#ladder of abstraction

[savagegardensprogramming]

[This is a copy. I posted this on the Computer Science community but I have no idea how to drag it into this blog]

I am developing a new programming language I am calling SavageGardens. I am here for several reasons. One is to get the word out on SavageGardens but this particular post is to ask the Computer Science community for new terminology.

The core of SavageGardens implements a ladder of abstraction because I see the problem of computer languages as a communication problem (us talking to the machine). The situation as the machine being of alien species to ourselves and the problem being a translation problem. Furthermore, its not a simple translation such as English to Spanish. Its complicated translation. Several layers or stages are required to get our point across. Hence the reason for the ladder of abstraction.

We humans stand at the top of the ladder. We communicate at a very high level. Machines stand at the bottom. They communicate at a very low level.

I am categorizing SavageGardens as a complex language. Because SavageGardens is made up several sub-languages. Here comes the need for new terminology. I suggest that traditional computer languages be called simple programming languages and I propose that a new breed of complex programming languages to be recognized. The idea is the same as simple single cell organisms vs complex living organisms such as ourselves.

When I came up with my ideas I started calling the stages as tiers. I called SavageSardens as a multitier language. There is an entry on wikipedia about multitier languages. The most popular being the internet development stack (HTML, CSS, PHP, SQL, JavaScript). Unfortunately that is not a ladder of abstraction. Hence there needs to be terminology to distinguish traditional multitier languages from ones that implement a ladder of abstraction such as SavageGardens.

I need an adjective to assign to SavageGardens that would describe it to be a complex language that utilizes a ladder of abstraction. Keep in mind that several languages implement abstraction. But this kind of abstraction is different. It gives the programmer the ability to zoom in and out of scope. Also, unlike the internet development stack the sub-languages within SavageGardens breathe as one. If you make changes at the top, they are reflected at the bottom. And any changes you make at the bottom must be inline with the top. The same way if you draw a tattoo yourself. The cells in your skin are affected. Likewise if your cells are allowed to grow unrestricted you experience cancer.

[aneverydaything]

Day 2203, 4 July2024

These bent shapes are the rusting handrails to ladder leading down to the water at the side of the old dock which is now a marina at Limehouse Basin, London

[delemoreart]

Ladder of Dreams

Ladder of Dreams – an ethereal vision of a ladder reaching through clouds into a boundless sky. This surreal artwork invites you to dream beyond limits. Available as prints, phone cases, and more. Add a touch of wonder to your space.

[lssthnthree]

Minecraft death

[emmg]

At nineteen, Emmrich proposed to a fellow student, a boy with hair so dark it drank the light. The age itself was incidental; a number, an illusion, a neat division imposed upon a life that did not yet know how to divide itself. But still, nineteen was good. Good because it allowed for certainty, for decisions made with the heedless bravado of someone who has not yet learned how time can warp them.  

He remembered family in the way one remembers the texture of a childhood blanket: warmth not as an abstraction but as a sensation, something real enough to be retrieved at will, kneaded, reshaped, pressed into new forms. It was this warmth, this phantom of closeness, that he sought to recreate in the tender spaces of early love. No one stopped him. Nineteen was the age of indulgence, of watching without intervening, of murmured allowances. Let him. He will learn. He will unlearn. The world granted him this folly.

"Let’s wait until we’re no longer apprentices," the lovely boy said, and so they did. 

Then Minrathous for one, Ferelden for the other. Cities that, on maps, seemed no more distant than the span of a hand but, in practice, required whole journeys to cross. The change was slow. Small gaps in the correspondence, a hesitation in the ink, an unfamiliar concision where once there had been excess. 

The letters continued. At first, swollen with sentiment, words pressing against the margins, impatient, tumbling over themselves in their need to be read. Then, the same flourishes, the same intricate loops, but now with the care of one writing an alibi. The words became beautiful in a way that beauty becomes a substitute for feeling. Then, in the end, not at all. 

At thirty, he tried again, though this time without the formalities of a question. A gesture here, a remark left to linger, an invitation just vague enough to be ignored or accepted without consequence. The art was in the waiting: nets cast, lines slack, the delicate balance between reeling in and letting the current decide.

Gifts, unobtrusive at first, then a shade too particular, too attuned. Plans, not for next week but for some fogged-over point just far enough ahead to suggest permanence. A quiet test, a way of observing whether the word we would slip into conversation naturally or require a pause, a conscious effort.

Some entanglements stretched across years, some unraveled in mere months, some never took shape at all. But the process remained the same, a practiced routine, less an act of pursuit than a habit of expectancy, of waiting to see who would mistake the drift for direction. 

With Johanna, it had almost seemed possible. They were young, clever, bright enough to blind themselves. Where she rushed forward, he held back; where she burned bridges, he traced blueprints for new ones. They fit together, he thought. She chose him to fight with, to kiss, to mock, to fuck, to abandon, to retrieve, to champion when it suited her and dismiss when it did not. Out of all the others—so many others, so many better ones—it was him she turned to, and that was beyond exhilarating.

"You're a fucking idiot," she would tell him. 

"Perhaps," he would agree, adjusting his sleeves, "but you still should not do this, Johanna." Or that. Or the next thing. 

They did not balance each other. Balance suggested symmetry, some reciprocal give-and-take. Johanna was a force of nature; he, at best, a gust of wind. But in those days, he let himself believe they came close enough. 

"I could stay with you forever," he confessed to her once, drunk on sentiment, on whatever else had been in his glass. 

"Love. Romance," Johanna muttered, barely looking up from her notes. "Convenient, isn’t it? Always there when it suits you. Always such a lovely little supplement to whatever grand, important thing you’re doing. We could go anywhere, you and I. Climb every ladder, scale every rung. Publish together, argue in print, scandalize conferences, carve our names so deep into the spine of academia they’d have to chisel us out. For a while, it could even be fun." 

Tap-tap-tap. Her cigarette met its end against his desk. 

"And then, of-fucking-course, you'll be wanting more. Because you're a sentimental twat. It'll start with something small. A home, maybe. A study with matching desks. How adorable. Before I know it, I’ll be spending more time with you than without, and suddenly ‘we’ have ‘traditions.’ ‘We’ have ‘a life together.’ And the next thing out of your mouth will be that cursed, saccharine stupid word: family."

A wave of the hand, cutting off whatever nonsense he had been about to say. 

"Tell me, Volkarin, when that moment comes, when the great balancing act begins, who do you think will tip the scales? Who will step back? Who will compromise, just a bit, just a fraction, just enough that it becomes a habit? It certainly won’t be you." 

In the aftermath, he stopped collecting people—they had a way of slipping through, of vanishing between seasons—and turned to objects instead. Objects had the decency to remain where they were placed. Objects, too, could be tender. A frayed ribbon, a cufflink left behind in a hurry, the curve of a wine glass still faintly smudged. If flowers could be pressed between pages, why not the remnants of former closeness?  

For a while, it sufficed. Once-beens do not grow cold. They do not tire of a familiar voice. They do not wake to discover that passion has gone. 

Then, one day, sudden as a fairytale, a little thing followed. A little thing made entirely of curiosity, of unguarded wonder. It assembled itself from air and light, slipped into its chosen shape, donned a backpack, adjusted its goggles, and, most importantly, selected him. It let itself be named. It let itself become. First an it, then a he, then a wisp no longer but This is Manfred. And once again, he thought: this is enough. More than enough. Did he really need more? Did he really dare ask for it? To ask was to tempt, and he had lived long enough to know that nothing is punished more swiftly than wanting.

It is a graveyard, he thinks now, standing in the Lighthouse, frowning at the accumulated debris of a life, at the weight of what he has chosen to drag with him. The artifacts of his years; the trifles, the curiosities gathered not for use but for the fact of their gathering. Books he cherishes and books he detests, bought because, once, someone he desired mentioned them in passing. His grave gold has been carefully curated. Each piece first chosen for its shape and luster, its particular delight, but also bright enough, costly enough, to be seen. Gold so pure it warps under a careless grip, so soft that teeth would leave crescent-shaped wounds in its surface if one were to bite. 

He wonders if Rook—whom he loves, though he will not tell her, not yet, not when love, spoken too soon, has the peculiar effect of making things disappear—might find some use for them. If she would accept one without knowing it was an offering. If she would take a second. If she would take them all. Books she cannot read, books she can set alight. If the gesture would amuse her, if it would tilt her just a hair closer, if, in some small, unnoticed way, it would make her stay after all is said and done and the gods are dead. 

He is vain, naturally. If the wind disarranges his hair, he will pause before a reflective surface to smooth it down. He will scent the pulse points of his throat, darken his lashes, adjust the folds of his collar. But vanity, like intelligence, like charm, is an instrument. He has wielded it since youth, when prettiness earned him gifts, indulgences, the interest of those old enough to give what he could not take. In his prime, handsomeness made students linger too long at his desk, made colleagues tilt their heads toward his in the candlelit hush of evening. And now, past fifty, he is something else altogether. 

Now he looks like a man who can provide. It is a new sort of attention, neither unpleasant nor pleasurable, merely a shift in expectation. He can no longer offer the prettiness of youth—fine, let it go. But there are other currencies. Stability, for one. A steady hand, a still point, a place to land when Rook, inevitably, falls. Because she will fall. It is in her nature to leap, just as it is in his to remain still, just as it was in Johanna’s to trespass. 

He is tired. Not old, not yet, though the distinction is beginning to blur. A little past his prime, a few paces beyond what once felt limitless. Still, the weight of it settles; a fatigue not of the body but of anticipation, of wanting, of that feverish, grasping giddiness that used to propel him forward and now only leaves him breathless. He isn’t sure when it happened, when the thrill sharpened into something sweeter, something he dared to call love. 

All he knows is that the Lighthouse has no hours, no division between night and day, only the endless lull of the in-between. And that in this strange, untethered time, he would very much like to kiss Rook for every second of it. 

"You look very good there," she says, watching him rearrange his books. 

Another night, when a tome slips, edges itself beneath his desk, and he is forced onto hands and knees to fish it out, she remarks, "I don’t like reading, but I like it when you read to me." 

"I like this, and I like that, and I like this even more." Her voice is drowsy as she traces the lines of his face in the dark. He doesn’t know what this or that are, only that she is saying it, only that it undoes something in him. He turns his face slightly, breathes in, and without meaning to, without even noticing at first, he cries.

"Oh," she says, and then, "Hm." A pause. A brief assessment. Finally, a careless shrug. "It’s fine. That’s fine. I like this too." 

Rook, Rook, Rook, he wants to say, you don’t need Rivain, you don’t need the sun. The sun burns you, always has, always will; your skin is too pale for it, you freckle, you scald. But Nevarra— 

Nevarra is softer. Nevarra has clouds, long grey stretches of them, merciful and cool. Nevarra has catacombs and tombs, stone corridors humming with history, names carved so deep they outlast memory. And everywhere—flowers. Tangled over crypts, spilling down staircases, curling at the hinges of forgotten doors. He has seen them all. He's collected them, commissioned their likeness in ink, dried them between pages so they would keep, so he could say: look, here, this one, still perfect, still intact. You don’t need the sun because they don't either. 

He feels selfish, but after all this time, surely, he is allowed. He is not certain if this is the love, grand and operatic, but it has the right proportions, the right density.

Then let him be selfish. Because one way or another, he will go before her. She is young; he is not. He will leave her everything—what he has made, what they will make together—let her wade through the excess of it, scatter it, burn it, gild herself in its remnants. Or perhaps it will be the other way around. Perhaps she will die first, and he will remain, the eternal, patient custodian of the Necropolis, throat slit in the name of lichdom. 

He will visit her bones, speak to her as he speaks to his parents, his voice flattening against stone, words meant for no one but himself. He will not whisper. Not to her. Not the way he does to the others, not in the hush reserved for the dead. Because what if she does not answer? Worse—what if she cannot? What if there is nothing at all on the other side, just a severance so complete that every Rook-shaped, Rook-possessed, Rook-claimed thing is erased, like a hand wiping chalk from a slate? And he, undying, would remain to witness it. So no, he will not whisper. But he will talk. 

He wants it, but he doesn’t want it, because he wants too much, all at once, all overlapping, all pulling in different directions. He wants to live, but he does not want to die. He wants to live with Rook, wants to kiss her, undress her, drag her down onto the floor of the Lighthouse, press her against familiar sheets in Nevarra, in Rivain, in places they have never been, in places that do not yet exist. He wants to pull her so close that the seam between them dissolves. 

More than that, he wants to buy her grave gold, not just because she would relish it—because she is a dragon, a creature drawn to glittering things—but because when she wears it, when her wrists flash with bangles, when her ears are burdened with gold, when her fingers are swallowed in rings, people will see. They will see and know. Know that every piece was placed there, deliberately, by someone who cares for her in the way that gold cares for fire—devotedly, completely, until it melts.

"I love you so much," he tells her one night, after a sip of whiskey too many, after something in his chest has tipped over and spilled. "I love you so, so much, and perhaps, oh, just perhaps, we do not need to die." 

She kisses his cheek, absently. She looks tired. "Not now?" she asks. 

"Not ever," he insists, giddy again, grasping her hands, pressing his lips against her knuckles. 

She exhales, leans back, undoes her braid, fingers brushing through. Inquires again, "How?" Not with disbelief, but with that particular indulgence she reserves for him. She humors, but she listens. She likes to listen. And so he will talk. 

"Me, in lichdom. You... I do not know. Not yet. Not entirely. But I will. Through artifice, perhaps." 

"Artifice?"

"You like gold, do you not?" 

"I suppose."

"Then gold it shall be," he concedes. "Fed into your veins, threaded through capillaries, chaperoned along the corridors of your body. A patient infusion, drop by drop, until the filigree of your arteries is lined with metal, until the marrow of your bones drinks it in like water. When your heart beats—" he presses his fingers to the pulse at her wrist, measuring it, counting. "It will push gold through you, coil it around your sinew, stain your blood the color of amber. It will settle in the soft places, the hidden ones. Behind your ribs, along your spine, between the cords of your throat. You will be a reliquary, a thing preserved, untouchable." His grip tightens slightly, just for a moment, before he releases her, watching the light catch at the faint blue of her veins. "And if your skin were ever cut," he murmurs, "nothing would spill. No ruin, no red, no proof of mortality. Only the gleam of permanence seeping through." 

Rook watches him for a long time, long enough that she seems older, the angles of her face sharpened by something he cannot name. Then he blinks, and suddenly she is younger; too young, younger than memory allows, younger than she has ever been. Paler, too. 

She takes his glass, finishes it without hesitation, grimaces slightly. Still wordless, she cradles his face in her hands, presses a kiss to one cheek, then the other. Her lips brush his eyelids, and he closes them for her, yielding. She lingers there, warm and silent, mouth against the thin skin, long enough that the room begins to shift, long enough that he thinks, drowsily, that he might simply drift into sleep. 

"I love you too," she murmurs, very quietly. Then, softer still, her lips moving against his temple, "But don’t speak like that again." Another kiss, this time to his jaw. "I will come to the Necropolis with you, if you like. In the next few days. You are not doomed, nor transcendent, nor anything half so tragic. You are homesick. That is all. You are simply homesick." 

He knows himself to be a man of excess: of reaching too far, of wanting beyond reason, of pressing his hands too deeply into whatever is offered. That was why the others left, wasn’t it? But Rook, Rook is different. Rook takes. Rook wants. Rook gives, recklessly, and he, in turn, cannot help but take. 

Bad jests, confessions that start careful and end careless. A first time beneath the covers, blood on the sheets, a kiss, the way her mouth moves against his, the way she lets herself be known in increments, in silences, in the cool of her palm against his cheek. Her favorite spot behind the waterfall. Because love, if it is anything at all, is the act of giving. Not just anything, not just for the sake of it, but precisely what the other cannot reach for themselves. 

And so, he wants to give her gold. 

In the morning, he will apologize. Will run a hand over his face, will mutter something about whiskey, about tiredness, about speaking without thinking. He will dismiss himself before she can. Will say that he does not know what possessed him. 

But tonight, he will think of her throat gleaming with gold. He will dream, as he always does, in metal. 

[jjwolves]

Hello! Could you write something about human! reader falling asleep on ENA during a ride home. Like the both of them are done with a job but the only way back is on some sort of transport that will definitely take a while to get back home. And after all that job work the reader is a eepy sleepy since they are not built the same as ENA, literally. Gimme that cute shit between the two!

Thank you for your time!

SLEEPYHEAD · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

What: A Story About ENA the Worker X Reader

Who: ENA the Worker from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~900 words, ~4 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G

Warnings: None

“I sense a business opportunity… this way!” ENA shouted as she grabbed your hand. You ran with her through the brush of Judgement Slope, which was less like plants and more like the twitching legs of massive insects buried upside down. It smelled like hand sanitizer. It didn’t matter to ENA, though—her client, a masked man with a scorpion’s tail, wasn’t far off and she held his trophy in a raised crimson mitt. You tripped and wiped out like your hand was tied to the bumper of a speeding car.

“Oh dear! Are you alright!? It seems your market value crashed.” ENA took a moment to slow her roll and help you up with an offered hand. Once you were on your feet again, clothes covered in reddish stains from the fall, ENA immediately shouted, “Watch where you’re stepping next time, moron! One two one two!” and began dragging you along once again with a possessive claw and a recursive march.

A few hours afterwards, you and ENA were jumping across the tops of wrecked cars and scaling the occasional crane to get to the top of the Kali Yuga Elevator. By the time you climbed the third ladder, you could only see clouds and a subtle curvature to the world. Large checkered bands ran across the sky like the ribcage of a dead titan, with balls of lightning crawling along their length. The effect was dizzying, and you held your arms out to resist the oncoming vertigo of such a dwarfing sight. Magnificent, if you hadn’t lost one of your shoes on the way here. You weren’t going to fall, but ENA’s white claw gripped and slightly pricked your shoulder.

”You’re missing a shoe. Are you kidding me?! How did you even manage—look, whatever, just take one of mine.” You respectfully declined as ENA tried to peel her one military boot off of her leg. There wasn’t much ground to cover before ENA could let the masked man’s jellyfish blower take care of the distance separating you from the skybridge, anyway; the shoe wouldn’t matter if you were flying inside of a jellyfish.

Your legs shook, one shoeless, as ENA piled another box of miscellaneous, abstract instruments onto your arms. She tapped her chin with a pencil and scrutinized a notepad. An inkling of frustration creeping into your voice, you asked why she needed four boxes of metal alien instruments. Her red side answered, “Hmm… the next client on our list appreciates naught but a good musical number which will remind him of his home planet. We can use these to close a deal with him, and cross him off of our list.” You sighed. ENA’s white side kicked in. “Crossing people off of our list is a good thing. Did you forget already?!” You were just glad the train was going to be here soon.

Hopping on, you set the musical instruments on the train’s floor as the walls pulsed red behind iron bars. Everything was getting blurry. You wanted to hang on so that ENA would have someone to talk to on the way there, but the day had drawn too much from you. You settled into maze-dreams of how much you loved the polygonal girl.

On the outside, ENA stopped jabbering about pitches and deals and managers once she realized that you were fast asleep, your head drifting onto her shoulder. “Seriously? You choose NOW of all times to hibernate?” No response except a bump in the train. She sighed and looked you up and down, taking in the stained clothes, crazy hair and missing shoe. She felt like she should be yelling, but something allowed her to keep her voice down. “I’m sorry I ran you so freaking hard today. This stupid job feels like it never ends. I put you through so much bullshit, don’t I?.” A ray of light from an electric ball passed through the train at eye level. ENA took her hat off and placed it onto your head, pulling it down so the visor would keep it out of your eyes. “I promise that one day we’ll leave this stupid world together. I’ll get us a house and I’ll make you break your fast and I’ll wear those money pants I heard of and we’ll have every other moronic thing we talk about. Sounds pretty freaking perfect, right?” She leans her head against yours and takes your warm, soft hand into her cold, sharp one.

Somewhere in the maze of dream, you’re sitting at the table with ENA laughing, her warm, soft hands in yours. You’re eating some sort of golden meat for breakfast. She’s wearing pants made out of shiny coins. The sun shines vibrant and bright flowers bloom in straight, geometric lines outside of the stained window. ENA looks vibrant as well. Soft warm hands. You give each other the world. You begin to wake and you think you stirred from a prophecy. It’s a shame you don’t remember it.

A/N: A lot of Meanie in this one. MENA if you will. We're making our way through the requests one at a time, gettin' stuff done. I'm glad so many people enjoy my writing, gosh! I've never had so many notes nor requests for stuff. I'm happy so many people get so much out of the stuff I write. Oops, sorry, the ironic mask slipped off. Putting it back on. Aah, much better. Honk honk.

[mind-intheclouds342]

A new ladder - Reader x Curly

Previous - Part 6 - Next

"Do you like art exhibitions? It has opened one by my favorite artist."

You mentioned handing a brochure to Curly.

Curly: "Oh, I didn't know you liked art."

He unfolded the brochure to start looking at the details of the exhibition.

"What does that mean?"

Curly: "Ah- nothing, nothing... He's a very reserved artist, huh? 'The man who never shows faces, after years brings his new collection', sounds great."

"I'm surprised he brought another collection, he had been inactive for years," you smiled, "Here are some examples of old and somewhat popular works, what do you think?"

You pointed to some images in a collage that were in the brochure of previous exhibitions.

There was a mix of realism, abstract paintings, and cartoon-like styles.

Curly: "He has... many styles, it's incredible. I would love to go see his works."

"I'm glad to hear that because~ I already have two tickets for their exhibition~"

You showed him the tickets excitedly and handed him his.

In the afternoon, you headed to the exhibition and entered the building. There were many people admiring the paintings; there were all sizes and styles, even the children were entertained by the cartoon-like paintings, surely a great collection.

There was one detail that always caught everyone's attention: in his paintings, he never showed the faces of those he painted, perhaps a way to maintain their anonymity.

Faces covered with plants, with careless strokes, hats, or even covering themselves with hands, veils, or the person being turned away, among other things.

Curly stopped to look at one in particular, which he felt was too personal.

The artwork was called "A Winner Among So Many Losses."

It was a torso without a head, with a background of a starry night, as if it were submerged in space, and four bright stars formed the silhouette of its head.

X: "What happened to those people was horrible. Don't you think? I wonder if anyone understands the meaning of this painting, or if they have already forgotten that tragedy."

An elderly man in a wheelchair had stopped beside him, looking at the painting with a relaxed smile.

X: "People tend to forget events very quickly, it's good that someone frames them so they can be remembered, because that way those lost people will always be present in our minds." 

"Curly! I didn't realize you had stopped," you returned to his side and observed the man next to him.

Soon a woman came running towards you and took the man's chair, scolding him for going off on his own, to which the man just laughed and gently patted the woman's face, making her smile.

They both said goodbye to continue viewing the exhibition on their own, while you noticed how Curly remained staring at the painting in front of him.

Curly: "It's me. A faceless captain, lost, and the only one who will have the memory of his crew. The only captain who didn't sink with his ship and now bears the face of shame."

"Okay, okay, I think you're being too critical over a single painting," you patted his shoulders "Besides, their families will always remember them."

Curly: "Their families... What must they think of me?"

"They must feel pain... Resentment... They must be thinking, 'why did he come back and my daughter, or son, didn't?' Being a survivor is difficult, many will be happy for you, but others... They will only suffer because their loved one was n't the one who survived... As if you were to blame for something just because you're still alive."

You rested your cheek on his shoulder and grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, trying to draw his attention away from the painting.

Curly: "...I should... contact them"

"If that makes you feel better... I can help you."

You smiled when he slowly took his gaze away from that painting to walk by your side and continue looking at the other works in the exhibition.

Curly: "I understand why you like this artist so much... He has such detailed works and they evoke a lot of emotions in you."

"I'm glad to have someone who shares that thought! You know? I could never bring my sister here to appreciate these paintings, she always said she didn't have time... And then I stopped insisting."

Curly: "I think I remember... That she used to get angry when she saw ads about these exhibitions. She said she hated that artist because she didn't like that he didn't do faces, and it made her nervous and gave her chills."

"It's just that she is like you were, she only saw the general image, didn't go deeper, never gave it a chance. If she saw something and didn't like it, she refused to see the beauty in it..."

You stopped in front of a painting and sighed.

Although you didn't make any comment about it, you soon continued walking while Curly observed that piece called "Beautiful Smile on a Perfect Day."

It was a bride holding a man's arm, resting her head on his shoulder; the irony of that painting was that the bride wore a veil and no smile could be seen on her face.

He approached and tried to focus his gaze on the bride's face, noticing that the veil was not completely solid; if you looked closely, you could see the bride's face, with her eyes closed and a smile on her lips. 

"Curly! You're lagging behind again." 

Before he could see the woman's face in the painting better, he walked away and hurried to join you. 

That woman looked familiar to him...

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: you'd gone to the school, hoping to find Wally or Shy Boy or Bitnik Girl. hell, you'd settle for Mina Volkov and her volatility, adamant that you'd had to have practiced the right procedures to join her in the rafters. At that point, you'd been willing to do just about anything (exposing your abilities included) to help course-correct after Simon had been hauled away by the cops.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.21

You were willing to do as Xavier had asked. To stay home and rest—not that you'd have been able to do so successfully, earlier events churning together in a wild storm of tragic memory, frayed thought, and sick emotion. You'd been curled up on Aiden's bed, holding Limon like a lifeline, Xavier long gone after promising to pick you up in the morning.

Then Simon had texted; had told you about Mrs. Grace striding into the interrogation room and disarming the deputies' aggressive questioning with a single look before they'd had a chance to dig in. Apparently, Simon was due back at the station the next day, informed he was to give a formal statement that would be recorded and observed by the right parties.

In the aftermath, his parents had been frantic to the point of guarding the exits and refused to let him out of his room. He'd been allowed access to his phone for ten minutes until he'd had to hand it back to his mother.

You'd weighed whether or not to admit that you knew about Simon and how he could see Maddie, but ultimately decided not to do it over text. If his mother had his phone, she was likely checking notifications as they came in—you knew yours would—and that wasn't a problem you wanted to cause.

Things had already gone from abstract to real too quickly for you to fathom, everything utterly and completely fucked.

You were scared. Scared for Simon, for yourself. For Maddie.

Spurred into action, you tiptoed back into your room, pulled Andrew's hoodie out of your laundry basket, grabbed a pair of slip-on sneakers, and—quiet as a mouse—climbed out of your window. Into the tree that stood against the house. Down the thick ladder of branches to fall the last stretch into the bushes. You waited for a full minute before moving, just in case someone had heard the rustled crash.

The windows stayed dark and the neighborhood silent.

They think I had something to do with it, Simon had relayed, they aren't even looking at Anderson.

You shuffled out of the bushes and quick-marched the path to Split River High, keeping to the shadows to avoid late-night weirdos, and possible Neighborhood Watchers who would tattle on you. You didn't have a plan, knew the school was locked and a night guard was on duty. Either Al or Barry, the two rotating shifts between day and night week by week.

Al was old, watermelon-round, and slow; wouldn't give you more than a lazy warning if he caught you trying to break into the building. Barry, on the other hand, was young, loud; had some kind of point to prove, and acted like his uniform made him the voice of authority. He wouldn't hesitate to tell Principal Hartman who he'd caught in the halls after dark, jaundiced teeth on display as he sneered through a heavily embellished version of the truth just to make things worse for you.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you hurried across the parking lot, two cars in the reserved spots. One was definitely the security guard's, but the other you couldn't identify until you got closer. You recognized a charm on the bag left behind in the passenger's seat. A Chinese talisman that Ms. Chung had had dozens of strung around her office.

"What happened to Aiden?" Ms. Chung asked, friendly and serene.

"He...someone..."

Ms. Chung shook her head and tsked, "The truth. What happened to your brother? He fell, didn't he? And you believe it's because you weren't watching him closely enough."

You searched your memory, confused, everything muddled. It'd only been two days since you'd been released from the hospital. Two days since Aiden's death, yet you couldn't form a clear enough picture to share with the grief counselor. There'd been rain. Old wood. The farmhouse's interior a blur as you ran...in? Blood. So much blood. And Aiden, porcelain pale, lips blue, bruises...bruises? God, the blood.

"No, he..."

"He fell down the stairs." Ms. Chung repeated, writing something down in her notebook before casting you a pitying look.

You banished the memory and moved on quickly. You didn't have time to wonder why she'd left her car behind. Unless she was there to have the freakiest date ever with the security guard on duty.

Vigilant, you jogged to the back of the school where you stopped a few feet short of the door. You were relying—perhaps too much—on the connection between you and Wally, blind hope warring with better judgment as you chanted his name in your mind. Over and over, infused with pleas to come find you.

It was stupid, you thought, the dumbest idea anyone had ever had, begging a ghost to ride in like a white knight on the back of the telepathy neither of you had. What was worse was that, even upon entering the school grounds, the connection had only murmured to life, a barely-there purr reaching outward like a cat stretching after a nap. It was unbothered, the way you'd noticed it was when you and Wally weren't within a specific radius of one another.

While it made it easy to concentrate in class, that little mechanism made you want to punch a hole through the fabric of the universe and throttle whatever divine entity had thought it up. Motherfucker. Still, you hoped it would be enough to get Wally's attention.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Wally felt your presence as soon as you'd stepped through the barrier. A sweet honey tug in his gut that made his lips tingle and his skin warm.

He glanced at the others, sat together in the library as friends despite the drama earlier. The atmosphere was the kind of comfortable that gave Wally hope things were back on the right track.

Rhonda had just finished explaining how the Devils had become the Bandits, an old yearbook open in front of her, and they'd collectively agreed to keep Simon a secret from Mr. Martin.

A sense of excitement fizzed in Wally's core at the thought of sharing a secret with his friends. He couldn't recall ever having had one since his death. Nothing important, anyway. Which he'd feel strange about if it weren't for the fact that he'd shared a finite amount of space with the same handful of people for forty years (he ignored how his gut twinged).

And now he possessed two important secrets. One of which waited outside for him.

Charley had just asked where they went from there when the connection blossomed to life in Wally's chest. At midnight. On a weekday.

After how you'd left earlier, Wally was desperate to see you, to hold you, to make sure you were okay, but he wasn't sure how to make a smooth or natural exit.

He could feel how agitated you were. How you beckoned him, needed him, pleaded with your soul for him to find you, fuck, he had to go. Every cell in his metaphysical body was charged and drawn in your direction.

"Earth to Wally, you still with us?" He heard Charley ask and blinked himself back to the present moment.

He slapped on a smile and nodded, "Yeah, sorry, just...thinking about talking to the living." At least it was relevant enough that he didn't have to lie.

Charley looked at Maddie who looked at Rhonda, then all three of them stared at Wally, clearly waiting for him to elaborate.

"It's nothing," He assured, even as the pull of the connection swelled inside him and became more insistent. "Just. I'll be right back." It wasn't smooth, nor was it natural, but it'd have to do. And when everyone cast him looks of concern and confusion, he said, "I'm just going to grab a snack. Anyone want anything?"

Rhonda and Maddie shook their heads, expressions suspecting, but Charley perked up, "Can you see if there are any of those blueberry muffins left?"

"Can do, buddy," Wally saluted and tried to leave at as measured a pace as he could.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Minutes passed and you paced a groove into the grass, hands shoved into the kangaroo pocket of Andrew's hoodie when you weren't combing your fingers through your hair or flapping them along with the angry diatribe in your head. Because who the hell were those deputies to suspect Simon of anything?

Of course, you didn't know the whole story. Simon had only had ten minutes to talk and he'd also been texting Nicole. Probably Mathilda, too, since she'd been on the verge of rabid by the time he was released into his parent's custody.

Fuck this. The connection wasn't working, or maybe Wally was preoccupied, or, who knew, he could be in that strange state of suspension that you'd read about; a whole chapter dedicated to how ghosts basically shut down like robots between the hours, as if not existing at all, until something roused them.

You didn't even know if the connection between you and Wally would be enough to reboot him if he had gone all suspended animation.

Out of patience, you turned to stomp around the side of the building and check the gym door. You knew that's where the ghosts had their unconventional group therapy sessions, and figured it was as good a place as any to start.

"I wouldn't bother." An unfamiliar voice said from behind you in the same instant your shoulder was grabbed in a hard, yet not painful, grip, halting you in your tracks. "It's locked."

"What the hell!?" You whirled around, recoiled, heart in your throat, terrified that it was Mr. Anderson come to do to you what he'd done to Maddie.

It wasn't Mr. Anderson. Rather, it was a tall boy with South Asian features wearing coveralls—the top half rolled down and tied by the sleeves at the waist. His expression was that of astonishment, staring at his hand as if touching you had caused some kind of reaction. A beat, and then he looked up and regarded you in awe.

The longer he stared, the more time you had to process, and with a thick swallow, dread took the place of your earlier panic. You knew exactly who stood in front of you. Arjun "Ajay" Khatwani. Died 1992. Crushed under the belly of a car during Autoshop.

"Oooh, fuck me." You bemoaned, scrubbing your hands over your face.

In the most disinterested voice you'd ever heard, "No thank you," Ajay said, seeming to come out of whatever shocked stupor he'd been in. He didn't beat around the bush, told you directly, "You can't be here right now." And, yeah, you were aware. It was way past your bedtime and students weren't allowed on the grounds after a certain time.

However, studying Ajay, you had a feeling it had nothing to do with the late hour. "Why not?"

He arched a brow and crossed his arms. "I'm not an idiot," He started, "I know you're here to see Wally. Probably because you have information about Simon. Or..." He peered at you studiously before continuing, "you want to find something to help Simon."

Your lips twisted in discomfort. The guy was eerily astute. Sherlock Holmes level deduction that made you want to hide. You weren't about to back down now, though. And, like Ajay had said, you needed to find something to help Simon.

"Congratulations, you caught me. Doesn't change the fact that I am getting into that building and I am going to search that theater."

"Mina isn't on 'lunch'." He air-quoted. How the hell did he know you knew that? "She'll see you there. And she'll see Wally there with you because you two are like fucking salmon to spawning grounds." Ajay mumbled the last part with disdain. Like he'd seen things. "And then your abilities will be discovered by another ghost. And then another and another because, whatever's going on with you these days, you aren't being as careful."

You had absolutely no idea how to respond to that apart from elegantly asking, "What the fuck?" Although, Ajay wasn't wrong. You blamed it on the connection with Wally. How needy and irrational it made you to be in his arms; your lips on his, his hands on you—ahem. Etcetera. "Well...fuck it." You decided, "You're already talking to me. Who cares if Mina finds out?"

Ajay stepped closer to you, voice low, face set stoically, "It's not Mina I'm worried about." However, before he could explain what the very hell that meant, the side door clacked open and Wally emerged, slightly out of breath.

"Baby," He stepped right up to you, gathered you in his arms and kissed you deep, slow, stealing the air from your lungs as he held your face carefully. When he pulled back, he rested his brow against yours, "Fuck, I was so worried. Are you okay?"

"Uhm...no. Not really," You leaned back to point at Ajay, "He knows things."

"Some might say everything," Ajay said, smug, though his face remained deadpan. He looked to Wally, "Where are the others?"

Wally held you tighter, "I told them I was getting a snack." He returned his attention to you, said, "I don't know how much time I have."

"You're not surprised he knows things." You narrowed your eyes at Wally. "Why aren't you surprised he knows things?"

Wally's cheeks reddened and his eyes slanted away. He wasn't who answered the question.

"In his defense, I already knew about you." Ajay said as he moved closer. "Just like I knew about your sister, Aurora."

You felt the ground fall out from under you. Ajay knew Aurora? Aurora, who couldn't see or hear ghosts; who could've easily hidden her connectedness from everyone, had been discovered by a ghost. You'd question whether or not Ajay himself had connectedness if it weren't for the fact that ghosts couldn't. Blood, flesh, and bone were required to make that chemistry work.

Cautious, "Who else knows about Aurora?" You inquired, pressing a mite deeper into Wally's embrace.

Ajay softened around the eyes, gazed at you with sincerity when he assured, "No one. I promise." Then, to Wally, "What do you wanna do, bro? We sneaking her in?"

Wally snorted, "Like we could stop her." He glanced back at you, squeezed your hip when he revealed, "Maddie found something in the theater today. She thinks it'll help clear Simon's name."

Your heart hammered. Were you really going to take the risk?

While you were relieved that there was a way to get the cops off of Simon's back, you still had to figure out how to do that without alerting anyone else to your connectedness. Then again, you thought, apart from Wally, Ajay already knew. You suspected Mina did as well and the only thing that kept her quiet was that she was a residual haunter.

Besides, you wanted Maddie to know you were there for her. That she had more than just Simon on her side. There was strength in numbers and together, maybe with Wally and Simon playing translator since you couldn't actually see or hear her, you could bring Maddie back to where she belonged.

So. Fuck everything. There hadn't been any tears in the universe. The sky hadn't fallen. No storms or swarms or ectoplasmic squalls. Your mother and Ginny had yet to find out. And, you believed, if you and Simon got Mr. Anderson to confess to the whereabouts of Maddie's body, maybe this would all be over before your mother and Ginny ever would find out.

"Bring her." You said with finality, eyes holding Wally's.

Wally frowned, glanced at Ajay with uncertainty, then back at you, "Babe, I don't think I can get her alone right now. She's with Charley and Rhonda, and they're already suspicious. They know I don't snack after 8PM."

It was your turn to frown, "You have food rituals?" Whatever, that was for another time. You waved a hand in dismissal, "I don't care. Bring them. Bring everyone."

"Not everyone," Ajay advised. Sighed. To Wally, "If you do this, know that I support you no matter what. Even if it is digging yourself a second grave."

Startled, you asked, "Wait, what does that mean?"

"Rhonda just barely got over Charley and Maddie not telling her about Simon." Wally said. You could see how nervous he was, "She'll probably rip my limbs off and use them to play mini golf..."

Well, you didn't want that. "So, what do I do?" You could feel your frustration mounting. You wanted to help. You wanted to be useful. But, just like Xavier had done, it seemed Wally and Ajay were forcing you to ride the bench. "Guys," You stepped back, out of Wally's arms, giving them both your most severe expression, "I have these stupid abilities for a reason. Let me use them to help my friends."

"But the rule—" Wally started.

You interrupted, "Fuck the rule! Nothing's happened since you and I started talking."

"A lot more than talking," Ajay muttered to himself.

"I don't care about the rule, I don't care about being swarmed by ghosts and their unfinished business. I. Don't. Care." You took a deep breath, repeated the mantra Ginny had taught you, and then spoke again when you were calm, "Wally, if you don't want them to know we've already been talking, fine. We'll figure out a way to work around that. But I'm going into that theater tonight and there's nothing either of you can do to stop me." You stared both Ajay and Wally down. "So you can help me, or you can get the fuck out of my way."

Wally threw his hands up, a smirk playing on his lips, "Whoa, baby, we get it." He snatched you around the waist and dragged you against him, smirk widening as he gazed down at you, "We're on your team." And then, lower, in your ear, "You're sexy when you get all bossy, you know that?"

Pained, "I'm right here," Ajay reminded the world at large.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

The plan was simple. First, get you into the school and then to the roof undetected (the security guard, Barry, never checked the roof because, really, who would?). It was the safest place to meet and have what Wally predicted was going to be a long and heated discussion.

Second, Ajay would go retrieve Rhonda, Charley, and Maddie from the library—sans blueberry muffin, sorry Chuck. Wally would wait with you on the roof while Ajay explained to the others that there was someone who could help Maddie help Simon.

Third, introduce Rhonda and Charley to you, and pray to every god Wally could name that Rhonda was feeling charitable with her forgiveness. Could ghosts have heart palpitations? Because Wally was having heart palpitations.

Ajay had suggested that he and Wally lie; that Ajay pretend to have been your ghostly contact, and Wally had happened to stumble upon you and him on his way to the cafeteria. A decent enough deception except that the connection between you and Wally refused to let him go more than a minute without touching you.

"You sure you don't wanna do what Ajay said?" You ask quietly, leaning into Wally's side as you and he sat against the low ledge that followed the perimeter of the roof. "I could totally act like I've never met you before."

Wally huffed, grinned, looked at you skeptically, "No way could you do that." He pulled you in closer, long arm around you, big hand on your bare thigh. Fuck. Those little sleep shorts you wore gave him ideas and he wished he'd asked for a few minutes alone with you before executing the plan.

"Oh, you think I can't act? You haven't even seen me try!" You argued playfully, beaming up at him, marbled eyes bright and beautiful and already drawing Wally in.

"Fine," Wally conceded, "Maybe it's me. Maybe I can't act like I don't know you," and dipped in to brush his lips against yours, his hand lifting to caress your jaw and angle your head how he wanted you. "Maybe I can't act like I don't want you," Another kiss, "Every." Kiss. "Fucking." Kiss. "Second." And he tugged you into his lap, hands automatically finding your ass, tongue in your mouth, heart beating wildly in his chest as tingly heat coiled tight in his belly.

He groaned when you pulled away, cute little smirk on your face, "Your friends will be here in a minute. Do you really want them to see me dry humping you when they get here?"

"I really couldn't care less," Wally pouted as he leaned in to kiss you again. Short. Soft. But effective. He took your left hand and brought the back of it to his lips, pressed gentle, dry kisses along the length of your scar. Heaved a sigh and said, "Alright, maybe I care a little."

But you weren't looking at him anymore. Your attention was on your hand, gaze distant, mouth downturned, and Wally could feel the sorrow seeping from your pores like it was his own. As he was about to ask if you were okay, you began to speak.

"Six years ago...my little brother died." You said, voice hushed and strained. Your eyes misted and body trembled so minutely Wally almost didn't feel it beneath his hands. He rubbed your thighs in comfort as you continued to stare at your hand, now resting on Wally's shoulder. A stuttered breath and, "It was my fault."

Wally didn't want to ask how it'd happened, scared to upset you, but you were already there, back in time, reliving the past. Gently, "You don't have to talk about it, pretty girl. It's okay."

You shook your head. Blinked the tears out of your eyes and used the sleeves of your hoodie to wipe them away. "No, I said I would. And I want to." At his skeptical look, "I do." You gave Wally a watery smile, quick and genuine. "He fell down the stairs at an old farmhouse. One of those heritage places in town, you know? We went in to get out of the rain and he wandered off..." Something flickered across your eyes as you pulled the memory to the fore.

A glimmer that was almost lost beneath the marbled colors. It was gone so fast, Wally had to assume he'd imagined it.

"How'd you get the scar?" He asked, so quiet, so afraid to do anything that might perforate the intimate bubble that had formed around you and him.

You stared at your scar again, blinked slowly, opened and closed your mouth a couple of times before finally saying, "Loose nail in the floorboard. I...slipped...fell...running down the stairs to get to Aiden."

Wally winced sympathetically, lifted his hand to place it over yours, and turned to kiss your palm. That must've been one hell of an awkward fall. He couldn't picture it, how your body would have had to have contorted in order for the nail to catch the back of your hand. You must've gone head over heels trying to get to your little brother.

"It wasn't your fault." He said, soft yet firm.

"You weren't there," You whispered, breath caught in your chest, eyes filled with a regret and anguish that stabbed Wally through the connection.

Not knowing what else to do, he held your jaw tenderly in his palms and kissed you. Stroked his thumbs across the arches of your cheeks to swipe away the dampness. "It's not your fault." He repeated, imploring, eyes flickering between yours.

"Wow." A snide voice cut through the bubble of intimacy between you and him. "You weren't kidding. They really can't keep their hands off each other."

Wally peeked around you and gulped.

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY - PART TWENTY-TWO

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[savagegardensprogramming]

I would like to recommend this video because it talks about Hayakawa's ladder of abstraction and computer programming. I find this ladder of abstraction has been seriously under-rated. It is utilized in programming but people don't realize this ladder is a way out into a higher scope of perception.

I am talking about Plato's allegory of the cave and the stubborn persistence of ignorance. This ladder of abstraction is actually a way out of that cave. I will show on a later post on how that is. SavageGardens implements it.

[cyberclouddream]

Ascendant Sign vs Sun Sign

Our Ascendant sign represents the innate demeanors we project, while our Sun sign represents what we want to be recognized and acknowledged for by others, what motivates us at our core.

Examples

Gemini Rising: you may make small talk or mingle with everyone; you may have an eclectic or playful appearance; often use humor or wit to connect with others

Gemini Sun: you may enjoy any form of communication that allows you to share your thoughts; tend to jump from one interest to another; you deeply value open-mindedness and communication

Leo Rising: you may immediately capture attention when you enter rooms; your clothes stand out; you may use bold gestures or an enthusiastic tone

Leo Sun: you may pour your heart in artistic endeavors; you crave recognition for your talents; you deeply value authenticity and self-expression

Libra Rising: often smoothing over tense situations; you may appear elegant or aesthetically-pleasing to others; you often use polite and considerate language

Libra Sun: you gravitate towards an field concerning beauty, design, and creativity; you prioritize partnerships and understanding loved ones; you value fairness and justice

Capricorn Rising: often observing first before engaging with others; appear classic and polished to others, favoring neutral colors and tailored pieces; focus on relevant topics than small talk

Capricorn Sun: drawn to leadership roles that allow them to climb the ladder; focus on pursuing long-term goals for success; value responsibility, loyalty, and tradition

Pisces Rising: often quietly observing and listening to pick up on the emotions of others; may appear whimsical and soft in style, with fabrics or color that reflect their artistic expression; tend to speak in a poetic or abstract way

Pisces Sun: drawn to forms of art, music, and writing; find fulfillment in service-oriented roles; they value empathy, compassion, intuition, and understanding

[creachiergh]

guys, guys, guys. jax isn't an npc; he's a game dev/mod who got trapped in the circus.

i'm sure someone has already put forth this theory, but with the series still being in its early stages, it's hard to say exactly which direction it's going. while i don't think the npc theory is bad, i think it lacks a foundation and is more so the fandom's attempt to justify jax's moral greyness or give him depth where there currently isn't any. i just wanted to share some of my own thoughts about what his deal might be.

firstly, his design, which is honestly just my own speculation but bear with me. i know goose made some jokes about his clothes being farmer's overalls, but when i look at him, i almost get mechanic vibes? like if he wasn't such a prick, he'd be in charge of fixing any bugs that crop up during the adventures, which is pretty much what a moderator does.

speaking of which, he has keys to all the rooms, which is already pretty sketchy in itself, but it makes sense if you consider that he helped make the circus. naturally, he'd have them on hand in case he needed to access any areas of potential danger. to me, it's a bit like having cheat codes, which definitely gives him an upper hand above the other circus members. (but again, it's not like he's ever going to do his job.)

there's also the "figurine thing," which is probably either a throwaway joke or a thinly-veiled attempt at foreshadowing the npcs-- since their models resemble figurines-- but it's still worth noting. if we assume that the "figurine thing" is referring to the npcs-- which it probably isn't, but again, bear with me-- then it shows just how much jax knows about the circus. as far as i remember, none of the other characters have ever brought up the outside of the map, but obviously, if jax made the game, he's going to know its layouts and inner workings like the back of his hand. i won't go so far as to say he's all-knowing, but i'm sure he knows a lot more than he lets on, and i have a feeling we're going to see that in later episodes.

if he really can predict caine's adventures and whatnot, since he designed them, it explains why he's so unfazed by everything that happens at the circus, from zooble getting taken by the gloinks to running into the gloink queen. the only time he really seems to be surprised is when the game glitches-- when the one gloink started bugging out, when kaufmo abstracted, etc.

i think the mod theory explains jax's personality and motivations. when he first arrived at the circus, there might've been a time when he acted more responsibly, fixing all the bugs, trying to stop the abstractions, etc. he could've been caine's right-hand at keeping everything under control. but maybe he slowly gave up these responsibilities when he realized that people were going to get abstracted no matter what, as we can see from the crossed-off doors in the pilot. it's very possible that he became consumed by his mod privileges when he began acting more recklessly and faced zero repercussions for his actions. essentially, he's a step above everyone else in terms of knowledge, awareness, and grants of power-- probably just below caine on the power ladder, though pomni could also rival him as she comes to learn more about the circus. depending on how jax uses his abilities, he could either help everyone find the exit or slowly lead them towards abstraction, and given what goose has said about the future of the series, it's not looking very optimistic for anyone involved.

but what do i know? this theory could be completely nonsensical and riddled with plot holes. i just like to hyperanalyze jokes 🥲

[son-of-rap-bear-art]

So, do y'all remember the Adventure Time Mash-Up Pack for Minecraft back in like, 2017? Me and some friends have been messing around with that map lately and revamping some of the areas we consider a bit lacking with creative mode, and for me that was the Treehouse! I got ~100 reference pics from various episodes and tried to put it all together into the most autistically accurate Treehouse I could, and I wanna share it here cause I'm really proud of it!

Feel free to skip the text and just look at the pretty pictures. Cause when I say "autistically accurate" I MEAN IT. It's MY blog and I get to choose the special interest. :p

The exterior is mostly unchanged from the official map, but I added the orange tree from My Two Favorite People, and the pond. Also the log where Finn sits and thinks in Gotcha!

Yes, I will be mentioning specific episodes like this often.

I didn't make the Grotto, because I'm not THAT crazy, but I did make the pond really deep and filled it with the sort of things you see when Finn swims down there in Beyond the Grotto.

The first thing you see when you actually go inside is the treasure room, of course! The official map's treasure room is so small and sad, but I made it more accurate to how it looks in the show, with a ton of ladders and platforms going upwards until you get to the kitchen.

Speaking of, at this point I should show the layout I based the rooms' positions on...

I put this together myself and I THINK it's the most consistently accurate layout... of course, it's a cartoon, sometimes you'll get stuff like the bathroom in the left branch for the sake of a gag in Dentist, and characters will frequently run offscreen and then teleport to another room, BUT this is what I observed to be the most common layout seen when the camera will actually follow the characters through doors and ladders and etc.

Interestingly, the ladder in the trunk actually seems to connect to the kitchen, which is HIGHER than the living room, and then you have to go down a separate ladder to get to the living room. Confusing! But it checks out.

So yeah, climbing up past the treasure room takes you right to the kitchen! Some specific details to call out here are: - The picture of PB with the two spatulas is from Abstract, and I painted it myself in-game via a mod! Unfortunately I didn't get around to other paintings yet, they're a bit annoying to make. - The urn supposedly containing Margaret's ashes, from Conquest of Cuteness, is on one of the shelves. - There isn't a single torch in this whole build! It's carefully lit up with candles, just like the Treehouse should be! - There's actually this easily missable tiny room connected to the kitchen, seen in the last pic, that has another trapdoor and also the door to the bathroom. I believe that first shows up in Incendium and then stays around forever. - The cooler is entirely full of eggs, like how Finn exclusively buys pre-boiled eggs when grocery shopping without Jake, in Temple of Mars.

The bathroom! Funnily enough, the bathroom might be the least consistent room in the whole Treehouse. It's just made up of a toilet, bathtub, and sink, but these three things shuffle around the room entirely at random from episode to episode. In this sort of situation, I consider the most accurate way to handle it to be the same as the show: just put them wherever! So I did that.

That door in the kitchen leads to this room, connected by a bridge. I just called it the "bucket room" because it has a bucket that Finn and Jake ride in in Rainy Day Daydream, although that episode has a pretty wacky Treehouse in general.

I hooked up a hand crank with the Create mod, so you can use it like an elevator kinda.

Down the other ladder in the kitchen gets you to, the living room! This room's just a small round circle in some episodes, but others have it a bit bigger.

That bookshelf is there in Jake Suit, and has Dream Journal of a Boring Man, Vol 12 on it. Since one of the decor mods I'm using lets me place down books, I copied the 3 excerpts we get to see from it down into a written book, so it's even actually there!

A really inconsistent aspect of the living room is this weird platform with a door. I can only remember it appearing in In Your Footsteps and Three Buckets, but maybe I've just always missed it? I made it lead back into the trunk, so you can use it as a shortcut up to the kitchen.

Also over here is this workbench, which to my knowledge suddenly shows up in season 8 and becomes a REALLY REALLY consistent part of the living room?? Seriously, it's in Two Swords, Horse and Ball, Abstract... It's suddenly all over the place!! But I genuinely can't recall it existing before that. Am I crazy or is this an actual thing?

Anyway, connected by bridge to the living room is the den! Surprisingly, even though it barely even shows up in any episodes, the den is SUPER messy and lived in. I tried to reflect this by jamming as many decorative blocks as I could in there.

Also for some reason this fireplace doubles as a pizza oven in Abstract? Yeah, Abstract's got a really silly Treehouse. But it was easy enough to slot in there, so I did!

Way back to the kitchen and upwards: the bedroom! I always thought the bedroom was so tiny and cramped, but a good few episodes actually show it as pretty spacious! I tried to hit a good balance.

The pictures hung up around Finn's bed are a blurry, badly taken picture of Huntress Wizard, and a clearly old picture of Flame Princess. They're both cute choices for Finn's future, and are my girlfriends' respective favorite characters, so I included both :D

I also included the attic, which as far I know ONLY appears in Dad's Dungeon. I think it's neat, though, so I put it here. It'll be nice for survival mode storage.

If you exit through the attic, you can get to the cloud that Finn and Jake have tied down for its rainwater. The dripstone on the underside looks a bit ugly, but it makes it functional! If you scoop water out of any of the cauldrons with a bucket, it'll slowly refill with water from the cloud!

We're nearing the end! Here's a back shot of things. I added the power lines, Neptr's cave, and the farm. For some reason, Holly Jolly Secrets has a second, distinct set of powerlines, but those would be ugly so I didn't include them.

Lastly, the chicken coop, as seen in BMO Noire and mentioned in Three Buckets, featuring Lorraine. Who looks like Boobafina in this texture pack, which is silly.

I'm... honestly not very satisfied with the coop's placement, as BMO Noire shows it being out on a rarely-seen branch, but this is the best I could do without a major facelift on the tree itself.

So, yeah! That's the image limit. There's a good few extra details scattered around here and there, but I'll leave it at that. I hope this is as fun to read as it was for me to write :D

[seathiing]

I am not quite there yet but I am smashing ideas together. Something about the way that being biased is bad, being biased is natural, and thinking of yourself as a good person can blind you to your own biases, because being good is something you DO and not something you are. Something about men being the default and men being the basis for crash test dummies and medical trials and the term "mankind" and the unaddressed, unconscious assumption in the back of most men's brains being that men are the default and women are the deviation. Something about how Curly's privilege blinds him to the possibility of Anya getting hurt. Something about Curly conflating "not a threat " with "not a threat (to him)". Something about Anya asking Curly for help and being told straight to her face that Curly would do anything for his crew while in the same moment failing to do a single thing for her as a member of the crew he is so dedicated to. Something about Curly not being able to consider the ramifications of enabling Jimmy because helping people is A Good Deed and Jimmy is more people than the people he is hurting, because Jimmy is Curly's Good Buddy and whoever was victimized is an abstract, and it conflicts with Curly's self image as a good guy who is helping his friend who is also a good guy and deserves the helping hand, because seeing the best in people is also A Good Deed. Something about Jimmy's obsession with fixing it being focused on Curly exclusively because Curly has become a stand in/symbol for society at large, Curly is the authority, Curly is the blonde blue eyed Golden boy in the captains seat, because Curly is the one who gets to decide to give Jimmy forgiveness for his bad deeds by being the one to pull him up past consequences to Curly's rung on the ladder. Anya is not people and Anya is not society at large the same way Curly is, so who cares, this is about Jimmy fixing the problem (getting caught) (getting consequences) (getting punished). Are you seeing my red yarn and thumb tack vision board. Are you smelling what I am stepping in

[cerastes]

It's kind of amazing that a horny game like Nikke actually included stuff like Cyberpsychosis. Nikkes going insane or committing suicide if they are reminded too much that they are actually full-conversion cyborgs. The reason why they don't have a lot of cool gadgets like built-in thrusters or weapons. And then you have someone like Snow White who replaced a large chunk of her body with enemy robot parts.

Nikke is this really cool thing to have Existing in the space, even if I don't play it anymore, because of how charmingly unbalanced it is as a whole, making the charming parts of it all the more apparent.

It's got barebones gameplay, the seams of which burst the moment you do high level content and realize there's not much it can do due to its limited concept. Combat rarely translates to whatever is going on in any story thematically, being thus gameplay being more of an abstraction. There is a gulf and an ocean of power between fellow characters of the same rarity, meaning a max rarity character might do absolutely fuck all while another one, with the same odds, might snap the game in two with ease. It's story is absolutely nothing to write home about. It's a setting that can be best described as "self-indulgent incel nice guy heaven", where your character is The Only One to be nice to all these poor second class citizen superpowered voluptuous supermodel living weapons with tits two times your head and asses big and heavy enough to easily crush cars. Everything jiggles. It's so insanely predatory with its flash sales after every little thing you do.

And yet, the basic story it tells, it tells well. It's fun. It's entertaining. It knows what it is, and it has fun with itself, but it doesn't throw all pretense, either. It walks the razor-edge thin line between having a goof and telling a story with emotional depth. What it doesn't have in complexity or originality, it makes up for in sheer moment-to-moment, with good scenes, with good execution of things we've already seen. The showdown with Modernia lives rent free in my mind, Commander loading the Vapaus round, as Modernia or Marian, no way of telling, begs them to put down the weapon, because she's already back to normal, Commander shooting, and Modernia catching it with her teeth, and then growling the most guttural threat with freshest purest fury: "You shot me. Your really shot me! Shikikan!" and then drilling Commander right through the chest. And everything that happens after in that scene. It's got interactions out the wazoo, both mundane and touching. It has music that goes from "background music that really works" to "handcrafted for the moment and the character in its excellence". I think it's because Nikke knows what it is, but doesn't reach the self-mockery rung of the ladder. It knows what it's doing, and it's still sincere about it, even if it dares have fun at its own expense sometimes.

So, with that on the table, the take on Cyberpsychosis present in Nikke is incredibly powerful as a narrative tool because it tells you just how much of a jury-rigged slapdash product Nikke are. They are not cutting edge technology, they are literally something they pumped out quick as can be while telling everyone in the world that's still alive that they are cutting edge technology. And all, all of the safeguards are ultimately subject to willpower and perspective. Some Nikke go insane if they are too machine-like. Snow White has basically rebuilt herself over and over hundreds of times in her forever war. Nikke cannot aim at humans, so Crow instead puts a steel plate on the ground and ricochets her bullets off of those to shoot Commander successfully. Aiming is something you do with your senses normally, right? Rose figured out that she can just wear a blindfold and convince herself that what she's slashing is not a human, but a Rapture, and that's how she disemboweled and killed her Commander. Just by not seeing and fervently believing.

It's really, really cool how they go about it.

[danadiadea]

According to a recent conversation with a Snater, I’m supposed to hate him for choosing power over Lily as early as 11 when he didn’t ask to follow her into Gryffindor. Apparently it’s symbolic of his deep selfishness.

As if I’m supposed to condemn an impoverished child for deciding social mobility and ambition is more important to him than having to endure 7 years of sharing a bedroom with Potter and Black for the sake of a girl who that very same day chose to use him as a punching bag after she fell out with her sister. It’s tragic that wanting Slytherin turned out so badly. It’s hardly a criminal offence.

This is extra funny to me, since I identify with Slytherin, just like Severus. If I was well aware of the political situation in the Wizarding Britain during the first or the second war, and a dubious role of Slytherin in it (Severus for sure wasn't, because surprise, being raised in a Muggle neighbourhood makes one disadvantaged; not to mention he was 11), I'd probably ask to sort me into Ravenclaw, but otherwise? I'd certainly want to be in Slytherin. Ambition, self-preservation, resourcefulness, caution are not crimes. And Severus clearly articulates why he wants to be in Slytherin: "brainy, not brawny". Idk if he related more to the kind of practical intelligence Slytherin demonstrates rather than more abstract Ravenclaw type, or if his mom/the literature he had painted Slytherin in a better light, but there is literally nothing about blood-purity here, or about power, at that matter. Plus, despising a kid on the very bottom of social ladder for wanting power and social mobility and being ambitious is deeply classist.

And aren't snaters mad at him for doing "everything" for Lily and being "obsessed" with her? Choosing the Hogwarts House just because she was in it, regardless of what he wants, is peak unhealthy, deeply codependent behaviour. I'm happy Severus, tho codependent, had a strong enough core to do what he considers right and not just follow as a kid already. It turned bad for him in this particular situation (and in some other situations), but being your own guideline is an important quality to have, especially for someone who would live Severus' troubled life. Severus had wishes and goals outside of Lily, however important to him she undoubtedly was. I hate it when people behave as if nothing but his bond with Lily mattered in his life.