First/Previous
The travel took on a less gloomy quality in the day that passed since Gemma’s self-reflection and although there remained a queer distance in her eyes, she seemed in better spirits in losing the weight of the words.
It was a night just beyond Wabash Crevasse that we pushed on till sunset was almost upon us and we were each tired and the food stocks ran low and so we found harbor in a half collapsed cellar where a home once stood; it was only after examining the slatted, rotted boards of the old place, fallen over, tired with decay, that we spied the cellar doors intact; sheets of door metal plied us with safety from the outside world and the interior of the place stank of mold and the deeper recesses were collapsed, but there was a cradle to crossbar the stair hatch and I put my prybar there for the night. We finished the water and canned tomatoes, and I smoked a cigarette, staving off the inevitable doom which would come with the dwindling of our supplies.
I’d peeked through the space where the doors met at the cellar’s entry and watched the full darkness there while the youngins spoke of life and the trivial pursuits of it and I hardly said a word besides.
Sitting on the lowest step with Trouble dumbly maintaining her station by me, by the low glow of the space in the threshold, I saw they’d pushed their bedrolls together and Andrew had fallen asleep with his arm over Gemma’s shoulder and her eyes glowed with shine from the crack, blinked a few times while seeing me; she too eventually drifted to sleep, and I spent time by the secured door.
Gunshots rang across the stillness, and they stirred from their quiet slumber and Gemma asked, “Harlan, is it alright?”
I moved to the space there at the doorway again and listened and watched what I could through that crack and nothing beyond came. “It’s safe. I’ll be up a bit longer. I’ll watch.”
Andrew asked, “Can’t sleep?”
“I’ll sleep in a bit. Don’t worry about me. Rest. Sleep good and we can put more behind us.
They sat up, legs crossed triangle-wise, and Gemma spoke again, “Why do you have such a hard time sleeping? It seems I’m asleep after you and only awake after you too.”
“Yeah,” said Andrew.
“It’s cool at night. I can listen to the wind.” I shrugged.
“You should be the one that tries to get some sleep,” said Andrew.
I said nothing.
They reached out their arms and I shook my head.
“Here,” Gemma said, “Move your bedroll closer.” She reached across the dirt floor of the cellar and dragged my splayed roll so that it sat beside hers.
“I’ll sleep later.” I turned my attention back to the door and ignored them till their sounds of sleep could be heard. The Alukah was nowhere and did not tap on the door that night and when I moved to sleep, I shimmied onto the roll beside them, facing away on my shoulder; the dog followed, laid on the bare dirt beside me and I held the mutt.
Though I refused a noise as they stirred in the absolute darkness, I felt Gemma’s arm fall over my own shoulder and felt Andrew’s hand touch my back, and water traced the bridge of my nose and I slept deeply thereafter.
There was no breakfast without food, and the water was gone; I felt the eyes of the dog on us as we packed up our belongings that next morning and I tried not to imagine the poor animal skinned over fire. I smiled at Trouble, patted its head, scratched its chin; she sniffed my hand like she was looking for something that wouldn’t be found.
We went west again, ignoring roads and pushed through straight wasteland where nothing was and no one was, and with every dry footfall on the dry hard ground, I wished for rain, and I wished that when it had rained, as infrequent as it was, that I had been wise enough to save what we could from the sky; that sky was red and swollen and refused to burst. We pushed on through strange dead thickets where grayed and twisty yellow branches lurched from the ground into the sky like even they too wished for an end to all the suffering. It was days more till we would see Alexandria and though I could stave off hunger (thirst too, if necessary), I was not so certain that the children would be able to push on without it; they did not complain and watched the ground in our march and maintained higher spirits than I could’ve imagined from them.
Early in the day, they spoke often, and I listened and as they wore on, their words came less and even the dog seemed in a lower mood for the unsaid predicament; me too.
Gemma broke the silence on the matter by saying, “What are we going to do about food? Water?”
“We’ll push on.”
“We could turn back?” asked Andrew.
“The more time we spend out in the open, outside of a city, the more likely it is that the Alukah will catch us unawares. Tighten your belts.” Our feet took us around a dilapidated truck, an old thing with a rusty hook which dangled off a rear arm. “Save your urine.”
They made faces but did not protest.
“Does that work? You ever drink pee?” asked Andrew.
I laughed, “I thought we’d be there by now. I took us too long by trying to drop the scent of the Alukah. That thing’s hunted us for days—last night was the first time it ain’t bothered us. It’s got me wondering why.”
Gemma piped up, licking her dry lips before speaking, “Do you think that monster ran into those scavengers we saw?” Then I caught her shooting a look at Andrew, “At least we warned them.” Her smile was faint and almost indiscernible as one.
I shrugged. “Can’t say. Don’t think it’s smart to turn back. Won’t be long and we’ll touch the 40 and then it’ll be a straight on to Babylon—couple of days—can’t turn back though. Maybe without food; that’s doable. Water’s the worst, but if it comes to it,” I paused and looked on the weathered faces of the children, on the lowered head of Trouble which followed her nose across the ground (it searched just short of frantic), “Like I said, ‘save your urine’.”
The first pains of hunger held within me brought up some reminiscence and I wished for nothing more than to hold Suzanne; I could nearly smell them and in the swaying walk which took us on past toppled townships, I held long blinks where I could nearly make out their face and if I really pushed the limits of my imagination, I could feel them. In those moments, as we passed dead places, rotted pits of despair, I could think of little more than their presence. Though I knew it was a dangerous game, hoping for more than I was worth, I hoped for Suzanne then and I wished that I’d taken them up on their offer to travel to Alexandria with them; it could’ve been home—it never was in all the times I’d gone there, but who knows? The thoughts of Babylon brought forth their gardens; the wild gardens and the water which flowed freely through their pipes. I wished I was a different person entirely and that too would’ve been better for Suzanne; how it was that they’d seen anything in me, I don’t know. How it was that they could stoop to the level of being with someone like me—I warded off that thought, because to place the blame there would certainly be unfair. I thought of my love plainly and wanted a different life more suited to them.
Imaginations played more furiously, and I remembered the evening when Dave stopped me from leaping from that roof—it’s doubtful that he even realized that he’d slowed my demise; perhaps he did know—I wished then that I could ask him. Too kind for the world. People too kind for the world were scarce and hardly worth the trouble. Yet, there I was, chaperoning those two across the wastes.
Gemma was a broken person when I’d found her, tortured in Baphomet’s well; Andrew was a dullard boy who’d lost his hand. What a silly predicament.
I stopped in my movements and swiveled on my heel to catch Andrew by the shoulder. “You still got your hand, don’t you?”
In good humor, the boy grinned, lifted the nub on the end of his left forearm to show me, “Nope.”
“Dammit, no! The hand in the jar!”
Andrew raised his eyebrows. “In my pack.”
“Stop,” I commanded Trouble; the dog hardly recognized my words and continued a way then circled back, sad eyes looking up from where she took to sit by my side. Gemma, both arms dangling loosely from her own pack’s shoulder straps, took into the circle we’d formed.
The girl asked, “What about the jar? It’s nasty, but I guess it’s his.”
“I think that’s it,” I said. I took Andrew by his shoulders, looked him in his eyes, “We could use it!”
“What?” The boy almost laughed in the display of our concern. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I think I’ve got it! It’s good for a trap.” I shook him; maybe too hard. I almost smiled. “It’s worth a shot!”
“It’s mine.” He bit his top lip, withdrew from me.
“You’ll feel differently about that,” I said.
Gemma placed a hand on Andrew’s pack and tried ripping it open. “Give it to him!” shouted the girl.
The boy whipped from her grasp, and he spun on his feet, and panic stood on his face. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”
I took a step forward, “No, not anymore.” I put out my palm, “Give it.”
Andrew nearly flinched at the thought of it and shook his head a little. “Why?”
“I told you why,” I said.
“You don’t even know if it’ll work, do you?” his words were long in protest.
The girl started again, “Andrew, please.”
He locked eyes with Gemma and once again, his bottom teeth came up to meet over his top lip and he moved his jaw methodically with contemplation.
“What does it even matter?” she asked.
“It’s mine. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“C’mon,” he said, but his pack straps fell from his shoulders, and he hunkered down on the ground and opened his bag; his right hand plunged into the recesses therein and withdrew the jar with his severed left hand. He held the object up, refusing to come up from his open pack, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Take it then.” He shook the jar; its contents sloshed with liquid decay.
I grabbed the thing, held it to skylight; the remains within had congealed and rotted and lumps nearly floated in the brownish liquid which had formed in the base of the container. I shook it and stared for a moment at the miniscule debris which floated alongside the hand; each of its digits had swollen and erupted to expose bone; some had come away in pieces. “Tomorrow,” I said and nodded.
We gathered ourselves and Andrew pulled his pack on again and we moved, Trouble still looked sorry and the boy remained quiet while the girl chattered on with questions while we took through the dying ground in a formation with the dog on point then me then the children.
“What will you do with it?” she asked me.
“Not sure yet.”
Andrew made a noise like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
“You think it will work?” asked Gemma.
“Nothing’s a guarantee. They’re smart—Alukah.”
“Smart enough to figure out a trap?”
I shrugged. “We’ll find out.”
“We could put stakes in a pit.”
“Keep on the lookout for a building. Something with multiple floors.”
With that, we moved on, found a worn, mostly destroyed road and we fell into a travelling quiet and the thought of hunger or thirst arose again, and I pushed it down—though I knew the uneasiness could only last so long before savagery would overtake the human condition; the kids seemed strong enough, but I kept an eye on the dog too. Savagery belonged not only to humans, after all.
The ground of the wastes was harder when it was quiet, and it was flatter further west. The sky—red and full of thin and transparent drifting clouds—seemed an awful sight when stared at for too long; it was the thing which stretched as if to signal there wasn’t an end in any direction, as if to declare we had much more to go till safety. Wanderlust is a thing that I believe I’ve felt before, but under that sky, with those two and the dog, I didn’t feel it at all. It was doom that I felt. Ignorance and doom. And it was all because I was certain I’d made all the wrong mistakes, and it was coming back to me. I was experienced. We should’ve had food and water. Perhaps there was some deep and nasty part inside of me that had intended to sacrifice them along the way. The words of the Alukah might have rung true: You say you make no deals, but I smell it. I think you’d deal.
Surely, I felt differently. Surely.
“Getting darker,” called Andrew as we came to where signposts—worn and bent and barely legible—told us of a place once called Annapolis and the buildings were nearly gone entirely; places, maybe places that were once homes, were leveled—I was briefly caught in imagining what it might’ve been like all those ages ago. As are most places, it was haunted like that and when we came to a long rectangular structure of metal walls—thin walls—we took it as a place for rest for the night.
It once served as an agricultural station, for when we breached its entry, there were a line of dead machines—three in all—cultivators or tillers which stood higher than any of our heads and Gemma asked what they were, and I told her I thought they were for farming. The great rusted bodies stood in quiet shadow as we came through a side passage of the building and the great doors which had once been used to release those machines from the building stood frozen in their frame. I approached the doors, lighting my lantern and motioning for the children to shut the door we’d entered through.
Upon closer inspection, it seemed the doors would roll into the ceiling and the chains which held the doors in place were each secured with rusted padlocks—I removed my prybar from my pack and moved along the wall of doors, giving each old lock a smack with the weapon; each one held in place, seemingly fused there through years of corrosion, and I rounded the cultivators once more, back to the children, near the side door where they’d discovered a rickety stair frame which crawled up the side of the wall to a catwalk; along the catwalk, a levitated box stood at the height of the structure, stilted by metal legs, and we took the stairs slowly with the dog following close behind; the poor mutt was mute save the sound of its own shuffling paws.
The metal stairs creaked under our weight and Gemma held her own lantern high over her head so that the strange shadows of the place grew longer, stranger, and suddenly I felt very sure that something was in the dark with us, but there was no noise except what we made. My eyes scanned the darkness, and I followed the children up the stairs till we met the overhang of the catwalk and I peered into the shadows, the blades of the cultivators—far extended on foldable arms—struck up through the pool of blackness beneath us and I felt so cold there and if it were not for the breath of my fellow travelers, I might have been lost in the dark for longer than intended—lost and frozen and contemplative.
“There’s a room,” said the boy, and he pushed ahead on the hanging passage, and he was the first to the door. “Boxes,” he said plainly.
Upon coming to the place where he stood, Gemma pushed her lantern over the threshold, and I saw what he’d meant as I traced my own lantern to help; the room was crammed with plastic totes and old metal containers of varied sizes. There seemed to be enough empty space to maneuver through the room, but only if one watched their feet while they walked. Carefully.
We moved to the room, and I found a stack of crates to place my lantern then motioned for Gemma to douse hers. In minutes, the place was rearranged so that we could sit comfortably on the floor; crates lined the walls precariously and we breathed heavy from the work done, but we began to unpack and upon watching the children while I rolled a cigarette, I felt a pang of guilt, a terrible summation—all choices in my life had led me here and with them and perhaps it would have been a better world for them without me.
Mentally shrugging this thought away, I lit my cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then withdrew the jar which Andrew had handed over. I held it to the lantern to examine it. The grotesqueness of it hardly phased me and I watched it more curious and hopeful than disgusted.
“I hope it’ll work,” said the boy, “Whatever it is that you plan on doing with it.” He grimaced and maintained a further silence in patting his bedding for fluff. The dog moved to him, and she pushed her forehead against him where he squatted on floor. The boy scratched Trouble’s chin and whispered, “Good girl,” into the top of her head where he’d pushed his own face.
“I’m hungry,” said Gemma; she placed her chin in her arm while watching Andrew with the dog. She sat on her own flat bed there on the floor and stated plainly the thing that I’d hoped to ignore for longer.
“I know.” I took another drag from the cigarette and let the smoke hang over my head. “The dog?”
Andrew recoiled, pulling Trouble closer into his arms.
I smiled. “It was a joke.”
Andrew relaxed, but only a moment before Gemma added, “Maybe.”
The boy narrowed his eyes in the girl’s direction, and she shrugged. “If it’s life or death.”
He didn’t say anything and merely continued stroking Trouble’s coat.
That night, we slept awfully and even in the complete darkness, I felt the cramp of the storage room and the angled shapes of the tools that protruded from the containers on all sides remained permanent well after we’d turned the light off and it felt like those shapes were the teeth of a great creature like we were sitting inside of its mouth, looking out.
Trouble positioned herself partially on my chest, her slow rhythmic breathing brought my thoughts calm and I whispered to her in the dark after I was sure the others were asleep, “I promise it was a joke.” And I brushed the back of her neck with my hand and the animal let go of a long sigh then continued that deep rhythmic breathing.
Still without food or water, the following day was the true indication of the misery to come. Gemma’s stomach growled audibly in waking and Andrew—though he kept his complaints to himself—smacked his lips more often or protruded the tongue in his mouth in a starvation for water. The room, in the daylight which peered through pinpricks of its half-decayed roof, seemed another beast altogether from its nighttime counterpart; it was not so frightening. Again, I admonished myself for the lack of preparation, but there was another thought that brought together a more cohesive feeling; we had a possible plan, a trap for the demon that’d been following us.
We went into the field to the west of the building where there was only dirt beneath our feet in the early sunlight and in the coolness of morning air, I nearly felt like a person. The sun crested the horizon and brought with it a warmth that would quickly become overwhelming—in those few minutes though—it felt good enough. I wished for the shy dew and saw none. The weirdness of holding Andrew’s rotting hand in a jar momentarily caught me and I almost laughed, but refrained and the dog and the children looked on while I held the container up and suddenly, seeing the congealed mass of tissue floating in its own excretions, I was overcome with the urge to run, the urge that nothing would ever be right again in my life, and that I was marked to be that way.
I blinked and tossed the jar to Andrew. “Say goodbye,” I said. He fumbled after it with his right hand and caught it to his chest.
“It’s strange you care so much anyway,” said Gemma, shrugging—her eyes forgave a millisecond of pity and when Andrew looked at her, still holding the jar in his right hand, she smiled and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her pants.
“We’ve enough oil, I think,” my voice was raspy from it being early, “Enough for good fire, but if we use it, it’ll mean a few more dark nights on our way.”
“We’re going to set it on fire?” Andrew pondered, keeping his eyes to the contents of the jar. “It worked good enough last time. It’ll work,” I nodded, “I has to, doesn’t it?”
His dry lips creased into a brief smile, and he tossed the jar back to me and I caught it.
“Let’s dig,” I said.
Without much in the way of proper tools, we began at the ground under us with our hands, then taking turns with my prybar till there was a hole in the ground comfortably large enough to conceal a human head and I uncapped the jar and spilled it contents there and we covered it back and I lightly tamped it with my boot. My eyes scanned the outbuilding we’d taken refuge in the night prior and then to the street to the north then to the houses which stood as merely rotted plots of foundation with frames that struck from the ground more as markers than support. “I’ll take up over there across the street when it gets dark. I want you two in that storage room before anything goes off.”
“We can’t help?” asked Gemma.
“You can help by staying out of the way—the mutt too,” I said; the words were harsh, but my feelings were from worry.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we stuck together?” asked the girl.
I shook my head. “You stay in the room and keep quiet. No matter what you hear, you stay quiet and safe.”
“That’ll put you at a bigger risk,” Gemma furrowed her brow at me and shifted around to look out on the houses across the street, “There’s hardly any cover over there.”
The boy nodded, smacked his lips, and rubbed his forearm across his mouth then audibly agreed with her.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, “No matter what you hear happening outside, no matter, you don’t open the door and you don’t scream—don’t make a noise at all. Alright? Even if you hear me calling you, you don’t do it.”
“Pfft,” Gemma crossed her arms and kicked her foot against the ground. The way her eyes seemed hollowed with bruising showed that the irritation would only grow without food. “Alright,” she finally sighed.
Andrew looked much the same as she did in that; he swallowed a dry swallow then stuffed his hand into his pocket and looked away when our eyes matched.
We gathered our light oil. Altogether, it seemed enough; rummaging through the room of the outbuilding we’d earlier taken refuge within, we managed three intact glass containers—the only ones found that wouldn’t leak with liquid; two were bottles and the third was the jar that’d once kept Andrew’s hand. With that work done, we sat with three Molotov cocktails within our huddled circle of the storage room.
“Is it enough?” asked Gemma.
“We’ll see,” I began rolling a cigarette to ignore the hunger and the thirst.
Andrew took to the corner and glanced over his shoulder only a moment before a steady liquid stream could be heard and when he rotated from the wall once the noise was finished and he held a canteen up to his nose, sniffed it and quivered and shook his head.
As the sun pushed on, I scanned the perimeter outside, and they followed. Far south I spied a mass of shadow inching across the horizon and Gemma commented, “What’s that?”
I pushed the binoculars to her and let her gaze through them.
“A fiend—that’s what we called it back in the day anyway. A mutant.”
She held the binoculars up and frowned. “A mutant? So, it was once human?”
“A fiend was once many humans.” I pointed out to the horizon though she couldn’t see me doing so and continued, “If you look at the edges of its shape, you’ll see it’s got limbs galore on it. Sticking up like hairs is what it’ll look like at this distance. Those are arms and legs. It’s got faces too. Many faces.” I shuddered.
“I can barely see any details,” she passed the binoculars to Andrew, and he looked through them, “What’s it do?”
“What?” I asked.
“What’s it do if it catches a person?”
“It pulls people into it. Makes you apart of its mass. Nasty fuckers.”
Andrew removed the lenses from his eyes and held them to his chest and asked, “It won’t mess up your trap, will it?”
“We’ll keep an eye on it,” I said, “You don’t want to mess with a fiend unless you have to.”
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“Labyrinths” clocks in at a little over an hour in length, and while it isn’t notably longer than other episodes this season, those few extra minutes give this week’s story a leisurely feel, even when the action is intense. Given the subject and also the setting, this isn’t a bad thing, however; even when you’re in a hurry, rushing through a library would feel wrong.
Every item on the shelves looks like something produced by western Earth bookbinding techniques. Maybe the section our characters are walking through is the Earth section, but even so where are the clay tablets and the scrolls and the accordion bindings? Why does a Betazoid manuscript from the 24th century use the same binding techniques and have the same physical appearance as something created at a medieval European scriptorium?
I understand that all else aside, Discovery is a television show that needs to use visual language to quickly communicate concepts to its viewers, all of whom reside on Earth (or very near Earth, it’s possible astronauts aboard the ISS are watching Discovery, I don’t know). So on that level I get why the library is filled with regular old bound folios — plus, of course, it was filmed at a real library at the University of Toronto (more about that below).
But this is also Star Trek, and if there’s one thing Star Trek loves to do it’s to take everyday objects and make them look silly and futuristic — Burnham’s 23rd century copy of “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”, for example, had noticeably translucent binding. Sometimes those efforts can result in props and art direction that end up being a little distracting, but in this case it was the lack of them that I found to be so.
Turn it up. I love that Star Trek portrays a future where physical books are still read and published and valued, but I wanted to see a little more. Show me what a Cytherian bookshelf would look like. Maybe they store all their soup recipes as holographic text floating in transparent cubes or something.
[...]
Hy’Rell’s characterization leading up to this moment has walked such a fine line — bubbly and customer service-y and unconcerned about urgency or danger — between interesting and potentially annoying, but between the writing and the performance I actually think they nailed it. She is peculiar in a way that seems realistic for someone who’s lived their whole life as sort of a wizardy space monk, but without going to the expected stereotypes of quiet sage or uptight librarian.
Hers is a temperament we don’t see much on Discovery and as such it immediately stands out; it’s nice to meet a new character and not immediately know what character trope they’re going to fill. Stopping to correct her own joke about throwing the Breen in the dungeon — “It’s really more of an oubliette” — and being the only person who even gets that it’s a joke in the first place? Love it.
[...]
I enjoyed David Ajala as the cool, unflappable proctor of Derex’s test. Unlike Wilson Cruz’s portrayal of Jinaal earlier this season, this performance is still similar enough to the real Book that it doesn’t feel like we’re seeing an entirely different character, but an alternate take on him. This Book is calmer but also sassier in a way, not rude by any means but also not as concerned about being diplomatic in how he speaks with Burnham. I wonder how much of the proctor’s personality is the program itself, and how much is brought by the person generating it; how much of this Book is created by Michael’s perceptions of the real one?
[...]
Looks like Discovery’s last stop-off for repairs involved refilling the bridge’s propane tanks. It was like Truckasaurus back there with those huge open flames shooting around while they made their way through the Badlands! Whatever subsystem that is could maybe use a redesign.
[...]
It makes complete sense that despite her bravado, Moll wouldn’t actually be supportive of the man who made L’ak’s life miserable and, at least indirectly, led to his death. But her naked concern for the wellbeing of the Archive and the apparent destruction of Discovery is something I wasn’t expecting. Up ‘til now she’s seemed perfectly comfortable with leaving as many bodies in her wake as necessary to achieve her goals. But now? It appears that maybe Moll has started to grow a conscience. She’s still desperate, but no longer quite so indifferent. [...]"
Claire Little (TrekCore)
Link:
https://blog.trekcore.com/2024/05/star-trek-discovery-review-labyrinths/

So i’m an editor who deals with pretty much projects - not really huge ones but many. I edit all my stuff off my MacStudios internal storage (it’s enough storage for the current projects). Once the client gives the final approval i export a DaVinci project archive (with footage) and delete the actual footage folder so i don’t have 2 copies of the footage. I then copy it to a SSD and then from that SSD to my NAS (i know not ideal but i don’t want to deal with normal drives yet as they have failed me to often).
Anyway the question i got - is there a program (preferably not that expensive - but im ok with spending money) that can offload the files to my ssd and then my nas with checking if everything arrived? I normally check if the bytes are the same but just know i saw that they don’t match but i don’t want to deal with trying to find what’s missing.
Shotput Pro would be a bit of an overkill as its subscription based and i don’t do DIT work.
Hedge OffShoot - idk which version would be „enough“?
DaVincis built in „Clone Tool“?
Any other software that can be recommended?

This post is for my boyfriend. He is 24M 148 pounds and 6’1. Takes Ritalin for his ADHD and is a chronic marijuana smoker. He also vapes. Takes sumatriptan for cluster headaches.
About a year ago my boyfriend started having back pain in his lower spine. He didn’t think much of it and thought he pulled something while lifting something. This went on for a few months and the pain wasn’t going away, it started getting worse. Eventually he was in so much pain that he was in tears. And my boyfriend has a high pain tolerance so this wasn’t something he was used to. My boyfriend was 275 pounds when this started and he started losing drastic amounts of weight without even trying. He didn’t change his diet. The pain did make it hard for him to eat a lot, but he was still eating enough to not lose this much weight this quickly. He then went to an optometrist for his eyes to get new glasses and they didn’t like what they saw with his peripheral vision and recommended going to the er. He went to the er and they ran a bunch of tests with his eyes and did an mri of his brain and part of his spine. They didn’t see anything that concerning and referred him to a neurologist. He started seeing the neurologist and they started treating his cluster headaches because they were concerned about them as he was getting them a lot. He brought up his concerns about his spine, but it seemed they were more concerned with his cluster headaches.
As time went on he started getting worse symptoms. He said his back and arms were on fire and it felt like dripping down his spine. Also that the pain would shoot from his lower spine all the way up to his arms and down to his fingertips. He kept losing weight and getting weaker. My boyfriend was very strong before this and now he can barely lift our 2 year old son. He also started getting very dizzy and would almost pass out randomly. It’s just getting worse and worse.
We decided for him to see a spine specialist and he has his appointment on June 5th and I really hope we can get some answers here. I’m worried about my boyfriend and I’m afraid that something really bad is wrong with him. He’s fading away on me and I really could use some insight on what could be happening. Thank you.

Tracer85 

ACTOR WANG YIBO 

Someone in DMT asked about combining Syrian rue with moclobemide. My reply was too long to post in the topic, so I figured I'd post it here. I tried to give a balanced view (keep in my mind, I'm still learning and didn't even feel like making the post, I just wanted to use it as an opportunity to prevent the further spread of MAOI hysteria). I referenced posts in this subreddit in the post.
 
I don't recommend it, and I don't even recommend moclobemide on its own, but I've seen people in MAOIs report that they've experimented with combining MAOIs.
I've noticed while experimenting around that Nardil has almost no effect on me when taken alone, but that it works much stronger than even 90MG of Parnate when I take medium (30 & 45) doses of both.
u/extremity4, https://www.reddit.com/MAOIs/comments/w8qyrw/does_maoinhibitorscom_allow_maoi_combining/
I recently started testing adding a low dose of parnate to 30mg of nardil. I have been on Nardil for many months, but I'm still lacking energy, motivation and good mood.
u/konibak, https://www.reddit.com/MAOIs/comments/v79giw/nardil_parnate_fatigue_and_somnolence/
Most people believe that MAOIs are wildly reactant with lots of things, but this is a myth. The foremost person who is working to dispel this myth is Ken Gillman of PsychoTropical.org and some people in MAOIs and socialanxietysupport.com have used his writings to encourage themselves to experiment.
It is, unfortunately, necessary to state clearly from the beginning that much of what is published by doctors in books and journals about MAOIs is either poorly informed, or just plain wrong. As an example, much of the information that comes with MAOIs (the PI, or product information sheet) contains inaccurate material concerning, among other things: serotonin toxicity, drug interactions generally, and dietary tyramine.
MAOIs (Parnate, Nardil): Misconceptions and Questions No. 1. Ken Gillman, MD. PsychoTropical Research. Nov. 14, 2012
To give another controversial example, the last person quoted has also experimented with combining an MAOI with dextroamphetamine:
Dexedrine and Nardil
Indeed, dopaminergics, are not as risky as serotonergics, as implied here:
Drug interactions for the RIMAs [reversible inhibitors of MAO-A] include interaction with SSRI antidepressants, which can cause the 5-HT syndrome (see the discussion of SSRIs). The effect of stimulant drugs, such as methylphenidate and dextroamphetamine (used to treat ADHD), may be increased. Some over-the-counter cold and hay fever decongestants (i.e., sympathomimetic amines) can have increased stimulant effects. Selegiline, a selective MAO-B used for Parkinson disease, should not be used concurrently with the RIMAs. Unlike the irreversible MAOIs, no significant interactions with foods occur because the selective inhibition of MAO-A does not stop the metabolism of tyramine.
Foye's Principles of Medicinal Chemistry, Seventh Edition. Thomas L. Lemke, Ph.D., David A. Williams, Ph.D., Victoria F. Roche, Ph.D., S. William Zito, Ph.D. (2013). (21. Antidepressants. Reversible MAO-A Inhibitor Antidepressants)
And indeed methylphenidate (Ritalin) is safe to combine with MAOIs according to ‘The prescriber’s guide to classic MAO inhibitors for treatment-resistant depression’,[1]
Gillman goes a step further an states 'There is now a lot of accumulated experience of the concurrent administration of MAOIs and amphetamine for therapeutic purposes in depression. It is safe when done carefully.'[2] However, he does point out that there have been deaths from this combo: 'There are various case reports of fatalities with over-doses of MAOIs and Amphetamine [28-34].'[2] And, indeed, numerous people have reported using this combination on the Internet.[3] However, one person reported that after combining Nardil with 'varying amounts of meth, come, crack and Ritalin,' on over 25 occaisons he was diagnosed with 'drug induced congestive heart failure at 27 after having a massive heart attack from combining a grain of rice sized piece of meth with Nardil while mildly drunk and in minor lyrica withdrawal.'[4]
So, getting back to the topic of the post, combing two MAOIs seems like an unnecessary risk, as does mixing drugs that are similar to each other in general (sounds like it would overload the receptors). Just because some people like to be greedy with their medicating doesn't mean they aren't causing subtle damage. I don't even trust the way moclobemide feels, on its own. The mentioned combos, also seem like an unnecessary risk, but what I like about these types of reports is they help to dispel the myth that MAOIs are ridiculously dangerous. B. caapi, itself, contains a serotonin reuptake inhibitor (tetrahydroharmine) in addition to MAOIs, and that's supposedly a taboo combination, and yet ayahuasca is a well-established substance. One tribe was even observed to boost the levels of THH in their brews (there's an herb that contains only THH).[5] THH has been described as weak, so the reason it doesn't react badly with the MAOIs is what Gillman says: ‘the dose makes the poison’ (Paracelsus).[2] Coca has also been added to ayahuasca brews.[6][7] There was even a clinical trial where moclobemide was combined with an SSRI,[8] although, ironically, Ken Gillman is against that study.[9]
[1] The prescriber’s guide to classic MAO inhibitors (phenelzine, tranylcypromine, isocarboxazid) for treatment-resistant depression. Van den Eynde V, Abdelmoemin WR, Abraham MM, et al. CNS Spectrums. 2023;28(4):427-440. doi:10.1017/S1092852922000906
[2] 18. CNS ‘Stimulants’ and MAOIs Part 2. Psychotropical Research. Ken Gillman, MD, 2022, 2023
[3] https://www.reddit.comPA99/s/Epy4BpuLRI
[4] u/No-Tap9133, https://www.reddit.com/MAOIs/comments/1cc8nz9/comment/l17vq64/
[5] https://www.reddit.com/anahuasca/comments/17f16ag/calliandra_pentandra_another_source_of/
[6] Although B. caapi can be the sole ingredient of the tea[7], up to 100 different plants have been described as admixtures to ayahuasca. These plants contain a wide variety of psychotropic substances such as nicotine (from Nicotiana spp.), scopolamine (from Brugmansia spp.), caffeine (from Ilex guayusa and Paullinia yoco), cocaine (from Erythoxylum coca) and N,N-dimethyltryptamine (DMT, from Psychotria viridis and Diplopterys cabrerana)[2, 8.]
The alkaloids of Banisteriopsis caapi, the plant source of the Amazonian hallucinogen Ayahuasca, stimulate adult neurogenesis in vitro. Morales-García JA, de la Fuente Revenga M, Alonso-Gil S, Rodríguez-Franco MI, Feilding A, Perez-Castillo A, Riba J. Sci Rep. 2017 Jul 13;7(1):5309. doi: 10.1038/s41598-017-05407-9
[7] Guillermo: We’re going to take a very strong preparation made of eight plants. Besides ayahuasca and chacruna, there will be toé (datura), bobinsana, chay, coca, marosa, and piñon blanco!
[8] Combining antidepressants: a review of evidence. Palaniyappan L, Insole L, Ferrier N. Advances in Psychiatric Treatment. 2009. 15(2):90-99. doi: 10.1192/apt.bp.107.004820 (See 'SSRI with moclobemide')
[9] One example of a serious mistake is the suggestion that it is OK to combine imipramine with MAOIs, and moclobemide with SSRIs (84) — that has a risk of inducing fatal serotonin toxicity.
84. Palaniyappan, L, Insole, L, and Ferrier, N, Combining antidepressants: a review of evidence. Adv Psychiatr Treat, 2009. 15: p. 90-99.
7. Gillman’s Antidepressants algorithm. Ken Gillman, MD, PsychoTropical Research, Nov 2016, Nov 2023

May 16, 2024.
https://www.theatlantic.com/culture/archive/2024/05/contestant-hulu-review-allen-funt-candid-camera-reality-tv-history/678393/
ore than a decade after watching it, I still get twitchy thinking about “White Bear,” an early episode of Black Mirror that stands as one of the most discomfiting installments of television I’ve seen. A woman (played by Lenora Crichlow) groggily wakes up in a strange house whose television sets are broadcasting the same mysterious symbol. When she goes outside, the people she encounters silently film her on their phones or menacingly wield shotguns and chainsaws. Eventually, trapped in a deserted building, the woman seizes a gun and shoots one of her tormentors, but the weapon surprises her by firing confetti instead of bullets. The walls around her suddenly swing open; she’s revealed to be the star of a sadistic live event devised to punish her repeatedly for a crime she once committed but can’t remember. “In case you haven’t guessed … you aren’t very popular,” the show’s host tells the terrified woman, as the audience roars its approval. “But I’ll tell you what you are, though. You’re famous.”
“White Bear” indelibly digs into a number of troublesome 21st-century media phenomena: a populace numbed into passive consumption of cruel spectacle, the fetishistic rituals of public shaming, the punitive nature of many “reality” shows. The episode’s grand reveal, a television staple by the time it premiered in 2013, is its own kind of punishment: The extravagant theatrics serve as a reminder that everything that’s happened to the woman has been a deliberate construction—a series of manipulations in service of other people’s entertainment.
The contrast between the aghast subject and the gleeful audience, clapping like seals, is almost too jarring to bear. And yet a version of this moment really happened, as seen about an hour into The Contestant, Hulu’s dumbfounding documentary about a late-’90s Japanese TV experiment. For 15 months, a wannabe comedian called Tomoaki Hamatsu (nicknamed “Nasubi,” or “eggplant,” in reference to the length of his head) has been confined, naked, to a single room filled with magazines, and tasked with surviving—and winning his way out, if he could hit a certain monetary target—by entering competitions to win prizes. The entire time, without his knowledge or consent, he’s also been broadcast on a variety show called Susunu! Denpa Shōnen.
Before he’s freed, Nasubi is blindfolded, dressed for travel, transported to a new location, and led into a small room that resembles the one he’s been living in. Wearily, accepting that he’s not being freed but merely moved, he takes off his clothes as if to return to his status quo. Then, the walls collapse around him to reveal the studio, the audience, the stage, the cameras. Confetti flutters through the air. Nasubi immediately grabs a pillow to conceal his genitals. “My house fell down,” he says, in shock. The audience cackles at his confusion. “Why are they laughing?” he asks. They laugh even harder.
Since The Contestant debuted earlier this month, reviews and responses have homed in on how outlandish its subject matter is, dubbing it a study of the “most evil reality show ever” and “a terrifying and bizarre true story.” The documentary focuses intently on Nasubi’s experience, contrasting his innocence and sweetness with the producer who tormented him, a Machiavellian trickster named Toshio Tsuchiya. Left unstudied, though, is the era the series emerged from. The late ’90s embodied an anything-goes age of television: In the United States, series such as Totally Hidden Video and Shocking Behavior Caught on Tape drew millions of viewers by humiliating people caught doing dastardly things on camera. But Tsuchiya explains that he had a more anthropological mission in mind. “We were trying to show the most basic primitive form of human being,” he tells The Contestant’s director. Nasubi was Tsuchiya’s grand human experiment.

Thank you for this universe!
And many thanks to for being a full co-writer on this project!
Kaeden and Vichee belongs to and I thank them so much for working with us! It was an honor!
Sven belongs to Bjorn the Copper Paladin from Discord. I hope to do more with them in the future, and have tons of fun!
And don’t you worry about that final in the title! We have some news at the end!
[First]- [Prev]- {Next Story!!}

{Is the reason that everything happened to Tarlim in the first place?}

{Only up to the ramps, mostly. Trying to impress upon people the importance of accessibility for those with extenuating circumstances. At least according to the records I have access to.}

{The average person knows as much about his friends as they do about Mike Collins.}
<...Who?>
{Exactly. 20th century human spaceman, was there for their first lunar landing. Didn’t get to put boots on the ground, and nobody remembers his name now.}

{Hell, I didn’t even know about him until I put in a search query of niche historical figures just to give you an example. Yeesh…}

(Program Selected.)
(Resume Selected Media? [Y])
(Playing…)
Archived Closed Circuit Security Video - Establishment: Exterminator’s Office - Dawn Creek Division - Subbasement - Date Recorded (ST): OCT 31, 2136 - Timeframe (ST): 11:42 - 11:45
The parking bay is silent. Vans are parked neatly in their spots which frame the hallway to the armory and fuel storage for the camera. A ding is heard and something moves in the hallway. Five fully suited Venlil and a Zurulian step out of an elevator and run towards a van. The sound of a door slamming open comes from the hall roughly 6 seconds later. A stream of Exterminators pour out into the hall from the stairwell.
Their voices are indecipherable as they speak over each other. A Sulian runs into the armory and reappears with a huge flamer tank on their back. Another Zurulian can be seen with an extinguisher tank, but a Venlil bleats at them and tosses it aside. They drag the quadrupedal alien quickly into the parking garage before physically throwing them into the back of a van.
From the back of the hallway, a fluid can be seen spreading across the ground. A trio of Venlil back out of a room while holding their flamers up. They are unlit, instead spewing fuel out of their nozzles. The trio twirl around in an overly animated manner as they walk down the hall to the parking garage. A van pulls out of its spot with windows down so the passengers could let out a cheer.
A black-suited Venlil runs up to the spraying trio while waving their arms to get them out into the garage. The microphone just barely manages to catch him saying, “We need to save some for the predators!” One of the other Venlil replies, “Yes sir, Mafchi!” A short flurry of curses is heard as the gathered exterminators pile into the three other visible vans. Two of the vans speed out of the garage, forcing some other Venlil exterminators to dive out of the way in the process.
The black-suited Mafchi picks up a fuel canister that had been dropped and twists off its cap. He slings it under his shoulder and pours a line of fuel. He marches straight to the final van and hops up into the open rear. The van backs itself up to turn out of the garage. The fuel canister clatters to the ground as it pulls away. Before it clears the view of the camera, the Black-suited Venlil is seen standing in its open back. He is holding what appears to be a flare gun.
The flare sails through the air shortly after the van leaves the frame and impacts the ground. It bounces and rolls until it touches the fuel and ignites it in an instant. A small wall of fire proceeds down the provided trail into the hallway, igniting more fuel as time passes. The hallway is quickly engulfed in vividly red fire. Thick black smoke begins to pour out into the garage as the fire inches closer to the primary fuel tank.
Movement can be seen in the hallway between the flickering flames. The silver form of a Venlil Exterminator is seen rushing out of the stairwell and fighting to head towards the fuel storage room. Before they reach, a white flash fills the screen. The feed goes dead, the error code consistent with electrical interruption.
(Specified Media Concluded.)

{Who was what? Mafchi?}

{Hmmm, there aren’t any tags embedded for them. The suits do a rather good job at making the officers anonymous. Let me see…oh.}

{The, uh… the employment records for that Office were…terminated.}

{It looks like…yes, here. Record wipe in 2497. Media with less than 1 bistandannual visit were removed to save space on the university’s central server. It’s…they’re gone, gone gone.}

{Maybe, but that’ll do us no good if we don’t know their name. And because of the chaos of that incident, nobody has been able to accurately reconstruct where every individual was in that office. We’d have to already know who they were to find them.}
<...I guess that’s another person I’ll have to remember then, huh?>
{...Guess so. Speaking of remembering, perhaps you should check out Tarlim’s view again? Seeing how we were just talking about him.}
<...Sure. At least people remember his name, right?>
(Command: [exitprogram])
(Are you sure? [Y])
…
{-Program Selected-}
{-Restart From Last Playback Point? Y/(N)-}
{-[USERID-11229KMD]: procViewHist -}
{-Retrieving Transcription Viewing History…-}
{-List Retrieved - Select Desired Subject: (Tarlim)-}
{-Restart From Last Playback Point? (Y)/N-}
{-Playing…-}
Memory Transcription Subject: Tarlim, the Venbig. Date [Standardized Human Time] October 31st, 2136
No matter how much Sven and Anso griped about it, having them leave and return with the trailer was a great idea. The humans who had gone with them the first time were, to my dismay, excited to try and ride in the back. I had at least been able to impress on those four that I couldn’t let anyone else ride like that, and that they were to help with rigging a trailer with some seats.
I had to admit; they did a good job!
Several couches sat bolted to the floor of the covered trailer and even had some ropes that could be hooked across the armrests as impromptu belts. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but it would work as well as any bus or short train ride! Certainly superior to jumping in the bed of a truck.
I strode out into the parking road and swayed my ears to greet Anso. Sven had stayed behind here to meet with the humans and entertain the kids, a job which he was slightly less unenthusiastic about compared to last time. “Greetings, Anso! Have you made the necessary preparations for the humans to leave with you?”
The Yotul hopped out of the truck bed and bounced to me. “We have! I have to say those humans were great workers to have helped get this whipped up so quickly! I hope Sven has been behaving himself?”
I let my tail wag behind me remembering my last glimpse of him. He should really secure his sheath straps! “He has! Been entertaining the refugees while I made sure they all had their belongings ready to go. Come on inside, let’s go gather them.”
I guided him with a wave of my arm as we turned back to the door. To be truthful, I hadn’t expected Sven to win the humans over as quickly as he did. Needless to say, his primitive attire seemed to spark joy within them, a joy sorely needed amidst the sadness of recency.
As we entered the building I noticed something, or rather, the lack of something. When I had exited only a few [minutes] prior, the building had been full of life and noise. Now, it was almost dead quiet, save for the sounds of a holovision coming from the lobby. Rather heated sounds, at that.
“I didn’t think it was already main rest claw,” Anso mused as he, too, recognized the aggravated voices coming from the lobby. “And what are they watching in there? Sounds…angry.”
“Yeah…” I trailed off as I followed the noises. As I approached the lobby, the sound of what I assumed was a Gojid yelling. “You know nothing about my family. TALK, JUST FUCKING TALK, NOW!” My ears pinned back at the foul language at play, hoping that Sven and the children were somewhere else.
As I entered the room, I saw that I was only half right. The children were thankfully nowhere to be found, but Sven was obviously present, as was most of the facility staff. I was about to ask what was going on before another voice drew my attention to the holovision, the same as everyone else. The voice of none other than Chief Nikonus.
“There were three of us who laid out the groundwork for the Federation. When Kolshian explorers came in contact with the Farsul, more than a thousand years ago, the galaxy was young. We were the first in this sector to escape our gravity well. You know about the founding of this institution, but I reiterate it just in case.”
“The Krakotl were the third,” another voice piped up from behind the camera. I thought it might’ve been another Gojid, but the voice was far too breathy. Harchen, maybe? I wasn’t given a chance to consider it further as Nikonus continued. “Yes, they were a problem from the start; aggressive, disagreeable. We tried to identify the problem, and why they were so ill-equipped for spacefaring.”
“We learned they were scavengers, who would occasionally go for fish as well.”
His next line was rendered inaudible by the shocked gasps of both the refugees and residents in the room. I was no different, drawing in a sharp breath at the abrupt admission. I remembered that Arvi had said some aliens were revealed to have eaten meat in the past, but was this the way it was decided to be revealed? With such abject callousness?
Nikonus continued to speak, looking not just proud, but smug with his words. He went on about how the Federation had saved these aliens with their manipulations, but the entirety of his body language seemed to indicate he reveled in how devastating this information would be to the people he was speaking to. How they manipulated an entire culture, a RELIGION!
What if they did the same to ours?
That horrifying thought struck through my mind like a derailing train. I had relied upon the Tenets in some of my darkest moments. Found comfort in them when there was none elsewhere to be found. To have such a comfort revealed as a lie in its entirety, used only for some other group to control you…
The voice of Nikonus hit my ears again. “Oh Sovlin, I already told you. For the small minority of species who don’t find herbivory alone, we teach them the right way. Doesn’t the religion against predators sound familiar?”
The Kolshian was insufferably proud of those words. There was no doubt in my mind now; this was mocking. Mocking a Gojid for following The Protector. For being a predator. For being different, but expecting to still be treated as a person. The Gojid were predators, they couldn’t help it, and they were already being mocked for it.
What might happen to all the other species?
I shifted my focus away from the screen to the crowd, searching for one in particular. Vichee, a Krakotl already so different from everyone else, and now my concerns for them were multiplied with every word that fell from Nikonus’ mouth. Were they okay? They had come in here to see Sven, I had seen them. Where are-
I spotted Kaeden in the corner of the room. Next to him, slumped against the wall, was Vichee. The dual colored Krakotl’s eyes were glazed over as they stared at nothing. I strode over quickly, my instincts wanting to comfort them. Kaeden was simply standing there, it was confusing that he didn’t seem to be comforting Vichee at all. As I got closer, their head tilted up to me, regarding me with an unfocused eye.
“He was right.” They said quietly. My implant almost didn’t pick it up over the sounds of the lobby. “Kaeden had asked me soon after our first meeting if Krakotl had once been meat eaters. Said it was the shape of our beaks. ‘More suited to capturing small wriggling prey than filtering algae’. He told me. I nearly flew away right then… If I had, I would have been alone with this news.”I listened, kneeling down to be closer to their level. “You’re not alone, your herd is here. Right Kaeden?”
He looked over at me and nodded. “Vichee was there with me when Earth was attacked. I’m here for them now. Kaabra and Venik are… together, elsewhere at the moment. But they will be here too.”
I flicked my ears in understanding. “Then I hope they may help in hugging Vichee until their tears are dry.” I turned an eye to Vichee. “Please, I just want you to know that you are still you. What your body does has no effect on your personhood.”
Vichee still sat, their mind still likely whirling with the new information. They lifted their differently colored wings. “I’m well aware. This lesson I already learned. But thank you, I understand what you mean.” Kaeden nodded slowly and Vichee returned to their thoughts.
“There’s going to be trouble soon, Tarlim,” Kaeden stated gravely. “News like this? Nothing good will come of it. I can already tell this won’t go over well. Keep your eyes open.”
As if in response to his words, the sound of clanking metal hits my ears. They shoot up, pivoting to locate its source. There, dashing towards the door, was the armored figure of Sven. I didn’t know him enough to know how this broadcast would affect him, but running was never the best sign. I flicked my ears goodbye to my friends and rose, following after the metal man. In my periphery, I saw the television screen had shifted to show Rolem moving onto the stage. I would have to miss whatever it was he had to say, so ducked through the doors and continued to follow the sound of metal.
As I exited, I saw that I wasn’t the only one to see Sven’s actions. Anso was bounding behind him, shouting something I couldn’t hear. Sven didn’t seem to either as he kept running, but his gait wasn’t one of fear. He looked purposeful, sprinting in a straight line. A line pointed right towards-
Towards the observing Exterminator Van.
The metal Venlil didn’t even hesitate at the presence of the fence. He leapt up in a display of strength and agility, vaulting over the barrier and continuing his beeline into the van. It was like phased through the doors with how fast he moved. There were sounds of commotion that followed his entry, and soon two Exterminators fell out of the van. One Venlil…and one Krakotl. I wonder how Kalek is taking things.
I, too, cleared the fence with only a high step and reached the van, peering in to see Sven at the controls. “Sven! What are you doing?” I asked, the Krakotl officer shivering on the ground in my periphery.
“They got my girl!” He huffed, “She’s a Gojid, they got her, I can’t let them do anything worse to her!” He tried to activate the vehicle to no avail, but his words brought up something that I hadn’t thought much over. I remember hearing about temporary emplacements that were being set up. Paly had texted me about exterminators bringing people there. Her too. And that would mean-
-THOOOOOOOMMMMM-
The wind hit me like a truck and rocked the van I was standing next to. Sven even stopped trying to fiddle with the controls to see what had just happened. In the distance, near the center of town, an enormous black cloud rose into the air, the vestiges of fire still burning in the suspended embers. I couldn’t look away from it as my mind raced with horrible possibilities as my mind tripped over itself trying to concoct a plan of action.
I wasn’t given long to think before the radio in the van crackled to life, startling both Sven and myself. “Attention all True Exterminators! The truth has come out about the taint in our midst! For too long we have lived with its danger in our presence! If any of you still hold the safety of The Herd in your hearts, come join us so we may burn ALL the predator taint from this District! Rendezvous at Vulen’s apartment complex, we shall start our cleansing there!”
The name of one of my landlords sparked familiarity in my mind. They had been working to build a series of new apartments to add to his old, and if I remembered, had agreed to house the Gojid refugees. The Gojid! Paly was housed with them!!
In an instant, I reached into the van and grabbed Sven by the arm. He tried to pull away, but my grip was too strong. “Sven! They’re gonna kill the Gojid! They’re gonna burn Paly!”
He finally managed to shake himself free as my paws became jittery from stress. “I gotta save my girlfriend! She’s in a facility! I gotta save her!”
“But they’re gonna burn people here!” I protested, “we have to do something! We need- We need People who can fight them! Kaeden! I need to get Kaeden! We can save them!”
I pulled myself away from the van and spotted Anso nearby. He must have had to go through the gate, but this was good timing. I pointed a claw at him. “Do Not Let Him drive off before I get back!”
I didn’t give him, nor the Exterminators who had recovered from their shock, time to ask questions. Paly was in danger, as were who knew how many others. I faintly heard my data pad chime from within my shoulder bag, the signal my heart was beating too fast, but I couldn’t deal with it right now. I could get the heart rate under control during the drive. Right now I needed Kaeden, he knew how to fight! How to save people when others were trying to kill them!
My paws guided me and I was back in the cafeteria before I knew it. Some of the crowd had dissipated, but Kaeden and Vichee were still in the same corner I had left them in, but with their Venlil friends now joined. Without leaving time for protest, I grabbed Kaeden’s arm and pulled him away. I heard Vichee squawk behind me, but I was in too much of a hurry. I can’t let her get hurt. I Won’t.
Kaeden started to slap my arm as I dragged the soldier across the lobby. “Tarlim! What the fuck are you doing?? What’s going on?”
“No time, they’re going to burn everyone,” I breathlessly said as I burst the facility doors open to get him to the van.
“What? Who?” Kaeden questioned, still resisting my pull. I could hear a tinge of worry in his voice, and I knew he would understand. Anso looked back from his position as he heard my approach, and upon seeing me dragging Kaeden along, he grew visibly concerned.
“On the radio, something about True Exterminators,” I attempted to explain to him as we neared the gate doors. This time, I simply spread them apart with my free paw, metal screeching against itself as the gate was forced open. “They’re going to burn every cured species they can find, and That Means Paly. I Won’t Let Them.”
Kaeden had stopped struggling as I explained the bare essentials to him, and once we approached the van, he finally had enough sense to ask the right questions. “So what exactly is the plan to stop them? We’re strong, sure, I could probably take most of them. But just two of us against a wall of those flamers?”
“Not two,” I corrected, letting go of his arm and throwing open the back doors of the van. Still seated in the drivers side was Sven, who looked back once he heard me permit entrance into the back. “We have him too.”
“Wh- the LARPer??” Kaeden asked incredulously. I wasn’t familiar with the term he used, but his tone told us all we needed to know. Sven’s eyes narrowed at the perceived insult, but Kaeden continued. “Do either of you have any formal military training?? Rushing down there is only going to get you both killed along with the others! For fucks sake, slow down! We need a plan!”
“T-There won’t be t-time f-for one,” a voice peeped in from behind us. We all turned to face the source, and we found it was the Venlil Exterminator. They recoiled under the sudden gaze of our entire party, but they managed to continue. “I-I recognized the v-voice. It w-was one of the n-new recruits. They m-might as well be Y-Yulpa. If you w-want to stop them, it’s now or n-never.”
We all stared at them for a moment in disbelief that they’d willingly hand over that information to us. They were Exterminators, weren’t they? They should be allied with the voice on the radio! Kaeden, after considering the information, gave voice to my confusion. “And why are you telling us this? You’re an exterminator, shouldn’t you be trying to help them?”
“M-My husband is the Krakotl that was in the van with me!” They yelled back, stamping their footpaw on the ground in agitation. “I-I don’t care what his ancestors did a t-thousand years ago, I will not stand for those zealots burning who knows how many people! We’re not all the same, h-human!”
I was taken aback by their words. I had given up hope that there were any redeemable souls amongst the ranks of those silver-suited brahkasses, but living proof of the contrary stood before us. Their breathing was only matched by mine as my pad continued to chime in my pack. Maybe there’s hope after all.
Kaeden started frantically looking all around, his focused gaze falling on the facility, the exterminator in front of us, and the rising smoke in the distance. After a moment's hesitation, he growled to himself and shook his head. “Fine! Fucking- if you want to prove you’re different, you and your partner stand guard at the gate! They’ll probably try to send a division here, so keep on guard! And for the love of God, go ask for help if that happens!”
My tail wagged behind me as I interpreted what that meant. “So you’ll help us, Kaeden?”
He paused for a second, an agonizing second as he fully took in the situation in his mind. But ultimately, he nodded. “Let’s go, we can figure things out along the way.”
Seizing the moment, Anso quickly jumped into the van and pushed Sven out of the driver's seat, much to their visible frustration. Kaeden quickly hopped into the passenger seat, leaving me with the problem of finding a space that would fit me. I stepped over to the back of the van and threw the doors open.
The flamers and their fuel tanks were useless to us, easy to toss all three sets out onto the ground behind me. I made sure that the flamers were disabled first, of course. Just had to snap the pilot lighters and slice a hose with my claw. Even if these two said they weren’t like these “True Exterminators” I didn’t trust them one bit. I crawled inside the cramped vehicle and wiggled myself to close the doors behind me.
As I got myself settled, I watched as the Venlil Exterminator started to inspect the destroyed remains of their weapons. I squinted a glare at them and positioned myself so they couldn’t enter with me. “You two aren’t coming,” I hissed. “You know why you’re not. Try anything with the humans, and they will stop you.”
I slammed the doors shut as their expressions fell, just in time for Anso to get the van into gear. I curled myself up against the wall of the van, watching out the back window as we sped down the road. We were on our way now. On our way to save Paly and all the people gathered because their ancestors ate meat. My heart hammered in my chest, but I would need to control it for what we were about to do. I needed to focus. I needed to breathe. I needed to be calm.
Focus. Breathe. Calm
Focus.
Breathe.
Calm…
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Memory Transcription Subject: Sol-Vah, Fleeing Predator. Date [Standardized Human Time] October 31st, 2136
My legs couldn’t carry me anymore. I had to keep going, but I didn’t have the strength. My pants became wheezes as my body struggled to keep up with the physical exertion of running almost halfway through town. I hadn’t even looked up before now, at least with eyes not blinded by tears. The pain of Mute’s rejection still stung in my soul, a pain so visceral it threatened to rip me apart worse than any Arxur. Protector, what did I do to deserve this? Is there even a Protector, or did the Federation just- just make that up?
I didn’t have time to think about that now, I needed to get to the office. From what little I caught of the broadcast, Nikonus had said they saved us before. I knew what it likely was, but…I was desperate. I just wanted to go back home and have him embrace me like he did before. The safety and love I had felt from him was still fresh in my mind, and if there was any chance I had to get it back?
I’ll happily take it.
As I approached the office, however, something seemed off. I could smell soot in the air, but not the kind of soot that came from our flamers. This was- was…dirtier smelling, as if the fuel had been impure. Upon looking up, however, I saw something that made my stomach drop. A huge plume of smoke, billowing up into the sky. It shadowed the sun itself with its immensity and hate. Did the Exterminators burn more drugs? Or…or…
I felt a renewed vigor as I started to run towards the plume, hoping against hope that I was wrong. As soon as I turned the corner, though, my worst fears were realized. Where the office once stood now sat a burning stack of glorified rubble, every single window in sight shattered and multiple holes in the outer walls. The building was split, it was as if a giant knife had come down and sloppily sliced off its front half to spill flaming debris everywhere.
I stood in front of the building I had once called my home, surrounded by screams and the awful sound of flames roaring. I knew now there was no hope of salvation, no way this could ever be undone. I would never be able to go back to the way things were, never feel the happiness I had for that brief time. I was doomed to this life, abandoned by my love, and forced to live as an abomination devoid of a home.
I suppose that’s all a predator like me deserves.
[First]- [Prev]- {Next Story!!}
You read it right: This is going to be the final chapter of "Of Giants and Journalists." With the conclusion of Sharnet and Vekna's adventure, we will now take the time to show how this announcement has affected our characters and the galaxy at large. We're excited to announce our new series, Nature of a Giant: Aftermath! This series will not be quite as in-depth temporally as Of Giants and Journalists was, mainly because not as much will be happening in as short of a time. Rest assured, though, there will still be plenty of action across the board! You just won't have to deal with over half the story only covering a week of time!
In that vein, we are also excited to announce we are working on another bonus series, one that was teased a long time ago, Venric Lawven: Legal Legend! It will be filling the gap for content while we work on the first few chapters of Aftermath to make sure the scenes are as quality as they deserve, but will have a reduced upload schedule to once a week to accommodate for writing two series at once. On behalf of both of myself and , we'd like to thank all of our readers for sticking with us on this journey. It's hard to believe this series has been going on for over a year in one form or another, but I wouldn't have it any other way! Thank you all again for your continued support, and we look forward to seeing you again with Legal Legends! And then...
The Aftermath!!

This is a place for asking simple questions that might not deserve their own thread. For example, if you have a question about a rules interaction, want sleeve and accessory recommendations, or suggestions for your new deck, then this is the place for you.
We encourage that you post any questions that you may have concerning Magic the Gathering here rather than make a separate thread for each question, though for now we won't require that you do so.
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Rules questions and interactions are allowed to be posted here, but if you need an answer quickly it may be best to use a dedicated resource like the 24/7 Magic the Gathering Rules Chat.
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Additionally, please include some description of what you are trying to accomplish. Don't just give us a decklist with no explanation, and don't ask extremely vague questions such as "what cards should I add to my deck to make it better?", because it's hard to give good advice in those cases. Let us know details, the more the better. Are you building with a particular strategy or theme in mind? Are there any non-obvious combo lines or synergies that people should be aware of? Are you struggling with a particular matchup, or are you finding yourself missing consistency in an important area, and need some help specifically for it? Let us know.
Commonly Asked Questions

I opened a card from a different set in my booster pack, is this unusual?

Don't worry, this is completely normal. If you opened a set booster, you have a small chance of obtaining a bonus card from a previous set. This is an extra card that does not replace any of the other cards in your pack, and is from a curated set of past hits that Wizards of the Coast has selected, which they call "The List".
You can view the contents of The List on Wizards of the Coast's official website. For example, the contents of The List for Streets of New Capenna boosters can be found here.

My foil card has a shooting start symbol over the bottom left. I can't find anything about it online.

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Welcome to the Physique Phriday thread
What's the point of having people guess your body fat? Nevermind that it's the most inaccurate method available, (read: most likely way wrong - see here) you're still just putting an arbitrary number to the body you have. Despite people's claim that they are shooting for a number, they're really shooting for look - like a six pack.
So let's stopping mucking around with trivialities and get to the heart of the matter. This thread shall serve two purposes:

1. Physique critiques. Post some pics and ask about muscles or body parts you need to work on. Or specifically ask about a lagging body part and what exercises worked for others.
2. An outlet for people that want to show off their efforts that would otherwise be removed due to Rule 4, and

Let's keep things civil, don't be a creep, and adhere to Rule 1. This isn't a thread to announce what you find attractive in a mate. Please use the report function for any comments that are out of line.
So phittit, what's your physique pheel like this phriday?

First/Previous/Next
The travel took on a less gloomy quality in the day that passed since Gemma’s self-reflection and although there remained a queer distance in her eyes, she seemed in better spirits in losing the weight of the words.
It was a night just beyond Wabash Crevasse that we pushed on till sunset was almost upon us and we were each tired and the food stocks ran low and so we found harbor in a half collapsed cellar where a home once stood; it was only after examining the slatted, rotted boards of the old place, fallen over, tired with decay, that we spied the cellar doors intact; sheets of door metal plied us with safety from the outside world and the interior of the place stank of mold and the deeper recesses were collapsed, but there was a cradle to crossbar the stair hatch and I put my prybar there for the night. We finished the water and canned tomatoes, and I smoked a cigarette, staving off the inevitable doom which would come with the dwindling of our supplies.
I’d peeked through the space where the doors met at the cellar’s entry and watched the full darkness there while the youngins spoke of life and the trivial pursuits of it and I hardly said a word besides.
Sitting on the lowest step with Trouble dumbly maintaining her station by me, by the low glow of the space in the threshold, I saw they’d pushed their bedrolls together and Andrew had fallen asleep with his arm over Gemma’s shoulder and her eyes glowed with shine from the crack, blinked a few times while seeing me; she too eventually drifted to sleep, and I spent time by the secured door.
Gunshots rang across the stillness, and they stirred from their quiet slumber and Gemma asked, “Harlan, is it alright?”
I moved to the space there at the doorway again and listened and watched what I could through that crack and nothing beyond came. “It’s safe. I’ll be up a bit longer. I’ll watch.”
Andrew asked, “Can’t sleep?”
“I’ll sleep in a bit. Don’t worry about me. Rest. Sleep good and we can put more behind us.
They sat up, legs crossed triangle-wise, and Gemma spoke again, “Why do you have such a hard time sleeping? It seems I’m asleep after you and only awake after you too.”
“Yeah,” said Andrew.
“It’s cool at night. I can listen to the wind.” I shrugged.
“You should be the one that tries to get some sleep,” said Andrew.
I said nothing.
They reached out their arms and I shook my head.
“Here,” Gemma said, “Move your bedroll closer.” She reached across the dirt floor of the cellar and dragged my splayed roll so that it sat beside hers.
“I’ll sleep later.” I turned my attention back to the door and ignored them till their sounds of sleep could be heard. The Alukah was nowhere and did not tap on the door that night and when I moved to sleep, I shimmied onto the roll beside them, facing away on my shoulder; the dog followed, laid on the bare dirt beside me and I held the mutt.
Though I refused a noise as they stirred in the absolute darkness, I felt Gemma’s arm fall over my own shoulder and felt Andrew’s hand touch my back, and water traced the bridge of my nose and I slept deeply thereafter.
There was no breakfast without food, and the water was gone; I felt the eyes of the dog on us as we packed up our belongings that next morning and I tried not to imagine the poor animal skinned over fire. I smiled at Trouble, patted its head, scratched its chin; she sniffed my hand like she was looking for something that wouldn’t be found.
We went west again, ignoring roads and pushed through straight wasteland where nothing was and no one was, and with every dry footfall on the dry hard ground, I wished for rain, and I wished that when it had rained, as infrequent as it was, that I had been wise enough to save what we could from the sky; that sky was red and swollen and refused to burst. We pushed on through strange dead thickets where grayed and twisty yellow branches lurched from the ground into the sky like even they too wished for an end to all the suffering. It was days more till we would see Alexandria and though I could stave off hunger (thirst too, if necessary), I was not so certain that the children would be able to push on without it; they did not complain and watched the ground in our march and maintained higher spirits than I could’ve imagined from them.
Early in the day, they spoke often, and I listened and as they wore on, their words came less and even the dog seemed in a lower mood for the unsaid predicament; me too.
Gemma broke the silence on the matter by saying, “What are we going to do about food? Water?”
“We’ll push on.”
“We could turn back?” asked Andrew.
“The more time we spend out in the open, outside of a city, the more likely it is that the Alukah will catch us unawares. Tighten your belts.” Our feet took us around a dilapidated truck, an old thing with a rusty hook which dangled off a rear arm. “Save your urine.”
They made faces but did not protest.
“Does that work? You ever drink pee?” asked Andrew.
I laughed, “I thought we’d be there by now. I took us too long by trying to drop the scent of the Alukah. That thing’s hunted us for days—last night was the first time it ain’t bothered us. It’s got me wondering why.”
Gemma piped up, licking her dry lips before speaking, “Do you think that monster ran into those scavengers we saw?” Then I caught her shooting a look at Andrew, “At least we warned them.” Her smile was faint and almost indiscernible as one.
I shrugged. “Can’t say. Don’t think it’s smart to turn back. Won’t be long and we’ll touch the 40 and then it’ll be a straight on to Babylon—couple of days—can’t turn back though. Maybe without food; that’s doable. Water’s the worst, but if it comes to it,” I paused and looked on the weathered faces of the children, on the lowered head of Trouble which followed her nose across the ground (it searched just short of frantic), “Like I said, ‘save your urine’.”
The first pains of hunger held within me brought up some reminiscence and I wished for nothing more than to hold Suzanne; I could nearly smell them and in the swaying walk which took us on past toppled townships, I held long blinks where I could nearly make out their face and if I really pushed the limits of my imagination, I could feel them. In those moments, as we passed dead places, rotted pits of despair, I could think of little more than their presence. Though I knew it was a dangerous game, hoping for more than I was worth, I hoped for Suzanne then and I wished that I’d taken them up on their offer to travel to Alexandria with them; it could’ve been home—it never was in all the times I’d gone there, but who knows? The thoughts of Babylon brought forth their gardens; the wild gardens and the water which flowed freely through their pipes. I wished I was a different person entirely and that too would’ve been better for Suzanne; how it was that they’d seen anything in me, I don’t know. How it was that they could stoop to the level of being with someone like me—I warded off that thought, because to place the blame there would certainly be unfair. I thought of my love plainly and wanted a different life more suited to them.
Imaginations played more furiously, and I remembered the evening when Dave stopped me from leaping from that roof—it’s doubtful that he even realized that he’d slowed my demise; perhaps he did know—I wished then that I could ask him. Too kind for the world. People too kind for the world were scarce and hardly worth the trouble. Yet, there I was, chaperoning those two across the wastes.
Gemma was a broken person when I’d found her, tortured in Baphomet’s well; Andrew was a dullard boy who’d lost his hand. What a silly predicament.
I stopped in my movements and swiveled on my heel to catch Andrew by the shoulder. “You still got your hand, don’t you?”
In good humor, the boy grinned, lifted the nub on the end of his left forearm to show me, “Nope.”
“Dammit, no! The hand in the jar!”
Andrew raised his eyebrows. “In my pack.”
“Stop,” I commanded Trouble; the dog hardly recognized my words and continued a way then circled back, sad eyes looking up from where she took to sit by my side. Gemma, both arms dangling loosely from her own pack’s shoulder straps, took into the circle we’d formed.
The girl asked, “What about the jar? It’s nasty, but I guess it’s his.”
“I think that’s it,” I said. I took Andrew by his shoulders, looked him in his eyes, “We could use it!”
“What?” The boy almost laughed in the display of our concern. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I think I’ve got it! It’s good for a trap.” I shook him; maybe too hard. I almost smiled. “It’s worth a shot!”
“It’s mine.” He bit his top lip, withdrew from me.
“You’ll feel differently about that,” I said.
Gemma placed a hand on Andrew’s pack and tried ripping it open. “Give it to him!” shouted the girl.
The boy whipped from her grasp, and he spun on his feet, and panic stood on his face. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”
I took a step forward, “No, not anymore.” I put out my palm, “Give it.”
Andrew nearly flinched at the thought of it and shook his head a little. “Why?”
“I told you why,” I said.
“You don’t even know if it’ll work, do you?” his words were long in protest.
The girl started again, “Andrew, please.”
He locked eyes with Gemma and once again, his bottom teeth came up to meet over his top lip and he moved his jaw methodically with contemplation.
“What does it even matter?” she asked.
“It’s mine. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“C’mon,” he said, but his pack straps fell from his shoulders, and he hunkered down on the ground and opened his bag; his right hand plunged into the recesses therein and withdrew the jar with his severed left hand. He held the object up, refusing to come up from his open pack, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Take it then.” He shook the jar; its contents sloshed with liquid decay.
I grabbed the thing, held it to skylight; the remains within had congealed and rotted and lumps nearly floated in the brownish liquid which had formed in the base of the container. I shook it and stared for a moment at the miniscule debris which floated alongside the hand; each of its digits had swollen and erupted to expose bone; some had come away in pieces. “Tomorrow,” I said and nodded.
We gathered ourselves and Andrew pulled his pack on again and we moved, Trouble still looked sorry and the boy remained quiet while the girl chattered on with questions while we took through the dying ground in a formation with the dog on point then me then the children.
“What will you do with it?” she asked me.
“Not sure yet.”
Andrew made a noise like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
“You think it will work?” asked Gemma.
“Nothing’s a guarantee. They’re smart—Alukah.”
“Smart enough to figure out a trap?”
I shrugged. “We’ll find out.”
“We could put stakes in a pit.”
“Keep on the lookout for a building. Something with multiple floors.”
With that, we moved on, found a worn, mostly destroyed road and we fell into a travelling quiet and the thought of hunger or thirst arose again, and I pushed it down—though I knew the uneasiness could only last so long before savagery would overtake the human condition; the kids seemed strong enough, but I kept an eye on the dog too. Savagery belonged not only to humans, after all.
The ground of the wastes was harder when it was quiet, and it was flatter further west. The sky—red and full of thin and transparent drifting clouds—seemed an awful sight when stared at for too long; it was the thing which stretched as if to signal there wasn’t an end in any direction, as if to declare we had much more to go till safety. Wanderlust is a thing that I believe I’ve felt before, but under that sky, with those two and the dog, I didn’t feel it at all. It was doom that I felt. Ignorance and doom. And it was all because I was certain I’d made all the wrong mistakes, and it was coming back to me. I was experienced. We should’ve had food and water. Perhaps there was some deep and nasty part inside of me that had intended to sacrifice them along the way. The words of the Alukah might have rung true: You say you make no deals, but I smell it. I think you’d deal.
Surely, I felt differently. Surely.
“Getting darker,” called Andrew as we came to where signposts—worn and bent and barely legible—told us of a place once called Annapolis and the buildings were nearly gone entirely; places, maybe places that were once homes, were leveled—I was briefly caught in imagining what it might’ve been like all those ages ago. As are most places, it was haunted like that and when we came to a long rectangular structure of metal walls—thin walls—we took it as a place for rest for the night.
It once served as an agricultural station, for when we breached its entry, there were a line of dead machines—three in all—cultivators or tillers which stood higher than any of our heads and Gemma asked what they were, and I told her I thought they were for farming. The great rusted bodies stood in quiet shadow as we came through a side passage of the building and the great doors which had once been used to release those machines from the building stood frozen in their frame. I approached the doors, lighting my lantern and motioning for the children to shut the door we’d entered through.
Upon closer inspection, it seemed the doors would roll into the ceiling and the chains which held the doors in place were each secured with rusted padlocks—I removed my prybar from my pack and moved along the wall of doors, giving each old lock a smack with the weapon; each one held in place, seemingly fused there through years of corrosion, and I rounded the cultivators once more, back to the children, near the side door where they’d discovered a rickety stair frame which crawled up the side of the wall to a catwalk; along the catwalk, a levitated box stood at the height of the structure, stilted by metal legs, and we took the stairs slowly with the dog following close behind; the poor mutt was mute save the sound of its own shuffling paws.
The metal stairs creaked under our weight and Gemma held her own lantern high over her head so that the strange shadows of the place grew longer, stranger, and suddenly I felt very sure that something was in the dark with us, but there was no noise except what we made. My eyes scanned the darkness, and I followed the children up the stairs till we met the overhang of the catwalk and I peered into the shadows, the blades of the cultivators—far extended on foldable arms—struck up through the pool of blackness beneath us and I felt so cold there and if it were not for the breath of my fellow travelers, I might have been lost in the dark for longer than intended—lost and frozen and contemplative.
“There’s a room,” said the boy, and he pushed ahead on the hanging passage, and he was the first to the door. “Boxes,” he said plainly.
Upon coming to the place where he stood, Gemma pushed her lantern over the threshold, and I saw what he’d meant as I traced my own lantern to help; the room was crammed with plastic totes and old metal containers of varied sizes. There seemed to be enough empty space to maneuver through the room, but only if one watched their feet while they walked. Carefully.
We moved to the room, and I found a stack of crates to place my lantern then motioned for Gemma to douse hers. In minutes, the place was rearranged so that we could sit comfortably on the floor; crates lined the walls precariously and we breathed heavy from the work done, but we began to unpack and upon watching the children while I rolled a cigarette, I felt a pang of guilt, a terrible summation—all choices in my life had led me here and with them and perhaps it would have been a better world for them without me.
Mentally shrugging this thought away, I lit my cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then withdrew the jar which Andrew had handed over. I held it to the lantern to examine it. The grotesqueness of it hardly phased me and I watched it more curious and hopeful than disgusted.
“I hope it’ll work,” said the boy, “Whatever it is that you plan on doing with it.” He grimaced and maintained a further silence in patting his bedding for fluff. The dog moved to him, and she pushed her forehead against him where he squatted on floor. The boy scratched Trouble’s chin and whispered, “Good girl,” into the top of her head where he’d pushed his own face.
“I’m hungry,” said Gemma; she placed her chin in her arm while watching Andrew with the dog. She sat on her own flat bed there on the floor and stated plainly the thing that I’d hoped to ignore for longer.
“I know.” I took another drag from the cigarette and let the smoke hang over my head. “The dog?”
Andrew recoiled, pulling Trouble closer into his arms.
I smiled. “It was a joke.”
Andrew relaxed, but only a moment before Gemma added, “Maybe.”
The boy narrowed his eyes in the girl’s direction, and she shrugged. “If it’s life or death.”
He didn’t say anything and merely continued stroking Trouble’s coat.
That night, we slept awfully and even in the complete darkness, I felt the cramp of the storage room and the angled shapes of the tools that protruded from the containers on all sides remained permanent well after we’d turned the light off and it felt like those shapes were the teeth of a great creature like we were sitting inside of its mouth, looking out.
Trouble positioned herself partially on my chest, her slow rhythmic breathing brought my thoughts calm and I whispered to her in the dark after I was sure the others were asleep, “I promise it was a joke.” And I brushed the back of her neck with my hand and the animal let go of a long sigh then continued that deep rhythmic breathing.
Still without food or water, the following day was the true indication of the misery to come. Gemma’s stomach growled audibly in waking and Andrew—though he kept his complaints to himself—smacked his lips more often or protruded the tongue in his mouth in a starvation for water. The room, in the daylight which peered through pinpricks of its half-decayed roof, seemed another beast altogether from its nighttime counterpart; it was not so frightening. Again, I admonished myself for the lack of preparation, but there was another thought that brought together a more cohesive feeling; we had a possible plan, a trap for the demon that’d been following us.
We went into the field to the west of the building where there was only dirt beneath our feet in the early sunlight and in the coolness of morning air, I nearly felt like a person. The sun crested the horizon and brought with it a warmth that would quickly become overwhelming—in those few minutes though—it felt good enough. I wished for the shy dew and saw none. The weirdness of holding Andrew’s rotting hand in a jar momentarily caught me and I almost laughed, but refrained and the dog and the children looked on while I held the container up and suddenly, seeing the congealed mass of tissue floating in its own excretions, I was overcome with the urge to run, the urge that nothing would ever be right again in my life, and that I was marked to be that way.
I blinked and tossed the jar to Andrew. “Say goodbye,” I said. He fumbled after it with his right hand and caught it to his chest.
“It’s strange you care so much anyway,” said Gemma, shrugging—her eyes forgave a millisecond of pity and when Andrew looked at her, still holding the jar in his right hand, she smiled and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her pants.
“We’ve enough oil, I think,” my voice was raspy from it being early, “Enough for good fire, but if we use it, it’ll mean a few more dark nights on our way.”
“We’re going to set it on fire?” Andrew pondered, keeping his eyes to the contents of the jar. “It worked good enough last time. It’ll work,” I nodded, “I has to, doesn’t it?”
His dry lips creased into a brief smile, and he tossed the jar back to me and I caught it.
“Let’s dig,” I said.
Without much in the way of proper tools, we began at the ground under us with our hands, then taking turns with my prybar till there was a hole in the ground comfortably large enough to conceal a human head and I uncapped the jar and spilled it contents there and we covered it back and I lightly tamped it with my boot. My eyes scanned the outbuilding we’d taken refuge in the night prior and then to the street to the north then to the houses which stood as merely rotted plots of foundation with frames that struck from the ground more as markers than support. “I’ll take up over there across the street when it gets dark. I want you two in that storage room before anything goes off.”
“We can’t help?” asked Gemma.
“You can help by staying out of the way—the mutt too,” I said; the words were harsh, but my feelings were from worry.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we stuck together?” asked the girl.
I shook my head. “You stay in the room and keep quiet. No matter what you hear, you stay quiet and safe.”
“That’ll put you at a bigger risk,” Gemma furrowed her brow at me and shifted around to look out on the houses across the street, “There’s hardly any cover over there.”
The boy nodded, smacked his lips, and rubbed his forearm across his mouth then audibly agreed with her.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, “No matter what you hear happening outside, no matter, you don’t open the door and you don’t scream—don’t make a noise at all. Alright? Even if you hear me calling you, you don’t do it.”
“Pfft,” Gemma crossed her arms and kicked her foot against the ground. The way her eyes seemed hollowed with bruising showed that the irritation would only grow without food. “Alright,” she finally sighed.
Andrew looked much the same as she did in that; he swallowed a dry swallow then stuffed his hand into his pocket and looked away when our eyes matched.
We gathered our light oil. Altogether, it seemed enough; rummaging through the room of the outbuilding we’d earlier taken refuge within, we managed three intact glass containers—the only ones found that wouldn’t leak with liquid; two were bottles and the third was the jar that’d once kept Andrew’s hand. With that work done, we sat with three Molotov cocktails within our huddled circle of the storage room.
“Is it enough?” asked Gemma.
“We’ll see,” I began rolling a cigarette to ignore the hunger and the thirst.
Andrew took to the corner and glanced over his shoulder only a moment before a steady liquid stream could be heard and when he rotated from the wall once the noise was finished and he held a canteen up to his nose, sniffed it and quivered and shook his head.
As the sun pushed on, I scanned the perimeter outside, and they followed. Far south I spied a mass of shadow inching across the horizon and Gemma commented, “What’s that?”
I pushed the binoculars to her and let her gaze through them.
“A fiend—that’s what we called it back in the day anyway. A mutant.”
She held the binoculars up and frowned. “A mutant? So, it was once human?”
“A fiend was once many humans.” I pointed out to the horizon though she couldn’t see me doing so and continued, “If you look at the edges of its shape, you’ll see it’s got limbs galore on it. Sticking up like hairs is what it’ll look like at this distance. Those are arms and legs. It’s got faces too. Many faces.” I shuddered.
“I can barely see any details,” she passed the binoculars to Andrew, and he looked through them, “What’s it do?”
“What?” I asked.
“What’s it do if it catches a person?”
“It pulls people into it. Makes you apart of its mass. Nasty fuckers.”
Andrew removed the lenses from his eyes and held them to his chest and asked, “It won’t mess up your trap, will it?”
“We’ll keep an eye on it,” I said, “You don’t want to mess with a fiend unless you have to.”
First/Previous/Next
Archive

I've been trying to find an archive of a KFC space shooter game I remember playing fondly. I played it back in UAE around 2010/2011, somewhere around that time. It hasn't been dumped online as far as I'm aware, but through other posts it's confirmed it released in the general middle east. Nobody has dumped the game online as far as I am aware.
I'm trying to remember from 14 years back forgive me, but the game had Chicky (the KFC mascot) in a rocket and you went up/down on the left side of the screen. You'd shoot lasers or something at random objects. I did not have the disc at home (again trying to reach through blurry memories), I played the game in a KFC where they had a monitor set up. It was a little similar to an arcade, maybe having a keyboard.
I've been wondering if anyone even knows what I'm talking about.

Me: Wouldn't it be fun to wait to post this in the summer so you can say happy Christmas in July for once? Also me: that's a terrible joke. Just publish the thing.
Apologies for publishing in 2 parts. I'm not trying to drag it out I'm just aware this is the length of 2 episodes, reddit will only allow me 20 pics per post, and there's just too much going on for our beloved idiot in this one, so. I'm pacing myself.
It's not Christmas in July, it's Christmas 1919 at Downton and I spent an embarrassing amount of time wondering if Mr Fellowes really wants me to believe that the Crawleys decorated the Goliath of Christmas trees themselves (they didn't, but I like that Mary was sipping her tea and offering her view on things. Queen👑 ).
Plus, the setup for this episode intro had an actual checklist:
Tree? Check
Family arriving? Check
Violet judging this year's Christmas cards and looking for the contenders for worst cards of the year (they judge them on both content, and actual card)? Check
https://preview.redd.it/ul3aegl7cv0d1.jpg?width=710&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=1c86f2409e193f7f68461f9ca06c72c7c424af66
Anna gets a gold heart brooch from Mary and Mrs Hughes is as excited about it as she is. Also, I can see the inspo for the entire Anna/Mary tag on AO3 right here. And Mrs Hughes ships it.
Just kidding, Bates is in prison, and we're all very sad.
https://preview.redd.it/wxhn89x9cv0d1.jpg?width=710&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=04d813b9202a58a7c31f35d6b398bb6d53ced28b
Carlisle is wondering why the Crawleys are being kind to their servants by letting them have some time off at lunchtime on Christmas Day, and I'm wondering if anyone (namely, us, the viewers) is supposed to be surprised by his behaviour.
I mean, blackmailing Lavinia just because? Blackmailing Mary into an engagement with him? Trying to manipulate Anna and Carson? Being physically abusive to Mary, and trying to control her life and behaviour? Bringing Lavinia back to "sacrifice" her to a lifetime as Matthew's nurse, so Mary won't spend that much time with Matthew (not because there was something off about that, just that Carlisle didn't want her to)?
He is an asshole. He was an asshole. He will always be an asshole. Glad we're finally all on the same page.
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Matthew and Mary are exchanging presents behind Robert's head in one scene and I'm very upset by it. Please, if anyone has any ideas, submit what you think they got each other for Christmas.
If you need any inspiration, here's what people would buy each other as presents in the 1920s according to the British Newspaper Archives:
Lots of cigarette paraphernalia Cocktails Banjos PENCILS Dance Frocks Shaving Kits Vacuum Cleaners
Keep that list in mind if you're disappointed with your presents next year.
https://preview.redd.it/9y1mgw5fcv0d1.jpg?width=996&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=fc993eeff4617e298b7ab85b9c8266ac3f683942
Matthew got a telephone call telling him that Mr Swire is very ill, and he will got to London to visit him. Mary gives him some condolences and he says "I'm sorry if I'm casting a gloom". I have a feeling the poor man had been pretty depressed for quite long, probably perked up a bit for Christmas and thought he was bringing the mood down again, but Mary responds with compassion. Oh Matthew.
Carlisle saw Mary go after Matthew in the hall, to ask about Mr Swire, and literally took his newspaper with him and followed her out there because that's completely normal behaviour. Just picture the ridiculousness of it: Mary and Matthew talking about Mr Swire and Bates' trial, romantic themes that they are, and Carlisle is so annoyed by it he's standing there in the background. Reading a newspaper, just to make sure they know he's still around (who could forget, mate).
Also, Mary saying she'll attend Bates' trial to support Anna, and Matthew immediately going "Would you like me to go with you?". Because of course he wants to support Mary in all things.
And this is Matthew's first villainous act for the episode: He asks Carlisle "or will YOU do that?" as in, since you're here, will you be supporting Mary in this endeavour.
Of course he isn't. Carlisle could never understand the concept of being there as emotional support for a Servant. He can't even understand why one would give a servant a few hours off on Christmas Day.
And just like that, Matthew scores one point in showcasing that Carlisle is a waste of space.
Matthew's Villainy points so far: 1
https://preview.redd.it/m927qezhcv0d1.jpg?width=996&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=de05e12b244424e5fe126c6be6bab3597c83549b
Btw, Matthew has a few sets of looks reserved for Carlisle: Derision, derision, and more derision.
https://preview.redd.it/ujldjjrkcv0d1.jpg?width=696&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=7a4e7e1312a82e1632254aff103056c775a33db4
They're playing charades (aka The Game), Mary is mimicking falling down, Matthew has a front row seat to it, and they're not playing on the same team so she can't rely on him to guess. Which means he can sit back and have the time of his life.
Carlisle complains about not liking the game and I'm left to wonder why he wanted that life so much since he could find nothing to enjoy in it.
https://preview.redd.it/kqzfvl2ncv0d1.jpg?width=696&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=c7f333dbc8c9eed822751ed352061d4b13db1bdc
Mary IS still trying with him, however. He complains again on New Years Eve about the servants having some time off, and she reasons that it only happens twice a year, and he complains again that she doesn't understand because she didn't have to work for what she has.
Fellowes finally does the work on these two. I was having a conversation with another user recently, who was wondering why Mary picked Carlisle when she could have picked someone like Evelyn Napier.
Let's forget the Pamuk Scandal for a moment. Mary clearly wanted something more other than a traditional marriage. When we meet her, she's 21. She already has a husband in her pocket, if all she wanted was a position in society and a title, she'd have already been married to Patrick in 1912. But clearly, she wanted more out of life than to be someone's wife.
She wanted love, and she wanted to have something to do, whatever that was. She would have found both in Matthew, if things hadn't gone to complete shit, so why not consider Carlisle (back when he seemed normal)?
He was a working, self-made man, so he was interesting to her. He wasn't the run-of-the-mill rich boy she'd been exposed to her entire life, and if she married him she'd have a job in establishing him in London society and helping him build his empire. She'd Work, in short. She'd be allowed to use her brain.
But they don't match. At all. He offered her a marriage of convenience, and then was upset that she loved someone else, when Carlisle never offered her love in the first place. She wanted to be able to go about her life, he wanted her under his thumb to do his bidding. She was raised to have a certain respect for other people (e.g. the servants in the house), he thought that because he had money he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.
In short, they don't work together. Not even taking into account he was blackmailing her with a scandal, and Matthew was off stage left being Villainous (according to Carlisle. Villain, Perseus, it's all a matter of perspective.)
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I love how they contrast Carlisle's ruthlessness with Matthew's compassion (and look how she looks up to him). Because Matthew is also a working man, but he's kind. And even though he didn't have any connection to mr Swire anymore, he stood by him in his hour of need, to the bitter end.
Speaking of contrasting Carlisle's assholery to Matthew:
https://preview.redd.it/knzqdmuscv0d1.jpg?width=764&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=b460bc357599894b0e91b83ecac22c8c099cc4e8
Rosamund's WhatsHisFace of a suitor points out there's only three women following the shoot, and they should divide their time between the men taking part in said shoot (God forbid women are not around to entertain these assholes gents). Carlisle immediately rebuffs him before Mary can get a word in, saying "Lady Mary will stand by ME". Mary is about to, very politely, put him in his place, when Matthew comes in for his second act of Villainy so far, saying "I thought you said you'd stand by me for the first shoot, isn't that what you said?"
He doesn't push her to go with him, he's just giving her an exit plan. So that Mary doesn't have to bring herself in an awkward position in front of all those people, to defend her right to an opinion. And Mary takes it. Of course she does. She can show Carlisle he doesn't get to dictate what she does, and do so in a way that doesn't create gossip.
Matthew's Villainy points so far: 2
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Look how he looks at her. He's so happy she took him up on it. Whatever else happened beyond this, they were friends. He cared for her, and she cared for him. And he has her back here, and she accepted it, so easily. And that made him happy (and so, so smug. A true Villain).
https://preview.redd.it/1fzkc8n5dv0d1.jpg?width=560&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=96c18b3b6203ddaebccedf3173fa4d0bb7c87619
She loves how un-selfconscious he is. She's always loved it, all those years ago at the flower show when he'd mock himself for her benefit, to make her laugh. He does it here still but now she's not surprised by it, just endlessly fond. Dozens of men spent years showing off their (probably mediocre) skills, to win her favour, and of course she'd fall for the guy who was just being honest. Mary likes honesty, she never got much of it. Her world is a show of mirrors where nothing is what it seems, and it must have been so refreshing to be with someone who was exactly what he showed the world. It's only sad that it took her so long to realise that just as she loved him for who he was, he'd do the same. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
"He does rather beg to be teased" - this asshole has been deliberately messing with Carlisle for ages, hasn't he. I've only counted 2 Villainy points, but I bet he earned himself dozens before. Whenever he'd get pissed off at something Carlisle said he'd just whisk Mary away, just to show him that he could. Even if Carlisle was the fiance, Matthew was still an important person in her life, and he'd always be, and he made sure Carlisle knew that (and took great, great enjoyment in it).
Mary: The awful truth is, he’s starting to get on my nerves. Still, you’re not the person to burden with that.
Matthew: You’re still going to marry him, though.
Mary: Of course. Why wouldn’t I.
Matthew is not happy about this. He appears to not understand it, and I wish I could give him a a nice shake. Regardless of the information he doesn't have, Matthew, mate, it's not like she hasn't met other men. Like it or not, most of your lot back in the day belonged in the bin.
And Mary, as a high-society woman, didn't have a lot of options. She had to get married. And at least Carlisle wanted to buy Haxby, she'd be near her family, spend time in London. Before she'd have hoped to actually get some work done, within the capacity her marriage would allow her, but with things being as they are with Carlisle I think she's now hoping he'd be busy with his work and she could get on with her days and maybe not see much of him, as most couples of their class did. And that's not taking into account the actual reason why Mary thinks she absolutely Must marry Carlisle.
https://preview.redd.it/5u0162z7dv0d1.jpg?width=560&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=792e7b9d4ab2bad74d90c90aea70b51766e0eb66
Also, Matthew, let's not pretend you'd like any man she brought home. So either take a deep breath and confess some things, or get on with it.
Carlisle asks Mary why she and Matthew were laughing together. He asks "Am I never to be free of him?" and her answer is, of course not. Because, of course not.
First of all, sorry to say Richard, but, they're a package deal. I can't see either one of them giving up the other willingly, not after all this. But of course, the main thing is the aristocracy thing. He's the head of the family, you'll see A Lot of Matthew, if you and Mary get married. And Matthew has spent almost every minute of the episode so far making sure Richard knows this. One would say, he's trying to push him out (like a villain), through his sheer presence in Mary's life.
"I might understand if you let me think for a solitary minute that you preferred my company to his."
Here's another problem: He should know, this wasn't part of their terms. Of course, he's not an aristocrat, so he's not aware of how loveless marriages of convenience work, but since it WAS a loveless marriage of convenience he was offering, I wonder why THE FUCK, he demands her attention now.
Mary would perform her duty to him. She'd be the best hostess London ever saw. She'd be the pretty wife on his arm, and she'd charm his contacts, and she'd be the stepping stone for him to be accepted in aristocratic circles, and she'd give him children and hold his house. And yes, she'd love spending time with her family, and that included Matthew.
Richard is just being a petty, controlling, fuck. Because he wants more than she's willing to offer, and he wants more than what he'd originally asked. So he, can shove it.
https://preview.redd.it/4gr6ycqldv0d1.jpg?width=854&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=eeb0c9806c1b0fc1830c35c63510ee879ce480eb
Richard: I’ve done everything I can to please you.
Mary: Do you mean you bought a large and rather vulgar house?
Richard: You cannot talk to me like that! What have I done to deserve it? What?!
Would you like a list of your crimes, Richard? I've posted it a bit further above.
Also, Mary. She was hoping he'd offer her an interesting life (before he turned out to be an asshole). But all he's offered so far is the same old bullshit she's been offered all her life: A big empty (emotionless) house. A demanding husband. A life full of constraints and limitations, set to her by a husband who expects to dictate everything she does.
It's at this point that Matthew, clearly the villain of the story, shows up because he hears Richard yelling at Mary and that just won't do.
My beloved idiot covers for Richard here. And she does it because of something she said to Matthew before "He's starting to get on my nerves, but you're not the person to burden with that."
She doesn't want Matthew to feel like he has to come to her rescue. She heard him, when he told her they can't be together (many times) in the previous episodes. And she loves him, so she's let him be. She knows he's got his own troubles, that he's been through a lot, and that shows with how she watches him walk away with a fair bit of worry in her eyes. Plus, she doesn't want him to do anything for her out of obligation. She just wants them to be friends, and friends don't solve your marital (or, in this case, pre-marital) problems. They can provide comedic relief, and support, but that's about it.
And as we said, Matthew is clearly the villain of this story.
Speaking of which, Matthew interrupted Richard's yelling at Mary so, I guess that means - Matthew's Villainy points so far: 3
https://preview.redd.it/l59l8gq0ev0d1.jpg?width=760&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=02de326d439edbef093f1e13a560c5e2b86e8c27
Speaking of friends: Matthew will be there, for Mary (and Anna) at Bates' trial, and Mary asks to be there when he brings back Mr Swire's ashes, since the man wanted to be buried next to his daughter (who had to be buried at Downton, and not near her home in London, for maximum guilt-trip points I guess).
I love how those two care, and support each other in difficult times. It IS what friends do. Of course, Carlisle is not happy about that either. And listen, if he was in love with Mary, I'd be very understanding. I'd be telling him to cut his losses and run. I'd be empathising. But I'm like, you've been an absolute tool for years now mate, how am I supposed to see your POV, when you're basically worrying that if those two, at some point, get their heads out of their asses and realise they make a great couple, you'll lose your trophy wife you've trapped in a marriage, through sheer luck (on your end).
https://preview.redd.it/p22mkkf2ev0d1.jpg?width=1014&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=11b4ff6babc4055d8848aa1ac476cb316b895aea
Carlisle, after that entire day of watching Mary and Matthew having a nice time out with the family, pressures Mary to set a wedding date. Mary wants to wait, I guess she hopes for some godly intervention because she definitely doesn't see any other way out of her current situation, and he goes so far as to literally grab her, and in front of her family too.
I'm finally not the only one who wants to shoot him dead. Of course, Robert won't do anything about it because when has Robert ever done anything for Mary (so far), but Matthew looks tempted.
(I had to cut out poor Carson because there's too many people on this frame as it is, but shout out to him for also worriedly watching in the background).
https://preview.redd.it/fqbegn84ev0d1.jpg?width=616&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=d5a0cd6028ee2a087f7b928f4fe2f99e9288e350
Matthew: Mary. Can I help?
Mary: After today, I won’t insult you by asking what you mean.
Matthew: You don’t have to marry him, you know. You don’t have to marry anyone. You’ll always have a home here as long as I’m alive.
First of all, I LOVE, that his reaction was to ignore Carlisle, run after Mary, and ask her if he can help. He's not offering to be a saviour. Mary doesn't need one of those (she does need to find that steel in her spine though). But he's offering to support her, and he says it in a way that implies he'd do pretty much anything she asked (Do you want to poison him? I'll help carry him to the pigs pen).
Second of all, Matthew, you absolute Idiot.
Mary supporting you in your grief, you supporting her with Bates' trial, that's normal friend behaviour.
You telling her she can LIVE with you forever, and so she doesn't have to Marry Any Man, is so, so dumb.
What is she going to live with you as, Matthew? Your cousin again? Where is the cousinl-y behaviour line drawn? Private dinners? Maybe with some candles and soft music? Holidays in Europe together?
Also, where is that imaginary limit you've put to your happiness with her for the sake of Lavinia's (very real, according to canon) ghost, mate?
You clearly seem happy enough to spend time with Mary, support her, laugh with her. Is it just the romance that's killing your mood?
Is it that that's the harshest punishment Matthew could imagine, spending his life next to Mary without actually spending his life WITH her, or is it that in spite of how much he wanted to suffer for his mistake, he just couldn't bring himself to cut ties entirely? Or is it that her happiness was more important than his self-imposed martyrdom, so he couldn't keep himself away and let her throw away her life for God knows what (her own mistake, is the answer, because they both like making themselves suffer for past sins. They've got A LOT in common).
https://preview.redd.it/wj0h1638ev0d1.jpg?width=616&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=c44b9cd8749c955e7306d70f0995589bc9d940c2
Mary: Didn’t the war teach you never to make promises? And anyway, you’re wrong. I do have to marry him.
Matthew: But why? Not to prove you’ve broken with me, surely? We know where we stand. We’ve no need for...gestures.
Mary: If I told you the reason, you’d despise me, and that I really couldn’t bear.
She makes me so sad. She's so certain she'll be ruined and kicked out of her house if the scandal ever came out.
And I get it. It was how she'd been raised. And all she's heard so far is how she's "a slut" and "damaged goods" and Mary's self-image is in tatters. She doesn't view herself as anyone worth fighting for, she doesn't want anyone else to fight for her, and she won't even fight for herself, and to me that's the saddest part of all.
She's entirely defeated, has been for a long time. This entire season. She's taken every blow and hasn't dodged them at all. Welcoming Lavinia, accepting Matthew as a friend and nothing more. Being by his side when he got injured, taking care of him and accepting his rejection without a peep. Listening to him announce his wedding and helping Lavinia plan it. Baring herself to Carlisle, giving him "the tools to destroy her", willingly, to salvage the family name, and to help Bates. And later letting Matthew call her, and himself "cursed", and walking away from it, somehow. Probably because she believes it.
https://preview.redd.it/qit578gnev0d1.jpg?width=400&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=051641f1ae8d012e74d70975b12d71852fa2cfbe
She told Carson, after Pamuk died, that "she knows what it means to be happy, but she knows she herself will never be happy" and she has proved to have embraced that sentiment, fully. Her despair back then is reflected here. Mary is not looking for happiness. She's just looking for cover. Some place where she can be sure she won't be hurt anymore.
She didn't believe that would be in a marriage with Matthew, and Matthew's strict morals so far, and his own self-hatred, have only further proven to her that she had been correct. She thinks that if Matthew can't excuse himself a kiss with a woman he loved, he won't ever excuse her having sex with a man she didn't love. And for all the unhappiness, all the cold comfort she sees in her future, she at least has his friendship. And how could she ever risk losing that? What would she be left with? Who else is there in the world, that supports her like he has? Her mother, who brought back Lavinia to push her away from Matthew? Her father? Who values the family above all else? Nothing. And no one. Just Matthew.
So she can bear Carlisle's cruelty, his moods and his demands. And she can bear the thought of living life on his arm to be paraded around London society for his benefit. But she can't bear the thought of Matthew thinking ill of her. Can't bear having him look at her the way her mother, or her sister did. And she's so honest here in her pain. She hasn't shown any of it, of the backloads of it, to anyone other than Anna, all season. But she can't keep it in now, after all that, in front of Matthew.
My poor broken child 💔
https://preview.redd.it/ml433re9ev0d1.jpg?width=802&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=d5f5814e774f11d8fcacc5f3490403708a95937e
She hears Cora yell her name and there's despair in her eyes. Even now she has family obligations to fulfil, so whatever emotional breakthrough she could have made, gets interrupted because heaven forbid she's not there for the Crawleys to play card games with.
Before I forget, Matthew goes after Mary, hoping to help her in her hour of need therefore, Matthew's Villainy points so far: 4
Matthew directs that accusatory look to Cora and I'm so proud of him for that. Cora's involvement in Mary's life has been nothing short of catastrophic. With her only saving grace being the fact that she wasn't actually willing to throw her daughter out of her house. I don't know how she gets to be so worried about the situation now, considering it's, largely, of her own making.
This whole season has been about pain and loss, in its various forms. And Mary's has been largely contained, because that's who she is, she keeps everything close to her heart, especially the things that hurt her. But it's all spilling out in this episode. There's so many things she can't contain, like Carlisle's jealousy, her own grief, at this point, after so many years. And for all those who look, it's the most obvious thing in the world, that Mary is suffering.
Well. Almost all.
https://preview.redd.it/qtclhsraev0d1.jpg?width=658&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=29ef93c7e1a1cfaa5f298ab4ef36be075861574f
Robert calls Carlisle grabbing Mary in front of her family "an awkward moment", and calls Mary "tired" of Carlisle.
Yes, Robert. Of all the things Mary is feeling at the moment, tiredness is one of them. Not sure if it's the most obvious one, but with you I've learned to bring a small basket.
He also, unlike Matthew, doesn't respect Mary enough to go up to her and ask her if she needs anything from, idk, her father. Some help, some advice. He asks his wife to tell him if he's overlooked anything, and how is the answer to that not "Pretty much everything that's ever happened in this house".
And at this point, I will leave you, because we're half way through and I've already hit both my word, and my image limit. The first one is self-imposed, for the second one, send your grievances @ reddit.

Hello,
First time Reddit poster. Started watching in 1998 and wound down in 2011.
I read/hear a lot about how Shawn Michaels/HHH pulled a last minute swerve for Shawn to win the European Championship over The British Bulldog at the 1997 One Night Only PPV. The detractors say that although Shawn's excuse was that he was doing it for "heat" and to make the title mean something, he didn't really do much with it and treated it as an afterthought joke. The D-X vs Hart Foundation feud happened a little bit before I started tuning in, but over the last 10-15 years, especially with more "shoot" interviews available, books/articles published, etc. it's possible the narrative of what happened at One Night Only is a mischaracterization of Shawn Michaels.
What We Know: In 1997, The British Bulldog aka Davey Boy Smith -- a member of the heel stable, The Hart Foundation -- is the European Champion and is always expected to "go over" whenever the WWE travels to Europe. 9/20/97 is the One Night Only PPV, in Birmingham, England.
What has been said by a few sources: Up till the day of the show, Davey was under the assumption that he was not going to lose the title to Shawn Michaels, since England is obviously within Europe. What made this event extra special is that there had been a plan for him to be escorted to the ring by his sister who was sadly stricken with a terminal illness. There would've then been cheers all around for this valiant hero and the 11,000 fans would then be sent home happy with a feel-good story.
Here is where things get murky: The same sources state that Shawn and HHH decided to pull a fast one on Vince McMahon an hour or so before it was show time. The two demanded that Shawn beat Davey for the European Championship. Has Shawn or HHH ever independantly admitted that it was in that short of a turnaround and that the two went behind Davey's back? Even Jim Ross says that Davey was with Shawn and HHH when the idea to change the finish was pitched and blames Davey for not "protecting himself." That means Davey agreed and was not forced. As mentioned earlier, the excuse that has been used is that Shawn felt that it would be a great way to draw "heat" since there was very much a pro-Davey crowd watching and so the return match in the Spring of 1998 (when they headed back to not just the UK, but this time in Manchester which was The Bulldog's billed hometown) would have a massive redemption arc which would be that much greater for the fans. In the meantime, Shawn would have good matches and elevate the European Championship, something, quite frankly, he was better at than Davey. It ties into the reasoning that has been given in that Shawn (arguably being at the peak of his ability), would be able to make that title mean something (like what he did for the Intercontinental Championship).
However, because of the backstage Kliq stories which continue to come out, the manner in which Shawn later dropped the European Championship, and the fact that there really was no return match for Shawn vs. Davey since both were out of the WWE by then, many fans have pointed to this PPV as an "obvious" example of the weight Shawn and HHH carried backstage. In recent shoot interviews, Bret Hart (who would leave the WWF six weeks later in spectacular fashion) has said this match was simply a way to make Davey and the rest of the Harts look foolish.
What you can't deny is the heat in the arena, after the match, was white-hot.
Okay with that background established, let's look to see why I feel that what happened at the One Night Only PPV is a mischaracterization of Shawn Michaels:

• The Hart narrative.
  • It's hard to put a lot of stock into "he said, she said," but in case you want to take it as gospel...in Page 256 of Shawn's book (yeah, yeah, I know) Heartbreak & Triumph, he details that Davey was on board with the plans -- with no mentions of if it was pitched an hour before or days earlier. If fans are ready to believe Bret, why can't they leave wiggle room for Shawn?
    • While Shawn certainly has excuses (and apologized) for his sophomoric hijinx and makes himself sound like a creative genius, Bret has consistently come off as two things: 1) Making himself look heroic 2) Making himself look like he's had a perpetual gloomy cloud over him at every stage of life. His book, My Real Life in the Cartoon World of Wrestling, briefly mentions this match and some nonsense of how he "saw the light die in Davey's eyes that day, darkness seeping into a heart that was giving out." Statements like that (and ones he continues to say) are dangerous, essentially telling fans that Shawn is partly responsible for the death of Davey Boy, stemming from this match. Huge mischaracterization.
  • Bret points to how Davey told everyone he expected to win, promised everyone that he was going to win the match for his English fans and especially his sister...as proof that Shawn swerved plans at the last minute just to needle the Harts ("It was designed to make us all look stupid." -- Inside The Ropes ).
    • What? There's literally thousands of instances where wrestlers lose in their hometown and use real life to push stories. And finishes change all the time. The new storyline made long term sense and Vince/Creative agreed. It could have been great, but no one expected Bulldog to quit six weeks later because of the Screwjob. No one expected Shawn's back injury to happen a couple months after that.
  • Diana Hart Smith (Davey's wife and Bret/Owen's sister) in 2012 said, regarding the changed finish, you "have to do what you're told." However, she is not credible, by Bret's own words, stemming from his reaction to a largely fictional biography on the Hart Family, written by Diana (Under the Mat).
• Davey was still booked to look strong, despite losing.
  • The RAW before the event, Davey had his knee "injured" from chair shots by HBK/HHH. And yet Davey still didn't "quit" when locked into the Figure Four at the PPV (even with HBK getting help from all the members of D-X). The match was stopped, akin to Stone Cold vs Bret Hart at WrestleMania 13. Diana Hart Smith even got involved in the post match antics with Chyna.
  • I don't believe, for a moment, the Hart family -- especially Bret -- didn't fully agree to how it all precisely happened especially when you're getting non-wrestlers involved inside the ring. If they wanted to change it, they could've.
    • There's been no mention from Bret about going to bat for Davey and them getting rejected.
• Bret Hart and the Hart Foundation still had a lot of backstage influence.
  • This wasn't Savio Vega or Dean Douglas eating an unnecessary pin. There is an established history of the Harts wanting to do things their way. Bret was World Champion and by far the highest paid wrestler on the roster so although Shawn had stroke, Bret certainly did too. And Davey had been with the company and had success far longer than Shawn (though in interrupted stages). DQ/Countout results are a common occurrence for situations where two powerful wrestlers/factions don't want to "job" to one another. In fact, the 10/6/97 RAW had Bret changing a finish where he was supposed to eat a pin from HHH (via HBK interference) into a Countout.
  • Yes, certainly, maturity was something Shawn and HHH lacked but you have to remember that unlike the Harts, they were not nepo-babies raised in the industry. And they were much younger (Shawn is 8 years younger than Bret whereas HHH is 12 years younger). Even Davey could be considered a nepo-baby since Dynamite Kid was his first cousin and he debuted in the WWF largely because Stu Hart cut a deal to include his son-in-law.
• Bret's possible thought process
  • My opinion (yes, speculation) is that Bret knew he was out the door and so he didn't care too much about what happened to Davey's European Championship since he had his own issues he was dealing with, regarding WCW contracts, Wrestling with Shadows, and dropping the World Championship. He mentioned how stressful all that was. What is fact though is that Davey wasn't someone Bret held in high regard. From talking about him not being able to construct matches, to being under the influence, to personal life issues, to even forcing Davey to cut his long braided hair because according to Davey's family, Bret said it was starting to look too much like his (even though it wasn't the same type nor color).
  • I also feel that with everything that happened between that period, and to Brian Pillman, Owen, and Davey dying very young, it understandably left an awful taste in their mouths. It all gets magnified a bit. Then add that Bret's time with WCW wasn't really anything extraordinary (for his standard), and his constant reminding us of how Goldberg ended his career makes me believe that there still is a grudge with HBK/HHH which will never truly go away. And unlike Shawn who seemingly has moved on, Bret hasn't. Which is why he keeps establishing the narrative that the Hart Foundation was always in the right and the D-X was always in the wrong.
• Finances
  • 1997, the WWF was in peril. House shows and merchandise were selling, but PPVs were not. Having a swerve on a PPV makes the next one "must see TV" (again, this was a world before streaming). In this instance, the next time they came to England. Nitro was still beating RAW.
• Storyline
  • Shawn had only recently turned heel (after SummerSlam, a month earlier). The plan was established from back then to have a heel Shawn face Austin at WrestleMania XIV. This was an era where there really was only one major show per week (and some on tape delay) and most fans did not have internet access at home, so establishing quick, obvious heat was important. What better way than to "screw" Davey in front of his fans and family? Beating Davey in the USA wasn't going to do it because, remember, Davey was a heel in the USA. 9/29/97 (two days later) Davey faced Vader in New York. Vader was about to beat him clean and then the Harts stormed in and used weapons on Vader, resulting in a DQ.
    • If not beat Davey, a former Intercontinental Champion, then who? The talent roster was quite thin and a memorable Undertaker program was upcoming. Also, Shawn had not had a singles belt since Feb 1997. Nevertheless, the ratings jumped towards the end of 1997.
• Defending the European Championship
  • How many of you remember Davey ever defending the European Championship on RAW or a PPV? From the moment he won it on 2/26/97, over the next seven months, he defended it only four times on non-house shows. Even if you include house shows, the vast majority of the defenses were in the USA so it was hardly a Europe-only belt. All the four RAW or PPV matches ended in DQ/Countout type finishes. I'll be honest, I haven't watched every single one of those matches but I do see that he beat HHH via pinfall, as one of his first defenses on 2/28/97. Davey regained the belt on 10/26/99 after he came back, but lost it six weeks later on 12/12/99 as he started spiraling, defending it only a handful of times on TV.
  • Shawn, unlike Davey, really could make that belt mean something so I do believe the Manchester return match in the Spring of 1998, after he dropped the World title to Austin, would've been big (not unlike Hart vs Bulldog at SummerSlam 1992). Even his most ardent haters will admit to HBK's talent. Yes, he dropped it to HHH in a comedic fashion on 12/11/97 but what was the alternative? With Bret leaving/gone and Shawn in a program with The Undertaker (who didn't need the European Championship since he was about to face Kane), as a World Champion (earlier than he thought he was going to be -- Screwjob plans were hatched later than Sept) him randomly losing the European title would've made him look bad even if it was lost in an underhanded fashion. Losing it to Owen could've been a possibility but Owen would win the Intercontinental Championship on 10/5/97 so that wouldn't really make sense neither. That said, the two of them faced one another on 10/20/97 in a title for title clash (No Contest). Owen later beat HHH for the European title on 2/26/98 (and then lost it back) and the two later had a WrestleMania XIV match for it. So dropping it to HHH made sense. Look at the roster back then and tell me who an alternative could have been?
  • Shawn gets a lot of heat for not defending the European title as often as some feel he should have. But as of 9/20/97, the WWE didn't know what Bret was going to do. Shawn infamously won the World Championship on 11/9/97. I'm not going to rehash the backstage Montreal play-by-play but I firmly believe that if Bret stayed with the WWE for a bit longer, Shawn would have had more time to have matches for the European title. The problem is everything happened so quickly. Unlike Davey, it's not like Shawn spent seven months as European Champion and defended it only four times on TV. Shawn did defend it three times on TV but in 2 1/2 months including an epic with Shamrock on RAW on 11/3/97, before he won the World title from Bret. Between a program with The Undertaker, leading D-X, and becoming World Champion sooner than he expected, there was no time (or really justification) to defend the European title even more often, when he had a program with Austin coming (in arguably the biggest title change in history).

TL:DR Even if (big, if) the finish was changed an hour before showtime, Davey agreed to the finish (with what I believe is with the Hart family on board -- but seeing how it all played out over the next few months and years left a bad taste and narrative change). Shawn winning the European Championship was what was best for business. Therefore Shawn flexing his backstage power "just because" or "only to hate on the Harts" makes zero sense.

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Hey all! I have noticed that one of my major problems (almost exacerbated by adderall) is that I find it very hard to be productive if there's anything I have a hyperfixation on.
Originally it was shooting games, but that was so extreme I quit them completely. I can't remove everything I'm interested in from my life though. If I have a book series or a topic or music I'm into I get so distracted and absorbed in it.
I do this thing when Im stressed about work I need to do where I give myself a deadline to start it (usually like the next hour) and then when I get there I negotiate myself out of it again.
I feel like this is a resolvable problem. Whether its just pushing thinking about obsessions or tailoring my environment.
Even when I am sitting down and doing work my mind constantly wanders to the think I'm hyperfixated on and I have difficulty focusing.
Adderall, while amazing in a lot of ways intensifies this even more and makes it harder for me to pull away. I used to take Ritalin, which didn't have this effect, but was horrible for me.
Anyone else have this issue? How do you deal with it?