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I've been looking around Gippsland for decent priced properties, is this, and some of Churchill, the only places left in East Victoria with cheaper housing and reasonable sized blocks? What's everyone's opinion. I'm a FHB and it's only myself, so my borrowing capacity is very limited unfortunately.

This is not what was supposed to happen. They are a size L, sometimes they have chipped nail polish. They sometimes don't wear bras. Yet men flock to them like moths to a bulb.
My mom taught me that if my jeans had holes or if my shoes had a double knot or if my nail polish was chipped no one would want to be my friend. I used to be a grey chubby tomboy with no friends, now I'm a stilish girly girl who's a size XS. I'm more alone than ever, as awkward as I was when I was a teenager. I have trouble with friends. I have trouble interacting with men.
Sometimes I look at my friends and I catch myself having so much judgemental thoughts, acrid remarks like "her arm is so flabby" "her nail polish is chipped" "her make up's tacky" "she just put some mascara" "this dress is shapeless". I turn into my mother.
So I'm thin and girly and stilish and put together, but I still "loose" to my fatter, carefree friends. They're winning at life and are happy, while I'm a thin depressed little nothing that spends her time accumulating books and clothes to fill the void.
I'm a moron.
Edit: FYI I know that I harbor a lot of toxicity. The toxic judgmental side of me I of course never let affect my behavior towards my friends. It's a voice in my head.
I guess the point of this post is also to further proof that skinny ≠ happy, skinny ≠ success. My mother basically taught me that I would only be worthy of love, friendship and success if I was skinny, fashionable and girly. She also ingrained in me this "loser vs winner" world view. Basically she taught me I was a loser that should masquerade as a winner, but I could never be a winner. Now as an adult I kinda became the "winner" she told me about, but real life proves me everything I was taught was wrong.
So in all aspects of life I guess I'm really a loser 🤡

Wonder Women

Issue Fifty
Written by u/VoidKiller826
Edited by u/Predaplant
Arc: Revelations
*************************************************************
Greetings, people of Gateway City. This is your new peacekeeper speaking. You might know me as the White Magician, a rather crude name, but I will accept it considering Man’s World's lack of creativity. However, you may also call me Circe, and I am here with an important message that your news station will deliver for all to hear.
SCYTHE is no more: their HQ is under my and the Red Centipedes’ command. The Commander and his soldiers are dead and buried, as you all wished to happen. I was more than happy to oblige you if it meant depriving your stupid President of her next chance for reelection. Any survivors of the prison break are being hunted down by the people they locked in cages, who are more than happy to round them up as they once had been themselves.
But none of that’s important, for this recording is only to be heard by one person: Olympos, Wonder Girl, or whatever the fuck new title name you want to be called. This message is for you: You are to surrender yourself to me here in SCYTHE HQ in the next five hours, and in turn, I will not destroy this piss-end of a city. If you fail, I promise you, I will make Coast City look like a picnic by the time I finish with Gateway.
That cow you call Wonder Woman is dead, and I will make sure everyone else will follow her if you don’t comply with my request.
Your mentor learned a valuable lesson when she tested my patience.
*************************************************************
Spears Apartment - Gateway City:
[...President Cale has announced the complete closure of all access to Gateway City following the prison break that occurred in SCYTHE’s holding facility hours ago,] said Cassandra Arnold from GateNews, the city’s main news station. [We still have an unconfirmed number of escapees following the message sent by the White Magician, but the President has assured GateNews a solution will be found.]
Vanessa Kapatelis watched the TV in dismay. Pacing back and forth in the Spears duplex apartment, she had the TV on to pass the time while Ares worked on helping Helena and Cassandra upstairs.
“Here,” Vanessa turned away from the TV to see Tanya Spears handing her a bottle of water. “Something for you to drink.”
“Thank you,” Vanessa accepted the bottle. “I would prefer a beer, but this will make do.”
“My mom has her wine collection in a locked cabinet,” Tanya noted, pointing at the kitchen. “She doesn’t know that I know that, but I can get you a bottle?”
Vanessa chuckled. “Thanks, but I don’t want a girl your age to be walking around with alcohol or to get you in trouble with your mom.” She twisted the bottle cap and slowly drank. “I needed that… it feels like I’ve been dry for months.”
“It’s actually been 3 hours,” Tanya said, sitting on the sofa and opening her tablet to look over the internet. “I hope what she said wasn’t true… about Wonder Woman not being around…”
Taking a seat by her side, Vanessa saw that Tanya was reading through the report on what happened to SCYTHE. The escaped convicts had taken control of the SCYTHE headquarters and equipment after killing many of the agents that had stood in their way.
Seeing the photo of SCYTHE HQ burning angered her. That place should represent the absolute shield of Gateway. Now, it had come under the control of the convicts that they were supposed to stop because of Aeeta Branwen. A name that had made her happy now belonged to a stranger who had lied to her all this time.
Memories of their most intimate moments came flooding back: their first conversation, their first date, their kiss, and the morning after their date in her apartment. It was a moment when she thought she could finally stop grieving and move on from what happened to Coast City. And now, that had been disintegrated into oblivion.
In anger, she crushed the bottle with her hand, spraying water all over the table and the floor.
“Shit!” Vanessa stood up, finally realizing her mistake. “I am sorry!”
“Oh, it's fine!” Tanya ran to the kitchen to grab some paper towels. “It’s just water.”
“I know it’s just…” Taking the paper towel, the two began wiping the floor and the table. “I have a lot on my mind.”
“I’ll bet with everything that happened,” said Tanya, giving Vanessa a supportive smile. “Your friends are getting hurt, and you can’t do anything but watch. It would piss anyone off. I know it did with me when the RedCent guys invaded EE Tower.”
“Yeah…” Vanessa sat back on the sofa. “But this… I not only possibly lost many friends, but I was betrayed by someone I loved, someone who I thought was the one for me…” she said, distraught, as tears ran down her face.
Tanya, without saying anything more, hugged Vanessa closely. Despite them knowing each other for only a few hours, Tanya knew that Vanessa was in pain. Watching her loved ones being hurt by someone that she trusted must have been a hard truth to accept.
The doors upstairs opening and closing caught the two’s attention. Looking up, they saw Somya Spears descending, looking exhausted, like she had gone ten rounds in the ring. As she reached the ground floor, Tanya ran up to her mother, hugged her close, and guided her to the nearest chair to rest.
“Is everything alright, mom?” Tanya asked, worried.
“Yeah… just felt that I might take that long overdue vacation…” Somya answered, leaning against the soft chair with a tired sigh. “Maybe we’ll go to Paris like you wanted, Tanya…”
More steps followed, and Ares, or Mars as he insisted to be called, followed Somya, pulling his folded-up sleeves back. Unlike Somya, he didn’t seem any different from when he went upstairs to help the Sandsmarks, but the few strands of hair on his face told a different story.
“How are they?” Vanessa asked, walking up to the former God of War. “Are they ok?”
Ares turned to Vanessa. “The girl has a lot of heart, far too stubborn to let a beating keep her down.” He said with praise, impressed with the former Wonder Girl’s willpower. “Her Sumerian blood will help her heal in only a few days, but it won’t help her mental wounds after I told her the news about her mother.”
Vanessa had a lot of questions about what he had said, especially the word Sumerian; perhaps Cassie was not simply half-Olympian. However, she focused on the most important detail in his explanation. “What happened with Helena?” She asked in a worried tone. “Is she-”
“She is alive,” Ares said, but his expression shifted, frowning, making her nervous. “Physically, she will recover, she has only a few cuts and bruises. Even a human like her can heal those.”
“But?”
“But it's the spell Circe struck her with. It is unlike anything I’ve seen because it is of her creation,” Ares explained, and Vanessa ground her teeth together when she heard the name belonging to the stranger who hurt her and her loved ones. “Whatever she used, it is affecting her very soul, slowly killing her.”
“Like a virus?” Vanessa asked, and Ares nodded. “Magic can do that?”
“It does,” Ares answered. “Magic can create a nuclear bomb if the user has the patience for it. And Circe is a master at it, one of the very best and most gifted witches on the planet, so making something like this would be as easy as making a cake for her.”
Magic had never been SCYTHE’s priority, but the Commander still made them study anything related to the subject in case they had to face it. Vanessa had never expected to see it at this scale.
“Can you break it?” Vanessa asked. “Find a way to break the curse from Helena’s soul?”
Ares took a deep breath, pocketing his hands. “It’s too complex to break. I will admit Magic is not my strongest suit, but even if you bring in someone knowledgeable, it would be a while for them to break her creation,” he explained. “You need someone at her level of knowledge when it comes to magic, and I am not the best person to face her in that department.”
“Then we call for a specialist, anyone, really,” Vanessa said in desperation. “If this is like a virus, a curse, then we bring a surgeon to cut it out! Maybe Cassie can use her Justice Legion connection, or maybe you can call someone for a favor.”
Vanessa's desperation was clear. She was willing to call for the Justice Legion, the very people she swore to go against for their vigilantism, if it meant saving Helena Sandsmark, her promise be damned.
“The spell is growing far too rapidly. By the time you find someone, it will be far too late,” Ares said solemnly. “The only person in the world who can break the spell without any problem or fear of failsafe is Hecate, the Goddess of Magic. She was Circe’s mentor, and she taught her everything she could about magic. No matter how complex it is, Hecate would understand it.”
“She can help us?”
Ares shook his head. “No, she has no interest in helping the world unless it is connected to her directly, and even then, dealing with her is the worst-case scenario because there is a chance she’ll side with Circe before she even thinks of helping us.”
“So what now?” Vanessa asked, sounding defeated. “Just let Helena die? Let Cassie suffer? Let Circe win?!” she shouted angrily, finally addressing Circe by name. All of this explanation from Ares told her one thing: that the Witch had them beat, and they couldn’t do anything about it.
Ares didn’t react to her outburst, while the Spears looked worried. Tanya, for her part, tried to walk up to calm Vanessa, but the War God raised his hand to stop her, shaking his head and giving her the silent sign to let Vanessa be.
“There is one way: it will be quicker if we act fast enough, but it would take everything from all of us for it to happen,” Ares said, beginning his explanation. “There is a chain link connecting the spell, from the spell caster to Circe. This means it can be broken if we force Circe to release the chain connecting her to Helena…” he explained, letting his words be understood by the occupants in the room before finishing with one last note. “Killing Circe would also break the binding if she didn’t leave any contingencies.”
Vanessa gritted her teeth. “So we have to make her break the spell, and hopefully she doesn’t screw us over… or we kill her, and hopefully she still doesn’t screw us over even in death?” she asked, and Ares nodded. “What kind of person is willing to put in all that work? Just for revenge? On Diana, who is long gone?”
Ares shrugged and turned to the Spears, his gaze focused on Tanya, his daughter. Someone whom he never thought he would meet again was facing him, without knowledge of their blood relations.
“Possibly,” Ares answered, taking a step back. “But if there is one thing I know for sure, Circe does not put these kinds of bindings without any reason. Whatever that reason is involves Cassandra Sandsmark and whether she will choose to make Circe break the spell or kill her, tainting her forever.”
Silence came to the room, letting Ares’s words sink in for all occupants, which might have been the same words he said to the Sandsmarks.
*************************************************************
The room of Somya Spears was quiet, with the only sound being the breathing of Helena Sandsmark lying on the bed sleeping. The room was spacious, with an expensive queen-sized bed as expected from an interim CEO of one the largest companies in the world.
Seated a few feet away on a chair was Cassandra Sandsmark, dressed in fresh clothes given to her by Somya after throwing off the bloody tattered ones she had arrived in. Watching her mother closely, Cassandra’s mind was racing, especially after what Ares told her about the curse Circe placed on her mother, slowly destroying her soul bit by bit until she was nothing but a husk.
“Dammit!” In anger at their situation, she crushed the armchair, tearing its arm off like it was made of paper. If she was stronger, faster, and had the heart for it, she would have stopped the Witch, stopped her from hurting her city, the people of SCYTHE, and those caught in the crossfire, stopped her from hurting her mother…
She buried her face into her hands, tears running down her eyes as she despaired. Everything she worked on after Coast City evaporated was ground up under a very powerful enemy out for revenge.
Considering Circe’s ultimatum, her city could well be gone by the time this was over.
“Artemis… please be safe…” she whispered. She had nearly had a panic attack when she heard the news of the Amazon heading to SCYTHE HQ to stop the prison break, and then… nothing. No matter how many times she dialed her phone, there was no one answering, and she feared for the worst.
She heard her mother coughing, and Cassandra was quickly by her side. “Mom!” she called for her, holding her hand.
“Cassandra?...” Her mother said her name weakly. Her skin was becoming paler, a clear sign that the curse spell was working. “Are you… ok?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Cassandra answered, covering the bandages hidden inside her clothes. “We’re safe. You’re safe.” she said, tightening both her hands around her mothers.
“Did you… break something?” She asked, looking at the chair behind her. “You shouldn’t be… doing that… we are guests…”
Cassandra laughed, her tears falling away. “Sorry… it’s just… it’s been a hell of a week…”
Helena touched her daughter’s cheek, noticing the bandage on it. “You’re… hurt…”
“It’s alright, Mom. Just a few bruises,” Cassandra assured. “You shouldn’t worry, you know I can take it…”
“I am your… mother, Cassandra,” Helena said, facing her daughter. “Demi-God or not… I will always be worried… scared for my little girl.”
Cassandra’s tears came back. Seeing her mother remain strong despite everything made her happy, and she was terrified of losing her.
“So… my soul is cursed?” Helena asked.
“You heard all that?”
“Can’t not… with all the swearing…” Helena noted, giving her daughter a small smile. “You shouldn’t swear at people, Cassandra, especially those who are trying to help.”
“I know, I know,” Cassandra said. She had gone off on Ares after he explained what happened to her mother, and she might have overreacted when she put all her anger on the former War God. “It’s just… I don’t want to lose you… not while we can fix this.”
Helena sat up on her bed, fully facing her daughter. “Which is why… I don’t want you to make the wrong choice.”
“I won’t,” Cassandra said with a low tone. “I will make Circe free you from this curse-”
“No, Cassandra,” Helena grabbed both of Cassandra’s hands with hers. “That is not what I meant…”
Cassandra raised her brows, confused. “Mom?”
“I heard everything… from Circe’s spell… how it works… and how it can be broken…” Helena said, shocking Cassandra. “I know you already decided what you feel you have to do.”
Cassandra didn’t answer, avoiding her mother’s disapproving gaze accusing her. Ares said the quickest way to break the binding and the spell was either by forcing Circe to break it herself or by killing her, severing the connection.
But if what Circe said was true, that Diana decided to kill her instead of making her surrender like everyone else who faced her, that means there was no chance the Witch would submit willingly. She would rather die than give the satisfaction of admitting defeat.
Which left only one solution where she could save her mother.
Helena sighed, knowing what decision her daughter might have made. She held her hand tightly and changed the subject. “I have to tell you something…”
“No, mom. You’re not giving me the ‘Dying Speech’, not while there is a chance we can save you-”
“It’s about your father,” Helena cut her off, shutting Cassandra up. “Your real father…”
Cassandra remembered Circe calling her Daughter of Enlil, not Zeus. Ares said he was a friend of her father, which confused her because Ares hated Zeus, so it wouldn’t make sense that he would help out even if they were his siblings.
“Enlil…” Cassandra said the name aloud, and Helena’s eyes widened, her breath hitching when she heard the name. “Circe… she called me Daughter of Enlil… Child of the Sky...”
Helena took a deep breath, bringing her daughter closer. “Yes… that is true…” she began. “You are not Zeus’s daughter, Cassandra, nor you are an Olympian in any way… but you are in fact… Sumerian… Mesopotamian,” The elder Sandsmark brought her youngest closer and spoke carefully, as if worried that someone might hear them. “Your father is Enlil, the Sumerian God of Wind… and he was the kindest man I have ever known…”
From then on, Helena explained Cassandra’s origins as carefully as possible, pushing on even while the spell affected her. She explained how she met Enlil, a man with golden hair similar to Cassandra’s, who introduced himself as an expert in Mesopotamian history during an expedition in Iraq. They had become rivals at first due to their clashing personalities, but how that developed into respect, to eventually falling in love after a very lengthy adventure that sounded like the plot of The Mummy.
And that love resulted in Cassandra’s birth. He helped raise her with Helena for the first year and a half before he disappeared because he had Olympian enemies and had to leave them to keep them safe.
While she explained all this, Cassandra’s mind went to another piece of critical information. Her father’s true identity had never been the most important thing for her. But what made it important was what Circe told her about Diana’s true reason for coming to Gateway City. It wasn’t just settling in a ‘piss-end of a city’ the more she taught about it, the more she realized the terrifying truth behind her mentor’s reasoning for coming to the city.
Diana was sent to find Cassandra, a Sumerian Demi-God, the Olympians greatest enemy since the Titans, and eliminate her. The prophecy of the Godkiller that they had feared might have come from Cassandra, but all it did was start a long, personal, and bloody war between two women because of the gods' demands for blood.
And now, she, Artemis, and Gateway City suffered the consequences. Even after Diana’s death, Circe would not let her hatred for what had happened to her go, and if it meant destroying her mentor’s legacy, she would do it.
‘Diana…’ Cassandra thought in sadness.
*************************************************************
SCYTHE Sub Base - Industrial District:
“I am not sure how you were able to do it, but you somehow found an ever more depressing place than that HQ of yours. It makes the cell you put us in look like a five-star hotel room,” said one Pamela Isley, formerly Poison Ivy, seated in the middle of a large room behind a large table. Around her were what was left of the SCYTHE agents they had saved during the escape, all working to get the makeshift base they had hidden up and running.
Alexei Abramovici, the Bloodcrow of SCYTHE, glared at the former supervillain, not happy with her comment. He turned to one of his men and began barking orders, “You! Get the goddamn Black Room working! We are running blind here!”
‘Worker drones even without their Commander.’ Pamela looked on unimpressed at the agents. She had never been that sympathetic to the plight of cops getting killed, especially militarized ones. The once mighty and feared peacekeepers of Gateway, who went to war against all the crime syndicates and the Red Centipedes, were now a mere little squad that won’t be able to protect a mini-mart, let alone every escaped convict under the command of the White Magician.
“Man… the signal here sucks!” complained Miguel Barragan by her side, raising his phone and trying to catch any kind of signal. “Could barely talk to my boyfriend when I called him, and can’t connect to the internet,” he complained. He tried once again to call but he couldn’t find a signal. “Useless brick…”
“We are underground in a bunker previously owned by Neo-Nazis, Barragan,” Pamela noted. From what she had heard, this used to be an old RedCent hideout that SCYTHE took over after the war, using it as a smaller base in case of emergency. “Not receiving any signal is part of the appeal of the place.”
“Bunker, huh…” Miguel chuckled. The name Bunker reminded him of the super name that he picked out; the more time passed, the more convinced he was that it was the right one.
Pamela gave a confused look at his expression and shrugged it off. Turning to her right, she saw the silent Emily Sung staring off into the distance. Unlike Barragan, Emily had other matters on her mind. Whatever she sensed or saw back at SCYTHE HQ freaked her out, like seeing something she shouldn’t.
Just as Pamela was about to ask her how she was feeling, a knock on the large blast doors echoed around the base, loud enough for all to hear. Quickly, everyone felt tense, and the SCYTHE agents covered the door as Alexei signaled them to aim their weapons. After the news of the escaped convicts taking control of SCYTHE HQ and their equipment and weaponry, the agents knew that they were being haunted now by the convicts looking for revenge, so they were not taking any chances.
“Would you mind opening the door!” A familiar voice said behind the door, a voice Pamela recognized right away. “I have a bloody Amazon here, and I would like her off my fur!”
“Barbara?” Pamela realized.
“Minerva? As in the Cheetah?” Alexei asked, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “She could be working with them, with the White Magician.”
“She isn’t,” Pamela answered, glaring at the SCYTHE soldier for the accusation. “She would never ally with the psychos you had under lock and key.”
Alexei scoffed. “That woman got a cemetery filled with people who say otherwise, and she hurt the mother of someone I know.”
Before the two could argue, Miguel stood up and decided to take action. He extended his hand, forming a large arm construct from it, and grabbed the handle of the blast door. With one pull, he opened it wide. Barbara entered. Her feline form made some of the SCYTHE agents tense, and weapons were still trained on her.
“Quite the welcoming committee…” she noted in sarcasm. “Now, would you be dears and get this woman some help?” She adjusted the unconscious and bloody Artemis on her back. Her blood covered Barbara’s fur.
“Medic!” Alexei called for an agent nearby before turning to Miguel. “And you, don’t use your freaky powers until I order you to do so.”
“Sorry tin man, I don’t speak fascist,” Miguel responded with a smirk, and Alexei glared at him.
The medic quickly came to Barbara and guided her to a nearby makeshift hospital room, which had a bed and various equipment to help the SCYTHE wounded. Barbara went in haste, and gently, with the help of the medic, they placed the injured Amazon on the bed, her blood soaking the white sheets red.
“How the hell did you even find us?” Alexei asked as he and the others entered. “I made sure I covered all our steps.”
“You did,” Barbara noted, stepping back to let the medic check on Artemis. She turned to Alexei and pointed at her nose. “But one of you has a very special pheromone that I can smell for miles,” she said with a smile as she turned her gaze to Pamela. “Still with those rose scents around you.”
The redhead smiled. “Maybe it’s that mark you left on me.”
“More than you think, Pammy.”
“Christ…” the medic gasped, catching everyone’s attention. “How is she still alive? And how long has she been like this?” He asked, examining the injured Amazon.
Her armor was wholly wrecked, beyond repair. Her headpiece was half broken, and the gauntlets and braces on her arms and legs were dented and unusable. Her injuries were severe: open wounds, slash marks, and burn marks were all over her body, and judging from blows on her armor, she might have had a few broken bones as well.
“Didn’t bother to look at the time with some of the grunts that were sent after us,” Barbara answered, leaning on a nearby chair as fatigue finally set in for her. “But these Amazons are too stubborn to die, and I know that from experience…”
The number of times Barbara thought she had beaten Diana only for the Amazon to get back up and beat her back was many, and it frustrated the woman to no end, but now she couldn’t help but be in awe at the resilience of these warriors.
“Her Amazon gifts will heal her,” Barbara noted. “But I am not sure how long it will take…”
“I doubt it will take more than a few days at least…” the medic noted, bringing out some bandages and wrapping them around her arms. “She will need a miracle to even walk out of here on her own two feet.”
“Uhmm…” Everyone in the room turned to Emily Sung, who stood by the doorway. “I… I think I can help her heal faster.”
Barbara and the medic gave her an odd look. To better explain it, Emily brought her hands together, and a small flame began to form from her palm. However, they weren’t bright orange flames; they were blue flames, and they didn’t feel any heat from them.
“I developed this technique while training,” said Emily. “It's a fire spell that doesn’t burn, but it heals people. I first used it on Miguel when he hurt his hands, and it was instantaneous,” she explained, and Miguel showed his fully healed hand as if he was demonstrating it. “But this will be the first time I will heal someone with this severe of injuries…”
Pamela and Barbara looked at the blue flames with wide eyes. In Pamela’s case, she was told that Emily had powers, and from Miguel’s description, she had the power of all the elements. However, seeing it firsthand and feeling it from just that tiny flame made her sense there was power behind it, warmth, like the sun.
“Do it,” Barbara said, taking a step back. “At this point, if we need magic to get her back into the fight, we better get to it before we lose her for real.” She turned to the shocked medic. This was the first time he would ever see magic in play. “And you, guide her in whatever wounds need to be healed.”
The medic nodded. It was better than nothing. With his guidance and Miguel’s support by her side, Emily went to work to heal Wonder Woman, who was in a state of life and death if they didn’t work fast enough, all while Circe and her crew were out there terrorizing the city.
“What’s the news out there?” Alexei asked after the three left the infirmary room. “We are in the dark here, and I couldn’t radio in anyone with the pieces of junk we got. Not even my brother, who was trying to get as many agents as possible.”
“Brother?” Barbara asked before she realized who his brother was. Her expression became solemn. She remembered the Warhammer who stayed behind to slow Circe and her crew, giving Barbara a chance to escape with Artemis on her back. “The guy with the Hammer…”
Alexei furrowed his brows, noticing the change in her expression. “What happened to my brother?”
Barbara took a deep breath and began explaining everything that had happened: the White Magician’s true identity, her taking over SCYTHE HQ, her ultimatum to Wonder Girl, and finally, Anatoly Abromivici’s sacrifice to save them.
*************************************************************
Somewhere in Gateway…
With the loss of SCYTHE and their headquarters, the surviving agents didn’t have the necessary support from the intel agents in the Black Room to fight off against the newly revived Red Centipedes, now grown more powerful with the help of the escaped convicts, more than happy to exact revenge.
With the bridges closed off, SCYTHE’s weakened state, and Wonder Woman being presumed dead, the city had been thrown into chaos. Streets filled with criminals and looters taking full advantage of what had happened, stealing anything from everyone across the island.
Red Centipedes roamed the streets with military trucks, taken from SCYTHE after their HQ had fallen to the White Magician’s control, making full use of their hardware to hunt down any surviving agent, delivering the message that they were the new peacekeepers of Gateway.
“Let me go!”
A woman, a worker from Taco Whiz, was being dragged from the streets by a group of RedCent grunts. Taken into a nearby corner, the RedCent dropped the worker on the dirty ground. Their eyes had terrible intentions behind them.
“Come on, man,” one RedCent grunt said from behind to his buddy. “We are supposed to find those SCYTHE fuckers, not mess around.”
“You’re serious?” The buddy looked at his friend like he was crazy. “We’ve been locked for months in SCYTHE’s cells; we can have a few minutes of fun.”
“Please! Don’t do this!” The woman screamed, tears falling from her eyes, afraid of what they would do to her. She tried to stand up and run away but was quickly pushed back down on the pavement.
The RedCent approached the woman, who crawled away from them in fear. “Come on, girl, I just need to release all this stress after being locked up for so long!” He proclaimed, giving the woman a leery look before turning to his buddy. “Hey man, I can share! Maybe we can get someone else from the street-”
The RedCent stopped speaking, catching his breath for a moment after he saw his buddy lying on the ground face first, knocked out cold. Looking up, his eyes widened in shock when he saw the person standing before him. “You’re… you were supposed to be dead?!”
Covered in heavy bandages and wrecked NIGHT armor, and carrying a mace in his hand and a pissed-off look on his face, Commander Hector Hall stood before the RedCent grunt like a dark spectre coming back to life. Kicking the knocked-out buddy aside, the Commander looked between the grunt and the terrified woman before he hardened his glare at the RedCent.
“Stay back!” The RedCent grunt aimed his weapon, hands shaking in fear. “I said stay the fuck back-”
In a moment, Hall moved at such a speed he looked like a blur, cutting the distance between the two. With one swing of his mace, he smacked him squarely on the head, sending him to the ground.
Hall turned to the woman he saved, who looked at him in horror. “Go… get to safety…”
Without another word, the woman ran toward the exit and into the streets, away from the alley. Now alone with the two RedCents, Hall grabbed the knocked-out buddy and woke him up, making the man see the bandaged-up Hall looking down at him with hateful eyes.
“You… I want you to send your boss a message…” Hall began, making him face the Commander. “Tell the White Magician, Circe, that I am declaring war on her and on anyone who stands by her side.” He turned and walked up to the other grunt, who was crawling away from the Commander in fear, grabbing his bleeding head. He begged for his life, but Hall ignored his pleas. “And this, this is for my men that you Centipedes have killed…”
He lifted his bloody mace and brought it down like a hammer on the begging Red Centipede as his buddy looked on in horror. He lifted it up once more to reveal the man’s head was crushed like a watermelon.
Commander Hector Hall was still alive, and as long as he was still breathing, SCYTHE would remain standing to fight against all threats against Gateway City.
*************************************************************

Wonder Women Vol 3.

Previous Issue <> Next Issue

https://www.reddit.com/Paranormal/comments/1csoshh/faceless_figure_in_a_white_hoodie/
Faceless Figure In a White HoodieMay 15th 2024, 16:17, by br1ghts1de89
When I was 12, my family was living in a suburb of Nashville, TN. It was a typical summer morning where I ran downstairs to shove some breakfast in my mouth before running down the street to my friend's house to hang out. As I'm eating breakfast and telling my mom where I was going, she was acting very strange and asking a lot of questions about wanting to know specifically where I was going to be, who I was going to be with, and to call her when I got there. She was never this particular about knowing the specifics of my whereabouts, and I could tell something was bothering her, so I asked why she was acting so weird.
She first tries to brush it off, but my mom and I were pretty close so I kept prodding. She finally shares with me that she just feels off because of a nightmare she had the night before. The details of her dream are below from my mom's perspective:
I "woke up" in our house and our dog was downstairs whining and scratching at the front door as if she had to go to the bathroom. So I put on my robe, walked downstairs, and opened the front door so Emma (the dog) could go out into the front yard and do her business. As I was standing on the front steps of the house waiting for Emma to finish, I looked down our street and saw a person in a white hoodie and dark jeans walking up the street towards our house. Every time they would walk under one of the street lights, the light would go out, leaving the rest of the street behind them in darkness. I scooped up Emma and went inside. I locked the front door and went upstairs to look out the window to make sure this person kept going past our house. This person just stopped right in the middle of the street in front of our house, looking directly towards the window as if it knew I was there. I couldn't see his face under the hoodie, but I felt so unsettled and unsafe; like it was staring right at me and almost into me. Then I woke up.
After my mom shares this story, I just brush it off as a weird dream and reassure her that I will be with my friend and will call her when I get to his house. Fast forward to later that afternoon, my friend and I walk down to the front of our neighborhood where an elementary school is. The back part of the playground had a chain link fence that you could hop over to go into the woods. If you followed the steep slope down through the woods, you would eventually end up at a creek that we would often hang out to find arrowheads, weird bugs, stuff like that. As we were hiking our way down through the woods, we stopped at a halfway point that was a long clearing for a four-wheeler trail that ran pretty far left and right and was just a straight path down. As we stopped for a moment in this opening, my friend and I both saw something white, very far down the path, dash uphill between the tree lines going extremely fast. Way too fast with how steep the hill was and how densely wooded this area was. From what we thought we could tell, it looked to be about the size of a small deer, but we really weren't sure.
Seeing that blurred movement of something white in the distance set off the memory of my mom's dream that she told me earlier that morning. I didn't tell my friend anything about it, but I felt a little freaked out and just said we should go the other direction down the four wheeler trail to get back to a spot of the fence at the playground so we could leave the woods and just go play video games at his house. So we leave the woods, go about our day, and say we'll see each other tomorrow.
The next day, my friend and I meet up again and want to go back to the woods and down to the creek. As we're walking across the school's playground towards the fence line to hop back over into that four wheeler path, we see something hanging on the fence. As we get closer, we see that there is a white hoodie hanging on the fence at the exact spot that we left the woods the day before. I never told my friend exactly why, but from that day on I never went back into those woods.
This event happened over 20 years ago now. I never really shared it with anyone until a couple nights ago with some friends and my wife, and their reactions have sent me on a bit of a journey trying to research if anyone else has reported something similar. I've never tried to put this experience into writing, so hopefully this all is easy to follow. If anyone else has had experiences with being followed or watched by a figure in a white hoodie or something like this, I would love to hear your stories.
submitted by br1ghts1de89 [link] [comments]

1.1.1 Our Process Shaper Allows for the Users Preferences to Effect A Parameter like Box Size 1.1.2 Use Our Process Shaper at Fourths of Division to Set the Standard Box Size 250g Effective 1.1.3 For a Larger item, like a computer, set our box size at nominal 740g for the computer to fit snugly inside 1.1.4 Provide the box along with the product with a sidestream plastic process at the additional towers of the foundry beyond primary product plastic allocation 1.1.5 A box may be used to sell the components of the product 1.1.6 A box at 4HZ Sells the product in sections 1.1.7 Always use sixteenth and not free division for box except for box opening, use an offset double, do not exceed double 1.1.8 Use Shaper to Specify a Nylon Pull at the foundry 1.1.9 Offset Fourth Fourth A Pull For Fourth Eight Eight is the formula for always successful nylon at a fast pull 1.2.0 Specify sharp transient at nice mountain if object is too fluid, a sharp transient is the solution for object being motion 1.2.7 Send a delicate first transient for a sharper edge to something 1.2.8 A shaper can be used to send a clothing fit at the factory according to the client 1.2.9 Use Synchro Method 8 and 16 for the XXL and XXXXXL version of something 1.3.0 Use Synchro Method 4 For the Mid Size of something, this is the child size 1.3.1 Use Synchro Method 2 for the baby size 1.3.2 Use synchro method 1 for the fairy size (secret) 1.3.3 Always apply our process before knitting not after or the clothes will be jeans 1.3.4 Apply both before and after knitting to yield blue jeans specific item 1.3.5 Nylon Pull Advice - Use Nine Exact in 4 16ths Shaper Width Freehand Top and Bottom for Nylon Pull 1.3.6 Our Process for Food Packaging use standard .74 for 740g Nutrient Pak 1.3.7 Use exotic 5 for food packaging at the consumer order stream 1.3.8 Use 4 Rate to divide food into 250g nutrient pak 1.3.9 Specify multiple item packs per product with multiple shape of individual pack 1.4.0 Certify Quality before shaper not after with observation 1.4.1 Never use Shape Profiling over 4HZ or it will be a lathe 1.4.2 Use shape profiling to create a raw source of food 1.4.3 With shaper one shape raw food beam in quiet environment at .74 Rate pre post 1.4.4 Pipe Food Beam Pulse to Shaper 2 Tube Forming Pre Post At Same Rate and Without Resetting Shaper Have Shaper Not Create Dissociation At Multiple Collision By Timing Load Time 1.4.5 If It is Successful Not Destroying The Food with the Wrong Load Time Send Again to the Same Rate as in 1 and 2 .74 Rate the Shaper 3 and Cook the Food with the Load Time Not Destroying the Food 1.4.6 Very Important, Have Called the Food Out at corpus identifier and food cook temperature and the Food Says its Name Literally As Food Which Is What Defines a Corpus object is its similarity to the food 1.4.7 If you have done this right very difficult, then you have the sound of the plate of food making the name of the food you called out which is the food 1.4.8 Never fail this or the food will be actual waste 1.4.9 Advanced Shape Profiling, Turn that Our Process to A Lathe Not A Shape Profiler But the Old Reference Shaper 1.5.0 Without Actually Mousing over Shaper Send Shaper at 10HZ to the Wood Mass 1.5.1 Due to minecraft the wood falls away in our reality at the high rate of simulation at its valid input the wood is reverse censored away from the primary mass as it retains its breakage parameter due to stimulation 1.5.2 Our process should never be shut off at .01 rate or you risk losing allegiance with it 1.5.3 Our process does not create actual food if it was shut off before, than there was the reset parameter true, which renders the food invalid 1.5.4 Our process should never be ram stopped which invalidates our process server connection, the R ram stop should never be used.

Cigarettes and rebellion have always gone hand-in-hand, and in an age of cigarette packet-sized health warnings, now more than ever, smoking a fag says: 'I do not give a fuck.' But if Brandon Flowers is hoping to strike a seditious pose by sparking up at the start of the interview, it's not going according to plan. The Killers' frontman is on all fours rooting through the junk that carpets the anteroom at the band's rehearsal space. "Has anyone seen my lighter?" he asks, rocking back on his heels. The question hangs in the air while Brandon cocks his head, waiting for an answer like a meerkat listening for a predator. Twenty-five years old and with a delicate bone structure, there's something almost dainty about him. Receiving no response, he returns to his search. "Oh, Jeez," he sighs. "I had it just a minute ago."
It's a scene that emphatically does not suggest a rebel without a cause. The mess isn't helping. The Killers' HQ - an industrial unit sandwiched between a construction supplier and the offices of a housing development just off Dean Martin Drive in West Las Vegas - is ankle-deep in designer clothing. A Dior Homme suit lies crumpled by the door; there's a pile of shoes topped like a sundae by a pair of Marc Jacobs trainers; and anyone wishing to enter the shoebox room the band use as an office must negotiate a mountain of discarded jeans. Many items are identifiable as coming from the wardrobe of Hot Fuss, The Killers' hugely successful 2004 debut album - triple platinum in the UK with two weeks at Number One and five million sold worldwide. Look! There are the shirts, ties and suit jackets they wore when they thrilled Glastonbury 2005 with indie rock anthems Mr Brightside and Somebody Told Me. That was the crowning moment of a two-and-a-half year tour that finally concluded in October of last year. It seems that after playing that final date in Miami, they returned to Vegas and shrugged off their image onto the floor of this bland white box.
Now a fine layer of dust covers the dead clothes. The Killers have no further use for white tuxedos on their second album, Sam's Town. Today, Brandon wears a black polo shirt, black pin-stripe waistcoat, black jeans and black boots. Where there used to be a layer of foundation, there is now a beard - an untrimmed beard at that. Dave Keuning (30, guitar), Mark Stoermer (29, bass) and Ronnie Vannucci (29, drums) all echo Brandon's black ensemble. Ronnie has added Aviator shades and a handlebar moustache for a dash of motorcycle cop, Dave's frizzy bubble of hair gives him a Marc Bolan-ish air, and there's something very teenage about Mark's scuffed Vans.
Short of walking around wearing sandwich boards saying, "Our new record is a bit heavier than the last one," The Killers couldn't hope to communicate that message more effectively. And they have gained some musical girth on Sam's Town. The pop hooks that made Hot Fuss so irresistible survive intact - see the ringing guitar riffs on first single When You Were Young - but there's a newfound punchiness, coupled with an epic sweep. The minor-to-major uplifts on Bones are fabulously dramatic, the coda to Why Do I Keep Counting? thrillingly intense. Comparisons to Bruce Springsteen have been made. If they overstate the case a little, they are at leaset qualitatively accurate. The Killers are back and this time it's serious - they've got the bootlace ties to prove it.
"Hey, it says here that Springsteen's headlining Glastonbury next year," shouts Ronnie, who's flicking through the NME. He nods sagely at the page without looking up.
"Really?" asks Dave, nicknamed Crazy Dave on account of his alledgedly volatile nature.
"The Boss is headlining one night, we're playing second on the bill the next night and Kylie's headlining the Sunday," says Brandon, charging like a bull through Michael Eavis' as-yet-unannounced line-up with what subsequently proves to be a characteristic gaucheness.
But that lighter is proving elusive. This being America, none of the people hurrying to-and-fro prepping the world for the release of Sam's Town smokes. Manager Robert Reynolds - Bobby Rey to the band - barks into his mobile, booking his band onto eye-wateringly demanding tours. "We're going to make a lot of money," he cackles to himself before switching calls to make a series of stern pronouncements on legal matters. Dave, Mark and Ronnie disappear for a jam session. Artwork is approved, B-sides are decided on and schedules are hammered out.
"I can't find it," Brandon says, finally. But he's not going to be denied the opportunity to underline The Killers reinvention with a puff of smoke. "Let's go to the gas station. I'll have to buy one. It's too busy to talk here anyway."
+
Brandon's black (of course) Volkswagen Touraeg four-wheel drive is barrelling down West Flamingo Road into town. "I was a bell boy there," he says, pointing out of the driver's window at the stucco facade of the Gold Coast casino. "I was working there when we were signed."
Coming from Las Vegas, it is perhaps inevitable that casinos play a big part in The Killers' story; not only is Sam's Town named after one, it was recorded in one, too.
The band began writing songs while on the road with Hot Fuss, turning up early for soundchecks to run through new ideas. On a trip home to Vegas, George Maloof, a hotelier known for cultivating famous friends, invited them to record the album in the new studio he'd built at The Palms, his flagship hotel-cum-gambling den. When the tour finished in October 2005, they returned to Vegas and spent five month finessing the songs they'd sketched out on the road. Then, in February, they decampled to the third floor studio at The Palms and recorded Sam's Town over 11 weeks.
Producer Flood (U2, Depeche Mode) encouraged them to experiment. They overdubbed, fiddled with synthesizers and played with new equipment. It took them five weeks to get the backing vocals right. The band sang the harmonies, then double-tracked them four times. The end result recalls Queen wondering, "Is this is the real life? Is this just fantasy?" When Ronnie, a trained classical percussionist, brought some kettledrums down, eyebrows were raised; but the fabulously bombastic coda on Why Do I Keep Counting? vindicates his indulgence.
"That's kind of the Ben Hur of the album," he says. He's not wrong. Sam's Town is a record on an epic scale. "Yeah, it has drama," he continues. "But, at the same time, I think it's a little more exposed than Hot Fuss. It's a little more naked. Last time it was about a lot of fictional things." By "fictional", Ronnie means that Hot Fuss wore its predominantly British influences for all to see. Brandon's taste in music is rabidly Anglophile - he constantly references The Smiths, The Cure and Joy Division - and it showed. By contrast, Sam's Town is an unequivocally American record. The lyrical imagery is pure American dream - cars, girls, wide-open spaces and escaping to a better life. "We're burning down the highway skyline/On the back of a hurricane that started turning/When you were young," sings Brandon on When You Were Young. That's the basis of the Springsteen comparisons then, though the lack of pathos more closely recalls another blue-collar rocker from New Jersey - Jon Bon Jovi.
The phrase "this town" recurs throughout the album, and it's always receding into the distance as The Killers escape to a new life. "This town was made for passing through/I never did get along with everybody else," sings Brandon on This River Is Wild. On Read My Mind he "never really gave up on breaking out of this two-star town", while on the title track he offers something of an explanation: "Nobody ever had a dream round here."
"With the first record, there was this feeling that there was this world out there that we didn't know," says Mark later in the day. Before The Killers, he studied philosophy: now he's their quiet one. "We wanted to get out and away from this and be somewhere else. We hadn't had a lot of experience - hadn't travelled much - then we were gone for three years. We didn't sit down and say that we wanted to make a record about how we're glad to be home, but that's what happened naturally."
It's not an angsty record. The Killers have already escaped with Hot Fuss, and, having done so, they view the experience fondly now they're back. There's a mistiness to Brandon's eyes as he explains how the album got it's name.
"Sam's Town is a casino on the edge of Vegas," he says. "I grew up in Henderson, which is out on the way to the Hoover Dam. My mom and dad lived in a trailer park, and my dad used to hitchhike up and down Boulder Highway, which is the only way you could get to Vegas. Sam's Town was the first thing you saw on your way in to town. So, when you're driving down Boulder Highway from Henderson, I always thought you finally knew you were getting somewhere when you saw Sam's Town. It was kind of like a beacon."
"It's not a completely American album," contines Brandon. "We still have our English influence, but we're also from the Wild West. Somehow we've managed to unify all that on this album. it's just such a perfect resemblence of what we are."
At the petrol station, Brandon rummages through the glove box looking for change to buy a lighter. "This is a great album," he says, pointing at Highway Companion, the latest from iconic American rocker Tom Petty. "I've always been a big fan of his. He's such a great American artist."
Yes, Brandon: we get the point.
+
When Brandon finally lights his cigarette, he smokes it awkwardly, like a child mimicking something he's seen the grown-ups doing. However, when he cheerfully admits that, "I feel the same mentally as I did when I was 12," it's not a knowing nod to the fact that he sometimes behaves like a loveably precocious child, but a reference to an unusually comprehensive grounding in pop music at an early age.
When Brandon sings about "this town", he doesn't mean Las Vegas. He means Nephi, Utah or Henderson, Nevada, where he spent his childhood. His parents are Mormon and he is the youngest of six children. "I was a surprise," he says. "I've got a 42-year-old sister." If he was issues about his "surprise" status, he chooses to gloss over them. "It turned out perfect because my brother was a teenager when I was a kid," he says. "He would bring home things like Rattle And Hum by U2 and I would watch it. I remember he bought Live In Dallas by Morrissey. It was always him watching these things, or his door was shut and you'd hear The Head On The Door by The Cure blasting through the house and rattling the walls."
The Killers were formed when Brandon answered an advert Dave had placed in a local paper in late 2002. Dave cited Oasis as a big influence; Brandon had seen them play recently and responded; and, as Dave has said in previous interviews: "He was the only person to reply to my ad who wasn't a complete freak." However, the band was born in Brandon's brothers bedroom.
"His room was like a shrine," enthuses Brandon. "It was a holy place. I wish I could show you a picture of it. It was covered in posters. There'd be a big picture of Elvis wearing a bow tie that just said 'The Smiths' [the artwork for The Smiths 1987 single Shoplifters Of The World Unite]. You had The Cure wearing face paint [the artwork to The Cure's 1985 single In Between Days] - all that kind of stuff. I remember Morrissey being on the cover of the NME, with the halo [from 1985] - stuff like that. You just wanted to know about these people 'cause they were so cool. My brother seemed like such a cool person. But he was a teenager, so he wasn't going to be that nice to me, a kid."
Brandon was fascinated by his brother's collection of music, magazines and posters, but he was denied access to them - officially, at least. "I would sneak in," he says. "I knew he'd be angry if he found out, but I would go in as soon as he left the house." For a long time Brandon was too scared to actually play anything. "That didn't come 'til later. I just used to go in there because I liked it. Then I got to the point where I'd actually take a tape out and put it in. It took more guts to do that."
It was a life-changing moment. "I was ten and the first song I played was Sing Your Life by Morrissey. I remember dancing about to it."
The lyrics to Sing Your Life include the lines, "Sing your life/Just walk right up to the microphone/And name all the things that you love/All the things that you loathe." It's intriguing to wonder what Morrissey makes of the neophyte he inspired with these lines.
Eventually, Brandon inherited his brother's tape collection. "It was around the same time CDs started coming out in a big way. He started buying CDs and gave me his tapes. And that was it: it took off from there. I got a hundred of the best albums - all the New Order, all the Morrissey, all The Smiths, The Beatles. I started buying posters. I went to see The Cure in concert. It was just kind of a continuation of my brother. And it was nice because, though my parents were strict, they were already used to it from him. There was no, 'My dad doesn't understand me,' or any of that kind of stuff. My mum likes The Smiths."
Brandon was 13 and his favourite band was late-'70s/early-'80s American new wavers The Cars, and particularly their jaw-droppingly catchy 1979 single Just What I Needed.
"I wouldn't exist without that song," he says. "That was the one. I remember driving around with my mum when I was 13, and we're living in Nephi - a really small town - and I felt so cool when I put that song on. Like: 'I have something that none of these kids I'm going to middle school with tomorrow have.' That excitement is what music's about, isn't it? That's why I understand the mentality of people that don't like us because we've sold so many records. I used to like it when no one else knew about a band. So I get that - I do."
+
Brandon's first band was called Blush Response. It was never going to work out. Not because he refused to move to Los Angeles with them, but because he is utterly - comically - shameless. He's given to making outrageously boastful statements like: "It's not like the '60s, '70s and '80s now. There are only a few bands around that are really good, that just do it. I mean, there's what, five or six of us?"
For the record, in Brandon's estimation, those bands are Franz Ferdinand, Razorlight, The Strokes, The White Stripes, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and, of course, The Killers.
"I don't want people to think I'm lumping myself with other people just to make us sound cool," he says. Really? It sort of sounds like you are. But he just steamrolls through it. "Yeah, but you know what I mean," he says, grinning at his own cheekiness. He's so disgracefully forward you can't help but laugh along with him - Oh you are awful, Brandon! But joking aside, The Killers are the most commercially successful of all the bands he mentions.
Later, back at the rehearsal space, the band run through Sam's Town at deafening volume in preparation for the forthcoming tour - first the US, then the world. The infectious, almost contagious, chorus of When You Were Young sounds fabulous, as do the U2-like guitars and Twin Peaks synths of Read My Mind. Meanwhile, Smile Like You Mean It and Somebody Told Me benefit from the newfound harder edge.
They somewhat heavy-handedly underline the new direction by playing Paranoid by Black Sabbath and Get It On by T Rex. That's the thing: The Killers are not a subtle band. Their songs are like a wet kiss from a girl who's a bit too drunk. They are big and brash, and not everyone loves them for it. Mr Brightside and Somebody Told Me might go down as well at hip nightclubs as they do on the festival circuit, but the DJs play them with the same guilty look they wear when playing a pop record.
"I hate that," says Brandon. "Like writing a song you can hum somehow cheapens it? It makes me think of this quote by Morrissey. Everybody knows how he read Oscar Wilde, Keats and Yates when he was growing up and that he wanted to be a writer. He was talking to this journalist who asked why he hadn't become a writer, and Morrissey said: 'What I do is more powerful than what you do because I can write down these words and you get it to a melody. How can you beat that?' I'm of the same opinion. I don't understand why a good melody that's memorable is a bad thing."
Being dismissed as pop particular aggrieves Ronnie. "When we first came out we got compared to Duran Duran all the time. Jesus Christ! We got a keyboard player now all of a sudden he's Nick Rhodes! Come on!"
"The people who criticise us for being too poppy don't get it," agrees Mark. "I think that's the problem with a lot of rock music. People are afraid to write a song any more. Either that or they can't. And that attitude hurts music in general. The best bands ever have all written great songs. You can still do it and do it intelligently and it can be original. This isn't a studio creation with a producer writing these songs for us. We're not Avril Lavigne, or something like that. We're a real band writing real songs, just like a punk band would do, except that we write pop songs."
You get the impression that The Killers knack for showboating pop hooks that border on vulgar is inextricably tied up with the brazen side of Brandon's personality. But while his ebullient charisma, not to mention the songs themselves, mitigates his outrageousness, there is a less attractive side to his ego. He has a combative streak. He can't resist taking pot shots at emo bands, notably Fall Out Boy, whith whom The Killers share an A&R man.
Has he heard how many emo kids it takes to change a light bulb? "No." None. They just sit in the dark and cry. It's a full 30 seconds before he stops laughing. When he does he admits: "Yeah, we've had problems with other bands. You know, when you walk in the room it's like..." He whistles the theme to The Good, The Bad And The Ugly. "We're like gangs."
And while the other members of the band are diplomatic on the subject of Brandon, you don't have to read too deeply between the lines to conclude that there have been internal issues, too.
"Some people will think Brandon's the big genius," says Dave, visibly bridling. "There are songs, such as Why Do I Keep Counting?, where he's written every note. But there are others, like When You Were Young, that were more of a collaboration - like Mr Brightside, where I had some of the music and Brandon came up with the lyrics. We always have arguments about who wrote what. The truth is that we all help in that process."
When asked how success affected them, Ronnie says: "There were certain things that needed adjusting. When you're on tour for two years, people can get a little needy. It doesn't help that you're surrounded by yes men and everybody's working for you. At times we've had to say, 'Who do you think you are?' to people. No one wears the trousers, but some people would like to. I think if it wasn't for the people in the band kicking each other in the ass... Let's just say there was some ass-kickin'."
It doesn't take a genius to work out whose ass needed kicking most often.
+
It's the following day and The Killers are back at their rehearsal space. The topic of discussion is what to wear in the video for Bones, the second single. It's a big deal: the director is Tim Burton. "I feel like Frank Sinatra when I sing it," announces Brandon. "With maybe a little bit of Morrissey and a little bit of Elvis, too."
Of course he does. But if securing the services of Tim Burton tells you one thing, it's that The Killers are about to get even bigger, perhaps even make the leap to the same level as Coldplay et al. Already stars, they are about to become superstars. Brandon can hardly wait.
"Do you know that Rolling Stone didn't want to put us on the cover last time," he says indignantly. "They didn't think we were stars. We sold five million albums! What more do they want from a band?"
Whatever was required, Brandon would be happy to do most things. "I'll do stuff that some people don't want to do, 'cause I want people to hear the music," he says. However, even he has limits. "The Rolling Stone thing made the record label think: 'What can we do to make them stars?' If I go on vacation with my wife, do they have to send somebody to be there to take pictures of me? Is that how you become a star? I don't want that. I walked down the red carpet one time and I realised I don't like it. But you don't have to walk down the red carpet for people to hear your music. We do still have some of that indie blood running through our veins."
He heads off at a tangent: "When you walk around Liverpool, you think of The Beatles, or you go to Manchester and you think of The Smiths or Oasis. I want you to come to Las Vegas and think of Sam's Town. And I think we've started to capture that, which is a truer version of The Killers, 'cause that's where we're from."
He pauses.
"I used to live across the street from Sam's Town. Maybe it'll be like our Abbey Road where people go to take pictures."
Is that what he'd like?
"I wouldn't mind it," he says, desperately hoping it will come true.
He puts a cigarette between his lips, looks down at his trouser pockets and pats them in search of the lighter he bought yesterday.
"Hey, I don't suppose you've got one?"

	A Victim of Online Fiction	The One Who Walks Alone
Reads last 24 hours	60,000	2100
Reads all time	1,500,000	156,000

A Victim of Online Fiction was starting to stack up reads, while The One Who Walks Alone had become a nice side-hustle. I decided that my next step would be to follow Alex’s advice for once and start banking chapters.
I cut back my schedule to three chapters a week for A Victim of Online Fiction and two a week for The One Who Walks Alone.
Each morning I poured myself a cup of tea, swallowed a pill and hacked out three chapters before lunch, had a call with Alex, went for a quick run and picked up food from a cafe, then it was back home for revisions and occasionally some plotting.
By 5pm I’d be pooped mentally, but physically bursting at the seams. I’d pop another pill or two then saunter off to whatever party was happening that night before waking up in someone’s shrubbery at sunrise.
For a while writing and enjoying myself were all I craved. I was shitting out chapters faster than I’d ever done before, and building a backlog had taken a lot of pressure off the day to day writing.
And then one morning I woke up in a springy little olive tree to the sound of my good friend Manuel yelling at me. Manuel was really excited about something. He kept saying over and over ‘You’re done Eli! You’re done, dude. You really messed up – big time.’
I rubbed my eyes and pulled a couple of leaves from my ear, ‘Huh?’
Manuel grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the tree. He had a tablet in one hand and was laughing. He pushed the tablet into my face, ‘It’s LazyCultivator... the best writer in the entire damn world. She’s calling you out man.’
I pushed a pill between my lips and swallowed, slowly my vision started to clear. Beneath the latest chapter of the chicken story was a massive rant about my books.
‘Woah.’
‘Woah alright,’ Manuel bounced around me, ‘All that stuff you said about the chicken, how you wanted to take her on, she’s just shutting you down. This is going to kill your readership man!’
I frowned, ‘And why are you so happy about this? I thought you were like, in my corner...’
Manuel slapped me on the back, ‘Course I am man, course I am... but this is LazyCultivator we’re talking about... she’s a genius... Shakespeare reborn... the Wuxia Tolkein... the Virginia Woolfe of transcending tropes.’
‘Alright... whatever.’ I straightened my neck, there was this awful kink in it, ‘So yeah, she’s denouncing my work as a piece of shit, but so what? There’s a lot of times I think it's a piece of shit too.’
‘Ah... but you haven’t been read by 100 million people, have you?’
‘Guess not...’
‘She’s never done this to anyone before. Dude. Your career is over. Back to the dungeons you go.’
My stomach was cramping and all of Manuel’s shouting was starting to give me a headache, ‘You’re kind of being an asshole.’
He shrugged, snatched his tablet back, ‘LazyCultivator... how the hell man...’
I turned away from him and started stumbling back to my place. I could feel the pill bubbling as it mixed with the leftover alcohol in my stomach. I paused to throw up, wiped the froth from my lip then continued home. My throat was as dry as the Sahara but I ignored the ice-cold water in my fridge and powered on my computer and sat there for two hours reading the comments beneath LazyCultivator's new chapter.

HamishNO
This guy’s going to the grave.
Sammywakles
Taking on the chicken? Foolish young master. This shall be the death of him.
NOTyet
Review bomb him. We’re gonna take this guy down.
The final comment had 20,000 likes and when I clicked on my story I saw my precious five-star rating had dropped to just above zero. My throat was inflamed, but still, I read. People were trashing my novels. Review bombing them off the featured lists I’d slowly been climbing my way up.
Alex called, I ignored him. He called again. I hung up. He called a third time and I answered. Alex was wearing a suit and a professional black tie.
‘Not a good time to call Alex.’
Alex shook his head, ‘No. It's not. The CEO wants to see you.’
‘What?’
‘Richard Balls, the man who founded this company, the guy who can have your stories deleted like this,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘The guy who can fire me like this,’ he snapped his fingers again. There were tears in his eyes. ‘He wants to see you in half an hour.’
I couldn’t speak. My throat was all dried up.
‘Alex... I...’
He gave this pitiful whine, ‘Put on your most professional-looking clothes. Get in the car when it comes. There’s nothing I can do for you.’
The call ended and the silence struck me like a jumbo jet squashing a slug on the runway.
A glass of water hurt to swallow. The only decent looking shirt I had rasped my skin and a pair of black shoes made my feet heat up. I pushed my pill bottle into the pocket of a pair of black jeans then sat outside. I fidgeted, grazing my knuckles against the concrete of the stairs. The pain tasted good. Like ice.
‘Astra,’ I whispered to myself, imagining her face, ‘Astra.’
I thought about all the weeks that had passed. How good the freedom had felt. How empty it felt now. I knew I needed a friend. I knew I had none. Not here anyway.
A neighbour walked past. His name was Min. He wrote sci-fi, I’d carried him up his steps the Thursday before, he wanted to get married to a girl that wrote horror.
‘Hey Min!’
Min turned to me but his feet didn’t stop. He took one look, his eyes glazed over and he walked on. It was a hot day. Maybe he was thirsty or something.
The limousine they sent for me was black, with a fin-like antenna on top and it cruised the streets like a shark looking for prey.
It came to a stop in front of my house. The back door swung open to reveal a pure black void. I wobbled to my feet then climbed in. I couldn’t see a thing outside as we swung around and around. The only things that differentiated it from my first cell were the plush leather seats. Even so, my breath was rushing in and out faster than I liked.
‘Astra.’ I said to myself, I wondered why I hadn’t bothered trying to contact her, I hadn’t even left a comment on her story. I’d seen hundreds of her comments on mine.
The limo jerked to a stop. The door flew open.
It was like I’d been transported to another planet. The quiet, quaint Village had been replaced by a steel and glass plated monstrosity. People in suits flowed in and out of the front door like blood through arteries – or maybe parasites through a host.
I edged myself out of the limo. The door slammed behind me, and the shark-vehicle sped off. Hands closed around both my arms.
‘Good to see you Mr Hill,’ A security guard on my right said.
‘Mr Balls is waiting for you,’ said the guard on my left. Their grip was casual but firm as we walked towards the doorway.
The elevator in that building was bigger than our entire four-dorm. The bathroom was ten times the size of my cottage, and there were slides, pool tables, domes to sleep in. I wasn’t sure whether the topia I’d wandered into was a utopia or a dystopia.
Finally, we reached Richard Balls office – technically it took up the entire top floor, but most of that was taken up by an indoor golf course, spa, and a floor of secretaries, lawyers and accountants.
The guards made me stand outside for ten minutes while they waited for a signal from Balls. When it finally came they pushed me towards the double doors.

If you've never seen it, I highly recommend the TV show Leverage. A five-season long mashup of heist movies and sitcoms, it follows a group of thieves who break the law to enforce justice on everyone from corrupt cops to the US Congress. In addition to being decent television, it was also a great source of twists, stings, and a variety of genre tropes, including security systems.
Now, I don't know about y'all, but sometimes I just plumb forget to add stuff like cameras, motion sensors, etc. And I've found that working off a template reminds me to add stuff back in. So I started putting some of these together as in-world security systems.
Most of you will likely not find this helpful, but for those of you like me, it gives you a structure to start from. That, I find, makes all the difference.
Definition of Terms:
Alarms: Alarms trigger any nearby patrols to check out the source of the alarm. Patrols start at the source of the alarm, then quarter and search the nearby rooms, moving in pairs when possible. If nothing is found, the alarm is shut down, but guards linger nearby for the next 30 minutes.
Patrols: 1d3 bodyguards (per Core Rules); 1-in-3 chance they have mini air drones available to sweep the area
Security Hub: Location from which all security measures can be monitored, and the security comm net controlled. Typically watched by a dweller (netrunner-in-residence), with stats as netrunner (per Core Rules).
Tier [X]: Security is set up in tiers. Tier 1 areas are available to anyone who's supposed to be in the building. Tier 2 areas are a bit more restrictive (an armory within a police station, for example, or a judge's chambers). Tier 3 areas are for very restrictive secured areas, like a SCIF.
Glenn-Rieder Security System:
A must for those with moderate security concerns, such as museums, banks, etc., the Glenn-Rieder will stop all but the most determined crew of thieves.
Cameras: 1d6 + 1 per floor, Stealth DV 14 to evade notice, 2-in-6 chance camera is being actively monitored.
Motion Sensors: 1d3 per floor, Contortionist DV 13 to evade notice, automatically triggers silent alarm.
Locks:

• Entryway to Tier 1 locations have a keycard lock (can be bypassed by 2 min DV 11 Electronics / Security Tech check, manufacturer's override code, or by having the appropriate keycard)
• All doors in Tier 2 locations have a keycard lock (can be bypassed by 5 min DV 14 Electronics / Security Tech check, manufacturer's override code, or by having the appropriate keycard)

Guards: There are 1d6-1 active patrols at any given time, with another patrol standing by in a nearby break room, and a netrunner (dweller) camped at the security hub. Guards usually patrol a set beat, but will actively and aggressively track any suspected intruders.
Windows: All windows secured with standard locks (DV 9 Pick Lock) and laser tripwires (DV 13 Electronics / Security Tech check)
Exotic Countermeasures:
Roll 1d6 for each of the following countermeasures. On a roll of 1, that countermeasure is in place.

• 1d3 laser grids covering any human-sized air ducts
• Location has paid for NCPD Rapid Response to guarantee a 1 minute response time from the NCPD (1d6 +1 responding cops; stats as security operatives)
• Drone swarms are networked into the location's net architecture, and will deploy in response to any alarm or suspected intruder (mini air drones)
• All guards have one cybereye with MicroVideo that's streaming to the security hub; what one of them sees, all of them can see
• Fire prevention system (triggers on alarm) that locks down one enclosed space and sucks out all the air, rendering anyone inside deaf, mute, and asphyxiating - effect lasts until alarm is lifted
• 1d3 turrets, as assault rifle equipped with either rubber bullets or armor-piercing bullets (location owner's preference), Autofire +12; will not fire on anyone carrying an access keycard

Inspired by Solomon VK's Faufreluche posts.

D20	This staristocrat's badge of office
1	is a golden diadem which projects a hologram of Old Sol from its highest tine, as well as the rest of Man's Cradle-System orbiting about it.
2	is a hideous diamondoid mask made in the image of an alien demi-god from whom their esteemed house claims descent.
3	is an auroran magneto-cloth cape which flares with the oscillations of subtle fields.
4	is a porous meteoric amulet that echoes with the music of the spheres.
5	is a blade of enchained magnetic monopoles channeling ouroboric tangles of plasma - ever-glowing, their patterned glows expressing the cyclical yet self-degrading nature of the cosmos, able to cut through all but the most unnaturally enforced materials.
6	is a scepter containing a degenerate micro-verse within its topping globe.
7	is a battered helmet pulled from the suit of one of the first humans to reach outer space.
8	is a battle standard bearing the heraldry of their family, and topped with the head of a lion, preserved and animated to roaring unlife by cybernetic tubes woven through its flesh and bone.
9	is a halo of abstract mathematics, written directly on the fabric of space-time rather than mere matter.
10	is a pauldron of fused silicon, the remains of an artificial intelligence which almost overcame humanity.
11	is a dilating-lens lantern of an indestructible, orange-green alloy - fully unleashed, its actinic brilliance can guide in a ship from high orbit.
12	is a vial of their own, genetically-perfected blood, crystallized into a ruby-like gem.
13	is a crown of golden rings hovering about each other, each engraved with the zodiac of a different solar system.
14	is a famous artifact of Earth preserved within a temporal stasis-orb.
15	is a set of infrasonic pan pipes that can manipulate the minds of men and machine alike.
16	is a holy book written by the first settler of their world, in an eclectic script unreadable by anyone yet living.
17	is a shield with a brazen, hypercubic boss and a rippling purplish forcefield about.
18	is a labrys bearing edges honed to subatomic sharpness with whetstones hewn from the preternaturally dense heart of a collapsed star.
19	is a bowl holding a fractal bonzai grafted with branches of every fruit-bearing tree of humanity's homeworld.
20	is the head-sized smaragdine egg of some voidborne beast, the inevitable hatching of which is said to herald the end of the universe.

D20	This staristocrat's holdings
1	lie under a dimming sun, weakened by its fusion-harvest which forms the foundation of the staristocrat's wealth.
2	contain no life-bearing worlds, its population sustained only by technocratic hydro-pneumatic despotism.
3	bear the glassy-green sheen and asymmetrical mutations left by ancient nuclear war.
4	are mineral-rich but poor in organics and water, expending most of their export-wealth on life-giving imports just to survive.
5	produce a unique and inimitable spice, and are thus coveted by an extra-solar rival.
6	are either watery or gaseous, with dry, solid ground an unimaginable luxury - the populace living on great rafts or aerostats.
7	have recently absorbed a mass of refugees fleeing a black swan xeno-threat.
8	were enclosed from the common space of comet-cowboys, who plague it with their raids to this day.
9	are nestled among the ruins of an extinct alien civilization, probed only gently for fear of waking their automatic guardians.
10	are slowly but surely having their life-giving atmospheres stripped away by the rapacious solar wind of their red gigantism-suffering sun.
11	are deliberately kept ignorant of the wider galactic community to reduce their capacity to revolt, and so that the ruling class can portray themselves as deific through their technological capabilities.
12	are undergoing a long and delicate process of terraforming which structures cultural and religious cycles around these artificial seasons and critical thresholds.
13	are overgrown with a police state only nominally under the staristocrat's authority, and the computational bureaucracy that's arisen to process all their surveillance.
14	are infamous for their permissiveness, and abound in every sort of vice.
15	are torn apart on a planetary scale for the sake of resource-harvest and industry, and what unruptured ground exists is blanketed in choking smog outside sealed habitats.
16	were recently seized from a treasonous vassal and bestowed upon this staristocrat - the old holder's sympathizers still lurk within the population, evading the claws of inquisition.
17	exist mostly fictitiously, as moving shell-games of companies and titles.
18	are centered on an ecumenopolis with some roads paved with stones hewn before humanity's ancestors came down from the trees - its corners hide occultic dens of our darkest imaginings.
19	are generally scorching, deserts or liquid hells, their structures mirrored and extending tubes of heat exchanges and radiators like a seraphim wings.
20	are verdant in all forms of life - none go hungry, yet many are eaten, and a clan of masked physicians go about the populace to rebuke the tides of plague.

D20	This staristocrat is attended by
1	a harem of genetically-engineered Willendorfian Venuses, bearing a continuous stream of heirs who will duel over the matter of their inheritance in the arena of their crèche.
2	artful historians hunchbent over data-tablets, preserving every moment and detail of the staristocrat's life in imperishable crystalline records.
3	nigh-invisible bodyguards swaddled in light-bending metamaterial cloaks, heat haze auras ready to strike down any offense against their master.
4	clanking cyborg-knights - behind their cuirasses are tanks preserving the most loyal and chivalrous parts of their mortal brains.
5	slaves bearing explosive collars - the tribute of many conquered worlds.
6	a squadron of musclebound eunuch-janissaries raised from childhood with size- and strength-stimulating hormones and non-stop brainwashing.
7	clones of themself educated according to various traditions as diverse yet biologically-partial advisors.
8	the cryogenically-preserved heads of their forefathers, which sometimes dispense shivering, crackling counsel.
9	hovering laser-turrets fitted with targeting algorithms able to anticipate their master's desire to kill before it's consciously felt.
10	an enormous parrot with impeccable skill at mimicry, whose mind has been overwritten with every song recorded by humanity up until the time of its creation.
11	a pair of titanic wolfdogs, with metallic teeth that could rend apart a tank and hides that have turned aside artillery-shells.
12	the plush animatronic companion of their childhood, its digital personality updated to be a competent advisor.
13	a caste of butlers who've served their family for generations, bred like pedigreed dogs.
14	a choir singing their praises, the choir's lungs replaced with cybernetic jet-intakes slatted between ribs, so that they might sing unceasing.
15	a former whipping boy, their oldest friend, bearing the delicate scars of tremendously sophisticated tortures.
16	tumbling jesters dressed in patchworks of impossible colours captured from the coronas of half-real suns.
17	technotheologic angels dancing through the air on wings of incandescent blazons.
18	abductees from primitive worlds fitted with neural implants which make them believe they are simply in an extended dream.
19	a team of chefs who can prepare the delicacies of a dozen worlds, never repeating the same twice in their master's lifetime.
20	grey masters of anagathic science, whisper-arguing over the injections and ointments that will quicken them a while longer.

D20	This staristocrat's court
1	is entertained by a vapourous alien intelligence which takes possession of lesser courtiers through a fanciful hookah.
2	has its lesser members partially memory-wiped when they attend it - able to recall their skills, yet unable to remember much of their own identities, and so how to apply those skills for personal benefit.
3	is deliberately, performatively humble, held in barns and suchlike.
4	is overlooked by a cine-dome showing stars, moons, and constellations in fortuitous alignments.
5	is addicted to novelty, and constantly seeks new performances and grotesques.
6	is made up nepotistically of their siblings who did not win the contest to inherit the throne.
7	are waited on hand and foot by fragile ceramic robots imprinted with the tightly-enchained engrams of political criminals.
8	takes place entirely remotely - members are provided radio-devices with frequencies that trigger voice-like vibrations in great bells this staristocrat is in the constant presence of.
9	were at first ironically and now legitimately entranced by a bloody cult of sacrifice and agonies.
10	has been forced to accept elected representatives from among the populace by a revolt - to the grumblings of those who attained their positions through inheritance.
11	is wracked by a scandal involving mistresses overspending from public coffers.
12	is perpetually-wrapped in augmented-reality projections of mythic mimesis.
13	is burrowed among the roots of the biggest mountain of their throne-world, so that it could survive all but the most devastating attacks.
14	are all accompanied by a member of an order of courtesan-assassins implanted with acid-glands in case their charge shows overt disloyalty.
15	solve disputes among themselves with duels, and drill daily with various weapons and fighting styles.
16	is held within a hollow pyramid, with this staristocrat at the top point and many stairs and levels filtering petitioners between them and the entrance at the base.
17	is largely taken over by a conspiracy to poison this staristocrat, and even the uninvolved have begun to circle like vultures.
18	is a ring of stone thrones built to scale with the renown of the one who sits upon them - this staristocrat themself sits like a small child on a throne fit for giants - their seneschal on a stool.
19	is held around a colosseum, where gladiators and vicious alien beasts fight for their amusement and haruspexies.
20	is itinerant, a grand airship which hovers above the realms of hosting vavasours.

D20	This staristocrat's noble flaw
1	is hubris - they believe they can become like God by funding breakneck scientific process.
2	is bravery - they will fight to the last in the face of overwhelming odds, even if better options present themselves.
3	is honour - their thinking is rigid and totally un-utilitarian.
4	is generousity - they give without thinking, disrupting economies and fostering dependence with their largesse.
5	is parental love - they spoil their children on a terrible, cosmic scale.
6	is a thirst for justice - a continent has burned due to their need for a punishment fitting a truly awful crime.
7	is filial piety - their increasingly-senile dowager-mother has them tied around her bony finger.
8	is tolerance - they've cultivated cosmopolitan communities, yet failed to confront division and rising extremism.
9	is an aesthetic sense that is souring into decadence.
10	is persistence - they are a dogged obsessive.
11	is realpolitik - they've alienated possible allies with ruthlessness.
12	is faith - they lean often into outright zealotry.
13	is cautiousness - they often dive into outright paranoia.
14	is competitiveness - they're innovative, but often only in the tortures applied to defeated rivals.
15	is cleanliness - they have advanced to a purgative germaphobia.
16	is contentment - they have come to peace with all things, even if others demand their action.
17	is honesty - they will never lie, even if it benefits them and their people.
18	is is humility - they are overly-convinced of their own incapacity.
19	is romantic love - their spouse manipulates them to their knowledge yet total acquiescence.
20	is imagination - their fancies often end up unproductive or outright destructive.

Have you ever watched a gritty ITV drama and thought "F*cking hell this is dreary"? Well now you can make your very own, thanks to the ITV Drama Recipe Kit! Just follow the directions below and you'll be well on your way to making forgettable nonsense:
1) Setting
You're going to need a setting first, opt for an overcast seaside village/town so you can get plenty of drone shots of waves crashing, and your main character standing at the edge of a cliff, staring out into the grey. Make sure it feels like the Isle of Wight in November. The environment has to feel so completely detached to any time period that your viewers can only make reasonable guesses to the setting based on which model of iPhone your main character is receiving mysterious harassing phone calls
2) Main Character
You'll need a blonde woman in her 40s/50s, make sure she has a designer trench coat so we know she's a detective when we first see her. Basically just grab a Sally Lindsay type and give her a heaping of trauma. Make sure to get a scene of her screaming "TELL ME WHAT YOU DID TO MY DAUGHTER" to an unknown person in some autumnal woodlands for the ITVX promo. It's guaranteed to get you nominated for an award
3) Overall plot
Keep things light and playful by introducing a dead child to the mix who died off-screen months before the first episode. Have your main character constantly fondle some trinket that has a special connection to the dead child, as they are routinely assaulted by over edited echoing flashbacks of the once living child doing living child things. F*ck up the audio too so that the child's giggling sounds haunting and ghost-like for when your main character suddenly snaps back to reality in a public toilet staring into a dirty mirror
4) Vehicle
Always ensure your main character drives a non-descript grey saloon clearly beyond their salary. It has to be inconspicuous and dull so that your main character can spy on the wrong person as they exchange packages with a shady individual in a gravel-lined carpark. Once you reach episode 4 of 6, use flashbacks to manufacture a sudden revelation for the main character which leads them to make a violent U-turn on a B-road to confront a suspected murderer
5) Therapy
Make sure at least one member of your principle cast is having regular therapy sessions even though they don't want therapy sessions. These sessions being mandated by their employer or loved ones as a response to some sort of traumatic event that in some way connects to the aforementioned dead child. Illustrate their internal pain with at least one over edited scene of flashbacks interspersed between them tossing and turning in their designer king size bed, before a sudden echoing gunshot and a scream forces them into an upright position
6) Conflict
Ensure that the main character must conduct their own off-the-books clandestine investigation because they either don't have the proper jurisdiction, the case has been prematurely closed, or their superintendent believes they are too emotionally invested in the case because it closely mirrors the character's own off-screen personal tragedy. Under no circumstances can you give your character allies with anything actually useful to contribute, otherwise there's no bureaucratic system to rail against in their fight for justice
7) Conclusion
Wrap up the story with the mysterious antagonist being revealed by episode 5 of 6, so that there can be an emotional confrontation that results in said antagonist falling off the cliff established in the first shots of episode 1. If you'd prefer more violence, have them fight over a kitchen knife in a deciduous forest, fall over, then as the protagonist and antagonist find blood on their turtlenecks, they look down to find that the antagonist has stabbed themselves, they bleed to death on a pile of dead leaves and the protagonist is able to achieve some form of closure in their IKEA home in a jump-cut to 6 months in the future

The calculator says I’m a 34DD (US) which is what I wear now. But Victoria secret t-shirt bra has cup gaping at the top. My other bra is in the same size from target and it’s a balconette, but the cups are too small and the band is a little snug. I do love the shape of a balconette. I’m looking for a new bra and I was looking at Adore Me but I’m not sure what size I should get or if there’s a specific style I should look for.
Loose under: 34 inch Snug under: 32.25 inch Tight under: 31 inch Standing bust: 37.5 inch Leaning butch: 40 inch Lying: 38.5 inch
My shape is more “tear drop”. Plung bras I spill out of and I don’t like unwired bras because the band won’t sit right under the cups (it’ll lift). I also have an issue with brands riding up with most brands/styles. Im a little lost lol. Any brand suggestions or specific bras or sizing would be greatly appreciated!! (Just something that won’t break the bank)

Hey everyone! I'm planning to play some golf when I'm in Japan, I'm planning on booking a slot at one of the Prince Hotel courses. I've gone back and forth over email with the golf staff a couple times, but I don't want to keep bugging them with questions as they've already been accommodating with translating their emails.

1. Golf attire - what is appropriate? I was told jeans would not be acceptable. Is a collared short sleeve polo shirt and slacks ok? I did find this website with some information, does this seem accurate?
   
2. Golf shoes - the staff told me they have shoe rentals available, but I have pretty small feet and I'm not sure if they'll have anything in my size. Are there any stores in Tokyo and Osaka you would recommend for finding golf shoes?
   
3. General etiquette and tips - they gave me some general rules for playing on the course. Is there any other golf etiquette that I should be aware of ahead of time? Is there any standard for behavior that might be different than there is overseas?
   

Thanks so much for your help!

TW: really bad verbal abuse, proceed with caution
I sympathize with any busty friend out there who has gone through any kind of mistreatment and don't intend to participate in oppression olympics. However, I want to talk about what it's like having big boobs growing up in Bangladesh as every foreign national I've told about it has been shocked by how bad it truly is. I'm assuming it's similar in Pakistan and some regions of India too, and some diaspora communities worldwide. I put the advice welcome flair not because I'm looking for advice but if anyone has any then I wouldn't mind either.
First of, small or big you are expected to always cover your boobs in a long scarf known as a dupatta/orna. If you don't, even in shapeless clothing, you get slut-shamed. Even a sleeveless top or the slightest bit of cleavage is considered inappropriate or slutty. No form-fitting clothes are considered appropriate either. Oh and no Western clothes either.
I was only around 10 years old when I started facing policing for my own body. Not only could I not leave the house without a scarf but I was also always expected to wear them at home because I have a father and brother. I wasn't even allowed to wear things like t-shirts at home, I had one aunt defend me on it once but otherwise I've been pretty much policed about it all my life.
There is also a prevalent myth back home that boobs get big if you touch/fondle them and I was very well-aware of that because I'd hear my own classmates scrutinize other girls' bodies and knew damn well that's what they did to me behind my back too. I did wear some athletic clothing (T-shirt and joggers mainly) when I exercised, and once when I was out on an evening jog with my father I had this lady clad in burka approaching me and asking if I'm Muslim, how old I am, that I am old enough to cover up more. When that was the ONLY time I didn't wear traditional clothes with a scarf over my chest.
Bra shopping is a nightmare for anyone, they only go by your bust measurement and use that as your... band size. Seriously. When I flew to the West for college one of the things I looked forward to was being able to buy a bra that fits... only to discover that even the mainstream brands here don't sell my size and there is only ONE lingerie store in my town that carries my size (30GG/H UK).
I am beginning to gain some more confidence about my body and dressing in clothes that fit and flatter me here. That all went out the window again when I visited home (twice so far). First time I went, I was shopping and bought this beautiful silk top that looked great with jeans. My mother already hated it, she never bought me anything in silky material and a week later or so blew up on me and said that people will shame me if I leave the house like this, the neighbors will see me and talk about it. That if I'm gonna go out dressing like that then I should never come back home. She remarked on the outfit I was wearing at the airport that "people don't even wipe their a** with what you were wearing!"
My only reason to travel home that time was because my mother was sick and receiving medical treatment, the fact that she could say that to me after I haven't seen them for almost a year got me crying and calling my father on phone, telling him that I'm going back to Canada ASAP and never returning home.
The second time I got comments from her was when I was home again for a family wedding. I had a gorgeous sequin saree with a sequin crop top, I got so many compliments and great photos on that day (and a lot of attention too because so many people attending the wedding haven't seen me in over a year, I left during the pandemic so didn't have a proper farewell). I bought the top myself and it was form-fitting but not too tight. My mom still made comments on how she hated seeing me in that on the wedding day and will get me something better (as if I had time between my exams and catching a flight soon afterwards and doing some last-minute shopping!)
It's not even like I ever wanted to rebel and go out in miniskirts, but given how I get scrutinized over the littlest of things I wish I kinda rebelled like that so that as as adult they would at least leave me alone. The day my mom blew up on me I was thinking as soon as I land back in Canada I'm buying the skimpiest mini dress I can find and I'll wear it on my next night out (I didn't do it, don't plan to, it was just a thought). I lived with this internal conflict all my life: I wanted to wear a lot of cute stuff (not necessarily revealing) but every thought was followed by my mom yelling at me in my mind.
I'm fine with people not liking how I dressed. I just wish it wasn't tied to my character or the honor of my family or whatever other BS. My older sister is even stricter with clothing than my mom in some ways. I don't think people care half as much as my family does and even if they did it shouldn't be our problem, people will find something to talk about if they want to. I've talked about this standard of modesty with my hijabi friends from the Middle East and even they couldn't believe it despite coming from countries like Saudi Arabia. It's very much a South Asia thing.
And my parents wonder why I have been refusing to visit home. It's not that I'm not homesick and don't miss my family and friends but I'm so tired of the verbal abuse and control.

Not shared, nor my shade; but something to be weaved; just as the measure of disappointment became it's own solution. But I talked my way through things forbidden, just to find myself blind in bed with those who are dead. Clumsy, but altogether natural of course, because it's consciousness what you refer in the description, yet that's what we don't get a lot about. See your deeds the way you are seen, and then return to a restless place: and the question in-between sheets will be why. Well, I just can't motivate myself to work without hot bitches staring. And that's the truth. Sad but True
— Hearfelt comment for an instagram witch.
Del desprecio a ese descarte, no he visto muchas cosas. Así se pasa una más para las cuentas, y aquí otro más para los versos, por qué aquí no hemos sido vistos. Cuánto más querría uno, que sino lo cuentas ni mucho menos piensas: << lo de este pibe que cosa más horrible>>, haciendo eso lamentable, por qué en decirlo nadie ha mentido. ¡Es horrible! Que cara es entonces la cuenta de lo que le sale a uno vivir sin más complejos; mejor seria cobrarmelo, para así saber que de algo ha valido. Bloqueame.
— Heartfelt comment for a random supermodel-to-be.
The Spirit of Fire
Flames begone, flames in spite: their warmth I felt - so I closed my fist until I could feel the warmth of my blood in my hand. And in dreams Fire came up to me and said: who am I? And I said unto him: you are bound to my bidding, thus your name misery will be. But fire wretched as he was, got closer and asked: and who are you?
And I said unto him that the blood of David ran through my veins, as I was his heir; for the mother of God claim me from death as a son. So Fire tried me, and figured it out.
You are son of woman —said Fire unto me— but as Fire acknowledged the name, I extended my left hand, and took Fire by the neck throwing him into the gound. — You are going to lace yourself to the right hand of the beast, and you'll keep him steady, so I can cleanly take him down. And Fire stayed down, and with his forehead kissing the ground asked unto me —why would the heir of David do so to earthly man?
And I said unto Fire that the beast from the abyss had left no mother for God, so I was to leave none of his body left for his head; as I was going to make it bleed until the end of the end of times.
The Spirit of Earth
Shapeless and without body, but keen within her many numbers, Earth came up to me in dreams, and said: who am I? And posessed in spirit as I was, I said unto her, that God had made her maiden again, and that she shall become the coins that Judas never received, which were to become the due payment of man and women for the body of Christ. Then I extended my right hand, and grabbed Earth by her hair —which descended deep into the abysses of hell— and cut it short so the demons of Lilith would no longer had her gripped by her back.
You are now a woman, and I'm going to rise you from the grounds. You'll lace yourself to the left hand of the beast, and keep it steady so with one shot I can cleanly take him down.
The Spirit of Air
A dream shaped by written words, whispered down for years by the currents of this Montain, and it's requiem witnessed but by a few — the end of dreams. But from where I standed at the peak, I called upon the distant currents that went down, and asked them: who am I?
And Air came unto me as bird, which had thousands of letters for feathers, and in the tongue of dead men answered.
"Somebody who only a few will remember by strange deeds; as the burden on your back, is a past tainted by impossible dreams. You were a lunatic giving new names to folk, and folk never bothered to remember —so your name must be freak, as you died in a forgotten shack some short time ago."
And as Air said these things upon me, I called Misery —as I had dubbed Fire — and told him to get inside my shot. The burden as Air had said, became lesser as i took the shot from my quiver. And I said upon Misery; that he was to set ablaze this arrow, as I was taking down the bird of Britain, and that I would do so, so God would give the deeds of Earth some better names.
The Lord is making a bridge between the empire of strength, and the last empire of men. Now by God's grace, I'm making the tongue of free men, the tongue of Spain. You will be eventually bound to my bidding, and if not me, it will be to the one I'm preceding; for I'm giving you twenty years to attone your wrongdoing. Alas, now because of your wretchedness, my shot on earthly men won't be clean, for his left leg won't stay steady.
Your old name was apathy, now I'm calling you Cisma, which in the tongue of dead men means schism. So now by the will of God lay unto the ground and say the words you've been teached. And as the arrow blazed forward, it's bending motion pierced the veil hiding the secret ladder of men. The bird of Britain catched on Fire, and it's hollering resounded throught the ladders of the mountain until the depths of the abyss. A column of air turned into fire, then violenty erupted from the vowels of the bird, and the wild fire spread as a storm from west to east all throughout the five kingdoms of men away from its own fiery wings, with a gift of misery and a few words to say.
"The name of your woman or the name of your man, will no longer explain their purpose to a man, a woman, or God. Charred words written by thunder will now be the new ladder of men — but until then, darkness upon thee."
The House of Water
I head into the coasts, and the beautiful beaches in-between, to find the stranger who burns images in the skin of men. He is the stranger, and has adopted the body of a monster, and he is one who cannot be understood, so he went on to only go out home in stunts, for the burdens in his heart have become too great to bear. Through terrible pains he has given all he once was for an identity, and as I pick up on his past, i found familiarity in the feelings of his heart. Oh dear friend how we found looking in sadness to ourselves, after doing same but with different means, carrying into our shoulders the loneliness of this world. As you have in-skin the garments of the strange doctrine that I preach — I shall congrate you, for you truly have fought the world entire, for my doctrine is the words of those who shall defeat the world entire.
I may not have your strangeness in-body, but I have it in these words, and in the true feelings of my heart. And I say in admiration that there's no higher form of art, philosophy or religion: than those who perform the highest thing they can give a name about.
Now even within solitude, and at odds with what old dead men call God, I see you and I found strength in you, as I can see you are within me, and in that, you are within everything as it should be - as is meant in everyone who does something that touches the heart of another man. I call this the kingdom of God. Yet blind men and women will wonder how can the kingdom of God possibly be within two outcasts such as you and me.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Upong giving my regards and waiting for response, I found my way into a bench. It was a warm afternoon, and the wind carried the water of the sea. The bird of Britain came about down from the wind of north, and layed on the bench were I was sitting.
The bird asked: why hast thou become this?
And I said back to bird, scorched he was and nearing death, that it was me someone who was supposed to give names, yet for years I couldn't figure out one for myself. Then on went to being given a name, Alas all the wrong ones. Did Adan gave himself a name? - I asked the bird back. And there was no response from bird. Then I continued.
A man has the essence of his soul retained by what he is seen doing. Yet I did things nobody saw, so my soul wasn't with God but with something just as ancient, and nonetheless unknown by men in its true nature — then Satan as the better known devil, came about and pushed me into a hole. It was my own doing. Yet the things I did, I thought were seen. But nonetheless what I did was without contemplation on a posible return. Just as somebody who prints an image on their own skin. It's permanent. This is the essence of a memory in the soul of the man who's seen by others. But in the familiarity of a man who picked every irreversible decision like the Alien, I find myself feeling sympathy, for the man is still not what he has been seen doing, he shall redeem himself by what he decides to turn himself into.
Is this a way of saying that you want to get yourself a tattoo? Get a new look? - the bird mockingly asked.
And I gave the scorched bird no answer.
Then the bird said unto me: what about your career as a prophet, uh? And the things you said about returning with substance? Do you actually think this is substance?
And i considered what the Bird said, then I negated with a movement of my own head. It is not i answered, but i find the memories of me not making sense unbearable. For those mean the memories of a fool, un pendejo, an insane person, or both. And I will always try to amend what I don't do well. But now I wish for only one thing, and it is to be remembered as someone who makes sense, and who out of that sense, made good upon the world. I don't expect anything in return for what I do now, as it is merely an outlet to keep me sane while I finish editing my work. It's clear I'm too incompetent to be a competent influencer. As for once, I don't care about influencing anyone into what I think; but to perform what I think it's important.
Then every proverbial student is free to take classes so as they see fit, and to interpret such classes as their comprehension gives them grasp of what it's said. In such regard, this is what I offer now, while I make the journey to Madrid. And the bird tilted it's head so as to observe me with his left eye, then after a long impasse, it made a loud and painful caw, and finally flew away. Soon after the bird flew, I looked upon the stars in the nascent night, and confessed to them, that it was the memories of who we were, what often stumps us into wrong beliefs of who we should be, maybe even wasting an entire lifetime retained by that which other people remembered us as being. But we are not the owners of our own names, the place we go, and our destiny. That's the biggest lie the western world of hollywood heros tell you, as in truth is collective agreement what determines what we look like doing and thus the meaning we should comfort to, recalling that names are practical mechanisms to remember the purpose of things, their meaning, and how their motion is described in the world.
But making the task of beating that collective belief, akin to the Nietzschean ideal of the camel turning into the lion, so as to transform it's spirit and become something else. But if it's the golden dragon of all the huamn values which judges you insane, will you be prepared to wrestle with the entire culture so as to have your way?
As I layed my eyes upon each star counting up to the number seventeen, I confessed of being scared of those beliefs, as revisiting the past, became a painful deed — and as I prepared to leave, I uttered one wish on the seventeenth point in the sky.
Lord please grant me strength, the way you have given my friend strenght.
2.
The night deepen, while the sea tide sang its own song of breathing. Some time passed, and then on the stranger showed himself approaching at the distance. I waved my hand at him, and after the instant, he found his way into my bench while I welcomed him with an extended fist which he casually bumped - after the short acknowledgement the dark alien looked at my face in between it's cover of dark, and looking at it undiscernable in its true features, with suspicion asked.
— What is it that you want?
I acknowledged him as a friend, then mentioned my brief research, as I had come to know him as man looking for a job, yet nobody would hire for things mundane due to his appearance. I listened closely to the news, and came to understand that this was a man looking for a second chance.Then I saw the intent behind his doing, and two words came to stick to my own thoughts. The first one was <> and the second one was <>. I was admired.
In analytical psychology I figured this man was the ESFP —the personality archetype related to the performer and the entertainer—, possessed in an abnormal way by the spirit by which a person submits to it's contrary nature, seeking to integrate and find fulfillment through the chase of what's perceived absent. If he was the ESFP then doing the flip by following the radial axis of each Jungian function in the stack towards their opposite resulted in the INTJ. The mastermind. The architect. The genius yet awfully complex individual. That was the elusive spirit he was chasing.
But a spirit and a character that at its most pronounced embodiment in a person, would experience life as an eternal foreigner hiding from the light of other men. Such made sense to me, for I myself was the INTJ, and had at spirit the ESFP. Him. So where as this man chased the spiritual fulfillment of being a complex and deep individual, I chased the fulfillment of becoming simpler, so I could demonstrate with action the deepest desires of my heart. One who was born plentiful in means to be liked, becomes complex, mysterious and uncomprehended, meeting one who will be seen trying to make sense becoming simpler. For Carl Jung portrayed the anima and animus of individuals, as the sense of what its absent, yet deeply cherished an valued. So I said these things to the alien, while he silently listened to me.
— All of that sounds like bullshit to me. -Said the alien after some contemplation .— Sorry but the things you say, don't mean anything to me.
And alas for I expected such response, as if one thing was true about this journey, was that explaining the journey in and of itself would become it's grimmest task. I affirmated what he just said with a slight nod of head.
— These things I say and how they relate to each other, in its excercise are similar to doing stecheometric balance with equations in the head, but simpler I'm afraid. - Then I paused, looked back into the sea, and continued. — That's high school chemistry, but I don't expect everybody to pick up on it, nor like it, nor understand it.
— Now i have called you a friend, and where I came from we dub with this title the people we share destiny with. As far as I'm concerned, we are chasing the same thing, which is the hardest posible thing. We both innately understand that we are not home, as we want our spirit to return to us, and that's not what a lot of people ever honestly try to attempt in a lifetime; as such is anyone's call to feel complete.
— And very few people ever reach true individuality, beyond the name they are imposed at birth.
Then I looked into the black alien, and in-between his foreign facial features, I interpreted something familiar. Disturbance. And I continued.
— We have given ourselves hell as we lived chasing something hard, so we can avoid the same hell later on when we are finally back to our own house. This is a christian precept, altought a rundimentary one. Does that makes sense to you?
And after listening such, the black alien calmly looked at the veil in my face in silence. Trying to discern what my face actually looked like, but the night was dark. Then turned his stare back to the reflection of the moon over the waters, giving some thought to what I just said. I opened up my backpack, and drawed two cans of beer from it. Offered one to him, and he silently refused with a gesture of hand. I popped my can and gave it a sip, while I myself stared at the tides coming in and out of the shore.
— If you wan't a tattoo, we can work that out. But this sounds annoyingly familiar, and my interest is not religious. Are you religious?
I nodded in affirmation, and complemented saying. — But my doctrine is something nobody has heard nor seen. For its aim, is doing as Christ said, in perfect means. Yet its true that the teaching fits you, as it's the teaching of the future man; and there's nothing in common between the current man and the future man, as they may very well be different species. This is the precept of evolution.
The alien seemed surprised.
— These two men don't know each other, for the current man doesn't know where the future man comes from, for he himself doesn't know where he is going. Yet in deep realization of your own artistic concept, I think you might want new ideas to meet with your appearance. So tell me, are you curious about what truly happens to a man after he dies? Do you want to learn how to read someone's mind? Do you want to blast with words of fire the hearts of an amazed crowd?
But the black alien broke his calm contemplation of what I was saying, and slighty disturbed, aggressively rebuked after hearing such.
— But you mentioned 'Christ', so you must be christian. How can a christian even say anything interesting in this current time? Last time I asked, their sayings were dreaded by restriction - so why would anyone condemn themselves to a life of bore? Are you a christian?
And I nodded after the question, in silence. Admittedly, for I knew what the problem was with being what I was, and my new companion was bang on identifying it. Made a pause, then raised my sight to where it met with the sky and the stars in it, and I said back to him.
— I am, but not one of a type you have ever seen, for the Christ that comes, is a Christ of art.
2.
The riptide sang, in its secret dialect of earth and sea. I looked upon the coast, turned an eye blind, and saw the ocean as the scorpio, and the land as the taurus; as it was the struggle between two lovers, never meant to consume each other. Ideal love then - yet not to confuse with this partnership as it was whimsilcally tied by the means in which i arranged my current conversation; for my lady somewhere waited for me. Then i allowed my eyes to rest still.
The alien looked upon me, undiscernable in my intentions, and again figured for himself that my interest towards him wasn’t clear. In suspicion, and after the moment he collected his thoughts asked “In your weird words you dubbed me performer, so what is it exactly that you wan’t from me. To me it seems like you are gathering people for some form of religious clown show. When you forced this meeting upon me, was this a proposal you thought i would find amusement in?”. And after the statement my own stare wandered in my conversation partner. While as he had his say, i returned to my can of beer, and finished it with a long gulp. Tempered in an unwillingness to fall to my new found friend irritation, i said within my own thoughts: “The alien looks easy going, but he is barbed in wit”.
Then i opened the can of beer that the stranger rejected; the loud pop resounded in the relative silence, interrupting for a moment the steady chorus of the sea. Gave it a long sip, and said.
– Theres no proposal in place yet. But im certain of something, and that is that both of us are messed individuals which reached the bottom doing the same thing - but the way my understandment of the human soul goes: two people can act by mere interaction as reactives to each other, creating a new chemical compound after the fact.
– This new psychology is very much like chemistry. But it is not my intention to draw you into something, but to pull myself out of this «something» by doing right on another person and maybe that person reflecting the good back on me. I just need a conversation partner, thats all. And i will do this with you, and with many people more. Presidents included.
The alien reflected on it, and after the hiatus of a long standing position of suspicion he finally gave in, and eased up with a slight smile. A strange smile of relief. But the smile, was all too familiar for me, as i realized the man was a tortured individual: a person in long standing pain. I smiled back the way he did, and continued.
– Our pain has a common name, and is a name that can be written with words unfortunately. It’s the devilish mother of all spiritual ills and its foundation, rests at the concept of a past that wasnt solved. It’s called «inadequeacy», and for people like you and me, understanding one day that such inadecuacy had to be solved by our own means, lead us into an act where our name changed as the changes in our cover up act to solve our inadequacy did.
– We never honored the past or the present in our pursuit, as we desired in passion to find solution to the present, by matching it into the idealization of some future without ever realizing that the old or present essence of ones being would be crushed into non existance by said future.
– Then we found the realization of that new name, only to understand that its demands became a tyranny on the other faces of our soul: as our soul is not something that can be undestood in unity, but something that conceives in the beginning in multiple things which try to give shape to one thing. Theres many people in a village, and our minds, are no exception.
— But happiness is only achieved by those who have their soul entire - or those who are the same person regardless of the context and scenario. And we gave to much to somebody that wasn't us, as our spirit took possession and lead us down.
– This is this the essence by which someone goes to hell, only to do one thing over again, getting an ever lasting pain for all the things that were given up chasing that which was absent. The more someone is forced into being shaped by the thing that was concevied in lust, the more the individual misses the place they used to call home, for that is no longer within ones reach. Does this makes sense to you?
The alien left me with no answer, and as he contemplated the sea, a tear travelled through his strange face.
– In this state of anguish, affliction rarely ever feels company, as the very individual condition that was pursued, became a full suit and persona to be forced upon and wear. Hell, is one lonely place man because we only learn to speak a language, that only makes sense to ourselves. But i think we can find a way out of it. This is why I'm here.
“Look, what you’ve done, it’s not something i can see the way you can see my own doing on me.” The alien replied. “Besides the way in which i canno’t see your face in this night, you seem ordinary — but what you talk and the way you say it, evokes in every word regret. What is it that you’ve done that has you regret like this?”
As the alien finished speaking, I emptied the can of beer, layed my eyes on the irregular grooves that my feet had left on the sand, and then replied back to him, after making a recap of the story i had repeatedly told myself after falling down.
“My story, is the fairy tale of a guy who makes way for the new coming of a new man; a better man for the world, while he casts disarray upon the earth: much to his dismay, at the expense of his own soul as the people who become victims of disasters, were ones who this man deemed unfair; cruel, evil, despicable in past. That was at the beginning."
"Theres a pile of corpses behind that character — even in covid time, people as close as the local priest of the small town he lived in, would break their neck after falling in the shower, as he had the slightest suspicion of their secret deeds. All clean deads for that matter. Untraceable to nothing but sheer randomness. Magic as it seeems. But were this folk truly evil people or even guilty of anything? You may ask - the man never knew it for sure, as he never had faculties such as godly omniscience to actually know it; which has taken a toll on him, as the burden of justice is an unberable one for anything but a god."
"Which leads to another point: spontaneously picturing random numbers in the head, associating them with psychological compounds by angular momentum, and actually being bang on the suspicion. Truth friend, in its stochastic presentation: it's unberable.”
“Consequential of such attempts to rationalize his own story in the eyes of people such as close family, my dude became clinically diagnosed with referenced thinking. Which are fancy words for schizophrenia. Nobody believed the story as it was uttered."
"Yet the consequences are there for everyone to see, altought not visible in their cause and effect by anybody but this guy, which lead him first into regret over ever starting his quest as a reformer; and then repent.”
“Now before he realized of this lets call it «curse», he preached for years over the internet as the disasters started to slowly creep up. He preached in a fashion parallel to Niestzches Zarathustra; Zarathustra meaning a famous philosophical device artificied by the philosopher Niestzche, who’s aim was to portray the best posible man, as something he dubbed the <<Übermensch>> ”.
“Such concept being the seemingly more elegant brand of a humanist ideal for a not so distant future: today - albeit a wrong one, for this guy was not dyonisian himself. The backbone of his framework, is analytical psycholgy becoming a chariot for a true understandment of human nature: and ultimately a facilitator for love within light: not within ignorance; not within darkness. Most philosophers today though would mock anything analytical in it's aim."
"Then on the guy preached and dwelved further into the relative hole of his own doctrine: and became imprisoned by what he didn’t got right at first attempt, making him in the process the character that Nietzsche from the comfort of his own writers seat, never attempted to actually embody within realistic means: eventually figuring out within himself the ultimate Nietzschean aristocrat: a magic pen granted by being capetian by mother: from judah by father."
"But Alas, you have no idea how common suicide is within philosophers after they finish their best work. As language, becomes the ultimate barrier for understandment, and then to ones capacity to feel love. Difference — true saliency in ones individual destiny— leads to the gravest posible pain. Ironic isn’t it?”
“Besides technical work with a new form of psychology inspired by analytical chemistry, as that drawed from his efforts during the light of day, five years ago, once he felt the urge to try to reach out to the world from a position of what he deemed was greater understandment: he primitively preached during night his new set of ideas for people to behave beyond the limitations of manipulative psychology, albeit a harsh doctrine meant to clear the way for a better product: Christ himself."
"This is not a doctrine a human being can actually perform, as such its christianity at its highest capacity to bear fruit. It’s an impossible doctrine, yet solves the oldest problem posed in the bible. All which sounds very sci-fi bullshit-y but actual problems started for the protagonist in this tale, when the preaching matched with terrible consequences. Not figurative, but within tangible reality.”
“So just as we talk, theres a small legion of hackers pretending to be doing internet social experiments while talking in an artsy matter: much in my own style, entertaining the exact same concepts - a legion of dangerous monkeys, i have no control over."
"One of the many unexpected consequences being this, yet prompted by something evil; ancient: essentially replicating what my protagonist developed and then preached over the years, while these "hacktivists" lay their attention on things and people, as they select them and enforce upon them strict surveillance, to behave properly. Then to destroy them, as they did in 2020 with many corporations and institutions.A bizarre combination of theater actors to my own liking, and then cyber-security demigods: omniscient in their claims to surveill, and they are - derivative such of another device of what I've done; which is to build a theater so people can make-believe that they are infact performing within themselves something greater - but that's matter for another story."
“Most of the corpses piling up flat out dead, have no relation to him whatsoever; they became victims as my protagonist took measures to fight back the monster he found at the foundation of the known world. This is not an elaborate analogy for one's own unseen capacity for evil, as i mean this: a monster as literally as it can be. For these things friend, im doomed as in true strenght, i have nothing but the pen i use to write down what i think albeit always at danger of it’s eventual inversion. I have no real friends left. Not one who can understand, or help bear the pain: as friendship and love are all gated by understandment."
"The full story has many more vertients, but i think i’ve done it enough justice. This is the predicament of an insane man chased by his own shadow as he builds a better man: one who delivers heavenly things, and then a shadow stringed to deliver tyranny as the very strings behind him make the better man stumble while he tries to keep a grasp of his own spirit, and then of his own soul."
"That monster behind, is wicked smart — and cannot be outwitted nor overpowered but anything but divine smite."
“I’m heading now to a new country, to try to get friends from the only institution in the world who knows and adresses the current times being, and who by extension, might believe me. And to clarify, these being the end of times; but not the end of the world. Yet now i myself have a damocles sword pending over my own head, and i need to do something about it before it falls.”
And as i said these things, i reached out to my backpack drawing a third can of beer from it — besides my own super laptop, thats what my backpack had: an infinite supply of beer. Corona, Indio, Victoria, Dos Equis, Heineken; you name it. I popped the can, and gave it a long and definite sip as i emptied it complete.
The alien didn't try to show that he understood, but stood still in silence, with his sight in the sand below and pressing lips, knowing by my demeanor; that these things as I've said them was something that I needed to do. Then he said: "I don't follow man. You say you preach and then disasters occur. Like a prophet from the bible?"
"Yes. Then I preached to get rid of the things that are actually making the world worse, and something awoke soon after, and since then; everything I do is subject to being misinterpreted due to the diffamatory action of this thing. Now everytime I do something, it can be twisted and turned against my original intent. Right now the hackers are my worst problem: I may have a degree in computers but I have no fucking idea whatsoever of hacking. I earn my living as an A.I engineer.".
The alien raised his sight to meet with mine, and after doing some contemplation on the fact, quite simply said: "You are insane". Then lowered his own sight, and raised it again to meet with the sea and continued. "If you want a tattoo, we can work that out. But either way and whatever parts of your story are true and even worse; the ones you may be lying about: you sound dangerous in a delusional kind of sense, and my life is hard enough as is."
I pressed my fists, knowing then the old same thing had happened again. For I had never forced anything upon anybody, and I was willing to respect that until the bitter end. Then I released the build up of frustration with a loud sigh, and after this amend, I replied back.
"I understand and respect it. But let me just propose you that if you ever want to figure what is beyond life as it's lived by person who has never seen what is like to be someone you write a great story about; you can pin me, and I'll show you what's beyond that door. Give it some thought."
The alien; The Black Alien Project stayed there sitting, spechless but calm, almost expecting something else to be convinced about. But pointless, for i knew that nobody can be forced into anything without bringing a transgression into play – and i wasn’t one to taint myself in sin if it could be avoided. Not anymore.
3.
I made the distance at steady pace walking along the shore, until i found a small group of pines in-between the liminal space of the beach and the land. I sat with one of the pines trunk behind my back, and drawed the Schizo Pills from my eternal supply of traveller goodies.
Quetiapine 100 mg, and Olanzapine 10 mg, i made a smaller fragment from the olanzapine pill, and swallowed both complete. As their side effects were concerned, they would soon knock me out of conscience, as this little ritual was my own way of calling the day complete – then i layed there, vigilant, waiting for my own drowsiness to claim me into sleep - but the Bird of Britan came flying from above, and stood besides me.
\Chirp, Chirp, Chirp**
I watched the bird, annoyed, as its presence had become an omen for contempt. For me and the death people of my past. I frowned upon the little shit, and said nothing. The bird made a little nod, while tilting its head in excentricity the way birds do, and replied. — Hey Andrew!, do you remember when you tried to penetrate your own computer to make a universe grow inside of it? I just wan’t to know something: did your computer moan? Did it finally learnt how to scream your name?
\Chirp Chirp**
Ignoring the bird, i closed my eyes and stayed like that for a long moment, hoping to make the bird think i was asleep. Maybe that would make him leave.
— Can’t bullshit me like that Sweetheart. So please tell me something; why don’t you command one of your supermodels; these muses, to come here and warm the bed for you. It's a cold night and you seem lonely brah
. \Chirp Chirp**
I opened my eyes, and irritated, pointed menacingly at the bird turning my left hand into an imaginary gun. I had already failed at something today, and wasn’t convinced i needed the memory of the things i failed at before. Not now.

• Hol’ up cowboy ! you wan’t to bang my bird ass when you should be banging a bitch ass. What happened with Tyrone huckleberry? Did you managed to make him as impotent as you are right now? —I held steady my hand; and tired, the tempation to pull again the trigger on the bird was growing larger. I saw red roses in my own sight, making a terrible omen for a migraine forthcoming. Said nothing.

— The glowniggers are out there brah. You may not be a hacker – and its true, but i took notice of your last words: so now the glowies are going to instead dreambooth* people into every posible kind of scenario of extorsion, while they surveil like a motherfucker. Like you dream boothed yourself for your little ahem "art project". Then we will use Suno*, then Sora* when it open sources. Are you going to protect your hoes?
Said nothing.

• Alright cowboy, i will give meaning to that revelations verse. What was it? Ah yes. Revelations 9:6. Every single person with an internet history will be as paranoid as you were in 2020. Everyone will be diffamated into acts of political terrorism! Aren’t you am-

And as i pulled the imaginary trigger from the imaginary pistol, an imaginary arrow in the sky descended with a blaze of not so imaginary flames on the Bird of Britain, engulfing the little shit in heat, and making it’s body explode into a gore of scorched viscera. As if the bird was in a microwave oven. I inmediately gasped as the explosion was too close from where i was sitting - after the conmotion, stared at the red and burned stain in the floor, and left my sight rest there, as sleep finally found its way into my restless thoughts.
"No longer care for love unless it's between good friends”. Said to myself. There was certainly a migraine coming, but maybe my dreams would help convince it otherwise. And as far as the hoes were concerned, Furious Angels would be there for them. Like the Rob Dougan song.
4.
Found my own mind after the slumber – asleep, then awake. I realized several hours passed - at least enough to wake up and witness the sun rise above the sea. But as for dreams, the light veil of their memories wasn't something to rely upon. But i did remember something, and it was some overtone in dread; an atmosphere of fear – and a kind of dread sustained in it’s inevitability by the urgency that builds upon dearth.
Now what exactly was it though? I couldn’t remember from my dreams, but ever since i falled to my own death i had always present in mind the future succesion of events that would follow when things started to go very wrong. Iran, the U.S, Israel - now whatever was it in the news; the outcome would be the same. A thousand more cuts to an already languishing economy. Make that corpse bleed, and then fall off a cliff.
As such things would be cooked, just as the bird of britain. The bird was still there though: just in pieces and roasted like the contents of a dropped KFC bucket would. But the little shit would return - as it always did. The economy? Not so much.
Yet i digress. None of the world circumstances mattered as far i was concerned – i had built a small and portable solar system to power my laptop, and my beer supply was well, infinite - i made myself sure that i had my needs covered whatever happened around me. Not tied to even a house for that matter. I incorporated myself and gave my back a stretch. The morning breeze coming from the sea evocated in my memories some time that had long passed – late childhood. I rejected those memories as they beared with them things i didnt wan’t to remember - then wen’t on as usual in my morning routine scrolling through my instagram feed, figuring if there were any new hoes to maybe motivate me into doing my God imposed labour.
Labour which was to either write, or to finish the House of Water — then after scrolling i did in fact saw a new hoe; i dropped a Faux Pas comment. Maybe she would play along, maybe not. Whatever. Sometimes I would put in a lot of effort to do a rhyme. But the effort depended on the insta-hoe in question. I know. Not the best of habits, but back in elementary school i was the kind of kid that would only get motivation when the girls in the classroom were present in physEd. And then i would run faster: whole lotta faster. Run Forrest! Run! Women love used to fuel me; and the habit sticked — and at the moment, i was kinda done with the idea of female trascendence. Would rely on their love, but not on their validation. Not like a simp. Fuck that.
Furthermore, what results did i demonstrably mustered after pursuing true egalitarianism and sharing it? Exactly. A bitch gonna do what a bitch gonna do, and so does the human female. After publishing the comment, I locked my phone and walked towards the highway, as i was planning to pay a visit to somebody long forgotten - I had kind of a schedule that i was going to follow, before taking the plane to Madrid and become hispanic Jon Snow from the walgreens Nightwatch.

This is my mental health user account, idle for a while. I left reddit a while back, and it’s been great! But this forum seems to be unparalleled. Alas for this modern world.
Some Background:
I am divorced, two kids. The older one is our “identified patient.” We’ve had therapy, PHP and IOP, now waiting on an opening at Embark White Haven. Reluctantly for me, but by court order, I am required to comply with recommendation of service providers, and the IOP recommended RTC because of safety concerns including thoughts of suicide and getting out of the car on the way to IOP.
Kid is currently in therapy with the family therapist who was recommended by IOP for mom and I to work on coparenting. This is a temporary placement while waiting on the opening in PA. They seem OK, but have ideas about parenting I do not share, as does mom. It pains me to admit this, but FT is probably the best bet, because they’re parenting style is pretty close to right inbetween mom and I.
My parenting, and understanding of children, has vastly improved since coming to membership in Adult Children of Dysfunctional Families, been there four years. I have become a much more attentive and nurturing parent. I try hard to listen to what my kid is telling me, and give them as much as they want within safe limits. Try to let them make mistakes and learn, again, within safe limits.
The Kid’s behavior has included violence toward mom, me and younger sibling. They came to live with me about a month ago, violence has improved but not gone away. They have very low frustration tolerance, escalating quickly when asked questions about certain subjects (on the order of, what homework are you meant to do?), or denied something they want. We are practicing tools like breathing to get past this. Some behaviors have continued to escalate since coming to live with me, such as skipping class. Recently they were caught off campus smoking weed. Went to PHP for assaulting another kid on the bus.
I don’t want my kid to go to TTI. I think what we need is intensive family therapy. AFAIK, the only kind of thing like that in my area (SE) is Intensive In Home, which appears to be available mostly to families involved in criminal justice or CPS. They take medicaid, or are state funded, and most of the images on the websites are of people who don’t look like us.
My understanding, based mostly on my work in ACA, is that my kid’s problems are a result of the lousy parenting of their mom and I. Mom was very controlling, and in some ways, acted (and continues to act) like a rival. I was mostly just completely emotionally absent. I’m doing my work now, working with a therapist as well as ACA. But it’s a slow process, and the damage has been done.
FWIW, the American Bar Association is currently doing a webinar series on the TTI. At the last presentation, someone asked the panelists a question about whether there were any good facilities available. The response was, “there are some that are less bad.”
Another anecdote. I was doing the intake with a Newport Academy intake person, and shared my fears about the quality of care that would be available at a facility owned by such a large corporation. Their response was something like, “don’t you think that gives us some credibility?” She ended the conversation before I got a chance to say something like, “Fuck, no! Does Phillip Morris’ size give it credibility in its health benefit claims of vaping?” Sorry maybe for the impromptu venting.
I’m terrified of what comes next. My kid definitely has unmet needs. I’m not sure what they are, and am having a very hard time trusting any of their providers, while having to pretend to trust them to avoid being labelled as “treatment resistant.” It really is my worst nightmare. I just want my kid to feel safe and have a decent shot at thriving whatever that might mean to them.
As an aside, a lot of providers say they understand family dysfunction and its impacts, complex trauma and its impacts, and yet no-one really provides any kind treatment that seems to align with those kinds of problems. Embark folks were at least honest when they said all they offer are coping skills, that would then allow the kind of long-term therapy to address the deep grief and trauma. Seems like in three months and tens of thousands of dollars you could start to explore root causes at least a little bit.
As I said, alas for these modern times.

Ranking system:
5 - full size bottle already in my cart 4 - really enjoy it 3 - wouldn't buy again but might use up 2 - Could try one more time before giving away 1 - scrubbed and giving away
Super fast shipping, beautifully packaged, and a free sample ( Lost Lenore).
Surf Girl - (Notes of pink grapefruit, mandarin, bergamot, lychee, and cantaloupe with a touch of jungle greens and white tea leaves all on a bed of vanilla infused coconut milk and dusted with a light sugar musk.)
2 - A nice smell but 100% smells like whatever my grandma used to weause for soap. Very powder forward on me
Blackberry Lace - (Fresh and sweet, with just a touch of mystique. Vanilla and rum soaked blackberries with sweet pineapple chunks, delicate jasmine petals, dewy strawberry leaves, crisp apple peel, and wrapped in airy tendrils of white musk and soft amber.)
2 - Horribly saddened that for some reason it smells like mineral sunscreen on me.
The Moon Never Beams - (Notes of split vanilla beans, tonka infused cream, vanilla sugar musk, and just a whisper of vanilla orchids.)
2 - A pretty delicate powdery vanilla
Candied Orchid - (Sweet candied lemon peels nestled around sugared dipped vanilla orchids in a wash of fresh coconut milk and whipped vanilla cream topped with a kiss of spun sugar musk.)
2 - A sweet powdery floral
Violets & Cream - (Simple, beautiful, elegant and oh so delicious; candied violets and rich mounds of homemade marshmallow fluff and fresh sweet cream.)
2 - Four words: Choward's Violet Mint Candy
Kisses Like Candy - (Simple, sweet pink cotton candy kissed with a touch of pink magnolia, mandarin peel, soft amber, night blooming jasmine, pomegranate, heliotrope, and sugar musk.)
3 - Like you're taking a bubble bath while eating cotton candy. Really enjoy the dry down.
All the Ways - (Sweet and unassuming, a beautiful skin musk fragrance that is both comforting and alluring. Rice flowers, pink amber, fresh Asian plum, a touch of sweet coconut water, miniature violets, blackberry juice, and sheer vanilla musk.)
2 - Powdery soap.
☺️The Way You Blush - (Sweet and all innocence. Cotton candy, sweet vanilla infused sugar, crystalized bergamot, and candied violets)
5 - A LOVELY scent. It smells more sophisticated than what I had expected based off the description. I'm getting lots of tantalizing sweetness with a nice touch of bergamot to balance it out.
🎀Pink Petal Sugarcubes - (Notes of fresh cut peonies and tulips, wild honeysuckle branches, candied tangerine, glistening sugar cubes, raspberry syrup, and whipped vanilla.)
5 - It has what I'm coming to realize is Wylde Ivy's signature powdery scent. However, that's in the background for me. This description is not going to give it justice but: a watermelon jollyrancher with the coquette aesthetic. I said what I said and will not be elaborating.
🌹Lost Lenore - (Notes of dewy pink roses, faded parchment, ambergris, dried heather flowers, and white amber sugar)
5 - Never would have picked this one on my own but mannn do I love it! I realized that it was very close to something I'd worn in the past. It's Delina La Rosse by PDM! I wore them on opposite wrists and they smell like sisters (one preppy and one goth). To my nose they share the same rose heart note but Lost Lenore is more musky and dare I say complex.
In conclusion a lot of misses for me (3/10) but the ones I liked, I really enjoyed! There is something about certain notes pared with the powdery scents that are too nostalgic and bittersweet for me to get on board with. Unfortunately, I haven't pinned down exactly what notes it is lol. All in all I will be purchasing more from Wylde Ivy again. What I didn't like I know another person who enjoys powders will love.