yet they are somehow also so inept that they can't stop all of these alleged victims from telling everything to their therapists, writing and publishing books, and from posting online. (They've apparently never heard of stalkerware, or at least not allowing someone to use the Internet without heavy supervision.)

Prediction Horizon: The alleged triggers that supposedly force different alters to front or activate specific programming are often extremely commonplace stimuli, including (but not limited to) simple colors, patterns, and images (for example, the image of a specific flower), common phrases (for example, "I called to see how you're feeling") and common gestures (for example, clasped hands).

It would be impossible for programmers to prevent their victims from coming across many of these triggers by pure happenstance, because they simply can't predict or control other people's behavior on a large enough scale. They can't know or control, for example, when the pop song they've used as a trigger will play on the radio in a store, or when the neighbor will suddenly decide to plant a bed of daisies, or when a bank teller will wear a blue silk shirt. And considering some of the roles alters are allegedly programmed for, things would get really awkward really fast.

Method-Goal Mismatch: Monarch-type programming is still allegedly practiced today because numerous cults and abusive groups want perfectly compliant, obedient people. But the methods they are claimed to use are both extraordinarily risky and effort-intensive, and ultimately do not appear to be more rewarding than conventional methods of indoctrination, manipulation, and generally limiting a person's capacity to exercise autonomy (such as deprivation of education, funds, and legal papers).

Unfalsifiable: Failure to locate hard evidence of Project Monarch or Monarch-like practices are attributed to the alleged hypercompetence of the cultists, government agents, etc. When the question of why neighbors, teachers, doctors, etc. didn't notice anything strange comes up, believers claim they're all cultists or agents. Records that contradict claims of ritual abuse are claimed to be falsified. Obviously impossible events described by patients are simply chalked up to confusion from drugged states. Numerous books in favor of this conspiracy theory assures us that denying abuse or admitting to your therapist that you fabricated your claims is further evidence of programming.

In conclusion, while we know that Project MK-Ultra existed, claims of Project Monarch's existence and the widespread, even systemic practice of the techniques it alleged developed are easily demonstrated as nothing more than conspiracy theories.

[snexy-the-snail]

Face masks and Trauma

Percy was used to a lot of things, annoying quests, monsters popping out of nowhere, and shitty prophecies that made no sense and made things more complicated. However, one thing he was not prepared for was being summoned to Aphrodite's temple. Any god temple, really. After the wars, he had gone from barely any contact with the gods to suddenly being the star attraction; god, he was sure, who had hated him even stopping by to chat.

The morning had started out normal; he woke up, rolled out of bed, and was going to start his normal getting ready for school when he saw a paper settled on his desk. It would be normal if not for the fact his desk was tidied up and the paper was glowing, like some sort of weird video game achievement.

"Oooo kay." He murmurs to himself, stepping cautiously over to the desk. He should ignore it; he really should, but the faint scent of flowers and Annabeth's old book smell compelled him to pick it up. In fancy gold ink, a message was scrawled in Greek- thank the gods- "Dearest Percy,

Please see yourself at my temple on Olympus. It is of the utmost importance. Do not fret about your school, as I have already taken care of your absence.

Love, Aphrodite."

Alright...that was new. Gods leaving notes, sure, that was normal. Percy takes a small breath, rubbing his face tiredly before folding the letter. He felt only mildly bad for folding the beautiful script, but what was he supposed to do? So he got dressed, thanking the universe he had something clean before heading to the Empire State Building. He stretches, walking to the front desk, eyeing the attendant behind it. "So..are you going to give me the card, or are we going back and forth?"

They both stared at each other before the man drew an annoyed breath, handing over a key card. "At this point, I think we all know who you are." He grumbles, Percy giving what he hoped was a sympathetic smile.

"Believe me, buddy, I would much rather be at school too- anyway, see ya." He says, giving a mock salute before stepping into the elevator. He swiped the card, not surprised when it melted away into sparkles, a new button appearing on the strip of buttons. He sighs and presses it, leaning against a wall to occupy him. Thankfully, the elevator music had changed. Having a meltdown on Olympus sounded not so fun, especially when he had been officially invited rather than for a weird party or a vote to kill him.

"Now. I have no idea where I'm going." He grumbles, looking around. It was a huge city, and while he knew where the council spot was, it was all too much. He shifts his weight before starting towards the small little city thing going on. Minor gods laughing and shopping with the other immortal inhabitants. It was a lot, especially with some sellers practically trying to shove products in his face.

"Try some nectar?"

"Get your official Drakon scaled jewelry!"

"Enchanted swords! Curses to give you that buzz."

"I'm going to hurl," Percy grumbles, stepping away from a particularly pushy sales..creature. He wasn't sure what gender they were, and he wasn't about the guess.

"I have herbs for that." The creature says with a too-sharp grin.

He was going to stab them. He swore to-

"That won't be necessary; thank you for your concern." Soft hands grabbed his shoulders, guiding him from the stands and towards a quiet spot. He took a deep breath, getting some much-needed air into his lungs. It had been too much. Way too cramped, that was for sure.

"Ah, thank you, Ma'am." He says, turning to face his savior.

She looked.. familiar in some weird way. A small smile graced her features, and oddly enough, it made him feel somewhat safe. "Ariadne will do."

Ariadne...

Oh

OH

"You're Mr.D's wife!" He blurts out suddenly before flushing. Great impression. Ariadne laughs, tucking hair behind her ear back into the graceful hairstyle she had going on. At least she found him amusing; that was more than most minor gods felt about him.

"I am, and you are a demigod in the markets. Rather overwhelming, isn't it?" She asks, amusement glinting in her eyes as she looks over him. Percy chuckles nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. Overwhelming didn't begin to cover it.

"Sure, let's go with that."

"I doubt you came to visit for the markets; where are you trying to go?"  Percy would have to get Mr.D some sort of gift to give to this goddess because he could weep right now. He takes the note out of his pocket, only slightly surprised to see no fold lines once he un-crumbled it.

"I ah- well, I got this note from Aphrodite. I don't really visit the temple spaces, so I have no idea where I'm going."

Ariadne let a small hum out as she took in the fancy scrawl before nodding. "I can take you there then. You're quite a ways from where you need to be." Thankfully, she didn't sound judgmental, if anything, fond. "Finding ends to mazes is my specialty, after all. " She winks at him before starting to lead the way. Percy is falling into step with her.

"I really appreciate this. Like, I know Annabeth is redesigning the temples, but I don't think she's even gotten to Aphrodite yet."

"It's no trouble at all. Olympus can be intimidating to navigate."

Percy sighs heavily, nodding in agreement. "It's pretty, though...I don't think I've really had a chance to just..sorta look around." He admits taking in the sights. He winces at the pool of water, very clearly holding Sirens. That was.. disturbing. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn't exploring up here often. Her gaze follows his, a frown dusting her features before she grabs his hand, pulling him closer to her side. It was a gesture that he appreciated even if he could totally take them on.

During the rest of the walk, there was silence, which was nice. Percy took the time to admire some of the things he didn't normally get to see. Soon enough, they stopped at the temples. Percy found himself standing at the entrance to a temple. The temple glowed with hues of pink and gold, delicate curtains hung from the ceiling, and the scent of roses and something sweet filled the air. It swirled around, changing scents frequently, smelling like old books, saltwater taffy, and sometimes the sea. There were cushions scattered around, too, blankets neatly folded in a corner.

"Well, well, look who finally decided to show up!" Aphrodite's voice rang out, bubbly and full of energy. She appeared from behind a column, her golden hair flickering from blonde to black to gold. Her form shimmering from form to form. Beside him, Ariadne laughs softly, nudging him forward.

Percy scratched the back of his head, unsure of what to say. "Didn't really know how to get her; Ariadne helped out." Aphrodite practically floated over to him, her sandals barely touching the ground. She pinches his cheek, making him groan exasperatedly.

"She is such a doll when it comes to helping lost souls, isn't she?" Aphrodite coos, offering the minor goddess a smile.

"It was my pleasure to help the hero of Olympus; now I must take my leave, my lady." Ariadne gives him a small smile before turning and walking off.

When Percy looked back at Aphrodite, her eyes were full of mischief, which was never good. Any god that was bored was a dangerous god- well, sometimes, not literally, just annoying. She reached out to squeeze his shoulder, her touch light. "You've been through so much lately, Percy. Fighting monsters, your little struggle with sleep, worrying about school."

Percy blinked, not exactly expecting that.

"I'm fine," he said quickly, knowing exactly where this conversation was heading. It seemed like a lot of gods were on this 'get Percy to talk about trauma' train, but he wasn't exactly thrilled about it. "Really. We don't need to."

"Shhh," she whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. "It's not what you think. And besides, this will be fun! You're going to love it." Her smile grew wider, like she was about to reveal a giant secret, her hands clasping together.

Before he could protest, she gently took his arm and led him deeper into the temple. "I've arranged something special for you today. You're going to relax, Percy. Some self-care will do you some good."

Percy didn't know how to respond to that. He remembered what the last self-care day entailed. It didn't suck and was actually sorta nice, but he wasn't expecting to play hooky for some mental health day. He sighed and sat down on one of the plush cushions after she gestured for him to take a seat.

Aphrodite stood in front of him, her eyes sparkling with what he had learned was excitement. It was weird having their forms melt into one another, never fully settling on just one form. Her hands smoothed his hair back, a headband forming in her hands, which she promptly put on him. "First thing's first: face mask time!" She snapped her fingers, and suddenly, a bowl filled with shimmering blue goo appeared in her hands.

"Oh- is that the blueberry one?" He asks eagerly, shifting in his seat. A pleased smile graced her lips as she gently pushed his shoulder to get him to lie down. "Is it? You enjoyed it last time." She muses an applicator into the bowl, applying it generously to his face.

Her touch was gentle like last time, her movements precise as if she'd done this a thousand times. Who was he kidding? She totally had. He closes his eyes as the chill of the mask seeps into his skin. The cold felt heavenly and probably was doing all sorts of hydrating, cleansing stuff.

"There," Aphrodite said, footsteps indicating she had stepped back to admire her work. "Looking fabulous, Percy," Her tone was light and teasing. "Some meditation, we established that the bells and chimes are the worst, so what are we listening to today?"

"Led Zeppelin?" He asks hopefully. Technically, it wasn't relaxing, but Aphrodite had said last time that it wasn't about it needing to be traditional; it was just something that made his body relax. He lets a delighted hum out when familiar notes sound throughout the air.

"How could I say no?" Aphrodite giggles. A hand tugs lightly at the headband, holding his hair back. Her nails lightly scratched his scalp as she massaged-

"What's that?" he asks, not really sure what she was using. It smelled good, whatever it was, like saltwater taffy.

"Just some oils for your hair, sweetheart. Promotes growth and healthy hair." He hums at her response, focusing on breathing. That was important; he remembered it from the last time. Breathing in slowly and then exhaling just as slowly. The more he focused on his breath, the more he realized how much he had been holding in. It was nice, a different nice than when Hestia coaxed him to talk somewhat about what had happened. He didn't have to say anything or even think about it. He just needed to be.

"How do you feel?"

"Wet- but in a good way." He mumbles, relaxing as she starts putting his hair back up. His response was getting a light from her.

"You Poseidon children and water." She teases, a small hum of warning before she starts to wash the clay mask off, the cool water sending a shiver down his spine. The gentle sensation of water sprinkling on his face felt truly delightful, almost like the rain.

Once the sensation stopped, his eyes fluttered open, and he willing himself dry of the excess water. "Wow, it's almost like water, an element I can control or something." he shoots back, laughing with her as she rummaged around a little kit she had summoned.

"Sarcasm, how refreshing." She brought out a small bottle of what he guessed was moisturizer and started to apply it to his face. She pats his cheeks before poking his nose. "Let's finish this up with something truly special: aromatherapy."

Percy expected her to take out some perfumes or something to spritz; he wasn't expecting her to stand suddenly, her form shifting taller and taller. The temple proportions followed suit. It was shrinking but not exactly, considering that this is probably its normal size. "So...it's like..going to bet there?" he asks, glancing at her in the middle. Half the time, he swore he spent more time in a god's gut than his own house. It was seriously becoming an issue. Though he couldn't muster up the offense, it was truly becoming a normal part of his life.

"You act like it's not a calming environment." Aphrodite huffs, delicately picking him up. Like with the face masks, her actions were swift and graceful, and she was obviously very confident in her abilities. He rolls his eyes, leaning on a finger.

"It's different, I'll give you that." He murmured, stretching his legs out as he was brought up higher.

"Oh please, it's a lovely experience."

Percy cracks a smile, shrugging as his legs are lowered down into her mouth. Smooth velvet-like texture greeted him. It was less lotion-like than last time as well; it was more of a warm blanket out of a dryer feeling. He wriggles in further, the support of her hand slowly leaving his back as he settles within her mouth.

It was less flesh and more fabric, pillowy soft as he sunk into it. Any movement he made was followed, supporting him no matter how he lay. The more he was eaten by a god, the more he noticed how..different things really were. He lets a small hum out, running his fingers over her tongue, enjoying the texture of warm velvet against his skin. It was like sinking into your bed after a long quest.

Perfectly white teeth clack shut around him, the darkness illuminated but a pink glow that seemed to spread whenever he pressed deep into the muscle.

"Cool," he murmurs under his breath, closing his eyes and taking in the moment. She was apparently waiting for his okay, probably something that had been passed through the grapevine. He wasn't really in control when it happened, but the little bit of security was nice. He wriggles forward, feeling his feel dip down into the goddess' throat. "making me do all the hard work." he teases. Laughter renovated all around him, the muscles of her throat tightening briefly on his ankles before a swallow gently tugged him down. It was like being smothered in blankets, which weren't too bad; the warmth emanating from the muscles was nice, too, like an all-around massage.

He lets a small hum out, closing his eyes. Aphrodite always had a heartbeat- or at least the few times he was close enough to hear it. It was steady and warm and loud as he passed by it. The entrance to the stomach was..different, less of a tight ring, more of sorta like putting a shirt on, the fabric rolling over him.

He landed with a dull thump in the mess of plush muscle, which moved around like a water bed, adjusting to any movement he made. "Comfortable?" The suddenness of the question makes Percy jolt before running the back of his neck sheepishly.

"It's not too bad, I guess." He murmurs, shifting to resting his head among the folds of the stomach. He stifles a laugh when he feels a nudge from outside. "Alright, alright, it's comfy."

A pleased hum came from the goddess. He rests, his eyes again, surprised when a pleasant aroma fills the space. It was..everything he liked, it smelled like..home, like Annabeth, his cabin- it was perfect. He was surprised by how calming the fragrance was. For the first time in a long while, his mind quieted, and the tension in his muscles eased.

The silence didn't bother him like he thought it would. Normally, the quiet would set her nerves on fire, the need to get up and move, to be on edge, ready for a fight fading. The light pulsed with each breath Aphrodite took.  

The feeling was similar to sitting at the beach with Annabeth or Nico, just taking in the scene and accepting what had happened to them as fucked up. He takes a deep breath in the warmth, settling deep into aching muscles. With his dad, he felt energized, as if tiny bolts of electricity ran through his veins. Hermes had a vague feeling of running through a field and getting tired; Hestia was warm and heavy, like a weighted blanket, but..this was more like being with someone who cared. Long nights with Annabeth, baking cookies with his mom, and Triton teasing him for something stupid he had done.

Truthfully, the feeling was almost overwhelming. Aphrodite was the goddess of love, so he was pretty sure that was what he was feeling.

Nothing but the steady sound of her heart and the rushing of air into her lungs. It was..calming. He wasn't sure how long he laid there, but it was refreshing to just shut his brain off and for it to actually stay off. He wasn't even aware he had started to doze off until a warm pressure cupped against him.

"Feeling rested?" Aphrodite questions, rubbing against him in a circular motion.

"Very, this was. I mean, it was nice." It really was. Sure, missing school would come to bite him in the ass, but right now, it was worth it. The feeling of her hand became more solid, Percy wrinkling his nose as she pulled him from her middle. It was gross how gods could just do that- phase things through their bodies. The chill of the air is less than desirable. "You know some warning would be nice- it's cold." He grumbles, crossing his arms as he cast his gaze up at her.

Aphrodite had the nerve to laugh at him, but soon, a fluffy robe encircled him, fighting off the cold. Better.

"Still dramatic as ever, little hurricane." She teases, a finger brushing against his cheek. She leans down, depositing him on the carpeted ground of the temple. He wobbles a bit, getting used to gravity after being practically suspended in a waterbed, for he wasn't even sure how long it had been.

"I'm allowed to be dramatic. You all use me like some sort of weird communal snack."

"How can we not? You're so sad and brooding all the time." Aphrodite complains, lightly flicking his forehead. Percy huffing and rubbing the affected area.

"So what? Adds extra flavor or something?" He grumbles, stretching as he gets used to the light. It was a bit different than the soft glow of the goddess' stomach, but thankfully not too blinding. She looked at him with an unreadable expression, and that wasn't just because her form was shifting like sand at the beach. He didn't like it, dropping his gaze to look at the soft fabric of the robe.

"One day, you'll be able to accept that you are hurt and need help,"

Percy swallows thickly, choosing to play with the threads of his robe.

"and I'll be here when you need it."

"Cool..I..okay. So..I can just-" He gestures vaguely to the exit of the temple. A warm weight settles on his shoulder, Aphrodite having shrunk down to his height, her hand firmly in place. Concern. That was an expression he was getting tired of seeing.

"Close your eyes. I'll send you home."

He let a breath out, thankful she wasn't pressing the matter any further than this. He listens, his eyes fluttering shut. The warmth enveloped him fully again before the familiar chill of his room washed over him. He opens his eyes, standing in the middle of his room.

"I'm not going to talk about it," he says to no one in particular.

"They..just won't understand." Who would? He wasn't about to drop information on his mom; that was the last thing she needed, especially with his whole being kidnapped stint. He takes a deep breath and pulls the robe tighter around him before falling on his bed.

"Side, I've got Annabeth and Nico." He mumbles, staring at his ceiling. Whatever. The day had been relaxing, and he would give her that.

He lets an exaggerated sigh before rolling off his bed, deciding he might as well see how late it is and hopefully get something productive done.