#warped view of self

[dollbotthing]

it is insistent on being called they when we would prefer it to be called it. yes. yes we are a psychotic doll with a warped view of self

[an-urgent-appeal]

genuinely baffled by how some people see homura as evil. how on earth do you watch rebellion and come to that conclusion

[malarkyyy]

this song makes me think of him

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[vitamin-zeeth]

showed my English teacher my weird trans mould story and he said it was mega epic we win these 💪💪

[tanicus-caesareth]

guarana drama, damage control

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

creating ocs to appeal to your taste in stories/write the kind of stories you want to read is so good but Watch Out!!!

[wrexie]

every time I log into this website and I see posts and I leave so angry. would it kill you people to start swapping out your premises to see if your conclusion no longer follows before you feel like you've made a point

[angeygirl]

William Afton as the kind of man beloved by everyone, who has nothing but hatred for himself

[ceilidho]

fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 1 masterlist

-

In the end, gazing out of the ship's portholes into the dark vastness of space proves to be less comforting than the architects must have originally anticipated. You can attest to this more than most.

Every morning, you get up an hour earlier than the rest of your crew and make your way to the galley to make your morning cup of coffee. A pack of instant crystals into your favorite mug and hot recycled water from the kettle. Sometimes you stay to have breakfast, but often you take your coffee with you to the main viewing deck for your morning sojourn. 

There, you sit curled up in the navigator’s chair and stare out of the flight deck window until your breathing levels out. Early morning meditations. With the sun only visible through the rear porthole, the Milky Way stretches out before you, immeasurably vast. Ancient cosmic entities, some already long dead. 

Stars fill your field of vision like an intricate latticework of varying brightness. The watery glass warps at the edges, bending the far off light. All things with their propensity for brightness and decay.

A deep, steady hum fills the room. It’s cathartic to be alone. Sometimes, when you look out into the depths of space, you imagine yourself as a cartographer of old, labeling everything beyond this point: “here there be dragons.” 

Farah is the first person to join you, the ship’s maintenance technician already washed and dressed, floral cumberbund cinched around her midriff and her headwrap pinned in place. She greets you with a firm nod upon her entry, never one to mince words. In the months since your ship set off on its course for Jupiter, you’ve exchanged all of ten words, most of your conversation one-sided. 

She glides in like she’s been up for hours, likely running through her routine maintenance checklist. Monitoring propulsion, life support, and all critical systems. You wouldn’t doubt if she had been, descending into the bowels of the ship and cataloging every minute difference from the day before. Nothing if not thorough. 

Graves sweeps in not twenty minutes later, his uniform pressed and ironed. When he glances your way, you shrink under his gaze, self-conscious about something unidentifiable. He is every bit the commander you met briefly back on Earth, never a hair out of place. If he were less intimidating, he’d be insufferable. 

“Morning,” you murmur, the mug still close to your lips making your voice reverberate. He doesn’t respond. You wonder if he even heard you greet him. It likely wouldn't matter.

Medic has a different connotation this far from Earth. Hierarchy out in space is typically determined by way of one’s importance to the ship, and the scope of your role does not, unfortunately, include maintaining the ship. What that means, unofficially, is that you speak when spoken to, and not for any other reason. 

In the months to come, there may be moments or days when your usefulness is acknowledged, usually much to your colleagues’ chagrin. Though it’s not likely that any of the crew will encounter foreign pathogens while on a hermetically sealed ship in the middle of space, they’re all still susceptible to falls and cuts and worse. Nikolai, the chief engineer on board, had sprained his wrist during the first week of the mission, lending you immediate purpose and validation. 

You make way for the second officer when he finally deigns to make an appearance, sliding quietly out of his seat and stepping to the back of the cockpit, back pressed to the wall closest to the door. 

“Morning, everyone,” he greets, peppier than the three of you despite his rumpled appearance. His thick mustache twitches with the force of his smile. “Ready to seize another day?”

“Jesus Christ, Keller, let’s tone it down ‘til about ten o’clock, alright?” Graves sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache.  

“Our clocks are off, commander,” Alex jokes, coming over to give him a little shake by the shoulder. It would be insubordination from anyone else. “I’m about ready to eat lunch.” 

“Let’s just get through formation and then you can go fill up the bottomless pit you call a stomach.”

The morning briefing never takes up too much time. It’s as much of an excuse to have coffee together as it is to go through the day’s schedule. Graves spends most of the time reviewing the flight course, charting where the ship will be by day’s end. 

“Almost through the belt,” Alex remarks, staring down at the monitor in front of him. It’s an incomprehensible jumble when you try to peer over his shoulder, but he must be able to make sense of it. 

The crew had been on high alert since entering the torus-shaped region between Mars and Jupiter a month back. For the most part, they needn’t have been so on edge—the average distance of the asteroids in the circumstellar disc between the two planets tended to be quite substantial—but a collision the previous day had reinstated their earlier anxiety. 

“Can we switch from manual yet, Farah?” Graves asks from his seat at the helm of the ship. 

She shakes her head, lips tightening with frustration. “I still have to figure out what’s going on with cruise control—it’s not responding correctly.”

“Was that from that little ding the other day?” you ask, blurting out the question without thinking.

Farah’s expression is flat when she glances over at you. “That ‘little ding’ nearly took out our communications system altogether.” 

You wince at that, staring down at your feet instead. Better to just shut your mouth than make a fool of yourself. Had you not blurted out the question, you might have even surmised the nature of the situation given the comm specialist’s notable absence from the cockpit. 

When Nikolai eventually ambles in with a thermos of coffee and deep troughs under his eyes, Farah looks up and frowns. “Where’s Hadir?”

The man shrugs, nonplussed. “Cargo?” he grunts, rolling the toothpick between his teeth around the words. 

She sighs. “I’ll go find him.”

No one says anything when she leaves, the double doors sliding open and shut automatically at her approach, and she doesn’t bother saying goodbye. 

“Dismissed, I guess,” Graves sighs, collapsing into his chair and spinning around to face the stars proliferating in front of him. 

The informality digs at you sometimes because you know you can’t indulge in it. The times you’ve attempted to, you’ve been rebuffed. Sometimes unintentionally, but often to remind you of your place.

This isn’t a crew you’ve ever worked with before. From conversations you’ve overheard, you’ve gleaned that they’ve all worked together in different capacities before, years of familiarity breeding an easy trust and companionship between them. Two of them might even be lovers—though Farah maintains a neutral facade at all times, the same can’t be said for Alex, the man always hovering nearby, eyes going soft at the sight of her. 

You’re the only odd man out. The newcomer. And though you sit with them in the mess for meals and partake in conversation and pass jokes like small stones from hand to hand, you know deep down, in the dark well of your heart, that you are not one of them. You are a passenger that they picked up along the way. A straggler. 

This wasn’t supposed to be the case. When you signed on to the mission months ago, the circumstances were wholly different. A newer ship, a different crew, some of which you’d worked with before. Then ownership changed hands and budgets were cut. Slashed to ribbons even. You had a chance to tour the ship before the launch date, and even down on Earth with all the glitz and glam available to trick the eye, you hadn’t been convinced of the vessel’s ability to withstand the extreme conditions of space.  

But by then, you were locked into a contract so iron-clad that the consequences of breaking it seemed worse than simply seeing the mission through. 

Most days, you feel like you’re waiting for something to give. You pass through halls that echo with low creaks and a deep, rhythmic thrum. Sometimes the walls of the ship groan so loud that you wait with baited breath for the hull to implode around you, to feel the metal crush the delicate eggshell of your body beneath its weight. 

It’s not any better to just stay in your room, your quarters too cramped to nurture anything other than claustrophobia. A recent, unfortunate side effect of spending months on such a small ship. You’ve become accustomed to crews numbering in the tens and hundreds, ships so colossal in size that even months spent aboard weren’t enough to explore all of its nooks and crannies. Cargo holds with excavators and backhoes for excavations on Mars and humvees for getting around the rough terrain. 

This ship barely holds six people and the payload you’ve been hauling to Europa. Pipes hiss in the corridors. Once a week, the radiator splutters or the intercom overhead crackles, kicking your heart into hyperdrive. 

You leave formation more out of sorts than ever. Vaguely aimless. With nothing to do, you grab breakfast in the galley and eat at the counter, too uncomfortable to venture over to the mess. Your days consist mainly of hovering around the ship or sitting quietly in the medbay, waiting for something to happen. A morbid preoccupation. 

The stairs clunk under your feet as you make your way down towards the medbay. You’ve long grown used to the sharp sound of your boots against the metal floor. 

Rationally, you know they don’t dislike you. You might even venture to say that you get along with the majority of them, particularly the chief engineer and Farah’s brother. The big man likes that it only takes a single drink to get you plastered, often howls with laughter when you stumble out of the mess after drinking with the crew, always the first to turn in for the night. Farah herself is only frosty because she works twice as hard as anyone else, burning the midnight oil on the regular. 

You swallow half-truths like stones to help settle your stomach. 

It doesn’t replace real companionship though; it approximates, but doesn’t quite replicate it. You feel its absence most acutely in the sidelong glances you sometimes get of real affection: Alex grazing his pinkie across Farah’s when he thinks no one is looking; Farah’s eyes softening at the sight of her brother; Graves and Nikolai reminiscing about something a decade past, hardly even aware of your presence in the room. 

It’s something you’ve endured before, but never for such an extended period of time. Prolonged isolation prickles at the mind, feathering the edges. It purples space; passes through the vents. The crew rarely goes on spacewalks (hardly any need for it), but sometimes you swear the ship’s oxygen has a faint sulfuric undertone, like rotten eggs. It permeates the air wherever you go. 

Someone knocks at the window just as you walk by.

You pause mid-sip, the mug raised to your lips and just pressing into your bottom lip, not yet tilted. 

“Hello,” you hear through the thick-paned glass, the voice muffled through the layers of glass and plastic partitions. “Could you let me in, please?”

Though your reflex is to look up, you don’t for some reason. The muscles in your neck stay locked instead. Shoulders stiff, weighed down by an unnatural force. 

The thing outside the ship knocks again. “Love? Can you hear me?”

Your head turns towards the porthole, the hand holding your mug drifting away from your mouth. It tips in your hand and a drop leaks down the side. Your lips tingle, almost numb. 

There’s a man outside the porthole, clear as day. He hovers outside the window, a hand raised in a friendly wave and full lips splitting to reveal perfect, white teeth when he smiles. He’s dressed in a spacesuit, no different than any of the crew on a spacewalk. Through the helmet, you can make out dark eyes and dimples. A close cropped beard.

It’s not a face you’ve ever seen before though. You think you might’ve remembered someone so handsome working on the ship with you.

Something needles inside of you though. A sickening feeling, like something you’ve forgotten but you desperately need to remember. 

“Hi there,” the man says, voice as charming as you’ve ever heard, so velvety rich that you feel the blood heat your cheeks. “Glad you were passing by. Mind letting me in?”

[miscellaneouzz]

On the topic of the Mighty Nein’s themes of slowly unraveling their idealized and warped views of each other, I love that while this is all happening with interpersonal relationships in the party, this is also happening with Fjord and his perception of Vandran. Fjord uncovering more things about Vandran he didn’t know about and slowly starting to be disillusioned by him while literally putting up a front to everyone else that is his idealized view of Vandran is so good. I love how Jester saying “Do I like them or do I like what I thought they were? And then you don’t know…” about Fjord ends up mirroring Fjord saying “It might just all be in my head” to Jester about his relationship with Vandran.

Sorry I have so many Fjord thoughts because I recently got his origin comic and I just absolutely love the tragic irony of the line “Captain Vandran was the first real teacher I ever had… He taught me to mask my vulnerabilities so they couldn’t be targeted.” Such a bittersweet moment of how everything clicks with Fjord as a character—that in finding his first form of real comfort in life with someone like Vandran, it only led him further and further away from feeling truly comfortable with himself. And I love how well that characterization is captured throughout the campaign like when he tells Caleb “If I could have it my way, none of you would ever know anything about who I was before and I mean that.” And in the scene where he finally comes clean, he has this very poignant dialogue where he says “I wanted to emulate him, I wanted to be him… Vandran seems to be at peace. But that is not how I felt. I don’t feel at peace.”

So then bringing it back to Jester, there’s another beautiful irony in that despite her dismantling her romanticized perception of Fjord throughout her own journey of self discovery, it was also Jester that knew from the beginning it wasn’t Fjord’s real voice. It was Jester that was vulnerable enough to ask “Do you ever get sad?” and wise enough to say “Do you think if we find him, you’ll stop talking like him?” and valiant enough to tell him “I will do anything to get you away from Uk’otoa.” And you can tell, despite him putting on the act, Fjord cherishes Jester’s ability to bring out his vulnerability so much. It’s why he describes falling in love with her as “You know when someone makes you feel a way that you don’t think you have any right to feel? Or you never thought that you might?” It’s why he tells Caleb that he finds Jester’s whimsical attitude inspiring, but also asks her “What makes you sad?” Why, when he overhears her asking the Traveler to look out for him, he tells her she doesn’t have to wait for a response, because the sentiment alone was enough for him. Why he teleported over a volcano to grab onto Jester and beg her to stay, saying “We will catch you.” There is such eclectic narrative merit in the way that despite their individual affectations and facades, the quiet moments just between the two of them are grounded and earnest. And it isn’t until Jester feels that comfortability in those moments of vulnerability and uncertainty together, that she realizes what falling in love really is to her.

I think Yasha summed it up best: “I’ve found that passion and love for someone is stronger the more that you know them.”

[ctwinsduo]

woe cwilbur be upon ye. as promised here are my designs for every cwil era/stage/what have you + my reasons behind each design. design breakdown will be under the read more :>

as a disclaimer going forward: these designs are heavily informed by my own headcanons (namely the nature spirit headcanon, which i will only briefly explain here- if you want more of a background on that here's where I first shared the hc and explained it a bit) i'll be honest idk how much of these hcs/analysis abides by canon? so if you prefer to closely abide by canon this may not be for you. having said that, let's get into this. So one question that may initially come to mind when looking over this is "Why a nature spirit?" which is a reasonable question all things considered. I've already gone over the Watsonian explanation in the past, so instead I'll cover the Doylist take- which is more interesting as it pertains to these designs. Wilbur, as I see her, is a character that has many faces- she warps and changes to embody the view of herself she sees as necessary for the situation, whether that be the revolutionary or the villain. Simultaneously he has this core that's deeply eccentric and often difficult for the characters around him to grasp- this can come in the form of benign weirdness to the struggles with mental illness we see him go through throughout his various arcs. There's this push and pull between the person they want to portray and who they are fundamentally that's always at play.

Them being a nature spirit embodies this to an extreme. As a nature spirit their physical form is informed by their self perception (the one that's warped by the role they feel they need to take) and their own mental state, both aspects of the character that are foundational.

Another question that may arise upon reading all of this is "Why not just make him a shapeshifter?" which is also a valid question. Truthfully this one is rooted heavily in my own ideas of the character, so you'll have to take that with a grain of salt. I am, unfortunately, prone to making shit up /lh With that in mind however, the reason I choose nature spirit over shapeshifter is that, the way I interpret it, it's much more... animalistic? Let me explain: the way I tend to see shapeshifters portrayed is either a. having a base form that's relatively humanoid and then multiple other forms or b. having no base form but still presenting as generally humanoid. As a nature spirit Wilbur has a natural (ba-dum-tsss) tie to well... nature, and all that lives within it.

She's this manifestation of the wilderness whose form isn't even naturally human, yet she shapes herself into something presenting as such. As a nature spirit Wilbur occupies this weird nebulous space between human and beast, never fully embodying either. I find this incredibly interesting for a character that wants to feel and to be treated as human so badly, one that also clearly resents being seen as monstrous (despite leaning into that perception of themselves)

TLDR; Wilbur's 50 contradictions in a trenchcoat (literally) and being a nature spirit gives these contradictions/masks/ect. a physical manfiestation Now that we're 500+ words of analysis in, let me breakdown each individual stage :3 /lh

Pre-SMP + L'manburg

The most "human" Wilbur ever gets here- technically these two are different designs/eras but they have similar design notes so I'm lumping them together here

During this stage of his life Wilbur has a fairly good handle on his shapeshifting and is consciously choosing to look more human

Small details like the fangs, pointed ears, claws, and pupils allude to an inhuman nature. I like to think there's something uncanny valley about them- they look human but the longer you look at them the more small discrepancies you notice

Both look relatively generic appearance wise, if you can't tell this was Wilbur's "I am a Normal Human Man era" but with slightly more gender /lh

Decided to stick Wilbur in a different outfit Pre-SMP than the actual skin most people reference, mostly because I thought it'd be fun. The trenchcoat follows her throughout her development

Lots of goofy ass patches and pins on the coat

I personally hc that Wilbur always has some sort of oversized clothes on because it's a bit like a security blanket for him, very grounding and all that- anyways that's what the trenchcoat is here

Limited notes on L'manburg era- main thing is the glasses; they got cracked in conflict and they just never bothered to fix em

Pogtopia

As a result of stress (and personal perception) Wilbur lost control over his shifting entirely

Wilbur views their nature as inherently monstrous, thus when they think of themselves as monstrous or evil they lose most of their human appearance

Much taller in this form than usual, this reflects both how she feels she's perceived and how she perceives herself (monstrous, scary, inhuman, ect. ect.)

Their height also serves to emphasis the claustrophobic nature of the ravine and especially the button room

Eye color changes from brown to red, yet again another thing which reflects his self loathing

Coat is the same one worn pre-smp, just with some adjustments

Pins & patches removed from the jacket (my friend suggested it saying that he "ripped them out because they were too happy" and I find that mental image particularly silly so it stays)

Covered in stains, partially because the ravine is just. awful. and partially because this thing is not taking care of herself even a little bit

Lenses are even more cracked than they were during the revolution

Ghostbur

This section has a lot less points then the others on account of Ghostbur being fairly self explanatory, but shhhhhh

Reverted to "base form" post death, form is extremely fluid as a ghost- she tends to shift depending on the topic of conversation or the person she's speaking with (Explain being: whenever she talks about "alivebur" she becomes more human)

Less of a note and more rambling: fox ghostbur is especially fun to me given the hatred Wilbur has for Ghostbur. Ghostbur physically reflecting the parts of Wilbur that they hate the most in themselves

For Wilbur their base form- just a normal widdle fox- represents vulnerability. It is quite literally a small, fuzzy animal with little means to defend itself and it is also the culmination of everything Wilbur is running from. Ghostbur embraces this form fully yet is seen as more palatable by the people around her than Wilbur ever was

Constantly leaking a jammy, blue substance from his eyes and the cut in his chest, yucky

Especially long sections of "fur" like their tail and the back of their neck are constantly "dripping" little wisps like rain

Post-Revival

Post-revival his shifting is still fucked up (thank the mental illness for that) but he's got a slightly better handle on it, enough to look semi-human

Eyes have reverted back to brown but their lenses are tinted red anyways (often looks red)

The coat makes a comeback, edges are all fucked up from the explosion

That funky little overcoat/cloak/ect. got yoinked by Niki

Disheveled appearance meant to reflect her rancid ass mental state- namely the hair and the facial hair. Hair is grown out because she can't be bothered to cut it (you bet that shit is full of knots)

Nasty awful smeared eyeshadow as a treat <3 (I just think he deserves to be a little cunty yk?)

Got a little tired near the end here which is why the points got a bit sloppy, maybe I'll add more at a later date who knows. If you made it this far I hope you at least enjoyed reading all of this :>

[assumptionprime]

Playing Dark Souls 2 again and damn, in spite of its rough edges, I think it’s my favorite.

They’re all good, mind you. Dark Souls 1 is the foundation, and 3 is playing the hits while also saying that it can’t just play the hits forever and has to end.

And Dark Souls 2 is doing its own weird different thing and I love it.

I think it has the best story of the three games, because it really concerns itself with people.

The intro isn’t a list of people and monsters you need to kill, it’s your story. How you came into this land. You are afflicted with the curse of undeath, and it’s destroying your life and your mind. Everything that follows is based around that. You’re not the Chosen Undead, a title put on you in the first game because of a role you’re expected to play in some legend. You’re the Bearer of the Curse, because that’s your concern in all this, your curse.

You see it afflict others throughout the game, too. Most of the characters in Majula can’t remember how they got here, their goals, their lives before Drangleic are fading, same as yours. Lucatiel is by far my favorite NPC in any Souls game, a tragic view of another cursed undead that doesn’t quite make it. You fight alongside her. She confides in you, forms a bond with you. And then, as the last remnants of her mind, her self, leave her, she begs you to remember her name. Vendrick, the mighty king of Drangleic, is a shell of himself. He shuffles around in his own tomb, having long ago succumbed to the curse. He may as well already be dead. In every way that matters, he is.

And if you don’t figure something out, it’s going to happen to you, too.

Some to do has been made about the world layout not making sense. Some say it’s bad design or development troubles leading to compromises. Others say it’s intentional, that time and space are warped, though I think that’s either not true here or done much better in DS3. I subscribe to a third camp I’ve seen a bit less frequently: These nonsensical ways you move between some of these places are because you forgot how you got from one place to the other.

“So you got to the top of the tower, then what?”

“Oh, then I got on an elevator, which took me up— up to… I was on an elevator… then I was in an old keep sinking into a lake of lava.”

You’re losing your mind and your memory, you just can’t remember what happened between Earthen Peak and Old Iron Keep.

So you go slay the old ones, find Vendrick, seek out the ancient dragon, defeat Nashandra and—

It doesn’t work. You don’t cure the curse. You can either take the throne, or keep looking for a cure. We don’t see what kind of monarch you are to your ruined kingdom if you stay. And we don’t see you find a cure to the curse if you leave.

You lose.

It’s left to you to decide, does continuing to fight this fate have meaning? Is the struggle, in and of itself, worthwhile?

Dark Souls 2 is about going Hollow, and I love that it goes in such a different direction with its lore and story to be that.

[kitramune]

Can I talk about Inuyasha's Claws of Blood attack for a minute? Cuz I find it so symbolic how he is a hanyou and considers himself a torn existence because of his mixed blood. The very blood he lashes out with as a weapon. His "cursed" blood is a weapon. Think about the implications of that for a second. It's an asset in desperate situations, yes, but it's really fucked up metaphorically. Not just that he has to be hurt to use it, or hurt HIMSELF (which is still even more fucked up) but for what it implies about how he sees himself.

This line makes me feel like Inuyasha was FORCING his blood to be a weapon to be strong because he had a very warped view of strength until meeting Kagome. After all, his blood has always been weaponized against HIM, so turning it into a literal killing method is his way of self-ownership and turning it back against the world that rejects him. And I think this is very much on purpose because I don't believe he ever uses it (in the source material) again after mastering his sword, which was another metaphor for him trying to accept himself being strong as he is. A hanyou who protects his friends with a different extension of himself (Tessaiga).

[npdkondraki]

hi. kondraki scpverse is a trans woman. cope and seethe and read my essay about her below the cut. (it's really fucking long) (please god i put so much fucking work into this read it im begging you)

ok for starters for people who dont know what or who the hell im talking about right now (doubtful) (only adding this for the unitiated & newbies): this essay is about my awesome wife DR [REDACTED] HENRICH KONDRAKI(1) from pseudo-niche internet horror-fiction site THE SCP FOUNDATION(2/3). if you can't tell by our url i am Bonkers Crazy Insane about her and have been sporadically obsessed with her for several years. she sucks bad. anyways this post is about why i think she's a trans woman instead of being a "cishetallo man" like canon claims she is. you may be wondering; "but sawyer how is canon wrong about this if its canon" and to that i say. I know better than canon does dont worry about it. ok with that out of the way lets get into the schmeat of this thang

FIRST OFF. kondraki's entire view on masculinity is inherently tied to violence. she believes that if she isnt violent, cruel, and hiding her emotions constantly, then she isn't a 'real man'. her entire worldview, including her view of her own gender, is perceived through the lens of men, including herself, needing to be 'masculine', but she defines this masculinity through her own warped idea of what masculinity 'really is'. because she perceives men, and by extension masculinity itself, as violence, then she herself is violent. everything down to the way she speaks is designed to make her appear cruel, vindictive, and, most importantly, violent. she goes as far as claiming her favourite memory of working for the foundation is when she chased a man down and, quote, "[shot] his fucking face off"(4). however, despite all her tough-talk about being "badass"(5/6), she actually appears to be incredibly regretful about her actions(7), unlike her words imply.

she creates a cycle of retraumatizing herself over and over by hating everything being a man stands for, but refusing to acknowledge it. she leans into the idea that she is violent and cruel, creating a self-made cycle of self-hatred. this retraumatization makes her more violent; it causes her to lash out more, to be more vindictive, to be more outwardly cruel to people, to be more "man-like" in her eyes. she places herself into a self-made twister of hating herself enough that it rubs off on everyone else, and then positively claims its "[her] design"(8) rather than accepting how depressing it makes her life. she uses her own cruel perception of masculinity as a way to shield herself from the idea that she could ever, willingly, be a woman, because she's too violent and cruel and she'll never be a real woman, not in the same way people like rights & iris are. she fully, completely, and genuinely, believes that if she is able to "out-man" every man surrounding her then nobody is able to question what she thinks of herself.

theres an additional layer to how she views masculinity, in the sense that it makes her also view femininity as inherently docile, something that she lives by even when she is acting as a woman. in doing so she continues to perpetuate her idea that she must be violent to be masculine, because she views women (or, more specifically, the concept of being a woman) as fragile, weak, perceptible to being hurt, and she refuses to be any of these things. in refusing to view herself as a woman she, in her mind, refuses to view herself as emotional, hysterical, and, perhaps worst of all in her mind, just a woman. it's an incredibly unfortunate mix of how she was raised and the culture at her work; she is punished for being feminine (emotional, caring, nurturing, etc) and rewarded for being masculine (violent, cruel, selfish, etc) because that's just how people are in her line of work(9).

she views the entire experience and idea of being a woman as a joke. she's allowed to think about it, as a joke. she's allowed to be feminine, as a joke. she's allowed to be a girl, as a joke. she's allowed to be a pretty princess(10), as a joke. the very few brief moments where she allows herself to act on her impulses and suggest, even a bit, that she would like to be a woman is played for a joke(11/12/13/14/15). she speaks of being a woman as though it is a mystical thing, something she can only hope to achieve, less of a real option and more of a fantasy. she is acceptive of trans people(16), going so far as to say it seems that "it’s quite remarkable how productivity and morale improves once they come out and settle into living as their correct gender. [she imagines] it’s a huge relief, and it shows in everything they do." it's just that she truly doesn't view herself as being worthy of that. her entire life has been spent convincing herself that she isn't worth anything, let alone joy or comfort. she doesn't think she deserves to be allowed to transition. she believes that dr. kondraki needs to die, needs to be shot, needs to get it over with and kill herself already, and doesn't realize that the distance she puts between "[redacted] henrich kondraki" and "dr. kondraki" is a mask, a shell she can hide behind; it's a way for her to excuse any mention of her being a woman. if dr. kondraki can't be a woman, then [redacted] henrich kondraki can't be a woman either. it's nothing but a fantasy to her, something she can joke about and then discard along with the rest of her fantasies of being a good person, of being someone who deserves to be happy.

you can even bring her entire theming of butterflies into her own repression; the butterflies act as a camoflauge in the same way her mask of masculinity does. the only time she ever is truly gentle or nurturing or caring, all tasks she has deemed feminine, is with her butterflies. butterflies are specifically used in metaphors for transition, quite often appearing in trans artwork as a way to represent the death of who you once were and who you are now. the fact the butterflies also possess camoflauging abilities, which they tend to specifically use to make themselves (and kondraki) invisible, is in and of itself a metaphor for being in the closet, or, in kondraki's case, being repressed and refusing to acknowledge her transness. her transness is treated as though it's invisible, something she only looks at when it's disturbed, not unlike the way you can only see the butterflies by disturbing them. she refuses to acknowledge it, hides behind her camoflauge as a defense mechanism. coming to terms with her transness would make her have to disolve and be reborn, and she doesn't believe she deserves that. she doesn't believe she deserves to live free of the guilt, of everything she's done, so instead she stays camoflauged, stays in her bubble of masculinity where she feels her self-imposed shame and guilt.

all in all; kondraki is extremely repressed and refuses to accept that she's a woman, despite her progressive views, because she believes it would mean she is weak and fragile. she's terrified of her femininity, and uses violence and humor to deny every feminine part of herself.

DISCLAIMER. my choice to use specifically she/her for kondraki in this essay was a purposeful and deliberate choice and if you choose to use he/him after i have literally solely referred to her with she/her in this entire post i hate you personally. in other words

[iteratorsex]

How Gravity Disruptors Work

We all are aware of the gravity disruptors inside of iterators, right? They... disrupt gravity.

I believe they do this through fluctuating karmic fields in parallel planes of existence, which affect spacetime and gravity by rapidly decreasing or creating "negative" mass.

Let me break down what I mean

Karma as a force, and alternate planes

Karma is like a force of the universe alongside that of gravity, electromagnetism, and weak/strong force. The iterators have an incredibly pragmatic view of karma and the cycles, treating it more like a science with odd spiritual elements involved. The iterators calculate and solve through traditionally empirical means, yet still pray and meditate.

- "It became the symbol for enlightenment as it momentarily enables a creature to let go if its carnal self, and to contact the selves of other planes - dreams, memories, imagined worlds."

Moon mentions other planes in her Karma Flower dialogue. We can understand there's a "dream" or "cerebral" realm that you could see through with this flower.

These dream plane(s) are HEAVILY associated with karma, and karmic fields, as your ingame deaths experienced in this plane cause your karma to decrease, and the karma flower that lets you contact these cerebral plane selves ... affects your karma!

As well as this, Hunter in vanilla is described as having a "karmic imbalance", once again wording it like it's a force that can be measured and somehow imbalanced

The behaviors of gravity disruptors

Having established karma as a universal force, and also alternate realities, let's actually look at the gravity disruptors themselves.

They appear to very clearly have an orbit, and drag nearby things into it. They also distort light they're so powerful!

But... you can't get to the center. The center of a gravity disruptor repels you. Violently. You can't get to the center naturally through gameplay due to the force.

So rather than this being like a black hole, it's actually closer to theoretical white holes!

The distortion of time and gravity

This leads further into my next point. According to general relativity, the mass of a black hole causes a huge sink in spacetime, slowing it down. So a white would be the opposite, wouldn't it? Something that REPELS matter because of its negative mass!

How do karma and gravity interact with each other then?

Well, like a black hole, the Void Sea slows down your perception of time until you enter it, at which point you return to normal speed. However, unlike one, gravity seems to get lower

So perhaps the Void Sea- and by extension void fluid- are somehow manipulating the spacetime continuum to both lower gravity and slow down perceived time?

Now this leads me to my biggest point...

Parallel planes!

I believe that karma and gravity are intertwined, as the boundaries between realities in rain world seem to be very vague and blurred, as you can never tell in the void sea when you actually enter the other reality. And as mentioned in the above Karma Flower dialogue, apparently you were able to contact other selves in other planes of reality.

By warping the karma fields in a parallel plane, you can warp gravity in a localized area, creating the effect of a 0g environment! This was done most likely through the use of void fluid

These parallel planes of reality between cerebral and corporeal planes already interact with each other to a noticeable degree!

How do iterators manage to "smooth out" this flux? Well, I'll be honest I'm not sure. But the fact they have the technology to do that to begin with is rather impressive!

What about Mass Rarefaction Cells

Rarefaction is an actual thing, for those who didn't know. I actually found this out recently.

From Wikipedia: "Rarefaction is the reduction of an item's density, the opposite of compression. Like compression, which can travel in waves (sound waves, for instance), rarefaction waves also exist in nature. A common rarefaction wave is the area of low relative pressure following a shock wave (see picture)"

And if you refer back to the examples of general relativity I brought up... you can see it's doing the opposite of compression. It's stretching- being rarefacted!

And in some ways, it reduces density- or gives the illusion of such.

So yes! Rarefaction is actually relevant and isn't some odd technobabble thing.

So how do they produce energy?

The orbit formed by rarefaction cells can produce kinetic energy, replacing the role of a force spinning the turbine inside of a generator. This kinetic energy is then converted into electrical energy, transported on those powerrails/busbars

This might also be the explanation to the "washing machine" look...

Closing notes

I know I've said in the past that rarefaction cells are probably not the safest and wouldn't be used very often, and how much I dislike their existence.

I still think that.

I don't believe that the vanilla gravity disruptors work the same way. They use void fluid of course, but they're MUCH safer I imagine- at the cost of not being easily transported around like a cell.

but yeah thats what I think