#tree equity

[atompowers]

🌞 3 Treemendously Simple Sustainable City Living Scoring Tools

#sunny climate News #tools #resources #sustainable living #city scoring #index #city indexes #baselining #data #comparison #urban data #urban sustainability #tree index #bike index #bikability #walkability #tree equity #equity #sustainability #climate #climate change #climate equity #green #green living #eco-living #ecology #environment #blog #positive progress #optimism

[queerbrownvegan]

Does your neighborhood have a large density of trees or barely any? Tree Equity is essential when we talk about environmental justice. The term was coined by American Forests organization that looks into fighting for equitable tree coverage in all cities regardless of race, color, national origin, or income. It was found that low-income communities have lower density tree canopy rates in their neighborhoods compared to affluent communities. Tree equity relates to the environmental justice movement that advocates for clean air, water, and soil. According to the Arbor Day Foundation, in one year a mature tree will absorb more than 48 pounds of carbon dioxide from the atmosphere and release oxygen in exchange. Low-income families are struggling to cope with heat-related illnesses like asthma that are on the rise in these areas because of climate breakdown. The situation is exacerbated by the fact that fewer trees lead to increased levels of carbon dioxide thus resulting in reduced overall air quality. There are sites like tree equity score that help determine the level of quality of trees in your area. Trees are natural climate resilience tools that continue to be pushed out of the dominant economic model. Instead, there is a huge investment going into mechanical machines that absorb CO2 that are failing us rather than addressing how systemic racism prevents low-income communities from having access to green spaces. The loss of ecological knowledge for youth is being paired with a mechanistic framework that values profit. One famous example is that 88% of tree species in New York can be foraged for medicine and food. Well-maintained trees can minimize soil erosion during heavy rainfall, which wards off damage to the natural, built environment. If trees can co-exist, protect, feed, and nurture us, why are we not able to give back to them in a reciprocal way? That should be our goal.

#queerbrownvegan #bipoc #environment #climate change #climate crisis #environmentalism #sustainability #activism #justice #social justice #environmental justice #climate justice #tree equity #equity #social equity #intersectionality #intersectional environmentalism #extinction rebellion #writing #blog #nature #late stage capitalism

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Rural towns and poor urban neighborhoods are being devoured by dollar stores

Across America, rural communities and big cities alike are passing ordinances limiting the expansion of dollar stores, which use a mix of illegal predatory tactics, labor abuse, and monopoly consolidation to destroy the few community grocery stores that survived the Walmart plague and turn poor places into food deserts.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/27/walmarts-jackals/#cheater-sizes

"The Dollar Store Invasion," is a new Institute For Local Self Reliance (ILSR) report by Stacy Mitchell, Kennedy Smith and Susan Holmberg. It paints a detailed, infuriating portrait of the dollar store playback, and sets out a roadmap of tactics that work and have been proven in dozens of places, rural and urban:

https://cdn.ilsr.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/01/ILSR-Report-The-Dollar-Store-Invasion-2023.pdf

The impact of dollar stores is plainly stated in the introduction: "dollar stores drive grocery stores and other retailers out of business, leave more people without access to fresh food, extract wealth from local economies, sow crime and violence, and further erode the prospects of the communities they target."

This new report builds on ILSR's longstanding and excellent case-studies, augmenting them with the work of academic geographers who are just starting to literally map out the dollar store playbook, identifying the way that a dollar stores will target, say, the last grocery store in a Black neighborhood and literally surround it, like hyenas cornering weakened prey. This tactic is repeated whenever a new grocer opens in the neighborhood: dollar stores "carpet bomb" the surrounding blocks, ensuring that the new store closes as quickly as it opens.

One important observation is the relationship between these precarious neighborhood grocers and Walmart and its other big-box competitors. Deregulation allowed Walmart to ring cities with giant stores that relied on "predatory buying" (wholesale terms that allowed Walmart to sell goods more cheaply than its competitors bought them, and also rendered its suppliers brittle and sickly, and forced down the wages of those suppliers' workers). This was the high cost of low prices: neighborhoods lost their local grocers, and community dollars ceased to circulate in the community, flowing to Walmart and its billionaire owners, who spent it on union busting and political campaigns for far-right causes, including the defunding of public schools.

This is the landscape where the dollar stores took root: a nation already sickened by an apex predator, which left a productive niche for jackals to pick off the weakened survivors. Wall Street loved the look of this: the Private equity giant KKR took over Dollar General in 2007 and went on a acquisition and expansion bonanza. Even after KKR formally divested itself of Dollar General, the company's hit-man Michael M Calbert stayed on the board, rising to chairman.

The dollar store market is a duopoly. Dollar General's rival is Dollar Tree, another gelatinous cube of a company that grew by absorbing many of its competitors, using Wall Street's money. These acquisitions are now notorious for the weaknesses they exposed in antitrust practice. For example, when Dollar Tree bought Family Dollar, growing to 14,000 stores, the FTC waved the merger through on condition that the new business sell off 330 of them. These ineffectual and pointless merger conditions are emblematic of the inadequacy of antitrust as it was practiced from the Reagan administration until the sea-change under Biden, and Dollar Tree/Family Dollar is the poster child for more muscular enforcement.

The duopoly has only grown since then. Today, Dollar General and Dollar Tree have more than 34,000 US outlets - more than Starbucks, #Walmart, McDonalds and Target - combined.

Destroying a community's grocery store rips out its heart. Neighborhoods without decent access to groceries impose a tax on their already-struggling residents, forcing them to spend hours traveling to more affluent places, or living off the highly processed, deceptively priced (more on this later) goods for sale on the dollar store shelves.

Take Cleveland, once served by a small family chain called Dave's Market that had served its communities since the 1920s. Dave's store in the Collinwood neighborhood was targeted by Family Dollar and Dollar General, which opened seven stores within two miles of the Dave's outlet. The dollar stores targeted the only profitable part of Dave's business - the packaged goods (fresh produce is a money-loser, subsidized by packaged good).

The dollar stores used a mix of predatory buying and "cheater sizes" (packaged goods that are 10-20% smaller than those sold in regular outlets, which are not available to other retailers) to sell goods at prices that Dave's couldn't match, driving Dave's out of business.

Typical dollar stores stock no fresh produce or meat. If your only grocer is a dollar store, your only groceries are highly processed, packaged foods, often sold in deceptive single-serving sizes that actually cost more per ounce than the products that the defunct neighborhood grocer once sold.

Dollar stores don't just target existing food deserts - they create them. Dollar stores preferentially target Black and brown neighborhoods with just a single grocer and then they use predatory pricing (subsidizing the cost of goods and selling them at a loss) and predatory buying to force that grocery store under and tip the neighborhood into food desert status.

Dollar stores don't just target Black and brown urban centers; they also go after rural communities. The commonality here is that both places are likely to be served by independent grocers, not chains, and these indies can't afford a pricing war with the Wall Street-backed dollar store duopoly.

As mentioned, the "predatory buying" of dollar stores is illegal - it was outlawed in 1936 under the Robinson-Patman Act, which required wholesalers to offer goods to all merchants on the same terms. 40 years ago, we stopped enforcing those laws, leading the rise and rise of big box stores and the destruction of the American Main Street.

The lawmakers who passed Robinson-Patman knew what they were doing. They were aware of what contemporary economists call "the waterbed effect," where wholesalers cover the losses from their massive discounts to major retailers by hiking prices on smaller stores, making them even less competitive and driving more market consolidation.

When dollar stores invade your town or neighborhood, they don't just destroy the food choices, they also come for neighborhood jobs. Where a community grocer typically employs 12 or more people, Dollar General employs about 8 per store. Those workers are paid less, too: 92% of Dollar General's workers earn less than $15/h, making Dollar General the worst employer of the 66 large service-sector firms.

Dollar stores also lean heavily into the tactic of turning nearly every role at its store into a "management" job, because managers aren't entitled to overtime pay. That's how you can be the "manger" of a dollar store and take home $40,000 a year while working more than 40 hours every single week.

Understaffing stores turns them into crime magnets. Shootings at dollar stores are routine. Between 2014-21, 485 people were shot at dollar stores - 156 of them died. Understaffed warehouses are vermin magnets. In the Eastern District of Arkansas, Family Dollar was subpoenaed after a rat infestation at its distribution centers that contaminated the food, medicines and cosmetics at 400 stores.

The ILSR doesn't just document the collapse of American communities - it fights back, so this report ends with a lengthy section on proven tactics and future directions for repelling the dollar store invasion. Since 2019, 75 communities have blocked proposals for new dollar stores - more than 50 of those cases happened in 2021/22.

54 towns, from Birmingham, AB to Fort Worth, TX to  Kansas City, KS, have passed laws to "sharply restrict new dollar stores, typically by barring them from opening within one to two miles of an existing dollar store."

To build on this momentum, the authors call for a "reinvigoration of antitrust laws," especially the Robinson-Patman Act. Banning predatory buying would go far to creating a level playing field for independent grocers hoping to fight off a dollar store infestation.

Further, we need the FTC and Department of Justice Antitrust Divition to block mergers between dollar-store chains and unwind the anticompetitve mergers that were negligently waved through under previous administrations (thankfully, top enforcers like Jonathan Kantor and Lina Khan are on top of this!).

We need to free up capital for community banks that will back community grocers. That means rolling back the bank deregulation of the 1980s/90s that allowed for bank consolidation and preferential treatment for large corporations, while reducing lending to small businesses and destroying regional banks. Congress should cap the market share any bank can hold, break up the biggest banks, and require banks to preference loans for community businesses. We also need to end private equity and Wall Street's rollup bonanza.

All of that sounds like a tall order - and it is! But the good news is that it's not just groceries at stake here. Every kind of community business, from pet groomers to hairdressers to funeral homes, falls into the antitrust "Twilight Zone," of acquisitions under $101m. With 60% of Boomer-owned businesses expected to sell in the coming decade, 2.9m businesses employing 32m American workers are slated to be gobbled up by private equity:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/16/schumpeterian-terrorism/#deliberately-broken

Whether you're burying a loved one, getting dialysis, getting your cat fixed or having your dog's nails trimmed, you are already likely to be patronizing a business that has been captured by private equity, where the service is worse, the prices are higher and the workers earn less for harder jobs. Everyone has a stake in financial regulation. We are all in this fight, except for the eminently guillotineable PE barons, and you know, fuck those guys

At the state level, the authors propose new muscular enforcement regimes and new laws to protect small businesses from unfair competition. They also call on states to increase the power of local governments to reject new dollar store applications, amending land use guidelines to require "cultivating net economic growth, ensuring that everyone has access to healthy food, and protecting environmental resources.

If all of this has you as fired up as it got me this morning, check out ILSR's "How to Stop Dollar Stores in Your Community" resources:

http://ilsr.org/dollar-stores

I’m kickstarting the audiobook for my next novel, a post-cyberpunk anti-finance finance thriller about Silicon Valley scams called Red Team Blues. Amazon’s Audible refuses to carry my audiobooks because they’re DRM free, but crowdfunding makes them possible.

Image: Mike McBey (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/158652122@N02/38893547595/

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

[Image ID: A ghost town; it is towered over by a haunted castle with a Dollar General sign on it, with the shadow of Count Orlock cast over its tower. One of its turrets is being struck by lightning.]

#pluralistic #shrinkflation #institute for local self reliance #ilsr #dollar tree #dollar general #dollar stores #groceries #food deserts #kkr #pe #private equity #predatory buying #predatory pricing #Robinson-Patman Act #consolidation #monopoly #monopsony #care labor

[gramforgram]

man. I'm just one guy on the internet, but seeing such blatant environmental warfare used against striking union members doesn't get me excited about "tree law," as this great opportunity to see justice for the proletariat

the act is done. those trees will be stressed, susceptible to disease, and forced to endure heatwaves. those trees may die and the only consequence will be more capital exchange

doesn't anyone else see? we share the same world, the same fate, the same struggle with those trees. in some ways, we are the same

and when men come to cut you down, their shears will give all the permission they need

#tree law #wga strike #sag strike #union strong #feeling a lot of feelings and needed to do some impromptu nonfiction poetry #Nazi punks fuck off btw #this is not about Jews this is about the very real media corps oppressing strikers and denying them a crumb of wage equity #liberals wake up and see what's going on #fellow colonizers see harm against nature to hurt people as the evil it is not just “for” people #anyhow I've had enough I'm gonna go get high

[riotinyellow]

I have a son, carlos he is a standard peanut cactus, and I was wondering, as a cacti parent, are there any laws that protect my sons rights, or do only the trees get their existence acknowledged by the law

#i call for equity #equity #tree law #but #no #cactus law #cactus #carlos is turning 2 next February #wga strikes #support the wga #wga solidarity #wga strong #wga strike #i stand with the wga #wga #sag solidarity #sag strike #sag aftra

[angermgnt]

Anger

Anger, in ADHDrs, arises from a negative event. The event causes our brains to run through a 10,000 node decision tree and tell us that either something is doesn't meet our expectations or something is not fair.

We respond in 5 different ways:

Flight

Fight

Observe & Investigate

Cry

Depression

Provided here is a brief discussion of the concepts listed above and how they affect you. Hopefully, this starts a larger and expanded conversation about how to resolve anger faster.

Expectations

What did you want instead of what you got?

Expectations are a rich ground for which anger or happiness can sprout from. You should never give up on what you expect to happen, it may just be that the way you are going about it won't get you what you want. Therefore, project management is always the best course when managing expectations.

While getting what you want is the end result, how you get there affords many different paths. Some slower than others, so legal, some easy, some hard. But, there are many paths to the goal. No one path is right or wrong, unless you are stepping on someone elses rights.

The first rule in Project Management is .. Manage Expectations .. That means that you and anyone involved in this project needs to communicate what their expectations are, and hammer out how they are all going to be met. Or, if they can even be met. This resolves a lot of anger issues right off the bat.

Fair

Fair is not equal. Fair is not equity. Fair is what works for you to allow you to do the same things that others can do. For example, if you are in a wheel chair, then having a ramp to enter a building that has stairs is fair. There are other examples of fair for executive function, emotional dysregulation, and stimming. Just to name a few other problem areas, but these are internal vs external disabilities. And, it is much easier for the general audience to understand fair based on an external disability.

If someone else is allowed to play baseball in a park, and you are able to play baseball, then why can't you play baseball in the same park? The same goes for any other activity. Voting for example. But, what some people consider equality is that you have your park to play baseball in, and we have ours, and the two shall not cross. Like good and bad neighborhoods. You stay in yours and I'll stay in mine. (I think this is called Segregation.)

Fair happens when everyone has an equal shot at the same spot based on a lot of mitigating factors. It may not seem like it's equal when you don't make the cut, but at the same time, others who where kept out due to mitigating factors who also show promise are let in, get a chance to improve their entire community. This is the impetus of Affirmative Action, and H1B visas, or partnering with overseas corporations to produce American Consumer Products.

Flight

When something doesn't go the way we expect it to or doesn't seem fair, the first response to most situations for NeuroTypcials is to flee the scene and recover. This is a normal and expected response.

You see an angry tiger swatting at people and suddenly you realize that it's coming your way. What are you going to do? Are you trained to wrassle with anger tigers? Because, if not, then you're probably going to run and find shelter until the angry tiger moves on and then come out get to a safer spot.

Fight

ADHDrs come with a built in Challenge Accepted circuit, so most of the times we will engage in a fight for our rights and what's fair. This could be a physical fight or a legal battle or a battle of wills. But, it's that challenge circuit that gets many of us hauled in front of a judge to explain our actions.

Observe and Investigate

Some people when they get angry, use the energy to fuel their curiosity and investigate the reasons why their expectations are not being met. This may result in further actions being taken to resolve the disparities between their expectations and reality. This could be in the form of a letter writing campaign, telling a story, filing a law suite, or taking matters into your own hands.

As always, be careful when being a vigilante. You will find with most Republicans won't be interested in your plight until they have experienced the same trap you fell into and let them complain about their situation to other republicans for sympathy.

The idea here is to repurpose that challenge circuit into an .. I'm going to show you who's right and wrong in this situation .. mode and build a case that enumerates why your expectations are correct in how something should be handled, and how the other guy's expectations / response was not or inappropriate.

Cry

Crying is the physical expression of feeling helpless in a situation while you try to think of a way out of your situation. There is a difference between crying to alleviate emotional stress and using crying to guilt someone into doing something for you.

ADHDrs can handle kaos. ADHDrs can't handle stress.

When the stress becomes too much for our brains / bodies to handle we start to cry. There is nothing wrong with this. Have the cry, let your system reset and begin to move on. It's ok to let others see you cry as well. Nothing to be embarrassed about.

Crying becomes a problem when it's used to manipulate others to get what you want by guilt tripping them into changing their mind. Most of the time, all it does is annoy others who are trying to help you.

Depression

ADHD depress is not like NeuroTypical depression. ADHD depression is caused by a singular negative event that causes a chain reaction or cascade reaction in our brains. A thought storm is created when our brains start looping through all the negative events from our past, the inner monologue becomes negative, and all our thoughts about our self become negative.

While Depression and Anger are part of the 5 Stages of Grief.

Denial

Isolation

Anger

Bargaining

Depression

Acceptance

AHDrs need to reframe the original negative event in order to get out of the depressive state. Or, we need so many happy events that no negative thought has room to create a new negative emotional response and kickstart the whole process over again.

There is nothing wrong with being angry and depressed about a situation that hasn't gone the way you expected or needed it to. Whole drama series are written based on this concept. People make decisions hoping for the best outcome, but instead get the worst outcome and have to work their way out of it. It makes for great theater and entertainment. It's not so good when it's real life.

You were hoping to get into the college of your dreams and it didn't happen. Or, you lost someone special to you, even before you hand a chance to say good by or understood what it meant that you would never see them again.

Sometimes it takes time to process the emotional attachments you had to an expectation.

Resolving Anger

There is a better way. And, either you will find it, or your ADHD associative brain will find it for you.

Remember to take into account all the possibilities of a situation where the answer could be NO! The NO! may be to the specific path you are taking. So, remember there are other paths. They may be longer, harder, and cost more, but they do exist.

Remember that ADHDrs have event driven emotions. One negative event can cause us to spiral into a negative thought storm where our thoughts, inner monologue and memories constantly dredge up all the nasty shit that has failed in our lives. There are two ways out of this .. reframe the original event, or curate so many positive events it leaves no room for the negative events to continue.

Remember to remind yourself that you are no longer in the situation that made you angry the first time. The anger will be triggered over and over again, by similar issues. That current issues, is not the previous issue. Don't let it suck you back into the old issue. Remind yourself that you're not there.

If you don't find a way to resolve your anger, and it's getting in the way of your brains ability to function, your Associate Brain will wrap up all the memories, tie them into a bow, and seal them off from you. It will be as if the entire experience never happened. This is what happens to children who have experienced very traumatic incidents in their lives.

Conclusion

As I wrote this piece I thought of many different ways that ADHDrs could become angry. Suffice it to say, this piece focused on having the expectation of not getting financial aid or some other subsidy vs loosing a loved one, or the many other issues that could cause anger to arise. Each has it's own unique flavor on how is should be handled. But, in looking at these other situations, I the general principle on dealing with anger still holds true. Manage your expectations, have back up plans in place, reframe the issues causing anger, and remind yourself that it won't matter in time.

#anger #anger management #working with adhd #adhd at work #project management #education #negative events #coping skills #10000 node decision tree #reframe issues #you're not there anymore #associative memories #depression #adhd depression #anger from loss #stages of grief #Equality #Equity #Fairness #Fight or Flight #Crying #Emotional Release #Guilt Tripping #Observe and Investigate #Challenge Accepted #manage expectations

[seat-safety-switch]

I don't know what it is, but for some reason, I really hate having the city inspector show up. Every time I get an improvement or repair to the house done, I always get nervous that they're going to find something wrong. This, of course, is ridiculous. I didn't do the work. Some other person, who I paid with my missing landlord's credit card, did some professional business-type things with the full expectation it would be inspected.

To make matters worse, something real creepy happened to me the other day. Soon, I would discover exactly why I had such anxiety around allowing a stranger to peer into the innermost guts of my home, and gaze upon the work performed by another.

I had to put in a new hot-water heater. This job could be done by myself, but it would involve getting slightly wet, and it was better to let my absentee landlord, who disappeared under mysterious circumstances, improve the equity he has in his house with a much-needed renovation. Besides, I was too busy out in the yard, using a chunk of tree trunk to dislodge the recalcitrant passenger-side motor mount of a 1968 Dart. That's a story for another time; you're here to hear about this Bob Vila-ass homeowner shit.

A technician showed up, riding a relatively primo-looking late-00s (I guessed 2006) Ford E-250 work van with a couple dings on the rear bumper that were evidence of an aggressive attitude towards parallel parking in the urban environment. I don't remember what she looked like. She dropped off a big hot water heater, hooked everything up, then carried the old one off slung over one shoulder. That's when things went weird.

For weeks after, my surveillance network (a bunch of deer cameras I stole from the woods) was constantly tripping with sightings of a mysterious new home invader. When I checked the photos in the morning, all I'd see in the shots were khakis, a city-coloured polo shirt, occasionally a pair of anti-slip, steel-toed low-rise sneakers. Never a clear picture of his face. He'd stick a "sorry we missed you" label to the door, and escape into the night.

When I called the city to complain that home inspections should not be done at 3 am, they told me that the inspector by that name had died long ago. I started to get really freaked out, which I guess is a common reaction, because the municipal help-line technician went on to explain.

"We're really short on staff, so we've been getting some of our inspections performed by the living dead. Keeps the pension payments down, too. Don't tell the union."

[maraschinomerry]

Little Pink Heart

Pairings: Anthony Lockwood x fem!reader, implied Locklyle

Summary: following a fatal Ghost-Touch, Lockwood and reader must figure out how to manage love and life after death

Content: reader's death, ghost!reader, grief, angst, bittersweet, not a happy ending, established relationship

A/N: Please please be aware that this fic has some very heavy content, don't feel obliged to read if you could find it upsetting! That being said, this is as much about exploring the concept of Visitors' sentience that Jonathan Stroud introduced and building on what we saw with Annabel Ward as it is about the angst and the grief. This is dedicated to @bella-rose29 for mentioning the idea of ghost!reader and giving me inspiration (bonus angst: listen to Someone New by Freya Ridings while you read)

Word count: 4.9k (my longest fic yet!)

Taglist: @neewtmas @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea (let me know if you want adding or removing!)

The click of the key echoed through the house as you opened the door. Dusk was falling, the fine mist that had settled tinted a soft blue. As much as you didn't want to go inside, you fancied staying out here less.

“Don't linger, darling,” your boyfriend, Anthony, murmured as he passed over the threshold. His hand slipped into yours and he led you in. The house was cold and dim in the fading light, and from the fine layer of dust and lack of personal effects it was clear that it hadn't been inhabited for some time. It was a shame that the owner, who had seemed like a nice enough young woman, had had to move out of her family home, but you couldn't help but be grateful. You and Anthony had only just got your licences, and with no links to any agencies nor desires to join them you'd decided to try and set up your own. That took time, though, and money, and though Anthony had a little equity in his house you'd agreed to take a couple of small, private cases to make up as much as you could. That was how you found yourself here, ready to earn a reasonable sum in exchange for eliminating a lone Type Two. A few jobs like this would help set you up nicely.

The kitchen was slightly warmer than the rest of the house, the west-facing windows having allowed in the last of the sun before it dipped behind the trees in the distance. Together you set up your kit bags on the table - you didn't have much: a few handmade salt bombs, filings and chains, a few flares only in case of emergency (they'd cost far too much to waste) and of course your rapiers. Lockwood pulled something extra from his bag, a small plastic-wrapped packet. Bourbon biscuits.

“You're the best,” you smiled as he opened the packet and offered one to you, which you bit into quickly.

“I know,” he grinned back, brushing a stray crumb from your lip. You blushed.

The owner of the house had provided a floor plan, but her account of the Visitor had been so inconsistent and vague that it was difficult to pinpoint a possible location for the Source. Anthony spread the roll of paper across the table, and you wrapped your arms around his waist, peering over his shoulder at the diagram. There were two floors and a basement, but the latter had been gutted a month ago ready for renovation so there was nothing in there at present.

“Let's start upstairs and work our way back down,” Anthony suggested. “More likely to find something in one of the bedrooms.”

“True, but it's a lot of wasted time if we don't. Why don't we split up and take a floor each?”

His expression soured, and he moved closer, taking your hand again and rubbing small anxious circles above your thumb. “That's smart, but I hate the idea of leaving you on your own.” Even when he didn't agree with your ideas, he always found a way to compliment them. Just one of the things that made you love him all the more.

You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It won't be for long, and I'll call for you the moment I find anything suspicious.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” You leant forward and placed your lips delicately on his. He held you close, your hands on his chest, one of his on your waist and the other fidgeting with your necklace. It was one he'd bought for you, a small pink gemstone in a heart shape on a simple silver chain. His promise to always love and protect you. Not a day had gone by since that you didn't wear it. He nodded at last; he knew he would, he'd do anything you asked of him in a heartbeat. It still worried him not to be by your side, but he trusted that you were a good agent who could handle yourself and that you meant it when you said you'd call for him. His only condition was that if the Source was more likely to be upstairs, that would be where he'd look.

So it was that you found yourself, torch in one hand and the other on your rapier, exploring the ground floor. The silence was oppressive, seeping the confidence from you with every step. Not a ticking clock, not the creaking of the old building settling, not even the residual hum of electricity or plumbing, just the occasional thud from your boyfriend upstairs. Working quickly, you ruled out the dining room and bathroom. That left the lounge. The air smelled musty, and a shiver ran through you as you entered. That was never a good sign. You pulled out your thermometer and watched the temperature drop the further in you went.

“Anthony?” Your voice felt deafening against the quiet of the room, but you knew it hadn't been anywhere near loud enough to travel upstairs. No, this was silly, you could handle this. There were no signs of a spirit yet, for all you knew the change in temperature could be from the wind blowing down the chimney into the empty fireplace. You flicked the torch off, using your now free hand to hold your necklace, grounding yourself as you tuned in and listened. There was nothing at first. You wondered whether Anthony was having more luck upstairs; so far down here had been thoroughly useless. Maybe you should go and check on him. But then you heard it. A tragic, gut-wrenching wail, getting closer.

“Anthony?” you called again, louder this time but as steady as you could. There was movement above. He'd heard. So had the spirit, the wailing definitely nearby now. You pulled out your rapier.

The temperature plummeted.

A screech, so close you would have felt the breath on your neck had it come from a living being, made you whirl round. Your rapier clattered to the floor. Shit. Stay calm.

“Anthony!” you yelled, not caring how scared you sounded. His footsteps rattled down the stairs. He was so close.

You lunged towards your rapier.

The Visitor lunged towards you.

Lockwood was in the back bedroom when he heard his name. All his senses were immediately on high alert - you were the only person he allowed to call him Anthony, so he always reacted differently to his first name anyway, and under the circumstances hearing it immediately made him fear the worst.

“Y/n?” He crept out onto the landing, slowly pulling out his rapier and listening intently for any more noise. It was moments like these he was grateful not to be a Listener, he could focus on you and not the sounds of the house's history. He was only two steps onto the staircase when his name came again, louder and more panicked. Without a second thought he ran down the stairs, only holding back enough to make sure he didn't fall. His blood ran cold when he heard you scream.

You tried to both duck and spin as your hand came into contact with the hilt of your rapier. The blade sliced upwards, connecting with the Visitor, but it was too late. Its clawing grey hand clutched onto your shoulder moments before it disappeared. You screamed as tendrils of ice shot through you, radiating outwards from the spot. Through the fog of pain that had suddenly engulfed your brain you heard Anthony, close by now, yelling your name. You had to go to him. He'd know what to do. Everything would be okay.

You took one step, then another. Your torso was going numb, your entire arm having already fallen victim to the plasm which was turning your shoulder a violent shade of blue. One more step, and your legs gave out. You just about made out the silhouette of your boyfriend in the doorway, rushing towards you as you slumped to the ground.

“No, no, no, y/n!” Anthony's face swam into view, trying to mask his utter horror for your sake. “It's going to be okay, darling, I'll go and get help.”

The fingers of your good hand twitched towards his and he took it immediately, despite how cold it was. You struggled to focus on him through your tears, and noticed the same in his eyes. “Ant-” Your voice was failing fast.

“Shh, I've got you.” He cradled your head, his own tears mingling with yours on your cheek, but you could barely feel them. Almost everything was numb. The blue had spread across your chest, and the little pink heart stood out starkly against it. “I'm so sorry, my darling,” Lockwood said softly. He choked back a sob as he leant down, placing a kiss into your hair. You wanted to do the same, to speak to him, to do anything.

His face was the last thing you saw before everything went black.

—

You had no idea how much time had passed when your vision returned, a room slowly materialising in front of your eyes. It was a bedroom, filled with knick-knacks and bathed in a warm golden light. It looked familiar, but you hadn't been here when it went dark, you'd been… somewhere else. It was so hard to remember, but you knew there had been a dark, dusty room and a feeling of agonising cold. And a person. There'd been someone there, someone you needed to say something to. Now here you were, everything feeling so normal yet so bizarre; you were still you, still able to move and see and hear, but there was a disconnect between those sensations and reality. Nothing felt real. You looked around again, desperate for answers.

There.

Perched on the edge of the bed was a boy. His crisp white shirt was a stark contrast to his dishevelled dark hair, doleful brown eyes and the deep eyebags beneath. He looked exhausted, like he'd barely slept or eaten. There was something in his hand, balanced carefully on the tips of his fingers: a necklace, with a little pink heart. A spark of recognition bloomed in the back of your mind. That was your necklace. It was important. He had no right to be holding it. You drifted forward. The boy looked so familiar. Oh. The icy feeling rippled through your chest again, and you remembered. He'd been there when that feeling had taken over your body until you couldn't feel anything else. Rage boiled in your veins, and a snarl crept onto your face. But then, as quickly as it started, the anger subsided. He'd not caused it. He'd held you so gently, cried as everything faded. You knew him. You opened your mouth, finally ready to speak.

Lockwood stared at the tiny gemstone in his hand, unsure whether he wanted anything to happen this time. He'd secretly slipped it from you before DEPRAC had arrived, and spent the past few weeks periodically taking it out of the little silver-glass box in his bedside table. Part of him desperately wanted you to come back, to let him see you once more, but the other part knew it would hurt so much. What if you didn't recognise him and turned violent like so many Visitors? What if you didn't because you didn't recognise anything, just hung there as a shadow of your former self? What if you did, and he had to live with putting you back in the case and removing you from his life all over again?

The decision was made for him when a soft golden glow appeared in the corner of his bedroom. There you were. Tears welled in his eyes as the image of you sent him spiralling back to that day: your edges were a little fuzzy but everything else was the same, from your outfit to the scared look in your eye to the dark patch spreading from your shoulder. You looked at him now and he was relieved to watch you processing your surroundings. The person he knew was still in there, you weren't just a hollow shell. Suddenly you snarled and he flinched, fingers twitching towards the silver-glass case.

You moved closer.

You stopped.

Your face fell.

He watched the glimmer of recognition in your eyes, and the tears he'd been holding back spilled out along with all the things he'd wanted to say for months.

“Oh my darling, I'm so sorry. I should never have let this happen, I should have been there for you, and-”

He paused. You were mouthing something. Over and over. Your death loop, he presumed. God, just putting death in the same sentence as you stung.

“I'd give anything to be able to hear you right now,” he said, voice wavering. You stopped, giving him a sad look. The realisation that at the very least you could understand him, even if you couldn't communicate fully, hit him like a ton of bricks.

“Lockwood!” a boy's voice called from outside. You both looked at the door and your anger flared again. The boy on the bed shook his head.

“He's a friend,” he told you reassuringly, before calling back, “One minute, George!” You waited in the corner, puzzled. The boy, Lockwood (you knew that name, didn't you?), gave you an apologetic look. “I'm sorry, y/n, I've got to go. I'll explain soon, I promise.” He dropped the necklace into its little case and clicked it shut, and you watched the world dissolve.

—

You still weren't sure how much time had passed when you found yourself back in that bedroom, but it didn't feel like very long. The last rays of the sunset poked through the gaps around the drawn curtains, the room lit instead by a lamp on the bedside table. The boy, Lockwood, was sitting on the bed again holding your necklace, but this time he looked at you almost immediately. His hair was a little neater, his eyebags more pronounced.

“Hi,” he said quietly. “Sorry if I disturbed you, I don't… really know how this works.”

You knew he couldn't hear you, but you gave your message again anyway.

“Maybe I should see if George knows how to lip-read,” he chuckled wryly. The sound reminded you of home, wherever that was. Things were still hazy, but part of you had a feeling this was it. Here, with this boy. “Which reminds me,” he continued, “I did promise to tell you about him.”

You settled into the space in the corner, allowing Lockwood's low, gentle voice to wash over you. It was incredibly calming. George was his new housemate, he told you, who'd been living here for about a month. It was all very confusing - it had felt like both minutes and years had passed since you were last here and the same before that, but he explained that the other boy had moved into the house in mid-September, and the last time you'd been here was a week ago in late October. Where was all the time going?

“I have no idea whether you experience time when your Source is contained, whether you're aware of what's going on in between or remember things from last time,” he admitted. Source. You knew about those. They were what you'd been looking for that night in that dark old house. A spirit had been tied to it, and you had to seal the Source to get rid of it. But you'd failed and it had found you, and now… your chest tightened at both the memory and the realisation. Nothing felt real because you weren't. You were just a Visitor. You continued to listen numbly as Lockwood kept talking. Not much wonder he'd recoiled when you first appeared, he'd seen what the touch of a ghost had done to you and without knowing you'd almost inflicted the same fate. You vowed in that moment that no matter what, you'd never let that happen.

The next few months saw Lockwood getting you out every chance he got. Bit by bit, he helped restore your memories and did his best to accommodate you even though the two of you couldn't properly communicate. He set up a little daily tear-off calendar on his dresser so you could keep track of how long it had been between visits, and stored his kit bag in the bottom of his wardrobe so you could move more freely around the room. Eventually, you'd come to remember him more. Not just the events from the night you died, but him. Your boyfriend, Anthony. You wanted nothing more than to be close to him, to be a comforting presence, but you knew you couldn't. Not only because you couldn't touch, but because deep down you knew that as much as you treasured being able to keep him in your life (or rather, afterlife), you had to let him go sooner or later and he needed to do the same with you. He'd been followed around by grief since long before you met him, and you hated that you were adding to it. You were just glad to see him slowly improving week by week - his face was a little brighter, and it seemed George was making sure he stayed fed. You'd have to thank the other boy if you ever got chance. Anthony said the two of you would have got along if you'd met in life, and even now George's obsession with the Problem would have made him your biggest fan, but their friendship was too new and besides he wasn't a Listener either so you'd not be able to tell him anything.

“I've got something to show you,” Anthony announced as you materialised one sunny day in late spring. He sat down with a large pink folder and patted the space next to him on the bed. You tilted your head in confusion.

“Come on,” he sighed fondly, “you never had any sense of personal space before, don't start now. Just no hugging.”

You glowed a little brighter and drifted over, your legs disappearing into the mattress until your torso was level with his. Being careful where he positioned his arms, he angled the folder towards you. It was a photo album, labelled in handwriting you recognised as your own. Page by page, he took you through your memories, giving you time to linger on each one: you as a baby, then a toothy toddler with your first pet; your family and childhood friends; Polaroids of your first team in training to become agents. His hands trembled a little as he reached the next section. On the left were four photos: the team you'd transferred to, the one he'd been training with; a slightly blurry action shot of the two of you sparring for the first time; a goofy photo he'd taken of you cartwheeling down a grassy hill after a case; your team all proudly holding their Grade Four licences. On the other side, surrounded by two styles of hand-drawn hearts, was the two of you hugging on the steps of 35 Portland Row, Anthony's lips pressed in a smile against the top of your head. You remembered that sensation well, a frequent occurrence right up until the moment you died. The rest of the album was full of photos of the two of you, ones taken by others and candids you'd snapped of each other. You felt a pang of regret that you'd never get to take any more.

Anthony turned another page. Hold on. You knew for certain there were no more photos. You looked sideways at your boyfriend, and he gave you a bashful smile. Pasted across a double spread was a copy of a certificate from DEPRAC, confirming A.J. Lockwood & Co Investigators as a registered agency. Inspector Barnes, who you vaguely recalled meeting once or twice, had signed as the licensing authority. Anthony and George had put their names down as the founding members. But then underneath that, in Anthony's familiar hand, he had added an extra section. Honorary Member: y/n y/l/n.

He looked at you so lovingly. “We did it, darling.”

You would have reached for his hand if you could.

—

Weeks began to pass before Lockwood got you to visit again. He'd have spent every day with you, but business was good and he owed it to you to make a proper go of it. In the meantime, George talked incessantly about Visitors which gave Lockwood a chance to think about you. Each time he finally got to see you again he'd apologise profusely, and you'd repeat your death loop back to him. He tried so hard to figure out what you were saying - his Sight was good, you were as clear as day and he knew your every quirk and mannerism, but he just couldn't put the movements of your lips to the right sounds.

Everything changed the day he met Lucy Carlyle. From the moment she set foot in his living room, he felt like he was supposed to have met her. The feeling only grew when he gave her the interview tests - plenty of people had passed through, some with better Talents than others, but none had come even close to the Listening abilities of the girl before him. When she spoke of the gentleness she found in his uncle's pen-knife, he knew he had to hire her.

Lucy managed to defy even his high expectations on the Annabel Ward case. He kept his focus on the young woman's spirit hovering at the end of the corridor, rapier levelled in case the details of her aggressive nature were true, but he couldn't help but think of the first day he brought you back and how quickly you'd retreated and shown a level of sentience he'd never expected from a Visitor. Was this poor woman the same? Lucy's eyes were closed, listening intently.

“She's in pain,” she said softly.

“Of course she is, she's dead.”

“No, something's different.”

He was intrigued instantly. “What's different?”

She shushed him. “I can almost…”

Annabel launched forward, sending Lucy crashing through the wooden railing in her attempt to dodge the grasping hand. Déjà vu overwhelmed Lockwood, your pained eyes flashing across his mind as he staggered backwards.

No.

He'd already lived through this once and regretted the outcome every day since. Now was his chance to redeem himself. He sprang towards the ghost, fending her off with his rapier, pulling Lucy from her desperate grip on the picture frame as soon as the coast was clear.

“Did it touch you?” he asked in a panic as she clung to him.

“Course not, I'd be dead.” Didn't he know it. The more she explained how she'd connected with the spirit, the more sure he became. Later, when they experimented with Annabel's necklace and he listened to Lucy describe the scene in such detail, he knew for certain.

“He loves me. You love me, don't you?” Her hand stroked delicately across his cheek, and he fought the urge to lean into the touch. For that brief moment, he could pretend it was you, still with him, saying those words. Perhaps with Lucy's help, it could be.

—

It had been a while. The trees outside Anthony's window were tinted a beautiful copper. You couldn't wait to hear his updates this time.

“There's a sadness, but so much love too. She feels very kind.” That wasn't Anthony's voice. Something was wrong. There was a girl sitting beside him on the bed, holding a little pink heart on a chain. Your necklace. You grew defensive, preparing to strike.

The boy looked up and saw you glaring. “It's okay, darling.” The girl followed his gaze. “Lucy, this is y/n, my late girlfriend. Y/n, this is our new associate, Lucy. She's a Listener.” Ah. Finally. You settled back down and took in the girl properly. She was pretty, with a warm brunette bob and a blue jumper which made her eyes pop. She smiled up at you, a genuine friendly smile.

“Nice to meet you,” she said sweetly. Anthony gave her an encouraging nod. You noticed that he seemed a little nervous, but there was also a calmness to him that had been missing for the past year. If that was Lucy's influence, then she was alright in your eyes.

Anthony spoke to you again. “She's brilliant, connected with a Visitor on our last case and I thought maybe she could finally help us figure out what you've been trying to say.” You nodded in agreement, and the girl closed her hand around the necklace.

You weren't sure whether you were in Lucy's head or whether she was in yours. The two of you blended into one as she ventured into your memories. Anthony's room melted away around you, sending you back to that cold dark room. You bristled.

“It's a bit different having her in the room with us,” Lucy murmured, eyes closed. “Let me know if either of you need me to stop.”

Anthony glanced at you, flickering slightly but still present and unagitated. “We're okay, go on.”

Meticulously, she described what you were both experiencing, or in your case reliving. It was hard knowing you were getting closer to the agony all over again, but it was important for your boyfriend to finally have a chance for answers and closure, so you kept the inevitable moving along.

“Anthony?” Lucy said softly, the same way you had. By the look on his face, it seemed he was realising now what you had at the time - that you'd tried to call him and hadn't been loud enough, that if only you'd tried again straight away, maybe you'd still be alive. “Anthony?” she called again. “Anthony!” You heard your own scream echo in your mind, felt the cold grasping your shoulder. The boy reached out and gripped Lucy's free hand, never taking his eyes off you. The gesture was supportive for her, but meant for you too. A tear rolled down his cheek. Lucy's breathing was shallow.

“It hurts,” she gasped, “and she's scared.”

“I should have been there quicker.” His voice was shaking with emotion, barely able to get the words out.

“No, there's no anger. She knew you were coming, and having you there through the end was a comfort.”

Anthony swallowed thickly. “Her death loop. Can you hear it?”

She opened her eyes and watched you as you spoke, the words spilling from her lips a second after.

“It's okay. It's not your fault.”

The boy broke down, his sobs rattling through the small room. Lucy held out her arms and he folded into them. She threw you an apologetic glance, and you said it again to her. “It's okay. It's not your fault.”

They were still hugging when, with his and your permission, Lucy gently slipped your necklace back into its case.

—

Now that the secret was out, you really did become an honorary member of the agency. Sure, you couldn't exactly contribute to the cases, but other than that the whole team treated you as one of their own. Anthony always waited for your opinion on big decisions, which you could make quite apparent with how happy or angry your energy was. George was absolutely fascinated by you, and took every opportunity to quiz the others on your awareness of various things and how you reacted to his experiments. Lucy often got you out on her own to have another girl to talk to. In return, of course, she'd fill you in on any gossip they came across or funny things that happened on cases that the boys were too embarrassed to tell you about. Through it all, you watched the three of them grow into a little family. Anthony and Lucy especially had clicked with each other; they reminded you of how you and he had been. That realisation filled you with a mixture of relief and melancholy. You loved Anthony so much, all you wanted was for him to be happy, but you'd be lying if you didn't wish it was you putting the light back in his eyes.

He sat you down shortly after New Year. His face was sombre but hopeful, and he fidgeted with his ring. Part of you could already tell what was coming.

“I don't really know how to say this,” he began hesitantly, “but after everything we've been through, you deserve to hear it.” You waited patiently for him to find the words he needed. Really, you had all the time in the world.

After a few moments, he spoke again. “I promised to always love you, and I will still keep that promise until the day I die…” But. There had to be a but. “...but I really care about Lucy too, and I just-” He didn't need to finish the sentence. And technically he was single. And he stood a chance of having a life with her. And she wasn't going to keep him tied to his past and his grief.

“It's okay.” Now he knew what your death loop was, he could tell what you'd said, and the way you'd limited it to just those words was a reminder of how remarkably well you understood everything that was happening. How you were as close to being a person as you could be, how it wasn't close enough.

“Promise?”

You touched the hollow of your neck, where the outline of a little sparkling heart sat against the darkness.

He nodded in understanding and reached for the silver-glass case. “Thank you, darling.”

“It's okay.”

It's not your fault.

#lockwood & co #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #fem!reader #ghost!reader #angst #lockwood and co fic

[rederiswrites]

So there's a classic joke, repurposed for innumerable jobs and hobbies. It runs along these lines:

"Question: What does a blacksmith/farmer/glassworker do with a million dollars? Answer: Work 'til the money runs out."

And basically--uh. That's what we've done. When we moved here, we used equity from the old house, and withdrew an older 401K of my spouse's for downpayment and property improvement. And as we try to pull this place together and learn how to deal with it all and eventually make it financially stable, we've spent that down. And uhhhhhh it's gone. And we haven't reached any point of stability.

We don't yet have the sheep to a point where we can recoup feed and fencing costs through sales of wool/fleeces/lambs. We don't yet have the garden to a point where it reduces grocery costs. (Indeed, it still costs a great deal because it still requires substantial outside input.) The various trees will be years before they provide us any value. The chickens probably cost more than their eggs would, though their eggs are definitely better than we'd buy at the store. We don't produce any salable crops or added value products yet. The metal shop generally subsists on money the spouse makes with metal shop sales, which is a fantastic achievement I'm very proud of. On the other hand, the metal shop is essentially a second job for him, and he spends a huge amount of time and energy on it. My glass does not support itself, because I haven't put in enough effort, though it's clear that it could.

We also don't have most of those property improvements the 401K was supposedly for. Still have no permanent fencing. No equipment shed. No barn. No water points in the fields. No fucking dishwasher. At least we do have the tractor and a mower more or less adequate to the several acres of lawn we haven't ripped up yet.

The idea was certainly never to get rich off these things. It was to enjoy these things at a lower cost because we put in effort in place of money. But uh. We done run out of money and making up the difference is going to be a whole lot of effort.

So anyway I guess the moral is that being a first generation farmer is insanely fucking difficult and the economic reality is that even having a well-paying outside job can be insufficient to get started. We're gonna do it somehow anyway. But goddamn.

#this is ridiculous #this isn't like...a plea for sympathy or anything #it's more of a 'piece of our shared economic reality'

[breelandwalker]

hi, i'm currently potted plant witching as well (just planted my first crop of veggie/herb/flower seeds & got some more containers & soil today for more planting this weekend) and i would love to know more about your garden this year; would you be willing to outline your plans? any special herbs or projects? Thanks!! <3 love your blog!

🌿🌿🌿 HYPERFIXATION ACTIVATED. 🌿🌿🌿

OH I HAVE SO MANY PLANS, LET ME TELL YOU.

This is the first year that Ragnar and I are doing actual work and sweat equity with the yard at our new place. Last year things were just too chaotic and we didn't have the time or the energy to do much of anything. We trimmed occasionally and I harvest some wild plants, but that was about it.

This year, it's Go Time.

Last weekend, I finally busted out the gorgeous barrel pots we got for Christmas and spent my April market earnings on potting soil, garden tools, and seedlings. When we lived in the apartment, I had a pretty hefty window garden with herbs and flowers and a few vegetables, so I'm eager to recreate that in an outdoor space where the plants can really thrive. (I mean, I grew cherry tomatoes and three kinds of peppers in 10" pots indoors and they got pretty big, so I can only imagine being outdoors will go even better with fresh air and rain and pollinators.)

The potted garden has Napoli tomatoes, poblano and cayenne peppers, green sage, and rosemary, along with something I've never tried growing before - blueberries! I'm planning to add additional pots and more herbs later on, but I felt like this was a really good start. If I can manage it, I want to grow a huge planter of nothing but spinach and sweet basil so I can make pesto this summer.

We've also started clearing and tilling a space out in the yard proper for a raised-bed garden. Nothing too big or ambitious, just something we can try some larger veggies in. We're hoping to try the Three Sisters model with hybrid corn, snap peas, green beans, and kabocha pumpkins. I was also hoping to put in napa cabbage, but there are quite a lot of slugs in the yard when it rains, so perhaps not. I'm toying with the idea of planting some late crops for fall and winter harvests as well. I have sugarplum visions of strings of peppers and braids of garlic hanging in our kitchen with many jars of preserves and sauce in the pantry.

We might also try some other fruits if things go well, maybe raspberries or grapes, but that's more of a Next Summer project. The fence and the ground around it needs some work first and we don't want to overdo things the first year. (I'd really love to put in a little serviceberry tree, but that might be pushing things a bit with regard to space.)

There's also a side garden that's in need of some TLC where I'm vaguely tossing around the idea of climbing flower vines (clematis or morning glory or trumpet flower maybe? something local) and maybe some ground cover in the form of periwinkle. There's also a downspout that really needs a rain barrel, so that's next on the list.

There are sections of the yard that we've deliberately left wild as well, hoping to encourage native plants and pollinators. The clover patches are massive and produce lots of four-leafers and blossoms, so the bees are having a field day. There's also wild dogbane sprouting up now that the vetchweed is cleared and wild plantain (aka white man's foot) starting to come in along the walkway. If I have my druthers, I'll be planting more wildflowers this summer.

Have some pictures and tell me about your garden!

#girlhalfburning #gardens #gardening #plants #green witchcraft #wildcrafting #Bree answers your inquiries #life and times of a cottage witch

[alpaca-clouds]

My Issue with Techno Optimism

I think my least popular opinion within the solarpunk space is, that I do not like Techno Optimism. But there is a good reason for it.

The usual way techno optimists go about it is looking at the state of the world and say: "Well, it is not all bad, technology will save us one day." And this makes me so angry.

It is basically saying like: "One day there is gonna be magic and everything is gonna be okay."

This especially comes into play with the environmental stuff. "Oh, don't worry about clean energy. One day we are gonna have fusion reactors and with that unlimited clean energy." And also: "Oh, don't worry about the CO2 and climate change. One day we are gonna have machines to filter the CO2 from the air."

But actually, what they are saying is: "Let's not change anything right now. It is all gonna work out in the end."

We already have clean energy. We have photovoltaic, we have wind, we have hydro and we have nuclear. (And yes, contrary to what folks might have told you: We do know how to store nuclear waste safely.) We can invest money right now to build a renewable energy grid.

We also do know, how to store some of the CO2. Yes, trees, but also wetlands. Wetlands and especially marshes are AMAZING in storing CO2.

And no, we do not need some weird flying bus. Trains will do just fine.

To me the thing about solarpunk is, that already have all the tools we need to make it happen now. Techno optimists wanna wait for a solution to appear that allows them to not change their behavior. To just keep doing, what they have been doing the entire time. To not degrow. But that is just bullshit.

We need change. We need equity. We it now. Not in 20 years.

#Solarpunk #green revolution #green energy #techno optimism #technology #renewable energy #fusion energy #photovoltaic #solar energy #wind power

[contentment-of-cats]

Text from the Washington Post

DYING EARLY AMERICA’S LIFE EXPECTANCY CRISIS STRESS IS WEATHERING OUR BODIES FROM THE INSIDE OUT

By Akilah Johnson and Charlotte Gomez Oct. 17 at 6:00 a.m.

Link to article here - paywall warning. Use 12.io or other paywall buster.

Physicians and public health experts have pointed to one culprit time and again when asked why Americans live shorter lives than peers in nations with similar resources, especially people felled by chronic diseases in the prime of life: stress.

A cardiologist, endocrinologist, obesity specialist, health economist and social epidemiologists all said versions of the same thing: Striving to get ahead in an unequal society contributes to people in the United States aging quicker, becoming sicker and dying younger.

Recent polls show adults are stressed by factors beyond their control, including inflation, violence, politics and race relations. A spring Washington Post-Ipsos poll found 50 percent of Americans said not having enough income was a source of financial stress; 55 percent said not having enough savings was also a source of stress.

“We should take a step back and look at the society we’re living in and how that is actually determining our stress levels, our fatigue levels, our despair levels,” said Elizabeth H. Bradley, president of Vassar College and co-author of the book “The American Health Care Paradox.” “That’s for everybody. Health is influenced very much by these factors, so that’s why we were talking about a reconceptualization of health.”

The Washington Post’s efforts to gain a deeper understanding of how stress can cause illness, disability and shorter lives led to a once derided body of research that has become part of the mainstream discussion about improving America’s health: the Weathering Hypothesis.

Stress is a physiological reaction that is part of the body’s innate programming to protect against external threats.

When danger appears, an alarm goes off in the brain, activating the body’s sympathetic nervous system — the fight-or-flight system. The hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis is activated. Hormones, such as epinephrine and cortisol, flood the bloodstream from the adrenal glands.

The heart beats faster. Breathing quickens. Blood vessels dilate. More oxygen reaches large muscles. Blood pressure and glucose levels rise. The immune system’s inflammatory response activates, promoting quick healing.

Once the threat passes, hormone levels return to normal, blood glucose recedes, and heart rate and blood pressure return to baseline. That’s how the human body should work.

Life brings an accumulation of unremitting stress, especially for those subjected to inequity — and not just from immediate and chronic threats. Even the anticipation of those menaces causes persistent damage.

The body produces too much cortisol and other stress hormones, straining to bring itself back to normal. Eventually, the body’s machinery malfunctions.

Like tree rings, the body remembers.

The constant strain — the chronic sources of stress — resets what is “normal,” and the body begins to change.

It is the repeated triggering of this process year after year — the persistence of striving to overcome barriers — that leads to poor health.

Blood pressure remains high. Inflammation turns chronic. In the arteries, plaque forms, causing the linings of blood vessels to thicken and stiffen. That forces the heart to work harder. It doesn’t stop there. Other organs begin to fail.

Struggling and striving It’s part of the weathering process, a theory first suggested by Arline T. Geronimus, a professor and population health equity researcher at the University of Michigan.

Geronimus, whose book “Weathering: The Extraordinary Stress of Ordinary Life in an Unjust Society” published in March, started out studying the health of women and babies as a graduate student in the 1980s, having been influenced by two distinctly different jobs she had as an undergraduate: one as an on-campus research assistant, the other as a peer companion at an off-campus school for teen mothers.

Stress is weathering our bodies from the inside out At the time, she said, conventional wisdom held that the Black community had higher rates of infant mortality because teen mothers were physically and psychosocially too immature to have healthy babies. But her research showed younger Black women had better pregnancy and birth outcomes than Black mothers in their mid- to late 20s and 30s.

For this, she was criticized as someone arguing in favor of teen pregnancy, even though she was not. Shaken but undeterred, she continued trying to understand the phenomenon, which meant better understanding the overall health of the community these teens depended on for help. As she studied those networks, she recognized “people’s life expectancies were shorter, and they were getting all these chronic diseases at young ages,” she said.

But she hadn’t come up with a name yet for what she was witnessing. That happened in the early 1990s while sitting in her office: “‘Weathering’ struck me as the perfect word.”

She said she was trying to capture two things. First, that people’s varied life experiences affect their health by wearing down their bodies. And second, she said: “People are not just passive victims of these horrible exposures. They withstand them. They struggle against them. These are people who weather storms.”

People seem to instinctively understand the first, but she said they often overlook the second. It isn’t just living in an unequal society that makes people sick. It’s the day-in, day-out effort of trying to be equal that wears bodies down.

Weathering, she said, helps explain the double-edged sword of “high-effort coping.”

Over the years, Geronimus widened the aperture of her research to include immigrants, Latinos, the LGBTQIA community, poor White people from Appalachia. She found that while weathering is a universal human physiological process, it happens more often in marginalized populations.

Regulation of cortisol — what we think of as the body’s main stress hormone — is disrupted. Optimally, it should work like a wave with a steep morning rise followed by a rapid decline, which slows until reaching baseline at bedtime.

But existing research suggests that is blunted by repeated exposure to psychosocial and environmental stressors, such as perceived racial discrimination, which flatten this rhythm.

Stress-induced high cortisol levels stimulate appetite by triggering the release of ghrelin, a peptide that stimulates hunger.

The interplay between elevated cortisol and glucose is especially complex and insidious, eventually leading to obesity, fatigue, cardiovascular disease, poor immune and inflammatory functions, higher breast cancer mortality rates and other metabolic disorders. Dysregulated cortisol also increases depression and anxiety and interferes with sleep.

Weathering doesn’t start in middle age.

It begins in the womb. Cortisol released into a pregnant person’s bloodstream crosses the placenta, which helps explain why a disproportionate number of babies born to parents who live in impoverished communities or who experience the constant scorn of discrimination are preterm and too small.

During the coronavirus pandemic, pregnant women experiencing stress endured changes in the structure and texture of their placentas, according to a study published this year in Scientific Reports.

The toxic stream can persist into childhood fueled by exposure to abuse, neglect, poverty, hunger. Too much exposure to cortisol can reset the neurological system’s fight-or-flight response, essentially causing the brain’s stress switch to go haywire.

Too much stress in children and adolescents can trigger academic, behavioral and health problems, including depression and obesity.

Stress can change the body at a cellular level.

The effects of relentless stress can be seen at the chromosomal level, in telomeres, which are repeated sequences of DNA found in just about every cell.

Telomeres are the active tips of chromosomes, and they protect the cell’s genetic stability by “capping” the ends of the chromosomes to prevent degeneration. (Think of the plastic tips of shoelaces.)

Researchers have discovered that in people with chronically high levels of cortisol, telomeres become shortened at a faster rate, a sign of premature aging. The shorter the telomeres, the older the cell’s biological age. Shortened telomeres cause a disconnect between biological and chronological age.

‘A societal project’ “I don’t think most people understand weathering stress. Stress is such a vague term,” Geronimus said. “But it still gives us a leverage point to get in there and see a more complex and more frightening picture of what it does to people’s bodies and whose bodies it does it to.”

Changes in seven biomarkers in cardiac patients during a 30-year period showed Black patients weathering about six years faster than White people, a 2019 study published in SSM-Population Health found. Research also found that Black people experience hypertension, diabetes and strokes 10 years earlier than White people, according to a study published in the Journal of Urban Health.

The impact of repeatedly activating the body’s stress response is called allostatic load.

Research has shown that Mexican immigrants living in the United States for more than 10 years have elevated allostatic load scores compared with those who have lived here for less than a decade, and a study of Ohio breast cancer patients published in May in JAMA Network Open found that women with higher allostatic loads — who tended to be older, Black, single and publicly insured — were more likely to experience postoperative complications than those with lower allostatic loads.

“The argument weathering is trying to make is these are things we can change, but we have to understand them in their complexity,” Geronimus said. “This has to be a societal project, not the new app on your phone that will remind you to take deep breaths when you’re feeling stress.”

So, in short, social inequality causes stress, leading to shortened telomeres and, in turn, premature aging, disease and early death.

#we're being killed #culling the herd

[soberscientistlife]

Four panels, each showing a tree and two people. EDIT: all in one comment

First panel with the text, "Inequality, unequal access to opportunities." The two people stand on each side of the tree, the tree leans over one but not the other, dropping fruits to only one of the people.

Second panel with the text, "Equality? Evenly distributed tools and assistance." The two people both stand on ladders with bags, the tree leans over one of them, only one is able to reach the fruits.

Third panel with the text, "Equity, custom tools that identify and address inequality." The two people both stand on ladders with bags, the tree leans over one of them, the person that the tree leans away from has a taller ladder, both people are able to reach the fruits.

Fourth panel with the text, "Justice, fixing the system to offer equal access to both tools and opportunities." Two people stand on either side of the tree on ladders with bags, the tree has rope and boards so it stands straight and evenly over both people, they are both able to reach the fruits.

[fitzs-trained-monkey]

To Maintain The Lie

Series: Rational Thinking Part Four

Summary: What does one call themselves when they are neither hero nor villain? Is there a word for those merciful lies told in order to champion truth? Where is the line between necessity and morality? You're not the hero in this story and you're not the villain. You're just the surgeon who stops a heart to prevent more pain. What a shame it is that life just isn't fair. || Kol x reader || Here lies my Masterlist ||

Warnings: Cannon typical violence, angst, language, some gore. I can't exactly call any of this fluff but these two are so in love it kinda makes me sick.

A/N: This part got so long that I had to split it in half. Expect a few pov changes as I try to widen the scope on this fic. (Or maybe I'm just showing off. Who knows?) Now, let's start the show.

🔪STORY BEGINS BELOW 🔪

Whoever first claimed that they were too young to die was an arrogant, entitled, narcissistic asshole. For you see, such a statement implied that life - or more accurately - death was somehow bound, or at least could be, by a human sense of restraint or equity. It alleged that there was such a thing as an age below which the universe simply could or should not tolerate a human being's loss of life.

But Jeremy Gilbert knew the truth. There was no such thing as fair. Equity was nothing more than a fantasy that humanity had invented to make themselves feel better because people die every day and the universe doesn’t give a damn how young they are. Some claim that tragedies and pain happen for a reason - that there’s a reward in the end for those who endure - but Jeremy didn’t believe that. No, he’d been suffering his whole damn life and every reward he thought he’d received had been mercilessly ripped away from him and if there was a reason for it, then it was not one he could see. Though, perhaps his true reward was nothing quite so grand as one would hope. Perhaps his only solace would be an escape from living with the crushing weight of loss. For now, it seemed, Jeremy Gilbert would die as he had lived - suffering.

So whoever it was that had first claimed themselves too young to die - that person was an arrogant, entitled, narcissistic asshole, he decided. Because he was dying - alone in the darkness and the dirt - and he was only seventeen.

There was nothing fair in that.'

"Damon, stop!" Elena's voice cried out from somewhere in the distance. The sound wasn't too far behind him - it was uncomfortably close. 

Jeremy Gilbert ground his teeth, dragging his broken body across the forest floor. Blood seeped from a gash in his arm. It was deep - the kind that would require stitches, but he couldn't afford to worry about that right now. For the moment, he needed to focus on surviving.

Y/N had warned him. She'd warned him, and he hadn't listened.

Jeremy bit his lip to keep himself from screaming as he shoved himself upward with all his might. His back slammed into a tree, and the boy gasped as a flash of pain shot through him. It mellowed out a moment later, joining the ambient agony he'd henceforth acquired. Adrenaline was dulling the worst of it which wasn't exactly encouraging. He didn't even want to consider how much pain he would be in if he survived this.

"I can't, Elena!" Damon's voice retaliated. "I've spent far too long engineering our mutual destruction already. Jeremy's Hunter's Mark puts us all in danger - puts you in danger!" 

“Jeremy’s my brother, Damon!” Elena argued. “Don’t you understand? He would never hurt me!”

Wouldn’t he? Jeremy wasn’t so sure anymore, not after hearing what Elena had done to his best friend and she’d done that while she was human. His sister was a vampire now. She had changed since the accident and not for the better. Jeremy could see it, even if he didn’t want to. If Elena lost control, if she did something bad - hurt someone, killed someone - if she couldn’t control it, then was it not his responsibility to protect people from her? Even if that meant putting her down?

But no. No, it wasn’t. Since when had it ever been his responsibility to hurt anyone, regardless of what they’d done? Jeremy was a damn teenager for crying out loud! He wasn’t a soldier - he was a kid! 

A-and killing Elena? That wasn’t him! Jeremey loved his sister. He loved her! Yet, those thoughts had sounded so reasonable and far too close to his own, blending so seamlessly he hardly noticed.

“No, Elena! It’s you who doesn’t understand,” Damon snapped. “I saw that kid draw a stake on the only real friend he’s ever had! Jeremy was ready to kill her and he didn’t even notice! How much longer before that’s you?”

Maybe Damon was right…

What was this hunter’s mark doing to him? 

Jeremy's sister said something else, but his enhanced hearing wasn't strong enough yet to catch it. Besides, his senses seemed to be fading in and out of focus at the moment, so he didn't bother with straining to hear, opting to draw his semi-auto from his waistband instead. He still had some fight left in him.

“We’ll find another way, Elena. You can’t take the cure if you’re dead.” The elder Salvatore's words filtered through the trees. "I'm doing what has to be done."

"NO!"

So this was how he was going to die. Was it a bad thing that he hoped this time would be permanent? Surely he'd served his sentence by now, hadn't he?

When Damon stalked out from between the trees in front of him, Jeremy knew his time was up. Sure, he had regrets - hell, he had more than he could count. Sure, he was supposedly too young to die, but when had that ever mattered in this godforsaken town? Sure, he knew he didn't deserve this fate, though for better or worse, this was the one he'd chosen. 

No, Jeremy Gilbert didn't want to die, but he had come to terms with his fate long before this moment. After all, he'd died and come back a few times already. (He wasn't sure whether that made him lucky or not.) He'd been living on borrowed time for a long while and he wasn't even sure if he'd really been alive for any of it. If now was his time to go, then he'd go out with a fight and smile when it was finally over. 

Whether Damon was right or not, Jeremy Gilbert was not about to go quietly into that good night. No, that boy had suffered far too much to make his death easy on whatever forces of nature demanded that he die before graduating high school. So, he thanked the Lord in heaven for the extra lives he'd been given - 'cause most other people only get the one - and he raised that gun in his hand to point at Damon's black, black heart.

"You're hesitating," The vampire noted. 

"There's only one bullet left," Jeremy replied, voice as dry as a desert as he stared that monster down unblinkingly.

"Good to know." Damon huffed a laugh. "Well, this is it, Baby Gilbert. No hard feelings?"

"Nah, I've got a few… dick."

Damon smirked. The cold, unhallowed blackness of the night around them filled his cold, dead eyes, spilling over like bleeding cracks down his cheeks. Jeremy's own eyes narrowed and the breath that left his lips, undoubtedly his last, turned to mist in the chilling evening air. His vision from exhaustion swam and his hand with three broken fingers shook because that gun was heavier than he'd thought it was going to be just a few months ago. In spite of his failing body, he did his best to aim as his finger tightened on the trigger.

The boy's soon-to-be murderer hissed and staggered back, but didn't drop dead. Jeremy had missed the monster's heart. That was alright, he supposed. After all, he was only a junior in high school - not a marksman, not a soldier, not even an adult - just a kid whose story was ending before it ever should have had to begin.

Jeremy lowered the gun and closed his eyes as Damon rushed forward.

Yet death, it would seem, was not quite ready to take him.

A breeze passed in front of his face and a growl ripped from Damon's throat. Jeremy opened his eyes. There in front of him stood Y/N, arms grappled around Damon's. It was a wrestler's hold she had him in, some random part of his dying brain noted. (The Olympic sort of wrestling, not the WW-E kind because he absolutely needed to know that in his last moments.) Damon’s face contorted into a grimace and he hissed, shoving the girl harshly. Y/N ground her teeth, digging her feet into the soil beneath them, and pushed back with a shout, refusing to lose. But Damon was older, and thus significantly stronger than she was. Her feet slid back inch by inch, but it wasn’t enough. 

Damon’s low growl morphed into a scream of pain and he reeled back. Jeremy’s stubbornly useless vision cleared just enough for him to see the smoke that curled off the elder Salvatore’s arms. 

“Oh, look. Tiny Sherlock’s here to save the day.” He backed off a couple of steps and took to prowling back and forth like a leopard searching for a chink in the armor of its prey. "Crazy how you always show up where you're least wanted."

Mist left the mouth of Jeremy's best friend in small puffs, her entire body was tensed in anticipation and Jeremy couldn't help but wonder who'd taught her how to fight. 

"What can I say?" The girl huffed, flicking a few loose strands of hair out of her face. "It's a talent."

Damon's footing shifted slightly to the right and Y/N adjusted her own to match, keeping herself between Jeremy and his intended murderer. The lips of the raven-haired vampire curled.

“Still can’t win a fight without cheating, I see,” He snarled bitterly.

On her arms, he now noticed, the girl wore a pair of sleek black gloves that extended up a ways past her elbows. She adjusted them carefully, staring the other vampire down as she did so and Jeremy’s addled brain finally made the connection. Vervain.

“Last I checked, there’s no such thing as cheating when a life is at stake. You taught me that, Damon.” Her voice was as icy and sharp as a winter storm. There were raging winds howling in the night behind her eyes. “Then again, I suppose that only applies when it’s Elena you’re saving. Anyone else be damned, right?” 

“I like to think it only applies once you’ve proven yourself.” Damon smirked. “Take off those gloves, why don’cha? I’m curious. Let’s see if you can beat me in a fair fight.”

Y/N snorted and shook her head. “You must really think I’m dumb, huh?”

“Nah, I just think you’re a coward,” He retorted.

“You’re wrong.” Y/N’s body shifted into a stance that was clearly defensive - an odd tactic for a person whose motto was “the best defense is a swift and decisive offense” - but usually it was only herself she was protecting. Now, she had to worry about Jeremy too and he couldn’t do a thing to help her. It wasn't often that the boy would admit to being useless but his body was seriously broken.

“Then prove it,” Damon challenged.

The girl just shook her head, eyes narrowing. Her expression was one of furious hail and tempestuous wind and her tone was made of frozen spears. “I have nothing to prove to the likes of you - ignorant, arrogant, faithlessly paranoid, pathologically manipulative, inconsequential scrap of agoraphobic slime. ” 

The expression that dawns across a person’s face when they realize they no longer hold any power over another, is somewhat hard to describe. It begins as something close to surprise, then morphs into indignation, before settling on cold hatred. 

Damon's black eyes narrowed. "You should have stayed dead."

"Funny," Y/N, hummed. "Did your dad say the same thing?"

He snarled in rage and leaped forward, sweeping his leg out to bring Y/N crashing down on her back. Then, he whirled to make a grab for Jeremy. All he would need was a millisecond - a quick snap of the neck and it was done. But Y/N wasn't going to let that happen. Her arm shot out and grasped Jeremy by the ankle, yanking hard. He cried out in pain as twigs and roots and who knows what else, shredded his back as she dragged his body behind hers and rolled onto her side. Damon reached toward her, but her foot lashed out and she landed a kick to the outstretched hand. Jeremy's enhanced senses discerned the telltale snap of breaking bone. The raven-haired vampire stumbled back, cursing and Y/N was up on her feet again in a second. Parrying his clumsy left hook, Y/N sent her knee flying into his stomach which knocked the wind out of him and gave her the opening she needed to get her hands around his throat.

A strangled sound escaped him, a mix of pain and breathlessness, as she pushed him back, vervain gloves burning his skin. He tried to rip her hands off him but only succeeded in torching his own as well. Throwing his weight backward sent both opponents to the ground and gave him a shot to roll out of her grip. Unfortunately, this was a move the girl was quite familiar with and she knew just how to counter it. She shifted her weight as they fell, curling her knees in. When Damon's back hit the dirt, her knees landed on his diaphragm. He lost most - if not all - of his remaining air and when he, in a daze, tried to move his arm, Y/N threw one leg out to the side to step on it. 

Jeremy was vaguely reminded of Black Widow.

Damon sputtered and coughed on the ground for a few seconds before falling silent but the girl didn't release him until his foot stopped twitching. Then she got up and raced over to the Gilbert boy, effortlessly lifting him off the ground in a fireman's carry.

"Day-um, Jerry-Berry!" The girl huffed, grinning at him. "What are you doing goin' around with all this beef? You're supposed to be a stick!"

Jeremy just raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, well - fighting for your life on a daily basis tends to do that to you." He was too tired to be witty. 

She snorted. "Touche." 

The boy closed his eyes and let his head roll back. "Not that I'm ungrateful, but uh - what the hell are you doing here?" He asked.

"No time to explain!" She answered brightly. "Hold on tight!"

Trees and plants were whizzing by in an instant, and Jeremy tried to ignore how his stomach dropped. He'd always liked roller coasters, but somehow the sensation was different when he was experiencing excruciating pain - the kind that's white-hot and threatens to make one throw up. He hissed as his best friend came to a sudden stop.  

She cursed. 

"He's back up," She said, turning around to watch the trees. "I was hoping to run you all the way, but we're not gonna make it. Can you stand?"

"I dunno... Maybe?" He shook his head. "Wait, what are you talking about? Where are we running to?" He demanded, hissing when the girl set him on his feet.

"No time. Do you think you can run?"

Jeremy's lips pressed into a thin line, annoyed. "Depends on where I'm going," He insisted.  

"Away from here!" Came her non-answer. He sent her a flat look and she frowned. "Come on, Jer. Don't you trust me?"

He wanted to say yes - immediately and without a doubt, yes. But how could he? Vampirism changed people. He hardly even recognized his own sister some days and he was beginning to wonder if the friend he'd thought he'd lost in Denver was the same girl who'd come back. She was trying to be the same, but her efforts felt to him like a snake trying to fit into a skin it had outgrown. There was this energy - wild and whimsical - that seeped between the edges now and it reminded him far too much of the person she now ran with. Jeremy wanted to trust her. 

But Kol Mikaelson? 

Never again.

"I don't know why you're helping me," He said with a sigh. He was so tired of this - running circles around trust and always being betrayed. To his surprise, the girl didn't get upset. She just nodded. 

"I'm helping because I like you alive… dumbass." Her voice was thin but it held a flicker of humor and warmth. "There's a car parked out on the road just beyond those trees." She pointed. "It's that Dodge Hellcat I always said I was gonna buy - can't miss it. I'll buy you as much time to get there as I can. Don't stop, and whatever you do, don't look back. Okay?" 

He hesitated just a moment but nodded. "Okay."

"What are you waiting for? GO!"

So he did. Jeremy ran as fast as his damaged legs could carry him, squinting through the tears in his eyes as the pain rose to a fever pitch. He ground his jaw against it, but he didn't stop, nor did he look back - even when he heard his best friend scream.

He burst through the trees after what felt like an eternity. Glancing up and down the street, he found the car Y/N had told him to look for. It was silver, just like she always said it would be. He limped towards it, his heart threatening to give out. Jeremy collapsed about five feet away, agony burning through every cell in his body but he refused to give up. He crawled the rest of the way, grasped the door handle with bloodied fingers, and flung himself into the passenger's seat.  

Every muscle in his body trembled as he forced himself to relax, groaning.

"This is insane," He breathed, tipping his head back against the headrest.

"Oh, it's about to get even better."

That all too familiar voice sent ice shooting through his veins. Jeremy slowly turned his head to see none other than Kol Mikaelson, smirking in the driver's seat. Their eyes met for a moment and both refused to blink. Kol’s mouth stretched into a grin while Jeremy’s own twisted into a grimace. Ten heartbeats. His hand flew to the door but Jeremy was met with the telltale click of the door’s lock before he could touch it. The human groaned.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

***

"Start the car, start the car, start the car!" You barreled out of the trees and raced for your beloved vehicle. Your boyfriend had been right - you should have brought the Jeep. "Start the f-ing car, Kol!"

You dove through the door's open window and into the backseat just as the engine roared to life. 

"Freaking FLOOR IT!" You ordered, unceremoniously shoving yourself upright. Kol floored it. Rubber burned and tires squealed but somehow zero to sixty in 3.4 seconds didn't seem fast enough with a determinedly homicidal vampire chasing you.

"This feels like a bad idea!" Jeremy cried over the roar of the open windows. He'd never admit it but mingled with the terror in his voice, there was also exhilaration. 

"Come off it, Jer," You said, smirking. "You know you've always wanted to go this fast." You patted his hand which clung to the armrest for dear life and leaned down. "Now, where did I put that thing?"

"Don't tell me you lost it, love," Kol teasingly complained from up-front. "Those things are dangerous, you know. Just think of what would happen if everyone were as irresposible with them as you are."

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, shut up you. Jeremy, don't agree with him." Your friend snorted and winced. Scrabbling around under the seat, your hand found cold metal and supple leather. "Found it." 

You grabbed the gun and sat up, ducking your head back out the window and twisting to aim at the streak of black that burst onto the road. Muggy summer wind whipped through your hair as the car accelerated to dangerous speeds down an unlit small-town road, though you would trust the boy at the wheel with more than just your life. 

Despite your vehicle's considerable speed of two hundred and three miles per hour, the black streak raced after you, slowly but surely gaining. You opened fire, trying to keep your aim steady, but the country road was less than standard. 

"Could you hit any more potholes?" You complained, reaching into the front seat. Kol pushed a new magazine into your palm and you quickly reloaded. 

"I don't know," He replied. "Are you aiming for the wretch's heart or his knees?"

You snorted. "More like his face."

"Admirable." He smirked. "Let him get a little closer."

"What?!" Both you and Jeremy demanded at the same time. You whirled around, eyes wide. Kol glanced at you through the rearview mirror.

"Trust me," He said. 

Trust. You could give him that.

You stopped firing. "And… that's the last of the ammo," You lied, speaking just loud enough for Damon to hear. He seemed to take that as encouragement. 

"Get your pretty little head back in here, please," Kol said pleasantly. You raised a brow but retreated back into the Hellcat. Twisting around, you had a decent view of the raven-haired vampire as he pushed closer and closer to the car's bumper.

"He's getting pretty close," You warned.

"Not yet, love," Came the response from the front seat. 

You sent him a flat look. "You're being just so comforting right now."

"Isn't it wonderful?"

You made a non-committal noise and checked the rear window again. 

"You guys argue like an old married couple." Pain morphed Jeremy's laugh into something that sounded more like a wheeze. You weren't quite sure how he could laugh when his life was at stake, but you took a little solace from it. 

"Aww, thanks."

"Don't thank him," Kol scoffed. "He just called you old."

"If I'm old, what does that make you?"

He just grinned. "Classic."

You smacked his shoulder and checked your flank again.

"You know, I never thought my life would be reduced to Death Cab lyrics," You observed, somewhat wryly, hands wrapped like a vice around the gun.

Under Kol's compulsion, Damon wouldn't give up the chase until Jeremy was either dead or outside the state of Virginia. It was odd. You had been the architect of this clever ploy, yet it would seem you hadn't fully anticipated how nerve-wracking your role within it would be.

Thus, the state line really did feel like the Berlin wall.

You just hoped you could reach it in time.

"Is now really the best time to be quizzing me on song lyrics?" Kol wondered, expertly rounding a bend at a speed no human could manage.

You shrugged. "Good a time as any."

He huffed a laugh and you suppressed a smile. It warmed you up inside to have someone who not only understood but who loved you for your nine-track mind.

"Crooked Teeth," He answered, somewhat smug. 

"Ah, he does pay attention," You mused distractedly. Behind you, that black streak drew within twenty feet. "Remind me, what are we waiting for exactly?"

"The opportune moment," Kol replied.

"So like, right now?"

"Nope."

Fifteen feet and closing.

"Now?"

"Wait."

Ten feet and closing.

"Kol - I love you - but you're really starting to worry me!" You said, watching Damon inch ever nearer.

"Patience, my flower." He purred, calm as a quiet grove after rain. 

Five feet.

"Sweetheart, he is literally riding our coattail!" You exclaimed, eyes wide.

Kol smirked. "Perfect." He glanced back at you. "Give Jeremy a hug, will you?"

Your eyes flew wide.

In that instant, a spark in your brain - that terrible blessing you'd been cursed with - flared to life. Calculations raced through your head, outpacing Newton's laws in the milliseconds before the impact.

Kol slammed on the breaks and time slowed.

(Solve the problem. Solve the problem. Solve the problem.)

4,000 pounds of carbon-fiber and steel traveling at 203 miles an hour - approximately 300 feet or 91 meters per second. That makes for a momentum of 364,000 pounds. 

(Fascinating but irrelevant. Get back on track.) 

A Dodge Hellcat's stopping distance equates to 107 feet at sixty miles an hour which becomes 368 feet at top speed, decelerating the vehicle in approximately 1.7 seconds. 

(You're running out of time. Think faster. Think faster.)

364,000 pounds of force brought to a standstill in 1.7 seconds results in a negative g-force of 5.48 exerted on the body.

(But what does that do? You have to act. Solve the problem.)

Three individuals in the vehicle. One vulnerable to breakage. Instant death - possible, but unlikely. Prioritize potential injuries - whiplash, concussion, internal hemorrhaging, ocular and auditory trauma, acute systemic failure, and aneurysm. 

(Time to react. What are you going to do?)

Conclusion: Mind the head.

You threw your arms up just in time to catch Jeremy's head as physics made an admirable effort to huck the entirety of the car's interior through the windshield. The grinding of gears and the screaming of tires on asphalt met your ears as inertia attempted to bifurcate the front seat using your body - a rather unpleasant experience, though you would take the physical pain of a few broken ribs over the anguish of losing your best friend any day. Smoke obscured your vision and the scent of burning rubber assaulted your nose, but you pushed through it, opening your eyes.

"And he sticks the landing!" Kol announced, glib as ever. "Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen."

"Kol-" You groaned, pushing yourself up to rest an elbow on his seat. "-you hurt my baby."

That car was your second love and whosoever was responsible would be intensely sorrowful should you find so much as a scratch in her paint.

"Eh, she's fine." He waved a hand dismissively. "Though, you may need to clean her up a bit because et voila!" The boy gestured behind the vehicle and you twisted around, squinting at the tarmac.

Damon's undead corpse, now quite prone, rested about fifty feet behind the car. Road rash would be a very tame description of his injuries seeing as about half his body was missing and most of his insides were splayed across the thoroughfare. He must have collided with the back of the car and flipped over the roof before being ground up by the wheels like rotten tomatoes in a blender. There was quite a lot of blood.

You turned back, grinning.

"Well, that's one problem taken care of!"

***

"You guys are insane," Jeremy groaned, rubbing his eyes. They hurt and he worried they might fall out of his head after that impact. On the bright side, he wasn't dead.

Y/N had tried to protect him, so that was something.

"You're just now figuring that out?" In the driver's seat, Kol tossed his head back, laughing. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the hyena laugh this time. It was warmer, more sincere. Jeremy just rolled his eyes, stretching out his aching neck.

"You good, Jer?" Y/N asked from the back seat. She reached up to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly.

A sharp pain burned in his chest as he shrugged. "I'm fine, I think. No thanks to your boyfriend here." Breathing hurt.

“Oh, bloody hell, mate!" It was Kol's turn to roll his eyes. "How many times do I need to say I’m not going to kill you?” He questioned, smirking amusedly.

“At least a hundred times after you stop trying,” Jeremy said. Though it pained him to speak, like something sharp writhing around in his chest, he expected that would fade. It wasn't like they'd been in a serious crash and as long as the injury wasn't critical or something that would require a cast, then the healing his Hunter's Mark provided would take care of it, he figured as the car began moving again - in less of a hurry this time.

Over the course of the next twenty minutes, the stabbing pain did not recede. If anything, it worsened. Discomfort built in his chest, thick and hot. 

As if he could sense it coming, Kol passed him a handful of tissues. Jeremy took them, albeit a little confused. Seconds later, a fit of rasping, retching, burning coughs tore through him. The boy doubled over, hacking into the tissues for longer than he wanted to think about. When his lungs finally calmed, Jeremy’s throat felt disturbingly wet. 

The vehicle was silent for three heartbeats.

"Jeremy?" Y/N's voice was very soft - filled with something more than worry.

“That…” Kol spoke up. “That did not sound good.”

Jeremy looked up only to be met with a sight he would have otherwise thought impossible. The original vampire’s eyes were wide and his mouth pressed into a thin line - his hand lingered in the air, half outstretched. Kol looked concerned - actually, genuinely concerned. He pointed to Jeremy’s hands. 

“And that’s definitely not good.”

Jeremy looked down. The wadded-up tissues were stained red, red, red. Yeah, that wasn’t the best sign. Jeremy felt dizzy. Breathing really hurt. His eyes felt heavy and everything smelled like pennies.

"What's going on?" Y/N demanded. "Kol, what can you see? Why is he coughing up blood? "

Damn it. Was he dying again?

Wow, his thoughts were really loud. More words were invading his ears but he only caught a few.

"-chest doesn’t seem to be caving… Did Damon hit your back?” Kol was asking. Sound was blurry.

“I, uh -” He thought about that. Thinking was hard and he was really tired. “He pushed me into a rock.”

Kol nodded, frown deepening. He glanced backward, meeting Y/N's eyes with a grim expression. "Can you hear it too?"

"I-I don't know," Y/N stammered, uncharacteristically unsure. "I mean, I hear something, but I don't know-"

"Yes, you do," Kol interrupted. "You know better than I, but I can't be sure unless you tell me. I know you would love to think you're just making it up, but if we can both hear it..." He trailed off.

The girl nodded, lips pressed into a line - eyes rimmed with red. "Yeah," She whispered. "I can hear it."

Kol nodded and turned back, his face a mask of calm. There was no snide smirk or predatory gleam. It was oddly comforting. 

“Alright there, mate. Don’t panic - but from what I can hear, it sounds like something has punctured your lungs, possibly a rib. I could make sure, but I’d have to touch your back.”

The hunter sent him a very flat look. He might have been dizzy and critically injured, but he wasn't stupid.

“You literally tried to Chewbacca my arms a few hours ago,” Jeremy wheezed. He wanted to take a deep breath but his lungs felt smaller than they should be. “Hands off.”

Kol rolled his eyes, cursing under his breath. “I panicked, alright?”

Jeremy raised a brow. “You pani-”

He was cut off by another vicious round of choked coughs. Blood spewed liberally from his lips this time and his chest felt hot and tight. Jeremy felt weak, weaker than he’d ever felt and he couldn’t breathe. 

“Oh, bloody hell. That’s definitely a punctured lung.” Kol laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, pulling him back to reality. "Hey, Jeremy? Stay with me, alright?"

There was so much blood on the tissues and his hands. Some faint voice in the back of his mind told him he should be unconscious by now. The Mark was probably the only thing keeping him alive. He felt light-headed.

“I-I don’t want your help,” Jeremy spat past the blood in his mouth. “I’ll heal.” 

The original shook his head. “Not from this. Not on your own.” He cursed quietly and threw the car into gear, flooring the accelerator. 

"What can we do?" Y/N asked, voice thin - one hairsbreadth away from snapping. "Kol, what can I do? Just tell me what to do!"

"Nothing, darling. Don't do anything."

"I can't just sit here!" She protested. "If I give him my blood, that'll help right?"

“Under normal circumstances, I'd say yes; however, considering his Hunter's Mark, I fear his body might reject it - that could just make things worse," The original explained. His expression grew ever darker, like the summer sky as it prepared to unleash a tornado.

Y/N cursed and Jeremy's vision grew dark. His eyes threatened to close. He was so tired. 

Kol shook him a little, sending pain soaring through his system and snapping him back to attention. He was fading - Jeremy was fading fast. “Hey, listen to me, alright? We’re going to get you to a hospital. You’re going to be alright, mate. Just stay awake. Just keep those eyes open and you’ll be fine - Y/N, keep him awake. Do not let him fall unconscious.”

Jeremy scowled, fighting against a tide of pain and exhaustion that threatened to pull him under. “What do you care?” He demanded.

“Are you kidding?” Kol flashed him a wry smile. “Y/N would have my head if I let you die.”

"Got that right." His best friend chuckled from the back seat and through the haze, Jeremy felt her fingers tangle with his. "You're gonna be okay, Jerrie-berry," She whispered. "I promise."

***

You'd always hated hospitals.

Now, perhaps that animosity could have been chalked-up to the slightly disturbing notion that was your current existence - seeing as the only room in such an establishment you could rightfully belong in now was the morgue. (A rather unpleasant thought, any way you slice it.) However, you'd never really been fazed by the whole "undead" thing. You didn't really think of yourself as dead - merely experiencing alternative states of mortality. So, none of that really upset you.

It was the dishonesty of the whole thing, you decided. Yes, that was it. 

A hospital was merely one gigantic lie.

The walls and floor were far too white for a place steeped so thickly with blood and death. Instruments, people, floors, walls, and ceilings were barren, scrubbed within an inch of their lives. In an institution that idolized wellness and health, the halls were much too stark and silent, empty of all life save for the souls who were paid to be there. Even the guest accommodations were deceitful. Chairs sporting upholstery that looked like it should have been soft on frames that should have been somewhat comfortable, all came up disappointingly short. 

The feeble whimpers of the sick and dying - hundreds of them - thrummed in your ears. Doctors that proffered the hope of extended life - of more time - fragile conjunctures they couldn't guarantee. Eyes that smiled with mouths that grimaced beneath masks.

It was all a lie.

Your hands clenched into fists.

"Hey, hey…" Kol's soft voice was there at your ear in a millisecond. His right hand covered yours, squeezing comfortingly while his other combed expertly through your hair. "Don't get upset. It's alright, he's doing just fine. No need to get worked up, darling. You're alright."

You'd ranted to him about this before. A deep-rooted hatred for hypocrites and self-righteous insincerity was something you shared, though not quite in all the same ways. He'd found your distaste for hospitals funny then - not here though, not now.

You nodded - a hollow gesture just like this hollow pantheon of medicine. Telling yourself that he would be fine felt like a lie. Not that Kol would ever lie to you, not intentionally. He was generally the more optimistic one, though.

It wasn't a lie itself that you hated. (After all, some lies are necessary; like the one you found yourself tangled in.) Rather, it was the concept of pointless lies that you abhorred. Deceit without true purpose irked you. Why couldn't people just say what they meant - what they knew to be true? Kol was only trying to make you feel better and you understood that, but you didn't want empty comfort. 

You didn't want to feel peaceful now - happy, hopeful - if you were just going to be sad later.

What was the point in feeling good now, if you were only going to feel sad later?

Kol had told you what despair was. You didn't want to feel that again.

But that wasn't up to you. Fate's cruel strings lay in the hands of those doctors in the room before you, carving up your best friend in an attempt to save his life.

From where you sat, nestled firmly in Kol's lap, you could hear the doctors working on Jeremy. The prognosis wasn't good. Yet, the boy in whose arms you rested still offered you hope.

"I'm not sure how much longer I can stay here with you," He murmured, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple. It took all the strength you had to nod again, trying to hold it together, but the rest of your body betrayed you. Your trembling hands constricted, nails digging into his skin. Kol just held you tighter. "I know, I know. I'm pathetic, but all the free food around here is getting to me, love," He tried to joke.

Curiously, you found yourself wroth with him all of a sudden. Why couldn't he just ignore it? Why couldn't he just focus? Keeping the hunger in check really wasn't that hard. Why did he struggle so badly? 

Why did he want to leave you when you needed him most? Why did everyone always leave you?

"Darling, please say something."

You hadn't said a word since the doors to the operating room closed. That was three hours ago. So what?

You looked up at him, eyes empty.

"Are you leaving me too?" You wondered. Your tone wasn't aggressive or snide, though for anyone else it would have been.

Kol's chocolate eyes traded worry for anguish, but the pain in them wasn't for himself. Tangling his fingers in your hair, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours - warm and soft but absent of the usual fluid heat his kisses sent dripping down your spine. Inside, you just felt cold.

"No, Y/N," The boy promised. "I'm not leaving you. Not now - not ever." He drew you closer, tucking your head under his chin. He swayed back and forth slightly - no one had ever held you with such care. "Though I may not always be by your side every moment of every day, I will be here when you need me. I'm not going to leave you and neither will Jeremy."

"Don't pretend to care about him," You sighed bitterly. 

"Oh, I don't." Kol hummed. "But you do and the last thing I want is to see you hurting. That's how it is when you love someone."

You huffed. "Sounds annoying."

"Not when it's you."

"That's nice."

He shrugged. "You could use a little nice."

"Who are you and what have you done with Kol Mikaelson?" A smirk tugged at your lips, though you didn't quite permit it. Your mouth had always run faster than your head anyway so there was no real need to end that tradition. 

He laughed and you felt that boy's teeth nip a little at your ear. "Oh, now that was uncalled for."

You hummed, but couldn't find it within yourself to keep teasing. Kol pressed another kiss to your hair and the two of you just sat quietly for a moment.

"How do you know he's gonna make it?" You asked, pursing your lips to keep them from trembling.

Kol shook his head softly. "I don't," He admitted. He took a deep breath and continued, sounding pensive. "That's the problem with the world today, I think. Everyone, everywhere… as a people, you've all lost faith." The boy tugged at a lock of your hair, twirling it around and around his finger. "And in that loss, you know longer know what you can trust."

"Trust?" You scoffed. "Trust who? Those doctors in there? My only friend's lungs are impaled on his ribcage. What can they really do besides make sure he dies a little less dead?"

That sweet boy pulled away from you, just enough to look into your eyes as he lifted your chin with his finger.

"Trust Jeremy, Y/N - trust your friend. Trust that he loves you, despite his faults and misgivings, and trust that he's fighting for life at this very moment."

Your words came out quite broken and you knew you must be crying. "And if that's not enough?"

"Then trust me," He said. "Trust that I'll protect you when things go wrong - from fate and from yourself."

You nodded and this time, it wasn't so empty.

"Alright," You said, curling up in his lap a little more. "Yeah, I think I can do that."

"I know you can," He said. You turned your gaze toward the doors of the operating room once more. 

"He can never find out what we did." Your voice was spider silk - thinner than a hair, yet pound for pound stronger than steel. Kol nodded, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. 

"And he never will."

***

Niklaus Mikaelson was, by no means, an expert in all things magical. (No, that title fell to his little brother - a terrifying thought, truly. Maddening that fact was, every time he permitted himself to dwell on it for any length of time.) However, he supposed that his status as an original vampire - hybrid actually, to be more precise, but that was irrelevant at the moment - ought to make him the local authority on the subject of compulsion, or more prudently, the compulsion of other vampires.

Damon Salvatore, on the other hand, was an unsavory lad in the purest definition of the locution. Strong-willed, and pig-headed, he reminded Klaus somewhat of a coyote - that is, if a coyote could be driven by spite. Thus the possibility seemed extremely remote that one such as Damon Salvatore would take well to compulsion. Any action taken by him, if not of his own willful volition, even if he weren't aware of it, would be made obvious to others by his subconscious mind in an attempt to spite whoever had compelled him. In other words, the man was just too damn stubborn for mind control to work properly.

"So?" The irritating Bennet witch demanded as Klaus strolled leisurely from the cramped and filthy confines of the Salvatore's basement. Honestly, he was no clean freak, but he had heard of this brilliant invention called a mop. "What's the verdict?" 

"I'm afraid I have to diagnose your friend with a terminal case of stupidity," The hybrid said, smirking amusedly. His eyes flicked briefly around the room, scanning for any sign of a trap. He found none, but that only served to heighten his suspicion. Legend hadn't deemed him a paranoid genius for nothing.

The young girl didn't seem to find his jest humorous. Her eyes narrowed, glowering at him the same way her ancestors used to.

"Has he been compelled or not?" She pressed, teeth grinding.

All pretenses of mirth dropped from Klaus' face. "As best I can tell, no," He answered grimly. "I'm afraid his actions… unexpected and jarring as they may be, are entirely his own."

"What?" The doppelganger gasped. "That-that can't be right! Kol - your brother must have compelled him. I'm sure of it!"

The hybrid's eyes flicked in her direction. Behind her - silent and stoic as a mountain with impeccable hair - stood the younger Salvatore brother. Regrettable it was, Klaus thought, that he'd resigned to being so boring. Stefan's expression decided to take a respite from brooding long enough to avow contemplation. 

"Your accusations - while just and reasonable - don't particularly matter, love," Klaus said with a slight shrug. "He hasn't been compelled, or if he has, then he's under the most complex and thorough compulsion I've ever encountered."

"But how do you know it wasn't your brother who did it?" Asked a particularly delightful blonde, standing in the furthest corner of the room from him. He had to wonder if she did that on purpose.

"Well, to put it quite simply, Caroline -" He couldn't help but smile when he spoke to her. "- I know my brother's handywork, and this is not it. Comparing the two would be like comparing a sledgehammer to a feather pillow, love. Kol is far too sloppy for this to be his doing."

That last statement in particular wasn't entirely true. Yes, his brother could be careless, but when given proper incentive, he could be every bit as wily and conniving as the woman that created them - if not doubly so. He could outwit the furtive predator he was so often compared to in legend. There was a reason that boy was cited as the worst of the worst - the wildest of the Mikaelson clan. There was a reason Klaus had sooner chosen to ambush and incapacitate his brother rather than risk outright conflict with him. It was intellect that made his brother so deeply formidable; a vast intellect behind a careless facade and he wielded it like a surgeon's instrument. Given any time to think - a second, a heartbeat - Kol would always win. 

He only had one true weakness, one Klaus had so often employed. Kol was a whimsical being - easily and often distracted by every fleeting impulse. Tasks or threats to be handled needed to be clear-cut and direct, clearly defined, and very, very real in order for Kol to handle them. Had Klaus and his family been born in the current century, his little brother would be the kind of boy who puts off writing an essay or studying for a test until the night before it's due. The type to do the homework as the professor is collecting it and still get an A.

So it wasn't that Kol couldn't have compelled Damon - he was most certainly capable of the methodical complexity required - it just didn't seem like his style. 

What was infinitely more likely, and infinitely more troubling, Klaus thought, was the possibility that Kol had quite simply convinced Damon of the danger one very young hunter posed to the ever-precious Miss. Gilbert. Wily Fox was an apt moniker, indeed; even as a child, the former witch had always been so... gifted with persuasion. If not for Rebekah's loud and loyal heart, the hybrid was positive Kol would have turned their little sister against him eventually. 

Thus, if Damon Salvatore was a coyote - a lone, fickle scavenger - then Klaus doubted his brother would have to work hard to sway his judgment. There was something honest about him, something raw, vicious, and candid, that belied his devious ways; it was something Klaus himself could never seem to match. Trepidation is an excellent motivator and Kol certainly had a knack for ghost stories; yet, his stories in particular had long since possessed quite the kicker. 

They were always, always true. 

As a boy, Klaus remembered, Kol had once told villagers around the bonfire of a wraith he'd seen, wandering the woods roundabout the falls. No one believed him then either. On the following morn, that little dark-haired runt of a boy brought home the monster's corpse.

(So, truthfully, Klaus knew he should be on his brother's side this time. However, doing so would conflict with his purposes and the hybrid had never been one to deny himself anything. Especially not something he'd been pursuing for a millennium.)

Damon's actions spoke more to paranoia than undue influence. Paranoia was something Klaus knew intimately. Paranoia cannot be abated.

A dishearteningly sober voice tore the hybrid from his spiraling reverie. 

"Call him," Stefan said. Klaus lifted a brow. Had he not given his conclusion? Were they not done here?

"Pardon?"

"Call him," The stern teenager repeated. "Call your brother and demand he tell you the truth."

Klaus narrowed his eyes and began to pace, hands clasped behind his back - it helped him think.

The other blonde in the room - Rebekah had been henceforth preoccupied with sculpting her nails - hummed. A not-quite-pleasant tone that drew close to amusement with a veiled dose of ire. "Yes, please call him, Nik. Because we all know how demanding things of Kol tends to be a spectacularly pleasant experience."

The hybrid grimaced. She had a point there.

"How do you know he won't just lie?" Bonnie asked, hostility more than prevalent in her tone. 

"He won't," Klaus conceded, almost to himself. 

"How do you know?" Elena pressed. 

Within a blink, he had that pesky doppelganger by the throat, lifting her into the air. "You impugn my word?" He asked pleasantly. 

She didn't struggle. The girl just glared. "Routinely." 

A smirk tugged at his lips and he let her go, returning to his pacing. She coughed and staggered but her pride demanded that she remain upright. That one was becoming more and more like dear Katarina every day. Across the room, Rebekah sighed, flopping onto a sofa the same way she did everything - dramatically. She shaded her eyes with her arm as though she had an agonizing headache, though such pains were physically impossible for the undead to contract. 

"Kol never lies once called out on the act," She declared with finality. "He's been that way since we were children. For all his scheming, the maniac's a bloody awful liar." Klaus huffed a laugh. That bit was true. "Just call him, Nik. I want to get this over with."

Klaus flashed her a scathing look, but she was - as per bloody usual - unfortunately right. He pulled out his phone and dialed Kol's number. He just hoped his little brother remembered how to operate the device. He probably would - Kol remembered everything.

The phone rang once. 

"Put it on speaker," Caroline said, crossing her arms as each of his enemies drew a step closer. He sighed but did as requested.

The phone rang twice and then three times. Only halfway through the fourth ring did the Wily Fox pick up.

"Well, well, well..." His little brother drawled, blithe and cavalier as always. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to come barking up the wrong tree. Looks like I've lost a bet." He laughed and it was the cold, empty laugh he'd picked up since touring Africa.

Klaus pointedly ignored the dog pun and instead put on a fake smile. "Well, you know how it is. One does what one must when one's doppelganger comes groveling to one's knees, alarmed by her boyfriend's spontaneously homicidal behavior, and… well, whenever I think of manslaughter I think of you, Kol."

"Really?" The voice on the phone gibed. "That's funny because - and I swear it's like magic - but you open your mouth, and my mind drifts to fratricide... and daggers."

Another jab which Klaus ignored. 

"You seem to have made a mess, little brother," He said.

"Have I? Oh, dear... that must be inconvenient." Klaus could practically hear him grinning. "Say, how is - oh, what's his name? - Damien, was it? Has one of Elena's worshipers managed to scrape his intestines back together or are they permanently smeared into the asphalt?" 

Out of sheer curiosity, Klaus spared Elena a glance. She looked positively murderous. 

"I'm afraid he's going to be just fine."

"That's a shame." Kol hummed.

"It is," He agreed. "However, it so happens that Salvatore's intestines are not the mess I'm referring to." 

The boy gasped, mockingly. "No shit?"

"No," Klaus said, voice clipped. "I'll make this simple for you, Kol. Did you or did you not compel Damon Salvatore to hunt and/or kill Jeremy Gilbert?"

That cold, hyena laugh came again. There was something distinctly raw to it this time, something harsh and strained yet oddly broken; like a wounded animal rather than a rabid one. When he spoke, however, there was nothing in his words save for wrath. 

"You would love that wouldn't you?" Kol spat. "Yet another problem you can solve with a dagger - quick and tidy. You're such a hypocrite! You and Elijah!" His voice quieted and warped into something acidic disguised as honey and song. "And even you, my little sister." The blonde on the couch froze and the color drained from her face. There was fear in her eyes as if she'd seen a ghost. 

"Hello, Rebekah!" Kol practically sang. "I could hear your fingernails drumming, you do that when you're nervous." 

"And why exactly would I be intimidated by you?" Bekah did an excellent impression of boredom but her wide, shaken eyes met Klaus' own in search of reassurance. 

"Oh, sweetheart. Don't think for a second that I don't know what you did in nineteen-fourteen." From carefree and playful to downright vicious, his tone turned on a dime. "You ratted on me, Bex."

Rebekah shot to her feet, fists clenched. "So what, Kol? You're going to take away my only chance at happiness because I told on you?"

"No," Kol snapped. "I am going to save your life because I love you! This cure you think you understand is not your chance at happiness. After all these years, can't you see it? Have you not figured it out? The three of you keep lying to yourselves whilst punishing me for facing the truth.

"WE ARE ALL OF US TRAPPED, REBEKAH! This existence our mother bound us to is a trap and we cannot get out! WE ARE NEVER GETTING OUT! You and Nik can scream and cry and rattle the bars all you wish but none of us are ever going to escape lest we meet a very permanent end." 

"You don't know that!" Their sister cried, tears beginning to verge in her eyes. 

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't! Silas isn't even real!"

"Bloody hell, Rebekah! Why won't you see it? WHY WON'T ANY OF YOU JUST LISTEN TO ME?!" There was desperation in that question and Klaus could only pretend he hadn't heard it.

"BECAUSE YOU'RE WRONG!" Rebekah was weeping now. "You're wrong and you're just angry with yourself because we have a chance at getting back what we lost and you're too scared to take it!"

"Do you think I haven't tried?" Kol seethed, voice thick with more pain than any of them could say. "I've searched a thousand years for such a miracle while you did nothing but mourn your own loss. Don't you dare call me a coward for facing the truth! We died, Bex. We died and we're staying dead. Silas or no - this 'cure' is not the answer."

A tense silence hung in the air and Klaus had to break it. He had to because if he didn't then he would admit that his little brother was right.

"You didn't answer the question, Kol," He said cooly, his tone a warning.

"You don't believe me." His little brother gave a bitter, miserable laugh. "Can't say I hoped you would. Well, in that case, I don't suppose I can express just how much it thrills me to report that this particular mess won't be so easily locked away in a casket. I merely tried to convince Damon to examine his priorities - it's not my fault he's been gunning for an excuse to kill the kid."

Elena, trembling with a lover's fury, lost her patience. "YOU LIAR!" She screamed. "You horrid filthy liar!"

"Are those the best insults you've got, love? I'm afraid I've known nuns who've called me worse," Kol jeered. He was back to sounding listless. In the corner, Caroline opened her mouth as if to question, but thought better of it. Klaus smirked at her and shrugged, nodding. She seemed vaguely disturbed by that knowledge. 

Elena, in a startling show of nerve, stormed over to where Klaus stood and snatched the phone from his hands. "Tell me where my brother is, you son of a bitch," She growled. 

The boy on the other end hissed. "Oh, no I'm afraid I can't do that. Telling you would defeat the whole 'Get-Jeremy-the-Hell-Out-of-Dodge' plan which would be going spectacularly had your boyfriend not broken half of the kid's ribs."

Elena paled. "Where is he? What did you do to him?"

"Are you deaf?" Kol sneered. "As I said, the only person with intentions to cause your brother harm is Damon. I intend to cure him... as soon as he wakes up. Then I'll be more than glad to bring him right back home - that is, if he ever wants to see any of you again. Now, this has all been a thoroughly unpleasant and pointless experience, so if that's all then I'll be hanging up now. Thanks for nothing, brother." There was a short pause and Klaus could have a sword he heard someone speaking on the other end - a girl. Kol's voice returned for one short statement. "Oh, and Stefan? Y/N says hi." 

Then he hung up.

***

Kol got off the phone and sighed, shoulders hunched as though they carried the burden of Atlas. He turned to you, but didn't meet your gaze. His eyes were rimmed with red. You didn't know what to say. You were still so new to the whole feelings thing and you didn't want to mess it up, but you couldn't just abandon him either.

Jeremy was alright now. He was stable and healing quicker than should be possible. He'd been in and out of consciousness for the past few hours since, sleeping in the second bedroom of the hotel you were currently hiding out in. He was fine now and you could think.

Even when you were so wrapped up in your own head - hardly able to think through everything you were feeling - Kol had been there. He had stayed with you at the hospital through it all and he had struggled to do so; curbing his appetite pained him, you knew, but he'd stayed anyway. He had stayed because you needed him and you were okay now, but he wasn't. The least you could do was return the favor.

"Are you alright?" You asked. It was pathetic but you didn't know what else to do. "That sounded… heavy."

Kol bit his lip, trying so hard to smile for you. He didn't want to burden you with his internal struggle when you already had one of your own. But he had been the one to explain to you what love really was. What your cruel mother had led you to believe for so many years was wrong.

Love is not about solving problems. Love is not defined by whether or not one party can "fix" the other. Love didn't mean perfection. It wasn't like that at all.

Love is more like sharing an umbrella. It wasn't necessarily about being shielded from the rain and it didn't matter why one person didn't have an umbrella of their own. What mattered was that the other party was willing to share.

Love is like buying an ice cream cone for someone who's upset. Because sure, it doesn't fix the problem, but perhaps it could warm their heart for a moment. And it didn't matter if the wrong flavor was chosen because the simple existence of that ice cream cone is enough to prove that someone else cares.

Love is like helping someone learn to skate. Picking them back up every time they fall even if that means being pulled down with them sometimes. It means taking a moment to lay on the floor and laugh with them while other people - sometimes many, many other people, who always manage to seem so graceful - move on and around and past you. What matters is working together with that person to stand up and keep going, even if it's only to fall right back down mere seconds later.

Love is like taking a person to Niagara Falls, even though you'd already been. Love is doing things for someone even when they don't ask. Love is like a person jumping into a puddle of mud because a taxi just came by and splashed some all over you. Love is like hate-watching a movie with someone just to listen to them rant about it.

Love wasn't about feeling happy all the time. Sometimes it was just about being sad at the same time.

Love was what you had with Kol.

So when he flashed that strained smile and said - "I'm fine." - you just shook your head.

"No, you're not."

He laughed, bitter and broken. Then he raced across the room and threw his arms around you and you caught him. He didn't fall apart though, because this wasn't the first time and he was used to this same old story even though he should never have needed to be.

"They don't listen," He hissed painfully, face buried in your neck.

Well… you knew what that was like. 

"No." You shook your head. "They don't."

"They would rather cling to their delusions than just trust me."

"People don't trust the things they'd rather fear," You said, combing your fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry fate forged you this way." 

That boy clung to you tighter, grasping handfuls of your shirt. "I suppose that makes us kindred souls, you and I," He muttered. There was acceptance in his voice now. "Made to be hated. Given claws and teeth and punished for them."

You turned your head and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Well, if that's the case, then I'm glad I became who I am."

"Why?" He asked.

"So you wouldn't always be alone," You decided. "I'm grateful to everything that made me, if all of it was what led me to you."

Kol sighed and shook his head. "Darling, I'm not worth everything that happened to you."

"Yes, you are." Your tone didn't leave room for any further protests on his part, so the two of you simply held each other for a while. He'd been right in what he'd said before. It wasn't annoying - not when it was him.

Once he could breathe a little easier, Kol slid his hands to your thighs and hoisted you up, prompting you to hook your legs around his waist. He walked over to the hotel couch and laid you down, quickly positioning himself over you. Gazing down at you, he just smiled and pushed a lock of hair out of your face. Kol leaned down and met your lips. It was a slow, meaningful kiss and you smiled into it as he let himself unwind, melting against you with a sweetness he showed no one else. Then he stilled. When he pulled away, there was something odd in his eyes. You thought it looked a little bit like dread but there was more to it. He opened his mouth, blinking rapidly and you caught sight of an acute pain that you’d never seen in him before. 

“Kol?” You frowned. 

“I’ve doomed you,” He said quietly, almost to himself. “Bloody hell, darling… I-I’ve just killed you.”

His words left you speechless. Guilt wasn’t an emotion you associated with him.

“What are you-”

“It’s Klaus, don’t you understand?” Kol moved off of you and stood, tearing his hands through his hair. “We took the cure from him. Darling, my brother is never going to stop hunting me for what we’ve done and now I’ve just implicated you!”

You blinked, raising a brow. “Pretty sure I was implicated from day one…” 

“No! No, you weren’t. Only to Elena’s little cult, not to my siblings.” His gestures grew wilder as he paced, hands shaking, breathing erratic. “You were there, but you were nothing. You weren’t important-”

“Ouch.”

“No, don’t you see, love? To them, you-you were just an accessory.”

“I remember Rebekah being very aware that t’was I who stole the twig of destiny,” You pointed out. 

“But you stole it for me,” He maintained. “She didn’t know who you are, what you’re capable of. Neither did my brother but now, with all of them working together…” His voice trailed off and he stopped pacing. His eyes met yours dejectedly, waiting for you to put it together.

You nodded, pursing your lips. “Now, Mystic Squad Goals is gonna tattle on me,” You finished. He was right. You’d had a way out before, but that was gone now. “I’m just as guilty as you are.”

Kol sighed and shook his head. Shame rolled off him in waves. “I’m such an idiot.” He cursed quietly. “This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. If I had just taken a moment to think, this never would have happened. Y/N, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not.”

His head shot up. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not sorry.” You shrugged. Something inside you crumpled, yet you managed to smile. “Life on the run doesn’t sound so bad. I mean, there’s still a lot of stuff I think I wanna see. A-and we can go anywhere, right?” Your laugh wasn’t entirely real but it wasn’t completely fake either. Kol moved to sit beside you with a sigh. 

"Darling, you understand what this means, don’t you?” Kol asked softly, looking at you through the corner of his eyes. You bit down on your lip, nodding though your eyes stung. “If Jeremy chooses to go back…” He hesitated.

“I’ll never see him again,” You whispered. 

He touched your arm, ever so gently. “And you’re ready for that?” He asked. “To say goodbye?”

You wiped your eyes and sniffed. This wasn’t the paralyzing pain you’d felt a few days before. It hurt, yes. But with that pain came the realization that you’d known this was coming. You’d always known, even before vampires came back to Mystic Falls. You’d known that life is a bittersweet thing. Childhood friendships are great but they’re just that. People grow up and grow apart because friends… well, friends aren’t really meant to last forever. They come and go. They live their lives, move away,  fall in love, and have a family - or maybe they don’t. Maybe they get in a car crash and die early, or maybe they spend their life traveling with their dog. Point is, they leave and most people don’t know which goodbye will be their last. 

You would miss Jeremy, of course. But you could live on without him. Just so long as you knew he’d be okay.

Because goodbye doesn't mean the end - not completely - and goodbye can't erase all the happiness that came before it; though, isn't it a miracle that any of it happened at all? Goodbye just means leaving and leaving, you’d discovered, isn’t always a bad thing. Leaving means moving on - finding something new.

“You know, I think I am?” You smiled faintly. “I wasn’t before, because he wasn’t okay. I didn’t want to fail him. But we’re doing something good, I think, and he’ll be better off.” Huffing a laugh, you took Kol’s hand and met his eyes, looking at the boy you had left your old life for.

“So, no. I’m not sorry, Kol.” You decided. “I’d do it all again in a heartbeat as long as I get to stay with you.” 

The smile that broke out across that boy’s lips could have outshone the sun as he pulled your hand to his mouth and left a soft kiss on your knuckles. 

“How did I get so lucky?” He wondered. You bit your lip against a cheezy grin and looked at the floor, feeling your cheeks warm. You still couldn’t help it. After all, Kol was the first person to describe your presence as lucky.

“Save that for when your brother decides not to impale you on a tree,” You said nudging his arm. 

“Ah! That would be the miracle, wouldn’t it?” He said. You hummed in response, nodding. A beat passed between the two of you in silence. Then, you remembered. 

“Hey, we gotta hide the Kill-Me-Stick.”

Tagging: @yn-ymn-yln@r13mar@rootbeerfaygo@iiskittles16ii@fandomrulesall-blog@dark-night-sky-99@railingsofsorrow@apolloroid@thatweirdoleigh@misswe03@eat-cake@felinegrate@trikigirl271@cute-freak27@fayeatheart@archangelslollipop @aonungs-tsahik @sleepneverheardofher @space-princess-charming@heartbreakgrill@whatsupb18 @enchantedlandcoffee @trikigirl271 @kleinegamerin Really sorry if I missed anyone! If you requested to be on the taglist, just DM me and I'll fix it!

#kol mikaelson #kol x reader #kol mikaelson fanfiction #kol mikaelson x reader #the originals #fanfic #my name is cas and i write stuff #the vampire diaries #damon salvatore #jeremy gilbert #klaus mikaelson #elijah mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #fluff #angst #angst and fluff #klaus mikaelson x reader #elijah mikaelson x reader #damon salvatore x reader #the originals fanfiction #the originals fan fiction #the vampire diaries fan fic #tvdu #mikaelson fam #reader insert #female reader #sorry boys #kol being soft #damon is a jerk #jeremy gilbert x reader

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Robert F. Graboyes

Published: May 9, 2023

There’s a move afoot to replace America’s aspirational goal of equality (equal opportunity and equality under the law) with “equity” (equal outcomes designed and implemented by elite experts). A sprawling industry has arisen to spread the gospel of equity across American life. Its catechism has been greatly assisted by an internet-wide burst of colorful little visual parables, all purporting to show the difference between the sins of equality and the blessings of equity. Google “equity,” and your screen will explode with cartoons involving baseball games, apple orchards, blackboards, bike races, street crossings, bookshelves, and more. All of these myriad representations share one identical message.

A web page at the George Washington University’s School of Public Health uses an apple tree metaphor whose lesson seems to be that if you don’t have the sense to move your ladder to the side where the apples are, it’s “inequitable” and someone should install scaffolding and cables to bend the tree toward wherever you stuck your ladder. The website then conjures up a “Magic Benefactor” to explain equality and equity. It’s magic because deserving people are “given” and “allocated” resources, apparently without anyone else required to give up those resources:

“Equality means each individual or group of people is given the same resources or opportunities. Equity recognizes that each person has different circumstances and allocates the exact resources and opportunities needed to reach an equal outcome.” 

As anyone with a knowledge of history and political philosophy knows, a sizable number of countries spent much of the 20th century trying to allocate the exact resources and opportunities needed to reach equal outcomes. The results were far less than equitable. However, as any Swiss banker can tell you, the rulers of these countries did accumulate considerable equity while impoverishing their countries.

Equity folks have another visual homily, the Stadium & Fence meme, that is brilliantly clever. It’s simple, intuitive, and heartwarming. It is also naïve, misleading, and hubristic. Let’s explore this meme and nine ways in which it fails.

The Basic Stadium & Fence Meme

Three people—Mr. Tall, Ms. Medium, and Mr. Short are all trying to watch a baseball game over a fence. On the left, we see the odious world of equality. Mr. Tall has a clear view. Ms. Medium can barely see the field over the fence. Mr. Short cannot see over the fence at all. On the right, in the putatively just world of equity, some Magic Benefactor has allocated a small pedestal to Ms. Medium and a large pedestal to Mr. Short so all three now have equally clear views of the game. To put it another way, “To each according to his needs.”

Problem #1: “Inequality” is labeled “Equality.”

The left-hand picture doesn’t represent “equality.” An egalitarian would say that the left-hand picture represents inequality—an unfortunate but universal aspect of the human condition. The right-hand picture represents equality—a condition to which an egalitarian aspires, fully cognizant that it will never be fully realized. Bad luck, injustice, one’s starting point in life, and one’s own personal choices inevitably lead to some measure of inequality. Siblings of equal intelligence, from the same household, with identical opportunities often end up in vastly different levels of well-being. The Magic Benefactor can allocate all the resources it wants to Fredo, but he’s never going to be Michael.

Problem #2: The meme assumes an omniscient, omnipotent planner.

With the Magic Benefactor, individuals are helpless, passive beings, devoid of agency. Under equality, an individual is “given” resources and opportunities. Under equity, some unspecified being “allocates” resources and opportunities. In fact, these unnamed allocators are so perceptive and so powerful that they can allocate “the exact resources and opportunities needed to reach an equal outcome.” This is no Book of Job or Leibniz theodicy problem—where bad things happen to good people. Rather, it is Candide, where Dr. Pangloss always proclaims this to be the best of all possible worlds.

Problem #3: Redistribution can fail or make things worse.

The past century was littered with redistributive schemes designed to achieve equality of outcomes and which ended in failures. There are monstrous cases, like China’s Cultural Revolution. But also benign cases, like America’s well-intended, but frustratingly ineffective War on Poverty. Central planning (i.e., allocating “the exact resources and opportunities needed to reach an equal outcome”) has a remarkable history of ineffectiveness and counterproductivity—where sincere effort to improve the lot of those at the bottom ensnares them in a poverty trap.

Problem #4: Maybe the tall guy sinks or leaves.

The Stadium & Fence and the Magic Benefactor ignore the fact that with redistribution, the reallocated resources come not like manna from Heaven, but rather from the pockets of living, breathing humans. A more realistic version of this metaphor would show Mr. Tall sinking as Ms. Medium and Mr. Short rise. Or perhaps Mr. Tall just packs up and moves away—leaving no one to pay for the pedestals for Ms. Medium and Mr. Short. This is known in governance as “eroding the tax base” and in folklore as “killing the goose that laid the golden eggs.” In the 1960s, President Lyndon Johnson’s top economic advisor, Arthur Okun, explained this phenomenon beautifully in terms of a leaky bucket.

Problem #5: Maybe those in charge have their own bigotries.

Unlike expert allocators in the Stadium & Fence and the Magic Benefactor, people in charge of real-world redistribution programs are not saintly, unbiased individuals. They come with their own collections of bigotries and deficits of introspection, all reflected in the policies they impose on others. You are disadvantaged only if the elite experts declare that you are disadvantaged. In recent years, for example, Asian-Americans, who suffered terrible discrimination over the course of U.S. history, have been declared by equity “experts” to be “white-adjacent” and, hence, on the losing side of redistribution programs. This reclassification is entirely arbitrary. Coincidentally, the apartheid regime in South Africa implemented a nearly identical redefinition of Japanese, Koreans, and Taiwanese people as “honorary whites”—for entirely cynical reasons.

Problem #6: Maybe the privileged experts in charge just use equity as a pretext to seize more privilege.

One of the more intriguing aspects of the equity agenda is that its proponents effectively say, “Governments, corporations, and educational institutions are hellholes of bigotry and discrimination—so let’s empower governments, corporations, and educational institutions to redistribute resources.” This is popularly known as, “Asking the fox to guard the chicken coop.” It is informative to note the rapidly rising salaries and numbers of equity experts employed by governments, corporations, and educational institutions.

Problem #7: Redistribution focuses on group averages, not individuals.

The Stadium & Fence and Magic Benefactor are both stated in terms of individuals, whereas, in reality, policies are applied to broad demographic groups. In this picture, the Talls are taller on average than the Mediums, who are taller on average than the Shorts. But there wide ranges within each category. Equity policies do not aspire to equalize individuals, but, rather, to equalize group averages. So, for example, when the pedestals are “given/allocated” to the Mediums and Shorts, the shortest member of each group, Talls, Mediums, and Shorts, is still unable to see over the fence, whereas the tallest member of the Shorts—who already had a good view of the game—now has an even better view of the game.

Problem #8: Maybe the problem is the fence, not the people.

The Stadium & Fence meme never bothers to ask how the obstructive fence got there in the first place. A likely explanation is that the fence was erected by the very people with whom equity experts are entrusting with the task of reallocating resources. Access to healthcare, for example, is often impeded by government regulations that limit the number of doctors, that arbitrarily limit the scope of practice of nurse practitioners, that require hospitals to beg for permission to build new neonatal intensive care units—and enrich established insiders. Rather than obsessing over group averages on health, income, education, etc., perhaps the better approach is to rip down the obstacles that self-interested or misinformed bureaucrats and politicians and others have imposed on others.

Problem #9: Maybe the whole fence analogy is deceptive and elitist.

Finally, few, if any, have asked an obvious question that the Stadium & Fence metaphor begs: ”Why are we obsessing over equalizing viewing by three people trying to watch the game from outside the stadium?” There are two possible reasons why these three are where they are, struggling with the fence, rather than enjoying hot dogs in the bleachers with tens of thousands of other people. First, they may be victims of discrimination—excluded somehow from the stadium. If that’s the case, then equity experts are effectively saying, “It’s fine that these three can’t come into the stadium and sit next to us, but let’s make sure these second-class citizens all get the exact same inferior view of the game from the other side of the fence.” Second, perhaps these three are fully capable of buying tickets to the game but choose, instead, to peer over the fence for free. In which, case, why should anyone worry about how well any of them can steal a view of the game?

==

Unequal outcomes are not inherently unfair.

If the over-the-fence is a medical license, and height is ability to meet the requirements, then those who can't reach the top of the fence shouldn't get to see over it.

If the over-the-fence is entry to Harvard and height is test scores, then those who can't reach the top of the fence shouldn't get into Harvard. And yet, that's exactly what happened.

#Robert F. Graboyes #equity #equitism #equitists #equality #equality vs equity #equity vs equality #diversity equity and inclusion #DEI #DEI bureaucracy #stadium and fence meme #religion is a mental illness

[let-the-living-beware]

Some Diabolik Lovers terms explained

Haru note: So when I first really got into Diabolik Lovers, I immediatly got introduced to a bunch of terms that weren't in the anime. From the other races to phrases like Pandemonium and I wondered if they're just made up words but after reading into Paradise Lost I was presented with a term that wasn't made up and so I tried to find some "meaning" for the other ones. Have fun!

Disclaimer: This is purely my understanding and research. I am also not part of any of the mentioned religions and don't intend any harm, I am just reciting what I find. If I said anything that is wrong please ask/dm me or just comment and I will edit it to be more accurate.

Specific buildings

Eden (Castle) - So first of we got the most obvious thing. This is a reference to the Garden of Eden in wich Adam and Eve lived before Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge and everything went downhill.

Banmaden/Pandemonium - I couldn't actually find anything refering to the term 'Banmaden' (万魔殿) that hasn't anything to do with Diabolik Lovers and in an last effort I tried using google translate (I know, very reliable so dont quote me on the next part). After putting it in, and after I only got 'Manmaden' back, it also said that it was chinese. Chinese than seemed to be more accurate with 'Hall of All Devils' but like I said don't quote me on that.

Now to 'Pandemonium' and this is definetly easier. First of I got a game but I doubt that is what they were refering to. They probably refered to the capital of hell in the epic Paradise Lost from the poet John Milton. The book describes it as hosting all evil and that it was build by the fallen angels.

Places/Diseases

Rotigenberg - I first translated it to 'rotten mountain' as berg in german means mountain but after checking the spelling of 'Rotig' it doesnt seem that plausable anymore. Still this is the best I could do since my Japanese isn't really good (in fact it is really bad) and I couldnt find anything outside Diabolik lovers since, when looking up the japanese spelling 'ローティゲンベルク' I could only find Japanese websites selling Diabolik Lovers stuff and a Bavarian village.

Endzeit - Here I was to 80% sure that it originates from the german language and originally translated it to 'Endtime' (or End of time but that wouldn't be the literal translation as it isn't written 'Ende der Zeit'). But I wasn't happy with just that and after looking it up I also found out that it is a religious concept that describes the time before the end of the world. What it specifically is, is different depending if you are a Christian or Jewish.

In the jewish perception, Endzeit will begin with the arrival of the messiah and can only be prevented by humans having equity and peace.

After the new testament in the bible Endzeit comes before the second coming of christ and the last judgement.

I don't know how this relates to Endzeit in Diabolik Lovers besides maybe as a metaphor? But I don't wanna go into the theory stuff in this post.

Extra

Kino - You probably ask yourself why I would have a name in this. Well, simply because I find it funny and you will now find out why.

So when I first read his name I thought they were kidding or it really was a name in japan and it is but not how that little motherfucker gets written. Our Kino it written キノ wich is just his name with the Katakana alphabet (キ= 'ki' ; ノ= 'no') but the japanese name Kino gets written like this 木野 with the, I am not quite sure, Kanji aplhabet (木= 'tree, wood' ; 野= 'plains, field, rustic, civilian life')

But that doesn't justify why I find it funny and that is how we get back to German because Kino is just the german word for cinema.

#I feel intellectual #diabolik lovers #diabolik oc #shin tsukinami #yuma mukami #shu sakamaki #carla tsukinami #reiji sakamaki #ayato sakamaki #laito sakamaki #kanato sakamaki #subaru sakamaki #diabolik lovers kino #ruki mukami #kou mukami #azusa mukami #diabolik boys