#Shell 4.5

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Shell 4.5 Live Reactions

(This is me, writing reactions as I read, because why the fuck not. They're not complete, mature thoughts taken after I sit back and evaluate what I've read. Consider them as such)

In silence, we caught the bus at the ferry and got off at the Trainyard, the part of the Docks that sat opposite to the Boardwalk.

There is just something so deliciously absurd about the mental image of supervillains, even teenage ones, just... riding the bus. Granted, they're (presumably) not doing it in costume, but still.

slanted just enough that people wouldn’t be able to comfortably walk or sleep on top of them.

Ah yes, gotta love hostile architecture.

“If you asked me five hours ago, I would’ve said no,” Regent replied.  “I would have told you, sure, she’s a loose cannon, she’s reckless, crazy, she’s easily pissed off and she’ll hospitalize those people who do piss her off… but I’d have said she’s loyal, that even if she doesn’t necessarily like us-”

I mean, trust but verify and all that. No Rachel, no money, it's a safe assumption.

A soft clapping answered her.  It was slow, unenthusiastic to the point of being sarcastic. “Brilliantly deduced,” the same person that had been clapping spoke out.  As Tattletale whipped her head around, I took a few steps back from the storage locker, to get a better look at the two people who stood on the roof.

It's cliche, but I always like the 'character watching the protagonists figure it out and then do the sarcastic clap' trope.

They were standing with one leg higher than the other, to keep from sliding off the angled roof, and both were wearing identical costumes.  The costumes sported blue man-leotards with broad belts cinched around their waists, skintight white sleeve and leggings.  Their hoods were elastic, clinging to their heads so they left only a window for the face, and each sported a single white antenna.  Of all colors, their gloves, boots and the balls at the top of their antennae were bubblegum pink.  Their faces were obscured by oversize goggles with dark lenses.

Which... which video game is this?

“Rest assured, Tattletale, you do,” Über proclaimed.  He was the sort of person who proclaimed, announced, broadcasted and declared.  Just like Grue’s power altered his voice to make him sound haunting and inhuman, Über’s power made him sound like the guy who narrated trailers for action movies or late night commercials.  Overdramatic, intense about everything he said, no matter how mundane.  Like someone overacting the role of a gallant knight in a kid’s movie.

Evocative. I do think Wildbow's willingness to do descriptions like this (helped by using 1st person narrative, which I do think facilitates this sort of thing) whereas a lot of conventional writing wisdom would say to not do this, is a big part of Worm's success, honestly.

Leet frowned and turned to the camera, “Is that really necessary?” “You fucked with us,” I replied, “I fuck with your subscriber base.”

Hit 'em where it hurts.

He didn’t get to finish.  Regent swung his arm out to one side, and Über lost his footing.  I joined the others in stepping back out of the way as he fell face first onto the pavement at the base of the locker.

Regent's abilities would probably let him do well at slapstick improv shows or something. I mean, you don't need to fake a trip and fall with him around. :rofl:

Grue spoke in a low voice that wouldn’t carry to the pair of villains, “They did something to Bitch, they’ve got the money.  If we don’t get a decisive victory here, our reputation is fucked.”

Villain fight!

I wonder if, during her career as a villain, Taylor fights other villains more than heroes. From what I know of Worm, I wouldn't be surprised. But how much more, pound for pound? :thinking_face:

This was the sort of thing I had put on a costume to do.  Sure, the context wasn’t what I would have chosen, but going up against bad guys?

As far as some of Taylor's various rationalization's go, this isn't even a particularly dangerous or slipper one. :thinking_face:

[bratzboykai]

Other reason I would like to get my 2nd oldest sister soju wasted cause shes so weird. Like she can tolerate tequila shots that would get other people TRASHED but for some reason she gets visibly drunk on like fucking canned Smirnoff drinks. Like truly what is wrong with you? Lol

[orcelito]

even glancing at stuff in trimax volume 10 sent my gut wrenching & i had to flip away from it fucking Quick but the volumes after that sent me fucking wild

i think im gonna reread all the stuff post-volume 10 again. probably necessarily considering i read all of it on like no sleep after an inadvisable all nighter & trigun binge which Included me reading volume 10 and fucking bawling my eyes out 5 times

yea. i missed some things. also i just rly fucking love this part of the story so Yea

also just. look at him. Look at him. this is one of my favorite fuckign panels. i need to experience this agan. i need it sooo fucking badly

im gonna reread it. soon.

[uncharismatic-fauna]

Believe in the Pink Fairy Armadillo

The pink fairy armadillo, also known as the pichiciego (Chlamyphorus truncatus) is a species of armadillo found only in central Argentina. They reside primarily in sandy flats, scrublands, and grasslands. They are extremely sensitive to environmental changes, and require certain species of shrub as well as copious amounts of compact sand for a suitable habitat.

Pichicegos spend the majority of their time underground, only emerging at night to forage. They feed mainly on ants, and supplement their diet with other insects, especially beetles, larvae worms, as well as various plants and roots. C. truncatus is also sometimes referred to as the 'sand swimmer' due to its ability to burrow quickly through sandy soil.

The pink fairy armadillo is named for its distinctive pink 'shell', composed of 24 leathery segments that are attached to the back via a thin membrane. The rest of the body is covered in fine white hair. These two features help individuals maintain a constant internal temperature despite the extremely hot days and frigid nights of the Argentinian desert. In addition to its unique looks, the pichicego is also notable for being the smallest known armadillo species. Adults can be anywhere from 90–115 mm (3.5–4.5 in) long, and typically weigh about 120 g (4.2 oz).

Very little is known about the mating and reproductive habits of pink fairy armadillos. Based on what is known about similar armadillo species, it is likely that females only have a small litter of 1-3 pups, and they will nurse them for some period of time. However, outside of mating, adults are known to be highly solitary-- though not aggressively territorial.

Conservation status: The pink fairy armadillo is currently listed as Data Deficient by the IUCN, as very little is known about this creature's population size or spread. However, in 2006 it was listed as Near Threatened, and due to its sensitivity to changes in habitat quality or structure it is likely threatened by climate change, habitat destruction, and agricultural activities.

Photos

Mariella Superina

Ivan Gutierrez Lemaitre

Mariella Superina

[versegm]

The Castoria Ukagaka is OUT!

Artoria Caster (Castoria for short) from popular video game Fate/Grand Order is here and ready to mingle on your desktop! Written by @versegm, coded & drawn by @characteroulette, she can do many things such as

Nothing

Chill

Relax

Look pretty

Make conversation

Get pet

Change into no less than three (3!) different shells, each of which featuring a removable hat

Empty your bin and check your calendar, if you really want her to do something useful.

You can download her here!

CONTENT WARNINGS:

Chronologically, Castoria hails from the aftermath of her adventure. Meaning she is dead. She does occasionally mentions her death and its circumstances, albeit in vague terms.

While Castoria mostly acts kind and helpful, she does occasionally get really bitter and vitriolic. This will never be targeted towards you as a user, but I figure this warrants a warning regardless.

She has one whole line about petplay.

What's an Ukagaka/How do I get the desktop Castoria?

An Ukagaka/Ghost is a computer widget that hangs around desktop. It can do a variety of things (empty your bin, check your calendar, set you reminders, ect) though in Castoria's specific case this is really just "what if blorbo could hang around with you and randomly chat you up." It's a bit like a shimeji, if you've heard of those.

Follow this very simple tutorial and you, too, will get to have the funny Castoria on your desktop! (And perhaps, many other ghosts! We did a Herlock Sholmes a few years back :)

Step 1: Get SSP

SSP is the software that allows ukagakas to run. You can get it here. Yes, the website is in full japanese, but fearen't! I screenshotted the download button you need.

Step 2: Get the .nar file of the ukagaka you want

Some ukagakas have multiple .nar files (Castoria has two for instance), just get all of these bad bitches :]

Step 3: Launch SSP

You should get good ol Emily popped on your desktop!

Step 4:

Drag your .nar files on emily! A pop-up will ask you if you want to install the ghost, and you shall say yes!

Step 4.5:

If the previous doesn't work, you can unzip the .nar files in the ghost folder in SSP, next to Emily's folder.

Step 5:

Right click + change ghost + Artoria Caster

And you should be good!

If you are still having issues, I will redirect you to the Ukagaka wiki and to Zi's blog.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: The Moon (pt. 2)

Earth’s Moon is thought to have formed in a tremendous collision. A massive object ― named Theia after the mythological Greek Titan who was the mother of Selene, goddess of the Moon ― smashed into Earth, flinging material into space that became the Moon.

The brightest and largest object in our night sky, the Moon makes Earth a more livable planet by moderating our home planet's wobble on its axis, leading to a relatively stable climate. It also causes tides, creating a rhythm that has guided humans for thousands of years.

The Moon was likely formed after a Mars-sized body collided with Earth several billion years ago.

Earth's only natural satellite is simply called "the Moon" because people didn't know other moons existed until Galileo Galilei discovered four moons orbiting Jupiter in 1610. In Latin, the Moon was called Luna, which is the main adjective for all things Moon-related: lunar.

The many missions that have explored the Moon have found no evidence to suggest it has its own living things. However, the Moon could be the site of future colonization by humans. The discovery that the Moon harbors water ice, and that the highest concentrations occur within darkened craters at the poles, makes the Moon a little more hospitable for future human colonists.

With a radius of about 1,080 miles (1,740 kilometers), the Moon is less than a third of the width of Earth. If Earth were the size of a nickel, the Moon would be about as big as a coffee bean.

The Moon is an average of 238,855 miles (384,400 kilometers) away. That means 30 Earth-sized planets could fit in between Earth and the Moon.

The Moon is slowly moving away from Earth, getting about an inch farther away each year.

The Moon is rotating at the same rate that it revolves around Earth (called synchronous rotation), so the same hemisphere faces Earth all the time. Some people call the far side – the hemisphere we never see from Earth – the "dark side" but that's misleading. As the Moon orbits Earth, different parts are in sunlight or darkness at different times. The changing illumination is why, from our perspective, the Moon goes through phases. During a "full moon," the hemisphere of the Moon we can see from Earth is fully illuminated by the Sun. And a "new moon" occurs when the far side of the Moon has full sunlight, and the side facing us is having its night.

The moon's near and far side.

The Moon makes a complete orbit around Earth in 27 Earth days and rotates or spins at that same rate, or in that same amount of time. Because Earth is moving as well – rotating on its axis as it orbits the Sun – from our perspective, the Moon appears to orbit us every 29 days.

The leading theory of the Moon's origin is that a Mars-sized body collided with Earth about 4.5 billion years ago. The resulting debris from both Earth and the impactor accumulated to form our natural satellite 239,000 miles (384,000 kilometers) away. The newly formed Moon was in a molten state, but within about 100 million years, most of the global "magma ocean" had crystallized, with less-dense rocks floating upward and eventually forming the lunar crust.

Earth's Moon has a core, mantle, and crust:

The Moon’s core is proportionally smaller than other terrestrial bodies' cores. The solid, iron-rich inner core is 149 miles (240 kilometers) in radius. It is surrounded by a liquid iron shell 56 miles (90 kilometers) thick. A partially molten layer with a thickness of 93 miles (150 kilometers) surrounds the iron core.

The mantle extends from the top of the partially molten layer to the bottom of the Moon's crust. It is most likely made of minerals like olivine and pyroxene, which are made up of magnesium, iron, silicon, and oxygen atoms.

The crust has a thickness of about 43 miles (70 kilometers) on the Moon’s near-side hemisphere and 93 miles (150 kilometers) on the far-side. It is made of oxygen, silicon, magnesium, iron, calcium, and aluminum, with small amounts of titanium, uranium, thorium, potassium, and hydrogen.

Long ago the Moon had active volcanoes, but today they are all dormant and have not erupted for millions of years.

With too sparse an atmosphere to impede impacts, a steady rain of asteroids, meteoroids, and comets strikes the surface of the Moon, leaving numerous craters behind. Tycho Crater is more than 52 miles (85 kilometers) wide.

Over billions of years, these impacts have ground up the surface of the Moon into fragments ranging from huge boulders to powder. Nearly the entire Moon is covered by a rubble pile of charcoal-gray, powdery dust, and rocky debris called the lunar regolith. Beneath is a region of fractured bedrock referred to as the megaregolith.

The light areas of the Moon are known as the highlands. The dark features, called maria (Latin for seas), are impact basins that were filled with lava between 4.2 and 1.2 billion years ago. These light and dark areas represent rocks of different compositions and ages, which provide evidence for how the early crust may have crystallized from a lunar magma ocean. The craters themselves, which have been preserved for billions of years, provide an impact history for the Moon and other bodies in the inner solar system.

If you looked in the right places on the Moon, you would find pieces of equipment, American flags, and even a camera left behind by astronauts. While you were there, you'd notice that the gravity on the surface of the Moon is one-sixth of Earth's, which is why in footage of moonwalks, astronauts appear to almost bounce across the surface.

The temperature on the Moon reaches about 260 degrees Fahrenheit (127 degrees Celsius) when in full Sun, but in darkness, the temperatures plummet to about -280 degrees Fahrenheit (-173 degrees Celsius).

During the initial exploration of the Moon, and the analysis of all the returned samples from the Apollo and the Luna missions, we thought that the surface of the Moon was dry.

The first definitive discovery of water was made in 2008 by the Indian mission Chandrayaan-1, which detected hydroxyl molecules spread across the lunar surface and concentrated at the poles. Missions such as Lunar Prospector, LCROSS, and Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter, have not only shown that the surface of the Moon has global hydration but there are actually high concentrations of ice water in the permanently shadowed regions of the lunar poles.

Scientists also found the lunar surface releases its water when the Moon is bombarded by micrometeoroids. The surface is protected by a layer, a few centimeters of dry soil that can only be breached by large micrometeoroids. When micrometeoroids impact the surface of the Moon, most of the material in the crater is vaporized. The shock wave carries enough energy to release the water that’s coating the grains of the soil. Most of that water is released into space.

In October 2020, NASA’s Stratospheric Observatory for Infrared Astronomy (SOFIA) confirmed, for the first time, water on the sunlit surface of the Moon. This discovery indicates that water may be distributed across the lunar surface, and not limited to cold, shadowed places. SOFIA detected water molecules (H2O) in Clavius Crater, one of the largest craters visible from Earth, located in the Moon’s southern hemisphere.

The Moon has a very thin and weak atmosphere, called an exosphere. It does not provide any protection from the Sun's radiation or impacts from meteoroids.

The early Moon may have developed an internal dynamo, the mechanism for generating global magnetic fields for terrestrial planets, but today, the Moon has a very weak magnetic field. The magnetic field here on Earth is many thousands of times stronger than the Moon's magnetic field.

Earth’s Moon was born out of destruction.

Several theories about our Moon’s formation vie for dominance, but almost all share that point in common: near the time of the solar system’s formation, about 4.5 billion years ago, something ― perhaps a single object the size of Mars, perhaps a series of objects ― crashed into the young Earth and flung enough molten and vaporized debris into space to create the Moon.

Five Things We Learned from Apollo Moon Rocks

The chemical composition of Moon and Earth rocks are very similar.

The Moon was once covered in an ocean of magma.

Meteorites have shattered and melted rocks on the Moon’s surface through impacts.

Lava flowed up through cracks in the Moon’s crust and filled its impact basins.

Lunar “soil” is made of pulverized rock created by meteorite impacts.

If these writing notes helped with your poem/story, please tag me. Or leave a link in the replies. I'd love to read them!

Writing Notes: The Moon (pt. 1) ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[lilyswitchy]

hii!! firstly i just wanna say that i adore your fics and hcs, theyre really really cute ^_^ and secondly, i was wondering if youd be up to doing a lee!shelly and ler!tisha fic? /nf your hcs about them are super adorable and i just think a fic would be even more so,, :3

"See? You're all giggly again!" (Dandy's World tickle fic)

A/N: This is a platonic fossilcleaning fic (though you can see it as ship if you like!) and there's some angst at the start so uh... look out—

-🐚🧼-

It's been another day. Yet another day of not getting any attention.

It hurt.

It was another day of being ignored by all her peers. Well, not that much. But who cares?

At least Tisha was there for her.

At least Vee gets it.

And everyone else? They just understand too. It's just hard. In fact, it's so hard, tears form on her face.

It's too hard for her.

All she wants to do is to state some dino facts.

Won't anyone stay with her?

She thought that as she flipped to another page, not letting the tears get through. "Iguanodon was a large, bulky herbivore, measuring up to 9–11 metres (30–36 ft) in length and 4.5 metric tons (5.0 short tons) in body mass..." The ammonite mumbled as she read. She closed the book, put it aside, and sighed.

And then the door opens. Tisha strides inside of the room her best friend was in, seeing her clearly discontent and tear streaked face. "Shell..."

Shelly looked back. For now, she'd prefer to be left alone. But then again, company is good

She grumbled as Tisha sat down next to her. She put her head in her shoulder. The blue tissue box aimed to cheer her up just right, without being too overbearing either.

Looking clearly at her, the ammonite's expression would soften. At least she was there again. "There we go. I care about you. I just want to see you smile."

"Thanks Tish. You know, I can tell you about... The... Brontosaurus?"

"Yeah, sure!"

With those words, Shelly got right up in giddy excitement.

"So!" Shelly started. "The Brontosaurus was a large sauropod, a group of typically large dinosaurs with long necks and long tails. It lived during the Late Jurassic Period, from about 156 to 145 million years ago!"

Tisha smiles widely, and as she listens intently to her rambling, she can't help saying "That's really interesting!"

Despite not being a dinosaur expert like Shelly, she sure was impressed. Shelly smiled back at her, her grin practically matching the tissue box's. But then, Tisha thought of something, and she would smile widely.

"Well, now that you're feeling all better... how about this?"

Tisha makes a quick jab to her ribs, causing her to squirm. In instinct, Shelly curled up and rolled down in the floor. "Hehehe! Tishaha! S-stahap!"

Shelly desperately tried to shove her hand away but it was no use. Tisha was persistent. "Aww, look at you! All giggly!~", the tissue box teased as she decided to go down to her sides.

Shelly metaphorically exploded. She shrieked as Tisha decided to slightly increase the speed of her tickles. "NOHOHO! TIHISH! NOHOT MY SIHIDES!"

"See? You're all giggly again!" The ammonite rolled up into a ball again. "EHEHEHEHEHE! AHAHAHAHAHA!"

"I really like your laugh. It's super cute." Shelly's face reddened slightly as she said that. "NOHO IHIT'S NOHOHOT!" The ammonite tries to push the tissue box away, but she's unstoppable in this state. After all, her laughter was giddy and bubbly—just the right amount of sweet to make anyone continue.

"You're a bit squirmy here. Maybe I should doo... this?~" And Tisha goes ahead to blow a raspberry on her side. She squeals. The kicking from Shelly was overdrive, it bordered on sheer madness.

"T-TISHAHAHAHA! NOHOT THOHOSE!"

"See? Giggly~"

After a few moments the tissue box finally relented. Shelly let out a relieved sigh. "So.. wanna say anything else?" Tisha asked her. Shelly replied, "Sure.."—albeit being taken out.

She picked up a book of hers, and went to a random page. She then started reading the facts to Tisha.

"Triceratops is a large ceratopsian, easily identified by its frill, horns, and love of fresh fruit..."

-🐚🧼-

I really hope you enjoyed! Thanks to my goat Google for the facts, wouldn't have managed to complete this fic without them

[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.03 ~ ♆

“ Let the 67th Annual Hunger Games begin, “

{{ finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, insinuation of forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, death, nightmares, etc

{{ word count }} 4.5 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} The tribute Parade comes and goes as training begins and the next two weeks all but fly past. Then after an intrusive interview the day of the Games arrives.

{{ a/n }} Super quick “highlights” up ahead !! This chapter jumps around a bit and is much faster paced than normal but i swear it makes sense in the long run I just didn’t want to bore you all with regurgitated details to be revealed later on. enjoy!!

You didn’t see Finnick again.

Not even after arriving in the Capital on the train platform. A small piece of you had started to regret your outburst, but a bigger part was too stubborn to admit that. Besides, the likelihood of you seeing the boy again was slim. Thatcher was right in saying you’d be “whisked away” because everything moved incredibly fast from then on.

Your transport to the Tribute Center was quick and efficient. You were barely able to settle before a prep team all but kidnapped you and whisked you away once more to the Remake Center to prepare for the parade and opening ceremonies of the Games.

The prep team’s techniques were invasive, to say the least. Almost every inch of your skin was examined, prodded at, scrubbed, washed, plucked, waxed, moisturized, and polished when they finished the lengthy cleaning process. Even The dried blood under your fingernails had been picked away. As more time passed, the more you really did start to feel like some kind of show animal or “prize-winning salmon” leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

Managing a weak thanks as you’re handed a flimsy gown to cover up with, your prep team gives a nod before leaving. That too-clean feeling from the train ride sends pinpricks up your spine again as you sit up to slide the gown on and peer around the sleek room. It’s wide open and similar to some kind of medical bay, although much more modern than the small clinics back in District 4. Peacekeepers line the outside wall along slanted windows. There are many smothered voices behind plastic, vinyl curtains used to separate the small prep rooms down the open corridor. It’s safe to assume you’re surrounded by the other Tributes.

A stylist introduces herself to you as Hyacinth, briefly explaining the vision behind the luxurious garment as it’s pulled from a protective sleeve on the hanger in her hands. Every set of Tributes was given costumes to match their District’s core industry to wear throughout the parade. District 4’s costumes, obviously, represented their many fisheries. The garment was difficult to distinguish from any other fishing net made on your ports back home, but as the stylist began to wrap the intricate material around your exposed skin it began to look more like a costume.

You were right about the ensemble being mostly netting. Thankfully, you were provided a bodysuit that had been airbrushed to match your complexion and painted details to resemble gills across the sides of your ribs. Large iridescent blue-green fish scales had been woven in and across the netting on your chest as if splattered there, crawling up your collarbones and wrapping around your shoulders. More scales were placed down your arms towards your fingertips, and the same process was applied to your legs with a sticky substance. The bottom of the netted costume had more scales adorning the hemming, their colors changing under the lights. You were left barefoot, which you felt was a bit dangerous, but you were too focused on their intricate handiwork to object to. Your hair was left in its natural texture, although Hyacinth laid a few pieces just how she wanted them. Ear cuffs made to resemble fins wrap around the shell of your ears. Your makeup was painted on in colors to match the color-shifting scales, and your fingernails and toes were painted an ocean blue.

“You look absolutely stunning Darling,”

Hyacinth had stepped back to admire her finished product, and you couldn’t help the insecurity churning your insides. A bathing suit revealed more than a netted outfit, but you couldn’t help feeling completely exposed. “I-It is very beautiful. Thank you,” You try not to stumble on your words as you do a small twirl in the mirror. Hyacinth’s smile spreads, and she gives a giddy clap of her hands, largely appreciating the flattery.

“Wonderful Darling!! Now, come, come, we must get you downstairs. Your chariot awaits!”

You’re ushered away from the small prep room and quickly transported from the Remake Center to an open-air stadium for the Tribute Parade. Upon entering a large open hall connected to the stadium floor, you notice the twelve shiny mental chariots pulled by beautiful inky Clydesdales. The horse’s mane and tails are freshly groomed, and their coats shine in the stadium lights. You can’t help thinking what magnificent creatures they are as you approach. The other Tributes around you are resigned to themselves, talking only to their stylists or one another. Your district partner and their stylist are already beside your chariot as well. You offer a small hello but wander over to the beautiful inky-colored creatures attached to the chariot.

One of the Clydesdales gives a soft whinny as you gently reach out to stroke its mane. You’d only seen horses less than a handful of times but had always admired the strong creatures. The remaining minutes you have before the opening ceremonies begin are spent stroking the horse’s strong neck and muzzle while whispering sweet nothings to the creatures.

Once an announcement is made that the ceremony is about to begin, you give the horses a sweet smile in farewell before stepping up onto the chariot beside your District Partner. You hadn’t noticed the odd look they’d given you, but their eyes quickly averted upon you meeting their stare. That familiar anxious knot twists your insides as the gleaming chariot lurches forward to follow the procession. Your knuckles turn white from how stiff your grip on the front of the chariot is.

The parade runs smoothly, though you find the loud cheers and hollers of the hundreds of thousands gathered to watch the event extremely overwhelming. Bitterness sets in your jaw as you remember they only care about the entertainment your death will provide. Your promise echoes through your mind as you take your eyes from the grandstands to look ahead toward the President of Panem, Coriolanus Snow.

You will not die.

Training begins in the morning, bright and early. There’s officially less than two weeks before the Games. All twenty-four tributes are transported to the Training center from their quarters and dressed in nearly identical uniforms consisting of black athletic long sleeves and pants with sleek black combat boots. Burnt orange accents run up the side seams and across the shoulders of their uniforms. The only distinction between Tributes is their district number embroidered on their backs in the same burnt orange as the accents on their clothes.

You scan the large training area as everyone spreads out to show off their personal strengths. Shifting your weight between your feet, you try to focus on your brief discussion with mags over breakfast. The goal of the training is to be observed by potential sponsors who can send aid in the arena. The more sponsors you get, the better your odds of potentially surviving. Your goal wasn’t to gain as many sponsors as possible by showing off but instead focusing on honing your skills to survive without the extra gifts. With a deep inhale, you make your way to a tall rope course that stretches the expanse of the upper levels of the hall and get to work.

The first few days spent in the Training Center, you work on getting through the ropes course, then getting through the course with weights, then doing both things while being as light-footed and silent as possible. You try to distance yourself from the other tributes, especially the growing pack of careers. Your best bet is to blend in and remain invisible to keep others off your back. Tensions increase after the first week, and a fight inevitably breaks out between the careers. Two female tributes are arguing for power within the alliance, ending in the pack dividing in two. You can only hope the grudges they now carry become their downfall in the arena as you resume your knife-throwing practice.

You’re not the best, but you manage to at least hit the target a few times. By the end of the next day, you’re hitting the target, although nowhere near the center or any crucial extremities on the human cutout. It would be enough to slow an opponent but nothing lethal at long range. You tried to push away the bile that threatened to rise in your throat whenever you remembered the high possibility of actually facing another human being with these knives. You hoped it wouldn’t come down to that, but your rationale knew better. The claim you spat in that bronze-haired boy’s face rang in your ears.

“I’d rather choose death than a life with blood on my hands.”

You scrape by with a score of six during the private Tribute Showcase, nimbly traversing the ropes course with a heavy weight on your back with barely a sound. Your goal of staying under the radar had worked.

Tonight, Hyacinth was fawning over another luxurious garment designed for your impending live audience interview with the ever-charismatic and flamboyant Caesar Flickerman. The stylist monologues her vision while zipping the back of the ensemble. Your costume tonight was made to represent the sea itself, a deep aquamarine bodysuit covered in various droplet crystals hugging your form, and a makeshift cape of the same deep color fades into layers of progressively lighter sea greens and blues, mimicking the sea foam of rolling waves on the coast. The many layers of the waterfall cape move in a satisfying cascade down your back to the floor, trailing behind you.

You’re given slim boots to match the bodysuit, and your hair is pinned up to showcase your bare back and the excessive cape. Ear cuffs nearly identical to the ones you wore during the parade wrap around your ears, and your makeup is honed more to accentuate your natural features than cover them. The polish on your fingernails is a muted sea green that causes a twist in your chest. The color reminds you too much of a certain bronze-haired boy.

Regret flashes through you again.

“Alright, Darling, shoulders back. Head high, you’ll be a spectacle no one will look away from,” Hyacinth coos as she brushes the fabric across your shoulders and adjusts finishing minute details. You offer a small smile with a sweet thanks before she loops your arm in hers and leads you toward the wings backstage. You really weren’t fond of the many cameras or prying eyes that awaited beyond your shadowy safe haven out of view, but you didn’t have a choice but to smile and play the part.

The male Tribute of District 3 is wrapping up their brief interview, and that anxious knot contorts harshly inside your chest. Soon, the interviewer and interviewee stand, shake hands, and the Tribute exits stage left.

“Now, Our next Tribute hails from the northern end of our beloved District 4,”

Caesar chirps through his introduction, and a nudge from behind urges you forward at the call of your name. You startle forward but manage to keep a sureness in your steps. The bright flashing lights and mechanical snaps of cameras form an overstimulating cacophony between the roar of the Capital citizens. The host of tonight’s event is adorned in sparkling silver, from the top of his slicked-back hair down to piercing eye contacts and a monochromatic tux that you could’ve sworn was closer to chrome from the gleaming shine.

You offer a wavering smile as you approach the host. Caesar Flickerman motions you to the seat beside him as he descends to the eggshell-colored swivel chair. You take your seat, adjusting the cascading cape to flow over the arm of the chair to remain because of the audience. A chorus of “ooo’s” and “ahhh’s” reverberates through the auditorium, and you can’t help the burning flush at the tips of your ears. “You look absolutely stunning tonight, my Dear,” Caesar compliments through a picture-perfect smile. You nod in thanks as he dives right into the questions.

“So, how has Capital life been treating you?”

“Uhm, it’s been very.. different, to say the least,” You stumble a bit through your response, but Caesar simply nods and leans out to the crowd with that picture-perfect smile and a laugh. “Well, what’s the most?” and a chorus of hoots and laughter rises from the audience again. Your faux smile falters, and your hands wring together in your lap anxiously. “It’s just more..extravagant than back home, is all. More colorful.” You reply shakily. The host nods in encouragement before moving on to the next question.

“Well, a little birdie whispered that a certain Sweetheart of the Capital arrived with you on the Tribute’s train. Our beloved Finnick Odair, one might say. Correct me if I’m wrong, but is there possibly a star-crossed lovers situation on our hands?”

Your blood runs cold as the phrase leaves Flickerman’s lips. He’s leaned forward, clearly on the edge of his seat, with the microphone pointed towards you, and the auditorium falls deathly silent. Your throat feels tight as all you do is stare in pure disbelief. “W-What?” You choke out, bewilderment on your face as your ears flush red from a burning embarrassment in your chest. The audience scoffs in disappointment at your response, and your confusion grows.

Caesar’s expression shifts as his smile falters, his eyes all but telling you to answer or make something up so he can move on. You stutter in reply while firmly shaking your head from side to side,

“No, no! It’s nothing like that at all. Honestly, I find him more irritating than anything. Besides, I’d never fall for a stuck-up Peacock like Finnick Odair in a thousand years!”

Your embarrassment turns into anger at the question as the audience groans in further disappointment, a few “Boos” echoing through the rafters above. However, much to your dismay, a few conspiring whispers slip through under all the noise that signifies your words weren’t taken as truth. This makes your blood simmer as Caesar barks a laugh, slapping a tanned hand on his silver knee.

“Ah hah! Well, that’s a mighty claim my dear, but I’m not so sure you’re well believed seeing that blush on your cheeks!”

Your jaw sets as you sit through two more equally ludicrous questions about your life before you exit the stage and return to your living quarters for the night. Upon returning to the Tribute Center and changing out of your ocean blue costume with the help of Hyacinth and her team, you immediately sink into the heavenly warmth of the large tub in your private washroom. However, not before receiving a thorough chew out from Thatcher over your once again “unprofessional behavior” when answering Caesar’s questions and for apparently “disrespecting” the Capital’s Darling.

Gently, you scrub yourself clean but remain in the comforting heat and steamy air till the water is frigid, trying to soak in the pleasuring warmth as long as possible while enjoying the brief privacy the washroom allows. Eventually, you drain the tub and towel yourself off, slipping into soft, lightweight bottoms, similar to the ones Finnick had thrown at you on the train, and an oversized short-sleeved tunic.

Finnick.

Unwanted pinpricks of regret stab your chest again, and a crease forms between your brows as the remembrance of the bronze-haired victor brings the interview questions surging back to the front of your mind. You grip your toothbrush tighter as you try to push away the embarrassment from earlier tonight. You didn’t know or understand how a rumor like that could even be an inkling in someone’s mind. You didn’t even see the boy at the station platform, and what business was it of a bunch of old snobby Capital Elites to reach after the love lives of children picked to slaughter one another in less than a day? Your stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought.

Once you finished preparing for sleep, you pad your way over to your bed and find a comfortable seating position before flipping through a few of the ‘sleep aids’ with a small metal remote. The floor-to-ceiling windows in your luxurious, Capital-provided, bedroom flashed between different sceneries till you landed on one of the waves crashing on a foggy shore. The muddy sand of the beach drifted under the lull of the tide. Occasionally, seagulls cawed from the clouds above.

You knew you should be doing something with your last night of so-called ‘freedom’ before the Games begin tomorrow, but all you can do is stare at the waves. You wonder how your siblings and father are faring like you have every night since your departure from District 4. You could only hope they were learning to adapt with you being gone. Trying not to spiral over your fate, you drag your hands down your face to scrub at your eyes with a heavy sigh and thick swallow.

“I can do this…”

You mutter the mantra to yourself as you internally review the strategies Mags had made you memorize. There weren’t any clues given as to what the arena entailed. Rumors had been overheard in the Training Center, but the Gamemakers never repeated an arena. There could be anything in that dome of death tomorrow. The waves continue to crash on the screen, the whistle of a breeze blowing through the tall pines just beyond the beach that helps keep you grounded.

You could do this. You had to. Your father’s only word in farewell echos like many others.

“Survive,”

The morning comes too soon. You didn’t touch much of your breakfast even though you know you need as much energy as possible. Mags gives a pointed look your way, and you begrudgingly force a few bites down. Afterward, Mags, Hyacinth, and you are escorted by peacekeepers to a flight hanger near the Tribute Center. You receive an almost bone-crushing hug from your mentor that you graciously return with equal vigor.

“Thank you, for everything”

You murmur into the older woman’s hair. You feel her tears dampen the tunic covering your shoulder. Forcing yourself to pull away and wipe the tears from the elderly woman’s face as she signs her care for you. You offer a sweet smile and other thanks before a Peacekeeper takes your arm and leads you onto a hovercraft. Hyacinth follows, and you're pushed into a seat.

“Your arm,” The Peacekeeper orders while reaching out their hand. You hesitantly reach out, and they quickly place a device with an abnormally large needle into your arm. You grimace at the sting as a trigger is tugged, and a small glowing object appears beneath your skin. Your arm is dropped, and you place two fingers lightly over the slight bump caused by the device. “Don’t touch that. It’s your tracker.” The peacekeeper remarks, and you startle, returning your hands to your lap. The flight is long, but you don’t doze off as adrenaline pumps through your core. Tucking stray flyaways behind your ears, you look across to Hyacinth, who offers a solemn smile. The hovercraft eventually lands, a group of Peacekeepers in stark white uniforms meet you, and you’re quickly led to a small room.

The room is bare bones with only a rack containing your uniform for the Games, a small desk, and an overhead lamp. Two peacekeepers stand guard outside the door, and Hyacinth helps prepare you one last time. The uniform doesn’t give much away about what to expect of the arena besides its colors. Consisting of dark brown hiking boots, slim-fitted pants with multiple pockets in burnt umber, a warm brown skin-tight tank top, and a lightweight khaki-colored windbreaker. The possibility of a dry, warm climate arose in your mind as you examined the materials of your uniform. Hyacinth gave you a sad smile as she fixed the hood of your jacket.

“Good luck my Darling, it’s been my pleasure to know you.”

The stylist’s smile is sad, tears brim her eyes, and you can’t help feeling emotional. This was it. She would be the last person you saw before the Games began. You wrap your arms around the tall woman in a hug, surprising the stylist, but she gently accepts and returns the gesture. You give her your thanks before an announcement comes through a speaker somewhere in the room that the countdown is about to begin. With a thick swallow, you step towards the glass elevator indicated to ale you up into the arena. You hesitate, a shaky inhale entering your nose before gingerly stepping onto the panel. The glass door wraps around with a slick “shink” and your whirl to face your stylist. But she’s already left the room, probably unable to watch another one of her tributes enter the thunderstorm of the Hunger Games arena.

You don’t blame her.

A moment passes before the platform you’re standing on begins to rise, and your gaze turns skyward. The light is bright, causing your sensitive eyes to squint. You take note that you’re at least in an outdoor setting. The air that kisses your skin is dry and warm as your platform fully breaches the earth into the arena. Your head swivels as you take in the surroundings as a bright yellow countdown has begun in the sky above via hologram.

The arena of the 67th games was a ravine.

Half the tributes are spread on your side of the steep, open-mouthed drop, the other twelve across the wide mouth on a parallel cliff. There are trees behind, but there are no weapons because they’re all in the center across a woven net. The footholds are wide. If you’re not careful, you’ll trip and either plummet to the rushing water miles below or succumb to a Tribute’s attacks. Weapons and supplies are placed on a tarp in the center of the woven bridge. The Cornucopia. Maybe things would be over sooner than you thought.

The countdown is halfway.

Wetting your lips, you take a glance down and fight the urge to vomit, hearing someone else already do so over the side of their podium at the descent less than a foot from the cliff edge. Layers of cliffs jut out in makeshift ladders and walkways with alcoves to possibly hide in, but you quickly realize the only source of fresh water will be the rushing river at the bottom of the ravine. Glancing back up, you quickly try to stop the blanking panic in your mind as you try to recall everything Mags had taught you. Your best bet was to run. You can use your jacket as cover and get to the bottom to hide while everyone is too busy risking the crawl to the weapons. There was bound to be edible plant life at the bottom, or worse, you hunt for something better on the way down.

Ten seconds left.

Nine,

Eight,

Seven,

Six,

Five,

Four,

Three,

Two,

One,

“Let the 67th annual Hunger Games, begin.”

A bell sounds, and all hell breaks loose. No one yells, only the fierce grunts as Tributes race for the Cornucopia. You don’t see your District Partner, but you don’t stay static long enough to see the carnage that ensues as you bolt in the opposite direction. Two other Tributes bolt after you but veer straight into the trees beyond. Your heart feels like it’ll burst from your chest as you sprint down the edge till you find a slope to take you down. Falling to a slide, you slip down to another cliff as the first canon booms.

twenty three left.

Two more canons burst through the arena as you continue your rocky descent. Children are screaming above you, and you hurl what little substance is in your stomach as a body falls in front of you with a sickening crunch. The blood splatters across your skin, and you bite back your terrified scream. You have to keep moving.

Another canon.

Twenty left.

You dare take a glance behind and luckily manage to escape unnoticed. But you don’t hold hope on that factor as loud snaps reverberate down the canyon. Someone was cutting the net to the Cornucopia. There’s more screaming as you nimbly jump from the rocky slab you stood upon down to a jutting-out cliff, narrowly avoiding a fall to your demise. A pained scream catches in your throat through gritted teeth as your shoulder makes contact and you roll across the red earth. A dampness coats your tongue with a metallic taste of copper. Blood.

Forcing yourself to stand, your knees nearly fall out from under you, but you remain upright as you take another running jump to an even lower rock platform. By now, someone shouts above the screaming, “Go that way!” and you force yourself to move faster. You don’t have time to see what the voice originating the order meant. All you know is you have to get away. You land chest first on the edge of the cliff, and the wind is knocked from your chest. Blood splatters on the gravel, projected from the cough of air escaping your lungs. It’s an effort to pull yourself back up over the edge, slipping on sliding feet for a foothold on the rock wall, but you manage. There’s the crunch of boots above, and your terror amplifies tenfold as a spear shoots past you down to the depths. “S-Shit..” you gurgle on blood as you take off running once more, choking down small gasps of air that never seem to reach your lungs.

You can’t stop.

Another canon goes off and you hear another body fall to the depths, following another grotesque crunch of bone and muscle on rock.

Nineteen left.

A metallic clatter fills the expansive cavern of the ravine, and you spare a fleeting glance above just as the netting of the Cornucopia plummets. Metal cases, weapons, backpacks, and other supplies become entangled in the tarp they had rested upon as debris falls. Cases shatter and clang on the many cliffs. You do your best to evade the sharp debris but aren’t fast enough as a blade slices across the back of your left leg. You’re brought to your knees by the searing pain but again force yourself up, barely remembering to grab the small blade and continue your descent. White hot pain shoots ribbons through your entire leg, but you keep moving, albeit slower than before. Two more canons.

Seventeen Tributes left.

Seven children already dead.

You could only hope your canon wouldn’t fire anytime soon.

Another canon, sixteen left.

You will not die.

{{ taglist }}

@emerald-09 @reader-bookling123 @finnickodaddy @thehairington86 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @avoxrising @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @whens-naptime @violettbae @the-lonely-abyss @secretsicanthideanymore

[flower-boi16]

If it helps comfort you somewhat, word on the streets says that S3 of Helluva Boss won't happen because animators are leaving left and right and that even if it does it will get cut short due to money issues and what I referred to earlier.

I would have mixed feelings on that. Helluva Boss is a show that, despite how much I criticize and make fun of the writing, I was a genuine fan of. The first season despite some issues is very solid, featuring funny jokes, fast paced action, pretty looking animation, good songs and a lot of compelling and endearing characters. The premise was super interesting and the season left a lot of potential for season 2 to expand upon. In spite of its flaws, it’s a good season.

But season 2 has been a complete disappointment to me. It took all of the potential that season 1 left for it and threw it away, assassinated many of the show’s characters, and ruined Helluva Boss’ core identity, turning it from a fast paced black comedy show about some imps running a business with some character development and story thrown in to abandoning it’s premise in favor of becoming a romance drama centring around a relationship that isn’t even that well written at all.

The writing took a massive turn for the worst and the show has become a shell of its former self. The season drags the show down as a whole from a 8/10 to a 4.5/10 (maybe leaning more to a 5 but still). And it’s sad. It’s sad to see a show I liked devolve into this mess when it could have been so good. I’m glad that HB exists due to it being a massive achievement for indie animation, same for HH, but I would feel so much happier if the writhing was actually good..but it’s not.

I don’t want to dislike season 2 as much as I do, okay? I don’t want to go into every episode hating it. This is just how I genuinely feel about the current state of this show, and, by extension, this whole franchise.

So if season 2 is going to be the end with no chance of improvement, It’s gonna suck. It’s going to cement this season and this whole show as a disappointment for a lot of people, a show that could have been great but fell off.

So, at this point, if season 2 will be the end…let’s maybe hope the finale is at the very least decent. But even that won’t be enough to salvage this season.

[maniculum]

Another Scorpion Sunday! This one is from a 13th-century English psalter, indicating that not all English psalters go the wyvern route. Specifically, this is from Royal MS 1 D X at the British Library.

Also, @sliceofpearpie did their own illumination of this particular scorpion connected to the original scorpion post, which I think might qualify as "medieval scorpion fan art" -- you can see it at this link here.

Nothing else to add about this one, since my usual resource -- the British Library -- is, as mentioned previously, inaccessible until Arthur returns from Avalon with technical support. So, on to the points.

Small Scuttling Beaſtie? ✓

Pincers? ✘

Exoskeleton or Shell? ✘

Visible Stinger? ✘

Limbs? 10

As for vibes, I really like this one. I was vacillating between a 4 and a 5, so as is my practice, I decided to split the difference and give it a 4.5 / 5. Weird-looking fellow, but in a really charming way.

This means our total is:

6.5 / 10

You have to respect it for being one of the only examples with the right number of limbs.

[olaqueenbeeofastrology]

🍓

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[astriiformes]

Sending out a distress call to you all because you're cool people that might have good answers for me.

I am in desperate need of a new pair of shoes. As in, my current ones have been falling apart around my feet for months now and it's getting pretty bad. The challenge is: shoes are my single biggest source of dysphoria. I have tiny feet, even in women's sizes (I wear a size 6.5 or 7, which translates to something like a men's 4.5), and even the stores fellow trans men recommend as having men's shoes in more inclusive sizes don't stock shoes small enough to fit me.

My dream pair of shoes would be a pair of sturdy leather men's hiking boots. Genuinely nothing fancy. But they just don't seem to make what I'm looking for in my size. Looking for shoes tends to reduce me to tears because I'd be willing to shell out a fair bit of money for a pair I actually liked, assuming they'd last me a while, but I just can't find anything I'm willing to spend that kind of money on.

If anyone knows of any stores to check out, I'd love your ideas. One thing I've been considering is trying to look at more vintage shops, since some 30s/40s outdoorsy women's styles actually get fairly close to what I want (and are probably better quality than a lot of brands today). Or vintage-inspired stores. But really anything with good options for trans men who want men's-style shoes in tiny sizes would be a godsend.

[tubapun]

Ranking All the Insomniac Spider Suits by Ass Juiciness

Advanced Suit: 8/10. Decent lift and seperation, but he looks constantly tensed. Could bounce a dime off of him but not enough jiggle

Classic Suit: 8.5/10. About the same as the Advanced but less concave on the sides. You could rest your weary head on that ass

Noir Suit: 4/10. Theres some fat there but its like the kind of pillow that sinks your head directly back onto the bed, and it didnt even reach that high off of it to begin with. To be expected with pinstripe pants I guess.

Scarlet Spider: 10/10. Boob window but for ass. Thats a whole bouncy castle back there i tell yall what

Spider-Armor MK II Suit: 7/10. The racing stripes make it look saggy, which could be good but isnt in this case. still not bad, just not my cup of tea. ass. ass tea

Secret Wars Suit: 5/10. Not quite noir levels of flat but youd hurt your head if you laid back too fast. stop tensing man

Stark Suit: 9/10. Theres some heft there!! The fabric really defines the cheeks as well, its like a duplex

Negative Suit: 8/10. The inversion somehow adds more mass in some areas and removes it from others. Average butt, but still nice to see

Electrically Insulated Suit: 4.5/10. Too padded, you get the sense that theres less ass than it seems, especially because of how the rest of the body is bulked up

Spider-Punk: 5/10. Despite the origins of the word, this isnt gay enough. Jeans too tight, the ass is flattened and hard, if present

Wrestler Suit: 2/10. Considering sweats are known to accentuate ass and yet he ends up with the same shape as noir, this is really a bad showing from peter

Fear Itself Suit: 1/10. Chainmail sucks for ass. Flatter than my chest

Stealth "Big Time" Suit: 1/10. They must have fucked up the sliders on this row

Spider-Armor MK III Suit: WHY IS HE CONCAVE

Spider-Man 2099 Black Suit: 10/10 Miggy your ass has saved me this is like a broth compared to the kiln dried slab of oak that the last few have been

Iron Spider Suit: 6/10. Maybe its the whiplash but this just isnt doing it. Its an average ass, but nothing to write home about

Velocity Suit: 1/10. Cmon man. I know aerodynamics and all but cmon

Spider-Armor Mark IV: barely more than the last and without the excuse. Why is armor so skin tight it restricts movement and ass jiggle. that cant be protective

Spirit Spider: 7/10. Adequate, but i cant imagine theres much jiggle. Might be because of the muscle texture of the suit

Spider-Man 2099 White Suit: 6/10. This is like when they removed Snakes ass in Ultimate. I get its cause its squished in there but its like a shell i dont like it

Vintage Comic Book Suit: 6/10. The shaders add some good definition, but the way the top blends into the back its clear that theres not much of a back shelf there

Last Stand Suit: 2/10. I own a pair of jeans just like this so can confirm they can squeeze a ton of ass in and still look like that. Unfortunately that means the apparent juiciness is low as hell

Undies: 2/10. Boxer Briefs provide a lot of lower end support, but theres not enough under there to make me happy

Homemade Suit: 2/10. Same issue as the wrestler suit

Anti-Ock Suit: 1/10. He's concave again

Dark Suit: 6/10. The ass is emphasized but not in a way that makes me think he has enough to fill it out. No wonder Black Cat left him

Resilient Suit: 4/10. Theres some profile there but not enough. The highlight is helping though

Spider-Uk: 8/10. Okay so i was all ready to be snarky and rude cause not only is it british but i had somehow not gotten a screenshot so i had to pull up the game again and that was annoying. But its a solid ass. would eat crumpet while laying on it

Scarlet Spider II Suit: 7/10. Perky and tight!! You get the sense its like a pleather couch cushion

30 images is the limit per post so im gonna do the rest in a reblog

[theculturedmarxist]

War Games

You need to be ready because war between the United States and China is inevitable.

I hate to use the word "inevitable" because it implies that it is preordained, a foregone conclusion irrespective of circumstance or volition. In this instance it is apt because the US has crafted the circumstances and shaped itself internally and externally so that it has no other choice but to engage in conflict.

To fully explain why this is would require a substantially longer post, several posts in fact, at the very least. In summary though, the welfare state created by the New Deal and the activist sentiment cultivated by the Vietnam War and the Civil Rights Movement spurred a reaction by the bourgeoisie, which resulted in the "Reagan Revolution." Proletarian empowerment was to be checked and dismantled at every opportunity and any impediment to corporate power was to be removed. Unions were dismantled. Public Education was attacked. Trusts were to be facilitated in the name of "efficiency."

Over the course of forty years, the players of the US political and economic system have taken steps favorable to themselves which have made reform impossible. Aberration from the desires of the ruling class is treated with extreme intolerance and the heterodox are expelled from "polite society." Alternative conceptions to the current state of things are portrayed as quixotic at best and foreign or evil at worst.

The result is such that any attempt to reform or ameliorate the social, economic, or political status quo of the United States is virtually impossible.

The US's foreign policy goals since the fall of the Soviet Union has been the dissolution of the Russian Federation and the subjugation of the People's Republic of China, as set out in the policy document "Project for a New American Century." 9/11, the invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq, the destruction of Libya, occupation of Syria, etc, etc, have all been stepping stones on the war towards those ultimate goals. Clinton, Bush, Obama, Trump, and Biden have all facilitated those goals.

The problem is that the "United States," by which I mean the bourgeoisie which represent its interested parties, its political facilitators, and its petite-bourgeois factions which occupy its implementation mechanisms, have crafted the internal and external national circumstances so that novel responses to emerging circumstances are impossible.

To give an example, the war in Ukraine proves that its patently impossible for the US to wage war directly against Russia. In terms of production capacity, the United States simply cannot compete. Case in point, the Russian Federation is producing 4.5 million artillery shells per year. The US meanwhile is producing somewhere in the neighborhood of 450,000. The reason this is is because monopolies have hollowed out the US's production capacity. Increasing production would mean decreasing profit, and that would mean bankruptcy, and then no production. So the US government has to guarantee profit in order to guarantee production. Russia and China don't have this defect currently. Part of the reason Russia has been able to out-produce the US is that its production companies and facilities are state owned. The Russian government says "jump" and their MIC says "how high?" Profit isn't the goal, but rather production.

These circumstances aren't entirely alien to the US. During World War 2, the US government intervened heavily in its domestic economy, dictating wages and benefits, ordering production in support of its war effort. Now though the tail is wagging the dog. In the name of the "economy," monopolies dictate economic and state policy. We saw this recently when the CEO of Delta airlines got the isolation period for covid cut from two weeks to five days.

So we have is a situation where the US can't achieve its goals because of its own inadequacies. If the US wanted to achieve parity with its rivals, it would have to at the very least assume the sort of state-directed production that its rivals have. However, currently that isn't possible because the monopolies which control economic production enjoy control over the state which is ostensibly supposed to regulate it. Put another way, in Russia and China, the state dictates economic activity. In the US, the economy dictates political activity. To use an American saying, "the inmates are running the asylum."

These circumstances cannot be reformed as they currently are. We saw in 2016 that attempts to do so were legally thwarted. If the political system cannot be restructured so that the people's will is preeminent before the will of the bourgeoisie, then the will of the bourgeoisie will dominate. That means that economic monopolies will continue their stranglehold over policy, and profit will retain preeminence before any other consideration, including militaristic victory.

The significance of Taiwan currently is that it accounts for at least half of the planet's semiconductor microchip production. This produces a dilemma for the United States. This essential resource is at least de jure in the hands of an ideological enemy and a presumed economic subordinate. Furthermore, it has no way of ameliorating this state of affairs without military intervention. To the first part, this state of affairs would give China de facto control over US economic policy, both foreign and domestic, as it would give Beijing control over how many microprocessors the US has access to to put into its various domestic products as well as the military hardware it requires to enforce its domestic policy. To the second part, in its efforts to crush the working class all those skilled trades necessary to facilitate its own domestic production, along with the educational institutions necessary to impart the knowledge and expertise for their creation, have been systematically gutted by the bourgeoisie.

In short, if the United States started today to try and achieve the productive capacities currently existing in China and Russia, it would be at least ten years before it could accomplish what either of its adversaries are currently capable of. It lacks the skilled personnel. It lacks the machinery necessary. Its institutions lack the candidates or the program to train its citizens at scale. It very simply lacks the capability to produce more than its limited quantities of boutique weaponry, which means it cannot possibly compete with its chosen adversaries.

The rational response to these facts would be to adjust its course in relation to the existing circumstances. The period of American hegemony outlined in the PFANAC is as unrealistic as traveling to the moon on a hot air balloon, so rational course of action would be to adjust policies and expectations accordingly. Unfortunately, these adjustments cannot be made. They would require upsetting the dominance of the monopolies over the American political and economic status quo, and the monopolies are unwilling to let that happen and the US government is incapable of making that happen. For the American economy to continue, the monopolies must continue to exist as monopolies, and also for American politics to continue. It is a reciprocal relationship, where reformers that endanger corporate profits like Sanders are kept out of positions of power, so that those in power can continue to guarantee corporate profits. One hand washes the other, and nothing is allowed to fundamentally change.

The problem, as any Marxist could tell you, is that change is the fundamental state of things. In spite of the war and sanctions, Russia's economy is strengthening while Europe's is weakening. China alone has more than twice the consumers as all of NAFTA combined. The bottom line is that the United States simply cannot compete, and what's more is that it has fashioned itself into such a state so that it can never, ever do so, because the necessary changes are simply impossible to achieve and implement while also keep profits up and proles down. To keep things as they are, change is utterly impermissible, in spite of how devastatingly necessary it might be.

Yet regardless, the status quo is not only viewed by the bourgeoisie as the natural state of things, but totally essential. Unable to escape their own ideology, they are restricted by its prescriptions. The United States must, must, dominate not only Russia, and China, but the entire world. It cannot do so economically, and yet it cannot alter itself so that it may do so. In terms of production the US can never, ever surpass China in its current state, but at the same time it cannot realistically alter itself to do so. The American bourgeoisie has achieved victory over the American working class, but in so doing it has forfeited the struggle to dominate internationally. It has very little to offer in terms of real goods. Its only useful product is its currency and the ascendance of BRICS severely limits that's lifetime. Since 2001 the US has let its diplomatic strength atrophy, and in its hubris reality has increasingly passed it by.

If it has no real goods to offer, no useful currency, and no means of persuasion, then the only thing left that the US has to ensure its necessary, is essential dominance is its military weaponry. While much of it is dated and inherited from the First Cold War, it still has the capacity to wreak fearful destruction, especially its nuclear arsenal.

We see the evidence of this fact even now. The US's puppet Ukraine cannot possibly win against Russia. This was a fact even before the start of the most recent phase of this conflict in 2022. Yet in spite of the unrelenting slaughter of the Ukrainian people the conflict continues because the US as instigator of this war has no other alternative. It cannot allow peace to break out. It cannot pursue an alternative to war. It cannot even fathom a world where it doesn't dictate the state of affairs. So in spite of bleeding itself dry trying to wear down an enemy that surpasses it in virtually every capacity, it insists on continuing, because the alternative cannot possibly be countenanced.

Russia, in spite of its growing strength, is nowhere near the level that China currently enjoys. If the United States cannot even defeat Russia, it would be absurd to court conflict with China, especially considering how much the US relies on Chinese goods for, well, practically everything. The pandemic "shutdown" saw the US practically on the verge of collapse and panic as essential goods grew scarce. Still, the US continues to ratchet up tensions with China, provoking it, while preparing itself for war insofar as its capable. For the United States and its controlling monopolies, there is no other choice. Profit must be assured, which can only come at the expense of its imperial subjects, and without any other alternative those subjects must be maintained at the barrel of a gun—or the tip of a nuclear weapon.

[uncharismatic-fauna]

Going to Ground with the Gopher Tortoise

The gopher tortoise, sometimes specified as the Florida gopher tortoise (Gopherus polyphemus), is a species of tortoise found only in the southeastern United States. They require highly specialized habitats of dry, sandy soils, few trees, and a variety of low-growing vegetation. These habitats include coastal scrub, pine flat-woods, and sparse prairie.

As their name implies, gopher tortoises spend a large part of their time underground. They are widely known for digging large burrows, on average 4.5 m (14 ft) in length and 2 m (6.5 ft) deep. These burrows are particularly used at night and during the winter, where they can maintain a steady temperature throughout the year. Individuals maintain a relatively small home range around their burrow(s), up to 1.6 acres. Within this range, they forage on a wide variety of grasses, flowers, and shrubs. Gopher tortoises are also predated on by a variety of animals; eggs and juveniles are vulnerable to raccoons, coyotes, bobcats, skunks, birds of prey, and snakes. Adults are more shielded, but can still be coyotes, bobcats, Florida black bears, and Florida cougars.

Like other tortoises, G. polyphemus is heavily armored by a thick shell encasing the body. When threatened, individuals can pull their heads and limbs inside the shell for protection. Adults can reach a maximum length of 38.7 cm (15.24 in) and an average mass of 5.5 kg (193.83 oz), with females usually being slightly larger than males. The coloration is rather dull to blend into their surroundings, usually dark brown, tan, or grey on top and lighter tan on the bottom of the shell.

Mating for Florida gopher tortoises can occur from March through December. When they are ready to mate, males court females by bobbing their heads and walking in circles around the female. If she reciprocates, she may allow the male to mount; this process can be repeated several times over the course of several hours. Both sexes will mate with multiple partners throughout the season. After mating, the female digs a large hole and lays a clutch of 5-8 eggs. These eggs take 80 to 100 days to hatch, and young are immediately independent. Young are extremely vulnerable to predation, but those that survive reach full maturity between ages 9 to 21. Individuals can live up to 70 years in the wild.

Conservation Status: Florida gopher tortoises are considered Vulnerable by the IUCN. The species is threatened primarily by habitat destruction and fragmentation.

Photos

Florian Marchner

Amanda Hurst

Charles Warren

[workersolidarity]

🇵🇸⚔️🇮🇱 🚨

AL-QASSAM BRIGADES LEARN FROM UKRAINE WAR, DROP MUNITIONS FROM A DRONE TOWARDS ZIONIST SOLDIERS

📹 Scenes from the mujahideen of the Al-Qassam Brigades, belonging to the Hamas resistance movement, target the forces of the Israeli entity along the Netzarim axis, south of Gaza City, using a mortar shell dropped from a quadcopter drone in the vicinity of a group of Zionist soldiers.

Although the mortar shell misses the soldiers directly, a small caliber mortar shell has a shrapnel range of 4.5 meters, or just over 14ft, meaning the mortar could have injured a number of soldiers.

#source

@WorkerSolidarityNews