Everyone needs a little lighthearted Scott Tracy bullying 😌
— — — — — — — — —
It had started when Beth found the photograph.
Which was unfortunate, because Scott had spent more than a decade making sure nobody would ever find that photograph.
"Scott?"
Every Tracy within hearing distance immediately recognised the tone, and Scott looked up from his coffee. She was stood at the edge of the living room, now dressed in something appropriately light for summer island weather he noted, and in her hand…
His expression changed instantly. No.
“Is this… you?”
Gordon, who was draped across the sofa with one leg dangling over the back and was rather obstinately ignoring his eldest brother’s attempts at discussing the yet to be submitted GDF report by pretending to sleep, suddenly came to life with laser sharp eyes.
"Is what Scott?”
Virgil, of course, chose that moment to appear behind Beth and peered over her shoulder at what she held. It took barely a second before his eyes lit up with what Scott recognised as the kind of brotherly delight that usually ended up nearer to bullying.
“Oh Scott. I’d forgotten about that.”
That was all Gordon needed, of course. He launched himself off the sofa with one heave, zeroed in on the slightly tattered photograph Beth held.
"Oh, Scotty." Beth’s lips quirked in something that may have been somewhat apologetic as Gordon almost collided with her in his enthusiasm and then promptly let out what could only have been described as a squeal. Virgil’s shoulders were already shaking, his jaw seized in an attempt not to entirely break.
Scott, for his part, was considering potential real estate in Timbuktu. Unfortunately, even his beloved ‘bird would not have been fast enough to save him from the onslaught.
Because there it was - a photograph from his academy days.
Scott Tracy. Age twenty.
Wearing aviator sunglasses.
A leather jacket.
And, most importantly - what he had considered at the time a truly spectacular moustache.
This is a glimpse of my bosom future!headcanon timeline. Just 'cause (I came across a West Wing gif-set, probably why). It also features in Timey-Wimey and Piano Practice. Though, always in flux the future is... Virgil and Kayo have a chat - they worry about Scott. A lot. That's it, that's the story. Some things, old and new, hurt.
Warning: an OC death mentioned in passing (please, read the end note*, if you kindly make it that far).
WORRIES
A gust of wind ruffled his hair - still trademark styled, but more liberally sprinkled with salt and silver now - as Shadow landed on the pad. Kayo still used her trusty old bird for errands and investigative missions, although her flightsuit was a mandatory solid black of the Secret Service now. Ms. Kyrano, Chief of World President's Security Detail, joined him wordlessly at the railings of the rooftop terrace, overlooking the magnificent vista of the Alps, crystal blue sky and the beautiful city below. Virgil sighed.
"I need updates on his BP and heart rate stats twice a day, uploaded to my comm directly. Thrice a day if there's a... situation or Ambassador Lemaire shows up, or the First Lady starts a war or something..."
Kayo suppressed a smile and leaned sideways on the railing.
"Eos gleans his stats every morning and every night before bedtime from all the residences sensors."
"Yeah, but Eos doesn't have access to the situation room. Not that Scott knows of, anyway. And I can't risk..."
Virgil was short for breath and the last words came out as a croak. Kayo squinted and squeezed his arm.
"You don't approve?"
"That he had a cardiac episode after the memorial service and then went on to take the most stressful job in the world? No, I well damn don't approve!"
Virgil's knuckles went white from the grip on the railings. Kayo stayed silent, giving room to his anguish, a hand on his bicep an unwavering anchor. When dark brown eyes next turned back to her, they were glistening with a sheen of tears.
"How does he do it, Kayo? After we lost Jeffy Jr.*? I can't breathe sometimes, it hurts so bad! And I'm just an uncle."
The pain flared readily from an ever fresh wound. Virgil's voice hitched:
"Allie felt so guilty he left for that deep space mission! I'm so scared all the time. How does Scott even cope?!"
Kayo snorted at that.
"Have you MET Scott? He doesn't."
A wide arch of the black clad arm indicated the massive World President Residence and Offices all around and below them.
"He hoisted up the heaviest mantle he could fathom and let duty consume his every waking and sleeping hour, drowning out all other thoughts. There's nothing much heavier than the weight of the actual world, huh?"
"Guess not. That's what worries me most..."
Virgil's sigh was tinged with bottomless rue this time. Keeping busy with International Rescue is the one thing that keeps me from going crazy. The echo of the words biggest brother said to him so many years ago, on a dark, dark snowy night, rippled through memory. He hoped so much they were past... THAT stretch of self-destructive coping. For a blissful while, moreso after Dad got back, they were. Jeffy Jr. and Skye were born. It went unspoken between them all, but Jeffy was their golden chance at a Scott that was happy and carefree, encouraged and inspired by legacy, but not subsumed or crashed by it. But they were the Tracies, so the universe would never let them truly catch a break. Ever, it seemed...
Kayo, ever the psy-ops, ever the bereft family like them all, sensed a need to shift the subject to something brighter.
"Did you get to see Lucy rehearse?"
Virgil's whole face lit up immediately and he beamed at her.
"Oh yes! I was at the dress rehearsal, and she asked me to accompany her after lunch today, for vocal practice before the premiere! Though I think it's more of a courtesy - she's got world class concert pianists at her disposal."
Kayo was smiling fondly in return. Virgil's kids were as much a reflection of his kind and caring nature, and talent, as Scott's son and daughter were that of his consuming drive, focus, and dedication to duty. Okay, maybe not to go there at the moment! Kayo waved the imaginary wisps of hair out of her eyes to blink away unwarranted tears and regroup.
"Have you considered you're maybe Lucy's favorite world-class concert pianist?"
Virgil's smile was impish, yet full of love. A sudden idea occurred, as his glance fell on the Shadow, and made him gasp.
"Please, tell me he's not cowboying it here in Delta-One?!"
Kayo actually let herself laugh at the implication. They certainly wouldn't put it past Scott to ditch the entourage and take his augmented Thunderbird out for a spin.
"Relax! The Joint Chiefs requested an on-the-go meeting, so it's a scenic route across the Atlantic on a GDF bus. No Delta-drive jumps for our favorite Commander today. Besides, the whole media circus tagged along from NYC. Nobody would miss the World President's favorite niece perform Carmen at the Season opening of Vienna Opera."
"Scott doesn't have favorites!"
The response was automatic, which scored another of Kayo's smile. It wasn't quite a secret the family consensus placed Scott a higher ranking Dad in the overarching hierarchy of Tracy parents. Jeff Sr., the proud Grandpa, was more of a partner in crime and a co-conspirator to everyone's endless befuddlement.
Virgil's take-away from her previous statement was, however, unexpected.
"So there IS a situation?! Kayo, I need his stats THE MOMENT they land!"
"Nothing your Casey had warranted worthy of high treason to inform me about. Virgil, it's fine. He'll be fine!"
That was true. Virgil's second youngest was currently the Deputy Chief of Communications of the World President office and, besides Kayo herself, the family's trusty person on the inside. She virtually worshipped the ground her Big Uncle walked and would flag anything potentially too worrisome with regard to his mood or health. Besides, John would probably know in advance anyway if it were Bereznik or any number of regions giving grief du jour (something the World President himself probably didn't need to know about, for plausible deniability and a semblance of restful sleep).
Kayo made a point to amend her reassurance with a shoulder squeeze. Dark brown eyes turned to her were frantic again.
"Look after him, will you?!"
Kayo gave a firm nod in acknowledgement. A pang of an old heartache flared up. But it became a well practiced, tried and true spiel between them, through the years - he was burning himself to light up the world, she was the shadow.
---------
*[spoiler alert] The relentless narrative logic and poetic symmetry part of me dictates that Scott, in the later arch of his journey, would, very likely, have to loose a son to his own legacy and footsteps. The way Jeff dodged a bullet (just barely). But the regular bleeding heart part of me screams in agony in the face of such abject tragedy and comes up with elaborate scenarios in my head how it all could eventually be okay. Dad Jeff couldn't have used up all of Tracy limit of miracles.
This is an alternative take on the time post Lucy's death. I have read and enjoyed many fics that have Jeff throw himself into his work after the death of his wife. And I will continue to love this take. But what if the need to keep busy hit Jeff a little differently?
❤️
Ao3
The days had blurred into one interminably long one. His eyes were full of grit, his ears ringing with a continuous high buzz, but what did that matter. There were things that needed doing, and it made it easier if he broke them down to individual tasks. Clean bottles, make lunches, rouse the kids, gather laundry, fold laundry, do the dishes, had to look after their boys.
It hurt, every time he looked at them, the pressure in his chest, his beautiful boys, that last connection to his beloved wife. They were his world and he would do everything to keep them safe. They needed consistency and a loving home, and he Would provide that. He could do that. He just needed to make sure they had everything they needed. He could do that.
Juggling Alan on his hip he dragged clean laundry into a basket. Stashing sandwiches into school satchels and dragging a comb through unruly locks. Emails got picked at between diaper changes, meals prep, grocery runs. Video calls were abandoned in favour of rocking Alan to sleep for his afternoon nap. The bedtime routine took three hours with extended bath time because Jeff just couldn’t cut short Gordon’s fun. Bedtime stories were read until his voice cracked. Requests for a glass of water, one more plushie, the light in the hall to be left on? Jeff would sort it. His evenings were filled with folding laundry, emptying school bags, finishing those emails he had started at 6am. He would lay down to rest, but sleep wouldn’t come.
Jeff would wake, with harsh drawn breath, in the middle of the night, to scribble notes on whatever scraps of paper were to hand. The guilt at writing across a school report revisited him regularly.
There was no point, he could be doing something else more worthwhile. Chasing away nightmare monsters, changing bedding after nighttime accidents. Soon the morning light would bleed in, and Jeff could try and get a couple of hours of work done before the morning school run began. So many times that work would be done with Alan curled up on Jeff’s lap. His steady breathing bringing mutual comfort to both parties. His hand would stall in its typing, drawn like a magnet to the downy soft head, “hush little one”.
They would find him there still, his older boys, when they emerged in search of breakfast. Jeff would blink away the gritty sleep from his eyes, wondering how it could even exist when sleep itself had been so elusive. Then it was on with the day, snatched naps, business calls, after school clubs, meals for all. If he just kept moving, then there was no time for doubt.
Scott tiptoed down the stairs, a little earlier than usual, almost not surprised when he found his dad tucked in the big armchair with baby Alan in his arms. Jeff had his head tipped back in a light doze, one had still patting Alans back on auto pilot.
The baby of the family had been particularly clingy ever since…., well, it wasn’t exactly surprising. He would only settle on their father, who would walk miles in circles around the kitchen and lounge seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
Despite all the upheaval, their father had worked himself to the bone keeping as much normality for the motherless family. After school pick up? Jeff was there, home later due to sports practice, Jeff knew, and had a plate of food ready as you walked in the door. 4 bagged lunches were ready each morning, with each kids preferences catered for.
Not that Scott wasn’t grateful, but it was ridiculous. Scott hadn’t been picked up at the school gates in years. Lunches had been one size fits all, or sort yourself out ever since he went to high school. And that had been fine. Why Jeff now felt the need to out perform the stay at home mom stereotype was a mystery. Well, it wasn’t really, Scott could see that their father was just trying to be the best mom/dad possible, it was coming from a place of love. But even Scott could see that it wasn’t sustainable. Their father was trying to be breadwinner, business owner and homemaker extraordinaire all rolled into one. There was no way he could keep this up.
Unread emails flashed from every device Jeff picked up and abandoned around the house. Excess groceries stacked up outside the larder. Clothes got cooked in the over packed dryer. The biggest give away, though, was the physical state Jeff was in. Each child left the house in freshly pressed clothes (Scott had never seen a pair of jeans with a center crease before.) Jeff, though, was living in a tight cycle of the same worn sweat pants. The bags under his eyes had got to the point that even oblivious young teenagers could notice them.
Scott decided it was time for action. Just like his father, Scott's go to solution was usually to throw himself into the problem. That hadn’t been such an instant fix though. The first time Scott had tried to take Alan out of Jeff's arms and help with the bedtime kitchen circuits, Alan had screamed loud enough that everyone had feared for the structural stability of the old beams above their heads. Alan was not having it, he would only be settled by his Dad.
Scott was able to have a little more success helping with the cooking if he was quick enough. On a few occasions Scott rattled through meal preparation only for Jeff to pull out a pre-prepared dish out of the oven, but in a family of five boys nobody ever complained about an extra dish.
John was set to the challenge of doctoring the shopping list, always stuck to the front of the fridge, to adjust the quantities and plotted meals to best utilize what items they had or use up excess from one meal to the next. He saw it like the logic puzzle it was, and quickly found a pattern that worked for the family. They were never quite sure if Jeff noticed the adjustments, he bought what was on the list and that was fine.
Scott set Virgil to laundry duty, and if he was quick enough Virgil was able to drag loads in and out of the machines before and after school, thereby controlling the flow of clean clothes. By cross referencing the family planner on the wall, he mostly kept ahead of the kit requirements for different classes and afterschool commitments. They found that as long as the washing machine was on and the dryer was turning, Jeff seemed satisfied. Probably assuming that he had just forgotten loading it. Scott, John and Virgil set to scooping up clean dry clothes and flinging it into piles on each boys bed before Jeff had a chance to try and impose military creases onto their clothes, thereby removing another job. Sure some times the piles got mixed, but usually they just swapped clothes about until it got to the right owner. Well, everyone apart from Gordon, who assumed anything on his pile was his regardless of appropriateness. He did look adorable in a full button up shirt even if the arms were pushed so far up to allow Gordon's fingers to peek out of the cuffs that it created full puffed sleeves.
Jeff didn’t seem to notice that they didn’t have many white clothes anymore, or that the kids seemed to be favoring grey and light pink more than they had before. At least they were clean.
Panic ran through all the boys the day Jeff threatened to give them all home haircuts. A bit of rapid problem solving and the boys deployed the only weapon in their arsenal, a teething grouchy baby who couldn’t find his favorite plushie (Scott would feel bad about that for years to come). Jeff was immobilised with clingy offspring, and the bangs got to live for another day! If Scott just happened to have a free period the following afternoon and used it to meet all of his siblings after school and make sure they went home via the barber shop rather than the library, well, they just hoped that no adults would look too closely at that, it was an emergency.
Despite all of their fixes, the boys were still struggling to help with one final load. The rapidly growing youngest brother who still refused to be settled by anyone other than Jeff, which consequently meant that Jeff was consistently running on less than 4 hours of broken sleep.
Scott turned the problem over and over in his mind, there had to be a way that they could offer their Dad some kind of break, without leaving the little dude completely distraught. They had tried bribery with soft toys. Alan had simply clung to them and Jeff, the boy had an impressively strong grip. They tried giving him an extra big drink of warm milk, praying he would be so knocked out by the soporific qualities that they could just peel him off their father and put him to sleep in his cot. Alan had nearly been convinced to have a nap whilst Scott was curled up next to him. Little eyes had started to drift, but when his pudgy little face had gone to snuffle into Scott's shirt, one sticky paw locked into the fabric, his eyes had snapped open again and all thoughts of nap were gone to be replaced by howling.
It was enough for John to suggest a slight adaptation before trying again. Next weekend Scott offered to take Alan while Jeff was trying to fix Gordon's bike. A task that would have been a lot easier without an armfull of baby Alan. “He’s probably going to need a nap in a little while, I’ll be back inside in a few!” Jeff called after his retreating sons. Gordon pulled his Dad’s attention back to the problem at hand by being quite literally the problem at hand and wedging a stick through the rear spokes with a joyful “HI-YA!” Scott made his escape.
Back in the house Virgil handed Scott one of their fathers shirts, scavenged from the laundry pile. John doused Scott with a heavy handed splosh of their Dads aftershave and then had to excuse himself to wash the excess off his own hands, wrinkling his nose at the onslaught. Virgil fetched the warmed bottle that Scott had already prepared, a little fuller than Jeff may have carefully measured out. It was the work of a few moments to have the oldest and youngest tucked up on a couch with plenty of cushions.
Bottle of milk deployed, baby burped and the heavy blinks were coming in thick and fast. Virgil and John looked on, hardly daring to breathe in case they broke the spell. A sleepy little yawn and then Alan was gone, no hint of a fuss, no sudden start and scream of betrayal, 10 minutes later and the older brothers finally felt confident enough to try phase two of the plan.
The old family moses basket had been dragged out of the foot of Gordon's bed, where it has been holding Gordon’s plushy collection for the last few years. It had been deemed a bit past it by the time the fifth baby came along, that, and neither parent had wanted to try and part Gordon from it, who was rather attached. Little did they know that Gordon would be quite amenable to handing over the basket if the right leverage was applied. In this instance, John had repurposed a large cardboard box that had been flat packed in the garage and he and Virgil had cut holes in it and crudely painted it so it looked like a submarine. Sure it still had the branding for the previous purchase running along one side, and the “this way up” arrows. But there was a porthole, so Gordon was sold. The only problem now was that Gordon was determined to sleep in the box and had tried to make a mattress in the bottom of the box out of soft toys and blankets. That was a problem for actual bedtime, right now they were just trying to get through naptime without their father wearing a groove in the kitchen floor.
For phase two deployment, Virgil pulled out another item of Jeff's clothing, this time a sweater. John refused to do the cologne this time, so Virgil just scrubbed at Scott's neck with the sweater, despite Scott trying to bat him away with his one free hand. Virgil then removed a hot water bottle from the basket, checked the resulting temperature before neatly arranging the sweater in the pre-warmed moses basket and with incredible care. Next, with the kind of precision movements more usually seen during brain surgery, the three boys carefully shifted their baby brother into the basket. Scott sat for a few minutes after the relocation, his hand resting lightly on Alan's back, just to be sure he was still settled, before slowly inching away on tiptoes. All three older boys sat in the doorway, watching the sleeping baby for the rest of his naptime, partly to form a physical barrier should Jeff or Gordon try to come this way, and partly so they could continue to watch over the sleeping form. They were all a little shocked that their plan appeared to be working, they didn’t want to jinx it by breathing a single word, it would be sure to break the spell.
When Jeff came hurrying in a few minutes later he nearly fell bodily over his three eldest sat in the doorway to the lounge. He caught himself on the door frame before Scott was on his feet and hustling Jeff out of the room.
Jeff found himself shoved, a little forcefully into sitting on the old rocker on the porch. John had swept up a giggling Gordon and hurried him out into the back yard. Virgil had shuffled on his bum until he was sat on the floor next to the moses basket, holding a serious faced vigil.
“What’s going on?” Jeff asked, only to be shushed by his eldest. “Look if theres something you want to talk about, I’m all ears, but can we do it while I get Alan down for his nap, otherwise he’s going to be cranky.”
“No need Dad,” Scott beamed.
“Come again?” Jeff tried to get to his feed, but was shoved back down and this time a blanket was deployed to pin him in.
“Alan is napping, and now you should be too!” Scott was far too please with himself, but then his face took a more serious expression. “Dad, we know how much you do for us, but you’re gonna burn out, you don’t have to do everything at once, we’ve got this!”
Burn out? It felt so strange for such grown up phrases to be coming out of his oldest babies mouth, because they would all always be his babies no matter how big they got.
“Scott, I’m your father, it’s my job to look after you.” he tried to get up again, but then Scott deployed a look that was just every inch Lucy, and the energy drained from Jeff’s limbs.
“ and you do Dad, but like I said, you don’t need to do it all at once. We can help,we want to help, Mom would have made us help.” the last bit was said quietly, but still with just as much feeling.
It gave Jeff reason enough to pause. Scott was right, Lucy had always believed in the whole family pulling together, she wanted her boys to be capable and independent, and Jeff agreed. Just, what with everything that had happened, Jeff had plastered over any cracks with manic productivity, as if he could push grief away with ….with busy work. Lucy had called him out on it enough times. When Jeff was stressed, he found things to do. When they had been expecting Scotty, Jeff had repainted every room in the house. He worked well under pressure, it was what had got him where he was today. Hell, the early plans for what would be come Tracy Industries had been hashed out on a space flight that had gone slightly off plan and required several “Jeff Tracy fixes” and a helluva lot of duct tape to get them home in one piece. But he had never had to run on that adrenaline for quite so long, and it was taking its toll. What could he do though? His boys needed him, and he would always put them first. He opened his mouth to protest, but Scott had raised an eyebrow in just a way to cut through all the arguments, so like his mother, that Jeff had to bite his lip and blink more rapidly.
“Dad, please rest, Alan is fine. We’re tough, we’re Tracys”
“But you shouldn’t have to be tough,” Jeff sniffed, trying to keep his voice level and hopefully with a little authority in it.
“Can’t help that! It's in our genetics!” and with that, Scott shot his father a massive grin, clearly pleased with himself, and turned on his heels sharply, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Jeff was too confused to know what to do with that, the lack of sleep may have played a part in his slow processing speed, Jeff was self aware enough to admit that to himself. Peeling the tightly tucked blanket off himself, he crept to the the front window that allowed him a view into the lounge. True enough, there was Alan, tucked up contentedly in the old slightly holey baby basket, snoozing contentedly….was that Jeff best pullover?! He sighed, it was probably a fair price to pay to get out of pacing the kitchen floor for the next hour. He let himself slide down until his bum hit the porch decking. The sun was warm through the patchy clouds and softly dappled through the old tree on the front lawn. It was enough, and soon Jeffs head was leaning back against the house cladding, and his snores were adding to the white noise lulling his youngest son into a deeper sleep.
Occasionally the sound scape was punctuated by a squeal from Gordon who John was spraying with the hose out back, the theory being it would tire the youngster out and maybe reduce how long bath time took later.
(spoiler - it didn’t work, Gordon managed to wrangle a two hour bath, through the liberal application of adorable gap toothed grins and old fashioned bargaining prowess. Jeff, recharged a little from his nap, and handing responsibility of Alan's bedtime story to Scott, was content to just soak up every bit of joy that he could from Gordon's evident love of the water - or at least the bath bubbles.)
"that doesn't sound sincere- it sounds rehearsed" is one of the most devastating and fucked-up statements you can make to anyone in the neurodivergent/ADHD/Autistic/Schizophrenic/Disordered Personality sphere. yeah bitch it's rehearsed. because i wanted to get it right when i said it
I’ve recently discovered how much better life can be when we normalize this. My best friend and I have started saying “hang on, I’m scripting” when we need a minute to mentally rehearse during big conversations (and “bear with me, I’m doing improv” when we’ve reached the end of our script and start to struggle with words lol)
I don’t know about y’all but my first draft is literally always my final draft and this has been the case since I started writing fics almost a decade ago. I proofread my works for typos, plot holes or grammatical errors but that’s it 😭
For fanfic? Absolutely. Totally off the cuff, no outline, just a vibe. If I interrupt spontaneous inspiration to *plan* that fic will never be finished.
To be fair tho with 11 years of experience my first drafts are pretty damn good.
I found this in my AU folder and am unsure if I've published it before. I can't find it here or on AO3 and I have refined it so here is Part One of Thunder Town, a Wild West AU.
~
He sat in the saddle, wrists crossed and barely resting on the horn of his saddle. He shifted slightly, causing the pinto to toss his head a little. Scott leaned forward and gently patted his neck, making soothing sounds and the horse went back to cropping the grass.
Scott sighed contentedly at the sight before him.
He’d been away for a while and coming home always made his heart soar. The small town lay before him – from his vantagepoint he could see the whole place – and he looked over and picked out the buildings that were important to him.
Miss Penny’s Boarding House stood on the outer edge of town. In his mind he could see Miss Penny herself, sweeping the entranceway while her faithful manservant Parker would be in the stable brushing down her pair of white carriage horses.
The Stables and Smith, run by his brother Virgil. As the resident blacksmith he relished the challenge of working both with metal and with horses. He was also something of an artist and occasionally the metal in the forge produced items of far more decorative means than usual blacksmith fare.
The General Store was where their youngest brother would now be. Alan would no doubt be complaining that store work was menial work and not worthy of someone with the Tracy name, to which his Grandma would no doubt reply “if it was good enough for your father then it’s good enough for you!”
The Saloon, where Scott knew at this time of day John would be polishing the glasses ready for the lunchtime rush while Kayo cleaned her guns and her knives in the back, ready to defend the honour of John’s girls. Brains would be out the back cooking up the next batch of meals in an attempt to make them more varied – and in some instances edible.
Scott thanked the day a large fire ripped through the eating house, effectively putting an end to their Grandma’s cooking and forcing her to concentrate on her specialty – between her and Virgil they covered the town’s medical needs.
The sound of dogs barking and hooves on the trail made Scott grin broadly, and he watched as Gordon appeared, his and Scott’s dogs trotting beside him. As Blue saw Scott the dog went mad, his tail wagging his backside faster than ever, and both men paused to laugh at him while the horses greeting each other.
‘Mornin’ Sheriff.’
‘Deputy. How was it while I was gone?’
‘Oh, reasonably quiet. Alan blew up the shack again, and Grandma tanned his hide, but beside that there was no trouble. Come on, John’s got a drink with your name on it, and Virgil’s dying to hear the news.’
Scott nudged Red’s sides and the horse walked forward, in no particular hurry to get home – unlike his rider – and Gordon followed closely behind.
So in the class of Unintended Consequences With Well Meaning Dog Left To Fend For Himself By Previous Owners:
So every week my family cuts up cardboard for recycling. Sometimes we use a knife, and sometimes we just rip it. Pippin, who is always looking to help, has decided this is clearly an Important Thing The Family Does, and thus he must take part. Which, fair. He's seen everyone in the family do it. This appears to be a family activity. So when you go to rip up a box, he will gently take pieces of cardboard from you in order to helpfully rip them up into smaller pieces while you work on other pieces. Adorable.
This is not the problem.
The problem is, in his doggy brain, this now applies to all cardboard.
Including boxes we are currently still using.
What I mean by this is that we have created a well meaning monster, because this motherfucker is now actively HUNTING for cardboard in the house, and if he finds it he is going to break it into the smallest pieces he can before bringing you scraps of cardboard to show you that he has Done The Cardboard Job, just to take it off your hands! How helpful he is being! You can just put it straight into the recycling box! Oh, that other stuff scattered around? Yeah there was some weird stuff in the box, I took it out for you! Please enjoy the 50 million pieces of cardboard as well!
Protect Internet Freedom from now until forever. It's important existentially! Americans stand with UK citizens in our struggle against government censorship
You guys have my whole heart for sharing this I had no idea will be filling this out and encourage all my fellow brits to do soo too. If you’re not from the UK please keep sharing this around we have till the 26th May to submit these in.
This whole thing was set up without our say we all need to make sure we’re heard.
i was chatting with a coworker about this whole saga today and someone nearby popped into the convo to be like “you know, you can use chatgpt to write a demand letter!” and i sort of blinked and went, “okay. i did it myself, though.” and she was like, “yeah but it can tell you what laws and stuff are relevant” and i was like, “i also did research myself.” and she was very well-meaning but she said “chatgpt” like six more times before she left and it was genuinely baffling to me, this insistence on it.
and in the one hand, did i enjoy spending hours researching housing regulations in my state? not especially. drafting this email was stressful. but on the other hand, did i learn a lot by doing that research? yeah, i did. i’m more prepared for my current and future leases. i used some of that info to make decisions about a new renter’s insurance policy. i already told three different people about things i learned that are relevant to their leases that they didn’t know yet. (pro tip: see if you’re supposed to be getting annual interest payments on your security deposit! also look up what specific appliances your landlords must legally provide as of 2026.) i also got to reconnect with my cousin for a bit because her job gave her specific insight on part of the situation, and i’d much rather do that than have a chatbot make shit up for me.
also, i drafted that email with the power of friendship (friends angry on our behalf) and spite (from landlords telling me not to do my research). chatgpt could never.
It scares me how quickly people are losing the ability to do this kind of thing for themselves.
It TERRIFIES me how much more quickly people have lost the confidence to even try to do this kind of thing for themselves.
I wonder who benefits when ordinary people don’t believe they are capable of finding out facts and arguing for themselves? 🤔
Couldn’t possibly be the same kinds of people who will eventually start charging for use of said chatbot services and allowing powerful companies, persons or entities to pay to have their particular product or opinion prioritised in the chatbot’s “summary” of facts?
For those in the UK you can speak to Citizens Advice for this kind of thing if you want support and advice from a Real Human. I had to do the same when I was moving out of my last house and they gave me a complete guide on what to do / say to my landlord.
Personally, I'd trust a human WHOSE JOB IT IS TO KNOW THIS over an AI bot that can't tell that 2+2=4
I’m actually going to reblog a thing just because this is really important.
As someone who has epilepsy and used to have several grand mal seizures a day, I’d also like to add that “offer help” can range anywhere from keeping the person calm to explaining to them where they are and what they were doing to even just telling them they should sit and rest for a while longer (lack or coordination is common, and it can be hard to walk straight or see clearly).
It’s okay for them to take up to a half hour to fully regain their bearings and sort out what they were doing prior to the seizure. Just answer any questions calmly and be there for support.
If they come around and you start to panic or shake them or ask them what the heck is wrong with them they are going to freak out and panic too.
I cannot stress it enough that this is bad.
If someone has a seizure and they come out of it, please. please stay calm.
They are likely disoriented and confused, even if it’s only for a minute or two, and you don’t want them panicking on top of that because they can have another seizure as a result.
the most essential part of a fandom are those people who immediately tell you to write it, draw it, make it when you share your ideas, you have no idea how many fanworks are born just because someone encouraged it
