I'm excited for Raiders but am honestly really tired of yet another silent, blank slate, self-insert protagonist for Splatoon and think the devs oughta retire the formula. Splatoon 3's Story Mode really highlighted the limitations of it, because how do you have a protagonist who befriends a Salmonid (a supposed enemy from the previous game) and works together with it to take down the villain CEO who's been hiring and ordering teens like the protag to kill and steal from the Salmonid race... and then not use ANY of that for the actual narrative. No connection between Smallfry and Grizz, no stakes for why Smallfry is here to help, no motivation for Neo Agent 3, no acknowledgement from Grizz that the weakest form of the species he's been exploiting is the one that defeated him. Protagonists like Neo Agent 3 end up becoming total wastes of narrative potential because they're dropped in the middle of an interesting, long-developed world/conflict/cast of characters, yet they have nothing to say about any of it, so the story ends up feeling stunted and juvenile.
This isn't a "silent protagonists are bad for game stories" take either. Characters like Chell and Gordon work because they have special traits/tools/backgrounds that justify their place as a protagonist. Only Chell could have escaped Aperture with her abnormally high tenacity. Only Gordon could have led the resistance as the hero who survived Black Mesa. It doesn't matter who Neo Agent 3 is (you literally make them in a character creator), so they as a character are unimportant to the plot. And giving them a side-kick who is inextricably tied to the game's lore/conflicts, yet serves no narrative purpose other than a cheap "poetic justice moment" in the climax, only highlights the lack of interest in the writing. This is also why I feel Splatoon 2's Agent 4 was pretty much forgotten (basically the same person as Agent 3) while Agent 8 is so beloved (has an actual explanation for being blank-slate due to memory loss, benefits from the inherited, assumed backstory of being an Octoling child soldier stuck underground, thus giving them an emotional, motivated journey and arc of escaping to the surface and finding freedom for themselves).
All this to say, I like Mechanic, I've been enjoying the little comic strips, but I'm tired of yet another "they're whoever you want them to be!" protag for Splatoon. With how much the world has expanded, we need someone who's someone at this point.
remember "save our salmons". remember when little buddy was revealed and everyone thought there'd be salmonid reparations in 3. remember how there was still potential for it since the head of business dedicated to propagandizing, displacing, invading, mass-exterminating, and stealing their fertile eggs was found out and banished into space
don't get me wrong i love salmon run and it's always been my favorite game mode by far, and the salmonid culture is very intriguing and i enjoy observing their music and architecture and fashion and ways of life. i do wish it was being tackled differently, it's been long enough that a new angle would be nice. it doesn't feel good to be playing british museum simulator with their keepsakes, and crafting gear from dumped plastic garbage that ends up a burden on their shores. please tell me there's some kind of plot twist and the way social media posts about salmonids being nuisance pests is a ruse PLEASE let deepcut realize they're doing some fucked up shit
on top of all that in-world stuff, the salmonids are very heavily inspired by irl indigenous cultures, the ainu and pnw groups most prominently. i may be missing some due to this being a brief rundown; the major points are salmon (and bears, worth mentioning for context. the salmon war intrisnic grizz.) being an essential resource through their histories, salmonid spiritualism leaning into the environment's resources and cycle of life and death, cooking being a central piece to their lives (including tools, weapons, decoration, fashion, afterlife) and an utmost sign of respect, and all the salmonid folk art that is just directly formline.
all brutally juxtaposed by that bullshit of constantly calling them nuisance creatures that Crawl Ashore and depicting them as gross and having stuff like that render of an inkling dragging a chum on a leash. utterly mind numbing and jaw dropping things happening within splatoon writer brains constantly
its not funny i miss him 💔💔💔 i keep seeing sad edits and i just want them to bring him back, like idc how “unrealistic” it is or if it has plot holes i REALLY dont, if they can make Los Angeles become basically Gotham with how many (un)natural disasters hitting that one area then they can revive him
Alfred is the field medic Cave medic but Bruce is absolutely the dislocation guy. Elbow pops out? Alfred feels for the dislocation and then gives Bruce the go ahead. Minimum amount of pressure needed with the dexterity of a doctor’s hands. Dick dislocates his shoulder and for years afterward it just pops out. Instead of trying to jam it back in himself, he just shows up at the Cave, gives Bruce the puppy dog eyes, and suddenly he’s got a shoulder again and Bruce didn’t have to pull, or yank, or medicate him to do it. Because this is a man who had to fix his OWN dislocations on his own for years, and the older Alfred got, the less able he was fully manipulate a shoulder socket on a 225 lb behemoth of a man. Every time Jason (as Red Hood) punches someone just a little wrong, two of his fingers dislocate. He tries to wrap them in tape, but Bruce Knows. He always Knows, and the moment those fingers are in his vicinity, he reaches out, pretends to hand something to Jason, and pops them back in. and Jason falls for it every damn time. Tim has the worst dislocation — his knee — and begs Bruce to teach him to jam it back into place on his own. Damian dislocates his jaw in a fight where Robin caught the wrong end of a stick across the wrong part of the face (if there is a right part) and cries through it because it’s painful, yes, but also because Bruce herds him against some cover, sanitizes his hands, and pops it back into place, and immediately benches him for the rest of the evening because jaw dislocations swell SO much and Damian’s cheek is already swelling.
Can you imagine being stuck in space completely alone with only the corpses of your friends for company, and the first living thing you meet after 46 years of that misery is a fucking weird alien creature who just rolls up with crazy advanced tech and goes "hi let's work together" and makes it possible for you to save your world through the power of friendship and molecular biology. AND THEN you find out that in this creature's language, its name means "mercy". Happened to my good friend Rocky btw
dude i’ve been watching a whole lotta 911 recently cuz of my friends, so far i love it and everybody on the cast — though i think they could use a few more braincells on their team — that I wanted to write about eddie’s catholic guilt
i hope i portrayed this correctly!! i’m not religious if at all, so please do feel free to correct me on anything!
“Why does my skin start to burn?”
He's like a hearth—warm fire crackling in the quiet of the night while the wind howls outside. Warm, inviting, all-consuming.
And yet.
When I look up, the cross where Jesus lies, He seems to stare into my very soul. As if He knows that I am damned, that I am broken.
Sometimes, it feels as though He'd pry himself off the very cross and streak my skin with His holy ichor. As if to attempt to purify the mold within me thats been there as long as I can remember.
My gaze is drawn back to the fireplace. The fire has dimmed as it burns itself out, distancing its warmth from me. I want to stoke it, keep the flames going to keep the cold away. But I don't.
I let it die, and I pull away. My heart twinges for some reason, and I don't know why.
He's like a hearth, and I can't find it within myself to allow the simple pleasure of being hugged, loved, revered, appreciated, happy warm.
Its too much like a brand. Its a commitment I cannot bear.
I lie awake in bed at night, the dim moonlight leeching in through the blinds. I haven't closed the curtains, and maybe its because I'm afraid of the dark.
Maybe its because the fire is not here, and I find myself wanting to return to the living room, chasing that unknown feeling.
You know this feeling, you know what it is. You just don't want to admit it in fear of finally facing this mold that has you coughing up its spores. The words you don't let yourself say to the fire. You know what you are. But it weakens you to say it. Like a house giving into fire; it consumes you. Its a hedonistic pleasure, and it burns, doesn't it, Edmundo?
Instead, I clutch the sheets as if it were rosary beads to scare away the feelings that make my heart tremble and my skin start to sweat.
The moon outside casts moving shadows of branches on my wall, looking like hands that want to anoint me with the Holy Spirit to heal my sickness. To pray away the mold in hopes that I'd get better.
It makes me rear back into the safety of my blanket, like I'm a kid all over again. Its not long before I fall asleep, my grip white-knuckled on the sheets that surround me giving the warmth I covet.
Its only me that exudes the warmth for myself.
This night, I dream of memories long past and it blurs from war-ridden horizons to wailing sirens and then fire.
So.
Much.
Fire.
The living room is consumed by it, and yet the furniture still stands. There's no soot to choke on nor are there are no walls I can see. There is only fire and the solid reassurance of ground before me.
Its not the scorching type that wants to seize me. Its the comforting type that seeks to cradle me.
He's like a hearth. Its warm fire that crackles and pops in the safety of my dreams. It licks at me, and yet it doesn't burn. It feels more like a warm hand clasping my arm, wanting to hug me into its embrace.
Here, Jesus above the mantel does not leer. He does not seek to stain my skin with his ichor. He seeks to brush over it as if to say, "Look at my creation, and how I love him so."
There is no judgement in His tone, only acceptance.
Here, the fire does not die. Instead, I stoke it, and allow myself to be held by his warmth. Outside, the wind rustles instead of howls, the moon highlights instead of overlooking.
Here, I am cradled.
Here, I am loved.
But only in the safety of my consciousness do I allow this hedonistic desire to say to Buck..
"I love you."
Unbeknownst to me, I whisper it into my pillow, the sheets still in my grasp as if to use the beads to rear it back—rear myself back. To stop myself from giving in, to scare it all away and lock it behind chains.
I love you, I love you, I love you. I've always loved you. But it is mold, and it is ugly, and it is sickness.
I bely the words I want to say with moments of concern and softness instead, hoping that maybe someday you'd read inbetween the lines and say what the spores cannot allow me to admit.
"I love you."
In the bleak hours of sunrise, I wake up with a wheeze. The fire has sputtered and died, leaving behind that unknown feeling I feel like I've been chasing since I was a kid. I clutch my chest as if to reach behind layers of flesh, sinew, and bone, hoping it would will itself to stop beating so erratically.
Someday, I hope that God and His son will forgive me for this wretched sin I've been born with.
For now, I linger amongst the Earth as if I were Cain. Only in my dreams where I am safe from Their gazes, could I have the hope to embrace the fire that does not scorch me.
gracieabrams
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
amandla
dailybridgerton
blakekathryn
tangentwithtanner
vaporwave
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
baratheonpilled
