#truth and method

[ieidolon]

"Play fulfills its purpose only if the player loses himself in play. Seriousness is not merely something that calls us away from play; rather, seriousness in playing is necessary to make the play wholly play. Someone who doesn't take the game seriously is a spoilsport."

- Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method (1975), Chapter 2

[publicatiosui]

The fundamental prejudice of the Enlightenment is the prejudice against prejudice itself, which denies tradition its power.

-- Gadamer, Truth and Method

Not sure what I was expecting to find in here, but it wasn't this.

[ionlydrinkhotwater]

OK but I really love how unhinged Neil comes off in other people's POV cause looking back at the first three novels he was so damn weird

Take what happened in Colombia

Imagine what Andrew was thinking

Holy crap this binder WTF?!?! OK he's sus as hell I've gotta test him, I'm gonna mess with the tags when I refold his clothes but like...I doubt even he's THAT crazy

*Neil barges in and starts shouting in FRENCH*

OK so he IS that crazy (and French?!)

OK I'm gonna spike his drink and get some answers in a minute just gonna leave him with Aaron and Nicky for a sec while I satisfy my Gay panic this runaway has inspired in me with Roland and then I'll just...WTF DID HE JUST PAY A GUY TO KNOCK HIM OUT?!

OK I'm gonna pick up some breakfast and when I get back to the house I can interrogate the....OK ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME THIS DUBIOUS TWINK CRAWLED OUT OF THE BATHROOM WINDOW?!

OK so he's not around let's get back to Palmetto he probably got a ride from one of the upperclassmen

OK he didn't...did he run away? I guess that makes some sens... OK wait he HITCHHIKED?! THE FUCK?!

OK THIS ASSHOLE SPEAKS GERMAN TOO?!

OK he's on the run from the mob...there are a lot of holes in this story but at this point I'm gonna take his word for it that he's isn't a danger to my people cause I don't have the energy to continue to pursue this anymore. This fucking guy is more unhinged than what I was prepared to deal with this weekend.

[so-true-overdue]

Vaccines: The Unsung Heroes of Modern Medicine

Imagine a world where smallpox still reigned supreme, where polio paralyzed thousands annually, and where measles was a rite of passage, sometimes fatal. Yet, here we are, in a world where vaccines have valiantly vanquished these threats.

The paramountcy of vaccines in the annals of medical triumphs cannot be overstated. They are the quintessence of human ingenuity, a testament to our ability to combat nature's most insidious adversaries. Through the meticulous administration of vaccines, we have consigned diseases like smallpox to the historical archives and reduced the scourge of polio to a mere whisper in the annals of modern afflictions.

Statistically, the efficacy of vaccines is irrefutable. The World Health Organization estimates that vaccines prevent 2-3 million deaths annually. Consider the measles vaccine: a marvel of medical science that has reduced global measles deaths by 73% between 2000 and 2018. Similarly, the introduction of the polio vaccine has brought the incidence of polio down by 99%, from 350,000 cases in 1988 to just 33 reported cases in 2018.

Yet, amidst this triumph, there exists a cacophony of dissent. The sanctimonious detractors, draped in the garb of skepticism, pontificate about the perils of vaccination. They brandish anecdotes of adverse reactions as if they were incontrovertible evidence, ignoring the overwhelming preponderance of scientific data. Yes, vaccines, like all medical interventions, are not devoid of risks. However, the incidence of serious adverse reactions is exceedingly rare. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention notes that severe allergic reactions occur in about 1 in a million doses of vaccines. To put this in perspective, the likelihood of being struck by lightning in any given year is approximately 1 in 500,000—twice as likely as experiencing a severe vaccine reaction.

The irony is palpable. The very individuals who eschew vaccines on the grounds of potential harm are often the beneficiaries of the herd immunity afforded by the vaccinated majority. Their sanctimony is not only misplaced but perilously undermines public health efforts. The resurgence of measles in recent years, driven by declining vaccination rates, is a stark reminder of the consequences of such misguided dogma.

In conclusion, vaccines are the silent sentinels, safeguarding humanity against the ravages of infectious diseases. Their unparalleled efficacy, coupled with an exceptionally low incidence of adverse reactions, renders the anti-vaccine rhetoric not only scientifically unfounded but also morally untenable. The sanctimonious naysayers, in their misguided zeal, imperil the very fabric of our collective health. Let us, therefore, celebrate vaccines for what they truly are: the unsung heroes of modern medicine.

[kick-the-clouds]

The planet is burning.

The evidence is undeniable. From record-breaking heatwaves to catastrophic floods, human-caused climate change is ravaging our planet, and we are all witnesses. The science is clear: our addiction to fossil fuels, deforestation, and relentless pollution is driving this destruction. Our one-of-a-kind, life-sustaining environment is under siege, and the clock is ticking.

This isn’t a distant problem. It’s here. It’s now. The melting glaciers, dying coral reefs, and burning forests are not just statistics—they are the dying breath of our Earth. We are losing more than just land; we are losing our home.

This isn't just about the environment; it's about survival. We are all part of this intricate web of life, and when we disrupt it, we face the consequences. The Byzantine complexities of our ecosystems, perfected over millions of years, are unraveling before our eyes.

The truth is harsh, but it's not too late. We still have the power to change course, to protect our planet, and to secure a future where our children can thrive. But we must act now. The science demands it, our survival depends on it, and the Earth—our only home—deserves it.

The time for action is now. Let’s not be the generation that witnessed the destruction of our world and did nothing.

[thatswhatsushesaid]

shitpost dispatches from nightless city - incorrect but plausibly canon quotes edition

[the-woman-upstairs]

It’s just…so painful to watch Armand readily submit in order to obtain the love he so desperately craves. And while it’s most assuredly a manipulative tactic, it’s still one borne out of fear and desperation. He cannot lose this person he’s come to love and so will become whatever they want, do whatever they want just so they’ll stay with him. But it won’t be enough. No matter how much he acquiesces or seeks to control (himself, others, the environment), he won’t be able to make Louis stay with him in the perfect life, perfect self he built in the hopes of finally being loved. It will all crumble with Armand left alone in the rubble of what he created, the author of his own abandonment.

[completeoveranalysis]

[2]

I personally love that Yuuko doesn’t even ask why and agrees before he even gets the chance to explain. For many reasons, but in particular because of Watanuki’s growing aptitude for solving these cases by himself, following his own intuition, and coming up with ideas that Yuuko didn’t prompt him with. It’s all very encouraging for events THAT MAY OR MAY NOT BE HAPPENING SOON in which Watanuki won’t have her guidance forever. 

But if we’re lucky that’ll still be a while away and we can enjoy Yuuko the maximum possible amount. We’re in the last 20% of the manga now so who knows maybe we can hold out even longer?

10/10 love the change in Watanuki’s expression as he mentions the plans he has in store. Surely this will be >:) a normal lesson

[katerinaaqu]

Okay now I cannot stop myself imagining what if these three went on a crazy cruise together?!

Like who would rule the ship? Who would be captain? What would the others do? What crazy adventures would they encounter? Would they talk of their wives/lovers non-stop over drinks? Would they kill everyone one sarcastic comment at a time?!

Like this is the team BBUM (aka Big Brains Unorthodox Methods)

These guys are basically both geniuses and silly potatoes at the same time! You love to hate them and you hate to love them and you follow their every adventures! Incorregible bastards and sweet souls in one package!

Disney, Dreamorks and Greek Mythology, the monster giants of epicness and iconic characters in one hell of a crossover!

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

Chapter 23

ohhh baby we back in it now

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

byakuya pov finally

bonus headcanon coming into play here: byakuya being Wasian

shoutout @digitaldollsworld for helping me conceptualize byakuya's mom! both of us are Sick about her

Content warning tags: wall-punching, grieving/mourning, unreality (dreaming)

< previous - from start - next >

There’s a woman standing in his office.

Byakuya stands behind the cracked-open doorway, peeking through - though, part of him does rile up with the indignity of having to spy into his own office - at the intruder, standing in front of his desk, back facing the door.

He can’t see her face. But he can see her flax-yellow hair, tied back with a wrinkled, silken scarf that’s probably the most expensive thing she’s wearing. Her cotton jumpsuit is so stained and faded that hardly any of the original blue is still there. Her canvas shoes are discolored with mud.

She would look more out of place, if the shabbiness of her hadn’t seeped into her surroundings. The carpet is splattered with crusted clay, and shards of stone stick out of the plush threads like thorns. The mahogany surface of his desk is creaking and bent under the weight of a large cube of fleshy, white marble, splintering under the lacquer.

As he watches, she lifts her bare hands - ugly, roughened, thickly muscled fingers, nails cracked and filthy - like a conductor before an orchestra. She pauses, head tilted like a bird, thinking, and Byakuya inexplicably finds himself holding his breath; and then, she places her palms against the stone.

The surface of it warps and distends beneath her touch, first like a swollen balloon, and then like clay, twisting and following her hands like a swimming fish. And he watches, fascinated despite himself, as she bends and shapes it, twisting pieces off, smoothing edges down. She pinches out a piece in the middle for a nose, smoothes down a sharp edge for a sloping curve of a cheek, flicks her nail sharply beneath the brow to pull out a crease for an eyelid.

It’s magic. In seemingly no time at all, there on his desk is a bust; the head of a man brought to life, caught in a soft, gentle expression. The sculptor pauses, and steps backwards to take in her work.

There’s something reverent about it, and Byakuya suddenly has the feeling that he’s witnessing something not meant for him to see.

But he creaks the door open slightly more to get a better look, finding it strange how he was more curious than angry, even despite the intrusion. As he approaches, the bust’s eyes suddenly flick towards him, and immediately the serenity is replaced by a solemn, pinched brow, the smile replaced by a severe slash of a frown. And Byaukuya realizes he recognizes this face.

The marble-wrought head of Kijo Togami is sitting on his desk, scowling at him.

“Byakuya?”

He turns to the woman. She’s facing him now, though she has no face to speak of - it is blurred and unfocused, like a distant background character of an impressionist oil painting, the features mere shifting smears against a flat plane - but he knows her. He knows her.

“Byakuya,” She repeats, the syllables awkward on her tongue. She’s speaking French, and she sounds distant. Muted, underwater. But her voice still has the same, oddly musical quality to it that he remembers, making everything she said sound like a lullaby. “Bijou. Did I not tell you to stay out of my studio?”

Her studio?

“This is my office.” He protests back. He can’t tell if he’s speaking Japanese or not; every word feels clumsy and foreign, like he’s just learned how to talk. “What are you doing here, Mother?”

She just sighs. Shakes her head, her featureless face. There’s no anger in it, no loving exasperation either; just a neutral disapproval of his presence. His unwanted existence in her space. “Bijou,” She says again, and the nickname irritates him. A sweet-sounding endearment that was ultimately empty, a placeholder for her to refer to him by, because his own name was too clumsy to speak with her accent. “When did you become so grown? When will you stop being so cold?”

The stone Kijo Togami is still frowning at him. In this instant, both the man he calls ‘Father’ and the woman who had birthed him - one painfully-detailed stone, the other indistinct flesh - stand before him. One silent and forever displeased, the other sweet but hollow-sounding and entirely uncaring that they shared any blood at all.

“How strange it is, that you look so much like me,” She sighs, raising a hand to his face. He flinches away from it, the sandpaper sharpness of her palms, the filth that stains the creases of her skin, the heat that comes off of it like a kiln. “And yet, you are so much like him.”

—

He wakes up with a gasp, eyes snapping open.

He’s greeted with the pitch darkness of his ceiling, cut through with a thin slash of white from his bathroom light, streaming through the cracked-open door. A reminder he had taken to preparing for himself before he went to bed, that his eyes were still there, and he sighs and presses a palm to his chest as he stares up at it. Feeling his heart pounding beneath his fingertips, then slowing, in time with his breaths.

A dream. He can’t remember the last time he dreamed so vividly, but he had been subjected to some unpleasantly…shocking events the last few days (he won’t call them traumatic, he’s witnessed far worse in his life). The details of the dream are already slipping away as he tries to recall it, like sand between his fingers. It’s hardly important.

He lies in bed a moment longer, trying to see if sleep will come, but even with the adrenaline fading he’s wide-awake. Annoying, but not surprising, considering how he had spent much of the day before napping in short, fitful bursts. He pushes himself upright, reaching under his pillow for his handbook; may as well make use of the time.

The clock on his handbook reads: three AM. His neglected stomach gurgles as he squints at the dim glow of the screen, and he sighs. He hasn’t eaten since Celeste’s little tea party the day before, and he might as well go to the kitchen now. There likely wouldn’t be anyone wandering around to disturb him. And with Ishimaru gone, there was no one left to seriously uphold the nightly curfew; he drags himself out of bed with a grunt, grabbing his bathrobe off the end of his bedpost as he goes.

He’s not expecting the trap that he finds when he opens the door, however. The first step he takes past the threshold is accompanied by a loud, startling crunch, and he jumps backwards, just barely stifling a shriek. He throws his hand against the light switch, digging it into his palm as he flicks in on, and at once the yellow glow streaming from his room illuminates the something round, brown, and somewhat deflated sitting in the hallway.

For a moment, he thinks it's some kind of rodent, dead and trodden under his foot. But closer inspection reveals it to be packaged bread, only slightly crushed in its plastic wrapper. There’s no note, but he can guess who the offering is from.

He sighs, picks it up by the corner, and tosses it behind him towards his trash can as he leaves.

The hallways are dim, and almost silent if not for the dull hum of the school’s inner machinery. The whoosh of air conditioning, the muffled clang of pipes. None of the construction that Hagakure had reported days ago, not even when he strains his ears.

But he does catch the quiet murmur of conversation as he passes the bathhouse, and he pauses, staring at the light that streams from behind the curtain, the quick-flicker of shadows moving from inside.

“It wasn’t your fault!”

He freezes, standing just outside. That was Chihiro’s - no, Alter Ego’s - voice. 

“I know Master wouldn’t resent you.” It continues, earnest and bright. “And based on my data…I don’t think Kiyotaka would blame you either!”

“But it was my fault,” Mondo’s voice is strained and hollow, grieving still. “If I hadn’t left them alone - if I’d tried to just talk to him -”

Byakuya shifts slightly. He doesn’t want to be here, to have to witness Mondo’s continued breakdown. He still hasn’t forgiven the other boy, but having to see him stuck in the depths of misery was…unpleasant. And he’s not so petty to want retribution while the target of his ire was in such a state.

He tiptoes past, giving the bathhouse entrance a wide berth. From inside, he hears more indistinct voices, one low and gravelly from crying, the other electronic and gentle. And then-

“Brother, what are you looking so down for?” This one was new, but chillingly familiar. Loud and overeager and belonging to someone who was supposed to be dead. “You-”

Crash.

The sound of crunching metal. In the quiet of the hallway, it’s as loud as an explosion, and it makes Byakuya jump. Before he can reconsider, he’s sprinting into the bathhouse, throwing aside the curtain.

It takes him a moment to process what he’s seeing. Owada is standing, partly-hunched, one hand punching against the wall of lockers hard enough to warp the thin metal door. Someone is standing beneath him hands raised in self-defense - it takes Byakuya a moment to recognize that it’s Makoto, dressed in the white and dark blue of his pajamas, lacking the signature green of his jacket - and from somewhere behind Makoto, there’s a dim, neon-green glow, and a confused, worried voice.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-!” 

“Don’t do that,” Owada snarls, drowning out Alter Ego’s stuttered apology. The locker door rattles where his fist is pressed into it. “Don’t just- wear his face, don’t you dare-”

“M-Mondo, it didn’t mean to! It was just trying-” Makoto breaks off, apparently noticing Byakuya. “B-Byakuya-?!”

Byakuya was immediately beginning to regret his decision to involve himself in the first place. “What is going on here?” He demands, crossing his arms and glaring imperiously.

Instead of replying, Owada pulls away, withdrawing his hand and retreating to slump over on the bench, despondent and unresponsive once more. Makoto twitches, turning between Owada, then Alter Ego, and back to Byakuya. “Um…”

“It’s not their fault!” Alter Ego pipes up hurriedly, its voice echoing tinnily from inside its locker, and Byakuya could feel a corresponding vibration from the handbook tucked in his shirt pocket. “It seems Mondo wanted to ask me a question, and Makoto was just helping to convey that-”

“I don’t care.” He snaps, and Alter Ego falls silent. “Neither of them are supposed to be here in the first place, and especially not after hours. Are the two of you trying to draw Monokuma’s suspicion? Endanger Alter Ego?” Makoto flinches a bit at that. Owada doesn’t even move. “Don’t you care about getting out of here at all?”

He’s not really expecting a reply, so he’s surprised when Owada speaks up. “ ‘Course not.” He rasps, so low and hollow that it was like he was speaking from the depths of a pit. Or maybe he was the pit, swelling with black-matter misery. “I…don’t care about anything anymore.”

Well. That’s to be expected. But even despite that, he finds himself a bit rattled. He’s been at the receiving end of anger, venom, screaming anguish and even vehement hate at this point. But this emptiness Owada is exhibiting was new; It seems like this school is insistent on teaching me new things, he thinks, and feels his lip curling up with the bitter irony.

“So you’re content to waste away? Throw away that anger that you were so proud of?” He raises a scathing eyebrow. “Go ahead and do that, then. I won’t stop you. But at the very least, spare the rest of us the dramatics of your little episode.”

“Byakuya!”

He twitches a bit, irritated. Makoto’s voice is shrill despite being hushed, and laced with anger; he’s standing stiffly next to Alter Ego’s open locker, hands trembling at his sides.

“What, Makoto.” He snaps, and only belatedly realizes that this was the first time he’s actually spoken to the other boy since the trial; in his irritation, he went and broke his own self-imposed vow of silence against him.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but doesn’t immediately shrink away either at the acidity of Byakuya’s tone. If anything he stands up a little straighter. “It’s only been a day since…you know.” He says, and his words are slow and careful, meticulously chosen. Like he’s in a trial again, trying to soothe skittish tempers - though Byakuya feels the exact opposite of ‘soothed’ by it - “Mondo asked to talk to Alter Ego. I went with him. It got a little heated-”

“A little? Is that what you call this?” He points at the locker next to his head; the one that Mondo had punched, the dent a clear, dark blotch of shadow in the middle of the flat green surface.

“That -” Makoto winces slightly. “We weren’t really expecting-”

“No, clearly not. And not thinking either, I imagine.”

“I-”

“I suppose safety and logic took second priority over trying to be helpful, hm? Since that’s all that’s important to you?” He’s not sure where these words are coming from, filled with acid. But it feels good to talk, to spit out every miserable thing that he’s feeling, that he’s felt because of Makoto. “You were so very kind to help me during that trial, after all.”

“Okay, that’s not-”

“That must be why you’re here now, I imagine. Sneaking out at this late hour past Kyoko, just so you could babysit this useless mess.” He sneers. “Did you decide to make Mondo your next pet project, trying to be his little assistant like you were mine?”

“Oh, for-” Makoto takes a deep breath, presses his hands to his eyes. “Can you shut the fuck up?! For one second?”

Whatever else Byakuya was about to say, dissipates like smoke out of his slack-jawed mouth. Even Owada seems to twitch up at this, the only sign of surprise he could give, compared to Byakuya’s shock.

Makoto is quiet for a few seconds, and the only sound is the quiet hum of pipes, and the sound of his breathing, shaky but slow. He pulls his hands away from his face after one more shuddering breath. “Okay. I’m okay now.” He says this part quietly, as if it were more for himself than anyone else. Then:

“It’s not fair,” He addresses Byakuya, and his voice is almost steady. “I’m trying my best, I’m trying to keep us all alive.”

“Yes, and you’re doing-”

“No! Shut up! Just listen!” He snaps, and Byakuya’s teeth click as he shuts his mouth, effectively cutting off the rest of his sarcastic remark. “Right now, the best thing we can do is to survive together. We’re just going to play into the mastermind’s hands if we can’t trust each other. Why doesn’t anyone get that?!”

His voice actually cracks on the last syllable, and he sounds close to hysterics. Byakuya simply stares, dumbfounded for a moment, before:

“...You’re going to say that? After what just happened?” It’s so ridiculous he could almost laugh. Trust? In this school, in this game? After everything that’s happened? “We all trusted Ishimaru. Where did that get us? Where did that get Chihiro?”

No sooner has that name left his mouth, does he try to bite it back. Feeling all at once mortified that he would stoop so low, that he would let himself be pushed to such a level. But it’s too late to take it back - at the sound of those names, Owada jerks again, and Makoto actually takes a step backwards, as if struck - so Byakuya keeps going. “This isn’t some-some fairy tale where everyone can learn to get along by talking about our feelings. None of us have any unity left - if even Ishimaru can snap, then there’s no telling who might strike next.”

“Stop,” Makoto grits out. “Taka - it was an accident. Just a stupid accident.” And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? That none of this was supposed to happen at all; if the coincidences hadn’t lined up terribly, horribly perfectly. “He didn’t mean for Chihiro to die!”

And Chihiro didn’t mean to get killed either. But he manages to swallow that thought, bitter and heavy in his throat. “His intentions didn’t change the outcome.” He says instead, cold and flat and utterly, completely empty.

Silence falls on the room. The lights buzz, the pipes hiss; the old, outdated screen of Alter Ego’s computer hums softly, contemplatively. There’s the muted, metallic thump of the water heater, somewhere inside the wall.

And then Owada speaks up.

“What should I do?” He asks hollowly. He’s looking up now, directly at him. His hair is limp, pompadour undone and falling over his face, obscuring it in streaks of dirty yellow. “I…they’re dead. I couldn’t-” He takes a slow, shuddering breath. “It was my fault. But I don’t know what to do.”

His words are pleading and genuine, as if Byakuya could give a proper answer; he hesitates, still uncertain of what to do with this…empty shell of a punk.

He glances towards Makoto, and then the dim green glow still emanating from the open locker. “Do you care what you do with your life at this point?”

“Byakuya…” Makoto starts warningly, but Owada interrupts him.

“No.”

“Then use it to protect Alter Ego.” If Owada has any sort of misgivings or protest about this, Byakuya ignores them. “That’s Chihiro’s last work, after all. It’s the least you can do to guard it.”

“Is…” Owada’s head turns towards the locker, then back. “Is that…okay?”

His hesitation is understandable. Even if Alter Ego was nothing more than a clever program, it did still wear the face of the boy who Owada’s friend inadvertently killed, and whose corpse Owada had tried to conceal. And that wasn’t even considering if Alter Ego would be cooperative in being protected by him, though there wasn’t much it could do about it.

But Alter Ego is the one who speaks up. “I hope we get along well, Mondo!” It chirps, a smile clear on its voice. And Mondo simply stares for a moment, before burying his face in his palms, and begins to cry.

__

“Are you going back to your room?”

He stops, and turns. They’ve left the bathhouse, Mondo departing first after sobbing his eyes out, and Makoto insisting he go rest in his room - though he probably would’ve ended up staying in the bathhouse all night if he could’ve gotten away with it - and Byakuya, having ended up spending an hour more than he wanted to dealing with it all, is tired once more..

“Where else would I be going?” He scoffs. Makoto is standing just in front of the bahthouse curtains, his face entirely concealed by shadow.

“I…” He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I noticed you didn’t really…eat a proper meal yesterday. I could go make you something?”

It’s tempting, for a moment. Byakuya clenches a hand in his robe, pressed against his stomach to stifle any unwarranted growls. “No.” He says firmly. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Oh…are you sure? Because-”

“Makoto.” He falls silent. “I told you that there’s no need for us to uphold the deal we made. Your assistance is no longer needed.”

“...But, this isn’t because of the deal, I just-”

“I’m not so low that I’d need charity from you.”

He goes quiet again. Quiet and still, and there’s something off-putting about how he looks. Outlined by the yellow lights of the bathhouse but otherwise completely in darkness, his silhouette sharpened without his jacket. “...Is it really that hard, trusting someone?”

For as angry as he’d been in the bathhouse, now he’s more like his usual self. Quieter, and unsure. The one person out of place in this school, designated unremarkable and then made remarkable because of that.

An unremarkable life. No wonder he couldn’t understand.

“You’ve never had to worry about it before,” He says. “I imagine your life is like a sheep’s. Completely oblivious to the danger around you, as long as you stay inside the fence.

“But the world isn’t as kind as you think it is. And people can always be swayed, no matter how much you trust them, or how much you think they trust you.” He’s seen it happen. He’s exploited it himself, even. “At this point, it would be safest to stop associating with anyone. If you had any brains at all, you would do the same.”

Makoto lets out a sigh that’s almost a laugh, though it’s bitter and mirthless. “Kyoko said the same thing,” He mutters, half to himself. “So you won’t feel safe unless you’re alone? Even though there’s only ten of us left?” He shakes his head, and the motion is a little dizzying, the messy shape of his hair blurring into a dark mass. “How many more people need to die for you to feel safe?”

He sounds angry again, but it’s a colder kind of anger. Resentful and resigned. When did you become so cold?

“...I won’t be safe until I’m out of here.” Byakuya replies steadily, though the hand clenched in his robe tightens slightly. “Even if I could keep everyone in my sight, it’s not like it’d be easy to tell if they were holding a weapon.”

Silently, he adds: And thanks to you, they know that as well.

Makoto doesn’t say anything in reply, so Byakuya leaves. Quickly, in case his stomach threatens to grumble again; his hand doesn’t leave his robe until he’s safely inside his room, door locked behind him.

He almost treads on the bread again, stepping on a corner of the packaging and jumping at the sharp, crinkling sound. It takes a little bit of fumbling in the dark until he finds it, squeezing it through the plastic.

He’s tempted, for a moment, his fingers already searching for the serrated edge to tear it open. But the image of Makoto standing at the bathhouse entrance jumps to his mind; still and shrouded in darkness. A strange, statuesque parody of his usual self.

He throws the bread across the room and climbs back into bed.

< previous - from start - next >

[daily-hanamura]

[churchofnix]

In the beginning, there was confusion.

Nonplus, a state of perplexity, reigned supreme. Minds were clouded, direction lost, and clarity elusive. The world was a puzzle, each piece demanding a place that was not yet known. In this sea of bewilderment, a beacon of hope emerged: the Scientific Method.

Born from the need to understand, the Scientific Method became the guiding light. It did not promise easy answers, but it offered a path. A path paved with curiosity, questions, and the relentless pursuit of truth.

The method began with observation. It taught us to see, really see, the world around us. To notice patterns, to recognize anomalies. From these observations, questions would arise, born from the depths of nonplus. What is this? Why does it happen? How can we explain it?

Hypotheses followed, bold yet humble guesses. These were not final answers but starting points. Each hypothesis was a thread, inviting us to pull and see where it led. And so, we tested. Through experiments, we played with variables, watched outcomes, and gathered data. The process was slow, meticulous, and often frustrating. Yet, it was the only way forward.

Analysis came next, where the gathered data was sifted and scrutinized. Patterns emerged, insights surfaced, and slowly, pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Conclusions were drawn, but they were not the end. They were merely another step on the endless journey of discovery.

Through this disciplined dance of observation, hypothesis, experimentation, and analysis, nonplus was tamed. Confusion gave way to understanding, and chaos to order. The Scientific Method became our compass, guiding us through the murky waters of the unknown.

In the temple of knowledge, the Scientific Method stands tall. It reminds us that in the face of confusion, there is a way. A way to seek, to learn, and to grow. A way to transform nonplus into enlightenment.

Thus, in the spirit of inquiry and the pursuit of truth, let us honor the Scientific Method. For it is our shield against the shadows of doubt and our sword in the quest for knowledge.

[so-true-overdue]

The Planet is Totally Fine. It's Just Us Who Aren't.

Of course, the planet is fine. It's been through worse, right? Ice ages, meteor strikes, volcanic tantrums—Earth is basically a tough old rock with a knack for surviving whatever the universe throws at it. But let’s talk about the real problem: us.

You see, human-caused climate change is just a minor inconvenience for Earth. It's not like we're boiling the oceans, melting ice caps, or turning lush forests into deserts. Oh, wait—yes, we are. Funny how that works.

But don’t worry, the Earth will bounce back. Sure, it might take a few million years, but what's that compared to our short, fleeting existence? We, on the other hand, might not be so lucky. Our cozy, predictable climate—perfect for growing food, building cities, and basically thriving—is slowly being warped into something unrecognizable.

And who’s responsible for this lovely transformation? Oh, just our collective genius for burning fossil fuels, clear-cutting forests, and generally treating the atmosphere like our personal trash can. But hey, at least we’ve made some progress. Who needs polar bears, coral reefs, or, you know, breathable air? We’ve got air conditioning and desalination plants. Problem solved.

So let’s be clear: the Earth will survive our little experiment with carbon emissions. It’s just us, and maybe a few million other species, who might not. But that’s fine. If the dinosaurs didn’t complain about extinction, why should we?

[omegaphilosophia]

The Philosophy of Truth Seeking

The philosophy of truth seeking involves the rigorous and systematic pursuit of truth and understanding across various domains of knowledge. It encompasses the methodologies, ethical considerations, and intellectual virtues necessary for discerning what is true from what is false. This philosophy is fundamental to disciplines such as epistemology, science, and ethics, and it plays a crucial role in how individuals and societies form beliefs, make decisions, and establish values.

At its core, truth seeking is driven by the belief that truth is valuable and worth pursuing for its own sake, as well as for its practical benefits. Philosophers have long debated the nature of truth, the methods by which it can be discovered, and the criteria for determining its validity. Some key aspects of the philosophy of truth seeking include:

Epistemology: The study of knowledge and justified belief. It explores the nature, scope, and limits of human knowledge, as well as the methods for acquiring and validating it.

Scientific Method: A systematic approach to inquiry that relies on observation, experimentation, and empirical evidence to develop and test hypotheses about the natural world.

Intellectual Virtues: Traits such as open-mindedness, intellectual humility, critical thinking, and perseverance that are essential for effective truth seeking.

Ethical Considerations: The moral responsibilities associated with seeking and disseminating truth, including honesty, integrity, and respect for evidence.

Truth seeking is not just an individual endeavor but also a collective one. It involves the collaborative efforts of communities of scholars, scientists, and thinkers who build upon each other's work, challenge each other's assumptions, and refine their methods over time. In this way, the philosophy of truth seeking underpins the progress of human knowledge and the advancement of society.

[electrosquash]

god forbid people who know about their empathy issues tackle it in a methodic way instead of just flipping the switch on duhhh

[rizardofether]

I got an idea for one of those talk about your characters prompts:

How would your Commander/other GW2 characters react to being stuck in a time loop?