#and the formatting is all identical. no difference in capitalization or anything

[animalcrossingshowdown]

did one person submit ~300 responses to the stand alone furniture bracket with the same handful of items submitted repeatedly in random order to make it seem like tons of people suddenly started submitting these previously unsubmitted items because. I doubt that this many people suddenly care about orange smoothie

[congealedweapon]

I see a lot of artist complain about getting comments about how talented they are and how the commenter could never do art like that - which is understandable because the societal myth of innate talent especially with arts and other creative skills - and then say that anyone can get as skilled if they practice and work with enough time and effort. But this also just isn't true - not just under capitalism either.

There are so many different factors - internal and external - that all contribute to this. Most obviously, besides interest, not everyone has access to the time, energy and space to learn and practice. And, importantly, disabled people aren't a tiny fraction of the population even in the western world or whatever you call Europe, North America, Australia and New Zealand. Iirc pre pandemic the official statistics estimated 1/5-1/4 of various populations - which can only be an underestimate when society so severely discourages people from identifying as disabled and doesn't acknowledge that some disabilities even exist. And given that Covid is a mass disabling event, it can only be higher now (and increasing). So any claim that "of course I didn't mean disabled people" "disability is a different conversation/off topic" isnt valid, disabled people are a part of "anyone" and "everyone" and not an exception. Assuming and/or categorising us as an exception to the rule that goes without saying is in and of itself ableist.

That aside, I believe - although don't have exact data or anything - that there must be a common range of various basic skills and abilities outside of what is considered disability - things like fine and gross motor skills (and each of those skills individually), ability to perceive and process finer visual, audio or other sensory details (which would impact visual art and music skill acquisition respectively), various forms of coordination, flexibility etc.

There are also, although research is in its infancy, differences in how people think - i.e. whether or not and to what extent there are images, words and inner monologue, other sounds, etc - as well as differences - which can be affected by how people think, such as a lack of images aka aphantasia - in memory formation and recall, as well as working memory and muscle memory (at least in disability terms, but I don't think there is an actual line between "not disabled" and "disabled" so much as there is a point at which various things become disabling (which is subjective) (and seperate to disability as a political identity and marginalisation)

I've heard in passing that so called "learning styles" are a myth and I haven't looked into it (and don't feel like it at 9:30pm just for a little rant) but there are differences - and the same person can have different pretences for different things and in different circumstances - in what format of tutorials people find most useful, if not a combination of formats, such as video or detailed written instructions, with or without diagrams or still images, learning in a small in person group versus on your own via the internet or a book or DVD, etc. And I don't think it's that anyone has 1 innate "style" but that there are a lot of factors involved, in general and contextually and that the more quality, accessible and affordable options for learning are available the more people are going to have success at acquiring the skill - not to mention that those tutorials and other resources need to be in a language you can understand enough of, or are able to translate enough of with online and other tools, don't assume access to tools or other resources you don't have (e.g. software) and are for/work with the method you use/are most able to use - for example, the way I hold my crochet hook is different to the most common way, so video tutorials have always been more confusing (especially before I figured out that I'd unconsciously adapted how I hold my hook) and clear diagrams that just show the top of the hook and the yarn are much much easier. But also are harder to find, especially without buying a lot of expensive books.

Basic physical attributes can also play a part in how easily a skill can be learned. This is most easily seen with sports - there are plenty of resources that talk about, and show, how different body types can be an advantage in different sports. It also applies to singing and learning various instruments - some are easier with longer, more but not too flexible fingers. Others are easier with a greater lung capacity and a straighter back.

There are also differences in parenting, schooling, safe home environments, parental income, etc that play a part as well, which I think most left leaning people are at least somewhat aware of - the more access and encouragement you had in regards to starting a skill early on and continuing with it is a clear advantage in becoming skilled at something.

All of this is important, because interest in a thing and motivation do not exist, unchanging, in a vacuum. If you find something more challenging to you than it is for your peers, or what is expected of you, or to the point where it's actively discouraging, that makes it much harder to maintain interest. Sometimes interests starts because you got the chance to try and thing that was maybe easier to learn for you than others, or than other things you tried, that you were applauded for and otherwise encouraged to continue, and it met a minimal level of fun, and the interest grew from there. Maybe you had what could have been a passing interest, had you not had access, but you did so you were able to get more into it and become passionate.

I also want to say, that it's very true that not everything is a privilege, and sometimes people will claim something is a privilege either mistakenly or untruthfully to make a point or argue.

BUT some things can be a *sign* of or a result of privilege or only accessible if you either get very lucky or have a certain level of privilege. One of those things is being able to get to the level of proficiency in a skill - especially one that has a financial barrier - in order to become even semi professional or make a name on social media for it, or even just create often enough to post your work regularly *especially* with enough skill to obtain an audience for it. I'm sure there are exceptions, like there is for everything, but most people don't have the money, free time, free energy, free focus, lack of conflicting or obstructing ability circumstance or disability, etc to get to that point. And those that do aren't going to get there after the same amount of time, energy, and practice.

(also if you say "you don't need expensive equipment/supplies to do [your hobby/skill]" and don't at least provide a link to resources on how to figure out which inexpensive options are the best and most appropriate ones, or at least acknowledge that being familiar enough with the different options, brands, etc to know where and how to efficiently and effectively save money is in itself a sub skill of the hobby/profession/etc then, you know 🖕 - also not everyone can just use the cheapest stuff due to accessibility and other needs)

I feel like, even in more nuanced conversations about how our societal understandings of intelligence, talent, etc are entirely made up and harmful nonsense, it would do everyone good to normalise that it's okay to be bad at things. Not everyone is able to get professional level proficient in things they want to do. No one can become proficient in everything if they want to do a bunch of things. And not everyone wants to do the work required - whether because they want to do multiple things and there just isn't enough time or energy in one life, because they have no interest in being professional, or because it would require greater sacrifice or risk than it would for other people or than it's worth.

I think education and society at large would benefit from better understanding that not everyone starts from the same base level of ability when starting out at learning different things, or in life. Both in regards to disability, not having the same first or at-home language as the one being taught in, and with failings in society like poverty, racism, etc and capitalism in general. And also that there is a variety in every possible human trait within the population - just like there are differences in height, body shape, eye hair and skin colour, voice pitch, native language and culture and other fairly obvious things, we can there is so much micro and invisible variety too. My sister can draw in more visual detail than I generally perceive just looking at the world as a short sighted since childhood, and ADHD person with significant aphantasia. I crochet but I can't knit - and while video tutorials are an added level of confusion because I can't hold my crochet hook the same way most tutorial makers do, I found learning how to read charts almost instinctual, but many crocheters struggle with that. I've done micro crochet, something considered generally quite difficult in the crochet community, but Tunisian crochet absolutely boggles my brain to the point where I'm fairly incapable of doing it, have minimal skill in making clothing, and could absolutely never finish a blanket - while Tunisian crochet is a little bit niche, making garments and blankets are incredibly common in the crochet community (although blankets are also incredibly fucking expensive to make).

Point is, while I understand the lack of understanding of the time, effort, and energy involved in becoming proficient, leading to the undervaluing of the skill and at the same time, increasing the perceived inaccessibility of learning it, is incredibly annoying, especially online with a large enough audience that you hear it frequently, it's just not true that anyone could do what you are doing, as well as you are, with as much success, because there are so many things that have to go right, as well as simply having the time, money and space to not only learn the skill, but become proficient and then make a name for yourself and create regularly (and do all the social media stuff) - which honestly just isn't a thing many people in this capitalist hellscape have

And also any discussion of how the education fails people, and how our western understandings of talent and intelligence are not only nonsense but harmful, should also be done with the understanding that it's okay to not be good at things at do them anyway, and that there are just so many different factors that influence how easily someone finds a certain area of learning is, whether and when they might become proficient in something, and that there is natural human variety to every part of being human (and also that disability is natural and not uncommon and that disabled people are in fact included when generalising about all people unless of course you don't consider disabled people to be people)

Also, an afterthought: creativity as a whole is kinda a talent and a skill, and being able to become proficient at a skill does not automatically mean you can use that skill in a creative, and personally unique way. And that's okay! You are allowed to just have fun, or make things that are just practical, or just like someone else (with credit where it's due) etc. But I think it's worth acknowledging that most people in creative (or potentially but not always creative) fields especially with an even moderate audience online are successful in that way not just because of technical proficiency but because they have cultivated their own personal style, their own artistic voice, or *something* that people enjoy or resonate with

There are very skilled people that do professional, quality work without much widespread notice - those who make music, visual art, etc for advertisements and other corporate purposes for example. I feel like most people are familiar with "generic" art - the kind you can find in offices, or where the prints are mass produced for retail etc - all that requires skill, and in its own way a form of creativity that any act of creation takes, but it's not the same kind of creativity that inspires itself (i.e. isn't based on an outline the artist is payed to fulfill outside of being commissioned because of their personal established artistic voice/style), it doesn't have the same personality and sense of connection to the creator, if that makes sense.

And that's something that improves with practice but isn't really something that can be taught. And that's okay! But saying that there is absolutely no talent or anything special just a lot of time and practice involved in becoming a successful artist in our own name and voice is missing part of the story

[kwc-reads]

The Grimoire of Grave Fates - an anthology by multiple authors

I’m going to be honest, I felt terrible writing this review and I’m not sure if I’ll keep it up. I don’t want to be mean and I think this book could work for the right audience. However…that audience is unfortunately not me 😭

This book had such unique potential as a concept and it unfortunately just... did not live up to any of it. Perhaps some of my enjoyment was dulled by the fact that I think this is more "middle-grade" than the YA it was billed as - perhaps if I was younger and had read less across my life it would have rated higher. The idea of this book is that a professor at a magical school gets murdered, and each of the 18 chapters is the POV of a different student (each written by a different author) that has some part to play in putting together the puzzle of who did it, and why.

Each character had a creative and unique way of doing magic - using music or dance or smoke or embroidery to channel their power. There was such potential here! However, over half of each chapter was spent setting up the POV character, and the scant remainder was spent actually furthering the story. The plot took second, perhaps even third place behind the character concepts. Even then, there were SO many characters that were visited in one chapter and then never mentioned again that there was no way to form any meaningful connection to literally anyone in this entire book. Maybe if it had cut the amount of POVs in half and had longer or multiple chapters dedicated to each character, that would have improved it.

Another issue with the anthology format was that despite the unique character ideas, everything felt extremely duplicative. Almost every character had to relearn the same information as previous characters, and every one had to give their own explanation for why they hated the deceased - except that explanation was also the same across every character. Now don't get me wrong, I understand why. Every single POV character holds at least one marginalized identity (which I will admit was great to see!), and the dead guy is a transphobic, sexist, racist, homophobic, classist, ableist, imperialist asshole. But dear god, at some points it felt like a caricature. I do think that for a specifically middle grade crowd this might have worked as an introduction to diversity, power structures, social capital, and institutional bigotry, so I am trying not to judge it too harshly on that - just because I'm not the target audience for something doesn't mean it's bad. However, the book does claim to be for a YA market, and from that perspective I think these critiques are valid.

My final issue with this book has nothing to do with its failed anthological style or the misrepresented age group, but rather the fact that this book just... ends. There is no meaningful resolution whatsoever. I flipped through the final pages trying to see if there was an epilogue, or missing pages or something but no - it just cold ends. There's a two paragraph attempt at an "and then everything was happy, the end" finale, but it fell completely flat because it didn't give any information as to the fates of anyone or anything involved in the mystery. It pretty much implied that changing out a singular leadership role in the school from a shitty person to a not shitty person fixed all of the prejudice-based institutional issues of inequity that the book made such a point to continually call out. It was a frustrating ending to a frustrating book that I had a frustrating time reading.

[gascon-en-exil]

"Flayn's eyes were suddenly opened to the struggles people faced" Dude Flayn was always aware, for crying out loud she was in a war, said war caused her to slumber for a good while (understatement but still) cause she used her power to heal those who were getting hurt. And she doesn't want to see this kind of violence again. What is this anon going on about?

It's not really intended to say anything; they're trying to be annoying, and so the substance may as well be meaningless.

Judging by the format that submission was likely copied and pasted from two different sources, with the first part sounding like a cut-off part of a response or reblog and the second showing the typical style of the wall-of-text trolls anons which, if they're C+Ped from anywhere, probably come from a place that's not too fond of capital letters. Discord, or 4chan maybe? I'm not very familiar with either.

I find it hilarious that they think a "hey stop your bullying" post is considered "harassment" while their harassment/cyberbullying of others is a callout or getting found.

It's all about perspective. Isn't there a meme about this? It's the one with the medieval towns fighting each other where one gets all the positive labels and the other gets all the negative despite the two being identical.

M at gmail oh my fuvking god looks like someone is using burner accounts to send shit on anon 😭😭😭 I hope that guy stops soon, it must be annoying to have to pass all this to finally see the messages of people that aren't harassing you 🫂🫂🫂

Not the first time I've gotten troll submissions like that sadly, but in the wake of recent events I find myself more inclined to screencapping. It's useful to have a record of these things.

[interact-if]

Day 2 of the interviews! The lovely Yulisa, everyone :chinhands:!!

Yulisa, author of The Nexus Trials: Trial One

Religious Diversity Month Featured Author

It’s been years since you last stepped foot inside the Silver Nexus, a large kingdom with mile high walls surrounding the bustling cities inside; each metropolis  filled with magic and intrigue hidden around every corner.

Once a place you called home, you’ve long since given up that security to travel the world as a wandering mercenary alongside your two companions– though soon an opportunity too good to refuse arises in the form of a mysterious though promising summons from the Silver Queen herself. Having asked for your company’s assistance specifically, you begin the long trek from the Bronze District, ignoring the vague details in favour of anticipating your big break.

Returning to your old homeland fills you with an almost heavy sense of nostalgia as you walk the brick road leading to the capital, hopes high knowing this job could change the lives of both you and your companions for the better. However, unease quickly sets in as you come to realise nothing could have ever prepared you for the trials that await…

The Nexus Trials Demo TBA | Read more [here]

Tags: sci-fi, fantasy, horror

(INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT UNDER THE CUT!)

Q1: Tell us a little bit about your project(s)!

The Nexus Trials is an entirely text based interactive story with two parts currently planned. For Trial One, the player takes on the role of a mercenary down on their luck. Having spent years wandering the expansive lands of the Outside, taking on whatever odd jobs you could find, you tossed your moral compass aside long ago for any potential of extra coin; having debated more than once resorting to selling the clothes on your back to avoid total bankruptcy.

Things begin to look up, however, when you receive a summons requesting the aid of you and your companions from the illustrious Silver Queen herself. The promise of prestige and security is one too good to resist; the offer a gateway to turning over a new leaf and starting fresh. Escaping the lingering shadow of your past never comes so easy though.

Q2: Why did you settle for interactive fiction? What drew you to this format?

I think, more than anything, what drew me to create interactive fiction was the freedom it allowed. The ability to go down these different paths and witness how the world around you changes depending on the choices you’ve made, whether it be for better or worse. Not having to worry about being bound to any specific, hardset canon is nothing short of exciting to experiment with, especially because even with my other non-IF stories I’m constantly entertaining the possibilities of the what ifs? even if they aren’t always plausible. I remember reading a lot of R.L. Stine growing up. 

For the most part, I actually wasn’t the biggest fan of the regular Goosebumps, but the spin off series Give Yourself Goosebumps had always intrigued me. Being as young as I was at the time when I first discovered them, the concept of CYOA books was foreign to me and opened my eyes to a new way of storytelling. I loved getting to dictate the course that the story would take, even if the consequences of my actions didn’t always lead to the greatest outcome. In a lot of ways, the little catchphrase has stuck with me throughout writing TNT, even if it’s been years now since I last read any of the books. Reader beware… you choose the scare!

Q3: How have your identity and beliefs influenced your work?

Everything about who I am has left traces in my work, though truthfully it’s often unintentional. With TNT taking place in a fantasy setting, I’ve done my best to instead let the world take on an identity of its own; though I do admit to projecting onto a few characters in particular. Really, just about the only time I ever go out of my way to bring my own bias into what I write is for really petty things, like my hate for all and anything mint. I don’t understand how people are so obsessed with that burning sensation… but then again, I’m allergic, so I’m probably not the greatest person to trust on that front.

Q4: What aspects would you like to be more explored or represented in media regarding your religion?

The norm these days in more mainstream media is for characters apart of minority religions to mention what they follow in passing, never to be brought up again, in some sort of half-hearted attempt at religious diversity. If nothing else, I want there to be a sense of pride from those token Jewish characters, unashamed in their identity, without the typical pressuring to partake in religious practises not their own from other characters. It’s as good a starting point as any.

Q5: What are you most excited about sharing related to your project?

Would it be cliche to say I’m excited just to be able to share my project in general? I’ve never had the confidence to release any of my other works before, and truthfully me putting TNT out there publicly was poorly controlled impulse on my part; then suddenly, next thing I know, it basically blows up overnight and I’ve got hundreds of people excited for it despite a demo not even being out yet. It’s a level of confidence I never thought I could achieve. If I had to choose, I can’t wait for everyone to meet the characters. Will you find a family in them, or make lifelong enemies?

Q6: A tiny bit unrelated, but what’s your favourite religious holiday?

A bit predictable, maybe, but I love Hanukkah. I have a rather large family, to put it mildly, so our schedules rarely line up which means most holidays tend to pass us by without much thought; Hanukkah, though, is something we’ve always managed to make time for, even if it’s not a consistent celebration. I value the time we all get to spend together more than anything.

Q7: Any other thoughts or advice you’d like to give to fellow authors or readers?

To my fellow authors or aspiring authors, go your own pace. You’ll find what works best for you even if it might seem hopeless at times. Remember that you’re building up these worlds brick by brick with your own two hands, breathing life into these characters you’ve birthed from ink. That in itself is something to be proud of.

To the readers, your support means more than you could ever know. I can never thank you all enough for the encouragement you’ve given me in the times I’ve wanted to give up.

[rughydrangea]

reveal your watch and rewatch drama list

@yeo-rims tagged me, and the state of what I’m currently watching is kind of shameful, but I was in the mood for some ritual humiliation!

watching:

Severance! I’m four eps in and loving loving loving the creepy atmosphere and of course the anti-capitalism! I also just love how fucking weird everything is, the way that every time the severed characters start talking about Lumon or the handbook or the other departments it’s so stilted and formal (I’m thinking especially of Zach Cherry’s character comparing the different departments and his summary of MDR is something like “we’re loyal and true” like they’re fucking knights of the round table or something). 

Kongen Befaler! I’m on the currently airing season, finally, except for I’m really sad about it, because soon I’ll be completely caught up. This show is so fun; I really do think the Taskmaster format is tough to fuck up, but I love seeing how different productions put their spin on it; Olli as the super-sexy assistant with contempt for everybody except Atle, whom he humors, is such a fun twist. Also the casts have been genuinely delightful and the fact that apparently there are absolutely no workplace safety standards in Norway is troubling, but it does give us a ton of incredible tasks revolving around fire.

Magnificent Century: Kösem! My reaction to this show is basically identical to my reaction to the original: it’s great when it’s women scheming and backstabbing, it’s soporific when it’s men talking about politics (I skip all those scenes), and I love a complicated romance, but I frankly don’t think there’s anything complicated about Kösem living and dying for Ahmed and him promising that he loves her too and then constantly fucking other women and yelling at her when she gets hurt. That’s not complicated, that’s a man sucking. And frankly, I wish they would let Kösem be more pragmatic about her life and her relationship with him because hanging it all on love is impossible to buy when he doesn’t act like he loves her! (It’s even more frustrating that they also pulled this shit with Suleiman in the original, which was actually much worse, because historical Suleiman basically was monogamous once he got serious about Hürrem. I sat through that once, I really am not enjoying round 2, which is why I’m looking forward to Ahmed dying). Also, I’m watching the Russian dub, so whenever I watch it I can justify it as work.

Joy of Life... I’m about halfway through, I’m basically enjoying it, but I haven’t watched in a few weeks, I just don’t feel anything compelling me to go back to it. I don’t plan on dropping it just yet, but I may if I don’t find a desire to return.

Someday or One Day.... I watched the first episode, and thought it was not bad, but it really didn’t grab me. The only reason I haven’t dropped is that I know the plot hasn’t properly started yet, but it’s the show’s job to make me care about getting to that point!

plan to watch:

That upcoming sageuk with Jang Hyuk, Lee Joon, and Kang Han Na... Red something? I miss sageuks!

My Liberation Diary? Is that the title? It’s from the writer of My Ajusshi, I can’t resist, plus Kim Ji Won!

Our Blues. I don’t like omnibuses but I like No Hee Kyung and I can’t deny I’m really looking forward to seeing Kim Woo Bin in a drama again.

What else..... Maybe Pachinko? I’m reading the book right now though so it might be a while. And I legit can’t think of any other shows. I mean, Taskmaster when it comes back, of course. Any other sageuks anyone feels like making... Oh yeah, isn’t Joo Won doing one?!?!! Another Joseon prohibition drama, though, right after Yoo Seung Ho and Hyeri. The way you know that I have taken leave of my reason when it comes to Joo Won is that I plan to watch his next drama even though his last drama was Alice.

rewatching:

....I’m rewatching s6 of Taskmaster along with the official podcast. I don’t know what to tell you, that show gives me joy like nothing else. Sometimes all you want in life is to watch a man try to fill a condom with whipped cream.

not tagging anyone, but please do it if you want!

[hopelesshawks]

Physical Fatality Part 7- Good For You

18+ Hawks x fem, pro hero!reader

Summary: You’re a rising star in All Might’s agency. Hawks is the darling of Endeavor’s. By virtue of your job descriptions, the two of you are supposed to hate each other, or at the very least be cautiously neutral. For a long time that’s exactly what the two of you did. You stayed out of each other’s way and formed little opinion of the other. One fateful night at an HPSC gala changes all that. Based on the album Hopeless Fountain Kingdom by Halsey.

If you don’t want to see Physical Fatality content blacklist #hopelesspf

This story will have multiple NSFW parts so it is 18+ ONLY minors dni

Warning for alcoholism

Masterlist

The next month or so is pure bliss. With Hawks fully committed the weird moments of distance have stopped and with them so has the fighting. Not to say that it’s easy, task force work has meant some nights where you have to sleep in different cities or you work opposing shifts so you don’t have time to see each other. Even still, the two of you make it work.

Hawks is good for you. Your nightly routine used to almost always involve at least a few drinks. At first it was a way to keep nightmares away, then it was a way to cope with Monoma’s criticisms, and eventually it became a habit. Now your nightly routine has joint showers or bubble baths, music playing over speakers, gentle kisses and even gentler touches. One night, after you mentioned that your mother’s favorite song had been Put Your Head On My Shoulder by Paul Anka, Hawks had insisted on putting it on and slow dancing around your kitchen. Mina had walked in on the two of you and absolutely swooned at the sight. You’d sworn her to secrecy but the minute she realized Bakugo also knew she’d begged Kirishima for Bakugo’s number so she could gush about how precious you and Hawks are. The explosive blonde doesn’t appreciate Mina’s excessive messaging but he puts up with it because in all honesty he and Midoriya are both proud of you. So proud, in fact, that they brought a cupcake with a little candle on it to work for you to celebrate one month of sobriety. You mostly certainly did not cry no matter what anyone else says.

You’re good for Hawks too. For once he’s appreciating life outside of work. He looks forward to the moment he can sneak into your apartment or you his, and just spend time together just the two of you. It’s to the point where he just doesn’t sleep the same when you’re not in his arms. He loves collecting little facts about you, like how you look first thing in the morning and what you like for breakfast and what playlist you listen to when you’re getting dressed. He wants to catalogue every tiny detail about you. He wonders if, under normal circumstances, you’d like PDA. If he didn’t work for Endeavor and you didn’t work for All Might would you love holding his hand or let him wrap his arm around you as you walked? With each passing day Hawks hates more and more the fact that he can’t announce his love for you to the world. He takes what can get and enjoys the stolen moments, but not being able to enjoy casual affection with you outside of the task force and the privacy of your own homes is difficult. Which is probably why, when he spots you walking towards All Might’s agency as he’s flying there himself, he decides another stolen moment can’t hurt.

He spots an alley a little ahead of you and decides to drop in for one last stolen moment before you shift into work mode. As he lands he sends a couple feathers to you to let you know where he is. You follow them into the alley and the moment you’re in view Hawks reaches out to grasp your forearm and pull you into him, pressing a kiss to your lips. You sink into it for a moment as Hawks wraps his arms around your waist but then you gently push him back. “What if someone sees?” you ask, looking back behind you out towards the street, but Hawks gently grasps your chin and turns you back to face him. “No one will see Dove,” he assures you before pressing you to the wall to kiss you again. You have to admit it’s hard to say no when he’s on you like this so you relax into it and let yourself just enjoy the affection and his gentle touches. You feel your phone buzz in your pocket and pull away to check it, finding a text from Midoriya letting you know he would be getting to the agency soon. “We should go,” you tell Hawks. “I don’t want to though,” he whines. You roll your eyes and push him back gently. “Come on, we’ve got hero work to do,” you laugh and Hawks relents, aware that you’re right and these stolen moments can’t last forever. But as he watches you walk out the alley he’s struck with the thought that he’s really sick of the secrecy. He’ll tell Endeavor after the meeting, he decides, and then tonight he’ll talk with you about it.

Tokoyami has finally confirmed that the group he’s been following were the culprits behind the attempted attack. He was able to link a few members to maintenance workers on shift the night in question and then cross checked their identities against security cam footage. It was still unclear who was running the whole operation so there was certainly more work to be done and you all would have to tread carefully in your surveillance from now on, but at least it’s clear who to watch. The meeting ends after all of you have hashed out a new surveillance schedule. As everyone gets ready to head out Hawks stops you. “Hey, I need to swing by Endeavor’s, but afterwards can we talk?” he asks. “Sure. Mina is having people over so I’ll meet you at your place,” you reply easily. “Great, I’ll catch you later,” Hawks says before leaving the room. He mentally prepares himself for whatever the fallout with Endeavor will be as he heads out the building and then takes off to the other side of town.

He didn’t expect to be nervous standing outside Endeavor’s office. He didn’t need Endeavor’s approval to date you and he was well aware that Endeavor was typically anything but rational when it came to All Might and all those associated. Still, a traitorously optimistic part of him wants his loyalty to Endeavor to be rewarded with acceptance of his love for you. He doesn’t need or want a new father, but he won’t deny the somewhat paternal nature of his relationship with his mentor. So maybe that’s why he has to take a deep breath to steel himself before he reaches up and knocks on Endeavor’s door.

“Come in,” comes the gruff voice from behind the door. Hawks walks in to find Endeavor sitting at his desk leafing through the day’s incident reports. “I need to talk to you about something important,” Hawks states, not bothering to beat around the bush. “What is it?” Endeavor asks, his eyes not straying from the papers in front of him. “I’m seeing someone,” Hawks says. “Your personal life is really none of my business Hawks.” “I’m glad you think that way because I’m seeing Artemis from All Might’s agency.” Endeavor freezes, placing the papers down and finally giving Hawks his attention. “I beg your pardon?” he asks. “I’m dating (y/n) (y/l/n), aka Artemis, of All Might’s agency,” Hawks repeats. “I put you on that task force to catch terrorists not flirt with our rivals.” “She and I met before the formation of the task force. Both of us being assigned to it was a coincidence.” “Really?” “Really.” “I don’t believe you Hawks.” “I can tell you the whole story if you want?” “Very well.”

And that’s exactly what Hawks does. He tells a, PG-13, version of you and his love story from that first fateful moment he talked to you at the gala to today, and all the beautiful moments in between. That optimistic part of him hopes that maybe, if Endeavor just understands how much he loves you, then maybe he won’t freak out over this. “You really love her don’t you? More than those other women?” Endeavor asks and Hawks feels a glimmer of hope as he replies “I do,” without a second thought. He doesn’t know how exactly he expected Endeavor to react. He certainly wasn’t expecting the reaction he got. “I thought you were smarter than this Hawks,” Endeavor sighs. “Excuse me?” Hawks asks. “I should have known a young, pretty upstart from his agency would pull something like this. Hawks she’s using you,” Endeavor insists. Hawks reels back as if struck and immediately he’s filled with an anger he’s never felt for his mentor before. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he warns icily. “If she’s so in love with you why all the secrecy?” Endeavor presses. “She got out of an engagement to Monoma recently and she can’t afford a bad headline,” Hawks defends. “Or is it that she doesn’t want the press to find out she’s using you. Awfully convenient isn’t it? That she didn’t leave her fiancé until after she had usurped him in the hero rankings.” “It isn’t like that, she didn’t even know who I was when we met.” “Don’t be so naive. How could she not know it was you Hawks? How many other heroes do you know with bright red wings.” Hawks doesn’t have a response for that. It’s a good point. He hates that it’s a good point. “I think she clocked you at the gala, then decided to further capitalize when she realized you were also on the task force. I know my son and his friends may have convinced you that the feud is only in my and All Might’s heads now, but I assure you it is alive and well amongst the vast majority of the heroes in our agencies. Lose the girl, Hawks,” Endeavor insists. “And if I say no?” Hawks asks, and he can feel his heart breaking because Endeavor has a point but he wants so desperately for him to be wrong. “If you say no then I’ll know you’re compromised and will have no choice but to pull you from the task force and reconsider your current position within this agency. I wouldn’t be able to trust you not to leak information to Artemis. Have I made myself clear?” “Crystal.” “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow Hawks.”

Hawks turns and leaves in a fog. Is it possible Endeavor is right? Has this been a game to you this whole time? He thought it himself that first day of the task force, the lower ranks of both agencies are still deeply entrenched in the rivalry. That had been your day-to-day up until what, a year ago? Of course you’d be more likely to believe in the rivalry and the stereotypes than Bakugo and Midoriya. And sure, it made sense that you would want to keep the relationship a secret when barely a day had passed since your broken engagement but it’s been months now. Surely if you care as deeply for him as he does you, you’d be eager to let the world know. Surely sufficient time has passed for the two of you to declare your love without you taking heat for it. Not to mention that Endeavor is right about Hawks’ identity not exactly being a secret in any scenario precisely because of his wings. There’s no way you couldn’t have known who he was, so why pretend as if you didn’t if not to take advantage of him? The questions turn over and over in Hawks’ head as he makes his way home. Even once there he paces his living room trying to find any way for all the pieces to fit together that doesn’t point to you using him. If things were different, Hawks may have played things out anyway, let himself cautiously believe in your love and wait for a betrayal. But Endeavor had made it clear that continuing his love affair with you would have dire consequences for his career and if you don’t love him all he’ll have left is his career.

There’s a knock on the door.

It’s you.

Of course it’s you....

He had almost forgotten he asked you to talk after he ran his errand at Endeavor’s agency. He was hoping for more time but he supposes now is as good a time as any to rip off the bandage. God his heart hurts. His heart hurts so goddamn much but he knows what he has to do.

He should’ve known better than to believe in fairytales.

He opens the door for you and immediately you can tell something’s wrong. “Hey I uh tried calling to double check if you were home yet but you weren’t picking up so I just swung by,” you explain sheepishly, the weird energy coming from Hawks making you anxious. “We need to talk,” Hawks says and the way he says it is ominous. You can feel your heart sinking and you hate it. What went wrong? Just this morning things were perfect. “I can sometimes treat the people that I love like jewelry,” Hawks admits, but he won’t look at you as he does so. “What does that mean Kei? What’s going on?” you ask and Hawks flinches when you reference his real name. He’s never done that before. You just want to understand what’s going on in that head of his but he’s blank in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. “I try them on and change my mind each day about them. I didn’t mean to try you on (y/n), it just happened,” he confesses. Your heart sinks even further.

It’s a lie. It’s a lie. It’s a lie. It was true of the previous women he’d dated, yes, but the reason he knows that now is precisely because it was always different with you. He knows your birthday and your mother’s favorite song. You know his past and real name. God he hates this but he always does it. He runs away when things are good because he’s scared of what will happen and he always has regrets afterwards. Not this time, he reminds himself, because you’ve been faking this whole time. And of course you were. He never understood the way you laid your eyes on him in ways that no one else ever could. Never understood how you could see past the broken pieces of him. “I don’t love you anymore,” he lies and each word is ash on his tongue and he needs to see your reaction now so he can know he did the right thing. He needs the final confirmation of your betrayal. But oh how wrong he is. When he finally looks at you his heart fractures far worse than if Endeavor were right, because you look how he feels right now. God you look absolutely crushed. But it’s not like he can take anything he’s said back now. It’s too late. It’s too late and so it seems he’s broken your heart and his own. His ignorance and faith in Endeavor have struck again. He failed to see or believe that you loved him as much as you claimed and now he’s torn you open.

“I’m sorry,” he says but he doesn’t elaborate on what he’s sorry for. He knows you’ll fill in the blanks incorrectly but it’s what he deserves for having such little faith in you. You’ll think he’s sorry for falling out of love with you but that’s not it at all. He’s sorry that he can’t believe that anybody ever really falls in love with him. He’s sorry he was so blind he couldn’t see that there was no way you could ever be faking what the two of you had. He didn’t mean to leave you and all of the things the two of you had behind, but it’s too late now to take it back. “Keigo please,” you beg and you sound small and broken in a way he has never once seen you. “Someone will love you (y/n), but someone isn’t me,” he says and it’s the final nail in a coffin of his own creation. “Fuck you Hawks,” is the last thing you spit out before storming out of his apartment. Someone will love you, he assures himself. It hurts now but someday, someone will love you that deserves you. That someone just isn’t him it seems. He keeps trying to convince himself of that as he numbly goes to his empty bed.

You don’t remember anything about the walk home. You move as if through a void, nothing else around you, nothing else matters. All that you can feel and perceive is the pain in your chest. How could he just fall out of love with you? You know his love was genuine, you know it from the bottom of your heart because he wasn’t lying about no one knowing his real name. He wasn’t lying about his past being a secret. Yet he had trusted you with all of it. So why was he abandoning you now? It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. All you know is that it fucking hurts. When you finally get to your apartment, you ignore Mina and her company and head straight for your kitchen, grabbing a bottle of liquor you can’t even bother to properly identify before heading to your room and locking yourself in. You sit down on your bed and the pain is still hollowing you out so you drink.

And you drink.

And you drink...

Author’s Note: I’m so sorry

Taglist [open]: @akkaso @cathy8taffy @eeppff @iikillerkitteh @pixelwisp

[englacial]

A Warm Goodbye or A Message for the Future

I haven’t been active here in more than a year which is mostly by accident but also quite purposeful. I had intended to remain in the RP community but as is evident by my many returns, disappearances, and moments of unreliability, this is a chapter of my life that has come to an end. I say this with an abundance of love for what writing here has given me and also with renewed knowledge of what that progression has looked like for me. This community has been amazing and it has also been devastating for me at times. I have also played a role in that devastation and wasn’t always the best version of myself (and I’m still not). 

COVID certainly threw my life into turmoil and unearthed a lot.

In December of last year I went through a mental health crisis that landed me in patient for a brief period and also lead me to the deepest and most accurate understanding of my mental health I’ve ever contended with. Through the process of finding a new therapist experienced with dissociative disorders, I was diagnosed with DID and my whole life suddenly made sense. 

The ups and downs, the identity confusion, the loss of time and deep misunderstandings of situations I was faced with suddenly made sense in their entirety. Many gaps have been filled simply by working on this in therapy and it has forced me to reflect on my time in the RP community and how I’ve interacted with fellow writers, both good and bad. It’s also made it incredibly difficult to let go of this account and writing because for me, it was often the only opportunity I had to express myself as me. Roleplaying was an excuse to be a different person, an easy cover for what was actually occurring in our life. I haven’t always known how to do that nor did I fully grasp why OCs felt more like me than me (surprise! they’re me). There were times when my self-expression was really self-injurious and that is painful but necessary for me to realize and acknowledge. Trauma changes the ecosystem of the human body in upsetting and ugly ways. More than anything, I was escaping the recognition that in refusing to heal, I was often doing harm to myself and others.

Fundamentally, I was seeking human connection where I had been denied it and we were playing out parts and trauma we were forced to keep hidden. For me, DID is about multiple traumas I have faced and the way my body chose to cope with it. It means a lot for what my childhood looked like and the incredible survival tools necessary for me to grow into an adult.

When I first started roleplaying on tumblr I was just 13 years old. I’m now 24 and have so much still to learn. I knew I was different growing up. I knew I had experienced pain. I knew I had difficulties expressing myself. I didn’t know I had DID or why there was so much confusion crowding my experiences online and in, truly, the only space I was able to fall into away from the ongoing turmoil in my life. I went by many different names, played many different characters, and made many different friends but this was difficult and I was not always kind. Frequently there were dissociative barriers that presented as amnesia and compartmentalized selves that in DID are called alters. The consistency with which I was forgetting myself, my actions, and people I’d met was a major detriment and it also enabled adults in the community to take advantage of and use me. The RP community was the stage for which many people with more life experience than myself, hurt me as a child. As I remained in the community, I began growing into a very dysfunctional adult and a part of that was to hide from my past in the community and parts of myself I didn’t recognize or accept as being me (collective). It is very difficult to contend with actions you don’t remember and I was not ready to take accountability for what I did as a scared and hurt child and what I was running from as an equally scared and hurt adult.

Mental health has always been important to me. I have talked at length about being a survivor of CSA, trafficking, and other forms of abuse and neglect. I have talked about my struggles with PTSD and depression. Despite this I was still not healing. Acknowledgement of mental health only does so much if the process of actually healing is not accessible to you.

My biggest takeaway from the long term, trauma informed therapy I have started is that I really didn’t know what healing looked like until I not only had an accurate assessment of what the problem was but accepted it and stopped hiding from it. This is difficult with DID. It is designed to operate in the background. Not knowing precisely your own experience, not having all of your memories is a way to conceal pain, not confront it. Working with myself as a system has been the most fundamental building block in actually healing, in actually accepting my trauma, in accepting how my trauma lead me to being dysfunctional in my relationships and in how I interacted with the people I cared about. Before I started doing this, it was easy to distance myself from my own actions. I did not remember them, I believed it was another person (because often it was, though this does not distance the actions from myself), and I thought I could just move away from it because it was not representative of me. That’s just not true. System accountability demands that I confront in myself the ways that not holding myself accountable lead to harm caused. In the RP community, I have been antagonistic of others. I have concealed my identity when confronted with actions of my past that I did not remember. As a child I lied about my age to the appeasement of adults in my circle at the time who were grooming me and as a result people connected to me were hurt when I moved away from them as someone else entirely. So much happened in this community and with people I met that it was foundational in how I learned to cope (for better or worse) and how I carried myself going forward. The accounts I had here were more real than life to me. That for me was a dysfunction. I was hurt as much as I caused hurt and this carried over when people recognized me but I didn’t recognize them or I was pressed for information and suddenly realized I was multiple people. It happened so many times here that I don’t blame anyone for feeling distanced from me, hating me, feeling hurt by me. My sense of self was fragmented and so was my sense of my actions. As it comes together more clearly, I understand now that as much as I have faced harassment in this community and my share of hatred and vitriol, I contributed to it as well.

In order to truly say goodbye, I feel I must also directly hold myself accountable for harm caused by my actions while I shared space here.

I made friends who were hurt in the crossfire of my search for self, whose trust I broke and whose boundaries I did not respect. I don’t think I can ever directly apologize to these people for what transpired between us but I do understand with specificity what actions of mine lead to the dissolution of our friendship and the hurt that they felt as a result. Those things weren’t ok. Being aware of the circumstances that lead to them does not excuse them and I am sorry. For many years I was a steamroller of uncertainty and of cyclical harm.

What I want and what I want for others is happiness.

Happiness to me is getting to experience the full breadth of human emotion while living under a stable community that is providing all of the basic necessities such as food, water, shelter, and materials to create goods and explore creative talents while simultaneously getting to share all of these things with everyone else inside the system. Being connected to others while having your needs met, is the only form of life that makes sense and for two full decades of my life, I did not have this. Many others don’t either.

Systematic abuse and denial of resources is something that follows people within their muscle memory patterns, nervous system, and within neurological pathways inside of their brain. People with dissociative amnesia are often among the most exploited because they were never given the tools to continue to build memory recall. When they are given all of these tools, we find that overtime they will continue to get better at recalling their lives and experiences, people they have met, and food they have eaten, joys they’ve shared. The brain is a muscle that retains everything that happens to it. It is incredibly absorbent and elastic. If something happens to it, it will remember. For people who have been systematically harmed, especially over extended periods of time, this can cause extremely difficult issues with memory recall. Eventually, these memories can return but it means removing people from systems of harm not by force but by replacing them with healthy and bustling systems that can offer them the love, tools, support, and nourishment for their body that they need.

Systemic malnourishment especially through resource denial under capitalism is a major contributor to this problem. Chronic dehydration’s link to memory problems, to name one example, is well documented. The issue with this even when people have access to all of that information is that they don’t have the reflexive memory abilities to continue to nourish themselves and be well. More and more these people and communities impacted by this kind of harm will seek refuge in accessibility (positive). If the tools are right in front of them surrounded by a multitude of people and supportive communities, they will have a much easier time remembering. Grounding is incredibly important even once outside of a system of harm because recall ability is a learned skill. People who have experienced repeated and/or prolonged abuse and harm (including systematic abuse like racism, homophobia, transphobia, et al.) have a much more difficult time learning and retaining this ability which contributes to the formation of dissociative disorders like DID.

The memories are still there, but it’s extremely difficult to begin to unravel that mystery when they are among the most likely to forget to remember. Recollecting memories is not only difficult for them, it is something their body has reflexively protected them against so that they can continue to survive in ongoing systems of harm.

When they continue to reproduce systems of harm, it is because they have been systematically gatekept from their needs and the healthy communities that can meet those needs from birth.

In order to help people suffering from dissociative barriers in terms of DID/OSDD, it is of utmost importance to continue to care for them as a collective so that they can then go on to care for themselves and give back to communities that they may have unknowingly harmed (this includes caring for yourself). It’s important to look inside of these communities and the conditions they’ve been living in with love and support. Sometimes the conditions are bad because they are incapable of caring for themselves after previous caretakers have abandoned them. 

Many people with dissociative disorders come from families who were absent for the majority of their lives even if they were living under the same roof. Sometimes these families will have noticed their child’s behavior, questioned where it came from and then find the answers are unexpected and daunting to take on. When faced with the question of whether or not their own child is safe to continue loving as a result, they will often continue to recreate systems of harm or are told by healthcare professionals to do things with their children that are not healthy for them which can on its own become traumatic.

The environments that dissociative disorders result from are very difficult to navigate. If you suspect you or someone you know is dealing with a dissociative disorder, it is important to keep in mind the circumstances endured that might have contributed. 

We cannot always be the protectors, we cannot always shield people from harm, we cannot always stop them from causing harm themselves, but an increased awareness and understanding looking in can help considerably. 

People with dissociative disorders are at high risk of being repeatedly groomed and harmed because of the nature of the disorders. They deserve the protection and security to fully form and emote as a human being without being harmed again, and when they themselves cause harm it is important to understand why this is happening and it is necessary when they realize that something is harmful that those behaviors and beliefs are replaced with new ones that are healthy, constructive, and more reflective of what they want. With dissociative and amnesiac barriers, this can become complicated but it is mandatory for system growth and healing.

Preventing harm starts in recognizing where it lives inside of ourselves.

To finish this post, I would like to share some poems that myself and others in my system wrote regarding our experience with DID:

Each time it happened I became another person But they always found me I tried my best to explain I’m still me but I need to be safe And no one listened I tried to show don’t tell I tried to scream it out loud Then I tried to forget it completely They always found me The caretaker inside of me was a flame I was forced to keep lit Sometimes kindness could not touch his flame The child hungered for a hand to hold but was held back from exploration No one told me I was we I had to dissect myself over and over in a lab that I created Now that I love myself Who is here to rejoice? -Beck

In my dreams I see a giant machine That I pilot I step inside my circuits Firing As a connection blooms to life I feel each part creak and crack As they move away and step forward The joints protest with disuse but Life bursts to turn on Twinkling lights of Motherboard parts that Illuminate metal I become like the moving backdrop to the stars a Galaxy swirling into A robot

Suddenly I feel afraid Am I just stitched together scraps that someone rescued from the crash? Am I the real deal? Or are my thoughts Synthetic projections onto a reality of my past that I’m just parts and not You Not Whole But wait I love the parts I Love the robot I see them woven together like A junkyard dragon that Soars overhead as a beacon of glittering silver held together by Intricate threads closer to a Kite Than heavy metal Something else entirely The machine cannot be confined to this earth It transcends infinitely It is life sometimes more than living -Aspen

I remember when I was small and I was running Through flowers Through mazes I remember when I was small and my palms would catch hold of blades of grass to brace my fall I remember being so small the ground would swallow me up Puddles like looking glasses That I dip into and Sink down to the bottom The boats crossing overhead While I swim I remember when the world was small and I was big Looking down at towns moving below Hiding in the ceiling as The room moves -Hannah

I have danced on the graves of relationships cast aside Pretending they were temples and not places of pain I am not the same ghost who haunts there Though some would see it in my face and hear it in my Disembodied voice Telling them I’m So over it... While the tears still sting I don’t visit their headstones anymore but the remnants of offerings I’ve made with Sweat/Blood Still linger like the bitter taste of Wine sipped in your honor or that I pour out at the soil marking where you left or where we stumbled A place you tried to bury me, too I don’t leave you to rest in peace I leave so I can -Jana

I see the revolving door of Our mind Many stepping in to walk through Sometimes more than one and It’s great I talk to them They’re my friends They go to work They wave and smile at me But I don’t step on Something inside of me holds me in place Afraid of the Spinning wheel Often I step on and just get Spun right out or I say the wrong things on the other side I don’t have the best reputation Some would say “She lies,” or “She’s so aggressive!” They see my teeth bared in anger and My arms folded over my chest to Conceal the soft spot under my armor where a spear might pierce They see me like a beast whose eyes glow red They do not know that the Wolf isn’t just a part of me and that I’m the monster they’ve seen There are others who have set fire to my path Concealing the tracks that reveal Villages I’ve been to Living peacefully before the Wolf leaps out and disrupts them Many people got too close or They hurt too personally and I took the blame for the abandonment and pain looking at a legacy where A scared kid devastated other scared kids I cleaned up after them and I Built my defenses to Hide them

She is like the Moon A part of her is always hidden

I bound these words into myself like A spirit possessed to make everyone else the Ghost So many people caught in the crossfire of Escaping abuse All of it is ugly I was built to chase things off The Wolf Creeping around the concrete walls as The Woman in the Maze Defending its center with Medusa’s untrained gaze A specter of someone loved and Incapable of telling them while Slipping further and further away from material safety The hurt doesn’t excuse the hurt Every move I make opens Old wounds that others have healed or forgotten but I’m still carrying If the women I’ve loved were all one person they too would Be like the moon Parts hidden or Omitted Because it’s easy to forget how They hurt me because I was a girl who loved girls -Jana

Some have said I was the first to look out over the edge and into the expanse of unknowns below without fear And I ache when they’re not right Being unafraid of dying is different than being unafraid of Death I know I’ve imagined myself there Not even as a last resort Thinking maybe this will be fun to try I’ve seen myself with my toes curling over ledges for purchase Tightrope walking the line between here and jumping Romanticizing the strength it would take to Let myself fall or Climb down the rope To meet Death again Her face kind enough for me to feel regret for a split second before Rebirth I’m not afraid of Death But the truth is I was never gazing over a ledge more than The bowl of the toilet Vomiting Closer to death on the bathroom floor Naked and feeble Than I was in imagined leaps of faith See, I still fear dying and no... I wouldn’t be the first Even in our family Death has our list pulled up and Our numbers on speed dial I think she’s watched me on my hands and knees mopping up blood and just Tapped her watch “Are we done with this? I have somewhere to be.” But that voice wasn’t her nor the tapping it was A mother sick of waiting for me to get ready for school or a counselor unflinching when I say I’ve watched friends die Until eventually there was just never enough time for dying and though I visited the ledge frequently in my mind and explored the chasm down in search I forgot about my body Nothing left to harm if I am In between here and there Then it just became what sacrifices I could make How I could fantasize about martyrdom and Sail forward into the pitch As someone else’s hero when Still I was just Killing myself What an unexpected turn for The Hero and yet I see it all the time These visions of divine masculinity Achilles in Hades All point towards her again Death’s hands firmly grasping his as he Dies for his friends like a valiant flame extinguished and Everyone weeps His devastation saving them... That was what I stacked myself up against Thinking the only service I could give to those I love was My life in its entirety Which is why I’m not The Hero I’m the Leader, the Counselor, the Friend, the Lover I’m pulling myself away from steps taken towards a drop because Unity is not forged by Taking a leave of absence but by Seeing pain in others and Not thinking you have to live for them Only wanting to survive with them Envisioning futures where you thrive with or without them knowing that The way you believed solidarity was Shared suffering and not Shared community in times of suffering Was a cowardice you will live to outgrow Now strength looks like pulling weeds for a garden Packing up boxes Reminding yourself to stretch or Focusing on your breathing as it guides you down into A hollow part of your body An energy tightening there and fanning out slowly as Intention Replacing the visions of a ledge with Floating Swimming out into a peaceful place inside of you and Breathing in again Calm and of course I wouldn’t deceive you The ledge is still a place I go to and Look down like scrying into Death’s vastness and I cry too It was never funny It was never beautiful Those are lies told to me and you The bones on the bathroom floor were me and even when I rattled No one answered -Tristan

When we love we love together I have never been a singular Inside me there are waves rippling on the shore Formative memories distorted and abstracted with each crash of foam against ground up trash I hear a knocking on the wall of our beach house as if a ghost hides inside When things happen I don’t understand I ask about the real children in the closets like me that I can’t touch Are they scared inside too? I see your eyes go glossy when you remember yours I want to ask about what about where and whom I want to know you’re like me I’m sorry I didn’t know that it was painful -Tristan

I want to tell you that you don’t have to be afraid But there are places you are no longer allowed This is so I can heal and not because I am protecting you I want to show my thoughtfulness The things I see in you The joy That joy hibernates inside me too The winter brings us closer together Generational trauma sprawled on a frigid map yet so cramped for a bedroom that gives me glimpses of the past Sitting cross legged on green carpet while I play games I pretend are me All my heroes have no gender No voice No face Please see me It is the greatest love I’ve ever known -Beck

I want all of our friends old and new to know: we are safe, loved, and cared for. Thank you for the memories and the systems of love you introduced to our life. We love and thank you. You met us without knowing and we felt seen here and this helped us to accept ourselves as a system. -Tristan (yes, really)

[mangobilorian]

Crash Landing | (mature) i

Pairing: Captain Rex x Reader

Genre: Fluff 

Words: 5352

Summary:  This was supposed to be a diplomatic mission between two peaceful neighbors to ensure that the Separatists wouldn’t invade your planets. And as the princess of your nation, you were expected to uphold proper decorum and exercise exact protocol at all times. So why were you laying on the jungle floor, stripped down to your under layers, curled next to a clone captain keeping watch of your tiny cave, miles away from the capital where negotiations were to be held?

White. White and blue. Those are the only colors at the forefront of your vision, aside from the black of the guns. In a stiff formation behind a robed man, are these… troops. Clones, you believe. All centered around the famed Anakin Skywalker. It has been quite a while since a Jedi or any outside military force graced your planet, much less your nation. But the creeping threat of Separatist forces would soon crash on your shores. And your nation, though prosperous, would not survive a Separatist attack without help.

“Greetings, princess. We’re here to escort you on a diplomatic mission to Theatis 06. I am Anakin Skywalker and this,” he points at a man who steps up beside the Jedi, “is Captain Rex.” The clone--Captain Rex-- salutes.

“We’ll protect you from any threat, princess. You can count on us.” You smile at the helmented man, bowing your head in return.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. Accompanying me are my handmaidens and private guards.” Next to you, three girls in modest garb bend at the waist, and two armed men also bow. “Shall we start our journey?” The Jedi nods and directs his men to board the ship. The Captain, however, positions himself to flank you. He walks with practiced precision, his gait calculated like a routine.

Before boarding the ship, you turn to wave at the people who came to see you off. Your parents weren’t there, but that was to be expected. While your mother had gone to Coruscant and you were sent to Theatis 06, your father had to stay and rule the country. The only people that came were the senator and select members of the upper and lower chambers of Congress. They wave back. These people were vultures, their smiles hiding something evil. It would be a relief to leave their grip, so you could finally breathe without faking amity or hiding disdain. One slip up on your part, and these politicians would feast on the royal family. But politics was never your strong suit, and being the princess was tiring enough. A gentle hand on your elbow interrupts your thoughts when you realize with a jolt that you hadn’t moved.

“Sorry, your highness. We have a tight schedule,” the captain says. Your face warms at the contact while your handmaidens’ eyes widen with something akin to fear and curiosity. The guards even assume a protective stance briefly before understanding that you were not threatened. They loosen their arms after you dismiss them with a nod. However, the captain doesn’t seem to notice the intricacy of the situation.

“I… it’s alright, Captain.” You forge ahead, not minding the shocked girls, their faces quickly smoothing over to appear as disinterested as before. Thankfully, the makeup that caked your face hid the creeping blush on your cheeks.

The ship was gray and overall uninteresting. It was your first time on a Republic ship, and the whole ordeal seemed a little too excessive. Why would anyone attack a peaceful meeting between neighboring planets? A simple military convoy was enough, but sending a Jedi seemed a tad too much.

“Princess! Oh, it’s so nice to meet you.” Bounding to your side is an over-eager Togruta. Unable to contain her excitement, she bounces on the balls of her feet. “I’m Ahsoka Tano. I’m Master Skywalker’s padawan. I’ve never met a princess before!” The girl beams up at you. Amazing. Not just one but two Jedi. What was the Council thinking?

“Nice to meet you too, Ahsoka Tano. Yes, I’m a princess, but it’s really nothing special. I’m just a human.” You let out a small, graceful smile. Softened eyes, relaxed posture, eyebrows curved upwards. The facade of a princess. A face to exude warmth and comfort to subjects and allies.

“You’re so cool! What’s it like? Do you have to marry a prince?” Ahsoka sits down on a chair next to you, and you settle yourself into the stiff metal chair as well. In the corner of your eye, the captain stands, watching.

“Sometimes. You see, there aren’t many princes to choose from, so my parents pick someone worthy of ruling. In my country, the royal family is more than just a symbol. We have to be trained in politics, government, and military strategy,” you explain. “So marrying for lineage alone doesn’t cut it. One doesn’t have to be born a prince or princess to marry into the royal family. But royalty is quite tiring. Sometimes, I wish I had a break,” you chuckle. Startled, the handmaidens stare at you. Showing anything but happiness at your duty and family was definitely out of protocol. But who was here to enforce it? Certainly not the scheming congressmen. Besides, the young Jedi seems innocently curious.

“Wow… that sounds complicated. So... military strategy huh? Ever led a battle or maybe fought in one? I know quite a lot about fighting in battles, you know. I could take out battle droids with my eyes closed. And, as commander of the 501st, I’ve led a few missions myself,” she smirks, proud of her achievements. As she should be, you muse. The girl is young and already so confident in war. A sad reality.

“Alright, snips. Quit bragging,” Skywalker says, entering your section of the ship. “We’ll be there in an hour, princess.” He turns to leave for the cockpit, but the girl simply rolls her eyes and sticks out a tongue at her master’s back to which he replies in a similar fashion. The interaction causes a laugh to bubble past your lips. At this point, you feel that you’re handmaidens might be on the verge of fainting from all your breaks in protocol.

“That is very impressive, Miss Tano. War is a very hard thing. I personally have not led any military initiatives. My nation is a peaceful one, and I plan to maintain that peace. An official alliance with the prime minister of Theatis 06 would determine whether or not we can survive an impending Separatist invasion.” The girl nods in thought. She looks around, at your handmaidens, guards, and you. Probably analyzing the foreign clothes, the jewelry, the manner you and your people hold yourself. In a galaxy so vast, many cultures had nuances to everything. As her eyes wander, you eye the captain instead.

He’s standing tall and stiff. All the men had their helmets on, which unnerved you. Their eyes could be anywhere, looking at anyone. They were uniform in their blue and white, but the differences were also striking. While the captain had a pauldron, the others did not. The variances in paint differentiated one man from another. You knew that, as clones, they were supposed to look identical. But you had never seen a clone’s face before.

“Princess, is there something wrong?” You shake your head, not realizing that you had been staring at the captain. Maker, this was so embarrassing. You clear your throat before responding.

“No, captain. I was just… admiring your armor.” The man clearly wasn’t expecting your answer because he almost loses his balance. He coughs, almost shyly.

“Oh. Well, princess, there’s not much to admire. It’s just paint on plastoid.” He rubs the back of his neck with a hand, stance already loosened. The other clones glance at their captain before relaxing themselves.

“Nonsense. If you don’t mind, I’d be grateful to know what your paint signifies.” The handmaiden closest to you gasps. She tries to muffle it, but you catch it in time. Next to you, Ahsoka grins at the captain, unspoken words between them.

“Yeah, Rex. Tell us about your armor,” she teases. He sighs but obeys.

“These,” he points to the top of his helmet, “are jaig eyes. They’re a symbol of honor among Mandalorians. The pauldron is just a sign of rank. And the blue shows that I’m part of the 501st.” Hmm… Mandalorian symbol of honor, huh.

“So you’re a Mandalorian?” He shakes his head.

“Not really, your highness. Our template, Jango Fett, was a Mandalorian, and we know some basic Mando’a. But… we’re not born on Mandalore. Kamino is the closest thing to home.” His voice tapers off, probably due to some deeper feeling with Kamino, but you’re not certain. You’ve heard of the watery planet but never put much substantial thought to it, much like your knowledge about the clone army.

“I see. Thank you, captain, for sharing with me and my entourage. If you don’t mind, I’ll review the terms I’ll discuss with the congress of Theatis 06.” You pull out a datapad, glancing over at the information. By your side, Ahsoka seems to debate staying or leaving. Eventually, she stands up and heads for the cockpit, no doubt wanting to bother her master. The datapad is light in your hands, but the content is heavy. Piles and piles of documents condensed in one small piece of technology. Documents which, if used correctly, would earn you a formal military alliance with Theatis 06. If you lost the datapad, you’re sure that your parents and Congress would personally wring your neck.

The handmaidens relax beside you, finally relieved. This is what good princesses do, you mutter in your head. They focus on their task and don’t break silly rules. Rules set to protect your throne and reputation but silly nonetheless.

The silence and cold of space is not foreign to you, but it’s not common either. You rarely leave your planet, much less your system. Maybe once or twice a cycle, you go off-world for diplomacy or recreation. When you do leave, it’s always the same place. If it’s not Coruscant, it’s Naboo. If not either of those planets, it’s Yidone, Theatis 04, or Theatis 06. On its own, none of those planets were boring. But it gets tiring quickly, especially as a princess. However, that’s probably the spoiled, privileged part of you complaining. Your life of comfort is unimaginable to that of the impoverished people in your nation, the ones being sold into the disgusting sex trade, or those who suffer under an infinite number of tragedies. All of their lives, already horrible, would be even more wrecked under Separatist forces. So you push on with your boredom and complaining. For the sake of your people.

Just as you put your datapad down, a loud crash hammers the right side of the ship. Gasping, you grip the handles of the chair to stabilize, but your handmaidens aren’t so lucky. All three of them are flung from their seats and onto the floor, struggling to stand up. Your guards try to reach you, but they too are knocked off their feet.

“What is going on, captain?” You ask, almost frantically, at the approaching clone. On unsteady feet, he eventually stands in front of you, bracing himself. In this position, you won’t be forced out your chair with the clone acting as a barrier.

“Not sure, your highness. Doesn’t sound too good, though.” Another crash, this time from the top of the ship, further unbalances you. Your body surges forward, but the captain latches onto your forearms, pulling them into his chest. His chest plate digs into your arms, but at least you’re not sprawled on the floor like your companions.

A voice crackles from the captain’s comm. “Rex? Get the princess into an escape pod. A Separatist ship is firing at us. Hurry,” urges Skywalker.

“But, sir, what about you and Ahsoka? Wouldn’t a Jedi protect her better?” A second passes before a response.

“We don’t have time for this, Rex. Look, we’ll meet you down there after we settle this seppie ship. Get your ass to an escape pod, and bring the princess with you,” orders the Jedi.

“Yes, General.” The captain hauls you out your seat, an arm snaking around to grip your waist. In any other situation, you’d be blushing furiously, but only fear resides in your chest. Why was a Separatist ship already here?

The captain leads you down multiple hallways, weaving in out of the ship’s interior. All around you, other clones flit about, readying their positions for battle. In a relatively quiet area, the captain pushes a button open to reveal an escape pod. He quickly positions you inside before taking his own place. He settles in, and the both of you are launched into space without a second to spare.

As you calm your breathing, you begin to feel the tension in your muscles. The pod was obviously made for one person, as indicated by how small you had to curl yourself to allow for the captain to squeeze in. Knees pulled tight to your chest, there is still barely any space. The heavy jewelry adorning your neck only makes you tense up further. Stars, it’s getting hard to breathe. Next to the captain is a black bag, and you wonder how he had the time to grab it. You certainly didn’t remember him bringing it.

But if you two were stuck in the pod with a sole bag… that meant your clothes and, most importantly, your datapad was left behind. You didn’t even have a comm to contact your handmaidens and guards. The pain at the forefront of your head continues to build at the thought. No food, no contact, and no documents.

“Are you alright, princess?” You shake your head, trying to clear up your daze. His helmet is turned towards you, those blue jaig eyes staring.

“I think so. Why… how did the Separatists attack us?” The captain sighs, the breathy noise filtered out of his helmet.

“To be honest, it might be because they got intel about Republic ships coming to escort you. They probably realized that your planet would ally against them, and that didn’t sit well,” he considers. His hands are at the controls, expertly maneuvering them further away from the larger ship. Outside, you can see continuous beams of light aimed at the side of the craft, further jostling it. You hope everyone is okay. Especially your entourage and the excitable Togruta padawan. However, knowing the reputation of Jedi, Ahsoka and Skywalker will definitely survive the attack. You left your people in good hands.

“Captain,” you start, “this was supposed to be a diplomatic voyage. And yet, the Republic sends two Jedi and a legion of highly-skilled clone troopers. Did the Council know that something was going to happen to me? Granted, I am thankful for the extra security, but it seems excessive, does it not? And speak candidly. It’s only us two.” You shift slightly to angle your body to face him, tucking your knees under yourself. He doesn’t respond immediately, opting instead to stare out at the approaching planet of Theatis 06.

“I’m not authorized to say too much, and frankly, I don’t why we were sent either. So many other planets could use our help to directly fight off the seppies. Yet… here we are,” he sighs. “But I promise to keep you safe no matter what. As for your people on the ship, they will be taken good care of. Don't worry, princess.”  The crackle of the comm drives your attention to the console.

“Rex? Are you and the princess alright?” Ahsoka’s voice carries over, clear concern lacing her tone. Somewhere behind her, Skywalker’s commands ring out, ordering the men to keep order.

“We’re okay, commander. How is the situation over there?” The sounds of grunts and chaos pass through the comm before she speaks again.

“We’re--ugh-- fine, Rex. Just. Trying. To--kriff--stabilize this ship. See you on-”

Before the captain could respond, a loud crash sends your small pod hurtling in circles.

The momentum dizzies you, and you blindly reach out for something to grab on. Your hands tightly grip the closest thing, the captain’s arm, while the pod continues to spin. In this moment, his plastoid-covered arm and the floor below were the only solid things that existed. In front of you, the captain curses, trying to stabilize the craft to no avail.

The black color of space mixes with the blue and green of Theatis 06, circles and swirls of light and flashes. A heavy feeling of bile threatens to climb out your throat, but you push it down.

“Brace for impact,” orders the captain, and he moves away from the pod’s controls. Quickly, he encases you in his arms, one hand tucked behind your head, pulling you close to his chest. In a moment of clarity, you wrap your arms around his torso just as his free hand grabs the nearby bag and holds it behind you. He successfully entangles the two of you, making you as compact as possible. You shiver at the excessive contact. It’s been so long since you had prolonged touches with someone, much less a hug for survival. Overhead, a beeping noise indicates an oncoming collision.

You feel it before you realize. As your pod enters the atmosphere, it spirals further out of control at even faster speed. In space, it was merely uncontrollable loops. But as you crash into Theatis 06, the air pressure forces your small spacecraft to act as a bullet. There was no way you were going to survive the crash.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath. Already, you’re praying to the Maker and to the Force or whatever higher power exists that you and the captain will survive. You just wish you could see your parents and country one last time. You hope that-

The sound of rustled tree tops interrupts your thoughts, jostling the two of you. As you peer up at the captain's helmet, the pod hits the ground, the impact shaking you to your very core. And everything goes black.

*****

It’s beautiful. The ocean waves pull up against the shore before receding back, its foamy crest creating shapes of all sizes. On the horizon, the three moons of your planet begin rising, the deep hues of red and purple illuminating the water. Next to you is someone in a full suit of armor. Mostly white with blue paint marking it. Behind him is a robed person. They take off the hood, revealing themselves. But they don’t have one face. Like a slideshow, the faces of politicians, your handmaidens, yourself , melt together. The person raises their hand, and the barrel of a blaster is pointed right at you and--

You sit up, gasping. The air in your throat is dry: suffocating and scratchy. You try to pry off your necklaces to alleviate the pain to no avail.

It was just a dream. A wonderful dream at the start but… it devolved to something much sinister. You crack your neck, stretching your arms out only to hit something hard. And that something groans . Immediately, you open your eyes to see a passed out Captain Rex laying next to you.

Slowly, pieces of your voyage and subsequent crash come together in your mind, and you realize that you probably landed on one of Theatis 06’s numerous jungles. Grunting, you stand up, joints cracking in protest. The top part of the pod was completely gone, as is a side piece. You hobble over to control panels, trying to see if the comm worked. Sadly, the whole thing seemed destroyed. This was worse than you thought.

You had one crashed escape pod, no way to contact your escort group, and one sleeping clone trooper.

“Princess?”

Well… that makes zero sleeping clone troopers. You turn to the captain to see him rise to his feet. He stretches briefly before joining you next to the control panel.

“Does anything work?” His voice is scratchy, with a hint of warmth despite being filtered. You give a defeated sigh. After button smashing the console in frustration, there is still no sign it was operable.

“Unfortunately, nothing does. I guess we’re stuck here momentarily, captain.” He doesn’t say anything, opting to grab the discarded bag on the ground. He lugs it over himself, wearing it like a backpack and motions for you to follow him.

“We’ll travel to the closest city and find a way to send our coordinates to General Skywalker. For now, we should get some shelter and stay out of danger.” You nod, satisfied. The captain looks around then, seeing a viable path, jerks his head in that direction and walks off. You follow behind him, making sure to not snag your clothes on the flora.

As you journey onward, sweat begins to drip down… everywhere. Your face, neck, back. It gathers underneath your jewelry, seeping into your heavy robes. The cloying heat of the jungle was suffocating, the humidity clinging to every part of you. You can only imagine how much heat the captain had to endure under his armor.

The jungle wasn’t a quiet place. Sounds of birds chirping, distant animal growls, and your own footsteps echoed off the forest floor. In another time, this trip would be considered pleasant. You were, after all, surrounded by beautiful, exotic nature. But the reality of the situation only deepened the further you walked.

Next to you, the captain stayed silent. He dutifully carries the bag, twin blasters at his sides, and head aimed forward the entire time. Occasionally, he steadies you with a free hand when you slip on a rock or trip over a root. Even then, he doesn’t say a word. With each step, your muscles continue to ache. Your leg muscles are especially sore, and the back of your head is tender at the touch, probably due to the crash.

After what feels like hours, the captain finally stops moving. You, however, don’t notice, and collide right into his back, almost sending the two of you flying forward. You apologize under your breath then look to see why the captain had stopped.  

A cave. A small cave with vines covering the entrance. You would have missed it if the captain hadn’t seen it. He steps towards the mouth of the cave, brushing aside the vines. You enter after him, and sit down on the ground. You sigh in the relief at the reprieve from walking. The captain sets the bag down in front of you and opens it.

Peering into the bag, you see a medkit, a canteen, extra ammo, a comm, and… rations. Maker, you didn’t realize how hungry you were until you saw those rations. Only now, the ache and noise of your stomach was noticeable.

The captain also settles down on the ground, legs spread apart, knees bent. He looks so relaxed--too relaxed-- for someone who was stuck with a princess in a foreign forest. He sorts through the supplies methodically, like he’s taking inventory.

You shrug off your heavy clothing, groaning at the air that hits your skin. Off goes your cloak, then head wrap, and lastly your skirt. All you’re left with is a black layer meant for temperature regulation and sight blaster protection. On top of that is a loose cotton slip dress, allowing the miniscule breeze of the jungle to provide you with some cooling. You try to remove your jewelry, but… you don’t know how to. You’ve never done it yourself.

“Captain? Would you mind removing my necklaces for me?” The helmet jerks up, interrupted from his organizing.

“Of course, princess.” He stands up and positions himself behind you. He shrugs off his gloves, bare, tanned hands reaching to the clasps. Grunts of concentration filter out of his helmet, probably in confusion at the locking mechanisms. It was, to his credit, a pretty complicated piece of jewelry. After a minute or two of struggle, the necklaces come loose. He sets it aside, on top of your discarded clothes.

“I’ll start a fire, stay here.” He starts to get up, but you grasp his wrist.

“This is a rainforest, captain. All the wood is wet and won’t burn. Try looking for the eyti leaves instead.” You describe the plant to him in detail, watching him nod in confirmation.

“I’ll be back, your highness. Here,” he reaches to his side and pulls out a blaster, “for emergencies.” He sets off, disappearing past the vines.

The air is thick around you, the urge to sleep becoming more tempting. You don’t even realize your eyes were closing, and jostle awake when you hear the snap of a twig. Snap .

Crack .

You rise slowly, clinging to the side of the cave. You brush aside a few vines, gripping the blaster until your knuckles turn white. You hold your breath and look out.

Green eyes. Massive green eyes stare right at you. Stars, that was a massive feline. You wrack your head for information regarding Theatis 06 jungle cats. You’re sure you learned about them somewhere in foriegn history class. But the growl leaving the cat’s bared mouth shakes you out of your thoughts. Stay calm. You’ll stay calm, move slowly, and breathe at a steady pa-

The cat lunges at you, and you raise your armed hand on instinct, frantically trying to pull the trigger. A shot rings around the area, and the cat slumps down, falling hard. The heavy thunk of its body ruffles the forest floor. You release the breath you were holding. Wait.

The blaster mark wasn’t on its front. It was on the cat’s back . From your periphery, Captain Rex steps out from between the trees. He marches over to you, setting down the eyti leaves before grasping your shoulders.

“Are you alright, princess?” You nod mutely. He leans down and picks up the blaster from the ground. You didn’t even know you’d dropped it. If he hadn’t been there… you don’t even want to think about what could’ve happened.

“I’ll start the fire.” The captain’s hands leave you, the absence of his warmth making you frown for a brief second. He piles the leaves into a mound in the middle of the cave floor. “I’ll get some rocks,” he starts, but you hold up a hand.

“I’ll do it. I’ll stay close, don’t worry.” Before he could protest, you’re already out of the cave. The search for rocks isn’t difficult, but halfway through it registers that you left the blaster. Well… you hope those jungle cats don’t travel in packs. Your small expedition was pleasant. The course you set wasn’t too far from your cave, and you get to admire the jungle without your restrictive clothes and jewelry.  

After a few minutes in the heavy heat, you gather enough rocks for a small pit to contain the eyti leaves. You use your shirt to hold the rocks, stretching the fabric to a concave and containing them. You return to find the captain at the mouth of the cave, stiff and wary, a hand ready on his blaster. He only seems to relax once he sees you.

Together, you set up the fire pit, but don’t light it yet. The captain leaves the cave with a knife, mentioning how he had to skin the dinner. You hobble over to the comm to see if you could connect to any signal. Nothing. You were too far to contact anyone. You slump in your position and stare at the cave wall. How did things get so bad?

After a while, the captain returns with the skinned meat of the jungle cat. Together, you start the fire and prepare some sticks to use for skewering the meat. Outside, the insects buzz and the frogs croak, the darkness sweeping over to indicate night. The transition between light and dark begins.

The two of you cook the meat in silence, leaving you to ponder. With each piece of meat that’s done, you plop it into your mouth with no hesitation. It tastes… like the green hens from back home. Pretty unseasoned and a little lean, but not horrible. The captain doesn’t eat his pieces immediately, setting them aside when he’s done.

Soon enough, you’ve eaten through your share, satisfied and full. A large dinner without using the precious rations is a success in your book. The captain, however, has yet to eat his food. Once all his pieces are cooked, he brings his hands to his helmet and tugs it off and… you’re speechless.

Light blond hair atop a well-structured face. Eyebrows that arch beautifully, a sharp nose, and a prominent jawline, the hard lines of stress and war prominent on his forehead. The thin line of his lips are downturned. And his eyes . The hooded, gold-brown eyes that reflect the flickering firelight. This man might have been the most handsome you’ve ever seen. And there’s a whole army of people who look just like him.

“Princess? Something wrong?” You jolt at his question. Kriff, this was the second time you had stared at him today. Heat warms your cheeks. You cough into a closed fist.

“Nothing’s wrong, captain. And you can call me by my name. I think we’re past formalities.” He lets out a small smile but shakes his head.

“Don’t think I can do that, your highness. Have to follow orders and call you formally.” You pout but don’t respond, instead taking the time to further admire him. His voice is even more captivating without the helmet. Maker, it was so smooth and melodic yet stable and- kriff when were you so attracted to a voice ? He starts eating, but those ochre eyes flit to yours, and you turn away.

To distract yourself, you pick up the canteen of water, and take a few sips. As you search through the contents of the bag, you find a compact mirror. You open and see… something horrible.

Your makeup has been smudged to all hell. The gold of your lipstick is smeared down to your chin, and the white paint on your face is half gone. The intricate golden markings that decorate you are no more than muddied lines, and there are visible sweat trails that erased the color on your forehead. You were such a mess. While you look like a melted dolly, the captain sits there looking all majestic. This was so unfair .

“Is everything ok, princess?” You close your gaping mouth and turn to the captain.

“You never told me that I looked like this ,” you frown, pointing at your face. “I look horrible!” The captain chuckles, the breathy sound sending shivers to your chest.

“With all due respect, I didn’t think it was my place to point it out. And you don’t look bad, either. We just crash landed in the jungle. Of course your makeup would be ruined.” His eyebrows arch, confused at your frustration. You huff.

“It’s just so unfair. You get to look like… that , and I’m here looking like a blurrg stepped in paint and walked over my face!” You bring a hand to your forehead in exasperation. Sure, you were being dramatic, but a princess should never have to be in such a sorry state. The captain has the nerve to look even more bewildered.

“I’m not sure I understand, princess. I look normal, like all my brothers.” A grumble about how he’ll never understand your predicament escapes your lips. The captain reaches for one of your discarded clothes and sets the lip of the canteen on top, dampening the fabric. “Here,” he gestures, “so you can wash up.”  You grasp at the cloth, gently swiping at your face. Paint stains the rich, expensive robe, but you don’t really care.

“Thank you,” you croak, face feeling fresher and cleaned. The captain nods at you, arranging your clothes to form a pile.

“Sleep. I’ll keep watch,” he advises.

“Shouldn’t we take turns? It’s no use if you’re tired tomorrow.” He considers your words then sighs.

“Alright. I’ll wake you when it’s your turn,” he decides. You lay your head atop your clothes, settling down on the hard ground. Pebbles dig at your back, and your neck aches at the lack of support, but it’s not as horrible as you would’ve imagined.

“Good night, Captain Rex,” you whisper, eyes already closing. The exhaustion from your long hike takes over your body. It seems that your adrenaline from the day is long gone.

“Good night, princess.”

[qqueenofhades]

I was hoping you would be able to help me form a response when my family says they're sick of hearing of systemic racism and white privilege because THEY have had to work for everything and believe nothing got handed to them (true in the way they're thinking, but you know what I mean).

Welp. First, I applaud you for taking the initiative to engage in difficult conversations with your family, since the only way embedded racist ideas are going to get confronted in white society is if racist white people hear it from their friends and family. They are going to cheerily ignore protestors, academics, newsreaders, popular culture, and certainly politicians who say anything to the contrary, but it’s harder to ignore and brush aside when it’s coming from people who are directly within your own family group. They can still then ignore it, but at least you’re trying to do something that is not at all fun but which is deeply necessary, and good for you.

First, there are a few things for you to consider. Is this a case where they actually don’t know the difference, but are willing to learn, or is this essentially sealioning (where they act like they don’t know the difference, but they absolutely do, and put the emotional labor on you to extensively define and explain and educate while never intending to change their stances on anything). If it’s the former, then there is some point in engaging in dialogue with them. If it’s the latter, it’s a giant emotional trap that you are within your rights not to engage with until they signal that they’re willing to engage productively. You don’t have to educate someone who is categorically unwilling to be educated (especially when it’s often deliberate ignorance). As people like to say, Google is free, and it’s their responsibility to take the first steps to change. You can continue to talk with them, but yes, that is contingent on them actually standing a chance of listening to you and not just you wearing yourself out on something that they don’t want to actually hear (because it threatens them and makes them feel Personally Wrong, and white people don’t like that).

There have been various books written on why it’s so hard to talk to white people about racism, which you may be interested in checking out, not least the book "Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race” by Renni Eddo-Lodge. Ibram X. Kendi has also written “How to Be An Antiracist,” one of the bestselling books of this summer, either of which would be useful either in shaping your own arguments or (if they’re receptive) giving to your family. Once again, this is contingent on them signalling that they’re actually willing to listen, and not just to make you do pointless emotional labor. These books are probably available from your public library (though there’s probably a waitlist) or in other easily available formats.

Next, it’s a basic tenet of an anti-racist education that white people have never had to do this kind of reckoning, and thus get whiny, defensive, guilt-tripping, and “it’s not about ME I’m a GOOD PERSON” when it comes up. This also rests on the damaging and deeply intertwined effects of racism and classism, which has to be understood if you’re going to talk about it. One of the greatest tricks that racist capitalism ever pulled is convincing poor white people that they had more in common with their filthy rich white masters (people whose way of life will never in a thousand years be anything like each other’s) simply because they shared the inherent racial “purity” of being white. There have been political studies written on how poor/undereducated/working class white people have become such a reliably Republican constituency, because they have been successfully manipulated to believe that the white overlords are their “people” and they will constantly vote against their own economic, social, and cultural interests in favor of enriching amoral white demagogues who beat the populist xenophobic drum. Then they blame black and brown people for society’s ills and for the reason that they stay poor, rather than the rampaging oligarchs awarding themselves massive tax breaks and billion-dollar bailouts and refusing to extend unemployment benefits in case people “make too much money” from not working, just to name the most recent example. They are so poisoned on populist politics and white supremacy, which assures them that they’re better than anyone else by virtue of being white, that they actively attack politicians and policy platforms and other social welfare initiatives that would materially improve their own lives as “un-American.” This is maddening and sometimes baffling, but it’s how it works. Whiteness trumps all, currently literally thanks to the Orange Fuhrer. Problems in life are the fault of the Other.

This isn’t to say that poor white people are “dumb” and just unable to realize it, because they’re caught in a system that has done this literally from the start of America. In the early 17th century, indentured laborers and slaves in the American colonies were in fact more likely to be white. (The word “slave” comes from “Slav,” since that was the predominant ethnicity of slaves in medieval Europe; i.e. white eastern Europeans.) But even despite the fact that they were unpaid laborers, they were still white and thus recognized as human by their white masters, and thus when slave ships began arriving, it was easier for everybody to simply outright demonize and dehumanize the black African slaves. The poor white indentured servants got to feel better than the black slaves simply for the fact of their whiteness. Their lives obviously sucked, but their whiteness was in fact a mitigating factor in the suckiness that it involved once it was easier to use “animalistic” black people. And we wonder why America can’t ever confront its racist history properly. As Kendi calls it in his other book, it is stamped from the beginning.

As it has been put before, white people can and often do have difficult lives, because late-stage capitalism devours its workers no matter what color they are, but their whiteness isn’t a factor in why their lives are difficult. They will never encounter racial prejudice, race-based hate crime, discrimination for housing, education, employment, bank loans, daily microaggressions and identity erasure, constantly racist tropes in the media, politicians fingering them as everything wrong with America/the world, casual prejudices or assumptions even from close friends, assumed criminality based just on their race -- etc etc. The list goes on and on. Just because you have a hardscrabble economic background does not mean that your life has been made harder by your race -- because if you’re white, it hasn’t. (And as noted, poor white people have consistently voted for megalomaniac white men who don’t give a shit about them but promise them that everything is fine or should be better for them because of their whiteness, and then blame minorities for being the source of their problems.)

I honestly wonder if racism would still be such a problem in America if we had a remotely more equitable economic system, because when you’re well off and have your basic needs consistently met and don’t need to worry that you’re one paycheck away from disaster, it’s harder to constantly be paranoid that your differently colored neighbors are stealing everything from you and the cause of all society’s ills. The historian Patrick Hyder Patterson wrote a very interesting book on material culture in Yugoslavia in the 20th century, where he basically argued that despite the spectacular collapse of the federation into the Yugoslavian wars of the 90s, things didn’t really go to hell until after the economy crashed following Josip Broz Tito’s death in 1980. While there were obviously ethnic fault lines and conflicts between Serbs, Croats, Montenegrins, Bosniaks, Albanians, etc, when there wasn’t any money and any jobs and everyone thought everyone else was to blame, THAT is when the whole thing blew up into a genocidal civil war clusterfuck. Food for thought.

This is why people talk about economic justice and racial justice as going hand in hand. When there is a scarcity of resources and no social safety net, people are obviously more inclined to look for scapegoats and to blame someone for taking their entitlement (while still somehow refusing to blame the billionaires and corporate oligarch who are ACTUALLY stealing from them). They indeed actively resist any attempts to make their own lives better as being “socialist” or “un-American” and take pride in the fact that there’s absolutely jacksquat nothing (until of course, something like the coronavirus pandemic hits and it’s revealed just how many of us were always one missed paycheck away from disaster). Then when they need government assistance (while disdaining the government as tyrannical the rest of the time, unless it’s Trump’s actively tyrannical lot, but hey, we don’t have time to unpack all that) it’s still shameful and something they shouldn’t be using, instead of their basic entitlement to a decent life.

This country is poisoned on a lot of toxic beliefs, but this is one of the deepest-running one, and which will always get in the way of poor white people dealing with racism: their lives suck, but they have ALWAYS been told that despite that, they’re still better just for being white, which is their consolation prize for supporting white populists who actively rob them, and they haven’t even always consciously registered that. They just feel that if they’re “fine,” even if they’re not fine, then black people are just malcontents and criminals who can’t hack it. In 2016, there was a lot of ink spilled over how poor white people felt a sense of economic grievance and being left behind, which was why they voted for Trump, but... Trump was never going to do a damn thing about that??? He doesn’t actually do anything for his supporters except feed them his jingoistic Orange Nazi stump speeches. They voted for Trump to feel vindicated, not to actually improve their lives, and it’s damn clear by now that not only has he NOT improved their lives, he has no desire to do so. He just wants them to cheer for him and feed his ego, not fix any problems.

Basically, racism and capitalism and the American political system intersect in multiple deeply toxic ways to do precisely what you’re talking about; producing poor white people who feel that they shouldn’t be included in the reckoning with racism because if THEY worked hard and they don’t live in a mansion, somehow racism is fake and black people should just shut up and get a job etc etc. This is because poor white people have been systematically conditioned to support white supremacy at the direct expense of their own economic and social interests; it’s terrible, but that’s how it functions. They will never in a million years have anything in common with the (white) ruling class, but they still instinctively identify with them rather than people in their own deprived economic class who are different races or colors or religions. That is how white supremacy has supported the hyper-inequality of the industrial age, and vice verse, and it is one of capitalism’s best functions for survival, so it’s in the interests of the overlords to maintain it. Stop the workers from recognizing pan-racial solidarity based on economic grievance, and compete with each other and blame each other rather than the overarching system, easy!

Anyway. Once again, this is long. But in short, the attitudes your family are exemplifying are a direct result of both racism and classism as they have been deliberately cultivated in the American social and political system, and the interlocking causes and symptoms of both have to be recognized (and acknowledged) before they can get to dealing with that. I don’t know how that will go, and I don’t have an easy shortcut. But I’m glad you’re trying. Good luck.

[irisibe]

Key Terms

White Supremacy

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/navy-contractor-capitol-riot-hitler-timothy-hald-cusanelli_n_604d4165c5b6cf72d096b66b

This article summarizes how a contractor who has a federal job in New jersey told coworkers that “Hitler should have finished the job.” Many of his coworkers stated that he was highly racist and had radical views against people of different nationalities, religions and genders. His views caused him to attend the capital riots in January. He along with thousands of others hold on to these white nationalist ideas because they hate change and anything that threatens their freedoms.

Intersectionality

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/nbcblk/why-kamala-harris-nomination-pushing-academic-idea-further-mainstream-n1240717

This article is about Kamala Harris and her run for office with Biden but also being a woman of color. Intersectionality deals with issues that cross each other to add layers of identity. Not only is Kamala black, she is also of Indian descent and a woman. In political organizations often we see male dominated areas who deal largely with whiteness. These politicians tend to have a narrow mindedness that comes from years and generations of the same politics for the same people. When Kamala comes into play, we see a broader set of ideals that can encompass women as well as minorities. This means that women of color who are both Black and of Asian descent can see parts of themselves in the vice president.

Institutional Racism

https://nypost.com/2021/03/13/second-georgetown-law-professor-leaves-school-over-racist-video/

A law professor at Georgetown Law makes a zoom video call speaking about the majority of her black students being lower than everyone else in her class. This ties into institutional racism because here we have a lawyer who teaches all types of law students at a T14 law school. Her skewered view of the majority of her black students being low in her class makes many question her grading rubric as well as her institutional bias as a teacher. Black students in a top 14 school is not an easy task yet she is saying many of her black students have not shown they are average or above. You are already average or above going to a top university especially as a Black student. There are also many reasons why her Black students might not be doing so well in her class, including her own biased grading rubric. As a lawyer, it is widely known how laws can keep Black people in situations against them and to further allow biases to now make your teaching and law career look questionable shows how embedded racism can be in schools, government and elsewhere.

Microaggression

https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2014-02/enhanced/webdr03/26/20/original-18456-1393466251-21.jpg?downsize=600:*&output-format=auto&output-quality=auto

Touching a Black woman's hair without permission can be seen as a microaggression. Although it is not racist to ponder over another person's hair, it is not justifiable to touch people and make them feel uncomfortable. Due to history of policing black women's hair and bodies, these acts of being curious can come off as making a Black woman feel as if she's on display or in a petting zoo.

Hypodescent

https://api.ellecanada.com/app/uploads/2020/05/Meghan-Markle-Reads-To-Son-Archie.jpg

Megan Markle is 50 percent black and her son is 25 percent black. Though they are both white passing, they care black blood. Because of this they are half and quarter black and to many people who agree with the “one-drop rule”, they are Black. 

Racism

https://www.cnn.com/2021/03/14/europe/charlie-hebdo-meghan-intl-scli-gbr/index.html

The magazine Charlie Hebdo depicts a picture of the Queen standing on the neck of Megan Markle as she proclaims that she can't breathe. Last year, a man named George Floyd died the same way by a police officer. Using that imagery due to Megan's/George’s blackness and the police officer’s/Queens whiteness shows a racial pattern of abuse by the magazine company. Though it is joked to be satire, using the death of a black man to laugh at the bullying of a biracial woman by white oppressors holds a lot of racial and prejudice undertones that highlight how Blackness, whether white-passing or not, is viewed.

[lunawho47]

Buzzfeed Unsolved: The Mysterious Doctor and the Omen of the Blue Box (Part 1)

Fandoms: Buzzfeed Unsolved and Doctor Who

Genre: Total Crackfic, Humor

Rating: 16+ (for language)

Summary: A script for Buzzfeed Unsolved, in which our two favorite jackasses, the Ghoul Boys, discuss the various internet theories surrounding the identity of various mysterious figures known only as “the Doctor” and the blue box that tends to appear around them.  Well, Ryan wants to discuss the theories; Shane thinks it’s all urban legends and bullshit.

A/N: So, I’ve read a lot of these mock scripts going around for Unsolved discussing CW’s Supernatural as though it was real, and I thought they were hilarious.  So, my brain started wondering what theories the reddit and conspiracy boards would think up about mentions of the Doctor, the Doctor’s companions, UNIT, and Torchwood.  And to be honest, my brain came up with A LOT of theories that would make sense, and this format seemed a fun way to discuss all of them.  It was originally going to be a one shot, but as I started writing, Shane kept interrupting in my head about how stupid all of it sounds, and that kept making the script longer and longer.  So, it��s now going to be a few parts long cos the history of DW (even when seriously truncated) takes a long time to go through when you try to use the serials to make arguments about the Doctor’s potential identity(s).  

So, here’s part 1.  Please let me know if you like it and would like to see more.  And if Shane and Ryan sound anything like themselves because if they don’t then the whole thing is nowhere near as funny as it should be.

Ryan: Today on Buzzfeed Unsolved we're looking into the puzzling mystery of an entity known only as "The Doctor" and the corresponding omen of a blue box.  It's a mystery that, in its more comprehensive moments, is whimsically strange and, most of the time, is just plain batshit bizarre.

Shane: Okay, so I can hear the air quotes around the name, and you called it an entity.  Are we talking like, cryptid creature that is based in reality or am I going to be sitting through theories about zombie plagues and Ant-man Ax murderers again?  Just what am I in for here?

Ryan: No zombie plagues, and the Doctor has never murdered anyone with an ax.  At least, not in any of the records available. It's just...well, it's hard to explain here, so let's just get right into it.  Just bear in mind this is Gene Wilder Willy Wonka levels of weird when it's at its most sensical.  And it's rare that this story makes any sense at all.

Shane: Alright, I'll confess I'm...intrigued.  I'm ready to listen.

Ryan: Alright, here we go.  *opens folder*

Ryan (in his Unsolved VO):  The first documented evidence of a being calling itself "The Doctor" is in the files of now deceased British UNIT officer Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart.

Shane:  Wait.  UNIT?  What's that? Sounds like something out of a video game.

Ryan: (wheeze) It does a bit, yeah. But there is paperwork evidence that verifies this group -- lame as the acronym is -- actually existed.  They were set up in the mid-1960s by the United Nations to look into unexplained phenomena and for a long time they were a covert operation.  The British Prime Minister knew they existed, and they answered to Geneva, but they weren't known to the wider public until after they shut down three years ago.

Shane:  I'm sure that meeting went GREAT.  'Hey, everybody, thanks for coming down this Monday morning. Erm...thanks for protecting us from alien invasions for the last 50 years and for keeping such a great secret about it.  Here's your reward: you're all fired, and we're going to tell the entire world what your names were and let you deal with the press about it for the rest of your life.  Have a great rest of your Monday!'  (Wheeze) What a bunch of shitty bosses.

Ryan: I mean, based on what little there is to read about how UNIT operated, the Brigadier we'll be talking about really had to go to bat for the organization in front of the Prime Minister a lot over the years in order to keep the operation going.  After the Brigadier died, they were able to keep going for awhile, but as you'll see from some of these stories we'll be looking at today, the organization was considered obsolete long before it was disbanded.

Shane: Okay, so the Doctor first appears in conjunction with this UNIT?

Ryan: Right, so in the 1960s, there was some weird circumstance that led to the London Underground shutting down and the Brigadier, who was only a Colonel in the regular British army at the time, ran into what he described as a "(quote) man with a foppish haircut, ratty waistcoat, and tartan patterned clown pants; a young teenage girl; and a full Scotsman (end quote)."  

Shane: So which is the Doctor?  

Ryan: In this case, it's the first description.  The man with the clown pants on.  (wheeze)

Shane: (wheeze) Do you think he had clown shoes on, too?

Ryan: See, I know exactly what you're picturing right now.  You're thinking of a guy with a depressing Beatles haircut and complete clown regalia, including the extra large shoes.

Shane: I am.  100%  And you know, given some of the things we saw when traveling around London, including on (*with a terribly fake posh Oxbridge accent*) the Tube, a man dressed as a clown running around the platforms underground wouldn't even register as weird on a normal day.

Ryan: (Conceding) That is true.  And on a normal day, I'd agree with you.  But, bear in mind, this was the 1960s -- not the modern day -- and the Tube at the time was closed to the public because of this unknown threat the army was trying to deal with.  And what's even more notable -- the reason why the future Brigadier apparently wrote about it in his official report to the Prime Minister -- is that the man who called himself the Doctor, together with the two other civilians, saved the day.  The details are sparse, but the Brigadier makes it clear that the Doctor is the one who figured out what was really going on and managed to deal with whatever the situation was with minimal casualties.

And that's just the first time the Doctor and the future Brigadier crossed paths.  There are later documents that report the Brigadier -- now promoted from Colonel and officially a Brigadier -- came across the same man and Scotsman, but a different young girl in London just weeks after the military organization known as UNIT was founded.  And AGAIN, whatever the situation actually was, the Doctor and his friends were the ones that helped UNIT save the day.

Shane: Am I the only one who finds it suspicious that the details are always missing?  Like, shady organization set up by the government to look into extraterrestrial happenings?  Sure. (*puts hands in the air in surrender to argument*) I'll buy that.  Governments do shady shit all the time.  But, I mean, things like shutting down the London Underground and alien happenings in the city of London itself.  People are going to notice, right?  And how shitty are the Brigadier's write ups that no one remembers or knows any of the happenings in Britain's capital?  "Dear Prime Minister, stuff happened.  Doctor did some other stuff.  Stuff stopped.  The end.  TTYL."  Sounds like someone was crap at his job and when things just luckily worked out, everyone just swept it under the rug.

Ryan: You see, I would agree with you there.  BUT...there are pictures.  We can't show them to the audience because of copyright, but if you know where to look online, people love to discuss the Doctor and all the people who have gone missing while looking for the Doctor, so.  Investigate at your own peril. But, Shane, here you go.

*the audience can't see the photos hidden by Ryan's open folder, but we see Shane's expression.*

Shane: (*laughs*)  That Doctor looks like a moron.  I mean, I still think the Brigadier must have been crap at his job, but he was bang on his descriptor of the Doctor looking like a clown.  And I take it the guy in the kilt is the Scotsman?

Ryan: Yeah, I looked up what full Scotsman means when I read the description and apparently it means a guy who wears a kilt with no underwear on underneath it.  Before that, I just assumed that it meant this other guy was wandering around the Underground, playing bagpipes and singing songs from Highlander or something.

Shane: You thought this guy was wandering around singing Who Wants to Live Forever over a decade before the film came out.  (wheeze)

Ryan:  Well, when we get into the theories that idea won't seem entirely out of place, I don't think.

Shane: Well, I'm going to go ahead and call a preemptive bullshit on that theory.

Ryan: Noted.

Ryan: (back in Theory VO) The next record of the Doctor's appearance comes about in the 1970s when a man is admitted to a local hospital after collapsing outside of a blue box in the woods.

Shane: There was a blue box in the woods?  Like, human sized or was he scrunched up in it like Shroedinger's cat?

Ryan: We'll get back to the box in a minute, but it's larger than a human, yeah.  In fact, it was something called a Police Public Call Box, which were common to see on city or town street corners in Britain in the 1950s and 1960s. The idea was that if police or citizens saw a crime being committed, they could either phone the police from the box or shove the criminal in the police box and go fetch a policeman.  But what's weird about the box in this case is: 1) it's in the middle of the woods, and not even on like, a hiking path or anything.  But, the legit WOODS.  And 2) it's the 1970s and police call boxes are no longer really a thing at this point.  But, once the man calling himself the Doctor gets to the hospital it gets even stranger.

Shane:  I mean, everything about this story so far feels like the Brigadier spinning a yarn, but keep going.

Ryan: So, the Brigadier gets a phone call from the hospital that a man called the Doctor has been admitted to the hospital.

Shane: Wait, how did the hospital know to call the Brigadier about that?  Was there a national bulletin?  Is the Doctor a wanted man or something?

Ryan: I don't know, man.  Maybe the police just call UNIT whenever something with the label "fucking weird" comes across their desk.  I don't know.  This is just what the report says.

Ryan: (theory voice) Due to a situation UNIT was overseeing in the area at the time, the Doctor's appearance was notably auspicious for the Brigadier, so the UNIT officer went to see if his friend could help with the investigation.  However, when he got the hospital, he discovered that he the man calling himself 'The Doctor' was not anyone he recognized.

Shane: Wait...what?

Ryan: (laughing).  I told you the situation at the hospital is weird.  So, the Brigadier is told that this man who has helped him out before has been admitted to a hospital that is nearby a situation that UNIT is investigating -- a clear sign, in the Brigadier's mind, that this Doctor who is injured is the same one he's met twice before -- and then discovers that it's a completely different man.

Shane: Well, I mean...that's not *too* weird.  I mean, the man is in a hospital, and you usually see doctors in a hospital.  And I'm sure a lot of doctors are known more by their title than their surname.  There are millions of doctors on the planet, so I don't know if two different people wanting to be called Doctor is all that unusual.

Ryan: (with a haughty smile) That makes perfect sense, but listen to this.

Ryan: (Theory voice)  The Brigadier assumed at first that the patient calling himself the Doctor was a coincidence and started to leave the room.  However, he found himself called back when he heard the unknown man call the Brigadier by name. The conversation made it clear that, not only did the patient know the Brigadier's full name, but also knew the circumstances under which the Doctor and the Brigadier had met both times before. Information which, at the time, was highly classified and known only to those in the Prime Minister's office and those who had been in the UNIT planning room at the time of the situational crises.

Shane: Okay, I'm going to call it.  I'm going with spy.  I think the Doctor is a code name and this guy inherited  the call sign and the information from the Doctor's previous operations.  

Ryan: So, you think this is like, a 007 scenario?  

Shane: I mean, I'm sure you'll peddle some alien abduction theory or some other supernatural bullshit, but...yeah.  I'm going spy call sign.  Makes sense to me so far.

Ryan: Well, you might not be a *total* dipshit, but...we'll see.  There's still quite a bit more to cover. This isn't even the tip of the weird iceberg.

Shane: (sarcastically) Oh joy...

[thewantedthief-imsoproud]

I get why they went with "Rapunzel" being the name her parents named her in the series, but you'd think they would've made that public knowledge to their citizens, or for Gothel to bother changing it. It makes much more sense for Gothel to have given her the name because in the original story it was supposed to be insulting.

But Rapunzel is the iconic name from the story and you can't really change that without it no longer being Rapunzel you know?

I STILL THINK IT WOULD'VE BEEN A FUNNY AND INTERESTING THING TO DO.

You have Rapunzel having to live up to a Princess the Kingdom has never known, building up their own image of her and who she would be.

And then Eugene!!! Having to live up to the name he made for himself and the one he's trying to make for himself.

They both could have such paralleling arcs, reconciling with the people they were, who they are becoming, and who everyone wants them to be.

*********

You could have Rapunzel's birth name from her parents be different, but since she grew up with the name Rapunzel, she has to decide if she wants to keep it or not.

Maybe an episode where she's debating changing it because Gothel's the one who named her that, because this new name is what her parents keep calling her and she doesn't want to disappoint them. She spends the day with doubts and questions, trying to figure out who she would've been had she grown up here, had she not been Rapunzel. She tries to give up being Rapunzel for a day, tries going by this new name, tries to be this new name, this person she might have been. She spends the day doing what a Princess or what a lady of the court would do. Wears shoes, joins in on long meetings, eats expensive but bland foods, doesn't help the servants or cook or clean for herself. Paints on canvas and refrains from climbing to the roof to paint on that perfect bare spot on the ceiling that’s just calling out to her. Its different, and not what she's used to. She's not sure if its fun or not. Not sure if its her. And every time someone calls her by her royal name instead of Rapunzel... well she's not sure how to feel.

Meanwhile, Eugene would be going through something similar. He'd be out and about, probably around the city, maybe around the castle, and probably completing some form of community service. He doesn't have guards following him around to make sure he does it, and if Rapunzel had asked, he probably wouldn't even have to do it. But he wanted to. He.. doesn't know how to feel in the castle, in the capital. He wants to be with Rapunzel, and he wants to feel like he finally belongs somewhere, but his past self is making it hard for him. He needs to figure out who Eugene Fitzherbert is.

They touched on this a little during the Fitzherbert P.I. episode, Eugene tried to join the royal guards, but that was more about his place in the castle, rather than figuring out who he is now. That didn't really happen until the Flynnposter episode, but that was season 3. Where was this issue in all the previous seasons??? Has he been holding onto this for 3 years and never once said anything? Only for it to be brought up and "solved" in one episode??? Eugene???? Buddy??? You okay there???

I love the tangled series, I really do, but sometimes the tv series format really hurts their characters and arcs.

Anyway, I think it would’ve be really cool if they could have had this parallel identity issue. They try and deal with it alone. Before finding each other.

Rapunzel tries to be who everyone else thinks she is supposed to be.

Eugene tries to be the opposite.

Throughout the day, they both have to deal with the baggage each of their names throws at them. Becoming someone new, and forgetting who they were. Expectations and dismissals. Before finally something happens for them both to wonder what's the point.

Why doesn't she like her new (old? original?) name, its supposed to be hers, isn’t it?

Why bother trying to be someone new if all anyone will ever see is a thief?

Both of them are struggling, and naturally, they end up seeking each other out.

They confide in each other. And eventually, find the answers they were seeking. Encourage the other to ask what it is that they want, and finally gain the strength and the confidence to be who they want to be.

Rapunzel would decide to keep the name, Rapunzel. Its the first step to not letting Gothel control her life anymore. Rapunzel is her name. She likes her name. And she's not afraid to make it her name.

And Eugene has decided to stop worrying about what people say. He can't change who he used to be. Only try and show people who he is now, the real him.

Plus there could be some funny and cute moments where Eugene comments on them both having multiple names and making a contest of it.

And then when the name Horace comes into play, Rapunzel makes the joke that he has more names than her now, but he disagrees with her and calls her sunshine☀️

[theonceoverthinker]

When Will My Life Begin? (Fair Game, 12/?)

Summary: Tangled AU. Clover Callows has been confined to a tower for all of his life, and given the threat that his Uncle Tyrian says his semblance poses to his safety, he accepts that fate. It’s the only life he’s ever known, after all. But when he’s offered the opportunity to fulfill his greatest dream after a chance encounter with a thief -- or bandit, as Qrow Branwen insists there’s a difference between the two -- both Clover and Qrow will discover joys that they never knew life could offer them before.

AO3

Tumblr: (1) (2) (B1) (3) (4) (B2) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (B3) (10) (11)

A/N: ...You guys are either going to love me for this chapter or hate me! Just so you know, I’m preparing an umbrella for the things you’re going to fling at me for this one! XD Anyway, enjoy!

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Sometimes, raising Clover Ebi -- or rather, Clover Callows, as he now called him -- as his own ‘nephew’ was more trouble than it was worth. 

Sometimes, it was a lot more trouble than it was worth, so much so that Tyrian had to remind himself that it was an endeavor that still merited seeing through.

Right now, as Tyrian trudged through the forests of Remnant, it felt like one of those times.

‘Uncle Tyrian! I put some dough in an oven and managed not to burn the tower to the ground! Aren’t I so smart?’

‘Uncle Tyrian, I want to see some stupid green lights and give away my identity to everyone you’ve carefully hidden it from for over twenty years!’

‘Uncle Tyrian, I want new paint from the furthest Gods damned corner of this dog’s dropping of a continent! Go get me some as well as a bag full of some other trash from the ground!’

What. A. Pest.

For twenty years, he’d had to live with that constant pest yammering in his ear all day long, asking -- nay, begging -- for trash or praise for his mediocre accomplishments or answers to his positively inexhaustible supply of banal questions.

This domestic life caring for Clover that Tyrian had subjected himself to was without question relentlessly dull, annoying, boring, and miserable.

Gods, if it weren’t for his semblance, he’d-

Well, if it weren’t for his semblance, Tyrian wouldn’t be so close -- so very, very close -- to being Salem’s right hand man, and with his ‘nephew’s’ continued help, he’d likely get that spot soon enough.

After all, that’s how he’d gotten so far. Others near the top of her hierarchy had fallen prey to many tragic ‘accidents’ over the years. 

Who could have predicted how Arthur Watts’ latest invention would not only malfunction, but that the explosion would release chemicals that came together to act as a pheromone for Grimm? 

How cruel could fate be to have the support beam that Hazel Rainart was hiding behind collapse just as he was about to complete his most recent mission for Salem?

What could have been done to prevent Leo Lionheart from attempting to desert Salem’s forces just as she’d had one hundred Grimm return from battle eager for something -- or rather, someone -- to eat?

And what sort of disaster would just the tiniest bit of luck have in store for Cinder Falls, Salem’s current right hand?

So yes, Clover was a pest, but he was a pest that nonetheless had been very successful at improving Tyrian’s placement in Salem’s hierarchy.

Tyrian supposed it stood to reason that he had to do things to keep Clover happy to ensure that that would only continue. He’d been careful to never push his luck too hard in that regard, knowing that even fear and guilt had its limits on what they could make a person willingly endure, and after their fight -- especially when it involved discussing actually going outside -- Tyrian knew Clover was getting agitated enough to possibly act on his desires.

Tyrian wasn’t about to let that happen, and so now here he was, about to make a trip all the way to the Argus Coves.

It was an ordeal, if for no other reason than that he’d be away from Salem, but it was one he would suffer all the same in her name.

He was lucky -- Salem had decided to spend the next fortnight in her Grimm pools, devising new forms for her malicious, yet stunning pets to take. She wouldn’t need his -- or, more importantly, anyone else’s -- services, nor ask about his whereabouts -- not that she ever did, always so respectful of her loyal subject’s privacy.

Salem trusted him…

In return, just as he gave her his unconditional admiration, he also gave her lies.

Tyrian hated lying to her about Clover, but he reasoned that helping her by channeling all of Clover’s luck into her most adoring servant’s being would be a better way of ensuring her victories. After all, who else would care about nothing more than Salem’s continued successes? Her other minions all had their own concerns and even if they didn’t, Train found that they were about as competent as a cat being trained to not drink milk.

In any event, his strategy had worked over the past two decades, and if he had anything to say about it, it would continue to work for the rest of his days. Perhaps, should he not only tell Clover about her, but also inspire him to love her as well -- and he absolutely could -- his scheme would persist even after his death.

He could only hope, for it was what Salem deserved.

Salem...Salem was a Goddess -- radiant, bold, cunning, enchanting, beautiful in both her body and soul, wise, gentle, ruthless, and far more qualities than Tyrian couldn’t state with all the world’s air in his lungs on top of even that. How the pitiful wastes of life in Remnant managed to not only not spend every waking moment of their purposeless days either bowing before her glory or gathering gifts to bestow upon her, but actually oppose her, he’d never know.

Cretins, the lot of them -- hopelessly lost cretins.

And of all the cretins Remnant had to offer, he got stuck with the worst of them to play the role of a lifelong babysitter -- and at present, delivery boy -- for.

Tyrian mentally mapped out his trip. If he stayed at a steady speed, took regular breaks, and ate and slept as he planned, he’d be at the Argus Coves by tomorrow afternoon. He’d spend two or three hours collecting shells and then head back to the tower. While he hated collecting the shells, and knew it would be a complete bore of a chore, it was best not to give Clover any reason to ask for more of them next year, or the next few of them, for that matter.

Then again, Clover had shown himself to be at least a little unpredictable, so he could only guess as to how quickly he would go through those paints, or what else he would desire for future birthdays.

After all, somehow, Clover had managed to conceal that mural of his from him for Gods knew how long. If it wasn’t for the subject matter of its depiction, Tyrian would almost be impressed by that bit of stealth. Clearly, he’d taught Clover well.

However, he may have been teaching Clover too well. If he could conceal an entire wall of the tower from him, what else could he be hiding? That tower might not have been large and Clover never left it, but it was fitted with many a nook and cranny for which to tuck away any number of trinkets.

Well, he’d just have to have a little search when he got back to the tower. He could disguise it as a game of hide and seek or just a checkup to make sure Clover was cleaning his living space well enough.

Clover might have believed himself to be clever -- he may have even crossed the threshold of cleverness a few times in his life -- but Tyrian knew he could put him in his place easily enough. Given how much lip disguised as wit Clover had started to show as of recent, perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea to do so sooner rather than later.

Tyrian had just started to drum up more ideas for how to best reign in his ‘nephew’ when suddenly, he heard a voice cry out.

“Let me go!” It was a man’s voice, one Tyrian thought he might have recognized, but was unable to recall its source on just it alone.

“Not a chance, you thief!” a woman’s voice responded, a low chuckle underneath her words. 

Now that voice, Tyrian was reasonably sure he did recognize.

Before he could confirm it, another set of noises grabbed his attention -- the woman’s, and by the sounds of it, others’ footsteps were approaching

Quickly, Tyrian hid himself behind a tree, and just in time. Keeping careful as to remain unspotted, Tyrian peeked to look at the opposite side of the tree.

There, a group of five people, one of whom seemed to be something of a prisoner held tightly in one of their arms, emerged into his line of sight.

However, the four non imprisoned people weren’t just any people.

They were the Ace Ops. 

Comprised of General Ironwood’s four children -- Harriet Bree, Elm Ederne, Marrow Amin, and Vine Zeki -- The Ace Ops served as the leaders of Remnant’s royal guard.

But what were they doing here?

Tyrian had only a small handful of run-ins with the Ace Ops all that much over the years since their formation, but despite that, he knew all about them, from their names to their weapons to their semblances -- when one was regularly gathering intel, threatening informants, and killing bystanders and witnesses who saw him doing either of those things in order to best assist Salem’s strikes against the kingdom’s capital, it was practically a requirement. 

Because of that, it was odd to see Harriet on a horse, given that her semblance revolved around her own speed, but Tyrian didn’t let himself think about it too much, preferring to get an answer to his inquiry about just what led them so far out in the woods.

He looked at the prisoner in Elm’s arms and immediately, his eyes bulged with recognition.

Mercury Black.

Tyrian knew this man well. He was a thief, and unfortunately, a rather good one, or at least he seemed to be prior to this moment.

Salem had given Mercury not a small amount of her attention as of late. She entertained the idea of him as a prospective recruit for her forces, sending him out on missions to see just how much he could achieve. While he lacked Tyrian’s dedication to serving her, Mercury’s talent and need for direction as well as means for his survival in the cruel world they lived in piqued Salem’s interests. Like a lump of clay, Salem felt that she could perhaps mold him into a model member of her inner circle, one strong enough to enact her schemes and ready as well as willing to die for her at a moment’s notice.

Alas, it looked like Mercury’s talents had failed him. Tyrian knew Salem well and a failure that ended up with him in the custody of the Ace Ops of all people was likely a big one, all but guaranteeing the destruction of any interest she had in Mercury as a member of her forces.

Well, that just meant more attention and admiration for Tyrian to enjoy. 

And not only that, but he would have the esteemed pleasure of reporting the news of his -- judging by Elm’s grip -- literally crushing defeat to Salem once she returned to her throne.

How lucky was that?

Hmm. So this is why he had to get Clover those paints. 

It was a worthwhile enough sacrifice.

“Let me go!” Mercury repeated.

“I don’t think so, buddy!” Elm said, gripping Mercury tight in her unwavering hold, her feet firmly on the ground as to restrain any attempts of his to fight out of her grasp.

It didn’t appear to stop him from trying though.

What a waste of his goddess’ sights he turned out to be.

From her horse, Harriet turned to him. “If I can’t bring my father Branwen’s head, then I’m at least bringing him yours!”

“I don’t even have the stupid brooch!” Mercury yelled, still fighting for some nonexistent leeway in Elm’s vice like grip, not that he’d get that far if he even found it with the three other Ace Ops directly next to her. 

“Don’t you worry -- it will be found.” Harriet then looked out to the team. “Elm, stay here with the prisoner and keep an eye out for Branwen. Vine, Marrow, and I will continue to comb the forest, and we’ll reconvene here in an hour with our findings. We’re not going home without that brooch.” The determination in Harriet’s voice had Tyrian bite his lip.

Crap. Knowing Harriet, that last sentiment may very well have been a true one.

In the twenty years since Tyrain took Clover, guards have searched the forest, but they’d never come across the tower’s hidden entryway. While the brooch was likely nowhere near the tower, and the Ace Ops were still roughly a quarter of a mile out from its exact location, Tyrian couldn’t help but acknowledge the feeling of unease in his stomach.

If Remnant’s most specialized guards -- Clover’s siblings, no less -- were searching this bit of the forest, whether looking for their long-lost brother or not...they might actually find something more than just some brooch.

Harriet directed the horse she was riding on towards the tower’s general direction.

Clover!

Knowing what he had to do, Tyrian slunk away from his hiding place and snuck through the forest, careful to keep both a strong distance between himself and Harriet as well cautious, yet quick movements to pass her and get back to the tower before she could ever learn about its existence. 

It wasn’t hard. Tyrian had traversed these woods so much over the course of his life, especially over the past two decades, that he grew to know them better than he did his own hand. Every twist and turn and fork in the road on its dirt-floored surface was committed to his memory like the appearance of the very sun that shone above him.

When Tyrian at last made it to the tower’s entryway, he was well ahead of Harriet, ensuring that he would be absolutely safe crossing the canopy of vines in a way that would keep him as well as their odd disposition unspotted by her.

Tyrian rushed through the caves and clearing, all the way to the base of the tower.

“Clover!” Tyrian called out when he finally arrived. “I forgot my rain boots! Bring me back up!”

It was an odd excuse -- especially as there was no sign of rain coming for the foreseeable future -- but Clover would ask why he came back if he didn’t have one at the ready all the same.

Tyrian waited a second for Clover to respond, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, when he called to the tower, he heard nothing back. It was a foreign feeling, one that at present grated on Tyrian’s nerves like a room of mumblers.

“Clover!” he half shouted and half growled. “Wake up!”

Still, not a sound left the tower. 

As soon as he realized that no sound would be coming out, Tyrian whipped the sharp, metallic end of his tail out and slammed it into the dirt between the tower’s bricks, pulling himself up and then clinging to the bricks with the help of his blades as his tail ascended his form further up the tower’s length.

It was a method for climbing the tower that he hadn’t used in years, manually climbing it himself -- practically antiquated thanks to Clover’s weapon, but it was handy in a pinch.

Right now, Tyrian absolutely felt like he was in the pinchiest of pinches.

With exhaustion that only climbed in magnitude as the seconds passed, Tyrian made his way the tower.

Tyrian called out Clover’s name twice as he rose from the ground, but to no avail. Clover’s room was as quiet as a tomb.

Oh, that room would be a tomb alright when he was finished with Clover…

No, he couldn’t think that way...as much as he wanted to...

Upon reaching the tower’s window, Tyrian paused for no more than but a second to catch his breath, looking around the room frantically all the while.

The tower was dark.

The tower was quiet.

Neither of those things had ever been true when a waking Clover Callows roamed its singular upper room.

Hell, thanks to his brat’s snores, the tower was never quiet, even when he was sleeping!

As soon as Tyrian had recovered enough of his breath to continue, he ran to Clover’s bed, pulling off the blankets with a harsh tug.

Clover was going to pay when he woke up.

However, underneath the covers, there was no Clover.

“Clover!” Tyrian called out.

Maybe...maybe he was just using the bathroom...in the dark...without noticing his uncle’s cries…

Tyrian rushed to the bathroom, but just as with Clover’s bed, Clover wasn’t there.

Oh Gods, where was he?

Confused, Tyrian ran around the tower, tearing apart anything Clover might be hiding or sleeping either in or under. He even opened the door to the tower’s stairwell which led to his own room and checked there. However, not one place held Clover’s form.

As Tyrian approached the tower’s window, he couldn’t help but run his fingers through his hair in much the same fashion as he searched for Clover -- frantically.

Was he actually kidnapped?

There seemed to be no sign of a struggle, and he’d taught Clover to distrust outsiders enough to at least cause something of a scuffle should one ever show their face in the tower.

Suddenly though, something removed Tyrian from his thoughts.

By the bottom of the tower’s small balcony’s staircase, a small glimmer of something was reflecting off the sun, creating a glare of light that went right into Tyrian’s left eye. Tyrian sidestepped the glare’s direct trajectory, but kept its location in his mind as he steadily approached it.

He had given Clover many things over his nearly twenty years in this tower, but never had he been given something so shiny as to create such a harsh glare.

What the hell could this be?

 Upon reaching the staircase, Tyrian lifted the semi-broken plank where the glimmering object sat. 

Inside the makeshift cupboard was a satchel...and inside the satchel was an emerald encrusted, clover-shaped brooch.

No…

It couldn’t be...

Had Clover learned of his identity?

While it made all too much sense for his mind to go there, Tyrian fought the instinct with facts. If Clover had learned who he really was, why would he leave behind the key piece of evidence of his discovery? He clearly wasn’t trying to make a point to Tyrian given how he hid the brooch in such an odd location and didn’t provide his beloved ‘Uncle Tyrian’ with so much as a note for context concerning the brooch’s existence and his reaction to it. 

No, for some reason, Clover wanted the brooch and the satchel that held it to remain here, and Tyrian immediately swore to himself that he was going to discover that reason before any havoc on his life could be further wreaked.

He already had an inkling of a clue.

The Ace Ops were searching for a man called ‘Branwen’ -- whoever that was. Tyrian believed he’d heard the name once or twice in passing, but based on what they were saying, Branwen was a thief, a thief that had stolen the brooch. 

It now made sense as to what mission Salem had put Mercury up to, as well as why the Ace Ops were called to take on a thief.

Wherever Clover was, it was likely with Branwen, and judging by the still revealed painting of Clover’s wish, Tyrian had a pretty good idea of where it was they were going.

Now, all he had to do was find them and end this trip of lunacy before they got there.

Tyrain warped the satchel in a bundle and hid it in the basket Clover had prepared for him. He then felt for the handles of his blades, The Queen’s Servants. Even without touching them, he could sense they were as hungry to restore his brand of order as he was.

It was a good feeling.

Approaching the tower’s window, Tyrian shot the long way down an exasperated look.

What a pain this was going to be to climb down manually once more for the first time in so long.

He swore to the Gods, without that semblance of Clover’s...

Sometimes, raising Clover was more trouble than it was worth, but for the benefits his semblance provided, Tyrian knew he had no choice but to clean up his ‘nephew’s’ mess.

[healieas]

things i have been thinking about that are important:

- very few members of the smirke circle ( the smirkle, if you would ) knew that jonah had become an avatar. some of them probably guessed, rayner definitely knew, but it seems like jonah kept it well-hidden, including from smirke himself.

- albrecht was elias’s first archivist and i need to write up a meta about how the archivist and the watcher are connected. according to elias, the archivist has always been part of beholding, but when we all agree on beholding-as-institutional-capitalism, we must also then acknowledge that jonah probably played a huge role in making it such -- that it did not exist in that form to the same degree before the 19th century and the industrial revolution. i don’t even know if i want to say that the lead-up to modern capitalism was an inherent part of beholding because it just warped so much during that time, like holding money and holding documents / education / information definitely existed in conjunction but i’m looking also at all of the oral cultures that are stomped on during the 1800s and 1900s. ie the archivist has always been part of beholding in some form but when elias turned beholding into what is essentially a brand connected with himself, he also took over the ‘creation’ of archivists and has been in control of it for the past two hundred years. whether or not other beholding institutions have archivists or elias has just completely seized that part of it for himself ( at least in it being named and having a strict function within the beholding hierarchy ) is something i haven’t decided yet.

- jonah is straight up omniscient and i really wanna drive this home. his limitations are that: he cannot see the dark, the stranger and the spiral make it difficult for him to put logical statements together regarding their nature and events that take place in or around them, and he has to focus to see something ( so if he is actively Looking at one thing he cannot see another without deciding to split his attention ). his MAJOR weakness is his own overconfidence, and the fact that beholding grants no understanding of the facts it shares, so jonah can still get things wrong by dint of misinterpretation. he also says that it would be ‘exhausting’ to know everything. but there is very little jonah can’t know if he chooses to so good luck hiding things from him unless you ally with the dark / stranger / spiral or otherwise manage to make him believe you are not worth looking at.

- jonah has a chicken-egg relationship with beholding, because avatars are not human but they are human-adjacent and come from humans, and there will always be a distinctly human ( or more than human! ) element too them; they don’t shed their emotions -- though there are arguments that the forced objectivity of beholding makes it difficult for their avatars to empathize in a constructive way; not that they can’t, but that they may not act on their feelings. imo it’s implied in canon that jonah just does not empathize with people but i don’t want to make commentary on empathy capacity when it varies for everyone and i choose to interpret it more as ‘jonah is a georgian member of the landed elite and that kind of money and social power inherently distance you from people especially when you’re raised to see yourself as the center of the universe and everyone else as lesser or a side player in a story about you’ instead of ‘there is something inherent in jonah / beholding that renders empathy impossible’ bc... boo. but that point about jonah seeing himself as the most important person alive is really important, because i think that, after two hundred years, jonah and what of the ceaseless watcher leaks into the world ( potential tulpa that it is ) have sort of... formed a horrible stitched-together mess, but that act in and of itself is more jonah than anything. of course he would pull part of a fear god into himself, he is draining to everyone around him already. in other words jonah, in abandoning his own humanity and identity but simultaneously forcing beholding into a format he created that he is most comfortable with, is simply being the same bastard he’s always been. he’s circled around ‘not jonah’ straight into ‘extremely jonah’. he made beholding fit in his shell. the body and construction may be different but the rank attitude is the same and cannot be removed or supplanted by something else. my only counterargument to this ( yes my own interpretation ) is that jonah in his final statement refers to beholding as “we mustn’t forget our roots,” implying that he’s sort of grown beyond it... but damn if that isn’t on brand too.

- he is a smug little bastard and i love writing him so much it’s unreal. he is also disgusting and i want him dead for his many, many crimes.

[alteritymonster]

Gonna nerd out for a sec, bear with me. It’s an “accuracy” nitpick that matters 0% to anything and is purely me showing off stuff I know about old computers. So this gif from s2e8 of Stranger Things:

If you know old computers these characters will look familiar: they’re text mode characters built into the VGA (Video Graphics Array) display standard. Here’s the whole set:

IBM started selling VGA hardware in 1987. ST2 takes place in 1984. (By the way, the gif format was invented in 1987, the same year VGA came out, for sharing graphics over Compuserve, a pre-internet online service.) From 1981 to 1987, IBM PC hardware used different display standards (MDA or CGA at first, later EGA) that displayed these characters:

Notice the capital O for a good comparison: the oval-ish VGA one in the gif from ST vs. the more “pointy,” almost diamond-shaped MDA/CGA/EGA one.

(To be super-pedantic, EGA had extra fonts that VGA also supported, but the specific one shown on Stranger Things was only part of VGA -- and MCGA, a standard almost identical to VGA that was much less commonly used.)

And uh, that’s all. The computer letters should look slightly slightly different. I am nerd, I will shut up now.

Also, Byler is endgame.