#this isn’t potatoes it’s not like you can mass produce it

[victorian-robot]

This is your daily reminder that vanilla and salted are both terms used to describe what we deem plain foods and that once those were some of the most extravagant flavors a thing could be.

Time is a weird thing and our access to exotic plants and rare minerals to stick on our foods to a degree formerly only known to royalty is hilarious.

[sphnyspinspin]

OMG, I’VE BEEN WANTING TO SHARE THIS AU FOR A MINUTE—

Meet my Magnificence Reforged AU Connie!

Though Scorponok only ever referred to her as Experiment: A9-2416 (usually in Decepticon dialect).

Her story is that Scorponok created her as an experiment to see what would happen if an organic was able to produce a set of chemicals that are deemed somewhat powerful, yet common, by organic standards but emphasized to a certain degree with the help of Cybertronian technology. Entirely inspired by the mere Earth-Human conceptual myth known as the—

Indomitable Human Spirit.

What Scorponok was able to take away from eight years of properly caring for the experiment is that these chemicals that fuel basic organic functioning can be utilized exponentially to a degree where a full grown one of these things could even rival some of Cybertron’s strongest warriors. Maybe even the galaxy’s toughest warriors wouldn’t be able to stand a chance.

It became labeled as Adrenalineregon.

(dope naming skills I know)

It turned out to be some crazy-powerful stuff once injected into a strong enough specimen.

Now why would Scorponok need to make something like this? Power? Recognition? Fun? All of the above honestly. But it’s also because in this Alternate Universe the Decepticons won the war for Cybertron, and Megatron has already built his perfect Decepticon Army to conquer the rest of the known universe, and he and the Grand Architect thought their Army of Tarn clones needed a little more pep-in-their-step.

You heard me. TARN. CLONE. ARMY.

(this isn’t a specifically cyberverse based timeline I just took the tarn army as inspo)

But what they didn’t expect was for the Tarn clones to go insane and turn on each other when being on mere drops of Adrenalineregon. Resulting in a mass extinction of Tarn Clones, with too many bodies to count, therefore being dropped on top of Scorpnok’s planet sized lab to remind him of the consequences of his actions.

EX: A9-2416 was, at the time, forever curious about the outside world, since she’s never been above the expansive laboratory planet’s surface. It always felt as if some unseen beings were trying to lead her to her escape every day since as long as she can remember. Small sign after small sign, guiding her to even bigger signs that kept getting her closer and closer to the way out. Of course, Scorponok always stopped her from getting too close.

A9-2416 always hated the amount of gruesome tests she had to do afterwards as punishment for misbehaving.

Until on her ninth birthday, A9-2416 finally made it to the exit, and Scorponok got exceptionally pissed off so much that in self-defense A9-2416 grabbed the nearest cannon she knew how to operate and blasted it through his spark. She cried a lot that day.

BUT HEY! Her life didn’t stay too depressing for long, because soon after she committed her very first act of murder, she became good buddies with the little voices in the walls that have been apparently guiding her throughout her life!

THE LOSTBOT BOTBOTS!!

(lol I’m nowhere near finished with every Lost Bot design, I just wanted to finish these couple few and make this post for the AU)

MEET THE LOST BOTS CLAN OF THE BOTBOTS!

They’ve been trapped on Scorponok’s Lab-planet-tory (im so funny) for decades along with the other Botbots who remained in hiding. But this clan was the only one brave enough to get anywhere near Scorponok’s main stomping grounds. What they didn’t expect to find was some weird sentient purple meat-potato in a makeshift industrial cradle. Turns out it was just a baby. And that baby turned out to be A9-2416. Who soon became known as Connie.

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After A9-2416 escaped the inner dwellings of the lab and joined the Lost Bots on their little side quests up on the surface, she later changed her name to Constance, hence her more well-known nickname being Connie. The name change was suggested by her Botbot friends who knew a bit about Earth human culture and used their knowledge to help Connie have the most happy and carefree life that she could ask for.

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Also the TEG Lost Light crew is there because I’m still obsessed with that fic 👍✨

@deepfriedhopesanddreams @viewer-of-many @celestite-caroline @asmoteeth @novafire-is-thinking @dragonsgirl572 @autistic-fool-with-ideas @mysticfoxdesigns @hyp3rfixation-h3ll

[marta-bee]

Good Omens time! (Isn’t it always?) Today I read the start of the “Friday” section, when Famine gets his object of the Apocalypse, his brass scale to match War’s flaming sword. It’s a cute scene anyone who’s worked in fast-food or a customer-facing job like retail will probably appreciate. Or for that matter anyone who’s actually stepped foot in a McDonald’s; which is, you know, all of us.

Sable sauntered in to the Burger Lord. It was exactly like every other Burger Lord in America. [But not like every other Burger Lord across the world. German Burger Lords, for example, sold lager instead of root beer, while English Burger Lords managed to take any American fast food virtues (the speed with which your food was delivered, for example) and carefully remove them; your food arrived after half an hour, at room temperature, and it was only because of the strip of warm lettuce between them that you could distinguish the burger from the bun. The Burger Lord pathfinder salesmen had been shot twenty-five minutes after setting foot in France.] McLordy the Clown danced in the Kiddie Korner. The serving staff had identical gleaming smiles that never reached their eyes. And behind the counter a chubby, middle-aged man in a Burger Lord uniform, slapped burgers onto the griddle, whistling softly, happy in his work.

Sable went up to the counter.

"Hello-my-name-is-Marie," said the girl behind the counter. "How-can-i-help-you?" "A double blaster thunder biggun, extra fries, hold the mustard," he said.

"Anything-to-drink?"

"A special thick whippy chocobanana shake."

She pressed the little pictogram squares on her till. (Literacy was no longer a requirement for employment in these restaurants. Smiling was.) Then she turned to the chubby man behind the counter.

"DBTB, E F, hold mustard," she said. "Choco-shake."

"Uhhnhuhn," crooned the cook. He sorted the food into little paper containers, pausing only to brush the graying cowlick from his eyes.

"Here y'are," he said.

She took them without looking at him, and he returned cheerfully to his griddle, singing quietly. "Loooove me tender, loooove me long, neeeever let me go...."

The man's humming, Sable noted, clashed with the Burger Lord background music, a tinny tape loop of the Burger Lord commercial jingle, and he made a mental note to have him fired.

It’s so predictable; so dehumanizing. Intelligence and even basic education to the point of literacy isn’t needed; bland mechanization and the ability to not stand out is.

Famine actually owns the joint, not to make money (though the end result is pretty much indistinguishable from chains with that goal) but to get people who aren’t diet-crazed and faddish enough to willingly give up nutrition to to be thin. This is his unique brand of starvation brought to the masses.

The Newtrition corporation had started small, eleven years ago. A small team of food scientists, a huge team of marketing and public relations personnel, and a neat logo.

Two years of Newtrition investment and research had produced CHOW. CHOW contained spun, plaited, and woven protein molecules, capped and coded, carefully designed to be ignored by even the most ravenous digestive tract enzymes; no-cal sweeteners; mineral oils replacing vegetable oils; fibrous materials, colorings, and flavorings. The end result was a foodstuff almost indistinguishable from any other except for two things. Firstly, the price, which was slightly higher, and secondly the nutritional content, which was roughly equivalent to that of a Sony Walkman. It didn't matter how much you ate, you lost weight. [And Hair. And skin tone. And, if you ate enough of it long enough, vital signs.]

Fat people had bought it. Thin people who didn't want to get fat had bought it. Chow was the ultimate diet food-carefully spun, woven, textured, and pounded to imitate anything, from potatoes to venison, although the chicken sold best.

Sable sat back and watched the money roll in. He watched CHOW gradually fill the ecological niche that used to be filled by the old, untrademarked food.

He followed Chows with Snacks junk food made from real junk. MEALS was Sable's latest brainwave.

MEALS was CHOW) with added sugar and fat. The theory was that if you ate enough MEALS you would a) get very fat, and b) die of malnutrition.

The paradox delighted Sable.

There’s something very gently sad about all of this, really. People buying this mass-produced slop and not realizing what they’re putting in their body is quite literally useless. It’s non-food; anti-food, even. I don’t blame the people making that “choice,” they’re certainly no more or less deceived than the folks stopping into a KFC down the road. It’s just very ad that this is what the system drives us to. Now even more than twenty-odd years ago.

This started out as a cute scene about the banality of being trapped under the thumb of capitalism. It is that to be sure, but a little too near the truth to be laughed off, at least for me. Famine isn’t a starving child in Africa with his ribs protruding out from his skin, or at least it’s not just them. It’s the workaday person being ground down into just a cog in the machine, and whose real value is an ability not to stand out.

That’s tragic in its way, and all too true to life. It’s not just a truth for low-wage workers; I’m a definite white-collar middle-class knowledge-worker and thinking about how much of my own employability relies on something rather similar, though the privileges and benefits I get through my own ability to work in the system do make for a much more comfortable life.

I think I need to stop here and sit with this a bit. Definitely whichever one of Neil or Terry wrote this particular scene, they knocked it out of the park. There’s more with the Them coming up I see, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Aziraphale and Crowley were waiting in the offing a well, but they can wait until next weekend.

[oddbookreport]

also lots of genuinely good food cultures (britain) were intentionally annihilated by class politics to the point where spices are extinct or forgotten to make way for an imperial import

like, british food before sugar, potatoes, pepper and cloves was tasty, they had chefs inventing ways of using lemongrass and nettle and parsnips in clever ways rooted in tradition and taste. However, as soon as foreign spices became available, a need to recoup the investment in empire created a need to destroy the old ways of cooking, which were called backward and poor.

There’s no inherent difference between one food cuisine and another, but using food as a class signifier means that ingredients that are abundant and mass producible are going to displace ones that are rare except in cases where something gets picked up as “food culture.” That’s why you can buy saffron at the grocery store but not lāmā. I’m sure there are spices in injeera that I’ve never heard of.

I wonder if there isn’t some classic orientalism at play too where the so called west invents the rich and complex east in order to consume its exotic material culture even though Chicken Tikka Masala is a british dish

also obviously making fun of british food is not the same as white people being racist about food from the global south but sometimes it feels like it goes well beyond like light hearted jokes and into trying to like, invent food phrenology and i just think that seriously applying moral and political dimensions to the aesthetics of national cuisine is a silly and abd route to to go dwon. lots of countries with vibrant and exciting and popularly appealing food cultures had brutal religious repression and built colonial empires on the backs of slavery and genocide too

[betterburger0]

What Makes Better Burger the Best Burger Store Near You

Introduction

The quest for the perfect burger is a universal pursuit. But with countless burger joints out there, how do you know where to find the truly best one? Look no further than Better Burger, your local haven for handcrafted deliciousness that sets us apart from the competition.

This isn’t just another burger blog post. This is a deep dive into the very essence of Better Burger, exploring what makes us the burger store of choice for Aucklanders. So, buckle up, burger lovers, because we’re about to tantalize your taste buds and ignite your burger cravings.

Beyond the Bun: The Better Burger Difference

While Auckland boasts a vibrant burger scene, Better Burger rises above the rest with a commitment to quality, freshness, and flavor that shines through in every bite. Here’s what sets us apart:

1. Fresh, Never Frozen: Forget the mass-produced, flavorless patties you find elsewhere. Our 100% pure beef patties are made fresh daily, using only the finest cuts of meat sourced from local farms. We never freeze, ensuring optimal juiciness and a burst of flavor in every mouthful.

2. Locally-Sourced Goodness: We believe in supporting our community and showcasing the best of New Zealand produce. That’s why our tomatoes, potatoes, and onions come straight from local farms, packed with freshness and bursting with natural flavor. You can taste the difference!

3. Daily-Baked Honey Buns: The perfect burger deserves the perfect bun, and ours are anything but ordinary. We bake our honey buns fresh daily in Grey Lynn, using a secret recipe that results in a pillowy-soft texture and a hint of sweetness that complements our savory fillings.

4. No Frills, Just Flavor: We’re not about piling on unnecessary toppings or drowning our burgers in fancy sauces. At Better Burger, simplicity reigns supreme. We focus on letting the quality of our ingredients shine through, with classic combinations that tantalize your taste buds without overwhelming them.

5. Burgers, Done Right: Our menu features a curated selection of signature burgers, each crafted with meticulous attention to detail. From the classic cheeseburger to the adventurous “Kiwi Lamb,” we have something to satisfy every craving. And for those with dietary restrictions, we offer vegetarian and gluten-free options that don’t compromise on flavor.

6. More Than Just Burgers: While our burgers are the stars of the show, we offer a variety of delicious sides and drinks to complete your meal. From our hand-cut fries to our creamy milkshakes, every item on our menu is made with the same commitment to quality and taste.

7. Passionate People, Exceptional Service: Our friendly and knowledgeable staff are passionate about bringing you the best burger experience possible. They’re always happy to answer your questions, recommend the perfect burger for your taste, and ensure you have a truly enjoyable dining experience.

8. Constant Innovation: We’re never content with resting on our laurels. We’re constantly innovating, experimenting with new flavors, and seeking out ways to improve our offerings.

9. Variety of Choices: We pride ourselves on the variety of choices we offer at Better Burger. From our classic cheeseburger to our vegan-friendly options, there’s something for everyone at our stores. Our menu also includes a range of sides and drinks, allowing you to customize your meal to your liking.

10. Competitive Pricing: Despite our high-quality ingredients and excellent service, our prices remain competitive. We believe that everyone should be able to enjoy a great burger without breaking the bank. When you choose Better Burger, you’re choosing value for your money.

Convenient Locations

With multiple locations across Auckland, you’re never too far from a Better Burger store. Our stores are located in convenient spots, making it easy for you to grab a burger whether you’re out shopping, on your lunch break, or just craving a late-night snack.

Better Burger Customs Street: Located at 31 Galway Street Britomart, Auckland Central 1010, Better Burger Customs Street is in the heart of the city. It’s the perfect spot to grab a quick bite while exploring the bustling downtown area. With a rating of 4.2 and over 120 reviews, it’s a popular choice among locals and tourists alike.

Better Burger Ponsonby: Situated at 45 Ponsonby Road, Grey Lynn, Auckland, Better Burger Ponsonby is in one of Auckland’s most vibrant neighborhoods. Known for its dining scene, Ponsonby is the perfect place for Better Burger. With a fantastic rating of 4.6, this location is a hit with customers.

Other Locations: Better Burger has several other locations across Auckland, including stores at 22 Custom Street East, Sylvia Park, Botany, Ormiston, and Glendene. Each store maintains the high standards of service and quality that Better Burger is known for.

No matter where you are in Auckland, you’re never too far from a Better Burger store. So the next time you’re craving a delicious, fresh burger, remember — Better Burger is just around the corner!

The Better Burger Verdict: Why We’re Your Top Choice

In the crowded burger landscape, Better Burger stands out as a beacon of quality, freshness, and flavor. From our commitment to using the finest ingredients to our dedication to creating a welcoming and sustainable environment, we offer an unparalleled burger experience that keeps our customers coming back for more.

So, the next time you’re craving a burger in Auckland, skip the rest and head to Better Burger. We guarantee you’ll taste the difference. And once you do, you’ll understand why we’re not just another burger store — we’re the best burger store near you.

[gallusrostromegalus]

If you ever want to do a "Top 10 home gardening tomato cultivars" segment, I'm here for it. (My folks mostly plant Early Girls, but they have a ridiculously short growing season up there. I grow Sweet 100s, because they taste good enough and I gave up on growing anything other than cherries due to bastard squirrels who like to take exactly one bite out of larger tomatoes.)

OH

IT IS NOW TIME TO INFO DUMP

CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED

Ok so the actual thing with tomatoes is there are- checks google- about 10,000 tomato cultivars out there and every single one of them is different, so you should tailor your tomato breeds to what you actually want to do with them.  10K is a lot a breeds to break down, but fortunately, there are ways to Do That:

1. Determinate vs. Indeterminate 

Determinate tomatoes grow to a genetically predetermined size and start fruiting.  Pros: Tends to have a short time between planting and fruiting, don’t get bigger than a certain size if you only have so much space. Cons: Once they’re done fruiting, that’s it. you really only get the one crop out of them.  Also tend to have sad, watered-down flavor.

Indeterminate tomatoes grow as big as the space will let them, and start fruting when they get around to it. Pros: Maximum Plant for minimum investment, which can be like 10x as big as a determinate plant. Will KEEP fruiting until it gets too cold, so if you can get it in a pot you can move inside you could potentially still be harvesting tomatoes after thanksgiving like my MIL was this year.  If you live somewhere warm like SoCal or AZ, you could keep it alive all year. Cons: MUCH longer time between planting and fruiting.  Indeterminate tomates Get there when they get there. Also may be more prone to disease and pests than the more-modified determinate plants.

There are determinate and indeterminate tomatoes in all 5 of the Greater Tomato Archetypes.  Speaking of:

2. The 5 Tomato Archetypes

I’m so good at segues! 

So tomatoes come in 5 basic types, each which is generally better for something culinary than the others.  You CAN substitute different types of tomato but your food generally doesn’t come out as good.

1. Cherry: Cherry tomatoes produce fruits that are about the size of cherries.  Some people put Grape and Saladette tomatoes in here but they are WRONG, both of those belong in the “Round/All-Purpose” group because Cherry tomatoes specifically have thinner skins, more soluable pectin, and more dissolved glutemates, which means they cook VERY differently.  Cherry tomatoes also produce a shitload of fruits at a time and might be some of the heaviest producers.  Tend to be more heat-tolerant. Good For:  Fresh tomato sauces (i.e. takes less than 20 minutes to make), salads, snacking on directly off the vine like you are a small tarsier discovering a hidden bounty of fruit.

Top reccomendations are: -Indigo Cherry or Dwarf Black Krim if you can find it. I always reccomend dark-pigmented tomatoes as I find they have better flavor, pest resistence and UV tolerance. Taste fruity but not over-sweet and Very Tomato-y.  -Sweet 100/Super-Sweet 100/Sweet Millions: All varietals of the same mass-producing Cherry Tomato. Makes absolute buckets of Tomatoes, sweeter and more fruity than the Indigo cherry, good disease resistence and long growing season.

2. Paste: Paste tomatoes are thin-skinned, meaty and soft tomatoes that... well, they make good tomato paste, the basis for all long-cooking tomato sauces and recipies. They tend to be kind of Oblong and sometimes grow in fun extras like lil tomato “dicks” or weird cthulian shapes, but this doesn’t effect the flavor or nutrition There’s a shitload of great varietals in this category, I’ve yet to hear of a Bad Paste Tomato, just Less Excellent ones.   Good For: Long-cooking Tomato-based dishes like: Bolognese, chili, ketchup, BBQ etc.  Also can and freeze well.

Top Reccomendations are: -Amish Paste: MEATY, and well-suited for growing in a variety of conditions.  Paste is smooth and velvety.  Good for Chili, BBQ and Bolognese. -Opalka tomato: Russian Tomato, little more on the acidic side, grows well in places prone to surprise late frosts.  Paste isn’t as smooth but very thick. makes great ketchup. -San Marzano: THE tomato for making Marinara Sauce (also does good bolognese). Sweeter and lighter, with a slightly runnier paste that clings well to pasta. cans and freezes excellently, does well in places with HOT summers.

3. Beef: Beef tomatoes are BIG motherfuckers that kind of take a long time to grow but are very rewarding.  Beef tomatoes are firm, have a very solid meat and are best eaten raw, typically sliced onto a sandwich or seared under a broiler for a NZ Mousetrap. Not only are the fruits big but so are the Plants, so they take a long time to reach maturity and the fruit takes FOREVER to ripen but if you like a sandwich, they can’t be beat.  Also they look hella impressive on instagram. They also tend to be more prone to Blossom End Rot (which is just a calcium deficiency- just make sure to fertilize with some eggshells and don’t over-water them), and despite the size, don’t tolerate cold well. Good for: Slicing on sandwiches, eating raw like you’re biting into the still-beating heart of your nemesis and enjoying that sweet, sweet revenge, searing quickly under a broiler or putting on a Kabob.

Top Reccomendations Are: -Brandywine: Hefty, great fresh tomato flavor, and PINK.  -Big Zac: Goddamn Massive Tomato. A Real Heckin’ Chonker. meatier flavor and lots of firm flesh with few seeds. -Beefmaster: One problem with Beef tomatoes is that a lot of them are heirloom varietals that aren’t as widely available. Of the ones that are easy to get your hands on, Beefmaster is the best, but it lacks the flavor punch of Brandywine or Big Zac, but it’s not a BAD tomato.

4. Round/Early/All-Purpose: The Workhorse of Tomatoes, the Round Tomato does it all- sauces, salsa, sandwiches, salads, and snacks.  But it doesn’t do them quite as well as the other, more specialized tomatoes.  Also, some of these tomatoes have been Over-Worked and bred to fruit early and transport well, at the expense of it’s Flavor.  I’M TALKING ABOUT YOU, EARLY GIRL AND BETTER BOY, YOU FLAVORLESS TENNIS BALLS, YOU INSULTS TO THE MIGHTY HOUSE OF NIGHTSHADES. Love yourself, don’t get Early Girl or Better Boy. If your season is too short for anything but the earliest of tomatoes, it may be better to grow Something Else than put all that effort in for Disappointment. That said, there are many types of Round/All-Purpose tomatoes that haven’t been overbred into corporate blandness, and I can reccomend them in good concisence if you’re not totally sure what you want to do with your tomatoes: Good For: Indecisive people, people just learning how to grow plants, using one plant for a variety of purposes, people who are not yet prepared to enter the world of Tomato Opinions. Top reccomendations are: -If you really must have an early-fruiting tomato, the Wayahead is an heirloom that people swear comes in early with good size, flavor and firm structure.  I have not personally tied this varietal but people I trust like it. -Black Krim: GOD-TIER TOMATO. It’s got it all- flavor, high yields, firm structure, pest and disease resistence, fucking purple stripes. Cans Well, Freezes well, seeds well and breeds true. Fuck yes. Other tomatoes fucking WISH they had what this Hot Bitch has. -Invincible is a damn-hard-to-kill tomato that isn’t very large but fruits reliably and preforms well all around.  it also ripens 3 fruits at a time so you’re not constantly overburdened with Tomato.  Probably my top pick for beginners that need an Emotional Support Crop.

5. Fun: This is not, strictly speaking, a traditional type of tomato, but I feel like it’s an important category for people who want to do something different or really enjoy all Tomatoes have to offer. Good For: Trying new things, taunting the garden gods with my hubris, showing off at the garden FB group, discovering new flavors of plant.

Top Reccomendations: -Mr. Stripey:  it has a goofy name, it’s yellow-and-pink striped, and it smells and tastes almost exactly like pineapple, but it doesn’t try to digest you back.  I love it. -Japanese Truffle: Dark Brown tomato that looks like someone tried to make ferro rochers at home and bungled it, and has a LONG maturation time, BUT it’s got a chocolately flavor and even at maturity has green insides which give it this. Lightness?  it’s hard to describe but it’s a fascinating flavor. The plant also is more branched and elegant than most tomatoes. Very different, very cool. -I have not personally tried Cherokee Purple but I have heard good things about it. We’ll see how it does in the garden this year. -Tomatillos and Ground Cherries:  Not actually tomatoes, but closely related. Neat herbaceous sort of flavor, like thyme but to the left.  Also comes in a fun Organic wrapping paper. -Ketchup ‘n’ Fries: a Sweet 100 tomato top grafted onto Kennebec Potato rootstock, so it grows both tomato AND potato!  Grafting was invented prbably about a week after the concept of agriculture was, and consists of taking two or more closely related plants and taping a cutting of oone into a hole in the other until the plants heal together.  Like that one gorilla-dude from Umbrella academy, but without the angst.  You can get them pre-made or attempt to make them at home if you’re feeling adventurous and are OK with potentially killing a bunch of starts while you learn.

Good Luck and Happy Gardening!

[bellafragolina]

(Chatting)

Things I would do to mess with Jubilife Village if I got isekai’d

-Have my starter walk around with me when I am in the village. No matter which evo stage.

-Customize my Pokeballs so I can tell who is in what.

-Get my hair dyed every two weeks to fit into the crazy haired world, Beni has green so…

-Fly or ride any of my own Pokémon that are big enough cause this isn’t a game.

-Find out whether they are cartoonish or realistic like the Detective Pikachu movie.

-Learn Kalosian even if most regions spoke English, might as well learn a new language in between surveying.

-See if my psychic type Pokémon can translate what my team is saying. Learn how to use Aura so I can do so on my own no matter how hard.

-Act like I can understand my Pokémon word-for-word around any D/P Clan members. I can fuck with them too and Ingo is always in sync with his Pokémon so they’ll think it’s normal.

-Have any Pokémon that is smart enough to go get groceries which includes paying for them.

-Talk with Beni about different recipes if he truly can’t make anything other than potato mochi.

-Give every kid their first Pokémon that is a safe species cause I am playful not stupid.

-Learn under Captain Zisu to teach my Pokémon what should be egg/tm moves. Plus if I have to save another timeline I can use that.

-Kick the Security Corps into gear on having stronger partners even if this comes to kick me in the butt during banishment.

-Have the various Corps communicate better so the Surveyors don’t have to play errand person.

-Figure out which regions various Galaxy Hall workers are from and find out why they chose to come here. Not really mind-screwy I would just be genuinely curious.

-Gift Captain Cyllene various items Bug Type Pokémon produce. Honey from Combee, Silk rope from Wurmple line, some spare rock shards from Kleavor, and maybe shed Scyther scythes. (I won’t be poking fun at her bug-type fear who knows the horrors she has seen them do. Just showing their usefulness.)

-Practice Contest routines so my Pokémon can get down the more agile move combos.

-Go shiny hunting for any species I want. Doubt they live long back then due to bright colors.

-Adopt Lian and Sabi as my kids/siblings (depends on if I am de-aged which one) cause they should be allowed some fun. I know both have serious duties as wardens, but they look to not even be young teens so young…

-Organize a semi-monthly play date between the village and clan children. I will use my Pokémon to transport them every single time if need be since these kids deserve some fun.

-Help the poor pasture workers make habitats suitable for my Pokémon. You cannot tell me an ice type would be comfortable in sunny Jubilife. Shouldn’t be too hard to make small caves for them to freeze like a small cooler. Also making specific farms for the mass amount of mons.

-Record a time capsule for the future pokémon world dropping cryptic hints on ancestry. Ginter would be “I hope his laziness isn’t inherited too much”… Kamado’s after the banishment needs to be “this mans family needs to know no more direct violence, perhaps take a scholarly pursuit”. Volo would definitely be “enthusiastic but misses the point history tries to teach it appears”.

-I would definitely make sure to have Ingo write a bunch of letters to Emmet as his memory slowly comes back. And then make sure they stay with the Pearl Clan marked “Send to Emmet [Last Name] when Ingo disappears”. So his brother won’t worry for how many months or years Ingo will be gone.

-Make sure teaching how to read and right is a something everybody gets no matter how old. Introduce the concept of certain students getting overstimulated by noise or attention so make different fidget toys. No fidget spinners.

-Mentor Rei, Akari, or both in the ways of modern battling so they don’t feel inadequate compared to me… I probably will never get the hang of crafting pokeballs. But my understanding of Pokémon will probably put me in the Galaxy Team Spotlight.

-Desensitize the Jubilife residents from panicking at the sight of even mostly harmless Pokémon like freaking Bidoof.

-Get different apricorn colors imported so we can make specific Pokeballs (Dive, Net etc).

-Make sure everyone knows about conservation so species don’t go instinct. Yes, we need to watch our affect on the environment. Unlikely it would change too much, but who knows.

-Tell all kinds of other fiction as stories. I will play into subverting standard tropes like damsel in distress. Most used meeting places.

-Grill Professor Laventon for information about what the Galarian people know about giant Pokémon. Explain we have it mostly under control back where I am from, technically true.

-Post a public letter after the banishment thing. Explaining that I didn’t chose to fall from the freaking sky however long ago. How I felt betrayed after doing so many tasks for the town helping them to understand Pokemon. The anger I felt when Kamado failed to recognize my quelling the Nobles was all on his orders. I could have just been shoved to pasture keeping duty to let someone else do it… That I feared for my life during each Noble fight and probably almost died in a few of them. You would think the fact I bleed just like everyone else would prove I wasn’t a disguised Pokémon/monster. Of course, I do in fact get Pokémon could seem like the worst monsters from your mind come to life. They are still dangerous back where I’m from, but you cannot hold an individual of a species as the standard. Also, the Clans were hardly better for not realizing two physical statues meant two different Pokémon! How much blood was spilt in either clan for refusing to admit they both could be right?!

(Probably ask permission from Cyllene if there was a public notice board everyone saw. And organize it so I was out of the village for a few days after posting my grievances. Just to let them think on that for a while without me~)

—Might make a part two for post-game shenanigans. If it’s not already taken, call me Checklist Anon if that is okay.

Damn! You’ve got it planned out!! Respect, my dude! You know what you’re about and you’re ready to do shit as efficiently as you can!

Hell, I wanna fic about you just steamrolling through Hisui and fixing shit people didn’t even realize need fixing!!

Keep it coming, babe!

~Renee

[audreydoeskaren]

History of Chinese standing collars (part 3: post republican era)

Quick recap: I was debating with myself whether “Mandarin collar” should be a thing because standing collars throughout Chinese history looked different. I went through the Ming and Qing dynasties in part 1 and the republican era in part 2, now I’ll look at what comes after that. I numbered the styles in parts 1 and 2 but they’re only guidelines so you don’t have to remember anything.

So in this post we’ve kind of reached the end of the era where fashion consisted of a single silhouette in any given year and all hell ran loose. I’m having a lot of difficulties classifying things as Chinese or Western because the distinction is really blurred, and I also ran into problems explaining why certain historical European things looked so similar to Chinese ones so there will also be a lot of confusion. 

1950s & 60s Chinese application

Summary of 1950s fashion, mainland and others.

Because of the communist victory in the Civil War, fashion in the mainland was different to other (capitalist) areas populated by the Chinese diaspora such as Hong Kong, Macau, Taiwan etc.. Let’s look at capitalist area fashion first; I’ll be referring to Hong Kong because Hong Kong was the center of cheongsam making at the time.

Collars on 50s Hong Kong cheongsam grew taller on the basis of collar style 10 but retained the rounded, tapering edge, resulting in a v shape gap down the middle that weirdly recalls collar style 6 from part 1 and part 2. It’s basically completely identical to collar style 6 but stiffened and extremely form fitting. It’s usually closed with one pankou at the base but because of westernization, 50s cheongsam often had no visible pankou----everything is closed with snap buttons, zippers or hooks and eyes/bars. An important aspect of collars of 50s and 60s Hong Kong cheongsam is that they left out the binding around the neck. All cheongsam prior to this point were bound around the exterior edge, the side closure, the slits and the collar seam (on the bodice not the collar), 50s cheongsam collars purposefully neglected the binding at the collar seam for some reasons. This makes the collar look like it’s one continuous piece of fabric with the bodice, which it isn’t. A lot of modern representation of cheongsam or any Chinese inspired clothing (in video games, books and anime etc.) do this, even if the character is from before the 1950s. It REALLY bugs me. If you are an artist or writer and designing costumes for Chinese characters prior to the 50s, please include binding/trimmings on all three seams, it’s an easy way to bump up historical accuracy. With that said, completely plain collars without any binding or trim was actually the most common. Let’s call this collar style 13.

Source here

1954 photograph of Li Lihua and Clark Gable. Collar style 13 with stiffening and no collar seam binding. You can see how firm and neck hugging the collar is, contrary to a lot of modern cheongsam collars which are saggy and loose.

The popularity of collar style 13 continued into the 60s. When the cheongsam fell out of popularity, it ceased to exist as well.

Source here

60s cheongsam with collar style 13. I’m really not a fan of the nude/light lipstick trend of the 60s, like, as a person with no lip color definition it makes me look like a potato.

Now moving on to mainland collars. In the 1950s, cheongsam with the 40s collar style 12 were still occasionally seen, but the fashionable collar shape also became taller and was similar to the Hong Kong collar style 13. Interestingly, some 50s mainland cheongsam retained the binding around the collar seam, making them look more “traditional” in a sense. However, collars both with and without collar seam binding existed and it was just a matter of personal preference.

Source here

1950s photograph of a mainland lady in cheongsam. The collar is taller and closes with one button, much like Hong Kong collars of the era, but the neck binding is present.

Aoku robe collars from the 1940s onward mostly had the 40s style low collar, although in the 50s and 60s they rose in height very slightly.

Source here

1964 poster showing a girl in aoku, the robe has a low, rounded collar.

However, garments with a standing collar became worn a lot less frequently in the 50s and 60s in both mainland and non-mainland areas, since a lot of people adopted Western fashion.

Source here

1950s photograph of a group of mainland people wearing jackets of Western construction. Some of them seem to be wearing informal military jackets, commonly known as “Mao suit” or “Zhongshan suit” nowadays, with folded collars.

Source here

1950s photograph of some women in Malaysia, some in cheongsam and some in Western New Look dresses.

Western application

I think it’s also quite important to discuss how Chinese standing collars were perceived by Western designers, because the Western fashion industry does hold a lot more power globally and also reverse influenced Chinese collar designs in the post 1960s era. So, in the 1950s and 60s Western designers thought cheongsam was really cool and produced a lot of affordable sewing patterns for their versions of cheongsam. I think this is also because pre-1950s cheongsam didn’t use the Western construction method and patterns needed to be individually drafted so it was difficult to make mass produced sewing patterns. From all the sewing patterns I have seen personally, the super tall standing collar popular in Hong Kong was not really appreciated by Western designers at all?? Western cheongsam sewing patterns all had the very low 1940s style collar, combined with an hourglass silhouette New Look bodice and skirt, looking rather anachronistic. These collars also didn’t have binding/trim around the collar seam, in line with fashionable Hong Kong cheongsam of the day. 

Source here

1950s Advance sewing pattern for cheongsam. The collar is low and has rectangular edges, something about a decade out of fashion in Hong Kong and Shanghai. No collar seam binding.

Source here

1950s Simplicity sewing pattern for cheongsam. Likewise with super low 1940s collars. Collarless cheongsam died in China in the mid 1920s, yet it lives on in the imagination of Western designers. By the way, the frog closures with a quatrefoil shape are not Chinese, I’m gonna write another post about this. I love the look in the middle it’s very glam.

1970s and later

The post 1960s era is what ultimately created the confusion around standing collars nowadays. Around this time Western and Chinese fashions started to merge and become one, and garments made completely in the historical Chinese method were more and more difficult to come by; Western construction techniques reigned supreme. 

From the 70s onward, most “Chinese collars” had the 40s rounded edge shape but were either medium low or medium height. The lack of collar seam binding persisted into the current day, which is something I kind of lament because without this binding collars easily read as Renaissance doublet... (more on that later)

I usually avoid calling any standing collars from the 1970s onward Chinese/Mandarin because 1) standing collars were never a uniquely Chinese thing to begin with 2) since cheongsam was no longer fashionable among actual Chinese people, designers who made cheongsam pulled all kinds of shenanigans without any historical precedent whatsoever. Also, since clothes with structured/stiffened standing collars stopped being a staple in the average Western person’s wardrobe, white people started calling everything with the most remote hint of a standing collar Chinese to further stir the pot, emboldened by the cultural appropriation craze of the 60s and 70s. Ok that’s very loaded, but it’s true that in the 60s and 70s there was a lot of Western clothing designs that took inspiration from other cultures without permission. Westerners could totally design and wear Chinese style clothing given that the intention is respectful and they know about the garment in question, but a lot of times the accuracy of the designs leaves much to be desired. There was also a lot of Orientalist inspiration in the 10s and 20s but the borrowing back then wasn’t so... literal. When I look at so called cheongsam sewing patterns from the 70s onward, I sometimes seriously have trouble identifying if something is meant to be Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, Polynesian or any other region/culture...

I’ll just find pictures of Chinese inspired clothing from the 70s onward with a “Mandarin collar” label and point out their source of inspiration.

Source here

1972 Simplicity sewing pattern for cheongsam. It’s the same Western collar from the 50s and 60s just slightly taller. Oh and the closures used on the two designs in the middle are again likely not pankou. After the 60s, this neck design with a oval shape keyhole cutout became quite common and that persisted to the current day. Don’t know what the purpose of that was, just because you show 5 square centimeters more skin doesn’t mean your cheongsam is sexier?

Source here

The description of this 70s Simplicity pattern says “Mandarin collar” but the source of inspiration is obviously Japanese military/school uniforms, AGAIN. The collar’s height and rectangular edges, combined with the placement of buttons above the waist on the bodice, everything about this reads as Japanese. The frog closures on the left are once again European and not Chinese pankou (sheesh I really need to make this other post). The original designer probably meant for it to be Japanese but the seller mistakenly labelled it a Mandarin collar design. 

Source here

70s Teresa Teng (rest in power legend) in a theatrical cheongsam with a similar collar, either a stretched version of the 40s collar or a shrunk version of the 50s/60s one.

Source here

Google search result for “Mandarin collar dress”. Same Western low collar from the 70s. A new problem with modern mass produced cheongsam is that the collar oftentimes doesn’t fit the wearer and appears too baggy. Or maybe it’s not mass production, just that people nowadays are very unaccustomed to wearing tight fitting standing collars so they assume there needs to be some extra space? As someone who wears stiff standing collars on a regular basis I have to say it actually isn’t uncomfortable at all and elongates your neck a lot better. This is what most cheongsam collars nowadays look like, even the self proclaimed “traditional” ones, they literally originated from 1950s/60s Western sewing pattern companies’ interpretation of contemporary Chinese cheongsam collars.

Source here

Baidu search result for “Mandarin collar suit”. This, is, literally, almost a replica Japanese uniform. The seller is also using the tag Zhongshan suit lmao (I’ve explained in my 1950s mainland post what a Zhongshan suit is not supposed to look like), delusion is not a fragrance I guess. Why is it so hard to let Japan be Japan and China be China??

Conclusion & afterthought

Another thing I need to mention is that standing collars are by no means unique to Chinese historical dress; they were also widely used in European historical fashion, long before standing collars became worn with uniforms of “Mandarins” or Chinese officials, which further proves my point that “Mandarin collar” is not a valid term. Also, standing collars in Europe have always been stiffened/structured, whereas Chinese collars only started to become stiffened around the 1890s, possibly due to European influence as well. For example, the 1950s collar with rounded edges and no collar seam binding reads as European Renaissance doublet very easily. To be fair though, a lot of the collar shapes seen in early 20th century Chinese womenswear had been done before in European Renaissance fashion and during that time period in China only the OG Ming Dynasty collar mentioned in part 1 was used sooooooo

Source here

1630-40 English doublet. The collar looks mighty similar to 1930s Chinese women’s ones. I know next to nothing about Renaissance fashion so I’m not sure how it’s constructed, but it proves the point that collars like these were not a uniquely Chinese phenomenon.

Source here

Meanwhile the Mandarins in China. He’s wearing a crossover collar robe underneath a round collar robe, no standing collar here.

Source here

1780s French men’s coat with a standing collar.

Standing collars were also commonly used in Victorian and Edwardian women’s everyday fashion without any connection to China whatsoever.

Source here

1860s fashion plate for a gown with a low standing shirt collar peeking underneath. 

Source here

1887 fashion plate from the Journal des Demoiselles. Bustle gowns with standing collars.  

Bonus rant

I have come to the actual point of this series of posts, to answer the question: should “Mandarin collar” be a thing? In which case I’m gonna have to go with no. In the three posts I made on the topic I categorized a total of 13 collar styles, each distinct from each other and some being inspired by Western clothing, and showed that the use of the term “Mandarin collar” nowadays is very vague and ambiguous. I don’t understand why people in the fashion industry give my ancestors all the credits for a design feature as basic and common as a standing collar... Maybe it’s a marketing gimmick like how Sternhalma (a German board game) is advertised in the US as “Chinese checkers”?? Or maybe it shows that a lot of fashion designers lack a basic understanding of historical fashion? Either way it makes no sense. I think the concept is also slightly offensive since it simply ignores the diversity of actual historical Chinese standing collar designs, kind of reinforcing the racist stereotype that non-white fashion histories are static and never changing.

If I do have to pick a most traditional/iconic style of Chinese standing collar, I would go with either the original Ming Dynasty soft collar with metal buttons or the 1940s short collar with collar seam binding used on aoku, cheongsam, changshan and magua. In the mainland Chinese countryside, the 1940s style collar was preserved and actually still made today, but in the post-Mao era it became increasingly seen by the mainland population as 土 (a derogatory term for Chinese folk stuff meaning tacky or cringy) compared to the exciting new Western fashions being imported at the time. As a result, more traditional items of clothing like aoku for women, changshan and magua for men were neglected in favor of more westernized cheongsam designs, leading to some cursed contraptions.

Maybe this is a hot take, I personally really don’t vibe with the concept of 土 because it’s very loaded and usually the gateway drug to massive internalized racism. I’ve heard so many people bash aoku and magua constructed in the historical method and put post-60s Western inspired cheongsam on a pedestal even though the former is grounded in history and the latter is an Orientalist mess. There is nothing wrong with making aoqun, aoku, magua, changshan, cheongsam or any other historical item of clothing in the historically accurate method, they’re charming in their own ways and don’t need to be “modified”. In my opinion, the puckering under the armpits caused by the lack of a shoulder seam and the rounded shoulders are what makes historical Chinese clothing beautiful to begin with :3 I think there’s something inherently modern and authentic in the pedantic, antiquarian pursuit of historical clothing, like you know how whenever a revival happens it actually brings something new to the table? It’s not problematic to wear modern cheongsam designs per se, it’s just important to keep in mind that it doesn’t have much to do with actual Chinese history and represents more of the status quo of Chinese fashion nowadays.

Ok I’m going off the collar track but it’s time to finish this post. Thank you for reading, and as I mentioned, the next post will be about Chinese pankou. I’m almost finished with that one as well and I’m really excited with what I have planned next :D

[oh-boy-me]

Side Character Outfits Discussed

Ohohohoho SO

I kid you not, we had finished our discussion, and then two days before I was going to post this they FINALLY dropped the missing front-view full bodies.  So we had to scramble to redo it :’)

But here it is finally.

This is a very short set, since we only covered their initial non-uniform outfits.  Hopefully we still have enough interesting things to say!  Maybe you’ll hate us, who knows.  I know these boys are a lot of your babies.

Like always, absolutely no hate towards the game or characters intended at all, but honestly these are some of the best designed outfits in the game.

Also, we’ve decided that now that we’ve made it past the initial outfits, the three of us will vote on the next set of outfits to discuss at the end of each discussion.  It’ll be a little sad to not take suggestions or requests, but it’s the easiest way for us to continue to enjoy and produce these.  So with that said, the next outfit discussion is already decided.  But what could it be???  You’ll have to wait and find out :)

Also, I’ve added the tag “obey me outfit analysis”, so you can more easily find them in the future.

As usual, today’s discussers were:

Jo ( @jodaneko​ ), our art major with storyboarding and character design experience, whose birthday is this week!

Justin ( @justinlester0629​ ), our fashion expert who’s also written a full-length play :0

Noodle (Me), untrained eye and now the proud owner of Barbie as the Island Princess on FOUR different platforms.

Diavolo:

“That BODY isn’t holy in the slightest. It is SINFUL. His waist has no business being that SNATCHED. If this is Hell, I’ll be fine.” — Justin

Fear not, ravenous Diavolo stans—your man can dress himself.  Mostly.

The use of gold is REALLY nice.  And the wing and horn gradation from red to black are also REALLY nice.  In general, the colors go very well together, and all of them are used enough for them all to be worth having.  Even the white has a role in breaking up the mass of black fabric.

The massive dragon brooch, the gold casing on the horns and wings, the choker—the jewelry is exquisite.  The chains are really nicely placed too!  The way it goes around the back is nice and the skirt chains match it well.  And the triad of red gems are great at rounding it out.  Whoever taught this man how to accessorize really knew what they were doing.

Jo described it as interesting to follow and I think that’s the best way to describe it.

This is a true demon outfit.  It’s not trapped in human standards and that’s a huge plus.  The reason Lucifer’s silhouette was only a 9/10 was because THIS silhouette is 10/10.

Also y’all’s horniness aside, making him shirtless was a really good design choice because it lets all this stuff stand out while not overcrowding it.  Satan’s outfit could have been this good if it didn’t have that button down.

But… but the skirt.

Now, don’t get us wrong.  We LOVE that he isn’t wearing slacks of something.  The fact that it’s a skirt is actually a dream come true.

But the style just… doesn’t make sense.  I can’t tell what’s going on with it, the bunching up in the back and the length makes it awkward, when it would have probably worked fine and been more regal if they just let the back of it hit the floor.  The skirt is great, but the shape and cut together makes me feel like his legs were too long for the Annual Devildom Potato Sack Race.

Also are those white pants under it?  Lmao why is he so naked up top and so dressed on the bottom?

Justin does not like the shoes.

I really hate how the little triangles don’t all face the same direction.  Like they’re so tiny that it doesn’t really actually matter, but it just bothers me.  Justin agrees and resents me for pointing it out lmao.  Jo doesn’t really care about the directional value of them but does agree they’re unnecessary.

The tassels in the back are also completely unnecessary and probably just annoy him, like he has to move them out of the way every time he sits.  In general we’re not big fans of the tassels.  Maybe make them a little shorter if you think he’d be too plain without them?  Except the ass tassel though, there is no need for ass tassel.

But ending on a positive note, the huge fluffy collar is *chef’s kiss*.  It’s imposing.  It’s regal.  It has weight and shape.  It looks great to pet.  Just smoosh your hand in there.

In the end, the top is GREAT and the bottom is good but certainly could be better.

Barbatos:

There is just so much happening here but I can’t say I hate it.  The outfit oozes class, you can’t deny that.

Teal and black is SUCH a good color scheme, it utilizes a huge gradation and matches his hair too.  The dichromatic demon system strikes again and it’s still got it.

Ruffles are a top-notch choice, they’re pretty and they scream “ho ho I am involved with the royal court.”  BUT.  We don’t like how the shoulder ruffle was handled.  It just, ends in a weird place, especially in the back.  Asymmetry is good, but in this case a symmetrical collar or epaulet-like design would have fit better.  The sleeve ruffles are literally everything though and I would kill for that jacket.

Also the triangles are very interesting!  Based on the colors we can assume that it’s supposed to be a reflective surface (although if it’s NOT reflective then it’s kind of just an overflow), and they connect him to Diavolo who has triangle bracers on his arms.

The white detail in the coat emphasizes his figure and adds a nice pop!  Loving the gloves being white for a change too.

And the BUTTONS.  Every button is perfect.  I love the little gemstone chain tying it all together.  

If anything we have to say that a lot of Barb’s features are amazing on their own, but together they do start to clash a bit.

Mainly with the shoulder ruffle again and how it just… becomes the triangles all of a sudden?  It’s a cool idea but it seems like they were going for Saks off 5th but landed on Marshalls.  Another reason why the shoulder ruffle should have been a little different.

The bottom half is very nice and sleek and simple.  Can’t fault black dress shoes.

And the pants arrow is subtle and situated well in a way that doesn’t fuck  up the gravity like how Mammon’s did.  He is another that knows how to iron his marching pants.

Justin is concerned for his tail, because it looks like the outfit really isn’t accommodating for it.  Is it naturally angled that way or is it forced to by the coat?  Jo brought up that it should have been emphasized more, which would have been really nice.  Like, here’s a simple butler but he has HORNS AND A TAIL WOW A DEMON!  The silhouette is pretty unimpressive too as a result.

He looks great, but there is one overarching problem: this design creates an image where it feels like you’re not supposed to pay attention to him.  He has “interactable NPC” vibes rather than “romanceable character” vibes.  Good for a butler irl, but not as much for someone you’re supposed to register as a dateable option come Season 3.

All in all 50% of the problem is that one ruffle and the other 50% is that he’s a little TOO good at being a butler.

Luke:

“HE HAS LITTLE WHEAT SPROUTS!  ON HIS SCARF THINGY!  BECAUSE HE’S STILL YOUNG!!!” — Jo

We did it lads, we got the pumpkin pants/hat combo!  He is but an 18th century choir boy!  More character designs need hats, it’s such an underutilized asset.

ALSO HIS TASSELS DRAG ON THE FLOOR BECAUSE HE IS SMALL!!

An absolute Christopher Robin.

The sheer amount of white in a sea of black outfits makes this outfit pop so much and lets him use dark blue without drowning it out, very nice very nice.

Ok ok but his… paraments?  I love them but it does look like he is wearing the altar linens.  Jo doesn’t like the tassels because they make it looks like curtains too (or the altar on Easter).  Also, the blues should have had a gradation into each other like how the light blue fades into the white above it.  Everyone else has a gradation in this situation, why did they take away his ombre rights?

They forgot the knee socks in the back view lmao and it kind of highlights that the socks are necessary or the boots just don’t work.  With the socks, though, we forgive him because he is baby.

The top has so many layers?  There’s a cape, then the paraments, then another shoulder cape, and a top (?) collar with the ruffled cravat in there somewhere too?  It’s all very good but I can’t tell if it’s one piece or many pieces and I wish I could.

It works better in the back, in general the back does a good job of being a simpler version of the front.

Also we’re still suffering from the muted gold problem, although it’s definitely a little better than before.

Ignoring his malnourished legs, they did a really good job of making him a youthful boy, a little too small for his vestments but eager to face the world.

Why do I know so many church terms lmao

Simeon:

Hot AND haute makes a comeback

“Genuinely if Avatar Korra had a supermodel son… it would be Simeon.” — Justin

Like what do we say, it’s just… it’s just good.

“The skin-tight leotard that tastefully covers everything except his shoulders and hips?  Ethereal.  The cascading cape with a gradient turquoise inside and golden helix clasp in the front?  Divine.  His all white pants/shoes with belt design that is tasteful, but not so much that it takes away from his outfit?  Superb.” — Jo

As you can see Jo has Aquarius bias, and I would say that Justin and I would take it from here but alas, we have Simeon bias too.

Justin likened the drapery of cape to that of a Greek god.

Hot man in hot clothes aside, there ARE good design choices here.  The leotard cut gives him shape.  The triangle-patterned belt keeps the jump from black to white from being too sudden and jarring.  The gold jewelry is tasteful and keeps the leotard from being empty space.  There’s a roman collar because he is a man of god.

Also good gravity!  The chain does a lot of work there.

If you think about it he’d look super naked without his gloves, so it’s a good thing they’re an amazing addition.

Also he has half a GIANT wheat on the back of his cape to show that he is NOT young.  It’s not a bad design at all, but I am interested in the fact that it’s the only asymmetrical thing about him.

Justin’s only real complaint is how plain the bottom is.

MY only complaint is that I hate turtlenecks and I hate leotards so I can’t relate to wanting to wear this.

I wonder how hard it is to keep the cape in place.

Also I really hope this has been interesting, we haven’t had much roasting to do because honestly this is the best designed set in the whole game and most of the fun bits are from the negative.

Solomon:

SIR IS THAT A JACKET???????

I mean like top-notch jacket design, the gold detailing is VERY nice and the night sky gradation is very pretty in the otherwise sea of black.

BUT IT’S A JACKET?!?!?!

The fact that he’s just wearing a black turtleneck and slacks gives it a very human-world feel.  It’s like, baseline dark academia.

Tfw you have your thesis defense at 4 and D&D at 5

Of course while it works, it also makes it a pretty boring outfit in comparison to the rest.

He and Luke handle the blues in opposite ways, giving Luke a midday feel and Solomon a midnight feel.

The complete fade to white is a little polarizing, though.  Jo isn’t a fan, but Justin thinks it’s pretty.  I think it definitely looks better in the front than it does in the back.

Also his outfit works great with his hair, and in general the white is placed very nicely.  Justin also appreciates that the white shoes prevent an “awkward boot effect”.

On the oreo shoes, we aren’t the BIGGEST fan (I kind of hate the diamond), but we’re also just glad they’re interesting lmao.

But hmmmm hey Solomon why are your chains uneven?  The ends are different?  They don’t have the same amount of links?  Why have you done that, Solomon?  When most of everything else is symmetrical and there’s no other accessories that sticks out like a sore thumb.

Also while very nice, the jacket isn’t perfect.  The length is a little awkward, and the sleeves can look unfinished based on the angle.

“Without the jacket, he looks like a priest on his way to the grocery store.  Which isn’t a bad thing, but I expect HIGH QUALITY FASHION CHOICES BITCH.” — Justin

[andmaybegayer]

I think a lot about manufacturing processes because they're the most impressive things humanity has ever done and injection moulding wacks me out the most. I was looking at the toy keyboard I bought a while back and it got me thinking about how much of what we consider to be the look of The Modern Era is down to injection moulding.

I hold that injection moulding is one of the pillars of modern society and technology. Can you imagine a world where you couldn't use injection moulding. It'd look completely foreign. Like looking into an alien world. When you consider it you have to conclude that injection moulding has shaped our culture as much as the development of the camera or the invention of the piano or the creation of glassblowing. If archaeologists had to name our culture in the style of the Corded Ware culture or the Funnel Beaker culture, we’d be the Injection Moulded Plastic culture.

Injection moulding is how we get, oh, almost every plastic thing you’ve ever seen. The keys on your keyboard are injection moulded. Your phone case is injection moulded. Unless you’ve got a fancy milled metal laptop like a macbook then your laptop’s chassis is mostly injection moulded plastic. Your lightswitches are injection moulded. Plastic water bottles are injection moulded. Injection moulding is how we can produce extremely similar objects at breakneck pace for almost no money.

Now it’s important to rememeber that injection moulding isn’t cheap, or, well, injection moulding is only cheap for mass production. Every single unique piece of plastic needs a mould, and each mould will cost somewhere around thousands to tens of thousands of dollars EACH, depending on how tight the tolerances are and how complex the geometry is. Look at how many unique plastic pieces there are on that keyboard. Each one represents an investment of like $7000 into making this toy that gets sold for about $20, so there’s no way this would get made unless the company had plans to sell literally hundreds of thousands of these things.

(This mould can spit out one chair every 30 seconds and it probably cost twenty thousand dollars to make)

Once you learn to see injection moulding you can’t unsee it. It’s like learning about kerning, or musical intervals, or disability compliant designs, or the pantone colours, or about how many insulator disks are needed on different voltage power lines. You start to see it everywhere, you realise that everything in your life relies upon our ability to jam plastic through a heated screw and into a mould reliably, hundreds of times per day, all day, every day.

Unless you're wandering alone in the wilderness (and even then, maybe: check your clothing), look around and see if there's something injection moulded near you. I can tell you the answer, there definitely is. It's inescapable.

What would a world without injection moulded parts look like? It’d be weird. Everything we think of as cheap and easy to make is suddenly expensive. Complex curves and slopes like you’d find on a one dollar potato peeler now require hours of work to form. Every budget consumer item would be like those cheap sheet metal PC cases that have drawn blood from everyone who build a PC in them. Everything now has the aesthetics of a Sun 3/280 system:

Heck, even this sheet steel cube has a dozen injection moulded parts visible.

All the chunky plastic housing of the 90′s and 2000′s, all the sleek curves of the 2010′s, all the cheap plastic knick-knacks, the plastic toy horses, the snugly-fitting appliance chassis, the stacking plastic chairs. All these things now cost ten times as much and have to be formed from heavy steel, or milled out of chunks of cast plastic, or replaced with formed sheet metal.

Our culture, artistic sensibilities, and sense of value has been irrevocably shaped by our ability to squeeze liquid plastic into a metal die.

[millenniumfae]

Video Game Cooking: Sugars (Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice)

Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice is a standalone historical fantasy made by the famous people who also created Dark Souls and Bloodborne. It became an instant hit, and garnered massive critical acclaim. You control the broody shinobi Wolf as he battles entire armies and legendary beasts.

One of the many consumables in-game are the Sugars; Gokan’s Sugar, Ako’s Sugar, Yashariku’s Sugar, Ungo’s Sugar, and Gachiin’s Sugar. These candies are named and colored differently, and each offer a different effect. One raises your attack power, another makes you more stealthy, and so on.

Today, we’re gonna be re-creating these Sugars with our own recipe. And true to my tradition when it comes to Video Game Recipes, we’re gonna be taking our ingredients accurate to the setting. Which in this case is Sengoku period Japan. This recipe meta draws especially true to my own heritage, as a Taiwanese person.

Sekiro Senpou Temple Sugars: Recipe (makes 10-20 individual candies, depending on the size)

Base candy recipe:

3 3/4 cups granulated raw cane sugar

1 1/2 cups golden syrup/brown rice syrup

1 cup water

Corn starch for mold making (optional)

Confectioner’s sugar for dusting

Flavorings:

Fresh ginger slices (Gokan’s Sugar)

Dried lotus seeds (Gokan’s Sugar)

Red cherries (Ako’s Sugar)

Dried Astragalus (Ako’s Sugar)

Ginseng (Ungo’s Sugar)

White peaches (Ungo’s Sugar)

Sake (Yashariku’s Sugar)

Dried Cocklebur fruit (Yashariku’s Sugar)

Dried Orange peel (Gachiin’s Sugar)

Dried Goji berries (Gachiin’s Sugar)

Food coloring

(Sekiro won the 2019 Game Of The Year award, the first FromSoftware game to do so.)

To make our Sugars, we’ll be infusing a traditional candy base with various ingredients, unique for each candy. Every ingredient is based off of TCM, which is an acronym standing for Traditional Chinese Medicine. For those unacquainted with TCM, it can be hard to explain its influence. There’s no true western equivalent because it’s more than just ‘old household remedies’, it’s almost a given that Asian citizens take various TCM practices seriously to a degree. Like westerners do with honey lemon tea, or chicken noodle soup.

It’s also accurate to the game. Sekiro takes its setting very seriously. Everything from weapons, to hairstyles, to interior decor, even down to the kanji on Emma’s note in the beginning of the game is true to the Sengoku period, and some levels even go backwards a bit to the Heinan period, to reflect an ancient atmosphere. You can reasonably minus the historical inaccuracies on your own volition; giant snake gods, lightning powers, and automatic prosthetic grappling hooks weren’t indigenous to Japan.

Except there’s in fact one tiny detail that you might be surprised to learn is actually anachronistic; disk-shaped hard candies. The Sugars.

Hard candies aren’t traditional East-Asian treats. Sugar was always readily available in the form of sugar cane, true, but sweets almost always took the form of fruit, and candy-coated/infused ingredients. This is true worldwide until refining sugar into its white form became common, but East-Asia in particular wasn’t munching on lozenges while Marie Antoinette already had cough drops.

The Sengoku period stretched from the early Renaissance to the Baroque period. While Wolf was parrying his way through the Ashina Outskirts, the first King James Bible was published. There was plate armor and court jesters, but also firearms and photographs. Japan didn’t get access to matchlock firearms until 1542, and since the Sunken Valley clan seems to define themselves by the expert use of these guns, it makes sense that the intro to the game itself dates Sekiro as specifically taking place in the latter years of the Sengoku period.

All throughout this stretch of two centuries, Japan has been under constant war and political strife, lending to the Sengoku period’s alternative name, the ‘Warring States Period’. Japan consisted of separate nations, all led under Daimyo and warlords and various nobles that demanded their armies scramble for more land and resources. Living under this kind of conflict for so long means that innovations and education are rare. There’s no opportunity to invent the telescope when you’re all constantly worried about your lives.

This means that the food of Sekiro would have very much been the same it’s been since centuries beforehand. Even though by this point, the Columbian Exchange has been well underway and Europe was experimenting with tomatoes in their food, Japan wasn’t enjoying this same golden period. Any developments would have been weaponry, not candy making methods.

This means that, for our recipe, we’re not using anything that a Senpou monk wouldn’t have access to. No potatoes, corn, vanilla, etc. No beet sugar, or fruits that aren’t native to Japan. Even the raw cane sugar we’re using is pushing the authenticity envelope, because the ‘raw’ granulated sugar you find in grocery stores aren’t completely raw, they’ve still been refined using lye and carbon to strip much of the molasses. True raw cane sugar, when boiled down from its juice form, makes a traditional Asian ingredient called black sugar, which is very dark in color and not suited for making the brightly-colored candy disks that the Sugars appear to be.

(Shinobi aren’t samurai, but Wolf’s relationship with Kuro is so clearly samurai-ish that we can assume Wolf was being paid buckets as a high-prestige warrior. He also would have access to better food, including white rice; which, while already genetically modified through breeding by the Sengoku period, wouldn’t have looked like modern rice. Or maybe Wolf wasn’t enjoying the high life, because he dresses in rags compared to Genichiro and apparently didn’t know rice was supposed to be cooked.)

Knowing all that history about the Sengoku period, it’s almost silly to see candy consumables in-game, looking like they came right out of a bag of Werther’s Originals. The developers of Sekiro made many lengths to ensure everything was authentic, so why are the candies so modern-looking when they could instead have been a traditional Sengoku period sweet like something mochi-based, or agar (seaweed) jellies?

The lore behind the Sugars are that the evil Senpou monks were mass-producing these candies, and selling them all across Ashina to fund their crooked child experiments. They’re not just (presumably) tasty, they offer benefits to your health. That’s definitely in line with TCM culture, and gives us some inspiration for how to pursue replicating them.

One important note; the Sugars are some of the lesser consumables Wolf can use. Almost all other consumables are better, offering more powerful effects for a longer duration. So what if these candies were true to TCM and were mere treats infused with medicinal ingredients, only capable of giving you a small boost? Especially in comparison to the Divine Child’s rice, which would be like an Epi-Pen in this analogy.

But there’s even more depth to the consumables than that. Kuro gifts Wolf a ‘sweet rice ball’ at some point, which is almost certainly an Ohagi bun; made out of glutinous rice, red beans, and sugar, and its a traditional offering for the Buddhist observance of seasonal equinox. Eating it is sometimes said to bring protection. In order for Kuro to make Wolf this rice ball, you gotta give him some of that special rice from the Divine Child. Wolf offhandedly mentions that her rice is “sweet when you bite into it”, and Kuro realizes that Wolf has been eating these rice grains raw all this time, like the feral 5′5 goblin he is. Kuro vows to give his loyal protector something nice to eat, for once, and makes him three Ohagi dumplings.

The food of Sekiro is symbolic. The Divine Child is able to make rice out of thin air, like a deity of fertility. Kuro takes this divine rice, and his sweet rice ball is more powerful than the magical blessed Sugars because it was made with compassion. And eating Kuro’s lovingly-made rice ball reminds Wolf of once being fed a rice ball when he was young and starving, given to him by his assfuck of a father who’s compassion is heavily in question.

The Sugars are described as giving the eater a ‘benediction’ of power, and who knows what the translators were thinking, but the word choice reminds us of communion, and the flesh and blood of Christ. It’s not a true comparison; communion is about replicating and worshiping the Last Supper, reminding Christians about Jesus willingly dying cause humans are sinful. Consuming the ‘flesh and blood’ of Jesus in the form of bread and wine is very different than eating a candy apparently blessed by an ancient Japanese warrior. It’s not like communion wafers are supposed to empower you, or protect you.

Looking at the in-game image of each Sugar, you can see the likeness of a person behind it, likely the very warrior the Sugar is named after. We don’t know if these people actually had a hand in these Sugars, somehow transplanting their power into each individual candy, or if the monks just named the candies after them. Either way, the process of receiving the benefits of the Sugars isn’t just about crunching it between your teeth, Wolf also takes a moment to strike a‘warrior stances’, which, according to the descriptions, is a required detail to properly absorb the candy’s effects. Each Sugar has their own corresponding ‘stance’ that Wolf performs. It’s a weird detail, and raises even more questions about the Sugars, the monks, and the warriors behind the candy.

(Observant players will note that the five Headless boss enemies drop ‘spiritfalls’, each of which share names with the five Sugars, and offer upgraded versions of their corresponding Sugar; Ako’s Spiritfall is basically a better version of Ako’s Sugar, and so on. We can assume that the Headless are, in fact, the very same legendary warriors that powered the Sugars, especially since the game itself states that the Headless are undead remains of powerful individuals.)

True to FromSoftware tradition, details are included with purpose. And also at the same time, some details are just meant to be taken at face value. The various centipede-themed enemies in Sekiro are associated with kegare - spiritual defilement, death - explaining visually their willing abandonment from Buddhism. But there’s likely no lore explaining why Wolf can automatically hoover up all nearby enemy loot like a vacuum with the press of a button.

The inexplicable details of FromSoftware games are almost certainly because of gameplay convenience. Many characters are 9-10 feet tall for no reason, towering over Wolf, who’s already short to begin with. Lore-wise, it doesn’t make sense for so many completely human characters to be so gratuitously large. Gameplay-wise, it’s a lot easier to observe an enemy’s telegraphed movesets if their model is scaled up. Helpful, in a game like Sekiro.

The ‘stances’ of the Sugars might fall into both these categories. They exist for both gameplay and story reasons. The developers wanted a lag between consuming these powerups and being free to fight, so the player is forced to time these powerups carefully. You need to avoid enemies taking a free hit while Wolf’s animations are occupied. Then they storified this gameplay-based lag into a lore-based reason. Wolf has to take a ‘stance’ when eating these candies to receive its powers. For some reason.

I wasn’t able to further research the ‘stances’ Wolf strikes. Maybe they’re based off of known martial arts. But the description also offers some additional insight; according to the game, these Sugars contain ‘excess karma’ that is apparently the source of their power. Now, Buddhist karma doesn’t run in ‘excess’, a better choice of word would be ‘transfiguration’. One person can experience another’s karma through a variety of means.

“Bite the candy and take the Yashariku stance to impart its inhuman benediction.” In accordance with Buddhist folklore, these warriors are dead and imitating them can impart their previous life’s karma unto you. Our recipe won’t have magical karma powers, but we can certainly infuse our candies with medicinal herbs. You can just imagine the Senpou monks stirring up a big pot of sugar solution, and throwing in handfuls of dried Goji berries.

(This isn’t the first FromSoftware game that draws heavily from Buddhism. Dark Souls’ stagnant world of undeath is a rejection of Buddhist rebirth, clinging onto your legacy in a bid for immortality. Bloodborne decided to further explore the ‘time and madness’ angle of the same concept, while Sekiro went in the opposite direction to expand the ‘death and karma’ side.)

To make our Sugars; begin by first boiling the 1 cup of water with the corresponding flavor ingredients. Essentially, we’re making a batch of 10-20 candies with one flavor at a time, to make things easier on us. Ako’s Sugar requires you boil sliced ginger and dried lotus seeds, and so on.

After the water has been properly infused with the medicinal ingredients, strain the water and add it to another pot with the rest of the candy base ingredients, then boiling it all down until it reaches 300f. It’ll take a while, and you’ll notice that there’s gonna be a point where it seems like the temperature isn’t rising again. But keep at it; all the water needs to be boiled away. But the flavor will remain.

Once it reaches 300f, add the food coloring, and then keep boiling again until it reaches 310f. Then immediately take it off the heat and pour it into molds. Disk-shaped candy molds do exist, but you can easily make your own by pouring a lot of corn starch into a pan, then pressing a disk-shaped object (like another candy) into the starch to make indents. When you pour the candy mixture into a corn starch mold, you can use a spoon to gently and accurately fill each hole without distorting the powder. After perhaps three hours, the candies should be completely set and cool, and you can tumble away the powder and store the candies. Any mold method is gonna give the candies a flat side, but a true disk candy requires factory-standard molds that we don’t have.

We’re not using natural food colorings, ‘cause I tried my best to research natural alternatives that could retain their dye after boilings. And it was super hard, especially blue. Take it from me that Sekiro’s Sugars shouldn’t have been so brightly colored; intensely colored food did exist, but it was with things like powdered dried beets and matcha and pepper powder. Boiling these ingredients (rather than mixing it with dough or jelly) will change the colors drastically, sometimes completely bleaching it, or changing red to purple and so on.

As for the various medicinal ingredients; I took a gander in my mom’s soup-making cabinet and took stock of the medicinal herbs we ourselves use in our lives. The ones included in this recipe are some of the more commonly used ingredients of modern TCM.

Gokan’s Sugar, as a posture-retaining consumable, is described as a popular choice amongst shinobi hunters, a job that requires “a body with an unshakable core”. Ginger and lotus seeds are great for restoring energy through chi, a person’s lifeforce.

Ako’s Sugar raises your attack power. This candy actually proved one of the hardest to find medicines for, since, you know, most medicine is about preserving your health. Astragalus root increases energy and resistance to stress, and red cherries are a warming food according to TCM; warming meaning that its a yang property that further enhances your energy levels. (Keep in mind that food warmness-coolness is more about keeping those two in balance for optical health.)

Ungo’s Sugar reduces the amount of health Wolf loses. Very protection-centric, so we’re using ginseng, for longevity, and white peach slices for their heavy association with divinity. Both of these ingredients have some of the most well-known history in Asian food culture.

Yashariku’s Sugar is a double-edged sword, since it reduces both your health and posture so Wolf can be super powerful for a little bit. So you’re gonna add sake to the candy mixture around the 300f mark, and the dried cocklebur fruit is an immunity-boosting medicine ... but the plant is mildly toxic and can cause diarrhea. You know, Wolf gets super powerful and aggressive when taking this candy cause he needs to shit his brains out. Don’t worry; we’ve got this in our own pantry, and it personally doesn’t make my mom’s stomach upset, but it does me so it must range from person to person.

Gachiin’s Sugar makes you more stealthy, which I took to translate into ‘quieting your thoughts and emotions’. Like when you hold a baby and it can feel your own inner turmoil and starts to cry? Orange peel and goji berries restore your chi, your vision, an irregular heart rate, and stress.

Enjoy your candies! Pop them before tough situations like speaking before a big crowd, or having to wait in line at the DMV, or when you have to fight the Headless Ape for the first time. Tell your friends to stay away from the Senpou brand, so you don’t support their unethical practices.

[tagsecretsanta]

From @hedwigstalons

to @lenle-g

Secret Santa does not own this work, full credit to the author above!

“Merry Christmas, John.”

"Merry Christmas, Eos."

Eos’ camera unit tracked his progress through the gravity ring towards the small section that passed as a kitchen module.  He could tell just from the way her servos whirred that she wasn’t finished and the length of the pause gave a good indicator that she was puzzled.

"John?"

"Yes, Eos?"

"You sound...sad."

"I'm not sad, Eos, but I'm not really happy either."

"You sounded happy when you spoke to your family."

"That's good.  I don't want them worrying about me."

"Should they be worried about you?  You seem well.  All your vitals are registering in the normal range."

There was something touching about her gentle curiosity and John couldn't help but smile at how far she had come in terms of displaying sensitivity, but it was at times like these that the AI showed just how inhuman she was.  Much as he would like to brush it off and forget the whole situation he owed her an explanation, if only to further her education into the nuances of people.

"No, I'm fine, Eos.  But it would spoil their day if they thought I was missing them.  Just because I'm stuck up here doesn't mean they should hold back on the holiday spirit on my account."

"So you lied to them."

"I didn't lie, I just didn't tell the whole truth."

"This is one of those human things, isn't it."

"Yes, Eos, it's a human thing."

It had taken a lot of effort to plaster on a smile and give a convincing act that, yes, he really was fine about spending Christmas up on Thunderbird 5.  If everything had gone to plan he would have been in the thick of it.  Calls would have been diverted to the island and global rescue agencies reminded the International Rescue was first and foremost a family unit.  Of course they would still respond to a request for help but courtesy dictated that for this one day only the direst of calls got sent their way.

John might grumble about the paper crowns, claim tinsel made him itchy or threaten to head back to the office when the inevitable pillow fight broke out between Alan and Gordon but they were his family and he would much rather be spending Christmas surrounded by the noise and chaos than alone.  Unfortunately, this year, alone was exactly how he was going to spend the holiday season.

"Eos, give me another readout on the coronal mass ejecta and electromagnetic radiation levels."

"The solar flare is continuing.  It is still inadvisable to use the space elevator."

It hadn't answered his request but she had given him the information he needed.  Eos really was getting better at understanding people and reading the subtext, he couldn’t help but feel a little proud of her.

“Thank you, Eos.”  There was a whirr as she dipped her lens in a nod of understanding.  “Well, it looks like the emergency Christmas meal is going to come into play.”

By this point he had reached the kitchen module and he extracted from storage a small silver tray that looked just like all the other silver trays that provided the bulk of his nutrition up on the space station.  A small label proclaimed it to contain roast turkey and all the trimmings but he didn’t hold out much hope of it being any more appetizing than his usual bland fare, there was something about the preserving process along with the high levels of vitamin fortification in each meal that gave his food a unique, if not wholly pleasant, flavour.  The meals weren’t bad as such, but they weren’t good either.  Normally he appreciated being spared good ol’ home cookin’ with Grandma at the helm but you could guarantee that Christmas, along with Thanksgiving which he had also missed this year, was one of the occasions that everyone pulled together to make a meal worth eating.

Three minutes in the warmer and the meal was ready to eat.  He carried it through to his sleeping quarters and perched on the bunk before peeling off the lid that had so far kept all food smells sealed inside.  As soon as the seal was broken rich aromas filled the cabin.  If the smell was anything to go by then maybe it wouldn’t be too bad.  Unfortunately it still had the same greyish tinge and odd consistency as his usual staples but he’d survived on space rations for long enough to know that looks didn’t matter as long as it was edible.

Despite the tantalising smell it was with some trepidation that he picked up the first forkful.  Recreating the holiday meal was a challenge and one that Brains had only recently applied himself to.  If everything had gone to plan he wouldn’t even be having this meal now, he would be back on Earth with his brothers tucking in to the real thing and this, whatever it was, would have become just another food tray to grab when he fancied something different.

He gave the lump of grey a tentative nibble, paused to assess the flavour, then shoved the whole forkful in with enthusiasm.  It was delicious.  Okay, he would have preferred to be eating the real thing and to not have all the component flavors all jumbled together but if he concentrated he could tasted the turkey, the mashed potatoes, the gravy and all the other parts deemed essential to a Christmas roast.  Once again he was happy to declare that Brains was a genius.  He carried on eating until every single scrap had been scraped out of the tray, even going so far as to wipe a finger round the edges to get every last bit, before slotting the tray and lid into the disposal unit for recycling.

The rest of the afternoon was passed with an open comm link.  It was bittersweet being both there but not there as the family laughed and joked around his hologram but with calls still being set to extreme emergency only it wasn’t like he had much else to do, especially since Scott had commanded Eos to block any activities that might be construed as work.  Reports, inventories, maintenance, even reading for anything other than pure pleasure, of it was off limits.

Time ticked on and one by one the residents of Tracy Island drifted off to bed until only Scott was left having chivvied everyone along  with the reminder that they would all be back on standard duty in just a few short hours.  With that the guardian down on Earth flopped down on the couch for a few moments of quiet and turned to the guardian in the sky with a sigh.

“Well, we made it through the whole day.  Even that mudslide in Chile didn’t need our attention.”

“No.  Local rescue services managed it with zero fatalities.”

There was a shared look as though each dared the other to comment on their knowledge of the situation in Chile even though they technically weren’t meant to be working.  They both knew there would be no admonishment though, however much they might tell the others to step away from the day (and night) job, for the Commander and Space Monitor of International Rescue a ‘day off’ would always follow a different definition.

“That’s good to hear.  Are you sure you’re okay up there?”

“I’m absolutely fine Scott, the flare isn’t producing anything that would trouble Thunderbird Five.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”  Blue eyes held turquoise until, safe in the knowledge that this was just between the two of them, the lithe form in the hologram slumped a little.

“Of course I would have preferred to be there with you all.”

“I know, buddy,” there was a nod of understanding, “but we’ll get you down here as soon as we can.”

Both of them knew it wouldn’t quite be the same.  Neither of them realised quite how quickly they would get their wish to have John planetside.

***

It was around 3am Tracy Island time when John first realised something wasn’t quite right.  Scratch that, ‘wasn’t quite right’ did not do justice to the roiling, churning feeling in his stomach, the waves of nausea or the chilled sweat that had broken out all over him with accompanying shivers to round off the experience.

“Eos, increase the gravity to 1G,” he rasped out for as much as he he normally enjoyed keeping the living areas of Thunderbird Five at lower than Earth’s gravity, if his predictions of what the next few hours were going to entail proved true then low gravity was not the best environment to experience it in.  

There was a feeling of pressure as he settled slightly heavier against his bunk and the change did nothing to quell the feeling in this stomach.  A lurch and swoop inside him told him that the inevitable was about to happen.  Ordinarily John was the tidiest brother but he was incredibly glad that for once he hadn’t gotten around to stowing away the fresh uniforms that had been sent up on the last supply run.  It was the work of a moment to extract the box from under his bunk, unceremoniously tip the neatly folded stack of blue suits onto the floor and clutch the box to him.  He’d much rather deal with cleaning up the now rumpled pile of uniforms than his stomach contents.

Minutes ticked into hours and the feeling didn’t abate.  He huddled on his bunk, hunched over the box, his blankets pulled close over his shoulders.  Another spasm wracked his body and he added to the contents of the box.

“John, shall I alert your family?”

It was the third time Eos had asked that and for the third time John refused.  Alan had barely made it back in time for Christmas himself and while the young astronaut was technically cleared to fly again John would much rather his youngest brother racked up a few more hours of sleep.  Anyway, he wasn’t sure he could face a trip in Thunderbird Three just yet.

“Conditions are such that the space elevator is now operational.”

If such a thing were possible John could have kissed the AI at that moment but he settled for a weak nod instead.  There was a good reason why astronauts used to quarantine before every trip, illness in space was hard to deal with and while the advances in space travel meant that time and distance were no longer the barriers to medical aid that they used to be, a space station was still not a comfortable environment in which to ride out a sickness bug.

“In which case please tell them I’m on my way home.”

John left Eos to handle the necessary communications.  He really didn’t feel up to answering a stream of worried questions from his brothers, or worse, Grandma, and knew she would relay all the required information.  Instead he concentrated on hauling himself along to the space elevator, a journey that felt a thousand miles long to his weak and ravaged body.  The chills as he left the blankets behind made his body ache but he couldn’t manage both the blankets and the box and the box was still definitely needed.  Anyway, there was no way he could leave that up there to fester.

The space elevator posed it’s own challenges.  The reclined seat, normally so comfortable for dealing with the rapid transit back to Earth and designed for optimal safety, was not an appealing prospect for someone still prone to bouts of vomiting which, while abating, hadn’t finished completely.  He hoped he could make it through the journey unscathed but he kept a few bags in his hands just in case, knowing that the restraints would stop him from using his now well-loved box.

***

The docking clamps engaged with their usual reassuring thuds and John breathed out a slight sigh of relief, his stomach had behaved for the duration of the journey and for that he gave thanks to any deity that might be listening.  

Ordinarily he would be out of the seat the moment the harness disengaged but hauling himself upright felt too much effort.  He wasn't left in peace for long though before strong and comforting arms were scooping him up, one set on either side.

"Come on, let's get you to the infirmary and check you over."

He turned a weak smile on Virgil, for once agreeing that the infirmary was the best place for him.  

As he was led away by Scott and Virgil he vaguely registered Alan and Gordon hovering by the doors of the space elevator, mops and buckets at the ready, and he wondered quite how bad a picture Eos had painted of the situation.  That was a conversation for another day though, for now he just wanted bed, fluids and probably a clean box.

***

Four days he was stuck in infirmary.  Four long and tortuous days punctuated by rehydrating fluids that only tasted marginally better on the way down compared to their inevitable journey back up.  It was no comfort, when he was finally allowed out into the wider villa to continue his convalescence on the couch, that Virgil explained he had got away with a mild dose.  A mild dose of what, he wondered.

Salmonella, it turned out.  It was a very sheepish Brains who confessed that something in the new flavourings had compromised the preserving process and the tastiest space meal he had eaten in a long time was actually the case of all this trouble.

Despite now being able to keep down plain toast (as long as it wasn’t cremated by Grandma) he was still feeling as weak and washed out as a kitten.  He didn’t even put up a fight when Virgil said he was going to be kept Earth side until at least the new year.  He was quite happy to stay on the island even if life had returned to its usual frenetic whirl of rescues, there was something incredibly restorative about being in the midst of it all with his family around him and within a week of his return he was back running dispatch from his cocoon of blankets in the lounge.  It would be a little while before he would be fit to return to normal duties, salmonella poisoning had done a number on him despite the main physical symptoms passing in a matter of days, but he was getting there.

***

Over three weeks had passed since John’s rapid and unplanned reunion with his family and he was starting to feel the call of space.  John loved his family, he really did, but he’d just about reached his limit of unexpected noises, stolen snacks and impromptu hugs.  Unfortunately his plans to make an escape seemed to be thwarted at every turn.

“Look Virgil, I’m fine.”  There was a non-committal grunt as Virgil checked his temperature and heart rate for what felt like the 400th time.  “Take me out to Gran Rocha if you must and put me through my paces, there is nothing wrong with me now.”

Evidently the medical evidence was on John’s side because the engineer come medic stopped running tests and instead trotted out one of the many other excuses he’d heard more than once.  “We still need to restock Five.  There is a chance that other meals in that batch were contaminated and we cannot risk a repeat event.”

John was in full agreement on that one.  “I know and the new batch has been ready for at least the last three days,” Virgil opened his mouth as though he were about to interrupt, “I asked Brains.”  Virgil’s mouth closed again.  “I’ve also spoken to Alan and the next time he’s racked enough downtime he’s happy to take me and the food up in Three.  And if that doesn’t happen any time soon I’ll just take whatever I can fit in the elevator and you can send the rest on later.”

Virgil knew he was beaten.  Unless John had a fairly firm date for his return (barring rescues of course and there was no way he was going to stage a fake emergency to occupy Thunderbird Three) Virgil estimated they had maybe three days before John made good on his promise to just hop in the elevator with whatever food he could cram into a bag.

As soon as John had left the infirmary and Virgil was confident he was out of earshot he activated his comm, sending out an Island wide broadcast that excluded one grumpy astronaut.

“How are we doing guys?  John’s about ready to bust out of here.  Any chance of us being ready for tomorrow?”

“Well, we’re still missing some of the fresh stuff…” there was a note of concern in Scott’s voice.  He hated to admit it but a flurry of rescues meant they were behind schedule.

“I’m on it,” cut in Kayo, “just tell me what we need.  He won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Safe in the knowledge that the sneakiest Thunderbird would take care of the missing items the island residents each gave the affirmative that all other aspects were taken care of, or would be as long as John was kept out of certain areas.  A final itinerary was cobbled together and everyone kept their fingers crossed that the plan would be carried off without a hitch.

***

John woke a little later than usual, possibly due to the gaming session Alan had dragged him into that seemed to have lasted for hours.  He’d only ventured into his youngest brother’s bedroom to confirm his ride back to the office but by the time he got to leave, slightly stiff from being sat glued to a controller for so long, the only place he was going was back to his own bed.  He’d tried to escape a few times but every time he'd checked in with Eos she had just confirmed that all was quiet and there was no need to stop his game, prompting Alan to load another level.  He made a mental note to have a word to her about interpreting tone and teaching her the cues so she could distinguish a request for information from a plea for a cover story.

Barring the usual disclaimer that rescues would take priority, Alan was booked to take him back to Five the following day.  Now he knew where he stood he felt a lot better about the whole situation and wondered how best to use his last day on the island.  His plan was to grab a light breakfast, maybe recheck the supplies list of what he would be taking back up, then have a quick swim provided Gordon had vacated the pool and the risk of a ducking was ruled out.

His plans didn’t quite work out.

As soon as he entered the kitchen he was greeted with a maelstrom of sounds and smells.  Warm sugar and cinnamon competed with roasting turkey, Christmas carols assaulted his ears and he scratched futilely at his neck as it became adorned by a swathe of tinsel draped gleefully there by Gordon.  Everyone had clearly been waiting for his arrival and much as he might have objected to the idea had he known about it, it left him with a warm and fuzzy feeling knowing that his family were prepared to go to such lengths for him.

“Merry Christmas, John,” Scott greeted him, shoving a plate of warm cookies under his nose.  “Seeing as you got such a rough deal we decided to have a rerun.”

“With minimal risk of food poisoning,” Gordon chimed in before adding in a stage whisper, “it’s okay, we kept Grandma out of the kitchen.”

It looked like everything had been thought of to ensure he didn’t miss out on a proper Tracy family Christmas.  Once breakfast had been completed and the gathering had moved upstairs he found that even the lounge had been festooned in decorations that he knew had been put back into storage; evidently Eos did know how to provide a cover story after all.

It might seem slightly nuts to try and eat a full turkey roast in tropical heat, it was probably a misappropriation of International Rescue resources to take an unnecessary trip to Norway just to make sure John could have the real tree he’d always loved but hadn’t had for years, but to see the smile on John’s face it was definitely worth it.

[bluepenguinstories]

Remoras Full Chapter XXXIX: Nun the Wiser

Through the still silence and the lack of temperature (despite its location geographically, inside the fog was a feeling of neither warmth nor frozen cold, but just dead air) within the mist-filled landscape I made my way into hell. As if a lighthouse beacon, the orange glow inside of the diner could be seen, even as a faint glimmer from afar. There were strips of lighting, meant as a sort of walkway, but the destination meant more to me than the journey. After all, the journey was a torturous undertaking.

Three knocks: no answer.

Foreboding already. Should I have expected anything less?

When I fled from the convent, I didn’t know what I would expect. All I heard were rumors of a lone restaurant, buried out in the depths of this accursed omen that I could take shelter in. What happened back in that convent that I was forced to flee? Have I committed some horrible crime against the church? Was I excommunicated? Or was it that my former home had been destroyed, forever set ablaze by the darkness in men’s hearts and as such, I could no longer return, as I no longer had a home to return to?

No. I wouldn’t speak a word of it. I’ve made my vows and henceforth, there would be not another word on the subject.

Whether or not my presence was welcome, I pushed open the door with my delicate and frail hands. It crept slow and a credible creaking sound followed. As I awaited the chaos that followed, light leaked through and shone almost as bright as heaven itself (oh, the irony). Once the light faded, lost in the abyss which surrounded me, I was face to face with a crowd of sick and dying alike. Injured and scared, people all huddled together en masse.

However, through all of that, there was an air of perseverance: food was brought to everyone’s table by a young girl with snowy hair. Commotion could be heard in the kitchen from afar, even with all the wails and conversation of the crowded dining hall: sounds of pots and pans clattering and clanging, hisses and searing of oil, meats, and vegetables. Its aroma permeated throughout the air and I allowed myself a sniff.

I walked through the dining area, as if aimless and without a purpose. Of course, I wasn’t without aim, but I had to appear as such until the right person showed up. Seeing as I didn’t know what the right person looked like yet...I may as well have been without aim.

Soon enough through my wander and best attempts not to be swayed by the delicious aromas set at each table, someone took notice of me and sauntered up to me: a tall and radiant black beauty. Her smile beamed with such a brightness that I was sure that through all the darkness in this world, she must have been a source of light.

“Heya. I take it you’ve come seeking shelter?” She squatted down and leaned her face close against mine. As welcoming as she was, I had to back away, for fear of her noticing anything in particular about my face. Let it be known that I was more than a little bit self-conscious. That even with my mouth and the top of my head covered by cloth, that there would be something seen about me that would be deemed revealing.

Once I backed away one step, I gave a single nod in return.

“Well, go ahead and seat yourself wherever you like. There’s not a lot of room, so you might have to huddle up next to someone,” she informed me.

While I appreciated the offer and should have been grateful with just that, I couldn’t bear to just sit tight and wait for a meal. Not only that, but I wasn’t about to remove the cloth from over my mouth. If I were to do that, then others could see my lips. Even something as simple as that…

So I produced a notepad and a pen from one of the pockets of my black habit and wrote down a note, then handed it to her.

“Oh? What’s this?” She scanned her eyes across the paper and had a look of delight on her face. Afterward, however, she scratched the back of her head and gave a sort of confused face of distress.

“Wait right here. I’ll get my husband.”

I nodded, and was once again left alone in the aisle between the despondent people. I took quick glances, little notes of the demographics: all adults, luckily. No child should have to deal with such hellish circumstances. Though...there was the white haired child, delivering plates to tables and asking around. What was her deal, her story? What was it that brought her to such a place?

“Is the menu visible for you?” She asked one of the guests, a flat brown haired young man in a puffy vest and jeans.

“Don’t you mean ‘have you had time to look at the menu’?”

She looked down and smiled, then shook her head.

“Yes, but I imagine it only takes a second to look at something, so long as it is visible to you. Amen.”

Is she supposed to be the waitress here? If so, she doesn’t seem to have this whole ‘hospitality’ thing down. Then again, she is a child, so maybe the others go easy on you.

“Oh, Astraea. I can never be mad at you. You still have much to learn,” he waved the waitress off.

“Yes. I do. So, are you interested in eating food?” She asked, again, her voice remained soft and polite.

Well, she’s got the kind part down. Hopefully all of the refugees are as nice to her as that young man. At the very least, it seems they’re all familiar with her. Damn, though. I was really hoping that I could work as a waitress here.

“Yeah, I think I’d like mashed potatoes with biscuits and gravy,” the young man replied.

“Those are interesting foods to eat. I will let the head chef know,” she informed him.

“Thank you, Astraea.”

“You’re welcome, Olivier.”

She then spun around in place, then ran off.

“Star power!” She cried out in a sugary sweet voice as she ran toward the kitchen.

“Astraea. How many times do I have to tell you not to run in the dining room? You could slip and fall, not to mention drop someone’s order,” scolded an older man who sounded exhausted.

I faced forward to see him: a gaunt looking man with jet unkempt hair which almost covered his eyes, and they would, too, if not for the glasses he wore. His eyes had a dull, hazy look to them and there were bags underneath. Despite such a despairing air about him, his attire was far more dignified and sharp dressed: an ironed-out tuxedo and slacks, with white gloves covering his hands.

He approached me, then stopped and pulled out the paper that I handed to the beautiful woman, who, by coincidence, stood beside him.

Ah. So he must be the husband.

“So let me see…” He held up the paper close to his face. “Your name is Sister Cecilia. You’ve taken a vow of silence, and you’re a nun who was exiled from her convent. You came here seeking shelter and would like to help out any way you can. Did I get all that?”

I nodded. There was more that I would like to add, but everything had its place.

“Isn’t she cute, hun? I don’t think we’ve had a nun show up here before,” the wife commented.

Am I some kind of spectacle?

“Trust me, they’re not all that interesting. No offense,” he focused his gaze on me.

“None taken,” I wrote down. He leaned over and peered at what I had written.

“So that’s how you communicate, huh?”

I nodded.

“Well, you should consider making your words bigger. Some of us, myself included, would have a hard time reading anything so small.”

Again, I nodded. It was sound advice, and something which I hadn’t considered.

He drew an exasperated breath, then shook his head.

“Anyway, we’ve no need for sermons. I don’t think prayers will help our situation.”

“She could provide moral support,” the wife suggested, “besides, a few of the folks here are Christian, so she could entertain them.”

‘Entertain’? Is that the right word there?

“Nuns provide more than just prayer,” I scrawled the words down, then added, “it’s customary for a sister to go out and help out in the community.”

He looked around the dining room, then back at me.

“This is a community, yes, but by necessity, not by choice. You may take shelter here, but I have no work for you.”

“Oh, come on, Ray! You know we can use all the help we can get!” Ray’s wife nudged him.

“You can give her a task, then,” he groaned, “but I’m telling you, between you, I, Tigershark, Aurora, and Astraea, we’ve got most things covered. Not to mention whenever Wendy shows up, she takes some of these folks back to their homes. Anyone else would just be overkill.”

I then watched as he walked off toward the back of the diner. His wife, however, remained in front of me.

“Sorry about that, Sister. He used to be a lot more cheerful. Ray Sunshine, they’d call him. ‘Cause that’s his name, but also because he used to be more of a ray of sunshine.”

“I understand his disposition, given what lies outside,” I wrote down, big enough so she could see (heeding Ray’s advice) and held it up to her.

“Yeah...it’s not pleasant. He and I have both gotten our fair share of injuries out there. Of course, we’re used to the environment being extreme, but usually it’s because of blizzards or intense chill. This is different, though. Anyway, not to worry, I’m still Sunny! Nice to meet you!”

She held out her hand and I deliberated on whether or not to shake it. In the end, I extended my hand as well and took hers.

To my knowledge, there’s nothing she can infer about me from my hand.

She squeezed my hand and I squeezed back to meet her grip in turn.

“Oh wow, Sister. You have a firm grip,” Sunny observed.

I nodded. When she let go, I pulled out my pen and my notepad.

“As do you,” I wrote down.

“Ha! I have a feeling you and I will get along just fine, Sister Cecilia. I happen to have a thing for ladies with firm grips.”

I’m confused, but I’m going to assume that was a compliment.

“Thank you. You truly are a light in these dark times,” I wrote down.

“Oh my, you flatter me. If I wasn’t already married, I’d consider going out with you.”

Would you be saying such things if you knew who I was?

It was hard to tell whether or not she was serious, but I took it as a serious statement all the same.

“Need I remind you, I’m a nun,” I wrote down, slow and deliberate, emboldened so that she knew my words were serious. “We’re celibate and have taken a vow not to enter into any relationships, unless it be with God.”

Even then, hard to have a relationship with something that doesn’t exist.

“Aw, I forgot! Guess I’ll just have to admire you in my thoughts.”

I swear. If she ever finds out who I am under this saintly image, she’d change her tune real fast.

“Anyway…” she looked around with a precocious and carefree expression, “I’ve got it! You can be a hostess!”

“What is that?” I tilted my head and wrote down. I knew of a waitress, and a hostess sounded like the same thing. Which, to me, was a little redundant.

“Simple: you’d stand by the door and greet anyone who comes in. Then you’d direct people to their seats and let them know that you’ll bring the waitress to see them. Think you can do that?”

Really? Was that it? It seemed...too simple. Minimal effort. That, and “greeting people”? By holding up signs that said “welcome in”? Well, I couldn’t complain. If that’s what she had in mind, then I’d take whatever position I could get. It’s just…

“I imagine people don’t come by very often,” I wrote down so that I could address a flaw in Sunny’s proposal.

“Yeah, you got me there! Well, members of Aurora’s crew like to come in and out, since we share our food with them, so I’d say that should keep you somewhat busy. But yeah, I see your point. So...hmm...maybe...oh! You could help out Astraea, our waitress? See, she’s pretty friendly, but she can get a little confused at times, and she may need a little extra help as a waitress.”

I pointed my left thumb in the direction of the wandering child waitress.

“Mm-hmm! That’s her!”

Thank goodness. I can finally put my customer service experience to good use.

“I’ll do my best,” I wrote to Sunny.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine, hun!” She held up a thumb and smiled wide. She really was, by all accounts, radiant.

In the midst of our conversation, I failed to notice Astraea, the waitress in question herself, approach us.

“Hello, Sunny. Might this be another human that eats?” Astraea asked in a wispy voice.

“Yes, dear. This is Sister Cecilia. She is a nun,” Sunny explained to her.

“A nothing? But how can she be a nothing if she is something?” Astraea tilted her head.

“Not nothing, n-u-n, nun. They’re a type of religious folk.”

“I don’t know what that is. Are nuns human?”

Are nuns...excuse me?

In a fit of confusion, I scribbled down just one word:

“What?”

And held it up, first showing Sunny, then Astraea.

“Those are some interesting symbols,” Astraea pointed to the sheet of paper I held out.

“That’s a word,” Sunny explained, “because she’s taken a vow of silence, she writes down whatever she wants to say and has people read it out.”

“Vow of silence? How did she make a vow if she can’t speak?”

Sunny chuckled.

“I’m pretty sure she can speak. She probably spoke plenty before she took that vow. It’s just after that vow that she stopped speaking. Am I right, Sister Cecilia?”

I nodded.

More or less.

“I see. How interesting. I may have some difficulties holding conversations with her, but I am willing to try. Amen,” Astraea replied to Sunny, then returned to her waitress duties.

“As you can see, she’s a little confused, but she’s got the spirit,” Sunny assured me.

From what little I saw of her, I was inclined to agree. However, what that ‘spirit’ in question was, I had no idea.

Either way, I have a strange feeling around her. Like she knows more than she lets on. Or that she’s not all that she seems. I don’t know where that feeling comes from, yet I am unable to deny it all the same.

“So, before I let you go, Sister, is there anything else I can help you with?” Sunny asked.

I nodded, then jotted down my question:

“Where may I rest?”

Sunny gave a nervous chuckle.

“Anywhere you like. There’s not a lot of space, but anywhere you can find is good enough. Just don’t sleep in one of the restrooms, as I’m sure the others wouldn’t like that too much.”

Nor would I like sleeping in a restroom, either. Although I would like to eat in one of them, that way I have at least the smallest morsel of privacy whilst I eat. Under no circumstances should I let others see my mouth, as it would be far too revealing.

On the subject of privacy, I let my worldly desires get the better of me, as I wrote down a request:

“I would like a room to myself.”

Sunny hung her head low. It still wasn’t the dejected atmosphere which Ray held, but it was all the same, a look of disappointment.

“Sorry, Sister. There’s a lot of people and not a lot of space. I would if I could, but circumstances are dire and resources are already tight.”

Of course. I should have known better than to have made such a request.

“I understand,” I wrote out, “I’ll be fine with any room, then.”

“Hmm...there’s a room in the back. You’d still be sharing it with a couple of other people, but I can roll out a futon bed for you to sleep on, as I’m sure you wouldn’t want to share a bed with two other people.”

Yeah. No. Most definitely I did not want to.

“I can also roll out a sleeping bag, air mattress, take your pick.”

“Futon is fine,” I wrote down.

“Good! It’s in the back, down the hall, to your left when you walk in. Mine and Ray’s room is upstairs. Tigershark and Astraea share a room at the other end of the hall, so if you ever wanna visit them when they’re not busy, feel free.”

If I recall, Ray mentioned Tigershark being the head chef. That was, to say the least, an interesting name. Not to borrow one of Astraea’s words, but it was just the truth.

After Sunny explained all that, she too left and headed toward the back of the restaurant/shelter.

I’ve now been acquainted with almost all the staff here. That just leaves folks like Tigershark, Aurora, and Wendy. But if I had to choose, I’d say that Tigershark is the one I’m most interested in meeting next.

As if a prayer were answered, I heard a yell come from the kitchen. Gruff, yet shrill in its timbre.

“Order up!” Roared the voice of the head chef, and it sounded like the voice of a child.

Wait. You don’t mean…the head chef, too…?

My eyes followed the movements of Astraea as she strolled from one end of the dining area and into the kitchen door. Then, a few seconds later, she walked out with a plate and a glass of water in hand. On the plate was a dish of shrimp risotto and two gyoza rolls.

How...peculiar.

In tandem with the plate and glass being set down at one of the tables, the door to the kitchen burst open and out from it was a muscular young girl with red hair and orange streaks in the style of a pageboy haircut. She wore an apron with what appeared to be denim overalls underneath, and underneath those overalls was a long sleeved blue and gold striped T-shirt. Tight-laced leather boots topped off her attire, and if there were any more details to take note of, I didn’t have much of a chance to observe, as she darted toward me.

“Hello!” She beamed. “Are you new here? My name’s Tigershark!”

I nodded, then wrote down the same thing I wrote for Ray. I handed Tigershark the sheet of paper and her eyes scanned across the page.

“Oh wow! I’ve never met a real life nun before! I think Ray told me about them once.”

Astraea soon joined beside Tigershark.

“Look, Tigershark, isn’t this an interesting human?” Astraea pointed me out.

“Yes, she is! She’s a nun! I’ve heard about them before, but never seen them!”

Astraea looked down and smiled.

“I still don’t know what a nun is,” her assured statement made it seem like she was content not knowing, yet it seemed quite the opposite.

“They’re like how you say amen a lot, but with them, it’s their job!” Tigershark explained, in what may have been the simplest and least accurate of ways.

“Does that mean that they get paid for it?” Astraea put her finger on her chin and wondered.

“No,” I wrote down.

“What does that say?” Astraea looked at the paper.

“It says ‘no’. Like, she doesn’t get paid, I guess?”

I nodded. Correct.

Tigershark held out her hand. Same game as Sunny, I suppose. I took it and shook, and to my surprise, Tigershark’s grip was also very tight.

Then again, much like Sunny, Tigershark has quite muscular arms.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sister Cecilia!”

When she let go, I wrote down:

“You as well. You’re almost as tall as me.”

It was true; although if I had to guess, she was about 137 centimeters, she was still what I would consider tall for a child, and as for me...let’s just say there was a reason I wore heels. As uncomfortable as they were on my feet, with them on, I was 154 centimeters, and appeared just tall enough that I didn’t have to be so self-conscious about my height.

“Really? Well, Ray says I’m growing fast, and I’m almost 11! I’ll have my 11th birthday in a few weeks, and then in a few months after that, I’ll be 11 for real! I’m just not sure about the exact day!”

That was...confusing. Did she not know her own birthday? In any case, the thing I was most shocked about was the idea that she still had more growing to do. I feared for the day in which she outgrew me. Me, a grown adult woman.

“When it’s Tigershark’s 11th birthday, it will be mine as well,” declared Astraea. “We decided it last year. I will also be 11 because I recently learned that I am not 19 but in fact, Tigershark’s age, due to the fact that some of my years weren’t actually a year long.”

Again: what?

For the remainder of the day, I shadowed Astraea and made sure she did all that was expected of her. I’d often find myself writing down apologies to the guests and asking for their patience, although by the look of things, they were more or less used to her. Not long after, I turned in for the night in the room which Sunny had directed me to.

Inside were two other people, just as I was told there would be: one, a balding man with a tank-top on, an inappropriate attire for the type of environment we were in (or, I would say that, except the fog has negated any sense of ‘cold’ or ‘warm’ altogether) with cuts and bruises all over his arms, chest, and face. He drew labored breaths as he lay on the bed in what looked to be a cold sweat. As red as his cuts were, and as purple as the bruises were, at least it seemed that none of his wounds were open.

He must have only come here recently, I noted.

Knelt down on the floor beside the bed, was a woman, with brunette hair tied in a bun and wearing a thick, brown overcoat. She too had scratches on her face, like claw marks, and her overcoat itself was torn up, almost in tatters. Neither of them looked in great shape, yet the kindest thing I could say was that they would live. They had each other for comfort and that had to count for something. That was more than I could say about myself; what could I offer them? Empty prayers. Such things would have done them no good.

Despite my request for a room, I nevertheless felt like an intruder to those people. They didn’t acknowledge my existence as they were too preoccupied with their own predicament. All the better. Even in a superficial sense, I’d love nothing more than to have been left alone.

So I walked past them and laid myself down on the futon next to the dresser. I curled my legs and removed my high-heeled shoes. I’d be damned if I didn’t have some bruises and calluses from wearing them for so long. Those things were a punishment far greater than any of my sins. Yet wear them, I had to, for the sake of appearance.

Being who I was, I had to throw away any notion of ‘comfort’ for the sake of appearance. There was little comfort in my attire, especially given my blasphemous thoughts. Some folks held faith in a higher power, others were comfortable with having faith in humanity; I had neither. We were all cruel creatures of desire who both suffered and inflicted suffering upon others. We created deities as scapegoats to pawn our problems off on, we –

No, I had to stop before it spiraled further. Such thoughts were a bad habit, and within the pockets of my bad habit were notepads and pens, an endless amount of papers as a means of communication. Beside that was a means of protection, one which I hoped I wouldn’t have to present. At least not yet.

What am I doing, dressing up like some holy woman? How long am I going to keep up this act? I hold nothing sacred, nothing holy. I devote myself to no one and nothing, but act with self-preservation. So when will I present myself as a faithless, faceless mannequin like I really am? Or as a mannequin, am I meant to be dressed up to play a role, put myself on display, and pass by without a second’s thought.

My eyes shut. Soon I was on my back, and although I knew little rest would come, I still tried to bring myself to some semblance of respite.

I had a dream about bells. Church bells or school bells, couldn’t tell. That I had any dream at all was a miracle, as I wasn’t one to remember many of my dreams. That, and sleep seldom came to me. But there I was, sat up on the floor, and the bells still rung in my ear.

“SISTER CECILIA!” Roared the voice of Ray from afar. Such a vocal force vibrated through my skin and past my ribs, reverberated past my heart and out the other end.

Who?

“SISTER CECILIA!” Again, those two words, harsher, more urgent.

Oh, right. That’s me. The bell tolls for me.

I rushed to my feet and held up my veil, making sure that the coif was on tight. The last thing I wanted to happen was for the hood to fall and for the others to see my hair. That would have been too much to handle, especially on the first night of being here.

Once I had it all straight and fastened, I darted out the door to the room, down the hall, and into the dining area where I saw Ray and Sunny side by side with the front door swung open. There was a howling, malevolent force outside. Not a gust of wind, but a shriek and a growl, some inhuman and near-inaudible sound. In front of them, between the hinges of the unknown gray outside and the discomforting familiarity inside was a skinny, near-emaciated looking shirtless man. He coughed, gagged, sputtered and blood ran from his mouth. Gashes surrounded his torso and I had a hard time imagining that he would live at all.

“Don’t just stand there! Help us out!” Ray turned to me.

But while I should have helped, something else compelled me to stay where I was. Something, or perhaps, someone else: Astraea.

She stood off to my side, to my right, next to one of the booths. She too stood in place, and had a look of concern about her. But it wasn’t a concern that you or I might have had for someone sick. No, it was a sense of confusion, instead.

“Why are you helping that human up?” Astraea asked, in much the way a child might ask why the sky was blue.

“Because he’s hurt,” Sunny replied.

“Why is he hurt?”

“Because of what’s outside?”

“Why? What’s outside?”

“We don’t know,” it was Ray’s turn to answer.

“Why don’t you know?”

“We just don’t!” He snapped. That did not deter her.

“But why? Why can’t you tell? Why can’t it be bears, wolves, a blizzard? Why is he hurt at all? Why do people get hurt? Why are people hurt when they come here? Why does pain exist? Why –”

She. Just. Kept. Going. On.

I’ve always hated it, that word: Why? It was like when we’re young, that’s all we ask, and we expect an answer, but then when we get an answer, we’re just left with more questions, and no matter how much it’s broken down, there’s always going to be more questions until it all becomes pointless. Doubt is healthy, necessary, even, but do we all have to know the reason for every little thing?

“Astraea, go back to bed, honey,” Sunny urged.

“Why should I? Why can’t I know? Why can’t you know?”

Why won’t it stop? Was my own question. I was ready to put my hands over my ears and cover them up, open my mouth, scream, reveal my voice, have everything come crashing –

“Stop! Just stop!” I wanted so bad to yell that out.

– But I was saved by the cross tone of Ray Sunshine.

“Damn it! Sister Cecilia, are you going to do your job and help us out?!”

That snapped me out of any possible trance I was in and I rushed to their aide. I helped the poor man up and led him to an empty space at one of the booths. He moaned and wheezed and bobbed his head. There was a part of me which didn’t expect him to make it, that he would drop dead, before I even got him to take his seat.

But lo and behold, he did. He looked miserable, in tears, but he too, I would have to hope, would survive.

“I’ll bring you a glass of water. The waitress will be with you shortly,” I wrote down on my notepad and held it up to him. He squinted at it with a blurred vision, then looked up at me and nodded.

I began to walk up to Astraea, but Ray intercepted me.

“I’ll take it from here. You should get some rest,” he placed a hand on her shoulder and instructed.

“Thank you,” she replied. “So I shall. But please ask the man why he was hurt for me,” she requested. Ray glanced back to where I had placed the man, and it was like he was ready to roll his eyes. Instead of that, however, he turned back to Astraea.

“Will do.”

At the same time Astraea walked away, Ray walked past me, in the direction of the new guest.

“He’ll tell me the same thing they’ve all told me. He doesn’t know why he’s hurt any more than I do, but he knows his pain is real,” he muttered to himself, a grim sense of futility in his voice.

“Ray, let me help you,” Sunny pleaded. “I’ll bring the food out.”

“Do as you like,” he gave a dismissive reply.

As for me, I thought that was all I was needed for, that I too would head back into my room. But I kept my word. I walked off into the kitchen and filled up a glass of water. When I returned to the table, I set it down. Ray was still there, and he glanced at me.

“I could have done that myself,” he groaned.

Don’t give me that bullshit, I was ready to snarl, myself, just not out loud.

“But you didn’t have to,” I wrote down instead. Tact. It was as important in that hellscape as it ever was anywhere else.

He could have put up a fuss, but he looked at me for a few seconds longer, first his eyes showed scorn, then they shifted to a reluctant show of surrender. It was that shift which caused him to stand back up and wave his hand up.

“I’m going to make him a warm meal,” he called back to me, “you’re free to go back to bed until the next person arrives, or until morning. Sunny and I can handle this.”

As enticing as the offer of rest was, I followed him into the kitchen and wrote down.

“I can still help,” I showed the words to him.

“Yeah? What can you do?” His cold dismissal returned again. That time, I was stumped. There was no rebuttal I could have, but it felt wrong to just walk away, either.

“Well? Anything?” He pressed on.

I still had no answer and it dug deeper into me.

At last, he let out a sigh.

“Here: get out the eggs, flour, anything else I need, while I cook, OK?” He conceded. As someone who normally didn’t like work, let alone being told what to do, I was somewhat elated that he allowed me to help him in any way at all.

That was but the first night, in early August. Ever since then, there had been little progress in the way of the situation outside, or inside. Ray and Sunny gave the residents what little medical attention they knew to give. Ray was still the same self I witnessed upon my initial entry, but at least as the days passed, he acknowledged my presence. It wasn’t really progress, but it was something. Maybe all that I could hope for.

Each time someone entered, the bell would ring above the door, and I would assist whatever victim or passerby of the fog happened to cross the threshold into our domain. Some people’s injuries were worse than others. Sometimes, there were few injuries at all, and all I had to do was greet them and point them out to their table. Those were the lucky ones. I too was lucky, as when I first entered, the furthest I felt was an oppressive feeling that I was surrounded and eyes were on me in every direction.

Sometimes people carried with them the mindset of a customer, and not some desperate soul seeking shelter. That despite what horrible ordeals they’ve had to endure, they retained their entitled attitude. Those were the worst. Men, women, whoever. Young and old and anywhere in between. It didn’t matter. They were all a grating nightmare.

“Welcome in,” were the two words I would hold up on a sheet of paper when someone entered.

“Why howdy, ma’am!” Entered a burly middle-aged man in a cowboy hat and ultra thick mustache.

“Allow me to show you to your seat,” I held up the next sheet of paper. It had become a routine, and it was fine enough, I served a purpose, just as I wanted to. But damn, at times it could be boring.

“Why won’t you talk, little lady?” He asked instead. I had the most primal urge to growl, but I suppressed it.

“I’ve taken a vow of silence,” I wrote down.

“Aw, but I’m sure you have a lovely voice. And what’s with that cloth over your mouth? Got a cold or something? How am I going to see your lovely smile?” His voice was condescending, coy and playful. Absolutely disgusting.

I stomped down on his boot, so hard that despite the hardened leather that he wore, he felt every ounce of my disgust.

“Owww!” He wailed, raised his leg and held his foot in his hands, “damn you, little lady.”

Too late. I’m already damned.

“Now. Right this way,” I wrote down and although reluctant, he nodded, tears in his eyes, and followed me. When I found an open seat, toward the back wall of the dining hall, he looked at me with scorn in his eyes. But he was free to feel however he wanted. I was done with him.

I walked over to Astraea, who had just finished setting down a plate at another table. I poked her shoulder, then pointed in the direction of the nosy man with the unbearable mustache.

“Thank you, Sister Cecilia. Amen,” she replied, as she did. Beside her, was a customer, a puffy blonde haired woman with a rosary around her neck.

“Oh, how wonderful! We have two devout Christians!” Proclaimed the lady.

Wrong on both counts.

“I don’t know what that is,” answered Astraea.

“Don’t you believe in God just as well as I do?”

“I don’t know of any gods.”

“But you should! My faith in Him moves mountains.”

“How?”

“Well, it’s just that strong.”

“Interesting. My faith moves my own two feet.”

“So you have faith? But what do you have faith in?”

Astraea smiled. Truth be told, I worried for her. She bore no ill words toward anyone, yet those ultra-religious types were so easy to set off. Like a firecracker.

“I have faith in what interests me, and there are so many interesting things in this world.”

“That’s all well and good, but you should know what it means to pray! I insist we have a prayer circle once we’re not busy.”

“Why?”

“Because! It would be good for you!”

Astraea walked away, not giving her an answer, yet she continued to show off that kind smile of hers.

“Humans are so interesting,” she remarked.

I followed her. What else was I to do?

Yes, when it came to a monotheistic deity, especially of the Christian variety, I had no such beliefs. It was that fact which made my very existence as a nun a farce. Even as far back as when I was young, I didn’t believe in the existence of some higher power. Despite my pessimism and bitter attitude, it had nothing to do with “if a benevolent God exists, why is there still suffering in the world?” Because as far as I could tell, suffering would find a way regardless of how all-powerful something was.

No, it just had to do with the fact that it made no sense to me. To put such a thing in such a high regard when at best, a celestial entity like that would look at us humans with indifference. After all, did we ponder the daily lives of bacteria? Wonder about the complexity in such small organisms? Even if we did, we didn’t shed tears over them, and our concern only extended to how much it affected us. So why put so much stock, so much worship, into something that even if it existed, didn’t care about us one iota?

Not only that, but why “He”? Why not “She”? Why “heavenly father”? Hell, why any gender at all? If those beings were such all-powerful entities, why would they need to be identified with a man, a woman, anything? Weren’t they above that?

There were so many imperfections which denoted a human, not a divine, origin. For all that talk of a creator, such a thing was at its core, a creation. At least I could have some respect for the religions with many deities. They didn’t hide or deny the human elements of their gods.

Of course, there was but one more aspect: proof. There was none one way or another. For all we knew, there could and there couldn’t be something out there, far off in the cosmos. But we had no way to tell, so why put stock into something which may not even be there at all? It just didn’t make sense, and I didn’t have the patience like Astraea to ask an endless barrage of “why?” Or “how?” As it stood, if there was some celestial being among us, how would such a thing present itself? What pronouns would they prefer?

“She’s such a wonderful girl, isn’t she?” One guest remarked about Astraea.

I shrugged my shoulders. Her words and actions often left me in confusion. Maybe that in itself was “wonderful”, just a different connotation of the word.

When all of the food was served, Tigershark ran out from the kitchen.

“Another meal was a success!” She stretched out her arm and held up her thumb.

“Good job, Tigershark,” Astraea gave Tigershark a pat upon her head.

Things soon went south: a few tables down, someone began to gag, then throw up. All three of us ran toward their table. It was a young woman, thin and shaking in her seat.

“Oh no! I swear, I cooked it all well!” Tigershark pouted, then reached over and wiped the woman’s mouth.

“What did she just do?” Astraea asked.

“She threw up,” Tigershark informed her.

Have you never seen someone throw up before?

“Sorry,” uttered the woman’s aching voice, “I think I was just so hungry I ate it too fast and...urp.”

“So you throw up when you eat too fast?” Astraea wondered.

“Kinda. Lots of things can do it. You can eat too much, or eat something that doesn’t taste good, or sometimes tummy’s just mean,” Tigershark elaborated.

“I see. Excuse me, then,” Astraea stated, looked down and smiled, then walked toward one of the restrooms.

Don’t tell me…

I followed her. It could have been nothing, but...who was I kidding? Was it ever ‘nothing’ with that child?

She left the door to the single stall restroom open and I saw her in front of the toilet’s seat, retching, and soon black bile emitted from out of her mouth. It looked unreal, and among the stream of vomit, there was blood and what looked like discarded chunks of flesh. It made me want to retch, at the very least look away, but something compelled me not to. Toward the very end, I even thought I saw small limbs, like arms and legs, and even branches off of trees billowing out. I blinked, and she was done.

“Are you OK?” I wrote down. She looked over to me and wiped her mouth.

“Sorry you saw that,” Astraea answered instead with a strained moan. She wiped her mouth, and I walked over to her, then saw that there were no such grotesque things like I had imagined. I was more baffled that for a moment, I even considered such imagery. She flushed the toilet, then walked past me and splashed some water on her face in the sink. After, she washed her hands and while ignoring what I wrote down, turned to me.

“That was most unpleasant. Yes. Why do people eat if that can happen? I do wonder,” she mused to herself, then walked past me.

For what it was worth, her face looked spotless and after that whole ordeal was done, she seemed fine. Like it was just an afterthought.

“Astraea! Are you okay?” Tigershark ran up to her as we exited the restroom.

“Yes, my friend. I must have just gone so long eating and not disposing of the food that I had too much within me.”

“Make sure you pee and poop sometimes!” Tigershark urged.

“I will take care to do so, thank you.”

Just a few hours later, the five of us gathered for a “prayer circle” – Ray, Sunny, Tigershark, Astraea, and I. None of us wanted to be there. Well, maybe Sunny did, mostly just for fun. Tigershark and Astraea did, as well, but more out of a sense of curiosity. So I guess that just left Ray and I.

“I really don’t think this is necessary,” Ray scoffed at the idea when the woman presented it.

“Aw, please, Ray, won’t you indulge me?”

“This could be fun,” Sunny added, “and if nothing else, it’ll give us both a break from all the hardship.”

Ray let out a dejected sigh.

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

We all sat in the circle, and by coincidence, I sat beside Astraea.

Good. There’s just too many things about her that don’t add up. Maybe while everyone is distracted in prayer, I can find out the answer for myself.

“Oh, heavenly father, thank you for this meal –” The woman began, and everyone closed their eyes. I opened them soon after, though, and scribbled down a few words on a torn scrap of paper.

“What are you, really?” I passed the paper to her. She opened her eyes and noticed it, then replied:

“I don’t know how to read. Amen.”

“Amen,” everyone else echoed soon after. If not for the group prayer ending, I would have thought that Astraea had everyone in a trance.

“Thank you-know-what that’s over,” Ray exclaimed, then got up out of his seat.

“What were you two talking about?” Tigershark turned to Astraea and I.

“She wrote something for me, but I don’t know how to read,” Astraea explained.

This is embarrassing, I couldn’t help but think to myself.

Tigershark took the scrap of paper.

“Oh, she was asking you what you are,” Tigershark explained.

“Twinkle, twinkle little star...I am a waitress,” Astraea answered.

“There you have it, Sister Cecilia,” Tigershark turned to me, then back to Astraea. “By the way, would you like me to teach you how to read?”

“Yes please. Amen.”

I shook my head. I learned nothing, save for the fact that Astraea couldn’t read. But was that even the truth, or was that just something she told me? Oh, I didn’t know what I was going on about anymore. It was useless to wonder about things which held no purpose.

When we all dispersed, I was ready to resume my duties as a hostess, but Tigershark came up to me and jumped up and down.

“Yes?” I wrote down before turning around.

“My birthday’s coming up! Well, it won’t be my actual birthday, but I’ll be celebrating it in a few days, because that’s when I celebrated it last year. Ray said that we can’t do much because of the thing outside, but he’ll still make me a cake and sing to me. Will you be there too?”

I didn’t see much of a choice in the matter. Where else would I go?

“Yes,” I jotted down my simple answer.

“Thank you! I know it’s in your name, but I want you to know that I like you like an actual sister!”

It was strange, but I found it a sweet gesture, nonetheless.

“I like you too :)” I wrote down.

While in reality, I wasn’t a fan of children by any stretch, I felt it necessary to show kindness to them above all. Especially in this context, where outside of the domain of the diner was too dangerous. I didn’t feel this was any place for a child, and I would stand by that, but since she was already there, much like Ray must have felt, I needed to make sure she felt as happy as if there were no problems outside.

“I’m so glad! I had another sister named Demetria, but she’s not here anymore. I really miss her. Her birthday is a few days after mine and I wish she were here so I could tell her happy birthday.”

That struck me somehow. I didn’t know who such a person was, but she must have been important to Tigershark in some capacity.

“I see. I’m sure she misses you too,” I wrote my reply, unsure if that was actually the truth. There was no real way to tell, as I didn’t know who she was.

“Thanks. She used to live in the room you sleep in now, back before all these people were here. I liked to tease her and prank her, but I can’t do that anymore since she’s not here.”

Ha. I couldn’t imagine anyone missing being pranked, but I could tell her feelings about her supposed sister was still genuine.

“I hope you can see her again someday,” I wrote down before going on my way.

“I hope so too! I’m sure you’d like her if you met her as well!”

Would I? I had no idea. I didn’t care for most people as it was, so I didn’t see what would have made her any more special. Still, again, it was a nice thought.

I did wonder, though. What she must have been like, what life in general must have been like before the disaster that the fog brought with it.

Days later, Tigershark’s birthday came around. The unfortunate thing was that true to her word, little was done for her. There was a cake, there was some singing. Ray gave a sweater to Tigershark that he had knitted, and Sunny gave her an old pair of boxing gloves. She was happy with both gifts.

“Sorry I don’t have anything for your birthday this year,” Astraea told Tigershark.

“That’s okay! You just being here is fine with me! Besides, you let me play your video games, and that’s fun!”

Oh yeah. I forgot about that detail. Sometimes those two, when they weren’t busy with their restaurant duties, would sit in the back of the diner out in the hallway and play on Astraea’s Nintendo Switch.

“You can play video games with me and tell me what each word says on the screen! That way I can learn to read!” Astraea presented the game and console to Tigershark one day when I just happened to be in the same vicinity as them.

“What’s this? ‘Fire Emblem: Three Houses’, it says,” Tigershark read off the cartridge.

“Is that what it says? I always just thought it was called video games,” Astraea remarked.

The two sat together and didn’t pay me any mind.

“Look! It’s Sothis!” Astraea would point out. “She’s my favorite!”

It wasn’t long until each of them were pointing to each character.

“Ray looks like an older Lindhardt!” Tigershark exclaimed.

“Yes, but where are his glasses?” Astraea pointed out.

“Catherine looks like Sunny!”

“Yes, but her skin is too light to be Sunny,” Astraea corrected.

“Shamir looks kinda like Remora!”

Someone else I didn’t know, I see. Maybe she too was once a resident of the diner.

“Shamir’s skin is too light as well.”

Does it have to be a perfect 1:1 comparison? I couldn’t help but ask myself.

“Flayn reminds me of Demetria!” Both of them cried out, and that got me to look their way.

What?

“She’s short, has green hair, and likes fish. It’s perfect!” Tigershark sounded so excited, like she reached a breakthrough.

“Yes. Flayn is the perfect Demetria.”

Such nonsense, I shook my head.

“Who would be like Sister Cecilia?” Tigershark then wondered.

“Hmm...maybe Mercedes?” Astraea pondered. “She’s blonde and likes church stuff.”

“Oh, oh! I can see that!” Tigershark beamed.

Fuck it. I’ll bite.

“May I see the characters?” I wrote down and showed them.

“I’m still not very good at reading,” Astraea tilted her head and muttered. “What does it say, Tigershark?”

“She wants to see the characters in the game! Can we show her?”

“Yes. I shall allow it,” Astraea smiled, then handed the console to me.

I scrolled through each character in the menu.

There’s one called Lady Rhea. Somehow that name stands out to me. But it says she’s the head of the church, and I never really got along well with heads of churches.

I scrolled through some more. There was one character, Bernadetta.

Heh. Bernadetta. I can relate to her vibes. I too would like nothing more than to be left alone.

At last, I stopped at one character: Marianne. She was a demure looking young woman with short, blue hair.

For some reason I feel like she resonates with me, but I don’t know why. Wait. Why am I comparing myself to someone with short, blue hair?

I shook my head. Those little observations weren’t really much. I didn’t even really know the game that well. I handed the console back to them and wrote down:

“You’re right. Mercedes fits me most.”

They both grinned, as if I told them that they won a contest. Ah, well. Best to let those two think that, anyway.

After that exchange, I left the two alone. Still, it was nice to think that even from something as simple as that, Tigershark could be happy.

On a slow period, a little over a week after Tigershark’s birthday, I found Ray at his desk in the back of the diner. It was the perfect opportunity to ask him something which had been gnawing at the back of my mind. That, and we never really got to have much of a discussion together.

I sat down at a chair beside his desk and that was when he turned to me.

“Sister Cecilia. What can I do for you?” He asked, sounding bored.

“I was wondering about who used to live in the room I’m in,” I wrote down and showed it to him.

“You mean the guy and the girl?” He asked in return, referring to the ones I shared the room with.

I shook my head.

“No. Before the fog.”

He nodded his head slow.

“I see. Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious,” I wrote, “I heard Tigershark talking about her before.”

“Ah. Yeah. It used to be Demetria’s room.”

“Can you tell me about her?”

“She was someone who came here originally because she had a crush on someone who frequented here. I liked to give her a hard time about it, but I let her stay because the whole thing amused me. Can you relate to that at all?”

“What?” I wrote in response.

“Having a crush. Have you ever had such feelings for someone?”

“Only for God.”

And even then, not that. After all, I can’t have love for something that doesn’t exist.

He leaned back, then smiled a slight smile.

“Was that some kind of joke?” He asked.

“I have to try to keep a sense of humor, even in the darkest of times. There needs to be some light, no matter how small,” I wrote down my reply.

“I see. I used to think such things as well. I seem to have lost my sense of humor ever since this fog. She got lucky, though, that Demetria. She left before everything went south. She said that she needed to figure herself out, and I respected that. I even extended the offer that she could return at any time. However, once this fog started up, I didn’t want to risk such a danger. I texted her and told her that I didn’t want to see her again, hoping she’d get the message without asking any questions.”

“Did it work?”

“I have to assume so. I just feel bad for it, like I wonder if I made the right decision. She probably has a bad impression of me now, like I don’t care, when the opposite is true, and I’ll have to live with that. What do you think, Sister Cecilia?”

“I think you made the right call,” I wrote for him. “I think it’s for the best that she’s not here, given the circumstances.”

“Thank you, Sister Cecilia. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if she was still with us.”

“I don’t know,” I had no other words to offer.

“Me either,” he shook his head, solemn at the thought.

Great, now I feel bad for asking. It’s like I touched on a sensitive subject.

Nervous, I pulled out my switchblade from my pocket and flicked it in and out. As embarrassing as it was, I had a habit of fidgeting with it when I got nervous.

“Oh? You have a knife?” He pointed down.

Crap. I wasn’t paying attention. I really wanted to hide this from others.

Desperate, I wrote down an explanation:

“Yes. The head of the clergy gave it to me, said that I needed something for self-defense.”

“Heh. It’s just that Demetria also had a thing for knives.”

Interesting. Something in common.

“Father Time gave it to me before I left the monastery.”

Funny that priests were called that. I never even knew my own father.

“Father Time, huh? That’s an interesting name for a priest, or anyone in general.”

“Yes. Time comes for us all,” I answered. Like before, I had to have some kind of sense of humor, even with a topic I never thought to bring up.

“So it does. I’m just wondering when that time will come,” he replied.

“Soon enough. You have to have hope, Ray,” I wrote down. It was a hollow gesture, as not even I had hope, or even knew what to hope for. But I wanted to comfort him in any way I could.

“Hope for what?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” I had to admit, and that was when I got up out of my seat. As always, we were at a standstill.

There was still no clear indication as to when such a hopeful time would come, or when that time would be right. In early September, two new faces showed up: One, the person named Wendy who I had heard of when I first arrived. The other was a nuisance and a sailor who called himself Captain Acab.

Wendy showed up one day and strutted in, nary an injury to be found. Before I could even direct her to a seat, she walked past me and sat at an empty booth. I was a little appalled that she wouldn’t wait, not even acknowledge me, and so having taken her seating as a slight, I walked up to her.

“The waitress will be with you shortly,” I wrote down and held up the paper.

She looked up, texting on a phone in her hands.

“She will, will she? And who might you be?” She flashed a smile. I even thought I saw a wink.

“I am Sister Cecilia, a nun who has taken on a vow of silence,” I introduced, holding up one sheet of paper that had been written on long ago.

“I see. You might make for a good conversation partner, then. Name’s Wendy Day. I’m an escort and I’m currently pretending to be the owner of this phone in my hands. I’m texting this girl’s mom and being like ‘ay, what’s up, ma?’ I’ll be honest, it’s hard pretending to be someone else, but I like to see their reactions.”

“Why would you do that?” I wrote down and asked.

“Well, she gave me her phone and asked me to do so while she sees someone named ‘Hera’. As to why I agreed...I dunno, but the next time I see her, I’ll give this to her. Say, wanna see a selfie her friend sent her? I’ll tell ya, I had no idea she’d have such a cute friend. I bet Remora would be jealous if she knew.”

Before I could reply that no, I did not want to see a picture of this stranger’s friend, Wendy held up the phone anyway. On the text screen was the face of a girl with dark hair and silky, olive skin. She was smiling in the photo and held up a peace sign.

“What do you think? Cute, huh? Not that I think so, but like I said, I bet a certain someone would get jealous.”

“I refuse to comment on someone I know nothing about,” I wrote down.

“Suit yourself. You can get the waitress now,” she shooed me off. I was just about to go when she added, “say, how are you liking it here?”

Despite my better judgment, I replied with the two words: “It’s hell.”

She snorted up a babyish laugh.

“I guess so, huh? What led you to this hell, though?”

“Rumors,” I gave my simple reply. The longer I stayed, the more I felt like I would be in an interrogation.

“Figures. Rumors can be such a nasty thing. I try not to put too much stock into them unless I have evidence. Well, I usually pull people out of here, but I think Ray wants me to stay a while longer this time. That way I can protect anyone, in case things get too bad.”

“I hope things don’t get too bad,” I wrote out my reply.

“You and me both. I also hope she gets here soon. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting pretty tired of pretending to be someone else. Plus, she promised me some action.”

Whoever she is, I would rather less people deal with this predicament, not more.

“Best of luck to your friend,” I wrote down instead. As always, I tried to be as nice as I could in my words, even if my true self was rotten to the core.

“Heh. Thanks. And best of luck in hell,” she flashed me a grin once more. At last, I felt I could move on to other places in the diner. I just didn’t know what moving on would bring…

“Ding-ding!” Went the chime of the bell above the door.

Damn it. What now? I cursed that bell and every new entry that walked in. Yet as it was my job, I rushed to the aide of whoever it was who entered.

When I got to the door and was all ready with the sign welcoming the new inhabitant in, I was met instead with a tall man (well, tall for me, anyway) with shaggy blue hair along with a long, blue beard and mustache.

Who is this? Krusty the Clown?

His face looked frozen and he shivered in place, then, he looked down and once our eyes met, I saw the bloodshot look in his and a look of either surprise or pure terror filled his face. That should have been my warning as to what came next, as he wobbled some more before collapsing over me.

I tried to hold him up as best I could, but he was just too heavy, and the angle was too awkward.

Ugh. Please. Stand up.

He didn’t even look that injured. So what was it? Exhaustion?

“Sister Cecilia, what are you doing?” Ray’s voice called out in the background.

I huffed and thanked my lucky stars it didn’t make so much of a sound.

“Hurry up and get him off of you and get him to a seat,” he scolded.

It was still too much of a struggle. Desperate, I reached for my paper and just tried to hold the man up with my own shoulders as I wrote down one word, as bold and big as I could make it. Then I held the paper up for Ray to see.

“HEAVY.” It said.

Ray took a look and scoffed.

“Of course he’s heavy, but people are going to fall from time to time. You should be used to this by now,” he continued to scold.

It’s not just that, but I’m wearing heels, which makes it very hard to move my legs much.

Ray helped the strange bearded man up. Then, when the man was back upright, and leaned against the hinges of the door to keep himself up, he spoke up.

“Heh, sorry about that. I guess you could say I ‘fell for you’,” his voice was low, but in a sort of fake and deliberate way. Also, he reminded me too much of that creepy cowboy man I remember helping out. All in all, bad vibes.

“I’m not impressed,” I wrote down.

I showed him to a seat, and one that for better or worse, wasn’t far from Wendy’s.

“Arr, thanks, miss,” he crooned like he was trying to talk like a pirate. He then pulled out a pipe from his pocket and put it in his mouth, and that was when I noticed the sailor uniform.

Maybe it’s not just an act. Either way, he could use some work in sounding more genuine, but that’s just me.

I soon pointed Astraea toward the sailor man and she strolled over to him.

“Here is a menu. Please take the time to look at it so that you may eat food. I will soon return, so be ready for me. Amen,” Astraea recited.

“Thanks, matey,” he told the waitress.

When Astraea returned, just a few minutes later, he asked her: “Say, who’s the pretty lady in the black dress?” Pointing to me. I felt sick to my stomach.

“That’s Sister Cecilia.”

“Holy hell, she’s beautiful.”

I scowled.

“Err...I mean, pardon me, being a sailor, I tend to curse like me.”

“Hey Ahab. Are you going to order or not?” I wrote down, done with his dilly-dallying.

“It’s ‘Acab’, lass. Because the ‘C’ is very important to a sailor, yes,” he took a puff of his pipe and nodded.

I’ve only known that guy once, but I swear he’s gonna give me a headache.

Some odd minutes passed and I floated around each table. Astraea returned to the sailor’s table with food in hand. By then, I had stopped paying attention to any of his antics, but somehow in the short span of time, not only had he received his food, but so did everyone else, and Tigershark was seated atop his lap.

How did this happen? I had to wonder.

“Arr, lass. How goes ye?”

“You remind me of Santa!” Tigershark exclaimed.

He bellowed out a hearty laugh.

“Aye. Ye think so?”

“Yeah! And your lap is really comfortable! Say, why do you shiver so much?”

He scratched his chin.

“When ye sail the mighty winds of the ocean, ye feel every breeze. Yea.”

“Wow. You sailed in the ocean?” Tigershark asked, amazed.

“Aye, lass. I’ve sailed every which way in search of my mortal enemy, Moby Duck, a giant duck who strikes fear into even the heartiest of men. Its call, ‘shuba shuba’ brings shivers to my spine to this day. In fact, I was close to facing off with my enemy when my ship crash landed near here.”

Giant duck? Seriously? You’re not fooling anyone.

“Wow! A giant duck!” Tigershark’s mouth hung open and was sucked into his story.

Fine. Maybe you fool one person.

I really wished that the sailor along with every troublesome guest was able to leave so I didn’t have to deal with them. With each passing nuisance, I wished the fog would dissipate, but my wish never did get granted. It really felt like all of us were stuck in a perpetual state of suffering. Tigershark and Astraea were able to keep their high spirits, but what about everyone else? Even then, how long could those children last? None of us could hold out forever, and if something didn’t change sooner or later, we might all fall to the ravages of time.

It was a quiet November. Little progress. Late in the evening, not a single soul stirred. By some miracle, we were all asleep, whether it be in the dining hall or one of the rooms. I was the only one left awake.

I took the time to let down the cloth over my mouth, open wide for a sigh of relief. I’ve spent so long, having to do everything in silence, find small windows of time to eat in private, without the watchful eyes of anyone around. Shower, use the restroom, anything. There were precious few moments of ‘alone’ that I was granted, and that moment happened to be one of them.

On the bed beside me slept the middle-aged couple: Turmeric and her longtime boyfriend, Cumin. Those two never gave me much mind, always absorbed in each other. As much as I disliked seeing their displays of affection, I was thankful for their quiet. When I first saw them, the two were in terrible shape. Now, however, they looked much healthier, even if their faces displayed sheer sorrow whenever I caught a glimpse of either of them.

“How long do I have to keep this up?” I asked myself, my voice, foreign and hoarse. It had been ages since I spoke a word, and in the dead of night, I allowed myself the simple sin.

What brought me to a startling fright, however, was the door to the bedroom, opening up. It creaked a slow discordant creak and I jumped in place before turning my head.

Astraea stood in the doorway, and even through the darkness I could see her blank stare and that snowy, shimmering hair.

“Oh, Sister Cecilia. So this is where you sleep,” she spoke up, a breezy whisper, yet both clear and direct.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, but then covered my mouth. I couldn’t believe I did such a thing.

She too looked surprised, and covered her mouth, then let go.

“Ah, so you do have a mouth.” She crept in, and closed the door behind her, then tilted her head and a slight smile spread across her face.

“Don’t worry, Sister Cecilia. Your secret is safe with me,” she assured me, but I did not feel the least bit reassured. I scrambled for my paper and pen and in haste, wrote down:

“Well I know you’re not human.”

She dropped to her knees and leaned in close, closer than I would have expected. Her eyes widened and it was like I was staring at a bug through a microscope.

“I’ve gotten better at reading,” she informed me. “And yes, I am human. I may not act it sometimes, but I don’t have to act like a human to be one. Just like you don’t always have to act like a nun to be a nun.”

She then stood back up and headed for the door. Before she left, she craned her neck back and turned to me.

“Goodnight, Sister Cecilia.”

Trembling, I waved back to her, and my heart would not cease to pound against my chest.

What the hell was that all about?

I couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night as I just wondered: Why? Why did she enter that night, and why did I feel so uneasy? More questions than answers floated around my mind and once again, I just had little else I could do but hope, hope that things would change soon.

[povvertaken]

for @fabletold​ / meme / inbox always open / under cut for length

The Easter feast is abundant. Goderic, ignorant of the best way to manage the food stores, directed the kitchen to produce their best. The High Table is covered in dishes of fine quality: deer cooked with ginger, chicken in a mustard sauce, walnut bread and fresh butter, crushed potatoes and mead soaked carrots and parsnips. The stewards pour out wine, mead, beer, whiskey, and Elfriede tries not to keep track of the cost of it all. This is merely an Easter feast, and Goderic has begun talking of engaging more foreign guests such as the Earl de Rais. She knows it is all his poor attempt to show his strength. How could her brother know that Henri doesn’t spare a moment’s thought about the food served in the court of Wihtwara? Her gaze slides sideways to the man in th seat of honour, on the right hand side of her brother and between the two siblings. This position will matter more to him than all the candied fruits in all the kingdoms combined.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see his profile. He is striking, even without the colour of his beard. Striking, and too intelligent to trust. She can predict his moves only by predicting her own. Even as the thought should sicken her, there is a kind of thrill to it; to the idea of an equal. The steward approaches, ready to fill her goblet with wine. She hovers her hand over it, preventing him in a subtle gesture. Its bad enough the expense that’s been lavished on this feast. She will not add to it more than necessary.

She know that Goderic has been told of Alfred’s dream. A united England, without kingdoms. Should such a thing arise, Wihtwara could never hope to stand against the combined forces of Mercia, Wessex, and Northumbria. His plan to curry favour with wealthy foreigners is not a bad one, as such. She sees the merit of it. But Goderic has never been an accurate judge of character. He allows the leaching priests to manipulate him, he seeks the approval of any man with a stronger personality. Henri can see it, plain as day. And he will not be the only one. Goderic is not the ruler to enact this plan. She watches his brother, watches the way he watches an Eadlorman’s daughter. He’d be happier as a Lordling, chasing skirt and hunting. He hasn’t the stomach for ruling.

In one corner of the hall, the musicians start up. Between drinking and feasting, guests will get up and dance. All this celebration for their nailed god, without a thought of why they do it. Tonight, Elfriede will keep to her own faith, and welcome the Spring in a more traditional way. Under the table, Henri’s leg bumps against hers, too heavy and purposeful to be mistaken as an accident. She flexes her hand, refusing to meet his gaze. She cannot deny the intelligence in his choice - to publicly court a princess speaks to her brother’s opinion of him, is a show of power to all the men that eye his position. But she will not give that power to him without something in return. Her favour is worth her weight in gold, and she needs more assurance.

It is only later, when Goderic leaves the table to dance with the Ealdorman’s daughter, that she sits back in her chair and leans her head in Henri’s direction.

“He’s as wet behind the ears as a pup, chasing that girl. If she’s not with Aldhelm’s babe already, she will be within a month.”

She watches Henri, cannot deny the delight she feels as he absorbs this information. Like her, he feeds on information with more eagerness than anything produced for this feast. She notes he has touched little more than the meat he was served, presumably waiting for her brother to insist he indulge in their offerings. Goderic is too fool to play host sober, let alone drunk on wine and women. She picks up the decanter herself, pouring a little wine in her own goblet.

“Can I tempt you, your Grace?”

Without waiting for an answer, she pours a little of the ruby red liquid into his glass. It is not the favour he may have wanted, but it is a gesture, nonetheless. No other man to sit at the High Table has been served by the Princess herself. She knows it, knows that the wine has wet her lips and spread a pink blush across her features. Her eyes glitter as she looks at him, and she inclines her head in a smooth gesture.

“I’m afraid I must retire to my chambers. Might I prevail on you to escort me?”

If Henri held any displeasure with her, an all but open invitation to her bed should soothe his ruffled feathers. When he assents, she stands and takes his arm. There is a fluttering feeling of being trapped, as he holds hi elbow close to his body, and covers her hand with his. It is all so courtly and proper, but she knows something of the man who does it, and suppresses a shiver that ripples down her spine.

As they move through the crowds, she watches Goderic. He is caught in the girl’s beauty. She is pretty in a simple way, all yellow hair and rosy cheeks. Elfriede is surprised by the disgust she feels, the ridicule she knows she could pile on the girl. As they pass, she leans in to Henri and whispers too loudly: “It’s such a shame, but without a mother how is she to know? No man will marry a whore, even if she is the King’s.” She doesn’t look back at the girl, at the impact of her words. She is caught up in the wicked knife of a smile that cuts across Henri’s face. 

Inside her chambers, Elfriede feels like a lit fire. Even Henri’s displeasure over dinner at her lack of attention thrills her. His lack of constancy is a game of wits, and she bears it only so long as they return to one another like this: her chambers, alone, staring at each other like wolves. She discards her circlet, her veil. The heavy braid that hides her long hair is unpinned and released. She watches him, watching her, standing before him like a bride.

“You made a pretty piece of work with that girl. What has she ever done to you?”

She might mistake his tone for a reproach, if she did not see the laughter in his eyes.

“She is a whore for any man who will lie with her, and her father has debts. Aldhelm might have married her, even with no hope of paying them. She will not snare my brother, not even if she bears his bastards. He can find another.”

“Will he?”

They both know her brother is easier to guide without a wife. If he were to marry or take an official mistress, Elfriede’s position as the most influential women at court would suffer. By extension, so would Henri’s. It is in both their interests to ensure that Goderic remains biddable, softened to their suggestions by flattery. Henri had at least managed a little of that before Goderic decided the feast would be best spent mooning after a girl.

“Can he?” She counters Henri easily, as though the conversation isn’t enough to have them executed for treason. As though it doesn’t make her breath hitch and her heart pound. As though she isn’t desperate already to feel Henri’s bruising kiss and possessive grip around her wrist. “He is weak for any pretty face that soothes his ego and laughs at his jokes. It is the foolishness of his sex.” She regards Henri for a beat before speaking again. “A mistake I find you free from, Henri.”

She turns her back on him, unlacing the jeweled, decorative belt around her waist. She drops it to the floor, moving her attention to the laces of her sleeves. As she gently unpicks the cords and releases them, she continues: “I’m unsure what to make of it. If you were to be weak-willed and cow-eyed, I should hate you. And yet I spent the entire Easter Mass and Feast waiting for your attention. Do you look after me as I leave a room, or does some other hold your attention?” The sleeves slide from her arms, and she turns back to face him. Her eyes shine in the low candlelight, and she is acutely aware of the distance between the Earl and her own bed.

“I could never bear a weak man, and yet I find myself wondering: what would it be like, to know a man loves you so truly?”

Henri is fond of poetry, of great heroes and romances. Let him think she is of the same mind, some part of her character predisposed to such foolishness. She has no interest in love. She is enlivened by the idea of a man weak only to her, a solid wall of a man who would lie beneath her and kiss her fingertips in utter devotion.

“What would it be like,” she muses, locking eyes with him, “to have one man be weak for you, above all others?”

Henri takes a step forward, and another, and Elfriede refuses to give up any ground to him until he is before her. In the light, his face is painted red and black as the flames flicker. He reminds her of a wolf, with bloody muzzle, and she licks her lower lip in anticipation. Be wolfish, she thinks. She has no need of a milksop man who will be commanded. She is interested in worship, not childish affection.

“Is this why you torture me? You wish to see me weak?” Henri growls in a register that she feels deep in her bones. She doesn’t bend beneath his gaze, but juts out her chin and narrows her eyes.

“I am a Princess of royal blood. I am entitled to torture who I please.” She breathes shallowly, despite her confident words. “I do not torture you purposefully, though. Never you, Henri.” She reaches out, slides her thumb over his cheek as she cups his face. “I want your devotion, and no other. I want - I want,” she speaks fiercely, drawing so close to him she feels she could climb inside his skin. His pupils are so wide they almost obliterate the colour of his eyes. She looks up at him with her own dark eyes, and presses a kiss to his jaw. “You need not be weak for anyone else. But give me what I desire, and I will be yours, entirely.” She mumbles the words against the column of his throat, and only steps back as he slides to his knees in a fluid, feline movement.

She looks down at him, feels heat pool in her belly, and moves her hand to his hair.

“For you alone, I will be weak,” he says, so softly she almost doesn’t hear.

Yes, she thinks. Yes, yes, yes.

[kingofdirtandnothing]

@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Eighteen

This isn’t the first time Clark has been interviewed about the farm. He remembers being about twelve years old, sitting on the front of the tractor while his dad talked about immigrating, and starting fresh on an entirely different continent. 

The reporter at the time was a beautiful woman, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. She had smiled and took notes, and even asked questions that went beyond the breadth of the “fluff piece” this was supposed to be. 

Clark always had a soft spot for reporters after that. They were people searching for the truth. That truth had to be harsh sometimes. They had to work hard and chase leads and bring light to unsavory things. 

But sometimes, a good story was just talking about life, and making other people feel good. It was a balance that Clark could respect. Because he knew as much as anyone how difficult it was to find balance in your work. 

Because Clark loved what he did. He loved the farm, he loved continuing on his parent’s legacy. But there were days that he wondered what it would be like to chase stories, to go on adventures, to peel back the layers of the world and find what was waiting beneath. 

Those were the days he took a little longer out on the tractor. Clark was a known daydreamer. His mom always liked to tell people that he had that faraway look in his eye the day that they met, even though he was three months old. 

(That’s another story he finds himself daydreaming about chasing. Finding out who his biological parents were. Why they didn’t want him.)

But those were thoughts for another time. Because there was a reporter back on the Kent farm again, and Clark needed to focus on that. This wasn’t the classy woman with her wedge shoes and her big pearl earrings from his childhood. This was a young man, dark headed and dark eyed, wearing a flannel shirt and work boots. (He’d have an easier time getting around the farm than Ms. Lane did.)

The one thing they did have in common was the bright light of curiosity in their eyes. 

“Farm fresh is one of those things you see written all over packages in the grocery store, right? They say that it’s farm fresh butter, or farm fresh cheese, and that’s almost never the case.” Clark has been practicing his little speech since he first got the email from Mr. Stilinski about wanting to come to the farm and interview him.

It’s going pretty good, if Clark can say so himself. 

“But farm to table? That’s exactly what the name implies. We work with local businesses to get them fresh produce, fresh dairy, and even fresh meat at certain times of the year.” Clark had thought about going into the logistics of meat production in a small scale business, but that kind of stuff probably wasn’t palatable. No one really wanted to know where their beef, chicken or duck was coming from. 

So he would keep to the easier things. Harvesting vegetables and fruit, and milking the cows. Everyone always got a kick out of milking the cows. 

“And I think that’s something to take pride in. Not that there’s anything wrong with mass produced food, everyone needs to eat.” There was a lot wrong with mass produced food, especially meat. Carbon emissions were a problem, as well as the discarding of less than attractive looking fruit and vegetables. But this wasn’t Clark’s pulpit. This was about the farm. 

“I like being able to walk down the street and know that what we’re doing here at the farm is nourishing people. And that it’s making them happy, too.” Clark looks over at Mr. Stilinski, who’s told him twice now to call him Stiles, but he can’t stop him from thinking about him as Mr. Stilinski, and grins. 

“We’ve come a long way from parents just slopping veggies out of a can and onto a plate.” Not that his mom ever did that. Martha Kent wasn’t a fancy cook, but she was a good one. She knew how to make the most out of what they pulled out of the ground at the farm. A little homemade butter and some herbs went a long way when it came to green beans. 

Stiles is taking notes on his phone, Clark can see his thumbs flying. That itching urge to check the screen over the top of his shoulder is there, but Clark squashes it down. It wouldn’t be polite. 

It also wouldn’t be polite to let Stiles walk into that cow patty that was right in front of him. They were crossing the pasture because it was the fastest way to get from the barn out to the fields. But it was a mine field out here, and Mr. Stilinski was about to step into one stinky mine. 

“Watch out.” But Stiles was still lifting a foot. Clark reaches out to grab slim shoulders in his hand, turning Stiles just about fifteen degrees to the left so that he bypasses the cow patty and can walk on. “Sorry. Didn’t want you to get your shoes dirty.”

Clark waits, a beat of silence as those big dark eyes zero in on him. “Dirtier. Because you’re in the dirt already. And that’s dirty. So…” Great. He sounded like an idiot. But Clark couldn’t help it. Those were the prettiest brown eyes he’d ever seen. 

Not that he was going to say or do anything about it. Clark spent enough time as a kid watching men hit on his mother when she was just trying to get her work done. That wasn’t how you showed interest in somebody. Clark was just going to let the man do his job and keep that appreciation to himself.

But Stiles just grins right back at him, and Clark breathes out a sigh of relief. “We could go into the paddock, if you wanted to see them up close and personal.” Not an improvement, Kent. “The cows. Not the cow patties. You don’t want to see them close up.”

Before he can say anything else dumb, Clark shifts away from the path towards the fields. They could go look at rows of carrots and potatoes after this. The cows were more fun, and they always appreciated the company. 

(There was more than one reason they only slaughtered once a year. Clark had a bad habit of getting attached to the cows and the pigs and ducks and chickens.)

The cows are already milling near the front of the paddock. They’re not used to being penned up during the day, so they’re curious about the change. “Alright guys, make a little room, make a little room.” Clark’s voice is soft with amusement as he nudges his way into the paddock, shoulder brushing against Stiles as he reaches behind him to shut the paddock gate behind them both. 

If they got loose now, there would be no rounding them up before nightfall. And that meant he’d put a heck of a kink in this whole interview plan. 

“I don’t know how much you’ve been around cows…” Clark tries not to assume things about people. Of course, the first time he laid eyes on Stiles, his thoughts wouldn’t have gone to reporter. So he’s not going to make any assumptions here. “But they’re pretty much like big, laid back labradors.”

Case in point, Krypto, a big old white lab who hadn’t made his way off of the porch at all when Stiles showed up. Clark had mumbled ‘some guard dog you are’ and gotten a wag of the tail for his trouble. 

“They’re curious. They’ll want to smell you.” Clark laughs as he’s jostled to the side and has to shift his stance a little wider to make room for him to stand without getting knocked over. “And they don’t realize how much they weigh. So they’ll bump into you, thinking you’re just another cow and you’ll brush it off.”

Clark reaches out, scratching behind a big ear. “This is Bessie.” He sees the look from Stiles, and laughs. “Yeah, I know. I’m not the most creative guy these days. I used that all up on Krypto.” He gestures back towards the big farm house, and the wrap around porch where his white lab was currently sunning himself, belly turned up towards the streaming sunlight.

“Bessie is one of our dairy cows. She makes the milk, which helps us make the butter and cheese.” There’s a big nose pushing into his stomach, and Clark reaches out absently to keep one of the other cows from knocking Stiles over, a big palm against his back. 

“Sorry. They mean well. They’re just…” Clark laughs. “Fat isn’t the nicest word I can think of, but it’s the only one coming to mind right about now.”

Clark chews on his lip for a minute, and tries to remember where he’s at in his bullet points for this interview. It’s long gone, because he didn’t even plan to bring Stiles over here with the cows to begin with. 

But it’s feeling nice and worth it because Stiles is smiling down at the two cows who have bunched up in front of him. Clark watches as the reporter scratches behind ears and under chins, cooing sweet nonsense to the cows that were eating up the attention. 

“We do a lot less meat sales these days.” Clark admits sheepishly. “I don’t have the heart for it. I was lucky when I was a kid that my dad never made me help when it came time for culling the herd. I got to stay inside. So now that he’s retired, I only really sell meat in special circumstances.”

Even the chickens and the ducks were too sweet for Clark to butcher them. It just wasn’t in his nature. His dad liked to call him a soft touch. Clark is pretty sure that’s just the polite word for ‘pansy’ that his dad chose. 

“We also have a small amount of rescue animals.” Clark cranes his neck, looking around at the milling cows to try and find who he was looking for. There’s a soft ‘aha’ and Clark points to the back. “That’s Petunia. She was abandoned when another farmer closed up shop. When we found her, she was all skin and bones.”

And Clark had spent more than a few nights in the barn with her, trying to get her to eat and feel better. Thankfully, the winters didn’t get too cold here, but there was at least one night that Clark slept under a blanket in the pen with her, until she was well enough to join the herd. 

“We’ve got a duck named Popcorn who my mom found in a parking lot.” He shakes his head, warm and fond. “Little guy flew right into her open truck window and sat down. He was ready to go. So Mom said it was meant to be.” 

Stiles is watching him again, though his fingers are still scratching absently at whichever cow was near enough to be under his fingers. “So you’re not the only one around here who’s adopted.”

It’s not a question, and Clark is caught off guard by the words. Stiles must have read the other article on the farm, even though it was probably printed before he was born. That was the only way Clark can think of that he would know that Clark was adopted. 

“Yeah.” Clark agrees softly after a moment of thought. He nods, and feels the words really settle into him. “Yeah, we’re big on adoption around here.” For a moment, Stiles looks like he’s thinking about apologizing. But he smiles when Clark smiles. 

“And since you’re here, why don’t you go ahead and help me get everyone fed? That way you get a feel for what a day in the life on the Kent farm is really like.”

[lynnafred]

Farming, Food Shortages, and Rationing

A Very Special Edition of Your Fictional Farm is Wrong

When I was in uni, I took a class on global food systems. In one of the classes, someone asked about food shortages. The professor fell silent; she looked from person to person and asked, “Well, if there was a food shortage, what would you do as a food producer to combat it?”

At the time, I was confident in my answer. “Ration it. Try to ensure that everyone gets a fair share.”

As the conversation went on, a guy on the other side of the room huffed. “Whatever. This is America, we throw something like 40% of our food away, we’re never going to run out of food here.”

“Until the day we do,” a girl sitting next to me said.

Until the day we do.

Today was a hard day at work in the midst of a very uncertain time. Typically, we get between 5-10 orders for pickup a weekend. This weekend, we have over 30. It was a number we were completely unprepared for, with no additional marketing, social media presence, or advertising on our part.

But word of mouth is a strong factor, isn’t it? A happy customer talks about us to friends and family, and they slip that info into their back pocket for when they need something. And as grocery stores and stores like Walmart and Target run out of fresh and frozen produce, people turn to that info they’d had hidden away.

I watched as orders trickled in all week, taking note of what was coming in and in what amounts. Everything seemed normal. It wasn’t until Thursday when all hell broke loose, and before I could edit or alter the information on our website, people had ordered en masse. As I perused the orders, jotted them all down, I started to sweat.

I wasn’t going to have enough produce to fill every order, and no amount of luck could help me now.

So what do you do then? How do you take a fiasco and attempt to be fair, honest, and transparent to all of your customers?

How do you deal with a food shortage, as a small business and as a small farm?

Today, I started with the things I knew I wasn’t going to run out of: apples and an inventory of frozen fruit. With over a dozen apple varieties in cold storage, I knew what I had and what I could substitute to keep people happy. The root cellar was my next big task, and where everything started to get thorny.

The picture on the top is how many pounds of yellow cippolini and red cippolini onions I needed. The one on the bottom is a picture on the scale of how many yellow cippolini onions I actually had. So, how do you make this equal and even? Do you go by who ordered first? Do you use them for your regular and most loyal customers?

I did neither. Instead, I used rationing tactics, and calculated out how many pounds of onions each customer could get to keep things even. With 6.75 pounds of onions, that meant that each pound would be reduced to just a quarter pound each. The rest would have to be made up with something else.

So, each one pound order would have to receive a quarter pound of yellow onions, and three quarters of a pound of red. Two pound orders would get a half pound of onions, and so forth. But first, I also had to check and make sure that I had enough red onions to get me through. I had to weigh two different containers because I maxed out my scale.

Fuck.

So, I had to rearrange again. The last two orders of yellow onions ended up getting their allotted quarter pound, and was supplemented with the last of the red round onions, which thankfully hadn’t been ordered by anyone else this week. While certainly not ideal, it’s something that can be explained and—if I’m lucky—will be understood by our customers.

Storage items are a finite resource. You can’t just conjure more onions in March in Connecticut. Just like you can’t conjure more potatoes or winter squash. You have what you have, and you have to make due. Limited runs of fresh items are just as tricky.

On the top is a scale showing how much baby kale mix I harvested. It’s the last of the baby kale for the season. What’s there is there and there’s no more of it when it’s gone. It’s another item that didn’t start getting ordered until the one day that no one had the opportunity to watch the orders roll in. On the bottom, that’s how many half pound bags of it I need to fulfill my orders. I have just five pounds of kale, and I need seven. That’s not something that I can substitute out for something else. There’s no rationing this to make it even.

People know when they order that I can sub something out if I need to, and that most items are on a first-come, first-served basis, but I pride myself as a grower and a salesperson that I don’t have to rely on that often. But tomorrow, when people come to get their orders, I’m going to have to look at two customers and say, “I had a shortage of baby kale this week and can’t fulfill that for you. I can offer you these as replacements, but I can’t offer you this.”

And as a grower, that’s hard. And in times as uncertain as what we’re living, it’s terrifying. It’s terrifying as a customer to be told by a grower that they’re fast running out of stock.

This weekend has wiped me out of potatoes, onions, kale, winter squash, and sweet potatoes. Just about the only things I have left to sell are apples, frozen berries, and spinach.

I am not in danger of running out of spinach.

But it’s stressful for a grower to have to juggle stock around to accommodate everyone. It’s scary for a consumer to run out of options for places to buy from. How do we make that judgement call to ration out resources with a clear conscience? (Hint: we do not, it’s not that easy, and I was naïve to think that in university.)

Times right now are uncertain, and they are stressful. As growers, we know. As growers, we’re struggling to meet demand and take care of our community the way our community takes care of us. But we need you to be patient with us as we adjust to new levels of demand, as we try our hardest to get you exactly what you need.