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fukia · 2 years

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What makes “C-137″ The Rickest Rick?

Someone probably thought of this already, but I interpreted the title of “Rickest Rick” as an individual with all the identifying qualities of Rick (super-intelligence, addictions, nihilisms, seemingly random moments of initiative, etc) but exaggerated. It’s both a combination of his natural self and the way his universe shapes him which allows him to encompass all the common/defining characteristics of a Rick to wild, but rather reasonable degrees - he’s not “the most”, he is “one of the most” in our list of Ricks.

Not all of the qualities of a Rick are exaggerated, but the major ones that are involve his motivations. Then you add that to how our Rick has been both an incredibly loving individual, to one passionately selfish, and to an individual who became so apathetic he’d commit genocide as a byproduct of his recklessness. I will keep my observations as close to the area of the multiverse that would soon be the Central Finite Curve because... yeah I don’t have the capacity to work with anything bigger and more irrelevant to canon.

The Traits of Rick “C-137″

•He easily takes down other Ricks, making him one of the most versatile fighters of the Ricks.

•He loses his family; a major Rick anchor to reality judging by the farming of simple Rick. In this way, he’s one of the saddest Ricks. •He seeks revenge for decades. He is one of the Ricks with the most passion regarding a vendetta.

•He commits Rickicide; combine the notion of making his own face the face of an enemy and survivor’s guilt, and it makes him one of the most self-loathing Ricks. It also makes him one of the guiltiest.

•He commits Rickicide for such a long time and in the aftermath of his anger high or wrath withdrawal, refrained from killing himself until the Unity rehook-up/rebreak-up. He is one of the most determined Ricks.

•He becomes extremely apathetic; he is one of the most nihilistic Rick, fed by personal loss.

•He becomes so rebellious against the unsaid/common sense law between his kind to “Don’t Commit Interdimensional-Rickicide,” that he forces his alternates to make a government. Which he refuses to voluntarily participate in. He is one of the most antisocial (in the actual definition of the word) Ricks. •He kills and destroys so much, making him one of the more Eviler Ricks in terms of body count, as Evil Rick/President Morty would say. •He tries to prevents his newer loved ones from leaving him; of which includes Bird Person, Morty, and so on. He is one of the most tragically lonely and selfish Ricks. Also one of the most abusive on account of... playing with the entirety of Morty’s psyche and more. Add that with his compulsive need for control in even the smallest manner and you have one of the most petty Ricks.

•He consistently pushes people away despite his codependency, such as with Morty, Beth, Summer (?), and even Tony. He clings to his enemies as well; President Curtis and maybe Mr. Nimbus, treating their hatred as a vehicle for someone caring for him in a twisted way. It’s possible that his hatred for Jerry keeps him from having to deal with the guilt of “ruining” his own family/families. It’s also possible he realized too late with his various replacement families that even though they’re not his, he still cared about them to some extent and is legitimately hurt when they reject his recklessness/attempts to disassociate emotionally. He is one of the uh, most tsundere-ish.

It’s not that he’s the single kindest Rick, the evilest man-child Rick, or possibly even the smartest (who knows, maybe there’s a greater Rick intellect in the CFC who’s passive or cognitively incapacitated for some reason. Straight-up, my bet’s on Slow Rick).

Notice again how I repeatedly say he’s “one of the most [Rick trait].” And that’s because he’s not the single most extreme example of a chaRickteristic, let alone all of them. He’s the Rickest Rick because he encompasses all these qualities to a substantially significant amount that he is just the Rickest - of course, within the constraints of the CFC. He’s paradoxical but not in a way that’s totally nuts, and it’s because he has all these conflicting needs and attitudes. If you wanna go meta, he is the most dynamic and round CharRickter. More likely, he may not even be the Rickest CFC Rick. Maybe he managed to eliminate the Rickest Rick or all the Ricker Ricks above him in the line-up due to luck or an accident. Or he’s just one of the Rickest that ended up receiving more attention/notoriety than the other “Rickest Ricks.”

Or, I mean, he’s deemed the Rickest Rick because he’s the cutest every Rick is low-key aware he’s the one with the most screen time idk lul rickrick rike what even is this word anymore

Edits: grammar and ELi5/TL;DR of sorts

ExplainlikeIDidn’tRead: Ya got a character customizer in the Sims, but all the traits are Rick personality traits. You pull every bar (or just most bars) within every trait up really high but not all the way. That’s pretty much “C-137” and what it means to be the Rickest lmao

Didn’tReadI’m5: You have bad fruits and good fruits to make a smoothie. A random Rick can be a smoothie with some number of bad and some number of good fruits together. “C-137” is a certain mix of bad and good fruits; but the fruits are abnormally large in size. Rick is smoothie. Smoothie Rick.

#ricksanchez #rickandmorty #rickandmortytheories #c-137 #rick sanchez #rick and morty #rick and Morty theories #rickest rick

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hollenka99 · 3 years

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December Fic Rec

Multi Chapter Fics

Point of Life by LittleParadox - T, 10k, ongoing

Wilbur, unaware he’s the son of a mafia leader, gets kidnapped by an emerging rival gang. All he can do is trust his family will get him home safely and attempt to give them enough time to do so. Warnings for kidnapping, major character injury and drugging. This is a prequel side fic to Apologize For Collateral Damage, set when Wilbur is 13. Both fics are great and I enjoy yelling about new chapters in dms. Even though this is a prequel and I know he’ll be more or less fine in the end, I still spend each chapter so tense about whether he’ll get out okay.

from father to son by smallzita - T, 15k, ongoing

Wilbur ran away from home years ago and never came back, leaving his family to pick up the pieces. When Phil bumps into him while shopping, he is determined to not let his son get away again so easily, especially when he learns Wilbur is a young single father who’s barely getting by. I really enjoyed Phil’s desperation to not lose Wilbur again, even if he risks driving a wedge in the family. I would also die for Fundy and the scene where he asks Tommy for help got me in one.

Edge of the 17th by friight - M, 69k, completed

Wilbur repeatedly wakes up on November 16th in a time loop that is restarted every time he dies. He attempts to navigate each loop with the goal of preventing L’Manburg’s detonation and survive the day. Things only complicate when other people are made aware of his situation. Warnings for major character death (multiple but all temporary) and major character injury. With time loop fics, there’s always the risk of them feeling samey after a few loops but the chapters never do, especially not after you reach chapter 4. Each twist just adds to the story and the consequences build with each failed attempt.

Halcyon by Just_A_Lad - T, 16k, ongoing

Wilbur’s wings have been growing at a worryingly slow rate and causing him pain the whole time. The longer he suffers, the more desperate his family grows to find a solution for him. Warnings for major character injury. To see how Wilbur’s developmental delay affects himself and their entire family is sad. I don’t blame them for contemplating the options they’d rather avoid for fear of getting screwed over. I’m looking forward to learning more about the Veiled Rogue in future chapters.

yield your dead by angelsdemonsducks - M, 13k, ongoing

Ranboo discovers a bunch of tapes in his new home. When he plays them out of curiosity one night, he is shocked when one of the people in the videos speaks directly to him. As scared and paranoid this makes him, he can’t make himself dispose of the tapes. There has to be more to the guitar playing man, no matter how conflicted playing the recordings makes his nerves. Warnings for unreality, body horror and disassociation. I was so on edge during the first couple of chapters because of the prospect of Wilbur potentially acting as a threat. Ranboo’s high levels of stress along with the creepy warning he receives made the worry worse. I’m really looking forward to see where it goes.

Skin Tearing Like Paper by LogicallyStupid - T, 5k, ongoing

After getting shot by Punz following being exiled, Wilbur is saved from losing his last life by Eret. When he realises what they did, he has to come to terms with his new way of living as a new vampire that is also freshly exiled. Wilbur, being Wilbur, is not taking to it easily. Warnings for near death experience and violence. I am holding Wilbur by the shoulders and begging him to stop being so self-loathing for two seconds. Sir, your friends are worried about you. I am too. The story’s still in its early stages so Wilbur’s still in his moral dilemma phase of keeping himself fed but I’m loving watching him try to come to grips with the reality of his vampirism while also dealing with the general Pogtopia arc.

One Shots

Metanoia by sleep_dep - M, 25k

Tommy does in fact jump off his tower, causing his loved ones to suddenly be forced to deal with the aftermath of their loss. Warnings for suicide, death and grief. All their ways of taking the news are devastating, from Techno desperately trying to get a totem to react to Tubbo accusing Techno of being responsible because surely someone as strong willed as Tommy would never take their own life like that. I did like the way Tubbo and emerald duo put their issues with each other to one side in order to unite under the common ground of grieving Tommy's loss.

Next Stop: Desire by 5ievel - NR, 8k

When Wilbur needs to get away for a weekend, he goes on a road trip and is joined by a hitchhiker named Tubbo. Together, they notice things getting odd after a disastrous visit to a diner. Maybe if they can manage to meet up with Phil on the way home unscathed, things might start making sense. I'd say there's a bit of unreality going on at times like when they leave Desire or the car teleporting. I was curious as to what was going on the entire time and kept worrying the looming misfortunes might finally catch up to them. Also god bless Phil for having the braincell because no, Wil you can't just disappear for 4 days and pick up a teenager while you're at it. What are you playing at?

point of departure by karmicpunishment - T, 5k

Wilbur attempts to save Tubbo from being executed at the festival. However, complications arise with his hastily made plan. Warnings for death, as would be expected for the Red Festival. The ending is inevitable and I knew beforehand what would happen but I was still urging Wilbur to successfully execute his plan anyway. His need to keep all his ones safe, my beloved.

rigor mortis (and blessings of good fortune) by coveredinsun - T, 5k

Tommy has always had faith in Lady Prime but he needs Her guidance more than ever when Wilbur is killed escaping L’Manburg after their election loss. He asks for Her help as he attempts to retrieve Wilbur’s body and waits for him to be revived. There’s warnings for death and description of a corpse, along with one of the post-mortem stages (rigor mortis). As someone who is both religious and studying bioarcheology, this fulfilled an odd overlap I really dug and didn't realise I wanted to see. Tommy trying to lean on his faith of Prime while going through one of the worst points of his life hurt me in the best way. The same with him questioning why She's letting all this happen to him.

#dream smp #dsmp fic rec #mcyt #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #philza #ranboo #tubbo #technoblade #long post

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dangermousie · 3 years

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CFC Chapter 68

Will I ever shut up about this novel? Nope.

I was right - XQC slotted him into “unpleasant duty I have no choice about so I will do it with a minimum of fuss and as efficiently as possible.” Locking away his feelings and disassociating from emotions (whether it’s trauma, dislike and disgust or more positive ones) is how he copes. It takes a lot for him to open even a small corner of his heart and prior to the club he did open it to HY and after the library was prepared to open more but now it’s slammed shut. XQC is an old hand at bearing the unbearable and continuing through no matter what it costs him by severing any feeling, so this is just more of the same.

HY became the ex-wife only worse because XQC was polite with her and felt an obligation to her.

And so much of this chapter is HY realizing it and hating it and not knowing why. Because he’s getting plenty of sex, which he deluded himself into believing is all he wants from XQC. It’s like the WeChat thing where he can hack and add himself and get himself unbanned from XQC ban list but he doesn’t want to because that is not the point.

What He Yu really wants, much more than any orgasms he can get (though he’s a physically healthy young man so he obviously likes sex) is to return to the past - we see it in later chapters where he wants XQC to be his personal doctor again - but we see it here. What he really wants is for XQC to care for him again and to return to the past but he’s made it impossible. The more I think about it, the more I think that HY’s wilful inability to understand that after what transpired in the club and blackmail is not a result of his inability to understand what makes people tick but desperate, life-saving denial of what he very well knows - he can’t bear to process that he will never have what he wants or even what he used to have and it’s his own doing.

In other news, XQC’s health is beginning to freak me out - he’s getting thinner, he’s coughing a lot, his vision is going. The man is only 32, none of this should be happening. Please don’t give him lung cancer or some disease from evil org or whatever, Meatbun.

I love the hot water thing btw - it’s so indicative of the two of them. XQC wanting it to help his cough but once he realizes there is none in the thermos, he just gives up because self-care is so alien to him and this was the most he was capable of. XQC, like a medieval saint, has disassociated from his body at best and is into mortifying the flesh at worst. And He Yu, noticing because he always notices everything about XQC (except ironically the biggest, most obvious thing that XQC loathes him - but that is because he can’t bear to, even as XQC tells him plain text. He needs to delude himself) and bringing him hot water wordlessly. Under all the fucked up vile stuff, there is still the remnants of He Yu who wanted to be liked, who wanted to be normal, who wants to care and be cared for. Under very different circumstances, he would have been a very good partner.

The utter void of emotion except for cold dislike is so obvious and He Yu’s refusal to understand it is so wilful.

The plot thickens. Why IS XQC researching like he’s racing against time and what is he researching? Also, He Yu under the influence of the videos thinks XQC doesn’t like medicine but it’s clear that this was one of many lies in the video - whatever he wanted to be as a kid, he genuinely did enjoy being a doctor.

And the “I like money” - such a lie. He lives like a pauper and doesn’t spend anything on himself. I do wonder where his former giant salary went. Hmmm.

Oh, He Yu. He’d have to care to lose his temper. And he’s utterly stopped.

It’s official. He Yu is an equivalent of those tween girls who write the name of their crush in notebooks and doodle hearts all over them.

Iiiiinteresting. It’s clear XQC is still not enjoying himself in bed. Or is it? What does forcing XQC’s acknowledgment even mean? It can’t be that XQC get a lot of pleasure/loses control or he’d call it off. Is it some sort of getting his exhausted? What?

I am also amused that XQC agreed to sex because based on his own lack of drive he thought it would be an infrequent occurrence and not take too much time and he’s all ugh wrong calculation why does he want it all the time and goes looking up how much young men want it and is horrified at the frequency.

He Yu wants XQC to care, he wants XQC’s reaction, but how can he obtain it when the only way XQC can go forward is to feel nothing, when he’s given up on He Yu utterly? He would never get angry on his own behalf because he doesn’t care about himself one way or another - this is protective mechanism. Before, he got angry on HY’s behalf - because he had hopes and expectations for him. But now he has none.

Harsh but so earned and I love it. You can feel XQC’s loathing roll off the page.

And then He Yu calls him at 2am to show him his dick on camera. OMG he is such an idiot. Even HY realizes XQC has zero interest in sex with him and feels nothing but indifference. Why do you think he would want to see your dick at 2am? It’s part his instinctive denial of true state of affairs because he can’t bear it, and part teen boy idiocy.

And then when XQC does finally get annoyed, it’s so telling that HY feels relieved, even if they didn’t have phone sex or anything and even if XQC literally turned the phone upside down and left. Because what he craves is not physical release, not primarily, but care and closeness.

Oh, He Yu!

#cnovel #meatbun doesn't eat meat #case file compendium

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mojotheroot · 3 years

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I wish everyone would stop saying

“ Just forget him”

“ Move on”

“ He is not worth it” etc. The countless pep talks that are meant to help me move on, they seem so dismissive. Like a lack of empathy to my pain and situation. Or an intolerance to seeing my suffering. Because I can’t simply forget and move on because he was and is worth holding on to for me personally. Perhaps that is just hope.

Tricky bitch that it is.

I have at least come to the realization that I am not attracting toxic people.

The truth is that toxic people are not picky.

Sure, they may have a preference for a particular prey. But ultimately, I do not think they are picky about who they destroy as long as they are destroying someone.

The real question is not why the toxic people are abundant in my life but why do I allow them to stay.

That is what I need to change the most.

This sounds a lot more mental positive than claiming that I am “broken”.

As mortifying as it sounds, I think a toxic person can initially be beneficial to any relationships.

It can ground any ideals that may be impractical.

It is surely a reminder of where you do not want a relationship to go.

It allows the setting of hard boundaries.

The trick is to enforce those boundaries.

When the person has crossed them, it is time to move past it as quick as possible and let them go.

As easy as that sounds... I give reasonable advice but seldom ever follow it…that kind of shit you know.

All of that said, it still seems a somewhat monumental task to just move on from this heartbreak.

I was once told that for however long you were together you do some math stuff and the result was how long it would take to find some form of solace.

Without putting into account the depth of the connection and what time sentence that carries as well…sigh…I got a while to go before I can safely move on.

The hardest part is the waiting. Damn , I feel like I have waited lifetimes already for a response. And it has only been…only 16 days? Wait…16 days have passed?! Feels oddly like only hours since our last words but again, it also feels like a lifetime. Shit this is going to be a hell of a ride. It is already bad enough as is.

Sixteen days----384 hours- 23,000 minutes and some change…huh… my mind is a bit shook over that.

All of those hours and minutes have been filled with echoes of the words he once said.

Statements that my mind is struggling to categorize as lies, all while my heart and soul is hanging on to them as canon truths.

I think, for healing purposes, I can acknowledge the reasoning for the depths of my feelings over these statements that are perpetual in my mind.

They came at a time where I was legit mentally broken.

I had given up loving others.

Rather I had grouped the world into two categories:

People that can be trusted because they had yet to figure out how to use me

and

People that were actively not to be trusted because they were using me.

I absolutely give up on love.

I mean why should I even bother with it when I didn’t even love myself?

Love was a banal attempt at getting closer to another because ultimately you wanted something.

A chemical con-job the brain produces to lull the sense to any potential predator response the brain could possibly trigger (gut instinct can be loud I guess in the initial meeting…maybe it is that predator response…can digest that later perhaps) but really it is just the brain getting us closer for evolutionary purposes if we cut through all the shit and be honest. Not a good premise for a romance novel or poetry.

But it is true.

I digress.

As I said, I had already thoroughly become disgusted at the idea of people as a whole and given all faith in humanity up.

It was just me and the rest of the world were NPC [non playable characters] or distracting side quests completely irrelevant to the main quest regardless of how they may enhance a storyline.

And that is where our villain enters the scene.

He swoops in almost immediately recognizing and acknowledging my pain.

From the start it was intensity of the Sun.

He wasted no time at all.

The first thing was establishing trust.

He did this with kind patience. Listening to me cry.

Just sitting there with a hand on my shoulder. Waiting and saying nothing until it passed.

Then the phrase that I have come to loathe and is likely now the entirely of my reasoning to almost immediately disassociate from a person and be on red alert:

“ You can trust me.”

The first time he said that, I was totally shocked at the ludicrous idea of it.

Trust you? Trust anyone?

What a novel idea but my mind had long ago already established fantasy parameters and boundaries based solely on that phrase alone.

Yet, he persisted.

For some time, he would always seem to find me alone, broken down and in an utter mess of a mental state.

Like he had a radar for the heart ache.

And we would go through the motions, he would comfort me with physical presence or a warm touch.

All sprinkled with kind soothing words.

Then the expansion upon the phrase came as “ You can tell me what is on your mind. Trust me please.”

This was new to me.

Like it stopped me deadass in mid fall to contemplate the idea because it had never before been offered as an option to me.

Sure folks would say I could talk to them about anything before but that was always context based like if I wanted to talk about a shared interest or even how I felt about a particular scholastic or political idea. But, never had anyone offered permission to talk about things that were hurting me.

It was generally presented to us as children in my household that one just did not talk about what was hurting them inside, not unless it was something that required a visit to the hospital. Mental trauma was a product of a weak person.

And be damned if we ever allowed the world to perceive us as such because we already had enough strikes by being poor.

Let the world see you struggle with a smile on your face.

At any rate, the idea of having somebody that wanted to hear why I cry…why I hurt…and mind you this was completely unsolicited by me with any words or actions other than my own distress; had incited a curiosity.

So, the seed was planted.

I resisted it of course.

The soil of my heart was salted and had the sole purpose of wallowing in the misery of whatever current dilemma I was facing.

It was a burial plot.

A place I would die a thousand times per day.

I had put my red alert on but was inquisitive while also dismissing the entire idea as a “ good Christian’s act of kindness” and nothing more than a self-imposed penance for Original Sin.

And yet he expanded the phrase again.

This time, it was the bullet that struck the mark.

I remember that night.

I was deep into my feels.

Almost inconsolable and wanted nothing more than to cocoon myself up in it and let the flood of emotions drown me.

He came to me unexpectedly this time.

Whereas normally he would do a knock on the door or some tentative inquisition as to my need for help.

I was face down drowning my pillow in salt tainted water and he slid next to me on my bed.

Naturally, I jumped in response to this intrusion. Whereas he grabs me by the shoulders and wraps his arms tightly around me. Smoothing my disgruntled hair and cooing “It is okay, it is okay.” I lay there completely consumed by this grief that wracked my very core on a daily bases from a time that seems like since birth.

And then he touches my tear drenched cheek and travels to my downfaced chin and lifts it like it is the most fragile thing he has ever touched before until my closed by shame eyes were level to his and opened them with a single kiss to the cheek. He said:

“ Please let me help you. Talk to me. I want to help. Trust me. I just want to help. “

I must have visibly shown to him my abhorrence to the idea of trusting because he then used the most sacred three words that is often thrown around like such a mundane thing…he said -I love you.

Now, I have heard this often of course. It is a phrase used so much in Southern families and amongst friends in parting or as a sign of pleasure to any particular act that needs emphasis.

But, this was the first time I had it said to me; albeit in such a serene way, where it was delivered with a penetrate force and I felt it inside.

After those words, I stammered at first the dismissive phrases degrading my obvious mental distress.

He was not taking that as an answer.

He leaned in and held me close. Heart to heart and whispered random things if nothing more than to steadily chisel away my resolve.

Which worked of course but, I was not about to initiate sharing my feelings at this point because it seemed to me futile since I was calming down.

He must have sensed the shift and the settling calm because he stops talking and with no hesitation wipes the tears from my eyes with the palm of his hands and smooths my face with a gentle caress.

And the next step was for me the most intimate thing I had experienced in a long time.

He looked me in the eyes, something I had all but identified at a young age as an act solely reserved for dominance and degradation and he smiled with his very own and asked in a pleading tone if I could learn to trust him, because he would not hurt or betray me with anything we talked about. He just wanted to help me. And then that three word phrase to add emphasis.

I melted then and my mouth betrayed my mind and words came out like a volcanic force.

When the eruption was over, he smiled at me. Smoothed my eyebrows with his thumb and held my hands ( this would become a permanent act of intimacy between us anytime we met henceforth) and we sat up in bed and he held me again.

I shuttered in response to another round of emotional tears and he held tighter and said it was okay, he was there for me. And I stopped.

Because I felt it in my soul that he meant that.

And there it was. I had started to feel again.

It was like a tiny itch at first.

Nagging and begging to be scratched.

Weeks went on, we got closer. And I remember out of nowhere telling him in response to his kindness, I love you...

Damn I was fucked with one phrase and knew it the moment it leapt unexpectedly from my lips.

Not simply the phrase itself but it was the way it felt coming out.

Because the moment it passed my teeth I felt with it’s expulsion the crumbling of the walls I had built around myself.

And he knew it because he smiled with his eyes and embraced me.

I was completely at his mercy when it came to any curiosity about how I was feeling or how I felt about anything at all.

I was enthralled with this new freedom to say how I felt to somebody that legitimately wanted to know and encouraged it.

Every time I would breakdown and ultimately attempt to put up walls he would coax me with his unwavering patience and wield his kindness with the skill of any warrior with a sword and promptly redirect me so we remained open with one another.

Simply waiting until he changed his attention to some other idea or thought was never an option because he remained patient and waited until I would eventually speak even if he had to use prompts.

But it was never an option again for me to simply dismiss and bury my feelings.

So, here I am...flipped and twisted and not entirely sure where things go from this point.

#trauma #dating #lgbtq #asexuel #love is complicated #moving on #toxic love

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murdercide626 · 5 years

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CRAZY THEORY

So, like… what if Eggman Nega isn’t Ivo’s inter-dimensional counterpart OR his descendant, but rather… his future self?

Ivo’s already tinkered with time travel on multiple occasions, and obviously so has Nega. So, who’s to say that in the not-so-distant future, Ivo (weary from countless failures) decides to take a trip forward through time to see if he ever succeeds in his goals. Whatever he saw there pushes him over the edge (more than he was already) and he has a mental breakdown.

Disgusted by his past failures and “naivety” to the point of self-loathing, he starts disassociating himself from his past and rebrands himself as “Eggman Nega”, puts conquering Earth on the backburner, and starts traveling through space and time to try his luck at conquering other worlds. Eventually he comes across Blaze’s world and decides to make that his new “project”. After numerous attempts, and running into similar roadblocks, he switches gears and sets out to either forcefully alter his own past (by teaming up with his past self, or even taking his place) to ensure victory and change his fate, or failing that simply destroy the world. Because if he can’t rule the world, then why should it even continue to exist?

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

The more I think about it, the more I like this theory. I never liked the idea of Eggman having an “evil twin” counterpart. Just seems sort of redundant to me, yknow? But by making Eggman and Nega the same individual, this not only fixes that problem, but it adds to Eggman’s characterization as well! (Also, Nega being a future version of Eggman could conveniently explain why he has a grey mustache. lol)

I’m sure I’m not the first person to think of this idea. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I actually saw this theory floating around somewhere years ago, and it just happened to spring up from my subconscious now! lol

Though I like to think I’m well versed in Sonic lore, there could be several things I’ve overlooked that make this idea impossible (I mean, other than just characters saying he supposedly originates from another dimension/the future/etc. That could all be explained away as Nega lying about his origins and other characters being ignorant of his true nature). Have I overlooked something? Oh well. I still like this concept, and if I ever make a Sonic AU that utilizes Eggman Nega, then this’ll be the angle I go with.

#dr. eggman #eggman nega #eggman #dr. robotnik #sonic the hedgehog #sth #sonic #sonic rush #sonic rivals #sonic team #theory #headcanon #video games #villains #mad scientist #blah

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cyberneticlagomorph · 5 years

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How long have you been asleep?

There are gaps in your memory, hazy and hot.

Your mouth tastes like bile.

You're sick. Or you were sick. You feel better now at least. Yet, something unsettles you.

Even before you can pry the lead weights of your eyelids open, you know something is wrong. Very wrong.

The silence of the place you're in disturbs you, but not so much as the absence of data scrolling across the surface of your closed eyes. Or the complete lack of magic sizzling and singing through your veins.

Panic claws its way to the forefront of your mind, swatting away the last stray bits of half-forgotten dreams. You try to sit bolt upright and find yourself strapped to a gurney, surrounded by beeping, hissing machines.

How did you miss that sound? Miss the acrid smells of medicine and strong disinfectants. White walls, glistening machinery, body bound to a gurney. You know where you are and it terrifies you. The beeping crescendos as you start to hyperventilate, straining against your bonds. You thrash and kick and scream, tearing your already acid-fucked throat to shreds.

No no no NO

Your screams turn to sobs when the restraints don't give way. Eyes blurred by blue tears and fear, ears full of your own rushing heartbeats. You don't hear when the door opens, you don't see her approach, but the smell of her is enough to stop you in your metaphorical tracks.

Herbal cigarettes, hair gel, and sharp disinfectants. She smells like your best nightmares and your worst memories. You taste blood, taste butterscotch. Your screaming turns to whispers, whimpered prayers, begging yourself to wake up from this nightmare.

But you don't. Of course you don't. That would be too easy, too good for you. You shut your eyes as she approaches, flinching back when something soft brushes your cheek.

A hand grips your chin, firmly, but gently. Keeping you still as a tissue is brushed against your tear-stained face. Your eyes slide open without your permission and you stare into the face of your captor.

"Moira..." you whisper as she balls up the tissue and tosses it away without taking her eyes off you, without letting go of your face.

"Now now," she drawls, "no need for any, theatrics."

Something inside you twists, awakening your nausea. Your lip quivers, as the geneticist looks you over with mismatched eyes.

She's gotten weirder since the last time you saw her. She's stolen your genemods, and made herself into a mockery of you, a bastardization of your uniqueness. Violet lights dance under her skin, and add a curious glow to the darkness of her sclera. The new sharpness of her teeth frightens you, and reminds you of your vulnerability, your bared throat. Her thumb caresses your jaw, the tips of her talons grazing your skin just lightly enough to summon goosebumps.

She gazes at you with awe and satisfaction, cupping your cheek with more tenderness than you thought her capable of. The warmth of her skin, once comforting, is now a fire of your guilt and self-loathing. You trusted her once, loved her once.

You love her still, even after all of this. And that scares you most of all, more than being back in the lab, more than losing everything you'd fought for.

Your capacity to forgive even the most heinous, grievous sins against you, will be your undoing. The vivisection, your abduction and surely other things you aren't privy to, you're somehow prepared to forgive it all, just for that touch alone. The missing burns worse than your guilt, and turns your emotions to ash.

A long time ago, you and Moira used to be A Thing, A Thing you've long since come to regret. You thought she was different from the other scientists, the ones that saw you as nothing more than a tool to further their research and understanding of things that should not be understood.

You were wrong. So very wrong.

She's talking to you know, saying things you can't parse over the sound of blood rushing through your ears, all you can do is stare, and wheeze, and whimper. She frowns, eyes narrowing, and snaps her fingers next to your ear. It twitches out of the way and you are forcibly dragged out of the prelude to disassociation by the sound.

As your eyes focus, Moira resumes her monologue, "Now, as I was saying... You and I have a lot of catching up to do."

#ic #action post #enclosures #ask to tag #seriously ask to tag

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raskies456 · 7 years

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Gift fic for @dogebode and sequel to her work Beneath (read it!!!!!!)

Summary: Stanford Pines has let things go on for too long. Now he has his regrets.

Genre: Gen, Emotional Hurt/Comfort (well…not really comfort? idk), Angst with a Happy Hopeful Ending, Platonic Sibling Bonding, Oneshot

Chars: Stanford and Stanley Pines

Warnings: a LOT of self-loathing, mentions of alcohol, insomnia, feelings of intense guilt, anxiety, mild disassociation, briefly implied suicidal ideation, implied ideation towards self harm (this is mildly graphic), generally unhealthy mindsets

Wordcount: 4036

It was the beginning of January, and the expanse of the new year stretched long and foreboding before Stanford Pines. He sat in the darkened kitchen, one six-fingered hand curled around a glass of scotch, and yet he couldn’t quite find it in himself to dare a sip.

Come morning all of this would be forgotten—his brother would rise, well rested and happy, happier than he’d been for over thirty years, longer even—but not tonight. Tonight Stanley was down in the basement with his dreams broken and the one thing that kept him going for all that time stolen, and he was truly and utterly alone.

Not that Ford suspected he could do anything for him right now, confused as the man as, asleep—but that was a poor excuse for abandoning him—after all who knew what Stan might take it up in his head do? But Ford couldn’t bear to look, couldn’t bear to see the damage he had wrought, and as always was only thinking of himself and his own hurt rather than that of his brother.

Thirty years. It never really sunk in, even after the apologies were exchanged, even after Ford truly meant his thanks. The magnitude of spending almost eleven-thousand nights beneath the earth, task turning to habit turning to nature until it could no longer be disentangled from the man’s mind. Until Stanley Pines became nothing but getting his brother back. Nothing, which was just how Ford had treated him.

Because Stanford had been watching for months. Letting him go crawling about down in that basement, doing god knows what—writing, translating, rebuilding—all without breathing a word of it to him. Curiosity perhaps, or fear of Bill, drove his reticence, but no, it was more than that—Ford had wanted his own chance at being the hero, wanted to be the one to save his brother for once, wanted to receive, to earn, to deserve some praise of his own, and how better to do it than like this? Be the only one to suspect that the demon had survived and drive him once and for all out of Stanley’s head?

Oh he said he had learned his lesson, that he was okay with being the hero’s brother, but like everything, it was a lie. Not so much to Stan, though Ford had deceived him as well—add it to an ever growing list of sins—but to himself. Because he could not accept that he was jealous, petulant. Because he wanted to be good enough to be humble.

But Ford was not a good man, and perhaps never would be. Left his brother alone to mourn because he was too afraid to face the consequences of what he’d done. Wallowed in his own self-pity instead of trying to help. Gave up in the face of the impossible—what Stan did was impossible, impossible and costly and good—and while Ford had finally come to thank him for it he was not without that twinge of envy, a hint of resentment in knowing he would never be so heroic. Because for all of Ford’s mistakes the only thing Stan had done wrong was in thinking him worth saving. The only thing he had done wrong was mourning him now.

And he was mourning, no doubt about it—there was never a look more heartbreaking than the one Ford had seen last night, except perhaps that sad face staring up at him from the street all those years ago, abandoned, asking for one last chance…Ford had turned him away then, in his selfishness and anger, and yet the man had given up everything just to get him back. It was something, he felt, he could never truly apologize for, no matter how sorrow he felt, no matter how sincere he was—and perhaps he wasn’t even that. Because if he was sorry, truly sorry for who he was and what he’d done, he would have not let things go this far. He would not have considered letting them continue, and continue they might—what were the odds that Stan would return to the basement the next night, start building the portal up once more? That he’d forget its destruction, or worse still, remember? And what were the odds that Ford would let him do it all over again, stand aside and watch until tonight came once more? Over and over—work, hope, loss. Tragic, but allowably so—Stan was happy enough in the daylight hours, and could always be taken far to sea—wasn’t that enough? But Ford knew well enough these were only excuses, and his true motives were all too clear. He was afraid of intervening. He was afraid of doing the right thing. He was afraid—because it would mean telling Stan.

In the end, as with all things, Ford did it for himself. Decided he must tell Stanley, but only because he realized he could no longer deal with the lie. Could no longer cope with all the jokes and the grins and the forgiveness, because they weren’t meant for him but for the man he pretended to be, and that was a lie he couldn’t bear. So he confessed—not because Stanley deserved the truth, but because Ford deserved the blame.

The sun was beginning to melt the snow, big white sheets sliding off the roof with a thump—and Ford still hadn’t moved, still hadn’t even dared a sip of his scotch, glittering gold in the morning light. He heard the floorboards creak as his brother began to stir—never one for moving softly, even when trying to creep. The man’s climb up from the basement a few hours past had been loud enough, and in the faint shafts of moonlight Ford had caught the glint of tears upon his face…

He didn’t look up when Stan walked in now, though he could hear the man’s footsteps come to a sudden halt in the doorway. And then they were thumping purposefully across the kitchen floor, stopping only at the the other end of the table. Stanley’s shadow cut off the light playing upon the scotch.

“What’s eating you?”

It was good perhaps that Stan was so quick to see that something was amiss, could spy in his manner that hint of despair—it spared Ford the trouble of broaching the topic, watching the good humor melt from his brother’s face. And yet he couldn’t help but feel just a hint of chagrin—now there was no way out, no use in pretending he hadn’t just gotten up early to pour himself a drink.

And suddenly there was a silence filling the room, a pressure—it seemed ready to make Ford’s ears pop as he desperately recited the words in his head, staring all the while down at his glass. His hand, curled around it, looked strange—a little too wide—and for one second it didn’t quite feel like his own.

Neither did his tongue, stuck dry to the roof of his mouth, as he struggled to keep his voice steady, and even this sounded somewhat off, as if heard from a distance.

“Do you know,” he said haltingly, “about something called…somnambulism?”

Stan’s reply was immediate and loud, broke the pressure and made Ford start from his seat. “Somnambahoohaa?” He scoffed. “What are you—“

“Sleepwalking, Stanley,” Ford snapped, more suddenly and harshly than he would have thought possible. “Sleepwalking.”

“So what?” Ford gave a start as Stan plopped down in the chair across from him. “You’ve been walking around at night—it’s not your fault if you have bad dreams.”

Ford could only stare at him, though he almost felt like laughing. Almost, if the thought of finding humor in such irony didn’t twist his stomach into knots, make the skin around his neck prickle and jump. “Not me,” he said finally, though not without some bitterness. “You.”

Stan was silent for a brief moment, then shrugged. “Well it’s probably nothing, just a little restlessness, or—“

“Months, Stanley,” growled Ford. “It’s been going on for months.”

Well that certainly caught the man off guard, startled him into shocked silence, and Ford? He couldn’t help but feel slightly satisfied—he had managed to check his brother’s insouciance, prove his own fears right. Because even now Ford still felt that need to assert himself, to make clear that he was the one that knew more—after all, knowing things was the only thing he had left, and he was no longer even secure in this: Stanley had more than once surprised him with his understanding of physics, hard won from rebuilding the portal, and where Ford should have been proud he had merely turned to choosing larger and larger words to express his thoughts. More lies in a sense, more jealous deceit.

“Do you think it’s…him?” Stanley’s voice was quiet now, worried—maybe even afraid. But it was hard to tell—Ford’s understanding of the man was limited, and whenever he thought he had him figured he always found himself surprised, failed to grasp some unexpected depth of emotion.

“I thought so at first,” said Ford, shaking his head, “which is why…” He trailed off. Why I kept it a secret? It was an excuse, the same excuse he had told himself each and every night: that he wanted to avoid alerting the demon. Well he was afraid of Bill; but he was more afraid of the truth, more afraid to admit he said nothing because he wanted to finally solve something on his own.

“It’s the portal,” Ford continued, cutting off his own train of thought. “You spent every night for thirty years trying to run the thing—you really think there weren’t going to be consequences?”

“Like what, Ford?” snapped Stan. “The end of the world?”

“No—! I mean yes, but”—he searched desperately for the words—“that’s not what I’m saying.” Ford shook his head. “I just meant that it was a dangerous thing for you—“

“I know what you meant.”

Ford might not have been the best at reading Stanley’s emotions, but there was no missing the hostility in his tone. And for what? Did he really think his brother was going to lecture him on how foolish he had been? After all they’d been through? Ford felt indignant, attacked—his fingers squeezed the glass so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t shatter in his hand—but the feeling passed as quickly as it came.

Of course Stan was going to expect insult and ingratitude—after all they were the only things that Ford had ever really given him. Because that was all Ford was. Even now, even trying to tell the truth, he expected nothing but patience and understanding—as if he deserved it! Look how quick he was to anger, to play the injured party, to place his brother in the wrong. Look how much he thought of himself. Nothing had changed at all.

There was a look on Stanley’s face that night—not last night, weeping on the floor, but the night before. A gaze so full of hope and joy and love…for him. For the man whose first move was to punch his savior in the face. For the man who never said thank you. For the man who even now could only muster the urge to tell his brother that he was wrong, wrong to care so much. If only Stanley had left him in the nightmare realm to rot.

“Stan,” he said softly, not sure if he could be heard. He was not even sure if the man was still in the room—at some point Ford had gone back to staring at his glass, and could have missed his brother’s exit, lost in thoughts as he was. “Stan,” he said again. “You spent so long trying to get me back…so long that you’re doing it in your sleep.”

Silence. Dead silence, stretching long before him until he was certain he was completely alone. And then a soft voice. A question.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

If the force of Ford’s stare could break glass, his hand, trembling around his scotch, would have been torn to shreds. He almost wished it, to have the glass explode and splinter and most importantly end this conversation, all those little shards cutting through the tension like so much blood and flesh. But though his knuckles began to blanch nothing happened, not so much as a crack.

He took one breath, then another, hated how he could hear each and every rasp and quiver of his throat. It was difficult enough to maintain composure when lying, even harder to keep it when telling the truth. And he could not back out of it now, not when his distress stood so clear—any non-answer, any dodge would be suspected—why be so nervous if you were only going to say you didn’t want to alert Bill? But the inevitability of confession didn’t calm him, rather, he felt terribly exposed, powerless…perhaps almost as vulnerable as he had been when at the demon’s mercy.

“I…” Ford started, and it was hard enough to do as much, with his words dying in his throat. “I…thought I could handle it.” He found himself surprised at how much he had to fight to keep his voice from trembling—he was not one to cry, though now he was perhaps on the verge of it, even saying as little as he had. No, he had perhaps suggested a hint of overconfidence, and the shame of admitting defeat, but nothing more. Didn’t say that he valued his pride over his brother’s safety, or never appreciated Stan’s effort in bringing him home. Didn’t say that he regretted saying something now, or that he left the man down there to mourn. And certainly he didn’t say that two nights ago he had torn down the portal not only for reasons of safety or even concern, but because he had been just the slightest bit curious in seeing what would happen— whether the cycle would be broken or begin anew, and perhaps, just maybe, he had wanted to see how much Stanley would have missed him.

“And?”

Ford started in his seat a little—he had gotten distracted, caught in yet another spiral of out of control thoughts. It was altogether too easy too lose himself in guilty confusion, especially when it was preferable to speaking, because speaking was real, real and happening now, and real was more terrible than a thousand possible words.

Whatever he said now was made true. It could not be taken back. So he did his best to choose his words carefully.

“You rebuilt the portal in your sleep,” Ford began, measured, even. “And you” —he paused for a second—“finished it.”

These were just facts after all, presented with emotional distance. Without need for justification. There should have been nothing difficult in it—as easy as saying the sky was blue.

“So I took it apart.”

Silence. Stanley clearly expected him to go on, explain what had happened next, but Ford simply couldn’t. As much as he wished to admit his mistakes, whether for justice or merely because he could no longer live with them, the fact was he could not do it, could not even say he had seen his brother cry—made his brother cry, to be more accurate. It was a physical resistance, a tightening in his throat and a burning in his head, but most of all it was the utter conviction that if he dared speak, even move, the sky would rain down the hell, hell more terrible than all the nightmare realm.

Stanford knew, of course, that this wasn’t true, much as he felt it was. There was a part of him still rational, watching this all unfold, and it was the part he wished he could make speak. But his tongue belonged to the self that was terrified, and perhaps for good reason—because both halves of him knew well enough that he could not utter the next word without bursting into tears.

His lip was trembling even now—he caught it between his teeth, almost hard enough to draw blood, but why? What, after all, was so terrible in crying? Perhaps it was in appearing weak—Ford had his pride, his terrible selfish conceit that couldn’t even say thank you for fear of admitting he had needed help. And crying—well the man he pretended to be, that stoic, brilliant hero—would never have cried. He did not allow himself even the idea he might be vulnerable, or worse, reveal it to someone else.

But no, it was not merely a matter of pride. Losing face was one thing, but being pitied…The thought of inducing sympathy through his tears, the idea of being loved despite what he had done—it was all too much to bear.

After all he wasn’t here for forgiveness. To ask for pardon would be to add insult to injury, and accepting it would only go to show he hadn’t changed in the least—it was a cheap way to get out of his guilt, to tell himself he had done no wrong. He would be taking advantage of his brother’s desire to have them happy. He would be tricking Stan once more, and to do so was criminal.

So all Ford could hope for was anger. Mockery too, for crying, but genuine anger. Like it had been before, before he had erased all of his sins from his brother’s mind. The man Stanley knew now, after all, was built up from stories rather than truth, cast in too positive a light, a tale told by a liar. Ford had tricked him into thinking he was a friend, a person worthy of trust, someone there to help, perhaps even something of a muse…

“Stanford?”

“You missed me,” said Ford, and then there it was, a lifetime’s worth of regret come bubbling up through his throat. “And all I ever did was leave.”

Ford was the sort of person who talked, and he knew it. All the words would come gushing out of his mouth in a torrent and no one had the power to stop it. It would often be hours before he would slow down enough to notice how the eyes of his audience had glazed over, or, more often than not, that he was alone. He would then slink off, bitter, chalk it down as more proof that he was an under-appreciated genius, but more likely he had just been showing off as always, and people were merely giving him his due.

Well he was talking like that now, powered more by emotion than anything planned, fearful that if he dared pause he would lose himself in tears and become unintelligible. He quite possibly already was, judging by Stan’s lack of response, but maybe that was shock, horror at all the things he was saying. That he had allowed him to sleepwalk for months, out of curiosity and pride. That he had not spoken of it until the damage was done. That he had never truly appreciated what Stanley had done—scorned it even, out of jealousy and resentment. These things an more—he was not quite sure what he was saying or where he was going but the general trend of it was that he was bad, having done all these things and thought all these thoughts. So it took him a while to finish speaking, and when he finally stopped it was rather for choking on tears than truly running out of words.

All of this hadn’t make him feel better, at least—certainly there was no sensation of lifted weight—everything felt all the more heavy for being dragged out into the open air. If he had spoken from the selfish need to absolve himself, and he was certain he had, he had failed in this, and so much the better—at least he had enough of a conscience left to feel guilty at what he’d done.

Mostly, however he felt physically ill—his ears rang and his stomach squirmed ominously, his face lay slick with mucus and sweat. He had managed to flop over the table at some point, failing even to keep sitting upright, and he lay there blubbering for a good while.

What Ford was was pitiful, and it terrified him. More so that Stanley had not yet passed his judgement—the uncertainty hung low in the air, oppressive. Anxiety raised the hairs on his neck, set the skin of his back tingling, but it stayed his tears. He waited, felt the silence pressing down upon him, heard the faint shudder of his heart. Forgiveness or retribution. Sorrow or anger. Love…or hatred.

“Well Sixer,” said Stanley, “you’ve always been a drama queen, but this is ridiculous.”

Ford lifted his head in confusion. His brother certainly wasn’t trying to forgive him, but neither did he seem upset—not once had Stanford considered any other possible reactions and now he had been caught completely off guard, unprepared for whatever was happening now—he couldn’t quite get a grasp on it.

“You’re not…upset?” he whimpered, more in puzzlement than anything.

“About what?” huffed Stan. “Sure you can be a pain in the ass sometimes, as if that’s news.”

He pondered this for a second. He pondered it long and hard, but he simply couldn’t understand what his brother was saying—was he angry or not? The words were harsh yes, but not uncharacteristically so, certainly nothing out of the ordinary. But if Stanley wasn’t upset than he must be forgiving—and yet he had brushed Ford off with a casual insult.

“So you didn’t tell me about the sleepwalking or whatever,” Stan continued. “Would’ve been nice if ya did earlier, but…” He shrugged. “I think you might have even said something about it anyway, if my memory’s to be trusted. Even if you didn’t, well, it’s certainly nothing to cry over.”

“But…” Ford trailed off, understanding, but not really comprehending. For all his fearful thinking, all that time he spent with his mind running over each and every outcome he could imagine, spinning out all the ways this conversation could have gone, he had never once considered the possibility that Stanley would not consider his transgressions severe. Because they were severe—he was certain of it, they must be. How could someone possibly look at him and all he had done and not loathe him, or at least not see that he was inherently bad? Perhaps Ford had managed to trick his brother so thoroughly that even in the face of indisputable proof Stan saw nothing ill in him—perhaps Ford was taking advantage of him still. The man desperately wanted reconciliation, wanted to be happy, wanted the brother he deserved…he was in denial, that was certain—Ford had used him like the monster he was. That was definitely the case, surely must be the only explanation…

“So what are we gonna do about it?” said Stan, still unbothered, casual. “Got any nerdy solutions to the whole solemn-nap walking thing?”

“Well, not really, but…” Ford stammered for a second as he realized his brother had switched topics, and he had been only happy to go along. But the matter remained, it had to be dealt with.

“You really don’t think I…?”

Stan sighed. “What do you want me to say Ford, that you’re a bit of a dick?” He shrugged. “So you might’ve not told me something you should’ve. As for the rest—you really think I don’t know already? Most of it’s just human nature and only an overly-dramatic asshole would worry himself over it.”

Ford might have raised his voice to protest again, would have, if he could, but his words caught on an all too familiar lump of the throat—he sniffed and his vision began to grow blurry.

“Are you gonna drink that scotch or—“ Stanley paused. “Aww fuck,” he said. “You’re not gonna start crying again, are you?”

#ahahahah please don't take fords views for my own he's in a very unhealthy mindset #anyway go read doge's fic #halfway decent writing #gravity falls #fanfiction #stanford pines #ford pines #grunkle ford #stan pines #stanley pines #grunkle stan #the stan twins #angst #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #gen fic #i realize now that basically everything ford thinks in this is something someone in the fandom has probably accused him of #alas alas #comments will put me in lifedebt with u

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ask-crudelydrawnyumenikkigang · 7 years

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I suppose I should just get this out of the way ‘cause I feel the need to! Hello hello, it’s me- your old pal, that old ask blog you might have thought was ACTUALLY dead this time.

I guess I try to make this as small of a sad story as I possibly can! When I started this blog in 2013 I had yet to be diagnosed with anything and really felt like I was going to be able to manage this blog FLAWLESSLY for however long I wish to run it. At the time I was around 14, I’m now 18 and medicated. It took up till about September for me to have been diagnosed with ANYTHING other than ADD till I was put in therapy against my will. I was put in therapy because finally some higher up figure noticed that I was unusually down in the dumps and obviously hate myself more than anything, so she emailed my mom and everything just...went by so fast. From therapy back in March, 2016 I was just there as someone who’s a self loathing obviously run down and emotionally lost individual. Eventually my doctor reached out to my mom once it was obviously apparent that I’m depressed; and told her that she should take me to a psychiatrist. Where I was diagnosed with MDD (Major depressive Disorder), GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder) and eventually SCD (Social Communication Disorder) once my therapist misjudged my identity problems as possibly autism. I was tested for 5 hours at an autism center where they came to the conclusion that all my problems root from my: GAD, MDD and ADD; and that I also have SCD on top of all those. I’ve been medicated for almost a year now! (September is when I started meds)

Things are looking up for me; but every up has its downs. In December 2016 I went off my meds due to poor sleep scheduling and obsessively playing video games. I was off my meds for a month straight and it really took its toll on me when I went back to college. I do not remember anything from January or February, I do not remember anything besides me disassociating and self harming. I wasn’t doing any of my homework, I wasn’t going to a lot of my classes- All I was doing was falling even deeper into my pit of despair while playing Overwatch every hour of the day. I was planning on killing myself, I wanted to end the suffering so badly that I was willing to take my life for the emotional pain to finally stop. However, at the end of January I was right about to emit myself into a mental hospital when I went to my monthly therapy appointment to ask her if I should do it. She was proud of me that I was going to get help; and told me my suffering will end soon so I should stay strong and not lose hope now.

Things went up; but I can’t erase the fact that I wasn’t doing my college work. I failed animation 1 (My major; however I’m content with this) and am doing my best to not fail my other 3 courses.

I don’t know, I’m just happy to be here and happy to see so many of you are contently awaiting my return. My return is today; but not quite yet for this week is finals.

I’m going to make a Discord chat where we can all chat! Please treat me as your friend, I’m not some god figure just because you like my blog- I’m just another human being who loves to chat.

I want you all to know that no matter what, do not give up hope. Hope is out there for you, if you need emotional support please seek that help, call a help line if need be. Any progress is outstanding progress, be proud of your progress.

#yume nikki

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courtneyvbrooks87 · 5 years

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Crypto Schisms and Fork Psychology

Op-Ed

Forking within the crypto ecosystem is often a controversial subject. Many crypto-enthusiasts loathe it, taking particular exception to the so-called “contentious hard fork.” They believe hard-forking damages a cryptocurrency, and say it should be avoided at all costs. They also believe forking is detrimental to the market and represents a financial burden. However, this view is limited and narrow-minded.

Also read: Lawyers to Help the Russian Crypto Industry Deal With Inadequate Laws

Forking for Good, Forking for Bad

Contentious hard-forking is how the community manages its systemic health, prevents bad actors from gumming up the infrastructure, and aligns the protocol in accordance with group principles. Forking is thus more than a way to upgrade a protocol. In reality, forking is a way to maintain self-care in governance without resorting to violence. It is about group dynamics and cooperating to discover peaceful solutions. It is as much psychological as technological.

Vitalik Buterin, Ethereum’s creator, agrees. In a cogent article called “Hard Forks, Soft Forks, Defaults and Coercion,” he said:

“Proponents of hard forks are often derided as trying to effect a “hostile take over” of a network, and “force” users to go along with them. Additionally, the risk of chain splits is often used to bill hard forks as “unsafe”. It is my personal viewpoint that these criticisms are wrong, and furthermore in many cases completely backwards.”

Definition of a Cryptocurrency Fork

A cryptocurrency hard fork equates to a network chain split. It means stakeholders decide to divide a preexisting cryptocurrency into two competing chains. Both chains share the same transactional history, but become two unique coins that follow different paths.

In essence, these splits are how decentralized communities resolve disputes and come to terms with technological and philosophical differences. This is different from a soft fork, which is a coercive protocol change that is backwards compatible, but forces users to comply with its rule set.

In a Medium article called Blockchain Forks Explained, Nate Maddrey said, “A blockchain fork is essentially a collectively agreed upon software update.”

Maddrey’s definition concisely explains the technological fact of a fork, but as everyone knows, a blockchain “upgrade” is not always necessarily agreed upon. These “contentious hard forks” often cause disputes. Matter of a fact, sometimes “upgrades” in the cryptocurrency space are seen as attacks or political maneuvers by others. This causes natural schisms to crop up.

Bitcoin Schisms and Reason for Division

Some of these individuals go so far to suggest these “attacks” are an attempt to undermine bitcoin or usurp the protocol, as Vitalik suggested. The original Bitcoin fork, which split off in Aug. 1st, 2017, creating bitcoin cash, is a perfect example of a contentious hard fork.

Leading up to this fork, divergent communities argued about how to effectively upgrade the protocol to meet demand. Each camp supported differing views on how to scale the cryptocurrency. On the surface, these differences were purely technological. However, at the center of these opinions rested fundamental philosophical beliefs on the nature and purpose of the cryptocurrency.

The Bitcoin Cash camp primarily supported the notion that cryptocurrency should be used as cash for the world. This was also the view shared by the pseudonymous creator of bitcoin, Satoshi Nakamoto. Conversely, the core camp mainly supported Bitcoin as a digital commodity, something akin to gold. These perspectives ultimately mold popular thinking on the economics and purpose of the technology. If it is cash for the world, it’s a paradigmatic-shifting technology. If it is just “digital gold,” it’s a money-making — or money-destroying — speculative asset.

Bitcoin Cash ABC and Bitcoin SV

Fast forward another year to the recent Bitcoin Cash ABC and Bitcoin SV split. This split was even more political and less technological. For instance, the Bitcoin SV camp raised the block size immediately to 128MB and rejected the option to add smart contracting functionality.

The differences were basically superficial. The Bitcoin Cash ABC camp has always intended to raise the blockchain size to meet market demand. It just wasn’t necessary at this time. Adding the smart contracting implementation via new op-codes was the largest difference, but it makes sense from a market perspective. The fact that Bitcoin ABC sought to enable certain op-code functionality speaks to the idea that the more utility a crypto project has, the more value it will accrue. And this does not take away from its utility as a cryptocurrency at all.

At the end of the day, the Bitcoin SV camp pivoted to fork Bitcoin Cash for political reasons, for the purposes of control and power. The beautiful thing about this split was it helped align incongruous ideologies, incentives, and personalities with their proper camps.

Cooperation Versus Forking Government

When a cryptocurrency forks it means competing groups effectively cooperated to move in divergent directions. “Cooperation” in this context may sound odd, seeing as how a lot of badmouthing and bickering ensued prior to the fork, but it was still a form of capitulation without violence. In my mind, this is synonymous with “cooperation.”

At conferences, I always ask the audience what would happen if they tried to fork the federal government. I usually hear crickets, then I respond: if someone disagrees with the U.S. government, they can’t easily fork off. If they try, they would likely end up in a cage or shot in back of the head.

In this regard, it is impossible to disagree on fundamentals and create a coexisting but radically different government structure in society. Cryptocurrency blockchains, however, provide a novel remedy for that problem. They allow people to opt in or opt out. They also allow developers to change a given cryptocurrency’s rule set at its core code, and then move it a different direction. This is a massive transformation in the way humankind has traditionally conducted governance affairs. Previously, people settled differences with the truncheon and gun.

The Psychology of Forks

The psychology of forking is straightforward. If groups have the ability to cooperate and disassociate via a hard fork, they can create nonviolent harmony in the system through exercising the ability to choose a particular blockchain.

This functions as a form of ventilation and release. It mitigates the necessity of violence. It lessens the charge of psychic activity that could lead to hostile escalations. At first, the bickering and badmouthing appears as a form of hostility, but it is just words. It’s not akin to physically harming another person.

This move also limits the amount of corruption in the space. It allows bad actors to congeal around a certain set of ideals, effectively weeding them out. This never happens via traditional government, because all the players remain in power for years, compounding the corruption and exacerbating misaligned incentives. This is why being attentive to the utility and beauty of forking is of utmost importance.

Rejecting Government Violence

If the cryptocurrency community internalizes the psychological benefits of forking, all the actors involved will vie to fork when necessary. It’s only when these actors turn to government — in the form of lawsuits and other litigation — that the sacred contract of peaceful forking is rejected and replaced with violence.

Forking is an amazing innovation not only in technology, but in human social affairs. It should not be taken lightly, but when initiated for the right reasons, be it due to opposing visions or irreconcilable differences, forking is a welcome divide that can leave both communities stronger and more focused once the dust has settled.

Do you think crypto schisms and divisions are a good or bad thing? Does the psychology of forking make sense? Is it healthy to fork off peacefully rather than violently?

Images courtesy of Shutterstock

OP-ed disclaimer: This is an Op-ed article. The opinions expressed in this article are the author’s own. Bitcoin.com does not endorse nor support views, opinions or conclusions drawn in this post. Bitcoin.com is not responsible for or liable for any content, accuracy or quality within the Op-ed article. Readers should do their own due diligence before taking any actions related to the content. Bitcoin.com is not responsible, directly or indirectly, for any damage or loss caused or alleged to be caused by or in connection with the use of or reliance on any information in this Op-ed article.

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mccartneynathxzw83 · 5 years

Text

Crypto Schisms and Fork Psychology

Op-Ed

Also read: Lawyers to Help the Russian Crypto Industry Deal With Inadequate Laws

Forking for Good, Forking for Bad

Vitalik Buterin, Ethereum’s creator, agrees. In a cogent article called “Hard Forks, Soft Forks, Defaults and Coercion,” he said:

Definition of a Cryptocurrency Fork

In a Medium article called Blockchain Forks Explained, Nate Maddrey said, “A blockchain fork is essentially a collectively agreed upon software update.”

Bitcoin Schisms and Reason for Division

Bitcoin Cash ABC and Bitcoin SV

Cooperation Versus Forking Government

The Psychology of Forks

Rejecting Government Violence

Do you think crypto schisms and divisions are a good or bad thing? Does the psychology of forking make sense? Is it healthy to fork off peacefully rather than violently?

Images courtesy of Shutterstock

Original Source https://ift.tt/2GoGKe5

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