#lms script

[fazal-abbas]

Advanced School - LMS Learning Management System Script

Advanced School is an online course marketplace with many features that help you easily run your online education business.

Advanced School is Modern and Complete School Automation Software that suites to almost every school or educational institution from student admission to student leaving, from fees collection to exam results. It includes 40+ modules with 8 inbuilt users (Super Admin, Admin, Accountant, Teacher, Receptionist, Librarian, Parent and Student) panel.

Advanced SCHOOL UPDATE

-> New Version 7.1 Coming Soon -> New Modules/Addon added -> Annual Calendar Thermal Printer support -> Staff In/Out attendance feature -> Auto detection of Late/Halfday/Holiday Added some of new features in existing modules

GET Advanced SCHOOL 8 ADDONS IN SINGLE PURCHASE AT 50% DISCOUNTED PRICE OF $299

ORIGINAL COST $392

CBSE Examination

Advance examination and marksheet system with multiple exams or terms in single marksheet in Advanced School

Behaviour Records

Manage student behavioural records in Advanced School.

QR Code Attendance

Manage Student QR Code Attendance in Advanced School

Google Meet

Gmeet Live Online Classes & Meetings in Advanced School

SELLING COST $199

Online Course

Create Free or Paid Online Course In Advanced School

Multi Branch

Add other branches (Advanced School installed) In Advanced School

Zoom Live Class

Zoom Live Online Classes & Meetings in Advanced School

ReadMore!

[codenance]

Introduction: What is an LMS PHP Script and What are the Benefits of Using It?

Choosing the right LMS PHP Scripts and eLearning Development Services for your project is essential to ensure that your online learning management system runs smoothly and provides a great user experience. With a wide range of open-source scripts available, it can be difficult to decide which one is the best for your project. The right choice will depend on the features you need, budget constraints, scalability requirements and other factors.

When selecting an LMS PHP Script or eLearning Development Services, make sure to consider the features you need such as customization options, user management capabilities, content delivery tools and more. You should also evaluate the cost of development services such as custom development, integration with existing systems or third-party APIs and ongoing support. Additionally, you should ensure that the script or service you choose is scalable enough to accommodate future growth in users and content.

[deathandnonexistentialdread]

I for one am excited to see Boston ruin more boy kisser lives

[gps-yaps]

Trust me when I get ro the barricades Enjolras IS killing that man okay

[chimnation]

There's like. Free screenwriting software out there that formats your script to industry standard. BTW. In case anyone wants to make more fake scripts. Also. Again. I HAVE to emphasize. Watermarks will never look like that

[appysa-technologies]

Unleashing the Power of Elearning with Innovative Scripts and Apps: Creating Your Own Udemy, Coursera, LMS, and Lynda Clones

Are you ready to dive into the booming world of online education? In this article, we will explore the dynamic landscape of elearning, guiding you through the process of creating an elearning script with apps, akin to popular platforms like Udemy, Coursera, LMS, and Lynda.

Elearning Script with Apps: Transforming Learning on the Go

The core of any successful online education platform lies in its elearning script, especially when complemented by intuitive mobile applications. Integrating apps into your script not only ensures accessibility but also takes the learning experience to new heights. Imagine the ease of accessing courses, quizzes, and discussions anytime, anywhere – that’s the power of an elearning script with apps.

Udemy Clone: Your Gateway to Diverse Learning Opportunities

Udemy has set the benchmark for diverse online courses, and you can follow suit by creating your Udemy clone. Tailor your platform to offer an extensive range of courses, attracting learners with varied interests and learning objectives. With a user-friendly interface and comprehensive content, your Udemy clone can become a go-to destination for knowledge seekers worldwide.

Coursera Clone: Providing a Global Learning Ecosystem

Building a Coursera clone means crafting a global learning ecosystem. Ensure your platform offers a multitude of high-quality courses, creating an environment where learners from different corners of the world converge to enhance their skills and knowledge. Emphasize collaboration and a sense of community to truly emulate the Coursera experience.

LMS Clone: Streamlining Elearning Management with Efficiency

Your elearning venture demands an efficient Learning Management System (LMS). Develop an LMS clone that streamlines course management, making it easy for both instructors and learners to navigate through content, assessments, and progress tracking. An intuitive LMS clone is the backbone of a successful elearning platform.

Lynda Clone: Specializing in Skill-Based Learning

Lynda has carved a niche in skill-based learning, and you can do the same with your Lynda clone. Focus on curating content that enhances users' expertise across various domains. Whether it's coding, design, or business skills, your Lynda clone can become the preferred platform for individuals looking to upskill and stay competitive in their fields.

Conclusion: Creating Your Unique Elearning Identity

In conclusion, the key to a successful online education business lies in creating a unique identity. By combining an innovative elearning script with user-friendly apps and drawing inspiration from Udemy, Coursera, LMS, and Lynda, you can build a platform that stands out in the competitive elearning landscape. Start your journey today and empower learners worldwide with your distinctive elearning solution.

[la-muerta]

@fiftysevenacademics it's not fanfic, I have the script ;)

The scene from the beginning of EP04, where Zhu Yan and Li Lun appear as red and blue balls of light chasing each other across the beach:

The flashback to when Zhu Yan gave Li Lun the Truth Eye in EP33:

There's actually more to that scene that wasn't in the vid edit:

[EXT. KUNLUN MOUNTAIN, FOREST – DAY]

(flashback)

V.O. from LI LUN: "...a flying leaf landing on someone, my power allows me to possess anyone, but you have the Truth Eye and can easily see through my disguise. You are like my fated nemesis, how boring..."

Zhao Yuanzhou raises his arms and makes the gesture for the Truth Eye in front of Li Lun's eyes. When Li Lun opens his eyes, they both glow gold, and it cuts to Zhao Yuanzhou's smiling face.

ZHAO YUANZHOU: Then I'll give you the Truth Eye. This way, nobody will be able to see the real you. As for me, from now on, I will see you not with my eyes, but with my heart.

LI LUN (disbelievingly): And what if there comes a day in the future when you can no longer see me with your heart?

ZHAO YUANZHOU: Then I can only hope that you will never lie to me.

LI LUN: Zhu Yan, are you sure you won't regret it?

ZHAO YUANZHOU: That is up to you.

Li Lun is baffled, and his eyes continue to glow gold.

(end flashback)

[ENG SUB] Deleted lines from the script, Li Lun and Zhao Yuanzhou/Zhu Yan, EP04 & EP33

I don't know what their source for the audio is but the deleted lines are from the original script. This vid edit was made by 诹拾 on Bilibili.

[littlemssam]

Mod Updates

As always delete old Mods Files and the localthumbcache, when updating my Mods!

---

Ask to Go for a Walk & Bath (Dogs) Added some Tests so only Sims that are awake and on the Lot can ask NPCs to go for a Walk etc. The reason is that the Game let's NPCs that are off Lot despawn if all your Sims are asleep or off Lot. This Game Behaviour would replace your Butlers for example.

Can I come over? Just a small Text update to the "Can I come over?" Text

More Woodworks Added 130+ new Furniture Recipes from various Expansion Packs. Recipes from Packs you don't own will not show up.

No Auto Food Grab after Cooking Updated the Mod to remove Ingame Ressources

Woodworking Table Rework Reworked Mod a bit more to make better compatible with my More Woodworks Mods. Addon "MoreWoodWorks" is obsolete and not needed anymore, so delete it. Renamed the Script File, since it is only needed for the Simple Living Addon! So make sure to delete the "WoodworkingTable_Rework.ts4script" too.

Working Pet Water Bowls Update to add a Recipe for my "More Woodworks" Mod so you can craft the Water Bowls on the Woodworking Table.

---

My Site with all possible Download Links: lms-mods.com

Support Questions via Discord only please!

[codenance]

Find the Best LMS PHP Script to Start Your Own Learning Management System Like Udemy

What is Udemy Clone LMS PHP Script?

As per my knowledge LMS script is an already developed learning management code that is written in PHP. With this PHP script, you can start your own learning management app or platforms like Udemy or Coursera. Udemy Clone script is also ready-to-use code in PHP which code is similar to the Udemy app.

However, as of my last update, there were many open-source Learning Management System (LMS) platforms written in PHP that you could use as a starting point to build your own Udemy-like platform. Some popular PHP-based LMS scripts include:

Codenance: Codenance is one of the most widely used open-source LMS platforms, written in PHP. It offers a wide range of features for creating and managing online courses, user management, and assessments.

Moodle: Moodle is another popular open-source LMS written in PHP. It provides a user-friendly interface and various tools for course creation and management.

Claroline: Claroline is a simple and efficient open-source e-learning platform written in PHP, allowing instructors to create courses and manage learners.

ILIAS: ILIAS is a comprehensive open-source LMS that is written in PHP. It comes with a variety of features, including course creation, assessment tools, and collaboration features.

When building an LMS, keep in mind that it requires careful planning, security considerations, and ongoing maintenance to ensure a successful and reliable platform.

If you're not experienced in web development, you might consider hiring a professional developer or team to assist you in creating your LMS.

Remember to respect copyright laws and always check the licensing terms of any scripts or code you use as a starting point for your project. Additionally, it's crucial to verify the legality and licensing of any "Udemy clone script" you come across to avoid potential legal issues.

[cyle]

still confused how to make any of these LLMs useful to me.

while my daughter was napping, i downloaded lm studio and got a dozen of the most popular open source LLMs running on my PC, and they work great with very low latency, but i can't come up with anything to do with them but make boring toy scripts to do stupid shit.

as a test, i fed deepseek r1, llama 3.2, and mistral-small a big spreadsheet of data we've been collecting about my newborn daughter (all of this locally, not transmitting anything off my computer, because i don't want anybody with that data except, y'know, doctors) to see how it compared with several real doctors' advice and prognoses. all of the LLMs suggestions were between generically correct and hilariously wrong. alarmingly wrong in some cases, but usually ending with the suggestion to "consult a medical professional" -- yeah, duh. pretty much no better than old school unreliable WebMD.

then i tried doing some prompt engineering to punch up some of my writing, and everything ended up sounding like it was written by an LLM. i don't get why anybody wants this. i can tell that LLM feel, and i think a lot of people can now, given the horrible sales emails i get every day that sound like they were "punched up" by an LLM. it's got a stink to it. maybe we'll all get used to it; i bet most non-tech people have no clue.

i may write a small script to try to tag some of my blogs' posts for me, because i'm really bad at doing so, but i have very little faith in the open source vision LLMs' ability to classify images. it'll probably not work how i hope. that still feels like something you gotta pay for to get good results.

all of this keeps making me think of ffmpeg. a super cool, tiny, useful program that is very extensible and great at performing a certain task: transcoding media. it used to be horribly annoying to transcode media, and then ffmpeg came along and made it all stupidly simple overnight, but nobody noticed. there was no industry bubble around it.

LLMs feel like they're competing for a space that ubiquitous and useful that we'll take for granted today like ffmpeg. they just haven't fully grasped and appreciated that smallness yet. there isn't money to be made here.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 4: These Words Are All I Have So I'll Write Them]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, prostitution, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), pregnancy, methods of ending pregnancy, speaking High Valyrian at a third-grade level, no Larys Strong this time yay!!!

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes in Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.7k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

She gives you a new dress to replace the one that is sopping wet and algae-stained from your tumble into the fishpond: a deep gory maroon, low-cut across the chest, a slit up to your thigh. It is the most revealing thing you have ever worn. You keep crossing your arms and tugging at the fabric, trying to make it cover more of you, incurably out-of-place in this room, this world. The madam is seated at her desk and jotting down notes in a thick, ancient book. When you steal glimpses of her words, they are messy and often misspelled, the script of a child. If you had parchment, you could write a letter. Your hands itch for it; your fingers flex to grasp nothing.

A woman glides into the madam’s bedroom—a tiny kingdom where no men exist—and hands you a cup of tea. She appraises you with a swift, intrigued glance; her hair is long and coppery red, her belly rounded out. She is perhaps five months pregnant. The madam casts her a stern look and the woman dutifully vanishes. “What is this?” you ask as you take a sip. It’s hot, lemony, bitter. “Moon tea?”

The madame chuckles. “No. We have moon tea for if that doesn’t work.”

Because I’m going to be doing things that could result in a child. Because I’m going to be violated here, again and again, I who was so terrified of being possessed by even one man.

The madam says: “Can you play any instruments?”

“No.” You draw into yourself—eyes and ears and the pores of your skin—every detail, every tapestry on the walls and creaky board of the floor and shift in tones of voice, anything that could help you escape. You are a traveler in a strange land. You have no map, no compass. You can bandage burns and set bones, but you know nothing about brothels in the suffocating, squalid entrails of a city.

“Sing or dance?”

“Not well at all.”

A furrowed brow. “Can you sew?”

“Barely.”

“Cook?”

“No.”

Disappointment, palpable and shaming. “Can you read or write?” the madam asks, scratching disorderly lines of black ink into her book.

“Both.”

Now she has perked up a bit. “How well?”

“Fluently.”

A raised eyebrow. This is unusual. “Any other languages besides the Common Tongue?”

“No.” Then you add desperately: “But I know about medicine! I’ve studied herbology and wound tending, and I can act as a healer for the women here, I can—”

“You could, perhaps,” the madam says, smiling with sad, aged patience. “But that is not what the prince regent intended.”

You stare at her, aghast, petrified. There is no swaying her. You consider revealing yourself and attempting to bribe her with the renowned Celtigar fortune, but this is inadvisable. It is one thing to be raped; it is another to be raped and then murdered and then probably raped again. The Greens are the true heirs of the throne in this establishment, which means Rhaenyra and all those who aid her are traitors. Already you have overheard the women gossiping about King Aegon. They do not appear to fear or dislike him; on the contrary, they fret over him like anxious mothers or wives. They hope his recovery is quick. They are grateful he survived. They wonder if he will return to visit them again soon. They do not seem to be under the impression that he is vile, amoral, cruel, a threat, a curse. When they look at him, white hair and ocean-deep eyes, they do not see a monster.

“You aren’t bleeding currently,” the madam continues.

“How do you know that?”

“You didn’t ask for a rag when I gave you that dress.” New words springing to life on those yellowed pages, pricelessly valuable and yet forbidden to you. “Ever borne children?”

“No.”

“Are you a maiden?”

You can’t decide how to answer; you aren’t sure if either reply will help you. You settle on the truth. “Yes,” you admit tentatively.

“Good. We can charge more for you.”

“Wait, no, I’m not. I’ve been with lots of men.”

The madam laughs, shaking her head as she makes her notes. Her necklace and earrings jangle merrily, too large, glinting and gaudy. “Have no fear. I will make it easier for you. I will find a slight, young lad to be your first. He won’t be too big, he won’t last too long. And if you’re fortunate, he’ll even be handsome!” Her prominent, pale eyes go distant; she is orchestrating myths, the trade she deals in like some women sell silk or wool. “A soldier home on leave, perhaps. Looking for a taste of dwindling innocence before he marches off again to be butchered by a Costayne or a Darklyn.” She snaps back into the room. “It will be over before you know it. You’ll be more underwhelmed than anything else, trust me.”

You picture it, red, rust, rage, resignation: the impossibly large stain of blood on your cousin Theodora’s bedsheets. “What if I’m frightened? What if I cry?”

The madam shrugs. “Some men like that. It will convince them of your inexperience.”

You gape at her. “That’s appalling.”

“That’s the world we live in.” She sets down her quill, closes the book, and stretches out her back as she stands. “Follow me. I’ll show you around.”

There are rooms where the women sleep, rooms where they get ready, servants to arrange their hair and moonlight-silver mirrors and a cluttered array of cosmetics and closets bursting with sheer, sensuous gowns. As the madam momentarily diverts her attention from you to scold a servant for knocking over a tin of rouge made from ground cinnabar, you swipe a small stick of kohl eyeliner off a table and tuck it into the pocket of your dress. You might be able to write with it.

What is that pocket supposed to be for? A vial of perfume to mask the sweat of men, mint leaves to clear away their taste? A cloth to mop their mess off your thighs? You shudder, then trail after the madam as she floats out into the hallway.

There are bedchambers, six or seven of them, but the doors are shut. You can smell incense burning; you can hear moans and wet slaps of flesh beneath plucks of harps played by servants. Outside there is a courtyard where women sit on the stone rims of fountains simpering and stroking men’s beards, necks, chests, thighs. It is surrounded by a wall nine feet high. Armed guards pace through the maze of rose bushes and elm trees and proliferate quilts of ivy, keeping uninvited men out, keeping women in. They are protected from their own ambitions of some other kind of life. They are prisoners. The sky above them is a mosaic of spilled wine and gold; the sun is setting.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the madam leaves you in the care of the same woman you saw earlier, long coppery ringlets and a bastard in her belly. The dress she wears is a cleaner red than yours, not blood that has dried and flaked but a heart that’s still beating. She is chopping vegetables and tossing them into a pot boiling over the fire. The long wooden table is strewn with carrots, onions, potatoes, leeks, mushrooms, fresh dark green herbs.

She flashes you a wily smile. “Our cook dropped dead last week. We’ve yet to procure a new one, so I’m making myself useful. All the house laments.”

You laugh and join her, though you don’t know the first thing about working in a kitchen; you pick up a knife and begin slicing through a carrot. It takes more muscle than you anticipated.

“On a cutting board, you idiot,” the woman says kindly, passing you one.

“Sorry. I’ve never cooked before.”

“What? Never?” Her auburn eyebrows spring up. “Where did you come from?”

The cliffs, the sea, salt and waves and mist. “The Crownlands.”

She is studying you with interest as her blade hovers over a half-chopped leek. “Were you a handmaiden to a lady there, or…?”

“It doesn’t matter. Whoever I was, I’m not the same person anymore.”

“No,” the woman agrees softly. “None of us are, I suppose.”

You glance down to her belly. You don’t wish to offend her, but you are curious.

“Go on,” she prompts. “You may inquire. I am well aware of my predicament whether you speak of it aloud or not, I assure you.”

“Did the moon tea not…expel the child?”

“No,” she sighs as she resumes hacking away at the leek. She speaks with vague, weary fondness. “The lemonweed tea did not prevent it, the moon tea did not kill it. I nearly died of fever and vomiting myself, but the child held on. It’s alive in there, I can feel it kicking sometimes. A fierce little thing.”

You nod, still gazing at her belly, undeniable evidence of the act that built it. The copper-haired woman is almost certainly younger than you, and yet she knows exactly what it means to be opened by a man, pillaged, conquered, used, left. This time tomorrow, you will know it too. “The madam let you stay?”

“Not very enthusiastically, but yes. I cook, I clean, I do the shopping in the market. She does not fear letting me venture out into the city. She knows I have nowhere else to go. I only have to entertain clients if they ask for a pregnant woman. Some men have a particular liking for that, you know.”

You did not know. “Right.”

“Besides, there might be some advantage in it for the madam,” the woman tells you. She grins. “When the child is born, there’s a chance it will have the silver hair of a Targaryen. Then the madam could approach Otto Hightower for a reward of some sort, money, protection. Royal bastards have never been more valuable. Little princes are dying left and right.”

“King Aegon’s?” you say numbly. “The child could be his?”

“Yes, obviously. Who else?”

So Aemond does not frequent this place as a customer. You wonder how he met the madam.

Aegon was here before the war began, you think, blood hot in your face, your guts twisting and nauseous. How many women know what he feels like, tastes like, sounds like when he is moaning in pleasure instead of agony?

The copper-haired woman is staring at you quizzically. You have to say something. You hear your voice like the distant cry of a crow through fog: “What was he like? The king, I mean.”

She considers this. “Drunk. Sad. But perfectly pleasant. I wouldn’t mind serving him again. He’s well thought of on the Street of Silk. I do hope he recovers. I think Rhaenyra would hang us all from a gallows. She knows Daemon has a wandering eye, and she’s not the type of wife to look the other way.”

You are trying to clear it out of your skull, like a room full of smoke: Aegon was here, Aegon was here, Aegon was here. “When you met with him, it was in this brothel?”

She hesitates. “Mostly.”

Mostly…? “Have you been inside the Red Keep?”

“Once. Ages ago. There is a network of secret passageways beneath the castle and behind the walls. The king has been known to use them for…well. You know.”

It should not hurt you. You’ve spent all your life listening to the tales of his failings. Yet it does, more than you thought was possible. You’ve never wanted a man before. But you want Aegon now. You do, you must, otherwise you wouldn’t be so pained by the thought of others touching him. You wonder if he feels the same way about you, if he ever lies awake at night with his stomach in knots over your nameless betrothed.

You try to focus on this moment, this kitchen, this copper-haired woman.You need to find a way out of here. “So the madam will decide what happens to your child once it’s born.”

“Of course,” she replies simply.

“You don’t want to keep it yourself? You are not attached to it?”

The woman is suddenly serious, quiet, melancholy. “I have no choice in the matter.”

She’s my chance. She’s my redeemer. “Can I ask your name?” you say.

“What my family named me is of no account. As you said, we’re not the same people anymore.” She smiles, warm like embers once again. “People here call me Autumn.”

“Autumn,” you echo. A woman with hair the color of crisp, dying leaves, the color of a dying world hurtling towards winter. “I think I can help you. You and your child, no matter its parentage.”

She does not want to believe you—hope is a dangerous, taunting creature, one that builds a home in your ribcage and then taps taps taps its claws along the ladder of bones—but she does. You can see it flickering in her small, upturned hazel eyes. “You…what?”

“When you go to the market, do you take a list with you? Of items that you require?”

“Yes,” Autumn replies, puzzled. “The madam always gives me one.”

“Do you have any parchment here in the kitchen?”

Autumn shakes her head. “The madam keeps it in her room. Shall I ask her—?”

“No,” you say. “Definitely don’t ask for any. Is there an old list lying around, perhaps?”

“Um, let me see…” Autumn rummages around the table; onions go rolling, leeks are flung aside. She snatches a tattered, folded sheet of parchment from under a pile of potatoes and surrenders it to you. “Here. This is the one from yesterday.”

You open it and lay it flat on the table. Sure enough, there is a list written in black ink; but not in the Common Tongue. The items are sketched. There’s a carrot with a cloudlike plume of fronds atop it, a bee (meaning honey, you imagine), a pig and a chicken, a round bottle with a heart drawn above it. Perfume? you guess. “These are pictures.”

“Well, of course. I wouldn’t be able to read it otherwise.”

You take the stick of black kohl out of your dress pocket and flip over the list. The back is blank. You write as Autumn watches, baffled, fascinated.

Your Grace, you begin, and then scratch it out. You start again.

Aegon,

Aemond has imprisoned me in a brothel. He knows the madam (middle-aged, brown hair, clever).

“What is this place called?” you ask Autumn.

“The Pink Pearl,” she says.

Autumn works here, if you recall her. She says the establishment is known as the Pink Pearl. Please send someone to rescue me at once. I am to be put to work soon, and I am afraid.

You pause. What will he have been told? What will he think of you now?

I beg your forgiveness for my deceit. I did not mislead you out of malice. I knew you needed help, and that I would not be able to provide it if my true identity was known. I have not done anything to undermine your cause. I have not written a word to my family. I assume they now believe me to be dead. I do not want this, but it is a sacrifice I have made so that I can continue to serve you.

Please help me. Please allow me to return to the Red Keep.

My name was a lie, but none of the rest was.

Angel

“You’re highborn, aren’t you?” Autumn says, hushed, awed. “You must be, to write like that.”

“Yes. And I am a friend of King Aegon. If he knows I’m here, he will pay for me.” You don’t know that for sure, but you have hope, that risky rattling beast.

“He will pay to fuck you, you mean?”

“I believe he will buy my freedom.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Then I will slit my own throat with one of these knives. “It’s better for everyone if he does.” You fold the parchment closed and then give it to Autumn. She takes it, perplexed but willing. “I cannot leave this place. But you can. I need you to get that letter to the king. You know the way to the Red Keep; you have been inside these secret passageways. Hand the letter to him directly if possible. If you are intercepted, ask to see the Dowager Queen Alicent or…” You debate this. Sir Criston is closer to Aemond than Aegon, but you believe the opposite to be true for the youngest Targaryen brother. “Or Prince Daeron. Tell them that the letter must be read by the king immediately, and by him only. If he is resting, he must be roused. If he is speaking with someone, he must be interrupted. Explain this and then leave. And do not allow the prince regent to see you.” Aemond’s words blow through you like a cold wind: If she tries to escape, kill her.

“This is a difficult task,” Autumn says uncertainly, the folded square of parchment disappearing into the bodice of her gown. “I cannot promise you anything. But I can try.”

“If I am rescued, I will see that you and your child are provided for. You will have your own home, one far, far away from here. You will never have to answer to the madam again. You will never have to lie with a man who is not of your choosing. Your life will be your own.”

She stares at you, dazed and wonderous. She cannot even fathom this, but she knows she wants it. You’ve begun to feel that way about certain things as well. When Autumn speaks, it is in little more than a whisper. “I would like that very much.”

“You will have my most fervent gratitude.”

“I will depart tonight after supper. I will tell the madam that I am craving apple cake from a street vendor.”

“Thank you, Autumn,” you say, lips trembling as they curl into a smile, tears blurry in your eyes.

She points to the stick of black kohl you’ve used as a makeshift quill, smirking. It’s still clutched in your dominant hand. “You’d better hide that before people start showing up looking for soup.”

Hours later, you are trying to fall asleep in a room you share with half a dozen other women who are not presently working, beds so close together they almost touch, soft snores, mattresses shifting when people roll over, a thin wool blanket pulled all the way up to your chin.

Aegon will read the letter. Aegon will send someone to rescue me.

In the darkness, your hands wander down to your belly, your hips, lower. Skating over your white silk nightgown, your fingertips press cautiously at a place where you sometimes feel an indistinct, uneasy sort of pleasure. You rarely touch yourself; you cannot do so without remembering that your body is not your own and never has been. But now, for the very first time and without any premeditation, you picture Aegon—his murky oceanic eyes, his crooked grin, his hands, his bravery, his gentleness, his shock of white-blond hair adorned with that single tiny braid—and instantly your once-ambiguous desire sharpens, strengthens, is accompanied by a wetness that you can feel blooming warm and needful beneath your nightgown.

But it’s not going to be him. It’s going to be some stranger who doesn’t know me and doesn’t want to.

You roll over onto your side and thrust your hands under the pillow, squeeze your eyes shut until they ache, try not to hear the moans that creep through the walls like dark veins of blood poisoning.

~~~~~~~~~~

All day you wait for someone to cross through the doorway of the brothel to claim you, a guard, a messenger, Daeron, Criston, anybody. But no one does. The women here keep strange hours: late to bed, late to rise, breakfast at noon, lunch at four or five, supper long after nightfall. You pick listlessly at a breakfast of biscuits with butter, honey, and blackberry jam, bacon, weak wine, pomegranate juice, lemonweed tea to prevent an unintended child like Autumn’s.

“I was stopped by a guard just outside the Red Keep,” she mutters to you in a stolen moment, huddled together at the end of a hallway by a window that opens out onto the courtyard. “They agreed to let me see Prince Daeron. He took the letter and said he would deliver it. That’s all I could do. I hope it’s enough.”

I hope so too, you think to yourself as you thank her, marveling with brick-heavy horror at how all the Valyrian ancestry and riches in the world cannot save you from the fate of being born a card for others to play, trade, bet on, use until it is worn and faceless. I hope so with everything I’m made of.

The other women take you with them to the bathhouse down the street, and in the labyrinth of sweltering pools and swirling steam you scrub yourself all over until your skin is tender to the touch. You use perfumed soaps and luxurious floral oils, not for healing but for vanity, so strange men will imagine you to be an intoxicating fantasy, so any human imperfections can be ignored. You pluck some stray hairs and trim others. You inspect each other for bruises or scratches or bitemarks that will need to be covered. No one mentions how they got them. Everybody knows.

Back in the brothel, the women show you how to wear your hair and do your makeup: black kohl on the eyes, beeswax dyed with berry juice on the lips, powder on the face to even out your complexion. Servants flit around fussing over hairstyles and switching ripped seams on dresses. Your silk gown—the one you will be raped in—is a soft, helpless, feminine lavender. You are shown to a bedchamber: flickering candles, a mountain of pillows and jewel-toned throw blankets, harp music and fresh air breathing in through the windows. You sit on the edge of the bed wringing your hands. You are waiting to be rescued. You are waiting to be harmed.

The door opens, and he enters. The madam was truthful: she has found you a slight, benign-looking young man. He smiles shyly, clanging in his light armor. He is indeed a soldier on leave from the front. He wears the crest of his family as the clasp for his cape, a white shield with a black cross. He is a Norcross, the same as the dying boy you were tending when Aemond pulled you off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest. How easy it would have been for you to not be here right now; a difference of a few minutes, a few meters, and Aemond never would have found you.

“Hello,” the man says pleasantly. He is yanking off his boots.

“Hello.” You are still sitting on the edge of the massive bed, big enough for four or five occupants. This is not a coincidence, you’re certain. But that will come later, once you have been sufficiently broken in. Your stomach lurches; you try not to show it.

Now he is taking off his cape. “You’re nervous,” he observes. There is a pitcher of wine on the table in the middle of the room. He pours two cups and hands one to you. You take it—intending to be dignified, ladylike—and then gulp it down. The Norcross laughs. “You needn’t fear me, maiden,” he says. “I am here for pleasure, not pain. I have paid a considerable price for you. You are a piece of treasure, a rare gem, and I will handle you accordingly.”

Then he reaches out to stroke your cheek, and something in you shatters, splits open, screams. I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. You shrink away from him and retreat to the center of the vast bed. The Norcross blinks at you, a little amused, a bit bewildered. “Sir, you have stumbled upon a great opportunity,” you tell him. “I am no ordinary woman.”

“No?” he says. But he is smirking beneath gleaming eyes, like this is a joke; and he is removing his armor as well.

“I am here as the result of a dreadful misunderstanding. You see, I have actually already been claimed. There is another man who has the right to take my innocence if he so chooses.”

“Oh?” the Norcross says. He is unbuttoning his white cotton shirt. “Who?”

“King Aegon.”

He throws his head back and guffaws, dark hair long enough to cover his ears and brush against the nape of his neck. “This is a very charming jape. Me? Getting to deflower the king’s chosen whore? Yes, yes, very good. Delightful. Delicious.” He crawls onto the bed; the mattress shifts beneath your palms. A cold sweat slicks across your skin. Goosebumps rise on your arms. He doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t want to.

“I’m not joking,” you implore the Norcross. “I am well-acquainted with King Aegon, he cares for me. I was brought here by mistake and against his knowledge. If you assist me in returning to him, I’m sure you will be generously compensated for your trouble—”

The man’s hand juts out, snags in your hair, yanks and tears at it. You yelp and struggle as he wrestles you down onto the mattress and settles his weight on top of you. “You’re mine, all mine,” he growls, smiling, playing along with what he has chosen to believe is a fantasy. “Not the king’s whore. The king has plenty of those already, he probably has thousands. But you’re all mine.”

“Get off me,” you order him, as if you are still the daughter of one of the wealthiest houses in Westeros and not some powerless, penniless woman imprisoned in ornate walls and perfumed silk; and isn’t this where you always would have ended up anyway? Flinching on some stranger’s bed as he tried to claim you, subdue you, force pieces of himself inside you?

“I will show you, maiden. The king is a cripple now. He could not satisfy you anyway. I will give you what he could not. And I’ll give it to you more than once, if you ask nicely.” He presses his lips to yours, a sickening mockery of a kiss, all flesh and no heat. He is wearing only his trousers; they could be gone in an instant. He is tugging your sleeves off your shoulders to get to your breasts.

“Please don’t do this, please stop, I’ll give you anything—”

“Everything I want is right here.”

Just let him do it, you think. I can’t leave this place, I can’t fight him off. There’s no way out. Just let him do it, and live to see if freedom will arrive tomorrow.

Aemond’s words fill your skull like flashes of lighting: If she tries to escape, kill her.

The Norcross man is pulling off his trousers. It strikes you like a closed fist: the terror, the injustice, the rage. You swing at his face, your knuckles rapping against his cheekbones. “Get off of me—!”

There is a tremendous fracturing noise, and at first you think the man must have snapped one of your bones, your radius or your tibia or your clavicle. But no: it was the bedchamber door being thrown open so violently it hit the wall behind it and cracked down the middle. And now there are footsteps, and now there are guards pouring into the room, and now the point of a blade bursts through the Norcross man’s windpipe splattering blood across the bed, the walls, the wood boards of the floor. You are shrieking; scarlet rain peppers your face, chest, hands.

“You’d take an unwilling woman?!” Aegon demands of the dying man, who gapes at him with rapidly fading eyes and a mouth hemorrhaging dark, lethal red. The king is wearing all black, tunic, trousers, boots. Half of his hair is pulled back from his face and secured with a black ribbon. You have never seen him like this before. You have never seen him brutal, formidable, furious. “You fucking animal. Enjoy drowning in your own blood.”

Aegon wrenches his sword free from the dying man’s throat and he falls face-down onto the mattress as you scramble away. And then Aegon falls too: his legs give out and he collapses to his knees, kneeling in a pool of the Norcross man’s blood, the hilt of his sword tumbling out of his grasp. You bolt off the bed and drop down onto the floor beside him.

“Aegon?!”

“Are you okay?” He takes your face in his hands—they’re shaking, they’re weak again, but just strong enough to cradle the slope of your jaw—and looks at you, turning your face one way and then the other, his eyes searching for bruises, lacerations, more fuel for the vengeful fire that blazes in him. The burn on his own right cheek is inflamed, blistering. He does not seem to notice.

“I’m okay, I promise.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No, no, you got here just in time.”

And Aegon—this so-called monster, this alleged beast, this man who the Blacks swear is a villain and a degenerate and soulless—slips the sleeves of your silk lavender gown back up over your shoulders so your chest is covered. “If it’s any consolation, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“Of course you would prefer me dressed like a prostitute.”

He laughs, embraces you, holds you to him, the first time he ever has. Your arms link around the back of his neck, your fingers knot in his hair. You are so close, yet not nearly close enough; you want him completely, always. You can’t claw your way back up the cliff you’ve fallen down.

There is a commotion as the guards that accompanied Aegon to the brothel part to allow two new arrivals into the bedchamber. Aemond and Criston now stand just inside the doorway, breathing heavily from their sprint across the city. Your gaze meets Aemond’s and you clutch Aegon tighter. The king kisses your temple—so quickly and unceremoniously it feels like a habit, something instinctual, something innately right—and reluctantly unravels himself from you. He grabs the nearest bedpost and hauls himself to his feet, wincing, groaning, bracing himself against it with both hands.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Aemond shouts at his brother.

“You will not harm her! You will not take her from me!”

“Aegon, she’s not a Thorne, she’s a Celtigar! Her father sits on Rhaenyra’s council, he funds her war effort, when our men are killed it’s with arrows and steel that he paid for—!”

“We’re all different people now!” Aegon roars. “All of us! You were some pathetic runt, I was useless, Daeron was a child, Helaena was happy, Criston was devoted to Rhaenyra, Mother was her closest friend, all of us have been changed by this world and its endless goddamn misery! So she was born a Celtigar, is she to be eternally condemned for that? Is she truly irredeemable? Can no acts of service to the Greens’ king convince you of her loyalty? She saved my life!”

“Are you insane?! We can’t trust her!”

“I am the king!” Aegon bellows. “I am still the one who gets to make these decisions, no matter how unworthy you think I am!”

“She lied to you, to me, to everyone, that cannot go unpunished!”

And then Aegon responds, but not in the Common Tongue. He says something—laboriously, haltingly—in a language you recognize only from hearing Daemon and Rhaenyra converse in it. You were not aware that Aegon knew High Valyrian well enough to carry a conversation. Perhaps Aemond and Criston weren’t either; they exchange a brief, astonished glance. The guards’ eyes dart between the king and the prince regent.

Aemond replies, his tone cutting but his words swift, seamless, graceful, fluent. Aegon stumbles his way through a sentence or two, pausing several times to conjure the correct word. Aemond says something else, an effortless litany of syllables your forebears shared. Aegon forces out one last plea. It sounds painful; it sounds like a confession. Aemond stares at his brother, perhaps scandalized, perhaps merely stunned.

“Alright?” Aegon pants, in anguish now. His hands are like talons on the bedpost, the force of his fingernails leaving white scratches in the wood. “You get it? You understand?”

“Fine,” Aemond says, low and bitter.

“You will not harm her. She stays in the Red Keep. Promise me, Aemond. I cannot rest until you do.”

Aemond nods, glaring down at the floor.

“Criston?” Aegon presses. “Promise me. If he breaks his word, you will stop him. I command this. I am your king.”

“I promise, Aegon,” Criston agrees, willingly enough.

“Good,” Aegon says. “Good.” And then he blacks out and crumples to the floor. The guards rush for him, but Criston tells them to stand back. He stoops low, lifts the king, throws him over one shoulder and carries him. Aemond fetches his brother’s fallen sword. You follow them out of the brothel, staying as far away from Aemond as you can. You pause just long enough to peek into the kitchen.

“Autumn?” you call, and she looks up from the chicken she’s been coating with herbs and butter. “I’m leaving now. You’re coming with me. Get your things.”

“What things?” she says, grinning. She cleans her hands and trots after you, one palm resting on the swell of her belly, her copper sea of hair streaming out behind her.

Inside the Red Keep, you inform the servants that Autumn will be staying as a guest of the royal family and that she is to have a room near yours. Then you hurry to Aegon’s chamber. He is sprawled across the bed, writhing and moaning. Grand Maester Orwyle is administering milk of the poppy. Criston is stripping him, heaving off Aegon’s boots and trousers before gingerly removing his tunic to reveal bandages red with blood around his shoulders. He has torn the half-mended flesh there. He suffers, he heals, he suffers again.

“Angel?” Aegon chokes out, reaching for you with tears flooding from his eyes.

“I’m here.” You take his hand. “What hurts, Aegon?”

“Everywhere,” he gasps.

You tell Orwyle: “Give him another dose.” And a second goblet of milk of the poppy is emptied down the king’s throat. Within a minute, he is mercifully unconscious again.

Criston looks at you. “What’s wrong with his face?”

“Sunlight. The rest of his burns were covered, but not the one on his cheek. Fresh burns must be kept out of the sun. He knows that.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages; his wounds need to be cleaned and re-dressed.

“Oh, seven hells,” Criston whispers, covering his mouth with one hand. There are four or five ruptures around each shoulder, thin bleeding crevices that branch out like the legs of a red spider. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles off to order servants to fetch water, vinegar, honey, linen, more milk of the poppy.

“I should have done better,” you say, and your voice breaks. “I should have used more rose oil on his shoulders. I should have made him stretch three or four times a day.”

“You’ve tended to him tirelessly,” Criston says gently.

“I shouldn’t have lied about who I was.”

“I don’t see how you could have saved his life otherwise.”

“Go find Alicent,” you say. “Explain what’s happened, but don’t bring her to visit him yet. It will only upset her.”

“Yes,” Criston agrees, and leaves.

Outside, the sun is setting, and all the world is the color of dragonfire. Grand Maester Orwyle returns with servants and supplies. As you are dabbing at Aegon’s wounds with cloths dripping with water and vinegar, Daeron appears in the bedchamber doorway. His eyes—large and expressive like Aegon’s, but more crystalline, less dark—are shimmering and wider than you’ve ever seen them.

“Is he dying?” Daeron asks, sounding fearful and very young.

“No more than usual,” Aegon rasps; and that’s how you know he is awake again.

When Aegon is cleaned, bandaged, and soothed once again with milk of the poppy, the two of you are left alone. You perch on the edge of the mattress and can’t stop touching him, his left hand where his dragon ring glints in the flickering candlelight, his disheveled silver hair that still has that little braid you made for him. You don’t know what to say. You worry that if you begin talking, everything will spill out like a monsoon or a rogue wave, things you can’t take back, things you don’t fully understand yourself.

“House Celtigar, huh?” Aegon murmurs drowsily, smiling. “I’ve never been so happy to see a crab in my bed.”

And it hits you all at once: I would take every last drop of pain for this man. I would slit him open and drain him of it, swallow it down, assume the debt. I would carry every burden, every red flare of agony and ache in his bones. I would learn the art of self-loathing if he could forget it. I would trade fates with him, threads cut and crossed and burned to ash.

“What?” Aegon asks. He’s watching you with those storm-blue eyes, glassy with pain and poison.

Why wouldn’t you send someone else in your place? Why would you go yourself? Why would you injure yourself so grievously, so senselessly? “Why would you do this for me?”

“You are the only person I’ve never disappointed. I’d like to keep that going if I can.” He takes your hand and laces his fingers through yours. “You’re so far away.”

You lie down on the bed and curl up beside him, careful not to put pressure on his fresh wounds. You place one palm on the center of his bandaged chest, the other against his unburned cheek. Aegon pulls you in closer until your noses are nearly touching and you swing one leg up to rest on top of his; even then, he keeps a hand on your thigh, as if to make sure you don’t leave. The other twists into your hair and stays there. Aegon dives into a deep, starless sleep and you doze next to him. When you catch wisps of dreams like fireflies in a child’s grasp, you hear crashing waves and see dragons pitching into the sea: Vermax at the Gullet, Arrax into Shipbreaker Bay.

Why did Aemond have to murder Luke? Why did he have to start this war?

Something wakes you, a sound, an indescribable shift in the room. You open your eyes and turn to see Aemond, arms crossed and back propped against the opposite wall. You rise as carefully as you can so you don’t disturb Aegon, untangling yourself from him like he’s something catastrophically fragile, a spider’s web, a splintering pane of glass.

You stand and take several steps towards Aemond, only so you can speak without waking Aegon. “What do you want?”

“I fear I did not conduct myself particularly well yesterday,” he says. “I may have acted…impulsively. Unwisely.”

“Your capacity for self-reflection is truly inspiring.”

Aemond frowns. “I’m being serious.”

“I’m not interested.”

“If we are to be on the same side of this war, we should learn to understand each other.”

“I don’t want to understand you. Your mind must be a horrible place to live.”

He stares at you with his sole remaining eye, cold and hurt and wrathful and hopeless.

You ask softly, knowing that only Aemond can tell you: “What did he say? Back at the brothel?”

Aemond does not answer for so long that you convince yourself he’s not going to. At last, he decides to extend a peace offering. “He said that he cannot live without you. Or that he wouldn’t want to. I’m not certain which he meant. His High Valyrian has always been terrible.”

Then Aemond walks out of the room without another word.

[crowlixcx]

Please god please HOW WAS MACBETH

Okay bestie lets get into it!! Obvs it's...literally Macbeth lol so I doubt i'm spoiling the plot for anyone here however if anyone reading this does have tickets and doesn't want to know anything about staging etc i suggest u avert your eyes now

Anon babes it was marvellous. David was so commanding?? he's built like a string bean but when he was up on stage he looked BIG and powerful. The character development was so nuanced, the descent into madness was manic and chaotic but eventually steady and calm - he literally snapped a little boys neck with his bare hands in the battle scene it was gruesome. I've seen one too many productions of Macbeth where its pretty much all pinned on Lady Macbeth being the brains behind the operation but it was very obvious from the start of this production that Macbeth had plenty of malicious thoughts and intentions of his own. He needed a little bit of convincing from LM but obviously your average person cannot be coerced into murder lol this man was out for blood from the START. Cush Jumbo was DIVINE and the perfect enabler, their chemistry was spicy and sensual and I loved it. They changed the script so that LM visits Lady MacDuff before the latter is murdered and its sooo good it makes Lady Macbeth so much more 3 dimensional rather than the usual evil witchy woman, it makes her human and Jumbo portrays her beautifully. It really was exciting for the production to be so intimate. The Donmar is a LOVELY black box theatre not many seats at all so you're very close to the action. This is my 5th time seeing DT on stage (prev. Much Ado About Nothing, Richard II, Don Juan in Soho & Good) and they've all been at big venues so it felt very different. The use of headphones was soooo good and it helped them keep the pace of the show (it was 1hr50 with no interval). Rather than dramatic asides like in the script the actors could whisper and it was RIGHT in your ear which made it feel very personal and dark like you were really in the character's heads. You never saw any of the visions (the dagger, the witches, banquo's ghost) which is how i always prefer it to be portrayed personally because you know... they're not actually there this man is just guilty AF and losing his grasp on reality!! But the sound effects they used in these moments were verrrry good and helped set the scene, lots of spooky music and sounds of screaming and whispering etc. And just generally through out the production you heard every. single. word. because of the headphones which was just delicious.

Final note because when u came into my inbox u were probably just expecting a simple 'yeah i really enjoyed it!!' and instead i've written a mini essay BUT in the battle scene at the end David really did win the award for most agile man in his 50s, he head-butt like 4 people and i was like...damn boy can u come over and fight me some time

[theluminoussunflower]

"Meeks goes to Vietnam and dies there": what was said, interpretation, and the truth?

Because I've seen some people on TikTok not know how to behave, I’m going to make an elaborate post that no one will care about, but you can't say I didn't say anything about it.

First things first, let's do some definitions. These definitions are ones that I've written for the purposes of this post based on the sources of Wikipedia and Oxford English Dictionary.

canon (noun): the works of a particular author or artist that are recognized as genuine. For the purposes of this post, "canon" is the established facts of a piece of work as it pertains solely to the work. This means adaptations and random comments made by people associated with a piece of work are not canon. The only people who can dictate what is canon are the people who create the original work (usually writers, sometimes directors, in rare cases actors).

For the purposes of Dead Poets Society, Peter Weir’s final cut of the film is all that is canon. Stuff that was left out from Tom Schulman's script is not canonical. The book is not canonical. Gale Hansen’s tweets are not canonical.

fanon (noun): the unofficial facts or rules about a piece of work as decided by fans of said work or by people associated with the work. Fanon is usually widespread amongst fan groups. Sometimes there is information to back up these facts or rules, sometimes there isn't.

An example of fanon is anderperry, a widespread ship that most people agree on. There are little things about their relationship to interpret them as having a romantic relationship. However, it is not canonical. There is no scene where a romantic relationship is explicitly displayed. Another example of fanon is Neil lives. This is an example where there is nothing to support this; in fact it contradicts what happens in the canonical work.

headcanon (noun): similar to fanon, however a headcanon is predominantly believed by one or few people. There can be overlap between the two: a headcanon can turn into fanon if it becomes popular enough. Like fanon, a headcanon can have evidence to support it, or none at all.

An example of a headcanon would be Pitts having ten siblings. There isn't anything to support this. I just really feel it.

Now that I have established the rules for this post, let's get into the meat and bones:

On February twenty third, 2021, Gale Hansen (Charlie), Allelon Ruggiero (Meeks), and Dylan Kussman (Cameron) went on the Hard Out podcast for a mini reunion. In the interview, someone asked Allelon what he pictured for the future of his character. I'm going to insert the interview below and also write out a transcript of the conversation.

For ease of reading, I've abbreviated everyone's names and I couldn't be arsed to learn the names of the hosts, so they are Left Man, Middle Man, and Right Man.

30:16-32:50

MM: This [question] is for all of you guys. I would love to know where you think your characters ended up as well. Like, you can make that part of your thing. Like, do you think—

AR: Well...

MM: Where are they today?

AR: I've already—We've actually already discussed, some of—something like this before.

MM: All right, cool.

AR: You know? In my mind, Meeks—if you think about the—how old the kids—the guys were... Meeks went to Vietnam.

MM: Mm.

AR: Right? A couple of the guys [cuts out, unintelligible]

LM: MmmMmmm. Yeah, I hadn't considered that.

AR: —1959, it's the 60s. You know? So, uh, that's what—in my story—

LM: Radio! He was a radio operator.

MM: I was gonna say, he very well would have been a radio guy, which would have made him a target, and more likely to get killed too.

[It's hard to hear what Allelon is saying under MM, but he is nodding in agreement]

AR: His-his—I think he had some sort of affection for gadgetry and electronics and maybe he went into the military, maybe—

LM: He'd be an officer.

AR: Maybe his father was a Military Man, you know? [unintelligible]—nam

LM: Most likely, yeah.

MM: Well, he'd have to go to college to be an officer.

LM: Right. But he was in prep school for college.

AR: (overlapping) That's what's going on in my mind.

MM: It makes me really sad picturing Meeks getting, just, ventilated—

AR: Right?

MM:—in the jungle and dying. [unintelligible]—bach and shit (?)

LM: Aw man. He got a purple heart, man.

AR: I kind of like that too.

LM: It's poetic, so to speak.

AR: There's something about that that I like. The im—you know, he kinda reminds me of, um, did you ever see More American Graffiti? The guy, Toad—

MM: No.

AR: But you've seen American Graffiti?

LM, MM, RM: Yes.

LM: Yes, of course.

AR: Okay—

GH: [unintelligible old man yelling]—Charles Martin Smith.

AR: Yes, thank you! He winds up in Vietnam in More American Graffiti, you know what I mean. That's the correct [unintelligible]. He winds up in Vietnam. I mean, I won't go more into the storyline of More American Graffiti.

(overlapping)

AR: I kind of thought of Meeks as that character. He's like that nerdy character. that, you know, as he ventures off into the 60s, um, that's, you know, a lot of young men wound up that way. I remember my father was kind of the same age and he has a lot of buddies who went off to Vietnam. It's very tragic. Tragic stories of his friends. That whole generation of young men... just decimated, you know, from that war.

MM: Those are the kinds of men that go to war. Keating's students, you know?

AR: Right!

MM: Young men—

LM: Right!

AR: All kinds of kids went. All kinds of young men went to the war, to the Vietnam War.

-end of transcript-

Hopefully watching/reading that has reminded you of everything that was said pertaining to Allelon’s answer. It often gets misconstrued and misremembered by the fandom, so I have the whole thing there to reference. To my knowledge, this is it. I don’t believe any other statements about this have been made, but if you are aware of a tweet or post deep in the archives, please alert me to it.

At this time, I will be responding to and analyzing this answer with common talking points I've seen on the internet. Now, I promise I'm not pulling talking points out of thin air. I had a team brainstorm ones they have seen between tumblr, Instagram, TikTok, etc. That said, I'm not going to source where I've seen them because I don't want to cause trouble for the people who made these points bc a) they're probably children and b) it's not really fair to direct the seriousness in which I’m taking this at people who don’t know who I am. So while I normally source what I'm saying so you know I'm not talking out of my ass, for this, you'll just have to trust me.

I'm separating these talking points into two categories.

Category 1: It does not matter that he said this (aka stop coping so hard)

Talking point 1: Allelon Ruggiero made it canon that Meeks died in Vietnam, and I don't like that. Why would he do that?

No, he didn't. It is not canon. Canon, as previously established, is information relating to a piece of work that is undeniably confirmed. And the key words from Allelon himself are "in my mind." And what's another word for mind? Head. It's his headcanon. Canon would imply that we saw something in the movie that meant Meeks went to Vietnam. We didn't. Therefore, not canon. Just because he was in the movie doesn't mean he can make it canon.

Now, if they had worked in the movie (somehow) that Meeks ended up there or if it was implied in some way, that would be different. But him saying it's something he thinks about "in his mind" does not make something canon. I would not attribute this to the rare cases of actors making something about their characters canon because, again, there isn’t anything in the film to support his headcanon.

Talking point 2: But Allelon didn't actually say Meeks died. The interviewers said it. Maybe Meeks survived!

Technically, on paper, this is true. At no point does Allelon say "Meeks dies in Vietnam." But when the hosts bring it up, he doesn't dispute it in any way. In fact, when one of them says "it makes me sad to think about meeks blowing up in the jungle," Allelon doesn't say "Well maybe he survives!" he says, "Right?" As in, yes it's sad to think about Meeks dying in Vietnam.

That said, because it's his personal headcanon and not tied to canonical fact, Meeks could survive in your or anyone else's headcanon, yes! However, I've seen a lot of people try to say "he didn't say it" as the reason. And it's just not a good reason, because he was clearly okay with the idea. The better answer is "Meeks could have survived Vietnam because I said so, and there's nothing to dispute it." Many soldiers did survive Vietnam. While radio operators had a notoriously short life span in the battlefield (TWS 2019), there were survivors.

Speaking of radio operators:

Talking point 3: Allelon didn't bring up Meeks being a radio operator. The interviewers said it. Therefore, why should radio operation have anything to do with Alleon’s headcanon?

Because he immediately agreed with them, and had an entire response about Meeks being interested in gadgets. He works on a radio with Pitts in the damn movie. That was the obvious connection. Radio men were Very sought after for the Vietnam War (American Air Force). They needed smart people, and people who could run.

I really hate the argument people try to bring to this topic of "Well, Allelon didn't say it, therefore it doesn’t matter." But he did say it. He wasn't speaking into a void and not hearing the response. He heard the "Meeks getting ventilated in the jungle" comment just like the rest of us. In my opinion, he had and has had more than enough time to clarify if he truly meant "Meeks goes to vietnam but he comes back dw." (By the way, he does not owe any of us an answer as to what he thinks. The fact he even cared enough to share it is wonderful.)

This brings me to my next category of talking points:

Category 2: Some of you do not know how the Vietnam War worked (aka Allelon is more correct about this than you think)

For those unawares, I am American. I know a fair bit about the Vietnam War. I didn’t study it in uni or anything like that, but I have family members who were drafted and in combat. I feel very passionately about this, but I will do my best to stick to the facts, and not what I personally feel.

For the purpose of this category, we need to assume Meeks gets drafted. As in, his birthday gets drawn, and he has to go. I will point out that the chances of that happening were already small, just in how the draft actually worked. I will explore a volunteer option later.

Talking point 4 (but it's really a bunch of talking points): Meeks couldn't go to war because:

a) He was in college

He would not have been. Assuming he started uni in autumn 1961, he would have finished in spring 1965. He would be out of college just in time for masse troops and the draft. He could have gone to graduate school, which would have pushed his assignment a few years, but graduate school was (still is) very expensive. Also in 1971, most student deferments were dropped (Roos 2024). I know some people think boarding school kids are all Top One Percent, and I have no doubt that Welton would be one of those selective, expensive schools where students were at least Upper Middle class.

b) He obviously would have objected to the war

A lot of people objected to the war and still went to Vietnam because they were legally required to. It is possible he signed on as a conscientious objector, but a lot of men who did that seemed to have been counseled by religious groups (Roos 2024). I will address the possibility of draft dodging below.

c) Ailments get him deferred

Possible. Bad eyesight. Asthma. Bone spurs. If he had a very helpful doctor. We don’t know enough about Meeks’ health to say one way or the other.

d) He fled the country

I agree to an extent that Meeks could have dodged the draft. I would argue it was largely rare that people did this to any meaningful extent (There were only about 500,000 men who dodged, and only about 200,000 were ever legally accused (Rostker 2006)), but it’s impossible to say either way if he would or not. That’s up to you. But I would like to propose an observation.

What do we know about the society that the boys grew up in? Where the adults are in charge, you do as you're told, and you don't ask questions about that. Now, Keating made the boys challenge that idea, and it's implied that at the end of the film, they go on in their lives to do that. So, it would follow the theme of the movie that Meeks could have been an objector and dodged the draft by all means necessary. 

However, it wasn't just an adult telling him to do something. It was the government. I’ve seen somewhat conflicting reports on the likelihood Meeks (or his family) could have bought his way out of the draft. An article from WashPo suggests 50% of men sent to Vietnam were middle class (Cao 2017), but I haven’t been able to figure out where they got that number from. Rostker (2006) cites Baskir and Strauss (1978, p. 9) for their table suggesting the likelihood of Vietnam-Era service for middle income men was 30%, and 24% for high income men. Dodging was hard if you weren’t in a position to pay a doctor willing to lie for you, or be in a position to not be questioned. You hear a lot of men talk about it now because the ones who couldn't died in the jungle.

Another thing: I know a lot of people think Meeks would have participated in counter culture. I think that too. But what did Keating say? "There is a place for daring and a place for caution, and a wise person understands which one is called for.” Now, if Meeks went to Mr Keating and said "I'm going to defy my government and dodge the draft. I'm running away to Canada." Would Keating call that daring? Would he say that's making your life extraordinary?

It’s possible. Keating would encourage him to think about what he wants. If he doesn’t want to go to war because he morally objects to it, do what you gotta do. I'm not saying going to Vietnam was the safer option. It wasn't. But neither option was good. The American government put young men in an impossible position morally: Fighting for your country was a risk, but up held as a righteous thing to do. Dodging the draft would prevent dying in the jungle or life long impairments from war, but you were likely looked down on socially.

e) He would never join the army

Let's go back to the transcript for a second. Allelon says "maybe his father was a military man." How likely is this? I don't know. However, it seems that he's thought about this to the extent that he's come up with different ways Meeks would have ended up in the war, and this isn't something he's coming up with off the top of his head. I do find it funny that I have yet to see someone propose the idea that Meeks willingly joined the military. We’ve always assumed he was drafted, however most men in the Vietnam War were actually volunteers or enlisted willingly, not draftees (Cao 2017). But as Allelon says, maybe his dad was a military man. Maybe Meeks felt a sense of duty to his country. But there was a time when fighting for your country was genuinely honorable to nearly everyone. Meeks' dad could have fought in WWII. His grandads could have fought in WWI. It’s not impossible to consider Meeks volunteered or enlisted.

Now, if you want to believe that Meeks was part of counterculture, that's so valid. If you want to argue about Allelon’s headcanon, that's fine!!! You don't have to believe it or even like it. That's the nice thing about headcanons; you don't have to accept them. I’m just pointing out some faults in people's rebuttal to the hc. I find a lot of them are not based on interpretation or facts, but rather on most of the fandom just not wanting Meeks to die horribly, or even partake in the No Nothing War. And I genuinely understand that. No one wants sweet Meeks to die horribly. Allelon (and Gale for that matter) were definitely being realists with their answers. Gale talks about just after his answer how it’s easy for people to say that everything works out great for their characters and Nothing Bad Ever Happens, but that it’s just not the truth, and that’s okay to consider.

Just because Allelon said this, just because this is his headcanon, just because some people have taken it up as their headcanon, it doesn't mean it's canon or that it needs to be your headcanon. Allelon Ruggiero has no more authority over Steven Meeks than you or I do. If Steven Meeks works at NASA and puts man on the moon, that is so slay and I hope you post that ff bc it sounds awesome. If Steven Meeks becomes a secret agent, work. If Steven Meeks settles down and has a happy rest of his life, love. All of those are just as valid as Meeks goes to Vietnam and dies.

Basically, stop being in denial that Allelon said Meeks went to Vietnam and died there. Don’t say he didn't say it. He did say it. But you are well within your right to ignore it and post mitts domestic life fanfic.

In this final part of the post, I will present to you ACTUAL reasons Meeks wouldn't/couldn't have gone to Vietnam if you really want to argue with people who say he did. Some of these come with the caveat of Meeks needing to be drafted and some of him needing to volunteer. This doesn't mean Allelon was wrong to think he did, but these are some real reasons it was unlikely to happen.

If he started a graduate degree before summer 1967, he would be deferred until he finished his studies. This assumes that he does a graduate degree which, while not uncommon, might be a stretch depending on what he studied. Graduate degrees were NOT cheap, and it would only hold him off until about 1971, but of the ten percent of people by 1970 who had college degrees, I feel confident in saying Meeks would have been in that stat.

If he were drafted, he would not get to choose what he would do. He would have gotten assigned a role, and the Air Force and Navy didn’t take draftees (Rottman (2005). He is a very technology driven guy, so it’s still likely he would have been assigned to be an operator, just not guaranteed. This actually supports him enlisting and being in any branch that wasn’t the army, because nearly every other branch was less likely to partake in Vietnam and fatality was less likely as well (Roos 2024).

The chances of getting your birthday drawn in the draft, not deferring, not exempting, was incredibly low. Ultimately, only two million of the nearly 27,000,000 men in America were drafted (Rostker 2006). He could have been one, and he would have been very, very unlucky.

Lastly, he is our baby boy and he simply doesn’t <3

Okay the end

Very special thank you to @ash5monster01, @toindeedbe, and @octaviasdread for helping me with this monster post. They helped me organize my thoughts and helped me with finding sources. They also enabled me taking this so seriously lol

PS if this post makes you want to tell me to kill myself, just remember: Meeks is not a real person. Him dying in Vietnam cannot hurt you in a way that matters.

SOURCES:

Cao, L. (2017, September 29). Five myths about the Vietnam War - The Washington Post. Washington Post. https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/five-myths/five-myths-about-the-vietnam-war/2017/09/29/467ef3e0-a474-11e7-ade1-76d061d56efa_story.html. — Pay attention to myth #3. (I had to use the Wayback Machine to access this article because the Washington Post hates freedom.)

Official American Air Force. AN/MRC-108 Communications System. National Museum of the United States Air Force™. https://www.nationalmuseum.af.mil/Visit/Museum-Exhibits/Fact-Sheets/Display/Article/588962/anmrc-108-communications-system/. — From the US Air Force Website. This is obviously Air Force specific, but the role of Radio Men across the military was largely similar.

Roos, D. (2024, May 28). 7 ways Americans avoided the draft during the Vietnam War. History.com. https://www.history.com/news/vietnam-war-draft-avoiding. — a detailed list of draft dodging options.

Rostker, B. (2006). The Coming of the All-Volunteer Force: Analytic Studies (1960–1968). In I Want You! The Evolution of the All-Volunteer Force (pp. 43–60). essay, RAND. Retrieved 2025, from https://www.rand.org/content/dam/rand/pubs/monographs/2007/RAND_MG265.pdf. — a monster monograph about Volunteer soldiers in the American Military. Chapter 3 pertains to the Draft

Rottman, Gordon L. (2005). "CONSCRIPTION". US Army Infantryman in Vietnam 1965-73. Bloomsbury Publishing. ISBN 978-1-78200-468-4 – via Google Books. — I did have to take this information from Wikipedia, but I believe it’s largely documented.

Smale, J. (2008, September 17). Vietnam Era Radioman. ARRL - National Association for Amateur Radio. https://www.arrl.org/news/vietnam-era-radioman. — A first hand account of a radio man from Vietnam about how he got into the military. He enlisted, but still an interesting read about how radio men trained and what they did.

Thorton, J., & Gull, M. (2021, February 22). DEAD POETS SOCIETY Mini-Reunion! Cast & Oscar-Winning Writer Reminisce on Film, Robin Williams. YouTube. https://youtu.be/jk4zONaa8lY?si=4wfe-7DcYPxIs0o5. — where the Incident happened

TWS (Ed.). (2019, April). Radiomen in the Vietnam War faced a 5-Second Life Expectancy. Army - Together We Served. https://army.togetherweserved.com/dispatches-articles/33/411/Radiomen+in+the+Vietnam+War+Faced+a+5-Second+Life+Expectancy. — From a Veteran’s forum about Radiomen survival. This does address the confusion around the 5-Second Life Expectancy idea.

[axolator]

Script-A-"Day" #36: Second Call for Nominations by Agenda

Watch where you're pointing your nomination fingers!

Featured characters: Town Crier, Zealot, Harpy

Jinxes:

Cannibal/Zealot: If the Cannibal gains the Butler ability, the Cannibal learns this.

You can fake this to a poisoned Cannibal, and you probably should if an evil bluffing Zealot gets executed.

Complexity: Advanced. Recommended for players comfortable with madness and who can adapt to an ever-changing nominations phase.

Database link (find the PDF and JSON for running it there!)

Writeup under the cut!

Second Call for Nominations is one of the winners of TPI's Zealot Script Competition. Focused on the nominations and voting phase, characters both good and evil will be trying to swing certain nominations and keep certain players safe. All 4 madness-related characters are on-script, influencing the pushes and votes that happen throughout, and the Demons are hyper-mobile thanks to the Lil' Monsta, Fang Gu, Plague Doctor, and Pit-Hag. To compensate, the good team has an S&V-like info suite in the Flowergirl, Town Crier, Dreamer, Oracle, Savant, and Philosopher, backfilled by experimental characters (and the Ravenkeeper).

When bagbuilding Second Call, try and figure out how much immediate misinformation the evil team has access to, and balance around it. The only sources of misinfo that can affect a character that acts N1 are the Philosopher, Widow, and Vortox - be careful about how many YSK roles you put in if none are in the bag! As a consequence, the Mathematician getting a 1+ on the first night is incredibly revealing, so be careful about that.

Some notes:

Be kind to the Knight. In a Lil' Monsta, Fang Gu, and/or Pit-Hag game, the Knight's info can instantly be made useless via the Demon changing hands. Consequently, avoid showing Minions in a LM game, and avoid putting Outsiders in the ping in a Fang Gu game. And if you're putting the Knight and Pit-Hag in the same bag... well, there's nothing you can do to make the information useful by the end of the game, so I'd avoid Knight + PH if possible.

In a Vortox game, the Knight starts knowing the Demon is one of their pings! Don't put Knight and Vortox with several characters who can quickly figure out the Vortox (like the Dreamer, Flowergirl, Town Crier, and Ravenkeeper), or the evil team might find themselves cornered!

Quick mathematician overview: remember a Math "ping" is a +1 to their number:

A player's ability malfunctioning due to drunkenness or poisoning pings the Math

A player's ability yielding false information due to the Vortox pings the Math (and remember the Math itself is affected!)

If the Pit-Hag causes arbitrary deaths & a Demon's kill is blocked this way, it pings the Math.

The Mathematician never tracks their own ability malfunctioning, so keep that in mind when creating a Vortoxed Math number.

Base script interaction, but remember how Flowergirl works with a mobile Demon (pertinent for Lil' Monsta): If the player who was the Demon at the time voted, it shows up as a YES (even if they stop being the Demon in the night!). Similarly, if someone who wasn't the Demon votes, then gets turned into the Demon, it still shows up as a NO, since they weren't the Demon at the time. Go with the reminder token! (And same for Town Crier.)

Both Lil' Monsta and Vortox can make a Flowergirl's info hard to parse. While I wouldn't never put the two together, consider how the lack of actionable Flowergirl information affects the strength of town when bagbuilding.

Give a killed Plague Doctor something to chew on. You could gain a doubled Pit-Hag ability and turn the perfectly-bluffing Savant into the Mutant, but that's neither fun nor balanced. When you can, gain a not-in-play Minion ability, and use it in a way that keeps the game fun and interesting while giving the PD something to chew on as they solve for which Minion ability they gave you.

Make sure you know how the implications of how a Fang Gu jump affects the Widow. The Widow ping must be on good players, so if the Widow ping recipient gets jumped and turned evil, another good player has to learn the call if the Widow lives.

Remember how to run a Pit-Hag creating a Lil' Monsta! Deaths are arbitrary, as with all Demon creations. The player targeted maintains their normal character and is babysitting Lil' Monsta (until the babysitting round later that night). The PH can kill the LM without killing the babysitter, if necessary to avoid having 2 living evil Demons.

Quick overview of Vortox interactions:

Steward: sees an evil player

Knight: sees the Demon & someone else as their pings

Pixie: sees an out-of-play Townsfolk, and their "Mad" reminder token is placed on an arbitrary character. If they were mad as the character they saw (not what character the token is on), they gain the Townsfolk ability they saw. (Maybe show a Demon bluff and put the token on an evil player!)

Savant: receives 2 false statements each day

Fisherman: receives advice that helps their team lose (maybe something that pushes the same worlds as evil players?)

Cannibal: The ability they recieve isn't altered (since that isn't info) but information gathered through it must be false.

That's about it from me! I've talked about how to run Harpy-madness in the past, and I've said my fair share on LM, so I'll just see you next week!

[pico-digital-studios]

Into, Across and Beyond! Scripting: Prime Encounter

This scene was co-written with @mcgamejolter. The scene is also based on this animation by DedGrafic.

During Cosmic Discoveries, OMT!Tails was thrown into the Prime Sonic universe by Lost Memory Sonic and knocked out from the impact. A few moments later, Sonic Prime/Modern Sonic showed up, seeing the alternate version of his best bud lying on the floor.

Modern Sonic: Huh? What's up with the blue shoes? Yo, Tails!

As he knelt down to have a closer look, another portal opened behind him, prompting him to leap out of the way as LM!Sonic showed up.

LM!Sonic: Urgh... You could've just stayed out of my business, Prower, and you managed to screw up even THAT.

He held OMT!Tails up by his ankle.

LM!Sonic: You should never have become the hero of your world. You're a mistake, child.

OMT!Tails (in a daze): Uh... Mom, I don't wanna go to school today... I've got a headache...

LM!Sonic: You're an abomination, a danger to others AND to yourself.

On cue, Sonic Prime sped right through him, moving OMT!Tails to a safe position before going back to confront his alternate self.

Sonic Prime: Hey, man. If you're part of Eggman's new army of creepy eyes, you'd better hit the hay if you know what's-!

LM!Sonic promptly bashed him out of the way.

LM!Sonic: SILENCE!

Once Sonic Prime impacted with a tree, his hands were quickly restrained via energy spheres.

LM!Sonic: To think you're the "Prime" version of myself. Disgusting... You once fragmented this reality, creating wars between dimensions and threatening thousands of lives. There's not much difference between you and this two-tailed freak; you're both ticking time bombs that could wreak havoc on reality.

Sonic Prime: Oh, brother. I found someone even grumpier than Shadow. Hey, what's up with you beefing about the whole Shatterverse incident that happened a while ago?!

Shadow Prime arrived on the scene.

Shadow Prime: Well, to be fair, he's right.

Sonic Prime: Hey, wow!

Shadow Prime (to LM!Sonic): However, that still doesn't justify why you've come here. So I suggest you leave now!

LM!Sonic glared at Shadow Prime hatefully, seeing ANY Shadow being his big berserk button.

LM!Sonic: Get out of my way! That sorry excuse of a sidekick is coming with me!

Shadow Prime: So it's the kid you want, huh?

Sonic Prime: Hey, now. I don't want another Nine situation, so I hope you're not thinking about giving Tails to red eyes over there-!

Right then and there, Shadow Prime charged at LM!Sonic as they engaged in combat.

Sonic Prime (genuinely surprised): Huh. I'm... I'm actually surprised.

As the fight went on, OMT!Tails wearily woke up, noticing Sonic Prime restrained.

OMT!Tails: Oh? Hang on! I'll get you down from there.

He disabled the spheres, letting Sonic come back down to terra-firma.

Sonic Prime: Thanks, dude! So... alternate universes... Tell me about it.

OMT!Tails: You know, I remember seeing you a few months back. Weren't you being chased by that robot that wanted the Paradox Prism?

Sonic Prime: Metal X? Yeah, that would be me.

OMT!Tails gasped in awe, his thoughts ultimately confirmed.

OMT!Tails: So you ARE Prime Sonic!

Sonic Prime: The one and only! Fastest thing alive with no-one to serve except the wind that flows free! What more can I ask for than the freedom to go wherever I want! Well... Except, it's clean-up duty again. Someone's gotta fix the mess Baldy McNosehair did.

OMT!Tails: Heh, figures. So, will Shadow be alright trying to fight off that psychopath on his own?

Sonic Prime: Shadow? Oh, please! He's fought a giant lizard and an alien god trying to destroy humanity. What else could some edgy-looking version of myself possibly do?

OMT!Tails: I mean, there's all sorts of variations of you out there, several of which have got this huge Society aiming to keep the wider multiverse safe!

Sonic Prime: So I've heard. I gotta admit, it's really weird seeing hedgehogs that look like me but with different-coloured fur across those multiversal stretches. Speaking of that... is it me, or was that a version of Nine I saw the other day?

OMT!Tails: It sure was!

Sonic Prime: So, where do you plan to go from here? Besides obviously running from that psycho.

OMT!Tails: Well, I've still got some more work to be doing with my own multiversal team once I get moving again.

On cue, LM!Sonic was kicked close to the two.

LM!Sonic: H-How is he so strong...?! This isn't fair! He should've fallen by now!

And fittingly, Shadow Prime kicked him right in the face.

Shadow Prime: Leave now, freak, unless you want me to kick your ass a second time.

Sonic Prime: (to Shadow) Nice work, Shadow! (to OMT!Tails) See? Told ya he could beat him no problem!

OMT!Tails: Heh, sweet!

LM!Sonic got up, frustrated.

LM!Sonic: You weren't even giving it your all! Urgh, Maria would be so ashamed of-.

OMT!Tails: Woah woah woah WOAH! Haven't you even researched the golden rule related to Shadows?

LM!Sonic: Enlighten me, "genius".

OMT!Tails: Do. NOT. Mention. Maria. Out loud. When Shadow is in proximity!

Shadow Prime cracked his knuckles, not at all chuffed with this version of Sonic speaking foul of Maria.

Shadow Prime: So unless you're looking for a death wish, leave our world... and never come back!

LM!Sonic: Fine, then! (to OMT!Tails) But this isn't over, fox! I'll get you yet!

LM!Sonic made his retreat through another portal.

Sonic Prime: Aaaand we'll never see him again.

Shadow Prime: You'd better get back to wherever you came from, Tails. We're not looking to get involved in whatever situation this is.

OMT!Tails: Yeah, that's a good call.

OMT!Tails prepared to leave.

OMT!Tails: Oh, yeah. Before I go, if it at least helps you feel a little better, Shadow, there's always at least one universe where she's alright. Well, see you both around!

OMT!Tails left, Shadow Prime being left to process Tails's words.

Shadow Prime: You know... I prefer him over Nine any day.

Sonic Prime: Oh, come on! Nine wasn't that bad either!

The two began running off.

Shadow Prime: Yeah, but at least this Tails didn't try to kill us.

Sonic Prime: Uuurgh! You're never gonna live that down, are you?

Shadow Prime: Nope.

Sonic Prime: You know what? I shouldn't have asked.

[catastrfy]

i wrote this in April 2019 and want to share it here

Autism Acceptance Month 2019 Day 10

Book Characters Who I've Identified With and/or Who Ping Me As Autistic

I've been wanting to do this as a counter to the Bewareness idea of OMGEPIDEMIC for a while, because good grief, people who seem to be autistic (at least to me) have been in books for well over a hundred years!

Beth in Little Women: too shy for school or socialising, preferred to be home with her family, including her kittens. (I have always always loathed Marmee for forever for intentionally letting Beth's Pip die. alsolutely despise her.) Beth's slow decline after her scarlet fever was very easy to identify with; my undxed back then eds/pots/mcas meant I was always a sickly, weak child.

Autistic (to me) characters are ALL OVER in the Agatha Christie books (and her autobiography makes me wonder if she was herself).

Mr Goby always addresses inanimate objects instead of the person he's talking to.

Miss Lemon loves organising, wishes to create the world's first perfect filing system, and isn't social.

Poirot has his passion for symmetry and tidiness, no hesitation about ignoring social conventions.

Ariadne Oliver uses scripting to deal with fans, ignores social conventions, feels awkward a lot, and ... I'm not even sure what else, but she is my favourite of all the characters and pings me *really* hard.

Megan Hunter in Christie's "The Moving Finger" is described as much younger than her age, clumsy, doesn't understand why people care what she wears or why it's important (I identified hard with her when i was in my teens/early 20s)

In at least one of the Christie books, a character remarks to another character that every family has someone odd in it, whether it's that they're slow or brilliant. Every. Family.

In LM Mongomery's Jane of Lantern Hill, Millicent Mary Snowbeam is 6, doesn't talk, and is considered by others to be "not all there". In Magic for Marigold, the elderly Derusha siblings Abel and Tabby: Abel is called "cracked" for not being conventional, and Tabby is called "not all there".

Zenna Henderson's People stories: Bethie in Gilead is an untrained Sensitive who is overwhelmed by the sensory stuff from other people and can't handle school. "She tried school at first, but skinned knees and rough rassling and aching teeth and bumped heads and the janitor's Monday hangover sent her home exhausted and shaking the first day, with hysteria hanging on the flick of an eyelash." -- that hysteria hanging on the flick of an eyelash was ME so much in school!

In "Wilderness" there's Lucine, "my 12 year old first grader". She's filled with rage over the bullying and abuse she gets for being slow and different. She erupts when it gets to be too much and is treated like a dangerous animal after she injures one of the bullies.

(I also like the reference to synesthesia in one of the bridging bits in "Pilgrimage" that ties the stories together: the fruit koomatkas are described as tasting like music sounds.

These are all stories that predate "autism" as a diagnosis.

But we were there. From those of us with low support needs to those of us with complex support needs.

If you're Autistic, what book characters have pinged you or have you identified with?

~Autisticat

(ps: yes, mine are mostly older books cause I am mostly older *grin* *skitters off, stage left!*)