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#this story could've been better

la-hannya · 11 months

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Been keeping away from the drama cause I'm mostly tired, want to mostly focus on the original series, and I can't wait for this fanfic to completely die truly from the death drag is doing since it's long overdue; but after reading this— it needed to be addressed. Saw some copium going on about it already.

You can say stuff like "he is a yōkai", "he was always like that", "he is too good to lower himself to the standards and morals of humans", "retcons can happen" "you see? Rumiko is supervising now", "You weren't paying attention to the story" "the translation should say this instead of this" etc etc. Sure. of course, Jan. All that shit is bs as shown in the source material a thousand times already. Ok, moving on.

but AGAIN this Sesshomaru is just not the same one. Not the same to the original anime and not the same og manga either. This is like a completely different character than what we've been shown before. Nope. Ken Narita said it best and knew it.

This one is a completely regressed version and you can die on the hill after punching me in the face "that it's the same one, it's canon" but the original one wouldn't let crap like this slide. Oh yes, I know he's not a fucking prince charming; for sure! WE ALL KNOW. But Sesshomaru had already grown enough that he gave a fuk at least about those around him. Even if he's a person who barely expresses himself. So, much so, that no matter how you view the relationship of him and Rin— you know he was still coming to see and make sure he was okay even when she was in a village that might as well be safe 💯% thanks to his brother along his wife + inugang and others. He took care of Kohaku after Kikyo died! He regretted not leaving Rin in a village earlier when she lost her life again. Here, he's whole family are accessories. You got even Shippo weirdly being his servant all of a sudden. You can measure the regression with a ruler 📐

The vibes Rumiko Takahashi is giving me at this point are: A) she doesn't give a fuk because the og story is FINISHED as she has talked before (tbh this woman didn't give a fuck starting the last half of the series cause you can look up her interviews on Rumic World/Furinkan, and she was half ass winging it by the end cause that's how much she stopped vibin with her "Magnum Opus". Thanks Sunrise) and since she doesn't give a fuk, she doesn't want to even bother looking at her own source material. This is why I've gone mostly "Death of the author" with her at this point.

B) The other thing could be as well that she's fuking this thing on purpose. "But, Gene she's supervi—" no shut up. And stop snorting the copium. You'd think if this was canon she'd be truly wanting to sell the story and this ship, but it's like she wants to make sure he along everything else is the worst possible every chapter. If she truly is supervising, cause honestly she still feels like she quickly looks over sht, goes "whatever, I'm done with this" and goes back to doing Inuyasha revamp *cough* I mean MAO. Though, it's quite understandable why she was so reluctant to allow this in the first place.

And let me tell you, the "Character becomes terrible parental unit when the next generation is born, so their past growth is thrown out the window" trope. It's OVERUSED GARBAGE that fuks up good stories 🗑️🚮 You got characters that are really similar to Sessh that are doing better in other animes for Pete's sake. LIKE "THE VILLAIN" OF YASHAHIME: KIRINMARU 🦄🤡

It's pitiful really. I dunno how anyone can still enjoy this because "uWu it gives me crumbs". Nah, have some standards. Other people can do better stories. Other people can write this better while still respecting the original story. And I'm not saying you can't enjoy some things from it, because you can (like Moroha, Kirin, the Mirsan kids, whatever). But this could've been better done. Peace.

#anti yashahime #anti sessrin #this story could've been better

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wheretheresawyll · 5 months

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still boggles my mind that in the year 2024 most players still ignore anora's character just to reduce her to a lying backstabber, when she only goes against you if:

you reveal her identity to ser cautherine and howe's soldiers, defeating the entire purpose of her disguise and also ignoring what she told you literally one minute before about how they can't know she's escaping with you - thereby betraying her first

you ignore her completely in denerim after she asks you to come talk to her, and only show up to the landsmeet

you bring up loghain's fate, and when she tells you that she would rather him be spared if possible, you tell her to her face that her father has to die

#also ppl saying that anora isnt a people person and thats why cailan/alistair are better rulers or necessary on the throne #when the game repeatedly talks about how it was ANORA who was popular and loved #loghain even tells you that she knows how to appeal to peoples emotions #'in another life she could've been a bard'#< thats not someone who doesn't know how to connect with and move people #like! youre a stranger who is aligned with eamon who wants to replace anora with alistair just to preserve a royal bloodline!#no wonder! she is not! the most open and friendly character to you!!#even that being said - she IS personable to you #she tells you personal stories about cailan and her dad #if you ask if she needs anything she is genuinely surprised and thanks you for asking #anora has flaws! you dont have to make shit up!#dragon age #dragon age origins #anora mac tir #queen anora

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gojosbf · 3 months

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with gojo, geto and even kenjaku dead, do you think satosugu's story is completely over? because for me personally, if this is the end of their story, it feels kinda unsatisfactory and inconclusive. i hope we get more content and there are so many questions about their story that still need to be answered. i dont expect gojo's censored last words to geto to be revealed ever but i hope we get at least a somewhat conclusive ending.....

Their story had a conclusive ending, they're not the main characters so no matter how much we crave for more bits of satosugu this is what we have and this is how they ended. I don't necessarily find it unsatisfactory considering both of them served their purposes and we got another top notch satosugu angsty crumb till gojo's last breath (that panel of him saying "my only disappointment is that you weren't there to give a slap on the back" and geto's tears). I don't think we should drag it out or find any other means to insert more stsg when it isn't even their story, sad but true. This is it for us, they happened, it was beautiful and then it ended.

#i am sorry anon i cannot give you fake hope #trying to forcibly focus on their story when it isn't needed by the plot would ruin every nostalgic and nice moment of theirs #some things are better left untouched and hey tragedy isn't so bad #atleast it's way better than a forced happy ending that'll leave a bitter taste in our mouth because though most us stsg shippers love to #cry over them we have made peace with the kind of end they had and it's fun (lwk sadistic too) thinking of what could've been and #wondering about ifs and buts #but let's leave the canon untouched meanwhile #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #ask #jjk spoilers #gojo satoru #geto suguru #satosugu #stsg

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katetcake · 11 months

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I don't really like that Tulin turns out to be a descendant of a Sage and that's why he's able to control wind.

Like in BotW (and AoC), Revali was special because he developed his ability through hard work. He was the strongest/most skilled warrior the Rito had. That was the emphasis of his character. There was no talk of his history (like Zelda), his lineage (like Zelda/Sidon/Riju), or any devine rites (like Link/Zelda) or devine powers (like Urbosa/Daruk/Riju/Yunobo/Mipha).

Revali was just a guy. A guy who was good/strong enough to stand amongst essentially demi-gods in spite of his totally ordinary background.

Same with Teba. He was just a guy who heard the story of Revali and wanted to be strong like him. He looked up to Revali and his achievements so much, he became the hero his people needed.

We could've had that w/ Tulin. Make him have natural skill which he hones into the mastery he shows in the game. Someone who grew up w/ stories of the Great Master Revali. Someone who saw his own father, just a normal guy, rise up to help the chosen of the Goddess defeat the darkness around Vah Medoh. Tulin could have been someone so inspired by his community and family he became great. Someone the Sage could acknowledge and pass on his gift and title to despite not being related.

This also allows for the impulsive/prideful loner to humble teammate storyline to work too.

Idk, it just bothered me a little too much. The Rito of BotW (and AoC) never had any mention of lineage or devine intervention. It made them feel like they could achieve greatness instead of them being destined for it, regardless of who they are.

#legend of zelda #tears of the kingdom #tureli #tulin #loz totk #legend of zelda tears of the kingdom #revali #teba #totk spoilers #i'm having so many thoughts #not to say i hated the story line. but it could've been so much better #also seeing tureli grow up is adorable #his little hair puff is so cute #and look at him being full of himself only to get humbled when link helps him #also him recognizing link on sight!!#oh how i have missed the rito and rito village #loz #loz botw

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stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale · 9 months

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I've had some ANF thoughts today. Y'all know how much I hate the "love triangle" aspect of the story with Javi, Kate, and David, right? If you can even call it a love triangle; it's more of a "David and Kate never felt like a married couple to begin with and now Javi has the chance to bone his sister-in-law as if that's not a weird thing to do at all👍" thing, so... not great.

I'm also just not fond of Kate as a character in general. She's pretty good in ep1, but after that it's a slippery slope as she's relegated to the injured love interest for Javi. There are interesting aspects to her, like how she's resourceful and on top of things, she keeps track of herds and overall is shown to be incredibly smart. But, she also has moments where she has to let herself be emotional and a little panicked because she knows she needs to get it out of her system in order to focus. She gets frustrated with Gabe and says things she shouldn't, and she just.... I dunno, does dumb shit sometimes? And that would be fine if it made sense... but it doesn't.

I was always more interested in the Garcia brothers aspect of ANF, and felt the story would've been improved if it focused more on Javi and David, their relationship as brothers in the past and how different it is after they've found each other again in the apocalypse. One of the best scenes in the entire game is the rooftop scene where David ask Javi to stand with him.

And so I was thinking about ANF this morning and what could be done to make Kate fit better in the story and like...it hit me: Kate should've been their sister.

No, seriously, hear me out: Kate should've been written to be the middle child of the Garcia siblings instead.

Do you know how much that would fix? Throw that stupid love triangle in the trash. It was never good, it did nothing for Kate's character, and now David and Javi don't have to bicker about who she's married to and who gets to bone her, okay? No bullshit fight at the end!

David was already married once, just let him be divorced or a widower, and a single father. Javi can have a new love interest; hell, give him two if you want, let him be a bi king over Eleanor and Tripp- wait, no that just creates another love triangle, damn it-

Anyway... if Kate was their sister, then her entire character overflows with potential that wasn't there before.

I say make her the middle child who was stuck with two rivaling brothers, one a military man who became a single father and the other a professional baseball player who lost it all in a gambling scandal.

What about Kate? Perhaps she's a single woman who doesn't know what she wants in life. She doesn't want to settle down and have kids like David did, but she also doesn't want to sink so low like Javi did. She wants to travel, but needs money to do that so she does what she can save up, but there's always something that makes her dip into her savings.

Y'know... like her father getting sick and needing to pay for treatments, which Kate is happy to give up those savings so for a chance for him to beat cancer, but there's always that little bit of bitterness lingering inside her that keeps saying, "it's never about what I want, it's always about David or Javi, I'm going no where, I'm no one, even I don't know who I am or what I want, what am I doing? Papa got sick, so Javi ran away again, and so did David when he reenlisted, and who got left behind to take care of everything? Me, it's always me left to take care of Mama and Papa, and the kids, and everything else!"

Maybe she acted as a mediator between the brothers, too. They always relied on her when they were pissed with each other, they vented all their problems to her, and she always tried to get them to connect on something, but never found that right thing.

Hell, this way she could get along with the kids better, too. She's just Aunt Kate. She always volunteered to babysit them for David. She and Gabe still have their tiffs due to clashing attitudes, but there's no "you're not my mother!" vibe.

Suddenly Kate's her own person and not just an object the game throws at you for the brothers to grunt "she's muh wife!" "but I love her, too!" at.

ANF becomes the story of these three siblings who experienced the worst night of their lives together: their father died after a long battle with cancer, their mother is distraught, Javi didn't show up in time, David's drinking on the porch and Kate's trying to look out for everyone. Then the outbreak happens, their father comes back as a walker and bites their mother, David rushes off with her to the hospital while Kate and Javi take the kids...

Years later, Kate and Javi have accepted that they've lost their parents and big brother, and they're doing what they can to keep their niece and nephew alive... until Kate gets shot and they reunite with David, because then everything gets extra complicated with the three siblings trying to repair broken bridges and survive together until they hit a breaking point where Kate gets sick of David's shit. She's done trying to be nice and play mediator, she's ready to do what she thinks is right and an argument breaks out... and Javi's forced to choose between his brother or sister, and the tragedy becomes about being unable to save one of them... not matter what, in the end, Javi will lose a sibling because no matter how hard he tried, they still fell apart.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

I just really hate every plot they give Kate, y'all. She was done dirty.

And I loathe love triangles that involve two siblings [usually it's brothers] falling in love with the same person, okay? I don't have the patience for it, I just want all of those love triangles to go far, far away from me forever and never bother me again.

Anyway, do you love this thing I do where I show up after months of inactivity to slap something like this down before scurrying away? Because I'm scurrying now.

#twdg javi #twdg david #twdg kate #i dunno y'all i'm pretty sure da 2 is to blame for this #that game has a trio of siblings that are important to the story except no matter what you do #your brother and sister always meet some sort of tragedy in their arcs and they're both such good characters on their own and uuughhhh #it's what anf could've done but nooooooooo here's this dumb romance plot instead #does anyone even had javi and kate as their twdg otp? like honestly?#i'm just saying the story would've been better if we burned the romance out and kept sole focus on the family #and i guess clementine can be there too she can fulfil the found family quota in her mission to get AJ back

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apparitionism · 9 months

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Tabled 6

“Change the vocabulary!” Myka has just exclaimed in a hotel room in an airport in Chicago, in a full-throated effort to bring Helena around to her newly realized way of thinking, here in this story occasioned by @barbarawar ’s months-ago @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange request regarding what would have happened if Myka and Helena had had their Boone-proposed coffee. Much has ensued since then: meetings poor and poorer, rendering hopes faint and fainter, leaving potentials squandered and... squandereder? Seeing to it that emotional moves make sense is always challenging, I find. People want to make sense to themselves, want to make sense of themselves, and someone as thinky as Myka would, I imagine, double-want that. But while we all contain multitudes, we tend to bumble through situations as unfull representations of those multitudes: weird gotta-keep-moving sharks desperate to present consistency. I too keep moving: trying to land this thing, even as it fights against the stick, remaining *this far* above ground. Apologies as always, my strung-along giftee. See part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, and part 5 for the convoluted way we got here.

Tabled 6

“What?” Helena says, but it’s not her usual “what”; she’s obviously flummoxed, and her echo of Myka’s characteristic bafflement is precious. Preposterous, but precious.

Myka had hoped for some spark of recognition at her transformation of “change the rules,” but the confusion... it might be better. Sweeter. She tries not to make too much meaning out of this chime of similarity, even as she wants to pull that soft, bewildered “what” from the air and cradle it.

“I was trying to be clever,” she says. “Never mind that. And never mind fixing it, because we can do something else.”

“Repair it?” Helena says: a cautious, skeptical—and, yes, still baffled—synonym proffer.

Don’t laugh, Myka instructs herself, but faced with the idea that Helena really might think they’re playing a word game, it’s hard to follow her own order. “Never mind that too,” she says, a chuckle bubbling in her throat. “Because never mind. Because that’s it. Because you know what we actually can do?”

Helena raises her hands up, high, obviously in question, but really for all the world as if she were indeed being held at gunpoint.

This is not ending as it began, Myka tells the universe. Not as it began, or any other way.

She chambers the only bullet she has, aiming it right at Helena’s heart.

She pulls the trigger with a smile: “Ignore it.”

Hands still high, Helena opens her mouth slightly, and she squints, as if Myka has morphed into a dangerously unidentifiable animal.

Yes, Myka thinks, wildly, trying to live up to that wariness, I’ve been genetically engineered right here in this island of a hotel room! A Warehouse agent crossed with a yawper who has her very own plans! Amorphous ones, but! This infusion of abandon—Moreau power?—gives her the strength to hold Helena’s gaze.

The standoff lasts until Helena gets her language working again. “That recommendation is... entirely specious,” she says. “And you sound uncharacteristically overwrought.”

It’s a wobbly pair of objections. Myka draws even more strength from Helena’s lack of conviction. “What if it is? What if I am?”

“I don’t believe the slate can be wiped clean,” Helena says, a little more firmly. “Nor do you.”

So you do think we know each other. “I’m not saying it can. I’m saying I know it’s dirty, and so do you. I’m saying we ignore it.”

Helena’s face, from her “what” until now, has been a study in something Myka honestly never expected to see from her: full (fully wrong-footed) incomprehension. Myka doesn’t blame her, for she’s finding herself pretty incomprehensible, but she presses on. “You were ready to ignore my Boone-changed opinion of you. Weren’t you. When you hoped I’d know I was the someone else.”

After a pause: “That was then,” Helena says, her resentment at Myka for having worked her way to that truth—and for having articulated it—very clear.

“Oh, not anymore?” Myka pushes. “Even though now we both know I was that someone, and that there wasn’t a Giselle?”

“That was then,” Helena repeats.

Wait... “There’s a Giselle now?” Myka can’t process it, if it’s so. If it’s so, she will have to let Helena leave, then bury her face in one of the expensive pillows from this room’s unignorable bed and scream.

Another head-toss, the most dramatic one thus far, accompanies Helena’s next words. “I’m of a mind to say yes. But pursuant to my previously articulated policy, I’ll tell the truth: there isn’t, but there could be. In the future. I agreed to meet with you today to ensure you wouldn’t mistake yourself over Pete, but I have no intention of stepping into a similarly mistaken place. I’ve done my best to let this go.”

Myka can’t accept any of those words. “Ignore that too,” she says. She would like to point out that that whole litany was pretty rich, coming from Ms. To-Continue-to-Speak-Together, but instead she zeroes in on what seems the clearest contradiction. “But if you’re letting this go, why do you care about me mistaking myself over Pete?”

“Why did you care about me mistaking myself in Boone?” Helena counters, sour.

The response is uncharacteristically incompetent, particularly because Helena already knows the answer. “I could repeat something somebody once told me, about not walking away from what she called ‘your truth,’” Myka says, with what she hopes is a “that was then” fillip. “But I won’t. What I’ll really say is, I asked you first.” She allows herself a half-breath to marvel at how unusual it is for her to have this much of the upper hand.

“I could say the same thing.” Helena is visibly struggling not to acknowledge Myka’s advantage, but she collapses, saying, “The former, not the latter. I didn’t ask you first,” her devotion to accuracy (or so Myka reads it) defeating her. “Nevertheless I could repeat the something somebody once told you. As the why.”

Myka continues to press. “But isn’t repetition boring? You hate being boring.” She hopes this observation might visit upon Helena that kick of so we do know each other: “I bet you threw your coffee on me just so I wouldn’t walk away thinking how dull you’d been.”

“That was not the reason,” Helena says, but with a press of lips that suggests a ripple of otherwise.

Here, Myka shouldn’t press. “Then what was the reason.”

“You were being recalcitrant, and you know it,” Helena says.

“And what are you being now?” Myka asks, as laconically—as lean-back, as Helena-esque—as she can.

That question causes Helena to scowl and move energy into her hands, extending and then bending her fingers; though she doesn’t quite form them into fists, her intent is clear: she wants to deck Myka. It’s glorious. Please, do it, Myka urges internally, so we can get this all out in the physical open.

But Helena resets her face and waves her hands, the flutter of fingers dispelling the energy and its threat. “Realistic,” she says, prim.

Quit acting like me, Myka would tell her, but for the fallout. What she says is, “I wish I still had this coffee,” pointing at the table, the tragic cup-ceremony of which probably now deserves replaying as farce. Or was it farce the first time? No surprise, really, that they would skip-jump their way over the natural course of history.

“Yes, because stains solve problems,” Helena sarcastics.

Maybe; maybe not. Nevertheless, Myka says what’s true: “You seemed to think they would. And anyway, they redound to your benefit.” Helena greets this with a completely reasonable additional “what,” but Myka blows past it with, “Maybe because you ignore them? Anyway, this one here”—she gestures to the now-dry coffee-map on her shirt (it looks like no country, and she’s disappointed to be unable to name it as “this Brazil” or “this Azerbaijan”)—“kept me from walking away when you thought I shouldn’t.”

“A delaying tactic,” Helena says, offering only bored disdain, as if the very idea of it had been in the end inconsequential.

Keep pushing. “How long was that delay supposed to last, anyway?”

Helena doesn’t have an answer; Myka knows it because she begins to pace. She starts, of course, at the doorway, then walks past the bed, over to the window, and back again: bed then doorway, doorway then bed, bed then window, back and forth—six times, Myka counts—before she leans her back against the door, crosses her arms over her chest, and says, “Why are you tempting me this way? Why this way? What’s changed? In this room, in the few breaths since resignation and coffee, what’s changed?” It’s a fret.

“Well, what’s changed for you?” Myka asks, with no fret at all for once in her life. “More breaths since, but why did authority let you out of Boone-prison?”

Helena’s face produces an inscrutable scowl-smile hybrid. She thrusts herself away from the door, walks to the bed, rubs her hands together. Re-gathering energy? “I suppose I could offer a long-winded explanation about having been given to understand that the balance of safety and threat had shifted. But instead, to quote: ‘What I’ll really say is, I asked you first.’”

“Well played,” Myka admits. In return, she’s gifted with the little acknowledging bow of head she loves. (Loves—yes.) It draws her physically closer, that head-bow: only a few shuffling inches, but enough that she can answer, more quietly, “What’s changed is I saw a future. And I saw how much I’m willing to ignore to have it.”

“I do not understand your morality,” Helena says. This time, she sounds a note of wonder rather than censure.

So much recursion in what they say, think, feel, do—once, then back again, and then again. Maybe they’re bound to get something right, if they try everything over and over? This particular repetition-with-variation seems a little better than usual, tragedy repeated not as farce but as fairy tale... or, no: Warehouse tale. Because for better or worse, there’s no escaping the Warehouse, the curse but also blessing of wonder. She and Helena are here together today only because of the Warehouse—that necessary condition of their meeting and connection.

Myka could dilate forever upon fate and purpose, but “ignore it” must be her mantra now, her grounding principle. For better or worse... for better and worse. The true moral of any Warehouse tale.

“I don’t understand anybody’s morality,” she says, “especially not mine or yours. I’m not trying to. I’m ignoring that too.”

But what she can’t ignore—not now, not anymore—is the way in which their bodies have, so gradually, continued to near, with Helena slowly mirroring Myka’s movements, these little distance-closing developments. So small is the gap between them now, the displacement it would take to touch surely must be measured by time, not distance.

And yet she hesitates, for this raise of hand must speak correctly: not want, but offer.

Slow. Stretch that time, turn it back into space.

She does that, moving as slowly as she can. More slowly than she ever has.

Helena doesn’t retreat.

Minimalist increments... yet their yield is immense: Myka’s right hand meets Helena’s left, and their fingers link and twist, palms not pressed but near.

It is their first genuinely mutual touch since Boone.

“I will be blunt,” Helena says, soft, burred by the contact. “I need you to... just say.”

Blunt. This knife of request—indeed unsharp—meets Myka’s fears, at first bending against them, yet still bearing threat. The force of it makes her glance away, and again she’s drawn to the clock. All she can find to articulate is, “I missed my flight.”

It could have been a way of saying, but Myka didn’t mean it like that, and Helena knows it: she raises an eyebrow. The leavening takes away the knife, and it gives Myka leave to lighten too, to postulate, “Maybe we’re constitutionally incapable. Of the saying. Or maybe it’s just me? Okay, not maybe—probably. Is that a dealbreaker?”

Now Helena cocks her head, completing the gesture with a lifting twist of chin. It calls of early, early: Helena handcuffed in a chair, Myka foolishly imagining she knew how all the ensuing moments would go—then being flung up to meet the ceiling.

The book would have known that would happen, but Myka didn’t. Hasn’t. Flights, crashes. Over and over, each as unpredictable as every other. Which will Helena choose to inflict now?

“Have we agreed to a deal?” Helena asks. The question isn’t coy. “Ignoring may be a way forward, but historically, you do seem to presuppose the existence of agreements that you fail to inform me I’m a party to. That you then accuse me of violating.”

So: an objection, but one grounded in their shared history. A flight and a crash. “That is an uncomfortably accurate description of what I do,” Myka admits. “Let me start again. I missed my flight. Did you?”

“Miss your flight? Yes.” More leavening: unfunny joking, words for the sake of them. To continue to speak together... of course this has been what Myka wished too. Of course she would listen to Helena saying words about anything.

Not anything, her Boone-and-Giselle-haunted memory reminds her...

“But that was not the issue under discussion,” Helena continues. A providential interruption.

“Right. Dealbreaker. Saying. Inability.” Why are you vamping? What is the impediment? The answer is immediate: You are the impediment. “Change the vocabulary” was a nice idea, but one word was never going to be enough. “Look,” she begins, determined now to do better, “I—”

Helena tightens her fingers’ grasp against Myka’s. It’s a very different way of getting things out in the physical open. “Wanting you warps all I do,” she whispers. The words, the grasp: both are saying. Out in the open.

More even than the oh-so-welcome grasp, the words mean everything to Myka. And their meaning is itself everything—everything that matters—so she steals them and says them back: “Wanting you warps all I do.” It’s mind-clearingly correct. The relief of at last having an accurate description of the past half-decade: it hits her like that slug she’d perversely hoped Helena might deliver.

But having used Helena’s words, however perfect, while coming up with none of her own pains her, so she feels she has to modify, “Warps. And warped, but not in any of the ways that might have helped. I can’t apologize enough for how I got it all so wrong.”

Helena’s tilt of head gentles. Her chin drops. “Someone has recently recommended, rather eloquently, ignoring such things.” She smiles. “You are terrible at following your own prescription.”

Helpless to object, Myka says, “That can’t come as a surprise.”

“A surprise? No. Perhaps an obstacle.”

“Would you... surmount it?”

Helena says, “For you...”

Myka fears she hears a lift of question. “That’s what I meant. Would you?”

“As stated: for you.”

The certainty is... transporting. Nevertheless, “I don’t know how this will work,” Myka admits. “If this will work.”

“Nor do I,” Helena says, yet her admission is a balm.

So much remains to be negotiated. So fragile this semi-resolution between their hands.

Then: “I’m so tired,” Helena says, actual rather than despondent, and Myka is ready to agree that yes, she is tired too, that everything that’s taken place in this room has taxed her to her limits, but Helena follows that admission with, “Will you lie down with me?”

Myka tenses. Her immediate, insistent bodily approval of the idea jangles against her just-as-immediate worry over where such a request—and such approval—might lead.

No doubt feeling that stiffening via their still-joined hands, Helena says, “For rest. Rest, in privacy, and nothing more.”

Myka believes her. She doesn’t trust herself, for her self is a serial liar with terrible impulse control, but she believes Helena.

Who is also a serial liar, one with similarly terrible impulse control, but saying “no” to this person who has so lately spoken of want and warp, this person whose hands continue to grip hers, is not an option.

Thus in a hotel room in an airport in Chicago, Myka lies down on a bed, and Helena lies beside her. They shift their bodies awkwardly, then less so, as they find a fit: Myka on her back, Helena on Myka’s left side, curled like punctuation around everything they’ve suffered.

From a position moments ago unimaginable, Myka finds room to ask, “What are you doing?”

“What? Nothing,” Helena says, as if Myka has made an accusation. She stills the slight, slight stroke her fingers have begun to apply to Myka’s hair.

More unfunny comedy. “I don’t mean with your hand. I mean, every day. In your life.”

“Oh,” Helena says. The stroke resumes. “Waiting.”

“You said you hadn’t stopped living.”

“That is not what I said.”

“If you could press pause on the semantics.” It’s true that Myka could—should—quote with greater accuracy, given that she knows exactly what Helena said. But Helena knows that Myka knows exactly what Helena said, and while continuing to speak together is the weirdly frustrating joy it is, they should really try to get somewhere.

Helena sighs; the sound contains a put-upon “fine.” She says, “I pretend to have expertise in several areas, including forensic analysis, for which pretensions I’m paid absurd amounts of money.”

“Ends before means?” Myka asks, a tiny joke.

“My own fabulism is unsurpassed.”

That’s probably a joke too, but thinking back on her own vast course of lies, Myka finds it important to counterclaim, “I’m not sure that’s true.”

“Does competition truly matter at this late date? A win in this category is dubious—sinful, even—but today I’m inclined to concede your victory in anything you like.”

So she understood Myka was talking about herself; is that pleasing or disturbing? In any case, Myka does know the concession as a surprise: “You are?”

“Today. For here we are, at rest. Salvaged. By you.”

“But only because you wrecked my shirt,” Myka reminds her.

They’ve been wrecked, over and over, with stained shirts only the most recent, small detritus. Yet here they are, salvaged, washed up on some unfamiliar shore... this island of a hotel room: no Moreau; instead, uncharted.

Would that it were an island, one they could make their home.

“Only because,” Helena echoes. “Only because you were being recalcitrant... but we can’t carry such recursion back ab ovo.”

“Or we can,” Myka says with a hiccupy laugh, momentarily captured by the possibility, seeing it as a burrowing-in, a we-got-here-and-this-is-how affirmation.

“This from the woman whose mantra would be ‘ignore it’?”

“Game show,” Myka goes on, the laugh persisting; there’s no escaping the beautiful fact—she might have imagined it would be true but now it’s a fact—that lying with Helena wrapped around her makes her giddy. “Whoever buzzes in with the preceding turning point the fastest gets...”

“What?”

“I was about to say ‘a point,’ but that sounds weird. A point for a point?”

Helena’s cheek flexes against Myka’s, in what Myka suspects is her I-don’t-quite-understand squint. “A point for a point... surely that should be the name of the program? But I’m not conversant with game shows.”

“You are a little. Whammies.”

Another flex of cheek. “The current argot for being affected by an artifact?”

She’s right. But. “It’s from a game show. The coinage... it’s Pete’s.” Myka wishes she could have forever avoided introducing him into the conversation, the room, the problem. But in the end this hotel room isn’t an island.

Helena nods. The movement is an acknowledgement of what Myka has done—but it’s also yet another blessed slide of her skin against Myka’s. “What will you tell him?” Helena asks, and Myka can face the question only sideways, through the warmth of the slide.

Lying in bed is unquestionably better than sitting at a table. Myka nevertheless feels an incipient lie forming, a dodge to push off difficulty: I don’t know, she could tell Helena, and maybe that lie of omission would suffice, here as they lie in a comfort Myka has already disturbed more than enough.

However. The truth is she’ll tell him whatever she has to, to get herself free. To make him let go. So that’s what she says to Helena: “Whatever it takes.”

To her shock, the out-loud saying wallops her with a vision of a still different future, one stark and Warehouse-less. The view is empty: of purpose, of feeling. A disaster. “What happens if I burn it all down?” she asks. Her heartbeat speeds; her blood floods fearful.

“As you should have in Boone?” Helena responds, with acid; then, “Sorry. Momentarily failed to follow the ‘ignore’ prescription myself.” She raises herself on an elbow and looks down at Myka. It’s a new, breathtaking view, one that Myka feels her prior lack of as acute deprivation.

Into that negative space, Helena says, “If you burn it all down, then you and I will rise from the ashes.”

Every word is clear as still water.

Purpose: Myka and Helena, rising. Not empty of feeling; rather, replete. That reward would elevate.

“Is that what you want?” Helena asks. “To burn it down?”

“Yes.” Myka can say it; it’s true, if the rise is the result. And yet she can’t uncommit her professional self so easily and entirely. “But also no. And I have to tell him something.”

“‘Ignore’ is a powerful word,” Helena observes.

“I don’t think that will work,” Myka says, for she can hear his escalating “but why” iterations as clearly as if she were herself the Ladies’ Oracle of the uncanny book. “I’ll have to explain. That I was wrong?” she tries, but that’s too small. “That I’m always wrong and he should have known that?”

“Really? Then you must be wrong about me as well.”

“Don’t use my overgeneralizing words against me,” Myka says. She touches Helena’s temple, intending it as a rebuke.

It lands instead as a caress, against which Helena leans and nestles. “Aren’t I using them against me?” she asks, low and amused.

Myka says, because she can’t not, because the words are desperate to be said, “This. I want this.” Joking, disputing, speaking, bodies together (and so much more of bodies together): all of this.

“Me using your words against myself? I see why you would.” Helena smiles against Myka’s neck, then raises herself up again, her expression changing over. “But thank you. For saying.” She follows this by reclining, nestling closer still.

The words, and the movement, are warming, but leaning all the way in would lead down a path too tantalizing. “You’re welcome,” Myka says, but she follows it with, “When we leave this room. What will you do?” she asks, because this is something she doesn’t know but might now learn, no book required. Just a Helena.

But there’s no “just” about Helena, and particularly not when she’s gazing up at Myka, sweet yet flinty, and that look tempers her answer. “Wait,” she says, differently than she said “waiting”; now the task rings of burden and freedom both. Waiting for something, rather than waiting, without predicate.

However, that predicate: Myka is the one who must act. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“I’m accustomed.”

The little shrug of resignation that accompanies those words: Myka feels it small against her shoulder, but its implications make it seem a larger shudder. Helena has waited through so much—decades of punishments, and Myka should not make her suffer anything even vaguely similar. She’s about to say “I’ll hurry,” even with no idea of what that would look like, but she’s preempted by Helena saying, into her ear, “But please hurry.” A breath of telepathic direction.

So. Now she must.

Yet that direction requires changing not the rules, nor even the vocabulary, but the speed with which the future is ushered near. It’s a daunting prospect.

Daunting but necessary, if Myka is to blunder satisfactorily. “I will,” she says. But what is necessary isn’t sufficient, not if the goal is to bring about the truly desired future. “Once I’ve done... that. What comes next?”

Helena shifts her position again, un-nestling herself from Myka’s neck, her head still on the bed but reared back a bit, looking up, and Myka tilts her head to look down. She’s often had to angle down, just that bit, to look into Helena’s eyes, but this prone person is a dramatically differently enjoyable inflection of the standing version.

As she appreciates the view, she receives Helena’s answer: “You should text me.”

So strange to hear that voice say that sentence. But relief dizzies Myka, even as she’s reclining and looking, for she realizes it’s just strange; Helena saying it doesn’t make her seem a stranger.

“And then we should meet for coffee,” Helena adds—lightly, but not throwaway.

“Or save the world?” Myka says, trying for the besting echo. Trying to overwrite the words said in Boone.

“And save the world,” Helena says. “Our world.”

The modified callback is pointed and just right; it overrides both Boone and Myka’s attempt. Myka shakes her head and says, “I’m no match for you.”

“Counterpoint: you are the match for me.”

How can it be true that Helena is saying these words? Ever, but more so here, on this day, the one Myka intended to end with the end, this day, that is instead ending with a beginning.

Not enough of a beginning, though, and Myka wants to make that clear—that, and her regret at its clear, clear, clear, yet absolutely necessary insufficiency. She says, “I want to kiss you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.” Helena doesn’t move; she has to know what’s coming next, and Myka delivers it: “But I can’t.”

Helena sighs. “I do not understand your morality.”

Third time the charm—the Helena-knows-it charm.

She might as well know it, because who is Myka, really, to recognize and hold to some bright line? But to start now would entail a foundational lie—“I’m free”—one that would infect all that came after.

You could ignore that too...

Animals, animals. Of course they would advocate for the body getting what it wants, regardless of consequences.

But the dismissal of obligation, though it might seem easy now, can’t help but make realizing the future more strenuous. Myka should not increase the burden. Thus in the end, despite the pain of want, she has to get herself out from under the bodily lie she so desperately and foolishly told—she has to do that before she can give herself leave to know the bodily truth. It may be just as desperate and foolish, if differently so, but she wants, wants, wants to know it.

“Like I said, I don’t either,” she says, to ward off, for what she hopes will this time not seem forever, Helena’s charm. So as to think herself as far away as possible from the basic physical reality that a tiny turn of her head could “accidentally” join their lips, she turns the opposite way and tells the ceiling, “I have to rebook my flights now.”

“To set the future in motion,” Helena says. Agreement, but aggrieved.

Myka smiles at both of those, allowing herself a minimal turn back toward Helena. She’s a far better sight than the ceiling. “You do know something about that.”

Helena breathes out, probably in more-aggrieved affirmation, and she makes no move to sit up. Is it possible to be aggressively still?

Helena’s answer is an impressive yes.

Myka allows herself a dispensation, as she did when she watched Helena approach in the airport, so many hours ago: twenty more breaths before she takes the get-up initiative, as Helena very clearly intends to force her to do. So she breathes. Very. Very. Slowly. Inhale: beat... beat... for as many beats as she can manage. Hold, for the same: an the number is not small. Exhale again as many, then again, hold. That’s one. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. Two.

Eighteen more of these with Helena warm against her; it isn’t how she ever imagined heaven, or its earthly approximation, but here it is.

For now.

Right as she reaches inhale thirteen: “Are you asleep?” Helena whispers.

“Sssh. I’m counting.”

Helena doesn’t ask “what.” She stays still, now solid and present only, until Myka reaches the pause after her twentieth exhale.

Disengagement is difficult.

After, they busy themselves with phones and booking. Myka situates herself at the desk, while Helena reclines on the bed: these stations they might have taken if they had done nothing but inhabit this room as travelers, travelers now bored before departing.

Helena finishes before Myka does, at which point her reclining becomes reclining, a grandiose occupying of space. A new Helena aspect, and Myka would never have seen it, never if not for salvage, wrecking, recalcitrance... back and back and back. How they got here.

“I don’t want to leave,” she tells that new grandiosity.

Helena stretches, arms up then sweeping wide, as if making a snow angel. Then she props herself up on her elbows. She moves both her hands, a finger-flutter suggesting that whatever statement she about to issue is obvious. And it is: “Then we’ll stay forever.”

For a brief counterfactual burst of cosmology, Myka believes they could. But this time Helena is the one to rise and dismiss the possibility, although she does it with still more ostentation: “And yet this room is entirely inappropriate as anyone’s final resting place.”

Myka loves every muscled, meaningful emphasis. From inside that love, she pities her earlier-today self, the one who thought she could have lived without the continued possibility of this.

Well. She could have lived. But it wouldn’t have been living.

For all their need to speak together, their final minutes in the room are silent, as if refraining from using that small duration of their privacy to the purpose they set, they might be able to bank it. Against some unprivate, nonspeaking future.

As they reenter the unprivate hallway and head toward the far greater unprivate spaces of transit, Myka says, “That coffee was expensive.”

“Worth every penny.” The and you know it is inescapable.

Inescapable and true.

Helena’s flight is scheduled to leave well before (the first of) Myka’s is—New York is so much easier to reach than anyplace named Dakota.

“Not The Dakota,” Helena says when Myka shares this gloomy observation with her, as they wait for the tram to the terminals.

Myka doesn’t know whether to groan or congratulate her on the reference. She settles for a sincere “Touché,” then asks, “Should I come to your gate with you? To... sit?” She’s thinking on sitting together. Sitting together. What people see when they look.

“Should you?” Helena asks back, with an eyebrow.

“No,” Myka has to concede. “I’d want to kiss you goodbye.”

“Anyone looking would expect you to kiss me, and/or me to kiss you. Goodbye or otherwise. But you’ve made it clear that isn’t in the offing until we can fulfill everyone’s expectations.”

“Everyone’s?”

“Ours and those of fortunate observers.”

“Of course you’d think they’re fortunate,” Myka says; she hears and feels affection—distinct from want—in her voice. Affection has been gone for so long between them... she welcomes its old-friend tenderness, gently yet insistently shouldering its way through all that must be ignored.

More eyebrow, differently inflected. “Of course they are fortunate. You underestimate our beauty but, more significantly, your own.”

Such a compliment is unassimilable right now, so Myka counters with, “But not yours. I don’t underestimate yours.”

Helena leans backward. “Your saying such things is why you should not come with me to my gate,” she says, and Myka reads the lean as speaking commensurately about what is unassimilable. “Because I want you to come with me,” Helena goes on, to Myka’s delight, “and then to board the flight with me.”

“Burning it all down,” Myka notes.

“Which you don’t want to do,” Helena notes back.

“But I will if I have to.”

Helena now offers a wrinkle of brow. “There is almost always a better way. You showed me that.”

The wrinkle doesn’t belong, so Myka tries to smooth it by saying, with a lightness, “You were going to freeze it all down. Totally different.”

“In any event the way found then was better... and, I must say, better than shooting you in the head.” Helena says this dry, joking back, yet also a little stunned, probably at the idea that Myka would joke in the first place.

Myka answers that surprise with, “I’m pretty happy you thought so.”

Helena doesn’t move, but she says—tight, as if dampening some vibration—“Your understatement is rhetorically effective. In that I now want to kiss you more than I ever thought I could again be capable of wanting.”

This should be simple. Grab her right now and never let her go. But nothing is as simple as it should be, so Myka says, “I’ll bear that understatement thing in mind.”

“I suspect I’m weak for a wide array of rhetorical techniques. When deployed by you.”

The bubbling of possibility is... irresistible. “I’ll make a study,” Myka says, exerting great effort to keep herself under control. “Maybe litotes next.”

“Not ineffective, you may find.”

They are tuned tight to each other now. In public, but speaking privately. If they can keep this alignment... they’ve had it before, lost it, got it back. Myka lets herself dissolve into one final dispensation: the blissful idea that they will always get it back.

Are there any words to describe what she is, other than “in love”? If so, she doesn’t want to know them.

She also doesn’t want to watch Helena walk away. She’s mourned such walks too often. So they clasp hands one more time, then let go; Helena turns away, and Myka, after enjoying the movement of Helena’s hair the turn occasions—that swirl of fluid promise—does too.

****

At the Sioux Falls airport—which Myka, hating its provincial familiarity, always greets with an internal but why do I have to know this place whine—she wants nothing more than to roll off the plane and into the car she’d parked in the absurdly small lot so many hours or days ago, thence rolling on to the B&B and into some state that might, if she’s lucky, resemble sleep.

What she wants is not what she gets.

Mrs. Frederic is standing by the security exit.

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Tabled #B&W holiday gift exchange #part 6 #barbarawar #I tried so hard to make it end here #but no dice #I can't apologize enough for getting tangled in the complications #(it occurs to me that maybe there's an artifact in that hotel room making it all so wordy)#(okay not really)#(but this thing might've worked better if M and H had had to deal with a coffeemaker that brewed up a djinn or something instead)#(could've sent the story into territory too unserious though)#(which seems like it would have been cheaty)

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lord-squiggletits · 7 months

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In general Barber writing the whole "Cybertronians are stuck in an endless cycle of violence" thing was a really good idea but it sometimes felt as if he put more priority on the colonists lecturing Cybertronians about how evil and bloodthirsty they are instead of like, having a shred of sympathy for the fact that they were all collectively traumatized by a 4 million year war and even before the war their society was violent/oppressive/dysfunctional so literally no Cybertronian has lived a life untouched by pointless death.

Like, there's "these characters have an outside perspective so of course they don't understand" in universe logic that I understand and even enjoy, but then there's what Barber did which was basically make the story an endless trudge of people fighting each other and never getting better and there was the fucking Onyx Shockwave story that was "yeah that colonization? Yeah I was actually the one that organized the Primes and said that colonizing was a good idea because I wanted to cause chaos lol my master is death and suffering" so it's like. Okay so the entire history of the entire Cybertronian race was organized by one guy, rendering the decisions of all the other characters (including Shockwave himself) basically pointless.

And on top of that I have to sit here listening to these Camien et al OC's constantly complaining and bitching and moaning about how Cybertronians are the stupidest most stubborn assholes ever, why can't they just stop being petty and stop fighting, why is everything their fault. They say this as their own planets sit on the ruins of colonized civilizations. And one of the primary targets of their criticism and bitching is Optimus Prime, who spent the 4 million year war trying to help organics Not Get Colonized and then spent most of phase 2 continuing to try and Help Earth Not Get Colonized Again.

#squiggposting #like it's just.....depressing lmao #no one gets any sympathy no one gets to get better no one gets to be happy #if you had a favorite character from phase 1 chances are they're now overshadowed by a bunch of OCs made for the story #and those OCs spend a good chunk of their time shitting on the legacy characters who are probably your favorites #but even though this could've been an interesting storyline cybertronians never get their collective trauma validated at all #it's just 'why can't you people stop fighting' as if it's their fault and they're just dumb or bigoted or hateful #and if you were here for the colonization storyline? well actually that was onyx prime/shockwave machinating everything #so FUCK YOU TOO it's all pointless there's no point in any of it #now sit here and read 200+ pages of everyone shitting on optimus prime for being a colonizer. lmao #ignore all the feelings you had for your favorite character. how dare you be upset about them being trashed constantly #squiggle being petty

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stories-by-rie · 4 months

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129 i'm not lost, i'm growing roots

prequel to this piece but also works as a standalone. warning for character death and sort of body horror, little over 1k words

~~~~

The first time Rabea had entered The Forest, she hadn’t survived out of wisdom or luck or spite. No, it hadn’t been due to herself at all. If someone asked her now, Rabea tended to smile the sad smile of nostalgia and reply “I survived out of mercy”. People then tended to nod as if they knew what Rabea was talking about.

Mercy was a concept many people heard of but weren’t familiar with.

Rabea was familiar now.

She was what she used to call an experienced adventurer, which was why she knew that The Forest was off-limits. Only younglings and desperate people entered. People who were too hungry for fame and glory, or people who hungered for the insanely high prize Irma the Immortal had set for whoever retrieved The Book behind The Wall at the heart of The Forest.

Short: idiots to which Rabea did not belong.

And why would she even attempt to venture inside? There were plenty of giant hiccuping frogs and deers of devastation to hunt in perfectly regular forests!

And then—

“I'll attempt it”, Margo said while they both walked down the market. Rabea choked on a bite of Kartoffelpuffer.

They had seen one of Irma the Immortal’s posters and laughed about it wholeheartedly. So why…?

“Why?” Rabea asked.

"Why not?" Margo laughed and then elbowed her in the side. "Don't worry, I'm just joking."

But when she thought that Rabea wasn't looking, she folded—folded—the poster and put it in her coat's pocket.

It is something Rabea notices and later remembers, but in that moment does not pay the attention to that it needed. Something that she spends a lot of time dwelling on on her deathbed. Poison in her cup, but that's another story.

What happened is this: They spent a warm summer night in each other's embrace and said goodbye the next day as they usually did. Rabea had been hired to find the tear of the moon and Margo had mentioned another job as well. They'd find each other after, they always did.

So Rabea fought the guardian of the tear and then outsmarted a wild boar and finally brought the tear to a collector of rarities who paid her in statues of The Big Fourteen made of lead, which meant that she needed two extra weeks carrying those to the vault. And then another three weeks in which she had to fill out the papers and argue with the vault's master whether she had 'rightfully acquired' the treasure. Rabea didn't know who in their right mind would have stolen the tons of lead but that did not convince the master.

So perhaps she simply had been late and missed Margo. There was no reason to worry yet.

She went out and brought down what turned out to be the owner of the lead mine—which, certainly there was a thing going on there—returned early and waited, and waited.

That was when she remembered the folded poster.

Maybe it would have been right to call her impulsive, but not once had Rabea regretted her hasty departure. She stepped into The Forest with a cheap map the lady in the bookstore had gifted her with a head shake. The greenery surrounded her. Clean air surrounded her, bugs in the air and if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought it to be just any regular forest.

Until she encountered the slug pit, the spiky spider webs and earworms.

Rabea stumbled into a clearing, beaten and exhausted, bruised all over. Though just as stubborn as before. She would not, could not leave without Margo.

“Ouch, that was my leg”, she heard a voice behind her. When she turned around, she saw a big shape in the ground, looking vaguely humanoid.

The thing slowly sat up and Rabea grew certain that it had at least been human at some point. But now there were forget-me-nots sprouting from the socket of what used to be an eye, slime running down the back where it had lain on the ground and started to slowly become one with the ground. The skin was covered or replaced by moss and rough bark—

Rabea had thought it to be a tree’s root when she had walked past it initially. Mostly also because of the mushrooms growing from what she now knew were the joints.

“Excuse me, I didn’t see you there.”

The thing opened the mouth and revealed sharp teeth, not white but yellow and brown. “It’s alright, it happens a lot. It’ll grow back”, it said and put some fallen leaves over the hole Rabea had created in its leg. When it looked up, it seemed as if its eyes widened, some new flower buds popped open in one of them. “Oh”, it said, “it’s you.”

“Me?” Rabea asked.

“Yes! What are you doing here?”

“I am looking for my friend. I think she got lost around here, I want to help her find the way back home.”

“Oh, I love you too, but I am not lost, I am just growing roots.”

And the thing about mercy is that it never comes alone. Mercy is granted for people who face an unacceptable fate. Mercy is granted out of the hunger for power and only very rarely out of compassion. Most certainly, mercy is prefaced by begging. And begging is born out of fear.

As ivy started to wrap around Rabea’s ankles, she started to fear like never before.

“No, no, no, no!” With every step she took, another vine shot out and tried to hold onto her. She tried to free herself with her sword, with the magic potion she had bought recently. Dispair flooded her veins, an utter helplessness. It was too much, too many, she was alone, oh so alone, and oh by the greatest treasures, she just wanted to be safe, to be embraced, to. Get. Away. Get. Help.

“Margo! Please, oh no, please help me!” she yelled and the thing responded, grabbed some of the vines and helped free her.

“Run!” Margo yelled back and it looked at Rabea then, no tears running but an ant crawling out of the empty eye socket.

“I’ll return!” Rabea promised and then she ran. Because she had been granted this mercy and everything in her begged her to take the chance. Because not taking it would have been the greatest scorn.

While it might have felt like betrayal to leave at that moment, Rabea did keep her promise. She came back and never without forget-me-nots. To the place where Margo had grown roots.

#writeblr #short story #flash fiction #i did it!#129 #i'm not lost i'm growing roots #the forestverse #or whatever #rabea #honestly i don't want to comment on this negatively but it did not turn out like i wanted it to #i feel with two or three more days it could've been so much better and i am too tired to edit now #but also i would have never gotten around to do it if i hadn't finished and posted it now so #here it is #how many em dashes can i use: the experiment #brunoverse

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