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I love the “captain’s log” mechanism in Star Trek as a method for time skips and exposition.
I am, however, devastated that we never got an episode where any captain’s voiceover is strained and slow. very precise about the events they’re describing. While the screen itself is showing the most batshit insane events and making it clear that the captain is trying VERY HARD to keep everyone involved out of a court martial.
prompt: Ozai has Azula watch Zuko (his progress or rather lack thereof) from way earlier on, possibly even before Aang gets away from the iceberg in the first place
There it is, written at the bottom of his banishment notice, wobbling in and out of his vision and he’s not sure if that’s his eyes—
(father wouldn’t have meant to blind him, so the way his eyes flinch away from bright lights and reading, even from the scrolls Uncle brought for him for some reason--this is a serious mission, why did he bring play scrolls, if they don’t take this seriously it’s going to take forever to get home--the way his eyes flinch away doesn't mean anything, because being blind isn’t going to help him catch the Avatar so he’ll just not go blind—)
It’s either his eyes, or. Or the rage. It has to be the rage.
So Zuko reads the line again, and lets the fire brim up and overflow, until sparks chase the shout from his lips.
“Banishment to be overseen by Crown Princess Azula?”
- - -
“Prince Zuko,” Azula says, standing as tall as an eleven year old can. She’s using his title, so that he’ll use hers. And if he doesn’t than he’s ill-mannered and not fit for his own.
“Crown Princess Azula,” Zuko grits out.
“I’ll just be inspecting your ship, then. Father’s orders.”
Two men are in shackles by the time she’s done.
“—Fostering mutiny against your prince,” she is yelling, and somehow her voice is just as high-pitched as his without sounding childish at all. “When our father hears about this—”
- - -
“So you had them executed,” Fire Lord Ozai inquires. Lightly. And from behind his flames.
“Of course, father,” says the kneeling child. “It was an attack on our family.”
Her father doesn’t say anything.
Azula is eleven. Eleven, she had presumed, was old enough to count.
One, two, three. Four, with Uncle. The royal family.
Her father is silent still.
One. Two.
“Forgive my impertinence, Fire Lord,” she says. “I will bring them to you for judgment next time.”
“Do so,” Fire Lord Ozai says. He does not contest the ‘next time.’
- - -
“Crown Princess Azula,” Zuko says.
“Your bandage is off, brother,” Azula says. “Are you blind?”
“No.”
(The blur of her red robes, the eye-searing glint of sunlight off her headpiece—he’s not blind in that eye. He’s just… still recovering.)
“Lovely,” she says. “Then what’s your excuse for the condition of this ship?”
…He has an increased budget for repairs, by the time she’s done.
- - -
“Brother,” Azula says, “traditionally knives are to be delivered to the back.”
“I… what?” her brother says, still holding out the inexplicable thing. “No, I bought it at port. For you. See, it matches the one Uncle got me.”
“How original,” she says.
Her brother turns a shade of red that puts his bending to shame. Not that it’s a particularly high bar. “Fine, I’ll just—throw it out.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. At the least, Mai will want it.”
- - -
“Nice knife,” says Mai, looking at the hilt peeking out of Azula’s boot.
“Be silent,” Azula says, thus ending that conversation.
- - -
“Did great-grandfather… did we…” starts her brother, fresh from scurrying about the Eastern Air Temple like some particularly dim-witted pheasant-monkey, the dust not even brushed from his clothes even though he knew her ship was waiting down here. “Azula, there were children—”
“Be silent,” she says.
- - -
“You’re leaving frequently,” comments father, as his knife cuts through the pheasant-monkey, clicking against the plate below. The persimmon-cherry sauce is thick and red and smearing.
“I find it advantageous to cultivate a working knowledge of our nation’s tactics,” Azula answers. She does not push around her meat like a child, but she does eat only lightly; the dish is more sour than she remembers.
“And your brother?”
“Oh, him,” she says, to which her father smiles.
- - -
“...What?” Zuko asks, blinking down at the scrolls.
“It’s your birthday,” Azula says. “Apparently, I should have gotten you a calendar.”
“Thank you?”
She sighs.
- - -
“Do we… tell him we can hear him?” asks the assistant cook, as the prince continues monologuing. Dramatically, and loudly. Through the pipe connecting the drain of the kitchen sink to the ones in the shower.
“Ssh, I think this is one of his new plays.”
- - -
She gets him a calendar for his next birthday. It’s not funny.
- - -
He gets her a doll, for hers. The look on Uncle’s face as she torches it in front of them both is hilarious.
- - -
“Brother,” she says, looking up at the damage to his ship. “This is not the way to requisition additional repair funds.”
“Captain Zhao,” her uncle says in the background, with heights of pleasant antagonism she can only aspire to. As if a general could mistake Zhao’s new insignia. Particularly with all the polishing he does.
“It’s commander now.”
“How did you manage this?” she asks.
“Uh,” Zuko says. “Can we… speak alone?”
She eyes her brother’s shifting stance. Eyes, too, the way Zhao’s men are already moving to intercept and interrogate his crew. One of the new commander’s more noxious habits is stalking her brother’s every move.
Well. She’d been meaning to deal with that, anyway.
Azula snaps her fingers at the commander’s guards.
“Detain him,” she says. And for a moment, just a moment, her dear uncle freezes, as if she were talking about someone he actually cared for.
The guards don’t. She’s trained them better than that.
“Princess,” Commander Zhao says, his snarl well hidden behind a smile. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Crown Princess Azula,” she corrects. “Now ssh; the adults are talking.”
- - -
They have an Avatar to catch, apparently. Her brother is coming home.
#her brother is coming home#it may be time for some other changes as well#how does the pheasant-monkey taste father?#oh of course I haven’t had any#you know I haven’t liked that since I was a little girl#are you feeling well father?#why don’t you have a little lie down father#oh is your crown uncomfortable?#let me just remove that for you#hush now#sleep#goodnight father#say hello to grandfather for me (tags from @muffinlance)
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Years ago back when I worked in cubicle land, we were hiring junior software developers. They didn’t have to have a ton of experience, just a willingness to learn, and some demonstration of their software skills. Like: show me a program you wrote (any language) or a web site you designed. Anything.
And there was this one guy I talked with who seemed super sharp, but had virtually zero experience writing software. When it came time to do the show-n-tell part of the interview he whips out his laptop, brings up a website, and spins it around to show me what he made.
A website of tiny ceramic frogs.
Not for sale. Just… all these ceramic frogs, organized into categories. Frogs on bicycles, frogs with hats, frogs sitting on lily pads. It was a virtual museum of ceramic frogs in web form.
I scrolled through his online collection of frogs, slightly baffled.
“This is your website?” I asked finally.
“Yep!”
“You coded this yourself?” I popped into view-source mode and poked around some incredibly well-formatted, well-commented html. I nodded slowly. This guy was meticulous.
“Yep!”
“So… where’d all the frogs come from?”
“I made those too,” he says, beaming.
And while I’m processing this he rummages in his bag and pulls out a little ceramic frog working at a computer terminal. He places it on the table before us, next to the laptop.
“And THIS one,” he says, “I made for you! As a thank you for the interview.”
It was adorable. I hired him on the spot. I mean, why not? Worst case he’d wash out in 90 days and we’d hire somebody else. He turned out to be one of the best developers on our team.
And yes, his cubicle was loaded with ceramic frogs.
i support universal free healthcare for one simple reason: if you are diagnosed with a terminal illness you should quit your job. quitting your job is the correct response to terminal illness. but you can’t do that if your healthcare is tied to your job
listen if somebody knows that they will be dead in a years time, and you are forcing them to continue to come into work, that’s fucked up. terminally ill people should be able to quit their jobs and live their last few months to the fullest. i don’t get how that’s a controversial opinion
new fanfic writer who has marked their work completed ao3 only to leave a note at the end saying: thanks for all the support guys if you want to read the rest of the fic subscribe to my patreon :)
me, an elder fandom veteran, suddenly having anne rice flashbacks:
no.
NO.
starting to rock back and fourth.
you do not understand.
you were born into an age of peace. i was there Gandalf. i was there three thousand years ago. i remember the cease and desists. i remember authors hunting fanfic writers for sport. i remember when every fic opened with a disclaimer because we genuinely thought it might protect us.
we do not charge money for the copyrighted gay wizard stories.
Remember people, this is against AO3s terms of service. If you see a fic that does this REPORT THAT THING!!! These people may not know better or they might, but them doing this has the potential to ruin things for everyone.
Also FYI, since I know people worry about reporting things: AO3 tells the authors to remove content about monetization (like links to patreon). It's not like they just nuke the fic on sight. It only becomes a potentially deletion-worthy issue if the author ignores the warnings they get (and even then, they could still put the fic back up without asking for money!)
I took my little brother (autistic, mostly non verbal) out and he was using his voice keyboard to tell me something, and this little boy (maybe 4 or 5?) heard him and asked me "Is he a robot??" I tried to explain to him that no, he isn't a robot, he just communicates differently, but my darling brother was in the background max volume "I am robot I am robot I am robot I am robot"
My little brother insisted if I was going to post about him, he wanted a cut of the "profits". When I explained to him that Tumblr isn't monetized, and is pretty pointless, he and my older brother pointed out that he'd still be bringing me "fame and notoriety" if the post got "big". So we agreed, if the post hit 10k notes, which seemed extremely farfetched and silly at the time, I'd take my little brother out for sushi (his favorite food) and let him eat as much as he wants.
I guess God wanted the little robot to enjoy some sushi 🍣 🥲
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Today a random clip of a F1nn5ter Q&A stream found its way into my feed.
Someone asked F1nn why it was that on her larger branded social media accounts she still listed herself as a femboy in some places while in more intracommunity spaces she more readily and comfortably identified as transfem.
Now, depending on who you ask that kind of question to you'll probably get a meandering answer on the complexities of how one defines their own identity. But instead F1nn gave a very quick and simple answer.
She gets less death threats or other general threats of violence from people when she calls herself a femboy vs calling herself transfem. It wasn't any deeper than that, and some people in her audience understood that, while others were confused that femboys were more palatable to cis people than transfems.
Another Clip of F1nn made its way across my feed today, she she mentioned a little bit more on the difference on being known as a Transfem streamer vs her old Femboy days.
"As soon as I came out as trans, it felt like everyone was an asshole and I had to adapt to it again...I don't know, people just don't like it if you're not [just] some funny guy."
Scientists at Cortical Labs have successfully trained a cluster of approximately 200,000 living human neurons, grown on a microelectrode array chip, to play the classic 3D video game DOOM.
um actually there's nothing wrong with letting cats be outdoor pets. your cat is depressed locked inside forever. it's animal abuse. let it outside. more cats should be let outside more often. especially overnight.
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“A Wall Street Journal report revealed Saturday the Americans who voted for President Donald Trump have soured on him amid the economic fallout of the Iran war. According to the Journal, new polls by the Cook Political Report found that more voters disapprove of Trump’s handling of the economy after gas prices jumped during the Iran war. The polls cited by the Journal found that 61 percent of voters disapprove of how Trump is handling the economy.”
—
‘You want to cry’: MAGA voters tell WSJ they feel 'horrible’ about voting for Trump
Oh, you feel bad now? You’re miserable and struggling? You’re scared and unsure about what insane and destructive bullshit he is going to unleash on us at any given moment? Well, fuck you.
Fuck you. We warned you. The people who knew him best from his first term warned you. He warned you himself, through his increasingly deranged and depraved behavior.
And you fucking laughed at us. You mocked us. You called us names and said we were as deluded as you actually were and are.
So, again, fuck you. Fuck you and fuck Trump and fuck maga. You own all of this. You did this to us. You deserve to have a shitty day; we do not. You deserve to struggle and suffer; we do not.
You never cared about his racism, his violence, his hatred, his predation, his 34 felonies. But suddenly, you care about *checks notes* the economy, because this directly affects you.
Go fuck yourself, Maga. You are not forgiven. You are not welcomed back into polite society with open arms. You are pariah. You carry a scarlet letter for the rest of your hopefully miserable lives, because you failed the easiest open book test in the history of the world. While we were doing the work on the group project called Democracy, you were doing a jerk off dance with a rapist.
So, and I say this with my full chest, go fuck yourselves. Maybe – maybe – you can make amends, but we’ve endured a decade of this nightmare you have trapped us inside, so maybe we can check in with you in ten years, and see how much responsibility you have taken, and how much work you have done to clean up the catastrophic mess that you made.
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
andulkaphoto
romaincrisis
titsay
