#he's a step back to nihilistic chaos

[suck-baby-suck]

Faris’ Flat – London, Evening

Faris opens the door like he’s mid-monologue, barefoot, dramatic. Hair: impossible. Wild. Cheekbones: weaponized. He looks like he hasn’t eaten since 2pm yesterday and is still offended by the concept of breakfast.

The flat is small, but alive, half home, half creative wreckage. Stacks of notebooks on every surface. Some are his. Most are his. The rest delicate drawings belong to Rhys. One corner of the room is dedicated to synth gear and guitar pedals that only Faris knows how to use. And yet it’s cozy. Lived-in. A little sacred.

Rhys arrives like a breath of static between tracks.

He doesn’t knock. He never has to. He just opens the door like a regular ghost and steps in. He’s still wearing the same button-up from earlier, soft blue, slightly wrinkled, collar loose. There’s a kind of calm in him tonight, but it’s the quiet kind that comes after being overwhelmed. He drops his bag by the door, glances at the mess, and says:

Rhys: You’ve added more notebooks. Is this a new collection or just the emotional debris of last week?

Faris (without looking up): Both. I’m archiving my chaos in chronological order.

Rhys is comforted down cross-legged on the floor with his laptop, sipping tea like it’s the only thing tethering him to Earth. Faris is sprawled across the couch like a Renaissance painting of someone being inconvenienced.

Faris: We are not staying in a tent. I refuse to wake up in a field full of hungover nihilists and wet socks.

Rhys (scrolling): You say that like it's not literally the festival crowd you're dying to impress.

Faris: Not while I'm horizontal and emotionally sensitive. I need four walls and a window that lets me feel poetic.

Rhys: Found one. He tilts the screen toward Faris.

Faris (squinting): That looks... shockingly decent. Wait, does it have a café downstairs?

Rhys: It does. Actual coffee, not powdered tragedy.

Faris: God is real.

Rhys (reading): “Small flat in a quiet village just outside the festival zone.  Scenic view. Shared garden. Café on the ground floor. Ideal for writers, artists, or anyone needing stillness.”  (pause) ‘Stillness.’ I don’t trust that word.

Faris: You don’t trust anything. That’s why you’re so charming

Rhys (softly): It feels... accepted. Not pretending to be anything fancy. Just enough.

They book it.

Bezrzecze, Richey, Evening.

The oven has won. Again. He stood in front of it for twenty minutes like it was a metaphor for everything wrong with this timeline. He pressed all the buttons. Nothing made sense.

Richey [quietly to no one]: I didn’t survive four mental institutions to lose to digital heat. 

He glares at the sleek, soulless thing in front of him. Hates it on principle. Hates his landlord more, a man who doesn’t believe in honouring the old and tired. 

Richey: The previous oven was my friend. It threatened to kill me once, but at least it had the decency to cooperate with me.

He presses another button. A beep. Then silence. Still no heat. He sighs. Stands there a little longer. Letting the stupid modern appliance reflect back all the reasons he left the rest of the world behind.

He ate something eventually. Not out of hunger, just because he knew he had to. Pasta that tasted like submission. Now he’s back at his desk. Old laptop wheezing. The table looks like it failed several generations of students. And maybe it did.

His fingers hover over the keys, ready to start an article titled: We All Died Quietly, and They Called It Progress.

I can’t wear slogans anymore. Too many people wear causes like T-shirts - changeable, seasonal, sold out next week. I used to scream in headlines. Now I whisper through cracked ink and half-slept dreams.

Still hate capitalism. Still can’t stand how worth is measured in price tags. Billionaires play God while poets can’t pay rent. They call it ‘progress.’ I call it polished cruelty.

I side with the voiceless. The ones bombed, displaced, forgotten — but I don’t trust anyone with a microphone. I trust eyes. Hands. Silence before the truth lands.

I stand with the outcasts — trans kids, misfits, those who feel too much and speak too little. I don’t need to ‘understand’ them to know they deserve space.

Mental health? They paint serotonin on billboards now, but still lock the doors on pain they don’t want to hear. No one listens — just prescribes.

I’m not an activist. I’m a witness. That’s what I’ve always been. But now, I witness softer. Not with blood, but with breath.

Let others shout. I’ll write.

Even if no one reads.

But before he can finish, a noise. Construction. Loud. It cuts through the silence like it has no respect for anyone trying to stay sane. Richey lights a cigarette, steps out onto the balcony. The view is still beautiful. Too beautiful for what it’s becoming. His valley - the place he came to vanish — is now being prepped for a festival.

He watches the workers hammer a temporary stage into the soft earth.

Richey (muttering): They’re building a monument to distraction. I forgot it was happening again. Another round of bass drops, cultural rot, overpriced beer, and boys in ironic sunglasses talking about ‘vibes’ while the world quietly burns behind them.

He exhales slowly.

I came here because it was quiet. Because this village  Bezrzecze promised nothing. ‘Place without things.’ I liked that. It felt honest. But now, even nothing is being colonized.

The cigarette trembles slightly between his fingers.

You try to get better. Try to stay quiet. And still the noise finds you. Still, they hammer the distraction into the dirt while people starve under a government that funds circuses instead of bread. 

His face is still, but his eyes are burning.

One more. One more year. One more festival. Then I’m gone. There has to be somewhere left in the world that doesn’t punish you for feeling too much.

He stubs the cigarette out on the metal railing. Watches the smoke twist into the night like something escaping. Then he turns back inside. Back to the desk. Back to the fight.

Bezrzecze, Early Morning.

The air smells like wet grass and second chances. A strange calm, the kind that makes you nervous, like the sky forgot to finish a sentence.

Richey gets dressed without thinking: Black jeans that fit like memory. Soft grey jumper with a stretched-out collar.  Hair unbrushed, but purposeful. Cigarette is already between his fingers.

He leaves the flat. Walks three streets down. The café is close - one cigarette away, if you’re slow. This morning feels different. The air presses against his skin like it knows him. He breathes it in. Cold. Grass. Smoke. And. Something else. Something warm. Something impossible.

He stops for a second. Right in the middle of the pavement. Eyes half-closed. That thing - That feeling from the bridge. That not-death. It’s not memory. It’s here. Now. Close. Real.

But before he can even begin to make sense of it—

Mr. Krzysiek Wandachowicz is already outside the café. Grinning like someone who’s about to commit a crime involving whipped cream.

Mr. Wandachowicz (shouting): RICHARD, DOBRZE ŻE JESTEŚ! I MADE A NEW FRAPPUCCINO RECIPE. YOU’RE GONNA LEARN IT. IT’S... HOW DO YOU SAY... A VIBE.

Richey closes his eyes for one second longer. Then opens his coat pocket, pulls out a tiny worn notebook. Flips it open. Writes in tiny, slanted letters.

Notebook: That warm quietness again. Not metaphor. Not illusion. Like a ghost with hands.

He tucks the notebook away. Finishes the cigarette. Nods at Mr. Wandachowicz like someone preparing for spiritual war. Walks into the café. 

Bezrzecze, Midweek.

The village is getting louder. Not loud by normal standards - no riots, no neon - just more than two strangers per hour, which is enough to ruin the equilibrium.

Richey is behind the counter, expression unreadable.

Customer (cheerfully): You speak English, yes?

Richey: Only when I feel like being punished.

Another customer. Two of them this time. Guitar cases on their backs. Loud voices. Flecks of eyeliner and enthusiasm.

Musician #1: Hey man, do you do… like… Orange Matcha Lattes?

Richey (internal): I don’t know if I’m misunderstanding their accent or if language itself is failing me.

Musician #2 (helpfully): It’s Matcha. With orange juice. It’s a thing. You probably don’t have it.

Richey just stares. Wipes his hands on a towel that already smells like compromise. Starts pouring a regular matcha.

Richey: You don’t need orange. You need silence.

They don’t hear him. Or they pretend not to. One of them tries to tip him in a currency that no longer exists. He pockets it anyway. Why not. 

He’s on his third shift this week and second existential crisis of the day.

Bezrzecze Train Station If you can call it a station. More like a concrete sign, tucked between two hills. One bench. One sleepy stray dog. And air that smells like wet metal and the edge of rain.

Faris hops off the train like it’s a stage. Bag slung dramatically over one shoulder. Eyes wide, hungry for mystery. He’s dressed like he’s ready to meet his destiny or fight God - either works.

Faris: Well, this is charmingly apocalyptic.

Rhys steps down slower. His boots touch the platform like they’re not sure they want to be here. His skin starts buzzing like static behind the eyes. Then, his chest tightens. Vision tunnels. Everything goes wrong in his own body before he has a word for it.

Hands: shaking. Breath: shallow. Neck: stiff. Face: pale. He blinks too much. Swallows nothing. Stares at the bench like it might swallow him.

Rhys: I… I need a Voice: gone.

Faris turns mid-sentence. Sees it immediately. The tremble in Rhys’s fingers. The clenched jaw. The silence louder than anything else around them.

Faris (soft, no joke this time): Hey. Sit down. 

He guides Rhys to the bench. No pressure. No questions. Just the kind of presence that doesn’t demand anything from you.

Faris (quietly): You’re okay. Just air. Just nerves before our first gig. You’re allowed to feel weird in weird places.

Rhys presses his forehead to his knees. Breathes in. Breathes out. One-two-three. Counts the slow seconds until his pulse stops beating him.

Faris sits next to him without asking. Holding space like a lighthouse, not a lifeguard.

Rhys’s voice is small when it comes out. Threaded with exhaustion. Almost laughing.

Rhys: I spent four hours coping with a panic attack on the plane. One after. And now this. Is my brain even aware that we’re on the same side? Or are we still fighting like strangers trapped in the same body?

Eventually, Rhys' hands steadied. Still shaken, but present again.

They head toward the flat. When they pass the café modest, wooden, smells like tired espresso and something sweet that almost works, Faris slows down.

Faris: Maybe you need some coffee. Maybe sugar’ll help - emotional emergency cake or whatever. Let’s unpack and come back here?

Rhys opens his mouth to answer, but the words never get out. Every nerve in Rhys’s hands goes still. Fingers frozen mid-motion. The way you go numb when something inside you recognizes something before your brain can catch up. Curiosity sparks. That quiet, aching kind. The what is this and why do I feel it here kind. But right behind it, a darker instinct.

Run. Run before you look too closely. Run until you’re safe in your flat in London, pretending this place doesn’t exist. Something in this village is calling to him. But it sounds too much like his own voice.

He blinks. Swallows nothing. And keeps walking.

Rhys (internally): That feels… weird. The way this village attracts me and frightens me in the same breath. I’m not scared to perform. I don’t think so. This isn’t stage fright. It feels more like… like I’m about to meet something I didn’t know existed. Something I’ve been circling around without even knowing it had a name. It’s like opening the fridge, not knowing what you want, but knowing you want something. Only, instead of hunger, it sits in my chest. That strange tickling pressure behind the solar plexus.  Sometimes it’s light. Curious. Sometimes it gets heavier, like grief with no story. I want to say it’s excitement, but excitement doesn’t usually ache. What the hell is this? I lived with it since my childhood. I used to think it’s my delusional overthinking.. 

That evening, Richey finishes his shift without incident. Too many lattes. Too many incomprehensible orders. Too many people asking if he speaks English. He walks home the long way. Lights a cigarette before the door even closes behind him. Later, he sits on the balcony. Not writing. Just there. Smoke curling into the sky. The valley below is no longer his. The noise is peaceful in an irritating way. He doesn't hate it. But he doesn't belong to it, either.

Same night. Somewhere on the other side of the village.

Rhys and Faris walk until the streetlights give up. They discover a valley—wide, soft, breathing. The kind of place that makes you forget time is man-made. Rhys walks slower than usual. Breath easier. Heart softer.

Rhys (half-laughing): This would be an iconic yoga retreat spot. You know. If I wanted to be insufferable on Instagram. 

Faris repeats lyrics under his breath. Occasionally hums something he hasn't written down. Rhys draws a little, lines he’ll forget the meaning of tomorrow. 

Rhys (internally): The way I draw - no one taught me. I’m not even sure it counts as art. Faris says it does. And I think I’m starting to believe him. Maybe I create something, not just… reflect the damage. But the will to make anything comes from pain that’s seated so deep inside, it’s basically my oldest friend. Every time I feel lightness — real happiness — it flickers. And then the dark comes back. Nights where it’s just me, and my thoughts, pacing inside my head like ghosts with keys. Every line I draw with a simple black pen is just one more step on the path back to something I think I forgot while I was growing up. Or maybe something that never had a name to begin with. 

The village is shifting. It’s not chaos yet. But the atmosphere is here. The festival officially starts in a few days - but time’s already changed shape. 

The next morning.

Richey oversleeps. Wakes up with the panic of someone already behind. No dream to blame. No alarm either. Just the kind of night he used to have during recovery when silence got too loud and the brain recycled everything it should’ve thrown away. He throws on clothes without thinking. Black jeans. A long-sleeved shirt, sleeves down - always. He never forgets to hide the scars. The 4REAL one. The fading outlines of tattoos that no longer belong to him.

The street feels colder than usual. He lights a cigarette. Walks fast. By the time he gets to the café, Mr. Wandachowicz is already there. Pouring shots for someone who clearly hasn't slept. Morning for some. Late night for others. Festival time is elastic.

Richey nods. Heads behind the counter. Opens his notebook. Makes a note:

Body: slow. Thoughts: fog. Hands: steady. Sleep a suggestion. People are arriving.

Upstairs.

Rhys wakes up at sunrise. Calm and nervous. At the same time. Which is his usual. He sits up slowly, the blanket a crooked half-hug around his legs. The room is golden, soft morning light spilling across the floor like it belongs there. He stares out the window. The valley looks so still it almost feels staged.

Rhys: I feel so peaceful... and then the second I go into the deep end, I start drowning in it. And anxiety drags me back up like some shitty lifeguard. I can’t even enjoy stillness without overthinking it!

He rubs his eyes. Searches blindly for his lighter on the bedside table. 

Rhys: Where’s my Marlboro Light? Am I the Brian Molko of this forgotten indie stage? Whatever. Where’s Faris? I can’t start my day with full-body anxiety and overfeeling everything without a coffee and a cigarette. In full silence. Preferably with the sky judging me gently.

Faris is already dressed like a poetic vampire. They both refuse to speak before caffeine. That makes them compatible. A perfect band built on mutual silence and filtered darkness.

They go down the stairs and push open the café door.

Rhys steps in, and something pulls in his chest. Tingling limbs. Like recognition without memory. He doesn’t say anything. He never does.

Faris sees it. Doesn’t push.

Faris (soft): Go sit. Draw something. I’ll bring you your coffee, double long. Darker than night. So unfittable for someone with such a warm personality.

Rhys nods, quiet smile. Heads to the table near the window. Sits. Doesn’t draw yet. Just watches.

Rhys: That’s the motherfucking point. There’s something here. Like when I breathe in, the air scratches back, thin glass, pressure behind it. Even the cigarette tastes different here.

This place... it reminds me of a feeling I used to have as a kid. That aching, confusing missing — missing something I’ve never seen. Something that never even happened. And it was unbearable back then. Too heavy for a small person to carry. But here... it’s like this place knows. Knows that shape. Do I sound mad? Probably. Hopefully Faris will have the good sense to commit me if it gets worse. But no — it’s probably just my imagination. Every therapist I’ve had said the same thing: big inner world, tiny grounding wire. That’s why I started meditating. That’s why I do yoga. Which — for the record — is really hard to do when your mind won’t shut up and keeps trying to tell you something every second.

Faris approaches the counter.

Faris: Hey, sorry, uh… do you maybe speak a little English? We just arrived, and we’ve got no time to learn anything that isn't soundcheck. I was hoping to order two of the darkest, moodiest coffees possible. And maybe… an ashtray?

Richey doesn’t look up for a second. Then does. Nods.

Richey (softly): Two long blacks. Ashtray in a moment.

His voice is low. Calm. Polished. Still has a faint echo of a Welsh rhythm but now it’s tangled with seven years of Polish vowels.

Faris blinks, impressed. 

Faris: Thank god someone here understands caffeine and sorrow.

Richey doesn’t respond. He’s already making the coffees. Movements precise. Almost meditative. Until. He forgets the ashtray. Swears under his breath. Grabs it. Heads toward the table.

As he approaches, he notices it fully for the first time: The accents - unmistakably London. But not the loud, drunk kind. Not the faux-intellectuals in vintage band shirts pretending to be The Cure. These two look… real. Polite. Nervous. Creative, maybe. Calm, but not dead inside.

And for a flicker of a second, Richey thinks: Maybe the world’s collapsing slower than usual today.

He sets the ashtray down.

Rhys turns his head to say thank you, but the moment he forgets how to breathe. Like his body betrayed him. Like the signal got lost between lungs and throat. Mouth slightly open. No words. He just stares. Not like a fan. Not like someone impressed. And he hates that he doesn’t understand it. He wants to say something, anything, but all that leaves him is stillness.

Faris, ever the diplomat of their duo, catches the pause. Slides in smoothly.

Faris: Thank you. Really. And hey, if you’re free, we’re performing in a few days. Nothing fancy. Stage for no-names. But I think we’ve got potential.

Richey doesn’t usually respond to things like this. He’s allergic to small talk. To invites. To stages. But before he can stop himself:

Richey (quietly): Alright.

Faris looks pleasantly surprised. Rhys still hasn’t moved. Richey glances at him one more time, just long enough to catch whatever’s shaking behind his calm. Then he turns, walks back to the counter, and wonders what the hell just happened.

One more shift is almost over. Sits down behind the counter like gravity’s gotten louder this week. He exhales. Lights the last cigarette he didn’t swear to quit.

Richey: That was strange. But not awful. Pleasant, even, if you strip it of the human parts. That one, the quiet one. Stared at me like I’d just dropped out some half-finished documentary they only watched at 2am, while pretending not to care. There was no recognition in the obvious sense. No whispering behind a menu. Just… stuck. Would be deeply unpleasant if someone came all the way here just to get a flat white from the guy who disappeared in 2003. 

"Hi, I’m mentally unwell and used to be a symbol. Here’s your change." No thanks.

Last few years I performed mostly as a writer anyway, after Nicky tried to keep the press off me, tried to protect what was left of me after the 4REAL thing turned my skin into headlines. They all knew I never wanted the stage. I wanted the words. That was always the point.

He stubs out the cigarette halfway. Doesn’t watch it die. Just stares past it.

Richey: He was tiny. That’s the other thing. Not in the literal sense. Just… the kind of person who looks like they’re carrying too many thoughts in a frame that wasn’t designed to hold them all. The kind of face that gets overlooked in loud rooms. I know that look. He didn’t look okay. Maybe just tired. Maybe something else.

Meanwhile.

Rhys is getting used to the strangeness. It took a few days, but the tension in his chest has loosened into something like presence. He’s done yoga in the grass. Met a sheep. Felt no spiritual connection. The day before their performance, he decides to be brave. Walks alone. No destination. No playlist. Just air and limbs.

Rhys: If Faris has some spiritual healing mission in my life, then he’s definitely done it well. I met myself. The real me. The one I forgot. The one from childhood. And turns out… we’re not that different. Just louder thoughts now. But I feel more solid. Grounded, maybe. Or at least less liquid.

He watches a beetle cross the path. Doesn’t step on it. Lets it win. 

Rhys:  Still this feeling. What the hell? Three panic attacks in two days. In London, I hadn’t had one in months. People here look peaceful. Gardening. Hanging clothes. Living. What a life, probably. I like nature. In a hotel-way. Can’t imagine sleeping in a tent. In a dark forest. In a wet hoodie. Listening to Faris talk about shadow integration while raccoons plot murder.

He laughs quietly to himself. Then the light shifts. The sun begins to drop. The same way it always does. Too quickly. Too beautifully.

Rhys: That sunset. This sunset. The ones I struggled with when I was a kid. They always reminded me of something I missed. Something I couldn’t name. Not a place. Not a person either. Just… a state of being. And tonight, I feel it again. Like Little Rhys finally caught up with that light he used to cry about for no reason. Cool. Beautiful. Still too fast.

The sun vanishes behind the valley. That ache returns.

Rhys: I don’t like when beauty leaves too quickly. I hate it. It leaves me standing in the cold again. With all the hardest questions. Who am I? Why do I feel everything like it’s too much? I tried not to think today. Tried to reconnect with nature. Nature rejected me. Okay then. Me too.

He walked the same four streets of Bezrzecze seven times like a soft little ghost trying to get lost. Eventually, feet take him back to that café. Like they’ve known the route longer than he has. 

He steps inside. Quiet.

Richey’s behind the counter, wiping something nonexistent off the espresso machine.

Rhys (shy, stumbling): Oh no, no if you’re closing, I can totally survive without more coffee. I was just walking. Got a bit… tired. I’m sorry. I’ll go.

Richey (without flinching): I was just trying to sneak out early. That’s all. You’re welcome to our despair coffee house

Rhys smiles. Like someone just pulled a seat out in a room he thought was empty. He walks to the counter. Breathes easier than he expected to.

[erchommai-a]

alsooo, jon in the context of canon, kind of hates technology. he’d avoid it. almost at all costs.  and probably heavily relies too much on magic / shadowhunter ways of communication. his source of entertainment is mostly books, being outside, sharpening/studying his weapons, wood carving / whittling and training. ( I told y’all he’s boring. ) And probably annoying the heck out of his siblings. So really post-cohf, he’ll survive as a mountain man. Lives in the woods. Never to be found. Except probably by Jocelyn and Clary by that whole blood bond thing. 

[brodependent]

Sam loves Dean as much as Dean loves Sam: a meta

Much as I love reading good meta, I don’t often write meta. Thus please accept my apologies if this is mediocre, and let me start with a simple topic sentence:

Sam loves Dean as much as Dean loves Sam.

A little longer, now: Sam is even better at loving Dean than Dean is at loving Sam because of Dean’s profound and abiding love for Sam.

Confusing, right? But not really.

We all know how Dean lives and breathes SammySammySammywatchoutforSammy. It’s his defining mission, his ultimate purpose, or, as a therapist might say, his “core belief.” But sometimes I think that we allow adult!Dean too little autonomy. We assume that he can’t help himself: he’s locked into this single-minded focus, on loving and protecting the only family he has left.

That sells Dean short. (Hang in there, I promise I’ll get to Sam in a moment.)

Even people who have been forced into a certain way of life have choices. Even people who have been told who they are all their life have choices. Dean tells us, in Season 14, I’m good with who I am--and I, for one, believe him. Whether we follow canon all the way to 15x17, when Dean is finally brought back from the edge of his desire for revenge against Chuck by his love for Sam (the only thing that’s “real”), or whether we keep to season 1 when Dean said--that’s all we have...that’s all I have... and I want us to be a family again and as long as I’m around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you--Dean has always accepted his role as Sam’s big brother. Dean’s life is unabashedly Sam-centric. He’d change a lot of things, but in the end he’d change nothing, because he wouldn’t change that. 

Some fans get very het up about the codependent aspect of this. Others (in my opinion, rightly) defend it. There’s scads of meta on why the Winchester dynamic IS necessary for their mythic role in the narrative, and their human role in the narrative (more importantly), so I won’t write that meta now. All I’m saying is what I think you already know: Dean lives for Sam, his baby brother, and despite the grief, the growing pains, the occasional cruelty of desperate love, Dean said it all when he told Sam (and us), Don’t you ever think that there is anything, past or present that I would put in front of you.

So where does that leave Sam, and his love for Dean? Let’s start with that line I just quoted. Building on the above, Dean’s goal in life is to give Sam a life. He wants Sam to be happy. He wants him to be free. He also wants to keep him by his side forever, to control him for safety and comfort’s sake, and sometimes those instincts of a frightened-child-turned-traumatized-man win out. Dean isn’t perfect. Dean’s full of contradictions. But time and again he goes back to stone number one: what he can do for Sam. What he can offer Sam, by being the grunt, by standing in harm’s way. 

When we begin the story, Sam has succeeded in the path Dean helped carve for him. I’m not taking all the credit from Sam here, and giving it Dean: merely pointing out that Dean stepped into traditional parental roles and helped send Sam into adulthood, even though that meant Sam leaving him. We know that the night Sam left for Stanford was one of the worst of Dean’s life, but even in mid-season 1, Dean tells Sam he’s proud of him. You always know what you want. You stand up to Dad. Hell, sometimes I wish I--

(this, of course, is beautifully echoed in the series finale itself)

Dean is telling Sam what so many parents tell their children: you have gone places I never could, accomplished goals I never could, grown in grace and understanding like I never could. At least, I like to think that’s what the best parents tell their children.

To Dean, Sam is always the one with more hope. More wholeness. More options. To Sam, Dean is stone number one. 

You asked how Sam loves Dean, and my answer is: just look. Look at how Sam goes out into the world young, stands up to their father, makes his own decisions, fights back against Dean’s own nihilistic narrative through their primary losses and setbacks. Dean gave Sam the safety to build a better worldview than Dean himself has, and Sam turns that right back around and tries to give it to Dean. 

What do you think my job is? You’re my big brother--there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. 

I can’t lose you.

You’re not a grunt, Dean, you’re a genius.

This is my life. I love it. But I can’t do it without my brother. I don’t want to do it without my brother.

I am going to save my brother. And then I’m going to kill you dead.

If you ever need to talk about anything with anybody, you got somebody right here next to you.

I believe in us.

This is just a small collection of Sam quotes showing his love for Dean. A small collection showing the persistent theme of Sam’s persistence. He knows that pushing chick-flick moments and emotional conversations can get jokes for a dime a dozen, and even the occasional punch thrown his way. He keeps at it anyway. When Sam knows Dean’s hurting, he wants to help. He’d do anything to help. He won’t sit around and see his brother turn into an embittered killer (season 2), go to hell for saving his life (season 3), take on the Trials (season 8), be irrevocably corrupted by the Mark of Cain (seasons 9-10), let him despair (seasons 11 and 13), let him sacrifice himself to an archangel’s grave (season 14), or let him lose his goodness to the whims of a vicious god (season 15). Sam fights for Dean with full use of his considerable gifts--intelligence, rationality, resourcefulness, and yes, the occasional blind rage. Sam looks to Dean, first as a leader, then as a judge, and finally as an equal. Sam has been looking up to Dean since he was four, yes, but over the course of the show he comes to look at Dean. With love, peace, understanding, humor, pain...whatever their inimitable connection requires.

The quotes I noted above also reveal Sam’s own conflicts rear up. Sam and Dean (again, in my opinion) are equally developed characters. Both have flaws and inconsistencies. Both have struggles inherent to their personalities and upbringings, distinct from those imposed on them by supernatural forces. 

Sam had a glimpse of a different life, once. He had the smarts, he had the drive, he had the sheer stubbornness to live a different life than John or Azazel or hell, even Lucifer had planned for him. But also in Sam--innate in Sam--is his core of goodness and compassion and the principle of doing right, which leads him back into the life and to soul-crushing sacrifice again and again.

Sam breaks and is broken. Sam suffers and ages and spends more time in hell than even Dean, who went to protect him.

But what keeps Sam going? Dean. Dean can’t live without Sam. We know that. The flip side is that Sam doesn’t want to live without Dean. Importantly, I think, he has more choice in the matter. Dean focused his whole childhood identity on giving Sam a life that meant he had choices, even if Dean didn’t know he was doing that. Sam can move through more crowds, more roles, more relationships. He has a better education, he has a more powerful ability to intellectually reason and detach. He would have made a great lawyer. Yet he casts all this aside out of sheer willpower, choosing instead to love Dean and live with Dean through the chaos of their lives, and to go near mad when Dean is gone. Consider Sam in season 4, Sam in season 10...Sam in season 8 trying to atone for the very choice that Dean (the best part of Dean) wanted him to make, even if the real muddle of Dean’s psyche couldn’t forgive him, for a time, for making it.

All of this leads us to the finale. 

You said you wish Sam had said I love you back to Dean in the finale. I argue that he did. He made his love perfectly clear to Dean in that moment by holding his hand, by looking in his eyes. He said, you can go now, when all he wanted was for Dean to stay. 

The best part of Dean wanted Sam to have happiness and freedom. At the end of his life, Dean was finally able to communicate that without fear or reservation. 

But the bittersweet brilliance of that moment is that Sam--the Stanford boy who went to hell and back, who saved the world, brought down one god and raised another--no longer wanted any kind of happiness or freedom that didn’t include the one person who’d been by his side all along. Dean was giving his blessing for a path that didn’t beckon Sam anymore. And yet: Sam said yes to it out of the love for Dean. Sam went out of that barn, out of the bunker, out of that day and that year and that decade and into the next and the next, out of love for Dean. Sam loved Dean by living. He loved Dean by raising another Winchester. He loved Dean by holding all their contradictions, flaws, and heroisms in his heart (in their car), until he’d done what he set out to do many times over. 

Then he met Dean on a mended bridge, dressed in old clothes that said: I was happiest at the beginning. I was happiest when we could be brothers again. I took my time getting here anyway, because I know that was what you wanted. I took my time so that we could be happiest now.

If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

[carmeloffie]

From the point of view of the present there is such a recklessness in this deliverance of the future that it appears to be nihilistic. The words of Krsna, the world savior, to the wives of the dead Kans carry a frightening overtone; so do the words of Jesus: "I came not to send peace, but a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. And a man's foes shall be they of his own household. He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me: and he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me." To protect the unprepared, mythology veils such ultimate revelations under half-obscuring guises, while yet insisting on the gradually instructive form. The savior figure who eliminates the tyrant father and then himself assumes the crown is (like Oedipus) stepping into his sire's stead. To soften the harsh patricide, the legend represents the father as some cruel uncle or usurping Nimrod. Nevertheless, the half-hidden fact remains. Once it is glimpsed, the entire spectacle buckles: the son slays the father, but the son and the father are one. The enigmatical figures dissolve back into the primal chaos. This is the wisdom of the end (and re-beginning) of the world.

[officialgomezaddams]

Morality

I honestly dk what this is but its set in AOTC kinda want to turn this into a little series $wag also shout out to my fellow nihilists this is for you bb

Palpatine had always kept watchful over her but never loomed. It would have been too obvious. When he met Anakin, it was like a breath of fresh air, a realization that this little boy was destined to restore the balance in the force and his daughter, Y/n, would be the one to defeat him. He had begun the idea of his daughter once he joined the Darkside, already knowing that the possibility to be overthrown was something he couldn’t let happen. The dark energy, the power, was simply too much to let go of. The moment he saw the nine-year-old boy, the lord was happy to know that the power would stay on the dark side. 

Dooku trained Y/n as a padawan, and when he left the order, he took Y/n with him, kidnapping her into the night. When she asked why they were leaving the temple as he dragged her into a ship, he simply replied, “Sometimes when politicians can’t do their job, we must do something ourselves.” Over the years together, he would open up more, telling Y/n about the death of Qui-Gon and every step that drove him to leave. 

“The Jedi rely on selflessness. To strip one’s ability to have connection and emotion. They lose themselves in conformity. We need to take control of the life we’re given. Emotion, passion, drive. Those are how we will be victorious. Corrupt politicians pull the Jedi around like kites on strings. You can not try and save a house that its lousy foundation has torn down. Tear it down and build a new one.” 

It was her job to ensure just that, a new foundation set within the heart of the Darkside. Relentless training to mentally and physically defeat the chosen one. Palpatine would often tell her that her destiny was a part of the Sith Two, that the strongest one of the two would survive, and it was to be her. Darth Sidious found comfort that his creation would take over the Darkside once she had killed him and the Count. The most decisive Jedi ruling on the side of the night. 

She didn’t quite understand it, but to stay on the Darkside made the most sense to her. It wasn’t about power. It was the lifestyle. Why be selfless if there was no personal gain? Why spend a life living for something else? Shouldn’t one live their life for themselves? Everyone, she determined, had to want something. As long as she did what she wanted, it was enough. It had to be. Because without drive and her idea of what was truly right and wrong, how would she get anything done? 

She rationed that it all didn’t matter. She would never know who was right because, in her mind, the concept of being right varied too much. The Jedi thought they were right, the sith thought they were right, the politicians who voted against their people’s needs thought they were right. She had to suffer through Palpatine’s long lectures about how awful the senate was and now terrible the Jedi Order is. But who was to say he was right? That was only his opinion. Who was to say the Jedi were right because a frog that was almost nine hundred years old said so? 

“I’m just…” Anakin went on, pulling a piece of grass out of the ground. “I mean, I don’t know. Padmè is beautiful and wonderful. She’s everything that could make someone perfect: marriage, it’s so permanent. I know I’m supposed to be excited, which I am, of course. But what if we were not supposed to be together.” 

His speech made her frown. “Sometimes, it’s better just to dive in and see where you land.” She offered. The dreams with Anakin were a peaceful escape to a Jedi’s life. Neither knew why their dreams brought them together or what they even meant. Neither of them bothered, living the same training life on opposite sides. A sweet dream was the perfect reward. “And who are you going to be with then, me?” She teased back. 

The setting of the dreams was in the meadows of Naboo. The pastel-colored flowers stood dim in the moonlight from the starry night above. Anakin laid with his head in her lap as they talked about their personal lives, never going in too deep about what their destinies were. Anakin no longer had the pressure of being the chosen one, and Y/n never had to admit she would kill the chosen one. 

“I wish,” Anakin admitted, now looking up at her. “I want so bad to meet you Y/n, not just in my dreams but in real life. If I could have you by my side, all of this would be less confusing. I’ve fallen in love with you, a woman in my dreams. Why can’t you be in my reality?”

“Don’t say that,” She whispered. Whenever Anakin talked about his little girl-thing, Y/n wasn’t even one hundred percent sure what their relationship was, and she always felt a slight nic in her heart. Y/n knew that she was in love with Anakin, but to hear about another woman making him the happiest he’s been in the majority of the years that she knew him, that it wasn’t her, the one sneaking in kisses with him in the shadows. It brought out an ugly feeling of jealousy and possessiveness to Y/n that she didn’t know she had. 

“I promise, one day, I’ll be with you in all the ways you want.” She spoke with a smile. She would often daydream about what life would be like to meet him real-time. They would run up to each other and crush each other in a hug. She imagined it all.

“Tell me about it,” Anakin edged on, closing his eyes as if it was going to play out in his head.

“Well, I want to go somewhere like D’Qar, somewhere quiet where I won’t have to worry about neighbors or anyone I don’t want finding me. Or us, because you’re coming with me no matter what your soon-to-be wife says,” You teased, making him laugh. “Maybe- Sometimes in my dreams, there’s no Padmè, it’s just us, and every so often there are kids, but it’s just us. Tucked away where we can be together, and nothing can bother us or stop us from being together.”

The silence that sat in between them began to scare Y/n, “Is that a future you would want with me?”

His eyes met hers, a peaceful moment in the chaos of their lives. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair that fell in front of her face, behind her ear. “If I were able to, I would.”

“And why can’t you? Why can’t you have the things you want, Anakin? Is it wrong to be happy?” 

Waking up from the dreams was always the most challenging part, the reality of it not being a reality. Y/n woke up already in a bad mood, mentally kicking herself for pushing too far in. Of course, he wouldn’t want to. He’s getting married to someone else. You’re too late. It had always been Y/n’s plan to end up with Anakin in some way or another. From the first dream to now, she decided to leave the Sith once she had killed the chosen one. Somedays, she would pace around, impatiently waiting for whoever held the title to cross her path so she could just finish the job and take the next ship to wherever Anakin was. 

She tore the necklace he had given her off her neck, clutching the carven japor snippet in her hand with a grip so hard she could have cracked it if it wasn’t made out of stone. She was squeezing her eyes shut, trying not to cry. Anakin had given Y/n the good luck charm when they were at the age of thirteen. Y/n was upset that once everything was over that he may not want to be with her, the reputation of her choices would drive him away. 

“Well, you can’t be that bad,” He commented, pulling out the carved stone from his pocket and shyly handing it to her. “I made this for you,” Anakin explained as she put it around her neck, “So that when good things happen, you can think of me. It’ll be my way of keeping you safe, and in return, one day, you will come to me safely.”

She opened her eyes and stared at the carvings, remembering how Anakin said he made it just for her, so she better not lose it. Y/n wanted to break it, throw it away, and never see Anakin again. She wanted more than just the dreams. She wanted the sunsets and the early morning and the rainy days - all of it. Maybe they were wrong, they weren’t supposed to meet, and it was just a nice dream. 

She couldn’t do that. She at least owes him a simple greeting, and then she can get rid of him. Putting the necklace back on and wiping her face to make sure she wasn’t crying, Y/n walked out of the room, ready for whatever the sith wanted her to do. 

“Just be patient,” Her master told her as they waited outside the still open ship. Geonosis was overrun with battle, the sith fighting tooth and bone to claim the planet as its capital, the major droid foundries, and its Mandalorians. Nothing could be more perfect for the sith. The two force signatures caught Y/n’s attention. Looking up at Dooku, she told him, “Well, let’s make it quick then.” 

“The chosen one will be here,” he whispered back. “I’ll leave that one to you.”

“You’re gonna pay for all the Jedi you killed, Dooku,” A familiar voice said as you both turned around in unison. “Y/N?” A pit dropped in her stomach. It was him, Anakin. Anakin’s blue saber was pointed at the ground, more focused on her than the older man. 

The necklace he gave her burned her through her robes. Anakin was finally there in front of her. This Anakin was different from her dreams. He stood with more pride and confidence. He was also the chosen one. “I-I didn’t expect to meet you like this,” She told him, knowing full well once on the ship, she would be interrogated about her knowledge of the boy. 

“Why are you with him?” The venom in his voice almost made her feel guilty about being who she was. “Are you-? Don’t tell me Y/n-” He couldn’t find the words to express his confusion and disappointment, “You’re a Sith. How can you be with them? You lied to me! Can’t you see what they’re doing to you? Can’t you see what they’ve done!”

“The Jedi know no facts,” She spoke, looking over at the Count, waiting for his head nod and sign of approval to ignite her orange saber. The whole weapon was made for destruction, a perfect saber to kill the chosen one. Its orange glow was representing strength. The curved hilt that matched hers of her masters was perfect for duels and close fights. “Only assumptions.”

It hurt her to have him looking at her in disgust. As if she was suddenly less than him because of her beliefs. “Anakin, you need to calm down,” She warned him as he charged towards her, only for Dooku to step in front of her, raising his hand to send bolds of electricity into the boy’s body and fling him into a rock wall. “Don’t keep me waiting,” Her master spoke before walking up the platform of the ship. 

Y/n only had seconds to understand that not only her master had abandoned her, Anakin was also lying limp in a pile of rocks, and the other Jedi was making his way towards her. She pointed her saber straight ahead at him, taking careful steps around him, trying to think about how this all would end. Was this it? When is supposed to kill the chosen one who happened to be the boy Y/n had fallen in love with over the past ten years? She knew that once she killed Anakin, she would have to kill the two sith above her, starting the two over with her as a master. 

“I heard the little green guy talks highly of you, Kenobi. What a pity it will be when I kill his two strongest men.”

Obi-wan shook his head, “You’re not Dooku’s apprentice. You’re just an assassin to him. Y/n why would he elect a child to be his successor?” He spoke as if he could read her mind, his blue eyes pleading with her. 

“You don’t know anything!” Y/n yelled, making the first strike. His saber skills were advanced, but quickly she was able to disarm him and left two marks on him, one on his arm and one on his thigh. She walked up to him, the two staring at each other. Was she about to kill this man? She had never killed a human before. Taking down droids and other creatures were casual to her. Humans? This man was edging her on with his eyes, both understanding that she wasn’t able to drive her saber into his neck. She couldn’t just kill a man who had done nothing to her. That would be wrong, right? But if it was so bad, why was she encouraged to do it? 

Before she could thoroughly choose, Anakin came at full force again. This time his master had tossed him his saber, making the fight two against one. “Why won’t you join our site, the right side?” Anakin asked, swiftly dodging her but failing to make any advancements to disarming her. 

“I don’t believe in any right sides.” She told him, knocking the green lightsaber out of his hand, evening out the fight. “I believe in one thing. Power of human will.” 

She walked into the ship quietly, ignoring the little green Jedi behind her. She didn’t care about the older man, Yoda or Count Dooku. She walked past the sith and made her way right to the pilot’s seat before sitting down. 

Dooku followed her, giving her space as she sat down. Crossing his arms like a disappointed parent, he asked, “Well?”

“I cut his arm off,” Y/n spoke, taking out the necklace and looking at the charm in her hand. She left right after, watching him lay unconscious against his master, missing apart of his right arm. She had hurt him, and for a moment, when she was looking at the injured pair, the padawan’s master had the same look on his face as before. An eyebrow raised as if to say, Do it, kill us. I doubt you’ll do it. 

“I’m disappointed in you.” He said. Y/n could have done it. She would have just pictured them as droids and slice the two in half. It would have been quick and painless. She could have plaid her life out, kill the chosen one, rule the sith, and live her life. Why didn’t you? She kept thinking as she admired the gift. 

Looking at the charm, the future she talked about seemed too far away, especially now. The end with the boy she loved, Anakin, who also was the boy she was supposed to kill. But for right now, she thought to herself. She wouldn’t kill him, at least not yet, until she knew for sure that her fantasies with Anakin were just wild dreams. It was her own life. Why couldn’t she have the things she wanted? 

[seriouslyblacklikemysoul]

Until Forever - Sirius Black

Hey you beautiful people! Last chapter of Part I. 

MASTERLIST I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X |XI | XII | XIII

Chapter 14. 1978.

           Darkness was infinite and pain would linger on forever. There was no hope; hope was the biggest illusion human kind had manufactured in order to keep going when there was absolutely no fucking point. A black void was everything that ever was; nothing more that the absolute nothing. She felt weightless, as if the waves of the raging black sea could tear her to pieces, throw her to the rocks. Then, she felt as heavy as the universe – drowning in the mere thought of water. Her body felt tired, her mind was restless; not in a good way. She though that life went on but to her, that was the saddest part of it all.            It could end two ways, both equally tragic. Either she would die amongst the rest or she would live. She didn’t know what worse. Truly, never having the chance to see her family again or staying behind? Her entire body got goosebumps and her hands were trembling. She had tried to drink her problems away, just for a few hours, but it only made her sadder, lonelier.                Until she left. She wasn’t celebrating – she couldn’t celebrate the new year. Each passing second, fate was approaching them, faster than she had ever realized. Usually, it was the past that made people sad; well, she was the exception to that as well. She really wanted to go home, for this to be over, to give up Hogwarts and magic and the people. She just wanted her home back, her life, her choices – the ability to choose.                          She was making a run for it. After half an hour of pretending, she said her goodnight, only to few people – well, to the Potters. She couldn’t deal with questions and avoided them like bullets. Once the doors closed behind her, all the silence of the world crushed upon her; and it was louder than the loudest sound. It was suffocatingly loud. Refusing to go back inside, she climbed to her room, kicking her heels off, before even closing the door. A soft tune was stuck in her mind and the Greek poem that accompanied it – the moonlight sonata.              

Let me come with you.

This house can’t bear me anymore.

I cannot endure to bear it on my back.

You must always be careful, be careful,

to hold up the wall with the large buffet

to hold up the table with the chairs

to hold up the chairs with your hands

to place your shoulder under the hanging beam.

And the piano, like a closed black coffin. You do not dare to open it.

You have to be so careful, so careful, lest they fall, lest you fall. I cannot bear it.

Let me come with you.

This house, despite all its dead, has no intention of dying.

It insists on living with its dead

on living off its dead

on living off of the certainty of its death

and on still keeping house for its dead, the rotting beds and shelves.

Let me come with you.

Oh, are you going? Goodnight. No, I won’t come. Goodnight.

I’ll be going myself in a little. Thank you.

              She softly spoke the words to the still air as she was looking outside of her window, a wave of nostalgia crushing to her like a tsunami. She was deep into her thoughts, into her world of roses, poems, stardust and a serene chaos. She felt at peace in the midst of a hurricane, within dramatic lines, written by poets with elegant noses and strong beliefs. The music kept repeating memories, stirring them up as it went on. She didn’t want a happy ending, she sadly realized; she wanted tragedy, passion and catastrophe; she wanted everything and nothing. She wanted absolution. Just like every heroine in the ancient tragedies; it was in her nature.                      He didn’t dare to speak, to make a sound; he held his breath in fear of waking up from the tender dream he was having; a vision right before his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea, but he felt pulled towards her as if he had no other place to be; as if he was meant to be in her room. She knew that someone was watching her, and she already guessed who but took her time to face with him, with an all-knowing smile.               He was caught of guard, trying to retain his posture and temper or he would just turn around and run away for good. Feeling rather ashamed that he got caught, not that he was invading her privacy, he looked at the floor, blushing ever so slightly. She really didn’t mind. How could she?                    “Do you like it?” she airily asked him, as she remained by the window. He gulped. He knew she was talking about the poem he heard her recite but he couldn’t shake her image, entering the ballroom. Yes, he loved it.                        “I didn’t know that one” he admitted quite subtly. She wasn’t surprised; it was by a Greek poet and it was an intense portrayal of the subject of loneliness and alienation of the uncommitted individual. The lady in the poem represented that part of the old world, which the poet thought it was condemned to perish with its aristocratic past because of its aversion to adapt and participate in the process of change. She thought that if anyone understood that feeling, was him.              “I know” she melodiously informed him. She was enticing and it was hard for him to stay away. Not that he wanted to, in any case. No, he didn’t know which magical poem had stolen her heart but he did know that she was standing under the moonlight, her essence becoming ethereal. How evident it became? She didn’t believe in happiness and that scared him; he could feel for her but even he believed that there has to be a better way, it has to get better. She seemed to contradict him by simply suggesting that there was no point in … well, anything.              Such a hopeless wanderer’s soul, she had. She was made from a different material, a nihilist and an idealist, a desperate romantic and a catastrophic pragmatist. How wonderfully vague her outlines were. Maybe it was because she was wearing a gold waterfall for a dress, but he knew better – he just couldn’t stop gawking.; to be fair he was an 18-year-old boy.            “Why did you leave so soon?” he asked her without hesitation, as if al the barriers had collapsed under the moonlight. She solely focused on his eyes and he could not avert his gaze.                   “Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques - I believe it is” she quoted Verlaine and that, he did know. Sad beneath fantastic disguises. Why would she ever feel that way? He was only fooling himself. He was lying, pretending not to feel the way he did, pretending that there was nothing between them, pretending he was happy torturing Marlene, pretending everything was fine and the way they were supposed to be.         “Votre âme est un paysage choisi” he quoted back, letting her know that his French was so much better than hers and that he paid attention to the details. He truly did. It was almost inappropriate for her to like him or even to think about how his eyes shined liked spilled mercury under the moonlight. However, the biggest problem was that it was unrequited.                             He took one step towards her direction, fully aware of the fragile moment they shared. She saw the shift in his eyes and her entire mind was screaming to her to shut up. Everyone else was probably celebrating in the midst of an upcoming war but she was fighting another one all on her own. Keeping secrets from the people whom their fates were sealed and she could not do a thing was becoming heavier by the second and that broke her.        

           “What – what is really happening here, love?” he questioned her with a slight anger lingering on in his voice – anger that he didn’t know he was experiencing. She was surprised by the very thought of him being angry. He wasn’t angry at her per se, he was really shaken off about not being in the known, having blanks that he had to fill by himself when it should have been her answers instead of his imagination.              She wanted to tell him everything and then her mind went to the time he spent in prison for no reason at all, and she swallowed hard. How would she ever be able to come clean about that. Remus was a bit easier – yes, he was still very hurt and shocked and everything in the middle but Sirius… it was always different with him. It was always different when it came to him – she was …                  “I want to tell you but it’s too much. Please don’t ask me to be honest with you. Not on that level. Anything else, I will answer. Not that” she finally told him. At least, she was acknowledging all the hypocrisy and all the lying, he thought. He wasn’t looking for that answer though, he wanted the real reason behind her entire existence in his life, and so he closed the gap between them. His tall frame was towering over her, her back was pressed to the wall next to the window and his eyes were piercing her face for clues.                    “No. You don’t get to do that. I have been nothing but honest with you about everything. You don’t get to hide now” he pushed further, making her arch her eyebrow. As he realized that he had overstepped the boundaries, he tried to take a step back but her finger was already poking his chest through his unbuttoned shirt and undone tie.                  “You? Honest? Really? Is that what you tell yourself before you go to sleep? That you are honest with me? Or that you’re honest with yourself? Because neither -                        “Fine, what do you want me to say?” he cut her off, revealing his hot temper with a flush that appeared in his face – something she had never seen before and she had to remind herself that this Sirius was not the one from the books. He wasn’t a character anymore; he was a real person – breathing down on her.                            She closed her eyes, not wanting to create any more tension that what had already been created but he was not having it. He wanted answers, now more than ever, even if he knew that he, himself, had been lying all that time – this was not the same. He was lying about his feelings; she was lying about everything.                        “Who are you? Who could you possibly be to come here through the fucking sky? To come here and turn everything upside down. To make me question things that I thought I had figured out long ago. To make me jealous of my own best friend and to make me want to destroy every sound thing. Who are you?” he bombarded her with accusations that he wanted figured out now. And all it took was one hot second before she screamed the answers back to him, each hitting like a bullet to his heart, each being louder and louder only to finish off with a dead silence.                        “You think you are the one suffering? I have been trapped here for too long, I miss my home, my family, my life. I want out. I am done playing a stupid part in this scenario. I know everything. I know how are you going to end up, when, where, who dies, who lives, who fucking betrays – because I came from the sky. The fucking sky. I don’t know how or even who I am anymore. I thought you were a book character and every single thing was only real in my imagination and the pages of seven books. But no. I fucking live in the damn past – not mine. NO. A past from a different possibility. Twenty years before my birth date. And of course, out of every mistake I could possibly make, every choice gone mad, I had to - ”.

           Usually, there were two basic motivating forces: fear and love. When people were afraid, they tend to pull back from life, when in love, the open up to all that life has to offer with passion, excitement and acceptance. And while fear was easier, almost natural to them, they knew that they had to step outside their comfort zone.                  Not finishing off her sentence, leaving it there hanging in the middle of the thick air between them, was her way of giving him space to decide and her a breather. Her mind was yelling at her to stop and think about all those things that actually mattered but not every act was a result of sensibility. Her accusing finger was still on his chest; as a matter of fact, her entire palm was being pressed against his skin – not his shirt anymore. The information was not new to him; he knew, deep down he did.              Each night before he would fall asleep, he was trying to decode and figure her out, even just a bit. He was repeating the things she had said during the day, realizing just how much of an insight she had and wondering if it was just that or… It started of small, a few words of more than wisdom were spoken, a few things were said that she could not possibly know about… and the ever-present aura of secrecy. Her tattoos were one thing, her words were another. It wasn’t news to him and she noticed that. Her anger calmed down to a side smile.                “But you already knew” she concluded and her touch became gentler against his chest. Gentle as a fire. He looked at her with a desperate look, as if he wanted to do so much, to say so much but couldn’t. Sirius was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a cheater.             Instead of pushing her against the wall and kissing her like he had already pictured in his head about a million times, he stepped back and he sat on the bed, eyes always glued to her.              “I think I did” he agreed, more to his own mind than to her words. She took a deep breath and used the chair in front of the boudoir, to the left of the big window, facing him while at the same time keeping her distance.                          “I still don’t think I can tell you everything, Sirius” she softly apologized but he shook his head.                    “It’s okay. It’s okay if I am the one dying, love, or the one going mad. You will tell when or if you’re ready. I’m sorry for… this” he said, indicating the space between them but she brushed it off. How much longer would she able to keep it hidden from James and Peter, she didn’t know.                  “Sirius… it’s not that simple. I know what I know from the books. So, basically, from I come from, the dimension and the time period, you, the boys, Hogwarts… magic, everything is fiction and contained within seven books that are not even about you. While these books go on, you are older and have gone through a lot. I know that part. I don’t know if it will happen the way it was supposed to, since I am here and I wasn’t supposed to, I think, but I also can’t change much in this plot. Or even if I can, I don’t know if I should. Messing with time and history is not something I am looking forward to do. Although, if I could change some things, I would without blinking” she admitted, staying as close to the truth as she could, without revealing too much. How could she face him and tell him what was about to happen to him in a few years? He wouldn’t even get to turn her age before Azkaban… and that hit her differently.                        “I know that there is something dark in the things you are not saying. And I know that I am neither the one who dies nor the one who lives from the way your eyes never met mine when I said it. Maybe the one who goes crazy but not exactly. That’s okay. It would happen either you were here or not. It’s better that you are. I don’t know if it is for you… I cannot imagine the weight of all those things. I am sorry” he told her sincerely. They shared so many things; intuition, depth, passion. And a five-year gap.            “So you see, celebrating didn’t feel appropriate” she concluded airily. But he looked at her in a perplexed expression.                  “On the contrary. We should. Now more than ever. Because after all, we only have this moment, isn’t that so?” he proposed and she was astonished because he was right. He didn’t want to talk about it more, knowing that something bad happened to all of them, and that she didn’t want to say what. He understood her – it was cruel, such disastrous things being delivered by her. She held answers to questions they hadn’t even thought about yet. He could never blame her for not coming forward. Even though he wanted to be her confidant, the one she would spill her heart out he knew that she wouldn’t. Some things were better left unsaid… but…not forever.                      “You should go back to your friends” she suggested, as she felt worn out, wanting nothing more than to get out of the dress and makeup.                                  “I thought we were friends” he chuckled darkly, earing a fixed glance from her piercing eyes.            “Oh Sirius. You and I…we could never be friends” she admitted and there was not a single shy cell in her body. Her entire mind had shut up and every word coming out of her mouth was a sharp slap across his face, hitting him with the truest statement she could have said. He licked his lips and tamed his tongue not to respond the only way he truly wanted to as he got up and buttoned up again, to rejoin the party.                      “Remus knows?” he asked but it came out as a bold statement. He was jealous he wasn’t the first one to know this, or how her lips felt against his. He shook the image out of his head and focused his eyes one her. She was radiant but she wasn’t fooling anyone – she might have worn a gold dress but she was the moon, dark, secret and almost untouchable. Almost.                    “He does” she confirmed, realizing just how jealous he could get. She didn’t like possessiveness, mainly because she was the one being possessive in her previous relationships, but with Sirius…she could, perhaps, turn a blind eye. He was unexpected in every way, to her. He was biting his lip, deep in thought. It was tragically doomed and yet he found beauty among the disaster. It was fragile and soft, so tender but raw, catastrophe pouring down at everything. It was problematic – making homes out of people. But he had never felt more at home than with people; his best mates, his school, her.  His house never felt like a home and yet he was surrounded by it. And now, a strange feeling washed over his heart. What was he doing, letting her go?                He waned to kiss her, without a warning, with permission, without even deciding to do so but simply because he couldn’t think of anything else. He needed that breath she was holding. It belonged to him and he wanted it back. But there was that small voice, so ever faint, that told him it was not the time nor the place to do so. He had to physically stop from heading towards her rather than the door. And he didn’t know why he stopped.             “Love, I…” he started but she gave him a sharp look.                        “Don’t” she whispered and he left with a heartbreaking look on his delicate features.       

           She found an excuse not to return to the party. She would find an excuse to return to Hogwarts as soon as possible, otherwise her entire being would implode and no one would even notice. She would just collapse under the pressure of knowledge and no one would even understand how hard her life had suddenly become. She was the girl who wanted to know everything, who went looking for knowledge every place she visited and she had become the girl who wished she didn’t know the future, who was oblivious and blissful, who stayed silent and didn’t challenge the world.                It was too early. Too late maybe. No one was partying, no one was in the living room, no one was making any sound. She tiptoed around a bit. The fireplace was livid, calming and consuming at the same time as if it was calling to her. Everything will end up in flames. Not ice, but hellfire. It was the saddest thing she could have thought of. Protecting a breakable heart. What if she got the chance to leave?              “Would I?” she whispered to herself. No. And that feeling of knowing that she wouldn’t be able to leave even if she did find a way, that she wouldn’t go back to her own family and her own life, that very feeling made her realize that this was indeed her home, that the people in this reality were her family and that this was her now. And she had to fight for her home and her family. She had to at least try.              “We missed you at the party” a soft voice caught her off guard. She took a deep breath. This was it. This hide and seek had to end. Once she turned around, he saw how serious she was and immediately understood that something was off. His eyes were tired but alert, his whole body language was signaling that he was able to grasp the severity of whatever she had to say to him.                        “There is something I need to tell you but you’ll need to sit down, James”.

__ Taglist: @must-be-a-weasley-92​ @megalificent​ @fific7​ @maraudersangel​ @tb-ctn 

[i-only-roll-crits]

Say your prayers and pass the ammo, I’m about to rave like a lunatic about an underrated character - that’s right fuckers, this is officially an

Ob Nixilis appreciation post

*confetti guns*

1. The plane he originates from is like a cross between Game of Thrones and The Witcher - which is to say, medieval fantasy with plenty of casual magic. It’s also apparently perpetually at war, and he waxes poetic about it.

To call the noise of battle a roar is to do it an injustice. It is a slight to the majesty of the sound. It is a symphony.

2. He’s a magic-user himself! Curses seem to be the staple; the withering/anti-life magic he exhibits is likely either native to him or the product of study, i.e. before he was a demon (fire-based magic seems to be newer and infernally attributed).

I muttered seven words under my breath. Raximar shook his head as both our ears popped.

"What? I didn't hear that."

I snapped my fingers, and one of Raximar's guards shuddered. The guard took lurching, uneven steps over to me, drew his greatsword, and handed it to me. I snapped my fingers again, and the other six guards in the room all slumped, lifeless, to the floor. The wave of expended magic tasted like hot tar in the back of my throat.

3. Dude is hell on wheels in the intelligence department. Definitely strategically, but otherwise too. He studies... like a nerd. Knowledgeable in the history of his own plane, second only to Nahiri (and maybe Ugin?) in his understanding of hedrons, and lord knows what else.

3a. Not a fan of chaos (duh, he’s a war commander/control freak) - for those of you who assumed he’d be a red mana secondary, I’ve got a hot take for you, and you may be able to guess already: Dimir

The idea that there were countless planes out there that had lost their godlike protectors and champions! Imagine the chaos that the Mending had wrought on the Multiverse! Chaos like that needs to be quelled. Chaos like that needs to be brought to heel, and I am the perfect person for the task.

4. He’s got an apocalyptic nihilist streak a mile wide, which probably surprises no one, resulting in a zero-fucks-given, face-god-and-walk-backwards-into-hell kind of attitude, and even sense of humor. What, you thought he was all serious and brooding? You fool, you absolute buffoon.

5. Lives for battle; will fuck you up with a combination of strategy, smarts, and ferocity. Has a realistic, pragmatic, matter-of-fact attitude toward conflict. Will figure out your tricks and find a way around them, to lethal effect.

In conclusion, quotes:

One of the most important lessons a conqueror needs to learn is that when others believe themselves to be smarter than you, you just let them keep on believing that. Right up until they stop believing anything at all.

Conquering your first world is the hardest, after all. My power grew as I moved from world to world, taking anything that would make the next taking easier. 

Maybe I'd get extraordinarily lucky, and stumble upon another power source, but only fools plan on luck, and I didn't intend to start now. 

There're only so many goblins you can crush before the act loses its charm. Well, most of its charm. They do make a very funny noise.

There's no honor or dignity in a futile charge against a superior foe, despite what I may have told a general or two whom I needed to do the tactically expedient thing. 

A pyrrhic victory is merely the most palatable kind of defeat. 

When you're counting down to the end of the world, you can cut corners sometimes. 

When the Eldrazi rose, the angels fought. Adorable, really. Not awful tacticians, if I'm being fair, but they labored under the misconception that it was a battle that they could win. The angels fought, and mostly, they died. 

Only a fool plans on luck, but it is a greater fool who fails to take advantage of it.

“Don't take your defeat personally... I tend to bring out the weakest in people."

Sural specialists tended to be extremely skilled, or entertainingly short-lived. 

“Disappointing. Back in my day, if you'll pardon the expression, there was a certain civility to all this. But I guess Planeswalkers aren't what they used to be. For one, they die a lot easier.”

There are moments like this in battle, where time stands still. Where the joy of combat overwhelms the senses and the passage of time. 

(p.s. speaking of dialogue, his voice actor in Voice of All’s productions has me short-circuiting; it’s perfection)

The absurdity of it all washed over me like a wave. A lifetime of scrambling for power and control, when all the while I had been dancing on another's stage. All my ambition, all my desire, all my study and toil and pain. All of it for nothing. It was the end of the world. It was what I had always wanted. It was a trap set for me, thousands of years before my birth.

Sources and more can all be found here.

[surrogate-gaia]

Looking back: Part 2 - Death Guard - Infantry

8th edition needed a big baddie for the new Primaris Marines to combat, and Mortarion was very eager to oblige in this front. The Death Guard are by far my favourite Heretic Astartes faction just by aesthetic alone. Nurgle is my #1 Chaos God. I like his focus on pestilence and decay and the fact he is technically a rather benign god. 

I love the Death Guard because of their doctrines and their design. They make use of chemical warfare and just slowly advance like a poisonous cloud towards their foes.

So it was very exciting to see a full army being made out of them.

This army is very difficult to rate and review, because unlike the Space Marine line, every little model in their range is unique in some way. Every little miniature you get for this army has different weapons, helmets, and different armour patterns. This means that one unit will both have ace looking models and models that look like hot filthy garbage (in a bad way).

Let’s begin...

Plague Marines:

The main boys of the Death Guard army are definitely the much-loved Plague Marines. These are your mainline infantry boys and make up the majority of the Death Guard Army. They are a result of what happens when a Chaos Space Marine starts worshiping Nurgle a little too much. They begin transforming into these bloated and disease ridden humps of rotten flesh and rusted armour. The Plague Marines themselves love this. They feel no pain and see every little malady as another gift from their god. 

The first Plague Marines came into existence during the Horus Heresy. When the Death Guard attempted to join the Siege of Terra, their fleet got lost in the Warp and the legion became infected with Nurgle’s Rot and the Destroyer Plague. Their Primarch Mortarion, in an attempt to save his legion from the torture and suffering, sold his soul and his legion to Nurgle. 

Plague Marines slowly advance on their enemies, bolters firing without mercy. Some carry rusted weapons that are infused with Nurgle’s Rot. One small cut and your infected.  When injured, they won’t even flinch, since they absolutely feel no pain whatsoever.  

Plague Marines are a truly decisive bunch of miniatures. You have four different kits to choose from (three, since Dark Imperium has been discontinued) and each of them has some very good models and some very bad ones. 

I do think that they are very busy and in some parts overdesigned. Some models have like three different Plaguebearers fused to their armour for example. I do like their armour though and the ones wearing the Mark 2 helmet are by far the best looking of the bunch. 

I would say that the best box out of the four would be the basic Multi-kit, since they are the most consistent in quality. However, all of my favourites strangely come from the discontinued Dark Imperium Box Set. 

7/10

Poxwalkers:

The Walking Pox is a very infectious disease that is just awful to have. Your organs start failing one by one and you eventually turn into a zombie, fully conscious of your actions yet without any control over your body.

Poxwalkers shamble like undead in search of flesh to consume. They have these long horns sprouting out of their heads and all of them constantly smile like they’ve been injected with Joker laughing gas. The worst part about them is that their groans and roars can infect those who hear it with the Walking Pox disease. 

The walking Pox spreads auditory. It can spread through the vibrations of sound. 

I love these models. There is nothing really bad to say about them. They completely succeed at what they are supposed to convey and resemble. Some of them hint at their former professions, like the one dressed as a doctor. Some of them also wear clothing similar to that the Genestealer Hybrids, so they stay very consistent. They look creepy and disgusting and I love it.

10/10

Blightlord Terminators:

These fellas are even more diseased than their normal Plague Marine counterparts. Their steps corrode and rust the ground beneath them and even being touched by them could spell your very painful death.

Blightlord Terminators excel at ship-to-ship-combat and boarding actions against enemy spaceships. Since they are Terminators, they can teleport aboard enemy vessels, and they use this tactic to cause mayhem and to spread the gift of Nurgle. 

The Blightlords are surprisingly less busy than I would’ve expected and it makes them a better looking unit for it. These models found a way better balance between clean and diseased. I think that some of their weapons do look a bit oversized. Overall though, the designers aced this unit.

My favourite one out of the bunch is the Insectoid Blightlord with the extra limbs. That is just clever design and a fun way to visualize Nurgle’s corruption.

8/10

Deathshroud:

In the olden days of the Great Crusade and the Horus Heresy, the Deathshroud were the personal bodyguards of Mortarion. They were his version of an Honour Guard and were chosen out of the sole survivors from destroyed Space Marine squads. They completely forsook their identity, never taking of their masks and conducting a vow of silence. They are considered at that point killed in action. 

They still largely form Mortarion’s personal guard even after his ascension to Daemon Prince. However, Mortarion also sends them to check up on those he favours. They fight alongside Chaos Lords and the like and act like judges. If a Chaos Lord does well, the Deathshroud leave in peace, but if the Chaos Lord failed in the eyes of Mortarion, then he gets executed by these bodyguards. 

Deathshroud carry Power-scythes called Manreapers, which are rumoured to be dipped in the filth of Nurgle’s Throne itself. They also come equipped with custom Hand Flamers that shoot chemical ammunition. 

The Deathshroud have a very good design that is very similar to the Blightlords. There is however some waste in potential. These are Mortarion’s most trusted warriors and they just look like a hooded version of the Blightlords. I kind of wished the designers took some inspiration from this artwork and made them have more ornate features.

It would certainly distinguish them more from their brethren better. 

I also take some offence that in the images, one of them has no helmet on, which kind of ruins the point of a voiceless and faceless warrior. You do have the option of giving the squad leader a helmeted head, so this is kind of a none-issue. 

7/10

Plague Marine Icon Bearer

The Icon bearers of Nurgle carry an Icon of Despair. This banner creates an aura of hopelessness around the area, and the thoughts of surrounding foes become filled with the idea of inevitable death. It basically turns enemies into nihilists who’ve become depressed.

What makes me sad about this unit is that there is no mention of these guys anywhere on the different wiki’s, which is kind of a bummer since he looks like a solid Plague Marine. Yes, it is just a Plague Marine with a Chaos Icon, but he should at least be mentioned somewhere. Don’t be mean to him. He is a good looking Plague Marine. 

I do wish that the Icon he carried didn’t have the weird helmet pressed in it. The fly motive is nice though.

8/10 

———————–

So all in all, outside of some outliers, the Death Guard infantry is a very solid line of miniatures that is very varied in appearance. You could apply the “Goldilocks Effect” to it; some are too busy, some are not busy enough, and some are just just right.

Next up, I’m going to tackle the Craftworld Aeldari Faction, which will be a short one and will probably come a little sooner than normal. After that, I’ll be looking at the Vanguard Primaris infantry units. I want to spread them out somewhat so that everything stays interesting, but I also want to get the Primaris overviewed as quickly as possible. 

Thank you for reading my stuff so far. It is fun to overview the design and lore of these different factions. It also is a learning experience for me. For example; Tumblr has a Max-10 image cap per post and this means that this series will probably list a lot longer than I’d imagine. Still, it will be a fun ride for me.

‘Till next time.

previous posts: Primaris Mainline Infantry

[aion-rsa]

What Did Batman Do Between The Dark Knight and The Dark Knight Rises?

https://ift.tt/3cfgO0Z

The Dark Knight not so much glided back onto cinema screens in 2012 as he hobbled across them. With a scraggly, unkempt beard and a bathrobe acting as his cape, Bruce Wayne appeared more like how one imagines Christian Bale exists between gigs than Batman at the start of The Dark Knight Rises. He appeared like an invalid whose great adventures were behind him.

In retrospect, this is probably not the version of the Caped Crusader fans expected to find after The Dark Knight’s thrilling finale. At the close of what many still consider to be the high water mark for superhero movies, Batman has agreed to take on the burden of Harvey Dent’s sins, framing himself as a murderer and saving Gotham City from cynicism through a veil of lies. Yet it’s not really a sad ending. Gary Oldman’s Jim Gordon even pens a triumphant eulogy for the superhero’s fallen image. The Batman’s become “a Dark Knight.”

After the film concluded, many fans began speculating just what a third chapter of the Christopher Nolan directed and co-written Batman films would look like: the police at war with Batman? The rise of a criminal underworld of masked freaks like Joker and Batman, embracing the chaos unleashed by their fight? Maybe we’d get to see Batman tackle the Riddler, a foe almost as mentally taxing as the clown.

None of these came to pass, however, as made exceedingly clear in the first seconds of Bale’s introduction in The Dark Knight Rises. Eight years have passed in the film’s narrative since last we saw our hero, and Bruce is now disheveled and broken, haunted by ghosts while living like one in the shadows of Wayne Manor. Prior to directing Batman Begins, Nolan dreamed of making a film about Howard Hughes’ final years: the period when the millionaire aviator, film producer, and mad man succumbed to his neuroses and obsessions. Rises not so subtly revisits that iconography, with Selina Kyle (Anne Hathaway) even expressing disappointment over Citizen Wayne not having Hughes’ long fingernails.

To many moviegoers, particularly fans, this is apparently all Batman’s been doing for the last eight years: living like a recluse and leaving the burden of saving Gotham to the GCPD. However, given all the context clues in The Dark Knight Rises, this is hardly accurate.

Bruce Wayne’s Greatest Crusade

While Nolan’s third Batman movie begins with Bruce Wayne fully entrenched in his traumas—the loss of his parents, his murdered childhood love, Rachel Dawes, and an overwhelming sense of despair about the state of the world—he didn’t immediately hang up the cape at the end of The Dark Knight and start growing the beard. In fact, more than just obsessing over “saving Gotham,” Bruce moved on to trying to save everyone.

The timeline is never fully explained, but various scenes between Bruce Wayne, the woman who calls herself Miranda Tate (Marion Cotillard), and other members of the Wayne Enterprises board reveal Bruce Wayne only gave fully into his demons about three years before the events of The Dark Knight Rises.

“You have a practiced apathy, Mr. Wayne,” Miranda says when she sees Bruce has stepped out of his cave, literally and figuratively, and is now at a charity event. “But a man who doesn’t care about the world doesn’t spend half his fortune trying to save it, and isn’t so wounded when it fails that he goes into hiding.” In another scene, she clarifies the timeline further when she tells Bruce (and thereby the audience), “Three years ago, a scientist published a paper on weaponized fusion reactions. One week later, your reactor started developing problems.”

When these details are fully considered, they paint a tragic portrait of Wayne’s isolation. In Nolan’s The Dark Knight Trilogy, Bruce Wayne never imagined Batman to be an indefatigable superhero who valiantly fights an endless war on crime. With the filmmakers’ quest to ground their Batman in verisimilitude—which is to say make him feel real even as his exploits are far from realistic—they opted to depict the character as neither crazy or misanthropic. He did not only put on the cape to soothe his fractured psyche, and he doesn’t get his jollies from beating up the desperate poor every night… a grim implication for a “grounded” interpretation of a billionaire patrolling “dangerous neighborhoods” looking for a fight.

As Bruce tells loyal butler Alfred (Michael Caine) in Batman Begins, “[I’m coming back] as long as it takes. I’m going to show the people of Gotham their city doesn’t belong to the criminals and corrupt.” In his way, Bruce viewed the Batman as akin to a political campaign. Batman’s a symbol to galvanize the better angels of Gotham around an idea of anti-corruption and anti-organized crime reform. And like a political operator, Bruce built a network of allies and true believers to implement incremental change through the system. But as the saying goes, the road to Hell is paved in good intentions.

After several years of Batman-ing, Bruce has inspired copycat vigilantes who got themselves killed and a nihilistic anarchist who called himself Joker, a glorified terrorist who did irreparable harm to Gotham’s institutions, its morality, and the public trust. Still, Bruce Wayne had a desire to use his wealth to improve the world, and not just his own mood. Hence instead of spending “half his wealth” solely on an ego-stroking war on crime, he invested in building a clean energy fusion reactor.

While it seemed like an almost incidental plot point in 2012, the increasingly dire effects of climate change with each passing year makes the fantasy of powerful nuclear fusion ever more appealing. A nuclear fusion reactor that actually produced comparable amounts of energy to modern nuclear power plants (which run via nuclear fission) would mean a much cheaper power source, as well as one that did not have the drawbacks of nuclear fission, including dangerous radioactive material that must be disposed of for millennia, and power plants that run the risk of melting down.

In Nolan’s fantasy action movies, Wayne Enterprises spent hundreds of billions of dollars on “some save the world vanity project,” as one of Bruce’s rivals puts it. A clean, cheap, and massive nuclear fusion reactor could be a silver bullet for curbing carbon emissions around the world, and a chance to stop something far scarier than supervillains.

Yet after five years of investment, it resulted in more chaos. A scientist’s paper in a professional journal reveals Wayne’s dream machine was also a weapon in the making. Indeed, that’s exactly how Tom Hardy’s Bane uses it during the second half of The Dark Knight Rises. Like the abstract idea of Batman before it, the good intentions baked into Wayne’s nuclear fusion miracle result in more death, more destabilization, and more chaos.

The man with an obvious hero complex failed again. Only then does Bruce give up on the world and indulge his myriad traumas.

Batman Returns Off-Screen?

That is how Bruce Wayne spent five of the eight years between The Dark Knight and The Dark Knight Rises. However, that doesn’t mean there was not also room for Batman. While the canonical text of the film states no one has seen Batman in eight years, there is reason to believe Bruce Wayne did not hang up the cowl on the night Harvey Dent died.

In another scene in Rises, rookie cop John Blake (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) recalls the myth that grew around the night Harvey Dent died. Blake says it was “the last confirmed sighting of the Batman [before] he then vanishes.” But confirmed is the operative word here since there are little things that don’t line up between the two movies that fit this narrative. For starters, there is the swanky Batcave sitting beneath Wayne Manor. When we first see it in the third film, finally renovated after primarily being a long lost historical site from the 1800s in Batman Begins, Bruce is perched at a bank of computers, trying to figure out the identity of Selina Kyle.

“You haven’t been down here in a long time,” Alfred says to his surrogate son. The implication is that in some earlier time, Bruce would spend days in the Batcave. Why would he if his war on organized crime was over? Why build an entire second Batsuit in the cave to complement the one he keeps hidden in his off-site location if he’s done? The answer is that he wasn’t. At least not for some months or years after the events of The Dark Knight.

Read more

TV

The Actors Who Have Played Batman

By James Aquilone and 1 other

Movies

The Batman: Can a Superhero Movie Be Too Dark?

By David Crow

Throughout the movie, memories about the violent days after Two-Face’s death and the passage of the Dent Act abound, with all the characters describing it as a “war.” It seems plausible someone as obsessive and exacting as Bruce Wayne would want to participate. In fact, it’d be odd if he did not. Embracing hidden and more surreptitious tactics after becoming a public enemy might also explain how Batman injured his knee so badly between The Dark Knight and The Dark Knight Rises that he needs a brace to hide the limp.

It also might explain why no one bats an eye at Selina Kyle’s cat-themed costume. While no character calls the femme fatale with a heart of gold “Catwoman” in the film, she isn’t afraid of embracing the theatricality of her catlike ears either. She even hisses, “Cat got your tongue?” to a mark. The impracticality of this entire aesthetic seems inspired, at least in part, by the Batman. While there is never a line of dialogue confirming this, Hathaway and an uncharacteristically restrained Nolan rely on inference to get the point across.

Like Jim Gordon, Catwoman is given a moment to pause in what she’s doing to marvel at the television when news of Batman’s return breaks. And when she hitches a ride in the Batman’s sci-fi aircraft, she steals a glance at her surroundings when he’s not looking, smiling to herself about being in the same space as an apparent childhood hero. Indeed, Selina would’ve been a teenager during the events of Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, and like perhaps so many other members of the next generation of criminals and adventurers, her imagination took flight with news reports of a man dressed as a Bat jumping off rooftops.

It returns to the theme of “escalation” from The Dark Knight, with the Joker saying to Batman, “You’ve changed things forever.” At the beginning of that film, the Bat was still fighting mobsters; by the end he was facing clowns in war paint. The transition was painful for Gotham, but no one seems to think it odd anymore for a famed cat burglar to turn her goggles into cat ears. It makes you wonder if there were any more elements of a rogue’s gallery in the interceding years before the Dent Act brought vaguely unconstitutional order?

This is admittedly speculation. And the kind which reminds us that there were stories that could’ve been told between The Dark Knight and The Dark Knight Rises that we’ll never see. It’s probably this knowledge that disappoints some fans. Before details of Rises’ plot leaked, the nascent comic book Twitter theories of the era imagined Bale’s Batman opening the movie still running from the Gotham City Police, and fighting the next war.

Instead Rises begins with the war over, and Bruce all the bitterer for it. It was a large pill to swallow for fans who dream of Batman as a crusader always ready for the next robbery, mugging, or burning building. They wanted to see Batman fighting serial killers who leave riddles, not as the Phantom of Wayne Manor, and then as a retiree who’s conquered his pain well enough to enjoy a glass of wine in Italy.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

For those disappointed, Matt Reeves’ The Batman looks poised to offer the follow-up they wanted a decade ago. But Nolan’s choice to depict a Batman who had the vision to see the big picture, and to then walk away from it, remains satisfyingly singular and whole.

The post What Did Batman Do Between The Dark Knight and The Dark Knight Rises? appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3kUYuym

[ayearinfaith]

𝗔 𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗶𝗻 𝗙𝗮𝗶𝘁𝗵, 𝗗𝗮𝘆 𝟱𝟵: 𝗖𝘁𝗵𝘂𝗹𝗵𝘂

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn." "In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming." - 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘊𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘭𝘩𝘶

Cthulhu, generally pronounced /kəθulu/, “k-uh-thoo-loo”, is the most famous creation of the novelist H.P. Lovecraft. This post will be discussing Cthulhu in specific as well as the surrounding mythos and genre it is directly tied to: cosmic horror. While not at all religion, the imagery of Cthulhu and its nightmarish world have become a staple of the modern imaginary landscape, in short, a true modern myth and thus earning itself a slot in this series.

𝗖𝗼𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗰 𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿

There is no true consensus on when and by whose hand the cosmic horror genre, sometimes interchangeable with “weird fiction” or Lovecraft’s own term “Cosmicism”, was born. It is generally placed around the start of the 20th century, though Edgar Allen Poe’s inclusion pushes it further back to the mid 19th. Other prominent artists whose work often falls under the cosmic horror umbrella include H.G. Wells, H.R. Giger, and Sam Raimi. Lovecraft was neither the inventor of or the most popular writer, but has nevertheless become a core standard. His works are not often read anymore, but are paid nigh constant homage and parody. Cosmic horror can be described as nihilistic science-fiction. At its core lies the concept that the universe is, literally, unimaginably huge and humanity is thus unimaginably small and inconsequential. Monsters like Cthulhu aren’t antagonistic beings actively pursuing the end of the story’s heroes or of humanity, they cause such a demise simply due to their immense scope, a metaphorical elephant not stopping to notice it has crushed a beetle. Despite that, the horrors and monsters themselves are often just background noise; Cthulhu himself never even appears directly in his own story (though the main character discovers a journal entry telling of a direct encounter). The true terror is simply the characters realization of their own profound powerless and insignificance, a realization that normally results in madness. Alien things and insanity are recurring themes in cosmic horror, and characters are often confronted by impossible geometrical structures and grotesque monsters which almost always have tentacles. Because the moment of realization or “pulling back the veil” is a critical aspect of the generic cosmic horror, the seeking of forbidden knowledge is also recurring motif, generally withheld by a conspiracy or cult or simply lying hidden in the historic record.

𝗖𝘁𝗵𝘂𝗹𝗵𝘂 𝗠𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀

Lovecraft himself did not conceive of his stories as having a consistent narrative, though he did make common cross references for the delight and immersion of his readers. The term “Cthulhu Mythos” was coined by one of Lovecraft’s protégés, the author August Derleth. Lovecraft himself used the term “Yog Sothothery”, a reference to one of his monstrous creations, which was used in a comical sense. To Lovecraft, there was no need to construct a coherent universe, and indeed doing so would be counter to his themes of madness and incomprehensible universe. Additionally, Lovecraft did not retain sole ownership of the world he had created. With his blessing, many contemporaries wrote their own stories, fleshing out and expanding a world increasingly filled to the brim with unspeakable nightmares. A brief rundown of the universe and its more memorable monsters is as follows. At the peak of the Lovecraftian food chain are the “outer gods”. Not truly gods in the traditional sense, but enormous alien beings with far reaching powers. At their head is Azatoth, the “blind idiot god” who typifies Lovecraft’s nihilism, laying at the center of the universe creating meaningless music. Other outer gods include Shub-Niggurath “the black goat of the woods with a thousand young” and Yog-Sothoth who was the father of the titular “Dunwich Horror”. An order below the outer gods are the “great old ones” which constitutes the majority of Lovecraftian monsters, Cthulhu among them. Others are Dagon, a sea monster named for a real Sumerian deity, and Nyarlathotep, who despite its title as the “crawling chaos” generally assumes the form of a human. There is also a host of recurring alien races, such as the Elder Things, starfish-like aliens that colonized the earth a billion years ago before the collapse of their civilization at the hand of their slaves, the Shoggoths, blob things covered in eyes and, of course, tentacles who still roam the earth in the forgotten Elder Thing ruins. Perhaps most notable, aside from Cthulhu itself, is the Necronomicon, an ancient Arabian tome filled with the secrets of the aforementioned monsters.

𝗖𝘁𝗵𝘂𝗹𝗵𝘂 𝗜𝘁𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳

Cthulhu was first introduced in the 1928 short story 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘊𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘭𝘩𝘶, and would be referenced in many later works. The name is likely based on “chthonic” a Greek loanword meaning “subterranean”, normally used in English to describe mythological places and gods. Lovecraft imagined the name pronounced inhumanly, saying “the h represents the guttural thickness”. Cthulhu is described as a monstrous being, hundreds of meters tall, with a vaguely humanoid form with vestigial wings and an octopus head, possibly meant to invoke the Kraken, a giant octopus monster in Scandinavian folklore. Its skin is described as green, gelatinous, scaly, and yet also rubbery. In the mythos, Cthulhu has, for reasons unknown, been imprisoned on earth in hibernation. Its presence has had subtle impact on the psyche of all living creatures, the source of human fears and anxieties, as our subconscious minds can detect the powerful alien presence. It has been here since before the evolution of mankind and its “star-spawn” were the enemies of the Elder Things who ruled the planet a billion years ago. Its prison is a city located in the south Pacific Ocean called “R’lyeh” which is described as cyclopean and non-Euclidean. In 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘊𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘭𝘩𝘶 the main character is retracing the steps of his late great uncle, a professor who left behind mysterious notes. Among them is a small statue of Cthulhu itself, apparently created by one of the great uncle’s students based on a nightmare. The notes lead the main character to investigate stories of odd cults and mass hysteria across the world, all somehow related the figure of the statue. Finally, the character is able to get an account from the journal of a dead Norwegian sailor, describing how the stumbled upon the city of R’lyeh and woke Cthulhu. Though some of the crew escapes, they all ultimately go mad and perish. The story ends with the main character realizing that he now knows too much, and the cult will come for him.

Image Credit: Great Cuthulhu, 2014, Lawrence Jones, https://www.flickr.com/photos/16980840@N04/

[rebuiltbionicle]

OC: Voakol

Voakol was a notorious crime lord sporadically active in the trade cities of the Southern Continent. An ex-Dark Hunter of ambiguous origins, she carved a reign of terror across every settlement she and her minions graced, confounding all efforts by Toa and any others to apprehend her. Though hardly the only crime lord the Matoran Universe ever saw, and nowhere near the most powerful, Voakol was the most infamous and remains the image of crime in the biomechanical conscience.

Voakol was a member of the Orani species. A great deal of effort has been put into interviewing Orani caravans and settlements to see if they could identify a missing member of theirs that could have been Voakol. This is impractical, since rebuilding bodies is a thing and hundreds of Orani had left their communities without telling where they were heading. The most popular theory was that Voakol was a bureaucrat in the League of Six Kingdoms that was sentenced to death for embezzlement but escaped. The Shadowed One personally hypothesised that she was a survivor of the Orani he drove from Odina, seeking revenge.

Voakol enlisted in the Dark Hunters very early in the organisation’s history. She impressed the Shadowed One with an excellence in infiltration and an overall competence in combat. She was given the codename Prowler and made to run “collection” missions, which in essence was thievery. Over time, the Shadowed One began to suspect Voakol of plotting his overthrow. Having gathered plenty of other recruits with her talents, the Shadowed One sold Voakol out to the Sontynn Clan (a criminal organisation based on the Southern Continent) she was sent to steal from. The Sontynns had her thrown down a flooded open shaft mine.

After a few years absence, Voakol reemerged, killing the Sontynn Prime and assuming control of the organisation. The Sontynn were kept in line through threat of death; the attempt to expel Voakol led to some fairly gruesome electrocutions. Their usual rackets were replaced by a spree of mass poisoning in Lela Metru, culminating flooding the streets with it via airship. The airship was shot down and Voakol was believed to have perished with it. The Sontynn Clan was hunted to the last by Toa and the whole affair considered concluded.

After another few decades absence she reappeared in Tobin Metru, and would spend the rest of her career around the Lela, Tobin, Emoni, and Ordrid Metrus. Voakol would usually rally a few desperates as her minions, go on a murderous spree, and disappear for a few years after narrowly avoiding capture. Though nowhere near the most powerful crime lord in the corrupt Southern Continent port cities, and her actions fairly minor compared to them, she terrified the public like no others did. Stories about her were told well beyond the confines of the cities she frequented.

Her acts were numerous and difficult to fully encapsulate. “Voakolologists” ceaselessly debate the “canon” acts of hers and which were simply similar to her style. Many theorise that there were multiple Voakols sharing the identity, and that the original perished with her airship. This is generally assumed false but is convuluted by the time she chose to create dozens of body double of herself. That story is one worth elaborating on:

Some centuries after her return, Voakol was married to a Krerdu named Ouzon. Her motives are unclear, since there was no practical gain for her. Though it seems out of character, it’s likely she just really cared about them. They were partners in crime for some hundred and forty years until Ouzon was arrested by the Brotherhood of Makuta and forced to serve as a indentured soldier. Voakol was incensed and dedicated herself to hounding their platoon to try and rescue them. The Brotherhood caught on and recalled them to Destral. Voakol, against better judgement, tried to infiltrate the island to rescue them. Her minions were captured upon landing, while Voakol made it to the fortress before capture.

According to Brotherhood records made public after the Reformation, after Voakol’s capture Botar arrived to take custody of her. The Makuta remembered Botar from his taking of the Barraki, and confronted his right to take their prisoner. Given the Barraki were never heard from again, Teridax would have been happy to let him take her, but unfortunately Icarax was in charge. Icarax started to fight Botar (which the Brotherhood record blames on Botar being undiplomatic, while Voakol claimed to have manipulated them) during which Voakol was able to flee and hid within the labyrinthine fortress for some time before escaping. Ouzon disappeared after these events. They likely died under Brotherhood servitude, though a fringe theory claimed they became the Dark Hunter Guardian. This is unlikely; Voakol would have known about it and done something about it, and so would the Shadowed One.

When she reemerged, she began brainwashing and modifying other Orani into duplicates of herself. She was obviously paranoid about being caught, though it’s only after the Order revealed itself that it’s understood she was fearful of the teleporting Botar snatching her away. She suffered severe insomnia and went partially mad. She lashed out even more violently than usual and the other crime lords of the port cities chose to cull her organisation. She escaped and went missing for some centuries.

In her absence, the port cities made a earnest effort to cull organised crime. Voakol returned in the Clans’ death throes, and made an attempt to turn the cities back into crime ridden hell holes, but failed. However, the head of the Utror Trade Company approached her. They intended to turn the trade ports of the Southern Continent into their own personal fiefdoms, and wanted hired muscle more on hand than the Dark Hunters to deal with dissenters. Voakol became Queen of Crime across the southern Metrus, though she was clearly on Utror’s leash and hated it.

The Utror Trade Company was dissolved in the Continental War and the cities Voakol frequented sacked by the Northerners. In the chaos of war many soldiers and Toa took it upon themselves to try and kill Voakol once and for all, but again she vanished. By this time Voakol had become a legend in her own right. She became a public domain villain in fictional stories, and on the darker note one of the bandit tribes of the Southern Continent inland modeled themselves after her. One possibly apocryphal story claims that Voakol took command of the Voakol Tribe to fight against the Concealed Eternals.

Voakol would only been seen sporadically until the end of the Matoran Universe, with century long gaps between her bloody reappearances. Toa, Makuta, Dark Hunters, and more domestic authorities offered rewards in excess of a hundred million widgets for her head (or live capture in case of the Toa). Voakol’s final confirmed appearance was on Hagah Nui, during the beginning of the Reign of Shadows. She and her minions attempted a takeover of the city as her private playground. The Shadow Toa army forged on Destral dealt with her. The confrontation ended with her being hurled from the city’s facsimile Coliseum. Her body was gathered up and confirmed dead. Makuta had the corpse paraded across a dozen cities as a demonstration of a new age.

Some have claimed this was a propaganda stunt by the Makuta using a duplicate, and that Voakol escaped once again. There are claims she changed identity again and fought under the Barraki in their rebellion, though there is no evidence of this. There have been no sightings of Voakol since the Great Evacuation.

...

Voakol’s appearance and traits were well documented. She was an Orani and had the typical lean humanoid figure of one, though was shorter than average. She was not particularly agile, but light-footed and a prodigious sprinter. Voakol’s casing was primarily purple and secondarily green, and notably used gold Kanohi and tools.

Voakol used multiple masks across her career, but was best recognised as wearing a Kanohi Volitak. She was skilled with the Mask of Stealth; she knew its potential and limitations inside out. She could disappear better than most Huna users, and it was a skill she learned to use even without it. She had a fondness for acids, poisons, and electricity, and had a rhotuka launcher with all three powers.

Stories told about Voakol gave a great variety of motives and ideologies to her, mostly about some sort of nihilistic view of the world where nothing mattered, or that she was trying to bait the Toa into breaking the Toa Code to stop her. People who met Voakol and lived have stepped forward and pointed out that she was nowhere near that sophisticated. They report that she was a narcissist that enjoyed killing to make herself feel powerful, that all her schemes were a giant game to her, and that she was a giant coward afraid of any consequences. They do concede that Voakol was just as intelligent, patient, cunning, and strategising as usually portrayed.

[americangodstalk]

Notes about S2E3: Muninn

# As stated previously, Betty is the modern form of Sleipnir, and we see its reincarnation here.

# Note that on the newspaper Wednesday reads that is an article about how the “Deep State is watching”, a foreshadowing of Argos. 

# Ibis is seen here eating pieces of the corpses he dissects (something that Jacquel did in the novel).

# Argus Panoptes is mixed up with “Argus”, the dog of Odysseus. He is also referred to as a “peepin’ Tom”.

# Argus backstory is honestly a mess... The backstory is told in an Egyptian style. Ibis says that Argus Panoptes was rebirthed by Hera as a “god of surveillance” (it is actually merely a metaphor, and it is show that Argus had other incarnations before the American god of surveillance, but many people took it for literal). And it is mentionned that he was a god of surveillance before joining the New Gods - in fact it is the fading of his worship that pushed him to an alliance. 

# Argus is confirmed to be the eye seen in season 1 through the bank’s security camera.

# Argus is described by Wednesday as akin to Mr. Wood, a being that adapted into “something else”. It is mentionned that his “many eyes faded”, and that only his memories stayed intact - in the form of the Argus archives. Argus actually appears to the world as a private surveillance company - we can note that the symbol of the company appeared on the jumbo screens of the “Media reinventing herself” scene.

# Argus is connected to Black Briar and offers its “eyes” to them. We see he uses drones as part of his many eyes. When one of said drones is taken down by Muninn (or Huginn), the Caretaker complains that the system was not updated and the GPS files are corrupted. Tech Boy answers that he told Argus to upgrade the system, and complains that he is not a “micromanagement”. However Mr. World quickly tells Tech Boy to put “your man on the line” (here Argus is identified as an agent of Tech Boy). Mr. World mentions the “broken window theory”, and insists that visiting Argus instead of texting him is “per tradition”. Mr. World has this very interesting concept that “We build the new world on the ruins of the old”. 

# Before New Media appears, Mr. World has strange hand gestures - which almost makes it look like he is “downloading” informations from Technical Boy he then injects into the screen New Media comes out from. Or am I reading too much into this? 

# New Media appears dressed as a Japanese schoolgirl (some mentionned a Harajuku vibe), with a Hello Kitty-look alike on her collar (hinting at the influence of Japanese pop culture over the Internet and the youth). In the background you can see the screen she comes out from becomes full with social media posts of New Media - one can see Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, a lot of selfies and videos... She is shown disdaining things that are “old”, and she also is seemingly aware of who, what and how her previous-self acted since she makes a reference to Media by imitating the Marilyn Monroe persona. Of course, one can see she literaly manifests emojis, emoticans and picture filters in the real world. She also refers to Argus as “the man with the fiber optic”. 

# The headquarters of the Argus company have a parabolic satellite antena. Wednesday explains that, for the “local tinfoil hats”, this building is a stronghold of the Deep State, the Illuminati and/or the Men in Black. But to the “local city council”, it is just an old warehouse filled with computers. And in Wednesday’s words, in the end “truth and lies mix up”. Again, it is mentionned that in the warehouse there are “miles” of fiber optic cables, and that “only the memories remain”. 

# Interestingly, we see Argus doesn’t just archive information, but also himself or rather his old versions. We get to see the “cast-away husks” he collected after he changed into “something else”. Here, we get to see the original Argus - the monstrous sheperd that was supposed to guard Io in the Greek mythology and was killed by Hermes. Apparently, only a sacrifice can allow one to move forward from this stage of the archive - the killing of Io. The fans have been splitting their head over what exactly the wooden tool Wednesday uses is - on top of that, it has an eye symbol engraved on it. 

# Wednesday mentions that Laura is a “revenant” and like all revenants, she is “single-minded”. Just like the archive and Argus, to move forward Laura needs change, but change only comes with a sacrifice. 

# We step away from all that to go to the Corn Palace, a strip-tease palace where live Old Iktomi, the Native American shapeshifter and spider-spirit (compared by the Jinn to Anansi). Actually it seems it was originally the “Porn Palace”, but the P neon letter “died” in such a way it looks like a C now. The Jinn describes Iktomi as “manipulating humans like puppets” and advices him to not look at him in the eyes. We also get to see another Native spirit - Gnaskineyan, “Crazy Buffalo” an evil spirit, looking here like a tall blind man. 

# The next incarnation of Argus seems to have been in Roman times - indeed, we see that Argus was at this point the caretaker of the Library of Alexandria, renowned as the greatest collection of knowledge in the world. It seems Argus is locked in a cycle of rebirths and deaths - more precisely murders. Indeed, Argus always end up killed, because he keeps repeating his original myth - guarding something for which he will die. He murder because he was the guardian of Io, burned down along with his library... Note here that the Library of Alexandria was located in Egypt - which might explain why Mr. Ibis had Argus story told through an Egyptian point of view. Also note that here, Argus had his eyes ripped out.

# Iktomi appears in a wheelchair (hinting at his decay as an Old God). He grows marijuana in the background of his Palace - it seems he is an expert at tricks and potions. I honestly don’t know why people keep saying Iktomi and Whiskey Jack are the same being when, from my researches, they apparently are not. Whiskey Jack is a Crane spirit from the cultures of Algonquian and Dene people, while Iktomi is a trickster from Lakota mythology. Yes, both are considered equivalents, but they are not the same. 

# We need an explanation on how Iktomi ended up having Wednesday’s spear. It seems Iktomi is also aware of Thoth, as he mentions he will be against the use of the spear for it is an “instrument of death”. 

# New Media of course uses hashtags in her talk. In her talks with Technical Boy she appears friendly, childish, energetic, but she has a snarky and nasty side to her hinting at her rivalry with the technology god. She explains that Tech Boy and her have “different audiences” and she mentions that she needs “bandwidth”. 

# Tech Boy threatens Argus to come back on their deal, which would have Argus “go back to trolling the Dark Web on IRC bots and Geocities pages” - so that’s what he as doing as a god of surveillance before taking a deal with the New Gods. Interestingly, we here have an incoherence - before Mr. World identified Argus as an agent of Tech Boy, but here Tech Boy has the hardest time acting as Argus boss, since the “surveillance god” says he was offered a deal by Mr. World and works only for him. 

# Odin explains that he wants Argus killed because he “plays both sides” (how? We never saw Argus help the Old Gods), and apparently to kill him Laura needs to stab the tattoo in his neck. Though one may actually see how he plays “both sides” by looking at what Argus says - he says that entropy leads to disorder and all systems evolve towards chaos, “even alliances with gods”. It seems as a result that Argus has a sort of nihilistic view - he doesn’t wish to partake in the war, or to really help one side or another because ultimately it doesn’t matter who wins this conflict. That’s why he is so rebellious against Technical Boy. Or at least it seems like it... 

# New Media, to interact with Argus, brutally switches personality - you can literaly see her change. She becomes seducing, flirty, very sexual. She visibly wants to take over Tech Boy by stealing Argus to herself. She mentions that she has “likes, shares and subscribers” and that everyone watches her, but what she wants is “someone to watch them back”. She wishes to “connect and merge” with Argus - which takes the form of a strange sexual scene. I personally believe this is a reference to “hentai” in its primal form - the typical diea of “sex with tentacles”. Indeed, in this episode New Media has a strong Japanese pop culture influence, and for those of you who don’t know, “hentai” originally was a form of pornographic art of Japanese culture, very old, and that often involved tentacles and sexuality with octopuses. However, the Internet took over this “hentai” style and turned it into a true meme, a recurring joke and a “common knowledge” and “popular trope” of Internet works - it is a literal representation of how the Internet takes back for itself forms of traditional art and turns them into something entirely new. 

Anyway, she talks about her “fusion” with Argus as a “synesgestic expanding” and a “marketing opportunity”. 

# Despite his death, Wednesday mentions that “Argus will come back”. Which hints that maybe Argus has enough belief/worship/popularity to keep living, contrary to the other Old Gods.

# It seems Bast is part of Wednesday’s plans, or will act at Wednesday’s request when she will “heal” Shadow. 

[ununniliad]

Burst Beetle Tweseveny #5: "2007: The Web we Weave and the Things Up Our Sleeve!"

Tweseveny and Time-Waster Lad, at the LNH reception desk! Two figures, one young and manic, the other hooded and smelly!

"That's right," says the hooded figure, working enthusiasm into his voice. "The devilish duo of trans-temporal terror!"

The woman raises her hourglass! "Mother Time and the Time Crapper!"

Tweseveny rolls into a fighting pose, hand just above the transformational buckle at her belt! "The Time Crapper, again!?"

The seeming Time Crapper pauses in his dramatic posing, as Mother Time looks up at him, confused! "...again?"

"...oh, no, sorry, right," says Tweseveny, shaking her head. "You're a different Time Crapper than last time." This wasn't the nihilistic avatar of the dark future that she'd faced alongside Carolyn Forge [in Burst Beetle Tweseveny #2-3 - Cyber Footnote Girl]; there were many time-traveling net.villains who - for reasons of their own, Tweseveny supposes - take up the terrible name of the Time Crapper! As a time traveller herself, it makes sense that she's crossing paths with them!

This one... she thinks back to the Infinite Leadership Crisis that she's currently in, and the LNH stories about it. He's supposed to be a version of the very first time Crapper, right? She labels him in her head as Time Crapper I.

Mother Time steps forward aggressively. "My babe's the only one with that stupid name, thanks."

That confirms the 'very first' thing, thinks Tweseveny, but she only vaguely remembers Mother Time. Hadn't they broken up? Repeatedly, in a confusing time-travel manner? Perhaps this is before that?? Oh, does she wish to have the Eyrie Archive on-hand!

"I'm sorry," says Time Crapper I, taking half a step in front of Mother Time, "do I know you?"

Well, Tweseveny remembered the early Crapper stories well enough - Cry.sig, Retcon Hour, the Cosmic Plot Device Caper, so... "...yeah!" She nudges Time-Waster Lad, and whispers, "Play along!" She straightens up and chirps, "I'm a time traveler too, and your future's my past!"

Time-Waster Lad blinks thoughtfully at Mother Time. "...didn't we play World of Warcraft together that one time?"

Mother Time blinks, and her eyes light up, a hint of a genuine smile playing over her edgy pose. "...oh hi, how are you?"

"Well," says Time Crapper I, straightening and putting on a deep, properly villainous tone that echoes thru the lobby, "I certainly hope you aren't going to get in the way of our ascension to power!"

Tweseveny immediately resolves to get in the way of their ascension to power! "No, of course not," she says, "I am absolutely of gray morality myself, definitely. But, ah, what is your quest?"

"Some quest for a ring of power," says Time Crapper I, getting into it, gesturing grandly! "But we quest... for a rung of power!"

"The Rung of Revamp," says Mother Time, grinning. "We got a hot tip that the LNH would be almost undefended today - only two net.heroes on the premises. So we're gonna break into the Plot Device Room and power me up!" She lets out a snotty cackle, whipping her hair around like a swish of silver!

A hot tip... no, it can't be-- no, it probably actually is Tweseveny's nemesis apparent, Burst Beetle M-Plot, sending not one but two powerful villains to battle her. Though Tweseveny's only tangled with her once, it absolutely sounds like the kind of thing she'd do!

But perhaps she can beat them at their own game! She senses the emotions swirling in this strange, mixed-up couple! Hot dog! Perhaps she can foil this plot simply by talking the plotters through their problems! Wouldn't that put a rocket up M-Plot's caboose!

Tweseveny shakes herself out. Right, one step at a time. "Well, no problem from us! Ever since, um, Time-Waster Lad went mad with power and took over the LNH, we haven't seen a single net.hero."

"Took over the LNH?" says Time Crapper I, looking at Time-Waster Lad with new attention from under his hood - attention under which the young man squirms!

"Yeah, he's the leader now," says Tweseveny, pointing. "See the button?"

"Oh, huh," nods Time Crapper I. "Fair."

"Then there won't be any problem with getting the Rung of Revamp!" Mother Time cackles in glorious triumph!

Oh, shoot, thinks Tweseveny. "Uh, oh, sorry, you can't, there's a... bear."

Mother Time, Time Crapper I, and Time-Waster Lad all turn to look at Tweseveny, blinking in confusion. "...a bear?" says Time Crapper I.

"Yeah, the, uh, Cosmic Bear, from, um, the Big Dipper," speaks Tweseveny, prevaricating desperate fabrications off both cuffs! "It got into the Plot Device Room to take... the Cosmic Honeycomb, yeah. The automated defense systems are driving it off, because we don't, um, don't want to go fight it ourselves, because the fight scene would draw in net.heroes. Really inconvenient, we should have it out of the way soon, sorry."

"Oh. Well..." Time Crapper I turns his hidden gaze to Mother Time, shrugs a bit, then turns back to Tweseveny. "I suppose that's all right."

Mother Time looks slightly rankled, wrinkling her bejeweled nose. Time Crapper I sets his hand on her shoulder. The malefic mistress of chronological chaos wrinkles harder for a moment, then lets out a little sigh and puts on her big maniacal grin. "I guess that's okay. After all, we've got all the time in the world!"

"Haha yeah," says Time-Waster Lad in an extraordinarily fabricated cheerful voice. "Hey, could you two sit tight for just a minute, I have to go speak to my, um, henchman, Tweseveny could you just..."

He takes her wrist and pulls her off into the coat check, and whispers urgently inbetween the Neon Trenchcoat (from Easily-Discovered Man's attempt at joining the Net.Trenchcoat Brigade) and the Inside-Out Overcoat (from Pocket Man's attempt at putting a pocket inside a pocket).  "Good job getting them to stop for a second but now what do we do?"

"Look," says Tweseveny, putting her hands on his shoulders. "I know from, uh, time that these two have this really messed-up relationship. So!" She smiles confidently! "What we do is, we talk to them, and we get them to come to some..." She considers for a second. "Like, some good emotional realizations about why they're doing this or such. And then they probably won't want to be net.villains anymore!" She gives Time-Waster Lad a thumbs up!

"...you really think that'll work?" Time-Waster Lad's skepticism face is a thing to behold!

"Maybe! But!" Tweseveny points a finger in the air. "Also, if we keep them talking for long enough, the other net.heroes will come back from missions and help us stop them!"

"...okay, fair," Time-Waster Lad admits. "But I don't think I can get two net.villains to sit down and talk forever!"

"If anybody can, you can!" Tweseveny squeezes his shoulder and leans in, whispering with passion and determination!  "Time-Waster Lad, this is your strength! It's worth something very real - in this moment, you are the net.hero we need!"

Time-Waster Lad's eyes go wide and sparkly for a moment - he shakes it off, but a smile remains. "Okay. Well..." He peeks thru the crack, watching the two sitting on one of the foyer's comfy waiting couches, Mother Time murmuring something into the Crapper's invisible ear. "If we wanna talk them thru relationship stuff, we've got to separate them. I'll take Mother Time, and you take the Crapper, if that's okay."

"Right!" Tweseveny throws open the door of the coat check, walks up to the two net.villains and claps her hands. "You must be hungry, I know how hard it is to keep track of mealtimes when you're zipping back and forth thru the temporal stream. Illustrious leader, why don't you take Mother Time to the cafeteria, while I stay with the Time Crapper so he can know when the Cosmic Bear's done?"

Mother Time looks them over with a suspicious eyebrow! But Time Crapper I puts his hand on her arm, and she glances at him, and the edge of her lips curls up. "I could eat, yeah." She pushes herself up off the couch and walks over to Time-Waster Lad, crossing her arms. "Which way?"

"Uh, this way," says Time-Waster Lad, mind whirling. Okay, engage the villain in a time-consuming discussion. Easy peasy. You've done this a bunch of times. "So..."

"Yeah?" says Mother Time, taking him in with a calculating gaze that, despite his years at a net.hero, makes goosebumps crawl up Time-Waster Lad's limbs.

Waste a moment yourself, an extra couple seconds taking her in, and... focus on the interesting thing! "Sorry, it's just that I love your palette. The silver and purple go really well together."

"Oh!" Mother Time startles back a touch, unused to unprompted compliments! "Well, thank you. I accessorized around the Hourglass."

"Of course! You want your net.hero, er, your net.villain persona to be coherent. I'm not great at it myself," admits Time-Waster Lad.

"Oh, I think it really expresses the concept of 'wasting time'..."

Tweseveny smiles, watching them head down the hallway, and turns to her quarry, rubbing her hands. Time to friendship this motherfucker!

<<<*>>>

Author's Note: "Oh hi, how are you?" is a Bob's Burgers reference.

[sandracarroll]

                                  A  L  L  I  S  O  N     C  L  O  V  E  R                                  S  A  N  D  R  A     C  A  R  R  O  L  L .                   twenty-two                             teamaker.                                 chicago, il.                     psychedelics/coke dealer.                   tramp.                   dropped angel.

cw: maternal death, sexual coercion, frequent drug mentions.

“SANDY CARROLL” --- formerly known as allison clover --- grew up in the underbelly of chicago, raised by a fatally over-protective single mother, who tried to shield her daughter from the grit and grime that covered every square inch of their community.

as a child, allison was kept busy at all costs, distracted by a wallpapering of catholicism from the influence of her peers and the sordid history of her family. she was brought up in the church; she socialized primarily within the church’s community, she played on the church’s softball team, she participated in the church’s charity events and she helped organize the church’s fundraisers.

the clovers ran an online business selling homemade incense, candles, and teabags from herbs and spices grown right in their apartment. it was just enough to help keep the lights on when her mother’s job at the plant nursery couldn’t cut it. this is to say: a young, naive allison wouldn’t have much in realm of inheritance when she would need it.

shortly after ally’s 18th birthday, her mother was killed in an assault.

gang initiation. body mutilated. her teenage daughter had to identify the corpse.

the tragedy shattered allison’s eden. she woke up to the nihilistic nature of the world, in which good people can die with no rhyme or reason. it showed her the true nature of the modern christian and their shortcomings in practicing what they preach. in the wake of ms. clover, the church community offered allison their prayers and platitudes, but no one in their impoverished community had a dime to spare or room on their couches when allison needed a place to stay. every bystander assumed someone else would step up to take care of her.

emotionally distraught and disappointed in her paper thin support system, ally stopped sticking around after mass and isolated herself from the community, eventually opting not to attend altogether.

the scraps of wealth she had left after paying for a catholic funeral would not help her afford the rent. her underwhelming resume would not be enough to get her a job to support herself. with too much grief to handle working two minimum-wage gigs--- with her mother deeply estranged from the rest of their family--- with her long history of being isolated from her neighbors--- she had nowhere to turn when she was evicted.

her naivete and lack of options paved allison’s way to falling in with a bad crowd. her first night at a local shelter, she was recognized outside by a shaggy boy from her graduating class. immediately trusting, she opened up to him about her situation and vulnerability, and he was all too quick to offer her a place to stay until she got back on her feet. she never stopped to question his character or intentions.

she was fast to fall in with the boy and his band of delinquents, which she would later understand to be a gang deeply involved in several webs of drug trafficking in the city. her sheltered upbringing left her unprepared to notice red flags, and her gullibility made it easy for the kids to take advantage of her on the grounds of offering her bedrooms to stay in and spotting her meals in her hard time. when offerings of basic human necessities turned into talking her into smoking with them and bringing her along to parties, it wasn’t hard for them to pressure her into using her inexperienced body to show appreciation for their hospitality.

catholic guilt went head-to-head with disillusioned catholic angst, both raging inside her head with feelings of physical violation she didn’t have the wisdom to identify. in the midst of the chaos, she developed a taste for the escapism. she preferred to live in the haze of inebriation and work out her conflicts of spirituality with mushrooms rather than face her situation or her grief. but she didn’t realize she was running up a tab with her friends.

from a peer’s perspective, she picked up on their culture fast. learned the slang and the technique. gave off the impression of someone who knew what she was getting into when they started sending her to drop off and pick up at college campuses, and when she was smoking herself into debts she’d never be able to repay.

after ignoring the scarier and grittier aspects of the new friends she’d made for a year, and then upsetting them when she started avoiding sex— depriving her friends of their payment— things came to a head after a traumatic trip on DMT, a vision of her disappointed mother sent her into a serious crisis of faith and a fear that her sins were becoming unforgivable, which prompted her choice to branch out to people other than the dealers she was wasting her youth with.

when the ghouls started getting insulted by her pulling away, one of her lovers let her know that she still owed them for all that they had provided for her, and when she stood her ground and put a lock on what they wanted, he told her she owed them at least $4,000 for their troubles before they would let her scurry away.

in a cold sweat for finding that kind of money in the near future and feeling a serious threat to her safety at the mercy of a gang, she opted instead to commit one last sin in the form of stealing a suitcase and backpack of drugs from the trap house and taking a bus as far out of illinois as she could go.

she started going by the new name SANDRA CARROLL, and planned to keep moving and sell the stash of psychedelics to keep her afloat until she could start using her legal name again and get a law-abiding job. she tried to go to hipster bars and college parties, looking for less dangerous people to pick her up as a sugar baby and give her a couch to sleep on until she was far enough and emotionally stable enough to take care of herself. 

the panic attacks and paranoia made it hard for her to nail a trustworthy hookup, but she found a way to survive by couch surfing at a state university in kentucky. the low threat level and high libido of clients on a college campus makes it easier for sandra to deal, especially to inexperienced freshmen who were too insecure about playing it cool to ask questions when she hiked up her selling prices. it was a perfect environment hustle free food and beds to sleep in, and she could have stayed afloat there for long enough to let her trail run cold, find a new social circle, and eventually even heal. 

that is, until she spotted one of the gang members looking for her at a party.

sandy wound up packing up her things that night to flee to a remote place she’d heard about, in the countryside of north carolina, serene and inexpensive, far away from signals or surveillance, in a quaint little camp town called wrenbury.

(( TL;DR: sheltered church girl is ill-prepared and too naive to survive on her own when her mother dies unexpectedly; she falls in with a gang and loses control of her expenses and her body; steals an enormous stash of cocaine and psychedelic drugs and flees chicago, going by a false name and dealing to stay just barely afloat. spent the last year dorm-surfing on a college campus before coming to wrenbury. lives in fear of her ex and his gang who are still looking for her. haunted by the specter of her mother, imagining she is devastated to see how far her harlot daughter has fallen from grace. ))

                                  > PERSONALITY / FAST FACTS.

pleasant. gentle. hazy. airy. strange. erratic. passive. flighty. compassionate, but unreliable.

the usual refrain you’ll hear is, “SHE’S NOT ‘ALL THERE.’”  sandra mostly comes across as dreamy or dazed out. you might assume that extreme levels of stress and substance abuse have fried her brain, and she might agree with you, but don’t be so sure. there is a part of her that prefers to buy into that story and assure herself that she’s too disconnected with reality to process it. and she’s willing to stay as high as a hot air balloon to make it convincing. 

she zones in and out during conversation, absent-mindedly wanders into places she shouldn’t be while lost in thought, and tends to lose track of time or forget important things, like curfews or notices of restricted areas. she has a mind that can muse a mile a minute, and she tries to keep it busy with innocuous thought tangents about what type of flower a person would be, rather than focusing to what the person tells her about the latest murder, for fear of ruining her vibes and falling into a panicked spiral.

she grows flowers, spices, and herbal plants all over her cabin, taking advantage of the rustic life to relive her childhood of making homemade teas and incense. she has yet to ask if marnie and regina mind all of the aromas and dirt she brings into their common area.

she views sex as something that’s casually transactional. might get confused or even suspicious if you do her a favor without accepting a lay in return.

wrenbury and its glitching borders have fanned the flame of her lack of faith in her own sanity, and made her unsure of what to believe with regards to the killers. she tries to take the word of the townspeople over her fellow campers.

the kind of person who you might see sway-dancing like a twin peaks character, stopping in her tracks to stare at a caterpillar on a tree trunk, sticking her hand out of a moving car’s window and surfing it in the breeze, or praying only when she thinks no one’s looking---and if you look close, you might catch a tear streaming down her face while she does so.

she still has a trace of purity to her that most people don’t pick up on until they outright find out about her religious upbringing. she comes off as an eccentric wallflower sitting in a circle with the stoners at a party; not unfriendly, but not the person to start the conversation; doesn’t instigate the orgy but she certainly keeps up. innocent but not inexperienced. very good at maintaining lucidity just long enough to escape any witnesses when she’s having a bad trip.

some sandy carroll pinterest boards created by myself and my friends: (i), (ii), (iii), (iv). 

                                      > WANTED CONNECTIONS.

friends, especially people with easygoing personalities. someone who can make her feel comfortable enough to have more sober conversations. people who buy from her (she’s currently carrying cocaine, ecstasy, and acid). enemies (could be on the grounds of sandy being twee, inconsiderate, or a liability). a disinterested person for her to have a crush on even though they wouldn’t notice if she was hacked up by one of the killers. a kinder person with a crush on her that she’ll never pick up on. 

hookups~ sandy is pansexual and doesn’t realize that she’s been traumatized by years of sexual coercion, so she consents to a lot of bad ideas, and is still conditioned into the mindset that it’s something you use to pay gratitude to people for being nice to you. 

someone she met from the college she was squatting at, especially if they’re a hippie who brought up wrenbury when they were having a stoned dorm room conversation about wanting to move off the grid.

someone, either from or hired by the gang, who was sent to track her down and collect her debt and is now trapped in wrenbury with her  👀 :GRIM_REAPER_EMOJI:

[raguna-blade]

Phantom Thieves and the Shadow Self

So I’m sitting here listening to I’ll face Myself (Smash Edit) and it suddenly occurs to me, not for the first time actually but with a few extra neurons thrown in the heap as you do when you ruminate on stuff for ages, that the Phantom Thieves are LITERALLY the Shadow Selves of the Phantom Thieves.

Wait, no come back, this isn’t as stupid as it sounds I swear.

Alright, so I’ve probably mentioned this before somewhere, and I FEEL it’s obvious, and it’s explicit elsewhere, but let’s make it really real clear.

Persona’s are Shadows. There’s not a single gap of difference between the two of them, save that Shadows are wild and unconstrained, for better or worse, while Persona’s are Tamed and or at least are under control. Right up until the point you start rejecting them anyway, but that’s persona 3 and we’re playing with 4 and 5 right now (and someday, I’m gonna have to blast through 1, 2, and 2:2, and probably 3:2 but that’s another story and conversation)

But what’s the point here? You made a pretty bold claim up there that the Phantom Thieves are their shadow selves, and well...We’ve SEEN the shadow’s from Persona 4. The Personal Ones. They’re all uh...Not...Exactly...greaaaaaaat.

And that’s not untrue, but as i’ve mentioned before somewhere on here, Shadows encompass all of the aspects of yourself that are, decisively, YOU. Your good, your bad, your unrealized, what you push away. Everything that is you, but not actively engaged with or reject lives within the shadow.

That’s just neat my guy, but what’s the point? How are the Phantom Thieves at ALL their shadow selves. I, the hypothetical reader here, will accept that there’s some integration going on here, but they certainly don’t seem to be any different from their normal selves. They don’t seem...Shadowy.

Well ok, that’s kind of the point, but hey let’s dig in a bit. First things first, Yellow Eye Flash, everyone’s seent it, you can’t pretend it didn’t happen. So With that out of the way we at least have some baseline suggestions going on that yes there is something going on with the Shadow and the Persona User.

But well let’s take a look at someone who constantly draws attention in the series for being...Really WEIRD considering that her story straight up starts and deals with...Well being a sexual object, and throughout the rest of the game is kind of the de facto sexy one.

Hey it’s Anne Time! But I may have hit on this before, but she’s probably the easiest clearest example of this in the game. They Key to understanding it, since she’s very very much the oddwoman out here. After all, her whole story (not social link, but we’ll get to that some other time I think) basically has to deal with sexual abuse by a teacher, seeing VERY LITERALLY THAT SAME TEACHER, have sexual fantasies about her and then her Mementos/World of Cognition/World Behind the TV/Dark Hour Outfit is...A tight spy catsuit, with whip, her initial persona is an infamous femme fatale and...Well that just seems a bit obnoxious? I understand vidya, you need to have your cheesecake because reasons, but like c’mon. A little class.

But fly on back up like 5 Paragraphs. Remember what I said about the Shadow having all your rejected aspects? The Good, the Bad, the Ugly? That’s still true, and Anne is basically dealing with a particular aspect of herself that she’s not quite happy with, and if this were persona 4 well..It’s not even that hard to draw a line as to what Persona 4 Shadow Anne would look like. Likely, if we’re being honest, a lot like what Kamoshida envisioned her as, albeit considerably more active an agent which would be obvious given, again, Carmen.

And actually let’s look at the initial Persona again here. There’s a lot to be said about what her Cognition suit looks like and the fact that literally none of the other persona characters engage in this kind of transformation, none of them. Inaba Crew basically just had to wear some glasses but otherwise? Nothing. But The Persona Especially are useful here because they are LITERALLY SHACKLED TAMED DOWN SHADOWS.

And from 4 We See what a full on balls out unrestrained Shadow looks like both when they’re cosplaying as themselves and when they decide to just go full beast mode and ruin someone’s day.

They are, without fail, Every Single Bad or concerning aspect turned up from there to grotesque, with every good or unrealized aspect tamped down until you can barely see it. Yukiko is a weird dependent princess, Chie is some weird Dominatrix, Yosuke is a weird jealous frog thing, Teddie is a big nihilistic empty vessel, Naoto is childish and “playing pretend”, Rise is a stripper, Kanji is an entirely more complicated discussion i don’t want to get into right now, BUT THE POINT, is that without fail, the Shadows take aspects of them that are TRUE but worry them/are complicated to deal with/they believe are problems, and amp them up to terrifying proportions.

BUT

They also have the aspects of themselves that are positive there too, if hard to notice (deliberately, and warped to look bad besides). Chie’s shadow unquestionably comes off as foreboding, but Chie’s a protective gal. If you’re trying to protect someone it doesn’t exactly work if you don’t look like you have the ability to RUIN whoever you’re trying to scare off. Teddie’s is horrifying, but for all that he’s suggesting the truth is unattainable and all that, Teddie’s concern of if there is even something inside him is betrayed by Shadow Teddie DEFINITELY HAVING SOMETHING INSIDE HIM. And i’m sure i could find more but this is besides the point.

We’re talking about the Phantom Thieves, and how they’re their Shadow Selves.

But well...Look to the Persona 4 crew again. Their shadows come in generic me and Me amped up.

And now Look at the Phantom Thieves. We’ll use Anne again because she’s the really obvious one here but-

Anne>Panther>Carmen isn’t such a big difference from Yukiko>Princess>Shadow Yukiko.

There is the You, with all your aspects, your shadow, your persona’s etc, all together as one gestalt. There’s the Shadow You, The aspects that include things about yourself that you don’t acknowledge/know/deal with. There’s those aspects pumped up to 11 Which is your Persona and Shadow Proper.

And if we take it one step further...

Anne>Panther>Carmen>Hecate

You have yourself, your shadowy side, your Shadowy Side Played at Max Volume....And then you have your “perfected” self, who has integrated the shadow.

To put it simply (because this isn’t an anne post precisely, though I’ll make a proper one sometime down the line probably. Gotta build hype for ROYALE), Hecate isn’t a femme fatale. But if you look at her design well...She has the general SHAPE of a sexy attractive type (Hour Glass, tastes may vary) until you look at her a bit closer and realize everything that would easy peasy be sexy (hips, bust, legs etc) is either concealed, covered in barbs and sharp angles, or is otherwise ends in implements to cause harm. At the same time, the belly is exposed, and there’s a pretty noticeable cut out towards the hips which is...suggestive.

The difference being, as I see it, between a Femme Fatale, a role built around seduction appearance and appealing to baser behaviors, and a literal actual Goddess who while attractive (Hecate STILL appears to be wearing a mask, a feature i’m not 100% but think applies to all the Ultimate Persona’s here) has that as a secondary trait behind the fact that she can and will cancel your corporeal form if you give her an iota of a reason and she’s feeling merciful (see uh...Anne, If I kill Him it would be a kindness but holy shit she was inches from committing the phantom thieves first murder her own damn self.)

But yeah, this pattern still sticks around with all the others if you take a look at it. Ren’s actually another pretty straightforward one in the Ren>Joker>Arsene>Lucifer Dynamic which basically see’s his Suave Confident chaotic ass get aggressively more suave confident and Chaotic (see MY ULTIMATE PERSONA IS LITERALLY THE HEAD OF THE CHAOS FACTION IN SMT HOLY SHIT GUYS)

But yeah, the Phantom Thieves are totes the Shadow Selves, which makes me wonder with...a degree of trepidation of what that would look like for the rest of the persona crews.

[miqojak]

14. What do they care deeply about? What kind of loyalties, commitments, moral codes, life philosophies, passions, callings, or spirituality and faith do they have? How do these tend to be expressed?

Looooooong post inc!

That’s a tough one. I almost feel cheap falling back on a given - her brother. She doesn’t show it too well, but a lot of her guilt isn’t just survivor’s guilt or the like...it’s knowing that her own reckless involvement in rebellious activity cost not just her, but him. He lost a sister, and she lost a lot of her youth, and innocence.

She feels like a crap sister, and was kind of trying to be a sister to Kini in the end...and that’s part of why she feels so bad about what happened - and why she’s a little uncomfortable with Kye ( @rukaen ) saying he thinks of her as a sister...she doesn’t think she’s very good sister material. She wants to look out for @miqo-vynnie, but comes down too hard with criticism, and only seems capable of backhanded praise. She pushes him, because she feels like she lost the best parts of herself, but he hasn’t - and she wants him to live a long, happy life...something she just doesn’t see for herself. She sets a high bar for him, and pushes a little too hard, sometimes.

A lot of those fall into similar categories - loyalties, commitments, moral codes, and philosophies. She’s...shockingly loyal, and that’s got roots twisted in a strange sort of moral code, I guess? For all that she likes chaos, she likes order where business is concerned - you give, she gives. A fair trade is a fair trade, and she keeps her deals/commitments. Loyalty is...earned. If she were in a game like Bioware does, she’d probably have some perk that like, once you’ve gotten 50%+ on rep, it degrades slower/is harder to lose ground with her. It is, in my mind, quite difficult to reach that point. Being there for her, and not judging her in her difficult moments, goes a real long way to cementing in her mind that you deserve loyalty in kind. It jars her out of her nihilistic gloom a bit, when people are like ‘no seriously, look - there’s meaning in things.’ She just needs some SHOVING to get there.

Her philosophy would probably boil down to the notion that the world is ‘dog eat dog.’ It’s every man for himself, and that the nature of man - in his various forms - is, inherently, selfish. 

Passions! Piano is absolutely quickly becoming one - it fascinates her, and she’s quick to be lost in the music. She likes drawing, but she’d probably not call it a passion (though I would). Cooking is a BIG one that she really enjoys, but doesn’t share all that often.

Spirituality/faith - my headcanon about her tribe is rather Native American, I suppose, in how they would tell tales of the Jackal, and other beasts as these deific figures. So, the Jackal ends up becoming this sort of...demi-god, or lesser god figure that she looks up to. If you played Battle for Azeroth at all, my version of the Jackal is a lot like Jani. A scavenger god of trash, of secrets...and of unwanted things. The Jackal is a lot like that, for her - they represent a godlike hero figure, in a sense: the Jackal is the ultimate survivor in a harsh world. She heard lots of stories about how the Jackal survived, as a child, and used those tales to give her faith when times were at their worst. She discarded the parts of her she didn’t need, and asked the hard question: What would the Jackal do? It’s the only real semblance of religion in her life, though. The Twelve sure as hell didn’t help her when she was a prisoner of war - the Jackal’s teachings did, though. (GARBAGE CAT GARBAGE GOD I GUESS. :P)

Her expressions of most of these are sometimes not easy to catch? - when she cares, even if it sounds like she’s being rude...she’s showing interest in you and it might seem subtle to the rest of the world, but that’s loud in her little corner of things. If you offer up some deep dark secret - she will too. You give...she gives. Trust comes in degrees, and she’s bad at taking the first step. But when she takes steps to confide things at all, it’s a big leap of faith for her ( if, again, somewhat subtle over all). Like a cat, it’s a lot of understated gestures, until she’s comfortable.