#they made him to be a tool fine he'll do his fucking job

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

HI. MACKERELMORE. nhw trickster. killington. amity. the chaos zone. deadwood. new and funny and interesting ways to slaughter people. tide clone shit. bonesaw boiling the failed clones alive. muse. trickster using muse to do shit like u just saw in killington. the wards seeing the trickster using muse to execute people in ways Like That. holds up mic!!!!!!!!!!!!

GOD. THERES SO MUCH GOOD FUCKING FOOD FOR NHW IN THE CHAPTERS I READ EARLIER. fuck. god. shit. okay.

starting with the trickster bc i feel like when i get into tides stuff ill talk for 10 years. ohhhhh my god dude as soon as they walked into a town called fucking KILLINGTON ????? i was like. god thats a joke trickster would make huh!!!!! hed think thats so fucking funny. (and it is. but only to me who has the advantage of seeing this as a narrative and not a real event i am experiencing. fucking hilarious shit. killington??!?!?!?!? killington. ) i have a lot of thoughts about the shit he did to Amity before he escaped and like. yeah. fuckin yeah. i dont think he wouldve killed Everyone in the city (gotta have. puppets to play with and also like. people who hes not controlling to chase around and hunt for sport) (this is fucking terrifying and awful! this is so bad! like catastrophically so!) but i definitely think when the wards go to amity (because i want them to do that so bad at some point) i think it will be in sort of a similar state to this with like. bodies strung up like decorations. graffiti made from fuckign. ash and blood and paint all mixed together. really obviously placed traps. etc etc etc. jsut like. evidence that this place is like his fucking playground! horrifying!

anyway yeah also muse holy shit. muse has to singlehandedly raze at least one fuckign town. for sure. dude dude like that fucking video jack had where they had everyone gathered together before they started killing them? that but with trickster and muse? and its . more fucking scary because instead of 200+ slaughterhouse 9 clones its literally JUST trickster and muse. and whatever random handful of puppets trickster is controlling around the edge of the crowd for extra sets of hands.. aauogaouguguhhghhhgh. i need them to do horrific shit.

OKAY. CLONE TIME. CLONE TIM.E . OUGHGHHGHGH TIIIIDE. TIIIIIIIIDE. how many failed clones do you htink there were. how many failed clones to make tide and magma. do you think they know about the failed clones. they got fucking BOILED ALIVE. do u think tide and magma ever see any of the other clones before theyre ready and they have to look at their own fucking faces (face?) and think about that. i still have that post abt the lambert family in my drafts god i need 2 finish that but. in my mind tide and magma are the oldest (technically magma is the oldest but tide was like. a year or less after him so theyre closer in age) and then it was. seismic and whirlwind at the same time so theyre twins. and then shockwave. and then elle. so i think tide and magma have that Eldest Sibling bond where they have. Issues that are parallel to each other. and a LOT of that comes from being endbringer juniors and a lot of that comes from being clones. but where magma got closed off and aloof about it tide like. desperately clung to kindness bc he doesnt like when people are scared of him. anyway im getting distracted. FUCKING CLOOOOOONE SHIT. CLONE LORE. WORM CLONE LORE. THE WHOLE LIKE. either implanting false memories from other people or needing to raise them from scratch????? thats fucking insane. oh my god. what the fuck kind of memories do u think they got. obviously a lot from dr lambert but like. man. do u think the endbringer thing is like baked into their fucking memories. its in their dna. i didnt quite understand the bit about bonesaw trying to give them their powers but if altering memories can alter what sorts of powers they get...... do the endbringers have dna. do u think tide and magma got endbringer dna in them. that would be sick (both in the sick meaning cool way and in the im gonna make myself sick way). actually that brings up the point. are the endbringers even organic??????????? or are they constructs?????????? since they were confirmed created by someone/something....... man. MANY THOUHGST HEAD FULL. HAVING A LOT OF EMOTIONS ABOUT NHW TIDE. bonesaw boiled the failed clones alive. i dont . i dont think tide and magma were ever *kids* (which is like. ow.) but like. god im just imagining the part in trigun where vash and knives find whats left of tesla. holy shit dude. do you see my vision here

[meta-squash]

More thoughts upon rewatching Torchwood:

I so badly wish that there was more exploration in canon about what Torchwood means to the individual team members.

I'm just really obsessed with Owen's breakdown when he's fired in End Of Days. We only get a little bit of it. We just get the short, chopped-shots hyperventilating panic attack he gets as he waits for the elevator. The next time we see him he's drinking and has the hallucination of Diane.

But it seems like out of everyone on the team, he's the worst off if he was made to leave (retconned or not).

He's the only member of the team that has nothing at all outside Torchwood. Everyone else at least has family members that they're on good terms with, if not friends. But it seems like Owen has spent his time at Torchwood trapped in this cycle of lonely slow motion self-destruction, living a bachelor life and not doing much else outside of work other than sleeping, drinking, and fucking.

Which is fine as a lifestyle if you've got some other solid thing to hold on to, but Owen doesn't. The only thing he has is Torchwood. But Torchwood isn't something that's comforting or safe or calm. It's traumatic as fuck on every level.

And yet it's also the thing that keeps Owen alive and functioning. Jack gave Owen a purpose when he brought him to Torchwood, and he's definitely a sort of positive father-figure to Owen. Obviously, Owen has issues with authority, acts very teenager-y in that he'll push back if he thinks he can do it without "real" punishment, he'll be a little shit and talk about or question or whatever. But he seems to want Jack's support and approval. It's probably the only positive encouragement or interaction he gets that's "real".

So Owen getting fired from Torchwood means he knows he's going to lose the one thing that has kept him going, and the one thing that is positive in his life, even if it is also terrible.

And if he had been retconned then, he would have been going right back to when he lost Katie, only this time he wouldn't have any of his or Katie's friends around to help him grieve, he wouldn't have his contacts from his time working at the hospital, and he's obviously estranged from his mother, so he'd be completely alone. Alone and back to the emotional state he was in when he lost Katie.

So the breakdown makes sense. Not only does being fired and retconned mean losing meaning in his life and a purpose and support, it also means being very aware of how he is going to be feeling when he gets retconned, knowing just what state of mind he'll be returning to.

Tosh and Ianto have some outside friends or family members, but they also essentially only have Torchwood. Jack saved Toshiko like he saved Owen, and I think they both feel bound to the job and to Jack in that way. Jack rescued Tosh from a much more certain and terrible fate, the loneliness and torture of a UNIT prison. Owen was lost and floundering and probably would have eventually self-destructed somehow if Jack hadn't brought him to Torchwood. But that potential future was mostly uncertain when he met Jack. Tosh's fate was known: she would have been stuck in that prison until death. So she was also saved by Jack, saved by Torchwood, and not only that but given the space and tools and time to flourish and grow and flex her skills with tech and probably learn new stuff as well. Jack rescued her from a fate probably worse than death and placed her in an environment that -- while lonely and dangerous -- probably is the most fulfilling for her. And I think he rescued Ianto too, in a way. After Lisa, he let Ianto stay, and that already is a level of trust and belief in Ianto's abilities that is beyond anything Ianto ever saw when he was working at Torchwood One. But I think also after having a traumatic and terrible experience from the fall of Canary Wharf and also perhaps a more distant, cold interaction with coworkers at Torchwood One, being able to experience a safer (at least for the most part for Ianto) version of the job and closer, more supportive team is probably good for Ianto too.

It's just so funny that the show focused on Gwen as the "main"ish character when everyone else is so much more compelling because they don't live normal lives, they don't have partners they can come home to, they have backstories that are traumatic or strange or compelling, they have personalities that are weird because they've basically rebuilt themselves in the safety of the hub and the isolation of Torchwood, like animals that evolve to live in caves, but ultimately they care a lot about what they do, more so even than Gwen, because to them it's not just a job, it's a whole new life and a new chance.

[torscrawls]

Tucker was in the middle of a stream, disassembling the newest Wayne tech and talking about replacements to increase the battery life when the door slammed open outside frame. Not even a second later, chat could see Danny stumbling in with an outraged expression. "Tucker, man, you gotta help me. I got fucking stabbed in the back! The back, man! Can you believe?!"

The chat mused that Danny might actually be a drama queen.

Tucker only heaved a deep sigh as he slowly put his tools down. "I can believe. You're the one who, and I quote 'wanted to try chasing Skulker to make him feel what it was like to be prey'."

In a second, a debate breaks out in chat whether Danny actually had been hunting a person, and if so; what type of person could be named Skulker. It's interrupted by Danny groaning and twisting slightly as he tried to palm at his own back, giving the chat a quick glimpsed of his back and-yep, that definitely looked like blood. "Well, I didn't plan on him stabbing me after I caught him. That's so unfair! I just got the last stitches out, like, two days ago."

Tucker heaved a deep sigh and turned around in his chair, finally facing the other person in the room. "I know, I was the one who removed them." Then he threw his hands up in the air and said, in the same tone of voice you used to complain about having to take out the trash, "Man you know I hate sewing you up!"

The chat exploded with speculations on whether Tucker and Danny were actually villains, vigilantes, or just involved in some underground fight-club-esque bullshit.

"You're just gonna let your best friend bleed out??" Danny pretended to swoon and the chat quickly concluded that yes, whatever else was going on, Danny was definitely a drama queen.

Tucker snorted and shook his head. "Well, you can't really get any deader, now can you?"

And wasn't that an ominous thing to say? Messages rolled in worrying if they were indeed about to watch someone bleed out live. Questions if anyone knew where Tucker lived and if they could send an ambulance, if they should call the police.

Danny pouted and let out a pitiful whine. "Tuuuuck."

"Yeah, yeah," Tucker heaved another sigh and got to his feet. "Get the first aid kit and the suture set."

Danny brightened up, too at ease for someone who had supposedly just been stabbed and bounded out of the room.

Tucker called after him, "And don't get blood on the carpet!"

Someone sent in a big donation marked 'please get health insurance' and the sound made Tucker turn back to his computer with wide eyes.

He gave a strained smile and reached for his mouse. "Sorry, I think we should cut this short."

He paused as question after question rolled in with worried comments and questions. His smile turned a bit softer. "Don't worry, he'll be fine."

In the background they heard Danny yell, "Oh, shit, I think he got an artery or something, I bent down and it's like a fountain!"

Tucker pushed up his glasses to rub at his eyes with two fingers before doing an impressive job of pulling himself together, smiling, and saying, "Thanks for hanging, chat. Don't forget to follow, sub, and donate if you wanna see more. We'll get to the battery update tomorrow at 7 pm, so tune in then!"

"Tucker! I think we're out of thread! And I can't feel my-"

The stream cut off.

The Viewers

Danny and Tucker move in together for college in Gotham

Tucker decided to make tiktoks just for fun, he could teach people about technology and help give tips.

He didn't realize that his viewers could see Danny in the background in some clips.

Danny being Danny was never caught doing something normal instead it was always something weird.

~

Tucker: "So you just switch this piece here-"

Danny in the background more than half his body in the fridge, the fridge is very noticeably growling

Tucker who is so used to it, it doesn't even register in his mind that it's not normal.

~

Tucker fan-boying about the new Wayne tech

His viewers looking behind him at Danny

Danny running around fighting his food which is also growling & flying

~

Tucker modifying his tech for the viewers

Danny's voice in the distance: "Bye Tuck, I need to go soup this guy real quick!"

Viewers: "Cannibalism?!"

~

Tucker: "Ah yes a very normal video!"

His viewers watching Danny:

~

Just an Idea

[flagellant]

God, fuck, hang on. The realizations I just had were fucking terrifying and relevant enough to the people who follow this blog that I am actually going to say it.

My schizophrenia had been going completely unmedicated for at least six years. That is as old, or older, than this blog is. My entire time as a tumblr blog which I started by being in the spotlight by virtue of my interactions and friendships with Normal Horoscopes (I gained my first 500 followers in a day), I had thought I was being treated and fine and I was absolutely not.

This makes so many more things make so much more sense, and so much scarier. I start getting more queer. I get radicalized to the left. I have so many thousands of followers by now. I stand for violent revolution then I settle into a less violent one, sorta. I start talking about anger as a tool. As a fire, cleansing. Thousands more people reblog it. I go viral again and again. Anger as a sword, righteous and holy. A friend I play Dungeons and Dragons with sends me a link to a YouTube video where a complete stranger with 700,000 subscribers reads a funny joke I made up and comments on it. That week I gain 800 more on its own. I don't know if it's related.

I post more poems about the end of the world. Essays of millions of people drowning because the government wants them dead for profit. I start talking about my relationship with the occult and spirits, and yeah, I talk about the dangers of delusional psychosis and the occult and its history. But I'm fine. I know to look out for those in myself.

And besides. I'm medicated.

I talk more about anger. Now I'm angry at the government for wanting me dead because I won't make it money. I can't work a normal job so I should just hurry up and die, right? Stop wasting their resources? But I won't. I'm angry and hate-filled at it, so I won't. I'll keep living.

But living costs food. I need to survive somehow. How do I do that? Well, I've got thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands of people right here on this website who have all signed up to look at what I say. They think I have some sort of value, right? I start asking for donations here and there to eke by what EBT doesn't cover. I start Twitch streaming. I do the occasional odd job, the occasional sex work, none of that relevant. Let's get back to you, audience. That's what you're here for, right?

The thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands et al of you who want to see what I post next. A lot of you seemed to enjoy when I would be angry, so I made some tactical decisions. I started getting angrier. After all: no such thing as bad publicity, right? If I need people to know my name to know they need to pay me to eat, I need to be really loud, then. And it worked. I made quite a few people very angry.

Mostly, probably, the "right" people angry. But that's what we always tell ourselves anyway.

But I began to resent it soon enough. How couldn't I? I was just replacing one fucked up system with another fucked up one. Now instead of my worth being based in profit, my worth was based in what I gave my audience. If I didn't give you what you wanted, you would not give me the money I needed to buy food to feed myself that week. How could I not resent all of you so much more by the day?

And do you see where this is going yet? I bet some of you have been. An unmedicated schizophrenic, being encouraged to get angrier and angrier, more and more distrusting of outside forces, of groups which wish him harm?

A cornered animal hiding in his room from the world, furious and terrified, but he has to make it love him because otherwise he'll die. An unmedicated schizophrenic that nobody knows is an unmedicated schizophrenic has to live five years of his life knowing every second of his survival is predicated on knowing thousands and thousands of strangers and faceless mobs ARE actually watching his every move, and knowing for a fact that some of them HAVE LITERALLY shown intent to harm him, but he never knows which ones and he keeps doing it because he has no other choice.

This has gone on for five, six, seven years now.

Its a miracle all I did with my anger was art and blogging. It's a fucking miracle I only got radicalized to be a communist furry. It's a goddamned fucking miracle my comprehension of my identity as not a human only landed on being a furry. Oh my God, it should have been so much worse.

[riggedtraps]

As Amanda listened to the surgeon's words, her eyebrows furrowed together, a frown growing on her face as he spouted medical gargon she didn’t know. Recently, she'd been doing her own medical research, but that was on cancer and the brain, so she could keep track of John and his symptoms. She knew nothing about the eyes, optic nerves or...whatever the hell Lawrence was talking about.

She flinched a little at the stress in his voice, a mix of panic and anger burning in her chest. “I don't know what that shit means,” Amanda spat right back. She felt like a dumb kid being scolded, her defensiveness coming out, “But just fucking do it.”

The snap! of the folder made Amanda jerk back a little. Her anxiety was heightening now, her nerves filled with adrenaline. She had the sudden urge to turn on her heels and leave, run away, though she knew she was in no real danger. Lawrence wouldn’t hurt her. At least...she thought so. Amanda still had a big trouble with fully trusting any male adult in her life. She couldn’t leave, anyway, she had a job to do. Leaving meant letting down Lawrence. Leaving meant disappointing John.

Giving herself a little shake, Amanda flexed her hands, balling them into fists then straightening them out again. She had to work away her nerves, force down the terrified child in her.

“John's fine,” Amanda muttered. She began to massage her palm, having the sudden urge to curl her hand into a fist again. She had the sudden urge to lash out; grab the tools beside her and throw them at all the wall.

Because the truth was the exact opposite of what she'd said.

John was weakening. His 'coughing fits' weren't simple fits now. He was throwing up blood, he was mumbling, he was too weak to leave his bed. More often than not, Amanda had to get the man to repeat his words over and over before she understood his slurring. Even then, his sentences were nonsensical for the most part, murmuring and rambling about traps and equipment but with no cohesion. But...people got worse before they got better, right? John was going to get better. He had to get better. If John died, Amanda wouldn’t know what to do with herself. She'd probably die, too.

Opening her mouth, Amanda paused for a moment, debating whether or not to tell the truth. She closed her mouth, cleared her throat, then crossed her arms, “He's struggling but he's fine.” Hopefully, that would keep Lawrence satisfied. No point stressing him out before a surgery, anyway. Amanda would tell him after—if she could get the words out. Or Lawrence could fucking visit him himself, though the idea of John spending his last days with anyone but her made jealousy stab her heart.

But when she saw those tears in Lawrence's eyes...

Quickly, Amanda turned away. Her shoulders curled inward, her posture hunched, and she angled her face away from Lawrence's view as a few tears of her own slipped out. A soft sob escaped her. She bit down her hand in attempt to muffle it. It was awful, how badly she wanted to grab a scalpel and dig it deep into her skin. The pain would make her feel better, release her stress, hide her emotions away and make her more level-headed. It'd make a pretty mark too: strawberry gashes on pale white skin.

Letting out a long sigh, Amanda forced herself to relax. What sort of mess was she, if she couldn’t simply speak a few words without sobbing? Her emotions got in the way of everything. She imagined shoving all of the anger, sadness, grief—all of her pain—into a box, locking it and tossing it toward the darkest, furthest part of her mind.

Turning around to face Lawrence again, she gave her head a slight jerk, forcing her breathing to steady. “Die from blood loss, yeah,” Amanda said quietly, her mind not really focused on the conversation or how it was progressing. She squinted. Were the lights in here always that bright? Amanda glanced over at the patient. Something about him was so familiar... “Or maybe he'll make it.”

Wait. Fuck. That's what it was. Michael Marks, mid 30's, police informant. Drug addict.

“I know him. He was at the same recovery clinic as me.” Amanda whispered, a strange regretful longing in her voice. The words slipped out before she could stop them, like she was realising it aloud. A knot formed in her stomach and she swallowed thickly, digging her nails into her arms. The sting was the slightest bit calming. After this, Amanda knew she'd run straight to her special locked box under her pillow.

At Lawrence's smile, the tension in Amanda's body eased a bit. She smiled right back, a small one, but a smile nonetheless. She suddenly felt a weird giddiness, like a hyperactive child handed a buffet of candy.

“Few minutes,” Amanda nodded as she got to work filling the needles with tranquiliser. It was easier to concentrate when her hands were busy. That was probably why she spent all day and most of the night slaving away over her traps. “Whatever you need,” Amanda sent another smile Lawrence's way, watching as he picked up a scalpel and inspected it. She liked being helpful, it meant she was doing a good thing, and she craved another one of Lawrence's smiles, along with his approval.

——————————————————————————

Lawrence silently paced around his room.. Or.. Office, if you will. It was more of just a place of business, nothing more, nothing less. Lawrence Gordon was not known for being this shady man, well- Up until his divorce. Everything that he did, landed him here.. To this very moment. He stared at the unconscious "patient" on his padded table. He was an oncologist, he was supposed to help people. Not permanently altar their lives for the worst. But this was his life now, and he was going to have to suck it up if he himself wanted to keep what he had going.

Lawrence sighed sharply through his nose. Whether he liked it or not, this had to be done. He walked over to the counter, which happened to be oddly neat for a room filled with malpractice. First, he washed his hands thoroughly with whatever cheap tap water they somehow still had, and some soap Lawrence frequently replaced. Then, he grabbed a box of slick blue gloves— Safety first, of course. Lawrence begrudgingly grabbed a pair and began to slide them on. The stretchable band of the gloves slapped against his wrist with an echoing SLAP! He did the same thing to the glove, and walked right back over to his moveable leather black stool on wheels.

He then slid over, closer to the patient. His hands shook a bit. Usually, he did this during every regular procedure- But of course, this wasn't regular. He knew he had to fulfill his end of the deal. He agreed to working with John anyway, right? He sort of put himself in this 'silly' little mess. Lawrence positioned himself back up, back no longer leaning, hunched over, but now straightened over. He looked at the clock on top of the door. He was waiting for somebody, a helper of his, if you will. She had started helping him with these surgical procedures when he first started. It all started as "Can you hand me this?" Or- "Can you get me more thread?" but now, she was more hands on. He didn't mind it though- If anything preferred it. He liked having someone in there with him. It made him feel at peace in a way, knowing somebody was in the same "Situation" he was in.

The door slid open the slightest bit, a small crack for someone to poke their head through. Messy brown hair, wide eyes, clammy skin.

“Hey,” Amanda spoke, her voice more of a mumble than her usual confident snark. She still wasn’t used to this. She wasn’t used to any of it. Still, she believed in Jigsaw and his teachings, and if she had to do this to help rehabilitate people, then she would do it.

It wasn’t even forced, really. Amanda had volunteered it. She liked being helpful, it made her feel like she had a purpose in the chaos of life. For the entire time she'd been alive, Amanda had been flailing in a tornado of doubt, pain and fuck-ups, tossed to and fro between whatever awful situation God deemed fit for her to suffer in. However, when she was in Lawrence's office, when she was helping him, the tornado calmed. When she was in that room, doing her duty, Amanda had the resounding, firm thought of: I am doing something good. For once.

Stepping into the room, Mandy cast her gaze to the clock on the wall, then she looked over to Lawrence, fully equipped and ready. For a moment, she looked away, shuffled her feet—they hadn't known each other long, they were merely acquaintances, but Amanda had a deep pit in her stomach at the idea of letting him down. “Sorry I'm late.” She murmured. It seemed the more she said, the quieter her voice got.

Crossing the room, Amanda headed over to the sink, giving her hands a quick yet thorough wash before pulling on gloves of her own. The materials she used when creating traps resembled broken heaps of rust more than metal, her hands were consistently grimy and full of small cuts so she didn’t want to accidentally contaminate anything. Amanda didn’t want to ruin anything. Amanda didn’t want to be a disappointment.

Rolling her shoulders back, Amanda felt herself sinking into her usual role, growing much more relaxed. Walking over to Lawrence, she stood beside him, eyeing the 'patient' before them with a slight grimace. “So, what's it today, Doc?”