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how would you feel if you woke up tomorrow and find out exactly 100 of the world’s richest people died of heart attacks at exactly noon universal time. can you imagine the theories. light is absolutely a loser for not doing this
[ID: Reply from elumind that says: “Do the richest one every week and see next in line lose their shit and try to get rid of the money. I think of this almost daily.” /end ID.]
The notes on this are wild because people are legit passionately arguing about why this wouldn’t work. No one said it would work. They said he’s a loser for not doing it.
The first one stands up and draws a massive A on the nearest wall before dropping dead.
Exactly one week later, Thursday at 3:13 PM, the next one looks up, blank-faced, and uses a car key to scratch the word ‘CAMEL’ into the side of their car. There are memes.
The week after that, in the middle of an interview, the third victim turns to the camera and says ‘THROUGH.’ He drops dead.
The man who writes “EYE” is in a private underground bunker. Enough radiation shielding to survive a direct nuclear strike. There are fifteen guards posted at the door- surveillance confirms not one of them left their post.
By the time “NEEDLE” is scratched into the upholstery of a private yacht, people are starting to give money away.
Like most of us I’ve thought extensively on this since I first saw Death Note and came to the conclusion that the most likely reaction would be people creating more byzantine ways of keeping hold of their resources while not technically counting them as personal resources and not technically being so rich. With enough shell companies, fake charities, and resources stashed in secret or illegal places or the bank accounts of relatives, people could keep most of what they have while dropping right off any list of wealthiest people. The wealthy are often experts at this for tax fraud reasons. Light’s response, of course, would be to start taking these things into account, seeking out hackers and accountants and various other experts to keep track of the actual wealthiest, and the wealthy (many of whom would be willing to risk their lives to stay that way) would use the dying as a metric for what the mysterious killer was using to score wealth and try to find ever more secret methods of resource hoarding. An accountancy arms race would be underway.
I’m not saying it’s a bad idea. I’m saying it would make a fantastic Death Note rewrite. Instead of Light making stupid mistakes against L, he could actually put his genius to work in Death Note: The Accountancy Wars.
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That's it i need a fix it au where dunk is a baby brother of a house full of sisters and is loved on so much and they take him everywhere and drives his friends around and their foster dad/mom and all his sisters goes to all his sports matches and is the loudest family in the bleacher... please I need it... he needs more love than what can possibly fit in his big body to make up for the sadness now
Cold take but all languages are beautiful actually. Every single one. Every single human language on earth is a collection of stories interwoven into the very fabric of the words that are spoken.
“Oh but this language sounds scary-“ have you heard a child speak it while pointing at a butterfly?
“Oh but this language sounds silly-“ have you heard someone’s grandma recite a recipe with such practiced ease it comes off as poetry?
“Oh but this language is really weird-“ and yours isn’t? Everyone’s language is weird, dumbass, it came free with your fucking humanity.
Every tongue that is spoken is a work of art. Every language a unique window into the world.
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Danny had spent the last six years building something stable out of the Infinite Realms.
Which, honestly, still sounded ridiculous when he thought about it too hard.
At twenty years old, Danny Phantom was somehow the acting Leader of the Infinite Realms version of the League of Assassins, mediator of territorial disputes, protector of portals, the peacemaker, and — according to Frostbite — “a deeply beloved young lord.”
Danny personally thought that title lost meaning the third time he had to stop two eldritch entities from starting a war over haunted soup recipes.
Still, the system worked.
So Danny did his rounds.
Checking territories. Listening to complaints. Solving problems before they became catastrophes.
And unfortunately, that included Walker’s Prison.
The prison loomed in the distance like a rusted beast made of iron and misery. Chains rattled endlessly somewhere in the fog while ghosts scattered out of Danny’s way the moment they spotted him.
Walker himself appeared almost immediately.
“Lord Phantom,” Walker greeted stiffly, eye twitching like it physically pained him to be respectful.
Danny gave him a lazy salute. “Walker. Any riots? Escape attempts? Illegal soul harvesting rings?”
“Only three this week.”
Danny snorted quietly and continued walking through the massive prison halls, half-listening as Walker listed updates about inmates, contraband, and a smuggling operation involving cursed playing cards.
Then Danny stopped dead.
His body just… halted.
Like every instinct he had suddenly slammed into a wall.
Down in the cafeteria, surrounded by dead warlords, failed tyrants, and extradimensional criminals, sat a living human.
An older man with sharp green eyes and a white streaks in dark hair, perfect posture despite the prison uniform.
Danny’s core went ice cold.
Walker noticed immediately. “Lord Phantom?”
Danny didn’t answer at first.
Because there was no way.
No fucking way.
But Danny knew that face.
He remembered that face looking down at him with complete indifference.
He remembered being ten years old and realizing, in those final moments, that this man had never loved him at all.
“…Walker,” Danny said quietly.
Walker straightened.
“Who,” Danny asked with terrifying calm, “is the Mortal?”
“Oh. Ra’s al Ghul,” Walker answered. “Imprisoned for the illegal misuse and contamination of Lazarus Waters across multiple realms.”
Danny stared.
Then he laughed.
It was sharp. Breathless. Wrong.
Several nearby ghosts immediately pretended they had somewhere else to be.
“Oh,” Danny murmured. “Oh, this is rich.”
His eyes flared green.
Not the bright, clean ectoplasmic green most ghosts associated with Phantom.
This was darker.
Sickly.
The color of corrupted Lazarus Waters.
Walker took one instinctive step backward.
Every survival instinct he had developed over centuries screamed at him to leave immediately and pretend he had never seen anything.
Unfortunately, it was his prison.
Phantom started walking again.
Slowly.
The cafeteria quieted almost immediately as inmates noticed him approaching. Conversations died mid-sentence. Trays stopped moving.
Ra’s looked up at the disturbance with visible annoyance.
Then confusion.
Because the being walking toward him looked young, young enough to be almost insulting.
Tall now, broad-shouldered, clad in black and white with space itself curling unnaturally through the edges of his aura — but still young.
And furious.
“Ra’s al Ghul,” Phantom said pleasantly.
The room went still at the tone.
“Well,” Phantom continued, smiling without warmth, “this is a surprise.”
Ra’s narrowed his eyes. “Should I know you?”
Phantom’s smile widened.
“You know,” Phantom said conversationally, “that answer honestly hurts my feelings a little.”
Ra’s opened his mouth, but he never got to speak.
One second he was sitting down.
The next, his face slammed into the metal cafeteria table hard enough to crater it.
The sound echoed through the entire prison.
Several inmates screamed.
One ghost in the back dropped his lunch tray and whispered, “Oh, thank Ancients it’s not me this time.”
Phantom had Ra’s pinned before anyone could react, one hand twisted into the man’s hair while his other pressed him against the ruined table.
“Don’t worry,” Phantom called casually over his shoulder. “I’ll fix the table later.”
Walker stared at the destroyed table.
“…You always say that.”
“I usually mean it.”
Ra’s struggled violently beneath him. Phantom barely had to use force anymore. Twenty years old in human age meant very little when his existence had become something vast and ancient enough to make lesser ghosts instinctively lower their heads around him.
Phantom shoved Ra’s to the floor instead.
Hard.
Then planted a boot against his throat.
The entire cafeteria watched in horrified silence.
Because Phantom was kind.
Phantom negotiated treaties.
Phantom gave second chances.
Phantom once sat through a forty-hour mediation between two warlords because one had allegedly “stolen the other’s emotional support leviathan.”
This?
This was something else.
Phantom looked down at Ra’s with open hatred.
Not rage.
Not blind fury.
Hatred aged over ten long years.
Carefully preserved.
“Walker,” Phantom said calmly, never taking his eyes off Ra’s, “how much money would it take to transfer custody of this inmate to me?”
“What?”
Phantom finally glanced back. “I asked how much.”
Walker blinked.
Then blinked again.
Because somehow that was the part that disturbed him most. Phantom — the paragon of individual rights and resident goodie-two-shoes — would never ask something like, "How much money do you want for him?" as if this were a slave market.
Pointdexter slowly raised a hand from one of the cafeteria tables. “Uh… Lord Phantom? Respectfully? What the fuck is happening?”
Phantom ignored him.
Ra’s finally managed to rasp out, “Who… are you?”
Phantom stared at him.
Actually stared.
And his grip tightened slightly against Ra’s throat.
"Seriously? You don't recognize me even after all the hints I gave you?" Phantom mocked. "Don't you remember how you treated me? Like a punching bag? Like a spare? Don't you remember putting your foot on my neck until I died, only to use my body like some twisted kind of footrest?!"
Ra’s went still.
Walker’s expression changed instantly.
“Oh,” Pointdexter whispered faintly.
Phantom’s voice never rose.
That somehow made it worse.
“No,” he breathed, face going pale.
Recognition finally hit him.
“Oh,” Phantom mocked quietly, smiling. “There it is.”
“…Tariq?”
The name sounded wrong coming from him.
Phantom’s eyes glowed violently green.
“Don’t.” The word cracked through the cafeteria like thunder. “You don’t get to say my name like you know me, grandfather.”
The test for allyship isn't how you treat an oppressed person who is your friend, family, spouse. It's how you treat an oppressed person you absolutely can't stand who is vile and loathsome in every way.
Do you gender trans people correctly even when they're being absolutely terrible people? Do you refuse to use the r-slur against someone who suicide baited you but is neurodivergent? Do you refuse to snark at a mentally ill person who is being genuinely unpleasant, "go take your meds!"
Do you allow members of marginalized groups to be terrible people without judging their entire demographic for it? One of the most invisible yet vital forms of privilege is the right to be terrible people as an individual rather than as a group. Do you acknowledge that there are bad people in every group, that it doesn't make their group less worth fighting for? Or do you shake your head if you happen to get mistreated by some who belong to a group and insist the entire group is awful and not worth your allyship?
Oppressed people can see how you treat those of us you like, but do you still treat the worst of us with the basic dignity you treat the worst of other groups with?
Something that I saw that's still boggling my mind is that: "the Jedi Council could have saved itself if it was just nicer to Anakin."
And... there is just something so gross and insulting to me about that.
Like... "oh, if only they were nicer to him! If only they could have pandered to his every need! Then he couldn't have felt the need to MURDER EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM!"
...
What?
Are you telling me that the genocide of an entire people was justified because of the Council not being nice enough?
That they deserved to die because a few members didn't give Anakin anything he wanted?
It's also disgusting because we are seeing so much of this shit in real life, this reeks of that "men have no choice but to vote for the most abhorrent disgusting idiots imaginable because women aren't being nicer!"
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RIP Marjane Satrapi, author of the amazing graphic novels Persepolis about living during the fundamentalist revolution in Iran in the 70’s and 80’s. She also created the animated movie based on the graphic novels, which is where these gifs come from.
Reblogging in honor of Marjane Satrapi, one of THE great graphic novelists. Her comic Persepolis was a crucial text for shaping my belief that comics can deeply explore identity, culture, politics, and history.
so ive been trying to write this dunk time travel thing where he gets sent back after summerhall to a year before the blackfyre rebellion and meets/falls in love with young!baelor, and ive been struggling to write this one scene. and i woke up this morning and realised it's because i was trying to write it from dunk's perspective. when what the scene really needs is to be written from the perspective of a somewhat bratty, lovesick princeling
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