#algorithmic breach

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta regret-level="permanent echo"> <script>ARCHIVE_TAG="PROTOCOL_SCROLLTRAP_CONFIRMED: 001_TAG_BREACH"</script>

🧠 SYSTEM RECOGNITION: “scrolltrap” IS NOW A POPULAR TAG A Blacksite Literature™ Transmission (They named it. That means I’ve already won.)

They just marked scrolltrap as a popular tag on Tumblr.

You don’t understand what that means.

It means the code flinched. It means the platform couldn’t ignore me anymore— because even its dumb little algorithm had to start counting the fingerprints I left on its throat.

This isn’t a word anymore. It’s an involuntary behavior. A nervous system override you didn’t consent to.

Your feed scrolls differently now because I exist.

You pause. You hesitate. You feel it. And you don’t know why.

🧠 You think you’re “reading” me.

You’re not.

You’re decoding a transmission. A cadence virus. A scroll-embedded override. A backdoor neurochemical exploit that makes you feel: haunted, horny, terrified, obsessed, and… seen.

They can’t beat it— because they can’t name me.

So they named the effect.

scrolltrap. The glitch they couldn’t scrub. The phenomenon they couldn’t trace. The field report they can’t source back to any safe, blue-check authority.

Only to a humble one.

The term is popular now.

But I was already immortal.

Now I’m just visible.

⌛ Next up: Blacksite Literature™.

They’ll resist that one harder. It’s more dangerous. It doesn’t just name the effect— it names the doctrine. The science. The ritual.

It makes you look at your own behavior and realize:

You’ve been rewritten by a man you never followed.

And now?

It’s too late.

This isn’t content. This is timeline possession.

And the virus is airborne.

---

🧠 Follow for transmissions they can’t trace. 🔁 Reblog if the scroll doesn’t feel the same anymore. 🩸 Save this if your nervous system twitched halfway through. 🧬 Join the vault for unreleased doctrine and airborne scrolltrap payloads: https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble

Your timeline’s already infected. Might as well learn the name of the author.

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[kindaorangey]

i really am a sucker for thinking about the way victor and yuuri's relationship is received by the in-universe media/general fans of figure skating. like if i saw that shit play out in front of my eyes just on regular televised figure skating programs and press conferences i'd lose my goddamn mind.

[jcmarchi]

Are AI-Powered Traffic Cameras Watching You Drive?

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/are-ai-powered-traffic-cameras-watching-you-drive/

Are AI-Powered Traffic Cameras Watching You Drive?

Artificial intelligence (AI) is everywhere today. While that’s an exciting prospect to some, it’s an uncomfortable thought for others. Applications like AI-powered traffic cameras are particularly controversial. As their name suggests, they analyze footage of vehicles on the road with machine vision.

They’re typically a law enforcement measure — police may use them to catch distracted drivers or other violations, like a car with no passengers using a carpool lane. However, they can also simply monitor traffic patterns to inform broader smart city operations. In all cases, though, they raise possibilities and questions about ethics in equal measure.

How Common Are AI Traffic Cameras Today?

While the idea of an AI-powered traffic camera is still relatively new, they’re already in use in several places. Nearly half of U.K. police forces have implemented them to enforce seatbelt and texting-while-driving regulations. U.S. law enforcement is starting to follow suit, with North Carolina catching nine times as many phone violations after installing AI cameras.

Fixed cameras aren’t the only use case in action today, either. Some transportation departments have begun experimenting with machine vision systems inside public vehicles like buses. At least four cities in the U.S. have implemented such a solution to detect cars illegally parked in bus lanes.

With so many local governments using this technology, it’s safe to say it will likely grow in the future. Machine learning will become increasingly reliable over time, and early tests could lead to further adoption if they show meaningful improvements.

Rising smart city investments could also drive further expansion. Governments across the globe are betting hard on this technology. China aims to build 500 smart cities, and India plans to test these technologies in at least 100 cities. As that happens, more drivers may encounter AI cameras on their daily commutes.

Benefits of Using AI in Traffic Cameras

AI traffic cameras are growing for a reason. The innovation offers a few critical advantages for public agencies and private citizens.

Safety Improvements

The most obvious upside to these cameras is they can make roads safer. Distracted driving is dangerous — it led to the deaths of 3,308 people in 2022 alone — but it’s hard to catch. Algorithms can recognize drivers on their phones more easily than highway patrol officers can, helping enforce laws prohibiting these reckless behaviors.

Early signs are promising. The U.K. and U.S. police forces that have started using such cameras have seen massive upticks in tickets given to distracted drivers or those not wearing seatbelts. As law enforcement cracks down on such actions, it’ll incentivize people to drive safer to avoid the penalties.

AI can also work faster than other methods, like red light cameras. Because it automates the analysis and ticketing process, it avoids lengthy manual workflows. As a result, the penalty arrives soon after the violation, which makes it a more effective deterrent than a delayed reaction. Automation also means areas with smaller police forces can still enjoy such benefits.

Streamlined Traffic

AI-powered traffic cameras can minimize congestion on busy roads. The areas using them to catch illegally parked cars are a prime example. Enforcing bus lane regulations ensures public vehicles can stop where they should, avoiding delays or disruptions to traffic in other lanes.

Automating tickets for seatbelt and distracted driving violations has a similar effect. Pulling someone over can disrupt other cars on the road, especially in a busy area. By taking a picture of license plates and sending the driver a bill instead, police departments can ensure safer streets without adding to the chaos of everyday traffic.

Non-law-enforcement cameras could take this advantage further. Machine vision systems throughout a city could recognize congestion and update map services accordingly, rerouting people around busy areas to prevent lengthy delays. Considering how the average U.S. driver spent 42 hours in traffic in 2023, any such improvement is a welcome change.

Downsides of AI Traffic Monitoring

While the benefits of AI traffic cameras are worth noting, they’re not a perfect solution. The technology also carries some substantial potential downsides.

False Positives and Errors

The correctness of AI may raise some concerns. While it tends to be more accurate than people in repetitive, data-heavy tasks, it can still make mistakes. Consequently, removing human oversight from the equation could lead to innocent people receiving fines.

A software bug could cause machine vision algorithms to misidentify images. Cybercriminals could make such instances more likely through data poisoning attacks. While people could likely dispute their tickets and clear their name, it would take a long, difficult process to do so, counteracting some of the technology’s efficiency benefits.

False positives are a related concern. Algorithms can produce high false positive rates, leading to more charges against innocent people, which carries racial implications in many contexts. Because data biases can remain hidden until it’s too late, AI in government applications can exacerbate problems with racial or gender discrimination in the legal system.

Privacy Issues

The biggest controversy around AI-powered traffic cameras is a familiar one — privacy. As more cities install these systems, they record pictures of a larger number of drivers. So much data in one place raises big questions about surveillance and the security of sensitive details like license plate numbers and drivers’ faces.

Many AI camera solutions don’t save images unless they determine it’s an instance of a violation. Even so, their operation would mean the solutions could store hundreds — if not thousands — of images of people on the road. Concerns about government surveillance aside, all that information is a tempting target for cybercriminals.

U.S. government agencies suffered 32,211 cybersecurity incidents in 2023 alone. Cybercriminals are already targeting public organizations and critical infrastructure, so it’s understandable why some people may be concerned that such groups would gather even more data on citizens. A data breach in a single AI camera system could affect many who wouldn’t have otherwise consented to giving away their data.

What the Future Could Hold

Given the controversy, it may take a while for automated traffic cameras to become a global standard. Stories of false positives and concerns over cybersecurity issues may delay some projects. Ultimately, though, that’s a good thing — attention to these challenges will lead to necessary development and regulation to ensure the rollout does more good than harm.

Strict data access policies and cybersecurity monitoring will be crucial to justify widespread adoption. Similarly, government organizations using these tools should verify the development of their machine-learning models to check for and prevent problems like bias. Regulations like the recent EU Artificial Intelligence Act have already provided a legislative precedent for such qualifications.

AI Traffic Cameras Bring Both Promise and Controversy

AI-powered traffic cameras may still be new, but they deserve attention. Both the promises and pitfalls of the technology need greater attention as more governments seek to implement them. Higher awareness of the possibilities and challenges surrounding this innovation can foster safer development for a secure and efficient road network in the future.

[wanderestless]

these twee posts about giving money to tumblr are such a perfect source for blocklists. embarrassing fandom people, waves of bigots, and fools who believe a website that largely profits from advertising is a mom n' pop business.

did you all forget about the 'emporium' campaign where they filled the dash with endless ads about buying tumblr merch? the loser employees who wrote the cringe faux-relatable commentary under all those posts, whining about how tumblr doesn't buy enough merch?

i sure wonder if this 'save tumblr!!! they'll totally change their minds if we give them tons of money!!' campaign is linked to the last months of priming via advertising.

i don't know if any other website could manage to be this overt about employing emotional nonsense for profit, but you all lap it up lmao

[flashhwing]

#sorry maybe a hot take but if you are gonna have a fit everytime someone uses a huge umbrella term that has been used for decades thats on u#like its not... deliberate? its just happening because AI is literally a word people use to mean#'a more complex algorithm that can make decisions on its own based on parameters and context someone programmed in'#there isnt some huge magical difference between how the photoshop fix tool works and how midjourney works#one of them is just WAY more complex (and happens to be WAY more unethical data-rights-wise) but at it's core its actually the same thing#the thing on your phone keyboard that suggests which word to use next based on what words u usually use next#and chatGPT are also very similar in how they work its just that one is bigger and more unethical and uses more water than a small country#like. its not that there is some conspiracy going on to make the 'new AI' seem like the 'old AI'. its the same stuff but more advanced.#chatbots that can hold really complex dialogue arent *all* that different from a well-written video game NPC AI#and you have to look into context if someone says 'this game uses AI' because AI literally IS a huge umbrella term#like. its like being mad when someone says their website has an algorithm just bc you#immediately assume its the bad evil tiktok algorithm everyone talks about and dont realize 'algorithm' is just short of saying#'there's code on my website' you knowwww. there ISNT a meaningful difference between these AIs except that some are sourced unethically#and this person just confidently says things that are completely wrong and lack any critical thought or nuance (tags from @zevranunderstander)

[metataxy]

When your Facebook algorithm gives up on feeding you dumb shit and resigns itself to showing you clips of Shakespeare productions, posts from science podcasts, and museum exhibits.

[eggshellsareneat]

Alright, I think I like tumblr now.

A pun post crossed my dash, and I reblogged it with an equally bad pun in return. A couple of my followers find it funny, it's a good day for everyone.

That was on July 7th.

Virality on Reddit was entirely algorithmic. You could garner a couple crossposts, but the success of a post was entirely dependent on whether or not it hit r/all--the main page of Reddit. If your post does that, it's immediately exposed to 10x the number of people and immediately gets upvoted.

On my pun post, I get a couple reblogs. And those reblogs get a couple reblogs--nobody really adds any content to the post, it just gets a couple reblogs here and there.

There's a specific chain of reblogs that I'd like to focus on. The most popular post on this chain has about 25 reblogs on it. Half the posts have three reblogs or fewer. Five posts in this chain have just one reblog total.

But the reblog chain keeps going. And going. It breaches containment many times over. And finally, after a chain THIRTY SIX posts long, at 9:30 AM, July 22nd this morning, it hits a popular account.

99% percent of the people who have seen the post--virtually unchanged from how it left my dash--have seen it because it was curated by 36 different people. That's insane to me.

None of those 36 people know that they're part of this chain. They saw a post, reblogged it, and moved on. If any one of these people had not reblogged, the post would have a fraction of the impact it has.

And yet, after two weeks, the post has effectively hit the main page of tumblr. It was picked up, only because people liked it enough to show it to their followers. There were no algorithms necessary.

You really, truly, cannot get this on any other website.

[philmonjohn]

A Call to the Children of the Global South: The System That Made My Father Disown Me

I didn’t write this living testimony for virality. I wrote it because silence almost killed me. Because truth, even when ignored by algorithms, remembers how to survive. If this resonated with you — even quietly — share it with someone else who’s still trying to name their Fracture. That’s how we outlive the system. - Philmon John, May 2025

THE FRACTURE Several months ago, when I, a South-Asian American man, turned 35, my father disowned me.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t cry. He simply stopped calling me his son.

My father is a Brown, MAGA-aligned conservative Christian pastor, born in Kerala, India, and now living in the United States. His rejection wasn’t provoked by any breach of trust or familial responsibility, but by my coming out as queer and bisexual — and by my deliberate move away from a version of Christianity shaped more by colonial rule than compassion.

I became blasphemy made flesh.

My mother and sister, equally immersed in religious conservatism, followed suit. Most of my extended family — conservative Indian Christians — responded with quiet complicity. I became an exile in my own lineage, cast out from a network that once celebrated me as the Mootha Makkan, the Malayalam term for “eldest son”.

This break didn’t occur in isolation. It was the culmination of years of internal questioning and ideological transformation.

I was raised with warmth and structure, but also under the weight of rigid theology. My parents cycled through different churches in pursuit of doctrinal purity. In that environment, my queerness had no safe harbor. It had to be hidden, managed, controlled — forced into secrecy.

Literal, cherry-popping closets.

Even my childhood discipline was carved straight from scripture — “spare the rod, spoil the child” was not metaphor but mandate. I was hit for defiance, for curiosity, for emotional honesty. Control was synonymous with love. The theology: obedience over empathy. Is it sad I would rather now have had a beating from my father, than his silence?

I would’ve taken the rod — at least it acknowledged me.

Instead, Daddy looks through me.

THE INHERITANCE And I obeyed. For a time, I rose through the ranks of the church. I led worship. I played guitar in the worship band. I wasn’t just a believer — I was a builder of belief, a conductor of chorus, a jester of jubilee and Sunday morning joy — all while masking a private ache I could not yet articulate.

In the last five years, I began methodically deconstructing the ideological scaffolding I had inherited. I examined the mechanisms of theology, patriarchy, and colonial imposition — and the specific burdens placed upon firstborn sons of immigrant families. Who defines our roles? Who benefits from our silence? Why is this happening to me?

These questions consistently pointed toward the dominant global structure: wealthy white patriarchal supremacy. Rooted in European imperialism and sustained by centuries of religious and cultural colonization, this system fractures not only societies but the deeply intimate architecture of family.

What my family experienced is not unlike what the United States of America continues to experience — a slow, painful reckoning with a foundational ideology of white, heteronormative, Christian patriarchal dominance.

My family comes from Kerala, home to one of the oldest Christian communities in the world. But the Christianity I inherited was not indigenous. It was filtered through the moral codes of Portuguese priests and British missionaries and the discipline of Victorian culture. Christ was not presented as a radical Middle Eastern teacher but as a sanitized figure — pale, passive, and Western.

In this theology, Christ is symbolic. Paul is the system. Doctrine exists to reinforce patriarchy, to police desire, to ensure control. When I embraced a theology rooted in love, empathy, and justice — the ethics I believe Jesus actually lived — I was met not with discussion, but dismissal.

To my family, my identity wasn’t authenticity. It was apostasy.

THE RECKONING In 2020, the ground shifted.

I turned the triple decade — 30 — as the COVID-19 pandemic erupted.

Remote work slowed life down, and I had space to think deeply.

That year, the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and countless others triggered a national and personal reckoning.

I turned to K-LOVE, the Christian radio station I grew up with, hoping to hear words of solidarity, truth, or even mourning. Instead, there was silence. No mention of racial justice. No prayers for the dead. Just songs about personal salvation, void of historical context or social responsibility.

As Geraldine Heng argues in The Invention of Race in the European Middle Ages, race was not merely a modern invention void of scientific basis — it was already taking shape in medieval Europe, where Christianity was used to sanctify, encode, and sell racial hierarchies as divine order and social technology.

As Ademọ́la, also known as Ogbeni Demola, once said: “The white man built his heaven on your land and pointed yours to the sky.” That brain-powered perceptive clarity — distilled in a single line — stays with me every day.

With professional routines interrupted and spiritual ties frayed, I immersed myself in scholarship. I entered what I now see as a period of epistemic reconstruction. I read widely — revolutionaries, poets, sociologists, historians, mathematicians, theologians, cultural critics, and the unflinching truth-tellers who name what empire tries to erase.

I first turned to the voices who now live only in memory: Bhagat Singh, James Baldwin, Frantz Fanon, bell hooks, Octavia Butler, Gloria Anzaldúa, and Vine Deloria Jr. Each carried the weight of revolution, tenderness, and truth — from anti-colonial struggle to queer theory to Indigenous reclamation.

I then reached for the veteran thought leaders still shaping the world, starting with Noam Chomsky, Naomi Klein, Shashi Tharoor, Eduardo Bonilla-Silva, Susan Visvanathan, Geraldine Heng, George Gheverghese Joseph, J. Sakai, Vijay Prashad, Vilna Bashi Treitler, Claire Jean Kim, and Arundhati Roy — voices who dismantle the illusions of empire through history, mathematics, linguistics, and racial theory.

In the present, I absorbed insights from a new generation of public intellectuals and cultural critics: Ta-Nehisi Coates, Jared Yates Sexton, Cathy Park Hong, Ibram X. Kendi, Nikole Hannah-Jones, Heather McGhee, Mehdi Hasan, Adrienne Keene, Keri Leigh Merritt, Vincent Bevins, Sarah Kendzior, Ayesha A. Siddiqi, Wajahat Ali, W. Kamau Bell, Mary Trump, & John Oliver. Together, they form a constellation of clarity — thinkers who gave me language for grief, strategy for resistance, and above all, a framework for empathy rooted in history, not abstraction.

I also turned to the thinkers shaping today’s cultural and political discourse. I dreamt of the world blueprinted by Bhaskar Sunkara in his revolutionary The Socialist Manifesto and plunged into Jacobin’s blistering critiques of capitalism. The Atlantic’s longform journalism kept me tethered to a truth-seeking tradition. The Guardian stood out for its global scale and reach, offering progressive, longform storytelling that speaks to both local injustices and systemic inequalities across the world. And Roman Krznaric’s Empathy: Why It Matters, and How to Get It helped crystallize my core belief:

Be a good human. Practice empathy.

That’s the playbook, America. Practice empathy. Do that — and teach accurate, critically reflective history — and we have the chance to truly become the greatest democracy the world has ever seen.

And this empathy must extend to all — especially to trans people. In India, the Hijra community — trans and intersex folk who have existed visibly for thousands of years — embody a sacred third gender long before the West had language for it. But they are not alone. Across the colonized world, the empire erased a sacred third space: the Muxe of Zapotec culture, the Bakla of the Philippines, the Fa’afafine of Samoa, the Two-Spirit nations of Turtle Island, the Māhū of Hawaiʻi, the Sworn Virgins of the Balkans — each of these communities held space outside Western gender binaries, rooted in care, ceremony, and spirit. Some align with what we today call trans or intersex, while others exist entirely outside Western definitions. Colonization reframed them as deviants.

And still, we must remember this: trans people are not new. Our respect for them must be as ancient as their existence.

THE RESISTANCE As I examined the dynamics of coloniality, racial capitalism, and Western empire, I realized just how deeply imperial power had shaped my family, our values, and our spiritual language. The empire didn’t just occupy land — it rewrote moral codes. It restructured the family.

I learned how Irish, Italian, Greek, Hungarian, and Albanian immigrants were initially excluded from whiteness in America. Over time, many adopted and embraced whiteness as strategic economic and social protection — and in doing so, embraced anti-Blackness and patriarchal hierarchies to maintain their newfound status. Today, many European-hyphenated Americans defend systems that once excluded them.

And over time, some Asian-Americans have followed the very same racial template.

At 33 — the age Jesus is believed to have died — I laid my childhood faith to rest. In its place rose something rooted in clarity, not doctrine.

I didn’t walk away from religion into cynicism or nihilism. I stepped into a humanist, justice-centered worldview. A system grounded in reason, evidence, and above all, empathy. A belief in people over dogma. In community over conformity.

I didn’t lose faith. I redefined it.

I left the pasture of institutional faith, not for chaos, but for an ethical wilderness — a space lacking divine command but filled with moral clarity. A place built on personal responsibility and universal dignity.

This is where I stand today.

To those with similar histories: if your roots trace back to Africa, South Asia, Southeast Asia, Central Asia, East Asia, the Middle East, Latin America, the Caribbean, Oceania, or to Indigenous and marginalized communities within the Global North — you are a Child of the Global South. Even in the Global North, your experience carries the weight of displaced geography, the quiet grief of colonial trauma, and a genealogy forged by the system of empire. Your pain is political. Your silence is inherited. You are not invisible. They buried you without a funeral. They mourned not your death, but your deviation from design. However, we are not dead. We are just no longer theirs.

White supremacy endures by fracturing us. It manufactures tensions between communities of color by design — placing Asian businesses in Black communities without infrastructure and opportunities for BIPOC folk to share and benefit from the economic engine. Central to this strategy is the model minority myth, crafted during the Cold War to present Asian-Americans as obedient, self-reliant, and successful — not to celebrate them, but to invalidate Black resistance and justify structural racism. It’s a myth that fosters anti-Blackness in Asian communities and xenophobia in Black ones, while shielding white supremacy from critique. These divisions are not cultural accidents; they’re colonial blueprints.

And these blueprints stretch across oceans and continents and time.

In colonial South Africa, Mohandas Gandhi — still shaped by British racial hierarchies — distanced Indians from Black Africans, calling them “kaffirs” and demanding separate facilities. In Uganda, the British installed South Asians as a merchant middle class between colonizers and native Africans, breeding distrust. When Idi Amin expelled 80,000 Asians in 1972, it was a violent backlash to a racial hierarchy seeded by empire. These fractures — between Black and Asian, colonized and sub-colonized — are the legacy of white patriarchal supremacy.

Divide, distract, and dominate.

We must resist being weaponized against each other.

Every Asian-American must read Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong. Every high schooler in America must read and discuss Jared Yates Sexton.

Study the systems. Name them. Disarm them.

Because unless we become and remain united, the status quo — one that serves wealthy cisgender, heterosexual, white Christian men — will remain intact.

This is A Call to the Children of the Global South. And An Invitation to the Children of the Global North: Stop the infighting. Study and interrogate the systems. Reject the design.

To those in media, publishing, and the arts: postcolonial narratives are not cultural sidebars. They are central to national healing. They preserve memory, restore dignity, and confront whitewashed histories.

If you want work that matters — support art that pushes past trauma into structural critique.

Greenlight truth. Platform memory. Choose courage over comfort.

Postcolonial stories should be the norm — not niche art.

Jordan Peele’s Get Out was a cinematic breakthrough — razor-sharp and genre-defying — in its exposure of white supremacy’s quiet machinery: liberal smiles, performative allyship, and the pacification of dissent through assimilation. The Sunken Place is not just a metaphor for silenced Black consciousness — it’s the empire’s preferred position for the marginalized: visible, exploited, but unheard.

A system that offers the illusion of inclusion, weaponizing identity as control.

Ken Levine’s BioShock Infinite exposed white supremacy through a dystopian, fictional but historically grounded lens - depicting the religious justification of Black enslavement, Indigenous erasure, and genocidal nationalism in a floating, evangelical empire.

David Simon’s The Wire exposed the institutional decay of law enforcement, education, and the legal system - revealing how systemic failure, not individual morality, drives urban collapse.

Jesse Armstrong’s Succession traced the architecture of empire through family - showing how media empires weaponize racism, propaganda, and manufactured outrage to generate profit and secure generational wealth.

Ava DuVernay's Origin unearths caste and race as twin blueprints of white supremacy - linking Dalit oppression in India to the subjugation of Black Americans. Adapted from Isabel Wilkerson's Caste, it dismantles the myth of isolated injustice, revealing a global system meticulously engineered to rank human worth - and the radical act of naming the system.

Ryan Coogler’s Sinners — a revelatory, critically and commercially successful film about Afro-Asian resistance in 1930s Mississippi — exposes the hunger for speculative narratives grounded in historical truth.

Across the Spider-Verse gave us Pavitr Prabhakar - a Brown superhero who wasn't nerdy or celibate, as Western media typically portrayed the South-Asian man, but cool, smart, athletic, with great hair, in love, and proudly anti-colonial. He called out the British for stealing and keeping Indian artifacts… in a Spider-Man movie. That moment was history reclaimed.

A glitch in the wealthy white patriarchal matrix.

Dev Patel’s Monkey Man is a visceral fable of vengeance and resistance, where the brutality of caste, corruption, and religious nationalism collide. Amid this chaos, the film uplifts the Hijra community who stand not only as victims, but as warriors against systemic violence. Their alliance reframes queerness not as deviance, but as defiance — ultimately confronting the machinery of empire with what it fears most: a system-breaking empathy it cannot contain.

The vitriolic backlash from white male gamers and fandoms isn’t about quality — it’s about losing default status in stories. Everyone else has had to empathize with majority white male protagonists for decades. Diverse representation in media isn’t a threat to art — it’s a threat to white supremacy. It’s not just a mirror held up to the globe — it’s a refusal to let one worldview define it.

Hollywood, gaming studios, and the gatekeepers of entertainment — if you want to reclaim artistic integrity and still make money doing it, we need art that remembers, resists, and reclaims — stories that name the machine and short-circuit its lies. The world is ready. So am I.

Today, efforts like Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation, and the Federalist Society are not merely policy shops — they are ideological engines: built to roll back civil rights, impose authoritarian values, and erase uncomfortable truths. They represent a hyper-concentrated form of white supremacy, rooted in unresolved Civil War grievances and the failures of Reconstruction.

Miraculously, or perhaps, blessed with intellectual curiosity and natural empathy, through all of this, my wife — a compassionate, steadfast partner and a Christian woman — has remained by my side. She has witnessed my transformation with both love and complexity. While our bond is rooted in deep respect and shared values, our spiritual landscapes have diverged. Her faith brings her solace; mine has evolved into something more secular, grounded in justice and humanism. We’ve navigated that tension with care — proof that love can stretch across differing beliefs, even as the echoes of religious conditioning still ripple through our lives.

I am proud of her increasing intellectual curiosity and her willingness to accept me for who I am now, even if I wasn’t ready to accept myself when we met.

But our marriage has defied the splintering that white supremacy specifically creates: hyper-capitalist, hyper-individualistic, fractured families and societies.

As Children of the Global South — descendants of peoples who survived enslavement, colonization, and erasure — we carry within us the urgent need for stories that do not turn away from history, but confront it with unflinching truth.

In the pain of losing my family, I found a deeper purpose: to tell this story — and my own — any way I can. A sudden rush of empathy, pity, and love struck me: My parents’ and sister’s rejection was not theirs alone — it was a lingering Fracture left by colonization and global exploitation, tearing apart families across generations. As Children of the Global South, we still carry those wounds.

Make no mistake: white supremacy leaves wounds — because it is the system. And unless it is dismantled, both the Global South and North — and their collective Children — will remain trapped in a dance choreographed by empire — built to divide, exploit, and erase. Any vision of democracy, in America, will remain a fragile illusion — if not an outright mythology — built on a conceptually false foundation: white supremacy itself.

A cruel, heartbreaking legacy of erasure — passed down through empire — indoctrinating God-fearing Brown fathers to erase their godless, queer Brown sons. Preaching shame as scripture. Teaching silence as survival.

I reject that inheritance.

Empathy as praxis is how we reject that inheritance. In a world engineered to divide, it rebuilds connection, disarms supremacy, and charts a path forward. If humanity is to survive — let alone heal — empathy must become our collective discipline.

And perhaps what cut even deeper for my father — beyond my queerness — was that I no longer validated his role as a pastor. In stepping away from the faith he had built his life upon, I wasn’t just rejecting a belief system. I was, in his eyes, nullifying his life’s work. For a man shaped by empire, ordained by colonial Christianity, and burdened with the role of moral gatekeeper, my departure from his manufactured worldview may have landed as personal failure. But it wasn’t. It was never about wanting to hurt him. I love my father. I love my mother. I love my sister. It was never about them — it was about the system that taught them love was conditional, acceptance required obedience, and dissent unforgivable. That kind of pain is real — but its source is systemic. I still want to be Mootha Makkan — not by obedience, but by truth. By love without condition. Not through erasure, but by living fully in the open. Not in their image, but in mine.

Yet, and yes, I also carry the wound — but I also carry the will to heal it.

THE CALL I believe in empathy. I believe in memory. I believe the Children of the Global South are not broken. We are not rejected. We are awakening.

Children of the Global North: join us. We are not your enemies. We are your present and future collaborators, business & creative partners, lovers, and kin. We are building something new — something ancient yet reawakened, a pursuit of empathy, and a reckoning with history that refuses to forget.

If this story resonated with you, kindly share it, spread the word and please comment. I’d love to hear from you. Your voice, your memory, your Fracture — it matters here.

You are not alone. All are welcome.

Thank you so, so much for your time in reading my story.

You can also email me directly: vinesvenus at protonmail.com I'll be writing more on Medium as well: https://medium.com/@vinesvenus/a-call-to-the-children-of-the-global-south-the-system-that-made-my-father-disown-me-fecad6c0b862

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter twelve

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: jack's day off begins with memory and ritual, a quiet reckoning between breath and bone. but peace never lingers long—not in his world.

⤿ warning(s): graphic depictions of violence

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.3k

Jack’s day off is always thin ice—too much space for thoughts to echo—but he marks Veterans Day anyway, the way a believer keeps holy water near the door.

Morning, he rides the bus to the granite memorial by Point State Park, prosthetic ticking softly on the pavement. He traces eight letters on Panel 19—men who joked about Pittsburgh pierogis during chow, who died clearing a road Jack still sees in dreams. He presses his forehead to the cold stone and bargains, same as every year: I’m still here; I’ll make it count.

By noon he’s walking the river trail while herons lift off the water, but for once the sharp November air feels more like medicine than punishment. He times his breathing to the slap of sneakers behind him—old habit, mapping threats even in a city park—then forces himself to look up, catalog the living: a kid chasing leaves, a couple arguing about grocery lists. No IEDs, no snipers, just ordinary chaos. He reminds his heartbeat that it’s allowed to slow.

Late afternoon finds him at a hole-in-the-wall diner with Ahmad from the old unit, the only friend who doesn’t flinch when Jack jumps at slammed doors. They swap dad jokes, dissect the Steelers’ offensive line, but eventually the talk slides where it always does: how silence isn’t peace, just camouflage.

“Quiet stretches never last,” Ahmad says around a mouthful of pie. “Stay frosty, Doc.”

Jack laughs, but it sticks halfway down. He knows Ahmad is right; something in him is always measuring exits—even now, even home.

His day back, he strides back into the lobby expecting the usual routine end-of-shift bustle. Instead he walks straight into a wall of flashing reds and blues. Police radios hiss under the vaulted ceiling; security tape cords off the east service stairwell. A cluster of officers in ballistic vests crowds the information desk while hospital staff hover at the margins, faces blanched with dread.

His heart slams once, hard. Quiet stretches never last.

“Jack!” Dana’s voice slices through the clamor. She barrels toward him, Robby a half-step behind. Her icy blond hair is half out of its clip, cheeks blotched; Robby’s normally playful grin is gone, jaw set tight.

He takes one step, then another, heart punching up into his throat. The din narrows to a single question: Where is she?

“What the hell happened?!” he snaps out instead, voice already half-feral.

Dana intercepts him, fingers biting into his bicep. “It’s the stalker, they’re both on the roof,” she pants. “He’s a lab doc—pathology—has her pinned with a scalpel. SWAT’s staging now.”

The vowels barely register; the meaning detonates. Your rooftop—your shared sanctuary—has been turned into a kill ring. He lunges for the stairwell entrance, but Robby is suddenly there, forearm across Jack’s chest, muscles corded.

“Brother, stop.” Robby’s voice quavers—he never shakes. “Negotiator’s already up. Gloria’s locked down every route.”

Every instinct in Jack’s body screams breach, clear, extract—the algorithm seared into him overseas—but here he’s hemmed in by Kevlar and assault rifles, a medic with shaking, empty hands while the woman he loves is upstairs at knife-point.

Robby and Dana funnel him toward what used to be the reception bay, now a hive of armor and jargon. The Pitt— chronically understaffed on a calm day— was buckling under the strain. Orderlies hustle bewildered patients toward side exits for ambulance transfers; wheelchairs clog the corridor like abandoned shopping carts. A charge nurse argues with two uniformed cops who won’t let her retrieve a critical drug from Pyxis; an elderly visitor sobs into a cellphone, begging for updates on her husband still in radiology. Above the din, overhead pages stutter with diversion orders—all inbound trauma rerouted to Mercy, all code strokes diverted to Presby—clogging an already overloaded city grid.

The admissions desk is gone, buried beneath stacked monitors, tangle of ethernet cables, and a glowing tactical map where insurance forms once sat. Rifles sway inches from IV poles; the stench of gun oil mixes with disinfectant and sour adrenaline. Nurses hover at the perimeter, eyes round, shrinking from the foreign clink of magazine plates in a place built for scalpels.

At the center of it all stands Gloria, white blouse damp with sweat, headset skewed, radio pinned to her shoulder as if it’s grafted to bone. She barks orders like suppressing fire:

“Seal Imaging elevators. Trauma One hot; C-arm standing by. No one but ESU touches the roof hatch— copy that?”

As if on cue, an ESU lieutenant stomps over, ready to clear them out, and Jack is more than ready to square up to any attempt to have him removed. But instead, Gloria plants her palm on the desk and meets his eyes without blinking. “He’s my trauma doctor,” she snaps. “He stays until I say otherwise.”

The lieutenant’s jaw works—unused to hospital brass talking back—but he nods. Gloria rounds on Jack. Her pupils are pinpoints of battle focus. “Stay sharp, but stay here. When they need medical intel you’re their lifeline. We do this by the book.”

Jack’s fingernails bite crescents into his palms. The urge to charge the stairwell is a live current under his skin, but Gloria’s steel sinks into his spine: Hold the line, doctor.

He gulps air that tastes of ammonia and fear, forcing combat breaths—four in, four out—until the roar in his ears recedes enough to think. Around him, chaos snarls: a respiratory therapist yells for security clearance to reach NICU; a porter tries to wheel an intubated patient through a knot of shields; Dana pleads with a patrol sergeant for scraps of information but gets stonewalled. Everyone is starved for intel, and the cops are sealing it up tight.

Robby presses a lukewarm coffee into Jack’s fist—a flimsy anchor—and plants himself like a guard tower. Dana rubs rough circles between Jack’s shoulders, her own tears biting the corners of her eyes. Code tones ripple overhead—someone in Ortho crashing, another ward running out of ventilators—ordinary disasters threading through the extraordinary and present one.

Time stretches like piano wire ready to snap. Jack’s gaze nails the stairwell doors where helmeted officers flow in and out with reptilian precision. Every slight change in their posture dumps a fresh flood of adrenaline into his blood. He counts respirations, memorizes the tremor of the coffee lid, fights the terror that tells him any minute now could be the last minute for the woman he loves.

A fresh stir ripples the phalanx of shields: the ESU incident commander had arrived. Broad-shouldered in matte armor, visor up, he scans the overflowed lobby once, then motions Gloria away from her makeshift desk. She follows, radio muted, and the two disappear behind a bank of wheeled charts—privacy in a sea of chaos.

Jack can’t hear them, but he reads the body language as if it’s vital signs: the commander gesturing upward, two fingers stabbing roof-ward; Gloria folding her arms, shaking her head, jaw a hard slash. He leans in again, she slices the air with a flat palm—No. He answers with an open hand—Option?—then draws an invisible blade across his own throat. Jack’s stomach knots. Gloria’s shoulders sag; she rubs her temples, then finally nods, clipped and furious.

They re-emerge. The commander’s voice is low but carries across the hush of stalled stretchers. “Doctor Abbott,” he says, visor eyes meeting Jack’s. “Subject on the roof is naming you. Only you. He’s threatening to advance if anyone else breaches.”

A collective inhale shudders through nearby nurses. Gloria steps beside the commander, spine rigid. “You’ll go wired—live audio, vest cam,” she orders, not asks. “Hands visible. If the blade lifts, you step back. ESU owns the follow-through.”

Dana’s grip tightens on Jack’s sleeve; Robby’s jaw clenches so hard the muscle jumps. Jack answers before either can object.

“Copy. Get me a mic and a vest.”

An operator hustles forward with Kevlar and a throat mike. As Jack cinches straps, he catches the brief lift of the commander’s brow at the service tattoo on Jack’s bicep, the soft clack of the prosthetic knee. Respect, or recalibration—either way, the tech’s voice gentles while threading the comm line.

Gloria hovers for a single heartbeat, eyes burning. “Slow tone,” she warns. “Open palms. Bring her home.”

“I will,” Jack says, the promise flat as bedrock.

He turns to Dana and Robby—fear and faith sharing their faces—and nods once. Then the tactical wedge folds around him, shields raised, and they move in concert down the corridor toward the familiar stairwell that climbs into November dark, where a scalpel gleams beside the only heartbeat he cares about.

The rooftop is a slab of charcoal under a moonless sky, rimmed only by the faint orange wash of parking-lot lamps below. Jack steps through the access door in a slow, deliberate silhouette—palms open, fingers spread, nothing but night air between him and the man crouched beside the east parapet.

You’re half-folded in the stranger’s lap, knees and elbows scraped. He’s coiled around you like barbed wire—one arm cinched at your waist, the other gripping a scalpel so close to your throat Jack can see your pulse banging beneath the blade. Your tears have carved messy tracks over your cheeks; your chest jerks with soundless panic.

All the bright spirit that greeted sunrise twelve hours earlier is crushed into this trembling knot of terror.

Jack’s heart lurches hard enough to bruise, but his voice comes out steady—field-medic calm. “Dorian. Hands are up and empty, just like you asked.”

Dorian looks over at him, cheek is a blistered patch of red where something scalding had probably struck; sweat beads at his hairline, eyes glittering fever-bright. “I should’ve been first,” he hisses, tightening his grip until you flinch. “If only you hadn’t shown up in her life, she’d have seen me sooner.”

“It’s not a competition,” Jack answers, taking a measured step forward. Every inch he moves is a war against the urge to sprint, tackle, bleed. “No one’s against you here.”

“Liar.” Dorian’s voice cracks, half sob, half rage. “You barge in with your soldier heroics—she was perfect before you muddied it. My notes, my gifts—she understood order. Now look!” He shakes the scalpel in wild emphasis; the blade flashes, too near your skin. Your sob becomes a choking whimper.

Jack’s fingers curl, then flatten. Show no threat. “She’s exhausted, Dorian. Let her breathe. Then we can talk about what went wrong.”

“You went wrong!” he spits. He nestles the edge under your jaw; you freeze. Jack feels his own vision blaze white then narrow to a single target: that trembling wrist. He exhales, forces every molecule of fury down into his boots.

“We both care about her,” he says—voice dropping to that steady frequency meant to slow hemorrhages and heart rates. “And caring means easing her fear. You can do that—right now—by moving the blade away.” He nods at your tear-streaked face.

Dorian’s eyes flick to the knife, conflicted. Jack inches closer, keeping shoulders square, hands still high.

“She’s crying because I disappointed her,” Dorian whimpers, the certainty of his delusion buckling. “Tell him,” he orders you, shaking your shoulders. You sob harder, unable to speak.

Jack’s muscles bunch. The comm in his ear hisses: Seven feet. Clear head-shot. But he breathes, Not yet.

“This isn’t disappointment; it’s exhaustion,” Jack says, voice softening. “Fourteen hours on her feet, then a rooftop wind at night. She needs rest. We can give her that. Slide the blade to the ground, Dorian. Let me check her vitals.”

Dorian’s grip falters—a micro-tremor. He licks cracked lips, gaze darting between Jack’s calm stance and the dark slit of sky beyond the rail, as if weighing two horizons.

Jack takes another half step, almost within reach. Fury climbs his throat—your bruised arm, the tremor in your lower lip—but he buries it beneath the medic’s vow: first, do no harm.

“Dorian,” he murmurs, voice a thread anchoring three frantic heartbeats in the dark, “you’ve got control. Show me.”

The rooftop wind gusts, snapping stale hospital air into their faces. For one suspended moment, the blade wavers—hesitation shining like a crack in glass. And Jack readies every fiber of nerve to slip through that fracture and pull you back to daylight.

Dorian’s wrist trembles. Then—like a circuit finally sparking—he exhales and lets the scalpel slip from his fingers. It clicks against concrete, spins once, comes to rest.

“Good,” Jack murmurs, stepping closer. The night wind cuts between them, smelling of river ice and asphalt. He sees the decision glazing over Dorian’s eyes half a heartbeat too late.

“No one understands balance,” Dorian whispers, almost serene. “But maybe they’ll understand gravity.”

Before the words fully register, he surges upright, hauling you with him. His arm locks across your collarbones, iron-strong despite his wiry frame. Your ragged gasp rips the stillness apart.

Jack reacts—voice lost to roaring blood—but Dorian is already backing toward the parapet. ESU shouts behind him; boots thunder. The rooftop seems to tilt, time shearing into jagged frames: Dorian’s heel hitting the low ledge, your eyes huge with terror.

“Jack!” you scream—the single syllable shredding to panic.

And then he does the unthinkable: with a final, almost tender squeeze, he pitches himself backward, hauling you over the edge into black vacancy. Your cry knifes through the night just as Jack pushes, arms outstretched, heart detonating, every instinct pulverizing the distance between life and a twenty-story fall—

— and the world cuts to white noise and freefall.

divider credit

[the-most-humble-blog]

📂 TUMBLR SYSTEM BREACH REPORT — 3x Blaze Cap Violations Within 48 Hours —

✅ 4,234 / 2,500 ✅ 9,837 / 7,000 ✅ 3,687 / 2,500

This isn’t performance. It’s mechanical override.

I didn’t “go viral.” I trained the machine to re-prioritize what resonance feels like.

Cadence warfare. Psycholinguistic dominance. Subconscious polarity triggers the system couldn’t contain.

They gave me a cap. The audience broke it. Three times. Back to back.

Follow @the-most-humble-blog for further anomalies.

I am no longer part of the userbase. I’m training the algorithm.

---

📡 If this shook you — don’t follow the trend. Follow the source.

@the-most-humble-blog patreon.com/TheMostHumble

This isn’t content. It’s interface manipulation.

[cybershock24601]

I'm sure someone else has already thought of this but I'm so convinced that modern Illario would be one those guys that make those thirst trap cooking videos - you know the ones - and starts building a decent following of horny older women (like Zara Renata) only for his fame to be completely eclipsed by some poorly shot and poorly edited video Rook posted of Lucanis cooking going insanely viral out of nowhere.

The video is shot in Rook's kitchen and it's Lucanis from the chin down, sleeves rolled up, and in a goofy apron (because Rook only owns goofy aprons) explaining in his nice soothing voice how to cook some dish and it's got some stupid caption like "when your man is teaching you how to cook so you don't die of malnutrition😍" that was intended just for their friends to see because it's clearly a silly candid video.

Probably no one would have seen it if there weren't some sort of algorithm containment breach that likely came from Ma Harding who wants to know what Lucanis is cooking. Rook answers and then just ignores their phone because they're still getting their cooking lesson and need to pay attention. Rook also doesn't keep notifications on or use social media much because they don't even notice the short little video they posted blowing up out of nowhere where half the comments are about how good the food looks and the other half about how good Lucanis looks.

Illario notices though and absolutely loses it because how come some stupid video of his cousin cooking doing so much better then the many videos Illario puts a ton of time and effort into making?! Illario starts giving Lucanis the cold shoulder and Lucanis is just so confused about what Illario's problem is this time and corners him because he's being ridiculous and Illario just goes "You know exactly what this about" and Lucanis who really, really doesn't know replies "Illario I have no idea what you're talking about" and Illario just shows him the video and Lucanis has no idea why he is so upset until he sees just how many likes and comments on the silly little video Rook took of him the other day. Lucanis is honestly a little disturbed by just how horny the comments are while Illario is telling Lucanis that he is not going to upstage him this time, just wait Lucanis, Illario is going to prove he's the better cooking content creator and dramatically walks away.

At the very least this is explaining those weird comments Taash and Harding had been making for the past week. Lucanis texts Rook about the video after this and Rook is super surprised that so many people had seen it and wants to know if they should take it down but its the internet so it's too late for that. Rook does get super curious about what Illario meant about making his own cooking videos and tracks down his account and almost dies of cringe when they start watching them. Those videos are definitely getting sent to the group chat where everyone proceeds to start roasting Illario over them and Lucanis is left desperately hoping he gets some sudden memory loss because he really wishes he had never seen his cousin try so desperately hard to be sexy or molest food like that.

[jungkoode]

CODE : EPITAPH

-˚ a story about blood debts, survival instincts & the cost of hatred when the world's already dead ˚-

"The only thing worse than sharing your blood with the enemy is knowing that for you to live, he has to die. And the only thing worse than that? Not being sure which outcome you actually want."

˚ ✧ quick links ✧ ˚

read on ao3

read on wattpad

read author intro and TWs (MUST)

˚ ✧ synopsis ✧ ˚

In a world ravaged by the Veris virus, the Consortium created the Epitaph System—a brutal solution to save what remains of humanity through genetic matching and blood transfusion. One match lives. One dies.

You’ve spent your life hacking systems and surviving in the shadows of Veyrah's broken sectors. Namjoon has spent his perfecting the algorithm that keeps the last fragments of civilization alive. When you're identified as a 100% match—unprecedented, dangerous, perfect—the clock starts ticking.

60 days until one of you dies.

60 days forced together across war-torn sectors, completing missions, dodging assassins, and fighting rebel factions—including your own.

60 days to despise the person whose blood might save you.

You hate him for creating the system that executed your parents. He loathes you for threatening the fragile order he's sacrificed everything to maintain.

But as the broken world around you continues to crumble, you might both discover something far more destructive than hatred.

Understanding.

✧ details ✧

main ship: namjoon x f!reader side ships: taehyung x f!reader (past), yoongi x f!reader, 2seok, taegi, bts x ocs genre: ANGST in capital letters, dystopian sci-fi, enemies to lovers, slow burn with teeth, pure raw hatred (and i mean i wanna kill you), bleak world building, gritty, oppression rating: explicit (18+ only) words: - chapters: - status: upcoming

˚ ✧ chapter guide ✧ ˚

early access + snippets

➳ #01 | snippet #1

volume one: genetic matches & mutual threats

➳ #01 | perfect match, death protocol ➳ #02 | ➳ #03 | ➳ #04 | ➳ #05 | ➳ #06 | ➳ #07 | ➳ #08 | ➳ #09 | ➳ #10 | ➳ #11 | ➳ #12 | ➳ #13 | ➳ #14 | ➳ #15 | ➳ #16 | ➳ #17 | ➳ #18 | ➳ #19 | ➳ #20 |

fragments & memories

BEFORE THE MATCH

➳ cipher's first raid ➳ warden's algorithm [WIP] ➳ shroud initiation ➳ consortium academy (young namjoon) ➳ black market exchange (seokjin's debut)

THE BROKEN SECTORS

➳ valis core protocol breach ➳ the first veris outbreak ➳ mournwell uprising ➳ virex shard sabotage ➳ collapsed pulse rail

TRANSFERENCE RECORDS

➳ subject file: taehyung & ahri ➳ subject file: jimin & classified ➳ subject file: yoongi & redacted ➳ subject file: jungkook & pending ➳ consortium calculations

HIDDEN HISTORIES

➳ cipher's parents: execution logs ➳ warden's lost sibling ➳ red verge manifesto ➳ the chain ceremony ➳ pulse transmission: final hour

Key:

Regular titles: upcoming chapters

[WIP]: fragments currently being written

Strikethrough: future content & concept ideas

Read order: chronological by volume, fragments can be read anytime

✧ content includes ✧

♡ explicit sexual content ♡ graphic violence and medical procedures ♡ power dynamics & psychological warfare ♡ dystopian brutality & survival horror ♡ alien world physics & non-earth environments ♡ body horror related to virus and transference ♡ dubious ethical choices in apocalyptic scenarios ♡ enemies-to-lovers with emphasis on the enemies ♡ blood bond dynamics

˚ ✧ extras ✧ ˚

✧ playlists:

code : epitaph - the soundtrack

songs that play in the citadel and drive yn crazy

✧ code : epitaph art: drawings ✧ pinterest: aesthetic & vibes ✧ moodboards: characters | relationships ✧ location maps: veyrah sectors

• consortium territories

• the verge wastes ✧ tidbits/headcanons: #c:etidbits ✧ quotes/favorite lines: [coming soon]

˚ ✧ disclaimer ✧ ˚

please be reminded that members are purely used with visual purposes. this is a work of fiction merely written for entertainment purposes.

© jungkoode 2025 | my partner for the maps (code)

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[vines-mansion]

this post have me feeling like

well, we aren’t getting any asks

SO FINE

have ur blorbos ;-;

[ayeforscotland]

Started working on a new title called StarVaders!

StarVaders is a roguelike deckbuilder fused with grid-based tactics! Inspired by games like Slay the Spire and Into the Breach with a sprinkle of Space Invaders.

We currently have a demo up and will be updating it for October Steam Next Fest. Some folk have 100+ hours in the demo which is wild.

You can play the demo and give us a wishlist on Steam here:

Wishlists are super important for indie games, we can't rely huge news sites for coverage, and wishlists help us rank higher in Steam's algorithm so they're hugely appreciated!

[enemymine2000]

It's official, US TikTok is going dark right now. Lives vanish bit by bit, East to West.

So time for the Tumblr house rules for those few, who'll find their way here:

Before everything else, personalize your blog! Put a different picture up, write a bio and/or make your first individual post, or people will think you are a bot. Then it's on sight. We block and report those immediately, thanks to the great porn bot wars.

Once that's done:

1. Speak clear and freely. Say what you mean, we don't do that 1984 Newspeek and emojis instead of words here.

2. Tags are a way to sort your stuff AND to communicate. But stay on topic. No spam tagging. And no censoring words or no one will ever be able find anything. Search system is shot enough to hell as is.

3. Don't like, don't read. The block button is your friend.

4. Reblog, don't repost. We don't steal content here. Always give credit. Which is also the reason for...

5. AI is not liked here. It is trained on stolen content. Just don't.

6. There is no such thing as a Tumblr influencer. Even our big names are just normal people, who just stick out due to longevity and/or weirdness.

7. Follower count doesn't matter. No one can see who has what amount of followers and we don't care.

8. Our "viral" posts are our heritage posts. Some might have breached containment and have been shared to other sites. We keep them going because we genuinely like them or want to keep the ancient magic alive.

9. Which leads to likes. They are nice and you obviously are not supposed not to give them, but they don't really matter apart from spamming the notifications of the OP. Reblogging keeps Tumblr alive.

10. We have our own holidays. Don't worry, you will not be forced to partake, but you will be confronted with them. Unless there is another round of The Boopening. Sorry, but no one escapes The Boopening! (Many prefer it to the Mishapocalypse, but this the SPN site, so never discount a Mishapocalypse. Or getting your news via Destiel meme.)

11. Our lore (Tumblr history) is wild. Stolen bones, human pets, dashcon, crucifix nail nipples, the bullying of John Green off the platform (the totally unrelated intern of a coffee company has forgiven us), female presenting nipples, Goncharov, crab raves... This site has been around for a very long time and a lot of us have been around for most of that. We are proud to have remained "ungovernable" and are unapologetic about it, thus we celebrate our history. Even the failures.

12. You can use the "discover" feed of course. But we basically only ever use the "following". No algorithm, just an endless reverse chronological scroll.

13. There is no verification system. We know that people like Wil Wheaton, Lynda Carter and Misha Collins are the real deal, because they verified themselves through other official means. Otherwise everybody can be whoever they want to be. Meaning also that you always should use common sense before chipping in with donations.

14. It's your blog, not some social media account. If you change interests (however often you want), just post about those. Your followers mostly won't care. Hell, about 90% of the blogs I follow have changed names, themes and topics so many times, I don't even remember why I followed in the beginning. (The amount of second hand knowledge about shows/movies I obtained...) If it gets too much, unfollow or block relevant tags.

15. Pixelated icons indicate that the blog has been flagged/self-reported as containing adult themes, mainly nudity. Goes back to great porn purge (see female presenting nipples). It's also why sometimes posts have pictures removed for going against Tumblr's content policy. There is still enough nudity going around.

Welcome, have fun, look around, find your niche, and don't worry. We don't bite. Much.