Just to raise awareness at the situation in Canada right now to my non-Canadian followers: Toronto has been ranked as having the worst air quality in the world right now due to wildfires.
Toronto is not a wildfire-prone area. It is extremely close to the USA border, and the smog is currently affecting NY right now. There is literal chunks of debris in the air. The sky is orange, and the sun is nowhere to be seen.
Climate change and its effects are right outside your door. Data centres are the cause for the insane heat waves across the globe, and the increase in wildfires and other natural disasters.
You will watch recordings of the world burn around you, and only when you are behind the camera will you realize there is no going back.
theres bikes around the city you can rent but you have to use an app that needs your drivers license. theres buses that drive right to your destination, but if you dont have change you need the app. you can wash your car here if you sign into the app. you can go to the bathroom here you just have to unlock it with the app that needs your location on. you can order at this restaurant if you scan the code and download the app. im losing my freaking mind
people saying “don’t use your full government name for your ao3”, “create different emails for work and personal use” but personally I think it’s both sad and dystopian how capitalism/companies/even schools think they have the rights to cross your personal boundaries and insert themselves into your personal life. like, I get it, safety wise, why checking digital footprints can be important sometimes. but a gay fanfiction is not a fucking threat that could ever cause anybody harm. it’s funny (not really, it’s still sad and dystopian) how they now think they can control your personal life and prevent you from having hobbies
The backlash was a major lawsuit from 9 tribes alongside other lawsuits from advocacy groups like NDN Collective. You can support NDN Collective by donating to them here.
So, I've been watching a lot of older movies (namely Kiefer Sutherland ones) and I recently saw Dark City (1998). I really liked it, and I wanted to write a little something for it. Namely focused on Daniel Schreber (Sutherland's character). If you haven't seen the movie I highly recommend it if you like psychological/philosophical sci-fi stuff.
Daniel Schreber couldn't remember the details from when The Strangers took them; he wasn't allowed to, but some residual moments and feelings came to him, usually on the cusp of dream and awake. Thousands of, maybe a million, people being confined, terrified, and tearful. Pleading and protesting. It was undefined remembrance, but it often startled him awake, his weak heart pounding in his chest.
Sometimes, he cursed the fact that he had been singled out by them, tortured into compliance, because of his unique skills and education in the human psyche that they thought they would be able to use to conduct and understand their experiments. Other times, he was glad for his special position because only with his expertise could the groundwork for resistance be laid in John Murdoch's mind. It was slow, calculated work that took night after night as The Strangers chose this or that person for him to alter. It meant that he couldn't always get to John. And it often meant that he had to seek John out on his own, away from The Strangers' eyes. Night after night.
Always night.
He wasn't sure if it was his memories or a part of the collective concoction of everyone else's that he had to inject into himself to forget where they came from, but he remembered the sun. He remembered feeling its warmth on his face. He remembered it reflecting off of the ocean water as he spent a leisurely summer day cooling off and laughing as he jumped into the waves. Shell Beach. Even though he knew there was no Shell Beach in or around the city, there had to have been a real beach somewhere, at some time. Right? Someone remembered it, and that collective memory was distilled and fed into everyone, offering consistency and acceptance of a collective cultural memory for the citizens of this little zoo. The Strangers, when they were initially taken, forced the doctor to go one by one to everyone. Make them forget where they were from, only remember the city, and the false Shell Beach.
He didn't pine for the beach as John did, but still, it would be nice to see the sun.
Tonight, he was working on a few people, namely a woman in her thirties named Erin McCrimmon. The experiment of The City was complicated, messy, and all over the place. There were no real controls, unless he counted himself (and that was imperfect as he had to imprint himself to a small extent in the beginning), and so he had to argue and explain his reasons for doing what he did and with whom. While the Stranges controlled most of his existence, prodded the experiments along the way that they wanted, they still needed/deffered to him in many respects for want of success and trusting his expertise. So, there were people, like Erin, who, after their initial imprints to prevent them questioning things, were left alone.
She worked as the secretary to the mayor. Answering calls, filing paperwork, a pantomime of whatever real governance they had wherever they'd originated from. Every time things changed, her occupation, her home, remained the same. Just little details, little memories would be added or altered to see how she would react. It offered consistency to measure against whole cloth changes others went through.
She was consistent. She was a brisk, no-nonsense sort of person with an eye for detail and a knack for problem solving. The mayor was a soft-spoken, indecisive man who relied on her more than his own judgement when it came to making choices for the populace. Not that their choices really impacted the night-to-night existence of the city, but it was interesting to watch people when they thought they had a semblance of control in their lives and environment.
He liked Erin. She was reserved, but unfailing polite and kind when given the opportunity. Like buying him a cup of coffee when he was standing in line behind her at the cafe near Town Hall.
"You look like you could use a pick-me-up," Is all she said when she passed it to him.
She hadn't asked him how he liked it, and so he received a copy of whatever she got. It was creamy and too sweet, a touch of vanilla and chocolate. Still, he accepted it, more than touched by the kindness. Little moments of kindness and generosity always stood out to him. They were unprompted, spontaneous, and came from all sorts of people in the city.
She found her way into his office one night and became a patient of his. Everyone became a patient at one time or another. He was certain that there had to have been other psychologists and doctors in the group that had been taken, but he was the only one to remain mostly unchanged. Thus, when he was in his office, he was the only one that frustrated, confused, scared citizens could go to for help.
She was having depressive episodes. Feeling listless, hopeless. It was their last session that prompted him to take action tonight. To, in his own small way, help keep her safe.
She was lying on his couch, telling him all of her woes and concerns. Namely, with how her job took up most of her time, she couldn't find her cat (there never was a cat), and how she got stuck on the train for an hour. None of these things were cause for alarm. Standard emotional distress that he offered his insight into, made note of, to help her cope.
Then she began to ask questions.
"Where are the trees?"
"Beg pardon?"
"The trees, doc," She never called him Doctor Schreber, just doc, "where are they?" She was lying out on the couch, her bare feet resting on the arm as her heels rested on the floor next to her, and she was looking at him with wide eyes.
A shudder went down his spine. Questions. "I'm afraid---I don't----understand." He wheezed. Not for the first time he wished they hadn't damaged his lungs.
She looked at him, her brow knitted together. "There's a park. I remember going there with my grandma when I was little. There was a playground. She used to push me on the swings. With how awful I've been feeling lately, I thought it might be nice to go there. Sit under the trees. Maybe eat some lunch on a blanket in the grass. It's been so long since I'd even touched grass. I'm always working. But I can't find it. I can't find the park." She looked away from him to look at the ceiling, eyes damp. "I could have sworn it was in the middle of the city. I took a taxi there." She fell silent, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Tentatively, he asked, "What---did----you----find?"
She sniffled loudly and in a watery, weak voice, said, "Nothing." She looked at him again, inclining her head so that her red hair fell across her face, strands sticking to the wet skin, "They must've torn it down." She cried loudly then. "I don't remember the mayor signing off on something like that. Why would he? There are no trees in the city."
He didn't know what to say for a long time. There had never been a park in the city. From the remnants of his own, untampered with, memories he too recalled trees and grass. When he was going to college to become a behavioral specialist and psychologist, there had been a common green where students and faculty would congregate. He missed trees and grass, just like Erin did. Still, it wouldn't do to have her asking questions and potentially draw the Strangers' attention to her.
"Ah, well, ----I'm sure there is---a good---explination. Perhaps there was----some---construction that----required---the park to be---relocated."
The City was always changing. Some structures remained the same, like the town hall and train station, to keep some level of function and keep the people complicit. Which was his suggestion. In the citizens' ever-fluctuating lives/environments, having a few stable pieces would help the illusion and prevent more people from waking up. There was also his office/apartment and, despite their displeasure, the pool in the basement of his building. They kept it only so the doctor, whom they needed, could get some exercise. After all, with all that damage they did to his body, he was limited in his mobility. It was remarkable, looking back on it, how much pain he endured before surrendering to their demands. He would forever bear the consequences for the rest of his life.
"I---will try---to find it. I'm certain---that it simply---has been---moved. If I find it---I'll let you know." He promised, knowing it was a lie.
"I'd like that." Her smile was one of the brightest things in this dark world. So full of hope. "We could have a picnic together."
He offered her a small smile in return, "I---would---like---that."
They would never have that picnic.
He stood in her apartment; the Strangers hadn't followed him up. They didn't need to. Nothing about her apartment would change; her job wouldn't change. He just needed to do some fine-tuning on her. He didn't explain to the Strangers why he was doing it and, thankfully, they didn't ask. Wrote her off as one of the doctor's favorite subjects and left him to it, provided he was quick and would go to the actual targets tonight.
He pulled his syringe from the bag that he set aside for her. No more parks. Just the city. Just content memories of being surrounded by the pulse of life and convenience and interesting food. It wasn't much; it was hastily put together, but it spoke to what he'd already observed in Erin's behaviors before. She enjoyed food; she liked keeping busy. These traits would be enhanced, and she would forget about worrying about trees.
"No---more---questions, my dear," He whispered as he brushed her bangs from her forehead. The needle extended with its sharp, drilling sound and, with practiced ease, pushed it through the bone into the brain.
Maybe if his plans came to fruition, and John Murdoch was able to harness his own power, take back control for all of them from the Strangers, then he and Erin could have that picnic in a park with plenty of trees and grass.
That ‘comment on your a03 work’ email hits like a line of cocaine every time. unmatched dopamine increase. shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment on fics. you deserve the world
I actually recommend everyone write for a rarepair once because it completely changes your relationship with fandom. Engagement stops being numbers and starts being names. You know who's going to show up. You recognize usernames. Someone disappears for a while and then comes back and you're like “OH MY GOD WELCOME HOME.” It's incredibly wholesome. It is also deeply inconvenient when all six of you simultaneously get writer's block-
saw a comment that misspelled “kind gesture” as “kind jester” and am now imagining a beautiful world where we praise good samaritans by calling them kind jesters. good on you, you gentle fool. you’ve made the world a sweeter and sillier place.
areudirty
amandla
discoholicmusic
pixelskylines
titsay
dailybridgerton
