Feb 3
Pss Pss Pss Pss Pss *What happens in The Morning stays in The Morning, capiche?*
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Pss Pss Pss Pss Pss *What happens in The Morning stays in The Morning, capiche?*
The Tau cannon from Half-Life 1. Equipping this already badass energy weapon precedes probably my favourite track in the whole game. I'm not a gun nut, I promise.
This is a sort of test-sketch to see if I had the chops to make a short comic. I think I should've cooled it on the shading personally.
To the astute observer, you'll notice a small lever near the grip. I'll come clean -- I have no idea how this (obviously fictional) energy weapon works in real life, so I just took inspiration from the TF2 Medic's Medigun and gave it the same thing. Also, yeah, this is the Black Mesa model. Maybe I'll use the HL1 model in my comic...
SPOILERS FOR DR3 AND ASSORTED OTHER DANGANRONPA MEDIA
How come nobody (least from i have seen) has talked about how evil and corrupt hopespeak really was? They exploited people for money with their nane, used a vunrable kid for human experimentation using data they seemingly ilegally took by studying the kids they were meant to be teaching. These experiments lead to him becoming a hollow shell with next to no emotions before locking him away possibly indefinitely. This doesnt even begin to cover all the murders they have covered up which leads me to belive they have connections to the cops, probably through the graduated pupils showing a deeper run corruption that we dont see....and these are the good guys? Like yes i am literally a Junko fanboy and im probably bias but god damn if she didnt take advantage of this soneone else was bound to eventually, if you really look into it its pretty dystopian how many downright evil and negletful things they did yet they are kniwn as the center of hope in the world. Idk maybe im being too harsh it seems like their intentions were for the betterment of tbe worl...but are all these twisted things really justified?
Sorry this is very rambly just my thoughts, woukd love to hear others opinions on this as its a topic i have seen so little info on despite how interesting it is
Christmas Art Dump IV
Another Art for Crimbo! We have a Necromancing Mediator who asks the dying for their bones and will take NO for an answer, and her loyal familiar. And we have a lounge singer who Will Not Wear A Shirt, and practices Leg Week instead of Leg Day! And we have a Tiefling bard with a Spooky Lute, made from the skull of her mentor as a final request. It plays beautifully but it’s very unsettling…
patricide is like falling in love (tom riddle, probably)
~inspired by a moodboard thing I saw on here where TMR says murder is like falling in love~
Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!
“You are my son,” Tom Riddle chokes out, his gaze roving helplessly over his dead parents’ bodies as he clutches a crucifix, dangling from a small silver chain.
His voice is wrecked from the pain.
Weak.
“I made you. You’re a monster.”
Tom laughs. “No one made me, father. I made me.” He feels his head tilt, his eyes focus. “You’re sixteen years too late to claim me, now. You left me. I came for you. You see?”
“Your mother bewitched me!”
“That may be so,” says Tom, twirling Morfin’s wand and laughing as his father shrinks back. “She’s dead. Died giving birth to me. In Wool’s Orphanage, London. My poor, dead mother stumbled into the orphanage, weak and starving on the coldest night of the year. They couldn’t stop the bleeding or the fever, and she only lived long enough to name me.”
“I’m sorry,” says his father, though Tom doesn’t want his pity. He hates pity. He hates his pathetic, neglectful, sobbing father.
How could two weak people produce him?
“This is wrong, Tom!”
“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. Shakespeare.” Tom points his wand at the battered copy of Hamlet on the bookshelf, laughing. It catches on fire.
“What do you want?” He sounds tired.
“Nothing much, father,” says Tom sweetly. His father, who left him, like everyone else. His father will never read him a bedtime story or wipe the sweat away from his face when he is sick or hold him when he is sad. (Not that he needs any of those things — he doesn’t.)
His father is the reason he is broken. Broken from birth.
It doesn’t matter, because Tom is something better than human now. (There is only power.)
“Daddy,” he says, like a small child. He has never said the word before, and it rolls off of his tongue with surprising difficulty — the agile tongue that pronounces Parseltongue, Latin and Arabic spells, and Ogham runic chants with ease. “Why did you leave me?”
“She bewitched me — she lied to me, you don’t understand how violated—“
“I want to see the light leave your eyes,” whispers Tom, in a tone that befits a love confession more than a death threat. “I hate you.”
“I grieve for your soul,” says his father, trembling with fear. “Repent, demon. Show some remorse, for your own sake!”
But Tom doesn’t intend to meet judgment. Tom intends to live forever.
He is burning, burning, he has never burned like this, he is so full of exquisite hatred that aches so good, and all Tom has to do is to let it all go.
“Avada Kedavra.”
Now, Tom is sitting on the floor in the Riddles’ dining room. He is running his fingers through his dead father’s hair, handsome, just like him, admiring his frozen, horrified expression.
Tom sits in his grandfather’s chair and cradles his dead father, like the Pietà, with two more dead bodies strewn at his feet. His head tilts gracefully down, mimicking the Virgin Mary’s silent compassion and suffering, but feeling none of it. Tom Riddle is gone. He is dead. Tom lays his head on his father’s chest, but there is no more heartbeat, no more breath.
His brown eyes, just like his son’s, blown wide with fear. Lips parted in surrender.
He leans forward and kisses his father’s forehead sweetly, presses two chaste, cold lips to still-warm skin, like a priest’s blessing.
The twilight sky is darkening, turning dark violet like ink has spilled on it.
It is beautiful. It is perfect, yet the despair is not gone. His heart still beats with anguish, and Tom Riddle is left more broken than ever and aching for more.
It is like falling in love.
Food for Thought on Fear & Ethics
This is from a role play I did a while back with friends on Discord. Here I role played as my AU/RP version of Jonathan.
”I find it interesting how we tend to experiment on rats for human things. Experiment on rats for rat things and humans for human things. But then there’s the whole “ethics” problem... Humans are odd creatures. We are so insistent on ‘ethics’ and what is ‘ethically correct’ and that we ‘shouldn’t do human experimentation’ but then we say it’s ok to do that to other animals? That might not even get accurate results, though they do of course. It’s just interesting to think about. You could test and experiment all you want on a rat and might get valuable information, but the rat is just that. A rat. With no connection to the human species.”
“Animals are living beings, but because they do not have the same intelligence as us, we deem them lesser, though, surprisingly, dolphins have a bigger brain capacity than humans do. The issue with willing human subjects is that when dealing with the, well, ’less humane’ experiments you’ll get a push back and people not wanting to do it.”
“I, for instance, can only get so far with experimenting on rats cause rats have different fears, different evolutionary fears than humans. For instance, if you wanted to figure out the cause of Coulrophobia and Masklophobia. You’d have to experiment and test in humans because it’s a fear that rats wouldn’t possess.”