#that cursed team wins everything and it is sickening how they have been the real favored ones since some time yet lie about it

[maxemilianverstappen]

Do you think mercds and hamltn fans believe what they write or it is just for likes? Saw them calling FIA biased towards Red Bull and Max, how he doesn't deserve to win the championship like he didn't have a better season than their fave and Fraudstappen or stg, tagging their nonsense in Max's tag. Literally can't believe we watch the same sport

Anon, people enjoy hating on stuff together, alright? Hate is a very strong emotion and it certainly gives a strange sense of satisfaction and a surge of power if people have lots of others with them on the same side. It gives them a sense of belonging, unity, righteousness and an ego boost like winning a fight.

The psychology behind this is ridiculous actually. They feel angry and upset at times, but also it gives them serotonin and adrenaline when they see how the defenders are struggling and miserable, see how they can hurt others with words/actions... The surge/rush it gives is addictive, because it provides a safe outlet to be cruel and monsterous together with others/hiding among them and feeling righteous about wanting to destroy/hurt their object of hate emotionally/physically/etc.

Feeds a primal and very primitive urge, right? And doing all this shit behind the anonymity of the internet doubles the satisfaction and the sense of security. Otherwise, why should people send death threats/go-kill-yourself messages/abuse of any and all kind to others just because they aren't supporting their fav team/loving their fav actor/etc.

So, while fans might actually genuinely believe the bullshit that's fed to them (as most people here and twitter have proven to be illiterate or incapable of reading comprehension) i believe at least some of them just continue with their agenda out of spite and a need to hide their wrong way of thinking.

It is also amazing the way their team boss is acting. He is also quite aware of his own indignancy and childish attitude, but big monies are at stake, Anon. So, instead of owning up to your bullshit like a true bastard™️ that i admire some were/are being, acting like a wronged angel is the easiest way for their already established underdogs/heros without capes narrative.

My stance on his bullshittery is evident. And while the stewards making mostly idiotic and inconsistent decisions since forever is a known fact and should be challanged and changed, what they decided here isn't how Max deserves a penalty or not. They decided that the front cam view of Max's car isn't sth that provides a new/better evidence on whether their in-race decision should be reconsidered.

But look, T.to successfully twisted this into "We wanted to learn how much elbow we can also push out, not that we were expecting a punishment". Like, okay T.to... This doesn't sound any sinister at all coupled with you twice saying you need Max to have a DNF... Go and let Lew.s or V.ltteri smash Max into a wall again and cry about how this time you get a penalty? Then, you'll have a "valid" reason to show how biased the stewards are towards RB...

Should Max have gotten a penalty? I am no expert as even the experts are divided about the subject. Even L.wis said he didn't expect anything to come out of it, because he would do the same and he will do the same. So, at best it would have been a 5/10 secs penalty. And a loss of 3 CPs from Max. If Max does this again, he'll be treated with more scrutiny and harshness, I am sure.

Yet, the real focus should be on how the argument and the situation is twisted here by Merc.des and how the media is amplifying their completely shameless and tasteless tone and discourse and everyone is nodding along or outright crying for blood.

[whenihaveyouromione]

When I Have You - Chapter 13

A/N: Hermione's Mudblood scar is the one thing in the movies I wish was book canon, so I've included it in here. But I am well aware it was only addressed in the movies, and not the books.

Don’t forget to follow this story’s Instagram account: whenihaveyou.romione

Read on Fanfiction.net or ao3 if you’d prefer!

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Chapter 13

Crookshanks jumped up onto the bed, rousing Ron from his almost-sleep state. It was nearing midnight and his mind had only just started to shut down from all the thoughts running through his head.

Only a few hours ago, he'd found himself in a field with the other trainee Aurors in a realistic situation of an attack with Dark Magic. They were forced to work in teams to solve the problem and capture the “culprits.” 

It had been the hardest task so far, for a lot of it had been mind games, rather than actual magic, but they'd all passed. 

Afterwards, like it had been in the week that had passed since Hermione’s return, he'd come home and spent time together with his girlfriend. Then she'd gone home to her parents, he'd gone up to bed, and the day would begin again the next morning. 

Whilst not ideal, it was what worked for them. Her parents' memories were slowly returning to normal, and as each day started, she became more confident in leaving them for longer periods of time. From what she’d told him, Ron thought they seemed happy to begin taking up normal aspects of their lives, such as going into London for things they needed or going out for meals at night.

Crookshanks walked across the bed, purring loudly as he searched for the most comfortable spot to sleep for the night. 

It was nearing midnight, but Ron was unable to fall asleep — which was nothing unusual lately. Not having spent a single night with Hermione since her return frustrated him. He so desperately wanted to have her sleeping beside him again, to have his arms around her, to feel her warmth. It was lonely up in his room at Grimmauld Place when he knew that she wasn't too far away. 

Crookshanks eventually settled by his head, taking up half of his pillow, his purrs louder than ever. Ron reached out to scratch the cat behind the ears. 

He really was rather fond of Crookshanks now, and pleased that Hermione had asked him to continue caring for him. He'd begrudgingly accepted Kingsley's offer only a few weeks ago, but the request meant more when it came from Hermione. Besides, Crookshanks and he got along well when he wasn't after other animals Ron was fond of. 

Ron had just started to drift off when something loud startled him awake again. At first, he thought he was dreaming, but he saw Crookshanks lift his head in the dark. 

Something was banging. 

Ron reached for his wand on the table beside him, lighting it and looking around. His room was empty. 

Crookshanks jumped from the bed and scampered from the room, meowing loudly.

From across the hall, Harry's bedroom door opened. Ron saw the reflection of Harry's wand light.

"What on Earth is that?" he heard Harry say. The banging was getting louder, echoing throughout the house.

"It's the door," he then heard Ginny whisper. "Someone's at the door." 

Ron sprang from the bed, joining his friend and sister in the hall. They both looked surprised.

"It must be someone we know," Harry said. "They wouldn't be able to find us otherwise…"

The three of them descended the stairs slowly, the desperation of whoever was at the door becoming apparent the closer they got. 

They'd almost reached the bottom when a voice shouted, "Ron! Harry! Please open up. It's me!"

"Hermione!" Ginny said, and she ran the rest of the way down the stairs, into the hall and to the front door. 

Ron just reached the hall himself when Ginny opened the door. 

Hermione flew into the room, straight past Ginny, and threw herself into Ron's arms so forcefully that he staggered backwards against the wall. 

"Hermione?" he said. "Hermione, what's wrong?" She trembled in his arms, and it took him a moment to realise she was sobbing. Her face buried against his chest as her whole body shook with terror. 

Ginny came to stand near Ron and Harry, and they all looked at one another with a great deal of concern. 

"Hermione," Ron said again, wrapping his arms around her, "what's the matter? Is everything okay? Are your parents —"

"It's her," Hermione sobbed into his chest. "It's… it's what happened. I… lived it… again…"

Ron shared another look with Harry and Ginny. Ginny looked very pale under the wand light, the usually stoic Hermione apparently unsettling her in this state.

"I don't understand, Hermione," Ron said. "What happened?"

But Hermione shook her head, refusing to break away from him. Her tears soaked his pyjamas as she pressed herself into his embrace. 

"Why… why don't I get you a glass of water?" Ginny suggested in a shaky voice. 

"Come and sit down," Ron said, and finally managing to pull her away from him, he guided her towards the living room where he forced her to sit on the couch. Harry lit the gas lamps around the room with his wand and now that he could see her properly, Ron saw that she was terrified. He'd never seen her look so frightened before. 

He sat beside her and she immediately fell into his arms again. 

Ginny returned with the water, but Hermione didn't realise, so Ron set his wand aside and accepted the glass.

"Hermione," Ginny whispered, "what happened?"

Ron felt Hermione shake against him again. He held her tightly, letting her know it was okay. Her tears dripped down his arm. 

"It felt so real," Hermione sobbed. "Like I was there again…"

"What did?" Harry asked. "Like you were where?"

Hermione's hand moved down to her arm, and Ron saw her fingers trace the scar that had been etched into her skin some months ago now. 

And suddenly he understood. 

"Hermione…" he whispered. 

"What?" Ginny asked, looking at Ron. 

Hermione had not spoken once of what had happened to her at Malfoy Manor. It was as if she had wished to forget, and it seemed that she had for many months. Until now, when she no longer had to worry about fighting and winning a war, or finding her parents. Now, she had all the time in the world to ponder it. 

"Hermione," he said again. "Are you… it's okay." And like he had done so back in Malfoy Manor, he wished nothing more than to have been the one to endure her pain. 

Hermione shook her head. "It was a dream," she whispered, "but it was so real. I felt it… the pain… I felt it all again."

"It's okay," Ron repeated, holding her so tightly against him. "It's okay."

Ginny's face was so pale now. Her eyes darted from Ron, to Hermione, then to Harry, who also seemed to catch on to what Hermione was talking about. Harry had been there too; he had heard Hermione’s screams.

"What —" Ginny began. 

"It was the curse, Ginny," Harry whispered. "The Cruciatus Curse. Bellatrix Lestrange…"

Ginny looked sickened. Hermione trembled in Ron's arms. 

"It felt so real," Hermione said. "Like I was there again. I woke up, terrified, and I came straight here. Please… please let me stay."

"Of course," Ron said. He wouldn't have let her leave in this state, even if she'd wanted to. 

"Hermione," Ginny said gently, "Is there anything you need? Anything we can —"

"No," Hermione whispered. "No, I just need…"

The words were left unspoken, but everyone understood. I just need Ron. He squeezed her even tighter.

"Will you be okay if we go back upstairs then?" Harry asked, looking at Ron. It was clear he didn’t think he should intrude, despite being Hermione’s best friend. 

Ron nodded. 

"Let us know if you need anything," Ginny said as she followed Harry from the room. 

Hermione kept her head buried against Ron; the absence of Harry and Ginny didn't even draw her away. 

Ron's own resolve broke a little, his mind going back to when they'd all been held at Malfoy Manor. He remembered the screams like it had happened yesterday. He remembered the pain, how desperate he'd been to try to get to her. 

But that was nothing compared to the pain she must have felt; the fear she’d felt. He'd not once seen her more frightened than he did now, curled up against him, shaking so badly, even after the dream had occurred. 

"It's alright," he murmured, "it's alright."

Ron didn't know how long they sat there for, not speaking. Gradually, Hermione stopped trembling. It was well into the early hours of the morning when she finally moved, pulling herself away from Ron's hold. 

When she looked at him, she barely resembled the Hermione he knew; her puffy, red eyes distracted him from her tear-streaked face. Her hair was more dishevelled than usual, and the look of absolute terror on her face had him wanting to pull her towards him again.

"Ron…" Her voice barely broke a whisper. "Stay with me… please."

"I will," Ron said. "Of course I will." He passed her the water he was still holding, and she accepted it. 

"I don't want to go through that again."

Ron watched her, unsure of what to say. He couldn't tell her that the dream wouldn't happen again, because he didn't know. He'd never experienced the Cruciatus Curse before, but he had been tortured mentally by part of Voldemort's soul, and he remembered that the dreams, the voice inside his head, had come back night after night, even weeks after he'd stopped wearing it. 

"I'm here," was all he said, and she rested her head against his shoulder. 

It took Ron a moment to realise that she’d fallen asleep. Her rapid breathing evened out, and when he glanced sideways, careful not to move too much, he saw that her eyes were closed. 

That was where Ron stayed for the rest of the night. His arms around her, sitting on the sofa, not moving. His body became numb, but he didn’t dare leave her, not for a second. Sleep didn’t come to him at all, sitting in the darkness, as the lamps had gone out long ago. By the morning, when Ginny and Harry came back down for breakfast, Ron was still wide awake. 

“Ron,” Ginny said quietly, “you need to sleep.”

“Can’t,” Ron said, “I have training in a few hours.”

“You can’t possibly be considering —”

“I have to. It doesn’t matter. I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.”

Ginny gave him a disapproving look that reminded Ron of his mother, but she said no more. She left the living room with Harry.

Hermione stirred against him, her head lifting up from his shoulder. She looked around the now light room, blinking. 

“Oh, no!” she said. She looked at Ron. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Ron could only smile at her. “It’s okay… it’s okay.”

She sat up fully now, untangling herself from his arms for the first time in hours. She still looked shaken from the night’s events, but the few hours of sleep had brightened her. 

Ginny and Harry entered again, the latter eating a piece of toast and dressed for training. Hermione and Ron both looked at them.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione said. “About last night. About…” 

“Don’t be,” Ron, Harry and Ginny all said at once. 

Ron stood up. “I have to go in today, but if you’d rather I stay…”

Hermione looked as if she wanted nothing more than for him to stay, but after opening her mouth and closing it again, she shook her head. “I-I’ll be… fine.”

“I can stay with you, Hermione,” Ginny said, speaking over Ron, who had just started to say he’d take the day off. 

Hermione smiled. “Thank you, Ginny, but I should probably go home. Mum and Dad…” But her eyes glazed over for a moment, as if she was remembering the nightmare. When she came to a few moments later, she smiled again and nodded. “Thank you.”

Ron kissed her forehead. “I’ll just go and get ready,” he said quietly. 

As he went into the hall, Harry followed. “Hey, are you going to be alright?” he asked, sounding concerned. “You didn’t stay up all night, did you? We have curse-breaking today. That requires some concentration…”

Ron stopped, turning to face Harry. “I couldn’t just leave her. You saw her, she was terrified. What was I supposed to do?”

Harry glanced over his shoulder, back towards the living room, and then looked at Ron again. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

Ron nodded, heading for the stairs. “Maybe just make sure you have some triple strength coffee ready when I come back down,” he said. 

…

The day was a slow one. The lack of sleep didn’t bother Ron nearly as much as his worry for Hermione did. When he’d left that morning, she’d perked up ever so slightly, but he didn’t know if that was only for his benefit. 

His mind kept flashing back to her trembling in his arms, the absolute terror she must have felt in having to relive being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange. Then, he kept remembering that moment, all those months ago, when her screams had filled every part of him, drowning him in fear and panic and being absolutely convinced that she was going to die that day. He remembered the sickening feeling of dread that had overcome him, how he couldn’t stop calling her name — for her benefit, and his own — and how every scream was both a blessing (because it meant she was still alive) and as if someone was running one hundred knives through him at once. 

Harry nudged him, not for the first time. 

Ron startled, glancing down at his wristwatch. It was only eleven.

“Sorry,” he muttered, and he returned his focus to the list of deadly curses they had to identify the counter-curse for. 

“You really should have taken today off,” Harry muttered. 

“Probably.”

They worked in silence for some time, Ron’s mind once again drifting. Harry recorded the remaining counter-curses before setting the quill down. 

“Now to just actually remember how to do them,” he said. “That’s after lunch, performing them on dummies. Should be fun.”

“Yeah,” Ron murmured. “Should be.”

Harry shook his head. “Do I need to shove another coffee down your throat?”

“Maybe something stronger,” Ron said. “Something to stop me from worrying.”

Harry smiled. “Not sure they have that here, mate.”

The rest of the day dragged on even slower than the first two hours. It was the first day since he’d started training that Ron wished he wasn’t there. It seemed talking about curses was the worst possible thing to be discussing after what had happened. Everytime an Unforgivable Curse was mentioned, his mind flashed back to the horrors of Malfoy Manor, and then to Hermione cradled against him last night, more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her. 

By the time five o’clock came around, he was a total mess. He stumbled through the fireplace, tripping over the step that kept all the ash in. When he looked up, swearing at the fireplace, he saw a frantic Ginny before him.

“What’s happened?” he asked. “Is Hermione okay?”

“She’s asleep,” Ginny said, her calm tone not at all matching her expression. “She’s been okay today. She says she should go home, but she wants you to go with her.”

“Me?” Ron asked, frowning. “Why?”

Ginny shrugged. “I don’t know. She loves you, she feels comfortable with you. I just think she’s very, very frightened over what happened… Ron, what did happen?”

“Harry said last night,” Ron said, “Bellatrix Lestrange tortured her on a pretence of searching for information, but it was Bellatrix Lestrange. You know why she did it. Why she chose her and not me or Harry. Where’s Hermione sleeping?”

“In your room. Ron, you mean she… she did that just because of who Hermione… is?” Ginny followed him quickly as he headed for the stairs. “That’s —”

“Sickening,” Ron said. “Yeah, I know. Be thankful you weren’t there when it actually happened…” He stopped on the landing, turning to face his sister. “You seem really bothered by it. Are you alright?”

Ginny’s eyes darted towards the hall where Ron’s room was. Then she looked back at Ron, nodding. “I just… I just wish I knew more about what you all did… none of you ever talk about it.”

“And there’s a reason for that,” Ron hissed. “A very good reason.” He pointed behind him to where Hermione slept. “No one wants to relive that.”

Ginny nodded, but said no more. 

Ron walked quickly towards his room, pushing the door open. Hermione was wrapped tightly under the covers of the bed, her eyes closed, her breathing even. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, unsure whether or not to wake her. It was the calmest he'd seen her since yesterday.

But his weight on the bed disturbed her, her eyes blinking open sleepily. She looked up at him, smiling weakly.

"Hey," she said.

Ron returned her smile, pushing down his concern for her. "Hey."

"How was it today?"

Ron shrugged. "Alright." He squeezed her hand from somewhere under the covers. "Ginny said you want to go home…"

Hermione nodded. "I… Mum and Dad will be so worried."

"I'll go with you," Ron said, pushing aside his doubt around being in the presence of Hermione's parents. It would not be exactly how he'd imagined meeting them for the first time as someone other than Hermione's friend, but… when had he and Hermione ever been conventional?

She smiled again. "Are you sure?"

Ron nodded. "Of course." He offered his hand to pull her out of bed. She looked so tired still — more than Ron even felt — and still rather frightened. But at least she was smiling again. 

When she was on her feet, Ron added, "You up for Apparating there? I've no idea where your house is."

Hermione nodded, gripping Ron's hand tightly. 

Hermione Disapparated them into a small front garden, covered by large hedges that hid them from view of the cul-de-sac where Hermione's house was. 

It was a quaint place, big and two-storeys. Ron stared up at it. 

They'd barely reached the front door when it flung open and Hermione's mother appeared, looking both relieved and very upset. 

"Oh, Hermione!" she cried, flinging her arms around her daughter. "You're alright! We were so worried. We… we weren't even sure you actually had been here at all — our memories were a bit —" Her eyes fell on Ron, who immediately dropped Hermione's hand that he'd still been holding, though it seemed a bit silly afterwards.

"I'm alright," Hermione said, her tone emotionless. "I just… well… I just needed to see…" She looked over her mother's shoulder and into the house. "I really just need to go to bed."

Hermione's mother stepped aside as Hermione walked past her. Ron followed quickly. 

“Hermione —” her mother tried, her eyes wide with fear and shock. “Hermione, what happened? Why did you disappear?”

Her father had come into the hall now, looking just as bewildered. 

“I-I’ll explain in the morning,” Hermione said, not meeting either of her parents’ eyes. “I… promise.” And before they could say anything more, she disappeared up the stairs, presumably to her room. 

Ron, along with her parents, all watched in silence at the space Hermione had just stood. Then, to Ron’s complete surprise, her mother addressed him by name. 

“Ron… what… what is going on?”

Ron turned to them, feeling his face go red. He’d not at all imagined himself standing in the hall of the Granger house, alone with Hermione’s parents. But they looked so desperate, and he didn’t think lying to them was the way to go about it. 

“Perhaps we should all sit down?” Hermione’s father suggested, indicating an archway slightly behind him. 

Ron nodded and silently followed him and Hermione’s mother through the archway and into the living room. They offered him an armchair by the unlit fireplace, and they sat on a couch opposite him. 

“Is she… is she okay?” her mother asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Is it… us?”

“Er, no,” Ron said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

“Then what?” her father asked.

Ron looked between them, debating what exactly he should say. How could they possibly understand what had happened to her? How could he tell them that, after altering their memories for their own safety, their daughter had gone off on a deadly hunt for parts of the most evil-wizard-to-ever-exists’s soul, had risked her life for a world neither of them were apart of, and then at one stage had an illegal curse performed on her that caused pain so excruciating that some people never recovered from it? What would they say?

But how could he lie to them either? 

Hands wringing together, silently wondering if Hermione would murder him for telling them, he said, “How much do you know of, er, what happened after you… went to Australia?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Hermione’s mother — Jane, wasn’t it? — said, her voice a whisper. “She won’t tell us a thing.”

“Right,” Ron said. “Right, well…” And in that moment he made the decision. He had to tell them. And he did. He did his best to spare them the most horrifying details of the months following their departure from England, but he gave them the basis, stumbling on what had happened in Malfoy Manor more than once. He had to go back a few times to explain certain magic terms as best as possible for them, and when he did feel like they understood at least somewhat better, Ron found himself choking on his words a few times as he revealed the darker details. By the time he finished, both her parents looked at him, horrorstruck. 

“She… she was tortured?” her mother asked. 

Ron nodded.

"But… why?"

Ron said nothing for a long time. He stared at them both, feeling slightly sick. How was he supposed to answer that question truthfully? Had Hermione ever told them what it was like in the wizarding world for someone born to Muggle parents? And if he told them, what would they then think of him? Would they understand that not everyone shared those views? Would they understand how he felt about her?

His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He averted their gaze, focusing on a small spot on the armchair. Eventually, he said, "They were just evil. This person… this Bellatrix Lestrange… she thought Hermione had information she needed. Which, she did, but Hermione… she didn't tell her…" He jumped to his feet, unable to bear their shocked faces any longer. "I… I'll go and check on her," he said. "And then I'll go home."

He went back into the hall and ascended the stairs two at a time. Reaching the top landing, he found himself standing in a small area with four doors. He had no idea which one led to Hermione's room, but his first attempt at opening one found him staring into an immaculate bathroom. 

He found her room on his third try, Hermione once again asleep under a whole lot of covers. He watched her for a few moments, debating whether or not to do anything else, but then she stirred, her eyes looking at him heavily. 

"Stay," she whispered.

"I —" Ron glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting her parents to be lingering, to see what he'd do. But they weren't; of course they weren't. 

He moved over to the bed, where she was staring up at him, still half asleep. "Please stay," she whispered, and she shuffled over in her bed to make room for him. 

Suddenly, the events of the day hit Ron like a Bludger to his head. The no sleep from the night before, the eight hours of training, and then explaining to Hermione's parents just what had had her running away from their house last night. Suddenly, he felt as if he could sleep for three days straight. 

"I'll stay for a few hours," he said, and he laid down beside her, shoes on and everything. He'd stay until he was sure she wasn't going to relive the nightmare again. 

But he was so tired, that the next thing he knew was the sun shining through Hermione's window, and her mother was calling them both down for breakfast. 

[everygame]

Blaseball (Web) 

Developed/Published by: The Game Band Released: 20/07/2020 Completed: n/a Completion: Maxed everything in the shop. Trophies / Achievements: n/a

Alright, if you’re here there are two options:

You already love Blaseball and just like reading about it.

You have no idea why people are obsessed with Blaseball.

Now, in the grand tradition of my article on Cinco Paus, because it turns out this tumblr shouldn’t just be about me finishing games and then complaining about how they failed me, I present:

Blaseball or: How You Learn To Stop Hating The Fact The Canadian Team Is Called The “Moist Talkers” And Love A Game That’s Usually Sold As A Communal Storytelling Experience (As Wank As That Sounds)

There’s a challenge here. Blaseball, once you’re in, makes you want to immediately gush about the cool things that are happening in the game, to tell the story of it, but unless you’re definitely tuned in to it, I think it can be somewhat alienating. Like here’s what I want to say, right?

That after the Raptors went out of the NBA playoffs I stopped caring (this is not entirely true; I stopped after the Nuggets put the Clippers out because spite/the lols) and was kind of looking for something else to obsess over in a not-too-active fashion. You see, what kind of got me into sports, as much as learning to enjoy the actual games, is the… theorycrafting? I might be using the term wrong. But it’s looking at the schedules and thinking, “ok, if they beat them, then they’re here, but if they get beat, then they might struggle there” or “trading X player for Y would be the best move… will we do it? Can we do it?”

It’s part of the reason why this year’s NBA bubble was such a success--they created a play-in situation for a group of teams on the edge of the playoffs, and then even though I don’t really care about any of the teams involved, there was so much drama, and so many ways for things to go, that you could spend ages just thinking about how X thing had to happen for Y thing to occur and then get excited if it happened or have to recalculate.

So: Blaseball. It is, ostensibly, a game in which you gamble on baseball blaseball games. I mean for the most part, I will be clear with you, that is it. It’s a game where you make bets and use your winnings to increase your ability to make bigger bets. It’s not even a particularly effortful example of this. There’s no clicker mechanics outside of one involving peanuts that turned out not to do anything, and all games are pretty clearly given odds so you can mostly fire and forget.

However. The thing you have to do with blaseball is actually the thing I have to do with a sport: pick a team and care. It’s not a baseball blaseball betting sim. It’s a sport fan experience. I say experience, not sim, because you will not be pretending to be a fan. You will be a fan, and if it’s for a made up team, who cares? 

I think for a lot of people (the kind of nerds who play this kind of game) that’s a novel experience and I think that for people like me (who like sports) there’s an immediate sense that people are being ironic. You know; “blaseball” doesn’t feel that far from saying “sportsball” and I can’t guarantee that a lot of folk aren’t enjoying it… wrong. But then I also feel like people enjoy actual sports wrong so fuck it (I’d just warn you that if you go hard and join the discord--which is kind of necessary--you might find some people… annoying).

So you might think I’ve just described a few things at cross purposes there: I said you’ve got to be a fan for this to work, but then I also said that the NBA bubble succeeded because it made me care about teams I didn’t care about because of theorycrafting. Well, not exactly: what I’m saying is that in this game you’re going to need one (the ability to be a fan) to make the other pop.

I’m lucky here, because I’m Canadian (among other things) immediately and violently defending the one Canadian team in the thing is instant. I don’t need to put any effort in. I’ve never been the kind of guy who could just pick any team because I like the look of them, maybe you are or maybe you’re actually going to have to live in Charleston to want to support the Shoe Thieves, but let me say: if you are not American, the only correct decision is to support the Moist Talkers despite their terrible name (that I have come to terms with.)

Anyway, now I’ve given you the background, let me explain what happened last season to my team.

During a game, an legendary undead pitcher swapped places with our worst pitcher before, in another game, swapping places with a dog who used to be owned by one of our previous players. Then our fans started a campaign to make sure our best pitcher, who was trapped inside a peanut, would be idolised enough that they’d meet the “Monitor” a huge squid god, which most people assumed would kill them. At the end of the season, the squid cracked open our pitcher’s peanut shell, chose not to eat them and as a result saved them from the end of the post-season, where a vengeful peanut god turned all the players trapped in peanut shells (or, uh, who had Peanut in their name) into an evil team who then played the season champions in a RPG battle-style blaseball game (with hit points and everything) and cursed them. Then, at the end of the season blessings were handed out and thanks to having our best pitcher and receiving and absurd four blessings (including one which increased the size of one of our batters and one that gave a player a fishing net) we were suddenly one of the best teams in the league… with the danger that we might actually win the next season and be forced to fight the peanut god.

Now, as I said above, there’s a fair chance that seemed like absolute drivel to you. And even if it is exciting, I think the most important thing to do is to scroll back up and look at the screenshots and remember that the game doesn’t really have any graphics. Blaseball games occur in a tiny window with a diamond graphic, and so it’s a bit like watching just the corner of the screen in a baseball game. It is not particularly entertaining to watch games (although you can learn how to be captivated by it anyway). The game also, despite not being anything, can take up a massive amount of mental real-estate because you’re going to be checking in on it every hour of almost every day even though all you’re doing each time is clicking ten things and checking scores. It’s probably much too much, and it gets worse when you start to engage with the discord, because as a fan you really have to co-ordinate how to vote for blessings to make sure your team is always improving and you’re raising money for a good reason.

Alright, by this point it’s almost sounding like I’m trying to talk you out of getting into it, and I *do* recommend you don’t sicken yourself of it too quickly by checking it all the time. But most importantly I sort of glossed over what the genius aspect of Blaseball is: that being a fan has a weird, roundabout effect on how well your team does, and that reflects the fact that being a sports fan is not passive. When you watch a game you’re somehow putting everything into it even though you can’t affect anything. It’s why you spend all that time theorycrafting. Here, you, as a group, pool the votes you’ve spent all week raising money for and try and make your team what you want it to be. You don’t get to change what’s going on in a game like it’s Twitch Plays Baseball, or something. That wouldn’t be a fan. In Blaseball, instead, what you do is you try and make your dreams real via collective wishing. It’s only the slightest step up from just being a fan of a real team, and it gets to the heart of the communal experience of being a fan.

If I was the NBA, the NFL or very specifically the MLB I would 100% be looking at Blaseball and how to learn from it. I think there’s a crass version of it--imagine fans of teams in the NBA bubble could have voted to like… make sure their team got the nicest hotel rooms, or nicer meals or something--but giving fans a way to boost their team (outside of the brute force of their psychic power in a home game) by, I don’t know, checking into an app or otherwise engaging is a truly interesting (and honestly kind of disturbing, for people who hate the implications for tracking) concept.

Anyway. Try Blaseball! Pick a team, bet based on the odds, invest in snake oil, idol the best pitcher every game you check, but don’t check too much (and invest in the pitcher pendants, once you’re maxed buy votes and join the discord to find out what your team is voting for/get involved in the conversation. That’s it. But it’s pretty cool.

Will I ever play it again? I mean, it still feels a bit rich to say I’m playing this but I’m invested at least until the Moist Talkers win a season. Which could be this season. I’m really interested to see how much The Game Band expand this, too--I can think of a lot of ways that fans/players can be ever more empowered, but I’m interested in how carefully they could destroy the balance, and so many ways this could simply be more entertaining to look at and engage with (I mean the fact that you have to go to external sites for things like future schedules is kind of wack imho.)

Final Thought: There’s a ton of other stuff people like about this game--making up stories about the players, who they are, drawing them--and the nice thing is I don’t give a flying fuck about any of that and I don’t really have to. You can completely ignore the wiki’s fanfiction if you like and just deal with the reality of the game and how you personally react to it. Or you can really get into it and care about it way more than what’s actually happening on the field. I don’t care, I’m not your dad.

Even if I did just spend a long time shouting at you about sports.

[lunaraen]

“Hearts are fickle things. They seem to break at the slightest shove. I’d much rather give mine away.” “Well, I wouldn’t mind having yours...” Magnus/Ellegaard? Am I doing this correctly? 😓 I’m so sorry if I’m not-

It feels like it's just the two of them on the roof, only the occasional noise coming from the new settlement below- little more than a camp but growing by the day with more and more followers eager to greet and behold their heroes- and the much closer trees as their branches sway in the wind. The moon hangs high in a clear sky colored by swirls of stars and brighter spots, ones that Ellegaard can name as specific planets.

(Nerd.)

It's wrong.

It's a storybook night meant for storybook heroes. The Order of the Stone.

(Who came up with that dumb name? Soren? Ellegaard?

Was it is his own drunken suggestion?)

It's a beautiful night in all the ways it shouldn't be, in all the ways it has no right to be, and Magnus internally curses the nice night as he passes Ellie the cigarette they've been sharing.

And if Ivor were still here, he'd make a stink about the cig, the way Ellegaard normally does. But Ivor isn't here, is he? That's the whole reason things are fucked up like they are, why they're hurting in all the wrong ways inside. Instead, Magnus is here, and he figures it's better the devil he knows, the sick taste of cigarettes and the lung damage that inevitably comes with it in place of the burn of whiskey and the spiral into one drunken blackout after another.

Besides, he and Ellie have a whole thing, banter wise, going on about cigarettes and smoking. She's less likely to slip into it as a habit and deal with actual damage than she is if he'd helped her drown her sorrows or whatever. They've done enough drinking, lately.

Never mind that getting drunk on a roof's a pretty good way to die stupidly.

(He's not helping her with that, either.)

So, here they are, hurting and smoking and staring up at the sky like it can keep whatever answers it has and shove the ones it doesn't.

It's the first time in weeks that Magnus has managed to really hang out with her again.

He's not great at comfort, but he can do shared bitterness. And if Ellegaard wants to get poetic, he'll listen, though even grief won't keep him from giving less poetic responses.

"Hearts are fickle things. They seem to break at the slightest shove. I’d much rather give mine away."

It's a whole lot of anguish, jaded and weary, that he's never heard in her voice before, despite all the other messes they've gotten into before, the less than stellar backgrounds they crawled out of.

(Not that he can’t relate to what she’s saying, because the desire to crawl off to some remote, desolate tower and stay there is strong.)

So Magnus does what he does best, blowing a smoke ring that wobbles and dissolves into the darker splotches of night when she hands him the cigarette and shrugging as he gives an offhand comment that's surprisingly hard not to mumble.

"Well, I wouldn’t mind having yours..."

There's a dumb thought that goes with that, something right out of Gabriel's latest speech to their adoring 'fans', embodying stupid chivalry and valor like it means something when it comes from people like them.

The dumb thought is that, if Magnus had her heart, he could at least try to keep it safe. He wants to keep all their hearts safe, like that's possible. Like they'd ever let him. He's a griefer who breaks things, time after time, but deep down he just wants to take the shards of their strained and broken friendships and fix them back up.

That's Ellie's job, though, fixing things up or making them useful.

Magnus wants chaos, because it's his nature, but the pain of the last few weeks has been nothing short of awful. It's change, sure, at what cost? This isn't fun change or his brand of hectic shenanigans, the kind Gabriel used to help him with while Ellegaard shrieked at their heels.

He wants to fix what they broke, but he's never been able to undo a TNT blast before. Now doesn't seem any different.

"Seriously?" She's looking at him, really looking at him in a way she hasn't since he got her up here. The raised eyebrow and disbelieving tone would make him more defensive if he hadn't been desperate for a response that wasn't entirely negative.

He offers her the smoke again, crushing the lit end against one of the roof's many carved stone edges when she shakes her head.

"I mean, yeah. You've already got mine."

And it's the truth, the exhausted truth at the heart of their years of bonding and bickering and living. Ivor leaving, Soren lying, (almost) all of them selling their souls for fame and glory- it's stripped back each and every layer of Magnus and his usual defenses. What's the point in denying it, when they're this close to losing whatever it is they've got?

"...you're sappy, tonight."

"'m tired." Tired of what? Winning nothing, losing everything? Because that's what's happened. Sure, technically they've got far more now than they ever could've had before, at the price of them getting all the credit for something they never did. It's an empty, shallow victory that burns in his throat and his chest. It came at the price of losing Ivor. Losing their snarky healer, their friend who was perhaps the most excited for their adventure and the most carefully prepared, hurts them as a team and cuts to the heart of who they are as friends.

Who they were as friends might be a better way to put it.

(It came at the price of all their friendships, really, who they are- who they used to be.

Gabe's been in a daze- who isn’t?- but he's stiffer too, formal in a way Magnus's fellow trouble maker never is. This new Gabriel’s somewhere between a warrior and a knight. The crowd loves him. Magnus just feels sicker listening to him, his speeches and his new habit of saying no to everything fun. Gabriel's chivalrous, sure, but he's also Magnus's friend, not this stressed out hollow shell with an empty smile and dramatic speeches for crowds spun from nothing but despair and grief.

It turns out that is who he is, now.

And if Gabe's in a daze, there's no real way to describe what's going on with Soren. Soren had his head in the clouds to start with. He’s gotten, forced, everything he’s ever wanted, except Ivor isn’t here to drag him from his room into the open. Everything they dreamed of is at their feet, minus the integrity. Soren, already running on no sleep and manic energy during that uneasy time after the Dragon was 'defeated' but before Ivor left, has shut himself away almost entirely.

Can't disappoint or lie to people you don't see or talk to.

Ellie too, because of course she squirreled herself away, because she and Soren are two sides of the same coin the way she and Ivor are- were. It’s worked just as well for her as it does for him. Even without Magnus's interference, she's been doing little more than slipping up and burning her own fingers on her machines. She stares out windows and mumbles nothing to an empty room. She'd still be in that room if Magnus hadn't managed to coax her onto the roof like this, the promise of familiar company better than hanging out with those in the camp under them.

There are other engineers here to talk to, now, but what's the point?

Magnus himself, well... he's partied, he's feasted, and he's hated himself all the more for it. He chose this over defending Ivor, he was the first to follow Soren’s lead and pick their pretty lie over the rusted truth. Magnus is the one who couldn’t even look Ivor in the eye. He'd like to think he's at least trying to have fun, being truer to himself that Gabriel is, but that doesn't mean he isn't sickened by every fake grin and overblown guffaw, every bit of fun at the unsuspecting crowd’s expense. It’s his worst prank yet.

They're coping, maybe, but it ain't healthy. None of this is.)

Ellegaard sighs, a curled lock of hair brushing against her cheek as the wind toys with it, the rest held back only by her goggles, and she’s so strikingly beautiful it hurts.

It just ain’t fair.

Still, she also sounds achingly drained, circles under her eyes as bold as he’s ever seen them.

"...so am I."

Nowhere to take the conversation from that, is there? That's what it all comes down to.

They’re washed up before they could ever really begin.

And if the conversation can't continue, then it's time to move things along before they do end up breaking out the alcohol. Magnus pushes himself to his feet with energy he doesn't have, stretching his arms above his head before cracking his neck the way Ellie usually hates.

The breeze picked up at some point, though hell if he knows when, and the stone roof's cold enough to have leeched all the warmth from his hands and his ass.

"Great. We might as well crash- I'm sick of staring at the big ol' empty."

This is, of course, Ellegaard's cue to lecture him on how beautifully vast and amazingly full space is, how it's hardly empty and that the hollowest space to crack jokes about is in his head.

She doesn't, but she does smile.

It's weak, but it's the first smile in at least a week that hasn't looked totally plastic.

On top of that, she hands him the mask he'd almost left on the roof, an easy victim for the breeze, and he's hardly thinking when he takes it in a balled up fist as they both slip back through the window they came onto the roof from.

(Not that he hasn’t been thinking about replacing this mask. 

It’s almost half stitches now, the victim of all the repairs it’s needed since he first made it, back when they started out their training and the world looked so beautifully big and unknown.

...his later stitches are much better than the first few repairs, on account of Ivor showing him neater stitches and making Magnus practice them. 

They work for skin and cloth, as it turns out.

That might be a little more important now, since they’re down a healer and Ivor was the one who kept inventory of the healing potions.)

The walk through the halls is almost peaceful, on account of it being short and the others hiding in their own rooms or making speeches outside or chasing after Endermen in an empty End or whatever they’re each doing (because whatever Soren and Gabriel are doing, they’re doing it alone and Magnus knows it), and Ellegaard’s shoulders are relaxed like they haven’t been in over a month.

So far, so decent.

He's no Ivor, but Magnus is still doing his best to fill in as the glue.

It's working better than he figured it would; griefers aren't meant to be the glue of anything, never mind horribly fractured friend groups.

And, hell, while he's patting his back for a job well done, Magnus'll take an extra second to preen about how surprisingly easy it was to get Ellie to crash in his room instead of hers, and, heck, he's even proud (and sad and confused and exhausted) about how his room is actually the healthier choice.

Going from the window to his room means they don’t pass Ivor’s door.

(The long shadows cast by the torches can’t be helped, gnarled into shapes that are almost human and hauntingly familiar against the stone bricks, fire and shadows alike wavering as the two of them walk by.)

In Magnus’s room, there aren't any machines for her to tinker with, none out in the open, anyway, to be obsessed over like there are in hers.

She can’t keep herself up all night doing nothing.

There aren't any pipes or wires to fuss over like her next invention will prove Ivor wrong or bring him back.

He's not even dead -probably- and it feels like they've lowered the casket already.

(Ivor's resourceful, practical, skilled, and alone. He can take care of himself just fine, fend for himself as he does who knows what with the treasures he bargained for, but he shouldn't have to.

None of them should.

Magnus thinks of an exhausted Ivor, holed up in a dirt hut somewhere or already dead in a ditch, and he shifts the arm around Ellie’s shoulders so it’s closer to a squeeze.

If he's got any say in this, cowardly as he is and weak-willed as he's been shown to be, it won't happen to the rest of them, drift apart as they may. He wants to be there for them, in this twisted lie they’ve trapped themselves in, be available even when he's busy with whatever chaos he and his followers cobble together.

Gods, he has followers now, fans who think the world of him.

He's gonna be sick.)

Magnus's armor is already kicked into a forgotten corner, left alone unless he's making an appearance for 'the public' that seemed to spring up overnight.

It’s his clumsiest way at trying to fix what he helped shatter. It hasn’t helped much; the others wear their armor more than ever and always around him, Ellegaard only taking hers off now to chuck it on top of his.

Falling into bed is easy, something from Before that isn't instantly painful or miserable, and so's peppering each other with kisses as they settle under the covers. It's easy to slip into the familiar position, her arms wrapped around him and her chin on his shoulder.

(Hey, it's not just because he's short.

Magnus is the damned best little spoon there's ever been.)

Ellie goes a step further than just silently settling into what's familiar, though, whispering in a voice that isn't pained as he cranes his neck to kiss her cheek.

"Thanks for holding onto my heart."

Fat lot of good it's doing either of them, with how much hers still hurts and how much it can still be hurt, but the thought has to count for something. She's kind enough to do the same for him.

"Yeah, well, don't go throwing mine around."

It means a lot, given how easy it ultimately was for them to chuck Ivor's away and turn their backs on him. Magnus still can't really believe that happened, or that anybody else in their group would be willing to do that to him, never mind brilliant Ellie- but here they are, short a healer, short a friend, and short on all the trust they'd had in spades before they entered the End, and Magnus would be a fool to not take the blame for being one of the first to toss all that. Why wouldn’t they turn on him after how quickly he turned on Ivor?

There's a spiky, prickly paranoia nestled in the back of his mind that wasn't there before, but he still trusts Ellegaard, and he means it when he silently promises himself he won't throw away whatever trust she's got left in him.

And for a minute, as they sink into sleep, it almost feels alright.

They're both stubborn people, and they've never been the types to give up on a challenge, even one that aches.

[photochoco]

New Recruit

The story of how Wisteria became a Cadet. 

Pinprick and Bianca had been the closest to the disturbance. Patrolling had its perks, one of them being that you never knew when you might conveniently stumble upon magical mayhem. Well, they didn’t stumble upon it so much as they heard a banshee-like screech split through the air as they walked along. As the pair raced towards the sound, a figure flew up into the air and took off. A witch.

“Pinprick, go after them! They might’ve hurt someone, I’ll see if I can find anyone!”

Despite being a giant, Pinprick was very fast. He gave a single nod and leapt up onto the rooftops, hopping from building to building in pursuit. Bianca rushed down an alley, towards where the scream had rang out. She was met with a huge mural on a wall, still unfinished. The work seemed a bit familiar. 

And laying on the ground in front of it, a girl. She wasn’t moving. Bianca swore under her breath as she skidded to a halt next to the girl, grabbing her shoulder and rolling her over. Whatever had happened with the witch, it seemed like she’d put up a fight, dried blood was smeared on her shirt and the corners of her mouth. 

“Damn girl...I’m sorry…” Bianca muttered as she noticed the streams of multicolor flowing in rivulets from the girl’s closed eyes. It coated her hands as well; it was no doubt caused by a curse. At least she was breathing. Bianca considered calling for backup before Pinprick leapt down in front of her. “The witch got away,” he scowled. “Well, we can at least count it as a win that this girl here they attacked wasn’t killed. It looks like she might’ve been cursed, though. We’ll need to get her to Tracy. Can you carry her?” Pinprick knelt down and scooped the unconscious person into his arms. She didn’t stir, but she let out a small mumble. A good sign, even if a small one.

“Poor thing,” he murmured as he carefully cradled her against himself. “Let’s get back to BC. Hopefully she can give us a better description of the witch when she wakes up.” --- --- Consciousness came slow, discouraged by soft, warm blankets. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that something horrible had happened…She scrunched her face up. “Oh shit, she moved!” “She’s waking up!” “Oooooh do you think she’ll wanna become a Cadet?” “Whaddaya think happened?”

A myriad of voices reached her ears, but she couldn’t really understand what anyone was saying through her exhaustion. She wanted to go back to sleep.

“Ok everyone, that’s enough, off you go! There will be plenty of time for meet and greet later!”

She didn’t move for another moment. Then everything that had happened came rushing back in one great wave. She sat up so suddenly, a few people who hadn’t yet left squealed in surprise. Her hands flew to her face, her eyes. Her eyes. Please let it have been a dream. Please don’t let it be real. It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real…

“Welcome back, dear. You gave us a bit of a scare, being out for so long. Could you do me a favor and open your eyes?”

Slowly, reluctantly, she opened them. Everything was grey. Greys and whites and blacks, like she was looking at a black and white photograph. Monochrome. The color was gone. Her hands started to shake, her head whirled, and an icy cold dread washed over her.

No. No. No. No way. This couldn’t be happening. 

“Hm hm!” A small plump woman popped into her view, a troll? She leaned in close, examining her eyes.

“What’s your name, dear?” the troll asked. She could barely squeeze it out of her tightened throat. “...W-Wisteria. Wisteria Inkwell. Or...Wisty...”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Tracy Pan, resident nurse of the Black Cauldron. Tell me, do you have any recollection of what happened before you woke up here?” Wisty brought her knees up and pressed her face into them. “...I’ve been cursed, haven’t I.” “I’m afraid so, dear. It would seem it’s a curse on your eyesight, no? Or is it perhaps a different version of soul loss…? Your eyes are voided out like another one of our Cadets, but his are white, yours are black. What do you see?” Wisty fought off tears. “There’s no color. I can’t see color, I--she-- she took color from me...she--”

She would not cry, not in front of other people, let alone a stranger. Emotions she couldn’t place were whirling about inside her so fast. But her face was blank as she willed the tears back. She felt very dizzy.

“Interesting, interesting…and how else do you feel?” Tracy continued.

The room was spinning. “I...uh…kin...kinda...dizzy...” Wisty mumbled. “I think ‘m gonna b’ sick…”

 “Hmm, you might be in shock. How about we… …” 

The rest of the nurse’s words were lost to the static roar that started in Wisty’s ears. Everything sounded very far away all of a sudden, she herself felt like she was floating. She could see things, hear things, but she couldn’t make sense of any of it. She tried to breathe in steadily, but her chest was burning. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Where was the color?

---

Wisty opened her eyes blearily, staring at the ceiling. Jeez...what happened? She sat up, rubbing her face. She was back in the bed, or had she never left it...? 

The world was still in grayscale, and the sickening feeling swelled inside her all over again. She looked around and listened. She was alone. Good.

She buried her face into her knees and sobbed. She sobbed until she felt like she was going to be sick. Her throat was tight and her head pounded, she cried until she had no tears left. The colorful world she’d loved so much was gone. And it wasn’t going to come back. Small wails mixed in with her sobs, thankfully muffled by the blankets.

Finally, she calmed herself down with a series of long sighs that shook her frame. She wiped her eyes and looked around, sniffling. Urgh, now she’d given herself a nasty headache and she couldn’t breathe through her nose. She slipped out of bed to find the bathroom. She could use some cold water on her face. 

Wisty approached the door and went to open it, only to have it swing forward on its own, causing her to yelp in response. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t--excuse me--” 

The pair of legs in the doorway bent down, and an incredibly tall ghoul ducked through the threshold. “Ahem.” He straightened himself up to his full height, easily over nine feet. “Apologies cupcake, I didn’t see you there. Actually, should you even be out of bed? You haven’t been taking the curse very well.”

Wisty squirmed and hastily wiped at her eyes. “I, um, I actually feel fine now. I just wanted some water.” He leaned down, putting his face too close to hers, and gently pressed a long pointed finger onto her cheek. She resisted the urge to shrink away. What if he noticed--

“Now, why the waterfalls?”

Crap. “I. Um.” The ghoul studied her expression and grinned widely with a chuckle, showing a mouth full of sharp teeth. Wisty averted her gaze. What colors was he? Frustrated tears bubbled up again. The ghoul cocked his head and continued to grin. “I-I...jeezus, stupid tears,” she muttered as she wiped her eyes. “I’m fine, I’m just a little upset about my...about being cursed. I’ll be fine.”

“Yo Pin, quit hoggin’ the doorframe!” 

A girl with long gelatinous-looking hair squeezed past the ghoul, her eyebrows hopping up when she saw Wisty.

Oh, you’re awake! ‘S about time too, you were startin’ to freak us all out!”

She stuck her hand out, and Wisty took it in her own. The girl’s hand was very warm.

“I’m Bianca Frost, and this is my partner Pinprick! We make up Team B of the Black Cauldron. We found you in an alley.” “Oh--oh my god, you guys saved me? Thank you!!” Bianca shrugged and rubbed the back of her head, looking away. “Eh, it was nothin’. I’m just sorry we didn’t find you sooner. Uh, how are ya feelin’ now?” “I’m...better. It’s still kinda a big shock,” Wisty rubbed at her eyes again. “Do you have a bathroom in here? I wanted to get some water.”

At her insistence that she felt fine enough to do it herself, Bianca pointed Wisty in the direction of the restrooms. They were easy to find, tucked around the corner from a cafe area. There were several people sitting at tables, and they all swiveled their heads to stare at her as she walked by. With a weird flip in her stomach, Wisty hurriedly shut the door behind her as whispers began. 

Purposefully avoiding the mirror, she splashed her face with water, sighing as it soothed her itchy, swollen eyes. She could deal with this. It would be fine. She’d be fine. She’d find a way to keep making art, this was fine. She cupped her hands under the stream and took several thirsty gulps. This was manageable. People got cursed all the time. (As unfortunate as that was.) 

Wisty sighed again. She wondered if the curse affected how her eyes looked. Steeling herself, she looked in the mirror. Her eyes were completely black, no visible iris or sclera to be seen. “Whoooooooaaaa,” She couldn’t help the exclamation as she leaned in closer, staring at her reflection with wide eyes. “Haha, what the hell…?” She pulled her eyelid down and rolled her eyeball around; the whole thing was as solid and black as an 8 ball. A thought struck her- what would people think if they saw her eyes? Would they avoid her? Cursed people in Salem were viewed with pity, and sometimes worse, outright scorn for being damaged goods. What if--

There was a knock on the door. “Hey cupcake, are you almost done in there? John wants to talk to you.” John? Who’s that…? Wisty opened the door. Two people dressed in Ironmaiden uniforms were waiting to greet her. One was a tall, imposing-looking women with her greying hair neatly twisted into a bun. She looked severe, but her eyes looked at Wisty gently. Next to her was an equally-tall oxen hybrid, standing with his arms crossed. He looked at Wisty just as kindly, despite his intimidating appearance. “You’re Wisteria Inkwell, correct?” the woman asked. Wisty nodded. “My name is Elanor Pan, founder of the Black Cauldron. This here is John Bullock, chief of the Ironmaidens.”

“We wanted to ask you a few questions. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble,” John said, noting Wisty’s sudden nervous expression. “We wanted to ask you about the witch that cursed you. It’s our understanding they got away after attacking you.” “Oh, no! I don’t mind at all…” Wisty replied, feeling relief wash over her.

“Good. Now, if you’ll come this way…” John ushered Wisty into another room. Before the door closed, she looked back at the entourage that was still gathered. They all stared at her.

—-

No sooner had Wisty closed the door she was ambushed by the people still waiting in the cafe area. “Hey! Did Ela talk to you about becoming a Cadet?” “What kind of curse do you have?” “Want some soda?” They were all talking over each other so loudly Wisty could hardly piece together what any one person said. She was luckily saved by Elanor, who swept out of the room behind her.

“Really now! I’d said there’d be time for introductions later, but this poor girl has had a very long day and she certainly doesn’t need to be bombarded by you all at once. I know you’re all excited about the prospect of a new Cadet, but please, be considerate. Don’t scare her off just yet!” she said, a good-humored smile curving her mouth.

Bianca ushered the bewildered Wisty into a seat, and the remaining chairs at the table were very quickly filled in. A soda was slid her way, and with a thanks, the questions began again. The first to speak was Pinprick. “So, my dear, care to share with the rest of the class? Why don’t we get those introductions out of the way.”

“Oh...I’m Wisteria. Just Wisty is fine.”

Everyone looked at her expectantly. One of the Cadets tapped near their eyes and pointed at her.

“Oh right, my curse. Well...I can’t see color anymore,” Wisty found it was easier to talk about than she had anticipated. “I can still see and all, but it’s like--you know black and white photographs? It’s like that. I can still see value, but all the hue and saturation is gone. Actually, speaking of that, are my eyes completely black? They looked like it in the mirror, but I couldn’t tell if they were just really dark, or...”

There was a wave of nods.

“Being colorblind looks pretty metal,” a boy with glowing white eyes said, blowing a cloud of smoke out through his teeth. A cigarette was clenched between his teeth.

Wisty wrinkled her nose and tried not to gag. She hated the smell of cigarette smoke. The Cadet sitting next to the boy must have noticed, because he deftly yoinked it out of his comrade’s mouth.

“Yo Harvey, what the hell man?!” the boy squawked as the person in a bunny mask crumpled the cigarette in his hand. “If you paid any attention to her face, you’d have seen your smokestack was making her sick, dumbass.” He turned to Wisty and stuck out his non-ash covered hand, which Wisty took and shook. “I’m Harvey. I make weapons for Cadets here. This idiot next to me is Dex.”

Dex gave a short wave, grinning widely. “Yep, that’s me! Dex, the resident heartthrob.” Everyone at the table rolled their eyes. Wisty blinked. “Oh, I’ve seen you before! You nearly ran me over with your bike once.” Everyone present swiveled their heads to stare at Dex. He blinked.

“...I did?” “Oh my god Dex that is NOT what you say to someone you nearly flattened with your dumb bike!” “Hey! DeeDee is NOT dumb! She--ow ow ow ow!” his words cut off with a squeal as Harvey sitting next to him grabbed him in a headlock.

“I’m sorry about him. His head is full of empty.“

Wisty couldn’t help but giggle. “Um, have you all been here long?”

“Some of us have, yeah,” Harvey said. He released his hold on Dex, who sucked in air theatrically. “Sooooo!” Dex cut in. “Are you thinking about becoming a Cadet?”

Wisty ran a finger along the rim of her soda can. “Would I even be useful? I haven’t really fought before.” “Sure! We can help teach you, if you join. And Harvey can make you a weapon!” Dex said. “And if ya want, maybe you could team up with someone, like Alphus over there, or—” “I work alone, Dex boy,” the woman leaning on the wall nearby said. Wisty shrunk in her seat. “Oh, don’t mind her cupcake, she can be a little standoffish towards everyone at first,” Pinprick said, placing a reassuring hand on Wisty’s shoulder.

“Actually, I do have a question. Just...not related to being a Cadet,” Wisty said. “Mmmm?” Wisty slapped her hands on the table. “What colors is this place? I can’t tell at all and I MUST know!”

The next half-hour was filled with back and forth questioning as Wisty grilled everyone about what they looked like, with the Cadets describing as best they could. At least she could still remember what colors looked like. By the end of it all, she felt oddly at ease, at least for the time-being. These people were very nice. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to become a Cadet. Heck, maybe she could even design recruitment posters or something, she’d at least be doing something for them. She’d have to talk to Elanor after this.

---

If this seems a bit different, it’s because Eri is now an OC called Wisteria! They’re my host-mom’s favorite flower