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foreveia · 5 months ago

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fourteen ⤨ oikawa tooru

⨭ genre; fluff

⨭ pairing; oikawa tooru x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 6.5k

⨭ descriptions; as much as you love romcoms, you're a realist and recognise just how illogical true love is—unfortunately for you, fate has other plans.

⨭ warnings; profanity

⨭ a/n; my 2025 motto has been to just write and not worry too much about perfectionism, so here's my mess of an oikawa fic. it's acc unreal i have finished three fics in a week's time lol who knows how long this creative streak will last but wtv. in the meantime, enjoy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'plot twist' by niki

one.

During your four-hour layover in SFO, you decide that 4AM flights are only slightly less inconvenient than paying full price for a flight at noon. Because right now, it’s honestly just eerie: San Francisco International Airport (full-government name because you fear this might actually be where you die) is completely empty, largely dark, and very, very desolate.

You sigh and glance around the lounge, which is dimly lit and suspiciously quiet except for the distant hum of a floor polisher somewhere beyond the gates. Every shop is shuttered, every PA announcement echoes into nothing, and the only signs of life are a few overworked employees slumped behind their counters; you’re the only one at your gate, your phone charging via one of the blue-light towers, headphones blasting at maximum volume. You’re trying to drown out the unnerving feeling in your chest with Gracie Abrams and SZA—it’s not working in the slightest, actually making you increasingly wary of your vulnerability.

But whatever. You’re a #brokecollegestudent, so obviously you’re willing to risk your life for a good deal.

Honestly, you should really be asleep. That was the plan, after all: you had it all mapped out—get here, find a quiet corner, conk out, wake up only when it’s absolutely necessary. Instead, your brain is running on fumes and bad decisions, vibrating horribly in your skull because you’re an idiot and didn’t realize how paranoid you get when you’re sleep deprived.

You groan, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Kill me,” you mutter under your breath.

“First time traveling?” a voice pipes up, obnoxiously chipper for the time of night.

You freeze mid-stretch. You are not alone.

Slowly, you turn toward the source of the voice.

Sprawled across the lounge chair opposite you, looking for all the world like he belongs here, is a guy—tall, lean but broad-shouldered, stupidly good-looking even under the sickly fluorescent lights. Tousled brown hair, sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie that are clearly designer but worn like he doesn’t give a damn. His legs are stretched out like he owns the entire damn lounge, and he’s got this lazy, almost smug smirk on his face, like he’s enjoying whatever show you’re unknowingly putting on.

You narrow your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely at you, at your very obvious state of suffering. “You look like you’re miserable right now.”

“I am,” you say. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, then tilts his head. “Just figured misery loves company.”

Your brain is still catching up to the fact that this man—a stranger, an audacious one at that—has just decided to start a conversation with you, unprompted, in the middle of an empty airport. You eye him cautiously. “You do realize there are approximately four million other places to sit, right?”

He grins. “Yeah, but none of them have you.”

You blink. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Depends.” His smirk widens. “Is it working?”

“No.”

“Damn,” he says, without an ounce of actual disappointment. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you glance away. God. Of all the people to be stuck in airport limbo with, you had to get the charming, insufferable kind. The kind that probably coasts through life on natural athletic ability and the kind of face that gets him out of parking tickets. The kind that’s entirely too comfortable stretching out in a public lounge like it’s his personal living room.

He’s watching you, you realise. Like he’s waiting for something.

“What?” you sigh.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

“I don’t remember you asking one.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like you’ve just mildly amused him. “First time traveling?” he repeats.

You roll your eyes. “No. Just first time being stuck in an airport at an hour when no one should be conscious.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “A rookie mistake. 4AM flights are a scam.”

You snort. “And yet, here you are.”

“Touché.”

You take another glance at him, this time really looking. Something about him tugs at your memory, like a song you’ve heard before but can’t place. The messy hair, the easy confidence, the way he’s practically radiating I’m used to being the center of attention energy.

Then, in a flash, it hits you.

“Oh,” you say, recognition clicking into place. “Wait—you’re Oikawa.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “You know me?”

“You’re that volleyball guy,” you say, pointing vaguely at him. “The one who’s, like… unnecessarily famous.”

Oikawa grins. “Unnecessarily?”

“I mean, it’s volleyball,” you deadpan. “I didn’t even know people could be famous for that.”

His expression morphs into something between offense and wounded pride. “Ouch. I think I might actually cry.”

“Please do,” you say. “It’ll entertain me.”

He clutches his chest theatrically. “You’re ruthless.”

“I’m tired,” you promptly correct. “And delirious. And currently stuck in an airport with a man who’s trying to convince me he’s a big deal.”

Oikawa scoffs, but there’s something amused in his gaze, like he’s enjoying this. “You’re not a fan of sports?”

“Not really,” you shrug half-heartedly, looking back down at your beat-up Filas. You’re not lying; even so, you’ve seen his games on TV before (you watch the Olympics after all—you’re not a total basket case). He’s a flirt, a player with double meaning, and you would really rather avoid getting involved with anything complicated. “I’ve never been into jocks.”

“Never been into jocks,” he echoes, shaking his head. “And here I thought I could be your Peter Kavinsky.”

“No, thank you. I would never write you a love letter.”

Oikawa laughs at that—an actual laugh, not just the smug little chuckle you’ve gotten so far. It’s rich and warm, and you hate the way it makes your stomach flip just slightly. Who even are you right now? This whole situation is so unbelievable that it makes you more confident.

You cross your arms, looking him up and down. “So what’s your excuse?”

“For what?”

“For subjecting yourself to this hellscape of a layover,” you say, gesturing at the ghost town of a terminal around you.

He sighs, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “Came back to visit some old teammates in California. Now I’m heading home.”

“Japan?”

“Bingo.”

Your brain is slow, groggy, and running on fumes, but something about that answer sticks. “Wait,” you say, frowning. “What flight are you on?”

Oikawa glances at you, like he knows exactly what you’re about to realize. “4:00AM to Haneda.”

You stare at him. “No.”

His grin is almost devious. “Yes.”

Your stomach drops.

Fourteen hours. Fourteen whole hours, stuck on a flight. With him.

Oikawa watches the realization dawn on your face, and for the first time since he sat down, he looks genuinely entertained.

“Well,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

You are going to lose your goddamn mind.

two.

For all your romcom consumption, you never stopped to consider what you would do if coincidence and chance conspired against you in that manner. You figured if fate was ever going to meddle in your love life, it would be in an incessantly normal way—maybe a slow-burn situation with a coworker, or a friend-of-a-friend you never noticed until one fateful night.

Not… this.

Not staring at seat 14A like it’s a death sentence, because your boarding pass is crumpled in your fist, because of course when you finally find your row, Oikawa Tooru is already lounging in 14B, looking far too pleased with himself.

He glances up as you approach, then breaks into the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever fucking seen.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, leaning back like he just won the lottery. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You stop dead in the aisle, refusing to believe what your own two eyes are telling you.

“Are you following me?” you blurt, because there is absolutely no way the universe would do this to you.

Oikawa, ever the dramatist, clutches his chest. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to follow you, I’d at least be more subtle.”

“Show me your ticket.”

He raises an eyebrow but pulls out his boarding pass with a flourish anyway. You squint to read the text, half-hoping that you would find some spelling error that could place either of you somewhere else. But nope: his ticket reads 14B in big, bold letters, right next to Oikawa Tooru and Gate 11.

You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers to your temple. Jesus fuck. He manifested this, with his snarky commentary and all about being stuck with him; you would say that you’re gonna kill him for this, but evidently, karma is real and terrifying.

Oikawa, meanwhile, is having the time of his life.

“What are the odds?” he muses, tucking the ticket back into his hoodie pocket. “Out of all the seats on this flight, I get to sit next to you.”

“This is a nightmare,” you mutter.

“Nightmares are scary,” he says. “I’m a delight.”

You glare at him and shove your bag into the overhead bin with slightly more force than necessary. He watches, thoroughly entertained, as you lower yourself into your seat like you’re walking into a trap.

The cabin fills with the usual pre-flight chaos—flight attendants directing traffic, the hum of passengers settling in, the occasional thud of an overhead bin slamming shut. You try to focus on that, on anything other than the man currently making himself comfortable in the seat beside you.

Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll get bored.

Oikawa leans an elbow on the armrest between you, tilting his head slightly. “So,” he says. “What’s your in-flight entertainment plan?”

“My what?”

“You know, what’s gonna keep you occupied for the next fourteen hours?” He gestures vaguely to your bag. “Movies? Reading? Soul-searching?”

“Sleeping,” you say immediately. “It’s four AM. Like a normal person.”

Oikawa tilts his head, considering. “See, I would believe you, but you already look wide awake.”

You scowl at him. Because unfortunately, he’s right—your body is so far past exhaustion that sleep is a distant, unattainable dream. You sigh and shift in your seat, pressing yourself closer to the window.

He grins, victorious. “You should talk to me instead.”

You let out an actual laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I’m fun.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Same thing.”

You shoot him a flat look. “I don’t like you.”

“And yet, you still haven’t put your headphones in,” he points out.

Damn it. You hate that he’s right. Again.

You huff, finally fishing your headphones from your bag and shoving them into your ears with exaggerated finality. Then, just for good measure, you turn to the window and squeeze your eyes shut.

Oikawa doesn’t say anything else. For about thirty seconds. Then, right as the plane begins to taxi down the runway, you hear him say, way too smugly for your liking, “you’re gonna talk to me eventually.”

You pretend to be asleep. You can feel him watching you, like he’s waiting for you to crack, like he knows something you don’t.

Ugh. This is gonna be a long flight.

three.

By hour three of the flight, you’ve come to realise that Oikawa has a surprising love for the classics.

Trust: you weren’t actively trying to notice his choice of in-air films, but your periphery and conscience betray you, and you become acutely aware as your seatmate cycles through The Proposal and Crazy Stupid Love (two objectively incredible films). He cues 10 Things I Hate About You next, which is probably your favorite movie of all time; you adore said movie so much that, despite all of your previous complaints and window-seat protests, you eventually lean into the seat rest separating you two and watch along.

Not openly, obviously. Not in any way that would give Oikawa the satisfaction of knowing he’s captured your attention. You angle your face toward the window, feign a vague disinterest, and sneak quick glances when you think he’s not looking.

Spoiler: he notices immediately.

“You know you could just watch with me,” Oikawa says, not even bothering to take his eyes off the screen. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say flatly, keeping your gaze stubbornly trained on the clouds outside.

“Uh-huh.” He shifts in his seat, casually turning the screen toward you. “C’mon, if you’re gonna steal glances, at least commit.”

“I wasn’t stealing anything,” you huff, but it’s weak, and you both know it.

Oikawa smirks, and—against your better judgment—you give in, finally glancing at his screen properly to watch Kat Stratford dancing drunkenly on a table. He offers you one of his earbuds, which you take very, very tentatively. You would be deeply unhappy about the proximity if your love of Hypnotize didn’t trump it.

You sigh, leaning your cheek against your palm. “This movie is so good.”

“Right?” Oikawa grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Pretty bold of you to call me insufferable when you clearly have taste.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you love this movie, I love this movie—therefore, you and I have more in common than you’d like to admit.”

You scoff, but there’s no real bite to it. “Liking 10 Things I Hate About You is just basic human decency.”

Oikawa presses a hand to his chest, mock-flattered. “Oh, so now you’re calling me decent?”

“No, I’m calling the movie decent. You’re a fluke.”

He gasps dramatically, then shakes his head, muttering something about how you wound him. But his smile lingers as the film plays on, and maybe—just a little bit—you don’t find his presence as unbearable anymore. He’s too distracted watching Joseph Gordon-Levitt pine to be truly annoying.

Somewhere between the next few scenes, you relax completely, not even pretending to look away anymore. You’re leaning in slightly now, watching the moment where Patrick buys Kat a guitar, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for you to realize that Oikawa’s staring at you instead of the screen.

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, amused. “You’re, like… really into this.”

You scoff, flicking your gaze back to the movie. “I just appreciate good cinema.”

“Oh, so you’re a romcom person.”

You hesitate—because there’s something about the way he says it, a sort of curiosity that feels deeper than just casual conversation. It could be interpreted as judgmental, but somehow, the way he says it doesn’t seem to be. Still, you brush it off, nodding begrudgingly. “Yeah. So?”

Oikawa hums, glancing back at the screen as if weighing his words. Then, without looking at you, he says, “Do you think this stuff actually happens?”

“What, grand romantic gestures?”

“Yeah. Stuff like this. The running through the airport thing. The whole public love confession in front of the entire school thing. Do you think it’s real?”

You consider it for a moment, shifting in your seat. “I think… I think people want it to be real,” you admit, watching as Patrick and Kat kiss in the movie’s final scene. “Like, deep down, even the most cynical people kind of want to believe that this kind of thing could happen to them.”

Oikawa doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, his expression unreadable.

Then he asks, voice softer this time, “And do you?”

The question settles in your chest, heavier than it should be. Do you believe in grand gestures? In someone showing up unannounced at your door, confessing their feelings in the pouring rain? In someone looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth fighting for?

If you’re being honest, you’re a hopeless romantic at heart. It’s why you love the genre so much—because despite all your cynicism, despite every realist take you’ve ever had, a part of you still wants to believe in love that lasts. You just don’t think it’s likely. People fall out of love with each other. Feelings fade. Real life is rarely as cinematic as the movies make it seem.

You exhale, suddenly too aware of the way Oikawa’s watching you, like he sees right through you.

“I think it’s… nice in movies,” you say carefully. “But in real life, people just disappoint you. It’s not worth taking the chance and getting hurt.”

Oikawa studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your utter surprise, he smiles—small and knowing, the kind that makes your stomach do something weird.

“Well,” he murmurs, leaning back in his seat, “maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”

Your breath catches. You hate the way your heart stumbles over itself, just for a second.

You force yourself to roll your eyes, turning back toward the window. “Gross,” you mutter, hoping he doesn’t hear the slight waver in your voice.

Oikawa just chuckles, hitting play on When Harry Met Sally.

“Talk to me when we hit the part where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Then we’ll really see where you stand on romance.”

You shake your head, biting back a reluctant smile.

And as the flight drags on, you realize—with a sinking feeling—that you don’t actually mind sitting next to Oikawa Tooru as much as you thought you did.

Oh God. That can’t be good.

four.

Halfway through the scene where Harry and Sally are in flight, you decide, after much internal conflict, that you’ll allow yourself to like Oikawa for this flight and this flight alone. It’s harmless. A temporary indulgence. You can enjoy the anonymity, let yourself sink into the moment, and then disappear once the plane lands. Maybe you’ll see his Olympic gameplay on TV one day, mention it offhandedly to whoever you’re with at the time, and then promptly forget about him.

Because here’s the thing: if you let yourself, you could probably fall for people pretty easily. You keep your guards up because it’s safer, but you imagine that love is like getting sucked into a black hole—you either fall forever, or you hit the ground so hard it shatters you. And if there’s one thing you know about yourself, it’s your tendency to self-sabotage: you don’t remember a single relationship you’ve had where you didn’t walk away first. You really would prefer to keep your romantic fantasies in fiction; it hurts less.

You never realized that Oikawa could share this conviction.

He doesn’t say anything when you shift slightly toward him, resting your arm on the seat rest between you. He doesn’t comment when you fully give in, watching When Harry Met Sally with him like it’s something you’ve been doing forever. He just lets it happen—like he expected it, like he knew you’d cave.

You don’t like that. But you do like the movie.

The scene in the airport plays, Sally meticulously laying out her travel quirks—I like the aisle seat, so I can stretch my legs. I don’t like to eat between meals, but I always want something sweet after dinner. You smile to yourself. You’ve always loved the specificity of it: how she knows exactly what she likes, how she doesn’t compromise on it.

“I feel like dating you would be exhausting,” Oikawa muses abruptly, arms crossed over his chest.

You tear your gaze away from the screen just long enough to give him a withering look. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely in your direction. “You’re too—” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Particular.”

You scoff. “And you’re not?”

“Not in the same way.” He shifts slightly, smirking. “You’d analyze me to death. Pick apart every little thing I do.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like you wouldn’t be a terror to date.”

Oikawa grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Thinking about dating me, are we?”

“I’m thinking about how insufferable you’d be,” you correct, turning back toward the screen.

“Mm. You sure?”

You shoot him a look.

He sighs, dramatic as ever. “Shame. I’d be great at it.”

You snort. “Doubt that.”

His smirk widens. “That sounded a lot like a challenge.”

“It’s not.”

“I think it is.”

“Oikawa.”

He chuckles, finally turning back to the movie, and for some reason, you feel yourself relax again. The teasing is easier now, lighter. You don’t hate it.

And, despite yourself, you sneak another glance at him before looking back at the screen.

The movie plays on. Harry and Sally are walking through Central Park in the fall, debating the age-old question of whether men and women can be just friends. You know every word of this scene, could probably recite it in your sleep.

“I love this part,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Oikawa glances at you, intrigued. “Why?”

“It’s just—” You pause, searching for the right words. “It’s the conversation. The way they both believe so deeply in their own side of things. And they’re both right, in different ways.”

Oikawa hums, tilting his head. “So, which one are you?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think men and women can just be friends?”

You hesitate. You’ve thought about it before, obviously—you’ve had guy friends, you’ve had moments where those friendships blurred at the edges, where you wondered if they were really as platonic as you claimed.

“I think it depends,” you decide finally. “Some people can. Some people can’t.”

Oikawa watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable. “And what about us?”

Your breath falters; the question feels heavier than it should. You force yourself to scoff. “We’re not even friends.”

He laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is. “Cold.”

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips. “I just mean we met, like, five hours ago.”

“Five very meaningful hours,” he says, nodding seriously.

You shake your head, turning back to the screen—just in time for the diner scene.

“Oh, here we go,” Oikawa murmurs.

You grin. “Cinematic excellence.”

Sally fakes an orgasm, loud and unashamed, right in the middle of Katz’s Deli. You try not to look at Oikawa as you laugh, but his presence is suddenly overwhelming, like you can feel him beside you even without looking.

“She’s got a point, you know,” he says.

“What?” You glance at him.

He gestures to the screen. “Half of dating is just making people think you’re having a good time.”

You scoff. “That’s your dating experience, maybe.”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re a playboy.”

He groans. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“It’s outdated,” he argues. “Was I kind of a flirt in high school? Sure. But I grew out of that.”

You snort. “Did you?”

Oikawa turns to you, expression softer now. “I did,” he says, and you don’t know why, but the look in his eyes and the way his voice wavers make you believe him.

There’s something almost sad about it, how under his layers of bravado and grandiosity, he seems just the slightest bit lonely. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, the way his jaw tenses slightly, the way his fingers drum absentmindedly against the armrest.

“I don’t know,” he continues, voice quieter. “Never really met someone who gets me like that.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can think better of it, you mumble, “I get that.”

Oikawa looks at you. Something shifts between you. Not huge, not dramatic—but something.

You clear your throat, turning back to the screen. “The best part of this movie is the ending, anyway.”

He watches you for a second longer, then smiles slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, watching as Harry races through the streets on New Year’s Eve, heart in his throat, words spilling out in a desperate confession. “Because he realizes it’s real.”

Oikawa hums. “And you don’t think real love is like that?”

You hesitate. You really don’t want to answer that question, not right now. So instead, you shrug. “Like I said, it’s nice in movies.”

Oikawa doesn’t push. But as the credits roll, he glances at you one last time, something unreadable in his gaze. He’s not entirely convinced by your answer, and you both know it, even if he isn’t saying it aloud.

five.

Oikawa’s phone password is his own name, which is a fun fact you discover as your flight nears hour ten.

You don’t even mean to find out—really, you don’t. He dozes off halfway through Crazy Rich Asians, phone balanced precariously on his knee, screen still lit up from whatever mindless scrolling he’d been doing before sleep claimed him. He’s slumped in his seat, arms crossed, mouth slightly open in a way that would be embarrassing if he were anyone else. But he’s Oikawa, and people like him have a way of looking effortless even in sleep.

The moment the phone slips, it’s like slow motion. It free-falls, landing with a soft thud on the armrest between you. Oikawa startles awake, lashes fluttering, hands fumbling to catch it a second too late. His fingers curl around the device, flipping it over with bleary concern, only for the screen to glare back at him—locked.

And that’s when you see it.

You don’t mean to. It’s just…right there. The exact moment his fingers trace out the unlock pattern, it clicks into place, predictable in a way that makes you snort.

“Oikawa.”

He turns toward you, still shaking off the drowsiness. “Huh?”

“Your password,” you say, fighting a smirk. “You really chose Oikawa?”

He yawns, unbothered. “And?”

“And that’s… so predictable.”

He stretches, spine arching lazily before he slouches back down, as if the conversation itself is something he can’t be bothered to put effort into. “Predictable or genius? You tell me.”

“Predictable,” you say immediately. “What if someone tries to hack you? Your name is the first thing people would guess.”

Oikawa grins. “Exactly. It’s so obvious that no one would actually think I’d use it.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I bet all your passwords are just variations of your own name.”

He makes a noise of vague offense, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s an outrageous accusation,” he says, clearly lying.

You narrow your eyes. “Your Netflix account—Oikawa123.”

He lets out a small, amused breath. “No comment.”

“Instagram? KingOikawa.”

“Hey, now—”

“Banking password?” You pause, then shake your head. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t even want to know.”

He chuckles, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re awfully interested in my passwords, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m interested in the fact that you’re a narcissist.”

“And yet,” he muses, smirking at you, “you’re the one paying so much attention to me.”

Your lips part, an immediate retort on the tip of your tongue—but nothing comes out. Because damn it, he’s right.

Somewhere between hour one and hour ten, between watching him cycle through romcoms and pretending not to care, between brushing shoulders and arguing about the best scene in 10 Things I Hate About You, between the countless small moments where his presence started feeling less like an inconvenience and more like something else entirely—you started paying attention. And he knows it.

You let out a slow breath and turn toward the window. “I hate you.”

Oikawa laughs softly. “No, you don’t.”

You don’t respond. You’re too tired to lie.

***

At hour eleven, your seat neighbor learns something about you, too. It’s not even because you tell him, but because he notices.

The plane has dimmed its lights, casting everything in muted shades of blue and gray. The hum of the engine is steady, a low vibration beneath your feet. Most of the passengers have settled into varying stages of half-sleep—some curled against their window seats, others with neck pillows wedged awkwardly under their chins.

You, on the other hand, remain awake.

You lean against the window, knees drawn up slightly, arms folded. Your gaze is unfocused, staring out at the endless stretch of dark, empty sky. Exhaustion clings to you, but sleep never comes easy—not on planes, not in cars, not anywhere that isn’t familiar.

Oikawa shifts beside you, the rustle of fabric breaking the silence. Then, softly, he asks, “you don’t sleep well on planes, do you?”

You blink, a little surprised. “What?”

He nods at you. “You’ve been sitting like that for a while now. You look exhausted, but you’re still awake.”

You hesitate, because he’s right. You’ve never been good at this—at shutting your brain off, at forcing comfort where it doesn’t exist. Your body stays tense, your thoughts wired for worst-case scenarios, always preparing for turbulence that might never come.

“It’s fine,” you say, voice quieter than before. “I’ll sleep when I land.”

Oikawa watches you for a moment, then, without a word, grabs his hoodie from his lap and balls it up into something vaguely pillow-shaped.

“Here,” he says, placing it between you.

You frown at it. “What?”

“You’ll be more comfortable,” he says simply. “Try it.”

Your gaze flickers to his, searching for the inevitable teasing remark, the smugness, the gotcha. But for once, it’s not there. Just an easy, offhanded kindness.

You swallow. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off before you can argue. “Just take it.”

After a moment of hesitation, you do.

And when you finally let yourself lean into it, letting the exhaustion settle into your bones, you hear him murmur—softer, barely audible— “See? Told you I’d be good at this.”

Because you’re actually significantly more comfortable and way too tired to argue, you just snuggle into the fabric and ignore your thumping heart.

***

At hour twelve, you wake up to warmth.

It’s subtle at first, just a gradual shift from the hazy quiet of sleep to the soft awareness of something unfamiliar. You’re warm, comfortable in a way you shouldn’t be, your head still heavy with lingering exhaustion.

Then, slowly, the details start to register.

The weight pressed lightly against your shoulder. The faint scent of something clean and familiar—fabric softener, maybe, or whatever detergent Oikawa uses. The steady rise and fall of breath, slow and even.

Your pulse stutters.

He’s leaned into you, his head resting lightly against your shoulder, body angled just slightly in your direction. His breathing is deep and even, completely at ease. At some point in the last hour, he must have drifted off.

And instead of moving away—you stayed. Your brain short-circuits. You should move. You should definitely move. But you don’t.

Instead, you sit there, utterly still, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name. Because this—this—is not how Oikawa looks on TV.

The Oikawa you’ve seen in interviews is all sharp angles and practiced charm, leaning into the cameras with a knowing smirk, effortlessly collecting attention like it’s his birthright. The Oikawa on the court is even sharper—brilliant and untouchable, playing with a confidence that borders on arrogance, eyes burning with something that makes it impossible to look away. Even after a game, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, he still performs—laughing, winking at the reporters, throwing casual remarks over his shoulder like he knows the whole world is watching.

But right now?

Right now, he’s none of those things.

His expression is unguarded, free of the practiced ease he wears like armor. His brow is smooth, his lips parted slightly, his breathing soft and steady. There’s no smirk, no carefully placed bravado—just quiet, unconscious stillness.

And it unsettles you. Because this is real.

This is not Oikawa under stadium lights or Oikawa playing to the cameras. This is just him, asleep against your shoulder, completely unaware of the effect he’s having on you.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

You exhale slowly, careful not to move too much, not to wake him. Your gaze drifts downward before you can stop yourself, just enough to see the way his hand has fallen between you, palm up, fingers lightly curled. For a second, just a second, you have the insane urge to reach out.

You don’t. Of course, you don’t. But the thought lingers, settling somewhere deep in your chest, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

You turn your head toward the window, watching the faint glow of city lights far below, hoping the view will quiet whatever this feeling is.

It doesn’t. And still—you don’t wake him.

For some reason, you let him stay.

six.

There’s approximately one hour left before your plane is due to land, and you’re beginning to realize that you don’t actually want it to end.

Maybe it’s the absurdity of the whole situation, or maybe it’s because of your sleep-deprived delusions, but you like Oikawa. You don’t want to—really, you don’t. It would be infinitely easier if he were just another stranger you made small talk with before forgetting the moment you stepped off the plane. But no. He had to be annoying and charming and stupidly perceptive. He had to watch romcoms like he actually gives a damn about them. He had to see through you, easily and effortlessly, as if he simply understood you.

And now, because the universe is cruel and loves to humiliate you personally, you’re sitting here in the final stretch of this flight, hyper-aware of every single second ticking down, not wanting it to be over.

Oikawa doesn’t seem to share your existential crisis. He’s been quiet for the last twenty minutes, scrolling lazily through his phone, one elbow propped against the armrest between you. Every so often, he glances up at the in-flight map, watching as the little airplane icon inches closer to Tokyo.

You hate that it makes your stomach sink.

You shift in your seat, pressing your temple against the cool window, staring out at the early morning sky. You wonder if this is how romcom characters feel in that inevitable third-act moment, when they realize they’ve accidentally gone and caught feelings. When they recognize, with dawning horror, that the person they were supposed to be indifferent to has somehow carved their way into their life.

The difference, of course, is that those characters always get a happy ending.

You don’t know what you get.

The PA system crackles overhead. A flight attendant reminds everyone to prepare for descent. Around you, there’s the familiar rustle of people adjusting in their seats, pulling out jackets, stretching the stiffness from their limbs.

Oikawa shifts beside you, adjusting his hoodie. “Almost there,” he murmurs.

You hum, noncommittal. You think he’s going to leave it at that, but then he glances at you, eyes sharp despite the sleep still clinging to his edges. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying you. “You okay?”

Your grip tightens on the armrest. He notices too much. You should’ve known that he would see it—the way you’re staring too long at the window, the way you haven’t snapped at him in a while.

You force yourself to scoff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Oikawa smirks like he knows something you don’t. “No reason.”

You hate that. You hate how easy he makes it look, the whole watching-you-like-you’re-a-puzzle-he’s-figuring-out thing. You hate that part of you wants him to keep looking.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the window. The seatbelt light dings on. The plane begins its slow descent, the city below coming into sharper focus.

It’s almost over.

***

Airports are supposed to be soulless places. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, as you walk through the terminal—bleary-eyed, exhausted, your carry-on digging into your shoulder. Your brain is already working on a plan: get your bag, get through customs, forget Oikawa Tooru exists.

That plan lasts approximately five seconds before you hear it.

A cheer. Loud, unmistakable, coming from somewhere near Arrivals. You glance over, along with half the airport, and that’s when you see them.

A couple, standing in the middle of the terminal like a goddamn movie scene. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a duffel slung over his shoulder—is staring at the other like he can’t quite believe she’s real. The girl—small, blonde, practically vibrating—throws her arms around his neck and kisses him so dramatically that the people around them actually applaud.

You blink. “What the fuck.”

Oikawa appears at your side, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching the scene unfold. You can feel him glance at you, the smirk already forming.

“Well,” he says, voice smug, “would you look at that.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

He hums, still watching the couple, who have now dissolved into an absolute mess of forehead kisses and whispered I missed yous. It’s excessive. It’s dramatic.

It’s also… kind of nice.

You hate that you think that.

Oikawa stretches, tilting his head toward you. “So?”

You frown. “So, what?”

His smirk widens. “Do you believe in it yet?”

Your heart does something stupid. Because the question—it’s not just a callback to your in-flight debate. It’s not just him poking fun at your skepticism. It’s softer than that. More curious. Hopeful, even.

Do you believe in grand gestures? Do you believe in love that doesn’t disappoint? Do you believe in something real?

The answer forms before you can stop it.

“…I think I’m starting to.”

Oikawa stills. Just for a second. Then, slowly, his grin shifts into something real.

You exhale, turning back toward the baggage claim, but before you can walk away, something stops you. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the high of stepping off a fourteen-hour flight and still feeling wired.

Or maybe it’s just him.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach for his hoodie pocket.

Oikawa blinks. “Uh—”

You pull out his phone, type in his password, and create a new contact in his list. You quickly type in your number, and pause for a second, considering, then—just to be an ass—save your name as oikawa hater. Then you hand it back to him.

Oikawa takes it, glancing between you and the screen, lips curling into something almost incredulous.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m actually speechless.”

“A first for you, I’m sure.”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes flickering back to his phone. He stares at your contact name for a second too long, like he’s memorizing it. Like he wants to. And then he locks his screen, tucks it back into his hoodie, and glances at you—grinning, smug, a little bit victorious.

“So,” he muses, as the baggage carousel hums to life. “Do I get to keep my title as your Peter Kavinsky now?”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“You like me,” he says in a sing-song voice. “What happened to love only being good in movies?”

And maybe it’s just your imagination. Maybe it’s the jet lag, or the weird 6AM haze of existing between time zones. But as you step toward baggage claim, you swear—just for a second—Oikawa looks at you like the answer to that question might matter more than anything else.

Honestly, nothing is confirmed. He might never text you, or even if he does, who knows if you two would even make it past the first date. The world could end tomorrow, or he could completely forget about you, the way you thought he would. There’s always the chance that you’ll get hurt anyway. But he deserves to hear it. You, against all odds, want him to know.

So you turn, meet his eyes, and say, completely honestly, “Maybe you’re worth taking a chance on.”

⨭ closing; i wrote this instead of paying attention in my lecture lol i don't really know how i feel about this one yet but here's to hoping it'll grow on me when i'm not so tired from a long day of uni classes </3 let me know yalls thoughts but pls don't be mean :') thank u and love u all

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valdotjpg · 3 months ago

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i would highly recommend reading all 3 parts of this interview w/ hidetaka miyazaki abt the duskbloods to those who wanna hear more abt its gameplay, but i wanted to make a little highlight reel of points that interested me personally

Genre + addressing concerns wrt future games

"[...] At its core, it’s an online multiplayer focused game [...] I’ve always found the PvPvE structure very interesting. It allows for a broad range of game-design ideas, while also letting us leverage our experience of designing challenging enemy encounters.

As a side note, please allow me to address one thing. As previously mentioned, this is an online multiplayer title at its core, but this doesn’t mean that we as a company have decided to shift to a more multiplayer-focused direction with titles going forward. [...] We still intend to actively develop single player focused games such as [Elden Ring] that embrace our more traditional style."

(more under the cut!)

The general gameplay loop

"The game has a so-called “hub” area, where players can choose their character, customize them and enter online multiplayer. Online multiplayer supports up to 8 players. [...]

Online matches are generally last player standing, however there are certain cases where victory conditions differ. For example, players may be tasked with teaming up to take down a powerful boss enemy, or find themselves in other special circumstances."

The game's characters & setting

The game’s protagonists are known as “Bloodsworn” - a group whose members have achieved super-human abilities through the power of special blood. Fromsoft tried to extract the sort of romantic aspects they found interesting from concepts such as vampires while working on the game.

"As human society reaches an end, something known as "First Blood" flows in an event called the “Twilight of Humanity.” The Bloodsworn are summoned to the Twilight of Humanity across a variety of different times and places in a bid to obtain First Blood. Due to this, there is no fixed era or location in which The Duskbloods takes place. There are more traditional Gothic- or Victorian-style maps as well as those depicting the closing years of the early modern period, like the one glimpsed in the trailer with the train running through it."

There are over a dozen characters for the player to choose from, each with their own identity and appearance. Each character can be customized to a certain extent using rewards from online matches, "allowing players the fun of building a character that feels like their own."

"The fragments [of lore and worldbuilding details] this time are found in character customization items: their “blood history and fate.” Customizing a character will reveal a piece of information regarding the world and its unfolding story. [...] Analyzing and altering a character’s blood history and fate allows players to customize all sorts of things, from their abilities, appearance, and inner characteristics to the role they play in the world and relationships with other characters."

Roles & "role-playing"

"Roles give players special responsibilities and objectives that often lead to unique interactions and relationships between players based on their corresponding roles.

For example, if a player possesses the “Destined Rivals” role, another player is designated as their rival, and they are tasked with finding and defeating that player. Doing so counts as achieving a personal goal, separate from the overall victory conditions.

Another example is “Destined Companion,” where one player is required to seek out another designated as their companion, which results in a special reward if they form a bond with one another.

Roles can be assigned to any character via blood customization, allowing players to enjoy role-playing in a literal sense and hopefully adding to the drama of these engagements."

Rat lore :)

"That character shares a similar role with the fire keepers from the Dark Souls series. They remain in the hub area, providing the player with advice and guidance.

I suppose you could say we tried doing something a little [cute] in the spirit of the [Nintendo] partnership. [...] Although I will say this character is actually an elderly gentleman (laughter)."

#the duskbloods #(btw just to be clear i mean 'interested me' as in like . i was curious abt some of this stuff & this interview provided answers)#(im not a multiplayer guy so im not rlly interested in playing it all that much by default haha)#(and when u count the switch 2 + game + nintendo online prices........ its like . oof)

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bewitched-hours · 17 days ago

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Meet Astra!

Gotta admit, I forgot I wanted to do a wiki-esque page for my deity oc and figured I might as well do it now as a late thank you for the 50+ followers. Part of me wanted to wait until the 100 followers but since I hadn't done anything special for 50, it was only fair I do that now.

So... Meet Astra!

Gotta admit, I took inspiration from @brain4stew's Galaxy Guardian design which I highly suggest checking out too because it's really cool and I want more people to see it too （＾ω＾）

"What's yours is also mine~!" - Purchase Quote

"Previously a deity living among the stars. She loved to watch people make memories and grant innocent little wishes, only to be surprised when she suddenly saw a new realm entirely and got thrown into it quicker than she would've liked. Thanks to the gear she managed to materialize using the void-like substance from her body, she can work as both a healer and a sentinel." - Astra's Description

Astra is a support & sentinel survivor. Available for 500$. They used to be a star deity but now she has to learn to be mortal whilst attempting to keep everyone's spirits up.

They still attempt to identify as a deity, not wanting to disappoint her new friends or downplay who she used to be. They just can't believe she was overpowered by an entity they didn't even know of.

Abilities;

Starry-Eyed

(Passive Abilitiy)

"Yeah, these eyes aren't great but that's why I got my hat!" - Astra

Astra is able to use the stars as a secondary set of eyes. Every 30 seconds, she will be able to briefly identify where the killer is on the map. But if another survivor is below 25% health, she will identify them instead.

However, they are forced to halt anything they're doing and freeze up entirely for 5 seconds during this.

Upon entering LMS, this ability gets disabled and instead provides a 30% speed and attack boost. If Astra happens to be below 25% health during this, she gets fully healed at the cost of her stamina.

Galaxy Potion

Cooldown: 30s

Keybind: Q

"Maybe a little boost will do~" - Astra

Astra either drinks or throws the bottle strapped to her for another survivor to drink. This fully heals whoever drinks it and provides a temporary speed boost but if a killer were to drink it, they would get stunned for 2s.

Chained Fate

Cooldown: 1m

Keybind: E

"Still chaining yourself to meaningless matters..." - ██████

Using the chains on her arms, Astra can stun the killer by tying them up. Normally, this would only last 5s but can be extended if another supporter is nearby. Every supporter within immediate range adds another 2s to the stun.

Quick Sweep

Cooldown: 10 - 15s (depends on if she teleported alone or not)

Keybind: R

"You were always so easily frightened back then..." - ██████

If Astra is below 50% health, she can choose to teleport to a random location on the map outside of the killers vision. She may choose to take another survivor with her but that will add 5s to the ability cooldown. Either way, it comes at the cost of her stamina draining completely.

Lore

Astra was a deity of stars, watching Robloxians from all kinds of origins as the stars were basically her eyes. As long as she could remember, she enjoyed watching mortals and fulfilling wishes for the better. Wether that was a little kid wanting to get a pet or a parent concerned for their child.

She did whatever she could to make others happy and had her own little cult that was devoted to spreading her word through charity and good will. As such, she gained more of a permissive view on Robloxians as she wanted to believe in the best in them. Especially after she saw 007n7 abandon his ways to care for a child.

Astra genuinely believes anyone can change but still recognizes when someone is dangerous and will act accordingly. She isn't oblivious or careless in any way but she does try to stay optimistic and cheer up those around her whenever possible.

Interactions

Yes, I made this in google docs and cropped a screenshot for this-

Trivia

Astra uses She/They/It pronouns but usually doesn't care what she's referred to as. She considers herself genderfluid.

Astra struggled to take things seriously outside of rounds unless she can recognize someone being in a bad mood.

Astra's cult are like her own children. She likes to pretend they are at least. She wouldn't ever want to go through the same pain that some mothers go through for 9 months though...

She has almost an instinctive need to protect those around her.

Astra likes to believe she is still a deity despite her current form but struggles to convince herself at times, leading to her sometimes muttering incomprehensible words to herself.

Astra never had any needs to tend to so she had to be taught by the other survivors how living actually works.

Astra believes in giving everyone(who doesn't get hostile within the first five seconds of meeting) a chance but that doesn't mean trusting just anyone.

Astra did have parents but completely forgot their existence after a century of watching Robloxians.

She uses the stars attached to her hat to see properly. Her regular eyes can only see in blurs and outlines but the stars provide full clarity to her vision. Taking the hat off just causes her to go back to her blurry vision but she takes comfort in that at times.

Astra loves music but she's a bit shy about dancing because she never learned how to.

Sometimes she finds herself worrying about her cult.

Astra absolutely cannot stand loud noises. They overwhelm her quickly and she'll try to find a quiet place to allow her mind to stabilize.

She actually favours Noob, Elliot and 007n7 out of all the survivors but she's ashamed of admitting it. She has no reason to, she just does.

AAAAA- I did ittttt (ˊᗜˋ)/ᵗᑋᵃᐢᵏ ᵞᵒᵘ

#forsaken roblox #forsaken #roblox forsaken #forsaken oc #Astra #now you can request her too #not even joking #forsaken x reader #forsaken x y/n #forsaken Astra

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heliads · 2 months ago

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A Sea of Lies (1) - nikolai lantsov

As a Second Army Tidemaker, you're certain your latest mission to go undercover as a Ravkan spy in Sturmhond's fleet is nothing more than a fool's errand. The dread privateer certainly has tricks up his teal sleeves, but maybe not the ones you'd expected.

masterlist / part two

You start your day thinking the Darkling is making a joke, and that is how you know your life is over.

Nothing about today was a laughing matter, you should have sensed it from the start. You’ve been sleeping off your last mission for the last week, alternating between stopping by the Healers to fix up your wounds and helping to train some of the new Etherealki as Baghra loses her patience, but you’ve managed to piece together plenty of time to rest. The Second Army is always low on soldiers, whether from enemy attacks, or, shamefully enough, friendly fire from the First, so there’s never as much time to recover as you’d like.

The Darkling had called you into his War Room to receive your latest assignment. As one of his best spies, you’ve gained enough of his begrudging respect to be allowed into this hallowed hall of secrets, but you know better than to peer too closely at anything. Grisha have disappeared for less.

You swear it’s always colder in here, far from the never-silent throngs of Grisha outside, coaxed away from the slightest hints of sunlight. Maybe it’s just him. Regardless, you pull the sapphire fabric of your kefta closer to you, fingers running nervously over the fine blue stitching. You knew you were a Tidemaker ever since you were a child, and you could hardly be anything else now. The Darkling keeps you too busy to forget a thing like that.

He’s waiting for you when you arrive, dark eyes as shrewd as always, and he doesn’t say a word until the heavy door closes behind you. “Good morning, Y/N. I trust you’ve had enough time to recover since your last assignment?”

You nod on instinct. “Yes, thank you.”

It’s a lie. Your bones still ache from where you’d been thrown, the fractures so fresh from healing that you can feel the joins from standing alone. The Darkling isn’t interested in excuses, though. All he wants is a soldier, and you are that.

He inclines his head in acceptance. “I’m glad to hear it. I have use of your talents as a Tidemaker, although this time not on the warfront.”

You lean forward curiously, unable to stop yourself. “Sir?”

The Darkling gestures for you to come closer, indicating a map of Ravka and its harbors on the table in front of him. Several areas along the coastline have been marked with red, even stretching so far as to touch the borders of Fjerda up north and Shu Han down below you.

“These markings indicate targets of recent attacks by the pirate, Sturmhond, and his armies. He’s been intercepting merchant or military ships, often ones carrying Grisha, and taking their vessels and crews under his command. He’s grown more bold during recent months, enough to garner my attention and that of the king.”

The Darkling’s tone sours when he mentions the king, and you can’t help but share his sympathies. It is well known that the king of Ravka is nothing more than a greasy tyrant, but he’s a greasy tyrant that controls the fate of the Little Palace and all the Grisha within, so the Darkling must tolerate his whims, even when it obviously causes him great pain.

The Darkling clears his throat once and continues. “I’m interested in the great number of Grisha he’s managed to amass, which is why you’re going to be the one to get me information on them. You’ll head to the harbors and find a reason to convince Sturmhond to let you join his crew. Once he sees your abilities as a Tidemaker, he should be more than eager to let you aboard. After that, you’ll send me regular updates on the number of Grisha under his rule, as well as their designations and levels of expertise.”

It’s so absurd you almost laugh, and you’re glad you don’t, because the look in the Darkling’s eyes is nothing less than serious. “You want me to lie to one of the greatest liars on the True Sea?”

The Darkling stares at you coldly. “Are you questioning my assignment, Y/N?”

Your breath freezes in your chest. “Of course not,” you say hastily, “I just want– I want to be sure I understand the full expectations, that’s all. Won’t he be suspicious that someone from Ravka suddenly wants to join his ship?”

The Darkling waves this away. “Sell him a sob story about inhumane treatment from your homeland, I’m sure that damned pirate will eat it up. Criminals like him are more interested in a show than clear reason.”

You find this difficult to believe given that Sturmhond has been nothing if not faithful in his blockades and captures, but you know better than to argue with the Darkling. “Of course. And when do I leave?”

“Tomorrow at dawn,” the Darkling answers calmly. “There’s an early morning passage through the Shadow Fold, and from there you’ll make your way to the harbor. I’ll have other spies ready to guide you on your way, and they’ll be the ones to receive your reports whenever Sturmhond’s ship docks.”

Tomorrow at dawn. It’s so soon for your life to descend into chaos. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

“I know you won’t,” the Darkling says, eyeing you as you leave the room.

You retire back to your chambers and start to freak out. Sturmhond is infamous even without the Darkling’s description of his exploits. He’s legendary for backstabbings and betrayals, raids and attacks and mutines. This is no easy job. You’ve killed before, being an active spy in the midst of a war does that to you, but engaging with Sturmhond will require cruelty of a level you’re not sure you possess. And the Darkling expects you to lie to a man like that? You’re sure you’d have better luck trying to drown yourself in the Unsea.

Still, it’s not as if you have a choice. When the Darkling speaks, Grisha answer. You pack your bags mechanically, say goodbye to your friends, and take your last look at the Little Palace as you leave at dawn the next day. You can’t shake the feeling that you’ll never see it again. You’ve had dangerous missions before, yes, but this– this feels like suicide.

Even the journey to Sturmhond comes with its perils. You have to cross the Shadow Fold to even make it to the ocean. The moment the Fold swallows you whole, the darkness presses upon you, every shadow like a tangible weight on your back. You swear you hold your breath the whole trip, especially when the cries of volcra echo around you, but you’re lucky and no one gets hurt.

From there, the only thing to do is establish your cover, and try to find the most famous privateer across the whole of the True Sea. You sadly left your kefta behind in West Ravka, and miss its comforting weight already, the feel of the embroidery against your fingertips. You’re dressed instead in the typical garb of the locals, albeit with several knives hidden on your person. You may be quite powerful as a Tidemaker, but it’s not always best to make that obvious.

The Darkling had sent you to this specific town because he’d heard rumors that Sturmhond would be docking nearby, and as per usual, his information was good. Although it costs you a few drinks to win over enough informants, you find out where you could find his crew, and hopefully even the captain himself. You thank your sources kindly, and head out.

By now, it’s well into the evening, the moon casting milky ripples onto the dark water of the harbor. You can’t help yourself and take a few moments to breathe in the smell of the sea, content with the familiar feeling of so much water around you, all tugging gently at your mind with the promise of being yours to command. It is in this moment of stillness that you hear something off behind you. It sounds like a scuffle.

Your soldier’s training makes you search for the source of the disturbance in the dark. You promise yourself that you’ll let it go if it’s just a few drunken louts looking for a quick bit of trouble, but you’re glad you looked when you draw closer and realize it’s a few locals harassing a Grisha. By the looks of it, a traveling Inferni had tried to use his gifts to warm his hands, and had attracted the notice of a few less than welcoming otkazat’sya.

You’re on them in a moment, you can’t help it. You have to help other Grisha, solidarity among practitioners of the Small Science is all any of you have. You call up a thick curl of water from the bay, and thrust it between the unfriendly parties, slamming the otkazat’sya attackers to the ground in a rush of dark sea. They’re out cold in a second’s flash.

The Inferni blinks up at you, startled. “Thanks for the rescue,” they mumble at last, eyes wide in the dark night.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, extending a hand to help them up.

They take it gladly enough, and it gives you enough time to take in their clothing. It’s mussed, rumpled, like it’s spent the better part of a few months wadded up in a trunk, and the cloth itself is bleached from excess time in the sun. It could just be your own fortuitous good luck, but you might have stumbled upon a member of the very crew you’ve been hoping to find.

You decide to take a risk. ��You wouldn’t happen to sail on one of these ships, would you?”

The Inferni regards you warily. “So what if I do?”

You hold up your hands in mock surrender. “I’m not like those idiots, I’m not looking for a fight. Actually, I’m trying to find a way out of Ravka. You might not have noticed it, but it’s not always nice to be Grisha in these parts.”

A ghost of a smile flickers over the Inferni’s face. “Alright, I might know something. My ship is good for Grisha, too. You’re in luck, we’re looking for a few new sailors. I’m headed back there right now if you want to talk to the captain.”

You’d love to talk to the captain. “I’d be quite grateful if you could make that happen. What ship do you sail on?”

The words out of the Inferni’s lips are music to your ears. “The Volkvolny. I sail for Sturmhond. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

You have to be careful not to let your grin stretch too broadly. “Not in the slightest.”

The Inferni– Dobrin, you find out his name along the way– has served with Sturmhond for about a year now. He’s fleeing similar circumstances as you supposedly are. Whenever money runs low in a small town, Grisha are the first ones blamed. Sturmhond is apparently quite welcoming of Grisha. Dobrin claims the Volkvolny is the first place he’s actually felt at home with so many other Grisha. It makes you feel a pang of nostalgia for the Little Palace.

The Little Palace– you’d been there since you were a child, so you can hardly remember life without it. The few memories you do have of the time before Os Alta are often terrifying, full of disapproving town elders and an absolute horror over the power you couldn’t yet control. Your family sent you to the Darkling when you were very small, and haven’t yet tried to find you again. It’s about as silent and obvious as any door slammed in your face could be.

Once your powers as a Tidemaker became apparent, you were quickly sent on missions. There’s no age limit for soldiers, not in a war, and certainly not for the Second Army. You were needed. That’s what mattered. It’s impossible to imagine the Little Palace without coupling it with the battlefield. It was home but not, more of a stylized version of military barracks than anything else. Recently, you’ve been there less and less, typically only staying around for a week or so before receiving a new assignment. This latest trip was your shortest yet.

Hearing Dobrin talk about how he gets to practice his powers with the other Grisha on the safety of their ship, though, you start thinking about what it was like in your classes as a child, how for those first few sacred years all you knew were your limits and what it felt like to break them. You weren’t a soldier yet, just a Grisha, and it was wonderful. You’d never felt more free.

You assumed Sturmhond’s Grisha would be no better than glorified Grisha soldiers, albeit working against the law instead of for it, and you’re certain Dobrin isn’t telling you anything important or risky yet, but you can’t stop a pang in your heart imagining what it could be like to grow up free on the seas instead of as a young member of the Second Army.

There’s no use in imagining what-ifs, however, and soon enough you’re forcing yourself to focus again as Dobrin leads you onto the Volkvolny. It’s hidden cleverly in a far annex of the harbor, disguised by what you’re certain is a combination of Fabrikator skill and Squaller fog. You can just make out the shapes of several figures through the shifting gloom of night and small science as you make your way aboard. You wonder how many of them are Grisha, and how many of them suspect you already.

Dobrin guides you further into the depths of the ship, stopping at last before a door and knocking smartly on it. “I’ve gone recruiting again,” he says, mirth bubbling over in his voice, and you get the sense this has happened more than a few times.

He’s answered readily enough by someone inside calling you both to enter. Dobrin pushes open the door to the captain’s quarters and nods at you to follow him. You do so warily, looking around you for other seamen in case of an attack.

All that’s waiting inside for you is a single man. His hair is dark like rust, rough from sea-breeze yet somehow tousled in a way that feels intentionally charming. The lamplight casts harsh shadows on his face, but the effect is cut by the roguish grin on his face, as well as the lurid teal coat he somehow pulls off. This can only be Sturmhond.

Sturmhond stares at you intently, and although the Darkling’s spies were certain he was otkazat’sya, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s regarding you with a Corporalki’s sense for blood. You’re certain he can see right through your alibi to the truth of your situation, to the truth of you. Only one kind of man can make an empire on the cold and bloody seas, and it’s not the type to take betrayal lightly. You have sealed your fate. All that’s left to do is see how long Sturmhond gives you before he slits your throat.

“Who have you brought me this time, Dobrin?” Sturmhond asks, not taking his eyes off you.

Dobrin answers immediately. “A Tidemaker, and a powerful one at that. She got me out of a tricky situation with some thugs down by the docks, and mentioned she needed a new place to stay. One a bit friendlier to Grisha, to say the least.”

“Well, I’m nothing if not approachable,” the True Sea’s most dangerous privateer hums. “That’s awfully good timing on your part, Tidemaker, to stumble across my hapless friend here just when he needed help. The Saints must be on your side.”

His words are deliberate and slow, the silent accusation obvious.

“If there are any Saints out there, they left me for dead a long time ago,” you answer steadily. “Maybe your crewmate was just lucky enough to time his catastrophe when a Tidemaker happened to be walking by.”

Sturmhond’s face splits in a laugh, although his eyes remain icy. “She’s got you there, Dobrin.”

Dobrin rolls his eyes, although he doesn’t seem annoyed. “Apologies, sir. I’ll try to burn otkazat’sya soldiers to ash next time. That’ll go over well.”

Sturmhond gestures between the two of you, the picture of innocence. “We find ourselves with a conundrum, Tidemaker. I cannot insist he commit such an obvious act of violence when we’re trying not to make enemies with the beautiful people of this town, but I do insist that my crew be safe. How do you suggest we handle this?”

“Let me stick around,” you counter. “It’s a lot easier to blame dead drunks on a misstep into the harbor than full-body immolation.”

Sturmhond claps once, twice, and you have to fight not to flinch. The sound is sudden and jarring in his quiet office, and rings around you like a parade drum. “There you have it, Dobrin. Negotiation. The last trick of the witty. I’m convinced, are you?”

“Quite,” Dobrin answers, winking at you when you manage to wrest your glance from Sturmhond long enough to glance his way.

“Wonderful,” Sturmhond says, drawing out the first syllable as long as possible before continuing, “We’ll start you on a probationary period, my dear Tidemaker, and re-evaluate after a few weeks. We’ll set sail in the morning, so you’d best stay the night here lest you miss our departure. There’s a few open hammocks, Dobrin will show you the way. Oh– one last thing.”

Sturmhond stands up slowly, deliberately, and walks around the table until he’s hardly a breath away. He regards you coolly, and just when you’re certain you’re about to die, he holds out his hand. “We’ve forgotten a proper introduction. They call me Sturmhond.”

You stare at his hand; tanned and wiry, strengthened by callouses from guns or knives or swords or all of the above, and certainly capable of killing you within moments, powers or lack thereof be damned.

“Y/N,” you say at last.

“A lovely name,” he says. “I look forward to getting to know you better, Y/N.”

You reach out and shake his hand. “Likewise.”

His grip is strong but not overly so, just enough to remind you who he is before he lets go again, allowing Dobrin to lead you from his office once more. You glance over your shoulder one last time before disappearing down the hold and see that he’s still watching you, eyes searching yet– amused, somehow. Like he knows something you don’t. Like he’s already heard this story before, but is still quite delighted by the ending.

Then the door shuts behind you and he’s cut off at once. You do your best to focus on Dobrin giving you a hasty tour and congratulating you on joining the crew. You’re introduced to a few other crewmates you pass as well, although on a ship with Squallers aboard, you’re certain whispers of your arrival have already flown from one end to the next. You’re shown to a hammock alongside the rest of the crew, and prepare to settle in for the night.

By all accounts, your mission is a success so far. However, the ease in which you were able to join Sturmhond’s crew makes you hesitate. If you wanted, you could have killed the dread privateer in a heartbeat, and if it weren’t for the fact that you want him alive for now, you would have. He has to know that, has to expect danger from all sides. Why would he possibly allow a stranger into the very heart of his ship with so little questioning? It’s as if he already knew what to expect, as if he already knew you, but that’s impossible. You’re certain you’d remember a face like that.

Yet when you think back to your last glimpse of him, you can’t help but remember his expression– entertained, somehow, but prepared. One doesn’t become the unlawful king of the seas without extensive ability to handle threats. Somehow, you get the sense that Sturmhond has the advantage over you, even though you’re the one sent to spy on him. You’ll have to turn the tables on him soon enough, but how do you trick a liar and a crook?

You’ve done all you can for the night. What matters is that you’re on board and ready to set sail. All that’s left to do is attempt to get some sleep and prepare yourself for the morning. Whatever dawn brings you, you’ll have to be up for anything, even the devious machinations of Sturmhond himself.

grishaverse tag list: @blondsauduun, @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @saltcxrcle, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @mayfieldss, @eclliipsed, @bl606dy, @gods-fools-heroes, @auggie2000, @baju69, @crazyhearttragedy, @budugu, @aoi-targaryen, @a-taken-url

all tags list: @wordsarelife, @supervoldejaygent

#nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov imagines #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov oneshot #nikolai lantsov fanfic #sturmhond #sturmhond imagines #sturmhond x reader #sturmhond oneshot #sturmhond fanfic #grishaverse #grishaverse imagines #grishaverse x reader #grishaverse fanfic #shadow and bone #shadow and bone imagines #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone oneshot #shadow and bone fanfic

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assumptionprime · 4 months ago

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I stayed up to 2am to beat Radiant Dawn

What a great game, easily my favorite Fire Emblem, and also the best one.

Positives

Best written FE story, by a lot. It helps that PoR gets to lay a lot of the groundwork, which RD gets to develop and then pay off. It pulls off the idea of fighting against fate and gods for those you care about without turning to the camera every 5 lines to say "Our bonds give us strength!" (looking at you, Awakening).

The worldbuilding and history of Tellius as a setting feels lived in and builds its themes and characters in a way that feels natural. Instead of stuff like "This country is the peaceful good guys and this one is the strong guys who love battle" you have "These neighboring countries are both rebuilding after a terrible war, one fighting for independence from a harsh post-war occupation, the other lead by a well-meaning but inexperienced queen who wishes for peace but lacks the power to control the wealthy nobles. Both peoples still hold bitter resentment over those lost in the war."

Great cast. I wish RD had full supports, but what's there in the story and base conversations is just great. They aren't all winners (Looking at you, most of the Dawn Brigade) but usually when a character sucks, it's because they were successfully written to be someone who sucks (looking at you, Makalov) (My faves are Nephenee, Heather, Titania, Nailah, Ike, Soren)

Nice visual style. Restrained. Recent FE games have gotten really over the top with their character designs (Looking at you, Fates and Engage)

A nice, tight progression. It gets hard at points without ever feeling like total bullshit. When someone died and I had to restart, it was usually my fault. I could certainly make units strong, but they never felt game-breaking or invincible. Even Haar and Nephenee could die if I got cocky. In other games, being able to grind extra side maps is useful for supports or raising fresh units to be on par with your core team, but RD doesn't have traditional support conversations to unlock, and the Bonus Experience system lets you level new recruits easily enough. Moving from one chapter to the next keeps the game moving, and maintains a good difficulty curve.

Negatives:

Hoo boy some of the units are hot garbage. I like Meg and Fiona, but they are basically unusable a chapter or two after their introduction.

The voice acting in the cutscenes is real bad. Thankfully this is a tiny fraction of the dialogue in the game, but oof.

Who designed the bridge map? I just wanna talk.

I accidentally recruited Oliver, and therefore did not get to kill him. "Would you mind rejoining the enemy?"

#fire emblem #radiant dawn #tellius

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waywardsalt · 1 year ago

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shoutout to fe fates conquest chapter ten for being fucking good

#im bad at strategy games but man the way conquest’s maps are designed lets me be like. mid at strategy games #chapter ten is rlly good. tbh conquest (story aside lmao) is kinda just good #fe fates is a fun outlier the story is kind of a travesty but the gameplay of all three routes its really good #birthright is eh but you get ryoma solo moments #salty talks

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emblemxeno · 4 months ago

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Hot Take Time!

I think the breakthrough revelation that the Sonic fanbase had about the series' reception during the 2010's, where full-force sincerity in its stories was mocked for being cringe and willingness to stand out in both a gameplay and artistic sense resulted in beloved games being panned retroactively, can be easily applied to FE Engage.

Engage is the most fucking sincere plot the series has had in over a decade. Yes, despite being the guy whose fav FE game is Fates, I think that game was still bogged down by the prospect of following up the blowout success of a game like Awakening and had too many instances of putting in a lot of ideas to see what worked rather than putting the full weight behind a select few core elements.

SoV had the baggage of being a remake while still needing a modern appeal, and ended up with a lot of contradictory aspects. And 3H doesn't know what it wants to be and never did from the ground up.

Engage is different. It wanted to be a grand celebration of 30 years of this great series. It wanted pizazz. It wanted spectacle. It wanted to say "we fucking love this series and we love the fans who supported us."

The characters are flashy and striking to make you remember them. The music is bombastic, with a wide variety of styles so anyone can find a favorite track. The presentation is beautiful, with great visuals and phenomenal sound design. New uber powerful mechanics balanced out by incredible map design, supberb flow, and responsive game feel.

But the sincerity shines brightest with its narrative. The core messages are well written!

Sometimes knowing when to retreat is better than foolhardy bravery. It's always worth considering someone's background and feelings before casting them away. There's never a single easy solution to your problems, and if you think there is, you'll end up repeating the same mistakes. You can find family with anyone, and are not bound solely by those who you're born to. To live authentically as yourself is beautiful and should be celebrated.

The game believes all of those things to a degree which really hasn't been seen since the series was on the brink of death.

But that sincerity was treated as unpalatable, cringe, and plain awful.

The fandom for a series that routinely and infamously has terrible armor designs now suddenly throws a fit because "flower girl has silly dress" or "these characters have face paint/tattoos."

The single laziest form of criticism for FE casts that has permeated the community since Awakening released, that being "the cast is one note tropes that have no personality or development outside of them", came back in full fucking force with Engage.

And it's pretty damn sad. In my opinion, sincerity shouldn't be mocked. Sometimes, you should take a minute and ask yourself "Is it bad, or is it just not my thing? Am I writing off an entire cast's writing because I don't like some character designs? Do I have personal preferences that aren't being met in this instance, and should I learn to grapple with saying that instead of just writing off the product as fundamentally terrible or, at best, half-assed?"

At some point, looking inward and considering community wide commonalities has to be recognized as a factor for why products are received the way they are, rather than just laying blame at the devs' feet for "not making a good product that people wanted." After all, word of mouth is the reason why FE even got this far, considering FE1 was effectively a sleeper hit because people who played it spread the word despite mixed reviews.

TL-DR, Engage isn't cringe, YOU ARE!!!

#fire emblem #fire emblem engage #fire emblem discourse #should i tag sonic lol #sonic the hedgehog #alear fire emblem

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pegasusknightsonly · 2 years ago

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ok i am starting to find the lack of bulk VERY annoying. this is my fourth or fifth attempt at this map and one of them there were literally three enemies left and Hana decided to tank a 31% axe hit with her face. bad! bad!! you can't sit there twiddling your hair and telling me i can play birthright exactly like i can awakening* and then not have the numbers be reasonable!!! silas got a 1% crit somehow!!!

the cq answer to this would be "just use bronze weapons" but bronze weapons are actually good in cq and meanwhile im stuck with hoshidan garbage that has 65 hit. disgusting

*you can't do this i don't know why birthright keeps trying to convince me that i can and should

#people who can enemy phase: uh. uhh. fucking. azama??? oboro and azama?????#birthright designer: so you are going to be rushed by cavalry on this map teehee. hope you have a good enemy phase!!#i refuse to just stick everyone in guard stance !!! i don't want to !!!!!!#fates lb

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jejunecartoons · 11 days ago

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I Stand Before You On The Convergence Of Entropy, Fate, And A Retail Inventory Assignment From Hell.

With tensions, stress, and a cosmic reckoning already rolling downhill. I present the following in complete and utter good faith, entire sincerity and three years experience under a revolving cast of coworkers, managers and corporate representatives. Not as a resignation, but as an acknowledgment of the shared absurdity we have all been asked to fulfill.

You demand 100% compliance to systems that are, by your own admission, 90% “common sense.” This is not accountability. This is abdication of definition.

You preach “best practice” while delegating chaos. You post workflows on every table, then fault us for improvising when those workflows inevitably fail.

You expect omniscience from associates but offer no clarity in return. “Tag what looks expensive” is not a policy. It is a loophole for blame.

Your security standards are aesthetic, not functional. They are not designed to protect product —they are designed to protect narrative. That someone, somewhere, “cared.”

You romanticize productivity like folklore. You invoke the 4-minute mile to justify the erosion of human labor boundaries — without ever asking what was lost in the race.

You seek innovation without deviation. Initiative without autonomy. You want thinkers who don’t think, and doers who don’t notice what’s broken.

You mistake quiet compliance for stability. It is not. It is the sound of disengagement.

You say, “If something’s wrong, speak up,” and then punish improvisation with retroactive scolding. You do not want initiative — you want insurance.

You confuse standardization with fairness. Fairness is adaptable. Standardization is lazy.

You mistake a rising college town’s labor surplus for a license to waste talent. You will cycle through dozens of good workers and never understand why they vanish.

And when —against all odds — something human stabilizes here… when trust is built, and morale flickers back to life… that is when you offer promotions. But only if we’re willing to leave, start over, and carry the weight again. Loyalty is never rewarded with rest — only relocation.

You introduce new security procedures — more tags, more checks, more hoops — but you change nothing about the time we’re given. Not one minute more. We are expected to move at the old speed while doing twice the work. This is not strategy. It is sabotage by euphemism.

These added steps are not protections. They are performances. We perform security. We simulate vigilance. Not because it works — but because it looks good on audit day.

If security tags worked, shrink would vanish. It hasn’t. Because shrink is not a moral flaw in your workers — it is the price you pay for pretending your processes are airtight while ignoring the cracks that open from the top.

We do not need more stickers. We need less denial. Fewer empty fixes. More admission that complexity without support is just delay in disguise.

You sell each new measure like a solution, but treat it like a punishment. Not because it helps — but because someone, somewhere, needs to be seen trying.

17. Markdowns Are The Perfect Lie.

The system knows what’s on sale.

It calculates it, tracks it, even prints the tags.

But instead of a list, we’re told: “Just find them.”

Every rack. Every shelf. One by one.

A company smart enough to generate the sale, Is dumb enough to make you re-scan the store by hand. This is not oversight. It’s outsourced labor through willful negligence.

You expect total compliance with markdowns, but you give no complete list. Not by item, not by category.

Only the ghost of a hint — a tone, a suggestion —

“You should be able to tell.” From what? A red sticker? A manager’s gesture? Whole categories go ignored for months — others get pulled every week.

There is no schedule. There is no rotation. Only the myth of one.

If markdowns matter, then act like they matter.

Define the cadence. Clarify the zones. Give us the map.

Or stop pretending we failed to follow it.

"You’re missing markdowns” But you can’t miss what isn’t there. The item was stolen. Perfectly. Cleanly. The system thinks it’s still on the shelf, gathering dust. In truth? It left the store weeks ago, Stuffed in a purse, Walked past a broken camera, And was never seen again.

The Computer Doesn't Know Theft. It Knows Absence Without Explanation. And It Blames You.

So now you’re on your knees scanning hangers for ghosts. Looking for a pair of jeans that do not exist, Because the system demands ritual compliance with its imagined inventory.

This is the quiet joke of retail: You Are Punished For The Precision Of A Thief.

Instead of fixing security, they fix expectations. More markdowns. More audits. More scanning.

Less trust. Less time. Less reality

18. The Triple Beep of Redundant Acknowledgment;

When an associate scans a valid markdown item, the handheld scanner emits three long, proud beeps —A theatrical confirmation of success, as if the user wouldn’t immediately notice the literal thermal label spitting out of the shoulder-mounted printer they are physically attached to.

This is not a harmless quirk. It is a nails-on-chalkboard absurdity, repeated hundreds of times per shift.

Especially when markdown lists contain thousands of SKUs, each scanned one by one — because bulk updates or system-synced lists are, apparently, out of the question.

You’re already straining to hold a scanner, item, printer, and sticker roll at once. You're dodging customers, balancing hangers, managing limited battery life.

And then comes the "BEEP-BEEP-BEEP"

To confirm what your printer already screamed in physical form: Yes, that was a markdown.

There is no toggle. There is no off-switch. Just endless affirmations of the obvious. It’s the small things that break people. Not a single moment of cruelty — but a thousand little ones, rehearsed daily, in stereo. But this isn’t just auditory clutter. You cannot scan another item until it finishes beeping.

Every markdown becomes a mini timeout, Forcing a pause, Breaking flow, Shattering efficiency, Not for safety, Not for clarity, But for ritual. In a list of hundreds, Even thousands of markdowns, This delay adds up to minutes lost per hour, Hours lost per week, And entire shifts wasted waiting For a redundant noise to finish announcing a truth you already physically received.

There is no override. No way to mute it. No option to multitask.

Just You, A Tag,

And The Machine Reminding You Who's Really In Charge.

19. And When The Truth Is Found;

When the numbers don’t add up, When the backroom is a war-zone, And the sales floor a graveyard of miscategorized product, It’s Treated Like a Divine Revelation. A mystery. Unspoken. Unknowable. As if the universe conspired overnight to create a discrepancy that no one could have seen coming. The people who asked for time? For training? For help? Now it’s their fault.

They “should have done something.” Should have sensed the collapse In the same way they’re expected to sense what’s on sale without being told. It Is Not The System’s Fault.

It never is. So the cycle continues: You suffer in silence. You stabilize the chaos. And when things finally start to make sense— They promote someone elsewhere, To go start the cycle again.

Because The System Is Sacred. Your Time Is Not.

20. And When The Work Is Done;

Not right, not reasonably, but fast— they call you a star. A leader. A natural. They write your name in dry erase marker at the top of a board no one agreed to race.

A scoreboard with no prize but the illusion of being seen.

And if you fall behind? No one asks why. No one checks the load.

They just move your name down quietly, As if you dropped it yourself.

Praise becomes currency. A tool. A leash.

"You’re one of the good ones.” “You’ve always been so reliable.” "What would we do without you?"

They hand you a badge and call it honor, when it’s just a shackle in bronze. Recognition Becomes Pressure Masquerading As Gratitude.

21. They Give Out Hearts.

Little pink paper valentines called “Heartbeat of [Insert Store Number Here].”

Printed Black & White on Plain Copy Paper, of Course.

Not in February— in June, for February efforts, filed under “we meant to.”

They pin your name on a bulletin board next to half-torn flyers, and call it legacy.

You made a "difference" Not to someone, not for something, but In Metrics. In Willingness.

In saying yes to something not your job,

At a time not your shift,

Because someone didn’t show up,

And someone else had a clipboard.

They hand you a card like communion. Small, bright, With a corporate smile, And the empty taste of compliance made sacred. “You made a difference.”

But no one tells you where. Just that it helped. Just that it counted.

Just enough that next time, You’ll Do It Again.

22. The Caring Cupboard

Has a $120 budget. Split across three weeks and forty lives. By week one: ramen, two oatmeal packets, a single can of chickpeas. By week two: hope. By week three: the sign taped crookedly reads "We see you."

And they do— leave crumbs.

The vending machine stays stocked on schedule though.

The microwaves technically work.

On the counter are the worlds smallest Keurig,

And a minimum viable toaster. Donated by staff of course,

Temporarily allowed until "safety" concerns remove them.

They Trust You To Operate A Compactor, But Not Filter Water, Or Clean Out Crumbs.

23. Lockers Are Provided, For your convenience.

Don’t decorate. Don’t forget your lock. Don’t leave it overnight.

It’s your locker, unless we need it back.

The Key To Belonging Is Not Belonging At All.

24. The Fun Calendar

Smiles from the break room wall.

Dress-Up Day! Cartoon Shirt Day! Mismatch Sock Thursday!

Themes chosen democratically by the assigned designer; When no one’s around.

All expressions pre-cleared by HR.

Festivities canceled for audit season.

Spirit punished with write-ups.

You can wear a graphic tee—

But not that one. Not that color. Not too funny. Not too much.

Try again next Fun Day when morale is less expensive.

All Permissible Self Expression Must Meet Dress Code Protocols. Not the actual ones; The Myth.

The Infinite list of what is and isn't allowed.

The one that always just so happens to align with the managers personal taste.

The one that, for some reason, is only levied at targets that happened to annoy them recently.

25. The Wall of Rights Stands Tall In The Break Room.

Posters from the Department of Labor—

Unpaid wages? Call this number.

Unsafe work? Report it here.

Harassment? You are protected. But behind it all?

A Laminated Copy Of Your Signed Arbitration Agreement.

You waived your right to sue when you clocked in.

"You can opt out" they say.

Just ask your manager for the form.

The one no one has.

The one no one mentions.

The one you had 30 days to find;

Between learning the register and restocking bras by cup and brand.

The Wall Is Required By Law. So Is The Silence Behind It.

26. This Week’s Safety Topic

Proper Lifting Technique. Bend your knees, not your back. Team lifts for heavy items. Rest when needed. Hydrate. Be your brother’s keeper. Meanwhile: The Stairs To The Trash Are Five Welded Death Plates.

Stitched by a ghost on opening weekend. Each step a folded razor. They rattle like judgment beneath your steel-toed shoes. The trash chute: five feet up. You hoist bags over your head like sacrifices, Hope they make it in without tumbling back onto your spine. The welds are cosmetic. One good kick and they rise like drawbridges. Somethings stuck in the chute? Here's two metal poles duct taped together.

You Figure It Out. They say it’s fine. No incidents reported. Because No One Bothers To Report Bruises Anymore. The trash panel swings like judgment. Outward. Over the stairs. You walk up with a bag, and if you’re not careful—

It Bites.

They added gummy foam tape. A soft, merciful bandage on the edge of a guillotine. Not to fix the danger— Just to hush the blood. It has tasted flesh. The crest of a scalp. A pink slash across a forearm. Now it’s padded. Now it’s “safe.” Now it’s your fault.

27. “We Are Committed to Sustainability.”

Says the laminated break-room poster. As you "debit" a perfectly functional suit case. As you toss another plastic-wrapped hoodie into the bin. As you watch the compactor crush cardboard, plastic, and a half-eaten lunch into one glorious cube of lies.

Overseas hands fold it neat. Plastic over silk. Tape over tags. They ship it across oceans so we can rip it apart and throw half of it away. You pull Styrofoam from wall decor, And paper shreds from soap, Bottles that leaked somewhere between Singapore and Pasadena. You strip the bubble wrap, Wipe the shattered glass off a six-dollar candle, Protected only by hope and thin cardboard.

The Candles Survive. The People Don’t.

And the trash pile rises. Not in back. Not behind the scenes*.* But right here, In the fitting room, On the stores floor, In your lungs, Under your nails.

The Only Thing Recycled Is The Lie.

28. The Customers Rob Us Daily.

But the cameras point inward. One screen for every corner of your body, and all of them watching you. Not them. Never them. “Be alert,” says the poster. “Report suspicious behavior.” And below that: “250–2500 if it leads to an impact.” Not justice. Not truth. Just “impact.”

The cashiers are our front line. Smiling through suspicion. Checking twenties for counterfeits while rushing to beat the “speedy checkout” clock, Selling store credit cards to the very people the cameras won’t catch, And asking for five-star reviews, From customers who leave with three stolen items and a free pen. And if a wallet goes missing? It must have been the new guy. It always is.

“It’s not personal,” they say, as they review your locker contents, And check your bag on the way out.

Just procedure. Just policy. Just paranoia.

But when there's a pile of censors in a shoe, or a trash bag full of tags is missing? Silence.

The Eyes Of The Store Are Wide Open. And Still, They Only Look In One Direction.

29. The Name Tag: Convenience or Crosshair?

Everyone must wear a name tag. The stated purpose? “So customers know who to thank.” But the real function is faster escalation. Faster complaints. Faster identifications when things go wrong — no matter how vague or unfair the accusation. It is not a gesture of recognition. It is a prewritten accusation template: “Some guy named Alex was rude.” “The girl in red — I think her name was Sam — didn’t help me.” “Whatever her name was, it was on her chest. She rolled her eyes.”

The name tag is the shortest possible path between a moment of stress and a manager’s office. It is instant accountability with no room for context. It turns human interaction into customer-to-agent confrontation. You are no longer just a worker. You are a label, a scapegoat, a button to push when the world disappoints.

They tell you to smile.

To engage.

To wear your name with pride.

But everyone knows the truth:

It’s Not Your Name They Care About; It’s Who To Blame When The Refund Doesn’t Go Through.

30. The Water Bottle Policy

Your hydration is now a security risk. If it’s not crystal clear, they’ll ask you to uncap it. “It’s just procedure,” As they sniff your bottle for the scent of rebellion, Or worse — soda. So bring a see-through flask, Because God forbid you bring lemonade. That’s grounds for suspicion. They say it's about theft. But we all know it’s about control. Because nothing says “trust” like being told to open your drink, In front of someone holding a checklist.

We used to joke that Big Brother watched.

Now Big Brother Thinks You’re Hiding Vodka In Your Gatorade.

Meanwhile, the real thieves walk out the front door, With carts of merchandise and a smile for the cameras that never pan that way.

31. “Hi, Welcome To [Insert Store Name Here]."

"If I could have you pause for just a moment...”

A velvet rope. A security vest. A quick glance at a camera no one is watching. It’s not protection. It’s performance.

They greet everyone like a TSA agent who lost the plane.

"We’re controlling store entry to ensure a safe and secure shopping experience.”

Unless, of course, someone’s actually in danger. Then it’s “Policy says call the manager.” And the manager? They call the cops. Then it’s writing a report. Then they call corporate. It’s All Delay.

Like hanging velvet curtains in a burning theater. The thieves know this. They walk past the rope. Past the welcome. Right through the “security experience.” Carts full. Unbothered.

Because The Only People Being Managed

Are The Ones Who Work Here.

The show’s for them. Not the guests.

32. "Loud And Proud" - Surveillance as Spectacle

Every customer who walks into the store is met with a mandatory ritual: A scripted security greeting delivered by the Shortage Control Associate. It must be done "loud and proud." That’s the instruction.

Not just clearly — projected.

Not just scripted — performed.

So loud it echoes through the racks,

through the backroom,

through your soul.

You are not greeting customers.

You are declaring fealty to surveillance.

This isn’t safety. It’s ritualized theater. A performance for the camera. A constant ping to regular customers and workers, ignored by thieves: We Are Watching. And when actual theft happens? SCAs are told not to engage. Call a manager. Let it go. Say the line again.

Security is not for protection. It’s not even for deterrence.

It’s a costume, a choreography of authority that creates no power. Only presence. Only noise. Only the illusion that someone is in control.

33. Welcome to the Shortage Highway.

A pilgrimage you must take every time you clock out for lunch, for break, for breath. Walk the perimeter. Don’t stray. Don’t stop.

Smile.

You’re not allowed to just go. You must patrol. You must engage. You must high five — Not literally, of course. No touching. Just proximity marketing.

Look them in the eye.

Make them feel seen.

Make the theft feel harder.

This is not your time. Your break is not in sight. It’s borrowed surveillance. Miss a “high five”? Too quiet in your stride?

Someone will notice. Someone is noticing. T

his is the Retail way:

You will make contact. You will be a presence.

You will be visible. Even if your joy is not.

34. The Customer is Always Right.*

When they say it’s broken, you break the price.

When they say it’s missing, you remove the tag.

When they say it’s cheaper elsewhere, you believe.

The register bends. Policy flexes. Margins vanish.

*But when their kid needs to pee?

Now they’re suspects.

The bathroom is sacred. Too sacred for codes. No writing it down. No telling. Only escorting. You, the associate, become the key.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

You must walk them to the door. You must punch in the code in full view as if secrecy lies in muscle memory. The code never changes. It’s on your fingers. Anyone watching can crack it. Everyone watching already has. But the theater is mandatory. They must believe it’s secure. You Must Perform Control

Even as the bathroom floods; Even as it smells like failure; Even as the soap dispenser screams for mercy.

Welcome to customer care.

Where you smile as you surrender.

Where you follow them to the bathroom

But cannot follow them to reason.

35. The Janitor Closet is Locked.

Not with a latch. Not with a handle. With the same Key-Ring that opens the safe. The money room. The vault of gods. To mop the vomit, you must be blessed. The code to touch bleach is the same as the code to touch cash. Security is absolute — when it concerns filth. The mop bucket must not fall into the wrong hands. The Swiffer pads are sacred texts. The toilet brush, a relic. Guard them well.

And yet, the door is still warped. The handle loose. The light flickers like a prophecy. Inside? One ancient vacuum, Half a gallon of generic “all-purpose,” And a broom with no head. The floor is wet with effort. The air is thick with Lysol and resignation. You clean it, but you can’t fix it.

The walls rot behind their holy lock.

But still — you are not trusted with open access.

Because this is retail,

And nothing is holy except the illusion of control.

36. The Grand Hall of Mirrors is closed.

A dozen doors. A maze of z-racks. Enough space for a ballet. Sealed With A Rolling Gate.

You see, trust costs money. So does supervision. So instead of staffing it, we lock it up — like a memory of what dignity looked like. In its place: Two tiny stalls built by compromise and lit like a lie. Just off the register — so close you can smell the returns. Each stall has a glowing LED, like a traffic light, meant to say: “Someone is here.”

But who? For how long? With how much merchandise?

No one knows.

The cameras glare, but never act. They are the unblinking gods of a crumbling Olympus. They bear witness. They do not interfere. The Scheduled “Check-Ins” Are Rituals. Performed without faith, Once every 30 minutes, Unless we forget. Theft happens in the meantime. Not out of malice, but invitation.

The room says: “This Company Doesn’t Care.” So why should you? The customers know. The workers know.

Only corporate pretends this isn't a performance of collapse.

And still, we ask people to smile, To suggestive sell, To read minds,

To Offer Service Where Even Structure Has Abandoned Us.

37. Even The Trash Is Under Lock, Camera, And Suspicion.

The janitor closet is locked with the same key as the store’s secure cash room— A symbolic conflation of trash and treasure. Taking out the garbage isn't a mindless chore: it's a controlled operation. You're expected to bring a partner. If you're alone, you're breaking protocol. You're expected to wait. A lead or manager is supposed to inspect every bag. You're expected to be watched. A camera directly overlooks the trash area — not for safety, but surveillance.

The implication is clear: Garbage Is A Potential Crime Scene. Every discarded hanger, broken fixture, or plastic wrap could conceal theft. Employees are trusted to fold hundred-dollar coats, operate pallet jacks, and open the store— But not to throw out a box unsupervised.

This Isn’t Protection. It’s Paranoia By Policy.

38. Standardized Chaos — The Illusion of Corporate Structure

Every few months, the store receives “updated flow” and “floor plan” directives — glossy PDFs, hastily printed diagrams, or vague bullet lists labeled as corporate strategy. These updates are identical for every store in the region; Galleria malls, Suburban outlets, Cramped city retail units; All treated as interchangeable puzzle pieces in a boardroom fantasy. But the map has no respect for the terrain.

The new plan might call for three tables where there's a fire exit. Or for expanded shoe racks in a department that hasn’t had full inventory in six months. They might list a location for men’s coats where walls don’t even exist. This mismatch births a contradiction:

Staff Are Given Rigid Expectations,

And Total Freedom — Simultaneously.

You are told to follow the plan. You are expected to interpret the plan. You are penalized when it fails. You are praised if it works — even if it only worked because you ignored it.

Thus emerges a culture where initiative is punished until it succeeds, and failure is blamed on lack of “common sense.”

There Is No Flow; Only Illusion.

There Is No Plan; Only Plausible Deniability.

39. Backlog as Blame — The Pathologization of Labor

When tasks pile up — markdowns missed, freight unprocessed, displays unfinished— the assumption is not logistical failure.

It is moral.

The Accusation Is Not "The Plan Didn't Work."

It's "You Didn’t Follow It Closely Enough."

Every error is retroactively cast as deviation. Not from a clear instruction — but from an imagined perfection that lives only in hindsight. If you had truly followed the process (which is mostly “common sense”) Then surely the backlog wouldn’t exist.

This Is Spiritual Gaslighting, Made Bureaucratic. The laborer is asked to confess to sins never named. The manager is forced to divine where their will was insufficient. The structure remains blameless. The spreadsheet stays clean. And when it doesn’t, someone’s heart wasn’t in it.

Even Success Is Not Proof Of Competence; Only A Delay Of The Next Reckoning.

40. The 4-Minute Fallacy — When Overperformance Becomes the Floor

The company preaches optimization like gospel. The story goes: "Once One Man Ran The Four-Minute Mile, Others Followed." What they don’t mention is None of them worked freight until 11 PM, then clocked in the next day at 7 AM. Success is not met with relief — it's met with re-calibration.

Do something faster than expected? Now that’s the new standard.

There is no bonus. No structural change. No surge in pay or support.

Only a nod of appreciation, and a new silent burden to carry alone.

They say you’ve “risen to the occasion,”

But forget that the occasion was a collapsing dam of understaffing, shipment backlog, and rotating expectations— none of which changed after your effort.

And still, you're told to be proud. To wear the broken record of your performance as a badge.

All while McDonald’s across the street is offering $8 more per hour, with benefits, free food, and no inventory audit.

You’re Told: "We’re A Family."

But The Kind Of Family That Borrows Your Labor And Forgets Your Name.

41. Scheduling: A Machine With No Driver

The labor hours are algorithmic;

Generated by a system that doesn’t know the store,

the team, or the workload;

It calculates hours like a machine balancing books;

With no memory of yesterday and no awareness of tomorrow;

And Yet, Corporate Calls It “Optimized.”

It’s then handed to managers — not as a plan, but as a limitation.

A puzzle with pieces missing, where any correction becomes their responsibility, but no error was ever truly theirs to begin with.

If the freight shipment is late, If coverage is short, If three workers call out and none can be replaced Blame falls not on the system, But on the person stuck translating it into a workable week.

And of course, there’s no way to check the logic. No insight into why hours were cut, Or why full-time staff were given part-time hours While new hires get 4-hour weeks to “balance the curve.” Associates are left waiting for final schedules that arrive days late.

Sometimes after the week has already begun.

Sometimes changed after they're already clocked in.

You Don’t Get Consistency; You Get Warnings.

You Don’t Get Planning; You Get A Guess And A Prayer.

All Of It Is Justified By A Number;

A Number No One In The Building Chose;

And No One In The Building Can Change.

42. Process Hours Without Process Thinking

Once upon a time, the store received its deliveries in the early dawn; 6 A.M. to 8 A.M.

Before the doors opened, Before customers flooded the floor,

Before anyone had to apologize for blocking the aisle with a steel battering ram.

It wasn’t perfect — but it was functional.

Freight cages could roll out cleanly. Backroom processing could begin without dodging strollers and carts. And resets, pulls, and tagging all had a head start.

Then one day,

Without Warning Or Explanation,

Shipping Times Were Changed To 11 A.M. To 1 P.M. No memo, no logistics justification, no staff consensus.

Just an order.

Now, deliveries arrive in the middle of the store’s peak — when sales need floor coverage, and the aisles are most congested. Backroom space fills with carts that can’t be processed. Cages clog the customer lanes. And associates must choose: Process freight or serve guests. And somehow,

The expectations remain identical.

Same freight goals. Same floor times. Same audit deadlines. As if time didn’t change. As if the customer traffic didn’t double. As if the building had doubled in size to accommodate both. But the truckers didn’t request this.

They’re now navigating Calexico to Riverside mid-day, through urban congestion and parking chaos.

Everyone Suffers; No One Benefits; And No One Explains.

It’s Not A System; It’s Just A Shift Of Burden; From Planners To Processors; From Paper To People.

43. The Cycle of Internal Conflict

The change in delivery times didn’t just disrupt process— It Set Departments Against Each Other. Back of House is told to move fast: Unload. Scan. Roll. Hang. Push freight onto the floor before the next truck arrives. Speed is Compliance**.** Speed is Praised**.** Speed is Posted. And so they rush. Clothes hit the racks sideways. Hangers backwards. Tags missing. Sets broken. Inventory miscounted.

Front of house is left with the fallout: Customers asking where the rest of the set is. Cashiers juggling damaged goods and security tags that won’t scan. Managers scrambling to recover broken shelves while prepping markdowns. And when recovery is rushed or mistakes are made?

Front gets blamed. Back blames floor. Floor blames back. The Cycle Feeds Itself. Everyone knows the Truth; It’s Not Any One Department’s Failure. It’s that the system expects perfection from chaos. Speed with no slack. Volume with no pause. And instead of fixing the structure, they watch the conflict.

Let Them Fight. It Keeps Them Busy.

And As Long As It Gets Done, Eventually,

Corporate Says The System Works.

44. The Olive Branch Illusion

To soothe the growing divide between Front of House and Back of House, corporate prescribes "shared labor policies" — symbolic gestures meant to show unity.

BOH staff are required to "recover the floor" for the first 15 minutes of their shift — a pause before touching the freight. FOH staff are expected to manage the Queue Cages — pushing freight from the registers to the back hallway cages while also handling customers and checkouts.

In Theory, This Promotes Empathy. In Practice, It Breeds Silent Resentment.

Back of House hates the floor recovery. They’re trained for speed, for volume; not hangers on the floor. They see it as beneath their pace. A fake chore that cuts into freight timing; One More Delay On An Already Impossible Clock.

Front of House dreads the queue cages. There are always more than there is space. They pile up fast — especially during rushes. No room to maneuver. No help. Just the slow crawl of dealing with inventory labeled fragile, valuable, or absurdly heavy, while being interrupted by customers every five seconds.

Then, suddenly—The back is ready for cages. All of them. Now. And It’s A Panic. Staff scramble to clear paths, relocate stock, or “make room” where there is none.

So, Neither Side Feels Helped; Only Used. What Was Sold As A Bridge; Becomes A Bitter Trade. Not Collaboration; But Obligation. Not Unity; But Another Invisible Metric No One Agreed To.

45. The Myth of the Backroom Printer

For over three years, the designated back-of-house printers — Meant for mass, consistent, actualization of missing tags— Have Remained Inoperable. Not once; not sporadically; Nonfunctional For Over 1,000 Days. Every support ticket submitted is closed or ignored. Every mention to management is met with the same shrug: “Yeah, we’ve put in another ticket.”

And so the markdown printers— Lightweight, Mobile, And designed only for price reduction labels; Are used for everything. They Were Not Built For This. They jam, they print slowly, but they're all we have.

This Isn’t A Store That Failed To Keep Up. It’s A Store That Has Adapted To Its Own Decay.

And still, deadlines loom. Still, expectations remain. Still, corporate metrics hold everyone accountable,

Still for results, not infrastructure.

The Printer Is Broken. The System Isn’t. It’s Functioning Exactly As Intended.

46. The Illusion Of Prevention

Everyone Knows.

The Thieves Know.

The Workers Know.

Even Corporate Knows.

Every Security Tag Comes Off With A Magnet.

You can buy one online. You can use one at home. You can walk into the dressing room with it and walk out clean. So why tag everything? Why spend hundreds of hours a week attaching them by hand?Because the tag isn't security. It's theater. It’s a prop in the surveillance show.

It says: We Are Watching. It says: Someone Cares. It makes you pause, makes you wonder, makes you hesitate. But It’s Fake. No alarms. No ink explosions. Just plastic and posturing.

Even the greeting rope at the entrance; That velvet line and cheerful hostage speech; It’s Not For You; It’s For The Cameras; It’s For Liability; It’s For The Show.

Because when real theft happens, when someone actually takes a cart full of goods out the door: The SCA doesn’t stop them; The manager won’t chase; The police don’t come.

What Matters Isn’t Stopping Loss. It’s Appearing To Try.

That’s the Corporation's real security strategy, Keep The Illusion Alive.

Make workers perform compliance.

Make customers believe in consequences.

Make corporate believe the illusion is working.

Until Someone Notices The Emperor Has No Tags.

47. Policy Over Performance

In Retail, the systems don’t need to work. They just need to look like they work.

Security Tags?

Easily bypassed with magnets.

Still applied by hand to hundreds of items a day.

Still locked up for employee use.

Surveillance Posters?

Hanging in the break room and back hall.

"You’re being watched."

Yet the most common thefts go completely unrecorded.

SCA Greetings?

“Loud and proud” recitations of control and security.

Repeated for every customer, often to empty air.

A form of vocal compliance, not a deterrent.

The Dressing Room?

One gated room sits locked 90% of the year.

A smaller two-stall is left open with a camera.

Neither stops the theft — because the schedule is what gets policed, not the risk.

The Floor Plan Updates?

Generic layouts from corporate;

Untailored to the actual store;

Staff are expected to follow them blindly;

Regardless of real conditions.

The Trash Inspections?

A camera watches you throw away literal garbage.

A manager is expected to verify every bag.

The same process is circumvented daily just to function.

Markdowns?

Labeled as "common sense," not logic.

Scanners beep three times before printing — and you can't scan while they do.

Name Tags?

Marketed as customer care.

Function as surveillance anchors.

Direct lines of accountability when accusations arise.

This is the Play-Acting Of Process,

Where every role is performed, Every beat rehearsed, But no one’s actually watching the show. Because what matters isn’t Efficiency, Isn’t Outcomes, Isn’t even Truth. What matters is the Appearance:

That you’re working hard; That corporate is in control; That someone has thought this through.

And If The Show Falls Apart, It’s Not Because The System Failed;

It’s Because You Didn’t Perform It Right.

48. AXIOMS OF THEATRICAL LABOR

1. The Costume Is The System

What you wear, say, and gesture matters more than what you do. A name tag creates trust. A lanyard creates hierarchy. A shirt tucked in signifies responsibility.

None of these affect outcomes, but all of them protect the illusion of structure.

2. The Script Is The Standard

Whether it functions or not, you must read your lines. Loudly greet at the door. Say "pause for just a moment" like you believe it. Print markdowns with patience, no matter how broken the scanner is. Say the name of the loyalty program every transaction.

If it fails, say it again.

3. The Stage Is Arbitrary

Floor plans arrive from nowhere. Corporate flow maps are copy-pasted from cities that don't resemble yours. Storage space is fiction. Queues overflow. Back rooms flood.

You are not asked to fix it. You are asked to make it look like it never broke.

4. The Audience Is Management

You're not performing for customers. You're performing for auditors, regional managers, camera reviews, and abstract expectations. You don't need to succeed. You need to be seen trying.

Appear busy. Appear precise. Appear productive.

If the metrics are wrong, it means you're not acting hard enough.

5. The Show Must Go On

No matter how broken the register, how wrong the shipment, how pointless the markdowns — continue. If you ask too many questions, you're slowing the rhythm. If you adjust the system, you're going off-script. If you find peace with coworkers, expect to be reassigned.

Harmony is the enemy of control.

6. The Applause Is Hollow

"You Made a Difference" cards. "Heartbeat of Our Store" certificates. Boards listing your fastest times. Points systems for candy. Recognition is a tool, not a gift. It exists to keep you performing.

It is given late. It is given vaguely. It is given only when performance matches fantasy

7. The Props Are Broken

Scanners that beep but don't register. Printers that never received support tickets. Security tags that do nothing. Locks that mean nothing. Cameras watching the wrong thing.

The sets are cardboard and tape. The actors are tired. But the show is still on.

8. The Director Is Absent

Policy comes from nowhere. You Must Obey. Exceptions are undefined. Expectations change without notice. The managers are caught in the same performance.

They cannot speak plainly. They can only pass along the next line in the script.

9. The Audience Leaves Before the Ending

No one is measuring what actually works. No one notices the fire exits that don’t close. No one sees the trash compactor injuries. No one checks the real backlog. The managers know. The workers know.

But the show isn't for them.

10. The Play Is a Lie

You are pretending to work. They are pretending to lead. The customers are pretending to believe.

All of it could be done better, With half the theater, And double the truth.

49. The Extraction of Humanity

1. When people make things work, the system breaks them to “optimize” the magic.

Friendships, rhythms, trust — these emerge naturally among teams over time. But once a store finds its footing through human effort, it is punished. High performers are relocated, promoted with conditions, or reassigned under vague “development plans,” severing the roots of community they helped grow.

2. “Stabilization” is not seen as success, but untapped capital.

A smooth-running store is viewed not as a testament to shared humanity, but as wasted potential. The logic follows: if things are working, you don’t need as many people, or you should split the talent to “scale it.”

This isn’t reward — it’s cannibalism.

3. Moments of peace are interpreted as inefficiency.

When workers laugh, breathe, collaborate without chaos — these are not cherished. They are audited. “How did you have time to be calm?” becomes the question. Joy is seen as excess.

Humanity; a margin to be shaved.

4- Promotions are used as surgical tools, not as growth pathways.

Advancement is never just a reward. It is conditional: “Are you willing to start over somewhere new? Can you drop what you’ve built to serve the brand elsewhere?” Promotions extract individuals from functioning teams to test their loyalty — not to recognize their achievement.

5- The system depends on people caring just enough to fix it, But Not Enough To Challenge It.

Every stabilizing figure is shipped out, self-limiting, or burned out. Every organic system of trust is repurposed or discarded. Every heartbeat is spent proving that people can make even this broken machine run — before the machine crushes them for it.

50. I’ve Stopped Pretending This Is Normal.

Because we can build something real.

Because we can work on something that doesn’t eat people to make numbers.

Because you asked me to become an enforcer for policies you won’t define, uphold a system you won’t fix, and sacrifice my joy for a story that doesn’t end well for anyone.

I'm not asking for the reasons behind these decisions.

I'm asking why they remain in face of failure time and time again?

This is not an attack. This is not an insult. It is a statement of Fact.

I hope you will do something meaningful with it.

—[Name Redacted] *Former Cart Cleaner, Unpaid Morale Officer

06/05/2025

Addendum - 06/07/2025

Inventory didn’t break because the numbers were wrong. It Broke Because The Process Had No Soul.

Associates were called in as early as 5:30 AM, expected to be alert and presentable for a morning meeting, then sent directly to their assigned zones. Both teams were made of competent people. Both Teams had the work experience.

Team A — Made up of close friends and coworkers who trusted each other — cruised through their section laughing.

Team B — Mostly strangers corralled together under quiet suspicion; stumbled through the chaos as best as they could muster.

Team A would eventually be conscripted to fill in the gaps Team B Left.

Breaks and lunches had been preassigned on slips of paper, And you were expected to follow them without reminders. If You Forgot Your Time, You Missed It. But when it came time to log into the scanning devices? You were just expected to know your “user ID.” Or have the app. Or already be logged in. A login no one uses — except once a year.

For Inventory

If you were part of the unlucky audit group, You were held all the way until 3:58 PM — Nearly eleven hours on your feet with little clarity, little direction, and very little food. One coworker quit halfway through the day,

Not in Rage;

Not In Theater;

Whispering “I can’t do this anymore..” On The Stairwell.

Another nearly walked out hours later,

Tired,

Furious,

Only persuaded to stay when a peer — without any actual authority — told him to just leave. Eight people were held late not for real error — but because a flawed system claimed their zones hadn’t reached the 10% threshold. We scanned the same items again and again.

The numbers bounced around — 5%, 4%, 7% — never matching, never budging. The count was correct. The audits were done. But the machine didn’t believe us. The Section was scanned several times. By several hands. The store is bleeding money in overtime. All for a bureaucratic digital checkbox.

And then, Without ceremony,

Someone

Not a manager, Not the designated lead, Decided on scanning just one item from each blocked zone. A count even the system couldn’t misread. And Just Like That: The System Blinked. “10% Reached.”

Management Cheered. From the office. Over The Radio. That was it. We were done.

It Had Never Been About Accuracy — Just Compliance.

The promised donuts never came. But the bakery still did — six marked-down pastries brought in by someone who thought tradition was still worth something. No one asked them to. No one had to.

That was the real shape of the day:

Broken Systems. Barely Held Together. By Human Beings Choosing To Care Anyway.

And when it finally ended, There was no speech, No moment of acknowledgment, No thank-you for the ten-hour shift, The patience, The overtime, Or the restraint it took not to scream.

Just a single question, tossed over the noise like it meant something:

“Did Everyone Return The Devices?”

That was our finale.

So What Now?

Grab your torch and pitchfork? Throw the brick? Firebomb the Walmart?

No.

We’ve seen that story. Over and over. It Always Ends Right Back Where It Started. I don't accept the premise that a better world is only possible through justified murder. If you want this time to be different, it has to start with people speaking their peace — Not holding it in for the sake of comfort, or politeness, or fear.

Everyone’s waiting for Tyler Durden or Guy Fawkes to show up and give permission to resist. "Who’s gonna take the shot?" "Where’s the revolution?" They’re not coming. And you don’t need them.

How are you gonna fight for a better world if you won’t even talk politics at Thanksgiving? You don’t hate your family — you hate what you think they believe. You don’t hate your boss — you hate what they enforce. And you project that anger as intent, that structure as malice. You want a kinder world? Be Kinder. You want a more honest world? Start Speaking Up. And if you don’t believe in a rule — Don’t Enforce It. Stop mistaking silence for safety. Stop mistaking obedience for neutrality.

You are not a cog. You are not a drone. You are not exempt.

If someone has to be first, let it be you.

And if you’re sure, If you’ve looked at your truth and chosen it; Then you have nothing to fear in defending it. You have nothing to fear from saying it out loud. They can challenge you. Let them.

Because If You're Right, You Won’t Need Permission.

So that’s the sermon. No altar call. No revolution manifest. No dramatic ending. No brick. No firebomb. Just a mirror. Just a reminder: You Already Know What’s Right.

Now Act Like It.

If you want a better world: Shape it. If you're sure: Say It. And if you’re not sure: Say That Too.

Don’t enforce rules you don’t believe in. Don’t stay silent just because no one else is speaking up.

You don’t need a Revolution. You need a Backbone.

But if you’re still figuring out what that means, Here’s four silly songs that helped me get here —

one scream, one shrug, one sigh, and one sitcom, Take what you need. Leave the rest.

Start Talking. And For Your Sake,

Stop Waiting For Someone To Tell You What To Do

#my art #retail #customer service #prose #politics #public policy #union #workers #labor #labor rights #wages #capitalism #inequality

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