#Statistical design of Experiments

[drdemonprince]

The data does not support the assumption that all burned out people can “recover.” And when we fully appreciate what burnout signals in the body, and where it comes from on a social, economic, and psychological level, it should become clear to us that there’s nothing beneficial in returning to an unsustainable status quo. 

The term “burned out” is sometimes used to simply mean “stressed” or “tired,” and many organizations benefit from framing the condition in such light terms. Short-term, casual burnout (like you might get after one particularly stressful work deadline, or following final exams) has a positive prognosis: within three months of enjoying a reduced workload and increased time for rest and leisure, 80% of mildly burned-out workers are able to make a full return to their jobs. 

But there’s a lot of unanswered questions lurking behind this happy statistic. For instance, how many workers in this economy actually have the ability to take three months off work to focus on burnout recovery? What happens if a mildly burnt-out person does not get that rest, and has to keep toiling away as more deadlines pile up? And what is the point of returning to work if the job is going to remain as grueling and uncontrollable as it was when it first burned the worker out? 

Burnout that is not treated swiftly can become far more severe. Clinical psychologist and burnout expert Arno van Dam writes that when left unattended (or forcibly pushed through), mild burnout can metastasize into clinical burnout, which the International Classification of Diseases defines as feelings of energy depletion, increased mental distance, and a reduced sense of personal agency. Clinically burned-out people are not only tired, they also feel detached from other people and no longer in control of their lives, in other words.

Unfortunately, clinical burnout has quite a dismal trajectory. Multiple studies by van Dam and others have found that clinical burnout sufferers may require a year or more of rest following treatment before they can feel better, and that some of burnout’s lingering effects don’t go away easily, if at all. 

In one study conducted by Anita Eskildsen, for example, burnout sufferers continued to show memory and processing speed declines one year after burnout. Their cognitive processing skills improved slightly since seeking treatment, but the experience of having been burnt out had still left them operating significantly below their non-burned-out peers or their prior self, with no signs of bouncing back. 

It took two years for subjects in one of van Dam’s studies to return to “normal” levels of involvement and competence at work. following an incident of clinical burnout. However, even after a multi-year recovery period they still performed worse than the non-burned-out control group on a cognitive task designed to test their planning and preparation abilities. Though they no longer qualified as clinically burned out, former burnout sufferers still reported greater exhaustion, fatigue, depression, and distress than controls.

In his review of the scientific literature, van Dam reports that anywhere from 25% to 50% of clinical burnout sufferers do not make a full recovery even four years after their illness. Studies generally find that burnout sufferers make most of their mental and physical health gains in the first year after treatment, but continue to underperform on neuropsychological tests for many years afterward, compared to control subjects who were never burned out. 

People who have experienced burnout report worse memories, slower reaction times, less attentiveness, lower motivation, greater exhaustion, reduced work capability, and more negative health symptoms, long after their period of overwork has stopped. It’s as if burnout sufferers have fallen off their previous life trajectory, and cannot ever climb fully back up. 

And that’s just among the people who receive some kind of treatment for their burnout and have the opportunity to rest. I found one study that followed burned-out teachers for seven years and reported over 14% of them remained highly burnt-out the entire time. These teachers continued feeling depersonalized, emotionally drained, ineffective, dizzy, sick to their stomachs, and desperate to leave their jobs for the better part of a decade. But they kept working in spite of it (or more likely, from a lack of other options), lowering their odds of ever healing all the while. 

Van Dam observes that clinical burnout patients tend to suffer from an excess of perseverance, rather than the opposite: “Patients with clinical burnout…report that they ignored stress symptoms for several years,” he writes. “Living a stressful life was a normal condition for them. Some were not even aware of the stressfulness of their lives, until they collapsed.”

Instead of seeking help for workplace problems or reducing their workload, as most people do, clinical burnout sufferers typically push themselves through unpleasant circumstances and avoid asking for help. They’re also less likely to give up when placed under frustrating circumstances, instead throttling the gas in hopes that their problems can be fixed with extra effort. They become hyperactive, unable to rest or enjoy holidays, their bodies wired to treat work as the solution to every problem. It is only after living at this unrelenting pace for years that they tumble into severe burnout. 

Among both masked Autistics and overworked employees, the people most likely to reach catastrophic, body-breaking levels of burnout are the people most primed to ignore their own physical boundaries for as long as possible. Clinical burnout sufferers work far past the point that virtually anyone else would ask for help, take a break, or stop caring about their work.

And when viewed from this perspective, we can see burnout as the saving grace of the compulsive workaholic — and the path to liberation for the masked disabled person who has nearly killed themselves trying to pass as a diligent worker bee. 

I wrote about the latest data on burnout "recovery," and the similarities and differences between Autistic burnout and conventional clinical burnout. The full piece is free to read or have narrated to you in the Substack app at drdevonprice.substack.com

[techdriveplay]

What Percentage of Internet Traffic Comes from Mobile Devices?

In today’s digital landscape, mobile devices have become integral to how we access information, connect with others, and conduct business. Understanding the proportion of internet traffic that comes from mobile devices is essential for businesses, marketers, and developers to optimize their strategies and improve user experiences. So, what percentage of internet traffic comes from mobile…

[pillow-coded]

To Have and to Hold — Chapter 1

Summary: finding a lost toddler's mother in the library wasn’t how Spencer expected to spend his afternoon. Later, when her mother arrives—panicked, breathless, and beautiful—Spencer starts to forget how to breathe. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Brief depiction of a lost child, mild panic from a parent, emotional vulnerability word count: 5.3k

A/N: This is the first work I had the guts to post (genuinely scared lol), slow updates! (so sorry, but uni is killing me), and lastly, English isn't my native language, so please do let me know if i got any grammar mistakes! (also not proofread cause i'm too embarrassed to show any of my friends)

Series Masterlist

Libraries have always been a great comfort for me. It’s a place full of knowledge, warmth, peace. Maybe it’s the smell of old books and how I can easily link that smell to the amiable parts of my childhood.

Those Autumn nights when everything was fine, where my wires were still intact. Mom was doing well back then. She’d read to me those old books she collected from all her years of teaching. That’s how I saw them back then... Old, decrepit books that contained the most fun stories... At least, I found them fun. Like Shakespeare’s Tales Retold – child-friendly versions of Shakespeare’s works.

Nowadays, they’re more than just fond stories or old books. Those books are relics and a memory of when my mother was... well, more lucid.

What I loved most about libraries was the quietness of it all. I spent a couple of hours of my day when I could, basking in the quiet. It was nice not to have to hear the gruesome details of some innocent woman murdered in cold blood.

Days like these only made the quietness feel even better. Soft Autumn day, nearing Winter already. We had just come back from a tough case, children were involved. Thankfully, we managed to get on time.

I had watched that boy while JJ tried to talk to him, trying to understand what had happened to him. He was barefoot, his hair disheveled, and he looked achingly thin. We later found that the boy’s parents held a “discipline ring.” According to his parents, it was a “behavior modification” experiment—one they claimed was “research-backed,” designed to “train” their child into being the perfect prodigy. The boy was denied food, affection, and even basic care when he disobeyed. But worse? The parents live-streamed it all on private forums for a group of like-minded “disciplinarians.”

It didn’t matter that we caught his parents. That the live-stream was shut down. That the others in that so-called “discipline ring” were going to prison. None of it mattered when he looked up at me with those eyes—hollow but obedient. Like love was something he still thought he had to earn.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone more than I hated those people.

I’ve done a lot of pretending in my life. Pretended I wasn’t scared. Pretended I wasn’t lonely. Pretended I didn’t want a family of my own. But that boy—he didn’t know how to pretend. He didn’t know how to fake normal. He just waited patiently in that hospital bed for someone to love him back.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it, which is why I had decided to come to the library instead of resting after the case like a normal person. I needed a moment of peace, a moment of quiet.

That moment of quietness was rudely interrupted—torn apart by high-pitched, desperate sobbing. I turn to my left, and there's a girl at the end of the long corridor full of bookcases. A tiny one at that, since the whole corridor looked gigantic compared to her.

She couldn’t have been more than five, barely tall enough to brush the second shelf. A statistical outlier in this ocean of silence, suddenly very, very loud. There was something unsettling about how her tiny fists rubbed at her eyes. Children cried in a language everyone understood.

“Are you lost?” I ask hesitantly, not moving from my spot in the corridor. The little girl stops crying for a brief moment. Well, not stop, but slowed down. Her big eyes are still so full of fear and tears, but they open wide to look at me as if she hadn’t been expecting someone to help.

She doesn’t say anything.

Just looks at me—eyes still shimmering, lips trembling, chest stuttering around hiccuped sobs. She’s scared. That much is obvious. But it’s the way she clutches the fabric of her little coat that really gets me. Like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth right now.

I walk towards her. I'm not close—just close enough to show I’m not a threat. A non-threatening stranger in a cardigan and tie, kneeling among the books like I’m part of the furniture.

She stares, still trembling, still silent.

“It’s okay,” I murmur gently. “I’m not going to come closer unless you want me to. I just want to help.”

Her little hand scrubs clumsily at her cheek. She sniffles, her shoulders curling inward. Still holding it in. Still trying to be brave.

Then, finally—after a moment that feels like something unspooling—she shakes her head. And her voice, when it comes, is a soft, crumpled thing:

“I can’t find my mommy.”

I nod, matching her quietness. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

A pause.

“I’ll help you find her, alright? No rush. We can check the kiddie section together. That’s probably where she’ll look first.”

I didn’t offer my hand. It felt like too much for both of us. Instead, I walked beside her, slow and steady, letting the silence settle between us like soft dust. She kept sniffling quietly the whole walk down.

I desperately needed a way to make the little cries stop.

“What's your name, sweetheart?” I asked softly.

She tilted her head back to look up at me—really look this time. She was so small she had to crane her neck to find my eyes. Her expression still carried that flicker of uncertainty, her trust not quite earned yet.

“I’m Spencer.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just stares for a second, like she’s still deciding whether I’m safe. Then, in the tiniest voice—barely above a whisper—she says:

“...Maddie.”

Maddie.

I nod, repeating it once under my breath to make it real.

“That’s a beautiful name, Maddie.”

She says nothing, but her fingers curl tighter around the hem of her coat. She’s still scared, but she’s not looking away anymore.

Progress.

I scan the rows of shelves ahead. The kiddie section’s not far now—colorful bean bags, tiny chairs, picture books splayed on wide tables.

“Do you like magic tricks, Maddie?”

She nods her tiny head, her eyes warming up to me at the thought.

I felt something in my stomach… I wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe yearning?

She nods—just once—and I see it. That flicker of trust, like a light turning on behind her eyes. Not quite safety, but something near it.

And something stirs in my stomach.

I don’t know what to call it. It’s not adrenaline, and it’s not fear. Maybe it’s yearning. Not for her, necessarily—but for what she has. What she’s lost. What she’s looking for.

For someone to come back for her.

For someone to call her name.

“Okay… how about I show you some magic tricks while we wait for your mommy to get here? that sound fun, Maddie?”

This time she nods enthusiastically. Her big eyes excited to see what sorcery I had planned to show her.

I dig the pocket of my pants, my movements slow and deliberate. I pull out a simple quarter. It’s nothing special. Just a plain, shiny quarter that for some reason, I’ve held on to for way longer than I should’ve.

“Behold,” I announce, holding it up between two fingers like it’s enchanted. “A perfectly ordinary quarter.”

She leans in, captivated—eyes locked on the coin like it’s something rare. A small smile starts to tug at her cheeks.

“It’s your everyday quarter,” I say, twirling the tiny thing between my fingers, doing my best to keep this unfamiliar girl comforted—as if her calm is the only thing keeping me steady.

“Watch closely.”

I place the coin on my open palm and slowly close my fingers around it. Then, with my free hand, I give the air above my fist a little wave—like I’m stirring something invisible.

“And now… it’s gone.”

I open my hand. Empty.

She gasps.

I see it—the way her mouth falls open, the way her eyes light up like I’ve just rewritten the rules of the universe.

I lean in, just a little. Not too close.

“Huh. That’s strange…” I murmur, pretending to look around her, behind her, above her. “Where could it have gone…?”

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, I reach behind her ear, and pull the coin free like I just plucked a star from the sky.

Her breath catches. She stares at the quarter in my fingers like it’s a miracle.

“It was behind your ear this whole time,” I whisper, grinning.

She beams at me, her fear momentarily forgotten. Her laughter is soft but real, bright and bubbly and innocent in a way that makes something sharp tug behind my ribs.

“Are you a sorcerer?” She asks, her big, curious eyes staring into my soul, trying to get answers out of me.

I blink, “A sorcerer?”

She nods, completely serious, “like the ones in Harry Potter.”

I chuckle fondly at her question, “Well… I don’t have a broom. Or a wand. Or an Owl.”

“But you made the coin vanish…” She pouts slightly, and although the sight of her minor pout was adorable, I would’ve given anything to see her smile again.

I didn’t know why. Maybe it was the case that had me feeling so fond of a child I just met. Maybe it got all the loose wires within me, all frayed and sparking from things I still hadn’t worked through. But there was something about this moment—this tiny human with tear-streaked cheeks and a Harry Potter reference—that made something ache deep in my chest.

I felt it so sharply it almost hurt.

This... this mattered.

And I hated how much I wanted it—interactions like this. Not just the comfort or the connection but the permanence. The possibility of something that was mine.

Kids of my own.

I glance down at her, still wide-eyed, still waiting for more magic. Her little hands twitch with excitement like she’s ready to believe anything I say.

“Yeah, but it’s only a magic trick, sweetheart,” I murmur, trying to offer the truth gently, without breaking the illusion. Without hurting her feelings.

But maybe I shouldn’t.

Maybe I should let her believe in it a little longer. Let her live in the dream. Give her what I wish someone had given me at that age—a reason to believe in wonder.

So I sigh, dramatically, like I’m about to confess something world-altering.

“Okay… you got me. But you can’t tell anyone, alright?”

She leans in, eyes shining.

“I’m actually a wizard.”

She gasps, delighted. A smile blooms across her face so fast it nearly knocks the air out of me.

“I knew it!” she squeals.

“Yeah, you did,” I grin back. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

She looks like she’s about to burst with thousands of questions. Eyes wide and shining with a special curiosity. I just hope her parent doesn’t murder me for fueling these wizard dreams that she has.

“Are you friends with Harry?”

I try my best to suppress a warm chuckle, but I can’t help the smile that shines through.

“Harry Potter?” She nodded so hard at my response that I worried her head might pop off. ���Well… I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s mostly busy these days. But yes, we’ve met.”

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands, and this time, I couldn’t subdue the fond chuckles that her reactions got out of me.

“Can you show me more magic?”

I smile, helpless to deny her. “Alright. One more, but you gotta sit down for this one.” I say, holding up a finger like I’m laying down a rule neither of us will actually follow.

She hurries to a small chair in the kid tables. Wiggles in place, hands clasped in front of her like she’s bracing for something incredible.

I reach into my pocket again, fingers brushing against the familiar coolness of the coin.

“But you have to pay very close attention, okay? This one’s advanced wizardry.”

She nods like she’s preparing for a test at Hogwarts.

“We have, the very same coin from earlier,” I move the coin to the center of my palm, “But if I place it right here… and you keep your eyes on it…”

I curl my fingers over it, give them a little dramatic wiggle.

“This simple quarter will just…”

Disappear. Or—it’s supposed to.

Everything was going fine. The coin’s in my palm. My fingers close around it. I make the usual gesture—slight misdirection, a practiced flick of the wrist, the classic illusion.

Except this time… something goes wrong. There’s a soft metallic clink followed by—

“Ow!”

Not me. Behind me.

The little girl’s eyes go wide, delighted at first by the trick. But then her head snaps toward the voice—the one behind me, the one that just yelped in surprise.

And just like that… the magic disappears.

“Mommy!” She takes off running.

I stand and turn instinctively, ready to reassure the parent—let her know her daughter’s safe, that I was only trying to help. Maybe even apologize for the quarter that, somehow, made impact.

But then I see her.

And for a moment… I forget what I was about to say.

She’s standing there, breathless, eyes wide with relief, and the softest kind of panic still clinging to her expression. The kind that says she’s been searching—not just through the aisles, but through every possible worst-case scenario in her head.

And yet, despite the tension in her posture, despite the flurry of emotion on her face...

She’s—God, she’s beautiful.

Like something from another lifetime. Light catching in her hair. Autumn caught in her breath.

An angel.

I’ve always thrived on routine. Wake up, brush teeth, get dressed, go fulfill today’s duties… It wasn’t anything exciting, but it was dependable. Familiar.

That all changed when I had her.

My Madelyn.

Now, my mornings depend on a dozen unpredictable factors. Maybe Maddie wakes up before I do and cuts my desperately needed seven hours of sleep short. Maybe she had a nightmare. Maybe she wet the bed. Or—more often than not—she’s just too excited for the day and bursts out of sleep like it’s a celebration.

It’s exhausting.

But she’s my entire world. My sun. My moon. And I’d sacrifice every ounce of sleep or peace of mind a thousand times over if it meant making her life feel safe and full of joy.

Still, we do have one day of the week that rarely breaks pattern.

Saturdays.

Every Saturday, for as long as I can remember, I wake up early, make pancakes, get dressed, and head to the library—the one place where time slows down, where stories open like doorways and the world feels just a little quieter.

Bringing Maddie into that routine was surprisingly easy. I started taking her when she was just a month old. I would’ve done it sooner, but I was still figuring things out—how to be a single mother to a newborn. Just surviving those first few days was its own kind of story.

She loves our Saturdays.

Every Saturday morning, once the pancakes are ready, I head to her room—and without fail, she wakes up with the biggest smile.

She always knows it’s Saturday because of the smell. Like clockwork, the scent of warm batter reaches her tiny nose, and her whole body just springs to life. She throws off her covers, races into the kitchen barefoot and beaming, already asking for her syrup before I can even plate the first stack.

This Saturday morning was different.

I should’ve known things would go wrong the moment I decided to step even slightly out of routine.

“Good morning, princess,” I sing, beaming as I step into her bedroom—blueberry pancakes in hand. “Brought you breakfast in bed. Aren’t you a spoiled little princess today?”

Her face lights up like it always does. “Good morning, Mommy!”

She spots the pancakes, and her eyes sparkle. She bounces a little beneath her blankets, already reaching for the plate. “Blueberry?”

I nod, smiling. “Well, I know how much you like them, so I decided to change things up,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Alright, eat up. The library’s waiting for us.”

She hummed as she ate, little legs swinging off the edge of the bed, syrup smeared near the corner of her mouth. It was such a small thing, but I remember thinking—this is what happiness feels like. A plate of blueberry pancakes and a five-year-old who thinks I hung the stars.

We left a little later than usual.

Just ten minutes. That’s all.

She insisted on picking out her own outfit—a striped shirt and a pink coat—and I let her. Another tiny detour from routine. Nothing dramatic. Nothing dangerous.

The nearest library, which we were used to visiting, was a three-story building. It was old, but they kept it clean. The library had a huge variety of books, from Children’s books to cookbooks.

It was just as it always was. Quiet. Warm. A kind of sacred.

We walked in together. I remember holding the door open while she skipped inside.

I remember telling her—“Stay close, baby.”

she nodding.

And then…Then I blinked. I looked up from the shelves. And she was gone.

I’ve never lost my Maddie before. She’s a curious child, and she loves to wander off on adventures. She probably inherited that from me. This need to find whatever’s glowing. I understand it. We’re moths, both of us. Fragile, flitting things, always blinded by the glow, unaware that it might hurt us.

But I’ve gotten better at spotting the danger.

At least… when it comes to her.

I watch everything. Every step she takes. Every handrail she climbs. Every crack in the sidewalk I gently guide her around. Not even the tiniest fruit fly gets near her without me noticing. I make sure of it. I always make sure.

So how did I miss this?

how did I lose her?

“Maddie?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. “Maddie, where are you, sweetheart?”

No reply.

Just silence. Just shelves. Just the sound of someone flipping a page somewhere far away.

I couldn’t see her.

I couldn’t hear her.

Panic bloomed in my chest, sharp and fast. I started moving—too quickly to think, too slowly to matter. I scanned every row, every corner of the first floor, spinning in half-circles, eyes darting, throat dry.

Think. You have to think. Breathe.

I forced myself to stop. Just for a second. Inhaled. Shaky. Exhaled. Useless.

That’s when I saw it.

A sign hanging above the staircase in soft, colorful letters:

Children’s Section – Second Floor.

I don’t think I’ve ever taken stairs that fast in my life.

I practically leapt two steps at a time, nearly tripping—twice—but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. My heart was pounding too hard, my breath caught somewhere between a prayer and a scream.

As soon as I reached the top, I heard it. Laughter. Soft, bubbling giggles echoing from the back corner of the floor.

Maddie. My sun.

I followed the sound like it was oxygen, rounding the shelves toward the children’s section—and there she was. She was fine. Smiling. Whole. Lit up with joy I hadn’t seen since breakfast.

I was so blinded by the sight of her—so completely caught in the gravity of that relief—that I didn’t see the small, shiny object flying straight at my face.

Thunk.

“Ow!” I yelped, instinctively pressing a hand to my forehead where the coin made impact.

“Mommy!” I blinked, still holding my forehead, and finally looked up to see my daughter running full speed to me.

I dropped my hand and opened my arms just in time, catching her as she flung herself into me.

The force of her little body nearly knocked the breath out of my lungs—and I didn’t care. I clutched her to my chest, my hands smoothing over her hair, her back, her arms—like I needed to physically confirm every part of her was still here.

Still mine.

“I was looking for you,” she mumbled into my shoulder.

“I know, baby,” I whispered. “I know. I’m here.”

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and only then—only then—did I let myself breathe. Let myself relax and look around with a clear mind.

And that’s when I saw him.

A man—tall, gangly, cardigan-ed, and completely mortified. His wide brown eyes darted from the coin in the floor, to my face and back again like he wasn’t sure which deserved more immediate attention.

“I am so sorry, I didn’t—I mean, the coin wasn’t… is your forehead okay?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. He reached down and took the quarter in his hands.

He was nervous. The poor thing couldn’t even get a full thought out without stuttering or switching pitch. He looked like a deer caught in headlights—in the most endearing way possible.

I adjusted Maddie in my arms and slowly rose to my feet, brushing a hand over the spot where the coin had hit.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m okay.”

“Mommy, that’s Spencer. He’s a wizard, but you can’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” Maddie’s little voice cut in, muffled by my shoulder. Her tiny hands clung to my shirt like this secret was sacred. Like this moment mattered.

“Is he now?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

The poor man looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink, and he kept shifting like he wanted to disappear behind the nearest bookshelf. He was clearly mortified for making my daughter believe he was an actual wizard.

Meanwhile, Maddie looked like she might explode from sheer joy.

“He did magic, Mommy!” she beamed. “He made the coin disappear! And he’s friends with Harry Potter!”

I looked at him again—this tall, blushing stranger in a cardigan, holding a rogue quarter like it was evidence from a crime scene—and for the first time since the panic hit…

I smiled. No, not just that. I giggled.

“He’s friends with Harry Potter, sweetheart?”

“Yeah!” Maddie chirped, her little head nodding furiously against my shoulder. “He told me so!”

I glanced down at Maddie, still glowing with excitement in my arms, then back at him—this stranger with a guilty expression and a coin pinched nervously between his fingers.

���So you’ve met the famous Harry Potter?” I asked softly, more amused than anything else.

His mouth opened… then closed again. He looked completely out of his depth, like he wasn’t sure whether to defend himself or disappear behind the nearest bookcase.

“I… may have implied we’d met,” he said, almost apologetically. “In a—fictional sense.”

“Fictional,” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded, eyes flicking anywhere but at me. “She asked if I knew him, and I just couldn’t say no. Plus, it calmed her down.”

My heart twisted, gently. Of course it did.

I crouched to set Maddie down, brushing a hand over her curls. “Don’t wander off, sweetheart.”

She nodded seriously—too seriously for someone who just believed she’d befriended a wizard—but she stayed put, her wide eyes still bouncing between me and the man standing awkwardly by the bookshelves.

When I stood, he was watching me. Not in a weird way. Just… watching. Like he wasn’t sure if he should say something, or leave before he embarrassed himself further.

I finally broke the silence.

“Thank you,” I said. “For keeping her calm. And for the magic tricks. Even if one of them involved hitting a complete stranger in the face.”

His eyes widened. “Oh my god—yes. I’m really sorry about that. That was not part of the trick. I swear it usually disappears. Like, away from people.”

I smiled again, gentler this time. “I believe you.”

A beat passed.

“You’ve got a very brave little girl.”

My chest squeezed.

“Yeah,” I whispered, looking over at Maddie, who was now spinning slowly in place, humming to herself like nothing had happened.

“She really is.”

I looked back again, and of course—despite being told not to wander—she had already drifted toward the toy shelf, her tiny fingers trailing along the edge of a plastic castle.

Moth. Always drawn to whatever glows.

He hadn’t stopped staring.

He kept looking at me like he wanted to tear me open—not in a violent way, but in that quiet, curious way. Like he needed to understand what made me me. Like he was trying to read my soul the way other people read books.

I hadn’t even noticed—Not until I turned my gaze back to him, and when I did, I nearly forgot how to breathe.

There was something behind his eyes—something searching. Gentle, but sharp. Not the kind of stare meant to intimidate. No, it was worse. It was the kind that saw. Saw too much.

The kind of look that made you feel like maybe you weren’t a collection of masks and moments. Like maybe you were a story he’d just opened to the first page.

It made my skin warm.

I looked away first. Not because it was uncomfortable—But because it wasn’t.

Because I didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at me like that. Like I was worth reading.

“So… she read the Harry Potter series?” he asked, breaking the silence.

His voice jolted me back to reality. I blinked a couple times, trying to shake myself free from whatever trance those hazel eyes had pulled me into.

“Has she read—? No, no. She still struggles a bit with reading. The only books she’s managed on her own so far are Frog and Toad Are Friends and The Tales of Oliver Pig.”

His lips twitched at that, like he was trying not to smile too hard.

“Do you mind me asking… how old is she?”

“She’s turning five in a couple weeks.”

He blinked. “And she’s reading at a first-grade level? That’s impressive.”

I smiled, soft and proud. “She’s always been a quick learner. Loves stories. I think it’s how she makes sense of the world.”

He nodded, like he understood that. Like maybe he did the same.

“So I take it she’s only seen the Harry Potter movies then?” he asked, circling back to his original question.

“Oh—no. I read to her a lot. We actually went through the entire Harry Potter series last summer.”

His eyebrows lifted, impressed. “All seven?”

“All seven,” I nodded. “It took us a few months, but she was completely obsessed. She didn’t want me to put the books down, not even to sleep. Had a million questions. Wanted to know why Harry had to live in the cupboard, how the time-turner worked, what butterbeer tastes like.”

He chuckled softly. “She sounds like someone I would’ve been friends with at her age.”

“You read a lot as a kid?”

He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he seemed to be sorting through too many memories at once.

“Pretty much all I did,” he said eventually. “Books were easier. Made more sense than people did.”

There was something in the way he said it—like it wasn’t just a fun fact, but a truth he’d learned the hard way.

I didn’t push. I just nodded, quietly understanding.

“Maddie’s the same,” I offered. “She talks to books like they talk back.”

He smiled at that. “That’s the best kind of kid.”

I was about to reply—to agree with the praise of my daughter, to maybe say something more—but then she came barreling back toward us, beaming.

“Mommy, Mommy! Look!” She held up a Rapunzel doll.

“Can I have her? Please? She has real brushable hair!” Maddie clutched the box to her chest like she’d just been entrusted with state secrets.

I chuckle, “That’s yarn, sweetie. You can’t brush it.”

“Can I have her? Please, Mommy?”

I looked at him, then at my daughter’s wide, pleading eyes. The panic from earlier was still fading in my bones, but the joy on her face grounded me again.

“Fine,” I said with a knowing smile. “Let’s check her out and ask if she’s ready for a new home.”

Maddie squealed and ran ahead toward the counter.

He straightened, glancing at me with the softest grin.

“She’s something else,” he said.

I met his eyes, the warmth still lingering between us.

“She really is.”

He smiled—soft, sheepish. A little unsure.

There was a pause.

My eyes flicked between him, the floor, and Maddie standing at the counter, rocking on her heels with the raggedy doll held up against her chest.

I didn’t know what it was about him. Maybe it was the way he spoke to her, so tender.

Maybe it was the way he panicked when I first approached them—all flustered and apologetic, tripping over his words like he hadn’t spoken out loud in days.

Maybe it was his eyes—big, toffee-colored, and far too curious. The way he kept looking at me like I was a puzzle he genuinely wanted to solve.

Despite everything in me that usually resisted introducing new people into our lives, I felt it—that pull.

I wanted to know him.

“I should get going,” he said, his voice low, like he didn’t really want to.

I nodded, even though something in me quietly hoped he’d stay just a little longer.

“Of course. Thank you again. For everything.”

He looked down, then back at me, like he was still trying to memorize something.

“It was… nice meeting you. Both of you.”

“It was nice meeting you too.”

He took a step back, then paused.

“I hope she keeps believing in magic,” he said, glancing toward Maddie with something almost wistful in his eyes.

“She will,” I said, smiling. “She has a good reason to.”

He didn’t say anything after that. Just smiled once more—brighter this time—before turning and walking away.

And even though I knew I’d just met him… I wanted to call out after him. Maybe invite him to eat with us, I had the pretense of him keeping my daughter safe. It would be so easy, just go, “hey wait!”

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Because despite having every reason to call out to him, to try and integrate him into my life, the fear in me always ended up eating my intentions up.

Still. I had a feeling that wouldn’t be the last time I saw him..

I stayed still for a moment, just watching him leave.

It wasn’t until he disappeared from view that I finally moved—walking to the counter where my daughter was waiting, still cradling her new doll like a prize.

“Where did Spencer go?” she asked, as soon as I appeared beside her.

Spencer. So that's his name.

It fit him, somehow. A little old-fashioned, a little too soft around the edges for someone who carried so much weight in his eyes. But now that she’d said it out loud, I couldn’t imagine him being called anything else.

“He had to leave, sweetheart.”

Her little face fell just slightly. “Will we see him again? I want to see more magic.”

I crouched beside her, brushing her hair back behind one ear as I pulled her into my arms. The weight of the day finally caught up to me—settling in my chest like something too big to name.

“Who knows, Maddie,” I murmured, holding her tight. “Maybe someday.”

I pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“I need you to promise me something, okay?”

She blinked up at me, her Rapunzel doll dangling loosely from one arm.

“Don’t ever wander off like that again. Spencer was kind, and he kept you safe. But not everyone is like him. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

She nodded, serious now. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“I know, baby,” I whispered, holding her again. “I just need you safe.”

“I promise, Mommy.” She murmured.

“Thank you, honey.” I kissed her temple. “Now… let’s buy you this doll and go get something to eat.”

She grinned, her earlier worry forgotten, clutching Rapunzel to her chest like she’d just made a new friend.

We walked out hand-in-hand, the late morning sun spilling through the library doors as they shut behind us.

And even though I told myself it was just another Saturday…

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else had quietly begun.

Next Chapter

[grey-sorcery]

New to witchcraft? Awesome! Here's some things you should pursue.

An understanding of sympathetic magic: Correspondences, their metaphysical and theoretical framework, and their derivation.

Magical systems that incorporate the entire gender spectrum.

Energy work that isn't based on visualization.

The means of manifestation: How, where, and when spells affect physical change. The physical mechanisms through which witchcraft manifests beyond just willpower/intent/wishes/etc.

The history and subsequent influences of, and on, popular contemporary practices like Hermeticism, "Ceremonial Magick"/Golden Dawn, Wicca, and New Age/New Thought/LOA/Reiki.

How to approach and practice magic with critical thinking skills.

Influence of consumerism on contemporary practices.

Divination as systems: all methods of divination beyond tarot, their statistical applications, and their different methods of use.

The anthropology of medieval Arabia, Europe, Near East, and Asia relative to the magical or occult publications of the era. What is purely religious, parareligious, or syncretist and what does that mean for the interpretation of the text?

The genuine limits of our knowledge of the ancient world, what's possible for us to know and what can't we know?

Conversations with practitioners of closed or semi-closed practices and perspectives of POC when it comes to what the western world would label as "witchcraft".

The differences and similarities between superstition and the practice of witchcraft.

An understanding of the influence of colonialism on modern witchcraft and the language used to discuss magic.

Critical Race Theory (CRT), Queer Theory, and systems of oppression.

Botany and herbology: An understanding of the physical and medical properties of plants.

Building a personal lexicon for modern and/or colloquial terms used in and by the witchcraft community to describe and discuss practices.

Spell design: What makes a spell a spell? What is the smallest or slightest action that can be considered a spell and why? What are the most important and influential elements of the design and application of a spell?

Altars: Their use, design, and potential; whether or not an altar would benefit your practice or goals for practice.

A critical approach to spirit work and astral projection, being able to discern between personal narratives and probable experiences.

A safe and solid community to become a part of. One that does not allow the influence of personal narratives (Without addressing them as such), doesn't allow for the mixing of adults and minors, and with established and enforced logical and reasonable rules.

Collect and cross-reference correspondences from as many sources as possible, then start to create your own.

Try to find a STEM subject that interests you and study it through any non-dogmatic avenues available to you.

The items highlighted in blue are things I highly recommend!

Here is a list of things to avoid.

This is, of course, not an end-all-be-all list of possible responsible and healthy pursuits.

You can learn more about me, find my master-post, check out my Patreon, and suggest content here.

[cavegirlpoems]

You know another thing that fucking sucks? I actually really enjoy RPGs that basically boil down to 'you're in a hostile unknown environment with lots of weird shit, dangers and potential rewards, go explore and try not to die'. Like survival-horror-ttrpgs, right? And, in theory, this is what D&D is meant to do. Hell, in the early editions - from the original little white books to probably early AD&D 1e - it's actually pretty tightly designed around doing that (with occasional interludes into flabbergasting racism, that we all quietly excise). The problem is that because D&D is marketed as, like, the everything-ttrpg that lets you tell big dramatic stories and have character arcs, the D&D-o-sphere thinks it's too good for that style of play. Like "here's a spooky hole full of traps, try not to die" is somehow looked down on as being unsophisticated reactionary dreck for grognards. And "here's a spooky hole, try not to die" is the only thing D&D is any fucking good at! You want big character drama and an epic narrative and emotional beats? You're on your fucking own, sunshine, D&D won't help you with that. But if you want to get killed in a cave by a spike trap or eyeball monster? D&D's great at that, it loves things that try to kill you. (This is, I think, a distinction between type-1 and type-2 D&D). (D&D 5e is also noticably worse at being D&D-as-survival-horror than earlier editions - except spiders 4e who is a statistical outlier adn should not have been counted - because in their effort to market it as an everything-game, they stripped out a lot of the stuff that actually cared about creating that experience, because some people don't like dying in holes what with taste being subjective and god forbid they play something else instead) And it kinda sucks because in theory if I want to go play a survival horror rpg where I go into a hole/ruin/alien spaceship/haunted house/heist/evil gameshow and try not to die, despite the fact that this is in theory how you're meant to play D&D, in practice that's not how it's gonna go down because 75% of the player base is ignoring the type of game D&D is actually written to be and desperately trying to beat it into the vague shape of a narrative game. Anyway this is why I like OSR stuff, it's like if D&D dropped the facade and stopped pretending to be stuff it's not. (I should note, to avoid pissing on the poor, that I play a whole bunch of stuff, from VtM to a bunch of PbtA hacks, to weird indie things, to larps, to shit I wrote myself. Die-in-a-cave-D&D is part of a healthy varied ttrpg diet)

[theglowsociety]

Why Supporting Black-Owned Businesses in February (and Beyond) Matters

February is Black History Month—a time to honor Black culture, resilience, and achievements. But while most people recognize this designated time of celebration, it doesn’t dismiss the fact that we are Black 365 days a year. Our history and heritage don’t begin on February 1st and end on February 29th. We are the living, breathing manifestations of our ancestors’ dreams, and every day is an opportunity to uplift, support, and build upon the legacy they fought for. One of the most powerful ways to do that? Investing in Black-owned businesses.

Shopping Black-owned isn’t just about economics—it’s about empowerment, equity, and making a direct impact on our communities. When we prioritize Black businesses, we create generational wealth, amplify Black voices, and ensure that our culture thrives in every industry. Here’s why it matters:

1. Circulating Wealth in the Black Community

Did you know that the average dollar circulates in the Black community for only six hours before leaving? Compared to other communities, where money is reinvested locally for days or even weeks, this statistic highlights a major economic gap. When we intentionally support Black-owned businesses, we ensure that our money stays within our community, fostering job creation, homeownership, and financial stability. This isn’t just about individual success—it’s about uplifting entire neighborhoods.

2. Closing the Racial Wealth Gap

For centuries, systemic barriers—such as redlining, discrimination in banking, and limited access to business funding—have prevented Black entrepreneurs from building the same level of generational wealth as others. By choosing to shop Black-owned, we actively work to close this gap, ensuring that Black business owners have the resources they need to thrive and pass down wealth to future generations.

3. Honoring Our Ancestors’ Legacy Through Economic Power

Our ancestors fought for freedom, equality, and the right to build prosperous lives for future generations. Owning and supporting Black businesses is one of the strongest ways to honor their sacrifices. Imagine what they could have built if they had access to the opportunities we do now. When we invest in Black businesses, we are fulfilling their vision of self-sufficiency, success, and economic independence.

4. Strengthening Local Communities

Many Black-owned businesses are deeply rooted in their communities. They hire locally, mentor young entrepreneurs, and provide essential services to underserved areas. When we support these businesses, we don’t just help one entrepreneur—we help entire families, neighborhoods, and cities flourish.

5. Encouraging Sustainable Business Growth

The Black business community is filled with innovative, groundbreaking entrepreneurs who bring fresh perspectives to every industry. But without consistent support, these businesses often struggle to survive. When we make shopping Black-owned a long-term habit—not just a trend in February—we create sustainable demand, allowing these businesses to expand, create more jobs, and increase their impact.

6. Diversifying the Marketplace

Representation in business matters. When Black entrepreneurs thrive, they introduce products and services that cater to our culture, needs, and experiences—things often overlooked by mainstream corporations. Supporting Black-owned brands ensures that our voices are heard, our creativity is valued, and our influence is undeniable in every market.

7. Making a Statement with Our Dollars

Every dollar we spend is a vote for the kind of world we want to live in. Choosing Black-owned businesses is a way to demonstrate solidarity, support economic justice, and create real change in how wealth is distributed. Our spending power is massive—trillions of dollars strong—so let’s use it with intention.

How to Support Black-Owned Businesses Beyond February

• Shop Intentionally – Research Black-owned brands, businesses, and services in your area and online.

• Spread the Word – A simple shoutout or recommendation on social media can bring a Black business new customers.

• Invest Beyond the Holidays – Make it a lifestyle, not just a seasonal act. Support Black businesses year-round.

• Leave Reviews & Feedback – Positive reviews help small businesses gain credibility and attract more customers.

• Attend Black Business Markets & Events – Show up, engage, and contribute to the growth of Black entrepreneurs.

• Mentor & Support Aspiring Black Entrepreneurs – Share resources, offer guidance, and help build the next generation of Black business leaders.

It’s a Movement, Not a Moment

February is a powerful reminder to celebrate Black excellence, but our commitment to supporting each other shouldn’t stop when the month ends. We are Black every day, and we carry the dreams of our ancestors in everything we do. Shopping Black-owned is just one of many ways to live out their legacy and build a future where Black success isn’t the exception—it’s the standard. Let’s make supporting Black businesses not just an annual tradition, but a lifelong commitment to community, growth, and generational wealth.

[reasonsforhope]

"The Netherlands is pulling even further ahead of its peers in the shift to a recycling-driven circular economy, new data shows.

According to the European Commission’s statistics office, 27.5% of the material resources used in the country come from recycled waste.

For context, Belgium is a distant second, with a “circularity rate” of 22.2%, while the EU average is 11.5% – a mere 0.8 percentage point increase from 2010.

“We are a frontrunner, but we have a very long way to go still, and we’re fully aware of that,” Martijn Tak, a policy advisor in the Dutch ministry of infrastructure and water management, tells The Progress Playbook. 

The Netherlands aims to halve the use of primary abiotic raw materials by 2030 and run the economy entirely on recycled materials by 2050. Amsterdam, a pioneer of the “doughnut economics” concept, is behind much of the progress.

Why it matters

The world produces some 2 billion tonnes of municipal solid waste each year, and this could rise to 3.4 billion tonnes annually by 2050, according to the World Bank.

Landfills are already a major contributor to planet-heating greenhouse gases, and discarded trash takes a heavy toll on both biodiversity and human health.

“A circular economy is not the goal itself,” Tak says. “It’s a solution for societal issues like climate change, biodiversity loss, environmental pollution, and resource-security for the country.”

A fresh approach

While the Netherlands initially focused primarily on waste management, “we realised years ago that’s not good enough for a circular economy.”

In 2017, the state signed a “raw materials agreement” with municipalities, manufacturers, trade unions and environmental organisations to collaborate more closely on circular economy projects.

It followed that up with a national implementation programme, and in early 2023, published a roadmap to 2030, which includes specific targets for product groups like furniture and textiles. An English version was produced so that policymakers in other markets could learn from the Netherlands’ experiences, Tak says.

The programme is focused on reducing the volume of materials used throughout the economy partly by enhancing efficiencies, substituting raw materials for bio-based and recycled ones, extending the lifetimes of products wherever possible, and recycling.

It also aims to factor environmental damage into product prices, require a certain percentage of second-hand materials in the manufacturing process, and promote design methods that extend the lifetimes of products by making them easier to repair.

There’s also an element of subsidisation, including funding for “circular craft centres and repair cafés”.

This idea is already in play. In Amsterdam, a repair centre run by refugees, and backed by the city and outdoor clothing brand Patagonia, is helping big brands breathe new life into old clothes.

Meanwhile, government ministries aim to aid progress by prioritising the procurement of recycled or recyclable electrical equipment and construction materials, for instance.

State support is critical to levelling the playing field, analysts say...

Long Road Ahead

The government also wants manufacturers – including clothing and beverages companies – to take full responsibility for products discarded by consumers.

“Producer responsibility for textiles is already in place, but it’s work in progress to fully implement it,” Tak says.

And the household waste collection process remains a challenge considering that small city apartments aren’t conducive to having multiple bins, and sparsely populated rural areas are tougher to service.

“Getting the collection system right is a challenge, but again, it’s work in progress.”

...Nevertheless, Tak says wealthy countries should be leading the way towards a fully circular economy as they’re historically the biggest consumers of natural resources."

-via The Progress Playbook, December 13, 2023

[c1qfxugcgy0]

adventures in aerospace

So I recently started working at Large Aircraft Manufacturer. (LAM) The plant I work at employs 30,000 people. The company as a whole employs 170,000. Usually you only hear about LAM when something goes wrong. But no matter how bumbling it seems from the outside, it's way worse on the inside.

Three months after my first day, I have been "graduated" from "training." In reality, I'm still completely worthless on the floor: the training center has given me a paltry subset of the production certificates I need to actually to do my assigned job. A commonly cited statistic at LAM is that a hundred men a day are retiring, each one representing decades of experience, walking out the door, forever. The training center is in the unenviable position of managing a generational replacement, and have resorted to shoveling heaps of zoomers through as fast as possible. (As one of the few people with a visible hairline and who is not wearing a Roblox graphic tee; I am frequently mistaken for an instructor, and asked where the bathroom is, what time the next class starts, etc)

In theory, the training center knows what shop I'm assigned to, and can simply assign me all the required classes. In practice, they do the absolute minimum amount of training in a desperate attempt to relive the crowding in their handful of computer labs and tell graduates to pick up their certs later.

Of course, the irresistible force of the schedule meets the immovable object of the FAA. If you don't have the required production certificate to perform a particular job, you don't touch the airplane. Full stop, end of story.

And so the curtain opens on the stage. It reveals a single senior mechanic, supervising a mechanic who finally received all the certs and is being qualified on this particular job, surrounded by another three trainees. Trainees are less than nothing, absolute scum. At best we can fetch and carry. Mostly we are expected to stay out of the way. And the senior mechanic is only senior in title. He is one of six assembler-installers who is certified to actually work on the plane, out of twenty people on the crew, and spends every day with a permanent audience. He is 23 years old.

("Mechanic"? If you think the jargon at your job is bad, try joining a company that's a century old. Assembler-installers are universally referred to as "mechanics", despite doing work that's nothing like what a car mechanic does, and who are generally paid far worse than FAA certified A&P mechanics. Mechanics are the 11 bravos of LAM, grunts, the single largest category of worker. The tip of the spear. Hooah!)

Large Aircraft Manufacturer is in a dilly of a pickle. All of its existing airframe designs are hilariously antiquated. It tried designing a brand new plane from a clean sheet, and lost billions of dollars to a decade-long integration hell. After that, to save money, it tried just tacking bigger engines on an older design without changing anything else, and the stupid things plowed into the ground in an excruciatingly public manner.

LAM is now trying a middle road. It is upgrading one of its designs that is merely middle aged, rather than ancient, and with proven, de-risked components built in-house, rather than scattering them to subcontractors across the world. And it's still blowing past deadlines and burning billions of dollars LAM really doesn't have to spare.

This is the program I've been assigned to.

Advanced Midbody - Carbon Wing has taken the bold step of just tacking on carbon fiber wings to a conventional aluminum fuselage. Shockingly, AMCW is now stuck in lightning strike testing, due to that troublesome join between conductive aluminum and conductive...ish carbon fiber. But LAM, confident as ever, or perhaps driven by complaints of its customers, has announced that full rate production will begin just next year. Thus the tide of newhires. According to the schedule, we're supposed to jerk from one wingset a month to one wingset a week. That's not going to happen, but, oh well, orders from above move down at the speed of thought, while reality only slowly trickles upwards.

"120 inch pounds? Really?"

I startle upright. I have observed one hundred pi bracket installs, and I will observe a hundred more before I can touch aircraft structure. This is the first disagreement I've witnessed. A more advanced trainee is questioning the torque spec on a fastener. It is not an entirely foolish question-- most sleeve bolts we use are in the 40 in-pounds range. Doubling it that is unusual. I cough the dust off my unused vocal cords and venture an opinion.

"Well hey I could look it up? I guess"

The lead mechanic glances at me, surprised that I'm still awake, then looks away. Excuse enough for me!

I unfold myself from the stool I've been sitting on for the last four hours then hobble over to the nearest Shared Production Workstation.

We do not get Ikea-style step by step instructions on how to put together the airplane. Like any company that's been around for long enough, LAM is a tangled wad of scar tissue, ancient responses to forgotten trauma. If you state a dimension twice, in two different places, then it is possible for an update to only change one of those dimensions, thereby making the engineering drawing ambiguous. Something real bad must have happened in the past as a result of that, so now an ironclad rule is that critical information is only stated once, in one place, a single source of truth.

As a result, the installation plan can be a little... vague. Step 040 might be something like "DRILL HOLE TO SIZE AND TORQUE FASTENERS TO SPEC". What hole size? What torque spec?

Well, they tell you. Eventually.

(Image from public Google search)

You are given an engineering drawing, and are expected to figure out how things go together yourself. (Or, more realistically, are told how it's done by coworkers) Step by step instructions aren't done because then dozens of illustrations would have to be updated with every change instead of just one, and drawings are updated surprisingly frequently.

Fasteners are denoted by a big plus sign, with a three letter fastener code on the left and the diameter on the right, like so: "XNJ + 8"

To get the actual part number, we go to the fastener callout table:

(Note the use of a trade name in the table above. There is nothing a mechanic loves more than a good trademark. Permanent straight shank fasteners are always called HI-LOKs™. It's not a cable tie, it's a Panduit™. It's not a wedgelock, it's a Cleco™. Hey man, pass me that offset drill. What, you mean a Zephyr™? Where'd the LAMlube™ go? This also means you have to learn the names of everything twice, one name on the installation plan, and one name it's referred to in conversation.)

We find XNJ on that table, and fill in the diameter: BACB30FM8A. Now we look up the spec table for that fastener:

The eagle eyed among you might note that there is no "diameter: 8" on that table. As a LAM mechanic, you are expected to simply know that "diameter" is measured in 32nds of an inch, which simplifies down to 1/4.

(LAM preserves many old-school skills like fraction reduction and memorizing decimal equivalents like this, like flies caught in amber. Not least is the universal use of Imperial units. Many American manufacturers have been browbeaten into adding parenthetical conversions. Not LAM! Any risk at all of a mechanic seeing a second number and using it by accident is too great, and anyway, it violates SSOT. Lengths are in inches and feet, weights are in pounds, volume is in gallons and if you don't like it then you can go eat shit!)

After 10 minutes of following references, I arrive at that table, print it off, highlight the correct row, and hand it off to my senior mechanic.

"Great, thanks."

Gratified that I have enhanced shareholder value, I sit back down, and immediately fall asleep. Another day living the dream.

(next post in this series)

[cyle]

So what is the threshold in declaring whether this experiment is a mistake or not? Do we need to send feedback in daily? Stop using the site altogether? What will actually be counted vs written off as people not liking change?

when we A/B test something, it means that one group of people has the new thing, and one group of people has the old thing. this youtube video is a very quick way of explaining that process, i suggest watching it first here.

in this case, with the new navigation layout, our hypothesis is that the new layout will be more easily understood by more people, meaning we'll see more engagement with the navigation items themselves. like literally, more clicks to the things we now have labels for, when before they were just an icon. and the fact they're in a place that's become more standard across the internet: a left-aligned sidebar.

ideally, that will lead to better retention of new users, and even an "aha" moment for people who have been on tumblr for a long time but never really looked at those different destinations. i've been on tumblr since 2009 and even i've found myself clicking on the inbox and activity more than ever, with the new change.

for us to see the change as a "mistake", we'd need to see statistical evidence to contradict that hypothesis, which we're already tracking automatically for everyone in the test. we'd also need to get an overwhelming amount of feedback to contradict any positive gains we do see. sending in negative feedback daily won't do that.

so if you want the whole thing to go away: we need to see a negative behavior change in potentially millions of peoples' behavior. that has happened before! we've rolled changes back that caused that negative reaction. that's the whole point of these experiments.

and if you want to send us feedback about how the experience is negatively affecting you: please, please do!!! despite the statistical evidence, we want to know if there are accessibility concerns we missed, usability concerns, design considerations, etc etc, because that's why we're running this as an experiment and not just launching it to everyone. that feedback is really important to us, as long as it's constructive.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Every so often I'll encounter a piece of game design that makes me think "Oh, the person who made this has terminal math brain and has possibly never played at a table with people who are interested in actively having fun"

Case in point: this morning I was exploring options for tracking food/supplies in game and one homebrew had you calculating how hungry characters got by doing multiple levels of multiplication possibly involving negative or impossible numbers. Worse yet, the rules implied that not only should the party be tracking this every adventuring day, I as the DM should be tracking this for monsters and NPCs to figure out how hungry the party might be when they were encountered.

Add to this things like "Diet quality vs Appetite rating", a system for intermittent fasting, and a submechanic for detailing the statistical bonuses granted by the flavour profile/mouthfeel of certain dishes, what you get is a tangle of simulationist nonsense that'd torpedo the tempo of any session it was involved in.

Fundamentally what this homebrew gets wrong (and a lesson all you prospective homrebrewers should consider) is that it forgets that there's a difference between a game and a system: a system seeks only to model an effect, where as in a game we impose rules for the sake of creating a better experience. The hunger system starts from a good place (what if we overhauled the provisions system to make it a larger part of gameplay?) but fails to consider how you could make that fun at the table.

[saphronethaleph]

Sith Succession Planning

“Master,” Darth Vader began. “I am curious.”

“...troubling, but go on,” Palpatine replied.

“What would happen if you died?” Vader said.

Palatine considered his answer.

“Why do you want to know?” he replied.

“I am curious,” Vader responded. “We covered this.”

“Well,” Palpatine said. “In order to prevent anyone from my family assassinating me, the legal results are meant to be an enormous snarl. Familicide is the main cause of death among Palpatines, statistically speaking, over the last hundred years.”

“I mean more in terms of what happens both to the galaxy, and also… physically,” Vader explained. “I was going to see if it happened through old age, but as far as I can tell you have only aged once since I met you and that was all in a single burst.”

“You were going to see if I would die from old age?” Palpatine asked.

Vader shrugged. “I did not see a way to prevent it,” he replied.

“Well, for your information, I intend to simply not die,” the Dark Lord of the Sith told Vader evenly. “I am simply built different.”

Vader looked his master up and down.

“You are not,” he said. “You are not built at all. I am built different, because over fifty percent of my body weight is cybernetics of non-standard design.”

“It is a figure of speech, Vader,” Palpatine told him. “It is popular with the ‘youth’ of today.”

He looked momentarily thoughtful. “Or, at least, so I am told. My advisor Jade told me.”

“I see,” Vader said, who didn’t. “Though I am fairly sure it is possible for Sith to die. I caused it to happen, after all.”

“Oh, Tyrannus wasn’t a proper Sith,” Palpatine muttered, dismissively.

“...he could do Force Lightning,” Vader objected. “I cannot do Force Lightning.”

“Then maybe you are not a proper Sith either,” Palpatine said, then shrugged. “But the fact that he died while still the Apprentice showed that he did not have what it takes to succeed as a Sith.”

Vader tilted his helmet slightly, and Palpatine waved his hand.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said.

“I can think about it if I want,” Vader replied, a bit testily. “But, as I say, I am curious. What would happen?”

“To the galaxy…” Palpatine mused, considering it as a thought experiment. “Well, I suppose that depends on the exact details, but I suppose Amedda would try to seize power. He’s pathetic, though. And I suppose you might try to command the military, but you’re no good at politics, so you would have to rule through fear.”

“I am good at fear,” Vader said.

“True,” Palpatine admitted. “But it’s academic, anyway. I have a plan in place that would result in the galaxy being burned to the ground if ever I die. And I have another plan to clone me so I can possess my own clone and return to life.”

Vader coughed, which was quite a feat for him.

“What?” Palpatine asked. “What is it now?”

“You don’t think you might want to pick just one of those, Master?” he asked. “Unless you want to return to life in a clone body in a galaxy that has just been burned to the ground?”

Palpatine shrugged.

“I don’t intend to test either of them,” he said. “Like I said. I would simply choose to not die.”

“I really don’t think that’s an option,” Vader replied, thoughtfully. “If it was, I think everyone would do it.”

“Built different,” Palpatine reiterated. “Keep up, Vader.”

“Then what about physically?” Vader went on. “If Dooku wasn’t a proper Sith, that is. All that happened with him is that his head came off.”

“Well,” Palpatine began. “I do have an absolutely enormous amount of Dark Side energy suffusing most of my bodily parts, to keep me in good shape as otherwise I would have suffered total organ failure.”

“Total organ failure… from what?” Vader said.

“The Dark Side energy suffusing most of my body parts,” Palpatine answered. “It also renders me immune to poison… hmm… what would happen if I died… well, I suspect that all that Dark Side energy would explode outwards, conveniently also killing whoever it was who had managed to kill me.”

He looked thoughtful. “Now there’s an idea. Perhaps if I do it properly, I can skip the clone phase and just possess whoever it is who killed me. It would be nice to be in a younger body.”

Vader raised one of his hands.

“What about if Yoda had killed you?” he asked.

“Academic,” Palpatine pointed out. “Since I chose not to die. Really, this conversation would be a lot shorter if you’d just accepted that answer at the beginning… it’s youth language again, but if I understand what Jade was saying right the simple way to put it is that I identify as immortal and you should respect that.”

Vader nodded slightly.

“...you said clones,” he pointed out. “Do those clones exist already? Or are they going to be started later?”

“Why does that matter, Vader?” Palpatine asked. “Do not think you can destroy my contingency plans. They are far out of your reach.”

“I’m more wondering something else,” Vader defended himself. “About your clones. Do they come out as old as you?”

Palpatine blinked.

“What?” he asked.

“Or do they come out young?” Vader went on. “Because thinking about you as a fifteen year old is giving me the heebie jeebies, but imagining a one hundred and thirty seven year old fresh grown clone is a bit weird as well.”

“You never talk like this around anyone else,” Palpatine said.

“I have an image to maintain,” Vader replied. “Fear. And so on.”

Palpatine had been processing something else.

“A hundred and thirty seven?” he asked. “Vader! I am eighty three.”

“Really?” Vader asked, sounding honestly surprised.

He paused.

“...you look good for it. You know. Considering.”

“But to answer your question,” Palpatine went on. “Of course they come out the same age! What would be the point of coming back looking completely different?”

“Couldn’t you just be in a younger body now?” Vader asked. “By cloning yourself a younger body, and possessing that? I’m just wondering why you wouldn’t take that option.”

Palpatine considered the question.

“Spite,” he said, eventually.

“...is that the only answer?” Vader said, after several seconds of silence.

“Yes, pretty much,” Palpatine confirmed.

[throw-down-enjoyer]

Organ donation, compassion fatigue, and Japanese perspectives on brain death

I don’t think Shidou’s sin was actually a crime (as in, it was perfectly legal) and I’m going to explain why. This is essentially a very long Kirisaki Shidou Is Not An Organ Harvester post

To start: Shidou’s sin was convincing the families of braindead patients to donate their relatives’ organs. He confirms doing this in his T2 voice drama, and the way he words it makes it clear he thinks of it as murder. (He does say that this is only half of his sin, but we’ll get to the other half later.)

You know, I… continuously tried to persuade the relatives of braindead patients who were against organ transplants.

“In order to save the life of someone you don’t know, please let me kill your family member,” I told them.

It doesn’t even take much thinking to realize how cruel that is, but… I didn’t realize that until the very end.

Translation used: https://youtu.be/9xmokVJ-6x4?si=VgcIp5LCdNnUwqUW

Brain death is the irreversible, complete loss of brain function, meaning there’s no chance for a braindead patient to ever come back. Because of this, some people may feel that removing life support from a braindead patient doesn’t constitute murder. It definitely doesn’t constitute murder from a legal perspective, but it makes sense why someone might think of it as murder— especially in Japan.

Japanese perspectives on brain death

In evaluating Shidou’s case, we have to consider the cultural context within which it was written. Many people in Japan do not consider brain death as human death, and brain death cannot be declared without consent from the family and the intention to donate organs. In fact, braindead patients are not removed from life support until their heart stops beating. Shidou isn’t being dramatic when he frames his words as basically saying, “please let me kill your family member.”

Brain death is a very contentious topic in Japan—Doctors are put under scrutiny for declaring brain death and performing organ transplants. It’s important to know that in Japan, brain death only exists in relation to organ transplants. And only certain designated hospitals will do this. Even more so, if a person writes an advance directive asking to be taken off of life support in the case of brain death, doctors are not required to follow it. And many of them don’t, out of fear of the patient’s family lashing out at them.

Only in 2010 was Japan’s Organ Transplant Law revised so that organ transplants could be performed without prior consent from the brain dead patient (now only requiring consent from the family).

Here’s a couple of scholarly articles on the topic if you’d like to read more about it.

https://doi.org/10.1186%2Fs12910-021-00626-2

https://doi.org/10.1353/nib.2022.0019

Another very important facet of this discussion is how low organ donation rates are in Japan. To give you an idea, here’s a chart showing the per million population of donations after brain death (DBD) and donations after cardiac death (DCD) in a few different countries.

Sourced from this article, which has some other interesting statistics as well: https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tpr.2023.100131

As you can see, Japan’s rates are astronomically low in comparison to other countries. This helps to contextualize why Shidou had to try so hard to persuade families to donate, and why he later became extremely desperate when his wife’s life was on the line.

I’ve seen a lot of people confused about Shidou’s crime, and many speculations about him doing heinous things such as organ harvesting or purposefully botching surgeries—but I think this is because we’re approaching the case with a western perspective. As we know, many (if not all) of the Milgram prisoners represent a controversial social issue. Brain death is not nearly as divisive in western medicine as it is in Japan, so it’s easy to overlook the idea that all Shidou actually did was take organs from braindead patients. Perspectives on brain death in Japan have changed a lot in the past couple of decades, but it’s still quite controversial; because of this, I truly believe that this is the point of contention behind Shidou’s case, and there’s nothing more sinister secretly going on.

Compassion fatigue

Compassion fatigue is commonly thought to be the manifestation of secondary traumatic stress and burnout, caused by caring for others who are in stressful situations. This commonly affects people who work in healthcare.

I believe Shidou experienced compassion fatigue from working in the hospital, as he exhibits some of the symptoms—in particular, a reduced sense of empathy and a detachment from others.

I feel that Throw Down makes a lot of sense when you view it from this angle.

Lyrical analysis on Throw Down

Shidou expresses that he no longer remembers what it feels like to take away in order to give.

Pomegranates represent death in Greek mythology, and I believe that’s what they represent here too. Shidou has become desensitized to death; the pomegranate no longer has any flavor.

If it’s not needed, I’m not interested

Shidou only thought about what was physically necessary to keep a patient alive, and remained emotionally distant.

They’re dead either way, so it doesn’t really matter to him.

Now slowly close your eye, put your regret on display

Wish for being there for someone

With the same expression no matter who comes

This is the part that most makes me think of compassion fatigue—Shidou had difficulty expressing empathy for grieving families and had to fake it.

I don’t feel scared because I don’t know

Shidou didn’t understand what it was like to be in that situation. But now that it’s happened to him… he understands. And, looking back, he understands how unkind he had been about all of it. This is why he considers himself to be a murderer, why he truly believes that he has killed many people.

Ethics is a delusion

This is a line that definitely struck me as odd for awhile, but I think it makes sense in the context of his situation. His sin was not illegal—but is it ethical? That’s what all of this—whether you forgive him or not—hinges on.

The other half of Shidou’s sin

Going back to what I said earlier, Shidou’s sin wasn’t only convincing families to donate their relatives’ organs. His sin is also transplanting his son’s organs in an attempt to save his wife.

I believe that Shidou’s family got into a car accident, which resulted in his older child experiencing brain death and his wife being left in critical condition (and the younger child presumably died immediately). Considering the views surrounding brain death in Japan, it would have been difficult to find a donor, so Shidou became desperate enough to transplant his son’s organs. Since he’s the father, there wouldn’t have been any issues with receiving consent for the transplant.

Some people believe it’s the other way around—that he transplanted his wife’s organs into his son—but I believe otherwise, for multiple reasons.

In Shidou’s T1 voice drama, he expresses relief at the fact that his judgment is being determined by Es, who is a child. This makes sense if he feels that he killed his son.

Instead of being told by the law that I won’t be forgiven, I wanted a child like you, Es, to tell me that.

I feel sorry that you had to be given this role. And, I truly apologize for being so insistent about sentencing me to death as well… But, you’re perfect. You’ll give me the ending I’m most suited for.

Translation used: https://youtu.be/C4MiQ3V3YjQ?si=hPmlUkc6BfdcacNg

Additionally, a few scenes in Triage…

As stated before, I interpret the pomegranates to represent death. Shidou brings home three pomegranates, one for each of his family members. He later hands his son a price tag from the pomegranates—a representation of Shidou sentencing him to death.

And at the end of Throw Down, an organ tag falls out of the flower person. The name seems to read “Rei Kirisaki” and has XY marked, probably indicating that the donor is male.

Not to mention, it’s much more plausible for the flower person to represent Shidou’s wife rather than his son. When the person falls apart, there’s a shot of a red rose—the flower most known for representing romantic love—falling out of them.

Final thoughts and conclusion

To summarize: Shidou used to routinely try to persuade the families of braindead patients to donate their relatives’ organs. Despite that the prevailing thought in Japan is that brain death is not human death, Shidou did not think of it this way.

Shidou’s family later got into an accident; he transplanted his braindead son’s organs in an attempt to save his wife, but it was a failure, resulting in her death. This situation made him reflect on his past actions—he did not consider it murder before to discontinue life support on a patient, but now that he did it to his son, his perspective has changed. Everything he has done is within the confines of the law, but he is now burdened with immense guilt and thinks himself a murderer. Not just in regards to his son, but to all of the patients that he had pulled the plug on.

Side note: I don’t think having low empathy is inherently a bad thing (I have naturally low empathy), but in this context it would make sense for Shidou to feel bad about lacking empathy.

Side note 2: Shidou is a surgeon, so it is entirely possible he personally performed the transplant on his wife. Operating on family members isn’t illegal or anything, but is widely considered to be unethical and not really a good idea.

Well, that’s all I had to say—Feel free to either add on to this theory or debate me on it. This post ended up quite long, so thank you for reading!

[pneumaticshift]

Hello! I’m loving your best laid plans on ao3! The way you write the two is such a fun dynamic and they both com across as such meshed out people in your writing with very different dispositions. I was wondering if you had anymore stories of them in mind now that you’re wrapping that one up? I’d love to read more fics where Hal gets to be competent or shown as a badass. I love all the fics I read of them but sometimes Bruce should get swept off his feet and experience butterflies too! (Obviously only if you want to)

I’d also love anything where Bruce is the one suffering from mortification or being caught at a bad time 😏. Take him down a notch or two hehe <3

Oh god, thank you so much!! I'm really pleased people are liking my silly little stories as much as I love writing them. I really put a lot of effort into characterisation, so comments like this mean the world to me 💚🦇

After I've finished with Best Laid Plans, I'm probably gonna churn out some oneshots I've got planned until I've got some time off work to bash out another multichaptered fic. There's a Hal-centric idea I'm working on that's less humour and more plot, but I haven't completely committed to it yet.

In the meantime, I live to serve. Have some Bruce having a terrible time:

———

This wasn’t happening. 

It simply wasn’t. 

If Bruce refused to acknowledge it, that meant it didn’t exist. 

The problem with having gear built to withstand bullets, fire, acid, and the occasional metahuman temper tantrum was that it was durable by design. Which was great when he was throwing himself into the thick of Gotham’s nights. Less great when that same marvel of engineering decided to betray him. 

Because right now, on this cold, dank, miserable Gotham night, Bruce hung. Perfectly still. Suspended several feet above the alley floor with his cape stretched taut, snapped on what was, after a begrudging, sideways glance, some kind of industrial vent. Heavy-duty. The kind meant to withstand decades of corrosion, poor maintenance, and, apparently, vigilantes with no contingency for his own ability to be a dumbass, rare as it was. 

His legs dangled. His arms were crossed over his chest. He was, for all intents and purposes, a goddamn ornament. 

Fine. This was fine. Not at all embarrassing. It was fine.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. A dog barked. Gotham carried on, utterly indifferent to the fact that her Dark Knight was currently caught like a very large, very stupid bat in a very unexpected trap.

It was a temporary state, after all. A statistical anomaly in his otherwise flawless execution of being Batman, if you will. In moments, he knew he’d rectify this situation with the quiet efficiency he was known for. He would put it in the back of his mind, no harm, no foul, and most importantly, no witnesses. 

Unless, of course, he counted Hal Jordan, who was standing right there. But that was another element of the situation that was being ignored. 

There was a silence at first, which Bruce appreciated. It gave him a small, dwindling hope that maybe Hal would be mature about this. Maybe Hal would see it, process it, and then solemnly file it away under Things We Do Not Speak Of. Bruce himself had an extensive pile of things he did ot speak of in polite company. He could only hope it was the same for Hal. 

It wasn’t. Of course. Because Hal, for all of his heroics, was ultimately the worst person Bruce knew. 

It started with a sound. It was a sharp, strangled noise, choked off at the last second. It could have even been mistaken for a cough had Bruce not been intimately familiar with Hal’s very specific brand of barely contained, unrepentant amusement. It was the sound of a man witnessing the single greatest moment of his life and actively working not to combust from the sheer joy of it.

Bruce valiantly remained neutral. He kept his eyes fixed forward. He was a statue. A grim, shadowy gargoyle hanging over the city. A silent warden of justice. Slightly swaying in the wind like an unmoored scarecrow, but otherwise unmoving.

Then Hal sucked in another breath, shoulders shaking. His entire body trembled in that telltale, barely restrained convulsion of someone attempting to hold in laughter for the most optimal moment.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Don’t,” Bruce said. HIs voice was flat, emotionless. He was a void of authority that could terrify criminals, gods, and the majority of the Justice League. He was in control of the situation. 

Hal lost the battle. A full-bodied, ugly, gasping wheeze of a laugh exploded from him as he doubled over mid-air. His hands were on his knees, his shoulders were shaking. Bruce would have been more interested in seeing him laugh like this if he hadn’t been the reason for it. 

“Oh my god— oh my god—” he spluttered, stumbling back as if the sheer force of the situation had weakened him. “Spooky. Spooky— Are you…? Are you seriously—” He had to stop speaking to brace himself on a fire escape lest the weight of his laughter sent him plummeting to the cobblestone below. Bruce could only dream. “Are you seriously pretending this isn’t happening?”

It wasn’t happening. That was the official position. End of story. 

Bruce continued to stare straight ahead.

Hal took in a grounding breath. “Okay. Okay,” he said, nodding and composing himself. He straightened his back. “I’m good. I’m done.”

He wasn’t done.

The moment he looked at Bruce again — well, the moment he looked at Batman again, trapped and dangling, reduced to scenery, he lost his tenuous grip on his self-control. Hal was the type to wheeze-laugh. Full on clutching his stomach, cackling with his whole body kind of laugh. A probably-crying-behind-the-domino kind of laugh. The kind that was beginning to sound almost medically concerning.

“So, Batman—” Hal tried, biting his lower lip to stop himself from laughing again. “How’s it hanging?”

Bruce wasn’t a godly man, but he found himself praying. Not for salvation, nor for a miracle. He just wanted something quick and swift to smite him down. Or, failing that, for Hal to be struck down where he floated. Maybe the both of them, just to make sure this…incident never saw the light of day.

But, as was often the case, divine intervention refused to answer Gotham’s calls. Typical. He continued to say nothing. Because engaging with Hal would acknowledge his presence as a witness to an event that wasn’t happening, and he was certainly not doing that. 

Briefly, he began to calculate if he could somehow swing free without garrotting himself on the cape and land on Hal hard enough to expunge the whole thing from memory. It would require precise torque of his core muscles, a bit of tactical folding, and he might have to sacrifice his windpipe. Worth it. All for the cause.

Finally, Hal managed to compose himself enough not to laugh every time he so much as glanced at Bruce’s suspended body. “Okay, I’m really done this time,” he said, even though the grin stretched on his face suggested otherwise. “How did this even happen?”

It didn’t happen. Bruce was just surveying the city at an unexpected altitude. Hal didn’t know what he was talking about. 

What Bruce said was, “Jumped.”

“This is the best day of my life.”

“You can leave now.”

Hal snorted. “Like hell,” he said. He floated closer, hands on his hips, scrutinising the problem with a smirk that could only be described as punchable. “Damn, you’re really stuck in there. That’s what you get for not making the cape detachable.”

Alfred had told him the cape would need to be detachable. Bruce had agreed, but then proceeded to sacrifice practicality for The Aesthetic because at heart he was a theatre kid that had been too traumatised to join the arts programme at school. The cape looked cooler when it was a fixed feature. 

As he dangled in the alley way with a goddamn witness to his suffering, Bruce was seriously beginning to recalibrate that decision. 

Bruce inhaled slowly. Exhaled even slower.

Someday, he would look back on this moment and—

No.

No, he would never look back on this moment. Because it would be buried so deeply beneath layers of repression and strategic denial that he, with all his training and unparalleled mental fortitude, would convince himself it never happened.

“Do you even know what you look like right now?” Hal continued, because apparently he wanted to be a permanent fixture on Batman’s shitlist. “Take a look.”

A construct diorama of the scene unfolded in a burst of green light as Hal reconstructed something that definitely wasn’t happening right now. It was a caricature, of course. The tiny construct Batman’s arms were crossed over his chest in what Bruce could only assume was Hal’s attempt at capturing his quiet dignity — except it was entirely undermined by the dangling legs, the exaggerated sway, and the way the goddamn cape stretched taut, hoisting him up like a piñata.

Bruce stared at it.

He was going to set the cape on fire. He was going to salt the earth where the cape had once been. He wasn’t Batman anymore. He was Man-Man now.

“It’s kinda sexy,” Hal continued, nodding to himself. “You know, I’ve always wanted to sweep you off your feet. Figures you’d do the job for me.”

Bruce exhaled slowly and focussed on something, anything, other than the unholy combination of wicked glee and smug arrogance radiating off Hal. The sudden swooping sensation in his stomach was purely situational. Disorientation. A natural response to being held hostage by his own goddamn cape. Definitely not related to the way Hal was looking at him.

“You are not flirting with me right now.”

“Oh, I definitely am.”

There it was again. More of that disorientating, entirely unwelcome swoop beneath his skin. He had begun associating that feeling with Hal a lot recently. It was irritating. It was inconvenient. It was ongoing. He still was not going to acknowledge it. Just like he wasn’t acknowledging this situation. 

“You know, now that you can’t run away,” Hal said, voice edging into dangerous territory “I figure it’s a good time to shoot my shot.”

“It’s a terrible time for you to shoot your shot.”

“I’m not known for my excellent time management skills.” He poked Bruce in the ribs, just to see him sway. If he came any closer, Bruce was going to bite him. “And it’s not like you’ve never thought about it. I’ll tell you what. If you agree to grab a drink with me some time, I’ll get you down.”

“Hal.”

“Think about it. I cut you down, super heroic, super sexy. You fall into my big strong arms. I’ll even carry you all romantic-like over Gotham, if you want. We can get real Bodyguard about it.”

“Hal.”

“Or I could totally leave you dangling and just grab you something fruity with a straw. We can get cosy right here, ‘cause I’m not gonna complain about the view. Your choice.”

“Hal.”

Hal snickered to himself. “Relax, I’m kidding. Mosly. I still kind of want to go out with you, but I can leave that until after you’ve had some time to nurse your disintegrated pride.” He flew a little closer, enough so that he was face to face with Bruce. “Just one more thing before I help you, though.”

Bruce glared at him.

“Say please.”

And goddamn, Bruce did not need that in his life right now. Not those words coming out of Hal’s mouth with Hal’s voice and Hal’s face. He stomped down the butterflies that dared to step foot in his stomach. He set fire to their wings, torched the little bastards where they fluttered and sprinkled their ashes on what was left of his wounded pride. 

“You have three seconds to—”

“Yeah, yeah. God, you’re no fun,” Hal relented. He raised his ring hand, but not before adding, "You know, if you ever wanna reenact this, but, y'know, in a more private setting, I’m totally open to suggestions.”

Bruce closed his eyes in exasperation. He was going to make it look like a goddamn accident. 

[elvearryn]

König + Horangi Headcanons

Regrettably, the brainrot has taken hold of me properly, so this was always going to be an inevitable post

(This is also a chance for me to compile and work out my characterization of these two, as a sort of warm-up exercise for writing them).

All SFW! Trigger warning for mention of scars, alcohol, gambling, violence (military), you know Call of Duty typical stuff

All the headcanons for each are separate for each character, a few mentions of Horangi in König’s list but that’s it

That being said, here are my headcanons for König and Horangi 🙏

Horangi bites the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking really hard or having an internal emotional tug of war about something, he actually developed this habit because he used to instinctively press his tongue against the inside area of his cheek that had been scarred (if you’ve seen the popular design where he has a scar from about the corner of his lip up to his cheekbone, and yeah. I like that concept a lot)

Horangi used to drink and smoke heavily, as part of his gambling days. He dropped that habit when he joined the military, and to this day absolutely resents heavy alcohol of any kind, but doesn’t actively avoid milder alcohol as much as he does the stronger stuff, he just doesn’t see the appeal in it anymore

Speaking of which, Horangi sucks at gambling, in fact he’s so terrible at it it’s a wonder he stayed in the business so long. He actually wound up so far in debt because he kept telling himself “it’s not statistically possible that I can never win.” So he kept trying to prove he was capable of winning (he wasn’t.) Eventually, he did quit, escaping debt by fleeing normal civilian life in the process

Horangi hasn’t touched gambling since, he’s wary of even simple card games (glances judgmentally at uno). Even if he still gets that itch sometimes, he curbs it by playing games that don’t involve luck at all

By that I mean Horangi loves strategy games. A downright freak about them even, this way he’s not risking any money on card games that might be rigged… (Horangi chess menace, anyone..? Not promising that he won’t try to cheat in checkers) and he swears like a sailor whenever he loses

Any rush Horangi used to get from gambling is gone anyway, nothing can compare to the adrenaline spike from being on missions. In comparison, gambling feels like a watered down high and a desaturated painting, it wasn’t anything like the vivid colors of the battle field experience… and even that could get boring sometimes…

(That is not encouragement to throw yourself into combat 💧)

Horangi loves silver jewelry, especially rings. But never wears anything gold or with gems on it, he prefers the sheen of silver, and thicker jewelry too, heavy banded rings and he actually considers his dog tags as something of a fashion statement… there was a point in his life where he had his ears pierced, and only ever wore silver or black for those, however the piercings have since closed up as they would have been a hindrance in his military work

When Horangi was a kid, he wanted to be able to skateboard, the kind of kid who thought kick flips and riding rails down the stairs was the coolest thing, unfortunately he was never really all that good on wheels, and didn’t have the time to master the hobby

(He sure as hell can snowboard though. Don’t ask me; it came to me in a vision)

Horangi was actually planning to get full tattoo sleeves on his arms, but discovered that he was somewhat unnerved by the constant jabbing of the ink needle when he got his wrists and forearms done the first time around, since then he’s been a little wary about getting more. It’s not that his pain tolerance is low, or that he’s scared of the process, he’s just kind of annoyed by the way it’s done and the time it takes since it leaves him with nothing to really do while he waits with the incessant jabbing of the needle… yeah, he’s not a fan

Horangi has scars on his back (tiger scars!!!) from his youth, they’re not pretty or nice to look at, all ridged flesh and awkward lines, he couldn’t sleep on his back for weeks while they healed; and even after that there was phantom pain.

Because of these scars, Horangi dislikes having his back to anyone even more than the usual soldier. Not because he got the scars in that way, but simply because he’s subconsciously aware of them being there and he doesn’t like the idea of having them out in the open (even though he knows they can’t be seen when he’s dressed)

Horangi likes to doodle, no he’s not a good artist, he just likes to scribble on things, drawing in the dirt with a stick when he was a kid kind of thing, always carries a pen with him and doodles when he’s bored

Horangi is a great swimmer, like athlete level good at it. Do not try to race him, he will win

Is an avid language enjoyer, Horangi actually likes exploring different languages and how they work phonetically as well as alphabetically. His English is remarkably good, even with his thick accent

On that note, Horangi’s penmanship is… less than perfect. Maybe a small case of doctor’s handwriting if you know what I mean. He tends to slant his words a bit, and it looks a little like chicken scratch, but it’s charming in its own right

Horangi likes rock and rap, I think when he was a teen he would have really liked No Brain, especially the song “내 가죽잠바 My Leather Jacket” as well as western heavy metal, though he likes rap and hip hop too, anything fast paced or with a heavy beat (guilty pleasure listening might be lighter r&b) if you saw Gangnam style in his playlist, no you didn’t

If Horangi played an instrument it would be electric guitar, but only as an excuse to shred until the callouses on his fingers split and he had to wait for new ones to develop

Horangi is selfless to a fault, he likes to think he wouldn’t go through hell and back for just about anyone when he knows deep down he would in a heartbeat, he’s always cared deeply about others, he just struggles a little to express it, very much more of a subdued affection kind of guy, shown through little actions instead of straightforward declarations which are a rarity, but do happen

Horangi likes the military because it gave him purpose and direction. And best of all- an outlet. What else was he supposed to do with his somewhat short fuse and need to release pent up energy? Bashing up enemy forces seemed a good enough way as any

Horangi takes his coffee black, americano. (Shamelessly stole this headcanon from his voice actor…)

Bonus :

(His words not mine, do with this information what you will)

Now… König is somewhat of a difficulty for me to work through, he’s a bit of a silly bastard I can say that much. Still working on disemboweling him to understand how he works so his list might be a bit shorter, but I’ll try my damndest

König is clumsy, not in a “whoops I fell down the stairs silly me…” way but in a “where the hell did I leave my keys..?” kind of way, which is funny because he always struck me as someone who pays attention to detail while also having situational blindness, like “holy shit there was a car right there” even when you could ask him what the arrangement of crates were in a cargo shipment and he could tell you exactly without needing to think hard about it

König is absolutely incapable of keeping himself still, one of the reasons he was denied the position of a sniper… whether it be literally twiddling his thumbs, or bouncing his leg, he is always moving one part of his body at any given time

Two words, bad liar… König is a terrible liar even, not even consciously he just isn’t good at not giving an honest answer, especially if it’s to people he’s comfortable being around. Shifting eyes, clenched jaw, kicked puppy sort of demeanor if he’s actively trying to withhold the truth, he’s bad at covering it up unless he’s annoyed, then he can evade giving a straight answer but otherwise he can be read like an open book

In terms of social interaction, König is not some sort of inept stuttering dork, rather I would simply describe him as a little out of his element in mundane social settings. He’s a menace on the field, and he’s comfortable with that, when he isn’t occupied with something physically or mentally demanding however… he’s a tad socially awkward. But he’s still brazen and a little cocky, albeit easily annoyed or flustered (not blushing wreck flustered, just at a loss for words and maybe a few confused blinks if anything)

König is also competitive and a bit of a grump honestly, he takes things personally and tends to overthink, maybe a bit of a bad habit that involves twisting things in his mind until they’re warped from what they initially were, but yeah he’s gonna take things as a challenge or a jab at his abilities (inferiority complex coming back with a vengeance in the form of feeling like he needs to prove himself constantly)

That’s not to say König isn’t a “gentle giant” he does have a soft spot and isn’t prone to picking fights himself, but he’s also… bipolar for lack of a better word, he would definitely treat something with the most tenderness his large hands can allow, but then turn around and obliterate an entire unit with a blind sort of unhinged arrogance that doesn’t take kindly to being rivaled

König is like a barely domesticated guard dog with self worth issues that present themselves through mild narcissism and social insecurity. Again, he’s a madman, just listen to his voicelines, Horangi may look insane on the outside but he’s actually relatively stable, König on the other hand is like a carefully constructed bridge made of entirely weak points that are holding themselves together by faint pressure and the whole thing is covered in tape that mask wounds instead of bandaids

If König played an instrument it would be drums, he needs to be able to bash on things, I think he would get frustrated with something like guitar or bass

König is a bit demanding with things he wants, and likes to think he can get what he wants with relatively little struggle, not that he’s a spoiled brat by any means, just that he sees something and goes “I want that.” And isn’t afraid to say that he wants it, and that’s basically saying “I intend to get it” but he also does have manners, and isn’t exactly extroverted, but he has an obvious sort of intensity about him that really shines on the field, he likes a good fight

(Que “Finally some worthy adversaries!” line)

König knows he’s strong and is confident in his abilities, but despite knowing this he still doesn’t take praise well. Or compliments, he’s all sure of his abilities until someone points out he did a good job and suddenly he has no idea what to say, similarly if he thinks he can handle something and voices that, and someone replies “yeah you’re right, you’ve got this” he’d be like “???” because he’s not used to the positive reciprocation, he’s used to only having himself and the physical proof that he can do things and do them well, so when someone points it out he’s at a loss

König is more likely to let German slip into his speaking than Horangi is to let Korean slip into his, König’s English also isn’t as good as Horangi’s

König is a little possessive and can get defensive too. Stems from his childhood, being picked on a bit he learned to keep his stuff close to him and be careful who he shares with if at all, and is not trusting even if on the outside he appears relatively open despite his social awkwardness

However, König likes having instructions and knowing what exactly needs to be done, he’s organized and likes not always having to make a lot of complex decisions— the structure of the military gives him a way to keep himself occupied in this manner. And he likes feeling like he has a use, even if it’s not exactly what he wanted

(He’s still bitter about not being a sniper).

König’s handwriting is surprisingly nice, it’s neat and simple, but he doesn’t write paper and pencil often, in fact he usually records numbers and data if anything, and types everything else. He likes using digital tablets

König takes his coffee sweet, and doesn’t care about the temperature, he’ll drink coffee that started out warm and sat out long enough to get cold.

Rammstein fan? König is guilty. Also loves Slipknot and Korn. Orange Sector fan to the end too. His guilty pleasure is instrumental music. (Sometimes he and Horangi share their music with one another)

König wears his hair long (not super long, just a little unkempt and about jaw length), and he has stubble. He keeps his hair tied in a low bun for missions, on leave and for downtime he’ll tie the bun higher

König is shockingly loyal, like makes a conscious effort to be loyal to people, and is surprisingly thoughtful about little things that others wouldn’t really pay much mind too. It’s sort of a subconscious thing actually, he remembers a lot of insignificant stuff for no real reason, it just sticks

In König’s mind, he has a few jokes he came up with that he thinks are hilarious but has never had a chance to say them and is also a little doubtful other people would be as amused as him, so he keeps them to himself.

(Horangi might luck out one day)

Cough… and that’s all!! I’ll update this if I ever think of any more. But yeah, that’s all I got. Hope you enjoyed

[fleurdelucienne]

I just finished a “0 civilian kill” playthrough of KCD2 and let me tell you, it is not straightforward thing to do. Certain quest outcomes, even ones where you feel like you’re being a “good guy” basically REQUIRE you to kill characters that are classified as civilians. So, to keep your kill count at 0, you end up having to cheese it with poison arrows or using npcs you’re fighting with to finish people off.

The point of mentioning this? Henry’s story can so easily lead us to a place where we believe what we are doing is wholly justified while our adversaries are committing wholly unjustified acts of violence. However, when you face off with your two greatest adversaries (Istvan Toth and Markvart Von Aulitz) you are also forced to face the fact that Henry truly is not so different from these two men. I’ve seen some people claim something like “you just got speech level 30-ed, bro” when you bring up the fact that much of what these two “villains” say is very true, but in my experience of the game, that attitude involves some level of delusion concerning how truly bloody Henry’s hands are, as well as the part he plays in the horrors of war.

It’s very telling, in my opinion, that the quests that end up basically requiring you to kill civilians are mostly just a matter of what side you picked and whether you followed through on your word. Here are three examples that especially stuck out to me:

In the side quest “Ransom,” if you follow through with the whole quest and help Jan of Suchotlesky try to find his brother/retrieve his brother’s body, you have to kill Laszlo Farkas and his men.

During “For Victory” Zizka’s men in Nebakov gorge count as civilians when you are riding to Nebakov with Von Bergow’s men.

And, the worst one (in my opinion): the beggars/ruffians at Ruthard palace when you and Rosa reach it through the underground during “Oratores.”

The last one left the worst taste in my mouth partially because of Rosa’s attitude about it (though I understand her perspective is understandable in the context of her upbringing, this is just one of MANY Rosa thoughts I’ll save for another time), but also because you can’t talk your way out of this violent confrontation. That seems SO incongruent with other similar situations that Henry can easily talk, threaten, or intimidate his way out of, especially given his relative skill level at that stage of the main quest. However, all three of these outcomes help reinforce a theme that comes up throughout KCD - Henry is constantly getting blood on his hands in service of others. And, especially in service of nobles. Which is EXACTLY what Istvan is trying to tell him in Trosky before you kill him. For this reason, I believe the difficulty in sparing civilians is 100% intentional game design. On one hand, Henry aligns himself with individuals he believes are good and just, but on the other hand, he repeatedly commits unspeakable acts of violence in their names.

I would recommend trying a 0 civilian kill playthrough for anyone who likes a bit of a problem-solving challenge, but ALSO because it really highlights how easy it is submit to casual violence because you feel you’re on the “right side.” Without some amount of care and diligence, you end up defaulting to this violent autopilot before you realize what just transpired, check your statistics to see that you indeed killed a civilian, and then have to reload a save. Don’t get me wrong, it was a pain in the ass sometimes, but it very much altered my perspective on many aspects of the story in a way I absolutely appreciated in the end.