#massively parallel processing

[zomb13s]

The Evolution and Impact of Supercomputers and Servers in the Modern World

Introduction Supercomputers represent the pinnacle of computational power, evolving from massive, room-sized machines to sleek, compact devices with immense processing capabilities. These advancements have drastically transformed scientific research, industry, and even daily life. In parallel, server technology has undergone a rapid evolution, supporting the backbone of global networks and data…

[seafoamsol]

The best years of my life...

... what I wouldn't give to have them back.

I had the great pleasure of working with @spiderscribe on a DeadCeptor work for the @tf-bigbang, which you can (and should!) read [ HERE ]!

Details and artist commentary under the cut!

Okay, first off, I just wanna say, thank you so much to @spiderscribe for picking up my very loose scribble and taking the jump. She's an absolute champ, and I IMPLORE you to read her writing. She did a knockout job on the fic, and guaranteed, these two pieces wouldn't have been so elaborate without her. If you're a fan of deadceptor, parallels, lovers to enemies to apocalyptic teammates to ???s, I'm sure you'll find that and more in there.

[ HERE ] is the link to that, if you missed it the first time around.

The background for the supermarket was a MASSIVE undertaking. I ended up blurring it in the final to keep the dream-like quality, but there is a lot happening there! Most of the time I spent on the background was (jokingly) complaining though.

Anyone who works retail will know the agony of customer-misplaced stock. The little canisters of energon additives seem like prime candidates to be placed willy-nilly.

The little warning sign... My favorite soda, apple sidra, has a carcinogen warning, so I'm familiar with it. It was slightly surprising to me that those warnings are not countrywide, despite the fact that they very clearly say "California Proposition 65", and well. Not something else, like "Federal" or whatever.

The bags of nuts and bolts below, I asked several people what flavor they would be, and I suppose I failed in my job, because I wanted the purple to be the "regular" flavor, and the green to be the "sour". But grape and lemon-lime work as well!

The tub is full of rust-sticks. I have no idea if that came across. My friends kept calling the individually wrapped ones slim jims, which I mean, I guess!

The car batteries... My idea was that they were similar to shots, in a way? So that's how I ended up with a battery with enough terminals to rival an international airport. It's also sunset-coloured, because, I don't know, that's what Party Flavor is to me.

Okay. The second illustration. This one was a headache, mostly due to my own lack of planning, and the fact that I lost the file for... basically everything I did, including the above illustration. So it was a bit of a rush job.

The background bots started off as these very vague silhouettes, which I'm a little proud of. Look at how nice and somewhat readable they are! Okay, now what if I ruined it? What? You don't like that? That's rather unfortunate, because that's what I proceeded to do. In fact, if I take off all.. 10 or something adjustment layers, they look like this:

My process went: Shadow block> Fill rest of form> Color randomiser> Copy and skew (to populate background)> Hue adjustment> Gradient map> Fill Light> Chromatic aberration> Vignette> Levels> Curves.

The.... Magenta cube is there because due to the nature of the color randomiser, the foot had a high value, and stuck out like nobody's business in the end.

Here's what it would look like without the cube. Begone, distracting white blob! (I didn't have to worry about the lava arm because Percy happened to cover it up. What a save! But if he didn't then... there would have been a second cube.)

Basically, it was a mess. But... at least it came out fine in the end! I hope!

I'd love to have speedpaints on hand, but I was switching between CSP and PS for a good majority of the work.

I'd say that's it for these two pieces! I actually have more, but those demand more time. I'm much slower at doing inks than I am at painting, but I hope you'll get to see them soon.

[minimujina]

wanderer in his season of healing makes me so happy. i love that he is safe enough to become softer again, that he is regaining some of his previously “weak” attributes and finding peace with them. he is becoming measured and introspective, and thinking before he speaks, perhaps a result of both his healing and his melancholy; i think it’s beautiful that he is finally able to safely feel his sadness and process the things that have happened. he is simultaneously finding peace and feeling all the difficult emotions he previously consumed with anger. it is painful, but right.

his sense of humor is still intact, certainly rough around the edges as you’d expect, though much less biting than before. it’s easy to tell that most anything aggressive he says is a front, a front that he is no longer concerned with presenting as absolute truth. perhaps the front is his sense of humor, and his affection is all thinly veiled behind jabs and sour grumbles—he is not willing to divulge the intimate details of that, however, preferring to leave it up to interpretation.

i just think of him and his healing and i feel like if he were to fall in love, it would be such a sweet and gentle and quiet sort of thing, just like his newfound peace. he ponders over many things, brooding by himself as much as he can, though he occasionally allows space for others to brood with him. that, i think, is something unique he may grow in. there are people who cannot tolerate strong emotions in themselves and certainly not in others—but he is the kind of person who can. he is the kind of person you could sit with and exist in your sadness and just be sad, and that’s okay. he’s not offering words of comfort or anything, but he doesn’t need to. anything he’d say would be useless anyways, he knows what it’s like and knows that a presence is enough and existing in your emotions safely is enough. he can appreciate someone who is straightforward about feeling unwell, who doesn’t seek pity, who is alright with sitting in the mud. he will gladly sit with you, then, as long as you don’t expect him to get all mushy about things.

he would do well falling in love quietly, not having to beat around the bush. naturally, pieces would fall into place, and he’d find himself yearning to be in the presence of another in a way he’d never before experienced. he had never really wanted to be around anyone, had never sought out anyone’s presence. but once he has been treated gently, has fallen softly into the arms of a likened soul who has the patience and understanding to touch his rough edges without recoiling, he finds his third space being with this new safe person.

and despite his reluctance to be anything but mysterious and nonchalant, i believe wanderer in his healing season would become quite the romantic. not in the sappy sense, but in the quiet love sense i’ve been talking about. firm and protective, subtle and gentle, almost gentlemanlike if it weren’t for his falsely rotten attitude he enjoyed projecting. romantic in a princely way, in a reverently respectful way, in a grotesquely wholesome way.

only the most chaste touches and kisses; he’s still getting used to affection, and would abhor pda. in private he’s much more open to being touched, because he is safe. if he is not safe, he is deeply conditioned to be conscious of his vulnerabilities, and it’s something that will take a lot of time to override, if even at all. but it’s a massive and beautiful step that he is even willing to receive affection at all, that he would want it from a partner in any amount.

hates eye contact, likes playing with hands. likes tracing veins and creases in skin and freckles and scars; he finds them fascinating, as he has nothing of the sort on his artificial body. one of his unique ways he shows affection is what could be called “studying” you. he likes to brood (with you there; perhaps it could be called parallel brooding) and take your arm and trace all the splotches, imperfections, veins, tendons he can find. he likes to touch more than he likes to be touched i think. perhaps he becomes amusingly selfish in this way. perhaps he is more averse to receiving than giving the affection because his disgust towards himself still lingers. perhaps he still has harmful core beliefs to unlearn.

i think he is full of a love that is strong and quiet, a love that he gives so sparingly, and only in pieces, never all at once. unless, that is, someone comes along and manages to drag it all out like a magnet—his carefully crafted exterior is in pieces, just like that! but oh, once someone is in possession of his love, he begins to know them so intimately, more intimately than he lets on. he so deeply knows who he loves and he knows how to give and to take action and so he does it, silently, for he is adept at perceiving the needs of his loved ones. reading body language and facial expressions is second nature to him at this point; nothing can get past him.

he studies you wordlessly with the expression of a cat who loves and reveres its human, except it’s the kind of cat who believes it owns the human, not the other way around. you’re his responsibility that he has taken on like an extension of himself because he loves you, and you have loved him, and now he hardly wants you out of his sight. his journey of rediscovery and learning self acceptance has been mentally and emotionally arduous, but ever since you came in and made loving him seem so easy, he’s felt much more at peace, and has had the capacity to reflect and process with much more freedom to sincerely feel.

stupid fictional character i hate him i hate him so much he is not real and i hate him

[tls12lessthan3]

can i tell you guys about my interpretation of a no-scenarios relationship between kim dokja and yoo sangah. im gonna do it anyway. the thing about a no-scenarios relationship of any kind between kim dokja and yoo sangah, for me, is i really think it would be so difficult for a genuine connection to form between them because kim dokja ultimately dehumanizes and fictionalises her the same way he does yoo joonghyuk. like his specific brand of dissosiation works as him viewing the world through the lens of fiction and he applies that so heavily to yoo sangah when we first meet her. she and him already have some vague form of relationship by this point - i would not call them friends but he moved those cameras for her! he kept her secret! and she knew and trusted him to an extent. that is on top of their teamwork in the job interview.

but we know none of this when we first meet yoo sangah because dokja views her as a heroine who would never cross genres with him, and he erases their history together in the process. he does the same thing with her putting pepper in her boss's coffee - thats not something a perfect pretty heroine would do so we have no idea she did it until she tells us, because kim dokja sort of - filters it out. he smoothes down the edges of her reality as a person and all the 'out of character' things she does into an easily digestible character he can push away as 'from a different genre'. and this is a massive fucking disservice to yoo sangah!! for the same reasons what kim dokja does to yoo joonghyuk is a massive fucking disservice to him!!

shes not a heroine! shes not perfect! shes not from a different genre! shes just a person and she wants to be your friend! i think if they were friends outside of the scenario kim dokja would a) try and push her away and more interestingly to me b) he would continue to try and slot her into his worldview as a 'heroine protagonist' and i think that would really grate on her. especially considering how the role kim dokja creates for her has some parallels to the one her parents made for her. kim dokjas lesson over orv of coming to understand the 'characters' as people is analogous for the one he would need in real life - just like his relationship with yoo joonghyuk couldnt reach its peak until he stopped viewing him as a character, he would need a similar journey of realization to start really understanding yoo sangah. its only then i could see them getting really close.

[anthurak]

So by this point, I think many of us are likely familiar with the idea that the breakup of Team RWBY at the end of Volume 3 is meant to thematically parallel the breakup of Team STRQ in the wake of Summer’s death, ie; Ruby falls into a coma for a few days while Summer disappears and then both their teams fracture. Along with a popular sub-theory that Blake leaving Yang after the Fall is meant to parallel Raven leaving Tai.

But the thing is, if Ruby falling into a coma at the end of Volume 3 is meant to parallel Summer’s (supposed) death and the way this loss caused the fracturing and breakup of their respective teams, then Raven’s actions DON’T really parallel Blake nearly as well as a lot of people think.

And in fact, I feel like Qrow could potentially have paralleled Blake’s actions FAR better.

Like people talk about how Raven ‘abandoned’ Tai just like Blake ran away from Yang after the Fall of Beacon. Except if the point of parallel to the Fall of Beacon is Summer’s death, then the parallel doesn’t work because Raven was ALREADY GONE from Team STRQ by the time Summer disappeared. To the point where Tai, Qrow and Ozpin had (and still have) NO IDEA she was even involved in whatever happened to Summer. Raven can’t exactly have abandoned Tai just like Blake did to Yang if Raven wasn’t even around.

Instead, as I’ve discussed in the past, I think Raven’s actions following Summer’s ‘death’ potentially line up far better with WEISS. Like if it turns out that losing Summer was what actually drove Raven to return to her tribe, then that lines up very nicely with Weiss being taken back to her family/Atlas in the wake of the Fall of Beacon: Both return to the shitty, abusive family that raised them. And given how much of Weiss’s character is tied up in her family and their ‘legacy’, then the way Raven eventually took over her tribe makes her an ideal foil; effectively representing a Weiss who did eventually take over the Schnee family and company, but in the process internalized all the pain and trauma her family gave her.

And as for a cherry on top; if Ruby falling into a coma after the Fall of Beacon is meant to parallel Summer’s supposed ‘death’, then what was one of the last things Ruby did at the Fall?

Run off on a special mission with Weiss, just like we now know Summer did with Raven.

Now going back to my point about how Raven was not even around to abandon Tai just like Blake did to Yang, you know who WAS presumably around when Summer ‘died’?

Yeah; Qrow.

Let’s consider what exactly Blake actually did following the Fall of Beacon beyond just a surface-level reading: Yes, she did go back to her family, similar to what Raven may have done, but given that the Belladonnas are NOT actually shitty and abusive, I maintain that Weiss is still the better parallel to Raven. Instead, let’s consider Blake’s whole arc across Volumes 4 and 5 relating to the White Fang: At first being depressed over loss and perceived failure before being inspired to start working for a better cause, in this case pushing back against and stopping Adam’s takeover of the White Fang.

So I have to wonder; what if this reflects what Qrow did with Ozpin and the conspiracy following Summer’s ‘death’? Maybe Qrow and his teammates had helped Ozpin in the past and knew what he was doing, but what if THIS was the point where Qrow became fully committed to Ozpin’s cause and joined the Ozluminati full-time? Perhaps seeing it as a way of ‘honoring’ Summer’s memory.

Instead of staying with the one teammate he had left (and possible partner) who was now in a massive depressive spiral AND had two kids to take care of.

It starts to make Qrow and Tai feel a lot like Blake and Yang, doesn’t it?

This is one of the big reasons why I think Qrow and Tai are the REAL foil to Bumbleby on Team STRQ. They effectively give us a look at a version of Blake and Yang whose relationship failed. Or rather, were never able to ‘take the next step’ and actually form their relationship.

Qrow is a Blake who fully internalized her self-loathing and belief that she didn’t deserve Yang or that Yang was better off without her and has simply been pining for Yang from afar.

Meanwhile Tai is a Yang who likewise fully internalized her fears of abandonment and fully resents Blake for leaving her or may not have ever even fully recognized her feelings for Blake in the first place.

Essentially, Qrow and Tai are the version of Blake and Yang who weren’t able to work through all the problems, issues and baggage which allowed them to actually start their relationship. Like a Blake who didn’t get that vital pep-talk from Sun at the end of Volume 4, or a Yang who likewise didn’t get that vital talk from Weiss in Volume 5.

Which in turn leads us to what I brought up earlier with Qrow joining up with the Ozluminati full-time, essentially representing a Blake who threw herself into reforming the White Fang instead of returning to Team RWBY and reconnecting with Yang. Meanwhile Tai simply throws himself into a deep depression, grief and ‘moping’, ironically all the things he would later accuse Yang of doing (at some point I’m going to do a post on just how much PROJECTING Tai has likely been doing…)

So now Qrow and Tai have this low-key toxic relationship where Qrow is more-or-less aware of Tai’s extremely dysfunctional parenting but has also been enabling it and a lot of Tai’s unhealthy coping mechanisms over the years because he’s been pining for Tai ever since their Beacon days and still is pining in a very depressed, self-loathing ‘I don’t deserve him/to be happy’ way and also doesn’t want to risk conflict with his former partner and also the only teammate he has left.

Thus Qrow keeps his distance and just goes along with Tai’s dysfunctions and/or lets Tai push him away. Which in turn just reinforces Tai’s abandonment issues.

And Ruby and Yang are still stuck with utterly dysfunctional parental figures.

Oh, and if you need more proof about the deliberate parallels between Blake and Qrow…

Then how about the whole damn song where they sing about how they’ve always felt terrible about themselves but now things are looking up for them.

[icouldntthinkofabetternamesook]

my brain made so connections

I'm not sure how pictures work here so this is gonna be formatted goofy but these two polycules/love angles have far to much in common and I need to share

Mel Medarda and Hazel Levesque

beautiful terrifying black women with mommy issues, gold, an association with wealth, prodigious magic powers, artistic pursuits and a distant brother. in a position of power in a system that will always see them as outsiders to some extent. big kindhearted boyfriend. terrible relationship with mother who is in many ways the antagonist of the entire piece and they never get a satisfying conclusion to their relationship(I see Gaea as Hazel's mom in this comparison). deeply and seriously underserved by a narrative that treats getting magic powers as the same thing as getting character development. I once again cannot overstate the shared connection to gold and wealth, especially gold. in many ways responsible for the events of the series but she did it for her mother's love so I can't blame her. Mels love of painting and Hazels love of drawing. A deep, loving, if damaged heart. if they came from anywhere near the same social strata they would be the same character

these two characters are defiantly cross universe variants of each other and their massive similarities kicked off this entire thought process

Viktor and Leo Valdez

scrappy, messy inventors with low self esteem, resurrections, a weird thing going on with a magical entity, and they both die to save the world. in weird sorta love triangle with the above. Leo has that pre arcane Machine herald vibe. they both push people away and are in a self inflicted cycle of loneliness despite being full of love. died for your sins and only got hate and pain in response

Jayce Tales and Frank Zhang

probably the least similar of the polycules. absolute puppies of men, tendencies to fail upwards, get put at the very top of a system of authority of a kinda fascist organization, magic totem of some form, come from some level of legacy in their systems though Frank has far more. most importantly in a weird polycule, love angle with the other two, officially dating the golden girl and has weird thing happening with the resurrected one.

these are both utterly delightful polycules were the boys should go make out so the girl can self actualize

a few more arcane riordan parallels under the cut with more thematic exploration

Caitlyn Kiramman and Reyna Ramirez-Arellano

queer woman of color who got pulled into the facism despite their good intentions

Vi and Piper McClean

a bit of a stretch, but messy haired lesbians in conflict with a lot of the existing order and pressure of family legacy. I kinda have it divided with Piltover=Rome, Zaun=greece. which leads me to another connection. their both very close to the next person on my list

Jinx and Annabeth Chase

now this is definitely a hear me out, but I love my girl geniuses who after a falling out with their family ran into an older male figure who loved them like family but nonetheless was horribly toxic and wound up falling into even through their genuine dedication to their righteous crusade being soured after a falling out with another figure who also acted in a similar capacity to the girl they took in and the story ends with the little girl standing over their corpse they are various levels of responsible for after choose their devotion to another over their toxic semi parental love who spends their last breaths reaffirming their relationship and ultimately winning a more centrist version of their cause after death. I just love when little girls wind up alone, and desperate to prove themselves because the system cares about them as weapons over children to be protected.

Silco and Luke Castellan

was right. bitchin scars. fallen hero figures who care deeply for the people they sent out to protect but ultimately became what they feared most and got corrupted by power. leftist hero's in a centrist narrative. this does not change the immense harm they did specifically to the young girl in their care they have weird semi sexual/romantic subtext with despite ultimately having a familial bond. they also have an antagonist relationship with

Ekko and Percy Jackson

the boy savior, far to much on their shoulders to early, leaders in their community, truly look out for the people, will spit in authorities eye but is also pretty close to some specific people in power, in love with the victim/adopted family of the villain/fallen hero. the one who breaks the cycle and saves the day

I managed to get most of the Arcane characters and the tip of the ice berg for riordan. this obviously has Thalia as Vander in the Luke/Silco, Annabeth/Jinx trio, as well as an association with wolves and dying in a heroic sacrifice to protect a little girl in their charge and ultimately coming back from the dead after being saved against their will. I think Vi might actually be the closest to Jason in this dynamic, especially after making Reyna/Caitlyn, but they don't have that much more in common. serious complexes about being what others need and a lack of internal stability? amnesia if you take vi's old league lore into account? I still prefer Piper I think they have more similar vibes and I'm trying to make the camps and city's line up

this also has Gaea as Ambessa and Calypso as Hexcore Sky. no one really lines up with singed or Sevika and no one lines up with Nico. Sevika works as Clarisse, as in utterly amazing butches

this might all just be similar tropes lining up in similar ways but I kinda like it

[ge-uwu-do]

so i was rereading @minas-linkverse, and i wanna talk about just what kind of fascinating character feathers is. i'm basing my analysis on the panels above/their updates as well as this update. feathers is such a great character and there's a lot of details that showcase it but they're woven in so cleverly it took a re-read to catch them.

he's so. link in the way that he seems to take everything onto himself. it's self destructive in a way. he's like a candle burning himself out to keep everyone else warm. he can't relax at night he has to think about everyone and how he personally can manage to help them. it's clear that his journey changed him to be like this like. adventure isn't in his bones. he probably didn't long for far off lands. but he loves down to his core and he's the sort of person that wouldn't shuck any responsibility even if he wanted to. there's this ongoing thread that might be summed up as: is being a hero a choice or a curse? the answer for some of them might be, a little bit of both. like for masks and legend it's probably a curse. but for feathers it feels like it was a curse he decided to take on if that makes sense. like he knew it would curse him but he walked into it anyway.

i think there's parallels between this link (feathers) and fi. because as he crafts fi and slowly refines her, he is likewise crafting himself into a sword. he's getting sharper and dedicating himself more to a singular purpose. and he succeeded, obviously. but you can't go back to being iron or steel. he can't undo the process that made him into a hero, even if it may or may not have been in his original nature to become something that sharp. and so i think it's like after the war is over he's struggling to go back to having a soft edge, but he wants to. he wants to fit back into the niche he left but their shapes don't align anymore. even him taking on the task of delivering granny's letter to sailor just so he would take on the burden of the negative reaction. he manages everything he's struggling with by focusing outwards: if he only sees other people then he doesn't have to see himself.

this isn't sustainable of course. it's also not very obvious at first glance. like feathers looks like he's got it all together. but of course he doesn't - this whole trip involves people with massive unresolved traumas. if legend is like "I'm the one who always has to fix things" then feathers is "I'm the one who is responsible for all the things." and it's like a slight difference but it changes the way they see themselves in a major way, and how they feel their failures reflect back onto themselves and that's just neat!

[class1akids]

Explain to me like I'm 5 why you guys hate endeavour but are relatively more ok with bakugou. Like they have similar arcs.

This sounds like ragebait, but if you use your brain it's actually not hard to see that the story itself wants you to see that Bakugou is a "good version" of Endeavor - someone who managed to realize what he was doing was fucked up before it was too late.

If you need more breakdown than that:

Crucial difference is that Bakugou is a child throughout the story (starts bullying Deku when they are 5 and he's done his whole arc by 17), while Endeavor is a whole-ass adult of 22 when he goes out to purchase a wife, starts his fucked up genetic experiment and tortures his family for over two decades, destroying 5 people's lives in the process.

Children have no criminal liability at all under the age of 14 and only limited liability under the age of 18, but in any case, the only thing Bakugou did that could pass as a crime, is the suicide baiting. Everything else is a disciplinary issue. Domestic violence is a crime though and Endeavor did that in his full criminal capacity.

While Bakugou is stronger than Deku, they are technically peers and Izuku could decide to fight back, report him, etc. while Endeavor is an adult abusing children under his care.

Both Bakugou and Endeavor have fragile egos and massive inferiority complexes, Bakugou started to look inwards very early as he felt he was falling behind Izuku and blaming himself / seeking to improve his ways. Endeavor kept blaming others for how bad he felt, and abusing them. He only started to change once he actually got what he wanted.

Bakugou found concrete ways to help Izuku (keep his secret, support him in training, backing him up on the battlefield), while Endeavor never manages to step up as a father for his family (other than the house which comes to mean nothing).

Bakugou himself carries most of the karma consequences for his atonement, while for Endeavor, the consequences are spread onto the victims (Rei's and Fuyumi's burn scars) and most of the physical punishment is taken by Shouto, who carries Touya's fate both through two fights and a deep emotional investment.

As badly written as it is, the endgame actually makes an effort to show that Bakugou continues to hold himself accountable for the bullying and tries to support Deku in many ways (the armored suit, guest lecturing in the school, even the wingman talk about valuing himself more). While with Endeavor, the narrative puts the emphasis on how Endeavor is supported by others.

I think the parallels between Endeavor and Bakugou are emphasised to show that Bakugou in the end woke up before it was too late and could redeem himself. While Endeavor's change came too late and even if he wanted to atone, there was nothing he could do for his family.

[befuddledcinnamonroll]

I have been looking forward to Top Form all week! I neeeed it. Gimme gimme.

I love how they use the series Akin & Jin film together as a chance to use dialogue that is true to life, but that they would never say to each other in reality.

I feel for Akin. On one hand, he's got these feelings about Jin that he is clearly having trouble reckoning with. On the other, the entertainment industry is truly cutthroat, Akin is getting older, and Jin is the next bright young thing. None of that is easy stuff to process! And Akin seems to resist processing as his defense mechanism.

Also Boom is looking very pretty today.

The shipping going so strong already is probably the most realistic thing about this show.

Aw, Akin is sweet. Being cute with the clerk, smiling at the camera. He's a nice dude to his fans.

Oh, this framing is really interesting...Akin already feeling like Jin is such a massive presence. Dude is clearly already having such big feels.

Fascinating to compare to the framing in episode 1, and how quickly it's reversed.

Hee hee, the wings again. I know there were people confused by it, but seriously, just go with it. It's fun.

Akin is me when it comes to chocolate muffins. But also, editors, muffin flashback was not necessary, it happened two minutes ago.

Not the cat noise! I can't stop laughing. This show is such a gift.

Hey, it's Khom! Love seeing him pop up in things.

Baby has been counting down!

I bet you anything he knows to the minute as well.

Aw, Jin letting Akin know he's been working on his craft, he wants to make him proud. And to be seen as his equal, of course.

Haha, Akin trying to show he's all about the work with his memorization of how many scenes they have together. (But we all know this is about more than work to you Akin).

Oh this is brilliant. Akin trying to show off, and Jin proving he's a match.

HOW IS EVERYONE JUST WATCHING NORMALLY WITH THIS MUCH HOMOEROTIC TENSION IN THE ROOM?!?!

Well, this is by far the prettiest monologuing to a muffin scene I've witnessed.

Poor Akin, this is not going to help his difficult feelings.

Not my mind immediately going to Jin asking this question in bed...

Why yes I do have a praise kink, how can you tell, lolol

Ok, this may seem like a little thing, but Akin letting down his perfect facade around Jin to grab the bottle is a rather adorable indicator that he already feels like he can be different with him.

Oooh, Boom in glasses = hot.

Wow, the parallels of this script - Jin's character studying the dark arts as a metaphor for joining with the unethical company. I am loving this so much.

Holy shit, just when I think I can't love him more.

How much fun do we think Boom had learning to serve cunt with a fan?

Oh baby, don't read the comments.

Not the baby deer!!! Does it literally say "this is me" on it??

Literally all he cares about is Akin, sweet boy.

Also, Smart in glasses = hot.

Uh, calm down crowd. But also Jin is so damn huggable in that sweater.

Oh don't pretend to be annoyed Akin, we all saw that little smile.

Haha, their interaction in the van is so delightful.

This show has some incredible filming locations.

And I love the detail of the aspect ratio changing as they enter their series within a series.

The black and white coloring, the framing of the characters with Jin starting below and then moving to be at the same level multiple times, the interplay between them... I am adoring the details.

Not to mention the fucking killer chemistry, goddamn.

Lol, Jin nodding along to the director is adorable.

Whoa - that escalated quickly!

Nooooo, don't stop there! Waaaaaah.

Oh god is it next week yet?

[jasperandhenryslovechild]

henry and jasper's relationship in the movie parallels how ray and drex's relationship might have been before henry danger canon.

a ramble :3

massive henry danger the movie spoilers under the cut!!!

movie!hensper is a mirror reflection of what most likely happened with drex and ray BEFORE we ever got to see them together for the first time in hour of power. and the ways that henry interacts with missy throughout the movie parallels how ray and henry's own relationship began and i will DIE on this hill. the ray and henry parallels are rampant in them and why wouldn't that ray = henry concept transfer over to the one central conflict defining hensper as well? $!!$#?

drex was rays first shot, his first try at getting a grip on superhero-ing. his test run, his fallback plan, because he knew that drex would be too excited by the idea of being more important than he ever had been before to really think about it— for either of them to think about, to be honest. ray was just excited to be a superhero for the first time and drex was excited to be along for the ride. despite drex's turn to a more "evil" side, i don't necessarily think that all of that was just pure evil because actual, pure evil doesn't happen for no reason— I think that he too was frustrated and disturbed by having to exist in rays shadow, only truly living vicariously through his spotlight, to continue letting his life go like this. his turn to evil nature probably wasn't ever inherently evil, if not just being fed up with the shit he'd been served and absolutely SNAPPING because of it

henry, on the other hand, is similar!! henry is actually just insufferably infatuated with the idea of finally getting out of rays shadow. he is signing big corporate deals to devote his service to a company (.... much like how ray sold away his life & service to a government for partially for more recognition and money in the long run........) and is doing everything in his power to stay big no matter what. in the process, he's leaving jasper in the dark and treating him like a fall back plan while he searches for something even bigger. he ends up meeting missy, who's as dazed and excited to work with a hero as henry himself was at her age when he applied to work with ray. he sees himself in her— excited, ready, eager— and is willing to teach her what he knows in order to make a successful hero. when he starts working with her in newtown, she starts falling under the same sort of issues that henry had while with her ("is now a good time to mention i have my trig midterm tomorrow?") and he doesn't realize it, treating her in the exact same damaging ways that ray had treated him ("you're a sidekick now, this is what you signed up for!")

both ray and henry end up becoming obsessed with the idea of becoming greater than they are and then greater than that, of becoming the next big thing. of becoming good and honorable in all senses of the word. ray is indestructible, but now he wants to be a hero. now that he's a hero, he wants a sidekick. now that he has a sidekick, he wants one with powers & one that can replace him when it's his time to go. and when that one quits, he wants an entire team of sidekicks— so on and so forth until he realizes that it will never be enough, hits his midlife crisis, and makes the irresponsible and rash decision to quit forever and completely leave the danger force to handle things alone instead. some unknown force drags him back to his roots and he is forced to go back to henry & that old lifestyle to vince it

henry hart wanted his name to mean something, so he became a superheroes sidekick. when he became a sidekick, he wanted his own form of recognition. when he sacrificed himself to achieve that, he went to dystopia and wanted to make it big. when he brought jasper along to his suicide mission to make that happen, he wanted more fame. when he involved himself in government business to get there and get famous, he wanted even more. so he signed a deal with bizwatch and realized throughout the movie that he didn't appreciate his friendship with jasper enough and through bonding with missy learns how to "correct his errors". he gives jasper a chocolate golden star for his efforts and makes the irresponsible and rash decision to leave dystopia and fight crime with missy in newtown, completely abandoning jasper for him to deal with dystopian criminals on his own instead. a calling to the sense of familiarity that fighting crime for a small town brought began tethering henry back to his roots.

henry and ray meet in the middle— despite their strongest efforts, their old ghosts are tying them to a life that isn't theirs anymore, a life they desperately need to give up for their own wellbeing. but neither will because it's all they know— crime fighting represents both the best and worst times in their lives and it creates an unhealthy, VICIOUS cycle of hurting themselves/each other/others for the twisted comfort the aftermath will bring, over and over and over again. they are both perpetually trapped in a narcissistic cycle of their own making. nobody (not themselves, not anybody around them) are good enough to cut it off at the core or even separate themselves from that situation because nobody really knows how. the ones who did (PRE CANON/HD!DREX!!) are evil and rejected by society, and the ones who try (MOVIE!JASPER!!) are ignored and subconsciously belittled by the higher forces in their lives

[katerinaaqu]

While researching Odysseus' family on his father's side, I had the blessing (and curse) of learning about Cephalus. This exploration had some ironic and tragic similarities between Odysseus and Cephalus. Both were taken advantage of by goddesses and held captive by them. Also, they share a Suicidal connection to the sea: Odysseus contemplated suicide on Calypso’s island, while Cephalus took his own life by drowning.

Correct me if I’m wrong abt smth

There seems to be plenty of parallelism with Cephalus who seems to be the beginning of the line of Odysseus or at least the founder of his kingdom and Odysseus himself. For starters we also have a tragic tale between Cephalus and his wife Procris (although their story is massively different than what we see between Odysseus and Penelope) in which Cephalus and Procris swear to each other to be loyal and according to sources like Hyginus we even hear a similar recognition game process such as between Odysseus and Penelope

Yes we see Cephalus being loved by the goddess Eos (Dawn) and him rejecting her and Eos kidnapped him and carried him over to Syria and even she tries to break his bond with Procris (see for example Calypso comparing herself to Penelope to manipulate Odysseus into seeing her as the better option). The iconography between Odysseus and Cephalus is very similar too. See for example this red-figure kylix that belongs to the painter Douris:

Eos appears to grab Cephalus bu the arm, pulling him out of his way. Cephalus is dressed in chlamys almost identical to the one Odysseus has in his, let's say depiction in the underworld and he wears a Petassos hat, significant part of people traveling or working outside. He is even holding two spears which was also a description Odysseus has more often whatnot (see for example when he is ready to fight Skylla in the Odyssey). I actually love this image at how scared and surprised Cephalus seems while Eos seems literally ready to pull him up at the sky.

As for the suicide thematic it seems that Strabo connects the location of Leucas or Leucatas as a "leap tradition" place for those who suffered of love. He seems to place Cephalus as the first person to start this "tradition" when he throws himself off the end of Leucatas rock where he had also built the temple to Apollo to clease himself from accidentally killing his wife so yes it seems that the connection between Cephalus and killing himself out of love exists Ironically Odysseus even if he considered suicide out of desperation many times over in the Odyssey, he never did it for real even if he had chances of doing it.

[r0semultiverse]

How Homestuck Beyond Canon Candy Timeline has/will have parallels with Homestuck proper around and during the events of [S] Game Over

Jane Crocker heavily aligned/influenced by with Crocker Corp. Notice how her neck accessory looks very similar to the Crocker computer tiara. There's also the circuits surrounding the button, which are reminiscent of Crockertier Jane's visual mind control effect by The Condesce.

Jane also kind of looks like The Condesce with how she's silhouetted here.

The head of Crocker Corporation on a large Crocker space ship. A ship which I would like to point out looks eerily similar to the ship that The Condesce flies around in except the forks/sporks are facing the opposite direction and it's got black on it instead of mostly red.

Jake dying at the hands of Crocker influenced Jane and coming back to life parallels with this Jane coming close to killing Jake, but stopping right before death. Same green text too.

The cast of characters surrounding this time in the comic are also similar.

We also got the whole Crocker laser beam of death being hinted at which we've absolutely seen before.

I talked about this in one of my previous theories, Jake is getting a better grasp of his hope powers; so, I think we could see another hope explosion again in some capacity out of Jake's concern for Tavvy.

I could also totally see Jake being held hostage by one of the Crocker Clones A.K.A. the Brig Boys and Kanaya cutting them up with her chainsaw (hopefully avoiding Jake).

This is more of a little side detail, but Vriska is once again on the sidelines while this massive important fight takes place because she's trapped in her own personal Hell this time.

CHARACTER DEATH FLAGS - I don't know how to organize this post and there was a lot more potential evidence to this than I thought there was going into it.

Let me preface this with the fact that the existential split between Meat and Candy sometimes seems to try to course correct itself and much like certain peoples DNIs, it doesn't want any doubles. We see this with Dirk, Dave (he died even if he ascended to ultimate self afterwards), June/J/John, Terezi(seemingly), Meenah (her other self is in the black hole with Lord English so we can't necessarily confirm death but yknow), Aradia (is just Aradia), Gamzee, Calliope (that is a whole complex situation), and Rose (if her future sight is correct, but we'll get to that). Those are the only examples I can think of at this time, but it's absolutely a repeating pattern of the universe sort of course-correcting to have only one of each of our main characters exist at a time. This, at least in the cases of Dirk, Dave, & Rose seems to be related to the ascension to ultimate self, but we can't really say if that's why the other characters only get one existence at this time.

Karkat has has at least 2 deaths from around this time, one involving Crockertier Jane as well which could be a sign of things to come.

Rose's death flag is that she has literally foreseen her death in her future sight. She is thinking about Kanaya and Roxy in the same thought process while seeing her own death, feeling full of regret (even though she's trying to repress her own feelings) about her relationship to Roxy and Kanaya. Very similar to her being regretful as she was dying in Roxy's arms. I'm also guessing the bullet that hits her will be from Jake's gun, just throwing that out as a possibility.

ROSE: What... ROSE: Happened to me? ROXY: the witch got u ROXY: with her fork ROXY: but youre gonna be ok ROSE: Oh. ROSE: That's nice. ROSE: *Cough.* ROXY: maybe you uh ROXY: shouldnt try to talk now ROSE: You saved me, didn't you? ROXY: ... ROSE: Thanks. ROSE: But, ROSE: She's gone, isn't she. ROSE: For good, I mean. ROXY: ? ROSE: I saw her die. ROSE: And. ROSE: It's a shame how... ROSE: *Cough.* ROSE: A shame that I never even... ROSE: Got to tell her... ROSE: I loved her. ROXY: who?

ROSE: Kanaya. ROSE: But... ROSE: You too, mom.

Kanaya also has a death flag here in getting hit by The Condesce's laser beam of death, but it's more of a maybe given that we see Rose's future vision of Kanaya holding her body in her arms. Keep in mind though we also had this bit of dialogue about the reliability of future sight right before we saw that vision.

JADE: dont forget im more than a little versed in future sight myself ok JADE: i dont care how credible it seems, you cant depend on that information!

Jake and Jane are also on the chopping block potentially, but I can't think of a way at this time, unless Kanaya mistakes Jake for one of the clones amidst her rage and ends up cutting through him along with the Crocker clones. The one pictured below was done by Aranea who is out of the story. Maybe Meenah's trident hits Jake somehow or something, I don't know. We also have meat Jake and Jane who are doing more okay.

On top of the parallels to the doomed timeline that was [S] Game Over, we also had Vriska say that this reality was fake and didn't matter. I'm paraphrasing and I don't know if we'll get a doomed timeline situation yet with the 4 kids still in it, but I just thought the amount of parallels was interesting & worth pointing out.

I also wanted to get this out before the next update in case it's related to the flash animation and any of my predictions come true.

Alternatively I think the flash animation will be Ultimate Dirk kick starting his SBURB home brew session on Deltritus. He probably has all the tech and narrative powers to do it based on what we've seen, they just need a species they'll both be satisfied with as the players for the session.

[jisokai]

You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 1: one brighter than the rest.

sero hanta x reader ch 1/6 | 12.1k words | masterlist | ao3

cw: mentions of past death of a family member notes: chapter song is gloria by kendrick & sza

the circus arrives in Milan, and you arrive at the circus. someone special welcomes you personally.

✰.

"Inside every adult there's still a child that lingers. We're happiness merchants—giving people the opportunity to dream like children."

-Guy Laliberte, co-founder of Cirque du Soleil

The circus is coming. For you.

✰.

The knock on your door is five minutes late. It raps with firm rapidness, demanding a sense of urgency. You scramble to stand from your seat, dishes clattering against the table when you bump it with your knee, and scurry to greet your guest. He looks unamused when you tug the door open, eyes barely darting over unkempt hair and wrinkled clothing—maybe because he looks the same. You don’t bother with greetings, instead informing him that you’ll open the garage.

You kick the door closed as you start down the hall. The floorboards squeak under quick steps, feet threatening to slip from the softness of your socks. They’re struck with a chill on the soles when they land on bare concrete, carrying you along the wall to press the button on its surface.

Light slowly floods your workspace, trickling in from the bottom as the shutter lifts from the ground. Green grass and grey pavement fill the frame, soon joined by the red brick of neighboring buildings. The chilly air of February rushes in, prickling your uncovered arms with goosebumps. Grating sounds soak the air, rusted joints running along the frame of the large garage door.

The man is still by your front door, typing rapidly on his phone, when you step out onto the driveway.

“Qui!” You wave him over.

It successfully grabs his attention, pulling his head up and starting towards you. He looks annoyed.

“I don’t know Italian.”

You blink in realization. “Oh,” you say, preparing your brain to switch to English. “Sorry, I was telling you to wait by the garage.”

He nods curtly, eyes moving from you to the mannequin near the center of the room. He slips his hand into his pocket, digging out a key. “I’ll back up the van.”

You use the time to wheel your work to the edge of your studio. Tender fingers carefully grasp the waist of the wool figure—now draped in layers of delicate fabric and feathers—as you press your foot against the latch of the wheels, unlocking them. The mannequin gently rolls forward with your guidance until you step on the lock again. You look fondly at the gown, recounting the many transformations it went through to get here. Sleepless nights, panicked phone calls, trial and error. Despite the vexation this dress throttled you with for the past few months, a tremor waves through your heart knowing that you’ll part with it soon.

You turn to retrieve three other items. The first is a massive headpiece, delicate and jarring as you walk the display head to sit next to its counterpart. The other two are boxes, one filled with extra fabric and feathers, folds and wispy tufts spilling from the rough cardboard, smaller containers of beads and faux jewels shaking within. Another is a carefully organized plastic bin: your essential tools, the only orderly part of your process.

The man stops the van just before the garage door, right as you set the box behind your mannequin. He moves to open the metal doors, the click of the latch and squeaking hinges welcoming you into the dark space. There’s an assortment of cardboard boxes coating the floor—makeshift cushions, so the mannequin won’t slide en route. You unlock the wheels of the figure once again as the driver pulls out the ramp. Once it rests steadily on the ground, you push forward carefully.

You pause at the sound of rustling behind you. Turning to see the man lifting the box of fabric, you relax at the sight and continue your journey onwards. You nudge boxes with your foot, still bare of shoes, and slip the support of the mannequin between them. When it’s far enough inside to put you at ease, you hurry back down the ramp to retrieve the headpiece.

Once your supplies and costume pieces are secured in place, the driver looks at you expectantly from outside the van. You shake your head as you walk down the ramp.

“I’ll sit back there with it,” you tell him, unwilling to take the smallest chances. He nods unbothered. “I’ll just be a minute.”

You head back through the garage and into the hall, pulling your socks off and strewing them across the ground. You quickly gather your essentials and slip on a new change of clothes—wrinkled and sloppy, but warm enough to withstand the chilly air. You step haphazardly into your shoes and inhale the remainder of your breakfast before returning to the garage. You smack the button on the wall, dash to the closing door, and then step over the sensor while crouching under the door in time to leave. The driver is still waiting, eyes passing over you when you scurry into the back.

He pauses before closing the door, metal slamming against itself with a clang. You are shrouded in darkness, eyes fuzzy as they slowly adjust. You catch the silhouette of bundled feathers, the curve of fabric wrinkled around the waist of your model. A sliver of light peeks through the corners of the van, enough to vaguely illuminate the royal red of your gown. You carefully slip your legs under the cage of the skirt, holding the support stand between your calves while your feet press against the top of the pedal. The dress is still warm from your garage, warmer than the cold bench you’re seated on. You grasp the neck of the display head at your side, holding it sturdy as the engine thrums to life. The first lurch of the car has your heart pausing in anticipation, body clenched to keep everything steady, but you relax when the vehicle presses forward smoothly.

Once you confirm the steadiness of your hold and the driving, you fumble for your phone. The time reads just a quarter past noon—you’re moving faster than expected. You open your messages and send a one-handed text that you just left your apartment. The response is immediate: ‘See you soon!!’

You cradle your projects for nearly half an hour. Despite the darkness, you can follow the journey of the van from the sensations of the drive alone—the turns from one road to another, the oscillation between smooth pavement and bumpy cobblestone paths. You know this route from the western outskirts of Milan into the Cerchia dei Navigli, a bustling center of ornate gothic structures, rich opera history, and lines of designer boutiques. The essence of fresh pasta dishes and red wine wafts through the openings of the van. The storefront of your favorite osteria runs through your mind, spilling clusters of tables and chairs into the street, along with clinking glasses and the ting of silverware.

You relax, imagining the comforts of your regular places. Their distant visuals soften the thumping in your chest.

It’ll be fine. You know your client will like your work, you know the gown functions as it needs to, and you know your craftsmanship. Your work is good. You know this. The only variable left is transportation, which has nearly come to an end. You feel the van stop, the engine quieting with it. 

Your legs relax and loosen their hold on the mannequin. Clanging erupts from the back of the aluminum cage, the driver pulling the doors open. You’re momentarily blinded by a burst of sunlight, reflecting off the white and red fabric you are parked before—stretched canvas taught against the framed structure beneath. You waste no time standing and shoving boxes out of the way, unlocking the mannequin wheels to walk it down the ramp. The driver watches closely, but waits silently as you reenter to get the headpiece.

You hear a shout as you walk down the ramp. It comes from a soft voice, sounding almost nervous. “Aizawa-san!” It calls, a stream of Japanese following. The driver turns his head at the sound. You realize it must be his name, recognizing the honorific.

When you step down onto the plaza, you catch sight of the owner of the voice: a man with striking green curls, some sticking against his forehead and cheeks. He wears a tight-fitted top that reads “practice shirt” and a pair of athletic shorts. He converses with who you assume is Aizawa, and you realize he must be one of the acrobats.

His eyes dart to you, then the mannequin head. His eyes brighten, almost shine, and suddenly you are bombarded with a slew of questions, spoken in heavily accented English.

“Wow! You must be the artist Kendou commissioned! Is that Momo’s costume? It’s incredible! It reminds me of Carnival in Asakusa—”

The rest of the words pass through you, a jumble you can hardly understand—both from the speed of his rambling and his accent. But you smile brightly at the compliment. The mention of Asakusa Samba with its feathers and accessories, patterns blending traditions from across the globe, was exactly the vision. Yours takes a much more modest approach, but the influence is clear—at least for someone who knows their Carnival. You appreciate someone who can trace those lines of inspiration, pick apart your brain and your thought process. It strikes you with a special sort of pride.

Before you can respond, the man you’ve decided is Aizawa interjects. “Midoriya.”

The mumbling halts and now the curly man is blushing, waving his arms around. “Gah! Sorry... I—”

Aizawa cuts him off, saying something in Japanese and gesturing to the van. To get your boxes, you think. He turns to you. “Which one should I carry?”

Your stomach clenches. You don’t like the idea of either being out of your control, but the answer is obvious. You hand him the mannequin head, watching as he grasps it by the neck and then immediately turns to walk away. You hold the waist of your mannequin and follow him slowly. The eagerness in your heart, the prospect of being so close to finished, calls you to sprint forward, to see this through. But you force yourself to walk slower than normal, to let this final moment stretch on a little longer. You know when you return home later, to a studio empty of its recent fixation, you’ll feel hollow inside.

As you wheel the dress along the giant tent, your eyes drift up its shaped canvas cover, stark against the blue sky. Yesterday this piazza was empty, holding its usual clusters of tourists and performers and lingerers. Overnight, a structure large enough to hold a stage and an audience was erected. People knew the circus was coming—Hoshi no Sākasu, Circus of the Stars—and yet as per usual, it appeared in an instant. Impossibly. 

You feel giddy, brimming with curiosities about the magic these people can conjure. How does an auditorium simply appear? And in the middle of one of Milan’s most notorious attractions, now fenced along the edges. But Hoshi no Sākasu is notorious for these sorts of stunts. You’re familiar with the circus, having been a fan of costumes and impossibilities since a child, but you’ve never known magic like this.

Your eye catches a gap in the fabric, a flap gently brushed open. You can see the stage setup at the front, the congregation of various athletes on their props. You yank your head forward, away from the tempting preview of the show to come. You don’t like to spoil these events for yourself, too invested in viewing the delivery of a performance as an unsuspecting spectator—a blank slate for a story to unfold.

You hear a huff beside you: Midoriya, having caught up somehow carrying both boxes—your plastic bin awkwardly small under the larger cardboard box. You feel some unease at his determination to make one trip, but your watchful eyes don’t catch any real problems with his method.

“It’s okay to have a look,” he says somewhat breathless. “Knowing what happens behind the scenes can make the performance more enriching!”

“And ruin the surprise?” you ask. “I’ve never seen a Hoshi no Sakasu performance. I want my first time to leave me blown away.”

He gapes. “You’ve never seen one? I thought circus costuming was one of your biggest inspirations. You said you’ve seen nearly a dozen of Cirque du Soleil’s shows, and you’re familiar with most other major circus productions.”

A wave of embarrassment rolls over you. The feeling festers in your shoulders, making you want to hide behind your mannequin. It’s one thing for people to know your work, mostly opera gowns and period dresses. It’s another to meet someone who’s read you, articles and interviews you couldn’t force yourself to relive. Not that you made any particular fumbles, but you never do well under spotlight. You prefer the shadows of the costume rooms, creating opulent or kitschy regalia for others to flaunt.

“It is. I have,” you respond. “But your circus has only toured in Asia. And I can’t watch online performances before the real thing.”

Midoriya makes a thoughtful noise beside you. You worry that he’s going to launch into another tirade of mumbling when you see Aizawa enter the next flap of the tent. You decide to speed your walking to a normal pace.

“Is this the wardrobe?” you ask.

Midoriya brightens, switching gears with ease. “Yes! Kendou and Momo are there now. These tents are such interesting spaces—”

You see it for yourself when you enter, carefully pulling the loose canvas aside to roll the mannequin along. The room is large with awkward corners, the chord of a circle. You catch the section of the wall with the stage entrance where the performers are currently congregated behind, separated only by a curtain. Chattering and clattering waft through the opening, the ambiance of their practice. There are props strewn about backstage, scatterings of belongings laying on tables with giant mirrors, and an array of costumes hanging on moveable coat racks. Your hands grip the waist of your lay figure, itching to sift through the final designs for the show.

You stop yourself when you catch fiery orange hair. “Kendou,” you say excitedly.

She leaps to you, away from Aizawa and the headpiece, and gasps, eyes twinkling with excitement as she calls your name in return.

“Wow,” she says, running a hand slowly over the dress. She gently lifts the base of the first layered skirt ruffles, threading her fingers along the wrinkles, the transition of red to white beneath. “You dyed it perfectly. And the details... just wow. I knew you were perfect for the job.”

That sensation of pride creeps back up your body, pulling you to stand straight with a grin. This piece was one from your roots—reaching back to your early works of parade dresses and costumes based on the birds of your home. You consider yourself an expert on the matter, emulating silhouettes and movements of macaws, toucans, hummingbirds. Even the mythical creature you were challenged to emulate for this dress, the mighty phoenix, you knew was well within your wheelhouse.

The process, admittedly, was the most challenging part. Rather than starting with fabrics and textures, design for this production began with a clear goal: the phoenix, and the mechanics of the gown in the illusion that would unfold. You started with white fabric and a silhouette, working with the proportions of Momo’s body and the creature in your objective. Then you iterated through textures, round after round of cutting fabric edges, stitching, adjusting, deciphering the best method of wrapping the fabric on Momo’s body. Afterwards came sizing, which involved a plane ride from Musutafu to Milan, for Momo to try on the prototype, finalize the details of the fit, and test how the fabric and headpiece would move during the choreography. Once you knew her patterns, it was time to dye and cut and stitch, a grind to complete the final work in just two weeks. You finished the base of the dress in two days, the headpiece in two, and spent five grueling over details—sewing in stones and feathers, and making additional fabric details to fix in place. You gave yourself a few days to stop thinking about it as best you could, before spending the past days fine-tuning the details.

Momo approaches, eyes glassy with awe. “It’s incredibly beautiful. We were right to trust you. I can’t believe this is the result.”

You appreciate them, their trust. The gown was just a swath of white fabric when they visited, still rough around the edges. Enough to understand how it would move and appear in silhouette, but requiring an active imagination to see it as a finished piece.

But enough praise. You want to see it on.

“Shall we?” you ask. 

The energy shifts immediately. Kendou is behind you, taking in your instructions for the best process to get the gown from the mannequin to Momo. You first unlatch the crinoline from the waist of your figure, gently pulling it down. Kendou has to help you remove the figure from the support so you can free the hoop skirt and hand it to Momo. While she steps out of her outer clothes and brings the frame in place, you notice neither of the men have left. Aizawa watches blankly while Midoriya averts his eyes, choosing instead to stare at the headpiece on the table.

Once the support is secured, you remove the dress from the mannequin. You make a show of where the zipper starts and how far it runs for Kendou to reference. You lift the sleeves upwards, Kendo’s sturdy hands assisting you, and Midoriya steps in to help, carefully grabbing the bunched fabric of the skirt. It lifts easily over Momo, lowering in time for her to slip her arms through the sleeves. Once her hands appear from cinched wrists, you immediately begin to adjust, picking at the fabric around her waist to smooth out any twisting. Kendou traces along the neckline to straighten it. You look at Midoriya, the way he awkwardly tries to fluff the fabric over the hoop skirt. You swoop in to help, fingers confident as they unpin the bundle of chiffon at the back, letting it spill vibrant orange—hot magma, you think—onto the ground, protected by a sheet. 

You hear Midoriya squeak as your hands skirt past his, essentially smacking them aside.

“Sorry!” he squeaks. “The other costume crew are out right now. I don’t normally get to help.”

You huff with a smile. “It’s fine. You like being on wardrobe duty?”

“Yes!” he says immediately. “It’s interesting to think about what types of fabric or shapes suit the acrobats and their acts. It really brings the characters alive, and yet not something I’ve had many chances to explore!”

You hum in agreement as you turn to the table with the headpiece. You gently work the elastic off, gripping at the hard plastic further up. Once secure in your grasp, you turn to hold it over Momo’s head, her hands meeting yours to catch the edges. It sits snug and straight despite the asymmetrical display of feathers. They fan to your right and sway gently with her movement. You let Kendou fuss with the details, ensuring it sits comfortably while you take a step back to admire the costume in full.

Even in the backroom, the costume has a magnifying presence. It commands attention. You let your eyes scan down Momo’s figure, the details of the feathered top that transitions into the mask, swirls of wire and mesh covering the top of Momo’s face, pointed dramatically at the ends in a sharp beak. Delicate pieces of wire frame her like a halo, tipped with feathers and sparkling gold jewels. They bounce softly with the slightest turn of her head, twinkling under the lights.

Her collarbones are framed by a heart-shaped neckline coated in sheer ruffles. They match the fabric of the shoulders and arms, cinched and falling in a classic bishop sleeve, sporting additional ruffling at the wrists. The chiffon is a bright red, tipped with the pop of orange. The bust of the dress is a contrasting dark maroon, coated with your signature detailing—intricately sewed jewels, beads, and buttons in abstract swirling patterns. The detailing trails down the waist, and fades into the front of the skirt. The fabric below the hips is generously layered, appearing dark and red as it sits upon itself and runs an inch on the floor. The transparent ribbons of orange lay elegantly on the ground, wrinkled carefully to retain volume. One of the bottommost layers of fabric is embroidered with the cursive swoops of your artist’s name: Verde, meaning green in both Italian and Spanish.

When the outfit is secure, Momo takes a few steps as a test. The fabric flutters over her arms and swishes around her waist. She experimentally spins, only about a quarter turn, and your breath hitches. The layered skirt lifts perfectly, exposing the bright white fabric below. You can imagine the act with full clarity, what will unfold on the stage.

“Ugh,” Kendou groans with delight. “It really... It's perfect. I couldn’t have dreamed of anything better. It’ll be the center of the show, like we wanted.”

Your heart swells further at the compliment. This is what those sleepless nights and raw fingertips were for, what they amount to. Not the praise, but the fulfillment of a vision—a dream finally coming to life.

Midoriya breaks you from your trance. “This is incredible! The costume crew and Momo have kept the rest of us in the dark the whole time. The others are going to be blown away when they see it.” He traces a gentle hand along one of the layers of the skirt. “Is it silk and chiffon? I’m trying to learn more about fabrics.”

You nod. “Chiffon for the sheer fabric, but a silk alternative for the skirt and bust. I’ve been experimenting with different alternative fabrics, and your team agreed to let me use plant lyocell after looking at my other pieces and how they’ve aged. It’ll be fine since Momo’s act isn’t demanding on the costume.”

Midoriya’s eyes shimmer, but Momo chimes in before he can respond. “I hope my performance can live up to the extravagance of this dress. I’m sure you have a critical eye for opera with your line of work.”

You roll your eyes. “You and your voice are stunning. It’ll be the best performance I’ve ever seen,” you reply honestly. “I’ve never been to an opera with an entire circus backing it up. Besides, I’m tired of standard gowns.” It pays well, with old money and prestige, but you inch closer to losing your sanity everytime you make another sleek, dark gown. You want flare and drama and the room to be eccentric. This commission was heaven sent, for giving you something you’ve been craving.

“Ever think about circus costume?” Kendou asks. “Full time, full commitment?”

You freeze. Your eyes blink rapidly, your heart following its pace. You tread carefully, unsure if this is a job offer or a thought experiment. “In my dreams. Never thought it was possible, though.”

You see Momo’s eyes widen at the admission. Kendou continues, “It is, for you. You should consider it.”

Your fingers tingle, body thrumming with anticipation. You think you might be sick. You look at her pleadingly. “Kendou, I have orders through June—”

She shakes her head. “Afterwards. Our traveling season ends in September. October is when we start preparations in Japan.”

There’s a lump in your throat you can’t swallow. You try to calm your expression, knowing you look like a deer in headlights, but your mind races with possibility. Then it fills with logistical questions—your home, your studio, the language barrier. You try to blink them away as you look into Kendou’s teal eyes. They’re strong, intense. One eyebrow is quirked, challenging you. For a moment you see the bright blue of the sea in her irises, waving against the black sand of her pupils.

She speaks before you do. “Just think about it, yeah? You have time. We can talk it over.”

All you manage is a nod, afraid of the noise you might make if you speak. Your eyes move to the others in the room, Momo’s curious gaze and Midoriya’s shining expression. Aizawa still looks bored, unbothered, and you find comfort in his nonchalance.

You clear your throat, ready to change the topic. “Okay. Is there anything else we need to run through? Adjustments? Final touches?”

Kendou waves her hand, turning back to Momo. “You should go, take the day off. You know I won’t botch your work. It’s perfect anyways.”

Despite your hammering heart wanting to run yourself out of the tent, your mind whirs at the potential work to do. “Are you sure?” you ask. You trust Kendou and her skillful touch, but this was your baby for months. Your stomach clenches knowing it’s no longer in your hands.

“Go,” she says, then turns to Midoriya. “You too, you should get lunch together. We need to get the dress on the stage, and we don’t need you pulling a muscle last minute again.”

His freckled face flushes, eyes widening comically. You see the start of a protest form on his lips before you interject. “You get to have real Italian pizza yet?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes trailing to you.

“C’mon, I’ll treat you,” you say. You would rather run out of here alone, to call your friend Chiara and hyperventilate over Kendo’s offer. But you’re drawn to circus people, those who get paid to make a spectacle of themselves. You can postpone your breakdown to indulge in time with a professional clown.

He flushes a shade darker, before stuttering through an, “O-okay!”

Kendo’s mouth smirks in your periphery while she examines the details of the dress, fussing over the ruffles on the shoulder. “Change into something warm,” she instructs.

The tumble of syllables that fall from his mouth are incoherent—you can’t tell if they’re Japanese or gibberish, maybe both. He scurries to the tables where bags and clothes are gathered, pulling out a square yellow pack. He grabs for a pile of fabric and then rushes into one of the changing stalls.

You pull out your phone, glancing at the time before opening your messages. You send a slew to your friend, getting the main point across that you need to talk later. Desperately. You notice a recent message from your sister and quickly swipe it away without reading it.

Aizawa’s voice pulls your attention back. “Do you need a ride?”

You turn to him, shaking your head. “No, we’ll be in the area. I can take the mannequin back with me on the metro later.” You pause before adding, “Thanks for driving. I can’t stand packing costumes. And sorry for the awkward first meeting... Aizawa?”

He nods, affirming the name. “It’s fine, it wasn’t any issue. It’ll have to be packed when we’re on the road, but Kendou will manage fine.”

“Aizawa’s one of the producers,” Momo says.

Your eyes widen, heart stumbling to your stomach. A producer? You recount the way you hurried him along just an hour earlier. Maybe he was nonchalant about Kendo’s job proposal because he was planning to make her rescind it. He laughs dryly at your expression.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a dark mirth. “I know how you costume people get, especially close to showing.”

You are saved by the return of Midoriya, dressed in a silhouette you think is quite stylish, but you have to suppress a grin at the clash between the garments. Bright dotted yellow lays against patterned maroon, flush against saturated cobalt painted with white details. Primary colors. You like this guy.

You tell Kendou that you’ll be back after lunch, at the very least to retrieve your lay figure. She and Momo wave you off with smiles. Midoriya leads you out of the tent and into the brightness of the day. Cool air nips your face and hands, but it calms you, brings ease into your body.

You look around the piazza. The paved square is fenced, littered with guards outside the perimeter. Over the top of the large tent is the pointed roof of the Duomo di Milano. 

“How do you do it?”

“Huh?”

“The tent,” you clarify, turning to meet his eyes. “How does it just… appear? Without warning—without anyone seeing.”

A cheeky grin crawls along the side of his face. “Can't say,” he answers vaguely with a hum, before diverting his eyes.

You huff, turning back to the blue of the sky. Is that the sort of thing you would get to learn about, to understand intricately, if you joined them? You want to whine in annoyance, but the tufts of clouds leisurely drifting above catch your attention. You think you can make out a rabbit, hopping to an apple twice its size. You’re about to point it out when Midoriya speaks.

“I don’t know where we’re going... ” he trails off, his smile now embarrassed. 

“I do. Can we exit from the north?”

He nods. You start walking left of the duomo’s face, towards one of the restaurants you frequent when you’re in town. Midoriya trails behind you, easily falling into conversation with his questions.

“Will you be coming to the opening night?” he asks.

You grin sharply, side-eyeing him. “Of course, and with impossible expectations.”

You expect him to flush like earlier, but a determined smile crosses his face, the acceptance of a challenge. “It’ll ruin any other performance for you.”

Your face lifts in surprise at the declaration, teeth sinking into the smile you try to fight. You believe him, having heard nothing but genuine and limitless praise from anyone who’s seen a Hoshi no Sākasu production. They’re known for intricate plotlines that unfold through deliberate acts, ones that overlap seamlessly. This show in particular, Gōyoku, has garnered immense hype leading up to its first performance, only a couple nights from now. It seeks to blend their usual rich use of Japanese culture and aesthetics with Italian influence, specifically through the addition of an opera performance. The eve of the first show will mark the start of a festival in the piazza. They’ll perform for five nights, ending the day before the Ambrosia Carnival begins, bringing four more days of festivities.

You’re somehow lucky enough to exist at the perfect intersection of opera gowns, bird costuming, and Italian residency—the exact background the costuming team sought. You nearly leaped out of your skin when you saw the email, ready to shelve any and all projects out of the way for this opportunity.

“I don’t doubt it,” you tell Midoriya honestly. You’re not hard to entertain when it comes to the circus, awed at performers in general—especially when they’re pushing the boundaries of their bodies. You had naive dreams for yourself at one point, visions of swinging through the air or twisting yourself in knots, but it didn’t take long for you to realize your heart was in the creation of the gowns instead.

You converse with Midoriya easily. He likes to talk about designers, asking your opinion on gowns or looks that have been circulating lately. By the time you reach the trattoria, sunken between the walls of the adjacent establishments and coated with ivy, you’ve managed to switch the conversation onto him: what pulled him to be a circus freak.

He’s as talkative when he’s the one answering questions, mumbling as he recounts an old figure in a notorious Japanese circus who inspired him.

“Toshinori Yagi was big in Japan for a long time. His range was incredible—he would perform up to seven acts during a show.” You let your eyes linger on Midoriya’s turtleneck while he talks, the bright yellow stark against the creamy beige of the wall behind him. Primary colors, you think again, like the notorious Yagi—or All Might, his stage name.

“Yeah. And then got Houdini-ed out of showbiz,” you add with an amused grin. You remember the news, when another performer asked if it was true he could withstand punches to the gut, landing one on him before he could prepare. He only lasted two more shows before his body gave out on stage from the abdominal trauma. Luckily unlike Houdini, Yagi survived the incident, but could no longer perform like he used to. “Only to turn around and become a legend in costuming.”

Midoriya beams. “Of course you’d be familiar! He’s one of my mentors. I met him as a kid, and he encouraged me to train and audition despite having a late start.”

You hum, curious. You look out the window to your side, people strolling down the cobblestone in long coats and scarves. You wonder how late a start can be, to still have time to make it in the industry. You were lucky as a kid, to have been exposed to your line of work so early—to be given these tools and connections before you even entered high school. You wonder what your life would have looked like if you tried to barrel down a different path, one that wasn’t reaching for you so tightly.

“So what’s your stage name, Midoriya?” You say his name with uncertainty, unsure if you heard it right.

He grimaces bashfully. “Sorry, I never introduced myself. On stage I’m Deku, but Midoriya is fine.”

You hum, and return the introduction. “Though it seems like you knew all that,” you say.

He nods across from you. A waiter interrupts his would-be response, asking what you’d like to order. You ask Midoriya if he has any food restrictions, receiving a shake of the head, before naming a few different dishes to the service. They nod and gather the menus before hurrying off. 

“I got classics, don’t worry,” you say with amusement. “This place is a good baseline for the rest of your time here. You like Italian food?”

“As much as the typical person,” he says. “But we don’t eat it much in Musutafu.”

You hum. “The Japanese food here is pretty hit or miss, but I can recommend a ramen place if you get desperate.”

He looks at you curiously. You return the expression. 

“Would... you really consider it?” he asks. “Coming to Japan for us?”

You blink, not expecting him to ask, then sigh. “I’d love to,” you say honestly. “But it’s a big change, And I have a network here. I could ride my career until the end.”

It’s true, you’d be comfortable in Milan. There’s always work, always opportunity for you. You have friends here, communities you’ve become a part of.

Your gut churns. But it’s the circus.

“But it’s the circus,” Midoriya says. You widen your eyes. “Your interviews always talk about how much you love the circus.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Hey, I’m not famous enough to have people memorizing articles written about me.”

Midoriya’s jaw clenches, eyes widening. “Sorry!” He waves his hands energetically—very Japanese. 

He averts his eyes. You think he looks guilty.

You laugh.

When the food is served, you insist that Midoriya eats as much as wants, whatever he wants. He reaches first for the pasta, eyes brightening as he shovels arrabiata into his mouth. 

You nod at the reaction. “You have to admit that good Italian food makes a difference.”

His hum and eager eating is approval enough. You make a show of cutting the pizza and nudge a few slices his way. In return, he pushes the pasta forwards for you to have a bite.

By the time you finish—using your language advantage to ensure Midoriya doesn’t foot the bill, before strolling out into the cool air—nearly an hour has passed. Midoriya starts a series of rambling as you return to the tent, happily bragging about his friends.

“I’m so excited for you to see Momo’s performance, she has such an incredible voice. And the act that she put together with Hagakure and Mirio is spectacular. Based on your interests, I think you’ll really like Sero and Tokoyami’s act. And Keigo too! Kacchan has one of the most intense, so he’s a typical audience favorite. We have an incredible build team that has been working on our special effects, and they really went all out for him. Kaminari and Tetsu have maybe the coolest—”

It continues all the way back to the dressing room, and even when you open the flap to step inside. You blink in surprise at the new faces sharing the room with Momo and Kendou. The singer is out of costume, dress hung at the front of a coat rack, and she calls your name. You wave as you walk over.

Momo introduces you swiftly—to a princely man and two smaller women—before clutching your hands. “No issues! We went through the choreo and it was perfect.”

You smile, an unexpected relief wafting through you. “I’m so glad. I can’t wait to see you in action.”

You take a long look in her eyes, pools of darkness with a shimmer. You realize—for the first time with full force—that this production has its own intricate meaning to Momo, likely more than whatever it could mean to you as an outsider. You grasp her hand in return, memory flooding with countless conversations to brainstorm ideas, random calls despite the seven hour time difference to ask for an opinion or show your progress. You think about the first call you had with her, just to get to know her.

You think the costume is an ode to how you’ve learned to understand Momo: the way she moves, the curves of her body. But it’s just as much an ode to how much she’s letting you in, giving you full reign to share everything you’ve ever known and loved about creating costumes.

There are words resting on the tip of your tongue, one’s that feel like a closure you aren’t ready for. It’s too soon and you’re not willing to do this with an audience, to taint your farewell with the prying eyes of those who don’t understand.

You think Momo feels the same. She says gently in effortless Italian, “I’ll see you in two days minimum, right?” The night the festival opens, the night before the first showing.

“Of course.”

She leans in for a hug. It’s a short and gentle embrace, but its essence is layered. Complicated.

“We’re all about to head out for a break.” She nods to the others gathering their things at the tables. “I wish we had time for you to meet them properly. You’ll stay after the show, right?”

“You could not pay me to stay away.”

She laughs quietly, then slips you a gentle smile. “Perfect. See you soon.”

You nod and watch as she turns away to join the others. Your eyes linger for a moment before you begin towards your mannequin. You take a few steps, ready to rush home and frantically call Chiara. As you scurry over, your eye catches a book resting on one of the dressing tables. It’s small, but looks familiar. You stop in your tracks when you catch the title: Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda.

If We Stretch Stars Like Silk

Your breath catches at the sight. It’s your childhood favorite, one you keep at your bedside after all these years—one with yellowed paper and a peeling cover, worn and faded with love. Nearly every page has a faint crease in the corner, where you’ve folded it over to mark your spot or make a note to come back to. The copy in front of you is old, with vintage font on the front and a blotch of water damage seeping through the top half. You catch the edge of a receipt peeking through, just a quarter into the volume: a bookmark, for someone who started recently.

You can’t help the twitch of your lips as you step closer, the lull of your childhood dreamspace drawing you in. You brush a finger along the dark edge, slipping where the receipt is wedged and taking a glimpse at the pages. You blink in surprise at the neat script in the margins, hiragana and the occasional kanji. Your eyes run over the markings, wondering what they say, until they drop lower and land on a line of Spanish written with a similar diligence.

You pull your hand away, letting the book close.

“¿Hablas Español?”

Do you speak Spanish?

You snap your head to the voice, deep and a little rough. You catch two different eye colors—Todoroki, you recall from Momo’s quick introduction.

“A little,” you say in English, betraying your mother tongue. You don’t know why the lie slips from you, especially when your eyes land on Midoriya lingering with the others. Your early life is easily accessible information—one quick search would surface the real answer.

“I love this book,” you add, as if offering truths will balance your dishonesty.

Todoroki hums in agreement. “It is quite beautiful.” His English flows easily, and with a nearly flawless American accent. “Another performer is reading it with me right now. He and I have similar taste, and I’ve been working on my Spanish.”

It makes sense, the book being targeted towards children with simple vocabulary and a whimsical plot. You longed to be part of the story when you first read it—a tale of two boys in different worlds. They came to know each other when they stumbled across a pond, seeing each other instead of their own reflection, the water a portal to bridge opposing universes. They could only ever cross through at night, by grasping at the stars twinkling in the reflection. They thinned out like ribbons of thread, and could be woven into a rope to climb through. On cloudy nights they could only look at each other with longing. 

In your adolescence, you imagined living in a third world, one where you could reach through the water and grasp them both, to be together forever. With you.

It planted dreams of weaving your own fabrics from scratch, like your grandmother did. But eventually you learned to sew.

Based on the bookmark, you think Todoroki has only just learned of the pond, the one Santi nearly falls into when he lands eyes on Marco for the first time. There’s a tug at your heart, calling to reach for your copy. You miss your boys, your adventures together.

“Your thoughts so far?” you ask.

You watch as Todoroki’s eyes narrow lightly with thought. You are struck by how beautiful he is, the soft skin of his face against sharp features. Your eyes trace his scar, curious towards the story behind it. You think he’d look striking wrapped in deep blue fabric—loose linens breezing against his body. With a high collar, maybe.

“It is a book that allows people to dream,” he eventually says.

Your smile is uncontainable. “Wait ‘til the actual magic happens.”

Midoriya’s voice breaks the conversation, calling for Todoroki. The taller man responds in Japanese, before translating for you.

“Sorry, but we are leaving now,” he says. “We can walk out together.”

You nod and abandon the table for your lay figure. You reattach the mannequin head before unlocking the wheels of the body. You crouch to grab the handle of your tool bin. Todoroki moves to help, but you shake your head. You’ll have to take it on the metro yourself anyways.

The others wait as you cross the room to the entrance, wheeling your figure along. They similarly try to help, but you smack away their hands. Kendou rolls her eyes, but then offers you three tickets and a plastic card. You let go of your mannequin to take it, reading your name across the top of the ID and the words “Costume Crew”. 

“In case you run into issues with security,” she explains. “But you shouldn’t.”

You nod, shoveling the card away before continuing to roll the dummy along. The cast members walk with you to the station, at the northern edge of the piazza, before saying their goodbyes.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay taking your stuff back alone?” Midoriya asks.

You nod with amusement. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Deku.”

He flushes.

You say your farewells, and receive particularly meaningful waves from Momo and Kendou, before walking towards the elevator. Taking the metro home is annoying, as it normally is when you have to transport your mannequin. But it’s routine, and you manage well enough. The afternoon is unhurried, offering abundant space in the train car, escaping glares that would have pointed your way if it were the end of the workday. While you wait for your stop, you check for a response from Chiara. She messaged you an hour ago, a simple, When and where?

You respond, My place in 30?

The transfer is easy enough, rolling from one train to the next. When you finally rise back to ground level and walk through your neighborhood, you’re nearly skipping. You have to reign your energy in to not look like an idiot. When you finally reach your building, you wrestle with your keys and fling the door open at lightning speed. Once your mannequin is locked in place and your tools are safely on the ground, you inelegantly crumple onto the floor.

You bury your head in your hands as you recount the day and all that passed: your mortifying introduction to the producer, the final passing of your precious gown to its new owner, the tension of potentially being offered a job, how you forced one of the performers (with the help of Kendou, admittedly) to get lunch with you, running into your childhood friend—that precious book you want to spend the night cradling with a flashlight under your covers.

Chiara storms in minutes later, the clack of her heels sharp on your floor. You hear her yelp at the sight of you before grabbing ahold of your arm and yanking you up. You look at her defeated.

“I’m tired of your cryptic bullshit,” she grumbles in sharp Italian, dragging you to the couch. Your legs weakly oblige. “Spill. What the hell happened? Did the gown get ruined? Do I need to call Davide?”

You look at her helplessly, shaking your head. You inhale. “I think they offered me a job.”

Her flawless face holds irritation for one more moment before her jaw drops. “What!?” she shrieks, grabbing your bicep tightly. Manicured nails dig into your skin.

You nod silently, slowly.

She gives you a few hard shakes. “What did you say? Holy fuck, are you accepting? You have to accept this, right? Oh my god. … Tucano—this is incredible.” Her voice softens by the end, the usual effect of the nickname.

“Chia,” you plead. She frowns at the tone. “I don’t—I don’t know? I’ve been in Milan for a while, it’s home to me. I can’t just leave my friends and my clients, and—” you pause, thinking of your late grandmother, your abuela, the reason you came here in the first place. When she fell ill and you needed money to take care of her, later taking her with you to a country with a higher success rate for her surgery, where you hoped to extend her life just a little longer, selfishly. You already uprooted yourself and your family, only for it to be abuela’s end. What would it mean to leave again, to keep running?

Part of you knows you’re kidding yourself. You may have left home to support your family, but now you stay gone to avoid seeing them, to avoid confrontation.

“I just… I can’t just leave.”

You watch her face, the way it falls sadly. “Tucano… you can do whatever you want. I thought… I thought this was your dream, the costumes. And for a circus. Not an opera or a show, but those freaky acrobats you fawn over.”

You glare as the last words leave her lips. Your eyes bore into her brown ones, her thick lashes. They match the darkness of her hair: perfect swooping waves that end above her shoulders.

“I know, I know,” she says with a sigh. “What? Do you need help processing? Brainstorming? Pro and cons list?”

You huff, not sure yourself. Her sharp eyes watch you closely.

“Well…” she tries. “If you got a job offer, then the dress was a success, yeah? Wanna debrief me on that?”

You groan as your mind reminds you of your faux pas with Aizawa this morning. “I totally offended one of their producers. I thought they were sending some random stage guy to give me a ride and…”

A dark brow lifts in curious delight. Her mouth quirks as you relay your demise. You’re about to scowl when she laughs. “Okay, but the dress. The dress made it?”

Your shoulders drop. “It’s perfect. They loved it.”

A sharp grin splits her face. Your heart squeezes when you recognize pride, for you. “As we knew they would! And that calls for celebration.”

You smile at the sentiment, your nervous heart relaxing slightly. Chiara reads you easily by now, like fluency in a language just by watching from the outside. Despite the scoffing and bullying, all her comments and faces are expressions of love. She reminds you of your sister: observant because she cares, but also to maximize her fuel for making fun of you. All the while knowing when to soften the edges, when to remind you that you’ve done a good job.

Momo in your finished gown flashes in your mind, and you agree that you deserve to have a moment of celebration. But you can’t escape the hollowness that follows, the emptiness of an undressed form. The lack of something to fixate on, to obsess over, to give your life purpose.

“Hey, you’re gonna see your costume again in a couple days. You can’t get your post-commission depression now. You can mope when they leave, okay?”

(Reading you like a poem—seeing meaning between the lines, meaning in mere fragments.)

You huff and nod, sulking. Chiara laughs at your grumpiness. 

Her presence soothes your nerves from the day, ones you pushed aside in favor of parading the streets with Midoriya. Your conversation continues, stretching through the afternoon as you cover the rest of your day. You ignore her suggestive looks as you talk about your time with Midoriya and the embarrassing feeling of knowing someone researched you so thoroughly. 

You don’t mention seeing the book. You think she’d talk about fate and signs if you let it slip, and then you’d be back to terrifying career talk.

Eventually you flip the conversation to her and her day, the clients she saw. She spent her morning at the studio, her usual dolling up of models for their shoots. It’s how you met, in your early days after arriving in Milan—you dressing up performers while she touched up their faces. She stayed with the company while you left for freelancing, preferring to have more say over your projects. Part of you envies Chia’s regular schedule, what you had to give up to keep yourself afloat. But part of you knows this is the dance you have to do with your craft: the hectic oscillation between losing yourself in a project and the following period of nothingness to recover. 

You talk until the sky darkens, the creeping beginnings of evening during the winter. The clock has hardly reached six, but you want to whip up a lazy dinner and retire for the evening. The call of Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda is still prevalent. You have a yearning for nostalgia.

So you boot Chiara out of your place—with a promise to see her for the first night of the festival—and claw through your freezer for some pre-prepared meal to heat. You find a crinkly package of stew that brings another round of longing through your heart, reminding you of abuela’s cooking. You know your decision, succumbing easily to a night of swaddling yourself in childhood comforts.

And you do. Half an hour later you are curled on your couch, your fluffiest blanket strewn over your shoulders. You sink into its plushness, the tickles of its fibers brushing your arms and neck. Hot stew rests in your lap while the book rests atop the arm of the sofa, spine worn enough that it rests flat without the assistance of your hand. You soak in the story of Santi's life, his home in Colombia. The simple but beautiful prose paints pictures of beaches and mountains, of boisterous streets striped in vibrant warm hues. You lovingly run your hand against the paper, smoothed and worn, some of the words fading. You take your time, smiling when you imagine the way Santi trips and nearly falls into the massive pond, how it flawlessly reflects the night sky onto the ground.

You set the book down after he and Marco finish their chat through the mirror of the water, the portal crossing worlds—universes. You find your eyes heavy, falling like Santi’s when he rolls along the grass, laying on his back to soak in the stars above.

In the morning you find that your dreams are hazy, not an uncommon occurrence. You frown as you close your eyes again, struggling to recall the scenes you danced through. You were laying in the grass, on the edge of the lake. There were beautiful stars, the kind you only see when you’ve taken trips north to the Alps.

But there was someone with you. A boy, a similar age as your dream self, as Santi and Marco—ten at the oldest. He watched you closely, purposefully. All you can remember were his hair and his eyes: dark. So dark they felt like a void, or a portal. Darker than the night sky.

The earth spins twice and you are preparing for the opening of the festival. It’s a collaboration with the local scene, vendors and entertainers from the city popping up their own tents. Hoshi no Sākasu has a few of their own near the large auditorium top, decorated with streamers and lanterns, selling traditional Japanese desserts and street food. The circus will wander north and then west on its journey through Europe and the Americas. With each stop they’ll invite the festival cultures of each country to meet their own.

You prepare at Chiara’s, her apartment deeper in the city and therefore closer to the Duomo. You begrudgingly pull your costume from the rack in the garage and sleeve it into the garment bag. You roll the length gently before placing it into a box, the soft protective cover scraping against the cardboard. You pull the matching mask and headpiece from their shelves and rest them on top.

The air is chilly when you make your way outside, biting at your exposed forearms. Perfect weather for your costume, and a night of dancing.

You let yourself into Chiara’s, calling out into the warm space. The only response is the ambiance—the thrumming of the heater. You set your box by the door and pull out your costume to hang on the rack, then invite yourself into the hall. Faint rustling sounds from the bathroom, the click of a plastic case, the tap of brushes rolling against each other. You grin and tug on the door.

The sight is not unusual: your friend with a handful of palettes—awkwardly shoved between each finger—and shoveling through her drawer of liners, lipsticks, and brushes. Her organization is as absent as yours, a nightmare to anyone who’s had to work with you both. But it means the two of you understand the chaos of each other’s systems, their inexplicable order.

She grins sharply at you. “Ready to transform?”

“Always.”

You’re dressing as your classic tonight, the guacamaya verde, or the green macaw. Birds are your specialty to begin with, a fixation passed from abuela to you. While she spent most of her time dyeing their silhouettes and features onto hand-woven fabrics, you ode to them in the shapes and details of your costumes. Feathers and beaks and fluttering fabrics like wings always make an appearance on your body during a festival or parade—but the vibrant green is your signature, the reason you chose Verde. 

Chiara sits you in the kitchen to get to work. The makeup is simple, familiar: sparkling green across your eyelids and glitter along your temples. 

She watches you closely as she presses powder against your eyes, the soft edge of the brush drawing the green to reach your temple. Her eyes are wide and her mouth parts, like she has something to say, to ask. You think it’s about the job offer, any new developments on what you think you’ll do with your life moving forward. You don’t implore, and neither does she.

She finishes quickly and leaves to do her own makeup in the bathroom. In her living room you pull the costume from its bag and step out of your clothes. The pants slide on first—long and loose with a cinch above the ankle. The fabric is soft where it brushes your skin, and the brightness of green brings a smile to your face. You slip the top on next, careful to avoid smudging Chiara’s work. Your arms come through the long sleeves slowly, careful not to grab the wrong piece, and shrug your shoulders to settle the garment in place. It’s your favorite part of the outfit, more than the headpiece. Layered fabric runs down your shoulders and arms to your back, expanding like wings when you lift your elbows from your waist. Their pieces flutter against you, like a cape. Tufts of feathers spring from your shoulders to match the headpiece.

You wait until Chiara emerges in her own red version of your costume to put the mask and headpiece on, fixing the wire frame over your face before sliding on the band, unrolling layers of fabric and feathers down the back of your head.

The two of you stroll confidently down the street, the swaying of your feathers and fabric catching the eyes of passersby. You walk along cobblestone paths, warming your body in the cold. The feeling of the soft fabric sliding across your skin, the sway of material cascading through your hair, is almost euphoric. You could skip, swing your arms and twirl, even. But Chiara is stern beside you, raising eyebrows at the giddiness on your face.

You start in defense, “I just—”

“I know,” she cuts you off. “But let's make a fool out of ourselves once we’re around other fools, yeah?”

You want to say that everyone in Milan is a fool. But you walk faster, and you ask about her upcoming clients to distract yourself.

The conversation halts when you reach the entrance of the piazza, eyes gleaming under the lights. Hoshi no Sākasu’s giant tent stands tall on the northern edge, with rows of square stalls spread along the southern half. The sun set a couple hours prior, the blackness of the sky now cradling the illuminated lanterns and string lights. You breathe in the ambiance of the fair, the sounds of vendors talking with customers and squeals of children running along the market rows. You can hear faint live music, the strumming of a guitar and the long notes of the standup bass. 

You squeeze your fists tightly in excitement, calming yourself to keep from sprinting your way to the entrance. 

There is no admission fee, just a few guards to glance at Chiara's bag. You can’t help yourself once you’re inside, and pace through the first line of tents. You stop once you’re fully swept into the sounds, blinking happily as you take in the venue. You don’t know where to start, eyes trailing along the options to make a decision. Most of the vendors are local, but you spot the stall closest to the stage tent, carp lanterns catching your attention. Before you can take a step closer, a hand clutches your wrist.

It’s Chiara, panting. “Shit, you’re like an unleashed dog.”

You grin and let your wrist slip in her grasp to clutch her hand. Then you march along, tugging her behind you. She doesn’t complain, happily following your lead.

Your heart sings as you gravitate towards the carps blowing through the air. You compliment other costumes and you notice, and flourish under the praise you receive for your own. This is what you love, you think. This is why you’re still here in Milan even after abuela passed. The ambiance and the community, the noisiness of vendors and live music streaming through the night.

And admittedly, sometimes you like to indulge in the fantasy of being a performer, for others to look at you and assume you’d be on the stage. 

You spot Kendou—your first sighting of any crew members—just before you make it to their tents. Her hair is what catches your attention, the fiery orange, but your eyes dart to her outfit next. She wears a deep teal dress that resembles a cheongsam, only with longer sleeves that fan out towards the ends. It’s layered with a black laced corset that bursts black feathers from the back, trailing down her dress like a tail. Her face sports a simple mask, the texture twinning her corset, with additional feathers sprouting from the edges and bunching behind her head.

She smiles when she sees you, running to gather you in a hug. You let go of Chiara to return it, and then swiftly introduce them.

“I love your costume,” you tell her. The blend of the Italian corset with the traditional Eastern dress is striking, and a thoughtful bridge between the origins of the circus and their first stop in Milan.

Her eyes shine as she compliments you in return. Chiara watches in amusement as you two ramble about the intent behind your designs, the methodical details. Kendou asks about your strategy for layering the fabric of your wings, while you ask about her process for the feather detailing.

A shout from the tent pulls her attention away, a slew of rough Japanese. She looks at you apologetically. “Sorry, Satou needs me to play messenger. I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

You nod. “Any recommendations?” You ask, tilting your head to the stall.

She walks over with you. “Get some noodles, yakisoba or okonomiyaki. Then come back for some taiyaki. Satou’s desserts are the best.”

You take her advice, getting one of each and awkwardly shovel the noodles in your mouths as you stroll along the vendors. You spot other performers and crew, realizing their costumes are all an interesting mix of traditional Japanese styles with European circus garb. You recognize the two smaller women you met after your lunch with Midoriya and wave to them across the crowd. They’re dressed in conventional clown outfits, but softened in pinks and green. The smaller one has a frog mask tied to the side of her head, while the other sports a conical farm hat to contrast pink frills.

After circling back to the stall for taiyaki, your heart starts to pull towards the music. You look at Chiara knowingly.

“Itching to dance?” she asks. 

You nod.

“I’ll be fine,” she tells you. “But I’ll probably leave soon—there’s a bar nearby I haven’t been to yet. Text me if you need anything? And stay at mine if the train isn’t running.”

You squeeze her hand before the two of you part, and then rush towards the music.

The musicians are gathered by the end of the market line, filling the piazza with melodies near the entrance point. People are gathered by the adjacent seating, individuals and couples and families. The windy notes of the accordion settle into your shoulders, moving experimentally to feel out the rhythm. You take another glance around the area and notice nobody is dancing.

Except for a young girl, maybe four or five. She wears a frilly green dress and a plastic Hyottoko mask, the ones sold at the circus’ stall. she jumps excitedly with the sound of the tambourine and flails her arms. You smile at the sight and skip over to her, giving your body a twirl when you’re just a few steps away. She shrieks with giggles, pointing at the faux wings settling down your back. You laugh at her reaction and reach for her hand to guide her through a spin. Your eyes scan the area, looking for her parents, and you wave when you see them.

The camaraderie of your small dance partner is what gives you the confidence to dance freely. Even after living in Milan for years, you still don’t have a grasp on their dance styles. The large, swooping movements are foreign to you, your hips instead naturally searching for the faster patterns of latin rhythms. The girl erupts into another fit of giggles at your movements. She tucks her hands behind her back and kicks her feet forwards in traditional Italian style. You smile and mirror her, the wide fabric of your pants billowing with each drive of your foot.

Eventually the song comes to an end and you stop to take deep breaths. Your body thrums with heat and energy, the beauty of movement. You squat in front of your new friend and raise a hand for her to clap. She does with a grin, and you tell her, “Grazie.”

She runs to her family, squealing as she grabs her father by his leg. He waves before standing, moving to leave. You sigh and twirl yourself again as another song starts, reaching within you to sustain the confidence for a round of dancing alone. You look up as your body slows, taking in the dark, starless sky. Your arm bumps someone and you jolt, “Scusa” already on your tongue.

It dies at the sight before you: another Hoshi no Sākasu member. Aizawa, you think for an instant when you catch dark hair and eyes, scruff along the jaw and lip. But his eyes are wider, sucking you into them with a gravity you’ve never felt before. He’s a little taller and leaner, with a crooked grin you can’t tear your eyes from. He’s charming, in a rough way—an charm of honesty, authenticity. 

Your first thought is that he would look breathtaking draped in silken black fabric, the perfect coupling to the air of mystery that sits about him. Instead he wears a long jesters hat, black and splattered with yellow stars and crescent moons—shapes you just felt yourself missing from the clouded night. He has a Hyottoko mask of his own tied against the side of his head, cheeks puffed and winking. His top reminds you of a kimono, but tucked into harem pants. You smile at the clash of shapes. You love this circus.

“Sorry,” you say instead. The sound is breathless.

His eyebrows raise while his grin widens. You can’t look away. When he speaks you think you can hear the edges of an accent—a  familiar one that blurs your vowels together, one that blankets your own English. “Would you like a partner?”

A smile pulls at your cheeks, one you can’t suppress. “Absolutely.”

You receive an equally large grin in return. It’s cheeky, with a glint of impish whimsy. Your heart races at the touch against your hand, a searing heat that catches you off guard. He steps back, offering a space between you.

“Sorry in advance,” he says. “I’m not so familiar with Italian dances.”

With the accent on his tongue and how he holds your hand in front of him, your mind immediately thinks: salsa. He gives you a mischievous look before pulling you close, slotting his leg between yours. A hand comes to your waist, fiery heat gently pushing along as he takes two quick steps to the side. Your eyebrows jump in amusement, and you can’t stop the laugh from bubbling out of you. Bachata, of course, you think as you raise your free arm to his shoulder. 

The current song is faster than the previous, but still not suitable for the rhythm of your dance. You don’t care, relishing in the feeling of your quick steps and the sway of your hips. He must have noticed your roots when you danced with your small friend. You wonder how the two of you must look, a vibrant exotic bird paired with a clown of three origins. His body moves fluidly with yours, hips and torso and arms gliding like the smooth curve of a wave. You fall into the feeling of him, his hands as they carefully trace under the fabric of your wings to rest by your shoulder blades. They’re so warm, solid fire tracing your skin. You take the signal, throwing your head back in a swoop that he supports. You thank your lifelong experience of costuming when you lift your head and both the headpiece and mask are still attached.

He grins sharply before his eyes narrow in a playful challenge. You feel his hand drag yours upwards, preparing to spin, and you follow his lead, twirling in three full circles. The flowing fabric of your costume billows around you, trailing your movements like an afterimage. As his hand lowers, it cradles your neck before returning to your waist, holding you close against him as you continue to step in tandem, bodies nearly molded into one another.

The song lets your body flow freely, following his guidance. You think you’re somewhere you’ve never been before, high in the clouds, between stars. It isn’t until the song ends and his dancing halts that you realize the world has momentarily faded away—only to remember that you are still on earth. Your chest heaves gently, catching your breath as you stare intently at your dance partner. His face is flushed, and a meaningful smile is plastered across it. His eyes are shining, longing for something. He almost looks nervous, the opposite of his confidence when he asked you to dance.

He’s about to speak when a shout breaks his eyes from yours, looking past you. You turn to the sound, letting your body part from him, to see another crewmember: a blonde waving your way. With disappointment in your heart you step back, giving him his opening to leave. The hand on yours clutches tighter when you start to slip away. Your stomach tightens.

He turns to you, eyes sharp as they stare into yours. A wave of conflict rushes over his face. Confusion sweeps through you. You’re sad to part too, but he looks almost desperate. You don’t know why.

His hold loosens, moving to press his palm against the back of your hand, tracing the front with his thumb. He slips the one on your waist to meet your palm, now holding your hand over his chest as if in prayer. His touch is soft, a little clammy. His eyes linger on your fingertips thoughtfully before coming to your face. They stare deeply, curiously. You start to feel embarrassed under his gaze, at how he seems to know something you don’t. Your body buzzes with a feeling you can’t describe.

“Thank you,” he finally says. A sad smile spreads across his lips.

You blink in confusion at his words, but ultimately nod. “Of course. Thank you, too.”

He drops your hand and starts to turn away. He pauses and looks back with his mouth ajar, like he’s going to add something. But he stops, then furrows his eyebrows as he looks down to the pavement. You aren’t sure what’s going on, or if you should ask. You decide to say something, in hopes to ease him.

“I’ll see you around,” you add. 

He blinks in surprise, eyes jumping back to you. A small smile spreads across his face, releasing tension in your chest you didn’t know was resting there.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll see you.” 

Your eyes trail the long points of his hat, watching curiously as the blond meets him halfway. You sigh and turn to the musicians, their cluster near the market tent. You resist the urge to look back, to see the man who held you so passionately. You listen for a few moments as the song floats by, the steady rhythm of the tambourine.

But now that you’re alone, you have no motivation to dance.

thank you for reading! any feedback or love is appreciated <3

i've done quite a bit of research into the cirque process/behind the scenes and i can't find much on costuming, so a lot of this is based on my own experience (not in costumes but very adjacent). every production/company has their own way of doing things though so it would probably vary.

the word "sākasu" is pronounced "sah-kah-soo" or more commonly: "sah-kah-s" since the "u" in "su" is often dropped. this also can be read as the word "circus" with a japanese accent, which is literally just how katakana works. it's not essential to the story, but i just felt like it might be important to mention.

[anthurak]

So here’s a few general theories I’ve got on both Eve and Roo, their role in the story, as well as at least one rather bonkers theory on how they/she are connected to Charlie.

Which means to begin with, we’re going to make the entirely logical step to talk about Rosie.

Because as I said in a couple posts after the finale, I think Rosie is actually Eve.

Or rather, as I now think, Rosie is an ASPECT of Eve.

To begin with, just about everything Rosie does with Charlie in Episode 7 to me just kinda SCREAMS ‘I’m actually a mysterious relative/family friend you never knew about.’ From the way she immediately goes massively out of her way to help Charlie, not just with the more overt problem of the impending extermination, but also her more personal relationship problems, not to mention little touches like how she insists on Charlie calling her ‘auntie’. As well as making a number of small references that could very easily be more direct foreshadowing:

Rosie’s whole ‘first husband’ comment could easily be a dig at Adam, plus her being a cannibal would make for a pretty clever callback to the visual joke of Adam eating ribs in the first episode.

We also have Rosie’s talk with Charlie about her problems with Vaggie, which feel especially relevant in light of the reveal that Eve seems to have had some kind of romance with Lucifer and Lilith. Rosie’s comments to Charlie clearly hint that she has her own regrets towards a failed relationship, which if she is Eve could easily hint at whatever went down between her, Lilith and Lucifer. Not to mention, given the CLEAR parallels that Charlie and Vaggie have to Lucifer and Lilith, it would be all too fitting if it turned out that Eve was the one helping to mend their relationship.

There’s also one other visual detail about Rosie… but more on that later.

So how does this tie back to Roo?

Well you know how I said I think Rosie is an aspect or part of Eve?

I think Roo is the OTHER part of Eve.

As in, I think that Roo and Rosie (hey, look at those similar names) are each the two parts of Eve that split apart when she became the ‘Root of All Evil’.

When you get down to it, I think Roo as a character and her role in the story as a whole is to be a subversive exploration of the idea of the scapegoat and Christian ideas/fixation on guilt and penance. Roo might actually BE this big, terrible ‘Root of All Evil’, ‘Embodiment of Sin’, ‘Unfettered Force of Chaos’, ‘Heart of Hell itself’ ultimate big-bad of the show that much of the fandom is assuming…

But only because she/Eve chose this role out of her own guilt and self-loathing. Eve only believes that she’s this terrible, irredeemable person at the root of all the evils of mankind, and has thus chosen to embody that.

And I think in the process of becoming Roo, this being of pure evil, Eve tried (emphasis on tried) to split off all the ‘good’ within her. Which in turn became Rosie. Alternatively, Rosie could have been deliberately split off from Roo to act as her agent, but may have become self-aware enough that she’s trying to stop/save Roo, hence her going out of her way to help Charlie. And of course this would also neatly explain her friendship with Alastor, himself likely also an agent of Roo.

Which in turn is going to be the crux of her conflict with Charlie, and the ultimate villain redemption of the story. Like of course we’re going to find out about Roo’s big, terrible villainous plots to perhaps corrupt humanity or subsume all of Hell or destroy Heaven and how she’s likely the one pulling Alastor’s strings and has maybe had him essentially ‘feeding her’ Overlords to increase her power and how she’s likely the cause of Lilith’s disappearing seven years ago and ending up in Heaven and all kinds of other things our heroes will have to fight against.

Until we get to our big, final confrontation with Roo and both we and Charlie discover that this terrible being of pure evil is in fact this traumatized, grief-stricken woman utterly consumed by guilt and self-loathing. The one person who, more than anyone else, NEEDS the help and redemption that Charlie has spent the whole show trying to offer others.

And also might be Charlie’s other mom.

Yeah, it’s bonkers theory time :D

So back during the rough… twenty to thirty minutes or so between finishing Episode 7 and seeing the post-credits scene in Episode 8, I was VERY sure that Rosie was actually Lilith in disguise (as you can see from this rather amusing post/reblog :D), for basically all the reason I listed above about why Rosie feels like an in-disguise Eve,

But ALSO because of Rosie’s cheek blush-marks that look CURIOUSLY SIMILAR to Charlie’s own. And if you’ve read any of my numerous Rosebird Parents theory posts, you can imagine I immediately latched onto that.

However! This is NOT a theory that Eve is somehow Charlie’s ‘real mom’. That is stupid and I will not hear Lilith slander in this house. Note instead that I said that Eve might be Charlie’s OTHER mom���

Basically I think Charlie has three parents thanks to Lucifer, Lilith and Eve each actually being some variety of functionally intersex due to wacky angel/demon/primordial-human physiology. And the three of them conceived Charlie Gilgamesh-style via Lilith and Eve knocking up Lucifer.

Hey, I want this show to get WEIRD, okay?

Even just speaking generally, we’re already got more or less soft-confirmation that SOMETHING was going on between Eve, Lilith and Lucifer, and that Eve seemed to have specifically left Adam for Lucifer and Lilith. So I’d say it’s not at all a stretch to think that Lilith, Lucifer and Eve will turn out to be a tragic, broken polycule driven apart by each of their baggage and trauma.

Or that a major aspect of the show will end up being about Charlie (with Vaggie’s (and possibly Emily’s…) help) working to get her parents back together.

In fact, I can already imagine what a suitably cute/heartwarming/feelsy reunion Eve could have with Lucifer and Lilith:

Eve, having just been freed from her self-imposed prison/punishment by Charlie, is about to launch into a guilt-and-regret-laden spiel about how she knows how they must hate her and how she doesn’t deserve them…

Only for Lucifer gives Eve a big cute hug.

And then Lilith gives Eve a Big Damn Kiss XD

Simply put, I think it’s pretty clear that Hazbin Hotel is NOT the kind of the show to just go and make a woman the source of all the evil and sin and bad of the world and seemingly the ultimate big bad and NOT examine, interrogate and SUBVERT THE EVERLIVING HELL out of that concept/trope.

[lights-at-night]

i like to think the tsv finale is set in autumn. it's a season of change and ultimately death, which is reflected in numerous untimely demises. everything is falling apart and you can see it in the world around you. carpenter finds her brother and she lays him by the river and maybe, when spring comes, better things will grow there. val will set alight and it will be a fire to match the burning leaves. paige will transform, and it will take time and pain, but flowers will bloom once it has passed. the peninsula and the cls are and have taken massive losses and are yet to rebuild, though we know it will happen. autumn is ultimately a season of hope becuase its the assurance that though everything is currently in the process of destruction there will be something better that is yet to come, and doesn't that encapsulate the finale so well? i think it'd be fitting for a show so full of parallels.

[nyc3]

Could you tell me your thoughts on Nine as a character? I rarely meet fans of his. If you would indulge me, How about a bit of a what if, where Nine replaces Shigaraki and Shigaraki is a footnote in Nine's story? IE, Tomura is a movie villain in this universe.

I can assure you it's the same for me 😅 Nine fans are a rare species, but here we are.

As for what I think about him as a character? Uf... where even start?

I really find him to be way more interesting and rich in themes than most people think.

On the sense most people seem to take him as a one note character whitout any interesting trait, and calling him incorrectly a "might makes right" guy which hey, is in part true but that's just the surface.

Another thing I don't agree with most people is that Nine ideology is a very basic "the survival of the finest and only the strong deserve to live".

That's not really true. There's multiple hints that reveal parts of his true nature, especially when we have his POV in his origin chapter:

It always istruck me how Nine claims that under his ideal world everyone should aim to make their own way to top by pure strength, but simultaneusly he steps to defend the people he sees as oppressed by an unfair society.

And while some people make the argument of "he only cares about the people with strong quirk", but think about this: how he even knows his friends for example were that strong even before meet them?

His story only show these persons at their lowest point on life, yet by pure instinct Nine decided help them and offer them a hand without really demand nothing in exchange.

When he rescued Chimera is particulary powerful because we know Nine gets ill by using his quirk, yet he had no problem on create a massive storm just to save Chimera from the people who intended to kill him for being an heteromorph.

I really think Nine uses his ideology as a sort of defense mechanism due the circunstances he lived through most of his life. Which is logical as he was an orphan abandoded at what seemed to be a public bathroom at birth, which is sick af.

And it also relates to this particular line of his chapter:

"Everything is already decided" while we saw him being a child alone and multiple ominous smiles.

It really gives me the feeling that Nine actually felt a lot of abandonement and insolation while growing giving him idea that only the strongest should rule over the world, but at the same it can't really take away his selfless nature.

The fact Nine knows he was being used by the doctor, yet the only thing he thinks about going through the process are his friends even correcting himself by say "is for create OUR ideal world" shows how much he actually values the people close to him, to what extremes he's willing to go for give them what he considers fair.

And it's so powerful how even with his body destroyed and crawling on the ground Nine still keeps moving by the sheer will to make real his dream world.

It's an interesting way in which he parallels Deku on how he fights even at the cost of sacrifice and destroy his body just for the people he loves.

Kinda ironic if you think about the fact Horikoshi make his way to try to portray Shigaraki as "a hero for villains" despite that idea doesn't fit him at all, when Nine was already an heroic villain who parallels Deku a way that is pretty organic and logical.

I said a lot of times how funny is that is a fraction of time Nine not only executes the same ideas and concepts the main stroy try to apply to Shigaraki, but he does it better.

Nine story is really the story of an underdog who starts from the very bottom, having a really tragic life that molded his vision of a flawed world that should be destroyed, yet he feels very human on the way he relates to people on the same situation and he will do everything for them.

Is what really sells Nine as a character for me. None of these things are stated trying to convince us they happen like with Shigaraki, with Nine this stuff just... happen. Is the most basic show don't tell.

I wonder were that subtle and smart storytelling went in the main story.

...

Oh also, as you asked about the what if scenario, I have a slightly different idea for an AU in which Nine position is inverted with Shigaraki.

But rather than make it a shallow rivalry (as the movie kinda implies they have) I was thinking: what it Nine intends to save Shigaraki instead?

As I said before, is part of Nine's nature to help people no one else would do.

If he found Tenko Shimura that day he will attempt to rescue him and protect him while living both in the streets as homeless orphans. Which is ironic because they're likely a very similar age, just with Nine being slighty older apparently.

And what if they both are later found by AFO and he has ideas for both of them?

AFO will still have his main plan to make one of them "the next me" like in canon, in this case Nine being the candidate because our potato weirdo projects himself and Yoichi into Nine thinking the child is what both would be together.

Problem is... Nine isn't a emotionally disturbed kid who can be manipulated by AFO bs, so obviously when he realizes what are the man true intentions Nine will rebel and fight back. Probably escaping, as he and AFO aren't really compatible at all.

It's ironic as AFO is actually what Nine tried to convince himself he is, but in reality AFO is a selfish lunatic who only uses everyone for his own sake. That would make Nine have a lot of introspection and realizes he doesn't want to follow AFO steps, and neither wants Tenko/Tomura to have that fate.

But as probably Nine could escape alongside Tenko, he becames the next big opportunity on AFO plans, being manipulated into something similar to canon or even worse.

While Nine will still fight and try to save the kid he helped that day, perhaps he will came to late and if something like the island incident happens but using Shigaraki as the villain there, he probably will die being a defining moment of Nine developement as a character.

...

Well that was a bit long.

I could write even more, but that would be me going crazy and making a long bible lol.

Hope you enjoy the what if scenario. It's a bit improvised because I didn't think about the details yet, just a very basic storyline structure.