#air epoch

[gilliebee]

uses my first genie wish to be the guy getting checked into the boards by brick

and my second to be the guy cherishing the fuck outta him and getting a head rustle for his efforts

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Google antitrust remedy should extinguish surveillance, not democratize it

I'm coming to DEFCON! On FRIDAY (Aug 9), I'm emceeing the EFF POKER TOURNAMENT (noon at the Horseshoe Poker Room), and appearing on the BRICKED AND ABANDONED panel (5PM, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01). On SATURDAY (Aug 10), I'm giving a keynote called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE! How hackers can seize the means of computation and build a new, good internet that is hardened against our asshole bosses' insatiable horniness for enshittification" (noon, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01).

If you are even slightly plugged into the doings and goings on in this tired old world of ours, then you have heard that Google has lost its antitrust case against the DOJ Antitrust Division, and is now an official, no-foolin', convicted monopolist.

This is huge. Epochal. The DOJ, under the leadership of the fire-breathing trustbuster Jonathan Kanter, has done something that was inconceivable four years ago when he was appointed. On Kanter's first day on the job as head of the Antitrust Division, he addressed his gathered prosecutors and asked them to raise their hands if they'd never lost a case.

It was a canny trap. As the proud, victorious DOJ lawyers thrust their arms into the air, Kanter quoted James Comey, who did the same thing on his first day on the job as DA for the Southern District of New York: "You people are the chickenshit club." A federal prosecutor who never loses a case is a prosecutor who only goes after easy targets, and leave the worst offenders (who can mount a serious defense) unscathed.

Under Kanter, the Antitrust Division has been anything but a Chickenshit Club. They've gone after the biggest game, the hardest targets, and with Google, they bagged the hardest target of all.

Again: this is huge:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/boom-judge-rules-google-is-a-monopolist

But also: this is just the start.

Now that Google is convicted, the court needs to decide what to do about it. Courts have lots of leeway when it comes to addressing a finding of lawbreaking. They can impose "conduct remedies" ("don't do that anymore"). These are generally considered weaksauce, because they're hard to administer. When you tell a company like Google to stop doing something, you need to expend a lot of energy to make sure they're following orders. Conduct remedies are as much a punishment for the government (which has to spend millions closely observing the company to ensure compliance) as they are for the firms involved.

But the court could also order Google to stop doing certain things. For example, since the ruling finds that Google illegally maintained its monopoly by paying other entities – Apple, Mozilla, Samsung, AT&T, etc – to be the default search, the court could order them to stop doing that. At the very least, that's a lot easier to monitor.

The big guns, though are the structural remedies. The court could order Google to sell off parts of its business, like its ad-tech stack, through which it represents both buyers and sellers in a marketplace it owns, and with whom it competes as a buyer and a seller. There's already proposed, bipartisan legislation to do this (how bipartisan? Its two main co-sponsors are Ted Cruz and Elizabeth Warren!):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/25/structural-separation/#america-act

All of these things, and more, are on the table:

https://www.wired.com/story/google-search-monopoly-judge-amit-mehta-options/

We'll get a better sense of what the judge is likely to order in the fall, but the case could drag out for quite some time, as Google appeals the verdict, then tries for the Supreme Court, then appeals the remedy, and so on and so on. Dragging things out in the hopes of running out the clock is a time-honored tradition in tech antitrust. IBM dragged out its antitrust appeals for 12 years, from 1970 to 1982 (they called it "Antitrust's Vietnam"). This is an expensive gambit: IBM outspent the entire DOJ Antitrust Division for 12 consecutive years, hiring more lawyers to fight the DOJ than the DOJ employed to run all of its antitrust enforcement, nationwide. But it worked. IBM hung in there until Reagan got elected and ordered his AG to drop the case.

This is the same trick Microsoft pulled in the nineties. The case went to trial in 1998, and Microsoft lost in 1999. They appealed, and dragged out the proceedings until GW Bush stole the presidency in 2000 and dropped the case in 2001.

I am 100% certain that there are lawyers at Google thinking about this: "OK, say we put a few hundred million behind Trump-affiliated PACs, wait until he's president, have a little meeting with Attorney General Andrew Tate, and convince him to drop the case. Worked for IBM, worked for Microsoft, it'll work for us. And it'll be a bargain."

That's one way things could go wrong, but it's hardly the only way. In his ruling, Judge Mehta rejected the DOJ's argument that in illegally creating and maintaining its monopoly, Google harmed its users' privacy by foreclosing on the possibility of a rival that didn't rely on commercial surveillance.

The judge repeats some of the most cherished and absurd canards of the marketing industry, like the idea that people actually like advertisements, provided that they're relevant, so spying on people is actually doing them a favor by making it easier to target the right ads to them.

First of all, this is just obvious self-serving rubbish that the advertising industry has been repeating since the days when it was waging a massive campaign against the TV remote on the grounds that people would "steal" TV by changing the channel when the ads came on. If "relevant" advertising was so great, then no one would reach for the remote – or better still, they'd change the channel when the show came back on, looking for more ads. People don't like advertising. And they hate "relevant" advertising that targets their private behaviors and views. They find it creepy.

Remember when Apple offered users a one-click opt-out from Facebook spying, the most sophisticated commercial surveillance system in human history, whose entire purpose was to deliver "relevant" advertising? More than 96% of Apple's customers opted out of surveillance. Even the most Hayek-pilled economist has to admit that this is a a hell of a "revealed preference." People don't want "relevant" advertising. Period.

The judge's credulous repetition of this obvious nonsense is doubly disturbing in light of the nature of the monopoly charge against Google – that the company had monopolized the advertising market.

Don't get me wrong: Google has monopolized the advertising market. They operate a "full stack" ad-tech shop. By controlling the tools that sellers and buyers use, and the marketplace where they use them, Google steals billions from advertisers and publishers. And that's before you factor in Jedi Blue, the illegal collusive arrangement the company has with Facebook, by which they carved up the market to increase their profits, gouge advertisers, starve publishers, and keep out smaller rivals:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jedi_Blue

One effect of Google's monopoly power is a global privacy crisis. In regions with strong privacy laws (like the EU), Google uses flags of convenience (looking at you, Ireland) to break the law with impunity:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/15/finnegans-snooze/#dirty-old-town

In the rest of the world, Google works with other members of the surveillance cartel to prevent the passage of privacy laws. That's why the USA hasn't had a new federal privacy law since 1988, when Congress acted to ban video-store clerks from telling newspaper reporters about the VHS cassettes you took home:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Video_Privacy_Protection_Act

The lack of privacy law and privacy enforcement means that Google can inflict untold privacy harms on billions of people around the world. Everything we do, everywhere we go online and offline, every relationship we have, everything we buy and say and do – it's all collected and stored and mined and used against us. The immediate harm here is the haunting sense that you are always under observation, a violation of your fundamental human rights that prevents you from ever being your authentic self:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/blog/2013/jun/14/nsa-prism

The harms of surveillance aren't merely spiritual and psychological – they're material and immediate. The commercial surveillance industry provides the raw feedstock for a parade of horribles, from stalkers and bounty hunters turning up on their targets' front doors to cops rounding up demonstrators with location data from their phones to identity thieves tricking their marks by using leaked or purchased private information as convincers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

The problem with Google's monopolization of the surveillance business model is that they're spying on us. But for a certain kind of competition wonk, the problem is that Google is monopolizing the violation of our human rights, and we need to use competition law to "democratize" commercial surveillance.

This is deeply perverse, but it represents a central split in competition theory. Some trustbusters fetishize competition for its own sake, on the theory that it makes companies better and more efficient. But there are some things we don't want companies to be better at, like violating our human rights. We want to ban human rights violations, not improve them.

For other trustbusters – like me – the point of competition enforcement isn't merely to make companies offer better products, it's to make companies small enough to hold account through the enforcement of democratic laws. I want to break – and break up – Google because I want to end its ability to bigfoot privacy law so that we can finally root out the cancer of commercial surveillance. I don't want to make Google smaller so that other surveillance companies can get in on the game.

There is a real danger that this could emerge from this decision, and that's a danger we need to guard against. Last month, Google shocked the technical world by announcing that it would not follow through on its years-long promise to kill third-party cookies, one of the most pernicious and dangerous tools of commercial surveillance. The reason for this volte-face appears to be concern that the EU would view killing third-party cookies as anticompetitive, since Google intended to maintain commercial surveillance using its Orwellian "Privacy Sandbox" technology in Chrome, with the effect that everyone except Google would find it harder to spy on us as we used the internet:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/googles-trail-of-crumbs

It's true! This is anticompetitive. But the answer isn't to preserve the universal power of tech companies large and small to violate our human rights – it's to ban everyone, especially Google, from spying on us!

This current in competition law is still on the fringe, but the Google case – which finds the company illegally dominating surveillance advertising, but rejects the idea that surveillance is itself a harm – offers an opportunity for this bad idea to go from the fringe to the center.

If that happens, look out.

Take "attribution," an obscure bit of ad-tech jargon disguising a jaw-droppingly terrible practice. "Attribution" is when an ad-tech company shows you an ad, and then follows you everywhere you go, monitoring everything you do, to determine whether the ad convinced you to buy something. I mean that literally: they're combining location data generated by your phone and captured by Bluetooth and wifi receivers with data from your credit card to follow you everywhere and log everything, so that they can prove to a merchant that you bought something.

This is unspeakably grotesque. It should be illegal. In many parts of the world, it is illegal, but it is so lucrative that monopolists like Google can buy off the enforcers and get away with it. What's more, only the very largest corporations have the resources to surveil you so closely and invasively that they can perform this "service."

But again, some competition wonks look at this situation and say, "Well, that's not right, we need to make sure that everyone can do attribution." This was a (completely mad) premise in the (otherwise very good) 2020 Competition and Markets Authority market-study on "Online platforms and digital advertising":

https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/media/5fa557668fa8f5788db46efc/Final_report_Digital_ALT_TEXT.pdf

This (again, otherwise sensible) document veers completely off the rails whenever the subject of attribution comes up. At one point, the authors propose that the law should allow corporations to spy on people who opt out of commercial surveillance, provided that this spying is undertaken for the sole purpose of attribution.

But it gets even worse: by the end of the document, the authors propose a "user ID intervention" to give every Briton a permanent, government-issued advertising identifier to make it easier for smaller companies to do attribution.

Look, I understand why advertisers like attribution and are willing to preferentially take their business to companies that can perform it. But the fact that merchants want to be able to peer into every corner of our lives to figure out how well their ads are performing is no basis for permitting them to do so – much less intervening in the market to make it even easier so more commercial snoops can get their noses in our business!

This is an idea that keeps popping up, like in this editorial by a UK lawyer, where he proposes fixing "Google's dominance of online advertising" by making it possible for everyone to track us using the commercial surveillance identifiers created and monopolized by the ad-tech duopoly and the mobile tech duopoly:

https://www.thesling.org/what-to-do-about-googles-dominance-of-online-advertising/

Those companies are doing something rotten. In dominating ads, they have stolen billions from publishers and advertisers. Then they used those billions to capture our democratic process and ensure that our human rights weren't being defended as they plundered our private data and put us in harm's way.

Advertising will adapt. The marketing bros know this is coming. They're already discussing how to live in a world where you can't measure clicks and you can't attribute actions (e.g. the world from the first advertisements up until the early 2000s):

https://sparktoro.com/blog/attribution-is-dying-clicks-are-dying-marketing-is-going-back-to-the-20th-century/

An equitable solution to Google's monopoly will not run though our right to privacy. We don't solve the Google monopoly by creating competition in surveillance. The reason to get rid of Google's monopoly is to make it easier to end surveillance.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/07/revealed-preferences/#extinguish-v-improve

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[inkskinned]

sometimes i think about the span of human existence and how if you spread your arms out in a long line and said my body is acting as a poem of all the universe's birthdays, the smallest sliver of your furthest nail would be our entire history as humans. and you, doing this, feeling your sternum crack into place because you're-getting-old and all of your bones crunch these days: you are the universe, measuring its own timeline. you're the memory of a starburst saying i gave birth to humans at the tip of my finger.

and i think about how crocodiles have been around for way longer than that fingernail and how sharks have been here forever too and how there are sea cucumbers that understand time like an angel would; their ages so astronomically long that i get dizzy looking down into them. i think about my dog, and how i am so fantastically ancient to him (an impossible number, staggering) and how, at the same time, i can order my life in eras of pets-i-have-loved and how my childhood died when my cat did.

and i wonder if the earth does the same thing, if nature keeps time in epochs. if the tree in the house where i grew up said oh a new family and got upset when one by one we all left for college and left behind our climbing and screaming and birdhouses. that same tree collapsed during a bad storm this winter; heartbroken. the whole inside was a hull, shivering and empty. it missed our roof by a whisper, almost like it held itself together so it couldn't pass a hole into the house it's been looking into for years now. the people who took it away clicked their teeth. it was a hundred years old, at least.

there are things that went extinct in my lifetime. there are memories that don't extend to the tip of the finger. four years ago, for the first time: i saw a bald eagle in the wild. ever since they've been sprouting strangely in my life, their origami frames hunched in a racket of brown feathers. something in the motion of wild animals braced against the new england weather - like we all (all of nature, all of the fingertip) have the same shared hate when it's cold sorrow. like in years and years and years of history we never really evolved a better method than to close your eyes and brace yourself against it.

i saw a butterfly today, staggering drunkenly in the early spring air. it's too early for her other friends. i want to tuck her back into bed and say it's not your time yet! her life like a pinprick in my own. in butterfly school they'd have to stretch out their scales and say - at the end of your furthest wing is where you are in the life of a human. she is in my life, isn't she. something about how my heart seized at the sight of her, so brave and lonely and unfair; and how it snowed yesterday (and will snow again, probably), and how, in spite of that, she was out there and flying.

something about waking up this morning and thinking - i'm too old for this. how my hips and knees and back all make new noises. how the other day at a grocery store i picked up the gloves an older woman had dropped, how she'd laughed and thanked me - i can't bend down like you young folks anymore.

something about the theory that there's been no visible life on other planets because we are too early. that we are the first butterfly of spring. all this bravery. we know it is probably hopeless, and still we go. breathless, the same tactic - we brace against the cold.

[mesetacadre]

Aviation in the USSR

A collection of excerpts from Anna Lousie Strong's The Soviets Expected It, compiled for @czerwonykasztelanic

[...] Or the guerrilla detachment which captured six German planes, destroyed five of them, and sent the sixth to the Red Army, piloted by an amateur air enthusiast, who was a tractor driver in ordinary life. Lt. Talalikhin’s initiative is already a Soviet aviator’s tradition. Exhausting his ammunition in a fight with three enemy planes, he rammed the tail of one enemy with his propeller, smashed the tail of another enemy plane with his wing tip, and then bailed out of his own plane safely. Moscow parks displayed the wreckage of the German planes, and other Soviet pilots quickly copied the tactics. An aviation technician, Konikov, won renown by attaching the fuselage of a plane he was repairing to the front platform of a military train whose locomotive had been bombed by the enemy; he thus pulled the most necessary parts of the train to safety.

pg. 14

The Soviet people glimpsed and felt victory. For the first time they began to feel that they were no longer “backward Russians.” They were beginning to challenge the world. With this went a proud sense of their unity as a nation. Cotton growers in Turkestan exulted, “We have conquered the Arctic,” though they themselves would never see the snow. Bearded peasants, who had never sat in an airplane, began to talk about “our conquest of the air.” Young Nina Kameneva expressed the mood of the country’s young people when she broke a world’s altitude record in parachute jumping and remarked on landing: “The sky of our country is the highest sky in the world.”

pg. 46

Moscow can make all the implements of war, including planes and motor trucks, inside the city. [...] Moscow’s sky is covered by an air defense that was the marvel of the London experts who visited it after the war began to make suggestions and found it far superior to London’s. Anti-aircraft shells make a thick blanket at four distinct levels to London’s one, and observation planes patrol the heavens night and day. Moscow’s four million people also offer a night-and-day defense.

pg. 51

Alma Ata, the capital of this area, has grown from a town of 60,000 to a proud young city of 260,000 in the ten years since the railroad reached it. Its life has leaped at once from the nomad epoch to the airplane. The railroad is too slow to tame the wastes of Kazakstan. From Alma Ata Airport the planes shoot forth, east, west, south, north, on new discoveries. [...] Kazakstan is only one of the energetic regions behind the Urals. South of it lie the lands of the Uzbeks and Tadjiks, where some of the largest textile mills of the U.S.S.R. work up the locally grown cotton and where automobile and airplane parts are produced by mass production in the historic city of Samarkand.

pg. 58

I have traveled many times on the Trans-Siberian. In the spring of 1935, I went from Vladivostok to Moscow with a stop-over in the Jewish autonomous territory whose capital is Birobidjan. The train was crowded with pioneering people in warm woolen clothes and padded leather jackets, engineers, Army men, developers of the Far East. [...] An army engineer who shared my table at dinner was celebrating his return by airplane from the northern wilderness by consuming a whole bottle of port and bragging about the Far Eastern pioneers.

pg. 59

According to Pierre Cot, the French Air Minister, who visited Moscow in 1933, the Soviet air arm was at least equal to the best in Europe in numbers, technical equipment, and, above all, in the productive capacity of the aviation industry.‡ Thus, by the end of 1932, which ended the first Five Year Plan, the Soviet Union had reached the level of Western Europe in armaments – a fairly modest level judged by standards of later years.

pg. 65

Other official indications of the extent of the Red Army’s mechanization come from Voroshilov’s report in 1934 [...]. Five years later [...]. He claimed that the “bomb salvo” of the Soviet air force (the number of bombs that can be dropped by all planes at once) had tripled in five years and had reached more than 6,000 tons.

pg. 66

Soviet airplane pilots also hold many world records, both in altitude and long-distance flights. Their conquest of the Arctic and its difficult weather has accustomed them to the severest conditions. Americans well remember the Soviet pilots who twice made world records by flying from Moscow to America. These were individual exploits, but the development of Arctic aviation on which they were based was the work of large numbers of pilots and implies a whole air tradition

pg. 67

Parachute jumping has become a national sport in the Soviet Union. Soviet people are probably the most air-minded people in the world. Training for air-mindedness begins in the kindergarten. Small tots play the “butterfly game” and jump around with large butterflies pinned on their hair, gaining the idea that flying is fun and a natural activity. Children in their teens make jumps from “parachute towers” which are far rougher and more realistic than the parachute tower in the New York World’s Fair, which was copied from them. The sport is popular not only in the cities but on the farms. Several years ago a Ukrainian farmer told me of his trip to the nearby city with a group of farm children, all of whom immediately formed in line in the recreation park to go up in a tall tower and jump off under a parachute. “I thought it very terrifying,” he said, “and wondered why the park authorities allowed it. Then I saw that my own thirteen-year-old daughter was at the head of the line. These children of today aren’t afraid of anything.” At an older age, Soviet young people jump from airplanes, learn to operate gliders, or even become amateur pilots in their spare time. Every large factory, government department, and many of the larger collective farms have “aviation clubs,” which are given free instruction by the government. Probably a million people in the Soviet Union have made actual jumps from parachutes. It is not surprising that the Red Army was the first to use parachute troops in active service several years before the Germans adopted them. In 1931 a small detachment of parachutists surrounded and cleaned up a bandit gang in Central Asia. The making of airplane models by young people is taken seriously in the U.S.S.R. In 1937 over a million school children were spending after-school hours in aviation model stations. At a later stage, young people of talent create real airplanes and demonstrate them at Tushino aviation exhibitions. Owing to the wide interest in aviation and the public ownership of factories, a bright Soviet youth who invents a new type of airplane may get it constructed by his factory sports club and show it off. At one of the aviation festivals I attended, I saw a score of different amateur planes, including every possible shape of flying object – short, stubby ones, long thin ones, others shaped like different kinds of insects. They added greatly to the gaiety of the occasion. Whether or not they produced any really valuable new invention, they at least encouraged the inventiveness of their makers.

pg. 72

In the past two years, especially, all this training has been given a very realistic turn. [...] Only a month before the Germans attacked the Soviet borders, 7,000 Moscow citizens practiced a special drill in repulsing parachute troops over the week end. The large numbers of such trained citizenry, both among recruits entering the Red Army and among the older citizens assisting it, greatly add to the Soviet Union’s total defense.

pg. 73

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

Fossil Novembirb 2: The Survivors

The End-Cretaceous Extinction was one of the most devastating - and tragic - events on our planet.

In the blink of an eye, the world changed from a thriving biosphere to a decimated one. The asteroid caused worldwide wildfires, tsunamis, and the dramatic release of particles into the air that blocked out the sun.

Nothing over 25 kg could survive, because they had nowhere to hide from the devastation. Anything under that limit had to have somewhere to hide - water or burrowing worked best - and something to eat, which was easier said than done. When the plants can't eat, nothing can.

And yet, life survived - not just life, but dinosaurs themselves!

Conflicto, by @otussketching

In fact, one of the first fossils we have from the Cenozoic is Conflicto, a Presbyornithid - like "Styginetta" and Teviornis yesterday! - from Antarctica

Why these dinosaurs, and no others?

They had beaks, which would have helped them to access available food sources such as seeds and spores (plant material in a protective casing)

They did not live in trees, but usually near or with water - perfect places to hide

They were powerful fliers, allowing them to escape the flames and whatever else they needed to

Other than that? Random chance.

Much of the evolution of life on this planet is down to Sheer Dumb Luck

Tsidiiyazhi by Sean Murtha

What happened next was truly remarkable: an adaptive radiation of dinosaurs the likes of which is rarely seen

With all of those newly opened niches, Neornithines adapted quickly, so quickly we can't actually figure out how different major groups of Neoavians - aka, most birds - actually relate to one another.

After all, there was just *so much* free real estate!

Qianshanornis by @alphynix

In fact, many of these dinosaurs evolved right back into niches that their ancestors had famously lived in - penguins show up so quickly that we're giving marine birds their own day, replacing the now-lost Hesperornithines; Tsidiiyazhi and others quickly replaced the empty tree-bird niches left behind by the lost Enantiornithines; and raptors show up quickly too, already reminiscent of the lost Dromaeosaurs.

Qianshanornis, a mysterious raptor from China, had sickle claws just like its lost bretheren! In fact, it looks like it might be a Cariamiform, a group of dinosaurs including living Seriemas and the extinct Terror Birds, which often have sickle claws like Dromaeosaurs did!

Don't fix what isn't broken, I guess!

Australornis by @thewoodparable

Non-Neoavians diversified too, with fowl doing just fine across the boundary - Presbyornithids like Conflicto, as well as mysterious forms like Australornis.

Palaeognaths remain weirdly absent, but don't worry - the earilest ones will show up before the Paleocene epoch is done!

The Cenozoic begins with the Paleogene Period, which has the first epoch of the Paleocene - this was a climatic quagmire, with frequent fluctuations at the beginning before a dramatic rise in temperatures at the end. This climate confusion would affect bird evolution greatly - and lead to the diversification of many kinds, some of which we still have today!

Sources:

Ksepka, D. T., T. A. Stidham, T. E. Williamson. 2017. Early Paleocene landbird supports rapid phylogenetic and morphological diversification of crown birds after the K-PG mass extinction. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 114 (30): 8047 - 8052.

Mayr, 2022. Paleogene Fossil Birds, 2nd Edition. Springer Cham.

Mayr, 2017. Avian Evolution: The Fossil Record of Birds and its Paleobiological Significance (TOPA Topics in Paleobiology). Wiley Blackwell.

[diavolo-is-babygirl]

Diavolo x GN! MC: Becoming the Exalt (Becoming Diavolo's Boyfriend/Girlfriend/Person)

In the dimly lit chambers of the Devildom, shadows danced upon the ancient stone walls, weaving tales of epochs past.

The air was thick with the scent of flame and twilight, a testament to the weighty memories that painted the Devildom's skies. Prince Diavolo, with his amber hair tousled and golden eyes troubled, stood by the window, gazing into the abyss of the night sky. The stars above seemed distant and indifferent, faraway spectators to his internal turmoil.

MC approached with a confident stride, their presence a vibrant contrast to the prince’s somber mood. They placed a firm hand on his shoulder, their touch grounding him.

"Diavolo," MC began. "what’s eating you up?"

Diavolo turned to face them, his eyes reflecting the myriad of stormy emotions swirling within. "It is you, my beloved MC. The thought of making you the Exalt weighs heavily on my heart. I fear the burden it will place upon you, the relentless scrutiny, the ceaseless demands. The Elite Legion of Demons...the thought of putting this all on you terrifies me. This path-my path-is fraught with peril and endless challenges."

MC's heart ached at the sight of his vulnerability, a rare glimpse behind the mask of unfathomable sunshine. They cupped his face in their hands, forcing him to meet their unwavering gaze.

"Listen here, Diavolo. If you think a bunch of grumpy demons and a few extra tasks are going to scare me off, you’re wrong. I’m not just ready to face the storm; I’m ready to dance in it."

A faint smile touched Diavolo's lips, his heart swelling with a mixture of relief and adoration. "You speak with such certainty, dearest MC. But I just can't bear the thought of you suffering because of me. Putting you through so much stress? On my behalf? I'd rather face my father."

MC leaned closer, their breath a valiant whisper against his skin. "I'd rather live through a thousand storms with you than spend another minute breathing without you by my side, Dia. Any life with you is Heaven on Earth. A life without you is no life at all."

Diavolo closed his eyes, allowing MC's words to wash over him like a soothing tide. He drew them into a tender embrace, feeling the steady beat of their heart against his own. "You are my light in the darkness," he murmured, his voice filled with reverence. "With you by my side, I feel invincible."

MC smiled, their love for him radiating like a beacon in the night. "And you know I'd go to bat for you any day, right? You can always count on me."

The night, once filled with shadows of doubt, now seemed to shimmer with the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

Together, they would face whatever trials lay ahead, their hearts and souls intertwined in a bond that no darkness could ever shatter.

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #9 – The Devourers by Indra Das

I was recommended this as an example of a contemporary work where werewolves are actually treated as monstrous and horrifying instead of either romance fodder or one interchangeable variety of supernatural in an urban fantasy kitchen sink. In one sense that was a blatant lie (the monsters are only werewolves in the vaguest sense), but in another one I care about much more it fit the bill perfectly. Funnily enough it basically is a romance (or at least, the overarching framing narrative is), but for once I’m not complaining about that. Excellent read, though does require a bit of a strong stomach.

The framing narrative follows Alok, a history professor in Kolkata whose approached by a mysterious stranger at a festival. The stranger identifies himself as a half-werewolf, an immortal man-eating shapechanger. In between being mysterious and menacing and flirting with Alok, he hires him to transcribe and digitize two historical werewolf manuscripts – journals etched into parchment made from human skin. Those journals are the meat of the narrative, and it rapidly becomes clear they are written by the stranger’s parents; first the ancient norse werewolf who had wandered all the way to the banks of the Yamuna, then the human woman he fell into something like love with and raped as she travels alongside one of his former packmates and hunts him down.

The framing device is the emotional heart of this, and incredibly well interwoven with the manuscript sections. It’s fundamentally a romance, though one somewhat interestingly devoid of real conflict or plot (well, from Alok’s perspective. There’s a whole emotional journey with him going from ‘future food’ to ‘romantic partner’, he just only gets small glimpses of it). There’s I think one real argument or point of conflict between the two of them across the entire book? And maybe one or two points besides that where Alok or their relationship encounters genuine difficulty or danger. Despite that, and despite (or perhaps because of) the ambiguous ending, it all just very much worked for me.

It’s also interesting – and the book does really call this out – that the whole plot is essentially arbitrary. The inciting incident is just a werewolf being angsty and lonesome, and the entire story and all its stakes are strictly interpersonal with nary an epochal revelation or looming existential doom to be seen. It is a sign of how much of my reading diet is genre fiction that this felt like a massive breath of fresh air, I think.

Speaking of love – the book is deeply and intensely preoccupied with the closeness of and overlaps between love and sex and pain and violation and consumption and death. Werewolves consume souls and memories as well as flesh, knowing and even becoming (for a time) those they hunt. This extends to each other as well – regeneration means mating and fighting to the death is an impossibly thin an frequently crossed line, and intimacy and memories are shared by literally allowing someone to take a bit out of you. Izrail kills and consumes both his mother and his father, and this is the only way he ever truly knows either of them. Both he and his father have fallen in love with whole strings of humans across the ages, and each been the ruin of all but one of them. This extends into the use of language as well – I didn’t take notes as I read, but the example that sticks in my mind was the description of one werewolf pressing a mush of chewed flesh into the mouth of another so he might heal as being ‘like a gentle kiss’.

It is just an intensely gory book in general, really. Or not even gory so much as carnal, in the older broader sense. There’s blood and viscera and sweat and sex and piss and shit and tallow made from human fat and game animals eaten bloody and raw. All of it seamlessly intermixed in one richly detailed and incredibly pungent sensory world the book conjures up for you.. This is taken to an extreme whenever the primordial god-monsters that are a shapeshifter’s second soul appears on screen, but even beyond that – like when I say you need a bit of strong stomach to enjoy the book, I really don’t’ just mean in terms of violence.

This ties in a bit with the lack of grand, world-shaking stakes I mentioned but – the book makes excellent use of its period piece sections to really sell this feeling of the weight of history and of being caught up in the wake of events larger than you can perceive. The 17th century sections really nail the sense of the past as its own living, breathing world full of richness and contradictions, rather than just a slate for the present’s psychodrama. Also it’s possibly the first book I’ve ever read which really mentioned the surprisingly widespread and violent history of werewolf hunts in Europe, which I appreciated.

The shapeshifters (werewolves, rakshassa, djinn, ghuls) themselves are absolutely great. Horrifying and disgusting and sublime, with exactly as much detail given as the story needs without succumbing to rpg splatbook syndrome. The idea of werewolves as things which are deliberately created through a(n incredibly violent and traumatizing) ritual process is one I don’t think I’ve seen before? It works here, anyway – though instead of a hereditary curse or contagious infection, it leaves shapeshifters feeling like one of those elite, elevated fraternities who put new inductees through a hell of physical, social and sexual violence for hazing and indoctrination purposes (the usual modern versions being military units, sports teams, and just actual fraternities). Which ties into all those themes of the fine line between love and violence, I suppose.

Or well, not technically fraternity – werewolves are all functionally genderfuild (can take a big nap and wake up looking like whoever they ate last) and while their second selves can fuck I’m not sure either human genders or, like, genital arrangements apply to them. But 3/4 of the werewolves who get any lines are one caricature or another of masculinity and this absolutely informs how the condition and culture are presented. So like, I’ll just go with it.

Anyway, great book! And ‘abuse regeneration by sewing dozens upon dozens of bones and trophies taken from prey into your skin’ is a great look for a werewolf’s human form.

[morelikeravenbore]

How did Auralie get her scars?

🦋✨ Hello there li'l anon friend! Thank you sooo much for sending in this question and for taking an interest in my bebe!

Not gonna lie, I went full blown too-much for this one and ended up writing a ~1.3k word fluffy drabble instead, lolol. But if you'd like a tldr, Aura got her scars after obtaining a scratch from a Venomous Tentacular seedling in her father's greenhouse. Since the wounds were magical in nature, the scars weren't able to be erased, but thanks to the wise words of her plant-loving (slightly eccentric) Hufflepuff Papa, she learned to see the beauty in them.

Anyways, this little oneshot is based after events in How to Make a Villain that haven't been published yet. For anyone reading along, there aren't any hard spoilers, but there are hints that they've been through some ✨stuff.✨

🦋 TW: none! Mostly fluffy with a little bit of angst and a general air of trauma. Photo of Aura's scars by me, Sebebe's scars by @lorriiraine

Preview: Much to the chagrin of his peers, excelling in his studies was, to put it mildly, downright bloody easy, and though his natural proclivity towards excellence often put him on the receiving end of bitter remarks and jealous taunts, Sebastian took pride in the fact that despite everything that had been taken from him, his intelligence remained unfaltering.

That is, until he fell in love.

Sebastian Sallow was no idiot, by any means. Having been raised by two fiercely academic professors, he'd spent much of his childhood with his nose buried in a book, studying magical theory and practicing wandless magic well before he'd taken his epochal trip to Ollivander's. Needless to say, by the time he arrived at Hogwarts — armed with a dragon heartstring wand and an itching desire to point it at everything — his intelligence was rivalled only by that of his sisters: the Sallow twins, though grieving the tragic death of their parents, were the brightest pair of students the school had seen in recent memory, an unstoppable force of Slytherin brains, resourcefulness, and ambition who were destined for greatness despite their unfortunate beginnings.

In fact, so brilliant was Sebastian's studious mind that when those unfortunate beginnings turned into unfortunate endings — starting with his sister's curse and ending with his uncle's death — his grades remained so impeccably high that even the strictest professors were loathe to punish him too severely when he repeatedly broke curfew to steal books.

Much to the chagrin of his peers, excelling in his studies was, to put it mildly, downright bloody easy, and though his natural proclivity towards excellence often put him on the receiving end of bitter remarks and jealous taunts, Sebastian took pride in the fact that despite everything that had been taken from him, his intelligence remained unfaltering.

That is, until he fell in love.

Little did he know that the thing that would ultimately turn his brain from highly efficient machine into flobberworm mush would come not in the form of N.E.W.T studies or brutal exam revisions, but from a girl who was so beautiful she rendered him incapable of coherent speech, rational thought and, perhaps most difficult of all, an inability to restrain himself from pulling her onto his lap and staring at her all gooey-eyed like he was now, their faces so close he could count every sun-kissed freckle across her nose.

To think he'd once thought himself too smart to ever fall in love.

What an idiot.

'You have a scar.' Aurelie was the first to break the silence they'd been enjoying for the better part of the afternoon, tilting her head to inspect the two faint scars that adorned his bottom lip. 'What happened?'

Sebastian had to hold his breath as her fingers ghosted the corner of his mouth; though the great weeping willow they'd settled under for the day offered some privacy from the shrewd eyes and wagging tongues of their fellow Feldcroft residents, it wasn't quite an appropriate place to enact all the romantic fantasies he imagined whenever she was perched in his lap like this.

'Flying —' He cleared his throat. 'Flying accident.'

'Quidditch?'

'No, uh —' Me crash broom. Biiiig idiot. 'I borrowed my father's broomstick when I was seven. Crashed into the side of the house.'

'Silly,' she murmured, giggling so close to his mouth that he inhaled it.

Sebastian nodded: the only response he could reasonably manage as her breath fanned pleasantly across his face, as warm and sweet as the summer air in his lungs.

Yes. Me stupid. Give smooch.

'You have scars, too,' he observed, his feather-light touch mirroring hers as he traced the delicate scars along her jawbone.

Though they did little to mar her beauty, the three long scratches seemed somehow too violent for features so fine, like cracks in an ornately gilded mirror, or chips in an otherwise pristine marble slab. He'd often wondered how she'd gotten them, but the mere thought of her suffering any sort of pain was so intolerable that he'd never found the courage to ask.

Seeming to sense the disquieted tone of his thoughts, Aurélie caught his fingers and pressed them to her cheek, effectively short-circuiting his brain again.

Me like touch face.

'Oh, those,' she said mildly, leaning into his touch. 'Gardening mishap.'

Sebastian could only grunt questioningly in reply, struck dumb again by the warmth of her skin and how softly it yielded beneath his calloused palm. It wasn't often she let him touch her so willingly; after all, there were scars that ran deeper than her marked skin, barely healed wounds that were so fresh and tender that she flinched away if he wasn't careful enough, slow enough. Part of loving this tentative girl was learning to control the moments his brain flipped off and his rambunctious heart took over, when his once infallible logic and reason were trumped by his big, dumb heart.

Theirs was a love that had exploded into existence at the start of their seventh year only to smoulder away inexorably for the rest of it until the flames inevitably reared up to engulf them. Now, a month after graduation, both a little scorched around the edges, neither of them were quite used to being together together, still reeling from the events that had nearly torn them apart while trying to navigate a future they'd never seen coming.

Of course, Sebastian had known from the beginning that his future was bound to hers — but never like this.

'Papa raised Venomous Tentacular when we lived in France,' Aurélie explained, closing her eyes as he stroked his thumb across her cheek. 'Maman was not happy about it. She argued that it was too dangerous to keep such aggressive plants in his greenhouses, especially with a curious daughter in tow.' She cracked open an eye to peek at him, a little wry grin teasing the corner of her lips. 'She didn't approve of my enthusiasm for gardening. Apparently, "it's not becoming of a lady to have dirt caked under her nails all the time." But Papa insisted.'

'Hufflepuff's and their plants,' Sebastian murmured, surprised he was able to string together four words that actually made sense.

'Yes,' she said, glancing up through her lashes with a smile tinged with pain. Sebastian returned it in kind, his own smile heavy with the burdens he shouldered. He knew how it felt to have the warmth of every happy memory tempered by the cold indifference of loss, every fond recollection skewed by sorrow. Like a favourite landscape seen through a rain-lashed window, familiar yet distorted, so too were his own memories of his past, of Anne and his parents, his childhood.

With a patience that was new to him, Sebastian waited in quiet observance while Aurélie disappeared across that great chasm of death to visit a happier time, letting her own tainted memories sweep her away until the rustling of summer wind through willow branches brought her back to him.

'Well,' she said, shifting her faraway gaze to meet his, 'you can imagine her horror when a Tentacular seedling reared up unexpectedly and scratched me.' She gestured at her face, tilting her chin back to show him the full extent of the damage her gardening mishap had left behind. Sebastian instinctively leaned forward, wanting so badly to kiss, to soothe, to mend, but mindful, as always, of taking his time.

Pretty.

'It was the worst fight my parents ever had,' she sighed. 'Maman was distraught, said that I'd ruined my face and that Papa had been irresponsible to let me near them. She tried every remedy under the sun to erase the scars — magical and mundane, Healers and Herbologists... even a Curse Breaker when she got really desperate. But magical wounds leave scars, so...'

She trailed off with a shrug, and Sebastian thought that if he didn't kiss away the lingering sadness from her face right then and there, he might actually explode.

'And what did your Papa think?' he asked, his voice a reverent whisper as the tip of his nose brushed hers.

'He used to say that my scars were simply "physical evidence of my curious nature and adventurous spirit",' she whispered back, repeating her father's words with perfect recollection. 'And that they only made me more beautiful.'

'Wise man, that Papa of yours.'

No more sad. Me smooch now.

When he leaned in again, dipping his head to brush his nose along her jawline, she didn't move away.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Rudely Interrupted - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

A peaceful nap derailed...

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Caught off-guard, Silco hitches a breath before gathering her close. His cold hands cradle Jinx's head, a fragile eggshell containing a cosmos.

"I mean it," he repeats, "You are perfect. Perfect. You were today, and you will be every day after. All I want is to repay your gift."

"You don't gotta."

"I do." A rueful smile. "Because it's a gift to do anything for you."

"Likewise," Jinx whispers.

"That's not how gifts work."

"I thought you believed in tit-for-tat." Her breath tickles his scarred cheek. "Payback, or whatever."

"Daughter, not debtor, Jinx."

"Huh." Jinx pulls back, a contemplative moue "So it's like, what's mine is yours?"

"Something like that." Silco's fingertips find the gem. It is warmed from her skin. "I don't want to hold you back, child. You're a brilliant force, and I want the world to see it. I want everyone to know your name. To speak it, not in shouts but whispers. But I also want to make sure that no matter how high you fly, there is a place for you here."

"Our Safe Spot."

"That's right." He touches her chin. "My room. My desk. Our Zaun. Whatever you need, it's yours. I'll make sure of it." He takes a measured breath.  The air is suffused with her scent: candied cherry and stardust. "Until then, rest easy. This is the first day of the new age. Tomorrow, our work begins. Tonight, you dream."

"Mmm." Her lashes flutter, and her skull falls against his shoulder. "Stay?"

"Wouldn't you rather call Magnus?"

"Later." She keeps a stubborn grip on his lapels. "Please?"

Silco hesitates. His mind is a rolodex of priorities. Sevika, and the crew. Vi and the warmasons. The investors; the Council; the chem-barons. There are papers to sign and secrets to trade. He has a thousand things to do before sunrise, and not nearly enough hours in the night.

And yet Jinx, half-drowsing, holds him happily hostage. Her lips, cherry-gloss sticky, kiss the crooked bridge of his nose. Then she pulls back just far enough to nuzzle his scarred cheek: a velvety glide on rough cicatrix. His skin burns in her wake. Gratitude is a stake driven through his black heart.

She's the only one who'd dare. The only secret he'd never trade.

Against his neck, Jinx whispers, "Bet I'll make ya fall asleep soon."

"Hm," he agrees. "You just might."

He cradles Jinx against the armature of his body.  His palm smooths her hair, and finds the knots. The strands, tweaked, unravel. He unravels with her. Sighing, Jinx scooches closer; his arm encircles her. Their heads temple together on the same pillow.

Outside, the fizzle of fireworks goes off. Cheers drift up. Silco fancies he can hear the first footsteps of a new epoch.

Then he hears real footsteps.

A heartbeat later, a hand seizes his throat, a hand so insistently powerful that memory strobes in a nightmare starbust—Vander?—a moment before he's wrenched away from Jinx and hauled through the air, glimpsing a contorted face and rageful eyes right before a fist slams into his retinas, no longer a starburst but a flashbang that sends him rocking back, his hands flying up instinctively as blood fills his senses and a snarl fills his ears:

"Get the FUCK off my sister!"

A moment later, Jinx unleashes a ragged scream.

"VI?!"

[gmalaart]

Still Waters (Run Deep)

The water parts around you, swirling and shifting as you pick apart the threads of memory you have chosen to comb through today. Something pulls the edges of your attention, lifting you out of your self imposed work. You huff and the air leaving your lungs propels you further up, away from the smell of your childhood home and the sound of your brother’s attempts at playing the piano. As the bubbles cloud your vision and the pressure of the zee and of time fades, the melody changes. It becomes louder. It sways from a piano to a violin. It is just as familiar as the memory of your brother, and you breathe fully for the first time in weeks. 

You lay on the surface of the water, staring at the cosmogone sky as a girl casts her shadow across your face. She plays her song, impressions of your past meetings with her washing over you in waves. Nowadays you don’t have much to talk about. She came to you often, at the beginning, when she first sensed your presence. You brought news of her father and she made you write promises into the cresting water all around you. You could see them still, if you waved your hand just so in the water. But you have said all that needs to be said, and so has she. The company is comforting either way.

Minutes, hours, perhaps days later, you feel a string pull at the centre of your chest. Your hand reaches under your own shirt, brushing against the set of stones encased in the necklace that sits snugly against your neck. They beat a warm rhythm into your skin, like they did only once before, here in the Is-Not, and the water stills around you. It creates a perfectly clear mirror to the sky above for just a moment, before the perfect immobility is broken by skipping words across the cosmogone hue. 

Your throat feels tighter, with each new sentence. Lenore stands with you in the whirlpool of memories that are whipped up by the words, the eye of a storm of your own making. 

Shared touches brush across your skin-

 A wave of worry flows up the length of your chest-

The lights of the bridge when he chased after you like no one ever had-

Closed curtains as he finds your arms after his hands had crafted a new order for the world-

His embrace, the first thing you felt after your body breathed anew-

The incredible privilege to see his mind at work-

I love you.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

“I think this is where we part ways, my dear,” you say an epoch later, when the storm has died down and the words have long been blown away by the wind. 

“Yes, I think so too,” she answers. Her music plays on but it is fainter now as she holds her suitcase and gazes out towards where it feels like land is. “A ship should come by, but I don’t think you’re going to wait.”

“Absolutely not. It’s about time that I stretch my legs, I think. A walk would be nice.”

The zee ripples as she laughs, looking up at your face as you stand just out of reach. 

“You’re going back then?”

“I am.”

“That’s good.” She is quiet for a long while, both of you lingering and putting off the inevitable. “Take care of dad for me. One last promise.”

You turn to face her, tracing the features you have come to know so well. She looks like him. You think that you might have enjoyed meeting her when she was more than a memory.

“Of course. My skills are at his disposal, he knows this,” you say and watch her tilt her head, dipping into images of the times you offered something much more meaningful than skills to her father. “Alright, alright. I promise.”

A gust of wind carries your words away but you know now that they will remain. Someone will remember, somehow. As you gaze upon her one last time, the echo of your steps already moving across the surface of the zee, homeward bound, you hum the last notes of her endless melody.

All is quiet, here at the end.

“Be well, Emon.”

“And you rest easy, Lenore.”

A sort of response, sort of follow-up to @zeebreezin's last piece of writing, aka Shaw's letters as he set off to finish his Ambition. it absolutely knocked me on my feet and I needed to try to match the energy. and I suppose this means that Emon is on their way out of Parabola now!

[sinnohsiblings]

Response to (this) from @singularity-and-co Hearing his annoyance she gave Singularity a sympathetic look, "I don't know how your father expects you three to be able to truly enjoy or care about your world if he doesn't let you experience all it has to offer. I mean...What was the point in creating a world if it wasn't meant to be a home all of you can enjoy. Is it an ego thing??" She said making an awkward gesture with her hands like she was trying to weigh out the possible foolish thoughts. "No wonder Epoch has issues, I can only fathom what your father did to him seeing what he did to you. Stars, if enjoying someone's company or dating is breaking a rule your father is the king of control freaks." When he complimented her bands she smiled, "See I agree! I would make pink look so good! Calama says he can't see the appeal of pink, but I think his eyes are failing him." She said starting to laugh. "And I only think my relationship with my brother and sister is as strong as it is because my parents went out of their way to instill in us that we were a team, we were meant to help each other and needed to respect each other. I mean yeah we still squabble on and off, families can disagree. But it's honestly disturbing how many creation gods are convinced to be indifferent or turn on their counterparts. How does anything get done?" She paused noticing his expression change and she turned around to look behind her, though she saw nothing she couldn't help but feel like she was being watched. Hopefully, it was just some nosy mortal who knew better than to interrupt. When he mentioned gardening being hard she perked up, "it gets easier once you know what you are doing. It's very difficult for some plants to thrive in the void given the fluctuating nature of it. Roses do absolutely terrible in it, But dandelion weeds seem to thrive, but those things grow through concrete so that's not the best example." She mused scratching her chin. When he complimented her appearance she blushed and instead of being coy about his flirty nature like she had been she leaned a bit closer to him over the table, "I like how forward and genuine you are with it." However as she listened to Singularity speak of his siblings she frowned, his father really had gone out of his way to make them hate each other, didn't he? She was going to comment on it but when Galaxis spawned and started to heckle his brother Galadriel pulled away from Sing and sat quietly watching. And while the Palkia probably wouldn't smell or taste the air, any Giratina could taste and smell exactly how she felt about his behavior...

Maybe disliked was an understatement...no...she HATED that. The fact that the second Singularity had a moment of peace to enjoy himself his sibling would be so selfish as to try and intentionally embarrass him and derail everything. It made the tendrils under Galadriels skin writhe as her anger boiled over, luckily she was clothed or someone would have noticed the snake-like tendrils slithering under her skin, breaking the clear illusion of a human woman. Thats when she paused enough to survey the situation. Lashing out would only ruin everyone's time but tasting the air and smelling the energy coming off the Palkia she knew exactly how to make him leave without a fight. And with her plan made she did not hesitate to execute it. She slammed her hands on the table and stood up to make a show.

Galadriel walked over and firmly tossed the chair Galaxis summoned to the side, "Besides the chairs your darling brother provided are much more comfortable and fitting to the night's theme than this silly old thing~ You wouldn't want to stick out or appear like an unwanted guest right~" She said with a sweet smile but malicious intent in her eyes. She placed one hand on Galaxis's shoulder blade, her claw-like nails pressed firmly against the fabric of his suit but not hard enough to do anything but give a firm example of the anger brewing under her skin as she gently guided him to the other side of the table, her other hand having left grooves and scars in the wood of the discarded chair from her not holding back her strength on the object. "Go on~ sit and join us, I wasn't made aware it was in your world's customs that family joins something as intimate as a first date. Something like that is seen as disrespectful where I am from, so forgive me for assuming we were only to enjoy one another in such a private setting. Had I known the difference I would have brought my darling big sister to entertain you, lord Galaxis." She said with a fake sigh of disappointment, making it very clear she was putting on an act and not hiding the fact she was. "But don't fret! I already know the best place to plant myself!" With that, she walked over to Singularity and...

"Your brother was being such enjoyable company I thought I may reward him with a token of my affection. Hopefully, that won't be a problem. After all, eventually, people dating will kiss the other~" She purred as she made herself comfortable. Again her face held such a sweet smile, as she leaned against Singularity.

[everybodyshusband]

we're back to your (ir)regularly scheduled happy regressed ghouls !!!

approx. 700 words of regressed aeon and caregiver zephyr under the cut, with they/them pronouns used for zephyr, and it/its used for aeon <3

“Are you comfortable, my little epoch?” The air ghoul’s voice rumbles in the quiet library. The only other sound to be heard is the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the broken, contented purrs of the little ghoul in their lap.

Aeon nods and buries its face even deeper into Zephyr’s chest, curled up in the air ghoul’s lap in a ball so tight that it’s a wonder its limbs haven’t begun to cramp up yet. It paws at Zephyr’s thigh as well as it is able to through the thick blanket covering them both and looks up at them with wide eyes. Its hand is barely able to reach the book resting there thanks to its strange position.

Zephyr smiles down at Aeon, loosening their hold around it to bring a finger up and boop its nose, making it giggle and purr even more loudly. “Is it story-time, small one? Would you wish for me to read aloud?”

Their questioning is met with a soft “Uh huh…” from the quintessence ghoul in their lap, and Zephyr can’t help but allow a purr of their own to kick up in their throat.

“You know,” they begin, picking up the book and rearranging Aeon in their lap as they do so, “this is not typically my favoured reading material.”

It’s true. At this time of year it’s more often than not that the old air ghoul can be found in the armchair with a book in front of the library’s warmest fire, doing their best to let the heat seep into their cold-stiffened and aching joints. Although, they tend to favour a lengthy Jane Austen, or perhaps an old, untranslated version of the Bible—the Christian one that is; the absurdity of the whole thing never fails to make them chuckle—over anything else, the colourful picture story book that was pushed into their claws by the eager, slightly sticky hands of the quintessence ghoul in their lap is most certainly outside of their regular sphere of interest. Alas, they couldn’t say no to it if they tried.

“Jus’ read da sdory, Dada.” By the sound of its voice, Zephyr can tell that Aeon won’t be awake for much of the sdory they’re about to read to it, but they sigh quietly and deign to prop the book up on their lap in such a way that if the little ghoul turns its head, it should be able to look at the pictures while Zephyr reads aloud.

Before they begin though, there’s one point they’d like to raise with the sleepy creature on their lap. “I didn’t know I was your Dada, epoch,” they muse, smiling down at Aeon gently.

It hums softly, rubbing its cheek against the fabric of Zephyr’s tunic, its purring kicking up a notch in volume as it does. “An’ my Mama.”

Sathanas. Zephyr doesn’t think they’re going to be able to handle much more of the adorable pile of ghoul in their lap without becoming uncharacteristically emotional. “And your Mama?”

“Mhmm.” It nods its head sleepily. “You gedda be bofe.”

“I get to be both? I must be very lucky.” The only response Zephyr gets from Aeon is another little nod of its head and a loose gesture towards the book. They chuckle softly. “Alright, my epoch. You want your story-time, I understand. Are you comfortable enough for your Dada-Mama to begin reading it for you?”

Another nod—and a small giggle at the phrase Dada-Mama.

“Perfect.” Zephyr readjusts Aeon’s position in their lap once again, holding the little ghoul close to them in a way that allows them to hold the book up with one hand and card gentle fingers through its hair with the other. It seems as if Aeon is content enough to leave its face under the blanket and buried in Zephyr’s chest rather than look at the pictures in the book, and when Zephyr looks down they can see it chewing on a fold in the fabric of their tunic, its loud and broken purring having never once ceased throughout the whole ordeal.

The air ghoul presses a chaste kiss to Aeon’s head, ensuring their own purr is audible to its blanket-enveloped ears, and begins to read.

[dozing-marshmallow]

I looooooooove the chris x wife! reader fic that you wrote!! It got me kicking my feet and blushing 😊 By any chance, could you write a chris x wife! reader going on their honeymoon?

Awww this is such a cute idea, thank you so much, I’m so happy to hear that you loved the last one! ⋆˙⟡♡  I had to get something out on the man’s birthday as soon as I could and this request was the one I was fixated on finishing the most, so do enjoy reading and McLean’s bday ~💗!

CHRIS MCLEAN X WIFE! READER ON HONEYMOON HEADCANONS

Most newly wed couples go to just one location for their honeymoon.

Yet it was very poor of you to think that standard would apply to Chris.

You didn’t realise until he informed you that you were gonna go to two countries per continent(apart from Antartica, cuz what the hell): Barbados and Costa Rica for North America, Brazil and Colombia for South America, France and Italy for Europe, Thailand and (The) Philippines for Asia, Morocco and Tunisia for Africa, French Polynesia and Australia for Oceania.

The only reason why Chris cut it to two instead of four was because he suspected you would get sick of travelling, and didn’t want you to be complaining on holiday.

“Chriiis, we don’t need to, you know!” you’re verbal about your humble take on the honeymoon as Chris made his long list based on the notes he wrote from his and your opinions,“This is all so costly! We could really go to two continents instead!”

“Huh?” he looks at you, confusion scratching into the space between his eyebrows,“(Y/N), this is literally nothing. You seriously wanna spend our whole two months of celebrating marriage in one place like working class people?”

Harsh, but it’s fine because it’s Chris.

Before you left, he took you on a massive shopping spree where it had not even been the beginning of him pampering you with all the jewellery, the swimsuits and the candies.

This guy doesn’t need to book reservations: the best hotels, air BNBs, holiday homes, you name the one you want to stay at the country and baam. Availability opens a door and charm hands over the keys.

He also hired a chaperone for each country, but most of the time, only for the arrival and departure; he wanted more alone time with you.

At this rate, you wondered if he needed to pay to enter the countries asides from paying the fuel and landing runway.

That’s right. You were getting there by his jet -he ended up upgrading- to each location.

Since it wasn’t meant to carry fifteen contestants this time, Chris abolished the loser and first class section in the new version of his plane to be furnished completely into his headquarters.

During each jet ride, you and Chris would review helpful phrases and attractions that would enhance the experience.

“So in France, we will have to remember to say “bonsoir” from 6 PM onwards.” you reiterate.

“That’s doable.” Chris comments, leaning back in his chair.

“And they don’t like smiling a lot.” you add, doing it yourself.

His relaxation ended,“Bummer. D’you think they can make an exception for me? My resting face is a smile.”

They did- in every place.

The honeymoon was an epoch for Chris to meet his fans from all over the world. If you had a dollar for every autograph he signed the entire getaway, you would have enough money to have your own jet.

Weirdly enough, Chris lost genuine pleasure to greet his global admirers and increasingly rushed the interactions.

“It’s okay to be more attentive to your fans, Chris.” you insist, with your head on his bare body, laying around somewhere on the warm Tunisian beach.

“Nah.” he differs with his hand scrubbing sand on your back,“I came on holiday with you, not them. I couldn’t leave you by yourself.”

Aw. You love your husband,“You’re right. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

He bought you anything that caught your eye. Clothes, hats, rings, ice cream, souvenirs.

Chris had also bought five cameras. He wasn’t letting a single moment of a scenery or pose go to waste.

Be prepared for the day when he eventually gets them all printed out and stuck in fresh albums and wants to reminisce with you.

He took you to the best restaurants, never settling for one less than five stars (maybe four if you persuaded him enough).

“To another exceptional night of our honeymoon!” he raises his glass of happiness.

You copy, both clinking and declaring cheers.

Going back to your accommodation, Chris would have you carried until the first descent onto the fine duvets.

Let’s just say that, by the time you do get back to Canada, both husband and wife’s necks have never been more wine red.

[rosyrosethings]

Y/n returns after missing

This story is a rewrite/edit. I posted this story a while ago. But I'm doing over my master list. So i rewrote this. It inspired by the tv show manifest which is a about a plan that goes missing and they return a few years later

Four years had slipped away since the passengers aboard flight N-47 vanished into thin air, presumed to have tragically succumbed to some unfathomable fate. Yet, in a twist befitting a miracle, three souls previously lost had reemerged. Y/n Y/L/N, James Carter, and Sus-... The screen went blank as she snapped off the TV, cutting the newscaster off mid-sentence. For Y/n, those four years encapsulated an epoch of isolation, an overwhelming void where time seemed inconsequential. The world had marched on, relentless and indifferent, leaving behind a cascade of changes she could scarcely begin to absorb.

Memories of her life before the ill-fated flight were vivid and achingly sweet. She had been on the cusp of a new chapter, her dreams tangibly close. A blossoming fashion designer, Y/n was set to weave her creativity and passion into the very fabric of the industry. Her return from Rio was supposed to be a celebratory milestone, marking her transition into a life shared with Harry and the thrilling prospect of seeing her best friend Kendall, potentially the next supermodel sensation, flaunt her designs down the runway.

The reality she returned to, however, was starkly different. Expectations of a warm welcome, of falling back into the comfortable embrace of her old life with Harry, were shattered. Hours turned into an eternity at her mother’s house, each passing moment amplifying her confusion and heartache. Where was Harry? Why was he submerged in a new life where he was a solo artist, a far cry from the hiatus he'd taken from his band in 2015?

Trepidation gripped her heart, preventing her from delving too deep into the life Harry led now. The fear of discovering him entwined with someone else was paralyzing. With a resigned sigh, she closed her laptop, a barrier against the torrent of information that threatened to drown her.

“Y/N? Honey,” the gentle voice of her mother broke through her reverie. The joy in her eyes was unmistakable, yet it carried the weight of years filled with mourning a daughter lost. They had even held a funeral for her, Y/n realized with a start. The profound relief and elation of having her back were palpable in every hug, every tearful smile her mother gave her.

“Yes, mom?”

“Umm, someone is here to see you.”

***

Contrastingly, Harry's life had been a portrait of attempting to move on while being anchored in the past. His home, once a sanctuary of memories shared with Y/n, now housed his new relationship. Kendall, her head resting on his chest, was a constant presence, offering solace in a reality where Y/n existed only in echoes. She was 'Kenny' to him, a pillar during his darkest times, understanding the depth of losing Y/n as she, too, had lost a dear friend.

But the past clung to Harry with stubborn tendrils. His routine, for three long years, involved calling Y/n’s voicemail, a one-sided conversation where he'd spill the day's trivialities and monumental changes alike, seeking solace in the sound of her recorded voice. It wasn’t until the pain dulled into a quiet ache, and with Kenny’s unwavering support, that he ceased this ritual. Yet, he never truly let go, with monthly visits to Y/n's mother becoming a testament to his undying connection to her.

Their bond had been forged in the innocence of childhood, blossoming from neighborly acquaintances to an unbreakable union of soulmates. It was a love story initiated when two eight-year-olds found friendship and grew seamlessly into love as they reached sixteen. It was a story abruptly paused, until an unexpected phone call threatened to turn the page once again.

Harry’s phone shattered the comfortable silence, Mrs. Y/L/N’s number on display. Kendall, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, sat up, her own complex emotions swirling as she watched Harry answer the call.

“Yes, Mrs. Y/L/N, how are you?” Harry’s voice was cautious, unprepared for the emotional maelstrom the conversation would incite.

Kendall battled with her feelings, a mix of jealousy and self-reproach. She loved Harry, but standing in Y/n’s shadow was a constant reminder of what she lacked. She was never going to ignite in Harry the passionate love he held for Y/n. She was a balm, she realized, not the cure to his heartache.

“Harry.. she’s home. My baby is here, Harry. She came back to us.” The words, heavy with emotional gravity, froze Harry in place. Confusion, hope, and sheer disbelief warred within him.

“Okay, I’ll be there shortly, Mrs. Rose,” he managed, his mind racing.

“What is it, Harry? Who was it?” Kendall queried, apprehension lacing her words.

“Y/n’s mom...”

“Are we going to dinner with her tonight?” she attempted lightness, a stark contrast to the situation’s gravity.

“She’s alive, Kenny.”

The words hung in the air, a fragile truth that threatened to change everything. Once again, life’s unpredictable tide was pulling them in a direction they never anticipated. The lost was found, and with her return, the threads of their lives were irrevocably entwined once more.

**

Y/n felt the soft give of her childhood mattress beneath her as she rose, each muscle groaning, still remembering the harshness of the ground she'd slept on for years on the island. The air around her buzzed with a mixture of familiarity and foreignness, a sensation that had enveloped her since her return. She was home yet felt like a stranger in a place woven into the fabric of her earliest memories. Her room, though untouched, seemed to belong to another era, one before her life had fractured into a before and after.

Since her unexpected return, her home had turned into a pilgrimage site. Relatives she hadn’t seen in years, cousins whose names she struggled to remember, and a throng of others had paraded through the living room. She had hoped, with every knock, that she would see Harry’s face, hear his voice, touch his hand. But as hours turned into days, her hope waned.

Dragging herself to her feet, she moved through the hallway, each step echoing the pounding in her heart. Her feet, moving of their own accord, carried her towards the living room, the epicenter of the constant, suffocating stream of visitors.

And then, she saw him.

It was as if the world contracted in that moment, every sound, every color, every breath funneling into this singularity. Harry stood there, a portrait of the years gone by. His hair, shorter than she remembered, framed his face, and those green eyes, which had haunted her dreams, seemed to glow. Dressed in the simplest of clothes — black jeans and a white t-shirt — he was a sight for her sore eyes. He was her beacon during the darkest nights on the island, the memory of him, a silent prayer, a sacred chant that wove through the solitude of her survival.

For Harry, the sight of Y/n wasn't just a balm; it was a resurrection. She was here, alive and so achingly present that his heart faltered in its rhythm. The past years had been a cacophony of grief, confusion, and a numbness that seeped into his bones. And here she was, her skin glowing with a vitality that seemed impossible. He had always adored her skin, the richness of her complexion; it reminded him of the sweetest chocolates he'd ever tasted. He had spent years bolstering her against the world, against the harshness of critics and fans alike, reminding her of her beauty, her worth.

He was captivated by the woman before him, who had been tempered by survival, her spirit burnished but unbroken. How could it be that she stood before him even more breathtaking than he remembered? In that instant, Harry understood the depth of the void her absence had carved into his life. She wasn't just a missing piece; she was the very foundation that his reality had been built upon.

Without a word, he closed the distance between them, his arms enveloping her in a hug that felt like a collision of every unsaid word, every unshed tear, every unfulfilled longing of the past four years. His emotions breached the dam he had painstakingly built, tears wetting the crown of her head as he nestled his face there. "God, I've missed you so much," he breathed, his voice a hoarse whisper laden with every nuance of pain, relief, and overwhelming love he felt.

Y/n, ensconced in Harry's arms, felt a sense of returning. Here, in the circle of his arms, the world righted itself. His scent, the solidness of his chest, the timber of his voice — they were her lighthouse. "I never stopped thinking about you, not even for a moment," she confessed, her voice muffled against him.

Their reunion, however, was shadowed by an unspoken acknowledgment of the time lost and the reality that had marched on relentlessly in her absence. Y/n detected subtle shifts in him, intangible but unmistakable. As they sat on the couch, a chasm of unsaid words stretched between them. Harry's affectionate term, 'kitten,' once a playful endearment, now seemed to echo across a vast distance, a reminder of a shared past that was both their bridge and barrier.

Their conversation meandered, a tentative dance around the elephant in the room. Y/n's fatigue, both emotional and physical, soon became too cumbersome to carry. Her eyelids grew heavy, her body demanded respite. "I need to close my eyes, just for a little while," she whispered, her words a mix of exhaustion and a quiet plea for things to be simple again.

Harry, understanding her unvoiced request, smoothed her hair back, his touch a promise. "Rest, love. When you wake, we'll grab some lunch, maybe even see Kendall. It'll be like old times," he murmured, the ache in his voice belying the casualness of his words.

Y/n's smile, before she succumbed to sleep, was a fragile thing, a tentative hope. And as she drifted off, nestled against Harry, she clung to the sound of his heartbeat — a lullaby that spoke of shared pasts, present uncertainties, and the uncharted future that lay ahead of them.

**

Harry and Kendall sat in the subtle ambiance of the café, the murmur of conversations blending with the soft clinking of cutlery. The tension between them was palpable, like a silent storm brewing. Harry's fingers drummed nervously on the tabletop, betraying the calm facade he attempted to portray.

"Did you tell her?" Kendall's voice sliced through the tension, her agitation evident in the rhythmic tapping of her perfectly manicured nails against the wooden surface.

He hesitated, the truth weighing heavily on his chest. "No... I couldn't," Harry admitted, his voice barely above a whisper as he averted his gaze, finding sudden interest in the patterns of the wood grain. The confession felt like a betrayal, a stark deviation from the promise he made to himself about honesty.

Kendall's sigh was a mixture of frustration and understanding. "We can tell her together," she offered, extending her hand to provide solace. Her fingers were warm, a contrast to the cold dread filling his stomach.

As he intertwined his fingers with hers, seeking comfort in the touch, his eyes caught a familiar figure approaching. It was Y/n, a sight that made his heart leap into his throat. Instinctively, he retracted his hand from Kendall's, a subtle but unmistakable reaction.

Y/n's energy was like a breath of fresh air as she arrived. "Kenny!" she exclaimed with genuine affection, stretching her arms out for a heartfelt embrace. Kendall rose to return the gesture, her own emotions a complex web of happiness, relief, and an underlying sense of conflict she wasn't ready to face.

The warmth of their hug was short-lived for Kendall, overshadowed by a realization that Y/n's presence might change everything, including her own newly discovered hopes. As they separated, Y/n slid into the seat across from them, her presence filling the void but also reminding them of the intricate dynamics of their past.

"Harry, my mom told me what you did for her while I was...gone. I can't thank you enough," Y/n's voice held a mix of gratitude and sorrow, referencing the home Harry had bought for her mother after the accident — a gesture of kindness in the face of tragedy.

Kendall, feigning ignorance, asked, "What did you do, Harry?"

He hesitated, swallowing hard before explaining. "After Y/n's accident, I...I bought a house for her mom. She was devastated, thought she'd lost her only child." His voice was laced with past pain, the memories visibly haunting him.

"And you never mentioned this because...?" Kendall prodded, a hint of hurt in her tone.

Harry's response was evasive, his discomfort evident. "It wasn't about publicity or gratitude. And you were away, busy with your modeling." He tried to downplay his act, but the hurt it caused was unmistakable.

The conversation took a sharp turn when Y/n's eyes fell upon the sparkling diamond on Kendall's finger. "Kendall, you're engaged?!" she exclaimed, joy in her voice. But the excitement dissolved as realization dawned. Her eyes darted between Harry and Kendall, the implications clear and heart-wrenching. "Oh... I see," she murmured, her voice a fragile whisper.

The atmosphere turned heavy, the weight of unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings pressing down on them. "Y/n, please, let's talk about this," Harry pleaded, desperation seeping into his voice. But Y/n was retreating, her defenses coming up.

The meal that followed was a symphony of discomfort, punctuated by stilted conversation and Y/n's increasing detachment. Harry recognized her coping mechanism as she ordered more food than she could possibly consume. It was her refuge, her way of finding control in a situation where she felt she had none.

Her breaking point arrived with silent tears streaming down her face as she attempted to keep eating. "Kitten," Harry whispered, an endearment slipping out as he moved to comfort her. But she recoiled, the nickname a reminder of what they had and what seemed lost now.

"I need a to-go tray," she announced abruptly, her voice strained. She stood up, her movements robotic as she packed her food, her exit a clear signal of her emotional state.

"Kitten, please, can't we just talk?" Harry implored, but his plea fell on deaf ears.

With a sad smile, she replied, "That's the thing, Harry. I'm not your kitten anymore, am I?" And with that, she walked away, leaving behind a table laden with uneaten food, unspoken words, and unresolved futures.

[hypothermic-dream]

11/5/2024

In the desolate expanse of the dreamscape, where the shifting sands whispered secrets of forgotten epochs, I stumbled, a lone wanderer adrift in the void. Amidst the barren terrain, an apparition materialized, an ancient sage cloaked in robes as white as the bones of the earth, his beard a cascade of untold wisdom.

Though my desperate pleas for guidance reverberated through the void, the sage remained aloof, his gaze fixed upon a distant horizon where shadows danced with the specters of lost dreams. Ignoring the howling winds that tore at my soul, I trailed his phantom form as it glided effortlessly towards a palace of unimaginable splendor.

Its gilded walls, adorned with grotesque carvings of forgotten gods and fallen empires, shimmered like a mirage in the sun's merciless gaze. As the sage vanished into its hallowed halls, leaving me to confront the imposing facade alone, I felt the weight of impending doom settle upon my shoulders like a shroud of lead.

With trembling hands, I reached out to grasp the ornate door handle, its surface cool to the touch despite the blistering heat that surrounded me. To my astonishment, the doors swung open of their own accord, revealing a labyrinth of enigmatic beauty and unsettling dread that stretched out before me like a yawning abyss.

Undeterred by the palpable sense of unease that permeated the air, I ventured deeper into the bowels of the palace, my footsteps echoing through the desolate corridors like the tolling of funeral bells. Shadows danced and whispered secrets of forgotten sins as I navigated the twisting passages, my heart pounding in rhythm with the drumbeat of impending doom.

Suddenly, I stumbled upon a solitary chamber, its entrance obscured by the veil of darkness that hung like a pall over the dreamscape. With each step closer, the air grew thick with the suffocating weight of fear and dread, clawing at my throat and twisting my stomach into knots of apprehension.

In a moment of reckless abandon, I stepped forward, unaware of the abyss that lay hidden beneath the surface of the chamber's murky depths. With a cry of terror, I plummeted into the void, my descent into oblivion a testament to the fragility of mortal existence.

As I fell, the fear and dread that had once gripped me tightened their icy grip, suffusing every fiber of my being with a paralyzing sense of despair. The darkness swallowed me whole, engulfing me in its cold embrace as I tumbled ever deeper into the abyss.

I plummeted, a soul untethered, consumed by the chilling embrace of the hidden lake's depths. Dread and terror intertwined, weaving a suffocating shroud around me as I sank deeper into the murky oblivion.

Surrendering to the siren call of death, I embraced the icy tendrils of the abyss, yearning to dissolve into the void and escape the relentless grip of fear and loss. Yet, in the darkness, a strange tranquility washed over me, the sensation of drowning a paradoxical caress, promising liberation from the burdens of mortal existence.

Despite my fervent desire for oblivion, my corporeal form rebelled against the abyss and my body betrayed me, propelling me upwards towards the realm of the living. Gasping for breath, I emerged from the depths, reborn in the crucible of my own despair, a phoenix rising from the ashes of longing and despair.

Guided by an unseen hand, I stumbled upon a secluded chamber where I cast aside my earthly trappings and donned the white garb of the ancient sage. The razor's blade whispered against my scalp, shedding a lifetime's worth of illusion with each stroke.

In the reflection of the mirror, I beheld a stranger, his visage drenched in the remnants of the hidden lake's embrace. His countenance, once etched with the burdens of mortal toil, now shimmered with the purity of innocence, a transient soul stripped bare by the baptism of water and fire.

His eyes, twin beacons of divine wisdom, blazed with an otherworldly light, piercing through the veil of illusion to reveal the boundless expanse of cosmic truth.

[mirai-e-jump]

Uchusen Vol. 76 (Spring 1996) Choukou Senshi Changerion Segment ft. Toshiki Inoue Interview (translations below)

Publication: June 1, 1996

BIRTH OF THE CHANGERION

Choukou Senshi Changerion, which began airing on April 3 as Toei Hero's third slot, is an extremely ambitious work that aims to create an epoch of 90s styled heroes.

First, there's the visual shock of the hero, with the heavy use of transparent materials. Shinohara Tamotsu was in charge of the design, and Rainbow Zoukei, which was in charge of the modeling, even installed new equipment for Changerion.

The result, as you can see, is a super battleship like suit, with two layers of crystals and mechanical parts throughout its body.

Another ambition of Changerion, is its spirit. As those who have seen the show already know, Akira Suzumura, the main character, is a person who has no sense of being a hero or having a mission.

With this character image at its core, the story is light hearted, with a comedic touch. At the moment, Screenwriter Toshiki Inoue's unique world is unfolding, as he handles all of it by himself. We'll leave the details to Producer Shirakura Shinichiro's comments, but, it's a completely new tokusatsu hero work that aims to be an anti existing hero. A new program with 100% expectations, keep an eye out for future developments! _

Staff Comments

Design: Shinohara Tamotsu

"Based on the premise that the suit is made of a transparent material, the key idea is to give off the image of a, "Demon in Angel's clothes." Both order and chaos are coexisting. For the transparent parts, I tried to create a godly feel with wings and muscles, which are associated with Greek mythology, while inside, I tried to create a rough feel with the complicated mechanics. It's true that the mechanics inside are so complicated, that it alone is like a demon…."

Modeling: Maezawa Nori (Rainbow Zoukei)

"Changerion is an idea that I've always wanted to try someday. That's why we tested it carefully, and finally completed the project after many retakes, until the very end of the permitted production time. I'm confident in saying that I've reached a level where I'm not embarrassed to consider this a modern tokusatsu hero. I'll continue to challenge myself to create new concepts whenever I have the opportunity, so please continue to support us."

Producer: Shirakura Shinichiro

"Our first priority when planning Changerion, was to create a true to life hero. For humans, I don't think they'd suddenly feel a sense of justice or mission when suddenly told that they're heroes from this day forward. Everyone wants to have fun and enjoy life. From that perspective, what kind of drama can we create? That was the theme. To achieve this, I wanted to establish the appeal of Akira's character as a human being, and make him the driving force for pulling the story along. For that reason, Inoue-san was the best choice for screenwriter. Another thing is that I want people to think is, "This is kinda stylish." I want it to give off the feel that this is a story that's happening right now, in the year 1996, and no other time. I want to properly capture the feeling of "Now" in my work. In that case, we, the staff of Changerion, are thinking of creating a completely new work without being bound by the existing image of a hero, so please look forward to it." _

Main Cast

"Why is this guy like this? And of all people…he's Changerion."

Suzumura Detective Agency Main Character: Akira Suzumura, is the head of the detective agency. Although he pretends to be a first rate detective, the work he receives is always something like searching for lost dogs and cats, and, he's constantly running into debt.

Akira Suzumura (Takashi Hagino): A naturally happy go lucky person. By chance, he's exposed to the Crystal Power and gains the power of Changerion, but he's not aware of being a warrior. He loves banana parfaits.

Akemi Tachibana (Mie Hayashi): A college student and a part time employee of the Suzumura Detective Agency. She's a reliable person and is practically in charge of the office. Her family runs a guest house in Iwate.

SAIDOC Members: Katsuhiko Hayami (Kazunari Aizawa), Takeshi Munakata (Noboru Ichiyama), Eri Minami (Chika Kochihira) A special agency established by scientist Takeshi Munakata in preparation for the DarkZide invasion. As a trump card, he carries out the Changerion Project using recovered DarkZide technology, but, all of it was accidentally taken by Akira, and the agency is in trouble financially.

Super Light Knight: 3 droids developed by SAIDOC to support Changerion. Each of them has the ability to transform from robot mode to vehicle mode.

DarkZide: Higher life forms that emerged in the Dark Dimension and evolve differently from humans. They disguise themselves as humans and hide in society. They're monsters whose purpose is to absorb "Larmu," the biological energy of humans. _

Interview with Toshiki Inoue

-Akira is quite honestly an incredible superhero-

"Inoue-san, have you been involved with Changerion since the planning stage?

Inoue: I have. We've been planning since the days of "Android Hakaider." So, since this would be the start of a brand new show, I thought it'd be better to break away from the existing hero genre. That being the case, I was certain that comedy was the way to go, and that comedy is the way to go from now on. I don't have anything to back up this claim (laughs).

"How did you create the main character?"

Inoue: In the beginning, he wasn't going to be a detective. He'd be a "fugitive". Like that old American TV series. I was trying to do a comedy with "The Fugitive" in mind, but it just didn't work out. It ended up becoming too dark (laughs). It's funnier when fugitives run away laughing like crazy. And since they're never in a single spot, it's hard to determine their location. That's why I made him a detective.

"In reality, being a detective is pretty plain, and isn't a very cheerful profession."

Inoue: That's right. Akira used to do pretty boring work before he became Changerion, didn't he? But, he's got a playful spirit even in his mundane work, so he has fun carrying a gun and acting pretentious. Characters like that are so important to me in that, it doesn't matter what their occupation is. It doesn't matter if he's a fugitive or a detective. He happened to become a detective by chance because it'd be easier to tell the story as a detective.

"The fact that the main character becomes a hero by chance is similar to Jetman."

Inoue: That's right. That's why there's only two ways to create a hero. Either it's someone who's selected and chosen, or it's someone that shouldn't have been selected but becomes a hero anyway. For me, I like the latter.

"The enemy's setup isn't really depicted within the show."

Inoue: Executives are becoming alot more unnecessary. When I start a show, even if I want to do something new, I don't change my mind so quickly, so I thought that things like an evil organization and other detailed settings were all necessary. But, as we started and the drama progressed, my expectations became different in a positive way. I began to think that we could do without all that. I can say that because the story is moving along. So, you know, it's easier to understand Changerion if you think of it as just a detective drama. It doesn't have to be a so called hero story, where it's split up by allies and enemies who then fight each other. It also doesn't have to be like a final episode, where the enemy is finally defeated and the story ends. But, the scenario is difficult. If this were a normal hero story, I could do the whole show with just one idea, but it's a comedy, so I have to come up with alot of material, so it's…..it's abit tiring, isn't it? (laughs).

"What would Inoue-san consider to be his image of a hero?"

Inoue: It would be a guy who's complacent. When faced with a crisis, everyone goes into a state of panic, so I think that having composure in such a situation is a strong point. That's why Akira is quite honestly an incredible superhero, now that I just thought about it (laughs).