#[punches wall] EVERYDAY I wake up and I decide to make a new project that's going to cost me millions

[strawberrydracos]

Nyx (#2172499)

[fleur-de-violette]

A good butler

A3O

A good butler is often polyvalent, as the job includes many various tasks. A good butler must know how to take care of everyday household tasks, as well as when help is needed to fulfill them. A good butler must know how and where to hire said help and have excellent leadership capability in order to direct the other aids, even in stressful situations. A good butler must have great organizational skills and make sure everything from the house master schedule to the planning of a social event is running smoothly. On top of that, a good butler is sociable and outgoing. A good butler is able to greet guests with a smile and perfect etiquette.

A good butler is also, apparently, supposed to know what to do about crying children.

Or: several times Alfred dried Bruce’s tears over the years.

Whumptober 2020 day 11: crying Note:In case you didn’t guess, this one gets angsty! This is less fluff and angst than fluff and angst and then some fluff and then some more angst. Warning for major character death, and discussion about mourning. Hope you’ll enjoy the story!

-

It’s the beginning of his service, and Alfred wonders if he can be a good butler.

A good butler is often polyvalent, as the job includes many various tasks. A good butler must know how to take care of everyday household tasks, as well as when help is needed to fulfill them. A good butler must know how and where to hire said help and have excellent leadership capability in order to direct the other aids, even in stressful situations. A good butler must have great organizational skills and make sure everything from the house master schedule to the planning of a social event is running smoothly. On top of that, a good butler is sociable and outgoing. A good butler is able to greet guests with a smile and perfect etiquette.

A good butler is also, apparently, supposed to know what to do about crying babies. Because the childminder isn’t there at the moment and mistress Martha Wayne asked him to watch Bruce for just five minutes. Of course, that is when one of the branches outside chooses to move, tapping lightly on the window and frightening the child. The infant, really.

So, Bruce is crying. And Alfred should do something about it. He tries to smile, to reassure him, but nothing seems to work. Finally, he decides to resort to drastic methods.

He puts his hands in front of his face and prepares for what he had planned to do. Finally, he removes his hands, making a funny noise and twisting his expression.

Bruce blinks. Lets out a surprised coo. Alfred does it again, and the kid smiles. He does it one more time.

Bruce is laughing when Martha comes back.

Alfred doesn’t know if he’s a good butler. But he knows he’s not alone.

-

It’s a few years later, on a sunny day, and Alfred is alone inside the manor as everyone else is outside. He’s interrupted in his preparation of the afternoon tea by a noise, followed by a harsh cry from the grounds. Leaving the kitchen, he hurries up to where, sure enough, his youngest master has gotten himself into yet more trouble.

Sure enough, Bruce is on the ground next to the swing that had recently been installed for him. He looks up when he sees Alfred, wailing loudly. The butler crouches down next to him.

“Could you tell me where you’re hurt?” he asks, and Bruce shows him a scratched hand. The boy then stands up to show his left knee where a bruise is already forming.

Alfred sighs in relief; looks like his young master is more shaken than hurt by the incident.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get that cleaned up.”

He extends his hand and Bruce takes it without hesitation. It’s weird, the absolute trust Bruce has in him. Not weird about Bruce, because he’s a child, but weird because Alfred has worked around liars and traitors for so long, he doesn’t really remember what trust feels like. He’s not sure of his place in Wayne Manor just yet.

He puts a Band-aid on Bruce’s hand and checks his knee, confirming it’s nothing worse than a bruise. He then washes the child’s face with a cold cloth, removing the tears.

“Now,” he asks. “Would you like some hot chocolate and cookies to recover from this fright?

Bruce smiles, and Alfred goes to wash his hands.

-

It’s a year and a half later, and Alfred’s hands are full of blood and dirt as he is burying a bird in the garden. Bruce had found the animal two days ago, probably injured by a stray cat. Despite their best effort, the bird hadn’t made it.

“I won’t cry,” says the kid next to him.

“Oh?” he says. “Why is that?”

“Tayler Cobb said boys shouldn’t cry.”

Alfred feels his heart tightening in anger and sorrow. Tayler Cobb is one of Bruce’s classmates, and he wonders absently who put such an idea in the young lad’s mind. He wonders why such belief is still taught to children.

One thing he’s sure of: the child in his charge won’t have it.

He squats down. “You can cry if you want to. Crying helps release emotions. This is not something shameful, or unmanly.”

“Do you cry?” Bruce asks.

“Sometimes,” Alfred answers honestly. “When I’m hurt, or sad, or feel any strong emotion.”

“Can I cry for the bird?” Bruce says, his eyes already filling with tears.

“Oh, my boyn” Alfred puts a hand on his shoulder. “You can cry.”

And Bruce cries.

-

It’s six months later, and Bruce doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t cry, no matter how much Gotham High society and journalists expect him to. No matter how many people gather around him, looking for a sob story.

Alfred pushes them away to the best of his ability. He doesn’t cry either, not until he’s in the quiet of his own quarters. There, he can cry. He can cry for Thomas and Martha, his employers who he wouldn’t call friends but sometimes allowed himself to think of in that way. He can cry for Bruce, the young, so young boy who doesn’t. Who stays silent through the funeral and the months following the tragedy.

The boy who Alfred is scared will never talk again.

-

It’s almost a year later, and Bruce is loud. He’s loud and hurting and he wants to hurt. He wants to punch the walls, to say harsh words, to hurt his teachers and classmates, to hurt Alfred, to hurt himself.

And Alfred doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what to do about this child who is hurtful and hurting.

So he tries. He tries to talk to him. Tries to calm him down. Tries to absorb his hate and sorrow.

Bruce resists, until eventually, he grows tired.

Until he caves in, buries his head in Alfred’s shoulder, in the only thing he has left in the world beside pain, and cries.

Alfred lets him. He knows it won’t solve things, but at least some of his pain is leaking out of his eyes, lost in the butler’s tuxedo.

Just when Alfred thinks the boy finally fell asleep, Bruce murmurs, “It will never happen again.”

The caped crusader won’t cross Gotham’s night until years later, but this is the day Batman is born.

Born from the tears of an orphaned child and a promise.

It will never happen again.

-

It’s fifteen years later, and it has happened again. Alfred had prepared a meal for when Bruce came back from the circus, ready to hear some of the details of the show and maybe a new project he has to improve his nightly activities.

Instead, he opens his arms for a trembling man. A boy, really, who never ceased to be Alfred’s boy, not since that fateful night. He knows Bruce had been exceptionally good at handling things back at the circus.

He also knows the pressure has to be let go of at some point. And Alfred intends to be there for his housemaster.

For his son.

So, he sits Bruce on the bed after an embrace. Brings him food and water. Lets him stay silent all he wants. Washes his tears with one hand when they eventually fall.

But when he looks up into Bruce’s eyes, he does not see sorrow or despair. He doesn’t even see the anger that will cloud them in the next few months, when they will battle social services.

He sees nothing but utter determination.

“I’m not leaving him alone,” Bruce says. “I can help him.”

-

It’s several months later, and Bruce is lost. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confesses to Alfred in the early hours of the morning. “Sometimes I feel like I can’t help him.”

“My boy,” Alfred says, sitting next to him as Gotham gray down gives them light from the window. “Having a child is hard, especially a child who’s been through so much.”

Bruce opens his mouth to argue but closes it almost immediately. Dick isn’t his child, in the same way Bruce isn’t Alfred’s. But it doesn’t matter right now.

Alfred puts a hand on his back. “I think,” he says. “You know what to do.”

Bruce sighs. He knows what to do. Neither of them likes it.

And Robin is born.

-

It’s more than ten years later, and Robin is dead.

Bruce is silent again. There are no tears for Alfred to dry, every attempt of comfort rejected.

He watches, powerless, as the man he raised throws himself toward death. He watches as he cuts away his other son and friends. He watches as he tries to cut away Alfred. Alfred won’t go away, he’s like a bad weed, there’s no getting rid of him.

But that doesn’t mean he knows what to do.

No child should lose their parent. But no parent should lose their child.

-

It’s several agitated years later, and no child should lose their parent. Let alone twice.

But Alfred isn’t sure how much comfort he has left to give to the new Batman and Robin. He wants to be with Dick and Damian. Wants to help them the same way he helped Bruce, all these years ago. He’s just not sure he can when he, too, feels like he’s dying.

Because no parent should lose their kid.

And every day he wakes up is a day he won’t see Bruce. Every day he wakes up is a day he won’t take his son’s hand in comfort. Every day he wakes up is a day he won’t hear his voice.

-

It’s another five years later and Alfred can hear Bruce talking on the phone in the living room as he enters.

The man seems a little dazed as he puts down the phone and Alfred immediately goes alert.

“What is it?” he asks, getting a chair for Bruce to sit on.

“Nothing bad,” Bruce reassures him, but he still seems a little lost. “Nothing bad at all.”

He takes a deep breath. Smiles. “I was just on the phone with Dick. Koriand’r is pregnant.”

A tear that isn’t born out of sorrow but of the joy of an unexpected new falls from his eye. Alfred wipes it anyway.

“I’m… we’re gonna be…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence for Alfred to understand. Tonight, Alfred will open the most precious scotch of the manor, and he will share a drink with Bruce.

To celebrate the fact that the manor is about to become a lot livelier.

-

It’s some long, happy, and less happy years later, and the manor is quiet.

Alfred stopped his duties as a butler years ago, just before Bruce stopped his as Batman. There is a legacy, because of course there is, and Alfred didn’t feel like leaving the manor.

Like leaving his home.

So, it’s in his room, surrounded by his family, that he’s ready to go to sleep for the last time.

Bruce is crying, holding his hand, but he’s not alone. He’s got someone else now, a lot of them, to dry his tears.

Alfred smiles.

Closes his eyes.

He still doesn’t know if he’s been a good butler, but he’s sure of one thing. One more important thing.

He’s been a good father. -

Endnote: The theme is crying for me crying while I wrote this. Hope you enjoyed the story, many thanks to JustJellyJackal for beta reading.

[fritae]

The Missing Piece : Chapter 1

Gang leader! AU / Corporate! AU

Characters: Dabi x F/OC

Status: Ongoing

Summary:

Rina Aoki is the secretary of one of the world's biggest broadcasting stations - only she hates her job and wakes up everyday asking herself if this is all there is to life. Then, she meets Dabi: a man of overpowering confidence and many, many secrets. But beneath all that confidence is a wounded soul and years' worth of repressed anger. The two struggle with fear, ambition, vulnerability - but eventually learn that life may just be better when you don't have to struggle alone.

A/N:

There are no quirks in this story. I tried to give it a real world spin. But it will explore dynamics between good and evil, right and wrong, and feelings of family, friendship, love and belonging. I'm super excited about the story and I hope you enjoy it!Chapter 1: the meeting

Chapter One: The Meeting

It was raining.

I hide my tote under my coat out of fear for my laptop. If it gets wet, I'm done for. My boss isn't exactly the most considerate person out there. If anything were to happen to the highly coveted files on it, I might as well hand in my resignation.

I sigh with relief once the bus arrives, and quickly hurry inside.

As I find a seat, I lean my head against the window, not caring for germs or the subtle tremble of the glass. It feels cool against my skin, and not as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. But more importantly, it is distracting. It'll give me something else to focus on during the ride.

At least I hoped so.

But within minutes, it becomes clear that my mind has no intention of being distracted. The thoughts creep in and suddenly the soft hum of the engine is no match against the throbbing in my head.

Of course not.

Distractions simply don't last long these days.

So I surrender to the thoughts as I stare at the passing streets, feeling increasingly empty by the minute.

I hate my job. I hate everything about it. Working as a secretary for a broadcasting company is a dream for many. The salary isn't bad. I have access to exclusive events and frequently coordinate with the biggest names in the industry. I know the ins and outs of selling an idea and making it resonate with millions.

But I quickly learned all the people in this industry are insufferable. The whole premise rests upon the art of manipulation, taking something that may very well be worthless and conning people into thinking it will fill a hole they didn't even know they had. The people are superficial, be it actors or other famous personalities. Everyone is so obsessed with images. How to best put on a show to gain the love and admiration of millions.

But what use is their love if it's built upon the distortion of reality?

I shake my head before burying it in my palms.

No matter, I tell myself.

As frustrating and unfulfilling as the work may be, it pays the bills and keeps me busy.

A little too busy...

I get up once my stop arrives. I say a quick thank you to the bus driver before hurrying out.

The cold makes me shiver and I pull my skirt to cover more of my thighs before plastering a fake smile onto my face.

The fake smile is part of the uniform here.

My heels click together with attitude as I make my way through the building. The noise hits my ears immediately. Loud chattering, blaring music and upbeat announcements stand in sharp contrast to the calm of the rainy world outside. I blow kisses as my colleagues call out my name from the studio floor.

My friend and roommate Aliyah takes off her headset to wave me over. She left home extra early today owing to her busy schedule as floor manager. The glaring lights tell me they're about to start shooting but as much as I want to help her with final preparations, I have more important things to worry about right now.

"Can't talk now, Al!" I say apologetically. With one point to my tote bag, she understands. "Good luck!" she shouts back, before returning her attention to the production crew.

I sigh.

I will definitely need all the luck I can get.

I take the elevator up to the highest floor of the company. While our studios are bright, loud and fun. The offices are formal, professional and characteristic of a multibillion dollar company. I knock twice before heading into the largest office at the end of the hall, where my boss is waiting for me. The letters NNTV adorn the walls in an elegant gold print behind him.

A pair of glasses sits on the bridge of Mr. Lane's nose as he reads over today's reports.

"You're late, Ms. Aoki." He says without looking up.

"Apologies, sir. It was unexpected."

"Do I not say to account for the unexpected in your planning, Ms. Aoki?"

"It won't happen again, sir."

He offers me a *tsk* in response.

"Our ratings have gone down this month. Much more than we anticipated." Mr. Lane grumbles.

"CBS' new reality show has attracted a lot of viewers, sir. It's competing with our usual broadcasts at-."

"Then why have you not found a program to substitute whatever we usually air at that time?"

I bite back a sigh. "The current schedule is the most optimal, sir. If we switch around any programs we risk affecting the viewership of The Midnight Show and Killer."

"Well then figure something out!" He barks. "That's what your job is, isn't it?"

"We have a team for a reason, sir. Perhaps we can consult them today? I can schedule an emergency meeting to address this."

I say this knowing the rest of the team won't alter the schedule. The nature of the industry is ratings fluctuate all the time. To change our scheduling at every hint of a drop will only harm our future ratings.

He waves me away. "Schedule it for two hours from now. Cancel anything else I have at that time."

"Yes sir." I confirm, before turning around.

My nostrils seethe as I suddenly hear him mutter *Useless* under his breath.

The rest of the day is spent taking more orders and backtracking on Mr. Lane's previous decisions. Just as I'd expected, the board decided it would be better to simply wait out the next two weeks until the current programs are finished before rearranging any of the schedules. I make a mental note to consider what might be a suitable alternative in the meantime.

The hours drag on. I should have been done at 5, but 7 o clock hits and I'm still taking phone call after phone call. It isn't until a quarter to 9 that I can finally go home.

I sigh as I pass the much quieter studio floor on the way out. I don't find Aliyah among the crew, but I'm sure she's taking care of her own things at the moment. The Midnight Show is scheduled for well, midnight, so she's probably taking a final break before her last project of the night.

Once I am outside, I let out a deep breath I didn't know I was holding in. Instead of taking the bus straight home, I find myself walking toward Café Du Monde. It sits a few blocks away from the NNTV building.

The smell of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries greets me as I enter. The soft jazz is welcomed by my ears after a day of nonstop chatter and corporate debate.

As I stand in line, I remind myself to pick up coffees before I leave for the crew working late tonight. Hopefully Aliyah will be back by then.

---

"Shit," I hear the man ahead of me in line mutter. "I think I forgot my wallet back in the office."

He checks his pockets again, but finding them empty he looks up at the cashier. "Sorry man, I'll be back another day."

But before he could walk away, I step up to the register. "It's okay, I got it."

He glances at me. "Nah, don't-"

"It's nothing. Can you add another coffee to the order please?"

The cashier punches a few numbers into the register and I hand him a 20.

---

The man tips his hand in thanks. I nod back at him and walk up to the roof.

With a coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, I sigh. Now to get the day out of my system...

"How can I repay you," A smooth voice says behind me.

I look over my shoulder to see the man walk up to the ledge with me. He has electrifying blue eyes, a head of thick dark hair, and the kind of walk that signifies authority.

"You good at conversation?" I ask.

He thinks for a moment. "How about I let you be the judge of that?"

I pass the man a cigarette. "Then distract me."

"You don't look like the type to smoke." He comments before accepting it.

"Looks can be deceiving." I shrug.

"It feel good or something?"

"Or something." I confirm with a smile. "Just reminds me to breathe in," and with a soft easing in my chest, "and breathe out."

He leans back against the railing. "Hm. You know breathing quality isn't exactly what people would associate with cigarettes."

I roll my eyes. "You know what I mean."

The man chuckles. "Yeah. Although I think rearranging a few things in your life would help more than smoking. Don't want to grow reliant on an outside source for relief now."

"Well, well. Wasn't aware I was speaking to a mental health guru."

He seems amused by that. "That's not what the people working for me would say but it's nice to know their sentiments aren't universal."

"Ah. So you're a shitty boss."

"I'm just a boss." He corrects. "What people think of me has nothing to do with me."

"Must be nice to believe that." I sigh, taking another puff of my roll.

"No reason not to, eh? Letting others' opinions matter to you means you lose power over yourself. There's nothing you could want from them that you can't do for yourself."

"Money?" I suggest.

"That's easy. But it depends on how willing you are to work for it."

"Work quite a lot." I scowl. "...starting to wonder if it's worth the headache, to be honest."

The man leans closer to me, his breath warm against my ear. I try not to focus on the scent of his cologne, musky with notes of amber and cedar wood. "Then what you want isn't really money. Sounds like you want more."

"More?"

"Yeah. Money by itself isn't satisfying," He says matter of factly. He leans away to take a sip of his coffee. "Only when it's coupled with a goal."

"Hm."

"Money doesn't take you anywhere; it's just a means to an end." He continues. There's an air of mystery behind those turquoise eyes of his. "Your goal is what guides you. Where do you want to go?"

Someone in this neighborhood that doesn't live and die for money? I almost want to laugh. What goal guides him then? What does he stay alive for?

But I keep those questions to myself. I shouldn't get too close to a man I'll never see again.

"I want to be my own boss." I say with a soft smile. Be my own boss. Wouldn't that be nice? No more waking up with Mr. Lane's voice already echoing in my head. No more plastering fake smiles and maintaining that "professional" semblance for hours on end. "I'm tired of taking orders from other people."

I almost miss the sudden gleam in his eye.

"Now that's more like it."

---

I leave the cafe with a box of donuts in one hand and a coffee tote in the other.

I said goodbye to the stranger, happy to have shared these thoughts with someone. It strikes me that I didn't even ask his name.

I shrug. Perhaps that's the magic of moments like these. The universe puts us in places we don't expect to be in. Brings two strangers together and they realize maybe this meeting was just what they needed today. The man got his coffee and I...I was able to let my thoughts run freely.

At least for a while.

"And now we abandon the fantasies and return to reality," I mutter with a sigh. I hook my pinkie with the large glass double doors of NNTV and pull the handle toward me.

There's a small audience present now, the guests for the Midnight Show. I walk around them and smile when I find Aliyah, arms crossed and eyes trained on the set, trying to catch any faults before we air.

"Al!" I call out in a whisper. She immediately looks my way, face lighting up at the sight of the coffee.

"Oh, you're a lifesaver!" She says excitedly as she takes the sweets from my hand. "Hey Joe, set this up for the crew, will ya?"

An intern shuffles forward and takes the bags anxiously to prepare a little station for the team.

"How'd you know I needed the coffee?" She smiles at me.

"Because I needed the coffee," I say with a laugh. "And you've been awake far longer than I have."

Aliyah laughs and rubs her eyes. "I forget how much time I spend here sometimes. No matter - you staying for the show tonight?"

I smile apologetically. "You know I'd love to, but I can barely keep my eyes open. I've got a long day tomorrow, I'm gonna need all the sleep I can get."

I say goodbye to the rest of the crew, smiling sheepishly as they spout *thank you*s for the late night coffee and donuts, and make my way home.

Later that night, as I lay in bed with my eyes trained on the ceiling, I feel a sudden urge to whisper these words out loud.

Please let my life be worth more than the value I add to a company.

[iwillgetridofyourangerforyou]

limit, LIMITS and Limiter.

There has been a lot of controversy about whether or not Genos, or really any character other than Saitama, might be able to ‘break their limits’. I’ve thought a bit about this and I think I’m about ready to share some of my theories and observations.

So, I think there are at least three differentiated levels: small limits, Big Limits, and The Limiter. 

Small limits

Small ‘limits’ are our most basic pleasure seeking pain avoiding instincts. Everyone’s limits are completely different and personal but some examples could be that resistance you feel to waking up to your alarm, the resistance to might feel to making healthier food choices or going to the gym.

‘Resistance’ might be a good synonym for small limits but the resistance is comparatively easy to overcome. It’s easy enough to understand that the consequences of not eating right or not waking up in time to make it to work may result in a significantly less pleasurable outcome and it can be easy enough to rewire the pleasure seeking impulses for a greater good, allowing us to ride a wave over the small limits. Small limits can get bigger and bigger when life is hitting you particularly hard, and there is no real shame in being taken out by small limits every once in a while but if you’re getting taken out by them regularly you might need to ask for help or re-evaluate some things.  

As a side note, just because small limits are small doesn’t mean they’re insignificant. By one interpretation Saitama’s training routine involved overcoming a lot of Small limits regularly. EVERY. Single. Day. 

Big Limits 

Big limits are a lot like the thing an athlete describe as the ‘wall’ they’ve had to work past in order to attain a higher level of achievement. Big Limits can be tangible or intangible but they are the types of things that a person that people say has ‘succeeded against all odds’ have overcome. It seems that most people could go their entire lives without ever breaking through a Big Limit. I think it’s one of the things that give the audience a sense that the character’s they are watching are ‘truly exceptional’. One example is one of the recent world record weight lifters did not only train himself physically everyday but he trained himself to project himself into a scenario where his family was under a car and if he didn’t lift the car they would all die. He claims that this is how he was able to break the world record when he did by much more than a sliver, by a relatively large margin.

Big Limits are being pushed left and right in One-Punch Man. The way I see it, Garou broke a few major Big Limits during his arc. Almost every time he breaks a Big Limit is marked by a physical change in his character design. He broke a massive limit fighting through broken bones and bleeding. He broke limits when he fought Genos after being nearly taken out by a group of heroes. He broke limits to save Tareo. Almost every time Garou was on the edge of death and decided to keep going. Maybe Big Limits could be described as ‘little deaths’. 

The thing about Big Limits is that I think some people already have an intuitive understanding of Big Limits but what they assume is that if you break enough Big Limits consecutively you will break your ‘limiter’ and become as strong as Saitama. It’s not so different from the idea that if you work hard enough for long enough the universe somehow owes you what you seek. But the thing is, life isn’t fair, there isn’t really an equivalent exchange for life and life energy is what you’re paying in the expectation you’ll get something. So many people (myself at times included) believe that if you’re not where you think you should be it must be because you haven’t sacrificed enough of yourself for your dreams yet. If you keep cutting away at yourself maybe, one day, you’ll get there. Well I have some bad news, life isn’t fair, the Universe doesn’t owe you anything. 

I think breaking Big Limits is a really admirable thing. I think that fulfillment can often come from the willingness to experience little deaths for what we believe in. I think there is a really good set of reasons society tends to praise high achievers, like artists and athletes that have exceeded human expectation to do what they’ve done. But that’s not the end. It’s not the answer. It can’t be, because the Big Limits continue to generate in front of you indefinitely, forever. If you take no pleasure in the process or path which leads you to your Big Limits the Big Limits on that path may eventually break you. Maybe that’s part of what monsterfication means? 

The Limiter

So, the LIMITER is not any type of limit. The limiter is the source of all limits. One does not simply ‘break’ one’s limiter. At the end of the day, my prediction (take it or leave it I might be wrong. And honestly, I would be thrilled if I was wrong) is that no one has nor ever will break their limiter other than Saitama. I don’t think Genos will break his limiter, I don’t think Garou has broken his limiter. I do think Garou has broken enough of his Big Limits to sufficiently change who he is as a person and expand a whole new set of possibilities for him that would not have been accessible to him otherwise. 

If facing one’s small limits is like setting sail across the sea, even at times against the wind and waves, and if facing one’s Big Limits are like weathering storms or making it over major waves that push against you, facing one’s limiter is like diving head-first into the ocean itself and learning how to breath underwater. Facing one’s limiter may be akin to facing the source of all suffering in your life. Breaking one’s limiter is a truer kind of death.

I’m still not sure what breaking one’s limiter really takes or if it’s even worth it. It certainly doesn’t seem like the end of the story.