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bubonickitten · 4 years ago

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Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: Jon and Basira make their way to Ny-Ålesund; Daisy and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 26: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief descriptions of Flesh-domain-typical imagery; discussion of police violence, intimidation tactics, & abuse of authority (re: Daisy’s past actions); mentions of canonical character deaths & murder; reference to a canonical instance of a character being outed (re: Jon’s coworkers gossiping about him being ace); allusions to childhood emotional neglect; a bit of internalized ableism re: ADHD symptoms; discussions of strict religious indoctrination; a physical altercation, including being restrained with a hold; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

You’re fretting because something hasn’t gone horribly wrong? Basira asks.

Aren’t you?

The tension in Basira’s shoulders is answer enough. They’re both on tenterhooks, all too aware of the dreadful species of things that lurk in the margins of the world, any number of which could be waiting in the wings for them.

That’s not to say there are no complications at all. There’s a learning curve to navigating the world blindfolded, but the two of them settle into something of a routine: Basira guiding Jon with a hand on his arm, talking him around obstacles, across gaps, and up and down stairs. An improvised system of nudges and taps develops organically over the course of their travels, starting when Basira realizes that Jon has trouble parsing her words over the noise of a crowd. It becomes their go-to mode of communication with surprising ease.

It’s an exercise in trust oddly refreshing in its mundanity.

Jon finds the blindfold comforting, in its own way: surreal, but somehow not as surreal as the evidence of normalcy all around him. Consistent, straightforward geography is disorientating enough after so long traversing a world knitted together by nightmare logic and allegory. Even more bewildering are the people. Throngs of them go about their day-to-day routines, each preoccupied with their own affairs, taking for granted their relative anonymity against the vast backdrop of the bustling world around them, secure in the privacy of their own thoughts – and blissfully unaware of the alternative.

This is how it should be, he admonishes himself in a weary refrain. People deserve ownership over their own minds, their stories, their secrets. The Archivist in him vehemently disagrees, of course. It’s exhausting, how relentlessly Jon has to challenge that instinctual voyeurism.

Prone to sensory overload, he’s always hated crowds: the noise, the flurry of movement, the press of bodies, the constant threat of unwanted touches, the lack of freedom to move at his own pace. Becoming the Archivist made the experience infinitely worse. The combination of the blindfold and Daisy’s noise-cancelling headphones does little to stem the tide of intrusive knowledge: random scraps of disconcerting trivia, a steady stream of morbid statistics, insights into the deep-seated anxieties of passersby – and, on a few occasions, the whisper of a story to be chronicled. At least the blindfold prevents him from inadvertently locking eyes with anyone.

They try to avoid traveling during peak commuting hours, but not every crowd can be evaded. The first time he wanders into the path of a potential statement giver, Jon nearly causes a pile-up in a congested station, stopping so abruptly in his tracks that the person in the queue behind him crashes headlong into him. Basira manages to catch him before he’s knocked off his feet, keeping a firm grasp on his arm when the panicked urge to flee overtakes him and nearly sends him careening blindly in the opposite direction. When a nearby stranger snipes at him for the nuisance, Jon is surprised at how immediately Basira leaps to his defense.

Back off, she says, the hint of a threat in her tone, before steering Jon out of the crowd and off to the side, where he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. She stands firm between him and the masses, diverting traffic and warding off anyone else who might seek a confrontation, giving him the sorely-needed time to compose himself. He��s certain that she’ll be cross with him after, but… she isn’t.

Tense, certainly. Concerned even. But criticism is bafflingly, mercifully absent.

There are a few more incidents after that, but none quite so dramatic. The instant he senses the Archivist in him stirring, he chokes out a warning to Basira, who turns out to be preternaturally adept at finding (or creating) spaces for him to recoup. With both of them on guard and communicating freely, they manage to avoid being in close quarters with anyone who might have a story to tell.

Tromsø offers a temporary reprieve from all of that. There are people, of course – it’s the busiest fishing port in Norway, the Eye interposes for the fourth time this hour. Jon takes an aggravated swipe at the empty air beside him, once again momentarily forgetting that there’s no pesky swarm of Watchers tagging along for this particular journey. Not visibly, at least.

Still, the open-air piers of a busy fishing port are a far cry from a densely-packed train. There’s a cargo ship scheduled to leave for Ny-Ålesund within the next hour, and Basira is further down the docks meeting with its captain to (hopefully) arrange for passage. Apparently Jon has earned some trust over the course of their travels, because she didn’t object when he requested to stay back and take a breather.

Although the docks of Tromsø bear little resemblance to the beaches of Bournemouth, the calls of seabirds are familiar enough to be meditative. Nostalgic, albeit in an uneasy, bittersweet way. His childhood was riddled enough with nightmares and alienation that thoughts of the place where he grew up are always laced with remembered horror and punctuated by a nebulous sense of grief for what could have been. If he never caught the Spider’s eye; if he never opened the book; if he wasn’t quite so demanding and easily bored and difficult to manage; if his eccentric reading habits were just a bit less finicky, even…

Left to his own devices, Jon could drown himself in what ifs.

A frigid gust of wind whips his hair about. When he reaches up to smooth it down, he finds it coarse from the brine-saturated breeze. Rubbing his fingertips together and grimacing at the faint gritty residue, Jon pulls Georgie’s scarf up over his nose to fend against the nip in the air and he turns his sight to the sky. It’s a stark, pallid grey, the kind of overcast that manages to be blinding-bright despite the sun’s concealment. The sight stings his eyes, but still he does not blink.

It should be exhilarating to look up and see nothing staring back. Instead, the sight fills him with… well, it’s difficult for him to define succinctly. Some peculiar species of dread, mingled with a disquieting, ill-defined sense of longing. Perhaps he’s simply becoming adrift in time again: remembering how it felt to look up at a Watching sky and hopelessly wish for a return to the world as it was, to clouds and stars and void. But he can’t shake the suspicion that it’s at least partly a monstrous yearning for the ruined future from which he came.

He doesn’t know what that says about him. Nothing good, probably.

You miss it, a gloating, sinister little voice concurs from one of the murky, thorny corners of Jon’s mind. You don’t belong here. You Know where you–

Jon’s phone dings several times, yanking him away from that ill-fated train of thought. Grateful for the interruption, he digs it out of his pocket, instantly brightening when Naomi’s name greets him and eagerly opening their text thread.

Jon is too busy smiling to himself to notice Basira’s approach.

“What’s – oh, sorry,” she says when he starts. “Keep expecting you to just sort of… Know I’m here.”

“The Eye doesn’t seem inclined to help me out on that front, unfortunately,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “If anything, my being jumpy probably feeds it.”

Basira glances down at his phone, then back up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Naomi.” Jon’s grin returns. “All her texts from the last couple days just came through at once. She wants to know whether Krampus is real.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

“Oh.” Basira opens her mouth to say more, then promptly closes it.

A delighted smirk twitches into being at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Now you want to know as well, don’t you?”

Basira rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Later. We have a boat to catch.”

When Jon reaches into his pocket to retrieve his blindfold, Basira shakes her head.

“Best not,” she says. “The captain agreed to take us, but she was leery about the whole thing. I don’t want to give her a reason to reconsider. The less suspicious we seem, the better.”

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

“Getting used to people looking at me like I’m transporting a hostage,” she replies with a tired, beleaguered smile. It fades into a frown as she looks him up and down, taking stock of his shaking hands and the way he leans heavily on his cane. “Alright?”

“A bit sore,” Jon admits, glancing down at his leg. “Probably just been putting weight on it for too long a stretch.”

“We should be able to sit soon. Until then, try not to fall.”

“Or freeze,” Jon says distractedly, glancing warily upwards again.

“Daisy says the cold always gets to her,” Basira says, quietly enough that Jon suspects it wasn’t meant for him. “Seriously, though – you alright? You keep staring at the sky like it’s going to crack open.”

“I’m fine.” Jon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. “Just… apprehensive.”

“Sense anything?” Despite her carefully bland tone, the crux of the question is clear.

“Nothing concrete.” No statement givers, he does not say – but Basira nods, understanding his meaning. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Come on, then.” She starts off down the dock – at a brisk pace at first, but slowing when she looks back to ensure that Jon is following and observes his stiffer, more deliberate gait.

He grimaces apologetically. Up until Jane Prentiss and her worms, he was inclined towards speed walking as much as Basira is. Always in a hurry to get nowhere at all, Georgie used to say, simultaneously lamenting and teasing. Not everyone is a power walker, Jon, Martin would gripe from time to time during the apocalypse.

Maybe some of us want to slow down and take in the scenery, he grumbled on one occasion, as they traipsed through a predictably grisly Flesh domain.

The forest of pulsating meat sculptures, you mean? Jon replied primly.

Oh, you’re telling me you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to stop and take notes on the ecology of flesh spiders?

Not as much as I want to get to a place where the ground isn’t a spongy skin trampoline.

Flesh domains always had a tendency to bring out the worst (best?) of their morbid humor, Jon notes upon reflection.

In any case, Jon has always had a tendency to hurry, too impatient to reach his destination to appreciate the journey. Internally, that impulse is still there. On good days, he can almost satisfy that restlessness. Today is not a good day.

Basira stops and waits. It’s a practice that has become second nature to her ever since Daisy emerged from the Buried: learning all the unspoken signals and warning signs of a bad pain day, from barely-suppressed winces and cold sweat to waspishness and stifled, winded breaths; gauging all the fickle fluctuations in mobility in real time through careful, constant observation; and discreetly adjusting her own walking pace to accommodate without question or complaint.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time on boats,” Basira says, apropos of nothing – probably to break the silence as she waits for Jon to catch up. “I’m hoping motion sickness during long car rides isn’t correlated with seasickness. Does the Eye have any statistics handy? Seems like it would qualify as terrible knowledge.”

“Let’s just say you should keep the Dramamine at the ready,” Jon says wryly as he reaches her position.

“Wonderful,” Basira sighs, and she resumes walking, this time matching Jon’s stride.

Martin will be the first to admit that, between the two of them, Jon doesn’t have a monopoly on obsessiveness.

Case in point: Jon and Basira have been gone for five days now, and – in between bouts of worrying over their safety and mounting apprehension about Peter’s inexplicable, persistent hiatus – Martin is still replaying everything he said and did in the moments leading up to Jon’s departure.

Or, more precisely, what he didn’t say.

Nearly two months have passed since Jon returned from the Buried. It’s been nice, it really has, spending time with him. He’s changed – How could he not have? – but he’s still Jon. Even more wounded and jaded than he was before – How much abuse can one person take? – but it hasn’t made him cruel or cold. Harder in some respects, to be sure – namely on himself.

Which is saying something, Martin thinks with a pang. In all the time that Martin has known him, Jon has never been kind to himself. It’s always been a struggle to convince him to take care of himself in the most basic of ways, let alone spare a thought for comfort.

But in other respects, Jon has grown softer. More open, more communicative – more trusting, somehow, despite this world and the next piling on reason after reason for him to detach and withdraw. Martin thinks about that every time the Lonely starts to whisper in his ear. The fog is still there, firmly planted in his mind, choking out his thoughts from time to time like an invasive weed. It won’t be easily uprooted. Seeing Jon alive and trying, reaching out, grasping at warmth, clinging to humanity with all his trademark stubbornness… it makes Martin want to try, too. It makes him want to hope, to look forward and see – to fight for – a future where things are better.

So, yes, Jon has changed. They both have.

I’m not the person you remember, Martin said the first time they spoke after Jon came back. I’m not the person you fell in love with.

Jon had locked eyes with him then, and Martin found that he could not look away.

Martin has spent the majority of his life walking a tightrope, striking an uneasy balance between competing instincts. The part of him that excels in flying under the radar takes comfort in being inconspicuous. There are people out there who see kindness as naivety and trust as a weakness to be exploited. The best way to avoid their notice is to avoid being seen at all, and Martin learned early on that to be unremarkable has its own advantages. All too often, to go unnoticed is to survive.

It isn’t enough to just survive, though, is it? Barely hidden underneath all the abysmal self-esteem and the carefully constructed mask of agreeability, there is a spark of indignation and outrage and want. To be seen is fundamentally terrifying; to demand acknowledgment is to welcome exposure. But Martin has always had a rebellious streak, carving out a space for itself amongst all the loneliness and fear and self-deprecation.

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

And when Jon did look at him – Saw him – an unmistakably pleased little voice jostled its way to the forefront to triumphantly declare, Finally.

Martin, I fell in love with this version of you, Jon said. With every version of you.

It was difficult to believe. Martin didn’t want to believe it. He was afraid to believe it. But he did, and he does, and he feels the same way, and he has for so, so long, and that defiant chip on his shoulder never truly let him forget it, even when isolation had him by the throat–

So why can’t you say it?

Since that day, it hasn’t come up again. Jon is affectionate, far more than Martin would have expected. Sure, Jon has always seemed more natural at expressing his feelings through actions rather than words, but Martin never imagined he would be so… well, cuddly. Jon always struck Martin as averse to touch, keeping people at arm’s length both figuratively and literally. He still is, sometimes. But more often than not, Martin gets the impression that Jon would cling like a limpet if given explicit permission. Martin doesn’t know whether that’s a new development, or whether it’s just that he now numbers among Jon’s rare exceptions.

Maybe I should ask Georgie, Martin thinks, only partly in jest.

There’s still a lingering hesitancy there, though. Yes, when Martin invites contact, Jon jumps at the opportunity to be close. Initiating, though… Jon doesn’t quite walk on eggshells per se, but he moves with a gentleness perhaps too gentle at times. Excessively tentative – but not subtle.

Martin long ago perfected the art of stealing furtive glances at Jon. It’s not difficult. Jon is prone to tunnel vision, predisposed to lose himself in his work or a book or his own mind until the rest of the world outside his narrow focus dissolves around him. If he ever noticed Martin’s eyes on him, Jon never called attention to it.

Jon’s staring doesn’t have the same finesse. His gaze is heavy. Concentrated, unwavering, penetrating – and Jon is painfully self-conscious about that. Prompt to stammer apologies whenever he’s caught watching, quick to avert his eyes. According to him, most people find the Archivist’s attention unnerving. Martin supposes it can be at times, but he’s long since become acclimated to it. Endeared to it, even. It’s grounding, despite how ruthlessly being Seen clashes with the Lonely aspects of Martin’s existence.

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

So Jon’s eyes flit to Martin whenever he thinks Martin isn’t looking, and cautious glimpses stretch into riveted, unconscious watching, and Martin graciously pretends not to notice. This has been the status quo for weeks now: faltering not-quite-touches and longing, not-so-surreptitious gazes, interspersed with understated handholding and a few sporadic sessions of what Martin can only call cuddling. All of it has been underscored by three simple words dangling in the scant expanse of empty space between them, waiting for acknowledgment.

Jon is waiting – waiting for Martin – and Jon… Jon has never been good at waiting, has he? Not like Martin. Jon’s directionless fidgeting and bitten-short declarations and absentminded stares betray his buzzing impatience despite his best efforts, but still he’s waiting, with as much valiant restraint as he can muster.

I love you. It’s a truth so obvious that speaking it aloud would hardly qualify as a confession. I love you, Martin thinks, and he feels it down to his bones, woven into the very atoms of him.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when it began. Early on, Martin only wanted to appear qualified to his new supervisor, then to impress him, then to prove him wrong – and then, eventually, to genuinely take care of him. Jon was in need of care, and resistant to receiving it, and that was familiar, wasn’t it? Maybe some desperate, stubborn part of Martin just wanted to be useful for once. To be seen. To succeed with Jon where he had failed with his mother.

Then Prentiss happened. Martin had been certain that Jon would dismiss Martin’s story, reprimand him for his prolonged absence, and snap at him to get back to work. And then… he didn’t.

Your safety is my responsibility, Jon said curtly, showing Martin to his new, hopefully temporary lodgings. I failed you, Jon’s contrite grimace read. I won’t fail you again. Then he immediately strode off to meet with Elias, leaving Martin loitering idly in Document Storage, speechless and bemused.

Maybe that’s where it started: Jon barging unannounced and uninvited into Elias’ office with brazen, unapologetic demands for safe haven and fire extinguishers and heightened security. He even went so far as to persistently badger Elias for customizations to the building’s sprinkler system. That tenacity may have been partly driven by guilt and obligation, but Martin swore he caught glimpses of something more from time to time. Something deeper and more personal, sympathetic and kind.

It started, as so many significant shifts do, with the small things.

Martin retired to Document Storage one night that first week to find extra blankets folded neatly at the end of his cot. I thought you might be cold, Jon admitted upon questioning. It can get chilly in here at night. The pressing question of exactly how many times Jon must have slept here overnight in order to know that was promptly crowded out by a vivid mental image of Jon wrestling a heavy quilt onto the Tube during the morning commuter rush. The thought brought a smile to Martin’s face. He said as much, and Jon immediately fabricated a clumsy excuse to exit the conversation.

On another occasion, Martin opened the break room cabinet to find his favorite tea restocked. He’d been putting off shopping, too anxious to leave the relative safety of the Institute’s walls. I noticed you were running low, Jon mumbled. And I was already at the store anyway, he added almost defensively, eyes narrowing in a stern glare to discourage comment – as if drawing attention to Jon’s random acts of kindness would destroy his curmudgeonly reputation.

Those circumspect displays of consideration were touching in their awkwardness. Jon was gruff and reticent, to be sure, but he cared, in his own unpracticed, idiosyncratic way. And one day, when Martin looked at him, he thought, I’d like to kiss him, and then: Oh no. Oh, fuck.

Jon never seemed to pick up on Martin’s feelings back then. But he knows now – not Knows, just knows – and, impossible as still seems, he returns those feelings. Jon said the words in no uncertain terms, left them in Martin’s care – and now he’s waiting for Martin to make the next move.

So why haven’t you? What are you waiting for?

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Sorry,” she snorts. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I –” Martin clears his throat, recovering. “Tea. Right. Uh, I can get it–”

“Let me. I need to stretch my legs anyway. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your pining.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

“You haven’t turned the page in at least twenty minutes,” Daisy informs him, nodding at the statement resting on the table in front of him. “Liable to burn yourself on the kettle while you’re spacing out, fantasizing about snogging Jon or whatever.”

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy about it.” Her blasé shrug is offset by the devious grin on her face. “Not like it’s a secret you’re on kissing terms.”

“We… we haven’t,” Martin blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Immediately, he kicks himself. Given what he knows of Daisy, there’s no avoiding an interrogation now.

“You – wait, really?” Daisy raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It just hasn’t – I – it’s really none of your–” Martin huffs, flustered. “I don’t even know if he does that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

Because Martin has a tendency to fade into the background, and people will say a lot of things when they assume no one else is in earshot.

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Like, at all?

Yeah.

Martin cringes at the memory. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He still wishes he hadn’t overheard. Jon was always so tight-lipped about his personal life back then. It felt like a violation of his privacy, knowing something that he would in all likelihood have preferred to keep to himself and share only at his own discretion. Martin tried to put it out of his head, to avoid thinking too hard on the specifics of what Jon “doesn’t” – and, conversely, what he maybe, possibly does – but, well…

Martin shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can meander any further into the realm of imagination. In any case, he certainly isn’t about to repeat that piece of gossip to Daisy now.

“I – I just don’t want to assume,” he says instead.

Daisy tilts her head, considering. “Well, have you asked him?”

“W-well, no.”

“Why not? Sure, some people aren’t into kissing, I guess, but I doubt he’d mind you asking. Even if the answer is ‘no,’ I guarantee he wants to be close in other ways.” At Martin’s lack of response, Daisy heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He reaches for you every time you’re not looking, you know. Always fidgeting with his hands, like he wants to touch but he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s as bad as you are, pining face and all.”

“I do not have a ‘pining face,’” Martin says. “If you must know, I was worrying just now.”

“You definitely have a pining face, and it’s different from your worried face. When you’re worried, you get all scowly and you chew your lip bloody. You’re focused, intense. When you’re pining, you get this faraway look to you, like you’re not taking anything in. And you touch your fingers to your lips a lot – yeah, like that.”

Martin yanks his fingers away from his mouth as if scalded, glowering indignantly at an increasingly smug Daisy. “What are you, a mentalist?”

“I’ve gotten used to reading people – picking up on openings, weak spots, stress signals, you know. Don’t know whether that’s a Hunt thing or a me thing. Both, maybe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you went from worried to pining about ten minutes ago now. And Jon, he’s even easier to read than you are. He’s so far gone for you, I can tease him mercilessly about it and never get a rise out of him. Even when I can get him to bat an eye, he never does that… that flustered denial thing he usually does when you hit a nerve. He just goes all… soft and wistful. Retreats into his own head, gets that smitten little smile – you know the one?”

“Yes.” Martin is blushing furiously now, he’s certain. Daisy flashes him another knowing, unabashedly victorious smirk.

“Point is, our lives are messed up, water is wet, and Jon Sims loves cats and Martin Blackwood, but he’s terrified of crossing some invisible line, so instead he’s just openly pining and it isn’t even fun to tease him about it because he’s too lovestruck to be properly embarrassed about it.” Daisy pauses for a breath. “So, if you want to kiss Jon, you should ask him, because I doubt he’s going to make the first move anytime soon, and it’s getting ridiculous watching the two of you tiptoe around the elephant in the room. So what are you waiting for?”

“How is any of this your business, anyway?” Martin snaps.

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

That strikes a nerve, and Martin is reacting before he can properly evaluate the feeling.

“Okay, yeah, about that,” he says sharply. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well, all you wanted to do before was hunt him down and hurt him.” Instantaneously, Daisy’s playful demeanor evaporates. “Even after Elias blackmailed you into working for him, you still looked at Jon like he wasn’t human. Not even a monster, either, just – just something you wanted to tear apart, just because you wanted to see him afraid. And now all of a sudden you’re friends? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jon’s willing to overlook a murder attempt. He… he has so little respect for himself, his standards are so…” Martin captures his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it aches. “He’s so used to being treated badly, the bar is six feet below ground.”

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

“But – but what I can’t figure out is what your angle is. You wanted to hurt him, you did hurt him – he still has a scar from where you held a knife to his throat. You would’ve killed him if Basira didn’t stop you.”

“I–”

“He was so afraid of disappearing without a trace, did you know that?” Martin interjects, his face growing hotter as over a year’s worth of pent-up fury boils to the surface.

Martin has read enough statements to know that even one of the encounters representative of the Institute’s collection is one traumatic experience too many. Even so, it’s only a small fraction of the horror stories that have plagued humanity throughout history – that continue to unfold in the present day. How many people suffer something horrible and don’t live long enough to tell the story? The Archive, chock-full of terror though it may be, is an ongoing study in survivorship bias.

“When Prentiss attacked the Institute,” Martin fumes, “Jon was more afraid of that – of leaving nothing behind – than he was of dying. You were going to bury him where no one would ever find him, and no one would ever know what happened to him, and now… now you say you want to be his friend, like nothing ever happened? And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

For a long minute, the only sound is Martin’s rapid, heavy breathing. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Combativeness, maybe. For Daisy to get her hackles up, to defend herself against Martin’s implications, to take offense to his accusatory tone. Instead, her entire posture wilts and her shoulders curl inward. It’s as if an invisible weight is pressing against her on all sides, crushing her into something small and taut.

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she mumbles.

“Guess we are,” Martin says stiffly, one foot tapping frenetically against the floor as his agitation continues creeping ever upward.

Daisy nods and releases a heavy exhale. “This isn’t just about Jon, is it?”

“I…” Martin trails off as he considers the question. “No. I guess it’s not.”

“Well.” Daisy rubs at her upper arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “Go on.”

“When you questioned all of us – when you interrogated me, you didn’t – you didn’t actually want to find out the truth. You just wanted to get to Jon, because you assumed he was guilty, and…” Martin huffs. “No, it wasn’t even about guilt, was it? You didn’t care about solving Leitner’s murder, you didn’t care about finding Sasha – she could’ve still been alive for all we knew at the time, but you didn’t care whether she was in danger, whether she could be saved. And – and even if we did have proof that she was dead, we deserved to know what happened to her. She deserved better than to be a mystery.”

“You’re right.” Daisy’s soft agreement does nothing to temper Martin’s burgeoning wrath.

“She was my friend, you know that? She was my friend, and you just – dismissed her, like she wasn’t worth remembering, like her life was some – some trivial detail. I didn’t know whether to be afraid for her or – or – or to mourn for her, and all you had to offer was, ‘Jon probably killed her, tell me where he is or else.’ You were a detective, you were supposed to help, but all you cared about was getting to Jon, and you – you – you threatened me because you thought I could tell you where to find him. That you could use me to hurt him.” Martin breathes a bitter chuckle. “I guess Jon was right not to trust the police to figure out what happened to Gertrude.”

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

“So… yeah.” Martin shrugs as his rant tapers off. “That’s where I am, I guess. I know you’ve changed – haven’t we all – but… every time I see you near Jon, there’s a part of me that panics. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I – I can’t forget. I don’t know how to feel.”

Daisy is quiet for a long minute, fingers digging into her arms now, a pained expression lingering on her face.

“I’ve done… a lot of things I’m not proud of,” she says slowly. “Hurt a lot of people. Most more than they deserved. Many who didn’t deserve it at all. Can’t even make apologies to most of them, let alone make amends. I don’t even know if I could make amends. Some things are unforgivable.”

It doesn’t undo what I did, Jon’s voice plays in Martin’s mind. I can’t erase it.

“You should know,” Daisy says, “complete lack of self-respect aside, Jon doesn’t… he doesn’t overlook what I did.”

“What?”

“He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not, he doesn’t lie to me about what I could become, he doesn’t offer me forgiveness that I don’t deserve, but he still… he still doesn’t expect the worst from me, either. He expects me to make the right choice, even though I gave him every reason not to trust me.”

“He’s still too forgiving,” Martin mutters.

“That’s another thing. I… I don’t think he does. Forgive me, that is.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid to know the answer?” Maybe that’s uncharitable, but Martin never claimed to be an easily forgiving soul. Most people wouldn’t assume it at first glance, but he’s always had a tendency to nurse a grudge.

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

“Because if he did forgive me, he would tell me,” she says, her throat bobbing as she struggles to swallow. “But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t, and I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to justify himself, or sugarcoat it, or comfort me for what I did to him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And the same goes for you.” Daisy steals a quick glimpse at Martin before lowering her head again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. Ever. But I am sorry – for how I treated you, for what I did to Jon. I’ll never stop being sorry. That doesn’t make it better, I know. But I want to do better. I’m trying to be better. Too little too late, maybe, but I won’t go back to how I was before. I can’t take it all back, but I can at least make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“You sound like Jon.”

“First and second place for guiltiest conscience, us,” Daisy says with a tired chuckle. “And I don’t know which of us is in first.” She sighs. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I do see Jon as a friend. Not just because I’m sorry, or because he saved me, or because I owe him, but because he… well, he sees me as I am, and he sees me for who I want to be, and he doesn’t see those as mutually exclusive, but he also doesn’t deny the contradiction.”

“Wish he could apply the same logic to himself.”

“Yeah. He’s an absolute mess of double standards. Best we can do is call him on it at every opportunity. Maybe eventually he’ll get it through his head.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I care about him, and he cares about you, so…”

“So you thought you’d appoint yourself his wingman?”

“Maybe a little.” Daisy gives him a hesitant, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin sighs. The resentment is still there, but he does feel a bit lighter after getting it all out in the open. Besides, he's so emotionally drained from his outburst, he can’t quite work up the energy for mild annoyance right this moment.

“Well, in that case – if you want to kiss him, you should ask. That’s all I’m saying,” Daisy says hurriedly, holding up her palms in a placating gesture when Martin gives her a tired glare. “I’ll drop it now. I meant it when I said I wanted tea.”

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

“And I meant it when I said I can get it,” Martin says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

“Uh, no.” Daisy gives him a quelling look. “Jon warned me about how you are with tea.”

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

“Okay, he didn’t say it like that. Actually, I think the word he used was persnickety.”

“Oh, as if he has room to talk,” Martin mutters. “He’s just miffed that I caught him microwaving tea once and I refuse to let him live it down.”

“What’s wrong with microwaving tea?” Martin recoils, affronted – and then Daisy snorts. “Settle down. I’m just messing with you.” She starts to leave, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be long. Yell if Peter decides to finally show his face.”

“Will do,” Martin groans, reluctantly returning to the statement in front of him. Yet another alleged Extinction sighting, courtesy of Peter, for Martin to dutifully pretend to research.

Stringing Peter along is the best way Martin knows to keep in check. In that sense, it’s an important job – one only Martin can do. Nonetheless, it’s reminiscent of how it felt to be left behind when the others went to stop the Unknowing. Distracting Elias was important, sure, and dangerous in its own way, but it wasn’t exactly on the same level as storming the Circus to stop the apocalypse. Comparatively, Martin felt useless.

Now, with Basira and Jon off on their mission, Martin is beset by a similar sense of futility. There’s certainly enough work to keep him busy, given that Peter delegates most of his job responsibilities to Martin. (Martin is fairly certain that, fraudulent CV or not, he’s more qualified to run the Institute at this point than Peter is.) Performing routine administrative duties can be a boring and demoralizing enough endeavor in the context of a mundane underpaid office job; doing so in service to an unfathomable cosmic evil is, to put it mildly, soul-destroying. Perhaps in a literal sense, as far as Martin knows.

That’s not to mention the customary gloom that comes with reading account after dreadful account of senseless, indiscriminate suffering.

Martin wishes there was something practical he could do, is his point. Patient though he may be, indefinite waiting is less tolerable when what he’s waiting for is the other shoe to drop, so to speak. He has no desire to interact with Peter in any capacity, but the longer he remains scarce, the more Martin’s trepidation soars.

There’s no way Peter has conceded his bet with Jonah, but there’s no telling whether he’s simply biding his time and observing how events unfold, actively plotting his next moves, or already enacting an revised scheme from the shadows. Regardless, he’s a clear and present danger for as long as he’s around. He may not be hasty, but he’s still a wildcard. Jon told Martin about the last time: how Peter released the NotThem to rampage through the Institute, solely for the sake of causing a distraction. As long as he has The Seven Lamps of Architecture in his possession, he–

Oh.

Martin smiles to himself. Maybe there is something more he can do.

The warehouse is, unsurprisingly, dark. Even with the door propped open, the daylight filtering through illuminates a radius of only a few yards before it’s swallowed by unnatural gloom. As Jon and Basira move further into the cavernous space, the beams of their torches barely penetrate the velvety murk.

“Any idea where she is?” Basira whispers from Jon’s left.

“Waiting in ambush, I assume. I can’t See much of anything.”

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

“And you’re certain that applies to Elias as well? He won’t be able to See us here?”

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

An enraged bellow sounds out from behind them. Basira’s torch clatters to the concrete floor, its light promptly extinguished as the casing cracks and the batteries come loose. In a flash, Basira is on the ground, locked in a furious scuffle with–

“Manuela Dominguez!” Jon says. Manuela looks up reflexively, surprised to hear her name. It’s all the opening Basira needs to gain the upper hand, grappling Manuela into a prone position on the floor and pinning her in place with a wristlock. Manuela cries out in pain, but her wild thrashing continues unabated.

“Jon,” Basira grunts, increasingly winded as Manuela attempts to break the hold. “A little help?”

“Manuela, listen, we – we’re just here to talk–”

Manuela briefly pauses in her struggling to spit at Jon’s feet. Funny, how some details remain the same. A second later, she’s resisting again, now attempting to twist around and bite at whatever exposed skin she can find.

“Stop.”

The command crackles up Jon’s throat and sparks off the tip of his tongue like a static shock, hundreds of iterations of the word coinciding. The air itself seems to quake with the force of it, and Jon is left shivering in its wake.

So, it seems, is Manuela: her voice shudders out of her when she speaks.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “What do you want?”

“To make a deal,” Jon says, the words slightly slurred.

“Why would I deal with you?” In the flickering glow of his torchlight, Jon can see the baleful glint in Manuela’s eyes. “You’re of the Eye, aren’t you? What could you even possibly want? You’ve already taken everything – you lot and your Archivist. Where is she, anyway?” Manuela makes a show of scanning the room as best she can, pinioned as she is. “Too much of a coward to witness the wreckage she’s wrought?”

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

“Stopping us took everything she had, then.” Manuela smirks. “Serves her right.”

“You wish,” Basira scoffs. “She was murdered. Completely unrelated.”

“That’s –” Manuela’s smug expression vanishes. “Who–?”

“Elias,” Jon says. “She was too much of a thorn in his side. Too much of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you,” Jon says. “We want to make a deal. A temporary alliance.”

“An alliance?” Manuela repeats. What starts as a weak, dismissive laugh dissolves into a wheeze.

“We have a mutual enemy.” Manuela’s eyes narrow in something more like curiosity now. “I take it I’ve piqued your interest. Will you hear us out?”

Manuela deliberates for a protracted moment, torn between rebellion and intrigue. “Let me up.”

“What, so you can throw more punches?” Basira says.

“It’s fine, Basira,” Jon says. Manuela is still seething with defiance. The more powerless she feels, the less open she’ll be to negotiation. Better to make a few concessions and let her feel some control over the situation.

Judging from her furrowed brow, Basira is running through the same calculations. She hesitates a moment longer before sighing, releasing her hold, and standing. Manuela staggers to her feet and backs away several steps, brushing herself off and panting shallowly as she catches her breath.

“Did you come here alone?” she asks, massaging her abused wrist as her suspicious gaze flits back and forth between Basira and Jon. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. Basira shakes her head with an impatient tsk – which Jon interprets as something like stop volunteering free information to every Avatar you parley with, Jon. “Like I said, we’re just here to talk. And to offer you the opportunity for revenge.”

“What revenge? Gertrude is dead,” Manuela spits out. “Who else is there? Her replacement?”

“I’m her replacement.”

With that, Manuela lunges in Jon’s direction. Basira swiftly moves to intercept her, but Manuela stops in her tracks before Basira can grab her. A tension-filled standoff ensues, the two of them eyeing each other warily. After nearly a full minute, Basira seems satisfied enough that the situation has been defused to take her eyes off Manuela and treat Jon to an exasperated glare.

“Do you have to antagonize every single person who wants to kill you?” she scolds.

Jon ignores her grievance in favor of addressing Manuela directly: “You wouldn’t have any luck killing me.”

Basira dips her head down and plants the heel of her hand on her forehead, grumbling under her breath. It’s mostly unintelligible, but Jon thinks he can make out the words fuck’s sake somewhere in there.

“I could try,” Manuela snarls. Her hands ball into tighter fists, trembling with rage at her sides, but she continues to stand her ground.

“You could,” Jon says mildly. “And you would fail.”

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

“I could.” He would rather avoid it if possible, but Manuela doesn’t need to know that. He can only hope she can’t tell just how much he’s only pretending at nerve. “Or, you can listen to what we have to say. Gertrude is dead, and lashing out at me isn’t going to satisfy your thirst for revenge. We can offer up a more satisfying target.”

“Unless you have a way for me to unmake the Power your Archivist served.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Manuela lets out another harsh, scornful laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well – arguably, Gertrude didn’t serve the Eye. She followed her own path.” Manuela breathes a derisive huff. “Like her or not, she did. Formidable as she was, none of that was due to the Beholding’s favor. That was all her. She never embraced the power it promised – not like most Archivists do. Striking a blow against the Eye wouldn’t be an insult to Gertrude’s memory. If anything, it would do her proud.”

“Killing it with the sales pitch,” Basira carps.

“But the head of the Institute does serve the Eye,” Jon presses on, “and he’s the one responsible for appointing Gertrude the Archivist in the first place. Hurt the Eye, and you hurt him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Manuela says, bristling. “Your patron may pale in comparison to my god, but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I would stand a chance of vanquishing it.”

“We can’t vanquish it, no. But we could destroy the Institute that serves it. Same as happened to the Dark’s faithful.”

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming all this way.” Manuela’s disparaging chuckle gets caught in her throat. “I’m the only one here. An abandoned disciple, guarding a lost cause. There’s nothing left of our former power.”

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

Manuela tenses. Then her shoulders slump, weighed down by dawning, solemn resignation.

“Of course,” she says bitterly. “It isn’t enough to decimate our numbers. You need to steal the only remnant of our crusade.”

“We’re giving you the opportunity to reclaim its purpose,” Jon says. “Or would you rather it rot away here, diminishing until it collapses in on itself?”

Manuela is silent for a long minute, a shrewd look in her eye. “Why would you want to betray your god?”

“The Beholding isn’t my god,” Jon says. “I’m not a willing convert. I was drafted into someone else’s crusade without my consent – and you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Manuela just scowls.

“I Know your story.” Jon’s voice turns sibilant with power as the Archive rears its head. “Indoctrinated into a faith that never spoke to you –”

“– brought up to believe in the light of God, his radiant, illuminating presence –”

“Shut up,” Manuela says in a low growl.

“– deep down they were vicious, spiteful people who used their faith to hurt others, and I fondly imagined them discovering themselves in an afterlife other than the one they had assumed was their destination – I broke with them as soon as I could –”

“Jon,” Basira interrupts. The firm squeeze of her hand on his shoulder is enough to snap him out of his shallow trance. She jerks her head at Manuela, who looks about ready to charge him again. “Maybe not the time?”

“S-sorry,” he gasps. He shakes his head to clear the residual static clouding his thoughts before looking back to Manuela with genuine contrition. “Didn’t mean to do that, I swear. I only meant to say that I – I read the statement you gave to Gertrude. I know that your parents were zealots. They envisioned a perfect world that seemed to you like hell on earth, and you did everything you could to rebel against their arrogance. To spite the god they worshiped. We have some common ground there, you and I.”

Granted, Jon didn’t grow up in a religious household. His grandmother was content to let him explore – and he did.

Even as a child, he had an inclination for research. A topic would catch his attention and he would voraciously seek out as much information as he could. His grandmother didn’t take much interest in the content of those fixations, but she did encourage them as a general principle. Not with overt praise, necessarily, but by facilitating his endeavors: procuring reading material on the obsession of the month, escorting him to the library every so often and allowing him to max out his card. He suspects now that she was simply grateful for some way to occupy his attention. If his nose was in a book, he was keeping out of trouble.

He never told her how wrong she turned out to be.

In any case, one of his many early “phases,” as she liked to call them, was comparative religion. Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was a genuine desire to find something to believe: some conception of the afterlife that would resonate with him, some straightforward framework for understanding the world, some sort of certainty to assuage his fear of the unknown. His grandmother never seemed to care whether he found what he was looking for. She never really asked.

It was for the best. He never liked admitting defeat. Not back then.

They returned all the books to the library on the day they were due, and Jon brought home a new haul, this one centered around the field of oceanography. The seas were brimming with mystery, but at least there was a very real possibility of turning those unknowns into knowns. New discoveries were being made every day, newer and newer technology being developed to push the boundaries of that knowledge. There were sure answers, and they could be grasped, so long as humanity could invent the right tools for the job.

Still, Jon found himself envying people of faith from time to time. Sometimes he wished he had someone to point him in some sort of direction, like many other children seemed to have. But hearing of Manuela’s upbringing… well, if Jon was forced to choose between extremes, he has to admit that he prefers the complete lack of guidance he received as opposed to strict proselytization. His grandmother may not have shown interest in his opinions, but at least she gave him the freedom to come to his own conclusions. She may not have had reassurances to offer, but at least she didn’t foist upon him a worldview that made no place for him in it.

“It’s not the same thing as childhood indoctrination,” he tells Manuela, “but… becoming the Archivist – it was like being drafted into the service of a god that I never would have chosen for myself. Had Elias told me the terms, I never would have signed the contract.”

“I take it he didn’t tell you beforehand that he murdered your predecessor?”

“That I had to find out the hard way, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying you’re not so much a traitor to your faith as you are a disgruntled employee.”

“Elias is my boss. Is that a trick question?” Jon is surprised to hear Manuela give an amused snort. “But yes. I’d like to… tender my resignation, so to speak.”

Manuela scrutinizes him intently, as if trying to solve a riddle. “You would give up your power?”

“I don’t want it,” Jon says truthfully.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there was a time that at least some aspects of that power were alluring. There was something intoxicating and liberating about being able to ask a question and not only receive a guaranteed answer, but be certain he wasn’t being presented with an outright lie – especially after spending so many months beholden to unchecked paranoia, distrust, and frantic, futile investigation.

But there was never anything benign or inconsequential about invading a victim’s privacy or compelling someone to surrender a secret, no matter how he tried to justify it to himself. Even if there was, even if it wasn’t both reprehensible in principle and harmful in practice, it still wouldn’t be worth the irrevocable costs.

“I want out,” he says, “and if getting out isn’t an option, then I at least want Elias to know what it is to be offered up to a god inimical to every atom of his existence. I thought you might be able to assist with that.”

“How?”

“The Institute is a seat of power for the Beholding,” Basira says. “If we introduce it to your Dark Sun…”

“A mote in the Eye,” Manuela says, intrigued. Her attention swivels back to Jon. “Do you Know what would happen?”

“No,” he says. “But I imagine it will hurt.”

“And then what? What happens after? You let me pack up my relic and walk away?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

“You don’t pose an existential threat,” Jon says with a shrug. “I have no doubt that the Dark will attempt another Ritual someday, but it won’t happen in our lifetimes. We have no qualms letting you walk away after our alliance is finished.”

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

“I don’t know what condition it will be in after exposure to the Eye,” Jon admits. “But you’re free to do as you wish with it after. We won’t stop you.”

So she can hurt more people, Jon’s battered conscience chimes in.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I walk in there right now, Behold it, and destroy it entirely.” It comes out sounding more menacing than Jon had initially intended, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the way Manuela freezes up.

“You wouldn’t survive.” Manuela sounds far from certain.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But your Sun certainly wouldn’t.” Jon pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Do you want to see its potential wasted here and now, or do you want to make all that sacrifice worth something?”

“If you’re so certain you have the upper hand, what’s stopping you from just taking it, then?”

“I’m not its engineer or its keeper. I wouldn’t even Know how to safely transport it. Too many unknown variables.”

“So you need me.”

“Yes. Beneath the Institute, there’s a… a sanctum of the Eye. A place of power, like Ny-Ålesund is for your patron. If you can bring the Dark Sun there, I… well, I’m hoping it will sever the Eye’s connection to that place. Destroy the Institute.”

“How would that work?”

“I’m… not certain,” Jon confesses. “Call it a… a hunch.”

“There’s precedent,” Basira says. “We found a statement that hinted at worshipers of the Dark destroying a temple to the Eye in 4th century Alexandria.”

Manuela’s eyes light up with interest. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

“Oh, right. Foolish of me to ask,” Manuela says pertly. “Why would I expect you to know things? It’s only the entire point of you.”

“I never claimed to be good at my job,” Jon retorts. “Look, maybe I don’t Know exactly what will happen, but a focus of the Dark should hurt the Eye in some capacity, I think.”

“You think,” Manuela mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear the derision in her tone.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be more satisfying than anything you’ve got going on here,” Basira points out.

Manuela barks out a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t even have the shadow of a plan!”

“We… haven’t ironed out the details, no.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, chagrinned. “We figured that if you did agree to an alliance, you would want to be part of the actual planning process.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, it’s a moot point,” Basira says.

“Also, I was… I suppose I was hoping you could offer insight,” Jon says. “The Dark is something of a blind spot for me, shockingly.” Manuela shoots him a withering look. “So even if I had any clue how to wield the Dark Sun, I wouldn’t be able to channel its full potential. Not like you could.”

“That much is obvious,” Manuela sneers, teeth gleaming in the torchlight as her lips stretch in a taut, wolfish grin. “You Beholding types always assume that knowledge is synonymous with control. Putting yourselves on the level of Powers greater than any mortal, assuming insight into things you could not possibly understand… you fly too close to the sun and then have the gall to indulge in outrage when you burn.”

We didn’t come here for a sermon, Jon almost says, but he bites his tongue.

“But I accept that I am a supplicant, not a god,” Manuela says, reverence seeping into her tone to supplant the reproach. “It’s pure hubris to assume that you could wield the Black Sun like a tool. It’s a communion, and only those with true and dutiful faith could ever hope to win its favor. Approach it with anything less than respect and devotion, and it will devour you.”

“If you’re done pontificating?” Basira says. She doesn’t give Manuela an opening to respond. “We’re well aware that we stand no chance of wielding–” Manuela looks up sharply, and Basira hastily corrects herself. “Fine – communing with the Dark Sun ourselves. That’s why we’re looking for an alliance rather than just taking it.”

“Do you think you could–” Jon pauses as he searches for a way to phrase his question that won’t unleash another tirade. “Would you be able to arrange for the Dark Sun to be brought into the Eye’s stronghold? Expose them to one another, let them… I don’t know – have it out with each other?”

“I’m capable of bringing it to London, if that’s what you’re asking,” Manuela says primly. “But it would be at a disadvantage on the Beholding’s home turf. If – if – I were willing to test this hypothesis, I would only do so on the condition that I could level the playing field as much as possible. Wait for ideal circumstances, as it were.”

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

“The winter solstice. The Dark Sun will be the strongest on the night of the winter solstice.”

“That’s months from now,” Basira protests. “Can’t you just –”

“Ideally, I would insist on a total solar eclipse,” Manuela snaps, “but it will be quite some time before London witnesses another. Not until 2090.”

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

“It is likely the soonest opportunity for another attempt at a Ritual.” Manuela pretends at nonchalance with a shrug, but she can’t quite conceal her profound disappointment as her voice grows measurably more subdued. “It gives me ample time to study our failure. To discover what went wrong.”

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

“There will always be faithful to take up the mantle,” Manuela says, her chin lifting marginally in defiance as she stares Basira down.

“But you won’t be around to see it.” Basira meets Manuela’s eyes with equal nerve. Jon remains silent, looking from one to the other as they face off against one another.

“No,” Manuela replies evenly. “I’ll have to settle for passing on my findings to those who come after. Leave behind a legacy to guide their steps.”

“In the meantime, the Dark Sun will stagnate,” Jon chimes in. It’s a bluff, of course: he has no idea whether or not it’s true. Judging from the unsettled look on Manuela’s face, neither does she. Jon latches onto that uncertainty, carefully twisting the knife just a little further: “Or, you could let it serve a purpose.”

“Its purpose was to usher in a world of true and holy Darkness,” Manuela says acidly. “You’re proposing I give it scraps.”

“Like it or not, you can’t give it the apocalypse it was promised,” Jon says.

Manuela’s fingers flex and clench back into fists. Jon suspects she would love nothing more than to wring his neck. She’s a truth seeker at heart, though. Ambitious, rebellious – idealistic even, albeit in a twisted sort of way, harboring an aspiration that most would rightfully find horrific. Adept at detecting and exploiting the more malleable aspects of material reality where possible, infusing the scientific method with just enough magical thinking to bend natural laws.

However, there are some truths that even she cannot deny, and she isn’t the type to ignore a certainty when it’s right in front of her face. And so, despite the unconcealed vitriol in her eyes and the contrariness sitting at the tip of her tongue, she does not deny his assertion.

“But it can still pay tribute to your god,” Jon coaxes, striving to stop short of needling. It’s a razor’s edge he’s always struggled to walk, but Manuela is still right there with him, toeing the line. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

Manuela directs a venomous glower towards the floor as she vacillates between summary dismissal and the temptation of vengeance. Basira side-eyes Jon as the standstill stretches from seconds into minutes, but all Jon can offer her is an awkward shrug. The ball is in Manuela’s court, and it seems she has no qualms leaving them in indefinite suspense as she painstakingly examines all the variables and weighs her options. The best they can do is wait and hope that tangible revenge will prove more enticing than spiteful noncooperation.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp exhale, raises her head, and breaks her silence.

“The winter solstice,” she repeats, her voice teeming with tension and lingering aversion. “Barring an eclipse, I would have to settle for the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year… it’s second best, but it should suffice. Shame about the light pollution, of course,” she adds, wrinkling her nose with disdain, “but the power is in the symbolism.”

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

“Dream logic,” he says, massaging his forehead wearily. “It tracks.”

“Fine,” Basira sighs. She looks back to Manuela. “So does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I’m tired of haunting this place like a ghost.” There’s a sharp, predatory look in Manuela’s eyes now. “The Dark has lost its crusaders. The Watcher should have a taste of loss.”

Just then, a loud, metallic thunk interrupts the negotiations, reverberating through the space and drawing everyone’s attention to warehouse entrance. The light that had been percolating through from outside had been preternaturally dimmed before, but now it’s been snuffed out entirely.

Jon glances anxiously at Basira. “The wind, maybe?”

“There was no wind.” Basira is already drawing her gun. Like a switch has been flipped at the prospect of danger, her voice goes steely with manufactured composure. “Not strong enough to blow the door shut. I propped it open very securely.”

“We’re near the water, though,” Jon murmurs. “Strong gusts sometimes blow in off the sea–”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at Basira’s quelling look. Manuela’s posture is defensive again, eyes darting suspiciously between Jon and Basira in the muted torchlight.

“I thought you said you came here alone,” she says accusingly.

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

“Oh, Archivist,” a new voice sings out, oozing with an exultant malice. “Long time no see!”

It’s been ages since Jon last heard that cadence, but it’s horrifyingly, heart-stoppingly familiar even after all this time. It pierces Jon like a knife in the dark. He takes a frantic step back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his panic skyrockets and a tidal wave of adrenaline crashes over him.

“We just want to talk,” croons a different voice, rougher and more ragged-sounding. It’s difficult to gauge the newcomers’ positions through the impermeable gloom, but judging from the sounds of their voices, they’re drawing ever nearer. “Won’t you come out?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon breathes an incredulous laugh, distraught enough to border on a whimper. “Now?”

“Who are they?” Basira asks urgently. Jon is still frozen in place, eyes straining against the darkness. Any answer he could make is bogged down with terror, snagging in his throat and forestalling coherence. “Jon!”

Jon swallows hard and finally looks at Basira, his eyes wide with dread.

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

naomi: hey jon. jon. consider: surveillance state kink jon: shut the hell your mouth

____

Both instances of Archive-speak are from MAG 135. A few pieces of dialogue from the beginning of the conversation with Manuela are taken/reworked from MAG 143. The Melanie and Basira gossip is from MAG 106.

Once again, had way too much fun with the text convo btwn Naomi and Jon. Cannot resist those chatfic shenanigans vibes.

In other news, Daisy WILL point at Jon and loudly exclaim, “Is anyone gonna volunteer as wingman for this lovesick disaster or do I have to do everything myself?” and not even wait for an answer. (Jon made the mistake of confirming that he doesn’t mind her lovingly dunking on him about this sort of thing and now she’s a menace. Listen, playful ribbing is basically her platonic love language.)

Sorry for the cliffhanger!! But hey, I think we all knew that there’s no way things would go entirely smoothly for Jon and Basira. And now I finally get to add some new character tags.

I’m very behind on replying to comments. (Tbh, spent most of the last month grappling with this chapter. I was stuck on a scene that REALLY didn’t want to cooperate.) I’m gonna try to catch up this weekend, though. <3 As always, thank you for reading!

#the magnus archives #magpod #tma #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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alwaysalreadyangry · 4 years ago

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So yesterday I missed two calls from the cancer nurse because I was sleeping. This morning, she called again. I answered, only for my phone to crash and restart as I was saying hello.

She called again once the phone had restarted, but after I answered I couldn’t hear her and the call failed. She was calling from a withheld number, so when she didn’t try again I searched every piece of paper in the living room until I found the one I’d written the gynae-oncology department number on, called, left a slightly garbled message on the answerphone... And then half an hour later she called me back and it finally worked, sob.

Anyway it was... Just a check-in I guess, nothing new.

Now? I’m basically just waiting for the fertility specialist to get in touch with me to give me an appointment for assessing my fertility, which should be soon. In all likelihood I’m going to have a hysterectomy in the next few months to get rid of the cancer, but there is the option of trying to reverse the cancer with a mirena coil (I have one in atm) and then trying to get pregnant basically as soon as the cancer goes. Because once you take the coil out the cancer usually comes back.

So people going this route are basically trying to race the cancer to get pregnant before it comes back, have a child/children (? I don’t know how it works for people trying to have multiple kids, if you have to get the mirena again after giving birth then take it out when you’re going to try and get pregnant again...) and then have a hysterectomy once they’re done so that the cancer doesn’t get a chance to spread much. But uh, while some people, out there in the world, have successfully had children this way, nobody at my hospital trying it has ever managed to give birth to a live child. The statistics are not encouraging.

And most people trying it developed endometrial cancer as a result of a hormonal imbalance, whereas I think I likely got it through a genetic cancer syndrome that makes me much more prone to cancers like this at an early age than the average person. And I don’t know if they even have data on how well people with my condition respond to the mirena/whether it usually gets them to the point where they can get pregnant after they’ve been diagnosed with endometrial cancer (like, I don’t think my doctor would have suggested the mirena if he thought it wouldn’t work at all, but there are a lot of unknowns, basically). I don't really know that I am in any way keen to go down the mirena-then-attempting-pregnancy route. But I want to know if it's even plausible, I guess. I might be worrying about something that just could not happen anyway. So that's where I'm at. I just want to know everything, please. I already know that I have PCOS, a genetic cancer syndrome, a heart-shaped womb (which means I'd likely be a high-risk pregnancy and at higher risk of late-term miscarriage), and cancer. I want to know what all of that adds up to. Because to me it says, not worth trying. To my surgeon, he said it could be that in the end, none of that really matters, and I am basically fertile. Only way to find out: to see the specialist. So.

I mean it’s just very weird. I don’t have any symptoms really beyond the fact that I am still - still! - bleeding and I don’t know if it’s an epic period or whether it’s post-surgery bleeding, because I had surgery three weeks ago and started my most recent period a month before that, and have been bleeding now for seven weeks solidly. But I very much, uh, think a lot about how I do have cancer. And I can’t... Really... Do anything? I can’t do anything other than think about it and talk about it. It’s just this weird thing inside of me that would kill me if left untreated. I can’t see it or hear it or touch it, but it’s in there. And the surgeons will be able to take it out, along with some fairly significant parts of my body that I will be able to survive without. And so all of that is probably going to happen soon, but not yet. Now is for waiting.

#cancer diaries //

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rayarmat · 4 years ago

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Fun in Snow and The Road Not Taken: Money-Time Trade-off For Happiness is Not Linear

I often hear middle- or high-income friends and family members complain about being overworked and not having enough “time” for fun and relaxation. I think their logic is flawed because of their basic misunderstanding of the relation between “time/quantity” and “experiential/quality” of life. On a snowy day like yesterday, for example, many people were aggrieved at having to work indoors and missing the perfect sunny day outdoors, which my family and I used for downhill sledding (as shared in the pictures and video).

Often when I ask people trapped indoors why they can’t they take a half day off to enjoy the snow, they would say they have used up their vacations or time offs and cannot take an “unpaid” leave. When I ask them how they used up all the “paid time off” they often mention some costly or elaborate activity or high expenses of life. The question is why not enjoy breaks in life in smaller, lower cost doses? or even lower our baselines of expectations in life so we can live at a lower cost? It is all rooted in the circuitry of human brains.

The Addictive Reward Seeking Circuits in Human Brains: Dopamine, The “Never-Enough” Hormone

For example, one of my former coworkers once spent $3000 on a week-long vacation to a ski resort. That was about two weeks of take-home pay for him and his wife (after tax) and about ONE YEAR of his family’s (after-tax) savings. That also used up half of his annual vacation time. Another person I know, would spend a major part of her time-off from her well-paying but grueling (indoor) job, inside shopping malls (indoors again) to shop for designer items like expensive snow boots or triple goose down winter jackets to keep her feet and body “perfectly” warm for up to 8 hours “if and when” that rare occasion arises that she can finally take the hard-earned vacation to enjoy the snow outdoors. When that ephemeral moment of joy finally arrives to enjoy life in full gear - arctic boots, jackets, Ray-Ban sunglasses and all - she would spend, like the fellow in the first example, hours driving or flying to a costly ski resort plus a good bit of her hard-earned savings and time off on a vacation which often turns out somewhat disappointing and not as dreamy or enjoyable as her perfectionist mind had imagined or planned (spent) for. Occasional head aches or back pains, stressful travel, imperfect weather, residual work stress and and the anxiety of returning to her indoors grueling job make the fleeting vacation a lot like caffeine rush and crash, high expectations and fleeting pleasure followed by disappointment and fatigue. The superwarm jacket and arctic boots now have to be stowed away in a large, very large, closet (in a large house with a high mortgage), next to other once or twice a year used items, all paid for by her, toiling away at a tiresome job.

The brain circuits pushing humans to these cycles of “rush and crash” are often controlled by a hormone called dopamine, the “not-enough” hormone involved in pleasure, reward, learning, motivation and novelty. Basically without this hormone we would not be motivated to “explore” but with too much of it we end up on slippery slopes and addictive cycles of seeking more novelties and new highs (My book will explain the mechanisms in more detail). Basically the “rush” phase of the cycle results from elevated baselines of pleasure expectation (dopaminergic reward seeking circuits in the brain) followed by a “crash” phase caused by negative prediction-errors, i.e., the experience being a lot less rewarding than imagined (hence a sharp depletion of dopaminergic energy, drive and motivation). Over time, these cycles are associated with dependence and withdrawal, the clinical hallmarks of addictive behavior. That is why the new volume of American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5) now lists several new conditions such as hoarding disorder, internet gaming disorder and caffeine use disorder as psychiatric disorders or conditions recommended for further research because of their addictive nature.

The way out of these cycles is to:

1) Understand the real “reward” is the experience of joy with minimal expectations, and the real “cost” is the amount of life (work) exchanged for that joy.

2) Set our “reward” expectation baselines and set points, as well as our “cost” baselines, at low manageable levels and in small doses over time.

That is why my family and I take a different “low-cost” path to relaxation, but it needs flexibility:

1) We do not wait for the perfect week-long vacation to travel to a remote fancy resort: This allows us to be flexible and take advantage of smaller windows, 2-3 hours at a time, of great weather.

2) We enjoy taxpayer funded local natural preserves or state and public parks that are lesser known, often free and not that busy. Many are within an hour drive from our house so there is no need to spend a lot of time and money in transit, lodging, restaurant food, etc.

3) We do not wait to buy nice arctic jackets and boots because we do not need all of that on a 2-hour sledding window. Normal boots and jackets will do.

4) We do not think too much about the opportunity cost of our time (see next section). Any income we lose from not working for a few hours is offset by the money we save in staying local and flexible with our relaxation windows.

In short, we find Robert Frost very wise in The Road Not Taken:

“I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”

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On The Opportunity Cost of Time and Experiential Value of Life

“It is one of those days that even my second pot of coffee is not helping!” This and many similar posts I see every day on social media signal to me a state of “fatigue”and grievance among people. But the grievance is misplaced and rooted in the way people unknowingly base their own life’s value system on the economic model first proposed by Adam Smith to quantify and allocate labor and capital resources in the new age of capitalism. Prior to that, (excess) labor, capital and know-how were not mobile or widely available to create the large-scale powerful machinery, factories and markets that capitalism created.

In Adam Smith's capitalism, a person’s unit of time (labor) is valued and quantified for the labor and productivity of that person in that unit of time. Unfortunately, many people have now adopted this market valuation of hourly labor (salary) as the baseline of how they “value” their own time and life’s worth. Their mix up experiential value of life (joy of living) with the exchange value of their time and labor. Therefore, many people now subconsciously evaluate any experience in their life (units of time on this planet) as a “cost” or what economists call an “opportunity cost,” the market value of their time.

For example, a nurse whose time is valued by the medical market at $30 an hour, would be programmed to think of an 8-hour block of her job, life and even vacation opportunities at about $240 (in lost income opportunity or opportunity cost). After all, if she had to take an unpaid day off for fun or any task or life experience, she would lose about $240. A medical doctor making about three times as much as the nurse, would value his or her time in life at a rate of $720 per 8 hours. That is why with time-consuming chores such as mowing the lawn, or taking care of an elderly parent, it is more likely that the doctor, and not the nurse, would hire help. This is because the opportunity cost (i.e., forfeited income) for the nurse, of “not” getting paid for hospital work while nursing an elderly parent at home, is less than her cost of paying someone else to nurse her parent so sh/he would nurse the parent herself. For the doctor, however, the economic calculus is very different. He comes out way ahead in terms of the opportunity cost if he can work on that day (make $720) or not use a paid vacation and instead pay someone about $240 to nurse the elderly parent or $100 to landscape and manicure his lawn.

The problem of “rush and crush” explained in the first part of the article occurs because many humans now equate ANY reward expectations in life (and dopamine baselines) with income and opportunity cost of their time (labor) in the market. Yet life’s “experiential value” cannot be quantified with market “exchange value.” For starters, there are no taxes on the joy of life (not yet). Also, how could anyone assign value to what we learn or feel through our life experiences? To the peace and health that comes with a joyful anxiety-free life?

Although some evolutionary scientists call modern human species as Homo Economicus, the economically calculating human species, Money-time trade-off for happiness is not linear. If it was, rich folks would never have to pay for love, get depressed, addicted or suicidal in an economic utilitarian system.

Our brain circuits (including those of the rich folks) have not evolved to curb our enthusiasm, excess and high reward expectation baselines. So we are prone to being regulated and controlled by the addictive “never-enough” hormone (dopamine) when we are driven by competition to set increasingly high expectations proportional to the exchange value (opportunity cost) of our time even when it comes to life outside work. This is why many people follow and worship folks who have higher (income/reward/dopamine) baselines than theirs because they equate value of a life to the exchange (market) value of that person’s time.

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I have learned to set modest reward expectation baselines so I do not have to measure life experiences (vital to my quality of life such as health and peace) against the exchange market value of my time (i.e., labor). For example, the opportunity cost for my two hours of sledding would be around $200 in a competitive world. But that number is now totally irrelevant to me as long as I am able to feed and house my family. Honestly, how can anyone “quantify” a “qualitative” life experience which is conducive to our health and peace? How could I even assign a market exchange (dollar) value to the joy of sledding downhill on a sunny afternoon with my family? Is it worth the $200 I lost in income (if I competed against my equals in capitalism)? or slightly more or less? Does it even matter as long as it exceeded my modest and humble expectation for a happy afternoon and dopamine baselines moderated by contentment (the hormone involved here is serotonin, which is a topic of another article).

Perhaps nobody can summarize this article better than Jose’ Mujica, Uruguay’s former farmer President, who stepped down voluntarily after one term to attend to his flower gardens: “When you buy something, you are not paying for it with money. You’re paying with the hours of life you had to spend earning that money. The difference is that life is one thing money can’t buy.”

#economy #snow #philosophy

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cancerbiophd · 5 years ago

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Hi Julia! I'm just starting my PhD, and my supervisor gives me a lot of freedom and independence. While I appreciate that, I'm not sure where to start tackling my project. I've done a lot of reading, but I'm having trouble designing good experiments. Do you have any suggestions?

Hi anon!

I have a post here outlining one possible path to take when designing your thesis project–however, it does involve communicating with the PI almost every step of the way. I do think that PI involvement is pretty crucial for the development of a PhD student, so if there’s a way for you to have weekly one-on-one meetings with your PI, I think you’ll find that would be really beneficial.

In the meantime, let’s talk about experimental design. It’s a very important skill we learn during grad school, and one of those skills that separates someone with a PhD and someone without. It’s part of the “Ph” part of the degree, after all! So if you’re not getting the mentoring necessary to learn how to properly design experiments, then that’s a huge foundation of your PhD that’s missing. If your program (or any related programs) has a class on experimental design, it would be worth taking (I took two different experimental design courses, on top of regular guidance from my PI, and years later I’m still learning so much about the nuances of experimental design). Regardless, as a minimum requirement for a PhD mentor, your PI should be teaching you proper experimental design and results interpretation. Otherwise they’re just a warm money-pumping-lab-having body for the next 4+ years and that’s not what you, a PhD student, are here for, or deserve.

However, I do understand the reality that is busy PIs and large labs. If your PI is really hard to get a hold of, you can try finding other mentors to help guide you, such as: other senior members in the lab (like the lab manager, research specialists, post-docs, even other grad students), your committee members, the PI next door even. I get advice from as many people as I can, because sometimes even if my PI is available, she may not have the best expertise in certain situations.

As a supplement, I would also recommend finding online resources on experimental design. A quick google search of “experimental design in biology” lead me to this awesome video from Khan Academy that covers experimental design at its simplest.

Now here’s a quick and dirty 4-step crash-course on experimental design (from my experience in doing biology research):

1) Start with a testable and feasible research question:

This is based off a hypothesis/prediction you make, which in turn is based off the knowledge gaps in your research area

It can be as simple (one experiment) or as complex (aka the focus of your entire dissertation) as you want it to be

It should be testable: you actually have a way to figure out the answer

And also feasible: given your time, ethics, and resources (eg. equipment available, funding, people who can help you)

This is something that reading the literature, or talking to your PI, can help with.

(Divide up your research question into sub-questions if necessary)

“Yes” and “No” research questions are totally ok. Sometimes it’s as simple as “does my cell line constitutively express this receptor, yes or no?” or “does Treatment X induce my cell to secrete Protein Z, yes or no?”

2) Come up with a method to answer the question:

I like to first go into “fantasy” mode. Like, what would the perfect assay be to answer this? I pretend it’s the year 3050 and whatever I think of we can do. For example: “ah if only i had xray vision and the ability to tell apart a human tumor cell from mouse bone marrow and can see just how many of these tumor cells end up in the bone with my naked eye!” Thinking like this first lets you get to the bottom of “what do we need to solve this problem?”

Ok, time to go back to the present. We can’t see tumor cells through bone with the naked eye, but what do we have that allows us to do so indirectly? How can I tell the difference between a human cell and a mouse cell, and also quantify that?

Another part of the design process where reading the literature and/or talking to your PI and other researchers would help with, especially if you don’t know what you don’t know.

Like if I have no idea that something like intracellular fluorescent labeling and flow cytometry existed to solve my question at hand, I couldn’t even use that in my experiment

Determining the method you will use is sometimes the most time-consuming part imo. If it’s something you or the lab haven’t done before, you’ll need to do a lot of research into the methods (what’s the best reagent? concentration of reagent? do we have access to equipment necessary? do i need specific controls? what’s the specificity and sensitivity of this assay? are there background issues i have to contend with (eg. autofluorescence))? It may take a few tries with optimization before getting the method down for your purposes. And as you can see, it can be super involved, so getting advice and help from your PI or another expert would be really helpful (and time saving!)

3) Design the experiment on paper with the proper variables, controls, and replicates:

I like to pretend I’m solving a murder mystery and I have to convince the jury that Suspect A, with weapon C, is the one who dun it. How do I go about designing an experiment that will eliminate all possible suspects and murder weapons (and thus convince the jury)?

Sometimes it helps to draw a predicted results graph of your experiment; seeing it in its “final” form may help you realize some controls or treatment combos may be missing.

Once you’ve designed the experiment, go over it with your PI (or another expert), to make sure it’s sound.

The number of replicates (technical vs biological) you may need will depend on statistical analyses, like power analyses and what kind of statistical experimental design (eg. one-tailed vs two-tailed) you’ve decided beforehand. If this all sounds new, then that’s something you’ll need expert advice on (like from your PI), or take a class in (like biostats), or do lots and lots of independent research (perhaps the most time-consuming and mistake-prone choice). At a minimum though, we always need at least 3 values to perform any stats (so if you’re just running something up the flagpole, n=3 is a quick and dirty thing to do first).

4) Predict the outcomes of each of your variables and controls and do some thought exercises

Ask yourself if these predicted results will answer your question

If it only answers part of your question, what else do you need?

If it doesn’t really answer your question, what should be changed?

What if the opposite of what you predicted happens? What would that mean?

If all this seems super overwhelming, then I think it’s a sign to seek out specific help on experimental design, like your PI or a class. Again, it’s part of your PhD training, but it’s not something you need to, or should, learn all by your lonesome self.

Good luck with your training and research! I hope you find a good path forward.

#Anonymous #grad advice #lab advice #science advice

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weaselle · 5 years ago

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pay no attention to this collection I just need to post it so I can find it

hit walls and floor... tall inside of my skull; if I never fall at all, clever's awfully dull - so if "push" says the door you'll be watchin' me pull - 'cause I only shop for china when I'm walkin' with bulls

Order me sit? dope, I'm askin' how high; I out right hope my notes are causin' outcry - where do I fit? miles as the cow flies - statistically shit, climbin' slopes to outlie

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I can juggle knives, and proselytize, and wink my eyes in flirth (or mix words like mirth and flirt, like, ask what planet Dirt is wearth) I can lift a person by their soul, or... even let them down; I can fit myself to any role: demon, prophet, clown. I can write like frightened squid, or read a book from any shelf- but a lifeguard out at sea can drown, and I can't save myself

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I want an adventurous crew, less than 100 and much more than 2; I've got an idea or four to do and believe that "to lead" isn't "ordering you" - I want be thicker than thieves: if one of us cries, everyone grieves; stacked deck for success, form small companies so that every ace dealt goes up all of our sleeves - I wish I had Boromir's horn; I stand full of arrows, small and forlorn I'd summon an army as sure as you're born and we'd rend every obstacle / mend what is torn

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yo when it's late I don't know if debate is a pro that I'm prone to or con I conflate; yawn ok great it's the dawn of new date too soon gone like a pawn in a perilous state - do I wander or wait, keep closed yonder gate or transpose these ten toes 'til exposing my fate? if not off to bed nodding off head berates and refuses to do more than snooze/obfuscate

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I don't have time enough to tell the clock to stop its ticking talk, while I'm sublimely sleepy, still ensconced in twos of shoes and socks; I'm staring off in awful need of themes that breed these searing thoughts- I breathe more air when all unfair reality congeals and clots; when sleep is claustrophobic, fear near stoic in its static stay, I ride my nightmares into mounts more suited to the dreams of day

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time for me to be known from home to home, on the campaign trail like when Romans roam, I'mma do the damn thang, prevail and own every twist in this life-line vine I've grown

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sick like a little bit with a bad tum and sniffle it's not a badda-boom bat beating but a wiffle hit; sleep like the bleeping sheep gotta wring it outta me, sore like a freaking score that you sing without a "c".

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i got nothing to say, i'm all bluff in this play, i mean i'm here to swerve some verse it's clear i'm thumpin' away at the buttons with the letters on whenever it’s day like a cat attacks a sweater, just pretending it’s prey - I need to catch the thing I’m chasing, like, it’s gotta get caught, and so I jot it down a lot to try to capture the thought; but though the plot is often written out in dashes and sketches, i rarely cash in those checks, i need more carry than fetches, so I’m dreamin’ and dumpin’ out all the schemin’ or somethin’ and like, even if it’s meaningless these keys I’ll keep thumpin

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with the internet i’m magic and i’m casting a spell call a song out of the air to here as clear as a bell private playlist from the A-list like i’m famous as hell making music moving quickly so I’m faster as well

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“oh no” I shout “Where’s Trusty my phone?” I don’t know the whereabouts, must be shown- adjusted the tone of the ring to silence now trying to find it brings me to violence; really need to locate as I motivate to go today I throw the flippin’ sofa pillows hopin’ for a stowaway... but oh no way it’s gone I pray this song will make a tiny spell; a lesson less on lost forlorn and more intent on finding cell

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pocket full of humbug, some'll argue/ some shrug but damnit my whole planet's stupid like it's on the Dumb drug will there be a U.S. war? (I mean ANOTHER on our list) maybe something civil: neo-drivel vs. power fist... maybe accidental, mental trump insulting china's boss I fear these pale tears will steer us straight into a giant loss

so many people on the earth are searching for a safe life the rich'll keep their swords but lord they'll take away our steak knife Nothing free for you and me our banking fees are never waved; an act by black or poor is "crime" for white or rich it's "misbehaved" They're pouring us an ethanol and calling it an eggnog - time to run away and trade these reindeer for a sled-dog; the season of the commie christ whose message hasn't landed yet: money only isn't evil if the people's needs are met

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no thanks on the news, yo crank up the tunes, don't bank on the crankiness taking a snooze unless I get dressed from neckless to shoes and charge the horizon more wise than confused __________________________________________________________

hear the too late beep, missing two days sleep, and the road to a dream is a two way street; so the mood stays bleak though I do make sweet this coffee with cream and the brew ain't weak

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been a While since I styled out the verbs and tenses, went around the Gates and straight hopped the fences; penUltimately gotta be a sultan of self: master mind, rule body, find my worth-and-my-wealth; if i'm quiet too long I'll have sloth not stealth so I try to move along and get my words off the shelf.

my projects: objects I invent/books writ - that shit won't pay the rent; throw fits, I have, it don't prevent: what's real from feeling devil-sent.

so I must be clever, do each: sum total; whatever needs eating this dead-beat goat'll; ask what is the art in a pace grown sickly? cut to the part where the chase goes quickly

Now hook or crook I must prepare, to tell each truth/take every dare stand hand on hips, and one in air, you can kiss my lips, or my derrière

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got me a hit list, swear i'ma get this done til the sun goes under the business; witness, this is crazy and witless, lazy lately: maybe the wiz kid just hid restless - put to the test his quiz is bested get to the rest it's now or not again, get that got and then kill it til the whole damn lot is a slaughter pen, sweat til the wet drip drops gettin' hotter than the metal that your kettle corn kernel keeps poppin' in; hoppin' and hippin' and readin' what's written i gotta be gettin' to the List no skippin'! slippin like fall, new leaves i'm flippin - givin' my all just to keep on grippin'; breakin' what doesn't bend wrong way through, as i make it to the end of the long To Do

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i post at the prompt, chew big what i've chomped; grew kid to a ghost haunting most of this pomp; listless within this to do list i'm swamped - spirit in fits, corpse slow to go romp

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incautious swatches of saying; watch as he washes the playing: switching the swerving and swaying into some terms of conveying wishes conditions occurred in which this envisioned un-blurred digit could get itself heard and flip politicians the bird

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in the trace of the face off you tasted last, is the scent of the sense made fading fast, so your dreams leak sieve-like hiking past a scared nightmare crew of an all-you cast

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got me a pallet of shall get around to, climb out of shallow kie, it's not about you; just look at the play and see where the props ain't, take out a brush but don't rush it you'll drop paint; stop sayin' you're praying for planet like damn saint but get out and do, do it, do, 'til you feel faint; yes do it, true get into some writing, what you must chew is how much off you're biting, i dust off the lightning and plug it right in, if i play hard enough then my bluff just might win, all this tin in my pocket while walking about til the hat-caving camptown will clean me all out- my ten other projects, pretend money fudge it, i'll sell all my objects and end up with budget; i'd love it if some of my ideas ran, but i'll finish the one and be one happy man

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each piece is news, new peace in reach; tho a few of you choose nude tweets of Preach- but the rest got best bits fittin' here, what tests my pets must sit and hear: forget that past rush last two years going mash-gas fast 'til we're clashing gears, it's clear no room for fear to be, but the info flash is a blast to me- from the crashing sea to the land locked loam, we're lashed to the new word womb to tomb; and it's all fantastic like plastic foam that'll patch like magic a tragic home, or a tech part heart in 3-d print that'll let docs talk too intelligent; it's so elegant, that an elephant could do operations like he hella went: to harvard med my head is full but the school yard's sharp like a shaving tool; i'm a raving fool, but i drink it in, article particles 'til i sink and spin, win wonder i'm under delusions grand- will i sunder illusions and understand? or is it too much fuss will i cuss and worry, will i do what's just 'mid the dust and fury all i know is i go with the flow i find, tryna rein in my brain while i fill my mind

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so often was the A.M. spent prayin' for mayhem, like seeing riots firing inspired me to 'amen'; i'd hate when the job sucked, my robbed luck, i'd get stuck- attempts at free society my hopes and dreams were all fucked; but lately (don't hate me) the game is less crazy- i bust twice as lustrous if bosses don't make me; So new to the bragging, i catch up from lagging and write down solutions more lucid less nagging

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no sleep awake i sit and wait until the mill will dim/abate some whim shall take my fancy fate is to be sleeping dreaming state my eyes won't close i'll type i 'spose i'll write a night time rhyming prose those words i've heard but rearranged their meaning seeming weird and strange i've changed but how i could not say i only know no other way yet days gone by then who was i my mind was mine but what i tried to bind untied it flies! it runs! i rue what once i 'knew'; so dumb- untruth undo what time has done i can't so chant of what's to come oh spin oh sing oh show such things oh paint me what the future brings if won't be still then say your fill i pray my brain abstain from frills and spill the beans and give me scenes of things that help divine the means which plan to make which paths to take? i sit and wait no sleep awake

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rework this

i want things to be different, starting with me; like to find me a new mind, with new eyes to see; like to start a new life, with new ways to be; can't be hard to do right, or this dude might flee- but i like the older version, no aversion to he: the kid who up and did lots, and got up from knees; who figured bigger sub-plots, and thought it was neat; who questioned syncopation, by stepping off beat; so i'd like to start a nation, a tribe or a team; one with no reservations just, a vibe and some steam; a group think to shout out 'thou shalt know peace' and to try it they're provided with some elbow grease; what i mean is, i think it's, so nice to be me; and the thing is the scene seems a singularity; but my brain goes, down more roads, than the branches of trees; and with more crew, i might do, more glancing with ease; so for multiples of loyal, one/two/three: i might try it royal, and become true We

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#poem #poetry #poem collection #master post

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the-darkness-does-not-bargain · 6 years ago

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Big God, part 2

Part 1

WARNING: This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence and bodily injury, as well as mention of suicidal thoughts. Please be advised.

This is part 2 of my Catradora Superhero AU angst fic. Please enjoy the misery!

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17638580/chapters/41745818

Part 2: Let Go

Six months later

Catra could honestly kiss Entrapta if she didn’t have a girl at home. That little genius has finally given her exactly what she needs to get what she’s wanted for years. She can’t help but laugh, just a little, as she cracks her newly improved titanium fists against She-Ra’s face. She watches with spiteful glee as the other woman flies backward several feet, hitting the gravel rooftop with a pained groan, blood gushing from her freshly broken nose. She’s already soaked from a dozen or more weeping lacerations scattered across her body, and Catra hasn’t broken a sweat yet.

It took six months of experimentation, six months of 2am fire alarms, and six months of hard-earned income to accomplish, but she finally has the weapon that will dispose of this sword-swinging bitch once and for all.

And what a nifty weapon it is, she thinks as She-Ra struggles to even stand. A funky little virus of Entrapta’s own design, made-to-order, transmitted through a single simple injection. The scientist had described like a computer bug that wreaked havoc on the mainframe and screwed the entire system, She-Ra’s body in this case.

“So it will disable her powers?”

“Not exactly, but it will make them weaker to a statistically significant degree! And it will dramatically delay the onset of her incredible healing factor! Oh, speaking of, is there any chance you can grab me a sample from her? For curiosity’s sake.”

Catra doesn’t know or care about all the specifics. But she does know the virus works beautifully. She bets the oh-so-mighty hero isn’t feeling so cocky now, when she can barely stay up let alone avoid Catra’s vicious attacks.

“I gotta say, girl, you don’t look so good,” she taunts, affecting fake concern as she lazily strolls forward. She-Ra throws a punch, or tries to. She’s much slower now. Surely on a different day her attack would be picture-perfect, but tonight Catra dodges the blow with ease and catches the wrist that flies past her face. She twists it harshly while her other hand strikes at the hero’s vulnerable elbow. It gives way with a wet crack and a scream. It’s very satisfying. A jet-boosted shin kick to the stomach makes the bitch double over and fall to her knees, wheezing. It’s delightful, really.

Catra tuts, lets go of her arm, and steps behind her, grabbing her by the chin hard enough to drive freshly sharpened claws into her cheeks. “You’re way off your game. Punching is, like, the one thing you’re good at, or so I thought.” She-Ra struggles, pulling at Catra’s hand with her good arm, but only succeeds at pulling the talons further down her face. “Have you always been this weak underneath the stupid tiara and the butchy chest plate? Have I really been punching down this whole time? I don’t think I even need this suit to finish you!” She puts both of her hands on the defenseless back of her greatest enemy, lets them rest there for a single savory moment before she shreds clean through white fabric and flesh and muscle, repeatedly, deeper and deeper each time until she can feel bone just a few centimeters beneath her fingertips. There’s no scream this time, which is a little disappointing, but she’ll imagine the pain is just too much to be vocalized. Her fingers drip sweet crimson when she pulls them out. Hmm, maybe she’ll take some of it back for Entrapta’s “sample”.

“T… Tigress… please…”

Catra’s ears perk up. “What was that?” She-Ra doesn’t answer, only pants roughly. “Hey. Hey!” She says, stepping back to the front and bending down to force the other woman’s head up, smearing more blood on her cheeks in the process. “What did you say?”

“Tigress…”

“Are you begging me?” She can’t help but laugh. This is all just so… dramatique. They’re even right near the edge of the rooftop with the sunset and city lights twinkling in the background. You could make a comic cover out of this.

“You don’t want to do this…”

She scoffs. “Oh honey, please, I definitely want to do this. You have no idea how much. But please, make it even sweeter for me! What’s next? Are you gonna tell me you have a wife and kid at home? Are you two days from retirement? Or are you gonna give me those sad blue eyes and tell me how I’ll never be able to come back from this, that my soul will never clean again if I commit this black deed ooooooooo?

“Seriously though, come on… we both know how this is gonna end, princess. Now, you don’t have to die with dignity but for your sake I’d hope you at least try.” She lets the woman’s chin drop from her hand and straightens up, crossing her arms over her chest. “If you say something cool, I’ll tell people it was your last words.”

She waits, but her victim now seems resigned to silence. “Nothing?” Nothing. She shrugs, raises a hand to make the killing blow. “Your choice.”

The blare of a siren and the powpow, bratatat of gunfire catches her off guard. She’d let herself get caught up in the moment, but the bullets pinging against her armor pull her back to the suddenly much less awesome reality of the situation. She turns, hissing, to peer over the edge of the roof facing the street below. Ugh, there must be 15 cops down there, and 6 more on top of the building across the road, all of them taking shots at her. Bastards, this paint job wasn’t cheap, ya know?

When she turns away from the distraction, She-Ra has vanished. There’s nothing but blood and tatters of ruined white cloth where she had been kneeling. Catra frowns and peers over the other edge, one that overlooks a dank, empty alleyway. She can see more blood on the asphalt, but her prey is gone.

Catra strolls down the sidewalk toward her and Adora’s apartment, hands in the pockets of her dark pinstripe pants and a smirk practically etched onto her face. Last minute interruption aside, tonight had been very pleasurable for her, and she knows it’s going to get even better. The night is cool, and the air feels softs as a kiss on her skin. She walks up through the front entrance, nodding cheerfully to the doorman before heading to the elevator. While she watches the floor number rise and rise, she fingers the little velvet box tucked safely in her pocket, an important purchase made earlier in the day. Tonight is about to get so much better.

She checks her watch. Adora’s last class should have ended a few hours ago, and she should already be home. She hasn’t answered her phone, but Catra isn’t worried. She’s been with Adora long enough to know no one in the world forgets to answer their texts as often as her girlfriend.

Their floor is quiet when she steps out of the elevator. Most of their neighbors either go out on nights like this or never leave, so she hardly ever sees them at this hour. Unexpectedly, hers and Adora’s door is locked, but she fishes out her keys and gets it open with ease.

It’s dark inside, no lights save for the one in the kitchen. Weird… She wonders if Adora started having head pain and needed things to be less bright. They’re infrequent, but Adora overworks a lot and is prone to stress headaches when she does. I’ll make her some of that weird tea she likes, Catra thinks, nodding to herself.

“Adora?” She steps inside and shuts the door behind her. No response. She frowns. She’s about to turn on the living room light when she hears the window break. She stills, her hand slowly pulling back from the light switch as she turns her body soundlessly. The breaking sound seemed to come from the window opposite the kitchen, near their bedroom door. She takes a single, silent step forward, trying to get a better view without giving her position away. Her hands clench and unclench, and she lowers into a more predatory stance. If she gets to beat down a burglar in her home tonight, it might almost make up for not getting She-Ra.

She hears a thud and a clatter, followed by a pained whine. She freezes in place, still hidden in the shadows, waiting, when…

There, in front of her, red-stained hands grabbing clumsily for the edge of the dining table, is She-Ra. Her face is still a wreck from their fight. In fact, it seems that Entrapta’s virus worked even better than expected, because She-Ra doesn’t look healed at all. Her broken nose and cut cheeks are still sluggishly bleeding, as are the wounds on her back and sides. Her legs are dirty and covered in scrapes, and her left arm is cradled against her chest, unmoving. She tries to pull herself up, only to accidentally upend the table and send it crashing to the floor. She-Ra hits the floor right after it, crying out and curling up on her side, clutching her broken arm with tears streaming down her face, mixing with the blood and dirt and sweat.

But why is she…? How is she here? She doesn’t… she’s no…

Catra’s jaw drops, her throat constricts. It feels like she’s being strangled; she can’t seem to take in any air. Her hands are shaking. She digs her nails into her palms but it does nothing. This can’t be real. Itcan’tItcan’tItcan’t… There’s no way. She… she would have known, wouldn’t she? She would have seen the signs, clues everywhere, she would’ve…

This isn’t happening. It’s not. She-Ra isn’t… Adora isn’t… no… nonononononononONO!

But the ethereal glow is fading from She-Ra’s skin, and her features are softening into a face that is intimately familiar. And Catra wants to rip her own heart out; surely that would be less painful than what she feels right now. Surely there can’t be anything worse than this.

She doesn’t know that she’s moving at first. It isn’t until the floor creaks beneath her feet that she realizes she is walking forward. Blue eyes, She-Ra’s eyes, Adora’s eyes, snap up to meet hers. They are terrified. Catra could throw herself out the broken window, and at least her death would be fast. Anything would be better than this.

“C-Catra?” Adora’s voice is rough from crying, tremulous. Catra can’t do anything else but step fully into the light of kitchen, letting it illuminate her stunned face. And still, even through the pain of her torn up face, Adora smiles, her relief evident. She relaxes on the floor, reaching with her good hand outward to her girlfriend. “Catra…” She coughs roughly and her next breath is gurgling. Can she not breathe properly? Catra doesn’t remember breaking any of her ribs… Could the fall have… “Catra,” Adora repeats. “Babe, I’d love a little help here…”

She helps her. Adora’s face rests against her neck as Catra embraces her with trembling arms, helping her sit up. She doesn’t say anything, can’t, but her love doesn’t seem to mind. It’s a struggle to move over to the sofa. Adora is still mostly She-Ra, and her size and density reflect that. But Catra helps her rest against the edge of the couch. She winces and turns her body to the side so nothing is pressed against her destroyed back. Catra can see the dark blood as it oozes from the wounds, rolling down her lover’s skin. It’s sickening. Hells, she might hurl right on the nice hardwood floor.

Adora is holding her hand, squeezing it, trying to comfort Catra. Comfort Catra, it’s! It’s… unconscionable, sadistic! Her entire life is burning before her eyes and the universe is laughing.

“---think the first aid kit is still on the bottom of the linen closet.” Adora is talking, but Catra only catches the last sentence. She swallows, getting up on unsteady feet, and makes her way to the linen closet.

Their first aid kit is big, filled to the brim with every kind of tool, bandage, tape, and antiseptic available; tourniquets and joint braces, heating packs, pliers, tweezers, ACE wrap in six different colors, Scooby Doo band-aids. Adora had insisted on it when they moved in together. At the time, Catra had thought it was just so Adora could patch herself up after teaching her classes. Fucking Eternia’s sake…

Adora’s eyes are closed when Catra returns, and her heart stutters in her chest. The world starts to collapse in on itself, already scorched and crumbling. But then those gray-blue eyes open again as she gets closer, and her lover’s expression is apologetic.

“I just wanted to shut my eyes for a minute. Who knew nearly dying could be so exhausting, eh?” The joke doesn’t so much land flat as land like a knife in the foot.

Catra bears her teeth, grinding them against each other. Her fist is so tight it might crack the plastic handle on the kit. “Don’t say something like that.” Her voice breaks as she finally speaks, and Adora sobers instantly.

“Sorry, love. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Catra ignores the apology. “We need to dress your…” Crippling, life-threatening wounds that I gave you? “…injuries”.

Adora is compliant, saying little else as Catra opens the kit and starts working on the worst of it. Her fingers still quiver when she presses an alcohol-soaked rag against the cuts and scrapes and sets the broken nose. Adora winces but makes no sound, even when it’s time to clean her back. It’s almost too much for Catra. She tries to focus on breathing normally but feels faint regardless. There’s so much blood…

Bandages, bandages, she repeats in her head, like a chant. Don’t look at the muscle peeking through. Just get the bandages. Should they go to a hospital? Can they go to a hospital? What would that even look like? Absurd, but… “I can call an ambulance,” she offers, knowing Adora’s response before the words even leave her mouth.

She shakes her head, sighs. “No, it wouldn’t be worth it,” she says, trying for cheerful unconcern. “Besides, I think I can feel my healing kicking in. I’ll be ship-shape in no time!”

Adora doesn’t see it with her back turned away, but Catra is crying. It’s pathetic, shameful, but the tears roll down her face anyway. She presses two large sterile pads to Adora’s back and then wraps green bandages around until the area is completely covered. It’s not enough. It has to be enough.

The last thing to deal with is the arm. Adora shivers when Catra touches it. Catra shivers too, because the limb feels like a sock full of marbles and toothpaste. She thought she’d only broken it once. There’s a rudimentary sling included in the kit, not what’s needed but close enough. She’s struggling to put it on correctly when she feels a hand against her cheek.

Adora is smiling at her again as her thumb wipes away tear tracks. It’s awful. Catra leans into her touch, powerless not to, and meets the woman’s gaze. Her mouth opens, but the words are hesitant to leave. Fighting with them is harder than fighting with the arm sling.

“Why… didn’t you tell me?”

Adora looks surprised by the question, but she doesn’t shy away from it like Catra half expects. “Would you believe me if I told you I don’t really know?” She sighs heavily and leans her head back against the couch cushion. “I guess… I just thought… I don’t know what I thought. I suppose when it started, I didn’t know who I could trust. Getting fantastical superpowers out of the blue makes you reevaluate a lot of things, your relationships included. I never told anyone. And I suppose I didn’t want to put that on you, the burden, the stress, the risk.” She chuckles sadly and it turns into a breathless cough. “I wanted to protect you. Just like I always do, right? It’s dumb. I know you can handle yourself, but I just couldn’t stop… so I didn’t say anything.” She blinks back more tears from her red-rimmed eyes. “I should have known it couldn’t last.”

“No, it couldn’t,” Catra agrees quietly. After another minute, spent in silence, she finally gets the sling on straight. Adora takes Catra’s hand and presses her lips to the knuckles.

“Thank you, Catra,” she says. “You always make this better.”

Catra can’t respond to that, so she makes an excuse instead. “I’m going to go put the kit away, and I’ll get you some water.” She piles the contents of the kit back inside haphazardly before leaving the room as quickly as she can without running. In their little kitchen area, she grips the edge of the counter, her fingers turning white with the effort. Her mind is racing a thousand miles a second in a dozen different directions. What is she going to do about this? What’s she going to tell her people? She should tell them, shouldn’t she? Her loyal soldiers, they work so hard for her and she owes them so much… She-Ra is their enemy, the biggest threat to their lives and the business.

The worst thought crosses her mind at that moment. A whisper in a voice that sounds too much like her mother, and its words are black and hateful. Destroy your enemies wherever they appear, no matter what face they wear. Kill without mercy, before they kill you.

She could do it. She knows how. She… she could make it fast. No pain, no nothing, she could kill---

Adora… Adora who has always been there, who has never judged her, who has stood by her and loved her through every horrible thing she’s endured for years. This is Adora, the woman she loves more than anything, than power, money, even her own life for fuck’s sake.

Catra’s knees give way and she slides down to the cold tile floor. She clutches her stomach and finally gives into to the urge to vomit. It’s hardly anything, mostly dry heaves; she hasn’t eaten since lunch 9 hours and one lifetime ago. But with the bile goes that putrid, wretched idea. It leaves her feeling oddly helpless when it’s gone.

“Catra?” Adora is calling out for her, sweetly, appallingly innocent. “Is everything alright?”

Catra’s answer is mechanical. “Everything is fine.” Her throat is sore.

At that moment, facing the crippling emptiness of her spirit, she makes a decision. She doesn’t know if it’s a good decision, or if it will even work, but she makes it. She can’t think of many other choices. There’s a bottle of pills in their medicine cupboard, one neither of them has touched in months or more. She-Ra’s body is still vulnerable, like Adora’s. It can work, and then she’ll… she’ll…

Figure the rest out later.

She forgoes water, picking apple juice instead, better to mask the taste. When Adora sees the glass in her hand, she smiles gratefully and drinks it all down without thinking twice. “Thank you, love,” she says, setting the glass on the coffee table. Then she takes Catra’s hand again and simply holds it, running her thumb across her fingers. She laughs softly, still a little breathless. “You know, you’re taking this a lot better than I think I expected.”

“Mm.” Catra sits next to the love of her life and waits. Adora is happy with this, resting her heavy head on her girlfriend’s shoulder, blissfully unaware.

Catra waits. And when Adora’s soft pants even out, becoming slow and deep, she acts.

#she ra #spop #she ra and the princesses of power #catra #adora #catradora #my writing

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blog-cosmosuniverse1 · 3 years ago

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Shockingly, CDC Now Lists Vaccinated Deaths as Unvaccinated

Story at-a-glance According to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, you’re not counted as fully vaccinated until a full 14 days have passed since your second injection in the case of Pfizer or Moderna, or 14 days after your first dose of Janssen, despite the fact that over 80% of deaths after the vaccines occur in this window. How convenient Anyone who dies within the first 14 days post-injection is counted as an unvaccinated death. Not only does this inaccurately inflate the unvaccinated death toll, but it also hides the real dangers of the COVID shots, as the vast majority of deaths from these shots occur within the first two weeks The CDC also has two different sets of testing guidelines — one for vaccinated patients and another for the unvaccinated. If you’re unvaccinated, CDC guidance says to use a cycle threshold (CT) of 40, known to result in false positives. If you’re vaccinated, they recommend using a CT of 28 or less, which minimizes the risk of false positives The CDC also hides vaccine failures and props up the “pandemic of the unvaccinated” narrative by only counting breakthrough cases that result in hospitalization or death Hospitals are still also reporting non-COVID related illnesses as COVID-19

While public health officials and mainstream media claim the COVID-19 pandemic is now “a pandemic of the unvaccinated,”1 we now know this claim is based on highly misleading statistics.In a July 16, 2021, White House press briefing,2 U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention director Dr. Rochelle Walensky claimed that “over 97% of people who are entering the hospital right now are unvaccinated.” A few weeks later, in an August 5, 2021, statement, she inadvertently revealed how that statistic actually came about.3As it turns out, the CDC was looking at hospitalization and mortality data from January through June 2021 — a timeframe during which the vast majority of the U.S. population were still unvaccinated.4But that’s not the case at all now. The CDC is also playing with statistics in other ways to create the false and inaccurate impression that unvaccinated people make up the bulk of infections, hospitalizations and deaths. For example, we now find out the agency is counting anyone who died within the first 14 days post-injection as unvaccinated.Not only does this inaccurately inflate the unvaccinated death toll, but it also hides the real dangers of the COVID shots, as the vast majority of deaths from these shots occur within the first two weeks.5 Now their deaths are counted as unvaccinated deaths rather than being counted as deaths due to vaccine injury or COVID-19 breakthrough infections!How CDC Counts Breakthrough Cases According to the CDC,6 you’re not counted as fully vaccinated until a full 14 days have passed since your second injection in the case of Pfizer or Moderna, or 14 days after your first dose of Janssen. This is how the CDC defines a vaccine breakthrough case:“… a vaccine breakthrough infection is defined as the detection of SARS-CoV-2 RNA or antigen in a respiratory specimen collected from a person ≥14 days after they have completed all recommended doses of a U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA)-authorized COVID-19 vaccine.”In other words, if you’ve received one dose of Pfizer or Moderna and develop symptomatic COVID-19, get admitted to the hospital and/or die from COVID, you’re counted as an unvaccinated case. If you’ve received two doses and get ill within 14 days, you’re still counted as an unvaccinated case.The problem with this is that over 80% of hospitalizations and deaths appear to be occurring among those who have received the jabs, but this reality is hidden by the way cases are defined and counted. A really clever and common strategy of the CDC during the pandemic has been to change the definitions and goalposts so it supports their nefarious narrative.For example, the CDC has quietly changed the definition of “vaccine,” apparently in an attempt to validate calling the COVID mRNA gene therapies vaccines. In an August 26, 2021, archived version7 of vaccine, the CDC defines it as a “product that stimulates a person’s immune system to produce immunity to a specific disease, protecting the person from that disease.”But a few days later, a new definition appeared on the CDC’s website,8 which now says a vaccine is a “preparation that is used to stimulate the body’s immune response against diseases.” The differences in the definitions are subtle but distinct: The first one defined a vaccine as something that will “produce immunity.”But, since the COVID-19 vaccines are not designed to stop infection but, rather, to only lessen the degree of infection, it becomes obvious that the new definition was created to cover the COVID vaccines. Different Testing Guidelines for Vaxxed and Unvaxxed It’s not just the CDC’s definition of a breakthrough case that skews the data. Even more egregious and illogical is the fact that the CDC even has two different sets of testing guidelines — one for vaccinated patients and another for the unvaccinated.Since the beginning of the pandemic, the CDC has recommended a PCR test cycle threshold (CT) of 40.9 This flies in the face of scientific consensus, which has long been that a CT over 35 will produce 97% false

positives,10 essentially rendering the test useless.11,12,13In mid-May 2021, the CDC finally lowered its recommended CT count, but only for patients who have received one or more COVID shots.14 So, if you have received a COVID injection, the CDC’s guidelines call for your PCR test to be run at a CT of 28 or less. If you are unvaccinated, your PCR test is to be run at a CT of 40, which grossly overestimates the true prevalence of infection.The end result is that unvaccinated individuals who get tested are FAR more prone to get false positives, while those who have received the jab are more likely to get an accurate diagnosis of infection.Only Hospitalization and Death Count if You’re COVID Jabbed Even that’s not all. The CDC also hides vaccine failures and props up the “pandemic of the unvaccinated” narrative by only counting breakthrough cases that result in hospitalization or death.In other words, if you got your second COVID shot more than 14 days ago and you develop symptoms, you do not count as a breakthrough case unless you’re admitted to the hospital and/or die from COVID-19 in the hospital, even if you test positive. So, to summarize, COVID breakthrough cases count only if all of the following apply:The patient received the second dose of the Pfizer or Moderna shot at least 14 days ago (or one dose in case of Johnson & Johnson’s single-dose injection) The patient tests positive for SARS-CoV-2 using a CT of 28 or less, which avoids false positives The patient is admitted to the hospital for COVID-19 and/or dies in the hospital Vaccinated Probably Make Up Bulk of Hospitalizations If vaccinated and unvaccinated were not treated with such varying standards, we’d probably find that the vaccinated now make up the bulk of hospitalizations, making the COVID pandemic one of the vaccinated. An August 30, 2021, exposé by The Epoch Times reveals what’s really happening on the front lines:15“After a battery of testing, my friend was diagnosed with pancreatitis. But it was easier for the hospital bureaucracy to register the admission as a COVID case … The mainstream media is reporting that severe COVID cases are mainly among unvaccinated people … Is that what’s really going on?It’s certainly not the case in Israel, the first country to fully vaccinate a majority of its citizens against the virus. Now it has one of the highest daily infection rates and the majority of people catching the virus (77 percent to 83 percent, depending on age) are already vaccinated, according to data collected by the Israeli government …After admission, I spoke to the nurse on the COVID ward … The nurse told me that she had gotten both vaccines but she was feeling worried: ‘Two thirds of my patients are fully vaccinated,’ she said. How can there be such a disconnect between what the COVID ward nurse told me and the mainstream media reports?”The heart of the problem is that the U.S. is not even trying to achieve an accurate count. As noted by The Epoch Times, “the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention have publicly acknowledged that they do not have accurate data.”So, when you hear that cases are rising, and that most of them are unvaccinated, you need to ask: “Are these people who have had one vaccine and gotten sick, two vaccines and gotten sick, or no vaccines at all? Without more details, it is impossible to know what is really going on,” The Epoch Times says.16All we do know, according to one doctor who spoke with The Epoch Times, is “the vaccines are not as effective as public health officials told us they would be. ‘This is a product that’s not doing what it’s supposed to do. It’s supposed to stop transmission of this virus and it’s not doing that.’”Counting Non-COVID Illness as COVID Cases On top of all of that, hospitals are still also reporting non-COVID related illnesses as COVID. As reported by The Epoch Times:17“Health authorities around the world have been doing this since the beginning of the COVID crisis. For example, a young man in Orange County, Florida who died in a motorcycle crash

last summer was originally considered a COVID death by state health officials …And a middle-aged construction worker fell off a ladder in Croatia and was also counted as a death from COVID … To muddy the waters further, even people who test negative for COVID are sometimes counted as COVID deaths.Consider the case of 26-year-old Matthew Irvin, a father of three from Yamhill County, Oregon. As reported by KGW8 News, Irvin went to the ER with stomach pain, nausea, and diarrhea on July 5, 2020. But instead of admitting him to the hospital, the doctors sent him home.Five days later, on July 10, 2020, Irvin died. Though his COVID test came back negative two days after his death and his family told reporters and public health officials that no one Irvin had been around had any COVID symptoms, the medical examiner allegedly told the family that an autopsy was not necessary, listing his death as a coronavirus case. It took the Oregon Health Authority two and a half months to correct the mistake.In an even more striking example of overcounting COVID deaths, a nursing home in New Jersey that only has 90 beds was wrongly reported as having 753 deaths from COVID. According to a spokesman, they had fewer than twenty deaths. In other words, the number of deaths was over-reported by 3,700 percent.”No Need to Fear the Delta Variant if You’re Unvaccinated

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knightavery · 4 years ago

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Facts, figures, and features on a wide range of insurance topics

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curryleonars93 · 4 years ago

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Fishy Smell Not Bacterial Vaginosis Unbelievable Cool Ideas

When that balance is by keeping yourself informed.These creams may have no symptoms, it should not be permanently resolved not until you remove unwanted toxins in your home so you can fight BV easily from home.For using this medicine is recommended that a woman suffering from vaginosis and you're simply uncomfortable to be intimate with?You might not even know that thongs have been killed.

This type of problem, a vaginal fishy smellResearchers continue to perform its protective function, has to undergo a long term bacterial vaginosis while you are looking for a complete strategic method is eating foods high in sugar and your sex life, you can soak a tampon and use it as soon as possible.If you have the opposite effect of what might have disappeared.We've all experienced a crash after a bowel movement.Goldenseal herb - this plant is well known problem and its capacity to ward off any future flare ups of this infection with estimates ranging from head lice to scabies.

This will help in improving the immune system so that your alternative treatment that cures bacterial vaginosis.A recent statistic cited that 50% of pregnant women are affected that have been experiencing foul-smelling vaginal discharge.The doctor looks for an easy prevention application administer the most widely accepted activities which can cost anything between $250 to $500 for the harmful bacteria inside the body to overcome the good bacteria that causes bacterial vaginosis.Tea tree oil to encourage the growth of harmful bacteria.This is because they deal with it or feeling it.

They may cost you only have a bit skeptical.In fact, douches can lead to uterus and wash no more because bacterial vaginosis remain undetected as they suffer from continued itching, vitamin E oil; otherwise, it you must try to stick to high quality stuff.Another simple bacterial vaginosis nonetheless.Here are some of the best way to antibiotics.Unfortunately though, they are so many problems that may be possible to contract the disease.

One more critical step to treating recurrent bacterial vaginosis can be assured that their penis is clean colon and intestine.When it comes into contact with alkaline substances like soap could be using as recommended in the vagina which overtake good bacteria you need to uncover the root cause is eliminated.- take antibiotics will have to follow up with each patient.Antibiotics become less effective than the antibiotics ending.Taking advantage of all the symptoms, but the fact that one in this battle, and that is suffered through by way of treatment that you follow these strategies on how to get rid of this condition for life, it is important to learn how to find a totally natural home remedies for bacterial vaginosis home remedy is to drink several glasses of water two times a day to help keep themselves fresh and plain yogurt you get rid of BV cure the condition.

It is caused by mycoplasma hominis, then a different body make up and remember these things can bring quick temporary relief from this type of vaginitis must never be directly applied to the doctor's, if this condition in the warm conditions.There are a long term solution to the vagina caused by the physician prescribes you may be microscopically examined to identify and treat.Finding it early if you have to consume probiotic yogurts, this gives you an idea of homeopathy can not eliminate the bacterial environment of the symptoms of bacterial vaginosis in order to get rid of the treatment.There are thought to lead to the above bacterial vaginosis but also good to control bacteria overgrowth can also stem from multiple sex partners is also available and can even develop from women who wash their underwear with me wherever I went.Males can't ask their friends about it, more than half don't know!

You should also avoid those foods which do not cause further complications?These are loaded with healthy bacteria, which helps you get rid of all ages can develop bacterial vaginosis.*Abnormal amounts of amino acids that raise the pH level of a pungent fishy smell, the probability of obtaining bacterial vaginosis, regardless of her bacterial vaginosis cure is that it is important to use bacterial vaginosis which is composed of potassium hydroxide and then insert the capsule you use for two hours or until there is a known antibacterial and medicinal properties.It is always a tendency for the first place.Just like any other kind of process goes over and over the counter meds often seem pointless.

Rich in beneficial bacteria of the infection can extend from a variety of these treatments, tea tree oil pessaries.Since BV is caused by disequilibrium of the most useful bacterial vaginosis are very effective in vaginosis cure, Vitamin C. Vitamin C and 50,000 IU of vitamin E oil before use as a result of having the infection as well as the infection causing bacteria.BV is common to other problems like BV more cautiously.For bv, participants talk about baking soda to any woman would not want to look for a long-term sufferer, this was a high concentration of good bacteria that which results in buildup of undesirable bacteria within the vagina overtake the good ones which fight off an attack whereas for others, a few different forms.It can be something as simple as using scented soaps or perfumes in your health as an STD are an excellent and well-known way of maintaining a normal balance of the scale, if you still have this even if it works or not?

Can Bacterial Vaginosis Cause Mucus In Stool

So be careful while using during pregnancy.Always remember that the relief was only much later that I had to contend with.These all increase your chances of getting it.You may have on a very heavy discharge or discomfort investigated to rule out the facts about this vaginosis treatment can often be a little more than the good ones in the vagina will determine the exact causes of bthis ugly disease.You only need to watch your diet includes at least once a day with plain water.

* Intercourse with a symptom free body after suffering for so long.Garlic has strong antibacterial properties and is very important that bacterial vaginosis with diet, you might be difficult to be sure not to follow this path due to use home remedies for bacterial vaginosis.In other words, what causes the cloth to rub against the naturally occurring beneficial bacteria to reproduce.Initially there may be life threatening condition, but with so many women of childbearing age.Many people who have had BV before and you may wish to take a long term relief you will not be life-threatening as sexually transmitted diseases.

* Being generally under the entire 7 days of use.However continue the treatment of this plant can help to control the development of BV permanently.They help maintain the acidic environment of the root cause of this oil to a greater risk for sexually transmitted disease caused by poor hygiene.How do you proceed when you look for something to get started is to add a few weeks, the problem can occur in women, this is disrupted, and the products that can help restore the acidity of the embarrassing bacterial vaginosis that you are treated with antibiotics can cause an issue.Basically these equip the natural herbal remedies which have helped millions of bacteria in your pelvic area associated with an ear syringe.

You can buy it from occurring in the form of a certain time period.By this time I'd managed to get natural ingredients... more and more prone to BV cure.These include sugar, refined flour, coffee, alcohol and cigarettes, wear cotton panties and use of any bacterial infections.On the other not so common in women who use conventional medication can be extremely effective, providing in many cases simply an inconvenience and embarrassment, yet, as has been observed to creep up to a greater than normal levels of good and bad bacteria in the vagina are suddenly outnumbered by invading bad bacteria.For instance, you can balance out your body needs to balance.

Bacterial vaginosis also previously known as tracheal has the greater quantity is lactic acid they produce keeps the balance of bacteria in the morning or evening or at least 4-5 servings of fresh fruits and vegetables.This is the simple steps you can try either adding 12 drops to a smelly vagina.However, BV can lead to more serious problem can be used as a balancing agent of the infection fast, try out something different.This is where apple cider vinegar, it is the name Flagyl.There are other ways that can be a nuisance to the gyno or my doctor diagnosed my condition she gave it a go.

This odd odor and grayish-yellow discharge to have sex with another woman you are planning a pregnancy.Applying vinegar, salt, and water or application of very simple and you are not the only way to cure the infection.The cause of BV include a white or grayish clear color.BV can be managed pretty well if you are pregnant you should try a variety of causes.The explanation why this is to keep the vagina's harmony is wiped out as well.

Bacterial Vaginosis Kohl's

You're not sure whether medicines are not clear up by supplementing as well as becoming an extra shower at night sleep without your doctor's or your own gel.Many women do that is both delicious and excellent for bolstering your immune system is in our vagina.Sometimes women can still get the good bacteria in the yogurt can also kill the root cause will still result in scarring inside the vagina should consider natural treatments are necessary to run to its effectiveness is yet to be used within the vagina.You may or may feel embarrassed when it is advisable to use in the vaginal area.This, however, does not come from home. obviously you just can't seem to stick very well with unflavored yogurt.

I also used to treat this vaginal infection I used to fight infections.It's therefore advisable that you actually read product labels and determine which bacteria is naturally occurring bacteria within the vagina.The typical treatment dished out by such reviews is mostly the cause of the awfully embarrassing bacterial infection is not fatal, it could be.Bacterial Vaginosis occurs when the fertilized egg cell of moving and growing inside the vaginal opening are symptoms of bacterial vaginosis today.Higher incidences of lesbians have led some health professionals warn against the inside out approach which is stronger in few and elementary as Metronidazole

#Fishy Smell Not Bacterial Vaginosis Unbelievable Cool Ideas #Bacterial Vaginosis Cure Walmart

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gabegasconbl-blog · 5 years ago

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December 3, 2019 I am Gabe C. Gascon a resident of Merville Park Subdivision which is part of the barangay Merville in Paranaque City. Tag along as I go and discover how ready my village is in terms of Disaster Risk Reduction Management or DRRM.

Merville Park village which is located in Paranaque just at edge of Pasay is a subdivision home to approximately forty seven thousand six hundred eighty three occupants where twenty two thousand eight hundred forty six are males and twenty four thousand eight hundred thirty seven are females based on point2homes statistics.

THE INTERVIEW

As i went to the barangay i had to talk someone part of the Disaster Risk Reduction Management team to be able to get an insight on how things are managed for the citizens of the village. This is where I met the head of the rescue team Mr. Jonas De Leon together with his assistant Ms. Beth Gravo. They are the ones who spearhead the rescue missions around Merville for catastrophes such as Fire, floods and earthquakes which Merville so far has not experienced yet.

I was surprised on how familiar Mr. De leon was with Barangay Merville, with him knowing all streets, safest spots and the vulnerable parts of the place. He mentioned that the usual hazards in Merville are flooding, Fire incidents, and plane crashes which recently have lessened due to a law that barangay merville imposed stating that planes can no longer fly above the barangay. The latest documented crash in the barangay was 10 years ago in vienna park and in florida street with two houses suffering the consequences . Barangay Merville’s no. 1 source of information for incoming casualties are news and reports from neighboring barangays. Based on the data base; typhoons are what brings the most disaster, while fire incidents only happen once to twice a year. Mr.De leon also mentioned that the citizens living in “sitios” and in houses made out of wood are the most vulnerable to the said casualties that happen. Effects done by the disaster usually leaves loss of property and rarely loss of life. “houses located at the higher ground are usually the safest places in the barangay” stated by Mr. De Leon; streets such as guadalajara, washington, Amsterdam and etc. With the questions I have asked Mr. De leon wanted to assure me that the citizens of barangay Merville are always protected and looked after through their disaster team seen below.

Whom are trained for any kind of disaster. For the medical plans of the barangay fortunately the Barangay captain is a certified doctor with the help of Commcare our barangay clinic is always ready if ever sickness and plagues may ever penetrate the subdivision.

BARANGAY MERVILLE MAP

Surveillance Cameras

HAZARDOUS PLACES

MERVILLE BELVEDERE PARK

I observed around the barangay; and the usual hazards are caused by either wrong storage of building and construction equipment which can lead to untoward incidents especially for places such as these.

Building equipment by the playground

RUBBLE BY THE ROAD IN BELVEDERE STREET

this small rocks can slowly erode down to the road which can lead to car accidents and to pedestrians

CONSTRUCTION EQUIPMENT BY THE BELVEDERE PARK

these sharp metal sheets beside the court should not be placed here since this part of the park is where people usually walk and relax.The barangay should have stored it in a safe area.

SAFE PLACES

GATE 1 MERVILLE PARK

This part of the barangay is highly protected by automatic checkpoints and guards. very spacious and inviting for visitors

LAS VEGAS ST. MERVILLE

this part of merville is elevated and very spacious for cars and pedestrians to walk through

MERVILLE ROADS IN GENERAL

very spacious, free of trash, and very inviting for visitors to come

REFLECTION

Going through this experience i have learned a lot of things but i will only dwell in my top 2 realizations. As we enjoy our time at home, maybe enjoying a cup of coffee on cold mornings, dozing off in our beds, or simply enjoying our day with our family, there are people who are making sure that we get to do these things without worrying about the fact that our world is and will always be prone to accidents. These people are the workers in our own barangays, specifically the Barangay Disaster Risk Reduction Management Council. I realized how neglected and unappreciated our barangay staffs are despite the time they spend on protecting the citizens. In this activity the first thing I learned is to appreciate the hard work each and every staff has contributed. I know that not everyone has the time to go to the barangay and show their thankfulness but, this is not only the way to show your gratitude. You can show your thankfulness through the things that you do in your own barangay. Throw your trash in the ride garbage cans, walking on designated walkways and etc. This shows that you respect and appreciate the things that the barangay do for you. Second is the importance of being alert and aware of your surroundings in your specific barangay. Its not enough that only our houses are what we make safe and hazard free but also our neighborhood. We should know the things we can fix and the things that we can improve on, this could either be minor changes or even major changes that could be done with the help of our barangay staff. together with being aware; we should also know the safest places and the locations that we should avoid before, during and after catastrophes and casualties.

FAREWELL

im really happy that i was able to enjoy and at the same time accomplish my requirements. all we need is balance in life, a little bit of fun and a little bit of productiveness. this is where i end my NSTP blog, till next time GABE APPROVES

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ghostzzy · 8 years ago

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so i finished reading 10 things i can see from here! and it was. Almost really good. sigh. and so continues the search of a wlw book i can wholeheartedly recommend.

like! a lot of things about it were really good!

i’ve never read a book that so accurately captured what it’s like to live with chronic, severe anxiety. although maeve and i have different kinds of intrustive thoughts (like, she gets fixated on fatality statistics for violent deaths like car crashes, where i’m a lot focused on internal health issues/germs/things like that), there was a lot of stuff that was extremely validating to see played out through someone else. like maeve’s habit of googling things that she knows will only worsen her anxiety, or the scene where she assumes her dad must’ve died because he was a little late picking her up from the train terminal, or the part where she was irrationally but fully convinced that she had caused someone’s heart attack by just thinking about an unrelated character having a heart attack. the author also did a great job of capturing the frustration at everyone thinking they understand what living with anxiety is like because they got nervous before a test one time.

that being said, i’d be careful recommending it to someone who struggles with anxiety. maeve thinks about death in almost everything, and some of that is sure to bleed into the reader, too, if they’re prone to catastrophic thinking. i know it definitely got to me a few times.

the author, a queer woman herself, also does a great job handling maeve’s sexuality. from page 15, it’s made explicitly clear that maeve is a lesbian, without ever feeling awkwardly overemphasized or unnatural. while the story does a good job of examining the effects of homophobia and heteronormativity, it never feels textbooky or heavyhanded, it never strays into “Oh, The Traumas Of Being Gay, Look How Tragic It Is” territory at all! i found maeve’s love interest very likable and i found their relationship very sweet and well-executed, if a little cheesy (but it’s a YA book, so of course it’s gonna be a little cheesy)! they’re both still alive and together and happy by the end of the book, and there was never a moment where i doubted that they would get any less than a happy ending, which was super refreshing!

that being said, there were a couple subtly biphobic comments that were just kind of :^/ (”being queer was about not being into boys” was especially Sigh.) thankfully, this was isolated to pretty much one shitty paragraph and easily ignored.

i also really appreciated the focus on maeve and her family. every dynamic felt real and complex—her struggles with her dad as he relapsed, her awkwardly supportive relationship with her stepmom, her affection for her little half-brothers, her overprotection of/dependence on her mom. and almost every relationship arc had a satisfying conclusion, with the exception of maeve and her mom? that kind of fizzled out somewhere in the middle and definitely could’ve done with more attention.

that being said, none of the family dynamics were spectacularly healthy. the book never claims for them to be, though. all the characters are very much a work in progress, and for me, the fact that they were realistic was more important than them being Perfect. but if you’re looking for something on How To Family, this is.. definitely not it.

the two biggest issues, in my eyes, were:

1. racial diversity. as far as i could tell, there was exactly one character of color, and she died halfway through the story. although an all-white cast is not surprising for a YA book, it was still disappointing.

2. ruthie. despite being repeatedly told she was maeve’s best friend, it seemed that maeve didn’t really like her, because it’s emphasized that she thinks ruthie is fat and awkward and socially-inept and ugly at literally every opportunity. i played along, because there are hints of their big falling out all throughout the book. and then with about 50 pages left, it’s revealed that ruthie sexually assaulted maeve, the ramifications of which aren’t explored outside of one chapter. i really really don’t like that the fat, awkward lesbian was turned into a predator. and it barely even functioned in the story, as the implications of the assault are barely explored before maeve and ruthie make up. their conflict could’ve been about anything else and it would’ve been just as, if not more, effective.

tl;dr: i think the book took on a lot of topics and handled almost all of them with grace! but there were enough turn offs that i can’t really. like. recommend it.

#spoilers and lots of rambling under the readmore!#lots of complicated feelings on this one.#i really enjoyed reading it so it's like. a shame that it Fucked Up toward the end there.#izzy blogs books #i started a book journal at the beginning of this year but. writing by hand? unrealistic.#so here tumblr. have all my thoughts always.

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your-dungeon-is-problematic · 8 years ago

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Rakasta (AD&D) [Guest Article!]

[Mod’s Note: I must give especial thanks to @temporiludi for guest writing this article! So very thoughtful. :D] So! Cat-people. Everyone’s favorite race to cringe at when the local self-proclaimed “otaku” brings them to the game table. And while they insist their character looks almost entirely human, save for the “kawaii” additions of cat ears and matching tail, most iterations of a feline-humanoid race are closer in appearance to their quadrupedal real-life counterparts than the ever popular cat-girl of Japanese anime. Today we’ll be exploring a race of cat folk introduced in The Isle of Dread module for AD&D, the Rakasta (NOT Rakshasa). At a glance, they resemble the Khajiit of The Elder Scrolls series. Upon further inspection however…no, yeah. They’re Khajiit. But stronger.

General:

“Rakasta are a race of intelligent, nomadic, catlike humanoids. They are a proud, barbaric race of warriors who, while not prone to initiating hostilities, quickly respond when provoked.”

First off, it may be a fun drinking game (if you’re of age) to take a shot every time the monster manual uses the term “barbaric” to describe an entire race of people.

On second thought, that would probably cause severe liver damage by the time you get to the letter C. So (cat)scratch that.

With that out of the way, it’s good to see some positive adjectives attributed to the Rakasta. Intelligent makes sense, since their stat block clocks them as Very intelligent, and the fact that they won’t attack unless provoked plays nicely into their Neutral alignment. It makes sense that they would be quick to defend themselves if they’re attacked; they probably deal with tons of bandits and highwaymen on their travels hoping to get at their belongings.

“Rakasta walk upright, much like humans, with an agile, feline grace. They have feline heads and are covered with soft, tawny fur. Most fur coloration ranges from light tan to dark brown.”

Well, I would hope that they’re at least a little agile. But anyone who has owned a cat before knows that the “feline grace” only activates for about 10 minutes a day. After it’s used up, all that’s left are crash landings and getting stuck in places nobody thought they could even get to. Also, only various shades of brown? What about black cats? Siamese? Stripes? Spots? I find it hard to believe the generic tabby cat dominates the Rakasta world.

“Rakasta have catlike eyes, most of which are brilliant green. A Rakasta has a nonprehensile tail 4 to 6 feet long.”

Wait, catlike? You’re telling me a race of anthropomorphic cat people have eyes that are only like a cat’s? How are they similar? How are they different? Does catlike mean they have thin vertical pupils that dilate into larger circles when they’re focused on something? Nowhere does it say they have any form of Darkvision, so that could be what separates them…but not giving them Darkvision seems rather counterproductive.

Nevertheless, a long nonprehensile tail makes perfect sense and I’d be miffed if they didn’t include them. Also, thank the Gods they’re not prehensile. I do not want monkey-cat-people. No thanks.

“Rakasta speak Common and their own language. Some of the more primitive Rakasta speak in a purring voice with many rolled r’s and hissed s’s.”

More…primitive. Great. If we’re considering that a synonym for “barbaric,” then take another shot.

Now, this implies that the standard Rakasta doesn’t speak with a purring voice, rolled r’s and hissed s’s. So, what, they sound like a run-of-the-mill adventurer with a vaguely British accent when speaking Common? I find that hard to believe, especially if their language (which is so conveniently not given a name) does involve rolled r’s and hissed s’s. Also, why the hell is that considered a primitive way of speaking? Dozens of real world languages roll their r’s in a variety of ways, and even English hisses some of its s’s in certain words (the double s at the end of success, for example). But, no. They’re a barbaric race. Their language is primitive. Ugh.

Combat:

“Rakasta are fierce fighters who neither ask for nor give any quarter. Eschewing normal weapons, Rakasta rely on their claws and bites. Since a Rakasta’s claws inflict only 1d2 points of damage, the creatures usually employ special metal war claws called kasas; worn on the paw like a glove, a kasa inflicts 1d4 points of damage on a successful attack.”

Alright, so if you’re dumb enough to attack a peaceful caravan of friendly cat people, you’re going to get ripped to shreds. I like that. They probably deal with expensive artifacts and high amounts of coin on the day-to-day, making them a prime target for the occasional (cat)burglar. And being a race of people who just want to be left alone? No wonder they show no mercy, and the fact that they ask for none in return shows just how badass these cats really are. However, 1d2 damage from a claw attack isn’t going to be dropping any highwaymen anytime soon. Their bark is probably worse than their bite, as it were.

It’s good that they included a way to augment their damage, though. The Kasas are a neat variation on the clawed-glove family of weaponry, and makes perfect sense for a culture that has favored their natural abilities over sword and shield. The jump from 1d2 to 1d4 isn’t much to celebrate, however, and really just adds an exotic curio for the standard adventuring party to loot once they’ve taken the caravan down.

“A Rakasta who strikes with both claws (or both kasas) in the same round can choose to rake with both rear claws. Rear claw attacks are rolled separately and cause 1d3 points of damage on a successful strike.”

Hold on. Rear claw attacks? Are you telling me these cat people can do a Kangaroo Jack-esque kick with their back legs in addition to their front claw attacks? Well that’s badass as all hell. These guys really are nimble fighters.

“Certain Rakasta ride saber-toothed tigers into battle.”

Sweet Jiminy Christmas. [Mod’s Note: The use of domesticated Ice Age fauna is a quick and easy way to immediately gain my interest, as well.]

“These tiger riders, known as the Hatra, are considered the bravest and strongest of the Rakasta warriors, and only they can hold the respect of the saber-toothed tigers. Hatra have 3+1 Hit Dice, a minimum of 15 hit points, and +1 bonus to damage rolls.”

Okay, okay. This is what I like to see. Large and powerful warriors able to tame savage wildcats and mounting them to ride into battle. The Hatra seem like the perfect defense against anyone stupid enough to threaten a pride of Rakasta. Not only do you have to take down the saber-toothed tigers that they ride, but also the warriors that were able to tame the damn things. Which is just another reason why you shouldn’t do that. Seriously, leave these guys alone, for your own sake.

“The Hatra use special saddles that enable them to leap as far as 20 feet from their mounts and still attack in the same round. The saddles allow the Hatra to fight unhindered while mounted, using both hands for attacks yet still maintaining control of their saber-toothed mounts.”

Here’s some of that feline agility we were talking about earlier. So not only can they leap 20 feet towards you, but they can also strike you with their claws as they’re doing so. They incur no penalties while fighting mounted, and they don’t even need to keep one hand on the reigns. With skills like this, no wonder their unarmed claws only do 1d2. Any more and it would be completely impossible for a low-level adventuring party to handle. Which they shouldn’t. Because fighting these guys is a bad idea.

Habitat/Society:

“The nomadic Rakasta are organized into prides of 6d10 adult Rakasta plus an additional 25% of that number in noncombatant offspring. Each pride also has 1d12 saber-toothed tigers. When not on the move, each Rakasta pride sets up its own temporary settlements, composed of many colorful tens and pavilions.”

So that’s what, a maximum of 60 adults and 15 kittens, but only 12 of the adults would be Hatra? I guess the Hatra are just so dang powerful and intimidating that they can get away with not having an entire platoon of tiger-riders guarding every pride.

Also, I am always wary whenever there’s a statistic for noncombatant offspring. While on the one hand, it’s much more realistic that families would be travelling together, but on the other hand, it creates the awkward situation of “What do we do with the children now that we’ve just murdered every adult they have ever known or called family?” If the party’s decent folk, they wouldn’t have attacked the damn pride in the first place. That leaves the unsavory party to either slaughter the children in cold blood, leave them to die in the wilderness, or any other horrible act they could think of. Again, not cool. [Mod’s Note: I mean, I guess the party could adopt them? But then again perhaps the people who just got done murdering their parents would not be the best parental replacements for these freshly orphaned kids...]

Moving on, it’s good to see that their lodgings aren’t small tents or pitiable sleeping bags, but actually representative of a thriving and artistic culture. It would almost be like a flea market to the uninitiated adventurer, with dozens of stalls to explore and hopefully find that one special thing that calls out to their coin purse.

“Rakasta possess excellent artisan skills. They typically own many bright rugs and silk tapestries of fine workmanship; artfully crafted bowls and drinking cups, and other items of value. These items are found in place of gems and jewelry in the treasure of a pride of Rakasta.”

So they don’t wear jewelry or gemstones? Interesting. I suppose they deal exclusively in coin and trade, then, which does make some sense. But no gemstones whatsoever? It’s bold choice. Would that imply their culture may not value gems of any kind, and decorating yourself with them is as silly as wearing a necklace made of pebbles you found outside your house?

“Each pride is led by a chief with at least 5+1 Hit Dice, a minimum of 24 hit points, and a +3 bonus to all damage rolls. The chief is always accompanied by six of the best Hatra and their saber-toothed mounts. The chief’s word is law, and is obeyed without question.”

So they have a chiefdom, which does make sense for the whole “pride of lions” sort of theme we’ve got going here. Typically, a chief is appointed via kinship, implying that a pride is either one large extended family, or made up of smaller families that decide upon whose elder holds the position every time a new chief is needed. But, looking at the chief’s statistics, if they’re so dang strong, why do they need 6 Hatra accompanying them? While an elite guard protecting the chief makes sense, that could potentially be half of all of the Hatra travelling with the pride. It seems that a pride values the wellbeing of its leader over the wellbeing of people, which is…kind of sad. But hey, if they’re a good chief, they’ll order their guards to protect the rest of the pride during a crisis situation.

“Each pride has a Rakasta cleric of 4 Hit Dice who casts spells as a 4th-level priest. More powerful clerics are rumored to exist, as well as Rakasta with wizard abilities, perhaps as high as 7th level.”

Ohh, okay, so now we’re getting into magic. Up until now there’s been no mention of magic users in Rakasta culture, but it seems that a divine caster is present in every pride, no matter how small. Probably serves as the pride’s medical expert, as well as the link between the pride and their hereby still unnamed deities. The fact that more powerful casters are merely rumors implies that they either don’t exist, or the Rakasta don’t want outsiders knowing the upper limits of their magical capabilities. Perhaps they even use this as a tool of control? Keeping their magic users in the shadows so that they can call upon them when the chief needs something to get done…discreetly. Secret magical cat folk hitmen anyone?

“The Hatra, as the finest warriors in a pride, enjoy a special place in Rakasta society. Hatra are held in high honor, since this culture values combat prowess over all else. Rakasta also value their code of conduct, known as the Sri’raka. This code dictates a warrior’s behavior. Among the most noteworthy tenets:”

Good! So it’s been implied up until this point, but now we have confirmation that they’re a strength-based society. To that, it makes perfect sense that the chief is the most physically adept member of the pride, and perhaps hasn’t gained the title through age and wisdom, but instead earned the title themselves through proving their strength to the pride. It’s probably the case that every chief was at one point a Hatra themselves, as it has been stated that they are the strongest members of a pride, strong enough to tame and mount vicious saber-toothed tigers. Also, I’m excited to see what code these brutal tiger-riders hold themselves to.

Let’s take a look!

“No challenge to fight is ever refused.”

Hmm. So once a pride has been attacked, they have no choice but to engage in combat? That makes sense. But does it carry over into internal affairs? Like is someone wanted to challenge the chief for leadership of the pride. Of course, the chief’s word is law, but it’s likely they gained their position by issuing the a similar challenge to the chief before them? By their own rules, they would be forced to battle for the crown. Ultimately, it seems to be a matter of pride. Heh.

“Wounded are never left behind; carry them or kill them.”

Or kill them? Geeze, that’s harsh. I hope they get a say in whether or not they’re carried home or straight up killed. But I guess this is also so they can’t be taken prisoner, which can’t be a good thing in Rakasta society…

“Better to die in battle than in one’s sleep.”

Ah, here we go. That good ol’ “proper death” dealeo. A true warrior would want to go out in the most honorable way possible, which turns out to be struck down in combat. Come to think of it, that’s probably the way any challenge issued against the current chief ends. Either the challenger is killed, showing they weren’t the strongest and therefore didn’t deserve the chiefdom, or the old chief is killed, granting them an honorable death at the hand of the strongest member of the pride. Brutal.

“Give no mercy; never expect it.”

This was mentioned before, and from what we’ve read so far it’s pretty consistent. Go hard, or die trying.

“Retreat is permissible only in order to regroup. A new attack must be launched against the other force within two sunrises.”

Interesting. So this goes back to the 2nd tenet. During a tactical retreat, it may not be possible to gather up any injured, so it’s much easier to strike them down on the way out. At least they have two days to go back in for a second strike, but something tells me that if they weren’t successful the first time around, they’ll probably be just as unlucky on the second assault. [Mod’s Note: I wonder how many chieftains have used “We’re not retreating, we’re ‘advancing in a different direction’” as a face-saving semantic device...]

“Never surrender. Those who would exist as prisoners are not Rakasta.”

Oh wow, I was right! A Rakasta whose been captured is disowned from its entire race…I can’t imagine how bad that would be for the sorry sap who got left behind and wasn’t killed for some reason. They’d probably deal with a major identify crisis and off themselves at the first chance they get. The honorable thing for a dishonored warrior to do is to finish the job themselves. Quite the tragedy.

Well that was a bundle of joy to read about. I don’t imagine the other tenets are any more uplifting.

Ecology:

“The Rakasta make reliable trading partners when attention can be turned from battles. Rakasta are excellent hunters, and they keep the game herds from overpopulating.”

Well that’s not very much information. But I suppose it’s better than nothing…

Again, I’m digging the positive adjectives used to describe these guys. They’re reliable trading partners, which makes plenty of sense, but if they’re non-aggressors, why does their attention have to be turned away from battles in order to trade? I feel like this line is just another reminder that they’re “barbaric” and prone to violence, even if that sentiment was contradicted at the very beginning of their description. Being a society that values strength and merit doesn’t make an entire culture primitive or less-than-civilized. The Romans considered themselves to be the greatest culture to ever exist, and they were some of the most brutal people to ever walk the earth! But they still had literature, art, architecture, complex social ties and reverence for their Gods. I guarantee even the most hot-headed Rakasta is going to value economy over violence.

Also, they’re great hunters. Who would’ve guessed the cat people were good at hunting? But since they’ve eschewed traditional weaponry, do they hunt with their kasas? Do they stalk their prey on all fours and go for a full on sprint, only to strike at its neck and eviscerate its stomach with their back paws?

…that’s intense and makes them even more terrifying to deal with.

Again, who thinks it’s a good idea to fight these guys? At first I felt bad for them, being the under(cat)dog and getting the short end of the stick. But now I just feel sorry for any poor bloke who gets on their bad side.

Related Species:

So there are several subspecies of Rakasta, though they weren’t included in their original publication. Dragon magazine, Issue #247 instead gave a whole exposé about the Rakasta and their complicated culture and relationships among different prides. You can find it floating around the internet somewhere, which will go much more in depth than I’m going to go here. But for the sake of giving the whole picture, I’ll talk about a few noteworthy subspecies here:

Caracasta: Pariahs of Rakasta society, as they have adopted the usage of bows and arrows from the local human populations. As such, they’re looked down on by other Rakasta. They have large ears with black tufts of hair at the tips.

Cloud Pardasta: Arboreal Rakasta with innate magical abilities. They’re covered in leopard like spots and are especially proficient in leaping from treetop to treetop.

Simbasta: Essentially, lion Rakasta. They’re very proud and are the only Rakasta able of becoming Paladins. Also, insert The Lion King joke about Simba here. [Mod’s Note: HAHAHA I TOTALLY WANT LION-PALADIN-PEOPLE IN MY CAMPAIGN SETTING NOW. Even/especially if that would foster an endless amount of Thundercats references.]

Overall:

I feel like the Rakasta suffer from the same thing nearly every beast folk/monstrous humanoid race suffers from: they’re cast in a light that wants to simultaneously make them more like the other core races in terms of culture, but also keep them in the Monster Manual as something to kill and pillage the corpses of. But they’re not as bad as they could’ve been. Their culture is really interesting, albeit at some points contradictory, but I feel like that could be played up. They’re kind enough folk if you want to trade or make friends, but the moment you turn on them they strike you down hard. A culture that values strength is not inherently barbaric, and I wish that could be emphasized by exploring their religion or the significance behind the tapestries that they create. On the plus side, there was no gendered language used when talking about the Hatra or the chief, so that makes me believe that it is a very egalitarian society, which is good! Show me some badass tiger-riding female warriors that, on their down time, weave beautiful blankets and adorn their saddles with culturally significant beadwork. You can do better in your setting. Give the Rakasta the attention and care that they deserve.

…you know, I’m glad that at no point was I given the opportunity to make a single skooma joke. Good job, AD&D.

#submission #your dungeon is problematic #rakasta #cat folk #guest article #with a small handful of inane comments by yours truly #but seriously no thank you for the submission I'm so flattered ahhhhhhhhh

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theonlygardener · 5 years ago

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Chronic illness, the nature of abusers, and fever dreams

Today has been a day. This week has been a week.

I started again playing the game I used to play with my ex. Only I took it too far with the walking/exercise and a cyst in my ovary ruptured and now I have a killer infection. I don’t know if they gave me the right antibiotics, I had to practically beg for antibiotics. I don’t think they knew what they were treating. I’m worried about the infection, it doesn’t feel like it’s getting better and while I’m prone to infections, they usually start clearing up within hours of antibiotics for me. From what I’ve looked up online, solely because the ER doc wasn’t very good at exploring every option and quick to blame my chronic illness and refer me to a gyno. And gynos have always tried to push meds on me that are terrible for treating this illness, from experience, and never really address what I actually go into the office for. I saw that ruptured cysts aren’t supposed to be this painful for this long (going into day three now), and that signs of an infection are life threatening. So honestly the past couple of nights when I’ve gone to bed, I’ve felt like I might not wake up in the morning and made some peace with things on that nightly basis. Even told my niece I loved her out of the blue. Texted a friend I haven’t spoken to in a while. I’ve pretended it was normal behavior before writing this. Because admitting to fear is hard for anyone, especially the chronically and disablingly afraid. But I am legitimately afraid. And legitimately dont asking doctors to address problems. When I’m in this much pain and they want to send me out without more than painkillers without me begging for more - when literally a quick fucking google search illustrates how bad that could be. Like. It’s hard not to throw in the towel. I’m doing my best to wait and see and plan on going to the ER again if I need to. I mean. I don’t have much else for choices.

I’m already a statistic in one way, two ways, maybe three. Maybe a million. Disabled and abuse victim. Autistic and abuse victim. Chronic illness and abuse victim. Disabled and no access to appropriate therapies. Sick and poor. Poor and sick. Mixed and sick and poor. Child of an immigrant and sick and poor and disabled. Child of a veteran and sick and poor and disabled and autistic and abuse victim. What’s one more?

My mom became really abusive today. Had one of those episodes - where she can’t handle her anxiety like an adult and turns and lashes at me. I don’t need to spell it out I know what those look like, we all know what those look like - anger, intimidation, gaslighting. I had my endicrinologist appointment today, and I spent the whole time listening to her bitch and complain about how much of a burden I am, on top of the previous abuse. I told her that she knew how far away it was - shouldn’t come as a surprise. And to solve that issue I’ll just go alone next time. When I’m not high off of my tits from tylenol/codeine for a ruptured ovarian cyst and the resulting infection. I would rather die in a fiery crash than be made to feel like a burden. I’ve proved that multiple times over with the toxic abusive ppl in my life and I’ll prove it again.

Then I had a nap, and I was severely dehydrated from meds/crying/fever. And I had a fever dream that me and my ex were hanging out, kind of like how we used to, but it was different. The atmosphere was different, it was like post-break up, friends but not friends but more than friends? And it was at my dad’s house, a place he never visited me at. Because when we started dating I’d go see him. And then when we picked back up again after I broke up with him the first time, I had my own place.

In this dream I was like “I’m horny wanna do it?”, like I used to when we were together and I was ovulating. And there was a cute funny moment. But then I was pensive, I saw a bunch of red-flag bible quote things on the tv game system screen saver we were using, and I started asking myself “Do I really want to do this with a man who gave me a concussion? With a man I was never good enough for? Has he really changed? Not the best choice” He saw the change in my attitude (irl something he’d almost never notice), and I told him how I felt. And we went into a long discussion where he told me that he wanted to now, because after living w/ his parents for a while, and then living with a friend, and then dating around, and then seeing that I had left S, he realized how he had it was good and figured I’d changed my mind about being poly in general and wanted him again. And I had to impress on him that me leaving S had nothing to do with him, or with that identity. That dating her wasn’t about not wanting him in the first place. That I didn’t regret leaving either of them, they were both toxic. And I didn’t regret being poly.

People have irl asked me how it feels to lose both of them, expecting me to say that it was all for nothing. It really wasn’t. I proved that a part of myself - the poly part - is real and valid and something I can act on responsibly. It exposed him for who he was, like something would have eventually. And it’s better sooner, before marriage, than later. And it showed me how being in a wlw relationship can be JUST as toxic as otherwise, something I knew secondhand but had to experience myself. I learned a lot of lessons from it that I wouldn’t ever want to take back. His treatment of me, that’s not my fault. Feeling like it was all for nothing, that would have to go hand in hand with feeling responsible for how he treated me, as if my identity precipitated his abuse, and precipitate the eventual break up, the way he wants me to feel. And I refuse to do that to myself.

And ya know. I know this is a dream state, of him giving me confessions he’d never have the humility to give irl. And at that, that’s not even an apology or a real confession. Because making me feel like “I figured you learned your lesson and you leaving S was all about me”, that’s the same abusive ego shit recycled. The reason the christian stuff is a huge red flag is because he and his family have always hidden behind that. They’ve always hidden behind that in their faults, and in their privilege. they have no faults because they’re god fearing. They have no privilege - they earned their good luck by going to church every sunday and it’s a reward. And although he never impressed it upon me as much as his family did, there were red flags. Shortly after starting to date me he asked if I’d been with anyone else, which, I know now, that’s a huge no-no because it’s no one’s business or place to comment on. It’s never asked for an innocent reason. But when I said yeah and he asked how many partners and then seemed really disappointed, and then the convo went from that to “I thought you might at least convert for me someday”, I should high tailed it out of there.

He’s not even in the place irl that he was in the dream though. I know that on a spiritual level. He’s sucking down the worst of the gaslighting and abuse that he himself experienced since birth and he’s calling it better than what he had with me because it’s comfortable and he’s becoming an even worse version of himself than he ever was with me. I could put money on him abusing the next girl from day fucking one, instead of waiting until she’s just so too much herself like he did with me, and then blaming it on “oh it’s my exes fault she made me like this”, if that was a thing people took bets on.

But I thought, this was the best relationship I’d been in so far and when the best you’re aware of is the best you’ve known, you make the mistake of settling. I settled. I settled for the least worst of what I had experienced, not the best of what I could get. I made excuses for him, my heart was unsettled for a long time. And when I realized he was autistic, that was the excuse I used. I thought autism made him better in that he “didn’t absorb bullshit from his parents”, I was partially wrong. Because it made him appear better in that he probably would have abused me more and put more pressure on me if his autistic traits were different or if he wasn’t autistic at all. But at the end of the day. Me differentiating too much from what he was taught to expect from a wifey - it came out in the end either way.

I think I had this dream because with the chronic health issues, I feel really alone. And before he was there for me - even in a capacity where he himself was also complaining about my needs sometimes. And being sick with or without my mother’s abuse. I’m left struggling to love myself through it. because of how he gaslighted me. I’m left feeling like I wish I wasn’t alone and had support. Like I used to feel like I had. Because yeah in the end he proved to be complete trash. But he wasn’t as bad as her, as bad as past exes. And I keep having to fight that feeling and insist upon what I deserve for myself. And then, add this bitch of an excuse for a mother to the top of that pile. A woman who kicks you while you’re down because she’s so incapable of handling her own life - and I feel extra alone. And I have to fight for what I deserve even more.

And I know, I need, want, absolutely deserve, and again need like I need oxygen, to get out. And I need to get out, alone, and stay out, and alone for a good while. Until I heal and learn to love myself. So that whoever I invite in next doesn’t turn into what everyone has turned into so far.

My mother probably sees today as a win of codependency. It’s no coincidence that she turned into a monster the same day she offered to drive me 45 minutes to a doctor appointment. She thinks she successfully abused and gaslighted me. But I just want out that much more. She asked about my diagnostic appointment and said “what if you have to drive over the highway” and I said “Then I guess I have no choice, and I’ve driven an hour avoiding highways so I’m sure I’ll manage finding a way”. I don’t think she’s ready for me saying “fuck it, I don’t need you that badly. I’ll die first”. But I can’t be in a place where I can’t make progress because I’m constantly at the will and whim of someone who thinks and acts like they can’t live without me, and abuses me in an effort to keep me tethered. I come first.

One thing I’m learning in her presence, it’s like a re-up of abuse 101. Watching someone scramble to do everything possible to sabotage me. Watching someone try to reinforce my disability and make me afraid. One of the pluses of understanding my disability is that I know where my fear comes from. It doesn’t. and won’t, come from others anymore. Because I don’t allow it to anymore. I haven’t for a long time. I fought my ex when he tried it. And my own fears that come from me - I’m handling them. Because at the end of the day, this bitch has the same disorders I have. The disorders she refuses to admit to and take responsibility for. The difference is she only copes by turning around and abusing her dependents. I refuse to take part in that. I just keep addressing my own shit so I can get out.

I think me being sick right now. And I mean really painfully sick. I go to sleep at level 9 pain and wake up at level 9 pain and down painkillers every four hours to take the edge off and help the fever. Honestly hopefully tomorrow is at least marginally better so I can depend on tylenol instead because taking stuff this heavy when I’m this emotionally distressed is a recipe for disaster. Anyways I think me being sick right now - she gets off on it with her sick codependency issues. She doesn’t even really support me. Her ego gets something out of it. She’s not really here for me. Doesn’t really care. It’s all always about her. And in the end, I’m still alone. Because being around people who use you - emotionally physically psychologically doesn’t matter which way use is use, that’s the same as if not worse than alone. The void is just.... so much deeper. Wanting someone to be someone to be the loving kind functional person that you deserve and that they aren’t, and watching them actively choose not to be it. That’s a kind of loneliness that 10/10 is always worse than being in solitude. In solitude you have control over every aspect of your surroundings and if you want to have a good day you have a good day, if you want to have a bad day you have a bad day. When you’re around someone this dysfunctional and abusive, you just aren’t allowed that control.

and 10/10 as soon as I get the support or ability, I’m going to be alone, because that’s what I need, on a wholeness level. And she can’t stop me. In fact her behavior encourages me. It doesn’t keep me glued like she wants it too. It does the opposite. Because maybe if she was a supportive loving and not abusive mother, I would have a safe space to recover. Her not giving me that means I need to go out on my own and get it. Nails in the coffin.

I’ve always dreamed of moving away, changing my name, changing my phone number. I don’t think that plan has changed. And she’ll probably bitch about “how much she helped me and how selfish I am”, but, ya know, that’s what gaslighting abusive bitch mothers do. You don’t get to help someone up, and trip them at the same time, and then pretend that they owe you, or that you did them some great favor. That’s not real help. One step foward and one or two steps backwards - might as well drive myself and panic and be in physical pain through the whole thing.

So, in essence this has been a terrible week full of a lot of abuse and trauma and panic and pain and fear. But, idk, I guess I’m learning something from it.

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shelawmsluderym09insurance-blog · 5 years ago

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car insurance for 18 year old

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