#the lines are blurring between his identity and their collective!

[bi-hop]

After playing through the DLC’s part 1, our Florian is even funnier in this sort of friends to bitter rivals story arc, like

Kieran, all sweet and shy: I get to be out in nature around my hometown... and talk to you, Florian…

Florian, glowing with the ominous energy of a person who bonded with the Treasures of Ruin: We enjoy your company too. I mean, I. A singular I. :)

Kieran: Um… O-Okay… c:?

[the-sassy-composer]

Really tired of streaming services making absolute banger animated TV shows for adults, never advertising them, then canceling then because no one watches them, so I'm taking it upon myself to share some of the ones I've watched recently with the hope other people will hear about them for the first time and give them a shot.

---

Blue Eye Samurai

"A master of the sword lives life in disguise while seeking revenge in Edo-period Japan."

Probably one of my favorite animated shows of all time. Mizu, arguably one of the best sword masters in this time period, goes on a quest to eliminate four white men living in Japan, one of which is Mizu's father. The show focuses heavily on how factors outside of your control, such as race and gender, impact how others view you and how you view yourself.

Watch if you are a fan of: Complicated characters/relationships, revenge quests, gore, complicated relationships with gender and race, and absolute badass characters.

Where to Watch: Netflix

Undone

"After 28-year-old Alma nearly dies in a car accident, she finds that she has a new relationship with time; she develops this newfound relationship to find out the truth about her father's death."

Undone focuses on difficult relationships with family, including how your parents can have profound effects on you even after they're gone, and how to deal with grief. That, plus the added chaos of being able to travel through time.

Watch if you are a fan of: character studies, shows dealing with grief, time travel, trying to rewrite fate.

Where to watch: Prime

Scavengers Reign

"The crew of a damaged deep space freighter are stranded on a beautiful but dangerous planet."

A mix between sci-fi and horror, this show focuses on the crew of a crashed spaceship. Each (living) crew member of the ship escaped in pods, scattering them across the planet. They must fight to survive and make their way back to their ship on a planet featuring some of the most fucked up creatures I've ever seen.

Watch if you like: sci-fi, isolationist horror, body horror, creature features

Where to watch: At the moment, Max. As of May 31st, Netflix. Max canceled the show (even though it has a 100% rating 🙃). Netflix may make a season 2 depending on how many people watch it in the first few weeks after it comes to Netflix.

Harley Quinn

"The newly single Harley Quinn sets off to make it on her own as the criminal queenpin in Gotham City."

Honestly I was feeling a bit burnt out on super hero shows, but this one felt like a breath of fresh air. It follows Harley as steps out from the shadow of the Joker, no longer being one of his henchmen and struggling to find her identity as a single, independent villain.

Watch if you like: Superhero/villain shows, stories that focus on blurred lines instead of a clear distinction between good and evil.

Where to Watch: Max

Primal

"At the dawn of evolution, a caveman and a dinosaur on the brink of extinction bond over unfortunate tragedies and become each other's only hope of survival in a treacherous world."

This show is super unique in that there's basically no dialogue, but it still finds a way to display an absolutely gutwrenching relationship between two parents of different species going through shared grief.

Watch if you like: Brutality, heavily visual story telling, prehistoric stories, and tales of overcoming.

Where to Watch: Hulu

Love Death and Robots

"This collection of animated short stories spans several genres, including science fiction, fantasy, horror and comedy. World-class animation creators bring captivating stories to life in the form of a unique and visceral viewing experience. The animated anthology series includes tales that explore alternate histories, life for robots in a post-apocalyptic city and a plot for world domination by super-intelligent yogurt."

I love this show because you never have any clue what to expect. A siren living in a river falling for a deaf knight? An artist painting intergalactic art pieces? Three robots going on a field trip through the apocalypse to visit old human historical sites? You never know, but there's going to be love, death, and/or robots in it. Each episode varies wildly, so I'd recommend watching at least a few to get a taste for it, as some will resonate more strongly than others.

---

I'm sure there are lots more excellent animated shows, but these are all the ones I've watched in the past year or so. I'd love to see more recs in the tags, because I'm always down to watch more cool animations!

[mockerycrow]

Undercover I (Soap x GN!Reader)

undercover series masterlist — next

Summary: You’re apart of an undercover joint task force between the CIA and MI6, meant to invade Makarov’s operations. Your entire mission goes up in flames once Task Force 141 takes you in for interrogation after finding you beaten and bloody in one of Makarov’s warehouses.

A/N: i hate the ending of this part but it issss what it isssss… This was originally a male reader so I might change it back to male!reader later on. the fake name is as gender neutral as possible. ALSO THANK YOU FOR 200 FOLLOWERS WTF??

[WARNINGS: Gore, descriptions of injuries, descriptions of torture, near death experience(s), mentions of drowning, near drowning/waterboarding, medical inaccuracies.]

The POV switches a couple of times!

The operation fell apart the second my boss did not bother to inform more than my task force of our mission. My death sentence was written into existence the moment I stepped into that conference room with several other high-end individuals—we all worked undercover operations before. We’ve all have had our deaths faked, our lives torn apart and restitched for the perfect narrative for any mission necessary. We have been called for a mission at the darkest of hours to do the dirtiest of work. If no one serves in the dark, then no one can live in the light, right?

We hold up this facade, this mask—for years. You go into an undercover operation with an estimate of a couple years as the duration, how quickly your team is capable, and by the time you’ve done a couple of these missions; you know you have to take the estimate and double it, at the very least. You learn to live with the mountain of bodies you collect over the years, a giant pool of thick blood slowly getting bigger at my feet. My shoes stain with the blood—we all bleed the same, no matter your creed, your race, your gender, your sexuality. If that’s the fact, then how do we tell guilty blood from innocent? Where do the lines blur together, everything looking the same?

It gets dangerous working undercover for so long, but we have to keep going.

Some people lose themselves to the faux identity they’re playing, the fake family, the head of the household—the fake childhood, fake friends.. Sometimes, the faked life is preferred to the real one.

Not me, though.

I remember exactly who I am.

With a combat knife in my hands, circling a table with a map on it, with several marked places—I am Zhenya Antonenko, surrounded by the very people I’m working against in secret.

When I’m alone, I’m myself. I’m me. One of the very few people burdened with the duty of collecting information and intelligence and surveying it back home—back to my Captain, Tyler Hudson. The one person I can trust through this entire operation.

I know I have to trust my other teammates to an extent, but when you’ve seen so many men and women fall to the other side? It gets rough.

Shooting someone who you previously trusted with your life is.. I cannot even begin to describe the feeling.

Melancholy, perhaps?

Even then, I have to be careful.

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful who we pretend to be.”

“..status?” “alive…”

Throbbing pain. Searing. Rough hands on you—

“..one of his..” That accent—it’s not Russian. What?

Did the.. did the operation go tits up?-

No. This accent is Scottish. You didn’t work with any Scots.

…You’re in rough shape, to say the least.

Soap’s hands untie the harsh ropes digging to the skin of your wrists, ignoring how the rope is stained with your blood. You’re one of his—And you’re alive. You won’t be for long if he doesn’t act fast, though. Your skin is paler than usual, you’re soaked in freezing water and your own blood—Soap didn’t wince at your wounds, though. He had no empathy for anyone working with Makarov.

“Let’s get them on our truck, let’s move.” Price said, his tone rough and serious as always. He watches as the rope falls away from your hands and feet, and Price chooses to walk over to your unconscious from. His hand grabs your chin and lifts your head to take a look, and what he sees earns a hum from himself. You took quite a beating, which made Soap curious. “‘Wonder what th’bastard had to do to earn all o’that.” He comments, taking a good look at your face.

Your lips are slightly parted; cracked and stained with your own blood, probably from accidentally biting your tongue. Your lip is split open, definitely requiring a few stitches. Your nose absolutely has to be broken, dried blood all over your skin, your chin—mouth, lips, down the front of your shirt. No one would be surprised if your jaw wasn’t broken—or at least fractured in some way. Your eye is swollen shut and your eyebrow is split open—your hair is damp, both from blood and water.

Soap left you untied; even if you woke up, you wouldn’t be a threat. He puts the sling of his rifle over his shoulder and he hooks an arm under your knees, the other supporting the weight of your back. He grunts as he picks you up, leaning you into his chest. “Light,” Soap comments.

Ghost and Gaz come from a different part of a warehouse, documents and a laptop in hand. “He left in quite a hurry, sir.” Gaz murmurs, holding up a few pieces of paper. “These were scattered around, we nearly caught them by surprise.”

Before Price can ask his question, Ghost answers it, like he can read his Captain’s mind. “Makarov was here.”

The silence is deafening as the four men make their way out of the warehouse, documents, technology and an asset in their hands—you.

Soap ignores the way your blood is soaking into his clothing as they get back their truck and hauling into in the backseats.

For a moment, I thought I died. I really did; I thought Makarov and his goons truly beat me to death, sending me straight to the fiery pits of Hell with every wound they inflicted on me.. And I kind of wish they did, honestly.

But that scares me—I’ve never craved death before. Have I lost it already?

Or is it the burning pain that’s bubbling under my skin?

Nothing in particular wakes me up, but when I do, my tongue is heavy and dry; cotton like. I can’t taste anything besides maybe some blood acts dried around my lips. It takes all of my strength to lick my lips and—nevermind, blood and a weird sour taste. Like the kind you get after sleeping for longer than you should.

My head feels.. fuzzy, like there’s electricity bouncing inside of my skull. Or is that the distant ringing I hear? Or is it the insistent pressure behind my eyeballs?

My body feels so heavy. I feel like an anchor from a ship, being dragged through the bottom of the ocean. Both the weight, and the relatable feeling of like it’s crashed into everything in my path because hOlyfuckpainpainpain-

“They’re awake.” A low and rough voice drawls out; British. Can’t place the region when my fucking body is screaming for relief—

My eyes.. scratch that, eye opens because the other is swollen shut and I nearly regret waking up at all because of the fucking luminescent bulb in front of me, burning my corneas. A gloved hand grabs my jaw which make some cry out because something is wrong, terribly fucking wrong with my jaw—oh, shit, this guy is scary.

I’m forced to peer at the tall man with stocky shoulders and a wide chest, wearing a black balaclava with a skull painted on it. His eyes—they’re brown, but, but they’re so fucking empty, like they’re peering into my damn soul and ripping apart every action I’ve ever committed.

These guys aren’t Makarov’s. What?

I take a sharp inhale as I try to look over any more part of this guy’s uniform, but his grip isn’t letting me. Skull-face holds up a black leather booklet—my fucking I.D. “Zhenya Antonenko,” He spits out, almost mockingly, looking between the small photo of me and me, myself. I can’t bring myself to do anything like I usually would to stay in character; spit, slur out a curse or anything. My body aches.

“Zhenya Antonenko,” Skull-face repeats once more, letting go of my jaw, allowing the burning pain deep in the bone to sizzle down to a dull throb. My head nearly falls forward but I keep it up with the little strength that remains in my neck muscles. “You’ve worked for Makarov for a number of years, hm? Makes me wonder what’a little birdie on his shoulder has ta’do to make the big man leave ‘em for dead.”

I keep my mouth shut. That’s something I had to learn early on when I joined my team—no matter what, do not. let. them. break. you.

Makarov didn’t break me, and I certainly won’t let these guys break me when the entire population of countries are riding on my shoulders. I furrow my eyebrows and maintain eye contact with the big man, mustering the worst glare I can at the moment which probably isn’t very noticeable.

Fuck, I want to puke. My head is swimming, my entire body is just—I only feel pain, and by this point I can only guess where the sources are. It’s all blending together into the worst concoction.

I gasp as a stinging sensation blooms over my cheek—he smacked me.

“Pay attention.” Skull-face hissed, walking over to a tray nearby. I let out a shaky breath as I follow him and then when I see the other men present in the room. Skull-face’s friends.

The first man I see has dark skin, fairly young to be in squad like this. Capturing folk, I mean. He has a noticeable scar under one of his eyes—or I think..? It’s a scar? I can’t see that far, especially with that blinding light in my eye. He’s kind of bulky, but his shoulders are nowhere near as large as Skull-face’s. One of the other men are across the room, leaning against the wall, watching me closely with a hateful glare—like he wants to gut me, watch my intestines spill out and watch me die. He has a bucket hat on, military fatigue colored. He has mutton chops and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but whoever he is, is the only person I’ve seen whose been able to pull them off.

The fourth guy, aside from Skull-face and his friends Mutton Chops and Basic Boy, is staring me down. He’s fairly average height, stockier than Basic Boy, you can tell he’s strong by the way his forearms look. His hair is shaved into a mohawk—the sides need to be a bit more shaved as it looks more grown out. He has a little more than a stubble type beard, but I can vaguely make out a scar on his chin.

I grunt as Skull-faces hand connects with my cheek again and fuuuck, my jaw—

“I won’t fuckin’ say it again. Pay attention or I’ll do what Makarov did to you but tenfold.” Skull-face’s eyes are dark as I look back at his face, the throbbing pain in my face subsiding again after a few seconds. My shoulders slightly tense under his gaze; he’s not kidding. I can’t afford another beating, especially not after.. what he did.

Fuck.

Being stuck between a rock and a hard place, I force myself to nod, not once do my eyes leave his form. No matter what, I can’t break. “What was Makarov doin’ in that warehouse?” He gruffs out, grabbing a few documents off of a nearby metal table that I didn’t notice before. He sifts through the documents as I purse my lips together, muttering a weak, “я дал присягу.” I took an oath. Look, these guys clearly don’t work for Makarov, but I can’t fucking afford to give up any information.

“Stick to your story, no matter what. Unless I intervene, you have to keep going. Even if you’re on the verge of death.”

Hudson’s words flood my brain as Skull-face doesn’t respond to me. I feel a bead of sweat drip down my temple and face—sweating from the pain.

My body just.. fucking aches.

“An oath, huh?” Skull-face mutters, turning back to me with a document. “You took an oath for a terrorist?”

Oookay, this guy does not like Zhenya.

Me. He doesn’t like me.

My eyebrow twitches in response, but I keep my lips sealed shut. Skull-face holds up a document in front of me, and of course it’s all in Russian. “You know what this is?” He barks, his deep, Manchester accented voice bouncing off of the walls, echoing. “This is Makarov making arrangements to get his hands on biological weapon warfare.”

I keep silent—I know that it is, and my heart drops to my stomach from the thought of what could happen if Makarov manages to go through with it. Skull-face stares at me like he expects me to answer, and of course, I never give him one.

I gasp sharply as within seconds, my shirt is lifted and his knife rips through some stitches they’ve must’ve given meeeEE—holy fuck, shit shit oh fuck—

Blood gushes from my stomach, earning a choked noise from me. Pain blooms in my abdomen, and I can feel the warm liquid of my own blood dribbling down onto the spandex of my pants that hold them onto my hips. I immediately feel like my world is spinning again, Skull-face borderlines multiplies in front of me. He grabs my jaw which makes me cry out again—fucking let go—and he leans in real close to my face. “There’s obvious context missin’, yeah? Fill in the gaps and we’ll let the medics work on’ya.”

I force myself to breathe through my nose, with every heavy breath I force out, comes another wave of nausea.

“Мне нечего сказать.” I have nothing to say.

“I don’t think ya understand the’situation.” Mohawk seethes, approaching me from where he was standing. Scottish. He was there—he took me.

I blink sluggishly in an attempt to focus my eyes on the man who replaced Skull-face. I get a clearer view of his face. Tan skin for a Scot, probably spends a lot of his time in the sun—his eyes are so fucking bright blue—I can see every detail of his face from how close he is. Mohawk is angry and he’s one beautiful man. Maybe if I was tied up in this chair for a different reason, I’d be willing give up some of that information—

I keep quiet and stare him in the eyes. The burning flames of anger behind his eyes towards me; thank God I’m not Makarov. I hear a door open and I glance towards it for just a second—Mutton Chops is leaving. I quickly look back at Mohawk and shake my head, although speaking my refusal was probably a smarter idea because now my head is swimming again.

“Do’ye not understand that ya fell fer a trap?” He barks, grabbing the front of my shirt. I wince as I feel the fabric pulling away from my open wounds. “Makarov does not care aboot you!”

My breath hitches as the door slams open, my eyes tracking to who it is—Mutton Chops is back, wheeling in a… big bowl of water. Big enough to hold a head under.

Fuck.

Fuck, oh fuck!

They must’ve caught onto my reaction, which I didn’t really notice them doing as all I could focus on was my pounding heartbeat, but I heard a vague laugh. Mohawk grabs one of the legs of the cart, carelessly pulls it closer and his other hand grabs a chunk of hair on my head, pulling my head back. My lips part and a faint noise of pain leaving them. He says something, which I don’t register—and then he pushes my head under the water.

I immediately struggle as I instinctively took a gasp for air under the water, the water filtering into my lungs, my body screaming that it isn’t supposed to be there, that it’s wrong, that you’re drowning, you’re drowningdrowningdrowningdrowningdROWNING-

The water rushing in my ears doesn’t make this any better, the pure fucking panic in my gut worsens by the second as I can’t fucking breathe, lET ME GO, I ALREADY WENT THROUGH THIS ONCE—

I kick my feet, trying to find the cart, Mohawk, someone, anyone, shit, hElp-

Suddenly my head is ripped out of the water and my eye is closed and I’m sputtering water, my body desperate to cough the remaining in my lungs up, the water from my hair soaking the top of my shirt again, dripping into my mouth—

I still can’t breathe. I think I’m fucking dying.

My lungs are begging for air as I weakly gasp for it, my hands that are tied behind the chair grasp at the air, for anything to ground myself. I weakly kick at the air like that’ll help me, I don’t even know what’s going on anymore—fuck, I’m dying, my chest aches, my abdomen fucking hurts, I can’t hear anything, are they going to just stand there and watch me die?

Like Makarov did?

Are they going to fucking resuscitate me like he did?

Makarov held me under the water until all of the air in my lungs was replaced with ice cold water. I only remember waking up and spitting water out all over myself, laying on my back on the concrete floor of the warehouse, with a dark chuckle from him, murmuring, “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

He did it twice. Maybe a third time? If he did, I don’t remember.

My head is ripped out of the water and I gasp for air so harshly I choke, and then I’m suddenly out like a light.

[sepublic]

Continuing my ramblings on Predator (1987), there's an interesting choice of cinematography when the protagonists start fighting back against their titular antagonist; Once Anna explains the Predator's schtick as a chameleon, our heroes begin making new traps meant to fool the Predator. And as they do, there's some pretty choice shots emphasizing the bulging muscles of characters like Dillon and the like. Dillon is interesting especially given he's framed as the least masculine of the guys due to being a dishonest pencil-pusher; Here, it seems as if everyone, even Dillon, is reclaiming their masculinity with this chance to fight back. With this chance to turn back the odds and restore their conventional status as action heroes.....

And then we know how it all goes down; The Predator breaks free of the trap, and kills its last four victims of the film to leave only Dutch and Anna. The Predator as a dark reflection of the characters' machismo makes more sense when you consider how he can mimic the voices of the others, and the wound that puts him down is identical to that of his final victim Poncho; Both are felled by a log trap.

From the perspective of the Predator, other characters' voices become noticeable high-pitched; I wonder if this is, in a way, meant to show how even a badass like Dutch is 'feminized' in the eyes of the Yautja. The line between Predator and the protagonists is further blurred when Dutch achieves his own form of cloaking that is also sabotaged when he comes into contact with water; He learns to fight more like the Predator, relying on stealth, ambush, and the environment around him to hide and attack. So now the Predator becomes the hunted too. Its final words are to repeat Dutch's only lines back at him before laughing in Billy's hearty voice.

You know that one post circulating around here, where people joke about what if the Predator was more the exception to his home's culture, rather than the norm? What if he was the Yautja equivalent to bored middle-class dudes who decide to go on a hunting trip for fun, to collect trophies from lions and other animals that are otherwise harmless and victimized, to flex how 'badass' he is? And meanwhile everyone else back home is rolling their eyes because what a loser. What if that's really just what the Predator is meant to symbolize, in the context of the original film at least; People who like to kill and hunt to show off how masculine they are.

But in the end, it's quite easy and cowardly, arguably, to rely on a cloaking device, whilst sniping oblivious targets from afar. Beforehand, I wonder if we could take into account how animals are treated by the human protagonists beforehand; One of the characters kicking a bird aside, Mac stabbing a scorpion. Them flexing their macho attitudes by killing an animal that for all intents and purposes is pretty helpless against the one who gets it. And then the roles are reversed where the human protagonists become the game for the Predator to make trophies out of.

I find it fascinating Dutch's reaction when Mac admits that Blain was his friend; You get the sense that this is quite uncharacteristic a thing for Mac to do. Nowadays it seems like a pretty obvious and understandable thing for any guy to do, but for someone like Mac, it IS quite the confession of emotional vulnerability here. Plus there's Poncho being a sad sopping wet cat for the rest of the film, once Hawkins is the first to die.

If Predator is a slasher film, then it subscribes to its own version of the rules, just as it has its own version of a 'final girl' in muscled badass Dutch, played by Arnold Schwarzenegger. You know how those who have premarital sex die first? It seems Predator operates on similar rules; Hawkins makes crude jokes about female genitalia and is killed first. Blain calls everyone else the f-slur and proclaims his own sexual prowess, in addition to being your typical badass macho man who's too tough to feel pain, and then he's unceremoniously killed off pretty early too. This is despite, or rather because of, being the "big guy" who wields a giant mini-gun.

Mac and Billy are stoic, but Mac unravels psychologically and sings lyrics about objectifying a woman shortly before his death, and Billy remains rattled throughout by the Predator's presence, even openly admitting to Poncho that he's afraid. And of course there's Poncho, who is on the verge of tears 24/7 once the movie's genre shifts, voice constantly wavering.

On a final note, one could be half-joking about homoerotic undertones between Mac and Blain, at least on Mac’s end. Which could be an interesting discussion in and of itself when you also account for Blain’s use of the f-slur and how he’s the most stereotypically masculine of the group. Because I know the military is known for being a place where homosexuality was often discovered and explored. How would that factor into the larger themes of masculinity in this film, I wonder?

[amuseoffyre]

I did a thread on the bird site last night about Ed's world being so tied up in sea/water analogies and connections but realised I didn't put together a full list of the references I can remember off the top of my head. Now, I will attempt to do so.

Before I get into the details, there's also recurring symbolism of Ed standing between two worlds and this is reflected in the above/below of the sea but also the tidelines/shore/docks as a place where land and sea meet and overlap.

There's a lot happening.

"treading water, waiting to drown" (1x03)

"Be a lighthouse" / "cracking up on the rocks" (1x04)

throwing unwanted people/hopes/dreams/fears into the sea (1x05, 1x10, 2x02, 2x03, 2x07)

the dock and lighthouse in his flashback to his father's death - the first sea versus land metaphor, where the horror rises from beneath the surface (1x06)

"something stirring in the brine" (1x06)

"plumb the depths" / sirens and krakens (1x06) being the thing to trigger a breakdown

"Edward Teach, born on a beach" (1x09)

the kiss happening on the shoreline (1x09)

the abandonment happening on a dock (1x09)

marooning the crew on a sandbar - a temporary island, which is what Stede and his crew were for him (1x10)

"sunshine one moment, cataracts the next" (2x02)

his purgatory begins with him waking at the high tideline - a symbolic meeting point between the land and the sea (2x03)

collecting paua on the beach with ties back to his mother (2x03)

"Jeff's Inn by the Sea" - another place on the edge of land and sea (2x03)

reveal about the Gravy Basket while standing on the shore (2x03)

becoming the cataract - the chaotic surge falling over a cliff and full submersion in the sea as a way to end his life (2x03)

mer!Stede - a creature of both land and sea who can be there with him when he's in his dark watery doom (2x03)

"caught in his whirlpool" (2x04)

"hanging out on this ladder" - again somewhere between the sea and the safety of the safe space ship (2x05)

"Man against beast - I'm the man and the beast was beneath the sea" (2x05)

"we're the fish, I think" (2x05)

"storm's coming but I just can't see it" tied in with flashbacks and a shot with a 50-50 split of sky and sea (2x06)

another abandonment that is planned on the dock by the water's edge (2x07)

"pirates and fishermen are nothing alike" - subtext of the entire conversation ties to "you can't catch the fish unless the fish chooses to be caught" (2x05) and Ed is choosing not to be caught and fleeing (2x07)

the opening of 2x08 on the water's edge, away from the sea

reclaiming an identity cast into the sea (2x08)

rising from the waves on the shoreline, a place where he becomes himself instead of trying to split himself into different sides (2x08)

finding one another on a beach - Ed Teach, reborn on a beach (2x08)

choosing to leave the sea and make a home on the line where the land meets the sea (2x08)

I love the symbolism of a man who has spent his life trying to be this *or* that realising that he can become this *and* that. Blurring the lines, moving away from the binary rules.

He can be both land and sea. He can be both Ed and Blackbeard. He can have leather and silk. He can be strong and soft. He can be the big spoon and the little spoon. He can have it all :)

[bodyswappertransforming]

Sheriff Bill part 2

Two months had passed since Deputy Sheriff Bill vanished into the city's underbelly, his existence as a law enforcement officer all but wiped clean. Now, he was simply Mateo, a street-tough kid with a buzz cut and a swagger, who had appeared in the neighborhood as if from nowhere.

Mateo had learned to navigate the tight-knit fabric of the gang's world, earning trust through a careful balance of bravado and vulnerability. He'd taken risks, partaken in petty crimes to solidify his cover, always mindful not to cross the lines that could not be uncrossed.

The transformation machine had done its work well. Even Bill's instincts had begun to align with his new identity. His buzz cut had become a part of him, a constant reminder of the role he played. With each passing day, the line between Deputy Bill and Mateo blurred a little more.

He'd made connections, formed tentative friendships forged in the fires of shared adversity. The gang members began to see him as one of their own, a young man who had proved his loyalty time and again. Mateo listened, he learned, and he watched, collecting the threads of information that would lead to the gang's undoing.

His days were spent in a haze of illicit activities and close calls. His nights were restless, haunted by the dual lives he led and the fear of discovery. The knowledge he gathered was fed back to his handlers through coded messages and brief, clandestine meetings in the dead of night.

Two months in, and Bill—Mateo now—was at a tipping point. He had gathered enough evidence to take down the gang's leaders, but he also knew that with each passing day, the danger of being unmasked grew. He was playing a high-stakes game, walking a knife-edge between his duty and the dark persona he had adopted.

The time to act was drawing near, and when the moment came, it would take all of Bill's courage and cunning to step out of Mateo's shadow and reemerge as the deputy sheriff he truly was, ready to bring justice to those who had unknowingly welcomed an officer of the law into their inner circle.

[animehouse-moe]

Chainsaw Man Chapter 150: Dream's Next Stage - The Future of Denji and Chainsaw Man.

Yes yes, this is the day after the chapter. I wanted to get my thoughts in a row because what gets introduced here is pretty massive as for, well, sort of the entire purpose of Chainsaw Man?

It's a lot to unpack in one go, hence why it took a while to really get things sorted out, but I think it's really worth it in understanding the purpose and context of Denji and Chainsaw Man as a character. So, here we go.

To clear things up, when was the last time we heard Pochita speak? That'd be chapter 90, all the way back in part 1 where Power "eats" Pochita and is revived from Denji's blood.

Though, it's not like there's exactly "many" instances of Pochita speaking. The only time it happens is when a character is close to death, and the medium both times has been Denji. Pochita is unable to speak on his own, somewhat similar to Yoru's predicament when finding Asa.

Because of that, it's hard to truly argue that Pochita's speech is purely facilitated by Denji himself, but I think it's hard to believe that the line has not been blurred between devil and human here. We even see it with Asa and Yoru through their short time together despite their bickering, so what would happen in a willing contract like this one that's been going on for so long?

Well, really the only answer is the fact that Pochita has become a de facto representation of Denji's subconscious, or id (if you're a Freud fan).

And I think that's really really easy to explain. Lots of information, but following the logic is plain as day. Let's start without words, as that's arguably the purest form of Denji.

There's a few ways you could take this sequence. The first is that for Denji to really connect and interact with Pochita, he's had to emotionally and psychologically regress. Considering the amount of trauma and repression that Denji's put himself through, the idea is rather straight-forward: Pochita represents a better part in Denji's life. Sure, he was living in absolute poverty and was going to die of sickness, but he didn't know any better. He didn't have a world placed in front of his eyes only for it to crumble to dust.

The second way is really just a variation of this. For Pochita to be represented as his own entity, a time where they were perceived as separate was required. With that comes the idea that the experiences of Denji have also been the experiences of Pochita, and to approach each as an individual you need to isolate those shared experiences.

Either way, the supporting argument for this concept is Pochita's phrasing. "Our dream". Not "your", not "Denji's". "Our", dream.

You wouldn't think it too important a phrasing, or that it's "nothing to really focus on". But look at what Pochita says in the very first chapter. Pochita very firmly presses the idea that it's Denji's dreams, not their collective dreams.

Anyways, with the idea of Pochita representing something akin to Denji's inner voice, we can move onto the next idea: the present, and future.

I've been a massive proponent of Denji's identity crisis since Chainsaw Man's been taken away from him. What was originally phrased as a method of rebirth for the boy has now become an illusion of the freedom it was supposed to represent. Because of all of that, I don't really feel like there's a lot to add to that aspect- Denji (though personified/illustrated as Pochita) has always been aware of his connection to Chainsaw Man. It's not something he could run or hide from, it's something that's been his beacon of hope as Denji.

And that's where the present takes us. With Chainsaw Man gone from Denji, he's been left with a hole in his heart. An entire aspect of not himself, but his self has been missing. That's bred doubt, uncertainty, unhappiness, and all manner of things. He had a life that he dreamed about. He lived with friends, he got to laugh and fulfill his first dream- all because of Chainsaw Man.

Denji is the dreamer, but without Chainsaw Man to achieve those dreams, Denji can't go anywhere.

It's really clear as day. Denji never really dreamt before Chainsaw Man. He never really aspired to living or existing. Until he became Chainsaw Man. He gained a home, he gained fame and popularity, power beyond belief. And he got a family.

Which begs the question, what has Denji done? He got to kiss Asa, but then had contact cut off with her. He got to hold a penguin, but then that was taken away from him. And I know, "hey, it's not like Denji's dreams in the first part weren't taken away", but the difference is the fact that he never got to experience these ones.

Denji himself is incapable of growth, incapable of escaping the hell that exists in front of him. In the same breath, Chainsaw Man can't experience the dreams of Denji. It is, unironically, the duality of the boy that leads this series.

Denji alone cannot dream. And Pochita illustrates that expertly, once more with simple phrasing. Pochita deliberately counters their earlier use of "our", with "your" to address Denji's future.

And this phrasing really points readers in one direction: the assimilation of Chainsaw Man and Denji.

The two have always been together, but they've also always been separate. A definitive yin and yang, as opposed to a singular, balanced entity.

Now, it might not mean much since Denji's already said as much as "I wanna be Chainsaw Man" earlier in the manga (chapter 133 to be exact), but this instance is obviously different.

It's the kind of thing that is incredibly obvious when experiencing it in the literal sense, but explaining it can get a bit messy, so I'll try my best.

Young Denji is the one saying he wants to be Chainsaw Man, not current Denji. The Denji that would go on to not have a choice in being Chainsaw Man, the one that Chainsaw Man became a crutch for, a curse for.

But in the same breath, this young Denji certainly knows what awaits him. Pain, suffering, loss. And yet he still chooses to bear that burden. Because it's who he is.

This interaction, between Denji and his inner self/Pochita, is Denji not accepting Chainsaw Man as a part of himself, but that Chainsaw Man is Denji. It's an absolutely huge aspect of character development for Denji, and leans towards hinting at a third revelation for him down the road: the acceptance of Denji.

To drag this on longer than it needs to be, the idea is that Denji requires Chainsaw Man to live, in a sense. Denji places his agency and ability with Chainsaw Man, when it should be the other way around. Because of that, Denji's acceptance of himself is really shaping up to be the final frontier for his story, whenever that might be.

Anyways, great chapter that puts a hell of a lot in front of the reader with very little reading or effort. Fujimoto continues to be a genius, what else is new at this point really?

[leeprtt]

Unspoken connotations

Summary: Daisuke Kambe, a reserved and wealthy detective, finds himself drawn to Y/N, a spirited woman enamored with the world of street racing. Their paths cross unexpectedly at a racing event, leading to a series of encounters marked by unspoken connections and shared moments.

WC: 3k

It was a chilly night, the air thick with the scent of gasoline and excitement. I had been observing Y/N's race when a sudden turn of events led to our first interaction. Her car came to an abrupt stop beside me, the roar of the engines dying down as she removed her helmet, revealing her long brown hair and striking green eyes.

"Detective Kambe," she spoke, her voice calm yet tinged with an edge of curiosity. "What brings you to our little racing world?"

Her gaze bore into mine, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. Her beauty was undeniable – long brown locks framing her face, bangs falling gracefully over her forehead, and captivating green eyes that held a story untold.

Caught off guard by her directness, I collected myself. "I'm merely an enthusiast of fast cars and the allure of the night," I replied, my tone calculated yet genuine.

She offered a coy smile, a subtle hint of mischief dancing in her eyes. "Enthusiast or detective, which one is it, Detective Kambe?" Her words, laced with a touch of challenge, hinted at her awareness of my dual identity.

For a brief moment, our eyes met, and in that fleeting exchange, I felt a connection – an unspoken understanding that transcended the roles we found ourselves in.

As she put her helmet back on, readying herself for another race, I couldn't help but be captivated by her demeanor, her allure, and the mystery that surrounded her.

Little did I know, that brief encounter would mark the beginning of a journey, a slow unraveling of our intertwined fates, where lines between duty and affection would blur, and a forbidden connection would blossom in the midst of secrets and speed.

Haru Kato, my steadfast friend and colleague, invited me for a night out, hoping to lighten my spirits amidst the weight of my undercover investigations. As we sat in the bustling bar, my attention inadvertently drifted to the far corner where she was - Y/N, surrounded by her group of friends, laughter and energy radiating from their table.

"Daisuke, you seem distracted tonight," Kato remarked, noticing my gaze fixated across the room.

I hesitated, torn between the complexities of my emotions and the professional facade I was accustomed to. "It's nothing, Kato. Just caught up in my thoughts."

He followed my line of sight and, recognizing the subject of my distraction, a mischievous glint danced in his eyes. "Ah, I see. It's the street racer, isn't it?"

Caught off guard by his astuteness, I attempted to dismiss it. "There's no connection, Kato. It's part of my investigation."

Kato chuckled knowingly. "Investigation or not, you're smitten, my friend. Why not go over there and talk to her? Life's too short to miss chances."

His words lingered, stirring a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts within me. Reluctance intertwined with curiosity, and before I could ponder further, Kato nudged me in the direction of Y/N's table.

"You're Detective Kambe, remember?" he encouraged. "Confidence is your forte."

With a mixture of trepidation and resolve, I approached her table. As I drew nearer, her eyes met mine, an unspoken recognition sparking between us.

"Mind if I join you?" I spoke, attempting to mask the flutter of nerves beneath my composed facade.

Her friends exchanged glances, amused by the unexpected intrusion, yet Y/N's gaze held a hint of curiosity tinged with a touch of familiarity.

"Sure, take a seat," she replied, a subtle hint of intrigue woven in her words.

In that moment, amidst the clinks of glasses and distant chatter, our worlds collided - a detective and a street racer, their paths intertwining in an unexpected encounter that would set the stage for a journey fraught with complexities, desire, and a magnetic pull neither could deny.

The next day dawned with an air of restlessness lingering around Daisuke Kambe. Despite his day off from work, thoughts of Y/N occupied every corner of his mind, stubbornly refusing to fade. Determined to break free from the grip of her presence, he embarked on a series of distractions.

He attempted to bury himself in routine tasks, hoping to drown out the echo of her laughter and the memory of their brief encounter. Cleaning became his refuge, the meticulous arrangement of his lavish home a mere attempt to impose order upon the chaos swirling within him.

Every surface gleamed under his careful touch, yet the tranquility that usually accompanied such meticulousness eluded him today. As he meticulously arranged his belongings, his thoughts kept drifting back to her - her laughter, her eyes, and the inexplicable pull she seemed to have on him.

With each task completed, he found himself standing in the stillness of his impeccably arranged home, the silence echoing the turmoil of his thoughts. The memory of her smile lingered, disrupting the carefully constructed walls around his heart.

The day unfolded into a string of failed distractions, each attempt to occupy his mind proving futile. Y/N's presence lingered in the spaces between his thoughts, her essence seeping into the very fabric of his being.

Despite his efforts to distance himself, he couldn't deny the magnetism that drew him to her, a force stronger than reason, stronger than duty. She had ignited a spark within him, one that refused to be extinguished, setting ablaze a yearning he struggled to comprehend.

As the day waned and the sun dipped beneath the horizon, Daisuke Kambe found himself standing by the window, gazing into the fading light, a silent admission resonating within him - he couldn't escape the allure of Y/N, nor could he resist the pull that urged him to seek her out once more.

Y/N could feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins as she prepared for the night's race. The stakes were high; important people had put their bets on her, and failure wasn't an option. With each passing second, the anticipation and pressure grew.

As the starting signal pierced the air, she surged ahead, navigating the city streets with the precision of a seasoned racer. The familiar rush of speed coursed through her, but amidst the exhilaration, thoughts of Daisuke Kambe infiltrated her mind, a distraction she hadn't anticipated.

Her focus wavered as memories of their brief encounter swirled within her, causing her to miss a crucial turn. Panic surged through her, realizing her mistake, but it was too late. Her error cost her the lead, effectively taking her out of the race.

The screeching halt of her car marked the end of her hopes for victory, but she remained undeterred. Stepping out of the vehicle, she faced the consequences of her misstep. The air was thick with tension as demands for the return of bets grew more aggressive, the weight of impending trouble pressing down upon her.

Just as the situation seemed dire and the crowd closed in around her, a familiar presence intervened. Through the chaos, Daisuke emerged, a beacon of calm amidst the storm.

"Is there a problem here?" his voice resonated with authority, cutting through the tension.

Y/N's heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, relief flooding through her. She found herself at a loss for words as Daisuke, with his unwavering presence, shielded her from the encroaching trouble.

With an air of effortless authority, he diffused the escalating situation, his mere presence commanding respect. The demands for money quieted down, and a sense of calm settled over the chaotic scene.

In that moment, amidst the chaos and the flickering city lights, Y/N couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude and an unfamiliar warmth toward Daisuke, a realization that his presence seemed to bring a sense of safety and reassurance she hadn't known she needed.

As Daisuke drove Y/N home that night, a sense of quiet understanding settled between them. The night enveloped them in a calming silence, broken only by the faint hum of the car's engine and the soft notes of music playing in the background.

"Thank you for the ride, Daisuke," Y/N spoke softly as they approached her house.

"It was my pleasure," he replied, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before she stepped out of the car.

Before she disappeared into her house, he spoke up, "I'll be at your next race."

A hint of surprise flashed across her face, but a smile curved at the corner of her lips. "I'll hold you to that promise, Detective Kambe."

With a nod and a subtle smile, she disappeared into her home, leaving Daisuke to watch her until she was safely inside.

As he made his way back to his own residence, thoughts of their brief conversation lingered in his mind. Once inside, he noticed a piece of paper on the dashboard, a hastily scribbled number – her number.

A smile crept onto his face as he realized she'd left it for him. Without hesitation, he picked up his phone and sent her a text, a simple message confirming their encounter at the next race.

In the following days, Daisuke found himself increasingly drawn to Y/N's world of speed and thrill. While his days were consumed with work, whenever he had a chance, he couldn't resist watching her races. Her unparalleled skill and finesse on the tracks captivated him, each victory leaving him in a state of silent awe.

Her eyes, illuminated with determination and passion as she crossed the finish line, held a certain allure that enticed him. It was in those moments, amidst the rush of victory, that Daisuke witnessed a glimmer of her true spirit, and it left him enchanted.

Despite the bustling energy of the racing scene, it was Y/N's post-race interactions with him that made his heart skip a beat. The way she spoke to him, her eyes reflecting a warmth that seemed reserved for him alone, had a way of lighting up his world.

Their conversations, brief yet meaningful, held a charm of their own. The camaraderie that began to blossom between them, built upon mutual respect and shared moments, left Daisuke feeling an unfamiliar sense of happiness.

He found himself eagerly anticipating their encounters, cherishing the moments when they could steal a few words amidst the chaos of the races. Her presence had become a source of solace in the whirlwind of his daily life, and the connection they shared held a promise of something more profound than he had ever anticipated.

As the days passed, Daisuke couldn't deny the impact Y/N had on him. Her passion, her unwavering spirit, and the way she effortlessly brought joy into his life began to unravel the walls around his heart, slowly weaving her way into the very fabric of his thoughts.

The pulsating energy of the racing scene subsided as Y/N stepped off the track, her expression a mix of exhilaration and fatigue. Amidst the scattered cheers and congratulatory remarks, she spotted Daisuke observing from a distance.

Their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them. As she approached him, a tired yet content smile graced her lips.

"Detective Kambe, fancy seeing you here again," she greeted, her tone playful yet tinged with a genuine warmth reserved for their interactions.

"Your performance was exceptional, as always," he complimented, a note of admiration laced in his words.

She chuckled softly. "Thank you. It's the thrill of the chase that keeps me going."

Their conversations flowed effortlessly, a comfortable ease settling between them. Amidst the chatter about the night's race and the rush of emotions, they shared anecdotes and glimpses of their contrasting lives.

Daisuke found himself opening up more than usual, sharing snippets of his meticulously controlled life, while Y/N offered insights into the chaotic yet invigorating world of street racing.

Their exchanges held a certain magnetism, an unspoken understanding that transcended their different worlds. Each conversation seemed to draw them closer, weaving threads of familiarity and companionship.

As they parted ways, Y/N couldn't help but feel a sense of joy in their connection, a sentiment mirrored in the subtle smile that lingered on Daisuke's face.

Their post-race conversations had become a cherished ritual, a sanctuary amidst the bustling chaos of their individual lives, a space where their worlds intersected, if only for a brief moment.

That night as Daisuke returned home he felt a buzz in his pocket picking it up to find a message from y/n. “Can we meet at the park Wednesday?”. He immediately replied “ yes of course.” On the outside he look calm but inside he was frightened for how the night is going to go.

The city lights blurred into a gentle glow as Y/N and Daisuke strolled through the park. The tranquility of the night enveloped them, the air laced with a serene calmness.

As they approached a secluded bench, Y/N couldn't help but feel a flutter of nerves mingled with excitement. She took a deep breath, gathering her courage as they settled down, gazing up at the twinkling stars.

"Detective Kambe," she began, her voice soft, yet tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

He turned to her, his gaze attentive and inviting.

"There's something I've been wanting to tell you," Y/N continued, her eyes meeting his with a mix of hesitation and sincerity. "It's about how I feel."

Daisuke's expression remained composed, yet his eyes held a curious anticipation.

"You've become such an important part of my life," she confessed, her voice steady but filled with emotion. "Your presence brings me a sense of comfort and happiness I've never known before."

She paused, gathering her thoughts before continuing, "I... I think I've developed feelings for you, Detective Kambe."

Silence lingered between them, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Y/N waited with bated breath, uncertain of his reaction.

Daisuke, ever composed, held her gaze with a thoughtful expression, his eyes reflecting a myriad of emotions. His response was measured yet genuine.

"Y/N, your presence in my life has been... unexpected yet profound," he admitted, his tone carrying a hint of vulnerability. "You've brought a sense of joy and understanding that I've come to cherish."

A serene silence settled between them, the twinkling stars overhead providing a gentle backdrop to the vulnerable moment they shared.

Their unspoken feelings hung in the air, a silent understanding passing between them, each aware of the uncharted territory their hearts had entered.

The tranquility of the night enveloped them, the air filled with a sense of vulnerability and anticipation. Y/N's heart raced, unsure of how Daisuke would respond to her confession.

"You've given me a perspective I never knew existed," Daisuke continued, his voice carrying a rare sincerity. "Your passion, your dedication – they've left an indelible mark on me."

He turned his gaze to the star-filled sky, as if searching for the right words amidst the constellations. "Y/N, I believe what we share is... special. Your presence has become an integral part of my life."

A subtle smile graced Y/N's lips, relief and contentment washing over her. The weight of unspoken emotions had found a voice, weaving a connection between them stronger than mere words could convey.

Their eyes met again, a silent understanding passing between them. In the soft glow of the night, under the canopy of stars, a fragile yet beautiful bond had blossomed, built upon shared moments and unspoken emotions.

As they sat in companionable silence, the world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the gentle rustle of leaves and the quiet symphony of their hearts beating in unison.

Their conversations flowed effortlessly, weaving tales of triumphs and tribulations, laying bare the intricacies of their lives. As they walked, the park transformed into a sanctuary where time seemed to stand still, enveloping them in a cocoon of shared moments.

With each step, the distance between them diminished, replaced by an unspoken understanding and a burgeoning connection. Y/N found herself drawn to the enigmatic yet compassionate nature of Daisuke, while he discovered a sense of liberation in her spirited presence.

As they paused by a secluded spot, the quietude of the night enveloped them, their gazes lingering in a shared moment of unspoken emotions. It was amidst the serenity of that night, beneath the star-studded sky, that they realized their hearts had found solace in each other's company.

The gentle breeze carried an unspoken promise, whispering secrets of a future yet to unfold. It was in that moment that they silently acknowledged the depth of their feelings, a silent vow to explore the uncharted territories of their budding relationship.

With a shared smile that spoke volumes, they knew that this moment, amidst the tranquil park and the quietude of the night, would forever remain etched in their hearts.

As they bid each other goodnight, a silent understanding lingered between them, carrying the promise of a new beginning. The park, once a simple backdrop, had now become a witness to the tender beginnings of a love story that transcended boundaries.

[tangentiallly]

telephone booth is a liminal space

Furuya Rei, Kudo Shinichi, and telephone booths.

~1.2k. platonic Furuya & Shinichi.

__

Broadly, the term liminal space is used to describe a place or state of change or transition; this may be physical (e.g. a doorway) or psychological (e.g. the period of adolescence).[3] Liminal space imagery often depicts this sense of "in-between", capturing transitional places (such as stairwells, roads, corridors, or hotels) unsettlingly devoid of people. -- Wikipedia

He stares out of the glass panels at the busy city streets. Regular civilians walking by, on their way to work or some other event. Most of them unaware of the things that go on in the darker side of the society. In a few minutes, he's going to step out of this telephone booth and join them, blending into the crowds perfectly, as if he's just another random civilian in this big city. Then he'll pass through the streets and climb into his car and head over to the nearest organization meetup point and see what Gin and Vermouth need him for today. Once there, he'll become Bourbon.

But right now, in this telephone booth, he does not need to pretend to be Bourbon, nor just some regular civilian. In here, as he talks to his assigned contact to pass on the latest information he collected from the organization, he is Furuya Rei. An identity he'll need to hide immediately, cover under layers of other masks, once he steps out of this phone booth.

Sometimes he feels that seeing the busy streets outside of the phone booth reminds him what he's doing all this for, what he's working so hard for. Infiltrating the organization and committing crimes as an organization member as part of the cover is all part of his mission as a NPA agent. While in the abstract sense, he's doing this for Japan, but abstraction has a way of getting lost. But seeing all the normal civilians living their normal lives, it helps remind him that he's doing it for them, that he's fighting the good fight so that these people can continue to go about their lives peacefully and safely. Blissfully unaware the things that go on in his daily life.

Looking through the glass panels, those people are theoretically just one thin piece of glass away, and yet standing in here feels very far removed from all that sometimes, as if the two spaces are separated by more than just the glass walls of the phone box. As if he's observing them through a telescope.

The truth is, even being in here he doesn't entirely feel he's just Furuya Rei, that he's shed all his other identities. After all, he needs to go back to being those other identities the moment he steps out of here. Plus, he's in here precisely to pass back the information he acquired as Bourbon, so even if he's talking to his contact on the phone as Furuya Rei, in a way he's also still Bourbon. But at least in here, he doesn't need to perform. There is no one else here, just him.

No audience.

His contact is saying something at the other end, and he listens, while continuing to gaze out onto the city streets.

Just a glass panel, yet feels a world away sometimes.

Unbeknownst to him, just as he's facing out in one direction, a middle school detective who would go on to become the famous Heisei Holmes just walked by the telephone booth, passing by the side of the booth he turned his back to.

__

Holding the phone in one hand and grabbing onto his bowtie with another, Edogawa Conan earnestly and apologetically speak into the phone, repeating his usual apologies that sound too overdone even in his own ears. Ran's voice, so worried and concerned as usual, comes from the other end.

"I'm not sure …. it's a pretty complicated case," Edogawa says, although now he's using his original voice - Kudo Shinichi's voice - as he talks to Ran over the phone in this telephone booth. He has to stand on his toes just to reach the height of the phone.

This is where the line of pretense blurs, he thinks. Normally he's a high school student stuck in an elementary school student's body, pretending to be just a regular elementary schooler. But now as he speaks over the phone while changing his voice with the Professor's invention, even if he's talking as himself, Kudo Shinichi, his real and actual identity, the act of using the bowtie to change his voice and being forced to stand on his toes just to reach the phone make him feel like an elementary school student pretending to be a high school student instead.

The difference between the mask and the true identity suddenly feels more ambiguous.

In a way, it's only when he's in a telephone booth a few streets away from the detective agency, talking to her on the phone while changing his voice with the bowtie, that he can be his true self with her. The brief moments where he's allowed to talk to her as Kudo Shinichi, and not as Edogawa Conan.

Once the call is over and he leaves the telephone booth, he has to once again resume his Edogawa Conan identity, playing the role of a regular elementary school student.

This should be the one place he's allowed to let the mask down, a temporary reprieve and be his true self with her.

Theoretically.

As he makes up lies about why he can't go back yet, he can't help but think that he's still pretending, even with his true identity.

So focused on reassuring Ran his safety and that he will "be back as soon as the case is over" but he "has no idea when that will be", Edogawa Conan doesn't notice a man in a black vest and baseball cap quickly walking down the streets, just outside the telephone booth.

__

Furuya ends the call with Kazami, and steps outside of the telephone booth. The sun is just only starting to rise, and there isn't anyone else around at this time of the day, in this area. Exhausted after a whole night's work, he leans against the glass panel of the telephone booth, allowing himself a little bit of rest at a moment when no one else is around.

The sky is cloudless and pale blue. Faraway on the horizon is the sun, about to emerge from the ground. It was still dark when he was talking on the phone in the phone booth earlier, but now the dawn has come.

The dawn always comes, Furuya thinks, staring faraway at the emerging sun. If one waits long enough.

A few minutes later, he sees, from a distance, someone is speeding here on a skateboard. A tiny figure, heading his way, the only thing moving right now on this vast, empty plains.

"Morning, Amuro-san," Edogawa Conan says.

"Hi, Conan-kun."

"Before we go, I just need to make a quick phone call," Edogawa says, then ducks into the telephone booth and closes the door. Furuya sees him adjust his voice changer bowtie.

A minute later, Edogawa Conan steps out of the telephone booth again.

Furuya raises an eyebrow.

"Just letting Ran know as the Professor that he's taken us on a camping trip and we have now arrived on the mountains," Edogawa shrugs.

Furuya rolls his eyes, but decides not to comment on that. "Shall we go to the first witness, then?"

"Of course," Edogawa replies.

They climb into the RX7.

[amanihiphop]

Amani Drops New Experimental Hip-Hop EP: "CAPITAL"

Introduction

Today, August 25th, 2023 marks the unveiling of Amani’s much-anticipated EP, “CAPITAL.” With a unique blend of experimental sounds and profound storytelling, this EP promises to redefine your perception of hip-hop. Let’s dive into the tracks that make up this audacious musical journey — WAKEUP, GIMMEMYMFGRAMMY, and DESIGNATEDVILLAIN — and explore the distinctive essence that each brings to “CAPITAL.”

🟢 Listen on Spotify

🎧 Listen on Apple Music

WAKEUP: Awakening the Senses

The EP kicks off with “WAKEUP,” a track that serves as both an invitation and a proclamation. Amani’s lyrical prowess shines as he intertwines intricate wordplay with an infectious beat. Through its captivating verses and experimental production, “WAKEUP” awakens your senses and sets the tone for the sonic adventure that lies ahead in “CAPITAL.”

GIMMEMYMFGRAMMY: The Pursuit of Excellence

In “GIMMEMYMFGRAMMY,” Amani’s unapologetic confidence takes center stage. The track’s dynamic energy is a testament to his dedication and ambition within the music industry. With verses that exude self-assuredness and a chorus that demands attention, “GIMMEMYMFGRAMMY” encapsulates Amani’s determination to stand out and claim his place in the spotlight.

DESIGNATEDVILLAIN: Unveiling Complexity

“DESIGNATEDVILLAIN” delves into the complexities of identity and perception. Amani’s thought-provoking lyrics explore themes of duality and the multifaceted nature of human experience. The track’s evocative melodies and intricate production create a captivating atmosphere that draws you into Amani’s world, where the lines between hero and villain blur.

A Symphony of Innovation and Authenticity

As you journey through “WAKEUP,” “GIMMEMYMFGRAMMY,” and “DESIGNATEDVILLAIN,” you’ll witness Amani’s commitment to innovation and authenticity. Each track offers a unique glimpse into his creative mind, and collectively, they form the heartbeat of “CAPITAL.” This EP is a testament to Amani’s willingness to defy conventions, explore uncharted territories, and present his audience with a sonic experience that resonates on multiple levels.

Conclusion

“CAPITAL” is not just an EP; it’s an artistic manifesto. Through tracks like “WAKEUP,” “GIMMEMYMFGRAMMY,” and “DESIGNATEDVILLAIN,” Amani challenges the status quo, blurs genre boundaries, and invites listeners to join him on an immersive musical journey. As you listen, allow yourself to be enveloped by the intricate layers of sound, the emotive storytelling, and the unwavering passion that define Amani’s artistry. “CAPITAL” is a testament to his growth, innovation, and determination to leave an indelible mark on the world of music.

🟢 Listen on Spotify

🎧 Listen on Apple Music

[hyperannotation]

Interviewer: Welcome, Kenji Siratori. We would like to discuss your work in relation to three different perspectives. Firstly, Tom Bland's poem titled "I am not @kenjisiratori" raises the question of identity and challenges the notion of being associated with your name. How do you interpret the themes presented in this poem, and what are your thoughts on the exploration of identity?

Kenji Siratori: Thank you for having me. "I am not @kenjisiratori" by Tom Bland is an intriguing piece that delves into the complexities of identity and challenges the association with my name. The poem raises thought-provoking questions about the nature of identity in the digital age, where online personas can often blur the lines between the virtual and the real. It explores the concept of authorship and the interconnectedness of our online and offline selves. Personally, I view this poem as a reflection of the fluidity and malleability of identity in contemporary society. It encourages us to question the authenticity and limitations of self-perception in the digital realm.

Interviewer: Hifumi Nakayama's statement, "To open a collection of Kenji Siratori's poetry, sigh, and repetitively close the book as if not impressed, as if not enlightened, is one of the most sublime behaviors we can imagine in this world." How do you interpret this perspective, and how does it relate to your work as a poet?

Kenji Siratori: Hifumi Nakayama's statement contemplates the act of opening and closing a collection of my poetry without being impressed or enlightened. It presents an intriguing perspective on the profound behavior of non-reaction. In the context of my work, it suggests that the experience of my poetry may not be about seeking immediate understanding or enlightenment. Instead, it invites readers to engage in an open-ended exploration, allowing the words and ideas to permeate their consciousness over time. It challenges conventional notions of what poetry should offer, encouraging a more contemplative and reflective approach to literary appreciation.

Interviewer: Steven Craig Hickman's statement claims that there is nothing truly experimental anymore and that the human era of experimentation is over. He suggests that any attempts at experimentation only retrace the footsteps of previous avant-garde movements. What are your thoughts on this perspective, and how does it relate to your own artistic journey?

Kenji Siratori: Steven Craig Hickman's viewpoint asserts that true experimentation has come to an end and that any contemporary efforts merely retrace past avant-garde movements, albeit with the aid of current technologies. While I understand his perspective, I believe that artistic experimentation is an ever-evolving process that adapts to the shifting paradigms of each era. It is true that the avant-garde movements of the past have laid the groundwork for experimentation today, but it doesn't mean that new possibilities and innovative approaches no longer exist. As an artist, I see my own work as a continuation of the avant-garde spirit, pushing boundaries and exploring new frontiers. While the human era of experimentation may be evolving, I believe that the emergence of posthuman perspectives opens up new avenues for artistic exploration and innovation.

Interviewer: Thank you, Kenji Siratori, for sharing your thoughts on these different perspectives. Your interpretations provide valuable insights into the exploration of identity, the sublime behavior of non-reaction, and the evolving nature of artistic experimentation.

Kenji Siratori: Thank you for the opportunity to discuss these perspectives. It was my pleasure to offer my insights and engage in this dialogue.

[aethergate]

you're met with the sight of a familiar window that, although has collected rust and dirt from multiple years filled with the lack of maintenance, is exactly how you remember it. it's your bedroom's window, the lens into the garden outside. you can't see any green out there, only that it's snowing and the fog hung over it is thick enough to hide any of the city past that frozen scenery. you know there's no town there ( at least not anymore ), but with enough focus, you feel compelled to swear the voices of the kingdom remain, even after the worst storm in the village's long lost history. you're brushing your hair sat at the edge of the bed, tangled vanilla curls separating under your comb. your gaze is locked onto a photo on the nightstand. it's you and it's yours - or was, until he ( or is it you, too? love gets so strong the lines between both of you blurried without salvation at some point ) took what you shared away from you. your fingers flex with strength around the comb, a sharp layer of ice shards now connecting your hand to the object. it matches the ones escaping from the gaps of your lover's empty basement ( his shape is still there, his shape is still there. ) :: ( to luka from vanessa at @peonywell ! )

His breath feels short looking out that window, from a view he once would've considered home. He remembers the many days he'd spend looking out into the garden, both just for the view and as a distraction. Seeing it now, however, only proves to be an unsettling reminder. One of death, symbolized both by the withered foliage outside and the ominous snow creating a barrier between the manor and the rest of the world. He knows what lies beyond the clouded horizon, he's seen it himself, but knowing it was such a short ways out there, enough so that the whispers of the people still plague him.. it ties a tight knot in his stomach.

The way her - some part of him knew it was her even before seeing her comb through her blonde curls - eyes lock on the photo she kept of him sends shivers through him. He recognized it - both from the day it was taken and from the way it never left that nightstand. It's terrifying to him, how her mind blurs the both of them together, erasing the lines between their separate identities. Even now. Even after everything. It feels like being stabbed, knowing how totally he's consumed her - ruined her - even when he'd never meant it.

The shards of ice that stretch from her fingers serve as an unpleasant reminder of just how far she was willing to go for him. Or should he say for herself? He was just something she wanted to keep. Something to love as someone loves an item that brought them comfort, put on a high shelf away from others to be kept perfectly preserved until wanted once more. What he wanted wasn't a priority, all that mattered was keeping her happy. The thought that she still envisioned him chained against that wall, regretting only that he wasn't still there is enough to drag himself out of her thoughts. He isn't sure how exactly he'd seen them in the first place, but the brief glance was enough for him.

[theotakufiles]

Devilman Manga

In a world where humans and demons coexist in secret, Akira Fudo is an ordinary high school student. But when his best friend, Ryo Asuka, reveals that demons are plotting to take over the world, Akira is thrust into a battle he never saw coming.

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However, the line between good and evil soon blurs as Akira witnesses the depths of human depravity alongside demonic cruelty. Will he be able to resist succumbing to darkness himself or will he become the very thing he's fighting against?

Emotional and intense, Devilman explores complex themes such as identity, morality, love, and sacrifice. With stunning animation and heart-pounding action sequences, this gripping series delves into the darkest corners of humanity while questioning what truly makes someone a monster. Brace yourself for an exhilarating journey through the shadows—because not all demons wear horns.

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[hairtusk]

Hi! Sorry if this is a weird question, feel free to ignore it. I thought to find to you because you are always level-headed and insightful in your literary analysis and I could use some help. I recently found out about Anne Sexton and the abuse she perpetrated against her daughter. I deeply love her as an author but now I don’t know how to reconcile this fact with how meaningful her work is to me. How do you do it? Do you have any suggestion? Thank you so much in advance. I love your blog.

Hello! Firstly, I'd like to thank you for how polite this ask is. Generally, people come into my inbox with all guns blazing at the mention of a controversial writer - this was genuinely a breath of fresh air.

Secondly, your question isn't a weird one at all, I promise - this was something I used to struggle with very deeply a few years ago.

I found out about the actions of Anne Sexton the very same day that I bought her collected works of poetry. Due to this, my perception of her work has always been coloured through this lense. At this time, I was quite mournful about this. Now, I think it was a blessing, because it taught me something very important.

In the western, Christian-influenced artistic tradition, we have an association between beauty and morality. A beautiful person is inherently a good person. A creator of beautiful art, therefore, must also be a morally good person, to have the capability to produce such work. Additionally, in the past decade or so, there has been a huge fixation on identity and biography when it comes to artists. Who a writer is as a person must heavily influence their work - it must be drawn from their life, from their morals, from their emotions. Poetry especially is relegated to a non-art; it becomes a memoir, true to life.

One of the most important things I've done as a reader in the last few years is to unlearn these internalised biases I held when it came to literature. The subjects and themes a writer tackles in their work are not reflective of the writer as a person. They are an artist, working on a craft, not a person in a confession booth. They are a flawed human being, not an untouchable angel being sang to by the muses. Keeping this in mind is imperative when I read literature these days.

Additionally, I've tried to be very careful about attaching affection to artists and celebrities because I am fond of their work. It's an old cliché, but an artist is not their work. They are separate entities. In the age of social media, when we have the-artist-as-consumable-product, the fictional protagonist as a mirror for the reader to project themselves onto, this line becomes blurred. It can still be blurry for me, even now. However, literary critical thinking asks us only to recognise that while a writer may inflict their flaws onto their work (i.e., a writer's prejudices making themselves known in their texts), they are, ultimately, entirely distinct from one another. We can love the work that an artist has created while recognising its flaws, and recognising that its creator was not someone we admire.

When everything is said and done, Anne Sexton is dead. She has been dead for nearly fifty years. Buying her books does not fund to her life, allowing her to continue the abuse she perpetuated. She does not continue to win awards. We can acknowledge that she created valuable, and beautiful, works of literature, while at the same time respecting her victim and listening to her story. We have to hold both of these things to be true at the same time, in order to have a clear picture of her. Moral purity is not something we can expect from any living human being. Writers are human: they can be admired for the work they create, but it isn't helpful to us or to them to place them on a pedestal.

[rockislandadultreads]

Fiction to Check Out: Melancholy Picks

Strange Beasts of China by Yan Ge, Jeremy Tiang (Translator)

From one of the most exciting voices in contemporary Chinese literature, an uncanny and playful novel that blurs the line between human and beast … In the fictional Chinese city of Yong’an, an amateur cryptozoologist is commissioned to uncover the stories of its fabled beasts. These creatures live alongside humans in near-inconspicuousness—save their greenish skin, serrated earlobes, and strange birthmarks. Aided by her elusive former professor and his enigmatic assistant, our narrator sets off to document each beast, and is slowly drawn deeper into a mystery that threatens her very sense of self. Part detective story, part metaphysical enquiry, Strange Beasts of China engages existential questions of identity, humanity, love and morality with whimsy and stylistic verve.

The Women of Pearl Island by Polly Crosby

Set on a secluded island off the British coast, The Women of Pearl Island is a moving and evocative story of family secrets, natural wonders and a mystery spanning decades. When Tartelin answers an ad for a personal assistant, she doesn't know what to expect from her new employer, Marianne, an eccentric elderly woman. Marianne lives on a remote island that her family has owned for generations, and for decades her only companions have been butterflies and tightly held memories of her family. But there are some memories Marianne would rather forget, such as when the island was commandeered by the British government during WWII. Now, if Marianne can trust Tartelin with her family's story, she might finally be able to face the long-buried secrets of her past that have kept her isolated for far too long.

Somebody Loves You by Mona Arshi

A teacher asked me a question, and I opened my mouth as a sort of formality but closed it softly, knowing with perfect certainty that nothing would ever come out again. Ruby gives up talking at a young age. Her mother isn’t always there to notice; she comes and goes and goes and comes, until, one day, she doesn’t. Silence becomes Ruby’s refuge, sheltering her from the weather of her mother’s mental illness and a pressurized suburban atmosphere. Plangent, deft, and sparkling with wry humour, Somebody Loves You is a moving exploration of how we choose or refuse to tell the stories that shape us.

Life Among the Terranauts by Caitlin Horrocks

Following her “marvelous” (Wall Street Journal) first novel, Caitlin Horrocks returns with a much-anticipated collection of short stories. In her signature, genre-defying style, she explodes our notions of what a story can do and where it can take us. Life Among the Terranauts demonstrates all the inventiveness that won admirers for Horrocks’s first collection. In “The Sleep,” reprinted in Best American Short Stories, residents of a town in the frigid Midwest decide to hibernate through the bitter winters. In the title story, half a dozen people move into an experimental biodome for a shot at a million dollars, if they can survive two years. And in “Sun City,” published in The New Yorker, a young woman meets her grandmother’s roommate in the wake of her death and attempts to solve the mystery of whether the two women were lovers. As the Boston Globe noted of her first collection, Horrocks is a master of “wild yet delicately handled satire,” a “sprightly heartbreak” in which she is able to “mingle a note of tenderness in the desolation.” With its startling range—from Norwegian trolls to Peruvian tour guides—Life Among the Terranauts once again dazzles readers, cementing Horrocks’s reputation as one of the premier young writers of our time.

[noir-wanderer]

14 ASSOCIATIONS — YIUNO REINE.

[ tags || roleplay | answers | gpose | aesthetics ]

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN. The Spear. In Astromancy, this constellation is the sixth gate of the Lesser Heavens, often associated with the element of Ice. This is the reverse of the Elemental Wheel, where Ice is the first order in the cycle of Creation. It is said that “the Fury (Halone) resides in a palace of ice carved by Her own spear—ice formed of moonbeams collected by the Lover, Menphina.” As the final gate to open before the seventh, whereby attuning to the latter is equivalent to a dying wish, it is the last stand where one will be filled with the power to overcome their enemies, and gain the compassion necessary to show mercy to their foes.

ELEMENT. Ice and Fire. In Thaumaturgy, balancing duality—of life and death—forms the basic foundation in this school of magic. While the two elements are of opposing nature, in the hands of an accomplished spell-caster, they can be turned into terrifying forces of destruction. Being the last direct disciple of the great Mhachi sorceress Shatotto, Yiuno is not a mage to be trifled with. Though he often hides his potent magical talent and sticks to his trusty blades to get his work done, those who are highly sensitive to aether may suffer sickness just by being around him for too long.

GEMSTONE. Alexandrite is an interesting gemstone known for its color-changing properties under different types of polarized light, which reflects the many faces that Yiuno wears under different circumstances. To the public’s eye, an average adventurer and humble alchemist wandering from place to place. To those more acquainted with the arcane arts, a treasure hunter of ancient and dangerous artifacts. In the underworld, a ruthless assassin who pretends to be a beautiful ‘courtesan’ and seduces his targets into Death’s embrace.

NUMBER. Three. Yiuno has a twin sister, Yiuna; his alter ego, Yiune, is a feminine disguise he employs for his assassination jobs (long story short, it later becomes an actual form he can shapeshift into). However, back in the Amaurotine era, these three were originally a family of triplets.

COLOR. Monochrome—specifically black and white—is both a fitting and an ironic theme to Yiuno. On one hand, he embodies duality given his two-faced nature, and also the contrast between his public image and secret identity. On the other hand, he mainly thrives in the gray area—a Chaotic Neutral at heart.

FLORA. Antirrhinum, more commonly known as Snapdragon or Dragon Flower, is one of those flowers with double meanings. On one hand, it symbolizes grace, strength and protection, which are some of the positive traits that Yiuno possesses. On the other hand, it also represents indifference and deception, bringing out the darker, negative side of Yiuno.

FAUNA. Strix. According to in-game description: “A guardian bound to the Rare Tomes Room on the highest floor of the Great Gubal Library. Similar to skatenes, Strix is an owl which has been enchanted with heightened intelligence. Strix’s comparatively vast intellect, however, grants the creature command over spells of formidable potency.”

SEASON. Autumn and Winter. Autumn, of falling leaves and a fiery but sorrowful palette, a season where time starts to slow down as daytime becomes shorter. Winter, of falling snow that paints the landscape white, a season where time comes to a standstill and dangers lurk in the shadows of the long, long night.

TIME OF THE DAY. Dawn and Dusk. Less about the exact time of the day, but more about the changes in time that happen at that very moment—representing the shift Yiuno would experience in his life. Be it his gender identities, or the blurred lines between a blessing and curse to his immortality… It’s like the two sides of the same coin: the difference is all but a matter of perspectives. The real test is how he acts upon those perspectives.

PLACE. Though there are a few locations that may appear to be synonymous with how others would perceive Yiuno, such as libraries and graveyards, I’d say the most accurate association would be the labyrinth. Filled with many twists and turns at every corner, much like Yiuno’s long and complicated life—or, his dark and troubled mind.

SMELL. It’s really hard to pin down a specific aroma for Yiuno, partly because masking his true scent is something he pays attention to as a master of disguise. To some, he’d give off the fragrance of a finely aged red wine, brimming with wisdom and dry humor; to others, he’d probably smell like walking death, counting down to their impeding doom under his bloodied blades.

FOOD. Royal Eggs. However, given his wandering lifestyle and the need to stay undercover most of the time, he doesn’t have the luxury to eat this all the time. He has since come to view this as a self-reward on rare occasions he gets the chance to enjoy a royal meal in a quiet inn room.

BEVERAGE. Espresso con Panna, with double shot. Yiuno is a huge caffeine addict, and this is the only in-universe drink that can sate his obsession with coffee.

SONG. “Nageki no Oto” (EN. Song of Lamentation), by KOKIA. A song about war and loss, which is very fitting given Yiuno’s darkly colorful past.