Bro, people on TikTok keep saying that they're “nostalgic for the old days of Welcome Home!” and that “Welcome Home was dead but it's coming back now!”
Like dude, Welcome Home has been here for a little less than a year, there's nothing to be nostalgic about, at least not YET.
Fucking hell man, I feel like a Boomer trying to talk to some Gen Alpha kids, they're all thinking that fandoms are suppose to be short-lived, jesus christ.
I don’t blame them too much, since they are not quite used to fandoms naturally descending and are quick to panic that it’s “completely dead”
Specially since the fandom had such a huge flux of community, art and discussions happening everywhere all at once and for it to slowly die down- naturally people will move on to other things and opinions are bound to change while the younger more naive individuals will wonder what’s wrong and create general assumptions that are not entirely accurate
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I'm having incoherent thoughts about clone danny again from the clone/clone^2 au (when am I not?) but more specifically I'm thinking about his reaction to finding out he's a clone. The standalone clone au digs into that a little more than clone^2, which is more focused on Danny and Damian's relationship. But neither (so far) really get into Danny's issues about finding out he's a clone after 15 years of thinking he wasn't.
Because he resents his parents for not telling him for so long. He resents the way he found out; through a trivial school project rather than a sit-down talk. He resents the fact that, apparently, they had meant to tell him sooner. But forgot. He resents the fact that they never told him because finding out feels like something was stolen from him when it had the chance to not be.
Danny Fenton, just fifteen, cloned not even half a year ago, knows what that personal violation of autonomy feels like. He knows what it's like to be cloned and while he loves Ellie, he does, she's his sister, and in this au his twin. But he is still left with that feeling of unsafety after realizing he'd been cloned. Being cloned is violating. The onset realization that it's so easy to get DNA without the other party noticing, and that what was stopping someone from trying to clone him again?
Followed only after with the rest of the inexplainable mix of feelings of being cloned, the rest of that inner conflict and panic that's an ugly mocktail of emotions that range from horror to fear. Trying to imagine what it's like to be cloned from the cloned party, and I imagine that it leaves you with the feeling of needing to crawl out of your own skin with discomfort.
And then he gets put on the other side of it. Danny Fenton, only fifteen, was cloned not even half a year ago, finding out he is a clone. And reactions, I imagine, can vary from person to person. But to him, it feels like something got stolen from him, like someone took a hole puncher and stuck it right into his chest and stole a chunk of himself from him.
It changes nothing about him and yet it changes everything. It's a betrayal on it's own to just find out he was a clone and they didn't tell him for fifteen years -- it shouldn't mean anything, because he's still Danny, and yet it means everything. It's him, it's him, it's about him. It's his personhood. It's about the fact that a load-bearing rock in his identity just crumbled beneath his feet and now there's a rockslide.
Because then he finds out that they used the wrong DNA. Its like pouring salt in an open wound. He's not even related to his parents or his sister, when for years he thought he was. It's the fact that pieces of his identity that he's been so secure in for so long just got ripped away from him in an instant. Then they tell him -- only through his own horrified prompting -- that the person whose DNA they used -- Bruce Wayne -- didn't even know he existed. That they accidentally used the wrong DNA, then didn't tell the person whose DNA they used.
The betrayal of being lied to for years turns really quickly into horror at his own existence. Something very similar to the horror he felt at being cloned and the skin-crawling discomfort that made him feel like his own skin wasn't really his. And then its not. It's actually not. Nothing but his own name feels like it belongs to him anymore -- not his hair, not his eyes, not his heart or his lungs, nothing feels like his anymore and he didn't know what that felt like until it was gone.
It's a question of Nature Vs. Nurture -- where does the line of "nature" begin and where does the line of "nurture" end? What of him is actually his? What of him is Bruce Wayne's? It's not logical, it's not supposed to be. It's a load-bearing wall on the house of his identity being destroyed and now everything else is caving down in on him. What belongs to Danny, what belongs to Bruce Wayne?
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I think one of the reasons that I've always been deeply annoyed by the conception of Darcy as a brooding, humorless love interest (and inferior because of it) is because I actually really enjoy his sense of humor.
Maybe it's because I don't have much of a sense of humor, myself (so I also find this annoying because of the assumption that not liking most humor is some kind of moral failing). But when I do find things amusing, they're often dry and understated asides that I find really funny. I love, for instance:
“I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”
Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr Darcy replied, with great intrepidity,—
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
+
“I am afraid, Mr Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.”
“Not at all,” he replied: “they were brightened by the exercise.”
I think my other favorite Darcy-Caroline interchange is even simpler, but I do find it entertaining:
“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”
“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?”
I also always laugh at the book version of this scene:
“That is a failing, indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me.”
“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”
“And your defect is a propensity to hate everybody.”
“And yours,” he replied, with a smile, “is wilfully to misunderstand them.”
Here, I also enjoy the use of a quite serious contemporary philosophical point (and the fact that he references it in a conversation with a woman at all, tbh), but the sudden shift to banter is what makes the interchange to me.
None of these are like ... haha-funny jokes, but I wouldn't find those amusing, anyway, while these always make me giggle.
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“Well,” says the woman at the foot of the bridge, sheepishly swiping a windblown lock of dark hair out of her mouth and tucking her hands into her sleeves, “I was told you have a library.”
Faralda’s expression does not change. “Many educational institutions do, yes.”
“Some of the collection dating back to the Second Era?” A nervous, crooked little smile. “Middle Third is the earliest I’ve handled. But—er—your archivist said—”
“You’ve spoken with Urag?”
“Yes!” She goes to dig through the bag over her shoulder, a flash of some delicate floral design sewn carefully into the inner lining. It matches the pattern twined around the ends of her sleeves. “Or, well, written. Letters.” The stranger offers a neatly folded sheet of familiar letterhead.
Faralda takes it. No doubt on closer inspection: it’s Urag’s distinctive, sparse handwriting. Halfway down the page—gentler on finer leather detailing. If you’re ever in the area (ha!) stop by and take a look, but the effect should be the same on a darker dye.
Then, on a fresh line: Tell Laghra the new frames are nice.
She folds it back. The woman gives her a wider smile, hopefully swaying back onto her heels and then forward onto her toes again, unbalanced. “I brought my own glue. Just in case, I mean. Not water-based, so I didn’t think I’d have as much trouble maintaining efficacy, but the first time it got dark coming up this way I did lose one of the littlest jars—is it always so cold at night or just this time of year?”
“Always, I’m afraid.” Glue. Not quite what she had been expecting to hear. “And what is it you do, exactly?”
“Oh, you know, this and that,” she takes half a dizzy step to the side (more stagger than step, really); “tried a matchmaking service for chickens, but that’s not much of a living. Hard to, uh, make hens meet.”
Something twitches across Faralda’s face and evulses an ungraceful sound out her nose before she can stop it. She flattens her mouth into a straight line.
The wind, suddenly, seems very loud.
“…no, you’re right,” the woman scratches awkwardly at her cheek with a pained grimace, “that one wasn’t ready yet I think. I’m—I do book repair and conservation. Down at sea level, mostly; do you mind if we sit somewhere?”
---
“I think Urag’s new assistant had more glue with her than she did food,” Mirabelle says, holding up a form and squinting at the looping penmanship.
“Perhaps it’s edible in a pinch.”
Amusement tugs at the corners of her mouth as she flips to the next page, eyes flicking up to meet hers for just a moment. An ink stain on the knuckle of her ring finger, half-faded, matches one on her other thumb, as though she’s been idly rubbing at it. “…her closest emergency contact is on the other side of the Druadachs. Remind me to check rush rates for couriers that way, would you?”
As though she’ll forget to do so herself. Unlikely. “Do you really keep track of those?” Faralda raises a brow from the other side of the desk, hands clasped behind her back.
“Of course. Yours is not especially nearby, either, you know,” she shuffles the forms and then taps the edge of the stack on the desk to straighten them, “but I have been meaning to have you update your file—”
“There’s nothing to update.”
“Hmm.” A lesser woman might be swayed into unnecessary protest by the well-practiced look of patient skepticism Mirabelle gives her. The stray dark lash on her cheek undercuts the overall effect, just a bit.
She holds her gaze, unswayed.
“You’ll still have to sign it again.” Mirabelle stands, going to add the new file to the drawer. “You spoke on the way in, yes? What did you make of her?”
“An interesting background.”
“Oh?” She turns expectantly.
Faralda, straight-faced, says, “You should ask about her chickens.”
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