#your fucking ugly and non-functional core

[solidcarbon]

.

[shieldfoss]

Do learn Zig

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There are at least 5, possibly more, ways of making a programming language after C that don't do like C++

Nr 1 is to just not try for "better C" and instead do something completely different - for example Haskell.

Nr 2 is to look at C++ and say "We agree that X is a problem with C that needs solving but come the fuck on" - for example Java using garbage collection and Dispose() instead of RAII (And Java is old enough that it gets to re-use C's excuse "we made this language before better alternatives were well known," but also RAII isn't necessarily the best approach? I like it but it's completely legitimate to prefer something else.)

Nr 3 is to look at a problem in C, look at C++, find out that C++ solved this problem but... maybe the cure is worse than the disease? It would appear nobody has found a strict improvement so let's just... I guess we'll do like C here? This is for example Go's original approach to generics - C++ templates are complicated. I immediately think less of any language that won't let me have something equally powerful but they are complicated.

Nr 4 is to look at a problem in C, look at C++, find out that C++ solved this problem two+ decades ago, and then not solving the problem in your language because you don't want to be like C++, here I am looking directly at Go and the decision not to have a non-null pointer type in the language AND not to have the compiler error if you dereference a pointer without checking for null first what the fuck is wrong with you.

Nr 5 is when you do nr 3 but you're wrong about it and smug about how you're wrong and exclusively engage with strawman arguments rather than deal with the fucking truth, this despite your mistake actually going against the core values of your language. Andrew. I'm talking to you Andrew.

---

Anyway Zig doesn't have the concept of public/private fields, meaning every single fucking class has to pick between

(1) encapsulating with the inefficient pimpl idiom like we do in C

(2) checking invariants on every function call, leading to conditional branching and a ballooning of the error set

(3) lmao skill issue if the user modifies the struct that's on them hope you like Undefined Behavior

(4) doing some really ugly reinterpret casting where the struct has its regular public fields and then just one opaque byte field that you internally cast to- and from- your actual internal representation (this is a subset of "skill issue" but it's more obvious to the user that they aren't supposed to touch the bytes).

None of those are OK! And Andrew completely doesn't engage with it, talking about Java's proliferation of getters and setters which become unnecessary if you just leave the fields public bitch the point is I don't want the user setting these values! There won't be any setters!

To compare with C++ briefly:

There are essentially two ways to create a class that represents a dynamic array that matches the container concept.

Externally you need to be able to query: Data, Begin, End, Size, Capacity.

If I'm programming like Andrew seems to think I do, I make a struct with 5 private fields, and then I write 5 getters and setters.

And I don't understand how you can be smart enough to invent Zig but dumb enough to think it's acceptable to create a 40 byte object here with broken invariants when I can do it in 24 bytes with fixed invariants hence the name.

He understands the value of invariants elsewhere! For example, he has made it so pointers cannot be null, meaning I don't have to check if they're null inside every function! I just want the ability to make the same kind of invariant guarantees for my own types.

I am so incredibly tired of seeing people make new languages that fail to learn from C++

I don't need a new language to be strictly better, e.g. it could be argued that for Rust, almost every choice they made was either an upgrade or a sidegrade, sacrificing some things to gain other things they wanted more. It is a very worthy competitor and, longterm, probably the winner of that competition, even though C++ is better for some niche things.

But languages like Go and Zig just. I get so tired when they fail to do the most elementary things. "C also doesnC was standardized in 1989 what is your excuse?

C++ is not a perfect language. We have learned so many lessons since Bjarne set out to make "C but better." And by "we" I mean, apparently, not everybody.

I am so incredibly tired of seeing people make new languages that fail to learn from C++

[foramomentonly]

@spaceskam So, your Jealous Michael stream of consciousness fic was so good it inspired me. And then I got angsty. I humbly dedicate this to you since basically I’m just copying your brilliant style.

 If you are reading this and don’t know what I’m talking about do yourself a favor.

It’s not that Michael doesn’t like this new guy Forrest, per se. He doesn’t, but personal incompatibility is not the biggest issue. He’s not trying to be best friends with the guy. He just wants to go twenty minutes in his own damn town without seeing him. Is that really too freaking much to ask? And maybe also to not constantly find him hanging around Alex like a puppy on an invisible leash.

First, it’s Bean Me Up, where Michael stops in one early morning to pick up coffee and pastries with which to woo a justifiably still frosty Maria. There’s Alex, dressed for a run, nursing what Michael can only guess is a black coffee. And he’s with someone. Someone familiar. Someone with a really bad dye job and a very stupid cardigan. Seriously, this is small-town New Mexico, a place full of unironic cowboy hats, functional boots, and ugly plaid and turquoise everything. The only individuals with a real sense of style are Maria, with her boho patterns and bright colors and flowy pieces, and more recently Alex, with his military-fashion boots and dark, tapered jeans and that fucking leather jacket. At least he’s not wearing the jacket. But all this to say you can’t just throw on a dull, shapeless cardigan and dig up some boxed hair dye from Alex’s high school medicine cabinet and call it a look. But Alex doesn’t seem to mind. He hadn’t seemed to mind at the ranch when they first meet Forrest, either. When Forrest was two steps from getting on his knees if Alex so much as asked to borrow a pen and Alex pretended not to notice and Michael glowered at them both. And now Alex is smiling at something Forrest says and raising a perfect brow, and when he catches Michael’s eye he doesn’t hold his gaze. Michael grabs his order and stalks off, and of course, it’s Forrest who runs out to tell him he forgot to pay.

***

Bean Me Up is just the first time. A few weeks later he’s finishing up at the lab with Liz and Kyle, and Isobel is hanging around because she’s not working right now and she doesn’t have much else to do.

“All right,” Kyle says, “if we’re done, I’ve got to head out. I’m meeting Alex at the high school track.”

“What for?” Isobel asks.

“Cardio,” Kyle beams, and Michael rolls his eyes. Who gets that excited about a hamster wheel for adults?

“Can I join?” Isobel asks, and, oh right. Isobel does these days.

Kyle says, “…yes?” uncertainly and Isobel flutters her eyelashes at him like good answer. Liz announces she’s coming to “the ab parade” too, and Michael wonders if she’s been sampling her drawer wine already. But the whole gang is game, so he is, too. He’s a joiner.

They get to the track and Alex is stretching idly in one of those sporty bro get-ups—shorts, athletic shoes, and the tee-shirt that’s been cut into an extremely baggy tank top that has more functionality as a wind tunnel than actual clothing. He looks relaxed and tan, and he has a prosthetic Michael hasn’t seen before; he guesses it’s specifically for athletics. He’s objectively admiring the view when Alex grins at someone to his left and Michael looks over and it’s fucking Forrest in a college tee-shirt and a fucking sweatband. He points to their group and Alex turns, smiling uncertainly.

“Do we have an audience?” he asks.

“Isobel asked to join us. I don’t know what these two are doing,” Kyle explains, holding his hand out to Forrest like it’s the most natural thing in the world for Alex to have company that isn’t one of them or dressed in army fatigues and letting him order them around. “Good to see you again, man. You running with us?”

Forrest grips Kyle’s hand, and these two fuckers would be BFFs.

“Yeah, if it’s cool with you,” he says, “I’ve been meaning to get more active-”

“Been pretty active lately,” Alex murmurs, smirking, and Michael literally gags. Alex shoots him a dark look.

“-and Alex suggested a run would be a good place to start.”

Kyle is spouting off fitness theories or whatever to Forrest and Isobel, and Liz wanders toward the bleachers, leaving Alex and Michael effectively alone.

“You got a problem, Guerin?” Alex asks, tone forced casual.

“You pick up a boyfriend since I saw you last, private?” he replies.

Alex, little shit that he is, has the audacity to laugh.

“No,” he says, “but I’ll be sure to update my Facebook status for you the second I do.” 

***

That’s the thing, too. Alex won’t admit he’s dating this tragic librarian loser. He doesn’t say anything to anyone. He brings F-word to The Pony where they sit on stools at the bar facing each other and practically fellating their bottlenecks from what Michael can tell from over the pool table, where he’s pretending to line up a shot; Alex has apparently introduced him to all their friends and Arturo, if their biweekly lunches at the Crashdown are any indication; and they text non-stop, Alex’s phone constantly buzzing in the pocket of his fatigues or the cupholder of the Jeep where he stores it while driving them to the library or the Project Shephard bunker, or dropping Michael off at the Airstream. 

“Want me to check that for you?” Michael asks when it buzzes three times in a row during a food run for what they now call the Secret Science Lab, thanks to Cam’s big mouth and Liz’s continuing mortification.

“No,” Alex says easily, “it’s Forrest. It’s unrelated.”

“Could be an emergency,” Michael goads, “what if he needs you to help him touch up his roots? ”

Alex glares.

“Spoiler alert: He needs you to help him touch up his roots,” Michael says in an exaggerated whisper.

“You could be a little less subtle, you know,” Alex says.

“What?”

“This whole ‘jealous ex’ thing,” he says, jaw clenched. “It’s getting old.”

“We’re not exes,” Michael says, “we’re bros. And I’m just looking out for you. Bro.”

Alex rolls his eyes.

“Well, look somewhere else. I’m good.”

Michael grits his teeth, tries to forget that they once told each other I don’t look away and that Alex absolutely remembers.

***

It officially becomes too fucking much when Forrest is at his house. Not the actual guy, though that would be bad enough, but his junk. Michael drops off some documents for Alex one night and asks to use the bathroom. Alex shrugs and steps aside to let him pass. Alex likes a neat space; he grew up in a military household with his fucking psychopath of a father and old habits die hard or sometimes not at all. So Michael notices immediately when there is just stuff lying around. Some folders scattered across the low coffee table; a glass on the side table still dripping condensation onto the wood; an ugly Forrest green sweater draped over the back of a chair in the kitchen. These things are very much not Alex’s, but there they are strewn around Alex’s space like half of a What’s Different About These Two Images puzzle come to life. 

Michael scoffs and says, “You know if I find his toothbrush in there I’m gonna use it to clean the toilet?”

Alex stiffens and his knuckles go white around the handle of his crutch.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he hisses, and Michael realizes too late that Alex is carrying all the markings of a crappy day in the rigid set of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw, and the way he leans heavily on his crutch as though he’s too proud to admit he would rather be resting. But they’ve been dancing around this massive, electric blue elephant between them for too long, and Michael isn’t going to back down now. Not his style.

“Oh, just that you apparently have a live-in boyfriend you didn’t bother to tell anyone about,” he says, lifting his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “No big deal.”

“So what if I do? Where are you parking your Airstream these days, Guerin?”

Michael avoids the question by pointing at the glass still sweating on the table and asking, “Be honest, did he jump out the back window when I knocked?”

“Why would he?” Alex spits. “He belongs here. You don’t.”

They both pause, their anger deflating at his words that hit a little too close to the core of what they definitely are not actually arguing about.

“You can’t just bring someone into our lives like it’s nothing, Alex,” Michael says, switching tactics.

“I would never tell him anything,” Alex answers, taking a hesitant step forward. “You know that. I would never.”

I would never tell.

I never look away.

I loved you. For a long time.

Michael hates the past tense. But the present sucks pretty hard right now, too. 

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbles and turns back toward the front door. “Think I’m just gonna hold it. Have a good night, Alex.”

“Guerin-”

“Tell Forrest I said hello.”

[minashacklebolt-blog]

❝I’ve got nothing left to prove, cause I’ve got nothing left to lose. See me bare my teeth for you, see me bare my teeth.❞ 

VANESSA MORGAN? No, that’s actually WILHELMINA SHACKLEBOLT. SEVENTH YEAR student, this RAVENCLAW student is sided with DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY. SHE identifies as A CIS WOMAN and is a PUREBLOOD who is known to be CAUSTIC, STUBBORN, and CONDESCENDING but also VEHEMENT, ARTICULATE, and BRIGHT. 

VEHEMENT ; mina has known ever since she can remember that if you want something, to change something, to effect something in any way, you need to put force behind it. she’s got passion coming out her arse, it’s just the way she is. she either doesn’t care at all or cares hard, hard enough to fight tooth and nail for it, irregardless of how ridiculous it may seem to anyone else. this is how she came to be the president of SPEW up until the death of her father. she is unrelentingly driven, no matter what. 

ARTICULATE ; to accompany the unstoppable force that lives within her she is actually able to communicate this extremely effectively... if she chooses to. she’s always been one to constantly devour the written word, expanding her vocabulary whenever possible but even aside from that, she has always been able to do it. probably from her dad, though she wouldn’t ever admit it, she has the skills and composure to be able to navigate politics effectively which she both hates and utilises. of course she was never the perfect child at ministry functions but she knows that throwing a strop doesn’t always work with powerful people, learning the language is effective. 

BRIGHT ; her brain is a sponge, there is always more to learn and there is nothing that mina hates more than ignorance. she is also incredibly lucky that while obviously having strengths and weaknesses academically, overall she struggles little with understanding most concepts presented in her magical education. 

CAUSTIC ; while able to use her way with words to be incredibly charming, if she so liked, mina... doesn’t. she has a habit of being bluntly sarcastic and doesn’t really have a problem with rocking the boat. she’s been doing that since the second she realised she could rock the boat. she’s clever and while hardly marching around asserting her intellectual dominance on people, she’s still a teenager and has hurt people in the past with her natural reaction of stinging wit. can still be charming in social situations because she can and will steal your girl, tell your boyfriend if he says he’s got beef that she’s a vegetarian and she ain’t fuckin’ scared of him. 

STUBBORN ; will use this to stand up for people and is usually a ride or die or she won’t fuck with you. can pick arguments that obviously make others uncomfortable but won’t let it go once she sinks her teeth in, not vying for confrontation particularly (until recently maybe) she just wants to understand a person’s point of view and then decimate it if it’s found wanting. of course. she is set in her ways and unless the insight is somehow miraculous, logical or includes information that she is lacking about the situation she will carry on, heading forward.

CONDESCENDING ; coming back to her wit. she doesn’t mean to be but if someone has proved to not even be trying she has no patience for it and even when people are trying, without meaning to she can be condescending. she tries to educate where she can, if people are willing to listen and she’s good at it but as teenagers tend to do, she fucks up. its not a matter of feeling like she is better than anyone, she thinks that wix in general are intolerant and that rights are rights for any sentient creature based on their individual actions. sometimes people are just straight fucking dumb and wrong though and she is there to correct them. 

birth date: april 16th

patronus: nightjar

wand: ebony wood with a phoenix feather core, 10 ½ and unbending flexibility

This jet-black wand wood has an impressive appearance and reputation, being highly suited to all manner of combative magic, and to Transfiguration. Ebony is happiest in the hand of those with the courage to be themselves. Frequently non-conformist, highly individual or comfortable with the status of outsider, ebony wand owners have been found both among the ranks of the Order of the Phoenix and among the Death Eaters. In my experience the ebony wand’s perfect match is one who will hold fast to his or her beliefs, no matter what the external pressure, and will not be swayed lightly from their purpose. 

has a subscription to most newspapers but doesn’t really trust mainstream media, still gets about four a day dropped into her lap from pissed off looking owls. 

her brother barely stayed for four days after the funeral before having to go back to his family in greece. the house is undecorated this year, she knows, so she stayed at hogwarts for christmas.

can down a pint in under four seconds. actually enjoys beer and tries any varieties she can when she can. 

she is so fucking unrelentingly angry. she has always been passionate and unafraid to voice it but now that passion has no direction and she is just furious all the time. holding it together and not actually doing anything disastrous, for now. 

has been doggedly teaching herself as many hexes, jinxes and offensive spells that she can lately. she is being careful not to be caught but not quite as careful as she may have been a few months ago. she isn’t sleeping well. 

always known that she absolutely will not change herself or tone herself down for anyone else, especially not the fucking media. her mother has been concerned before about her image and how it effects kingsley’s position. mina had already told her father that if anyone cared about the fluff humiliation pieces in mainstream media they could all choke anyway. 

has a bloody GINORMOUS maine coon cat named tiny, he also responds to tibs, tibbles, ugly boy, big boy, you fucker etc. seriously he’s massive. 

argued all the time with her dad, however a lot of it actually did include spirited, intellectual debate before devolving into a teenagery shit fit every now and then. she follows everything that happens at the ministry where she can and was constantly, doggedly pushing kingsley to make more change wherever he could. of course she understands that the job is far more complicated than just ‘fixing’ everything, right now she’s looking for a way to get her mother the hell out of wizarding london. she has read independent journalists takes on the beginnings of the second wizarding war, the ministry takeover, she knows what’s fucking coming and it’s going to be ugly. 

[kurly-quill]

Robin’s Nest Cafe (part 1)

So, here goes nothing! This will probably have more than one part, but will likely be non-chronological. 

Pairings: JayTim, maybe future JayDickTim 

Rating: Mature for Language [for now] 

Coffee Shop AU (sort of), Civilian!Tim (mostly?)

         Part 1 - Part 2

(1) Hot Chocolate

The first thing to know about Gothamites, is that they are objectively, irrevocably rude as fuck.

It’s not like New York City, where people bustle past without so much as a nod of acknowledgement because they have somewhere to be and don’t have time for pleasantries, or the aggressive shoving on the metro in Tokyo, or God forbid, like Metropolis, where people born past 1930 still tip their hats at passerby.

No, the average Gothamite would see you, without an umbrella, soaking wet, and shake their umbrella off on you on the way inside. If you gave up your seat to an elderly Gothamite on the train, they would sooner say fuck you than thank you. If you tried to mug a Gothamite, they would probably punch you in the face and steal your wallet, because, hell, you’d be the fifth person to try it this week.

And Tim, for all of his “good breeding” and “respectable upbringing” is, at his very core, a Gothamite.

His smile is so wide that he’s baring teeth, and while it doesn’t match the snarl on the face across from him, it’s no less able to convey the sheer amounts of fuck you very much, have a fucktastic day!!

“I ain’t sayin’ it again -” the man bellows, spit hitting Tim’s face and, ew, probably his lips too, “- give me the money inna register ‘afore things get ugly!”

His eyes glimmer with the sharpness of the icicles hanging outside along the shop window, barely sparing the knife shaking under his chin a second glance.

It’s 11 pm on Friday night, and the cafe is still open because Gotham never really sleeps and Tim lives above the shop, anyway. Behind Knife Guy, there’s a few people in line, displaying varying degrees of concern.

(1- was born in a Gotham alleyway, please if you’re going to stab the cashier just do it I’ll pour the coffee myself, 5 - been in Gotham for awhile, kinda worried but Killer Croc smashed my car last week and I just really need a coffee, 10 - visiting Gotham for the first time this weekend-- and the last time.)

Tim looks skyward, praying for strength. There are cobwebs up there he’s never noticed.

“Sorry, the money in the register is a seasonal flavor. But hey, bright side, we’ve just got peppermint mocha back in, so I can ring you up for that instead?”

Knife Guy gapes for a second, squinting at Tim like he expects him to start tap dancing any second now. Tim raises a brow, patient. With a frustrated snarl, the knife jolts forward enough that it clicks against Tim’s nametag, chipping at the edge of the black and yellow batman sticker beside his name, which is his favorite sticker so excuse you.

“Look, I’ll make you a deal. Either you put away the knife and order a peppermint mocha with christmas tree sprinkles, and we pretend this never happened, or we do it the less fun way, with the GCPD. Who are a total buzzkill, by the way, believe me. Your choice.”

There’s an eye-twitch, and a change in the man’s expression that makes Tim’s finely-honed Gotham instincts go “oh damn, here we go”, when someone opens up the front door with far too much strength, the glass rattling with the force of its inward swing. The freezing night wind billows in, the scent of oil and snow filtering through the warmer scents of the cafe. There’s an unceremonious tinkle of the bell dangling on the doorframe, and beneath it stands another man.

Tim stares. Knife Guy stares. One of the customers looks up from her phone, groans long and loud, grabs her triple-espresso hazelnut latte with caramel drizzle, and walks out into the late-November chill.

The Red Hood holds the door open for her, because he’s a fucking gentleman.

The door swinging shut with another tinkle, and there’s a pause filled only with catchy holiday jingles that have been playing over the radio since September. Hood surveys the scene before strolling toward the counter.

“Damn, lemme tell ya, it’s cold as fuckin’ balls out there,” Hood laments, with absolutely zero prompting, rubbing his hands together as though he’d gain any friction through the gauntlets. He stops just short of where Tim and Knife Guy are facing off, the blade hovering threateningly in the air just under Tim’s chin. Hood cocks his head.

“Am I interrupting somethin’?”

Tim takes a quick second to make sure that, if he opens his mouth, his jaw won’t hit the floor, before he replies, “Just regular customer service in Gotham. Hope you’re not here for the money in the register too - We’re fresh out of stock. Moving onto the Winter Menu, you know?”

Hood nods, making what sounds like an understanding hum through the voice synthesizers, “Some people just never check the website. Read you’ve got a mean gingerbread latte on special.”

Tim would respond, except now the knife is shaking to a worrying degree– Knife Guy is scared shitless, because the Red Hood is nearly shoulder-to-shoulder– or, well, shoulder-to-bicep with him, because the man is huge and smells very distinctly of cigarette smoke and blood. Tim would sympathize if he wasn’t having an internal fangasm to end all fangasms at this moment.

In a display of panic-borne, truly ballsy stupidity (unfortunately, also a common trait amongst Gothamites, particularly the ones that rob cafes at knife-point at just the hour the Bats tend to come out), Knife Guy whips the knife to the side to turn on the vigilante.

Hood’s got the knife out of the guy’s hand in an instant– Tim has just enough reflexes to grab the steaming cup of caffeine goodness that’s sitting innocently in harm’s way– and in the next second he’s grabbing the guy by the hair and slamming his head backwards onto the counter, spine bent at an angle that makes the onlookers flinch. A few more scurry out the door. There are other places to get a caffeine fix.

“Look here,” Hood growls, No-Knife Guy going cross-eyed as the knife points straight at his nose, “I ain’t lookin for a side of stitches with my candy cane hot chocolate with heavy cream, ya feel me?”

Mr. No Knife squeals.

“P-Please– I’m sorry, I’ll go! Promise! Just– fuck, l-lemme go!”

Hood’s head makes a minute motion, somehow conveying sheer exasperation despite the helmet (Though Tim can just feel the eye-roll going on). He drags the wannabe-robber up to his feet, though it’s pretty useless seeing as the guy’s knees give out they’re shaking so hard– and, oh dude, gross, that’s definitely a wet spot in the front of his jeans there. Tim’s nose wrinkles. He better not have to mop that up.

Hood pays the fact that he’s basically holding up all the man’s weight one-armed no mind, dragging him to the front of the shop. The bell chimes merrily as he gives the guy a literal kick in the ass out the door. The guy lands face-first in dirty, oily, Gothamy snow. An eight year old kicks him as she walks past, hand-in-hand with her father to the nearest bus stop. That Uptown Gotham charm, amiright?

“You’re just lucky I’m feeling the holiday fucking spirit right now– Plus, no offense,” a quick appraisal, “you’re kinda pathetic.”

And then Hood closes the door.

But he’s still here.

Tim looks around the shop. Apparently, at some point in the last 2 minutes, the rest of the customers have decided that they really don’t have time for the typical Bat-dramatics today and fucked off to another cafe. Tim should be more upset about the loss in business than he is, but that’s the furthest thing from his mind.

Because the Red Hood (It’s him, it’s really him) is still standing there. In the cafe.

 With Tim.

He glances down at his chest to make sure the knife isn’t actually buried there, because the possibility that he’s died makes more sense than the Red Hood standing in his cafe, surrounded by a horrific mash-up of dollar-store Hannukah and Christmas (because his family is technically Jewish even if they didn’t celebrate jack shit, and Steph took the shitty plastic menorah on top of the espresso machine as a challenge).

“Um,” Tim remarks, scrambling for the words he wants to say to one of his childhood heros, “So, can I get you something? I feel like I should get you something. Cause I mean. This is an establishment that supports vigilantism, okay? Robin’s Nest cafe, at your service. At least a 10% discount, just like military. Just putting it out there.”

Right. So where is that knife again? Can’t speak if he doesn’t have vocal chords.

The vigilante makes a sound through the synths in his helmet that must be a chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. He moves back up to the counter with movements far too fluid for someone of his size, and Tim swallows a bit as he’s forced to look up (and up) at close proximity. Wow, the helmet is something else– he’s itching to get his hands on it, take it apart and see all its functions and how it was made.

“Gotta first aid kit?” is almost lost to Tim, he’s so mesmerized – he thinks distantly that he’s probably looking a little manic, cause he’s running on caffeine and spite, and people have always told him that his tendency to hyperfocus is unnerving on a good day – but then the words click. He frowns.

“Yes, we do? He didn’t get you with the knife, did he?” he questions, eyes raking up and down Hood’s leather jacket for any telling rips or tears.

Hood tuts, reaching up to tap at his neck, “Nah, not me, but you’re ‘bout to need a new white shirt.”

Tim mimics the movement on autopilot, clapping his hand to the side of his neck and feeling the stickiness there. His heart jumps for a second as he pulls back his hand and sees enough blood there to wonder how he’d missed it.

“Oh. Damn.”

And that’s how, five minutes later, Tim’s got the doors to the cafe locked and finds himself sitting in the break room with the Red Hood dabbing at his neck with a cotton swab.

If he finally manages to overdose on caffeine tonight, he thinks he could go happily.

Hood’s so close that Tim’s 100% sure the vigilante can feel his heart trying to burst all his arteries by its sheer pumping force. He’s getting light-headed because he’s trying not to be creepy and do something like smell the the tall, buff guy with gentle hands (Cause, God, somehow the scent of cigarettes, leather, and gunmetal just work for him) and has thus forgone taking any deep breaths.

“Lucky you, s’not deep,” are the only words either of them has said since he plopped down on the table. Tim hesitates for a second, watching Hood close the first aid kit and step away, before he clears his throat.

Courage, Tim. Come on, you’re from Gotham.

“So. Thanks. For all that, I mean.”

Hood shrugs.

“Eh, there are worse ways to start the night. Plus, it’s way warmer in here than out there. Wasn’t kidding when I walked in– was gettin fucking blue balls out there, and not even from anything fun this time.”

Tim lets out a surprised laugh.

“Oh? Well, I think I have a way to warm you up.”

There’s amusement in every line of Hood’s shoulders as he tilts his head, becoming increasingly intrigued by this particularly bold civilian. When he speaks, there’s a definite purr there, mechanized though it is. Something prickly hot shoots down Tim’s spine, and he has to fight down a flush.

“Yeah? You got something in mind?”

Tim can’t help but grin. “Oh, I’ve got just the thing.”

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“Let me guess. Hot chocolate with heavy cream?”

“Shut your shittin’ mouth, Dick.”

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“…. It’s got candy cane flavor in it”

[sonic7ischaos]

3d Sonic

Being a part of the Sonic fandom, you see this Idea float around a lot that “Sonic just doesn’t work in 3d”. The most cited examples of why are obvious. Sonic 06, Shadow the hedgehog, the storybook games, the modern games to a lesser extent (though those games barely function in 3 dimensions). The ones that bug me the most though are Adventure 1 & 2. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that these games haven’t aged well. Sonic Adventure suffers from level design that had to accommodate the movement physics of every character designed for a controller that could only turn the camera left and right, gameplay styles that clash with the design philosophy of Sonic as a whole, ABUNDANT automation that rips control away from the player, broken collision and SO much else. Adventure 2 had many of the same problems for the same reasons. It was tighter and more focused but it lost a lot of the expressive movement and open level design of its predecessors.

HERE’S THE THING. SONIC ADVENTURE 1 WAS THEIR 1st TRY. It was also meant to be a tech demo for the dreamcast. Adventure 2 actually fixed a lot of issues that came with it but changed the core design up quite a bit. I always see people tout the Adventure games as THE reason Sonic just doesn’t work in 3d but they conveniently ignore the fact that these were games made at a time when 3d was new and EVERYONE was struggling to get it right. The dreamcast only had ONE analog stick for fucks sake! Nintendo is Nintendo so OFC they got it on the first try but you go back and play Mario 64 and you tell me the controls and camera have aged well. And this is NINTENDO we’re talking about. Nowadays? Yeah, Sonic Team and Sega don’t really have an excuse for fucking up the series that put them on the map so badly but back then? No one knew how the fuck to make 3d games. There wasn’t the technical shorthand and tools that exist for game designers now where certain things like dual analog sticks were standard and even WITH these constraints, they managed to make 2 games that, despite their VERY numerous shortcomings, are still considered classics by fans today, surpassing every 3d title that came after.

And OOOOOOH the 3d games that came after. One in particular. Sonic 06 wasn’t a broken mess because of poor programming or ugly visuals (though the hub worlds certainly made THAT a huge issue). Sonic 06 was a broken mess because of its design. Oh sure, shitty programming made it worse (put it down to deadlines) but fundamentally, the reason Sonic 06 was such a disaster of a game was because it was designed with melee combat as a focus so Silver had a gameplay role. Sonic and Shadow were given this focus on combat to save on dev time/resources. So what we wound up with was a game that couldn’t let the player gain speed (especially through momentum) or risk that the combat mechanics the game was built on would be rendered useless. So now, Sonic and Shadow (who are now slow and move very precisely, kinda like megaman) are forced to come to a screeching halt so they can stand around wailing on all the enemies in an area before they’re allowed to progress, basically forced to stay in one area and repetitively attack stock enemies over and over. They also have health bars because Silver needs a reason to use more than one item at a time with the fancy new PK system so the pace is further destroyed by that.

Nowadays though, there’s this suggestion that the only way to make Sonic work in 3d is the way the boost games do it which is inherently absurd. Sonic as gameplay explicitly ISN’T working in the boost games. That’s not to say the boost games are bad (except forces), just that they sidestep the issue by not having the design of the classics (or Adventure games to a lesser extent) inform the design of the current games. Boost gameplay isn’t an evolution of Sonic’s momentum focused gameplay, it’s a spin off. A non-sequitur. It has nothing to do with the ideas presented by the games of the past. This is coming from a person who LIKES Unleashed, Colors, and Generations. I ABSOLUTELY think boost gameplay has a place in the series. I just don’t think its place is front and center. There are things worth keeping from the boost games in more open, 3d platformer Sonic design though. The ability to customize your abilities and music are FANTASTIC. Having collectibles scattered throughout levels to unlock content and abilities is what 3d platformers are literally built for, the red rings are  a perfect fit. Character customization from Forces was great (though I think taking a Mario Odyssey approach would be better going forward, giving Sonic different looks both new and old).

More than all this though, the thing that proves that Sonic can and does work in 3d is the fan community. Fan games like Sonic Utopia and Green hill Paradise act 2 demonstrate, definitively, that Sonic works in 3d. These designers had faith in Sonic and many of them set out to prove that Sonic had a place in 3d games and they succeeded. Their clever solutions like a crouch button and tilting camera neatly solve every issue I’ve ever seen come up when people say Sonic doesn’t work in 3d. Step the hell up to the plate Sonic Team. Have faith in 3d Sonic. Stop relying on crutches like the boost formula and automation and just make a 3d Sonic platformer.

[thebrightestringaroundthemoon]

anyway time to use this blog for what i created it for i guess and type out a big long thing about how im a worthless piece of shit and should pour myself a nice big glass of creamer, sugar, and clorox. i literally serve like? no purpose? in life? at all? im a completely directionless failure that operates with about the complexity of a fucking roomba, running into the same goddamn couch over and over again and slightly redirecting. if i get lucky, i run into a different couch, but nothing fucking changes. i do the exact same thing over and over again: surround myself with wonderful, fantastic people, fuck it up and make them hate me, and then spiral into a pit of my own pointless fucking despair until i realize im such a fucking failure of a person i cant even muster the energy it takes to fucking die so i just get up again in the morning and go again. rinse and fucking repeat. and its not like i have some horrible life or anything, im just profoundly unfit to exist on this planet. i have wonderful friends who actually, honest to god care about me and its evidently not good enough for me?? so i just respond to everything by assuming the worst, spiralling, and being too much of a dumb bitch to fucking talk to A N Y B O D Y about A N Y T H I N G cuz i guess i’d rather make a dumb edgy tumblr blog named after the lyrics to a fucking asia song than actually solve any of my problems. i guess its too much to solve a problem when the fundamental core of who you are as a person is the fucking problem. i mean, there is a solution, but ive already covered why nobody needs to be worried about me doing that! bnobody needs to be worried about me doing anytuhing! accomplishing anything! ever becoming anything! ever managing to do much more than drag myself out of bed in the morning and inspire a profoundly sad mixture of pity and annoyance in everyone iv’e ever come into fucking contact with! im sitting here debating fixing the fucking apostrophe in the last sentence and its driving me fucking mad while real people have real fucking problems and my cardboard cutout ass bad edgy teen novel stupid bitch excuse for a person ass is sitting here doing THIS with my fucking time. I have things i shuold be doing, could be doing, but this is legitimately all i can bring myself to fucking contribute to society at this point. the surest sign that the people around me are fucking saints is that theyve stuck around this fucking long but honestly i dont fucking undeerstand. i guess thats the whole point of shit like saints, you arent supposed to be able to understand, its superhuman compassion, even for those who dont fucking deserve it. or maybe its just because i fundamentally dont work. i dont have any sort of actual power when it comes to my life. these are the idle musings of a bewildered spectator, the one person who comes to the party, stays sober, and sits on the sidelines and watches the fucking idiocy unfold. except instead of drunkenly stumbling around and telling my friends how much i love them, im stone cold sober and sitting on the sidelines watching myself fail to take even the most basic fucking steps towards fixing literally any problem that im dealing with. broken. non functional. i dunno if i was born a failure, though. i think that might be giving myself a little too much credit. other people were dealt infinitely worse hands than i was and they turned out fucking wonderful. i know a couple of them. no, i think im the way i am because of me. i probably had all the chances i needed to become something resembling a human being, and instead im whatever i am now. how can i be excited about some sort of future for myself when i can barely manage a relatively privliged day to day existance? i have friends, im not starving, im in college, i have an apartment. im far from rich but im able to afford to go to college. that should be enough. why the fuck isnt that enmough. why cant i just be fucking satisfied why cant i muster some sort of positive fucking emotions why does joy last a few moments why can i do this so much easier than writing anything positive about my life why does this flow like it does like a fucking river why cant i stop my hands why why what the fuck why why am i like this why was i born why am i who i am it flows so easily it just comes out but i cant tell anyone and i cant rely on anyone because im not anyone in noone im the fucking nobody that people keep around them to make themselves feel better and the only reason i have the slightest bit of doubt about that is that i love my friends too much to ever accuse them of something like that but then again does it fucking count when its someone like me do i qualify as a fucking person does it count as hurting someone’s feelings or using them when that someone isn’t a someone is just an empty fucking shell that was only gifted with the capacity to retain HURT thats all i can fucking remember thats all that sticks with me HURT i cant fucking be rid of it and its not some sort of innate inherent biological failing its who i am as a person i did this to myself i do this to myself i dont know that i will ever stop doing this to myself. all i can hope for is that one day i gain the strrength the fucking self esteem and self respect to kill myself. maybe it isnt self respect i need for that but respect for my friends. its selfish to put them through me. the pain they’d feel from my death would last a short time if at all. it would be so much better than forcing them to know me for however long this failing fucking body will carry my empty shell of a spirit onwards thjrough a world that i dont deserve to fucking inhabit. my inner monologyue put on paper sounds like a fucking evanescence song and i hate myself for it so much jesus fucking christ. i fundamentally do not like myself. as a person. on any level. i do not like myself. i wouldnt be friends with me, and ironically i hate myself for that too. but who would? who the fuck would? why does anyone? do they? maybe thats my one fucking talent. convincing people im likable. worming my way into their fucking lives until they trust me only to realize that i am not a human being. im an empty shell, a fucking roomba of a person. i can tell when ive run into something and back up so i can run into it again. i cannot solve my own problems. i cannot even conceptualize them. im something below a human cursed with the fucking ability to think at the level of one. my ocd is really really desperately trying to get me to scroll up and fix all the spelling and grammar errors but i dont know if itll hurt more to ignore them or to have to read the dumb ashit i just wrote. earlier i said that i wanted this to flow less easily and here we are i guess. though earlier i meant it in the context of only being able to properly conceptualize negative feelings and never being abkle to hold onto anything piositive i feel, and that hasn’t been magically fixed or anything, im just having trouble feeling anything at all now. im a completely blank slate. i havent even cried once troday. i cant. i cant care about my own fucking inadequacy and failure as a very basic human being enough to even fucking cry. i cried about an anime a couple nuights ago. i can muster emotion for that. but as soon as i look inwards i dont see ahyuthing thEres NOTHING FUICKING THERE THERE IS NOTHING FUCKING THERE THERE IS NOTHING FUCKING THERE I AM NOT A HUMAN BEING I AM NOT A HUMAN BEING I AM BROKEN I AM EMPTY I AM A {PLAGUE ON WHOEVER HAS THE PURE FUCKING MISFORTUNE TO BE A GOOD ENOUGH PERSON TO TAKE PITY ON ME i dont want to die, even. too many steps, too much feeling, too much. i just want to stop. to end. i want to no longer be. ill lock tghat away with all the other things id love to happen but know never will. that ones at the forefront though. it always will be. until i grow the fucking compassion to put others out of my misery. my roomate just texted me an innocuous questiona nd i texte d bacjk normally emojis and all im normal dont you see everyone im normal nothings wrong with me. oh sure sometimes i have a bad day but im fine everybody IM FINE you aren’t you have to put up with me ill fucking worm my way into your life and convince you im a real human being you can hold a congersation with only to snatch the fucking rug out from under you as soon as you actually attempt to engage with me on any level and i just end up eiother hurting you or revealing accidently that there is no such thing as luna thats not a fucking person its a name assigned to a loose collections of disorders, bad habits, and a gaping emotional black hoile from which nothing can fucking escape, jammed into an ugly broken body thats going to kill me early and doesnt even compensate by making me hot. wHEE. and of course, unable to be happy with anything, i will simultaneously complain about my own impending death due to horrific nutrition, subastance abuse (just the fun kinds so people dont realize anything is wrong WHEEEE) and some fucky illness that ive now gone and stopped medicating because im a stupid worthless bitch, AND I WILL COMPLAIN ABOUT THIS WHILE SIMULATENOUSLY WANTING TO DIE what do i want? who the fuck knows! not me! that’s a redundant statement, of course “me” doing know bercause thats not a thing im not a person! id love to blame it on my complete and total internal faliure as a person that i always end up hurting people, but honestly its probably because i dont put enough fucking effort in. even right now,. literally hours after a good friend of mine ostaroted feeling like shit in a way that is almost for sure my fucking fault, im doing THIS instead of trying to right the situation (to b fair she made a point of not inviting me but inviting the rest of the group?) or did she am i just reading into this? who knows! who the fuck knows! everyone but “me”! ejveryone else knows! becayuse its probably REALALLY FUCKING SIMPLE BUT NOOOOO I CANT EVEN MANAGE THAT CAN I I CANNNOT EVEN FUCKING MANMAGE TO MANAGE THAT CAN I thats too much for lil ol me! i am aggressively pointless! i am the single least important collection of fucking atoms on this planet! every last fucking rock i stepped on walking to and from the class that i skipped half of today is more important and has contribtued more to the grand scheme of things than i ever have or ever will, and thats jkust the inanimate fucking objects on the ground. lets not even get started on all the actual people whose time my existance waste, who i am a fucking affront to  by sheer virtue of being in any way associated with them at any point in time ever. i guess this is it, this is what i get when my entire personlaity is a loosely cobbled together collection of self deprecating jokes and a fake ego, desperately attempting to patch over an interior that has holes in it less than it just is one giant fucking hole. i was, am, and will be nothing, not even enough to earn the use of “I” at the beginning of the sentence. dinner is in 15 minutes. my friends will be there. im paralyzed. i belive every word i wrote above so why

would i inflict myself upon them but i 

i cant not

i so deeply want to

to go sit in uncharacteristic silence and hope somebnody notices and asks me whats up so i can give them a dumb, abridged, mostly fake version and get the sad pity looks and then feel bad about exploiting them and then

rinse

repeat

because i am not a person