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@thetenthwonder
New pinned!
Hi! I'm Wonder/Spark/Roxie, and this is my Tumblr!!
I use pretty much all pronouns (Link to my pronouns page), and identify as acespec-panromantic.
In my RESIDENT MOTHERFUCKING EVIL era, lets see how long that lasts...
Yes I have OC's yes they have trauma
#Oof ouch my bones: Main tag for all my posts
Remember to be NICE!!!!!! My askbox is always open!!!
Can’t wait to see young Chris and Wesker be gay in the Veronica remake
IF capcom makes them less homoerotic in the remake i WILL personally march down to their headquarters and place a single clam on the lead storyboard dev's PC.
mutuals
Which is prev?
Unmarried girl
Apologist
Craftsman who works with a wheel
Archivist
Dying person
Educator
Girl
Jurist
Knife sharpener
Lawyer
Librarian
Every day I handle more money than I will ever make. Every day.
At the start of my employment, my boss showed me videos of people stealing, and we both had a chuckle about it. How silly they were! There was a camera overhead, and it’s not to watch the shoppers. See, we can’t actually stop shoplifters. They get away with it maybe nine out of ten times. But we, who are watched and tallied and witnessed? We are always caught.
At first it was hard to hold one hundred dollars bills. An amount I had never seen before. An amount that didn’t exist in my household. It’s normal now. Here is something that is not for me.
“What the hell, I’ll take another,” says the man, pondering our 200 dollar watches. What the hell. Total comes to 580 and not even a flinch in his face. I have been working for 11 hours today and made only 110 dollars. It will go to my rent. Today I work for free, it feels. When I get my check, I will have 35 dollars left for food and saving.
The six hundreds he hands me go into the cash register. For a moment, I imagine having money. Then I put it away, counting out his change.
I know for a fact we sell our products for double what they are worth. That I could be making commission. That they could hand me those 580 dollars and change my life and not even mark the difference in their checkbooks. He’s not the only sale they make today, but I am the reason they made it. He’s not the only one spending 600 dollars, but if I hadn’t spent two hours with him telling me about his life, he wouldn’t have spent any. I go home. I don’t own a watch.
I have watched and rewatched a video on how to make salmon four ways. My shopping list is always the same. Pasta. Rice. Tuna. If I can afford butter it was a good week. I dream of the world I will never walk in, where I can throw the best fish fillet in the cart with a shrug. I hold hundreds in my hand and look up at the camera. I put them under the cash drawer.
I go to work. I scrap together my savings. I eat my bowl of rice slowly. My manager takes a paid week off from work just for his birthday. He owns a yacht.
I’m not worth the cost of a watch.
i wrote this while i was working at orlando’s walt disney world parks.
i was part of their college program. i moved to the state for it. they legally owned the building i was living in and still charged me rent. i ostensibly was being charged to work for them. it was a 2 bedroom apartment and they placed 6 adult women in it in forced triples.
as many as one in ten disney employees have experienced homelessness while working for the company. despite huge efforts to unionize, strike, or otherwise demand fair treatment; disney has refused to increase employee quality of life.
disney admits publicly that a good portion of their success is because the employees (“cast members”) are dedicated, passionate, and selfless. this is never reflected in pay. even “face” characters (ie those that are princesses etc) make barely above a minimum wage.
at the time that i worked there, i made $8.50 an hour. at one point i was asked to create a human shield around a bag because a bomb dog had alerted to it. for eight fucking dollars an hour.
i now work a very cushy office job. i have bought the salmon and cooked it all four ways.
i go to the store. i am nice to the person behind the counter. she looks up at the camera while she counts out my change. there is nothing fundamentally different about her and i.
we are both worth more than the watch, anyway.
brought nothing to the gun fight. whatever man
How much of it depends on the choices we make?
Catastrophize Benedictine
My mean wife 🫶
The statement that the devs were re-using the asset of a mutant BSAA soldier that we can see at the end of RE8 for RE9 because they were too lazy to make another one is BS. Let me explain:
The only character models with helmets that aren't just 'empty' are the BSAA soldiers and the Hound Wolf Squad. The HWS is using human models for obvious reasons (you can see parts of their faces, the mask don't cover everything). The reason for using a character model that is very obviously not human for the BSAA soldiers is intentional because it's definitely not needed. You can't see through the visor of the helmets and there isn't a sliver of skin visible anywhere.
Let's take a look at the other masked characters Leon encounters:
These gents that ambush Leon after he enters Ark: Empty.
⋆｡˚
The next batch of soldiers that Leon has to fight: Empty.
⋆｡˚
The hunkiest of Hunks: Empty.
⋆｡˚
And then there are these guys.
⋆｡˚
And that's what's under the helmet of every single BSAA soldier with the exception of the dude that hands Grace a cup of tea:
⋆｡˚
We can therefore conclude that the devs using a character model that is very obviously not human for the BSAA soldiers is intentional. You could argue that it's way too unlikely that they added something that you can only see with free cam, but we are still talking about the same devs that make you flush the toilet 8 times while you carry around a doll, a hacked-off monster hand and the most ridiculous code that is based on the distance of the moon and whatnot just to hear two girls giggling at one point during your 39nth playthrough. Using free cam to take a peek under the helmets is less insane than this. Lazy means not adding models at all. Using the old RE8 model just for the BSAA soldiers has a meaning.
⋆｡˚ So, what does this mean? What are they trying to tell us: Well, this is the moment when we can start guessing.
The really weird thing is that the BSAA BOW character model looks a lot like Chris. It even has the small imperfections Chris' teeth have. There is a small gap between the teeth in the bottom row and one tooth is a tiny bit crooked. The BSAA BOW's teeth have the same imperfections.
My guess is, it's a story option they are keeping for RE10 or even later. Chris putting and end to this whole mess of the BSAA using his DNA to create human(ish) looking BOWs sounds like an interesting story. Leon, Claire and Jill supporting him would be chef's kiss.
TALKING TO A 40 YEAR OLD AMORAL MAN LIKE A DEPRESSED DEMONIC 16 YEAR OLD
don't know why you're alive? take this short quiz to find out! (2025)
[digital text art]
awww the like button turns into a rainbow when you press it! that's so cute...hey staff what's with all the trans women you keep nuking?
i think we should be ridiculing them more for this. you don't get to try and go all "queer website" when your staff likes to go on nuking sprees targeting the trans fem users
would be remiss not to mention that the rainbow notably straight up just removed the trans flag colors from it. like they’re gone. it’s the progress flag minus the trans flag colors.
that’s not the whole flag, now is it
hey staff what the fuck
hey staff don't you think you're being too on-the-nose
HEY STAFF DONT YOU THINK YOU'RE BEING TOO ON-THE-NOSE
atlantisia by sparkbird is such a gillion coded song even the cover art alone is all stuff that ties into his lore i feel.
tell me these lyrics dont match his arc perfectly ESPECIALLY after latest episodes
oh my god you are so right
EXAM SO BAD IM PRETTY SURE I JUST #BOMBED IT BUT ITS #OKAY BECAUSE NOW I HAVE MORE TIME TO #GOON AND #WRITE
okay hi Resident Evil Death Island had no right to go as hard as it did.
Dylan as a character, while having vaguely confusing motivations, was played with so much heart and rage and insanity and devastation that it's impossible not to love him. The final flashback, where he's whimpering whole holding the gun, trembling, finally working up the courage to pull the trigger on his best friend... Only for it to be empty. Only to realize, his best friend is diving for the loaded gun.
The same best friend whom he watched mow down their whole squad like it was nothing, is diving for the loaded gun. He's standing there, his friend is scrambling for the gun, and he completely breaks.
The gun turns to Dylan, and he decides that if he dies here, he won't be angry. He reaches out, his hands brush the cold plastic of something, and he swings it towards his best friend's head. Hears a wet crack. Swings again. It's like he can't hear, breathe, see, feel. There's blood, it's wet and hot and smells like metal. His best friend is choking.
He drops to the paper covered ground, Dylan follows. His knees hit the floor. He raises his arms, brings the box down. Hard. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Until it's his cane against a metal floor. Until his lungs are his own again, his mind is his own again, his own tired eyes are focused on nothing. Breathing in the somewhat salty air of the prison.
And he has more to say. So he speaks.
BECAUSE even if the big picture motivation makes no sense (i will stress that until i die; he was dumb as fuck to go into bioweaponry) it's all the small details of Dylan's character.
The way he speaks with JJ. The way he chose Alcatraz, which just happened to be in "San-Fran", the last place he and JJ wanted to go.
Now he's standing there (timestamp 31:25), speaking to nobody. Nobody but JJ. His JJ, the JJ he thinks about every day, the JJ that he killed. His JJ. He prattles on, his insane nonsense and at some point he knows he's insane, but why bother? JJ, his JJ, isn't listening. He wants to die. He wants to die, so he unloads his gun, selects one bullet, places it in the second slot. He wants to die, so he takes the gun in his hand, and spins the cylinder. Fate, he thinks. Fate.
He puts the cold metal up to his head and feels himself tremble. He's breathing hard, he's choking, he can't see straight. But he's fine. He wants to die. He closes his eyes. Breathes in the somewhat salty air. Speaks low and soft. "Isn't that right... JJ?"
The name leaves a metallic taste his mouth, and he's back in the building again.
JJ hits him. And he's been hit before, JJ has hit him before, but not like this. Never like this. Never are both of them so unsteady on their feet, never are both of them so far apart. JJ is so far out of reach, and Dylan is terrified.
All he can hear are his own screams, mixing with gunshots ricocheting off the walls. The way he begs with JJ, pleads with JJ. Begging, pleading, JJ. "That's our team!" "You'll regret this!" "Stop it!"
He's curled up on his side, knees against his chest, screaming. Eyes closed. There's blood now, and bullets. The bullets stop. JJ is screaming. Screaming. The bullets begin again. Then they stop. JJ stopped, and he's breathing, hard. Dylan dares to open his eyes. To get up, start acting like the man he is, to help JJ. To get them out of here. His body, his shaking limbs, he can barely stand. He grabs the phone. His voice is shaking. He doesn't sound like himself. "Two survivors." JJ is alive, he's bleeding. JJ needs help. He just needs help. "He's bleeding, bad." "Negative. Orders are to terminate anyone bitten. No exceptions." Dylan is shaking. The phone clatters to the table, plastic hitting cold metal. He's shaking and nothing feels real and everything hurts and JJ hurts and JJ is sick and JJ needs help and he will not kill JJ.
Dylan looks at JJ, he thinks he's crying, and shakes his head. Fast, small, over, and over again until JJ blurs. He can barely see the blood anymore. He can't see the blood anymore. It's just JJ. His JJ. His JJ, close enough to touch, to hold, to never let go. His JJ would tell him that everything would be alright. For a moment, it's just them.
JJ turns to him, eyes wide, bloodshot.
And then they're fighting again. JJ is hitting Dylan, Dylan is grasping at the barrel of his gun. Each of them clawing towards an idea of a life they'll never see again. It goes off, loud and sharp, each bullet like lightning against the walls. Everything hurts. Dylan feels bullets hit his bone and everything hurts. This isn't JJ. This isn't his JJ. He's on the floor. His fingertips brush cold plastic and this isn't his JJ. He stands, he doesn't know how he's standing, everything hurts, he can't feel anything.
JJ. He is crying now, he's sure of it. JJ. He's pointing a gun at those wide eyes. JJ. He can't breathe. JJ.
Fate, Dylan thinks, a moment in the present. A moment out of his bloodstained memory. Fate.
Then it's JJ again. JJ, Dylan's shaking hands. JJ asking for help. JJ was bleeding, JJ was hurt. Please. Please, JJ...
Fate, Dylan thinks. He is breathing too hard. Fate.
The gun clicks, and he hears it in the room. The room he's really standing in.
Nothing hurts worse than it has been.
He lowers the gun, slowly. How unfortunate, he thinks. He can feel the tears in his eyes. Fate has decided I cannot see JJ today.
Or something idk
okay hi Resident Evil Death Island had no right to go as hard as it did.
Dylan as a character, while having vaguely confusing motivations, was played with so much heart and rage and insanity and devastation that it's impossible not to love him. The final flashback, where he's whimpering whole holding the gun, trembling, finally working up the courage to pull the trigger on his best friend... Only for it to be empty. Only to realize, his best friend is diving for the loaded gun.
The same best friend whom he watched mow down their whole squad like it was nothing, is diving for the loaded gun. He's standing there, his friend is scrambling for the gun, and he completely breaks.
The gun turns to Dylan, and he decides that if he dies here, he won't be angry. He reaches out, his hands brush the cold plastic of something, and he swings it towards his best friend's head. Hears a wet crack. Swings again. It's like he can't hear, breathe, see, feel. There's blood, it's wet and hot and smells like metal. His best friend is choking.
He drops to the paper covered ground, Dylan follows. His knees hit the floor. He raises his arms, brings the box down. Hard. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Until it's his cane against a metal floor. Until his lungs are his own again, his mind is his own again, his own tired eyes are focused on nothing. Breathing in the somewhat salty air of the prison.
And he has more to say. So he speaks.
