I wanna make a comment about the new fob album but I’m afraid the girlies will kill me
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that moment when you cross the point of no return with a character should be accompanied by a specific chime i think. like 🔔 congratulations! this one has been installed in the Permanent Collection and you will never stop thinking about them as long as you live
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It's still surprising to see people say that when they see the upcoming strike post I made that this is the first time they're hearing about it, especially because I've seen several posts now talking about the same strike.
That being said: regardless of what kind of blog you are, please spread the news about the genocide, the strikes, boycotts, etc.
Even if you are a small blog, spreading word allows for more people to know what's going on and also do their part in protests and strikes, and maybe even the right people will be able to do more than what you're able to do.
And reminder: there is an upcoming strike on February 18th-25th. Prepare accordingly, protest, boycott, call your reps, and spread the word so more people are aware.
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Mr. Fenton is a competent teacher. Almost too competent.
If Mr. Daniel Fenton had any more than a BS (with a minor in education), Tim would’ve flagged his profile as a potential Rogue. That’s the way of most charismatic academics, at least in Gotham. (Got a PhD? Instant watchlist.) Instead, he’s Gotham Academy’s newest celebrity, as a young, passionate, out-of-towner substitute while the chemistry teacher’s on maternity leave.
Tim gets the hype. Fenton seems to genuinely love teaching, and is invested in the welfare of the student body. He hands out bananas during exam week, hosts a “study habits seminar” each month to coach effective learning strategies, and the third time Tim falls asleep in his class, he even pulls Tim aside to ask if he’s doing okay. With all the late work he accepts and the protein bars he sneaks Tim, he’s every teen vigilante’s dream teacher. He could’ve been Tim’s favorite.
In fact, Mr. Fenton was Tim’s favorite. Up until Tim walks into Mr. Fenton’s chemistry classroom for a forgotten textbook, an hour after the final bell.
On the board where tallied scores for today’s review game had been kept, “THE CHEMISTRY BEHIND DR. CRANE’S FEAR GAS: ANXIOGENICS, NERI’S, & YOU,” is now scrawled. A detailed diagram of the human endocrine system projects in front of a small crowd of adoring and attentive students.
Fenton is wrist-deep in the skull cavity of an anatomical model. A short tug, and out pops the brain.
It’s plastic. It’s fake.
Tim identifies the nearest emergency exit.
Fenton turns to the door, and in the dark classroom with the projector illuminating half his face, his eyes almost seem to flash red. “What’s up, Tim?” he asks. His friendly grin is too big for his face. “I didn’t know you wanted to join the Just Science League!”
[OR: Danny’s a science teacher at Tim’s school. Gotham’s a pretty wild place, even for someone who grew up a superhero in a ghost-infested town, so he takes it upon himself to start a club teaching kids how to manage themselves in the event of a crisis. These Gothamites are pretty hardy, but a little extra training never hurt anybody! And he suspects one of his students might be a teen vigilante, like he’d been, back in the day. As a senior super, it's Danny’s duty look out for him! Surely, this is the subtlest and most appropriate way to give the kid pointers.]
[Tim immediately assumes supervillain.]
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The scene was powerful in the book, but there was just something about watching reaper collect the bodies of the dead tributes in the arena. The way he removes the weapons from their hands, lays them out nicely, giving them the smallest bit of dignity in death. The contrast to the capitol gasping in shock as he pulls down the flag, not in rebellion, but in mourning. The way mourning in the hunger games IS an act of rebellion. “How are you going to punish me now?” The feed then immediately cutting to the news of the death of one capitol boy, whose death will be avenged upon those who had nothing to do with it. Only certain deaths are allowed to mean anything. God. Suzanne Collins knows what she’s doing.
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