#graveyards for entire communities that don’t exist anymore

[chewwytwee]

I’m not gonna smoke in an old ass graveyard again

[red-hood-vigilante]

more hbo spn rambles, thoughts, drabbles etc. long long post.

part 1 here

there’s some things i’ve omitted here bc others have already posted about those things, certain headcanons and characterizations and stuff. those posts are in my likes somewhere (and i’ll reblog them someday), and there’s some posts i’ve read but not liked, which i now can only vaguely remember, which is why some ideas/thoughts are similar

ALSO most of these follow the model i talked about in part one: how s1-5 will stay more or less how they are but s6-10 is changed (some things are cut out entirely, some things are tweaked and some characters + arcs are more fleshed out. more focus on sam’s trauma and post-cage adaptation to the real world as well as dean letting his rage and control issues consume him and how he’d recover and redeem himself)

as i typed these paragraphs, i realized i really have 10 seasons mapped out and ready to go. hbo hire me!!

alright go:

sam and dean get wearier as the show progresses (second half), and eventually they stop putting so much care and thought in the people they save. like...hm how do i say this, like as long as a victim/victims are saved, they don’t care about how that happens or how those people suffer potential consequences, like if the victims lose a limb or have their homes burned down because of the monster, then sam and dean don’t really care. they saved your life, now they’ll leave you with your life in potential shambles and not care because all that matters is that they saved your life, not how it is afterwards. they still care about saving that one person, but eventually it pales a little in comparison to a war between heaven and hell, being the vessels etc. ---> saving people becomes less about making sure they’re actually alright and healing from horrific events and more about just making sure they have a pulse before they move on

when angels lose their wings they are either burned off in the actual fall or ripped off of them in their vessels, which leaves pretty nasty scars on the vessel

ed and harry are so young and bright eyed about the whole hunting thing; sam and dean as kids, idolizing it, finding it exciting and intriguing when they shouldn’t. sam and dean try to get them out of the business before they too are too traumatized and desensitized to do anything but hunt. neither sam or dean will say it but they are jealous of ed and harry and their freedom to leave, and hate them for choosing this voluntarily instead of being dragged into it by tragedy

hbo spn is a slow burn. there’s a lot more shots of sam and dean in silence just sitting together after a hunt, exhausted and too tired to move yet. they’re covered in blood and guts on the side of the road after killing or covered with dirt in a graveyard after burning bones, sitting next to the fire, just watching it. the times they park the car and watch the stars? we get to see it. 

dean wears rings and the amulet all the time in the beginning, for the first five seasons. the rings vary; first they’re some of john’s old ones and stuff he finds in thrift stores. then later on he begins wearing rings from people they’ve saved/haven’t saved as a keepsakes etc. when he begins his descent to the holy murderer in s6-10 he wears less and less rings. they don’t matter anymore -> symbolically shedding who he was and what mattered to him

the only accessories sam has is a rosary/cross around his neck. he has jess’ engagement ring in his pocket/wallet. after the cage he vaguely remembers why the ring was there and who jessica was (more on this further down)

the four horsemen are manifestations of different aspects of human nature at its most grotesque and strongest, can’t be killed as long as humans live. war is conflict, famine is desire, pestilence is physical and mental illnesses.

(the seven sins are like the horsemen, tulpas of human nature instead of demons)

death isn’t a concentration of an existing aspect of humans as much as it is the end of life, the antithesis of life. death the oldest of the horsemen and has existed since the beginning of any life, organism, cell and atom. the opposite of life and light, the other half of god (as i’m typing this i’m confused as to why  amara was the opposite of god instead of death). death isn’t evil or good, remains 100% objective. doesn’t care for sam or dean at all, but has a begrudging respect for their stubbornness and entertainment they provide due to their flat out refusal to do as they’re told by celestial bodies when anyone else would crumble

by including death i feel like it very naturally begs questions of who decides when someone dies, when someone lives, why would death follow these guides instead of reaping whomever whenever, what happens if a life isn’t reaped at the right time etc. the reader in me adore the idea of death having a library with books and records of everyone who has ever lived and died and how they died - but then, who writes these books and why? do they decide, and if in that case, how? these questions are above my paygrade but you know what i mean? like there has to be some sort of system right, god created everything, death executes to maintain order, some third party deity writes the laws and the books. the three branches of government. ok but it’s hbo so again, i think we shouldn’t dive this deep into things, like as much as these topics intrigue me i don’t want to stray too much from the dirt road trip aesthetic

shapeshifters are extremely rare because they don’t require any kind of human blood or organs/sacrifice to live

i want more exploration of how magic is like science, like it just needs the right ingredients and right conditions. sam thinks of magic as an obscure branch of science; it just requires research and knowledge and clear intentions because science can be controlled and do a lot of good when used responsibly. dean doesn’t like it. he doesn’t trust the unpredictable elements and he’s seen enough to know it never goes well. magic is a force that can’t be controlled by anyone.

sam and dean have full on fist fights regularly. to practice and keeping each other sharp, but also because they’re siblings. they’re feral, insane and unhinged with each other and they get on each other’s nerves A LOT. it’s petty and childish and sometimes it can get a lil ugly but it becomes their way of family therapy. after a fight the next scene cuts to sam and dean with ruffled clothes, nosebleeds and swollen lips at a diner eating silently after beating each other up. either they sit in silence because they’re tired or both are harping on the other’s openings and weaknesses

sometimes they’ll fight a little dirty but they do so in different ways; dean will pull the old ‘look!’ and point to something and then tackle sam when he turns to look while sam will just cry out in fake pain which makes dean stop dead in his tracks before sam headbutts him or kicks him in the groin

we, the audience get used to these fights, they’re sometimes funny and for comic relief, sometimes for narrative purposes (like tricking a monster they’re fighting each other when they’re really not) BUT. then comes the times when sam and dean are actually fighting without holding back and we see how much they are capable of hurting each other or how heartbreaking and difficult it can be to watch when of them are incapable of fighting back/doesn’t defend himself -> swan song when dean doesn’t fight back against possessed sam, or when dean beats soulless sam unconscious

sam and dean also just verbally bully each other constantly but they do have their odd ways of expressing affection and care. they get the other person their fave snack whenever they go grocery shopping without being asked to and are the only other one they truly trust to have their back in hunts. have a cup of coffee ready before the other asks for one. brothers and each other’s best friend. nightmare duo but in a sweet way. the cooperation of ‘the usual suspects’ when they’re in different interrogation rooms but still has the cover story down to a t. code words and code names and cover stories, they know it all

when sam and dean fight together against a common enemy they’re a damn nightmare - because they know each others weaknesses and habits, they cover each other perfectly and in complete silence. they’ve been at it together since they were kids and read each other’s nonverbal cues like a picture book

to build off of what i said in part 1; the winchesters are pretty hated in the hunter’s community. even the people sam and dean frequently work with (bobby, ellen, jo, ash, rufus, bela, kevin, charlie, castiel etc) roasts them all the time and don’t hesitate with calling them out on their self-pitying crap when it get’s too much (spn was just objectively better when characters weren’t afraid of dragging sam and dean through the mud for being selfish and stupid) and this WILL persist in hbo spn. the only reason people continue working with sam and dean is because they know deep down a lot of the things that happens aren’t sam and dean’s fault - but they still blame them for it. doesn’t make it easier how sam or dean sometimes start crap on purpose to save the other

the winchesters are terrifying and people for sure tell stories about them, but not like ‘they’re heroes’, more like ‘they’re insane and dangerous. stay the fuck away from them’. some stories are true, like how they’ve worked with demons, but some are just game of telephone. (dean has apparently a ghost he is frequently possessed by while sam is actually a mutant vampire). hunters hate and are scared of the winchesters. sam and dean are never invited to hunter stuff (burials, memorials etc) but crash them nonetheless even though the hunters do NOT want them there.

you know what drives me insane when i think about it? how some characters in spn already are their hbo spn counterparts; john. mary. adam. maybe kevin?

other things that already are their hbo spn counterparts: dean throwing away the amulet right in front of sam. eyes burning when angels are seen. how ghosts are just tragedies, stuck in a loop they can’t leave. how a lot of the monsters they meet are just victims or their circumstances or the first victim of a curse. the impala being sam and dean’s home. dean not knowing how to comfort sam when he’s upset other than trying to do things for sam that usually brings dean comfort (driving the impala, listening to rock music etc). the roadhouse. heaven being an eternal version of the memories that made you the happiest even though it’s not real. sam wanting independence and freedom but never fully having it. dean fearing being alone more than anything else and that’s where he always ends up. sam has an eating disorder after the demon blood and dean has an alcohol problem he refuses to see as a problem. dean saying “i’d do it again” without an ounce of regret and pouring himself a drink when sam tells him it was fucked up to lie to him about gadreel

the demon/angel hybrid: THIS could be sooo interesting to explore. an angel and demon hybrid are you kidding me?? not to toot my own horn too much but i’m so clever. i should write this story myself. SO. does this creature have parents who fucked in their vessels or was this an experiment by god (yes i love the ‘mad scientist’ idea, that really should’ve been played up way more) or did a pre-existing creature (human or otherwise) drink demon blood and angel grace at the same time so that it created itself? so much potential for some really intriguing storytelling and character exploration - not only the creature itself and what they would be like, but also for the people around; sam, dean, castiel, jack etc. how would they react to this thing that is the very definition of defying heaven and hell and all the natural laws? does it exist before the show starts or will we see its birth?

the powers of the demon/angel hybrid would be tricky; a mix of holy and defiant, grotesque and beautiful. unconsciously forces people to tell the truth when talking to them. poisons whatever they touch. eyes of a demon, wings of an angel. can smite but skin will burn when touching iron. can do deals but will require a sacrifice in return, not a soul, usually a body part taken then and there (the hybrid eats it. it favours eyeballs and the liver - angels like raw meat). lights always flicker. makes things explode when angry (esp people and cars). can manipulate feelings, thoughts and memories. can travel to both heaven and hell, not welcome in either places. + standard stuff like telekinesis, teleportation, mind reading, super strength etc. 

sam and dean’s wardrobe are pretty much the same; whatever’s cheap and not covered in blood. however, they do have stylistic differences. sam thinks graphic tees are funny, dean uses whatever’s black combined with john’s leather jacket. their wardrobe melds as they stop thinking of themselves as individuals and more of “me and my brother,”. their clothes are tattered and torn to shreds all the time. hand me downs, hand me ups. when they stray off their “path” and do things that are the crux of a storyline/character arc, this would reflect in their clothes. when sam is with ruby and becomes more and more “evil” he wears more and more red, a colour he has stated in the past he doesn’t really like. when dean is dead, sam starts to wear his rings and john’s and dean’s leather jacket. when dean decides he’s going to say yes to michael he dresses in white, when sam is dead dean takes off every piece of jewelry except the amulet. he holds it clenched in his fists when he’s whispering what comes close to a prayer

logically the amulet should have a backstory but you know what? i love that it’s hinted to be just a piece of cheap jewelry sam found in a thrift store he decided to give to dean. but narratively it should be explained so... idk. what could be logical solution as to why it would react to GOD himself? maybe god wore it once cuz he thought it was neat but he sold it for three dollars because he wanted coffee and then sam found it a week later

i would prefer it if god didn’t show up at all (absent father number one) but if he DID he’s not all powerful just a true neutral (like death, 100% objective) who created a thing that just took a life of its own, much like a parent and a child - the parent helps the child but can’t control it. the times he did intervene or tried to do something it didn’t really have any real long lasting effect so he gave up on trying a while ago. 

@spneveryseason talked about this, how the storyline of sam being possessed by gadreel would be horrifying if we saw everything from sam’s perspective instead of dean’s (her fic is wonderful). in the ‘dean slowly descends into a righteous murderer to become holy’ idea i have this tracks so damn well because again, if dean believes something is right, it is right, no questions about it. everyone around him is like “that’s really fucked up and you should make amends” but dean doesn’t see any reasons for why - sam is alive isn’t he? and seeing it from sam’s pov would really underline how horrifying, dehumanizing and belittling that experience was

john and mary are adam and eve. sam and dean are cain and abel are michael and lucifer. time is a flat circle. history never stops repeating itself. 

sam is the villain of s4. he is manipulated and key information is withheld from him but in the end... would it made a difference? it crossed his mind, that he could be tricked because ruby is a demon after all, but maybe he likes the power, the feeling of freedom, that he wasn’t just the baby, the one who always needs permission to do things. if he has to drain possessed people to get that power... so be it. and it’s for a good purpose, until it isn’t. he’s hungry for more, to be feared and respected. he’s enticed by lucifer’s sweet words, the potential of all that power and the idea of ruling two out of three realms. dean manages to pull him back from the brink because sam decides he doesn’t want to be what john thought he was and fail dean and himself like that.

dean is the villain in s9. he is controlling, the mark of cain without the mark. what he says goes - it’s not a democracy, it’s a dictatorship. he doesn’t see how much pain, doubt and fear he causes the people around him. if some victims or civilians die on his watch that doesn’t matter - just some collateral damage. sam can’t make dean listen to him because dean is the older one, the one who’s always called the shots. dean is the angelic one, heaven’s chosen warrior, he is untouchable and unkillable. he’s is an excellent killer, filling the void with blood and rage which is better than the crippling fear of loneliness carved into his bones. 'i butcher for love, to protect,’ he tells himself. ‘why shouldn’t i exterminate, regardless of the cost? i’ve followed the rules, i’ve always sacrificed. now i call the shots. it’s my right.’

sam’s hell trauma is never magically removed. he’s stuck with the memories and the nightmares and the occasional hallucinations. castiel can’t do anything but offers to wipe his memory completely, but sam says no, he is still doing penance. 

after dean comes back from hell he starts calling himself old man and jokes a lot about he’s 40 years older now (after he’s more comfortable about speaking about hell) 

when sam comes back he feels ancient (he’s over 900 years old at least but he lost count), weary, tired and so so so out of place in this world. he’s forgotten how to put gas in a car, how to drive, how to use a credit card, all the song lyrics he and dean used to yell together, the faces of people he knew before he fell, the softness of a bed, the schools he went to, most of the hunts he and dean, how john died, who mary is, the initials carved into the impala, the taste of food that isn’t raw meat. it’s so much he’s forgotten that he has to relearn. he prefers figuring things out with castiel instead of dean because castiel doesn’t silently resent him for everything he’s forgotten

sam doesn’t laugh anymore. despite dean’s many and castiel’s few awkward attempts, it’s more like quick smile and a quiet “hmm”. on some days he recoils when he sees blood and guts, on other days he’s so apathetic it’s unnerving

sam sympathizes with the brought back mary and castiel more than ever. dean tries to get sam to remember things he’s forgotten from his childhood but sam can’t connect with it anymore. he stopped being that sam a long time ago. dean doesn’t know what else to do than try to force this connection to be revitalized and he fails. sam isn’t that person anymore and this wedge in their relationship becomes a central factor in dean’s s6-10 desperation and isolation. sam is here and safe but it’s not really sam, not the sam dean grew up with

while sam has forgotten how to make coffee, he now knows everything about angels, effective torture tricks, a bunch of lore + biblical history, how to navigate hell, the most powerful and influential demons, rare and powerful spells as well as perfect enochian (he will speak enochian without realizing and it feels more natural than english). lucifer and michael were surprisingly talkative (raging about the unfairness) when taking their anger and hatred out on sam and adam and each other. sam had access to all of lucifer’s memories and knowledge for the time he was the one in control. walking library and encyclopedia of biblical lore.

he still has some muscle memory from hunting and sparring, but sam is ghostly thin and very rusty. even though he’s an expert on lore, he’s not fit to go on hunts anymore and he knows it. 

sam remembers adam and swears he’ll try to get him out, but he can’t. just thinking about the cage makes him vomit. he can’t talk about it, much less go near it. after a while sam thinks it might be better to let adam stay down there than let him come back up and feel this crushing emptiness and loss of direction

sam’s trials take place in s9 instead of 8; coinciding with dean’s villain arc. for sam the trials are a chance to redeem himself again, this time for good by closing hellgates forever. they’re scrubbing him clean of the demon blood and his sins and they give him a sense of purpose again now that he can’t join hunts anymore. it doesn’t matter if he dies because of it. it would be nice with a permanent and peaceful death that did something good. dean is taken aback by sam’s devotion to repent for something that happened years ago and for something sam has already paid for a thousand times over. dean realizes how messed up he himself has become and how he’s helped put sam here, on the cusp of self sacrifice again because of sickening guilt and self hatred. dean begs sam to not complete the trials at the cost of his own life and swears he’ll better himself, be a friend and a brother, not a jailer, dictator or a murderer. ‘if you won’t give yourself or life another chance, please give me one.’ ---> s10 pacifist dean learning to let go of the control, the violent tendencies and the rage

oh wait what if gadreel still possessed sam after the trials to heal him but sam is the one who invites the angel in? he’ll keep his promise to dean about staying alive, as well as heal from the inside and have breaks from the world when he doesn’t want to be present, like he and gadreel will alternate being the one in control. he keeps it a secret from dean and helps gadreel imitate him so dean won’t notice. it’s not so bad, being possessed by this angel - sam can say no anytime and gadreel is a nice guy. since they alternate on who’s present they can access each other’s memories, which is terrifying and embarrassing at first, but since gadreel and sam have been tricked and used by lucifer and been punished for it for far too long, they understand each other. now another creature knows their trauma and terrors without the need for verbal explanation. also having an angel residing in his body makes sam feel like he can hunt properly again because gadreel can heal him and take over in situations sam’s overpowered. this could show how messed up sam has come to view himself and his body. 

dean is conflicted when he finds out; sam lied but gadreel does help sam heal, sam’s traumatized and his self-worth is fucked up and dean has contributed to that. dean convinces sam to push gadreel out, that sam is still valuable, loved and a good person who shouldn’t be in a place where he views his body and mind like a property to be occupied. sam’s faith begins to come back bit by bit, not in god, but in himself, his brother, in the good things in life. they build their little family; sam, dean, castiel, the hybrids, whomever of their allies that are alive at this point.

castiel can heal sam and dean’s wounds but they are never completely gone; they leave scars and phantom pains. the brothers have SO many scars over the years. dean flaunts them to impress people because he likes the questions and the fearful admiration, the attention and the nods of approval. sam hides them.

when dean is in a bad mood or needs to get his mind off of things, sam just drops something like ‘i don’t get the deal with led zeppelin. one of the most overrated bands of all time’ and dean will go OFF every single time about the entire led zeppelin history, their discography and how they’ve shaped rock music. this will go on for hours and sam will zone out after 1 minute. but dean rants nonsensically the entire drive and it does get him to think about something else for a little bit. they stop at a motel and dean is STILL ranting while brushing his teeth. stops when going to sleep but without fail picks up where he left off the morning after and is so into it he doesn’t notice sam not paying attention at all. we could see this once in s1 when they’re searching for john, another in s3 when dean is anxious about his deal coming to an end and then again in a later season, when sam doesn’t remember to ask/doesn’t have the patience or mental capability, so they’ll sit there in tense silence, showing how much they’ve changed.

---> i can see this SO clearly in my head, how they’ll get in the car and we, the audience, will recognize the camera angle, the same lines and dean’s grumpy mood, and we’ll anticipate what comes next. but sam isn’t that kid anymore and he’s not peeking at dean to gauge what his mood is and how much of a shit eating grin he should wear when being an annoying little brother to cheer dean up. now he’s looking out the window, leaned back, they’re not looking at each other. this shot is a minute or two long, uninterrupted. dean turns on music but neither are singing along or doing anything to lighten the mood. 

s1-5: sam gets hooked on demon blood, dean has an alcohol problem. when sam goes through withdrawals, dean decides to quit drinking and joins him because he wants to be supportive, and he realizes that when he drinks two beers for breakfast there’s a problem

s6-10: sam takes painkillers, anti depressants and anti psyhosis meds to numb himself from the phantom pains and reduce post-cage effects. dean started drinking again after sam jumped and still does, but started smoking in addition because he still drives a lot and doesn’t want to die in something as pathetic as a car crash. 

there a scene in an episode in the first half of s8, when sam has decided to stay with dean instead of amelia, and dean has rejected benny in favor of sam, and then the brothers sit in a couch watching tv while drinking beer and neither of them look particularly happy about it - that’s how their relationship is a lot of the time. they know they’re fucked up and neither of them will ever be truly happy when the other’s around, but they owe each other so much and they don’t have to explain themselves to each other the way they do to others. they know each other so well, each other’s traumas and the things they’ve done, it feels fake and exhausting to try to be something other than the veteran hunters they are. misery loves company; they are miserable together but would be far more miserable apart and living a normal life. they do love each other, but neither of them are particularly happy as the show progresses. family is hell and so is the lack of it. 

OK OK i mentioned it in part one, how i had my own very specific idea about how jack should come to be and here it is. long winded but (might just write a damn fic): 

after lucifer was cast back into the cage, he is stronger than he has been in a long time (being in his true vessel helped him stretched muscles he forgot he had. and fresh air.) sam is pulled out of the cage and it leaves a rift in the magic and chains - the binding is weaker and lucifer must act fast to get out before it heals. the cage is still strong enough to hold two archangels, so lucifer has to become weaker somehow to slip out through the cracks. he can’t get out of the cage, but souls can come in. demons bring themselves and human souls as tools for lucifer to use. there’s not much he can do here - consuming them, eating them, touching them, dissecting them doesn’t give him what he wants

eventually lucifer realizes he must do like azazel and create something new of two halves, like when he created demons. he begins melding his archangel grace with a human soul. he tries with demons, but his archangel grace automatically purifies them and leaves them too weak. he must try with a human soul who is good. he finds the soul of kelly kline, who sold her soul to save a loved one. with her, the merging, works. 

he has another self, a twin, a son, who’s half human and half archangel. half lucifer. the old lucifer will die but that’s ok, his desires, presence and self will live on in his new creation. the new lucifer barely makes it out of the cage, only able to due to its human side. on earth it creates a body for itself and takes shape, no longer a form of pure power and energy akin to the sun itself but now a person, reminiscent of kelly kline on earth and lucifer in heaven. they name themselves jack. jack searches for familiarity and finds it in sam, their old self’s perfect tool and another hybrid. jack finds a mentor in castiel, a younger brother and fellow angel with human elements. they do not find anything in dean, the key to his former self’s doom.

jack’s powers: their powers are like and unlike the angels because he is half archangel. jack has wings but sometimes they don’t work, or they’ll end up somewhere else entirely. their body is their own, not a vessel, so jack can’t possess people. doesn’t talk but people “know” what they’re saying or want because jack emits their emotions and thoughts to people they’re talking to like a radio tower. jack can also have this empathic connection and communication with animals. his mood affects the weather. immortal. reads minds. can remove a soul from a body and send it to heaven/hell by touching it, with practice they don’t need to touch a body. 

other stuff about jack: the human/archangel nature means jack only need sleep and food once a week or so. eats only nougat and raw meat. because jack is a kid they nap a lot. levitates when sleeping. never blinks, stares intensely at everything. their eye colour changes based on their mood. eyes glow in the dark. normal humans who look at jack for too long experience memory loss, fainting spells or migraines and eye contact for more than 10 seconds give vivid hallucinations of their worst nightmares. always barefoot, often floats like 10 cm off the ground because they find it more enjoyable than walking. wears the wildest clothes they can find, nothing matches and nothing is weather appropriate

i have a very specific image of jack in my mind; they look like delirium from the sandman comics with the hair that looks like it’s underwater and the fishes floating around their head, here and here are examples. in live action this would look not good or maybe even ridiculous for sure but in animation... endless potential for angels and monsters to have super interesting designs sigh

castiel’s arc should end with him going from blind soldier, to the unwilling ruler of heaven, finding a place on earth with sam and dean, becoming closer with humanity and eventually a father of three (the hybrids). 

[poptod]

Baisemain

Description: Your dead body is dressed up in ancient Mesopotamian clothing, and hidden in the Museum of Natural History. What your murderer doesn’t know is that you’re about to come to life, every night, for as long as your skeleton exists.

Notes: So this is just a quick blurb (and basically a shitpost) about this idea of a murder victim’s body being held in the Museum of Natural History. It’s not specifically Ahk x Reader but there’s a bit at the end that’s pretty flirty. I suppose I could write more, but I don’t know if I really wanna do that. I promise I’ll come up with something new and actually good soon!

Word Count: 1.9k

What comes in death is… nothing. There is no you, no consciousness going by your name, and there is no reality where you exist. Not anymore. You hold no anger towards the cause of your death, but only because you simply can’t, not when there’s no mind to store it in. If you were still alive, still holding a consciousness, you’d probably be rather annoyed - you’re not a cynical person but you’re not a saint, either.

So, there is a time on earth in which you are not a thought, not a tangible thing, and all sense of who you are is subject to the tide of the wind - the idea of you exists, in abstract form, only the image of what you are in other peoples minds. It’s rather blissful, nonexistence; quiet, but not lonely, and peaceful in every way existence cannot be. For one point in time it is blissfully quiet, blissfully dark and nothing, till a bright light sparks, and your consciousness comes back to being.

There’s a light shining in your face, fluorescent and painfully bright as your eyes barely open. Squinting, you try to see through the brightness, taking a minute or so to adjust. Around you is darkness - the only light in the room is the one directly above you, and you’re lying on top of a table that is suspiciously cold. With a groan you sit up, fully taking in where you are, and what in the hell could be happening.

A thousand different solutions, none of them right, ran through your head. Perhaps this is a hospital, you thought, incorrectly, followed by, no, this is too empty. Perhaps I am in a morgue of sorts, which was also wrong. There’s a distinct smell, not especially rancid but certainly not a nice smell, and the room is filled with it. Without word or grunt you slip off the table, and the clacking on your feet is odd - not right for being shoeless and not right for the sneakers you usually wear.

It’s only then that you notice you’re not wearing your normal clothes, or anything that could be considered normal. Long cloth drapes from your shoulders and hips, colorful and softer than anything you own - nothing that belongs to you, no wallet or keys or I.D. are in your pockets, which are sizable. A sort of shawl covers your chest, while a long skirt tied somewhere around your shoulders or waist (it’s all so tight and confusing) covers you from waist to ankle. If you had to guess, you’d place the origin of the style and cloth somewhere in the Middle East, which would be the one thought so far that was right.

The only appropriate course of action, you decide, is to explore, and try to piece together what exactly was happening. So, trying to keep your clothing up (which is an easier task than you think it is, it’s very well made and knotted), you leave the cold examination table, and wander through empty halls.

A good amount of time passes before you hear faint music coming from above you. Someone’s playing ABBA, you recognize that in the least, and you climb up several flights of stairs in hopes of finding some hint of life. As you get slowly closer, the thumping of hundreds of feet begins, then the shouts, and you realize that there’s not just one person playing ABBA, it’s an entire party.

Maybe someone’s having an office party, you think to yourself, back on the course of thinking wrong things. When you reach the final door, you’re only aware it’s the final door by the impossibly loud music, and the vibrating of the door handle when you grasp it. Anxiously you turn, your nerves flooding your hand till it tingled with excitement - well, that or fear, and you preferred to be excited. Though, if you knew exactly what you were getting excited for, you might’ve not been so excited in the first place.

In the center of the room is a very familiar globe, spinning and still glowing even though it’s clearly nighttime outside. Every exhibit you ever remember seeing is dancing, playing games, or talking with one another, and you can feel your breath leave your body - perhaps you weren’t really alive again, but you can still feel your heartbeat. In fact, your heartbeat is about the only thing you can still feel, and when a soccer ball comes hurtling towards your head you can almost feel yourself faint. Instead you duck, and the ball bounces off the wall and back to - Attila the hun, who is definitely not a wax statue anymore.

You’ve been here before, you know this place, and the fact that you’re here is terrifying you more than you ever thought it could. The Museum of Natural History in New York, which is funny, because you don’t live in New York.

Pretending as if everything you’re seeing is normal, you try to look for a night guard; you know they have one, and maybe they’ll know whats happening. At the top of the steps you find him, dressed in the usual dark blue garb, flashlight in hand. He’s talking to someone who’s definitely Egyptian, Ancient Egyptian, and if the crown meant anything, very likely royalty.

“Hi, uh, I’m sorry,” you say, tapping the night guard on the shoulder. “I… what’s happening here?”

He turns to you, and a smile of recognition crosses his face. Patting you on the shoulder, he says, “Oh! Yeah, you must be the, uh, new exhibit. From Mesopotamic or something?”

“Mesopotamia,” the Egyptian corrects him, with a surprisingly strong British accent. You look to him, then back at the night guard, still confused.

“What? No, I’m - I’m not from Mesopotamia, I’m from Colorado. What’s going on here?”

The two men look at each other, communicating in silent looks before turning back to you.

“Um… well, you’re in a museum. A magical tablet brings you to life every night, belongs to this guy,” the night guard says, pointing a finger back at the Egyptian behind him.

“I was dead. Like, really dead, did anyone solve - I was dead! Someone murdered me with a - a knife or something, and now I’m here?!” The reality of your situation begins to set in with you, and it’s not a pretty sight - your eyes go wide and you grip at your hair, wondering how in the hell this situation is in any way possible.

“Hey, hey, calm down. Are you sure you’re not from Mesopotamian?”

“Mesopotamia,” both you and the Egyptian say at the same time, glancing at each other before both turning back to the night guard.

“Right, whatever. You’re from Colorado?”

“Yeah, well… at least that’s where I was living. Wasn’t born there.”

“Makes sense,” the Egyptian says. “Most Mesopotamians don’t speak English.”

“Most Ancient Egyptians don’t speak English either,” the night guard points out. “You’re going to have to prove it to me.”

Internally you groan, ready to recite the events of the current age.

“It’s 1999, and -“

“Wrong. 2005,” the night guard interrupts helpfully.

“In that case, I must’ve been murdered a good long while ago.” An anger courses through you, and you begin to spit facts like you hate them, when you couldn’t feel less apathetic about it. “There’s fifty states in America, which was founded in 1776 by George Washington, John Adams, some guy named Richard I think, and the rest of the founding fathers. Umm… Nelson Mandela recently stepped down from his presidency, and the Sixth Sense came out, which I haven’t ever watched so don’t ask me about it.”

“Okay,” he says after a moment of contemplation. “That’s fair.”

“So you believe me?” You ask excitedly, smiling for probably the first time that night.

“Sure. But I don’t think I’ll be able to convince the other exhibits, they hardly speak English some of them… it’d probably be best just to say you’re Mespotamic.”

You and the Egyptian look at each other, too tired to correct him, and you both silently agree that he’s never going to get it right. At long last the two introduce themselves; the night guard’s name is Larry, and the Egyptian’s name is Ahkmenrah, and your previous deduction had been correct - he was royal, a king to be exact. Larry offers to look your murder up on the internet, but it’s safely assumed beforehand that it isn’t solved, considering your dead body is dressed up in Mesopotamian garb in a museum. No, someone is just a very smart killer.

“Like hiding a dead body in a graveyard,” Larry comments, to which you agree. After that fun excursion in which you are deeply unsettled by your Missing Persons poster, he decides to introduce you to the wide variety of characters inhabiting the museum.

By the fifth person you meet you’re a little numb to meeting famous historical people, and to the fact that everyone keeps calling you Mesopotamian. You don’t look the part, either in skin or facial features, and everyone’s immediate assumption is more than tiresome after the seventh person you meet. The only thing that jostles you by the time midnight strikes is the massive T-Rex, which, defying all logic of the tablet, does not have meat on its’ bones. You point this out to Ahkmenrah, who seems to be the leading expert on the tablet, and he just shrugs.

“Some things just happen some ways,” he says, leaving you more confused than you were before.

Your heart skips a beat when you notice a small child on top of the dinosaur, and begins to beat faster yet when Larry runs after him, leaving you alone with Ahkmenrah. He turns to you with a polite smile, a little too real to be only cursory.

“I never got to officially introduce myself,” he says, and you recall that it was, in fact, Larry who told you the King’s name. “I am Ahkmenrah, fourth king of the fourth king, and very pleased to meet you.” You hadn’t noticed he held your hand till it comes to his lips, a gentle, admiring kiss upon the back of it. Stuttering, you try to get a grasp on your words, blushing furiously from this single show of affection.

“I - I, uh… I’m (Y/N). I hold no title,” you finally get out, wondering if you should add your job in, before ultimately deciding that saying you’re a writer isn’t a great way to earn respect. “But it’s nice to meet you as well.”

He takes you on a tour of the different rooms just as Larry toured you around the people, telling you who each room belonged to, and a little history of the exhibit. He directs you by holding your hand, sending flutters into your heart every time he squeezes your hand when pulling you along to another room. You don’t have the heart to tell him you’ve actually visited the museum before, and whenever he smiles at you, you find you don’t want to tell him anyway - if only to get him to keep holding your hand.

To your quiet delight he keeps holding your hand throughout the night, tracing your veins as he explains exactly what to do when the night comes to a close.

Ultimately, it takes a good long while to adjust to what life is - it’s explain to you that you can’t leave the museum, and it takes you a much longer time to adjust to the fact that no one will ever solve your murder. As close as your friendship gets with the Pharaoh, it doesn’t fully fill the hole in your heart left by the fact that none of your friends or family know what happened to you. But, there are ups and downs to every story, and this story is pretty far-fetched anyway.

[shikagemaru]

Sometimes Tumblr is like a graveyard of ideas and fandoms. Dead fandoms are so intensely sad. You come across some art that really touches your heart and click on the links. "Based off of this fic ____, and this art___" but both links are dead. Those accounts don't even exist anymore and haven't for years. Then you realize that what you thought was brand new was just a ghost, calling to you through time. Community, ideas, in jokes and shared references, art, fiction, friends, the internet devours them all.

My first fandom was The Real Adventures of Johnny Quest. We had a group called JQHR and had message boards and chat rooms. I was just a kid and it hit me right where i lived. Other people liked, loved even, this thing i cared about. They like the characters too and have their own thoughts about them that they can share with me. I read my first fanfictions. The artists were people i could meet and talk to.

But we were based on the early aol message board and chat room systems. They changed and deleted. I lost my friends and my fandom. It never found purchase elsewhere. The show wasn't being renewed despite our petition. They were moving on.

I had Ronin Warriors and Gundam after that. I had friends again. We all loved the thing together. There were people who hated me for whatever reason they needed to hate me. But it was great. I had some of my closest relationships in my entire life because of Ronin Warriors. I even met new friends in real life because of it. Older friends. I'd never had older friends. But of course a half obscure anime can only sustain fans for so long.

Gundam Wing became a home for me. I nervously emailed a fanfiction author who, as far as I was concerned, was the most talented writer to ever exist. She went by Harmony Chan. Pretty hard to search for even on early internet. We became friends. I gushed all lver every new story. Then she just disappeared one day. No new fics. No online presence. I downloaded ICQ just to talk to her but she never signed on again.

I hope they're okay. I'll never know.

Years later I googled JQHR and found a result. It didn't lead me back to anyone I used to know. They were gone. Back into the forgotten places of the world.

I found that again because of Monster Hunter. We talked, we shared experiences and built a network of comrades. Friendships don't always last forever. Not when the servers shut down. Poof.

Bob and George webcomics.

Poof.

Avatar the Last Airbender.

Naruto.

Poof.

Sometimes I come across a ghost and suddenly I'm in that time and place all over again. Wonderful memories abound. Things I might not have thought about it in years fill me with joy for a few moments. Then I remember how many gray hairs I have now. Some names I remember, some I don't. There's no one else to ask but me. My heart soars for a second or so before it sinks. I wonder if the new generations will experience that.

Sometimes the people all go away and they take the fandom with them. Sometimes you see a ghost.

[nickburn]

Art and the Artist in EDH

Most Commander players enjoy constraints in deck-building. Constraints give our decks creative and strategic focus while providing a lens for personal expression. One only needs to look at a chairs deck once to understand that constraints can be interesting problems to solve as well as fun talking points at the table. We’re already well-versed in navigating the 100-card singleton restriction and the nuances of color identity and multiplayer politics. How we navigate them is a series of personal choices we ultimately have to make for ourselves.

With Wizards of the Coast deciding not to work with Noah Bradley or Terese Nielsen anymore, Commander players now have an interesting new conundrum to think over: should I continue to run cards with art by these creators? For me, I think it’s worth the time to take these cards out of my decks and find replacements. In other mediums, it can be harder to separate art from the artist, and even worthwhile to explore how some innovative or groundbreaking works were created by problematic people. In magic, though, the art is not just what sits between the card name and the type line: it’s all the pieces of the card, from the frame, to the flavor text, to the mechanics, coming together to form a cohesive whole. Bradley’s and Nielsen’s art, while objectively beautiful, is also now a negative reminder of the people that made it, and that reminder is not entirely cohesive with the messages the rest of the game should strive to communicate. Recently, some cards with racist depictions have even been completely removed from the game, and I hope WotC continues this trend going forward.

So how do we go about finding alternatives for cards with Bradley’s and Nielsen’s art that we may be running already? Well, I’m going to tell you which offending cards I found in my own decks and the suitable replacements I’ve picked for them. Hopefully, you’ll have an idea of what you’d like to do with your own builds after you see what I’ve done here. 

I currently own six commander decks built around these commanders: Ayula, Queen Among Bears; Niv-Mizzet Reborn; Princess Twilight Sparkle; Grenzo, Dungeon Warden; Zedruu the Greathearted; and Gavi, Nest Warden. My first concern when examining the decks for Bradley or Nielsen art was the commanders themselves. Thankfully, none of my commanders were painted by them. A quick Scryfall search shows us that Nielsen has created art for seven legendary creatures, and Bradley does not have art on any commanders at present.

Thankfully, for the two Akroma’s, gorgeous alternate versions of the art do exist and are cheap to acquire in a variety of card frames (I think I personally prefer the Angel of Wrath art by Chippy anyway). For Hanna, Ship’s Navigator, we have to go all the way back to Invasion to find the original art. Basandra, Ertai, Sydri, and Thromok, though, do not have other versions yet. Hopefully, they will see reprints someday. For now, I wouldn’t begrudge anyone for running them, as they all have unique niches in their colors, and I’d never want to ask someone to give up their favorite commander. If you do run them, though, you may want to consider commissioning an alternate art version from an independent creator, if that makes you more comfortable with playing them.

So that leaves the other 99 for each of my decks. For Ayula, I found that I was running a basic Forest of Bradley’s and Hunter’s Insight by Nielsen. The Forest is trivial to replace, and I already have a Fifth Edition one by David O’Connor I want to use from a Starter Deck I recently picked up. Hunter’s Insight is a good draw spell for the deck, for sure, but there is no shortage of those in green now. I just happen to have a Heartwood Storyteller lying around (art by Anthony S. Waters), so I’m going to slot that in for the same draw function. It’s a creature to boot, so it can pick up the deck’s equipment, and it might even make me some friends around the table. Ayula’s not a particularly group hug-y deck, but it couldn’t hurt, since most of the deck is creatures anyway.

For my Niv-Mizzet Reborn/Maze’s End deck, I was happy to see that I don’t have to worry about replacing any of the Gates or Maze’s End itself. I did place an additional constraint on the deck of only including cards from Ravnica sets, so it already doesn’t have as much wiggle room. But the only card I found to take out was Transguild Promenade by Bradley. I do hope it gets a reprint someday, but it’s honestly not that good of a card. I was mostly running it for flavor anyway, so I don’t feel too bad about putting in a Novijen, Heart of Progress that I have instead (art by Martina Pilcerova). This card is not optimal for a five-color deck, but it is flavorful. And I can always find something else later.

Princess Twilight Sparkle was running Nielsen’s Swords to Plowshares and Bradley’s Winds of Abandon. I’m replacing Swords with the original Path to Exile, since it basically does the same thing and I’ve always loved Todd Lockwood’s art for it. It also helps my opponents find lands if they’re mana screwed, which feels a little better than just giving them some life. Winds of Abandon is a lot harder to replace, since it’s still a new card and I was really looking forward to playing it. I could definitely see it getting reprinted soon, though, so I’m sticking in a Kirtar’s Wrath (art by the prolific Kev Walker) as an alternative board wipe with some upside.

My Grenzo deck was running Bradley’s version of Forgotten Cave and Nielsen’s Darksteel Pendant. Luckily, I still have an original Forgotten Cave from Onslaught, so that was easy to replace. I have a soft spot for Darksteel Pendant since there aren’t that many Darksteel cards, so I do hope WotC reprints this obscure common someday. Scry is an all too common ability now, though, so there’s no shortage of options. I’m slotting in a Conjurer’s Bauble (art by Darrell Riche), since it’s cheap utility and getting things from the graveyard to the bottom of the library is actually super great for Grenzo.

I recently bought Approach of the Second Sun for my Zedruu build (my long-time favorite commander deck), so I’m the most sad to see this one go. The card has become a commander staple since it was printed, as it’s a great alternate win condition for white. It’s especially great in Zedruu, which doesn’t have many other ways to close out games. I’m replacing it with Sphinx’s Tutelage (art by Slawomir Maniak) as a way to mill someone out, although there’s really no replacement for Second Sun. I was going to take out Bradley’s Leyline of Anticipation in favor of another Fifth Edition card, Ray of Command, but then I realized Ray’s Fifth Ed. art was created by known neo-Nazi Harold McNeill, the artist behind the infamous Invoke Prejudice. So I’m going with Dack’s Duplicate instead (art by Karl Kopinski).

Finally, my newest deck is headed by Gavi, Nest Warden, which really likes to have Forgotten Cave and Lonely Sandbar to function. Since I don’t have another Forgotten Cave or Heather Hudson’s version of Lonely Sandbar at the moment, I’m just slotting in a Fifth Edition Mountain and Island (art by John Avon and J.W. Frost respectively). That just leaves Bradley’s Spirit Cairn to take out, which isn’t a particularly stellar card anyway. So another Fifth Edition card, Forget (art by Mike Kimble), is going in instead. It’s cool to have some targeted discard in blue, so it can either trigger Gavi or disrupt an opponent’s hand in a pinch.

And that’s all of my decks updated! Phew.

This is a game and a format I love and want to continue to share with others. I think that can only happen as long as the space we provide for new players is kind and inviting. Bigotry and harassment have no place in games or elsewhere. So by ditching some of these potentially-problematic symbols, my hope is that it makes Magic a little safer for everyone.

If you stuck with me this long, thank you for reading!

You can follow more of my thoughts on Twitter @NCBurnham.

Be kind and stay safe out there. <3

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Mint: late-stage adversarial interoperability demonstrates what we had (and what we lost)

In 2006, Aaron Patzer founded Mint. Patzer had grown up in the city of Evansville, Indiana—a place he described as "small, without much economic opportunity"—but had created a successful business building websites. He kept up the business through college and grad school and invested his profits in stocks and other assets, leading to a minor obsession with personal finance that saw him devoting hours every Saturday morning to manually tracking every penny he'd spent that week, transcribing his receipts into Microsoft Money and Quicken.

Patzer was frustrated with the amount of manual work it took to track his finances with these tools, which at the time weren't smart enough to automatically categorize "Chevron" under fuel or "Safeway" under groceries. So he conceived on an ingenious hack: he wrote a program that would automatically look up every business name he entered into the online version of the Yellow Pages—constraining the search using the area code in the business's phone number so it would only consider local merchants—and use the Yellow Pages' own categories to populate the "category" field in his financial tracking tools.

It occurred to Patzer that he could do even better, which is where Mint came in. Patzer's idea was to create a service that would take all your logins and passwords for all your bank, credit union, credit card, and brokerage accounts, and use these logins and passwords to automatically scrape your financial records, and categorize them to help you manage your personal finances. Mint would also analyze your spending in order to recommend credit cards whose benefits were best tailored to your usage, saving you money and earning the company commissions.

By international standards, the USA has a lot of banks: around 12,000 when Mint was getting started (in the US, each state gets to charter its own banks, leading to an incredible, diverse proliferation of financial institutions). That meant that for Mint to work, it would have to configure its scrapers to work with thousands of different websites, each of which was subject to change without notice.

If the banks had been willing to offer an API, Mint's job would have been simpler. But despite a standard format for financial data interchange called OFX (Open Financial Exchange), few financial institutions were offering any way for their customers to extract their own financial data. The banks believed that locking in their users' data could work to their benefit, as the value of having all your financial info in one place meant that once a bank locked in a customer for savings and checking, it could sell them credit cards and brokerage services. This was exactly the theory that powered Mint, with the difference that Mint wanted to bring your data together from any financial institution, so you could shop around for the best deals on cards, banking, and brokerage, and still merge and manage all your data.

At first, Mint contracted with Yodlee, a company that specialized in scraping websites of all kinds, combining multiple webmail accounts with data scraped from news sites and other services in a single unified inbox. When Mint outgrew Yodlee's services, it founded a rival called Untangly, locking a separate team in a separate facility that never communicated with Mint directly, in order to head off any claims that Untangly had misappropriated Yodlee's proprietary information and techniques—just as Phoenix computing had created a separate team to re-implement the IBM PC ROMs, creating an industry of "PC clones."

Untangly created a browser plugin that Mint's most dedicated users would use when they logged into their banks. The plugin would prompt them to identify elements of each page in the bank's websites so that the scraper for that site could figure out how to parse the bank's site and extract other users' data on their behalf.

To head off the banks' countermeasures, Untangly maintained a bank of cable-modems and servers running "headless" versions of Internet Explorer (a headless browser is one that runs only in computer memory, without drawing the actual browser window onscreen) and they throttled the rate at which the scripted interactions on these browsers ran, in order to make it harder for the banks to determine which of its users were Mint scrapers acting on behalf of its customers and which ones were the flesh-and-blood customers running their own browsers on their own behalf.

As the above implies, not every bank was happy that Mint was allowing its customers to liberate their data, not least because the banks' winner-take-all plan was for their walled gardens to serve as reasons for customers to use their banks for everything, in order to get the convenience of having all their financial data in one place.

Some banks sent Mint legal threats, demanding that they cease-and-desist from scraping customer data. When this happened, Mint would roll out its "nuclear option"—an error message displayed to every bank customer affected by these demands informing them that their bank was the reason they could no longer access their own financial data. These error messages would also include contact details for the relevant decision-makers and customer-service reps at the banks. Even the most belligerent bank's resolve weakened in the face of calls from furious customers who wanted to use Mint to manage their own data.

In 2009, Mint became a division of Intuit, which already had a competing product with a much larger team. With the merged teams, they were able to tackle the difficult task of writing custom scrapers for the thousands of small banks they'd been forced to sideline for want of resources.

Adversarial interoperability is the technical term for a tool or service that works with ("interoperates" with) an existing tool or service—without permission from the existing tool's maker (that's the "adversarial" part).

Mint's story is a powerful example of adversarial interoperability: rather than waiting for the banks to adopt standards for data-interchange—a potentially long wait, given the banks' commitment to forcing their customers into treating them as one-stop-shops for credit cards, savings, checking, and brokerage accounts—Mint simply created the tools to take its users' data out of the bank's vaults and put it vaults of the users' choosing.

Adversarial interoperability was once commonplace. It's a powerful way for new upstarts to unseat the dominant companies in a market—rather than trying to convince customers to give up an existing service they rely on, an adversarial interoperator can make a tool that lets users continue to lean on the existing services, even as they chart a path to independence from those services.

But stories like Mint are rare today, thanks to a sustained, successful campaign by the companies that owe their own existence to adversarial interoperability to shut it down, lest someone do unto them as they had done unto the others.

Thanks to decades of lobbying and lawsuits, we've seen a steady expansion of copyright rules, software patents (though these are thankfully in retreat today), enforceable terms-of-service and theories about "interference with contract" and "tortious interference."

These have grown to such an imposing degree that big companies don't necessarily need to send out legal threats or launch lawsuits anymore—the graveyard of new companies killed by these threats and suits is scary enough that neither investors nor founders have much appetite for risking it.

For Mint to have launched when it did, and done as well as it did, tells us that adversarial interoperability may be down, but it's not out. With the right legal assurances, there are plenty of entrepreneurs and investors who'd happily provide users with the high-tech ladders they need to scale the walled gardens that Big Tech has imprisoned them within.

The Mint story also addresses an important open question about adversarial interoperability: if we give technologists the right to make these tools, will they work? After all, today's tech giants have entire office-parks full of talented programmers. Can a new market entrant hope to best them in the battle of wits that plays out when they try to plug some new systems into Big Tech's existing ones?

The Mint experience points out that attackers always have an advantage over defenders. For the banks to keep Mint out, they'd have to have perfect scraper-detection systems. For Mint to scrape the banks' sites, they only need to find one flaw in the banks' countermeasures.

Mint also shows how an incumbent company's own size works against it when it comes to shutting out competitors. Recall that when a bank decided to send its lawyers after Mint, Mint was able to retaliate by recruiting the bank's own customers to blast it for that decision. The more users Mint had, the more complaints it would generate—and the bigger a bank was, the more customers it had to become Mint users, and defenders of Mint's right to scrape the bank's site.

It's a neat lesson about the difference between keeping out malicious hackers versus keeping out competitors. If a "bad guy" was attacking the bank's site, it could pull out all the stops to shut the activity down: lawsuits, new procedures for users to follow, even name-and-shame campaigns against the bad actor.

But when a business attacks a rival that is doing its own customers' bidding, its ability to do so has to be weighed against the ill will it will engender with those customers, and the negative publicity this kind of activity will generate. Consider that Big Tech platforms claim billions of users—that's a huge pool of potential customers for adversarial interoperators who promise to protect those users from Big Tech's poor choices and exploitative conduct!

This is also an example of how "adversarial interoperability" can peacefully co-exist with privacy protection: it's not hard to see how a court could distinguish between a company that gets your data from a company's walled garden at your request so that you can use it, and a company that gets your data without your consent and uses it to attack you.

Mint's pro-competitive pressure made banks better, and gave users more control. But of course, today Mint is a division of Intuit, a company mired in scandal over its anticompetitive conduct and regulatory capture, which have allowed it to subvert the Free File program that should give millions of Americans access to free tax-preparation services.

Imagine if an adversarial interoperator were to enter the market today with a tool that auto-piloted its users through the big tax-prep companies' sites to get them to Free File tools that would actually work for them (as opposed to tricking them into expensive upgrades, often by letting them get all the way to the end of the process before revealing that something about the user's tax situation makes them ineligible for that specific Free File product).

Such a tool would be instantly smothered with legal threats, from "tortious interference" to hacking charges under the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act. And yet, these companies owe their size and their profits to exactly this kind of conduct.

Creating legal protections for adversarial interoperators won't solve all our problems of market concentration, regulatory capture, and privacy violations—but giving users the right to control how they interact with the big services would certainly open a space where technologists, co-ops, entrepreneurs and investors could help erode the big companies' dominance, while giving the public a better experience and a better deal.

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/12/mint-late-stage-adversarial-interoperability-demonstrates-what-we-had-and-what-we

[gayregis]

sleipnirlo replied to your post “bro if im this petty about how they treat dandelion think about how...”

I feel you friend - from what we've got already, whatever they're doing to Dandelion/Jaskier seems... not ideal, to put it gracefully, and it pains me quite a bit, but if/when they get to Regis... considering the pain in my heart during some parts of b&w, having in mind that I generally believe cdpr's interpretation to be proper (aside from some jarring mistakes) it's going to be a completely another level of ridiculousness on my part; like,, I know it's most probably not possible for the show to meet my standards, but pls... just... get SOMETHING right...

I came to feel so protective of this particular vampire, and people not familiar with the books knowing him as a caricature of himself fills me with dread

tbh my main hope for regis if/when they get to him is that they don’t shy away from making him complicated. he’s kind, also ominous, also funnie … to summarize: shitty old bitch. 

b&w did this thing where they just made regis a very solemn character and also made him closer to the typical arrogant immortal which was just ooc imho... and then they created a new plotline that revolved around him being Uncontrollably Violent for a few seconds which.......... like i just found it SO disrespectful to how regis’s backstory is an analogy for alcoholism/addiction in general........ they literally did the opposite of humanizing him, they uh... monsterfied him? 

regis’s entire character (like geralt’s, and also the rest of the hansa’s) is about paradox and logistical impossibilities. if you’re this, you can’t be that -- but he’s both, for some fucking reason, he defies logic. 

regis is supposed to thread this weird line of what is man and what is monster, and if you’re kind for a century does that make up for three centuries of absolute cruelty? what does it mean to act honorably? at what point can you feel safe and trust someone? 

one thing i appreciate about regis’s character is that he’s always just seemed to go BEYOND his context in the fictional world he exists in. at the end of the day, these characters are not the people we love them to be, but rather messages about what ARE good and evil, what IS humanity, and other deep questions the witcher loves to tackle. within the books, i got a VERY clear sense of how regis as a character was answering these questions and the kind of messages sapkowski was trying to communicate with him. same with the rest of the hansa, in fact. that’s... why... the hansa and ciri and yennefer are my favorites...

to contrast, in blood & wine, i didn’t get this sense of existing beyond the context of the media at all. cdpr just wanted cool vampires which is fine, but the elements of the books are lost because they just gave them up

(wow this got long sorry! i just wanted to explain my thought process behind this list im about to give) 

as for netflix.............. i don’t necessarily think that regis is easy or difficult to cover. but IN MY OPINION nailing these things would help out regis’s character the best:

we should feel safe. one of the things that struck me so hard when reading baptism of fire was how much i initially trusted regis when they found him in that stupid graveyard, despite being well-familiar with the adage of “stranger danger.” he just seemed safe to me. 

this is probably because of how eloquent he is and how omniscient he has the ability to come off as..... so good writing for his dialogue that captures his superfluous nature, that isn’t just what cdpr did where “funny smart guy use big words unnecessarily” ... no, you need to put effort into it by having him use words of an intermediate vocabulary, but using them in such a way as to philosophize about everything and anything that comes up. 

this also relies heavily on how regis delivers his lines when they first meet him. all of his dialogue cues are like, “said softly,” “said gently.” there’s NO aggression, no harm in this man. no reason to fear him.

the atmosphere of his cottage should really communicate this wonderful sense of bucolic bliss, as it were.... the intoxicating heavy scent of herbs... the only lighting in the cottage being fro a pot-bellied stove........ remember, geralt describes this as having could have come directly from a fairytale. in contrast, fen carn should feel ominous, until his appearance.

costume design! don’t forget the apron wrapped around his black coat, please! who can fear a man in an apron?

we should feel suspicious. we SHOULD still feel like he’s harboring some kind of dark secret, though. 

there are so many little clues and points in baptism of fire that hint at his identity, that just should NOT be cut out or overlooked: him being able to detect the healing brokilon medicines in geralt’s sweat, when he refuses the drink politely and says softly, “it’s a matter of principle. i never violate the principles i set for myself,” the dipping into a conversation to name every type of vampire that exists......... the sense that he knows just a little too much to be only who he says he is.

cahir and dandelion making guesses as to who he ‘really’ is shouldn’t be cut out, either. i think their guesses are conduits for the audience to attach onto as we make our own guesses and theories within this short amount of time.

we should feel fear. oh so cdpr wanted crazy ass vampires? well don’t worry, because regis is a crazy ass vampire. but how to get this through to the audience, when he’s not off his shits anymore because it’s the 13th century and not the 9th? it’s going to need to come mostly from geralt. 

they should emphasize the tension in the scene by the yaruga where geralt has his blade to regis’s throat by having geralt’s lines be delivered in a very precise, careful manner. he shouldn’t be furious and dripping with adrenaline, ready to fight regis. he needs to be wary, conserved. we need to sense apprehension to engage in conflict, because he knows that he would likely lose the fight... which will freak the audience out, because asides from that bit with djikstra, geralt up until this point has been pretty powerful and undefeated, i mean we just saw him cleave his way through a fuckton of scoiatel at thanedd (that bit with torque in edge of the world was more for comedic relief imho)

on a related note, the scene where milva and dandelion have doubts about regis and ask geralt for advice, and geralt answers with a laundry list of all the things regis can do and says for himself that he doesn’t know if he could kill him....... that shouldn’t be cut and should strike some fear into our hearts.

regis shouldn’t be devoid of humor. he has his own sense of weird humor...

please keep the fucking pun in: “the immortal soul (...) abandons the stinking carcass and spirits away, forgive the pun.” i think this demonstrates how he has this kind of skewed sense of humor, that serious philosophical topics aren’t dull to him... rather they are exciting and full of riveting debate and also, jokes

that really long conversation with geralt where he concludes with “but i’ll give you some advice anyways: life differs from banking somewhat,” and in the fish soup scene where he really makes fun of geralt as well... but really the whole company should do this

don’t make him an asshole

he should be self-sacrificing for humanity. he should protect the girl in the refugee camp with the utmost conviction... i think this part is kind of easier because regis’s pure actions in the books are enough to demonstrate how committed to humanity he is, unlike cdpr which just made shit up and it went sour because their shit was all like “oh haha humans are so weak and i dont get why they dislike death :/”

tldr: don’t cut shit because even the smallest details add to the larger picture, make a cool atmosphere, paradox of safety and fear. you’re welcome

[kunoichi-ume]

May Drabbles, Day 15

Prompt: awake without them (Anticipation)

Characters: Jedi Dina Volezz and Sith Prince Ari Drellik (who belongs to @cinlat who made the beautiful banner)

Word Count: 1536

Dina pulled her knees to her chest as she huddled against the headboard of her bed. It was late, enough that everyone else was asleep. During the day it was hard to imagine the Zakuulian palace ever being silent, between the constant guard shifts, the twins’ antics and the sounds of someone training – because there was always someone training – the background of the palace was a constant source of the white noise that comforted her so.

Then night would come, and everything seemed to stop. The guard changes were quieter and the large, eclectic royal family retired for the night.

On nights like tonight it was torture. The silence. It was like going back to those dark days when her world was defined by silence, by her inability to communicate with anyone. Days when her mother would shove her away if she approached her and father’s eyes glanced over her like she didn’t exist. The only comfort in her life was her big sister, Rasiel, who comforted her when she was hurt and snuck her medications when she was sick.

The older girl had even tried to teach her to read, but that was mostly a lost cause until she got her hearing implants. After leaving their parent’s home, Rasiel had almost never left her side. She alone knew how the silence terrified Dina.

Even Ari didn’t know how these nights weighed on her. Until Rasiel had moved into Nuada’s room recently, they had shared one, so she could fall asleep to the sound of her sister’s breathing. It was a reassuring sound, one reminding her that she wasn’t trapped in that soundless hell and that she wasn’t alone.

Tracing her finger in mindless circles on her kneecap, Dina hummed softly. The sound of her own voice was the best she could do at the moment, unless she wanted to sneak out of the palace. It was tempting and if she didn’t have one of her fevers she might have. Instead she was restricted to her bed, in a room far too large for one person, in a palace that sounded like a graveyard.

“Why’d you have to move out Ras?” She whispered in the darkness, even though she knew exactly why. Her sister loved the crown prince, they were even speaking of marriage. It wasn’t fair to continue to cling to her anymore. Their entire lives Ras had been the responsible one, the strong one, the one that made sure they had a place to sleep and food to eat.

Then there were the countless times she had tended to Dina while she was sick. When the doctors found her heart problems and the poor condition of her health was finally discovered to be birth defects from alcohol. Their mother drank like an Imperial sailor and being pregnant with her second child hadn’t stopped her from reaching for a bottle at every opportunity.

A sob worked its way up her throat as she realized this was her future. Ras wouldn’t share a room with her again, not as a married woman – and that was one sound she did not need to hear no matter her fears – and for almost half of every day cycle on Zakuul she would drown in silent misery.

Pushing her loose hair out of the way, Dina cupped her ears angrily. “Why couldn’t you just work,” she snarled into the stillness, both venting her frustration and soothing her paranoia, “why even grow ears if they won’t do anything?”

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she shook, her quiet sobs deafening against the silence around her. She wanted, desperately, to go to her sister and take whatever comfort she could get, but it would be selfish to wake her. Dina had even temporarily blocked their force bond as soon as she felt Ras fall asleep, a habit she had picked up in the first few days since the room change occurred. She was determined to stop holding her older sister back from having her own life.

Another ragged sob escaped her a moment before she heard a knock on her door and froze.

“Dina?” She squeaked when Ari’s muffled voice came through the door. “Are you awake?”

Slowly, Dina unfolded her legs and pushed herself off the bed. The room spun slightly as she came to her feet and she braced herself against the bedpost for a moment before making her way to the door. Stopping to make sure her hair was covering her ears, she opened it slowly, she peeked out to see outside her room.

“Oh Dina, do you have a fever again?”

While him immediately knowing she was sick was disheartening, she must look a mess, the genuine concern in his voice made her smile. It was still such a novelty, hearing that in another voice besides her sister’s. “It’s just a mild one,”

Placing his hand against the door, Ari slowly pushed it open further so he could cup her cheek with his other hand. Brushing her tears away with his thumb, he frowned, “then why were you crying?”

“It’s nothing,” Dina said with a sigh as she stepped away from the door. Hit by a sudden wave of dizziness, she stumbled, and Ari caught her.

“Alright, let’s get you back to bed sweetie.” Supporting her with an arm around her waist, Ari helped her back across the room to her bed. Once he had her lying back down, properly on the fluffy pillows and covered in a warm blanket, he sat on the side of the bed next to her. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

Sniffing, Dina turned her head away from him. “It’s really not important.”

“Hey now,” Ari said softly, lying down on his side next to her and turning her face to look at him, “anything that can make you cry is important to me.”

Dina wasn’t sure if it was her fever or her heart condition, but she could have sworn her pulse skipped a beat at his words. She hadn’t wanted to bother anyone else with her problems, but when he looked at her with those beautiful green eyes, she couldn’t deny him. “It’s too quiet,” she said, “it’s like before, when there was no sound.”

Ari frowned, “it was pretty bad back then wasn’t it?”

With how little she had told him about her childhood, she couldn’t blame him for asking. She was ashamed of how much those days affected her still and telling someone who grew up loved and cherished that her parents hated her? That she was definitely not brave enough to do.

Wiping away the fresh tear on her cheek, Ari leaned over and kissed her forehead. “You don’t have to answer that, I’m sorry.”

Dina caught his hand, lacing her fingers between his, and smiled softly. “Please don’t apologize for those people, you’re nothing like them.”

“Good, I’d hate to make you feel like that. So, silence is hard to deal with?”

“I know it’s silly,” Dina sighed, turning her head to stare at the ceiling, “it’s just so hard not to be scared. Implants are imperfect, you know? Someday these are going to stop working and my world is going to be silent again.”

“Dina look at me,” Ari said, waiting until she turned her face down to meet his gaze. “I swear to you, that is not going to happen. If something happens to your implants, we will get them repaired or replaced. Zakuul has the best medical tech in the galaxy, I want to take care of you. Just let me.”

“Thank you, Ari,” Dina smiled softly even while her heart hurt. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate and adore him for what he said, and even more so because she believed him, but just once she wanted to be strong enough not to be a burden on the few people she loved. She was such a mess that Ras was just barely starting to have a life that didn’t revolve around her little sister and now it was like that caretaker position was being foisted onto him.

Fingers carding gently through her hair brought her thoughts back to the moment, to the feel of Ari’s weight on the bed next to her and – most importantly – to the gentle sound of his breathing. It was a soft, comforting sound and filled the silence and settled her nerves.

Dina didn’t want to spend her whole life relying on others, but maybe it would be okay just for tonight. Scooting closer, she wrapped her arm around his waist. “Would you stay with me? I can’t sleep in the silence.”

“I can stay,” he answered right away, before frowning, “has it like that every night? Not sleeping I mean?”

“Since Ras moved out,” Dina nodded, head laid against his chest where she could listen to his heartbeat, “being able to hear her breathing helps.”

Ari wrapped his arms around her and settled more comfortably in the bed. “We can’t have that, not sleeping is going to keep you sick,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “According to Nuada I can even promise to snore in your ear.”

Dina smiled at the thought, “that sounds perfect.”

[cecilspeaks]

Ghost Stories: Bonus Tracks

You can purchase Ghost Stories here.

Transcript of the main tracks here.

16. CARLOS

The finale of my ghost story coming up.

But first. A lot of people don’t believe in ghosts, which is kinda weird, because we have an entire city full of them one town over in Pine Cliffs. But people just refuse to believe that there could be any presence of a spirit after a person dies. And I figured that there is only one way to really investigate the truth of the paranormal. And that is to ask a scientist.

So I invited my boyfriend Carlos to the radio station. Hi, Carlos!

Carlos: Hey, Cecil!

Cecil: So Carlos, what scientific evidence, if any, supports the existence of ghosts?

Carlos: Oh there is lots of valid research done on ghosts, like that famous story where Ben Franklin tied a kite to a gravestone, you know? Ghosts are 100 % scientifically real. In fact, I have a story about a project I worked on that proved that ghosts were real.

Cecil: Ooh.

Carlos: So, I was working late one night, and it was exactly midnight, OK? And there was a full moon, and I was alone in my laboratory. So context: right next door lab is a graveyard filled with former scientists who all failed to have OSHA standard eye wash stations. It’s very scary, OK?

So some of, like, the great minds of our field are buried there. Marie Curie, George Washington Carver, David Blaine, OK? But David Blaine, he comes in and he comes out, right, you got that.

But so… Back to the story, so I was pouring green bubbling liquid from one flask into a beaker full of orange steaming liquid, when I heard a noise, OK? Footsteps. [breathes heavily] I thought it was Winchell, one of my assistants, who lives in the crawl space above the lab. The footsteps were coming closer. I could hear the wind howling outside and I could see an owl on an angular branch just outside the window, it was staring back at me but... [whew] just a normal government surveillance owl!

And then the room, it grew so cold that I began to shiver. And the footsteps stopped suddenly, their sound coming from just behind me and I couldn’t look!

Cecil: Because you were frozen in fear!

Carlos: No, OK so like I said, I was pretty sure that it was just Winchell coming down the stairs..

Cecil: Oh, OK..

Carlos: Yeah so yeah, just stay with the story. So you know, thought he was getting a snack and then I was trying to finish my experiment by logging the results of what happened when I mixed the two liquids. Um ahem (quote), “the new mixture turned brownish”, I wrote in my science journal, satisfied at my productivity. But after that, I turned around to see that it wasn’t Winchell at all, it was an apparition, a hazy silvery form of a person and his hair was curly and wite, and he wore an 18th century cravat and long coat with like really ornate buttons like little flor de lis, you know, carved out it was so delightful. And anyway, he hovered a few inches off the ground and before I could say anything, the ghost opened its contorted wrinkled maw like this! [long pause, audience laughs]

Cecil: So this is the radio, Carlos.

Carlos: Then, stil making that ghastly face, he groaned. [groans] Yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrr… [coughs, gasps]

Cecil: Oh.

Carlos: Anyway, he reached out his cloudy hand toward me, still moaning, and the wind outside roared, and I could hear the owl flapping quickly away. And he stepped forward and I heard the booming clop of his buckled shoe on the hardwood floor, and I jumped back and I shouted…

Cecil: Whoa Carlos, this is too scary.

Carlos: [high-pitched] No, how interesting!

Cecil: Wait, what?

Carlos: That is what I shouted, I said “how interesting!” This ghost with no real tangible form still made noise when he walked.

Cecil: Oh.

Carlos: And I asked the ghost, “how are you making that noise,” and he continued toward me still groaning. [groans] Right, ok. Still groaning and I backed away from him making notes the whole time! I had to circle backwards around the lab several times as he continued following me and I asked him more questions like, “so how did you die” and “where did you get those stunning thights, your calves look fantastic?” But he didn’t answesr. He simply maintained his slow pursuit. I ended up writing down some calculations and observations, but it was getting late so I backed on out of the lab. The ghost didn’t seem to want me to go. He wailed as I stepped out of the front and he made an even more horrible facial expression than before. Like this. [long pause, audience laughs]

Cecil: Radio.

Carlos: And while he made that facial expression, he made one final terrible sound, OK? Like this: eeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.. [gasps] I felt bad, so I told him, “I’ll be back Wednesday night, I want to learn more about you physically..”

Cecil: What?

Carlos: And then I said – oh god, no no no no. I said no no, that came out weird like I want to study your body and then I said aaah, wait wait I just mean I wanna experiment with you, you know? Agh, nevermind, I’ll see you Wednesday!

Cecil: Ohhh. That was a harrowing encounter!

Carlos: Yeah.

Cecil: So did you learn how the ghost makes sounds when he walks?

Carlos: Oh you know what, so it turns out he doesn’t.

Cecil: No.

Carlos. Yeah. That was Winchell just walking aroud the the kitchen, making a little snack. Just coincidentally exactly timed with the ghost. Also, really cool, I learned that the ghost was actually the ghost of Winchell’s like great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, visiting from early colonial Canada.

Cecil: Whoa! I’ve actually never heard of Canada. Where is that?

Carlos: I’m a scientist Cecil, not a map maker! [chuckles] It’s in Boston.

Cecil: Oh, OK. Whoa! Thank you for sharing your story, Carlos.

Carlos: Sure. You know I love it when [flirtily] science and radio overlap.

Cecil: [flirtily] I do too. [chuckles] Love you!

Carlos: Love you too.

Cecil: Thank you, Carlos.

17. DANA CARDINAL

So. Because the ghost stories competition is such an important event in our town, Night Vale’s Mayor, Dana Cardinal, has sent herself, Dana Cardinal. And she is here at the station to deliver her own press conference, so please welcome Mayor Dana Cardinal!

Hello there, Mayor Cardinal!

Dana: Hello to you, Cecil.

Cecil: Now you sent Pamela earlier to speak on your behalf.

Dana: And let me guess, she just told you this story about that rock she ate?

Cecil: Wellll…

Dana: There weren’t even any ghosts in her story, were there?

Cecil: Aaaah not explicitly, but her argument was that she we-

Dana: Cecil! Today it is I who speaks for myself. Not Pamela. Not hollow-eyed messenger children, or the City Council, or community radio, or that power all city officials have to completely take over anyone’s personality and body and use them to spread propaganda.

Cecil: Wait what, you can do that?

Dana: Today I am going to speak for myself. I want to tell a ghost story. It sounds like fun, and frankly being mayor of Night Vale is a lonely and tedious position. I could use some fun.

Cecil: Well great, let’s hear it!

Dana: [clears throat] This is a true story. Or as true as any story is, which is to say that it’s entirely made up. And it is about my great uncle Herbert. Now my great uncle Herbert owned the old mansion on the hill. You know, the one with walls continuing upright bricks meeting neatly doors sensibly shut, silence laying steadily against the wood and stone, and whatever walks there walks alone?

Cecil: Oh sure, yeah. I saw that real estate listing.

Dana: Right. Well, old Herbert died a few years back. His passing was sad, but not unexpected. Our family had long seen it coming because the day, time, and detailed description of the exact farm equipment he would be found scattered beneath were written in detail at his birth by the doctor on the birth certificate under “expiration date”. Also, he had cut off all contact many years earlier with his family, relying only on his silent glowering manservant, Sherfwood, to see to his affairs. Which is how it came to be that Sherfwood was at the door of my family’s house one morning with a message from my late great uncle. Whosoever could spend the night on the old mansion on the hill would inherit it, along with the rest of Herbert’s property.

Cecil: Whoa.

Dana: Mm hm, yeah. You know, you’d think a weirdo like that would have done something strange, like make everyone in my family uncomfortable by naming one specific person the owner and leaving the rest of us feeling left out. No, but instead he followed normal procedures for will settlement. So we all went to the old mansion on the hill and were shown to our rooms. We were nervous but excited, confident that sleeping inside a house couldn’t be that hard.

Cecil: Well, I do it almost every day.

Dana: Mm hm. But none of us made it through the night.

Cecil: Oh no! Dana, what happened?

Dana: Well it was the house. The house was full of truly hideous things, horrible things!

Cecil: Oh like  monsters and ghosts?

Dana: No. Glass-topped tables!

Cecil: [gasps]

Dana: Lacker-veneered dressers.

Cecil: Ooh.

Dana: High-pile rugs. Wallpaper. Wallpaper, Cecil!

Cecil: No, eww. Just eww!

Dana: It was all so badly thought through. Everything clashed with everything else, the design was a disaster! All the cups in the kitchen were covered in a garish star design. We tried to ignore it, to grit our teeth and wait for dawn, hoping to find just a hint of Danish modern or even something made of driftwood. But even my cousin Denise, who’s a ghost, couldn’t stand it. She said that she did not want to waft transparently through any of those ecru walls.

Cecil: OK, now I am going to be sick.

Dana: Plus, what ghost wants to drift through walls anymore? Had Herbert never heard of an open concept floor plan? I mean, it provides more room for ghostly activities, like dragging chains and wailing! In the end, the only one willing to stay was Sherfwood, who had been in charge of designing the place, and so was the only one able to withstand the outdated décor.

Cecil: Ughh. Well, I don’t know if I would call that a ghost story, but at least it did have one ghost in it.

Dana: Don’t you see, Cecil? In this story, the house itself is the ghost.

Cecil: [long beat] Really?

Dana: No, that was a joke.

Cecil: Ah! Oh haha, ahahaa-hahaa, I totally get it now, that’s hilarious!

Dana: [long beat] [clears throat] You know Cecil, I love civic events like this. Serving your town, giving it every hour of your working day, can paradoxically make you distant from your town and from the people in it. You no longer are among them but over them. The dynamic shifts. I miss hanging out with you.

Cecil: Yeah, I miss hanging out with you too, Dana.

Dana: Well then let’s hang out sometime. How about anywhere but the old mansion on the hill?

Cecil: That sounds great.

Dana: OK.

Cecil: Thank you so much, Dana!

18. EARL HARLAN

So this Thursday afternoon, Night Vale’s hottest restaurant, Tourniquet, will be hosting a chefs master class, taught by executive chief LeShawn Mason and sous-chef Earl Harlan. Now, Earl has agreed to come up to the studio and talk about this educational culinary event. So please welcome Earl Harlan!

Earl: Hi Cecil! I am so excited to promote this class.

Cecil: Oh I can tell! I mean, you have your index fingers pulling back the corners of your mouth to expose your teeth.

Earl: Yeah, people say my smile really gives me away.

Cecil: Mm hmm.

Earl: Now, with so many popular cooking shows like Top Chef, The Great British Baking Show, Chopped, America’s Next Top Self-Surgeon and Who’s in the Slow Cooker?... culinary classes are in high demand. Chef Mason and I will be teaching amateur chefs some important cooking techniques. Things like knife skills, knifing skills, descaling a fish, chicken manipulation, using industrial strength lye to dissolve a corpse, how to peel an orange, and what that strange humming closet at the end of the counter is for.

Cecil: Oh yeah! Carlos and I have one of those humming closets, and when I open it up, there’s a light inside and cool air washes over me and I’m just like – what is this thing?

Earl: Well, that’s just your refrigerator, Cecil.

Cecil: Wait, that’s a refrigerator?!

Earl: What have you been using as a fridge?

Cecil: [beat] So tell us more about this master class um, Earl.

Earl: Well, Cecil, since this is the ghost story competition day, I had a ghost story I wanted to share with you, one I heard back when you and I were in the boy scouts. So I need to set the spooky campfire mood a little bit, so just hang on.

Cecil: OK. Um oh listeners, Earl is now stacking some wood on the floor, oh aand he is pouring gasoline over it…?

Earl: Oh haha no no no no, no I wouldn’t pour gasoline on your studio floor, Cecil! This is just a fancy bourbon that’s sold in five-gallon gasoline canisters.

Cecil: And listeners, he is now lighting a fire, um, [chuckling] there is a large fire in the studio, listeners!

Earl: No no, like I said it’s just bourbon! Right, here’s a stick with a marshmallow on it.

Cecil: Oh, thank you.

Earl: Here’s another one with a hot dog…

Cecil: Thank you.

Earl: And here’s another one with a live rabbit.

Cecil: Oooh! Cute and delicious! [creepy chuckle]

Earl: So the story goes, as our old scout leader Ron Veal used to tell it. one summer, a troupe of scouts went camping. They didn’t know how to use a compass yet, so they followed the North Star. But it turns out that what they thought was the North Star was just a firefly, and they were soon lost. It was getting dark. They were alone and afraid. It had been over an hour, so they had to rely on their special survival training. So they drew straws, and the scout who drew the short straw was eaten by the others.

Cecil: Uh, I never actually completed that activity, so I never got my survivalist badge.

Earl: Aww. I did.

Cecil: Oh, cool.

Earl: [clears throat] So. By early that evening, the boys had painted their faces, removed their scout uniforms, donned animal pelts, and developed their own language, government, and currency. They sharpened sticks and invented war chants. Then, just as the sun went down, they heard a voice close by. The voice called, [cheerfully] “Dinnertime, boys!” It was one of the boys’ mothers, calling from the porch of the back yard they were camping in. But they had been away from civilization for so many hours, they did not understand English anymore. Her voice was gibberish. They silenced their chants and paused building the bonfire, and the voice called again. “Enough horsing around, kids! Come inside!” Now they understood her welcoming gesture, so they went inside and they had dinner. The voice called out again, this time from across the dining room table. “Where’s Richie?” But they said nothing. They only ate the food ravenously with their bare hands. “Do you boys know where Richie went?” the voice called again, the boys’ eyes darting guiltily to one another. [high-pitched] “Richieee!” came the voice one final time, but the scouts only shifted in their chairs, pretending not to understand her refined, civilized rhetoric.

[creepy voice] To this day, it is said that if you stand in a backyard at dusk, you can hear the sound of wind rustling through trees, and birds chirping, and you can watch the bright dot in the sky turn orange and sink into the horizon.

Cecil: So that must be the ghost of Richie, right?

Earl: No, that’s just the wind and the birds and a sunset.

Cecil: Oh?

Earl: [creepy voice] But Richie’s ghost did rejoin the troupe later that night, and they all played board games.

Cecil: Ooh.

Earl: He got his apparition badge, and all of the other boys eventually got theirs, too!

Cecil: Oh wow! Gosh, it just feels like centuries since we were boy scouts together!

Earl: Yeah that’s because it has been, Cecil. How have we lived so long? And forgotten so much?

Cecil: [long silence]

These last lines are in the next track for some reason.

Cecil: Well, thank you so much coming on Earl.

Earl: You bet.

19. INTERN JEFFREY CRANOR

I’ve asked my station intern, Felix, to prepare a ghost story of his very own. You see, Felix has been such a hard worker with a great attitude, and I wanted to reward him with some practical broadcasting experience. So Felix, come on over to the microphone, and tell Night Vale your story!

…You’re not Felix.

Intern Jeffrey Cranor: No, Felix couldn’t… [sighs] [softly] make it.

Cecil: So who are you?

IJC: Oh I’m your new intern, I’m Jeffrey Cranor.

Cecil: Oh, intern. Intern Jeffrey, alright um, hey what happened to Felix?

IJC: It’s difficult to say.

Cecil: Aww. Because you don’t know what happened?

IJC: No I know, it’s just emotionally difficult to say it out loud. You know the fridge in the break room?

Cecil: Yes.

IJC: And you know how it makes that mechanical grinding noise whenever you open it, that krrrrr?

Cecil: Oh, yeah yeah.

IJC: Well it stopped making that noise. But you know how blood pours of it now when you open it?

Cecil: No?

IJC: Oh oh oh, heh, well okay let me back up then. You know how near the break room there’s that hole in the wall? Cecil: Oh yeah, I’ve been asking operations to fix that for weeks now.

IJC: Right and you know how that hole is like three feet wide and these weird noises and shouts can be heard from it? and you know how Felix was always talking to those voices?

Cecil: Oh yeah, like all the time!

IJC: Right, like (blablabla).. So you know how when you die, your soul drifts through all of time mostly simultaneously, it’s not really as a ghost although some people manifest as such, but most of us fill the void with our decimated consciousness, all of the pain of life melts away as we pass into the beyond, and the sweet relief is immediately replaced by the crushing pain of knowledge, of eternity and the vastness of a universe that has no fences and no borders, but in death we can see what lies beyond, and you know how it is awful and beautiful and inspiring and ultimately boring because of the whole forever thing, you know?

Cecil: I mean, I’ve never died.

IJC: [laughs] OK, Cecil. Anyway. You know the hunger, the hunger we feel during mortality? You know, that insatiable urge to fill our temporary bodies with comfort, sustenance, something to momentarily destruct us from the immense pain of it all, yada yada yada? Felix had that hunger. He had that hunger, and he went to the fridge in the break room. Because he remembered the potato salad he brought to work last December but didn’t finish. And the fridge made that noise, that krrrrrr! Felix went to open the door but that was, he had forgotten what the voice in the hole in the wall had just been telling him, and that was unfortunate because it turns out that that voice in the hole in the wall was him, it was Felix’s immortal soul across all of time attempting to warn Felix that there was an active jet engine from an Airbus 8320 inside the fridge door. Which Amy in sales left there yesterday after lunch. Krrrrrrrrrrrshhhhhhhhhhup! [long beat] I mean. And Felix was just… [sighs] Um, HR made Amy take the jet engine home but the – oh man, the insides of that fridge is still covered in uh… memories of Felix.

Cecil: [whispers] That’s terrible! Well… [normal voice] To the family of intern Felix… He was a really good intern.

IJC: He was.

Cecil: And he will be missed.

IJC: Yeeeah, I guess. I mean, he’s still in the wall over there, you can go talk to him through that hole right over there.

Cecil: Oh, well that’s good, well could you ask him to finish up his filing by the end of the day please?

IJC: [chuckles]You got it, boss!

Cecil: Alright. Oh hey, Jeffrey Jeffrey Jeffrey. You seem to know like a lot about the afterlife. Are you – dead? I mean I mean I mean are you – like a ghost?

IJC: Oh.. It’s um, difficult to say.

Cecil: Oh, because you you don’t wanna talk about it?

IJC: No it’s just difficult because I’m eating this peanut butter stuffed pretzel. [chews]

Cecil: OK.

IJC: [mumbles through chewing]

Cecil: Oh.

IJC: [chews for a long time] But no, I’m not.

Cecil: Alright, well welcome to the station!

IJC: Thanks boss!

Cecil: Alright, thank you Jeffrey!

20. LOUIE BLASKO

Cecil: It is time for one of our favorite segments: Louie Blasko’s music moment!

Louie Blasko: No.  

Cecil: No?

LB: No I don’t wanna do music, I’m trying to get out of the whole… music thing. I, I’d like to tell a ghost story.

Cecil: But but you’ve got a ukulele and a music stand?

LB: I don’t think so.

Cecil: OK. So listeners, it is now time for Louie Blasko’s – ghost story moment!

LB: Thank you Cecil. Now my horror story is about a haunted locker room at Night Vale High.

Cecil: Mm.

LB: Now there have always been strange sounds heard in there, you know footsteps, the cawing of crows. Distant warped voices singing the Night Vale High fight song.

Cecil: Wait wait wait, Night Vale High has a fight song?

LB: Oh yeah, you know, it’s that song they sing before every football game to remind us that no matter who wins, everyone involved will eventually perish.

Cecil: It’s not really ringing a bell.

LB: No no no, it’s uh, [tone-deaf] “You didn’t have to do that to him, uh he had nothing to do with any of this…”?

Cecil: No…

LB: You know it’s like uh, “I-I was gonna get you the money, I just needed like” um…

Cecil: I dunno, maybe, I…

LB: OK OK. W-w- uh [clears throat]. [plays ukulele, sings] “When doing business with spiideers, I advice that you always honor your debts. I have it on the very good authority of the most reliable insiiiider, that though they seem harmless, even dare I say kind, on the day of the deal when the contract is signed, and though, [out of breath] I cannot stress enough that you must bear in mind that they do not forgive and they will not forget… 

[high-pitched] “Ooo-ooo, ooo-oooo, o-o-o-a ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-oo… 

[speaks] And you can tell yourself: What have I possibly got to lose? But even a humble music teacher, who has never known the warm breath of love, whose cold heart has no room in it for friendship, companionship, partnership or any manner of ship whatsoever. They will find, who long ago traded his soul for a can of trombone grease, and a very rare limited edition Chet Baker LP. No, even a man such as this is not immune, for somehow they know [whispers] the architecture of his heart even better than he knows it himself. And they will find that one thing or person that he cherishes above all else in this world, that single creature whose presence gives him just a little rush of joy. We’ll use just for example, [sings] a boy.

[talks] A pudgy, awkward little boy. We’ll just call him Harold. Ignored and abused by his schoolmates, spectacularly unmemorable in almost every respect. But with a certain promise on the clarinet and not without a charming – lack of fashion sense.

[high-pitched] Oooo-ooo, ooo-oo-oo, o-o-o-o-a-oooo-ooo-oooo. [yells] Everybody! [Cecil and audience chime in] Ooo-ooo, o-o-o-a- ooo-oo-ooo…

[yells] They act with speed, great precision, and professional care. Leaving just a small smudge of blood and a little bit of hair. And an endlessly echoing scream through the halls! [speaks] As if to intimate that his horrible suffering has still not ended yet, [screams] at aaaall!

 [speaks] And I know that the terms of the contract were abundantly [high-pitched] cleeear! The language concise, and the interest rates [falsetto] faaaaiiiir! But as much as one pleads and as much as one begs, to their eight empty eyes and their long furry legs… [quietly] He wasn’t coming back. He really isn’t coming back. Ooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhh…

[yells] You didn’t have to do that to him! He had nothing to do with any of this! I was going to get you the money, I told you that! Ooooooo-oooo, oooo-oo-o-ooo…

Four, three, two, one! [Cecil joins in] Night Vale High is number one! Zero, negative one, negative two, if we go down then so will you!!”

LB: [yells] I’m so sorry, Harold! I am so so sorry!

Cecil: OK, yes, I do remember that song now. Great, great. So OK, um, let’s get on with the story then.

LB: What? Oh oh oh oh yeah uh, that was the story. Uh, Night Vale High’s locker room, it’s haunted. Uh.. the end?

Cecil: OK.

LB: Well, thanks for having me. Oh and if anyone wants to learn the basics of bluegrass, just head down to the burned down site where Louie’s Music Shop used to sit, and just hang out there in the ruins til it gets dark. And then, wait until you are taken gently by the hand. And then, bluegrass lessons! Or something else - will happen.

Cecil: Thank you, Louie!

21. MELONY PENNINGTON

So listeners, I have to admit something. Um, I had some computer difficulties earlier and I had to call technology support. And actually I was pleasantly surprised when Night Vale’s top computer programmer and creator of the local numbers station, WZZZ, showed up to fix my computer. So please welcome Melony Pennington!

Melony, welcome to the radio station!

Melony Pennington: I’m in a radio station? You just said that. I mean, you say a lot of things. How many things do you say that you mean? How many things do you mean to say? What are some mean things you’ve said? Maybe radio station is a joke. Like maybe it’s your house, and you’ve just left some headphones and microphones lying around and you’re like, this is totally my radio station. L.O.L!

Cecil: Well I never joke when it comes to the radio.

MP: I didn’t catch your name. Did you know saying LOL out loud takes just as long as saying the words they stand for? Loss Of Lungs.

Cecil: Oh.

MP: But somehow it feels shorter saying the initials, LOL.

Cecil: You’ve such an active mind, Melony! Oh, thank you by the way for helping me with my computer earlier. Um, I’m so embarrassed that the problem turned out to be, it wasn’t even plugged into the wall.

MP: You would be surprised at how often tht happens, even with computer professionals. Just the other day, I was trying to debug the software the City Council uses to control earthquakes. I brought my laptop, like usual, but then I realized I completely forgot to bring a basic (-) [0:01:41] Ethernet cable to plug into the network. Thankfully, it turns out the device that controls earthquakes wasn’t even running Windows (-X). It’s a glowing red gem inside the hollowed-out skull of some land mammal. Horse, I guess? So I didn’t even need cables, those things run on wi-fi. And you can connect to any wi-fi network with chanting and a little blood.

Cecil: Wow!

MP: Got that software all patched up.

Cecil: Wow! It’s hard to believe that we can control earthquakes with a glowing red gem!

MP: Oh, you can control anything with one of those. I have one that I use to make birds attack my enemies.

Cecil: Oh.

MP: Yeah. I also have it set to move the stars around into coded messages, plus it runs Bluetooth audio from my record player. They’re really handy! [chuckles] I’m tired of talking about that subject. I have a ghost story for the ghost story contest. I’m going to tell it now.

Cecil: Oh excellent, I would love to hear it!

MP: OK, so I got a brand new computer. It was night and I was home alone, or I thought I was alone. When I turned the computer on, the blinking cursor on the screen started moving, without me touching the keys. The cursor began typing out a message. “Help,” the screen said. “I have been murdered and my killer programmed me into this computer.” “Oh, like a literal ghost in the machine!” I exclaimed. Then, there was a long, long silence. I watched the cursor closely, but it just blinked in place. Just when I thought I couldn’t wait any longer, it moved again and began to write out a message.

Cecil: What did it say?

MP: It wrote, “you have to type it out for me to know what you’re saying. I can’t hear you speak.”

Cecil: Mm hm.

MP: So I wrote back, and he told me he used to work in a computer factory, which is how he ended up inside this computer, and that his killer is an evil supergenius programmer.

Cecil: Whoa, whoa, but if the ghost was a computer program that the killer wrote, then the KILLER must have been the one sending the messages. [very fast] Oh my gosh this is so exciting, a cat and mouse chase between two brilliant programmers, so you must have had to decipher clues from the program but then had to consider whether the killer was one step ahead of you, and how do you determine the truth, how do you know what’s important and what’s a red herring, oh my gosh I live murder mysteries so much! What happened next Melony, what happened?

MP: Oh, I formatted the drive.

Cecil: [disappointed] Oh.

MP: [chuckles] It was a new computer, and these box store manufacturers preprogram so much bulky chunk on there. Do I need a cloud-based calendar solution and a pinball game and the ghost victim of an evil programmer? No I don’t. So I formatted and installed my own operating system.

Cecil: Wow, that was pretty easy then.

MP: Mm hm. I’ve got a load of memory now for gaming though. [excited] Hey, hey look, the birds are gathering! Oh I think something cool is about to go down. I should go.

Cecil: Well bye Melony.

MP: Bye, whoever you are. Nice house.

Cecil: Oh, thank you. Thank you, Melony.

22. MICHELLE NGUYEN

A quick update on next Saturday’s open mic night at Dark Owl Records. For more on that, let’s talk with Dark Owl owner, Michelle Nguyen!

Michelle, thanks for coming in.

Michelle Nguyen: Thanks, Cecil. This is Dark Owl Records’ first ever open mic night. We are encouraging everyone in Night Vale who has a song to sing, a standup comedy set, or a thing on their back they want a doctor to look at to come down to Dark Owl Records.

Cecil: OK, so attendees will sign up for a slot to get up on stage, sing their song, do their comedy, or get their back looked at.

MN: Oh, god no. I don’t wanna hear any of that. An open mic isn’t an invitation to just walk up it and start yammering like you’re a real artist. Eww. No.

Cecil: Oh.

MN: An open mic is a live microphone and an empty stage at the front of the room. Attendees will sit quietly and stare at it.

Cecil: But you said that people who have a song, a comedy set, or a diagnosis needed should come.

MN: Of course. I only want people who think of themselves as performers to come. But I want them to pay attention to the only real true performing art. Silence and nothingness. If we were to just stop all of that for a moment and listen to that silence, we would understand what art is. A void.

Cecil: Oh. That’s actually quite beautiful.

MN: Oh no, it is.

Cecil: Yeah. I mean this sounds like a lovely event and inviting and welcoming night for everyone to experience art together. So thank you for sharing your space with Night Vale.

MN: On second thought, I’d rather just hear people read their awful poems and struggle through another (Churches) cover. Everyone come on down to open mic night next Saturday and kill us all slowly with your desperate need for attention.

Cecil: OK! Oh, while you’re here, do you have a ghost story you wanna share?

MN: Yes. I was making myself a mix tape one night. I recorded myself chewing on some tin foil, as well as the sounds of distant coyotes. Coyotes are dope. Also I was wearing a leather wristband, knee-high red socks, and armored chest plate because – it was fashion week.

Cecil: Ah! Mm, I wore my new antlers and rubber hip waiters because it was fashion week. [chuckles]

MN: Antlers and hip waiters? Was it fashion week 2008?

Cecil: [long beat] [through clenched teeth] Go on with your story, Michelle.

MN: So when I played the tape later, it wasn’t what I recorded at all. What I heard was not the chewing or the coyote howls. It was something much much worse. What I heard chilled me to my bones.

Cecil: What was it?

MN: It was a hiss, like a single unbroken breath. A gentle… shhhhhhhh, for like 30 minutes on both sides of the tape. I wept from fright. I was terrified, I couldn’t turn it off! Shhhhhhh.. It must be a curse, a haunted sound that once heard cause you to die exactly one year later. Now that I think about it, that would be pretty exciting. No one in the music industry is doing anything like that anymore. I mean, Madonna popularized audio death curses in the 80’s, but that was like 30 years ago, so it’s like it never happened.

Cecil: OK Michelle, that shhhh sound across both sides of the tape, I’m pretty sure that the recording just failed, and you were listening to a blank cassette. So you’re not gonna die in a year.

MN: [long beat] [sadly] Oh.

Cecil: Are you OK?

MN: [sadly] Nothing fun ever happens to me.

Cecil: Oh well, well that’s not true! I mean, you have a great record store, you have good friends, and you host fantastic events. You’re an important part of our town, Michelle!

MN: [softly] Thanks Cecil. That means a lot. [angrily] I guess!

Cecil: Oh OK, well I’ll see you soon.

MN: [angrily] Don’t tell anyone I accepted your compliment!

Cecil: Alright, I won’t, I won’t. Thank you Michelle! [long beat] She likes me.

23. SHERIFF SAM #1

Oh but first, listeners, my red phone is ringing. And that means it’s time to pick up the beige phone and hear which of the six other ringing phones I should be picking up, so let’s see here. Orange. Oh, that means it’s the sheriff, oh – standing right next to me in the studio!

Sheriff Sam: It is a simple system.

Cecil: Oh, hello Sheriff Sam! You know, you could always just knock and say hello.

SS: But we already spent the money on this coded phone stuff. The taxpayers deserve to get what they paid for, even if it makes everyone’s lives harder. That’s democracy. Or maybe it isn’t. I don’t know or care what democracy is.

Cecil: So how has this day of ghost stories gone for you, Sam?

SS: Look, I want to tell a ghost story but uh, I’ll be honest Cecil..

Cecil: Please.

SS: I’m afraid.

Cecil: You’re afraid of ghosts?

SS: Of ghosts? Well of course. But also – pine trees. They’re just so tall and pointy, you know? And I’m also afraid of the tiny scampering feet of mice I can hear in the ceiling running back and forth, and in addition, I’m afraid that while I sleep an earthquake will happen, or a flood, or a sunspot. I’m afraid of the night time because I can’t see anything and – I’m afraid of the daytime because I can see everything.

Cecil: Oh.

SS: I’m afraid of action and interaction. I’m afraid of contradictions, I’m afraid of food poisoning. But do you know what I’m really afraid of? San dunes, terrible things, like indecisive mountains. Are you a hill or a heap? Make up your mind, sand dune! And I’m afraid of being afraid. I’m afraid that if I’m afraid for too long, then that’s all there will be to me.

Cecil: Well, maybe it’s time you faced your fears.

SS: Ooh... No. I’m quite afraid of faces. The only person I’m not afraid of is the Faceless Old Woman who Secretly Lives in My Home. Or I wouldn’t be, except that I’m also afraid of the elderly.

Cecil: Now I gotta say this doesn’t seem like you, I mean you’re always so authoritative and shouty.

SS: Well what I seem like and what I am is not the same! [chuckling] Except I am very shouty. I mean not now obviously but then [shouts] suddenly, at any moment I am shouting and I cannot hear my fears!

Cecil: Aww, there’s the sheriff I know.

SS: But then I’m not shouting and I’m afraid again. Cecil, one day I will look you right in the eye, and I will tell you a ghost story. I promise you that.

Cecil: Well great!

SS: Until then, Cecil – uh oh, it appears your silver phone is ringing, and you know what that means.

Cecil: Uhh, actually I don’t. What does the silver phone mean? Oh.. Now they’re gone. Now I’m gonna be worried about this.

24. SHERIFF SAM #2 This is the same story told by Dana above

Oh, listeners, it appears that Sheraiff Sam has something to add to their previous statement as… they are currently breaking down my door with a battering ram and have thrown several smoke canisters into the room. [coughs] Sheriff, what is this emergency?

SS: Cecil, I’m ready. Even though I’m still afraid, I want to tell a ghost story of my own. It’s my legal right, says so in the law. Don’t try to censor me.

Cecil: I won’t. You know, you could have just asked, I mean you don’t need to break down the door.

SS: Oh no, the door broke itself.

Cecil: Oh.

SS: We were trying to stop it. Anyway. This is a true story. Or as true as any other story is, which is to say that it is entirely made up. And it’s about my great uncle Herbert. Now, my great uncle Herbert owned the old mansion on the hill. You know, the one with walls continuing upright, bricks meeting neatly, doors sensibly shut, silence laying steadily against the wood and stone, and whatever walks there walks alone?

Cecil: Yeah, sure. I saw that real estate listing.

SS: Right. Well, old Herbert died a few years back. His passing was sad, but not unexpected. Our family had long seen it coming because the day, time, and detailed description of the exact farm equipment he would be found scattered beneath were written in detail at his birth by the doctor on the birth certificate under “expiration date”. Also, he had cut off all contact many years earlier with his family, relying only on his silent glowering manservant, Sherfwood, to see to his affairs. Which is how it came to be that Sherfwood was at the door of my family’s house one morning with a message from my late great uncle. Whosoever could spend the night on the old mansion on the hill would inherit it, along with the rest of Herbert’s property.

Cecil: Oo, wow.

SS: Yes. You know, you’d think a weirdo like that would have done something strange, like make everyone in my family uncomfortable by naming one specific person the owner and leaving the rest of us feeling left out. But instead he followed normal procedures for a state settlement. We all went to the old mansion on the hill and were shown to our rooms. We were nervous but excited, confident that sleeping inside a house couldn’t be that hard.

Cecil:  I mean, I do it almost every day.

SS: But none of us made it through the night.

Cecil: Oh no! Sheriff, what happened?

SS: It was the house. [sighs] The house was full of truly hideous things, horrible things!

Cecil: Monsters, ghosts?

SS: No. Glass-topped tables!

Cecil: [gasps]

SS: Lacker-veneered dressers.

Cecil: Ohh.

SS: High-pile rugs. Wallpaper. Wallpaper, Cecil!

Cecil: Oh god!

SS: It was all so badly thought through. Everything clashed with everything else, the design was a disaster! All the cups in the kitchen were covered in a garish star design. We tried to ignore it, to grit our teeth and wait for dawn, hoping to find just a hint of Danish modern or something made of driftwood. But even my cousin Denise, who’s a ghost, couldn’t stand it. She said she did not want to waft transparently through any of those ecru walls.

Cecil: Oh god, ecru? I’m gonna be sick!

SS: In the end, the only one willing to stay was Sherfwood, who had been in charge of designing the place, and so was the only one able to withstand the outdated décor.

Cecil: Ughh. Well, I don’t know if I would call that a ghost story, but at least it did have a ghost in it.

SS: But I told it, didn’t I? I’m proud of myself. Thank you. But uh, but I am sorry about your door, heh. I’m sorry about a lot of things. I find that scaring someone else does help alleviate my own fears, so I had to break down your door, I’m sorry.

Cecil: That’s OK, Sheriff. You know, a true apology is changing how you act in the future.

SS: Mmm.. that sounds difficult. I-I’m not sorry enough for that. I said some words and that should make up for anything I’ve ever done or ever will do. Until next time, Cecil!

Cecil: Alright, until next time She- oh, and… [long beat] And they broke my window on their way out. [sighs]

[neptunecreek]

Mint: Late-Stage Adversarial Interoperability Demonstrates What We Had (And What We Lost)

In 2006, Aaron Patzer founded Mint. Patzer had grown up in the city of Evansville, Indiana—a place he described as "small, without much economic opportunity"—but had created a successful business building websites. He kept up the business through college and grad school and invested his profits in stocks and other assets, leading to a minor obsession with personal finance that saw him devoting hours every Saturday morning to manually tracking every penny he'd spent that week, transcribing his receipts into Microsoft Money and Quicken.

Patzer was frustrated with the amount of manual work it took to track his finances with these tools, which at the time weren't smart enough to automatically categorize "Chevron" under fuel or "Safeway" under groceries. So he conceived on an ingenious hack: he wrote a program that would automatically look up every business name he entered into the online version of the Yellow Pages—constraining the search using the area code in the business's phone number so it would only consider local merchants—and use the Yellow Pages' own categories to populate the "category" field in his financial tracking tools.

It occurred to Patzer that he could do even better, which is where Mint came in. Patzer's idea was to create a service that would take all your logins and passwords for all your bank, credit union, credit card, and brokerage accounts, and use these logins and passwords to automatically scrape your financial records, and categorize them to help you manage your personal finances. Mint would also analyze your spending in order to recommend credit cards whose benefits were best tailored to your usage, saving you money and earning the company commissions.

By international standards, the USA has a lot of banks: around 12,000 when Mint was getting started (in the US, each state gets to charter its own banks, leading to an incredible, diverse proliferation of financial institutions). That meant that for Mint to work, it would have to configure its scrapers to work with thousands of different websites, each of which was subject to change without notice.

If the banks had been willing to offer an API, Mint's job would have been simpler. But despite a standard format for financial data interchange called OFX (Open Financial Exchange), few financial institutions were offering any way for their customers to extract their own financial data. The banks believed that locking in their users' data could work to their benefit, as the value of having all your financial info in one place meant that once a bank locked in a customer for savings and checking, it could sell them credit cards and brokerage services. This was exactly the theory that powered Mint, with the difference that Mint wanted to bring your data together from any financial institution, so you could shop around for the best deals on cards, banking, and brokerage, and still merge and manage all your data.

At first, Mint contracted with Yodlee, a company that specialized in scraping websites of all kinds, combining multiple webmail accounts with data scraped from news sites and other services in a single unified inbox. When Mint outgrew Yodlee's services, it founded a rival called Untangly, locking a separate team in a separate facility that never communicated with Mint directly, in order to head off any claims that Untangly had misappropriated Yodlee's proprietary information and techniques—just as Phoenix computing had created a separate team to re-implement the IBM PC ROMs, creating an industry of "PC clones."

Untangly created a browser plugin that Mint's most dedicated users would use when they logged into their banks. The plugin would prompt them to identify elements of each page in the bank's websites so that the scraper for that site could figure out how to parse the bank's site and extract other users' data on their behalf.

To head off the banks' countermeasures, Untangly maintained a bank of cable-modems and servers running "headless" versions of Internet Explorer (a headless browser is one that runs only in computer memory, without drawing the actual browser window onscreen) and they throttled the rate at which the scripted interactions on these browsers ran, in order to make it harder for the banks to determine which of its users were Mint scrapers acting on behalf of its customers and which ones were the flesh-and-blood customers running their own browsers on their own behalf.

As the above implies, not every bank was happy that Mint was allowing its customers to liberate their data, not least because the banks' winner-take-all plan was for their walled gardens to serve as reasons for customers to use their banks for everything, in order to get the convenience of having all their financial data in one place.

Some banks sent Mint legal threats, demanding that they cease-and-desist from scraping customer data. When this happened, Mint would roll out its "nuclear option"—an error message displayed to every bank customer affected by these demands informing them that their bank was the reason they could no longer access their own financial data. These error messages would also include contact details for the relevant decision-makers and customer-service reps at the banks. Even the most belligerent bank's resolve weakened in the face of calls from furious customers who wanted to use Mint to manage their own data.

In 2009, Mint became a division of Intuit, which already had a competing product with a much larger team. With the merged teams, they were able to tackle the difficult task of writing custom scrapers for the thousands of small banks they'd been forced to sideline for want of resources.

Adversarial interoperability is the technical term for a tool or service that works with ("interoperates" with) an existing tool or service—without permission from the existing tool's maker (that's the "adversarial" part).

Mint's story is a powerful example of adversarial interoperability: rather than waiting for the banks to adopt standards for data-interchange—a potentially long wait, given the banks' commitment to forcing their customers into treating them as one-stop-shops for credit cards, savings, checking, and brokerage accounts—Mint simply created the tools to take its users' data out of the bank's vaults and put it vaults of the users' choosing.

Adversarial interoperability was once commonplace. It's a powerful way for new upstarts to unseat the dominant companies in a market—rather than trying to convince customers to give up an existing service they rely on, an adversarial interoperator can make a tool that lets users continue to lean on the existing services, even as they chart a path to independence from those services.

But stories like Mint are rare today, thanks to a sustained, successful campaign by the companies that owe their own existence to adversarial interoperability to shut it down, lest someone do unto them as they had done unto the others.

Thanks to decades of lobbying and lawsuits, we've seen a steady expansion of copyright rules, software patents (though these are thankfully in retreat today), enforceable terms-of-service and theories about "interference with contract" and "tortious interference."

These have grown to such an imposing degree that big companies don't necessarily need to send out legal threats or launch lawsuits anymore—the graveyard of new companies killed by these threats and suits is scary enough that neither investors nor founders have much appetite for risking it.

For Mint to have launched when it did, and done as well as it did, tells us that adversarial interoperability may be down, but it's not out. With the right legal assurances, there are plenty of entrepreneurs and investors who'd happily provide users with the high-tech ladders they need to scale the walled gardens that Big Tech has imprisoned them within.

The Mint story also addresses an important open question about adversarial interoperability: if we give technologists the right to make these tools, will they work? After all, today's tech giants have entire office-parks full of talented programmers. Can a new market entrant hope to best them in the battle of wits that plays out when they try to plug some new systems into Big Tech's existing ones?

The Mint experience points out that attackers always have an advantage over defenders. For the banks to keep Mint out, they'd have to have perfect scraper-detection systems. For Mint to scrape the banks' sites, they only need to find one flaw in the banks' countermeasures.

Mint also shows how an incumbent company's own size works against it when it comes to shutting out competitors. Recall that when a bank decided to send its lawyers after Mint, Mint was able to retaliate by recruiting the bank's own customers to blast it for that decision. The more users Mint had, the more complaints it would generate—and the bigger a bank was, the more customers it had to become Mint users, and defenders of Mint's right to scrape the bank's site.

It's a neat lesson about the difference between keeping out malicious hackers versus keeping out competitors. If a "bad guy" was attacking the bank's site, it could pull out all the stops to shut the activity down: lawsuits, new procedures for users to follow, even name-and-shame campaigns against the bad actor.

But when a business attacks a rival that is doing its own customers' bidding, its ability to do so has to be weighed against the ill will it will engender with those customers, and the negative publicity this kind of activity will generate. Consider that Big Tech platforms claim billions of users—that's a huge pool of potential customers for adversarial interoperators who promise to protect those users from Big Tech's poor choices and exploitative conduct!

This is also an example of how "adversarial interoperability" can peacefully co-exist with privacy protection: it's not hard to see how a court could distinguish between a company that gets your data from a company's walled garden at your request so that you can use it, and a company that gets your data without your consent and uses it to attack you.

Mint's pro-competitive pressure made banks better, and gave users more control. But of course, today Mint is a division of Intuit, a company mired in scandal over its anticompetitive conduct and regulatory capture, which have allowed it to subvert the Free File program that should give millions of Americans access to free tax-preparation services.

Imagine if an adversarial interoperator were to enter the market today with a tool that auto-piloted its users through the big tax-prep companies' sites to get them to Free File tools that would actually work for them (as opposed to tricking them into expensive upgrades, often by letting them get all the way to the end of the process before revealing that something about the user's tax situation makes them ineligible for that specific Free File product).

Such a tool would be instantly smothered with legal threats, from "tortious interference" to hacking charges under the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act. And yet, these companies owe their size and their profits to exactly this kind of conduct.

Creating legal protections for adversarial interoperators won't solve all our problems of market concentration, regulatory capture, and privacy violations—but giving users the right to control how they interact with the big services would certainly open a space where technologists, co-ops, entrepreneurs and investors could help erode the big companies' dominance, while giving the public a better experience and a better deal.

from Deeplinks https://ift.tt/2DNYjQL

[star-nova]

The Lives of the RiffRaff: Ellia Rambeau-The Sound of Secrets

Previous: 

We Are the RiffRaff Rickie Johnson-The Art of War Vera Sherwood-Little Sister Kali Muburu-Hair Tracy Kwan-Vergil Franz Fawke-Hecklers James Weaver-The Preacher Mamoru Hayagawa-Three Weddings Charmain Dekker-Frankfort Talia Santiago-Queen of the City Sophia Bolshevik-Elsie’s Boyfriend Elsie Bolshevik-Blood

The quiet solitude of our little town welcomed us back with open arms. Everything was exactly as we had left it, and there was no grand fanfare to celebrate our return. The town had been free to forget we existed in the two weeks we had been away, and now that we're back three days before our planned return, it could decide for itself whether or not it wanted to remember us again.

But there was our bretheren, the fellow RiffRaff. The first ones we passed were Aaron and Jager, who must've been on their break from work and were carrying wrapped sandwiches from the deli. They waved at us, and Aaron called out, “Hey! Hey, you're back!” Talia didn't stop for them, nor did she stop for Paige when she climbed up onto her fence to watch us pass by, nor did she even stop for her good friend Arthur when he darted off down the road after us, shouting, “He-ey, Talia! Talia's back! She's back, y'all!”

The hours-long drive back to Tanager was eerily silent. Even Talia, who normally never shut up, hardly spoke a word. She, and we, had too many secrets to lock up, and the sound of secrets is a dead, spooky silence. The city had changed us all in the worst possible way, and left us with these heavy new burdens that nobody asked for.

Talia pulled up into her driveway, where her birthday motorcycle dutifully waited for her, and said, “Show's over. Get out.” I didn't think I'd be too willing to take a trip with Talia again, which I'm sure was just fine with her. I opened Sophia's door for her, but she made it clear that she wanted to be the last one out of the van. We allowed her that.

Charmain said, “Thank you for taking us all out, Talia. Even on account of...” She stopped herself. “Well...I'd like to try to think of it all in terms of how much fun we all had before...”

“Fuck it, Char,” Talia said. “There's no other way to think about it, so we just won't think about it at all.” She held all of the bitterness that came with being prematurely forced out of your element. Talia owned the city. She was the city. She would have liked more time in her home, with her family, where she was the queen. Now, she was back in Tanager where she would be RiffRaff again. I never felt sorry for Talia Santiago until now.

“We'd better get going, then,” I said. “Home missed us.” I looked to Sophia, who was holding onto her suitcase like it was a shield. Now, everything had to be a shield. I motioned for her to follow us back to the rental house we both shared. It was at that moment that Arthur came vaulting over the fence. “There she is!” he cried out, flinging his arms around Talia. “Welcome back, you fucking queen, you! Welcome the hell back!”

She socked him in the gut. It meant she was glad to see him.

Our first night back in town, Ramona invited us over to McEvoy's to share our vacation stories. Sophia declined to go, as I expected her to. When we got there, we found a small party of RiffRaff there waiting for us, providing all of the welcome we didn't get from the Others. There was Ramona and Paige, Bex, Aaron, and Jager, Leon and Vera, Kali, Zatch, and Rickie, and Franz and Emery. My heart swelled with sudden warmth and love for our neighbors, and I realized just how much I'd missed them all while we were in the city.

The first thing Ramona asked us was, “Where's Sophia?”

“She isn't feeling well,” I told her.

“Aw, that sucks to hear,” Ramona said. “But how was your trip? Tell us everything!”

Oh, Ramona, we can't tell you everything. I looked at the others, who were all locked up inside themselves with everything to hide. Finally, Charmain was the first to speak: “Well, we met Talia's family.”

You could have heard a pin drop. I don't think any of them had even thought of Talia having a family. To be honest, they weren't at all what I had expected either. Vera asked, “What were they like?”

“I can talk about my own family, thank you, Charmain,” Talia spoke up. But instead of the truth, she said, “They rest seven feet beneath an old graveyard, deep in the heart of the city. On the night of a full moon, they come out when summoned by an incantation spoken by the bearer of a cursed artifact...”

“Oh, Talia.” Charmain rolled her eyes.

Talia shrugged. “They're a typical big-ass Portuguese family. There isn't much else to them.” She was holding back. There was nothing at all typical about the Santiago family, but I suspected she'd rather let the others' imaginations run wild.

Zatch asked, “Did you do anything awesome? See any cool sights?”

Charmain passed around her phone full of the pictures we'd taken in happier times. There was a picture of me, Sophia, and Elsie hanging upside-down from a jungle gym in the park. Our faces were red from the blood rushing to them, Elsie's tongue was hanging out, and Sophia had the goofiest grin on her face. I wondered if I'd ever see her smile like that again.

Out of nowhere, Paige asked us, “Did you pick up any guys?”

Some of the others chuckled. RiffRaff only picked up other RiffRaff. I wanted to tell them all about how the city broke that rule, how we'd been waved at by guys on the road and how guys at the club had asked for our numbers, and how Talia's brother Monty kept coming around the flat just to see Charmain, under the pretense of  “checking up on us.” In Tanager we were RiffRaff and in the city we were beauties. But to bring any of it up would eventually lead to the monster Elsie found at the arcade...

“No,” Elsie told them, “we didn't.”

I washed down the secrets with my draft of ale.

By Monday, life settled back into place. Charmain returned to her flower shop, sending Melinda off with two weeks' pay in her pocket. I went back to work at the library, and that's where I discovered that Sophia had quit her job there.

I knew nothing would ever really be the same again.

That afternoon after work, I found Sophia sitting on the couch and staring into nothingness, as she tended to do these days. I sat down beside her. “So,” I said, “you quit your job?”

Sophia looked at me as if she was afraid I might be mad. I put my arm around her to reassure her. “What happened, Soph?”

She was silent for a good fifty seconds. Then finally, she said, “I j...I j...I j-just c-can't handle it right now.”

She just couldn't face the world, not anymore. The world was too sinister and uncertain and full of dark secrets. I gave her a hug. “It's okay, Soph,” I said. “Just do what you need to do, all right?” I patted her on the back. “We'll get by.” Secretly, I had no idea how we'd be able to keep up with the rent and bills with only my check. Elsie had her own apartment to worry about and I didn't want to burden her by asking her for help. But now was not the time to worry Sophia. I could worry about it all on my own. “We'll be okay,” I said, more to myself than to her.

“I'm...I'm so s-sorry,” Sophia said.

“I'll figure something out,” I assured her, squeezing her hand. “I just want you to focus on you right now.”

“Ellia?” Sophia looked at me like she had been concealing secrets all day, and none of them were any good. I nodded to her; after all that had happened and then finding out I'd have to keep a flat afloat on my own, I figured I could handle anything else. I was wrong.

“Elsie...us...we....we might h-have to...to go b-back to our parents...”

Crash. My entire world toppled like a giant game of Jenga that Sophia and I had both lost. That awful Kyle had moved the one block that would send the tower falling down. Too many thoughts spoke all at once: No! Not without Sophia! Sophia can't leave! I can't live here without Sophia! We had lived together since our college days, when we had been eachother's only friend. We'd graduated together, got jobs together, moved to Tanager together “just to see what it would be like,” became RiffRaff together, and now we had to carry eachother's pain. At the same time, I wanted to slap myself for being so damn selfish. My best friend in the world had been so violated and devastated that her entire world had to change, all in the space of one horrible moment, and I was only thinking about how I'd go on without her. In the space of that one horrible moment, everything that made her Sophia Bolshevik had been taken away from her. I thought about the big goofy grin on the jungle gym. I thought about jumping rope in the park and racing eachother across the community pool. I thought about her pretty caroling voice at Florence's Christmas party and our sparklers last 4th of July—would the 4th of July even be allowed to come this year? All of it was a thing of the past, and it was all because of that one awful, awful moment.

I didn't know what to say. There didn't seem to be a damn thing I had any right to say. I pushed aside the overwhelming sound of secrets in my head, secrets that the two of us now had to carry together. I wrapped my best friend up in my arms and I held her and held her and held her.