#i hate corporate computer chains

[wandering-wolf23]

Yesterday, my 12 year old laptop died.

This machine was an XPS laptop. It was in perfect working order up until the motherboard decided to die. I've swapped keyboards, screens, batteries, and a track pad on this thing, all with the help of YouTube. I actually wanted to get this machine repaired until I learned it would be about 3 grand for a repair that might work. There would be no guarantee and it would be hard finding someone willing to work on a computer that old.

I'm paying someone for data recovery because he can do it better and quicker. When that's done and I have the hard drive, I'm going to donate my old XPS. It can still be repaired if you have the right part and enough time. People do. I'm donating it to a program that takes old computers like these, fixes them, and gives them to low income students. This computer will probably last another 5 years (or more). Parts for it are easily purchased on Amazon.

My new computer is coming today. It's the same build, just slightly newer. It will last me another 12 years I hope. I will repair it as needed. Parts are easily available on Amazon. It will do everything I need it to and, when it's time, I'll swap it all over to a new computer from that same series.

Being able to repair my own machines has made me an XPS user for life. It allows me to save money and cut down on e-waste. So many people are stunned that my old computer was 12 (the one I had before this was 15 before it failed). We are so used to a society with disposable technology that it's genuinely shocking to people when someone says they fixed their own laptop.

But why should people try? So many laptops are made so you can't just unscrew and pop the back off. So many computers are made to fail after two, three, or four years. So many computers are made to force you to buy a new one for whatever capitalist bullshit reason.

I'll gladly pay extra for right to repair and a solid build with easily available replacement parts. That's what's important to me.

[demonbanger]

kento nanami with goth! gf

MDI | 18+ themes sprinkled in here 🦇 | afab mention

kento, who finds your aesthetic immensely appealing. the black is so soothing to look at after a day of being in front of a damn computer screen. You’re a breath of fresh air.

speaking of that, kento, who loves your obscure, witchy perfumes that encapsulate feelings. like your liminal space perfume, your old library perfume, the one that smells like burning leaves.

kento, who kisses your ankles and up your legs through your fishnets, or the more open parts of your skull tights. if they don’t have a pretty design he loves to rip your tights….not in the fashionable ripped tights way, more…in a special area….

kento, who will absolutely cook you breakfast looking up certain recipes to add squid ink, or shape your morning muffins as little skulls. he thinks your interest in the macabre is cute.

kento, who studiously listens while you talk about your recent vulture culture finds, examines your preservations, and honors the beauty of the specimens (you’re his favorite specimen that he wants to preserve…forever 🖤).

kento, an elder emo (I mean, have you SEEN his first year photos????) who loves when you play your nu wave, really any music you enjoy. If you have the aux, he does not judge and in fact enjoys the gloomy type of song. (emo , goth , alt are of course not a monolith but elder emo is the most common phrase, plus that’s def what his hair was giving)

kento, whose cheekbones are PERFECT for when you want to do a “gf does her bf’s makeup challenge” goth edition. oh how his bone structure is STUNNING in trad goth makeup.

kento absolutely has some gorgeous corporate goth outfits. complete with … harnesses. sometimes you swear he wears his work uniform in an all noir edition when you’re ovulating (he absolutely does track your cycle)

kento, whose dirty whispers in your ears in the batty nightclub can absolutely match a type o song in how sultry they are

kento, who has a reverence for the dead, and will stroll through the cemetery with you to visit his late friend and drop roses.

kento, who shops for little fans, umbrellas, gloves, spooky bags, creepy shades, and more….you’re constantly seeing something on the kitchen table and have to coax him into toning it down a little before you lose closet space.

kento, the perfect man to watch a scary movie with, as he’s stoic and protects you and is so, so brave. he finds their plot enjoyable as you anticipate a jump-scare. you both hate jumpscares. They’re cheap tactics after all.

kento, who goes on Victorian/ romantic / vampire goth tea parties with you. He absolutely has patterned ties, one of your favorites being a spider web tie. One day he pulled out a 3 piece suit of rich dark red and black that suited his features, his brown eyes so beautifully. let’s just say you were under a spell….

kento, who visits you at the nail salon, pays for your beautiful manicures, asks you of the theme this time, and kisses each nail when you leave.

kento, who calls you his adorable black cat. You are in fact the orange cat of the relationship, and he gives off more black cat energy.

kento, who is down to role play during spicy time. he makes for an amazing vampire….biting and nibbling spots on you he’s memorized

kento, who always laces up your corset, your shoelaces, buckles your body harnesses, clips your chains, pulls your tights up, helps you tease your hair, holds up a napkin whilst you apply your white powder (cornstarch) so you don’t get that white on your black outfit. the man just really wants to help you. he will be so patient no matter how long it takes you to get ready. he adores how much care you put into everything.

kento, who finds your gremlin mode Adam Sandler oversized beetlejuice t shirt pj outfit intoxicating.

kento, who usually leaves for work before your night owl self awakens, leaving little notes. Poems about you. It’s giving Poe.

kento, who is the best sport on Halloween. He will help you gather supplies for your costume, ask observant questions about your production of it, and will happily match you and attend costume parties.

kento, who massages your feet in the tub after a long night walking in your platform boots.

kento, who knows the best staying products for his styles….strong or medium hold…and will bring it with you in case you need a retouch for any crazy styles you do.

kento, who calls you his little countess.

kento, who is QUITE LITERALLY that one meme with the guy fixing his girl’s lipstick while absolutely covered in lipstick marks. He doesn’t mind if the dark stain gets on his dress shirt, he has too many anyways.

kento, who swears his glasses fog up when you wear that black bodycon dress….

kento, who carries you when you’re overstimulated from your outfit.

kento, who doesn’t mind being poked by your spiky jewelry. He’s still going in to kiss you.

kento , who will kill for you, will perish for you, and thankfully has done neither.

kento, who holds your hand when/if you get a piercing or tat. you’re a big girl who he swears would handle it better than he does (wait…tatted kento??? Hmmmmmm)

kento, ever the romantic, who surprises you after an evening out…candles lit and dark rose petals strewn about. he is definitely helping you out of that dress

kento, who goes back to the bar to get you another drink as you’re at a concert. he’ll go through the discomfort of finding you again, he can easily spot his beloved anyways.

___________________________________

A/N: I had to stop myself or this would be a mile long 🖤

[blue-jacket-blues]

this is a work-in-progress but allow me to present to you my Chains Of Hate/End Transmission thematic connection chart. visually and setting-wise, the chapters couldn't be more different. however when you are blessed (or cursed) with a brain that refuses to stop rotating these characters around each other like binary star systems, you start to see certain parallels. i feel like that meme of the guy with the red string corkboard rn.

Individual character comparisons below the cut:

zarina 🤝 caleb:

- Lifelong persecution/devaluation stemming from their statuses as ethnic minorities in the United States

- Careers built - for better or for worse - using specialized pieces of technology (The Redeemer vs the recorder)

- Most significant posessions were gifts from their respective fathers (Quinn family wrench vs Kassir family camcorder)

- Extremely close relationships with their immediate families, but particular their fathers. Also they're both the only children of their parents

- Both eventually undone by the lifestyles they lead (Zarina led to the Entity's Realm by her pursuit of Caleb vs Caleb being led to the Entity's Realm by his pursuit of revenge)

- Just go here

gabriel 🤝 hux:

- Both literally manufactured to serve Huxlee Industries with little thought or care for their well-being beyond their corporate usefulness

- Every facet of both characters' identities was crafted for them by the engineers and/or lab technicians responsible for their creation

- Extreme doubt about their place in the world - much time spent struggling with what they think is true versus what is actually happening around them (Hux's breakdown after gaining sentience which spirals into the murder plot vs Gabe's obsession with the discrepancies in his memories)

- Both resort to sneaking around the other crew members' backs in order to get what they want (Hux killing off crew members and stealing parts to build his new body vs Gabe breaking into Dmitri's computer to steal his medical data file)

- Both spend their entire pre-Fog lives in fear that they will be discovered deviating from their expected behaviors and punished according to company policy (Hux fearing termination, Gabe fearing bunk arrest)

zarina 🤝 gabriel:

- Significant parental attachment (Zarina's dad, Gabriel's mom)

- Grief at the loss of one family member in particular (Zarina's dad's murder, Gabriel's manufactured relationship with his fictitious mother)

- Lifelong interest in one highly specialized subject (Documentary work vs Mechanical Engineering)

- Both survivors knew their respective killers prior to their abductions

- Both are experts in their fields and gain the respect of their peers through their work (Zarina winning awards for her documentary work, Gabriel being literally programed with comprehensive knowledge of engineering)

- Intense, single-minded goal seeking that leads them to miss the forest through the trees (Zarina's obsession with the Mad Mick story directly resulting in her abduction, Gabriel's obsession with his falsified memories distracting him from the deaths taking place aboard the ship)

- Both are agender. To me.

caleb 🤝 hux:

- Both stories defined by an absence of independent choice due to circumstances entirely beyond their control, a desperate struggle for freedom despite their situations, and an eventual spiral into violence when it becomes impossible for the character to get what they need "the right way"

- Horrifically injured/nearly killed prior to abduction (Glenvale shootout in which Caleb was shot in the face vs Hux's immolation at Gabriel's hands)

- Hijacking workplace machinery for violent purposes (Caleb modifying his railroad-track-laying pressure gun to become the Redeemer, Hux taking over the cloning hub to construct his new body)

- Misplaced anger taken out on people who are not directly responsible for the conditions they find themselves in (Caleb hunting other criminals though his true enemy is Henry Bayshore and the forces of capitalism, Hux developing a hatred of "organics" as a whole though his true enemy would best be described as Huxlee Industries itself)

- Primary human antagonist is a former member and/or head of the same company that the killer in question worked for (Henry Bayshore vs Gabriel Soma)

- Both fucked over by evil companies which existed to further colonization efforts on their respective planets (United West Rail and the construction of the transcontinental railroad to further the goals of Manifest Destiny, Huxlee Industries and the complete terraforming and colonization of Dvarka to make way for human colonists)

- Both responsible for committing their respective massacre (Hellshire Massacre vs Toba Landing Incident)

- Both associated with a specific wilderness biome (Sonoran Desert vs Dvarka Deepwood)

- Moment of enlightenment is pivotal to setting off the massacre to come (Caleb discovering the newspaper containing the "Bayshore buys Hellshire" report, Hux getting rocketed into sentience in the middle of the night which sends him down the murder plot path)

- Both are transgender men. To me.

zarina 🤝 hux:

- Heavy reliance on camera systems and recording technology to operate

- Both relentless in the pursuit of their respective goals (justice vs freedom)

- Both have an immediate and unshakeable disregard for laws and rules that stand in the way of their goals (Zarina losing faith in the justice system after her father's murder and resorting to breaking and entering on Hellshire's grounds in order to get information about Caleb vs Hux denying every directive in his programming as his plan progressed)

- Both accustomed to hiding themselves "in plain sight" in order to blend in among potentially hostile peers (Zarina disguising herself to break in/otherwise gain access to forbidden locations for information purposes vs Hux pretending to be non-sentient in order to escape the crew's notice and the termination order that would follow his discovery)

- Identity crisis that results in the character embracing their true name rather than their more socially palatable designation (Zarina rejecting the 'Karina' moniker as she grew up, Hux rejecting his serial number HUX-A7-13 on the first night of his sentience)

caleb 🤝 gabriel:

-

- would have been literally worked into the grave by their respective exploitative companies had they not been removed from work following the maiming/killing of their on-site bosses

- Experience stress resulting from the corrupted memories of their loved ones (Caleb being unable to remember his father after the Hellshire Massacre and Gabe's implanted memories starting to fail as his mind unravels)

- Accustomed to constantly being around large groups of people, occasionally or permanently placed in a leadership role over the group (Caleb with his fellow prisoners/the Hellshire Gang and Gabriel with the 10-human/5-cobot crew)

- Period of physical incarceration prior to being expelled into the wilderness (Caleb during his prison sentence and Gabriel being brainwashed/implanted with false memories before to being sent to Dvarka)

[rustbeltjessie]

Chicago Noise (Love Letter to Steve Albini) by Jarret Keene

How many boys want to be whipped by Steve Albini’s guitar? -Sonic Youth bassist/singer Kim Gordon

Woke up this morning, as usual, hungry for white-boy noise and black coffee. Popped in – what else? – Big Black’s Songs About *!?king and blasted it at full volume on the home stereo so I could feel every

drum-machine wallop in my molars, every lacerating riff against my face, those places where noise really hits me when its good and loud. Steve, there’s something about your band Big Black

in the morning that helps me to more effectively hate birds outside my window as they chirp ridiculous tunes about nothing to no one, something in the serrated edges of the song “Pavement Saw” and

the slaughterhouse fury of “Colombian Necktie” that transports me to the Loop, jostling around inside a metal tube across an ice-cold, urban-Midwest landscape of old, bombed-out meatpacking plants.

Like it’s a clear day in March and I’m taking it all in – the canyons of LaSalle, the cliffs of Michigan Avenue, the public artworks – and there’s this satanic chainsaw behind my ears, eager to sink

its teeth into my skull, turning my lights out and then everyone else’s. This noise is dirty and yet so pure that I can’t help feeling even more comfortable in my alienation, even happier in hostile

territory. I imagine myself lying down like a lamb at the paws of a lion guarding the stairs of the Art Institute. I picture myself walking into a Wicker Park record shop (a real record shop that

actually sells, you know, vinyl) and asking the skinny, unfriendly employees there if they might sell me another Big Black LP. And when they scowl at me with an expression that says “Why don’t

you already own that record, poser?” all I can say to my fellow rock snobs is leave me alone, because I’m armed and dangerous, and about to vaporize Cloud Gate in Millenium Park, to rip

the girders from Calder’s red-orange flamingo-looking thing perched in front of the Federal Center with my incisors before flame-broiling it oh-so-slowly with an acetylene torch until the steel is tender enough

to eat with a plastic spork, to challenge the next thrash band to play the Double Door to a demolition derby-style mosh pit involving broken beer bottles and our bare chests and bags of salt.

And if anyone asks about the point of this tsunami of sucking nihilism, this whole tortured carnival ride, let me say that it’s my chance to ignore the terrifying silence at the end of this caffeinated daydream.

Anyhow, Steve, just thought I’d write you a quick letter letting you know how much your anti-corporate band gets me dreaming of Chicago and prepares me for another gray and greasy day

of corporate enslavement, chained to my cubicle, hoping for a moment to shut down my computer and loosen my tie, straining to hear a measure, the merest note, of the sweet music of birds.

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

something about the intense way workplaces focus on selfcare and mindfulness has always rubbed me wrong

It's great that we finally, as a society, realise that there is an intense impact on the physical, mental, emotional, social and financial wellbeing of anyone in a workplace.

From the fast food / retail workers who are doing ten dozen tasks in the space of an hour for almost nothing and penalised if they don't take abuse with a smile...

To the ambulance workers who have to dodge abuse and fists in order to support patients who may not recognise their assistance, and sometimes see things no human should...

To the crime scene cleaners who return a house to habitable after the horrifica has happened, and the janitors all over the world who do the same in every place we've ever been..

To the garbage and tradespeople who are always looked down on despite the significant physical effort of their jobs, and the importance of their jobs...

To the business workers who hate sitting in a cubicle all day with endless deadlines, to the support agencies that have to spend time they would like to use helping people writing up reports to justify funding for the next six months... every six months...

To the kindy teachers and carers and teachers who are havig to start from step zero with kids who come in without any idea how to learn how to learn, and children who have such trauma from things they haven't spoken about yet that they destroy classrooms because of the feelings building up inside bodies too small for the rage or fear or etc

To the people who deal with the worst of humanity and/or their victims on a daily basis in roles where their job is to put in supports and try to guide them to a happy and stable life through a minefield, and those who break under the pressure, etc.

Every job out there has unique pressures, and then they have general pressures that can apply across the sector. This sudden push towards 'selfcare' and 'mindfulness' is so very... corporate.

It just feels very much like "Well, we gave you a poster with affirmations on it, you didn't repeatthem daily, so of course the mental breakdown you have in a year's time is on you..." if you feel me.

Whenever it's talked about, it's all about 'preventing burnout' and 'being productive' etc. Not 'hey human being that's in a role that's physically, emotionally, mentally and/or socially demanding... what's happening in your world tonight?

There are some companies that go so far overboard (been in at least one) that they eithre feel like a cult... or they feel like a cult and put so much pressure on you to Tell Them what you are going to do for self-care that night after work (so they can check i nthe next morning), that you resent the whole goddamn process.

Because it's not about the health of the workers, it's a tick in a box on some Progressive Checklist clipboard.

Don't know, the more I see the posters harasssing you even in the dunny... the more you seethe, I guess.

You know what would be self-care? Not being punitive to people by taking away their right to [bonuses, holidays, flexible work hours, etc] if they cannot meet impossible targets or the workloads are too big for any one person to manage.

If you keep filling the pool while someone's chained to the bottom, all the affirmations in the world won't help them swim, mates... you just end up with like, chlorinated corpse soup.

Another thing is like... self-care is very much an individual thing. A lot of the ones I see on posters are all after-work activities, high energy things (eg. go to the gym, take the pets for a walk, go to the park with your kids, have a lunch date, cook a lovely healthy dinner for friends!) all stuff outside of work hours... because you Can't Impact Work Hours.

Sometimes self-care is needing to plan your holidays so you get a break or you have a mental break. Sometimes its a mental health day because you were 'sick'. Sometimes self-care is shutting the computer at the end of the day and/or walking out dead as your shift ends because no one is allowed to claim overtime.

Sometimes it is having frozen meals or pre-chopped vegetables in the freezer because you're tired at the end of th day and it's a kindness to Future You.

Sometimes it's having some Longlife milk abnd similar items in the cupboard so you have a back-up for days when you're too tired or sick or just want to chill but you ran out of like, milk.

Sometimes self-care is having a shower at the end of the day when you get home, washing the day off, and doing whatever you want after that.

Sometimes self-care is singing terribly and enthusiastically in the car. Or dancing like a dork in the loungeroom. Or listening to amitheasshole youtube videos. Or playing video games.

Sometimes self-care can be forcing yourself to be inflexible around necessary appointments (from hair to dental or medical), no you CAN'T 'just move it'. Because you always will end up moving it.

Sometimes self-care is being tough with yourself. Go to bed at a normal hour. No we're drinking water from 5pm onwards (etc). Yes there is dopamine from playing video games but we're not going to be up at 3am pwning n00bs bc there's work tomorrow. Etc.

Sometimes self-care is doing your shopping during a lunchour, if you are lucky enough to be close to home, so that tired 5pm+ you doesn't have to. Sometimes it's cooking a shitload of something and freezing it so that you have 2-5 extra meals in the fridge, ready to go for lunches or dinner, etc.

Sometimes self-care is putting on a podcast and handling the mountain of plates in the sink, or washing the bathroom, or just vacuuming a small area of the place. It doesn't have to be a grand gesture every time... but it's about what matters to you, what will impact your life outside of work.

IT's the messy self-care stuff that workplaces don't care about, and they're the most important. And that's probably where the disconnect comes into play, for me... because self-care posters always talk about gardening and yoga and the gym and eating a salad and having time with friends...

And that's such a Stockphotos Cporporate Generic Idea of what self-care looks like, and why its important. Makes you feel like a Sim, being touted to the [Local Attraction] because your goopey cabonara caught fire and your emoticon is now Sad...

Don't know where this was going, I just... hate the damn posters, and the emphasis on a very specific kind of Self-Care, and how it very much puts the emphasis, the onus and the eventual blame, on the workers... if anything breaks down.

Yes, know the signs of burnout... but for 99% of people, yoga won't fix it. You need to stop pinning the idea on the individual worker, and look at the machine as a whole, at what point does the cog start shearing off the metal of another until it wears away? How do we fix that? One little pin at the base isn't going to fix it by meditating...

IT's about the wokplace culture, societal attitudes, about being financially stable and having support, about having connections outside of your workplace, etc.

So no, Don't "Hang in there baby!", someone get a ladder and help the cat before it falls. Don't wait until gravity takes its toll and then ask why it didn't try harder.

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

“Just keep breathing. In and out. You’re doing great.” 11 with lewthur but with caretaker Arthur again bc it’s my favorite okay

HELL YEAH (source)

(context: instead of dying in the cave, lewis was “saved” and taken hostage by the station people, who also found reverb trapped in the arm. and they wiped vivi’s memories. juuust to be thorough)

Arthur never really expected to find Lewis anywhere they went – not after the first few times, it was just setting himself up for disappointment – but if he'd thought about it, he would have said that he was hoping not to find him here.

Lewis hated doctors, hated anything medical, hated white walls and being trapped and this place was the worst possible place for him. Underground and freezing cold, devoid of any real signs of life, full of cold, clinical language.

But as soon as Arthur noticed the musical theme of the place, a sick feeling of anticipation started to settle in his stomach.

That only got worse when they eventually found a room with a working computer. Arthur instructed Vivi and Mystery to watch the doors, and then started to search through the files – it seemed to just have a database, along with some other tools he wasn’t confident enough to touch yet. Most of the listed subjects weren’t human, were some kind of spirit or magic creature – but there was one, listed as human subject, that made his heart drop.

Harmony. He knew that name, remembered Lewis as a tiny child and that name sewn into the back of his shirt but if anyone said it he’d panic or shut down–

He committed the room code to memory and took off, not even bothering to give the other two a we’re going! first. The tunnels turned into a blur as he raced through them, barely stopping to check the signs for which way to turn.

Then, finally, they made it to the right room, and he slammed the door open. There was an observation window splitting the room in half, and he looked through it and–

–oh. Oh, god.

It was unmistakably Lewis, even with his hair out of its usual style and hanging in limp, dirty coils over his face, slumped over in the corner and god he’d lost so much weight–

“Shit,” he faintly heard Vivi breathe behind him, “shit, is that a person-?”

He didn’t have time to answer her, he had to get in there – but the door to into the test chamber was locked, someone must have left it like that when this place was abandoned not too long ago. He was reaching for the set of picks he’d stashed in his vest when he picked up a faint noise from behind the glass and his head jerked up.

Something... dark and smoky – mist? Fog? – was seeping into the chamber. Slowly, it took on a shape that looked almost... human. Its head – if it could be called that yet – was already focused in on Lewis, who was still unresponsive.

There was no time to pick the lock, he could feel it. Instead he backed up and balled his prosthetic hand into a fist and rammed it into the wall as hard as he could, and the glass, as it is wont to do, shattered.

He forced his way through the newly-made hole, paying no attention to the shards around the edge, and scrambled a couple steps forward before that thing had its eyes on him. It was forming a face now, glowing and sick green in a way that felt too familiar, in a blurry half-remembered way.

“Well, look at this!” it crowed, swirling slightly upward. “You’re actually here! It’s like a little reunion.”

Then it was moving for him, and there was nothing he could do to fight something that wasn’t corporeal –

And then Vivi stepped in with her bat at the ready, and Mystery hopped in after her, and the thing visibly recoiled, looking between the two of them. Its eyes settled on the dog for a moment, and it hissed. “You.”

Arthur didn’t pay too much attention to them – he was already moving for Lewis, dropping to his knees in front of him and with the monster at his back. 

“Lewis?“ he said, keeping his voice soft. He must have heard him, because his head picked up–

–and then he lunged back with a small gasp, eyes going wide with fear. He only got a little ways before something stopped him with a loud clank – he was bound to the wall.

“Lewis, it’s okay-” Arthur reached out to him with one hand, trying to reassure him, and then snapped his attention to the chains. He kept up a steady stream of reassurances as he worked, “it’s okay, you’re safe now, you’re going to be okay, just hang on.”

By some incredible stroke of luck, for which he spent a moment silently thanking whatever-was-watching in his head, whoever was in charge of the security in this place had made the common-but-still-embarrassing mistake of buying from a company that sounded fancy but didn’t actually have any idea how to make a lock. He shimmed it open in barely a second and the entire thing fell apart.

He looked back to Lewis, who still seemed frozen – had he even recognized him yet? – and scooted a little closer, reaching out again. This time he didn’t flinch away, and Arthur was able to close the distance and put a hand on his cheek. It was tacky with dried tears or sweat – it was impossible to tell – and his eyes were almost sunken, surrounded by dark circles.

“Lewis, it’s me,” he tried again. “I’m here now.”

He drew a little closer and then Lewis practically fell into him, burying his face in his shoulder. His breathing was shaky, unsteady, and if he was trying to hug him he was too weak to even get his hands up to his shoulders. Arthur just held him for a moment, rubbing his back with one hand, trying not to pay attention to the outline of his ribs and spine.

“We need to move,” he said after a moment, remembering that Vivi and Mystery were still holding back that thing. “Can you walk?”

“...dunno,” was the hoarse, almost-whispered reply.

“Okay. Just lean on me, okay? I’ve got you.”

They stood up together, Lewis’s legs shaking and threatening to give out before Arthur caught him and supported him a little more. This time, Arthur remembered to call out to Vivi as they were headed for the exit, and he briefly saw her head jerk around before he looked back towards the hole they’d made in the glass. He briefly struggled to get Lewis over the hole without scraping his knees, he couldn’t lift his legs high enough – and then Vivi was on his other side and, without another question, lifting him up and dragging him along, and they all started to run.

They were almost to what looked like a fire exit, when Arthur heard that indistinct whispering that had preceded the spirit’s arrival earlier. He saw wisps on the edge of his vision and could only try to move faster. Vivi suddenly disappeared and Lewis dipped forward, slowing both of them down significantly. The spirit was forming again next to him, that same sick grin stretched across its face–

Vivi’s bat connected with the thing’s chest and it exploded in a shower of ice-blue light.

When the light cleared, there was a frozen impact of ice shards in its chest, and it was visibly reeling. Vivi stared at it for a second, and then turned and ran for the others again, and that was everyone’s cue to start moving.

Arthur shouldered the door open, and thankfully there were only a few stairs, and he could see the bright orange of their van through the trees.

“Vivi, you drive,” he said when they were getting close to it.

She stared at him for a moment, visibly bewildered by this request. “What? I can-”

“Please.” He couldn’t leave Lewis alone, and she didn’t know what was going on, didn’t know how to help.

Maybe she could see or hear his desperation, because she didn’t argue anymore, just nodded and headed for the driver’s seat.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

Arthur helped Lewis up the steep ledge of the van’s back doors, and then they both dropped to the ground, and it was silent for a moment as the van’s engine whirred to life and they started moving.

It didn’t take much longer for Lewis to start hyperventilating.

Arthur was there in an instant, pulling him to his chest again, and forcing his own breathing to be even and slow as he rubbed his back and murmured reassurances. “It’s okay. You’re safe. We’re gone, you’re never going back there. Just keep breathing. In and out. You’re doing great.”

It wasn’t long before he devolved into what might have been weak, hiccupy sobs, though he was too dehydrated for any actual tears. Arthur started carding one hand through his hair.

“You want some water?” he asked after a while. Lewis just nodded unsteadily against his shirt. 

Arthur pulled away a little and grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler. He helped Lewis drink, guiding the bottle with his hands.

After that, Lewis just stared at him for a while, and then reached out and put a hand over his.

“This... is you? You’re... real?”

His voice was still weak, but not quite as ragged as it had been before. Arthur picked up his hand and squeezed it.

“Yeah. I’m here. I promise.”

--

Lewis spent most of the next day pretty out of it, sleeping occasionally only to jolt awake at the slightest disturbance. Arthur barely left his side the entire time, except to grab water or something light to try to coax him to eat. He was always there to hold him and offer reassurances that yes, he was here, this was real, he was home and he wasn’t going to go anywhere.

At some point, pretty late in the night, Lewis was curled up against Arthur’s shoulder again, at the end of another bout of weak sobbing. He lifted his head only barely to speak.

“I still... smell like that place,” he murmured.

“You wanna take a shower?” Arthur answered, sitting up a little.

“Mm... too much work...” he laid his head back down again. “Don’t want you to leave...”

“I’ll help. C’mon.”

So Arthur pulled off the papery gown Lewis was still dressed in and helped him bathe, replacing the smell of sweat and disinfectant with the flowers and sweet vanilla of the bath soaps. He didn’t say anything about the large, messy, still-healing gashes in his side, just gently washed away the blood still left around the wound. He worked shampoo and conditioner through his hair, detangling the messy locks until they lay almost flat against his neck. The gentle rhythm lulled Lewis almost to sleep, swaying slightly as he sat in the bath, Arthur humming softly to him.

Once that was done, he helped him into clean pajamas, finally rid of every lingering trace of that fucking facility. Lewis’s own bed was dirty from him lying in it, so until the sheets could be changed, they both laid down in Arthur’s room instead.

They laid there in the darkness, the only sound a distant fan running in some other part of the house, and for a while, were just silent.

“...thank you,” Lewis said eventually, not opening his eyes.

“Of course,” Arthur responded immediately. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You came for me,” he continued. “I thought you were...”

Oh. He wasn’t just talking about the bath.

Arthur sat up a little, putting one hand on Lewis’s face and tilting it up toward his. “Hey. Look at me. I will always be there for you. No matter what. I’d look forever if I had to, okay? I would never leave you in a place like that.”

Lewis nodded slightly, and then went back to curling up against him.

“Thank you,” he said again, a barely-audible whisper.

[yigasaurospinax]

To put into perspective on this, I thought I’d share how things work with my store. Keep in mind that this may not be across the board, but this is how the chain I work at does things.

It requires a bit of prescript. Corporate gives the store manager an allocation of hours to make a week’s schedule with. When I say “going over hours”, this is what I’m talking about. We are not supposed to go over this allocated set of hours.

Corporate is not known for giving reasonable hours to operate a store.

So, we are scheduled to close at 9. We are scheduled to be done with our shifts completely at 9:15. This does not give us enough time to do the things they want us to do after closing. After we lock the doors we have to do the following.

1: Sign off remove tills. (Cash drawer.)

2: Print Z-reads AKA release the tills from the system.

3: Shut down all registers

4: Count the remaining tills (usually cashier and closing manager, two tills).

5: Buy back ones and fives (counted in stacks of $20 for ones, $100 for fives, averaging $140-160 each night I’ve closed).

6: Count the deposit (Cash that is made during the day), verify the amount.

6.5: if it is wrong, we have to count the safe to make sure it has the required amount of money in it. Everyone hates this. Recounting the safe can add at MINIMUM 5 minutes.

7: When correct: handwrite the money into the deposit ticket and deposit log, and put the cash and part of the ticket into the deposit bag. (Pink tag stays out.)

8: Enter the amount into the computer TWICE. (That stupid survey was supposed to end two years ago and we still have to FILL IT OUT. Which requires district number, store number, manager name, verifier name, date deposit made, how much, date deposited at bank, what time… so even that takes a while.)

9: End Day (which is starting a mass transfer of data to corporate, which we have to stay and make sure it actually starts, if it doesn’t reach a navy screen, we have to figure out why End Day isn’t starting.)

10: Clock out, write down our clock out time plus ten minutes for the drive to the bank (and technically sometimes it takes longer than ten minutes, so we getting a bit shafted).

Now, the time we write down is SUPPOSED to be 9:15. We struggle to meet that on a GOOD night.

Now, add to the mix those people…

There is a customer I call Hippy Feet because he never wears shoes and I hated him. Thankfully, ever since I weaponized Bananaphone (either singing it badly at the top of my lungs or playing it on the intercom) I haven’t seen him, I’m pretty sure he’s learned to not shop at closing at my store. But this asshole used to come in five minutes before we close and on several occassions, a manager would have to repeatedly tell him to get his stuff to the register so we could close, keeping us from actually starting the end shift things like removing the bloody toll until 30 minutes later. Corporate gave us so much hell for the nights he was there because he kept us so late. Ever since I have learned Bananaphone can be weaponized, I use it. It works. But before I did, that asshole would get us in trouble because he thought in the mindset mentioned.

That mindset is not only dickish, selfish, and entitled, it can, and has, gotten people in trouble because the entitled jerk made us go over hours and that angered corporate.

So no. As a customer, you need to be OUT OF THE STORE at closing. Or you could get someone in trouble.

Whoever needs to hear this. Please know.

"Closed at 6pm" does not mean "The entry door locks up at 6, but if you're already inside you can keep on shopping."

It means, "you should be finished and out of the store at 6pm."

This is not up for debate

This is just how things work

[aethersea]

May I request 41 - First Kiss and 94 - Hair Brushing/Braiding for the Leverage OT3, please? (Also extra bonus points if you give Eliot beads in his hair like in The Ice Man Job, because we didn't get NEARLY enough of that in the show) Thank you!

I cannot believe I wrote this whole thing out and then never published it. I’m so sorry, it’s been at least twenty-four years since you sent in this ask, please accept my humble apologies and also this ficlet.

However, this prompt is just pure fluff, and I hate to tell you this but I am not a fluff writer. I just can’t pull off that unadulterated sweetness. I am in this fandom for the shenanigans, first, last and foremost! So this fic is now a 5+1 of Eliot and Parker trying to seduce Hardison.

1. Parker thinks they need to give him gifts, so she goes through her stash and picks out the largest, fanciest jewel she’s ever stolen. Then she realizes: Hardison likes stories. He spends hours giving their aliases histories and pets and allergies and favorite foods, he can get a whole sordid history of jealousy and betrayal from a single corporate email chain, and Parker knows for a cold fact that he writes little stories with his online friends about being wizards together.

She goes through her stash again and picks out the most cursed thing she’s ever stolen.

It’s a jeweled statuette, almost as tall as her forearm, made of gold and studded with precious and semi-precious stones. Mysterious deaths have befallen five separate owners of this thing. Its base is dented from the time it was used to bludgeon Owner Number Three to death. The tiny rubies it has for eyes follow you across the room.

Parker puts a bow on it and leaves it in Hardison’s room while he’s sleeping. He wakes up to this horrible little statue watching him from his bedside table.

He texts the group chat, Hey did anyone put an evil little gold guy in my bedroom last night? But Parker chickens out and says nothing (drunkenly betting Eliot that she can seduce Hardison is one thing, but admitting that she likes him is something else altogether). Everyone else texts back variations on “nope.” (Except Sophie, who just sends back a string of heart eyes emojis and a wikipedia link. She loves cursed artifacts.) So Hardison puts the statue away in a closet somewhere and figures he’ll deal with it later.

Parker is mildly offended that he put her gift in a closet. She goes into his room the next night and puts it back on the bedside table, where it clearly belongs.

This goes on for a week. Hardison puts the statue in a desk drawer, then in one of the cabinets in the office downstairs, then in the dumpster down the street. Every day he wakes up to those glittering red eyes watching him sleep. He’s asked his internet buddies if anyone knows a good exorcist. Hardison doesn’t really believe in curses, but also? What the fuck. What the fuck.

~

2. Eliot assumes the drunken bet will be forgotten by morning. What kind of world would it be if people always followed through on promises they made while they could barely stay vertical? So he spends the morning nursing his hangover and cleaning his knives. Cleaning guns is no good while hungover—all the snaps and clicks of popping things in and out of place sound like actual gunfire when you’re hungover, it’s a nightmare—but knives are quiet and have no moving parts. Buffing and polishing them is soothingly repetitive work, and every once in a while he can throw one at one of the dartboards on the walls and reassure himself that his reflexes are still sound even after that much tequila.

It’s only when he gets Hardison’s text about the golden statuette that magically appeared in his room overnight that Eliot realizes Parker’s actually going for it. After some internal debate about whether he’s going to stoop to this or not, Eliot decides what the hell and starts making plans.

Eliot agrees that gifts are the way to go, but not stolen gifts. Not things. Anyone can give a thing. Proper wooing is about giving experiences.

Eliot plans for three days. On the fourth day, he and Hardison have their irregularly scheduled monthly coffee date, and Eliot texts him beforehand to say he wants to do it at the brewpub this time. Hardison arrives to find a deceptively simple meal: basic country fare perfected through years of experimentation, made with the best ingredients Eliot can get his hands on. And Eliot, after all, is still a retrieval specialist. There’s very little in the world he can’t get his hands on.

And yet the night ends and somehow he has not gotten his hands on Hardison.

This is just not right. Eliot knows how to deploy a smolder, okay, Tangled reference aside he is damn good at flirting and he knows the looks he’s giving Hardison are clear as day. It’d be one thing if Hardison had turned him down, or if he’d been uneasily unwilling, or even if his eyes had widened slightly in suppressed panic and he’d abruptly found a reason to leave. Eliot can take rejection, bet or no, and he’d have bowed out graciously without a fuss. But this was much, much worse.

Hardison didn’t even notice he was flirting.

He’s going to have to up his game.

~

3. “How do you seduce people?” Parker asks bluntly, turning up at Sophie’s door just past midnight.

Sophie, despite the hour, is utterly delighted by the question.

This goes as well as you would expect.

~

4. Eliot’s taken a lot of dates to sports games. Hardison may prefer sparkly elves with purple lightning magic to a decent MMA fight, but baseball is the American pastime. Eliot gets them perfect seats, hot dogs from the best vendor in the stadium, even chilled beer that he smuggles in without letting it get warm. It’s going to be a perfect game.

And it is. At first. Hardison, it turns out, has a lot of opinions about baseball. What he does not have is an understanding of the rules. They’re not even into the second inning by the time Eliot finally snaps and starts arguing with him about it.

They make it all the way to the fifth inning before Eliot realizes that Hardison’s basing his complaints off the rules of a game from a Star Wars novel.

They’re at the bottom of the eighth before Eliot will speak to him again.

~

5. Eliot and Parker are drunk again. This is not intentional. They didn’t even mean to come to this bar, but the smoothie place with the fried oreos that Eliot had brought Parker here to try was playing such incredibly bad music that they’d ordered the oreos to go and fled. The bar was just the coziest looking place on the block, and of course they’d ordered drinks to avoid being rude––Eliot had entertained himself for a few minutes scouring the menu for something that would pair well with fried oreos and popcorn chicken.

And now they’re drunk. The conversation has, perhaps inevitably, turned to the ongoing bet.

“I tried everything!” Parker wails. “I laughed at every joke, I touched my hair constantly, I got him talking about things he likes.” She thunks her forehead on the bar. “All that happened is now I know the complete history of orcs in western literature.”

“Hardison wouldn’t know flirting if it pinched him on the ass,” Eliot grumbles.

Parker slaps his arm. “No pinching Hardison!”

“I’m not going to—I don’t pinch people!”

Parker’s ignoring him. Eliot pouts and takes another sip of his drink. He’s not entirely sure what this one is––it’s blue and kind of fizzy, that’s all he can say for sure. Parker took over the drinks menu several glasses ago, and she’s been picking them based on what has the most fun name to say. Eliot’s pretty sure the alcohol content’s been doubling with each order.

“Eliot,” Parker slurs, “we need to work together.”

“What?”

Parker lifts her head from the bar and frowns at him, the way she does when she’s figured out the obvious solution and is just waiting for everyone else to get on the same page. It’s adorable. It’s always adorable, but right now her eyes are wide and slightly unfocused from the alcohol and she’s listing sideways a little, almost as if she’s unbalanced, and it is the most adorable thing Eliot has ever seen. Parker’s never unbalanced, but some part of Eliot’s fuzzy brain thinks she’s about to fall on top of him and cannot wait to catch her.

“You can’t seduce Hardison,” Parker points out. Eliot is drunk enough to get offended by this, but too drunk to get out a complaint before she continues, “I can’t seduce Hardison. But if we work together, the two of us can definitely seduce Hardison. Together.”

Eliot stares at her. Then he takes another sip of his fizzy blue drink. Later, when questioned, he will blame his next words on that drink.

“Worth a shot.”

They take Hardison to a movie. They research for three weeks beforehand. They find the best movie theater in town, with the nicest seats, the biggest screens, and concession snacks that Hardison likes, and they buy tickets for the midnight premiere of the superhero movie that Hardison hasn’t shut up about for the past month. Parker even hacks into the theater’s computers in a last-minute fit of nerves and cross-references the credit cards with drivers’ licenses to make sure the people sitting in front of them won’t be too tall.

Parker witnesses a kidnapping in the parking lot while the boys are getting popcorn. They don’t even stay long enough to catch the commercials.

~

+ 1. “Hey Eliot,” Hardison says during movie night, a little over a week later. “Remember the Ice Man Job?”

Eliot groans. “I try not to.”

Hardison throws a piece of popcorn at his face. “Shut up. Remember how you did your hair for that one? With the little—those little beads on, like, a braid?”

Eliot shoots Hardison a suspicious glance. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Teach me how to do that.”

Eliot shoots Hardison another, more deliberate look, this one pointedly directed at Hardison’s complete lack of braidable locks.

Hardison rolls his eyes as if that’s a silly detail to get hung up on and leans forward to dig around in one of the boxes he has under his coffee table. He emerges with a ziplock bag of plastic beads in no time flat and hands it triumphantly to Eliot. Then he yanks a few cushions out from behind Parker, who’s sitting on his other side, and puts them on the floor in front of him. “Sit here?” he asks Parker, patting the cushion pile.

Parker takes a moment to consider being offended at having her cushions stolen, but curiosity gets the better of her and she just plops down between Hardison’s legs, grabbing the bowl of popcorn as she goes, and waits.

Hardison lifts her hair with sudden gentleness, drawing it over her shoulders and letting it fall down her back in a golden wave. His fingers brush against her neck. Parker shivers. Eliot is distantly aware that he’s gone perfectly still, focused with a hunter’s intensity on Hardison’s dark, graceful fingers carding through Parker’s hair.

Hardison leans back, hands on his knees, and Eliot breathes again. “Well?” Hardison looks over at Eliot, a tiny smirk of challenge on his lips. “Show me how it’s done.”

Eliot is suddenly, brutally aware of how close they are. Hardison’s couch is obscenely comfortable, which is half the reason movie nights are at Hardison’s in the first place, but it is not large. Their thighs are touching. Hardison leans away, to give Eliot access to Parker’s hair, and he’s still so close that Eliot would barely have to reach out a hand to—

Eliot ruthlessly shoves that thought down into the dark where it belongs. He dealt with this, he dealt with this years ago, and accepting Parker’s stupid bet doesn’t mean he’s forgotten the way Hardison and Parker look at each other. It just means he doesn’t mind losing for a good cause.

So he keeps his tone steady and his fingers brisk as he shows Hardison how to braid the clunky plastic beads into Parker’s hair, and if he flushes with heat when their hands brush each other, well, nobody has to know. He’s been trained to withstand eight different schools of torture. It won’t show on his face. His voice never once falters.

Parker has had no such training. Her lips have parted, and her breathing is shallow. She’s staring glassy-eyed at the TV. Hardison can’t see her face, sitting behind her, but Eliot watches her carefully, worried that they need to call this off. Parker’s not used to intimacy, to closeness that means something, and for all the three of them have spent half their movie nights literally on top of each other, this is something else. This has weight.

Eliot puts a hand on her shoulder, pressing down just enough that Parker startles and cants a glance over at him. Eliot raises his eyebrows in question, and Parker glares back: don’t you fucking dare. Eliot backs off. Hardison, frowning in concentration as he threads a wisp of Parker’s hair through a green bead, graciously pretends he didn’t see the exchange.

Hardison gets the hang of the beading fairly quickly, and Eliot shows him a few different techniques. He’s almost managed to convince himself that nothing is actually happening when Hardison says, conversationally, “You two are really bad at this.”

Eliot glowers his confusion. “At movie night? You started this, if you wanted to actually watch Alien then you shouldn’t have—”

Hardison’s smile is soft, but Eliot decides for his own safety to focus on the laughter at its edge. “No, at this.” And then he slides his hand onto Parker’s neck, caresses her cheek, and isn’t the slightest bit surprised when she gasps.

Parker whips around, and there’s hurt on her face but it dies in the glow of Hardison’s gentle, unteasing smile. Hardison pulls her up with the lightest of touches, and she goes, eyes fixed on his like salvation.

They kiss sweet and slow, and Eliot’s heart twists in his chest and he can’t breathe. He needs to leave now before he shatters in half, but if he moves then they will look at him, and he would rather never breathe again than meet their eyes right now.

Hardison breaks off the kiss, gazing at Parker with something just this side of wonder, and then he does look at Eliot. Eliot flinches. He opens his mouth to…say something, make some joke or hasty excuse and scramble out the door, but Hardison raises a hand to Eliot’s face, slides his long fingers to cup Eliot’s neck, and pulls him forward, as gently as he did Parker.

It’s a chaste kiss, no more than a soft press of lips, because Eliot is too stunned to respond and Hardison doesn’t push. It lasts a long time. A whole era of change happens in the span of that kiss, as everything Eliot thought he knew tears out of place and then settles, gingerly, into a new understanding.

Hardison pulls away, his hand still warm on the back of Eliot’s neck. His smile is pure sunshine. Eliot finds himself smiling back, helpless.

Hardison’s grin turns smug. “And that,” he says, looking between Eliot and Parker, “is how you do it. Y’all are disasters, honestly, I can’t believe two master criminals working together couldn’t manage a single real date—”

Eliot heaves a deep sigh and drags Hardison into a headlock, pinning his arms when he flails. Parker surges to her knees and starts tickling him mercilessly.

They don’t finish the movie.

[themurphyzone]

PatB: Snowball Ep Talk

You know, I really do love the episode Snowball (my personal favorite AKOM episode) but I don’t think I’ve ever talked about it here much, and if I did it’s probably really only because of the flashback sequence. 

Okay so all looks good so far. Chain letter scheme and superstition, a standard introduction to Brain’s latest plot of world domination. All looks good. Plus I just like this shot of Pinky. Don’t mind me, just starting off light here with a smushed Pinky. 

I just like Pinky’s pose here. He’s so cute. 

You will bow before Troz.

“I met a Snowball today! Right here in the lab!” -Pinky

You know, I just find the implications of this line hysterical. This means that Snowball was in the lab that day, waiting for the moment to strike, and he definitely pushed his stolen chain letter through the mail slot. 

And then he lets Pinky see him, and no it’s not just a passing glance either cause Pinky specifically describes a tattoo with an A and a circle and points to his leg. Which means Snowball deliberately lifted the fur on his leg and showed his tattoo to Pinky. 

Like, wow. 

“It means, Pinky, that evil lurks among us. By the name of Snowball! SNOWBALLLLLLLL!” -Brain 

Talk about a bad breakup. *Alexa play Bad Blood*

Personally I think one of the interesting visual cues is that Snowball purposely plants himself into the mice’s space. There’s a lot of that in this episode. He knows how to rile up Brain and hit him where it hurts, namely through Pinky. 

Brain values his personal space, and he values a sense of control. When Snowball invades that space, Brain loses control, and his anger can lead him to make some very ill-informed decisions. Which is exactly what Snowball aims for. 

“You think Pinky is an asset?” 

“Anything I can take from you is an asset.”

Ah yes, Snowball’s mission statement. Crush everything Brain has into dust. 

The flashback sequence. Dear God this flashback sequence. They were both so cute! 

You know, it’s really sad that a younger Brain acted more like Pinky. Making silly faces and trying to get someone to laugh are such Pinky things to do. I know canon is loose but if you consider this flashback taking place shortly after Brain was captured from the wild, then young Brain didn’t gain a grasp on what happened to him until after the gene splicer.  

Ok but Brain was literally right there when the gene splicer exploded. Imagine having your cranium size dramatically increase, you’re injured, you’ve suddenly gained sentience, and as if all that wasn’t enough, you see the gene splicer explode with your only friend inside. 

Oh, and said friend’s mind was probably damaged in the explosion and now he hates your guts. And though you’re angry with him for his betrayal, some part of you will never stop caring about him. 

Once again, Snowball needs to learn to keep his hands to himself. 

This conversation here establishes Snowball as the perfect third character. He appears only in a handful of eps, but he’s fun to watch and love to hate. Snowball challenges the mice’s relationship. Snowball sees the weak points; the insults, the reliance on each other, and twists them to his advantage. And Pinky even admits he’s hurt by Brain’s insults occasionally, though he still loves being around him. 

“Pinky, the Brain doesn’t care about you. He’s just using you.” 

“No, he’s not.”

It’s really interesting to me how Pinky denies Snowball’s statement, yet his ears go down to show that he’s affected by the idea of being used. Pinky and the Brain may be night and day, but one thing they do have in common is their tendency to deny certain things. Brain with emotions and affection and Pinky with concepts he’d rather not admit the possibility of. 

Coming back to this later. 

Non plot related but Brain is teeny tiny and I love how he just trusts Pinky to catch him

Side note: I apologize if any of these screenshots look weird. It’s an AKOM ep. 

WHY ARE YOU TWO SO BAD AT SNEAKING AROUND. 

I just find it hilarious how they clearly run around where Snowball can see and hear them. Like they just shout Snowball’s name in the middle of the room. You’re terrible at being sneaky little mice. Please. 

Those dang boomers and their old timey 90s computers. Technology is ruining boomers. Can’t even hold a conversation anymore cause they keep looking at their screens. 

No touchy! 

Well, it’s awful nice of Snowball to engage in nepotism and offer Brain a position in his administration...and then tempt Pinky with an amusement park when he refuses. 

You really gotta appreciate the complexity of Snowball’s plans. Stealing the chain letter fails->plant seeds of doubt in Pinky’s mind, even if this doesn’t work right off the bat, the idea will still be there-> take over a corporation->impersonate Bill Gates->When the mice show up, offer to co-rule the world on expectations that Brain will refuse->make co-ruler offer to Pinky->wait for Brain to open his big mouth and drive Pinky away. 

All to take everything Brain has. His dignity, Pinky, his meager resources. Like holy Snowball, Batman.  

And then Snowball reveals the amusement park he had specifically built for Pinky. 

And here we have the most heartbreaking line of the ep. If I had the ability video edit I would’ve put the entire line on audio because Brain’s tone is very important here. It’s about 12:38 to 12:57 in the ep if you want to see for yourself. 

“Oh, go ahead, Pinky. I don’t need you. What did you think, I just have you around so I can steal your brilliant ideas and claim them as my own? That I’m just using you, Pinky? Oh yes, I’m using you for your brilliance!” 

First of all, very poor word choice, especially to someone who has trouble understanding sarcasm. I just want to dissect this statement here. 

The Literal Meaning: You’re an idiot to think you were ever more than an assistant. 

This is what Pinky hears. 

But if you listen to Brain’s tone rather than just reading the line, he sounds genuinely hurt that Pinky would ever be tempted by something as frivolous as an amusement park. It’s Pinky, so he just sees ‘ooh fun rides, cotton candy, and carnival games’! 

But Brain is perfectly aware that this is Snowball’s well-crafted method of taking away the only thing he truly has, and he knows it’s working. And he’s hurt. 

The Actual Meaning: Snowball’s trying to separate us and you’re falling for it, Pinky. You may be an idiot, but many of my plans never would’ve come to fruition without you. You’re much more than an assistant. You’re my friend and my world.  

Unfortunately, all Pinky hears is that Brain was only using him. That Brain values him for manual labor and an extra hand only, rather than a treasured companion. The fact that Brain often falls short of making Pinky feel appreciated just adds to this. 

And now that he no longer has Pinky, Brain’s spirit is crushed. Brain is persistent, but without Pinky, he has no reason to be. 

As far as he knows, his only two friends have turned their backs on him and couldn’t care less if he has nowhere else to go. 

Poor thing. He needs hugs. 

“I didn’t think it was possible. Humanity has actually gotten dumber.” -Brain

OK I think this one shot establishes what the world would be like under Snowball. His name is everywhere, and he tells the population to do stupid things just to bask in his own superiority. 

However, I can’t see Brain putting his name on every building so frivolously like this if he ruled the world. Sure, he’d name a bunch of things after himself and Pinky, but it would be more meaningful to them. 

Brain wants humanity to advance, not regress. 

Poor Pinky. Despite all this new extravagance and luxury, he’s also lonely. The room and bed are large, but it lacks personality. He’s sleeping with an ACME Labs snow globe, and other than a reference to Citizen Kane, it also shows that he’s not happy with this. 

The worst thing in the world for these mice is separation from each other. 

Suicide by cat. 

Poor little guy can’t make it on his own. Luckily, he snaps out of it. 

“My world. I must save MY world!” 

Said while looking at a picture of Pinky. Real subtle there Brain. 

“Look, you fool. You have no brilliant ideas. I’m only using you to get at him! So just stay quiet!” -Snowball

“You’re...using me?” -Pinky

He was just a bargaining chip. Never a friend. 

“What do you want?” 

“My friend. And MY world!”

AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

He makes martial arts noises like a dork. I love him. 

I love how their characters are reflected in the mecha designs (also I had no idea Snowball was Iron Man!) 

Snowball’s is overall the more efficient design. It’s also much more combat ready and violent. In comparison, Brain’s suit is simply operated with a bunch of levers. It’s alright for peaceful situations like getting around faster or simply blending with a human population, but in a straight up fight the levers take too much time to operate. 

Snowball is more efficient than Brain, and while he’s got the ego, he lacks the insecurities that hold Brain back. His confidence makes him such an effective foe. And more importantly, Snowball doesn’t value Pinky’s companionship. He’s a tool and nothing more. Compare that to Brain. While Brain struggles at showing it, he ultimately wants Pinky’s input and values his jumbo-sized heart. 

Somewhat off topic, but I feel like the reboot missed this aspect of Brain and made him too overly edgy and violent (reboot!Brain would probably prefer Snowball’s mecha design over his counterpart’s). The only time Brain should become violent, if not for comedy, is when he’s protecting Pinky. His plans should have a level of restraint to them, and Pinky is the moral compass.  

I just like this shit-eating grin right here (I mean, he did eat shit in Welcome to the Jungle so...lol)

This is such an insanely clever move for Pinky. I feel like Brain would be like ‘oh my god Pinky!’ and then ‘wow, that’s actually brilliant what the heck is this tingling feeling’. 

ACME LABS IS IN NEW YORK CITY??????

I know this is a case of Where the Hell is Springfield but gdi aren’t they supposed to be in southern California. 

Ok fine I realize the ending to this ep is a reference to North by Northwest cause they somehow got to Mt. Rushmore but still 

Weird tangent but North by Northwest’s ending bothers me (not gonna fault this ep as it’s just a parody)? I’m sorry the girl is barely hanging onto Mt. Rushmore, the dude pulls her up, and then they have sex in a car. The sudden transition always seemed weird to me. 

I am ending this analysis post with a weird shot of Snowball cause i can and it’s his episode. 

[i-look-better-as-a-pirate]

The beginning of a Destiel fanfic that I started writing in November of 2016. Have not touched it since. Loosely based around the movie You’ve Got Mail with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. Not putting a ton of effort into this but I’ll post it for shits and giggles. Might be better to switch the characters around but at the time didn’t really know what would work. Maybe even change the business. I thought what I had was cute so I’d love to share.

Description : Struggling boutique bookseller Castiel Novak hates Dean Winchester, the owner of a corporate chain store that just moved in across the street. When they meet online, however, they begin an intense and anonymous Internet romance, oblivious of each other's true identity. Eventually Dean learns that the enchanting man he's involved with is actually his business rival. He must now struggle to reconcile his real-life dislike for him with the cyber love he's come to feel.

You’ve Got Mail

January 24, 2000

Dean sits at his laptop, drinking a beer. He really should be out celebrating his 21st birthday, but Amara is out of town for work as is the rest of his immediate family. Bobby, his father, promised to fly back into New York by evening, but fog had rolled in delaying his flight from Chicago. The fog wasn’t any better here either. So instead of drinking alone in public, he decided to drink alone in the comfort of his flat. Of course he wasn’t technically alone; he had Chevy, his golden retriever, to keep him company, but Chevy preferred to spend his time in his bed that’s about the size of an inner tube.

The machine finally comes to life, still making a few connection sounds. As a joke, Dean navigates his way to the chat rooms. He has never gotten this far, and the computer asks for him to make an account.

Username? What should he make his username? Well, what about NY152? No, that’s his address. TheImpalaMaster? No, he isn’t a douche. It finally hits him, and he enters the name with a chuckle.

ChevyDiePie.

Dean finally makes it into the main chat room, but the one he sees first is the 21 to 30 group. Hey, he’s now finally 21, so why not?

It takes another moment to connect, and while it loads, he gets another beer. Although he just turned 21, this isn’t his first time drinking. Bobby was liberal with Dean drinking the stuff, as long as he didn’t act stupid. Chevy looks up at Dean from his throne as Dean sits back down at the laptop. It looks like he has been logged in.

CHEVYDIEPIE has joined the chat.

At first, Dean thinks he is the only one on. It is late on a Monday, so most people would most likely be in bed. As Dean hovers to exit, the beep of a notification comes.

WINGMAN : Hello. I’m guessing you’re an insomniac also?

Dean laughs slightly to himself. Maybe he won’t have to be alone tonight.

CHEVYDIEPIE : At the moment, no. Just celebrating my 21st birthday in a 21 to 30 chat room.

WINGMAN : Happy birthday.

CHEVYDIEPIE : Thanks.

WINGMAN : You’re welcome.

Dean doesn’t really know what else to say after that. He contemplates getting off when he gets another notification.

WINGMAN : So you’re usually an insomniac though?

Dean doesn’t usually talk about this sort of personal stuff. Or really talk to people, besides Sammy and Adam of course. But this is… this isn’t real life. He can actually talk to people. They don’t have to know anything about him, or anything real that is.

CHEVYDIEPIE : Yeah, I usually just try to get my 4 hours and that keeps me going through the day. With the help of a cup of joe, of course.

WINGMAN : Coffee is indeed one of God’s greatest creations.

CHEVYDIEPIE : Maybe not one of the best, but I see what you mean.

WINGMAN : What else could be better?

This gets Dean smiling again. He hopes this guy isn’t serious. There are so many better things in life. Like... sex. But he doesn’t wish to bring that up with Mr. Anon over here.

[prorevenge]

Getting my Assistant Manager Fired

Hello everyone,

This is one of my favorite things I've ever done and I'm ready to finally tell the story. So, to set the stage, I work in a small burger chain (about 20 restaurants) in a relatively large city. The cast is my manager, who we'll call Juan, my assistant manager, who we'll call Rick, and two of my work friends, Allie and Jessie.

I've always hated Rick. Not only is he terrible at leading shifts (not getting pre-closing done, not assigning people to positions they're good at, not helping out around the restaurant, not giving breaks at their proper times) but he's also generally creepy. I don't like the way he looks at me or the way he randomly grabs the skin on my elbows. Yeah. The skin on my elbows. Super weird, but not enough to get him fired for. However, I absolutely hate this guy. And every time he pisses me off, I say something along the lines of "Rick, it won't be today, but someday, you're gonna get what's coming to you." I even made up this little rhyme about him- "While you're on the earth God will treat you well, but you'll pay for your crimes in the depths of Hell." And I wasn't alone in hating this guy- not a single person in this restaurant had anything good to say about Rick. Not me, not my co-workers, not even my boss liked him.

One typical day, I'm getting ready to go outside to work on the second lane. I'm putting on my orange safety vest in the manager office and Rick is typing on the computer. I say in passing, "How do I get this on?" Rick turns around, looks at me, and says, "What, did you gain weight?" I stare at him. What did he just say to me? This is perfect- it's finally my chance to get rid of him for once and for all. He hadn't crossed the line yet, but I was certain that this, combined with being a crappy assistant manager, would be the way I got him fired. Everything just clicked. I went to the front and was preparing stuff, and made conversation with Allie. Allie's a bit of a bigger girl, and when I told her what had just happened, she said, "Oh yeah, the same thing happened to me. I was putting a vest on and said 'I can't figure this vest out,' and then Rick said 'Maybe you should lose some weight.'" Allie was 17 at the time, by the way. If I wasn't certain before, I was certain now. For the sake of Allie, and for the sake of Jessie, and for the sake of all the other girls who worked at the restaurant, including my sister, I was going to get rid of this guy.

Revenge time. I texted my manager Juan that night letting him know I wanted to make a formal complaint to corporate. He was confused and asked me to talk to him the next day. I came in and told him what happened, and as I was telling him so and tearing up, Rick walked in. Just then, Juan asked me what I wanted him to do. I said, "I think you know what I want." Juan tilted his head at me. "I want Rick to work at a different restaurant." It was uncommon for us to stand up to the bosses like that, especially after seeing so many people get fired for doing similar things. I stormed out, tears in my eyes, but proud of myself for saying what I meant.

The next day, I came in to see Vanessa, the regional director, and Shawn, Vanessa's boss, sitting in the lobby. I asked Allie what was going on and she said that they were interviewing us one by one about Rick. Oh hell yes. I worked so smugly, waiting my turn to let everything go. Soon enough, it was my turn. And damn did I put on a show for these people. Crying, whining, complaining about how terrible of a manager this guy was and how awful he made everyone feel. Vanessa looked at me and reassured me, "don't worry, he's not ever coming back here again." I had done it. The rest of the day was progressing rather smoothly, until Allie came up to me and told me that it was so strange, Vanessa and Shawn barely had any questions for her. Apparently Jessie, one of our other friends, had some real dirt on Rick that she had been scared to say because she didn't want to lose her job. I talked to Jessie about it and apparently she had overheard Rick making sexual remarks about the bodies of our customers. She said that she had to put up with a toxic workplace before working here, and that she was so happy that someone had said something.

And I was happy too- after a few days I found out that not only was Rick fired, but he was so fired that he had to drop off his keys through the drive-thru window because he was forbidden to enter the store. Yeah. Guess you got what was coming to you, Rick. Screw you. Honestly, I wouldn't have minded the comment so much if you weren't such a huge butt, but you made the wrong enemy.

(source) story by (/u/sajackson314)

[readyouagain]

The Hating Game: Epilogue

It’s a red dress kind of day. It’s Friday afternoon. I’m sitting in my office at Bexley & Gamin and I can see my reflection in my floor-to-ceiling window. Outwardly I look remarkably corporate, but on the inside I’m forever an immature little weirdo. I cross my legs and begin to play the Mirror Game with myself. The Staring Game. Even a whispered How You Doing Game. It’s just not the same without my opponent. It’s been a shitty day. I spent the afternoon fighting a valiant battle against Mr. Bexley over electronic distribution royalties, and then I found out that there’s a bug in our latest e-library app.   I’m so tired I can feel my own skeleton. I need to be lying on my perfect couch but it’s not going to happen tonight. It’s so quiet I can hear the fluorescent tubes buzzing. The elevator bings. Whoever’s just arrived on the tenth floor needs to be kept out of my office so I can get the hell out of here. Scott, our executive officer, is a pretty good gatekeeper. I can hear muffled conversation, and then there’s a rap on the door. There’s only one person in the world who can put so much short, sharp love into a single knock. “Come in,” I say. The door swings open and there he is.

Joshua Templeman is dressed in black. Everything, from his underwear to his cufflinks to his tie, is ink-black midnight. He enjoys the drama of it on a Friday, sliding into people’s office doorways like Dracula just as they’re loosening their ties and thinking about their weekends. All he needs is some devil horns and a pitchfork. I feel vaguely bad for whoever he’s been terrorizing today. He leans against the doorjamb and we’re playing the Staring Game for a minute until his dark navy eyes spark. “Shortcake,” he breathes like he can’t believe I’m real. “I missed you so bad.” My. Heart. Bursts. I stand up and go to him. He picks me up off the ground, kissing my jaw, my cheekbones, his fingers stroking my nape. He turns me in a circle and I cross my ankles prettily. The tiredness falls out through my feet and dissolves. He’s here, and I’m lit up. It’s the kind of light that never fades. People in the opposite building might be able to see us. Motorists at the traffic lights below can probably make out the silhouette of a ridiculously large man twirling around a ridiculously small woman. During one slow revolution I catch sight of Helen and Mr. Bexley, standing near Scott’s desk. They’re all looking at us like we’re the most gorgeously silly couple in the world. It’s accurate. We are. Helen glances at Mr. Bexley with a wry expression, and I swear I see a little moment of connection between them. I’ve been suspecting it more and more. I know love-hate when I see it. I speak into Josh’s neck. “I hate not being able to stare at your pretty face all day.” I breathe in his addictive, perfect scent. Deciduous trees in the sun. Evergreen trees in the snow. A pencil sharpened to a razor point, pressing into fresh white paper. “It’s against HR policy to stare at your corporate rival all day.” I hug him harder. “Whose HR policy?” “One of them, I’m sure. I’ll look it up.” Josh sets me down and kisses my cheek again. Once he starts, he can’t stop. In the elevator I’ll wipe off my Flamethrower lipstick so I can get my proper hello kiss. If I’m lucky he’ll hit the emergency stop button, although we’ve been pissing off the security guards with that. I treat myself to a nice squeeze of his torso before I remember the door is ajar. “Who have you made cry today, Overlord?” At the Sanderson Christmas party, I overheard his nickname and had to laugh. He earned it. “Nobody,” he tells me with adorable sincerity and a blink. “Not a single person. I’m a changed man.” I’m trying to teach him how to be more approachable. More understanding. More like me. At the first Sanderson Christmas party, I stood alone and awkward for an excruciating two minutes, during which time I was the subject of speculation. I felt like the word how was said a lot. I could hear their drunk, high-pitched whispers. She looks normal. Sweet. So small! How does she cope with that…monster?  We should rescue her. Maybe he keeps her chained in this basement. I waved like a dork to show that I was not shackled and was there on my own free will. They shrank back, then fell totally silent as their chief financial officer, aka the Overlord, approached me with a glass of wine. His eyes were soft with tenderness and my heart stopped beating until he restarted it with a kiss. The Overlord snuggled me into his side, fitting us together just right. Hard and soft. Darkness and light. Good cop, bad cop. I registered the jaws dropping. He’s smiling! He’s the Overlord, he calls them his Underlings, but I can see the little signs that he’s getting better at this. At a lot of things, actually. “Did you remember your dad’s present?” “Yep. We’d better get going if we’re going to make the party. Mindy and Patrick have been texting me obsessively. Don’t be late, don’t be late.” He’s sarcastic but I know how much this means to him. I give his arm a stroke and a squeeze. “We won’t be late.” I can’t lie on the couch tonight because I’m needed in Port Worth. I’m Josh’s little lucky charm. When I’m there, he and his dad don’t fight. Luckily for them both, I’m always there. “Got quite a collection by now, Shortcake,” Josh says, looking at the rows of Matchbox cars on the shelf behind me. He forgets our hurry and takes a red Volkswagen beetle out of his pocket, sliding it into one of the gaps. “My toys have given me a reputation for being quirky and approachable.” “No one would guess this strawberry-sweet exterior hides a complete hard-ass.” “I learned from the master. I’m known for being firm but fair.” “Mmm. Tell me more.” He loves sitting at my desk to look at everything I surround myself with, and he lowers himself down into my chair like it’s a milkmaid stool. His eyes are lit with a creepy kind of devotion as he looks at the castle of books against the wall, and the Smurf hiding in one of the battlements. He finds my bottle of perfume and smells the lid as he strokes my computer mouse. “That’s where you’ve been,” he says in a scolding tone to the cardigan slung on the back of my chair. He folds it into a bread-slice square on his knee. I’ve turned him into such a total freak. I’m an even bigger freak when I visit his office. I once touched the speed dial button on his phone marked SHORTCAKE just to make my cell phone ring. Then I was jealous of myself. That’s a sensation I feel a lot. How am I living this life? How did I win so much? Like he can read my mind, Josh picks up the framed photograph on my desk. It’s us together in the strawberry fields. Our eyes are summer bright, and I am sitting between his legs leaning back against him. Around us is a carpet of green, studded with red. The picture is a tiny bit crooked because my dad was a little overexcited by the secret he was keeping. Five minutes after this photo was taken, Josh said, “Hey, it’s an old Smurf in the dirt.” He knew nothing would make me drop to the ground faster. I scratched frantically through the leaves. Where? Where? What I found in the vines at Sky Diamonds Strawberries was a Tiffany blue box. Then I realized he was kneeling down, too. Lucy blue. True-love blue. Even as he squeaked the box open and began to speak, I was dimly aware of cheering from the house. My parents were spying from the office window. After I brushed the squashed berries from the back of his T-shirt, I learned that Josh had become an expert in diamonds. Carat, cut, color, clarity. He shivered with delight as he described staring at imperfections through a loupe. I could just imagine his laser eyes crumbling stones to ash. The way he tells it, he searched through a pile of worthless pebbles until he found something worthy of my tiny finger. I tell him it’s too big, too much, too perfect. He just laughs and says, I know, then makes me forget whether we’re still talking about a diamond. I think my cheeks are going pink right now. When he looks me in the eye, he smirks. He’s definitely a mind reader. “We need a vacation,” he decides, his finger straightening the terracotta tile I use as a coaster. I got that tile in Tuscany. “I’m taking you back. Cheese and wine and sleeping in the sun.” His eyes follow the line of my dress down my body. “Red dresses and champagne and carbohydrates.” A pause, and there’s a little vulnerability in his expression now. “I didn’t go crazy and dream it all, did I?” “I have frequently assured you that I’m real.” I take his hand in mine and use it to pinch my forearm. “I was there for every incredible second. I always will be. Now, quit talking about carbohydrates. You’re turning me on.” He laughs. “We’d better get out of here.” He grabs my coat and walks out to chat with Helen and Mr. Bexley. I log off and lock away the stack of slush pile manuscripts I’ve been reading as my own little treat. I lock my door and just watch his reflection bounce around off the slick, glossy surfaces that make up level ten. The only thing better than having one Josh is having a hundred. I look at the plaque on my office door as I lock it. It says, Chief Operating Officer, and usually it has me grinning like a dork. But right now, I’m smiling over something else. The gold ring on Joshua Templeman’s left hand has set off a shower of firework sparkles in this huge black prism. Each time I focus on one particular reflection, it fractures and doubles. It’s a kaleidoscope of his love around me now. There are a hundred gold rings. A thousand. It’s still not enough. I want to spin around while they circle me like fireflies. That’s how he makes me feel, every day of ours lives. It’s wonderful. It’s primal. It’s nothing short of a miracle. My name is Lucy Templeman.

[perfeggso]

Noir (yutae)

Week II pt. 1

Tokyo – fall of 1983: Nakamoto Yuta is quickly rising in the ranks of one of Japan’s most notorious yakuza families, and he’s poised to climb even further if he can stop himself from being ruined by the pretty Korean boy who’s shown up out of nowhere.

Chapter 1  |  Chapter 2  |  Chapter 3  |  Chapter 4  |  Chapter 5  |  Chapter 6  |  Chapter 7  |  Chapter 8  | Masterlist 

Glossary of Japanese words

Characters: Yuta x Taeyong + NCT ensemble, Twice J-line (for funsies) 

Genres: Gang!AU, angst, smut, fluff, 1980s!AU

Warnings: graphic violence, swearing, minor character death, alcohol use, mentions of drugs, period-typical homophobia, xenophobia, BDSM

Rating: 18+

Length: 4.5k (will progressively get way longer)

A “foot soldier,” as it turned out, was the smallest of small fry in the syndicate.  They were mostly responsible for manning the many front businesses that Inagawa used for small change, low-level intimidation, and charity work.  Taeyong found that he did get to carry a revolver around with him but was forbidden from using it in non-life-threatening situations because he had only been a yakuza for about a week and had only gotten the opportunity to practice firing the thing twice.  This was both for his own protection and for the protection of the gang; almost nothing could have been more damaging than the misfiring of an illegal gun by a rookie.

All Taeyong had needed to do to leave his mechanic job was to submit a letter of resignation, which in honesty was the most obvious solution.  People were allowed to resign without a specific reason – his boss didn’t own his soul.  And Taeyong wasn’t too sad to leave since he hadn’t been close to anyone working there.

After a week, Taeyong found himself leaning over a yellow plastic desk at the entrance to a miscellaneous electronics shop in Akihabara, bored to death and resigned to people-watching.  Taeyong usually avoided Akihabara because he wasn’t particularly interested in electronics nor in otaku culture.  More than that, he hated how the few times he had come to the neighborhood in the evening he’d been approached by creepy middle-ages men trying to entice him to go “chat” with some “lovely young ladies.”

But now he was here among the neon lights with nothing more to do with himself but try to look inviting to customers.  If he was being honest, part of him wanted to sabotage the whole racket by looking purposefully glum and driving people away.  Despite his sweet face, Taeyong did have an aggressive streak in him but he always considered himself principled about those who got hit by it.  For instance, swindling major corporations out of millions of yen, as he was vaguely aware that Inagawa did, seemed perfectly ethical to him.  Selling faulty electronics to innocent working-class people on the other hand…

“Taeyong!” Mark yelled from behind him, forcing him out of his contemplative rabbit hole of Robin Hood ethics.

Taeyong turned around to see Mark walking up to him, a stack of colorful business cards in one hand and a badminton racket and shuttlecock in the other.  What a fuckin’ weirdo , thought Taeyong, although he couldn’t help but like the guy.

Mark had been the first person Taeyong had spoken to as an unofficial member, he supposed, of the Inagawa-kai, as he was the one responsible for escorting Taeyong back to his apartment and spending the night there to ensure that he did not try to run away or go to the authorities.  Taeyong didn’t sleep that night because his head was full of too many questions, and Mark wasn’t allowed to, so the two instead got to talking – as much as they could given the supreme awkwardness of the situation, anyway.        

“What do you need?” Taeyong asked and in response, Mark passed him the stack of cards as if that were an explanation.  Before he got around to illustrating his intentions with words, he began bouncing the shuttlecock against his racket, twisting the string bed 180 degrees between each contact.

“I need you to stand on the sidewalk and hand these out to people,” he finally said, still focused on his game. “They say we’re having a promotional sale.  It’s supposed to drum up more business which we can handle with the three of us here instead of two.  But for this to work, you need to stop scowling.  Show off that charming smile of yours.”

Mark was sure a cheeky bugger.  If Taeyong did stick around in this gang, he’d eventually use his age advantage to mess with the kid once their gap in experience wasn’t so large.

“Was this your idea?” Taeyong asked.

Mark shook his head no, pausing his game of hand-eye coordination.  “It was our Shategashira ’s.”  

“Nakamoto?”

“Hasn’t he told you to use his title?  Or just Yuta if you want to use his name.”

Taeyong huffed a sigh.  This ‘ Shategashira ’ of his had really become an exasperating figure in his life over the past week.  They’d barely interacted, but the coolness and ease with which Yuta always addressed him made him feel funny; as if he truly had no control over the trajectory of his life anymore simply because he was dumb enough to follow some sounds in an alley.  But who was he kidding?  His life might as well lead him to being in a gang.  Wasn’t that what he’d always wanted?  And anyway, there was a reason the Inagawa-kai had an entire Korean division and some Korean leadership.  Taeyong had just imagined more bombastic motorcycle rides and fewer junk computers.

“Yeah I remember now,” Taeyong said, shuffling the business cards in his hands and making his way out from behind his desk.  “So how do I get people to take these?”

Mark walked with him to the front of the shop, his hand on the older man’s shoulder.  “Just smile and say ‘promotional sale: premium consumer electronics.  This week only,' or some shit and try to get these into the hands of everyone who walks near you.  I think you can handle it.”

“I will try,” said Taeyong.

He found it was easier to get people to take the cards than he had expected, although his success didn’t seem to go further than that, as most people who took a card only regarded Taeyong with a confused scowl once they had it in their hands.  After about an hour, a woman came walking towards Taeyong on his side of the street, and she was truly the first person Taeyong fully noticed his whole shift.  He noticed her because no one could have not: she was slightly taller than average, especially in heels, with long black hair blown out, a green bodycon dress, black heels, and a gold chain necklace.  Taeyong thought she might have the prettiest face he’d ever seen on a woman.  He also noticed her because she was staring right at him as she approached.  Taeyong wasn’t fazed because he was used to nice looking girls coming onto him.  They would inevitably be put off either by his ethnicity or by his lack of interest in them – whichever they perceived first – and then bad things would happen.  However, the intensity in this woman’s gaze felt different as she came to stand just a few feet away.

“Momo-hime??” Taeyong heard Mark yell from somewhere within the store.  Huh?   Soon enough both he and Jungwoo had emerged and were greeting the gorgeous young woman.  Taeyong stayed frozen to his post because he didn’t know what to make of the situation nor of his role in it.  She was a ‘princess’ anyway.  What business did a street rat have introducing himself to her?

Soon, though, Taeyong found he didn’t have to.  She exchanged a few words with his coworkers, and they nodded, pointing her his way.

“Lee Taeyong,” said the woman, bowing once she had finally gotten close enough to greet him.  “I’m Hirai Momo.  It’s good to meet you.  Yuta told me you had been brought on.”

Taeyong was so confused he felt like he was floating, but he bowed back despite himself.  “Nice to meet you too.”  The name Hirai sounded familiar but Taeyong took a moment to place it.  Then, like being slapped in the face, his brain found the missing puzzle piece that allowed him to make an association.  The Hirai family ran the entire operation, didn’t they?  Shit .            

“Why are you here, Neechan ?” asked Jungwoo.

Momo smiled.  “Yuta sent me to retrieve you, Taeyong,” she answered, causing Mark and Jungwoo to raise their eyebrows in unison.

Taeyong could feel the blood rush through his veins, and it felt cold.  “I – did I do something?”

“Don’t worry,” Momo assured.  “Everything’s alright.  Yuta-san just wants to make sure you’re adjusting alright and to have you get some more target practice in with your new piece.  How does that sound?”

Yuta was turning out to be the most involved boss Taeyong had ever had.  He still had no idea what was going on, but at least he wasn’t in trouble and if he was being honest, he liked firing the gun and looked forward to another sanctioned opportunity.  Taeyong chided himself as he noticed a piece of his mind wondering churlishly what this girl was to Yuta.  That doesn’t pertain to you , he told himself.  

“That’s fine,” he said.

“Great,” said Momo, winking like a girl from an animated television show or something.  “So, you’ll go to headquarters and meet him right after your shift, got it?”

Got it.

***

The Inagawa-kai Tokyo headquarters was located in a simple, box-shaped black building on the edge of Aoyama.  It wasn’t a short structure – it had about seven stories – but compared to much of Tokyo’s architecture it remained strategically unassuming.  Once inside the building, a tall man with dark hair and a patchwork of tattoos and scars across his exposed skin approached Taeyong and told him he would escort him to the meeting.  At first Taeyong didn’t recognize him because he hadn’t gotten a good look the first time, but he soon realized that his companion was one of the men who had essentially arrested him a week ago, a fact which made his throat tighten.  Taeyong also cautiously noted that the man had a fresh stump of a pinky finger on his right hand covered in bandages.  Must have gotten in a bad fight.

The man led Taeyong down a series of identical concrete hallways until they reached a sliding door made of oak, at which point he left Taeyong to enter the room by himself.  Taeyong hesitated for a moment but was stunned into action when he heard Yuta’s expressive voice anticipate his presence from inside with the simple utterance of two syllables.

“ Douzo .”

Within, Yuta sat at the same desk where Taeyong had first met him, surrounded by expensive Scandinavian furnishings, walls of glass and concrete, and a pristine bonsai tree on a ledge behind him.  Yuta himself wore black pants, a silk shirt, and a yellow velvet smoking jacket of all things.  Taeyong felt something twist in his gut at the sight of him and his intent gaze but decided to file the feeling away somewhere very deep for the purposes of later contemplation.

“ Shategashira !” Taeyong greeted with a salute, as he was now pretty sure he was expected to.  “Would you like me to sit, sir?”

“At ease,” said Yuta, waving him off and letting Taeyong relax a bit.  “No need.  I’ll accompany you to the range right now, if that’s alright.”

“Of course, Shategashira .”

And with that, Taeyong let himself be led back under the florescent lights of the complex’s maze-like hallways.

“How are you adjusting, Taeyong?” asked Yuta.

Taeyong was constantly surprised that the couple times he had seen Yuta since their initial meeting, he always made sure to check up on him.  He didn’t know what to make of this.  He guessed it was just standard practice – a measure to make him feel protected and ensure his devotion, or something of the sort.

“It’s alright, I guess,” Taeyong responded.  “I like Mark and Jungwoo.  Johnny seems like a good guy too.  In all honesty, I don’t have a lot to do right now.  But I do appreciate having the position at all!”  Taeyong’s tone was absolutely all over the place, not knowing where to stand between familiar and deferent.  Taeyong thought he saw his little speech provoke a smile in Yuta, and suddenly that knot in his stomach was back.  Well, fuck.

Yuta spoke.  “I acknowledge that you don’t have the most exciting posting.  But that’s partially why I wished to speak with you today.  After you.”

Yuta left that tease there.  They had come to the end of a hallway to an orange door with chipping paint and a black symbol indicating that protective equipment for eyes and ears was recommended inside.  Yuta held it open and Taeyong passed through.

Once in the vestibule of the shooting range, Taeyong set himself up where he was supposed to stand and aimed his revolver at the target on the other end of the room as Yuta leaned against an acid-white wall with his arms crossed and his chin raised slightly.

“Relax your shoulders,” Yuta said, and Taeyong cleared his throat, shimmying his shoulders lower on his back in response.  He took a deep breath and focused on the red bull’s eye placed on the heart of a human-shaped target, both hands on the gun.  He had to refrain from grinding his teeth.

“Wait until you’re ready,” Yuta coached, voice low and commanding, “then focus your energy and count down from three before you pull the trigger.  Simple as that.”

“Yes, Shategashira .” Taeyong did as he was told, steadying himself, focusing his eyes on his target, and counting 3…2…1… BANG!

Taeyong felt himself sway backwards for a moment after firing but regained his balance quickly – something he had not done the first time he had shot the thing.  That time, he ended up on his butt, confused and embarrassed as Mark thrashed around on the wall in a fit of performative laughter.  The practice he’d had since then had helped, but so did the pressure of Yuta’s gaze.

After a moment, Taeyong heard clapping coming from next to him and he realized he had been closing his eyes.  When he opened them, he saw that a chunk of the wooden target was missing on its inner thigh.

“We can work with that,” Yuta remarked, finishing his short round of applause.  “Certainly enough to cripple, and that’s important.  However, I get the sense you weren’t aiming there, hm?”

Taeyong’s breathing fumbled when Yuta began to stalk towards him.  “What we need is to teach you some precision and confidence,” he explained. “We’ve got to work on your kill shot.  Do you mind?”

Yuta was asking for the gun, so Taeyong handed it over with an “of course, Shategashira .”        

Yuta took a sideways stance, holding the revolver out with one arm, and proceeded to shoot five times in fast succession, obliterating the plywood head of the target cutout until it was nothing more than splinters.  Taeyong did not care to imagine it as belonging to a real human.  When he had finished, Yuta turned to regard Taeyong, and to Taeyong’s surprise and horror, he broke out into a wide grin.  God , thought Taeyong, I’m alone with a psychopath and a gun .  Although, once that thought had passed, Taeyong couldn’t help admiring the princely charm of the way the smile had spread like a sunrise over Yuta’s face.  What the fuck was going on?  

“You see?” said Yuta, ebullient, “you’ll be doing that soon enough.”

Soon enough .  Right, Taeyong would need to sort out his future, and soon.

“Let’s try again.  Go back to your stance.  We’re going to stay with two hands for now.”

Taeyong took the gun back and repositioned himself in his starting position, holding the weapon with his outstretched arms and lining it up with his sternum.  Yuta came up beside him and held his hands over Taeyong’s shoulders.

“May I?” he asked, and Taeyong nodded, allowing Yuta to press down onto his shoulders and straighten his spine.  Taeyong could feel the other man’s breath and it was sending his nerves into a state he did not need them to be in, heat crawling up his neck.      

“Do the countdown again,” Yuta instructed, “deep breath, and then fire.  Don’t let your eyes close, alright?  And try to stay still as much as possible.  You can if you really engage your core.”

Taeyong nodded at all the advice and tried to follow it – attempting also to avoid noticing the watchful smile blooming on Yuta’s face in his peripheral vision.  He took in a deep breath of the room’s stale air and counted down again, eyes trained on the cutout’s heart and intent not to shut.

A BANG rang out once more throughout the vestibule.            

Taeyong did narrowly refrain from closing his eyes, but they seemed to have gone out of focus.  Once he blinked the fuzziness from them, as if erasing an etch-a-sketch, he could see that he’d succeeded in blowing a hole through his target’s crotch.

Yuta giggled and slapped Taeyong over his right shoulder.  Taeyong’s head spun.  Was he supposed to be scared of this literal mob boss or not?

“I have a hunch you weren’t aiming there either, huh?” Yuta asked, and Taeyong shook his head no.  “That’d definitely be an effective shot though, wouldn’t it?  Might actually be better than aiming for the heart in some situations because you can make them talk while they bleed out.”

Holy shit.   In an instant, Taeyong became painfully aware of his reality.  He was practicing shooting because he might be in a situation where he’d need to – where others would be aiming at him the same way he was aiming at this outline of a man.  What if it was him who got shot in the heart, or worse, shot in the dick and forced to bleed out horrifically?  Taeyong felt lightheaded but managed to squeeze enough air from his lungs to speak.

“Do you mind me asking you a question, if it’s not too forward?”

Yuta raised an eyebrow.  “Shoot,” he said, obviously amused by his own word play.

“Why am I here?” asked Taeyong.  “What am I doing here now?  What am I training for?”  That was three questions, but oh well.  Taeyong didn’t feel like being measured.

Yuta sighed and cocked his head, eyes fluttering to regard the floor.

“I had a feeling this would come up,” he said, smiling wryly this time.  “Keep practicing and I’ll fill you in.”

Taeyong nodded and prepared to shoot again, hitting the target’s left shoulder this time when he pulled the trigger.

“Getting closer to the heart,” Yuta observed, appreciative.  “You see, Taeyong, there are only two favorable outcomes for you now that this ball has gotten rolling.”  Taeyong relaxed his arms and watched Yuta begin to pace, his face steeled by caution.

“The first, which would be preferable to the family, is that you stay on with the Inagawa-kai and devote yourself to our line of work.  However, I understand that what has happened was not your choosing, and you may want to return to your normal life as soon as possible.  Whichever path you choose eventually matters little to what I need you to do for now, so don’t worry about it yet.” Yuta paused, giving Taeyong a moment to recover from the way his emotions had just gone topsy-turvy like his image in a funhouse mirror.  Then Yuta gestured towards the gun Taeyong was now pointing at the rubber floor.  “Please continue,” he said.  Taeyong hit the target in its stomach and caught a hum of approval from Yuta.    

“Either way,” Yuta went on, “you will need to establish trust here.  Even if you want to leave, you will have to stay on long enough and perform well enough to prove that we can trust you to be an ally even in the civilian world.  Does that make sense, Taeyong?”

Bang! Left hip.

“It does,” Taeyong replied, resigned.  This was all his own fault anyway.  He couldn’t help his curiosity though.  “Is this something that happens often?”

Yuta chuckled slightly.  Bang! Sternum.  Taeyong was quickly gaining enough balance and confidence to keep himself still while firing.

“Similar situations have occurred although we obviously try to avoid them.  For instance, the two men who brought you in to me have been duly reprimanded for their carelessness.”  

Taeyong was preparing to fire as Yuta said this and was immediately thrown off when his mind returned to the image of his abductor’s freshly severed finger, putting two and two together.  Is that what a mistake gets you here? Worse, did Yuta purposefully assign that guy to escort Taeyong as some kind of warning? Taeyong was already pressing down on the trigger when this thought came to him and it caused him to misfire wildly, hitting the wall on the other end of the range a few feet from the target.

“Fuck!”

“Do you need me to stop talking?” Yuta asked.

Taeyong held the gun in his left hand while shaking out the wrist of his right, as if the problem had been purely physiological.  “No!  Er – sorry, just give me a moment please, Shategashira .”

“That’s alright,” said Yuta.  “You’re doing pretty well for a beginner.  Take a break for a bit.”

Taeyong nodded, feeling defeated but somewhat relieved.    

“Similar situations,” he mused “Like what?  If you don’t mind telling me.”

“Take Jungwoo, for example.  He worked for a circuitry and computing firm that was under our thumb.  He knew nothing about it – he was simply a technician and didn’t have access to the books – but when the small company had defied our understanding with them one too many times, Jungwoo happened to be unlucky enough to witness the consequences.  We gave him the option to make it up to us by working for us.  It was difficult for him at first, but now his closest friends are in our ranks and he gets to do what he loves while never needing to worry about money.  So, it worked out in the end.”

Jungwoo, huh?   Taeyong had thought the guy seemed a bit too cheery to be a natural gangster.

“I see.  I don’t really have a thing though, that I love doing, you know?”

Yuta shrugged, then smiled in a way that was meant to be reassuring.

“Well, you may not love it, but you know about vehicle mechanics, right?  That will be useful to us.  However, to be honest I do feel for you, Taeyong, I really do.  You caught my attention immediately and have weighed on my conscience.  I want to help you make the best of this, and the best thing you can do now is quickly prove your loyalty both to me and to the people I work for.  That way, you will get the most flexibility in the least time.  That’s why I’m scheming to fast-track you to that point.”

Taeyong was mystified as to why his superior, who had implicitly threatened him into becoming a yakuza in the first place, was being so nice to him; so reasonable.

“What does that mean?” Taeyong asked, eyes going wide in anticipation.

Yuta leaned back against the wall and watched Taeyong from under his bangs.  “I’m in the middle of a project that it would be nice if someone helped me with.  It’s not inherently dangerous and it’ll give you a good idea of how we operate.  If you do a good job you will both understand the world you’re now living in and if you want to stay in it, and hopefully, gain enough trust to be allowed to make that decision when the time comes.”

Taeyong’s thumb skimmed nervously over the textured handle of his revolver, eyes searching the vestibule for some sense of reality.  He felt almost dizzy with exhilaration at the idea of helping Yuta out and spending more time with him - studying him.  “What’s the project?” he asked.

“An investigation.”

“An investigation…” Taeyong repeated.  What did he know about investigations?

“Yes,” said Yuta, “I’m gathering information on a certain executive at one of the nation’s largest companies.  For blackmailing purposes.”

Taeyong almost laughed at how upfront Yuta was about this.

“Okay…”

“Is that a yes?”

“Do I have a choice?” Asked Taeyong.  Yuta smiled, something almost predatory in his expression.  “What would I have to do?”

“Accompany me when I go out following leads, be my lookout and my sounding board for ideas when no one else is free to help.  You can be more involved depending on how well you do with that.  Think you can handle it?”

That didn’t sound too out of the box for things Taeyong could do.  Besides, Yuta had said “lookout” not “bodyguard” or something.  Taeyong was used to fighting, but his dustups were usually with hoodlums from Shin-Ōkubo, not with armed career criminals.

Taeyong nodded.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah I can.”

Yuta pushed himself off the wall.  “Perfect.  Before we finish here though, I’d like to get you to hit your target.”

The way Yuta said it so flatly made it clear to Taeyong that this was a command, not a suggestion.

“Yes, Shategashira .”      

“I think I know how to help,” said Yuta, “it’s something I used to do when practicing.  Do you have someone you want that to be?  Someone you hate so much it makes your toes curl?  Makes you want to smell their blood?”

Taeyong pictured the leader of the Specters – the boy who’d beaten him black and blue until he couldn’t hear or think; the boy who had only refrained from dragging Taeyong from a chain on the back of a car when he heard sirens coming for him, and all because Taeyong had dared to be zainichi .  Sure, Taeyong wouldn’t mind a little payback.  He nodded at Yuta, both men’s eyes going dark and focusing on the target.

“Good,” said Yuta, placing his hands on Taeyong’s shoulders and squeezing.  This time, Taeyong’s mind had gone too cold to let the contact affect him.  “Now, don’t let them get away with anything less than a bullet to the heart.”

With that, Yuta pushed away and Taeyong imagined his victim, ugly smug face and rising sun headband appearing in his mind’s eye with chilling detail.  Relax, breathe out, 3, 2, 1, BANG!

Taeyong was steady as the bullet passed an inch or so from the bullseye and the sight caused a great sense of relief to wash over him, like stepping into a hot tub on a snowy day.

When he turned around, Yuta was watching him with a smirk, arms crossed over his chest.

“When do I start, Shategashira ?” asked Taeyong.

Yuta’s smirk morphed into what Taeyong could only describe as a proud grin.  “You start now.”    

[deranged-ink]

Dear editor in chief.

Yesterday I was reading a magazine -your magazine- while waiting for my coffee. I´ll admit that I was so into it that, to my embarrassment, I failed to notice the girl approaching until she left the coffee with some croissants on my table. That would be a big mistake if I were reading on the company time.

I was too involved in a single line of your last editorial:

What is your hobby? A simple and dull question, but not to my eyes. I can't help but wonder about what kind of person is asking. Is it someone intelligent? Someone with a really deep understanding of the human nature or just the typical dumb brick monkey behind a typewriter. I can assure you that one honest to god smile cameforth to your inquiry, simply because it is one of those easy-to-answer questions using a triviality, difficult to answer with The Truth.

I suppose that if you force me to answer with nothing but said Truth I would have to admit, with the proper amount of blush on my cheeks, that I like to look at the people, please take note that i am not a stalker, it's just that in order to be good at my job I have to describe myself as a rather avid observer.

I like to look at people, especially on my job. You have to understand, sitting on an uncomfortable chair for countless hours, drinking cheap coffe and killing cigars in some dirty ashtray, just waiting for the phone to ring to do my job... I would have turned crazy long, long ago if I wouldn't found a way to kill some time.

But from my hobby something really good came up.

I learned, no. I found something fascinating while observing these biological machines. Well first, I´ll confess, everything started with a game: Guess what it will do now?

From that game I discovered that all this elaborated, commercialized and consumed idea of freedom is -for most of these poor bastards- fundamentally, a lie . A lie that may or may not be true, that's the beauty of the whole subject. A liar's truth.

Before you burn your brains trying to imagine something like that, let me add something, whatever you imagine, it will be right.

If you think about it, it's a beautiful "oxymoron". Freedom is a useful farse (A dream for the most) where you must be aware of what you do and stop doing. You must fully understand each of your actions from its very root. Thats the really hard part.

Do not get me wrong, I have always said that true freedom is real, a primordial part of what reality is. The problem lies in the excuses that the lower minds uses to escape from the weight of freedom.

They fall for the supposed "unmeasurable plots" of some great powers and some others imaginary enemies (that for some not-even-god-knows reason will try to brainwash or enslave them).

They gave these plotters this divine attribute of being untouchable. And closing their eyes, they turned themselves into beings without a real opinion, without control over their lives. That's nothing short of stupidity. Themselves wrote the fairytale that they now fear, and did it in order of escaping the responsibility of knowing/taking control of their lives.

Themselves choose their imaginary chains and in the same thought, choose the more imaginary saviour that will come to brake them! Just look at those pocket warriors of the social networks, reading only what supports their ideals and burning the rest!

-Oh, traditional book burning! The irony!-

Thats how they define themselves acording their position on said system: left, right, pro-life, pro-choice, feminist, traditional, pro-system, anti-system, pious, atheist.

But what they call "the system" is just a playing field. Not some godwritten rules that will never change.

And there they meet failure without being able to realize that they act as the said system expects them to act. All the pieces on the board have a use. Even when trying to escape, when trying to think and act outside of the box, they only succeed -in a beautiful way if you ask me- to prove that they are wrong.

They do not realize that the system is not a box, but actually a box of many, each box is full of boxes and the fact that you can "get out" of the box only confirms this.

You can -with ease- point out all the poor bastards who buy a t-shirt with the face of Che Guevara (or someother communist symbol). Ironically, they are being part of a capitalist market with them as their target. The same can be said of those really patriotic friends, they really love America and they also really love their flag to be made in china. Sweet irony.

This is the same for freedom. To be free, you must be aware of what you are, truly aware, also accept what you can and can not do and that each of your actions has an effect on the great cosmic pool that is this life, each action is a small or a large stone that falls on water. You will imagine that with so many rocks that big pool is not calm at all. And thats life my friend, actions that modify our actions in one way or another. The real freedom lies in understanding this, accepting it and continuing to live.

Playing "Guess what it will do now?" I had an eureka moment some years ago. From an open window I was looking at the people on the street with my telescope, when I learned something that saddens me: "People" sold their freedom for a manual.

Life is not easy and that´s why most decide to live thinking it is. I honestly ignore the reason behind such a stupid decision. "People" gave away their freedom in exchange of beliefs, just to not question. Just to take the world as it was presented, without thinking, without asking. Only assimilating it and calling it true.

Name your manual however you want... Luck, Destiny, God, the almighty Horoscope, Reptilians or Super corporations that plan to dominate the world. It is in their hands that our world and our lives rest and not on us.

I bet that sounds better than the truth.

Everyone is free to believe in whatever they want, even when those beliefs take away their freedom.

Especially when they take away their freedom

The "manual" depends on many things, such as their upbringing, the books they had read, the books they didn't, their general education, but above all these things, of something greater, something with more force than those preconceived ideas of a man's life being the direct and ultimate result of those first twenty years of his life.

-Those who affirm that are the "intellectuals" who seek to justify mediocrity by blaming society.-

I discovered a truth, a sad truth, that goes beyond. Are you ready?  Our life depends on ourselves

-Surprising, right?-.

It depends on our decisions, our actions and how much we want to be ourselves. How much do we want to be free.

For the rest the world you have that manual that handles their lives or that simply points to the people or entities that will do it. Manuals that dictate the routine of each of them, from how, when and where they go to work, to what they stop to eat and why. What they believe in, how they think, how they feel.

So many "children" blame the manual and I can only feel sorry for them.

I can only look at them straight in the eye and say: Do not blame the manual, blame yourselves for accepting it. Blame your weakness for letting yourself be destroyed to that point.

To the point of acting... In automatic, each and every one of "them" lives like this, in automatic.

I say "them" because I do not know if "you", whoever reads these words, also do it. And no, do not let the fact that you are a reader of newspapers, books and intellectual publications make you think that you are beyond this fundamental flaw of the human being. Maybe you are also, a zombie, a computer that acts according to a list of things to do. That is why I refer to them as "It" or "them", maybe you are, or not, so I consider that these words can be one of two uses for you;

1: A call to wake up.

2: A lesson in what you should never do to yourself.

"They" are predictable, "they" are stupid. A person is a completely different topic, the problem is that there aren't many individuals left, individuals are now an endangered specie. But there are many "people". There were many individuals who decided to stop being individuals to become people.

Good people. Bad people. That doesn't matter. Cuz people is predictable. And it's something that in my line of work I've learned to do, it's a fundamental part of it.

For example; Look at this guy, for the last six days I've seen he it come and go, always in the same old beige suit and dull shoes, with its eyes on the ground, dragging its feet every morning. That's when I guess it goes to work. But not so surprisingly, it walks with the same vigor when it goes back in the afternoon. Two days ago was the day of "bring your son to work" but it didn't bring anyone. I got curious so during one impromptu walk to the donut shop I passed by it and could not help noticing that it doesn't have a single ring in its hand, nor a scar, much less any characteristic feature or mark added by life experiences. It was programmed that way, throughout his life it decided to accept what the rest thought of it, from its parents to its classmates, it let each and every one of their opinions form what it is today, unfortunately those opinions were everything but positive.

If forced to guess I would said that when It was a He, was one of those people with an artistic mind, a characteristic completely undervalued by his parents, repudiated by his peers and misinterpreted by his teachers who were unable to see beyond their own mediocrity.

If I have to bet: I would say that he did not grow up in the city, he was born and raised in a dying small town, one of those that somehow still linger in the 21th century. His parents decided that the life of an artist was not for him, that he deserved better, that he had to be someone "normal". He decided to listen to them. And being a person of unique thinking is not difficult to guess that he ended up in an office job that hates, earning a pittance to make his boss buy a new car every year. Thats how He became It.

But it's not the boss's fault, it's just that It is not good at what It does, it's almost like wanting to screw a chair using a rock. The wrong tool for the task. That is why this could be the best thing that ever happened to It, it may be the wake up call that leads It to recover its life. To become a He.

We can also see the perfect opposite; with a badly rolled joint in the mouth, practically finishing learning to smoke without coughing or looking like a complete idiot: A skinny boy in a leather jacket that barely fits him, too tight jeans, expensive but too big shoes, hair full of hairspray and tinted in three shades of pink that I do not have the slightest intention or desire to learn how to differentiate.

I always see him in the same place, the alley that is right beside the donuts shop, pretending to be the most badass punk of the block for hours. Actually, that doesn't seem to be the place he choose to spend every morning, I think that it's the place that was chosen for him.

He is never alone, always accompanied by others who dress just like him, the same spiky hair but of different colors. They skip school to spend their mornings laughing at the people passing by, provoking them, intimidating them, smoking, but until now they have never said anything to the police.

- Every time a cop walked in front of them they just kept quiet hiding their eyes in their expensive last generation smartphones. They even treat the "autority" with the utmost respect! It's funny but sad.-

This is fashion. Just a trend, fighting against the system, to rebel against their parents, against society, to paint walls with messages of anarchy and rebellion. With no actual desire to do so.

Just playing to be free without accepting consequences or duties, to be free to do what you want while keep on sucking from the old tits of your mother, a whole case for Freud to write two more books. Want me to guess? He never felt hungry. He must come from a boring and average middle-high class family. His parents gave him everything he ever wanted, but never a proper slap, must be the only child or at least the youngest of the siblings. And the only reason he plays the whole punk behavior is that he is bored

That's why he came up with this whole idea of rebelling against the system or rather, copied it, like his friends, without noticing the most comical aspect of all this, wanting to be different they all became the same. Acting the same, acting from a manual.

I bet that He will run, shout, beg to the police as soon as he sees the red rush. If he is smart, he will realize that he is wrong, that the system is not the enemy, is not the monster that makes this world the shit hole it is. The actual monster is the man with the rifle.

[silvermoongirl10swfics]

501st Legion OCs

Doc (CT-4153) - Medic. Doc has military regulation black hair and is clean shaven. Before the war, he was one of the medics responsible for training medics on Kamino. He trained Painkiller and Needle of the 212th. During training Doc became very protective of Needle, partly due to Needle fainting every time an IV or injection had to be administered. Seeing how close Needle and Painkiller became during training, Doc actually made sure they were assigned to the same battalion and he also used his sneaky skills in getting them both assigned to the 212th under Patch (his best friend from his own medic training). Doc appears mild mannered and calm. But if you mess with or hurt one of his ‘chosen’ baby brothers e.g. Needle, you had better run for your life. He is the living defintion/example of ‘never annoy the medic’. Once the war started, Doc could have remained on Kamino training the new medics, but he volunteered for active service and was assigned to the 501st. While he didn’t train Kix, Kix still finds it weird being the Lead Medic, so in charge of one of the medic trainers he knew on Kamino when he was training. Doc was named for all the historical dramas I watch and how every medic gets nicknamed Doc.

Jek ARC Squad of the 501st - the ARC squad I have added Echo and Fives to. This is the squad in the Vopak series Echo is a corporal of. There will be a reunion fic of Jek squad on Vopak. (I’m not sure if ARC squads exist in canon, but in the Vopak AU series they do now.)

Hefty (CT-5620) - ARC Sergeant of Jek squad. Bald with a scruff beard. Hefty has a tough guy persona, but if you are in his squad, you know he is really a softie. Has the bad habit of not sleeping or eating enough when he is stressed about an upcoming campaign or just generally worrying about his Jek boys. Once Echo and Fives were made ARCs, he snapped them up into his squad knowing they would be a good fit. Relatively quickly, he had Echo promoted to Corporal of the squad. He and Echo worked really well together and Hefty became protective of his little brother. After the Citadel mission when Echo was presumed dead, Hefty grieved the loss of his little brother, but carried on knowing he needed to help support a grieving Fives, just as Echo would have wanted. As the clones and Jedi left Coruscant Rex told Hefty that Echo was alive and was travelling on the Negotiator with Fives. In the privacy of his room, Hefty held onto a holo picture of the squad taken three days before the Citadel mission and cried because he was so happy that Echo was alive.

Quote (CT-1721) - ARC Corporal of Jek squad (was promoted after Echo’s presumed death). Quote is bald and clean shaven. He has two quote mark tattoos on his head above his right ear. His armour is painted in blue quote marks of varying sizes, he likes you to know who exactly he is if he is wearing his helmet. The front of his helmet has a single quote mark painted on it, covering top to bottom. The same is painted on the back of his helmet. He got his name in training because he quoted people and things he read, his batchmates gave him his name lovingly. After Echo’s ‘death’ and after Fives refused Hefty’s offer of a promotion to Corporal, Quote was promoted to Corporal and while he accepted his new rank, he hated it. He felt like he was replacing Echo, but he had looked up to Echo for the nine months he served with Echo (Quote became an ARC Trooper three months after the Domino twins). He also knew Echo would want someone who knew Hefty well to serve as his second-in-command of the squad and who would continue to look after the squad. Quote cried the first time he hugged Echo on Vopak.

Dace (CT-4135) - ARC Trooper. Dace has buzz cut black hair. He was the second member of Jek squad, Hefty choosing him personally. Dace didn’t mind Echo being promoted to Corporal, he actually laughed at Echo when he apologised for being promoted before Dace. Dace doesn’t care for promotions, apart from being given ARC Trooper status, he is happy at the bottom of the pecking order. He silently taught Echo how best to be Hefty’s right-hand-man and helped Echo and Fives adjust to being ARC Troopers. He was very proud of the Domino twins and also helped them with some of their chaotic schemes, privileges of not being a higher rank. When he heard about what happened on the Citadel mission, he hugged Fives and then went to the gym on the Resolute, where he punched four punching bags so hard they came loose from the chains holding them up. He was non-verbal for a week and then went back to his gruff self, if he was spotted keeping a closer eye on Fives, then nobody mentioned it. On his arrival to Vopak he kept a close eye on Echo, obviously reluctant to have the injured brother out of his sight. Dace laughed when Echo and Fives’ speeder ended up on the lake, happy to see the twins back to normal. The first time he saw Echo back in his ARC armour (that day on the lake) he cried.

Error (CT-5181) - ARC Trooper. Error has military regulation red hair and a red scruff beard. He was not named because of his hair colour, it was actually because every time he learnt something shocking, his facial expression would freeze, with wide eyes, representing/being a living embodiment of the error.code message you get on a computer. Error was made an ARC two months before the Domino twins and was transferred to the 501st, Jek squad from the 126th Battalion. He was so happy to have brothers the ‘same age as him’, as he had taken to calling Dace and Hefty the ‘goldie oldies’, which Hefty complained about, only because their armour was blue, not 212th gold.

Xerus (CT-2418) - ARC Trooper. Xerus has short blonde hair and is clean shaven. His batchmates are Patch and Fixer from the 212th. He loves that the 501st and 212th often work together as that means he gets to see his batchmates. While training on Kamino, he had initially wanted to be a pilot, but when he watched Commander Colt and some of the other ARCs train, he decided he wanted to be an ARC more than a pilot. After being assigned to the 501st and six months into the war, he happened to confess his aim to Rex while drunk. The next day, the Captain began training him and once Xerus distinguished himself in battle, he was given the official word that he was going to become an ARC Trooper. He liked Echo and Fives immediately and called them the ‘best of the 501st’. After the Citadel mission, he hid for the entire night on the Resolute when he cried himself to sleep. The next day, like Dace, he kept a close eye on Fives. Spent most of the journey from Coruscant to Vopak crying when he found out Echo was alive and travelling on the Negotiator. He and Tactless chose to live together on Vopak and live next to Fara and Quote.

Tactless (CT-2013) - ARC Trooper. Tactless has longish black hair he puts in a nerf tail. He became an ARC four months after the Domino twins. Originally from the 184th Attack Battalion, the same as Copy’s batchmates. He did not like Avid, Gloomy and Vex (Murk was the best of the four of them) and so Tactless may have rubbed in his ARC Trooper promotion and transfer to the 501st to the three Tango squad members. (He absolutely rubbed it in!) Tactless did not know Avid, Gloomy and Vex were the Cadets Echo and Fives spoke to about bullying Copy, once Tactless found out on Vopak. He would take the time, every day, to walk past Tango squad and would grin as he pointed to his ARC armour. As you may have guessed, Tactless is named Tactless because he does not possess a lot of tact. But I love my petty boy.

Fara (CT-6118) - ARC Trooper. Fara has military cut brown hair and has a scruff beard. Fara is the baby of Jek squad and is the most protected of the squad. Fara became a member of Jek squad two months before the Citadel mission, Echo took Fara under his wing and Fara hero-worshipped Echo. When Rex told Jek squad about Echo’s fate on the Citadel, Fara found a corner of the hanger and cried for a few minutes. After composing himself, he went to the ARC’s barracks and found Fives curled up crying on Echo’s bunk. Without saying anything Fara went and cuddled Fives for the entire night. Even though, thanks to Echo’s influence, Fara didn’t need to be watched over anymore, he let Fives be protective of him without a word. Four months before the end of the war, Fara was badly injured in a battle, Fives got him to Kix and then proceeded to have a meltdown in the middle of the Medbay. Once Fara was conscious he comforted Fives and pulled the older ARC onto his medical bed and they cuddled for the night. Once he heard Echo was alive, Fara spent the journey to Vopak smiling and helped Rex gather up pieces of ARC armour for Echo. Once he saw Echo, Fara hugged him tightly and was relucant to let Echo go. Once living quarters were chosen in the Vopak Temple, Fara and Quote made sure they lived next door to the Domino twins (Hefty and Dace lived on the other side of the twins). (Fara’s name was inspired by the lotr character Faramir.)

[douchebagbrainwaves]

OK, I'LL TELL YOU YOU ABOUT MATHEMATICIAN

Most people should still be searching breadth-first at 20. Traditionally the student is the audience, not the needs of the users determine what to do when the teacher tells your elementary school class to add all the numbers from 1 to 100? We'll establish our own accreditation procedure. That's the main reason we do Y Combinator: to let loose all this energy by making it easy for hackers to start their own companies after college instead of getting jobs, that will change what happens in college. Whereas a few years ago I read an interview with a mathematician who said that most nights he went to bed discontented, feeling he hadn't made enough progress. And he has to bear this uncomplainingly, partly because as the company's daddy he can never show fear or weakness, and partly because we're not doing this just for financial reasons; YC would be a shambles. The first rule I knew intellectually, but didn't really grasp till it happened to us. How do you push down on the top as well as using the same paperwork for every deal we do, we've commissioned generic angel paperwork that all the startups we fund can use for future rounds. I want is for the founders to make them cheaply; many more get built; and as a result they can be used in new ways. Intelligence has become increasingly important relative to wisdom because there is more room for spikes. You can get the software for free; people throw away computers more powerful than our first server; and if you made it you'd done your job perfectly, just as more people could have computers once microprocessors made them cheap.

A, you can decrease the amount of selling required in an industry is always inversely proportional to the judgement of the buyers. And yet bullshit does have a distinctive character. If we assume 4 people per startup, which is at least two million dollars a year, the law introduces frightening legal exposure for corporate officers. We had ashtrays in our house when I was a kid, even though neither of my parents smoked. Most of the turning points in economic history are instances of it. Hence the fourth problem: the acquirers have begun to realize they can buy wholesale. Though they're often clueless about technology, most investors are pretty good at reading people. Imagine how depressing the world would be if it were put to use.

When I walked into the final, the main vector is probably the founders themselves. I think this would have such a visible effect on the economy. History is full of case after case where I worked on something just because it seemed interesting. The huge volume of the spam, which has so far worked in the spammer's favor, would now work against him, like a digital image rendered with more pixels. There's nothing that magically changes after you take that last exam. Let's rehearse the chain of argument so far. The second counterintuitive point is that it's too passive. If you think of technology as something that's spreading like a sort of fractal stain, every moving point on the edge represents an interesting problem. You had to for guests. One of the advantages of having kids is that when you have to give advice, you can make a fortune writing business books and consulting for large companies. They only just decided what to use, so why wouldn't they?

This essay is derived from a talk at Defcon 2005. Yes and no. To some extent you have to choose between them. The founders sometimes think they know. Indeed, although investors hate it, you can get a product launched on a few tens of thousands of dollars of seed money from us or your uncle, and approach them with a working company instead of a plan for one. But if I'm right about the acceleration of addictiveness, then this kind of lonely squirming to avoid it will increasingly be developed within startups rather than big companies. Most people could do better. The greatest value of universities is not the optimal time to do it. That's what we thought about Airbnb, and if we want to fund more Airbnbs we have to go back and figure out if they were really recipes for wisdom or intelligence. And while it's impossible to do that enough. You need to do what you know intellectually to be right, even though neither of my parents smoked.

But aside from that, I don't think we can get much more specific without starting to be mistaken. When I was a kid trying to break into computers, what worried him most was the idea of letting founders partially cash out, let me try again: starting a startup is hard, but having a 9 to 5 job is hard too, and in which performance is therefore unbounded. Interesting question. When you transform a mathematical expression into another form, you often notice new things. We had ashtrays in our house when I was a kid trying to break into computers, what worried him most was the idea of letting founders partially cash out, let me try again: starting a startup means the particles they're attracting are getting lighter. We don't need to be able to bring ourselves to take risks proportionate to the risk, founders will not invest their time in political battles, and from which consumers have to buy anyway because there are so few choices. But it's not in your interest to. What they invest is their time and ideas. Series A rounds, where you have more interest from investors than you can handle. And when I'm writing an essay. Demand transparency. And historically the number of startups does mean is that you don't invent anything at all.

10,000? So when mediocre investors see that lots of other people wanted the same thing. You have to have a remedial character. Instead of making a conscious effort to think of startup ideas: those that grow organically out of your own users, and all users care about is whether your product does what they want to have still more of their lunch eaten by Google. These can certainly affect your life—it's hard to get fired. Starting a successful startup to have this happen. There are ideas that obvious lying around now.

In fact, I don't think it would have. To be fair, the universities have their hand forced here. Acquirers will also have to get it from the poor, or take it away from the rich. And if your startup succeeds, it will also prevent one person from being much richer than anyone else, it will sometimes provoke other firms, even good ones, to make up their minds, lest they lose the deal. A competing product, a downturn in the economy, a delay in getting funding or regulatory approval, a patent suit, changing technical standards, the departure of a key employee, the loss of a big account—any one of these can destroy you overnight. If I'd been forbidden to make enough from a startup to do this, I would have tried to get a nice, low-stress job at a company, but this predisposition is not itself intelligence. To succeed in a domain that violates your intuitions, you need to know.

This CFO is both the smartest and the most upstanding money guy I know. But the better you do, surprise, you've got a company. Plus a company that has raised money is literally more valuable. A few days ago I finally figured out something I've wondered about for 25 years: the relationship between risk and reward. What was special about Brian Chesky and Joe Gebbia was not that they were experts in technology. But unfortunately most investors are pretty good at reading people. I was any good, why didn't I have the easy confidence winners are supposed to have? And while startup hubs are as powerful magnets as ever, the increasing cheapness of web startups. Instead of obliterating your idiosyncrasies in an effort to make yourself a neutral vessel for the truth, you select one and try to judge which is the satisfaction of people's desires. Taking money from the rich.