#can you imagine the cataclysmic fallout?

[boojangs]

In an alternate universe where wenclair breaks up in YMU, because Enid is furious instead of upset.

#can you imagine the cataclysmic fallout? #I'd never but lord I wanna write an AU chapter just to see what it felt like! #someone sedate me before i go mental LMAO #ymu #Spotify

[thydungeongal]

As someone whose been in a bit of a fallout kick recently but is Disappointed To put it Lightly with the way the series has gone recently, what's an RPG system you might recommend for running a Fallout (themed, at least) campaign/session?

This is a fun one. Ultimately there's a wealth of post-apocalyptic RPGs on the market and which one you pick depends heavily on what you want to be the focus. Here's a few suggestions:

Fallout: The Roleplaying Game. Not sure if you knew but Modiphius has put out an officially licensed Fallout RPG using their house system, the 2d20 system. I have no idea how well it runs or supports adventures in the style of Fallout, but it exists.

GURPS. Kind of a comedy option but stay with me for a second: before the creators of Fallout settled on their own system, SPECIAL, the game was supposed to be based on a version of GURPS. The deal fell through for whatever reason so here we are. There's still a lot of GURPS to be seen in the system that powers the earlier Fallout titles, including its fiddly nature and a certain amount of systemic design.

Other Dust. A very simple old-school D&D based post-apocalyptic RPG. Setting differs from Fallout because it is connected to Sine Nomine's space-faring RPG Stars Without Number, but that's not exactly a problem: it means you can easily port in energy weapons and robots and hi-tech from SWN. Other Dust is very brutal and lethal though, so you may need to set your expectations accordingly. The best part of Sine Nomine games is always the advice and tools for running a sandbox campaign. Other Dust costs like twenty bucks (although it's currently on sale) in PDF and there's a free version of SWN available.

Atomic Highway. Solid free RPG, at least in PDF. Atomic Highway is probably closer to Mad Max than Fallout, but since the former was one of the many inspirations on the latter that's probably not too bad. It's also explicitly more cinematic. Vehicles play a large role in the game. All in all you have nothing to lose from checking it out, because it's free.

Apocalypse World. This is if your ideal Fallout campaign is, like, "what if someone made a prestige TV drama based on Fallout." It is a post-apocalyptic game that concerns itself very much with scarcity and rebuilding after a cataclysm, but it plays less like a party-based adventure RPG and more like a drama engine for pitting player characters with different wants and needs against each other. Remember the Gizmo/Killian quest in Fallout? Now imagine if that was a storyline involving three player characters (or one NPC and two player characters), one playing Killian, one playing Gizmo, and one playing the wandering gunlugger who suddenly turned up in town. That's basically where Apocalypse World shines. It's a very simple engine albeit one that runs somewhat differently than more traditional RPGs, but there's a reason people still keep making games based on its system and principles.

#long post #asks

[themonotonysyndrome]

genuinely curious about your thoughts on this. it's likely impossible but whay do you think would be the repercussions of intacian ascendants popping out after the war? i'm not talking about years after, i'm talking like literal weeks after. imagine being intacian and an Ascendant, and you have to go into hiding because your own people persecute you. idk I just think its an interesting idea.

Wait, that really is super interesting!

Let's first review what we know: The Ascendants are born due to those getting radiation from the Cataclysm (Nuclear Fallout).

But radiation can spread without proper containment, right? So it's POSSIBLE that an Ascendant can be born in Intacia.

(That's actually a fic-worthy idea if you wanna add drama to it. Quick, someone tells Desmond!)

If an Ascendant is indeed born within Intacia, yeah, I can imagine the violent prejudice they would face because of the war. Some would want to use them to turn the tides around whether they consent or not, others would form into a mob and hunt them down.

It'll be the Witch Hunt all over again!

#monotony's rambling #desmond asmr #headcanon

[luminous-shifting-vibes]

*sequel* to actual fucking quotes from the shiftblr coffeehouse discord server

once again, it's out of context because x1000 funnier

also x1000 longer than previous post

"ur satan is gnc af"

"Bestie I’m already having gender envy over a fucking demon please"

"O_O ODEPIJHFbavevisdpvfhzdcnjawedsidjksjdkoeirjfmkdsoeirujdksodifjndmksoidfjdksidfj ITS" NOT IN MY FRAFTS IS SPEDNT 1 hour PN THAT SHIT"

"AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

"ohoho sexy"

"I am very proud of myself"

"himbo x edgy fuck"

"YOU COULD SQUISH HES CHEECKS"

"he has teefs"

"SQUASH"

"good for biting 📷"

"he's a himbo basically"

"B͂̒̄iͫ̍̈tͧ̓ͯè̄̇"

"bifth"

"i havent watched blue exorcist in years but mr okumura my beloved </3"

"MY LIFE QUESTIONS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED"

"is it important information to mention that the person i put up for my turn is the son of satan" "I know like 1 thing about everyone who isnt ranboo lmfao"

"crimes"

"tumblr sexyman"

"idk why but my first thought was cowboy onceler"

"I vibe with him but he is very long and twisty"

"steampunk e-girl"

"steampunk tumblr sexyman"

"Canonically bi crimelord I agree!!"

"OOO FRIEND SHAPED"

"ARTIST SIGHTED"

"they look like someone i would want to be friends with but is way cooler than me so i'd never actually talk to them"

"babby..... would die for him"

"honestly i probably kin him"

"i'm sure he's lovely but he looks way too much like my ex i'm sorry-"

"i'd be down for another rotation! i have another twink to show y'all"

"Also :00 blonde friend"

"Let us all infodhmo"

"Hsjagdvbs shhh im on phone"

"Nix woukd you like to joon?

"skitters away"

"I have two braincells and they both drink dumb bitch juice"

"oof wait whats the order again i have 0 memory"

"i want to bond with him over cosplay-"

"Awkwardly watches in band kid"

"One day I'm gonna a broadway star"

"which isnt to say they were bad. they were just fortnite dancing during rehersals"

"I threw it so hard my glasses flew off and slid under the stage right divider"

"anyway heres my boi"

"emo"

"haha emo"

"virgil sanders kinnie"

"he looks like he listens to my chemical panic at the fallout boy"

"Bro I bet he'd kick my ass with his deck"

"bird man my beloved"

"fuck i had so much to say and then i forgot it all"

"Birds!!"

"guiguhuh"

"crabrave"

"She sounds like someone I would end up stealing her personality"

"yess name collector gang"

"alias glass aiden haven absinthe fish brick rice"

"But I have Cypress, Remure, Genesis, Lemres, and Comet"

"And she's named after a mars candy bar bc alien"

"Hey, if plato went by plato, you can be king thief"

"im not dissing my gramma like that shfojd"

"My dad has seven legal names" "bitches be like *looks at fictional character* *steals their name* it's us we're bithces"

"coraline lowkey traumatized me but i adore it regardless"

"mmmmmm magic man :]"

"°0° green man"

"criminal (affectionate)"

"he would shoplift a candy bar from walmart and then brag to all of his friends about the sick stealing he did"

"despite the fact he's canonically been capable of overpowering a minor deity"

"i would commit so many crimes for him"

"Very babey"

"Yes please tell green man he is very pog"

"he also keeps a lot of dumb secrets"

"but I will sorely miss the chaos and energy of this here chat until I wake again" (by request XD)

"i just say words and if they're funny then they're funny"

"* or extremly chaotic either works"

"at this point we are just taking turns rambling"

"oH--"

"bc my brain has a schedule"

"Hopefully they have gyoza there or I will lose my mind"

"hehe yes spooky man"

"my ghost glucose guardian"

"the head of the undead group that lives there, and we end up dating. (yes I date a ghost, no I will not be taking constructive criticism /lh)"

"ghosts r just inherently sexy"

"i mean im becoming a squid thing so"

"Raven quirk raven quirk!!"

"ł â m p"

"łæmp"

"mothman: ooh lamp you look very nice today! do you come here often? mothman: wait shit no"

"I'd date a ghost"

"mine is still accurate, i am still sobbing (/j)"

"p e e p e e"

""@nick wilde is a tumblr sexyman" is the best thing i have ever seen"

"im sorry im cackling like a dying hyena"

"you're all 12 year olds"

"PEENIE"

"He once caused global warming on accident so he could get a tan"

"god, what a himbo. i love him"

"that reminds me of my friends kin assigned me jesus"

"Man outside of battle be like: princely crying but then in battle hes like: "CATACLYSM! DISASTER! DEVASTATION!" Chill out man"

"Every time I talk about satan it never fails to shock people it's my favorite thing to do"

"im kin assigning him roman sanders" ""Oh yeah he caused global warming because he wanted to get girls" "he what""

"oh damn i forgot satan was straight"

"twink appreciation club"

"give us the twinks"

"my first thought was bottom-"

"so many people to try and get his dad to love him"

"daddy issued"

"OH MY GOD ITS WILBUR"

"Big boy but"

"anyways janus is swagggg"

"........................."

"gib twink"

"give twink then i will share"

"holds him gentle like hamburger"

"This dumb bitch opened a book that said "do not open" and got possessed by a little bastard"

"he is. fragile creachur"

"klug is beauty klug is grace i would let him step on my face"

"If I'm playing swap and I have to hear one more "Pwanet Powew" Im gonna lose it"

"Who is to blame? Pandora or the box?"

"Bakugo isnt my type but I respect the drip"

"i say like my type isnt long-haired pretty boys and girls that look so gnc that people have a history of confusing them for men"

"hes a gremlin and i can appreciate a pretty gremlin"

"that is to say i am attracted to VFlower vocaloid. This is a confession."

"note i am a lesbian"

"You may like Schezo wegey"

"why does he have one single expression"

"soul soul eater passes the vibe check"

"magic wand"

"I Want To Hold His Hand"

"i would commit a war crime for him any war crime idc which one"

"my favorite one is when he sounded rlly gay because he said "Muscular bodies keep me satisfied""

"p e a n u t"

"Klug is a homophobic homosexual its just facts"

"grug from the croods is peak male performance"

"jaw drops to floor, eyes pop out of sockets accompanied by trumpets, heart beats out of chest, awooga awooga sound effect, pulls chain on train whistle that has appeared next to head as steam blows out, slams fists on table, rattling any plates, bowls or silverware, whistles loudly, fireworks shoot from top of head, pants loudly as tongue hangs out of mouth, wipes comically large bead of sweat from forehead, clears throat, straightens tie, combs hair Ahem, you look very lovely."

"tag yourself im the fireworks shooting from the top of the head"

"i like essays"

"central time gang"

"11:11 pog-" (wait... is that a suprise angel number?? yes it is lovelies just for you <3)

"Then again im also a dumbass bitch who wonders what the souls in soul eater taste like. SERIOUSLY THOUGH. THEY LOOK TASTY AS HELL!!!! LIKE GODDAMN BRO YOU'RE MAKING ME FUCKING HUNGRY. Like. that shit- it's Bone Apple motherfucking Teeth. hell yea my guy. Im hongy now.... shlorp I'm seriously considering this. Like. They seem kinda like a liquid? But a solid? Are they like jello? The fuck they taste like my guy???? I keep imagining they're like sour, like sour candy maybe? Or do they taste salty? Sweet? Maybe some combo of two? Do they even have a taste or is it about the texture? The sensation? God my mouth is watering what the hell. I am starving. I think I need to go get a cookie. I'm gonna go get a cookie. Brb. I'm better. I'm still craving souls though. Which is a weird-ass cringey thing to say but I'm being dead-ass rn. They just.... look tasty???? And I wanna eat one. Thus. I am shifting to Soul Eater for the express purpose of satisfying my fucking cravings. enjoy"

"points were made"

"jello? more like helloooo schloooAHFJDSDAIDWNALDHSJKDAIDANDM"

"WAIT I THINK I HAVE AN ANIME GIRL BITING VIDEO TOO"

"anime girl voice: mmm! mm... ahhhhmp!! mmm, mmm... aaahmp!"

"i think it sounds great i'm going to start eating like that"

"several people are typing"

"do these look edible to you"

"forbidden gummies"

"when I was on lsd I couldn't eat my fruit gummies because I thought they were alive because they had little faces on them"

"oh shit yeah don't do drugs"

"anyways general consensus is puyos are edible, ty for your input everyone"

"everypony is a word so powerful it can bring nations to its knees"

"pls the self control it's taking me not to say "hewwo everypony" in gen chat when someone new joins-"

"hewwo evewrypony uwu deaw cewestia i hopwe it doewsnt wain owo"

"ive cooked up a sowution wiwth the knowwege ive acwued. they say a kitcwen time saves niwne, but im just savwing two. Ive gathewwed the inwedients to make a time sowbet. Thewe's hawdly woom fow seconds when the seconds mewt away."

"I had a ten year old sister... you know what happened to her??? very sad, very tragic... she turned eleven....."

"NIIICE"

"Guts dont say the secks word :( /j"

"watch your fucking language in front of the president"

"im so sorry lumi"

"i think you're like ehhhh 8/10 funny"

"now me???? 10/10. Hilarious"

"sometimes i have to take a step back and remember that this is the same guts i follow on tumblr /lh"

""ok every here's some good shifting advice!!! uwu have a good day" "yeah i did lsd and ate fruit gummies""

"i have one setting and it's whatever this is"

"my bitch ass cat just pushed the door open with his fuzzy face and now my sleeping dad is being lulled into dreams by Cosmo Sheldrake's 'Pliocine'."

"me on discord: nick wilde"

"me on tumblr: shifting water! haha funne! me on here: my hermit crabs are cannibals also i want to eat souls."

"im sorry yOUR VIBESA RE JUST SO DIFFERNT"

"u give off older cousin ive never spoken to but always admire at the family gatherings vibes"

"what the fuck"

"BC I HAVE LIBERTU"

"If you adopt me then yes"

"am I qualified for dad jokes???"

"we're all a lot smarter on tumblr"

"I'm like "awww... sweet... sweet little shiftlings... posting such sweet shiftling content... so pure, so wholesome... does not even know abcs....""

"can't think before you speak if you never think B)"

"I'm not responsible enough to be a mom"

"cat pet"

"show us pictures of the cat or i will do Crime"

"maybe thats me being a coward tho"

"MOTH!!!! MOTH MY BELOVED"

if y'all want I can make this a series bc shiftblr keeps giving me more content

#tw drugs #tw swearing #tw cannibalism #tw crime #tw food #tw homophobia #shitpost #out of context #out of context quotes #lumi's quotes

[boundinshallows]

Tommy/Alfie Inktober - Day 26

Summary: Day 26 - Dark

=====================================

Arrow House is a tomb disguised as a kingdom.

Alfie knew this before he was forced to extend his stay, of course. As an observant man, he has seen the game Tommy had been playing. The marriage to the blonde woman, the baby, the grand estate, and flagrant displays of wealth—nothing more than toy soldiers like those lined up by a little hand with limited grasp on the violence man can wrought. But Alfie had seen, yes, just as he can see now the thinning grip Tommy has on sanity.

His mother had always said he had a gift for seeing things come to pass before they’d happened. And she wasn’t wrong—his mother—except that this bewildering ability of his had very little to do with being touched and far more with having two eyes in his skull. Because, and this is very important, people would know a good deal more about how things would come to be if they’d only fucking look. But they didn’t, did they? Two eyes sat right aside the nose—perfect working order—and nothing. Blind as fucking bats. So as a boy, Alfie’d learned to use the gift of sight and quietly he’d built his empire.

Now, there is a part of him—despite Tommy being a very, very, very dear mate of his—that verges on gleeful at the prospect of watching Tommy finally snap. Because Tommy, Tommy saw that rare moment in life—when one is so insignificant as to be virtually invisible to anyone that matters—Tommy felt the boot on his throat lift just for the barest moment, and he took a chance, a breath. He’d started putting his grubby fingers in every pot he could find on the gamble that surely one of them would yield gold. And they had; Alfie will allow him that. But when Tommy loses himself—and he will, of that Alfie has no doubt—all of those pots will implode, and the fallout will be a thing to behold.

In his imaginings of this cataclysmic event, Alfie had never factored in watching it from any closer than Camden. Yet, he’s here, at Arrow House, because there hadn’t been much choice otherwise. When he’d twisted his knee earlier on Tommy’s front cobblestones, he’d known he was in trouble. The ride back to London he could have suffered if it hadn’t been for an important business meeting in two days’ time with a very fascinating gentleman from Yorkshire. No, he has to have his wits sharp for that encounter, and so he’d taken Tommy up on his offer to stay the night and rest his back.

However, his proximately has forced him to bare witness to the decline of a man he’d come to think of as an alright sort. (Alfie, by his own estimation, thinks that grief over a woman who’d caught a bullet meant for you in this line of work is a very queer sort of reaction; it was inevitable, all variations on a theme, and the theme is death of an innocent, or as innocent as any human can be).

That’s not why he’s awake at this hour, of course; his angry muscles won’t give him leave to sleep. So he’s wandered around a bit, body weight bearing down on his cane as he shuffles through the mounting aches. And he finds himself in front of some room, door cracked half-open and letting out the fire-glow.

He means to leave it, but Tommy’s staggered to the door and opened it before Alfie can force his body further along the corridor. Their eyes meet in the low light. Then, Tommy quietly retreats, stinking of whisky, back inside. It’s hardly an invitation as invitations go, yet Alfie’s always had more capacious understandings of things than most. He follows.

It’s a quiet little space—a bit of seating, a fireplace, a small table in the corner not large enough to do any sort of real work at. There’s a crystal decanter half-empty with what Alfie assumes is the whisky Tommy’s been drinking on a small table between two high-back chairs. He allows himself to fall rather gracelessly into one of them. The fire’s nearness feels good on his leg.

When Tommy extends a silver case of cigarettes, Alfie takes one. He prefers his pipe when the mood strikes, but this will do in a pinch. The transaction is silent. Light. Drag. Puff. They don’t bother speaking a word to one another as they smoke. Sometimes, Alfie knows, the quiet whets the mind as much the words.

He’s drifting a bit maybe—not entirely, not with the pounding in his lower back and the clink of Tommy’s decanter against his glass—when Tommy hums thoughtfully. Just a little noise, just a prelude.

“I think I want to fuck you.”

It’s a slurred confession, almost accidental, one punctuated by a groan and the press of a hand to a forehead. If he has any concern that Alfie—like most men of their age and class—might beat him to a bloody pulp, Tommy doesn’t show it. Not with how he’s slouching towards him instead of away.

“That so?” Alfie asks, a little thoughtful.

Tommy peers over, face half concealed with a palm. Christ, is he shitfaced, Alfie thinks, shaking his head. And too damn trusting by half.

“Might be,” Tommy says, hesitating.

“Fucking hell, Tom.” Alfie reaches for another cigarette and lights it quickly. “You’re not selling it.”

“Selling what?”

Alfie huffs a laugh. “The size of your bollocks, mate. You say what you want like it’s already yours for the taking, or you shut the fuck up, don’t you? Easy as that. Right, a man who says to me what you just said, just like that? Tells me he don’t know his cock from his arsehole. Why the fuck would I want him in my bed, yeah?”

Tommy stares at him, baffled. When Alfie leaves it at that, Tommy must realize he’s not taking the piss. He finds some brazen, liquid courage in him, his confidence only betrayed by his failed attempt to take Alfie by the wrist, missing the mark by at least an inch.

“I want to fuck you.”

Alfie raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Alfie snorts. “Alright, yeah, maybe in the morning.”

#Tommy x alfie #alfie x tommy #sholomons #tofie #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders #inktober writers edition #iwe2019 #my pb fic #my fic

[anistarrose]

To See The Unseen - Ch. 2 (Gravity Falls)

Summary: Stan meets the mirror’s creator.

Warnings: a very brief description of a dead animal, and a character being hospitalized (no character death)

AO3: archiveofourown.org/works/20884673/chapters/49642817

Big thanks to @apathetic-revenant for betaing this chapter!

***

“I’ve never been more ready to go to bed in my life,” Wendy groaned as she led the way back to the Mystery Shack. “You think Stan will mind if I crash on your couch for a couple hours? My brothers will be awake and screaming their heads off by the time I get home.”

“Yeah, he probably won’t mind,” Dipper replied. “Just be sure to tell him we were camping. He’ll go ballistic if he found out we almost died in the Author’s doomsday bunker.”

“But only because he cares about us,” Mabel spoke up. Her sweater was still slightly damp, and she shivered in the brisk early morning breeze. “I mean, if I was him and you guys told me you fought a shapeshifter in a fallout shelter, I’d go ballistic too!”

“You WHAT?!” Stan gasped. “What did I tell you just the other day about looking for trouble with the Journal?!”

The kids kept walking, passing straight through him. Mabel shivered again, but other than that, they gave no sign of having heard his outburst.

“Even if I have been a hypocrite about it…” Stan whispered.

Wendy squinted at the Shack, raising a hand to shade her eyes from the morning sun. “Hey, am I so tired I’m hallucinating, or is that Blubs and Durland on the porch?”

“Oh, great. What did Stan do this time?” Dipper mumbled. “Hey, Soos, you should probably hide that laptop from them —”

“Pines kids!” Durland shouted. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here! Something terrible has happened!”

Soos, Wendy, and the twins stared at him with glazed-over, sleep-deprived eyes.

“You need us to… help solve a mystery?” Dipper asked.

“A murder mystery?” Mabel echoed, rubbing her eyes. “We have a kind-of-okay track record with those…”

“Whatever it is, I have an alibi,” Wendy muttered.

Blubs stepped forward, gaze fixed on the floorboards. “It’s about… it’s about your uncle.”

“Shit,” Stan mumbled. “Kids, whatever they say happened, I promise it’s not actually that bad —”

His voice cut off. Was that even true? He didn’t know a single thing about what being trapped in this gray mirror world meant for him — it easily could be not just ‘that bad,’ but even worse.

“Is Mr. Pines okay?” Soos asked. “What happened?!”

“He’s in the hospital. Dan Corduroy found him in the forest this morning, and… well, I’m no doctor, but apparently he didn’t seem injured and his vitals were all A-okay. He just… won’t wake up no matter what anyone tries.”

Mabel gasped, and Soos covered his mouth.

“Do — do you know how it happened?” Dipper stammered. “Was it one of the anomalies? How long has he been unconscious?”

Blubs sighed. “I’m so sorry, Dipper, but I don’t know a single thing. You know what — here, get into the squad car. I’ll drive you to the hospital so you can see him.”

Stan drifted after his family, watching as they piled into the police car. Mabel stared out the window, quieter than Stan had ever seen her before, while Dipper buried his nose in Journal 3, frantically flipping through pages so quickly he gave himself a paper cut.

“It’ll be alright,” Mabel told him without making eye contact. “The doctors will figure something out.”

“But what if they don’t?” Dipper asked. He didn’t seem to have even noticed his finger was bleeding. “What if medicine can’t help him, because it’s supernatural?” he continued in a voice barely above a whisper. “There’s no info about anything like this in the Journal — but if only I had the other volumes, then maybe they’d have something that could help. Something about how to cure him…”

“Oh, Dipper,” Stan murmured. “It just got me into this mess in the first place…”

***

Pacifica lay in bed, half-awake, for longer than usual that morning, until the sound of a servant knocking on her door startled her, and she finally crawled out from under the satin sheets. It took a few seconds of staring at the compact mirror resting atop her dresser before the events of the past night rushed back to her, and she shuddered.

The mirror still gave her bad vibes, even in broad daylight and outside of the infamously unnerving Gravity Falls forest. It reminded her of certain taxidermy-filled rooms of the mansion, especially the allegedly haunted one — there was just a sort of chill in the air around it, just barely subtle enough for you to convince yourself it was only your imagination acting up.

Even though she hadn’t changed out of her nightgown yet and would’ve looked ridiculous had anyone been around to see her, Pacifica put on a pair of gloves before opening the mirror. She was still going against both her gut feeling and basic common sense by examining the artifact at all, but she knew that if she hid it away now, there would eventually come a day when she grew so bored, she wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation any longer.

Despite bracing herself for the worst, nothing cataclysmic happened when she opened the mirror — no swarms of insects flew out, no bolts of dark magic incinerated her, and as far as she could tell, no deadly plagues seemed to be released into the world.

But although it wasn’t quite the Pandora’s Box she’d been expecting, it was most definitely supernatural. The mirror reflected everything in grayscale, except for her own body, which glowed blue. And the picture below…

Surprisingly, it looked incomplete. A broad-shouldered silhouette dressed in dark clothing stood in front of a row of trees, that much was clear, but most of the details were missing, especially around the completely blank area where a face should’ve been.

“Well, that’s freaky…” Pacifica was about to rummage through the contents of her desk, looking for a magnifying glass to examine the portrait more closely, when her maid knocked on her door again, and she reflexively snapped the mirror closed.

“Remember, your dance tutor will be arriving at ten o’clock sharp! You’d best be eating breakfast soon, unless you want to be late!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!” Pacifica called back, shoving the mirror under her pillow as she hastily selected a dress from her closet and a necklace from her jewelry box before rushing to the bathroom. “I’ll be back for you,” she whispered to the mirror.

The mirror didn’t reply, but had it still been opened, Pacifica might’ve noticed that the portrait was ever-so-slowly growing closer to completion, adding a tie to the figure’s sharp black suit.

***

After a few minutes of asking the doctors one question after another, none of which they were able to answer, Dipper threw a glass of cold water in his face, adjusted his hat, and declared that he was off to investigate the place where Stan had been found, hoping to find some evidence that would lead to a cure. Wendy quickly announced she was going with him, which didn’t surprise Stan — he knew she’d never been fond of hospitals.

Figuring it would be smart to stay close to his body in case of a breakthrough, Stan didn’t follow Dipper and Wendy as they left, but still he overheard Dipper muttering to himself:

“I need to find the other Journals. One of them must have the answer to getting him back, somehow…”

“Come on, kid,” Stan whispered. “Don’t you go down this road too. It’s no fun to live your life like this, trust me…”

Mabel pulled her chair right up next to Stan’s hospital bed, and leaned up against him, burying her head in his spare pillow. Soos sat on the other side of the room, half-heartedly flipping through hospital-provided health magazines and flinching almost every time Stan’s heart monitor beeped. Like Pacifica, neither of them had reacted to the pale blue glow that Stan could see coming from beneath his body’s half-closed eyelids.

He tried to give Mabel a reassuring pat on the back, to no avail. Her breathing slowed as his hand passed through her shoulder, and for a second he was afraid he’d hurt her somehow, but then she began to snore quietly, and he realized she’d just fallen asleep.

“What am I gonna do, Soos?” Stan asked. “I can’t get back in my body, I can’t tell you what happened, I can’t even let you know I’m okay…”

A new, terrifying realization dawned on him. “I can’t operate the portal! I was so close to getting Ford back, so goddamn close! But how am I going to save him if I’m trapped in this mirror world?!”

“You could always do what he did, and get a little help from a friend!”

The voice wasn’t spoken out loud as much as it resonated in Stan’s mind, high-pitched and echoing in a way that made his nonexistent ears ache. He was also pretty sure he’d heard it before, even if he hadn’t been in the most coherent state at the time.

“I swear,” he growled, “if I turn around and see that screaming geometry dipshit from my nightmare last week, I’m gonna puke ghost guts all over that one-eyed piss-yellow triangular ass of his.”

The being behind him began to clap. “Go ahead and turn around, then! I’d love to see it!”

Stan turned, and sure enough, found himself facing a one-eyed, piss-yellow, triangular entity.

“Well? Where’s the ghost puke you promised me?”

“Shut the fuck up, Bill. That is your name, right? I gotta be sure you know exactly how much I hate your dumb whiny voice in particular.”

“Read about me in Fordsy’s journal, did you?” Bill asked, twirling his cane.

Stan raised a hand to his ear. “Huh, what’s that noise? ‘Cause it definitely isn’t a first grader’s math homework shutting the fuck up, that’s for sure!”

Bill let his cane go flying out of his grip and through the nearest wall, disappearing from view for a moment before popping back into existence in his other hand. “Oh, Stanley, Stanley, Stanley. I’m here to help you, just like I helped Sixer! So let’s not say anything we’ll end up regretting later —”

“Too late.” The cocky grin disappeared from Stan’s face as he made a fist. “No one calls Ford ‘Sixer’ but me, and you’re really gonna regret mixing that one up if I have anything to say about it.”

“Oh, my bad!” Bill shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I didn’t mean to slight your precious sibling relationship, which you both clearly value SO much! If only I could make it up to you by… I dunno, saving you from ETERNAL IMPRISONMENT?!”

“I’ve broken out of prison in three different countries, I’ll be fine on my own. Also, I know you tried to hurt my family when you all went off on your wild goose chase through my mind — and call me overprotective of those kids if you want to, but in my book, that’s a pretty good reason not to make any dark magical contracts with you.”

For the first time, Bill looked genuinely looked caught off guard by one of Stan’s comebacks. “You were conscious for that? You know what, forget it. I —”

“Well, I mean, I was asleep — but I was definitely dreaming about you getting your ass kicked.”

“I said FORGET IT!” Bill snapped.

“Touchy subject, eh?”

“It was in the past! It doesn’t matter anymore!” Bill shouted. “You need my help and my deal now, Stanley Pines, and there’s no way around it!”

Stan floated lower, until he was able to roughly approximate sitting at the foot of the bed. “Well, looks like I’ve got all day to kill and nothing better to do. I’m not gonna listen, but you might as well start making your case anyway.”

Bill’s eye narrowed with glee, and he began to chuckle to himself, then cackle louder and louder until it felt like his laughter would never stop echoing inside Stan’s head.

“Here’s the thing, Stanley — you really don’t have all day at all! In fact, you have…”

With a burst of flame, he summoned a ticking gold pocketwatch in his hand. “Exactly twelve hours and two minutes!”

“Until what? I’m not gonna fold and cut a deal with you just because of a vague threat and a time limit — that’s like, even more basic than Manipulation 101.”

Bill laughed, and his pocketwatch cooed like a cuckoo clock as an avian skeleton sprung out of the hole in the center. “Twelve hours until your body stops breathing, obviously! It’ll be real sudden, too — no time for the doctors to switch you over to life support before your brain runs out of oxygen!” One of his arms extended as he reached over to Stan, rapping him on the skull. “Then again, I’m not sure you’re getting much blood flow up there in the first place. Certainly less than old Fordsy —”

“Why should I believe you?” Stan asked. “If I was a math nerd’s demonic fever dream, I’d be making up bullshit life-or-death ultimatums left and right. Who would be be dumb enough to make a bargain with me otherwise?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. But to answer your question, just look at your own eyes, down there in your body! They’re not even glowing half as bright as when you first got flipped into the mindscape, and they’re only gonna keep getting dimmer until the connection’s gone altogether!”

Bill snapped his fingers, summoning a plume of blue flame in which an image of the mirror flickered into existence. “When that portrait in the compact is completed, exactly twenty-four hours from the moment you entered the mirror, you’ll be severed from the living world forever — and that’s not all! Your soul gets trapped inside that musty old picture to rot and fester until either someone new scries with the mirror, or eternity itself comes grinding to a halt at the end of the world! That’s the beauty of it: you get to be all-seeing — almost like me! — for exactly one day, but once that’s over, all you’ll ever see again is the inside of a closed compact!”

The image in the flames faded away as they swirled around Bill’s hand, which he extended in Stan’s direction. “But I can put you back in your body, and send the mirror’s previous prisoner back into the painting instead! I can save you, just like I saved your brother! Whaddya say?”

“Yeah, of course,” Stan answered, voice dripping with sarcasm. “All makes perfect sense to me. You just so happen to be the world’s leading expert on cursed mirror and equally cursed painting combos!”

“Well, why wouldn’t I be? I helped make the thing, after all!”

“Oh, did you? That explains why holding it instantly reminded me of my deep hatred for trigonometry.”

Bill ignored him. “You know, your brother wasn’t the only mortal I’ve been a Muse to! He was just the only one in recent memory who was actually USEFUL. I’ve appeared before countless pupils over the years, looking for someone who’d be smart, ambitious, and not to mention gullible enough to help me fulfill my vision — but before Six-Fingers, everyone fell short. And worse — some of them wouldn’t stop summoning me even after I’d given up on them! They kept asking me inane questions about the beginning of the universe and the meaning of life!”

His triangular body turned bright red and the flames surrounding him roared as he continued: “Life doesn’t HAVE a meaning! Humanity was put on the planet to reproduce, die, and make meaningless philosophical arguments in a desperate attempt to convince themselves that morality and ethics are worth anything in the callous void that is existence — what else did they want me to tell them?! Some saccharine bullshit about being born so they could make the world a better place?”

“So you got fed up, and made the mirror to trap one of your ex-pawns?” Stan asked.

The flames disappeared, and Bill seemed to calm down, turning yellow again. “You catch on faster than I thought you would! I tricked one of my most insufferable pupils into creating it, and sure enough, he hasn’t bothered me since!”

“So when Ford tried to scry with the mirror thirty something years ago, he freed that guy’s ghost — but you still thought Ford would still be useful, didn’t you?” Stan tried to keep his voice calm, but he was starting to get a good idea of just who had driven Ford to such paranoia and desperation thirty years ago, and he was fuming inside. “So you freed Ford by switching his place with the ghost of that first guy you trapped.”

“Exactly!” Bill cheered, rubbing his hands together. “And I can do the same for you — just give me the word, and you’ll be back in your body before you know it!”

“Let’s imagine a parallel universe where I was a dumbass and I did take your deal. What other conditions would you be hiding in the fine print?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be hiding it! I’d actually be rather upfront, just like I’m being right now!” Bill smacked Stan on the head with a roll of paper, which unfurled to reveal a document titled CONTRACT.

“All I’d ask is for you do owe me one tiny favor down the line — a chance for me to borrow your restored body for a few hours when the right moment rolls around! I mean, you’ve coped without it for this long — what’ll one more brief stint in the mindscape be to a pro like you?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna have to say FUCK NO to that. I know you’re used to dealing with my brother, the most gullible genius on the planet, but while he may have all the brains, I have some actual goddamn common sense.”

“But — but don’t you want to open the portal?” Bill asked him, a little too quickly. “I’d like to see you try and operate it without your body!”

“Well, yeah — but are you really expecting me to be able to activate it all on my own? Even with all the journals, I’ve still got no idea what I’m doing,” Stan lied. “I could just as easily flip the thing’s self-destruct switch as I could find the right settings to bring Ford back. I’ll feel guilty if I can’t at least try, but… it was a hell of a long shot in the first place. I accepted that a long time ago, even if I don’t like to admit it.”

“Are you kidding me?!” Bill shouted. “The thing doesn’t even HAVE a self-destruct switch! I — I could even sweeten the deal, if you want! I could help you turn it on! This has been thirty years in the making — you can’t just give up on it now! Also, did I forget to mention YOUR ETERNAL FUCKING IMPRISONMENT and SLOW, PAINFUL CORRUPTION INTO A REVENGE-BENT MONSTER?!”

Okay, so Bill really wants the portal activated for some reason, Stan thought to himself. Interesting.

Out loud, he told Bill: “I’ve been messing around with too much shit that I don’t understand since before you even showed up. I’m not adding a deal with a demon to that list, and that’s final. Besides, you’re forgetting that the kids will probably figure something out. They always do.”

“Well, that sure is a cute sentiment!” Bill shot back. “But you’re already as good as dead to them, Stanley. They can’t see you, they can’t hear you — and soon enough, if you don’t do something, they won’t be able to feel your heart beating in your body anymore either!”

“Oh, I do plan on doing something,” Stan replied with a straight face. “It just won’t be the something you want me to do.”

“My offer still stands!” Bill shouted as he disappeared in a burst of blue flames. “Just call my name once it sinks in how doomed you are without me, and I’ll be right there to shake your hand and seal the deal!”

Mabel, still asleep next to Stan’s body, let out a deep sigh as Bill vanished, but otherwise didn’t react to their conversation. She was hugging Stan’s arm and clutching handfuls of the bedsheet like it were the lifeline tying Stan to the world, and if only she held on tight enough, she’d be able to drag him back.

And maybe, in a roundabout way, she could.

“Bill said I’m all-seeing like him until my twelve hours are up,” Stan explained to her, even knowing it wouldn’t be heard. “So if you’ll bear with me here, Mabel…”

He placed his hand over her forehead, and closed his eyes.

“I’m gonna see if I can haunt dreams like him too.”

***

Pacifica’s dance lesson dragged on for over an hour, showing no signs of coming to an end until she claimed to be experiencing a dehydration-induced dizzy spell and her instructor reluctantly excused her, probably fearing a lawsuit. She headed back to her room right away, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that her pillow — and the mirror beneath it — hadn’t been disturbed. She was going to have to find a better hiding place for it soon.

As she pulled out a map of the mansion, trying to think of nooks and crannies that no one ever checked, a thud from the hallway made her jump. She almost brushed it off, chalking it up to her imagination, when she heard it again, and then a third time, growing louder with each repetition.

It didn’t sound like footsteps — or at least, not the footsteps of any human. If anything, it sounded like solid stone was striking the hallway’s hardwood floor.

Pacifica watched, frozen in place, as a veil of smoke materialized around her doorknob, twisting it counterclockwise degree by degree as the door ever-so-slowly swung open —

And then she laughed, because what she was seeing in the hallway couldn’t have been further from the monster she’d been expecting.

“You’re a statue,” she snickered, and her visitor’s stone eyes lit up red.

Oh, but not just any statue, a voice boomed from inside the familiar face that had once watched over the town square. I’m Gravity Falls’ very own Nathaniel Northwest!

***

(End notes:)

I was very excited for this chapter since I don’t write a whole lot of Stan and Bill interacting (outside of Some Sunny Day, which was a whole different beast altogether). And sure enough, I had a ton of fun with Stan’s dialogue, which led to this chapter being about a thousand words longer than expected.

Anyways, comments/reblogs are appreciated as always!

#gravity falls #stanley pines #bill cipher #dipper pines #mabel pines #wendy corduroy #soos ramirez #pacifica northwest #fic: to see the unseen #rosalia writes fic

[captainkurosolaire]

/20/20/

A sermon undefined, featureless, a mouth in stitched silence.  Drew point towards an open-casket filled of cogs, springs and gears. The frameworks of a scrap and flawed creation. On-top the stage near the podium of a Chapel made of ivory and bricks of iron. Donations were littered to a basket filled in unhatched eggs of doves. They spoke of peace, love, and drew messengers to that which is carded broken. If subtitles were presented the words that aired would be, what is that, ‘which is defined by the World?’ Is the place of the past, is it already defined and set? Is that not the same as the body? One hit to the core of the World and cataclysm hits, complete annihilation, obliteration. What becomes is a fallout to the former. You see... The World is a vessel. A bodied shell. Its scenery is judged on how the core is treated. Conditioned and viewed, what inhabits that becomes the value of reality. For the core; is to be without the creator, the thoughts and feelings of the World cannot begin to cease. Even should pollution, scrambles and waste radiate the World. Does that mean it’s beyond savable? A Whitelight holds like string through the crystal stained windows of the Chapel peering into the casket’s remains. As what can only be described as miraculous and marvelous events shape together like the eye reflecting the symbol of Christ; that which is spoken to spark imagination and open clarity’s colored hue. Reconstruction, Life, Designation, Online; To be activated. This was the World recreated, reenvisioned, reinvented. The crackling of the eggs of what contained the supportive doves hatched simultaneously feeding and rewiring the machine’s framework and pecking the bolts to tighten for harsh rains so that it may not degrade from the rain again. For he isn’t Rusty. I choose to embrace the World that is attached to me, for…. I seek to exist.

#Repair #Heal. #Mend #Deny the Deny #Control Inevitability #Cryptic & Symbolic

[dragonzzilla]

If there’s one thing I would change about King of the Monsters, it’d be Jonah’s motivation. While environmental anxiety is absolutely something Godzilla should tackle since he is a symbol of the times, I feel like there’s another theme that would’ve not only fit everything else in the movie, but double down on the message of 2014, while also hearkening back to the concerns of the original 1954 film. Instead of Jonah being an unfettered eco-terrorist, he should’ve been hired by someone else.

Let me explain: When I heard the announcement for KOTM, I was excited to see how they would tackle the world’s reaction to Godzilla’s existence. In many of the Japanese films, while he was always feared, I never got the impression that Japanese society changed all that much with his presence. The government would make plans of course and develop countermeasures, but society at large seemed to continue irrespective of the fact that a giant indestructible monster could emerge from the waters at any time. People continued to build by the water, overseas shipping remained big, and people still flew into Japan of their free will. While I can easily overlook these minor worldbuilding gripes, the grounded feel of 2014 and news of a sequel had such promise. I used to look up videos about “What if Godzilla was real?”, and while most of them were simple guff explaining how Godzilla could never exist in real life (ugh), there was one that gave me exactly what I wanted: the cultural and social ramifications Godzilla would have on the world. I wanted KOTM to explore that.

So when I heard rumors of Charles Dance’s character being the leader of a terrorist organization (I was trying to keep myself in the dark), I drew my own conclusions about the movie’s plot. Given the believability of 2014, I tried to think how the world would believably react to Godzilla. Fear, anxiety, calls to destroy him, pushback against that, etc. Then I began to wonder how the governments of the world would think. 2014 routinely humiliated the excessive might of the US military; even with the strongest weapons in the world, they were helpless to stop the MUTOs or Godzilla. Hell, the movie showed that a nuclear bomb is so ineffectual against Godzilla, it actually did the opposite of the intended effect, invigorating him instead of killing him. The MUTOs literally ate nuclear warheads, turning these horrifically destructive weapons to their own ends. In the end, it wasn’t strength of arms that saved the day, but nature’s own whim. So can you imagine the war hawks and the nationalists, those who take sick pride in the US’s martial might... learning that their toys don’t mean squat anymore? The largest nuclear arsenal in the world rendered obsolete by a total curve ball. There was something out there that not only rivaled the destructive potential of a nuke, but could destroy again and again, left little-to-no fallout in its wake, and a nuke wouldn’t even hurt it. The enterprising (and corrupt) would see that as the ultimate weapon, the next evolution in warfare. With a kaiju under their control, a small country could challenge even the United States... and we all know what happens when the status quo is threatened.

In the 1954 film, Dr. Serizawa created the Oxygen Destroyer, something that could kill the otherwise impervious Godzilla, surpassing even the almighty nuke—and he feared that the superpowers of the world would force him to make more. The real world gives credence to that fear; as soon as the first nuclear bomb was made, rival superpowers rushed to make their own, resulting in an arms race that filled the world with cataclysmic weapons. No doubt, a weapon like the Oxygen Destroyer would play out the same way.

Only in the case of the MonsterVerse, it’d be a kaiju instead of a bigger, badder bomb. KOTM does briefly touch on this idea, but doesn’t dwell on it, which I think is a terrible shame after watching the movie. The technology of the ORCA could open the door to using these monsters as weapons—or at least, that’s what politicians would think. There are people in the world right now who would absolutely use the ORCA to their own ends, and those people are in positions of power. America would want to maintain their supremacy, Russia would try to beat them to it, others might see this as an opportunity to change the balance of power entirely. Everyone would want the ORCA’s technology, which already plays into Mark’s concerns of it falling into the wrong hands. imo, the line of “You’ll be responsible for a thousand San Franciscos” would carry a lot more weight if the destruction was framed as deliberate rather than unintended. That way, he isn’t afraid that things might go wrong; he’s more concerned that things might go exactly as planned. After all, we learned in the movie that Monarch has bunkers around the world. Are you telling me that a whole bunch of rich people wouldn’t pay top dollar to get into these bunkers (or make their own), when shit finally goes down?

With everyone drawing sticks though in this brave new world, you wouldn’t want a short one; so why not choose the biggest, baddest kaiju of all? Ghidorah fits that bill nicely. So instead of being an eco-terrorist with nebulous goals, Jonah becomes a mercenary, pure and simple. We wouldn’t know who hired him, but I’d dare to suggest elements within the US Senate (hence why they are pushing so hard to have Monarch fall under military jurisdiction). He’s being paid top dollar, and if things turn for the worse, he’s guaranteed a place in one of the kaiju bunkers. Of course, Ghidorah refuses to fall under the sway of the ORCA, and the rest of the movie pretty much plays out the same way. Serizawa said it himself in 2014: “The arrogance of man is thinking nature is in our control, and not the other way around.” Instead of trying to “give” Earth back to the Titans, the events of the plot kick start when humans get the idea that they can control them. It would give the quip about making Godzilla our pet a whole new meaning, not to mention the very last line in the movie, about Godzilla being on “our” side with the follow up of “for now”, a lot more weight. Lastly, I think this angle would still explore the dangers of climate change, but in a much focused manner. It’s easy to think humanity at large is responsible for the Earth's destruction, but really, it's the selfish actions of a privileged few who are screwing everyone else over. In their pursuit of greater wealth and power, they are willing to turn a blind eye to clear and present dangers; hell, they will exacerbate the issue if they have something to gain from it. It’s not the person sitting next to you drinking from a plastic straw that’s killing the environment, it’s your governor who refuses to address climate change. Men of power declare war, but it’s always ordinary people who pay the price. Some may think that this’d be too controversial for a Hollywood movie, and maybe it would be. But the really good Godzilla movies have always been critiques.

Now, this change wouldn't fix the movie's other flaws, and while I feel Charles Dance was criminally underutilized, I feel this small change in Jonah's motivation (going from man with a plan to an agent of a greater problem) might excuse his rather one-dimensional personality.

#godzilla #godzilla king of the monsters #alan jonah

[kitsoa]

KH Questions I’m afraid to ask:

Because they seem so fundamental and/or they spiral me into logical plotholes ... before you ask I have theories behind all my questions and may or may not actually need answers.

If KHUX Daybreak Town is data, there’s got to be a computer or some kind of server to house it right? Every data world we’ve seen has a real-world conduit. It’s not just a fake world floating around born from nothing… so where is the server located?

When the world was described as ‘one’ in the age of Fairy tales how exactly does that look? Clearly the Disney worlds had yet to manifest in the form they are familiar, but it can then be assumed that they have a common history in Daybreak town/Scala? I guess I’m struggling to imagine how these worlds diverged so… dramatically when originating from a kh original world standard (considering disney world have different universal laws and rules and histories that simple walled off distance --courtesy of the Keyblade War-- cannot account for).

What kind of destruction did the First Keyblade War actually have on the KH universe? It’s clear ‘everyone died’ and the worlds were ‘broken up and divided’ after being one. But did that simply leave the unified, singular world of Daybreak Town to be deserted? How then does the division of the world come into play? Did some aspect of the fallout (opening Kingdom Hearts? Hard universe reset seen off screen?) literally rip it apart and scatter the pieces among the Ocean Between to become the multiverse we know? The clash forged the x-blade which opens Kingdom Hearts which can cause wide scale damage… so did that happen?

Connecting questions 1 and 3,assuming there is a physical conduit for the data Daybreak Town wouldn’t it exist in the ‘deserted’ Daybreak Town? Assuming there was a cataclysm that broke things apart as the story goes, is the physical access of the dataworld no longer around? It doesn’t erase the dataworld of course as worlds gain hearts and exist in realm separate the Major Realms (think how data TT had an access to TWTNW in the Realm In-Between) but it does cut the world off. Basically, does it even matter if there was once a physical server?

Where do worldlines fit in to the unchained realm strategy? (fricken loaded question i know). Worldlines are parallel timelines they technically could have run from the Keyblade War by jumping to a line where it never happens so why go through the motions of going into the dataworld copy apocalypse bunker to dream away their problems.

At the risk of bringing up a plot-irrelevant concern.. the Union conflict takes care of culling the Keyblade wielding population out of existence but should we be welcome to assume that there’s a more casual denizenship in the existing universe? Like parents, and the hearts of people the Keykids are trying to protect… And if so, we can conclude that they were eliminated as well right? So if the wielders destroyed themselves, what aspect of the war’s cataclysm swallowed everyone else? ((I get that there’s a loose loyalty to foundational bonds like family but with KH3 suggesting a line of descendants we have to expand beyond the contrivances of a city of children at some point.))

Are Replica’s without hearts sentient a la zombie-Xion? So technically speaking, Ienzo made a Roxas clone that was sentient and functioning and only lacked a heart. Had they left it alone longer with some friends it would have created another heart. Would that hypothetical roxas have been the same? Worth noting, Kairi’s body in kh1 by this logic was bound to create a heart as well.

im dying squirtle

#kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts meta #kingdom hearts analysis #Kitloveskh

[neverending-shenanigans]

Power of Three Addendum

So since i didn’t have time to reply to all things yesterday and the reblog is getting very long and confusing I am just going to quote you guys here with things that need replying. If I have overlooked stuff throw ‘em at me.

She dies while trapped in the Fade because incapacitated ... Envy is walkabout in her body ( @amusewithaview​)

Oh, okay, good, so it’s not one of the possession situations where I am stuck in there and like - watch envy do stuff. Because that was what i thought first. But this is better, the reaching out to Cole thing.

Cole stays by her side because He Promised and ends up finding out a lot of shit that none of us would normally tell anyone re our origins and goals.  ( @amusewithaview​)

*quietly starts chant* one of us, one of us, one of us

This would be when Mythal and the Titans rise and start the true cataclysm. Yeah, I went there.  (...)  Less Red Lyrium but also for some reason there’s green Lyrium and even some yellow and she cannot figure out why and she’s panicking for more reasons than the obvious. (@ atiramisu )

*vibrates with excitement* DOES THAT MEAN SOLAS IS AT WAR ALREADY IN THIS FUTURE OH MY GOD. This is awesome i am so down for this. How much of this will Dorian see/find out/figure out???

“You came here together when it chose you. It won’t let you leave it alone.”  (@amata)

[Enter Hysterical Sobbing here] Why are we in horrorfilm-esque one-liners territory here so soon.

Cole doesn’t want to lose us and finds some way to package his memories or slip through the portal or SOMETHING  (@amaterasu)

I’m gonna put it out there, but do we retain memories, too? In this ghost version? Because if so, it could maybe be the fade? Time AND memories work differently in the fade. Like, in origins, when companions live through memories in the fade. They are future!memories, but still. Maybe what happenes haunts us in the dreams and he just can physically live through it because that horror future is bound to leave an impact on the fade itself. In Awakening, before you meet Justice, it is stated that places of horrific crimes bleed into the fade and twists that place, too. Also we had better learn legimency because i don’t trust solas not to stalk our dreams.

WHY NOT BOTH VERSIONS OF GHOSTS? The Foci is very likely sentient enough. Why not overlays AND that terrifyingly cryptic message from Cole? Double the Pain Train! Lets really get this Trauma Avalanche going! ( @lucide-dreamer-dreams​)

WHY LUCY WHY. WHAT HAVE I EVER DONE TO YOU. I mean, it is a good idea to combine both but that is besides the point! YOU ARE THE ONE TO STOP THE AGONY. 

@neverending-shenanigans you happy now? (@ludicrous-dreams)

Eventually by the end maybe the dead triplets are able to use the Marked arm while the rest of the Bad Future triplet’s body remains under her control? Just for added body horror! (@angstwithaview)

For “added body horror” she says. As if there is more horror needed. Like imagine that. Imagine the arm splitting before Dorian’s eyes, Mews being in so horrible pain that she can barely walk, the pain getting worse, she’s losing feeling and cannot move the arm ... and suddenly in the end fight it does? And it is clearly not her moving the arm. Like wtf wtf wtf wtf wtf wtf wtf.

eventually returns with either a diverse group of elvhen allies OR 5-10 mercenary companies recommended by Bull and recruited through various means (@ahatakeonme)

Is this a thing we need to decide or is this a thing we can have people vote on? If the later, do we get votes too, btw?

#we all gonna end up with our own versions of this plot

Just so you guys know, I have decided I will exclusively be writing fillers and missing scenes for between your guys chapters and they’re all going to be aggressively funny or fluffy or just peaceful. Just a whole chapter of Josephine drinking tea, or sth. I am going to handle the fallout, you guys do you. I mean, depending on how you handle it, there might be the occasional angst, or cracky-AU but basically i am playing fanfiction cosmic balance.

#the triplet au #did i catch everything #i am not sure #also i genuinely misstyped the third amuse tag and couldn't stop laughing so i made a thing #this is my coping mechanism showing

[hadarlaskey]

Diary of a first-time filmmaker: Part 5 – Distribution

Um, so. Hi. Last time I wrote feels like a lifetime ago. Before all this. I never thought I would find myself missing chat about Brexit. In the Covid Clusterfuck that 2020 has turned into, it seems a fond memory in what we are universally obliged to refer to as ‘these challenging times’. But the world still turns, and people still want to make things. People will also always need stories. At least, I like to think so.

The articles I’ve written that preceded this, now I think about it, did tend to wang on about how hard it is to be a filmmaker. This is a universal sort of martyrdom experienced by artists and at the time, it seemed fair enough. How naïve I was. How exponentially more difficult will earning a living in the creative industries be in the coming months and years, as the they fall to their knees and have to be cradled up again as if from infancy. But I’m not here to be a Debbie downer – I am confident that you probably peruse the news regularly enough to be covered in that department. I will, instead, try to focus on things that might give us hope.

The festival life and release of Body of Water happened to coincide with the cataclysmic fallout of COVID-19. We do count as some of the lucky ones, however. Like the luminous green cockroaches that I imagine must have managed to hang around in the basement of Chernobyl after the blast, we are surviving. By the skin of our fluorescent antennae. But what counts as luck in this brave new world?

Well, to me, luck was a physical premiere in an actual cinema as part of the last film festival in the UK, Glasgow. A delightful experience in February, the sold-out screening was really moving for all of us – particularly lead actress/my hero Sian Brooke. Festival Directors, Allison Gardner and Allan Hunter, have done a tremendous job in recent years of cultivating one of the most forward-thinking and exciting film showcases in operation – it was a real thrill to be selected. As a Scot, it felt like the ideal home for my debut. And I got to put on a nice dress, which is always a bonus.

The experience of watching Body of Water on screen with strangers was intimidating. As a director you’re always studying people’s reactions, and you tend to be particularly sensitive to picking up energy in rooms. Sian and I sat next to each other and held hands for virtually the whole film like seven-year-olds. The film was well-received though, with some touching and insightful feedback from audiences, although being the director obviously nobody is going to tell me to my face if they think it’s shit. Initial reviews have been very positive, but I leave you to judge for yourselves*. After it was over, Sian and I were invited to take part in a short Q&A. “What did it feel like,” I was asked, “to watch my work on the big screen?” I answered truthfully, “It felt a little bit like being flayed alive.”

It was particularly interesting to hear the crew’s impressions of how what they had seen us shoot, and how that work had evolved and changed in the edit. The sound recordist Aris, in particular, was sweetly delighted with what we’d done and we had emotional – slightly drunken – chat about it. These conversations reminded me again of how generous those who solely work on set are with their creativity. They work their asses off in tough conditions, and then they give their work away without seeing the results for months or years. I reckon most directors are too selfish for that, myself included. If something has my imprint I can’t let it go like that. So, a shout out to all crew everywhere – some of whom have had their livelihoods hit hardest by this pandemic.

As you can probably guess, everything changed shortly after that. The lovely Verve Films picked up Body of Water for distribution on 16 October online and in cinemas. We discussed a theatrical run in cinemas, but as the pandemic has worn on, conversations have shifted. Despite hollow promises from politicians things will not bounce back to ‘normal’ anytime soon. It has become clear that an online release for a film of our scale seems the most sensible option. Naturally, I want people to see it as it was meant to be seen: on the big screen. I have made peace with the fact that this might not happen right away, although I hope we will be able to do some form of cinema run at a later date. The main thing is that people have the opportunity to watch what we made.

As I write, the film and television industries are making their first tentative steps back into production. Pictures of small-scales shoots are popping up on social channels. I feel for those in pre-production on big projects, knowing how challenging these circumstances can be without the added layer of stress that responsible social distancing measures will add to any set experience. But I take comfort in the fact that filmmakers are nothing if not a) tough and b) the best kind of crazy. We’ll get through this, and we’ll be stronger.

As ever, the only thing we can do is keep going at whatever pace fits us and those we’re working with. We need to find hope where we can, in each other and in our stories. It’s always there.

*Please do judge for yourselves by watching the film.

The post Diary of a first-time filmmaker: Part 5 – Distribution appeared first on Little White Lies.

source https://lwlies.com/articles/diary-of-a-first-time-filmmaker-part-5-distribution/

#movie

[phoebe-fucking-bridgers]

i was tagged by @fantasmagoriam thank you (your dog is really cute) !! sorry it’s taken me a while i’ve been sick af 

rules: answer 10 questions and then ask 10

1. Favorite tropes in fiction? 

there’s one called because you were nice to me, and somebody once matched it up to my mbti and truer words have never been spoken. also the trickster is a fave of mine - this is such a good question but i can’t dwindle down a lot of them 

2. A video game you could play over and over again?

fallout: new vegas,, the light of my life , the one true ally 

3. Any achievements you’re really proud of? (may be getting the 1st prize in a contest or making a really good cake once, doesn’t matter what it is as long as you’re proud of it) 

im pretty proud of my cakes (that wasn’t meant to sound like an innuendo) there’s not a lot else tbh, i’ve done my duke of Edinburgh award but that’s about it?? 

4. Game/book/movie with the best ending? 

oh man pan’s labyrinth . . im so torn because on the one hand i felt like ofelia was freed to go fully into the fantasy world that had been half of her story, but also i can’t help wondering if it was just a child’s imagination and (spoilers ahead) all that happened was she got shot by that bastard of a man and thats it

5. If you could have any wild animal as a pet which one would you pick?

dragon idk maybe just an animal that was happy to be domesticated and didn’t mind not being in the wild, i know that people have managed to keep foxes as pets before and they’re cute as hell

6. Most emotional fictional moment?

god there are a lot for me, i listened to the taz finale not long ago and the scene where taako thought lup was gone and he was ready to kill lucretia may or may not have made me cry. in vegas too, the scene where joshua graham admits he wanted to make his anger “God’s anger” and that his own vengeance was sort of his demons?? but also because he calls them the “fires” that keep burning so if you take the quote from his gun - “the light shineth in darkness and the darkness comprehended it not” - i get the feeling that his hatred towards caesar is all that’s keeping him going and its sort of become his faith or the light or whatever  you want to call it. it wasn’t an especially emotional moment for him but idk it just affected me a lot more than i thought it would, seeing all he had left was his pain.  god this is way too much text but im just v sensitive esp. regarding fiction and i could give you a hundred more examples. you asked for the most and i am Sorry

7. What makes you happy in life?

analyzing joshua graham apparently

8. Best song of all time?

i  lov . . . so many . right now my favourite song is Down to the Bottom by Dorothy

9. Do you have any OCs? If yes, what inspired you to create them?

yes thank you they are my children, most of them came from video games or aus tbh (there are more but i’m running up too much of a list rn)

rudy - an Asshole, elven mage fueled by bitterness that morrigan was straight. wtf, bioware, do you know how many gifts i'd given her . . .

jamie grant - courier six, she’s pretty soft on the people around her but Don’t Make Her Angry, as the legion found out. after getting shot in the head she went running after benny to get some revenge, and unraveled more of her past than she wanted to

riviera - a Warden straight out of the alienage, chaotic good, charmer of zevrans, at this point it’s just 100% projection (sorry riv) 

some ocs i just base off of tropes or a single story line, i usually work up an image of them in my head and go from there

10. … Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?

who me?? yes you.. couldn’t have been then who?

i tag: @lostboysandneverland @saintsrowtwo @teacupchimera @elise-biman @carmillaisabottom and anyone else that wants to do it - none of you have to do it of course or you can just pick ten questions of your own ??

and my questions are: 

1. if you could live in any era when would it be? 2. are you more of a leader or a follower?  3. what do you think is the best quality in a person? 4. what’s the worst quality in a person?  5. if you could go back in time and change a moment in history what would it be? 6. if someone told you the moment you changed would have a cataclysmic effect, either entirely positive or negative, would you still do it?  7. would you rather spend a night in a library or out camping? 8. what’s your dream job, if you have one? 9. do you think zodiac signs have any weighing on who you are? 10. if you could relive any moment of your life what would it be? 

#thanks for the tag! #fantasmagoriam

[huge6s-blog]

RANDOM FACTS ABOUT THE MUN.

Repost, not reblog! Tag 6 muns you would like to get to know better when done!

Name: Kaitlyn! Please, for the love of god, never use it.

Nickname: Katy, Kat, variations; (Katydid, Katybug, Kitkat, etc.) But if you wanna call me something else, that’s fine too!

Age: 22! Simultaneously too old and a wee bab, lmao

Faceclaim: Not something I do! I could never pick just one, besides maybe my own face! (I’d thought about using Shuu Iwamine or Rize Kamishiro before, if that says anything haha)

Pronouns: Your highness/My liege She/Her! But “they/them” is good too.

Height: ~5’6”-5’7”; I can’t remember the last time I checked.

Birthday: Poppin’, obviously March 30th.

Aesthetic: Purple and black?? EGNautilus scientists tittering excitedly over adorable or exciting sea creatures. Omnipresent Mountain Dew cans, fast food and colorful kneesocks. 2AM adventures on clear nights in summer that last until dawn starts sending it’s first beams into the sky. Spacey FPS games and cutesy RPG and Pokemon games interspersed throughout. Weathered frames and tired eyes. ROBOTS… I have no idea, man. A lot of things!

Last song you listened to: “The Thief and the Moon” by Shawn James!

Favourite muse(s) you’ve written: kfkjdf. Sixes definitely counts,, Uhh. My first was a canon-divergent Eridan, who I’d played before Act 6 was even close to being a thing! And he was a lot of fun. Accidentally made a “do not that” meme that still sometimes plagues me to this day ldkfdk A dream-bubble/dead Karkat who’d been murdered in his timeline’s Gamzee’s rampage and only had one eye, he was a biiiig favorite. I loved having enough energy for that all; typing that much shittalk??? Was one of the most fun things I’ve ever done in roleplay, holy shit. Entire fucking PAGES of just these absolutely USELESS rants because that nubby little shit had so much passion for it. Fuck. I loved Karkat. A bloodswapped, cobalt-blooded Karkat who was also post-game for a pre-established timeline where trolls and humans co-existed on the same planet(s). He was a Thief of Blood and a massive asshole; at his worst, he was manipulative, isolative, vengeful, restless… But also, he was a really big dork??? He LOOOOOVED spy movies and probably popped boners regularly for Black Widow and James Bond or the Kingsmen. Fucking nerd. He fancied himself a spy; his best friend was a badass hacker, and they’d (F)LARP together as a stereotypical “you hack, I’ll infiltrate” team. Before Earth, he never cared about Christmas, but one year his richass neighbourhood started putting up flashy decorations and he got jealous, so he stole a shitton of them to make his own house look the best. He’s so… So stupid. I love him so much. And of course, jumping off the Homestuck bandwagon; I have Lv/Hadz! My dorky, sadsack pun machine. A (sort of, mostly) secret post-genocide Sans; the Bad Run™ had been reset after completion, but something went wrong, so he remembers it. Still, he’s been running for like, two years now! So he’s had a lot of time to go and bury all that as deeply as monsterly possible lmaooo. He’s distrusting, paranoid, and isolative himself; but he’s probably the most all-around good guy on this list. He just wants to get on with his life and never have to fight anyone ever again, lmfao. I… I also have a few OCs, but you’ll have to pry those out of my cold, dead hands. … Carefully. With lots of reassurance. (I’m very shy…)

What inspired you to take on your current muse (that you are posting this on): I like… Undertale. And I like Underfell enough that once the idea was presented to me, my mind kinda ran away with it, haha. It started with Hopper, my weird UF Sans! But it feels like every time I approach the AU I have slightly different ideas for it, pfft. I guess with Sixes, I wanted to step away from the skeletons for awhile! I was really excited about messing with Mettaton for it, because I… Really liked listening to the radio for awhile, haha. I thought it’d be kind of cool if instead of being really excited to be seen flaunting himself across a television set, he wasn’t so happy with how he turned out physically, and made his influence a little less directly visible. It fit in well with the seemingly common theme of conflict in Underfell, and things just really exploded from there! It’s hard to summarize in just a few short words. That said, Sixes probably wouldn’t have a blog at all if it wasn’t for tumblr user wibler’s- Sixes’ Sans!- mun coaxing me into giving it a shot! She has a lot of faith in my creative abilities. I dunno what I’d do without her support through the past few years, heheh. She’s neat.

What are your favourite aspects of your current muse: LOUD ANGRY ROBOT LMFAO Shit though, I dunno! I like writing a character who goes through the bipolar disorder motions, the manics and the depressives. I love watching him go hot and cold on characters as he flipflops through his impulses and subsequent regrets. I love that in his timeline, everyone knows him while he himself actually… Hardly knows anyone at all. He’s made himself untrustworthy, and in turn doesn’t trust anyone, either, so he hardly ever opens up beyond… You know. Angry screaming, or shameless flirting and flattery, ignoring personal space bubbles… I love that his Sans being absent kind of smacked him on the nose, because that was someone he was actually making a connection with, but tried to play it off like Sans was just another moment in his life so he kind of treated him like a dick lmao. Deadass knew the poor little dude had anxiety issues and scared him on purpose, made joking death threats, joked about flirting with his shittyass brother… Sixes was such a prick. Fuck. And he realizes that! And after ditching his family just to have a cataclysmic fallout with his other BFF, Alphys, Sans disappearing… It’s something he blames himself for. It kind of sobered him up a little to the way his actions affect people. AND DESPITE EVERYTHING, HE STILL USES HIS CAMERAS (THAT HE STOLE FROM ALPHYS IN A PETTY FIT) SCATTERED ACROSS THE UNDERGROUND AND HIS SHITTY TRAP ROOMS IN HOTLAND TO PUBLICALLY HUMILIATE RANDOM CITIZENS IN A WIPEOUT-ESQUE PODCAST ON THE UNDERNET. At least that assholitude earns him money, though! Fuck. I also reaaallly love how different AUs bring out different aspects of his character, but that’s a rant for another time or place! Hoo. I dunno, man. I could go on about Sixes for like, ever. He’s a really fun muse.

What’s your biggest inspiration when it comes to writing: I’m… I’m not even gonna lie, a lot of it is the positive feedback lmao. I don’t, uh. Do much these days, creatively or recreationally speaking, and I don’t really have a lot of friends IRL… Er, any, actually, if you’re only counting closehand. All my friends live hundreds of miles away, and it sucks. But this is… Simultaneously social and creative. I get to talk to people, and make friends, and toss creativity back and forth with people, and it’s really fulfilling. I love to be a part of other people’s creative processes! I love seeing what other people do with THEIR characters, and when we all??? Interact??? Mother of God, it’s such a treat! Everyone’s so creative and impressive and inspiring… And hearing/seeing us all go back and forth about what we admire in each other… I’m pretty happy with just being a part of writing, and telling other people that I love what they do! But every now and then it comes back around to me in little ways, and it feels really special. It’s hard to imagine anyone liking my stuff past a “they’re pretty cool I guess, yeah” sentiment, despite my glittering impression of a lot of the writers in the community; so when someone DOES say they like my stuff, even just by saying they like a drawing, or like the way I described something, I go OFF THE WALL LMAO. Straight up dissolve and slip through the floorboards a la Gaster style with how lovely it feels. Shucks… And, you know. Watching characters develop in general- whether they be mine or not- is really fulfilling and inspiring. A good cycle.

Favourite types of threads: Anything that feels meaningful! I love it when two characters make any kind of connection, despite the context. That said, typically “angst” and “fluff” style threads are a big favorite, but there has to be, like… you know. Meaning to it. It feels really… I dunno, cardboardy to just throw a muse into a woodchipper for no particular reason just to have them drag themselves to another muse begging for help or to have a chance to explain some kind of deep, edgy feeling or story. Baseless fluff has a lot more wiggle room lmao, but that can get really monotonous really quick if something more significant fails to spark somewhere along the line. Just so long as something’s getting achieved somehow, I guess! If it feels like nothing’s changed between the two at the end of the thread, it feels really unfulfilling and hollow.

Biggest struggle in regards to your current muse: URRRGH. IMPLEMENTING THE RADIO SHOW/PODCAST THING… On one hand, Sixes has kind of collected the idea that the multiverse is a very indifferent place towards the goings-on within his timeline! And, he supposes, that that suits him fine. Hurts his pride a little, but it’s something he’s just going to curl up and lick his wounds for, pfft. But still! I wish I knew how to make it a little more obvious and prominent- The same could go for his growing industry, too! I guess I’ve just been jobless too long to really have a feel for it like I should, oof… Additionally, drawing him is reALLY HARD… He’s in his classic box form most of the time because he’s really insecure about his EX form, and yet I draw his EX form more than anything because the box is frustrating to draw??? And despite it all, I’m still not sure I’m terribly happy with how his EX form looks!!! He’s supposed to be a little closer to a NEO design than initially planned, as Alphys fully intended him to be a KILLING MACHINE from the start without telling him! But he caught on early on, and they kind of bullied each other into compromising a bunch of things until he was just this “hideous” mess that neither of them were terribly happy with… So, you know. The indecision carried over to me too, evidently! Ugh.

Tagged by: nah! Just stole it was all. (from slobbyseconds/coolskeletonsdontcry forever ago, but just got around to now. kfjf)

Tagging: Anyone who wants to! @ me back if you do it, though; I love reading these things!

#q #ooc #repost dont reblog #long post // #ooc about #these r fun. i love talking #munday

[mostlyfrukheadcannons]

Posting my late submission for frukweek2017 this time on Tumblr! It’s for the Day 5 prompt: “It’s really hard to say I love you”. Beware, its 9,228 words long, and there are slight spoilers for Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo! Or you could read it nicely sectioned out on A03. Enjoy!

@frukweek

Title: It’s Hard for Me to Say “I Love You” (But I do!)

At half-past three in the morning, Arthur wraps his mitten-insulated hands around a hot baking tray.

He pulls out of his oven a batch of souffles — standing proud and puffed up in several flavours — orange blossom, French vanilla, pistachio, lemon and so on. With a critical eye, he carefully puts them down.

So they dot his already crowded mahogany breakfast table. Swim amidst bowls filled with stuffed figs, pastries piled upon lavish porcelain plates, and a hearty mille crepe cake that brings this all together in a picture of domestic felicity.    

It’s enough food to comfortably feed an army. But in the zero-dark hours of the morning, there’s only Arthur sitting down in his apartment to not-really-appreciate it. He listens to the droning of the London traffic outside of his apartment. Listlessly pokes at his empty plate with a fork. It’s just him, and his tired eyes, and his shoulders sore from cooking all night — aching to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Mirthlessly, he entertains the scenario of what would happen if a few nations happened to stumble through his doorstep. Spot the burgeoning breakfast spread he’s set up all on his own. Have their minds blown, because surprise-surprise obviously England can cook...it’s been centuries and he’s not stupid.

Then England snaps out of it. Executes this notion with absolute swiftness. With a cool flame slicking across his skin, he thinks: “nonononono — the world must never know — never find out — he must never be known to cook competently.

Why?

Because he is England. English. Horrible-foodland. God Save the Queen, tally-ho and whatnot. It’s who he is, of course.

Arthur gags at how quickly this self-deluding lie comes to his mind. “Bullshit.” He’s perfectly aware of the truth. England looks tiredly over his shoulder, at the kitchen counter behind him, where he knows what he’ll see.

He sees the phantom of an old memory: A slender and handsome figure.  Whose blue-ribboned ponytail is swept elegantly over his right shoulder. His nimble hands flying over the stove, adjusting all the buttons, as his lively eyes keep track of all the things bubbling and stewing. He’s got an apron tied around his hips, and he speaks with a gentle voice, teasing, “Oh Angleterre, what would you do without me cooking for you in the morning? Why, die of food poisoning of course.”

Then, there are even more distant memories, of a delicately beautiful youth calling across the fields to a stubborn bushy-browed barbarian— to come feast on the fish that he’s caught and cooked with a delicious mix of wild herbs — before it grows cold.  

Gaul. France. Francis.

He doesn’t visit anymore. Not since The Quarrel . The lock of his apartment hasn’t been broken for ages. A pretty face hasn’t poked his head through the door — to remark upon incorrigible Angleterre and his damp little island — for the longest time.

Even though England has kept everything else the same — his stuffy attitude — his stuffier sweater vests — his horrible taste — everything that France would want to taunt England over, and more.  

So shouldn’t France be here by now to insult everything with his poncey accent.

Shouldn’t that be the way things are?

If, there is light, there is shadow. If there are heights, there are abysses.

If there is English artlessness, then there is French finesse.

So where is Francis now?

It’s an absurd instinct, carried to the finest degree of stupidity. But Arthur is despondent and desperate. He will stubbornly cling to his faults and foibles, because they are the scraps of what he has left of their light-and-shadow, point-and-counterpoint, intertwined past relationship.  And maybe, maybe if he waits long enough he’ll come back...the dead will rise from their graves...and frozen lakes will burst ablaze...The bright days will return...

Sitting at the breakfast table alone, staring at all the dishes, Arthur knows he is waiting for a moment that will never come. He had thought that maybe making a breakfast spread of his own could bring back the comforting nostalgia of the past. Instead, too many vivid little memories of better breakfasts crowd around the plates and bowls, gibbering and yammering, and just making Arthur feel queasy, and unbearably sick.

He ends up bringing all the breakfast foodstuffs to this homeless shelter. The lady in charge“Are you sure you want to give this all away? Again?”

“Sure,” Arthur replies.  

After all, it’s not as if I have anyone I to share this breakfast with.

England walks home alone.

Really, if anything, England had thought that his relationship with France would end in a cataclysmic catharsis of centuries of hatred. The fallout would have been stupendous, the impression made on the world indelible.

Never in his wildest imaginings would he have expected for it to end in a gradual slide into total obsolescence. Not when for centuries Europe and the world seemed to revolve around Anglo-Franco powerplay and rivalry. These days France and England seem less politically relevant, especially in relation to each other.

The final nail in the coffin was Brexit.

Now England just sits at the back of meetings, watching France and Germany run the EU like an old married couple. Their dynamic is so powerful, they have become the de-facto runners of world meetings. Germany is relentless focus and brutal efficiency, forcing discussions to stay on track. Whereas France is silver-tongued, and quick-witted. He soothes the ruffled feathers of nations whose squabbles are halted by Germany, holds the attention of the world with clever quips, and generally maintains an amiable balance in the atmosphere, that facilitates the smooth running of meetings.

The two are undeniably a power couple. What place does England have in this new world?

In this, Italy is sympathetic. Sure, he appears bubbly as always on the outside. But Arthur knows that in truth, Feliciano is a complete wreck. He’s guilty about how his economy just isn't holding up, compared to the other EU economies. Hence, his disastrous breakup with Germany a few years back. Shortly after that, England had stumbled upon Italy in Prague, hysterically hitting on anything that walked on two legs, before collapsing from a pub-run induced alcohol poisoning. Since then, they’ve shared something of a silent understanding. Arthur checking in on Feliciano, to make sure his self-medicating doesn’t go out of control, and the sweetheart giving him gifts of limoncello and chocolates in to ease his pain in turn.

“Dude, you okay?” Alfred asks, concerned, poking his arm with a pen, and rousing him from his reminiscences. Like this, America only manages to remind England that while only a tiny strip of water separates England from France, but a whole Atlantic ocean separates him from the American, it is Alfred who is seated by his side in his meeting. While Francis (and Arthur knows he’s in charge of the seating arrangements), has found it fit to fling him as far away from his royal Frenchiness as possible.  

Something inside him snaps. Deep down, England is still a spoilt and selfish brat — that wants attention — and will throw violent tempers if that is what it takes to get some.

When he and Francis happen to be in the same room alone (the latter innocently turning to the coffee machine for a drink), Arthur convolutes some topic raised during the meeting, angles it at France, and rips into him.

Let it never be said that the English are not gifted at bloodsport. In a matter of minutes, Arthur conjures up saints set on fire during the Hundred Years War. Sobbing surrendering French foot soldiers slaughtered on the battlefields of Agincourt. William the Conqueror’s Harrying of the North. The British military conquest of Canada. French-funded American Wars of Independence...and so on.

The effect is instantaneous. Francis changes from a graceful sylph, to an Angel of Death. His blue eyes become burning sapphire that can raze and maim. His creamy complexioned countenance becomes becomes cold ivory. His features are angular and cutting, far from the wide fond smiles the Nation of Love is so famed for melting into.

There is even blood spilt.    

"You know what ," Arthur thinks, " maybe this is what we’ve been reduced to, this is as good as we’re going to get along…..."

And he resigns himself to it.

warning The Count of Monte Cristo spoilers here

Fate though, occasionally gets bored of melodrama. Sometimes other strings are pulled, other forces, set in motion.  Situations transform into things startlingly foreign......and completely alien.

It happens one afternoon, on another world meeting. After a particularly productive session, when all the centuries-old minds of the nations were surprisingly engaged in heated intellectual debate,  Germany calls for a four hour recess, just to positively reinforce that behaviour.

England sees no need to leave the building then. He settles down in some inconspicuous corner with an armchair, and pulls out a massive novel to read. The words thrum gently through his mind. The weight of it in his lap is comforting.  

Unfortunately, he is soon interrupted. France shows up, with sleek glasses, an attache, and a few papers in hand. He says something about his boss needing England to sign the papers. England pointedly ignores him. France can just leave the paperwork on the table and sod off. What’s the point. It’s not as if they have anything meaningful to say to each other.

Besides, Arthur’s getting to one of his favourite parts of the novel. The skies could come crashing down, and the Brit couldn’t care less, especially if it had no plot significance.  

And then, abruptly, the book is snatched from his hands. England is jarred from his meditative reading state. He looks up to hiss at France with fire, fury, and shock.

France is scrutinising the cover of the novel with piercing eyes, before he jeers out “Angleterre — you’re reading The Count of Monte Cristo?”

Arthur blinks, just as surprised as France is. He had just let his hands grab a book from his bookshelf in his apartment, guided by the whim of his heart, before he’d started reading, and didn't stop. He hadn’t, for a moment, considered the nationality of the book, or noticed the unfamiliarity of its language, when he had perused the pages. Now Arthur expects taunts about the undeniable superiority of the French language, along with rounds and rounds of humiliation utilizing this as ammunition.  

Instead, France is furious, snarling out: “You finally pick up one of my works, at long last after so many years. You could have stories of fairies, of paradise, of kinship, just about anything beautiful. But you choose — you choose Angleterre — to bloat yourself on a story of REVENGE? ”

For a terrifying split-second, England finds himself buckling under the weight of France’s gaze, which is creaking with the baggage of thousands of years, seizing with mangled corpses trying to tear away from the silence that holds them back...stinking with gangrene and rotting blood...

But old habits die hard. Under fire, Arthur whips out his intellectual halberd and charges Francis.

“What are you buggering on about you gormless berk. Did you even read the Sparknotes for The Count of Monte Cristo? Fine, this is a book about the Count’s vicious revenge against those who have so grievously wronged him. But you would have to be blind not to see that there is more. ”

Arthur snatches the book back from Francis’ grip. Speeds the pages of the book through his fingers, until he reaches the page that he was on, before he was so rudely interrupted. He then shoves the book in Francis’ face, and says, with the irritation of a disrespected schoolteacher, “Read the section I’ve highlighted in turquoise.” Then he begins to lecture.

“O.K., there’s a revenge plot swirling around with the Count and his machinations. But other things are unfolding at the same time. Look at Chapter Ninety-Five. You may recall here the subplot where the nobleman M. Danglars (one of the count’s future victims) wants his daughter — Eugenie Danglars to marry this aristocrat she has no love for — to uphold their family’s noble image.”

“He reminds her of how she is tied down by her family’s legacy, their history. She must be dragged down with disappointment, if that is what the arranged marriage holds for her. Her history necessitates it.”

“In the novel, so far, we’ve only seen the example of the Count twisting his deeds to match the evil done to him in  his past.

“See how Lady Danglars responds instead to her father’s insistence that she be tied down to her obligations and her history as a member of the Danglars history.”

Francis reads out the section:

“in the shipwreck of life—for life is an eternal shipwreck of our hopes—I cast into the sea my useless encumbrance, that is all, and I remain with my own will, disposed to live perfectly alone, and consequently perfectly free.”

Arthur can’t help but grin: “Clever girl gives the middle finger to the illusion that she must live a life pervaded with a sense of waste — as a slave to her family, her past and her history. She rejects the marriage that is foisted upon her, and makes her own decisions unfettered by others.”

And then with more vigour and energy he adds: “Later, she even elopes with her true love, her singing teacher Louise d’Armilly, to the shock and scandal of everyone else. They create their own little love story, away from the brutal machinations of the Count’s revenge plot, and the novel.”

“Is that not beautiful?”

Arthur can’t quite read the expression on Francis’ face — the room’s lighting means that he can only be sure that his lips are wryly arching across his countenance. That usually signifies the sharpening of a verbal blade, and Arthur braces for impact.

“You know, Arthur, some would say that Louise and Eugenie were just friends that ran away from Eugenie’s troubled family situation. And that you are reading far too much into their relationship.”

There it is. Arthur bristles in absolute indignation. Takes up his pen, and jabs Francis hard in his chest. “And you call yourself the Nation of Love! For chrissake, Louise and Eugenie are said to sleep together in the same bed. Everyone comments on how intimate their so called ‘friendship’ is. Dumas even uses the phrase ‘the breast of Sappho’ to refer to Eugenie’s nature. He literally refers to the poetess that lived on the island that lesbians are named after. How much queer subtext do you bloody need?”

With an unassailable conviction, Arthur declares: “Screw you Francis. This is love that escapes from the entanglements and trappings of vendettas and grievances. Eugenie and Louise figure out how stupid it is to be tied down by the past, ages before the Count even has an inkling. They learn to, as Dumas writes, Live and be happy...wait and hope .”

Arthur stands upright, chin raised and defiant, challenging Francis to even try rebut his argument. His emerald eyes pierce deeply into azure ones. Until, he realises that his glower is completely lost on Francis — because Francis is laughing, mirthful and amused.  

“I know, I know,” Francis’s eyes are twinkling, and he raises his hands in mock surrender. “I just wanted to rile you up. It’s so rare that I get to prod you into stripping off all those prudish pretenses, to expose you bare as the die-hard romantic that you truly are!”

Arthur squawks, and rather fails to pass it off as a refined sniff, before he responds “I’m just interpreting the text as it was intended to be understood.”

“Sure, mon cher, revert back to your priggish facade. With you, it’s always one step forward, two steps back — into splendid emotional suppression” Francis teases. Arthur is surprised to find himself letting out a shaky breath of relief, so he can’t quite respond to Francis’ words.  

“Although come now, Angleterre, perhaps after Dumas, you could read a nicer book. A Tale of Two Cities, perhaps? A story intertwining both our hearts, our capitals...”

Arthur rolls his eyes in irritation. “The title is misleading. You mean a Tale briefly of London, but mostly of Paris. Chiefly about how sure, England and its justice system is corrupt — we’re going to talk about that for a while. But by jove, the Frenchies are so bonkers — we’ll spend chapter after chapter talking about how barmy they’ve become.” Arthur adds with a smirk, “I believe I don’t even need to read the book to know how problematic you are.”

Arthur is mentally shaking his own hands, congratulating himself for one-upping Francis in the literary arena TWICE in a row .

But Francis, for some reason, is grinning like a cat that’s got the cream. This unsettles Arthur deeply.

“Well of course, Angleterre, comfort yourself with a long story of the glory days when all the angry populism and demagoguery was on the other side of la Manche , and not in England. You would really need that now, wouldn’t you .”

Arthur gives Francis a warning look: This Taunt comes Too Soon, Too Contemporaneous, Too Fresh, don’t you bloody raise that up as a point...

“Because Brexit.”

Over 1,000 pages of The Count of Monte Cristo nearly smash into Francis’ obnoxious countenance. Arthur’s suitcase is next in line for his use as a makeshift projectile. Francis has the nerve to cheer, when it misses. So Arthur doesn’t hesitate to try knock Francis’ head off his shoulders, with the metal chair that he swings at the bloody git. Francis manages to parry, by raising the entire desk over him as a defensive shield.

It’s stupid, it’s dangerous, but it’s them .

Somehow, this is the best that Arthur’s felt in ages.

There was their relationship, rotting and shrivelling away in this coffin, with England staring at it morosely, reading it it’s last rites. Until out of the blue, it had sprung up, thrown open the coffin lid and screamed “SURPRISE MOTHARFUCKAARR. YOU THOUGHT I WAS DEAD?”. It had swiftly proceeded to upend everything all over again in Arthur’s life.

Maybe that’s the TLDR; of Anglo-Franco relations.

They exchange volleys of insults over text messages. Engage in snark-to-snark combat over phone calls (because real life face time is not enough to get it out of their system). There are long emails, that really belong to the long, winding speeches before epic set-piece battles in dramatised historical enactments.  

It’s breathtaking. The alacrity with which everything had snapped back together. Arthur can’t help but feel giddy at the thought of how quickly they’ve fallen back in step with each other, because of how deeply their quarrelsome ways are coded into their being.

Things get so good, Arthur finds himself taking the chunnel to Paris more often. And when he does, Francis is always waiting for him outside the train station, with a smile, and some teasing variation of how ‘he’d gladly offer asylum to another sodden Englishman clawing for an escape from their damp, grey, island’. Earning him a glare from Arthur. Just like that, he would motion for Arthur to come walk with him along the glittering streets of Paris. And Arthur, would respond with some half-hearted slur like “You watch out, you cheese-eating surrender monkey. I’ll might take over your country by accident.”

Of course, there are still slip-ups. One time, after Arthur pops out of Gare du Nord Station, the first thing he says to Francis is “Ugh, why does your metro reek so thoroughly of piss.”

Immediately, he knows that it’s the wrong thing to say. Francis’ expression darkens. The wistful, romantic air about him dissipates into a horrifying nothingness. He grits out “Really, Angleterre? You have all the sights and smells of my beautiful Paris to behold, but this is what you notice.”

A knee-jerk reaction: Arthur scoffs  and digs his heels in: “It’s true! You can't deny that there's the stench of piss. It’s what so many tourists comment on when they first arrive in your city. What use is there denying it, when the smell is wafting about everywhere...You might as well go around telling people that gravity doesn’t exist.”

Francis’s gaze hardens. Some tiny voice at the back of Arthur’s mind is screaming at him to stop, but centuries of habit continue to stubbornly push him along, over the cliff edge, to the point of no return: “It's hardly my fault — why should I be reproached —” Arthur can’t slam the brakes — “for telling you what is clearly the truth. You,” he points at Francis, “and your people — you talk of prettiness, and elegance. You say that everything must be perfection ...anything less has no place here. And yet —”

“— yet, when push comes to shove, your City of Love doesn’t smell only of pastries and springtime flowers. Your Metro stinks of piss. Because after all that, in truth, you will pick the messiness of the common people, over your abstract renaissance elegance. You let the homeless and the destitute hide away in your Metro, especially during the cold and bitter winters, because liberté, égalité, fraternité, and some things are more important than looking pretty.”

“Your hypocrisy — it makes me sick — do you get what I mean?” Arthur finishes furiously, his heartbeat pounding madly in his ears.

“Oui, crystal clear, Angleterre,” Francis purrs,  his face now relaxed into an annoying cheshire grin. He readily puts his arm in Arthur’s, before sweeping him across Paris. Arthur is simultaneously infuriated and relieved. He’s not sure how long he’s going to be able to last like this — to be able to keep his trap shut and all the poisonous insults in — especially when Paris is such that every time he visits, he finds more reasons to hate the city.

For instance, Arthur can't help but tell Francis that You French are too poncey . Bloody hell, they just need to grab a bite at a cafe. But no, the cafe has to toast the bread, like the bread itself is a five star dish. And the fillings, what kind of schmancy-bourgeois stuff do they even put in there? And the system is also completely rigged, because how is Arthur supposed to make his incredulity known to Francis, when whatever drugs the French put in their food makes Arthur gag himself, by stuffing as much of it in his mouth as quickly as possible, effectively making him shut himself up.

And France is a den of temptation and debauchery. For god's sake, they have entire shops dedicated to just selling cheese (‘fromageries’), which is obviously just an excuse so they can pair it with wine and get drunk. And oh, Francis keeps plying him with too many wines, until his head spins from all the flavours, and the bevy of wine appreciation tips that Francis serenades him with in a lilting tone; and then the blasted frog has to nerve to laugh when his stiff-upper lip isn't so stiff anymore, and he can’t argue back properly.

And finally, French are just plain rude .

Arthur, completely drunk, just wants to stumble along the River Seine looking thoroughly put out by every French civilian. But this blasted bereted mine has the AUDACITY  to mock his uptight mannerisms. This is nothing short of CASUS BELLI. He will respond by mocking the mime’s mimicry in furious retaliation! God save the Queen! So the First Anglo-Franco Pantomime war begins! Bollocks to the bystanders asphyxiating with laughter. Along with the French philosophical types standing around, watching he and the friggin bereted frog mime their way into satirical infinite regression, with all the seriousness they would pay some Derridian poststructuralist commentary on ‘sign’, ‘signifier’ and ‘symbol’.

(Eventually, Francis has to drag him away, while he's still hollerin“you got nuthin on Rowan Atkinson, ya hear me? NUTHIN.” “Oh Angleterre, there's no doubt you would have won. If not eventually because you would be arguing with an enfeebled old man” )

Francis, surprisingly, decides to return the visit — grace the poor sodden mess that is British Isles with his lovely presence — because what else would the poor English folk live for? Arthur meets him at Waterloo station, and greets him with a smack of a rolled up copy of The Sunday Times .

Together, they stroll through Trafalgar Square. Point at the columns, the arches and the statued impressions of people they used to know so well…...

Francis makes a disappointed crooning-noise in his throat, when he sees that there are no more vendors selling pigeon feed to eager tourists. “Really”, he sighs dramatically, “Somehow I find myself missing your crazen devil-hordes of pigeons. Your people and tourists eagerly offering up their foodstuffs to the winged harbingers of poor sanitation — and the inevitable ‘shitzkrieg’ they would unleash on your dear Nelson’s monument. The ultimate essentialization of the Anglo-Saxon spirit!”

Arthur scowls, but kind of agrees. Then, infected with French cooties (i.e.civil disobedience), he screeches at this security guard that’s forbids these parents from putting their little kids between the paws of the large iconic lion statues. Francis, backs him up with a shout of “Viva la Revolution.” Then the security team arrives. The Anglo-Franco duo chuck them into the fountain. And make what both have always preferred to diplomatically word as a tactical retreat .

On another day, Arthur meets Francis along his coastline at Dover. As Francis skips off the ferry boat to join him near the docks, Arthur tries to memorise every detail of the experience: golden sunlight glimmering off Francis’ hair, the salty scent of the ocean breeze mingling with those silky locks, and the way fresh air fills up their lungs, adding colour to their faces.

And then suddenly, Francis’ arm is wrapped and pressed tightly against his, his face smiling startlingly close to Arthur’s. It takes Arthur everything to try regain enough presence of his mind, to pull Francis along to this spot he’d spread a picnic mat across, near a lighthouse at the White Cliffs of Dover. From a large knapsack,  he pulls out what he proudly thinks are ten particularly handsome kites. “Handmade — I designed them myself,” he tells Francis, with a hint of pride.

“Kite-flying? Surely there’s something more stylish and sophisticated we can do today, rather than this childish sport.” Francis sniffs, his designer coat and scarf now very evident.

“...Trust me, by the end of today you’ll be begging to take those words back, you frog...”

Despite this early vote against his plans, Arthur stubbornly hands a kite over to Francis.

As soon as Francis takes the kite, Arthur notes smugly, that the promising seeds of repentance are shimmering in his cerulean eyes. Francis lets out a hum of delight, as said kite immediately comes alive between his fingers — shivering and crackling at the lightest touch of the breeze. Of course, as one would expect of his nature, Francis quickly lets go of the kite, so it soars eagerly out of his hands, carried by the wind to a place amongst the sun’s rays.

After that, it’s a scramble — to get more and more kites in the air: ones that puff up like linen-clouds...ones that swirl about in a whirlpool of colours...ones that trail excessively long iridescent tails across the horizon...

Then, they’re laughing and trying to do kite tricks: loop-the-loops, cartwheels and downward swoops. There’s a little good natured competition, where they snidely give each other tips, and try to one up each other's kite tricks with something more extravagant each time.

After a while, Francis takes a kite down, and starts to tie something to it with nimble fingers. Arthur braces himself, and watches cautiously, because he suspects that Francis is about to do something mean — like tie a key to the kitestring, so when he lets the kite fly back into the air, he can maneuver it, such that the jagged edge of the key cuts off the string of one of Arthur’s kites, causing it to be lost to the sky’s void forever...  

But when Arthur looks closer, he realises that contrary to his fears, Francis is not tying anything sharp to the kite to weaponise it. Instead, he’s fiddling with a dainty fairy-like trinket, that Arthur guesses he’d cleverly fashioned out his blue hair ribbon, and a few tiny seashells he’d picked up earlier — from the beaches of Calais before getting on the ferry. “For you, mon petit Angleterre,” Francis calls out, giving Arthur a cheeky wink, before releasing the kite. It shoots up into the air, and the fairy strung along to it flies higher and higher — with beautifully, fluttering blue-ribboned wings…...

Instantly, Arthur is hit by another vision from another time: when a young, and irritated Britannia spent hours and hours running across fields,  chasing after yet another one of those pesky silk ribbons that Gaul liked to tie in his hair, which the blasted wind always managed to work free and carry away like a prize...

Of the summer breezes that would sweep over the tall grasses in the fields of Normandy where the two of them had first met, carrying the scent of earth, and grass and flowers.

Of the zephyrs, that billowed the pretty, voluminous tunic of a rosy-cheeked youth, and the dusty green cloak of an irritated boy that just wanted it to stop blowing leaf-bits into his eyebrows.

Of the wind, that tousled silky golden locks of hair until they melted into the air like spun-sunlight…...that cranked the windmills of two strange lands in the Middle Ages until their personifications started quarreling over whose windmill design was superior…...that puffed up the sails of English and French boats that took off on long journeys in search of the New World….or directed this ridiculous contraption fuelled by hot air that Arthur insisted was ludicrous but Francis maintained was romantic because it would carry a rooster, a duck, and a sheep for the first time in flight over the heads of the French court in Versailles….  

And then, memory swings back again to the earliest days, when the colours of the world were too vivid and bright to actually be real. When a grumpy little boy would angrily insist that his self-proclaimed ‘grand frère’ hoist him up onto his ‘strong’ shoulders, so he could look at very top of the tallest shrubs, where the fairies would lovingly put their little babies in cradles, so the wind could gently rock them to sleep…...

Arthur shoots an equally formidable grin back at Francis. Because today, there is the two of them, running along the White Cliffs of Dover, with kites soaring in the air, like wishes trying to fill up the sky……

In the evening, just before he leaves to take a ferry back to Calais, Francis nearly makes Arthur’s eyes pop out, and his heart burst in his chest, when he admits that he actually did enjoy what they had for lunch: cod, cooked crisp in lard and batter, drizzled over in balsamic vinegar, and lightly dusted in sea salt. British, but snackable.

(Touch wood...Snap a wishbone...Find a four leaf clover...Hang horse shoes all around...will this luck last?)

Although, as Arthur quickly learns, some things certainly have changed, compared to the past.

The first sign is a cordial invitation that Arthur receives — to what Francis cheekily calls a workdate but what Ludwig calls an emergency EU prep session.

He arrives in Berlin at six in the morning, German time, to meet Francis and Ludwig at the station.

At first it is puzzling, and painfully awkward. Arthur finds himself uneasily trying to skirt around the powerhouse that is Francis’ and Ludwig’s dynamic collaboration. After finishing a modest pile of relatively trivial paperwork, and eying how the duo’s working styles complement each other so perfectly , Arthur is frustrated, and wants nothing more than to leave. But Francis pins him down to his seat, with this open, honest, anxious look that he probably doesn’t know he’s shooting Arthur — every now and then when he looks up from his work to glance at the stuffy Englishman...as though he were worried that Arthur might disappear...

And then, in a swift moment, with an intangible build-up, all the pieces fall together. Arthur starts sniggering at the sight of Ludwig and Francis scrambling about like headless chickens: Ludwig wildly gesticulating at Francis from across the room, and Francis indignantly shushing him whilst charismatically cooing at whatever vital personage is on the telephone.

It’s all too easy to join forces with Ludwig, to bully technophobic Francis into accepting that "there's an app for this!" (“The trick, you see, is to threaten to steal his carry-on chapstick and moisturiser.” “...NON, LUDWIG!!! DON’T LISTEN TO HIS SAVAGERY!!!” “Or you keep speaking with a terrible French accent until he agrees to use the apps—” “— ROSBIF DON’T YOU DARE —” “—For instance ‘zees eez le baguette ohonhonhon’—” “— Merde — ”)

The three of them fall in step with each other, when they escape from Ludwig’s office building, into the crisp wintery air of noontime Berlin, humming with the catchy tunes of streetside buskers. Francis chatters on and on about all the pretty things he notices about Berlin, Ludwig nods his head intently, and Arthur throws in his more utilitarian observations into the mix.

As they pass under the broad-brimmed shade of a tree, Arthur fancies that time slows down a little — just enough for him to observe how dappled sunlight falls on Francis and Ludwig, how jovially the former links his arm with the latter, and how he's looking at the dusting of little snowflakes on Ludwig’s nose. He feels something like the sensation of a key warming in his hand...the need to let out something from a certain door

“The two of you will be good for each other. I wish the both of you all the happiness in the world,” Arthur finds himself saying, quite sincerely, despite how each word constricts his chest agonisingly.

Francis and Ludwig are startled — clearly the ongoing conversation was nowhere near this territory. Almost too quickly, Francis responds: “Non, non, non, Arthur — the two of us are just friends —” he laughs — “with some benefits I’ll admit — but nothing more!”

“Riiight,” Arthur responds skeptically, not entirely convinced. Francis is not done speaking though, and Arthur reads depth in his eyes when he continues, “I however, along with Ludwig, wish you and Alfred all the luck in love.” There is even the slightest tremble to Francis’ lilting voice as he says this.

It’s Arthur’s turn to be utterly baffled.

“Please don’t say that in front of Ivan — he will definitely assassinate me in my sleep, even I was the one that gave him tips on how to proposition Alfred in the first place...”

“Besides,” Arthur adds haughtily, “I will have you know that I wrote a fifty page theory on personality trait compatibility, based on our American and Russian — complete with diagrams, flowcharts, and excel sheets. Cambridge is publishing it, by the way.”

Ludwig perks up, “You mentioned diagrams, flowcharts, and excel sheets.”

Arthur’s countenance twists into a deranged grin, and he whips something out of his suitcase.

Francis and Ludwig quickly learn why Hungary, Japan, and Korea rejected Arthur’s application to the Yaoi fanclub, citing ‘intensity’ as their primary reason.

The sensation of a key warming in his hand intensifies. In fact, it spreads out, permeating his entire being — as though the universe were wrapping him up in a swaddling cloth, and babying his every whim. And he sees in his mind a wondrous vision: a building full of doors, so many possibilities, so many futures he could walk into if only he were willing to use that key.

Now, that he’s certain that Francis is single and available on the market again — he can freely indulge in — and yes he can outright call it that now — his massive crush on the Frenchman. (he’d read far too much Austen, and Bridget Jones to not be able to recognise infatuation, especially if it had been going on for centuries.)

So he gives himself full licence to read too much into Francis’ every word an action:

Go giddy with glee when Francis casually comments that Earl Grey cream might make good choux filling.

Soak up and savour every lilt and syllable of Francis’ voice, over the telephone or over his shoulder, when they’re physically apart or together.

Or wake up with his insides completely messed up, when someone breaks into his apartment at 3am, wielding a bag of groceries, and an umbrella for fencing, because “ surely the second Great Fire of London will happen if incorrigible Angleterre tries cooking his own breakfast ”)

(All along his apartment, Arthur hangs: rabbit foots and sprigs of lilies of the valley. He cheers far too much when a ladybug lands on his balcony rail. If Francis notices this latest eccentricity in his behaviour, he does not comment.

Lady fortune has smiled upon him, and Arthur swears that this time, he’ll take the chance. )

Unfortunately, for all the best laid plans of mice and men, Arthur’s completely fucks up those he made for Valentine's Day.

The World meeting that precedes each year’s Valentine’s Day celebrations starts at one.

It is four , when Arthur’s motorbike screeches to a halt, at the base of the neo-classical building that the meeting is being held in.

Self-consciously, Arthur checks himself in his motorbike’s side mirrors. And screams internally. Oh God, his hair is such a tangle, not even birds will nest there, not even if the rest of the world were spikes.

And he probably reeks. He’d been sweat-soaked in sweltering heat, and then drenched sopping wet by torrential rains, before arriving. Only his waterproofed trench coat lends to his appearance some semblance of order.

“Dammit,” — he spots the nations slowly filing out of the building — the meeting obviously over. Cursing his own poor timing, Arthur dashes up the building’s stone steps, trying to make up for lost timing. His eyes dart to and fro, searching for a specific suave and smiling countenance, amidst the swirling sea of nation’s faces. But this quest is not too hard, for like how Ariadne’s thread guided Theseus out of the Labyrinth of the Minataur, there are clues to lead Arthur to the one he is seeking out.

You see, every Valentine's Day, just after this particular meeting ends, the self-proclaimed country of love will present each and every national personification with a single rose. Hence, the ocean of roses that are bobbing about in the air, held aloft by nations, as they make their way down the balustrade stairs. All Arthur has to do is barrel through these nations upstream, to the epicentre of where the roses are radiating from…

Arthur’s heart is pounding furiously in his chest, and into his ears. Trying to distract from the stress, Arthur keeps track of and counts the number of roses, because it’s like counting sheep right? Instead the stars dancing about his vision burn brighter — when a sonorous voice tangles with his thoughts, and whispers into his ear a lesson about roses, their numbers, and what they mean when they are gathered together in a bouquet...

One rose (love at first sight)

Two roses (your love is returned)

Arthur spots Tino and Berwald. Tino is tickling Berwald on the nose with the rose, as Berwald sneezes...Arthur can’t help but wonder if this is what they could be, as he leaves the marble steps of the building behind, and enters the building’s ornate entrance…...

Ten roses (you are perfection)

Twenty roses (believe in our love)

Thirty six roses (I cherish our moments, keep them in my heart...)

Abruptly, a hand reaches out from the crowd, and slams him against a pillar.

It's Antonio — brandishing his rose like a customised weapon of torture, his green eyes gleaming like the shattered end of a beer bottle. “You’re late, mi amigo. Bad move. You’ll want to watch out, if you keep making such stupid blunders.”

Behind him, is the ridiculous Prussian — Gilbert — crudely sliding the stem of his rose across his throat, and making gurgling and slitting noises for sound effect.

Arthur scowls, and pushes them off. Romano and Matthew are more much more helpful to his cause. The former angrily hauls two-thirds of the Bad Touch Trio away, screaming into their ears about micromanaging other people’s lives. Matthew the sweetheart, uses his rose, to point down one of the branching hallways.

Arthur firmly nods his head, and continues on his journey.  

Forty-four roses (till death do us part)

Fifty roses (unconditional love)

Seventy-seven roses (it was fate that we’ve met)

Arthur just groans, when Ludwig brushes past his shoulder so hard, that he’s nearly knocked off his feet. He almost doesn’t bother to register the threat growled into his ear,  “Just remember, I can snap you like a twig.”

How many shovel talks is he going to have to sit through? How painfully obvious were his plans for today? And does he appear so unreliable that nearly everyone needs to warn him off……

(Of course he does. To them all it seems like he’s just horrendously late, and for one of the few occasions this year that actually matters — Valentines Day. And yet here he still is, still wandering through these hallways, with the gall to hope that Francis is such a loser that he’s still stuck sitting around waiting for him, rather than the freaking pinnacle of gorgeousness and charm that has places to go, who deserves to be waited on hand and foot, rather than treated like this shitshow Arthur’s……)

His salvation arrives in the unexpected form of Feliciano. To Arthur’s infinite shock he silences Ludwig by pulling him into a deep kiss, his softness and reverence in touch melting into the rigid ardence of Ludwig’s figure. When they part for air, Feliciano gives Arthur a cheeky wink, that says “Buona fortuna”, and also “there’s still some time to mend things”. And then he takes off, whisking off a blushing Ludwig who’s still stuttering as he hangs off the Italian’s arm.

Well...that’s probably counts as a good sign….

99 roses.....

Finally, passing a corridor, Arthur drinks in a sight that brings him relief. France, still sitting by a window.

Even standing by the doorframe, Arthur catches a whiff of Francis’ perfume — lilies and lavender — that sings of softness and elegance. The sophisticated cut of Francis’ suit: a tight-fitting jet-black vest and a fuchsia undershirt wrapping especially tightly about his waist bring out the slightness and strength of his figure.

And of course, there is Francis’ hair, swept down his right shoulder in glorious cascading curls, it's spun-sunlight ethereality brought out by the solid shine of its rose-gold clasp by the crook of his neck. Their striking beauty is only paralleled by the intense vividness of Francis’ azure eyes, set off beautifully by the sapphire earrings hanging by each ear.

This is a siren’s song, each note hit upon so perfectly, that any sailor would gladly throw themselves to their watery deaths just to drown in that enchanting melody. And any bright-eyed youth after reckless Paris, would still hand the golden apple to Aphrodite over Hera and Athena, in vain hope. Even they knew the tragedy of the Iliad by heart...

(...Arthur wants nothing more than to to brush his chapped lips against the softness of Francis’ neck……

But the thought also makes him feel nauseous…..

Because isn’t that what the rest of the world thought, when they’d passed Francis?

Isn’t he permanently…’on call’ during Valentine's Days?

...For all the lonely nations, that can’t bear to sit alone with their frustrations, their hands, and a box of tissues… Just shoot him a text, and Big Brother France will be there...)

But Arthur pushes these thoughts down.

Instead, he’s preoccupied another more pressing observation: there is a heaviness about Francis in this moment.

His gaze is downcast, fixed on his hands. Slender fingers curl about thin air. Not a single rose rests between them... Not one rose for Francis…...This…...was surprising. Arthur wonders why he’d never noticed before, that hardly anyone ever thought of giving roses to the nation of love, when he gave them out so freely and so abundantly.

And so, the nation of love was now staring at the angry red scratches criss-crossing his palms — Francis never did believe in shorning roses of their thorns — looking oddly pensive.

And as the afternoon light streaming from the window by him fades, eerie things are done to the depths of his face. Shadows pool in the callouses on his palms, and in the shallows under his eyes that Francis always pretends isn’t there….

“You reek, you know. Like someone who got dumped in a ditch full of roses. No wonder they warn — that the fragrance of roses lingers around the the hand that gives them out. Really, frog. You should have listened —”

Francis looks up.

Arthur tries to (casually) slide himself to the seat beside Francis. For a moment, he sees Francis’ expression melt into appreciative relief, before a thought flits across his mind — that crashes indignance and hurt across his face like a rogue wave.

“Well if it isn't the Black Sheep of Europe — I don't suppose he has any reason for why he’s so unfashionably late, on the day of l’amour. ”

Arthur blinks, the glinting edge of the rapier in Francis’ voice cutting deep into him. 

 “I’m sorry...I’m truly sorry...I got…...held up,” Arthur fumbles for words. In a blind panic, he sticks his hand on the inside of his trench coat and sparks some magic there. “Here’s a peace offering though?” he manages to say out nervously,

With trepidation, he pulls out of his coat flaps a steaming cup of tea that he’d just conjured up then and there.

He slides it anxiously, across the table to Francis, watching closely for his reaction.

For a moment, it seems like he’s forgiven.

Francis gives him a funny look — one elegant eyebrow raised, and one corner of his lips quirked slightly downward. His hands catch and cradle the steaming cup, so the porcelain warms the cuts on his palms. The spark starting in Francis’ eye suggests that he is mildly impressed with how the silvery bud that slowly blooms in the cup as it absorbs the heat of the water swirling about it. And after he lifts the cup to his lips to take a first sip, the cerulean depths of his pupils are alight with all the wondrous velocity of thought that an experienced chef greets a flavourful drink.

‘Of course he likes it’, Arthur thinks giddily, ‘I just stole it from Queen Titania, Ruler of all the Fae folk, with a shoddy spell’. One day, he’ll wake up cursed to be a crumpet, his eyebrows mounted above the Fairy Queens throne. But for now, he thinks that it's all worth it…...

Then abruptly, Francis’ expression crumples, as though stricken by a thought so terrible, the tea’s tastes more abhorrent than bile. He sets the cup down with a sigh so heavy, it threatens to crumble all of Arthur’s being.

Silence looms over them, like the blade of a guillotine.

When Francis finally speaks, his voice is soft — but in the way physics states that the light flutter of a butterfly’s wing might sets off a tornado elsewhere. “Thank you Arthur, I appreciate the tea. But it still doesn’t change one very important fact…” Here, Francis pauses briefly...

“Arthur, you were busy preparing something special for someone else during today , which is why you were late — I know.”

Immediately, Arthur starts protesting, but the intense quality of Francis’ gaze crushes all his words.

“No — I have to say this, let me finish Angleterre.”

So Arthur stares at him, like his whole existence boils down to Francis’ every breath, and word, and expression.

“Listen, Arthur — you certainly won’t believe your ears when you hear it.”

There’s a laugh, silvery and lovely in the way beautiful and tragic things are.

“It’s hard for me to say I love you…...but please believe me when I say… that I truly do.”

“Oh,” Arthur thinks, completely dazed.

“Mon coeur, mon beau Angleterre. I have wasted all my poetry and art on whirlwind romances. I have lavished my most passionate kisses and most skillful moves in bed on the most trivial one-night stands. So now…...I have nothing truly special to give you, no matter how much I want to...So it is no wonder…” — here Francis chokes a little — “it no wonder you don't return my feelings. You are wise, you keep your loveliest turns of phrase, and your most ardent declarations of love to yourself — until that special person that manages to capture your heart comes along. I am clearly not that person…”

“I know — I can see it from how you smile, amused, whenever you see me flirt with others — like you’re watching the silly antics of some wool-brained eccentric. When it already drives me crazy just seeing you chatter with Alfred, even though I know now that you’re only brothers.”

“We shouldn’t talk to each other for a while after this, just give me enough time to get over — ”

Sharply, Francis stops. Arthur stares at him blankly in return. Their eyes shift slowly to their hands. Arthur’s hands have caught Francis’ midair, just a heartbeat before they could fly to Francis’ silken locks, to tug at them like he does when he’s distressed.

Arthur gently sets Francis’ hands on his lap, his emerald eyes never wavering from cerulean. Then he tries to find words, not even the best ones, just anything to fill the silence between them before the moment slips away. Eventually he settles on this as an opening line: “Francis, you’re completely wrong.” Because isn't that what he’d always loved to tell him, since long ago?

“You...make too much of my hesitance to express affection. I am just as afraid as you are, of baring my heart, and making myself vulnerable. In fact it’s also lack of practice, that makes me unwilling to try put my...fondness for you into words.”

“And your flirting...you’re kind of right — I’m always entranced when I watch you do it — the way with a few words and fashion tips, you bring out the charm in anyone. Until the world stops spinning, and we all realise that oh god, the person you were hitting on, they were beautiful all along. I’ve seen you make the days of so many strangers like that. You’re also partly wrong, however, because it strains all of my acting skills to stop my jealousy from showing…especially whenever you find the need to preface anything nice you do for me with “Big Brother France”......”

“But back to my reluctance to voice my deepest the feelings of my heart. You know I don’t have practice, so it’s hard for me to say I love you — even though by God, I do! But fortunately, for clumsy idiots for me there are…”

Arthur sparks some more magic under the table, hoping desperately with all his heart that this magic spells works.

It does. After a dazzling flash of light, Francis gasps — because bouquets of roses start falling all around them in a neat circle. Ten bouquets in total. Ten roses in them each. Arthur catches one, and holds it out to Francis.  

“Fortunately for idiots like me, who are clumsy with words...there are roses.”

Arthur is breathless, so the words come out raspily, not at all suave. And with the loud ringing in his ears from how bloody petrified he is, he can’t quite hear whatever words Francis is whispering.

The roses in the bouquet — they come in a disorganised riot of colours, and varieties, shapes and sizes. There’s only one common thing that these roses share, that unifies them into a bouquet…...

“They’re nothing much,” Arthur chokes out with a dry mouth. “Florists find them all the time, in their supplies of roses that are delivered to them. But they throw them away, because these roses are deformed, and ugly.”

Which is, again, a half-truth.

Because what Arthur wants to ask Francis is this: Doesn’t he also think, that in a most peculiar way, these ‘defective’ roses are beautiful?

That although these blossoms are no doubt nature’s ‘mistakes’, don’t they look so tender? Coming from all over the world, and despite being such garden varieties, haven’t they all still found something special? Appearing like petaled-lovers that had pressed against each other so ardently, that the faeries granted their wish and allowed them to join together as one.

Aren’t these roses, freaks of nature, just as freakish as like the two of them -- personifications of their nations but also just human? And can Arthur and Francis be like these roses...drawing close together…...?

But all these meanings are scattered everywhere in his mind — he can't gather them up together and present them nicely to Francis like a gift. Not like how he could call in favours from all the faerie folk in the world, to gather all these peculiar roses together into a bouquet for Francis. Or madly teleport about florist shops in England using his nation-shifting abilities, to scrounge up these roses, until he was almost too late for the meeting today. It’s just him and his emotional stuntedness now. And argh, he knows he’s doing that sullen, brooding thing right now, where he just sulks at Francis like a child. All while expecting the Frenchman to know exactly what he wants to say, even if Arthur himself can’t make sense of the awful mishmash of his own feelings that slosh about him.

Francis pulls through. His right hand lightly carcasses one of Arthur's cheeks, and thumbs the rims of his ear so fondly, it sends shivers ricocheting down Arthur’s spine.

Slowly, Francis guides Arthur closer, while himself leaning slightly forward. Until their lips meet. Arthur can’t help but let out a contented sigh when that happens. Francis’ lips are softer than he could ever have imagined, and there’s the sweet taste of whatever vanilla chapstick he’s using. Embarrassingly enough, when Francis’ tongue flicks out to lick his lips and he can't help but laugh and draw away slightly. To look into cerulean eyes, glistening slightly with tears, because if Francis is feeling anything close to what he’s feeling, then of course he’s crying, his heart is close to bursting with happiness.  

They both laugh.

“Well, mon amour, I’m glad we haven’t missed out on any of the typical drama that happens during a love confession scene in literature — !” Arthur and he snigger.

“But,” Francis swiftly adds, “Perhaps it is now time for us to move to more...intimate forms to express our mutual admiration .” His hands now suggestively tug at the collar of Arthur’s trenchcoat, as his being takes on a despicably debonair mien.

Arthur rolls his eyes, “You’re incorrigible, you know that? Are you sure you don’t want me to freshen up first? I think I need a shower.”

“Trust me, with your hair ruffled like that, and your crisp scent of guy and petrichor -- you’re the delectable embodiment of boyishness begging to be defiled.” — and that voice immediately sends all of Arthur’s blood running up his face, but also down south.

So Arthur smirks, and leans back, and lets Francis take him just like that.

THE END! 

Hope you enjoyed it!

#day 5: “It’s really hard to say ‘I love you’.”/Peach #frukweek2017 #fanfiction #late submission

[aion-rsa]

Fear the Walking Dead Season 6 Episode 16 Review: The Beginning

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This Fear the Walking Dead review contains spoilers.

Fear the Walking Dead Season 6 Episode 16

So, you’ve spent the last several years surviving a violent hellscape of unliving death—lucky you! Only now, you suddenly find yourself staring down certain death in the form of a nuclear warhead. Knowing your destruction is imminent, how would you choose to live out your last moments? 

That’s the basic premise of Fear the Walking Dead’s Season 6 finale, “The Beginning.” And I must admit, I went into this episode with high hopes—only to have those hopes dashed within minutes. This is through no fault of a talented cast that acts its talented heart out (as they usually do week after week). From Lennie James to Brigitte Kali Canales and everyone in between, they make the most out of what they’re given to work with. 

It’s just that showrunners Andrew Chambliss and Ian Goldberg, who also penned the episode, want to have their cake and eat it, too. In other words, they want to enjoy the cachet of promising nuclear annihilation without the fallout (so to speak) of such a cataclysmic event. Yes, people do die, but mostly Teddy’s people, including Teddy himself. And Dakota. But in the end, do I really care? No. And I feel like I should. But I just don’t.

As I said, I was optimistic for “The Beginning,” especially since Fear rallied in a big way after its midseason finale. Indeed, the second half of season 6 gave us genuinely great episodes like “The Door,” “The Holding,” and “Mother.” That’s a good run! And while last week’s “USS Pennsylvania” fumbled a bit, this episode benefitted from a premise new to the Walking Dead universe: nuclear Armageddon. Unfortunately, Fear bites off more than it can chew, and in the end, the end winds up feeling a bit small and a little too local.

Surely if “The Beginning” were a big-screen blockbuster (with the visual FX budget to match), we would have been treated to true ground-zero devastation. And by that, I mean entire cities leveled and their inhabitants incinerated. To be clear, I don’t need to see these things occur to understand they’ve happened. Still, observing the warheads’ impact at a safe remove effectively negates the true scope of Teddy’s plan. Instead, the hot zone seems relegated to a corner of Texas and to a handful of scattered survivors. I imagine numerous walkers were taken out by the blasts, but we don’t see that, either.

Of course, the real focus is on the unfolding drama as Morgan and company scramble to do something meaningful before the bombs fall. Everyone, that is, except for Alicia and Al, who are benched this episode. (At least we get to hear Al’s voice briefly over the CRM chopper’s radio.) These last moments play out as a series of vignettes, each with its own title card. It’s an interesting format and it works well for the most part. But these separate stories are also a bit jarring, given this season’s emphasis on community—specifically Morgan’s fledgling settlement. So much time was devoted to rounding up the troops, only to scatter them to the four winds by season’s end? Live together, die apart, I suppose. At least everyone survives to fight another day. 

Everyone, that is, except for Rachel.

Poor Rachel. Her biggest crime isn’t that she doesn’t know how to change a flat tire. No, what puts a target on her back is the fact that Grace lost her baby and needed a surrogate child to take Athena’s place. Because of this, Rachel’s sacrifice, while noble, winds up feeling more like an empty gesture. Had she hunkered down inside her truck, or beneath it as Morgan and Grace do, she might have survived the blast. Her loss is their gain, I guess? Yikes. 

In the end, at the end, it’s Dwight and Sherry, and June and John Dorie, Sr. who endeavor to make their last moments on Earth truly mean something. What’s interesting about this is they all seem to be rewarded for their selflessness by finding shelter from the blasts. I assume the takeaway from this is that no good deed goes unpunished? Sure, I can roll with that, especially considering the only people who don’t survive the finale are the unsavory types Teddy was so keen to eliminate in the first place. (And most of them, like the traitorous Rollie, die before the bombs even fall!)

Which brings us to Teddy and Dakota. As much as I enjoyed John Glover and Zoe Colletti this season, I don’t mourn their demise. Yes, they brought charisma and unpredictability to the season, but their final moments together take on a very cringey vibe. It’s one thing for these two sociopaths to compare notes on the murdering of innocents. But while Fear might have us believe Teddy needs Dakota to help launch more nukes, I think he has other ideas. Yes, his plan requires two people—to go forth and multiply, to repopulate the world. Maybe I’m alone in thinking that Teddy has romantic ambitions, but maybe not. I mean, why else is he suddenly so affectionate with her? Why else would he say he wishes they’d met sooner? Seriously, Fear, no thank you.

A final note about Dakota. Are we to believe that nothing short of a nuclear warhead could end this child’s reign of terror? And did her molten death remind anyone else of Sarah Connor’s nightmare vision from Terminator 2: Judgment Day? Watch the clip and judge for yourself.

Which finally brings us to Strand, a man without a single humble bone in his body. Empowered by his unexpected survival, he welcomes the fresh start afforded to him by Teddy. It takes one con man to know another, after all. For all intents and purposes, Strand is Teddy 2.0—he saw the world end once before, only to survive in the chaos that followed. It looks like Strand is poised to build himself up yet again, even if it means tearing others down in the process. Which, okay, fine. I get it. Strand is the ultimate survivor. Still, how many times can one person escape certain death? I don’t really care what the answer is (because Strand, obviously). Letting Strand be Strand is becoming quite the Fear cliche. And it’s not fun anymore, at least not for me.

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So there you have it, another season in the books for Fear the Walking Dead. While it doesn’t quite deliver on its lofty ambitions, I do give the show credit for detonating the warheads. I only wish there wasn’t so much plot armor to go around. And credit is certainly due to Fear’s cast and crew, who endeavored to complete this season despite a global pandemic. For the chance to watch our favorite show, for this—all fans should indeed be grateful.

The post Fear the Walking Dead Season 6 Episode 16 Review: The Beginning appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[sisainfosec-blog]

Cyber Security Risks In Social Media Banking

Introduction

Social Media is the most used platform on day-to-day basis by millions of people around the world.

Social media banking is the usage of social platforms such as Facebook, twitter, WhatsApp for Marketing, communication, for collecting feedback and reactions and to perform Banking Operations such as Transactions, Account summary and status enquiry, etc. We have observed using social media as a platform in 2 ways.

1. Non-Banking Operations – Marketing, Branding, Feedback, Business Analysis.

2. Banking Operations – Transactions, Communications and alerts, Account summary, status of the account or cards, reporting fraud/stolen card details etc.

Use cases of Social Media Banking

1. Global Banks Using Twitter for Banking:

Money can be sent using twitter accounts connected to Bank accounts, or it would have other options of receiving and sharing passcode and OTP with the receiver for authorizing a transaction.

2. WhatsApp Banking service:

Absa Banking app (Africa) has introduced WhatsApp Banking to help customer receive updates or avail services via the WhatsApp messaging platform. On typing Help as a message, you can find out the full list of services available on WhatsApp. It is easy to use—simply type a keyword like or type the number against the service like “1” and follow the steps on screen.

3. CaixaBank Facebook Banking Application:

CaixaBank has launched a Facebook application that allows users to view their bank accounts and perform transactions via the social network. This is the first platform of its kind from a European bank, allowing customers to check account balances, make micro-donations and contract personalized card services. The new CaixaBank service for Facebook will also provide quick access to the bank’s primary online channel, Linea Abierta. Once activated, users can open the application via their personal profile or the bank’s Facebook page. Users will have to enter their Linea Abierta username and password each time the service is opened, as the service is located in a fully secure and private environment that can only be opened by each customer. At no time will Facebook have access to any personal or bank information.

Example: Australian Common Wealth bank using Facebook and other Banks using Messenger.

Organizational Risks Associated with Social Media Banking:

The Federal Financial Institutions Examination Council (FFIEC) specifically for these social media banking issues created the “Social Media: Consumer Compliance Risk Management Guidance”

Risk Areas for Social Media banking are as follows.

1. Compliance and Legal Risks

2. Reputation Risk

3. Operational Risk

Control: Financial institutions should consider the use of social media monitoring tools and techniques to identify heightened risk, and respond appropriately. Financial institutions should have appropriate policies in place to monitor and address in a timely manner the fraudulent use of the financial institution’s brand, such as through phishing or spoofing attacks.

Instances of Social Media Attacks and Breaches:

Phishing Direct Message Sent to Customers from Compromised Brand Account Timeline: September 2011 Tactic: Account Takeover, Targeted Phishing & Malware Summary: In September of 2011, an Australian bank suffered the worst-case scenario for an account takeover, in which attackers didn’t immediately vandalize the account or post inflammatory messages, but instead sent direct messages to followers asking them to disclose sensitive financial institutions. While most account hacks are merely embarrassing and costly from a brand and public relations perspective, they can also be used for large scale cyberattack against a brand’s most loyal and engaged followers.

Vevo Hacked Via Targeted LinkedIn Phishing Attack, 3.12TB Exfiltrated Timeline: September 2017 Tactic: Targeted Phishing & Malware Summary: Streaming service Vevo suffered a breach when one of its employees was phished via LinkedIn. Hackers were able to obtain and publicly release 3.12TB worth of the company’s sensitive internal data. The professional social network allows attackers to rapidly identify their target at a specific organization and send them a personalized message, all under the auspices of professional networking or recruitment.

Fake Social Media Persona Sends Malware to Employees Via Social Media Timeline: July 2017 Tactic: Targeted Phishing/Malware, Fraudulent Accounts Summary: Attackers created an incredibly compelling fake persona, a London-based photographer named Mia Ash, and connected with corporate employees. The attacker disseminated a Remote Access Trojan (RAT), called PupyRAT, via these social media honeypot accounts to hijack the controls of victims’ devices. The persona had accounts across several popular social networks.

10k US Government Employees Spearphished with Malware-Laced Posts Timeline: Early 2017 Tactic: Targeted Phishing/Malware, Fraudulent Accounts Summary: In early 2017, Russian operatives sent over 10,000 custom phishing messages via social media, each link laced with malware enabling the attacker to access and control the victim’s device. This attack represents a major advancement in cyber capabilities and an escalation in Russia’s cyberwar against the US. This is the most well-organized, coordinated attack at the nation-state level we’ve ever seen.

3rd Party App Leads to Hundreds of High-Profile Account Compromises Timeline: March 2017 Tactic: Account Takeover Summary: A vulnerability in a 3rd-party app called Twitter Counter allowed Turkish-language attackers to hijack controls of hundreds of high-profile accounts. They posted aggressive messages against the Netherlands after a contentious week of deteriorating relations between the Netherlands and Turkey and pivotal elections in both countries. The posts used swastikas and called the Dutch “nazis.” The breached accounts included a number of global brands and well-followed, verified accounts, including Forbes, the official Bitcoin Blockchain account, Starbucks, the European Parliament, UNICEF, Nike and Amnesty International.

Financial Crime Runs Rampant on Social Networks Timeline: August 2016 Tactic: Fraud & Scams Summary: ZeroFOX researchers revealed the vast underground world of financial crime on social media, in which scammers prey on the followers of verified banks with fraudulent financial services offerings, including card cracking and money flipping. The scale of the problem is massive, with nearly a quarter-million posts for a single type of scam on a single social network. The problem was found on every major social media channel and results in hundreds of millions of dollars in losses annually.

Conslusion:

Imagine if a cybercriminal blasted your 1000+ followers with a fake coupon (“2018/9 season 50% cashback for the next 30 minutes! #discount #Cashback #zerointerest #Zerodownpayment #football”) appended with the latest and greatest malware. Imagine the cataclysmic fallout of a cybercrime at the scale and speed of social media.

Social media banking is exposed to modern threat vector risks that can be reduced by implementing risk monitoring and remediation technology, security controls with compliance.

The most Impactful attacks observed are third party apps compromised, targeted Phishing, malware, fraudulent accounts and the least impactful of social attacks, account takeovers, are often relatively harmless vandalism and trolling.

10 Best ways to reduce Risks Associated with Social Media Banking

1. Monitor social media and digital channels for business and security risks. Continuously watch for phishing links, fraudulent accounts, scams and more. A digital risk monitoring solution can be used for this purpose.

2. Ensure Multi-factor authentication is enabled.

3. Security professionals should train employees on what information should or should not be posted or visible to the public.

4. Work with marketing to gain access to social accounts and keep a close eye on social media initiatives and campaigns

5. Continuously monitor corporate social media accounts for cyber threats

6. Blacklist/block malicious URLs and IPs found on social media.

7. Establish workflow for dealing with social media cybercrime targeting the organization.

8. Takedown malicious posts and profiles.

9. Test employees on susceptibility to social media cyberattacks.

10. Train employees on safe usage, best practices, and what to do in the event of an attack

Resources followed for the article:

https://www.finextra.com/blogposting/13785/banking-on-social-media-platforms

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/320142155_Social_media_banking_models_A_case_study_of_a_practical_implementation_in_banking_sector

https://thefinancialbrand.com/35584/ffiec-social-media-regulations-guidelines-banking/all/

https://www.zerofox.com/blog/social-media-security-best-practices/

https://blog.hootsuite.com/social-media-security-for-business/

FFIEC document for Risk Identified and management of risk using social media for Banking.

Source: https://www.sisainfosec.com/blogs/cyber-security-risks-social-media-banking/

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