#no one exists in a vacuum and no one has to face the world alone

[jayswing101]

Y'all. I have just finished reading one of the most incredible fics I've ever read in my life. It was so good and hopeful and moving and thoughtful and I just. I don't know really how to describe it, or explain how I felt while reading it or how I feel now after having finished it, except to say that the world feels a little less grey, a little less lonely, and a little more hopeful.

The fic is a Guardian fic, and it's the story of Shen Wei's life told from the perspective of people who have helped him along the way. It's in seven parts, from the perspectives of seven different characters, and the whole thing is written from the pov of those characters looking in on what parts of Shen Wei's life they can see.

It's set in drama-verse and does follow the canon ending of things, but just like how the drama ends with that hopeful little promise to meet again, this fic also ends on a note of hope, even after everything that happens.

And it is told from the pov of several OC's which I know isn't everyone's cup of tea, it usually isn't mine either, but it's done so well and with so much care, that it genuinely feels like those characters were there all along, that they were always meant to be there, and the author integrates them so well that you can see how those characters could've influenced Shen Wei. Like, they weren't present in the show, their names aren't mentioned anywhere in the wiki page, but you can still somehow see where their hands have guided and supported and healed Shen Wei.

The fic is 68,662 words long, split over seven chapters, each chapter being a different part of Shen Wei's history and told through the perspective of a different character. The author is good at providing specific warnings before the start of each chapter, but please check the tags and archive warnings as well and keep yourself safe!!

Anyways, 100/10 would recommend!! Genuinely one of the best fics I've ever read, and also one of the best stories (or rather, collections of stories) I've ever read too. I will be thinking about it for days and weeks to come, and will be reading it again.

Title: a hand within a hand (holding light)

Author: @forerussake

Summary: Shen Wei doesn’t remember the face of every single person who’s ever helped him. He tries. He really does. Shen Wei tries to remember, but he doesn’t always manage. Perhaps it’s cowardice, or perhaps it’s his mind’s own way of trying to protect him. There are only so many memories a mind can store before it starts to fray around the edges after all. So he remembers the truly important faces. He dreams of them sometimes – Fu You, Ma Gui, Kunlun, not his own parents though, somehow never his parents – and others have faded away with time.

No, Shen Wei does not remember the names and faces of every single person who’s ever helped him, but he remembers some, and they remember him in turn.

or, a catalogue of unassuming strangers and their stories of helping Shen Wei.

[posletsvet]

Death Is a Mirror, or How Death Is Linked to the Sense of Self in Jujutsu Kaisen

Death is a fulcrum of Jujutsu Kaisen's message, a major point of reference for both the audience and the characters within the story. Death is a mirror that catches and reflects the last light of a life reaching its end, a moment of full disclosure that overcomes all distances and renders all defenses permeable. Death is a mirror as it asks one question: who are we when there's no more need to lie?

The thread that binds together all major characters' deaths in Jujutsu Kaisen is how, despite multiple characters trying in an unreliable-narrator-sort of fashion to convince us otherwise, no one's truly alone in death. The connections that people forge with others throughout their lives become their tethers to the world -- and then reach even further, transcending death itself. This is how humans, using Jogo's words, can still linger after they die: through the loving memory of those they held dear.

No human exists in a vacuum. We live in the context of our relationships with the world, of getting to know and getting to be known in return. Our lives, in a sense, are a dialogue -- that's why we give and are given names. We shape the images of ourselves through establishing connections with others; our self-recognition and sense of self come from recognizing those connections. Once again, we learn the outllines of our souls by bumping into others.

These two concepts, recollecting your 'tethers' before death and acquiring self-reflection in others, are consistently brought together in the story. Before everything else, it's reflected in Yuuji's (who the story's focal point as its protagonist) idea of a meaningful death, one gone surrounded by those you love. Nobara, who possesses arguably the strongest sense of self with her loud proclamation 'I'm Nobara Kugisaki!' and who's highly conscious about her relationships with other people. Megumi, whose overarching struggle for self-determination has him relying on others to define his own worth and leaves him passively suicidal. Toji, who in his last moments thinks about his family and understands that by leaving them behind he deviated from his true self. Nanami, whose fading mind conjures the image of his closest friend and who, guided by that, chooses to go south and stay true to himself. Kokichi is yet another example, and actually quite an interesting one. His character is explored primarily through the juxtaposition between the concept of 'the body within the world' and his forced isolation, but who still contextualizes the world through his connections with his friends. It's no coincidence that Kokichi's character arc is closely linked to Mahito, who is dubbed a mirror of death.

In short, there's a plethora of instances where death and one's sense of self are tied to one another like that. I'll ramble a bit about how this correlation is discovered in both Gojo and Geto's characters below the cut.

The lack of self

Gojo is somebody who's essentially lacking both connections to others and a sense of self-identity. His entire personality is shaped around the notion that he's The Strongest, the very thing which prevents him, even if in his own mind, from building meaningful relationships with the people around him.

Not having to challenge or change his self-image, Gojo has little to no recognition of himself as a person outside of his title. He has never faced a need to discover himself in relation to the world; he was given a foundation to construct his identity on upon birth. Did he really need to grow past that and redefine himself? Satoru lacks self-reflection -- most literally.

With Gojo's face obscured by the gaping void, we do not get to see his reflection. I'd say it's quite an apt visualization of Gojo's identity crisis. Who are you if not The Strongest? As Gojo's position is challenged with his Infinity suddenly overcome, this question is forced onto him.

But as he's spent over a decade trying to escape answering it, he never got a chance to acquire a definitive answer. So now, in Shibuya, he flees from it once more.

It's painfully ironic and at the same time fully logical that it is Geto who exposes this issue to Satoru as Gojo's sense of self is arguably connected to him more than anyone else. During their student years Suguru was the one who persistently rejected treating Gojo as a title and not a person, who looked through decorum and actively chose to see him not as Gojo Satoru, The Strongest but rather as Gojo Satoru, a teenage boy. For Gojo, it was through Geto recognizing him as a person that he was able to reach that recognition, too.

But after Toji Gojo is forced to seek self-affirmation and validate his ego by reclaiming his position, which was threatened by him losing to somebody for the first time. He tries to reinforce his self-image by separating himself from the world, which ultimately leads not only to his now automatic Infinity rendering him unreachable (= disconnected), but also to a loss of his sense of self as he loses his one and only connection.

As I've already said, with the Prison Realm breaching the defenses of Gojo's technique, this issue, his lack of a firm sense of identity beyond his title, is exposed to him once more. It's reflected in the way Satoru places his priorities post-unsealing. He fights Sukuna with seemingly a single purpose of cementing his position as the strongest sorcerer alive and thus regaining his uderstanding of who he is. The answer to this question has never lain in the plane of strength alone, though, and that is why Satoru fails utterly.

But in death, as the relevance of his Infinity is eliminated, Gojo is finally able to reconnect with his sense of self. He's reverted to his teenage self, to the time he could still relate to somebody on a personal level and get stronger for it. The entirety of the 236 chapter, in a sense, is written as an affirmative: he is The Strongest because he is Satoru Gojo, not the opposite, but it's his death which makes him finally recognize this.

The deviation from self

Now, this image could not be intended as a visual parallel to Gojo's reflection, or lack of thereof, in the Prison Realm's eye. Nonetheless seeing that scene in Shibuya animated immediately reminded me of it, and I think there potentially might be some thematic similarities between the two as well.

Talking about how our identities are defined by our connections to other people as much as our relationship with ourselves, it'd be only logical to assume that Geto should have a firm grasp on who he is. Not only is he a deeply self-reflective character, but also one who actively relates to others.

However, Geto's reflection in Gojo's eyes is unclear and uncertain, almost indistinguishable. It might be a neat way to convey how, finally taking a moment to look at his best friend for the first time since SPVI, Gojo doesn't really recognize him for how much he's changed. But it also could hint at how Geto, driven to the point where he bends and warps his beliefs to justify his actions, also bends and warps his sense of self.

At least how I see it, the image above calls to mind this panel:

The moment Geto tells Satoru he's decided on 'his true feelings' which would define him as a person. Isn't it ironic how in the exact same conversation he talks about how the goal he's settled upon is only possible for Gojo, meaning striving to achieve it would be akin to trying to become someone he's not? The light novel outright tells us as much:

This was the final confession of a man who could only choose to warp himself, who had erased himself in pursuit of his goals. The only person who could bear such a curse was Gojo Satoru.

In this light it's interesting how Gojo's struggle with his sense of self makes itself known through something which threatens his position as The Strongest, whereas Geto's is reflected in the eyes of someone to whom he refers while saying 'If I could become you...', deviating from himself.

A major factor of overcoming trauma is embracing the inadequacy of what happened. So, to a certain extent, by becoming an enemy to the system Suguru wants to prove the world of jujutsu sorcerers wrong and himself -- right. It once again reminds me of Toji's dying thoughts.

The flip side of 'deciding on your true feelings' is ultimately anchoring your entire identity to what is just a single aspect of it. People exist in motion, and our personalities are in actuality as dynamic and complex as our relationships. But Geto bound his self-definition to what was rather simply a reactive feeling, so in the end he inevitably failed to live up to it.

And once again, it's exposed at the moment of Suguru's death. In his case, though, this failure is also what leads to his defeat and consequent death in the first place. I also find it curious how Geto's face is the first thing Gojo sees in the afterlife, while Gojo's face is the last thing Geto sees and acknowledges in his life. And just like Gojo, in his last moments Suguru reminisces about their shared past.

The image almost mirrors what we saw in the chapter 236, suggesting how Geto's true self is in turn tied to Satoru. Despite how vague and uncertain their relationship's come to be, the two are rendered inseperable even in death -- or rather, in death especially.

[yellow-yarrow]

did you know that the Insulandian Phasmid quotes from the bible? I got curious if looking at the context of the bible quote would add anything to the interpretation of this scene, and maybe there are some parallels. Meeting the phasmid is like a revelation, just like how in that part of the bible god talks to Isaiah. (I can't belive im reading the bible out of all things for a video game lmao. god damn it.) yeah yeah maybe it's not supposed to mean anything other than the phasmid loves this world but it can be fun to look into it. maybe it is that deep

think of this as more of a web weaving post

You - I exist too. Insulindian Phasmid - Tell me what it's like for you. You - It's *wunderbar*. Insulindian Phasmid - Yes, holy is the lord of hosts. And all the Earth is filled with his glory.

Isaiah 6 BSB

In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord seated on a throne, high and exalted; and the train of His robea filled the temple.

Encyclopedia - (..)An Innocence is a continuous, compressed event, a sacred human being. It is an honour and a glory to live when one is in office. You - Is one in office now? Encyclopedia - No. We are alone.

Insulindian Phasmid - You are a violent and irrepressible miracle. The vacuum of cosmos and the stars burning in it are afraid of you. Given enough time you would wipe us all out and replace us with nothing -- just by accident. (...) You - Have I always thought this way? Insulindian Phasmid - No -- you're only thinking it *now*. This is a revelation.

Above Him stood seraphim, each having six wings: With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they were flying. And they were calling out to one another: “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of Hosts; all the earth is full of His glory.” At the sound of their voices the doorposts and thresholds shook, and the temple was filled with smoke.

In Hebrew, the word saraph means "burning"

Insulindian Phasmid - Tell me what it's like for you. You - Fire, burning.

Insulindian Phasmid - You were right. Little bubbles form on the mouthparts of the creature -- on its segmented lower lip. It looks to be foaming, slowly. The foam is white, then yellowish... Perception (Smell) - The faintest smell, like you've never felt before. Like burnt roses.

Insulindian Phasmid - The foam slowly turns a darker shade, like burnt caramel -- as the insect moves its mouthparts, masticating. The little bubbles begin to burst, one by one... Perception (Smell) - Letting out that same smell, like summer burning.

Then I said: “Woe is me, for I am ruined, because I am a man of unclean lips dwelling among a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of Hosts.” (..)

The Deserter - "I've seen the *real world*. In '06. The flags unfolding. Young people marching, being kind to each other. They dreamt of a million years in the stars. This here..." He looks down at the ashes. "Is pale in waiting."

The Deserter - "Straight to Yekokataa for this old revisionist." He gives you a little nod. "At last -- atonement for my sins: revisionism, reactionary ideation, desertion..."

The Deserter - "The material base for an uprising has eroded." He nods and blinks his black eyes. "The working class has betrayed mankind and themselves..."

(? maybe? idk.)

Then one of the seraphim flew to me, and in his hand was a glowing coal that he had taken with tongs from the altar. And with it he touched my mouth and said: “Now that this has touched your lips, your iniquity is removed and your sin is atoned for.”

maybe this one is a stretch (like the others too lol)

You - Lick your finger. Interfacing - It tastes like... sugar. Very faint. The arthropod towers above you, tufts of reeds pointing from limb and head alike. Perception (Taste) - Odourless, mostly comprised of water.

Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying: “Whom shall I send? Who will go for Us?” And I said: “Here am I. Send me!” And He replied: “Go and tell this people, ‘Be ever hearing, but never understanding; be ever seeing, but never perceiving.’ Make the hearts of this people calloused; deafen their ears and close their eyes. Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts, and turn and be healed.” Then I asked: “How long, O Lord?” And He replied: “Until the cities lie ruined and without inhabitant, until the houses are left unoccupied and the land is desolate and ravaged, until the LORD has driven men far away and the land is utterly forsaken. And though a tenth remains in the land, it will be burned again. As the terebinth and oak leave stumps when felled, so the holy seed will be a stump in the land.”

Insulindian Phasmid - Everything your eyes touch goes back there -- behind the nerve mirror. What if you blink? Are we still here? (Please don't blink). What if you misplace us all one day -- or just forget? You - Have I always thought this way? Insulindian Phasmid - No -- you're only thinking it *now*. This is a revelation. You - This is the Gloaming I've been waiting for. Ever since I woke up in the hotel room.

Man with Sunglasses - "About *what?* You don't look like a cop..." He inspects you. "You know what you look like?" You - "Like a prophet?" Man with Sunglasses - "Not the prophet shit again..." He looks away.

Evrart Claire - "It says..." He looks in the folder. "Oh yes... very interesting. It says you're more like a mad prophet than a cop. Always rambling about the end of the world... I'm sure these stories are exaggerated."

Cop of the apocalypse (early version from the game files):

or perhaps

Rhetoric - You -- against the atom, the charm and the spin. Where the whole world failed -- matter failed to bend to human will; human will failed to get out of bed and tie its laces -- you alone, single-handedly, will rebuild the dreams of the working class. You are The Last Communist.

well regardless, the quote is another instance of christian symbolism in elysium

[cabotwife]

(ii) Kill or Be Killed

series master list, (i),

Finnick Odair x sister reader x brother Percy Jackson, Annie Cresta x sister reader

chapter warnings: not proofread, descriptions of violence, blood, stabbing, bad cliche ig..

word count: 3009

❧ summary: nothing could prepare you for the tortures of the arena.

✮

the room is so silent and still, it's as if the world has paused around you. the young girls around you, sensing the tension and the impending doom, move away from you, creating a vacuum.

you look around, your eyes welling up with tears as two stern peacekeepers push you towards the stage with an unnecessary force.

"don’t be shy dear, come on,” the tall woman chuckles, but her laughter only echoes emptiness and insensitivity.

her words make you feel sick. they are an unpleasant reminder that this is all just a big, twisted game for the people of the Capitol, a sickening spectacle of their power and cruelty.

you stand stiffly on the stage next to her, staring out at the sea of people, their faces a mix of fear, sorrow, and resignation.

the woman, oblivious to your discomfort, smiles at you, her hand rests lightly on your shoulder before pulling it back to pull the name of the male tribute.

your eyes lock with Percy’s and you can tell he’s fighting back tears, struggling to hold onto his composure.

your throat feels dry as you glance at the woman next to you, praying to every deity in existence that she doesn’t read your brother’s name.

“Brooks Royle!” she calls in a singsong tone, her voice echoing through the square and bouncing off the silent buildings.

you let out a shaky breath, your watery eyes frantically scanning the crowd to find the boy. Your heart sinks to your stomach when your eyes land on a small, scruffy-looking 12-year-old. he looks so tiny, so out of place in this scene of horror.

you watch as he's brought to the stage, a permanent frown playing on your lips. you feel a sense of foreboding, a dread that is hard to shake off.

once the boy is on the stage, standing on the opposite side of the woman than you are, the woman places her hands on both of your backs as she talks to the crowd.

your eyes soon find Finnick’s, despite the situation, he's trying to remain stoic so he can comfort Annie. your eyes then fall from those of your older brother to the crumpled mess of his girlfriend.

you squint your eyes slightly as you stare at her and the tears form in your eyes again, threatening to spill over, but they never do. they remain a silent testament to your fear, your despair.

you gnaw lightly on your bottom lip, a silent thought running through your head, she shouldn’t have worn that sweater. you try to convince yourself that this is the reason the redheaded woman was sobbing against your brother. now she has to stay out here longer.. she’ll overheat.

your thoughts are interrupted when you feel yourself being dragged off the stage and into a room.

“Y/N!” you hear your name being screamed, the voice echoing in your head. but before you can look behind you, the door slams shut. and before you know it, you're in a room, all alone.

you stare at the door, trying to wrap your head around everything. it feels like a nightmare, one you desperately want to wake up from.

after a few minutes, Annie pushes into the room, her face pale and red all at once. Finnick and Percy follow her in, their faces mirroring her despair.

“oh, y/n.” Annie cries, her voice choked with emotion as she crashes into you, pulling you into her arms, “oh my sweet girl.”

you swallow hard, biting back the urge to cry. you have to stay strong for them.

the redhead pulls back, cupping your cheek as she stares down at you. her cheeks are soaked with tears and her eyes are so red they're nearly bloodshot.

you fight harder to keep the tears at bay, your bottom lip trembling as you stare up at the woman who has been like a mother to you since your own had passed.

Percy and Finnick stay silent, just watching. but the younger of the two is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, itching to get a word in before they’re dragged out.

you’ve all done this before, twice. once for Finnick and once for Annie. this isn't new, but it's still terrifying.

Percy is staring at his hands that hang down by his side, he’s counting how much time remains. time, it seems, is running out.

Annie pulls you into another hug, looser this time, and she rests her chin on the top of your head. “it’s okay to cry, y/n, i know you’re afraid. it’s okay.” she whispers through a shaky breath. her words are meant to comfort you, but they only serve as a reminder of the hopelessness of your situation.

you swallow once more, shoving the tears down. “i’m fine,” you respond, your voice low. you pull back from the redhead. you smile up at her, then you turn to look at your brothers, “i’m fine. everything is okay," you reassure them, but your words ring hollow, even to your own ears.

Percy’s watering eyes meet yours and you frown at him. you pull back completely from Annie, letting your entire body face the shorter boy. you open your arms, inviting him forward.

the blonde wastes no time, quickly rushing forward into your arms. you immediately wrap your arms around him in response, “oh, Perce..” you whisper, pressing your nose into his hair as you two hug tightly, holding onto each other as if you’ll never see each other again.

because you might not.

“i love you, okay?” you whisper against his blonde curls, “i love you so much,” you mutter. your words are desperate, pleading almost. you need him to be strong, to be brave.

Percy nods against your shirt and you can feel his tears soaking the cloth. his silent tears are more powerful than any words he could ever say.

you look to Finnick, his eyes are teary and his cheeks are wet. you’ve never seen your older brother cry. he didn’t cry when he got reaped, he didn’t cry when mom and dad died, and he didn’t even cry when Annie got reaped.

the sight is new for you, and it makes a wave of nausea hit you. it's a stark reminder of the reality of your situation.

you know you don’t have to bid the older blonde farewell, seeing as he has to come with you, to mentor you and young Brooks. still, though, you nod your head at him, motioning him closer.

the tall boy hesitates for a moment before he rushes over to take you and Percy into his arms. Annie joins shortly after.

you can’t find it in you to enjoy the hug, though it does bring a sense of comfort. it's a small respite in the midst of chaos.

but soon, that comfort is torn away. two tall peacekeepers barge into the room to take you to the train.

one of them escorts Annie and Percy out of the room. Percy tries to fight but its of no use, the door is slammed behind them.

leaving you, Finnick, and the other peacekeeper in the room. the room is suddenly too big, too empty. and you're left alone once again, to face the reality of your grim fate.

⚘

the journey to the Capitol was surprisingly silent, broken only by the soothing tones of Finnick as he tried to comfort young, weeping, Brooks Royle. your older brother's indifference towards your presence was an unexpected sting.

he acted as if you were a ghost, an invisible entity.

Mags was seated nearby, her gaze lost in the distance. she seemed to be consumed by her own thoughts, perhaps reliving past horrors or contemplating the grim future.

the thought of her and Finnick, burdened with the responsibility of mentoring young children destined to die, filled you with a sense of dread.

your eyes met those of a tall blonde. you offered him a gentle, comforting smile - a feeble attempt to lighten the heaviness that hung in the air. but he merely averted his gaze. disheartened, you returned to your aimless gazing of the passing landscape through the window of the speeding train.

⚘

upon arrival, you were immediately whisked away for bathing and dressing. before you knew it, you found yourself adorned in a rather elegant dress of blue and white ripples, embellished with countless pearls. pearls were everywhere - stitched into the fabric of your dress, draped around your neck, and woven into your hair.

Brooks' attire was a reflection of yours, a ruffled tuxedo in varying shades of blue. you suppressed an eye roll at the sight of the young boy covered in pearls.

assisting Brooks, you both mounted your chariot, your arm on his back to steady him. chariots were not designed for comfort or safety; they were built for speed.

everything happened so fast. before you knew it, the introductions were over and you were reunited with Finnick and Mags, who escorted you to your suite.

tomorrow training begins.

⚘

the next few days were filled with anxiety and tension. Finnick's obvious avoidance of you only added to your unease. he focused his attention on Brooks or frequently disappeared with the district seven girl he was odd friends with, Johanna Mason.

Johanna was intriguing, though you had never really spoken to her.

Johanna was pretty, you guess, far prettier than many other members of her district.

your skill demonstration earned you a score of 8, which only proved to upset Finnick. when you tried to approach him, he stormed off before he could witness Brooks' score of 6. you comforted the young boy with a hug and words of encouragement, you told him you were proud of him.

⚘

"stay diligent. expect the unexpected. you're never safe, not in that arena, always keep your guard up," Finnick warned, his words tumbling out in a rush as you prepared for the arena. he cupped your cheeks and planted a dry kiss on your forehead, "stay safe, little sister."

you hugged him quickly before entering your tube. tilting your head, a small smile played on your lips. "i love you," you say quietly just before the tube closed and propelled you into the arena.

the bright light was blinding as you emerged onto the podium for district four. your gaze was drawn to the cornucopia, but before you could take in your surroundings, a loud explosion startled you.

a competitor from district ten had stepped off their podium early. that's when you noticed the entire ground was covered in sand.

your head whipped around, a hot, dry desert extended in all directions.

fuck.

soon a blaring gunshot sounds through the arena and at least 17 tributes ran towards the center.

you knew better though, you hopped off your stand and hightail it towards one of the nearby sand dunes.

this arena is godawful, nowhere to hide.

that’s probably what they wanted.. a quick game.

it’s doubtful it’ll last even a few days, not like the other games.

you’re not even running for two minutes before you get tackled, the two bodies rolling down the opposite side of the dune, wrestling the entire time.

once you stop rolling you shove the body away from you, scrambling to get to your feet.

when you look to the form, now pushing themselves to their feet, you see a tall, dark haired boy who you recognized from the training room.

he’s from district two. he’s a career.

you have to act fast, he probably has a weapon while you have nothing.

you see him reaching towards his thigh.

act fast

you hurriedly kick a foot-full of sand towards the tall boy’s face, inwardly cringing as he falls backwards with grains of sand caked in his eyes.

you rush to him, grabbing a silver dagger from his pocket before standing over him.

kill or be killed. you remind yourself.

you then plunge the sharp blade into the boy’s chest, swallowing harshly to ward off the nausea at the sickening crack and pop you hear. the sound is quickly followed by a bubble of blood forming in the career’s mouth before popping all over your forearms.

you rip the knife out of him, wiping the blood on his shirt before you run, trying to get as far away from the remaining tributes as you can.

and trying to push what had just happened out of your mind.

kill or be killed.

you run as fast and as far as you can, your feet sink into the fine sand with every step but you pay it no mind. all your thoughts are on surviving.

the sun sets quickly and soon the blazing hot desert is turning into a freezing cold tundra, caked in snow.

you sleep through the night, sending a silent prayer to any gods listening to keep you safe and from freezing to death.

you know your prayers were answered when you wake up the next morning to three canons going off in the distance.

you try to count in your head as you push yourself up from the moist sand. between 15 and 17 deaths.. you don’t know for sure. but that would leave somewhere around 9 and 7 tributes left.

honestly, the numbers confused you.

24 kids were unleashed into a barren desert and told to fight to win. there is nothing around, nowhere to hide.

how is anybody still alive?

you scale the sand dune you had been sleeping at the base of, kicking sand out behind you as you climb.

once you reach the top the first thing you notice is the remaining tributes had made teams. two teams of 4 to be exact.

once team of the remaining careers, and the other of two tall but scrawny boys, a mid-sized dark haired girl, and young Brooks Royle.

you feel unreasonably relieved when you notice your district-mate still standing, and seemingly better off than you.

Finnick’s training paid off, you think to yourself.

that thought brings a new feeling to your chest. you miss your brother, your brothers, and you miss Annie too.

you miss district four, the beaches and the fish, the warm salty air and the feeling of the sun kissing your face.

if you were to make it out of this arena, you don’t think you could ever see the sandy beaches in the same rosy light you always had before.

that day passes rather slowly, you keep your distance from the two teams who have seemingly forgotten about your existence, targeting only each other.

by the time the sand turns to snow, 3 more deaths raked through the arena. one career and two from Brooks’ side.

his chances are slimming and you find yourself worrying for the boy.

this night was colder than the last, making you unable to sleep.

so you stay awake, plotting.

both teams are asleep just a while past your dune, you could leave then to kill each other off and fight whoever is left standing.

or you could sneak down there now, in the dead of night, and put an end to this all.

you decide against the latter, still feeling sickened by your first kill.

kill or be killed, you chastise yourself mentally, swallowing harshly.

you settle in your, for now, snowy bank. closing your eyes and trying to get some sleep before the blazing morning comes.

your awoken again by a canon firing, and just like yesterday, you scale the sandy dune to see who has died this time. before you get to the top you hear another canon.

you peer over the top, expecting to see Brooks and his remaining teammate, a tall scrawny blonde boy you recognize as district twelve, laying dead on the scolding sand. but instead you see two dead careers, stabbed to death in their sleep it looks like.

the district twelve boy is fighting the remaining career while brooks is hidden by the cornucopia.

you furrow your eyebrows as you watch this play out.

you swallow down the large, dry lump in your throat at you hear the third canon fire.

the final career is dead. beaten by a outer-district boy.

your eyes land on where Brooks is hidden, now realizing the gravity of his situation. he is now being hunted by the bloodthirsty blonde boy who is at at least five years older than him.

you fumble around with the silver dagger in your hands and before you know it you’re clumsily running down the dune, towards the cornucopia. towards young, terrified Brooks Royle.

as you get closer you can hear the clashing of metal on metal, it sounds like an old-timey sword fight.

the loud sound of a canon firing echos through the air.

“NO!” you scream, your voice raspy and shaky.

you continue to run, your voice shocking the, much taller than you, boy and causing him to spin around to face you.

he’s holding a long, metal sword.

you plunge your dagger into his gut, causing him to stumble back while he swings his sword at you.

you kick sand at him, trying to repeat what you did to the district two boy only two days earlier.

it works the same, sand caking in his eyes, causing him to fall back, rubbing his eyes almost violently.

you stand over him, hands shaking as you hold your dagger.

you close your eyes tightly before you raise your arms above your head and quickly thrust the blade down into the center of the boy’s chest.

you hear the same sickening crack and pop, followed promptly by an echo of a canon booming.

you stand there, eyes squeezed shut and your hands covered in the blood of the boy underneath you.

when the distant victory music begins blaring through the arena you collapse onto your knees beside the lifeless body.

you let out a shaky sob as you bury your face in your arms, your forehead pressed against the warm sand.

-

[(taglist) : @yourfavmiki @poppyalice2001 @importantpotato @lisedanie @babyzzlove @yhaywhwvsh @sleighingstella @kendaltip190-blog @gianni7867 @urbisexualfriend @comets-tail2 @sh1nnryuu @randomgurl2326 @incorrect-sherlock @kenzieisgone @leathesimp @tacomumun3r @chanelmelon ] (lmk if i missed a tag / if u wanna be tagged.)

[saint-oleander]

The English title of “Questo mondo non mi renderà cattivo” misunderstands fundamentally the core theme of the series.

There, I said it.

Now a step back.

Italian comic book author Zerocalcare’s second series after “Strappare lungo i bordi” ( “Tear along the dotted line” ) is now streaming on netflix and, while I can’t swear by the translation for I haven’t seen it in English, you should go watch it.

Both of the series are funny and heartbreaking in equal measure, and exist as tales from Zerocalcare’s life as a jumping point to explore more existential topics.

Now, if you haven’t seen them yet, go and do so for spoilers await you under the cut.

The English title netlix chose for the series is “This world can’t tear me down”.

I get that they wanted to draw a connection to the first series (Tear along the dotted line), but the choice is so fundamentally at odds with the message of the series that I’m going to scream into the void about it.

See, a way more actual translation of the title could be “This world won’t make me cruel”.

You’re going to ask yourself how nitpicky can I possibly be. They are close enough, aren’t they? WRONG. And the problem is optimism.

If you’ve seen the series you’ll know that the setting is this: an old friend of Zero comes back after twenty years in rehab. Zero is forced to try and re-acquaint Cesare to the world despite his (perceived) inadequacy. Meanwhile, a neonazi movement is pushing to get a recently opened refugee center closed, and Zero is shocked when he discovers that Cesare has fallen with that crowd.

Sure of the fact that they preyed on his alienation after his many years in rehab, Zero confronts Cesare, who tells him that since he has it all (especially a job) Zero has no right to tell him how he should behave in his desperate situation.

And Zero does believe him, and becomes doubtful of his right to point out what someone in a worse situation should do.

If the point were about resisting in the face of an evil world then the title would fit. But it’s not.

The point, the actual point, is that in the face of evil we don’t have to become evil too. That no one has a monopoly on what’s right and wrong. That the line we must draw is that even in the face of hardship is that we don’t get to kick down who has it worse than us, just to stand a little bit taller than someone.

That’s why “this world won’t make [us] cruel”. It’s not because we are in a righteous fight, withstanding the elements. It’s because we must have a last shred of dignity and courage, to help who has it worse. It won’t be an easy fight, and perhaps not even a successful one.

To believe that the world won’t tear us down is irrealistic, and far to optimistic.

"The world won’t tear me down” is the story of someone’s lonely and rightful stand.

“The world won’t make me cruel”, instead, reminds us that we don’t live in a vacuum, that we are not alone. And that we can’t be right and be cruel to those who are more vulnerable than us.

Even when everything is out to hurt us, we still have to resist the temptation to be cruel.

Mi hanno spezzato le ossa, hanno brindato, e sono vivo.

Questo mondo non mi renderà cattivo

“Questo mondo non mi renderà cattivo” - Path

[the-blue-eyed-firebender]

Just a lil Royai fic rec.

I'm new to the FMA fandom, but these two now live in my head rent-free. And so do these fics. Enjoy!

Catharsis by kekkubean

Rating: M

Word count: 5K

Summary: She knew better. And now a little girl was dead because she wanted to believe that her father’s behavior existed in a vacuum.

Or,

When Riza learns of the Tucker incident, she doesn't handle it well.

Excerpt: At her feet, Hayate whined, she imagined disapprovingly. It was definitely too early to be drinking, although thankfully she skipped training him on understanding the appropriate hours for alcohol consumption. Riza met his gaze and they regarded each other for a moment as the burning subsided slowly. Hayate cocked his head to the side, curious, and whined again softly, as if he could read her wretched mind.

She briefly, morbidly wondered if Alexander and Nina shared thoughts, or if one of their minds dominated the other in that body, or if it were an entirely new—

Riza slammed her palms on the table, instantly suppressing the thought, and abruptly pushed herself up to standing. Hayate jumped and slinked off into her bedroom. She stood swaying for a moment, trying to gain her balance and some semblance of her sanity.

My thoughts: This one is canon to me. I can offer no higher praise for a fic. Before reading this, I never considered how Nina's fate might affect Riza, but it just makes so much damn sense. The way kekkubean writes trauma is blade-sharp. And the pacing, the dialogue, the characterization - exquisite.

Anytime by myrhymesarepurer

Rating: G

Word count: 838

Summary: It was not his Captain standing there in front of him. It was his master's daughter, so brutally burdened with ink, secrets so cruelly exposed to the world by one blasted broken zipper. 

Excerpt: She lifted her head and blinked, feeling a great bit foolish that she stood in front of her superior, tortured over an issue  he managed to solve in,  oh,  less than one second.

How very Roy Mustang.

My thoughts: I've read this so many times. It's one of the first I read in this fandom, and I keep coming back to it. It's short, poetically formatted, and utterly perfect in it's simplicity.

Beautiful People by That Hoopy Frood

Rating: T

Word count: 6.4K

Summary: Soon after the conclusion of the Ishvalan Civil War, Captain Maes Hughes receives a phone call in the middle of the night. The message is short, concise... and perhaps the most terrifying thing Hughes has ever heard.

Hawkeye's apartment. Now. Come alone. Someone has been hurt.

A promise was once made amidst the sands of a distant desert land: oaths will be upheld, and secrets will be scorched away. The sinful had waited too long; Roy Mustang was indebted to his promise, and Riza Hawkeye had come to collect.

Shut the door; it's starting to rain.

Excerpt: "You asked her to follow you… she would have walked over burning coals for you…" Hughes felt hot, angry tears running down his face. His glasses fogged. His voice cracked. "You were supposed to fall in love with her, Roy! You were supposed to marry her and have kids and be just be happy for once in your goddamned miserable life… now look what you've done. Look at what you've done."

My thoughts: Riza's back-burning is one of the most starkly absent scenes from the FMA canon. The scene has been written and rewritten in fanfiction many times, but this particular fic fills the gap in a way that is just perfectly brutal and raw. The addition of Hughes' presence makes the whole thing cut like a knife. Like Catharsis, this one is canon in my mind.

And now, a shameless plug:

The Counteroffer by theblueeyedfirebender

Rating: T

Word count: 2.6K

Summary: On the eve of Mustang’s inauguration as Fuhrer, Riza Hawkeye submits her resignation.

Excerpt: He pulls a manila envelope from the drawer and stands, sliding it across the surface of the desk in her direction. Her gaze falls to the hand he’s extended, long fingers and pale skin, the lingering scar of a transmutation circle still faintly visible, crosswise marred by another, thicker scar, twin to one on his other hand.  

Something snags in her throat, but she swallows it down and picks up the envelope. It’s thin, like it contains nothing at all. “What is this, sir?” 

For a moment, he doesn’t answer, as if the routine honorific has stuck him somewhere unexpected. When he speaks again, his voice is thick. “A counteroffer.” 

My thoughts: My first-ever FMA fic, complete with an ACOMAF Chapter 54-inspired confession (iykyk).

[winepresswrath]

Its the jiao jiao anon again .

You keep giving me great pairings. Tell me everything how su she (Shang Qinghua) transmigrate and how will fuck jiang cheng. Is he still an author ? What was his intention with this kinda book?

I think he is still a writer but not the actual author of mdzs. He's a relatively casual fan who admires the vision and winces in sympathy every time drama gets kicked off. This is why you don't try, mdzs author! You give the people what they want and take their money. He's originally planning on keeping his head down and learning just enough cultivation from the Lan to make his life easier than it otherwise would be, then getting an urgent letter from his sick mother right before the Wen are scheduled to attack, but alas, his wandering not-cultivator dumpling sabbatical puts him directly in Jiang Cheng's path while he's frantically running for help after leaving Wei Wuxian in the Xuanwu cave. And the thing is he's still kind of reflexively haughty when he needs something? So pathetic and vulnerable. So cute. What could possibly be the harm in giving him a ride? The Wen aren't scheduled to attack Lotus Pier for ages. He can be on a ship to Dongyin by that time!

Anyway no good deed goes unpunished because Jiang Fengmian does as a general rule believe in giving credit and naming names. He should have fucking known. Now Wen Chao has a grudge against him and he's running around under a fake name wracking up credit for things he did (while trying to run away) and things he did not do (sometimes even when you have a massive army and the most powerful cultivator in the world on your side, things go wrong! He's not responsible for every problem with Wen supply lines. He's responsible for exactly one cart blowing up, and he was just trying for a distraction so he could sneak onto a ship. It didn't work and the harbour is kind of a no-go zone for him now). He comes up with a new plan: find Huaisang and use his shitty unwanted heroic reputation and talent for creative pornography to worm his way into the young master's guard, where he can get some writing done far from the front lines. Unfortunately, he once again stumbles across Jiang Cheng, who is tragically trying to rebuild his sect and searching for a missing shixiong. Shang Qinghua is still a logistics guy, because he was doing grunt work for the Lan and also I feel like that's the shape any transmigration setting is going to bend into around him. Jiang Cheng is so grateful to see a familiar face. He knows the value of a good spreadsheet. His eyes are so pretty when he's trying not to cry. The Jiang aren't in a great place during the war, but Shang Qinghua knows the sect makes it through and he doesn't remember any Jiang disciples being asked to heroically sacrifice themselves after Lotus Pier falls. Plus the food is better and there's plenty of room at the top! A veritable power vacuum. To say nothing of all the empty space in Jiang Cheng's personal life when almost everyone he loves dies and leaves him alone! Anyway this is the story of how Shang Qinghua accidentally paints a series of targets on his back, unnecessarily involves himself in the plot, and overcomplicates his life because being a sucker for a pretty face and a bad personality is even more integral to his character than underappreciated grunt work. Probably he manages to save Yanli, at least. He's not interested in being a stepfather! That's a lot of work. Wei Wuxian barely notices he exists until either he saves everyone or the second life roles around, depending on how ambitious and/or motivated Shang Qinghua is feeling. Then he hates him passionately, but it's too late. They probably eventually reach some kind of begrudging peace.

[radfemverity]

Quotes from Andrea Dworkin’s response to the misogynist massacre at Montreal Polytechnic University in 1989:

‘I think that the way we can honor these women who were executed, for crimes that they may or may not have committed – which is to say, for political crimes – is to commit every crime for which they were executed. Crimes against male supremacy, the right to rape, the male ownership of women, the male monopoly of public space and public discourse.

We have to stop men from hurting women in everyday life, in the home, in the bed, in the street, and in the engineering school. We have to take public power away from men whether they like it or not and no matter what they do.

Feminism exists so that no woman ever has to face her oppressor in a vacuum, alone. It exists to break down the privacy in which men rape, beat, and kill women.

What I am saying is that every one of us has the responsibility to be the woman Marc Lépine wanted to murder. We need to live with that honor, that courage. We need to put fear aside. We need to endure. We need to create. We need to resist, and we need to stop dedicating the other 364 days of the year to forgetting everything we know. We need to remember every day, not only on December 6.’

in ‘Mass Murder in Montreal: Life and Death’ (1997) by Andrea Dworkin

Also from Life and Death:

‘Even though I had been tortured and was fighting for my life, I could not see women, or myself as a woman, as having political significance. I did know that the battery was not my fault. I had been told by everyone I asked for help (…) that he would not be hitting me if I didn’t like it or want it. I rejected this outright. Even back then, the experience of being battered was recognizably impersonal to me. Maybe I was the only person in the world this had ever happened to, but I knew it had nothing to do with me as an individual. It just never occurred to me that I was being hit because I was a woman.’

[void-thegod]

How Do You Eat an Elephant?

"Exclude the impossible, and what is left, however improbable, must be the truth."

The Impossible:

We are alone on this planet.

2. The governments and other authorities (The Powers That Be) have nothing to do with aliens/alien technology.

3. The information in our past/present has nothing to do with our current predicament or the former two points.

Where am I going with this? Why would I -- a transgender man of color whom is autistic -- bring this up?

What does it have to do with me?

First: the reality that we currently face is a tremendous one. It has something to do with all of us.

Secondly: the paranormal is my special interest. It has been of interest to me since I was a toddler and I had my first paranormal experience (which I still remember).

Thirdly: as someone touched by being Other and someone touched by the Otherside... it is not lost on me how I am treated.

The fourth impossible thing: that I'm somehow a super bad person who deserves to be alone, to be lead on, to be ignored, ostracized, and ridiculed. Just for being me.

My treatment and the treatment of The Paranormal Reality (UFOs, Black Government Projects, 1%, Vatican etc) are related.

How?

Other = Bad.

It's that simple. It has always been like that. And when something is so Other as to seem not human? Well.

Voidpunk and people like that don't exist in a vacuum.

The reality of our situation on this planet -- and people like me who aren't even that "weird" -- are treated similarly.

It's gawked at. It's "interesting". But it isn't gotten close to. People do not really know how to treat it.

Unless. Unless they know. Unless they've reached a certain amount of understanding and compassion and self knowledge.

That's when they can face all these things head on.

Black folks... you know how it is to be compared to mediocre white people.

Women... you know how it is to be compared to mediocre men.

Queer people... you --

You get it? Being anything in this world comes with it share of burden. Of experience.

Now compound them.

Now compound them again with the knowledge and resolve to live life like you KNOW what is actually going on.

It's serious.

But. Some people would rather die than face the existence of any of it.

Some people would rather kill and have people like me dead than face my existence.

It's serious.

[annecriedpower]

Welcome to Night Vale Episode 220 - A Radio Jupiter Holiday Special

Today's Nightvale episode just bulldozed my heart till it was pulverised enough to be carried off by the stray breeze?????

I mean Radio Jupiter summarising what it feels like to be alone during the holiday season as it steadily approaches?????

The way she candidly says that she was bereft of human touch all these years alone in the cosmos as time on earth went about on its linear march, season after season?????

How did she summarise the aching loneliness during the holidays like this and expect me to be okay????

I MEAN:

So it is that chapter of the year again, when humans respond to the cold outside by turning to the warmth of each other. This is the season of huddling. Oh, we call it other things. Write grand stories to justify. But ultimately what we seek is touch, and the hot breath of another person on the side of our face. This is a holiday of nerves seeking nerves, a holiday of sensation. It is huddling that we seek.

And I am alone, and in space it is always cold. Heat comes from movement, and nothing in this vacuum moves but me, because nothing exists to move but me. I have no one to huddle with. That is always a problem, but it is most acute when I imagine that it is this time of year.

Satellite without referent, that’s me. Orbiting and orbiting but without center. So ok, I will have to be my own center. My orbit will be around myself. I will huddle with me. 

And then Cecil follows these agonising words with: Everywhere we humans go, we bring our world with us. There is no empty that is deep enough to swallow our life completely. When the last of us huddle in a dying world, one of us will tell a story, and another of us will laugh.

And finally, the alphabetic chant as she's coursing through space back to the orbit of the earth to home and family:

Watch! We will wander widely, we will witness warm, wonderful world.

[We’re gonna head back to earth!]

Xenophile!

[I love people!]

Yelling yes! Yes!

[as though describing a starship flying:]

Zip, zip, zip.

And Cecil finally JUST SAYS:

We are a story telling species. Other animals use tools. Other animals communicate. Every division we try to throw up to separate ourselves from our animal kindred gets knocked down, except this. Human beings have an insatiable drive to organize the world into narrative, both real and unreal. We are the only species to tell harmless lies that our audience knows are lies, in order to delight and inspire. What a heavy burden the truth. What a light gift a fabulation. A lie is a thing with feathers. 

Radio Jupiter has come home to us. And we are grateful for her return. She has taken up residence in the manor on the hill overlooking Grove Park. She speaks to no one, rarely ventures out. I think she is still recovering from her years of solitude, and may need some time to return to us completely. She should take all the time she needs.

But at night, I can look up, and see the light in her window. And from that window, she can look down and see the lights of our windows. The stars she sees now have human faces behind them. I hope every day she feels a little less alone. 

Because this is a time of year where we seek to feel less alone. Whether by actual company, or the nearness of strangers, or just a good story, well told. 

From my understanding of the truth to yours: may your winter be just a little less alone. 

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.  I AM LITERALLY LIKE ASAJHGJWDHBJHXVWEJBABAKSHHVJHVXVXDGIWUDHKCNX

I CANNOT WITH THIS PODCAST I AM NOT OKAY NOBODY TALK TO ME

[maegalkarven]

I'm thinking of June spending 100+ years in his magical box. June, who was alienated from everything and everyone from the very beginning.

Who felt the touch of another living being as he tore through Gabriel's flesh - and then came the century of absence.

The fleeting touches of the servants clothing him only lasted till he learned to dress and take care for himself.

And then? A vacuum in the space where contact should be.

A magically-enchanted room with a flush bed and a carpet. With a cabinet full of magical wonders, with a shelf full of the rarest of books, most of which existed only in one tome. Rich food suited for the prince, best magically-enchanted view out of the 'window' (he didn't actually have a window.)

And no one. For years between Mephistopheles' visits, no one to talk to, no one to keep him company. He learns to summon quazits, but they're a bad substitute for a companion. And after several days he wakes up to them being torn to pieces. Because he can't be allowed near a living being, that much he knows.

That much grandfather taught him of.

June, who craves a single pat on the head for years, tho only knows the touch of his grandfather's hand on his shoulder, who only knows intimacy by the books and tales.

Who is once allowed into his grandfather's study and glimpses something though the watching ball on his table.

A pale man with pointy ears and red eyes carving infernal letters into the body of some whimpering being.

June asks his grandfather and learns his Mephisto offered a deal to some vampire: a ritual of ascension. What these runes bind the suffering man to the ritual.

Mephisto, being rather bored with that deal and seeing June showing interest in that, allows the boy take the orb back to his room. He explains the orb lets June to watch anyone who's bound to the ritual.

June, lonely and alone, lying on the flush carpet in his room, watching these strangers with infernal carved into their flesh. The ones kept in the cages are boring, they don't do anything (and remind June too much of himself)

But there are the others, people with infernal language on their bodies who are allowed outside. Who move and act, and suffer, and fight, and are afraid, and are angry, and-

There are four of them at first. June watches as their numbers grow to seven. He watches as the numbers add to the list, as the rotation of the faces he is capable of watching grows, but his gaze always returns to the one he thinks was the first. With the wide circle of the piece of the contract on his back, with quick, anxious eyes and hair as white as his skin.

He watches this vampire spawn fighting back even if he doesn't know he is fighting back. He watches this boy made monster stalk the streets of Baldur's Gate and explores the city with him. Learns to love Baldur's Gate through the eyes of the dead elf.

He lives vigorously though every low and even lower of this person, he relates to his hunger and his captivity (At least Astarion is allowed outside, June thinks as he looks around. The room is perfect. Time is as good as frozen in there. June can't help but feel like he's nothing but another of his grandfather's curiosities, locked in a vault till the end of times.)

Astarion has never had a guardian angel. He, however, had a keenly watching over him devil. The most vicious hybrid of godhood and infernal mixed in a cage of flesh, locked in a cage of magic.

June doesn't remember what watching Astarion was the reason why he got the courage to break free of his grandfather's hold. But it was. He wanted out. Now he knew how the world outside the Hells looked like, and he wanted to experience it himself. He wanted to live.

[vaqro]

Meta + becoming Overwatch's leader

META PROMPTS & QUESTIONS / always accepting .

In the western monomyth of a hero’s journey, there are three important steps for the establishment of the protagonist as the savior of their / the call to adventure - - -

Its refusal, and, finally, the belly of the whale. The first two explain themselves quite obviously: the call to adventure takes the unknown individual from the normal, daily, and inconsequential life; therefore, the hero cannot exist in a vacuum. The story cannot take its course without the hero. except the hero will not promptly accept the change of course in their common world. This may be from a sense of duty or obligation, fear, insecurity, or a sense of inadequacy, among others. The hero needs a reason that surpasses the individual and disregards his selfish desires. This is where we find the belly of the whale: the abandonment of the self, the acceptance of their role in the story as something bigger than they could ever conceive.

it’s not about you, it's about them.

In the context of Cassidy’s own journey, those three initial aspects are quite clear, among others, and could be further dismembered [adapting Vogler’s (2007) writing on the monomyth aspects] into five categories. As it is, the steps are:

THE STATUS QUO: There is Cole Cassidy, deluded by the events of 5–6 years prior, filled with guilt, working as a bounty hunter and mercenary. In his off hours, he writes a weekly column under the guise of Joel Morricone and tries to find Ana Amari’s assumed killer, The Widowmaker. He has not been in contact with his old people; his loved ones are either scattered or dead. In many ways, he is a ghost himself — he is a ghost of himself. an outlaw, a bandit for hire, a man with no name.

MEETING WITH THE MENTOR: This takes an interesting form. While on his own self-appointed mission to retrieve and reactivate Echo, he receives a letter from Ana Amari, whom he judged dead. She is asking him to visit her in Cairo. He is also attacked by Reaper, and he discovers that Gabriel Reyes is also alive — and working actively for Talon. These two encounters are important because the mentor figure provides the hero the tools, knowledge and reassurance needed for their quest. Beyond that, however, by meeting his two mentors in different ethos, the hero is faced with a bifurcation of his road: apotheosis versus damnation. It is crucial to remember that Cassidy feels both victim and executioner in the ways Overwatch fell — the way Gabriel fell, most of all. 

THE (RE)CALL TO ADVENTURE: Faced with Winston’s recall of Overwatch, the path taken by many of his peers was to accept it in some way or form—but not Cole. He refuses the idea of returning, conforming to the idea that things are not going to be what they once were, and, beyond that, maybe the time for overwatch is long past. He is doing everything he can, whenever he can, to ensure that justice prevails when it cannot, but reinstating overwatch appears to be a sure way to fall back into old habits. However, THIS REFUSAL OF THE CALL is interspersed with his wish to return Echo to the world and allow Mina Liao’s last wish to come into fruition; it is safe to say, then, that his reluctance to join the new team is less about Overwatch falling into old traps and more to do with his own guilt about the way things ended. Cole Cassidy thinks himself cursed and not worth a second chance.

and finally, as explained before: THE BELLY OF THE WHALE. Cole steps in and accepts Ana’s idea to recruit new members for the team. This decision happens specifically after once more encountering his soul sister, Fareeha Amari. This is where he realizes he cannot let her continue on her path alone, and the needs of the team speak above his own. He could take his things and return to his life as it was before, but he cannot abandon the story now. In a way, his meeting with Reaper helps cement this too. A necessity to repair the hurts left by the old days, so things for the new era can go right.

Now, the abandonment of the self is nothing new for someone like the cowboy. I have made explicit this fact here a few times now. Cole sheds identities and grows them less like simple aliases, but really akin to extension of his core, but they don’t represent him wholly individually — as an individual. So, in theory, taking on a new role at the stage of this adventure should be easy, correct?

Except that it is not. Because this new role is taken not for the sake of survival, or the necessity that a job may delegate. The new self, The Leader, needs to be a selfless decision. Story progresses and we see him inevitably accept his place as the head of these new recruits, and their acceptance of him as their leader. Which is not unexpected, given all the people Cole is sent to recruit have a military background to some capacity. FAREEHA, BAPTISTE, ZARYA, HANA. they recognize in him an older figure, someone with experience that will not lead them astray.

It is a huge responsibility. Not his first time as a leader, though. Cole has led the Deadlock Rebels alongside Ashe for two years — he founded the gang with her, Julian and Frankie after all. What frightens him is not the fact he has people under his care and guidance. It is that he could fail them. Like he failed his own team, failed Gabriel, failed Ashe, failed Mina. 

The Hero now finds himself IN THE ROAD OF TRIALS and it is entirely up to him which road to take, and how to face the trials he will find on the way.

[deathisararemercy]

No time to continue my "Day Three of "Drawing animals so I can make some proper Puss in Boots fanart" challenge, but I did finish this small character sheet for one of my…many OCs.

This is Fate - pronouns a work in progress. Fate is a bird lady with three faces. Fate's head swivels around to each of the different faces - one has gold eyes, one has blue, and the other has red. Fate actually wears a big curly wig; Fate's "real hair" is just bird feathers. Fate's high collar is also made of feathers, which Fate uses to write in the Book of Fate.

The Book of Fate is a seemingly normal-sized book. It has a lovely navy clothbound cover with silver embossing in it. It's really pretty! And if you look inside it or (stars forbid) write inside of it, you supposedly go mad! After all, reading about your or other people's destinies or trying to change fate itself could end in cosmic disaster!

Fate's job is simple. Protect the book from landing in the hands of anybody else, and give Life and Death their list of tasks in the mortal realm based on the people's fates in the Book. Every week Life and Death drop by Fate's little pocket dimension called The Writer's Room to get their assignments. This bit I wrote for a fic explains how Death gets there - by ripping a seam in the universe:

He flicked his sickles down and dragged them on the ground in a circle around him. Once it was completed, he stepped in the center, flexing his fingers. “Here we go.” He leapt up in the air. The sickles collapsed into half-moons. And the wolf slammed them into the ground. If he were mortal, his bones would have shattered from the force. If he were mortal, his lungs would have collapsed from the air around him being vacuumed from existence. If he were mortal, the dirt and rocks that flew from the ground would have blinded him, if the dazzling array of light and color didn’t first. But Death was not mortal. He fell through this seam ripped open in the universe, and for a brief moment, his heart stopped. And then, the seam sewed itself back together, he stood up, and his heart began to beat again rapidly in his chest. “Never going to get used to that,” he grimaced, rolling his shoulders back and shaking off the dust.

Fate and Death have a working relationship. After all, everyone's fates all end in death. Death…tolerates Fate, but Fate really wants to be Death's friend. And we all know the best way into Death's heart is by teasing him relentlessly:

“So you’ve come back to me yet again.” “We do this every week, Fate.” “Oh, Muerte! Never change!” “Hahaha. Hahaha. You’re hilarious,” Death scowled. “Stop being so grumpy. What’s wrong? Realized that meddling in mortals’ affairs makes things less fun for you? Did that cat escape with his last life?” “I let him go,” the wolf growled. “What a surprise! I told you, Death. My book never lies.”

Honestly, I think Fate looks forward to Death's visits solely because he tells her stories about what it's actually like in the mortal realm. He also doesn't mind telling them, since he doesn't have many other people to talk too; Fate is an eager audience.

Fate is bound by cosmic law to remain in the Writer's Room. If Fate were to leave, the Book of Fate could be in danger. It's not all bad. Since Fate lives there alone, Fate can redecorate all the time. Fate has been in "forests" and "mountains" and "villages" based on the stories Death tells. But Fate know these little worlds made in the Writer's Room are nothing like what the real mortal world is like. In the mortal world, there are wonderful sights, and colors, and sounds, and people. It's lonely in the Writer's Room.

One little trip outside of it wouldn't hurt right?

One little peek to those forests of Far Far Away that Death had described wouldn't cause any harm, right?

This is how Fate's book gets stolen by a girl in a red hood.

[graciousheaven]

Man’s chief purpose in life

     There is an undue confusion in the world today about the purpose of our existence. But the God who made the heavens and their host, the earth and all its inhabitants, and who also sustains all that exists, is not a God of confusion. For, not only has God plainly revealed Himself to us, but He has also distinctively made known to us all that we ought to know, that we may do all that we ought to do and abstain from that which ought not to be done. God did not leave us in a vacuum, with the expectation that we would somehow sort things out on our own. Even the very purpose of our existence, God has made it known to us. The Holy Scriptures clearly express that all things in heaven and on earth exist for the glory of God, to “Ascribe to the LORD the glory due His name” (1 Chronicles 16:29a). In other words, glorifying God is the ultimate purpose for which the host of heaven, the creation itself and all the inhabitants of the earth exist. And glorifying God, as defined by John Piper, means, ‘Feeling and thinking and acting in ways that reflect His greatness, that make much of God, that give evidence of the supreme greatness of all His attributes and the all-satisfying beauty of His manifold perfections.’ 

     The Apostle John’s vision in Revelation 4 gives us a glimpse of the heavenly host ascribing glory and honour to God. John was in the Spirit when he was taken to the throne room of heaven, where he saw the Lord God Almighty sitting on the throne. “Around the throne were twenty-four thrones, and seated on the thrones were twenty-four elders, clothed in white garments, with golden crowns on their heads” (v.4). V.6b, “On each side of the throne, are four living creatures, full of eyes in front and behind.” V.8-11, “And the four living creatures, each of them with six wings, are full of eyes all around and within, and day and night they never cease to say, “Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD God Almighty, who was and is and is to come!” And whenever the living creatures give glory and honor and thanks to Him who is seated on the throne, who lives forever and ever, the twenty-four elders fall down before Him who is seated on the throne and worship Him who lives forever and ever. They cast their crowns before the throne, saying, “Worthy are You, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for You created all things, and by Your will they existed and were created.”

     Human existence is not a cosmic accident as some suppose, nor is it devoid of purpose. We were made by God for the glory of God. We do not exist for ourselves but for God our Creator. The Bible not only clearly tells us that all things, man being no exception, are created by God for His own glory, but it also bears witness that the universe is a glorious display of the Majestic Glory (God). “In the year of King Uzziah’s death [Isaiah] saw the Lord sitting on a throne, lofty and exalted, with the train of His robe filling the temple. Seraphim stood above Him, each having six wings: with two he covered his face, and with two he covered his feet, and with two he flew. And one called out to another and said, “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of His glory” (Isaiah 6:1-3). 

     These words spoken by God’s angelic ministers are a testimony that all things on earth are a glorious display of the beauty and excellencies of God. By His spoken Word, God brought into existence all creatures and assigned to each one usefulness, and to all a purpose: to glorify their Maker – each according to the ability He has given them – and to rejoice in Him alone. In other words, as creatures of God, the purpose of our lives is to glorify God and glory in Him – He is the object of our worship and the object of our joy. We are here on earth to exalt God, to display His beauty, and to delight in His person and works. The key verses that substantiate the affirmation that we exist for the glory of God are from Isaiah 43:6b-7, where God says: “Bring My sons from afar and My daughters from the end of the earth, everyone who is called by My name, whom I created for My glory, whom I formed and made.” 

     We, the inhabitants of the earth, and everything else on earth exist for the glory of God, to declare His praise (v.21) and to rejoice in Him and His works – just like the angels in heaven give glory and honor to the Lord and rejoice in Him. Thus 1 Chronicles 16:28-34 enjoins the whole universe, “Ascribe to the LORD, O families of the peoples, ascribe to the LORD glory and strength! Ascribe to the LORD the glory due His name; bring an offering and come before Him! Worship the LORD in the splendor of holiness; tremble before Him, all the earth; yes, the world is established; it shall never be moved. Let the heavens be glad, and let the earth rejoice, and let them say among the nations, “The LORD reigns!” Let the sea roar, and all that fills it; let the field exult, and everything in it! Then shall the trees of the forest sing for joy  before the LORD, for He comes to judge the earth. Oh give thanks to the LORD, for He is good; for His steadfast love endures forever!” 

     Nothing and no one in all creation should exalt themselves before God, not even the angels of heaven. For the Lord alone is God, and all glory belongs to Him. Nehemiah 9:6 says of the Lord, “You are the LORD, You alone. You have made heaven, the heaven of heavens, with all their host, the earth and all that is on it, the seas and all that is in them; and You preserve all of them; and the host of heaven worships You.” 

     The angels not only worship God, but they also glory in His work of creation – when the LORD answered Job out of the whirlwind, He asked Job in Job 38:4-7, “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell Me, if you know understanding, who set its measurements? Since you know. Or who stretched the line on it? On what were its bases sunk? Or who laid its cornerstone, when the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?” And apart from praising the power and wisdom of God revealed in the things He has made, the angels of the LORD also glory in His work of redemption – the Lord Jesus says in Luke 15:10, “I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” 

     We ourselves, like the angels, exist to ascribe glory to God – the same is true of the creation. Psalms 19:1-6 reads “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims His handiwork. Day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge. There is no speech, nor are there words, whose voice is not heard. Their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them He has set a tent for the sun, which comes out like a bridegroom leaving his chamber, and, like a strong man, runs its course with joy. Its rising is from the end of the heavens, and its circuit to the end of them, and there is nothing hidden from its heat.” 

     The manifold of God’s works reveals to us who God is. Through the infinite vastness and the beauty and diversity of the creation, God reveals to us His infinite wisdom, beauty, power, goodness, uniqueness, greatness and transcendent majesty. Moreover, God has revealed Himself to us in a very special way through His incarnate Son Jesus Christ, “the image of the invisible God” (Colossians 1:15), so that we may know Him more and greatly glory in Him. “For in Him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through Him to reconcile to Himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of His cross” (v.19-20).     

As God’s creatures, in all things we must give glory to Him alone. That is to say, all our thoughts and actions and all the words of our mouths must always be a reflection of God’s perfection of beauty and goodness, and God must always be the only object of our worship and joy. For we exist for the glory of God and to glory in Him alone. As the Westminster Shorter Catechism puts it, “Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever.” Let us therefore earnestly pursue the glory of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ and glory in Him alone, for to this we have been called. And may the Lord grant us His grace.

[zuol]

My patient's description of therapy in her own words — Jacob Ham, PhD

My patient wrote this very lovely and wonderful reflection on how therapy with me is helping her, even though she chides me for not knowing a thing about eating disorders. I asked her if I could share it with the world so that others may know what therapy can be like, sometimes:

Bulimia is one of my dirtiest and one of my best kept secrets. It leads to feelings of shame, disgust, and, what’s worst for me, isolation and crushing loneliness. My eating disorder tells me, “people won’t like the whole you especially once they really know you (who could like someone so gross)!” It tells me, “Maybe they only like the silly, smiley person you put out for the world.” So I play the role of someone who doesn’t have their own issues and someone who can be there for others and hold their pain, heartbreak, and anxiety without asking anything in return. I’ve been in therapy for years with so many therapists, but recently therapy has begun to take on a new meaning. My therapist doesn’t get all the credit, but he deserves a lot of it. I began this new round of therapy to actually address my insomnia and debilitating panic …and oh my eating disorder, duh! I had suspected, and with my therapist’s help, finally learned that so many of these symptoms were trauma. Therapy has helped me begin to see that my eating disorder’s voice doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Instead, it is the voice of multiple traumas manifested as bulimia, my eating disorder trying to protect me from uncomfortable feelings or people that will hurt me. However, it left me with an inability to face those things that hurt me in the past and an immediate and reflexive repulsion to doing or thinking about anything that might make me uncomfortable me today. But, I’m slowly learning that avoiding pain and relationships actually leaves me in even more pain …and even lonelier. The other night after a session I began to really think about all of this. I was able to see that I am in fact likable and I do have friends. I make my therapist laugh, sometimes at the ridiculous things that come out of my mouth, but sometimes because maybe I am genuinely funny (maybe). I also learned that the ways I cope don’t make me a bad person, a weak person, a gross person, or an unlovable person. What is truly healing about therapy and my therapist is that I am allowed to be sad, happy, angry, silly, narcissistic, petulant, avoidant, and lonely without judgement and even acceptance. Sometimes I do deserve an eye roll or two. He definitely gives me much needed feedback and reality checks, but I can be myself with the eating disorder or without it. All parts are welcome. We need people in our life whether that be parents, siblings, friends, mentors, or partners. When we don’t have these relationships or when they hurt us, we feel insignificant, unlovable, and alone. To help me heal and begin to trust again, my therapist takes on many of these different roles at different times. This begins to make me whole, and at the end of the day, all we need is for people to see us and acknowledge us (even our most shameful parts). I feel grateful that I have a space where my fragmented self (my eating disorder included) can be laid out and talked about. I want to remember therapy and my therapist as a person whom I trusted and finally opened up to, who didn’t reject me, and most importantly who kept a space in their heart for me. It feels scary and good at the same time. I show up every week because I don’t want to be alone, I like being authentic, and I appreciate that he in turn shows up for me and bears witness. In a way I believe us showing up is how we honor each other’s existence and importance as humans. Therapy will be the place where I was accepted and began to accept myself. The hope then becomes that I can take these feelings and begin to experience that with others.

[bettykeithbaconborj]

Shattered Constellations

It's strange how life can be filled with paradoxes and contradictions. Today, as I sit down to reflect on my emotions, I find myself grappling with a sentiment that is seemingly at odds with the typical fear of mortality. I've always maintained a certain level of acceptance when it comes to my own mortality. The idea of death doesn't terrify me as much as it does some.

Yet, as much as I've made peace with my own eventual passing, there's another facet of my emotions that often overwhelms me—the fear of abandonment. It's ironic how I can be relatively composed when contemplating my own end, but the thought of losing those around me is a pang that I find hard to shake off. The fear of being left behind, of being the one who has to navigate the world without the people who make it meaningful, is a sentiment that lingers like an unwelcome shadow.

Perhaps it's my attachment to the people in my life that fuels this fear. The connections I've forged, the relationships I've nurtured—they're an integral part of who I am. The idea of losing that foundation is unsettling. It's not just the physical absence that bothers me; it's the emotional vacuum that would follow, the void left by those who once played such vital roles.

I've often wondered why I'm so ill-prepared for the prospect of others leaving, even though I've accepted the inevitability of my own departure. Is it because being left behind means confronting the unknown? When I pass away, my consciousness will cease to exist, and the complexities of life will no longer affect me. But when someone I love leaves this world, I'm the one who has to grapple with their absence, the memories, the echoes of their existence that continue to reverberate.

Perhaps, buried within this fear of abandonment, is also a vulnerability—an admission that I'm not as emotionally strong as I wish to be. The thought of facing a future without the warmth, laughter, and companionship of those dear to me feels like an insurmountable challenge.

So, here I am, acknowledging a side of myself that often remains hidden beneath the veneer of strength. It's not easy to confront this fear, to admit that the prospect of being left alone terrifies me. But, just as I've come to terms with my own mortality, I hope to find a way to navigate this fear of abandonment. After all, embracing vulnerability is a step towards growth, and understanding our emotions is a crucial part of understanding ourselves.