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writingwithcolor · 4 years

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Mixing North America with Old World Cultures in Fantasy: What Are The Issues?

So I sent in an ask several years ago that, due in no small part to your response, I have grown from and eventually led to a complete restructuring of my story. I included a measure of context in this, so if you need to skip it, my main three questions are at the bottom. I think this mostly applies to Mod Lesya.

The new setting is both inspired by and based on North America in the late 1400s where the indigenous cultures thrive and are major powers on the continent. Since there is no “Europe” in this setting the colonization and plague events never happened. Within the continent itself (since it is a fantasy setting) there are also analogous cultures that resemble Norse, Central European, Persian, Arabic, Indian, and Bengali. Although not native to the fantasy continent, there is also a high population of ‘African’ and ‘Oceanic’ peoples of many cultures, the latter usually limited to coastal cities as traders and sailors. Elves are entirely not-human, or at least evolved parallel to humans ala Neanderthals/Denisovans; they have green blood, black sclera, and skin tones that run from pale to dark.

The main national setting of the story takes great inspiration from a Byzantine/Turkish/Mississippian background, and the neighboring nations are based on the Haudenosee (Iriquois Confederacy), Numunuu (Comancheria), and the Hopi and Zuni (as the descendants of the Ancestral Puebloans) (I also know that 2 of these 3 occur much later than the 1400s, but I love the government systems and they provide excellent narrative foils for the more ‘traditional’ fantasy government that takes place in the story). The Maya inhabit the role analogous to Ancient Greece in that most writing systems on the continent descend from Maya script and all the Great Philosophers were Maya (and nobility from across the continent spend lots of money to send their children to schools in the Maya City-States or in the Triple Alliance (Aztec Empire)). There is magic with varying traditions, practices, and methods spread across the continent, some of which are kept secret from outsiders, so I would hope that this avoids the “Magical Native” trope.

Beyond the setting, I have three main questions:

When it comes to foodstuffs, I was originally planning to limit myself to Pre-Columbian cuisine from the Americas (eg the Three Sisters and potatoes) but in doing my research, Navajo fry-bread seems to be a fairly integral part of the food culture and that does require flour, which originated in the Old World. Would it be better to incorporate some of the Old World stuff that has since become traditional to indigenous groups?

For place names used in the setting and writing systems would it be better to use existing languages or writing systems or ones inspired by them? EG should I make a language that is very similar to Cherokee, complete with its own syllabary, or should I use IRL Cherokee and its extant syllabary? I ask because I feel like using the real language might step on some toes, but using the conlang might seem like erasure.

One of the main themes of this story is the harm that even a ‘benevolent’ Empire can wreak on people. The Byzantine/Turkish/Mississippian culture is the main Empire on the continent, taking cues from both western and American monarchical systems (eg the Triple Alliance (Aztec) and The Four Regions (the Inca Empire)), but when I think about it having any kind of even vaguely western ‘Empire’ spring up from the soil of a North American inspired setting might be troubling.

Thank you for your time and consideration! Do you guys have a kofi or something so I can compensate you for time spent?

I actually do remember you, and I am going to 99% disregard your questions here because you went from glaringly obvious racism to covert racism, and none of your questions ask if your basic strings of logic for assumptions you built into the setting are okay.

Since there is some extremely flawed basic logic in here, I’m going to tackle that first.

Question 1: Why did you originally title this “Pre Colombian North American Fantasy World” when you have more old world cultures than new world cultures?

A very simple, straightforward question. The actual content of the setting is what made me retitle it.

If you want to write a North American fantasy setting… why are there so many old world cultures represented here?

Old world: - Greece (as a societal myth; see next point) - Byzantine - Turkey - Norse - Central European - Persian - Arabic - Indian - Bengali - African (which, let’s be honest, should be heavily broken up into multiple peoples) - Oceana (which, again, should be heavily broken up into multiple peoples)

New world: - Mississippian - Iroquois - Numunuu - Hopi - Zuni - Maya - Aztec - Inca (maybe? not mentioned as having their own place on the continent, but one of your questions mentions them) - Navajo (maybe? See above)

To account for respecting Africa and Oceana, I’m going to make African cultures count as 3 and Oceanic cultures count as 5, and this is a purposeful lowball.

Old World: 17 New World: 9

It’s a giant discrepancy, especially if your attempt is writing an exclusively New World fantasy. And this is bare minimum old world, considering the fact I tried to limit myself to peoples who would be more likely to interact with the heavy Mediterranean/Alexander the Great’s Empire centricity.

Question 2: Why does there have to be a Greece analogue?

I haven’t spoken about this topic at length on this blog, but Greek worship in the Western world is a very carefully crafted white supremacy based mythos that was created to prop up European “Excellence” and actually erases the reality of Greece as a peoples.

Cultural evolutionism is a theory that states the (assumed-white-European) Greeks were superior because of their philosophy, their abstract art, and their mathematics. When many of these concepts were refined in Egypt (African, aka Black), or the Arab world (aka brown), but white Europeans did not want to admit any of this so they instead painted everything as coming out of their ideas of Greece lock stock and barrel.

The theory also ignored Iroquois science, Plains and Southwestern abstract art, and generally everything about North America, because the theory was designed to move the goalposts and paint North America as something it wasn’t, just to make Europeans feel okay taking it over and “bringing it to civilization.”

This theory was still taught in force up until the 1970s, and is still a major school of anthropological thought to this day (and still taught in some universities), so it is still very much influencing the Western world.

While the theory itself is only from the 1800s, it had long-growing roots in white/ noble Europe’s attempt to prop up European “Excellence” during its multiple periods of colonization, from the Crusades, onwards. You can see it in the copious amount of art produced during the Renaissance.

Europeans ignored the sheer amount of settling and travel that happened within Greece and Rome, and you’ll notice how many Renaissance paintings depict Greek philosophers as white, teaching other white people. In reality, we have no idea what their skin tone was, and they could have taught a huge variety of different skin tones. But it was appealing to European nobility to have people like them be the founders of all things great and “advanced”, so they invested huge amounts of time and money in creating this myth.

(Note: I said their nobility, not their population. People of colour existed en masse in Europe, but the nobility has been downplaying that for an exceptionally long time)

Greece took over most of the old world. It borrowed and stole from hundreds of cultures, brought it all back, and was assigned credit for it. White Europeans didn’t want to admit that the concept of 0 came from the Arabs, the pythagorean theorem came from Egypt, etc, and since Greece won, detailed records of how they were perceived and what they stole are long lost. It’s only glaring when they took from other global powers.

Question 3: Why would you pick totally different biomes to mix in here?

Turkey and the Mississippi are very, very different places when it comes to what can grow and what sort of housing is required, which makes them on the difficult side to merge together. They relied on different methods of trade, as well (boats vs roads), and generally just don’t line up.

The fact you pick such a specific European powerhouse—the Byzantine Empire—to mix into your “not European” fantasy world is… coming back to my above point about Greek (and Roman) worship in the West. Why can’t a fantasy world set in North America be enough on its own? Why does it need Europe copycats?

Question 4: Why are you missing a variety of nomads and Plains peoples?

Nomadic plains peoples were a thing across the globe, from the Cree to the Blackfoot to the Mongols. You have hyperfocused on settled peoples (with only one nomadic group named in both new and old world), which… comes across as very odd to me, because it is, again, very European sounding. That continent was about the only one without major populations that were nomadic, and if you look at European history, nomadic peoples were very highly demonized because of the aforementioned Mongols.

Cultural evolutionism also absolutely hated nomadic peoples, which is where we get the term “savage” (hunter-gatherers, nomads) and “barbarian” (horticulturalists and pastoralists, the latter nomadic); these were “lesser cultures” that needed to settle down and be brought to “civilization” (European agriculture), and nothing good could ever come out of them.

Meanwhile, in North America, nomadic peoples took up a very large portion of landmass, produced a huge amount of culture and cultural diffusion, and mostly ignoring them while trying to create a “fantasy North America” is, well, like I said: odd.

General Discussion Points

My suggestion for you is to write a fantasy Mediterranean region. Completely serious, here.

With the kinds of dynamics you are attracted to—the empires, the continental powers, the fact you keep trying to make Europe analogues in North America—you will do a much, much more respectful job by going into a really richly researched Mediterranean fantasy world than attempting to mix Europe and North America together in ways that show European traits (settled peoples, agriculture, a single empire dominating the whole culture and being viewed as superior) as the default.

I legitimately cannot see anything in here that feels like it comes from North America, or at the very least, treats non-sensationalized peoples (aka, those outside the Maya and Mississippian region) with respect.

It falls into Maya worship, which is a very sensationalized topic and is fuelled by racist fascination, assuming no Indigenous peoples could be that smart.

It falls into settled peoples worship, which is something that has cultural evolutionism roots because under such a model only settled peoples with agriculture are “civilized.”

It falls into placing Western concepts (public schools, large cities, the ilk) as the ideal, better solution, compared to methods better suited to horticulturalists, pastoralists, and hunter-gatherers and letting those teaching methods be respected.

There is no shame in writing inside Europe

The Mediterranean region contains Indigenous peoples, contains a huge diversity of skin tones, contains empires, contains democracy/a variety of governments, and in general contains every aspect of what you’re trying to create without playing god with a continent that did not evolve the way you’re trying to make it.

A Mediterranean fantasy world would still be a departure from “fantasy world 35″ as I like to call it, because it would be different from the vaguely Germanic/ French/ Norse fantasy worlds that are Tolkien ripoffs. You can dig beyond the whitewashed historical revisions and write something that actually reflects the region, and get all the fun conflicts you want.

You don’t need to go creating a European/North American blend to “be diverse.” You can perfectly respectfully write inside Europe and have as much variety in peoples as you can write in a non-European setting. Europe is not the antithesis to diversity.

North America developed a certain way for a reason. It had the required fauna, space, resources, and climate to produce what it created. The old world developed a certain way for its own reasons, based off its own factors in the same categories.

You’re not really going to get them to blend very easily, and if you did, the fact there is such a strong European way-of-life preference (by picking places that mirror European society on the surface) makes me raise an eyebrow. It’s subtle, but very much there, and the fact you are ignorant to it shows me you still need to do more work before you go writing North American Indigenous Peoples.

Writing in Europe isn’t the problem, here. Writing a whitewashed, mythologized, everyone-not-white-is-a-caricature, ahistorical “Europe” is the problem. And you cannot fix this problem by simply painting European ways of life a different skin tone when the setting isn’t European. In fact, you’re perpetuating harm by doing that, because you are recreating the cultural evolutionism that calls anything you can find in Europe “better.” Indigenous cultures were vastly different from Europe, even if they shared similar trappings.

Let North America exist without trying to shoehorn its most famous peoples into European analogues.

~ Mod Lesya

#General #Asks #submission #worldbuilding #fantasy #europe #greece #north america #Indigenous Peoples #native american #zacharandom

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fineastin · 4 years

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( nick robinson , twenty , cismale , he/him ) FIN EASTIN , don’t think that you have gotten off easy because i haven’t told the school that REDACTED . sweetie , no one can hide from me - not even a BROTHER of GAMMA. oh no, your secret is most certainly not safe with me. you know , i asked around about you & most people said that you reminded them of DANIEL DESARIO with FALLING BY HARRY STYLES playing in the background , that’s very interesting - i wonder how accurate they are.

sharpie scribbles on bar napkins, fallen branches on a dysfunctional family tree, thrifted jean jackets and converse worn years past their worth, a room decorated with emptied bottles, loose-leaf shoved to the bottom of a bag, heavy eyes that just can’t close.

yellow! i am dew, she/her, and i’ll be writing this messy of a human. before i jump into him, a little about me. i am 27 (omg, still unreal to write) and i’m a server-bartender. just got a lovely cat named monroe who i love. i’ve been rping for nearing a decade now, with brief hiatuses in there. excited to get started with all of you!

name: fin elijah eastin pronouns: he/him age: twenty birthday: march 1st zodiac sign: pisces hometown: cooperstown, new york major: journalism fraternity: gamma phi gamma clubs: school paper

“so you're numbin' the pain, stuck in your ways”

fin grew up in the suburbs of new york. it was kind of laughable how picturesque it was: white picket fence, businessman dad, homemaker mother who substitute taught and made mean chocolate chip cookies. there was even a dog, a mini schnauzer named mickey — an ode to his father’s favorite baseball player.

baseball. fin thinks that may have been his first moment of disappointment. not the homerun hitter his dad imagined cheering on from the stands. he wasn’t even bad, he was just fine. second disappointment had to have been his grades. a report card consisting of mostly c’s. studying never going anywhere aside headaches.

ALCOHOL / ADDICTION TW: there were definitely other disappointments in between but the big one started the first time fin got caught sneaking in through his bedroom window, drunk from a classmate’s party. the yelling was supposed to have been a lecture, a lesson, a reason not to do it again but fuck if fin didn’t want to wash away the words and the disappointment with a bottle. jack daniels did a good job of drowning out his father. liquor bottles were carefully selected and drained from the cupboard — fin knowing well enough to leave his mother’s grey goose alone — and refilled with water. money was stolen out of wallets. he needed to spike his soda at pizza night just to get through. that train of thought continued on and on until the water bottle in his math class smelled of straight smirnoff.

the summer before his junior year, his parents shipped him off to some summer camp. rehab in the woods. doctors with canoes. didn’t realize it then but that was fin’s last summer with his parents and he saw dr. haskell more than he saw marc and kathleen.

no parents in the picture, fin went to stay with his grandfather, george, in florida. a single, retiree, george spent most of his days donning a hawaiian shirt, walking the pier, and betting horses. he was almost like a roommate and less of a guardian. was it bad for fin to say that it was a breath of fresh air?

the last conversation fin had gotten to have with his dad, he’d promised to go to college. was meadowbank what marc eastin had in mind? likely not. but it had dorms, tuition payments, and after four years a degree. so promise kept... or on target to.

now he’s a sophomore ( behind one year academically ) and majoring in journalism. it’d nearly been business and then almost communications, but his advisor had suggested journalism. fin had always liked writing, though it was always more of a form of personal therapy. or maybe better put, a way to drain the thoughts from his head. pen to paper. screw the digital aspect of it. just wasn’t the same. and, hey, if it worked out maybe he could wind up doing some of those weird interviews he’s seen on youtube. imagine getting to ask keanu if he’s immortal to his face?

“and I know you've been hurting, think you deserve it”

currently has three tattoos. the first was a shrimp on his forearm, a piece from his favorite childhood book on his calf, and a drunken decision on his ribs.

against popular assumption, fin isn’t all that bad at math. now, let’s be clear, he was near going to pass calculus or score 100s on even his algebra tests without a cheat sheet but basics are pretty down pat. perhaps the whole buying and selling ounces and grams wasn’t for nothing... aside from a high.

“journals” on whatever loose piece of paper or paper-adjacent item is nearby. napkins, book pages, bibles pamphlets handed out by old ladies on campus: all wind up with chicken scratch sharpie brain dumps.

his room is a mess but at the very least his bed is nearly always made. it’s a small way he’s hoped to combat the bouts of insomnia. clean bed, maybe he wouldn’t have such a hard time fucking falling asleep. maybe the past and his thoughts and all the reasons he’s a screw up wouldn’t keep him up at night.

because he struggles to sleep, fin can often be found taking walks at odd hours of the night. and then asleep on a bench near the science building. which usually means an empty seat in his writing class. that participation grade is hurting.

enjoys breakfast more than any human anyone’s ever known.

his wardrobe is primarily thrifted and or *cough cough* stolen. he’s a big fan of shirts with strange slogans or proclaiming they’re the best grandpa. but worn jean jackets have become his main staple.

skateboards as a means to get around campus. capable of a few tricks under the right mind but fin’s always more the type to vibe down a slow and steady hill. that fleetwood mac, ocean spray guy essentially lived his dreams.

writes for the school paper, but tried to worm himself out of the basic sort of stories. he more tries to write stories about hidden gems on campus, interviews with quirky professors, following up on urban legends.

kinda anti-baseball.

will pet any dog he sees. fin is a fan of celebrating anyone’s birthday aside from his own. he usually prefers to gloss over it completely. he’s not worth the celebration.

when was the last time he checked his academic email? unknown.

okay been working on this over at least three episodes of freaks and geeks and i think this is all i got for now. if you have any questions, ask away! apologies for not listing connections ideas right now but i am very open to ideas and plotting!

#intro #bio #about #meadowbank.intro

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bouwrites · 4 years

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Even Heroes Have the Right to Dream: Chapter 2

All I wanted was to find there’s something here inside of me they couldn’t keep.

First, Next. Ao3.

Story under read-more.

It might be a strange thought, considering the circumstances, but Jon thinks he’s grown up to be boring. Obviously, his life is anything but boring – there’s little boring about superheroes and villains and cataclysms and tragedies and… well, there’s a lot that’s decidedly not boring. But Jon himself? Kind of boring.

After all, what is he? He’s just the next generation of his dad. He has practically the same personality, the same values, the same hair and eyes, the same fashion (some of the exact same clothes), the same muscle, the same powers. Following in his dad’s footsteps, he even has the same night job, and the same day job to boot, or he will soon enough.

And none of that is bad. Jon loves his dad. To be like Superman is just about the greatest thing he can think of! Boring, if it’s like this, is great.

That said, there’s something Jon is very different from his dad in. That’s that Jon has been fighting crime since he was ten. He knows good people get involved, that’s one of the core lessons his parents taught him, but… even children? The difference between Jon and Superman is that Superman didn’t become Superman until his early twenties. Jon is still just shy of that and he’s been Superboy for almost half his life. The difference is that no matter how their powers set them apart from humans, and no matter how hard it was for his dad to feel that isolation that comes with it (Jon is familiar with the feeling, despite having his dad and aunt around) his dad at least knows how to be normal.

Jon grew up as a hero. He doesn’t know any different. And maybe the grass is always greener, but he wonders, sometimes, what an ordinary life would be like. Jon knows it’s not his parent’s fault. After all, even if they had tried to keep Jon from the superhero life, he would have gone out and been a hero without their permission. He has, quite a few times, anyway, though that’s mostly Damian’s fault. Making him Superboy, even so young as he was, was the only way his parents could let him explore himself and his powers and still watch over him to keep him safe. And he really, really appreciates that. He just wonders if… not being Superboy has ever really been on the table.

It doesn’t occur to him until now, that maybe being Kryptonian, having these powers, being super doesn’t mean he has to be a hero. Maybe he can still be good, still get involved, without rushing to everybody’s rescue, or fighting the next great evil. Maybe he’ll even like that. After all, isn’t that what journalism is about? Getting involved and making a difference without fist-fighting demons? Can’t that be heroism?

What would life be like, to live like any other person on Earth? To be a hero only so far as ordinary folks ever are heroes. To not necessarily not be superpowered, but to live a life irrespective of his powers. A life that’s no different for his powers, except in the way everyone’s differences make their lives unique. A life where Jon can forge his own path and worry only about himself and those in front of him, not everyone his powers might be able to save.

Deep down, Jon longs to find out. He’s just not sure it’s a realistic dream.

Is this teenage rebellion, or did I get all that out of my system being dragged along with Damian’s tween wrath? Jon makes a face at the college website, squinting through the dark. It’s bad for his eyes, staring at the laptop without his lights on, but Jon wears glasses anyway and he’s honestly not convinced his eyes can get messed up the same way humans can, on account of the whole telescopic and x-ray vision powers.

Huh. Maybe biology? Jon clicks idly through the list of colleges, to the sciences. Uh, actually, gross. As interesting as it is, I would hate that. He quickly backs up to the page he was on before, sighing as he tabs back and forth between it and another college website.

It’s so tempting to go to school for journalism. He already has background in it, and his parents can help him if he needs it. It might be nice to be known for the name Kent too, rather than for the “S”. And with journalism, he might be able to get into some interesting places. Chicago, or Austin, maybe. Or he can even stick to Metropolis. He’ll definitely be known as the Kent if he does that.

Then again, maybe he can do something different. Maybe he can make his own way. Define himself separately from his family. He loves them, but… being Clark 2.0, while an honor, is a bit dehumanizing. The last thing an alien needs is dehumanizing. It is frustrating being an “S” instead of a person and being a Kent might just be another variation of that. If he chooses something different it doesn’t necessarily stop him from working in journalism, and it gives him a unique perspective. Plus, he won’t always be surrounded by people who know his parents. There’ll be no reason to expect him to be any different than the rest of the students, and that is a tempting idea in itself.

Then again, Jon does like journalism, and picking a major just because it’s not what his parents do is kind of silly. Or is it smart? I can learn all I want to know about journalism from Mom and Dad, so if I’m going to college, I should pick something I can’t learn here at home, right?

Will they be proud of me if I study journalism? If I don’t? Jon groans. I don’t know. There’s so much to consider.

He’s already got two feet in the door in the journalism world. While he knows he can do to grow as a writer, he doesn’t need the connections and opportunities that college grants for the field. He’s already got those. And even if he does plan to pursue that field as a career, Jon wonders if gaining experience elsewhere will give him better insight and make him a better reporter anyway. Something like… psychology. Or politics. Something that’ll help him understand people in a way that he can use when he writes about them.

Or he can go undecided for now. But then the question of college comes down to location. Where should he apply? Metropolis? Does he want to go to Metropolis? Maybe Gotham? Or even San Francisco or Jump City or something totally unexpected like Paris? If he goes to Illinois or Texas, how will that change how he works as Superboy? Can he… stop being Superboy for a while? Just not deal with that stress on top of college?

Just the idea makes Jon feel guilty. People rely on Superboy. His dad isn’t getting any younger, either, and though Superman is still going strong for now, it’s becoming increasingly clear to Jon that everyone, the Justice League, the people of America and the world, and even Superman himself, is expecting Jon to replace his dad when the inevitable does happen. It’s irresponsible to abandon his duties for college. Superboy is more important than that. Superman is more important than that.

And a small, bitter part of him questions why Superboy doesn’t deserve the same chances that everyone else has. Why he has to sacrifice that time and focus to save them. He knows it’s because that’s what the “S” means. It’s about character. That doesn’t stop him from resenting it.

On the bright side, every next time some genius gets their hands on kryptonite is another chance for him to die young and stop worrying about his character flaws. So, that’s comforting.

But since he is Superboy, and still alive, he shouldn’t wander too far. His powers give him a lot of mobility, so he has more opportunity than a lot of heroes his age. He tries to appreciate that. At least he’s not tied to any particular city, since he can just fly in if he’s needed. He just shouldn’t go across the whole country. Or world. At least it makes deciding easier.

“Have you decided what you’re doing, yet?”

Jon looks up at his dad and smiles weakly. His eyes ache from looking at his laptop screen for so long, and he’s tired and hungry, too. “Not yet.” Jon says. “Might go undecided for a bit.”

His dad sits down with him to look at the screen, nodding. “That’s not a bad thing. But you still need to figure out what college you want to go to.”

Jon sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

His dad hesitates for a moment, and then nudges him. “Why don’t you tell me where you were thinking of? What makes the decision so hard?”

Frowning, Jon clicks through some of the open tabs in his browser. “I just… I don’t know. Honestly, I’m not sure about any of this.”

“What do you mean?”

His voice is so soft and gentle, and it reminds Jon again how lucky he is to have a dad like him. Someone who really cares. “I don’t know if I can handle college and being Superboy.” Jon mumbles. “It was hard enough in high school, and I… I’m not sure I even…” He sighs. “Nevermind. I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey.” Jon feels his dad grab his shoulder, so he turns to face him. “You don’t have to be full-time. It’ll be just like high school. When you’re busy with school, you’re off-duty. Don’t worry about being a hero. It’s okay to just focus on your education.”

Jon ducks his head. “Yeah, I know that.” He says. Even when the League, or more specifically some of the other heroes, try to get him more often, Jon’s dad always makes sure that he has plenty of time to focus on school, and that he’s not interrupted in school unless there’s some complete Armageddon going on.

That happens a few times. It sucks.

Even still… everyone expects him to pick up more responsibilities now that he’s going to college. He’s not sure he wants that.

“Jon.” His dad says. “What’s up?”

“It’s nothing.” Jon mumbles. He clicks through a few more tabs, disquieted more and more by each option.

“Come on, I want to help. What’s wrong?”

Jon sighs. There’s no getting around it. His dad is just too… helpful. That’s what makes him Superman. “Have you ever wondered if you could just be normal? No jumping up to save the day or punching bad guys or anything. Just… being like everyone else?”

Jon agitatedly clicks through a few more tabs and links before he realizes his dad is awfully quiet. When he turns to look at him, and sees the pensive expression on his face, his dad finally says, “All the time.”

Oh. Jon ducks his head. The laptop screen has long since stopped being interesting, but he can’t even pretend to be reading the articles there anymore. The floor is all he can focus on.

“Being a hero isn’t easy.” His dad says quietly. “But, for me, it’s the only way I can be my whole self. Kal-El. And I do a lot of good as Superman.”

Jon huffs a little. “You do a lot of good as Clark Kent, too. And just my dad.”

His dad smiles. “Yeah. I told you before, the ‘S’ isn’t about our powers. It’s about character. That’s where the good comes from. But since we do have powers, it’s our responsibility to use them for the greater good. That’s where Superman, and Superboy, come from.”

“And what if I don’t want to?”

His dad blinks almost dumbly. “Don’t want to? Don’t want to what?”

“Be Superboy.” Jon answers. “I really appreciate that I am. It’s helped me a lot, especially with my powers, but… I never got the chance to not be that. I want to… I want to just… do college like normal people.”

His dad is quiet for another long moment. “And you think you’ll be okay not using your powers?”

“I already hide my powers. Being Superboy doesn’t change that, Dad. We’re still lying and keeping secrets. I just… I’m starting to really hate it.”

“Jon, you know we have to hide to keep you safe.”

Safe. Jon knows that. He knows how safe he’s been. How safe he is fighting giant octopus monsters or Kryponian hunters or whatever the hell is causing the next end of the world. It makes something hot and ugly stir in his chest, and his voice rises and works of its own accord. “I’m not talking about the hiding! Why are we expected to save them when we can’t even live our lives without being afraid of them? Why should having these powers mean I have to handle all my own problems and theirs on top of it?” Jon flinches at his own words, but he can’t calm himself down enough to be more eloquent. “It just… It makes me so mad that I have to be a superhero and devote my life to everyone else when I don’t know what I even want to do with my life! I just- I never thought I’d have to think about it because I just- because everyone just assumed I’m you!”

Jon growls loudly, mostly at himself for getting riled up, but he’s heated now, and he can’t stop himself from talking. “I don’t want to be a hero anymore! I just want- I don’t even know what I want to do! I want to figure it out! I want to be able to figure it out! Without this dumb ‘S’ looming over my head! I’m… I’m confused, and this is just… it’s too much pressure.”

His voice cracks at the end, which finally breaks his tirade and sends him curling up into himself. “I hate this.” He mutters into his knees.

“Jon…” His dad says gently, wrapping him up in a hug. “We have to help people because we can. I know it’s hard. In some ways, it’s unfair. But that’s just what good people do.”

“Maybe I’m not a good person, then.” Jon mutters darkly.

His dad recoils a bit and doesn’t recover before his mom swoops in to sit on his other side and give him a hug of her own. “Hey, sweetie. How long have you felt that way about being a hero?”

Jon just shrugs, not lifting his face from his mom’s shoulder. “Few years now, I guess. I’m tired.”

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Chuckling humorlessly, Jon buries himself deeper into his mom. “What’s the point? I have to be a hero. That’s what being good means. Doesn’t matter how sick of it I am. Don’t even know how to not be Superboy, anyway.”

There’s a distinct stiffening to the muscles under him that tells him his mom is mad. Jon curls up a little more in preparation for what’s coming. The deserved retaliation for his weakness. For his selfishness.

“Clark.” Jon’s mom says calmly. “Tell the League to list Superboy as off-duty. Indefinitely.”

Jon shoots up, staring aghast and in awe at his mom. “What?” He and his dad say simultaneously.

His mom just narrows her eyes at his dad. “Indefinitely.” She repeats. There’s no room for argument when she uses that tone. Just the way she speaks says, “If you don’t, I will. And I won’t be as nice about it as you will.”

“The League won’t be happy ab-”

“Clark…” Her tone is dangerous, warning. Jon is too shocked and confused to interrupt. “Remind me when you started being Superman?”

His dad ducks his head, rubbing his neck. “Well, I’d just got my job at the paper, so I’d have been… twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

“Just finished college.” Jon’s mom says. “Starting your career. Jon deserves the chance to figure out what he wants to do without being a hero, just like you did. There’s enough heroes that the world won’t end if Jon takes a few years to figure out what he wants to do.”

“I… You’re right.” Jon’s dad says. “The League won’t be happy about a Kryptonian running around outside of their control, but they should trust Jon by now.” Jon grimaces as his dad ruffles his hair. “You don’t worry about a thing. I’ll handle the League, and you can focus on college. When… or if you decide you want to be Superboy again, you can come back when you’re ready. Okay, son?”

Jon can’t help the tears that streak down his face as he tackles his dad, dragging his mom along too into one big pile of a group hug. “Thank you.” Jon mutters.

Jon is still undecided on his major. He can’t bring himself to devote himself so much to one area of study when he’s still feeling like he’ll need to abandon it to go save the world at any moment. It just feels pointless to throw himself into something like this.

That said, he does decide on a college. Eventually. Part of him wants to find some no-name town and hide out there. Someplace where nothing ever really happens, where he won’t hear a scream for help and have to do something about it. But… he picks the alternative instead. New York. NYU, specifically. There are so many heroes in New York that even he’d be hard-pressed to make it to a crime scene before some other hero is already there handling it. And in New York, the League can keep an eye on him easier. Make sure he’s not doing anything dangerous with his world-ending superpowers.

Jon rolls his eyes. The League and their paranoia. It’s rubbing off on him. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. It’s eating him alive that he’s sitting back while there are still people who need help. But he just wants to find some illusion of normalcy. Of safety and… direction. Something that’s not dictated by his heritage or his name. He’s not going to cause any trouble. That’d be antithetical to the whole point of this.

Still. Manhattan. It’s not crazy far, not like he’s flying across an ocean or anything, but even so it’s a new start for him. Jon can’t help but feel excited at the idea. He’ll be living on his own for the first time, sharing an apartment with a stranger.

He has fought and fought and fought just to survive to be able to do this. This, moving into his own life, exploring it and learning all he can, this is what he has fought to protect for so many other people. Now, it’s his chance to do it himself. It’s scary, but it’s also exhilarating.

When he packs up his things and piles into the car, it hits him all at once. A new chapter. A new Jon. He isn’t sure who that is just yet, but he’s braved the unknown too many times to be afraid of it. If he’s honest with himself, he’s much more afraid of going back.

New York isn’t all that different from Metropolis. Jon figures most big cities are pretty similar. They all have their own uniqueness about them, of course, but at their core things work largely the same. Jon is still just a kid from the country at his heart, but with his “home away from home” being Metropolis, New York feels almost familiar to him. Different enough to be exciting, and to remind him he’s doing something so remarkable, but familiar in a way that gives him confidence.

Things will be okay here. Jon can do this.

He repeats that to himself as his gut tightens. His parents will only be a short flight away. He can go out and see them anytime he wants, really, but living away from them, in a whole new city no less, is still nerve-wracking.

But of course, for now, bless them, they’re helping him move into his new apartment. His roommate is out when he arrives, but he can see the signs of life that tell him they’re already here. Probably have been for a day or two. One of the rooms has their stuff in it – he assumes they’re a girl based on the glance he catches when he’s exploring, but the moment he sees they’ve already claimed it he retreats from the room and tosses his stuff in the other one.

The furnishing is spartan, but Jon expects this, and he’s dealt with worse on missions. It doesn’t look like his roommate has done much to make the place feel more homely, except clean, he thinks, but there’s no way to tell until he meets them if they’re just a minimal person or if they’re waiting for him.

I’ll have to buy groceries next time. He thinks, checking the fridge and cabinets, realizing his roommate has already stocked up.

But he doesn’t spend much time in the living room yet. He wants to meet his roommate before he starts messing around too much in the common space. Instead, he focuses on putting his bedroom into order.

Besides their room, and the obvious signs of life, there are some other traces of them around the place. The bathroom has a bunch of products tucked neatly off to the side, and the cupboards under the sink have basic supplies. He spots a first-aid kit, too, which concerns him just a little because it’s a big one. Like, the kind of overstocked kit he’s only ever seen in heroes’ homes. But Jon just shakes the concern out of his head, rationalizing that there’s any number of reasons for a better first-aid kit. They probably just like to be prepared. After all, they’ve already got the apartment in order, with the exception of things he imagines his input would be relevant on. They seem like a fairly organized person from that alone.

When he runs out of things to do in the apartment, he heads out with his parents to sightsee a bit, and that’s how he spends the rest of his day. It’s not until late in the evening that he returns to his new home. Alone.

The first thing he notices when he opens the plain door is the scent of fresh cookies. The next is the soft thudding of feet, and then a petite girl slides around the corner with a used rolling pin in her hands and flour dusting her pink apron.

She grins widely. “You must be my roommate! I’m Marinette. It’s nice to meet you!”

“I’m Jon.” Jon says, grinning back. “How long have you been here?”

Marinette turns to lead him down the hallway to the living room. “Oh, I got in on Monday. I’ve been so excited to meet you! Oh! And when I saw your stuff here today, I made cookies! Do you have any allergies?”

“Nope.” Jon follows the flowing black hair bobbing in front of him until they find themselves in the living room and kitchen, snickering softly at how he has to look down at her. She’s so cute! And she made cookies! “That’s really nice of you. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. I used to make macarons for my class on the first day of school. This is just my way of saying hi, and that I want to be friends.”

Jon swears his heart melts a little. She’s adorable. Hero or not, Jon resolves at that moment that he’ll do anything to keep this girl safe. She’s too pure for this world. “Aw, well I want to be friends, too.” Jon says. “And now I feel like I got really lucky, with you as my roommate.”

The girl flushes and giggles but shakes her head as she pushes him towards some cookies set out on a cooling rack. “Help yourself. They’re still warm.” She says

“Don’t mind if I do.” Jon has to admit, the cookies look delectable. And when he bites into one, he could be on Krypton for how the taste transports him. “Oh my god, these are so good.”

Marinette just giggles. She smirks proudly, a little smugly. “Mhmm. My parents are bakers, actually, so I’ve been baking almost my whole life. What do your parents do?”

“They’re journalists. Reporters in Metropolis. Mom also writes books.”

“Wow, my best friend wants to be a reporter! In Metropolis, though? Is that where you’re from?”

“Sort of. I live on a farm in Hamilton County. A ways north of there. I visit a lot, though, so it’s a home away from home of sorts. What about you? You’ve got an accent, uh… French?”

“Mhmm. I’m from Paris. I came here to study fashion at FIT.”

“That’s so cool! You’re a fashion designer?”

“Yeah! That’s my dream. I’m so lucky to have this chance to study here.” Marinette helps herself to a cookie herself as she makes herself comfortable on a chair. Jon follows her to sit down as well. “What about you? You’re about my age, aren’t you? You here for college?”

“I’m nineteen.” Jon says “And yeah. NYU. I’m, uh, still undecided though. Not really sure what I want to study yet.” He’s embarrassed to admit it, though he knows he’s going to be telling a lot more people about his indecision. After all, everyone in college is going to be asking each other their majors.

Marinette, when she talks about fashion, even just her opportunity to go to school here for it, she has this glow about her. She knows exactly what she wants and she’s going for it. Jon can’t help but admire that. It makes him feel a little behind the curve, though. There’s a lot of undeclared majors in college, but he imagines most people their age already have some idea at least.

“I just turned twenty!” Marinette says. “But you’ve got time to figure it out, right? There’s a lot of core classes we’ll have to do anyway.”

“Yeah.” Jon admits. “That’s true. No rush just yet.”

“You’ll find what you want to do, Jon.” Marinette says confidently. “No need to worry yet.”

Jon just laughs quietly. Am I that transparent? He doesn’t think he’s so obvious that Marinette can see how bummed he is about not knowing what he wants to do with his life, but she makes that little effort to comfort him anyway. “You’re right. Thanks.”

Marinette grins, and then smacks herself. “Oh, I told myself I’d warn you ahead of time! Making clothes often takes up a lot of space. Mostly just when I have to cut fabric, but I might have to use a lot of the floor space here every once in a while.” She gestures to the living room. “And I might have to move the furniture to make space sometimes. I’ll try to keep as much of it as I can at the university, but…”

“That’s fine.” Jon says. “I don’t mind at all. If you do need to move the furniture, let me know and I’ll help out.” Jon eyes her and the furniture and while the furniture isn’t hefty by any means, Marinette is a small girl. He may not be using his powers much being off-duty and with a roommate who can’t know about them, but he’s still a big guy and moving around some furniture won’t be more than a small annoyance at best. He hopes she doesn’t push herself too hard trying not to inconvenience him if it does come down to that.

“Thank you.” Marinette beams brilliantly. “I understand it might get annoying, but as I said, I’ll try to keep most of that stuff at school. Hopefully, we won’t have to do that too often. And I hope you don’t mind; I took the bedroom with a little bit bigger closet.”

He laughs. “Not at all. Sounds like you’ll need it.”

Marinette agrees, laughing along with him. “So, when do you start, anyway?”

“Next week. You?”

“Same. I’m really excited! To be honest, I still kind of can’t believe I’m here. In America!” She laughs. “I never thought I’d find myself here, but here I am.”

“I’ve been to Paris,” Jon says, “but I never got the chance to really look around. Is it very different from here?”

Marinette shrugs non-committally. “Well, you don’t have the architecture here. Paris is much more elegant, but I do like New York. It’s just as inspiring, just in a different way. Life in a big city isn’t all that different though. I just have to use English, now. It must be worse for you, you said you came from a farm?”

“Yeah, but I spent a lot of time in Metropolis. It’s not too different, either. Biggest thing for me is the noise. When I had to spend the night in Metropolis? Like, do those people ever sleep? It’s so quiet on the farm. Nothing like the city.”

“It must be so beautiful out there, though.”

“City’s pretty, too. It’s different, but they’re both nice.” When Marinette only hums in agreement instead of commenting further, he asks, “So what classes do you have at FIT? Do you have the same core stuff as I do, or is it different since your college is specialized?”

Marinette furrows her brow. “I’m not sure, actually. I still have to get credits in all the normal stuff. Science, math, foreign language – I really need to talk to an advisor about French there, actually – but I’m not sure if they offer the same classes as NYU. I’m taking a communications class but that’s for non-native English speakers, and geometry for my maths. And Science of Jewelry counts for my natural science credit, but I did see that they offered more typical science classes.”

Jon hums. She really is focused on design. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. “I’m taking more general classes. Kind of hoping something will catch my interest and help me figure out what I want to do. I guess it makes sense that a specialized college would teach even the regular classes through that kind of lens.”

“Yeah.” Marinette yawns widely. “I’m glad, though. Not sure I’d enjoy sitting through core classes if they weren’t tailored to art or design.”

“Ha, yeah. You getting tired?”

“A little. I’m still on Paris time, I guess. Do you mind if I go get ready for bed?”

Jon hold up his hands. “Don’t need my permission. This is your apartment too. Go ahead. I’m just going to…” He reaches over to the plate of cookies Marinette leaves on the coffee table. “Take another one of these and get ready for bed myself.”

Marinette giggles. “Alright. Good night, Jon.”

“Nighty night, Marinette.”

-------=-------

Tag List: @moonystars14 @pawsitivelymiraculous @magic-miraculous @vixen-uchiha @buticaaba @bigpicklebananatree @lozzybowe <3

#miraculous ladybug fanfiction #ml x dc #ml fanfiction #maribat #marijon #ehhtrtd

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infj-zen · 4 years

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#GetSorted challenge

#GetSorted from mbti-sorted

Okay, for interest’s sake I’m going to answer a few of these questions in writing. It’s almost midnight, we’ve been in COVID-19 lockdown for a while now and I don’t look camera ready.

Actually, that’s an excuse.

I would not go on camera even if there were no pandemic.

To everyone who does the video challenge, congratulations on your bravery.

So, here goes...

Tell us about a teacher or a coach who left a big impression on you. I had a longstanding EFSJ music teacher who would probably be considered charismatic, dominant, driven, hot-tempered, sometimes extremely funny. She emphasized repetition so that all her students had as close to perfect technique as possible. You were not allowed to have any input into her methods and students with a lot of opinions usually left or were asked to leave. She was very good at teaching the way she taught and for some students her methods worked particularly well. I learned that I did not like learning by repetition and did not retain as much that way. However, by subjugating my own preferences I was forced to address my weaknesses. Maybe it resulted in personal growth in terms of seeing the value of repetition in developing physical technique, muscle memory, and the memorization of music. I think it would have helped to also have combined the emphasis on repetition with explanations of the history and theory of the music in order to more fully understand and retain what I had learned. I also learned how to be self-effacing when I needed to be and not to insert ego or opinions where they were not wanted when I later had bosses with similar personality traits. I learned to be more selective and to actively try and put myself in long-term situations where I would be learning/working in the ways most conducive to me. Besides this learning experience, I had some really amazing science and English teachers in later years of high school and university. These were mostly ENTPs along with a few ENFPs and ENTJs. I found the ENTJs often had the most clear explanations for complex subjects. The best ENTP teachers were often very personally considerate and good at explaining things in ways that were easily understandable to me; I was good at synthesizing their ideas. The ENFPs were probably more smooth speakers and yet somewhat less easy to follow for me (they probably also addressed weakness in how I learned, for example, by not always explaining what they wanted super clearly beforehand; learning was a lot of trial and error; we did a lot of acting and oral presentations in class; Ne and Te make for a different way of thinking theoretically, of connecting ideas and facts).

What was your favourite subject in school and did you pursue it as a career? English and Chemistry. I pursued English in University and probably would have gone into Chemistry otherwise. However, I then realized I liked researching as an activity more than actually doing all that academic English involved and ended up studying and working in social sciences - somewhere I never considered when I was younger. A background in literature and writing is generally useful in the various jobs I’ve had though.

Do you have any athletic injuries and how did you get them? Yes, tendonitis from dancing (repetitive jumping and landing on the ball of the foot). This was as a child and it was not permanent.

Do you believe in any supernatural phenomena? No, but I can imagine a lot.

Tell us about a recurring conflict with a family member. Probably the most recent common recurring conflict revolves around being in a conversation with ‘a family member’ who is not listening and responding appropriately. For example, I am talking and ‘a family member’ to whom I am speaking responds by addressing something that takes on a totally different issue from that which I just referenced. Is the listening fine and the responding not? Is the listening poor and the responding good? Are both the listening and the responding off? Is my articulation poor? Is it mind manipulation?

What character do you identify with the most and why? The closest thing I’ve seen on screen is probably Caroline Turing in Person of Interest. Episode 23, Season 1 of POI features an INFJ actress playing something very close to an INFJ psychologist. Her mannerisms, speech patterns and interactions with her ISTP co-star (playing an ISTP former-military-guy-acting-as-a-patient-to-save-her-from-hitmen) are pretty realistic. Unfortunately, her real character, Samantha Groves aka Root, a serial killer for hire is only pretending to be Caroline Turing in order to gain access to the ISTP’s INTJ computer genius boss (played by an INTJ) and his AI surveillance system. So, the portrayal of this character only lasts for one episode.

How many languages do you speak? Is English your first language? If it isn’t, answer a question in your native language (please summarize it after in English!). Two. English (native speaker) and French.

What advice would you give to your younger self and what would they think of where you are now? Would you warn them about anything? Maybe just that what fields you enjoy studying in and working in may end up being different areas. In terms of having better job prospects, I might advise my younger self to study a subject like software engineering (which I didn’t have a lot of knowledge of or exposure to through our high school education system). That might be very useful in finding a fulfilling job now or in complementing the degree or field I went into. Also, I was extremely driven when I was younger and I would probably advise myself to take school more slowly, less courses at a time, more time to focus on course work, and generally to manage things in a way that resulted in less burnout.

Do you people-gather? (If you’re unsure, ask others in your group(s) if they’re there because of you.) How many groups do you belong to, and what do you think of this? Not so much for the people-gathering. I do not join a lot of groups. Usually, when I do, it is because I got dragged into it by someone charismatic and friendly. I often stay with the group for a relatively lengthy period. I end up feeling highly committed out of a sense of loyalty to the recruiter/group. At some point I end up leaving the group (often involves physically moving away to justify) and having a sense of extreme burnout when the mention of joining anything similar comes up.

Are you passionate about your career? Tell us about it. Sort of. I went into my career with the idea that I would have less chance of burnout if I went into something I was dispassionate about. For example, less interaction with people (using Fe) and more paperwork (using Ni and Ti). Some of my jobs have involved a lot of customer service and the use of Fe all day was overstimulating and emotionally draining. The best jobs so far involved working at a desk 9-5 and basically using a lot of Ni and Ti while organizing information in systems. This felt like meditating; I would achieve a zen-like state and feel energized afterwards. I would not say I was passionate about the nature of the work but the zen-like feeling was nice. In terms of being passionate, I think I might prefer a job that involved more of a research component. I think I would like to feel more challenged, to learn a lot of new things every day. However, I would not like to be in a career that feels too passionate for really long periods of time, or in a high-stress environment that would result in burnout. I would like more of a balance. You can always find hobbies you are passionate about on the side.

Which holiday brings you the least joy? Labour Day. The thought of going back to school or work ruins it.

Are you a heartbreaker or a heartbreak-ee? 50-50.

What is your dream car? Or if you aren’t into cars, what piece of technology do you dream of owning? I really like my laptop.

Would you rather make a lot of money at a job you hate or do a job you love that keeps you below the poverty line? I would rather have a job I love that keeps me below the poverty line because I don’t spend a lot. However, I would not like to have a job that keeps me way below the poverty line, because then I would feel used and would start to hate the job that kept me so much below the poverty line.

Do you collect anything? Other than information gathering, not really. The idea of accumulating large quantities of physical items and taking care of all of them sounds like a lot to think about or unnecessary stress.

Have you ever had any alternative career paths/life gameplans? Do you wish you had taken another path in retrospect? Sure. Chemistry or Software Engingeering looked interesting and probably would have helped in the job market, even in combination with the field I’m in. That way, my skills might have been more of a focus than personality, career-wise.

Do you have a good sense of direction? How do you navigate (when you can’t rely on GPS)? Do you navigate new places/buildings the same way you navigate your home town/familiar buildings? Is your sense of time better or worse than your sense of direction? No, I do not have a good sense of direction. Mbti-sorted is the only person I know whose sense of direction is worse than mine. And that only applies when walking somewhere. When driving somewhere, she has a better sense of direction. I am decent but not excellent with maps, professionally made and drawn by me. With a place I know well, I just walk around without thinking much. Usually it’s okay. Sometimes, I’m surprised to be lost in a place I thought familiar. With new places, I usually plan ahead. I study maps, bring them with me, compare the map with the physical reality around me for similarities and differences, get upset by perceived inaccuracies, visualize the layout of the land if the land and the map were flipped in different directions, try and detect logical patterns in street layouts and names, I try and remember locations of importance and what they look like, directions between key starting points and destinations, and I take down numbers for taxis in case of failure. Sometimes I walk new streets rather than drive in order to actively experience routes more slowly and have time to memorize them better. My sense of time is okay but not great. I feel the need to meet deadlines. I remember I used to rush to classes at the last minute for school, but I guess I did feel the need to get there on time. I have learned to avoid rushing, to be more responsible and set alarms and to carry a cell phone with a clock around with me to arrive on time and often early for important events. Probably my sense of time is better than my sense of direction.

Credit to Temple Grandin for this question: if I tell you to think of a church steeple, what’s happening inside your head? (You could also talk about a clock tower, or a water tower, or a minaret - something you are familiar with, but have less personal connection to works best.) I immediately thought of a white, aluminum sided cube topped by a black pyramid with light blue sky in the background. My mind was adverse to or somehow felt it unnecessary to think beyond that.

Would you be unable or unwilling to answer any of these questions? Which? No, in that I answered all the questions. I guess I did so in writing and was unwilling to answer them on video. I think you can almost always figure out how to phrase things in a way that is acceptable to you in writing. Yes, in as much as message is affected by medium.

C. ANSWER THESE THREE QUESTIONS (30 seconds):

How much preparation did you do before making this video? If you have an interviewer, did you pick the questions or did they? Who decided to do it that way? A bit / no interviewer / me

What type do you think you are? INFJ

In 1-3 adjectives, describe how you think others see you. Calm and conscientious (from collegues and acquaintances), scrappy (from family).

#mbti #infj #getsorted

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blissfulalchemist · 4 years

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Bloodlines/VA Lore

Okay let’s see if I can compress 12 books of lore for you all as some background for my OCs universe and because vampire lore can be just about anywhere so its nice to know exactly how this one looks.

Okay to start Bloodlines/Vampire Academy is a book series that was written by Richelle Mead and takes some of influence of Eastern European vampiric lore. I could not tell you how much is her creation and how much from the original lore as I have not looked that deep into it. Below the cut though you will get a general idea of the races along with the organizations as pertinent events of the series will be explained within the writing as needed given that Hypatia has very little knowledge of them happening. There has now been a list of important characters also in this list!

If anything isn’t making sense or want to talk about it more feel free to dm me anytime!

Races

Moroi

Living vampires that can die via any human means, they can live longer than the average human. This race of vampires need blood but nothing in the levels of killing and can go a little while without it, though it is recommended to not go past a week at most as they get weaker without it. In terms of the sun yes they can go out and not burn/turn into dust, however the sun does make them uncomfortable very quickly and also makes them weaker. And due to their typically paler skin they are prone to sunburn. When it comes to their bite they cannot change someone else into a vampire, their bite does produce a high when they drink from a person. The last notable feature of this race is that each one is connected to one of the five elements and can perform magic. The most common ones are Air, Water, Fire, and Earth, the rarest of these is Spirit which has the ability to heal, look into minds, see auras, and telekinesis. These powers can range from person to person with everyone having specialties, so to speak, there is a downside that their other fellow Moroi do not have in relation to their magic, and that is the toll that it takes on the mind. Many fall victim to the psychological effects resulting in various forms of mental illness, many temper this by taking medication, limiting their usage of it, or turning Strigoi in some cases. Notable physical features that are typical includes pale skin, slimmer build, and some extra height, seen especially with females.

tl;dr- Living, born with magic, can be in sunlight, need small amounts of blood daily(though can go a while without it)

Dhampir

This race was bred from when humans and Moroi intermingled and while there has been a seperation of the races dhampirs still remain as they can reproduce with Moroi but not other dhampirs. Now this would lead one to believe that they just become more vampire than human but nope, they still stay half human half Moroi. Given their vampire heritage they get things like higher agility, stamina, strength, and reflexes. Because of these traits they made for the perfect guardians to the Moroi that are hunted by their undead counter parts. Many are trained from young ages to be lethal in preparation for a life of serving as protectors. In reccent times there has been a shortage of dhampirs as there is a slight taboo of Moroi sleeping and having children with them(gotta love those kind of judgements), this also isn’t helped as many women choose to raise their children themselves rather than be on duty and letting their children be raised by the schools. This race does not need blood and do not have fangs. There is no aversion to the sun in anyway as this is where their human side really kicks in.

tl;dr- Living, mix of human and Moroi, agile and deadly, trained to be protectors and can easily kill a person, blood not needed for survival, no aversion to sun.

Human

Humans are well humans like you and me. Anything special that comes from them is worked for. Typically humans do not know about the existence of vampires and their whole little world, the ones that do are either a part of an organization(which I will have next) or are employed in some way by either the living or undead ones. Humans serve a purpose among the Moroi as feeders, these are people that are willingly giving up their blood for them and are well cared for typically(there’s always those people), in exchange they get to live in a state of bliss due to the endorphins in their bite. When employed by the Strigoi they are promised the eternal life in exchange for their help in their bidding, ranging from luring prey to taking down magical wards preventing them from entering a place to just house keeping. Some humans learn magic and are classified as witches, this is something that one must have a natural inclination along with proper training as to perform spells. Witches are less known among all races.

Strigoi

The undead, the vampires of your nightmares. This race is one that can be created by choice or by force. To be created by choice a Moroi must kill when feeding drinking to the last drop, creation by force involves a Strigoi to drink from their victim and then have the victim drink some of their blood. The latter method is what is used for choice among dhampirs and humans in this matter. They are the strongest of the races and get strength as they live longer along with feeding on dhampir and Moroi blood. They will kill when feeding as they drink the full person, while they can go a few days without blood many opt to not do that and feed daily. Their bites also produce the same high as their living counter parts. This race will absolutely burn when exposed to the sun and it will kill them. There are three other methods to kill a Strigoi if you can’t just push them into sunlight, you can either set them on fire, cut their heads off, or (and most commonly used method) using a silver steak imbued with the four elements right to the heart. This method is most commonly used as this is a specialty that is taught to dhampirs when becoming a guardian and are given a stake upon graduation. Strigoi that were once Moroi can no longer tap into their magic once becoming part of the undead, because of this Strigoi cannot cross over the magical wards placed around buildings. There is one way to save a Strigoi from this life, if you get a Moroi that specialized in the element of spirit that drives a steak through their heart while wielding their magic it will return them to their living selves. This is something that is rare to see as Spirit is a rare element to specialize in and it takes a great toll to be wielding that much magic and has harsher consequences. Other notable physical features is their dead pale skin and red eyes, along with the addition of fangs if they were once human or dhampir.

tl;dr- Undead, sun kills them, blood is needed and will kill their victims even if its slowly, needs special methods to be killed, cannot perform magic. There is one way to save them but it takes a toll on the savior and is rarely done. Once a Strigoi has been restored to life they cannot become one again.

Organizations

Moroi Royalty

The Moroi are an old race and have kept to traditions which includes having a sort of monarchy. There are 12 royal families of which the king or queen is chosen from using a series of challenges along with a vote from the council between those that passed the challenges after the passing or stepping down of the predecessor. The eldest of each royal family is given the title of prince or princess and is on the council that helps in making decisions for the whole race of Moroi, with the tie breaker and ultimate say coming from the ruling king or queen. Current Queen is Vasilisa Dragomir. Should be noted that not all Moroi are royal, but are allowed to attend the same schools as them even if it seems like a private school.

Guardians

Dhampirs are trained to become guardians from a young age and upon the completion of their high school education will be assigned to a royal or royal family for their protection. Once gaining some seniority and experience they can become professors and help in the guarding of their schools around the world. They do not get much say in their lives and are at the whims of their assignments. There is a gender disparity among them as many women choose to raise the children they have and do not take to being a guardian. These women will typically band together and have communities that soon take on stereotypes of being equated to whore houses to put it bluntly. The women that do become guardians and stay that way, don’t always have children and if they do typically give them to someone else to raise while they return to work. They are typically seen as the career focused business women trope. You can usually tell the difference in if someone is a guardian by the tattooed promise mark on the back of their neck paired with a mark for graduation. Dhampirs will also gain tattoos on the back of their neck for the killing of Strogoi whether promised or not.

The Keepers

The Keepers are groups of people that live off the grid and do not adhere to the same rules and customs of their races as their communities comprise of humans, Moroi, and dhampirs. They keep to themselves away from the royal politics, train everyone to fight and defend themselves, and keep away from modern society mostly. They are not a known group to many and are really kept an eye on via The Alchemists that provide supplies and care when needed. These people also do have the same silver stakes and warding to help in their protection from the Strogoi. And yes there is some polyamory among them to help keep a balance of the races.

Alchemists

The Alchemists are a group as old as the Moroi have been around. This is a group based in science, religion, and paper work. Their primary goal is to keep the outside world from knowing about vampires and their doings. They have both a mixture of field agents and those that are behind a desk. Many in this organization are born into it and most training starts at home and many will start off in the organization as teenagers. The marking of an Alchemist is a golden tattooed lily on their left cheek that is imbued with some magic from the Moroi. These tattoos help in the longevity of a human along with a spell preventing them to tell anyone about the vampiric world unless the person already knows about it. While they work with the Moroi, they do not like them or dhampirs and find them as evil as their undead counter parts, tis a necessary evil for the protection of humanity. It is frowned upon to be even slightly friendly to them and doing so can be cause for a trip to their Re-Education Center. Some have gotten out and brand themselves with an indigo tattoo to help negate the magic in the golden tattoos.

The Sun Warriors

This a group that are very active in hunting down vampires with the primary objective being the undead Strogoi. They were bred from The Alchemists but severed ties as their methods of dealing with vampires did not match up. Many are also born into this profession, but are trained to fight and kill. If the Alchemists are the brains, these guys are the brawn. They are marked by a sun tattoo that can be placed anywhere. They hold many of the same beliefs as the Alchemists and also do hold religious connotations still.

Witches

There is no formal organization for this group as many involve themselves with their smaller covens with some being bigger than others. There are rules that are followed by all and ways to deal with what happens when rules are broken. Some are born into this life while many are brought into the life via a skilled witch who takes someone with raw magic and makes them their apprentice. These are skills that are learned later in life and are less known to others, though they keep an eye and many know of the existence of vampires.

Important Characters(This will be Updated as needed)

Rose Hathaway

Rose is a dhampir guardian that was the main protagonist in the Vampire Academy series (the books being told from her perspective). She was a teenager when she died in a car accident wherein her best friend, Lissa brought her back from the dead via spirit magic this caused her to be Spirit Bound to her. Once her love interest becomes a Strigoi she drops out of school (again) and goes to hunt him down to kill him. She is unsuccessful in this endeavor but does find out who her father is. She and Lissa do find out about how to restore Strigoi and restore her love interest Dimitri. She was then falsely blamed and accused of killing the former Queen Tatiana. Her innocence is proven wherein she suffers another near death(technically dead for a little bit there) experience where in she is no longer Spirit Bound to her friend and the new Queen Lissa, with whom she becomes a guardian too.

Vasilisa “Lissa” Dragomir

Current Queen of the Moroi and the youngest being only 18 when elected, she is one of two remaining heirs to the Dragomir line, the other being a half-sister named Jill. She had a specialization in Spirit magic and is the reason as to why Rose came back to life after the car accident that killed the rest of her family. Lissa was also the one to restore Dimitri to his former self after becoming Srigoi.

Dimitri Belikov

Eddie Castile

Sydney Sage-Ivashkov

Adrian Ivashkov

Abe Mazur

Marcus Finch

#bloodlines #bloodlines series #hypatia verse #bloodlines by richelle mead #bloodlines lore #overview

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brandtmax · 4 years

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welcome back to gallagher academy, soo-yun ‘maxine’ brandt ! according to their records, they’re a first year, specializing in research & development; and they did not go to a spy prep high school. when i see them walking around in the halls, i usually see a flash of ( sugar-free mints, a messy low bun, wisps of hair alongside her face, the end of a pen between her teeth, the patek philippe calatrava 4897r-010 in rose gold, off-white pants in every fabric ). when it’s the ( virgo ) ’s birthday on 08/23/1997, they always request their japchae from the school’s chefs. looks like they’re well on their way to graduation.

henlo it me again i hope u guys aren’t sick of me yet bc i have a new bby named max! i’ve written a lot™️ so brace urself but it’s worth it ( i think ) + trigger warnings: death and alcohol dependency under the cut xxx

the basics

full name: soo-yun ‘ maxine ’ brandt

nicknames: max — just max

age: twenty-two years old

birthday: august 23rd, 1997

gender: cis female

preferred pronouns: she / her

sexuality: bisexual

major: research & development ( formerly a b.a. political science degree from yale university )

known languages: english ( native ) / german ( native ) / korean ( native )

background

nationality: american

birthplace: new haven, connecticut, new hampshire

current location: gallagher academy, roseville, virginia

financial status: upper class

religion: non-theistic

appearance

eye color: brown

hair color: black

height: 5′8.5″

notable features: curly hair on lazy days, rosy cheeks

usual mood and expression: calm, furrowed eyebrows whenever her eyes are on work; lethargic and irritable when she’s overworked ( or without alcohol )

family

birth order: second born

parents: soon-bok ‘ vivian ’ jang and stephen brandt ( d. 2018 )

siblings: min-jun ‘ parker ’ brandt ( b. 1995 ) & georgia ‘ gigi ’ brandt ( b. 2001 )

significant others: chris harmon ( 2013-2015 ) / ava carrillo ( 2015-2016 )

her story so far (this is so long n serious lol)

soo-yun 'maxine' brandt was born and raised in new haven, connecticut, to jang soon-bok ( vivian ), a surgeon, and stephen brandt, a ( n allegedly shady ) criminal justice lawyer.

the brandt siblings were raised like any other blue-blooded, very strict but loving household ( strict = mom / loving = dad )

brandt house rules: get straight a’s, follow the 12 am curfew and don't bring anyone home that you know you’d get disowned for. follow those three rules, and you can do whatever you want.

there was pressure for the brandt siblings to be academically accomplished, but it wasn't anything they couldn't handle. they were well-tutored, semi-popular, attractive teenagers, which were common in new haven, and everyone knew they were destined for ivy league.

in high school, she dated chris harmon, and it was the kind of relationship that could only be described as the personification of a kinder egg. sweet on the outside, a waste of time and money on the inside.

which is fine; it took max about 2 months to get over it when they broke up halfway through senior year, because neither of them thought of their relationship going far. the joy of getting into yale ( already expected ) trumped the feeling of losing a boyfriend. she even bet parker $5,000 she'd get early admission. she won.

during college, she had an on-off relationship with ava carrillo for a year, which inevitably became a permanent off. it turned out that it wasn't a good idea to throw herself into a committed relationship the minute she stepped foot into yale. max never had the time, and ava didn't have the patience. at least she tried it tho !

things seemed to be on the up and up for their family, and the worst thing max has ever been through is being awake for 24 straight hours to prepare for a final presentation. but ! you know what they say about the calm before the storm.

( tw: death ) on december 18, 2018, their father unexpectedly passed away from a heart attack during a layover flight in new york. the brandt family was at home when they heard the news. needless to say, they had a quiet christmas and new year.

the family tried to move on as best they could, but the siblings knew their dad's death irreversibly changed their mom. they have a rocky relationship to begin with, the siblings always feeling like vivian never wanted to become a parent and only did so for their father. they have absolutely no mother-children bond, and it got worse when stephen died. being the older brother, parker took it upon himself to take care of vivian, balancing that with running the home stretch with his undergrad degree.

on the other hand, maxine still had a few years left at yale. no amount of therapy helped her cope with the loss of her father, the way her mother seemed to become a shell of herself, how parker had to break the momentum of his career to be there for their mom, and the constant pressure to do good academically.

( tw: alcohol dependency ) it started with buying bottled moscow mules because she didn't like how beer tasted, and she wasn't dumb enough to go straight to hard liquor. just one to take the edge off whenever stacks of coursework became too much, or when her mother would send her an email talking about her day, and she didn't have the courage to read it. then it went from a one, two, three-time thing to a whenever-i'm-upset thing, which slid into a whenever-i-feel-like-it thing. after a while, it became a daylight thing where she would add a splash of soju ( or whatever ) to her lunchtime drinks, and she genuinely thought it was just a funny idea at first. max wasn't the only day drinker in her social group, anyway. she found it acceptable, no different than how other people would pound red bull every 6 hours like it's their life force. it was manageable for her since she was able to schedule when she'd be indisposed, and she still can.

parker had ( and still has ) no clue. despite the two being close, max spared him the burden of having another thing to worry about. as long as she can control it ( or she thinks she can ) then nobody had anything to worry about.

eventually, both maxine and parker were offered the opportunity to join gallagher academy, with parker in line to graduate with honors in global affairs and maxine, not far behind with her own impressive academic portfolio in political science.

though really, her acceptance into gallagher has less to do with her published papers ( still impressive, tho ) and more to do with her covertly helping her father win cases by doing some expert sleuthing, strategizing, witness dispatching + discrediting, sexc breaking and entering, and good, old-fashioned manipulation !

it was something they both wanted; to be a part of the bigger picture in the world, but they knew they couldn't leave their mother alone. parker, who chose to make the sacrifice, let maxine go and stayed behind to take care of vivian.

( but if we’re honest, maxine would’ve left for gallagher regardless if parker was coming with her, but she’ll never tell him that )

despite the guilt and telling parker she wasn't going anywhere ( cough ), he insisted on her taking the once-in-a-lifetime chance to be a part of something they never knew existed. he knew they were going to end up resenting each other if they both stayed. at least one person in the family should be doing something that made them happy.

and so max dropped out of yale and left for roseville, even though she hadn't thoroughly planned out her career trajectory.

she’s eager not just because of the school, obviously. she can't handle going back to their childhood home and seeing how hollow everything is. plus, the immense anger and denial she feels over her dad’s untimely death has no place in new haven anymore.

she promised parker she'd make it up to him, though. somehow, someday.

who is this b*nch

max is relatively easy to get along with, tbh !

she’s a mood matcher; meaning if you’re nice to her, then she’s nice to you ( and if you’re gonna be a punk bitch, then she’ll be a punk bitch right back )

she’s a lil spoiled, lil sheltered, and lil ignorant but her general friendliness makes up for it, she’s the type to be friends with ( almost ) everyone

internally: perfectionist to the point of being ruthless, first place is the only acceptable place, meticulous, neurotic, workaholic, overachiever, if you’re not useful then what’s your purpose?, slightly egotistical, etc etc

externally: caring, protective, and supportive mom friend who just wants people to get their shit together because inadequacy is unacceptable, fixer, likes to dip into different social circles, consciously makes the effort to be more patient with people

she’s incredibly ambitious ? morally ambiguous ? slightly self-serving and self-involved ? her father’s a criminal “justice” lawyer whose clientele doesn’t exactly consist of the beacons of society so... she learned a lot of lessons about how you can win any case in the courtroom if you’re smart enough to a ) make a good story, b ) get the fitting evidence by any means necessary, c ) discredit and discard the necessary people, and d ) be charming and persuasive enough to rock the jury

she’s actively trying to be more open-minded and assimilate to a diverse group of people because back in yale she was definitely in a wasp bubble, and admittedly there are times where she will come off as super snobby without meaning to and tbh sorry about it

she’s still an extremely sociable person because yale also taught her how to network like a motherfucker, and how it’s important to know / be friends with everyone

honestly, intense people turn her off ( both positive and negative ) a little because she can't handle concentrated personalities in one sitting

even though she’s a little intense herself sometimes but it’s fine, we love hypocrites in this house !

neat freak ? but honestly who doesn’t like a friend who squeegees the shower every day and has a tiny can of lysol in their bag and an aroma diffuser with three ( 3 ) oil blends

she’s like... weirdly aggressive sometimes and most definitely has anger issues ( still in denial over her father unexpectedly passing away and getting stuck with a mom who doesn’t like her own children very much )

but also, she’s just agro in general and has a number of physical hobbies. she’s an ice skater, equestrian, a soulcyclist, and a kickboxer. she can fite.

she’s not the type to make fun of herself because she's not at a point where she sees qualities in her that are okay to laugh at ( unless you’re tight )

keeps her negative juju to herself because she’s a very private person

will prioritize work over play because she'd hardwired like that, but that doesn't mean she's anti-fun ( clearly )

definitely needs to loosen up a little that doesn't involve alcohol... jenga perhaps ? or actually try therapy again ?

very effectively sneaky about her growing alcohol dependency ( sugar-free breath mints, brushes her teeth + uses mouthwash after every meal )

dry sense of humor

at all times: wears a 1-carat, emerald cut, pavé diamond ring ( family heirloom ) + carries her trusty black hydro flask with her ( 24 oz. ) and no one is allowed to drink from it !

her signature scent is le labo bergamote 22 🤍

hmu on my discord @ tin#0697 for plottage !

#gallagher:intro #death tw #alcoholism tw #alcohol dependency tw #ps when u see a typo #just close ur eyes

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rockcfellers · 5 years

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/ let me introduce you to a prized member of our student government , arden rockefeller . this cisfemale virgo has been a student at our institution for seven years and is currently a 21 year old junior. through the halls , she has always reminded me of danielle rose russell , but there is always more than meets the eye , like the fact that she managed to get somene’s admission to cape coral deferred a year for her own benefit . coral cape has made their future just as bright as their smile , i assure you . ʼ ( muse 10 , adri , 19 , cst , she/her )

go on, replace me, when you’re craving something sweeter than the words i left in your mouth, go on and spit me out

NAME — arden olivia rockefeller.

NICKNAMES — n/a?

PRONOUNS — she/her.

AGE & DOB — 21 & august 23, 1998.

PLACE OF BIRTH — new york city, new york.

NATIONALITY — american.

MAJOR — psychology & political science.

EDUCATION — cape coral international school.

CLUBS — student government, unicef campus initiative, and lacrosse.

* background overview !

arden is twins with her brother, neels, both first born to this half of the rockefeller generation (he’s older by several minutes, but she’ll never attest to that) they’ve always been kinda close but never attached at the hip.

you know, i honestly feel like she had a fairly decent? childhood? like nothing was really wrong, just that her parents were always busy and never really gave the attention they should’ve to young children.

she was typically always very bright and cheery to everyone, evoking a “your daughter’s so sweet” from most people she met, which felt like the biggest compliment to her, because it meant that someone thought she was nice even if they disliked the rest of her family for any given reason, kind of like a twisted self worth?

her parents definitely would’ve preferred she did something that seemed more feminine, but arden found a love for kickboxing and later lacrosse, the two sports a great place for her to channel her energy into, letting her mellow out when she’s going through her day to day routine.

arden’s still figuring out how to be both who she’s expected to be and who she wants to be without facing any real repercussions, but hasn’t quite gotten that part down yet.

it was always known she could come to cape coral, considering her family, but she’s lowkey really grateful that she was given the opportunity to study what she wanted where she wanted.

that being said.... she’s still kinda a bitch. i mean, someone she knew from outside of cape coral wanted to applied and had gotten accepted, but arden had worried that they would interfere from her getting idk maybe a spot in the student government or accepted into her research program etc etc, so she talked to her grandfather and had their admission deferred a year so that her studies wouldn’t be affected.

* personality !

okay so,,,she is New so i’m still working out all the kinks but for the most part, she’s just.. neutral

before, she used to be like aggressively happy and cheery and nice. probably to compensate for the fact that everyone around her just seemed so mean.

she’s always hated being seen as weaker than or less than anyone else, which is partially why she’s taken up lacrosse and boxing, much to her grandfather’s distaste.

now she’s more focused on herself and is capable of being able to brush off any kind of comment that comes from people she doesn’t feel like directly affect her, which isn’t a great mentality to have but neither is caring too much about what other people think

the part of her that was very kind and viewed life with a sweet naivety is there, but heavily guarded and buried. she just feels like, it’s not something that’ll do her much good rather than leave her looking a mess or fool when someone takes advantage of it.

she’s like,,,the person that isn’t afraid to knock you down a few pegs but will do so with the sweetest smile on her face to really seal the deal.

she found an interest in politics, actually hating the way things were run but really enjoying finding out why people did and voted and favored the things they did, so she’s double majoring in psychology and political science

she tries to do everything on her own and hates asking for help, like even when she really needs to, but it’s mostly because really needing someone makes her uneasy because she’s always wondering if they’re going to leave her eventually or if they’re just using her or if they really don’t care about her the way she cares for them

that being said, she’s loyal as all hell to her loved ones. like will literally help you get away with murder if you asked her for help, once you’ve reached that point you are absolutely important to her.

* character tropes !

so she’s basically the maiden in the sense that she’s typically overly self confident and finds herself in positions where she’s stuck and needs help, whether it’s being in too many things at once and being too spread out or like in actual danger. arden heavily takes after her parents in the sense that she wants to be wholly capable of taking care of herself, the feeling of being dependent on someone making her uneasy. because of this, she finds herself in situations that could’ve been completely avoided if she had just taken a step off her high horse and admitted or realized she couldn’t do it on her own. the confidence she exhibits today was a learned trait however, arden getting her heartbroken by someone she had really loved taught her how to be comfortable with herself and just be a Badass, but protect the softer side to herself from then on.

* playlist !

wasabi — little mix:

stick like toffee, sip like coffee wake up, change your mind and drop me love to hate me, crazy, shady spit me out like hot wasabi lick me up, I'm sweet and salty mix it up and down my body love to hate me, praise me, shame me either way you talk about me

arden’s a strong believer in the quote by william shakespeare “love me or hate me, both are in my favour. If you love me, i will always be in your heart… if you hate me, i’ll always be in your mind.” she’s really aware of how she can come across as, but is really selective in who she cares to spend time showing her full self to. everyone else and every other opinion gets taken with a grain of salt. she’s definitely had friends that only used her for her name and then dropped her once they were done,she wasted no time moving on.

hold me while you wait — lewis capaldi:

i wish you'd cared a little more (hold me while you wait) i wish you'd told me this before (hold me while you wait) my love, my love, my love, my love won't you stay a while? (hold me while you wait)

a few years ago, she was in a relationship where she had cared a little bit too much about what they thought of her, finding herself seeking their approval for everything, truly believing this person was the sun. she fell hard and fast for them and they took advantage of this and cheated on her, thinking that they would get away with it… and they did for a while. arden tried to excuse it because of how much she loved them, but was starting to feel like she was never going to be good enough for them, but staying with them until things ultimately came to an end, still holding onto the hope that things would change. eventually she realized that she couldn’t keep holding onto that relationship forever and things ended.

winter — relic:

where am i going? i can’t see nothing but the road that’s out in front of me i think it’s snowing

arden’s the worst at multitasking and it shows even in her life. she’s very one track minded and knows what she wants out of it, but only sees one way to get there, so everything that’s the tiniest bit off her track, she gets thrown off completely and needs someone to just nicely push her back in the direction she was headed.

* aesthetics !

candle lights, the breathlessness felt when seeing big city skylines, scrunchies, tart strawberries dipped in sugar, iced coffee in mason jars, long swooping cursive, high-waisted jeans, half opened jewelry boxes, setting a new pen against fresh paper, standing outside during the middle of a sun-shower, tucked in shirts, a hand reaching out to catch you when you fall, golden hour.

* wanted plots !

i’m the worst at coming up with things but,,,,, here’s a few

general friends: honestly some from childhood, some from high school, others from college, give me New friend with the people coming on scholarship, anything

best friends: someone that’s been by her side for years, someone she’d literally trust with her whole life

ride or dies: honestly what it says, maybe like two or three of them that have been through the thick and thin of it but still have a really strong friendship in the end?

confidant: honestly, probably someone she’s close with, but doesn’t see on a regular basis? maybe they just box together from time to time to blow off steam? it helps if they’re not someone she’d see all the time, that way she’s not constantly staring her admission in the face

bad influence: someone who can teach her to let go and get out more, care even less about what others think, especially her parents. even if that’s taking her to parties or drinking/smoking alone in a room

exes ( good, bad, anything in between ): you know the drill, hit me with the good angst. (male, female, nb)

roommate ( probably a cape coral student ): arden doesn’t like needing people but that doesn’t mean she wants to be alone, they probably have a pretty nice place together ngl. i picture it being really cozy and nicely decorated?

hook ups: you also know this drill, sometimes you gotta blow off steam. (male, female, nb)

#capecoral:intro #/. intro

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greenninjagal-blog · 5 years

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Idle Threats

Wow, this was not supposed to be this long, but hopefully it makes up for all the not writing I’ve done for the past month :)

Word Count: 8041

Pairings: Platonic Deceit and Logan. (With background LAMP)

Summary: No one has ever stood up for Dee so he decides to do it himself, in front of the class, in front of the brand new substitute teacher. And he almost regrets it.

Quick Taglist: @felicianoromano @jemthebookworm @holliberries @stricken-with-clairvoyancy

Read on AO3 || Master List

Dante Ethan Ekans hates every single teacher in his school. Three years into his high school career and he had come across every single teacher—every single one of them—and he hated them all. He had sat through every lecture, done every assignment, battled in every single class discussion. He had done everything the school system had asked him to do.

And he is still staring at a low D average in all his classes.

It should have been impossible: the grading system was set up so that as long as students just showed up they were receiving a C grade.

And well, Dante had always been proving the impossible, possible. He had survived his own birth, survived the car crash that killed his father, and survived the worst of his mother’s psychotic tantrums. He had dragged himself to school with bruises on his wrists and broken fingers wrapped messily in old bandages that made his handwriting into an atrocious disgrace just so that he could at least get an education, get a chance at a scholarship, get a chance to leave town.

And he is in his third year of high school, the year most colleges start to look at prospective students, and he is getting a low D average and he couldn’t do a single thing about it.

It’s like the entire teaching staff had unanimously decided “hey, you know that kid whose face is all messed up with the burn marks from the car crash at age six? Let’s just ruin his entire life by grading him unnecessarily harder than everyone else in the school, turning a blind eye to when the other students mess with him, and loudly announcing how he needs to do better on his essays if he wants to get better grades in front of the whole class.”

Dante—and fuck if he hated that name. No one was called Dante anymore—had done everything he could to get his grades up. He studied twice as hard and twice as long as everyone else. He had swallowed his pride and asked the teachers for help (and been told to pay more attention in class) and for extra credit (and been denied). He had tried to argue grades and been sent to the Detention room for vulgar language and an attempted assault on a teacher (which was a blatant lie).

Not to mention that one asshole of a teacher, Mr. Walker, who had told him that not only was make up for females, but his use of cosmetics was an unacceptable cry for attention. Dante then had to stand there in front of the class with his cheeks burning red and his peers snickering as he told the teacher that he wasn’t wearing any make up, and that the burns on his face were the real deal, and that he couldn’t wash it off even if he wanted to.

So Dante Ethan Ekans—Dee for short; Dee was what his friends would call him, if he had any—has no hard feelings when he heard that Mr. Walker had been in a bad car accident and would not be back for the rest of the school year. What a complete shame that would be. How would they ever move on?

Apparently, there’s a substitute coming, one of those long-term ones that only ever dropped by for times of emergency. Dee had overheard the head of nutrition (a sweet, mother-like man that all the lunch ladies adore named Patton Hart) and school resource officer (who Dee doesn’t know the name of and kept far enough away from. He doesn’t need to be any closer to any law enforcers than he already was) talking about the teacher: about how strict he was, about how the kids had no clue what was coming, about how Mr. Hart should redesign the menu with the majority of the student’s favorites because this week was going to be rough with a capital R. They both had laughed after that, and Patton had caught sight of Dee and asked him if he needed anything in the kindest tone Dee had ever heard.

(He had run after that, had run as fast as he could without making it seem like he was running away. The last thing he needs is anymore people to look at him with pity, with cruelty, with smug better-than-you expressions that appeared the second Dee dared act vulnerable. The last thing he needs is to open his mouth and tell the truth.)

Dee isn’t expecting anything amazing to come out of the substitute teacher. He expects it to be another beanpole old lady who snaps anytime someone made a noise and confiscates phones on whim and assigns them all worksheets that were to be done and handed in by the end of the class period, no exceptions.

He’s usually one of the first into the science room because the class he has before it is Math which just down the hall, but he’s barely out of the room when Mrs. Johnston’s shrill voice slices through the student chatter.

“Ekans!” She screeches, “Ekans! A moment!”

It’s not a moment. It’s never just a moment with her. The bell rings and the halls empty and Dee stands in front of the math teacher for another three minutes listening to her tell him that he’s been doing his math the wrong way and if he doesn’t start doing it the way she taught in class she’s going to have to dock him more points (like there’s more to dock him in the first place), regardless of the fact he doesn’t understand the way she’s been teaching and his way is actually based on how a college professor explained it on the YouTube series he looked up for help.

He can see into her classroom, the one that’s filled with obnoxious freshman who are lounging around while they wait for their teacher to be done berating Dee. He can see the way they all point and snicker and make fun of the half of his face he can’t do anything about.

“And now you’ve made me waste time for my next class, Mr. Ekans.” Mrs. Johnston says, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry,” Dee says robotically, and his hands tighten around the strap of his backpack. “It won’t happen again, Ma’am.”

But it’s a lie, because it always happens again.

But it’s a lie, because he’s not really sorry at all.

Because she might have missed the first few minutes of class, but she controlled the rate the students learned. Dee felt his own nails tear into his palm as he opened the door to the classroom where the new substitute was-- the one who’s voice was already droning on about what they were learning, already through the roll call, already letting the whole class know he was not going to tolerate any monkey business at all.

Dee glances at the teacher, who in turn does not break his lecture, but nods to him and to one of the several empty desks in the room. He’s young, nerdy looking, but Dee can’t think of anyone he knows who would have the guts to say it to the man’s face. He had a cold look about him, like he didn’t know how to smile and wasn’t in the mood to learn.

Dee throws himself into the closest empty chair, keeping his head down and tries not to make too much noise when he picks through his backpack for his notebook for the science class.

He’s so focused on not disrupting the teacher, not causing anymore eyes to fall on him, not helping the already terrible opinion the man has of him, that he wasn’t even paying attention to who he was sitting next to until it’s far too late to change seats.

And he finds out when sees another body drape over the desk to his left out of the corner of his eye and Dee freezes on the spot. He’s not hearing a single thing the new teacher says, not hearing whatever he’s mentioning about the quick technical drawing he has on the board, and definitely not hearing the notes he should be taking down. His tongue grates against his teeth as Kyle slides his chair an inch his direction with a weasel-ish expression on his face.

“Hey, Ekans,” Kyle murmurs just loud enough for Dee to hear.

Dee refuses to look at him, but it’s not like he’s seeing anything in front of him either. His fingers squeeze his pencil, and the soles of his feet rest firmly on the ground, like it can keep him from moving at all.

“Ekans,” Kyle says again louder, but not enough to stop the teacher. “The boys and I took some notes for you.”

They aren’t notes. Dee can see the header so neatly written on the top of the paper, so innocently telling him it’s a list of reasons no one likes him and what to do about it (and worse). It’s not original, its not new, and Dee stubbornly refuses to give him the satisfaction of taking it.

Dee can hear the rest of his friends, the idiots, the dicks, and those two girls who never had anything nice to say, snickering behind them and further left. He can see a motion that looks like one of them nudging each other, and he feels the familiar kick of someone’s foot against his chair.

He wants to say he’s used to it.

He doesn’t think lying to himself is healthy.

Lying to everyone else? Yeah, sure, he’s been doing that since middle school. He’s drowned in his fake apologies for things that weren’t his fault and his torn himself apart to appease people who need to feel like they’re better than others just to keep his own mind sane.

Honestly, he’s a little sick of it—all of it. He didn’t ask for his face to be the discolored mess that it was, didn’t ask for his mother to sometimes lose her mind, didn’t ask for everyone around him to be assholes. He remembers, vaguely, the doctor who had treated his burns (one of them?). At six years old, he can’t even put a face or a name to the form, but he can still hear the voice in the back of his mind telling him he’s lucky, so very lucky.

He could have lost an eye. His arm. His life.

Dee hasn’t felt lucky since then.

The foot kicks his chair again, Dee jerks. Someone laughs. The teacher says something about a test with a pointed clip to his tone. They settle down long enough that the teacher turns away and rambles on about the schedule he’s going to keep them on, blah, blah, blah.

Kyle leans over again. “Ekans—”

“Shut up,” Dee hisses. He regrets it a second later. Because there was a metaphorical door there and Dee had just flung it open and allowed Kyle to walk on in.

“Damn Ekans,” Kyle snickers, “You don’t have to be such a little bitch about it. Does your brother know your such a little bitch?”

Dee’s hand tightens on his pencil.

“Maybe we should tell him,” Kyle muses. Dee doesn’t have to look to know the expression on the other’s face. “He goes to Mind Elementary, right? Just down the road?”

Dee counts backwards from Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

“It would be super easy just to sit down and have a chat with him. I wonder if he knows how big of a freak his brother is? I bet he’s too stupid to—”

Dee does not make it to six.

“If you so much as look at my brother, I’ll put you in the goddamn hospital,” Dee says.

The room seems to breathe for a second. Dee glares at Kyle and his stupidly pleased weasel face and beady green eyes that look like forest moss eating the carcass of some animal. The room seems to breathe for a second and Dee realizes with a fiery anger it was because no one was speaking.

The teacher had stopped. Which meant that everyone’s attention is on him.

“Mr. Ekans,” The substitute says a hand reaching up to adjust his glasses, and Dee flinches. “Is there something you would like to add to my lecture?”

It wasn’t even fifteen minutes into the class, and the man already knew his name. Kyle grins sharply, smugly. Two of his friends do an underhand five in the seats behind them. Dee thinks he hates everyone in the room at that very moment.

“No,” Dee says, through gritted teeth, “sir.”

The teacher hums. “Interesting, could that be because Mr. Phillips was providing an ample distraction in the middle of my class time?”

That was the moment that Dee realizes he had gone to school with Kyle for three years and had never heard his last name before.

After all, Kyle was every teacher’s favorite. If they didn’t know him from his numerous club activities (drama, art, debate, every honor club you could think of), he often brought them presents on the first day of class and was invited over for dinner every Saturday evening within the first week of class. No one addressed him by his last name.

The substitute teacher didn’t look pleased to be the first. Neither did Kyle.

And frankly, neither did Dee. (Because it wasn’t like it would last. It wasn’t like by tomorrow all of Kyle’s misdeeds would be forgotten and this teacher--this temporary teacher--wouldn’t be wrapped around Kyle’s finger like all the others.) Dee’s stomach clenched at the thought, a bit of envy, jealousy, anger clawing up his throat and making the burns from so long ago itch.

“Well?” The teacher says—and no, Dee checked, he had not written his name on the board. “Mr. Phillips?”

“I was just offering him the notes.” Kyle says, “He came in late. I was trying to be a help and he threatened me!” He looks at his friends who all nod earnestly like Kyle isn’t lying through the skin of his teeth.

“Curious how I do not believe that,” The teacher counters. “This is my classroom, Mr. Phillips. If I thought Mr. Ekans needed notes, I would have provided them to him. Additionally, your actions have caused more harm than good as I am now wasting more of this class’s time, and seeing how this is the last class of the day, I only have your attentions for approximately an hour and fifteen minutes.” He stops for a moment, his eyes darting between Dee and Kyle in a way that Dee does not like.

“Perhaps this is for the best.” He says suddenly, “It would do well to get this out of the way now. Both of you, up here.”

Dee freezes.

Kyle hisses under his breath and heaves himself out of the chair with false gusto. He makes a gesture to his friends that carries a round of giggling up to the front of the room.

“Mr. Ekans,” The teacher says. “That means you, too.”

In no way shape or form is Dee at fault here. He knows he’s not. Kyle and his friends have been picking on him for years and getting away with it and leaving charcoal rocks in Dee’s stomach from every encounter. Standing up feels a lot like striking a match and the entire trek up to the front of the room feels like lowering it to the rocks.

Dee’s face is already burning by the time he side by side with Kyle again. He stares stiffly at the whiteboard, glaring at a smudge of black marker from the last class.

“I am not your normal teacher,” The substitute says. “A lot of the things that were condoned in his class will not be in mine. You will not talk when I talk. You will not be on your phones unless I tell you to. You will not pass notes. You will not make idle threats—”

Dee isn’t sure what comes over him, but that charcoal fire in his stomach explodes outward and engulfs his entire body. For a split second everything turns red, every noise of all the twenty-two other students in the class fades to nothingness, and Dee turns sharply to the side.

Maybe its because Dee had a little bit of hope buries somewhere deep in his mind. Maybe its because he knew that teachers weren’t supposed to pick sides or hold prejudices. Maybe its because Dee spent a whole ten years being “lucky” enough that he survived everything thrown his way just to let another teacher turn a blind eye to the students’ interactions.

Maybe its because Dee was just so very tired of the smug look on Kyle’s face.

His fist connects before anyone realizes he even moved. Kyle yells, and he goes crashing to the floor. Dee’s knuckles pulsate with pain, and he pretty sure he tore the skin off on when it scraped Kyles stupid teeth. Several kids scream.

Dee looks back at the teacher, meeting his somewhat surprised gaze with his own angry one.

“There,” Dee spits, “It’s not an “idle” threat anymore.”

So he finds himself sitting in the front office hands jammed in his pockets and shoulders up to his ears. Part of him wonders if he can fold into himself until nothing exists. The secretary running the phone and letting parents in to pick up their kids, keeps side eyeing him, as if he’s a circus attraction she can’t quite believe is real.

Dee’s head is still ringing with the teachers voice telling him to take the quickly scribbled note and go to the Vice Principal’s office, but the edges of his adrenaline and his anger keep him from feeling the paper cut and the bruising on his knuckles that surely was coming.

He tries to convince himself he’s sorry for doing it, but if Vice Principal Joan tells him to apologize to Kyle in person Dee might have to take a short walk off the roof.

It had felt…good. It had felt great. It had felt a lot like a mistake too.

There was no way he was getting out of this one, no empty promises to do better could make up for assaulting another student. Not to mention that substitute teacher most definitely hated him now, and rightfully was about to join ranks with ever other teacher in the school.

VP Joan was going to suspend him, and then they’ll call Dee’s mother, and then Dee was never going to get into college, and he was never going to leave this town, and he was never going to overcome the scarring on his face that he had been so damn lucky to survive in the first place.

“Dante Ekans,” A voice calls from the hall of offices where all the staff had desks. Dee only recognizes VP Joan because of their face in the school newsletter and sometimes on the papers. They did a lot of fundraisers like kissing a pig if the students raised “X” amount of money, or one dollar to buy a strip of duct tape to tape them to the wall.

Dee goes with them into their office. It feels cluttered, but there is enough space for Dee to sit down and VP Joan to look stressed. Papers, mugs, several action figures Dee vaguely recognizes rest on the desk. There were awards on the walls and teaching certificates along with superhero posters Dee thinks probably aren’t the most professional until he sees it was signed by the cast of the movies.

“So,” The VP says, “Want to tell me what happened?”

The answer is no, Dee does not want to tell them what happened. Because even when Dee tells the truth, even when he lays down his words barren in front of the judges, even when he cries or yells or shows any validating emotion, his scarred face makes him appear less trustworthy. It happened before where Kyle said what he wanted and the teachers decided that must have been what happened and that Dee had lied and made everything up in yet another desperate cry for attention.

So, no, Dee doesn’t want to tell the VP what happened, because he’s so sick of being turned into the bad guy when he’s not. (Okay maybe punching the guy was a bad example here. Maybe Dee just wants to keep himself from digging a bigger grave with this one).

Dee stares at the wood grain in the VP’s desk and lets the silence hold out. It’s comforting in a way.

VP Joan taps their fingers on their side of the desk. If Dee shifts a little he can see the little blue unfolded note that the teacher had sent him with, and although he doesn’t know what it says, Dee knows it probably bad.

Like “Student Ekans interrupted class with a threat against unarmed peer and then acted upon said threat. Suggested course of action is immediate expulsion” bad. Or something worse.

“Mr. Ekans,” VP Joan says, followed by a sigh, “Fuck this shit.”

Dee blinks at the sudden language—language he’s pretty sure is not allowed in the school. Most of his teachers get after him for that (especially the ones who can’t get him with anything else. His last English teacher was a fan of cutting him off mid book discussion whenever he used a swear, until Dee just began to hold his tongue completely.)

“Look, I don’t know what you did that Logan needed you out of the classroom.” VP Joan says, “And I don’t really have any work that a student can do, uh, legally. Why don’t you go see if Patton—uh Mr. Hart to you—needs any help.”

Dee stills, “What?”

VP Joan holds up the blue paper, and the black scrawl that reads “Please entertain Mr. Ekans for the rest of the block” makes Dee’s eyes cross slightly.

“I’m not…in trouble?” Dee says. It sounds like a dream, like saying the words out loud will make the reality crack and fall apart.

“Should you be?” VP Joan asks, “Don’t answer that. Dr. Ackroyd and I go way back, but I’m still surprised he agreed to fill in here for the rest of the year. We need a competent science teacher, so I’ll turn my head to whatever complex puzzle he’s solving.”

Dee doesn’t understand what that means. He really doesn’t care either.

“Don’t forget your bag,” VP Joan says as they usher Dee out of the office and towards the cafeteria where Patton Hart might be found. “I’m sure I’ll see more of you, Mr. Ekans, but until then have a good day.”

It’s ridiculous, Dee thinks, like its part of a dream. Maybe it is? Maybe Dee punched Kyle and Kyle hit him back and he hit his head on the white board marker tray and now he’s hallucinating.

But he doesn’t think hallucinations were this real: he can hear the sound of each teacher teaching, laughter from some of the rooms, and the muttered conversation between two teachers who have a free period this block and don’t spare him a glance. He can hear the sound of the tape ripping as a couple of students hang posters on the walls for Cheerleading tryouts, can feel the sturdiness of the tile floor under his feet as he tries to catch the reflection of the artificial lights on the polish, can smell the lemon cleaner from the trolley outside the bathrooms that signifies they’re being cleaned at the moment.

He finds Patton Hart sitting at the only table left set up in the cafeteria. He’s laughing leaning forward with a bottle of Windex and a rag at his elbows, but it looks like he’s already cleaned everything that needs to be cleaned. Standing next to him is the resource officer, and Dee still doesn’t know the man’s name. It wasn’t like they talked very often. Still, the man looks smug and happy, and absolutely thrilled that he managed to get a laugh from the nutritionist.

Dee slows his pace, a half step for every real step he could be taking when he realizes that he doesn’t have a clue what he’s supposed to say. At best? Mr. Hart would set him up with some busy work to do, like cleaning lunch trays maybe (where there any of those left?). At worse? He’d demand to know why Dee wasn’t in class, and then drag him to said class and Dee would get to be the middle of a commotion all over again. Perhaps it would be better if he ran for the bathrooms and hid there until the end of the day. Then he’d sneak out with the rest of the students, avoid Kyle, pick up his brother, and make it all the way home before anyone stopped him.

His shoe scuffed the ground when he goes to turn around. His heart jumps to his throat, when both the staff members pause to look at him.

“Hey, kiddo!” Mr. Hart says, “You need something?”

The Resource Officer shifts to put his hands on his belt. Dee tries not to watch too intensely. His mouth dries up again, and he tries figure out what combination of English words isn’t going to ruin this chance to walk free of consequences. He hates that he remembers a time when he wasn’t afraid to talk to people, hates that he has to swallow the lump in his throat and fight the urge to stare at his shoes while his fingers tear at his bag’s straps.

“VP Joan,” Dee says finally, “sent me to you.”

“Me?” Mr. Hart blinks, pointing to himself. “Hmm, that’s not normal. Did they say why?”

Answering the question is a straight forward thing: VP Joan said that he had nothing for Dee to do, so he sent him to Mr. Hart. But Dee also knows that will lead the conversation to why he was sent to VP Joan in the first place and he really doesn’t want to tell anyone else how he managed to dodge the repercussions of decking another kid by some type of miracle and have that change.

The silence holds on a second, two, three, too long. Dee’s head drops to stare at his scuffed up converse (an ugly yellow pair that he had stolen from a GoodWill bin in the outer parking lot of a shopping complex late one night two years ago, which he had worn until they were a dusted brown).

“Kiddo?” Mr. Hart asks

The Resource Officer shifts again, “Wait, I know you!” He raises a hand casually turning back to Mr. Hart, and hopefully missing the way Dee’s shoulders tense. “He’s got Walker for last block.”

Mr. Hart claps his hands and turns back to Dee. His eyes sparkle behind his black framed glasses. “Oh, that means you were in Logan’s class! That’s amazing! He’s a great teacher!”

“Hardly!” The Resource Officer scoffs. “Logan probably scared them all out of their minds! He’s the worst!”

“Roman!” Mr. Hart hits him on the arm, “You take that back! Logan is the sweetest teacher this school is ever going to see!”

“Of course, you’d say that, Pat!” The Resource Officer- Roman?- says, “You never had to be tutored by him!” For a man who could probably bench press three “Logan’s”, Dee thought it was a little weird how he shuddered unpleasantly. Although that was not as weird as trying to make sense of what the two adults were talking about.

Honestly he wasn’t sure they were talking about the same person at all: The teacher-- Logan, Dr. Ackroyd (that’s was VP Joan had said right?)-- was stern and stiff and, sure, a little scary, but then again Dee didn’t exactly have stellar experiences with any other adult either. Still he couldn’t see what about him was “the sweetest teacher in this school”.

And the fact that Dee had been in his class for about ten minutes before he was sent right back out. He still wasn’t convinced the teacher wasn’t planning some big, huge, insurmountable class project to give to Dee as a punishment for punching such a nice kid like Kyle.

Mr. Hart stood up from his seat looking directly at Dee, “Come sit down, kiddo! Are you hungry? There’s some left ice cream sandwiches from lunch this week that I’m going to need to throw out before the weekend.”

Dee very much doesn’t know what to do. He’s not sure he nods, but Mr. Hart disappears into the cafeteria kitchen anyway so that Dee and the Resource Officer are left alone. Dee’s fingers ache whenever he moves them, so he takes extra special care to use his non-dominant hand to shrug off his backpack. The burn scars on his forearm and on his shoulder blade work in tandem to make him as uncomfortable as possible.

When he looks up, Resource Officer Roman is staring at him. His brain whirls with something to say, something defensive that will get the adult to keep his comments to himself, and please, please, don’t ask about them. But everything that comes to mind is nasty and ugly and he can’t say it to someone with a taser on their belt.

For a room that could fit upwards three hundred students for lunch, Dee feels trapped and claustrophobic.

“So,” The adult says, “What’s your name?”

“Ekans,” Dee says immediately. He stares down at the table.

“That’s…that’s a terrible name, kid.” The Resource Officer says. “Did your parents pick that one out or--?”

“Dante Ekans,” Dee says sharply, and squeezes his aching fingers tightly because the pressure overrides the pain even if its just for a second.

“Ah! Dante! Like the Poet! Writer of The Divine Comedy!”

Dee sinks lower in his seat, “Yep.” The centuries old text of a guy traveling through hell and purgatory and idolizing a guy that had been dead even longer than him. Like he hadn’t heard that one before. It was just another reason to hate his name.

Mr. Hart chooses that moment to come back, bouncing on the balls of his feet, sliding on the freshly polished floor, and those curls of his dancing. Resource Officer Roman immediately forgets all about Dee and Dante’s Inferno and all those things that adults like to think when they saw him. It’s a relief.

Kinda.

Mr. Hart sits down right next to Dee, ignoring his previous seat completely. Dee’s shoulders bunch up to his ears, he’s sure, and the way his mouth dries out is far from expected. But the man just hands him an ice cream sandwich that the cafeteria sold for a dollar during lunch shifts, and Dee takes it.

(He’s had one before, like once. For his birthday last year where he borrowed a single dollar from his mother’s and bought himself one birthday gift. It had been sticky and too sweet and the chocolate had clung to his fingers and he had thrown half of it out, but Dee had loved it. His mother had screamed when she found the money missing, screamed and tore his hair and Dee hadn’t said a word.)

Dee takes his time unwrapping the treat, part of him upset that if Mr. Hart knew why Dee was there, he wouldn’t be giving him a free ice cream sandwich, part of him wishing desperately he could save it and share it with his brother, part of him wanting to shove the entire thing in his mouth because he deserved it for having put up with this stupid shit for ten years.

“What nothing for me?” Resource Officer Roman asks petulantly.

Mr. Hart smiles at him innocently. “Oh, I have something else for you Ro! It’s just gonna have to wait until after work!”

“Oh yeah?” The Officer smiles, leaning in closer, “And why is that, my dear Pat?”

“Because you can’t eat and work, silly!” Mr. Hart laughs, “What if there’s an emergency? You’d show up all covered in ice cream…!”

Dee takes a large bite of the ice cream sandwich and silently presses “f” to pay respects for the resource officer. The obvious flirting seemed to have absolutely no effect on the man between them, and Dee wasn’t sure if it was the innocent nature of him or if he was trying to let the officer down nicely.

“Ah, my dear Pat,” The Officer says, “Always looking out for me. What would I do without you? Die, surely!”

Mr. Hart laughs, the freckles on his cheeks glow. Dee glances at Resource Officer Roman’s face and is not surprised to see the blatant “smitten” expression. He looks like some anime character seconds before the “heart eyes” started. It’s almost embarrassing. Dee takes another bite of the sandwich.

“Ah, I thought I’d find the three of you here.”

Dee chokes on the bite of the sandwich.

Resource Officer Roman jumps, letting out a yelp that was surprisingly high pitched for a man of his stature. Dee coughs to dislodge a glob of chocolate breading that got stuck when his throat closed suddenly in a panic. The only one who doesn’t seem a little bit startled by Dr. Logan Ackroyd’s appearance is Patton, who jumps up from his seat and leans forward on the table with literal stars in his eyes.

“Logan!” He cries happily, “It’s been so long!”

“Too Long,” the Substitute teacher agrees, and Dee is uncomfortable with the amount of warmth in his expression—its a stark contrast to how he had looked in the classroom, to how he had looked at Dee. His hand pulses again, his fingers twitching in the pocket he had refused to take it out of since he had sat down.

“Logan,” Resource Officer Roman says, with a sniff of distaste that’s clearly artificial. “I can’t believe they let you back into the country.”

“Roman,” The teacher responds, the warmth sizzling in the air. “Your mother says hello.”

“When did you see my mother?”

“Yesterday, I helped her grocery shop. She called me the son she wished she had.”

The Officer flaps his hands, with a noise that sounds stuck between offended and flabbergasted. Dee feels a bit of the ice cream drip down his palm.

There’s a bizarre feeling in the air, a tension? No that wasn’t right. Dee can’t place the reason for the electricity in the air that the teacher had brought, buzzing and sparking between the three of them. Mr. Hart doesn’t seem to have a bad thing to say which meant that Resource Officer Roman had every right to hate the man at the other end of the table (since he was obviously hitting on Mr. Hart, ugh). But somehow the words and the tone don’t match at all. There’s no jealousy, no thinly vailed hatred that Dee was so adept at noticing.

(If he’s honest, he thinks the Resource Officer is eye fucking the substitute Teacher right there in front of him and that even more terrifying than the alternative.)

“I see you have both entertained Mr. Ekans, here.” The teacher says turning to Dee with a sharp piercing gaze. Dee stomach drops out.

Here it is. End times. Dee finds himself sinking backwards like he can hide in from the words that are coming. The burns on his shoulders sting with a phantom pain that’s all too familiar, and not at all real. He stares at the half melted ice cream mess in his hand because it’s easier than meeting the accusatory look of his teacher who was going to hold him accountable for injuring the “perfect” student.

“Don’t you have a class to teach, Calculator Watch?” Resource Officer Roman says, “Unless you murdered them all already. Bored them to death at fourteen! Tragic!”

“Your snide comments have no equal, Prince.” The Teacher shoots back, “They are sixteen and seventeen, and I left them for a mere moment to talk to Mr. Ekans. They believe I am picking up more worksheets for them to do in the coming weeks.”

No one says anything for a second, and Dee feels it in his bones the way the attention shifts. All three adults are looking at him, and he feels the need to defend himself in any way that’s possible. What could he say? That Kyle was a douche? A bully? Like any of them would believe that. Dee was the one who had threatened and then assaulted the other. Not to mention he looked like the bad guy in everyone’s stories. Short of the fangs, he was the monster that hid under kids’ beds.

(And he wasn’t thinking that just because once he had seen several of his brother’s friends run off screaming as he approached him in the pick up area of the elementary school, because he couldn’t blame a couple eight-year-olds for being scared.)

Dee’s mouth is halfway open with some half baked, insincere apology he doesn’t mean and hates to say when Dr. Ackroyd speaks.

“I came to ask how your hand was fairing.”

Mr. Hart’s head tilts to the side. Dee glares at the other side of the room and wishes he had slid into the restroom when he had the chance to. Cowardly? Maybe. But he’s never met anyone who liked facing consequences either.

“Kiddo?” Mr. Hart says. “What happened?” He sits back down, causing the table to shake and Dee to squeeze the rest of the ice cream from between the chocolate breading and onto the table.

“There was an altercation in my class,” Dr. Ackroyd says. “Mr. Ekans ended up punching another student.”

“Oh dear!” Mr. Hart cries, and Dee for the life of him can’t figure out why he suddenly grabs the rag at his elbows and gently cups the ice cream mess that is his out-reached hand. It’s the wrong hand, but Dee’s brain short circuits in the second their hands touch. (He’s not sure why that happened either and refuses to give a second to think about it.) Why was Mr. Hart trying to help him? Didn’t he see that Dee was the villain making threats and acting on them?

“I didn’t even notice! Are you alright? Do you need ice? A bandaid?”

“Am I gonna have to write a report for this one?” Resource Officer Roman groans, “Why are you trying to give me extra homework again, Logan? We graduated years ago!”

“If I remember correctly, you got off a minute and a half ago, Roman,” the Teacher says, placing himself in the seat directly across from Dee, “So therefore, no, you will not have to write an incident report for this event. Additionally, those extra homeworks were the reason you graduated at all.”

Dee glances at the clock in the corner, surprised to see there’s still twenty minutes of class left. Did the Resource Officer really get off early? Dee had never heard of that, but then again, he had never cared before either.

“It’s the other hand, Patton.” The teacher continues.

Dee gets the feeling he’s being analyzed. Mr. Hart coaxes Dee’s other arm from his pocket, and it stings where the lip of his jean pocket rips over his knuckles. He has to turn so that Mr. Hart can look at his fingers and the black nail polish on his nails where his mother hadn’t been able to scrub it off. But it’s turning away from Dr. Ackroyd and his calculated stare and for that Dee is grateful. He hides in his shoulder.

“Mr. Ekans,” The teacher says, “Might I inquire what possessed you to acquaint Mr. Phillips with your fist in the middle of my class?”

The word “no” is at the top of Dee’s tongue, clicking against his front teeth valiantly, although the silence is preferable. Somehow, he doesn’t think he could win a game of silence against the gaze of the teacher. Somehow the silence seems much more dangerous than speaking the truth.

But before it gets out, the Resource officer is suddenly right next to them, “Did you just say he punched Phillips? Like Kyle Phillips?”

Dee doesn’t have time to even panic.

The man is already turning to him a grin lighting up three-fourths of his face. “It’s Official, Dante Ekans! You’re my new favorite student!”

“Roman!” Mr. Hart says, “You can’t pick favorites! Kyle is--”

The Officer leans back with a scoff, “I’ll stop you there, my beloved baker! I had to hold you back from physically fighting his mom at the last PTA meeting!”

“Yeah but—”

“You wanted to burn their house down!”

Mr. Hart sticks his tongue in his cheek and bites it. “Their entire family is just so awful to everyone.”

Dee imagines what it would be like if Mr. Hart had burned down their house, if Kyle had lost his dad, if Kyle had been just as disfigured at Dee was. He hates it, he hates the smug feeling in his stomach, because he knew better than anyone how much life sucked and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Shouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Dee hisses where Mr. Hart’s rag rubs over his knuckles. The scraps were red, but at least it didn’t look like they were bleeding. He must have ripped the first couple layers of skin off, but that’s all.

Dee stares off in a direction where no one else was. It was easier than looking at the adults. The words caught in his throat, warbled and stuttered and barely more than a mumble.

“He started it.”

Did he sound like a five year old? Yes. Most definitely. Absolutely.

“I see,” the teacher says. He folds his hands deliberately in front of himself, in a fluid motion that Dee watches like a hawk without turning his head back. The tone gives him pause, because Dee can’t find any amusement in it, any hint that this new teacher is just humoring him because he wants a laugh or why-ever any of the teachers that ever listen to him do.

“I assumed as much from his attitude during my class. I’ve already set aside time to speak to him and his mother about his inexcusable behavior.”

Dee freezes as the teacher goes on to talk about proper class etiquette. He doesn’t hear a word after “inexcusable”. It makes his chest hurt, his eyes burn, and his scars itch. Its uncomfortable, its wrong, its different. Because no one has ever called Kyle’s behavior bad. The floaty feeling from earlier comes back (without him realizing it had been gone) and Dee is certain that this is somehow a twisted dream.

A twisted dream he wants so bad to be reality. A dream that Dee doesn’t want to wake from.

“—of course. If instances continue at this pace I would be obligated to—”

“You’re serious.”

The words plop out of Dee’s mouth and land on the table between him and the teacher in some type of ugly blob. He hadn’t meant for it to be so weak, so pathetic, but his tone to wobble somewhere between the four syllables just so much that the teacher’s mouth snapped shut and Mr. Hart’s gentle hands paused from examining his knuckles. Dee wants to take it back, wants to yank the words from the air and pretend they were never there.

Dr. Ackroyd adjusts his glasses and their eyes meet for the first time. Dee thinks it’s a lot like staring into the galaxy, into the great expanse, and knowing that it was also staring back at him.

“I’m very serious. I wear a necktie.”

It sounds like a joke when he says it, and maybe there’s a flicker of his lips that tells Dee is alright to laugh at it.

Dee feels like crying instead.

“I think you’ll find I’m not like your other teachers, Mr. Ekans.”

Mr. Hart smiles at that, smiles the whole conversation, smiles like the sun is shining and the birds are singing and global warming isn’t gonna end all life on Earth by the time Dee is thirty. He lets go of Dee’s injured hand and Dee finds he misses the warmth and the gentle touch. “I have some bandages in the back. Ro, can you help me?”

The Resource Officer makes some noise but the nutritionist takes him by the wrist and drags him into the kitchens. Dee thinks the man is too gay to have really protested anyway.

The teacher and him sit silently as the echoes of their voices, of Mr. Hart’s laughter fades until its just them in their own little untouchable bubble.

“Mr. Walker, your previous science teacher, left me several notes about his classes.” Dr. Ackroyd says, “As well as the grades.”

Dee itches the burns on his neck, a little angrily. He doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing to say. It’s midway through the year and there’s very little he can do to bring his grade up as far as it needs to go for science alone. Not to mention English, Mathematics, and History.

“He mentioned that I might find you to be a difficult student, but I disagree with that assessment.” Dr. Ackroyd prompts Dee to look at him again, “I get the impression you are a very bright student, Mr. Ekans, and very few people choose to see that part of you. I’ve met a lot of students in my time teaching in the United States and abroad. Most of them get by with less than a fourth of the effort than you’ve most likely put in. However, I can’t change the grades that your teacher has already declared for you.”

He pauses, “I can however enter a grade that hasn’t been posted yet.”

Dee dares to let his chest fill with that unfamiliar feeling, that whimsy mystical emotion everyone called hope.

“As it happens, you have a 62.45 percentage in this class as of right now. Mr. Walker was notoriously slacking when he entered any of your grades, so many of your grades are resulting zeroes from missing work, including the midterm from last week.”

The midterm that Dee had finished five whole minutes before everyone else and handed into to Mr. Walker directly. The one that he’s sure the teacher had finished grading before the end of school bells had rung.

Dee hangs on the teacher’s words, too desperate for the chance Dr. Ackroyd was offering to be embarrassed about how pathetic he was acting. He was starving and this ridiculous teacher was dropping him breadcrumbs.

“So, if you are open to recreating the work that has gone missing and putting time aside to retake a midterm I will provide, I would be more than happy to enter in the missing grades.”

“You’d…you’d do that?”

Dr. Ackroyd seems surprise that Dee would even have to ask.

“Of course. I see no reason to withhold grades as long as you put in the effort, Mr. Ekans.”

Dee doesn’t care if it’s a dream. If its fake. His knuckles hurt, his chest constricts, he’s not sure he can make words even if his life depended on it. A lump forms in his throat, thick and heavy and dangerous. Because that’s all he’s wanted, all he’s needed since he was six: just someone to treat him like everyone else.

Not Lucky. Not pitiful. Just Dee, by himself, putting in the effort for the education he needed.

“Just please, if you could refrain from making anymore, ah, serious threats against the rest of the student populace.”

And that’s all it takes for him to break.

Mr. Hart comes back hand in hand with Resource Officer Roman and they find Dee attempting to forcibly remove an onslaught of tears from his face before the bell rings to release the students, and Dr. Ackroyd appearing as incredibly uncomfortable as possible as a slew of confused apologies tumble from his mouth.

And all either of them do is smile.

Dante Ethan Ekans hated every single teacher in his high school.

(Except one. And a Resource Officer. And a Nutritionist.)

[Sequel]

#Teacher!Logan #Student!Dee #deceit sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #LAMP #bullying #burns #Friends on the Other Side (Your Side) au #possibility of more? maybe #who knows #symapthetic deceit #sanders sides

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intersex-ionality · 5 years

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I was told that TOR was mostly funded by the US fed gov't - is there any risk that they can crack it? I know it's open source, but I'm still not entirely sure what that *means* tbh. (I'm a biologist, the squishy sciences don't really teach you Python or Java, the most I can do is model population growth in Matlab. And I'm old enough that general internet security just wasn't a thing taught when I was in school.)

I mean, yeah, they can crack it by putting in a moderate level of effort, which is why the trick to using TOR effectively is to give them no reason to put in that effort. This has nothing to do with them funding its initial creation, or with it being open source. It’s simply a natural consequence of the way TOR works. Anyone can crack it, if they happen to run one of the servers that your data passes through during anonymization.

So, step one is to pair TOR with a strong, secure VPN located in a country with no extradition or security agreements with the US. This ensures that if the feds happen to catch your data as it moves through one of their servers, it’s scrambled up enough to not set off any automatic systems looking for particular keywords or patterns.

Most forms of encryption these days can be decrypted by concerted federal effort, but you first have to be worth the effort, so just… don’t be. Stay chill, don’t make yourself a desirable target, and let the fact that it costs a lot of money and manpower to crack strong encryption be your safety net.

Don’t give out personally identifiable information, such as where you live beyond a national level. If you wouldn’t feel comfortable with an overly touchy stranger at a bar knowing it, or with an abusive ex-spouse knowing it, don’t feel comfortable with the internet knowing it. No phone numbers, no addresses, no legal names.

This one is also especially tricky because lots of small, safe pieces of data can be combined into a dangerous whole. For example, I have mentioned on this website that I used to live in south Florida. I have also mentioned my family are Middle Eastern immigrants. I have also mentioned that I operate a podcast. On that podcast, I have mentioned the size of the high school I attended. On the associated twitter, I have mentioned my birth year.

With that in mind, someone dedicated enough could simply cross reference south Floridian high schools with student bodies of a particular size (a trivial detail I mentioned in one podcast), during years when I would have been high school age. Accessing those school’s yearbook archives, they could then get a list of student names. Cross-referencing those, they could identify which students are the children of immigrants, and further, which ones came from middle eastern backgrounds. Since there are only about two dozen people who meet all of those qualifiers, it then simply becomes a matter of figuring out which one is me. I’ve mentioned having grey eyes, so they could eliminate anyone with brown eyes, and that alone would probably be sufficient.

People have, in fact, done this to me in real life, using networks of minor details to find the names of myself and my family members, using it to send threats to my toddler brother or to send me pictures of google maps showing my home, etc as a way to try and get me to shut up and go along with whatever their latest fuckshow is.

And if randos online can do it, you better believe the feds can. So, just fucking lie. Keep core details of your identity the same, sure, but absolutely lie out your ASS about the minor details. Obfuscate! For example, does it matter if I lived in Miami for the sake of this particular anecdote? No? Then I should say I lived in the Florida Keys instead. Does it matter that I was 14 at the time? Then I should say I was 16 instead.

Also, don’t directly talk about committing a crime, even a very minor one, as that can be used as justification for more extreme investigation. If you wouldn’t say it in front of an angry cop or a lawyer on federal or Disney payroll, you shouldn’t say it online.

If you pair TOR with those three major things: (1) no personally identifiable information, (2) always encrypt your data before it hits the net, (3) never admit to a crime, you’ll be safe for basically, well, anything. That’s enough security to manage moderate military intelligence, let alone whatever you as a private citizen might be doing.

Also, if your job/life/sitution will allow it, get in the habit of turning all your network devices including your phones off when you’re asleep. If your job won’t allow it, consider getting a fifteen dollar pre-paid flip phone for on-calls, work, or emergencies, buying minutes for it as needed to keep it active, and turning anything other than that flip phone off when you sleep. That way, you have an existing, regular pattern of total data blackout.

If, for example, you needed to meet up with a comrade to do some civil disobedience at some point, you could do so during your standard blackout hours, and it wouldn’t register as a change in your behavioural patterns. So the feds couldn’t use that particular day of data blackout as proof of anything other than that you were asleep.

That’s about enough security to cover the average needs. And it’s also enough security to allow you to do any further research into other, more extreme security protocols, and the potential uses for those protocols, without putting yourself at any meaningful risk.

EDIT: Also, open source just means that the source code TOR runs on is public. If you know the languages its written in, you can read it and examine it for yourself. This means the TOR project has a strong motivation for not including obvious backdoors and security leaks, because their users can and will see them.

#Honestly just flip the breaker for everything in your house other than your heat when you go to bed #This will save money and also will save you the effort of dealing with turning on and off dozens of individual devices #Anonymous

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the-colony-roleplay · 4 years

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Arthur Meir | Fifty Five; Survivor

House: Brink Status: Uninfected Security Class: 1 Alignment: New World Radicals

History

As the only child of the head of a prominent cattle ranch in Australia, Arthur Meir was born with great expectations already set for him. He was always told that one day it would be his turn to run the family ranch, a torch passed down from his father and his grandfather before him. Therefore, much of his childhood was spent working the fields with his father and his uncle Henry—and Henry’s gaggle of children.

But for all the expectations, Arthur had very little interest in filling them. From the time he could walk, he’d been taught the workings of the ranch, the surrounding brush, the cattle drive and the trade. But the only part of it that had ever really interested him was the business side of things. By age twelve he could balance the books nearly as well as his father. The rest of it, however, was too dirty, too noisy, too crude for his tastes. He was envious of the children in the nearby town, who got to go to public school while he was homeschooled, or whose homes weren’t rampant with children and pets.

Not wanting to think about a fated-future he couldn’t escape, Arthur found reprieve in the past. He found himself absorbed in the history channel or historical documentaries, the story and politics of those who came before them engaging him in a way he’d never felt engaged on the farm. He began reading extensively about any timeline he could get his hands on. With the ranch’s spotty Echo connection, he joined forums discussing political strategies and how they might’ve been improved upon. Such discussions inevitably turned to present politics, which Arthur followed eagerly. This was something that excited him, that made him feel something. He continued doing his duties on the ranch as he was told, but they were often done halfheartedly and as quickly as possible, so that he could sooner get back to his studies.

At the age most students would graduate, Arthur’s parents offered him more responsibility on the ranch. A precursor to his taking over completely—the beginning of the end, the way Arthur saw it. It felt like a trap, a burden he wasn’t born for. So he returned to his parents with a counter-offer: university. He was almost surprised when they agreed—but it was on the condition that he come home in the summer to help with the drive. Arthur happily agreed, having expected more of a fight, but the second he set foot on campus he knew he would never properly return to his old life.

Rather than biology, economics, business, or anything else his parents might’ve seen as practical for taking over the farm, Arthur majored in Political Science with a minor in History. As promised, he came home for the cattle drive every summer, but only at the last minute and he always left as soon as possible. Calls with his parents, especially with his father, became shorter and shorter.

It came to a head at his graduation. His father had been under the impression that Arthur was furthering his education to take over the ranch; his son’s real major was a complete surprise. Even worse was Arthur’s flat refusal to come home. He had a new life he cared about, with a future that excited him and he wasn’t about to give up on it now, throwing away all his hard work. His father, nervous about the security of his ranch and hurt by the dishonesty, couldn’t see past the sense of betrayal. They argued until they were blue in the face, Arthur’s mother in tears. Desperate to get the final word, Arthur told his father that if his family couldn’t support him for who he was, then maybe he shouldn’t be a part of the family at all. He stormed away, angry. For better or worse, that was the end of big, obnoxious family breakfasts, of milking the cows at dawn, of practicing Shabbat with his parents—of the simple, but hardworking farm life.

Over the course of the next several years, Arthur worked his way up the political ladder until he was elected into the House of Representatives in the Parliament of Australia. But he didn’t stop there. Many terms later, he found himself working in the Department of Foreign Affairs, and eventually, was promoted to Australian High Commissioner to Canada: Arthur’s crowning achievement. And so, for the first time in his life, he made a little room for personal interests: and fell in love.

At first, he and Rebecca Fitz seemed made for each other. They were both intensely independent and career driven, both having come from unlikely backgrounds and fought tooth and nail to get to where they were. They were married after roughly two years of dating, but as much as they had in common, their crucial mistake was failing to realize that they were both married to their careers first, and thus each other second. Arthur had apparently looked for himself in a woman, but it had been that which had doomed them for failure.

Nonetheless, he loved her. Despite the nights of endless fighting and the abysmal communication, he loved her, and in a desperate (and stupid) attempt to save his marriage, he convinced her to have a child with him. For a smart man, this was where his naivety showed—his Achilles’ heel. For him, this could be a new beginning. It didn’t occur to him that perhaps this desperation was coming from a place of wanting to fill a hole he’d dug out of himself years ago, when he’d left his family behind. He’d been alone in the world for so long, but he had never allowed himself to look back, much less admit to himself that he was still burdened with regret.

To his credit, they almost made it work. For a while, things even got better. But it goes without saying that throwing children into a broken marriage is like putting a bandaid over a bullet wound. The internal bleeding had already begun, and no surface treatment was going to stop that. Five years later, they divorced.

It was when Arthur was making arrangements to transfer overseas to France—having taken up a job opportunity there so that he and Rebecca wouldn’t have to work under the same roof any longer—that he got the news that his father had passed away. A man he’d seen a handful of times over the years, spoken to on high holy days and special occasions—but never made amends with. The last real conversation they’d ever had, had been an argument. A hateful, hurtful one.

The news unravelled Arthur. The loss of his marriage, his father, his family—years of guilt wrought with rust from neglect, bubbled to the surface and though he flew home for the funeral and more or less made amends with his mother, it was only a few months thereafter that her time came as well. It was a fiercely bitter-sweet relief that he was by her side, holding her hand in the hospital bed when she died. But in the end, for all Arthur’s independence and ambition, he’d not been prepared for the consequences of the choices he’d made when he was young, and it was in yet another fit of desperation that he arranged to leave his daughter, Dylan, in the care of his Uncle Henry. Perhaps it was cowardice, not being able to look Dylan in the face any longer after everything that had happened—or perhaps it was courage. Courage enough to know that he couldn’t give Dylan the life she deserved, especially not in his state of mind. He needed a fresh start. A chance to rebuild himself. And then maybe one day he’d come back for her. One day, he’d be ready.

Unfortunately, with the apocalypse on the horizon, ‘one day’ never came.

Arthur Today

When D-day hit, Arthur was a little surprised he didn’t feel somehow more prepared. It was a global crisis after all; that was what he specialized in. But as governments crumbled and the sky fell, he was rendered just as helpless as anyone else, at least in the beginning. By the time the dust had settled, society as they’d known it had been all but obliterated. But what remained... Arthur could work with. Along with several other politicians, leaders, and crisis workers, Arthur helped to establish a base in a chateau in Nantes. It was a place where survivors could get food, water, first aid, and a safe place to sleep. Eventually, this base would become Colony 16, and Arthur, one of the original founding Elites.

The discovery of the Infections came as a bit of a plot twist, but Arthur was fascinated by it. Immediately, he saw the potential, the promise of a new world, of fresh, thrilling beginnings. This could change everything. If handled correctly, this could prove to be the reason behind the apocalypse. A chance like nothing anyone could have anticipated. Fate.

And then the NWRF emerged.

Contrary to Arthur’s beliefs, the NWRF believed that Infected were just that—contaminated. They were afraid of the power the Infected wielded, and wanted to control it for themselves—or better yet, eliminate it altogether. It would be such a waste. A foolish, ill-advised waste based on fear and egotism.

So when he caught wind of a burgeoning opposition calling themselves the New World Radicals, he eagerly made ties with them. From what he could tell, most of the movement’s supporters seemed to be either outside of Colony walls and on the run from the ‘purging of the wastes’, or laying low as registered citizens with their heads bent. They met only in the dead of night, careful about how they spoke of their cause, and with whom. There was a lot of secrecy involved, but to Arthur, it felt like the beginning of something.

Having been on the side of the law and politics most of his life, this departure actually felt a little surreal—but he believed that the overturn of the Reformist government was not only necessary, but inevitable. So he would do what he could to further the agenda of those he knew would end up on top. He put his skills to use while at Colony 16, collaborating with other voices of the underground Radical movement and coming up with strategies to coordinate globally.

And then his chance to implement some of those strategies arrived when he found his daughter as a registered citizen at Colony 22. He’d been considering trying to get transferred anyway, in order to secretly start furthering the reach of the NAR, and he’d been aiming for Colony 4, as he’d heard it was higher traffic; more people meant more opportunities for the NAR to grow. But his heart hitched when he saw Dylan’s name and birthdate in the Echo Database. In the years that had passed, he’d mostly been able to convince himself he’d put her and all his troubled, messy regret from his mind. But seeing confirmation that she was not only alive, but also a lot closer than he would have thought, felt like too fated an opportunity to pass up.

Besides, asking for a transfer in order to reunite with his long-lost daughter was an excellent cover up to any other intentions he had, and would be very unlikely to be turned down. It also prompted very few questions, which definitely worked in Arthur’s favour. And so it was off to Colony 22 and the little island of Belvedere he went.

Though he is not short of his own personal ambition and purpose for the NAR, Arthur would like to try to find a way into the ranks of the Elite at Colony 22 once he gets settled. He has plenty of political and business experience that he knows he could brandish around to help him achieve this, and he’s Uninfected, which he suspects will also make it easier. But the tricky part will be making good impressions upon his arrival, and fostering the right connections. With the NWRF in (relative) control at Colony 22, he knows he is going to have to play his cards wisely. But to secure a position as an Elite could help him and his political objectives immensely.

For the moment, he keeps most of his true thoughts under his tongue, as he gets a sense for the political climate here. But he’s always watching, gathering information and calculating his next move; waiting for that other shoe to drop.

RELATED BIOS: DYLAN MEIR

OPEN

#ben mendelsohn #ben mendelsohn fc #literate rp #original rp #bio rp #arthur meir #brink #sc1 #open #male #uninfected #survivor #open male #open uninfected #open survivor #open male survivor #open male uninfected #radicals

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menwithlocs · 5 years

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Fitness Friday - Jah Knows

Tell us about your background in fitness? How did you get started?

My fitness journey started with sports, the moment I begin to compete, I started paying attention to what I ate as well. Striving to be better and always have an edge. I didn’t want anyone to be better than me for any reason unless they were just better. I was always fascinated by how the body worked especially when you can see and feel the progress. That motivated me to pay attention more in school, so while in college, I changed my major to kinesiology, to learn it more on an in-depth anatomy level. Becoming more in tuned with my own body I learned so much, so I begin to adopt clean eating habits, by becoming vegan and using holistic practices for healing. Committing to these habits it changed my life, physically and mentally. Although I’ve been vegan for 8 years, prior I was conscious of what I ate, I wasn’t eating crazy process foods, I still had structure and felt great. Becoming vegan came with challenges, mainly comfort and convenience challenges, but the difference as stated has changed my life... now intertwining the science, and consumption, factors of fitness and diet, made me commit to wanting to help people understand my perspective of fitness and health. I begin training and giving the knowledge where it’s needed and giving people alternatives that have proven to help me, by my style of training and way of consumption.

What advice would you give to someone who is interested in jumpstarting a fitness routine?

The advice I would someone who wants to jumpstart a fitness routine is, just DO IT! The hardest part is getting started, only if you procrastinate on getting started. The moment you get started, a chain of momentum begins for you. It’s all downhill from there. Other than that, seek advice, professional help, plan out days and set aside time just to focus on yourself. There is always time in a day to just focus on the things you want to change about yourself. On a practical level, create habitual times for yourself for your fitness, so you can have a clock in your head that naturally reminds you that you normally workout at this time. It’s all about habits.

Can you give us 3 tips on staying motivated during a weight loss/fitness routine?

1. Make your self accountable: set small goals that are achievable each day, if you don’t accomplish them, then you know your not to be trusted not even by your own self 🤷🏽‍♂️. 2. Mental visionary: healthy thoughts about how you want to look or be, follow and surround yourself with a partner, groups, trainer, friends, etc. that’s on the same frequency. Being around people and events that’s health motivated will naturally keep you on the wave. Ditch the bad habits and toxic people who don’t serve those same strides. 3. Eat like you want to live! Eating healthy is a major key! If I feel good internally, I naturally want to get up and move around, because I have energy! and if your somewhat competitive, you will naturally want to challenge yourself. Balance meals are 80% of the battle. You eat well, you feel good, you look good. Let's talk about your locs. How long have you been loc’d and what inspired you to loc your hair?

I been loc’d for 4 years, I’ve grown my hair for 6 1/2 years. What inspired me to grow locs was learning about the divinity of African hair, a society where we are taught to cut our hair or straighten it, nappy hair was a negative. For me, I have done every hairstyle except locs and since people were telling me not to get them or they look dirty, I wanted them even more. Being in the modeling business, having hair or locs is not common for men. most men with locs will not fit the description for a lot of high-end jobs, what would be considered “clean-cut” business type, it’s not the commercial look. I always wanted locs was just afraid of the judgment, and the perception they had before locs became common. Now I’m in love with my hair and couldn’t see myself without it. Where can our readers find you?

You can find me @ra__jah on IG And Rafitness.org. The website will be up soon.

#menwithlocs kingswithlocs naturalhair locs dreads dreadlocks loclivin locnation

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allsystemsarenotgo · 4 years

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A friend and I were talking one day, and she shared this with me.

She was much like me, raised with a quarter between the knees, terrified of the things we were taught to avoid and trying to live reasonably noble lives. She wasn't allowed Birth Control for religious reasons (pro-life) as well as to prevent enablism. Her family was much more religious than mile, though I still went to church during my Sophomore, Junior, and Senior years of high school.

She married a guy 10 years older than herself, who was a long-time routine customer of her family's business. They married right after she graduated high school, long before she applied to higher education.

She is a nurse now. She has 3 kids, works long hours at a hospital, and her husband is a successful farmer as he always has been. She struggled at times, but she made it through.

She knows life would have been easier without the first child, but she was innocent and naiive and I think she realizes that she jumped in the deep end of the pool before learning how to swim.

I did the same thing.

All through high school I pledged to abstinence until marriage. I hated everything to do with sex. The topic, the drama, the action, the result. I wanted nothing to do with it.

But I also never dated through grade school at all. I never had a girlfriend. Plenty of crushes (M.S. above being one of them), but just as many denials. Because I didn't drink, smoke, do drugs, have FFA animals, or play athletics, I also wasn't a member of any social group. I was always the kid in the corner of the cafeteria scarfing food down in 5 minutes and sleeping the other 20, or asking to go to a teacher's classroom, where it was serene and quiet.

My freshman year of college, I even wrote an essay on abstinents for English class. That really didn't go over well in regards to having to read it out loud. There might as well have been fruit flying at me.

My dorm was set up such that we had 3 private bedrooms that shared a living space and bathroom. One of the roommates always had girls over, and he never tried to be quiet (or if he did, he failed...badly).

So those two things were my indoctrination to college life. Getting judged and leered at for writing an abstinence essay, and having to listen to a roommate multiple times a week.

Towards the very end of my freshman year, a girl from high school messaged me. We started talking, and she admitted that she had always had a crush on me and was too shy to ever say anything.

Error #1: For no good reason whatsoever, I agreed to formulate a relationship with this female

So when I moved home from the dorms, I hung out with the lass a few times, but my parents were moving out of the country and closer to my school, so I could live at home. That meant that this would now be a 1.5-hour-each-way medium-distance relationship.

So every 4th or 6th weekend during the remainder of that summer and into the fall semester, I would drive up and spend a day with her. Sometimes, I would drive her out of the country and into the city to give her a glimpse of escape (it was very impoverished where we grew up).

Error #2: Doing whatever made her happy

I really enjoyed the time that we spent together. She got me a purity necklace for Christmas that year. She said she understood that my preference meant something to me.

But then, something changed. She would start dropping enuindos and jokes and send me photos that I didn't ask for.

Error #3: Not standing up for myself

She said that I meant something to her, and asked me if she meant something to me. At the time, I did not comprehend that as a trap...but I wanted to make her happy, so I said "yes".

The next thing I know, she is booking a hotel for us for Valentine's day. Wherein, I learned a thing or two or five or ten that I really wasn't interested in learning in the first place.

-Provides Clorox to help scrub the thoughts from your mind-

After that, she wanted me to come see her more and more often. But I was tied up with school and life.

Mind you, we usually had a phone call every night, or at least every other night. Same time, right before bed. Sometimes we would fall asleep on the phone with eachother.

Error #4: Accepting anything as fact

Well one night, I called her, and she answered...but it was noisy in the background, like she was driving. But she never talked while driving, and wouldn't answer the phone with family in the car.

She said she was in a friend's car and they were going to the beach for the night, which was completely reasonable for the time of year and her group of friends. She cut the conversation short saying they had arrive, so we bid our greeting. But she didn't hang up, and something told me that I shouldn't either. So I didn't.

"Who was that?"

"Don't mind him. He was just calling to check on me. He's controlling like that."

"He sounds like a jerk"

"Enough about him. He won't do this."

-Provides more clorox-

And that's how I found out that her primal needs were more important than our "relationship".

Unfortunately, shortly after I broke up with her, I was sent a photo of her quite visibly pregnant. Fortunately, the timetable did not add up to Valentine's day (aside of the fact that it was physically/biologically 95% impossible).

That summer, I started a job at the student newspaper. Right off the bat, one of the graphic artists and I got along very well. We spent way too much time at work talking to eachother and goofing off, instead of working. Enough so that our boss took notice and things got tense for a bit with him. We still cranked out work no problem, but we were both too young to understand workplace policy and procedure when it comes to "dating but not dating", which is basically exactly what we were doing. We spent alot of time together. I would go to her dorm after class and we would watch movies and just goof off or do whatever. We enjoyed time together.

Error #1: So cliché. So, so cliché.

So Valentine's day rolls around, and she asks 'the question'.

So something in biology: There is a term called "Once an animal has the taste of blood, they will always hunt for it." Unfortunately, humans can sometimes be considered a sub-species of the animal kingdom.

Like the dumbass that I am, I accept to the terms and conditions.

And at the end of the night, she asks: "So are we officially dating now?"

"I...I guess?", I answered nervously.

Errors #2 to #457: Not escaping

And just like that, I was suckered into nearly 2.5 years of having a FWB while having to, very creatively at times, mask it as a legitimate relationship.

We enjoyed the time we spent together.

We enjoyed going places together.

My mum liked her, her parents liked me. (Dad was skeptical at best and thought I could do better)

The small issue: I struggled to communicate at times. I didn't know how to find my voice, so there were times that I would have to text her how I felt. Sometimes I would hide in a corner just so I could cry. (I later learned of my autism, and it all made sense and I learned how to resolve this)

The big issue: I was completely burned out on intimacy. After almost 2.5 years of emulating laboratory rabbits, I was done. My usefulness had expired.

The biggest issue: We were both suffering academically. We had no common interests at all anymore, and we had put eachother ahead of our own academics so much that we were both risking academic expulsion.

So we mutually agreed to break up.

She dropped out of university (and never went back or finished her schooling), and I changed majors twice before getting my Bachelor of Science.

My first relationship lasted from June 2009 to April 2010.

My second "relationship" lasted from February 2011 until May 2012 (Although we started spending time together in significant amounts starting August 2010)

I have not had a girlfriend since May 2012.

I had one friend in my senior year of college, who gave me some non-physical affection while also keeping me firmly locked in the friendzone. But quality time, by itself, only goes so far.

I have not had any physical affection since May 2012.

I have not spent quality time with a female since May 2013.

For most of that time, from May 2013 to August 2019, I really didn't mind it at all. I have been so tied up in working, hobbies, and life in general, that I completely ignored women.

But as my birthday loomed near in October 2019, it donned on me....I was on a crash course to being eternally lonely.

So I have tried online dating. I have gone on a few first dates, but no second dates.

Sometimes, I want to give up. The fight just doesn't seem worth the reward.

And honestly?

Sometimes I feel exactly like my friend's remarks at the top of this post. Sometimes I wish I would have been a little more rebellious, a little more care-free, a little more out-there.

But at the same time, ...

Sometimes I wish that neither relationship would have ever happened.

That I would have never learned the true definition of intimacy.

That I would have never done whatever it took to make the other person happy.

That I wouldn't have been such an easy push-over.

That I would have stuck to my initial pledge in life

That I would have spoke up more and defended myself.

All I am now, is damaged product.

I don't truly know how to love.

I don't truly know how to feel.

I don't truly know how to be myself.

I don't truly know how to be intimate.

I am human, I am male, so of course I have my moments. But I don't want that to be the reason for a relationship. I want it to be the least-important factor, or not a factor at all.

I want a relationship founded on trust, honesty, fortitude, common interests, personality, maybe even a little faith.

Not intimacy.

I just want to not be invisible, or to only have one attribute visible.

I want to be seen for all the other attributes.

I am not A-sexual. I still feel emotions and feelings. I just don't want to let them out of the locked box which contains them. Not without lots of context and preparedness.

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