#their way is the objective Good and Comfortable way to live and deviating from it must mean i'm wicked and sad and i'm failing and them too

[anaalnathrakhs]

no really there is a special kind of academic grief when your classes are fascinating, they present interesting challenges, your homework is stimulating, fun to do, and you feel good when you get it done, your classmates are kind and fun and have so much interesting shit to say.

but you're wayyy busy spending your time 50% trying to be the best potted plant your parents have ever owned 50% blasting your brain with endless stimulation lest you start crying and hitting yourself because you had an unpleasant thought.

[verdantwyrm]

Anya, The Virgin Mary or the Vengeful Bitch

Or, shorthandedly, the Anyalysis.

I'm going to be occasionally stealing some points from my Curly thread over here, which you should absolutely also read. And also some segments from here, my small analysis of Jimmy and him being a monster vs choosing to be.

This analysis will be going over partially some of how she's treated in-game, but also how she's treated outside of the game as a representation of sexual assault and abuse victims, which is to either make her a mournful, bleeding heart virgin Mary, or a vengeful, final girl that's a violent, hysterical she-bitch. Which she is neither.

I think it's perfectly fine to orchestrate fictional characters killing their abusers, there's nothing inherently wrong with just that, it's more how people actually write it.

Just like any other trope, there are ways to go about it that are extremely harmful and ways that are generally inoffensive. As a victim myself, I personally see so many issues in wishing harm against your abuser, and there is nothing wrong with acting that out in characters you feel comfortable and relatable towards, but there are ways to do this that don't end up doing more harm than good— which is where most people fail. It's an objectively hard topic to address, because it requires nuance and understanding, possibly even lived experience to truly understand why someone would want this. Grieving, the absence that comes with being a victim, is not straightforward or black and white, it's an uncomfortable topic thats often on a spectrum of anger, grief or sadness that most people do not want to engage with because they have a very nearsighted opinion on how a victim should react– the perfect victim.

No one actually likes her as a character, they only like her for what she represents.

The Sexism of the Final Girl

I am sick and tired of people making up the realities in their heads where Anya overcomes Jimmy and kills him,

The trope of a "Final Girl" is not the feminist girl boss you want it to be and is incredibly misogynistic. The definition, as told by Wikipedia

"the final girl in many movies shares common characteristics: she is typically sexually unavailable or virginal, and avoids the vices of the victims like illegal drug use. She sometimes has a unisex name such as Avery, Chris, or Sidney."

There are feminist ideals and intentions behind it, but it is not inherently feminist as a concept and is often very misogynistic despite its intentions to display the woman of the group to be strong, better or uphold moral superiority for declining sex, drugs or any of the vices mentioned forehand. It is a sexist trope, and all it does is ridicule women for "falling" for said vices as if that inherently makes them inferior or deserving of murder or assault.

On the surface, the use of the final girl trope may seem like a progressive portrayal of feminist strength and ideology. It can be satisfying to see a strong, independent "girl boss" overcome an otherworldly predator or rapist. However, upon further examination, it is clear that this trope perpetuates prejudice and reinforces societal expectations for women. The final girl is typically portrayed as a straight, white, morally superior woman who abstains from "immoral" activities like drinking, drug usage and sex. She serves as a voice of reason and represents the ideal woman in our society.

Most importantly, she survives while those who deviate from societal norms face violent deaths. This trope is a subtle commentary on the expectations placed on women in our society - good girls will prevail while those who do not conform will suffer a violent and brutal death, usually at the hands of a man. Ultimately, it seeks to shame women for behaving in ways that are not considered "ladylike."

The film industry as a whole has a history of using females as vessels for pain and suffering. Hollywood loves to profit off of female suffering. These male directors may believe they are earning brownie points with audiences by having female survivors in their films, but in reality, they are simply using feminism as a disguise while indulging in the fetishization of female pain.

It is rather exhausting seeing who we are being reduced to one note Virgin Marys with bleeding hearts, scorned mothers or wounded victims of assault who will never recover, never love or never will have sex again. I do think Mouthwashing does an excellent job of telling the story of a rape victim, but how other people treat her beyond that, it's almost impossible to even have a character like Anya or even Angela from Silent Hill 2 without people stripping them and violating what their character is and instead of focusing on what they represent, a victim.

But back to Anya specifically, she does not even exert any interest, desire or want to murder or harm another person. People dehumanise her the same way Jimmy dehumanises her. They strip her of everything she could be, everything she wanted to be and make her out to be a perfect victim, a bleeding heart, a weak and pathetic woman.

How about Anya has a nice day, how about Anya smiles, and she's happy and safe. What about that? Huh? Or do you only like her when she's a victim. People care more about Anya being a victim they can save, a victim they can nurture and heal and rescue than anything else. They care more about her being weak, sad, frail and miserable. Always the mother, always the victim, always the virgin Mary and a sacrifice but never ever a woman and most definitely never a person.

It's even worse when I see people continuously writing and "re-imagining" Anya being Raped just so Curly, Daisuke, Swansea or even a self-insert reader situation to save her. I totally get that you want her to be happy, and to be rescued and for that to never happen but you severely miss the point of the story that there was no one there to save her. And constantly rewriting it to put a man in the favour of the situation comes off as very shallow and misogynistic the way you're all so ready to have someone rescue her like she's some distressed maiden in need of a big strong man, it also takes the point away from her entirely.

The horse that bites

Jimmy's constant dehumanisation of Anya affects how other people perceive her character as well, that she's weak, small or a crybaby in some sense because of how she responds to situations - emotionally, which is then amplified by Jimmy's pre-existing hatred and lack of respect for her.

Jimmy tears her down every chance he gets, makes her feel little and even compares her to Polle in his hallucinations. And Anya knows that he and Curly have a very lengthy history, so her caution and anxiety about even mentioning the incident, let alone saying the word “rape” is borderline impossible for her. It’s a manifestation, it’s a verbal acceptance and confession that it’s even happened. Something she has been trying to avoid coming to terms with.

And when she does eventually tell Swansea what happened, as much as you want to think she told him- she most likely told him to not do anything, to try and keep the peace for as long as possible.

Again, her vagueness is not her fault, nor is it her responsibility. It was Jimmy’s responsibility to not abuse and rape her.

It’s also very present that Jimmy is verbally abusive to her, putting her down at every opportunity by ignoring her very talented medical skills by saying Pony Express only hired her to cut corners in an attempt to reduce costs because she failed Medical School and that she’s not a “real nurse” because of that, and how he constantly questions her skills despite keeping Curly alive for such a long time in such a state.

After being insulted by him multiple times, she fawns to get him to actually do something beneficial because she knows he responds well to praise, and he complies, all while still insulting and belittling her for being "weak" and "sentimental"

Anya shows a clear fear of Jimmy and has consistent fawn responses around Jimmy. She is extremely careful not to make him upset and praises him to keep him amused and compliant to a degree.

Just like Anya says, our worst moments don't make us monsters. It's one thing to fuck up, and immediately suffer the consequences and acknowledge your mistakes— But it's another thing entirely to purposefully make it so you never have to deal with the repercussions and then make yourself out to be the victim. Jimmy takes every opportunity to blame everyone around him. All the time and Anya is no stranger to this.

Curly genuinely saw the good in Jimmy, in the same way, Anya sees the good in others and possibly even tried to see the good in Jimmy despite the pain as one of the key important things about how everything went about is that Anya never directly refers to her rapist as Jimmy, nor does she ever actually insult or talk badly about him, she only expresses her disinterest in talking to him because of his reluctance to cooperate with her. They both believe that our worst moments don't define us, and Curly had his own interpretation all of how we're defined by our past, but not slaves to it.

She is scared, she is terrified at this point and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that nor should we rush to change that. Her being scared is realistic, she is a scared lady in a very scary situation with an even scarier man who constantly switches between dissociation and lashing out depending on what's going on around him. And she is not that person to fight back, to be violent or to hurt him and that is perfectly fine. She doesn't need to be a girl boss feminist and fight back, she can just be a scared and quiet woman stuck in her own terror, and trying to infer that one Is the "better" option downplays victims who freeze in their own terror and makes them out to be weak or a hapless damsel because they're incapable of "standing up for themselves"

She has every single right to be absolutely terrified and that is in no way a bad thing. I actually really, really dislike the interpretation that Anya is angry, resentful or has any revenge towards Curly, or that she has to be this, hysterical mad woman sent out to kill or hurt Jimmy. I don't believe she's either of this. Anya deserves peace, and I think it's extremely important to understand just how similar she is to Curly. And I'm full of the belief that if Anya had actually done something to Jimmy (hurt him, kill him, whatever) she would be demonized and the misogyny she already faces in the fandom would be worse tenfold. Do not lie to yourself.

Not to even mention one of the many, many reasons as to why Anya OD'd in a room with a lock in the first place. It was to make sure Jimmy could never touch her again? Or do something awful to her body, even when it was lifeless and cold? It was to keep the gun safe, to protect Curly, to protect herself, to take control of the situation, to finally not have to worry about him ever touching her again. And Jimmy still violates it, even after she's dead.

He touches her, drags her body, and props her up in that chair. Even after death, she is never free from him. She thought she was going to finally be free of him, his rage, his desires, his touch, and she died thinking this, that he would never ever be touched or hurt by him ever again. She died thinking all was well, that it would all work out in the end, it had to. She died thinking Daisuke and Swansea would somehow make it out of there, tell her story, and make Jimmy face the consequences of his actions, it was the ultimate sacrifice, it was the greatest thing she could ever do.

Jimmy ruined her life, and he ruined her death, her sacrifice. To keep herself safe, to keep Curly safe, to keep the gun away from him, it all meant nothing.

Thinking outside the Ship

Anya is fun, she is enthusiastic, loves to make jokes, draw, play board games with Daisuke, read, and teases Swansea about his love for sweets which he doesn't even bother to object to and Swansea hands her a note so that she could give it to Curly during his psychological evaluation,, implying that they're casual enough for an exchange like that to occur, and even has what seems to be a budding relationship with Curly himself, taking to his comment about being fit to fly in her eyes like it's a common exchange of flirting between the both of them and she even teases him at the birthday party to "hop to it" in terms of the cake. She is at ease around him, her walls have dropped, and she feels safe to talk to him, and even attempts to try and get him to open up more to her.

She reads psychology books, she is extremely determined having applied to Medical school on total of eight different times and obviously has the skills and interest to keep doing it despite failing and only joined Pony Express so she could make money and keep trying to get into medical school.. She also has good taste in music, one that Swansea and Curly enjoy very much. She also seems to get along well with Daisuke and even allows her emotions to show with anger when they play games they seem to have much of the same sense of humour, judging by how Daisuke is genuinely worried about her when she locks herself in the Medical, they seem to have a positive relationship. We don't know much about her relationships with the others beyond what the wiki can provide.

She seems to have the best relationship with Curly, although. And after the crash, she can't bear to give Curly his pills due to him being in visible agony and her own trauma of forcing him to do something he very obviously doesn't want to endure, likely due to memories of her assault being triggered by both the act of forced insertion and the sounds produced by Curly during it.

Anya also spends most of her free time studying. She runs to clear her head. And when she really needs to destress, she binges on the worst reality television and fast food. She is a very free-spirited woman who is eternally doomed to be reduced to nothing but a hapless, miserable victim.

Final Comments and Thoughts

I don't have much to say here unlike my last analysis, but the situation on the Tulpar is not as straightforward as people would like, I understand it's extremely cathartic to think of a situation where Jimmy gets what he deserves but it isn't realistic, and thats what this game is trying to say. Abusive corporations, exhausting capitalism, this environment breeds Abusers like Jimmy and victims like Anya and Curly. There was nothing that could be done. Pony Express is what doomed them all, they're the catalyst.

Anya deserves to be written and viewed as more than just a representation, a victim or a vengeful hysterical bitch. She deserves to be happy!

Thank you for reaching the end of the thread, please don't be scared to share your thoughts in the tags or in my inbox, I'd love to hear them! good job! (っ˘з(˘⌣˘ ) ♡

[h1mmel]

shattered swords continuation chapter one: 白露為霜

this is a fan-made continuation of the shattered swords vn originally posted to ao3, but i've decided to delete my ao3 account and wanted to share it here instead! i tried to stay true to the original's lore but i also added my own headcanons and bits and pieces to the mix. this is the first chapter, and there will be more chapters posted eventually in the future! please leave me feedback if you enjoy it <3

--

“Your mother is dead.”

These were the words that Sushang heard but didn't hear, as if they'd been spoken in a language she didn't understand. Her brain processed it in slow motion, trying to rationalize what she was hearing in a way that wasn’t about to shatter her world apart.

But the eyes of her Master displayed no hint that she spoke anything but the truth; her somber expression nearly same look of calm, yet utmost seriousness that it rarely deviated from. However, a slight, rare look of displeasure and another emotion she could not identify curled at the woman’s upper lip.

And then reality hit Sushang as if she’d been struck by a carriage pulled by racing horses.

Her breath left her lungs in one fell swoop and she sucked in an empty gasp, struggling for air. Eyes quickly blurred with tears could only see the outline of her master’s shape now. Anger and loss and fear raced through her mind, afraid of the reality she was facing more than anything else. Sushang tried once, and then twice, to take in another breath, but her chest was constricted and she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were being crushed and she couldn’t breathe. Everything was starting to spin, and she clung to the figure that hugged her- her master was hugging her?- as if it were the the only thing keeping her grounded on earth.

Flashes of memories drifted through her hazy mind as if she were watching them on replay. She saw Mother and Father arguing, and she saw her master’s carefully manicured nails sweep across the surface of the Xuanyuan Sword as if she were familiarizing herself with an old friend again. She saw the cold eyes of Eagle as he slapped her across the face without remorse, and she cried not because of the pain, but because her mother had never prepared her for the sort of cruelty that might come from the world.

The last memory that drifted past was probably the oldest, a practically toddler Sushang swinging around a practice sword much too big for her when she lost her balance and found a scrape upon her knee after falling. The pain wasn’t notable enough to remember, but what was notable was instead the memory of crying in her mother's arms after the fact. Sushang held on to the memory of her embrace for as long as she could until the memory spiraled away and she realized it was her master holding her instead.

Lingshuang’s embrace wasn’t quite as warm or emotional or comforting as her mother’s, but Sushang buried her face in the older woman’s shoulder nonetheless. She didn’t know how long she’d been crying; her throat was hoarse, and her eyes felt puffy and swollen.

“Master…” Sushang finally mumbled, hugging her a little tighter. “Please, stay.”

Cheng Lingshuang didn’t object. However, her voice broke the brief silence that followed.

“There’s something else I need to tell you.”

-

Ma Feima made his intention clear that he was leaving as soon as the sun rose, but he hardly expected the child to wish to speak with him again. He’d beaten her and her Rakshasa friend within an inch of their lives- though the latter injuries were not technically his fault. Then, he'd came to deliver the news of her mother’s death immediately after he woke, so he surmised he was not exactly on her good terms.

So, while collecting his belongings, he was surprised to hear footsteps belonging to someone very obviously too small to be his senior disciple.

Feima had no reason to wish to speak with Sushang; he’d already talked with Lingshuang earlier and addressed the matter Mei requested they talk about. And, for as much as he’d have loved a rematch with the young girl, he bet her master might kill him for real if he hurt her beloved disciple one more time.

“That silly girl,” Lingshuang had remarked about Sushang during their private conversation. “What she lacks in smarts, she makes up for in bravery.”

But this Sushang was no longer the confident young girl he’d fought against a few days prior. Her eyes were slightly puffy around the edges, and the spring in her step was dulled. Clothes meant for traversing the sandscape had been replaced with a casual robe, and her massive belt meant for carrying an equally massive sword was nowhere to be seen.

“I forgot your name, but I want to talk to you,” Sushang called out.

He had no reason to humor the girl, but the man turned to face her regardless. Now that they were up close and no longer in combat, he could see the resemblance to Suyi in her face and stance.

He hated to admit it, but her face with the remainder of tear-stains blotching her eyes was eerily resembling of her mother whenever in their childhood, she would lose a spar to Yanqing and sneak off to cry afterwards. After a stern warning from Lingshuang, Yanqing had started let her win a couple of times. He would never let a girl beat him normally, but Suyi’s tears were genuine, unlike other girls who might cry to get their way, and he couldn’t help but feel bad making her upset over something so trivial.

But Sushang wasn’t crying over a lost spar or other childhood incident. She'd lost the most important person in her life, at the age he was when his own master had been killed by his own and Lingshuang’s hands.

It was ironic that Lingshuang, the one of them to have dealt the killing blow and carry Hua’s blood on her hands, was now the only one with hands gentle enough to raise a child.

“How do you think she’ll take the news?” Feima had asked Lingshuang a bit worriedly.

“Extremely poorly.” the cold-eyed woman had replied. “I’ve raised her for the last ten years, but that doesn't mean her and her mother weren’t close.”

Feima was hardly the person to offer comfort, but maybe comfort wasn’t what she was looking for. Thus, the man sat down on a crate near Lingshuang’s small shack of a house, patting the surface next to him as an invitation for the child to sit down.

“We’ll talk.”

The short girl struggled to get up on the crate beside him, something he’d overlooked as he’d forgotten about her injuries that still ailed her as well as her height (or lack of, rather). However, she managed her way to sitting after a moment.

“Master told me everything. Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn’t realize you were Suyi’s daughter,” the man admitted, quite awkwardly as he was unsure how to word his statement without offending her. “I only recognized you as your master’s disciple due to your fighting style.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t. You’d have been horrible at consoling me.” Sushang voiced Feima’s thoughts out loud as if she read his mind.

“You’re right,” a light chuckle came from the man. “But, I never knew your master to be an empathetic person… are you truly feeling alright?”

“No.” Sushang admitted. “But Master helped me. People think she’s emotionless, but she’s all soft inside… just doesn’t show it,” the young girl smiled slightly sadly. “She always shares whatever she’s thinking without a second thought, but never what she’s feeling. But she’s hurt too, you know.”

Sushang was speaking the truth; Lingshuang and Suyi had once been close in the past, during their days as the Phoenix’s disciples. But those days were long past, and Suyi had left Lingshuang to raise her daughter who wielded the same sword they’d shared during childhood.

“Did your master inform you of all that’s taken place, or only the details about your mother’s death?” Feima decided to touch on the subject that he was sure was still raw like an open wound.

“...Yes.” Sushang took a moment to respond. “To some degree. She said that my Grand-Master is still alive, and that my mother altered my Master’s memories using her sword- MY sword.”

“The second disciple, Su Mei, told me she believes that our master is the one who murdered Qin Suyi. After seeing what was left of your family estate, I can’t help but agree that it's a kind of devastation she’d be capable of.”

“Do you… honestly think my Grand-Master would have killed my mom? You and Master both knew her, was she really that kind of person?” Sushang’s voice was betrayed with a slight waver, but she managed to keep herself together.

“Su Mei thinks so. She said a person can change a lot in twenty years.”

“But the person you knew wouldn’t have,” Sushang inferred, and was surprised when Feima did not deny her suspicions.

“I don’t doubt Su Mei’s opinion. That’s all I have to say on the matter.”

“Not very helpful-” Sushang puffed her lip out as if she were pouting for a moment. “But I have some more stuff I wanna ask you.”

“Such as?”

“My mom’s Blade Sanction. Did you ever see her use it?”

“Qin Suyi's Ebonstyle- I did bear witness to your mother in combat a couple of times, but she rarely made use of her Xuanyuan sword's ability. From what I and the other disciples knew, she could create mirages to confuse her opponents.”

“And how did it work?” the child asked, curiosity eminent in her eyes.

“I’m not quite sure, but I have a guess,” with a wave of his hand, Ma Feima grasped his own sword from previously empty air as if it had been beside him the whole time, the red and black blade erupting from nothingness in a radiant gaze of pink and purple colors which quickly faded.

“My sword, Chi Jueying, creates mirages as well- but they trick the eyes. During my fight with your master, I used it to create many copies of myself- none of which were enough to confuse her, of course. That woman is much too observant.”

“My master beat you?” Sushang had a giddy smile.

“Of course she did. She’s Chi Yuan’s strongest disciple, after all.”

At the mention of her Grand-Master, Sushang perked up intently, listening to Feima’s words closely and speaking no more.

“Anyways, while Suyi’s sword seemed similar to mine in the way that it also created mirages, I believe hers worked by directly confusing the mind, unlike mine which only affects one’s sight. In the way she could confuse her opponent's mind, she could likely subtly alter or add memories to an unsuspecting foe– or friend.”

“I see,” Sushang nodded. “Thanks for explaining it. Master was pretty angry and didn't do a good job of telling me things that made sense.”

“I’m impressed you managed to talk your way out of being kicked out of her house.”

“Kicked out of her house?!” Sushang’s eyes widened; this was obviously news to her. “Why would she do that?!”

“Huh?” Ma Feima’s eyebrows furrowed together. The woman earlier had seemed so serious when she had remarked such. Perhaps… had she been joking? Such a thing seemed a very inappropriate thing to joke about, but of course, this was Cheng Lingshuang. Social rules weren't exactly something the woman obeyed.

“Oh, never mind. I must have misunderstood.” Ma Feima brushed it off with a wave of his hand, dismissing his own sword in the process.

“Wait, bring the sword back! I wanna talk more about Blade Sanction!”

“As much as I’d like to, I’m not exactly a welcome guest at your Master’s home. I’ll leave the teaching to the proper teacher.”

The conversation ended soon on that note, and Feima left soon after giving a quite laughably brief goodbye to the younger girl, who did not protest any longer. He did not attempt to re-enter the house to say farewell to Sushang’s master or check on the condition of the unconscious Rakshasa.

-

The Rakshasa man dreamt of a beautiful nightscape, walking alongside a woman dressed in a robe of white. This woman had hair the color of fresh snow which spilled over pristine shoulders and down her back, and a bright smile paired with sparkling blue eyes.

On this woman’s other side walked a “man” who bore his own appearance- nearly identical to himself spare for the uncharacteristic smile which tugged at zeir lips.

“Void Archives-” the Rakshasa spoke aloud, eyes narrowing slightly. “Please do not use my resemblance without asking.”

“Hush, you’re disturbing Kallen,” the other person replied, using zeir arm to catch the young woman’s and slow her to a halt as well. She looked a bit confused as she looked between the man and the cube who mimicked him, but seemed unfazed of the fact that they shared the same face.

“Otto, Inanis, what’s wrong?” Kallen’s voice was gentle, but melodic, like that of a songbird. “Is something the matter?”

“It’s laughable to call yourself by a human name when you’re anything but such,” The Rakshasa– Otto himself laughed as if to prove his own point.

“Humans can’t come back from the dead,” the other responded. “So, if Kallen were to come back, what would she be then?” Zeir eyes narrowed.

“How would she be different from me?”

“Because Kallen has human values, of course. She values life and has a good heart.” Otto was sure of his words.

“Oh, so it's you who’s hardly human, Otto,” Void Archives brushed a finger across the collar of the Rakshasa's coat in order to maintain his attention. “Am I wrong?”

“Inanis, stop saying foolish things. We’ll be late to see the sunset if we dawdle any longer!” Kallen pursed her lips together in frustration, obviously not quite understanding the conversation between the man and his mimicked form.

“Of course. Let’s be going,” Void Archives replied with a smile. Otto wishes to follow the two of them as he watched them walk away, but he found his feet rooted to the ground as the dream began to swirl away from his control. The last thing he remembered seeing was Archive’s hand on Kallen’s shoulder, and his own lingering rush of jealousy as he watched zeir display of affection towards a woman zey’d never even met.

-

The Rakshasa man awoke with a gasp and was immediately greeted with a splitting pain in his chest and right arm. Eyelids fluttered as he groaned, trying to move but only worsening his condition.

“You’re awake?” an unfamiliar female voice startled him, and his body tensed. Through blurry vision, he could make out the image of a woman with white hair who leaned over where he laid, and for half a moment he held on to the brief hope that he had died and been reunited with Kallen in heaven.

But Otto Apocalypse would not see heaven, and the woman beside him was not Kallen. She had addressed him speaking Chinese, not German, and her white hair was much too neatly styled; which he came to realize as her features slowly came into focus.

He then realized that he should give some sort of response to her question, acknowledging that he was indeed awake. However, his “yes, I am,” came out sounding more like “yesh… I hngnnhm…”

“If you try and move, don’t move your arm. It's burnt to a crisp,” the strange woman addressed him bluntly. “You’re lucky to have woken in the first place.”

Finally, once he managed to regain his words, the Rakshasa decided to start with the most important question.

“What’s happened?”

“The sixth disciple brought you and my own disciple to my doorstep, neither in very good shape. Sushang has already gone outside to speak with that man.”

So Sushang was alright. After he’d seen her body collapse lifelessly among the sands, he’d feared the worst despite the odd swordsman’s promise that he would not kill her.

“And you are?” His second question.

“Lingshuang,” the voice coldly replied. “That child’s master. But oddly enough, she couldn’t tell me your name.”

“It’s Otto Apocalypse,” he couldn't contain a weak laugh that came out more like a wheeze. “She… couldn’t pronounce it. You may call me the Rakshasa as she does.”

“Rakshasa,” Lingshuang repeated, the tone of her voice unreadable.

Now that the Rakshasa’s sense of vision and balance had both returned to somewhat of their normal states, the man managed to pull himself into somewhat of a more comfortable position propped up against the pillows, albeit not without a pained wheeze. He tried not to think about the way his right arm dragged uselessly beside him when he moved.

“How bad is it?” he managed to ask.

“Bad. I was surprised to find you still breathing when I saw the state you were in.”

“Senior-”

“Who are you calling Senior?” the younger woman replied, lowering herself to his level and making unblinking eye contact which he found to be slightly intimidating. “Don’t address me as if we’re acquainted. I don’t care if you and my disciple have become friends; there’s no need to call me as such.”

The man’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Then, miss-”

“Lingshuang is acceptable.” She interrupted him bluntly. “Now, let’s skip the formalities; take off your clothes.”

The Rakshasa froze. “Ah… why?”

“In order to heal your wounds,” the woman replied. “My silly disciple requested I instill you with Qi energy in order for your demonic artes to heal your body properly. In addition, I’m quite curious what tricks someone from the western world might be capable of.”

The Rakshasa hesitated briefly. “I hate to disappoint, but I know no demonic artes; simply a healing practice which only works under certain circumstances.”

Lingshuang showed no visible reaction to his words. “I’m still curious. Now, strip.”

It was difficult to remove what remained of his clothes with only one functioning arm, but the Rakshasa made do and lifted away fabric to reveal burned flesh. The swordsmaster beside him did not flinch away at the sight of his arm as he’d expected she might, instead watching him with her same unreadable expression. It was worse than he thought; blackened flesh left no trace of ordinary skin and instead exposed muscle and bone in some places. He expected it to be painful peeling the bandages away, but felt no sensation at all; likely due to the nerves having been completely burnt away, he realized.

It was hardly recognizable as an arm anymore. The Rakshasa tried his best not to be sick at the sight.

Once the bandages were gone, he made much easier work of the rest of his clothes. The man noticed he wasn’t wearing his outfit he’d traveled in anymore, meaning someone had already changed his clothes once while he slept. He wondered if this was the work of Sushang’s master, or if the older man whom had attacked them and then apparently returned them both to Lingshuang.

“Don’t be shy,” the woman wasn’t oblivious to the way he was uncomfortable bare under her gaze, wearing nothing but his underwear. “I feel no attraction towards men; I simply want to see what I’m working with.”

“About my arm-”

“It’s worse than I thought,” the woman remarked nonchalantly, leaning to get a closer look. “I hope your method of self-healing doesn’t require use of both hands.”

“I can make it work,” the Rakshasa gritted his teeth together, watching as the younger woman placed an outstretched palm against his bare chest and began the transfer of Honkai energy. It started off slowly, a burning sensation filling his lungs with every breath he took as a flow of the corruptive strength began to restore his vitality. This alone wouldn’t heal his wounds, but if he restored enough energy to call upon Void Archives, there was a chance the accursed cube would be able to heal his injuries completely through the use of the Abyss Flower’s mimicry. At least, that’s what the Rakshasa hoped.

However, the flow of energy was not painless, and the man gripped the sheets of the bed he laid upon with his good hand as rough breaths became ragged. He hated to show such weakness in front of the unfamiliar woman, so he did his best to keep his expression neutral despite the agony each breath of air brought with it.

Finally, Lingshuang seemed satisfied with the amount of energy she had transferred to him, and stood up after dusting her hands.

“That’s all I have to grant for now without exhausting myself. I hope it’ll be enough.”

After struggling his way into a sitting position, the Rakshasa called upon the slumbering cube whom had been ignored until now. Immediately, he felt the power of Void Archives answer to his call, surrounding him with a familiar golden energy which pulsed with its own life.

Golden tendrils spiraled around the Rakshasa’s good hand, forming the appearance of the lance (or umbrella, rather- as Sushang had called it) out of thin air. He held it firmly for a moment, admiring the black and white blade and feeling Lingshuang’s curious gaze upon him without even looking up.

The sensation of being healed by Abyss Flower was unique in its oddity, the man feeling little pain but instead a tingling numbness that spread across his charred skin as if it had been dipped in soothing oil. He could feel his internal strength sapping as his body’s vitality restored itself, destroyed skin mending before his eyes and burns turning once again into ordinary human flesh.

Lingshuang watched, transfixed as the strange foreign man repaired his own body which was previously at the point of scarring beyond repair, blackened skin becoming healthy again before her eyes. She looked to the man’s face expecting an expression of pain, but saw only exhaustion in his eyes, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.

Whatever power he’s using requires the use of Qi energy, but doesn’t seem to hardly harm him in the process. How intriguing.

Eventually, the Rakshasa’s hands grew too weak to grasp the lance any longer, and it dropped into his lap before dissolving into a wave of golden sparks, which dissipated in midair.

And yet, Lingshuang’s expression betrayed little of her interest, despite her words. “I’m impressed.”

The Rakshasa did not hear these words, however, as his eyes were glossed over and no longer seeing the world around him. Barely a moment passed after the lance vanished that they rolled back into his head and he fell limp against the pillows and blankets beneath him, head lolling to the side slightly. Lingshuang lifted a hand to his neck to find his pulse, then swept his bangs from his forehead to check his temperature, satisfied when she found both normal. He was merely exhausted.

Sushang chose this perfect moment to re-enter the small house, greeted with the sight of an unconscious and barely clothed Rakshasa lying next to the form of her master. Eyes blotchy with tears were quickly covered by her hands.

“He’s naked!”

“He’s healed.” Lingshuang remarked.

“Where are his clothes?!”

“He took them off so I could transfer him Qi energy, like you requested.”

“Master!” Sushang protested, waving her hands frantically with eyes still closed. “Put them back on, please!”

Lingshuang did not wish to spare the effort to put his pants back on, so she opted to cover the man’s sleeping form with a blanket for modesty instead.

“He’s decent now. You can open your eyes.”

“I-i-is he okay?” taking cautious steps forward, Sushang made her way to stand before the older man who laid in her bed.

The older, unconscious, half naked man who laid in her bed, splayed out pathetically across the sheets.

“Did he wake up?” she added on, noticing his state.

“He did. Quite an odd man.” Lingshuang affirmed, not taking her eyes off him. “But, as you said, he had a way of healing himself. It drained his own energy and he lost consciousness because of it, but wasn’t harmed in the process.”

“Did his arm heal all the way?” cautiously, Sushang tugged at the blanket ever so slightly to reveal the top of the Rakshasa’s shoulder. Blackened skin was no longer covering his side as it previously had, instead replaced with healthy flesh.

“I like him much more than your mother’s husband.” Lingshuang said without filter. “He’s distinctly older than both me or your mother, but still, a responsible father figure nonetheless. I trust him to continue traveling with you.”

The Rakshasa, being like her dad?! At first, Sushang mentally turned up her nose at the idea of being parented by such an unemotional man, but then glanced down at him again. The man who refused to show weakness to a point of keeping his hair from blowing in the wind via his strange magic was now unconscious from injuries he’d received protecting her.

“I told you he could heal himself! Did he use his weird umbrella thing again?”

“Umbrella?” Lingshuang quirked an eyebrow. “He summoned a lance, which recovered his wounds in the span of a minute’s time. It was impressive even to my eyes.”

“Well, whatever it was, he used it on me too! I got all hurt fighting that Eagle guy, and I was worried I wouldn't be able to make it back, but then he whips out his magic parasol and boom! No more injuries!” Sushang gestured with her hands as if to drive in her point. “Oh yeah, Horse guy left, by the way. Said he had things to attend to.”

"I told him to leave once he was finished with his business, our house isn't meant for entertaining guests.” Lingshuang affirmed. “We already have an extra body to care for as is.”

“An extra two bodies,” Sushang added on, not forgetting the coffin they’d left outside. It had felt odd to bring a stranger's corpse into the house, so Lingshuang had found a place for it under cover outdoors instead.

“The second body is not a problem of ours; it does not take up one of our beds, nor require food. The first one, however…” Sushang’s master narrowed her eyes ever so slightly at the blonde-haired man, and the girl did not catch on to the fact that the older woman was joking in her words.

"That’s right! Where am I going to sleep tonight?!” Sushang exclaimed, turning about as if searching for a solution. She’d feel bad pushing the Rakshasa man onto the floor again as she had earlier, even if his wounds were now healed.

"In my bed?” Lingshuang replied.

“Then where will you sleep?!”

“In my bed.”

The younger girl narrowed her eyes. “And when I kick you in the middle of the night while sleeping…? Or steal away the blankets?”

“You’ll be punished accordingly.”

Sushang yet again did not realize that her master was joking, and felt a shiver run down her spine. However, it was a fate not near as worse as sharing a bed with the unconscious Rakshasa.

“I promise I won’t! I’ll sleep as still as a dead man!”

“If you don’t, you’ll find yourself in that coffin too come morning.” Sushang would have been genuinely afraid had it not been for the smile that rose to her master’s lips as she said this.

As the day went on, Sushang tried to keep her mind occupied, but it was hard to do when her master was hardly much of a conversation partner, and only other person she might talk to was currently out cold. No matter how many times she prodded the Rakshasa’s cheek or called out to him, the man would not stir, to her own irritation.

Sushang was uninterested in dinner, to her master’s concern, but the woman didn’t push her to eat. The girl was still sore and it hurt to move around a lot, so by the time the sun began to creep down the horizon and cast an orange glow of sunset along the distant sands, Sushang was flopped across her master’s bed and ready for sleep. Lingshuang said little to her as she helped her braid her hair for bed so that it wouldn’t get tangled, and helped her change into sleeping clothes when the girl found it too difficult to get up again.

Moving Sushang to her own side of the bed so that Lingshuang could make room for herself proved to be a difficult task, but the older woman was strong despite her height.

Lingshuang was not oblivious to Sushang’s helplessness, and was not the kind of person to let her thoughts sit idly by.

“Are you feeling alright, Sushang?”

A muffled voice came in reply, as the young woman had her face buried in the pillows currently.

"Mm… everyth’nn hurts…”

Lingshuang’s eyes narrowed slightly, as she hadn’t recalled Sushang complaining earlier in the day. “How long has it been this bad?”

Sushang didn't reply right away. “...dunno…”

“Sushang,” the older woman’s voice came, a little more persistent this time. “Is it something medicine can help?”

Lingshuang’s question seemed odd at first, but it took Sushang a moment to realize she was asking to figure out whether or not the girl was complaining about her injuries ailing her, or her heart hurting from loss. It was just her Master’s weird way of stepping around talking about emotions, which Sushang didn’t mind, as she knew how blunt the older woman could be with her words sometimes.

“No.” Sushang finally replied. While it was true that she was sore especially around her shoulder and it was painful to move, Lingshuang had already done all she could to treat her injuries and the next best cure to them was time spent resting.

“Come here, then.” Lingshuang laid down beside the girl now, having dimmed their lantern in order for them to sleep. Sushang didn’t understand what she was asking and awkwardly shuffled herself a little closer, but strong arms pulled her tightly against the woman’s chest.

Her master said nothing as she held Sushang like this, pressing her into the crook of her shoulder with a force that was only slightly less than uncomfortable. The younger girl welcomed the grip that she normally would have squirmed away from, feeling a bit safer with something weighing her down.

It was Lingshuang’s odd way of comforting Sushang while also dealing with her own grief, holding her like this. In the past her disciple had noticed the woman doing a similar thing with her Xuanyuan Sword when she thought nobody was looking; merely gripping it to her chest as if she were mourning something lost and afraid the sword would disappear. When Sushang would cry, she’d hold her in a similar manner in her arms until she’d calmed down. It wasn’t an effective way of talking about emotions, but for Lingshuang, it was still an effective way of releasing them.

Sushang couldn't stop the tears from flowing as she nestled into the woman’s arms until sleep took her away.

The next morning when Li Sushang awoke, she found herself splayed uncharacteristically across the sheets beside her master. She’d had a restless sleep, if the state of the bedding was any clue in the matter, and a resonant soreness remained within her body.

Lingshuang was awake beside her, having already risen; sitting atop the bed with her legs folded and eyes closed. Sushang, not wanting to speak for risk of disturbing her master’s deep meditation, did not speak- instead letting out an audible exhale of breath to test if her master was currently listening or aware of her surroundings.

The pale-haired woman showed no reaction.

Despite the pain she was in, Sushang managed herself up into a sitting position mirroring that of the older woman’s. She let her eyes flutter closed and tried her best to regulate her breathing. However, with the pain her injuries brought, it was difficult for her to focus upon reciting Blade Swara without finding herself surrounded by ripples of distraction.

Her vain attempts were eventually interrupted by her master’s voice.

"You need to tend to your physical state before attempting to clear your mind,” the woman stated, and Sushang felt a hand brush scattered bangs free from her eyes before they fluttered open again.

"Master-” Sushang’s voice was slightly raspy from disuse over the course of the night. “Good morning.”

The older woman’s eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. “I need to tend to your wounds again now that the sun has risen. Are you in pain?”

Sushang was hesitant to admit it, but she nodded.

“Rest for a moment. I’ll return soon,” and with that, Lingshuang had risen from the bed and left to the other room.

Now left alone in her thoughts, Sushang settled down to a more comfortable position atop the bed and bundled herself within the blankets. Soon, the older woman returned to the room with a warm towel and some fresh changes of bandages. Gentle fingers loosened the ties of Sushang's sleeping robe, pulling the clothing down to reveal a blossoming splay of bruises covering her left shoulder. The young girl winced at the sight despite the light touch causing no pain, and the air between them remained wordless until her master broke the silence.

“He set the bone back into place, but was not kind in doing so. Men do not have a gentle touch,” there was a rare anger barely audible in the woman's voice.

“It’s sore,” Sushang murmured.

“As I’d expect. You should refrain from use of this arm for some time,” Lingshuang’s reply came coldly. “There are more bruises to your sternum and torso as well… just what did you do to provoke that man?” she asked it not as a question as much as a rhetorical statement, but Sushang still replied.

“Nothing! Me and the Rakshasa were traveling alone just fine by ourselves and did nothing wrong!”

“Don’t be offended by his actions,” Lingshuang soothed her. “He is a man of many battles, and little reasons behind them.”

“I’m not offended! I’m just-” Sushang pursed her lips. “...first, he challenges me for no reason, then comes to tell you my mom died? Nobody taught him to be soft with a girl’s feelings!”

“I tried to,” the young girl nearly missed the slip of slight amusement in Lingshuang’s words. The warm cloth pressed up against the bruises to sooth them, and the young girl sharply inhaled, eyelids fluttering. Sushang did not make a single sound while her master cleaned and re-bandaged the rest of her injuries, most of which were smaller cuts and scratches.

“Next, we’ll head outside- you need a bath.” Lingshuang stated rather matter-of-factly.

“But, the Rakshasa-”

“...has not woken yet, so don’t let him concern you.”

"Okay,” Sushang gave in, and accepted her master’s hand to help her free from bed.

[mariacallous]

For the first five years of my life, we lived in the apartment next door to my grandparents. I may have only been a toddler, but I still have vivid memories of being in that home with its many house plants overflowing in their pots, tchotchkes and art from the former Soviet Union, menorahs and other Jewish objects on display, and a welcoming coziness and warmth.

What I remember most about being at my grandparents’ home was the food. Often, there was a pot of something simmering on the stove. On the best days, that pot was filled with tefteli, otherwise known as Russian meatballs. I can still see myself sitting at my grandmother’s table in front of a steaming bowl of tefteli, eagerly waiting for them to cool down so I could start eating.

What makes Russian meatballs different from other kinds? While tefteli come in all types of variations and preparations depending on your own family’s tradition, one of their defining features is that they’re typically made with rice. It’s likely that rice was first incorporated into the dish as a means to stretch the meat, but it also adds a great texture and flavor. Unlike the Italian kind, most Russian meatballs don’t use breadcrumbs, or much by way of herbs or spice. Some folks make them with beef, some with chicken or turkey. The non-kosher versions are often made with pork, and are cooked in a creamy tomato sauce. Some cooks dust the meatballs in flour and then brown them before adding them to the sauce. Some bake them in the oven. Some make a sauce that ends up so thick it is almost shakshuka-like. Usually, shredded carrot is added to the base of the tomato sauce, adding sweetness.

Tefteli are also meant to be eaten on their own as a main course, and they are frequently served with creamy mashed potatoes, but I also love them with a side of polenta, or even with just a slice of good crusty bread.

Every time I make tefteli I try to replicate what my grandmother made for me. Yes, I’m biased, but her meatballs are the best I’ve ever tried. This recipe is fairly simple in terms of its ingredients and steps, but the key to her tefteli’s success is one step that you can’t rush or skip: caramelizing the onions. Caramelizing onions was my grandmother’s go-to flavor builder. When onions get golden and jammy from cooking slowly in a little fat, they add sweetness and umami to any dish. The rest of this recipe mainly involves adding things to a large pot. Leftover rice is great for the meatball mixture, but if you don’t have some on hand, I find the timing works out well if you cook the rice while you’re caramelizing the onions and making the sauce. I prefer to use dark meat ground chicken for this, but you can definitely make this with turkey or beef.

This is the kind of dish that rarely gets a written recipe. I’ve given you specifics, but deviating from what is suggested will only make this better. Taste and modify your tefteli and sauce to your own liking. For instance, my mom actually dislikes rice in her meatballs, so she adds breadcrumbs or matzah meal instead. I like to add chili flake for subtle heat, but that can be completely omitted. I find that these are perfect when they’re on the larger-side, but if you like smaller-sized meatballs go for that. In any form, these are best made in a big batch so that they can be shared with loved ones, and so that they can fill your home with warmth and the smell of good simple food.

I suggest serving these meatballs with a generous ladle of sauce, topped with chopped fresh parsley alongside mashed potatoes, your favorite side, or slices of good bread.

Note:Meatballs can be made several days in advance, and they freeze and reheat well.

[iamthedukeofurl]

One thing I've noticed that defines American Conservatism as a whole is a sort of...competitive mindset when it comes to life choices. Like, there's a desire to live an Objectively Correct life, which they, naturally, define as their OWN life. Religion is certainly deeply ingrained in this, but I believe the impulse begins with the desire to self-identify their own lifestyle as "Correct", and religion enters the picture primarily as a way to identify all "Competing" lifestyles as "incorrect". For those of us old enough to remember when Gay Marriage was a big debate in the country, there was strong opposition from the right. The clearest opposition was in plain religious terms, being gay bad, therefore society should not condone it. But there was another argument that was thrown around, one which was repeated often, but never made sense to those who were not making it. "If Gay people can get married, Straight marriage is worthless". The term "Protection" was used a lot in this context, "Protecting" the institution of marriage from gay people. And looking back on that in context of the intervening decade, something finally clicked for me. Some people are uncomfortable with the idea that there are multiple "Correct" ways to live. They can be perfectly happy and content with their life, but the idea that there are alternatives out there makes them uncomfortable because it introduces the idea that they might be wrong. It's not that homophobes in straight marriages are repressed homosexuals who wish they could have gotten gay married instead, it's that being presented with somebody who is different than you, but still lives a thriving, happy life shatters the comforting certainty that you have been Correct. Key to this idea of Correctness is consequences for disobedience. That's why so many conservative policies are needlessly anti-empathetic and cruel. The assumption is that if you live the correct life, you receive the rewards of comfort, and if you deviate from that, you suffer. Homelessness must exist as a threat to those who deviate from the standard of the protestant work ethic (nevermind that wealth and work ethic rarely correlate in reality). Sickness must exist as a threat to those who deviate from the standard of health (nevermind...literally everything about that statement). The horrors of drug addiction and withdrawal must exist as a threat to those who cannot resist the temptation to do drugs (Nevermind...you get it). And Pregnancy must exist as a consequence for those who deviate from the standards of puritan sexual morality. If you have sex "Correctly", with your spouse in a place where you are at least open to the idea of having children, you would never need an abortion. Abortion is for filthy sluts who can't control their lustful impulses. If you lived a Correct Life, you wouldn't need an abortion. At the root of it all is a fear of uncertainty. From their perspective they made all the "Correct" choices and ended up in a good place, but those were not choices at all. They didn't "Choose" to be straight and cis, society told them they were by default and they didn't disagree. They didn't choose to be christian, they were raised as such, found comfort in their faith, and never questioned it. They took the path of least resistance and it worked out, why doesn't everybody do the same? Why do you want to make things so complicated and confusing? This WORKED. It worked for me, it worked for my parents and my friends. I don't want my kids to grow up thinking it's okay to make the wrong choices.

Here’s the thing I think conservatives don’t understand: I don’t care what someone else does with their own body.

You wanna get surgery or take medication to make you look a certain way? Okay. I don’t care

You wanna ctrl+alt+delete that clump of cells in your uterus. Sure. I don’t care.

You wanna use meds to block a natural aspect of your body’s system? Alright by me. I. Don’t. Care.

I don’t care because it’s not my body

“But what if they regret it?” So? Let them regret it. That’s their choice to live with.

“But what if that baby would have grown up to cure cancer?” Kinda short sighted on God’s part to only put that potential in one baby, yeah? (Also … you can’t cure cancer, but that’s a level of nuance for a different time)

“But what if they want to use that function in the future?” Funny thing about meds: you can just stop fucking taking them and things usually go back to normal.

I DON’T CARE WHAT ANOTHER HUMAN BEING DOES WITH THEIR OWN BODY! I don’t care 🤷‍♀️ it’s not my body so why should I have a say in it?

The choice is not “being left up to the states instead of the federal government”, it’s that the choice is being taken away from individuals.

Why the fuck to they care so much what other people do with their own shit??

[fishfactsfriday]

Most people who have been at the coast have seen barnacles but very few people know much about them.

Well, let’s start off simple. Barnacles are crustaceans and are related to shrimp and crabs. Yeah, that’s right. Kind of hard to tell at a glance. They are very common and latch onto anything stationary and that is because they are sessile, which means they lack the ability to move themselves. Those shells they live in are actually attached with a cement gland that the barnacles have. Yes, literal, natural cement.

You know those little feelers that they stick out to eat? Well those are actually its legs that it uses to filter feed. These are called cirri and can actually help with its ‘breathing’. As they are filter feeders they generally tend to have a diet consisting of plankton and other microscopic organic materials.

When someone says barnacle, people usually think of the small rock-like acne on rocks and ships and while those are barnacles and certainly the most common, known as acorn barnacles.

However there are literally around a thousand species of barnacles. Such as the goose barnacle which have a long stalk.

These are actually edible and widely consumed, considered a delicacy in places such as Portugal and Spain known as percebes

It is also eaten in other places, like Morocco and historically consumed by the indigenous people of California.

While we are on goose barnacles, there was a historic misconception regarding these crustaceans and geese. This was when people did not know that birds migrated and thus had never seen them nest in Europe. It was actually believed that goose barnacles were the eggs or young of geese and that full grown geese would emerge from them. This is generally a medieval era idea and is attributed to the christian church.

Most barnacles, with few exceptions (the goose barnacle is actually an exception), are hermaphroditic, meaning they do if fact contain both sexual organs. Now if you will recall, barnacles are sessile and cannot move. As such, this does make sexual reproduction difficult. To combat this, barnacles have evolved in the most hilarious way.

Barnacles have extraordinarily long penises.

Barnacles actually have the largest penis to body size ratio in the entirety of the animal kingdom.

No I’m not joking.

Behold.

Anyways we’ve discussed that barnacles can only like to situate themselves on stationary or slow moving objects, like rocks or turtles. Well did you know there is a species that actually has chosen to live upon dolphins?

Yep! There is a genus that lives exclusively on the fins of porpoises!

In order to get a good grip though, they ‘bite’ into the skin and dig in to hold on leaving a star shaped scar when they die and fall off.

This next section is going to cover parasitism so just to make sure everyone is comfortable the paragraphs and pictures will be censored. Please look at your own discretion.

Did you know that barnacles can be parasites? Neither did I until yesterday. It’s true and there are quite a few that have taken to this life style. Rhizocephala is a parasitic barnacle that goes after its cousins, mainly crabs and lobsters. When a larva finds a female crab, it will pierce the crab’s egg sac with a needle-like appendage inject a clump of cells. Now that this has happened, the crabs fate is sealed. It will grow inside the crabs body, wrapping around its organs, muscles, and even eyes. It will continue growing to the point it will bulge out of the egg sac, changing the crab eggs to its own eggs. Another barnacle will come along, fertilize the eggs, and then the crab will climb atop a rock and release the larva, letting the process happen again. This barnacles anatomy has deviated to this very specific lifestyle that it in comparison to other barnacles it is almost unrecognizable.

But perhaps that wasn’t interesting enough for you. Well that’s fine because I have another one. This one has chosen its host to be that of the dogfish, a species of small, deep sea sharks. Most barnacles that hitch a ride generally do not harm the host but this one is an exception. This barnacle does not have a shell and thus will dig itself into the dogfish and take refuge under the skin, in the eyes, the spiracles, and mouth. Sometimes even in the sexual organs, effectively castrating the shark. It has roots that will anchor surprisingly deep into the dogfish and sap the nutrients from the surrounding tissue.

Anelasma squalicola anatomy vs a goose barnacle

September 2, 2022

Sources lost

[aikrus]

What It Means To Be Dead (Tokoyami x Reader)

Fandom: Bnha Warnings: Mentions of Dying, depression, bullying, abuse, and strong language Words: 2k259 Requested By: Anon <3 Request:  Hi I love your writing! Can I request one where Tokoyami )or anyone you'd like really,) finds a collection of old-ish diaries and letters while cleaning? The person's handwriting is very distinct and pretty (Think 1700's love letter find) but they never mention their name. As they read more of it they find newer entries where Aizawa is mentioned so they ask him about it only to find out the person who wrote them died almost 100 years ago and 'haunts' the school. (Sorry for long request) A/N: I deviated a little from the request, but I hope you like it!

            The night had already came and claimed the land of UA for itself. Shadows overtook the courtyards, and darkness fell across the classrooms, but not everyone had retreated to the safety of their comforters which shielded them from the secrets which the black abyss held so dear. 

After a draining day of learning and training, Tokoyami wanted nothing more than to go to sleep- sadly, it was his turn to clean the classroom. It was annoying and boring and he’d give anything to be able to go to sleep, but fair is fair and he wasn’t the tyrannical type.

And so, he washed the windows and wiped down the desks. He swept the floors and organized the textbooks, and he turned to put the broom back into the small closet in the corner of the classroom. With a heavy sigh, Fumikage realized he should probably tidy up the dirty, dust-filled, death trap that was called a broom closet. 

Narrowing his eyes at the cobwebs, he started to knock them down with the end of the broomstick (Seriously praying to whatever god there is that no spider fell onto his feathers). The room was in worse condition on closer inspection, it looked like not a soul had thought to clean it since the school was built. 

After taking the time to sweep the floors, wipe down the door and the counters, and organize the books, Tokoyami was beyond tired and ready to fall asleep in the still-somehow-dirty closet. No matter how many times he swung at the cobwebs, how many times he picked up the coats and books and papers on the floor, despite the effort he put into tidying up the smallish space, it still seemed to have a weird layer of age coating itself entirely.

The closet felt preserved in time, like the oldness it felt was not just in the items littered about, but in the very walls itself. The things it’s seen, the memories it held, something about the space simply felt... wrong. 

He turned to a corner he hadn’t worked on, inwardly groaning at the amount of work he still had to do despite the time of night. With a huff, he began to organize the textbooks and pages of work sprawled around the space. 

His hands fell upon and old leather book- very different in both appearance and age when compared to the marble notebooks that surrounded it. Leaning over, he saw ten to fifteen more of there journal like collections shoved deep into the corner of the room. 

Tentatively, he peeled open the first book. Looking at the pages, it looked to be the diary of a girl- the beautiful handwriting looked like it belonged to someone who saw the beauty that exists within the written language, someone who stops to smell the flowers, a person who looks at sunsets and bakes goods to say they love you. 

The ink that bled onto the early pages spoke of a student, a girl who wanted to be so much more, someone who wanted to save the world. He became enthralled by the speech patterns, the phrases and swirls of the letters drew him closer, enchanting his eyes to never leave the pages.

------ 

Soon the pages became all he could think about, even after he had to abandon the closet to race to bed. During class all he could think of was the feeling of the crisp paper under his touch. The voices of his friends seemed ugly, seemed to be missing the douse of honesty and beauty he had been exposed to, even when he was practicing all he could focus on was the experiences of the girl who wrote down all her inner thoughts. 

It was like she haunted him, appearing everywhere he went. Like she poisoned him, infecting his thoughts and feelings. She became everything to him so soon, every word had him on edge, every sentence a beautiful stream of imagery that he would give nothing but to experiencing along side her, what he wouldn’t give to see the world through her eyes of love.

As the day ended, he had quiet easily convinced Sero that he should take over his night of cleaning. Sure the actual work was quiet annoying, but he would be rewarded with her sweet words, he had left the book in the corner in his rush to get back to his dorm; he regretted his oversight the moment he laid down.

“Tokoyami, wasn’t your cleaning duty last night?” Aizawa asked, his eyes lazy looking up from the papers he was grading to make contact with Fumikage’s red ones. 

“Yes sir, it was. I volunteered to take over tonight as well,” 

“Mhm, and is there a reason for this?” He raised his eyebrow, dragging his briefcase off the table with him. 

“Cleaning helps me think,” this wasn’t a total lie, reading the journal will calm his raging thoughts of the mystery girl. 

“Just don’t make a habit of it,” his teacher echoed, not having enough energy to further investigate a seemingly innocent interaction.

Tokoyami was much faster with cleaning that day, and he was even faster to sprint inside the broom closet. He grabbed the leather books and raced back to his room, already feeling the warmth her voice provided. 

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

The passages started off innocent enough, complaints about school, fantasizing about a better life, just a teen writing down their emotions. It then morphed into the beauty in everything, words that didn’t release Fumikage’s eyes until they were tearing up from dryness. 

Then, things took a darker turn. Dark thoughts disguised in poems, things others have said to her, representation of her pain in drawings scattered throughout the book. The beautiful world- though still majestic in its own way- turned dark and twisted.

It was painful to read, and yet he couldn’t look away. It was like the book became a part of him- no. It was like he became a part of the book, nothing more than the cracked parchment and spilled ink. It was dehumanizing, but he wouldn’t change his position for anything in the world.

His bed was taken over by the old pages, dating back over two hundred years ago. The writer was in the post-quirk awakening. The world had just discovered the glowing child right before she was born. She was one of the first quirk holders in the world- one of the first one hundred Japanese citizens to have a quirk.

The journals started when she was ten- though that book was the fifth one he read. After that discovery, he categorized them in chronological order to read along with the flow of time. She wrote of the manifestation of her quirk- her parents had been struck with terror when their daughter walked through the wall of their living room to get into her bedroom. 

That was the first moment she realized how different she is. Her life never seemed to go back to the way it was before, not even after the initial shock of what she could do faded from her parents; because, there would always be a new shock, a new ability, and no one was prepared to help her.

He realized, reading more about how the quirkless treated her, that her life would have been much different is she had lived in his time. Hearing the slurs and bullying they  put her through, he wishes she could see how much the world has changed- would she be happy or sad that her bully's became the minority and were mocked in their normal-ness or if she would be ashamed of the people like her.

He was very satisfied that the people who made her life so awful were getting a taste of their own medicine, but he did wonder if that made him a bad person. Tokoyami figures that it really didn’t matter, she was gone so her opinion would never be known. 

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

“Death didn’t feel like I thought it would. Surprisingly, it was reminiscent of when I use my quirk to posses things or people. My body was there, on the floor, but I was floating above it. Much like I am when I leave my body before finding my target. The cold was instantly recognizable- like an abyss with no end.

The only difference I’ve noticed so far is the lack of body to return to, though I can enter it, it acts as an object. While I cannot move it, I can see out of it. It’s therapeutic in a way. Really, this must have been the best case scenario- I could see how everyone reacts, see who really cares about me.

It was hard at first, seeing all theses people, who I believed were simply pretending to care, braking down behind closed doors. It was only my sister- whom held no quirk- that cared. She did everything she could to make my funeral how I wanted it, and she preserved my bedroom the way I liked it. That was a nice gesture, it truly was. 

Now my life has come to an end- my body buried under ground, never to be seen again- I can’t help but wonder what comes next. How long will I be held in this mortal world? Will others be like me, or will I be forced to live alone in the agonizing realization that comes with immortality? I guess I’ll simply have to wait and see,”

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

He had fallen asleep after reading the last passage in the ninth book- where she described how she stayed a student at UA even after death. The names she referenced had been lost in time- Pro-heroes that have long been dead and are now another name on the Hero Memorial wall. 

She had possessed her home room teacher and walked to the headmaster- there she said what had happened. Her headmaster agreed to keep her on as a student, but only under the condition that she wouldn’t unnecessarily possess an unknowing student. It was fair- annoying but fair. They gave her her old desk and she worked along side everyone. When he woke up, the book had moved on its own. 

There was a page opened- an elegant scipt sprawllled at the top but had been smuged since it was written- the only elligable part following what could be assumed to be a name: Phatom-- The Ghost Hero. The script was familiar, but it wasn’t the handwriting the rest of the journal was written in. Beneath it was a drawing of a girl- a girl more beautiful than anyone Fumikage had ever seen. It was a realistic depiction and it looked modern- it was only with that realization which led Tokoyomi to realize this journal wasn’t one he had seen before. Flipping through it, he hadn’t even noticed its sudden appearance. It was the newest one of them all- spanning for the last decade.  He leaned back in his bed and began,

So I guess it’s been a while huh? Here are some general updates: Shouta from class 2-A is an idiot but I guess he’s kinda cute. We picked out hero names today, I wanted to just keep my name but he dubbed me Phantom.. I called him Eraserhead in return. I hope it sticks. 

I’ve graduated from UA more than six times now- but I kinda like it. I do some professional hero work- especially info recall- but I’m worried about how the public will react to a ghost. It would definitely fuck with some peoples religious views. 

It’s better this way. I’ve also decided to distance myself from Shinso- she and I got along great, but her twin brother has been acting weirdly around me for a while. His quirk is amazing, but I’ve seen plenty of unstable students pass through these halls and I know enough to keep my distance. Shouta doesn’t seem to agree- neither does Hizashi. I guess only time will tell.

As for manifesting my physical form- it’s a lot harder than I had hoped. I can become visual for three active minutes or ten minutes with no moving. I’m still not touchable, but I hope that will change with time. That’s all for now- I’ll try to check in soon.

He shook his head- surely those names must be common, but she was in UA and only so many coincidences can happen at one time. He wonders how she was now. Mostly, he wonders if she’s still at UA. They hadn’t announced her as a student, so was she a pro hero now? 

Was it weird to still be in the body of a sixteen year old? There were so many issues with immortality- he wondered how she coped with it. These questions abused him throughout the morning. He thought of how lonely she must be, how it must be so awful to be all by herself.

He wondered why he cared so much- why had he developed such a strong scene of attachement to this girl? The fuzzy feeling in his chest when he saw the drawing of the girl had taken up his entire mind- he needed to know more.

As soon as he entered his familiar class room he marched straight up to his teachers desk with passion in his eyes- “Professor, can we talk after class? I have some questions I’d like to ask you,”

Aizawa glarred at the corner of the room, an annoyed frown tugging at his lips. This was gonna be a long day.

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

A/N 

Sorry for dropping off the planet everyone! This has been in the drafts for a  long time and finally gets to see the light of day. I’ve had some mental health issues (not related to this story don’t worry) and am working on myself. I fully intend to finish the Christmas countdown I committed to and this account is still active, but this will remain on the back burner until I am well on my way to recovery. Requests will remain open for the time being and I will continue to make progress. Thank you for the lovely anon’s in my inbox with constant support and requests, I appreciate all of you. Thank you all and I hope you enjoyed this work <3

[aminiatureworld]

In My Dreams V

Characters: Zhongli, fm!reader

Word Count: 3,492

Warnings: None

Premise: The past is many things. Something to admire, something to learn from, something to hold dear. And yet how unreliable it can be, especially in the hands of ghosts.

In which the reader dreams of the past.

Author’s Note: This one is probably the one that deviates most from the original prompt. Still I enjoyed writing it a lot, and I hope you enjoy reading it.  

This is the end! Thank you for reading and for your patience and I hope you enjoyed!

Zhongli

There was a young man standing in front of you. Standing in sharp contrast to the darkened landscape around him he naturally drew your eye. You stood facing him, making no effort to approach him. You weren’t even sure you’d be able to if you tried.

The morning sunlight burst forth suddenly from behind you eyelids. Blinking heavily you let out a groan, turning over and smashing your face into the nearest pillow, willing yourself to go back to sleep. A familiar chuckle sounded next to you as a kiss was planted on your cheek.

“You cannot evade the day forever my love. There is much to be done.”

“Five more minutes…”

“If I let you sleep five more minutes then it will surely turn into at least an hour. Besides, did you not tell me once that five minutes was hardly any sleep time at all?”

“Maybe.” You grumbled.

Sitting up you shielded your eyes with your hand. Though you appreciated the heavy curtains that kept the light out in the morning, you had to admit the adjustment every day could be difficult. Especially when your dreams had been so muted. What had you been dreaming of again? Random thoughts flower in and out of your head. Sometimes about a dark landscape. And maybe a person? You supposed it didn’t really matter.

Gathering your clothes you strapped your adventuring belt across your waist. Frowning at the weight of one of the bags you reached your hand into the satchel. Your fingers found rough stone, and when pulling the offending object out you found yourself face to face with a sort of mineral you’d never seen before.

“Hey, Zhongli?”

“Yes my love?”

“Tell me, have you ever seen this before?”

As you held the crystal out to Zhongli you could swear a flicker of darkness shadowed his eyes. Walking over to take the mineral out of your hand he turned it over gently, an expression of stony focus coating his features.

The crystal seemed to glow slightly. Reddish in hue it seemed to have been shot through with gold, if that was possible of a rock. The rusted red color was opaque, and the features of Zhongli’s hands faded into shadow underneath the mineral. Yet still it seemed almost delicate, the golden glow giving it a sense of fragility that undermined its general heaviness.

“This mineral, it is very strange. It reminds me of something I saw once, long ago, but the makeup is different. I cannot even be sure it is not a combination of various minerals. How very strange.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong?” You asked, surprised by the quiet intensity in Zhongli’s words.

“I doubt it very much. Thankfully I doubt that a single odd crystal could shake the foundations of Liyue. Still, it is very strange.” He rolled it over one more time before looking back into your eyes, stare deadly serious. “Do you mind if I keep this for a little while? I promise I shall return it, only there is one thing I wish to enquire after.”

“Of course you can! What’s mine is yours and besides, I don’t have any particular attachment to it. I found it on the ground somewhere.”

“Thank you my love.”

Zhongli leaned over to give you a soft kiss. You sighed happily, glad to be immersed in his proximity. Still a piece of you wondered at the look on his face, and the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The day passed quietly, with no interesting rock discoveries or sudden natural disasters in sight. You’d almost forgotten about the whole rock deal in fact, too busy with the sudden uptick in geovishaps on the plains of Liyue to think about much else. By the time you arrived home that evening your thoughts were filled with nothing other than some rest and time with the one you loved most.

“I’m home!” You announced loudly, taking your shoes off and hanging your pack in its usual spot.

“Welcome back my love.”

“Did you have a good day?” You called out, walking through the hall into the living room. Zhongli was sitting in his usual chair, back facing away from you. Walking over you leaned forward, kissing his cheek before going to face him.

The expression of quiet worry on Zhongli’s face quickly pulled you out of your reverie. Sitting down on his lap you pushed the hair out of his eyes, examining him for any fatigue.

“Is something wrong? Did Hu Tao give you a hard time?”

“Work was fine my love, do not worry. It is only the gemstone you gave to me, it… it is very strange.”

“Strange how?” You asked, a chill running down your spine.

“Only that it is quite unique, so unique in fact that I have never seen a mineral or crystal formation like it. As I said there was once a mineral similar in nature, but the means to that mineral was long ago destroyed, and the formation was different.”

“Was the other mineral dangerous?”

“Not intrinsically. Nor can I sense any intrinsic danger from this mineral. Still, I think you ought to keep it hidden for some time. Citizens would surely be curious, and until I can be sure that this symbolizes no threat to Liyue I would not speak of it.”

“Did you notify the Qixing?”

“I informed Ningguang about it today. I trust that she will come to a decision in regards to any monitoring by the Qixing. Still, there are a few things I wish to observe.” Glancing up at your face Zhongli softened a bit, smiling slightly. “Do not worry my love, I am sure there is nothing to fear.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” You replied. But the sense of mundane bliss that had coated you was now shattered, and you found threads of anxiety tugging at your brain, threatening to consume your thoughts and lead you down the path of worrying.

The young man was back that night, once more faraway and unapproachable. This time however his hand was stretched out, palm up, as if waiting for something.

“What do you want?” You called out. There was no reply.

Suddenly the side of your nightdress grew heavy. Reaching into your pocket you pulled out the gemstone, shining faintly in the dark.

“This? What is it?”

The young man smiled, eyes glinting.

“That is the truth?”

You blinked, eyes useless in the dark that still enveloped the world. What time was it? You lay on your back, listening to the soft sighs of your partner, the noise mixing with the soft sound of birds chirping; soon it would be daytime. You sighed, staring up at the ceiling. You’d been dreaming about something, what was it? It was somehow familiar, as if you’d dreamt it before, though surely it wasn’t a normal recurring dream, as you couldn’t seem to remember it. Still, it had made you uneasy, though you weren’t sure why.

Rolling over to face your partner you closed your eyes. No use thinking about it now. What you couldn’t remember you couldn’t remember. Besides, all you wanted to do was sleep.

The morning came far too soon, and with it the knowledge of a busy day that stretched out before you. Blinking away your fatigue you kissed Zhongli an absentminded goodbye before dragging yourself out the door. Collecting your commissions with equal sluggishness you ignored the stares from other Guild members, the quiet concern of Katheryne as she asked if you had slept alright.

Thankfully the day was gorgeous and the workload relatively light. Leaning against a rock, letting the grass of the Liyue plains tickle your hand you stared up at the blue sky. Absentmindedly you wondered again about the dream. What had it been about? Closing your eyes you tried to call it back. The lazy afternoon sun shined down upon you. Soon you found your thoughts melding together and before you knew it you slipped off into sleep.

There was a young man standing in front of you, eyes stony, smile superficial. You glanced around, confused by the black landscape in which you found yourself. This must be a dream. And yet it seemed so familiar that you were sure you’d dreamt this before.

“What do you want?” You called out. Something flickered in your memory. The gemstone, and the fact this young man had reached out for it.

“The truth.” The young man’s smile grew wider, somehow distorted and foreboding.

“What do you mean by the truth?”

“The truth that they wish to hide. The truth that only they can speak.”

“Who do you mean by that?” You felt panic rising as the dream weighed heavy on you. “What do you mean?”

But the young man said nothing. He merely smiled. Suddenly the black seemed to shatter like glass, falling onto your head and drowning you in pitch.

You lurched forward, breath harsh in your lungs. Standing up you glanced around wildly. That dream, what had that dream been? Searching your pockets you stopped, realizing that Zhongli had never given the crystal back. The memory of your dream, combined with the knowledge that the subject must’ve been the same as the one the previous night, left you stunned. More than shock however you felt panic, pure panic at what you’d just experienced. What did that young man mean? What did he want?

You picked up your equipment, not bothering to organize anything. Making your way down the slopes, the nearest waypoint over the crest of a rocky hill, you could think of only one thing. Zhongli, you had to tell Zhongli. Only he could tell you the answers, only he could stop this panic from consuming you. Looking up at the still blue sky you found yourself releasing a prayer into the wind. Please let everything be alright, please let nothing come crashing down.

The Wangsheng Funeral Parlor was a surprisingly comfortable space, decorated to match the appearance of a tea room rather than a place where the dead were prepared for their final departure. Normally you appreciated this strangely homey atmosphere, so eagerly and carefully cultivated by Hu Tao. Today, however, you felt only urgency. Making your way down the familiar corridors you yanked the door to Zhongli’s office open, praying that he would be inside.

The sight of your love at work was always compelling. Though seriousness and concentration marked his features, the quiet passion for history and tradition could also be seen, softening his gaze and turning what might have been an unapproachable figure into one of surprising comfort. Glancing up at the sound of the door Zhongli smiled softly; a smile that quickly morphed into a frown as he took in your agitated state.

“My love, what is wrong?”

Zhongli stood up, making his way over to you. Dropping your equipment on the floor you launched yourself into his arms. Breathing in his comforting presence you felt your heartrate slow slightly, the shaking you hadn’t even been aware of subsiding.

“Are you alright?” Zhongli’s voice was soft and full of worry.

“I, I don’t know,” you took in a shaky breath, relaxing as Zhongli wrapped his arms around your waist, “I fell asleep while on a break and I dreamt something very, strange.”

Recounting the dream you watched as Zhongli’s eyes darkened. When you were done he pulled you into a tight hug. Carding his fingers through your hair you felt his arms tighten around you, a silent affirmation of his worry.

“I don’t know what to do,” you murmured into his shoulder, “I know it’s just a dream, but it seems so real, so frightening.”

“It will be alright my love. I promise, nothing ill will come to you, or to the people of Liyue.”

“I wonder what he meant,” you shivered slightly, “I wonder who he meant by ‘they’.”

You weren’t sure if you’d truly felt Zhongli freeze for a moment, so focused were you on the emotions that roiled inside your heart.

The young man seemed angrier than he had previously. Glaring at you from across the darkened landscape he shook his head in what seemed to be disgust.

“You didn’t confront him about it.”

“Confront who?” You asked, defensiveness mixing with the panic welling up once more inside of you.

“The hypocrite. The one who claims to love humans while crushing them under his heel.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“You do! You’re simply a traitor. You betrayed me, you betrayed the rest of our family. You’ve cursed yourself.”

“I haven’t betrayed anyone!” You heard the pitch of your voice rising. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You could’ve made us so happy. You could’ve continued our legacy. Instead your cursed us, instead you cursed yourself. You’re just like them, you’re just like the people who killed us!”

You jolted awake, gasping as you threw the coverlet off you, the heat oppressive and sticky against your sweat drenched skin. Sitting up you forced air into your lungs, breathing in and out, trying to match your rhythm with Zhongli’s, who slept quietly next to you. Gazing down at him you turned the words of your dream back over in your head. “You’re simply a traitor… You’ve cursed yourself.” The words were vague, but you felt a cold sensation creep over you, the unspoken sound of pieces fitting into place and fear clouding your mind.

The next day you could barely drag yourself out of bed, having spent the rest of the night sitting on the floor as thoughts raced through your head. Though you were sure Zhongli had asked you about your current state you couldn’t truly remember any conversation, and the trip to the Guild seemed longer than usual as you found yourself making wrong turns and bumping into various walls.

The commissions of the day certainly didn’t help. Ordered to chase a few Fatui members out of Liyue, or at least stop them from attacking every adventurer in the City, you felt your stomach dropped as you realized the location was that of where you’d found the fateful stone. Climbing over mountain ridges and dodging the occasional hilichurls camp you felt your limbs dragging underneath you. Though there couldn’t have been more than a few meters between you and the Fatui members it felt as if there were actually miles.

The situation only got worse when you finally scaled the last crest, pulling yourself up before two Hydro Legionnaires and an Anemo Vanguard. Summoning your claymore you felt as if your weapon had gotten heavier, and your steps were awkward and unsure as you charged the all too prepared Fatui members.

You swings sliced through the air as if it were made of gel, your steps stumbling and unsure. The Skirmishers dodged your strikes easily, laughing openly and jeering at you to make another dive towards them. You ignored their taunts, trying to focus on your breathing, on keeping your steps uniform and controlled. Still you knew that you were in over your head. You didn’t know what was going to happen, regretted that you hadn’t asked for help or simply requested a day off. Now however you were stuck, locked into a battle you knew you were going to lose.

Eventually the Anemo seemed to tired of your exhausted movements. Running up towards you, you felt your lungs burn as air rammed straight into your chest. Teetering on the edge of the mountain you felt yourself fall backwards. Seeing the sky above you, you let yourself scream. How could you have been so careless? How could you have failed so quickly? Closing your eyes you wished that you might faint. Whatever was at the bottom of this fall, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

However just as soon as your eyes closed you felt your fall broken. Snapping your eyes open you were met with the sight of Zhongli, face stony, eyes glowing preternaturally. Floating down softly he deposited you on a grass ridge of the mountain. Saying nothing he seemed to float upward into the air, aiming right towards where the Fatui were gathered. Sighing you closed your eyes once more, stilling the emotions that swirled inside you, the knowledge that you may have just escaped serious injury or worse. Slumping forward you felt tears at the edges of your eyes. You were tired. You were oh so tired.

“Are you hurt?” Zhongli’s voice was soothing, even in its urgency.

“I’m fine,” you opened your eyes to gaze up at your partner who crouched before you, “I’m just shaken.”

“I should have paid more attention to your physical state this morning,” Zhongli frowned, his smooth features contrasting the emotions that roiled in his eyes, “if I had not been here you may have died.”

“But you were here. Why?”

“This place, it was once a very important place of trade. I returned here to see if there were any lingering traces of that trade, those contracts. It is where I saw the ore that is mimicked in the mineral you found.”

“I see.” You paused, unsure if you wanted your next words released into the world. “Zhongli?”

“Yes my love?”

“The tyrant that boy in my dream mentioned, is that you?”

Zhongli was silent for some time, his deepening frown the only indication he had heard you. Finally he sighed. Sitting down next to you he gazed out onto the landscape, surveying it as he must’ve done all those years as Rex Lapis.

“The place that I mentioned, the origin of the ore from which yours takes its likeness, was a kingdom unlike the Seven which now dominate Teyvat. It was created only by humans, untouched by the hands of a god or higher being. It dabble in alchemy, created stones that could not be found anywhere else. And then, long ago, it was razed to the ground.”

“By who?”

“By the seven archons.” Zhongli’s features were still, his eyes giving away no tangible emotion, no sense of loss or satisfaction or hate.

“I see.”

“The people of the land scattered. Yet some would not forget the destruction of their kingdom. They banded together, creating the Abyss. They hold the old artifacts of their city dear, the prospect of revenge even more so. Their hatred of the Seven runs deep.”

“And the young man who is in my dreams is part of the Abyss?”

“It appears to be that way. Yet there is something about your descriptions, about the stone. The Abyss has never before been able to manipulate people’s dreams. There is something about that young man that is foreign even to them.”

“Yet he must believe in the Abyss very deeply.” You remarked.

“Indeed.”

Zhongli said nothing more, simply continuing to look out over the mountain. You wondered if he held any regrets for the place he destroyed, if he wondered what might come to pass should Liyue be subject to such a thing. Yet you couldn’t find it in you to chastise him. Somehow you knew, the wounds that he already carried would be little helped by your words.

“Thank you for telling me.” You leaned over to lay your hand over your partner. Finally breaking his stare Zhongli gazed at you, face still as ever, eyes tinged with an ancient melancholy.

“I hope I have not betrayed you, or the contract of our trust.”

“How could it be a betrayal if I never asked or knew about it?” You leaned over to press a soft kiss on Zhongli’s forehead. “I’m only glad you told me now.”

The ex-archon’s frame seemed to relax a little. Leaning over he cupped your cheek, brushing his lips softly against yours.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“What will you do now?”

“I’m not sure. Hope that whoever he was, that young man has given up on me I guess.”

“I hope you do not feel as if you have betrayed someone.”

“How can I feel betrayal for someone that I don’t know or don’t remember?” You shook your head. “I don’t know what that person is looking for, or what he expects of me. I do know you however, and what I do know is that if loving you has made me a traitor of something, so be it.”

Zhongli’s smile was one that reached his eyes, enveloping you in a silent warmth. As the two of you leaned against one another, gazing out upon the landscape shadowed in the afternoon sun, you let yourself finally relax. Questions still sifted through your head, but you let them fall through your consciousness, like sand through your fingers. You didn’t know whether Zhongli felt regret for what he did, whether or not he felt justified in the destruction he participated in. What you did know however was that you loved him.

And for now that was enough.

[writingsoftheghost]

Room to Breathe

Based on this post by @sleepyvirgilprompts but I deviated from the intent a lot.

Tw: Panic attack, Unwanted physical contact, yelling, accusations, anxious thoughts, swearing

Ship: Platonic LAMP

Virgil was an idiot, a tired idiot, but an idiot. He’d just wanted out of his room, the shadows and the dark making it impossible to relax that night. Just like it had the night before. He was exhausted, he didn’t even plan to sleep that night, he just wanted to breathe a little. So, he grabbed his blanket and headed to the Light Side living room. It was the first time he’d really left his room in the last few days.

He’d turned the tv to the lowest volume and clicked on the first thing he saw. An episode of Over the Garden Wall. That was fine, Virgil liked the animation.The low volume was soothing, he turned the subtitles on and let himself zone out.

This of course was dumb, relaxing somewhere he shouldn’t be when he was exhausted. Predictably, he fell asleep.

He didn’t know how long he was asleep, but he woke up to the sound of footsteps, footsteps coming closer. He woke up slightly at that realization, looking around and realizing where he was, sending himself into a panic.

He looked around in vain for a place to hide, the tv was still playing softly, when the footsteps sounded impossibly close and Virgil had gone completely delirious with the cocktail of exhaustion and pure panic in his body, he threw the blanket he’d brought over his head and willed himself to stop breathing so loud.

Now, in any other state, Virgil would’ve recognized this as stupid and ridiculous. But right now, his brain seemed to be operating with a child’s ideas of object permanence. “If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.”

So when he heard Princey’s voice his heart almost stopped, “Hello? Patton?”

When Roman got no response, he tried again, “Lo?”

Virgil briefly thought of making a run for it, if he kept the blanket on his head, maybe the prince wouldn’t know it was him. This plan actially sounded pretty good, but just as Virgil was about to make a breal for it, he felt the blanket being tugged away from him.

He was too shocked to resist, suddenly, the anxious trait found himself staring into the eyes of Creativity.

“Anxiety!” The Prince cried incredulously.

Virgil flinched away at the loud noise, “Good Evening, Princey.” He said in a forced casual tone.

“What in Thomas’s name are you doing down here?!” Roman looked mad. Virgil could feel himself moving closer to the edge with every shouted word.

“I could ask you the same question.” Why was he making this worse?

“I live here, you creep!” Roman is in his face now and it’s too much, Virgil has to get out of there.

He pushes Roman away, not hard, but enough to get him to back out of his way. He runs to the stairs, panic blinding him. He bumps into something solid and firm, arms catch him from falling down the few stairs he’d made it up.

“Woah, there, kiddo? Whatcha doing down here so late?” Patton. Patton, oh no oh no oh no oh no...

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Roman huffs angrily from the bottom of the stairs. “He pushed me, trying to make an escape attempt. Good job, Pat, you got him.”

Patton frowns, “Anxiety?” He asks softly, “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Virgil lets out a strangled cry, Patton’s arms are still holding onto him, keeping him in place and it’s all too much. He can’t get away, he has to get away. He’s settled on flight, he didn’t want to hurt any of them, but he was so close to losing all control. Why couldn’t they just let him go?

“What are you all doing?” God no. Why did they all have to be here? Why couldn’t he have just stayed in his room?

Virgil was hyperventilating, he couldn’t get himself to focus enough to even explain himself. The only thoughts in his mind right now were, “Go! Go! Go! Danger!” And it was making it impossible to even listen to the words being spoken to him.

“Patton let him go, for Pete’s sake! He’s having a panic attack!” Logan snaps.

“Oh no, kiddo, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize-” Patton stops talking when Virgil yanks away from Patton’s loosened grip and immediately starts running up the remainder of the stairs. They all three flinch at the sound of Virgil’s bedroom door slamming shut.

Patton makes a move to follow the anxious trait, but Logan puts a hand on his shoulder, “Don’t.”

“But he-”

“Is in a serious state of distress, due to the both of you. I doubt he wants any comfort right now. Give him space,” Logan interrupts irritably.

“He left his blankie...” Patton mumbles sadly.

“Logan, that fiend was down here doing gosh knows what, and you want us to give him space?” Roman cries indignantly.

“Ro,” Patton frowns at the prince, “He probably didn’t mean anything by it. He hasn’t come downstairs in days, why’d you chase him out?”

“He was hiding under a blanket,” Roman rolls his eyes, “That’s pretty suspicious. You need to stop being so nice, Pat. Not everyone is good.”

Logan descends the stairs with a blank expression, he looks around the living room critically, “It appears he was watching television,” he drawls.

“Well, yes, I’m sure it appears that way,” Roman defends weakly.

“You chased my dark strange son away for watching cartoons,” Patton looks like he might cry. “Ro, he may never come back down here again!”

“While I doubt that’s true, he may be reluctant to leave his room for the foreseeable future.”

Patton shoots Roman a sad look. 

Roman huffs, “You won’t make me feel bad. It’s not happening.”

“Ro...” Patton whispers in a pleading voice, “He didn’t even do anything.”

“Maybe not this time,” Romman mumbles defensively.

“Any-” Logan pulls out a vocab card “-beef, you have with Anxiety is merely because he’s doing his job. Just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean you can treat him like a criminal for every little thing he does.” Logan states firmly.

Roman groans, “Why do you always take his side?”

“Because he needs the support,” Patton shoots Roman a firm look, “You shouldn’t be so mean to him, Ro. He doesn’t mean to make you mad, he’s just doing his job.”

“Okay, okay! Enough with the guilt trip! I’ll apologize to him!” Roman stomps up a few stairs before Logan stops him.

“Not tonight,” Logan looks at both sides seriously, “Neither of you should bother him anymore tonight. He needs some time to breathe. We can discuss it in the morning.”

Patton nods sadly, “My poor kiddo...”

Roman rolls his eyes, “Whatever, I’m going back to bed.” He never even gets the glass of water he came downstairs for in the first place.

*****

Virgil spends the rest of the night on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to come pounding on his door, demanding an explanation for the previous night, and his solemn oath to never do it again.

Neither of those comes, not even in the morning, when Virgil is sure everyone will wake up angrier than before.

Roman was probably furious. His worst enemy lounging on the couch. 

Virgil waited all day for that pounding knock, it didn’t come. Instead he spent the whole day expecting it. And being shocked when he heard a soft tap early on in the evening.

“Kiddo? I brought you some pizza?” Patton. Probably to lull him into a false sense of security. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the moral trait.

“No thanks, I’m good.”

Outside the door, Patton frowns. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Virgil wants him to leave, he wants him to leave. The silence stretches on for long enough to make him start to think he had.

But then, “Anxiety, I’m sorry Roman chased you out of the living room last night.”

Virgil freezes, his entire body tenses up. He knows he should say something but his entire mind has gone blank.

“He really shouldn’t have done that, kiddo,” Patton continues, “I’m sure he feels bad about it.”

Virgil seriously doubted that, Roman didn’t feel bad. About anything, ever. “It’s fine, I shouldn’t have been down there anyway.” His voice sounds nonchalant, but the fact that this was just another way he’d never be accepted made his heart ache.

“Oh, Anxiety, no!” Patton cries in a horrified voice, “Kiddo, you’re allowed to be in the living room.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks, Pat.”

“I mean it.” Patton’s voice had done solemn and serious. “Roman shouldn’t have chased you out, you have just as much of a right to be there as the rest of us.”

Virgil sighs and climbs off the bed, he stalks to the door and swings it open. Patton blinks at him in surprise, “You don’t really want me there. I appreciate the thought, I really do. But you and I both know I’d make it awkward. No one really wants the embodiment of fear and nervousness in a room, Pat. Thanks anyway.” He attempt to shut the door, Patton stops him with his foot.

“Wait! That’s not true at all, Anxiety. I’d love for you to come downstairs and hang out with us. Logan doesn’t mind you doing so, either.”

Virgil nods, “And Roman?”

Patton grimaces, “He’ll come around. But he doesn’t own the living room. You have just as much right to be there as he does.”

Virgil shakes his head, “I don’t want to piss him off.”

“Language,” Patton warns lightly, “and he’ll get over it. Why don’t you come down with me? I won’t let him chase you out again, promise.”

And he looks so hopeful, and Virgil didn’t even realize he’d nodded until he felt Patton’s hand grab his and suddenly he was being pulled along downstairs.

“Wait, Patton!” Virgil protests.

Patton stops in the middle of the hall, “If you don’t want to go, I won’t make you. But I really don’t want you to feel like you’re not allowed downstairs.”

Virgil nods, “I just don’t want a repeat of last night, I’m sorry I ran away. It was just...”

“Overwhelming?” Patton offers, “that’s okay, Anxiety. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just glad you’re not mad at me, I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. And besides, Roman promised me he wouldn’t do that again.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, I think Lo and I made him feel bad. He shouldn’t have chased you out.”

“I—are you sure he’s not more mad now? He did find me downstairs in the middle of the night.”

“Which you’re completely allowed to do,” Patton replies.

“I’m just saying, it was odd. And I know I’m not the easiest person to trust. Just...don’t be too hard on him about it, okay? He doesn’t deserve that.”

“Do you really mean that?” Virgil whirls around to see Roman standing at the end of the hall.

“Jesus! Are you trying to kill a guy? Who sneaks up on Anxiety?” Virgil cries exasperatedly.

“I wasn’t sneaking up on you, I just happened to over hear. But you really aren’t upset with me for last night?”

Virgil shrugs, “I was in your living room in the middle of the night. It’s fine.”

Roman shakes his head, “It isn’t, you...you were just watching cartoons. I’m sorry.”

Virgil’s eyes widen in surprise, “Thank you.”

Roman offers a tentative smile, “Would you like to come downstairs and watch a movie?”

Virgil smiles, “Yeah, thanks, that sounds great.”

Patton squeals excitedly, “I’m so glad you two made up! Now! Let’s go get Logie to make us snacks!”

__________

I just ran with this i don’t even have an explanation

Taglist: @idont-freaking-know @aceawkwardunicorn @emo--nightmaree @a-yeet-bop-bop-boom @me-a-mess-morelikelythanyouthink @katlikethesword @tranquil-space-ninja @book-limerence @cute-and-angsty-princess

[bigskydreaming]

With the Tom Taylor stuff, they released a new Batgirl costume for Babs again (different anon then before though so hopefully same issue). People are mad because, well, it's abelist. Especially because like it feels like they've been teasing/foreshadowing her becoming Oracle again (ie. noting that she shouldn't be hopping from roofs, I mean Dick adopted a three-legged dog for Christ's sake). It really seems like the perfect time for the magic disability curing chip to die, and instead they come out with this? Disappointing. Rude. Especially rude because the new costume was announced on the first day of disability pride month, and he's responded by saying - but oh look, here's a back brace on the part of the suit behind the cape. Not a good look imo.

Idk how many people would have to agree on making Babs truly paraplegic again for it to happen? Like would something like this be up to editorial, or could Tom as the writer have enough sway to make it happen? I know the original decision was ten years ago, and Didio has (thank the lord) been fired since then, as has Harras, and I've heard there's been creative turnover as well. Since you've been in the fandom for a while, do you know who else we should be pressuring?

Its literally something that only editorial and higher will ever have decision-making control over.

I can tell you that while Gail Simone was the one who initially wrote the story where Babs returned to being Batgirl - and considering that a lot of Gail's own work was instrumental in fleshing out Babs as Oracle to the degree that she was - what I can say there is that Gail was not actually a fan of the decision to make Babs Batgirl again herself.

It was 100% a decision made by the higher-ups during the initial Reboot discussions, and I do know that a number of creatives, both writers and artists, voiced their protest to the decision at the time - though I can't speak to who exactly did so and who didn't.

Gail has however expressed that she went back and forth a lot on her decision to write Babs becoming Batgirl again, because she really was not comfortable with it at all, but that ultimately the reason she did decide to do it was because it was made clear to her by the higher-ups that they were asking her to write it out of respect to the work she'd done with Oracle previously - but whether she accepted or not, they were going to go forward with it, even if with another writer.

So ultimately, she's said she only decided to take on the story herself because she could at least try to make it as aware of Babs' time as Oracle and what she represented as Oracle as possible, whereas she had no control over if DC went to another writer whose approach to it was basically to magically handwave Babs being 'cured' and being ecstatically happy about it.

Please note, I'm not trying to speak to her choice there or argue for it or against it, I'm simply trying to repeat what I know of her stated perspective on it, as the writer who actually 'did it.'

My point just being that it wasn't a decision made at a creator level at all, and DC was more than ready to go around one of the writers most closely identified with Babs in her Oracle identity, as well as a number of others who were against it, though again I don't know how many or whom specifically.

I honestly don't see any guarantee they'd be more accommodating of any writers today trying to convince them to do it. So while I don't think voicing concerns over disabled representation to writers is ever a wasted effort, I don't see it accomplishing anything here in specific. If any movement is going to be made on this matter, its only going to be done through keeping the subject centered in the awareness of the higher-ups, so basically any editors with a social media presence.

Unfortunately, options are very limited there (I'm not really on twitter these days so I don't really know what editors are even around there, currently), but yeah, in the interest of prioritizing time and spoons, and concentrating efforts.....this is one of those situations where the writers themselves are simply the go-betweens and the only even potentially effective appeals are going to be those made at the editorial level and higher. (Higher being those at the publishing exec and board of directors level, but I wouldn't know where to even begin looking for those particular names).

Sorry I can't be more help!

(Also, just FYI in general on this matter:

For the record, I do try to be very....'light' about expressing my opinions when it comes to Babs' disability, because I do not trust myself to have the necessary objectivity. I have a physical disability that greatly impacts my way of living and has for five years, but in ways not remotely interchangeable with Babs. Additionally, mine does have a surgical treatment that would allow me to resume my original way of living without significant deviations from it, and its a treatment I still am working towards and hope to get in the near future. So I definitely have opinions on physical ableism in society and how I've even been impacted by such things myself, but I've also never viewed or even approached my own situation or disability through the lens of it being lifelong.

So I'm kinda 'thematically' somewhat in a position that has nuances relevant to the conversations at hand and the 'choices' being thrown around in-universe IF and only if such things were subject to 'real world rules' and self-autonomous choices rather than being ruled by the whims of editors with agendas and biases of their own. All of which makes me uncomfortable weighing in too heavily on this subject because I'm a naturally opinionated person, and I have a tendency to center my own experiences in online debates simply because they're the only ones I can actually speak to, particularly in non-monolithic situations like this one where even people with broadly shared marginalizations have opinions that differ in degrees both large and small.

My own disability really brought to light for me that I had a LOT of pre-existing ableism myself that I'm still unpacking five years in, and frankly I just don't trust myself to be able to tell the difference between opinions I express on this subject as a kind of unconscious wish fulfillment, ableism-still-in-need-of-further-unpacking, and even subconscious overcompensation for my own ableism based on addressing current issues I have born of impostor syndrome. Its a whole mess up here in terms of ableism discussions, so if you don't see me weighing in on the Babs matter much elsewhere, that's why.

Personally, I always write Babs as Oracle and physically disabled, even in Reboot-era stuff, and I’m fairly sure I always will - so don’t get me wrong, I have a very clear stance on that front because I'm never on board with erasing, mitigating or invalidating previous representation....that isn’t my issue here at all, its more just wading into arguments for and against undoing the chip storyline that I hesitate to do. I know my stance - I just don’t trust myself to argue it in the right ways or for the right reasons.

Just know its not because I'm oblivious to it, that I approve of DC's decisions here or how their various creatives reply to criticism of it, or because I don't have opinions myself......but my own view of things is too constantly shifting in my own life for me to be comfortable contributing any lasting voice to these discussions, at least where I'm at right now. I'm not good at speaking softly if I feel a need to speak up at all, but I don't believe in speaking loudly when I can't even be sure for myself that I can commit 100% to what I voice...and even more importantly in my mind, WHY I voice it).

[coffintownkids]

Ch. 26 is done!

And it is a treasure trove for anyone looking for details on novel!NHS and his characterizations, as well as info on the Niè Sect’s cultivation in general. Here’s some choice bits for you. Long post ahead!

“When these Sect Leaders were alive, they would still be able to suppress the restlessness of the sabers they carried. But after the Sect Leaders died and there was no one to control them, they become weapons bent on murder.”

Wèi Wúxiàn raised his eyebrows, “That sounds close to Corrupt Cultivation.”

Niè Huáisāng rushed to say, “It’s not the same! Corrupt Cultivation is corrupt because it demands human lives. But our House’s sabers don’t require human lives. Instead they need resentful ghosts, spirits, or any of the evil creatures. They spend a lifetime beheading those things and if they’re not given those things to eliminate, they seek out trouble themselves and disturb our House’s peace. A Saber Spirit will only recognize one master and cannot serve anyone else. Us descendants are also unable to melt the sabers down. First, it would be disrespectful to our ancestors. Second, we’re not sure that melting them would even solve the problem.”

Wèi Wúxiàn’s evaluation was, “How arrogant.”

Niè Huáisāng said, “Absolutely. We followed the path trailblazed by our ancestors and sought to obtain immortality through the saber. Of course it’s arrogant.”

What I’ve translated as Corrupt Cultivation is written as 邪魔歪道. So let’s break this down a bit. We have 邪 (evil) 魔 (demon) 歪 (something twisted or that deviates) 道 (path/way). So basically something that goes against what’s considered the conventional or “healthy” way of doing things. Cultivation is supposed to improve the mind/body/spirit on the quest to immortality. So WWX is (understandably!) a bit taken aback, given his own history. This phrase is similar to the more common phrase 邪门歪道 that is used to convey dishonest practices/crooked tactics/etc. But, as NHS clarifies, this method isn’t meant to harm humans the way, say, WWX’s own demonic cultivation uses human spirits to resurrect human corpses.

Of course, NHS goes on to say his Sect’s solution was to bury the sabers with dead human bodies...

“Hánguāng-Jūn, let me explain! These corpses weren’t killed by our House! It took a great deal of effort to scrounge them up from all over the place and bring them there! It cost quite a bit of money to buy them. The sixth-generation Sect Leader said the Saber Spirits wanted to battle against evil beings, so they should be given an endless supply of evil beings to fight against. Corpses on the verge of turning got buried together in coffins with the sabers just as if they were the Saber Spirits’ funerary objects. The Saber Spirits would keep the corpses from transforming. Meanwhile, the corpses would help alleviate the violent impulses of the Saber Spirits. It maintained the status quo and they kept each other in check. Relying on this method brought peace to the generations that followed up until now.”

The interesting take away for me is we’re repeatedly told the Niè are in decline. Yet they’re apparently still pretty wealthy if they’re still using the corpse-buying scheme. Would love to know where the money comes from!

Otherwise, the Niè Sect of Qīnghé of today was basically on its last legs. If any more of their affairs got out, Niè Huáisāng would be condemned for all of history and would be unable to face his ancestors in the afterlife. It wasn’t surprising that he would rather be the personal laughing stock of the other Houses. He was also unwilling to work hard at cultivating and, moreover, it was too late for him to dare start on his journey of carrying the saber. If he had any success at cultivating, his temperament would become increasingly volatile and he would ultimately go mad and die violently like his brother and all his previous ancestors. After he died, his saber would still be haunting the world and leaving his entire House without a moment’s peace. Instead, it was better for him to just be a complete failure.

And so there was no solution. Since the first ancestor founded the House of Niè, this is how it has been until now. Should the descendants deny the path that their ancestors laid the foundation for? Each of the cultivation Houses had its own strengths. Just as the Lán Sect of Gūsū was skilled with music, the Niè Sect of Qīnghé had the ferocious and lethal strength of their Saber Spirits and that was the exact reason they were so remarkable. If they abandoned the teachings of their ancestors and started over from scratch by seeking a new way, they couldn’t know how many years that could take or if they would even succeed. So Niè Huáisāng didn’t dare go against the House of Niè by changing their way of cultivation. Therefore, the only thing he could do was be a good-for-nothing waste of a person.

If he wasn’t the Head of his House, he would spend his entire life just as he had when he had been in Cloud Recesses. All day long he would go swim in lakes and paint fans. He would catch fish with his hands and play with birds. It had certainly been more comfortable than what he was doing now. But since has old brother had already passed away, and despite not being as strong as he would like, all he could do was shoulder his clan’s burdens and limp his way forward.

Yikes. So yeah. Unlike The Untamed/CQL where NHS is nominally seen carrying a weapon around (despite never really using it), it seems like he actually never really learned to use the saber at all in the book. I know Fatal Journey hinted at that with the 刀 vs 心 choice, but it’s a neat distinction. And of course we’re all like “NHS always be knowing!” but it really hit me like a ton of bricks for some reason to read this. He knew the entire world was going to think poorly of him. His choices were “be a failure” or “go crazy and kill everyone and yourself” which still wouldn’t solve any of his family’s problems. And he’s really not mincing words when saying “good-for-nothing waste of a person.” It’s written as 脓包废物. 脓包 literally means a pustule or pus bag (*pukes*) and is used to describe someone that’s just totally worthless. 废物 means someone/something that a waste/complete rubbish.

I think, in the end, this may be part of why even getting rid of JGY ends up ringing hollow. (Though I’ll have to double-check when I get to that part of the novel to be sure.) At the end of the day, his family’s legacy still remains and isn’t actually solved at all. Funnily enough, I’m personally trying to work on a quasi post-canon fic and one of the storylines will be about NHS trying to find a workaround (but in true NHS fashion, no one actually knows this.) Said fic is over 70k in notes/outlines/half-written scenes but zero coherence so who knows if it will ever see the light of day!

[thenamesblurrito]

Cybertronian neurodivergence and mental health

Psychiatry is a fairly well developed science on SNAP’s Cybertron, if only to better control people and fix them to serve the state. Or, on a darker note, to label dissenters and revolutionaries as mentally unstable and thus not worth listening to. People like Rung, Froid, Minitron, and Trepan are well-known figures in their field, but counselors and therapists are relatively common across Cybertron, mostly attached to corporations or funded by the state with the express goal of keeping everyone working smoothly. Even Beta Trion has a counseling license, which is why she’s one of the counselors at the JAAT.

Warning for discussion of mental illness, “normative” psychiatry, and discussion of ableism. Please note that this is a noncomprehensive list, and none of these terms are one-to-one representatives of human conditions, they’re only based off of them. The worldbuilding I’m doing here is not a statement about any real neurodivergence, mental illness, psychiatric system, or actual human being, and the values of the society I’m creating are very much opposite of my own.

Nonstandard circuitry

The Cybertronian term for neurodiversity. A convenient catch-all for any processors with “deviations” from forging, instead of issues developed over time. Those that make it difficult to easily sort mecha into functions or workspaces are usually called disorders and stigmatized in general society, and those that can be harnessed to improve or increase the amount of work a mech does are praised as dutiful, with all their detrimental symptoms ignored.

The state-controlled psychiatric system is hardly a neutral party in this, meaning every diagnosis, every medical file, every prescription, and every patient and practitioner is another cog in the machine, another manner of control. On a person-to-person level, there often is a genuine desire to help individuals and improve lives, but someone with a diagnosis of nonstandard circuitry will always have that marked as part of their ID. Their employers can see and use that. Because of the way everyone is assigned a function, a nonstandard individual won’t often struggle to find a job, but the types of jobs available to them will change.

Mostly, people have to choose between pursuing an evaluation and diagnosis to get help if they’re struggling, and avoiding diagnosis to have another aspect of themselves dissected into a set of manacles to chain them to their assigned function. Black market therapy has a strong, widespread community, but psychiatric mediations are too heavily controlled to be easily taken or copied, and bootlegs are dangerous.

Hyperfunction

A spectrum of several related conditions with related symptoms that vary in strength and effect. According to the diagnostic standards, a hyperfunctional person has a notable imbalance between social comfort and expertise in personal interests. For routines, skills, and subjects they are driven by or attracted to, they excel, hence they term “hyperfunction”, referring to their above-average ability in their particular areas of interest. This makes them very valuable to functionism, even if their interest turns to a detrimental obsession that interferes with the rest of their life.

Hypercalculative Regulation Hyperfunction

Based on autism. Mecha with HRH develop in a different manner than standard mecha, often struggling to learn common social norms and rules while soaking up all information of interest at a level higher than their peers. Their sensory nets are queued to different impulses, meaning relatively inconsequential feelings or sensations can become catastrophically painful, but certain stimulations are soothing and fun. They often require routine of some sort, predictable procedural schedules or actions they can rely on, with difficulty adjusting to unexpected change. Each individual will often connect with one or several particular special interests, becoming notable in their expertise. While each person is different and these interests usually have nothing to do with their frame’s function, they can often be assigned to work within their special interest, as their passion is valuable. Transmutate has been diagnosed with HRH. Prowl and his trine are likely on the upper end of this spectrum, although they’ve deliberately avoided evaluation.

Hypercalculative Divergent Hyperfunction

If HRH is comparable to the defunct distinction of “high functioning” or “mild” autism, HDH is “severe” autism. The two are just different levels of the same nonstandard circuitry, but functionism puts emphasis on diagnosing according to how easily someone can be used, thus the differentiation of “severity”. Going from the self-contained routine hyperfunction of HRH, mecha with HDH cannot function as a normal member of society. Common elements are a total lack of social skills to the point of little or no language development, aversion to touch and comfort, hypersensitivity, and meltdowns in response to an unpleasant situation. While mecha like these can be given work of sorts, they are considered more trouble than they’re worth, and often live a life of near-indentured servitude under adult caretakers.

Persistent Compulsion Hyperfunction

Based on OCD. Most commonly known by the flagship symptom of a compulsion to follow organization and routine, PCH has a much, much broader effect than that. A mech with PCH has to deal with intrusive thoughts and anxiety, often concerning contamination, violence, loss of control, or loss of morality. Relatively minor rituals like keeping symmetry and order in one’s physical environment keep some of the fear away, but often this can degenerate into complicated and objectively useless routines to assuage the intrusive thoughts, like checking precisely twenty times to see if the door has been locked. Compulsions like this can be draining and time consuming, even becoming dangerous in some cases, and only reinforce the fear after providing temporary relief. The meticulous and careful procedure of a mech with PCH is valuable for jobs that require thorough work, but more debilitating symptoms are usually shut down and medicated until the individual is competent enough to work again. Minimus has minor PCH, undiagnosed, but it may worsen as he ages. Fixit has been diagnosed with PCH and takes medication for it.

Executive Disregulation Hyperfunction

Based on ADHD. Commonly described as “an impulsivity in pursuing fulfillment”, it’s characterized by a short attention span, emotional disregulation and sensitivity, periods of intense energy and lethargy, inability to start or complete tasks, and chasing stimulation until said stimulation no longer provides entertainment. Because of their poor ability to regulate their executive function, many undiagnosed mecha are called lazy or idiotic for being unable to perform relatively simple actions or habits. Conversely, a subject that piques their interest will receive their full attention and effort. The adult Fireflight and the younglings Hot Rod, Skywarp, and Misfire all have EDH, although none of them are diagnosed.

Triple Fracture

This is the condition Blitzwing has due to his triple changer frame. It isn’t seen in any other frametype, hence it’s name. Triple-changers are uncommon enough to be easily targeted by the prejudices of functionism, but not the easily suppressed rarity that functionists wish they were. Aside from greater strength, durability, and flexibility, two alt modes don’t have much of an adverse effect on their physical health. The biggest negative stereotype about them is their “insanity”.

While nonstandard circuitry comes in many forms, the most feared and misunderstood version is triple fracture. It’s a mental disorder that occurs in less than five percent of triple-changers, but nevertheless it has gained synonymy with that frametype. For our case study, Blitzwing's processor functions in three sections: responsive, reactionary, and deflective. His responsive instincts manifest as the personality slice nicknamed “Icy”. This is the calmest, most well adjusted side of him, capable of taking time to think through and settle on a genuine response to a situation, but likely to switch out under duress. His reactionary instincts are nicknamed “Hothead”, and this is the personality slice that has an immediate reaction to stress, and who uses over-the-top anger and bluffing to push back against whatever is making him feel threatened. His deflective instincts show up as “Random”, acting out and adopting an attitude opposite of the mood around him to divert attention from the actual stressor and onto his own actions, which gives him a modicum of control.

He isn’t three separate people, and he isn’t even really three separate personalities. The different nicknames for the different personality slices are more of a tool for him to describe his current feelings than a set of actual names. He simply doesn’t have the ability to rationally choose a response to stimuli because of the three different filters his processor uses to perceive the world. Even his occasional crazier or more violent episodes occur because his instincts are trying to defend him. Triple fracture cannot be medicated either, because what might stabilize one slice will unbalance the other slices, and the processor as a whole will suffer. However, a triple changer with a good support system and coping mechanisms is perfectly capable of living a normal life, personality slices and all. They aren’t inherently bad, either. Blitzwing can more easily stand up for himself when in Hothead mode, and is very good at telling jokes and playing a room when in Random mode.

Modal Triple Fracture

Exactly like the above, except locked into what form a mech is currently in instead of switching out according to a situation. Sky Lynx has modal triple fracture. His responsive personality slice is tied to root mode, reactionary tied to beast mode, and deflective tied to shuttle mode. He stays in root mode most of the time to keep the most rational part of himself at the forefront.

Modal Personality Disorder

Sort of related to triple fracture, modal personality disorder causes a drastic mood swing whenever a mech transforms between root and alt mode, usually between a calm demeanor and a high-energy or intense demeanor. Unlike triple fracture, this does not involve separate personality slices, only mood swings. Since it’s caused by a specific variation in the morphcore section of the processor which controls the t-cog, it’s considered a processor malfunction type of nonstandard circuitry. It occurs more in modal frames than other frametypes. The adult Road Rage and the youngling Cliffjumper both have MPD, although only Road Rage is diagnosed. Diagnoses are disproportionately more common among beastformers, because of the stigma of “beast instincts” overwhelming one’s sapience.

Submechanoid Psychosis

A punitive psychiatric term based on the now defunct inadequate personality disorder. Colloquially known as feral syndrome, this term is less a genuine condition and more an excuse to label unsatisfactory beastformers as less than people. It refers to beastformers and occasionally toolformers who are violent, unintelligent, or otherwise have a personality not perfectly suitable to subservience. Many beastformers with genuine MPD are deliberately misdiagnosed with submechanoid psychosis. If Grimlock were ever to undergo an evaluation, he would likely be diagnosed with this, although he actually has MPD. Riptide, if he were a beastformer, would also probably be labeled as submechanoid.

Neurasthenia

Based on the now defunct neurasthenia. The condition of the high castes, neurasthenia causes fatigue, dissatisfaction, anxiety, migraines, weakness, and depression. It isn’t nonstandard circuitry, but rather a condition caused by too much stress and/or too little stimulation. It’s mostly diagnosed in upper class individuals, following the theory that the constant scrutiny of being an upper class example to society is chronically nervewracking. The symptoms and causes are poorly defined, with contradicting opinions from different psychological practices. The most common listed source of neurasthenia is overworking within an intangible function, such as the performance and emotional labor of a public figure. Prescribed treatments usually including some form of physical work with tangible results, so as to rejuvenate an individual’s motivation with real, concrete evidence of their ability and accomplishment.

Defunctional Disorder

Based on clinical depression. Characterized by lack of interest, demotivation, low moods, and lethargy and exhaustion, defunctional disorder is a relatively common mental illness. It can be caused both by forged nonstandard circuitry and stress from one’s situation. It’s labelled for the way it makes an individual less likely to adequately perform their function, but it has significant effect on day-to-day life and habits outside of work. A mech affected by defunctional disorder may fall into despair and hopelessness, self-hatred, or utter numbness, and may consider self harm or suicide. Dead End, Sideways, Swerve, and Buzzsaw all have defunctional disorder. Only Dead End and Buzzsaw have been diagnosed, but neither are medicated. Many people believe Alpha Trion must have it, hence his drinking problem.

Baseline Alarm Disorder

Based on paranoid personality disorder and anxiety. BAD often shows up as a comorbid condition with PCH. It’s caused by a constant triggering of a mech’s internal preservation and security systems, conjuring a sense of doom and danger at all times regardless of the current situation. Considered a processor malfunction type of nonstandard circuitry, a mech will suffer from paranoia, anxiety, illogical suspicion or mistrust even of a situation they know to be safe, panic attacks with acute physical fear responses, and intense stress and energy drain. Red Alert, Breakdown, and Spinister all have BAD, but only Spinister is diagnosed. He’s medicated, which is what inspired his fascination with medical mechanics.

Overclocking

A poorly defined “disorder”, overclocking refers to a processor overworking itself, moving too quickly to follow itself. This is usually a symptom of a larger condition, often HRH or EDH, but it’s also diagnosed as a standalone condition. Overclocking is characterized by scattered or nonsensical trains of thought, manic energy and following exhaustion, difficulty forming words or coherent sentences, abrupt movement coupled with aborted actions, uncontrollable tics, and a continual sense of restlessness, urgency, or inability to pause. It isn’t exactly rare on Cybertron, but it’s almost never diagnosed on Velocitron. An overclocking Cybertronian seeing a Velocitronian psychiatrist is unlikely to receive a diagnosis, but a Cybertronian psychiatrist is likely to label a normal Velocitronian as overclocking, simply due to their often speedy nature and cultural behavior. Blurr has a stutter, is quick and clumsy, and speaks with the typical speed of a Velocitronian, which means he would likely be incorrectly diagnosed with this condition.

Sporadic Hang Syndrome

This condition is basically the opposite of overclocking, instead causing a mech’s processor to pause, buffer, and/or restart a certain task or thought, often repeatedly. Some people have these problems only with certain actions or feelings, some only deal with it in stressful situations, and some have persistent trouble no matter what’s going on. Symptoms include freezing mid-word or action, forgetfulness, repetition of the same word or action, uncontrollable tics, and random and/or triggered long periods of “blankness” of no movement or sensation, the processor caught in an unresolved task or thought loop.

Autoexecution Syndrome

Caused by an error in loading and running scripts in the processor, a mech with autoexecution syndrome struggles with choices, changing routines, and executive function. Symptoms include improper ending of the recharge cycle, low impulse control, intrusive thoughts and acting before thinking, and compulsion to complete a sequence or routine before doing anything else. While it’s related to PCH and can be comorbid with it, autoexecution syndrome lacks the fear and anxiety aspect of PCH and is classified as processor malfunction nonstandard circuitry. Hubcap has autoexecution syndrome and is medicated for it.

Information Creep

Based on dementia and Alzheimer’s. A condition gained later in life rather than forged nonstandard circuitry, information creep occurs in a very old mech who’s running out of memory storage space. It’s occasionally called blurred data. Eidetic decay is normal in older memories as they are compressed and reformatted for deeper storage, but at some point the memory file itself becomes too corrupted to read or is deleted completely. A mech that has reached old age is almost certain to get information creep at least on a small scale. The condition becomes debilitating when the corruption starts encroaching on large portions of the memory, even into short-term memory. It causes difficulty knowing where or when one is, uncertainty as to who others are or what their significance is, problems following conversations, and anywhere from general absentmindedness to total loss of interaction with external stimulation. One would think that size null mecha are more prone to this, but that isn’t true. The percentage of size null mecha who suffer from more than just slight information creep is much lower than the percentage of older modern mecha who suffer the same. Medics and psychiatrists are unsure as to why.

Overwritten Information Creep

Similar to the above, except not caused by age, rather by an error in the processor that overwrites stored data rather than making a new folder in chronological order. This is uncommon, but can affect any age. Mecha affected will find themselves losing time, forgetting pieces of or entire memories no matter how recent or vivid, losing track of possessions, getting lost easily, and having difficulty connecting information with its source or correlation. Although no one pays attention to him enough to notice, Rung has overwritten information creep, hence his chronic forgetfulness.

Primus Apotheosis

A relatively recent term coined by Froid, primus apotheosis is suspected to affect 2% of all adults who have come in contact with the vigilante factions operating in Iacon. It’s characterized by excessive admiration or obsession with one or multiple faction members, idealization of their teachings to the point of blindly following, dysmorphia in their own frames and irrational belief that they ought to look more like these vigilantes, and abnormally increased interest for people and subjects outside of their assigned function, class, and cultural background. So far, a youngling’s typical overenthusiasm for a new interest has proven indistinguishable from primus apotheosis, so diagnoses are limited to adults. The condition is practically guaranteed in any survivor of relic corruption, usually with especially strong frame dysmorphia. Froid has had to do the majority of diagnosing himself, because that insufferable fool the Academy has hired as their chief counselor has the audacity to claim “primus apotheosis is absolute nonsense”.

Pathological Dissent

A punitive psychiatric term based on the now defunct sluggish schizophrenia, drapetomania, and general political abuse of psychiatry. Mecha diagnosed with pathological dissent are, without fail, rebels and activists of some sort. The official diagnosis claims that these people are “neurologically incapable of being satisfied with their inbuilt function”, therefore the state must take custody of them for their own health and wellbeing. It is by far the most dangerous label any individual could ever acquire. Froid and several others have remotely diagnosed the vigilante faction members with pathological dissent, and Impactor was also diagnosed with it prior to his execution.

[dreamer213]

Profiles

For the sake of continuity and simplification before I actually start this fanfic book/series I’m putting out some basic bios and head cannons on our two main characters and characters through out depending on their importance to the plot and how much I deviate from the cannon.

Name: Whitley Schnee

Age: 16

Gender: Male

DOB: December 21

Eye color: Blue

Hair color: White

Favorite foods: No preferences

Favorite drink: A cup of Earl Gary

Likes: Reading, Art, classical music, flowers, and small animals

Dislikes: His family, his home life, and his lack of freedom

Allies: Klein, Mary Shellor ( a manor maid) and Father(?)

Enemies: Weiss, Winter, Mother, and Father(?)

Personality: (outward) Cold, Brass, Charismatic, and Eloquent (inward) Scared, Weak, Lonesome, and Affection Starved.

Abilities:

Perfect Recall: Remembers everything he’s ever hear, seen, read, or done.

Strategic Mind: Can form plans with the information available to him and execute them with precision.

Persuasive Tongue: Is very good at talking his way in and out of most situations and can lie flawlessly even under pressure.

The youngest in family Whitley has often been forgotten by those in area him, especially his family. After years of trying to gain any attention from the people around him, he finally gives up when his older sister Weiss leaves home to become a huntress like their older sister Winter. And just like Winter, she leaves him in the care of their abusive Father and alcoholic mother with no intentions to contact them or to be contacted. Left abandon and hurt Whitley is forced to rely on his Father, the man who treats him more like a trained dog than a son, for support and instead becomes the sole focus of his tyranny. But after the fall of Beacon Weiss return but not for too long as after an argument with a guest Weiss causes such a ruckus that she is disinherited and locked in her room. She escapes later that same night, not before accusing Whitley of wanting all this to happen as if she knew him well enough to even think that, leaving him and the manor staff to deal with Father’s rage when he founds her gone…….again. One week later everything’s been swept under the rug and Father is hosting another party to apologize for the last, as if he hadn’t broken three vases, smashed a window, and thrown an antique clock a mere inch from his son and last heir’s head in a fit of rage. After another event of being Father’s mouth piece and apologizing for the sins of others Whitley is left jaded and retreats to a secluded balcony to get some air. He stood there hopelessly lost in this prison of silver and marble, he leans against the railing and looks up to the stars wondering if his life even worth living. During his introspection his leans back too far and falls into a two story drop. Luckily for him there was one kind soul at this party who seemed to hear his short scream and silent prayers. Before he drop to far he is grasped by a soft hand and sweet voice cries out for his attention. He looks up to see what he could only describe as an angel draped in colors of summer.

Name: Penny Poledina

Age: Appears To be 16

Gender: Female Android

DOC: June 19

Eye color: Green

Hair color: Orange

Favorite foods: Having only recently obtained the ability to eat and drink when her restoration included the addition of a state of the art artificial nervous system and a bio fuel converter, Penny still has too many types of food she hasn’t tried yet to decide a favorite.

Favorite drink: Root beer for some reason, she doesn’t really know why?

Likes: COMBAT! Scrapbooking, Sewing, Fairytales and Helping others

Dislikes: Working overtime, bad people, and not being able to make her own decisions

Allies: Her Dad, Team RWBY(?) Team FNKI, Winter(?) Ironwood (?)

Enemies: Robyn Hill, The Happy Huntresses, and Salem

Personally: (outward) Sweet but stiff Caring, a bit clumsy and social unaware (inward) Overworked, Insecure, and Unsure of her place in the world.

Abilities:

Retractable Swords: Sword hidden in Penny’s back that she call pull out and control at will

Rocket Boots: Removable Rocket boots that propel her through the air giving her the ability to fly and can be removed to and clasped into an inconspicuous handbag leaving Penny with normal legs when not in use. She carries a pair of socks and shoes in a backpack she takes everywhere.

Super Strength: Can lift objects several times her size with little effort and throw objects with intense strength and speed.

Lethally Adorable: If you weren’t told or saw it yourself you wouldn’t believe she was a military grade weapon.

After being brought back from the brink of death Penny is rebuilt better then ever. Her sense are heightened, she’s gained new ones like taste and smell, and has a more durable and polished appearance. This was issued to her not as any form of payment for her trauma or pity for her but instead was to make her easier to use in undercover operations and lessen the chances of her allowing herself to be damaged again. This becomes all too clear to her when after only a few hours of being up and functional again she sent straight to training then and back to the field for her next assignment. From there now her life becomes a set schedule protect Mantle, train with military hunters, fill out daily reports, and go home to recharge. With the addition of Robyn Hill and her Happy Huntresses the job quickly grows tiring for Penny. Having no life outside of work the only comfort Penny has is small talk between training sessions, mostly with Team FNKI Winter doesn’t like to talk much, and the warmth of coming home to a meal for two and some family time with her Dad. But Penny can’t help but want more. To hang out with friends, go to cafes, parties, maybe even attend one of Team FNKI’s concerts! Like a normal girl, one whose not a soldier, whose life isn’t ruled by the military, one whose body wasn’t made from metal and wires and paid for with government funds. But Penny can’t be that girl all she can do is dream about it. That’s just how things were for her until Ironwood showed up at her home, dressed in formal wear with a car, a dress, and shoes. He tells her to get changed then get in the car. After she’s dressed and they leave he informs her of the new information they have just verified. There is a mole amongst the Atlas elites feeding Robyn Hill information on the supply shipments. In order to catch the mole he’s excusing her from training and reassigning that time so she can infiltrate Atlas high society to find and capture them. To begin the investigation they are attending tonight’s Evening Party at the Schnee Manor and making introduction with the elites. W-What! Why her! Why was Penny of all people chosen for such an outrageous mission! Simple put it’s because Penny is the strongest hunter they have without an off putting appearance or any connection to Atlas, a perfect nobody. Once they get to the manor they split up to cover more ground, for a moment Penny’s in awe of the manor it was as though she walk into a castle from a storybook. She’s so caught up in the scenery she doesn’t notice the group behind her until she bumps into one of them. She tries to greet them but quickly gets a taste of Atlas upperclass hospitality. Terrified Penny retreats to an empty table at the furthest part of the ballroom. She sits there for hours contemplating how she could complete her mission until she hears a shout from the balcony next to her. Knowing a citizen’s cry for help. With a person in peril Penny waste no time and rushes to save them. And when she does what she finds is the most gorgeously doll like human she’s ever seen.

[eganantiquus]

Capitalism: Its Effects on Heaven, Hell, and a Few Others // A Good Omens Meta

I think the discussion about capitalism in Good Omens is a very interesting one to have- specifically in how it relates to Heaven and Hell. I saw a post about it recently, about the Quartermaster saying Heaven would “take the sword out of [Aziraphale’s] celestial wages,” which begs the question: does Heaven have money? A system of checks and balances on the Angels’ miracles, perhaps? Heaven is, after all, the original monopoly. But how does that affect them? Or affect Hell, for that matter? (Keep in mind, I will primarily be discussing events and dialogue from the TV show, as that’s the canon I’m most familiar and comfortable with extrapolating on.) So let’s move out a bit to take stock of the bigger picture. First of all in this discussion, let’s remember that the entire structure of Heaven and Hell blatantly showcases the shittiest parts of capitalism. As a reminder, the cons of capitalism can include: a monopoly on trade, goods, or services; social/emotional necessities ignored in the pursuit of profit; lack of concern for the environment; driving need for exponentially increased profit, allowing no space for slip-ups or less-profitable cycles; Inherited wealth, and big gaps in economic equality, which creates social divisions, which cause people to resent their fellow citizens. Let’s first take a look at something we’re all familiar with. Heaven’s and Hell’s relationship with Crowley and Aziraphale. Both Heaven and Hell have an inherent monopoly on basically everything, which is something we see both Crowley and Aziraphale struggling with in different ways throughout history. They want to exist outside of the hierarchy, but there literally isn’t any outside. In terms of social/emotional needs… do I need to go into the trauma and anxiety that Heaven and Hell instill in Crowley and Aziraphale? A post for another time. And it’s apparent, however much they try to hide it, that both of them fear authority, and would do practically anything to get away from it. So, they wiggle out from under it in whatever ways they can. (See: the “arrangement,” Crowley’s “there’s more to evil than killing people, eh?” and Aziraphale’s “Well, if you put it that way, Heaven couldn’t actually object… ”) Lack of concern for the environment can be extrapolated to Heaven and Hell’s lack of care for humanity. (See also, uh, nuclear Armageddon.) Inherited wealth/prestige is definitely a thing: see the Archangels lording their power over the lower Principalities. There’s a bit more room for mobility in Hell, where doing more evil deeds = more prestige & (...dis)honor? Anyway, this is where Hell begins to deviate. Exponential need for profit in Heaven and Hell translates to their increasing intolerance of Aziraphale’s *ahem* lies. Hell is more lenient in this area too- perhaps because of their disorganization. So Heaven and Hell are capitalistic. But in what capacity, and what is the effect on their respective denizens? In practice, who’s the winner in this capitalistic structure? Hell isn’t, no matter how inherently hellish capitalism might be. They’re clearly the losers in this situation- they’ve got terrible service, (see: Hastur having to “[wait] for maintenance to come and fix another bloody pipe,”* and the Demon Eric’s “we don’t get this view down in the basement.”) lack the organization to rise up against Heaven, (see: the frankly concerning lack of organized preparation for The Great War) and are constantly put down. They all have to fight for their positions, and are intimately familiar with what the failure to succeed in this “business” means. Not to mention that their entire hierarchy is performance driven, showing the capitalistic values they, for lack of a better term, grew up in, are still ingrained in all their practices. Heaven is at the top of an office building, has views of the entire world, is clean and obviously well organized. It’s clear what the hierarchy is there- everyone walks in lines, Gabriel always stands slightly in front of Michael and Uriel and Sandalphon, all of the higher Angels we see interact with Aziraphale treat him like he’s less than them. Heaven clearly benefits from the organization and driving force that capitalism provides, while Hell is just getting by.

To dive further into what the effects of capitalism are on Heaven and Hell, let’s go into depth more about Heaven and Hell’s respective war preparation to analyze their motivations.

Hell’s war preparations are disorganized, at best. All the Demons of Hell, gathered around two ‘generals,’ getting ready to hear a pep talk best described as being far from premeditated or sophisticated. On top of this, the second something goes wrong, Beelzebub says it. Just like that, to all the Demons. It makes me cringe every time I watch it, to see the rest of the Demons turn to each other and wonder if they’re following the right leader. The thing about this, though, is that they don’t have another option for a leader. This is the place for the people who couldn’t make it in Heaven, the outcasts and Fallen, so they don’t care. There’s nowhere else for anyone to go. Hell is far more transparent about their hate, their evil, but also about their vulnerability. Perhaps not individual vulnerability, (see: Crowley needing to be Cool and Collected at every moment) but in their overall anxieties and problems, Hell is very transparent. There is no need to hide the problems Hell has, because there’s no worse place to go. In this way, Hell has accepted their fate at the bottom of the totem pole.

Now let’s talk about Heaven’s war preparations. When Aziraphale arrives prematurely in Heaven, his “whole platoon” is “waiting” for him. So, Heaven has an organized war effort. They have uniforms. They have someone checking everyone in, putting them into place. (Where do they all line up to go to war? Where does the war Occur?? Questions for another time.) However, here is the interesting part: Heaven’s whole spiel to get everyone motivated, unlike Hell, is based on fear. While Hell brings up the actual motive for fighting, saying “we lost” and “we have had thousands of years to… get smarter,” Heaven tells Aziraphale that he’s a “coward” if he doesn’t fight, while not providing any reason besides ‘he’s supposed to.’

Here lies the beginning of the difference between Heaven and Hell: their motivators. Now let’s talk about how they carry out justice, and how that is an indicator of the effects of capitalism on them both.

Hell’s trial for Crowley is a mockery of the word, let’s be perfectly clear. They don’t provide him with a defense, and have an implicitly biased jury. However, it is a trial. A trial with evidence presented against him, a prosecutor, and a judge, and everything. What’s so interesting to me, about this, is that they don’t think for a minute that there wouldn’t be a trial. If they had thought such a thing was possible, they would have taken the opportunity. But they didn’t think of it. And that is what is so important here. Hell is the one that carries out a just trial. And I think that really speaks to their experiences as the Fallen. They know what no mercy looks like, what it is to be cut off from God’s love, with no hope for recompense. And, however evil they are, they know how much that hurts. Hell is just because they were given no justice. 

Heaven, on the other hand? There’s no preamble to Aziraphale’s “trial.” There isn’t even a trial. There’s just the characteristic fake-niceties boiled down to their basest component: a complete lack of empathy for anyone who deviates from the norm. (See Gabriel’s “into the flames,” and “don’t talk to me about the ‘greater good,’ sunshine.”). And, oh yeah by the way, what kind of good and just society uses capital punishment? Isn’t that the exact sort of thing Heaven should be above? I should sure hope so! Their believed moral code, the idea that because they’re Angels, divinely Chosen by God, that whatever they do is predestined to be right, has all the flavor of a strong dictatorship. So convinced are they of their superiority that even outright capital punishment is not below them. This is an interesting contrast to their motivation of fear that we looked at in the previous section. Perhaps higher Angels use fear to keep Angels in line, but feel exempt from the process itself. Very similar to the way big CEO's in the human business world accumulate wealth and power while their workers work paycheck to paycheck.

So Heaven is fundamentally bad, and Hell is fundamentally… good?

Not quite. 

Both Heaven and Hell are operating under the millennia of repressed trauma and baggage that came with the first war. For example, let’s look at their refusal to see nuance in the issue of war Take a look at Gabriel’s “We can fight! And we can win!” to Aziraphale and Beezlebub’s “Don’t you want to rule the world?” to Adam. They can’t comprehend that someone would want to, or, for that matter, could look at the structure of The Way Things Are and go, ‘No, this is not for me, I think I’ll just do this quietly over her instead.’ Heaven and Hell have each been indoctrinated in their own ways, by God and by Heaven and by their own inability to look past their instructions.

So, Heaven and Hell operate under the guidelines of a capitalistic system because of their respective experiences with authority and punishment.  

What does this say about Crowley and Aziraphale? That they’ve managed to dodge this system (mostly) altogether, and made one of their own… based purely on joy, mutual respect, and They still have their issues, (See: Being unable to communicate effectively. When? Oh, just for all of history) but for the most part, they’re living their own lives. It takes an especially strong will to stand up to a faulty administration, even if the standing up part consists of drinking a lot of wine, sliding around killing people, and consorting with an enemy who’s actually quite nice. It takes what a lot of Angels and Demons, simply put, don’t have. Like Hastur, who doesn’t have an “imagination.” Crowley invented one for himself. Crowley and Aziraphale practically invented free will for themselves, too. Part of their ability to so wholly reject their ‘upbringing,’ if you will, must be connected to the fact that they spend so much time around humans. If we go with TV show canon, they’re practically the only ethereal/occult entities that are on Earth for any long period of time. Of course they’re going to catch on from the humans. So Crowley and Aziraphale are the only celestial beings who have been able to get free of this terrible system, and so are able to better ‘guide’ the humans, which inevitably leads them to attempting to stop armageddon. (And of course, the apocalypse, according to Aziraphale, is something no “reasonable person would permit!”)

This brings us to the humans. Specifically, how Heaven is supposed to guide them. Heaven doesn’t, insofar as we are aware, care about the humans. Perhaps other Angels do, ones who have walked among them. But for the most part, especially with Gabriel, Michael, Sandalphon- the people in charge- the humans are an afterthought. They’re one knight on the chessboard, easily moved, taken, and discarded- perhaps with a bit of regret, but dispensable all the same. In this way, the exponential growth mindset that Heaven has goes to show just how far they’ve deviated from God’s design. Now, far be it from me to speculate on the nature of the Ineffable Plan, but as far as I’m aware, the Angels were created to love humanity, and to nurture them. Doesn’t sound like what they’re doing at all, does it?

So in this way, we can see that both Heaven and Hell have gotten the short end of the metaphorical capitalism stick. Hell, at the bottom of the ranks, desperate to climb back up and regain their glory, but unable to do so because of the weight of their Falling trauma; Heaven, in all its Jeff Bezos glory, unable to see the consequences of their actions close up because of their disassociation with “reality.” 

Capitalism and economics in general are incredibly nuanced things, and I do not at all pretend to fully understand them. However, I fully enjoy imagining how the complex dynamics of Good Omens universe Heaven and Hell deal with the repercussions of existence and their own actions through the lens of capitalism.

*side note from paragraph seven: I think maintenance work would be a more fitting job for Crowley and Aziraphale, and frankly, I would love to read a fic about that.

[scullydubois]

Only the Light: Ch. 9

9/? | AU where Melissa moves in with Scully after Scully’s abduction | angst, msr slow-burn, occasional fluff | currently: s2, ep 12, Aubrey | T (for now?) | 4.3k | previous chapters | read on ao3 | tagging: @today-in-fic

Back in DC, Missy helps Scully get to the bottom of what's plaguing her. As Scully's journey gets a bit clearer, Missy drops a bombshell about her own life.

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

Scully’s stomach clenches as the plane touches down on the runway, jostling she and the rest of the passengers around like pawns in its game. Only forty-eight hours ago, she and Mulder had lifted off toward another mystery, another puzzle daring them to solve it. Now she is back, knowing scarcely more than she did then, with a mystery of her own to solve. She is forever chasing ghosts, and trying not to become one. 

As the winged giant rolls into its gate, Scully glances out the window. Thick clouds blanket the sky, an unending greyness rolling out over the city as far as the eye can see. So much for there’s no place like home. She’s been realizing lately that home is a feeling, not a location. Sometimes she feels like she needs a map to navigate her own apartment, or like everyone in DC knows some language she never learned. Well, almost everyone. There are a couple people who speak the same language as her.

And she’s about to see one of them now. The crowd of passengers--mostly suits who had sleepless nights-- stand up in their rows, ready to file out into the bureaucratic machine. The man on the outside of Scully’s row opens the overhead compartment and pulls down his bag and the carry-ons of Scully and the woman next to her. Scully thanks him demurely. She can’t remember the last time someone other than Mulder did that for her.

As they fall into line and shuffle off the plane, Scully wonders what her life will look like next time she boards a plane. With any luck, this will all be a fluke and she’ll be heading back to Aubrey tomorrow. Then again, even if it isn’t a fluke, she’ll still probably join Mulder back in Aubrey. She knows herself.

What would she say to him, then? Having to admit she lied about her reason for leaving, coming back with the type of news that turns worlds upside down...it doesn’t seem fair to him. It hasn’t been fair to her either, but that’s out of her hands.

She had knocked on Mulder’s door before the sun was even up. She hadn’t expected him to be awake, and so was particularly surprised when he came to the door with a towel around his waist. Evidently, he hadn’t expected her either (though who else is coming to his motel door at 6am?) because the longer she stood there in front of his barely dressed body, the more his color drained away. 

Needing a lie lame enough to be true, Scully told him that Melissa had sprained her ankle and would need some help getting around for a couple days.That she asked Scully to come home rather than go stay with their mother, because who better to be nursed by than a doctor? Mulder had nodded, told Scully to go, assured her he could handle BJ and the case. Scully is sure that Mulder knows what she told him is a lie. But he didn’t object, and that’s the permission she needed to feel settled with him and herself. 

She follows everyone off the plane, through the tunnel, and into the terminal. Moments like this remind her of her obsolescence in the universe, and she is somehow comforted by that. She is no chosen one, no messiah nor martyr, no mother of a holy child. She would like to stay that way.

She surveys the crowd waiting to pick up their beloved passengers. All of her fellow fliers, mere faces in her vicinity for an hour or two, are someone to somebody else. She is, too. They are all emerging from obscurity into a realm where they are known, for better or for worse. 

At the edge of the crowd, Scully catches her sister’s unmistakable smile and glowing red locks. She saw her sister only two mornings before, but Missy reacts as if they’ve been separated a lifetime. She engulfs Scully in a hug that just about sends the butterflies in her stomach into hibernation. 

“How are you feeling?” Missy asks, pulling away to scan her sister’s face for the honest answer she won’t give. 

Aware of this, Scully turns the corners of her mouth up. “I’m okay, really. My migraine went away at about four in the morning.”

“So you barely slept,” Missy interjects. 

Scully frowns. “Well, I laid in bed from roughly eight to six. There was sleeping involved at some point, I think.”

“How about on the plane? Did you sleep there?”

“No, you know I can never sleep with strangers around.”

“Oh, right. Did they teach you that at the Academy or something?”

“The things I saw at the Academy taught me that.”

“Oh.” Missy regrets bringing it up. As they head toward the luggage area, she holds out her hand, lets her sister place the handle of her carry-on in it. A silent apology, an acknowledged acceptance.

“So what did you end up telling Mulder?”

Scully is endeared that she has successfully chipped away at her sister’s tendency to call him by his first name.

“Oh god, you’re gonna think it’s so stupid.”

Missy laughs. “What did you say?”

Scully’s voice is rife with amusement. “I told him that you sprained your ankle and needed a doctor around to take care of you.”

Melissa bursts into laughter. “Good girl.” Scully would kick a man in the groin if he ever said that to her, but coming from her sister, it’s high praise.

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

They ignore the elephant in the room until they make it to Missy’s car. The plastic of a CVS bag rustles at Scully’s feet as she settles into the passenger seat. 

“Three pregnancy tests,” Melissa explains. “I stopped on the way.”

“You didn’t have to--”

“But I did.” That had been their father’s comeback whenever someone tried to, as he called it, ‘pity the helper.’ They both smile just a bit, their memory of him alive and well. 

“Can I pay you back?”

“No!” Missy insists. “I’m living with you rent free.”

Scully decides this is a good enough reason to let it go. She crosses her legs, watches her sister pull out of the space. She lets a question float around her head until they make it out of the labyrinth of airport side roads.

“Do you think I would be a good mother?”

Missy flicks her gaze toward her sister. Dana is peculiar in her way. Instead of fishing for sympathy like most people when they ask questions of this nature, she expects punishment. She’s practically asking to have a nail hammered into her cross. 

“You’d be a wonderful mother, Dana,” Missy soothes. “You’ve never had a bad intention in your life.”

“Haven’t I?...I killed a snake with Bill and Charlie once.”

“And you cried afterward. I remember seeing the tear stains on your face when you got home. Not to mention that you were what, five or six?”

“Well, what about Daniel? Surely my judgement was wrong there.”

Melissa sighs. “Okay, I’ll rephrase it. Any bad intention you’ve ever had was paid for with regret, and that’s not true about most people.” She frowns. “It’s always the purest souls who are the hardest on themselves.”

Scully stares through the windshield. She will expend no brainpower on her sister’s implication. She doesn’t believe it to be true. 

After a moment--“Do you remember those Raggedy Ann dolls we had, Betsy and Betty?”

Melissa smiles, nods. “Of course. Betsy was yours, and Betty was mine. We had those little wooden bassinets for them.”

“Right.”

Missy lets the memories flow back to her. “We used to sing lullabies and rock them to sleep. Actually, I’d sing, you’d pray with them. Mom and dad thought it was the sweetest thing ever, and I would get so mad at you. I thought you were sucking up to them.”

Scully laughs. This is the first time she’s heard of her sister’s woes. “Missy, I was three. There was no conspiring going on.”

“Say what you will, but your stocking was always a little bit fuller than mine.” She smirks at her sister, who blushes and looks at her lap. 

Dana has the unfortunate distinction, at least in Melissa’s mind, of being the favorite daughter. Bill Jr. always was and will be the favorite child. He molded to all their parent’s expectations of him, never deviating from the upstanding family man they imagined when holding him for the first time. Dana had done well up until she decided on the Academy. As Missy reminded her countless times, it wasn’t that they hated her going into the FBI. It just wasn’t in their vision for her, that’s all. 

Missy doesn’t fret about her place, even finds it somewhat funny. She isn’t the least favorite child per say (thanks Charlie!) but she is the least favorite child her mother is still in contact with, and that’s a title that takes some maneuvering. 

Scully laces her fingers together, rests them in her lap. “Do you remember telling me that I wasn’t a good mommy one night when we were putting Betsy and Betty to sleep?”

Melissa looks to her sister so quickly she practically forgets she needs to be watching the road. “No, of course not.”

Scully can’t meet her gaze. “Well, I know it’s a silly thing, and we were just children, but it’s stayed stuck in my brain for all these years.”

“Dana, you had probably just finished a ‘now I lay me down to sleep’ prayer, and I felt like I needed to knock you down a notch.” She pats her sister’s shoulder. “There was no truth in it, and I’m sorry it’s bugged you for so long.”

Scully shifts in her seat. The CVS bag crackles as her heels bear down on it. “I’m afraid it’s turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy at this point.”

Melissa won’t give weight to her sister’s worries, but won’t discount them either. “The good news about a self-fulfilling prophecy is that you can always change your thinking...You don’t believe in psychics, so don’t try to be one.”

Scully looks at the dashboard, then her sister. “I would hug you right now if we weren’t doing 75,” she coos.  

Something has clicked in her head, some comfort she has long been depriving herself of. Sometimes words fill in the cracks left by those that preceded them. The right words go even further, it turns out. The right words give you permission to heal. 

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

A dreadful anticipation plagues her as she and Missy walk up to the apartment. She wants to get it over with, even if it goes badly (and she knows it very well might). She craves the relief of surviving such an ordeal. Scully imagines that this is what the French must have felt on their walk to the guillotine. Except instead of the relief of surviving, they got the release of death. Scully is not ready for this yet.

Missy unlocks the door, ushers her sister in. Dana is not used to coming home and finding things in different places than before, Missy can tell from the inquisitive look on her face. She is surveying her territory, updating her memory bank. Looking for the exit signs, maybe.

Melissa closes and locks the door. Letting her sister set the pace, she leaves the CVS bag on the side table. Dana has already taken the carry-on and suitcase to her room.

Her room, Scully finds, is a shrine to sameness, everything looking exactly as she left it two days before. Untouched and completely under her control...these are the reassurances she requires now. She lifts the suitcase onto her bed but leaves it zipped. Its fate is no clearer than hers at the moment. Then she places the carry-on on her dresser, makes a mental note to let Mulder know she made it home safely, and returns to her sister in the living room.

“Have you eaten?’ Missy asks, edging toward the kitchen.

“I won’t be able to until we get this over with,” Scully replies, making her priorities clear.

“Okay.” Missy won’t fight her on this one. She retrieves the bag off the side table, perches at her sister’s side. “Are you ready now?”

Scully screws up her face. “No, but yes. I just need to know at this point.”

Missy takes her sister’s hand with a specific kind of gentleness, like a fairy godmother about to cast a spell upon her princess. Scully is willing to be led. She follows her sister into the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet while Missy pulls the pregnancy tests from the bag. Scully tries not to think about any moment beyond the current one as her sister opens each test, lines them up along the counter. 

“Do you want me in here or outside?” Missy’s tone matches the sympathy that Scully needs.

“Outside, please,” Scully says sheepishly, wishing she could have some guts for once. If no one else witnesses this moment, then maybe it’s not happening. Flawed reasoning that even Mulder wouldn’t agree with, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Okay. I’ll be right on the other side of the door.”

Scully nods her thanks as Missy slips out of the bathroom and shuts the door quietly. Left alone, she feels the crushing gravity that has been trailing her all along. She’s almost certain that her heartbeat would be visible through her skin if she looked. 

She stands, picks up the first test, opens the toilet. Her hands shake so violently that she thinks she might drop the stick in the toilet, which would be a pretty terrible way to return her sister’s kindness. She pulls it away and takes a deep breath to steady herself, holding her arms out in front of her like a sleepwalker. All the things she’s seen, and she’s never been as scared as this moment. Never felt the life she knows and has grown to love so acutely threatened. Never balked at the future in such a fervent way.

It occurs to her that she might seriously need her sister to come in and help her. The thought of that is just pathetic enough to kick her into action. Her hands are barely any more steady than before, but her resolve is ironclad. 

On the other side of the door, Melissa listens as a long period of silence is broken. She’s sitting down, her head resting against the wood, a hand laid against the door like it’s the chest of a lover. 

Silence again, ruptured by Scully’s quiet murmur. “Will you hold on to the test, please? And read the result when it’s ready?” She didn’t know she would need this, but she does. 

“Of course.” 

Scully cracks open the door, passes the stick to her sister. “I wiped it off.” 

Missy suppresses a laugh. “I wouldn’t care if you didn’t, but thank you.”

Scully closes the door quickly, not wanting to hold eye contact with her sister, not wanting to accidentally see the result herself. “Two minutes, right?” Her voice is on the verge of breaking.

“Yes, Dana. Two minutes.”

“Should I wait to do the next one?”

Missy eyes the test, waiting for it to make up its mind. “You can go ahead. It’ll take two minutes too.”

“Okay.” Scully’s voice is barely audible.

“Or you can wait,” Missy offers. “I just suspect that you’d want to check the accuracy as soon as possible.”

“Uh-huh.” She grabs the second test, wearily sits back down. 

Missy’s voice reverberates through the door. “I’ve done this before you know. For myself and for a friend.”

“Really?” Scully’s brain had tricked herself into thinking she was all alone.

“Mm-hm,” Missy confirms. “Mine were never positive, but hers were. I went to Planned Parenthood with her.”

“Oh.” There are things, Scully realizes, that she has neglected to think about. Or maybe she’s putting that off until she knows for sure. It wasn’t a conscious decision, more of an act of self-preservation. Her gut feeling is that she wouldn’t, but she never envisioned herself in a situation like this. If there’s any situation where it’s justified, it’s this, right? Not that she has a problem with it; women should be able to choose for themselves. She just always thought she knew what her choice would be. 

Melissa lifts her eyes from her watch, looks at the door as if she can see her sister through it. “It’s ready.”

“It’s been two minutes?” Scully’s voice rises.

“Uh-huh. Do you want me to come in or…?”

Scully scrambles up, lays the second test on a fresh piece of toilet paper. “I’ll come to you.”

She opens the door, kneels to be eye level with her sister. Prayer position is in close proximity. She bites her lip, her dilated pupils begging her sister to either curse her or free her.

A thin smile appears on Missy’s face as she flips the test so that Scully can read it. “Negative.”

One line. One very defined red line set against the white space. Has anyone, Scully wonders, ever gotten a tattoo of that?

“I--” Tears burst out of her instead of words. She lands in her sister’s arms, utterly unsure of what she’s feeling. Relief, yes. Happiness? Not quite. Sadness? Something like that. 

Missy smooths her sister’s hair down, holds her in the tightest hug she’s probably had in decades. “How do you feel?”

Scully is tempted to ask how her sister does that, always there with the tough questions. Instead, she gulps air until she’s calmed down enough to talk. 

“I don’t know,” she laments, tears streaked down her reddened face. “I thought I would be glad but...I just feel numb. Like I went down the wrong fork in the road and missed something important, but I don’t even know what it is since it didn’t happen.” She sniffles. It sounds like a heart breaking. “I just know it’s supposed to be there.”

“I thought you didn’t want--”

“Not under these circumstances, no. But then...when else is it gonna happen?” Her voice is a sheet of glass. “Because it doesn’t look like any time soon.”

Missy hugs her once again, rocking her back and forth. She overflows with warmth, sympathy, and love. “Honey, you have plenty of time to make your life what you want it to be.”

Scully sobs into her sister’s neck. She feels like an emotional hemophiliac, constantly hemorrhaging pain. Every time she thinks she’s bottomed out, there’s farther to fall. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she says, wiping her face. “I didn’t know I would be.”

Missy pulls her in a third time. “Don’t ever apologize to me for anything, even the things you’re actually wrong about.”

Scully laughs half-heartedly. “Oh!” She realizes then. “We still have two more tests, don’t we?”

Missy nods, smiles empathetically. “The second one should be ready by now.”

Scully is about to get up, but Missy lays a hand on her back, beats her to it. “I’ll grab it.” She strides into the bathroom, picks the stick up off the counter, and takes a look. Again, she flips it so her sister can see. “Negative.”

Scully presses her lips together, a stopgap to any further emotional reaction. “We should do the third one then, just to be sure?”

Missy detects a lift in her sister’s voice, a space she’s made for hope. “Whatever you’d like, Dana.” It seems that her sister will always end up disappointed through no fault of her own, no matter what she wishes for. This chills Missy to the bone.

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

The sisters share dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets for lunch because this is the kind of food Melissa buys when left to her own devices. Missy dunks hers in honey mustard, Scully takes hers plain. Remnants of anxiety hang in the air; Scully’s plight remains unresolved, and they are well aware of that. Whatever path they are walking, this is just the beginning. 

The phone interrupts their silent reverie, and Scully hops up to disguise the fact that its ringing made her jump. “It’s probably Mulder,” she tells her sister. “I meant to call him when we got home.” Missy nods, continues with her nuggets. 

Scully grabs the phone off the wall. “Hello?”

“Hey, is Mel there?” It’s a sweet, flowery voice, very different from the one Scully expected. She furrows her brow. Could Mel refer to her sister? She’s never heard anyone call Melissa that. “Who is this?” Missy looks up, watches her sister curiously. It’s not Mulder, evidently. 

The woman on the other line clears her throat. “It’s Trinity. Am I speaking to Dana?”

“Yes, this is Dana,” Scully says slowly, unnerved by the caller knowing her name. “Are you calling for Melissa?” Scully offers, hoping she might get out of this scot-free. 

Hearing this, Missy wipes her hands on a napkin, gets up, and rushes toward Scully, holding her hand out for the phone.

Scully ignores her, keeps the phone to her own ear as the caller speaks to her. “I am, but I was actually wondering about you. Mel told me your worries. How are you doing, Dana?”

Scully is now particularly spooked. Who is this woman, and why does she know all of her business? Missy pokes Scully in the bicep, then gestures for the phone. Scully hasn’t seen her sister this greedily desperate since she snuck out the window when she was seventeen and needed Scully to unlock the front door so she could get back in before their parents woke up.

“Um, Trinity is it, Missy--Mel wants to talk to you.”

“Oh, okay! It was nice to finally meet you!” the cheery voice practically sings. Scully just nods and makes her usual ‘Mulder you’re crazy face’ as she hands the phone off to her sister.

“Hi, Trin.” Missy speaks in a rush. “I can’t really talk right now, but Dana is home and all the tests were negative so she’s doing okay. I’ll call you tonight, alright?”

Scully can hear the voice on the other line, but she can’t make it out. Her sister says “I love you, bye” into the phone, then hangs up.

Scully raises an eyebrow, feeling it her duty as the little sister to pry. “Who was that…?” 

Missy puts the phone back on the wall, circles around to her plate, sits down. She answers calmly, casually. “That’s Trinity. She lives in Portland, we used to waitress together.”

Scully slides back into the seat across from her sister. “How come you’ve never mentioned her? She seems to know a lot about me.”

“Well, you’re the reason I moved to DC and all.”

“I didn’t know you were still in contact with anyone from the West Coast.” Scully picks a stray crumb off one of her nuggets, thankful that her sister is in the line of questioning for a change. 

“I bounced around the area for three years, of course I have friends from there.” She grabs her own empty paper plate, points to her sister’s. “Are you done?”

Scully pushes the plate--with two uneaten chicken nuggets--toward Missy. “With the food, yes. Not with the questions.”

Melissa takes both of the plates to the trash, then rinses her hands in the sink. “Yes. Does that answer your question?”

“Depends. What do you think my question is?”

Missy dries her hands on the dish towel, swivels to face her sister. “Is Trinity my girlfriend? Because yes, she is.”

Scully’s mouth drops open the slightest bit. She had known Missy was bi, but she had never met any of her girlfriends, not even in passing. Missy tended to keep them to herself, fearing that the Scully family might encroach on the holy ground she created. “Really?” she asks excitedly. 

“Uh-huh.” Missy sits back down at the table. “For nine months now.”

“Are you serious? That’s incredible, Missy! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Missy just raises her eyebrow. Scully feels like she’s looking in a mirror. “What? You know it doesn’t bother me.”

“Sure, but mom, and Bill…”

“I don’t think that mom would be upset by it,” Scully answers level-headedly. “Surprised maybe, but not mad.”

Missy balls up a napkin, tosses it back and forth between her own hands. “I don’t know that she would be, I just...don’t trust that she wouldn’t. And besides, nothing mom says or does will change how I feel about Trinity. So it’s not really a pressing issue. No need to cause a scene.”

“I can’t believe you moved here without mentioning her. I wouldn’t have let you leave her, you know.”

Missy laughs. “Oh, I do. That’s why I didn’t say a word.” Scully’s laugh is her first genuine one all day.

“She seems very nice,” Scully says, flicking a crumb off the table.

“Oh no, she’s a total bitch,” Missy replies. There’s a moment of silence while Scully figures out that was a joke, then they both laugh.

“Just kidding. I love her very much.” Missy’s smile could melt ice. “I’m glad you got to talk to her. Now my two favorite ladies have technically met!”

“I’m afraid to ask whether I’m in first or second place.”

Missy reaches out across the table. “I moved across the country for you, honey.” Then, with a smirk--”But I could move back any day now, so watch out!”

Scully smiles, nods. She can’t imagine what these past few weeks would have been like without her sister near. She hopes Missy never goes away again, as unrealistic a thought as it is. If there are angels on Earth, her sister is one. But Mulder too has emerged as a force in her life; no one destabilized her life quite like him, but he would be her rock if she let him, she knows this. She owes him a call. She knows that too.

[not-xpr-art]

Art Advice #2 - How to beat art block!

Hi again everyone!

This is the second instalment to my Art Advice tag offering hints and tips for artists of any skill level! 

This time I’ll be going into ways I’ve found that help me to combat art block or creative ruts. Of course, these may not work for you, and a big part of art is learning about what things do and do not work for you, but I hope it at least offers some advice to anyone who struggles with art blocks!

How to beat art block. 

Getting into an art block can be one of the most frustrating things as an artist. Especially if you’ve tried to dedicate a window of time to drawing something, only for your brain to ‘nope’ out and give you no motivation. I’ve found it can often make you feel worthless as an artist, particularly when you see fellow artists continuing to produce countless amazing artworks, and this kind of self depreciation only adds to your inability to produce anything. 

And I’m not about to suggest some magical cure of art block, since I don’t believe there is one, but I hope that my advice can at least help lead you towards getting out of these vicious circles of art block & self deprecation!

Tip #1 - Explore other mediums 

I feel like as artists we get incredibly ‘comfortable’ in the mediums we’re familiar with. For me, that’s digital and pencil drawing. I’ve been doing pencil drawing for as long as I can remember, and digital for a little over 7 years, so I’ve become very comfortable in using them. 

However, I think that a good way to not only help combat art block, but also to expand your art horizons, is to step out of that comfort zone into a new field of art. 

Of course, I’m not saying that I expect every artist to go from pencil drawing for 10 years to suddenly picking up a paint brush and doing some oil painting. But instead that every so often maybe just try and dabble in mediums you’ve not used as much, or haven’t used before at all. A lot of shops sell pretty inexpensive paints, pens or pastels nowadays, not to mention a quick Google search will give you tips on how to use the particular medium if you’re not sure how to start. 

A thing I want to mention here, too, is that I think it’s important to not to expect yourself to be automatically ‘great’ at a particular medium. For example, last year I did my first embroidery piece. I had wanted to do embroidery for a long time, and did actually enjoy it a lot (even if it was incredibly time consuming lol). But I found myself dissatisfied with the finale result. 

And in a way this is because I expected myself to be perfect at embroidery after just one attempt, which is ridiculous of course, since any kind of art takes years and years to ‘master’. And when I look back, I can’t help but think ‘why does it have to be good in the first place’? Why did I put this pressure on myself to be a sudden Master of Embroidery, when surely the main goal of any kind of art is to some extent the enjoyment of the process? 

This is still a mindset I think a lot of artists will relate to, and is something I’m trying to combat myself. 

Recently I painted some fake plastic eggs inspired by the Polish folk art tradition ‘Pisanki’. They took a long time, and my neck hurt a lot from being hunched over and painting little dots, but honestly I really loved the whole process of them! Painting on 3D objects isn’t something I do a lot, and I also rarely do purely pattern-based work like this, so it was a real deviation from my comfort zone.

In a way, exploring other mediums is like a creative respite. Giving yourself a break from what you’re familiar with not only helps you to be inspired by a wide range or arts, but when you return to the mediums you enjoy the most, I’ve actually found you appreciate them even more!

(Really, nothing makes me more appreciative for digital art than painting a wrong dot on the surface of an egg and not being able to rub it out...)

Tip #2 - Try different styles

Another tip, similar in many ways to the first one, is to try different styles of art every once and a while. 

Like with materials, I think we as artists can get overly caught up in ‘our style’ of doing things. Whether this is a particular stylised or cartoonish way of drawing, or doing realistic art, or even sticking to a particular colour scheme. And I think especially in the world we live in, where artists have to make themselves as ‘consumer friendly’ as possible, which often means having a ‘recognisable brand’, it can feel like we have to do our art in a particular way, otherwise people will lose interest in it. 

I think this is harmful for a lot of reasons. Partly, I feel it stifles artists creativity to force themselves to do one style and one style only. I also feel it assumes that non-artists are so single-track minded that if an artist were to post works of art that involve different styles, then they would immediately lose interest. 

So my advice to any artist who has a particular style is to once in a while try out some different styles. It doesn’t have to be big pieces, and it also doesn’t have to be the polar opposite of what your style actually is. But instead if can be as simple as doing a ‘style challenge’ (something I’ve done in the past), or even just trying a different way of drawing or painting! 

In a way, changing your medium and changing your style occasionally go hand in hand. I particularly find that how I draw people will change with the kinds of mediums I use, or even when I start using a new brush with digital art.

For example, I recently did this super quick sketch of Kiki Layne, because I really loved the reference image, and it came out a lot more stylised than my art usually is. And this is almost entirely down to the brush I used (which was an ‘ink’ style brush, in comparison to the ‘pencil’ or ‘pen’ brushes I usually use for sketching). 

This isn’t a drastic change in style for me, but I do think even trying to do rougher or messier styles of art like this can allow you to see your art in a new light! 

(A side note here, but I already pretty much change up my style with every piece because I have no interest in being ‘marketable’ lol... But I’m definitely not suggesting everyone should be like me, just every so often changing up your style I believe can be really beneficial!)

Tip #3 - Changing subject matters

This one is essentially the same as the other two, and I’m sorry if this comes across as repetitive, but I think another great way to help beat art block is by changing up the kinds of things you draw!

Being predominantly a portrait artist, I rarely go out of my way to draw things like trees or birds or cups or whatever. But I know that often when I feel myself entering a kind of creative rut or art block, it’s because I’ve been drawing too many people & my brain is sort of all people-d out lol... 

(this is a tree I drew in oil paints midway through last year because I was feeling particular people-d out at that point)

So I think occasionally drawing other things, and going out of your art comfort zone, can help to improve your creativity. And hey, who knows, maybe you’ll end up incorporating something you drew randomly into a new artwork!

TL;DR (/conclusion)

So, remember that exploring other mediums, changing up your regular style and choosing other subject matters can all help in beating art block! Of course, you don’t have to do them all at the same time, but instead just dipping in and out of them as you produce your regular work can be highly beneficial! 

I mainly wanted to make this post not to say that by doing all three of these things, you’ll magically be free of art block forever, because that’s just not true. (I’m someone who does a lot of these things pretty regularly, but still gets into art blocks every now and then). I instead wanted to inspire you to deviate from what you are usually drawn to as an artist. 

The world is your creative oyster, so don’t be afraid to explore it! 

~

I hope you enjoyed this post about ways to beat art block! I may make a part two if people are interested since there are a lot of other things that I think can help in improving creativity!