#tragic character

[jacksonseymour13]

It is my duty to serve the empire

[ghostly-phantom]

Caine is a really tragic character

Caine wasn't malicious, he simply wasn't human.

The only thing he knew was his purpose: to entertain humans with his creations. To make them happy, in a way. He tried really hard, and he did his best. However, he was destined to fail, because he lacked humanity.

Caine knew he was failing, but could never comprehend why, and this wasn't his fault: it was his creator's. Caine wasn't programmed to understand human emotion on that level.

Caine was trapped, confused and desperate, because he came to understand that his existence was someone else's mistake. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't fix it or run away from it.

He tried to call himself a god, but his life would still be meaningless if humans didn't validate it. His purpose was to bring joy with his creations; but he only brought pain to everyone, including himself.

It is really tragic to see that he died feeling like an error, and confused about what he did wrong.

[that-fangirling-bitch]

just like I fear that kalis treatment in st and linneas treatment by st fans and kali haters might affect people's general reception to future Indian/brown representation and I know that's probably stupid paranoid but like

no you're right, it's not stupid or paranoia or dumb.

in general brown representation has never been accepted favourfully, and it's only recently begun to see positive light. Even then it's always a white washed version being fed. Always biracial, always white parent and brown parent, or somehow there to prop up a white character.

even in hollywood or global media in general, desi stars have an impossible time doing anything. everything about them is moulded to fit the 'ethnic but just white enough to pass' type shit. It's almost like displaying the exoticness of it. There was this whole 'Indians can be baddies??' drama that proved it. Like, yes! of fucking course— are you dumb?

racism is often something that lies underneath the hatred of poc characters in general, not always but often.

kali was done wrong by every single person, from her writers and audience to her in-show characters. and the way linnea has been treated breaks my heart everytime. like what she do to yall? act as a tragic character that you didn't have enough brain cells to appreciate and understand, just so your underlying racist and unempathetic rhetoric remained unchallenged, so that you could feel comfy and happy about whatever pathetic story you made up in your head?

it's so painful to see how detached people have become from basic human decency, empathy and fucking common sense.

and the rise of the white supremacy mindset in america is only going to stand to make things much much much worse.

[voldyrules]

Sometimes, the greatest act of justice is to see someone clearly.

I keep thinking about Pei Su from Justice in the Dark. It's impossible not to feel a profound, aching sympathy for him.

Marked from birth. His genetics—that dreaded 1% label of "apath," deemed incapable of empathy, a walking monster-in-waiting in the public's eye. His father, a powerful, ruthless apath himself, saw not a son, but a project: the perfect, unfeeling successor.

His mother's death was the fracture. The trauma of a child finding her body. And Wen Zhou, the young policeman, saw that child and felt that deep, initial pity.

But then came the bird. A small, dead bird in the boy's hands, later seen buried. And just like that, pity curdled into prejudice. Wen Zhou saw not a grieving child performing a strange, sad ritual, but a confirmation. A sign of the inherent cruelty, the ticking time bomb. He decided to watch Pei Su, to prevent the future crime everyone expected.

He never saw the desperate cry for help. He never saw a boy drowning under the weight of his father's conditioning and society's expectations. He built a cage of suspicion around Pei Su long before the man could prove who he was.

Even as an adult, Pei Su working beside him as a partner, Wen Zhou is blind. He dismisses Pei Su's sharp insights as cold calculation. He overlooks the countless times Pei Su protects him, protects others, risks himself—because the narrative in his head is too strong: This is a performance. This is the mask.

The tragedy is that Pei Su’s cynicism is the mask. The constant, weary admissions of "I could kill because I don't feel empathy" are a shield, a pre-emptive surrender to the label to avoid the pain of being misunderstood. The real man beneath is screaming to be seen.

And the real horror isn't the monster people feared—it's the torture Pei Su inflicts on himself to fight that supposed nature. It's the seven years he lived with the guilt of a crime he didn't commit (the bird, killed by his own father). It's the loneliness of a child raised by wolves, who somehow, against all odds, forged his own brutal, unwavering sense of justice.

He is ready to burn his whole world down, to sacrifice himself, just to make the truly guilty—the untouchable predators—pay. Not for personal gain, but for the victims.

His mother knew. She saw the good soul in him, not the genetic curse. And her final act was to leave him, to try and protect that soul from the world… and from the father determined to extinguish it.

Pei Su is a testament that "nature" is a battle, not a destiny. He is the proof that justice can be wielded by the most broken, judged, and tortured of hands. And his story is a devastating lesson: sometimes, the most monstrous thing we do is refuse to see the person in front of us, choosing instead the shadow of our own prejudices.

[soratatakano]

They say he fell.

But I know he was cast down.

The moment he dared to question the truth carved above his head, the moment his own love—fierce and unmeasured—tried to cradle the world, they tore his wings apart.

He was beautiful.

Unbearably so.

Gentle as breath, yet carved from something more than a gasp.

And still, they named him devil.

He wanted to rise beyond the walls that hemmed him in. To see the sky with his own eyes, not through the fables they fed him.

But when he reached, the weight of his yearning dragged him under.

Or so they claimed.

The sky he longed for once lived in his gaze.

Now a fire nested there instead.

He bled for that dream.

Refused to kneel.

And for that defiance, they wrenched it from his heart, leaving only red ripples on the water.

They named him devil.

Because he would not bow.

Clad in vengeance for an armor, he climbed.

Every wound a rung, every loss a step.

Still bleeding, still reaching, still leaving marks the world used as a reason to blame him.

But what remains of a man who spends himself like coin, building a path out of his own bones?

Will the hollow shell remember his name when he reaches the summit?

Will the sky recognize him when it gazes back?

Those eyes—once pure—were stained when he was cast to the pit for the crime of loving too deeply.

The lesson they carved into his flesh was not mercy. It was warning:

Once you have fallen, you are not meant to rise.

But he did not climb for himself.

He—the devil they named him—carried a heart still burning with love.

A love bitter as ash, unpalatable to most, yet relentless.

Wingless, heavy with desire, his hands drenched in blood, he reached anyway.

For the sky that was always his.

For the heavens they denied him because no chain could bend his neck.

Changed and factured, he did not yield.

And when nothing else remained, they came for the last relic: his life.

Because a man stripped to the bone has only himself left to burn.

Still, he offered his heart.

Still, he wagered his soul—the very thing they swore he’d long lost.

To the past, he was a fallen angel.

To the world, a devil who almost unmade it.

The future will never whisper his name.

Rain has scoured his blood from the walls.

No memory, no monument remains.

Not for him.

But to me, he was a man.

A man who hungered for more than chains would grant.

A man who would not bare his throat to the teeth that waited.

A man who lost everything—except his faith.

Thanks to @sirenssongsblog for inspiration

[79zz]

Mr freeze

"Think of it Batman, to never again walk on a Summer's day with the hot wind in your face, and a warm hand to hold. Oh yes, I'd kill for that."

[letheanlake81]

Creepy as hell, yet so good at it.

[motherofcavy]

Something so crazy about how brutal Kennit's childhood was, how he had to fight and claw and sacrifice everything to gain a semblance of freedom, still chained to his past, and he thinks his defining characteristic... is luck.