"Bruce Wayne is the mask, Batman is the real person" orrrrr, we do a fun and way more complicated thing where Bruce Wayne and Batman are masks but so are Bruce and B, and you never quite know which one you're talking to when you first walk into the Cave so all the Batkids preface their requests with "I need Batman on this" or "I need to talk to Bruce" and it gets to the point where those masks are only discrete, only become truly separate, via the needs of his children, what they need him to be in the moment, and how they need all those different parts of him, not just what he considers the mask, Not Just Batman. all of them.
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It didn't take Stan long to realize he was different. Different from his mom. His dad. His teachers and peers.
From his brother.
Although, looking back on it, it was shocking he ever thought he was the same at all. No one else in his family was quite like him, and he never saw anyone in their beach side town that looked or acted like he did.
It was an awareness that crept over him like moss, then slammed into him like a tidal wave.
First, the whispers. Always constant, always there. Small voices that muttered with the voices of everyone around him. He would hear his mother talk to a client, then at the same time hear the little whisper of her voice in his mind mutter and chuckle as they soaked in her lies and clung to them like pearls of truth.
His Pa would sit silently at the table for every meal, barely talking as Ma chittered and chatted, and Shermie went on and on about his day. To anyone else he appeared a gruff, uncaring father, but the little voice in Stan's head muttered and grumbled about finances and luxuries, suckers and bills. A constant worry, a ever hanging stress.
How he cared, in his own way.
Shermie was the worst though. While Ma would drop lies like breathing and Pa only seemed to breath, Shermie would smile down at Stan, hold his hands tightly, and tell him how everything was going to be OK. That the kids of their neighborhood were just jealous. That one day they'd grow out of their childish insults.
But all his whispering voice ever muttered was how he couldn't blame them. Not when Stan was such a freak.
And Stan was. Even without the whispers that plagued him every hour of every day. No one else had six fingers on two hands. No one else saw the world the same way he did. Felt it the way he did. Experienced the world doubled and split, with four hands, four legs, four eyes and ears and two minds that flowed back and forth into and out of each other.
No one else was born with two bodies.
One of them, the one with six fingers, his ma had named Stanford. The other one, the 'normal' one, was named Stanley. It took him ages to realize that when Shermie or Ma called for Stanford they only wanted his sixer mouth to say words, and when they said Stanley they wanted the other, and if he got it wrong he'd get scolded for playing tricks.
(Only his Pa called him Stan, but even he seemed to expect one mouth to talk, and he hated it when Stan tried talking with both at the same time, or guessed wrong on which body he wanted Stan to talk with.
In some ways it was nice, having someone call him by the name that meant all of him.
In most ways he wished Pa would just call him by one of his bodies full names like everyone else)
By the time he was seven he insisted his bodies be called Lee and Ford. It was much easier to respond that way, even if he still stumbled and said 'My Ford' or 'My Lee' instead of 'My Brother' like everyone insisted he should.
It felt weird calling himself his own brother.
There was only one of him after all, even if he had two of himself.
When he was ten Pa signed him up for boxing lessons. It was there that he learned how to split his attention, so that his Ford could still study for school, even as his Lee was getting his teeth knocked out. From there he split his chores and homework with himself. He could get all his homework done with his Ford, while his Lee could help around the shop or cleaned up his room. Whenever he signed up or was put into competitions, he could shove all his nerves and exited energy into his Lee while his Ford focused on standing in front of crowds and showing off his smarts to the world.
Plus doing homework twice was torture, and bulking up two bodies exhausting.
Better to copy it over once, and have the other take all the heat from the bullies that roamed the school yard.
Stan didn't have friends, but that was fine too. Having someone else around meant explaining why he would stop a task with Lee and have Ford takeover, or why he would talk out loud to himself in two bodies, mouths bouncing sentences back and forth to help make sense of things.
(The only person he ever tried to explain the whispers and his bodies to was his brother, who smiled warmly at him and whispered about how he couldn't wait to get as far away from him as possible.
Shermie left the day he turned eighteen, and Stan didn't see him again for almost ten years.)
When Stan was twelve he found the most beautiful wreckage in the world, and made plans to fix it up and set sail. When he was fourteen he started high school, and slowly realized he couldn't sail away from his problems.
When he was sixteen he put all dreams of childish adventures aside, focusing purely on his studies.
(If his Lee kept wandering to the beach and standing on the prow of a half-finished boat, well.
His Ford was getting his homework done, and that was all that really mattered.)
When Stan was seventeen he realized doing all his schoolwork with one body meant the rest of the world saw his other one as a useless dead weight. Everyone around him kept telling him how he was hanging onto his coat tails and riding on his success, and there was no way to tell them that Lee was Ford and they were Stan, and he was only himself, split into two.
He wasn't sure he could leave a part of himself behind.
He'd never tried.
(He didn't want to).
So while WCT was the chance of a lifetime, it was also the risk of one. He knew if anyone ever found out he was two people they wouldn't understand, and one or both of him would get thrown into a loony bin faster than Shermie ran off into the night.
Better to go somewhere no one would notice how he would know things only 'Ford' should.
It was easy to have his Lee sneak in and break his own project. Easier still to sadly drag himself home and tell Pa with his Ford how WCT hadn't been impressed.
Harder to control himself when Pa threw his Ford out about.
Easy to have his Lee follow.
When he found Gravity Falls, Stan was sure this was the place he'd finally belong. No more pretending to be one whole person staying in the library for long hours. No more struggling to feed two mouths and keeping on top of a course load meant for two but manageable if one person could be in two places at once. No more shoving one body into the backseat of a car while the other got a nice warm bed. No more migraines from trying to block out the whispers pressing in around him.
No more pretending he was anything less than he was.
Stan Filbrick Pines was one mind, born across two bodies. One Ford, one Lee, one Stan.
It was like breathing fresh air for the first time. There weren't any more eyes on him, he could finally relax and do things the way he wanted to, when he wanted to. Ford could start a task, and Lee could finish it without saying a word, because he didn't need to say a thing. Ford could stay in the cabin and write about everything Lee saw in the woods, Lee could clean up the house while Ford trekked into the mountains and did field notes. One of him could go into town and get groceries, while the other slowly walked around the kitchen to see what he needed.
There was no one around to give him odd looks.
Or if they did, they knew better than to say anything.
It was perfect.
"Well Well Well," Bill said, as Stan blinked into a starry night sky full of seagulls and glittering like the beaches of his childhood, "What do we have here?"
"I'm-" Stan coughed, then blinked down at his two hands. His right hand had six, his left five.
He couldn't find his other body. Couldn't feel it at all.
Like he'd only ever been one whole person.
It was terrifying.
It was exhilarating.
"I'm-What is this?" Stan looked up at the smiling triangle floating around him, then moved to stare in awe at the swirling ocean of stars around him. Glistening starlit fish swam in dizzying patterns, books flapped and called out with the voices of gulls.
Equations floated past him, along with gold coins.
"This," The triangle said, drawing his attention, "Is the start of a great friendship. The names Bill Cipher, and you Stan, you've caught my eye."
Its eye curled up, almost like it was smiling. A snap of its black fingers brought forth a pair of cushioned chairs and a chess set. The triangle sat down on one, then gestured for Stan to take the other. He did, still gaping at the twilight world around him.
"Tell me you what Stan," Bill said, propping its side up with a hand and lazily waving a glass into the other, "I'm amused! You're whole-" It gestured to him with the hand holding the glass, "-That!"
"That?" Stan asked. His mind was still struggling to come to terms with his limited mobility, and he kept trying to poke at floating books with an extra set of hands he didn't have.
Sometimes he poked it anyway, much to his delight.
"Your mind!" Bill threw his hands wide, his eyes definitely smiling, "This things a gold mind! You've caught my interest, which means I'll lend you a hand. What d'you say,"
Bill leaned forward, his singular eye intense.
"Want some help with your research?"
"Wouldn't it be easier if you didn't have to sleep? Imagine the work you could get done!"
"I already get a lot of work done Bill."
"Yeah, but your meat sacks still shut down at the same time. Think about it, just let me in, then I can get the portal up and running even faster."
"I don't know..."
"C'mon Stansy, don't you trust me?"
"I do! I do, I just... two bodies is a lot to handle, even for me. And with Fiddleford-"
"Ugh. Just say you don't want me working on our project already. I'll just leave you two to figure it out and-"
"No! No- I do- I trust you! Please don't go, I really appreciate all the help, I.."
"Hmm? What was that?"
"How about just one. Would that suffice?"
"One what Stan?"
"One body."
It was all falling apart, slipping through his twenty two fingers faster than he could blink. First Fiddleford, now this.
It had been a lie, all of it.
And now the fate of the world rested on his shoulders, and there was no one left to turn to. No one he could trust.
Four shoulders, and they still weren't enough to bear the weight of his foolishness.
Thankfully he hadn't been so taken with Bill that he'd surrendered himself completely.
"Come on Stan!" Bill groaned, flopping his head back and forth, "Whats a little dimensional conquest between buds!"
"We aren't buds." Stan slurred back. The two of them were in the living room, Stan laying face down on the couch in his Lee while Bill was tied to a chair in his Ford, where he'd been every night since Stan learned of his betrayal.
Where both of them had been, since Bill had done something to his connection to his Ford the second night. He could still control his Ford when his Ford was 'awake' but so long as Bill was puppeting it, his Lee was as awake as the demon was.
He had never been awake in one body before, and he had quickly learned to hate the feeling. His mind felt sluggish and slow, exhaustion heavy on his everything. He could feel the fog of his connection to his Ford on the edges of his mind, and the spiky tendrils of Bill's control.
Laying on the couch talking into the cushions was the best he could do like this.
The worst was that having his Ford wake up wouldn't make it better. The once easy control he had over his body was starting to stutter and strain, and neither body felt well rested. He'd be twice as exhausted, twice as foggy, and still tied to a chair.
How long had it been? How long since his Lee lost the energy to drag him into the kitchen? His Ford could sleep all it wanted, but if his Lee closed its eyes then he'd fall asleep and if Lee slept then Ford slept because Stan was sleeping but then Bill would be there and Ford would wake up and that would wake up Stan because he was Ford and he was Lee and he'd be back on the couch.
He was so tired.
A sharp stab to the back of his mind jolted him out of his spiraling thoughts. Stan blinked his eyes back into focus, then turned to squint at the demon.
Bill was grinning back, looking far too pleased with himself.
Not a great sign.
"Well look at that!" Bill crowed, smile so wide Stan could see every one of his own teeth, "That's were that is! I should of guessed the two of you had it buried pretty deep, but wow was I surprised to find it all the way down there!"
"What are you talking about." Stan sighed, closing his eyes, "Two of... where."
"This!"
The jolt went through him again, and he snapped his eyes open with a gasp. Energy was starting to buzz under his skin, buzzing and painful. He sucked in another gasp when it shot through him a third time, then hissed and rolled over at the fourth.
Bill was staring straight at him, smile as stiff and corpse like as it always was.
"Let me tell you, this wasn't easy to find!" Bill said cheerily, and Stan would have snapped something back if it didn't feel like electricity was running up and down his spine, "I mean, wow! You really did think you were one person, didn't you!"
"I-" Stan gasped, cold sweat breaking out over his skin and fingertips slowly numbing, "I am- I'm just- I'm Stan!"
"No."
There was a knot forming at the base of his skull. A pressure that had always been there, wrapped around and through his brain. Roots he didn't realize had grown with him sharply made him aware of their paths in his mind, tugging at feelings and memories, tearing at the very foundation of himself.
Stan would have screamed if he had the energy for it. All he could do was gasp and clutch his head, try to press himself back down.
"You're not."
There was a flash of light, then dark.
Before he knew what was happening, he was gone. Far away and deep inside himself, staring at and one with the a giant, twisting tree. Its roots were twisted deeply into sandy soil, its branches tangled with the stars.
As he stood there, crystal blue water lapping at his feet, he could feel it splintering. Dark tendrils were wrapped around the center, tearing at the bark. Small hands that swung down from-
Up from-
They were-
HE was-
He was standing on stars, roots tangled with galaxies, and above him the branches were tangled in an inverted sea, holding it up. Black hands were twisting from the midnight earth, up to the trunk and tearing into it and-
But he was looking-
The hands were hcalnigmibning-
The roots were-
branches tangled with the starswaves, rooted in place by sandsky
Stan looked up and saw-
Himself.
He was staring updown at a endless nightbeachsky, the tree bridging them together. Thicker than anything, holding doors and windows and memories and weight.
That's me, Stan thought, and Knew, and it was, that's Stan
Not just a tree. Not just the roots and the branch's. Its went down and connected every part of himself to himself. It was him, everything he was, had been, would be.
The thing Bill was tearing to pieces.
"Stop!" Stan shouted, lunging forward to try and tear the arms away from the tree. He didn't understand why or what it was, but every torn piece that was flung aside sent a jolt of agony through him. The demon was tearing him to pieces, and if he didn't stop him-
He didn't know.
He'd never been anyone other than himself.
"Get off" Stan jumpedgrabbed at the-
had the arms in his and they were-
too far away to reach he couldn't-
strong but this was his mind and he-
could feel himself tearing apart losing parts that-
was losing focus. It was getting hard to-
concentrate. he had to concentrate and-
There were so many. too many to count, endless as more shot out and he was-
So
Tired
Stan looked downup at himself, fear clear in his own face as something
Cracked
And
The
Tree
Snapped
In
TWO
It was fuzzy.
Everything was fuzzy. Soft.
Buzzing.
Buzz buzz buzzing
Grey. Gray.
Dull.
Then.
Hurt. Every part of every was hurting. Dull and throbbing.
And also.
A sound.
That hurt too.
He didn't want to be hurting. He wanted to sink back into the not feeling, where he didn't feel anything.
That was nice.
But the sounds kept sounding, and maybe if he made them stop, he could go back away.
Away away.
Back to the nothing.
It took a minute to remember he had to do things to make his body do things. Suck in air. Push it out. Suck it in. Let out a groan.
Or maybe a wheeze.
A sound.
One eyelid struggled to open. It hurt, and was heavy, and really, nothing was worth this amount of effort.
Best to go away.
Away away away.
He was so tired.
He was...
he was....
Who was he?
Memories, hazy and quiet, were pushed towards him.
Pushed, pushed at-
And it hurt. It hurthurthurt
but.
He was Stan.
Stan. That was... his name.
He was pretty sure.
Stan took in a steadying breath. Then another. And one more, before he found it in him to drag an eyelid open and squint out into the world.
He was already staring back at himself.
Weird.
Less weird, and more concerning, was the way the relief that had been clear on his face vanished, replaced by horror.
He felt the face he was attached to twist, but he couldn't-
He couldn't see out of his-
Something was wrong with his body.
His other body too. It was whispering to itself, head shaking and tears pouring down the sides.
"Stop that," he told it, making it flinch, "Why are you.."
Stan's brows furrowed, but the words he wanted were already sinking back down into the mist that was his brain.
Something was wrong.
He couldn't feel the rope digging into his Ford, couldn't see out of his Fords eyes, or taste his awful Ford breath.
He only felt like this when-
Right Bill.
Bill was here so he needed...
Sleep. He needed to sleep.
He was so tired.
Next to him his Ford shouted and raged, but it was fine.
it was fine.
He'd figure it out in the morning.
(Hey what if Stan and Ford had psychic twin powers and were so wrapped around each other they thought they were one person? And then Bill came around and chopped that connection to the ground?
Yes that is Ford screaming 'at himself' and freaking out because while 'his lee' was used to not feeling half of himself, his Ford was not. Neither are Stan or Ford in the traditional sense, as their memories and knowledge are split between them, but its not an even split (Bill made sure to nab all the parts he thought were important and keep them on the 'Ford' side of the divide) and so Fords still got most of their schooling in his mind)
i think the reason i relate to arthur so much has less to do with him as a king and more to do with how he was raised, especially with his dad.
growing up with a parent like thatâsomeone who sets the standard for everything, who decides whatâs right and wrong so absolutelyâyou donât really get the space to figure yourself out. you just learn how to meet expectations. or at least how to try. and when you fall short, it doesnât feel like you made a mistake, it feels like you are the mistake.
arthur was basically taught that love is conditional. that approval comes from being strong, being controlled, being âright.â thereâs no room for doubt, or softness, or questioning anything. so of course he grows up rigid, defensive, sometimes harshâbecause thatâs what was modeled for him.
and i get that. like, when youâre used to being judged or corrected all the time, you start doing it to yourself. you second guess everything. you overcompensate. you either shut down or get defensive because it feels like youâre always one step away from being told youâre not good enough.
and then thereâs the part where you still want their approval anyway. even when you know theyâre wrong, even when theyâve hurt you, thereâs still that instinct to prove yourself to them. to make them proud. and itâs frustrating because it keeps you tied to them in a way you donât always want to be.
arthur carries that constantly. you can see how much of what he does is shaped by trying to live up to his father, even when he starts to realize his fatherâs worldview is flawed. and that kind of shiftâwhen you realize the person who raised you isnât always right, or maybe even caused harmâthat messes with your sense of everything. because if they were wrong about that, what else were they wrong about? what does that make you, when you were raised on it?
i think thatâs why he struggles so much with change. not because heâs incapable of it, but because changing means admitting that the foundation you were built on isnât solid.
and i relate to that a lot. the unlearning. the guilt that comes with it. the feeling that youâre betraying something, even if that something hurt you. the way it takes time to separate who you actually are from who you were told to be.
arthurâs growth feels real to me because itâs not instant. he messes up. he clings to old beliefs. he has to be shown things more than once. but he does change, slowly, and it comes from questioning what he was taught and choosing something different, even when itâs hard.
and i think thatâs the part that sticks with me: the idea that you can come from something rigid, something damaging even, and still choose to be better.
I feel like the reason I hate Jax and Rocky so much is that they are everything that I hate about myself.
Jaxâs desperate attempts to hide his true identity through being as masculine as possible because heâs scared of it hits too close to home. I tried so hard to be a girl, I yearned to be like the ones in my class, I wanted to be one so bad but I just wasnât, and realising that was one of the hardest things in my life.
With Rocky, Iâm not going to go into detail for my sake but basically mommy issues. Thats it. Thats all Iâm going to say.
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Sri Lankan Fairies and Senegalese Goddesses: Mixing Mythology as a Mixed Creator
[Note: this archive ask was submitted before the Masterpost rules took effect in 2023. The ask has been abridged for clarity.]
@reydjarinkenobi asked:
Hi, Iâm half Sri Lankan/half white Australian, second gen immigrant though my mum moved when she was a kid.
My main character for my story is a mixed demigod/fae. [...] Her bio mum is essentially a Scottish/Sri Lankan fairy and her other bio mum (goddess) is a goddess of my own creation, Nettamaar, whoâs name is derived from [...] Wolof words [...]. The community of mages that she presided over is from the South Eastern region of Senegal [...] In the beginning years of European imperialism, the goddess basically protected them through magic and by blessing a set of triplets effectively cutting them off from the outside world for a few centuries [...]
I was unable to find a goddess that fit the story I wanted to tell [...] and also couldnât find much information on the internet for local gods, which is why I have created my own. I know that the gods in Hinduism do sort of fit into [the story] but my Sri Lankan side is Christian and I donât feel comfortable representing the Hindu gods in the way that I will be this goddess [...]. I wanted to know if any aspect of the communityâs history is problematic as well as if I should continue looking further to try and find an African deity that matched my narrative needs?
I was also worried that having a mixed main character whoâs specifically half black would present problems as I canât truly understand the black experience. I plan on getting mixed and black sensitivity readers once I finish my drafts [...] I do take jabs at white supremacy and imperialism and I I am planning to reflect my feelings of growing up not immersed in your own culture and feeling overwhelmed with what you donât know when you get older [...].
Iâm sorry for the long ask but I donât really have anyone to talk to about writing and Iâm quite worried about my story coming across as insensitive or problematic because of cultural history that I am not educated enough in.
Reconciliation Requires Research
First off: how close is this worldâs history to our own, omitting the magic? If youâre aiming for it to be essentially parallel, I would keep in mind that Senegal was affected by the spread of Islam before the Europeans arrived, and most people there are Muslim, albeit with Wolof and other influences.Â
About your Scottish/Sri Lankan fairy character: Iâll point you to this previous post on Magical humanoid worldbuilding, Desi fairies as well as this previous post on Characterization for South Asian-coded characters for some of our commentary on South Asian âfaeâ. Since she is also Scottish, the concept can tie back to the Celtic ideas of the fae.
However, reconciliation of both sides of her background can be tricky. Do you plan on including specific Sri Lankan mythos into her heritage? I would tread carefully with it, if you plan to do so. Not every polytheistic culture will have similar analogues that you can pull from.
To put it plainly, if youâre worried about not knowing enough of the cultural histories, seek out people who have those backgrounds and talk to them about it. Do your research thoroughly: find resources that come from those cultures and read carefully about the mythos that you plan to incorporate. Look for specificity when you reach out to sensitivity readers and try to find sources that go beyond a surface-level analysis of the cultures youâre looking to portray.Â
~ Abhaya
I see you are drawing on Gaelic lore for your storytelling. Abhaya has given you good links to discussions weâve had at WWC and the potential blindspots in assuming, relative to monotheistic religions like Christianity, that all polytheistic and pluralistic lore is similar to Gaelic folklore. Fae are one kind of folklore. There are many others. Consider:
Is it compatible? Are Fae compatible with the Senegalese folklore you are utilizing?Â
Is it specific? What ethnic/religious groups in Senegal are you drawing from?Â
Is it suitable? Are there more appropriate cultures for the type of lore you wish to create?
Remember, Senegalese is a national designation, not an ethnic one, and certainly not a designation that will inform you with respect to religious traditions. But more importantly:
...Research Requires Reconciliation
My question is why choose Senegal when your own heritage offers so much room for exploration? This isnât to say I believe a half Sri-Lankan person shouldnât utilize Senegalese folklore in their coding or vice-versa, but, to put it bluntly, you donât seem very comfortable with your heritage. Religions can change, but not everything cultural changes when this happens. I think your relationship with your motherâs sideâs culture offers valuable insight to how to tackle the above, and Iâll explain why. Â
I myself am biracial and bicultural, and I had to know a lot about my own background before I was confident using other cultures in my writing. I had to understand my own identityâwhat elements from my background I wished to prioritize and what I wished to jettison. Only then was I able to think about how my work would resonate with a person from the relevant background, what to be mindful of, and where my blindspots would interfere.Â
I echo Abhayaâs recommendation for much, much more research, but also include my own personal recommendation for greater self-exploration. I strongly believe the better one knows oneself, the better they can create. It is presumptuous for me to assume, but your askâs phrasing, the outlined plot and its themes all convey a lack of confidence in your mixed identity that may interfere with confidence when researching and world-building. Iâm not saying give up on this story, but if anxiety on respectful representation is a large barrier for you at the moment, this story may be a good candidate for a personal project to keep to yourself until you feel more ready.
(See similar asker concerns here: Running Commentary: What is âok to doâ in Mixed-Culture Supernatural Fiction, here: Representing Biracial Black South American Experiences and here: Am I fetishizing my Japanese character?)
- Marika.
Start More Freely with Easy Mode
Question: Why not make a complete high-fantasy universe, with no need of establishing clear real-world parallels in the text? It gives you plenty of leg room to incorporate pluralistic, multicultural mythos + folklore into the same story without excessive sweating about historically accurate worldbuilding.
It's not a *foolproof* method; even subtly coded multicultural fantasy societies like Avatar or the Grishaverse exhibit certain harmful tropes. I also don't know if you are aiming for low vs high fantasy, or the degree of your reliance on real world culture / religion / identity cues.
But don't you think it's far easier for this fantasy project to not have the additional burden of historical accuracy in the worldbuilding? Not only because I agree with Mod Marika that perhaps you seem hesitant about the identity aspect, but because your WIP idea can include themes of othering and cultural belonging (and yes, even jabs at supremacist institutions) in an original fantasy universe too. I don't think I would mind if I saw a couple of cultural markers of a Mughal Era India-inspired society without getting a full rundown of their agricultural practices, social conventions and tax systems, lol.
Mod Abhaya has provided a few good resources about what *not* to do when drawing heavily from cultural coding. With that at hand, I don't think your project should be a problem if you simply make it an alternate universe like Etheria (She-Ra and the Princesses of Power), Inys (The Priory of the Orange Tree) or Earthsea (the Earthsea series, Ursula K. Le Guin). Mind you, we can trace the analogues to each universe, but there is a lot of freedom to maneuver as you wish when incorporating identities in original fantasy. And of course, multiple sensitivity readers are a must! Wishing you the best for the project.
