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sepublic · 1 year

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I know it’s super corny, but seeing as how A Christmas Carol has always been a comfort story for me as a kid… Imagine an AU in its likeness for The Owl House; With Belos, of course, playing the role of Ebenezer Scrooge. He truly is a miserable old man with a sympathetic backstory, even if he did veer into VERY unsympathetic territory as he grew up. I guess it’s a bit of selfish wish-fulfillment to see him let go of the bitterness and be happy again, for once.

Instead of hating Christmas, he hates magic in general, and by the time of the story, a holiday dedicated to magic is rolling around and “Uncle Phil” is less than pleased. Hunter plays the role of Nephew Fred, who else? He and his friends at dinner are the other kids, the Emerald Entrails, and possibly additional classmates, as well as Darius and Eberwolf, etc.

Jacob Marley goes to… Maybe THE Witchfinder General, Matthew Hopkins? Of historical fame, the inspiration for Jacob Hopkins, the precedent of the title Philip looks up to, a man who lived in the same time period and area as him? That or Terra Snapdragon, or maybe Osran since he’s Oracle Coven and it’s related to ghosts, but those two seem kind of a stretch, especially since they’re nevertheless witches. Or Bill! Yeah he’s also a witch, but him and Belos seem to have parallels as those who lead a society they’ve manipulated and filter their perception of the Collector, all for their own ends.

Bob Cratchit… Ultimately I settled for Lilith, as a beleaguered assistant whom has a family to look after and attend to. I DID consider Kikimora for the role, since she’s short like Bob (at least the version of him I’m familiar with), and in canon had a family she struggled to go home to. But in the end, while I would like to give Kiki some more love, Lilith has a family of characters we’ve actually seen and know; And since the Clawthornes are clearly related to him, that makes for another side of the family for Phil to accept and embrace for once, though whether he knows the connection, I dunno.

Lilith is at this point her nerdy self, not quite repressed given the VERY different context, but still a bit too lenient towards her employer. Tiny Tim will be her nephew, King Clawthorne; They’re both wittle guys and the baby of their families. Not that it’d happen in canon, but Philip is actually concerned for the wellbeing of this little Titan when he finds out.

It’s Bump and the Illusion teacher that ask Belos for donations; They’re both older characters who care about kids and support their efforts in magic, so it feels sensible to me.

The Ghost of Christmas Past is the Collector; Short, young, scary angels associated with light. The Collector is tied a lot to Philip’s past and privy to many aspects of it, witnessing his transition from Philip to Belos in the present-day. Similarly, the Ghost of Christmas Past torments Scrooge with visions of his past, his worst memories and regrets; In canon, the Collector plays the role of The Fool, in the sense that they serve as a reckless, teasing voice of narrative commentary on Belos’ folly, and his insecurity over his home and himself changing over the centuries.

The Collector is privy and witness to a lot of past deeds and secrets of Belos that would otherwise be lost to time; They take Philip on a visit to his childhood home in Gravesfield. Pip’s lonely at the school, but his older brother Caleb is here to pick him up, and celebrate Christmas with him! Alas, he ‘lost’ Caleb to Evelyn, and Caleb died, leaving his nephew Hunter. Philip remembers other figures from his past, including a love whom he fell out with due to his bigotry; And much to his agony, the Collector shows him how said love has moved on and married again, and now even has children, too! Philip demands the Collector torment him no longer, and uses the disk to seal them away.

Then comes the Ghost of Christmas Present… Which, this may change in the future; But for now, I’ve tentatively chosen the Bat Queen; The Ghost of Christmas Present is very reminiscent of Santa and a parental figure. The Bat Queen is a maternal figure, granting palismen to kids. She sheds light on the plight of the Clawthornes (yeah, Raine is there with Eda), especially Tiny King, who is in poor health. We get to see a community of construction witches celebrating with their families, including Mason and his sons, Steve and Mattholomule. Salty and his crew make cameos, as do Malphas and the librarians, or the Demon Hunters.

Belos gets to see Hunter having dinner with his friends without him, in which he hears the kids’ dislike of Belos; But Hunter really does care for his uncle and while he’s rightfully frustrated, wishes the best and no ill will. The Bat Queen’s shift ends with a haunting reminder of palismen who have been abused and died, as an homage to Ignorance and Want in the original; Maybe Flapjack is one of them.

Finally, we have the Ghost of Christmas Future. I’ve considered the Titan himself for this; A skeletal, death-related figure, enigmatic, who’s never really spoken, and rather mysterious for it. He appears as a dark silhouette towering over everything, pointing and directing Belos to where he needs to go. Or Grometheus; A dark entity who embodies one’s worst fears, which is particularly topical here.

The dudes who discuss only visiting Belos’ funeral if lunch is provided; Maybe Tibbles and Piniet (they are capitalists), or Coven Heads like Terra, Osran, Vitimir, etc. Kikimora is the one who loots Belos’ corpse, because she totally would; In canon, she’s a lot closer to his private matters than he knows or would like, and intent on seizing some of that power for herself after all. Maybe Wrath is also there as a fellow scavenger, as well as unnamed Coven captains; Maybe Severine too. Employees who don’t appreciate this dude and who can blame them?

Not sure who’s going to be the couple that’s glad Philip is dead; I don’t want it to be the parents of any of the kids, or else it’d be insensitive for Hunter to vouch for his uncle in front of them. Maybe the two old ladies that Steve cried over? Boscha’s parents, Larry and their partner? Prim and one of the Demon Hunters…Roselle and Dottie, those ladies who kidnapped Eda-in-King’s-body???

Philip learns that Tiny King has died and is devastated. And lo and behold, he finds out who it is that nobody’s been mourning; It’s himself, Philip Wittebane! He promises the Ghost of Future that he’ll change, falls into his grave… And awakens on the floor of his bedroom, still alive and with a newfound chance at life!

Not sure who’s the kid he asks to buy a turkey for him; Maybe Braxas? Philip makes amends with his nephew Hunter and his found family, coming over for dinner; And the next morning, he vows to be better to Lilith and the Clawthornes, helping look after Tiny King and becoming like another father to him! King ends the story by declaring Titan bless us, everyone!

#the owl house #philip wittebane #emperor belos #a christmas carol #au #ebenezer scrooge

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ao3feed-brucewayne · 1 year

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Older Sibling Duty

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/5gtWBFX

by Icestorm238

Names are important. The Bats tend to bypass their real names, however, in favour of increasingly dumb nicknames.

The older sibling trio of Dick, Jason, and Cass are the primary instigators of this. After all, it is their duty.

Words: 2357, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain, Barbara Gordon, Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown, Damian Wayne, Duke Thomas

Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain & Duke Thomas, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne

Additional Tags: Batfamily Dynamics (DCU), i tagged the relationships that ended up taking precedence but they're all important, throwing canon fanon and my own mind into a pot and splashing the resultant mixture into this, dick jason and cass as a chaotic trio of older siblings, only cass is doing this intentionally, dick and jason just can't help themselves it's instinctive, they see tiny siblings and they have to nickname

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/5gtWBFX

#IFTTT #bruce wayne #batman #the dark knight #the cape crusader #gotham #dc universe #ao3 #ao3feed

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lilydalexf · 3 years

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It's probably weird of me, but I have a hard time thinking about first time Mulder/Scully fanfics on tape. I don't think I'd like to see them on video. Fics to me feel like they live on the page. Not that I would complain AT ALL if a tape from before 2000 showed up with filmed first time fanfics, but I can't get my head there. I am sorry for not helping with the fantasy. However! Here are a bunch of very good first time Mulder/Scully fics posted before 2000. 12 Tales of Christmas by Anne Haynes This began as a post-"How the Ghosts Stole Christmas" vignette and turned into a series. Above Rubies by Rachel Howard Biological weapons, ghosts, sex, guns, bad guys galore, Mulder, Scully, Skinner, and a partridge in a pear tree. All the Children are Insane by MustangSally The Fan-Fiction Writer's Union (NJ Local #527) required post 'End' vignette. Anniversary by Jess M. Scully reaches a turning point in her relationship with Mulder. Antidote by Rachel Howard and Karen Rasch Strange doings in a tiny western town bring Mulder and Scully out to investigate. Once there, they uncover a deadly experiment that may cost both of them their lives. The Carrot and the Stick by Plausible Deniability A sexual encounter with Scully results in additional angst for Mulder. (Sequel: The Clock Watcher) Cheapened Things by MD1016 One night in a hotel room. Basically sex and angst -- lots of angst. Contact High by Penumbra (@mashnotesofthemythopoeic) Scully drops by Mulder’s apartment one evening and one thing sort of leads to another. Colonization metaphors abound. Mulder’s new bed has a cameo. Cubed by Louise Marin Scully does a little body-swapping of her own. Can she and Mulder make it back to each other? Do they want to? Dance Without Sleeping by Lydia Bower Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of her life. Eat it Too by Rachel Anton Will Mulder ever get his cake? And if he does, what will he do with it? Eleventh Hour by Rachel Anton Some feeling defy the confines of time. Erlona's Heart by MD1016 Mulder takes Scully on her dream vacation. Erosion by Annie Sewell-Jennings After being terribly defeated by the enemy, Mulder and Scully struggle to beat the game. Goin' Nowhere by Nicole Perry Mulder and Scully are on the run, pursued by common enemies and able to trust no one but each other. Will they find the truth they seek before it is too late? (Unfinished, but still worth reading) Goodnight Newton part 1, part 2 by Rachel Howard A bizarre case in Las Vegas leads Mulder and Scully deeper into the Consortium's secrets than they've ever gone before. Hide and Seek by SpearmntXP Scully’s inexplicable and sudden departure forces Mulder to make a decision. Impulse by Suzanne Schramm Mulder and Scully investigate some stange doings in a little town where people seem to have no control over their actions. Iolokus by @rivkat and MustangSally Painted across the barren and desolate reaches of Texas, the shadows of the Project put additional pressure on Scully and Mulder's already fragile relationship. After a hostage crisis raises more questions about the Project's breeding program, Scully begins her own investigation, leaving Mulder to choose between saving her and saving himself. Finally, the investigation leads to tragedy and Mulder and Scully find that more questions have been asked than answered. Playing Goddess by Shalimar Mulder and Scully go camping. Primal Sympathy by Lydia Bower In order to find a cure for Scully's cancer, Mulder fakes his own death without her knowledge. Once reunited, they embark on a journey of discovery that may end up costing them their lives. The Shirt by Audrey Roget The traditional toss of a bridal bouquet at the wedding of a colleague sets Mulder and Scully on a relationship slalom which causes them to question the nature of truth in their lives. Speechless by Anjou A road trip with Mulder and Scully; a trip inside their heads and hearts. While on assignment to A.D. Kersh on a seemingly innocuous case in Nebraska, Mulder and Scully reflect on their relationship and its progress. Slots into the US6 timeline post-Tithonus, and assumes a general level of knowledge of all preceding action and, unlike what we saw onscreen, there is sufficient time for Scully to have healed between cases. Tempest by Missy Pennington Mulder and Scully survive a plane crash to find themselves injured and stranded in the Appalachian wilderness. The Third Wish by Tim Scott Just a smut biscuit -- no more, no less. I hope. Time by Terma99 Returning to San Francisco, Mulder and Scully discover that becoming lovers is just a matter of time. Volition Unbound by Rachel Anton The return of a man from Scully's past forces her to make some decisions. The Wonderland series by Karen Rasch As Scully’s cancer worsens, Mulder and she grow closer together, both learning that the only chance they have to survive is to draw strength from each other. The Words series by Karen Rasch Mulder/Scully romance. Mulder and Scully get drawn into a trap by a murderer who is well aware of Mulder’s greatest weakness, and is more than willing to use it against him.

#fic rec #roundup #first time #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #anon #asks #i went with before 2000 #instead of 2000 or before #mainly to avoid 'all things' fics #and most other season 7 fics #because that would've made this list go to infiinty

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vital-information · 3 years

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How to Fiction Like a Grown-up

“in SKAM, everyone has a purposefully acknowledged percentage of sheer ignorance, things they understand and things they reeeeally don’t...this is how real life works. nobody is the ideologically flawless character, teaching the ideologically backwards character that they are Wrong About Everything. everyone is pulling everyone up, everyone is making an idiot of themselves, everyone is learning....with SKAM over and over again, communication is highlighted as the best way to solve any issue. it gives a range of issues, yeah, but in the end it teaches HOW to deal with new issues, not simply a list of behaviors not to emulate. it’s never ‘don’t be That Guy,’ it’s ‘everyone can be That Guy sometimes, it’s gonna happen, you’re gonna be ignorant about something, but here is how you overcome and deal with it...’” — uninterestiing

“We can only attribute the ease and pleasure with which we ramble from house to smithy, from cottage parlour to rectory garden, to the fact that George Eliot makes us share their lives, not in a spirit of condescension or of curiosity, but in a spirit of sympathy. She is no satirist. The movement of her mind was too slow and cumbersome to lend itself to comedy. But she gathers in her large grasp a great bunch of the main elements of human nature and groups them loosely together with a tolerant and wholesome understanding which, as one finds upon rereading, has not only kept her figures fresh and free, but has given them an unexpected hold upon our laughter and tears.” — Virginia Woolf, “George Eliot”

“TV’s long taught its audience to expect an outsized amount of drama where there might not be as much in reality, even if only to milk every storyline for what it’s worth. But on Ted Lasso, potential landmines like seething jealousy, secret lust and Rebecca’s scheming only fester for so long before the characters deal with it all like….well, adults.” — Caroline Framke, “For Your Reconsideration: Ted Lasso”

I told Miyazaki I love the "gratuitous motion" in his films; instead of every movement being dictated by the story, sometimes people will just sit for a moment, or they will sigh, or look in a running stream, or do something extra, not to advance the story but only to give the sense of time and place and who they are."We have a word for that in Japanese," he said. "It's called ma. Emptiness. It's there intentionally."Is that like the "pillow words" that separate phrases in Japanese poetry?"I don't think it's like the pillow word." He clapped his hands three or four times. "The time in between my clapping is ma. If you just have non-stop action with no breathing space at all, it's just busyness, But if you take a moment, then the tension building in the film can grow into a wider dimension. If you just have constant tension at 80 degrees all the time you just get numb."Which helps explain why Miyazaki's films are more absorbing and involving than the frantic cheerful action in a lot of American animation. I asked him to explain that a little more."The people who make the movies are scared of silence, so they want to paper and plaster it over," he said. "They're worried that the audience will get bored. They might go up and get some popcorn.But just because it's 80 percent intense all the time doesn't mean the kids are going to bless you with their concentration. What really matters is the underlying emotions--that you never let go of those.What my friends and I have been trying to do since the 1970's is to try and quiet things down a little bit; don't just bombard them with noise and distraction. And to follow the path of children's emotions and feelings as we make a film. If you stay true to joy and astonishment and empathy you don't have to have violence and you don't have to have action. They'll follow you. This is our principle."He has been amused, he said, to see a lot of animation in live-action movies like "Spider-Man." “In a way now, live action is becoming part of that whole soup called animation. Animation has become a word that encompasses so much, and my animation is just a little tiny dot over in the corner. It's plenty for me. — Roger Ebert, “Hayao Miyzaki Interview”

“The pilot’s opening scene foreshadowed the kind of quiet impressionism that Friday Night Lights would embrace, again and again, throughout its five excellent seasons. It also foreshadowed the approach that you might call the “friendly panopticon”: Everyone, here, is seen. And everyone, here, is capable of seeing....There are minor characters and major ones in all this, certainly—it would be narrative anarchy without that—but FNL, much more than most shows that preceded it, took for granted the dignity of each character in its universe. It rejected sitcomic snobbery in favor of a broader embrace of its wide array of characters. It turned empathy into an aesthetic.” — Megan Garber, “Friday Night Lights Democratized TV Drama”

“But the problem with readers, the idea we're given of reading is that the model of a reader is the person watching a film, or watching television. So the greatest principle is, "I should sit here and I should be entertained." And the more classical model, which has been completely taken away, is the idea of a reader as an amateur musician. An amateur musician who sits at the piano, has a piece of music, which is the work, made by somebody they don't know, who they probably couldn't comprehend entirely, and they have to use their skills to play this piece of music. The greater the skill, the greater the gift that you give the artist and that the artist gives you. That's the incredibly unfashionable idea of reading. And yet when you practice reading, and you work at a text, it can only give you what you put into it. It's an old moral, but it's completely true.” Zadie Smith, “Bookworm: On Beauty”

“It pains me to have to introduce this lot with a couple of adjectives apiece, since, again, they all deserve about 12. These beautifully drawn characters just can't be reduced or pigeonholed so glibly. Where you're expecting an exaggerated comedy of town-and-country manners, pitting pious, suspicious in-laws against the worldly, patronising [career woman], Junebug courageously demurs, time and again: we get a real home, and real people in it, and what's laugh-out-loud funny about scene after scene is what's resolutely specific and true.” — Tim Robey, “A Small, Quiet Miracle”

Doesn't she worry at the lack of explosions? [Robinson] laughs. "There's something in my temperament . . . I have a problem with explosions in the sense that many very fine books are written about things that do, in fact, explode. But if the explosion is something that's supposed to make the novel interesting as opposed to being something that it's essentially about, I think it's very much to be avoided...It seems to me that the small drama of conversation and thought and reflection, that is so much more individual, so much less clichéd than - I mean when people set out on an adventure, I think 90 times out of 100, they've read about it in a brochure — Emma Brackes, “A Life in Writing: Marilynne Robinson”

#skam #hayao miyazaki #virginia woolf #george eliot #FNL #roger ebert #marilynne robinson #junebug #ted lasso #writing #litblr #film criticism #empathy

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axe-armed-gnome-jon · 3 years

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day two: relationship

I noticed kind of now being a day late with the prompts for @tmanostalgiaweek but I’m having fun so...yes?

-You know what? We should spend the breaks together more often- Tim passed an hand between his purplish, the brand new dye that had aroused the compliments of Sasha and Martin, and then lay your hands on the break room table.

There was tea in front of them, and Martin seemed to have just come out of a hot night of sex, drugs and lo-fi remixes from how exhausted he was.

His light eyes were stirred with a confusion similar to that of a puppy dog during a storm, while the cheek was held up only by his fist closed.

-Tim. I have a problem-.

It’s about time he spilled the beans.

-Take it out, Mimmo. I’m all ears-

-I hate when you call me Mimmo-

-I didn’t know that-

-Now you do-

Tim froze for a moment, seeing the other looking away with shame.

-How sour, what’s the problem?- he tried to be as apprehensive as possible, activating the “big brother” switch.

Martin seemed reluctant, almost like there was a cap in his throat ready to burst at any moment.

He was blushing, how cute.

-Ihaveacrush- muttered, lowering the eyes again.

Tim looked at him for a single instant, one step from spitting the tea.

-I didn’t understand- lied.

Ah, crushes.

The good old crushes.

He was a great expert on the topic.

Unfortunately for him.

-I have a crush. It’s awkward- said the other louder, nervously scratching the back of his head.

-Well, it depends on the object. It’s not embarrassing to have a crush per se, it’s embarrassing to have a crush on... -

-Jon. I have a crush on Jon- before he could finish the sentence, Martin had preceded him, the tone similar to that of a sinner who confesses with the priest.

And Tim’s world collapsed.

-Are you stupid?- after a few seconds of deep meditation (read as: after having mentally discarded all the life choices that had led him to that situation and after having bitterly repented of all) he sighed out that short but coincided statement, Putting his hands on the table so he could get a closer look at his partner.

-Hey, it’s not my fault! It’s not my fault if he’s pretty, and smart, and brilliant, with his white strands and his hazel eyes and his small hands and his perfect aquiline nose and-

-He treats you like shit, Martin- Tim threw himself on the back of the chair, putting an hand on his face in an act of sheer exasperation. -He really treats you like a foot rag. It’s a miracle he hasn’t fired you yet, and you get a crush on him? Have you become a moron?-

Martin started to mindlessly tapping his finger on the cup’s edge.

-In fact, I wanted to ask you how to do this. I’ve never had a crush and now I’m...? Confused is the right word- he smiled mechanically, finally drinking sips of tea now cold. -I don’t know what to do. Every time I think about him, I feel my heart melting like a candle in the room of two lovers, and every time he looks at me I blush like-

-Slow down, Catullus- Tim had let himself go in a nervous chuckle, hearing Martin’s mouth fill with poetry. -If you want some advice, here it is: don’t think about it. Try to live this life as peacefully as possible, and try not to get into trouble with Jon. It’s normal, I can’t help you much. Try to...try to get into his favours. Do something for him- he looked at the tea -Try to bring him tea from now on-.

Martin remained silent, meditating himself for a few moments (to be read as: thinking intensely of the whole universe world), then smiling as if he had finally found the ultimate meaning of life.. -Thanks Tim, you’re a genius! - Taking the cup and trotting towards the sink, Martin gave him a pat.

-Let’s not overreact-.

Soon after, Tim was washing his hands in the bathroom.. He had spent three hours researching a single task, because he was a perfectionist and the devil is always in the details, and going to the bathroom was a kind of salvation.

In every sense of the word.

The water slipped on his hands, his reflection smiled sly in the mirror, when Jon materialized at his side with his usual severe expression.

Tim had never been a jumpscare lover.

-Good morning, boss- found himself muttering, wetting all the sleeves of the sweatshirt. -How are you? -.

-This is not the time to say bullshit Tim, I have a problem- said the other with the voice of those who did not want to be there, fixing his reading glasses on the nose. Another one.

Tim swallowed saliva..

-Speak, I listen to you- threw out in a sigh, closing the faucet and leaning against the sink.

-Martin- Jon wasn’t exactly used to talking about his problems, so he didn’t know how to behave. -Martin was in short sleeves today. Did you see his shoulders? He has nice shoulders. I think he swam, because he has swimmer’s shoulders. Sure, I used to swim too but as you can see my shoulders are really-

-You’re rambling, Jon- Tim had to go and finish the job, he wasn’t there to hear the rants of the oldest young man he had ever known. -Be coincident. What is the problem?-

Big brother instinct: on.

Jon sighed deeply, opening the tap with a movement of the elbow.

-Martin is cute. He brought me the tea- he managed to make a tiny smile. -He was kind-.

Tim’s arms were one step away from falling.

He wanted to beat them both.

-So what? - He had to repress his instinct to start screaming, continuing to lean on the sink nonchalantly.

-”So what”. I think Martin is cute! It’s not a good thing!- snapped nervously.

-How dramatic-

-I have every right to be dramatic!-

-But why? -

-Because I don’t know what to do! -

-Don’t think about it- exasperated, he recycled his old advice. -Just try not to think about it. It’s simple-.

Jon stayed a moment to think, he had never been good at not thinking, but deduced that maybe he could try.

-Thanks, Tim-murmured, wiping his hands with a piece of paper. -I owe you my life-

-Let’s not overreact-.

He sat down again at the desk and after attending not one but two idiots with love problems, he was able to take a deep breath.

Okay, now he could finally get back to work.

He got comfortable in his chair, opened the computer again, ready to continue his job.

At least until he heard Sasha’s voice call him.

-Hey, Tim. I have a problem- Sasha was at the printer’s side, arms crossed and hair tied in a high ponytail.

-You too a love problem? Uh? You too have a love problem and you need your Tim to fix it? Huh? Huh?- He clapped his hands on the desk, feeling the cheeks and the brain boiling. -I’m tired, too many problems to solve. Too much damage to repair and too many morons to mate. If you have a love problem, the solution of old Tim is "don’t think about it". Just don’t think about it. Just don’t think about it- he burst into an embarrassing rash, taking his head in his hands.

Sasha wasn’t getting it. He observed him as if he had just turned into a cockroach, holding his arms to his chest and taking on the expression of a sleepy student trying to understand the algebra lesson.

-Tim. The printer stopped working-.

#tmanostalgiaweek #inspired by a true story #the magnus archives #tim stoker #martin blackwood #sasha james #jonathan sims #tma fic #tma

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pochapal · 3 years

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I hate doctor 11 but ive never been able to explain why in like words lmao. He feels like such a mary sue character imo and like theres something about his characterisation that was always just really ineffective (like the stuff about fishfingers and custard or whatever it was). Imo i'd love to hear you give top 5 worst things about the 11 era because i rlly just love when it gets torn apart

i hold nothing but a seething contempt and loathing for that man. every time he appeared on screen i felt ready to snap like a riled up chimpanzee in my enclosure. i am frothing at the mouth and overcome with a desire to start flinging heavy objects. this might be incoherent and inconsistent but i started this rewatch in feb 2020 and only finished this week so i got through 11′s episodes last august/september time and i refuse to revisit it to jog my memory or fact check anything i’m saying here because this man does not deserve the space in my mind for that.

the first thing is i can’t fucking STAND the quirky whimsy timey wimey bit he has going on all of the time. i can’t even say this is because this is a kids show and i was a teen and then adult when i first properly watched him but actually!! when i was eleven years old i’d sleep over at a friend’s house most weekends and it always coincided with the airing of a new season 5 episode and i remember we watched the finale with the dumb time hopping to get out of the box prison that was never explained and didn’t make sense and i thought at the time “this is really stupid”. and before that my only other doctor who exposure was watching the david tennant christmas specials with another friend and throughout childhood my only opinion on doctor who was “this is a tv show that is not for me but is one that all the boys i am friends with like so i will put up with it to maintain our friendships” but at least those episodes were both suspenseful and engaging enough to keep me watching all the way through. like who the fuck does an end of the world sci fi plot and approaches it with an “oopsy woopsy i am a funny little alien man who is going to stop you all by making you do a hecking silly” like it’s unneeded and self-parodies an already cheesy show to the point where it becomes unwatchable and makes it impossible to ever take this man seriously.

next thing that downright sucks ass so badly is the stupid fucking overwritten constantly escalating plotlines. like everything from season 5 up until his regeneration at the end of season 7 is meant to be this grand interconnected cosmic plot about how...the doctor trying to bring back his planet will end the universe or something so all the top powers across all of reality tried again and again to stop him from doing that except he doesn’t know what’s going on so he keeps thwarting these people who supposedly mean good?? i mean i sure don’t fucking know what they were trying to say!! like for some reason we never get the doctor suddenly becomes this superdemon that threatens everything so these people (whoever they are) decide to, in sequence: suck him through a time rift to erase him from existence, trap him in a prison and remake a universe without him, take his companion’s baby and turn her into a perfectly trained doctor killer, form two(!!) secret societies to hunt him throughout history that are only stopped by his companion splintering herself across his personal timeline to protect him, and repeatedly cause reality collapsing events because it’s a kinder outcome for the universe than what he will do. this grand and terrible event turns out to be...he spends a few hundred years chilling by a rift that leads to his home planet and protects a few generations of children from monsters which convinces them to give him infinite regeneration power then fuck off back to their pocket universe. and it’s like!! what is the point of anything that happens in this man’s era when everything is always “the darkest moment” or whatever the fuck!! i don’t care!! we never get a compelling reason to believe this bumbling clown of a man could ever be a universal threat!! the whole thing is so dumb i hate it!!!

thing number three i hate is how the eleventh doctor is ALSO characterised as this abrasive egotistic male supergenius to the point where he becomes genuinely indistinguishable from bbc sherlock. genuinely who enjoyed seeing this guy constantly tell people their tiny human minds can’t comprehend what he’s doing and then basically just wave his magic wand to solve whatever problem each episode is facing. 2012 is the year of human sin because this fucking shitsmear character archetype somehow became both a redditor role model AND a tumblr sexyman and it’s like!! nobody is enjoying this stop making this seem cool! him saying timey wimey thing any time he does anything is frustrating and dumb and locks the viewer out of giving a fuck about anything that is happening! smartest man in the room syndrome is a disease and the eleventh doctor is terminal with it. like remember how they established river as an accomplished scientist (when she wasn’t being a child soldier or a time paradox or whatever the fuck) and every time that came up mr doctor eleven man was like “oh this thing is obvious because i’m a genius and you didn’t realise because your brain is tiny so get out of the way and let the grownups think” or that time it turned out amy had been replaced with a slime clone for half the season and the doctor chewed rory (audience surrogate) out for somehow not realising this fact we didn’t know right from the start and like. this served no purpose other than to draw into severe question why the doctor is also this super beloved magical figure implicitly trusted by all children everywhere like. mr steven moffat is totally allergic to writing and solving mysteries in his tv show and fuck you for wanting to figure things out as you go along based on the new evidence you uncover at strategic plot intervals just let this asshole man use magical thinking to reveal he knew the answer all along and you’re a fucking idiot for not also realising this thing which had no basis or precedent anywhere else in the show.

speaking of dumb things let us not forget the absolute shitshow that was minority representation in this era. i’m not even talking about the low hanging fruit of how genuinely unironically sexist amy and clara were written where each episode moffat either seemed to loathe them or was incredibly horny over them and they had no character growth or arc or fucking anything. i’m talking about how fucking shit terrible the incidental representation was. god remember how every single fucking gay person who appeared in this era was written as one incredibly fucking stupid joke and how the women were all either sexy dominatrix, feeble girl in love, or Mother (or all three in some really terrible cases) and i’m not qualified to talk about this but also how incredibly white this era was and how on two separate occasions we had monarchs reimagined as sexy girlbosses with a gun played by black women who the doctor leched over. nothing about any of this was good ESPECIALLY coming off the back of rtd who was surprisingly forward thinking for 2005 and did a really good job of positing travel with the doctor as queer allegory. in comparison moffat gave us THE MOST heterosexual shlock i’ve ever had to endure. amy and rory could have been interesting characters were they not hemmed into this domestic bickering young straight married couple bullshit that was in no way changed or altered by traveling with the doctor except for the quasi incestuous river song reveal that was dumb and bad and stupid.

the last major mega gripe i have with the series is moffat’s fucking jingoistic boner for british military aesthetics. this carried over throughout his entire tenure as showrunner but was super terrible vomit inducing in eleven’s era. the unironic admiration for ww2 britain and winston churchill is downright wretched. are you incapable of telling a second world war story outside of churchill’s london and plucky blitz fighters. shit gives me hives so badly. and then!!! that weird church owned army that features in the future that end up being bad not for the concept of what basically amounts to an imperialistic intergalactic rendition of the fucking crusades but because they’re part of the nonsense go nowhere puzzlebox narrative that says the doctor is a not good man who will do bad things to the universe :(. remember how rtd’s doctor was a freshly traumatised man hot off the war criminal press who time and time again vehemently refuses to engage in military violence, but who tragically inadvertently turns every one of his companions into soldiers in his own personal army, and he has this moment of complete horror at the realisation and it is this which causes the downward spiral that ends in 10′s regeneration. and then how there’s this cringe line about how there’s a force of people who are “the doctor’s army, always ready to fight his battles when he’s not around” or some shit and then it turns out this is actually massive literal military operation and we’re meant to celebrate this. fuck off.

bonus round because this needs to be said but i have never hated anything like i hated that fucking human tardis episode. everything about it induced violent anger in me from the sickening overindulgence of that softgoth dark whimsy helena bonham carter tim burton aesthetic to the bafflingly terrible evil carny stereotype of those junk scavengers to the overblown sudden tragic shipbait romance of human tardis and the doctor. every word out of her mouth was trite shit and the fact that the death of her body was presented as this super emotional dramatic scene despite there being no buy in or incentive to care and the fact that every single person on tumblr in 2012 ate that shit up like it was fucking gourmet. i loathe every single thing about that episode so much.

#Anonymous #hi bestie here's 1500 words of me getting mad about the worst television experience i had in my life #why the FUCK was this man tumblr's favourite back in the day. what the fuck did anyone see in any of this shit #i never want to think about dr whom ever again

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callmearcturus · 4 years

Text

other shit Epic does:

offer a 12% rev share to people who publish on the Epic Games Store rather than Steam’s 30%

they control the license to Unreal Engine, but changed the model to make it essentially free for all indies to use. quote: This license is free to use; a 5% royalty is due only when you monetize your game or other interactive off-the-shelf product and your gross revenues from that product exceed $1,000,000 USD. URE is free to anyone who makes under a million, which is a shitton of smaller devs.

they also offer $100 million in grants to people using the Unreal Engine, with between 5K$ to 50K$ available per grant recipient

reportedly pays out the nose for year-long exclusive deals to their platform that in of themself pay for the entire game’s production. when Ooblets took the deal to be a EGS exclusive, they claimed Epic essentially paid for the entire production of the game and they already hit even before entering beta

do you want to know what Steam did in response to this? in response to Epic trying to shake up PC gaming space? wanna know?

Steam will reduce its rev share from 30% to 25%.................. if your game makes over $100 million.

I don’t know how to adequately explain to you all how the strangleholds of Steam, Google, and Apple on their respective devices have allowed them to fuck over smaller devs for over a decade now. when I watch y’all going “well Epic sucks, Tencent owns 40% of Epic, therefore Epic is evil”

i’m like motherfucker do you think apple isn’t? do you think google isn’t? also, point of interest, do you think fucking Tencent made this choice, or do you think Tim Sweeney, an loud and longtime anti-monopolist, did?

if you actually think that EGS is going to use this to suddenly take over iPhones and squeeze out the App Store, i’m going to laugh in your face because your fear-mongering has no place in reality. like golly gee whiz, i forgot how no one uses Steam anymore now that EGS exists OH WAIT

take your moralistic purity and put it in a tiny box and throw it into the river and think for ten seconds about the ramifications of someone successfully bringing anti-trust suit against fucking apple. the sheer power just the PRECEDENT SET would accomplish is incredible.

#cw politics #video games #don't come at me on this topic without having done your research #and if the fate of the video game labor force is not part of your discussion i'm blocking you #you don't get to just sweep the failing livelihoods of this entire industry under the rug anymore #i'm d o n e

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nokomiss · 4 years

Note

J. When words aren’t enough. (if you still do DC, 2 Robins or a a Robin and a Bat of choice?)

(I definitely still write DC! I have come around fannishly full circle and that’s all I’ve been writing the last few months! ♥)

Dick was in the middle of a fight with a handful of Two Face’s henchmen when an alert started buzzing in his ear. He swiped it away on his communicator between punches, scarcely taking the time to note what it was before returning his full attention to the fight at hand. Four months into being Batman and he already understood why Bruce had been so dour and convinced that vigilantism was only for the best of the best -- everyone that came at Batman came twice as hard as Dick was used to. There absolutely were downsides to the legend preceding you.

He was dodging a burst of gunfire when familiar colors flew by, and Robin was kicking the henchman with the gun in the face, sending him sprawling to the concrete floor.

Another henchmen got a lucky hit on Dick’s side, and he focused on the matter at hand, though something about what had just happened bothered him. Familiar colors, familiar grin, the flash of bare thigh as Robin kicked the henchman---

Oh, shit. Dick punched the henchman he was fighting with more force than necessary, knocking him out cold as he turned to stare at Robin, who was finishing up with the last goon

“You’re welcome,” Robin said, giving the goon a nudge with his green pixie boot. Yellow cape, red suit, green panties, and Jason’s unabashedly bright smile. He’d forgotten how that smile had looked.

Dick continued to stare, then looked back at his communicator. The alert he’d brushed aside was still flashing. Temporal anomaly.

“We need to go,” he said gruffly, turning on his heel and letting his cape swirl around him as he headed out of the warehouse. He wordlessly typed in a request to Oracle to call the henchmen situation in to the GCPD as he went, unwilling to say even that much aloud. Jason didn’t know who Oracle was. Jason’s Barbara was still Batgirl, was still running around in those yellow boots---

He nearly stumbled as he thought of all the things he could say to Jason, of all the things he could keep from happening. He glanced back, and Jason was following, earlier brightness dimmed somewhat. He looked suspicious, Dick realized suddenly.

“Hey, Mr. Grumpypants,” Jason said loudly, as though he was reading Dick’s mind. “What was that back there?”

Dick didn’t want to turn to face him. He’d forgotten how whip-smart Jason had been even in the early days, how Bruce had bragged on him in their phone calls while Dick had been trying his damndest to leave Gotham and the Bats behind.

He led them up a fire escape, onto a rooftop. A few jumps and they were on a building that was mostly abandoned but still within sight of the warehouse so they could observe if something went wrong before the GCPD arrived. By the time Dick perched on the ledge, he could practically feel the suspicion radiating off Jason. Off Robin.

God, he was tiny. Bigger than Damian was, but contrasted with the Jason he knew now, the Jason that had reached his adult height? This Jason was scarcely more than a baby.

“What do you remember from before the fight?” Dick asked, and braced himself. He knew there was no way Jason would think he was Bruce, no matter what he was wearing.

“What do you-- wait,” Jason said. The narrowed-eye look he gave Dick was all too familiar; Dick saw that one regularly on the Jason that had grown up. “You’re not Br-- You’re not Batman.”

“I am Batman,” Dick said, voice as gruff as it always was when he said those words. Bruce would have known how to handle this. Bruce wouldn’t have been tempted to alter things. “What happened before you entered the warehouse?”

Jason moved away, fists tight at his side. “Nothing. Just patrol. Who are you?”

“Batman,” Dick said again. “Just not Bruce.”

Jason’s fists slowly raised, held in front of him defensively, and he barked out, “What did you do with Batman?”

For the thousandth time since he put on this suit, Dick wished Bruce was still alive. “Jason, I was asking what happened before you joined the fight in the warehouse because this isn’t your time.”

“Isn’t my-- Are you fucking kidding me? Time travel?” Jason said, fists dropping back to his sides. He looked out over the Gotham skyline, and Dick knew how much it had changed.

“We need to figure out how it happened,” Dick continued, watching Jason’s expression shift as he realized the truth of what Dick had said. “Do you remember anything?”

“There was a light,” Jason said slowly. “It’s why I went into the warehouse, I thought it was a flash-bang.”

“Anything before that?”

Jason paused. “Batman-- My Batman -- mentioned seeing something strange. An orb? He was going to investigate and I was supposed to stay put.”

Dick had been Robin, too. He knew perfectly well what Robin did when Batman insisted he stay put. “You followed him?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Obviously. I’m here, aren’t I? I went after him, and when I came around the corner, I saw the light, and then I was in the warehouse kicking ass and taking names.” He illustrated this point by doing a kick in the direction of an imaginary bad guy.

Dick refrained from pointing out that Jason hadn’t, in fact, taken any names, though he had done an admirable job of kicking ass. “We should go to the spot where you traveled through. Get some readings. Figure out whether it was magic or tech.”

Below, the GCPD finally showed up at the warehouse, sirens blazing, and officers rushed inside to secure the henchmen and evidence.

“As soon as they’re gone,” Dick amended.

They sat side-by-side, Jason keeping a healthy distance but Dick could feel his eyes on him. Trying to place his visible features, most likely. Finally, Jason burst out with, “What happened to him? My Batman?”

He was unwilling to use Bruce’s name, even though Dick already had. It hurt, seeing a Jason who loved Bruce wholeheartedly, without reservation. Who hadn’t yet been dealt the blows that had turned his relationship with Bruce sour.

“He’s away,” Dick said vaguely.

“Away like hurt? Away like with the Justice League? Or away like--” Jason’s voice cracked on the last word. “How far in the future am I, anyway? Things don’t look better.”

Things look worse, he clearly wanted to say. It was true, too -- Gotham, for all the work they’d poured into her, remained resolutely corrupt and vile. Dick almost admired that about the city.

“Away,” Dick said firmly. The temptation was still there -- he could warn Jason about his mother, could keep him from making so many mistakes, could keep so many terrible things from happening.

The only problem were the good things intertwined in there -- if he warned Jason, if Jason never died, would Tim come into their lives? Would Cass? What about all the lives Barbara had saved as Oracle, what about all the things they’d all done-- was the future a house of cards that could crumble with a single warning?

Dick had dealt with time travel plenty over the years and the same questions always lingered. He hated the choice he knew he had to make. Hated that he was essentially going to condemn this bright, caring boy to death when he sent him back to the past unwarned.

But he just couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t speak up.

Jason scoffed at him. “You’re not him, you know. I knew immediately.”

“Not trying to be.” That was mostly a lie, too. Dick wished that Jason would steer to more comfortable conversation topics so he wouldn’t have to skirt the truth so much, but then it really wouldn’t be Jason, would it? “But I am trying to get you back to him.”

“Worried about fucking up the time stream?” Jason pushed himself up, began walking along the edge of the ledge with his arms held out to either side, looking like an amateur tightrope walker. Dick resisted the urge to correct his form. “That’s why you’re not telling me shit, right?”

“...Right.” Dick seized the chance to actually tell the truth for once. “It’s inadvisable. Part of the time travel protocol.”

“You knew my name, so that means you know me,” Jason continued, easily ignoring concepts like time travel protocol. “Or will know me? Either way, that means this can’t be too far in the future, since you definitely recognized me.”

Dick tensed, even though Jason had no way of knowing how accurate that statement was. Or why. He was still at the age when your own mortality was something you took for granted.

“So that means Batman should still be Batman. He isn’t that old.” Jason narrowed his eyes at him. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

There was no way in hell that Dick was answering that question. “If you figured out that much, you know there’s no way I’m going to confirm or deny that. He’s away from Gotham at the moment. That’s all you need to know.”

Jason sat down heavily. “You have to tell me something so I can save him. You can’t… you can’t send me back now knowing how to save him.”

Jesus. Dick was at a loss. He’d been so preoccupied with worrying about Jason’s impending death that he hadn’t thought about what the presence of a strange Batman -- and Bruce’s absence -- would mean to the kid. Bruce was his world.

Words failed him.

“You have to tell me something, you bastard!” Jason snapped, realizing that Dick wasn’t going to cooperate. “You have to. He saved me, I can’t let him… I have to change whatever went wrong.”

His breath was coming fast, and he looked like he was ready to punch Dick if he didn’t say something soon. Dick knew that particular snarl, that arch of his eyebrows-- it was the same fury as when he talked about his own death.

Dick briefly, intensely hated Bruce, for leaving him to face all these mistakes, but that feeling couldn’t last in the face of all of Jason’s love and righteous anger in honor of the man.

“I-- There’s nothing you can do,” Dick said, finally. “You’ve always done everything you can.”

It wasn’t enough, but nothing could be. There were no words to bridge the years, to fix things preemptively. Dick knew he couldn’t change things, not without--

Not without sacrificing everything they’d all become, the people they all were.

Jason seemed to deflate. He looked desperately in need of a hug, but Dick didn’t have that right. Jason didn’t even know who he was, didn’t need reassurance from a stranger. Dick knew what he needed.

Below, the last of the cop cars were pulling away from the warehouse. The diagnostic he had run on temporal signatures indicated that the orb Jason had seen was still there, and likely still active. It should be a simple thing to return him to his time.

Dick could only hope that he hadn’t screwed up this interaction too badly, that Jason hadn’t been altered by the conversation they’d just had. Maybe for once things would be merciful for Jason and he wouldn’t remember any of this.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing. “Let’s get you back to your dad.”

Jason nodded mutely.

#my fic #dick grayson #jason todd #batfamily #dc fic #batman #warning for mentions of (temporary) canonical character death #merfilly

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miss-choco-chips · 4 years

Text

Soul shards part 2

This isn’t edited in the slightest folks. Wrote this in a LONG car ride and I’m beat. Tumblr was being difficult and wouldn’t let me copy an paste so I had to copy every individual paragraph, so there might be some mistakes.

Shoutout to @sideeffectsofwriting who suggested damitim and kicked the muse into motion and @the-quiet-carrotcake who let me cry about this on chat.

.-.-.-

He needed to do what not even the Batman could achieve.

He would bring Drake back.

-.-.-.-

11 - 16

Damian’s first gifted soulshard came from his mother, when he turned five. It was a beautiful orange-red dagger, with flecks of gold here and there, and he wanted to hold it more than anything in the world.

Then his mother put it in his hand, closed his fingers around it and held a kitten by the scruff and hind legs in front of him, as an offering. An order. A mission. And, once it was carried, the slightest hint of satisfaction in her eyes.

Those were the feelings the dagger was imbued with; expectation, and pride. Not for who he was, but for what he did. A heavy weight, and a cold one, right until the moment the mission was complete; after that, a short-lived warmth crept up his arm, the starting point the dagger in his hand.

Or maybe it was the kitten’s blood what chased the cold (and his sleep) away. It should have been comforting.

It wasn’t.

When Grayson chose him as his Robin, he sealed the deal by giving Damian an R shaped soul shard in the form of a brooch. It should have been an ecstatic moment for him, his second ever soul shard being gifted to him by his Batman.

It wasn’t.

While warmer and lighter than his dagger, it felt… off. Their bond was just growing then, no trust nor love giving shape to the soul given away. Instead, Damian was presented with Grayson’s feelings of responsibility (to the city), despair (because they both have just lost their father) and reluctant resignation (because even when Grayson choose him, it was obviously not what he wanted, it couldn’t be, not when there was already a Robin fully indoctrinated in The Mission perfectly available and… more loved), as well as the barest hint of hopeful fondness.

He doesn’t hold it against him; that was just their beginning, and it was the gesture what was important, a gift from the soul that Damian hadn’t yet earned, a trust at giving himself away to the child he had just decided to take under his wing. Were Grayson to give him a new soul shard, he was sure the feelings wouldn’t be so harsh now that they had formed and nurtured this bond between them. Still, he treasured his brooch for what it was: a chance to prove himself, a chance at a home.

Drake’s soul (not a shard, not a piece, but the remainings of his actual soul; his core) was an entirely new phenomenon. The moment he received it, clenched it in his hands for the first time, it was imbued with a rage and contempt that didn’t surprise him, as those were the grounds of their relationship. But, with every passing minute, the feeling just… calmed down, like… forgiveness? Acceptance? It was like a pat on the back after a hard patrol with Grayson, after he made a mistake and the man would just sigh and tell him ‘do better next time, but let’s just put this behind us’. But… from Drake?

It- that was- there weren’t actual words to explain it. Damian had never heard of it, of a change on the emotions inside the soul, but, he supposes, this wasn’t something Drake had sharded with an idea in mind, this wasn’t a love confession or a methaporical friendly hug. Drake had just… given himself away, entirely.

Damian wasn’t sure what it meant, but the mystery of that pushed him relentlessly to the batcave, to the monitors where he would watch and rewatch old footage of Drake’s training, read old reports, dig as deep as he could in search of information that might clear things up for him.

That might explain the clench in his heart when he held the tiny soul.

.-.-.-.

He is missing.

Bruce can’t process it at first. He has every camera, every metahuman, every genius hero at his disposal… and nothing. No one could find Tim, and he’s been gone for over a week. Seven days and twelve hours, if he was counting. Which he was, because seeing the pretty ice blue watch on his wrist, warm with admiration, respect and adoration, slowly turning cold and red and black was high on the list of the scariest moments of his life.

He was holding his son’s soul, soon it wouldn’t feel any different than the Rolex he might wear for a charity.

It terrified him.

The only piece of Tim’s soul he could find (and it had taken him a while, to track down everyone Tim ever gave a shard to, even going so far as to dig Janet and Jack’s graves, because there were so many pieces; too many, although his Titans friends had flat out rejected his request to give them to him) to remain icy blue was Damian’s. Which would be fantastic for testing, for figuring out what was wrong, maybe even for tracking Tim down… If Damian weren’t so dead set on keeping it in his direct line of sight, on the little leather pouch by his hip or dangling from his neck.

The twelve year old had proven willing to stab any hand that tried to take his soul shard away, accepting only those tests that were safe and could be made in front of his eyes.

-We could try to, like… mesh my piece of soul with Damian’s? -had suggested Dick, once, earlier on the week.

-And how, pray tell, would you do it? Drake himself is the one that shaped your necklace. This are his soul shards, no one but him can bend them to their will.

-I mean… Cass’s father, Cain, he made dents and bumps in her soul, so it’s not like its impossible…

-…after years of abuse, from which her soul has yet to recover! Of all the stupid/!

Dick, on very little sleep and with worry and guilt battling it out inside his heart, rolled his eyes at Damian’s objections.

-We won’t hurt him for the hell of it, but he could be in danger, or lost, or who knows what! There’s little to no precedent about soulless people. Since when do you care so much about Tim’s wellbeing, anyway?

-And since when do you *not*?

That had ended the argument quickly. Guilt had won in Dick. Damian’s gifted little piece of soul remained at it’s pouch. And Tim was still missing.

Bruce wanted to pull at his hair, yell and throw fists. He did none of these. Damian needed him. He had already failed one son.

.-.-.-.

12 - 17

Life goes on, after a tragedy. And this tragedy in particular was a silent one; there was no blood, no screaming, no tears. Just someone that left it all behind and disappeared on the wind. And, as much as the Bats wanted to find him, Tim going on a solo trip wasn’t alarming enough for them to ignore the day to day dangers of Gotham, the multiverse threats, the alien invasions. As concerning as multiple soul shards changing color and losing emotion had been, the fact remained that it… just wasn’t priority.

Timothy could look after himself; the civilians of Gotham and the world at large couldn’t. At least, that was what father said.

Damian was of a different mind.

He noticed it at first during a Justice League meeting. He had taken to playing around with the little ice blue ball when lost in thought, or was nervous, a habit developed after hours, days and months sitting by the cave’s monitors studying his predecessor.

So there he was, idly rolling it between his fingers, careful to not drop it, when he catches sight of Superboy…

(The Titans were a mess, Wonder Girl, SB and Impulse running around like headless chickens, dropping everything, no matter how mission-important, at the slightest mention of anything Red Robin related, recruiting the help of old fiends from their Young Justice days, hurting so much not even him, usually indifferent to his peers’ drama, could remain untouched by their pain)

…being scolded by Superman. Which, would normally not even phase Damian, impartial about the clone outside of his relationship with Drake as he was.

But. But. When Superman layed a condescending hand on Kon El’s shoulder, something spiked inside Damian, a sudden and strong desire to slap that hand away, to growl at the man, to protect his/

…his best friend?

That thought it’s what gives him pause, stops him mid step, where he was unthinkingly approaching the aliens.

Those weren’t his feelings, but Drake’s.

At the realization, the little soul in his hand glowed and warmed and almost jumped right out of it. It seemed to say ‘finally’.

Damian couldn’t breath.

.-.-.-.

He kept quiet about this new knowledge, but it nagged at him. He had to test this out.

He held the small soul while watching Grayson train by the Cave’s trapeze. Rolled it between fingers with little to no trouble while covertly listening to Cain and Brown tease each other. Made a protective fist around it when he stumbled across Red Hood during patrol, catching the -now reformed- antiheroe mid flight.

Admiration and yearning (teach me, choose me, love me).

Fondness and familiarity (bond with me, laugh with me, stand by me).

Trepidation and want (please look at me, please stop hating me, please let me watchadmirelove you).

Those weren’t his feelings, so. Confirmed then. Holding Drake’s soul, he apparently had an open door to the man’s feelings. An insight to the deepest parts of him.

Weeks into his discovery, he learned a few things. For example, how annoyingly emotional the young man was. Did Drake always feel everything this intensely? It was exhausting, and Damian at least had the option to put the soul away at it’s pouch, stopping the flow of emotions. Drake… well, he did leave it behind, after all.

Which made him wonder, if he had Drake’s emotions at hand, what did it leave his predecessor with?

.-.-.-.-.-.

13 - 18

It pained Damian to admit this, but Drake was… good. Too good. Unbelievable so, for someone that started his formal training way later in life than Damian.

The footage in front of him was one he had viewed already dozens of times, and he still couldn’t believe his eyes. A gift requested to his mother, footage from the Cradle, about two years before.

At first, Damian had just wanted to uncover the mystery of Drake’s time away during Father’s absence. What happened during those months, to drive one like his Gradfather from mild admiration to almost obsessive, possessive desire? What elevated the, by the time, teenager to a spot previously occupied by none other than The Batman, and even beyond?

His in into the League allowed him access to the answer. And he understood. The mixture of recklessly brave plans, creatively executed acrobatics, heart-stopping genius and iron clad morals. Fighting against the Spiders, protecting the innocent at his back, all the while under tight schedule on his plan to land an unprecedented hard blow to the League.

It was breathtaking. The young detective, that unmasked the man many believed was no more than a myth, the novice hero that when told ‘no’ started his own team of fighters, that while no one else thought it possible defied Death itself for the life of his adoptive father. Barely older than Damian himself, with half his years of training, and still so far away. Leagues ahead of him.

Out of his reach…

A grimace, an unfamiliar tightness in his chest and then Damian was cracking his knuckles and typing away at the computer. If his Grandfather viewed Drake above Father, then maybe Damian was going about this the wrong way, in his quest to surpass every Robin before him. He needed to succeed where even Father had failed, reaching to a step below Drake instead of the entire flight of stairs he had ahead of him.

…but not for long.

He needed to do what not even the Batman could achieve.

He would bring Drake back.

.-.-.-.-.

It takes some time. He studies for weeks under Gordon, shadows Cyborg’s steps for a while, even declines patrol once or twice claiming a stomachache when he feels he’s close to a clue. Has the Titans permanently hacked (props of connecting from the Batcave’s computer, no one questioned the backdoor on their system, assumed it was Batman checking on them) and an alert programmed on his phone for every time some reporter catches sight of the Drake-Wayne heir (none so far, but, like a voice that sounded like Grayson singsonged, cover all your bases).

And even after all of that, it was still Drake himself that pointed him in the right direction.

Damian was idly scrolling down some online headlines, mind numb with tiredness barely paying attention to the titles, when the little soul between his forefinger and thumb gave him a spark, so sudden it was like an electric shock, sapping him out of it and forcing his attention to the article on screen.

Serial killer known as The Gardener found tied in the front lawn of his supposed next victims, after seven months evading the Parisian police force. Family claims they never saw nor heard anything until the morning, when the father was about to head for work and stumbled across the handcuffed man, hand clutching his signature weapon, unconscious and still bleeding from, what the police assumes, was a short lived fight…

The soul pulsed again. Disgust, rage, adrenaline… pride, vindictive pride. The same emotions that soared through him when a would be rapist fell to his sword during patrol.

Quick eyes scanning through the article, nothing pointing towards a vigilante, no pattern that he could see pointing to his missing predecessor. And still, Damian knew.

Energy renewed, he scanned through older news, titles. Nothing sparked the soul, until a thwarted robbery on Scotland gave him pause. Again, the article itself was generic, no common points except the mystery of whoever stopped the crime from happening, but… his gut, and Drake’s gut, they were both screaming at him.

This was him. What was he doing on Paris? Was he still there? Two articles, separated by a few weeks, was more of a clue than anyone had found this far, but it was still nothing. And the last one, with the Serial Killer, was from two days ago. Even if he told Father and he dispatched a velocist or super, it’d still be too late. Drake wouldn’t have been able to evade them this long if he iddled long somewhere. Sighing tiredly he fell back into the chair, raising the little soul so it was eye level.

After all this time, after all his training, after all of father’s efforts to track his wayward son, it was proved only Drake could find Drake. A little, sleep deprived smile broke his scowl.

He was too tired to feel frustration.

Not too much for admiration, though.

.-.-.-.-.

That same night, oceans away, a slim figure dealt the finishing blow to some wannabe gangsters on a upper class Venetian neighbour. They had been armed, but only the slightest of scratches decorated his arm. The other guys… weren’t so lucky. They’d be lucky if their broken ribs didn’t pierce a lung.

The scared girls that he saved from being jumped (or worse) rushed forward once their attackers hit the ground, sobbing between their heartfelt thanks and praises. Trembling hands reaching for his cap-less back, the slippery material of his dark shirt slipping from their fingers. Still, he carefully moved out of range and tonelessly told them to call for the police, letting them comfort each other and waiting only until he could hear the sirens approaching. Then, he was gone, lost to the night that had spited him out to fight the treath minutes before.

On the back of his mind, something told him he should be annoyed. He had been good to keep himself out of the media’s attention, dealing with crimes where no one would be able to pinpoint exactly who had been their saviour, or how had they been spared from the danger. Like the Parisian family. Now that was a clean work. Found the killer, guessed his next target and caught him just before the crime. In, fight, out. Easy, untraceable.

Two scared girls might not have the clearest memories of their traumatic attack, but ‘young, black clothed man fights off gangsters with a staff’ would surely make the headlines, which meant hailing ass as far from here as possible before anyone could trace this back to him.

People tracking him raised in his gut… the closest thing to emotions he had nowadays (something he hadn’t been bothered with for years now), namely annoyance. He had a goal in mind, rules he played by, things to avoid. Having all that endangered was troublesome, and even worse was how inevitable it was. He couldn’t exactly ignore the crying girls, not because he cared, but his body always moved on its own on situations like this, personal preferences overrode by muscle memory.

How inconvenient.

And speaking of…

He barely nodded in acknowledgement when a shadowed figure fell into step besides him, keeping up on his sprint from rooftop to rooftop.

-My Master wishes to extend an invitation to dinner. He demands your company.

Not Pru then, but not so different from what he expected.

He hummed, for show more than anything else, eyeing the leather pouch by the man’s hip. A Soul Carrier, nothing flashy but firmly attached. Classic League.

The shadow flinched. They all did. Something in his lack of soul scared them shitless when he payed attention to theirs, as if he would snatch them and steal away with it.

Ha. Please. He didn’t even want his own soul back, why in hell would he take theirs? He’d never feel lighter before.

And even if sometimes the emptiness inside made him eye with attention the knife he carried on his boot as a last resort, those moments were few and easily forgotten.

-Depends. Is he ready to pay for the pleasure of it? It’s been a while, I’m on need of cash and resources, so my fee has gone up.

A moment of silence while the shadow listened on his earpiece for his answer. Then, a nod.

-Okay then. Tell him to send me directions to the place once I’m out of this country. And that if he wants me to wear something pretty, he better chose a nice, camera-less place. Also, if he doesn’t keep his hands to himself, he’ll need one of those shiny green pools of his to regrow a few fingers.

.-.-.-.-.

14 - 19

Todd’s emergency beacon called from Tokyo, interrupting their post patrol debrief. Father had programmed all their distress signals so they would always come through, no matter what else was doing on or what Do not Disturb protocols he might have. Nothing would get in the way to saving his sons ever again.

When they answered, tense and (in Damian’s case, reluctantly) worried, it was to the sounds of heavy breathing and clang of metal against metal. A fight.

-/ing hell! Fuck! Goddamned little/ anyone copy me?!

Father, cowless but every bit the Batman, pressed a finger against the keyboard and dropped his voice am octave.

-Red Hood, here cave, we copy you. What’s the situation?

The sounds of fighting never stopped, and whatever could keep Hood on his toes like this and forced him to call for help was enough to have Damian reaching for his Soul Carrier, where two different (in size and colorthen) spheres guarded each other. It was a habit he needed to train himself out of, but for now, a needed comfort.

-I /shit shit SHIT, YOU LITTLE FUCKER/ I found the bastard! Tim!

A needle dropping could be heard in the following silence. Cain steps as she approached the batconputer could be heard and that was something.

The smallest of the souls in his carrier pulsed at the sight of Brown’s distress as she clutched Black Bat’s hand, her other going to the almost completely red locket hanging from her neck. If it followed the pattern of both Grayson and Father, it would soon turn dark.

(Unlike the clone and velocist, those two’s soul shards still retained the icy blue color, and Damian couldn’t help but think it had something to do with the fact that the people that had betrayed Drake the worst were the ones that were losing their connection to him first; Cain’s own compass was still mostly blue)

Damian’s own soul basically jumped to his hand at the implication of what Todd was saying (he ignored the flash of disappointment that he wasn’t the one to find Drake, the little spark of something on the icy blue little ball that still reacted to that idiotic Todd…).

Grayson was the one that basically pushed father out of the way, so he could lean over the keyboard, as if that would make him be heard clearer, hand fondling with the chain around his neck that was Drake ’s first shard, both to be created and to lose it’s warmth.

-A-are you sure? Our Timmy?

-You have eyes on him? -demanded father as he typed away, faster than Damian ever remembered seeing, probably sending some kind of message to the Justice League for assistance.

-Damn right I’m sure, stumbled across him during my mission here, don’t know anyone as annoying/ FUCK can’t you see I’m on the phone ya lil shit?! I can do you one better than eyes on the bastard, B, I’ll put my hands around his weasly lil neck/!

A window popped on the Cave monitor (of course Gordon was eavesdropping) as Oracle traced the call and hacked the street camera closest to Todd’s location.

The figure was all in black, taller and leaner than Damian remembered. Or was that because he spent so much time watching footage of his time as Robin?

Drake was smaller then, baby faced and bird-boned. A child. Somewhere along the line, lost in studying his formative years, Damian had forgot the fact that he was a man, now.

He certainly looked the part, now. Graceful as fought Hood off, tough a lot more brutal, if Hood’s grunts of pain everyone the shiny staff made contact could be believed. He seemed in a hurry, too, judging by his almost too fast to be seen movements.

The fight moved a little (likely Hood’s doing), and they shifted just enough for them to see, in the grainy quality of the camera, a second of Drake’s face before before he seemed to sense that he was being watched.

Something was thrown the camera’s way, a little gadget, and everything turned black. The only connection the Cave had to Drake now was the still going sounds of fighting.

-Hood, tell him to stop! We don’t mean him any harm/

-I do, the little fucker broke my left wrist! Imma gonna show him!

-Hood! -now not only Grayson, but Brown too, chided.

-Just stall him -commanded Father- Clark is on his way.

-Easy for you to say! Whatever he’s being doing this last few years, it gave him a hell of a boost. I can barely/

Silence. Not just Hood shutting up, but no more breaths, no more metallic clang. The line had been cut, something that shouldn’t been possible after all the upgrades father made to their comms.

By the time Superman arrived to Gotham, an hour had passed, and not even Gordon could re install the connection to either the street camera nor the comm. Not that it would do any good: Hood was unconscious and brutally beated up, and not even a full scan of the city by various metas gave them any hint of Drake ’s location.

The icy blue soul pulsed with guilt at hood’s state, but also an undeniable pride at the fact that Drake got away.

Damian felt like throwing it against a wall. Instead, he cradled it in his hands, against his chest, as he went to sleep that night.

He dreamed of grainy camera footage, the face in the recording handsome and lethal, the coldness on pretty eyes replaced by the emotional icy blue of his soul.

.-.-.-.-.

He woke up in the morning and laid on bed for a while.

Ignorant on the emotional side of things as Grayson might believe him, Damian wasn’t about to lie to himself.

There was no denying the clenching on his gut when the camera displayed the video of the dark figure fighting, the disappointment when Hood failed to bring Drake home, the spark of annoyance at the fact that the tiny soul still reacted to the second Robin, the flash of white warmth that crept up him when he saw the results of Drake’s power on Hood’s battle wounds.

The craving pumping his heart was like nothing he ever felt before.

It was kinda like seeing his mother holding her soul shard his way, like Grayson hands fastening the R brooch on his cape for the first time, like giving Father a ring and Nightwing a bracelet, nervous in a way that was unbecoming to someone of the Al Ghul’s household.

It was wanting to receive and to be accepted.

It was even more than that.

It was holding Drake’s entire soul in his hand, small and battered as it was, and thinking ’I’ll fix this’. It was masterfully twirling it in his hand, easy from practice, letting Drake's emotions wash over him, his fierce protectiveness over his friends, his honest fondness over the family, the growing approval every time Damian cracked a case or figured out a mystery on his own.

It wasn’t Drake himself, but at the same time it was.

Damian dropped his head back into the pillow and raised the hand holding the tiny soul, his own gold, green and blue one laying on the mattress by his hip. It had tiny specs of ice blue on it, influenced against his will by the soul that shared the soul carrier with for so long now, not too different from the way his mother’s orange red soul had some dark blue hues dancing near it’s core, or how Pennyworth’s silver one had the barest hints of yellow, which the butler once told him were remnants of his first love.

He never would admit to be emulating Todd, but in that moment, he couldn’t help it.

-Fuck.

#Soul shards #soul shards au #tim drake #damian Wayne #the bats #it's a pain to tag everyone but they are all mentioned #this was a BITCH to publish tumblr wouldn't let me copy paste everything from my docs so i had to do paragraph by paragraph #pre damitim i guess?#soulless tim #Ra's is there for a sec not in person but by creepiness factor #Damian is developing a crush how cute baby assassin #i did this during a eight hours car ride this isn't edited in the slightest #my writing #oh yeah #tw: animal cruelty #at the beggining though but still #forgot to tag before sorry

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badacts · 4 years

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eyes on me (pt.4)

This fic is about Gotham’s revenant problem.

(part one) (part two) (part three)

Gotham is a stinking, ratshit city sulking in a sickly combination of sea fog and smoke. Goddamn, Jason missed it.

Things he didn’t miss so much: being in the same locale as his own headstone.

He’s aiming for the grave of Marc Rand, recently undeceased, but his feet move of their own accord to a spot on the northern side of the cemetery. He’s been here once before - it was raining, and he’d been sick when his boots stirred the smell of wet soil underfoot, spent the night shaking and sleepless in the dingy studio apartment he’d been squatting in.

Now, his helmet filters that out. He takes in the smooth white marble of the twin headstones, one for Catherine and one for him. A memento to his old life, still bedecked with a bouquet of white carnations.

He’s not sure what possesses him to look closer at the flowers. They’re fresh white, unstained by smog and age so far, with a card on the tie binding the stems. He’s expecting the name of one of Bruce’s society pals, looking to make nice by dropping flowers on some dead Crime Alley kid’s grave, or maybe some stalker Wayne fan.

Instead, the card says: I am the soft stars that shine at night.

“I am not there,” Jason murmurs, words falling like stones into the silence, “I do not sleep.”

He always loved that poem. It’s either a particularly on-the-nose joke on Bruce’s part, or something else entirely. And he knows it’s Bruce - even in the florist’s typography, the ‘- B’ is instantly recognisable to a child who grew up in Wayne Manor.

So that’s why he follows Tim back to the Cave from the hospital. That, and the fact that his replacement may or may not fall off his bike on the way without supervision.

Of course, Timmy doesn’t seem particularly pleased to have his help. If looks could kill, Jason would be dead for the second time right about now.

“Just sit there and don’t touch anything,” he tells Jason, pressing an ice pack to the back of his head with his left hand while typing at the computer with his right. He sounds grumpy. Not angry, as such, but still low-key pissed that Jason dared give him a teeny, tiny concussion.

Really, he should have caught himself. Jason is good, but so is Red Robin, and Red Robin can’t afford to be taken out by an (admittedly ably assisted) tumble on a rooftop.

Jason is going to keep putting down the fact that Tim did get him in a chokehold to his brief moment of mistaken sympathy. He’s going to have a bruise in the shape of Robin’s shinguard on his throat to remind him of that, too.

“Here,” Tim says, files folding out across the largest screen. “This is everything I have on Rand. I’d read it to you, but I’m still seeing double.” Because he’s dramatic as hell.

“I didn’t grow up on the same street as you, but I can still fucking read,” Jason snaps, waiting for Tim to vacate his personal space before he steps closer to the computer. There’s a discarded batarang there, gleaming black against the table, and Jason can’t resist picking it up to feel the familiar weight. Tim isn’t watching, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Probably.

Of course, before Jason can start the aforementioned reading, the Batmobile pulls into its spot, its familiar snarl cutting to silence.

It’s not like Jason didn’t know there was a decent chance of running into Bruce when he came here. It’s just that he’s never as prepared for it when it actually happens as he thinks he will be beforehand.

Batman is hard to read in the cowl, but Jason can tell he isn’t surprised to find the two of them here. His attention jumps to Tim, still holding the ice pack, and he demands, “What happened?”

“Hit my head,” Tim replies, surly, with another of those killer looks at Jason. “It’s fine. We’re going over the Rand case.”

“Let me look,” Bruce replies, pulling back the cowl and letting it hang down his back. Tim, sighing, allows it with bad grace. “Were you knocked out?”

“No. It’s a mild concussion.”

“They just don’t make Robins like they used to,” Jason says lightly, because he doesn’t want to watch this - the Bat clucking over his newest chick.

“I’m not the one that died,” Tim points out. He’s a shithead, and any regret Jason might have felt over giving him a head injury evaporates.

“Not yet,” he says, and even he isn’t sure whether it’s a threat or not.

Bruce pulls away from Tim, pressing the ice pack in Tim’s hand back into place. “We’ll get Leslie to check you.”

“I’m fine!” Tim exclaims, waving his free hand in exasperation.

“We don’t take risks with head injuries,” Bruce says, like it’s a lesson learned by rote, right before he turns his gaze onto Jason. “Did you do this?”

Jason shrugs. “I maintain he did it to himself. Turns out he’s clumsy as hell.”

“Fuck you,” Tim mutters at him. Jason would have gotten a double swear jar penalty for that one, but Tim doesn’t even get a look.

“You injured him. Again.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “It was an accident, Bruce. I’m fine.”

“This,” Bruce points at Tim, like he’s pointing at a little cuddly bunny rabbit, and not a buck-sixty of highly-trained muscle and creepy, canny brain, “Cannot happen again.”

Jason leans back against the desk, casual. “Well, that’s it, Timmers. You had a good run, but Dad says no head injuries ever again. Time you retired.”

Bruce is scowling. “That’s not-”

“Or I can lend you a helmet,” Jason cuts him off, smiling. “The colour’s right and everything.”

“This isn’t a joking matter,” Bruce snaps. “You nearly killed him.”

It’s an atomic bomb of a comment. Just like he meant it to be. Tim looks surprised, but he shouldn’t. Or maybe Bats doesn’t talk to him that way, saves it all up special for Jason.

“Yeah,” Jason says, stripped bare of anything but the truth - no attitude, no humour, nothing, “I did. I hurt him. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill you.”

There’s plenty he doesn’t regret. Plenty of blood on his hands he’d happily get all over again. But there are also things he would take back, starting with the sick bite of a chainsaw between the vertebrae of drug pushers and ending with his bullet in Tim Drake’s shoulder.

Doing what he does is a necessity. He believes that to the core. The taste for violence, the pleasure in it, the crack and wavering of his control - that’s dangerous for him. It’s an addiction that he needs to kick.

He’s not sure if his words are offering that up as supplication, or just rubbing what he’s done in Bruce’s face. Bruce doesn’t give anything away. He never really does; not for free.

“And every time you did, you took yourself further and further from what that represents,” he says, and points at the thing Jason has been trying to ignore this whole time.

His old uniform, enshrined and adorned with the worst inscription Jason has ever fucking seen. It’s certainly no do not stand at my grave and weep.

Because Jason isn’t dead, but the kid he was? The kid that Bruce claimed as his own, the one he claimed to love? That kid is. And this is the grave.

A good soldier. A good fucking soldier.

“Bruce,” Tim says, and he sounds tentative. He’s watching Jason’s hand, while Bruce is looking him dead in the eye.

“Every time you do, you prove me wrong for ever letting you wear it,” Bruce continues.

“Fuck you,” Jason rasps, and throws.

It’s a direct hit. The glass cracks and falls in a cacophony, echoing in a roll across the cave to the point it compounds on itself. The batarang lodges directly into the armour over where Jason’s fifteen-year-old heart would have been.

“Fuck you,” Jason’s mouth says. “I was never your soldier.” His brain, that part of him that has been getting quieter and quieter since he left this place, the useless part that screams you replaced me over and over, is deafening. All he can hear is that, and the insistent thrum of his own heart.

There are hands in the front of his jacket. He and Bruce are eye-to-eye, and it gives Jason a great view of his rage. In that moment, Jason has never been surer that he’s about to be hit, and that’s saying something, considering his entire life.

He’s holding the front of Batman’s uniform so tight that his nails are breaking on the kevlar weave.

“Stop.” That’s Tim, probably not for the first time either. But this time he prises himself into the space between them, unignorable.

Bruce leans back immediately, letting Jason go. Unfortunately, Jason can’t quite convince his hands to release, or his brain to stop screaming.

Tim is holding his wrists, face very series. He whispers, “Breathe.” Jason wants to break him in half, but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t, and he doesn’t.

His fingers relax.

“Gentlemen. What on earth is the meaning of this?”

It’s Alfred. He looks furious.

All three of them freeze. Then Tim lets go of Jason like he’s on fire. It would be funny, if it weren’t for Alfred’s gimlet gaze bearing down on them. Or if the entire preceding five minutes hadn’t happened.

“Master Tim,” Alfred says after a long moment where none of them move, “I believe you have some homework to finish.”

Tim opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, and then sees the escape route for what it is and takes it like the scuttling schoolboy he is.

Once he’s gone, Alfred turns. “Master Bruce.”

There’s a very long silence. Then Bruce says, “Hrn,” and turns away in the direction of the showers.

That just leaves Jason, still taut with adrenaline to the point his hands shake, standing below, and Alfred like an avenging angel above him, and a pile of glittering glass shards in the corner.

“Master Jason,” Alfred says, and then smiles. “Welcome home.”

#for the 12 people who like this fic and MYSELF bc i love it #happy new year (almost)#jason todd #bruce wayne #tim drake #alfred pennyworth #batfam #eyes on me #batfam fic #my fic

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mitsoftware541 · 3 years

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IT,BSIT,BSIT in Hyderabad,BSIT 4 years program,BSIT 4 year program, BSIT in Hyderabad sindh

Maybe the biggest and most unavoidable issue in a specialized curriculum, just as my own excursion in instruction, is custom curriculum's relationship to general schooling. History has demonstrated that this has never been a simple obvious connection between the two. There has been a ton of giving and taking or perhaps I should state pulling and pushing with regards to instructive strategy, and the instructive practices and administrations of schooling and specialized curriculum by the human instructors who convey those administrations on the two sides of the isle, similar to me.

Throughout the last 20+ years I have been on the two sides of instruction. I have seen and felt what it resembled to be an ordinary standard instructor managing custom curriculum strategy, specialized curriculum understudies and their particular educators. I have likewise been on the specialized curriculum side attempting to get ordinary schooling instructors to work all the more adequately with my custom curriculum understudies through changing their guidance and materials and having somewhat more persistence and sympathy.

Besides, I have been standard normal training educator who instructed customary schooling consideration classes attempting to sort out some way to best work with some new specialized curriculum instructor in my group and their specialized curriculum understudies also. Furthermore, interestingly, I have been a specialized curriculum consideration educator barging in on the region of some standard training instructors with my custom curriculum understudies and the alterations I figured these instructors should execute. I can disclose to you direct that none of this give and take between a custom curriculum and normal instruction has been simple. Nor do I see this pushing and pulling turning out to be simple at any point in the near future.

Anyway, what is custom curriculum? Furthermore, what makes it so extraordinary but so intricate and disputable in some cases? Indeed, custom curriculum, as its name recommends, is a particular part of instruction. It guarantees its heredity to such individuals as Jean-Marc-Gaspard Itard (1775-1838), the doctor who "restrained" the "wild kid of Aveyron," and Anne Sullivan Macy (1866-1936), the instructor who "worked supernatural occurrences" with Helen Keller.

Extraordinary instructors show understudies who have physical, intellectual, language, learning, tactile, as well as passionate capacities that stray from those of everyone. Unique instructors give guidance explicitly custom-made to address individualized issues. These instructors fundamentally make training more accessible and available to understudies who in any case would have restricted admittance to schooling because of whatever handicap they are battling with.

It's not simply the instructors however who assume a job throughout the entire existence of a specialized curriculum in this nation. Doctors and church, including Itard-referenced above, Edouard O. Seguin (1812-1880), Samuel Gridley Howe (1801-1876), and Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet (1787-1851), needed to enhance the careless, regularly harsh treatment of people with handicaps. Unfortunately, training in this nation was, usually, careless and oppressive when managing understudies that are distinctive by one way or another.

There is even a rich writing in our country that depicts the treatment gave to people handicaps during the 1800s and mid 1900s. Unfortunately, in these accounts, just as in reality, the portion of our populace with handicaps were frequently bound in correctional facilities and almshouses without fair food, apparel, individual cleanliness, and exercise.

For an illustration of this distinctive treatment in our writing one necessities to look no farther than Tiny Tim in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol (1843). Likewise, ordinarily individuals with incapacities were regularly depicted as scoundrels, for example, in the book Captain Hook in J.M. Barrie's "Peter Pan" in 1911.

The overarching perspective on the creators of this time-frame was that one ought to submit to setbacks, both as a type of dutifulness to God's will, and on the grounds that these appearing disasters are eventually proposed to one's benefit. Progress for our kin with incapacities was difficult to find right now with this perspective saturating our general public, writing and thinking.

Anyway, what was society to do about these individuals of incident? All things considered, during a large part of the nineteenth century, and from the get-go in the 20th, experts accepted people with handicaps were best treated in private offices in country conditions. A no longer of any concern sort of thing, maybe...

Notwithstanding, before the finish of the nineteenth century the size of these organizations had expanded so significantly that the objective of restoration for individuals with incapacities simply wasn't working. Establishments became instruments for perpetual isolation.

I have some involvement in these isolation approaches of training. Some of it is acceptable and some of it isn't all that great. I have been an independent instructor on and off over time in different conditions in independent study halls openly secondary schools, center schools and grade schools. I have likewise instructed in numerous specialized curriculum conduct independent schools that completely isolated these disturbed understudies with inabilities in dealing with their conduct from their standard companions by placing them in totally various structures that were here and there even in various towns from their homes, companions and friends.

Throughout the long term numerous custom curriculum experts became pundits of these establishments referenced over that isolated and isolated our youngsters with incapacities from their companions. Irvine Howe was one of the first to advocate removing our childhood from these immense organizations and to put out occupants into families. Sadly this training turned into a strategic and commonsense issue and it required some investment before it could turn into a reasonable option in contrast to regulation for our understudies with inabilities.

Presently on the positive side, you may be keen on knowing anyway that in 1817 the main specialized curriculum school in the United States, the American Asylum for the Education and Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb (presently called the American School for the Deaf), was set up in Hartford, Connecticut, by Gallaudet. That school is still there today and is one of the top schools in the nation for understudies with hear-able handicaps. A genuine progress story!

In any case, as you would already be able to envision, the enduring achievement of the American School for the Deaf was the exemption and not the standard during this time-frame. Furthermore, to add to this, in the late nineteenth century, social Darwinism supplanted environmentalism as the essential causal clarification for those people with inabilities who digressed from those of everyone.

Tragically, Darwinism made the way for the selective breeding development of the mid 20th century. This at that point prompted considerably further isolation and even disinfection of people with incapacities, for example, mental impediment. Sounds like something Hitler was doing in Germany additionally being done well here in our own nation, to our own kin, by our own kin. Sort of unnerving and unfeeling, wouldn't you concur?

Today, this sort of treatment is clearly unsatisfactory. What's more, in the early piece of the twentieth Century it was additionally unsuitable to a portion of the grown-ups, particularly the guardians of these crippled kids. In this way, concerned and furious guardians shaped promotion gatherings to help carry the instructive necessities of kids with incapacities into the public eye. General society needed to see firsthand how wrong this selective breeding and disinfection development was for our understudies that were unique in the event that it was truly going to be halted.

Gradually, grassroots associations gained ground that even prompted a few states making laws to ensure their residents with incapacities. For instance, in 1930, in Peoria, Illinois, the primary white stick statute gave people with visual deficiency the option to proceed when going across the road. This was a beginning, and different states did at last go with the same pattern. As expected, this neighborhood grassroots' development and states' development prompted enough tension on our chosen authorities for something to be done on the public level for our kin with handicaps.

In 1961, President John F. Kennedy made the President's Panel on Mental Retardation. Furthermore, in 1965, Lyndon B. Johnson marked the Elementary and Secondary Education Act, which gave subsidizing to essential instruction, and is seen by backing bunches as extending admittance to state funded schooling for kids with incapacities.

At the point when one contemplates Kennedy's and Johnson's record on social liberties, at that point it most likely isn't such an unexpected discovering that these two presidents likewise led this public development for our kin with incapacities.

This government development prompted area 504 of the 1973 Rehabilitation Act. This ensures social equality for the impaired with regards to governmentally supported organizations or any program or movement getting Federal monetary help. Every one of these years after the fact as a teacher, I for one arrangement with 504 cases each and every day.

In 1975 Congress authorized Public Law 94-142, the Education for All Handicapped Children Act (EHA), which sets up a privilege to state funded instruction for all kids paying little heed to incapacity. This was another beneficial thing on the grounds that preceding government enactment, guardians needed to generally instruct their kids at home or pay for costly private schooling.

The development continued developing. In the 1982 the instance of the Board of Education of the Hendrick Hudson Central School District v. Rowley, the U.S. High Court explained the degree of administrations to be managed the cost of understudies with uncommon necessities. The Court decided that specialized curriculum administrations need just give some "instructive advantage" to understudies. Government funded schools were not needed to boost the instructive advancement of understudies with inabilities.

Today, this decision may not appear to be a triumph, and in actuality, this equivalent inquiry is indeed circling through our courts today in 2017. In any case, since its getting late period it was made

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Maybe the biggest and most inescapable issue in a custom curriculum, just as my own excursion in instruction, is specialized curriculum's relationship to general schooling. History has indicated that this has never been a simple obvious connection between the two. There has been a ton of giving and taking or perhaps I should state pulling and pushing with regards to instructive approach, and the instructive practices and administrations of training and specialized curriculum by the human instructors who convey those administrations on the two sides of the isle, similar to me.

Throughout the last 20+ years I have been on the two sides of schooling. I have seen and felt what it resembled to be an ordinary standard instructor managing custom curriculum strategy, specialized curriculum understudies and their specific educators. I have additionally been on the specialized curriculum side attempting to get standard schooling instructors to work all the more viably with my specialized curriculum understudies through altering their guidance and materials and having somewhat more persistence and sympathy.

Besides, I have been standard normal schooling educator who instructed customary training consideration classes attempting to sort out some way to best work with some new specialized curriculum instructor in my group and their specialized curriculum understudies also. Furthermore, conversely, I have been a specialized curriculum consideration educator interrupting the region of some customary instruction instructors with my specialized curriculum understudies and the adjustments I figured these instructors should execute. I can disclose to you direct that none of this give and take between a specialized curriculum and standard training has been simple. Nor do I see this pushing and pulling turning out to be simple at any point in the near future.

Anyway, what is specialized curriculum? Also, what makes it so extraordinary but then so mind boggling and dubious some of the time? Indeed, custom curriculum, as its name proposes, is a specific part of training. It asserts its ancestry to such individuals as Jean-Marc-Gaspard Itard (1775-1838), the doctor who "restrained" the "wild kid of Aveyron," and Anne Sullivan Macy (1866-1936), the instructor who "worked wonders" with Helen Keller.

Extraordinary instructors show understudies who have physical, psychological, language, learning, tactile, as well as passionate capacities that veer off from those of everyone. Unique teachers give guidance explicitly custom fitted to address individualized issues. These instructors fundamentally make schooling more accessible and open to understudies who in any case would have restricted admittance to training because of whatever inability they are battling with.

It's not simply the instructors however who assume a job throughout the entire existence of a custom curriculum in this nation. Doctors and ministry, including Itard-referenced above, Edouard O. Seguin (1812-1880), Samuel Gridley Howe (1801-1876), and Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet (1787-1851), needed to improve the careless, frequently damaging treatment of people with incapacities. Unfortunately, schooling in this nation was, as a rule, careless and harsh when managing understudies that are diverse in some way or another.

There is even a rich writing in our country that portrays the treatment gave to people inabilities during the 1800s and mid 1900s. Unfortunately, in these accounts, just as in reality, the portion of our populace with inabilities were regularly kept in prisons and almshouses without respectable food, garments, individual cleanliness, and exercise.

For an illustration of this diverse treatment in our writing one requirements to look no farther than Tiny Tim in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol (1843). Likewise, commonly individuals with incapacities were frequently depicted as scalawags, for example, in the book Captain Hook in J.M. Barrie's "Peter Pan" in 1911.

The overall perspective on the creators of this time span was that one ought to submit to disasters, both as a type of acquiescence to God's will, and in light of the fact that these appearing setbacks are at last planned to one's benefit. Progress for our kin with inabilities was rare as of now with this perspective penetrating our general public, writing and thinking.

All in all, what was society to do about these individuals of incident? Indeed, during a large part of the nineteenth century, and from the get-go in the 20th, experts accepted people with handicaps were best treated in private offices in rustic conditions. An out of the picture and therefore irrelevant sort of thing, maybe...

In any case, before the finish of the nineteenth century the size of these organizations had expanded so significantly that the objective of recovery for individuals with incapacities simply wasn't working. Establishments became instruments for lasting isolation.

I have some involvement in these isolation arrangements of schooling. Some of it is acceptable and some of it is slightly below average. I have been an independent educator on and off over time in numerous conditions in independent homerooms out in the open secondary schools, center schools and grade schools. I have additionally instructed in various specialized curriculum conduct independent schools that completely isolated these upset understudies with incapacities in dealing with their conduct from their standard companions by placing them in totally various structures that were in some cases even in various towns from their homes, companions and friends.

Throughout the long term numerous custom curriculum experts became pundits of these organizations referenced over that isolated and isolated our youngsters with inabilities from their friends. Irvine Howe was one of the first to advocate removing our childhood from these enormous foundations and to put out inhabitants into families. Lamentably this training turned into a strategic and even minded issue and it required some investment before it could turn into a reasonable option in contrast to regulation for our understudies with handicaps.

Presently on the positive side, you may be keen on knowing anyway that in 1817 the principal specialized curriculum school in the United States, the American Asylum for the Education and Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb (presently called the American School for the Deaf), was set up in Hartford, Connecticut, by Gallaudet. That school is still there today and is one of the top schools in the nation for understudies with hear-able handicaps. A genuine progress story!

Be that as it may, as you would already be able to envision, the enduring achievement of the American School for the Deaf was the exemption and not the standard during this time span. Also, to add to this, in the late nineteenth century, social Darwinism supplanted environmentalism as the essential causal clarification for those people with incapacities who strayed from those of everyone.

Unfortunately, Darwinism made the way for the selective breeding development of the mid 20th century. This at that point prompted much further isolation and even disinfection of people with incapacities, for example, mental impediment. Sounds like something Hitler was doing in Germany likewise being done well here in our own nation, to our own kin, by our own kin. Sort of startling and insensitive, wouldn't you concur?

Today, this sort of treatment is clearly unsatisfactory. What's more, in the early piece of the twentieth Century it was likewise unsuitable to a portion of the grown-ups, particularly the guardians of these incapacitated youngsters. Consequently, concerned and furious guardians framed promotion gatherings to help carry the instructive requirements of youngsters with incapacities into the public eye. General society needed to see firsthand how wrong this selective breeding and sanitization development was for our understudies that were extraordinary on the off chance that it was truly going to be halted.

Gradually, grassroots associations gained ground that even prompted a few states making laws to ensure their residents with inabilities. For instance, in 1930, in Peoria, Illinois, the main white stick statute gave people with visual deficiency the option to proceed when going across the road. This was a beginning, and different states did in the end go with the same pattern. As expected, this nearby grassroots' development and states' development prompted enough tension on our chosen authorities for something to be done on the public level for our kin with handicaps.

In 1961, President John F. Kennedy made the President's Panel on Mental Retardation. Furthermore, in 1965, Lyndon B. Johnson marked the Elementary and Secondary Education Act, which gave financing to essential instruction, and is seen by promotion bunches as extending admittance to state funded training for kids with inabilities.

At the point when one considers Kennedy's and Johnson's record on social equality, at that point it most likely isn't such an unexpected discovering that these two presidents additionally led this public development for our kin with handicaps.

This government development prompted area 504 of the 1973 Rehabilitation Act. This ensures social equality for the handicapped with regards to governmentally subsidized foundations or any program or movement accepting Federal monetary help. Every one of these years after the fact as an instructor, I for one arrangement with 504 cases each and every day.

In 1975 Congress authorized Public Law 94-142, the Education for All Handicapped Children Act (EHA), which sets up a privilege to state funded training for all youngsters paying little heed to incapacity. This was another beneficial thing on the grounds that preceding government enactment, guardians needed to generally instruct their youngsters at home or pay for costly private schooling.

The development continued developing. In the 1982 the instance of the Board of Education of the Hendrick Hudson Central School District v. Rowley, the U.S. High Court explained the degree of administrations to be managed the cost of understudies with unique requirements. The Court decided that specialized curriculum administrations need just give some "instructive advantage" to understudies. State funded schools were not needed to augment the instructive advancement of understudies with inabilities.

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