#we’re just machines built for the betterment of children right???

[eggs-love-loki]

I was looking for a professional development course to start working on today and signed up for one called “Comprehensive Mental Health for Teachers” thinking it was a PD on taking care of your mental health as an educator… it’s about the kids. And taking care of their mental health. Which is important! But. Not what I was looking for lol

[meowbomb]

Moon was always Vanny’s puppet.

dramatic title aside. The hw2 endings adds some context to things that were confusing in security breach and ruin. Specifically the daycare attendant.

(Fair warning: this might be a whole lot of stretches and really scuffed but hear me out and help wanted 2 spoilers. This was made for fun. Long post ahead)

In ruin, Cassie’s description of the sun and moon plush state things like “I never slept better than I did in the daycare” and “I used to have so much fun in the daycare” which are a bit different than what we’re initially presented with in the night terrors message in security breach.

Both of these differing statements are true. But it’s just when they take place. I think Cassie’s time in the daycare was before the glitchtrap virus stuff started going on. If it wasn’t happening at the time, Moon wouldn’t be acting up. The night terrors message was written during the time where Moon was infected with the virus, that’s why he’s scaring children to the point of making them afraid of the dark.

His default code wasn’t a problem. He wasn’t created to be evil. Moon was good until the virus took a hold and he starts following Vanny’s orders.

While yes, the glamrocks probably follow what Vanny asks. Moon specifically is the helper.

Handunit in hw 2 talks about the endos like they are children. They are built with mimicking technology and are taught by behaviour cards so they understand what’s expected from them in situations.

In Security breach the warehouse has doors with lessons for the endos. But looking around the place, it’s clear that all of these lessons were failed.

Why do they keep failing them? Because they believe the incorrect lesson is right.

The endo warehouse has so many things with Moon or relating to daycare. If endos are influenced by cards and lessons, what’s to say they aren’t influenced by Moon? If Vanny placed everything relating to him there, it’s because the endos should follow his lead, not exactly like the glamrocks. The glamrocks have behaviours and personalities that makes them well..them. Example Roxy will follow Vanny’s orders but she still takes the time to cry alone or how Chica will still binge on food.

With Moon, it’s not like that. Yes, glimpses of personality makes itself known like the cackling and clear annoyance with cleaning up. He has fun along the way but will still try to get the job done. He’s always tracked down Gregory’s location despite the kid being far from daycare.

In ruin, there’s endos in daycare because to them, it’s similar to the warehouse. They recognise Moon and if Vanny isn’t there to control things anymore, her head puppet is next best thing.

In the “final” endo warehouse lesson, there’s painted rabbit ears and an outline that can be glitchtrap.

Besides I think it’s very interesting the two notable characters who have beckoning animations at the player are glitchtrap and moon. They obviously aren’t the same person at all but it can be the virus in his code.

In hw2’s PQ4 ending Moon is the claw of the machine Vanny is playing. Vanny doesn’t get it herself, Moon is the one who gets it for her.

It’s almost like how Moon targets Freddy instead of Gregory. He has the perfect opportunity as Gregory is basically backed to a corner with Freddy being low on battery before this. He takes out Freddy for Vanessa to leave him immobile and without his head attached. Why go for Freddy? Because Freddy is Gregory’s only ally. Sure, Gregory could sneak but he’s alone and more vulnerable to the animatronics and Vanny getting him.

What does sun have to do with this?

Sun and Moon’s relationship early in the timeline is unknown. So we’ll have to go off on what the games give us.

I think Sun knows there’s something going on with Moon. It’s why he’s very insistent of lights being on. He doesn’t know if Moon will do something that will hurt someone or place them under risk of being decommissioned.

He can’t do anything to help himself or Moon because he’s stuck to daycare unlike Moon who has free access to leave. Thus their situation was always bound to get worse.

In arts and crafts: loft, Sun sits closely by a light under a fort. He insists you leave immediately after you’re done because he considers himself and Moon a threat to you and others. If the power in daycare is dwindling, he has no control over Moon coming out. Sun would rather stay abandoned and alone than risk it.

Ruin is where their situation reaches its peak. There’s no lights and Sun is a prisoner in his body. He’s stuck in ar world. Both he and Moon have lost it due to prolonged isolation. He pleads to be rebooted because it’s his and Moon’s only way to be at peace again. If they’re rebooted into safe mode, it cuts off Vanny’s control of them.

Sun and Moon’s situation parallels the Vanessa and Vanny thing. Moon is Sun’s Vanny. Moon and Vanny play with their prey and have red glowing eyes. Vanessa doesn’t like dark basements and wanted to follow instructions like how Sun doesn’t want the lights off and strictly follows rules.

I’m not saying they’re a one by one comparison. Both things are different here and there but still there is small things there.

Jack o moon and Balloon world

Notably, balloon world and Jack o moon are kinda similar. In balloon world, you have to follow the purple glitched path to get the goodnight from the eclipse in that game. In the Foxy log ride, you have to go through the alternate ar world path of the ride where you find Jack o moon.

It’s also interesting that in hw2 we play princess quest 4 but in security breach there’s messages of another person playing the games too. This person gets more and more fixated to where they’re begging to save the princess. Eventually their last message is in the loft next to balloon world.

It also should be noted that other arcade machine with balloon world in security breach is in Vanny’s other hideout in the Burntrap ending.

Look, who knows I might be entirely wrong but there’s so many questions left. Why is the warehouse linked to Sun and Moon? Who is the person trying to save the princess? Who are we playing as? What’s even going on anymore?

I know using stuff from hw2 is debatable considering the first game but I do think some aspects of the ruined sections of hw2 happened in the timeline. I can’t wait to be proven so wrong.

[spinningbuster98]

Sonic the Hedgehog 2 (1992) Part 1: Emerald Hunting

Now we’re getting to the fun stuff

I love Sonic 2. It’s not even my favorite in the whole series (though it most certainly is in the top 5), but it’s a game that I can’t help but appreciate for its overall simplicity

This is a no-nonsense kind of sequel: take the ideas introduced in Sonic 1 and actually flesh them out by jacking up the speed, improving the physics and making the level design a helluva lot more appropriate for this kind of gameplay

Granted: the level design is definitely still more on the simple side, I’ve even seen some claim that it’s borderline “hold right to win”. Yeah sure, do that in Aquatic Ruin without falling in the water. Or in Oil Ocean and Metropolis without getting hit every 2 seconds. (No defense for Emerald Hill though, but tbf that’s the first level). The platforming is also generally less focused than in Sonic 1 but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Sonic may ideally strike a balance between speed and platforming but if he really has to veer into either direction I think it’s best to veer towards the former because 1) That’s what makes Sonic stand out and 2) Sonic can’t do pure platforming as well as the likes of Mario. His physics based movements, while great for speed, are generally not ideal for the kind of pixel perfect jumps that hardcore platformers often require, which is why, if you notice, Sonic games usually have pretty big platforms for him to jump on and the platforms themselves don’t often move too quickly and the few times the games do throw smaller platforms at you, like the ones with retractable spikes in Metropolis, it feels awkward even though those would be pretty standard in most other platformers. You probably wouldn’t be able to put Megaman’s Yoku Blocks and make them work in a Sonic game for example. Besides to say that Sonic 2 has no platforming is just silly: Aquatic Ruin is litererally built on the concept of trying to stick to the upper route so as to avoid falling into the water, which instantly makes it a much better water level than Labyrinth Zone

Casino Night Zone feels like a more fleshed out Spring Yard what with its more focused pinball mechanics. I do wonder though if any pearl clutching mothers back then had any issues with their children playing a kids’ game that featured literal slot machines...

I don’t even think that Chemical Plant needs any introduction, though I will say that act 1 is way too short and underwhelming

Are there issues? Oh yes. Because of the increased speed there’s now also an increased chance of running into enemies that come from offscreen. Granted this is an issue in all 2D Sonic games, even Sonic 3 (Marble Garden says hi), but I can’t say that this game does much to mitigate it, especially with things like Chemical Plant featuring stuff like flipping floor boards at points, which may just flip right as you’re about to approach them plunging you to your death through no fault of your own! And who could forget the Pit of Doom?

The way Special Stages are accessed is undoubtadly much better: yes having to collect 50 rings without getting hit is still a pain, but now you get so many more chances to actually play a Special Stage

The Stages themselves are full of issues, don’t get me wrong: the frame rate is super choppy, the controls laggy, you pretty much have to know in advance when some bombs are coming and from where because the stage itself gives you little to no heads up, having Tails with you is like having a literal ball and chain strapped onto you. Hell I think it’s quite telling that one of my clearest childhood memories of this game is...going on GameFaqs to look up the Super Sonic cheat code, not to mention the fact that, even 20 years later, I STILL have muscle memory of these stages, like a sixth sense telling me when I should turn or when to jump.

Despite this however I would still much rather contend with these than those of the previous game: these Special Stages are made to be mastered on repeated playthroughs, which is encouraged both by the amount of attempts you can possibly make throughout the game and the fact that, when you fail, the next time you warp in you’re going to retry the one you failed in rather than moving onto the next one like all the other Classic games do for some stupid reason.

I can get better over time at these Special Stages and get more or less consistent results. With Sonic 1′s, even after 20 years of playing them, it still feels like a luck of the draw half the time

It also certainly helps that, this time around, you actually obtain something worthwhile by getting all the Emeralds and not just a slightly different ending

[shop-korea]

OAHU - 2023 - I - JUST - WENT - AGAIN - 2 - MIAMI -

BEACH - PRETTIER - THAN - PHOTOS - SANDS - R -

WHITER - BUT - NOT - MUCH - GOOGLE - PHOTOS -

HOW - MISLEADING - VERY - ORGANIZED - L SIDE -

WHITE - AND - UGLY -

RITZ-CARLTON

SOUTH BEACH

GOOGLE - MAPS - WRONG - AS - USUAL -

EXIT - LINCOLN RD

TURNS - L - LAST - STOP

THEN - WALK - STRAIGHT - ITS - THE YES -

BEACH -

LINCOLN RD

BEACHWALK

BEACH - CLOSED - (10P - 5A) - DAILY - AND -

LIFEGUARD - SWIM - CLOSE - 2 - THAT YES -

ONE - SHOWER - L SIDE - B 4 - STEPS - TO -

GO - THERE - PRESS - TOP - SHOWER TOP -

STRONG BETTER THAN - PLANET FITNESS -

CLEANER - TOP - SILVER - BUTTON - PRESS -

CONTINUOUS - SO - SHOWER - ABOVE NICE -

BUTTON - BELOW - 4 - THE - FEET - FEELS -

NICE - GREAT - TEMPERATURE - BUT - AS -

FAR - AS - PUBLIC - RESTROOM - VERY -

VERY - FAR - FALSE - ADS - I COULDN’T -

FIND - 31 FASHION - DESIGNERS - SO -

BAD - ADS - SO - JAMES AVE - BUT ITS -

NOT - BUS - STOP - COMING - BACK -

S - DOWNTOWN - MIAMI

EXIT - AFTER - BISCAYNE BLVD/ US 1 -

FRONT - OF - COLLEGE - BAYSIDE

METROMOVER - STATION

INNER - LOOP - EXIT -

WILKIE D FERGUSON, JR

THEN - FULL - LOOP - EXIT

BRICKELL - CITY - CENTRE

EIGHT STREET

SO - 2 - HELP - DISNEY - NEGOTIATING -

THIS - OUR - RULES - TERMS - OUR $$$ -

MY - BEACH - BASEBALL - UMBRELLA -

ARRIVED - SIGNED - SENT - BY - UPS -

THEY’RE - HAPPY - RID - OF - ME

WE’RE - USING - TIMED EXPLOSIVES -

WE - HAVE - DECLARED - WAR

I’M - ASKING - LEGAL - PERMISSION -

HOW - ABOUT - OAHU - HAWAII YES -

DISNEYLAND - OR - ANOTHER - TRUE -

DISNEYWORLD - 24/7 - OPEN - GIVING -

JOBS - 2 - LOCAL - OPEN - HOLIDAYS -

WALT DISNEY - WORLD - ORLANDO -

MOANA’s - LARGE - ISLAND - REALLY -

A - GODDESS - SHE’s - SLEEPING AS -

SHE’s - RESTING - THE - SHAPE - OF -

THE - ISLAND - SHE’s - BEING - BUILT -

LEGAL - PERMISSION - CREATING - HER -

ALSO - EXCEPT - FREE - 2 - GO - INSIDE -

US - FREE - FOOD - DRINKS - AND ALSO -

RESTAURANTS - CAFES - PUSH - CARTS -

FREE - FREE - FIXING - GENIE - IN - A -

MAGICAL - WAY - ALREADY THERE IN -

TIME - 4 - RIDES - RESERVE - FAST IT -

WILL - B - EASY - GREAT - ESTIMATES -

OF - RIDES -

TRON - RIDE

MOANA - THE - ISLAND - SHAPE THAT -

GODDESS - FORGOT - HER - NAME SO -

OUR - MACHINES - 2 - CREATE - WALT -

DISNEY - WORLD - OAHU - HAWAII - & -

OAHU - EXPENSIVE -

HDG - APTS - INNS -

FULLY - FURNISHED -

$0.25 - PER - DAY - AND - PAY 1 MONTH -

IN - ADVANCE -

ALSO - NOT - EXACTLY - LIKE ORLANDO -

MOANA - ISLAND -

SOUNDPROOFING -

MOANA - SINGING - AS - THEY - HEAR -

HER BUT - SOUNDPROOF SO OTHERS -

DON’T - HEAR - MORE - SINGING WILL -

B - OUR - UNIQUENESS - 2 - WELCOME -

ALL - 2 - THE - MOANA - LANDS

OAHU - MORE TAHITIAN - THAN HAWAII -

DANCE - SCHOOLS -

‘ONE - UPON - A - TIME’

ACADEMIES - ELEMENTARY - HIGH SCHOOL -

FULL - UNIFORMS - BUT - TAHITIAN DANCES -

MAGIC - KINGDOM - COLLAGE

FULL - UNIFORMS

WE - CAN - CHANGE - THE - SPIRIT - OF YES -

HAWAII - MORE - FUN - PLACES - 2 - LIVE - & -

CHILDREN’s - PLAYGROUNDS

SMOKEFREE - PORTABLE YES

2 - GRILL - THIS - NOT - ALLOWED - MIAMI -

BEACH - LET’s - LEAVE - THIS - WRINKLED -

PRUNE - BAG - CONTROL - LEAVE - MIAMI -

LOTS - OF - SMOKEFREE - AREAS

PLACES - 2 - DO - SPORTS - MORE

ACTIVITIES - ZIPLINES - MORE FUN

CALL - 2 - HOW - BEAUTIFUL - MOANA’s -

ISLAND - LIVING - IS - BRINGING - THAT -

BACK - BETTER - HOUSING - THEY YES -

HAVE - NOT - VERY - ATTRACTIVE -

PLACES - 2 - LIVE - WE - CAN YES -

CHANGE - THAT - I’M - SO - ITCHY -

RIGHT - NOW - BUT - I’M - YES - SITTING -

OF - EDGES - NEAR - SHOWER - EARLY I -

CAN - DO - MY - HAIR - BLEACH - THEN -

REMOVE - FR - MY - EYES - LET - DRY 2 -

LT PINK - HAIR - AT - MIAMI - BEACH SO -

CALL - 4 - PRETTIER - PLACES - 2 LEAVE -

LEAVING - BOGUS - LEARNING - HOW 2 -

ROLLERSKATE - I’M - ITCHY - RIGHT -

NOW - BUT - MOANA - LAND - TRULY -

SO - SLEEPY - RIGHT  NOW - TAKING -

CARE - OF - THINKING - SMURFETTE -

‘SMURFS: THE - LOST - VILLAGE’

HOW - THAT - ALSO - WITH - THE -

DISNEY - SO - RESTING - RIGHT -

NOW - IDEAS - 4 - BETTER - HAWAII -

HAPPIER - KIDS - TEENS - ADULTS 2

[missmentelle]

Why Smart People Believe Stupid Things

If you’ve been paying attention for the last couple of years, you might have noticed that the world has a bit of a misinformation problem. 

The problem isn’t just with the recent election conspiracies, either. The last couple of years has brought us the rise (and occasionally fall) of misinformation-based movements like:

Sandy Hook conspiracies

Gamergate

Pizzagate

The MRA/incel/MGTOW movements

anti-vaxxers

flat-earthers

the birther movement

the Illuminati 

climate change denial

Spygate

Holocaust denial 

COVID-19 denial 

5G panic 

QAnon 

But why do people believe this stuff?

It would be easy - too easy - to say that people fall for this stuff because they’re stupid. We all want to believe that smart people like us are immune from being taken in by deranged conspiracies. But it’s just not that simple. People from all walks of life are going down these rabbit holes - people with degrees and professional careers and rich lives have fallen for these theories, leaving their loved ones baffled. Decades-long relationships have splintered this year, as the number of people flocking to these conspiracies out of nowhere reaches a fever pitch. 

So why do smart people start believing some incredibly stupid things? It’s because:

Our brains are built to identify patterns. 

Our brains fucking love puzzles and patterns. This is a well-known phenomenon called apophenia, and at one point, it was probably helpful for our survival - the prehistoric human who noticed patterns in things like animal migration, plant life cycles and the movement of the stars was probably a lot more likely to survive than the human who couldn’t figure out how to use natural clues to navigate or find food. 

The problem, though, is that we can’t really turn this off. Even when we’re presented with completely random data, we’ll see patterns. We see patterns in everything, even when there’s no pattern there. This is why people see Jesus in a burnt piece of toast or get superstitious about hockey playoffs or insist on always playing at a certain slot machine - our brains look for patterns in the constant barrage of random information in our daily lives, and insist that those patterns are really there, even when they’re completely imagined. 

A lot of conspiracy theories have their roots in people making connections between things that aren’t really connected. The belief that “vaccines cause autism” was bolstered by the fact that the first recognizable symptoms of autism happen to appear at roughly the same time that children receive one of their rounds of childhood immunizations - the two things are completely unconnected, but our brains have a hard time letting go of the pattern they see there. Likewise, many people were quick to latch on to the fact that early maps of COVID infections were extremely similar to maps of 5G coverage -  the fact that there’s a reasonable explanation for this (major cities are more likely to have both high COVID cases AND 5G networks) doesn’t change the fact that our brains just really, really want to see a connection there. 

Our brains love proportionality. 

Specifically, our brains like effects to be directly proportional to their causes - in other words, we like it when big events have big causes, and small causes only lead to small events. It’s uncomfortable for us when the reverse is true. And so anytime we feel like a “big” event (celebrity death, global pandemic, your precious child is diagnosed with autism) has a small or unsatisfying cause (car accident, pandemics just sort of happen every few decades, people just get autism sometimes), we sometimes feel the need to start looking around for the bigger, more sinister, “true” cause of that event. 

Consider, for instance, the attempted assassination of Pope John Paul II. In 1981, Pope John Paul II was shot four times by a Turkish member of a known Italian paramilitary secret society who’d recently escaped from prison - on the surface, it seems like the sort of thing conspiracy theorists salivate over, seeing how it was an actual multinational conspiracy. But they never had much interest in the assassination attempt. Why? Because the Pope didn’t die. He recovered from his injuries and went right back to Pope-ing. The event didn’t have a serious outcome, and so people are content with the idea that one extremist carried it out. The death of Princess Diana, however, has been fertile ground for conspiracy theories; even though a woman dying in a car accident is less weird than a man being shot four times by a paid political assassin, her death has attracted more conspiracy theories because it had a bigger outcome. A princess dying in a car accident doesn’t feel big enough. It’s unsatisfying. We want such a monumentous moment in history to have a bigger, more interesting cause. 

These theories prey on pre-existing fear and anger. 

Are you a terrified new parent who wants the best for their child and feels anxious about having them injected with a substance you don’t totally understand? Congrats, you’re a prime target for the anti-vaccine movement. Are you a young white male who doesn’t like seeing more and more games aimed at women and minorities, and is worried that “your” gaming culture is being stolen from you? You might have been very interested in something called Gamergate. Are you a right-wing white person who worries that “your” country and way of life is being stolen by immigrants, non-Christians and coastal liberals? You’re going to love the “all left-wingers are Satantic pedo baby-eaters” messaging of QAnon. 

Misinformation and conspiracy theories are often aimed strategically at the anxieties and fears that people are already experiencing. No one likes being told that their fears are insane or irrational; it’s not hard to see why people gravitate towards communities that say “yes, you were right all along, and everyone who told you that you were nuts to be worried about this is just a dumb sheep. We believe you, and we have evidence that you were right along, right here.” Fear is a powerful motivator, and you can make people believe and do some pretty extreme things if you just keep telling them “yes, that thing you’re afraid of is true, but also it’s way worse than you could have ever imagined.”

Real information is often complicated, hard to understand, and inherently unsatisfying. 

The information that comes from the scientific community is often very frustrating for a layperson; we want science to have hard-and-fast answers, but it doesn’t. The closest you get to a straight answer is often “it depends” or “we don’t know, but we think X might be likely”. Understanding the results of a scientific study with any confidence requires knowing about sampling practices, error types, effect sizes, confidence intervals and publishing biases. Even asking a simple question like “is X bad for my child” will usually get you a complicated, uncertain answer - in most cases, it really just depends. Not understanding complex topics makes people afraid - it makes it hard to trust that they’re being given the right information, and that they’re making the right choices. 

Conspiracy theories and misinformation, on the other hand, are often simple, and they are certain. Vaccines bad. Natural things good. 5G bad. Organic food good. The reason girls won’t date you isn’t a complex combination of your social skills, hygiene, appearance, projected values, personal circumstances, degree of extroversion, luck and life phase - girls won’t date you because feminism is bad, and if we got rid of feminism you’d have a girlfriend. The reason Donald Trump was an unpopular president wasn’t a complex combination of his public bigotry, lack of decorum, lack of qualifications, open incompetence, nepotism, corruption, loss of soft power, refusal to uphold the basic responsibilities of his position or his constant lying - they hated him because he was fighting a secret sex cult and they’re all in it. 

Instead of making you feel stupid because you’re overwhelmed with complex information, expert opinions and uncertain advice, conspiracy theories make you feel smart - smarter, in fact, than everyone who doesn’t believe in them. And that’s a powerful thing for people living in a credential-heavy world. 

Many conspiracy theories are unfalsifiable. 

It is very difficult to prove a negative. If I tell you, for instance, that there’s no such thing as a purple swan, it would be very difficult for me to actually prove that to you - I could spend the rest of my life photographing swans and looking for swans and talking to people who know a lot about swans, and yet the slim possibility would still exist that there was a purple swan out there somewhere that I just hadn’t found yet. That’s why, in most circumstances, the burden of proof lies with the person making the extraordinary claim - if you tell me that purple swans exist, we should continue to assume that they don’t until you actually produce a purple swan. 

Conspiracy theories, however, are built so that it’s nearly impossible to “prove” them wrong. Is there any proof that the world’s top-ranking politicians and celebrities are all in a giant child sex trafficking cult? No. But can you prove that they aren’t in a child sex-trafficking cult? No, not really. Even if I, again, spent the rest of my life investigating celebrities and following celebrities and talking to people who know celebrities, I still couldn’t definitely prove that this cult doesn’t exist - there’s always a chance that the specific celebrities I’ve investigated just aren’t in the cult (but other ones are!) or that they’re hiding evidence of the cult even better than we think. Lack of evidence for a conspiracy theory is always treated as more evidence for the theory - we can’t find anything because this goes even higher up than we think! They’re even more sophisticated at hiding this than we thought! People deeply entrenched in these theories don’t even realize that they are stuck in a circular loop where everything seems to prove their theory right - they just see a mountain of “evidence” for their side. 

Our brains are very attached to information that we “learned” by ourselves.

Learning accurate information is not a particularly interactive or exciting experience. An expert or reliable source just presents the information to you in its entirety, you read or watch the information, and that’s the end of it. You can look for more information or look for clarification of something, but it’s a one-way street - the information is just laid out for you, you take what you need, end of story. 

Conspiracy theories, on the other hand, almost never show their hand all at once. They drop little breadcrumbs of information that slowly lead you where they want you to go. This is why conspiracy theorists are forever telling you to “do your research” - they know that if they tell you everything at once, you won’t believe them. Instead, they want you to indoctrinate yourself slowly over time, by taking the little hints they give you and running off to find or invent evidence that matches that clue. If I tell you that celebrities often wear symbols that identify them as part of a cult and that you should “do your research” about it, you can absolutely find evidence that substantiates my claim - there are literally millions of photos of celebrities out there, and anyone who looks hard enough is guaranteed to find common shapes, poses and themes that might just mean something (they don’t - eyes and triangles are incredibly common design elements, and if I took enough pictures of you, I could also “prove” that you also clearly display symbols that signal you’re in the cult). 

The fact that you “found” the evidence on your own, however, makes it more meaningful to you. We trust ourselves, and we trust that the patterns we uncover by ourselves are true. It doesn’t feel like you’re being fed misinformation - it feels like you’ve discovered an important truth that “they” didn’t want you to find, and you’ll hang onto that for dear life. 

Older people have not learned to be media-literate in a digital world. 

Fifty years ago, not just anyone could access popular media. All of this stuff had a huge barrier to entry - if you wanted to be on TV or be in the papers or have a radio show, you had to be a professional affiliated with a major media brand. Consumers didn’t have easy access to niche communities or alternative information - your sources of information were basically your local paper, the nightly news, and your morning radio show, and they all more or less agreed on the same set of facts. For decades, if it looked official and it appeared in print, you could probably trust that it was true. 

Of course, we live in a very different world today - today, any asshole can accumulate an audience of millions, even if they have no credentials and nothing they say is actually true (like “The Food Babe”, a blogger with no credentials in medicine, nutrition, health sciences, biology or chemistry who peddles health misinformation to the 3 million people who visit her blog every month). It’s very tough for older people (and some younger people) to get their heads around the fact that it’s very easy to create an “official-looking” news source, and that they can’t necessarily trust everything they find on the internet. When you combine that with a tendency toward “clickbait headlines” that often misrepresent the information in the article, you have a generation struggling to determine who they can trust in a media landscape that doesn’t at all resemble the media landscape they once knew. 

These beliefs become a part of someone’s identity. 

A person doesn’t tell you that they believe in anti-vaxx information - they tell you that they ARE an anti-vaxxer. Likewise, people will tell you that they ARE a flat-earther, a birther, or a Gamergater. By design, these beliefs are not meant to be something you have a casual relationship with, like your opinion of pizza toppings or how much you trust local weather forecasts - they are meant to form a core part of your identity. 

And once something becomes a core part of your identity, trying to make you stop believing it becomes almost impossible. Once we’ve formed an initial impression of something, facts just don’t change our minds. If you identify as an antivaxxer and I present evidence that disproves your beliefs, in your mind, I’m not correcting inaccurate information - I am launching a very personal attack against a core part of who you are. In fact, the more evidence I present, the more you will burrow down into your antivaxx beliefs, more confident than ever that you are right. Admitting that you are wrong about something that is important to you is painful, and your brain would prefer to simply deflect conflicting information rather than subject you to that pain.

We can see this at work with something called the confirmation bias. Simply put, once we believe something, our brains hold on to all evidence that that belief is true, and ignore evidence that it’s false. If I show you 100 articles that disprove your pet theory and 3 articles that confirm it, you’ll cling to those 3 articles and forget about the rest. Even if I show you nothing but articles that disprove your theory, you’ll likely go through them and pick out any ambiguous or conflicting information as evidence for “your side”, even if the conclusion of the article shows that you are wrong - our brains simply care about feeling right more than they care about what is actually true.  

There is a strong community aspect to these theories. 

There is no one quite as supportive or as understanding as a conspiracy theorist - provided, of course, that you believe in the same conspiracy theories that they do. People who start looking into these conspiracy theories are told that they aren’t crazy, and that their fears are totally valid. They’re told that the people in their lives who doubted them were just brainwashed sheep, but that they’ve finally found a community of people who get where they’re coming from. Whenever they report back to the group with the “evidence” they’ve found or the new elaborations on the conspiracy theory that they’ve been thinking of (“what if it’s even worse than we thought??”), they are given praise for their valuable contributions. These conspiracy groups often become important parts of people’s social networks - they can spend hours every day talking with like-minded people from these communities and sharing their ideas. 

Of course, the flipside of this is that anyone who starts to doubt or move away from the conspiracy immediately loses that community and social support. People who have broken away from antivaxx and QAnon often say that the hardest part of leaving was losing the community and friendships they’d built - not necessarily giving up on the theory itself. Many people are rejected by their real-life friends and family once they start to get entrenched in conspiracy theories; the friendships they build online in the course of researching these theories often become the only social supports they have left, and losing those supports means having no one to turn to at all. This is by design - the threat of losing your community has kept people trapped in abusive religious sects and cults for as long as those things have existed. 

[h-worksrambles]

Spoilers for Xenoblade Chronicles 1, 2 and 3:

Thinking about how all the major villains in Xenoblade portrays our struggle with human nature’s worst aspects and our own capacity for evil.

Ok, that probably sounded super pretentious but seriously. The entire event that kicked off all of this was the reckless actions and selfish curiosity of a single man. Klaus performed the phase transition experiment out both a cynicism with the current state of the world and the arrogant belief that he could surpass humanity and all its flaws. And in doing so, he not only destroyed the world in a way that took millions of years to heal, but ripped apart reality itself so badly that, as we learn in Xenoblade 3, nature itself is STILL trying to repair the damage he did after god knows how much time, by bringing together the fractured universes he created.

Zanza is very clearly inspired by the Gnostic demiurge, a false god that keeps the world in their thrall. But the very thing that makes him a demiurge is that he has the power of a god, but he THINKS like a human. Because he once was one. His evil is rooted in human emotions, ego and fear. He sacrifices his creations because he fears death and would rather cut down his ‘children’ before they forget him than fade away. Zanza was once an ordinary man, but now he has the power of a god. And he demonstrates how disastrously wrong it would go if a single human ever had that level of power to do with as they wished.

Or look at Amalthus. His entire character is built on the dichotomy of a man who has seen the worst of people, has witnessed the lengths of peoples cruelty in war across so many years, but is incapable of perceiving those same flaws in himself. He’s a lot like Klaus was, waxing poetic about humanity’s evil while making the same mistakes. He’s right about humans on a lot of counts. But he’s also a hypocrite who thinks he’s above those evils, paradoxically becoming just as, if not more monstrous than the people he hates.

Even when the villains of Xenoblade aren’t human, their villainy is often a product of humankind. The clearest example of this is Malos. Like all Blades, his personality is shaped by the Driver who awakens him. And Amalthus nihilistic outlook and hatred of the world bleeds into him and feeds his desire to destroy it. He’s a non-human living weapon, sure. But he’s a man-made weapon as well.

And now we have Xenoblade Chronicles 3 where the source of all the awful things in Aionios is a machine. Origin responded to the thoughts and feelings it recognised from the people of both worlds, their fear of death, of change, of the unknown. And that reaction created Moebius (and by extension, Z) who created ‘the endless now’ as a supposed escape from those ugly parts of the world, but only ended up repeating them, creating a hellish war torn false reality that kept everyone trapped in a pointless cycle.

Like Malos, Origin is a machine whose damaging actions mirror the flaws of its creators. Like Zanza, Z fuelled himself with peoples lives, using the people of the world as a tool to escape his fear of his own inevitable end.

The villains of Xenoblade range from gods, to AIs to abstract metaphysical concepts but they are all ultimately human or born from humans. It’s never just, ‘humans against the monsters/a machine/god because those non-human entities were typically created BY humans in some way. When you combine that with how many of the more minor villains are disgusting, despicable people, (Mumkhar, Bana, Gort, most of the consuls, D especially), it’s easy to say that Xenoblade has a very cynical outlook on human nature, that it’s saying we’re all just self destructive monsters the world would be better off without.

And yet, the protagonists challenge that by showcasing the best of humanity. Shulk breaks the cycle of violence in Bionis and Mechonis and gives everyone a future. Rex witnesses the worst of Alrest but instead of letting it break him, remains committed to change things for the better. Noah, Mio and their friends question the system that control them, symbolically face the fear of all of humankind, and resolve to restore their worlds (in turn laying the way for a new one), even if they have no guarantee that they’ll see each other again. Their only certainty at this point is each other but they’re wiling to give that up to give everyone else a chance. Unlike Z or even Zanza, they choose self sacrifice and accept change even if they personally come off worse.

Xenoblade is a series where people are the cause of 99% of life’s problems, but they’re also the solution. Even when the villains are monsters, machines or even gods (all of which can be very stock tropes in RPGs especially) they’re nearly always man-made in some way. And triumphing over them represents overcoming our own capacity for evil.

It can be discouraging to accept how much we routinely ruin everything around us, but that’s the first step to realising what we can fix as well. It’s so easy to feel defeated and assume that we’re all awful and beyond saving. That’s the conclusion Jin and N both came to: The world is fundamentally awful and you can’t change it. Xenoblade’s stories show the best and worst of people, And I found that statement really moving. We can be utterly despicable, but we can also be better.

[smolsirensongs]

arcade.

Written in July 2020, originally posted on Twitter.

You instantly hear the clacking of buttons and overly enthusiastic voice lines emanating from old machines as you enter Acheron Arcade.  What a flurry of audio, light, and play.

People said you could find Charon here, and they weren’t wrong.

You go to say hi.

They’re standing right behind the counter, bored, waiting to offer the cheapest of prizes for the most valiant of efforts.  Their hands have calluses from centuries of rowing people across to Hades.  Either that, or they’re really good at the games here.  Probably both.

---

Charon never liked small talk, so they were very relieved when you asked them bluntly about how many tickets were required to win an obol and get to Hades.  You came prepared with a few hundred bucks just in case.

“1000 tickets,” they respond.

---

“An obol is worth at most a few dollars,” you point out, though you expected this.  “I’ll have to spend much more than that to win 1000 tickets.” A half-assed shrug.  “Inflation.”

You pay for fifty tokens and get to work. ---

There are several people at the tables, all with slices of mediocre pizza and sticky cups of soda in front of them.  Figures; winning all these tickets is tiring.  Even in purgatory, people need breaks.  The cheese pizza seems slightly less sad than the pepperoni.

---

Children are running around, and you both envy and pity them.  They trade in their tickets for the stuff in the glass counter--pencils, erasers, candy, bracelets…  You wonder who is going to tell them about the obol, and how many tickets they’ve got to save up for it.

---

You’re not half-bad at the multiplayer driving games, and you’re surprisingly good at the dancing games.  The claw machines are tempting, but you avoid them for the most part. Too bad you can’t win tickets from these games.  You buy more tokens.

---

There’s a man who has been here for years.  You’ve only been here for a few weeks, but you already have several hundred tickets.  There can’t be more than a hundred in his hands.

“I get obols for the children here,” he says distantly, “while I wait for my own son to join us.”

---

Big Bass Wheel is oddly addictive.  You get so, so close to the Jackpot every single time.  The day it breaks down distresses you--even without the Jackpot, it was the only consistent way to win tickets in bulk around here.  Charon isn’t sure when they can get it fixed.

---

Whac-A-Mole gives you a headache, but it’s also a really great way to vent your frustrations with the machines in this place.  It’s better than Down the Clown, at least, even if it gives you less tickets.  The line behind you indicates you’re not the only one who feels this way.

---

One day, a woman gives her tickets to a person eating a devastatingly dry piece of pizza, and they finally go to Hades.

“This restless arcade is a better resting place than being in my husband’s arms again,” she explains, fear in her eyes.

---

You go to play Bubble Bobble, but Charon is moving the machine.  They gesture to the front of the arcade, where a kid in a wheelchair waits. “Built this place in the 80’s, so we’re not up to ADA standards, but the newer place closed down.” You help them rearrange the arcade.

---

A little over a month later, you finally win the Jackpot at Quick Drop.  It’s enough to leave, but you notice that the man who gives obols to children is arguing with another man who looks quite a lot like him.  You give both of them all your tickets so they can leave together.

---

Finally, about three months after you first arrived, you have enough tickets.  You trade them all in and Charon hands you an obol.  You hand it right back.  They lead you to the back room, labeled “Employees Only”.  You can’t help but feel wrong about entering.

---

The back room leads to a long series of hallways and staircases that Charon escorts you through.  Those who enter without paying would surely get lost.

“Interesting take on the River Styx,” you say.

“It’s the Acheron, and I don’t like small talk,” Charon replies.

Noted.  

---

You get to the end of the series of hallways and you see a rather big indoor play area with places to climb and slides that lead to a ball pit.  Charon tells you to have fun and starts walking back towards the arcade. 

The ball pit looks inviting!

---

Sliding into the ball pit gives you a nice sort of childish rush as you fall right through onto a mat in front of a very curious Cerberus. You use your Down the Clown skills to distract Cerberus with some balls that followed you from the pit above.

---

You finally enter Hades, and what a journey it’s been.  Some people are waiting excitedly by the entrance, but upon seeing it’s just you, they get disappointed again.  There are parents, a bloody husband, and several others.  No one for you.

---

You walk deeper.  Finally, no more endless loops of 32-bit music or disappointing robotic chirps of loss.  No more stuffing tickets into your pockets and buying slice after slice of old pizza.  No more machines that break down in the middle of giving you tickets.

---

You didn’t realize how tired your legs were or how strained your eyes have become.  You follow the signs until you finally arrive at the Asphodel Meadows.  Here, you’re given a blanket and a bottle of water labeled “Lethe” to drink.  You down it quickly.

---

You go to place the blanket on a grassy patch away from several others who are here.  You lay upon it and watch the clouds drift lazily above you. Strange… why does the faint smell of old pizza and the sound of clacking buttons linger on your mind…? 

[chidoroki]

TPN - “Dreams Come True”

What better way to cheer up the TPN fandom after the second season’s final episode than with the special exhibition chapter finally being fully translated. I caught glimpses of a few pages here and there over the past couple months but seeing all the children live happily together in the human world in their own little village that they made close to Emma and Alex warms my heart. Of course I would’ve loved if we got to see more of the GP Resistance (because the anime denied us of them) but following the GF kids around the world as they experience their dreams is fair enough. We started the series alongside them so might as well finish strong with them too. I really loved seeing everyone grow up but no matter how old they get or how much time passes, I’ll probably never get used to seeing Emma without her iconic “63194.” It’s a bittersweet feeling for me, but her smiles bring me so much joy and I’m beyond happy that she accepted everyone into her life as they accepted her without her memories.

I haven’t a clue on how much time passed since everyone found Emma in ch181 to now, but seeing her call out everyone’s names is a little detail that I love so much considering she had no idea who anyone was at first. Trying to remember 60+ names doesn’t seem like an easy task to me. No doubt I was just as shocked as our girl upon learning these mere children bought a goddamn plane! We learn in a couple pages that it’s because of Norman’s company that they can afford it, but still, he’s like 15 or 16 now? He’s still a child! And I’m impressed! Not only at him, but that Oliver and Violet became pilots as well! It’s especially cute when you remember that Lucas gave Oliver a little toy plane during their time at Goldy Pond.

Speaking of GP, is it just me or does Emma’s current outfit resemble her GP one just a little bit? Sure we have no idea what color scheme this one has but come on, the short jacket, the dark shirt and jeans.. just imagine it! Jemima, Yvette, Alicia and Mark remade Gillian’s original GP outfit sometime before the Grace Field Raid arc (ch137 extra page) so I don’t doubt they could’ve done the same for Emma. Of course that’s just me being completely hopeful and missing the Goldy Pond arc to death but yeah! I’m also so happy to see Chris up and moving again! Seeing him wake up briefly in ch181 was nice but this is so much better. I imagine he and Emma have a lot to catch up on in terms of stories, with him being unconscious since ch105 and Emma not remembering anything.

But here we go, the original 15 escapees plus Norman, Phil, Sherry, I believe I saw Carol somewhere and a couple other random kiddos ready to see the entire world. They get to accomplish so much.. and in a single day too I believe? At least that’s what Phil and Alicia say a bit later about everyone’s wishes, but aahh what a lucky bunch. Hell, I’ll say we’re lucky readers too to be able to see such a great story. Can’t thank Shirai and Demizu enough y’all. I wish we got to see more of Alex though. He’s such a kind soul but I’m sure he’ll be just fine staying behind with everyone else.

This entire page where we learn about Norman as a CEO is gold. I still can’t believe this child successfully built up an entire multipurpose company not only to help their search for Emma but also because he didn’t want to live off the Ratri clan. I wish I knew about this last week when writing out Norman’s birthday post because hell yeah this deserves some praise! AND he managed to graduate school as well during all that! Well, by skipping grades which totally makes sense. I mean, if he managed to pass all the Grace Field and Lambda tests effortlessly I’m sure normal human world school was a piece of cake for him. Holy shit dude, keep on impressing me why don’t ya. Not only him but Nigel and Sonya too! I’m not surprised that Vincent helped out but I’m glad those two got a tiny moment to shine as well! Ray is another obvious choice when it comes to helping Norman, as they’re best friends and he’s always been good with machines.. but boy, I can’t take you seriously when you’re just sitting there unamused and eating chips! Hahah I love him so much! And the fact he replies to Norman’s idea with just a simple “kay” is an eternal mood.

Okay boys aside, can we talk about our fabulous girls now? Because oh my god, they’re so darn beautiful! They’re more fashionable than I’ll ever be and it’s so cute how they drag Emma along to take advantage of the 3-for-1 deal. But our girl pulls off that sporty look so well! (r.i.p. goldy pond outfit ver2.0). I’m not at all surprised that Nat wanted to go see the opera. That's perfect for him and I’d like to think the anime did something similar with that one shot we see of him in the human world. We don’t see him in a theater like this but to me it looks like he’s on the streets of Broadway? At least that’s the vibe I get from it. I’m sure there was something music related on one of those signs.

I can’t get over how adorable all the children look and how happy they are fulfilling their wishes, even if some of them aren’t as extravagant as others. Like eating a fluffy pancake and a ton of ice cream? We can do that whenever we want. But for these kids, it means everything and they absolutely deserve to experience such simple joys like that after all the harsh nonsense they’ve been through. I also love how Ray continues to be such a great older brother by still looking out for them too. The fact he remains completely unfazed by the haunted house is perfect. This boy has been haunted by his own nightmares and demons his entire life, there’s no way a couple of lousy jump scares are gonna spook him. Though I do find it funny that Alicia and Rossi still manage to get scared while Yvette is having the time of her life. I can’t help but laugh at Thoma’s “Shirai face” as well.

I find it interesting that out of all the different kinds of exhibits they could’ve shown us while Rossi visits a museum, they give us dinosaurs.. like that seems so silly to me. Y’all have seen several demons in your young lives already and yet dinosaurs manage to amaze you too? God these kids are precious. And then our boy Phil finally gets to see and ride a train! Just look how happy he is! The poor kid can’t even sit still he’s so darn excited and I can’t help but smile with him! Thankfully the anime showed us this too.

We eventually get to Ray’s wish and guys.. oh my fucking god. Tell me that this is not the absolute best and prettiest smile we get to see from him!! It honestly leaves me speechless okay? Ray never imagined he would ever get to see the outside world, let alone live past the age of 12, and yet here he is, seeing such a beautiful sight such as this, right in front of him instead of from inside a book. You can’t believe how happy and proud of him I am right now. Did you see how ecstatic I was when the anime kept Isabella alive? Multiply that feeling by ten and there ya go. That’s my level of happiness upon seeing my favorite boy smile like THAT! AAHHH!! That panel is gonna live rent free in my head until the end of time. I can’t get over how damn perfect it is. His smile is so pure and how he looks like he’s in complete awe is beautiful. He’s about to burst into tears and I swear I might do the same because I’m making myself emotional over this fantastic boy. Someone hold me.

No seriously, hold me because we’re about to get into some angst as we move onto to Emma’s wish. We all know that ever since 2039 her one dream was to ride a giraffe once they got outside, so here we are, about ten years later and the animals in question are within reach. Our girl should be totally excited, right? Ha, not quite.

That wish was something the old Emma wanted, but since demon god had to be such a bastard, this Emma doesn’t know what to think, let alone what to even feel. She hasn’t experienced the same hardships as her family. She hasn’t gone through hell and back while holding onto that one wish that would make all the suffering worth it. The amount of joy everyone else felt upon living out their dreams, she wonders if she would be able to feel it too.

They brought her here to make her happy, but is this truly want she wants as well? This is old Emma’s wish after all. What about her and what she wants? Could this wish make her just as happy as her old self? She knows her family is only trying to help, but seeing her doubt herself does a number on my heart. Even without her memories, she’s still the same Emma deep down, as she doesn’t want to disappoint her family. She spends so much time worrying about living up to her family’s expectations, to try and be that Emma they all love so dearly.

Little does she know that she acts the exact same as usual, almost as if nothing has changed when she finally expresses how much she wants to ride a giraffe. And that’s great considering when they first arrived at the giraffes, no on had even mentioned riding them. She came across that feeling all on her own and everyone else can’t help but laugh and feel relieved. Her mind may have forgotten but her heart remembers everything. There is no “old Emma” and “new Emma” to her family, just “Emma” and words can’t express how wholesome that is because they love her regardless. All that matters to them is Emma’s happiness because if anyone deserves to feel and experience that, it’s her.

I just made myself tear up, damn it. I started this series with season one okay? I heard about this precious girl’s dream within the first minute of the first episode and here I am, a little bit over two years later, finally reading about it coming true and seeing that bright as hell smile on her face. Do you know how amazing it is to come full circle like that? My heart feels so full right now. I’m beyond proud of her and love her to death. Say what you want but I believe this to be the true manga ending in my eyes.

(damn this series for always getting me emotional)

[illyaana]

Credits to @breakingpengui1 to the Tendou fanart! Do check them out, I stalked them for almost two hours- ( •̀ ω •́ )✧

Fantasy Collab by @bluebellhairpin

God I'm sorry it took so long TwT I wanted to make this really good so TwT (don't think I did it) Do check out the other works involved!! I am also thinking of making this a three-part series 'cause I have some ideas on this and I took way to long on this, so let me know if you want me to do it!!

⋯⋯ ⫍ Masterlist ◍ Navigation ⫎ ⋯⋯

Like my writing? Do you want a drabble specifically made for you about your love life with a character of your choosing? Check out my 50 followers event over here!

Tags: Fantasy AU, Soulmate AU, Fluff, Angst, Royal! Y/N x Werewolf! Tendou

Word Count: 2611

There was a time when the world of the supernatural was one of peace and harmony.

Magia, the realm of magic and the supernatural being, was one filled with mysteries and beauty.

Plants would dance to the rhythm made by the woodland creatures. Fairies and elves would sing songs in praise of the wondrous views and people who nurtured the lands and made it the beauty it was today.

Mermaids and the life under the wide oceans and seas shared the riches of the water with those on land to make both worlds something to gaze upon.

Yet, it all changed when humans found something within them.

Greed and Pride - the recipe to the fall of Magia.

Now, the land of the supernatural isn’t like the ones stated in fairy tales and stories by the Grimm Brothers of Hans Christen Andersen.

It is one where sins are not shunned but encouraged.

Kings and queens interfere with the peace once built by the people to become one of villainy and devilish intentions - pillaging and conquering lands to become stronger and “better”.

The ones labelled “magical” or “not human” were either killed or hidden far away, never to be seen once again.

You were born into this - this world filled with anguish and pain.

You were born to be on the top of the food chain - to rule a twisted and dark country: Thelphs.

“Y/N, don’t writhe in pain. You are next-in-line for the throne - a simple wound like this should not make you fall.”

“Y/N, a leader never hides away from death - they face it and make it their weapon.”

“Hold your sword higher! You need the correct angle to slice through someone cleanly!”

“Do not taint the name of Thelphs, young one - death is not the thing you should be worried of but me.”

“If you don’t win, you are no longer my kin.”

Your father’s words rang in your head as you reached the land of Aldis - the land that never fell to the wants of humanity and shunned it.

Aldis protected the supernatural world. They were the ones who held onto the desire to make Magia what it was many, many years ago.

It was known for the beauty it held - the flowers were said to sing songs every day and every night and the mountains shook the ground once a month to say thank you to their valiant effort in protecting what the world of Magia should be.

And yet here you are; leading a line of men wielding swords and cannons aplenty to kill the very thing the world should be.

“Onward,” you shouted as you and your man marched down the stone roads of Aldis, “Fight, my people - fight for Thelphs, fight for your King!”

You pulled the sword sheathed in your belt and pointed towards the land before you. Soon, an uproar formed from the men behind you as you all marched towards the lines of houses.

You begged your humanity to hide as you wielded the weapon in your hand and slashed through hundreds of innocent people.

You begged your ears to close just for a few hours so that the screams of children could not enter as you pillaged their homes, reaping all their goods.

You felt the ground shake below you, trying its best to stop you from killing any more living things, yet you couldn’t.

A haze formed in front of your eyes, hiding all of your caring sides. You could only feel bloodlust - the need to slaughter and to feel the blood of others on you.

It was no use. Your feet, despite being on a moving floor, were still holding on to the ground, The grip you hand on your sword didn’t loosen and tightened.

If you were meant to be a machine designed to kill, you needed to carry out your job properly to ensure you aren’t thrown away.

The fairies soon came to attack you and your men, but you couldn’t kill it.

It was the first time you saw one that had magical abilities. The beauty it held entranced you.

Their wings were translucent. The light that hit it would change colour thanks to the dust that left its wings, forming somewhat of a halo around them. Their hair reached the very bottom of their legs. It swished back and forth as they flew towards you.

A pang was felt in your heart when you remembered your father’s words.

He said the fairies were ones who never cared about humans and instead mooch humans to live.

They were pests that needed to be killed, according to him.

But they are fighting alongside humans right now to protect their homes.

It was clear your father’s words were far from the truth, yet you needed to follow his wants, his needs.

You begged your limbs to move on their own so that you didn’t feel the piles of flesh go through your blade.

But you couldn’t.

You had to stay conscious through all the pain and misery you were giving to those who didn’t even deserve it.

The mixture of both human and fairy blood soaked your inner shirt, forever staining it.

The once grey tiles that covered the floor of Aldis now are forever painted red, and it was thanks to your orders.

You walked through the mountains of bodies, the blood streaming from them staining your shoes.

This was your fault.

This was all your fault.

You looked up to the sky, praying for the rain to fall and wash away your sins, but you could only see the clear, blue sky staring back at you. The clouds moved slowly through the pale blue background midst hiding the Sun’s blinding light away from you.

Semi, your commander soon stood beside you.

“My liege-”

“I killed them - I killed angel-like fairies. I killed humans, I made the ground shake - literally - and I killed the first-ever fairy I have seen. How did my father do this and still walk around Thelphs with no regrets?”

“Y/N...” Semi said, trying to console you.

But you could only laugh.

This.

This is what it means to be human- to kill those who don’t deserve to be killed.

“I can’t handle this anymore, Semi. I want to end this - all of this - so badly, yet I can’t even fight my own father.”

You turned your face to look at your childhood friend.

He too felt the same way you did - his eyes said everything.

Behind the coffee-coloured eyes hid guilt, sorrow and pain.

His face filled with the dust and smoke from the bombs that your men slung to this land. Yet, some streaks were starting from his eyes to the ends of his chin that were clean. Blood dripped from the top of his forehead down to his lips, leaving half of his face coloured in crimson.

Your thoughts rang clearly after looking at the man before you.

It was no longer about wanting to end it, you had to.

You placed your hand on his shoulder, “I will end this, Semi - this unneeded suffering and killings - I’ll end it all.”

He gave a teary smile to you. “Please, Y/N. I don’t think I can do this until I die.”

You pulled a handkerchief you kept in your pocket and proceeded to wipe the blood off his face.

“I can’t, too. This guilt,” you shook slightly, tears threatening to fall, “This guilt is too much to bear.”

He raised his hand and wiped off the tears.

“My liege, you need to be strong. We’re going to face the people we’ve committed countless sins against. Impersonate the devil - be the evil person you aren’t to protect the name of Thelphs.”

He took the blood-soaked handkerchief from your hand and threw it to the floor, “After all, what but devils would do what we did?”

Your heart broke at the words muttered by the man before you.

He was the furthest thing from a devil.

He was the man who comforted you when you were crying.

He was the man who took your pain and gave you nothing but light and joy.

Yet he stood in front of you - covered in blood both his and others with a strong resolve.

You stared at him, anger flaring in your orbs.

“You are the furthest thing from a devil, Semi Eita. But, we are controlled by one. Innocent ones like you should have never fallen into his tricks.”

He was taken aback by what you said. Tears soon fell from his eyes, sobs that he hid from you all these years came flowing like an endless howl.

He placed his head against the corner of your neck. Your shirt slowly began taking in his tears as they trickled down your neck.

You wrapped your arms around his figure. It was your time to comfort him.

Once he stopped crying, he wiped his tears and gripped your shoulders. “We need to go to the riverbank now.”

You nodded and let Semi lead you to the body of water.

You saw how the people tried to protect themselves from your men. They formed a circle with the younger ones in the middle. The ones on the circumference of the circle gripped on their small blades as they threatened your armoured soldiers.

They cared for each other.

The strong wanted to protect the weak; they were willing to sacrifice their lives so that the legacy of Aldis lived on through the young.

“Bring out the carriages,” you told your men. They immediately nodded and proceeded to follow the orders issued.

You turned to the people you’ve captured. A smile managed to reach your lips as they looked at your figure with fear.

“I do not wish any harm on you. We’re just going to make all of you line up and bring you to Thelphs - that is it,” you finished.

Most of them nodded in fear, yet there was one who refused to listen.

His hands had burned aplenty, instantly telling you that he was an ironsmith. He wasn’t rich - the clothes he wore were tattered, many of the holes were formed through his hours in iron crafting, presumably. Yet, you didn’t doubt his skill in fighting. The way he held the sword spoke more than words. The way his fingers comfortably wrapped around the leather handle made you feel some sort of pride within.

He was a person of valour and determination.

In almost seconds, he lunged in your direction.

You didn’t want to take out your sword. It felt like the man needed to hurt you in some way to make himself feel relaxed.

You gripped on the handle of your sword but didn’t have the heart to pull it out of your sheath.

You closed your eyes, waiting for the small tip of the blade to pierce through your skin. You wanted to feel your skin tear from the man’s undying resolve.

But it never came.

Instead, you heard the clashing of metal against metal.

Semi had rushed to protect you using his shield.

He stared at you, anger visible in his eyes.

“You made me a promise, Y/N. Don’t you dare take the easy way out.”

You could only smile and nod at the ash grey-haired male in front of you.

You teared your gaze from Semi to the man before you.

The disappointment and vengeance in him began to grow. The flame he once held within grew into a blazing fire.

“Why? Why attack us?” he began.

“We did nothing to you. We protected ourselves and helped others who needed us. We never bothered Thelphs - not even once, so why?”

You couldn’t reply - your morals would’ve gotten the best of you.

“Chain them all to each other - take all their weapons or anything sharp. We’re going back to Thelphs as winners, we don’t need the scars to prove it.”

You heard the roars of the men who stood before you. In their eyes, they believed all they’ve done is for the betterment of the world you all lived in.

But you knew what hid behind the tapestry that was woven by your father - destruction.

You bit your lip, not wanting to ruin the cheerful moment your men were having - all you could do was stare at Semi and let your eyes speak of all the pain you were feeling.

From afar, you heard a howl that woke up your numb senses.

Werewolves.

Joy graced the victims of your purge.

Their saviours came, ready to vanquish you and your men.

“They said the future leader of Thelphs was one ruthless and evil miscreant, yet they seem awfully sad for someone who led their troops to glory,” a werewolf said as he emerged from the bush beside you, “They do have a heart, after all.”

You stopped the minute you saw the male that now stood before you.

His red hair framed his sharp-jawed face. His obsidian eyes stared you down, a passion forming within the two of you. His olive skin gleamed under the soft light of the Sun. As he moved, you saw the scars painted on his skin - slashes made by swords and vicious beasts shifted in variations of his peach skin.

The ends of his lips raised as his eyes raised up and down, taking you in slowly.

“Mine.”

He rushed to you, his hand finding its place around your throat. He gripped softly, but strong enough to keep your soldiers on alert.

“Stand back!” you said, urging them to move back.

“Oh? - So my mate actually does care for me, don’t they?” He said, his mouth reaching the base of your neck, “How sweet of you, my love.”

Mate?

“State your business here, werewolf.”

“Well, in the beginning, it was to help the people you’ve captured,” his hand travelled to your waist, pulling you in, “But I think my prey has changed.”

You tried to pry yourself off of him, but you knew, deep inside, you wanted to pull him closer. You wanted to throw the troubles you had, all the roles you were born to play, to cast away the men who viciously fought under your order - all of that, just for a male you have just gazed upon.

The pull, the connection - it was instant. It was present, unrivalled.

Its wants and needs rang so clearly in your head.

But you had a promise to Semi - to the country you loved.

“Let go of me, wolf.”

“You don’t mean that love,” he said as he placed his head in the crook of your neck, “You want me just as much as I want you.”

He placed his hand on your cheek and you instinctively melted into the soft touch of his.

“Look at that,” he whispered, “You have already felt it, too - you know you can’t look back.”

“I can’t just give it up,” you tear.

“Then change it. I’ll stand behind you - change your homeland to what it was; a beacon of hope and freedom,” he smiled as your eyes softened, “This connection has to be proof that you were meant to be the change Thelphs needs, Y/N.”

You stare at his black eyes - more specifically the brown flecks that danced within them. They sang of nothing but determination and want - he wanted you, but he knew you had a want to change your homeland. He knew it all - just by a few minutes of just glancing at you.

He kissed your cheek, warmth spreading by that small action.

Your thoughts ran clear, the blinds holding back your judgement drawn.

“No.”

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 5,482

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, referenced (temporary) character death

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur overhears a conversation that is not quite meant for him, and then they all set out to pick up Technoblade. It’s not the worst road trip in the world, but it’s not exactly the best, either.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Thirteen: wipe the dirt off of your hands (i)

They settle on two hours as a timeline. Two hours before they leave: he, Phil, Tommy, and Tubbo, the four of them off to the tundra. He’s left the rest of them to decide whether they want to stay in the castle or be among those braving the rest of the server in order to warn the others, to bring anyone who wants to come back with them to their base of operations. Safe and sound, or as much as anyone can be, now.

Two hours. It feels like too long. Dream could be doing anything with that time. The Egg could be doing anything with that time. He feels restless, irritated at the wait, even though he knows it makes sense, knows that pushing everyone too hard too soon will do more harm than good, that two hours, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t very long.

(but isn’t it, though? two hours can change the tide of a battle, can mean the difference between success and failure, life and death, a surrender and a victory)

He finds himself pacing the hallways of the castle.

It’s in greater disrepair than he expected. Almost every room he walks into is coated in dust. No one has stayed here in—months, probably. No one other than Eret, perhaps, and he said he’d been away. It puts him in a strange mood; he remembers this place when it was new, when it was lived in, spilling over with light and movement, and he hated it then, of course, hated what it stood for, what it represented, but it made others happy. Niki, for one; she always liked Eret, despite his efforts to persuade her otherwise. Fundy,

(and the memory is fuzzy, indistinct, because Ghostbur did not want to remember this, did not want to confront his own inadequacy, but Fundy stands in front of him with papers clutched in his hand and he’s saying something about adoption and all that he feels is crushing abandonment, crushing guilt, and it is wiped away in the blue only a moment later but for that moment, he is overwhelmed by the knowledge that he has failed his son, failed him badly enough that he would run to the arms of a traitor, and the word adoption drips like sodden soil, drips like words that die useless on his tongue)

because he always liked Eret too, even though he was there that day, even though he lost a life to his machinations, his betrayal, even though he should have known better. He’s pretty sure he remembers HBomb staying here as well, though he never knew the man well enough to pay attention. But now there is no one, and the castle is empty, and every step he takes feels haunted by ghosts of people that still live.

The castle is a relic. Perhaps he is one, too. A relic of an older time. This server has moved on, has changed so much, and he plays at being the general again, puts on the general’s mask as it is needed, but he doesn’t know if that’s right, if it makes any difference at all, if the general can find his footing in an altered world. How useful is a general that doesn’t know the lay of the land?

(how useful is a general who has not won the war within himself?)

(the part of you that could lead broke a long time ago and you know it and it was not the ravine that did it you were broken before then broken under the weight of a position you did not know how to handle and your shining city stood for freedom stood for those you wanted to protect but it became harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning and you crumpled crumpled like wet paper like the documents that signed your emancipation and meant nothing at all in the end because the ideals fell apart long before you set the final nail in the coffin you built for yourself)

Two hours. Less than that, by now, surely. If Phil were to see him, he’d tell him to rest. Perhaps that’s part of why he’s doing this. Wandering alone. Because if Phil were to see him, he’d tell him to rest,

(hypocrite that he is, because Wilbur knows that Phil is not resting, knows that he’s situated himself at the castle’s highest turret, eyes cast to the distance, shoulders tense and posture still, waiting, a live wire)

but he cannot, cannot dispel the energy that buzzes through him, even though his mind is fogged with exhaustion. He cannot rest, and not least because he doesn’t know what kind of dreams would greet him, what would rise out of the darkness now that he knows precisely what lurks within it.

So he walks. Walks, and walks, and tries not to count the minutes as they pass, walks several laps through the castle’s corridors before the sound of voices breaks him out of his fugue.

“—talking about?” someone says, and it’s Tommy. He slows to a stop outside of a closed door, identical to all the rest but for the fact that there is someone inside.

“I mean it,” comes the reply. Tubbo. His voice is muffled by the barrier between them, but Wilbur can understand him perfectly. And for a moment, he considers moving onward. Whatever they’re discussing, they don’t need him listening in on it.

Instead, he inches closer, and leans against the wall just outside the door. The stone is hard against his back, unforgiving, cold.

“I can do the most good here,” Tubbo continues. “You all don’t need me to come with you to get Technoblade. That’s—Tommy, this is serious, you know?”

“I fucking know,” Tommy snaps. “I don’t see why that means you’ve got to stay behind.”

“Because I can actually help here,” Tubbo replies, his voice rising slightly. “Tommy—listen, Tommy, I know about these kinds of things. Not enough, but some, and I can help. I can try to keep it out. I can put enchantments all over the place and stuff like that, try to make sure it can’t get to us. Try and make it a safe place. That’s something we need right now.” He pauses. “Take Ranboo with you instead, yeah? He lives up there, he’s close with Techno, he should go.”

“I don’t want to leave you here,” Tommy says.

Wilbur closes his eyes. There is more emotion in his voice than this situation alone would warrant, he thinks. More history. More history that he, perhaps, is not privy to. That he hasn’t asked about, that he didn’t want to ask about, because he didn’t want to prod at wounds that have not yet closed. He regrets it, now. Perhaps then he would have context for the crack in Tommy’s voice.

“I know,” Tubbo says, his voice soft. “But you’ve got to. We’ve got to do what we’ve go to do now, big man. You and Wil go get Techno and look at Phil’s books. I’ll be here when you get back.”

He expects strong words from Tommy at that. But instead there is silence. Wilbur strains to hear, leans in closer, but there is nothing.

“This isn’t like then,” Tubbo says after a moment. “We’re both safe. Wilbur won’t let anything happen to you. And nobody here’s gonna let anything happen to me. I’ve got Eret, and Sapnap, and Puffy.”

“Oh, well, if Eret’s here,” Tommy mutters, and Wilbur jerks. Tommy’s voice is choked, wet, and for a second, his instinct is to open the door, to step inside and offer what comfort he can, but his feet feel glued to the floor.

(this is not for you not for you to heal these hurts when the root of the hurt is of you this is them their moment and you are on the outside looking in a trespasser and if you move anywhere it must be to go)

“I thought you forgave Eret,” Tubbo says.

“I do,” Tommy replies. “This is—this isn’t about that, and you know it, I just—”

“I know,” Tubbo says, “I do, I know.”

There is silence after that. A rustle of clothing. And then a few muffled noises. Wilbur knows all too well what it sounds like, someone crying into someone else, allowing themself a moment of grief, of terror, of unbridled emotion. He should leave. Leave them to it. Leave them to this. It’s the least he can do; this is his fault, his fault that they’re involved in this, his fault that they’ve been dragged into conflict once again, his fault that anything terrible happened to them at all. His fault they’re not all still at home, on a server far away, in the house that he and Tommy grew up in and that Tubbo may as well have.

(you took them with you and made soldiers out of them, soldiers out of children. you took them with you and set the weight of the world on their shoulders, and the way their eyes dimmed is because of you. the burn scars on Tubbo’s face, the tremble in Tommy’s fingers that he tries fruitlessly to hide, this is all because of you. you took children and gave them grownups’ clothes and grownups’ weapons and guided their hands to pierce the heart, guided their hands with your own and claimed the blood for yours though it did not change the way their hands were painted, and then you abandoned them, abandoned them to yourself and then, at the last, fully, abandoned them in every way possible, abandoned them to the wolves and the ruins and you should have known better, should have known that even if the land was not important to you it was important to these children, these children you sent to hell with songs on their lips)

(but then, there is this also: they would not have had it any other way. they looked at you with stars in their eyes, and perhaps they were blinded by the fire of you, but they loved you. they loved you then, and they love you still. and they will follow you yet despite it all despite what you have done they will follow you and their eyes are open to what you are and they still follow and it must be for love little though you deserve it it must be for love because love is not about deserving)

He breathes. Puts his back to the wall, and then slides down. Sits. Listens to Tommy cry. Presses his eyes shut, and then presses the palms of his hands to his eyes until spots of color flicker on the back of his eyelids.

He stays there for a long time before lurching to his feet once again.

----------

“I didn’t miss this,” Tommy mutters, rubbing his arms, glaring balefully at Phil as if he controls the weather.

Phil offers a short laugh. Out of all of them, he’s the only one really dressed for the climate; Eret offered them all heavier coats before they left, but there’s heavier coats and then there’s coats meant for a blizzard, and these are not the latter.

“We’ve got some better stuff once we get to the house,” Phil says. “I’ll make us some hot drinks, too.”

“I don’t want your stupid tea,” Tommy says, but he seems mollified.

“I’ll take some tea,” Ranboo says immediately afterward, and Wilbur is having to slowly revise his opinion of this kid. Anxious as all hell, sure. A bit of a pushover, definitely. But he’s got a streak of hardness in him, though he tends to back down upon being challenged. Like right now: Tommy directs his glare toward him, and he apologizes immediately. But he’s a bit of an enigma, this Ranboo. Hidden depths. And Ghostbur liked him, which doesn’t always count for anything, but in this case, he thinks it might.

“Everyone who wants some tea can have some tea,” Phil says, another laugh in his voice. He looks a bit better than he did earlier, though his smile seems strained, his movements rushed, obviously anticipating their arrival at their destination. His wings are hidden again, disguised underneath a thick cloak, and Wilbur hates it all the more, if that’s possible, now that he understands exactly why. He remembers Phil telling him, once, that he disliked keeping his wings under his clothes, that it was uncomfortable, itchy, cramped. And now Phil does it as if it is second nature.

“I wouldn’t mind some tea,” he says softly, and glances away when Phil looks at him.

“Of course, Wil,” Phil says, matching his tone, and then they pass out from under the trees, and Technoblade’s quaint little cottage comes into view.

The windows are dark. No smoke rises from the chimney. It’s a far cry from the last time he saw it, when it seemed to him a bastion against the pervasive chill outside, warm and welcoming, no matter his trepidation about who waited within.

“Well, that’s ominous,” Tommy says, and Wilbur winces.

“Maybe he’s sleeping?” Ranboo tries. “I’ve never lost a life here, but, um, y’know, I used to live on Hypixel. Did some of the arena stuff, respawned a few times. It always made me tired.”

“That’s probably it,” Phil agrees, but his eyes are pinched, and Wilbur can tell that he’s worried. It is an easy thing to read, Phil’s worry. Easy to read, for how common it is. He strains to remember whether this stress he carries with him was nearly as prevalent when they were kids, and he comes up empty.

“Well, let’s go wake him up, then,” Tommy declares, and strides forward with determination, still talking. “I fucking hate this place, it’s such a stupid little house—” Ranboo follows after him, but Wilbur grabs Phil by the arm, delaying him for a second even as he tracks the kids’ progress ahead of them, like they’ll fall into some misfortune if he looks away for a moment.

“You’re worried,” he says.

“Respawn can be tough,” Phil says. “I need to lay eyes on him for myself.”

He knows, of course, what Phil is talking about. He remembers the sensation all too well. Remembers the pain

(in his throat as Punz slashed it, his lifeblood spilling out on his hands as he clutched the wound, his voice silenced, silenced as he tried to breathe but choked on thick copper and it took him a full minute to bleed out on the floor, every second edged with desperate, consuming fear)

(in his back as Punz’s shot sailed true, hit his heart, his vision darkening around the edges as terror flooded him, terror not just for him but for Tommy, for Tommy, his little brother who he never intended to bring down with him)

of dying, and then the void, but not the true void, not the void he remembers all too well,

(not the void that cradled him even as it ate away at all he was)

but a transition, a place both within life and out of it, and a howling second-minute-hour in which he could feel nothing at all. And then, slamming back into consciousness, every nerve burning with the phantom agony of disembodiment, of every cell destroyed and then forced back together, made anew,

(but there was no time to rest no time to work through it because they needed to go needed to run)

gasping back to the living world shaking and barely cognizant.

Respawn can be tough. Is tough. He knows that Techno has experienced it before, if rarely, but that was on different worlds, worlds that do not limit a person’s lives. He has not lost one here. Has not lost one that counted so dearly.

But there is nothing to do now but walk forward.

The house is cold, the fire unlit. Tommy has sobered, and his arms are crossed, almost hugging himself. Ranboo shifts uneasily, gaze flickering around the ground floor, the unlit furnaces, the chests stacked against each other, the windows slanting thin light into the room. Wilbur catches Phil’s eye, and Phil sighs.

“Up here,” he says, and starts up the ladder. He waits a beat before following, something in him oddly reluctant.

He didn’t venture up here, when he visited—how long ago? Not more than two weeks.

(two weeks breathing, two weeks living, and it feels like so, so much longer)

He’s not sure what he was expecting from Techno’s room, but it was probably something like this: chests shoved against the wall, a bell out on display, an emerald block for good measure, bookshelves in every available space. It is very Techno, sparse and yet not, filled with only the things he cares deeply about, cramped but lived-in. But the bed is empty, and it takes a moment for Wilbur to spot where Techno is. When he does, his heart leaps into his throat.

Techno is sitting against the wall, and on first glance, he looks fine. But only on a first glance, because a second tells Wilbur that his breathing is labored, his eyes screwed tightly shut, sweat beading his forehead. His fists are clenched, and fine tremors run through his body, a constant shuddering that must be exhausting.

There is a new scar on his neck. Thick and white.

Ranboo makes a sound, a startled warble. Tommy inhales sharply, and is silent.

Wilbur feels frozen where he stands.

Respawn can be tough. But somehow, this feels like something else.

(his brother is supposed to be invincible unstoppable impervious to pain he is not supposed to be hurt he is not supposed to be hurt and he doesn’t know what to do for something of this magnitude because he knows how to help when the voices get to loud when his voices drown out everything else and give him migraines but this is not that this is deeper than that worse than that)

Phil steps forward, robes swishing as he kneels by Techno’s side. His hands hover, but he does not touch. Wilbur wants to join him, wants to help, but he still can’t make himself move. He’s not sure why this sight has frozen him so; perhaps it’s because he wasn’t prepared for it, even with all his knowledge of the possibilities, even being well aware that no one comes out of losing a life unscathed, ready to jump back into battle, not even Technoblade.

Perhaps there really isn’t anything that can prepare him to see his brother in pain. Even now.

(and the general is useless here, because this is family)

“Hey,” Phil says quietly. “Techno? You awake?”

To his surprise, Techno stirs. Shifts just a bit in place, wincing, and then his eyes crack open. They are dazed, glazed over, the usually piercing red dull and clouded and—

Gold. There is gold in his eyes, too, flickering, flashing, and every time Wilbur catches a glimpse of it, Techno jerks, a convulsion just barely distinguishable from the rest of his shaking. It is a shimmering gold, the same color as the burst of light that hailed his resurrection, that hailed his renewal, that hailed Technoblade never dies, the burst of energy that vibrated in his bones and sent heat skidding across his skin. The light of the totem is in Techno’s eyes, somehow, and it—

It is hurting him.

“Shit,” Phil mutters. “I was worried about this. Techno, can you hear me?”

Techno swallows, his throat bobbing, and Wilbur’s eyes are drawn

(Dream’s axe in his throat and the blood spurts hot and red and he only has a moment to stare at the gaping wound before the sentence comes down and his brother is)

to the scar again. Almost imperceptibly, Techno nods.

“Okay,” Phil says, and his hands finally land, one on Techno’s shoulder and one on his hand, and Techno immediately grasps his fingers in a death grip. Phil winces, but makes no protest. “Okay, you’re gonna be okay, Techno. Not much to do but wait it out, but I can get you some pots that should help. Would that be okay?”

Technoblade huffs, and then nods. Again, just slightly. His eyes flicker around the room, half-lidded, and Wilbur’s not even sure that he’s aware they’re all there, except then, his gaze lands on Tommy and stays there. Tommy flinches, face paling, and he edges back toward the ladder, hands clenching and unclenching, like he thinks that Techno is going to leap up and attack him, somehow, in this state.

(but that’s not it at all—this is the attack, seeing him in this way, seeing him weakened, seeing the result of the action he took, because Wilbur knows himself and he knows Tommy, and he knows that for all his efforts, Tommy takes after him in some ways. Tommy internalizes a lot. internalizes blame, takes responsibility for things outside of his control, things with vast, terrible consequences, even as he avoids responsibility for minor faults, things that no one takes much issue with in the first place. he’s strange like that, Tommy, but he knows all too well that Tommy watched Technoblade die in front of him, for him, and decided immediately that it was his fault. he would have done the same thing. has been doing the same thing)

(Dream’s voice, smooth and confident and hated: how many people are gonna have to sacrifice themselves for you before you learn?)

(the answer: at least one more, always one more, but somebody needs to get it through Tommy’s skull that he is worth it, worth a sacrifice, worth everything that people are willing to give him and more. someone needs to tell him, because he doesn’t think he knows)

Technoblade grunts something, short and clipped, and it takes him a second to realize he’s speaking in Piglin. Not for the first time, he regrets his barely rudimentary knowledge of the language. But Phil understands, and something that is just slightly too pained to be a real smile passes across his face. He answers in kind, and Technoblade relaxes marginally. He sighs, eyes falling shut, and he tips forward a bit, resting his head against Phil’s chest. Phil begins carding a hand through his hair, the motion seemingly automatic.

“Any of you have a weakness pot on you?” Phil asks, switching to the common tongue. “Healing and regen will do more harm than good for him right now. Best thing for him to do is sleep through it.”

He certainly doesn’t. Tommy shakes his head mutely. But Ranboo raises a tentative hand.

“I don’t have any on me, but I might have one at my house?” he offers. “I can go see.”

Phil nods. “Thank you, Ranboo,” he says, and Ranboo nods back, climbing down the ladder, casting once last glance at Techno before he goes. The front door opens and shuts a moment later, and the four of them are alone.

“What’s wrong with him, then?” Tommy asks, after a pregnant silence. “I mean. Respawn fucking sucks. But why is he like this?”

He’s trying too hard not to sound concerned. No one in this room is going to fall for it, except maybe Techno, who seems too out of it to be listening at all, really. But Phil doesn’t call him on it, just grimaces.

“I’ve seen it a few times before,” he says lowly. “Various wars I’ve been in. People could use a totem and then die again in their next breath, if they were unlucky. Respawning from that is always difficult, because the magic from the totem doesn’t have time to work its way out of your system, and it’s not the kind of thing that a respawn wipes away. It’s the opposite, actually. So he’s still got that shit raging through him, except now there’s nothing for it to do, so it’s stuck there until it dissipates. And it’s not—it’s not pleasant, from what I’ve seen. That shit’s potent. Not good to have it in you for too long.”

“And there’s nothing we can do about it?” he checks.

“Short of killing him again? No,” Phil says. “Even that might not work. It’s been a few hours, so he should be coming out of the worst of it pretty soon. But until then, he just needs to rest.”

“C’n hear you,” Techno mumbles suddenly. He shifts so that his face is half-visible, and Wilbur’s not sure he remembers the last time he saw his brother look so vulnerable.

(on a stage in front of a crowd, perhaps, perhaps, peer pressure that he knew Techno would be unable to withstand, an impossible situation laid out before him, to blow his cover or not, to blow his cover and ensure the death of he and Tubbo alike, perhaps, perhaps, and which is better, to pull the trigger and save yourself or refuse and damn you both? but Techno made his choice, and he can only imagine what his face was doing, because a mask covered his expression that day, as it did so many of those days, a barrier between him and his brother. a barrier between the man he became, dark and shadowed and laying out plot threads like he thought himself one of the Fates, a man with the power to chose his own archetype, a barrier between that man and the man he strung along in his wake, cold, impersonal, intimidating, distant, and nothing like what he should have been. what they should have been, together)

It is hard to imagine that this man prides himself on being undefeated. Hard to imagine that only hours ago

(and it feels like days, like weeks, like a month)

this man was gleefully engaging Dream in combat, was winning before Dream decided to play dirty, before he dragged Tommy into it, before he took advantage of what he must have known Technoblade would do if Tommy was threatened, if his final life hung in the balance. Because for all his feelings of betrayal, for all his insistence that he’s done, finished with them, finished with trying, finished with involving himself in their troubles when he gets nothing in return, for all of that—

For all of that, Technoblade still cares for them. He knows that. And Technoblade is loyal to those he loves. Despite it all.

(and it is a bitter pill to swallow, after everything, but if Techno did not want to stand by their sides, he would not have come, whether Phil asked it of him or not. but he did. he did, and this is the price, the consequence)

“Yeah? Then can you hear me calling you a bitch?” Tommy says, and absolutely none of his usual bravado makes it into his voice.

Techno huffs, and if he’s going to say anything, it gets interrupted by the door down below opening and closing again, and then the ladder creaking as Ranboo climbs up.

“Weakness potion,” he says, holding it out, and Phil accepts it, handling it where Techno can see it.

“Taking this ought to help, Tech,” he murmurs. “I know it’s not your first choice, but there’s no point in you being awake while your body sorts this shit out.”

Techno flicks his fingers, a gesture that might loosely be interpreted as meaning go ahead, and then he sags, as if even doing that much has taken up all the energy he has left. But Phil takes it as an affirmative, and he guides the flask up to Techno’s lips, and Wilbur looks away as he prods Techno into swallowing its contents. It feels strangely intimate, uncomfortable, like he’s intruding on something private. Which should be a ridiculous thought; this is his father and his brother, and perhaps he’s never seen Techno hurt as bad as this, but he’s seen him hurt, and Phil has taken care of all of them like this at one point or another.

(but you see this and you cannot help but project and perhaps the intimacy discomfits you because it is not for you because you cannot help but imagine it for yourself and come to the conclusion that you do not deserve it would not deserve it if your positions were reversed)

(or perhaps you see this, and you see yourself standing there, doing nothing, not even speaking a word, and you just feel useless)

“He’s out,” Phil says, only a beat later. “He should be better by tomorrow, maybe even tonight if we’re lucky. These things just need to run their course.” He smooths a bit of hair back from Techno’s face, which is more peaceful now, slack in sleep, only a vague tightness to hint at disquiet.

“Um, well that’s good,” Ranboo says. “What do we do until then?”

“What we came here to do,” Phil says, and gets to his feet, lifting Technoblade in his arms in the same motion. It looks a bit awkward; Techno has more than a foot on Phil, but Phil carries him to his bed with apparent ease. “We came here for information, so that’s what we’ll try to find.” He pauses, frowning. “I don’t like leaving him alone in this state, but he should be alright, and we’ll be—”

“I’ll stay with him,” Tommy says.

Wilbur blinks. Tommy scowls. He looks a bit surprised, almost, like he didn’t expect the words to come out of his mouth. But when faced with the attention of the entire room, he doubles down on it.

“Look, someone should make sure he doesn’t keel over again in his sleep, right?” he says. “Not that I care, but it’d be—it’d be downright inconvenient, now, wouldn’t it? So someone oughta stay, and if we’re gonna be looking at, at books and shit, well, that’s not really my thing. Could be, if I wanted to! But y’know, it’s boring, and I have better things to do quite often. Like, like women and shit. So, maybe if you want to be doing research, I’m not—ugh, maybe I’m not the best man to help with that. So I can stay here with him.”

Phil cocks his head, apparently bemused. “I suppose?” he says. “But, Tommy, are you sure—”

“Oh Prime, yes,” Tommy says, and flaps a hand at all of them. “I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t sure, would I? So go and, go and look through all your stupid old man books, and I’ll stay here. Look, he’s even got a seat for me already.” He stalks across the room and throws himself down on the emerald block, pulling his legs up to sit criss-cross. “It’s like it was made for me. An e-mer-ald throne. Go on. Shoo. Fuck right off.”

His cheeks are a bit flushed. Embarrassment, no doubt, at being caught caring about Technoblade, because that’s what this is, deep down. But he’s fidgeting, too, like he’s nervous, though nervous about what, Wilbur isn’t sure. Nervous about being alone in a room with Techno? Maybe, except Techno is out like a light. Nervous about the rest of them confronting him on it? Also maybe, and Phil looks confused enough to push him on it, so Wilbur decides to step in.

“Good of you to volunteer, Tommy,” he says. “Come get us if he starts making odd sounds or something, I suppose.”

Tommy pulls a face. “Odd sounds,” he repeats dubiously. “That right there, I don’t appreciate the way you said that.”

“Ookay,” Phil says. “Right, then. Come get us if you need us, Tommy. Wil, Ranboo, I’ll show you where we’re going.”

Wilbur follows Phil back down the ladder. But not before looking at the scene one last time. Techno in bed, dead to the world. Tommy perched on an emerald block, staring at their brother with intensity, something dark and inscrutable flashing in his eyes. Wilbur wonders at the wisdom of leaving Tommy alone here. There is bad blood between them. Bad blood, despite what Techno just did. And it hurts a bit, having to consider things like this, having to consider the likelihood of his brothers trying to murder each other if they’re left alone together,

(and it is partially his fault, he knows, one more thing to add to the list, the pit looming large in his memories)

but there’s nothing for it now. If he brings his concerns up, Tommy will just buckle down further, his pride rearing up. So Wilbur follows Phil and Ranboo down the ladder, and tries to think positively.

It’s difficult. He’s out of practice at it.

“Alright,” Phil says, and once again, Wilbur is struck by how old he looks, how worn down. “Suppose I’ll show you two the stronghold, then.”

A beat passes.

“The what—”

[crypty]

Rät

I come from scientists and atheists and white men who kill God They make technology high quality complex physiological Experiments and sacrilege in the name of public good They taught me everything Just like a daddy should

Almost everything Tommy knew, he learnt from Wilbur. How to make speeches, how to strategize, how to fight. They rebelled against Dream to make potions. They rebelled so everyone could benefit. They rebelled against tyranny. He would do anything for his brother. Tommy went to war with Wilbur but only found out what he lost afterwords. Sacrifices for everyone, put the burden on the children who fought for the land. The foundation of L’Manberg was blood, after all. 

And you were beautiful and vulnerable And power and success God damn I fell for you your flamethrowers Your tunnels and your tech I studied code because I wanted To do something great like you And the real tragedy is half of it was true

Wilbur was powerful and successful. He was general of an army, fighting against a nation much larger than his own. Tommy watched everything the brown haired man did. He wanted to be just like Wilbur. He wanted to be as charismatic and influential as his brother. He wanted to be great, to do great things. He ended up sticking with his brother to the end. He did end up doing great things, both of them. Both brothers ended up seeing their hard work blow up in front of them. Only one had a choice. 

But we've been fucking mean We're elitist We're as flawed as any Church And this faux rad west coast dogma Has a higher fucking net worth I bit the apple 'cuz I trusted you But it tastes like Thomas Malthus Your proposal is immodest and insane And I hope someday Selmers rides her fucking train

They ran for president. Tommy would have been Wilbur’s vice. The ones who fought with Wilbur, the ones loyal to him, would have been high ranking in their new government. Tommy trusted Wilbur. When they were exiled, Tommy stuck with his brother. The new government was flawed. Schlatt was a horrible president. He was drunk and abusive but he won the game of politics. Tommy hated him. He and Wilbur formed Pogtopia. He would have followed Wilbur to hell. Eventually, he did. 

I loved you I loved you I loved you it's true I wanted to be you And do what you do I lived here I loved here I thought it was true I feel so stupid I feel so used I feel so used

He loved his brother. Tommy felt broken when he died. As he saw the crater where his nation once stood, as he fought for what little remained, he loved his brother. He wondered if, at the time of his death, there was enough of Wilbur to love Tommy back. He fought for L’Manberg. He fought for his friends. He wondered what Wilbur fought for. He wondered how much was lies. He wondered how much his general used his blind loyalty. He still loved his brother. That’s what hurt the most. 

I was your baby Your first born The hot girl in your comp sci class And I was Darwin's prep school dream Bred born and raised to kick your ass I fell for circuit boards Rocket ships Pictures of the stars If you could only be what you pretend you are

Sapnap and George were left alone. The Dream Team. The ideal friendship. They were everything. They were strong and powerful. Two were genuine. Their leader wasn’t. The Dream Team fell apart. They should have seen the warning signs. They should have noticed Dream faking everything. They should have noticed the power hungriness. They watched the stars and fell into his trap. They should have noticed Dream’s manipulation. They were everything and then they were nothing. 

When I said take me to the moon I never meant take me alone I thought if mankind toured the sky It meant all of us could go But I don't want to see the stars if they're just One more piece of land for you to colonize For us to turn to sand

Dream ruled the SMP. He wasn’t a king or a dictator but he was the leader. He was a good leader for so long. Not all agreed. When Wilbur declared independence, George and Sapnap were the first to take Dream’s side. All three were ambitious and believed they could win. When the first battle came, George realized he was fighting and hurting his friends. Sapnap realized he was fighting children who didn’t truly know what war meant. Neither wanted the war to continue. Dream didn’t either. The war ended quickly. There were smaller battles, smaller wars. Nothing that involved a whole nation. No one in the Dream Team wanted that. As they kept upgrading, they watched L’Manberg have fun. They watched them lose and sometimes win. L’Manberg lost so much. Perhaps that was why it crumbled to dust when Schlatt came. 

Because we're so fucking mean We're so elitist We're as fucked as any church And this bullshit west coast dogma Has a higher fucking net worth I bit the apple 'cuz I loved you And why would you lie And then I realized You're just as naive as I am You're so traumatized it makes me wanna cry

Dream, George, and Sapnap. Some of the strongest fighters in the land. The best armor, the best weapons. They could buy, or steal, anything they wanted. The three of them trusted each other, relied on each other. Why would any of them betray the other two? Dream left them. He wanted more power. He landed himself in the prison and changed. He seemed smaller, sadder. Sapnap visited his old friend. He seemed traumatized. After the visit, Sapnap went to George’s houses. They talked. Sapnap returned to his own house and broke. 

You dumb bitch I loved you I loved you I loved you it's true I wanted to be you And do what you do I lived here I loved here I bought it it's true I'm so embarrassed I feel abused

He yelled at Dream in the prison. It reminded him of earlier arguments. Fights with clenched fists and subtle begs for Dream to go back to normal. Fights that broke their already crumbling friendship. Sapnap once wanted to be his friend. Confident and powerful. The land of the Dream SMP where Sapnap built his home. He should have seen the warning signs. His friend hurt him and now he didn’t know what to do. 

Well I don't wanna eat the rich I'd have to eat my hero's first And my tuition's paid by blood I might deserve your fate or worse But I don't need your goddamn money I don't need jack shit from you So when I speak you bet your life my words are true

Quackity was Schlatt’s right hand man. They were friends, perhaps more. He joint his votes with Schlatt’s during the election. When George bailed on him, Schlatt was Quackity’s hero. He went through so much to stay with Schlatt. He went through abuse, verbal, mental, and physical, to be with the president. He oversaw the Festival to keep power. He saw a young boy get torn apart by rockets to keep his position. He snapped by the end. He didn’t need Schlatt. He learn from the former president. He changed. 

Let me level with you man As someone guilty of the game I took the help I took the cash I would've taken your last name So if any girl on earth Should get to make a call about this It would be me and as I see it You're a dick

He tried to talk Schlatt out of it. By the end of his presidency, he was more drunk and crude then ever before. Quackity saw a man who had helped him and Quackity wanted him to be better. Schlatt wouldn’t change. Schlatt stiill saw himself as above others. Quackity rose up in the past few months. He took Schlatt’s help and influence. He took anything he was offered. Perhaps that’s why he wanted to help Schlatt. He saw Schlatt at his glory and his fall. He saw the best and worse and everything in between. Schlatt was beyond saving. 

So fuck your tunnels fuck your cars Fuck your rockets fuck your cars again You promised you'd be Tesla But you're just another Edison Because Tesla broke a patent All you ever broke were hearts I can't believe you tore humanity apart With the very same machines That could've been our brand new start

Fuck everything that Schlatt had. His power, his office, his mercenaries, his land. He tried his best to break the people who resisted him. He destroyed what the country stood for. He showed everyone his true colors at the Festival. He forced Technoblade into killing Tubbo with rockets. The same fireworks that could have signaled a new land. The same boy who represented the future. Schlatt destroyed L’Manberg, even if Wilbur was the one who blew it up. 

And the worst part is I loved you I loved you I loved you it's true And sometimes I feel like I still fucking do I lived here I loved here I thought it was true I'm so embarrassed I feel abused

The part that made shame rise in Quackity’s throat was that he did care about Schlatt. Maybe he still did. He lived in Manberg, he loved its president and yet he saw it turn to rubble. He was ashamed to have been the one who worked closest with Schlatt. Some people forgave him, some didn’t. Tubbo forgave him. He worked with Tubbo, after Schlatt’s death. He amassed enough power to still be part of the government. He wondered if it was worth it.

I feel so used I feel so used Take me to the moon Because I feel so used I feel so used

~~~

Inspired by Rät by Penelope Scott

Masterlist

https://thelullabyer12.tumblr.com/post/639129395216433152/masterlist-of-2021

[justice4sasuke]

Sorry to be sending you more opinions but there was something you said a little while ago that I just couldn’t get out of my head so here we go; you said, “you don’t have to forgive your abuser, but you can if you want.” And I agree with that sentiment 100%. I’ve been in the position of needing to decide which option to go with in the past, or should I say I haven’t actually decided yet because there can be SO much nuance involved in making that call. Sometimes it’s very simple, sometimes it’s anything but. And there’s no moral right or wrong answer, it’s about picking which option is healthier for you personally. Neither option makes you weak or strong, righteous or in the wrong (1/3)

Now that being said, I am painfully conscious of the fact that the narrative of, “forgiving your abuser makes you a good/kind/better person or whatever,” is pushed the absolute hardest in children’s and YA media, more than any other circle of media. It’s incredible how much and how often this is the only option presented to kids. I see this in shounen manga especially. And there’s a really famous example of an American children’s cartoon that does this which I could name but I won’t. I recognize that shounen does this a lot because WSJ has a sort of on the down low comic’s code thing going on (2/3)

And if Sasuke were real, I’d have no problem with him making the decision to forgive Itachi. And I’m not going to pretend that it doesn’t make sense character or story wise for him to do so. Hell, if I were in his position I might even make the same choice (then again I might not. I can only compare my experiences to his, but I can’t know them). Anyways I get it. But I also know, deep deep down in my traumatized bones, that a major reason why Kishimoto makes this decision FOR Sasuke as a character, is because it’s part of his crusade against the concept of “~hAtReD~” as it presents itself in victims. The only person who gives Sasuke permission to be hurt and angry EVER is Itachi (if I’m remembering the climax of this arc correctly), and I think that’s super important. And it makes perfect sense that Sasuke’s decision in response is to actually forgive him. But I also KNOW that he’s not allowed to choose otherwise. This is a big hand of the author moment imo (2/3) (p.s. you can wait however long you want to respond to this I don’t mind and I don’t want to overwhelm you especially when this could be more relevant later)

I’m always a proponent of recognizing WHY authors make the decisions they do, but I’m not sure it matters much when it comes to Sasuke’s decision to forgive Itachi. 

First I’ll say I find it very hard to parse what Kishimoto actually thinks or feels about anything. This could be because I do not know or speak Japanese or because I don’t seek out content that involves Kishimoto talking about his work. But then again I don’t go looking for author interviews a lot, but I’ve still managed to absorb some information that makes me feel like I know a bit more about the authors. Oda the author of One Piece does multiple Question Corners in each volume of the manga when it comes out that really gives you a feel for who he is as an artist and person and what he thinks. Araki the author of Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure has ever-changing interests and those interests bleed through in his work (a moment where that occurred to me that I found particularly amusing was at the end of one of the part 4 volumes Araki says he got a cat encyclopedia and that or the next volume then has a lot of drawings of cats and explanations about their behavior so you’re like well Araki I can tell). Or even a series I don’t even like because it’s miserable like Attack on Titan I’ve absorbed enough through cultural osmosis to know the author has said enough war crime apologist shit that the fascist wet dream that he portrays is intentional. 

But Kishimoto...I don’t know what he thinks if I’m honest. Does he really resent people with natural talent for things? Does he think everything bad is just hatred and we need to forgive to get over it? Does he think the state is more important than any person or group of people? You could make these assertions based on his writing maybe but Kishimoto’s writing is so flimsy and so many things change throughout the course of Naruto’s story I would just as soon believe every statement he makes about worldview is an accident. In fact Naruto’s blandness and unrelenting stereotypical shounen characteristic of never giving up could lead me to believe there is no heart in his writing whatsoever. Or hell, the end! Where all the main kid characters end up together as much as possible when you follow a two boys one girl rule and are bound by heteronormativity. None of the pairings had an ounce of heart behind them and some of them were fucking /jokes/ (Shikmaru and Temari maybe had a drop of heart to it based on things that happened in part 1 only). I don’t feel I can say Kishimoto’s opinions come through on anything he writes if he’s going to be so careless with what he does. (Yes, I know there is an argument for him being wrung dry by the manga making machine at the end, but that goes along with my point: does Kishimoto intend anything he writes).

All of that up there is leading into a point, but let me get part two out first. I don’t know if I fully agree with your take because forgiving Itachi isn’t what makes Sasuke “good” in the eyes of the narrative. Sasuke forgiving Itachi is important in terms of how we talk about their relationship but in the eyes of the narrative it is a foregone conclusion. There is some anger and resentment still after Sasuke learns the truth about Itachi, but there’s also still a ton of love and hero-worship there. By the time Itachi says “you should choose your own path” and “no matter what you do from now on I’ll always love you”, Sasuke’s forgiveness has already been granted and after that Sasuke’s journey is more about trying to reconcile his world view. And after Sasuke resurrects the hokages and gets the love story of the ages learns about the founding of Konoha, in true Kishimoto fashion, it seems like Sasuke is going to be a “good” guy now only to have him doing things that seem “evil” during the war and then after Kaguya is defeated he lays out his revolution plan which the manga views as “evil”. Kishimoto puts so little emphasis on forgiveness and explicitly keeps Sasuke in the “wrong” until the end of the manga so I don’t think anyone is expected or intended to see forgiveness as the way to be better. I think we kind of reverse engineer the forgiveness topic by bringing up the point of Sasuke possibly not forgiving Itachi when that’s not even a question in the manga. 

This brings us back to Kishimoto’s thoughts and intentions because is the fact that forgiveness or not is not even considered an author conscious decision, that forgiveness is the right choice? Or was forgiveness just the obvious choice because how Sasuke’s character was built out? I don’t think any of us can say because like I said above I think Kishimoto’s actual feelings and goals with his work are hard to pin down. 

Also I know this whole blog is about extrapolating and looking outside the framing, but one of the manga’s biggest faults it how is railroads you into what you’re “supposed” to feel and you only don’t feel that way if you give what you’re reading a second thought. And we’re not being railroaded into “Sasuke forgives Itachi so he’s better now”. We’re railroaded into “Sasuke needs to learn more about ninja world” which railroads into “Sasuke is going to help in the war but uh oh is he still bad guy??”. Like once again forgiveness isn’t even a topic of thought in this manga.

I guess I spent over an hour thinking and writing this to say I think the notion that Sasuke is being made to forgive Itachi is so out of the realm of intention or what the point of Itachi and Sasuke’s relationship is I’m going to Death of the Author it and say I think Sasuke chooses to forgive Itachi and that’s his choice. Thinking about whether Sasuke HAD to forgive Itachi because the author wanted it that way is missing the point. But that’s not to say we can’t discuss the implications of choosing forgiveness towards abusers in media, just that I think that is entirely outside the realm of the author’s thinking (with my above caveat that I have no idea what Kishimoto feels about anything). And I think these conversations aren’t really coming out because of the manga, but because of how we are thinking about the manga which is already outside Kishimoto’s intention. I mean I think Sasuke is right so obviously I’m outside Kishimoto’s intention based on his framing. 

Side note in regards to rules at WSJ I hear about shit people aren’t allowed to do there and no doubt there are rules but I’m very 🤔 about what are they really because Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure got very violent even in its shounen jump days and this isn’t about /abuse/ exactly but One Piece did have a character that couldn’t forgive their oppressors and wasn’t demonized for it and was treated with understanding. So I’m wondering what exactly these rules are supposed to be.

[razieltwelve]

Routine (Final Rose AU)

Willow opened her eyes and bit back a smile. As usual, Snow was already up although he’d taken care not to wake either her or Serah. It was equal parts thoughtfulness and self-preservation. Serah might have been the smallest out of the three of them, but she was also the most ferocious. It was also a horrible idea to anger someone who could mess with time.

And speaking of time, it was about time for her to get up and check on her father. He hadn’t wanted to move to Vale, but his worsening health had not been helped by the climate in Atlas. Thankfully, a combination of Willow’s pleading, Serah’s tyranny, and Snow’s good natured cheer had eventually won her father over. It hadn’t hurt that he’d be able to see his grandchildren every day either since he’d be moving in with them.

Some wealthy men might have chafed at moving from a mansion to a spacious but not gigantic home in the suburbs. However, her father had not grown up wealthy. He’d become wealthy through hard work, perseverance, and intelligence. He might enjoy being wealthy, but he prized his family above everything else.

She dressed quickly, taking a brief moment to tuck the blankets back in around Serah, before making her way downstairs. There were voices coming from the living room, and she was pleased to hear her father’s amongst them. His voice was strong and clear. It must be one of his good days.

“Good morning.” Willow pressed a kiss to her father’s cheek and grinned as the children looked appropriately horrified. “What are you up to this morning?”

Her father chuckled and gestured at the blocks scattered on the living room floor. “The children are building a Dust mine.”

“Are they?” Willow eyed the blocks scattered on the ground with a more discerning eye. Her father was right. It might be far from complete, but they were putting together a Dust mine. In fact... “Would you happen to be helping them with the design, father?”

“What makes you say that?” he asked, grin widening a fraction.

“Unless I’m mistaken, it’s based on the very first mine you ever found. You’ve told me about it enough times that I can recognise the layout even if it’s not complete.”

He chuckled. “Ah, you’ve got me. The kids asked me about it, so I thought it would be nice to build a copy, so they’ve got something to help them visualise the stories.”

Winter, the oldest of the children, nodded. “Since we’ve never been there, it would definitely help.” She shrugged. “I mean... we could look it up on the InfoNet, but building it ourselves just feels right.” She gestured at Claire, Weiss, and Whitley who were all doing their bit to add to the model of the mine. “And it’s something we can do together.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.” Willow glanced toward the kitchen. “Is your father cooking?”

“Yes.” Winter sniffed the air. “I think he’s making bacon although he did mention something about pancakes and omelettes too.”

“I’ll go help him out. Keep working on the mine with your grandfather.”

“Is Serah Mom going to be up soon?” Winter asked.

“She’ll be up when she’s up.” Willow giggled. “You know how she is.”

“So right before breakfast?” Winter asked.

“Most likely.”

As Willow headed for the kitchen, she thought about the other woman. Serah was not a morning person at all, which usually left her or Snow to handle breakfast. However, she was definitely an afternoon and evening person, so she was perfectly happy handling lunch and dinner. 

“Morning.” Willow would have kissed Snow, but the tall man was in the midst of cooking several things at once with the aid of his Semblance. “My father looks like he’s having one of his good days today.”

Snow continued cooking, but she could hear the relief in his voice as he worked on the omelettes. “He always does a little worse when it’s cold at night, even with the heat on, but we’re coming into spring now, so I think he’ll have more good days than bad ones.” One of his Semblance’s hands flipped over a pancake. “I think having the kids around helps. I just hope Vanille will have a cure ready in time.”

“I hope so too,” Willow said as she slipped into place next to Snow, taking over the pancakes. “Although he’s already grateful for the time her treatment has been able to give him. Still...”

“It’s Vanille,” Snow said. “She said she’ll get it done, so she’ll get it done - by hook or by crook. That’s just how she is. And just think of how many other people any cure she comes up with will be able to help. There’s a lot of former and current miners out there with problems like your father.”

“I know.” Willow sighed. At the moment, Vanille’s treatment was basically keeping her father from deteriorating, but the prospect of a cure - something that could actually get him healthy again was tantalising. She could remember her childhood. Her father had been a strong, larger than life figure. His illness had robbed him of much of his vitality, and he was a shell of his former self from a physical standpoint. If it wasn’t for his willpower, she was certain he’d have died long before Vanille had gotten a chance to stabilise his condition. “I just worry.”

“Hey, we all do,” Snow said. “I never knew my parents,” he murmured. “I grew up in an orphanage. Your dad, well, he’s been kind of like a dad to me too.” He paused. “And I’m just glad that Vanille isn’t here right now because hearing me say your dad was like my dad would have a sister fixation joke thrown at me so fast.”

“Don’t worry. I’d stab her with a fork.” Willow turned away from the pancakes briefly as Serah shambled in. “Or I’d try. I don’t think my sister would actually let me stab her.” She yawned. “You two want coffee?”

“Sure,” Willow said. “Snow?”

“Yeah, some coffee would be good.”

“Fantastic, because I could definitely use some.” Serah got the coffee going, frowned at it, and then gestured with one hand. A second later the coffee was done.

“Did you just use your Semblance to make coffee faster?” Willow asked with a grin.

“Of course, I did. If you can’t use your Semblance to make every day life easier, then what is it good for?” Serah poured out three mugs of coffee.

“I don’t know,” Snow drawled. “Saving the world?”

“I can save the world and make coffee faster.” Serah shook her head. “Did you know Vanille built a rebellious coffee machine? I don’t even know why she felt the urge to make it sentient. On the upside, it likes Lumina and the kids. Its rebellion is entirely specific to her.”

“That’s Vanille for you.” Willow gestured vaguely at the pancakes. “A little help?”

“Sure.” Serah waved her hand at the pancakes. “Just keep a close eye on them. If they cook faster, they’ll also burn faster too.”

“I know.” Willow had gotten used to working with Serah’s Semblance. For one, it made making a roast far quicker and easier. And it had saved the day when she’d forgotten to put the turkey in before a big meal. “You two don’t have any missions for a while, do you?”

“A whole fortnight off,” Snow replied. “Well... unless the apocalypse happens, then it’s all hands on deck.”

“The same.” Serah sighed contently as she drank her coffee. “I’ve got the next two weeks off, as well, so my students are going to have to live without me.” She cackled. “I wonder if they’ll get complacent? It’ll make the surprise survival test I’ve got planned even more fun if they do.”

“You’re evil,” Willow teased.

“Hey, being a hunter isn’t easy. I’d rather my students suffer during training, so they don’t have to suffer out in the real world.”

“That’s true, I suppose.” Willow patted her cheek thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I’m not entirely free over the next two weeks. I still have to go into the office at least twice a week.”

“It’s fine,” Serah said. “You’ve got to run the company to give your dad more time to get better. I’m amazed you only have to go in two or three times a week, actually.”

“It helps that my father and I have made a point of hiring competent subordinates instead of bootlickers, and that we’ve partnered with Vanille’s company on a lot of our projects. I’d hate to get into a corporate war with her, and she’s got minion management down to a science.”

“But you’ll be okay for the visit to Sazh’s ranch, right?” Snow asked. “The kids have been dying to go. Winter has already ridden a chocobo, but the others were too young the last time we went. In fact, Whitley might still be too young although maybe not if Sazh still has that easy-going yellow chocobo.”

“I’ll be there,” Willow said. “I wouldn’t miss it. I know my father will love seeing Mangler again.”

“That thing is pure evil,” Snow muttered. “Lightning punched the crap out of him, and instead of being freaked out, I swear he was impressed.”

“Well, my father and Mangler get along pretty well. He actually looked a little worried the last time they met. I think he was shocked by how ill my father looked.”

“He’ll be happy then since your father is looking better.” Serah started making some hot chocolate for the kids and Willow’s father. “He’s a jerk, but I think he’d miss your father if something happened to him.” She made an exasperated sound. “We just have to remind the kids that, no, they can’t try to ride Mangler.”

“Yeah, no.” Willow shuddered. “Lightning and Fang won’t let Diana try, and she’s got Ragnarok. There is no way we’re letting the kids try. They can all ride nice friendly chocobos.”

“I’m going to start setting the table,” Serah said, sniffing the air. “By the smell of it, everything should be done soon.”

“Do you need a hand?” Snow asked, a glowing blue hand appearing beside her.

Willow snickered. “You say that every time, Snow.”

“Because it’s funny.”

“I beg to differ,” Serah replied.

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

A glimpse into what Willow’s life could have been...

[sendmyresignation]

alright. writing this “little” piece to exorcise the demon inside of me that wants to expand my teenagers meta further than it needs to go (if you weren't aware I'm writing a post, well an essay, wellll a short paper, about why teenagers fits on the black parade- stay tuned) BUT i cannot stop thinking about the multiple little "rockstar to kill" moments within the song/music video/live performances so... I'm self-indulgently going to write about it :)

anyway, at its most simplified, teenagers is a song about the violence within adolescents and being an adult whose afraid of that capability. that is the basic, surface-level understanding of the song. inherently, with mcr specifically, that sets up a conflict between the narrator of the song and the song’s audience. that means conflict is generational- it duplicates itself over and and over which allows for several different understandings of the narrator’s perspective. the cyclical nature means they could be speaking to a representation of what they view as the fundamental corruption of the youth, both by outside focuses and their very human nature, as the narrator become more cynical in their old age. it could be representative of them talking to their past self, reminiscing on the revenge fantasies they had in high school or the ways they were made to feel like an outcast when they were young. and they also could be speaking directly to the very literal future about their concerns as a mentoring figure (teenagers, to me, functions in layers, its interpretation can shift and change depending on the context) right now we’re preoccupied with that last perspective both within the song and the video’s contextualization, and into this wider idea of what the band’s purpose was (or how they saw their purpose).

putting the rest under a read more out of respect <333

moving into the actual text with that in mind, what becomes significant is the tonal contrast between being the seemly scathing, sarcastic indictment of Dangerous Teenagers on the surface to the actual understanding (if we’re talking about the single on its own) which is moreso criticizing the Authority figures who create and mold this violence either purposely (cog in the murder machine) or with indifference (you’ll never fit in much/they’ll leave you alone/as well as the implication of having to take matters into your own hands because the adults are absent). As a result, the song, on its own, isn’t actually blaming teenagers for the violence they perpetuate, but the narrator attempts to extend their understanding and offer advice. here is a figure looking to bring catharsis without patronizing. like this is most clearly expressed in the use of “maybe they’ll leave you alone, but not me” at the end of the chorus, which in this reading means the other adults may leave you alone, the but I am stepping in to tell you that both self-directed and outward expressions of violence are bullshit and useless and that’s what everyone else is expecting of you so fucking stop it! (this can obviously be re-figured within the context of the album- because, interestingly, the pronouns are purposely confusing with the multiple uses of they in this section) the violence is never explicitly vilified by the speaker,- its exaggerated- what you have under your shirt won’t solve anything isn’t that obvious how ridiculous it sounds, how ridiculous I sound saying it out loud? but also, the violence is implicit. the conflict is still there. the teenagers still scare the shit out of the narrator. so what gives?

well. the song is still about the gulf between generations. the speaker is still afraid and out of touch, regardless of the leadership role they’ve assumed or the perspective of the past they can offer. there is ultimately a limit to how much they can give.

which leads us right into the music video.

So first things first, Black Parade as a whole is heavily inspired by Pink Floyd’s The Wall musically, but the actual aesthetics of the wall are kind of divorced from the ww1 cabaret weimar thing that parade is drenched in (bc britian circa the 1950s is boring and the wall is purposely very ugly and grey and removed from emotion which isn’t dramatic enough for what mcr had in mind). However, teenagers exists as a sort of connecting point between the two-  the music video of Another Brick in the Wall Part 2 (which you can watch here if you’ve never seen it) is clearly an influence on the subject matter and the setting and the “plot” of teenagers video- it serves as a sort of a parallel to it. more specifically, there are the “running shots” of kids making their way through unlit hallways into the auditorium that evoke the children in the pink floyd video marching through the school. there’s also the line “cog in the murder machine”, which seem particularly inspired from the depiction of children as going through machines and coming out the other side stiff, wooden, and obedient. then the backdrop of the large bomb centered in my chem’s stage show mimics the shot of the headmaster standing behind the large, lit up clock- especially since that where the teenagers in the crowd of mcr’s video all begin acting in unison, similar to the children in the wall all falling into line (but, like, just the use of ww2 era bomb imagery and gas masks in general is very reminiscent of the early wartime parts of the wall anyway). so in a vague sense, there is a huge connection between teenagers and that emulation and replication of the wall.

however, the most striking similarity is that, in the same way the students destroy their school in a moment of violent inspiration after sequences of disconcerting compliance, the group of high schoolers in teenagers do the same against the band. the difference is that in the case of the teenagers, the explosion is directed at the source of their outburst (they switch from the on-beat fist-punching to wild moshing as the song devolves and ray’s solo starts) instead of in opposition to a more institutional suppressive force. they are not motivated to action because of something done to them, instead it is the actual music itself that serves as both the impetus of conformity and the fuse that destroys that same unison action and then the band. and what’s significant is the particularity of the actions the crowd takes: they steal the band’s instruments from them and they bodily remove gerard from the microphone. like contrast this violence against the band vs the desolation row video where the whole band is physically incapacitated- there, its about knocking them around and getting them to stop (ray is beat down by police, bobs drums are destroyed, etc etc). but here, its about taking their places- the act of destruction is calculated but not purposely cruel. so, in teenagers being a parallel to Another Brick, that moment of turning on the band is the moment of violence but is also the moment of freedom. the difference in the two becomes the ways in which the band is responsible for reawakening the fire within the audience and giving them a purpose. which here is “killing the rockstar” by taking over, taking their places. and that is the nature of music and the nature of the conflict implicit to becoming the “rockstars”

it brings us right back around to that generational conflict: except when your talking about mcr’s realationship with their audience, that becomes the fostering of a group of outcasts and weirdos and freaks and giving them the tools to save themselves, yes. but also giving them the opportunity to do exactly what they did. to pick instruments and take their places. its the cyclical nature of creation and destruction “because when we get old and lazy some of you guys are gonna have to eat us alive by starting your own fucking band (x), that idea of needing a “rockstar to kill” has been refigured to mean something newer, positive. we are the ones killing them, but not in the way of typical martyring where a crowd of detractors and nonbelievers burns you at the stake- but instead by continuing the natural cycle of art, true genuine art. just as mcr is built off of so many influences- creating an entirely new project out of that existing landscape of sound that reaches people and gives them an outlet, we are doing the same things. by besmirching metal and punk by mixing them together, by “selling out” so they could put together a rock opera, by adding theater into a hyper masculine culture of nu-metal and post-hardcore, by making deeply emotional music that was still violent or angry, by writing the way they did they killed the bands they loved and made something better. its the the way in which the creative cycle is a rebirth, of scavenging the good things from the people who came before you and moving forward and taking the world by storm. here, in the video, the audience redirects their violence at the band, yes. but that is the point. teenagers still scare the shit out of the narrator, but that’s not going to stop them from reaching out, from speaking to them directly, from performing until their very last moments

until they take over. until they kill the rockstar. until we eat them alive.

in the end, that is the mission of my chemical romance, isn’t it- to inspire that level of passion, to turn the music into a life-raft and then gasoline and fire in your gut and then a sense of purpose and then into freedom and endless joy? and isn’t it the greatest act of love, the truest expression of admiration to tear them apart, build ourselves creations out of the wreckage to fill the space they leave behind, and then lay them to rest when the time has come?

[bethagain]

I saw a post the other day lamenting that Din probably hasn’t felt the sun on his skin in years, and it reminded me that I never did share a tumblr version of this fic.

So, here's part III of my series On From Here. In which Din moves some rocks, eats some cake, and sits in a sunbeam.

Honest Work

The inn has a mechanical lift. It’s a small square box that lowers on a pulley. A thin cable rises from its roof and disappears into darkness above. Din looks at it skeptically and then takes the stairs. They’re narrow and dark, the treads shallow.  

“Leave the key!” the innkeeper calls after him, as he strides across the dimly lit lobby toward the exit. 

Making an enemy of his host here is not a good idea. 

He pauses to lay the key on the counter. The dull brass shank of it clinks against its worn metal fob. There’s nothing in the room to steal, anyway. 

-

The town center consists of a handful of low-slung buildings, all with the same tile roofs. Din pauses at the window of a repair shop. Everything inside looks old, mechanical, un-streamlined. They’d probably know exactly how to fix up the Razor Crest, with its pre-Imperial control system and antique wiring. If there were still a Razor Crest to fix.

Next is a general store, with bolts of fabric, tools, and fresh produce all for sale together. There’s a four-legged riding beast tied outside, a simple saddle on its back. A woman is choosing meemfruit from a bin near the door. She turns to watch him walk by. 

There doesn’t seem to be a proper drinking establishment. At the end of the row is a small cafe, with a handful of tables and a bar at the back. Several of the tables are occupied. Some people on their own, some groups of adults, a couple of families. Most have plates of food in front of them. A shelf above the bar holds an assortment of liquor bottles. 

This place will have to do. 

He orders a glass of whiskey, for the sake of manners, and settles in at the bar to wait. The armor serves as its own advertisement. 

"You're not going to find what you’re looking for here."

He turns toward the voice. The words are from a grizzled man seated at a corner table. 

Din doesn’t bother answering, just squares his shoulders back toward the bar again. Every place has someone who’s hiding. And someone else who wants them found.

The man has come over to the bar, now, and is sliding onto the stool beside him. 

Great.

"This is not that kind of town."

"Every town is that kind of town." 

"Not here." The man signals to the waiter, who pours something from a spigot and sets it down. Tiny bubbles break its surface, making a faint sound of static. He takes a drink. "We didn't hold with the Empire. We don't hold with the New Republic. We live and let live, around here."

"Fine." Maybe if Din agrees, this man will go away.

"You try to bring somebody in, the whole town's going to stop you."

"Look," says Din, "I have no quarrel with anyone here. I'm just looking to earn a few credits."

The helmet’s interface lets him know that someone’s taken the barstool on his other side. The screen fills the gaps in his peripheral vision. It’s a woman, long hair in a braid, sleeveless top and arms of solid muscle.

“Not here,” she says.

The other tables are emptying, more townspeople coming to form a semicircle behind him. Even the children are glaring at him.

Damn.

“All right.” He knows better than to move his hands without a warning. “Let me pay for my drink, and I’ll be on my way.” He reaches slowly for the pouch at his waist, keeping his hand well clear of his blaster. “What do I owe you?”

The bartender names a figure. Din doubles it, setting down the small stack of credits before rising to leave. 

The bartender tries to give the extra back. “That’s too much.”

“You keep it,” Din says. “Payment for the trouble.”

“Hold on.” It’s the man on the barstool beside him again. “You really just looking for work?”

Din waits, standing there by the bar. The townspeople stay there in their circle, but hands are starting to drift away from holsters. The weapons here seem to be mostly slugthrowers. Mechanical things, not blasters with their circuitry and electrics. Interesting.

“Any kind of work?” the man asks.

There are limits, even for someone like Din. “Honest work.”

The man grins at him, white teeth flashing through his unruly beard. “You look strong enough,” he says. “If it’s not beneath you, in your fancy armor there. I need somebody to move some rocks."

-

The job is not at all what Din had in mind, but it does, indeed, sound like honest work. And he’s not in a place to be picky. 

He’s sitting next to the bearded man on a plank across the front of a high-wheeled wooden cart. The cart is pulled by two solid-looking beasts, four-legged and shaggy. Their pace is sedate and steady, the cart rolling easily over grassland. They’re headed toward a row of trees in a valley, between rolling hills. 

The trees mark a stream, the man says, and on that stream is an old stone dam that diverts the water. “We’re opening up new farmland. Need to get that water back in its proper course. Get it down to the right place on the land. My regular crew could do it, but it’s heavy work. They’re not itching to volunteer.”

“Why not use an antigrav lifter?” Why pay a man for a whole day’s work, when a simple machine would cut that down to a couple of hours. 

“We’re not big believers in tech around here. Parts have to be imported. Electric’s complicated to repair. We don’t care to be dependent on anyone, any more than we have to.”

That explains the shop in town, then, with its antique machinery in the window. And the hotel lift, and the drying jets that don’t work anymore.

“That’s why the slugthrowers?"

-

“You noticed. That’s right.” The man chuckles. “Keeps things calmer, too. If you have to forge a new bullet every time you use one, you’re a little less likely to draw.”

The cart trundles along. The sky overhead is a clear blue, the sun warm. Din nudges up the cooling system in his armor. 

They go along a little way among the trees, until they’re beside a narrow stream of clear water. It emerges from a low pile of stones at the edge of a pond. 

From his seat on the cart, the man points to a smaller valley that runs off to the right. “The pond drains over that way, now. Pull the dam out, and it’ll run the way it should again.”

Din takes in the clear stream, the small oval pond, the branching valley. “Who’s using that water now?”

“The folks over yonder were a little too friendly with the Empire,” the man says. “Town asked them to leave.”

“Did they leave?”

“I thought you bounty hunters had a rule about asking questions.”

“This isn’t a Guild job,” Din says.

“Suppose not." The man turns to reach toward the back of the cart, and Din tenses. But he’s just picking up a wooden box by its leather handle. He hands it to Din. "Here's lunch. We're not fancy but our crew eats well. Water in the stream's safe to drink. And don’t worry, there’s no one left to come bother you.”

He waits while Din climbs down from the cart. “You could walk out when you’re done, but it's a long way after a day's work. I'll be back to get you at sundown."

Din watches the cart make its sedate way back through the trees, the shaggy beasts pulling at their traces, the man humming off-key as he goes.

He finds a flat rock to put the lunch box on. It contains a dented metal cup, a stack of wrapped sandwiches, some pieces of a fruit he doesn’t recognize, and a generous slice of cake that smells of ginger and dark sugar.

He closes the box back up again and goes over to inspect the dam.

This certainly isn’t his usual kind of work. But a ship needs fuel and a man needs food, and pushing on to the next port with just the credits he has on hand feels reckless. Unwise. Plus, being in debt to Boba Fett is like a deep itch under his skin. It’s not comfortable. He wants it gone. 

Din is no engineer, but piloting a ship means he’s used to thinking in three dimensions. He considers the shape of the dam, the way the rocks are stacked atop one another, the chinks where the water flows through. The thing looks like it was hand-built, the stones large enough not to move with the water but small enough to be picked up. The original stream cut a gully into the soil, but it’s shallow, the dam itself only a bit over knee-high. 

The forest floor here is carpeted with broad, leathery leaves. Wide-trunked trees are spaced far apart, with little undergrowth between them. Their canopies cast shade across the ground. Here and there, a few sunbeams find their way through. 

If he starts at the far side, removing the rocks in vertical columns, the stream should come slowly back to life. His gloves will protect his hands from the roughness of the stone. His boots are already sticking in the mud at the edge of the water. They’re water-resistant, good for a while in a rainstorm, but they’re going to be soaked through by the time he’s done. 

At first, muscles complain at being asked to move in ways they’re not used to. This steady pattern of bend, lift, bend is very different from the sudden, sharp quickness of a fight. His daily workouts are rigorous but they’re precise, prescribed patterns. Each of these stones has a different shape, a different weight. Keeping his feet out of the water, keeping his balance on the slight slope makes each one its own physics problem, its own little challenge.

Soon enough, though, he’s settled into the rhythm of it. He remembers to use his legs when lifting, to save strain on his back. He kicks up the cooling system again, as sweat begins to gather under the armor. 

The armor’s physiological monitors are simple, but they register heartbeat, breathing, temperature. Normally, he ignores the ping that says it might be time to take a break, to drink some water and catch his breath. Because normally, when that ping goes off, taking a break would either be desperately stupid--in the middle of a firefight?--or stupidly desperate, like during the hours walking the Tatooine desert back to Mos Eisley, carrying the wreckage of a speeder bike, no water at all on board.

This time, he gets the dented cup from the wooden box and carries it over to the stream. It’s already flowing faster, but his work has kicked up sediment. Din goes back to the box, grabs one of the wrapped sandwiches, and sets out to find the pond’s other outlet. 

It’s not far. The other stream burbles over a few rocks at the edge of the pond, then curves through another shallow gully and off down a gentle slope and away. One of the great trees rises nearby, a couple of its wide roots undercut by the water. 

He’s starting to feel chilled as the cooling system interacts with sweat-dampened clothing, so he switches the cooling circuits off. The helmet’s interface tells him the air outside is still warm. 

Din considers, sandwich in one hand, cup in the other. There is a sunbeam crossing over the tree roots, making the water sparkle.

The forest around him is quiet. 

Decision made, he dips the cup in the stream, then chooses a spot to sit on one of the wide tree roots, back against the trunk. He balances the cup on the leaf-covered ground, sets the sandwich down beside it. Then he lifts the helmet from his head, setting it in his lap as he rests his head on the tree’s rough bark, eyes closed against the brightness of the sun.

When did he last feel sunlight on his skin? It’s been a while. Before he picked up the child, surely. It hasn’t been safe to let his guard down. How long before that, though? He thinks back, but it’s a blur of work, the halls of the Nevarro covert, the streets of strange towns. 

Din knows better than to stay in the sun for long. Skin that’s always covered has no defense against UV rays. After a few minutes he shifts to the shade, sitting crosslegged on the forest floor. The water from the stream is sweet, with a slight mineral taste underneath. The sandwich isn’t bad either, fresh bread dotted with different kinds of grain, slices of some kind of tender meat and crisp green leaves with just a hint of bitter.

He makes his way back around the pond to continue the work. Wiggle each stone free. Lift, carry. He’s building a sort of stone cairn, setting each one down neatly, just because it feels good to see the thing take shape. 

His gloves are soaked by now, as he has to reach into the water to get at the lowest rows of stones. The water can’t be good for the circuits in the vambraces so he sheds those, too, setting them down on the flat rock beside the wooden lunch box, where his helmet already sits. 

He could keep the cooling system running, but it’s not designed for this kind of exertion. The constant movement will keep the power cell charged, but he’s sweating in spite of it, and the chill from the beskar is a distraction instead of a comfort. 

He’s already vulnerable without the helmet and the vambraces. He lays out cuirass, pauldrons, hip and thigh plates on that flat stone. His hand pauses on the blaster, but if it’s waterlogged it’s not going to work at all. 

He looks down at the thick fabric of the flightsuit, already wet at wrists and ankles. He's got another layer underneath it. May as well leave that too. 

He makes a detour through another sunbeam on the way back to the dam. 

Without the armor to filter the outside world, he’s aware of the warmth of the sun on his back. Of the change in temperature between sun and shadow. 

Without the helmet’s interface, he marks time by how the patches of sun creep slowly across the forest floor. 

When a rush of water takes him by surprise, soaking him from elbow to wrist and chest to hip, he sheds his shirt, laying it out on the stone cairn to dry. 

The air is still warm. The water that splashes his wrists is cool. He pauses again for food, then sets back to work. At one point he cups his hands in the running stream and drinks, then runs wet hands through his sweat-soaked hair. 

Clearing the last few stones means sinking his hands into mud to wrest them free. When he’s carried them over and set them atop the neat pile, he looks down and finds he’s covered in mud from chest to waistband. 

His employer said he’d be back at sunset. Din looks up, judging the height of the sun in the sky. Late afternoon, he guesses, edging into evening. It’s unpleasant fitting the helmet back on over wet hair, his face still damp with sweat, but he does it. The chrono built into the interface tells him there’s a good two hours until sundown. 

He turns a slow circle, heat and motion sensors overlaying his vision, sound turned up high. There’s birdsong high above him, but otherwise the forest is still. 

He fetches his shirt, piles the armor and flightsuit into his arms and carries it all to the edge of the pond. Then, thinking what the hell, he shucks boots, socks, and leggings and wades on in. 

Din doesn’t know how to swim. It’s not a skill he normally needs in his work. It’s not a skill he particularly needs now, either. But the mud is pleasantly soft against his feet, the water soothing to tired muscles. He ducks his head under, scrubs at the dirt on his chest, rinses away sweat. 

For the second time today, he uses his shirt to dry off. The approach of evening is bringing a slight chill to the air, so he pulls his other clothes back on, fastening the flightsuit over his bare chest this time before setting the pieces of his armor in place. 

Back at the flat stone he considers another sandwich, decides on the cake instead, and then sits there a while, licking sugar from his fingers and watching the stream at its full strength now as it sparkles its way down the valley. 

True to his word, the man is back with the wagon just as the sunbeams finish fading. He takes note of the neat cairn, and of the unfettered stream. “I wasn’t sure you’d really do it,” he says. “Guy like you. Work like this.”

Din just looks at him, impassive behind the helmet. He’s pretty much done with dignity these days, but this man doesn’t need to know it. 

“Well,” the man says. “We’re clearing more land tomorrow. If you want another day’s work.”

“I’ll take my pay for this one.”

“Of course.” He counts out the amount they agreed on and drops it into Din’s hand. “I mean it. We can always use a strong set of hands.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Where are you staying?”

Din names the inn. 

The man nods. “I’ll drop you there?”

“That would be fine.”

-

The first stars are out by the time Din steps down from the wagon, credits in his pocket and the last two sandwiches in his hand. He picks up the key from the innkeeper, climbs the narrow stairs, locks the door of the room behind him. He hangs his wet shirt in the shower room, lays out his wet gloves and socks to dry, strips off the armor and sets it carefully on the floor. His skin smells faintly of mud and minerals, but he can’t be bothered to shower. He sits by the window to eat, watching more stars emerge from the clear, dark sky. 

The money in his pocket won’t buy much. It’s a little more fuel, another day or two of getting by. 

He’ll leave in the morning. Probably. 

He still has no idea where to go.

[myheartrevealedocs]

Untouchable Ch 27: The Instincts (S4E6)

Warnings: kidnapping, murder of children, nightmares

Ch 26 | Ch 28

~ ~ ~

It took a few weeks of just talking. About anything and everything with each other. But Spencer was finally certain that Lydia was his other half. 

They were just so similar. It was eerie to him, because ever since he’d met her he’d thought she was everything he wasn’t: outgoing, brave, and impulsive. But in all the ways that mattered, they were exactly the same. Ambitious and moral and smart. And all his fears and anxieties couldn’t keep him from loving that about her. The good and the bad. They were perfectly matched in their passion and their stubbornness.

Eventually, Spencer had to leave for yet another case and it turned out to be far more difficult than he had foreseen. Upon boarding the jet, he’d fallen asleep, which was unusual enough as was. But he was woken up from a very strange nightmare by Rossi, who was concerned about him mumbling in his sleep.

He had almost forgotten entirely about his dream by that evening. The case they were working was a child abductor case. The unsub had kidnapped a 5-year-old boy and called the parents to torment them once or twice, before suffocating the child seven days later. They had just taken another boy, by the name of Michael Bridges.

Hotch had ordered Reid and Morgan to stay with the family that night in case they received another phone call. So Spencer and his coworker were drifting off on the couches downstairs when something caught his eye.

There was a door in the hallway parallel to the stairs. He could have sworn that hadn’t been there when they arrived, but nonetheless, he felt compelled to go check it out.

Quietly getting up, he walked over and found that the new discovery led down to a basement. As he stepped down, he reached for his gun, a sinking feeling coming over him.

The basement was for the most part empty. Directly across from the entrance was a washer and dryer, their bright white color standing out against the beige walls. And just peeking out behind the washer were two tiny feet with jeans and black tennis shoes on.

Spencer approached, but stopped short before he could see any more of the body. At the sound of footsteps, he turned and found Morgan and Rossi behind him. He didn’t for a moment question why Rossi was there.

“We couldn’t find any evidence of forced entry.”

“Why would that matter?” Spencer asked. Something was wrong. Everything about this was insanely familiar. He’d been here before. Seen this before.

“‘Cause it means he most likely knew his attacker,” Morgan argued, but at that point, Spencer had stopped listening.

There were strange lumps forming on his chest. Ripping open the front of his button down, he was horrified to find multiple leeches attached to his torso.

“Get them off me!” he shrieked. “Morgan, get them off me! Morgan!”

“Reid!” Morgan’s voice was fainter than he remembered. Morgan was right behind him, wasn’t he? “Reid! Wake up! It’s Morgan.”

Spencer’s eyes flew open and found himself back on the couch of the Bridges home, his arms crossed protectively over his chest. Morgan had turned on a nearby lamp and was hovering over him, concern filling his face.

It was the same dream he’d had on the jet. The only difference was the first time he’d woken up trying to get JJ’s unborn baby off the scene and this time, he’d woken up while covered in leeches. Reid didn’t believe in dream analysis… but why did it change?

“What the hell’s going on?” Mr. Bridges demanded, him and his wife rushing down the stairs.

“Sir, ma’am,” Morgan addressed, “everything’s okay.”

“You wake us up screaming and you think everything’s okay?”

“Look, I understand we startled you and I’m sorry for that.”

“You’re the FBI!”

Spencer ran his fingers through his hair. “You’re right,” he stuttered. “You’re right. I’m, just, I’m really sorry.”

Morgan watched him for a moment, seeing his shoulders shudder up and down as he caught his breath. Then he turned back to the couple. “Sir, please, go back upstairs and try to get some rest. It was just a misunderstanding. Everything is fine, I promise you that.”

Mr. Bridges stormed off in a huff, but his wife stuck around for a moment, shuffling her feet on the steps. “Are you okay?”

“It was a dream,” he said, then gulped. “I’m really sorry.”

“Was it about Michael?”

Spencer didn’t know. He hadn’t seen any more than a small pair of black sneakers. But for her sake, he shook his head.

“I’ve been afraid to close my eyes,” she continued. “I’m scared I’ll see him die.”

He opened his mouth. The words ‘Don’t worry’ died in his throat. They weren’t true. He didn’t believe them. The chances of finding Michael were so slim. So he stood there with his mouth hanging open.

“Ma’am, I know it’s hard,” Morgan interrupted, softly. “But I need you to go upstairs and try to get some sleep…” Her eyes never left Spencer. “Please. I am sorry for the disturbance.”

Finally, she turned on her heel and left, turning off the hall light as she went.

“I’m making everything worse,” Spencer sighed.

“Reid… these cases get to all of us.”

“I’m losing it in their living room. And I’m dreaming- I’m dreaming about dead kids and being covered in leeches.”

“What the hell is scaring you?”

It took a few moments for Spencer to phrase his feelings into a coherent thought. “This boy’s going to die and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

~ ~ ~

The next day was the funeral for the first boy who’d been kidnapped. With the amount of remorse the unsub showed with his body, they figured it was likely they’d be at the funeral to show respect to the child they’d killed.

Hotch wanted Michael’s parents there as well. It was possible they’d recognize the unsub or even just be able to tell if someone was watching them. And the unsub… The unsub would definitely by watching.

After getting changed into dark clothing, Spencer went upstairs to look around Michael’s room again.

“Hey kid,” Morgan called, appearing in the door not moments later. “We’re almost ready to go.”

“You know, they’re right. Odds are we’ll catch the unsub when he dumps the body or when he tries to snatch another kid.”

“I know the odds, Reid.”

It was so negative. Spencer wasn’t normally a pessimist, but the whole situation was bullshit. It was his job to save this kid. Why couldn’t he just… just save him? “It’s weird. Some things never go away.” He stepped away from his friend to pick up something off Michael’s desk to show him. “When I was a kid, every boy I knew had piles of dinosaur toys.”

He set down the green tyrannosaurus where he found it.

“Not you?” Morgan asked knowingly.

“I had books and notebooks. My mom filled hundreds of them with poems by W.S. Erwin and songs by Bob Dylan. She liked it when I memorized them. She was convinced that they were watching us and writing songs about our lives.”

Where are you going with this? he asked himself. What is bothering you so much that you’re sitting here tossing around a six-year-old’s dinosaurs?

“Basements are the first part of a house to be built, right?” he blurted out. “So, if you’re having a recurring dream about a basement, kinda speaks to the core fundamentals of who you are as a person.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in dream analysis?”

“Freud’s been discredited, but Jung still has his merits… My dream? The dead boy? I’ve been having different versions of it since I was a little kid.”

“Hey.” Morgan made a few steps closer to him. “Have you talked to Lydia about this?”

“Why would I talk to Lydia about this?”

“Because you trust her,” Morgan insisted. “You love her a lot and I have the feeling she might be able to talk you through some of this. You know, no one would think less of you if you took a little time off to talk with her and get your head together.”

Spencer knit his eyebrows together. How would that help? It was a stupid dream anyway, wasn’t it? “I just want to find this boy,” he insisted, then stepped around Morgan and headed downstairs towards the car.

~ ~ ~

As Hotch handed the young Michael Bridges off to his family, Morgan was frustrated to see Spencer standing apart from the group, clearly lost in his own thoughts. This is what he wanted. They found Michael alive.

He wondered if it was a mistake to show him the Riley Jenkins case. Riley Jenkins had died at six, when Spencer was four, and many of the case details lined up to Spencer’s dreams: he was found in his basement, behind a washing machine, and lived in Las Vegas, very close to where Spencer lived.

“You know, this is about as good a day as we’re gonna get on this job.”

“I know,” Spencer mumbled.

“And yet you’re still thinking about a boy you’re not even sure if you really knew.”

His grimace didn’t reassure Morgan in his statement. “When I was four, my mother had a sense that I was in danger.”

“Reid, your mother wasn’t well.”

“I know facts about the case,” he argued.

“Reid, you’ve got a photographic memory. Odds are, you saw the story-- he was just a kid like you-- and it caught your imagination.”

“I don’t really think that you believe that.”

Profilers. He should know better than to lie to Reid. “You want to know what I really believe?” he mended. “I believe you could have done anything in this world with your life, and you chose to do this job. Your man Carl Jung says our unconscious is the key to our life’s pursuits.”

It took Spencer a moment to confirm that what Morgan said was correct. “Yeah… Yeah.”

“So, for whatever reason, that case was stuck in your brain all these years, and it not only led you to this career choice but to the same city where your mother lives, and for us to have the opportunity to save this child.”

It finally seemed like he was breaking through. Spencer gave him the smallest smile. But Derek knew that he wasn’t going to really get through to him. That’s why he had a backup plan.

“Like I said, this is probably as good a day as we’re gonna get, man. Enjoy your moment.”

Hotch appeared from around Morgan’s shoulder to join their group and Spencer seemed to think of something. “Hey, Hotch? Do you think it would be possible to wait until tomorrow to return home?”

Hotch looked down as if contemplating, then turned to Morgan. “Do you think you could find something to do in Vegas for the night?”

Derek didn’t try to stop the grin that was spreading across his face. Hotch knew that no one on the team would argue about a night off in Vegas. Especially not him. So the two of them wandered off, but as they left, Derek could tell Spencer was still thinking about Riley Jenkins.

Alright, plan B then… 

Hotch gave him a questioning look as he pulled out his phone and dialed a familiar number, but Morgan didn’t care. The whole team could listen for all he cared, if it meant Spencer got out of this slump.

“Hello?”

“Lydia? When was the last time you spoke with Spencer?”

“Uh… he sent me a goodnight text last night? But that’s been our only communication while he’s been in Vegas. Why?”

“I think you should give him a call and ask about his nightmares.”

“He hasn’t told me about any nightmares…”

“I know. But he’s woken up shouting twice on this case so far. He told me about it, but I just can’t seem to help.”

“How do you propose I bring it up to him?”

“You can tell him I told you. He’s gonna know I interfered either way.”

“Okay… Thanks, Derek.”

“Good luck, kiddo.”

Tags: @kris-stuff​, @wooya1224​, @bispences​, @anotherr-fine-mess​, @eddysocs​