#the inclusion of pirates

[bioswear]

Actually okay - the more I play and discover in TOTK the more it feels like an amalgamation of all the little tone theming and aesthetics of previous Zelda’s have been woven into the BOTW formula

[one-piece-user-boxes]

[axolotlclown]

Only press the option if you've read ALL of the books/main comics. I just don't have enough options to include those who have only read portions of the series. This season adapted many stories across multiple books and comics. So even if you've read Comet in Moominland but not Moominland Midwinter, say that you haven't read the books for this poll.

This does not include the picture books, btw. As awesome as a Who Will Comfort Toffle? adaptation would have been, it never came to be. ✊😔

Also if you're someone that's read all of the main comics but not the books, please make yourself known! I've only ever heard of people reading the books then the comics.

[t-u-i-t-c]

Final Chapter: Tomorrow's Legends

[badolmen]

Back in my day the gay pirate show had interracial lesbian sex episode fucking one. Have these guys even boned on screen with their dicks out? Are they tackling the nuances of slavery, colonialism, and a rapidly expanding empire with no room for people like them on an interpersonal and societal scale? Have they even tried to kill each other yet???

[comicedit]

With Captain America: Brave New World releasing tomorrow, we at comicedit wanted to remind everyone of the ongoing boycott against this film for the character Ruth, aka Sabra's inclusion, which despite numerous reshoots hasn't been removed from the film.

For more information on Sabra's history as a Zionist propaganda character, @imperiuswrecked has written a guide here.

Instead of buying a movie ticket, we urge you to instead donate to the Gaza Soup Kitchen, which is trying to give survivors of the genocide warm food, and to donate to one of the many fundraisers that still need help rebuilding their homes. Gazafunds chooses a random vetted fundraiser if you need help choosing one.

And as a reminder, every actor's decision to be in this film is a choice they made. You do not need and should not be justifying their decision to work with a woman who actively chose to join the IDF despite being exempt. A boycott does not mean "pirate but create fan material as usual", it means no engagement. It is important that this film exist in zero conversations that aren't about its Zionism.

Free Palestine.

[merdemort]

this is how you know definitively that i am enamored with a fictional character

[cosplayspacepirate]

Dear whoever decided to sell their Astro albums with the photocards included to the half price books!??! BLESS YOUR HEART!!!

[brekkie-e]

Veilgaurd exists in such a weird spot on the morality circuit to me. It's so clear that they've got overt inclusivity messaging all over the place. To the point of ludicrousy at times (looking at you Lords of Fortune i.e. Jake and the Neverland Pirates.) When they're trying to make a point about what is morally good and the correct point of view™️ they hit you over the head with it. Thinking about Taash's dialogues about the Lords not stealing anything "cultural, you know- important" and their codex entry about gender. It's not that any of these messages or sentiments are wrong. But the way they are handled in the story is so at odds with a piece of media rated for mature audiences.

And then. And then the game turns around and makes the Antaam the most egregiously racist depiction of the Qunari in the series to date. The fact they managed that is kind of amazing in and of itself because I think the goal was to minimize the Qunari dilemma. By saying "not all Qunari! Just the Antaam!" It's similar to what they're aiming for with the Venatori and Tevinter.

The problem is though, now they've backed in to a corner where the warring Qunari faction is under the umbrella of "ridiculous disney villian that we don't explore further than that." And in doing so paint almost every Qunari that follows the Qun as a mindless brute that wears next to nothing and spends most of the game growling. Which is just. Deeply unsettling to see in a game that is trying so hard to be woke you feel like youre watching them pat themselves on the back as you play.

Like how do you double down so so hard on the inclusivity in so many aspects, and then turn around and do that?

I mean how did Dragon Age 2, a game that came out in 2011, portray the Qunari characters as so much more nuanced and intelligent than the 2024 Inclusivity Champion? Not to mention Kirkwall as a whole actually explores Tevinter's slavery problem on a much deeper level than Minrathous does? The narration Varric gives about the Gallows and the slave trade in the span of 30 seconds discusses more about the Tevinter Empire's relationship with slavery than Veilgaurd does in the entire game. That's without even mentioning Fenris.

Now I'm not claiming any of the previous titles were without their own mis-steps here. Im just a little irritated by how much this game reeks of hypocrisy at points.

[thebibliosphere]

I both believe "poor people deserve art" and "artists deserve food", but it's hard to reconcile those beliefs. I blame capitalism. And I suppose it mostly matters who you're stealing from?

I don't mean to question you at all, I'm against people pirating your stories. I guess I was just wondering if you had more thoughts regarding the reconciliation the two beliefs I quoted above.

I think the reconciliation is working toward a future where things are better, and authors and artists don't have to beg people not to steal from them because they think every author is Stephen King, who wouldn't notice if you stole the pennies found under his couch when in reality most of us are hunting for spare change down the back of the couch because we are earning below minimum wage.

We need people to embrace the idea that art belongs to the working class, both in terms of consumption but also creation.

If you don't support the working-class creators, you'll only end up with rich fucks with no scope of the world beyond their own narrow view of privilege.

Indie creators are actually working very hard to change the way the industry works, and the publishing industry is shitting itself over it. They don't like the success some of us are having. It's why they keep upping prices while slashing corners on their own production (while never affecting the man at the top) to try and stay competitive within the rat race they've created.

They're not interested in the proliferation of art. They're not interested in making sure their authors can afford to live. They don't want more diversity. They don't want inclusion. They want profit at whatever the cost.

And while indie creators very much need to get paid because we live in a capitalistic society and everything is burning down around us, and a carton of eggs now costs more than what I earn per hour, our creativity is directly at odds with the type of profiteering big publishers want.

The money should go to the writers. Not the CEOs. The money should go to the workers in the print houses. Not the CEOs. No one needs the kind of wealth these people have. It's obscene. We need direct action against these conglomerates. We need unionization. We need a means to fight back so that we can make art and make it accessible.

So, how do we do that? I don't know. I'm just a very tired, disabled creator doing my best to keep my head above water. But I think getting people to realize that art and books are worth saving up for would be a good start.

That putting money in the pockets of creators is just as important as your own enjoyment of their art. Because if there aren't any artists, you've got nothing.

Getting them involved with their local libraries would also be a great start. Educating them on how the industry works is part of that. The number of people telling me they had no idea libraries paid authors is staggering. And that's intentional. It's a by-product of right-wing propaganda to make you think libraries are worthless and just sap taxpayers' money.

They're not.

If they were, the fash wouldn't be trying so hard to take them away.

Basically, we need working-class solidarity and for certain people on the left to rid themselves of the idea that just because something isn't borne of manual labor, it doesn't have worth. We need the artists and the dreamers as much as we need to bricklayers and the craftsmen. Otherwise, what's the fucking point of it all?

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her. Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) y/n gets switched to a real name but it has a purpose. More warnings to be updated.

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Masterlist

Chapter 6

Echoes of the Past

The officers' mess was bathed in morning light as Ella approached. Conversation drifted through the partially open door, along with the smell of fresh bread and something spiced.

"Absolutely not!" Wooyoung's protest carried clearly. "You can't possibly think dried fish is an acceptable breakfast food."

"Nutritionally superior," came Mingi's response.

"Nutrition isn't the only thing that matters at breakfast," Seonghwa countered. "Morale affects crew performance."

"Which is why we need both," Yunho said. "Wooyoung's pastries and Mingi's proteins."

A chuckle—Hongjoong, Ella guessed—followed this solution. Their easy banter created an unexpected tightness in her chest. She lingered outside, reluctant to interrupt what felt like a private moment.

Before she could decide whether to enter, Wooyoung appeared in the doorway, a basket of bread in his hands. His surprised expression turned to welcome.

"Ella! Perfect timing—I was just taking these out of the oven." He gestured for her to enter, adding in a whisper, "Save me from these heathens who think breakfast should be practical rather than joyful."

His easy inclusion momentarily disarmed her. Ella found herself smiling despite her carefully maintained barriers.

"Surely there's room for both," she suggested, stepping inside.

The other officers turned at her entrance. Hongjoong straightened slightly. Seonghwa nodded politely. Yunho offered a gentle smile, while Mingi's gaze briefly met hers before shifting away.

"Join us," Hongjoong invited, indicating an empty chair. "Breakfast this morning has become quite the debate."

"Only because some people don't understand the importance of properly spiced morning pastries," Wooyoung declared, setting the basket in the center of the table.

The bread was golden-crusted, spiral-shaped, and dusted with cinnamon and sugar. The sight triggered a memory—a small boy arranging similar spirals on a makeshift plate, calling them "magic wheels" that would carry them away from danger.

"Cinnamon wheels," she said before she could stop herself.

Wooyoung froze, his hand still on the basket. "You recognize them?"

His tone carried such hope that Ella immediately regretted the slip. "The shape is distinctive," she said carefully. "And the smell is unmistakable."

"My specialty," Wooyoung confirmed, though his expression showed disappointment. "An old recipe I've worked on for years."

As they ate breakfast, Ella noticed a shift in the atmosphere. The easy banter had diminished, replaced by more careful conversation. Hongjoong discussed the day's sailing conditions, Seonghwa commented on supplies they needed at their next port, and Yunho detailed repairs scheduled for the rigging.

The change wasn't obvious—nothing in their manner suggested suspicion—but Ella sensed she had altered the dynamic by recognizing the pastries. Wooyoung, normally chatty, seemed particularly affected, his usual energy slightly subdued as he watched her break one of the cinnamon wheels in half.

Ella participated in the conversation carefully—offering useful information about shipping routes and trading patterns while watching each officer's responses. Seonghwa's questions revealed his methodical mind as he asked about Blackwell's security protocols. Yunho inquired about navigational markers used by Southern Trade Company vessels. Even Mingi occasionally asked precise questions about weaponry or harbor defenses.

Throughout, Hongjoong watched with that searching gaze she'd noticed since their first meeting. Unlike previous interrogations she'd endured, his questions never pressed into territory she was reluctant to discuss. When she hesitated over details of Blackwell's private quarters, he immediately changed the subject.

This consistent respect for her boundaries continued to unsettle her. Fifteen years of captivity had taught her that all information extraction had its price, that apparent consideration usually masked more sophisticated manipulation. Yet the pattern aboard the ATEEZ suggested something different—a genuine respect for her choice to share or withhold.

"The weather looks perfect for stargazing tonight," Yunho mentioned as breakfast concluded. "If you're still interested?"

Ella nodded, finding herself genuinely looking forward to it despite her usual caution. "I would enjoy that."

"Great." His smile warmed his features. "Sunset on the observation deck, then?"

As the officers dispersed to their duties, Hongjoong addressed her directly. "You're welcome to explore the ship today," he said. "The crew knows you have access to non-restricted areas."

"And what areas are restricted?" she asked, testing the boundaries of this apparent freedom.

"Only the munitions storage and my private navigation room when I'm not present," he replied without hesitation. "Standard security protocol rather than specific limitation for you."

The honesty of his response further disrupted her expectations. No false pretenses, no illusion of complete freedom later to be revealed as conditional. Just straightforward boundaries that acknowledged both trust and reasonable precaution.

"Thank you, Captain," she said, the formality shielding her growing confusion. "I appreciate that."

Hongjoong studied her for a moment, as if about to say something more, then simply nodded before leaving. Ella found herself alone in the officers' mess, the remnants of breakfast still scattered across the table—evidence of communal living so different from the rigid hierarchy she'd endured under Blackwell.

As she helped gather the dishes, a habit from years of service, she noticed a small wooden object that had been hidden beneath Mingi's plate. A tiny, perfectly carved compass rose embedded in wood, its points meticulously detailed despite its small size. She picked it up carefully, studying the craftsmanship. Something about the small carving tugged at her memory—not just from her brief time aboard the ATEEZ, but from somewhere deeper in her past.

"He marks everything he creates," Wooyoung's voice came from the doorway, startling her. "Mingi's compass signature."

Ella carefully set the carving back where she'd found it. "It's beautiful work."

"Always has been," Wooyoung agreed, moving to collect the remaining dishes. His hands worked with practiced efficiency despite his theatrical personality. "Even as a child, he could make wood speak."

The casual reference to their shared childhood created an opening too valuable to ignore.

"You've all known each other since childhood?" she asked, keeping her tone casual as she helped stack plates.

Wooyoung nodded, his expression softening. "We grew up together aboard—a ship, all of us cabin boys before we formed the ATEEZ."

The confirmation sent a quiet tremor through her carefully maintained composure. Five cabin boys? Five protective boys, where she had given them special nicknames, where she had entrusted Mr. Hugs to them before being sold at auction.

"That must have created strong bonds," she observed neutrally, despite her quickening heartbeat.

"The strongest," Wooyoung confirmed, suddenly serious. "We became family—the only one any of us had." He hesitated, then added casually, "There were six of us, originally."

Ella's hands stilled momentarily over the dishes. "Six?"

"Yes, six captured children." Wooyoung explained, watching her reaction. "They were separated from us during an escape attempt in Halazia. We... lost them."

The reference to their shared history hung in the air between them. Fifteen years of survival instinct screamed at Ella to deflect, to maintain her protective disguise. Yet something else—something buried beneath years of calculated self-preservation—urged acknowledgment.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, choosing words that offered sympathy without confirmation. "That must have been devastating for children to experience."

"It defined us," Wooyoung admitted, a rare solemnity replacing his usual animation. "We made an oath that night. To find them, no matter the cost." 

The implications were impossible to misinterpret. This wasn't casual conversation; it was deliberate disclosure—an opening offered without demand for reciprocation.

"And have you?" she asked, the question emerging before she could stop it.

Wooyoung's eyes met hers with unexpected intensity. "Possibly, only time will tell," he said simply. Then, before she could respond, his characteristic smile returned as he gathered the stacked dishes. "But that's a story for another time. Enjoy your exploration today, Ella."

He departed with his usual flourish, leaving her alone with implications too significant to process hastily. The conversation had confirmed what she'd begun to suspect: these men believed she was the lost girl from their childhood. Their behavior—the careful consideration, the absence of pressure despite clear interest in her connection to Blackwell, the subtle tests of recognition—reflected this conviction.

As she finished tidying the breakfast remnants, Ella considered her position with new clarity. If they believed she was y/n, why not confront her directly? What purpose did this elaborate dance of hints serve?

And more importantly—what would happen if she confirmed their suspicions? Would they expect the frightened five-year-old they had known, unaltered despite fifteen years of captivity and calculated survival? Would her value to them diminish once curiosity was satisfied and childhood oath fulfilled?

The small compass marking caught her attention once more. She picked it up again, running her fingers over its smooth surface. Something about this specific design triggered a deeper memory than she had initially recognized—not just from brief observation aboard the ATEEZ, but from somewhere in her fragmented childhood.

She returned the compass to its place, a decision forming in her mind. Today's exploration would have new purpose: not just observing the ATEEZ and its crew, but seeking evidence to confirm or refute Wooyoung's claim. If these men had truly searched for y/n for fifteen years, tangible proof would exist somewhere aboard this ship.

With this resolution guiding her, Ella left the officers' mess, stepping into the corridor with renewed determination. Whatever game was being played aboard the ATEEZ, she would uncover its rules before deciding whether to acknowledge her true identity—whether to become the y/n once more after fifteen years.

Sunset painted the western horizon in orange and purple as Ella made her way to the observation deck. Her day of exploration had produce useful and jarring knowledge.

Despite the ATEEZ's reputation for ruthless efficiency in battle, its internal culture reflected principles beyond mere piracy. Guards maintained careful watch for danger without unnecessary intimidation. Weapons were meticulously maintained, with gunners practicing precision drills with calculated force rather than chaotic violence.

More relevant to her personal investigation, she'd discovered subtle evidence supporting Wooyoung's claim: a locked sea chest in the captain's cabin glimpsed through a partially open door, navigational charts marking systematic search patterns through ports known for slave trading, and most significantly, a worn ledger in the quartermaster's office listing auction houses visited repeatedly over fifteen years, each entry containing the notation "N.F." in carefully maintained columns.

None meant definitive proof, yet collectively they added up to commitment beyond mere coincidence or recent fabrication.

Yunho awaited her at the observation deck's railing, his tall frame silhouetted against the fading light. Unlike their previous encounters, he appeared slightly nervous, his usual gentle confidence edged with tension.

"You came," he said as she approached, relief evident in his voice.

“Of course," she replied, somewhat puzzled by his uncertainty.

He smiled, relaxing slightly. "Some find other priorities as sunset approaches. The sky changes quickly this time of year."

The observation deck provided clear skies in all directions, with specially designed railings that incorporated Star gazing tools. Technology typically reserved for military ships rather than merchant or pirate craft.

"This is impressive," she acknowledged, running her fingers over a calibrated sighting apparatus. "Not standard equipment for most vessels."

"The ATEEZ was designed for specific purpose," Yunho explained, pride in his voice. "Navigation and tracking capabilities were prioritized during construction."

"Tracking slave ships?" she asked directly.

He nodded, neither surprised by her intuitive leap nor hesitant to confirm it. "Among other targets. Captain Hongjoong has particular interest in disrupting the Southern Trade Company's operations."

"Because of Blackwell's business practices? Or something more personal?"

The question hung between them as the last sliver of sun disappeared beneath the horizon. Yunho considered her for a long moment.

"Both," he finally answered. "Though the full explanation is the captain's to share when he chooses."

Darkness gathered around them as the first stars appeared, tiny points of light emerging against the deepening blue. Ella tilted her head back, absorbing the vast canopy with familiar wonder. Despite fifteen years of captivity, the stars had remained constant companions—visible through high windows, from ship decks during transfers between owners, even reflected in harbor waters during rare moments alone.

"There," Yunho said softly, pointing toward the eastern sky. "Orion rises early this season."

The familiar constellation took shape as her eyes adjusted to the darkness—the three aligned stars of his belt, the four corners marking shoulders and feet, the nebulous glow of his sword.

"And there," she responded, gesturing toward the southeast, "Canis Major follows faithfully."

"With Sirius leading the way," Yunho completed, genuine pleasure warming his voice. "You really do know your stars."

"They were... consistent," she explained, choosing words carefully. "When everything else changed—owners, locations, circumstances—the stars remained the same. They provided stability when nothing else did."

The admission revealed more than she typically allowed, yet something about the quiet darkness and Yunho's gentle presence encouraged it. Unlike her calculated openings with Hongjoong or Seonghwa, designed to extract reciprocal information, this felt genuinely conversational.

"They guided us too," Yunho said quietly. "Through some very dark periods."

The statement seemed weighted with significance beyond its literal meaning, but he didn't elaborate further. Instead, he pointed out other constellations as they appeared—Cassiopeia's distinctive W, the Great Square of Pegasus, the faint cluster of the Pleiades.

For nearly an hour, they engaged in astronomical observation, Yunho occasionally adjusting a small telescope mounted to the railing to show her particularly interesting features. His knowledge was impressive, combining navigational functionality with genuine appreciation for celestial beauty.

"That one," she said eventually, pointing to a relatively dim star near the horizon, "what's its name?"

Yunho smiled, something bittersweet crossing his features. "It doesn't have an official designation in most navigational charts. But... I've always called it y/n's Star."

The direct reference to her true name created a momentary silence between them. Ella's heartbeat accelerated, though she maintained her outward composure.

"Why that name?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral despite internal turmoil.

Yunho's gaze remained fixed on the distant point of light. "Because it's small but resilient, easy to overlook unless you know exactly where to look." He paused, then added softly, "And because I promised someone once that I'd give her a star of her own."

The memory surfaced unbidden—a tall boy lifting a small girl to see through a porthole, telling fantastic stories about the night sky, promising that one day she'd have her very own star "right next to mine, so we can always find each other."

Ella swallowed against unexpected emotion. "A meaningful promise."

"The most important I've ever made," Yunho confirmed, finally turning to look directly at her. "One I intend to keep, even if she doesn't remember making it."

The implicit acknowledgment hung between them, an opening without demand. Ella felt the weight of potential recognition—the vulnerability of being known after fifteen years of necessary anonymity. Part of her urged acknowledgment, craved the connection this gentle man offered without pressure. Another part, forged through years of calculated survival, counseled continued caution.

Before she could formulate a response that balanced these competing impulses, a flare of light streaked across the sky—a meteor burning briefly before disappearing into darkness.

"Make a wish," Yunho said softly, the childhood phrase emerging naturally.

Despite herself, Ella closed her eyes momentarily, an old ritual from before captivity had taught her the futility of wishes. When she opened them again, she found Yunho watching her with gentle curiosity.

"Did you wish for something?" he asked.

"Yes," she admitted. "Though I know better than to expect fulfillment."

"Sometimes wishes do come true," he countered, his voice gentle but certain. "Sometimes people find what they've been searching for, even after many years of looking."

The pointed reference was impossible to misinterpret. Like Wooyoung's earlier disclosure, it offered recognition without demanding acknowledgment—a space for truth without pressure for immediate revelation.

"And sometimes," she responded carefully, "what they find isn't what they remembered. Time changes people, Yunho. Especially difficult time."

He nodded, accepting this caution without offense. "It changes everyone involved. The searchers as well as the sought."

Another comfortable silence settled between them as more stars appeared overhead. Ella found herself increasingly at ease in Yunho's presence, his patient approach creating space for reflection rather than tactical response. Unlike most interactions during her captivity, this conversation flowed without underlying power dynamics—a genuine exchange between equals despite the circumstances of her rescue.

"May I show you something?" Yunho asked eventually. "A navigational technique specific to the ATEEZ."

At her nod, he guided her to a particular sighting tool mounted to the railing. "This was designed by Mingi and Seonghwa together," he explained. "It allows us to track specific star patterns and calculate our position with unusual precision."

As she examined the device, Yunho pointed out a small symbol engraved near its base—a simplified compass rose with five distinct points.

"Our marker," he explained. "It appears on all our specialized equipment."

"Five points," she observed. "One for each officer?"

"Originally, yes." His fingers traced the familiar pattern. "Though the symbolism has evolved over time."

She studied the engraving more closely, noting how four points formed a protective circle around the fifth. The design suggested more than mere representation—it implied relationship, purpose, commitment. Protection.

"We should head back down," Yunho suggested as a cool breeze strengthened from the north. "The temperature drops quickly once full darkness sets in."

As they moved toward the stairs, Ella was struck by sudden dizziness—a wave of lightheadedness that forced her to grasp the railing for support. Yunho immediately stepped closer, concern evident in his expression.

"Are you alright?"

"Just dizzy," she assured him, though the sensation persisted. "I'm fine."

"You're pale," he observed, professional assessment replacing casual concern. "How long has it been since you've been in open air for extended periods?"

The question gave her pause. Under Blackwell's ownership, her movements had been strictly controlled, outdoor access limited to supervised transfers between properties or occasional garden duties under guard.

"Some time," she admitted reluctantly.

"Come with me," Yunho decided, offering his arm for support. "You need to see our ship's doctor. This could be simple adjustment to sea air after prolonged confinement, but better to have you examined properly."

Ella initially hesitated at the mention of a doctor—medical examinations during her captivity had rarely been pleasant experiences—but the persistent lightheadedness suggested genuine need rather than excessive concern.

"Very well," she agreed, accepting his offered arm with measured trust. "Lead the way."

The medical bay occupied a surprisingly spacious compartment on the ATEEZ's lower deck, equipped with ventilation systems more sophisticated than Ella had observed elsewhere on the ship. As Yunho guided her through the doorway, the clinical space revealed itself to be unexpectedly welcoming—well-organized but softened by small touches that distinguished it from the other medical quarters she'd encountered during captivity.

"Yeosang?" Yunho called, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet space. "Are you here?"

Ella's breath caught in her lungs hearing that name. Her eyes moved around the space, searching in a practiced way that wouldn't alert Yunho to her frazzled state. 

Movement from an adjacent small room answered his question as a young man emerged, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. He paused in the doorway, his gaze locking with Ella's in immediate, unmistakable recognition.

In that frozen moment, an entire history passed between them—seven years in Blackwell's household, a young boy's gentle hands treating a frightened girl's injuries, subtle kindnesses offered at tremendous personal risk.

Yeosang—the eight-year-old healer's apprentice who had become her only friend and ally under Blackwell's cruel ownership. The teenager whose forced separation had been deliberately orchestrated to teach her the futility of attachment.

His eyes widened fractionally, the distinctive birthmark near his left eye momentarily crinkling with suppressed emotion before his features smoothed into professional composure. It happened so quickly that Yunho, glancing between them, noticed nothing amiss.

"Yunho," Yeosang acknowledged, his voice betraying nothing despite the storm Ella could see raging behind his carefully controlled expression. "What brings you here?"

"Ella experienced dizziness on the observation deck," Yunho explained, unaware of the silent communication happening before him. "Possible reaction to extended exposure after prolonged confinement."

Yeosang nodded, his assessment appearing purely clinical though Ella recognized the subtle softening around his eyes that had always betrayed his true feelings. "Sit," he directed, gesturing toward the examination table. "When did the symptoms begin?"

As Ella complied, she maintained her own composure through years of practiced concealment, though her heart raced with the effort of containing her reaction. This was the boy she had once called "Angel" in the privacy of their whispered conversations—her protector and friend, the one whose forced sale had broken something fundamental in her twelve-year-old heart.

"Just a few minutes ago," she answered, watching as he gathered examination tools with the same precise movements she remembered from childhood, when he had treated her injuries with materials secretly collected from the manor's gardens. "It came suddenly."

"Any nausea? Visual disturbances?" His questions were clinically specific yet delivered with the gentle intonation she remembered from countless clandestine treatments in the shadows of Blackwell's mansion.

"No," she confirmed, carefully maintaining the pretense of unfamiliarity for Yunho's benefit. "Just lightheadedness and slight disorientation."

Yeosang's fingers pressed against her wrist to check her pulse, the touch containing the same careful respect for boundaries he had always shown. His eyes fixed deliberately on a point past her shoulder rather than meeting her gaze directly—a precaution she recognized as self-protection against revealing emotion.

"Your pulse is elevated," he noted, releasing her wrist. "Breathe deeply, please."

As he continued his examination, Ella noticed what Yunho could not see—the slight tremor in Yeosang's normally steady hands, the careful maintenance of physical distance beyond what medical procedure required, the deliberate avoidance of extended eye contact.

Most telling was a small wooden object partially visible within a half-open drawer near the examination table—a small wooden trinket box with distinctive compass marking inlaid on its lid. The same compass design she had noticed at breakfast, the one that had triggered deeper memory she couldn't quite place.

"Your blood pressure is likely affected by environmental changes," Yeosang concluded, stepping back slightly. "Prolonged confinement followed by sudden exposure to open sea air, combined with potential nutritional deficiencies common to..." he hesitated briefly, a flicker of shared memory passing between them, "...those who have been in captivity."

The careful phrasing registered as their old code—clinical terminology that disguised deeper meaning. During their childhood under Blackwell, Yeosang had developed a system of double meanings, medical terms that conveyed warning or comfort without alerting their captors.

"I'll prepare a tonic," he continued, moving to a shelf containing various prepared medicines. "Mild adaptogens with mineral support. It should stabilize your system while you adjust to ship conditions."

He selected a small bottle, measuring its contents with precise attention before adding drops of another substance and shaking the mixture thoroughly. His back to Yunho, he allowed himself a single unguarded glance at Ella—a look containing such complex emotion that her breath caught momentarily.

Recognition. Relief. Residual pain. Protective vigilance. All compressed into a single moment before his professional mask returned.

"Yeosang joined us two years ago," Yunho explained, apparently noticing nothing unusual in their interaction. "Best doctor in the seven seas, though his bedside manner occasionally lacks Wooyoung's charm."

"Fortunately, medicine doesn't require theatrical flourish to be effective," Yeosang responded dryly, the familiar deadpan delivery so characteristic of the boy she had known that Ella nearly smiled despite her carefully maintained facade. "Unlike cooking, which apparently depends entirely on dramatic presentation."

Despite his deadpan delivery, something like affection colored the doctor's tone, revealing genuine connection with the crew despite his carefully maintained professional distance. Ella found herself wondering at Yeosang's journey from Blackwell's household to the ATEEZ—whether the officers knew of their shared history, whether he had recognized her immediately or only upon seeing her in his medical bay.

"Drink this," Yeosang instructed, returning with a small cup containing amber liquid. "All of it, please."

The directive—one she'd heard countless times during childhood illnesses—carried the same gentle authority that had always characterized his care. Ella accepted the cup without hesitation, recognizing the familiar aroma of his signature healing blend, and swallowed the contents.

"The taste is better than I expected," she remarked carefully, a coded acknowledgment of recognition that Yunho would interpret as mere politeness.

"I've refined the formula over the years," Yeosang replied with equal care, taking the empty cup. Their fingers brushed momentarily, the brief contact conveying more than words could safely express in Yunho's presence.

"Thank you," she said simply, the gratitude encompassing far more than the immediate treatment.

Yeosang nodded, his professional demeanor maintained despite the slight softening around his eyes that only she would recognize as emotional response. "You should rest for the remainder of the evening. I'll prepare a week's supply of the tonic for continued support."

"Is that necessary?" she asked, the dizziness already subsiding. "I feel better already."

"Prevention rather than crisis response," he replied simply. "A philosophy that extends beyond medicine."

The phrase was one he had often repeated during their childhood—a principle he had taught her when treating minor injuries before they could worsen into conditions that would draw unwanted attention from Blackwell. The deliberate echo of their shared past confirmed what his expression had already revealed: he remembered everything.

"Here," Yeosang said, returning with a small bottle containing amber liquid. "Three drops in water, morning and evening."

As she accepted the medicine, their fingers brushed again—a contact that appeared accidental but conveyed deliberate reassurance. The gesture was so familiar, so characteristic of how they had communicated under surveillance, that Ella had to force herself to maintain a neutral expression.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said formally, the professional title serving as shield for Yunho's benefit.

"Rest well," Yeosang replied with equal formality, though his eyes held promise of future conversation outside watchful observation.

As Yunho escorted her toward the door, she glanced back for a final assessment. Yeosang had moved to his desk, making notes with practiced efficiency that revealed nothing of the emotional recognition she had witnessed in his initial reaction. Only the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed inner turmoil carefully disguised beneath professional detachment.

"He's an excellent doctor despite his reserved manner," Yunho commented as they moved through the corridor toward her cabin. "The crew would face far worse fates without his skills after battle."

The casual reference to combat reminded Ella that despite the ATEEZ's unusual culture, it remained a pirate vessel—its black sails feared throughout the maritime world, its reputation built on ruthless efficiency against chosen targets rather than indiscriminate violence. These men were not merely sailors but fighters, their hands equally skilled at healing and harm depending on circumstance.

"He seems very proficient," she agreed neutrally, her mind still reeling from unexpected reunion despite outward composure.

"Especially considering his past," Yunho added, then stopped suddenly, as if realizing he might be revealing information beyond his right to share. "But that's his story to tell if he chooses."

The hesitation confirmed what she had already suspected—Yeosang maintained privacy about his history, his connection to Blackwell unknown to the crew despite their campaign against the slave trader. The realization created additional complexity in her already complicated situation: not only did the ATEEZ officers believe she might be their lost y/n , but they had unknowingly brought aboard the one person who could confirm her identity through separate experience.

"I appreciate his assistance," she said simply, redirecting conversation away from dangerous territory.

As they reached her cabin door, Yunho hesitated. "Will you be comfortable alone? I could have someone bring you dinner if you'd prefer not to join the officers this evening."

"Thank you, but I'll be fine," she assured him. "The tonic is already working. I simply need rest."

He nodded, accepting her assessment without pressing further—another example of the respect for boundaries that characterized the ATEEZ officers despite their fearsome reputation. The apparent contradiction continued to intrigue her: men known for ruthless efficiency in battle showing such careful consideration in personal interactions.

"Sleep well," Yunho said, stepping back from her doorway. "Our next conversation with the stars will wait for another night."

As he departed, Ella entered her cabin and closed the door firmly behind her. For several long moments, she simply stood motionless, allowing the carefully maintained composure of the past hours to dissolve into genuine emotion. Her hands trembled slightly as she pressed them against her face, breath coming in short gasps as the shock of recognition finally registered fully.

Yeosang. Here, aboard the same ship that had somehow collected five boys from The Crimson Serpent—the five who had tried and failed to protect her, followed now by the sixth who had sustained her through seven years of captivity under Blackwell's control.

The coincidence was too precise to be accidental, yet Yunho's casual introduction suggested the officers might not know of her connection to their ship's doctor. The implications raced through her mind as she paced the small confines of her cabin. If Yeosang had joined the ATEEZ two years ago as Yunho claimed, he had arrived long after the crew began their campaign against Blackwell. His presence represented separate convergence rather than coordinated search.

Did he know they sought y/n? Did they know his history with Blackwell included connection to the very girl they had sworn to find?

As she sank onto her bunk, the dizziness returning briefly with the emotional impact of discovery, Ella's mind drifted back to her childhood years in Blackwell's household—to the unexpected ally who had been ripped away from her like everything she cared for. 

—————

Blackwell's Estate - Fourteen Years Earlier

Six-year-old y/n crouched beneath the servants' staircase, her small body contorted to fit the narrow hiding space as she waited for the household's daily inspection to conclude. One year in Victor Blackwell's ownership had taught her which moments permitted temporary invisibility, which infractions earned tolerable punishment versus genuine danger.

"You shouldn't be here," came a familiar whisper as a shadow fell across her hiding place. "Blackwell's inspecting the east wing personally today."

She looked up to find Yeosang—no longer the uncertain child from the auction house but a more confident nine-year-old who had established himself as valuable through his expanding medical knowledge. His position as the doctor's assistant gave him mobility throughout the household denied to most child servants, freedom he regularly risked to check on her welfare.

"Cook said I took extra bread," she whispered back, fear evident despite her attempted bravery. "I didn't, but she needs someone to blame for the missing loaf."

Yeosang's expression darkened momentarily before smoothing into practiced neutrality. "Come with me. The doctor's quarantining the laundry staff for suspected fever. No one will check the medicine storage today."

He extended his hand, offering assistance she had learned to accept despite initial wariness. Unlike other household staff who viewed each other as competition for limited resources and favor, Yeosang had demonstrated consistent protection without demanding payment or submission in return.

They navigated the mansion's servants' passages with practiced stealth, utilizing routes mapped through shared exploration during rare moments of unsupervised time. The medicine storage—a small room adjacent to the doctor's office—remained one of the few spaces where Blackwell rarely ventured personally, his aversion to illness known throughout the household.

Once safely inside, y/n relaxed slightly, her small shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch. "Thank you," she whispered, the gratitude encompassing more than just this current assistance.

Yeosang nodded acknowledgment, his own posture remaining alert despite their relative safety. "I found something yesterday," he said after ensuring the door was securely closed. "In the garden, near the west wall where the old oak fell during winter storms."

From his pocket, he withdrew an object wrapped in clean bandage cloth. With careful movements that suggested treasured discovery, he unwrapped the bundle to reveal a small wooden carving—not the rough bird he had given her at the auction house, but a more sophisticated animal figure. A tiny wolf, perfectly proportioned despite its miniature size, its details remarkably precise from pointed ears to textured fur.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, reaching out but stopping short of touching, afraid her hands might somehow damage its delicate features.

"Look at the bottom," Yeosang urged, gently turning the carving to reveal its underside.

There, carved with remarkable precision, sat a tiny compass rose—five points arranged in perfect symmetry, the craftsmanship suggesting specialized tools rather than improvised implements. The symbol stirred something in her memory, a fleeting connection to her time before Blackwell that disappeared before she could fully grasp it.

"Who made it?" she asked, finally daring to trace the compass marking with one careful finger.

"I don't know," Yeosang admitted. "It was half-buried in disturbed soil near the garden wall—like someone tossed it over from outside the estate."

The mystery of its origin added to the carving's significance, transforming it from mere object to potential message from the world beyond Blackwell's controlled domain. For children whose movements were constantly monitored and restricted, such connection to unknown outside forces represented rare hope.

"Keep it," Yeosang said, pressing the wolf into her palm. "Hide it somewhere safe. When things become difficult, remember that beauty exists beyond these walls, that someone took time to create this even though it served no practical purpose."

She clutched the carving carefully, its solid presence providing comfort beyond its size. "But you found it," she protested weakly. "You should keep it."

Yeosang shook his head slightly. "I have more freedom than you," he said, wisdom beyond his years evident in his assessment. "More opportunities for small pleasures through my duties. You need this more."

The generosity—giving away his discovery despite its obvious value—sealed the connection forming between them, transforming cautious alliance into genuine friendship. Unlike the calculated exchanges that characterized most relationships within Blackwell's household, where every favor expected repayment and every kindness concealed potential manipulation, Yeosang's gift came without evident advantage to himself.

"Thank you, Angel," she whispered, the nickname emerging spontaneously. When his expression registered confusion, she explained shyly: "Because you help when no one else will. Like guardian angels in the stories my mother used to tell."

Something shifted in his carefully controlled expression—surprise followed by unfamiliar warmth. No one in Blackwell's household used names beyond functional designations; personal identifiers represented connection that their owner deliberately discouraged among his property.

"We should return before they notice our absence," he said finally, though his tone carried new softness despite the practical words. "Different passages to avoid suspicion. You take the service corridor, I'll go through the main hallway."

As they prepared to separate, y/n impulsively pressed the wooden wolf back into his hands. "You keep it safe for now," she said. "My hiding places aren't secure enough yet. We can pass it between us when either needs it most."

The suggestion—sharing their sole treasure rather than claiming individual ownership—created connection beyond simple friendship. Through this exchange, they established their first deliberate resistance against Blackwell's systematic isolation of his household staff, their first shared secret that belonged to them alone.

Yeosang accepted the carving with solemn understanding of its significance. "Until next time," he agreed, carefully concealing it within his clothing before checking the corridor for witnesses.

Neither child recognized that the wooden wolf with its distinctive compass marking represented connection beyond their immediate circumstances—that its creator was one of five boys who had sworn blood oath to find a lost girl, that its compass rose symbolized promise rather than merely decorative detail. For them, it simply represented tangible proof that somewhere beyond Blackwell's walls, beauty survived despite cruelty—a small hope that sustained them through increasingly difficult years ahead.

Present

Exhaustion finally overcame her. Tomorrow would bring necessary decisions about potentially revealing her identity, strategic assessment of her position aboard the ATEEZ, and careful communication with Yeosang away from watchful eyes and ears.

But tonight, cradled in the gentle rocking of a pirate vessel feared throughout maritime waters for precision and ruthlessness, Ella whispered her nightly ritual with new understanding of its significance: "Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy."

And for the first time in years, she added without hesitation, "Angel."

Six names. Six protectors. Six separate threads of connection woven together against impossible odds into a single pattern she was only beginning to comprehend. The compass that had guided five cabin boys toward vengeance and purpose now pointed toward recognition and potential restoration—if she found courage to claim identity long buried beneath necessary disguise.

Outside her cabin, the black-sailed ATEEZ continued its relentless progress through night waters, its fearsome reputation flowing before it like shadow across waves, its crew unaware that the sacred oath driving fifteen years of mission had already been fulfilled.

Taglist: @hopeless-lovex0 @frankielou02 @jilxxasu @kur0kki @lezleeferguson-120 @uniquecloudbread @miniverse-zen @symmieangela

[heretyc]

Modern! Domestic Lives with Prime Assets would Include...

* Modern meaning in our era [2020s]. These are my headcanons of them and what they'd do outside of the Outlast Trials universe where they're not murderers. The only exception to that rule is Franco considering his mob business. Enjoy. :D

Coyle —

Drinking beer on the porch as he watches a storm in the distance.

Adopting a dog at some point [a large breed, either a golden retriever or a dobermann].

Wearing matching sunglasses.

Helping him trim his beard.

Hearing him ramble about communists.

Helping him with his phone [he has no idea how the fucker works].

Helping him with his ranch [he'd 100% have a ranch somewhere in Oklahoma or Montana]. I'm thinking something like this:

Having a high reputation due to Leland's effect on people.

Hearing his stories from his time in the Marines. Then learning he actually hates water.

Helping him repair cars - he has a ton. Once they work, you watch him make bank from them. He then gives you a wad of cash, grumbling under his breath that "you should spoil yourself".

Hiking together. He lives by a nature trial.

ATV'ing. He loves that shit.

Going to gun shows.

Getting daily massages due to how strong his hands are.

Having a strong sense of justice due to Leland's connections with the police.

Having tons of sex...with the inclusion of his kink for electricity.

Having him protect you with his life.

Having him train you in self defense and how to work with guns.

Wearing the funniest couple's shirts because he finds that shit hilarious. Corny, but hilarious.

Going on random drives through the countryside on sunny days.

Watching him not give a shit about a potential natural disaster. He WILL sit on his porch and say, "if I can't fuckin' see it, it ain't happening".

Him looking away if you commit a crime. Like pirating, shoplifting, etc. Just don't threaten his values and you're good.

Him being hella annoyed during COVID and hating masks, but he wears them anyway.

Him always filling the cart at grocery stores because his ass eats all the food within a week. Expect constant trips.

Him winning food competitions. His stomach is a black hole.

Franco —

Being absolutely spoiled because his wealth does nothing but grow. Making hundreds of thousands a week will do that to you.

Sharing Cuban cigars [if you smoke].

Living in Louisiana most of the time [when business isn't concerned]. He enjoys New York, but Louisiana is his home. I'd imagine something like this near the bayou:

Him having a large collection of old and new cars.

Him being an excellent cook, and making you tons of authentic Italiano cusine, as well as Louisiana and New York specialties. He once tried to mix gumbo with pizza...he made it work, for some reason.

Going on vacation every single month. Most of it is business, some of it is for fun. His men once took over Bora Bora, so...he technically owns it, now. You go there all the time.

Constant. Partying.

Only having the best of the best. The best food, the best clothes, the best furniture.

Him being confused about Mafia AU in fanfiction. "The fuck is a "Mafia BTS AU?"

Him hating The Godfather and criticizing it.

Him answering any questions you might have about mafia business.

Having an "allowance".

Him having a fondness for shopping; specifically new suits and shoes.

Having to calm him down when he's angry; he's got an itchy trigger finger.

Having your initials carved into the side of Lupara.

Having him stare at your teeth almost with a fondness.

Spending winters in hotter climates; he can't stand snow. He does love "snow", though. [If you catch my drift.]

Always having sweets in the house. He has a stash.

Listening to old music as he works on making bullets.

Not being able to hide anything from him; he can read people scarily well.

Him taking COVID quite seriously; dumbass may have eaten dirt as a child but he still can't handle being sick.

Having the bathroom sink be full of skincare.

Having a ton of laundry detergents in the laundry room; he can't stand getting his suits dirty, so he washes them constantly.

Having the swamp in your backyard be full of alligators because he feeds them "rats". [People who betrayed him in some way]. He managed to name them, too. They're...strangely docile.

Him never mentioning his father, and trying to keep him at bay.

Late night drives when the both of you are bored as fuck.

Sleeping in all the time; he's lazy sometimes.

Him patching you up after you get a minor injury.

Country club visits.

Him teaching you self defense in case something goes wrong.

Having guards around his properties 24/7 if he's in a "war" with another mafioso. He wins, obviously, but...yeah.

Taking both cargo ship and cruise ship trips, both owned by him. He has a yacht, but it's in Cuba at his other property, and that's only used when he's in the clear.

The government being a tad too afraid to touch you.

Phyllis —

Helping her with her show, and featuring on it a few times.

Her show becoming a popularity among adults due to its vulgar themes; despite being aimed toward children, it's now featured on Adult Swim due to them not taking Phyllis seriously. I mean, who offers drugs to kids unironically?

Having to get Dr. Futterman's approval before being near his daughter. You get it quite fast. He's just a goose puppet real human being with real human feelings, after all.

Living in a cottage; she's a cottagecore girly. Something like this:

Watching her paint, and sometimes being her muse.

Buying tons of art supplies from Michaels.

Her not really caring about COVID; she spends all of her time away from people, anyway. She just speaks to you, her father and the producers. [Zoom exists for her to do the latter.]

Her making homemade foods; jams, ice creams, etc. She'd be a "crunchy" person, despite her love of drugs.

Her reading books to children at libraries.

Being a taste tester for her foods.

Always having her check your teeth for cavities.

Having her do your dental work.

Holding her yarn as she knits. [She took it up during COVID, she loves it.]

Making hats for Dr. Futterman.

Having to deal with Dr. Futterman's jokes.

Having your own garden; she takes excellent care of it.

Her loving storms, and comforting you if you have a phobia of them.

Sitting in rocking chairs and watching the clouds in the sky.

Every wall of the cottage being full of paintings.

Helping her run her social medias.

Watching old TV shows, like I Love Lucy and Golden Girls.

Her wearing nothing but floral gowns.

Her buying pet piranhas. They're in a fish tank in the living room...they're her babies, for some reason.

Her loving musicals. She loves Heathers, Sweeney Todd and CATS. [The OG's remember seeing the old CATS posters on billboards. I can hear my bones creaking...yeesh]

Her also enjoying opera; since learning she has the voice for it, she loves to sing and test herself.

Having a very...very...active sex life.

[beanghostprincess]

i'm aware that due to luffy's more cheerful personality and looks, a lot of people might find it weird to picture him in sexual situations. especially since most of us see him as aroace (as if aroace people couldn't have sex or be in love but, y'know, that's for another time) and it's completely understandable to not feel comfortable around sexual stuff if you don't like it with this specific character. however, being uncomfortable around that type of content and infantilizing luffy's character to the point that you consider it problematic or wrong to put him in romantic/sexual situations is too much and you should let people enjoy characters however the fuck they want. if you don't like something just scroll and ignore it, but don't try to make everyone follow your own moral compass and likes because we're all different and luffy is just a fictional character.

people often forget he's the captain of a pirate crew. he's mature and has critical thinking and if seeing a cheerful/cute character instantly makes you assume he deserves to be "protected" from sex/romance, you are: infantilizing his personality (that may or may not be neurodivergent coded, but that's another story), villainizing sex and romance instead of just seeing those as something you don't personally enjoy but should let other people consume, and using being aroace as a shield from the real world and a stereotype instead of actually being inclusive and truly seeing him as aroaspec. friendly reminder that aroaspec people can have sex and be in romantic relationships because it's a spectrum. that's the whole thing about it. it's understandable to not be comfortable around sexual situations with a character you don't perceive as sexually active, but that doesn't mean it's wrong to write him that way. let people do whatever they want with their idea of luffy and have fun!

[edsrosetattoo]

COLLIDER NAMES ‘OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH’ THE #1 CANCELLED SERIES THAT DESERVED ANOTHER SEASON!

“There has been no louder vocal disappointment than that of the cancelation of the very beloved pirate series Our Flag Means Death. This series provided comfort in a plethora of manners to a largely underserved audience of misfits, outcasts, and weirdos. The queer community especially championed this series with its extremely inclusive storylines around love that can occur in all shapes, sizes and colors, especially in a market that lacks such diverse representation.”

“And with such a large, dedicated crew, it's an absolute shock another network or streaming service didn't jump at the chance to give this series the final season it deserves.”

[cy-cyborg]

It will never not be frustrating to me that amputees appear in fiction ALL. THE. TIME. and yet they're almost never acknowledged as such. The Cyberpunk genre is especially guilty of this: amputees and prosthetics becoming a normalised part of life are a defining part of the genre/aesthetic and yet no one even consults with any amputees about how we get represented there. Most writers in those genres don't even consider that giving your characters cybernetic arms and legs means they're an amputee.

CW: Ableism, dehumanisation

This makes it REALLY uncomfortable to engage with stories in the genre because another common aspect of cyberpunk is the idea of losing yourself and becoming something distinctly not-human anymore because you have too many cybernetic augmentations/implants. Shadowrun even has mechanics for this, which state if you get too many prosthetics, which is what cybernetics are 9 times out of 10, your character becomes a monster. These mechanics and discussions surrounding "how many robot bits make you not human anymore" are really, really uncomfortable when you remember this isn't something that's unique to a far-off future setting. Those people you're discussing the humanity of already exist. They're called amputees. If you reframe the question as "how many amputations can you have before you stop being a person" I hope you can see why an amputee like myself is not going to feel safe around you or in your fandoms.

And it's a shame, because I REALLY want to like Cyberpunk. I really, honestly do. I love the aesthetics, I love the idea of big corporations being the villains and the anti-capitalism at the heart of the genre, and I love the idea of prosthetics being not only destigmatised, but desirable. When written from a disability-inclusive lense, it honestly has the potential to be an incredibly uplifting and empowering genre. but as the genre stands right now, it's actively hostile to the very folks who are usually the stars of its stories: amputees, all because people just refuse to acknowledge us.

Cyberpunk isn't the only genre guilty of this, it's common all throughout sci-fi as a whole, but Cyberpunk is the only one where it starts becoming a serious issue due to its rampant dehumanisation of a real group of people. In other sci-fi settings, it's just kind of annoying and while it can be a form of erasure, it's not usually harmful, just...frustrating. Fantasy does it on occasion too, think pirates with a hook and a peg leg, but nowhere near as much.

If you, as an author or creator, use any of these words to describe a character or their tech in a sci-fi setting:

cybernetics/cybernetic enhancements

bionics

robot limbs

cyborgs

augmentations

You are probably writing an amputee. Please, at the very least, acknowledge it, and be mindful that those are real people who actually exist, not just a fantasy group you can speculate about.

edit:

I originally posted this article on my old Tumblr account and lot of people commented/reblogged to tell me that originally in cyberpunk, the "less human the more robot bits you have" only applied to people who opted for their limbs to be replaced by cybernetics, because it was seen as "renting out your body to corporations for money" but people who had to get cybernetics out of necessity weren't impacted. The thing is though, I really don't think that makes it better, for a few reasons. For one, where do you draw the line at "opting" to get a cybernetic prosthetic? This isn't a black and white thing, even in real life. Most amputations are done out of necessity, but there are situations where it's not the only option, just the best one. Talking from personal experience, I lost both my legs below the knee as a baby, that was a pretty clear cut case, I had a blood infection and gangrene and they had to act fast. But the infection caused lasting side effects and impacted my physical body's development and growth. By the time I got to my early 20's it was causing a lot of pain in my right leg, in my knee specifically, and when I got a bone infection in the end of that stump, I chose to have the whole thing amputated up to the knee. They only needed to take a few inches off the end of my stump, but I asked them to go higher, because of the ongoing issues in that knee, issues that would have been made worse by the shortening of the leg. I choose to remove the whole thing, knowing the joint was degrading and I probably would have lost it later in life anyway. Even if it was salvageable, it would mean much more surgery, and I've had enough of those. A boy I played wheelchair basketball with was born with a partially formed leg, it was half the size of his other leg and he wasn't able to use it al all, it was just dead weight, so he opted to get it amputated too for convenience and so he could use a prosthetic on that side. I worked with a girl who's hand didn't form properly in the womb, resulting in a normal palm, but tiny "finger nubs" (her words) with no bones inside. They weren't actively harming her usually, but she opted to get them and the top of her palm amputated after an incident at work where we were tying balloons and one of her nubs got stuck in the knot. She decided to get them amputated because it meant accidents like that would be less likely, and she could use a prosthetic more comfortably. All 3 of these are considered "optional" amputations, so would people like us be penalised in your setting? does it make sense that the technology in your setting can tell the difference, or that corporations would care about the how and why? Even stepping away from medical grey areas, if your character opts for a cybernetic arm because the corporations will financially reward her, and she's struggling to put food on the table without that help, is that really optional?

Don't get me wrong, I do think that idea could work but it would take a lot of work to do well, and most works I've seen don't do the work. Even if they did though, it doesn't change the fact that most modern uses of this trope don't mention that bit or actively ignore it. It doesn't matter in most cyberpunk works I've seen if the amputation was optional or out of necessity, they still are more prone to being seen as "less human" and in most of the sci-fi writing communities I've been part of, the authors are genuinely shocked when I ask them to remember "people with cybernetics are real people already, they're not some far-off-distant future fantasy group, they're just called amputees". Like it didn't even cross their minds. These are the people creating the works in this genre. Even if it wasn't the original intention of the genre, it's still an issue in the modern version of it. Edit 2: Elaborated a little more on why I don't think the "only people who choose it" argument works in the edit. Also, please stop telling me that old cyberpunk doesn't have this issue, I literally address that in the post lol.

[summerlinenss]

i’ve been attempting to figure out something profound and uplifting to say, but honestly, i’m still just sad.

i’m sad we got cancelled in the first place. i’m sad that so many talented, hard-working people (on-camera and behind-the-scenes) lost their jobs. i’m sad that our show wasn’t even really given much of a proper, fair chance to begin with. i’m sad that these big corporations just keep proving time and time again that they don’t care about us.

i’m trying to find a way to sit with the sadness, like i’ve been trying to do for a year now. and it’s hard. it hurts. i think it’s because sadness feels like acceptance, and acceptance feels like giving up. but regardless of what happens in the future, i’m also trying to remind myself of the good that’s come from all the hurt.

our flag means death certainly and unfortunately wasn’t the first beloved diverse tv show to be cancelled, but it definitely woke many people up to just how much queer media is truly at risk. ofmd became the poster child for unjust cancellations in 2024, particularly for the cancellation spree by hbo. our fandom made headlines. we were on list after list after list. we’ve supported our cast and crew in their new projects. we’ve raised (at least) a total of just over $200k for various charities and mutual aid in a little less than 3 years of the show’s existence. we’ve taken part in initiatives to save queer media.

all of this to say, we’re still here. and i know we’re not going anywhere. i’m not giving up hope on a season 3 in whatever form it may come in, but i know that no matter what, we’ll continue to support each other and share our love for our pirates. and even if nothing ever comes of this, i can make peace with the fact that we’ve helped to make a difference and fight for the future of diverse and inclusive storytelling. long may we roam. 🏳️‍🌈🏴‍☠️