#I’m going to die via heart attack

[ms0milk]

pitch in a teapot

sanemi x inn keeper

reader has a business to run and sanemi can't help but watch you do it well, barking orders, teaching firmly, smiling and scurrying around like a fancy little bell. There's something he's been trying to get out of you all afternoon but chores keep stealing you away. cw MDNI, frustrated thunderstorm quickie, reader w vagina + penetration, slight manhandling, desperation and a little bit of sass. 4.1k

thank you so much my darling @neiptune for requesting a little sanemi this @ficsforgaza season! you were so generous and patient waiting for this to come out, I hope you enjoy angel

Six bowls of soup upstairs and an old man somewhere in the bowels of the inn with a limp and half a shoe. Right, okay, send two girls to the garden– no. One to the garden and one to the kitchen. That’s dinner taken care of as long as the scholar with the fat pony– donkey, maybe– doesn’t regurgitate an encore of the rakugo performance that couldn’t have been funny in the first place.

You roll the sleeves of your apron slightly tighter in their tasuki. The cyprus walls of your inn bleed fragrance before summer thunderstorms so you make a mental note too, to order storm doors for the second floor before the clouds go black and blue. Incensed breeze, juniper, wisteria, paper windows, one foot, the next, again, each step down the wooden hallway is a quiet knock. Each summer at home is heavier, heavier, and this year is the flood.

“Oi.”

“Not my name,” you blow from the corner of your mouth without changing pace. That breath was ready to jump off your lip before the demon slayer even called out to you; he hates doing nothing and hates even more what great pains your staff take to avoid his room.

“It reeks.”

“Excuse me?” You huff and this time do turn enough to interrogate him via glare. Sanemi, ridiculous, folds his arms in the doorway of a very nice room, a too nice room, without any of the appropriate embarrassment of someone who has been lying in wait. The stippled blue pattern of his robes doesn’t suit him. They clash with his ugly scars and uglier attitude but don't keep him from wearing the chest wide open like a well paid rent boy.

“Stinks.”

“Whatever of, princess?”

He growls and drops his arms as you brace for the lecture, “Demons.”

His heart is incapable of peace and yours with it, and every summer he’s assigned a post in your mountains by a master you’ve never met and who couldn’t possibly be sane themself. Four years of this. Four years of twelve weeks of sixteen-hour-days of the world’s most neurotic demon slayer.

“The whole property is wide open for any fuck to attack.”

You adjust your grip on a slender bucket handle and the cloth in your other arm and continue back downhall, “You always say that.”

“I’m always right,” he nags and pushes free of his bedroom.

You met Sanemi when you were sixteen and still working under your parents. He was a brand new hashira then and prone to fist fights, spitfire, bloodshed. Nothing special. Nothing new. Hashira come and die and new hashira come again. They arrive in flashbangs and ego and leave like everyone else, in pieces.

Your parents were calm, they had peace and practice, they ran this inn, they welcomed Sanemi with his summer floods. They loved him, took his counsel and died by it, and they probably wouldn’t have lost an old man inside the house. But this is your inn now. They aren’t here anymore and at your inn sometimes old men get misplaced.

“And what would you like me to do about all that, sir?”

The hashira keeps an easy military pace behind you, “The gardens need to be reinforced and–”

“Nine acres of wisteria arbor need reinforcement? Yeah I’ll get right on that.”

“The storm will take out ha–!”

“And the other half will hold until autumn. Go berate the kitchen staff for their unpreparedness– they’re all unarmed you know? Totally unprofessional.”

“Y/n–”

“Shinazugawa,” you spin and it all comes out as a threat, a hiss, instead of just a whisper so much so that the water in your bucket nips up your sleeve. “I am the lady of this establishment and you will not address me so familiarly.”

Dark cyprus, cool hallways, the undeniable scent of thunder. Sanemi rests his hand on his sword to glare like he does when his hands don’t quite know what to do with themselves. His eyes roam, quiet under long lilly lashes until they have traced the shapes your tasuki makes with your waist and rise again to your gaze. “We’re not fucking finished.”

“Go eat,” you snap and turn back down the hallway, red at the ears. Lady of the establishment, great job.

Feet aren’t complicated, bone to tendon, tendon to muscle, muscle to skin, one step and another. You tilt your head back and an eager girl rises to wipe sweat from your temple.

“Like this,” you hum and tilt the old man’s heel in your palm. He winces but lets you continue while the girl stares on. “When the skin is split like this it can’t receive moisture– sorry sir, better?” You set his foot on the hammock of cloth between your thighs, “So you need to soak it first before applying salve. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” the girl parrots, still unable to look away.

“Yes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smile through an eye roll but gesture for her to come sit beside you. You’ve been like this since he’s met you, too old for your body.

You’ll train anyone who asks, hire any runaway girl, absorb the cost of thieves when runaways are exactly that, and you will wash old men’s feet before eating dinner with the self preservation of a samurai. Famously long-lived, those. Sanemi has to look away when you take scissors to the gnarled yellow nails and almost covers his ears when your pupil starts asking you questions about it.

“Feels good right?” You chuckle at the man’s response to your ministrations, and then a little louder, when you realize just how seriously the girl beside you is trying to focus. Birdsong. “Do you have companions on your pilgrimage, sir?” He shakes his head.

You lean away again so the girl can dab your brow and push back stray hairs and turn back to explain overdetailed care instructions to this man who is obviously so embarrassed he can’t hear a word you’re saying. Something about tallow and socks, Sanemi tries to read the syllables off your lips and loses focus the second time your teeth catch damp and pillowed pink.

The man seated in front of you grumbles some and flexes a few fingers around his cane like old men do, but doesn’t protest your instructions. He nods instead of thanking you like a real tough guy.

“Fetch a new pair of sandals from the garden shed,” you instruct your girl who bolts up and out the door past Sanemi without so much as a breath. “And you,” you turn back to your patient, “keep the nails short, you hear?”

He nods again, increasingly avoidant of eye contact. Sanemi tenses in the dark outside the guest’s complimentary room and hates ungrateful fucks enough for both of you.

“And don’t skip any more meals.” 

The man’s wrinkled skin unfolds at his eyes and he pulls his legs back underneath him. You dry your hands after scrubbing clean in a soapy pot and stand to collect your tools. “I couldn’t find you this evening and I hate to lose track of my guests at mealtime.”

You are going to feed every stray you find until the economy collapses. Peasant monks, pickpockets– you’d put up a demon if its stomach growled. After too many unnoticed minutes watching you, following the white x between your patterned shoulders, eating your voice, warming the hallway, you finally pick out Sanemi’s eyes in the dark behind the sliding door. He’s waiting for you. You clear your throat for the broke old pilgrim one last time, “You don’t owe any money. Do not skip meals.” And bid him a wordless good night. The door cracks shut behind you. It isn’t late enough for sunset. Thunderstorms make it so dark so quickly and they mask the scent of blood with all their rain and iron. “What is it?” You deadpan and shuffle towards the stairs with all the confidence in the world a tenured hashira will work to keep up with you.

“Not fucking finishied with you,” Sanemi grunts, working to keep up with you. The apron over your service kimono forces your hips to sway in tight little circles and Sanemi sucks his teeth. He doesn’t look away.

Through the hallway and down the servant stairs, socks on polished wood, you tap, tap, tap nimbly to your next assignment. The room below radiates heat and life. “What do you want?” you whisper.

“I–” he slips barefoot on the slick last step into the kitchen and you stumble in your newly damp right sock. “Euh, I–”

“Mimiko!”

“Lady?”

“Wet.” You point behind you, palming Sanemi out of the way, and a free washerwoman dives for the spot with the rag tucked into her belt. The kitchen rages silently in the easternmost corner of the mansion; men and women sweat over donabe, rinse their body weights in rice, and beat little fires with littler fans. Two women and a boy linger just outside the paper door in clothes that match yours for formality and Sanemi assumes as he weaves through the bustle, that they are responsible for bringing food to customers and for doing everything they can not to sweat through their pretty borrowed uniforms. Your own kimono is purple tonight, a cool little shape bobbing nimbly between flames.

Sanemi opens his mouth to shout after you and shuts it again just as quickly to grind his teeth instead as you lift your apron over your head. You let a girl feed you a spoonful of something on your way out of the room and she wiggles when you nod several times before ducking through the door.

Laundry next, then a double check of the firewood cache and the whole while Sanemi occupies your shadow. A few times you hiss over your shoulder at him for looking so gruff, for looking like a bodyguard, for making your customers imagine your distrust of them, always you bite back before he can get more than a few words out but mostly you just scurry in preparation for the storm picking up warm wind outside.

You avoid the entrance with him so close in tow, armed and obstinate, but make a show of circling both tatami halls where guests come after dinner on rainy nights to stretch and smoke by the brazier with strangers. A female musician trills her koto. The sky hasn’t let loose a single drop of rain yet but wet hangs like a fog and thunder scents the air ahead of its arrival. As Sanemi trails the outer walkway of the mansion behind you, the sky bleeds with the last of day’s light in the cracks between bruised and racing storm clouds.

“Second floor secure?” You confirm with the men slotting thick panels into grooves where paper doors usually go. They nod in their white uniforms. Beyond the porches, beyond the east garden and its fat green vegetables, beyond dogwood trees and sarusuberi and maples that have begun to tremble violently in winds buffeted by humidity and nightfall, the wisteria arbor glows. You radiate a cool purple pull beside him just like your flowers.

The arbor surrounds the property on all sides for half a mile and all three paths away from the house are barred by gates of twisting wisteria vine. The inn belongs to your family, but does not serve Ubuyashiki. Theirs is not the only house that discovered a use for these flowers. Yours is not the only wisteria business in the country. 

“Do you see that?” You murmur at so much the same tone as the wind that Sanemi almost cannot hear you.

Three years ago he left before the end of summer, called away to investigate a massacre nearby. A tree fell that season. It crushed a straight path through the edge of the mountain forest and onto your property where, lured by so much blood and wine, a pair of sister demons descended through the broken orchard and devoured everyone who wasn’t fast enough to hide in the flowers like the slayer suggested they should in an emergency. Your parents evacuated the house and died in it with the guests who couldn’t walk on their own. Nestled under three braided vines at the far edge of the property, you listened to them die.

The winds kick up sand from your vegetable garden and you step off the porch into the start of the storm. Tiny and purple. “Y/n!” Sanemi lunges for you. His sword whips the meat of his thigh and you step out of his way before he can grab any part he intended to. The men on the porch watch you both scramble through the backyard. You snap at the strange guest and duck when he swings a hand towards you, hop in your sandals when he tries to trip you into his arms and dart away like a dragonfly.

“Get back here!”

“Go inside!”

“Y/n!”

“How dare you!”

“Motherfucking, Y/n!” 

“That’s enough!” You bark and twist back towards the garden shed. Your pupil left the door wide open and all its shining tools caught your eye across the yard. Sanemi was staring when you stepped outside. His eyes feel like beads of sweat on the few bare parts of you. His gaze is all teeth on the back of your neck.

With all but one storm door up, not a single guest can hear the ruckus you two kick up outside in the prologue of the storm. “It’s about to pour!”

“Then go join the other guests!” You shout through a particularly violent breeze and you have to grip to the break in your kimono closed. He does not. By the time you lay a winded hand on the wall of the shed, it has started to rain.

A silencing wall of water falls from the back of the property straight towards you. It kills dust clouds in its path and paints every surface soaked in a perfectly straight line. Sanemi rushes from behind and nearly lifts you off your feet to get inside the shed as you watch the supernatural army advance on your home.

“Shit,” he grumbles and winces when the rain overcomes the little shed and splashes off the pavement into his face. He pulls you deeper inside and you jolt. The first crack of thunder is a scream that shakes the ground, “Scared of thunder now?”

“Scared of my profit margins, you oaf.”

Under his shoulder you are glaring at the storm between this shitty stuffy shed and your business. You are so small and wrapped so tightly in layer after layer of fabric. It must be hot. The damp drips down his open chest and thighs, it frizzes his hair at his ears. You must be sweating somewhere in that formal getup. Wet glistens at the curled little hairs on the back of your neck where the skin is just barely visible and it sparkles under your high collar.

“I can’t walk back inside soaked,” you groan, “there’s not enough time to change before final rounds.”

Sanemi takes his hand off his sword. There must be damp parts of you hiding from him. He brushes his knuckle up the bare skin of your neck, across your throat, and you falter slightly.

“Sanemi–”

“Nuh uh, don’t address me so familiarly,” he smirks and cups your cheek in his big hand when you jerk around.

“That’s not–!”

“Not what?” He smiles now, and drops his hand back to his sword so that you might find your own weapon and finish the fight. Four years of this.

You shove a finger into his chest, “You’re such a clingy fuck Shinazugawa,” and shout a little because you know the thunder will hide it. A sudden gust blows the sheet of rain sideways and straight inside the open door of the garden shed, up your dress and down his robes and through your prettily pinned hair. “Y/n this, y/n that, I’m busy Sanemi, I’m stuck in a shed! You’re the only one who calls me and people think we’re fucking! You want my attention you have it so please tell me all about the demons that’re gonna slurp up my customers and fuck my taxes to shit and–”

The door creaks in Sanemi’s hands even through the oceanic sounds of storm when he begins to close it. He nods as you get louder, nods as he slides the door closed and flicks the latch.

“Do not,” you growl, “there’s five thousand–”

“Five thousand little bitches in there lost without direction? They’re fine, Y/n.”

“Don’t call me that here.”

“They’ll survive, little lady.”

You spit, “not better.” And the new humidity of the closed shed begins to swallow you whole. It fills your throat. “What about all the demons you’ve been crying about?”

“You’re such a cocky cuss.”

“And you’re needy,” you taunt. It’s Sanemi’s turn to wince and his frustration starts to drip from all those places he shoves it away from you. He's been gentle with you since that summer. He lets you interrupt him, he follows where you go. “I watched you check perimeters this morning, you don’t need to talk to me about demons.”

“Eyes everywhere huh?” His throat is pink, “Lady of the house.”

You grin and pull him by the loops of his robe into your tiny purple kiss, “Shut up.”

“M’lady,” he growls against your lips and succumbs.

Four years of stolen touches, lips on damp summer skin, coming out of empty rooms too ruffled and pulling the hashira between your legs without disturbing the folds of your work kimono. “Don’t call me that either,” your breath hisses against his throat like an iron and he drops his sword quickly to gather you in his arms.

Too much fabric. Shovels and shears clatter against the floor and one another when the thunder shakes their little house again, and they tremble at every thump and roll of your body against Sanemi’s. He pulls your hips against his and guides your legs around his waist so he can sink into those soft parts of you. So he can tilt his head back to look up at you, so you can pour your kisses down his throat like wine.

You drag your nails up the back of his head when he offers his tongue to your lips, biting, suckling, drawing out gentle sounds and eating them before they compete with the rain outside. Where his hips dig into your own the folds of your skirt fall apart. Legs that glisten with sweat and rain part nicely for him and his own robes grow clingy with exertion where he grinds hard against you. Every subtle roll breaks your concentration in kisses, in lips sliding, begging with salvia and rainwater. His hands cup your cheeks, thighs, the collar of your kimono shudders open for him when he dips to suck bruises under your jaw and the swordsman’s hand loses control as he grips your belt to free you from all this formality. He’ll press crescents into your breasts, he’ll lower his tongue through your peach sweet folds and drink until you cry– but you pull his head back with a sharp yank of your wrist.

Your breath comes in clouds. The inn glows with candlelight across the yard but the light through the shed’s window is too weak. Welts of lighting illuminate the flush of your chest and cheeks. Two seconds of bright and twelve of dark warmth, shaking swirling thunder and then only rain. Sweat rolls from your temples and into the depths of your kimono. It’s been days since he’s had you like this and longer since you’ve had true privacy, others a whole yard away.

You can’t be gone long, he knows. Staff watched you race in here together, watched him shut the door, he knows he knows, he just can’t put you down yet. He leans in for another kiss and you let him fall close enough for his chest to crush yours before pulling back on his hair again.

“Y/n,” he’s suddenly not above begging but you hold his gaze tight. You watch him as your hand slips between the place your bodies meet. Pretty fingers reach for the heat between his legs. Pretty knuckles ghost over the swell of his robes and draw the fabric aside instead of ordering he bring you back inside. Sanemi’s cock perks up in free air as high as this position will let it and rests heavy under the swell of your ass.

He kisses you again, toothy and smiling and when you kiss him back your sharpest teeth clink together. He ruts into your desperation against the wall, harder than the rain, harder than the wind that threatens to blow your shed away and you with it. Obviously he wouldn’t let it but the thought that nature might be jealous of the rumple you made of each other drives him harder against you. Slipping, cock hard and suddenly shifted up against the hair under your belly. Peach fuzz yields to warm slick and Sanemi drops his head to your chest when he shudders to avoid whimpering into your mouth. He slips through your folds with a tight hold still under your thighs and drags himself up, down, up, hypnotized always by the faces you make when you’re trying to keep quiet.

The scars across his body are forever numb, but when your clammy hands paw is his chest he swears he can smell color. He can touch light when you pull his face back to yours frantically, when your hips with all their fabric flowing off of them buck sloppily against his, when he thrusts once deeply inside of you and forces a broken gasp from the back of your throat.

Before you can catch your breath your lips have crashed against his and his hips against yours. Sanemi keeps the relentless, restless, starving pace you like and knows he’ll last only the next few minutes before the worst of the storm blows over. Again and again he carves a palace for himself inside of you. You guide him with the falter of your kisses when he finds that perfect spot and with the slick that coats both of your thighs. Your voice escapes you in choked whimpers, his name comes out in hiccups. You’re a little bell in his arms folded in half and singing for him.

Again and again, out and so deep back inside, Sanemi’s feet grip the floor as he plunges his hips into yours and both of your bodies into the swelling wood walls. His rhythm staggers as you flutter around him and with his head against your shoulder he watches the circles you draw on your clit with the tips of four clumsy fingers as your other hand muffles your voice. He grabs that quieting wrist without thinking and without taking his eyes off the place your bodies connect with lewd squelches and sticky white threads. His threatening grip, his thick cock and your fingers push you right over the lip of your pleasure and fluttering becomes milking spasms quicker than Sanemi can think to treat you gently. That half-sobbing voice he loves so much cheers him towards his own climax and the more sensitive you grow the easier it is to coax those sounds out of you that you try to keep hidden, “Don’t– don’t be so quiet.”

“Inside,” you whisper in reply and draw his face into your hands as his pounding stutters in pace and loses all flow completely under your dreamy gazes. Sanemi can’t keep his eyes open when he cums. His pretty lilly lashes flutter with lost concentration. He shudders, ruts you deeper into the wall and groans with release as he fills those swollen wet parts of you. Warmth pools in your belly and trickles off his cock still buried. Sweat falls like the rain outside.

“Wanna taste,” Sanemi rumbles without setting you down or stilling his thrusts fully. He nuzzles somehow farther into the dip of your collarbones. Soft snow white hair, a heartbeat in the fingers that grip you. Every twitch of his hips is a starving ache.

“C'mon,” you grin, “dinner’ll get cold.”

“Let me taste you.”

“Sanemi, what will I eat if you eat me?”

“Have a few ideas,” he smiles back through the trembling of the shed in encores of thunder and gale. A leak tip tap tip taps nearby. Four years of this, maybe more.

[agentarc]

i’m just gonna bite the bullet and post a wip of this fox whump fic i’m cooking

important background info: quinlan is undercover as a maintenance tech for senate droids, and he’s concealing his tattoos via makeup

also i’m genuinely always trying to improve my writing so constructive criticism is welcome

content warning for graphic panic attack and self harm by way of exacerbating injury — please let me know if there’s anything i missed

(also also hi if you like this and you’re in a clone trooper discord please invite me im dying to be social in the clone trooper fandom)

His quarters are on this floor — Fox is reasonably sure — but the distance his feet must carry him to get there stretches and warps until it may as well be a parsec away.

A good soldier would weather the storm and march on. A functioning clone wouldn’t struggle to expand his lungs, put one foot in front of the other, and navigate to his own quarters. Fox is not a functioning clone. Fox is hardly even a soldier.

He must abort mission. He will not make it to his office. He lurches for the nearest door. The keypad flashes red at him.

His knees wobble, and he’s supposed to be a soldier, a marshal commander; he’s knees don’t wobble. His knees can’t wobble, not when he needs to stand steady and lead the Guard; not when his brothers are depending on him to keep them safe. Not when his entire existence hinges on his ability to contribute. Not when he needs to face the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic and pretend he’s in full functioning order when he’s constantly grasping at the fraying edges of control. Fox doesn’t know if he’ll come back when the threads fly apart.

Time does something funny and Fox is on his knees. The keypad sparks and sizzles. The door remains tightly sealed.

“Commander?”

The world slams to a stop. His eyes fly open — when had he closed them? He’s too vulnerable, it’s not safe to fall apart here, he can’t — and a natborn human is hovering at the hallway junction, 20 steps away.

They take a half-step in his direction, and Fox doesn’t have enough control to mask his full-bodied flinch. He knows the natborn sees it because they instantly freeze, raising both their hands in a display of easy surrender.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want to help.” Movements measured and slow, they lower their hands until they’re relaxed at their sides, palms facing out. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Fox can’t. Can’t push words through his teeth, can’t steady his hands, can’t take a full breath — can’t choke back the strangled noise that builds in the back of his throat —

It’s like his armor is see-through, all his cracks on full display, his skin flayed open for the natborn and the vode and all the little gods to feast. It’s not safe. He needs — he needs —

Thorn, he signs desperately, the shape of his brother’s name mangled by tremors. His fingers aren’t listening, but natborns don’t know battlesign anyway, so what’s the point? Fox is well and truly going to die. Fox is going to shake apart right here on the floor of the hallway, his heart is going to smash through his ribs, and the Chancellor will have been right about him all along. Fox is going to die and it won’t even be in the glory of battle, protecting his brothers like he’s meant to, like he wants to. Fox is going to die, and he is going to die an embarrassment; a failure to the Republic and a failure to his brothers.

“Commander,” someone says, and Fox’s attention snaps back to the stranger so fast that it rends a shock of pain through his skull. They have not come closer, but they could have — could have slid up and pricked him with a hypo or put a blaster to his head, and at this range the bolt would zip through his bucket like wet flimsi, and Fox isn’t paying enough attention, this place isn’t safe —

“My name’s Quin. I’m a maintenance tech,” the stranger continues from the junction. They speak firmly, but soft enough that their voice doesn’t echo. “You’re at Guard headquarters, on level 83, maintenance hall 7B, and you’re safe. I think you’re having a panic attack.” Their hands are still visible, but their arms are positioned in a way that suggests they had just used their commlink — to call whom? Maintenance techs don’t usually have direct lines to upper command, who did he call — “You were trying to get into that storage closet, right? I’m going to come closer and open it for you, okay?”

Fox expects them to start approaching, and he flinches reflexively, his body wound tight enough to snap right in half, but the stranger doesn’t move, yet. They watch Fox carefully, though Fox can’t make out the features of their face through his blackening vision.

He shudders through the concentrated wrongness knotted in his chest, eyeing the stranger as would a cornered, dying animal.

It’s perhaps desperation, perhaps the stranger’s disarming words, or perhaps a result of Fox having fully lost his mind that leads him to nod, once.

Only then does the stranger cautiously begin their approach, step after measured step, both their hands loose and empty and visible — a human man, Fox finally notes through the haze of his malfunction — and Fox tracks his movements as he smoothly glides into Fox’s bubble.

Fox cannot move, will not flex a single muscle, because if he does, he knows he will die. He thinks his trachea may be collapsing, gripped by some invisible force —

He jolts against phantom hands (you must stop struggling, Commander) that exist and don’t in equal measure (hold still, now) [end this smoothly, god i can’t be bothered rn]

“Almost got it,” the stranger says from somewhere above him, and Fox inhales sharply, shallowly; the exhale punches out of him with a low keening whine. It could have been seconds or cycles but eventually the man backs off in one casual, languid movement, and the door to the storage closet whooshes open.

Fox all but tumbles inside. He vaguely thinks he should be embarrassed, but as he presses his shoulders into a corner and lets his head hang between his knees, he figures that he deserves a death just as pitiful and undignified as his life was.

The trill of an incoming comm — not his own, because the Chancellor insists he not bring it to their meetings — has him whipping his head back up to attention. The man has stayed behind in the hall, standing off to one side of the open doorway. He raises his wrist comm and a bolt of terror lances through Fox at the reminder that he called someone.

“This is Commander Thorn. What’s going on?”

Fox could cry, and he probably is.

“Commander Fox is in distress. He’s safe, but I think he hurt his hand. We’re in storage closet 83-7B-A113.”

His hand? Fox flexes it and gasps with a detached sort of surprise at the burst of sensation. He hears swearing and shuffling from the other line.

“I’ll be there in 10. Do not touch him, and do not let anyone else approach.”

Fox chokes on a sob. Thorn is coming. It’s going to be okay. Thorn is coming.

“Of course.” The man signs off, but Fox isn’t watching anymore. Thorn is coming.

“Hey, Commander Fox? I’m gonna leave the door open, ‘cause the mechanism’s kind of messed up and I don’t want it locking on you.” A brief rustle of fabric, and, “I’m just gonna keep watch until Thorn gets here, yeah? I’ll head anyone else off.”

When Fox risks a glance at the doorway, the man is no longer within sight. Alarm and relief flood him in equal parts — eyes on all threats at all times, trooper, you’re not out of this yet — but despite his lack of visual on the stranger, he’s finally and blessedly alone in the storage closet.

He paws at his bucket until he remembers he will almost certainly die if he takes it off, and curls his fingers around the edge of his cuirass instead. If it weren’t for the hard plastoid, he thinks he’d sink his fingers into his chest to still his thundering heart himself. Maybe preventing it from racing around would fix him. Maybe it would kill him. Either option is preferable to the way dread creeps into every corner of his mind, every organ and limb, buzzing like holo static in his hands as they scrabble at his armored chest.

A renewed shock of feeling from his right hand abruptly pulls the world into stark contrast. It aches, maybe, behind and underneath the layers of wrongness, a single shred of reality, and he closes his fist to feel the sparks again and again.

It’s not pain — not quite. It wants to be, but Fox’s nerve endings are misfiring, severing themselves from his synapses as his body corrupts. It’s starbursts of sensation that sear through an impenetrable, suffocating fog; clashes of a cymbal to accompany the percussion of his heart and the unfaltering hum of the fluorescent lights above.

Fox understands pain, but he doesn’t understand this. He understands pain for the lessons it can teach, but he is failing to learn this lesson. He’s not sure this is pain at all. Pain is getting caught outside of cover and taking a blaster bolt to the gut, or not being fast-strong-cunning-ruthless enough on the training mats, or failing to dodge the Red Guard’s electrostaff during the Chancellor’s extracurricular lessons. Pain is useful; endurance of pain even more so. A soldier unacquainted with pain can’t function on a battlefield, or learn from critical mistakes, or (gods forbid) tolerate torture without cracking open.

If this is pain, and pain is meant to be some sort of lesson, what lesson is Fox evidentially incapable of learning? Just how defective is he? He squeezes his right hand in his left, lets the pain-not-pain fill his awareness until there’s no room left for this wicked miasma eating him alive.

Suddenly, there are hands on his wrists.

A twisted thing crawls up his throat and tears out through his teeth, and he swings, disoriented, clamoring for a single inch of control in a tumultuous storm. The grip holds fast against his thrashing until Fox abruptly registers the staccato being tapped out on his vambrace. Vod. Vod. Vod.

A brother — Thorn, Thorn is here — hovers before him, the determined set of his shoulders betraying none of the alarm Fox thinks he’d see in his eyes if he had the strength to look. “Fox,” Thorn says, “Fox’ika, I’m here. You’re safe.”

He’s not safe. He’s not, but Thorn is here and whole and keeping the danger away, and that’s not nothing.

“Let’s get your bucket off,” Thorn suggests, and then to the tense breath Fox hisses out in response, “It’s okay; Stone’s outside, he’s keeping watch. It’s safe.” And Fox believes him, because Thorn never lies to him. Thorn tells it like it is.

A snap-hiss, and Thorn gently lifts Fox’s helmet off. Cool air rushes over his face and fills his lungs.

“Good, that’s good. A couple more of those, like this.” Thorn takes a big breath, and Fox tries to copy him but his lungs are broken; the breath he takes is in starts and stops. A strangled whine squeezes out with his exhale. “I know,” Thorn says, “It’ll get easier.”

And it does. Thorn has worked his thumbs between Fox vambraces and blacks, rubbing small circles into his wrists, and it feels like everything. The lighthouse coming into view from out on a choppy sea. The anchor that keeps him tethered to the waking world. The offer of shelter from a vicious storm.

His sense of time is fractured. By the time Fox can inhale and exhale a complete breath it feels as though hours have passed, Thorn murmuring words of encouragement and squeezing gently whenever Fox starts to get sucked back into the fog.

Fox opens his eyes, and Thorn meets it with a smile. “That’s it, vod. I’m right here. Keep breathing.”

Thorn is here. It’s safe. The tension he didn’t realize was holding him together suddenly abates, rushing out of him like debris out an airlock, and he sags forward into Thorn’s waiting arms. Thorn’s free hand comes up to card through Fox’s sweaty curls, the other still encircling Fox’s wrist, as the marshal commander presses his forehead into his brother’s armored chest.

Sorry, Fox signs shakily, but he feels Thorn already shaking his head.

“Don’t you dare. You have nothing to apologize for.” Gently, as though Fox is something deserving of of reverence, Thorn removes Fox’s face from his chest and pulls him into a keldabe. They breathe in sync like this for a long, peaceful moment. “How about we go see Lore and fix your hand, and then have some midmeal in the barracks?” At Fox’s dour expression, Thorn rolls his eyes. “Alright then, let me rephrase. We’re going to medbay, and then having some midmeal in the barracks. You’ll feel better. Think you’re ready to stand?”

Fox thinks he might never be able to stand again. He does, though, and with Thorn’s support, ambles through the threshold of the supply closet. Stone sweeps in to support Fox’s other side.

The stranger is nowhere to be seen.

[poppyseed799]

I’m not sure if it’s a conscious thing people are doing but I’ve been seeing a LOT of people trying to discredit Scar’s win. And I don’t like it.

In the 2v1, Pearl only got one hit in, which I don’t think dealt too much damage, then let Scar handle the rest, so it was basically Scar and Pearl’s wolves vs Gem. If Scar had killed Pearl like she wanted him to, and made it a 1v1 with Scar and Gem, then Scar would’ve had extra hearts and therefore an even BETTER advantage. So I don’t think he only won the fight cuz of the 2v1.

Then people also keep saying he wouldn’t have won if Grian didn’t deal so much damage to Gem earlier. I mean… yeah??? I’m sure Gem would’ve won if nobody attacked her ever. But they did, because that’s how the series works. Grian didn’t kill Gem, Scar did. Why are we talking about how much damage Grian dealt in a conversation that isn’t about him. You could apply this logic to literally any time someone attacked someone else to discredit any kill (unless it’s a kill done on someone with full hearts and no assistance I guess lol). Like I get Grian dealt what, over 40 hearts of damage? That absolutely softened Gem up but she recovered enough to not instantly die afterwards soo. Why do we credit Grian for a kill Scar did long after he died.

I also saw someone complaining that Scar only got so many kills and won because he was picking off people with low hearts. Dude it’s literally not his fault if everyone he goes after happens to have low hearts, he couldn’t know that. With Tango, everyone knew, and Scar gave him MANY chances to escape being killed. You know what he did with the rest of the people he knew had low hearts? Let Skizz run away longer, found out Joel had low hearts and told him to go for Skizz. Does that sound like something a cheapster who wants to pick off easy kills would do??? Besides, if going after people with low hearts WAS his strategy, it would be a pretty valid one lol. Difficult to pull off too since you don’t know heart counts and not everyone escapes a fight on low health.

They also said he only won because he had too many allies? I mean, that is stupid because that’s literally part of the strategy in this series, it’s a survival/pvp/SOCIAL game. Scar has ALWAYS tried to win via having alliances. AND HE DIDNT EVEN HAVE ANY SOLID ONES SO WHAT WERE THEY ON ABOUT?? I guess because everyone decided to try to win him over to their side? Which was actually caused by him NOT having allies lol. He honestly did more helping others than being helped anyways. Well, in the finale.

Anyways, I just wanna add that this does NOT mean we gotta make fun of Gem for losing or whatever. You could say like “Gem could’ve won if only (whatever) didn’t happen!” As a way to hype her up. But saying “Scar only won because (whatever)” is just messed up. He earned that win. Gem was also deserving but things didn’t line up well for her so she got a good 3rd place. That’s just how the series goes. This makes it sound like it’s Gem fans that are discrediting Scar but honestly I don’t think it is? I just don’t want people to think you can’t hype up Gem or talk about how she could’ve won.

Back to the topic. I think the enchanting having no restrictions really helped Scar lol. It had always been a big part of his strategy and now he finally had an episode 5 that was getting stacked as hell instead of dying horribly. Happy for him.

[karniss-bg3]

Where do you think Kar’niss got his sword? It’s a very nice sword. Not just some off the rack gear. And named as well—-

*drags palms over face* This effin’ SWOOOORD! It has haunted my nightmares since Kar’niss’ corpse first dumped it into my Tav’s lap. I’ve dug and dug and dug and I’m left with more questions than answers. Knowing my luck there is some obscure text or throwaway dialogue somewhere I’ve missed that might lend me a better clue. Damn you Baldur’s Gate 3, you’re too bloody big.

So, I began to write out this big blob of text going into the history of drow weaponry, hues of metals, in-game model comparisons, the stats on the damn thing, and so forth. I was out here looking like this guy for two hours.

Truth is, it’s really difficult to pinpoint the source of Kar’niss’ weapon. Not because there aren’t clues, but because Larian reuses longsword models so much that looking at the weapon alone isn’t solid enough. I almost came to the conclusion that it was an original drowcraft sword pre-1370’s DR until I discovered another sword model that was identical and not tied to drow at all. That and if it was truly a drowcraft weapon forged via faerzress methods then Larian would’ve changed the rules on how they worked. Which makes sense. It’s a fun bit of lore, but it would be a pain in the ass for a game mechanic. Who wants their badass weapons destroyed or losing all magical abilities when you leave the Underdark?

“ME ME ME,” said no one.

The only thing I can say for certain is that it is a drow forged weapon because it carries a buff that only activates if a drow elf is wielding it. It also seems to be perfect for a drider since it also has ensnaring strands, an attack that does 1d10 slashing damage and possibly enwebs the target. This works in conjunction with the added 1d4 poison damage to restrained targets. The swords description may hold the best clue of its origin:

“The trauma of becoming a drider is quickly set aside with a cold arachnid dispassion. This sword follows that disturbing trend - a replenishing poison gland is built within, deployed only against trapped opponents.”

This description and the name, Cruel Sting, lead me to believe the weapon...was a gift.

Imagine Kar’niss fresh from his transformation. He’s dazed, in pain, lost and alone. He’s been exiled from the only home he’s ever known and has lost favor with the Goddess he’s worshiped from birth. His future is uncertain and how long he has left to live is even less so. His mind is shattered, the incoherent thoughts his only remaining company. He hears frantic footsteps approaching from behind him and his already broken heart shrivels more. His kin have come to finish the job, to put him down, so enraged by the offense he caused Lolth. Weak and struggling to keep himself upright he turns to make a last stand, to show strength in his final moments, to die with some level of honor.

His resolve melts into confusion when he sees who is sprinting toward him. The individual would be unknown to us, but well known to him. A childhood friend? A lover? A confidant? Or perhaps someone he fought alongside faithfully for many years. Regardless of whom has arrived a strong bond is present between them. They approach and peer at what Kar’niss has become. Their face twists, a brief flash of sorrow betraying their features. Yet they cannot let it remain, nor are they able to stay with him for too long. Instead, they unsheathe a sword they brought with them, hurriedly holding it up to Kar’niss. Naturally he flinches at first, expecting the blade to pierce his flesh. The strike never comes, rather the new comer pushes it toward him with urgency, expecting him to take it.

Hesitantly Kar’niss complies, taking the hilt in hand and admiring the beautiful drow craftsmanship. He frowns, his eyes lingering on the one who brought it to him, too stunned to speak.

“It will protect you, Kar’niss,” they said in a hushed tone. “...Goodbye, and good luck.”

Kar’niss could do no more than stand there as their former companion darted off quick as a shot, not willing to run further risk of being seen with the newly transformed abomination. He clutched the sword close to him, the last connection he had to the life he lived before. It would forever act as a reminder of everything he has lost, the cruelest sting of them all.

[pistachi0art]

Ok I found a direction I wanna go with the ghost au- and what pairs best to the supernatural than cults? :D here’s just some rambles about what I have in mind?

So idk if I established this- the pics are probably pretty telling but post car incident Josh now can see ghosts! And that causes some digging and poking around about why this is and Josh eventually stumbles into some shady shit that went down with another kid who could also see ghosts in 1973 (au is in 1998 btw), the kid was considered a “seer” and a cult was formed around this fact.

However the cult thought they could strengthen the kid’s abilities via electroshock therapy, something went wrong, lot of ppl died yada yada BUT Gordon recognizes the kid in the pic as… drumroll… TOMMY! (This ties to Tommy’s ability as a ghost/poltergeist-kinda to absolutely fuck around with lights and electricity- that and his death probably involved a defibrillator? Heart attack so 🤷‍♀️ idk which one I wanna go with)

But as the plot gets deeper, Josh starts getting pursued by what is thought to be the newly regrouped cult who suspect him as a new seer. :))c Ghost dad Gordo tries his best to keep his son safe, even if he can’t do much.

And if we wanna tie Benrey back to this Arden’s in the new cult, which would likely get Ben involved in helping Josh bc 1. ARDEN!! DANGER!! ITS KNOWN THAT THE GUY DOESN’T CARE IF KIDS DIE 2. the two are buddies, and he grows to respect Gordon as the two bond so he’s gotta make sure his cool son is safe.

That’s as much as I got now but if you wanna ask questions and/or ramble to me about your own ideas YEAH GO FOR IT I’M ALL EARS >:))

[fanatic-r3d4ct3d]

So what's the deal with Chip in your Lobotomy corp au?

SO! The funny chain saw man,

Edit: I didn’t like the way tumblr kinda.. spoils things?? It felt like the wrong tag to me so!

I wanted to edit the way I posted this SO, the gore shown here is very light and not detailed. There will be a second post of Chip with out the mouth bandages that is more detailed.

Chip is another abnormality, F-01-429.

With abnormalities those numbers have meanings! F meaning fairy tale(will be explained in a moment) the second number being a sort of second classification, 01 meaning humanoid but there’s ALOT of wiggle room for what counts. And the last number being…..tbh I’m not sure they don’t really mean anything. It’s more of just an Id, so chips is based on his employee ID from cogs.

Now chip is my only fairy tale based abnormality in this Au so far as I’m, slowly building it. He was based on both the Hunter from Snow White who was supposed to take snow whites heart and put it in a box as well as the hunter from little red riding hood. Comedically enough his more human design was also based off chip from my sims 4 game.

His abnormality name being “Huntsman with No Axe”

He is classified as an Aleph which is basically the most dangerous classification for abnormalities and breaches very very VERY easy much to his hate. He dislikes when agents come to work with him just wanting to be left alone. Despite breaching easily he hates when he breaches… His breaching in this AU is his form of override and you can probably already see where this is going.

Abnormalities often also change looks when breaching, Chip changes in the way of he gains the blank eyes and his mouth gains to be uncovered showing a lack of lower portion of the head and a chainsaw for a mouth. Saw blades also come from his arms and chest from crudely stitched together gashes. Sitting next to chip in his containment you can hear the saw revving though muffled.

He doesn’t exactly want to escape the facility either due to not admitting the craving of wanting social interaction and feeling like a bit of a hazard.

The context with the one Picture I drew with him and Dave is mostly me going “heheheh chiptune” as well as one of Dave’s abnormality functions going to be calming down other abnormalities via the music he produces in order for him to not be attacked since abnormalities often fight each other on breach…. Plus Chip just thinks the musics soothing enough to keep him calm. Plus drawing abnormalities interactions is fun. :P

Canon to lobotomy Corp is a little red riding hood abnormality Chip has history with, along with a big bad wolf abnormality who the two despise and will often breach if they happen to hear the wolf and stop at nothing to see it dead…..though abnormalities can’t really die either.

pictures of the lad 1 including red. Warning for stitches and 3 large gashes though not super detailed? I don’t know what counts… also blood splatters. Warning for that

[moonstonedrawsrandomly]

Another Sacrifice 16🟢

“I’m almost there!”

Gaia said. She can see the light, she can feel it, her heart beats faster each second that she could have a heart attack.

“If I stop now, HE will get me, but if I continue…”

Gaia considered stopping to fight Narinder, chasing her, but the desire to be with her family was too great! She leaped into the light, praying that he didn’t follow her. The siblings who were down begin to get back up. The circle was now dark.

“Where’s-“

A flash of light opened in the sky as Gaia’s crown ascended into the light. Blinding light engulfed the room. All was quiet as the light dissipated. Heket was the first one to look

“Mom!”

She said. The others finally looked. There she was! She made it! She did it! The family gets up and runs to Gaia!

“Gaia! My beloved!”

“Mom!”

“Mother! You’re back!”

Finally! Their family was complete again! Words were drowned out in the sobs of her family members. Gaia held her family close, so tight that she could’ve suffocated them.

“Im here my children…my family…im here now…”

She didn’t need to hear them to understand that they were happy to see them. To hold her now grown kids and her partner gave her so much joy, she nearly forgot the three others standing away from them.

“Look at how you’ve all grown! I’ve missed so much!”

Moses looked at Noelle

“Should we say anything?”

Moses said. Gaia then noticed them standing off.

“Fernilla dear, come! Let me get a good look at you! You too Noelle, Moses!”

“We- WOAH!”

She ended up using her magic to bring those three closer. She embraced them as well. Fernilla never felt this warmth before, the warmth of a family, she was abandoned at a young age and gained her crown from another deceased god. Her lambs were the ones who followed her regardless but they cared about her like a goddess not like a person. Fernilla enjoyed this embrace, looking down at Moses and Noelle who was enjoying the family’s warm embrace by the wiggling of their fluffy tails.

“Ack!”

Fernilla shouted. Blood gushed out of her mouth. Its time…

“Get away from me quick!”

She shouted! She knows what’s about to happen. Narinder’s chain was still on her neck, so he found his way out of his purgatory through Fernilla’s body. He appeared with the help of the circle being on the ground and Fernilla being in the perfect place at the perfect time. Fernilla falls to the floor as Moses rushes to her side.

“MY GODDESS!”

Narinder, cloaked in white, reappears infront of his family. He grins evilly as his family readies their weapons to fight him

“WELL! Look who finally returned to the land of the living! It’s like a big family reunion! Thanks for the exit Fernilla!”

He said. Everyone looked pissed at him. Big family reunion, yeah right! Gaia got a thumbs up from Moses, Fernilla was still breathing but down.

“One more move and we’ll kill you where you stand!”

Kallamar said. Shamura steps up.

“Narinder, my sweet child…why are you doing this? Look! Your mother is back, we can talk about this! You don’t have to go down this road!”

Gaia looked absolutely shocked! After everything hes done to the family, they greet him like this?!? Then she looked at her kids and they all nodded.

‘Their brain reverts back every once in a while to when we were all together. ‘

Leshy said to Gaia via crown.

‘It’s gotten this bad, huh?’

She thought. Heket responds through her crown.

‘This has been going on since their injury. Its a long story, but they are NOT okay’

She said. Gaia nodded as she got up to speed. Narinder yawned at Shamura’s efforts.

“Your pathetic, you know that?What is with you and trying to make things right? There is no fixing this, Shamura! The only way this ends is when the old faith falls and you die!”

He said. Gaia then stood infront of Shamura, tensing up Narinder. You dont talk to her spouse like that!

“You want to take shit out on someone, look at me! I was the one who got sealed to protect YOU! Clearly that effort was wasted on you!”

Narinder gritted his teeth. They both go back and forth with their threats but as they were doing that, Leshy just noticed a serious problem with his pink little lamb.

‘Wait a second! Noelle isn’t attached to a crown! He can grab her now!’

He thought. Not wanting to garner any unwanted attention, and knowing that she is hiding behind Heket, he quietly reaches out his palm to her back, the little wings that used to adorn her back when Gaia was attached to her were gone and were replaced with little green ones. Noelle felt something on her back, but paid no mind until she saw a green diamond on the back of her wrist, where a orange square was.

“Enough! I don’t need this frippery anymore! Speaking of nonsense…”

He throws 5 long blades towards a disoriented Fernilla. She notices and tries to block them desperately. Moses tries as well but those will kill him AND her instantly!

“I have no need for you! The last thing we need is you bringing someone back!”

“Fernilla! Move!”

Heket screamed! The others weren’t fast enough. Heket even tried to outrun them to get to her but she wasn’t fast enough. Fernilla wasnt fast enough as she tries to put up somesort of shield to protect herself.

“Is this…how I die…”

Narinder’s blades pierced their target

No…”

Unfortunately, it was in someone else’s abdomen instead of Fernilla’s. The whole group stared in shock…

“SHAMURA!!!!”

TBC

[scotianostra]

On Monday the 24th of December, 1716,  Serjeant William Ainslie was executed.

Most executions in Edinburgh took place either at The Old Tollbooth, or the Grassmarket, some convicted of witchcraft were burnt on Castle Hill, or the Esplanade, as it is now. What is unusual about William Ainslie’s hanging was he was  executed over the Castle-Wall.

Serjeant Ainslie was part of a plot in the Jacobite rising of 1715 to take control of Edinburgh Castle.  Ainslie and two other soldiers of the garrison had been bribed to admit the plotters via a sally port.

Once there, the Highlanders meant to seize the castle’s ample stock of weapons and cash, and also “fire three cannon; that when this signal should be heard by some men stationed on the opposite coast of Fife, a fire should be kindled on the heights; and that these beacons, continued northward from hill to hill, should, with the speed of a telegraph, apprise Mar of his advantage.”

One minor problem: the whole enterprise depended on the ability of at least 83 people to keep a secret, but “they were so far from carrying on their affairs privately, that a gentleman who was not concerned told me that he was in a house that evening, where eighteen of them were drinking, and heard the hostess say that they were powdering their hair to go to the attack of the Castle!” Even so, the word only barely got out in time, the conspirators self-defeating by showing up late (too much time powdering?) and with ladders that were too short.

William Ainslie, the sergeant who was planning to open the gate for the Highlanders, had to shout the alarm and play it off that way once he realized that the dawdling had wasted the opportunity, but he was soon found out and spectacularly hanged over the castle wall for his trouble. 

The inevitable hanging-ballad broadside (“The Lamentation, and Last Farewell, Of Serjeant William Ainslie, who was executed over the Castle-Wall of Edinburgh for High Treason and Treachery, on Monday the 24th of December, 1716”*) emphasizes the pecuniary motive at the expense of the patriotic, but maybe it should have been dedicated to the principle that loose lips sink ships.

Here’s a transcribe of the said Broadside;

Let all Bold Soldiers far and near, That sees my dismal Fall, Lament my sad and wretched End, That’s brought my self in Thrall; Here to the World I do declare, The Castle to Betray. Full Fifty Pounds I was to have, for which I’m doom’d to Die.

My Name is William Ainslie, A Serjeant Stout and Bold, In Flanders I the French have Fought, And would not be Control’d: And Loyal was to King and Crown, my Trust did ne’re Betray, Till I was tempted with that Gold, For which I’m Doom’d to Die.

While I did in the Castle ly, In Irons close Confin’d For my Dear Wife and Children all, My Heart no Ease could find, To GOD I did for Mercy cry, As I in Fetters lay. Both Night and Day to him I’le Pray, Since I am Doom’d to Die.

Ah! wo be to that cursed Gold, That did my Heart intice, To act such a gross Treachery, The Castle to Surprise; But wo’s me, for my Treachery, My Hour is drawing nigh. For I most hang out o’re the Wall, Most Just Deservedly.

Good People, pray do not revile, My Wife and Children dear; Whom I so dearly lov’d on Earth, Lord to my Soul draw naer: [sic] I hope in Mercy he’l appear, For still to him I’ll cry; Since I most Justly, am condemn’d, Over the Wall to dy.

They told me a must hang some Days, Over the Castle-Wall; Until the Rope takes Fire and breaks, Then to the Ground I fall: But since that I must suffer here, Unto the Lord, I’ll pray; Take Warning by my shameful End, I just deserve to dy.

Since many People here is come, This Day to see me dy; I hope their Prayers to God they’l send, For me, before I dy: My vital Breath will soon be gone, With a strong Rope and Tree; But yet I hope my Peace is made, With God who lives on high.

Those that did cause my dismal End, I do forgive them here; For now my Life lyes at the Stake, Oh! Lord, to me draw near: My precious Soul I pray receive, For unto Thee I’ll fly; For I have acted Treason great, And for it I must die.

I wish all People Warning take, That’s come to see me die; The World unto you I’ll leave, For all Eternity: I must away, farewel, adieu My Wife and Children all; For I must hang into the Air, Over the Castle Wall.

All you that sees me here this Day, I desire you all to pray; That all my Sins God would forgive, Since I am brough to die: Let every one both far and near, Take Warning now by me; Your Trust, I pray, never betray, For which you see me die.

[museguided]

( my friend and I were having a discussion about Mika’s death(s) and the toll it took on his and Yuu’s relationship the other day and I thought I’d put it into more eloquent words here because it came to a very interesting conclusion. )

Once Mika was able to reunite with Yuu again, his number one priority was to keep him safe at any cost. It’s a natural response, considering the circumstances, but it’s also his way of trying to make amends for the mistakes he’s made. Mika blames himself heavily for the deaths of their family and the life Yuu had to lead all alone, but it’s not enough. He wishes Yuu would blame him for it- that he would be angry and unforgiving- that’s how Asuramaru possessed his heart. But Yuu is kind, and he may not understand how much pain Mika internalizes, but he’s going to hold his hand and make promises that they would try to stay alive together or die together.

But as long as Mika can help it, he will not let Yuu die. He can’t.

I’m of the opinion that Mika had seen no other option when he chose to sacrifice himself. I say this because I also believe that he could have survived the Sanguinem massacre via another headcanon I’ll address another time. But his plan had failed, the kids had died because of his reckless choices, and he had to at least get Yuu out. In hindsight, he could have made plenty of precautions- and he was supposed to be the leader, the smart one, the one who thinks things through- but he had gotten a big head after believing he one-upped a vampire and he was too eager to lead his family to freedom. Yes, he was just a kid. He wanted to trust an unfair world and made mistakes. But he held himself responsible for the lives of his families, being the one who had brought them all together and who they had trusted to keep safe and happy.

Then we find him at the receiving end of Guren’s sword, allowing his own sword to drain him for one final attack. Keep in mind that Mika has never trusted Guren’s decisions when it came to Yuu and, during this battle, it had to have seemed like they were fighting to kill, even if Guren actually meant to subdue them (I can’t say for sure what Guren’s goal was during these scenes). With Yuu incapacitated, Mika would not risk standing down against an obvious threat. So he would accumulate his own power and allow himself to be struck down so that he may take Guren out with him (or at least away from Yuu).

Of course, Mika’s fate goes against what Yuu wants but he doesn’t regret it one bit. As long as Yuu lives, Mika will be content. When he’s a demon, facing the decision Yuu had to make to restore humanity or revive him, he’s ready to be sacrificed. To save everyone and bring back their family would most likely have finally put his guilt and self-hatred to rest. But Yuu chooses him. He turns against the family he’s found for himself and he devours Asuramaru and he fights Mika and chooses him and Mika can’t understand it.

I’m assuming it’s in part because to restore humanity, yes Mika would be sacrificed, but it’s implied that Yuu would be cursed with eternal life. It goes against their promise and it’s not what Yuu wants but Mika still insists that he gives up on him.

All of this finally leads to the question: Does Mika care about Yuu’s feelings toward him?

My answer? Mika loves Yuu. He cares so much about him and he’s so proud of him for staying alive, becoming stronger, and making a new family all on his own. But he’s completely willing to make decisions that will make Yuu upset with him, barely offering a moment’s hesitance because what he does is for Yuu’s own good. He’s turned his own sword on Yuu at least twice in an attempt to make him fall in line with his actions, nevermind several occasions where they’ve butted heads over a disagreement. In my opinion, he does this to try to make up for his failures, because he led his family to their deaths, he left Yuu alone, he can’t take Yuu away from the danger that surrounds them, and it kills him to be the reason Yuu cries. It'd be hard to say that Mika doesn't care about what Yuu thinks of him at all, but he needs to keep him safe and I don't think Mika even takes Yuu's happiness into consideration sometimes.

He already thinks of himself as this unforgivable monster. If Yuu ended up resenting him for his actions, it would just complete the picture he’s trying to paint himself in.

[little-shiny-sharpies]

With all this timey wimey stuff in the new update, I’ve been throwing around an alternate timeline I’ve come up with a bit of my own since I wanted to play with the idea of Frozal as a child and getting to do stuff in MoP too, and since I’m just playing though it for the first time.

So Lord Prestor and/or Onyxia saved a few dracthyr as souvenirs or smth, one of them is Frozal, mindwiped of their soldier lives and all prior knowledge to be feeble and serve as peons and servant to the black dragons during their undercover activities. Now named Vera, her visage is a young girl who’s hair seems to have been dyed black she appears to be only slightly older than Anduin, but only by a few years. Her Dracthyr form remains the same but she doesn’t know how to fly.

After the events of Cataclysm, Vera hides away in Stormwind keep, abandoned to die at the hands of the Alliance, she was too terrified to leave into the world without her dead master’s guidance. So she scavenged in the stormwind and the castle for food. In MOP after Anduin goes missing, she sneaks into a ship to Pandaria and takes his place, changing her visage to appear as him to at first get food, but is taken to Varian, who believes she is truly his son. She goes along at first for fear of her life, but soon relishes the role, as being loved was something she never knew she needed.

Anduin catches wind of this “Prince found” news and talks to his doppelganger in secret, wanting to meet who tf this is and make sure they don’t have any bad intentions, and once they properly meet, Anduin asks her to stay in his place since his father doesn’t know he’s gone still and he still wants to explore and help Pandaria. He makes a deal that afterwards he’ll help her find a home.

So stay Vera does and they communicate via some pandaren magic stuff I know exists and stay updated on events so they can swap out when the time comes and not bring attention to it. Vera lives as Anduin and explains that (s)he was really struggling to survive in the wilds and got attacked and fell down a cliff, to put off suspicion of why he’s acting strange. So “Anduin” uses that as a reason to why he’s following Varian so closely after his return and actually takes a new interest in learning combat and Varian is so damn thrilled about it, he tries to spar with him nearly every day and it’s so much fun.

While the alliance players are still looking for Anduin right after he runs away from them, they receive news that Anduin has returned and is alright (and the players go “No the fuck he ain’t! The little bastard ran away from us that’s a damn changeling or something!”) And soon realize the king is with a fake, so they have to track down the real prince and bring him back to prove it.

But Anduin and Vera’s plan plays out well until the Garrosh incident. During their conversation Anduin tells Vera what he’s planning to do, and Vera tries to talk him out of it, the guilt of living in a dead boy’s place is too much for her little heart to handle. So when Anduin get crumpled under that bell, out of nowhere, comes this weird dragonkin that absolutely fucks Garrosh UP and mauls half his face before it gets chucked off him and they both escape. To hide from their consequences that pissed both of the factions off since now the prince is missing again and Garrosh is missing half his face they gotta hang out with this SUS black dragon in some random inn.

[solarpunkpresentspodcast]

Mashing Solarpunk and Cyberpunk to Wage War Against War in The Creator

I saw the movie The Creator last night, which turned out to be a brooding love child of cyberpunk and solarpunk. I think we need a name for that genre mashup because there’s some interesting threads there to mine. The Creator also made me wonder, when did films get so beautiful. Every last frame of this film is a work of art of exceptional composition and clarity. And the sound... just wow, from the stirring yet perfectly integrated musical score to the map of sounds happening around you as the action progresses. If nothing else (and yet much more), The Creator is exactly why we should be fighting for the lives of our movie theaters. It breaks my heart to think of all the young’uns out there who are going to watch this film on their phone and will never have any idea what they’re missing by not having seen it on a big screen with a top–notch sound system. Even watching a film like this on the best HD TV you could hang on your living room wall would be like looking at a print of a Picasso instead of seeing its power in person.

The Creator takes place in an alternate timeline where we dove into AI and robotics with such gusto so early on, there were AI robots in spacesuits in space missions on NASA’s Space Shuttles (circa early 80s to early 2010s), not to mention acting as mother’s little helpers in the kitchens of the 1950s (if my memory is accurate of the “news reel” that rolled for the rocket ride that is the film’s opening montage). In short, The Terminator films clearly not existing in this timeline, humanity made the mistake of leaving the AIs in charge of defense systems and Los Angeles got nuked. And that’s just the first 75 seconds of the film (more or less).

Despite the fact that hardly anyone one who doesn’t live in Los Angeles cares a whit about the place—in fact,lots of folks actively fantasize about its demise (I’m thinking, most recently, of Kim Stanley Robinson's meanly gleeful and scientifically inaccurate drowning of the LA basin within about the space of a day via atmospheric river storms in The Ministry for the Future)—the USA goes full post-9/11 and declares war on AI. This means hunting down and mercilessly exterminating hotbeds of AI development in “New Asia.” Cue violent raids into New Asian countries by squads of American commandos with mind–bogglingly mighty tanks; a permanently airborne war station that locates targets, coordinates attacks, and launches savage missile attacks; and the most arrogant, single-minded, and cruel military characters imaginable.

That is, except for the protagonist. Sure, he’s an elite commando, but (SLEDGEHAMMER OF A METAPHOR) he’s a little bit robot himself, with all those bionics to replace limbs lost (in combat, presumably, given that his more innocent explanation sounds like an evasive lie). He fell in love with and married a New Asian woman while infiltrating her “terrorist” troupe of AI developers. This splits his sympathies. Considerably. Still, the top brass puts him in charge of re–infiltrating New Asia to seek and destroy the AI “weapon” the “terrorists” have developed. But this “weapon to end all weapons” turns out to be the AI equivalent of a human child who holds the key to the protagonist reuniting with the protagonist’s seemingly terrorist wife. As well as maybe also holding the key to world peace. Meanwhile, the child AI needs the love, protection, and guidance of a parent to survive and develop deeply human emotions. (Because, you know, emotions. They’re what make people do good things, right?)

Movies being movies, a lot of people and seemingly sentient machines are going to have to die in splatters of gunfire and spectacular explosions before we can find out who wins: the US military meanies or the AI robots and their friends, who just want to live free in peace and harmony.

Thematically, there’s a lot going on in The Creator. It’s very anti-colonialism, for instance. It also wonders how sentient robots will feel about being, essentially, slaves. It wants to tell us that maybe AI will be good for us. Instead of wanting to exterminate us—we who are actually the violent ones who refuse to see the humanity in others—maybe AI will want to be our friends and partners. Maybe AI will help us to develop the humanity lurking somewhere within ourselves and make us better human beings.

But for me, the overarching theme of The Creator is rage at America’s arrogantly militaristic habit of seeing things in black and white (US vs them, good guys vs terrorists, humans vs AI) and of annihilating the enemy at all cost, including that of the lives, livelihoods, housing, and villages of the civilians we don’t see as mattering. Watching this bitter rebuke to “shock and awe” was especially moving right now, on the brink (at least at the time of this writing) of Israel’s potential offensive into Gaza that will be Israel making the same mistake America made after 9/11. We could have taken the world’s sympathy and support (for we had it!) and used it to make the world a better, more equitable, more peaceful, much less impoverished, and more just place. Instead, we spent decades extracting bloody, violent revenge for a single terrorist act. Yes, our pride was wounded, and yes, nearly 3,000 people died as a result of the 9/11 terrorist attack, but the damage and death we caused in response with our mighty military machinery and soldiers gained us nothing, not even satisfaction. All it did, besides kill people and destroy their homes, was take the world into a dark, unstable place where there are now so many sides (within societies and between them) and they all hate each other. We all hate each other and this is ripping the fabric of our societies apart and making life more horrible for everyone. Rampaging like a million Godzillas on methamphetamine might feel as good as smashing glass when you’re mad, but it’s not right. It’s what evil empires do and it has terrible geopolitical repercussions. Especially when you wrap up your claim in the mantle of morality that you don’t actually have.

Of course, few movies are without their flaws. A lot happened in this movie that strained all credibility... and for the most part, it wasn’t the speculative elements. If the plot consisted of a lot of interlocking threads, every last one of them went full circle and tied itself into a tidy little bow by the end, which was ridiculous. Related to this, foreshadowing struck often and always like a sledgehammer. And there were far too many implausible events... characters who just happened to stumble in the right direction to end up in the right place at literally exactly the right time to make exactly the connection (that had gotten set up in another implausible and convoluted set of circumstances) that was totally unexpected (but that you saw coming 30 minutes previously because of the sledgehammer foreshadowing), etc. The AI child has extraordinary powers over machines when the plot needs it to but doesn’t have those powers when the plot needs it not to. The US military people are all such hardcore, single-minded, murder–all–the–AIs–at–all–cost lunkheads that the tragic backstory they give at least one of them to excuse it just comes across as laughable. Also, come on. Los Angeles gets nuked and only a couple of million people die? Does the alternate timeline not know that nearly 20 million people live in the Los Angeles megalopolitan area? Also, why barrage AI hot spots with bombs and missiles, doing so much collateral damage, when a great bit electromagnetic pulse would be far more effective while simultaneously sparing human beings and their homes?

Despite this, the movie is a moving spectacle. And it felt new. Which is not easy to do, as anyone who has sat down to try to write sci–fi could tell you. Sci–fi is so far beyond the first flush of its youth, unless you're really good, that just about any story you come up with has been written several times before. Despite the clunkier aspects of the plot, whoever wrote The Creator is really good. This sci–fi movie broke ground.

These days, I rarely stay for the credits of movies, but I felt compelled to for The Creator. It was so magnificently made, I’d found myself wondering how you would even go about writing a prospectus for a film like this. It was filmed at so many different places around the world and it had so much excellent CGI, there was only one moment in the movie where I was like, oh, that’s totally obviously CGI (and normally I scoff all the time at CGI). How would you even begin to figure out how many people you’d need to make a film this epic and detailed, much less how to coordinate their efforts. How could you begin to calculate how long it would take to make a movie this ambitious or how much it would cost so that the end result was excellent? (Turns out, the cost is $80 million, which is between a quarter and a third of the cost of a typical Marvel movie.)

My best guess—before and after watching the extensive credits—is that it took at least a thousand person-years to get this film made. There were so many animators. And they all seem to have done a painstaking job.

So, kudos to The Creator, the art with which it was made, and the themes that it tackled. Now get thee to a proper movie theater. In fact, the shiniest, newest, most up–to–date movie theater you can find. Movie theaters need our help to survive in this world of streaming, and spectacles like The Creator need to be seen on a big screen.

[hairasuntouchedaspartoftheamazon]

This is largely for @ryebreadlord

So...something about Jersey does weird things to the people who come from it, and subsequently the music they make, which explains two of my favorite bands being My Chemical Romance and The Gaslight Anthem. due to being raised on the latter and falling head over heels in love with the former at age fourteen, the discographies of these bands exist in conversation in my head. can I rationally explain these conversations? the answer is: sometimes!

Basically, this is why The Spirit of Jazz (Gaslight Anthem) and Save Yourself I’ll Hold Them Back (MCR) are married in my head.

To begin, there’s a few superficial similarities between the songs:

In the second verses of both songs there are mentions to dark haired lovers and a special relationship between the narrator and their lover:

“ So what now, lover with your long black hair? If I cut you open, baby, I can repair. Bandage your wounds with the salt on my tongue. And I'm the only one around here ” (The Gaslight Anthem)

“ I'm the only friend that makes you cry, You're a heart attack in black hair dye” (My Chemical Romance)

Both songs loosely allude to a vague form of immortality via movies and music, suggesting that the narrator is aware of the story they are telling:

“ The Cool is dead, baby, go on to sleep, Rest your weary head and love a better me, And in the morning we'll start over again, That's how they do it up on the screen “ (The Gaslight Anthem)

“ They say we're never leaving this place alive, But if you sing these words, we'll never die” and “ This ain't about all the friends you made, But the graffiti they write on your grave” (My Chemical Romance)

These are superficial similarities, but they allow me to get the ball rolling and thoughts percolating.

To me, the songs are just similar enough in ideas and concepts mentioned to plausibly create two perspectives of one narrative. Two snapshots of one story, if you will, with the individual context of each song creating a larger narrative. Save Yourself I’ll Hold Them Back has a narrator who is simultaneously desperate and hopeful, screaming for their lover to get out and save themselves while also saying that as long as they keep hope and beauty in the world, none of them will truly die. The Spirit of Jazz has a narrator who is nostalgic, remembering previous times with a lover and waiting for that lover to return, while still professing their love. To me, these narrators are one and the same, just separated by time. At first, the narrator is young and in a desperate situation, sending their lover away for their safety. Later, they are waiting, wondering if they will ever see that lover again. At no time do they ever doubt their devotion to each other, there is the question of whether they did the right thing.

To compare the choruses:

“ Was I good to you, the wife of my youth? Not another soul could love you like my rotten bones do, So I will wait on the edges in between, These New York streets where you and I would meet” (The Gaslight Anthem)

“ We can leave this world, leave it all behind, We can steal this car if your folks don't mind, We can live forever if you've got the time “ (My Chemical Romance)

These are in conversation with each other. In an earlier time, the narrator and their lover wanted to run away, and claimed they would live forever. Later, the narrator is waiting, perhaps forever, for their lover to come back to them. The Gaslight Anthem song mentions waiting multiple times throughout the song. In the lens I’m using, this can be viewed as the narrator waiting at an arranged safe point after being separated, and wondering if their lover is ever going to meet them there.

Additionally, both songs make references to times when the narrator has saved their lover from pain, both self-inflicted or otherwise:

“Get off the ledge and drop the knife, Not a victim of a victim's life, Because this ain't a room full of suicides, We're believers, I believe tonight” (My Chemical Romance)

“And only I can heal your wounds, Only I can heal your wounds, When you can't go on, when you can't go on, When you can't go on, when you know, hold on” (The Gaslight Anthem)

Finally, one of the more blatant similarities with the narrator describing their lover:

“ But I'm a cannonball to a house on fire, And you're slow like Motown soul” (The Gaslight Anthem”

“ You're the broken glass in the morning light, Be a burning star if it takes all night” (My Chemical Romance)

Both of these songs describe the narrator’s lover as moving slower or ‘taking all night’, which supports the narrative I’m establishing. Of course the narrator is giving their lover time to escape, the lover moves slower and needs time(a whole night) to get away. And of course the narrator, much later, is still waiting for their lover to reappear, they take their time like soul music does. I also love how both lines shown here reference the lover in close proximity to fire and destruction.

Both songs are also oddly hopeful! Save Yourself I’ll Hold Them Back continuously states that the narrator and their lover are going to live forever, while The Spirit of Jazz remembers the old times with only fondness and repeatedly states that the narrator will wait as long as it takes to see their lover again.

To sum up: To someone who listens to a lot of sad yet oddly hopeful rock music from Jersey, these songs have a lot in common and can form a narrative when put together. Go listen to them, I provided links. Stay tuned for when I compare more songs!

[askthepsychic]

Nyx watches intently as Rey trains with those she owes her genes to. The two psychic Pokémon testing her limits over and over with increasing intensity. As she watches, Twilight comes up to watch with her. Nyx looks at her “how do you feel about this. Genetically speaking, her true parents are here now. And I can tell she cares about them.”

Twilight nods “as can I. But… I’m not troubled by it. She still cares for us too. Right now she’s trying to make up for lost time with them, but her heart has room for us all. You know that as well as I do.”

Nyx nods.

Twilight looks at her “and you? What do you think of the situation.”

Nyx sighs “if I must be honest, I’m relieved. I never told her in so many words, but I think she knew as I did that her power was growing faster than mine. It wasn’t hard to realize that I would eventually become a detriment to her training, rather than a boon. She would surpass me, and I would be unable to provide her with effective exercise from then on. Her parents already have the level of power she has the potential to achieve. They can train her far more effectively than I going forward.”

Twilight nods, then blinks as Aaron appears in the training arena. “Is it time for that already?” She wonders aloud, noting a decidedly grim look in his eyes. She looks at Nyx “let’s get down there. If I’m right, Hades and Ambrosia should show up in a moment.”

Nyx blinks, but nods as they fly down from the stands to join the others.

When they get down to them, Rey is asking Aaron why he’s interrupted the training session. Aaron replies “I’ve pinpointed the exact time Grogar will break free of the spell imprisoning him. Fortunately, it won’t be until the end of this year. This means that we have time to equip you with a new power that might tilt the scales in your favor should you need to fight. But before I explain that further, show me your progress with mega evolution.”

Rey nods, then clasps her hands in front of her, over where her mega stone is in her chest. A white energy spreads from that place, and when it fades, Rey has assumed her mega form. “My instructor says that with how quickly I’ve gotten to this point, she’d be comfortable leaving me to finish that training myself.”

Aaron nods “good. Then there shouldn’t be any issues that’ll arise from this.” With that, he suddenly charges forward, faster than any of them can track, his hoof connecting with the center of Rey’s chest with crushing force, making her drop out of mega evolution and leaving her gasping for breath on the ground on all fours.

Rey is shocked. In her wildest nightmares she never imagined that Aaron would ever attack her like this. And why is it suddenly so hard to catch her breath? She looks up at Aaron, her thoughts beginning to cloud over as she asks “Aaron, what did you do? Why did you do it?” As she asks, she detects Hades and Ambrosia arriving via Hades’ divine teleport.

Aaron looks at her grimly. “I made your lungs burst. That’s why it’s so hard for you to breathe right now. You’re about to die. As for why… it’s the only way. You gained perception of the spirits around you from your first experience with death, but you should’ve gained more. The only reason I can think of for you not to have gained all you should’ve is that you were dead for too brief a time, and were comatose throughout. But this time, strings have been pulled. Arrangements have been made. You won’t be comatose, and you’ll spend a longer time in spirit form. Your body will be preserved and repaired. When you return to it, you’ll have gained the rest of what you should’ve gained the first time. As long as you follow the rules regarding what’s happening now. I’ll be with you most of the time, guiding you along this experience. Now, relax. Release your soul. Ambrosia is waiting to report on your souls status.”

Rey nods “I see. I knew there had to be a good reason for this. See you on the other side.” With that, Rey relinquishes her hold on life, still surprised by what’s just happened, but trusting Aaron.

[automatismoateo]

My take on "there are no atheists in a foxhole" via /r/atheism

My take on "there are no atheists in a foxhole" Two days ago, I thought I was going to die. I’m a very occasional weed smoker and after smoking one of these occasional joints certainly more packed than usual, rather than relaxing, existential dread started kicking in and I was so high I mistook a panic attack for a heart attack. My last panic attack before that was something like 3-4 years ago and I had never experienced one so intense. Since I was as high as a kite, the realization of it being “only” a panic attack took about one hour to set in (it was past midnight, and for some stupid reason I didn’t want to wake up my wife). Since it had been quite a while since my last panic attack, I had no meds at home. I couldn’t lay down or even sit down. I had to stand and was trying without much success to control my breathing. I really thought it was a heart attack at the beginning and man, I started thinking to myself that I was too young to die (I’m 49) and that it would be such an ordeal for my wife and my two young daughters (10 and 14) if I should die right now. That I needed at least another ten years. I thought I had made my peace with death, that I accepted it as a fact of our existence and that I wouldn’t be scared shitless when the moment came. Turns out I was wrong and I still have some work to do. Still, I had no “there are no atheists in foxholes” moment (I’ve been raised by an atheist family and am one too since forever). I only came to the realization that some (most?) religious people adhere to religion because they too are scared of death and the promise of some kind of afterlife is comforting. Sorry for the long post. Submitted October 26, 2023 at 01:55PM by Ekle_lgoh (From Reddit https://ift.tt/hVUT0Ft)

[emilemily]

Well I more than likely have Lupus (or MS or dermatomyositis or a few other things) but my doc is set in Lupus

So many mystery symptoms, undying fatigue, hair loss, and I’ve lost 30+ pounds since January

My doctor had me do basic blood work and it came back normal aside from a few things that are out of whack consistently the last couple of years

Asked me a bunch of questions and speculated lupus or another autoimmune disease, and ordered more specific labs and they came back fucked

ANA patterns and titers abnormal and very high. Speckled and homogeneous patterns.

My uncle had lupus that attacked his kidneys and heart. He died at 44 via suicide because he couldn’t take it anymore

My mother told me that we all are dying, whether it’s old or young. And she looked me in the eyes and pointed at me and said “you need to get right with Jehovah before it’s too late and I say this because I love you”

What is sky daddy gonna do for me? What has sky daddy ever done for me? Where was sky daddy at my lowest points?

If I die young, I die young. And I won’t be resurrected anywhere. I will simply be worm food.

No amount of prayer or repentance will save me if I get a diagnosis for a disease that is fatal. At least lupus might not be fatal, depending on which organs your body attacks

But I’m going to stay positive because 1. I have a tendency to survive things and 2. My general apathy towards my life makes it sort of hard to cry about the idea of it ending

I’ve been fatigued consistently for months, some days so bad I don’t brush my teeth until the evening when I finally get out of bed.

If anything, it’s reassuring to know that I’m not just lazy or a shitty person. There’s something going on inside me and I have no clue what it is, but maybe it will help me come to life again just being aware of it.

Extreme fatigue brings about depression and perhaps even disguises itself as depression. When you’re too tired to do anything constantly, you start to think there’s something wrong with you mentally.

But really you’re just agonizingly tired all the time. So tired you don’t even care to get up and eat or care for yourself.

Who knows what the future holds.

In the grand scheme of things, who cares?

None of us make it out alive in the end, do we?

Night night

[scentofgenocide]

a Silicon Valley rant

https://hplusmagazine.com/2009/09/02/virtual-life-actual-death/ I absolutely do not expect ham to read my weird rant but i'm mega stoned so it's happening anyway, i should be writing about media and the holocaust but I'm not so I'm writing about this because that woman in your panel set me off. Not because she's wrong about anything, it's not her fault, but the reason i left california is because the ground is polluted with some kind of westward expansion myth but san francisco is as far west as you can go, so they ran out of things to expand, and then they tried to retconn the whole thing by saying that hippies were good people but they actually weren't. Because if you didn't go to vietnam it meant you were rich enough for your parents to bail you out or you had done service already sans draft (early 60s, kennedy standby mode.) So you had all these rich bay area kids, and their parents in the berkeley hills with their huge mansions, and the kids would wander down to Telegraph avenue and hang out and do hippie shit. They didn't get drafted because their parents paid for them to not fail out of Cal. Anyway, out of a group of these people came a guy named Stewart Brand. He preached all kinds of great shit - DIY, eco-sustainability, peace, went to a lot of Grateful Dead shows. He started a magazine called the Whole Earth Catalogue, which became a bible for the hippies. It was an open forum magazine type thing, full of amazing information and stories. My dad had copies of them all, and he talked about how amazing the magazine was, even though he a hippie he didn't see the height of the Summer of Love because he was in a Da Nang jungle in Vietnam instead

[11:34 PM]So anyway this Brand guy, he was like the guru of this movement. And through the 60s and 70s, the movement grew, the true believer hippies clung to life. Then a weird fucking thing happened: he started preaching business, entrepreneurship, Reaganomics. He did talks for AT&T (who was under constant attack along with Pac Bell, for monopoly telecomm practices, actually a distant reason why we're in this mess,) became advisor to governor jerry brown. But then he did something really wild: he became obsessed with technology, and the importance of computers in creating an Ayn Randian libertarian utopia, free of government intervention and oversight. And this is how the civilian side of the internet was born. (edited)

Sick From Old Muffin Era — Today at 11:38 PMHe and the whole earth conglomerate at that point began running these very intense BBSes called THE WELL, basically where rich white college students and professionals with internet access could sit and talk to each other all day via message board. And a lot of people emerged from these boards with a dream for a utopian internet - Steve Jobs was one, the Oracle founder, a lot of major silicon valley billionares. They wanted to create a digital system that was specifically for "intelligent," "educated" "worldly people" (ie other rich white professionals and academics) and free of the confines of, essentially, the working class

[11:44 PM]So these silicon valley people started to see their parents die. WW2/silent generation who had amassed wealth in $$$$$ bay area property and old money, and oh guess what, the silicon valley guys now had an amazing nest egg to gamble their shiny new tech companies on. Back to Brand - by the late 80s, he had formed the Global Business Network to preach these values of libertarian fueled hippie-ism, why environmentalism can be solved with technological innovation. He was BFF with a ton of businessmen and politicians, super rich, etc. And people flocked and flocked to the WELL, which ofc had servers located in some of the earliest internet corporations. So these corporations were just filtering and storing all this stuff from people like humdog up there, until people like her figured out - hey, wait a minute - i'm pouring my heart and soul out here, and this Brand guy is making a fucking mint off me

Sick From Old Muffin Era — Today at 11:45 PMshe was attacked viciously on the board, accused of biting the hand that feeds, of upsetting the digital balance of the community. Brand was off talking to George Bush and shit, he didnt care what his open internet forum had become. (edited)

[11:48 PM]So, I'll wrap up the most unhinged rant y'all will get from me for now, but basically, these absolute Boomer ghouls, who grew up in bay area privilege, who preached love and peace and morality and free love, built themselves a fortress online to keep out riff raff - the working class, poc, LGBTQ, whatever - and as they sat in their parents houses and their tech millionaire houses, growing in value by the minute, they walled themselves off from the world. Homeless people? Not my problem, I've got my whole earth BBS with my white friends from all over the world to support me where we comfort each other and i dont have to walk outside and see the junkies passed out on my block.

Sick From Old Muffin Era — Today at 11:54 PMBlack people? well, they should learn a trade, like computer programming, then they can be successful like me. Mentally ill? A shame, but they should have advocated for themselves more when Nixon kicked them out of state institutions. etc., etc. So - i promise i'm getting to the end here - people like that woman who was at your panel, i don't even need to hear her talk to know her story. That's why she started making sense at first - "money is fake, we need a better world," then all of a sudden starts twisting and turning into her bay area walled garden of "well I'm poor and I can barely support myself, why should I help these other people?" It's a fucking brain disease. These people have been led in two opposing directions and they bought it hook, line, and sinker, and they have ruined San Francisco and the Bay Area, the silicon valley ethic has essentially been and will be the downfall of the west, and this is why you get people in 6 million dollar homes overlooking the bay and people saying to your face, "well, we're all struggling."

[11:54 PM]I'm not going back to california. This is why this is my bunker channel.