#writing foundations

[writingwithfolklore]

Writing Foundations: Creating Paragraphs

                You can have the best story in the world, but if it’s all in one chunk on the page, you may struggle to find people willing to read it. To break it up, you need to know where and when to create new paragraphs.

Every new paragraph starts with an indent. So, to create a new paragraph, hit the enter key, and then the tab key, which is typically on the left side of the Q and either says TAB or looks like two stacked arrows pointing in separate directions.

So when do you start a new paragraph?

1. Anytime a new character speaks

The most obvious place to break up your paragraph is when a new character is speaking. Take this example.

“Hi John,” said Mary as she walked into the room. John was reading a book, and tucked a bookmark between the pages as she sat next to him. “how was work?” “It was good,” she replied, “but my boss really didn’t like the draft I sent her.” “That’s too bad, I thought it was some of your better work.”

Vs.

                “Hi John,” said Mary as she walked into the room. John was reading a book, and tucked a bookmark between the pages as she sat next to him.                 “How was work?” He asked.                 “It was good,” she replied, “but my boss really didn’t like the draft I sent her.”                 “That’s too bad, I thought it was some of your better work.”

See the difference? So you make a new line whenever a new character is speaking. In the case of Mary speaking twice, “It was good…” “but my boss…” we keep that in the same paragraph. Whereas when John speaks after Mary, it becomes its own paragraph.

The only time you may split the same character speaking is if they have a large chunk of dialogue. In that case, you can split their dialogue according to the next rule.

2. Any new idea

This isn’t necessarily a hard rule like the last one is. We have a lot of room to make interesting creative decisions when breaking up description or action. For the most part, though, you’ll want to break up your paragraph whenever there’s a new thought or idea. So:

                A thin plastic film coated the room, making the furniture gleam in the sunlight streaming through the windows. On her right sat a couch upholstered in ivy coloured fabric, untouched by time.                 Anna swept her fingers through her hair, chewing on her lip. She watched Rick out of the corner of her eye, “What are you thinking?”                 The detective’s expression was completely neutral, though he clutched his pen tightly in one fist. In his other hand was a notebook, three questions written across it in blocky text, 1. Why are all the clocks stopped at 5:32? 2. Where’s the murder weapon? 3. Why did my wife leave me? “Same as the others,” he said, tapping his pen against the last question, “the plastic wrap killer.”

So in this example we go from describing the room, to describing an action Anna is doing, to describing the detective, and then his notes. These are all separate ideas, so we can split them into their own paragraphs.

                As well, as long as it’s about the same character or within the same ‘idea’, description can be paired with dialogue. You can see Anna’s dialogue comes after the description of her. You can totally do this, or you can split it into its own paragraph if you’d like. It looks natural where it is because Anna is the subject of the paragraph, and she’s also the one speaking.

                In the case of the detective speaking, his action comes between dialogue. Also allowed, since the detective is the subject of that paragraph.

3. Any new location or skip in time

Similar to the last, if the scene starts outside, when they move inside it’s a new paragraph. If they go into a new room, get into a car, etc. Any time they change location, it starts a new paragraph. Same for a skip in time. If you need to go from day to night, new paragraph.

Kayde looked anxiously up at the looming oak doors. The windows were dark, layered in years of dust and grime. It’s now or never, they thought. They pushed through the doors and into the foyer. Kayde seemed to wait there for hours, and by the time someone came to greet them, it was already dark outside.

4. For style/effect

                This is one of my favourite parts of writing. Once you nail when you should be splitting your paragraphs, you can start to play with splitting them for effect. I do this quite a lot. Take this example:

                She fixed an ugly stare at herself in the mirror, long locks of brown hair hanging in front of her eyes. A pair of sharp scissors gleamed at the edge of the glass, pinched between her fingers. Dania raised the scissors to her hair.                 Snip.                 A lock fell towards the sink, the edges rough and imperfect.                 Snip.                 Another.                 She chopped and hacked away at her hair until it was clumped in an unsightly pile over the drain of the sink, her head round and covered in patches where she didn’t quite get close enough to her skin.                 She was finally free.

                While the cutting of her hair could be in the same paragraph, it gives it more drama and effect when it’s split. Any time a character is going through something shocking or emotional, maybe try playing around with the paragraph to see if you can add some additional drama to it.

                Paragraphs can be as long or short as you’d like them to be, as long as you have intention behind it!

[writeouswriter]

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

the fact that shakespeare was a playwright is sometimes so funny to me. just the concept of the "greatest writer of the English language" being a random 450-year-old entertainer, a 16th cent pop cultural sensation (thanks in large part to puns & dirty jokes & verbiage & a long-running appeal to commoners). and his work was made to be watched not read, but in the classroom teachers just hand us his scripts and say "that's literature"

just...imagine it's 2450 A.D. and English Lit students are regularly going into 100k debt writing postdoc theses on The Simpsons screenplays. the original animation hasn't even been preserved, it's literally just scripts and the occasional SDH subtitles.txt. they've been republished more times than the Bible

[autolenaphilia]

It's funny how clearly uninformed a lot of criticism of Mozilla and its browser Firefox is. Like people say "it's just another corporation, out to make profit, just like Google." And that ordinary users promoting Firefox are just giving them free advertising.

It's in basically any post criticizing Mozilla, including on this site. Like using tumblr search I quickly found a post that was largely positive, but argued that Mozilla operates "under capitalist incentives" And outside tumblr I found a blog post out on the interwebs that criticized Mozilla and outright wondered "I don't know if Mozilla's business model ever made sense, it makes a lot more sense if it's something closer to a nonprofit rather than a commercial entity."

Well, let's research the Mozilla Corporation, see what that business model actually is. Let's begin that research by going to the wikipedia article, and read the two introductory paragraphs. And it turns out that it's "a wholly owned subsidiary of the Mozilla Foundation", which is a non-profit.

"The Mozilla Foundation will ultimately control the activities of the Mozilla Corporation and will retain its 100 percent ownership of the new subsidiary. Any profits made by the Mozilla Corporation will be invested back into the Mozilla project. There will be no shareholders, no stock options will be issued and no dividends will be paid. The Mozilla Corporation will not be floating on the stock market and it will be impossible for any company to take over or buy a stake in the subsidiary."

Turns out that it is not just "closer to a non-profit", it is literally a non-profit. Turns out you only needed two paragraphs on wikipedia to learn that, the most basic online research possible, which basically every post I found criticizing Mozilla failed to do.

This is entirely different from any other entity calling itself corporation, which is all about creating profit or money for its shareholders, the "capitalist incentives" spoken about earlier.

If you read further into that article, you will learn that the Mozilla corporation literally only exists separate from the foundation for tax and legal purposes, but it's still a non-profit operation.

This makes it reasonably immune from the enshittification process I've written about before. there is no incentive to fuck over the experience for end users for the sake of shareholder profits, like what tumblr is doing right now.

It means that Firefox is an exemption to the rule that "if something is free, you are the product", because there is no product to produce profits for shareholders, it's a charitable endeavour for a free and open internet, as laid out in the Mozilla manifesto.

This doesn't mean non-profits make corruption impossible, there is plenty of corruption in non-profit foundations. But unlike actual capitalist corporations, it doesn't have the greed and corruption built in. And if you are going to criticize Mozilla and Firefox, which it does sometimes deserve, you should have your basic facts straight before doing so, if you expect me to take you seriously.

[dreamerdrop]

I don’t talk about my love for Kira Nerys too often because. Look. I think if DS9 handles anything well, it’s Kira, hands down.

Her character development is a work of art. She is so traumatised, so angry, so beaten down and STILL FIGHTING at the start. She struggles so much with her PTSD, with the idea that she is ever allowed to be in anything but attack mode…

And then, slowly, gradually, she becomes a whole new person. She laughs, she smiles, she makes corny jokes, she does dumb fun things for the sake of enjoying herself. She has friends, she has a family, she is surrounded by love and joy and HOPE.

Even in the middle of second war, she’s DIFFERENT now. She’s not the same miserable angry person she was, afraid to let go of the vigilant surivival instincts that kept her alive for so long. She’s come back to life as a person who has something to live for.

She has done terrible things. Her hands are stained with blood. She is never going to be able to forget her trauma or the suffering, both her own and that of her people, nor the suffering she inflicted while fighting for her freedom. But she recovers. She heals. She carves out an existence where she is truly, genuinely happy to be alive.

I don’t need to talk about Kira as much as some other characters because this all happens on screen. It’s right there, and it’s beautiful and perfect.

Kira Nerys goes from a person who cannot conceive of herself outside of the horrors she has suffered, inflicted, and fought against, to someone for whom her trauma is just one part of the larger picture, a piece of a rich and vibrant tapestry that is now filled, overwhelmingly, with joy.

Kira Nerys is like, hands down, bar none, one of, if not THE best characters Star Trek has ever created. I love her so much. She is just, completely and utterly perfect, especially in her flaws.

[jasminebythebay]

ouroboros follows samsara 🐍

[hersweetrevenge]

[opencharacters]

i love you backrooms. i love you scp foundation. i love you goncharov. i love you jenny everywhere. i love you mesperyian, i love you creepypasta, i love you open collaborative creativity!

[skyeconch]

Y/N type 1 : Man, that character’s hot 🥰

Y/N type 1 : I’d like to hold hands with them or something, only if they wanted to 👉👈

Y/N type 2 : I’d like them to take me in the kitchen—

Y/N type 2 : bend me over the stove and spank me with a spatula

Y/N type 1 : huh?? 😰

Y/N type 2 : then I’d like them to take me to the bedroom—

Y/N type 1 : what happened to “hi, how are you” ??? 😭😭

Y/N type 2 : —kiss me so hard that I can’t breathe

Y/N type 2 : in fact, I’m going to put this in my username so that this is the first thing anyone know—

[taikeero-lecoredier]

Article Link about H.R. 9495 and why it will destroy non profit orgs

Find your House representatives here

If H.R. 9495 is passed, this would without a doubt fuck over non profits orgs, which we need more than ever in this time and age.

Spread the word before its too late. It musnt pass.

EDIT: THE ACLU SET UP A SCRIPT FOR THIS ! PLEASE USE THIS !

SEND MESSAGE HERE AND CALL YOUR REPS

----------------------------------

The No King Act must be passed,however,and fast.

The No King Act and How you can send your message to reps,with help from ACLU

[flagellant]

watch time: 2 minutes

A teaser trailer for Fox's Head Productions' first video essay, comparing horror tropes of Native American burial grounds to real-life indigenous oppression, desecration of holy lands, and our modern fears of nuclear fallout. There is always something in the basement.

Song is from Signalis OST. Footage is from the US Government's Department of Energy recordings of Project Trinity and ATOMCENTRAL.COM. Writing, voice acting, and video editing done by Laika Dowitcher of Fox's Head Productions.

Full video coming soon. Subscribe to stay tuned.

[swordsofsaturn]

early seasons spn homophobia is actually so crazy because they literally do not look gay. hamfisted gay jokes when the characters look straight as hell. "you look the type" they literally don't. is the thing

[blindmagdalena]

The Fall

2.8k mostly sfw homelander x reader. christmas adjacent. depowered homelander.

Summary: After being struck by an unidentified projectile that renders him powerless, Homelander crash lands in your backyard, wholly at your mercy.

this is a rework of this original prompt. inspired by the fable of the mouse that aids the lion whose paw has been stuck by a thorn.  ♡

Homelander is over a hundred feet in the air when he hears something whistling through the sky behind him. Some kind of projectile. A small missile, maybe. It's nothing he hasn't handled before: It could blow up in his face and he would be fine. He’s more curious about what exactly it is, who’s stupid enough to fire it at him, and where it’s coming from. 

With that in mind–in that split second he has to react–he decides to forgo dodging it and instead attempt to catch it.  However, as the mystery projectile gets nearer, his vision begins to tunnel. 

What the fuck? 

His reflexes slow, and before he knows it, the projectile strikes him hard in his left side rib, exploding in fumes that fill his lungs and coat his skin. In an instant, he feels pain like he's been turned inside out, a sensation worse than anything he’s felt since childhood. Instantly he's plummeting towards the ground, crashing directly into your backyard in an eruption of snow and yard furniture.

With his vision going black, the last thing he hears is the sound of the world turning deafeningly quiet.

When Homelander comes to, he's being shaken. No–compressed, hands over his chest, pushing again and again in a steady rhythm. Warm lips press against his, and a rush of air fills his lungs. His eyes snap open, and out of pure reflex, he drives his fist into your unfamiliar form, sitting up with a frenzied look in his eyes.

You should have flown back thirty feet with a hit like that. Instead, you only fell back onto your ass, coughing. Homelander's hands are shaking as he looks at them, and he can feel blood dripping from his ears, taste it in his mouth. He's disoriented, his whole body heavy. He's having trouble breathing, every ragged inhale a struggle, and his heart is pounding.

"Someone tried to kill me," he rasps in disbelief. Not surprised that someone tried, but that someone very nearly succeeded. "Someone... Someone tried to fucking kill me," he says again, growing more hysteric the more the pain sets in. His own brain is hammering against the confines of his skull, beating at the backs of his eyes.

He’s certain that he’s halfway to cardiac arrest, but no matter how he tries to focus, he can’t calm himself. His strength is gone. It’s gone. He looks at you, you, who should have a hole punched through your chest. Instead, you’re staggering to your feet, totally unharmed. 

"Homelander!" You address sharply, audibly trying to rein in your own bubbling panic. He can see his own fear reflected in your eyes. You’re just as confused as he is. Just a stupid little mouse that crawled out of your hole and found him like this. "I can help you, okay? Let me help you."

There’s something about the sharp authority in your voice mixed with an undeniable quiver of compassion that catches his attention. It could be the degree of his vulnerability sinking in, but after a second of dumbfounded staring, Homelander nods.

It must be pure adrenaline that gives you the strength to help him into your house. You don’t look like you should be able to carry him. He's practically dead weight in your arms, barely keeping himself on his feet as you both stumble into your living room. The height difference does neither of you any favors.

You get him down onto the couch before fetching a wet rag, a bottle of water, pills, and a first aid kit. He watches you fumble with it, hands shaking. He assumes it’s adrenaline, though you lack the acidic stench of it. No, you probably don’t. He just can’t smell it anymore. He can’t smell anything except the faint tinge of blood, and whatever nauseating scented candle you use to stink up your home. Though, even that’s distant compared to what he’s used to. However, he finds he doesn’t have it in him to panic. Is this what shock feels like?

He takes the water you offer him, but denies the pills. “No, no. I have no idea what that shit will do to me right now.” You nod, setting the bottle aside. You then lean over him, inspecting the level of damage. His ears are ringing, and his whole body is throbbing with sharp, painful aches. Maybe the pills would help, but he’s never had to take painkillers before. He’d rather swallow tacks than lean on something so pedestrian.

As you work, he notices a mottled mark blossoming darkly across the center of your chest, just under your collarbone, approximately the size of his fist. Without thinking, he reaches up to touch it, remembering the blow he’d dealt you.

You startle, looking down where he touches with a wince. The skin looks as tender as he feels. It must sting. Is he bruised like this beneath his suit? The thought of these same ugly dark marks mirrored on his own body brings him visceral disgust. 

"Don't worry about me," you tell him, as comforting as your voice can muster. You grasp his wrist and gently lay it back down at his side.

I'm not worried about you, he thinks derisively. "That should have caved in your chest."

"Guess it's my lucky day, then," you say absently, more focused on using a wet cloth to wipe away the blood from his temple, up into his hairline, seeking the injury. You're meticulous but gentle in the way you handle him, cupping the side of his face to turn him one way, then another.

If not for how clumsy your movements feel, he’d think you’ve done this before. There is care and determination in the way you tend to him, but no obvious medical expertise. Even the kit you pull from looks out of date and sparse. You probably picked it up from a gas station on a whim because you needed safety pins. "I think these need stitches," you say as you carefully apply bandages, brows furrowed. Homelander's gaze lingers on your lips as you speak. What kind of person sees someone fall out of the fucking sky, blowing a crater in their yard in the process, and then thinks to give them CPR?

"I'm calling an ambulance," you say, moving to stand. That breaks him out of his stupor. He catches you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, despite how pitifully weak his own grasp feels. "No, no, not... Don't do that," he says, screwing his eyes shut briefly. No one else can know that this happened. Besides, if those psychopaths are still out there, it will draw them right to him. "Too much attention, I just... give me a fucking minute," he says, flexing his hands. They still feel weak, tingling like they've fallen asleep, but the bizarre sensation is gradually beginning to abate.

Whatever was done to him, it doesn't seem to be permanent. 

He hopes to fuck that it isn’t. "Okay," you say tentatively. Instead of leaving, however, you reposition to continue wiping the blood from his face, gently rubbing from his temples down his jaw. He watches you like a hawk, rolling his fingers in and out of fists, gradually feeling his strength return to him.

He's unaccustomed to the way you're handling him. One hand cupping his jaw, ginger in the way you move his head only when you absolutely need to. The concern wrinkled between your brows is so palpable, so sincere, that for a moment he almost forgets you're strangers to each other.

"What're you doing?" He asks eventually, voice low. You pause, looking down to meet his eye. "Oh, I just... There's still blood, and I didn't want to leave you alone."

Your response tightens something in his chest, like a steel coil wrung too tight, leaving him uncomfortable. He feels small, vulnerable, and the tenderness of your touch is doing nothing for it. "I don't need you," he snaps defensively. "I'm fine."

"Okay," you respond, aggravatingly calm. Still soothing. "What do you need?" Homelander opens his mouth, but hesitates. Your earnestness is infuriating, waiting on bated breath for what you can do for him. He closes his mouth, jaw tight. His gaze flickers back down to the bruise on your chest. It's darker now, varying shades of purple and yellow fading into one another.

Looking back up at you, he schools his expression into calm focus. "Close the blinds," he says, gesturing with his head to the window, where you have twinkling white Christmas lights strung up. 

"I need to lay low awhile." He can feel his powers steadily returning. Once he gets back to Vought, he'll find out who it was, and rip out their fucking spine.

You've already gotten up to do as he asked, drawing the blinds down, and then closing the curtains over them. Afterwards, you turn to leave.

"Hey," Homelander calls, frowning. You stop in the doorway. "Where are you going?"

"The kitchen," you answer, hand on the doorframe. "You can call if you need something."

"Stay here," he says, ignoring the bit of petulance he can hear in his own voice. He doesn't care if you're confused. He doesn't care that he doesn't entirely understand himself. He just wants you to stay.

He watches you take a seat at the end of the couch, near his feet. He exhales, closing his eyes. It isn't as though you could do anything if proficient killers did appear, but for whatever reason, no matter how useless you would ultimately be, he feels better for having you near.

Even a curtain is better than no door at all.

After half an hour, his senses begin to sharpen again. It begins as a dull, irritating buzz at first. It has him rubbing at his ears, screwing his eyes shut. It rolls in and out of focus, making it difficult to adjust to. “Are you okay?” You ask from the other end of the couch, where you’ve been sitting with remarkable patience. Maybe you’re afraid of him. He hates not being able to tell by the rate of your heart.

“Peachy keen,” he replies flatly. “Hearing’s coming back.”

“That’s good,” you say, though the inflection you end with makes it sound more like a question.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good, it’s just… Loud,” he says, grinding the heel of his palm into his temple. His skull is still pounding. “Everything’s all… Coming back in a jumble. Giving me a fucking headache,” he says, though as he speaks, he realizes he’s able to focus fairly well on the conversation, drowning out the more intrusive ambient sounds. “Keep talking.”

You look surprised by his demand, but after a beat, you oblige. After maybe an hour of idle conversation, he learns your name, that you work from home, you like decorating for Christmas even when you spend it alone, and that you've lived a thoroughly dull, ordinary little life until this very moment.

That’s just what you’ve told him.

From his personal observations, he's learned that you’re a perpetual fidgeter, that you touch your face when you're nervous, and that you would rather laugh than take any of his disparaging remarks about your mundane life to heart.

"I think it's lucky for you that I’m so boring. I might not have been here otherwise," you counter. Your smile is so inexplicably charming–nose wrinkled like you’ve somehow pulled a fast one on him–that Homelander forgets to refute your point. Instead, much to your alarm, he sits up.

"Oh, steady! Are you sure you're okay?" You ask, standing as he does, hands out as if to catch him. He stretches his hands out in front of him, and then curls his arms back in. Exhaling, his eyes flare crimson. He likes the way it makes your heart jump when he looks at you through the red glow.

His lips quirk, lasers fading out. "Good as new," he says confidently, though the aches of his fall still linger in his joints. Not quite new. He takes a few long strides across your living room, pausing in the doorway to your kitchen, where he can see through to your yard, and the absolute crater he left in it. "Vought will... take care of that," he says, gesturing vaguely to the destruction.

You can't help but laugh, crossing your arms loosely to survey the damage with him. "I appreciate it, but really, I'm just glad you're alright," you say honestly, staring out into the wreckage of your yard.

Homelander purses his lips slightly, glancing at you from his peripheral. Above him, he feels something brush the top of his head. When he glances up, what he sees hanging in the doorway makes him smile deviously.

Without warning, he puts his hands on your waist and spins you to him, lips landing warm and firm on yours. He absolutely devours the surprised little noise you make against him, halfway tempted to see what other sounds he can wring from you.

Your heart quickens to a race in his ears, and much to his delight, you kiss him back. You even surprise him by grabbing the back of his head with both hands, deepening the kiss of your own volition.

Not one to be out done, he adjusts his hold on you, one arm wrapping properly around your waist while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck, gloved fingers gently squeezing your bare skin.

To his delight, you retaliate with your tongue, slipping it between his lips and coaxing his forth.

Just full of surprises, little mouse.

Maybe you aren't so boring after all.

He meets you eagerly, exhaling a rough, excited little huff through his nose, dropping the hand at your waist to grab a cheeky squeeze full of your ass, wringing a soft moan from you that sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock.

When Homelander pulls back, you're flushed warmly all over. You smell of antiseptic wipes and peppermint, like Christmas in a hospital. It’s bizarrely appealing.

"What was that?" You ask, dazed.

"Mistletoe," he purrs, tipping his head back without taking his eyes off you, settling his hands back on your waist.

You look up slowly–taking a solid few seconds to process–and huff a gentle little laugh, nodding at the aforementioned ornament dangling above you. 

"Is this your way of saying thank you?" You manage to ask after swallowing back the lump in your throat, your shoulders relaxing, though your heart continues to gallop in your chest. "I hope you're still going to pay for my yard."

It's Homelander's turn to laugh. "Oh, no. I haven't even begun to say thank you yet," he assures you, hands lingering on your hips. 

The kiss had been pure unrestricted impulse, nothing he intended to follow through on. However, now that you're toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, your skin warm against his, your eyes half lidded, he’s not sure that he wants to let you go. Your lips shine where you’ve licked the taste of his from them. 

“I think for your good deeds, you’re owed a very merry Christmas,” he says, waggling his brows. 

You give a flustered, incredulous bark of laughter, covering your mouth as you look away from him, that flush of yours intensifying, making your whole body thrum warmly. You wouldn’t need to worry about keeping warm on these cold winter nights if he had his way with you.

“Okay, well, uhm, thank you for… for that thought,” you say, tripping over your words in a way you haven’t this entire encounter. “You hit your head pretty hard, though so maybe before you make any promises, we make sure you get checked out by an actual doctor,” you say, pushing lightly against his chest.

He maintains his hold for just a second longer, utterly immovable. It feels good to be himself again. He runs his tongue along his teeth, downright predatory in the way he stares down at you, but he does relinquish his hold.

“You should come with me to the tower. You know, now that you’re… Compromised,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “Someone might come looking for me here. Interrogate you on my condition.”

Real fear flashes in your eyes at that. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he gives back gravely.

“Uh… Okay. Uhm, let me… I’ll pack a bag,” you say nervously, stepping away from him to do just that.

“Okie-dokie,” he gives back simply, glancing around your home while he waits. He picks up an odd little gnome with a big red hat that covers everything but a little button nose, and a long white beard. Maybe he’ll convince you to bring along some of your festive decorations.

Merry Christmas to me, he thinks, already daydreaming about twisting the head off of whoever hit him with some kind of neutralizing agent.

He might thank them for the impromptu date while he’s at it.

[scary-lasagna]

Scp 096 (established relationship) where the scp researchers found that if someone sees his photo and comes running at them, if they put a photo of reader (another researcher) in front of their face, 096 gets confused and doesn’t kill them, and so reader can come in and take 096 back to his room?

SCP - 096 “Shy Guy”

It was sabotage, no- attempted murder.

The researchers had no clue it was your face in the file, these precious little interns didn’t even look over the contents before slapping them into a D-class’ arms and sending them into a testing chamber.

It was supposed to be the second unknowing D-class, on the other side of the testing room in a 2x2, 14” thick, lead box.

A simple study of how fast 096 could rip it into shreds, allowing more intel for breach shelter doors if it ever escapes again.

(That was a mess, and ironically how you two met, being the only one who knew how to handle him properly.)

The pressure sensors on the floor never moved, only shifted awkwardly. No crying. No screaming.

And somehow the silence was more terrifying than the outburst he should be having.

One of the head researchers called the D-Class back in, and the file is examined. Not too much later, you’re called into the observation room.

Much to your dismay, it seemed someone tried to killed you rather unceremoniously while also endangering the lives of so many others.

And being the lead researcher over 096, as well as his self-proclaimed “BFF”, you were able to waltz in and give him a gentle pat on the back, comforting his confused state.

You lovingly secured the bag over his head, the only thing that gives him the maximum comfort and relief, and stood him on the ‘X’ marked on the floor, all set and ready for the MTF to transport him back to containment.

[eluminium]

I love how the big Life series "curses"/cliches surrounding BigB and Tango are just, completely nullified by Skizz. Oh BigB is forced to betray his closest ally and that ally will hate/break up the alliance with him due to it? Skizz just goes "Oh it was your task? And you completed it? Worth it then, let's get back to roping people into gambling!!!" Tango keeps having his allies dip on him/ignore him/never prioritize him when he really needs them? Skizz is just like "Okay fine I'll do your task for you together with Big Bopper and then we'll do shots at the top of Joel's cringefail MLG bucket build height tower!!!!!"

I think, perhaps, Skizzleman is the antidote to any curse/cliche that relies on a lack of loyalty. You just can't get him to compromise his loyalty no matter what you try. Can't tempt this angel to fall, even.

Now we just gotta wait and see if Tango and BigB will counteract Skizz's curse/cliche of never reaching session 8 and his rule of three stuff...

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

And remember kids, the next time someone tells you, "George R. R. Martin wouldn't make Jon Snow the typical fantasy hero because that's cliche".....

Oh yes he would!

One viewer wants to know what character would you play (on the show)? GRRM: If I could magically clap my hands and become a different person, it would be cool to play Jon Snow who's much more of the classic hero. Everybody wants to be the classic hero! ABC Interview, 2014

GRRM: And the character I’d want to be? Well who wouldn’t want to be Jon Snow — the brooding, Byronic, romantic hero whom all the girls love. Meduza Interview, 2017

In fact he already has ☺️