#I’m trying to remember that my mental health having been so great I was unaffected by any symptoms and then getting worse does not mean I’ll

[voiceshearingyouloud]

In that lovely depression place where if I make a tiny mistake my brain turns it into ‘I’m a complete failure and I should just die because nothing I do will ever be enough’ which is just great

[mugasofer]

It seems like many, perhaps most, people historically believed in some immanent apocalypse.

Many philosophies claim that the world is passing into a degenerate age of chaos (Ages of Man, Kali Yuga, life-cycle of civilisation), or divine conflict will shortly spill over & destroy the Earth (Ragnorok, Revelations, Zoroastrian Frashokereti), or that the natural forces sustaining us must be transient.

Yet few panic or do anything. What anyone does "do about it" is often symbolic & self-admittedly unlikely to do much.

Maybe humans evolved not to care, to avoid being manipulated?

Many cults make similar claims, and do uproot their lives around them. Even very rarely committing mass suicide or terror attacks etc on occasion. But cults exist that don't make such claims, so it may not be the mechanism they use to control, or at most a minor one. "This is about the fate of the whole world, nothing can be more important than that, so shut up" may work as as a thought terminating cliche, but it doesn't seem to work that strongly, and there are many at least equally effective ones.

Some large scale orgs do exist that seem to take their eschatology "seriously". The Aztecs committed atrocities trying to hold off apocalypse, ISIS trying to cause it. Arguably some Communist or even fascist groups count, depending on your definition of apocalypse.

But even then, one can argue their actions are not radically different from non-apocalypse-motivated ones - e.g. the Aztecs mass-executed less per capita than the UK did at times & some historians view them as more about displaying authority.

I'm thinking about this because of two secular eschatologies - climate apocalypse and the Singularity.

My view on climate change, which as far as I can tell is the scientific consensus, is that it is real and bad but by no means apocalyptic. We're talking incremental increases in storms, droughts, floods etc, all of which are terrible, but none of which remotely threaten human civilisation. E.g. according to the first Google result, the sea is set to rise by 1 decimeter by 2100 in a "high emissions scenario", not to rise by tens or hundreds of meters and consume all coastal nations as I was taught as a child. Some more drastic projections suggest that the sea might rise by as much as two or three meters in the worst case scenario.

It really creeps me out when I hear people who confess to believe that human civilisation, the human species, or even all life on Earth is most likely going to be destroyed soon by climate change. The most recent example, which prompted this post, was the Call of Cthulhu podcast I was listening to casually suggesting that it might be a good idea to summon an Elder God of ice and snow to combat climate change as the "lesser existential risk", perhaps by sacrificing "climate skeptics" to it. It's incredibly jarring for me to realise that the guys I've been listening to casually chatting about RPGs think they live in a world that will shortly be ended by the greed of it's rulers. But this idea is everywhere. Discussions of existential risks from e.g. pandemics inevitably attract people arguing that the real existential risk is climate change. A major anti-global-warming protest movement, Extinction Rebellion, is literally named after the idea that they're fighting against their own extinction. Viral Tumblr posts talk about how the fear of knowing that the world is probably going to be destroyed soon by climate change and fascism is crippling their mental health, and they have no idea how to deal with it because it's all so real.

But it's not. It's not real.

Well, I can't claim that political science is accurate enough for me to definitively say that fascism isn't going to take over, but I can say that climate science is fairly accurate and it predicts that the world is definitely not about to end in fire or in flood.

(There are valid arguments that climate change or other environmental issues might precipitate wars, which could turn apocalyptic due to nuclear weapons; or that we might potentially encounter a black swan event due to our poor understanding of the ecosystem and climate-feedback systems. But these are very different, as they're self-admittedly "just" small risks to the world.)

And I get the impression that a lot of people with more realistic views about climate change deliberately pander to this, deliberately encouraging people to believe that they're going to die because it puts them on the "right side of the issue". The MCU's Loki, for instance, recently casually brought up a "climate apocalypse" in 2050, which many viewers took as meaning the world ending. Technically, the show uses a broad definition of "apocalypse" - Pompeii is given as another example - and it kind of seems like maybe all they meant was natural disasters encouraged by climate change, totally defensible. But I still felt kinda mad about it, that they're deliberately pandering to an idea which they hopefully know is false and which is causing incredible anxiety in people. I remember when Greta Thurnberg was a big deal, I read through her speeches to Extinction Rebellion, and if you parsed them closely it seemed like she actually did have a somewhat realistic understanding of what climate change is. But she would never come out and say it, it was all vague implications of doom, which she was happily giving to a rally called "Extinction Rebellion" filled with speakers who were explicitly stating, not just coyly implying, that this was a fight for humanity's survival against all the great powers of the world.

But maybe there's nothing wrong with that. I despise lying, but as I've been rambling about, this is a very common lie that most people somehow seem unaffected by. Maybe the viral tumblr posts are wrong about the source of their anxiety; maybe it's internal/neurochemical and they world just have picked some other topic to project their anxieties on if this particular apocalypse wasn't available. Maybe this isn't a particularly harmful lie, and it's hypocritical of me to be shocked by those who believe it.

Incidentally, I believe the world is probably going to end within the next fifty years.

Intellectually, I find the arguments that superhuman AI will destroy the world pretty undeniable. Sure, forecasting the path of future technology is inherently unreliable. But the existence of human brains, some of which are quite smart, proves pretty conclusively it's possible to get lumps of matter to think - and human brains are designed to run on the tiny amounts of energy they can get by scavenging plants and the occasional scraps of meat in the wilderness as fuel, with chemical signals that propagate at around the speed of sound (much slower than electronic ones), with only the data they can get from input devices they carry around with them, and which break down irrevocably after a few decades. And while we cannot necessarily extrapolate from the history of progress in both computer hardware and AI, that progress is incredibly impressive, and there's no particular reason to believe it will fortuitously stop right before we manufacture enough rope to hang ourselves.

Right now, at time of writing, we have neural nets that can write basic code, appear to scale linearly in effectiveness with the available hardware with no signs that we're reaching their limit, and have not yet been applied at the current limits of available hardware let alone what will be available in a few years. They absorb information like a sponge at a vastly superhuman speed and scale, allowing them to be trained in days or hours rather than the years or decades humans require. They are already human-level or massively superhuman at many tasks, and are capable of many things I would have confidently told you a few years ago were probably impossible without human-level intelligence, like the crazy shit AI dungeon is capable of. People are actively working on scaling them up so that they can work on and improve the sort of code they are made from. And we have no ability to tell what they're thinking or control them without a ton of trial and error.

If you follow this blog, you're probably familiar with all the above arguments for why we're probably very close to getting clobbered by superhuman AI, and many more, as well as all the standard counter-arguments and the counter-arguments to those counter arguments.

(Note: I do take some comfort in God, but even if my faith were so rock solid that I would cheerfully bet the world on it - which it's not - there's no real reason why our purpose in God's plan couldn't be to destroy ourselves or be destroyed as an object lesson to some other, more important civilization. There's ample precedent.)

Here's the thing: I'm not doing anything about it, unless you count occasionally, casually talking about it with people online. I'm not even donating to help any of the terrifyingly-few people who are trying to do something about it. Part of why I'm not contributing is, frankly, I don't have a clue what to do, nor do I have much confidence in any of the stuff people are currently doing (although I bloody well hope some of it works.)

And yet I don't actually feel that scared.

I feel more of a visceral chill reading about the nuclear close calls that almost destroyed the world in the recent past than thinking about the stuff that has a serious chance of doing so in a few decades. I'm a neurotic mess, and yet what is objectively the most terrifying thing on my radar does not actually seem to contribute to my neurosis.

[luxexhomines]

An Explosive Concoction of Hope and Despair (v.3)

Finally, a Danganronpa-related post! 

I was commissioned to make a revision/appendage to the first commission I had ever received, so I’ll drop the AO3 link (click here!) and put the fic under the cut! If you click on AO3, please be aware that I post some “problematic” content things on that account, but this fic does not contain that content!

It was supposed to be posted on the night of Tanabata, but due to declining mental health, I had to post it later than initially foreseen. 

If you remember this fic, it’s the Junko and Makoto fic where Makoto gets chased around the festival with lots of explosives with hints of teasing/flirting from Junko (but now featuring more explosives & thrills!). 

If you’re interested in commissioning me, please read my rules here! They’re not currently open, but if you seriously want to, I’ll make a tentative waiting list. 

CW for explosives, fireworks, and dynamite! 

If you were to wonder what the Ultimate Luckster Makoto Naegi was up to at this very moment... Well, the answer was that he was in a world of trouble. 

“Gah! Why are you doing this to me?!” 

Makoto just barely dodged an explosion as he dived toward the takoyaki stand to his left, rolled and got to his knees, and started running again. 

If this sounded like a practiced movement, that was because it was. Makoto had been dodging explosions and running away from the Ultimate Despair sisters for the past half-hour: well, mostly Junko, because if Mukuro were chasing him, she already would have caught him, what with her military training and reflexes. 

Makoto gritted his teeth and pushed through the crowd of people. It was the day of the Tanabata festival. He should have been out having fun with his classmates and friends, but instead, he was stuck entertaining Junko and her antics by running for his life tonight. He ditched the yukata for convenience and was wearing only a plain shirt and shorts. He was starting to get pretty tired. After all, he was only an average kid with average athletic ability and a tiny bit of luck. He was beginning to think getting into Hope’s Peak Academy was not good luck as he had initially thought after having to fight for his life on what seemed like a monthly basis. 

He stopped to catch his breath and leaned against a tent. 

“Hey, are you the guy coming in for the next shift?” 

Makoto started to respond to the person coming out of the tent but gets interrupted before he could answer. Something like a hollow sphere plopped down on top of his sweaty face, and the inside did not smell great. 

“That’s great because I’m tired of dealing with the kids. Go inside and put on the rest of the costume. I’m free for the rest of the night,” the guy said, and Makoto heard cheerful whistling as he struggled to stand to his feet. He stumbled inside the tent. He could barely see out of whatever heavy object the guy put on him, but he could see a mirror, and it looked like he was wearing...a teddy bear head? He sighed. It was just his luck. 

Wait...just his luck? 

He spotted the rest of the costume and put it on. Hopefully, Junko could not recognize him in this outfit. But it sure was hot in the costume, so it had better do its job. 

Makoto toddled out of the tent. Might as well do his job while he was dressed for it. It would help disguise him. 

Or so he thought, but he did not predict getting run over by children. Literally. He felt like he was being slowly stomped into dust on the ground by thousands of little kid feet, and he could hear whooping above him. He had pretty much given up until he saw a hand outstretched in front of him. He reached out, and the hand gripped his hand, pulling him out of the mess. 

“Thank you so much,” he said. Makoto thought he was going to cry from relief. But that was when the hand that had helped him stretched out and tugged the ear of his mascot head. The head dropped to the floor. 

It was Junko who had pulled him up, and she was smiling ecstatically, a fat, luxurious cigar wedged in between those pink lips of hers, the cigar drooping from its weight and sparkling in an excessively flamboyant manner. The sparks from the tip of the burning cigar were flying every which way, which served well as a more festive look for the night of Tanabata, but if Makoto knew Junko at all, the true reason for the constant stream of sparks had more to do with the excitement of possible danger by existing as a fire hazard and thus becoming an opportunity for further, greater despair. The cigar itself looked branded and expensive: as expected of a fashionista like Junko, Makoto supposed, but it was the largest, fanciest cigar he had ever seen—excepting perhaps the one Celeste regularly had on her when inviting him to gamble with her. When he took a closer look—well, as much of a look as he could while not getting any nearer to her, since it could prove explosive and deadly—the cigar had a black and white label with an image of...Monokuma? Makoto shook himself out of his thoughts; now was not the best time to be mulling over Junko’s questionably gaudy and abnormally large cigar, especially if he wanted to keep his body intact. 

However, taken aback by Junko’s sudden and flashy reappearance, Makoto watched open-mouthed as she took a piece of dynamite from her hand purse and stuffed it in his mouth like feeding a carrot to a horse. She leaned in sultrily with the cigar still perched perfectly in her lips and touched the end of her glowing cigar to the now lit fuse of his dynamite. 

Junko started walking backward, chuckling and watching as Makoto, with a red face, yanked the stick of dynamite out of his mouth frantically and chucked it as far as he could throw from civilization and ran in the opposite direction. He winced upon hearing the boom and took a look at Junko, who seemed unaffected. 

Of course. She was wearing earplugs. And a rather pretty yukata, for that matter. For once, her hair was not in two ponytails, but one, and she had a single Monokuma pin adorning her hair. 

Makoto sighed and stripped off the mascot outfit, which was sticky from his sweat and uncomfortable either way. It was no help disguising himself from her. She seemed to have a sixth sense just for finding him. 

Even so, he managed to slip away in the crowd of people and purchase a large stick of fluffy, pink cotton candy. As he was about to take a bite, however, Junko popped into view once again. He internally sighed as he watched her stride closer with a scheming grin on her face. 

“Makoto, I made something just for you. Why don’t you have a bite?” 

She thrust a platter of takoyaki balls toward him, and he instinctively backstepped when he realized something was very, very wrong with the unassuming plate of food. 

“No, thanks!” 

Junko kept inching forward with slow steps as Makoto hastily retreated, and she smiled with gleaming, white teeth. 

“Come now, Makoto. Don’t be shy,” she laughed, holding out the steaming, perfectly cooked takoyaki balls toward him, her arms outstretched trying to force him to take the suspicious plate of food. Makoto eyed it as she came closer and closer. His eyes widened in shock for what must have been the hundredth time that night.

“Are those sparklers? What are you trying to feed me, anyway?! Stop, don’t give that to me!” Junko simply smiled, like she expected Makoto would give in soon enough, the way cornered prey might give in to a powerful predator. As Junko’s advances became more aggressive, Makoto reached out impulsively and shoved the plate away from him. “I can’t eat that, I’ll die!” 

“That’s the point-” Junko began to say, but the takoyaki balls drenched in thick, brown sauce, along with the lit sparklers and explosives wedged in between them, were thrown back toward her from the force of Makoto’s push, and they subsequently fell into her open mouth. Reflexively, Junko swallowed the contents of the platter whole. 

Makoto and Junko stared at each other for a moment. 

“Ah, uh-” Makoto stuttered. “S-Sorry?” 

Why was he apologizing, anyway? Junko had just been trying to get him to swallow it only seconds ago. If there was nothing wrong with it, then it should not be a problem for her to eat it herself. Except that there was something wrong with it. 

A muffled sizzling sound coming from Junko’s stomach caught her attention, and she ecstatically smiled as she dove forward and grabbed Makoto, hugging him as tightly as possible while he was caught off-guard. 

“Oh, the despair!” she exclaimed gleefully. “We’ll be blasted to kingdom come in just a few more moments, even though I couldn’t get you to eat it properly.” 

“And why would I eat it?! Let go of me-” Makoto protested, struggling violently in her grasp to no avail. Junko plopped a perfectly manicured hand over his mouth with a sharp look. 

“Shut up, Makoto. I want to enjoy this moment, and you’re ruining it,” she cheerfully said, although her eyes were deadly. Makoto had nothing much to say anymore, anyway, since it was clear that Junko was not about to let him go—but that was not going to stop him from trying to getaway. He was never going to give in to despair; it was against his very nature. He continued to squirm in Junko’s bear hug, although escape was unlikely, and Junko began counting down to the explosion happily. 

“3...2...1…!” 

Makoto screwed his eyes shut nervously and braced himself. Not that it was going to make a difference in the face of dangerous explosives, but he could at least pretend he had an iota of control over the ridiculous situation. 

Only, nothing happened, and he was still intact half a minute later. Junko let go of him, shrugging. 

“Must’ve been a dud,” she nonchalantly said. “Too bad. I thought I’d gotten you that time.” 

She brought her cigar to her lips, which was still ostensibly sparkling, and Makoto could not help but stare at it again. It was the kind of prop that drew attention wherever it went, even if you saw it before. As he was watching, mesmerized, a small, pale white moth fluttered toward it in looping movements. Makoto flinched when it landed on the burning tip of the cigar and smoldered into ashes. 

Junko chuckled, unruffled, and seemingly amused. 

“Ah, that’s the fourth one tonight.” 

Makoto lifted his eyes to meet hers, which were burning like the end of her cigar despite their icy blue hue. She was smiling as usual, but Makoto couldn’t restrain the shiver that ran down his back. 

“The fourth moth that burned to death on your cigar?” 

She smirked. 

“Yeah.” Her crystalline blue eyes bored into him. “Pity that I just can’t get you to join them,” she commented offhandedly. ��After all,” she brought an elegant, white hand to his tan cheek, “you’re the one I want the most, Makoto.” 

Another chill, not unlike her fiery, cold eyes, came over him like a douse of ice water. He stared back at her, his jaw set.

“I won’t join them. Not now, not ever.” 

Junko laughed, the sound hollow and high-pitched. 

“I’ll get you one of these days.” She paused and put a hand to her chest, where she casually drew out a colorful stick of dynamite as if simply fishing her phone out of her pocket. “Maybe it’ll be today?” 

With a swift movement that looked all too natural to her, she lit the dynamite, tossing it carelessly into a taiyaki stand—which was thankfully unattended and without any festival-goers nearby. 

Makoto’s eyes were glued to the soaring arc of the dynamite as it dropped to the food stall, his jaw gaping. 

“What are you doing?!” 

Junko crossed her arms with a smug smile and took the cigar from her lip, tapping it delicately to get the ashes off. 

“Oh, just going blast fishing.” Puzzled, Makoto gave her a bewildered look. “You’ll see soon enough,” she cackled. 

The taiyaki stand blew up, bursting into a multitude of colors and a dazzling show of lights, becoming a kaleidoscopic display as the many taiyaki pastries flew out of the stall by the dozen and proceeded to rain from the sky like meteorites. Junko held out her hand and happened to catch one of the flaming taiyaki with a piece of apparently inflammable wax paper. She offered it to Makoto with a bright, almost innocent grin as if she had not just blown up a food stall like a maniac. Correction: she was a maniac. 

“Here, want one? They’re perfectly cooked.” 

Makoto shook his head adamantly, his eyes darting around as he watched the countless blazing taiyaki fall from the sky like blistering meteorites from space. 

“I’m good.” Remembering the cotton candy he bought, clutched safely in his hand, he took a look and sighed in relief to see that it was still okay. “I’ll eat my cotton candy, thank you very much.” 

Junko surveyed him as he took a bite, her face blank. Makoto tried to forget she was there, but it was hard, veering on impossible to ignore the presence of someone like Junko, who was the definition of presence. 

He turned his back to her to ignore her, but Junko called out to him in a manner of seconds after Makoto started eating his cotton candy. 

“Oh, Makoto!”

He turned to walk the opposite direction, away from Junko, but he took no more than a few steps before coming face-to-face with her once again.

“Junko?! Ah!” 

He started backing away. With all that she had put him through tonight, he knew this would not end well for him if he stuck around. 

“You scream at me like I’m a monster or something,” she said, feigning hurt. “You wound me.” 

Makoto looked around for an escape as always, but the crowd was dense tonight, as it was each year. 

“Why do you keep trying to set explosives off near me? You’re going to kill me,” he said exasperatedly. 

Junko twisted a stray piece of blonde hair around her finger, looking bored. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s kind of the point. What did you think I was trying to do?”

He shook his head. There was no point in trying to reason with her. It was a better idea to walk away. But before he knew it, he was stopped in his tracks. Something heavy was now attached to his back. 

He turned to see Junko a few feet away, standing where she had been earlier. And she was slowly raising a string to her lit cigar. Makoto’s eyes followed the string. It was attached to whatever was on his back. 

He did not have eyes on his back and could not know exactly what was on his back, but he had enough sense to know that whatever it was, a string attached to it getting lit did not bode well for him in the least. 

He sprinted over to stop her, but it was too late. She winked, and within moments, he was racing into the sky on a bumpy ride. Makoto grabbed at the ropes attaching whatever it was to his back, and they surprisingly tore with ease. Huh. Okay, note to self to try that first instead of trying to stop a despair-crazed high school girl. And for some reason, fireworks were already going on, dangerously close to him. Were they not supposed to be at the end of the festival? And farther away from crowds of people, so no one was hurt? 

But the problem now was that he was hurtling out of the night sky. Luckily, he had not flown too high before dismantling the ropes. He closed his eyes, bracing for the impact of the hard ground—but he felt nothing. 

Makoto opened his eyes only to see Junko’s face inches from his. 

“Whoa!” 

She just caught him from the sky, and they were standing in a clearing at the festival’s entrance. 

“You know, you’re heavier than you look,” she laughed and threw him aside, his tailbone hitting the hard ground. He groaned and slowly got up on his feet, rubbing his backside. Why did he feel like he already was an old man when he was just a high schooler?

“Thanks?” 

“It wasn’t a compliment,” she smirked and lit a firework with her cigar, tossing it into the sky. 

So it was her, after all, who had been setting off fireworks in the middle of the festival. He should have known. It was unsafe and untimely, after all. But, speaking of unsafe and untimely, a huge pile of explosives had just been carted over behind her, likely courtesy of Mukuro. 

Junko did not even have to look behind her before she took a step back and plopped down onto the messy stacks of dynamite, a lazy smile on her lips as she puffed away at her cigar. 

“W-What are you doing?!” Makoto stammered. “You’re going to blow yourself up like that! And it’ll probably hurt people at the festival too since there are so many explosives!” 

Junko rolled her eyes. 

“Again, that’s kind of the point of me sitting here. Way to state the obvious.” 

Confused, Makoto rephrased his words. 

“Weren’t you trying to blow me up?” 

Junko laughed and shrugged. 

“Yeah, but this is fun too. Just part of the excitement, you know?” 

Something strange was swirling in those pale blue eyes of her, and Makoto had seen that look enough to know what it meant. She was enjoying the thrill of despair. 

“Suit yourself, I guess,” Makoto said, backing away for what seemed like the umpteenth time of the night. “But keep me out of it.” 

Junko pouted and pursed her lips. 

“You’re no fun! Why don’t you come over here and sit next to me, Makoto?” 

He shook his head, eyes wide, and started to turn and walk away. But before he knew it, he felt a hand on his shoulder forcefully stop him and turn him so that he faced its owner once again. 

“Come on, don’t be lame,” Junko sighed. “Here, take this, and this,” she said. She took her cigar out of her mouth and popped it into Makoto’s mouth, who coughed slightly from the smoke but tried not to drop it on the ground. Then Junko promptly pushed an armful of dynamite and other varied explosives into Makoto’s arms, who automatically caught them. It was his nature to be a pushover helpful.

“Wait, what are you doing? Why are you giving me your cigar?” 

Makoto tried not to drop anything, but then he realized he had a smoking cigar in his mouth, and if it happened to light any fuses, he would be dead. 

“Blow some stuff up, dude! Don’t be a drag and rain on my parade,” Junko smirked. “All you gotta do is put the end of the cigar to the fuse!” 

Makoto immediately dropped all of the explosives on the ground, and they clattered against each other noisily as they fell and rolled around. 

“Why would I want to do that?!” 

“It’s fun!” Junko cackled and scooped a few more sticks of dynamite back into Makoto’s arms, shoving them against his chest in a pushy manner. 

Makoto threw them away from himself and took the cigar out of his mouth. 

“I’m not you! I don’t enjoy blowing things up or near-death experiences,” he said exasperatedly. “Stop giving me explosives, and take your cigar back.” 

Junko eyed him for a good few seconds before taking the cigar from Makoto’s fingers and putting the cigar back in her mouth. 

“Ooh! Indirect kiss,” she squealed. 

Makoto winced and wiped his mouth. 

“That was so unnecessary,” he replied dryly, unamused. 

“Unnecessary, but true!” she sings in his ear, and Junko swings an arm over his shoulder. 

“Yo, take a look over there. I got it for my last birthday,” Junko said proudly and pointed to a large, shadowy figure in the distance, but still rather close to the festival.

He raised his head to look at what was over there. It was rather big and towering over the trees where it had been placed. A...Junko statue? Makoto started to sweat. It was giving him bad vibes. 

Sure enough, the real Junko had separated from him and was standing a few feet away from him, holding a TNT plunger. He attempted to grab it from her, but he was still weak in the knees after getting tossed like a salad in the air from being an unwilling participant to his little fireworks adventure. 

She pushed down on the TNT plunger triumphantly and cackled as the statue burst into pieces. Makoto breathed in sharply and watched as the festival descended into chaos. 

People were running around screaming as rubble on fire fell from the skies and rained upon the festival booths, setting things on fire and destroying merchandise. Before this, no one had batted an eye at their explosives and fireworks, since it just seemed like a couple flirting weirdly, the explosives seemed fake, and fireworks were normal any way, but now that safety was severely compromised, everyone was turning to point fingers at Makoto and Junko. 

But Junko could care less. She was hoping to see a piece of flaming rubble land on Makoto, who was still standing out in the open carelessly. It was then that she saw a figure grab his arm and pull him away, and she punched the booth nearby in anger, which collapsed under her force and a stray boulder, the plastic poles holding it snapping in half easily. She had been so close. 

“Come on, Makoto. It’s not safe here,” said Kyouko. 

Makoto let him get dragged away, and then took a second look at Kyouko, who had let go of him after he was now walking without her prompting. 

“You’re here at the festival?” 

She nodded. 

“Yes, and I’ve been watching you run around like a trapped mouse.” 

Makoto stopped walking in the middle of the road to gawk at her. 

“You’ve been watching? And you didn’t say anything?” 

Kyouko sighed. 

“Yes. Can we keep walking? I’m not going to be lucky enough to avoid getting struck down with flaming rubble like you.” 

Makoto started walking again but at a faster pace to accommodate Kyouko’s stride. 

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “But could you help me escape her? I just wanted to have a good time at the festival tonight, but I’m stuck trying to run away from her all night instead.” 

“Runaway from who?” a voice said imperiously. 

Makoto turned to see Junko sitting on a rocket barely a meter away. 

“Junko!” He turned to ask Kyouko for help, but the detective had already disappeared into the night. He curled his hand into a fist in irritation. Sometimes she could be so...ugh! 

“Come here, Makoto,” Junko beckoned. 

Makoto was about to politely refuse before he felt something hard pressing at his back. He had never felt one pressed to his back before, but he was guessing this was a gun, probably operated by Mukuro. A chill ran down his back. 

“Okay, okay, I get it! I’m coming.” 

With little other choices, he walked over and climbed onto the rocket with Junko, taking a seat.

“Good boy,” Junko said, grinning and patting him on the head, ruffling his brown hair. 

“I’m not a dog,” he sighed. 

“You are if I say you are,” Junko said. She held up the fuse in one hand, and in her other hand, she momentarily pinched her cigar between elegantly manicured fingers and tapped it. Its glowing ashes fell onto the fuse, and within moments, the two were flying into the sky. 

Makoto tried to hold on, but his hands were still sweaty, and with little grip to keep him ahold, he slid off of the rocket, falling, and watched as Junko continued, soaring through the night sky, the stars twinkling. The rocket exploded to reveal a firework image of Junko riding it, who winked—seemingly at Makoto himself—and then took a seductive drag on the firework cigar before she ostentatiously blew a firework smoke ring into the sky, gloriously lighting up the night. He could not help but smile a little at her fireworks, so utterly Junko-like—but such an endearing moment was quickly interrupted by the leftover bits of the fireworks dropping into a ring of fire around him into the ground. 

He scooted away from the fire and sat in the dirt in the forest, beside the ruins of the festival. It was not his time to die yet. Or was it? He wondered when he saw what looked like a shooting star, heading straight for his face. 

Something crashed into him, and Makoto fell over onto the ground, blinking blankly as he lay on the ground. 

The something was Junko, and she was sitting on top of him—straddling him. She was a sight to see, and not because she was beautiful, though this too was true; she was covered in soot and parts of her yukata were smoldering, holes in the fabric ringed with singed black. She leaned down and took her cigar out of her mouth, tapping its ashes out centimeters away from Makoto’s head, smiling in the insane way she usually did when she was high off of despair. 

“What a night, am I right?” she giggled. 

Makoto gulped and looked away from her.��

“No thanks to you,” he said, almost bitterly. But he was too nice to be sour about it. 

Junko laughed dismissively. 

“It’s a night you’ll remember forever, though. Immortalized in the history of Tanabata Festivals.” 

“Is this why you did it? Chasing me around with explosives and blowing stuff up?” Makoto demanded. 

Junko shook her head and took a drag from her cigar before answering. 

“No, of course not, silly! I wanted to see you suffer, and I wanted to feel despair,” she responded happily. “You little nitwit.” She flicked him on the forehead, and he blinked reflexively. “Daww, did that hurt? Here, I’ll kiss it better.” 

She bent down and placed a rather gentle kiss on Makoto’s forehead, and for a moment, just a moment, he thought it would not be too bad to date Junko Enoshima. 

But then she stepped away from his body and aimed a gigantic rocket launcher at him, courtesy of her other half, Mukuro, and he was brought back to reality. 

Makoto scrambled to his feet and began running in the opposite direction. He watched as a missile shot by Junko and meant for him tore through a tree less than a meter away from him. The missile soared upward and disappeared into the sky. He shuddered to think what would have happened to him if the poor tree looked this miserable. 

As for Junko, she had been slightly put out at her newly failed attempt to kill Makoto, but not too put out—after all, there was still much more to come. However, she did notice the unfortunate lack of sparks coming from her cigar, which truly was put out. With a smirk, she looked in Makoto’s direction and started to walk over.

The sound of Junko’s footsteps alerted Makoto to her presence, and he turned and watched as she made her way over to him with swaying hips and a sultry smile. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t the man of the hour.” She took the cigar from her mouth, the head of the cigar dragging sensually against her lips, which were glossy and moist. “Got a light?” 

Before he could answer her, though, fate had decreed its will, and a bolt of lightning struck the earth just millimeters from Makoto and hit the tip of Junko’s cigar straight-on, relighting her cigar and blasting her into the air. Makoto watched with an open mouth as Junko went flying away and over the trees of the forest beside the festival grounds in what was a rather spectacular manner. At least, if not for how ridiculously perilous the situation was, even if it was just like the way cartoony villains got sent flying out of the panels in the comic books Makoto avidly read as a child. 

When he realized he was holding his breath, he started taking sputtering breaths once again; the dynamic and chaotic nature of all that Junko involved him in seemed to have startled him into a moment of shock. Makoto took a seat against a tree close to where the festival was, one of the few that was thankfully still in one piece. 

From here, he could see all of the festival grounds, and it appeared as though people were salvaging the remains of the festival and setting up to have fun again. Fires were put out, stands erected once again, and children were playing games at different stalls with bright smiles on their round faces. With a smile of his own, Makoto walked into the festival. At least Junko had not completely demolished the festival grounds. It appeared hope would prevail yet again.

Makoto walked to a booth and purchased a candied apple. He strolled and surveyed the area with a lenient eye, warmth fluttering inside as he watched the children play with yo-yos and run around. Finally, he could enjoy the festival a little bit and live like he was just 18 years old—or maybe not. 

“Makoto! Maybe you should check your pocket.”

“What for?” he said, and looked at his back pocket, only to find a stick of dynamite lodged there snugly. “Gah!” 

He grabbed it, avoiding the spark, and chucked it into the woods. ‘Sorry, trees,’ he apologized internally. ‘Crisis averted,’ he thought to himself and wiped the sweat off his brow. He was getting tired of the whole defying death deal and running away from explosions all night. 

It was then that Makoto happened to notice out of the corner of his eye a hint of blond hair. The smell of a cigar wafted through the air and mingled with the scents of oil and sweets. Junko’s lustrous, long hair had become undone, her hairpin from before having been blown off when lightning struck her, and the tip of her cigar, sitting comfortably between her lips again, was crackling with electricity. Along with those details, he saw in her hands a gigantic, colorful, festive-looking mallet. 

“Sweet dreams, Makoto!” 

He barely had the time to panic or form any coherent thoughts before he found himself hammered with the mallet Junko was wielding. It would not be until later when he was conscious again that he would realize the mallet’s uncanny resemblance to the Mallet of Luck, Uchide-no-Kozuchi. It was an unfortunate coincidence—though knowing Junko, it probably was not a coincidence but another sick joke she had prepared for his torment and thus her amusement. 

A burning sensation on his cheek forced Makoto out of his unwilling slumber. He reflexively jolted his body away from the source of the pain. 

“Wakey-wakey, Makoto! Sleeping beauty’s got to wake up now unless he’d like another kiss to wake him up a little more thoroughly,” Junko chuckled, now holding the culprit of Makoto’s first, burning kiss—her cigar—between two slender fingers. 

He woke up to the breezy night air and found himself perched on a ledge a little bit above the festival. It was an ideal place for viewing fireworks. Aside from there being Junko Enoshima nearby, that is. His cheek was stinging, and he could feel the ashes sticking to his sweaty skin unpleasantly from the tip of Junko’s cigar she had unceremoniously and firmly pressed to his face. He itched to rub them off and cool his burn, but he felt too sluggish to move. His head was pounding as if Junko had somehow hacked into his brain and managed to lit fireworks inside it. With her abilities, he would not doubt the possibility if he did not remember that he had been whacked over the head by the oversized mallet she had been holding. 

“Makoto! You’re awake! I thought I’d have to kiss you again. Our main attraction is almost ready,” Junko cooed with delight. 

Still woozy, Makoto looked around in a daze. 

“Huh? Main attraction?” 

Junko walked over to an enormous black cannon, which was swathed in bright, gaudy streamers and had strings of paper origami stars hanging off its sides like colorful, sparse bead curtains, and she laughed maniacally. 

“Look, it’s a cannon! It fits a human—or two—inside! All I gotta do is light this baby, and you’ll go boom boom!” She took a nice, long drag on her cigar before pursing her lips and letting out a stream of smoke. “I borrowed the cannon and mallet from our adorable, tiny upperclassman, Hiyoko. Not that I asked her or anything, but never mind that—aren’t they simply magnificent?” She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered in delight, her face pink with excitement and her trembling lips pressed together. “Ooh, I just can’t wait!” 

She sauntered over to him and leaned in close, the tip of her fat cigar brushing against his nose sootily. 

“And you’ll be the guest of honor tonight, Makoto! Ooh, I’m so excited! I simply can’t wait!” 

With that, she brought the humongous mallet that’d knocked Makoto unconscious to the end of her cigar, lighting the mallet on fire—it was easily flammable or perhaps coated in a flammable substance. With a single swing of her mallet, she hit Makoto into the air with a flourish, spinning in a crude and yet undeniably beautiful manner before sending the flaming mallet hurtling straight into the sky with a great throw. The eye-catching hammer spun just as Junko did, and it burst into an elaborate, magnificent display of fireworks. The firepower behind the mallet came from the excessive amount of firework powder tightly packed into its head, which had also made it a weighty and fearsome weapon for Junko to brandish before it exploded. Although Makoto was too preoccupied with soaring into the air and subsequently falling, the rest of the festival-goers were able to appreciate the large, colorful image created, which was a resplendent copy of the mallet before it had exploded. 

Makoto dropped into the mouth of the cannon almost perfectly. The rest of the firework mallet fell out of sight. 

“Hey! Get me out of here!” he banged his fists on the curved metal from inside the cannon, but it was useless.

“No way!” Junko snorted. “You’re live on television and streaming online. Be nice to my viewers! And of course, we’re close to the festival too, so they’re gonna have front and center seats to you getting shot outta that cannon!” 

“I’m going to really die this time,” Makoto groaned and put his face in his hands, sitting in the darkness. Hopefully, Junko would set out some fireworks, and his death would not seem too grim. 

“Of course you will, sweetie! Now it’s time to light this baby,” Junko shouted into a giant megaphone enthusiastically. People from the festival looked up at her to see what was going on, curious. “Once I light it, there’s no going back! This fuse can’t be put out. The cannon will be shot tonight, and the lucky rider is going to be Makoto! What a fine opportunity you have to see this special view tonight, folks! Happy Tanabata!”

Junko took the long fuse of the cannon, which was extended for dramatic suspense, and put the end of her cigar to the fuse, lighting it. She climbed onto the barrel of the cannon cheerfully and plugged her ears, a smile stretched from cheek to cheek on her face. But of course, shooting Makoto into the sky just wouldn’t be complete without a good jab at him before. 

She scooted up the cannon and popped her head into the mouth of the cannon. 

“Hey, Makoto-whoah!” 

Junko tumbled inside in a surprising show of uncharacteristic clumsiness. With the shaking of the cannon from her falling inside, Makoto fell forward and dove face-first into her chest. 

“Mmph!” 

Somehow, Makoto managed to extract himself from her chest, but not without a lot of awkward shifting in their positions inside the cannon. 

“You know, this would be the part where I punch you into space—except that the cannon’s going to do that for me,” Junko snickered. 

“Gh! Sorry,” Makoto said, feeling his face grow hot. 

“No harm done,” Junko said. “Except that you’re tarnishing a young girl’s purity,” she teased him. 

Makoto sighed and shook his head in exasperation. 

“Anyway, look at what you’ve done. Now we’re both stuck in here. This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t tried to shoot me out of this humongous cannon.” 

“No,” Junko corrected him. “This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t avoided death earlier when I was setting off explosives.” 

“What?” Makoto exclaimed. “So I’m just supposed to lay down and explode from a stick of dynamite?” 

“Yes,” she confirmed. “That’s what’s supposed to happen. Or you’re supposed to be unlucky and get hit by a piece of flaming debris.” 

“And what’s the point in all that?” Makoto asked cynically. 

“Because I like you,” Junko said rather abruptly. “That’s why I’ve been chasing after you all night and setting off explosives near you. I just wanted your attention all along.” 

Makoto rolled his eyes. 

“You’re joking, aren’t you.” 

“No, I’m not,” she replied, and for once she sounded serious. “I like you, Makoto.” 

He looked at her blue eyes, blond hair, and torn up yukata. Junko Enoshima was quite possibly one of the most beautiful girls he had ever met, not to mention one of the most insane girls he had ever met. And yet, was it possible? He stared at her, trying to decipher her, and then she burst into laughter. 

“Bwahaha! You’re so naive, Makoto. How could I ever like an ordinary, non-despair-inducing guy like you?” she said cuttingly. 

Yeah, she was the same Junko he had always known after all. 

Makoto sighed, looking at the still-lit cigar in Junko’s mouth. Honestly, the nerve of this girl… 

Wait. The cigar was glowing rather brightly, which let him see a little. It seemed like there was a chink in the cannon somewhere next to his butt. He felt around and pressed at it, and he suddenly fell through the walls of the cannon and onto the plain ground. A sense of relief coursed through him as he glanced up and saw the hatch close back up. Makoto stood and ran. The cannon had been elevated, so there was ample space under it to stand and walk. The fuse seemed to be running out as the spark traveled closer and closer to the butt of the cannon. 

Meanwhile, Junko sat in the cannon comfortably. 

“He got away again,” she sighed. “How despairful… But on the bright side, the cannon’s about to fire!” 

She puffed at her cigar in excitement. 

“This is gonna be a good show.”

She climbed out toward the mouth of the cannon and stuck her head out, looking around. There he was. Makoto had not gotten too far yet since it had only been a few seconds since he had escaped. 

“Yoohoo, Makoto!” 

The person in question momentarily stopped running away and looked over. Of course. Who else would be calling his name? She was waving at him, too.

“Wish you were here,” Junko winked at him and blew out a smokey heart ring before settling back inside the cannon, even though at that point, it would have been easy for her to simply climb out of the cannon.

Outside of the cannon, Makoto sprinted away, plugging his ears. He stood safely in the forest and watched as the cannon shot out one Junko Enoshima, who appeared a dazzling shooting star bursting forth. Accompanying her takeoff were relentless waves of flashy, chromatic fireworks, interspersed with showers of gold fire. Following the launching of the cannon, not a second passed without another booming firework to fill the darkness hanging above. Hot, bright sparks flew out from the display, and the ground rumbled, quaking with the vibrations and noise of the massive contraption exerting—no, unleashing—its force. 

“Yes! Despair!” she shouted. “Woohoo!” 

The distance made her voice seem faint, but it was miraculous Makoto could even still hear her at all amid all the noise. People were watching from the festival grounds, clapping and cheering for her. After all the trouble she caused, they were rather happy she had been shot out of a cannon to somewhere hopefully far away from the night’s festivities. Makoto himself was simply relieved that it was not him who was shot out of that cannon. Who knows what would have happened to him?

And with that, the night of the Tanabata Festival came to a close; it was a grand finale truly befitting of all that had preceded it. The shining Junko Enoshima disappeared into the night sky, brilliantly twinkling out of sight with a “ding!” 

“A fitting end, don’t you think?” 

Kyouko was standing next to Makoto, who startled at her words and glanced at her briefly before looking back at the beautiful night sky. 

“Kyouko? When did you get here?” 

“I was here all along,” she smiled. “You ran over here after I got here.” 

“So you were going to just watch as Junko shot me out of that ridiculous cannon,” Makoto said in an accusing tone. 

Kyouko shook her head. 

“I knew it’d end up like this.” 

Makoto turned his head to look at her. Kyouko’s pink eyes were shining slightly. 

“Did you open the cannon hatch to help me escape?” he questioned. 

Neither confirming nor denying his words, Kyouko just smiled mysteriously. 

“I’ll just say it was lucky that you escaped her plans again. As expected of the Ultimate Lucky Student.”

It was then that Makoto felt something hit his head as it had simply dropped out of the sky—and it might as well have; when he caught it after it bounced off his noggin, the object in his grasp turned out to be Junko’s lighter, now safely in his possession. It must have fallen out of her pocket when she blasted out of the cannon. 

Makoto turned his gaze back to the night sky where Junko twinkled out of sight, the sky no longer brilliantly lit up by the fireworks or Junko’s ride through it. Despite all that he had gone through tonight at Junko’s expense, with attempt after attempt to blow him up, he hoped that she was alright wherever she ended up landing. Though, it was not exactly his first time seeing Junko get caught up in these kinds of things: mishaps, or adventures if you will. That is if you liked for your adventures to constantly put your life at risk. 

He glanced down at the lighter clutched in his hand, the smooth metal reflecting the pale moonlight that now shone forth in the absence of other flashy light displays. He sure hoped that Junko would maybe, just maybe, grow out of her extreme antics and unusual disposition for attracting—or, making—trouble someday. 

Omake

Junko flew through the sky, her trusty cigar still in her mouth, and she protected the end from the wind as it burned vicariously. With no way to slow down her rocky flight—assuming she even would want to—and the multitudes of explosive power from gunpowder and other contraptions still on her person, Junko ignited most gloriously. 

From far away, the scorching ball of fire she became seemed to be a shooting star soaring through the night sky. As she blazed through the sky in a fury of orange, the people down below gazed up in wonder and, thinking she was a shooting star, made wishes on her. If she had been cognizant of this, Junko would have fallen into despair from accidentally turning herself into a symbol of hope. It contradicted all that she aimed to be and for the most part, still was, if not for her current appearance that had temporarily elevated her into an unidentified flying object that could hypothetically grant wishes. 

Thanks to all the power in the cannon that Junko fastidiously prepared, her flight through the sky travelled a great ways away from the festival. If she were to hazard a guess, she’d traveled hundreds of miles at the very least, and for a brief moment, she thought she might’ve lost consciousness as she reached space, where the air was thin and unforgiving. But luckily—or unluckily—Junko quickly started free-falling back to earth. The wind gave a great roar past her ears as it clawed at what was left of her already ripped and thoroughly burnt yukata. The air pressure adjusted with her great fall, allowing her to breathe, even if she was still dropping at a dangerously accelerating rate. 

With a big splash, Junko plunked into the water by the shore of a deserted island, effectively extinguishing her cigar and herself. Being completely submerged in the water, she flailed until her head was out of the water again and sputtered slightly, though she kept a firm grip on her cigar. A trusty keepsake like her cigar should always be at her side, after all. It was custom-made, too. 

When she made it to the sandy white shore, crawling and coughing, she clambered back onto her feet and attempted to dry herself off, wringing her hair and the rags of her clothes. She was alive and surprisingly well, aside from being thoroughly charred and bruised from her ride through space. But even escaping with that amount of injury seemed to be getting off lightly, considering all that she had gone through. 

Junko chewed on her cigar, which now faintly tasted of saltwater from the ocean, though she didn’t need the cigar to taste the salt—her mouth was already tainted with the ocean water after she’d unceremoniously been dumped into the water and half-drowned, like a cube of sugar might be dropped into a cup of hot tea. At least she didn’t simply dissolve the way sugar did, though, and the water was lukewarm, being summer. She felt around herself for her lighter so she could relight her cigar, but it was nowhere to be found. All she came up with was the fine grains of sand sticking to her damp skin. Junko sighed. It must have dropped out of her pocket on her ride over here. Hopefully, it would set some trees on fire and bring despair somewhere, she thought to herself.

“Can’t a girl just smoke a cigar?” she complained. 

But at least she did not have any more explosives or fireworks to set off anyway, she thought to herself. It had been a good night, though. It was despair-inducing that she ended up getting shot out of the cannon instead and that Makoto escaped a gruesome fate yet again. 

“Makoto sure is one lucky bastard,” she reflected. “Well, I guess he hasn’t really got anything else going for him, though, so it’s his one saving grace. Everything else about him is the most average of the average.”

She looked out over the open waters and dark sky, watching some fireworks faintly go off in the distance. The myriad of colorful lights was beautiful as they sprinkled in and out of existence, even dimmed by how far away she was watching them from. They reminded her of all that’d happened during this one night, which inevitably led her thoughts to the past times she’d attempted to put Makoto in extreme danger in her usual despair-inducing manner. 

Fondly, she remembered when she’d gently nudged Makoto toward the train tracks by swinging her school bag toward him—there wasn’t much in it, really, just a few bricks—only for him to trip and spin, falling in the opposite direction and comically face-planting on the train platform, whereas Junko had also tripped, but toward the actual train tracks. The oncoming train had barrelled straight into her, and she’d landed a good ten meters away from the train from the force of impact. They’d rushed her to the hospital, where she was put in an entire-body cast and stuck in the plain white room, bored to death for a few months. The only minimal comfort was that she had her other half, Mukuro, to be her hands and feet while she was immobilized. 

There were a few other instances that Junko had tried to put Makoto in danger, from plain incidents like locking him in the freezer room in a warehouse, to movie-esque occurrences like following him on a crazy car chase with Mukuro behind the gun and shooting at his car. Each time, she had met her defeat in all kinds of different ways, shameful, odd, and painful—and yet, oh-so enjoyable. 

As she watched the fireworks, it suddenly occurred to her that one of those so-called fireworks was actually the missile she’d fired off earlier, and it was hurtling straight in her direction at Mach speed. 

“Uh-oh.” 

Makoto was holding a teddy bear plushie and eating konpeito, candied stars, when he noticed a huge, billowing mushroom cloud in the distance. Along with it came a deafening, faraway kaboom that rumbled the ground and sent tingling vibrations up his legs. The top of the cloud had ears and the fluffy shapes had an uncanny resemblance to the head of Junko’s beloved Monokuma. 

His phone vibrated with a notification, and he pulled it out only to see a message from Junko, which read: 

“I’m alive!😁✌️ Bet you would be dead if you were me 💕💕I’ll get you next time 😜” 

His phone vibrated again, and a photo appeared in the chat. Did he even want to look? He sighed. Better to know what was going on, after all. 

He tapped on the photo to reveal Junko herself, covered in black ashes from head to toe. Her yukata was even more torn up than the last time he’d seen her—it was more shreds of scorched fabric than an article of clothing at this point—and the overbearing cigar was still snug between her lips and lit. It looked like the cigar had been relit by the explosion of the missile's remains, which he could see in the background of her photo, just next to her feet. As expected of Junko: not even a ride through space from a massive cannon and fall from grace could defeat her, and neither could a military-issue missile.

Makoto was not looking forward to the next time. He very much hoped there would not be a next time.

But the fact that Junko was alive ensured it, and he put his phone back in his pocket, accepting his fate. Hopefully, the next time, he would come out alive and safe again, if not a little ragged. 

[writing-the-end]

WS Chapter 42- Worth Fighting For

Previous Chapter

Masterpost

Back to our regularly scheduled angst :))))). This entire chapter was written with a specific song from a video game soundtrack in mind, and you can actually notice some choice language because of it. If you want a good song to listen to while reading, listen to “The World and All it’s Lessons” by Joris De Man. 

Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland

Selene belongs to @to-dem-stars​

Ecto belongs to @cooler-cactus-block

Warning: This chapter contains general angst and brief hints (never indepth) mentions of depression. 

There are lots of places to hide in the deep ocean. Coral outcrops, underwater ruins, decaying shipwrecks. But it was the caverns that Red found most comforting. Complete darkness, with only glowing algae that spreads across the walls like nebulas to aid her vision. Her own skin glows in response to the darkness, but none of the light offers warmth. 

She doesn’t want the warmth. She just wants to freeze out everything, forget the world. All it’s joys, all it’s sorrows. All its warmth and cold. To just forget what it means to live. Red finds a small hole in the tunnels, just big enough for her to curl into. She cradles her knees to her chest, burying her face into her arms. She can feel the warm tears on her skin, but they simply are washed away by the briny sea. It’s as if she doesn’t have tears at all, making the pain ache within her all the more. 

It doesn’t matter what’s going on beyond the hole that Red is curled up in. The entire ocean could be dead, for all he cares. Everything important to him is gone. The creature that raised him is dead, taken by the hellspawns. Red just wants to forget the whole adventure, forget the daring escapes and bright nights. He wants to forget his new friends, Ecto and Avon and the hermits. He wants to forget the whole world, all it’s lessons and enemies, all it’s hopes and hates. 

He doesn’t care anymore. The hellspawns won. They have their victory, and whatever the hell they want. They can’t take any more from Red. 

Mama Gummi was always there for Red. She never got to know her real family, she was separated from them long, long ago. But she had Mama Gummi, such a kindhearted elder guardian, and her horde of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. The entire monument took Red in, became her family. They raised her, teaching her how to swim and catch fish, how to keep a pufferfish from blowing up and a dolphin from stealing her toys. In her adventures in this ocean, she befriended the drowned- lost souls of ships cast into the depths, bodies revived by the immortal currents and stitched together with algae and seaweed. She honed her building skills by making abodes for the drowned. 

Red has been through many friends, passing and pushing onto her. Friends who wounded her, physically and mentally. Friends who slandered her home and name, friends who twisted words and deeds, who took what they wanted and left as quickly as the wind would change. People who called themselves friends, but were exactly the opposite. In all those times, it was always Mama Gummi who comforted the wounded kipling. Such a big heart, so open and lonely. An easy target for the monsters in the night. 

But Mama Gummi loved Red’s noble heart. When Red would bring home sea turtles with wounded flippers, nursing them back to health, Mama Gummi always helped in any way she could. They may not be related by blood, but Red takes after his adopted mother in kindness. And Red always thought it was kindness, an open heart that would fix every problem. It’s what Selene fell in love with. It’s how he managed to break Avon out of her shell, how to get Ecto to trust them, how they were freed from Area 77 and made it around the worlds. 

It couldn’t stop Blu, and whoever else he’s working with. It couldn’t stop them from killing Avon’s family, from destroying Ecto’s home. It couldn’t stop them from doing both to Red. Why her? Why did they have to do this, to sicken an entire ocean till it’s toxic to breathe, and kill off the creatures that call this place home? What kind of threat is Red to them? She can’t even hold a sword right, much less fight like Ecto or Avon. Why her, why her home and her family? 

Red doesn’t realize he’s cried himself out, and all that’s left is the whimpers and whines. His head is dizzy, dehydrated despite being surrounded by water. The cold, hard walls cradle the lost and lonely child, orphaned twice now as he falls asleep to the sounds of his own cries echoing down the stone hall. 

-------------------------------------------

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Red this distraught.” Selene whispers, collecting the potion bottles from Ecto and Avon. The three swim into the open ocean, escaping the mouth of the dying monument. Its last few ragged, stale breaths against the illness plaguing it. Selene looks across the murky waters, thick with algae and death. “What kind of messed up shit is causing this?” 

“Remember when we were pushed into another world?” Ecto swims to the seafloor, running her fingers across the grains of sand. Trying to not get lost in all this water, lose which way is up and down. “This is the work of the nether.” 

“Blu.” Avon whispers. 

“I met with my mentor, Sylaeus. He’s the smartest man I know, but he said he heard buttfuck nothing about people from the nether.” Selene leads Red’s friends as she talks. She knows this ocean, they’d be lost without her or Red guiding them. She also knows where Red is most likely to hide. “But he did point me to a book about nether fortresses. That they were obviously made by people, in the same way ocean monuments were. Perhaps, unlike ocean monuments, they were never truly abandoned.” 

“Well we met one of those people. Beat the shit out of us.” Ecto growls, running a hand along the wounds left by Blu. 

Selene stops dead. “You met one? You lucky bastards fought a person from the nether?” 

“A hellspawn seems to be what they are commonly called. But yes, we were thoroughly thrashed by Blu. Red got lucky he wasn’t as badly hurt.” 

“Well what the fuck did he say? What kind of information were you able to glean?” Selene is starved for information. She doesn’t like not knowing things, and this mystery has been haunting her since Red left her home. Red has never traveled the world, she’s lucky to have these strange new friends to keep her safe. And they’re lucky to have Red, to keep them calm and collected. 

“He didn’t really say much, just started attacking us. But...they’ve been ambushing our homes while we’ve been traveling.” Ecto’s fists clench as she remembers her desert. Buried in snow, frozen and left to shatter against the wind and waste. 

“They even made it into the End. Nothing as bad as this, though.” Avon looks around, the bony fingers of coral reaching out and grabbing at the strangers. Sick fish hide among the bleached coral, swimming past in weak flicks of their rotted tails. Even the drowned’s gurgles are foamed and gasping. Struggling to breathe the toxic water. Filter oxygen through the turbid water. 

Selene peeks into a small hovel, the roof a tangle of staghorn coral. No Red, but memories do whisper across Selene’s memory. The first time Selene followed Red underwater, they rested under this very coral while Selene recuperated from being pricked by a pufferfish. She remembers the vibrant blues and reds, intertwining in an intricate dance. The shafts of rippling sunlight blinding Selene. And illuminating the strange creature before her. Red looked so different underwater than when they first met. After he saved her from drowning. He was just another fish in the reef, a part of the ecosystem.

The coral is too different, too dead. Red wouldn’t hide here. Selene racks her head, trying to think like Red. If she were Red, where would she go? She would go into the darkest corner of the ocean, far away from everything. Selene sighs as she realizes where Red is. “I really didn’t want to drink more damned water breathing potions. Shit tastes like fucking ass.” 

-------------------------------

“Red?” Selene’s soft voice warms across Red’s ears, stirring him from sleep. He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep, but he can still feel the swelling in his eyes and aching in his heart. Red glances over his shoulder, seeing three faces bobbing at the entrance of the small hole he’s squeezed into. Three concerned, pitying faces.

She turns back over, pulling herself into a smaller ball. She just wants to be left alone. Left to become another stone among the cavern, forgotten by time and life. A whine escapes her lips as someone grabs her by the tail and drags her from the dark corner. Selene’s conjured a warm, comforting orb of light, completely unaffected by the water surrounding it. Ecto releases Red from her grip, allowing her to sit up. Red buries her head into her arms.

“Red...I’m sorry about Mama Gummi. I can’t imagine losing someone like that.” Avon whispers, trying to comfort her friend. But she’s no good at this emotional stuff.

“What does it matter? There’s nothing left for me.” Red whispers. 

“There’s so much more for you, Red.” Selene whispers. “There’s us, and the remaining guardians at the monument.” 

“All the guppies. They need someone to teach them to swim.” Avon adds. Red can’t help but let a wavering smile appear on his face, remembering the baby guardians. Fresh from hatching, wiggling tiny bodies and even more tiny tails. “They need you just as much as you needed Mama Gummi.” 

“And you aren’t going to let her die in vain, are you?” Ecto questions. Red frowns. He hates that Ecto’s words rile him up. “These bastards must atone for wronging you. For destroying our home, killing your family.” 

Selene bites her lip. Red is hard to anger, but she knows well enough that crossing a kipling is not a good idea. And Red’s desire for vengeance can turn the kindhearted person into a sinister being.

 “And Mama Gummi wouldn’t want you to give up.” Red’s anger, her guilt fades as she hears Selene’s calm voice. Selene knows exactly what to say. All three move closer, cocooning Red in warmth. Bringing her back from the brink. Selene continues, seeing she has Red’s attention. “She would want to see you fix this problem. To be the hero not just for the monument, but to everyone. To do great things, because she knows you’re just as great.” 

Red doesn’t realize she’s being held by her friends, hugging her. Returning her to light, out of dark. She can’t give up. It would be what Mama Gummi wanted. She needs to be there for the rest of the monument, for the guppies orphaned by the plague. And she needs to make sure whoever did this, including Blu, pays tenfold for the suffering they caused this ocean. The lives it’s killed and ruined. Red wipes at his cheeks, despite tears being long gone. “We should take care of the babies.”

[aleatoryalarmalligator]

Hello,

So, it's funny because i was depressed right? and then as we all know the world kinda got scary, and now it's like i almost have a reason to feel validated in my feelings of hopelessness, which doesn't make me feel great, but does seem to kind of level me in this strange way.

I spend too much fucking time on reddit. I live in Portland, and basically i worked for this really extremely poorly run restaurant/brewery pub called Laurelwood. It's a long story, but the place has the worst management. Some of the people weren't like, bad people, but the way it was managed was really bad in ways i would have to spend hours explaining. They recently did a deal with Ninkasi a little over a year ago and now you can find their beer everywhere, and i guess if you are into beer most people seem to like it, so it's not really a diss on their alcohol itself though i am more of a hard liquor/hard cider fan and beer isn't typically my thing unless it's some desserty imperial stout. They expected a lot from their employees - and because of their poor management they also kind of let a lot of us get away with stuff. So we kind of, as employees created a very strong personal work ethic and friendship amongst one another in turn, we within reason broke rules and had a system of doing it to where we remained competent and managed ourselves, as our management was failing and self centered. If it wasn't the really cool friends i made there - some of the closest friends i have ever had and a ton of first time unique experiences - i learned a ton about myself and grew a lot in that position, i probably would have hated it. the owner was the kind of boomer who wanted to pull in hype of like, young trendy Portland kids, but they really made it look like a bad wannabe applebees and never really valued the fact that we were basically keeping the place open for him, so the aesthetic was kinda lazy and the demeanor between us and our top heavy upper management was pretty separated.

Anyway, since of course i worked in this field when the whole pandemic thing happened, I was naturally laid off. They didn't pay us. They sent us a message saying they just didn't have the money, and it's clear that they hoped to just, kinda, take the money they had left and bounce. The message was vague and demeaning, and everyone in the last three weeks is essentially working for nothing. So, one of the brewers, a pretty nice dude named Brandon that i didn't know too well, went on reddit and was respectful and clear, about how this really messed him up. They not only cannot pay us for the last two pay periods, but they also had a lot of their previous checks bounce. This on top of the financial collapse. To me, it's bad, but i sort of expect a lot of bad stuff now. I mean, this kind of collapse was a long time coming. I imagine it's going to take literally years for Portland to bounce back. I hear horror stories from long time Portlanders about how pretty decent people just became homeless during the recession of 2008, and i have a feeling this is going to be even worse. I feel like thus far in my life, though i've had a lot of really bad luck with relationships and family stuff, and sometimes my health, I've never had to really worry about something like this so directly impacting me. When 2008 happened, i was 19, I had never worked and lived with my parents on bare minimum, but my life had always been that way so i never felt that bad about it, though on retrospect it was kind of neglect. I lived in a factory town that had particular staples and products that never were that hit by the market crash, so that particular town in Idaho never saw a real drop in unemployment. I read about the collapse a lot, watched the Big Short and stuff, so i have my fairly strong opinions about it, but it's never actually caused me to go without. My mother is a nurse at a nursing home, and my father worked at a bullet factory. And like i said, i was relatively unaffected.

The message from Brandon took off, on reddit, thousands of people are seeing it and are disgusted, and they are being turned in for not paying us, because that is theft, that is illegal. I am willing to sign whatever documents neccesary when it comes down to it, if i don't get paid eventually. I was already personally very bad off, and i have this bitter realization that after the damage of this pandemic takes it's toll, I'm gonna have to struggle hard. I am not even mad at this point in a personal way. I just think companies need to know you don't fucking treat people this way. That the principle of the matter is that we are not just cogs for businesses to step on. We need to make the wealthy, even the vaguely wealthy people know that they need to appreciate fully those who work for them and under them, and when something bad happens, and they better intend on taking care of those people, or whatever their business model is is going to fail. It goes without saying that this pandemic has exposed a lot of what was already there. I think some people are naive enough to believe this corruption or this problem was unexpected. Lawmakers, and people who are privileged should have worked to make sure that hospitals had enough for the worst case scenario, and that there needs to be a safety net for people. None of these issues are new. I mean, it's not, at all. This is the rich doing the same old shit they have always done, and i imagine, trying so hard not to be pessimistic, but imagining just the same that this is only going to get worse. There are so many homeless drug addicted and mentally ill people in Portland already it's crazy. There was already rent that was impossible for full time employees to pay. It's funny because all these 'luxury suites' are being built throughout town in Portland, and i wonder now who they think is going to move in. Most of them were empty anyway. It's a mystery to me, because in a way it is classic gentrification the way they tore down old buildings and built these giant fancy expensive apartment buildings everywhere, but kind of weird because they were mostly empty. I mean, how could that have been worth it to investors or business owners?

I guess there is a lot I don't know about the stockmarket, banks, finance, housing and such, but it stands to reason that if you spend hundreds of millions to build something and nobody can afford to live there or pay your inflated rent, why are you bothering? I was told that a lot of these places were because of the Portland's population grew so much and these buildings were just now being built from people who had hoped to ride the 'rich Californian movers' era. The rent has just become kind of unmanageable. It's normal to live in a house with four or five people, all working full time just to maintain a single bedroom in a house of half-strangers. Meanwhile, studios that don't even come with a separate bedroom are nearly 2000 dollars, and things that should be there to help the homeless like tiny houses are marketed to rich minimalists who are so bored and guilt ridden by their own privilege they have to pretend to be quaint little peasants in order to feel unique in their own position, that they literally make it expensive to live in something not unlike a camper. But Portland is now just kind of at a steady growth. They came to late, and now with what's happened, what comes next.

Anyway, i am not leaving this city. I hated Idaho. It was a sad place for me, and i see a lot of beauty in Portland. I feel like i have a personal relationship with a good portion of the city. I tried to walk ten miles a day the first year i lived here. I lost a lot of weight here, fell in love here, I had a lot of meaningful experiences, met new people, gained new perspective. I've been afraid for my life here, drank more here, lost and found myself i mean, it's been an adventure in and of itself that becomes clearer to me now the more i have been here. I really do love Portland. It's sad but a lot of places i really loved and appreciated here in Portland won't be here anymore when this is over. A lot of small businesses i really appreciated. The kind of stuff that makes Portland really interesting, or reaching for something new. I hope that culture will crop up again, but we shall see.

I have a dry cough, and i wonder if i am catching Covid 19. My throat tingles a little, and I've already had two fever/colds in the last month, so something tells me this is it. Like a pregnant woman waiting to give birth or something. I am self quarantining. I'm a little nervous because a friend of a friend has a cousin in the FBI who has heard word from his superiors that they are considering the possibility of a full on quarantine, closing even the grocery stores. I didn't want to give in to early hysteria, like the toilet paper thing baffled me. I remember people getting really scared about Pigflu and Birdflu in the past years, but it didn't seem to really spread too far, though i did catch the Pigflu. My foodstamps refill on the 7th, so i hope if this does happen, they don't close by then. I just need to get in and get some bare essentials, because it now is looking like it might be smart to stock up now.

It's funny too, because i am not a homebody. I naturally am inclined to be depressed if i stay in one place too long. I have a somewhat mild case of ADHD, and i love to move, and i enjoy working. If i won the lottery, i'd still work in some fashion for 20 hours a week because i realize i don't feel satisfied living for myself. I like having a civilian duty, even if it's just cleaning off tables. I like feeling useful and connected to people. But i have a leg injury that's not going to heal on it's own, so walking has hurt me for the last eight months, and now this, and i have a health condition that makes it pretty easy for me to gain weight. So i am trapped in the house, snacking and trying to find things that make me laugh or inspire me. I did get inspired to start making paper mache masks. I think i can make the most of my quarantine time. I just hope they don't close the grocery stores before i get my money.

I am worried about both my parents. I have a lot of family, so it's not that unlikely i could lose someone to this virus. I am not concerned with myself that much. I could die, but the chances are relatively low. I am reading a lot of informed reddit posts, about the aftermath of this whole thing, and i'm a little bit nervous.

[lokiondisneyplus]

Today I left the house wearing a face mask for the first time.

I had woken up to the sound of heavy rain, which is always surreal in Los Angeles, and when I look out of the window to the hauntingly dehumanising sight of bandana-clad dog walkers, an eerie weight settles as I remember: this is our reality now.

I’m standing in the supermarket queue, a line dotted by crosses taped on the floor of the underground car park to signify our designated 6ft distance. Easily 50 people long and snaking around the perimeter of the building, I make my way to the last available X-marks-the-spot and join the other masked Bandits. I haven’t food shopped for over a week and am in need of supplies.

There is an obnoxiously loud man two crosses ahead of me ranting into his phone with such a high energy, the surrounding Bandits have allowed an extended social distance of a cross on either side of him. I sigh, remembering I’ve left my headphones at home, so am unable to tune him out, I wait and exhale, wondering how I am going to get used to the claustrophobic sensation of hot air and fabric condensing on my face.

Loud Phone Man is not wearing a mask and it's clear we’ve passed the tipping point of mild judgement, at least here in LA, where Bandits exchange a raised eyebrow, (about the only non-verbal Bandit communication available) which somehow magnifies the annoyance of this shopper - not only loud, but breathing indiscriminately all over us in this confined space… what does he think this is? Last week??

It’s Monday on #Week4 of Covid-19 lockdown in La La Land and as I shuffle to the next X I reflect on the journey so far.

After a whirlwind press tour to promote the release of Misbehaviour in UK cinemas (sadly cinemas were shuttered just days after the film's theatrical release – but it's available to watch online at home from April 15th!) I returned to work in Atlanta for Loki, the Marvel limited series for Disney Plus I’ve been working on, so am on set when I get the news that we are going on hiatus as a precaution due to the accelerating coronavirus, initially for one week. Thinking it would be longer, but still unsure at that point, I book a flight to LA to sit things out there for the time being. The next day Trump imposes a travel ban on travelling in or out of the US for 30 days, and with my visa situation and the pace at which everything is moving, it feels risky to fly to the UK in case I cannot get back into the country when filming recommences, whenever that will be.

So, with my housemate and her dog for company, we embark on social distancing, self-isolation and Lady Macbeth-level hand-washing.

Managing a constant low-level anxiety about my parents and loved ones, and friends in New York, London, Johannesburg and all over the world, I become consumed by the news, glued to the BBC website and KCRW talk radio for the latest figures. Like families gathered around “the wireless” in wartime, everything is unfolding so rapidly and the news, never this dramatic in my lifetime, takes on disaster-movie proportions.

FaceTime and WhatsApp become my lifelines as the reality of the pandemic is tinged with a weird detachment… a numbness I later realise was a form of shock that lasts for nearly two weeks and puts me into a hyper-focused state as I race to keep up, stay informed and learn how to adapt to this new rhythm.

I am of course aware that I am so privileged to be safe and personally unaffected thus far, but grasping the truth from what is overblown, and fact from politics and propaganda, give everything an out-of-body zero gravity quality; a new normal we are all united in.

Things are kicking off in the food line as my attention is caught by an exasperated Valley Girl three Xs ahead who finally explodes at Loud Phone Man, “ OH MY GAAAAD, USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE, CANT YOU SEEEEE EVERYONE IS LOOKING AT YOU CAUSE YOU’RE TALKING SO LOUD… WE ALL HAVE TO STAND HERE, OHMYGAAAD!” As she stomps her Ugged feet to the next X the security guard and smiling store employee (no mask) approach and I can feel a repressed inside-voice-cheer emanate from the rest of the line in applause.

The Bandit Couple ahead of me raise another eyebrow in solidarity and Female Bandit begins to capture a video of Loud Phone Man on her iPhone. The air gets thin, the energy tightens, “Hey Man,” Smiling Store Employee intercepts, Security guard flanking, “You wanna keep it down a bit, people are stressed, y’know? Thanks Man.” Valley Girl scowls, Bandit couple exchange glances, while still filming, Loud Phone Man defends, “I WASN’T EVEN TALKING THAT LOUUUUUD!!!” (Collective Bandit eyeroll) “YESSSSS YOU WERE!!!” Hisses Valley Girl, “Yeah Man, sorry you were,” Store Employee placates. taking the referee stance. I notice Loud Phone Man is wearing flip-flops, on a rainy day. He continues his conversation into his device, phone held to his lips, like a dictaphone, barely any quieter. “We have to be prepared…”

I sigh and feel warm breath on my cheeks. Mouth drying I look at my phone for escape and see that Boris Johnson has been admitted into intensive care for persistent and worsening Covid-19 symptoms. I suddenly feel very far from home and very sad.

I remember the things I’ve been doing to keep grounded and my spirits up. One of the benefits of turning out old cupboards was rediscovering my long dormant art materials. Painting, such an absorbing and transporting activity for me in childhood, was once something I considered doing instead of acting, but found it a little socially isolating - so acting won because it felt more collaborative. Now, of course, painting in isolation is perfect and becomes the most comforting of pastimes and a creative channel as I make images of my family and feel like I am spending time with them.

Understanding how superfluous actors are in a crisis such as this, I come to terms with the fact that staying at home, as passive as it may seem, is my contribution for now. Having the luxury of not having to home-school any children and knowing my work is pretty much on pause until social distancing recedes, I try to reframe this time as a chance to rest and refill the creative well. I read novels for pleasure, something I rarely find time for beyond work-related reads. I take my first Zoom yoga class (alexdawsonyoga.com), I join a 21-day online meditation experience (chopracentermediation.com), I take local hikes for fresh air and make first ever batches of banana bread and chicken soup. I even buy a mini trampoline online which, after a mildly challenging self-assembly, I’ve been sweating it out on to streamed classes online (lekfit.com) with a friend in Toronto, followed by accountability FaceTime coffee dates to virtually high five!

By the end of week two, the adrenalin crash truly hits and I’m exhausted from the constant rhythm shifting, news consumption and uncertainty. I’m an eternal optimist and good at self-motivating, but even when you’re Keeping Calm and Carrying on, you need to crash at some point. I nearly cry when I get my mum an Ocado food delivery slot - nothing has been available for weeks - and the “what ifs” that I have been keeping at bay with all my other activities release with relief and gratitude.

That’s when I discover Brené Brown’s new podcast Unlocking Us and find such solace in her calm and thoroughly researched words and conversations. Since her TED talk fame as a charismatic shame and vulnerability researcher, I’ve read all of her books and there is always something practical and nourishing in her work, told with humour and in a deeply relatable way - which I’ve found comfort in while in the midst of folding laundry, cleaning the bath or chopping vegetables.

Back in the food line and things are moving; the tension of the Loud Phone Man Vs Valley Girl dispute still simmers but everyone relaxes as they get closer to the front-door finish line. Smiling Store Employee does his speech on the new system: no reusable bags allowed, sanitised trollies and a one-way system in the aisles inside marked by arrows on the floor, to minimise contact with other customers. It all feels so surreal and regimented, but the Bandits, already drained from the 30-minute wait, constant Loud Phone Man soundtrack, near car park fight and everything else they’re all adjusting to, nod wearily behind their moist makeshift masks. It’s a bizarre sight.

Still chatting, Loud Phone Man makes it in and there’s a collective “phew” eye-contact exchanged between Smiling Store Employee and the remaining Bandits. Then his smile drops and crinkles for a second. “Yeah, he’s been in every day this week. It’s kinda sad. There’s no one on the phone.” The Bandits' brows knot quizzically. “Yeah, I think he has mental health issues, he just talks but the phone’s not on and he has no ear pieces, he just talks into it… 'They’re coming, we have to be prepared.'… I don’t know what to do.”

The reality breaks my heart. It seems to highlight the collective insanity we’ve all been processing and in that moment I just feel so frustrated at the state of the world and how this pandemic has exposed so many cracks in our society - from mental health to healthcare to privilege and poverty, everything just feels so raw.

I try to look for the silver linings and, among all the fear and anxiety and loss, I’ve been so inspired by human resilience, adaptability and creativity. I’m hopeful this great pandemic leveller will bring a new era of authenticity. An opportunity to shift mentality from Me to We.

Week three in self-isolation felt almost normal, which feels weird to admit. I’m getting lots of sleep and take regular meditative baths, which I’ve renamed Home Spa. I’ve found ways to safely contribute in my local community. When the shelves were bare from panic buying, I chatted with the manager of our local grocery store, who seemed so overwhelmed, so my housemate and I volunteered to stack shelves after hours. Although not exactly the front lines, we have fun and it feels good to give something back in our small way.

We of course negotiated to be paid in baked beans and toilet paper.

[junker-town]

Tiger Woods turns 42: What to expect from the aging superstar’s latest comeback

Happy 42nd birthday, Tiger Woods.

Butch Harmon believes Tiger Woods is back for real (as does Tony Romo). Greg Norman not so much.

Las Vegas gives the four-time Masters winner a pretty good shot to earn his fifth green jacket. And Jack Nicklaus (who jokingly hinted at his own comeback to protect his majors record) has better things to do than watch the closest challenger to his all-time mark make his latest return to the PGA Tour following another lengthy, injury-related hiatus.

No matter where you stand on Woods’ chances of reclaiming even a wee bit of his erstwhile winning form (and nearly everyone in the golf world has an opinion on whether Tiger will ever get back to the winner’s circle for the first time since 2013), two facts are beyond debate:

The victor of 79 tour events will go it alone as his own swing coach (at least to start the 2018 campaign).

He’ll be 42 when he next strikes a ball that counts against Dustin Johnson, Justin Thomas, Jordan Spieth, Rory McIlroy, and a host of other young players who grew up idolizing Tiger but are unaffected by the aura surrounding their elder in his glory days.

They say it’s your birthday

It’s difficult for those of a certain vintage (who remember when a 2-year-old mini-me Tiger made his debut on the national stage and can’t believe it’s been 21 years since his “Hello World” moment) to come to grips with Woods ripping another year off the calendar.

Yet Tiger celebrates another birthday every Dec. 30. The occasion of his 42nd, with one tournament deemed a success by most under his white belt, and 2018 looming for the injury-plagued superstar, seemed a good time to reflect on what we might expect from the world’s 656th-ranked player when he kicks off his season poised to work himself into game shape for the Masters in April.

Woods’ solid showing at the 18-player, no-cut Hero World Challenge sparked widespread enthusiasm in the golf community and beyond, with even casual fans anxious to see how Tiger can perform in the latest attempt to revive his career. While not every observer was bullish on what Woods may accomplish going forward after four back surgeries since March 2014, ex-swing coach Harmon cautioned naysayers against betting against his former student.

“I learned a long time ago never to say never when it comes to Tiger Woods,” Harmon told Golf Channel after Woods put up three strong rounds (69-68-75-68) at the Hero.

“He’ll prove you wrong,” Harmon said. “I think he can win again.”

Tony Romo, T22 in Golf Digest’s 2015 ranking of the top 100 athlete-golfers, does not think his sometime Pebble Beach pro-am partner will hoist at least one more trophy; he knows it.

“Tiger’s going to make a run,” the Cowboys former QB and current NFL analyst for CBS told broadcasting partner (and voice of the Masters) Jim Nantz during a recent Patriots-Bills game. “I’m telling you right now, Tiger Woods is back."

Tony Romo: "I'm telling you right now, Tiger Woods is back" http://pic.twitter.com/BMmSf51OAX

— GOLF.com (@golf_com) December 24, 2017

Not so all-in on Tiger’s chances for a successful resurgence was Norman, who sought to slow the roll on the Tiger Woods Hype Train. It was a long, circuitous route, Norman recently reminded reporters at his recent QBE Shootout, from Woods conceding at Liberty National in September that his playing career might be over to blasting drives past playing partner Justin Thomas at the Hero in the Bahamas.

“Everybody was wondering, you know, the speculation of him saying, ‘I may never play golf again,’ and then all of a sudden he says he’s hitting the ball 330 yards. Big difference from there to there, right?” Norman said. “I hope he manages his expectations more than everybody else’s expectations being [that] he’s going to come back and be Tiger of past. I think he still has a little bit of time on his side, but not a whole lot.”

Way to harsh our buzz, dude. Undeterred, we offer some educated guesses as to where and how Woods will try to hone his game for the Masters.

No mo’ Como

Given his wretched opening-round 77 and subsequent withdrawal with back spasms from February’s Dubai Desert Classic, we’re betting the next stop on the TW Comeback Tour will be closer to home, albeit across the country from his Jupiter, Fla., digs, at the Farmers Insurance Open.

Joey was good afterward. Said he has no clue about future schedule but, if Tiger feels good, would hope he plays Torrey. Believes Tiger’s days of going overseas (Dubai) are over.

— GC Tiger Tracker (@GCTigerTracker) December 1, 2017

Assuming Woods’ caddie Joe LaCava has even an inkling about where his boss will or won’t play next, Torrey Pines would seem a comfortable place for an official unveiling of his new, coach-less, back-friendly swing. (In an announcement last week, Woods related that he and Chris Como ended their three-year professional relationship, leaving him, “for now,” to continue to “relearn” his swing following fusion surgery.)

By TW http://pic.twitter.com/uudaN5hP31

— Tiger Woods (@TigerWoods) December 22, 2017

“I want to say a special thank you to Chris Como for all his past hard work,” Woods wrote in his annual holiday message on his website on Friday. “I’ll always be grateful for what he did for me and I know he’ll continue to be successful.”

Either as his own drill instructor or with a new hire tending to his swing (time for a Tiger-Butch reunion?) the Farmers (Jan. 25-28) appears to be a likely spot from which to catapult Woods’ rebound to official, full-field play.

Teeing it up at Torrey, where Woods owns eight wins including the 2008 U.S. Open, also seemed a natural launch pad for Tiger at the start of 2017 and, well, how’d that work out? The much-anticipated fireworks from Tiger soon fizzled out with a missed cut to go with a T80 and that glutes-related withdrawal in his last three starts in La Jolla.

Of course, that was then and this is now, and now — after contending and finishing with no pain at the Hero — Woods seems in far better health than he did for his last career revival attempt in January.

With way too little data to go on, questions remain regarding how Tiger would fare should he decide to make Torrey his first stop of the new year. How will his surgically repaired back hold up under the pressures of full-field events? How about his mental game? With a short game that remains somewhat sketchy, has he truly gotten over the chipping yips that dogged him during prior return efforts?

We’ll go out on a limb here and predict that, should we catch a glimpse of Tiger 4.0 as soon as next month, that he’ll make the cut at Torrey and give us all 72 holes on which to base future prognostications.

Riviera revisited

While reports indicated Woods had committed to play at Riviera, the Los Angeles track on which he made his tour debut, Woods wrote on Friday that a start there was not a gimme. He did, however, note that he will attend in some capacity the event (Genesis Open) that his foundation hosts.

“One way or another, I will be at Riviera Country Club in February for the Genesis Open,” said Woods, who even had to cancel his scheduled press conference there last year because of his back. “It’s such an historic site and the course will always have special meaning for me. That’s where it all started back in 1992 when I played in my first PGA Tour event at age 16. My foundation now runs the tournament and it will be great to return to my old stomping grounds.”

While there could be Tiger sightings at the Phoenix Open (Feb. 1-4) and/or the Pebble Beach Pro-Am (Feb. 8-11), it would be unusual for him to play so many tournaments in a row. He set out at the start of 2017 to play four times in five weeks — at Torrey and Riviera, in Dubai, and then home for the Honda Classic — but we know how that plan panned out, with Woods done for the year after just one round in the Middle East.

Woods has yet to make a public commitment to play the L.A. tournament, which he has not appeared in for 10 years after back spasms forced him to withdraw from the 2017 competition before it began.

Could this be the year Woods ends his victory drought on what is essentially a home course for the Cypress, Calif., native? Unlikely, given his record and lack of competitive reps.

“I’ve always loved playing [the course],” Woods told reporters ahead of last year’s tilt. “I’ve just never played it well.”

Sure, there were the missed cuts in 1992 and 1993 from the then-Nissan Open, when Tiger was still an amateur, and the WD in 2006 after shooting 69-74. But Woods has also recorded four top-7 finishes, including runner-up status in 1998 and 1999, as well as three top-18 results, so his Riviera record’s not that bad.

Home cookin’ at the Honda

Woods is likely to tee it up in his backyard at PGA National in Palm Beach Gardens, when the PGA Tour begins its Florida Swing with the Honda Classic (Feb. 22-25). He finished T2 in his second of just three Honda starts, in 2012, after giving chase but eventually falling short of Rory McIlroy.

If all goes well and he is still upright after more competitive rounds than he has played in a year, we would not be surprised if Tiger missed the cut at the difficult PGA National. That would not be optimum on the rollup to the Masters, but if Woods follows his usual pattern and plays Bay Hill, he could bounce back on another course that has yielded eight wins to the former world No. 1.

Missing Arnie

Should Woods put the Arnold Palmer Invitational (March 15-18) on his schedule, even he will likely play second fiddle to the late host of his eponymous tournament. Next year will mark the second time the tour will stop at Bay Hill since Palmer’s death in September 2016 but Tiger missed last year’s event and the emotion will probably still be fresh when Woods et al descend on Orlando.

Indeed, Woods has not teed it up at Arnie’s place since he won his third of five tour titles in his 2013 Player of the Year campaign. What a boost it would be to his confidence and his chances at the Masters three weeks later were Tiger to earn his 80th tour victory in honor of Arnold.

All roads lead to Augusta

Because wherever he plays and however he performs, for Tiger it’s all about getting his game Augusta-ready. Certainly, the oddsmakers are looking forward to Woods’ arrival at the Masters, as the wise guys dropped the odds of his prevailing at the men’s first major of the year from 100-1 prior to the Hero to its current 15-1, at least according to VegasInsider.com.

Even those backing Woods to get back to his field-conquering ways would doubtless scale back on those numbers a bit.

Harmon, for example, believes his bygone disciple — who, he noted, enters every event asserting, if not actually convinced, that he can end up on top — will hoist another trophy, but he declined to put another grand slam event in the win column just yet.

“Whether or not he can win a major championship again, we’ll have to wait and see,” Harmon said. “I think he can win on the regular tour and when he does that, I think he’ll have confidence when he comes to a major.”

With “the Rickies, the Justin Thomas’s, the Spieths” and other “pretty good” kids sharing the same goals, Harmon maintained the path to another Woods major win is especially difficult.

“I think we have to temper our optimism,” Harmon said, “because we see him play and we say, ‘Oh my gosh, he’s going to be like he was in 2000 and 2001.’”

As for the guy Woods still hopes to surpass on his way to 19 major championships, he’ll follow Tiger’s progress — but not from his couch.

“I’m not interested at all [in viewing Woods’ comeback],” Nicklaus told Golfweek earlier this month.

“Do I wish [Tiger] well? Yeah, but I’m not interested in watching him,” said Nicklaus. “I’ve watched him play golf for 20-something years, why would I want to go watch more? I don’t watch anybody play golf.”

Nicklaus, who has fielded Woods queries since Eldrick the Younger won his first Masters in 1997, recently came up with a different response than his traditional “Wish him well blah blah blah yada yada yada” rejoinder. Replying to a question during the tour’s annual tournament meetings about whether he would prefer to secure a 19th major trophy or see his grandson, Buffalo Bills tight end Nick O’Leary, catch the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl, the Golden Bear had ‘em rolling in the aisles with his riposte.

“Uh, right now I'd rather have a 19th major,” Nicklaus answered, according to the AP’s Doug Ferguson. “Tiger is back playing again.”

That he is, and he’s feeling fine, though he has yet to fill in his calendar for the coming year.

“I feel I’ve taken it to another level,” Woods wrote after being “very encouraged” by his Hero play that he hoped “was the start of something big.”

He said he was practicing and building up his strength to be able to handle a large workload going forward, though exactly where and when was still up in the air.

“I would love to play a full schedule in 2018. What that entails, including back-to-back events, I don’t know,” Woods said. “I just have to continue to work on my body and game and see where I pan out. I wish I knew where I was going to play and when I was going to play — it’s a lot easier to prep for that — but we really don’t know. This is all unchartered territory.”