#i hope he is not an unstable individual that could possibly trap me into my own computer

[zul-e]

Kinito doodles!

#digital art #kinitopet #kinito fanart #kinito the axolotl #pokemon art academy #nintendo 3ds #what a cute lil guy #i hope he is not an unstable individual that could possibly trap me into my own computer

[maxphilippa]

Beware of HybridAlex17.

CW: Guilt-tripping, Suicide Baiting, Manipulation, Stalking, Identity Theft, Death Threats. Please read this. It is very important.

Hello, I usually don't make these type of posts, but lately I've been too stressed to even be here on Tumblr due to a certain individual in The Lego Movie Fandom. And that person is @/HybridAlex17.

Weeks ago, I decided to cut ties with this person on a calm way due to the fact that I genuinely couldn't keep the friendship going on any longer. Truth is that this friendship made me feel like I was trapped.

I'm in no way invalidating his trauma and suffering, and of course, I will always try to help my friends in times of need, but Alex constantly needed me to "comfort him" and basically be there for him all of the time, making me responsible of his emotions since he's an very unstable person "who would think of the worst case scenario happening to me" if I didn't told him what I was doing at the moment. Of course, friendships are meant to work through bad and good times. But there's moments where you should realize that you have limits. I had mine.

And I couldn't possibly just stay any longer in a relationship where it felt like I had to take care of someone. That's not what I'm looking for. It never was. I felt unsafe and constantly scared about what he could do to himself if I said the wrong thing, as he was constantly feeling bad about everything. And call me what you want, but I realized that, I do not want to be there. But even then, I didn't have any hard feelings towards him. I genuinely wished him the best and to get better, but I couldn't be there to see that change. My mental health mattered. So I spoke to him very calmly about it, reassuring him that I do not hate him and I just wanted to cut our ties peacefully.

(At the moment, I censored his name to protect his identity. This was before I blocked him.)

Then, in reply, he guilt-tripped me, wishing that I never met him, that he died that one time, that this never happened, and everything. Despite me having high hopes for him to actually react properly, he didn't. So I ended up blocking him in all of his accounts and just calling it a day, because I didn't want to think of it. Sounds pretty fair by now, right?

Well, the story does not end there. Some more days later, he would then tag me on a PUBLIC POST (because he couldn't just DM me, I guess), apologizing for taking it too personally and for everything in spanish. I spoke to my friends about this at the moment because I really didn't feel like it was genuine. You would never post an apology towards someone unless you would want them to feel pressured to reply to you, right? Well then, because he did this already MORE THAN ONE TIME with me. I blocked him because I really didn't want to deal with it. It was tiring and I was hoping that he would just give up.

(This account of his does no longer exist.)

But then, here comes the impersionation thing. Three days ago, my friends sent me an blog that was weirdly similar to mine. Lucy icon and the description, eh, ya' know. Very fucking basic. And look at the URL. A mix of the words Max and Philippa but changed to spell Philippines.

And if that does not convince you, then take a look at this post.

"Android Emmet AU".

I swear to fucking God.

You guys might or might not know that I'm the creator of the Android Rex AU, I created it on June 22 of the past year, being the second AU I've ever made. So he didn't only just made a weird puppet of me to pretend that we're still friends, he's STEALING THE WHOLE THING AND TRYING TO MAKE OTHERS THINK THAT IT IS AN ACCOUNT OF MINE.

But seriously though. Come on. He's not fooling anyone. It's an pathetic imitation of who I am, of what can I do. He's acting like he knows me enough, but he never even tried to. He could never replace me. He will never get me back. And he knows it. He knows it so well.

Yesterday, it was my birthday. Of course, it was a great day for me. But various anonymus asks came in for me then. The first ones were kind ones, but then, there were some that straight up wished that I was never born and that I died! And hey! Not to assume! But that was Alex in different accounts! Because he literally stopped once I turned the anonymus off and one of my friends stood up for me!

And you can see this by scrolling through my blog just a bit!

And once he realized that he fucked up, because they thought that this friend of mine didn't have any relation with me (despite the fact that I do have posts where I drew their guys), he blocked them and "apologized". Can't even take responsability for such a messed up thing.

And he just didn't stop there. Wishing me death? Expected it. But how did he know that it was my birthday? Because I blocked him before I ever publically told it. And that's when it hit me. An alt account. And someone sent me a post in which he drew Android Rex and Joseph, two of the main characters of my AU for my birthday, saying that he wishes the best for me and stuff.

I never fucking told you when my birthday was. You could have never possibly known unless you were stalking me over an account. You use alternative accounts to boost your own art and don't even try to deny it. People will realize once they take a look. So many empty accounts. Instead of moving on and just fucking accepting that I cut ties with you because you made me feel scared of even entering this app, and learning from your mistakes, you're being a fucking creepy man. And don't deny it. You've done this to a bunch of people here. My close friends were affected by your shit.

And I know that you're going to see this.

And just so you know, since you crave my attention so fucking much to the point where you created a fake account that was "me" so you could still think that nothing happened, let me tell you something.

I was never angry at you. I stated that I wanted to cut ties because I couldn't be in such a toxic relationship. I respected you as a person. But then you tried to make me feel bad about my choice. About everything I do. Because that's what you're good for. Is this how you treat your friends? Because Good Lord. Seeing your true colors makes me think that we were never really friends since the start.

And even then? I'm not angry at you.

I'm disappointed.

And I already hit my favor quota on saying this in the most harmless of ways possible, but I'm feeling generous. So. Like. Have some dignity, would you? Don't be an asshole. Move on. I already did.

I hoped that you would move on. But you never learn anything, do you? You said how much you cared about me back then. I guess death treats, constantly stalking someone, and impersonating them is your way to care.

I will never be your friend.

And to those who read this post, please, do not harass HybridAlex17. As much damage he has done, he's not worth it. What I would be thankful of is that you guys report the fake account he made of me, since I can't do it myself. And let others know about him and his doings.

If you're a friend of HybridAlex17, then I'm deeply sorry. I do not have any hard feelings towards you, but I would rather not interact with anyone who is.

And with this, I'm done. Take care, all of you.

#max speaks #beware of #please reblog so more people can know about this

[dreamii-yume]

im weak for scenarios where the boys lust after a teacher!reader. Epel's the sort of boy that'd use his adorable looks to make her lower her guard and then..you know ;) ;)

I am equally as weak too, Darling (╥﹏╥) I can feel it in my KNEES.

Warnings : Non-Consensual Touching | Yandere | Toxic Manipulation | One-sided Teacher-Student Relationship

He’ll definitely pull that one stunt he did in Chapter five where he pretends to be all vulnerable and weak just so he could take advantage of Darling’s weakness.

Like— Yume can definitely see Apple boi purposely failing his class to catch Sensei Darling’s attention. It’ll either be you who approaches him about it or Epel himself if he’s impatient enough. With just a few tears and pitiful sniffs here and there, Darling Sensei will instantly be alert and comfort him about it. He’ll eventually get you to teach him afterschool, going to your office sometimes unannounced and becoming a full-blown teacher’s pet. He’ll listen to you talk religiously with a beautiful smile that never leaves his face, and even asking for a few questions just so he could scoot closer to you and feel your skin against his.

This behavior would only get worse in the time of his birthday as of course, you’d be invited but oddly enough— I don’t see Epel doing anything DURING the party. The real time where this boy shines his desires is right AFTER the celebration where he’ll personally invite you to his room. You’d have no choice on the matter, he was begging for you to come and teach him that one principle in alchemy since he has an exam next week! Maybe it’s just your teacher’s intuition and morals, but you just can’t ignore a struggling student, especially on his birthday. So, you get in his room, noticing subtle details like how neat and quiet it is as his roommates where nowhere to be found, but not noticing how Epel had to cover his mouth to hide an excited smile as he swiftly locked the door with a silent click.

You don’t know when or how, but you would soon notice that this little study session doesn’t seem as...normal as before. For one thing, Epel doesn’t seem to be listening to you anymore and with his cheeks resting on his palm, you initially thought that he was becoming sleepy. But when you were about to call it a day, you instantly noticed how much his eyes were burning into you. He’d smile like before once you started to call out for him, but it was obvious that there is definitely something off about him. “Sensei, are you going already?” He’d ask as soon as he noticed a shift in your breath, his tone disappointed with his eyebrows scrunching together in sadness.

You gulped, knowing how weak you are when it comes to a student’s puppy eyes. “Yes, but maybe we can continue this tomorrow? You should get some rest.” This was when you started realizing how rushed you sounded like, your tone of voice was too similar to someone who just wants to leave this place as soon as possible. You sincerely hoped Epel didn’t notice, but of course, it didn’t seem to escape him at all as he placed a hand over yours as soon as you tried to stand up from your seat.

“You’re leaving...? Already?” He’ll pout his lips, eyes shining as if tears were about to come out soon. “But we still haven’t gotten to that part yet, Sensei.”

Now, that got you confused. Part? What part? You’d rack your head for what he was talking about and how that confusion shows upon your expression so clearly just...amuses Epel to the core. I feel like this would be the point where he wouldn’t be able to keep up the weak boy facade anymore and lets out a condescending snort, still trying to cover his mouth. “Cute.” He’d say, which would instantly catch you off-guard as chills ran up your spine. But whether he slips up or not in that moment doesn’t matter, all you need to know is that he’s prepared for it and now that you’re in his room, you’re not leaving until you give him that one present that only you can give.

He’ll trap you; he won’t even let you move an inch from where you’re seated and you wouldn’t be able to because he’ll move faster than you can expect. Capturing your lips before you could even think was his first move, putting his hand on each of your shoulder to keep your body down and viciously attack you with his tongue. You’d probably widen your eyes and try to move away, struggle, or anything that can get you out of this dangerous situation but Epel knows how to use the advantage he has. He knows how you won’t hit or use magic against him because that’s not the kind of person you are, you won’t ever hit a precious student of yours. The whole world will judge you for it, and your pride wouldn’t allow that.

But still, you’d be understandably dumbfounded by what happened and Epel will absolutely take advantage of that, giggling ever so elegantly to mesmerize you even more. “The truth is...I’ve liked you for a long time now, Sensei.” He confesses, a line that he obviously had practiced over and over again as he takes off his suit and unbuttons each one skillfully. “That’s why, I want you to continue taking good care of me.”

You can’t protest, not when he begins to sit on your lap in a reverse manner, seductively wrapping his arms around your shoulder. You gulped as nervous sweat forms on your forehead, scared to how outsiders might perceive a student like Epel clinging into such a dangerous position with his teacher. You can tell him to stop or get off, still trying to be as professional as you can but the only response he gives you are those small, wet kisses on your cheeks and lips. Epel has no intention of hearing you out, shutting you up by indulging in your lips deep once again but this time his hands travels your body, slowly pulling your outfit down to reveal some skin. He’ll grab the hand that was pushing him away and guide them towards his chest and down to a more...dangerous place where a teacher like you should never touch.

You’ll panic because of this, trying to pull your hand away from his crotch, but his grip was awfully strong and tight. One that you never would expect someone as fragile-looking and feeble as Epel to have. “Hey, Sensei...You’ll help, won’t you? You’ll take care of me, right?” Epel asked again and just when you could describe his eyes to be that of an innocent fawn, his expression suddenly twists into that of a smug individual. “I mean...You have to, right?”

It was as if he just couldn’t keep up the act anymore, his voice deepened to a lower volume, giving it a sardonic feel upon reaching your ears. “You’re...already touching me this much, Sensei.” He said in a sickeningly sweet tone, a blush was painted across his cheeks but he was clearly mocking you for falling for such a cheap act. He leaned forward once again, wrapping one hand around your neck with a wide, egoistical grin on his face. Lovesick eyes burned deep into you with no intention of letting you go any time soon, an expression that made you sweat profusely that you just can’t help but gulp in response. “...Aren’t teachers supposed to be the to take responsibility for their own students?”

“Hey, Sensei...Isn’t that just the right thing to do?” He whispered as he was quick to clear out the evil in his face and brought out the good boy persona that you were so used to. But now that you have met his other side, you can’t help but feel how just as unstable this side of him as the other one...It wouldn’t even be a full stretch to say that this superficial expression might be the one who’s even more dangerous. “Sensei...Please teach me.”

“What do you really want to do?”

#twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland #epel felmier #yandere epel felmier #yandere #Birthday Crumbs (Epel)

[siriuslyobsessedwith]

Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger: Nightmares

They are about three months into dating, still in the early stages of testing each other’s boundaries and asking guiding questions when Hermione sleeps over at Draco’s apartment for the first time

Stumbling through the door after a casual night out, their hands are on each other in a millisecond: Draco threads his fingers through her curls while she grins into his lips; Hermione’s hands slide up his neck and her legs straddle his waist and they tumble through the apartment and into his bedroom and the night progresses

Neither of them think to mention their nightmares before they fall asleep tangled into each other. Burgeoning love has a way of doing that to people, of turning normally careful, disciplined individuals soft with happiness and safety.

But the nightmares have come for both of them for years. Draco’s began the summer after 5th year when his father was in Azkaban and Voldemort set up his court in his home. For the first time in his life, he felt helpless, terrified, and, above all, alone. His father was gone and he felt the responsibility of protecting his mother in every waking moment. At night, he failed over and over and over again.

Now, however, his nightmares are of him failing everyone he loves and having to watch them die. But they are also of his very real failures, of watching his now-girlfriend scream and contort under his aunt’s curse, of watching his mother be punished for his inability to kill.

Hermione’s nightmares start the same time. She dreams of the curse she was struck with in the Department of Mysteries, of the cruel twist of the Death Eater’s wand as he sent the bright light toward her. As the danger becomes more imminent, her nightmares change to watching herself make a mistake that costs her friends their lives. She, too, lives with a constant burden of saving everyone. At night, she watches everyone die, and then wakes screaming as she too is punished for her failure.

After Malfoy Manor and the Battle of Hogwarts, however, her nightmares change. They are less visual, more visceral. She feels Greyback’s breath down the back of her neck, the lightning strike of each Crucio. She can hear the screams of Mrs. Weasley over Fred’s body and the whimpers of Lavender Brown in the Great Hall. She is surrounded by horror through all her senses but sight. Through it all, she can see nothing. She is helpless, lost, and in the dark.

They both wake up from nightmares differently. Draco convulses as the green light inevitably jets towards him or his mother or his father and his eyes snap open, and for a moment he is paralyzed with horror. His breath come in frantic puffs and his hands clench into fists. He lays stiff, eyes wide and staring, his mind willing his body to respond. But for a moment, he is trapped, unable to do anything but try to breath.

Hermione wakes up screaming every time. She bolts upright and her cheeks are crying and she has to hold herself to calm down, calm down, calm down. After the war, she took to putting silencing charms on her room when she was staying with the Weasley’s. The first night she forgot was the first day she started looking for her own apartment. The pity and pain in everyone’s eyes the next morning was worse for her than any nightmare.

Even though they are both nestled into the other, safe and happy and hopeful for the first time in a while, their nightmares still find them. Hermione wakes first, screaming and stuffing the sheets into her mouth in an attempt to muffle her cries. She buries her head into her knees and shakes and sobs as silently as she can. She didn’t want him to think she was so broken anymore. And she can’t possibly see the same pity in his eyes. That would break her forever.

Draco is an incredibly light sleeper, so he is slammed out of watching her scream at his home to watch her sob in his bed. For a moment he is still paralyzed, at once trying to calm himself down and trying to make himself move. He’s furious at himself for being so weak and so trapped that he can’t comfort her. For a solid minute he is trapped and just has to watch her sob and heave and tremble and god he swears it’s worse than any nightmare.

When his body lets him move again, he reaches out for her, threading his hand around her back and pulling her to him. She jumps, turning wide eyes to him that seem to search for something. He holds her gaze, and they communicate silently for a bit. Sometimes words don’t work.

I hear you, he thinks to her. I’m here and I don’t want you to be alone.

I’m sorry, she thinks to him. I’m sorry you have to see me like this and I’m sorry I’m too lost in my nightmare to help you with yours. 

I have nightmares too, they both think. We are both so broken, it’s almost funny.

Is their shared suffering beautiful? Maybe it’s not, but understanding without pity is something neither of them had every truly hoped for before this. They say a million important things just with their eyes, and then, in silent agreement, Hermione nestles herself into Draco and they fall into an uneasy but nonetheless comforting sleep. Hermione, lulled by the sound of Draco’s heart while he counts her breaths and watches her face, gradually dips into sleep.

They don’t mention the unspeakable. That their nightmares are opposite and the same. That he dreams of doing nothing while she suffers, and she dreams of the terrifying, impossible pain and the memory of being utterly helpless.

When Hermione wakes up to the sound of the coffee maker, she startles a bit, realizing that she isn’t in her own flat. And then she remembers last night. The spot in the bed next to her is cold, and she bunches the covers up over her chest as she shivers. 

She tiptoes out of bed, rustling through his drawers to find a t-shirt of his to wear, and attempts to wrangle her sleep-ruined hairdo from the night before into something kind of ok. When she tiptoes out of the room, she imagines she is leaving the nightmares behind. She catches him in the kitchen, humming to himself as he makes coffee just the way she likes it, and she smiles at him because this man, without the burdens of the world, is all hers. 

And then she remembers. And she’s guilty and angry and sad and worried. He heard that scream, watched her heave and shake and try to remember it’s over, it’s over, it’s not real. There’s no way he will look at her the same. The acceptance of last night was temporary, a necessity of two sleep-deprived war survivors.

“Granger, don’t you know it’s rude to stare? And a bit creepy, if I’m being honest.”

She’s startled out of her thoughts by a steaming cup of coffee and cream and she looks up and his eyes are full of understanding. Not pity. Understanding and promise. For a moment she thinks they are just not going to talk about it (and if she’s completely honest, she could live with that), but he proves her wrong, just as he has so many times before. 

“Nightmares, huh,?” he quips, eyes boring in to her without apology. “Every night?”

“Yes,” she whispers. 

“Always the same?”

“Yes. You too?”

“Yes. Do you--,” he pauses, hand worrying the back of his neck. “Do you want to...talk about it?” His eyes are hesitant, as though there is an invisible line he knows he can’t cross. 

“Not really,” she murmurs. “Do you?”

“No.”

They pause in silence for a moment. He’s thinking of how he can possibly comfort her if she doesn’t want to talk and then condemning himself for thinking she would ever want to talk to him about it. She’s imagining all the things he’s thinking, that she blames him or that she hates him or that she’ll never forgive him. 

They’ve never broached the subject of that night. He’s told her of everything he did to protect his family and stay alive, and she’s told him about the months on the run, of the months without Ron. But they’ve never talked about Malfoy Manor. 

At the very same time, they speak: “I’m sorry.” and “I never blamed you.” at the same time, and then terrified eyes lost in each other’s gaze. 

Hermione’s never been one for difficult emotions. She starts laughing, giggling at first and he’s looking at her like she is unstable and insane and she’s choking on how insane this all is and how did they find each other. 

“We are,” she breaks off, interrupted by another chain of giggles, “We are quite a pair, Malfoy. However did we find each other?”

Nothing else needs to be said. They find comfort in the unspoken: touches, eye contact, acts of kindness, protectiveness. They don’t need to talk about things they desperately want to leave behind them. 

“Well, Granger, I believe you burst into my compartment looking for a toad some years ago.”

“And you were an utter arse for the next 7 years.”

“And then you became obsessed with me. And of course I pitied you, so here we are,” he smirks, knowing he’s bought himself a thorough chastisement. 

He doesn’t expect his witch to launch herself into his arms, to place her soft lips on his in a touch that says everything and nothing. 

And their nightmares don’t define them. Maybe they’ll talk about them, maybe they won’t. They won’t let the darkness of before taint the dreams they have for the future. The dreams of something that might be, something that could be, some future that links them together. 

#dramione #dramionefic #dramione fic #angst #nightmares #postwar #draco #draco malfoy #dramione fluff #draco lucius malfoy #hermione granger #harry #ron #draco and hermione #bellatrix lestrange #narcissa #malfoy #malfoy manor #granger #harry and ron and hermione #Hermione Malfoy #domestic dramione #ptsd #battle of hogwarts

[sarita-daniele]

Hi, angel! Hope you're doing alright 💓 (hola ángel! También hablo español :) ) I was wondering if you could give some advices in starting out in an arts career?

Hola amigx, ¡perdón que nunca vi tu mensajito! I’m not on my Tumblr very often and definitely forget to check my messages. Luckily my favorite causita @luthienne told me you’d messaged me! 

I don’t know what arts discipline you’re in, so feel free to let me know if the advice I have doesn’t apply to you (and ignore it!). There are so many ways to build an arts career, but I’m happy to share some things I’ve learned through trial and error along the way. 

(Outrageously long post below break!)

Educate yourself in arts technique, but also study widely. 

Techniques are important in art, but only as important as the concepts behind them. When I was younger, I wowed people by drawing near-photographic portraits, but that technical talent and skill alone couldn’t make me a professional artist. Memorable artwork has not just a how, but a why. It isn’t just the object but the story behind the object, and the meaning of the object in the world. Art is about what interests you, what makes you think, what you most value and want to change in this world. So as you build an arts career, learn the techniques behind drawing, woodworking, casting, writing, music-making, whatever your discipline is, but take time, if you can, to also study history, sociology, anthropology, ecology, linguistics, politics, or whatever else you’re drawn to conceptually. Study as widely as you can. 

The studio art program I went through (a public university in the US) was very technique-forward; we signed up for classes according to technique, like printmaking or small metals, learned those techniques, completed technique-based assignments. Then I did a one-term exchange at arts university in the UK that was very concept-forward. We had no technical courses, just exhibition deadlines, and what mattered in critique was the concept. Both of these schools had their strengths and flaws, but what I learned was that, to be a practicing artist, I needed both technique and concepts that I genuinely cared about and could stand behind. If I could go back and change anything, I would probably take fewer studio courses (after graduating, I couldn’t afford access to a wood shop, metal shop, or expensive casting materials, and lost many of those skills) and more courses in sociology, Latin American studies, linguistics, ecology, anthropology, etc., because my artwork today centers on social justice, racial justice, Latinx stories and histories, educational access and justice, the politics of language, and community ethics. 

And please know that whenever I talk about seeking an education, I’m not talking solely about institutional spaces. College career tracks in the arts (BFA, MFA, etc., much less high-cost conservatory programs) are not accessible to everyone and aren’t the only way to establish an arts career. You can study technique and learn about the world using any educational space accessible to you: nonprofits that offer programming in your community, online resources, Continuing Education programs. And of course, self-education: read as much as you possibly can!

Know the value of your story. 

I come from a Cuban/Peruvian family and grew up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA. My father’s family fled political violence surrounding the Cuban Revolution and came to the U.S. when he was a teenager. My mother was born in Brooklyn to Peruvian parents on work visas and moved back to Lima in her childhood. I grew up with these two cultures present and deeply embedded in our household, in our language, our food, our sense of humor, our sense of history. And yet, some residual assimilation trauma still affected me. I drifted towards the most American things, the whitest things, English authors and Irish music, in part because I enjoyed them but also because those were the things I saw valued in society. I wanted to fit in, wanted to be unique but not different, wanted to prove that I could navigate all spaces. The reality of marginalized identities in America is that our country tells us our identities are only valuable when they can be seen as exotic, while still kept inferior to the dominant, white American narrative (note that this “us” is a general statement, not meant to make assumptions about how you identify or what country you live in). 

But as an artist, all I have is my story, and who I am. I wasn’t willing to look at it directly. For years, I avoided doing so. It turns out, though, that I couldn’t actually begin my career until I reckoned with myself and learned to value everything about myself. To fully acknowledge my story, my history, my cultural reality, my sense of language, and my privileges. So I encourage young artists to look always inward, to ask questions about themselves, their families, and what made them who they are. 

The reason for doing this is to understand the source from which you make art.  Sometimes, however, for marginalized artists, the world warps this introspection into a trap, pigeonholing us into making art only “about” our identities, because that work is capital-I-Important to white audiences who want to tokenize our traumas. This is the white lens, and if anything, I try to understand myself as deeply as I can so that I can make art consciously for my community, not for that assumed white audience. 

Know that your career doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s, or like anything you’ve envisioned up to this point. 

As a high schooler I imagined that a life in the arts meant me in a studio, drawing and making, selling my work, getting exhibitions near and far, and gaining recognition. It was a solitary vision, one with a long history in the arts, rooted in the idea of individual genius. My career ended up completely different. Today, my arts projects involve teaching, collaborating, collecting interviews and oral histories, and creating public installations, rarely in traditional galleries or museums. 

As you work towards an arts career, figure out what does and doesn’t work for you: the kind of art you like and don’t like, the kinds of spaces that feel comfortable and those that don’t. I always thought I wanted to be part of traditional galleries, so I got a job working in a high-end art gallery in Boston during my grad program. Once in that space, however— even though I found the space calming and the work beautiful— I realized that there was something that I deeply disliked about the commodified art world. I didn’t like that we were selling art for over $10,000, that our exhibitions were geared exclusively towards collectors and wealthy art-buyers. The work was often technically masterful, but didn’t move or connect with me on a deeper level, and I realized that was because it wasn’t creating any change in the world. I liked work that shifted the needle, that made the world more inclusive and equitable, that centered marginalized stories (that gallery represented 90% white artists). I liked artwork that people made together, which drew me to collaborative art. I liked artwork that was accessible to everyone, not just the wealthy, which drew me to public art. I liked art exhibited in non-institutional spaces, which led me to community spaces. Since I was in an MFA for Creative Writing, I liked interdisciplinary art that engaged performance, technology, text, that was participatory and not just a 2D or 3D object. Figuring out all of these things led me to apply to my first major arts job: as a teaching artist in a community nonprofit that made art for social change in collaboration with local youth, in a predominantly Latinx neighborhood. 

My career path didn’t look like anything I expected, but I love it. The bulk of my income comes from teaching creative writing and art classes for nonprofits, working as a core member of a public arts nonprofit, and freelance consulting for book manuscripts. I love being an educator and consider it part of my creative practice. I love that I’m constantly collaborating with and talking to other artists. I love working with books and public art every day. I publish poetry, fiction, and literary translations, and exhibit artwork I’ve created in the studio and through funded opportunities. 

Fellow artists tell me often that I’m lucky, that my “day jobs” are all within the arts. But there are downsides to the way I’ve chosen to structure my career. I’m constantly balancing many projects, and my income is unstable. It’s difficult to save and plan towards the future,. I get by, but financial instability isn’t an option for many artists with families and dependents, with debts, medical expenses, and just isn’t the preferred lifestyle for a lot of people. I know artists who worked office jobs for years to support their practice and gain financial stability. I know artists who had entire careers as lawyers or accountants before becoming artists full time. I know artists who teach in public schools or work as substitute teachers. I know artists who are business owners and artists who work in policy and politics. I know artists who work in framing stores and shipping warehouses while being represented by galleries. These are all arts careers, and I admire every one of them. So as you build your career, don’t feel like it has to look like anyone’s else’s, like there’s anything you “should” be doing. Focus on the kind of artwork you want to make and what kind of work-life balance is best for you, then structure your career around that as best you can. 

Any job you use to support yourself can connect to an arts career!  

I get asked often by young people looking for jobs what kinds of jobs will best propel them towards an arts career. I believe that any kind of job can connect to and support an arts career, and I know that some suggestions out there in the arts world (like “get an unpaid internship at an art gallery!” or “become a studio apprentice to a well-known artist!”) assume a certain amount of privilege. So I want to break down how different kinds of jobs can connect to your art career: 

1) Jobs that allow for the flexibility and mental capacity to create. My friends who work restaurant jobs while going to auditions fall into this category. Who work as bartenders in evening so that they can be in the studio by day. Who dog-walk or babysit or nanny because the timing and flexibility allows for arts opportunities. My friends who are Lyft drivers or work in deliveries. These are often jobs outside of a creative field, but they can be beneficial because they don’t drain your creative batteries, so to speak. You still have your creative brain fully charged, and some jobs (like dog-walking) even allow for good mental processing (you can think through creative problems). As long as the job doesn’t drain you to the point where you have no energy at all, these kinds of jobs can be great because they allow time and space for your creative work. 

2) Jobs that place you in arts spaces, arts adjacent spaces, or spaces where you can learn about material/technique. My sculptor friends who work in hardware stores, quarries, foundries, or in construction. My printmaker friend who interned with graphic designers. My writer friends who work in bookstores and libraries, artists who work in art supply stores. My friend who worked with her dad’s painting company and got to improve her precision as a painter, which she then took back to the canvas. My teen students who get paid to work on murals or get stipend payments for making art at the nonprofit I work for. My filmmaker friends who worked on film crews. Friends who worked as theater ushers, in ticket sales, or as janitorial staff at museums. All of these jobs kept these artists adjacent to their artwork, whether through access to tools, materials, supplies, or books, through networking and conversations with other artists, or through skillsets that could enhance their art. 

3) Jobs that deeply engage another interest of yours, that bring you joy or can influence your work in other ways. If there’s a job that has nothing to do with your art but that you would love, do it! First, because I believe that the things we’re passionate about get integrated into our art, and second, because any job that gives you peace of mind and joy creates a positive base from which you can create. My friend who worked at a stable because she got to be around horses. My friends who worked at gyms or coaching sports because it kept them active. My friend who worked in a bike repair shop because he was obsessed with biking. An artist I knew who worked at the children’s science museum because she loved being around kids and planetariums. An artist who worked at a mineral store because rocks made her happy. If you have the opportunity, work doing things you like without worrying about whether it directly feeds your arts career.

Because believe it or not, all jobs you work can intersect in some way with your art. You’re creative— you find those connections! A Nobel-Prize winning poet helped his dad on the potato farm and wrote his best-known poem about it. Successful novelists have written about their time working in hair salons and convenience stores. A great printmaker I know who worked in a flower shop began weaving botanical forms and plant knowledge into her designs. The key in an arts career is to see all your experiences as valuable, to find ways that they can influence your art, and to be constantly thinking about and observing the world around you. 

As for me, I worked as a tennis instructor, a tennis court site supervisor, an academic advisor, an art gallery intern, and a coffee shop barista before and during my work in the arts!

Let go of objective measures of what it means to be good. 

I was always an academic overachiever. Top of my class, merit scholarships, science fair awards, AP credit overload, the whole thing. On the one hand, I grew up in a house where education was valued and celebrated, and my parents emphasized the importance of doing my best in school— not getting good grades, but working hard, doing my personal best, and reading and learning all I could. I loved school. I loved academics. And I’m not saying this to brag, but to lay the groundwork for something I struggled with in the arts.

It is jarring to be an academic overachiever and enter an arts career. I thrived off of objective value systems: study, work hard, get an A. If I worked hard and learned what I was supposed to learn, I earned recognition, validation, and opportunity. 

And then I entered the arts. The arts are entirely subjective. We hear it over and over— great artists get rejected hundreds of times, certain art forms require cutthroat competition, etc. —but it’s hard to understand the subjectivity of the art world (and the entrenched discrimination and commercial interests that affect who gets opportunities and who doesn’t) until you’re trying to live as an artist. That you can work hard on something, give all of your time and physical effort and mental and emotional energy to it, only to have it rejected. That what you think is good isn’t what another person thinks is good. That there is a magical alchemy in the act of creation that can’t be taught, or learned, but must be felt, and that you can be working to find that light while actively others try to extinguish it. That you can be good and work hard, yet still not get chosen for the awards, the exhibitions, the publications. If you chased being “the best” your whole life, you’re now in a world where there is no “best”, where greatness is subjective, where the idea of competitive greatness is actually detrimental to artists supporting each other, and where work that sells or connects to white, cishetero traditions is still the most valued. 

After struggling with this for a long time, I came to the conclusion that the most important thing to me now is making the art I want to make, the art only I can make, whether or not it fits what arts industries are looking for or what’s going to win awards. If I make art I believe in from a healthy mental and emotional place, doors will open, even if they aren’t the doors I expected. So try to let go of any sense that worth comes from external validation. Learn to accept critical feedback when it is given kindly, thoughtfully, and constructively. Surround yourself with friends and artists who who can talk to about your work, who build up your work and help you think through it rather than cutting you down. Don’t believe anyone in the arts world who thinks they get to be the arbiters of what’s “good” and who has “what it takes”. People have probably said things like that to the artists you most admire, and if they’d listened, you wouldn’t have experienced art that changed your life. 

Work to gain skills in basic business, marketing, and finances for artists. 

Many artists (at least where I am in the U.S.) go through an entire arts education without receiving resources or training in the financial side of the arts world. Your arts career will likely involve some degree of self-promotion and marketing, creating project budgets and grant proposals, artist statements and bios, sorting out taxes, and other economic elements. I can’t speak to other countries, but for artists in the U.S., taxes can be extremely complex. If you’re awarded a stipend, grant, fellowship, or employed for gigs or one-time projects, you’ll likely be taxed as an independent contractor and have to deduct your own taxes. Through residencies and exhibitions, you may pull income in multiple states and countries, which can also affect taxation. If you’re an artist who doesn’t have access to resources about finance and taxation in your arts program or who doesn’t independently have expertise in those fields, I recommend finding ways to educate yourself early: online resources, low cost courses, or even just taking your financially-savvy friends out for a coffee!

ANYWAY SORRY FOR THE LONG POST I HOPE SOMETHING IN THIS DIATRIBE WAS HELPFUL I HOPE THERE WEREN’T TOO MANY TYPOS AND I hope you have the most wonderful, fulfilling arts career! <3 

#resources #writing life #arts life #arts career #visual art #studio art program #mfa #bfa #arts education #i have no chill when you ask me questions like this #long post

[skvaderarts]

Hiraeth Chapter 50: Interconnection

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Fifty: Interconnection

Note: *Laughs in copious amounts of foreshadowing.* Oh, how I have waited for this day. I have so patently placed the cards in their places, and now I can finally flip them over and show their faces. You have no idea how excited I am! And at chapter 50, no less! Absolutely perfect!

(-~-)

A larger crowd had begun to form around the station as local law enforcement showed up to help mitigate the damage and secure the perimeter. The power had been knocked out for several city blocks, taking security cameras and traffic lights out of commission. It would no doubt prove detrimental to the investigative efforts of all the local authorities, many of whom could be overheard discussing the possibility of a terrorist attack as they tried to disperse the growing number of worried onlookers. They needed clearance to evacuate the injured civilians and start structural and criminal investigations.

Several eyewitnesses spoke of a figure in a white coat causing the train to derail by some unknown method. No one present was sure how it had happened, but they did know what had happened, and they were eager to find a method of keeping it from happening again. Everything had happened so suddenly with no apparent explanation or motive, and no one knew what would happen next. But a small group of the survivors did have something insightful to add to the conversation, giving their own ground zero testimony to one of the news outlets that had shown up to cover the attack.

“There was this group of like three or four people who helped get us out of the train and they were trying to keep that person in the white coat away from us. I think it might have been a guy? Can’t say, they were wearing a mask or something. I didn’t get a good look at them. But anyway, we’re all very thankful that they were able to help us. We hope they are okay and that they didn’t get trapped inside during the cave-in.” One younger man had said as the paramedics had been in the process of tending a minor injury that he had sustained during the attack.

“I don’t know what to even say. Were so lucky that they were there to get us out of that situation. There were demons in that terminal. I don’t know how many there were, but there was at least one. What’s happening in this place? Every few years or so something like this happens!” One of the interviewed survivors had said, shaking her head in confusion and horrified sorrow. “I was in Redgrave City when that thing started coming out of the ground. Down in the crowd trying to figure out what was going on when these spiky things came out and started to come after everyone. My family barely escaped with our lives. I swear I recognized at least two of them. They came out of that thing and it seemed like they were trying to do something to help stop it. I wish we knew who they were so that we could thank them. I get the feeling that we all might owe that small group of people more than we realize. I mean, what are the odds that they would be there to save us all both times?”

“Looks like they’re talking about you lot on the news,” Magnolia said as she reached over to turn the volume down on the TV. None of them had even noticed that she had owned it before, having not spent a lot of time in her attic greenhouse up until then. She then turned to the rest of the group, gesturing towards the young man who sat just across from them on the other side of the room. “Tell them what you told me. Speak truthfully. Believe me, they will know if you don’t”

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Whatever he was here to say clearly didn’t agree with him. “No problem. Wouldn’t make much sense for me to come here and seek you out just to lie to you, especially with what’s at stake. But first, I want to be upfront with you. We’ve met before. About two months ago. That’s why I’m here in the first place. It took me forever to track you down, but I finally did. I just wish it hadn’t taken so long.”

Dante and Vergil looked at one another for a moment, both of them unsure as to how they could have met this individual before. Perhaps he had met V or Nero? He certainly didn’t seem familiar to them. “Okay wait, slow down. Let’s start from the beginning.”

“What’s your name?” Vergil asked, not quite fed up with this individual, but not in the mood to really entertain conversation with him, either. It was probably best that he got to the point sooner rather than later. And on that note, who was this individual? Were they a relative of Magnolia’s? It was unlikely considering the severe lack of blood male descendants of the Ludwig family, but it wasn’t entirely impossible. Marriage was always a possibility. Or perhaps he was a cousin?

“My name is Brenowin. Brenowin Linquist. But you can just call me “Bren.” Less of a mouthful.” He attempted to make himself more comfortable for a moment as he sat down on the built-in ledge next to a few of the botanist’s plants, shrugging to himself. “Before you stab me, I’d like you to know that I didn’t come here to get revenge or anything like that. I can tell that you still don’t remember me. I’m… the guy you spared back in the woods that night who told you where your son was. I’m glad you were able to get him back-”

He stopped, jumping back in fright as Vergil manifested and drew Yamato, springing towards him in a bid to end his life, Dante grabbing him in an effort to keep him from utterly destroying the younger man, and barely succeeded, earning him surprised looks from everyone in the immediate vicinity and an irritated glare from Magnolia. She shook her head and pointed for Vergil to sit down again, annoyed. “Do you honestly think he would be here if I thought he was dangerous? Have some faith, Vergil. I understand your anger and I have nothing but sympathy, but he didn’t have to come here and put himself in this situation. At least hear him out before out you try and murder him, especially while you are in my house.”

Vergil paused for a moment, clearly displeased, but willing to do as she’d asked him. It made sense after all. He couldn’t deny that. He backed up, breathing deeply before exhaling and sitting down. He waved his hand to indicate that their guest could continue speaking, but he would be listening to him intently and with malice. That much was clear. “Continue.”

A relieved sigh escaped the younger man’s lips as he nodded, unsure as to what he could really say that he hadn’t already to atone for his past mistakes and remedy his misgivings. “Do you remember the night that the conduit went critical? Well, you’re in the clear there. It’s not unstable anymore. But that’s the least of our problems.”

“Our problems?” Vergil said, folding his arms around his chest. He truly wanted nothing more than to stab something to death right now. What was going on this time? “I don’t recall us agreeing to work as a collective.”

Bren shrugged, nodding in agreement. He couldn’t really disagree with that. And to be fair, he wasn’t attacking him this time, at least. That was an improvement from the last time. He would have a very hard time trusting someone who had done what he had done, but maybe if he was more forthcoming, they would be able to work things out.

“Yes, “our” as in “we’re all equally dead if this situation doesn’t work itself out. Every last one of us.” He stood up slowly, gesturing in a pleading manner. “Belial has something big planned, and he needs your son for it. I overheard one of his messengers say as much when he returned. He left during the attack from what I understand, and after the devil prince decided that he wanted the cult dead, he had been systematically killing us all. I’m just an initiate who joined a little while ago, so I guess I’m a low priority, but everyone else either fled or left, and so I guess I’m the only one left. I managed to get him to trust me enough for him to think I’m doing his bidding, but after what he did to your son, I could never. Like I said before, I didn’t sign up for this. I was just in a dark place in my life and didn’t want to be alone. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but I still want to make it right. At this point, that’s the least I can do. The cult caused so much suffering… I don’t want to be a part of that. It’s how I lost everything in the first place.”

“What did you lose that would drive you to such extremes?”

Everyone in the room looked over at V as he spoke, honestly forgetting that he was there. After they had returned from the train station with Vergil, everyone had gone their separate ways in order to allow Magnolia to treat Flora's injuries. They hadn’t been grave by their standards, but for a human? She needed quite a few stitches and now she was on bed rest. The botanist ensured them that she would make a full recovery, but that was yet to be seen. All any of them could do for now was hope that she was alright, and that weighed heavily on V for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint. Perhaps he just didn’t like putting others in harm's way for his sake.

“Look… all I’ve got left in this world is my younger step-sister. My mom died when I was a kid, and a few years back her mom and my dad got together. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I just really want her to be safe. If he just wanted me dead, I would walk over there right now and let him kill me. And even though that would break her heart, she’d be alive and I would have done something worthwhile with my life, ya know?” He looked down at the floor for a long moment, clearly cut deeply by his own words. Anyone present could tell that there was a truth to that statement that he didn’t want to recognize but he did. “But the truth is, he wouldn’t stop there. You're not the only person he’s after. He had other motives for wanting her, and I won’t pretend that I know them, but they can’t be good. And if he gets your son and manages to do whatever it is that he’s been talking about with Belial, this entire region will be the first to go. After that, probably the whole world.”

Dante nodded to himself, taking that in for a moment. “So how does your sister play into this, and what’s Belial’s plan?”

Bren shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. I guess they think she’d be good for whatever it is that they have planned. But Belial needs your son to enact his master plan. Specifically, he wants to bring him to the Underworld for something. I didn’t overhear any details, but I think that’s bad enough. And apparently, now that he’s back, he has a way to accomplish that. You need to keep him safe. I can’t stress that enough. This guy has more things up his sleeve than you might think. He’s very dangerous.”

“Okay then. That makes sense. So, where’s your sister? Does she even know that she might be in danger?” Nero asked with a concerned look. He didn’t like the implications of her brother’s actions entrapping her in this situation. It hit a little too close to him for him personally. “And what do you mean they’re back? Who’s back?”

“Magnolia kindly agreed to have her brought here from a few towns over. She should be arriving any moment now. She was going to boarding school, and she just graduated a few months ago. It’s been a rough year for her after our parents died in the Redgrave City attack. That’s what derailed me and sent me down the path that led to me joining the cult. They were recruiting people in the area after everything that happened, and I thought that maybe they would help me find some way to protect her. They said as much. But now I know that they were probably just planning to hurt her from the very start. I should have known better. But at least now I can fix mistakes.”

Vergil felt his blood run cold for a moment at that revelation. So his actions had inadvertently led to this situation in more ways than one… He supposed that that was probably only fair, but for V to be caught up in this once again… 

“I… Your parents' deaths were unfortunate and needless. You have my sympathies.”

Dante allowed his eyes to travel towards his older twin for a moment, noticing the grief in that statement. He believed Vergil. It seemed now that the ghosts of his past truly had come back to haunt him. It had probably never occurred to him that he would be the very monster to someone else that those demons had been to them so many years ago.

“Thanks. I appreciate that.  But either way, I have some insight into what Belial has planned, and I really hope that it turns out to be helpful to you guys. I’m no fighter. Heck, I’d never hurt a fly. But I’d like to think I’m not that stupid.” He looked at Vergil more sincerely at that moment, seemingly uncomfortable with whatever he was about to say but still willing to say it. Perhaps that was something that the Darkslayer should try more often himself. The irony wasn’t beyond him. “Thanks for helping keep us safe. You sparing me was the moment I realized that I had really gone down the wrong path. We were supposed to be about unity and peace. You don’t get that by kidnapping and probably murdering innocent people.”

He was wise for his age. Vergil couldn’t deny that. But he also knew that he should probably tell him the truth in regards to what had happened to his parents. But he would wait until his sister arrived and they had privacy. It was best that he not broadcast his failures to the entire room, even if everyone there besides him did know what had happened already. He didn’t have the fortitude to confess his wrongdoings in such a manner. It was like being put on trial, even though a part of him realized that that was probably something that he wholeheartedly deserved.

V glanced between his father and Bren, a young man who was still to him at least a stranger. He could feel the tension rolling off of his father in waves, the enormity of his past actions weighing heavy on him at that moment. He had been confronted with his not-so-distant past in a very literal way, and it had utterly blindsided him. The fact that he had wronged this individual so greatly without his knowledge and he was standing there willing to help them was utterly uncomfortable to the Darkslayer, and there was a part of V that was admittedly glad for that. It wasn’t just because he needed to truly see how his actions affect others, but because it showed something arguably more important: his father was capable of feeling remorse for the actions he’d committed against a perfect stranger. Deep down, he was much more human than V liked to imagine Vergil would ever admit. There was something comforting to be found in that.

Brenowen looked mournful for a moment before looking over at V, obviously not wanting to have to say what he needed to say. “As for who has returned, I believe that the two of you have already met. The night that the cult took you? You met a man named Agreus…”

His breathing paused for a moment as he swore that he felt his heart stop beating. How could he forget? In fact, he could still feel that knife just by thinking about it. But he had thrown him through that conduit. Surely he hadn’t survived that. But then again, that explained the limp. He had stabbed him in the leg, after all. They were going to need to get Sirrus to translate that book for them as soon as humanly possible. And then they were going to ship it off to the Ludwig estate. This couldn’t be good.

Just a moment later, there was a knock at the door. Magnolia stood up, stretching as she sat down the cup of tea she’d been drinking. “Come in, dear. Though you should probably still be in bed.”

In stepped Flora, slightly pale and tired looking, but otherwise more or less okay. They all gave her a reassuring look, the young magician weaving them off playfully as she came into the room. “Don’t worry about me, everyone. I’ll be just fine. I’m a big girl. I can take a couple of cuts and bruises. Honestly, I think I’ve had worse cramps. That demon’s a total pushover.” 

Lucia tried to pretend that she didn’t find that comment funny, but she did. She allowed herself a small giggle, looking over at the twins' surprised faces as they looked several different kinds of confused and embarrassed. Nero simply nodded, having heard similar things from Kyrie in the past. He had nothing in his heart but sympathy and compassion for her alleged suffering. V simply closed his eyes and chuckled soundlessly to himself, shaking his head. Flora was truly something else. He was glad that she was still with them.

But before she could make it very far, there was a distant sound, one that caught all of their collective attention. A second knock became apparent, only this time from the front door downstairs. Flora groaned and headed down the stairs ahead of them, cursing herself for marching up all of those stairs only to have to go back down them. What had she done to dissolve such treatment? Bren sprang up, eager to head to the door. “That’s probably my sister! You said they would be dropping her off soon.”

Magnolia nodded. “That I did. And I’m not expecting anyone else.”

The group then migrated down the stairs to the living room, admittedly wondering to themselves what this young woman looked like. She was his step-sister, after all. That meant that she could look completely different from Brenowin. His shoulder-length black hair and dark blue eyes were admittedly striking, but there was no blood between them to speak of. It was possible but unlikely.

Approaching the door, Magnolia unlocked it from the inside and stepped out of the way to allow their new guest to enter the room while the rest of them made themselves comfortable on the couch. V was still making his way down the stairs behind Nero as she did so, taking a mental note of the fact that Nero Vergil and Dante had already reached the couch, Bren staying closer to the kitchen. It seemed that he still expected Vergil to try and kill him. To be fair, he himself wasn’t sure that the possibility was 100% off the table just yet. Just about 95%. But before he could continue that though, Magnolia opened the front door and greeted the person who had knocked on it. And V had stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the entryway. It was perhaps the only time that any of them could ever say that they'd ever genuinely seen V look shocked.

Before them stood a pretty young woman with sandy brown hair, hazel eyes, and freckles, her two luggage bags placed on the ground at her feet. She was in the process of picking them up, but had stopped to shoot a warm smile at her host, allowing V a momentary glance at her face. And judging by the sudden uptake in V’s heart rate, genuinely couldn’t believe his eyes. There was just no way that she could be… 

“Morgan?!” He said out loud at a volume that surprised both himself and everyone else in the room. He hadn’t actually meant to speak that aloud, but he simply hadn’t been able to stop himself. It was just too shocking for him to believe.

She looked up from her bags, utterly surprised to hear what was clearly a familiar voice calling her name, but one that she was sure he hadn’t heard in a number of years. The second she made eye contact with him, she dropped all of her belongings on the front steps, wide eyes elation spreading across her face. She teared up as she looked at him, trembling not from the frigid cold outside but from the joy that she felt brimming up inside of her. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing, either. “V?!”

He nodded slowly. Without warning she leaped forward, throwing her arms around him in a tight embrace. And at that moment he realized just how much he’d missed her when he didn’t even feel repulsed by her unexpected touch. In fact, he welcomed it, frozen in place from shock, but barely holding back the fact that for reasons he couldn't explain, he felt just as strongly about seeing her again as he had the day she’d left and he’d realized that he would probably never see her again.

Morgan leaned back for a moment, taking in the sight of him as she wiped her face, panting from excitement. Her eyebrows then furrowed slightly, a light chuckle expanding her diaphragm and allowing a soft chuckle to escape her tightly clenched lips. “When did you get these tattoos, V?! Gotta say, they're pretty wicked, man!”

Shaking his head slightly he gave in and returned the favor, grabbing her into a soft but firm hug, much to the surprise of everyone else in the room. Nero was the only other person who could recall ever being hugged by V. “It’s a bit of a long story.”

(-~-)

I know that this is gonna make some of you very happy! I remember several of you telling me how much you liked her and how much you hoped to see her make a second appearance, so it was an obvious choice. After all, why add someone new when you already have Morgan? Anyway, I’ll see you in the comments and the next chapter is going up on Friday! Hope to hear from you all again soon! Have a nice Wednesday!

#Hiraeth #V #Vitale #My Post Devil May Cry 5 AU #My OC's #Post DMC5 #Devil May Cry 5 #Devil May Cry V #Devil May Cry #Devil May Cry AU #AU #Vergil #Dante #Nero #Lucia #My Post Devil May Cry 5 AU OC's #DMC

[justforbooks]

Nausea (French: La Nausée) is a philosophical novel by the existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, published in 1938. It is Sartre’s first novel and, in his opinion, one of his best works.

The novel takes place in ‘Bouville’ (literally, 'Mud town’) a town similar to Le Havre, and it concerns a dejected historian, who becomes convinced that inanimate objects and situations encroach on his ability to define himself, on his intellectual and spiritual freedom, evoking in the protagonist a sense of nausea.

French writer Simone de Beauvoir, Sartre’s lifelong partner, claims that La Nausée grants consciousness a remarkable independence and gives reality the full weight of its sense.

It is one of the canonical works of existentialism. Sartre was awarded, though he ultimately declined, the Nobel Prize for literature in 1964. The Nobel Foundation recognized him “for his work which, rich in ideas and filled with the spirit of freedom and the quest for truth, has exerted a far-reaching influence on our age.” Sartre was one of the few people to have declined the award, referring to it as merely a function of a bourgeois institution.

The novel has been translated into English at least twice, by Lloyd Alexander as “The Diary of Antoine Roquentin” (John Lehmann, 1949) and by Robert Baldick as “Nausea” (Penguin Books, 1965).

Written in the form of journal entries, it follows 30-year-old Antoine Roquentin who, returned from years of travel, settles in the fictional French seaport town of Bouville to finish his research on the life of an 18th-century political figure. But during the winter of 1932 a “sweetish sickness,” as he calls nausea, increasingly impinges on almost everything he does or enjoys: his research project, the company of an autodidact who is reading all the books in the local library alphabetically, a physical relationship with a café owner named Françoise, his memories of Anny, an English girl he once loved, even his own hands and the beauty of nature.

Over time, his disgust towards existence forces him into self-hatred and near-insanity. He embodies Sartre’s theories of existential angst, and he searches anxiously for meaning in all the things that had filled and fulfilled his life up to that point. But finally Antoine comes to a revelation into the nature of his being when he faces the troublesomely provisional and limited nature of existence itself.

In his resolution at the end of the book he accepts the indifference of the physical world to man’s aspirations. He is able to see that realization not only as a regret but also as an opportunity. People are free to make their own meaning: a freedom that is also a responsibility, because without that commitment there will be no meaning.

Antoine Roquentin – The protagonist of the novel, Antoine is a former adventurer who has been living in Bouville for three years. Antoine does not keep in touch with family, and has no friends. He is a loner at heart and often likes to listen to other people’s conversations and examine their actions. Even though he at times admits to trying to find some sort of solace in the presence of others, he also exhibits signs of boredom and lack of interest when interacting with people. His relationship with Françoise is mostly hygienic in nature, for the two hardly exchange words and, when invited by the Self-Taught Man to accompany him for lunch, he agrees only to write in his diary later that: “I had as much desire to eat with him as I had to hang myself.” He can afford not to work, but spends a lot of his time writing a book about a French politician of the eighteenth century. Antoine does not think highly of himself: “The faces of others have some sense, some direction. Not mine. I cannot even decide whether it is handsome or ugly. I think it is ugly because I have been told so.” When he starts suffering from the Nausea he feels the need to talk to Anny, but when he finally does, it makes no difference to his condition. He eventually starts to think he does not even exist: “My existence was beginning to cause me some concern. Was I a mere figment of the imagination?”

Anny – Anny is an English woman who was once Antoine’s lover. After meeting with him, Anny makes it clear that she has changed a considerable amount and must go on with her life. Antoine clings to the past, hoping that she may want to redefine their relationship, but he is ultimately rejected by her.

Ogier P., generally referred to as “the self-taught man” or the Autodidact – An acquaintance of Antoine’s, he is a bailiff’s clerk who lives for the pursuit of knowledge and love of humanity. Highly disciplined, he has spent hundreds of hours reading at the local library. He often speaks to Roquentin and confides in him that he is a Socialist.

Like many Modernist novels, La Nausée is a “city-novel,” encapsulating experience within the city. It is widely assumed that “Bouville” in the novel is a fictional portrayal of Le Havre, where Sartre was living and teaching in the 1930s as he wrote it.

The critic William V. Spanos has used Sartre’s novel as an example of “negative capability,” a presentation of the uncertainty and dread of human existence, so strong that the imagination cannot comprehend it.

The Cambridge Companion to the French Novel places La Nausée in a tradition of French activism: “Following on from Malraux, Sartre, Beauvoir, and Camus among others were all able to use the writing of novels as a powerful tool of ideological exploration.” Although novelists like Sartre claim to be in rebellion against the 19th Century French novel, “they in fact owe a great deal both to its promotion of the lowly and to its ambiguous or 'poetic’ aspects.”

In his What Is Literature?, Sartre wrote, “On the one hand, the literary object has no substance but the reader’s subjectivity … But, on the other hand, the words are there like traps to arouse our feelings and to reflect them towards us … Thus, the writer appeals to the reader’s freedom to collaborate in the production of the work.”

The novel is an intricate formal achievement modeled on much 18th-century fiction that was presented as a “diary discovered among the papers of…”

Hayden Carruth wonders if there are not unrecognized layers of irony and humor beneath the seriousness of Nausea: “Sartre, for all his anguished disgust, can play the clown as well, and has done so often enough: a sort of fool at the metaphysical court.”

Like many modernist authors, Sartre, when young, loved popular novels in preference to the classics and claimed in his autobiography that it was from them, rather than from the balanced phrases of Chateaubriand that he had his “first encounters with beauty.”

Sartre described the stream of consciousness technique as one method of moving the novel from the era of Newtonian Physics forward into the era of Einstein’s theory of general relativity. He saw this as crucial because he felt that “narrative technique ultimately takes us back to the metaphysics of the novelist.” He wanted his novelistic techniques to be compatible with his theories on the existential freedom of the individual as well as his phenomenological analyses of the unstable, shifting structures of consciousness.

Disdaining 19th-century notions that character development in novels should obey and reveal psychological law, La Nausée treats such notions as bourgeois bad faith, ignoring the contingency and inexplicability of life.

From the psychological point of view Antoine Roquentin could be seen as an individual suffering from depression, and the nausea itself as one of the symptoms of his condition. Unemployed, living in deprived conditions, lacking human contact, being trapped in fantasies about the 18th century secret agent he is writing the book about, shows Sartre’s oeuvre as a follow-up of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment and Rilke’s The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge in search of the precise description of schizophrenia. Rilke’s character anticipates Sartre’s.

Roquentin’s problem is not simply depression or mental illness, although his experience has pushed him to that point. Sartre presents Roquentin’s difficulties as arising from man’s inherent existential condition. His seemingly special circumstances (returning from travel, reclusiveness), which goes beyond the mere indication of his very real depression, are supposed to induce in him (and in the reader) a state that makes one more receptive to noticing an existential situation that everyone has, but may not be sensitive enough to let become noticeable. Roquentin undergoes a strange metaphysical experience that estranges him from the world. His problems are not merely a result of personal insanity, without larger significance. Rather, like the characters in the Dostoevsky and Rilke novels, they are victims of larger ideological, social, and existential forces that have brought them to the brink of insanity. Sartre’s point in Nausea is to comment on our universal reaction to these common external problems.

Hayden Carruth wrote in 1959 of the way that “Roquentin has become a familiar of our world, one of those men who, like Hamlet or Julien Sorel, live outside the pages of the books in which they assumed their characters… . It is scarcely possible to read seriously in contemporary literature, philosophy, or psychology without encountering references to Roquentin’s confrontation with the chestnut tree, for example, which is one of the sharpest pictures ever drawn of self-doubt and metaphysical anguish.”

Certainly, Nausea gives us a few of the clearest and hence most useful images of man in our time that we possess; and this, as Allen Tate has said, is the supreme function of art.

Criticism of Sartre’s novels frequently centered on the tension between the philosophical and political on one side versus the novelistic and individual on the other.

Ronald Aronson describes the reaction of Albert Camus, still in Algeria and working on his own first novel, L’Étranger. At the time of the novel’s appearance, Camus was a reviewer for an Algiers left-wing daily. Camus told a friend that he “thought a lot about the book” and it was “a very close part of me.” In his review, Camus wrote, “the play of the toughest and most lucid mind are at the same time both lavished and squandered.” Camus felt that each of the book’s chapters, taken by itself, “reaches a kind of perfection in bitterness and truth.” However, he also felt that the descriptive and the philosophical aspects of the novel are not balanced, that they “don’t add up to a work of art: the passage from one to the other is too rapid, too unmotivated, to evoke in the reader the deep conviction that makes the art of the novel.” He likewise felt that Sartre had tipped the balance too far in depicting the repugnant features of mankind “instead of placing the reasons for his despair, at least to a certain degree, if not completely, on the elements of human greatness.” Still, Camus’s largely positive review led to a friendship between the two authors.

G.J. Mattey, a philosopher rather than a novelist like Camus, flatly describes Nausea and others of Sartre’s literary works as “practically philosophical treatises in literary form.”

In distinction both from Camus’s feeling that Nausea is an uneasy marriage of novel and philosophy and also from Mattey’s belief that it is a philosophy text, the philosopher William Barrett, in his book Irrational Man, expresses an opposite judgment. He writes that Nausea “may well be Sartre’s best book for the very reason that in it the intellectual and the creative artist come closest to being conjoined.” Barrett says that, in other literary works and in his literary criticism, Sartre feels the pull of ideas too strongly to respond to poetry, “which is precisely that form of human expression in which the poet—and the reader who would enter the poet’s world—must let Being be, to use Heidegger’s phrase and not attempt to coerce it by the will to action or the will to intellectualization.”

The poet Hayden Carruth agrees with Barrett, whom he quotes, about Nausea. He writes firmly that Sartre, “is not content, like some philosophers, to write fable, allegory, or a philosophical tale in the manner of Candide; he is content only with a proper work of art that is at the same time a synthesis of philosophical specifications.”

Barrett feels that Sartre as a writer is best when “the idea itself is able to generate artistic passion and life.”

Steven Ungar compares Nausea with French novels of different periods, such as Madame de Lafayette La Princesse de Clèves (1678), Honoré de Balzac Le Père Goriot (1835), André Malraux La Condition humaine (1933), and Annie Ernaux Une femme (1988), all of which have scenes with men and women faced with choices and “provide literary expressions to concerns with personal identity that vary over time more in detail than in essence.”

A main theme in La Nausée is that life is meaningless unless a person makes personal commitments that give it meaning. William Barrett emphasizes that the despair and disgust in Nausea contrast with the total despair of Céline (who is quoted on the flyleaf of the French edition) that leads to nothing; rather, they are a necessary personal recognition that eventuate in “a release from disgust into heroism.”

Barrett adds that, “like Adler’s, Sartre’s is fundamentally a masculine psychology; it misunderstands and disparages the psychology of woman. The humanity of man consists in the For-itself, the masculine component by which we choose, make projects, and generally commit ourselves to a life of action. The element of masculine protest, to use Adler’s term, is strong throughout Sartre’s writings … the disgust … of Roquentin, in Nausea, at the bloated roots of the chestnut tree …”

Mattey elaborates further on the positive, redeeming aspect of the seemingly bleak, frustrating themes of existentialism that are so apparent in Nausea: “Sartre considered the subjectivity of the starting-point for what a human is as a key thesis of existentialism. The starting-point is subjective because humans make themselves what they are. Most philosophers consider subjectivity to be a bad thing, particularly when it comes to the motivation for action… . Sartre responds by claiming that subjectivity is a dignity of human being, not something that degrades us.” Therefore, the characteristic anguish and forlornness of existentialism are temporary: only a prerequisite to recognizing individual responsibility and freedom. The basis of ethics is not rule-following. A specific action may be either wrong or right and no specific rule is necessarily valid. What makes the action, either way, ethical is “authenticity,” the willingness of the individual to accept responsibility rather than dependence on rules, and to commit to his action. Despair, the existentialist says, is the product of uncertainty: being oriented exclusively to the outcome of a decision rather than to the process yields uncertainty, as we cannot decide the future, only our action.

In his “Introduction” to the American edition of Nausea, the poet and critic Hayden Carruth feels that, even outside those modern writers who are explicitly philosophers in the existentialist tradition, a similar vein of thought is implicit but prominent in a main line through Franz Kafka, Miguel de Unamuno, D. H. Lawrence, André Malraux, and William Faulkner. Carruth says:

'Suffering is the origin of consciousness,’ Dostoevsky wrote. But suffering is everywhere in the presence of thought and sensitivity. Sartre for his part has written, and with equal simplicity: 'Life begins on the other side of despair.’

Sartre has written, “What is meant … by saying that existence precedes essence? It means that, first of all, man exists, turns up, appears on the scene, and only afterwards defines himself. If man, as the existentialist conceives of him, is undefinable, it is only because he is nothing. Only afterwards will he be something, and he will have made what he will be.”

If things—and also people—are contingent, if they “just are,” then we are free and we create ourselves solely through our decisions and choices.

David Drake mentions that, in Nausea, Sartre gives several kinds of examples of people whose behavior shows bad faith, who are inauthentic: members of the bourgeoisie who believe their social standing or social skills give them a “right” to exist, or others who embrace the banality of life and attempt to flee from freedom by repeating empty gestures, others who live by perpetuating past versions of themselves as they were or who live for the expectations of others, or those who claim to have found meaning in politics, morality, or ideology.

In simply narrative terms, Roquentin’s nausea arises from his near-complete detachment from other people, his not needing much interaction with them for daily necessities: “the fact of his alienation from others is important; as his own work ceases to entertain and to occupy him, Roquentin has nothing that could distract him from the business of existing in its simplest forms.” As a practical matter, he could solve his problem by getting a job; but, as a device for developing the novel’s theme, his aloneness is a way of making him (and the reader) recognize that there is nothing inherent in the objective nature of the world that would give any necessary meaning to whatever actions he chose, and therefore nothing to restrict his freedom. “[H]is perception of the world around him becomes unstable as objects are disengaged from their usual frames of reference,” and he is forced to recognize that freedom is inescapable and that therefore creating a meaning for his life is his own responsibility. “Nothing makes us act the way we do, except our own personal choice.”

“But,” David Clowney writes, “freedom is frightening, and it is easier to run from it into the safety of roles and realities that are defined by society, or even by your own past. To be free is to be thrown into existence with no "human nature” as an essence to define you, and no definition of the reality into which you are thrown, either. To accept this freedom is to live “authentically”; but most of us run from authenticity. In the most ordinary affairs of daily life, we face the challenge of authentic choice, and the temptation of comfortable inauthenticity. All of Roquentin’s experiences are related to these themes from Sartre’s philosophy.“

Genius is what a man invents when he is looking for a way out.

During the Second World War, the experience of Sartre and others in the French Resistance to the Nazi occupation of France emphasized political activism as a form of personal commitment. This political dimension was developed in Sartre’s later trilogy of novels, Les Chemins de la Liberté (The Roads to Freedom) (1945–1949), which concern a vicious circle of failure on the part of a thinking individual to progress effectively from thought to action. Finally, for Sartre, political commitment became explicitly Marxist.

In 1945, Sartre gave a lecture in New York that was printed in Vogue in July of that year. In it he recast his prewar works, such as Nausea into politically committed works appropriate to the postwar era.

Marxism was not, in any case, always as appreciative of Sartre as he was of it. Mattey describes their objections:

Marxism was a very potent political and philosophical force in France after its liberation from the Nazi occupation. Marxist thinkers tend to be very ideological and to condemn in no uncertain terms what they regard to be rival positions. They found existentialism to run counter to their emphasis on the solidarity of human beings and their theory of material (economic) determinism. The subjectivity that is the starting point of existentialism seemed to the Marxists to be foreign to the objective character of economic conditions and to the goal of uniting the working classes in order to overthrow the bourgeoise capitalists. If one begins with the reality of the "I think,” one loses sight of what really defines the human being (according to the Marxists), which is their place in the economic system. Existentialism’s emphasis on individual choice leads to contemplation, rather than to action. Only the bourgeoise have the luxury to make themselves what they are through their choices, so existentialism is a bourgeoise philosophy.

Sartre was influenced at the time by the philosophy of Edmund Husserl and his phenomenological method. He received a stipend from the Institut Français, allowing him to study in Berlin with Husserl and Martin Heidegger in 1932, as he began writing the novel.

Roy Elveton reports:

In January, 1939, one year after the death of Edmund Husserl, Sartre published a short essay entitled 'Husserl’s Central Idea.’ In the space of a few paragraphs, Sartre rejects the epistemology of Descartes and the neo-Kantians and their view of consciousness’s relationship to the world. Consciousness is not related to the world by virtue of a set of mental representations and acts of mental synthesis that combine such representations to provide us with our knowledge of the external world. Husserl’s intentional theory of consciousness provides the only acceptable alternative: 'Consciousness and the world are immediately given together: the world, essentially external to consciousness, is essentially related to it.’ The only appropriate image for intentionality and our knowing relationship to the world is that of an 'explosion’: 'to know is to “explode” toward’ an object in the world, an object 'beyond oneself, over there…towards that which is not oneself…out of oneself.’

Following Husserl, Sartre views absurdity as a quality of all existing objects (and of the material world collectively), independent of any stance humans might take with respect to them. Our consciousness of an object does not inhere in the object itself. Thus in the early portions of the novel, Roquentin, who takes no attitude towards objects and has no stake in them, is totally estranged from the world he experiences. The objects themselves, in their brute existence, have only participation in a meaningless flow of events: they are superfluous. This alienation from objects casts doubt for him, in turn, on his own validity and even his own existence.

Roquentin says of physical objects that, for them, “to exist is simply to be there.” When he has the revelation at the chestnut tree, this “fundamental absurdity” of the world does not go away. What changes then is his attitude. By recognizing that objects won’t supply meaning in themselves, but people must supply it for them – that Roquentin himself must create meaning in his own life – he becomes both responsible and free. The absurdity becomes, for him, “the key to existence.”

Victoria Best writes:

Language proves to be a fragile barrier between Roquentin and the external world, failing to refer to objects and thus place them in a scheme of meaning. Once language collapses it becomes evident that words also give a measure of control and superiority to the speaker by keeping the world at bay; when they fail in this function, Roquentin is instantly vulnerable, unprotected.

Thus, although, in some senses, Sartre’s philosophy in Nausea derives from Husserl and ultimately from René Descartes, the strong role he gives to the contingent randomness of physical objects contrasts with their commitment to the role of necessity. (Elveton mentions that, unknown to Sartre, Husserl himself was developing the same ideas, but in manuscripts that remained unpublished.)

Ethan Kleinberg writes that, more than Husserl, it was Martin Heidegger who appealed to Sartre’s sense of radical individualism. He says, “for Sartre, the question of being was always and only a question of personal being. The dilemma of the individual confronting the overwhelming problem of understanding the relationship of consciousness to things, of being to things, is the central focus” of Nausea. Eventually, “in his reworking of Husserl, Sartre found himself coming back to the themes he had absorbed from Heidegger’s Was ist Metaphysik?” Nausea was a prelude to Sartre’s sustained attempt to follow Heidegger’s Sein und Zeit by analyzing human experience as various ontological modes, or ways of being in the world.

In 1937, just as Sartre was finishing Nausea and getting it to press, he wrote an essay, The Transcendence of the Ego. He still agreed with Husserl that consciousness is “about” objects or, as they say, it “intends” them – rather than forming within itself a duplicate, an inner representation of an outward object. The material objects of consciousness (or “objects of intention”) exist in their own right, independent and without any residue accumulating in them from our awareness of them. However, the new idea in this essay was that Sartre now differed in also believing that the person’s ego itself is also “in the world,” an object of consciousness to be discovered, rather than the totally known subject of consciousness. In the novel, not only Roquentin’s consciousness but his own body also becomes objectified in his new, alarming perception.

And so Sartre parted company with Husserl over the latter’s belief in a transcendent ego, which Sartre believed instead was neither formally nor materially in consciousness, but outside it: in the world.

This seemingly technical change fit with Sartre’s native predisposition to think of subjectivity as central: a conscious person is always immersed in a world where his or her task is to make himself concrete. A “person” is not an unchanging, central essence, but a fluid construct that continually re-arises as an interaction among a person’s consciousness, his physiology and history, the material world, and other people. This view itself supported Sartre’s vision of people as fundamentally both doomed and free to live lives of commitment and creativity.

As Søren Kierkegaard, the earliest existentialist, wrote: 'I must find a truth that is true for me … the idea for which I can live or die.’

La Nausée allows Sartre to explain his philosophy in simplified terms. Roquentin is the classic existentialist hero whose attempts to pierce the veil of perception lead him to a strange combination of disgust and wonder. For the first part of the novel, Roquentin has flashes of nausea that emanate from mundane objects. These flashes appear seemingly randomly, from staring at a crumpled piece of paper in the gutter to picking up a rock on the beach. The feeling he perceives is pure disgust: a contempt so refined that it almost shatters his mind each time it occurs. As the novel progresses, the nausea appears more and more frequently, though he is still unsure of what it actually signifies. However, at the base of a chestnut tree in a park, he receives a piercingly clear vision of what the nausea actually is. Existence itself, the property of existence to be something rather than nothing was what was slowly driving him mad. He no longer sees objects as having qualities such as color or shape. Instead, all words are separated from the thing itself, and he is confronted with pure being.

Carruth points out that the antipathy of the existentialists to formal ethical rules brought them disapproval from moral philosophers concerned with traditional schemes of value. On the other hand, analytical philosophers and logical positivists were “outraged by Existentialism’s willingness to abandon rational categories and rely on non mental processes of consciousness.”

Additionally, Sartre’s philosophy of existentialism is opposed to a certain kind of rationalistic humanism. Upon the confession of the Self-Taught Man as to being a member of the S.F.I.O., a French Socialist party, Roquentin quickly engages him in a Socratic dialogue to expose his inconsistencies as a humanist. Roquentin first points out how his version of humanism remains unaffiliated to a particular party or group so as to include or value all of mankind. However, he then notes how the humanist nonetheless caters his sympathy with a bias towards the humble portion of mankind. Roquentin continues to point out further discrepancies of how one humanist may favor an audience of laughter while another may enjoy the somber funeral. In dialogue, Roquentin challenges the Self-Taught Man to show a demonstrable love for a particular, tangible person rather than a love for the abstract entity attached to that person (i.e. the idea of Youth in a young man). In short, he concludes that such humanism naively attempts to “melt all human attitudes into one.” More importantly, to disavow humanism does not constitute “anti-humanism”.

The kind of humanism Sartre found unacceptable, according to Mattey, is one that denies the primacy of individual choice… . But there is another conception of humanism implicit in existentialism. This is one that emphasizes the ability of individual human beings to transcend their individual circumstances and act on behalf of all humans. The fact is, Sartre maintains, that the only universe we have is a human universe, and the only laws of this universe are made by humans.“

In his Sartre biography, David Drake writes, Nausea was on the whole well received by the critics and the success of Sartre the novelist served to enhance the reputation he had started to enjoy as a writer of short stories and philosophical texts, mostly on perception.”

Although his earlier essays did not receive much attention, Nausea and the collection of stories The Wall, swiftly brought him recognition.

Carruth writes that, on publication, “it was condemned, predictably, in academic circles, but younger readers welcomed it, and it was far more successful than most first novels.”

Sartre originally titled the novel Melancholia. Simone de Beauvoir referred to it as his “factum on contingency.” He composed it from 1932 to 1936. He had begun it during his military service and continued writing at Le Havre and in Berlin.

Ethan Kleinberg reports:

Sartre went to study in Berlin for the academic year 1933. While in Berlin, Sartre did not take any university courses or work with Husserl or Heidegger. Sartre’s time seems to have been spent reading Husserl and working on the second draft of Nausea.

Drake confirms this account.

The manuscript was subsequently typed. It was at first refused by the Nouvelle Revue Française (N.R.F.), despite a strong recommendation from their reviewer, Jean Paulhan. In 1937, however, the imprint’s publisher, Gaston Gallimard accepted it and suggested the title La Nausée.

Brice Parain, the editor, asked for numerous cuts of material that was either too populist or else too sexual to avoid an action for indecency. Sartre deleted the populist material, which was not natural to him, with few complaints, because he wanted to be published by the prestigious N.R.F., which had a strong, if vague, house style. However, he stood fast on the sexual material which he felt was an artistically necessary hallucinatory ingredient.

Michel Contat has examined the original typescript and feels that, “if ever Melancholia is published as its author had originally intended it, the novel will no doubt emerge as a work which is more composite, more baroque and perhaps more original than the version actually published.”

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[plasma-paints]

Okay, Theory Time!

This is going to be really long, so to spare people I’m going to put pretty much all of this under the cut, but it involves time and space and the fact that we might have had this all wrong from the start. Also, probably best if you watch part 4 of Observation first.

Alright, so Sean not so subtly implied that the egos are in fact from different universes. The universes intersecting for a short period of time before separating again would explain why the egos tend to come and go in our timeline. A good example of this in popular media is The Convergence from Thor: Dark World. At minimum two universes, or points in space in the movie, overlap and thus matter/energy can pass between unhindered. Being in the centre of one of these anomalies would technically allow you to be in multiple universes at once. (I like to imagine bubbles mixed with a Venn Diagram for visualization.)

So pretty simple, the universes intertwine, someone passes through, boom their in our reality for a while. Except, these kinds of anomalies are stereotypically spacially specific, so if one were to enter into one and then leave its area of effect, they may not return to their original universe. Essentially, they’d be stuck, albeit temporarily if they can find another anomaly. This is what I imagine has happened to each of the egos.

It can explain away a lot of things: 

-Jackieboy-man’s and Marvin’s abilities - Dr. Schneep’s strange medical practises (at least in this universe) -JJ’s inability to speak -Chase being able to stand in for Jack

It could also be used to explain Anti in a similar fashion, just another universe’s version, but I don’t think that’s quite the case. Anti, unlike the rest, is different. That much has been made obvious by the fact that he’s the only seemingly knowledgable one. He seems to understand what’s going on intimately. “Time is broken.” This indicates that the universes aren’t necessarily colliding at the same relative time, let alone space, but the more interesting fact is that he knows that they should be. ‘Broken’ implies that he is aware of a time when time flowed properly, possibly without the universes intersecting at all. A state of order so to speak. 

Anti though is the epitome of chaos, so why does he of all the egos know what order looked like? I mean he bounces throughout space and time, bounces around space within dimensions, and doesn’t appear to have a physical form of his own. There’s absolutely nothing orderly about him. So why is he the omnipotent ego? For that exact reason. He’s unstable, unlike the others, he’s unable to remain anywhere outside of an anomaly. For whatever reason, he can’t leave. So he’s been stuck who knows how long, getting glimpses of multiple realities and eventually he must have just put it together. For him, time is the most broken, phasing between universes at an almost imperceivable pace... He, for lack of a better word, glitches.

Now the real question is why? What happened to result in this instability? Why are universes, that for all extensive purposes should remain separated, bouncing around and into each other like billiard balls? 

The simplest answer: Someone fucked up, and they fucked up badly. 

My thoughts are that it was one of two individuals who caused this cascade failure of the multiverse: Anti... Or Sean. The narrative, as I see it anyway, can only make sense if one of them or both of them is to blame. Why else would Anti continue to appear back in this universe, harassing the egos who also end up in this reality? 

Anti makes a lot of sense, as he’s like the focal point of the chaos, the epicentre. He’s the antithesis of order and seems to only want to bring down everyone with him. He makes for a stereotypical evil entity.

The story becomes more interesting if it’s Sean though, that tipped the balance. He wouldn’t even have to know he did it, an everyday action that this version of himself wasn’t supposed to do perhaps... 

***Everything under this point is a potential partial timeline/plot theory***

I’m purely speculating now, but possibly that action was making a youtube channel. (I’ll come back to this.)

It would tie a lot of things together actually, and it would finally give Anti a proper motive. He just wants this to be over. “I’m tired of playing pretend, fucking circles!” Who knows how long it’s been for him? How many different attempts he’s made at fixing this, only to fail over, and over, and over? How many plans he’s tried? How many of them we’ve seen? Think about how calmly he said, “Time is broken.” This time around was different from his usual overzealousness. Possibly because it was one of his first attempts at reaching out, asking for help, hoping that somehow, someone else would put together the pieces and end his torment. 

It’s odd and fascinating because this entire time we might have been framing him as a villain because of what we witnessed first - the violence, the threats, the manipulation- that we missed the overall message: “Help me.” 

 If time isn’t flowing the same for him as it is for us, he could have been trapped in this in-between state for countless lifetimes: “I am eternal.” Being torn apart and stitched back together a billion times a second everywhere and nowhere, “always there, always watching.” Frantically he puts in information wherever he can: glitches, video tags, titles, social media, in those brief moments when he occupies our reality once more. He’s figured out that this universe is the problem, we’re the epicentre of a catastrophe beyond the comprehension of everyone but him. He tries, and he tries, and he tries to get someone to notice him. He becomes more knowledgable as time goes on, finds tricks to staying more stable, gathering allies from alternate realities (like those from the overnight watch), manipulating universes so that they intersect at the right places, puppeteering on a cosmic scale. 

Nothing ever works perfectly though, so he also becomes increasingly desperate. No one else is putting the pieces together, bringing his nightmare to an end. Suffering endlessly until he finally snaps, coming to a single conclusion. In order for this hell to end, he has to kill the person who started it all: our Sean. Time doesn’t matter to him after all, so all of the attempts we’ve witnessed are his end game. Perhaps he mistakenly took Chase for Sean due to him crossing universes and manipulated him into ending his own life (Chase’s power hour.) Another time he appeared while Sean was dying, and tried to disable the surgeon working on him (Kill Jacksepticeye.) He partially succeeds, and Sean’s in a coma.

Here’s where to channel comes in. If it’s the error that needs to be corrected, it explains why Anti’s so obsessed with us, the community. He may think that maybe that too would be enough, that if the channel dies, it’s the same thing as Sean dying, the mistake ceases to be. Except, even with Sean out of commission, the channel lives on. The other egos, primarily Chase it would seem, taking over to keep things running while Schneep tends to Sean. 

None of the Egos stuck in our reality have worked Anti’s situation out, obviously, all they see is another version of themselves actively trying to kill them all and so they band together. Realizing that these other realities’ versions of himself were actively interfering in his plans, he moved on to eliminate them from the equation too. Possibly he thought blackmail would suffice for Chase, so he took his kids. Instead of just sabotaging Schneep’s surgery in kill Jacksepticeye, he moves to try to choke him dead instead. An unending cycle of attempts to rid himself of Sean, of the stupid little thing that has caused him unending pain and infuriation.

Except... It does end. I’ve felt rather adamant that Say Goodbye is not the first major appearance of Anti from his perspective, but the last. Time goes by, Anti grows stronger and picks a time and place to focus on: October 2016. In order to focus himself there, he creates a sort of beacon whenever he happens to glitch through. “You all said my name,” for the first major time in our timeline, a call throughout time and space, “kept me inside.” We gave him a tether to one spot long enough to act out his plan. “This is all your fault! Too long! [You should have] listen[ed] to me!” We never put the pieces together, we took too long, so he had to resort to killing Sean.“You all made this happen! You could have stopped this, but you just watched as this happened!” He’s angry with us because if we had put the pieces together we could have ended his suffering earlier as well as saved Sean. “Now, he’s gone forever.” It’s over, it’s done, Sean’s dead, Anti presumably goes back to whatever reality he was from, and time and space fix themselves. We don’t know this though, because we still have to live out our failure in a paradoxical timeline that once everything is back in balance should cease to exist, no longer serving a purpose. So it’s literally the last chance to, “Say goodbye.” Not just to Sean, nor Anti, but to our universe itself.

But that’s just a theory, a meta-theory. Thanks for reading!

@therealjacksepticeye

#jacksepticeye #therealjacksepticeye #antisepticeye #jse egos #jse theory #mayhem 2.0 #dismay2019 #theory #jacksepticeye egos #multiverse #timelines #space and time and stuff #more pieces kept falling into place

[hufflly-puffs]

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Chapter 37: The Lost prophecy

The entire conversation between Harry and Dumbledore in this chapter remains one of my favourite in the entire season. Something J.K. Rowling is extremely good at is to write about loss and grief. In a way Harry experiences it for the first time – he was too young when his parents died and Cedric’s death left him in shock, but then again they didn’t really knew it each other. This time it is different. And my reading experience changed, because I have experienced a loss similar like Harry (like Rowling, who had lost her mother shortly before she started writing the Potter series) between the first time I read the book as a teenager and now again as an adult. It might be because Rowling had lost a parent that so much about Harry’s grief resonates with me. It feels real.

“It was his fault Sirius had died; it was all his fault. If he, Harry, had not been stupid enough to fall for Voldemort’s trick, if he had not been so convinced that what he had seen in his dream was real, if he had only opened his mind to the possibility that Voldemort was, as Hermione had said, banking on Harry’s love of playing the hero … It was unbearable, he would not think about it, he could not stand it … there was a terrible hollow inside him he did not want to feel or examine, a dark hole where Sirius had been, where Sirius had vanished; he did not want to have to be alone with that great, silent space, he could not stand it –“ – Sirius’s death is not what causes Harry’s depression, but it certainly factors to it. The anxiety, the impossibility to escape your own thoughts, and how he blames himself for Sirius’s death, despite all logic and rational thought saying he can’t be blamed. And it is what makes things even worse – not just losing Sirius, but the circumstances, that Harry fall for Voldemort’s trap, that it was the love they felt for each other that brought both Harry and Sirius to the Department of Mysteries to save the other. That Harry should have known better, that Hermione (who always represent logic and rational thought) even warned him it could be a trap. Harry let his heart decide for him, he did what he felt was right. And whenever we make a mistake because we let our heart decide for us we feel foolish and weak. Dumbledore will tell Harry later that it was his heart that saved him, but to Harry it is his heart that failed him.

“The guilt filling the whole of Harry’s chest like some monstrous, weighty parasite, now writhed and squirmed. Harry could not stand this, he could not stand being himself any more … he had never felt more trapped inside his own head and body, never wished so intensely that he could be somebody, anybody, else …” – The thing about Harry is that the moment he entered the Wizarding World, the moment he learned he was famous, he has always been confronted with the image others have of him. The boy who lived, the tragic hero. In the last year he has been portrayed as a liar, mentally unstable, attention seeking. He has never let himself defined by these things, knowing they are not true. Now though he sees himself different: as the one responsible for Sirius’s death. He never claimed to be a hero, but it has never been less true than now. Ironically it is his hero-complex, as Hermione calls it, that brought all of his friends in danger, that did cost Sirius his life (at least from Harry’s perspective). It is unbearable to connect himself with the image of a hero others have painted of him, now that he has made a terrible mistake, that he did not save the day, but is the one who brought everyone in danger in the first place.

“‘I know how you’re feeling, Harry,’ said Dumbledore very quietly. ‘No, you don’t,’ said Harry, and his voice was suddenly loud and strong; white-hot anger leapt inside him; Dumbledore knew nothing about his feelings.” – Dumbledore of course has experienced loss and grief himself, but he also knows how it feels to think you are responsible for someone’s else death, as he blames himself for his sister’s death. But Harry does not know this, and he does not ask Dumbledore either, because we always feel like our pain is individual, like nobody could ever know how we really feel. Grief and loss are very personal feelings, because everybody experiences them in a different way, and at times it feels like it creates a barrier between yourself and the rest of the world.

“‘Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being human –’ ‘THEN – I – DON’T – WANT – TO – BE – HUMAN!’ Harry roared […] ‘I DON’T CARE!’ Harry yelled at them, snatching up a lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. ‘I’VE HAD ENOUGH, I’VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON’T CARE ANY MORE –’ He seized the table on which the silver instrument had stood and threw that, too. It broke apart on the floor and the legs rolled in different directions. ‘You do care,’ said Dumbledore. He had not flinched or made a single move to stop Harry demolishing his office. His expression was calm, almost detached. ‘You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.’” – This always reminds me of a poem by Mary Oliver, “The Uses of Sorrow”: “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.” Dumbledore, in his age and wisdom, knows that experiencing pain the way Harry does, is part of being human, or as he even says it is a proof of being human (and therefore would make Voldemort unhuman). We can’t understand pain like this when we right in the middle of it. Harry experiences it for the first time really and he feels like he will never get over it, like nothing will ever be whole again, that this is the final straw. In time he will learn that you can live with the pain, but you never get used to it. And once he understands what Voldemort has done to his soul, he will understand Dumbledore’s words and what a great gift it is to feel that deeply.

“Voldemort’s aim in possessing you, as he demonstrated tonight, would not have been my destruction. It would have been yours. He hoped, when he possessed you briefly a short while ago, that I would sacrifice you in the hope of killing him.” – But in the end that is exactly what happens: Dumbledore sacrifices Harry in order to kill Voldemort. And that might have been a part of Dumbledore’s plan as well: that after this night Voldemort was convinced that Dumbledore would never do such a thing, that when Harry sacrificed himself in the end Voldemort never assumed that it was part of Dumbledore’s plan.

“‘Kreacher is what he has been made by wizards, Harry,’ said Dumbledore.” – It is interesting that it was Sirius who told Harry that in order to understand someone’s true nature you should look how they treat their inferiors not their equals. Of course Sirius did not hate Kreacher because he is a house elf, but rather because he was a constant reminder of the family/home he hated so much. He could not show Kreacher even the simplest form of respect. And house-elves, bound to their families, always become a product of how their masters treat them. And Dumbledore, unlike Voldemort and many other wizards, never underestimated house-elves. They are individuals, they have feelings, and they have magic of their own. And they are always overlooked, which can make them incredible dangerous.

“ ‘Five years ago you arrived at Hogwarts, Harry, safe and whole, as I had planned and intended. Well – not quite whole. You had suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your aunt and uncle’s doorstep. I knew I was condemning you to ten dark and difficult years.’” – I think this is the first time someone actually acknowledges in words the abuse Harry had to endure. That what happened to him was neither right or fair, despite Dumbledore explaining the reason why he had to stay with the Dursleys.

“Did I believe that Voldemort was gone for ever? No. I knew not whether it would be ten, twenty or fifty years before he returned, but I was sure he would do so, and I was sure, too, knowing him as I have done, that he would not rest until he killed you.” – Imagine though it would have taken Voldemort 70 years to return, the book series would have been quite different.

“‘While you can still call home the place where your mother’s blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives on in you and her sister. Her blood became your refuge. You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it home, whilst you are there he cannot hurt you. Your aunt knows this. I explained what I had done in the letter I left, with you, on her doorstep. She knows that allowing you houseroom may well have kept you alive for the past fifteen years.’” – First, I still can’t believe that Dumbledore could not be bothered to explain this in person, that all he did was to write a letter. Second, the very complicated relationship Petunia has with her nephew. Harry claims that she does not love him, which might be true. Regardless she loved her sister. She took Harry in because her sister gave her life to protect him, because she knew that if she wouldn’t Harry would die. And yet Harry is a constant reminder of Lily, of Petunia’s loss, of all the complicated feelings she had towards Lily. And interesting enough both Petunia and Snape help to keep Harry alive, they both protect him in their own ways, but out of respect and love towards Lily, because he is her son, nothing more. It is not just her blood that protects Harry, but also the relationships Lily made while she was alive, the people who loved her.

“‘I cared about you too much,’ said Dumbledore simply. ‘I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act.” – Dumbledore thinks that his flaw, that the mistake that he made, was that he cared too much about Harry, that his happiness became more important than the lives of others. And many criticized Dumbledore for his final plan: that in the end Harry had to give his own life in order to defeat Voldemort. But this is exactly what this is about: that Harry’s life is no more important than the lives of thousands. Some see Dumbledore as cruel and manipulating, and perhaps they are right. But he still cares. He cares so much about Harry and yet he knows what he needs to ask of him, knows what it will take to end Voldemort. And one could ask what is more cruel: to sacrifice one live so thousands can live or to accept the pain of the many in exchange for one man’s happiness?

“I had gone there to see an applicant for the post of Divination teacher, though it was against my inclination to allow the subject of Divination to continue at all.” – I mean honestly, it is the most useless subject ever.

So, the prophecy. It reveals something that to the readers might be obvious, but this is the first time we actually hear it: that Harry is the only one who has the power to defeat Voldemort. And Harry of course is famous because he survived the Killing Curse, but perhaps he thought that there might not be a special reason why Voldemort wanted to kill him and his parents. After all Voldemort and his followers killed so many. Perhaps Harry thought Voldemort simply wanted to finish what he had started, that this time he wants to kill Harry because of what has happened to him. Maybe deep down Harry had wondered if there might be more about it, what the real reason was that Voldemort had considered a baby as a threat. If he did he probably ignored that thought, because as Dumbledore explains, it is an incredible burden to live with this knowledge.

Then of course there is the fact that it could have been Neville as well. There are many speculations what would have happened if Voldemort had chosen Neville instead. I always assumed that Alice Longbottom, just as Lily did, would have sacrificed herself for her son, giving Neville the same kind of protection Harry had. Neville would have still grown up with his grandmother (and through her blood he would be protected as well) though with even more pressure put upon him. But I always loved the fact that it could have been someone else, that in a way there was nothing special about Harry, and that of course the irony is that in choosing Harry Voldemort marked him as an equal and gave him the power to destroy him (though Voldemort of course was not aware of this, as he had not heard the whole prophecy). And Voldemort did not choose the son of two Aurors, the pureblood wizard, but Harry instead, the halfblood, because as Dumbledore explains, he saw himself in Harry.

The thing about prophecies is of course whether or not they become true, and in fiction they usually do, especially if people try to avoid their fate. Voldemort did not hear the full prophecy, he did not know that he would be the one to mark his enemy as an equal. The question is, if he had that knowledge and never had tried to kill Harry or Neville, could he have avoided his fate?

Also, we don’t know it yet, but of course it was Snape who had overheard the first part of the prophecy, which made me wonder what he was doing there in the first place. Was it a coincidence? Was he there on Voldemort’s order, spying on Dumbledore? And how come he would not know or figure out that the prophecy could refer to Lily’s son, and therefore would put her in danger by telling Voldemort about it?

“In the end, it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you.” – Harry has never been and will never be the most talented wizard, but that did not matter. It does not matter how advanced the magic is that Voldemort works. It is Harry’s ability to love, and the love of his mother, that saves him. And that is something you can’t learn or achieve. If Voldemort has ever been able to love he successfully got rid of this ability. To him love is a weakness, something he never understood and always underestimated. And in Rowling’s work it is essential our ability to love what makes us human. And losing that has made Voldemort dead long before he actually died.

“‘So,’ said Harry, dredging up the words from what felt like a deep well of despair inside him, ‘so does that mean that … that one of us has got to kill the other one … in the end?’ ‘Yes,’ said Dumbledore.” – Just moments before Harry told Dumbledore that he doesn’t have powers like Voldemort does, that he can’t kill someone, and yet he has to or he will be killed. In the end however he defeated Voldemort without actually killing him, and I always loved that he didn’t have to become a murderer.

#Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix #the lost prophecy #chapter notes #ootp

[airakorainies]

So I saw this neat thing flying around Tumblr of Lightwarden aus so with the help of my friend (he’s a wonderful photographer in game. If you want some good pictures too, just send me ask and I can let him know :3)

[[MORE]]

So! Here’s mine lol

“Mother, I'm so sorry. Please, I beg of you. Forgive me."

She didn't mean for it to happen. How could she stop it? She was a child frozen in fear. Placed into hiding by her dear mother for protection. The young girl peered through the bushes only to see her mother get cut down in front her. Her hand flew towards the bush and landed just outside of it. She was frozen with fear. She couldn't move. Her breathing grew sharp as she watched the enemies run off. Slowly, she reached out a hand and touched her mother's. Snow Tine.

Guilt plays a tune of melancholy in heart. Each death weighed a heavy toll on her heart. Her eyes would droop with tears of pity as she watched one ally after another get cut down in front of her. A hero? She's no hero. She cannot save the ones she loves.

And then it happened. Those thoughts continued to tear apart her mind and heart until she knew she was unstable. Slowly, she crawled her way out into The Empty. If she were to turn, it'd be best to stay out here. Surely, she would not have to cut down her friends if she was alone. So with the little strength she had left, she called upon Feo Ul. She begged the fairy to trap her in a large bubble, cocoon, a large shard, *anything* so that she may not escape. With the wall raised, she turned.

--> The fight. The Frozen Lament Extreme

~~> Snow Tine the Forgiven Guilt <~~

Class: Demented Summoner

Weapon: Book/Ice that forms around specific limbs for specific purposes

Her appearance matches that of the pictures (will post after), except her horns were moved from the side of her eyes to the bridge of her nose. The horns stretched out and covered her eyes. As a way to hide the tears she has constantly shed. The tux also has a much longer coattail that flows outward during the fight cause aESTHETIC.

The field is a lot like Shiva's but it's got more of an open, cave feel to it. There's no walls and it has a dark canyon that seems to surround the field.

+ When pulled, she immediately throws out a cone knock-back called "Icy Front". It's small but if people aren't paying attention at when the fight began, they can be pushed off just over the edge. There'll be enough time in the casting that the group can run far enough to her to avoid the knock-back. *or immune it* She'll announce the beginning of this move with the dialogue "Move! Get out or I'll kill you too!"

--> Players who get knocked off will not be immediately killed. Instead, they spawn with little health into this room. It looks like a thin icy pillar that extends upward, which is assumed to be the stage as it grows larger and larger as it ascends. In the middle is an orb. It will immediately target the players and begin to cast self destruct. Players must 'kill' the orb to keep a wipe from happening. (Killing it doesn't actually do so. It's just like... disabling it for a while so players can travel through the aether back to the top.) But for each player who fell, it gains a defense buff after it is killed. (For later or any other players that fall later as well)

+ The fight continues out per usual. After a few moments from the knockback, she casts an aoe called "Crying Blizzard".

+ The tank buster follows after is called "Cursed Judgement." Places a hefty vuln onto the tank (that doesn't last long at all but will kill if hit by even an auto attack). This forces a tank swap.

And that's where the fun begins >:)

+ "I've lost so many lights. So what's a few more to lose? I couldn't save them anyway." After she speaks this, she begins to cast a three ring aoe called "Lost Lights". It's got a warning maker *idk what they're called lol* that covers the whole field, leaving only two spots open. Two small rings in between the three. However, there is little reaction time before the players' screens go completely black. They have to memorize where the safe spots are at a glance and quickly remember where to move. The cast is quick too so you can't sit there for a moment to rattle your brain. If hit, it drops a 2 minute frostbite on each player and freezes them for 10 seconds.

+ There's another aoe before she turns to the off tank and casts the knockback towards wherever they're standing. Meaning the off tank should be either with the main tank or to the side where people aren't right after the aoe.

+ She then casts another "Lost Lights" but this time, it's different. Two Shards spawn out of any four patterns. (A cross, an x, a zigzag, or a big bulky line.) They do a complete line aoe across the field they've spawned at. There'll be only a couple of permanent safe spots for any of these patterns but that's up to you to find :)

+ She does another tankbuster, another aoe, before she cries. "Forget it! Forget it all! Please! Forgive me!" She raises her hand up and slaps the ground with a large icy wind knocking all players off the stage.

+ It's your pal orbie!

+ But with friends 😄 There are two ice golems that hit like trucks. So tanks have to take them and then take them to opposite sides of the field. *they get a tether when too close that makes them invincible*.

The orb has a sort of protect shield around it making it untargetable. The golems must be defeated and then the orb. It's a relatively quick add phase that should be pretty easy, but if there were at least 4 knocked of players beforehand, butts will be clenched killing the orb as it's casting self destruct.

+ Once the players return she screams once more. Her voice is shaking and it's obvious she's crying. "Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me! FORGIVE ME PLEASE!"

She flies up and summons her book in front of her. A shadow bahambo appears behind her and she begins to cast Teraflare. This is her ultimate 😄 AND the *real* add phase. Shadows of the scions appear on the stage. and each player will be given on of three 'buffs'

- Titan's Terror

Those marked with Titan's Terror must locate the scions with the buff Titan's Triumph and kill them. *players killing the wrong scion places an aoe vuln on everyone. 2 means the ultimate will wipe the party no matter what.*

- Garuda's Gout

Those marked with Garuda's Gout must locate the scions with the buff Garuda's Gift and kill them. However, only two scions are marked with this and it's always the twins. *For the full party only has 8 players.* The twins are easy to kill, but Alphinaud must die first or he'll keep healing the scions. *same with Urianger whether he's marked with titan or ifrit.

- Ifrit's Inability

Those marked with Ifrit's Inability must locate the scions with the buff Ifrit's Interest and kill them.

**The healers will always have the same buff Ifrit's Inability + 1 random dps. For the scions with the buff are not as strong.

Players can either split off and kill each scion individually or those with the same buffs gang up on them one by one.

Whatever way works best for the raid.

There is a time limit. If she hits 100 *she's been drawing in aether from the shadow scions*, she'll cast Teraflare and wipe the party.

If not, the party will receive the buff after all the scions are killed called "Phoniex's Phorgiveness" (xP)

Once she casts the flare, the arena changes. It's all musty yet bright. Large mirrors of the three primal egis are around the arena (just there for show).

The same moves appear. But Lost Light's is different. It has either two new patterns.

One combines the original two and another one has her hitbox as the only safe area. She also will combine other aoes with Lost Lights. Players can get marked with puddles. She could have a lookaway move that if hit, zombifies the player and can cause them to get hit by the lost lights *or damage the other player*

The Lost Light's at this point are instakills.

+ there's one new move now called "Mother's Remorse" One random player besides mt will be targeted with a HUGE aoe marker. They must take it as far away as possible. leaving only a small crescent open. You can eat the damage, but it places a heavy vuln and the aoe after will probably wipe the party. *Which means healers must shield and heal the targeted player for the aoe since they get an automatic vuln*

After a certain allotted time, she has a dialouge box appear. But it only says "*Cries*" Her loud sobs override the music as she begins to slow cast, "Hero's Execution". A big aoe with resemblance to tri-bind, each 'orb' placed in front of the three mirror primals.

At 10%, her dialogue changes. "Is this forgiveness? Please set me free!"

= Her death line, "We meet once again... mother..."

== She drops glamour weapons and a rare mount. Like a nightmare but for the dragons.

•••

{{Thank you all for reading! ^^ hope you enjoyed Snow’s Lightwarden fight}}

#ffxiv #ffxiv lightwarden #snow tine #ffxiv snow tine #ffxiv snow #airako tart #final fantasy xiv #lightwarden #lightwarden tag

[cicadas-epiphany]

Black Hat’s past lovers: Hazel

Black Hat sits down in his chair. His desk is empty, save for his prized red skull. “You have all been asking and asking, BEGGING for me to tell you. So fine. I'll tell you imbeciles about my past love life.” he huffs and folds his arms, seeming like he wanted to be elsewhere. He rolled his eye and continued, “My first love was a Sahterrian named Hazel. Well, that's what name I gave her. She was very… peculiar. She didn't want to tell me anything about her, and she didn't want me to tell her anything about me. Her outlook on life was extraordinary and complex. It's hard to explain, so I will let you figure it out yourself. I met her on her homeplanet, Sahterra. Not many…” He pauses, looking for the right word. “People, let's call them. Not many people lived there, as it was very barren and near uninhabitable. The planet was large, hot, and full of desert. The air was thick and humid, but lacked water vapor. There were very few water sources on this planet, and those that did exist were contaminated with sand, making it undrinkable. The sand was red, the sky was red, everything was red. It stained the skin and fur of anyone living there, masking everything in deep red. The winds were strong and aggressive, and the planet was prone to horrible natural disasters.

The inhabitants, Sahterrians, were split into two groups. The incredibly wealthy and the incredibly poor. The wealthy lived in ships, and came and go as they pleased. Nobody had houses or permanent structures like we do, for it was too difficult to build and manage. Nobody stayed there for very long anyway, so trying to build there was a waste of time. The wealthy lived in home ships, and traveled in work ships. Food and water had to be imported from other planets, since Sahterra was too unstable to support anything. The wealthy only continued living there to show status and strength.

The poor lived in villages made of scrap ship parts, abandoned ships, unusable ships, and malfunctioning ships. They didn't have any way of leaving, and were very sickly from the constant sand flooding their lungs and the lack of resources. The land was impossible to farm and the water was impossible to drink. They had no way of living on their own.

The wealthy there, some were generous. They would donate food they didn't need, want, that had spoiled, or they’d have crates of food to be purchased and delivered if they were especially kind. Some villages were favored more than others, due to the social hierarchy developed in the past. It just became traditional to favor them.

But some of the wealthy were cruel. They felt like the poor hadn’t worked hard enough to deserve it. They would follow transport ships and destroy them or steal from them to prevent resources from reaching villages. They would raid villages and steal what they felt the lower class didn't deserve. They couldn't fight back, so families would just stand back as their pitiful home ships were destroyed.

Hazel was born and raised on the planet, in a favored poor village. That is the only real information I know about her, due to her appearance. Everything else about her is unknown.

I met her over 100,000 years ago. I was still powerful, but not as powerful as I am now. My powers were still maturing, as I was unable to teleport myself long distances and I had some… difficulty keeping a solid form. My body was very bulbous and misshapen. I wore a cloak to hide it, though it didn't prevent the spikes on my back from tearing through the fabric. I had horns, four of them. Two smaller ones going out horizontally, and two going up vertically before curving in slightly. the rest of my body was constantly shifting and mutating, never staying solid. I had to use a ship in order to travel, just like everyone else.

I was on Sahterra for business. One of the wealthy Sahterrians was building a machine in order to wipe out the poor half of the planet. My mission was to assassinate him and steal the machine. I didn't do it out of care about the people, I wanted the machine. That glorious machine would have the capability to disintegrate half a planet! It was perfect. I planned for months, and finally was strong enough to go for it.” black hat smirks at cambot, who has been eagerly recording him. “I don't need to tell you how i got in,” he flirts, “but I was in. I was deep into the ship, searching for the living quarters.

I scaled across the ceiling, gripping the details of the structure. I had become close, I could smell a Sahterrian. I grew excited and lost my footing. My claws slipped, scratching the wall and generating a piercing screech; similar to nails on chalkboard. I froze. Everything was quiet. I felt anxious, and my body gurgled and pulsated underneath the cloak. The smell of a Sahterrian grew closer, making my body panic and spasm further. As the smell grew, I looked for them frantically. I knew they were here, but I couldn't see them.

Something shot forward and grabbed my throat. I struggled, lost my balance, and fell onto the floor with a loud thud. I was pulled across the floor by an odd device, and I knew it was being controlled by the Sahterrian. Struggling to escape, I was thrown and pinned by the wrists, and my face was shoved into the wall.

“State your function.” She said.

“She? I was hunting a male. Who was this?” I thought to myself.

“Thats none of your concern!” I growled back, my voice oozing into her skull.

She stayed quiet for a moment. Most likely in awe at how amazing I am, I don't know. I didn't care.

“State your function, now. Or I will kill you where you stand.” She said.

“Oh, dear. I’m simply trembling in fear.” I respond. “But if you must know, im an assassin. Like you, I assume.”

She tightens the grip of the device on my throat. “Sorry to say, but I am still going to have to kill you.” Her voice was a hushed whisper, but was still full of authority and strength. She was obviously a very experienced and confident assassin.

“I doubt you could manage that.” I throw myself at her, pinning her to the opposite wall with my back. “I happen to be immortal. So good luck with that.”

She struggled underneath me, glorious and amazing me, before pushing me off. I ripped the device from my throat and crushed it without looking at it, more focused on looking at her. She was still young, much to my surprise. She was thin, like the poor, but strong like the rich. She must have come from a favored village.

She stood on two cat-like, thin legs. Her body frame was elegant and bold, with few curves. She wore a black skirt that was long in the back, and a dark brown sleeveless half shirt. Her short purple fur was stained red from the sand, and her claws were dirty and dull. Her half-lidded hazel eyes had thin pupils, and her horns stood high and intact. A tuft of fur sat between her gray horns, stained red too, as her body was. Her tail was rat-like, with a tuft of fur at the end.

But what stood out most were her eyes. They were a beautiful and vibrant. Full of life and lust for adventure. Most Sahterrians of her status had given up hope of being significant. They are taught at a young age that they are meaningless. That they are too destitute to have worth. They are trained to think that they need someone else taking care of them to be whole. Individuality is dead.

But she had a purpose, and she knew it. She was destined to do what she does, and she was damn good at it. Her eyes beamed with tenacity.

But let's not forget the situation at hand.

I had been… distracted. She took the opportunity and pushed me back into the wall. We wrestled for a few minutes, trying to beat one another for authority to kill our mutual target,  before we heard an audible click. We both froze, and she looked up. I followed her lead, and everything went black.

I woke up to a loud bang. Looking over, she was flying through the air and landed perfectly on her feet. We had been locked in separate floating prison cell pods, and she had just escaped.

“Get me out!” I yelled at her.

“No. I am going to do my job. You can free yourself.” She responded flatly, heading towards a near hallway.

“I wasn't asking, I was ordering! Free me now!” I screeched, scraping my claws against the inside of the pod.

She stared at me. A cold, hard glare. “No. This is a personal mission. I must eliminate him before he wipes out half the planet. The weapon will be destroyed after he is dead.”

I didn't like this. I needed that weapon. I thrashed about in the pod, trying to break through. She turned and left, disappearing from my vision.

An hour passed, and I still was trapped. How she got free, I haven't a clue.

She appeared through the hall, clearly pleased. She had accomplished her mission.

“Still trapped, mister almighty immortal?” she mocked. She MOCKED! How DARE she! I was about to counteract, but the pod suddenly burst, dropping me to the floor. She had made her way to the control panel and freed me.

Leaning against the panel, she watched in amusement as I stood and fixed my cloak, trying to recompose myself. “Took you long enough.” I mumbled.

Her only response was a smirk. I was furious.

Walking forward, she pushed a card at me. “My services. If you ever need someone to disappear, let me know.”

The card didn't have much information. Just a contact number and a picture.

“Do you have a name?” I ask.

“That is unimportant.”

And with that, she was gone. I stood for a moment, unsure of what to do. The machine was destroyed and the builder was dead. I had no purpose being here, so I left as well.

I boarded my ship and left the planet.

A time later, possibly a year, I had to go back to Sahterra. I had business there again, and this time I was successful with my mission. But as I was trying to leave, I was rendered stranded due to a rare natural phenomena.” Cambot leans in, being invested in the story. Black Hat shoves him away, showing irritation.“To put it simply, the core of the planet overheats and magma forms at a drastic rate at the same time the tectonic plates go through a massive shift, causing volcano quakes. I think you dullards can use context to figure out what that means.

The ground had begun shaking violently, and I was unable to walk steadily to my ship. The tremors had thrown me to the ground, and the sand burned my eyes. I lied there in pain, trying to rub the sand from my face, when I heard an ear-splitting crack. The ground was opening up, and sand was rushing forward to fill the hole. Smoke billowed out of the opening, and I ran.

Volcano quakes don’t stop at just one. No, there are multiple quakes at once. It can destroy miles and miles of land, and it takes hundreds of years to recover.

I ran for as fast and as long as I could. Lava was inching closer from all directions and the sky was black as night. The sand and ash choked me and blinded me. Bodies of the inhabitants who had been killed lied all around me, making escape even more difficult.

I may have been powerful and immortal, but I was still able to feel pain. And let me tell you, burning in lava while sand and ash choke you isn't the most pleasant feeling.

After some time, I was unable to continue running. Needing a rest, I looked for a safe place to camp for the night. A small abandoned ship could be seen in the distance, so I went to it.

After entering, I noticed a body on the floor.

It was her.

I go up to her and feel for a pulse. She was still alive, barely. I leave her there, heading to the second floor of the small ship.

The controls were odd and confusing, I had no way of understanding them. I hadn't learned to read the Sahterrian language yet, though I can read it now.

I didn't know how to pilot this ship, if it could even function in the first place, so I stayed there and waited. I watched what was happening outside, and the volcano quakes had seemed to stop forming. Lava still shot out from them, slowly creeping closer to the ship.

But the ship was safe on top of a large sand hill. I stayed there for another few hours, waiting for it to stop.

The destruction seemed to be finished, so I started heading down to the floor level to leave.

I was wrong. So, so wrong.

An aftershock threw the ship forward. It was falling off the hill, and could crash and become damaged. I’d have no way off this planet, and nowhere to hide.

As I tried to escape, again, I passed by her lifeless form. I felt bad for her, so I grabbed her shoulders to wake her.

“Wake up! Wake up now!” I yelled.

“Wh- huh? What is happening? Why are you here?” She asked, seeming confused.

“Volcano quakes. An aftershock just hit, we need to leave now.” I said. The ship lurched forward again, and I scrambled to escape, leaving her behind.

I got to the entrance to find the winds outside were stronger than usual, a sandstorm had swept through. “Goddamnit!” I thought, “I can’t see!”

Having no choice, I turned back to the interior of the ship. She wasn’t there, so I rushed to the the upper level to try to figure out the controls.

She stood there, pounding away at them. “Hold on.” she commanded.

I was about to question her when the ship fell hard, falling down the side of the hill at a dangerous rate. Sirens screamed and lights flashed, alerting us to the danger we already knew. I crashed into the wall and she almost hit the viewport.

She frantically worked the controls, and the ship began to rumble and come to life. It shot forward, tearing down the hill and jerked back right before crashing into the ground. The ship hoovered there, shakily rising up higher and higher before stopping a few feet above the tallest hill.

Now we were safe.

The ship was unstable, but worked. She stepped away, falling to her knees in exhaustion. I sat next to her, and we were in silence.

“How did you get here?” I asked.

“I walked.” She responded.

I glared at her before giving up. It wasn't worth it.

“Night will come soon. Do you need food? There should be a few barrels of food in the storage room.” She stood, looking at me for a response.

“No. I’m fine.” I said, not looking at her.

She leaves silently, and returns moments later with a basket of food for herself and some blankets.

She lays out two and sits down on one. She begins eating.

I watch her, but she doesn't seem to care. She finishes and turns to me.

She quietly stares, as if to mock me for staring at her.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“What do you want it to be?”

I am confused. “What? Just tell me your name. I don’t have time for this.”

“Last time I checked, we are stranded on a floating ship. You have time. What is my name? Who am I?”

I decided to give in. “You are a Sahterrian assassin. Your name…” I look her over, looking for something significant to call her.

“Your name is Hazel. For your eyes.”

She nods. “I am Hazel, a Sahterrian assassin. You are Umbra, a king from a planet unknown. You are here to find ways to enforce your commands on your people, since they have started to fall from your grasp. Your powers are almighty, but they have lost fear. You are in search for new ways to gain back their loyalty, drawing you here, to the planet Sahterra. You come here to gain high status, just like everyone else has come for. Once you prove yourself, your slaves will respect you once again.”

I was baffled. I was at a loss of words, simply nodding in response. “I am Umbra, king of a planet unknown.”

She seemed content with herself and lied down on her blanket. I assumed the second was mine, and lied next to her.

I wanted to question her, but I was too in awe to ask. Luckily, she gave me an answer without question.

“My life story means nothing to you. I am just a pawn in the game of life, and so are you. Nobody asks how you are because they want to know about you. They ask about you so they can tell you about themself. Our real stories are insignificant. You have to make your own. Build your own life story and shape it how you want it to be.”

She paused, turning to face me. “You have met a girl on a foreign planet. What is her name? What is her story? What is she to you? How does it affect you? Why is she special?

That is for you to decide. I am just a new character in the story of your life. Who I am is yours to answer. You are the writer. Tell me who I am.”

I am quiet for a moment. I wasn’t sure what to make of this situation,  I hadn't thought of this before.

“You are Hazel. You are a Sahterrian from Sahterra. You were born in a favored village near a rich city. You-”

She cut me off. “No, no, no. Realizm is so boring. Try again. Be creative.”

I start to get frustrated, what did she want from me?!

“Fine then. You are Hazel, A Sahterrian hybrid. The other half is unknown, because your mother was a slutty bitch. You have seven siblings, all hybrids as well. Your oldest sibling died at the hands of another being, and you made it your life mission to get revenge. You became an assassin in hopes of finding the murderer and destroying them. How’s that?”

She nods. “So be it.”

“What? You're just going to take that? I insulted you!”

“Actually, you insulted my mother.”

I was enraged. “Fuck you! Fuck all of this! I’m leaving.”

“Okay.”

Why wasn't she offended? Why wasn’t she responding to any of this? Why wasn’t she mad?

I went to the controls, suddenly remembering I have no idea how to fly this ship. I pressed a button, but a lock flashed on the screen. She had locked the controls. I couldn't do anything.

I sat back down on the blanket with a huff.

“Back so soon, your majesty?”

“SHUT UP, SLUT BABY!” I yelled, laying down on my side facing away from her. I could hear her snickering, tantalizing me.

At this point, I didn't like her. But we continued talking through the night, and I warmed up to her. She was much more pleasant to talk to than I originally thought. Once morning came, she settled the ship down on land that hadn't been destroyed by the volcano quakes.

She asked if my ship was destroyed the the disaster, and I said yes.

She offered one of her own ships. She had a few that had never been used, and she would teach me how to use the controls. I eagerly agreed, and I was to meet her at her home ship in a weeks time. She gave me the coordinates of her home ship and left.

I had no home for that week, so I wandered the planet, exploring the social construct. Their lives are brutal. How they manage to live there for generations, I'll never know.

Anyway, I met her at her home ship a week later around midday. She invited me in, and we looked at some of her work ships. I picked one I fancied, and she showed me how to pilot it.

They were surprisingly easy to maneuver.

Now I… may have flirted with her a bit afterwards, leading to a… well, a date, but that isn't important.” He adjusted his tie, seeming uncomfortable.

“Not much happened on the date. Well…” Black Hat looks down, getting even more uncomfortable. “Nevermind what we did. Nothing happened. NOTHING.

After a few weeks, we were officially a couple. I do not wish to give much detail of our dating life, but we were cozy. Sure she was a smartass, but she had a good sense of humor. She was nice to look at, and I had a tendency to get distracted and stare at her. One of the many flaws of love; it’s a distraction.

After several years, we lived together on Sahterra on her home ship. She would disappear for days without a warning. I didn't mind, I knew where she was. She had a job to do.

She helped me mold a more solid form, and I copied her thin stature. I liked the design, and thought she’d like it, too. I hadn't known there was a difference between the feminine and masculine body… and she never quite let me live that down.

She taught me their writing, some history, and more. I taught her foreign tongues when she has a job on an unfamiliar planet.

We were strong, and we thrived together.

One day she received a job from another Sahterrian. It was a job that no other assassin had accomplished, and the reward was a monstrous amount of wealth, and even power in the social hierarchy. Being treated as an equal to the wealthy was a great honor, and she accepted the job.

She prepared for months. She trained, gathered weapons, and trained some more.

Soon, she left. She gave the estimate of two months before she'd be back.

Two months later, she was still gone.

I didn't think much of it, I believe in her. She has gone over her estimate before. So I continued waiting.

Another month passed. Then another. Soon, a year. I became worried.

I didn't want to seem like I didn't feel confident in her, so i waited longer.  After another year, I went looking for her.

I knew the solar system her job was located at. I searched every planet, and every solar system around that. I searched that whole galaxy for her.

Her lack of a name made locating her difficult. Sahterrians weren’t common, so her appearance would be recognizable. But because of her job, she hid her body and face. Again, making it harder to find her.

I searched for thirty years. After that point, she had to be dead. Saherrians have a lifespan of about sixty years, and she was in her late twenties when she left.

I’ve never seen her since. I had traveled back to Sahterra a few times after that, but it was hopeless. I gave up and moved on.

She was gone forever.

Fic 2: Zharduu

#mywriting #villainous #villainous fanfic #black hat #black hats past lovers #hazel #hazel villainous #fic 1 of 4

[enkisstories]

The android cemetery (Chapter 11)

A while later Daniel was standing at the top of an open shaft, keeping watch. Meanwhile Gavin was down on his belly and wiggling his flashlight around.

“You were right”, the detective said. “It is a PL600 indeed that’s lying there on the bottom. Damn! This could have been our lucky break on this godforsaken “quest”.”

“Why only could?” Daniel asked back, not averting his attention from their surroundings. “Something wrong with the shaft? It looked stable enough earlier.”

“Uh…”

“Uh” was, in fact, a pretty good summarization of the shaft’s state. For one, it was made out of android bodies piled upon one another. Some had reverted to their factory settings state, but on most of them the outer skins were still online. Nearly all of the ones with their skins intact were also still wearing android uniforms, but in one case also - and upon noticing that Gavin had vomited into the shaft - a baseball cap with the stallion of the Detroit Pistons. Seeing all the standard android attire was one thing, but another altogether to spot individuals you could relate to within the mass grave. The Pistons cap was even worse than the various hands and feet sticking out of the walls and into the shaft. Or the fact that some of those were still moving…

“I, uh, erred. It’s kinda unstable, after all.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

Nearby, although still in a safe distance from the would-be graverobbers, a crane yanked around. The claw opened to release more dead bodies into the landfill. Daniel registered it with clenched teeth.

“Yes, too bad. Too bad for US, meerkat!” he exclaimed. “Sorry, but, not sorry. We’ve wasted enough time and I’ll probably have nightmares of that dead polar bear chasing me for weeks to come. Calling out for me in Connor’s voice for bonus points. We’ve got to get that PL600 so that we can finally be done with this expedition!”

“Heh! Now you are talking, slide-rule!”

Gavin moved away from the shaft’s opening to where his backpack stood. It was time to put some of its contents to good use! The man took out the bigger of the two grappling hooks. It was of the folding variety. Daniel thought that the device would not do them much good. They didn’t want to dredge the android carcass up a gentle slope, but lift it upwards. On closer inspection the presumed grapnel turned out to be a grabber. The claw’s opening was facing away from the handle, not towards it. In its ready state the device consisted of four arms that were held apart by a wedge. On contact the wedge would drop and the claw snap shut. It was the same principle grabber machines at fun fairs employed, the difference being that this one wasn’t rigged against the user.

“And now you and me are doing some wholesome family fun – we’re going fishing!” Gavin said, waving invitingly. “Give me a hand here, will you? And the metal pole!”

Wordlessly Daniel handed over the pole they had found earlier. Gavin had used it to test the ground before them so far. Now he slammed two narrow metal bands that the dump had provided down the pole’s length to roughly the middle. They formed a groove just wide enough for the grabber’s rope to run through. Daniel recognized the improvised construction as a very basic pulley system. Only then did it dawn to him that one was needed. They didn’t want the android corpse to scrape along the shaft’s wall, after all. Together they put the pole across the shaft’s opening. They secured it on both ends with more garbage and the help of, much to Daniel’s astonishment, a small welder. But having seen his boyfriend pack all the stuff honestly he should not have been surprised to find a build-your-own-android kit at the backpack’s bottom. Or in a side pouch.

“Okay, this shit’s sure to stay in place”, Gavin said after having tested the construction.

They ran the rope over the pole and lowered it slowly into the shaft. As Daniel watched it descent, he couldn’t help but notice the heads, torsos and limbs.

“Oh”, he uttered.

“Right.”

Nothing else was said.

The hopeful fishers let the grabber dangle over the PL600’s body. The dead android wasn’t helpful enough to lie directly below the device, therefore Daniel had to maneuver the rope into place with a poker. The whole operation seemed unnecessarily complicated to him, but then again, so was cooking to Gavin. Daniel had to trust his human that he knew what he was doing.

Finally the claw snatched the body. Gavin re-aligned the rope until it sat firmly inside the groove and then they could start pulling. As the torso got lifted off the ground it bent somewhat, with head, arms and legs dangling. The good news was that none of the limbs detached during the process. The corpse seemed to still hold together after however long it had lain on the shaft’s bottom. Hopefully not too well, Gavin thought. The last thing they needed was the android snapping back to consciousness and say “Hi” to them. The bad news was that the attachments made the while package unstable. Despite all the care the graverobbers had taken, their corpse was moving towards the shaft’s wall, after all. It bounced off, only to drift into the opposite direction – where it was caught by a set of moving fingers! They grabbed and caught a hold, unwilling to let go again.

“What the…!” Gavin uttered. He looked down more closely and yelled: “Gah! A zombie android’s fucking stealing our corpse!”

“Well, just pull harder!” Daniel suggested.

“Can’t! We might lose our PL!”

They stopped pulling and gazed down into the shaft. Whatever had grabbed the PL600 had to be under the impression of having caught onto something it could use to pull itself out of the mass grave. It was tugging harder at the corpse now...

“This is no good”, Gavin whispered.

“I know.”

Daniel looked down. Not because he felt like shit now, or better: Not just because he felt like shit. The android was also trying to gauge how deep they would have to dig to reach the moving fingers’ owner. The tools needed… the risk of the whole shaft collapsing, destroying all the other still wriggling half-dead androids in the process… the statistical probability of there being deviants in the mess… But the numbers were not adding up favorably in any sub-calculation. Probably if they had more time on their hands. An army of helpers. An official writ of some kind. But as things stood, there was nothing they could do.

Slowly Daniel drew his submachine gun.

“I’m sorry, stranger”, he whispered. “But it’s you or me now…”

Tears in his eyes Daniel tried to pull the trigger, but his grip was as shaky as the dying android’s down in the shaft. Standing next to his partner Gavin remembered something from earlier today. Something Daniel had said when they had been cuddling on the couch. Something they had laughed about!

“Between the two of us”, the man said in a calm, quiet voice. “You ARE the good guy.”

“Maybe”, Daniel replied. “But not right now.”

And then he emptied his weapon’s magazine into the shaft. If there was a cry of pain down there, they didn’t hear it. But the hand let go and the dead PL600 started spinning in circles like a panicking spider. The grabber was holding it firmly for Gavin to pull it upwards. The corpse hit the metal pole, Daniel grabbed it and dragged it on firm ground. Gavin stood towering over both the dead and the living PL600, the rope and the grabber still in hand, as if unsure what to do with them.

“Yes, good idea”, Daniel said between sobs. He held the dead PL600 in his arms, but it wasn’t this already dead android he was crying about.

“What idea? I didn’t have an i… oh, I see.”

Gavin shrugged, then let the claw snap around the metal pole. He fastened a suitable piece of unrecognizable trash on the rope’s end and let it fall into the shaft. Maybe the climbing aid would do someone or something down there good, maybe not. It didn’t matter to Gavin Reed. All that mattered were Danny and, obviously, himself, and them still being together in the near future. The grabber he could replace easily, his Daniel’s happiness to the contrary could not be bought with money. Or rather, Gavin COULD have bought it, in a CyberLife store, to be specific. If only he had kept his trap shut! If only he hadn’t announced his plans to buy a pre-owned PL600 to replace Daniel in the evidence archive and if only that hadn’t offended Daniel, ultimately resulting in this crazy foray into the landfill!

Gavin touched Daniel’s shoulder.

“Come on”, he whispered. “Those floodlights are way too close to our position for my liking.”

The android nodded. Only one of the androids, as Gavin registered much to his relief.

Extending a hand Gavin repeated his “Come on!”. He dragged Daniel up and then, not letting go of the other’s hand, nosed his boyfriend.

“But you hate that”, Daniel said, still shedding tears.

“I hate a lot of things, but here we are, standing in roughly the middle of the one that’s currently topping my list”, Gavin replied, smiling at the partner. “Let’s get away from here!”

They started walking away from the shaft, trying to concentrate on the sounds their own feet caused instead of any noise possibly emerging from down in the dump or the machines at work around them. Daniel was carrying the PL600 corpse. Gavin slung his arm around both.

“Also I just remembered it’s election year”, he grunted. “We might want to have a serious talk about source-segregated recycling with our district representative!”

#non sims #sims4 dbh partfive #detroit become human #sims4danielgavin

[scripttorture]

So I have a character She's mentally pretty unstable and has lack of empathy, kills and cannibalizes (yes I can go on but I hope you get the idea) I know torture etc leaves traces. But I wonder how much it will affect somebody who basically hurts others just as much... if not worse? I'm still exploring this 'story line' so I really want to investigate properly! Also I wonder how she would look at her abuser. In my head she ignores it all but still fears him and has a grudge yet can't lose him?

Add on: The torture is more lab experiment based. She's 'immortal' and somebody who is just like her had captured her and put her in a lab. He's a sadist but he used the excuse of lab experiments and science. The guy is just like her. They both can't kill each other and they will meet again. But this story line is pretty fresh. I like the lab experiments but I want to know the effects before I continue this. I will probably change a lot about this tho. I need to see if it's necessary and such.

Hmmmm OKwell it sounds like there are several different questions here I’m going to tryand address them all as best I can.

 The firstquestion seems to be about whether being tortured would have a serious effecton someone who is also a torturer.

 Thesecond is about how she’d relate to the person who tortured her.

 I’d alsolike to address your scenario though.

 You saidyou like the idea of lab experiments. They play pretty heavily into a veryunrealistic trope about torture.

 Tortureisn’t and by its nature can not be scientific.

 Scienceis a method. It’s the idea that we can understand the world better throughobservation and repeated experiment. It requires a degree of control, both overwhat you do and the environment you do it in. It needs to be reproducible.

 Tortureby its very nature isn’t any of thosethings.

 Torturersaren’t controlled (though they often claim to be their behaviour does notsupport the claim). Torturers rarely bother to exert control over theenvironment they torture in. And the variance between individuals, bothphysically and mentally, means that reproducibility is impossible.

 If youwant any kind of realism you’ve got two options with your scenario. You ditchthe torture or you ditch the science.

 The firstoption doesn’t mean she isn’t being hurt. What it means is that any hurt is secondary to scientific results. That isunethical and non-consensual experimentation. You can find examples of howthat’s happened historically by looking up Japan’s Unit 731 from World War 2and by looking up the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment in the US.

 I’d alsorecommend ‘The Immortal Life of HenriettaLacks’ as a good summary of unethical experiments performed on blackpeople, mentally ill people and prisoners in the US. (I found it a veryinteresting and easy-to-read book which goes out of its way to explainscientific concepts in a straight forward way.)

 Thesecond option means ditching the scientific trappings and being honest aboutwhat this is: torture pure and simple.  

 Theimpression I’m getting from your summary is that the second option would be abetter fit. It’s less complicated which means that you have more space toconcentrate on the two characters and their relationship with each other, whichseems to be what you’re most interested in.

 I’dsuggest motivation more along the lines of what Rejali calls ‘CivicDiscipline’, where people are tortured as ‘punishment’ not necessarily becauseof anything they’ve done but because the torturer sees them as less human than themselves. A real worldexample would be police officers beating up homeless people for being in aresidential part of town.

 Oh and-random tangent- did you know the Russian language distinguishes between twotypes of cannibalism? Eating someone who is already dead and killing someone toeat them. (This came up in reading for the planned Starvation masterpost)

 Back tothe questions.

 Thepsychological effects of being tortured will not be reduced by your characteralso being a torturer. The information we have on torturers and the way tortureaffects them is all anecdotal at this point. But it shows a very clear pattern: torture damages torturers. Thepsychological effects are actually roughlythe same as the psychological effects of being tortured. The effects areweaker for the torturer than they are for the torture victim.

 I don’thave any data on someone who was both.

 However I would be very surprised if the symptoms weren’texacerbated- That being tortured would make the symptoms she’d already havefrom being a torturer much much worse (and vice versa).

 You sayshe has a lack of empathy- that won’t protect her from symptoms.

 Have alook at my Masterpost on the common effects of torture and think about whatsort of symptoms work for the character and your story. I think for what you’vedescribed having violent tendencies and uncontrollable anger might work, sowould dissociative symptoms.

 Torturingand continuing to torture essentially means that she won’t be recovering fromthose symptoms. They’ll be getting worse, slowly over time.

 Thesecond question, how she’d relate to her torturer, is a little trickier for me.

 Youshould consider looking atScriptTraumaSurvivor’s blog, they’ve had a lot ofcontact with abuse survivors and they’d be able to give you some perspective onwhat that relationship looks like from the inside.

 I don’thave that kind of first hand experience, what I know all comes from books, andI think that’s an important distinction when we’re dealing with a topic astricky as this one.

 From whatI understand there are as many ways for a victim to relate to a torturer asthere are responses to trauma.

 All ofthese are possible- She could panic every time she sees him or hears him speak.She could be absolutely furious with him and try to hurt him every time shesees him. She could shut down around him, dissociate and feel like she’s notreally there or like she’s reading from a movie script rather than actuallytalking to him. She might think that she somehow ‘deserved’ what he did to her,effectively blaming herself for being tortured.

 I’m notsaying that you should go with one of those responses, just trying toillustrate that there’s a really range of options, all of which are realistic.What sort of thing you should pick depends on what works for your charactersand your story.

 There are a few things you should probablyavoid, such as having her easily forgive him or making their interactions easy-It’s not going to be easy. Whatever happens and even if a lot of time haspassed you’re going to have some very strong emotions (and symptoms) croppingup every time they come into contact. But ultimately what that looks like foryour character is up to you.

 And you don’t need to apologise to me if your characters are awful people. I’ll probably have read worse. I want to help all of you write awful people well. 

I hope this helps. :)

Disclaimer

#tw torture #tw abusive relationships #tropes about torture #torture is not scientific #Unit 731 #Henreitta Lacks #Rejali #torturers #behaviour of torturers #effect of torture on torturers #responses to torture #purple-cat-moustache-lover

[jordan202]

My Boys Drabbles - Elevator Ride

Hey guys. I wrote this story a couple of days ago and it probably deserved more decent editing by me. Since I’m on a train to Scotland doing basically nothing, I’ve decided to post it. :)

Thank you @jia911​ for your reliable support and proofreading!

This story is from the series My Boys Drabbles but it can also be read as a independent one shot.

The Prompt:

The lovely @bluebelle18 asked to write a story about Owen getting really angry at Amelia.

Timeline:

This happens before they had kids, after ‘Sunburn’ and ‘Pest Infestation’.

  My Boys Drabbles – Elevator Ride

 “Hey, Jim!” Amelia barged in the radiology room where the neurosurgery team usually gathered every Tuesday morning to discuss cases. “How was the weekend?” She playfully asked, suggestively giving her colleague a pat on the shoulder and a dirty gaze. “Yeah, look at that womanizer face you got there… I bet you had some fun!”

Jim Nelson gave her one mortified look that made Amelia crack up laughing. She loved to tease the other attending and that was no secret. Seeing her colleague’s usual lack of response, Amelia was about to add another teasing comment when her husband stormed into the room.

“I need you, ER, now,” He demanded, without offering any explanation.

Amelia frowned and looked puzzled from Jim Nelson to the door, but Owen had already left. Without much of a choice, she excused herself and followed his trail, wondering what in the world could justify Owen being in a hurry like that.

.

“You stay close and make sure you have your kits on you all the time,” Owen commanded, pacing back and forth to make sure the whole team was properly geared up. “Don’t forget to add the appropriate tags so patients can be removed after they were assessed,” He reinforced for the third time, taking one last look at the team of five doctors who were in the transport with him.

Owen made individual eye contact with each one, receiving affirmative nods in return. It was no surprise people were following his lead, considering his entire background. Owen Hunt was good in critical situations and everyone knew that. To have a strong, imposing leader like him inspiring trust and confidence was comforting for the team of surgeons who were just about to take big risks in a massive accident location.

Not twenty minutes before, the trauma team of Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital had been called in for help. A building had collapsed five blocks away from the hospital due to a gas explosion and there were dozens of victims at the scene. Pretty much every unit of firefighters, paramedics and trained policemen had been designated to the field but because of the severe injury of most patients, the situation demanded more trained personnel.

As chief of trauma, Owen had stepped up and assembled a team he believed would be up to the task. Riggs and Avery went as seniors attendings, overseeing Deluca and Wilson while doing their job. Meanwhile, April Kepner stayed back in the ER dealing with the overflowing influx of patients. Owen knew a neurosurgeon would be much needed and his first thought had been to spare his wife, instinctively preferring to leave her back within the safety of the hospital. But once he realized the other attendings weren’t up to her talent and skills, Owen reconsidered for the sake of the patients on the accident scene.

“Does everyone have their pagers?” Owen asked. “Alright people, stay safe and don’t go anywhere the firefighters haven’t secured yet. If you need help, page or run back here.”

Giving Riggs one final nod, Owen got off the car, knowing him and the other former army surgeon would lead others by example. Soon after, Owen was too caught up in work to be thinking about that, but every once in a while his eyes would search across the field for his team.

After at least three hours of intensive work, Owen let out a sigh of exhaustion and satisfaction, noticing the last critical patient being removed from the scene. The rescue team had completely evacuated the building and the only victims still there were stable enough to wait for an ambulance. Scanning the location with his well trained eyes, he quickly spotted Avery by one corner taking care of burnt victims as Riggs helped Deluca transport an overweight patient. Jo Wilson was doing sutures near the ambulance parking lot and Owen continued his search, hoping to catch a glimpse of his wife.

When he realized she was nowhere in sight, Owen nervously started to pace around, telling himself to remain calm. He asked the others if they’d seen Amelia, but all his colleagues said they hadn’t in a while. Doing his best to control a wave of bad feelings that had suddenly taken over him, Owen took large strides closer to the building site, away from where the victims had previously been securely located.

“Hey, have you seen the neurosurgeon on my team?” He asked one of the policemen who was keeping the perimeter of the place. “She’s about 5 foot 4, dark hair, blue eyes…?” Owen frantically searched around while he described her.

“No, doc, I haven’t, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to step back,” The officer said very seriously. “This area isn’t secure yet.”

Owen nodded affirmatively but he was hardly paying any attention. Feeling his stomach churning in discomfort, he searched around, trying to catch sight of his wife as he asked around about her. Half way through scanning the building perimeter, he noticed a small crowd that formed around one of the broken pillars of the construction. People were whispering nervously, as if speculating, and Owen somehow knew that he wasn’t going to like what he would see.

“What’s going on?” He approached the group from behind, trying to be heard through the wailing sirens and the screaming firefighters.

“Some crazy woman got inside one of the elevators,” A fame police officer raised her voice trying to compensate for the loud helicopter blades not too far from them. “The firefighters are trying to get her out now, but it seems like something snapped and the doors are crooked. I’m not sure they can get her out without compromising the structure of the building.”

Owen felt chills on his spine and he didn’t even need to look to know. Something was telling him exactly where he would find Amelia.

Ignoring all orders to stay back, Owen marched towards the pillar, pushing people out of the way that tried to stop him. When he finally made it to the inside of the building, amidst all the dust and bricks he saw the small hole on the wall through which two firefighters tried keeping a conversation with someone.

“Sir, you can’t go in…!” A firefighter stepped forward to stop Owen.

“It’s my wife in there!” Owen snapped, completely ignoring the orders. He bent down in front of the scene, squinting to take a good look through all the dirt. “Amelia?!”

In a fraction of a second, something grey moved inside the elevator but just as suddenly, two familiar bright blue eyes looked up and Owen let out a sigh of deep concern.

“I’m coming out!” Her voice sounded optimistic and comforting, even though she was the one in the dangerous position.

“Amelia, what are you doing in there?” Owen angrily stretched his neck to take a better view of her face. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I’m nearly done,” She replied, without explaining any further.

Owen looked from his wife’s eyes to the firefighters squatting beside him. Both men returned his look of absolute confusion, letting the trauma surgeon know they were just as oblivious as to why Amelia had jumped in there.

“Listen, doctor, you need to let me get you out!” One of them spoke again. “This pillar is very unstable and if it doesn’t hold there’s a big chance this ceiling is going to collapse right above where you are.”

“I’m in a metal box,” Amelia’s voice sounded muffled when she replied, as if it made her safe.

“No, you don’t get it,” The firefighter patiently tried to explain. “It is going to collapse and it when it does, you will…”

“Amelia, damn it!” Owen furiously snapped, interrupting everyone. “Get out of there, right the hell now!” He ordered, in a tone of voice that accepted no refusal.

Both firefighters looked up to the tense husband, their eyes wide with apprehension. Owen was about to crouch down and forcefully grab Amelia up, risking jeopardizing the whole structure, when she finally brought her face up, staring at the rescue team with a smile.

“Done!” She said, with what looked like a mix of happiness and relief. “I’m done!”

Before any of the men could ask what she was talking about, Amelia lifted up her arms and handed out what looked like a mass of wrapped blankets. Only when it discreetly moved that the rescuers realized it was a baby.

“She’s still breathing but she was trapped upside down in the stroller!” Amelia raised her voice to be heard in through the hole. “I think she must have cried herself to exhaustion and she definitely looks dehydrated… Here, take her.”

One of the firefighters got the baby and handed her out to a paramedic, who quickly evacuated the child from the scene. Owen was running his hand through his hair in frustration, looking from the pillar to the elevator hole, desperate for his wife to get out of there as soon as possible.

He saw a firefighter reaching out to hold her as Amelia swiftly moved her body up, crawling through a gap very few adults would be able to fit. She was almost fully outside when Owen’s heart skipped a beat as he watched her foot getting stuck in the gap between the doors. The trauma surgeon took one step forward, determined to help when he saw his wife forcing her way outside, pulling her leg with so much strength that the elevator slowly lost its balance.

Everything happened too fast and before Owen could catch up with the situation, heavy blocks of cement fell a few meters from where they were standing. The thick dust quickly ascended, preventing him from seeing much else. Two people screamed at the same time and instinctively, Owen bounced forward, grabbing his wife’s hand before he could completely lose her out of sight.

“Amelia…!” Owen cried out with a broken voice, fearing for the worst.

The fraction of second that came after felt like an eternity. Owen felt like an entire movie was playing in his head and he saw countless scenes playing in his mind.

“I’m fine,” Her distinctive voice resonated, allowing Owen to properly breathe again. “I’m out, I made it out.”

The trauma surgeon felt his entire body relaxing at the sound of her words but he didn’t stay calm for long. Furiously maintaining the hold on her hand, Owen helped her get up, protectively wrapping one arm around her shoulders while leading the way for the two of them.

The minute their stepped foot outside, reveling at the dust free cold fresh air, Owen blocked the way, standing up with his hands on his hips furiously staring at her.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Amelia looked up and met her husband’s angry, cold eyes. Owen was a tall, broad shouldered man, but when he was mad, he looked twice as big, engulfing her with his presence like a predator about to surround a prey. His voice sounded controlled but Amelia could distinguish the tone of contained rage it had.

“There was a baby inside there and…”

“You could have gotten yourself killed!” Owen interrupted her, taking one step forward as he grabbed her arm with his hand at the same time he forced eye contact with her. Amelia noticed how his crystal blue eyes, usually so serene and calm were now sparkling with fury. “Have you lost your mind?”

Amelia dodged his contact irritably, taking one step back to get away from his reach. She wasn’t sure who was talking to her at that moment: her husband, her boss or an army official. She supposed an unpleasant mix of both.

“I did what I had to do!” She snapped back, feeling angry at his exaggerated reaction. “Owen, there was a baby inside that elevator and if I hadn’t gone in there, she would probably be dead by now,” Amelia reasoned, trying to make him see it through her eyes.

As scary as it had been, the minute she’d heard the little girl crying, Amelia had stopped thinking completely. Realizing the gap between the elevator doors and the floor were too small to let one of the firefighters in, she had called one of them to help her out and before the guy could stop her, Amelia had slid inside through the gap, quickly finding the baby.

The little girl was trapped in the seat belt of her stroller, with her chest and hips angled in a dangerous position. There was no adult in sight and Amelia wondered what the hell had happened to justify a baby being alone in an elevator but before she could gather her thoughts together, her skilled hands were already working their way to unbuckle the child without compromising the integrity of the baby’s spine.

“A building has collapsed, you could have died!” Owen complained, unable to deal with her apparent serenity.

“It wouldn’t have fallen if my foot didn’t get stuck,” Amelia argued, as if it was obvious. “Besides, I saved a kid’s life!” She yelled, seeing Owen running his fingers through his hair in clear frustration. “You have no reason to be mad at me!”

“Are you okay?” He ignored her completely, taking two steps in her direction at the same time he held her face between his hands, carefully scanning her body for bruises. “Did you get hurt?”

“I’m fine!” Amelia pulled apart aggressively, too mad at him to care about it. “Didn’t you hear what I just said?  I can’t believe you’re making a thunderstorm out of this.”

When Owen looked up to meet her eyes, it was clear in his expression that he wasn’t the least bit touched by her words.

“We’ll talk more at home,” His voice once again sounded calm, but his tone was slightly alarming, as if reprimanding a clueless child.

Amelia opened her mouth to reply in outrage when, without another word, Owen turned his back to her and took large strides towards the team of doctors.

.

Amelia didn’t hear much from him on the way back to the hospital. Riggs, Avery and Wilson went on ambulances but she took the hospital car back with her husband and Deluca.

The intern seemed particularly uncomfortable with the utter silence during the entire trip back. The only time one of them spoke was when Owen gave directions to the driver. As soon as they arrived at their destination, the trauma surgeon left the car, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

Amelia noticed the inquiring look Deluca gave to her but she ignored him completely. It was driving her insane that Owen was actually mad. Minutes after he left her talking by herself, a woman in her mid thirties came running in her direction, thanking her for saving her daughter’s life. According to the woman, her babysitter had just been getting into the elevator with her daughter when the explosion hit. Unfortunately, the babysitter had been severely hurt, being quickly brought to the hospital when they found her by the corridor. The stroller had turned around, protecting the baby from the blast, but also preventing anyone from finding her.

If Amelia hadn’t heard the weak cries, it was very possible that the child would have been dead when they did find her. What she’d done had been a great, brave thing, even if it was considerably dangerous. Amelia refused to let her husband’s sour mood eclipse the fact that the baby was now safe, which, in her head, was all that mattered.

.

Amelia went home alone that evening because Owen had to stay back with a pile of paperwork to fill. It was past ten in the evening when she heard the sound of his footsteps entering the bedroom. She had mentally prepared herself for another battle. Owen had authoritatively said they’d talk more at home and never for a second had she doubted it meant he would finish ranting at her in the privacy of their house.

To her uttermost surprise, Owen walked in the bedroom and simply ignored her, stopping only to get clean pajama pants and a shirt before getting into the bathroom. Amelia frowned heavily but decided to stay in the comfort of the bed, trying to keep busy with some reading but she was far too distracted.

Telling herself she wasn’t anxious, which was a big fat lie, Amelia patiently waited for her husband to return to their room. She had seen Owen angry a few times before, and he had even been nasty and rude with her in one or two occasions, but she didn’t remember a time when he’d been this mad at her. And Amelia honestly couldn’t tell which was worst, having her husband shouting angry words or being icily glared at while he didn’t say a word.

Even though Owen was very intimidating when he was mad, Amelia did her absolute best to be the most insubordinate as possible. Her husband was very bossy and he could easily incorporate his typical army general attitude, which absolutely set her off. And despite deep down knowing he would never do anything such as physically hurt her, Amelia couldn’t help feeling alarmed by his powerful figure.

Owen interrupted her thoughts when he entered the room, visibly being just out of the shower. His hair still had droplets of water but he looked the total opposite of relaxed. His jaw was fiercely clenched and a heavy frown was lurking in his forehead as he breathed out through his nose, visibly struggling to contain himself.

“Oh, for God’s sake, just say it already,” Amelia lost her patience, seeing he was fuming with anger.

“I can’t believe you actually think you have any excuse in this situation,” Owen seriously replied, looking at her with disbelief. “You literally crawled inside the elevator of a collapsed building, risking your freaking life and you actually think you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Owen, I…”

“No!” He interrupted his wife, furiously looking at her while he pulled the covers on his side of the bed. “Do you have any idea what was going on in my mind when I found out you were inside that elevator?” Owen asked, giving up trying to contain his anger. Amelia noticed the vein pulsating on his temple at the same time his face was flushed red with rage. “Did you stop for a second to think that you could have killed yourself? That I could have been there to witness it?” He angrily hissed, too mad to let her talk. “Do you have any idea how I felt when I thought that ceiling had collapsed with you still inside that elevator?”

Amelia looked up to meet her husband’s gaze and for the first time, she saw beyond the anger. Owen’s eyes were scintillating with fury, but there was a distinguished shadow of concern and genuine worry. Amelia couldn’t explain why, but at that moment, she was deeply touched and in a matter of seconds, most of her anger was gone.

“I didn’t think, I’m sorry,” Amelia humbly admitted, now fully understanding why he was being so unreasonable about the situation.

Owen frowned harder, completely surprised by her honest apology. He expected Amelia to stubbornly insist she’d done nothing wrong while he spent all night trying to make her see why she couldn’t act as impulsively as she had.

“You are?” He swallowed hard, wondering if she was setting him up.

“I can’t imagine how worried you felt when you saw me there, so yeah, I’m sorry,” She sheepishly added, breaking eye contact with him out of embarrassment.

“Well…” Owen seemed lost for words. “Thank you,” He nodded once with his head, still looking too serious and too grumpy to inspire sympathy in his wife.

Devotion and care weren’t things Amelia was very used to and realization hit her too intensely, turning her feelings into a giant mess. At the same time Amelia was too proud to say another word, she was also mortified by his concern. As far as she could tell, no one in her life had ever loved her enough to stand up to her like that, not giving in to her argumentative manipulation and emotional blackmailing. The things Owen made her feel were far too new but somehow, Amelia felt like they were painfully familiar, as if she’d been lacking them all along. It was all too overwhelming and afraid she’d break down, the neurosurgeon turned around in bed, hugging her pillows like a child seeking comfort in a security blanket.

Not too long after, Amelia felt Owen gently lying down next to her, even though they weren’t touching. It felt weird to lie down on the same bed as someone without saying a word. Amelia wondered if that happened often in most marriages. Long minutes of silence followed, in which Amelia stay immersed in her own thoughts, trying to decipher the feelings that had suddenly assaulted her.

With his anger, Owen had made her feel patronized, but his worry and care had driven her to feel strangely important. The way he’d imposed himself, at times not giving her the chance to talk, had very much made it seem like he was lecturing her. Amelia knew indifference and neglect, but she had never been so familiar with such generous concern before, to the point of rejecting it at first, just to test if it was really real.

“I’ve heard the baby is fine and was brought to the PICU,” Owen’s voice broke the silence, as he patiently informed her.

Even though she had her back turned to him, Amelia could tell he was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with his fingers intertwined above his abdomen.

“Yes, I’ve heard,” She sheepishly agreed, unsure of what to say.

It was rare for the two of them to feel so awkward around each other and that heavy atmosphere was startling Amelia. She had no idea what else to say, but she couldn’t bear that silence any longer.

“She’s going to make it,” Owen’s voice surprised Amelia at the same time she was thinking of what to say.

“I’m glad she is,” Amelia replied, reaching her limit. Slowly, she turned around, searching for his eyes.

She found Owen in the exact position she imagined him to be. He twitched his lips restlessly, obviously feeling just as awkward as she was. The image of his obvious discomfort suddenly felt too hilarious and Amelia had to remind herself why they’d been fighting in the first place.

“What?” Owen asked with corner smile, contaminated by the mirth on her face.

“Nothing,” Amelia lied, unable to hold her laughter any longer. “It’s just that you really suck at small talk.”

Owen’s facial expression softened as he couldn’t help cracking up at her playful offense. Rolling his eyes in defeat, he took a deep breath, still smiling at his wife.

“I thought I’d lose you today,” He explained when her laughter had subsided. “I can’t, Amelia, I…” He struggled with his words, having a hard time explaining his feelings. “Just please don’t ever do something like that, again, okay?”

Amelia nodded with a sympathetic smile, touched by the progress of his attitude. After carefully thinking and rationally analyzing the situation, she admitted she really had acted on an impulse and that could have cost her life. Amelia could have simply notified the firefighters and asked for help but she had instinctively jumped inside the wreckage and if Owen had done something similar, she now realized it would deeply worry her too.

“Okay,” Amelia smiled, void of any residual anger. Slowly, she moved in his direction, wrapping an arm around his chest.

Owen welcomed her in his embrace, idly stroking his wife’s back as he finally relaxed enough to fall asleep.

“You drive me crazy sometimes, you know?” Owen let out a heavy sigh, looking at his wife with a conformed smile on his face. The adorable look on her face as she showed off her dimples already said it all.

“Yeah, I know.”

.

“What?”Amelia asked in frustration. It had been exactly one week since Owen had interrupted the Tuesday morning Neurosurgery clinical session and she could not believe her eyes when she saw her husband once again walking in there to summon her.

Owen smiled at her disbelief and discreetly led her to one corner, so the session could go on at the same time he talked to her.

“We’re not going to the field again today, are we?” Amelia widened her eyes in shock, wondering what was so important that Owen had to come for her again. “I’ll send Nelson this time,” She threatened.

“Don’t be silly,” Owen replied with an amused smile and explained. “Not sure if you know this but your brother once removed a neurofibroma from Webber’s optic nerve. He says he woke up this morning with a blurry vision but now he feels fine.” The trauma surgeon explained, trying to keep the information private. “Anyway, I saw his scans and it all looks clear but he is insisting that you go take a look at them as soon as possible. Catherine Avery is on his back about it and there might be a domestic incident soon if you don’t come,” Owen added, knowing the chief was probably overreacting.

Amelia processed the information, her mind already racing with other possible causes for the former chief’s symptom but she did as asked and followed her husband to the corridor.

“So…” Owen kept his hands inside his white coat pockets as he gently nudged his wife’s delicate shoulders with his own. “Would you really send out Nelson this time if it was a field call?” He asked with a teasing shine on his eyes. “Babe, you have to stop bullying him…”

“What?” Amelia asked with fake outrage. “I’m the most supportive of all! I’m actually the only one that talks to him in the entire department.”

“Does he talk back?” Owen raised both eyebrows at her, seeing that the answer was no in her eyes and proving his point. “He is afraid of you.”

“You’re crazy,” Amelia rolled her eyes, disregarding his opinion.

“He is intimidated,” Owen affirmed, with conviction. “He is not used to women talking to him, let alone a woman like you. Leave the poor guy alone,” He added with good humor. “And I doubt you’d send him if there was a next time.”

“Of course not,” Amelia pretended to be serious. “I couldn’t risk it.” As she realized Owen was confused to the meaning of her words, she carried on with her act. “I have to confess something, babe, and it’s gonna hurt,” She hid her smile by leaning forward to press the elevator button. “Jim Nelson and I have been having an affair right under your nose all this time.”

“Oh, really?” Owen scoffed, caught off guard by her joke.

“Yes,” Amelia said with fake indifference, trying her hardest not to laugh at Owen’s facial expression. “What can I say? I dig a hairy guy.”

That was all it took for Owen to give in to laughter and playfully pinch her waist before they exited the elevator towards the ER.

“I don’t even know what’s worse,” Owen confessed mirthfully. “Sending you to another field mission or having to picture you and Nelson together in my head.” He scowled, visibly disgusted by the idea.

“Well,” Amelia playfully said, dodging his reach right before she opened the door to the exam room where Webber was at. “Then I suggest you avoid the fifth floor on call room on Tuesday mornings.”

Owen laughed and shook his head in denial. Every day, his wife proved to be a box of surprises more and more. She was impulsive, didn’t analyze risks properly and had a serious problem with authority. But he could see beyond that and admired her kind heart, her generosity and freedom of spirit.

Amelia did drive him crazy sometimes but she also made him laugh like no one else ever had. Living with ease and spontaneity was something Amelia had introduced him to. He couldn’t imagine what life without her felt like anymore.

And luckily for Owen, he would never have to find out.

--

#omelia #owelia #amen #owen hunt #amelia shepherd #owen and amelia #grey's anatomy #greysanatomyfanfic #greys anatomy fanfiction #myboys #myboysfanfiction #jordan202

[mrevaunit42]

Angie and Moon have a talk (Featuring El Tigre vs River “I will destroy you and salt the Earth” Butterfly)

Hey everyone, Mr. E here with the second prompt of wholesome week! yay! sorry this took so long @wholesome-week got caught up in things. So today’s story is about our favorite princess and her best friend’s parents hanging out! So I decided to change it up a bit. This is technically a Nova vs prequel but you don’t need to know anything about that to enjoy this.

Moon is a little troubled that 19 year old Star and Marco decided to get married after finding out Star’s pregnant. Angie offers some helpful words as Rafael and River have some manly fun.

I hope you enjoy this story. little shorter than usual but I think it came out well if only because I made Mr. Diaz a wrestler. 

Have a great week! I am off to write more prompts!

http://mrevaunit42.tumblr.com/post/155983804347/day-1-cooking

Moon peered thoughtfully at the scene before her, thoughts swirling at what was once thought a fantasy becoming a reality. An impossible idea that seemed so unlikely that it was the longest shot she had ever known.

Marco finally asked Star to marry him.

After she was 3 weeks pregnant.

Moon wasn't mad. Not at all. Anger was unbecoming of a lady of her stature. A lady, and subsequently, a queen does not get angry.

She gets even.

But that was later, not in the middle of a rather strange celebration

Marco and Star were smart to gather the parents in a single room, opting to tell them as a whole family rather than individually. No doubt Marco's attempt to protect his life with as many witnesses as possible.

Smart boy that Marco yet Moon could not fathom why either of them had decided on.....certain gestures and have a baby now. It was hardly the ideal time: Marco was in college, on his way to his psychology degree and teaching certification while Star was to...return home shortly.

Moon hadn't mentioned it to the young couple, opting to give them as much time as she could. It seemed so unfair that their romance be parted forever but the royal alliance was already nibbling at her heels for Star's return. Cold she may pretend but even she wasn't heartless.

Which is why she was currently in the middle of the Diaz household, hanging out with the aforementioned family

The kids slipped away on some sort of pre-honeymoon. It was a thinly veiled attempt to spend more time alone with each other and away from Moon's wrath. Moon was against the idea of course but she was out voted 3 to one.

Moon spared a glare towards River who caught none of the malice and all the affection, waving towards his queen before being roughly tackled from behind by Mr. Diaz.

Moon had visited Earth only a handful of times during Star's stay in the dimension but she never remained in one place too long or noticed the Diaz's strange square shaped stage in the backyard.

Both men were shirtless, dead center of the square surrounded by 3 lines of colorful, springy ropes that propelled them in the opposite direction every time they ran against it.

River had taken off his crown but Mr. Diaz decided to don an elegant red and black mask, completely covering his entire face save his mouth and eyes.

“My dear Mrs. Diaz....” Moon asked curiously, motioning to Rafael high atop one of the corner poles, screaming like a mad ape before leaping at her husband below

the other woman chuckled, waving off Moon's comment “Please call me Angie Queen Butterfly.”

“Alright, Angie. What is your husband wearing? Is it some sort of ceremonial mask for this...” Moon pursed her lips as River climbed on the back of Mr. Diaz's shoulder, catching the masked man in a headlock “display of dominance?”

Angie chuckled “It's called a luchador's mask. In Mexico where Rafael is from it's a tradition for wrestlers to wear masks. Face or heel, it is a great honor and treated with much reverence and respect.”

“Was your husband...”

Wham!

a loud thud echoed dully through the neighborhood as Mr. Diaz fell backwards, squishing River against the mat like a bug. River refused to let go. He instead gripped his arms around the back of his attacker, letting loose a furious warcry before catching Rafael in another headlock.

“...a luchador?

Angie scratched her chin thoughtfully “I...I don't know actually. I met Rafael here in America. A lot of his past is a mystery. I mean I didn't realize he even owned a luchador mask.”

Rafael squirmed under River's hold, flailing and clutching at the air wildly

“HA HA!” River shouted in victory “Looks like I win the bout!”

“Not” Rafael strained heavily “THIS WAY! LUUUUUUUUUCHA!”

The trapped Diaz flexed his muscles, puffing his chest dramatically as he roared into the sky, startling and frightening off some nearby perched birds.

River found his grip slipping, the sudden surge of strength too much for him to handle and before he could react, he could feel a hand grab at his neck and without warning, he was plucked effortlessly off his opponent. “I AM EL TIGRE!” Rafael bellowed at the top of his lungs before slamming River dead center into the mat, the entire ring shook from the force of the impact.

River lay motionless under the raging Diaz who took a victory lap, waving and flexing for an invisible audience.

“Oh dear” Angie muttered worriedly “I am so sorry about my husband Queen Butterfly. He can get a little carried away sometimes.”

“Clearly he hasn't met my husband” Moon replied darkly.

River stared at the passing sky above, his body arching, his vision swimming and all sense of smug triumph drained out of him, replaced with rage. A white hot burning fury that consumed his very being. A thirst he could not quench by himself. A THRIST FOR REVENGE!

River jumped onto all fours, snarling and snapping with wild jaws.

Rafael turned around in time to see a blur of savagery and anger tackle him full force as the two combatants tumbled out of the makeshift ring

“Oh dear, Rafael won't like this....” Angie muttered softly.

Moon rubbed her eyes tiredly, gently placing a gloved hand on the other woman's shoulder “I am so sorry, River can get carried away sometimes as well. I'll get him to stop right away.”

“hmm? Oh! No no no I mean Rafael will love this” Angie smiled brightly, her green eyes twinkling with equal parts affection and acceptance “I meant he won't like the fact he didn't win but he'll love a challenge. I'm afraid he's kind of frightened off his gym buddies....” There was a loud crunch as the two men grappled the other, fierce looks of determination and madness etched deeply on each of their faces.

“I WILL DEFEAT YOU!”

“NOT IF I DEFEAT YOU FIRST OLD BOY!!” There was a duet of agony before silence. Deep peaceful silence for a moment and then two heavy thuds echoed through the air.

Rafael and River's snores were rather cute as Mr. Diaz held the smaller man tightly in his arms

“Impressive” Moon said with a nod “I've never known anyone who could tire River out. Perhaps we may need to visit more often.”

“Sure” Angie beamed “I think our husbands could use a good play date. Stop them from driving us crazy with their unnecessary displays of manliness”

“Agreed”

The calm returned but while Angie was content with the scene before her, Moon was still plagued with thoughts of an unstable future between their children, one caused by powers out of their control and grasp.

“Angie?”

“hmm?” Angie peered towards Moon

“....why aren't you mad at Marco? I mean I know he's a wonderful caring young man but...children? At their age? I love my daughter but she's not exactly the motherly type.”

“Oh don't let my smile fool you” Angie replied with a wink “I am quite annoyed with my child. I'm not old enough to be a grandmother yet!”

Moon politely joined in Angie's giggling.

“I concur but still....at their age......”

Angie shrugged noncommittally “It is what it is. It is done and there's nothing we can do to stop it.”

“But” Moon cut in, unable to keep the worry and concern out of her tone “They're still so young! Marco is in school and Star is hardly the mature type. I mean they're not ready for the responsibilities that a child will bring. What if it is too much for them? What if they regret their choice? What if they are in over their heads?”

“Queen Butterfly” Angie answered quietly, respectfully “I understand your fears. I understand the worry but isn't this life? Our jobs as mothers, as parents”

Angie glanced over to the boys who finally awoke from their mid-day nap, laughing and admiring the other's strength.

“We're not here to live our children's lives” Angie went on “We raised them, we taught them what we knew and what we never got to learn. This is the point we trust in our lessons and in them. Life will not be easy and life will not pull any punches but they were blessed with a gift that often takes years to appreciate.”

“Two level headed mothers?” Moon chimed in helpfully

Angie chuckled “Not quire though no doubt that'll help. They found each other. They created a bond and a love that has endured so much. They taught each other. Marco taught Star how to be more responsible. No offense”

“No, no. Trust me I know and I am very grateful both you and Marco helped her become so.”

“It was my pleasure! Star is such a wonderful girl.” Angie smiled “but she had a positive influence on Marco as well. It's nice to see him relax a bit more, become more at ease who he really is and not who he thinks he has to be.”

“Well relatively relaxed” Moon added “He didn't seem so when he ran out of the house with Star.”

“Well” Angie looked up thoughtfully “He is smart. He knew we would kill him once he told us.”

“That is true.” Angie shook her head “That's all you can really do your majesty. Trust your child.”

“I suppose you are right Angie” Moon nodded in agreement “and please, call me Moon.”

Angie's grin went wide “Of course Qu...Moon.”

The peaceful silence returned, contentment and ease filling the air.

“Besides” Angie muttered with conspiratorial edge “Who says we can't help them? I mean do they really have to know their parents are watching out for them?”

For the first time since hearing the joyous news, Moon laughed.

“No, no they don't.”

“Exactly” Angie responded with a wink.

“YOU'RE GOING DOWN OLD MAN!” “DIIIIIIIIIAZ!”

“Oh no.” Moon and Angie murmured tiredly, rising to their feet as the two fathers clashed once more.

Maybe life would get harder. Maybe life would be unfair. But Star wasn't alone. She had the Diaz's, she had Marco, she had River and soon she would have a beautiful child.

No matter what came Star's way, she was not alone. And if Moon had to flex a few muscles, physical or magical, to ensure her happiness, well.... may the protectors of Mewni help those who stood in her way.

Because no matter what, Star could always rely on her mother and Moon would do anything for her.

Now what was a proper punishment for Marco?

#nova vs #wholesome week #my story #I'VE GONE MAD #I WANT TO SEE Mr. DIaz as luchador!

[airoasis]

Struggle for black and Latino mortgage applicants suggests modern-day redlining

New Post has been published on https://hititem.kr/struggle-for-black-and-latino-mortgage-applicants-suggests-modern-day-redlining/

Struggle for black and Latino mortgage applicants suggests modern-day redlining

JUDY WOODRUFF: it’s been 10 years considering the fact that the fiscal recession, and credit has slowly lower back for most american citizens. Through 2016, the number of traditional mortgages had risen 95 percent due to the fact the housing bust. And yet some americans are still being left in the back of. The gap between white and black homeownership is wider now than it was once in 1960. Tonight, the first of a two-phase series, outcome of a yearlong investigation from divulge, a application produced by the center for Investigative Reporting. As reveal’s Aaron Glantz experiences, black and Latino homebuyers in some cities seem to have a harder time getting a house personal loan. AARON GLANTZ: Brooklyn native Rachelle Faroul moved to Philadelphia in 2015 hoping to buy a dwelling here. RACHELLE FAROUL, Philadelphia Resident: I was once like, i am going to try this factor. I’ve acquired numerous gumption. AARON GLANTZ: She made a just right earnings as a computer programmer and had sufficient for a down fee. Her potential lender, Philadelphia personal loan Advisors, was once encouraging at first. But the lender involved her sales might be unstable, seeing that she was once a contractor. So, Faroul instructed her mother co-sign. RACHELLE FAROUL: when you consider that she is a retired schoolteacher. Peculiarly, she labored in New York city for 35 years.Her pension is quality. AARON GLANTZ: but Faroul used to be advised that wasn’t adequate to offset her mother’s pupil loan debt from a Ph.D. RACHELLE FAROUL: I received shot down left and correct. AARON GLANTZ: Lenders seem for applicants with debt repayments roughly 36 percentage or much less of their sales. So, Faroul bought a brand new job with the tuition of Pennsylvania with a salary allowing her to come up with the money for the two-story row house she discovered a brief walk from the college. RACHELLE FAROUL: I desired this quite badly. AARON GLANTZ: however that still wasn’t sufficient. When she utilized for a mortgage once more, this time with Santander bank, additionally they rejected her. Her credit score had plunged 50 facets seeing that of a single delinquent electrical invoice. She paid the invoice as quickly as Santander flagged it, but the bank still stated no. Faroul started to suspect this needed to do together with her race.RACHELLE FAROUL: you realize, black humans on this country ought to be twice as just right to get half as so much. And i could not even get half of, you realize? They would not supply me something. AARON GLANTZ: Turning Faroul down on account that of her race would be unlawful. It is been illegal for 50 years. LYNDON JOHNSON, Former President of the U.S.: reasonable housing for all on this nation is now part of the American tradition. AARON GLANTZ: The 1968 fair Housing Act used to be a response to redlining, a racist lending follow where the federal govt colored minority neighborhoods crimson on maps, labeling them hazardous to lend in. In 1977, President Carter went extra with the neighborhood REINVESTMENT ACT, requiring banks to lend to certified debtors in low-revenue communities in cities the place they had branches.However these laws have no longer solved the crisis. After the 2008 recession, banks tightened their lending requirements. Ten years later, while lending has return for many american citizens, disclose’s analysis shows what appears like contemporary-day redlining is showing up throughout the nation. EMMANUEL MARTINEZ, reveal: we’ve got areas like Washington, D.C., areas like Tulsa, Oklahoma, Santa Fe, New Mexico. These are the locations where they are extra likely to be denied considering that of who they’re. AARON GLANTZ: nearly 50 years after the reasonable Housing Act, reveal knowledge journalist Emmanuel Martinez determined some gigantic racial disparities. EMMANUEL MARTINEZ: We looked at practically 31 million loan files, just about every mortgage utility filed with the federal government in 2015 and 2016. In sixty one metros throughout the country, applicants of colour are more likely to be denied a conventional mortgage. AARON GLANTZ: Banks don’t share credit rankings. They say that is proprietary. But by way of utilising other information the government requires be disclosed, disclose discovered statistically giant variations by race. EMMANUEL MARTINEZ: My evaluation entails nine one-of-a-kind factors. Among them are the applicant’s earnings, the dimensions of the loan, and detailed understanding in regards to the local that they are looking to purchase in. Here, we have the possibility of denial.So, black applicants in Philadelphia are almost 3 times as more likely to be denied a traditional personal loan. AARON GLANTZ: expose found this pattern in dozens of cities. Philadelphia was one of the vital greatest. That implies that a black applicant and a white one with equivalent fiscal profiles will seemingly have very one of a kind results. This wasn’t authentic for just for one bank, however for the lending industry as a entire.The personal loan Bankers association would not go on digital camera for this story, but in a statement, it stated that the information available below the home personal loan Disclosure Act shouldn’t be sufficient to make a resolution involving fair lending. And the American Bankers organization mentioned that without entry to debtors’ credit history, the information are not able to paint a entire photo. EMMANUEL MARTINEZ: sadly, credit score and an applicant’s total debt-to-income ratio aren’t a part of this publicly on hand knowledge set, but it’s these equal fiscal associations which have lobbied from retaining it faraway from researchers, from lecturers, from journalists like me, who wish to gain knowledge of these disparities. SEN. TIM SCOTT (R), South Carolina: I feel that we’re at an advantage having more knowledge released in mixture on credit scoring and those persons who get loans to make certain that there’s no discrimination. AARON GLANTZ: Republican Senator Tim Scott of South Carolina says releasing that data would make the enterprise more obvious. However it wouldn’t solve one more main issue. He says credit scores penalize persons of colour. He’s offered a invoice to repair that. SEN. TIM SCOTT: So what we’re looking to do is bring to mild all those individuals who are paying those costs on time, and yet it’s now not displaying up on their credit rankings.Your electric invoice, unless you are doing something bad, would not exhibit up. Your cell mobile, unless you do something unhealthy, does not show up. Folks of color are regularly the folks who will probably be disproportionately impacted. AARON GLANTZ: In just about each city in the usa, African-americans and Latinos have been denied house loans at larger rates than whites. We could now not statistically prove a relationship between race and denial in many, but, in 61, together with Philadelphia, our analysis determined race played a role. Neighborhoods with only a few loans had the highest proportion of black and Latino residents. ANGELA MCIVER, reasonable Housing organization of Southeastern Pennsylvania: You see, there are stunning properties up here, and people work very tough to preserve their properties. AARON GLANTZ: Angela McIver heads the fair Housing organization Of Southeastern Pennsylvania.In the era of redlining, the government shaded this regional, Germantown, blue and green, marking it as a fascinating field to lend in. Over the many years, the demographics shifted from white to black. And, today, banks deny extra loans right here than they approve. You see beautiful stone facades. You see garden patios, all of the trappings of core-class life. And the banks are simply MIA. ANGELA MCIVER: it is like a tumbler ceiling. It is like, good enough, we can allow you to head this a ways, but then you hit the highest of the ceiling, you’re now not going to move any additional.And that’s upsetting to me. AARON GLANTZ: After Rachelle Faroul commenced to wonder if race factored in her loan denial, she determined to use a new approach. RACHELLE FAROUL: so as to be a be considered a excellent applicant, I needed to have a white person or any person who’s white-adjoining vouch for me. AARON GLANTZ: This time, she requested her girlfriend, Hanako Franz, who’s half of-white and half of-japanese, to use with her. Franz was working phase-time at a grocery store. One of her most latest biweekly paychecks used to be $162. And, at the time, your fiscal concern was once unstable. HANAKO FRANZ, female friend of Rachelle Faroul: Oh, sure, it was once terrible. RACHELLE FAROUL: It was once so bad. HANAKO FRANZ: It was terrible. I was once borrowing cash from my sister.Rachelle paid my well being insurance at one point since I did not have enough cash to pay it. AARON GLANTZ: however, for Santander financial institution, the ultimate lender Faroul tried, none of that gave the impression to topic. Franz had a just right credit score score. And as soon as she came on board, it all went easily, despite the fact that Franz couldn’t furnish proof of a stable work historical past. HANAKO FRANZ: They had been like, we’d like two years. And i was identical to, I are not able to provide that to you. And so they were like, all correct, we will be able to move ahead.RACHELLE FAROUL: yes. AARON GLANTZ: We reached out to the 2 areas that Faroul approached for loans. Santander says that, even as they sympathize with Faroul, her loan application used to be managed really. Philadelphia mortgage Advisors declined to comment specially on Faroul’s mortgage utility. Each corporations say they’re committed to reasonable lending and adhering to present legal guidelines. The Treasury division’s comptroller of the forex is charged with ensuring important national banks follow the community Reinvestment Act. Tom Curry held that job for 5 years beneath President Obama and conducted greater than 1,600 group lending reports on banks. Practically every one, 99 percent, obtained a satisfactory or incredible score. How can everyone be getting this satisfactory score? THOMAS CURRY, Former Comptroller of the forex: I feel you must look at each man or woman bank and their person report to look how good they may be serving their communities.AARON GLANTZ: but Curry wouldn’t discuss any man or woman banks or their records with us. Since stepping down as comptroller, he is been working at a regulation organization advising some of the equal banks he regulated. He says he still desires make certain banks are lending responsibly. THOMAS CURRY: you may have an obligation to lend in low- to average- sales communities, however you need to do it in a secure and sound method. AARON GLANTZ: mobile, Alabama; Ocala, Florida; Greenville, North Carolina, all of those cities where our statistical analysis suggests the intent you could be denied for a mortgage is the colour of your skin. THOMAS CURRY: I suppose that the outcome out of your reports are not acceptable from the standpoint of what we would like as a nation and to make certain that everyone shares in monetary prosperity. AARON GLANTZ: We additionally shared expose’s analysis with Senator Scott.SEN. TIM SCOTT: good, we surely have made quite a lot of growth over the last 50 years. The question is, is there more development to be made? The answer is sure. Some of the methods you make growth is watching at the present groundwork on which growth has been made. And if it desires to be up-to-date, we update it. AARON GLANTZ: Faroul and Franz closed on their residence a couple of weeks after Franz signed on. Final winter, they both started moving into their new home. But with the good news, there is a reminder of the boundaries Faroul confronted. RACHELLE FAROUL: i have a tough time telling individuals that we bought a condominium, due to the fact their response is at all times, congratulations. This is not a consider-excellent story. HANAKO FRANZ: And the entire point about this is that there’s hidden privilege and hidden discrimination, you understand, that still exists and makes folks’s lives harder every day. AARON GLANTZ: Faroul says her largest fear is that, years from now, she is going to appear around and be the one black person left on the block.For "PBS NewsHour," that is Aaron Glantz in Philadelphia. JUDY WOODRUFF: day after today, our series with disclose continues with a document on how the gentrification of neighborhoods is making it tricky for some longtime residents to take out dwelling fairness loans. .