Halloween prompt year 2 day 13
"Please stop..." the teen pleaded and Bruce felt his heart clench. He was strapped down to a metal table like a frog being readied for dissection and it took everything Bruce had to not rush over and free him.
The chanting started up again and the boy started screaming, from pain or rage he wasn't sure. All he knew was that the fluids leaking from his and Salinas sons mouth and eyes looked far too similar to the Lazarus waters. The exorcism continued, with Constantine, Zatanna, and Raven all doing everything they could to back up the Exorcist as Danny convulsed on the table, more and more of the odd green goo oozing from his body. It was coming out of his ears and nose now, as well as his pores, giving the sweat on his body a sickly green sheen.
"This is number three!" The exorcist shouted, holding his object of power into the air, "I command you to go back to the damned!" The object was lowered with the intention of touching the boys forehead. The boy desperately tilted his head in an vain attempt to escape from it and Batman forced himself to clench his fists to keep himself from rushing over and helping his son. He hadn't even known Danny existed, having had another son hidden from him by a woman he had loved. He understands why Salina had did it. She must have been early on in the pregnancy with him when Jason had been killed.
She must have thought Bruce couldn't protect her or thier son.
She was right.
But Bruce was here now and he wanted his son to be free of whatever this 'Pit demon' wanted from him. "John. How much longer-"
*Booom*
His question was cut short by an explosion rocking the entirety of the building, forcing him and John to rush to the force of the blast and leave the other behind to complete the ritual
This turned out to be a mistake as it was just a diversion.
Bruce glared at the beast. The werewolf esqe being was holding his sons unconscious form in his arms. Its claws were sharp, long and thin like someone had attached a senbon to the end of each of the creatures fingers. Its teeth weren't much better, all long and needle sharp like something out of a nightmare. The beast, even from this distance, kept is gaze locked onto his own as it slowly backed away into the portal behind it, its clothes and black fur flowing unnaturally with its movements. In moments both the creature and the portal were gone.
So that was a pit demon.
Regardless, Bruce approached the place the portal had been. He would get his son back.
He swore it.
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the rise of AI art isn't surprising to us. for our entire lives, the attitude towards our skills has always been - that's not a real thing. it has been consistently, repeatedly devalued.
people treat art - all forms of it - as if it could exist by accident, by rote. they don't understand how much art is in the world. someone designed your home. someone designed the sign inside of your local grocery store. when you quote a character or line from something in media, that's a line a real person wrote.
"i could do that." sure, but you didn't. there's this joke where a plumber comes over to a house and twists a single knob. charges the guy 10k. the guy, furious, asks how the hell the bill is so high. the plumber says - "turning the knob was a dollar. the knowledge is the rest of the money."
the trouble is that nobody believes artists have knowledge. that we actively study. that we work hard, beyond doing our scales and occasionally writing a poem. the trouble is that unless you are already framed in a museum or have a book on a shelf or some kind of product, you aren't really an artist. hell, because of where i post my work, i'll never be considered a poet.
the thing that makes you an artist is choice. the thing that makes all art is choice. AI art is the fetid belief that art is instead an equation. that it must answer a specific question. Even with machine learning, AI cannot make a choice the way we can - because the choices we make have always been personal, complicated. our skills cannot be confined to "prompt and execution." what we are "solving" isn't just a system of numbers - it is how we process our entire existence. it isn't just "2 and 2 is 4", it's staring hard at the numbers and making the four into an alligator. it's rearranging the letters to say ow and it is the ugly drawing we make in the margin.
at some point, you will be able to write something by feeding my work into a machine. it will be perfectly legible and even might sound like me. but a machine doesn't understand why i do these things. it can be taught preferences, habits, statistical probability. it doesn't know why certain vowels sound good to me. it doesn't know the private rules i keep. it doesn't know how to keep evolving.
"but i want something to exist that doesn't exist yet." great. i'm glad you feel creative. go ahead and pay a fucking artist for it.
this is all saying something we all already knew. the sad fucking truth: we have to die to remind you. only when we're gone do we suddenly finally fucking mean something to you. artists are not replicable. we each genuinely have a skill, talent, and process that makes us unique. and there's actual quiet power in everything we do.
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its actually so insane how cute ive gotten just on 9 months of hrt and growing out my hair. i always figure i kinda just look the same as i did like a year or two ago but then i actually look at old pictures and i look at myself in the mirror and its like a whole different person. like there really are chemicals that have been inside me for months and theyre having an effect and. well im just so happy
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