Metal claw clips for thick hair

• Next event, after Voth event ends, is First Contact Day
• Ship from SNW soon(tm), though probably not one we were expecting
• Zen store ships coming up. Keal believes one of the Zen store ships is technically a Lower Decks ship
• Kael hasn't head anything regarding a bundle for DSC ending
• Unlikely Cryptic will make new starting experiences
• Kael believes theres some new item set coming soon
• When STO was launched on consoles there were 15 countries that it didn't get launched on the playstation store for, for w/e reason, and Cryptic is working on getting that fixed
• "End of game" for STO isn't happening any time soon
• The tech is there to make costume items for vanity pets, Kael isn't sure it will happen any time soon
• Kael will pass on beards for Romulans
• When asked about making older, non full spec, Zen store/lockbox ships upgraded to full spec to make them more relevant/on par with current ships Kael said that the T6x upgrades were made to help with that, and that theres more stuff coming in that area
• To get the Voth battlezone to work with the event Jesse had to do some "under the hood" magic because the game editor couldn't do it directly. The data was able to be handled by the engine, just not in a way that was directly available to them. Had to get a new icon made for the battlezone from the UI artist Joe. "Most difficult" part was opening up the battlezone and editing all the events to capture areas to give credit for completion of the event which involved.... one whole line of data!
• Jesse says it was about time they added the Battlezones to events. STO has been running events using TFOs/mini-games like Omega molecules for awhile now, why not integrate the battlezones? They have obvious break points in capturing sections that can be used for event credit. This new option seems to resonate with players, so they might do it again.
• When asked about small craft content Kael/Jesse talk about the "Mario Kart" gameplay they tested for small craft in the past. They spent weeks and weeks making it, and even got to actual testing of it, but found that the amount of work needed to make it feel good in the game was more than the payoff they would get out of it(there was a semi-long conversation about camera, movement, weight of objects, etc, between games that makes each game work/feel as it needs to be, and how STO's ship system just wasn't built for cart racing so it doesn't feel good)
• Issue with bringing the DPS test map on Tribble over to live involves both fixing rewards, and that it was made by a developer who no longer works for Cryptic so someone like Jesse would have to find the map in the code, see it how works, bring it over to live, find ways to it could be exploited and fix them, etc.(Cryptic has also previously mentioned the map isn't very optimized and bringing it over to live server would lag the game)
• Issue with the old Maco/Omega/Honor Guard unlocks is that they were awarded in ways that they don't structure the data anymore. So a designer like Jesse has to go find where in the data did they award this thing. Then it has to be passed to a programmer who has to figure out how this is actually unlocking the costume. Then it has to be sent to a costume artist who has to decide if this is something they want to give out, or does it need to be fixed up for clipping/species lists. Its not as easy as just "flip switch costume unlocked". Kael says he will ask Jarod about see if it can be added as rewards for like a Borg event or something
• Spock's volcano suit was brought up as a possible reward for this years First contact Day, but a more fun reward was thought up/decided instead. Cryptic is still aware people want it, but right now its just a costume with no stats and someone in systems would have to build the actual EV suit
• Ground vehicles, like the Argo, would require a larger overhaul to get working. The Voth mech suit works because its basically just "big group person". While Champions has vehicles theres some hard limits on what they can do. Compares it to the shuttle issues. What does it feel like to drive a car in STO? What maps can you use it on? Is it actually going to fit in all the places we want it to on a map? What happens when you crash? When you run into another car? When you drive over a critter? How is throttle handled? Do you have to shift gears? Is it automatic? Can other people ride in the car and/or possibly shoot a gun while in the car?
• Kael will ask Jarod about making older party poppers available
• Turning hoverboards on in maps like New Romulus is possible, but would require some fiddling since hoverboards work by defining a "volume" on the map where hoverboards are allowed. You have to be careful about things like ground clearance. If you notice you can just too high and accidentally have the hoverboard power turn off because the volume for allowing hoverboards only really covers the area directly above the water
• Cryptic is having ongoing discussions about how to make the V-Rex less campable
• V-Rex not counting for daily event progress it intended because of the camping issue
• Porting things between STO/Champions/Neverwitner is really difficult. Champion is locked to its own code branch meaning its more stable, but doesn't have many of the features STO/Neverwinter do. STO and Neverwinter are easier to port between because they're developed in tandem, but differences in how the game's play mean you can just port enemies between games without having to do things like rebuilding the animation rig.
• Champions isn't on console because it just didn't work out that way. It was originally going to be on Xbox 360, but that didn't work out for w/e reason.
• Reason why special BOFFs, like those based on actors, aren't editable is due to costume clipping/performance reasons. Some costume pieces don't look good on X species, other don't match well with other costume part, some things like capes/loose cloth is very performance heavy, etc. Geordi and EMH BOFFs were editable because of being very generic human shape without too many issues.
• The reason why Defense of Starbase One was bottable was because it was originally designed to require you to clean up each wave of Klingons before it would move onto the next wave. However, around the time they made it, there was a big engine bug where all instances of that "clean up the remaining enemy" would never complete. This was due to a fake entity being on the map/being used for code purposes that the game would count as an enemy even though it wasn't. In order to get around the bug the TFO was changed to just have automatic wave progression, which made it AFKable. That issue was solved, so they changed it back/adjusted what the game looks for in regards to people AFKing to make it not AFKable.
• Oddest bug Christian ever worked on was a bug that caused two people PVPing to revert to level 0 after the PVP match was over
• John said he would think about changing the Terran Valkyrie pets to use agony phasers, and that it was an interesting idea, but no confirmation of if/when it will happen.
• Updating the old uniforms is unlikely since the character artists are working on new things hinted at the end of recent missions(likely talking about the Borg arc tease)
• To revamp something like DSEs would require

1. The environment team looking at the map and deciding if it looks good enough, or if its janky/needs some fixes. Spend several weeks doing that.
2. Content would have to track down all associated bugs like critters warping in, fading out, then warping back in again. That's a big question mark since Cryptic doesn't know what causes it, and thus, how long it will take to fix.
3. In regards to refreshing the content itself would require things like. Bringing in a voiced characteactor to be a liaison for the DSEs. Have the writer write up different text for each type of DSE. Couple days for writing, a couple days for recording, a couple days for the audio team to set audio levels and hook it all up. Character reaction has to sculpt their likeness, even if its a mini contact box and not a full dialogue screen. That's weeks of work. If its an STO original character thats still days of work. Content would then have to do things like make higher level DSEs. This would involve copying the DSEs and changing the encounter levels on them, set it all up, and make a new version of the map for all of this stuff. That's a couple days of work due to the number of DSEs. Adding new gameplay features like closing portals, rescuing ships etc, would take a few days to a week. Then it needs to be copied to all the other DSEs and edited for each kind of enemy to make sure it works. Then it goes to QA who has to test all of them, all variations, how it works with teams of people, if things like fighting one type of enemy breaks the new gameplay feature. This is a few weeks for QA to go through everything/send back to programmers to fix issues. Would also include adding DSEs to quadrants without them, critter groups not currently covered by DSEs, new accolades, trying them into the endeavor system, etc. Jesse says he would schedule around 1.5-2 months worth of time to bring DSEs up to 2023 levels of gameplay.

Bug reports/resolutions

• Texas class not having the NA registry is a bug and is getting fixed either this week, or soon
• Bug regarding ISA right transformer not spawning with a shield has been reproduced by QA, and put on content, so it should be fixed soon
• Bug about Texas class console/experimental weapon misfiring was noted
• Female french twist hairstyle making your character invisible ws reported, confirmed by QA, and has been sent to the team to fix
• Kael asked Christian to note the Beverly hair not being available for females
• Cryptic is looking into the block? on PS4
• Christian fixed the bug on the Valkyrie hanger pet visuals, and the Jem'Hadar Zen store ships having wrong descriptions.
• The teams disbanding at the end of a TFO bug is a bug that Cryptic has dealt with for years, and it keeps coming back every time they think they've squashed it.
• Jesse fixed the bug in "Stranded in Space" regarding the science career optional
• Screen flicker in Khitomer in Stasis TFO, and other older maps, was reported
• Starfleet 32C non admiral pants clipping through the jacket also noted
• Trauma response being buggy is a known issue
• Lobi outfits not being able to be worn by BOFFs on at least the Xbox version was noted

Today was the factory tour. I had won a spot through our local radio station. They were giving out two free passes, but I had no one else to take so I sold the other. I had called mostly out of boredom and to try out my luck. I was, to my surprise, the first to call in.
Pickup was at 9:00 AM. It had been arranged by Ardec & Ordec Winery. The cab had arrived five minutes past the pickup time: a factory van hosting the company logo on its side pulled up. I stared at the large, superimposed face of a larger woman drinking from a glass of wine. Her lips were bright red, her cheeks rosy; hair long and brown.
The door had slid open by itself. Inside, several other guests - I counted seven - greeted me with excited smiles. I stared up at the blistering sun and stepped in. The fresh air conditioning was paradise, and it smelled of lavender. The seats and floors were especially clean, as if someone had meticulously gone through every corner, crevice, and hole.
I introduced myself to the other guests, whom I noticed were holding glasses of freshly poured wine, and they introduced themselves in return. One woman, Maria, had caught my eye; strangely resembling the woman on the side of the van. Before I could utter a word to her, a glass of white wine was handed to me.
"Freshly made," said the man who had handed it to me. "Bottled just this morning."
I gave my thanks, sniffed it, and took a snip. I wasn't a wine connoisseur, but I loved the taste of it. It was exquisite, refreshing, fruity, and sweet. My personal favorite.
The tour group and I chatted on our way to the factory.
I noticed the windows were dark. When I asked why, the same man who had handed me my wine stated, "Long drive, not much to see but countryside."
Seeing the countryside was my favorite part about leaving the city on road trips. But soon, videos advertising Ardec & Ordec wines were projected onto the windows. A young woman, donning a white coat with the factory logo embroidered on a pocket, appeared as b-roll of the factory played behind her. She discussed the process of collecting the swine for winemaking and then a brief overview of what to expect during our factory tour. They gave away very little about the winemaking process, which I appreciated.
We arrived shortly after 9:30.
Upon our arrival, we were offered several more samples of their wine. One in particular, a chardonnay they had said, was especially tasty. I felt partly out of place, unable to engage with the others as they discussed different notes and characteristics of the wine.
A buzz had settled in, though, and soon, I stopped caring. I promised myself I'd enjoy the tour, and think little about whether I could participate or not. The wine tasted good. The fresh, country air was refreshing.
The factory, from what I could see, shielding my eyes from the sun, was its own small town; made up of several tall and large brick buildings. Before we could enter, our tour guide, John, instructed us to put on masks; the kind you see doctors wear.
"It's to help mask the smell," he stated, handing masks out to each member of our group. We put them on quickly, eager to get started with the tour already.
We entered through a side entrance, directly onto the main floor where the swine were housed and their sweat collected for winemaking.
The heat was almost unbearable.
Our tour group had begun to fan themselves with their hats and shirts; some pressed the still-cold wine glasses to their foreheads and cheeks.
John explained the heat was generated by industrial heat lamps. They hovered above the swine and were used to accelerate perspiration. He claimed the sweat was a key and "secret" ingredient used to give the wine its distinct flavor.
Despite the masks, it smelled foul - mostly of bacon when it's cooking and feces. Some of the other guests turned their faces away from where the smell was emanating. John noticed and instructed us to pinch the top of our masks, where the bridge of our noses met. A new smell, one of perfume, quickly replaced the former one.
John smiled up at us. "Better right?"
We nodded in unison and made our way over to a brightly lit hallway.
This hallway was as clean as the van had been. We were instructed to stand under several different shower heads. John said this would help sanitize us, as we might be bringing in germs and bacteria from the outside that could infect and harm the swine.
Finished, we entered the main factory building. It was a large, open space comprised of three rows. Each row contained six large cages where the swine were numbered and housed. The cages were made of thick iron bars and an electric netting above to keep the swine from escaping.
As John had stated, round industrial heat lamps hung from the netting. The cages contained two long troughs: one for feeding and another filled with water. They sat atop a soft, netted floor, where the sweat fell through and collected in large tanks. Large ostomy bags hung from their sides, but some were ripped open; likely from stress.
Beyond this, there was little space for the swine to move around; not that they could have moved much if they had the space.
Some of the swine weighed near 600 pounds - the illegal weight limit for our country - but most were far bigger than this, having been here for so long. They were naked; their bellies full of dirt, dead skin, and grime. Their entire bodies were soaked in sweat. Their backs and scalps were singed from being so close to the heat lamps. Some of the swine had lost their hair from so much pulling, exposing raw patches of scalp that had begun to cook underneath the heat. Flies swarmed around them, feeding and breeding on the exposed flesh.
One in particular, a female, cried out for her mother. She was the smallest of them. Number 23.
John explained she was new and had not yet acclimated to her new home. She was collected at seventeen years old, having reached the illegal weight limit a year earlier but kept hidden by her mother. The mother, he explained, had been executed.
One of the members of our tour group broke away, teasing number twenty. He looked over at us and, asking John, said, "What happens when they die?"
"Leather," he replied. "And meat."
I looked at my watch, noting the leather band had a small stamp on it: A&O.
Maria approached Number 23, with a look of recognition and sorrow on her face. She held onto one of the bars with a shaky hand.
Before anyone could take notice of her, an older woman approached us with two silver plates of freshly poured wine. They were passed around quickly, as the heat had become truly unbearable at this point. We drank in the wine, savoring more of the taste, just as Number 23 had begun to claw at her thick bed of hair; crying still for her deceased mother.

Link to original story
https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/comments/10meqmh/the_big_rock_candy_mountain_part_1/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
The floor of the cell is covered in decades of mildew and dust. This disgusting carpet does nothing to dull the pain as I skip across it, thrown in by someone with the intention of making a point.
My Name’s Mike, and if any of you are the types to go on a deep dive, you probably know A little about me already.
For those of you that don’t, Jesus I don’t know exactly where to begin.
The Cliff’s notes would be that I spent a little over a decade either being a serial killer or a vigilante. I won’t try to justify my actions, both of those are just sides of the same shitty coin. I’m not a person to be idolized or emulated, so I choose not to plead my case.
Now, while I thought that was just about as screwed up as life could get, one day, out of the blue, after burying my best, fuck, my only friend I found myself, somewhere else. A world that looked and felt like mine, but one where the things that go bump in the night actually existed.
Where I came from, I’d seen monsters, to be sure, but only the kind that happen when people break.
Since I’ve been here? Got caught up in some demented gameshow for demons or something, threw a massive shit in the punch bowl of the thing running the production, and got the world’s unluckiest man his freedom.
And that leads me to my current situation, staring down the rage filled, mildly bruised face of that asshole, that fucking, demonic Ted Turner, Art.
He runs a hand aggressively through his slicked back hair, standing at the door to my cell.
“Looks like your little plan didn’t work, exactly as I predicted, you fuck.
I mean, great try with the little cat thing you had, honestly didn’t see that coming. But, Jesus, Mike, what was your end game? “ Art gloats.
“Cards on the table? It was a lot better, but shit fell through, that whiskey abomination, it was the one that ratted me out I assume?
That being said, still got Kev out. And you can’t really ‘flip off his lightswitch’ if he didn’t let you screw around with his wiring, can you? “ I grin, I keep it, even as a Gucci shoe slams into my face.
Am I scared? Of God damn course I am, I’ve been pissing myself (metaphorically speaking.) since I realised that the rules of reality don’t really apply any more.
Every new grain of sand on the beach of hell my life has become, tosses me further down the road of mental failure. Shit, that’s half of what fucked up my last plan in the first place.
If I could have just kept my shit together long enough, I’d be sipping a beer with Kev in some shit hole town somewhere. But the only thing harder than trying to stamp down fear in the face of God’s and monsters, is trying to do it while projecting some kind of ‘death fears me ‘ persona.
Between you and I? Death doesn’t fear me, in fact, it seems to love to hang around. And every day I have to stare down that grim spectre, the closer I get to losing the tenuous grip on reality I have .
“Oh, fuck Kev. He’s smart enough to stay off my radar, and too stupid to figure out a way to come back at me.
He's got a 1 bedroom in Idaho or something? Salud, good on him.
You, I had high hopes for, and then you decide to wipe your ass all over my carpet, cost me more than I could even explain, and even, get me a little roughed up. My favorite shell, anyway.
I want to recoup some loses Mike. So, you, get to be a part of another one of my projects.
You thought The Path was bad? Oh, you literal, fucking clown, you haven’t seen anything.
I won’t spoil it for you, the devil’s in the details and all, but you know what everyone loves?
Prison.
Not being in it themselves, of course, but seeing others, especially those they hate in there.
This place isn’t fair, the path was a boxing match with Queensbury rules, this is a handcuffed knife fight.
And I can’t wait to see you figure out, all the little surprises it has in store for you. “ Art laughs and tosses me a battered, ancient looking smartphone, “ Feel free to drum me up some good press online if you want. “
My heart is pounding, I have to use every bit of will I have to stop from shaking, to roll my neck and sit against the cold, padless cement bed behind me.
I feel sick, my stomach boiling and gurgling.
“For the love of whatever the demonic equivalent of Christ is, why not just kill me? I’m right here, I have no way of fighting back, and you know damn well that if you give me enough time, I’m going to find a way to wipe my ass on your doorframe next. “ My tone is flippant, or at least, I hope it is.
“The ego on you kid, you think you’re that guy don’t you?
They exist, don’t get me wrong, probably a couple thousand folks capable of taking me out, but trust me, you are not one of them.
This isn’t some ‘Arch’ idiocy where I leave my greatest rival alive. This is me watching you squirm because I can, and making a little profit on the deal.
Don’t flatter yourself. “ Art has produced a long thin knife as he talks, he spins and rolls it absently.
“Before your guys dragged me off, I met something. A corner store, I don’t know if it was haunted, possessed, or if it was some kind of creature that just decided to look like a knock off 7-11.
Point being, it was out there, ethereal, I couldn’t hurt it, outwit it, even slow it down. I ran from that thing as fast as I could. It gave me some serious Lovecraft vibes.
You, Art, are not that guy. “ I notice myself tapping my finger nervously on the slime covered floor, I focus, stopping the tic.
The tip of Art’s knife glows, the sick, grey sheen isn’t heat, but something that makes me start to back up.
“I am, but you will never see that. You’re not worth the effort.
I want to give you a little something though. “ Art stalks toward me, I stand as I back into the farthest corner of the cell, “ Proud of your face paint were you? “
Art grins, and for a moment lets some of his true self slip through. For just a moment I see timeless horror in his eyes, a dark black void of consumed souls and unrestrained evil.
That knife parts my flesh with pain like a whip. Without even using the blade, it’s presence flenses my face, opening up raw, textured furrows in my flesh.
He leaves after he is done, laughing to himself.
The pain makes me black out, my stomach is boiling, I come to dry heaving, the effort sends me back into the oblivion of sleep.
I don’t know how long has passed, my face feels like it is on fire, and the thick steel bars of my cell door are closed.
It takes me two minutes of cupping my hands under the grime laden steel tap to get enough water to clear off a spot on the rusted, old, wall mounted steel mirror.
No mortal hand could have scarred me as accurately as Art did. The wounds, not healed, but cauterised as to not make me bleed out, used depth, and width, to create a colorless replica of my makeup.
I know trauma, physical as well as mental, and these are scars that will never heal. As the fact sinks in that my face is literally no longer my own, I scream, heart pounding, I split open my knees on the cold cement floor.
Pain flares, threatens to send me back to the bliss of unconsciousness, but I don’t care.
I read Kev’s journals, and they paint me in a really… positive light, in a sense.
What I mean is, going by what he thought he saw, I’m some kind of supervillian or something. Tossing three hundred pound air conditioners ( it was the outer shell, seventy pounds, physics and luck did the rest.), wrestling Art ( I was clinging on for dear life, had it not been for Jr and the mass of denizens, I’d have been killed with a flick of his wrist.), or appearing like a ghost (people, even immortal are very unobservant. Especially in an emergency.).
I’m great at seeming horrifying, and that’s a weapon in and of itself, but at the end of the day, that’s all it is.
Kneeling in my own blood, vision blurry with pain, I realise how small, vulnerable, and unarmed I truly am.
By the time daylight shines through the yellow reinforced glass window, I’m already awake. I’ve spent an hour and a half calming myself, trying to find some focus, some centre to keep me going.
I’ve been in prison before, back home, first and last time I tried plying my trade outside of America.
Being the stupid payaso gringo that I am I bit off so much more than I can chew that I wound up choking on it for 2 months in a Mexican prison.
The routine of, count, lineup, chow, remained the same.
The demographics of the population on the other hand…
Being observant is one of my main skills and as I was brought into the absurdly sized cafeteria, I was taken aback at just how many people were here.
Tens of Thousands, easily, maybe a hundred. I try and think of how many missing person cases this accounts for, and even that math doesn’t quite add up.
I quickly inventory the groups that make up the place, not that it wasn’t obvious.
The first, of course are the guards. Some, the majority, appear to be human, well geared up and in intimidating physical condition.
But a handful, they are clearly, something else. Some are smooth featured ebony skinned giants, carrying truncheons that could crush a car engine. Others are grinning, pale skinned bad attempts at human copies, wild eyed and twitching.
Second would be what I called the cultists. They all appeared to style themselves after certain tropes and urban legends, clearly human, but dressing, tattooing and mutilating themselves to appear like, myths, legends, and monsters.
The subtle violence I see tells me I’ve found the gangs.
Third are the Everymen, I can’t see any kind of pattern to them, but they seem to make up the majority of the population. They keep their distance from the guards and the cultists, but on more than one occasion I see then stand, united against attempts at extortion.
The last group, I call the candles, people that are clearly on their way out mentally and physically. Sunken eyed, and set upon from all angles, at any moment these folks could be simply snuffed out.
I keep my distance, and stay respectful, the meandering, twisting line seems to take hours to get me my thick slice of crumbling yellow bread, and thick red slurry that reminds me of porridge masquerading as meat.
My coat is gone but I’m left with the majority of the clothing I fashioned back in the path. I see a mix of unwashed orange uniforms and ‘civilian’ clothing, some of the cultists, bordering more on costume than wardrobe.
As the massive, butchers apron wearing man in smeared clown makeup sits down, I wish I’d have been issued something more generic. I saw this coming the second I noticed a lump of Chlorophiles in blood stained getups.
“You sit with us. “ I can’t tell if it’s an accent or speech pattern, the clown sounds strange, either way.
I eat a spoonful of the red sludge.
“No disrespect intended, I’m not one for clubs. I’m going to make no waves, no plays, nothing. I’m a ghost. “ I say, levelly, avoiding eye contact.
Why, you might ask, having been told about my adventures in murder.
Well, that’s just it. Murder is easy, and any time you saw me end a life, it was just that.
A fight, that’s another thing entirely, especially against someone with a significant weight and height advantage.
“Not asking. You got friends. “ The massive clown moves his bulk closer, it’s like sitting next to a forklift.
I eat the bread, it tastes amazing until I swallow, then has a foul, chemical aftertaste.
I drink some tepid, burgundy fluid that might be caffeinated.
No weapons nearby, no one watching that might step in. I’m full of bruises and sprains, and probably anemic from blood loss. Not to mention one eye is running at about fifty per cent. Art didn’t sever the optic nerve last time, but he wasn’t gentle. My heart races.
“I don’t play well with people who take clowning and slap a coat of dark paint on it.
You guys are Clown Killers. You are good at killing, I’m sure, but the clown part, it’s tacked on.
Myself, I’m a killer clown…. “ I had a really good rant planned, honestly, it was a corker, douche bags would have used it in memes for a decade.
But before I can react, with one massive hand, he bounces my face off of the pitted steel table.
It rings my bell, but not as much as I let on. In clowning terms, what I do Is called a pratfall.
For those of you that don’t speak nerd, I oversell the hit, falling backwards, eyes fluttering.
I tip backwards, reaching out my left arm, as if to steady myself. The meat mountain is unbothered, knowing I have no chance unarmed, in this close, he let’s me grab one shoulder of the butchers apron. The material is thick, and matted in stains that will never come out, literally or metaphorically.
If you want to take someone out, in a relatively harmless way, you don’t want to choke them. It takes forever, usually ends up killing them, and generally is a bad idea for everyone involved.
Your goal is go cut off blood flow to the brain as quickly and fully as possible.
I hook my thumb around the opposite shoulder strap, and snap my body backward, the apron acting as an impromptu Garrotte.
His right arm is knotted through my left, as he tries to struggle, to put his murderous intent and ability to work, the choke only becomes tighter.
I don’t want enemies here, and I only have so many tricks to play before things come to a knock down drag out fight, so I leave the clown unharmed.
I do need friends, but the look I get as I take a seat at a loose collection of men is cold and fearful.
A red haired guy, five foot nine or so, makes eye contact, “Anything we can help you with? “ he says, fearless.
“Yeah, despite the face work I’ve had done, I have fuck all in common with any of those penny wise, Icp, Gacy dressed, assholes.
I need a tribe guys, you all look like the unlucky ones around here, but I don’t want to get involved in bloodshed.
I’m Mike “ I know, that’s only mostly true, but I mean it, either way. I extend a hand.
“Chris. “ the red haired guy says, he wears a white dress shirt and surprisingly blue jeans, “Those stains around your cuffs tell me otherwise.
If you’re telling the truth, that’s great. If you are lying, and still sane enough to keep your word, that’s even better. “ Chris’s tone is mirthless, I read him easily. He’s been here a long time for a short life, he looks thirty max, and I shudder to think how young he may have been when he came in.
Chris catches me up on the ins and outs of this place, beyond what a general knowledge of prison would give.
Everyone here has crimes they were not convicted of, that would, otherwise put them in jail for life. A large amount, obviously are murderers, torturers, real bastards.
But a significant minority are just regular folks, maybe a bit thoughtless, but that have collected a litany of small, petty, in cases almost victim less crimes.
No one seems to be aware of the… reality t.v. Meets demonic fast food aspect of things, but there is a Doom cherry on this fear Sunday.
There is a single way someone can get out. To earn 20 tokens.
And how does one earn these tokens you ask?
Each day the prison holds an event, to call it a challenge would insinuate a level of fair play that is simply not there. The events range from somewhat fair, a fight or game of chance, to esoteric rituals complex enough to rip someone’s soul from their body.
These tokens are also the sole form of currency in the prison, they can buy everything from commissary snacks to literal free passes from guards.
The economy has created a cut throat society, the heads of the cults not even taking advantage of being able to be free, but simply reveling in the power of being psychotic and enabled.
The weak are enslaved, their lives traded on the off chance at tokens.
So, of course, braindead asshole that I am, I signed myself right up. Feeling a little more confidant after climbing Mount Bozo.
It's 8pm and the volunteers are rounded up and brought to a massive room that has all the trappings of a gymnasium, but the scale is large enough easily hold the focus of tonight’s events.
In tiered bleachers all around us, our fellow prisoners cheer and scream. The smell of thousands of unwashed, men is overpowering, the din of excitement is deafening.
But my attention is focussed on the small, single floor home, sitting out of place in the middle of the polished wood floor.
What I wouldn’t give for Demi to appear right now, give me the low down on all the supernatural bullshit that is heading my way. But the longer we stayed in the mountain the less and less the most useful voice in my head could, or would, make an appearance.
I study each of my fellow volunteers, the goal seems simple, last the longest in the home. Men enter and leave within minutes. They come out looking shaken, with minor lacerations, and a general sense of shell shock.
By the time my turn arrives, I think I know what I’m in for.
I’m wrong.
As the baby blue door closes behind me, nothing immediately in the home causes me concern. The fixtures and furniture is a bit out of date, the lighting is, not inviting, and there is a general fog of gloom hanging around.
I smile, I’ve felt this before. Granted I had Demi feeding me supernatural errata at the time, but, I’m positive I can wing it.
“So, I think I may have met one of you guys before. Back in New York, a Happy-Face corner store, anyone you know?
Scary dude, took a couple of pieces out of me.
But this, it’s more like an MMA fight, right? I tap out when you start kicking my ass? “ I stretch, trying to see if I’m getting any kind of reaction.
I inventory the objects around me, last time everything that wasn’t nailed down, shifted, changed and tried to take me apart.
You may have noticed by now, I love using the phrase ‘ last time’, and that’s because up until this moment, I haven’t learned a fucking thing here.
Mike’s first rule of paranormal survival, last time means nothing.
“It’s you” the voice is young, late teens, and male.
I spin, expecting violence, then, wishing violence.
I know the young man, not this pale, older, revenant with a self inflicted gunshot wound, but I know him none the less.
I’m not being metaphorical when I say my heart misses a beat, I almost fall over, pounding at my chest to stop it’s arythmatic pounding.
I knew what happened to him, found it out long after I could do anything about it. And wasn’t in the best of places when I did.
I’ll call him a ghost for simplicity sake, but this kid, he’s my first, and biggest mistake.
I based who I turned into on finding what I thought was one of the worst people on earth. This kid’s father.
I did things to him worthy of what I knew he did. And to top it all off, I had him die by his wife’s hand.
Well, a decade later I find out, the guy wasn’t a Saint, but he didn’t do anything worthy of the twisted shit I put him through.
I got wind of some false information put out there in a moment of rage by a tech savvy ten year old. The kid never intended it to see the light of day
“I found out about you Mike, I saw that you were a hero. “ The voice is thin echoes like a stuck record.
“No kid, don’t think that. “ I mumble, I’m shaking, the air is freezing, each breath comes out as white mist.
I’m sitting on the flower printed couch now, and it hits me.
I’d assumed because Art couldn’t screw around in my head last time, the same went for everything here.
Remember what we said about last time.
“My told me what happened one night, what I made you do.
I destroyed her memory of him, I made a real Hero kill him, I couldn’t keep hurting people. “ I can see images, flashing in my mind, memories that are not mine.
I’m counting seconds, trying to focus, trying to stay long enough to get the token. It has to have been fifteen, twenty minutes at least.
I try to work up a smirk, to convince myself that I’m just being played by the paranormal equivalent of a heckler.
That’s not it though, This place, this house, is reaching inside me and finding places to look. As I stare into the young man’s rotted eyes I know this is some part of him, torn away from whatever rest he was entitled to.
The lights dim, then turn off. The house is silent.
Hollywood gets being both a lunatic and a hitman wrong in equal measure. No matter how much morality you want to inject into the profession, there are going to come times when you make mistakes.
As the lights slowly turn to a dull orange glow, I’m surrounded by the hovering, mutilated forms of mine.
Those that died that could have been spared, those that died because of my inaction, or stupidity. I’ve never forgotten them, I use them to make sure I never make the same mistakes again, but having them looming, screaming, all demanding I hear their stories, their accusations, their placations.
It's too much, I stumble from the couch, trying to avoid the icy touch of these phantoms. For a moment I find some last scrap of courage, I close my eyes, shut out the shrieking din of the dead.
The silence hits like a truck, I focus, trying to calm my burned out nerves.
Then they are reignited like a fucking welding torch.
“This place didn’t bring us here.
We’ve been right next to you for years Mike. We can’t leave. “ The voice of my first mistake.
Like a toddler I try to run with my eyes closed, I trip over a glass coffee table, clawing my way up the door, grasping at the handle.
I can feel a slight pull now, almost magnetic, trying to drag me backwards.
My hands shake too much, I have to steady my right wrist with my left hand, the floor becomes slick, I see the door, escape start to move further away as I’m pulled backward.
I've taken a hit or two, and had a couple of three day benders that have made me piss myself. But as I stumble, trying to make progress on the nearly friction less floor, I have another unpleasant first experience.
I grab the handle, pulling myself out of the house, launching my body into a skin peeling tumble across unforgiving plank flooring.
I’m a shaking, fetal wreck, by the time I’ve pulled myself together enough to take in my surroundings, I see the red Led clock displaying my time.
42 seconds. Bottom of the barrel. The jeers and booing from the crowd do nothing for my frayed nerves or the storm of fear and anxiety going through my mind.
I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep, it has nothing to do with the concrete slab that serves as my bed.
My stomach has been knotting and cramping, with each passing second I get more worried I blew some internal gasket in one of the many life or death struggles in the past months.
When I finally manage to vomit, the urge is strong enough I get no where near the filth crusted hole in the floor that serves as my toilet. And my worst fears are confirmed as I see the massive pile of vomit is mostly blood.
… and bones? Is that an eyeball? A piece of fur?
The mass begins to pull itself together, bits and pieces forming the most rudimentary attempt at a face.
“Junior? “ I say, stunned.

I picked up both guns last weekend and have been messing around with both of them quite a bit. I expect I’m going to get some heat for this post but:
The general overall fit and finish of the Benjamin 392s blows away the Seneca Dragonfly. In my opinion based on the two examples I have it’s not even close.
Looking at the Benjamin first, the bolt works smoothly like I expect a Benjamin bolt to work. The pellets load easily. The stock sight works well. The stock itself was perfect. The trigger was fine for hunting. The stock comb is too high like everyone says but if you throw on any of the available mounts, it’s the perfect height for a scope. If you want to change the stock out it’s three screws. The only manufacturing default I found was the bolt handle looked like it had tool marks from a pair of pliers on it. Not noticeable at a distance and could probably be buffed out but it was there.
The Dragonfly looks good from a distance but the wood stock has dozens of swirl marks from the CNC that are made very noticeable by the stain on the wood. The forearm doesn’t line up with the rest of the stock. (To be fair neither does the 392s but it doesn’t look like it is supposed to.) the bolt sucks. It isn’t smooth. You have to fight with it to get it back. I think it might smooth out over time but it is not great right now. It’s not binding it feels weird. I can’t describe it well. The metal is not particularly thick. I doubt it will last as long as my pumpmaster 760 has.
The big thing people buy the Dragonfly over the Benjamin for is the pumping. In the Benjamin the pumping difficulty increases as more pressure builds. However, the arm feels solid. The action is smooth and doesn’t fight you beyond the pressure building.
The Dragonfly is not smooth. The pump feels awkward. Things fight against you from the first pump to the last. It’s just not a pleasant experience.
Maybe I got a bad Dragonfly and an exceptionally good 392s. Does anyone else have both guns? How are your experiences?

Peyre was a miracle.
Years before he was born, Cecilia’s mother had gotten sick. It was a terrible sickness that stole the breath from her lungs and the strength from her legs. She was trapped in her bed for months with no real news from the doctors and consultants.
Cecilia would watch strangers from all corners of the world walk into the room her mother was trapped in. They had all kinds of education and spiritual presence. Monks from Theai-Tror, witch doctors from Astium, and highly skilled doctors from Caskel. Every single one of them walked out, shaking their heads and whispering soft apologies to her father.
They would give Cecilia a sad look or give her a small toy to make her feel better. Cecilia hated them. Hated the piles of empty promises in her room. She would listen to them tell her father over and over and over again, that there was nothing they could do.
One day, a new doctor arrived at the house. A tall imposing woman whose reddish-brown skin stuck out among the pale faces around her. She spoke slow and loudly, her thick speech not used to Otril’s delicate language.
The woman introduced herself as Balke, the chosen shaman of Scoaya. Balke had heard of the sickness plaguing the matron of the La Dubois family and left her country to help. Cecilia’s father was wary, beaten down by failure after failure, but he led Balke to his wife.
It was hours before the shaman left the room. The sky had darkened and a quiet hush fell around the mountain valley. When Balke came out, she was smiling. Two streaks of ash were smeared under her eyes and down her cheeks. She grabbed Cecilia’s father’s hands and held them for a moment, head bowed. Balke explained the sickness to him, telling him that his wife would recover if her faith was strong enough. In the same breath, the shaman explained how she wouldn’t be able to have another child.
After Balke had left, Cecilia snuck into her mother’s room. She saw her father standing over the bedridden woman, holding her limp hand in his own. She listened to him quietly whisper her name.
“Lecia.”
It was the first time Cecilia had really seen her mother after she fell ill. Her once vibrant red hair was dulled and her pale skin had a sickly sheen. Her brown eyes were dull and full of tears as she looked at her husband.
Cecilia’s mother did eventually recover, yet she could still barely stand or walk. Anyone could tell the sickness had an effect on her by looking at her eyes. They had dulled permanently, left unfocused and dazed as if she was in another world. Her mother didn’t smile, didn’t react to Cecilia when she tried to hold her hand or speak to her. Her father said that her heart was broken, torn to a point neither of them could fix it.
Then Peyre was born. Seven years after Cecilia, two years after being told he would never be.
After two years, Her mother smiled.
Peyre was small, with soft brown hair and blue eyes. He was the apple of their mother’s eye; a cherished angel sent from the Goddess.
He was a gift, sent from the Goddess herself. It was the only explanation. Cecilia could have hated him, yet she didn’t. For two years she was ignored and shunned by her mother, unable to make her smile. But Peyre did.
So Cecilia didn’t hate him. He brought back the mother she missed, healed her broken heart. She cherished her little brother, loved him with every ounce she could.
The day her family was attacked, Cecilia understood what her mother went through. The pain she had felt; a pain so strong it felt like Guillaume pulled her heart out with his bare hands. A pain that left her numb. A pain that left a hole in her chest. A hole that was ripped open little by little every time she looked at Guillaume.
This hole in Cecilia’s chest was not filled with a mind-numbing depression like her mother. Hers was filled with rage. A bitter, burning anger at Guillaume. An anger at the Goddess who gave her family a miracle with one hand and stabbed them in the back with the other.
Cecilia’s heart was consumed with a dark anger that festered in the background.

If you have fine hair I recommend the sub fine_hair. It has both men and women with fine hair. We have men on the sub but we could really use some more as us women don't always have the best advice for men with fine hair when it comes to things like product recommendations or styling tips. We could really use some more dudes!!
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FYI fine hair is not the same as thin hair. Fine hair has to do with the individual strand of your hair, and thin hair has to do with how many strands you have on your head. So you could have fine hair and a lot of it/thick hair simultaneously. You could also have both fine hair and thin hair.

You Matter to Her in a Way No One Else Could
When you died and were reborn, you became divine. You were love, and you were violence, and you were my miracle. A God sprung forth from the decaying machinery of your broken body. Koishi, the God of Love and Hate—have mercy on us all.
Down by the shore of one of the great Lunar seas, there sat a lonely shack thatched with feathers. Inside, there was a massive wani no less than eight leagues long… and her infant son. To that crocodile who had never known true familial love, that delicate little child—who cooed and smiled at his mother’s every move—was nothing less than a miracle. Such a delicate life in her claws, who knew nothing but unconditional love for his mother—to the crocodile, it was proof there was still good in the world.
She was tired, but the crocodile forced herself to stay awake. There was something she needed to do—a memory she wanted to share with the most important person in her life.
So, with all the caution and tenderness in the world, she picked up her child with her jaws and coaxed him into her throat pouch. The newborn child, perhaps having some shared instinct with his crocodilian mother, did not cry or struggle. Instead, he let out a giggle as he poked his head out from between his mother’s jagged teeth. With a snort, the dragon climbed out of her thatch hut, and crawled along the shore, drawing a meandering trail in the sand as she went.
When she reached the point where the water came to shore in gentle waves, the crocodile set herself down in the sand, letting the waves wash in and lick at her child in gentle sprays. Her child giggled as the Lunar sea’s tickled him with its pure waters, and as he did, his mother couldn’t help but feel at peace.
Nothing. Nothing at all would be able to take this from her.
Her miracle.
Toyohime opened her eye to clear blue skies.
She flexed her fingers, and instead of feeling the cold steel of the ship she started to tear apart, she felt so many tiny pebbles, warmed by their time in the sun. Sand? She brought a fistful of the stuff into her vision, before letting it fall through her fingers and run down her face. It was too real to be a dream.
Toyohime sat up to observe her surroundings. As far as the eye could see, there were infinite stretches of sand collected into wind-swept dunes that obscured the horizon. It was hot. Unbelievably so for what was supposedly the void. She felt a gentle gust of warm wind pass by her and toss her hair. This place… this impossible place… was she dead?
She rose to her feet, fighting biting aches and pains from her battle not too long ago. No—not dead. Somehow, she had survived—there was no other explanation. And as she looked down to assess the damage she had taken, her suspicions were only confirmed. Her right arm was missing, and in its place was nothing but a healed stump. The nasty cuts and bruises she had received in the fighting had all healed over for the most part, the only evidence they happened at all being residual scars that were yet to disappear. The ground was covered in dried blood. She must’ve been laying here in this sand trap for hours.
She brought her free arm, completely healed, up to the general space where her right eye was to find an arrow still protruding from it. Wrapping her fingers around the shaft, Toyohime tore it out in a fluid motion, causing the wound to reopen and drip blood onto the sands below. But, through some miraculous action, it was mere moments before the flow of blood stopped as the wound healed shut. Her right eye was still inoperable, but this healing ability was downright uncanny, even for a god.
She flexed her fingers. It felt like there was a hole in her head from which memories and feelings poured out. The mystery of how she got here, who she killed, and whether she could even trust her own senses had no answer—Toyohime knew she herself had made sure of that. She supposed there was a good reason. The less she knew, the better. That was something she could trick herself into believing.
Though no matter how much she forced herself to forget, she had the horrible feeling she had done something unforgivable—something she would kill over. In a sea of atrocities however, she could hardly even begin to suppose what that might have been. Maybe the heat was starting to fry her brain.
After spending a few minutes snapping the arrows lodged in her body by their shafts, Toyohime looked to the horizon, and then up. Ahead, there was a massive sand dune, no less than five times her height, and beyond the crest—a black pillar of smoke. Toyohime was not alone.
As she made her way up the shifting incline, Toyohime got to thinking about her next course of action. If this wasn’t a hallucination, then it most certainly had to be some extension of Koishi's will. Land in an impossible space… the creation of something impossible like that could only be a factor of a deteriorating mind, or God. And Toyohime had no time to consider the possibility of a crumbling psyche—not when she had a duty left unfulfilled.
But then… that would mean this was the paradise of Koishi’s mind. Surely, by her side is where she would find her salvation. She had already come to terms with it—that there was nothing left for her in the old world. Koishi could pervert and corrupt reality in whatever twisted ways she wanted—as long as it was the creation of her heart, it would be sufficient. Everything beyond that was not worth saving to the former princess.
… But that also meant there would be more enemies. More people she had to kill. She was ready. Ready to kill and ready to die in the name of love.
And as she planted her boot upon the peak of that sand dune, she saw the whole world become bare before her. A fair distance away was the crashed wreck of a golden ship, releasing plumes of black smoke as it burnt away. From this distance, it was difficult to make out any finer details, but she was sure the occupants had escaped. Satori was resourceful and stubborn, if nothing else. Dying in a crash was an impossibility.
She then traced a line from the ship through the shifting sands—to a city upon the horizon. Massive towers of glass and steel pushing against the sky, half buried in the sand, bending light around them as they reflected the intense heat of the sun. It gave the sight an unnatural fuzziness, as if the city was threatening to disappear at any moment.
As she traced the decaying visage of those buildings upwards, she saw a thin line reach beyond and into the sky. The line separated into two before converging back on itself. Above the city, etched upon the sky itself, was a pitch black gap in reality, opened and filled with so many eyes. And above still, the object of Toyohime’s desires and her sole driving factor—Koishi Komeiji.
Though the God’s eye was open, as well as the myriad collection of smaller eyes and drooling jaws that had lined every square inch of her squirming appendages, it was hard to tell if she was awake or conscious. Toyohime knew Koishi best, and if she had any guess as to what Koishi had been doing in the time they spent apart, it was receding back into the numbing comfort of her own mind. Even now, Toyohime figured she was still dreaming, avoiding the cruel weight of her responsibility. What manifested outside of her mind must’ve been some sort of twisted runoff.
Down there, hidden in the dunes, Toyohime knew there were those who would take this dream from Koishi. Those who would hurt Koishi. Those people would’ve done just as well to dig their own graves and build their own coffins. Because so long as Toyohime drew breath, she would protect Koishi with everything she could muster—that was her promise and the nature of her impossible, unconditional love.
Koishi was Toyohime’s second chance.
This time, one way or another, there would be no opportunity for a third.
Mima, on the other hand, had woken up quite a bit earlier than Toyohime had.
She had not suffered any fatal wounds or debilitating strikes leading up to the point where the reality around her started to crumble and distort—but she had briefly lost consciousness regardless. She figured that might’ve been a good thing; an action so absurd and so against everything she knew, perpetrated by an impossibly powerful being… even if a mere glimpse didn’t physically tear her mind to ribbons, she had no interest in trying to understand such a nonsensical event.
Mima awoke not in a desert, but in a grand sprawling city of seemingly human construction. Though the sun still hung overhead, the impossible hills and mountains of sand that caged the city in, always seemed to shift and move in the most calculated way… such that the sun was always put out. Caught in the shade, the city looked like it was in a perpetual night, in spite of the blinding yellow of the endless desert just beyond its limits.
Though that was the case, the city was far from dark. Street lamps, blinding neon signs, blinking traffic lights, apartments and houses with windows illuminated by the fluorescent lights within… It gave the impression the city was alive. It seemed exactly as a real bustling city at night, with its breathing and blinking—but there were no people. No matter how far Mima walked, no matter how many buildings she popped in, she would encounter no souls. She would find, in those buildings, immaculate setpieces filled with lived-in charm, hints and implications of life—but not people. Not even Yukari, who she wandered the streets in search of.
She recognized this place. This city—Tokyo. It couldn’t have possibly been, but it was the same Tokyo she grew up in, back before the Moonlight Descent and before the Kaiju. Before her chance meeting with the youkai who used to be her friend. This city, trapped in the middle of the desert, caught in an artificial night that obscured the flow of time—somehow it managed to be the perfect recreation of a long lost city, as if someone had taken a scalpel to the part of Mima’s brain that held onto the precious memories of her past life. It was comforting, being back in familiar territory, but it also carried along a pervasive uneasiness. The nostalgia said it was real, but the rational mind knew better than to buy into an impossible mirage—made all the more uneasy by the deathly silence of its streets.
After wandering around for a dozen minutes or more, Mima eventually came to find Yukari in a 24-hour fast food joint. She was sitting, out of her suit and miraculously healed, on a stool that faced the street outside, with her head down and a small pool of drool collecting at the point where the corner of her mouth met the countertop. Renko always said Maribel could fall asleep anywhere.
Mima floated back and forth around the gently snoring form of Yukari for a bit, considering her options. She changed back into her Renko form for a second, and after adjusting her hat a little, she reached over to tap Yukari on the shoulder… but then shied away. Glancing at Yukari, then back to her bag, she rummaged through its bottomless contents and pulled out a whole host of items: hand mirrors, makeup kits, two liter bottles of listerine, mints and peppermint breath spray and assorted beauty products.
She stole a quick glance back at Yukari to make sure she was asleep before going at it—in one go, she dumped every minty product she could into her mouth before swishing the unholy mixture in her mouth. It was not a moment later that she coughed out all of that liquid ice with a retch and a gag. Sheepishly, she turned her head to see if Yukari had woken up in all the commotion. Luckily, she was still knocked out something fierce. Mima might’ve guessed she was dead, if it weren’t for the occasional snore.
Undeterred, she opened a hand mirror and began to apply her makeup. Carefully. There was a subtle art to it—she only needed enough to hide any unsightly blemishes she might’ve gotten from her rather shut-in lifestyle as a ghost. Anything more, and Maribel was bound to notice Mima was purposefully fixing her appearance around her. None of that. Mima was trying for a more subliminal approach… It’s what worked in the past, after all.
Well, upon further thought, Mima figured “worked” was too strong a word. She did die before she saw any results, after all. But enough of that, Mima thought—now that she regained her memories, she’s finally gotten another shot. This being the apocalypse and all, she figured she should probably make it count.
She clicked close her portable hand mirror and, along with the rest of her stuff, threw it back into her field bag. She stole one last glance at Yukari, who was still sleeping soundly, before straightening her hat and clearing her throat.
“Maribel…” she said in a quiet, sing-song voice. She placed a hand on Yukari’s shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. “Maribel, wake up.”
No response. Mima pouted as she shook her around again. “Merry? It’s so scary around here—I need someone super strong and amazing by my side. Maybe we could hold hands?”
Nothing but more snoring. Mima’s expression fell. “... Okay, seriously. Wake up.”
“Don’t make me break out the big guns, Merry,” Mima said, digging through her bag and pulling out an airhorn. “I’ll do it. You think I’m bluffing?”
A tense beat passes. Mima stows away the airhorn. “... Ah, I’m just kidding. I wouldn’t do something like that to you. You’re too cute, hehe.”
“I’m not above this, though.” She reaches back into her bag and pulls out a spray bottle filled with water… before giving Yukari’s face a couple of quick spritzes.
That quiet, tranquil expression to Mima seemed almost a timeless representation of the relationship she shared with Maribel quickly contorted into one of disgust. After a moment of being pelted with spray after spray of water droplets, Yukari finally was roused from her sleep, a squinty, grouchy mess.
“Who..? Urgh…” She mumbled with a groan. When Yukari saw Renko, immaculately constructed before her with enough accuracy to convince her she came straight from her memories, she froze. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “... Renko?”
“Hehe… Yep, it’s me! Your best friend. Best girl-friend, even. That is, a girl who is also a friend. Not a girlfriend, you know? Aha… Unless? Kidding, kidding.” Mima flashed an easy smile. “Glad you’re awake. Hey, before you say anything else—how do I look? I look cute, right? I know we’re in the middle of saving the world and everything, but I’ve actually been spending a lot of time taking care of my appearance.”
As Mima continued to ramble on and Yukari continued to wake up, her expression made a slow and gradual pivot. Where at first Yukari couldn’t hide her bemusement from her face—as well as that strange pained expression someone would have, seeing a loved one they have long since finished mourning appear upon their doorstep—she eventually came to settle on an empty stare and a neutral, apathetic expression. It hurt Mima a little, seeing such a radical turn in her demeanor.
“Oh,” Yukari muttered. “It’s just you.”
Mima didn’t think she intended it, but there was a layer of latent annoyance in her words. Or maybe it was disappointment? A thousand years or more apart did a lot to shift their relationship. That much was clear—and it hurt.
Yukari took a moment to look Mima up and down. With a scoff and a roll of her eyes, she delivered an unceremonious answer. “You look fine.”
Mima sighed in response. “Hey, I’ll take it.”
“More importantly…” As Yukari continued, she craned her neck around to absorb every detail of her surroundings: everything from the light fixtures above to the tables that were so meticulously set and prepared. “... Where are we?”
Her eyes naturally gravitated toward the front counter and the kitchen section that was just behind—meticulously wrapped burgers and fresh fries, set underneath heat lamps… it was as if they were all made recently. But that wasn’t even the strangest detail Yukari’s eyes were able to pick out. Upon one of the tables was a tray, filled with half eaten food—as if the patrons ceased to exist in the middle of their meal. This was beyond a mere liminal space, where it gave the impression of once being a place where people gathered—it was closer in relation to the scene of an ongoing disaster, where people had left in a hurry.
In that way, it didn’t carry much of the surreal quality of a place no longer meant for humans—it more so felt like a place with a cursed history, its sinister and mysterious narrative etched into its skin and flesh through the vestiges of human presence. Mima could tell, being a ghost herself, there was more to this place than the physical construction. As to what ‘more’ was, she could not place.
She could tell Yukari was thinking something similar by the way she walked around and took in the feeling of the place. Her posture was rigid and cautious, but not necessarily ready and waiting for danger. There was a quiet dread to the things that weren’t, but should’ve been.
“I’m trying to figure that out myself,” Mima replied, following Yukari around with her arms folded behind her back. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but… I think we’re back in Tokyo.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.” Yukari replied. She walked over to the table with the food and traced a finger across its top. No dust clung to the surface of her finger, as if the tabletop had recently been cleaned. She brought the back of her palm close to the food. It was still radiating just a little bit of heat, as if it had been freshly served. “That’s the part that scares me.”
“... Assuming this is all very much real, this must be Koishi’s doing,” Yukari declared, taking a moment to look down at herself. As she flexed her fingers, her eyes narrowed. Mima figured she might’ve just realized she had been healed and mysteriously back to her usual outfit. She still looked younger and weaker than she once was, but there was an undeniable, albeit subtle increase in the vitality she seemed to convey. As Yukari’s eyes wandered to the empty city street outside, Mima couldn’t help but notice that expression—that idle, faraway gaze that looked like Yukari had trapped herself in a vivid daydream. She couldn’t help but realize how much Maribel had changed—and yet stayed the same.
“Whatcha thinking, Merry?” Mima tried, shuffling up to Yukari’s side.
“Yukari.”
“Oh. Right. Ha, that’s my bad. My bad…”
“I’m thinking: why Tokyo specifically?” With a wave of her hand, Yukari opened a gap next to her. Through that little tear in reality was a bird’s eye view of the whole city, as well as the infinite desert that surrounded it. “... There must be some significance to this location, but I couldn’t possibly imagine what it could be. Not right now, knowing what we know.”
“Hey, I grew up in Tokyo, you know? Maybe it has something to do with that? And… y’know, we were teaching in Tokyo before…” Mima gestured vaguely around herself. “... Everything, I guess. Maybe Koishi’s reacting to our memories.”
“Could be. Could just as easily be something related to Koishi. Could be nothing at all.” The view through the gap eventually fizzled out, leaving nothing but the inky blackness of the pocket dimension Yukari held dominion over. She let out a sigh before stitching the gap closed with a wave of her hand. “I’d suggest we keep on moving. Collect as much information as we can about this place. But only what we need—the plan is still largely the same. There’s no telling when she will appear again. Best be as quick about it as we can.”
“Oh. Uh… Alright. That’s cool.”
“... What?”
“Hm?”
“What’s wrong? You disagree?”
“Oh no, ah…” A sheepish grin crawled across Mima’s face. “I was just thinking about how much you’ve changed, is all. It’s just… you know, a huge city missing all of its people is pretty mysterious, huh? Don’t you want to do more exploring? Poke around a bit and take in the sights? Like we used to—just one last time?”
There was an unsettling period of silence where Yukari stared straight through Mima with that flat look. She averted her eyes for a passing moment. When Yukari returned her gaze to Mima, it was steely and cold. “No. Neither of us are kids anymore. We have duties and responsibilities that we can not abandon. Not for anything.”
Yukari brushed past Mima. The gesture wasn’t very rough at all, but Mima felt it come at her hard. As Yukari opened the door, she looked back at Mima and gestured to her to follow.
“Let’s go.”
Orin did not want much from life.
There was Satori, her master, who she cared about deeply. There was Okuu, her best friend, who she loved. There was Koishi, the younger sister of her master, who she felt obligated to take care of. And of course, there was her job of transporting corpses, which she could do endlessly and without tiring. Those things more or less encompassed everything she cared about—Orin was a simple person.
So as she crawled out the emergency hatch located at the top of the ship her master had so recklessly buried into a sand dune, she couldn’t help but feel so hopelessly out of her depth. With a groan, she hoisted herself over the lip of the hatch before losing her balance and tumbling over.
As she tumbled downward, bumping her head against every little edge the ship had on her way down, the visor to her suit cracked and then shattered. But as she flopped down into the warm sand, her arms and legs spread in a state of absolute fatigue, she couldn’t really bring herself to care about the warning tones in her helmet—or the fact she was able to breathe the air here, in what used to be the void. Frankly, all she could think about was how much she wanted to go home.
“Orin! Are you okay?” A familiar voice called from somewhere outside her field of vision. It was followed by the hasty clattering of boots on metal as they no doubt clambered down the ship in a hurry.
All Orin could offer in response was a weak grunt and the extension of a thumbs up.
“Are… are you insane?” Another voice called soon after, all breathless and hoarse. It cracked with exertion, as if it had already been worn out by so much screaming. “Satori, what form of devil possessed you to do that? We could’ve all died!”
Satori, of course, didn’t respond. Not before she entered Orin’s field of view, her own helmet long since thrown away. Her face was etched with a rare look of concern, and she breathed a deep sigh of relief when she saw Orin manage a weak smile. Wordlessly, Satori jostled off the smashed helmet from Orin’s suit and brushed away any remaining debris… before pulling her into a tight embrace.
Orin, dazed and shocked from the crash, could manage little else than to rest her head upon her master’s shoulders as she was pulled in. But through whatever stores of energy she had left, she managed to raise her arms and wrap them around in loose reciprocation.
“I’m okay,” she whispered. “I’m okay.”
Satori pulled back from the hug, but stayed kneeling by Orin’s side. Cautiously, she looked to the horizon, as if she had caught a vanishing glimpse of something stalking them from behind the shifting sands. She extended an elbow for Orin to grab on to. “Let’s go. Can you stand?”
“I… I think so,” Orin mumbled, hooking one of her arms around Satori’s elbow and placing a hand on her shoulder for support. Her master lifted, and in response Orin tried her best to stumble onto her feet, with mixed results. As she straightened herself out with the help of Satori, she heard her bones shift and crackle in strange ways—followed by an absolute lightning strike of localized pain in the leg and the fuzzy static that came to replace it.
After a sharp intake of breath and a pained wince, Orin settled into a decidedly unconvincing posture—she plastered a smile on her face and shifted all of her weight onto the other leg in a poor imitation of nonchalance, but Satori’s face only got graver. It broke Orin’s heart. For a moment, Orin tried to separate herself from her master so she could stand on her own—but Satori only squeezed her in closer, as if she would’ve lost Orin the second she let go.
That didn’t surprise Orin much. She knew better than anyone that the events one year ago were still fresh in her master’s mind. Even now, it haunted her every action, and now the consequences were starting to catch up with everyone involved. But to Orin, that didn’t matter. It never did—not so long as Satori was her master, and Orin was her pet. Satori could march to the deepest pit of Hell, pick a fight with a God, oppose reality itself… and Orin would march along right beside her, no matter what.
Patchouli, on the other hand, did not share the same sentiment. She marched up to the two, at least temporarily uncaring of the fantastical environment they found themselves in, and went straight to airing out her grievances.
“Recklessly engaging with Toyohime like that, against all better logic… one day, and this day might very well come sooner than you think, your obsession with that cursed woman will hurt someone you care about,” Patchouli snapped. As she looked to Orin, whose body was riddled with evidence of blunt trauma, her expression softened. “... It already has.”
“As if we had any other choice. It was our best shot to kill her, once and for all,” Satori replied, stone-faced and cold. “... Besides, let Orin speak for herself. As if you know what she does and doesn’t wish for.”
“... Orin wasn’t the only person who got hurt. Or killed.”
“It just so happens that Eirin conveniently falls outside my definition of ‘people I care about.’ I fail to see the issue.” Satori snorted with disgust, as if offended by the mere implication. Orin wanted to speak up and cut between the fighting, but couldn’t find the strength to oppose her own master. “That aside, who says I was the one who got her killed? She got herself killed, following her own incomprehensible mess of half-baked ideas and strategies. What are you coming at me for?”
“How could you be so cold toward someone like her? Especially since we were all fighting out there together, as comrades? Have you no shame?”
“I’ve no love for her. Not after what she did to my sister.” Satori stared straight into Patchouli’s eyes. Sometimes her master was like this—staring straight ahead through a person, as if judging the content of their soul itself. Sometimes, this was literally the case, given that she made liberal use of her opened third eye. “We might be fighting beside each other, but we’re fighting for completely different things. Yukari, Eirin, Kaguya, even you and I—we’re all fighting for something different. Those are just the facts. Just as it was a fact that Koakuma had darkness in her heart. It’s that kind of fact.”
“How cynical. Aren’t we friends?”
Satori fixed Patchouli with a steady glare as she thought through her answer. Even with an open eye, Orin found her master’s thought process difficult to parse.
“... No. We aren’t,” Satori settled. “It’s not a secret—I’m fighting to get my sister back. I’m fighting to kill the person who turned her into a monster. I’m fighting to protect my family. You are doing none of those things—you’re fighting for a more abstract reason: protecting the world, or preventing human suffering, or whatever other justification you assign to your actions. It’s admirable, but recognize that It’s only by convenience that we’re here, helping each other out.”
“... Is that right?” Patchouli muttered under her breath. “Then if it came between Yukari, or Eirin, or me, or anyone else… and your family. Who would you choose?”
Silence.
“It’s best to be honest with ourselves. It saves us the heartache.”
“I see.”
In the silence that came after, the atmosphere seemed to become heavier. Orin spent each passing beat being suffocated by the pressure. Her eyes darted from Patchouli to her master, and then back again.
“Er…” Orin started. “Let’s ah… could we just figure out what we’re going to do next, maybe? Without fighting—that would be nice.”
“Good plan, Orin,” Satori said. Though strangely enough, she wouldn’t take her eyes off of Patchouli. “I’m not quite sure what we would do without you.”
Patchouli looked away. Orin couldn’t help but feel vaguely responsible—though the second the thought even popped into mind, Satori squeezed a little tighter, as if in reassurance.
“... There’s no use in arguing,” Patchouli said with a heavy sigh. “Or rather, it’s a subject for later, when we aren’t all in danger. For now, I agree—we should figure out our next steps.”
The guns had long since run quiet.
Those satellites—their powerful bodies forged by the greatest minds, cast in the strongest metals, and mounted with the fiercest weapons humanity could muster—how could they have possibly matched the horror of God’s wrath? They could never, and for their hubris, their bodies and their souls were scattered and broken as a million glittering lights upon the ocean.
Those were the kinds of things Kaguya Houraisan thought about as she sat beside a flickering fire, her only source of light deep in the darkness of a desert night, not a few meters from the turned and battered wreckage of the CNS Beyond the Sun. In the void, It was battered by unseen force, turned three times—and upon the fourth, struck down and consumed by the void, as was the divine will of God. To its crew, it might have seemed like nothing less than a castigation of divine nature—but Kaguya knew it was nothing more than the temper tantrum of a child. As infant children must necessarily cry, Koishi must necessarily kill—it was her unconscious will.
Woe upon humanity, as its greatest accomplishment was brought low and made worthless before a child. Her own child. What a dubious honor it was—being the mother of such a terrifying, omnipresent killer.
Kaguya was on the ship when it was attacked by Toyohime. She was there to see Eirin march on to meet her. And she was there to see her die. It didn’t bother Kaguya too much—after all, she had watched Eirin die countless times. She will likely watch her die countless more, before all is said and done. But it was there, seized by the temporary shock, that Kaguya lost consciousness. When she woke up, she was deep within the fresh wreckage of humanity’s greatest weapon—alone. On what happened to her crew, and why Kaguya was spared, she could only make guesses.
With no direction and no plan, Kaguya spent what felt like hours wandering the claustrophobic halls of that great metal cage of a ship. But she was alone. Alone in such a way that not even the impression of humanity remained. Even the spot where she saw three men become atomized by Toyohime’s attack, which had burnt dark impressions of their silhouettes into the steel, was mysteriously void of any sign they were killed at all. The damage remained, but the people were gone—erased from existence in a way only God could manage.
When she eventually emerged from the dark recesses of the ship into a darker night, with nothing but the stars above and the inexplicable ground below, she could do nothing but start a simple fire. The night was cold, and she had a feeling it would be long. Warmth would be needed.
This, alone and huddled by a dying fire, must have been the end. Kaguya shifted closer to the flame, and held her knees closer to her chest. She didn’t know what to do. When her own daughter had sought her out, she didn’t know what to say. All she could do was recognize—that in pursuit of an easy life, she had made things so much worse. She wondered if it was too late to make things right between herself and Koishi. If Kaguya had looked up to her daughter now, and said sorry, would she hear? Would she care?
She wasn’t sure. And she wasn’t sure if she wanted to find out.
As she stared at the stars above, Kaguya heard the shuffling of boots displacing the sand. The sounds came in an irregular, halting motion. When it came to a stop, Kaguya lowered her gaze to the figure who stood at the edge of her fire’s light.
A moon rabbit in a pilot suit, all ripped up, tattered, and blackened by combat. In the gaps of her suit, her skin had melted away from severe burns—and froze in place, creating large patches of gangrenous tissue that covered her body. As Kaguya’s eyes drifted downward, she noticed a patch of body that had a view to the other side. Somehow, by some miracle of medicine, the wound remained stable and closed.
Her face was concealed by her helmet, tinted and patterned by a spider web of cracks, but by the way she stood, so still and lopsided, Kaguya had the impression of an empty gaze just behind the facade.
The moon rabbit carried in her left hand a revolver, its chambers empty and on display as the mechanism that connected the grip to the top half of the hung loose. In her other hand, was an ax, splintered in half at the handle from excessive use and its blade caked in a thick layer of blood.
Without a word, the moon rabbit collapsed into a heap by the fire.
Kaguya rushed to the moon rabbit’s side and, upon removing her helmet, froze.
Atonement—she wondered if it was even possible.
Previous Chapter:
Interim Chapter 11

Took a shower tonight and while I was in there I started noticing a foul smell, like a kind of metallic-y sulfur, which was exacerbated when I turned up the heat. I got out and now my hair and skin both reek of it. After some googling it seems there’s sulfur in either our building’s water heater or in the water supply itself.
Has anyone else in the area dealt with this? If so, did the smell linger on you for long/how did you get rid of it?? I feel like I need a shower after my shower but that obviously won’t help at all haha
For context, I live in a medium sized apartment building in Cap Hill SE (and yes, I already emailed the property manager).
Thanks in advance!

I feel like nobody takes me seriously when I talk about this. I've made 2 posts on a different subreddit asking for advice, and 1 other post here venting about it and people have only had a bad reaction.
Pretty much, I've been struggling with urges to harm my cat for 6 months now, and acting on them for a portion of that time. At face value, yes, I am a cat abuser. I'm a horrible person who deserves to be thrown in jail for the rest of my life, and get the living daylights beaten out of me everyday. I should have all of my remaining human rights stripped away, for I am not deserving of them, nor am I worthy of being considered a human. I get it, I get it, I'm the scum of the earth. But really, there is so much more nuance to the situation that it isn't fair to make these distinctions without compassion and understanding. Yes, cat abusers have feelings too, shocker.
As for my past, I haven't had much of a childhood, or at least a very good one. Being forced to leave my home land in the Caribbean because of a natural disaster that destroyed the entire island, separating me from half of my family for over 9 months, wasn't a very good start at 6 years old. Witnessing my brother's abuse which included him being beaten relentlessly and punched to the point he was hospitalized wasn't so great. Same with the guilt of watching my brother's hand be smashed with a hammer, breaking the bones in it, after he begged me to lie for him so he wouldn't get in trouble, and my young self being too conflicted to know what I should do. Same with being beaten, myself, for making the mistake of stealing my mother's credit card to experiment with other forms of money. I wasn't trying to do anything bad, of course, I simply had only used cash to buy things and wanted to learn what that little plastic card could do, but my parents didn't know that, they didn't care to ask me. This same type of thing happened on and on, witnessing threats of abuse, witnessing abuse, being threatened with abuse, being abused, over and over. At some point, when I was 10 years old, my father's untreated bipolar disorder sparked up and he had a manic episode. He was convinced that my mother was doing drugs in their closet and cheating on him, and my parents would fight about this everyday. My mom signed the divorce papers but my dad refused to, and they stayed separated for a while.
This was actually the happiest period of my life, when I would stay over at my dad's apartment on the weekends. I remember when he first took me over there, and immediately asked me how the place smelled. I later learned that this was because my mom went over to the place before my dad picked me up, and commented on the smell, which my dad was eager to fix. I fondly remember sleeping on a queen size bed for the first time, with big fluffy sheets and the most comfortable pillows I've ever layed my head on, copper pillows, I believe. I'd have the fan blowing in my face, and be so incredibly relaxed. My dad would take me to buy all the snacks I wanted with the money he earned from his music studio, and I'd stay up all night, using his MacBook to play Roblox with my online friends, having the best nights of my life. After a while, my dad's manic episode had subsided, and my parents moved back in together, happily cuddling on the couch as we watched my favorite children's television show. All was well, and there was absolutely no abuse in this period. It wasn't as good as being alone with my dad, of course, but it was still way better than my life before.
Sadly, though, good things can't last forever, and my dad soon passed away due to complications with his Sickle Cell disease. I felt absolutely nothing, I cried at his funeral but I was no longer capable of feeling. I stayed in this numb state, struggling with online school, and just getting by. After a little under a year of this, I was struck by grief. I just broke down, so incredibly sad, mad, disappointed, every negative emotion I could feel towards his death. The sound ringed in my ears of people at his funeral saying "This is all part of God's plan", "Everything happens for a reason", as I clawed my hair out trying to think, "why? what was the reason?", "why would god do this to me?". It was so intense, I couldn't handle the pain of thinking about it everyday and slept as much as I could to make it stop. When even that didn't work, I tried to go to sleep again, but permanently this time. That still didn't work, and I didn't know what to do other than just continuing my suffering. I was trying my best to keep going, to make it until the end of the year, or at least until my birthday, but that didn't help. On my 11th birthday, I was in the stage of trying to stand up for myself, and I really didn't feel like going out for my birthday, so we rescheduled for the next week. That next week made a horrible day for me, in a way I didn't expect. I was feeling okay enough to go, and started to get ready. My mom wasn't very happy with me though, as she saw the outfit I had prepared. "Go change that hoodie", she said, "It has stains on it". I didn't know what else I should wear and asked why I couldn't just keep the hoodie on. "You look like a homeless person", she began screaming, "You're embarrassing me! People are going to think I'm a bad mom!". At this point I began crying, in pain at the fact that she would think of me as an embarrassment. It shouldn't have surprised me, really, when in the past she had threatened to ship me off to Mexico for not having good enough grades, and threatened to put me in foster care because she disliked the green polo shirt I wanted to wear. It still hurt, though, it always hurts, and I can never get used to the pain. Through the sobs, my heart and mind were racing to find a solution. Find a new shirt, keep defending my current attire, or just give up. I tried the first two options but nothing seemed to work, I couldn't make her happy, so I gave up. She stormed away, frustrated at my response, and I handed her something I soon discovered to be the final straw. "I don't want to go anymore", I said, deciding to be honest with her and myself, and stand my ground as a brand new tween. But it was a mistake, because it only unleashed a slur of yelling and screaming and shouting, as she stormed off to her bedroom. She'd done this quite often before, but this time, she reunited me with an old enemy, the belt. I was still being hit after my dad died, but usually that'd be a slap or punch to the mouth. Not this time, however. She furiously hit me with the belt, over and over and over, as I cried "I just wanted to be comfortable". All of our arguments over clothing have surrounded this, the fact that I want to be comfortable in what I wear and in my own body, but seemingly, my mom wasn't a big fan of that. She then began dragging me across the house, yelling and choking me, saying she wants to cut me and plaster me to the wall, and, of course, put me in foster care, because I'm such a worthless piece of trash that she doesn't deserve the burden of being my parent. My mom brought up this event a few times afterwards, but she seems to have forgotten the details that are now ingrained in my brain, as she sees it as a funny little thing that happened on my birthday, and not as the event that has made tears pour out of me for nights on end, wondering what I did to deserve this treatment.
Anyways, this goes to say that my past has not been good. The history of mental illness in my family has caused a myriad of problems for me, including the cat abuse. You may think "But that's not an excuse!", one thing I've been told before is that "Your mental illness is not your fault, but it is your responsibility". Okay, so I'm still a horrible person for abusing my cat, understood. But throughout my childhood, or lack thereof, I've only been taught that the proper reaction to something you don't like is violence. Cats scratch and bite, which is painful, which I don't like. I feel as though I've been in enough pain at this point, and I won't tolerate some stupid feline adding to that. So, I'd get really angry when my cat would bite me, and I'd try to avoid hitting him, but nothing really worked. I asked and people suggested giving away the cat, which wasn't an option, or staying away from it, which also wasn't an option, as I still wanted to have a good relationship with the cat despite this setback. The urges didn't stop and my cat wouldn't stop biting me, so I gave in. I started hitting him when he bit me to make him stop, but it didn't work. No matter what I did, I couldn't get this cat to stop hurting me. That was, until one day, when I beat him so badly that he released his bladder out of fear on my living room floor. Since then, I would just beat him whenever he upset me to make him stop, and it'd work. Sometimes, anyway. When he just wouldn't cooperate, I'd take him somewhere private, like a bathroom, and beat him until he'd emptied his bladder and/or bowels as a result of my punishments. All I'd wanted was to not be hurt by the little animal that's supposed to look up to me. The abuse is what gave me that. I used it as a coping mechanism, recreating my abuse and taking back control. I'd also get quite a few marks on my hands and arms after our session, that served as a visible form of the pain I endured, making me feel less invisible.
So no, while it isn't an excuse for what I've done, I wish people would look at my situation with more compassion and understanding about the things that lead someone to do this. I would love to be diagnosed with whatever's wrong with me and receive treatment and therapy and medication and whatever I need to stop doing this, but I'd only be able to access that by admitting to what I've done, which just isn't an option for me. As of now, I am 13 years old, and the responsibilities of dealing with my mental illness are too much for a kid like me to handle alone, so I just wish people were more understanding.

In the latest episode about leg washing, Matt and Stef ended uptalking about hair care, double shampooing and conditioners.
I just want to share my personal knowledge about hair care and allow you guys to let your hair go soft, and silky!
All sources will be linked at the end, numbered based on first appearance
First off, whats the use for conditioner?
According to Pantene's Australian Blog (1), it's used to lock in moisture by closing the outer layer of the hair, or cuticles, the shampoo opened up. Using conditioner will not only let your hair be soft, but it will help keep the moisture from drying out before the next shower.
Why should I use conditioner if I shower every day?
If you're active and move outside, the sun is going to make your hair abysmally dry and damaged.According to Science Direct (2), Ultra Violet rays from the sun can cause your hair to not only dry our VERY quickly, but can also damage your hair proteins which could cause it to easily thin more and more. Conditioner can rehydrate your cuticles and allow you to have a barrier against the sun and keep it from drying out even just for a few hours.
What if I don't go outside more than once or twice a week?
Depending on your life style, you probably don't NEED to shower every day. I don't leave the house often so I know from my personal experience bi-daily showers are fine and leave your hair well off. I still use conditioner to repair my hair from my shampoo and my tossing and turning in my bed.
Should I use one or two shampoos?
This depends on how frequently you shower. According to hair.com (3), the 2nd shampoo is mainly to get DEEP in there and make sure it's clean. If you do daily showers, the dirt and oil buildup isn't significant enough to NEED 2 shampoos, it's just a waste.
What kind of shampoo and conditioner should I use?
Depends on your hair. Long, thick hair usually needs stuff without sulfate, as that it strips more moisture out of your hair, which could cause more harm than good(4). My personal choice for my hair is Garnier Fructise as their curl line does work fairly well for my kind of hair.
Just like skin care, hair care isn't a one stop shop. Do research on what products you purchase, the ingredients, and what those do for your hair.
Small edit for a few personal tips I use for my hair: 1) If you have long hair, leave it damp after a shower and tie it in a bun for a few hours, itll keep moisture and have a very nice feel when it dries
2) Wear a hat anytime you go outside, It'll block UV rays from causing any damage
3) if you would like leave in conditioner is an option too, just in case you need something for your hair on an off day. I damp my hair and brush some in if I'm in a hurry and can't shower
​
Anyway, with your hair looking fly with these tips, just remember my friends its just a theory, A STYLE THEORY.
SOURCES

1. https://www.pantene.com.au/en-au/brandexperience/how-to-use-conditioner-for-hair

2)https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S1011134404000375#:~:text=It%20is%20well%20known%20that,both%20hair%20proteins%20and%20melanins.
3)https://www.hair.com/double-shampooing.html#:~:text=If%20you%20want%20to%20remove,cleanse%20and%20nourish%20your%20strands.
4)https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/327013#are-they-dangerous

Hello there, I'm Edward a single, nerdy, introverted misanthrope, with a smart mouth, a brain that never stops, a broken heart and not much else, although I'm anxious as fuck and abhor people, crowds, and kids I try to treat everyone I meet with respect, definitely more of a homebody who's loyal, supportive, affectionate, resourceful, thick AF, with a wicked sense of humor that can joke about anything or any situation, which I lean into to get me through life and ranges from dark humor, dirty jokes, sarcasm, puerile wit, and good old fashioned self-deprecation, I don't take anything too seriously, I'm irreverent but I still try to be tactful. I'm a standard nerd and really love video games, console gaming, sci-fi, anime, music, food, the paranormal, conspiracy theories, and ufology (yes, that's a thing, lol,) 420 friendly, I'm also teaching myself to cook, I make terrible music, and I'm housebroken too lol, oh and I can speak a bit of Spanish, if you're into that. Yo soy buscando una novia. I'm not perfect though, and I don't expect you to be either, I'm kinda depressed, anxious AF, broke, slow to trust, and I don't have my shit together (like any of it). I'm not motivated by material things or status, Love is pretty much my main motivation. I just want to be wanted, and useful without being used.
I'm looking for a long-term monogamous relationship, location doesn't matter to me as I'm willing to relocate, someone to share a real connection with, someone to cuddle with as we watch the world burn (what can I say? I'm a romantic.) A woman who's single, honest, kind, funny, affectionate, cute, supportive, available, low maintenance, understanding, communicative, caring, loyal, and maybe a bit clingy or kinda macabre too, (I am just putting this out there and by no means are these requirements) I have a huge weakness for thick girls, goth/emo/punk/alt/metal girls, busty women, and fellow homebodies, stoners, and nerds, oh and accents lol. A woman who isn't materialistic, distant, cruel, doesn't play games and isn't into hook ups, or casual sex and does not want children (I don't plan on having kids.) Personality is important to me, (probably because I'm ugly, lol) I want someone who gets me and a big part of that is my admittedly odd/dark/dumb sense of humor.
Well that's me but, I really want to hear all about you, send me your pic and tell me your favorite food, video games, anime, music recommendations or whatever else and let's nerd out together. Good luck out there.

Ezra arrived at the oil rig early in the morning, after a long and arduous journey that left her feeling exhausted. The helicopter ride was bumpy, and she struggled to keep her breakfast down as they flew over the vast expanse of ocean. But despite her queasy stomach, Ezra couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the sight below her. The crystal-clear waters were so blue that they seemed almost unreal, while small islands dotted the horizon like emerald jewels.
As she stepped off the helicopter onto the deck of the offshore rig, Ezra was immediately struck by the deafening noise. The sound of machinery whirring and clanging filled her ears, making it hard to hear anything else. But even though it was loud, there was something comforting about it - like a steady heartbeat that kept everything running smoothly.
The workers who greeted her were all men, their faces weathered by years of exposure to wind and sun. They wore hard hats and reflective vests that made them stand out against the dull grey metal of the rig. Despite their gruff appearances, they welcomed Ezra with open arms and showed her around like an old friend.
Fred, in particular, stood out to Ezra. He had a thick beard that covered most of his face and eyes that twinkled mischievously behind his safety goggles. He spoke in a deep voice that rumbled like thunder whenever he laughed or joked around with his colleagues.
Throughout the day, Ezra worked alongside Fred as he taught her how to operate machinery and carry out routine maintenance checks. She struggled at first with some of the heavy equipment - wrenches and hammers that felt awkward in her hands - but soon got into a rhythm as Fred patiently showed her what to do.
The smells on the rig were intense too - a heady mix of salty sea air mingled with diesel fumes from the generators that powered everything on board. There was also a faint tang of oil in the air - not overpowering but enough to make Ezra feel like she was part of something important.
During lunch break in the dining hall, Ezra sat down at one of the long tables with Fred and several other workers from different departments. The room was plain but functional - stainless steel benches lined up against white walls with fluorescent lights overhead casting an artificial glow over everything.
Despite being surrounded by strangers who worked in such different roles from hers, Ezra felt comfortable here. The workers chatted amicably about their work experiences between bites of their meals while occasionally ribbing each other for fun.
Jake caught everyone's attention when he told an outrageous story about getting lost on another rig where he used to work before joining this current one. His laughter rang across the room causing other diners' heads to turn towards him while Mike listened quietly but amusedly from across their table.
As the day wore on, Ezra felt more and more at home on the rig. She had always been a hard worker, and the physical labour of her job gave her a sense of satisfaction that was hard to describe. There was something about being part of a team that worked together to keep everything running smoothly that made her feel alive.
But towards the end of the day, things took an unexpected turn. As she was packing up her tools, one of her coworkers - a man named Dave - approached her with a sly grin on his face.
"Hey Ezra," he said, "you excited for Nude Week next week?"
Ezra felt her heart drop into her stomach as she realized what he was talking about. Nude Week was a tradition on some offshore rigs where workers would shed their clothes for an entire week while they worked as a way of bonding and having fun.
She had heard about it before but hadn't given it much thought - after all, it wasn't common. But now she felt like she had been blindsided by this question from Dave.
"I...uh...I don't know," she stammered, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
Dave just chuckled and slapped her on the back. "Don't worry about it too much," he said. "It's just a bit of fun. But I gotta warn you - we get pretty wild during Nude Week."
Ezra tried to laugh along with him but couldn't shake off the uneasy feeling in her gut. She didn't want to seem prudish or uptight, but the idea of being naked around these men made her nervous. Her boyfriend Tom was the jealous type and they've always been exclusive with each other, she wondered what he would think if he heard about her working around a bunch of fit young nude men, possibly even being nude herself.
She tried to put the idea out of her head, it was something she could worry about next week.
As she made her way back to her cabin, Ezra couldn't help but feel grateful for the experience of working on an oil rig. It was hard work, no doubt about it - physically demanding and mentally exhausting. But there was something exhilarating about being part of such a vital industry - one that kept economies running and people's lives moving forward.
She knew that there would be many more challenges ahead of her in the days and weeks to come - long hours, rough seas, and tough conditions. But with support from people like Fred, Jake, Mike, and even Hank, she felt confident that she could handle anything that came her way.
And as she settled into bed that night with the sound of machinery humming around her like a lullaby, Ezra felt at peace knowing that she was doing something meaningful with her life - something that mattered not just to herself but also to countless others who depended on the oil industry for their livelihoods.
Despite the grueling schedule, she found herself enjoying her time here more and more. The other workers had become like family to her - a close-knit community of people who relied on each other for support in this harsh environment.
Ezra had even struck up an unlikely friendship with Hank, one of the older workers on board. He was rough around the edges but had a heart of gold underneath it all. They would often sit together during breaks sharing stories about their lives back home or making jokes at each other's expense.
But as Nude Week drew closer, Ezra began to feel anxious once again. It wasn't just about being naked in front of these men - it was also about what might happen afterward- whether she could resist temptation no matter how strong that desire inside became?
She tried not to think too much about it as she went through her daily tasks but couldn't help feeling nervous every time someone mentioned Nude Week within proximity.
The morning of Nude Week had arrived, and Ezra felt like she was walking to her doom. The mere thought of being naked in front of her male colleagues made her feel queasy. She tried to psych herself up by telling herself that it was just a bit of fun, but it didn't help much.
The morning of Nude Week had arrived, and Ezra felt like she was walking to her doom. The mere thought of being naked in front of her male colleagues made her feel queasy. She tried to psych herself up by telling herself that it was just a bit of fun, but it didn't help much.
As she stepped out onto the deck, Ezra found that most of the other workers were already nude, milling around and chatting as if this were perfectly normal. Some of them were even carrying out their work duties while completely naked.
Ezra tried to avoid looking at anyone for too long, but it was difficult. Everywhere she turned there seemed to be another naked man - some old and wrinkled, others young and toned.
She could feel eyes on her immediately as she walked around the rig. Some men looked away quickly when they saw her coming, while others stared openly at her body in a way that made her feel uncomfortable and exposed.
Despite trying not to stare too long at any one man's body, Ezra couldn't help but notice every contour of muscle rippling beneath tanned skin or every vein that ran down an erect penis standing proud between muscular thighs.
The sight of so many naked bodies all around her had awakened something deep inside her- something primal and raw- a hunger for sexual indulgence unlike anything she had ever felt before.
Every time Ezra caught sight of a man's bare chest or butt or genitals, she felt an intense surge of desire wash over her. And as the day wore on, these feelings only grew stronger until they became nearly unbearable.
It wasn't just physical either - there was something about being surrounded by so many naked men that made Ezra feel wild with lust. She found herself flirting shamelessly with some of the guys who showed interest in talking to her - batting her eyelashes and swaying her hips suggestively as she talked about work-related topics.
But despite all this sexual tension building up inside her, Ezra knew that she couldn't act on it openly. She was here to do a job after all - one that required focus and concentration if she wanted to make sure everyone came home safe at night.
During breaks from work activities though things got even more heated because now some men were starting to make crude remarks which only added fuel to the fire within making things worse than before!
And then there was Fin...
He looked like he belonged back in high school rather than working on an oil rig among experienced veterans twice his age but he had caught Ezra's eye early on during Nude Week because every time he thought nobody was looking he'd steal glances at her body too quickly followed by averting his eyes trying not get caught staring directly at anything inappropriate which made him seem even more adorable somehow!
They started working together later in the afternoon when they both got assigned to the same task. Fin seemed nervous at first, fidgeting with his tools and avoiding eye contact as they worked side by side.
It wasn't long though before Ezra noticed how fit he looked underneath all that grease - tight muscles bulging against taught skin with every move he made- especially when he bent down over equipment exposing his lower backside for all the world (and Ezras' hungry gaze) to see! Her own nipples hardened as arousal coursed through every fiber of her being making it hard to focus solely on their task ahead while being surrounded by such temptation!
Her gaze drifted lower until she noticed his ballsack hanging low between his legs- round and full like ripe fruit waiting for someone's eager mouth or hand...or both! It took everything within Ezra not to pounce onto him right then and there, to wrap her hands around that tantalizing sac and massage it until he was moaning her name.
But Ezra knew better than to act impulsively. She was still in a committed relationship with her boyfriend back in Idaho, after all. She couldn't let herself get carried away by these wild desires, no matter how much she craved the touch of another man's body against hers.
Still, the temptation was too much for her to resist. As they worked side-by-side, Ezra found herself getting bolder and more daring with every passing moment. She pretended to drop something near him and reached down between his legs from behind to grab it and brushed her hand against his ballsack as she did so.
"Oh! Sorry!" She said giggling.
Fin looked startled but didn't seem to mind her touch. In fact, Ezra could see his penis twitch in response growing more prominent with each passing moment.
She bit her lip and felt a flush spread over every inch of exposed skin as she realized how much he was enjoying this illicit contact between them. She wanted nothing more than to reach out and grab hold of those tender orbs- squeezing gently until they spilled over into ecstasy.
"D-Don't worry about it" he said.
But their brief contact seems to have stuck with him, several minutes later while she was replacing a fuse in a blasting cabinet she looked down and saw Fin laying on a creeper seat with his head and shoulders under the machinery and his bottom half sticking out laying upright on the floor below her.
Even several minutes after their brief touch his penis was hard and erect as if in anticipation of her welcoming hole. Ezra's own arousal surged to even greater heights as she realized what he wanted from her.
As she worked on the machine above him, she stretched out her leg just enough that it brushed against Fin's inner thigh. He gasped slightly at the contact, but didn't move away.
Ezra took that as a sign of encouragement and looked around too see if any other coworkers could see them.
Luckily, everyone else was busy with their own tasks and there were no prying eyes around to catch them in the act. Emboldened by this newfound sense of secrecy, Ezra quietly closed the fuse-box and stepped over Fin with one leg. She slowly squatted down with her legs apart, positioning herself over Fin's hard cock. She give one more quick glance around to be sure nobody was watching and then lowered herself slowly and quietly onto Fin's throbbing erection.
Fin gasped with shock, which made Dave look up from his desk in their direction. Ezra looked back like a deer caught in the headlights. Dave was on the other side of the room and could see her squatting down in front of the machine, but couldn't see Fin underneath her so he returned to his schematics.
Ezra was still frozen with fear of being caught, but she felt Fins hands grasp her waist and lift her up until only the tip of his penis remained inside. Then he pulled her back down with a soft grunt.
Ezra let out a sigh of relief as she felt Fin's hard length slide deeper inside her, filling her with an intense pleasure that left her gasping for breath. They moved together slowly and quietly, their bodies rocking in perfect rhythm as they tried to keep their activities hidden from the other workers.
Dave glanced in her direction again but this time she didn't stop moving.
She continued to bounce up and down on Fin's hard cock, feeling the pleasure build within her with each thrust. She was so close to the edge of release that all she could think about was how good it would feel when she finally let herself go.
And then suddenly, they heard footsteps approaching from behind them. Panic set in as Ezra realized that someone had caught them in the act.
But it wasn't a coworker come to catch them red-handed- it was just Fred who had finished his work under the machine and decided to check on their progress.
"Hey guys," he said, poking his head into view. "Everything alright?"
Ezra froze mid-thrust for what seemed like an eternity, but then she stood up quickly, pulling herself off of Fin's cock with an audible 'pop' and leaving a ring of wetness around him. Her face flushed with embarrassment and arousal.
"Uh...yeah," she said, trying to sound casual. "Just fixing this machine."
Fred raised an eyebrow and then asked: "Fin in here?"
Ezra nodded, feeling relieved that they weren't caught in the act. "He's under the machine," she said.
Fred narrowed his eyes at her: "Okay... just make sure you clean up when you finish."
Ezra couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement at Fred's words. She knew that he was winking at her, letting her know that he was aware of what she and Fin had been up to.
Despite the embarrassment she felt earlier, Ezra realized that part of her wanted to be caught - wanted someone else to know about the illicit encounter between them. It made it all the more exciting and dangerous somehow.
As Fred walked away with a knowing smirk on his face, Ezra turned back to Fin who was still lying on his creeper seat looking dazed from their intense experience moments ago.
"Is everything okay?" she asked him softly.
Fin nodded silently, his eyes glazed over with pleasure as if unable to speak or move after such an intimate moment "Yeah..." he said breathlessly."That was... amazing."
Ezra grinned widely in response feeling grateful for this unexpected connection they've shared today. Despite how risky it had been both physically (they could have been seen by anyone) and emotionally (both were already in committed relationships), there was something inexplicable pulling them together- something primal and fierce like fire raging within each other's bodies demanding release until satisfied completely!
And even though Nude Week would end soon enough leaving nothing more than just memories behind; yet those memories will last forever etched into their minds reminding each other of this incredible day years down the line when they think back upon life changing events- maybe someday they'll even meet again!

The news was out, and everyone gathered their forces to ask why, when, and who did it. Terror struck five Jewish teens on a night of vacant freedom. It was a force that everyone expected, a source that still came suddenly though. However, when articles and headlines showed up on many people's pages, it was clear then. Everyone suspected some form of sudden violence to occur on Saturday night, but as news passed on, the sheer horror was slowly coming within one of the students at the university, and no one knew who. All they knew is that many of them didn’t have anything important to say about it when many people posted about it on their accounts; not to make people aware of the matter but instead to be relieved that they were not violent as people who cause harm. Thus, as Nick made his way back to his dorm, holding his new parking permit in a yellow envelope, he remembered his friend Josh was back at this time. He took time to finish his homework at the library and when he was done thinking about it he was well pleased to enter his dorm room.
I opened the yellow envelope on my desk. My friend, Josh, was sitting on his bed reading off the messages that he’s been getting since this morning; his new friends have made him comfortable to stay in the dorm for today since they were speaking about the gathering last night. Of course, I was curious to see what they were planning since Josh and his friends don’t feel like going.
“What time do you plan to go to the gathering?”, Josh asks. His white skin, and blonde hair, match the glowing tangerine of this rising evening. And around 8, I plan to be at a little party happening down in the thick suburbs.
“I'm not sure”, I say, but cautiously ask, “Why? Do you need to be somewhere?”. Before Josh can answer I quickly say, “Because I could walk, it's no problem”. Josh then says strictly, “No way, I'm just making sure you get there in time”.
I glance at Josh and chuckle, “To be frank, I'm a little nervous to meet these guys”, I say.
“The guys will like you once you meet them, I promise”, Josh says.
I glanced around for a pen to mark my new parking permit that was in the envelope for this semester. “alright then”, I say and add, “You don’t think they’ll notice my nervousness?”.
“I'm sure they will like you. Trust me, I was feeling hesitant when I first joined but I got along before I knew them”.
I look back at my desk and start checking off the boxes on my permit. Feeling the thin sharpness of the paper grace against my fingertip, seeing it under my lamp.
“You just seem worried”, I say gently.
Josh looks at his phone when another message comes in. He reads it fast before saying, “It’s what happened to those boys that worries me”.
“The Jews?”, I say hesitantly.
“Yeah, It's just a bit unnerving right now. Like this is something I'm supposed to be feeling”, Josh says quietly, then adds, “I'm just worried we might end up exactly like them”.
“We're not Jews though”, I say.
“I know, but do you think they care?”, Josh says deeply.
“Sometimes”, he begins, “I get dreams where I'm them after hearing about it on my phone. And I can feel the bullet, or knife go in me, and I wake up sweating”.
Josh sits up a bit, reaching for his charger, and continues, “I get the feeling that one day we’ll be like them. In the nightmare, I was them: the same body, same teeth, same hair, and same fear of sensing danger breathing nearby in some dark street. All the students didn’t look when the darkness around me struck like a knife. Like a bullet breaking through my skull.
Dead, alone, and slowly dying in the dark streets without having no one take a peek at how much pain I was in. And I do wonder when that will be, if not now”.
I look out the window, seeing the sun go down over the horizon, and say without looking at Josh, “Sometimes that’s what dreams do. You probably have been reading too many articles about it”.
Josh then stands over his bed now and grabs his keys when he checks the time on his phone. As I add, “Have you?”.
Josh ignores my question and starts putting on his shoes.
“It's close to eight. We should get over before the police block up the roads in that area”.
“Sure thing”, I say, then check off my parking permit and leave it in my drawer until I return. Thus, I grab my sweatshirt, turn off the lights, and make sure to double-lock the dorm.
We walked out into the hall and I wondered if I should make anything on the stove since I haven’t used it when I moved in, and I highly doubt Josh knows how to cook.
By the time we made it to our truck, hesitantly glazing around the dark bounds of the light posts, surrounded by houses, and parks, we got in hearing the relief in our voices. He starts the truck and softly makes our way out of the dense parking lot towards the main street, seeing students walking back to their dorms as well. Some smiling, and some expressing no expression at all.
“Should we take a different path?”, he asks.
I look down the street and say softly, “If you want to”.
Josh looks at his watch. “Let's go right, I don’t feel comfortable going down that path where those boys were murdered”.
“Why not”, I ask.
Josh leans over to turn on the radio, but sums the volume to five, and says, “Sometimes it gives me the willies. But tonight is the only night, at least”.
While driving mid-way downtown, I get an odd thought and ask Josh, “Do you think they’re good people?”.
“Why do you say that?”, Josh asks.
I glance at a few other boys laughing on the sidewalk and see a baby boy being carried by their father in the corner of a store.
“I don’t know. Do you think evil will be gone one day? Like murdering someone will be a helpful thing rather than a deceiving one”, I say.
Josh takes a left turn and slows down to another stop light. “I don’t know. Maybe one day there will be peace. Maybe one day, we will all live good lives without evils coming in to hurt us”. Josh then pulls up to the house I'm going into. Seeing all kinds of boys and girls going in and out. Josh then says before I get out, “That's why we need more people like you. People who know the true enemy and not fantasy worlds like those other students”.
I giggle and hop out, and before I can even step on the porch, Josh says goodnight and leaves down the road. I march up to the front door, nodding my head to people walking out, and knock stubbornly on the door.
I enter the living room, everyone says good evening in their black bulletproof vests. “Hello, good evening”, I say.
I smile and feel the house fill with excitement, and in the first few minutes, I text Josh 'I'm safe, you have nothing to worry about’.
Josh then texts back saying, ‘I told you these guys are great. You're finally with your people.
By then, a man on the stairs raises a neo-nazi flag and we all gleefully cheer for his prideless, as the night then continues. I then put on my cap with my red symbol on top, and quickly say, “Good job, it's a good thing we got those boys. Soon we will have peace”, and the men cheer with their cups.
And before the clock strikes nine, I say in my head, over and over, ‘Peace’.
Then think, ‘Soon we’ll have peace’.
Smiling and giggling, I say again, ‘peace’. Then think, ‘Soon we’ll have peace and safety’. I raised my right hand, and when I felt everyone's pride, I was well pleased.

My natural hair originally was a Level 2 shade, which was thick, wavy and medium-length. I decided to do the ol' "at home bleach" into an even light brown so that I could go over it with a dark copper. Well. It didn't end up the way I envisioned it. When I bleached it, I got scared when I saw that some parts were lightening faster than others, so I took out the foils, threw them away, and ran to the shower.
This is my most specific visual approximation: It turned out to remain level 2-3 around the back, with streaks of level 5-6 brown, and the very front of my face is the lightest at level 6, with the lightest streaks being Level 8 blonde around my hairline and temples. Now imagine this, but with copper dye. For the most part, since my hair is wavy and has layers, the uneven-ness blends in but it still looks weird if I don't style it. Fast forward a month later, and my roots are growing in and the uneven look is more apparent than ever. Since I have money now, I'm definitely going to make a hair appointment. I don't think my hair needs a full on bleach color correction since the differences between the shades look subtle, but I was wondering what I could do to blend everything together. I also like that the areas around my face look lighter and more face framing. What should I do?

OK, so I've heard about this and initially I thought no way in hell. Then I read more into it, watched a few youtubers who it works well for, watched a few who it doesn't work well for. I'm kinda of getting curious enough to try it even though I really feel like it wouldn't work for me.
My question is, if you've tried it and it works well for you, what hair porosity do you have? My theory is that it works well for low porosity hair types becuase they don't need the extra help to keep moisture in their hair. They can wash it, and then let humidity in the air work it's magic becuase they already aren't losing a lot of the water they initially put in. However for extremely high priorities, like mine, if I let it air dry it will be bone dry in 30 minutes tops. Which is saying something bc I have thick, mid back length hair. People talk about how they used to have to wash their hair weekly or bi weekly becuase of build up and how oils and butters used to weigh their hair down. I don't have those problems tho. My hair sucks up EVERYTHING I put on it. I can get away with washing my hair every other month. It doesn't stink, itch, or get weighed down.
I don't wear wash n go's, mainly bc I don't know how to do them. I stick to braidouts and twist outs. Sometimes I just leave it in twists for a while. But when the style becomes too old, I'll just rinse it and start over. That's what I mean by I don't wash it. I don't use shampoo or even conditioner on a regular basis. Sounds gross when I say it like that, but my hair just doesn't need it. I don't use many products, really just water and oil, sometimes a leave in if I'm feeling fancy. I'm lazy so I like to keep it simple.
It's growing and seems adequately hydrated and healthy to me, so I don't know if it would be wise to tweak what I've already found to work for me, but I can feel the curiosity taking over. Would really appreciate to hear some of your experiences AND your hair porosity so I can either confirm or deny my theory.

I'm 18 and have always had thinner hair, I know genetics and diet(if anybody has some good pointers for eating habits/foods to help with hair thickening and growth that would help as well!) play the largest role in your hair health but I want to also do something extra with some EOs. What is a good recipe I could use to ultimately thicken it and even possibly grow more hair on my head so I can thank myself both now and later down the line? Thanks!

Alan sat underneath a tree, watching as the Atlantic waves splash and thrash on the beach. The air was thick with moisture; it felt warm on his face, but he had no need of the breeze for relief from the heat. His face burned and was red from the blazing Sun. He was sitting on the ground, his back against the trunk of an ancient palm tree. It was hard but dry, and it offered him some protection from the relentless rays. The sea water glistened like black glass.
There was not much time to rest, as the Spanish overseers were sure to come searching for him soon, but he just needed to sit awhile and gather himself. He would soon have to return to work, in the fields of sugarcane. The sun was very powerful today, perhaps more so than ever before. Brittany certainly never got this kind of sun.
He looked out onto the ocean, listening in closely and waiting for it to speak.
"Come out to me," a voice boomed in his head.
"Why?" Alan asked.
The voice laughed and repeated the same words: "Come out to me."
Alan lifted himself up from the palm and hobbled along onto the beach, towards that black glass sea.
"Do you want me to take my clothes off?" he asked.
The wind picked up, making his long red hair fly about wildly. Alan took it as a sign from the sea that it would have been wiser if he had stripped himself down to his skin. So he did. He began removing his clothing. First his shirt. Next his waistcoat, his breeches, then his boots. Then his socks. And finally, he peeled his tunic off from his body.
The ocean gusted. Alan thought it must have blown up a sudden swell and was making the most of the occasion by trying to break him. He caught hold of the hem of his tunic and pulled, lifting it high over his head and letting it drop into the water. The sea swallowed up the fabric with ease and he stood there naked as the day he was born. Alan held his arms out to catch the gentle breeze that was starting to blow, his nakedness in the breeze cooling him off immensely.
He felt the wind and stared off into the sea as he reminisced on his youth. For indeed he was baptized many moons ago now, and his childhood was becoming more of a distant memory. Alan was once a simple young lad, a fisher boy. Living with his parents in a small hut on the Breton coast. He was simply Alan then, not ar Morlaer or the Scourge of Biscay or El Azote or the Vicomte de Poudouvre… Alan's father Kaourantin was a fisherman just like himself, he preferred to cast his nets from the rocky shore and catch all manner of fish in the tidal pools. Alan would go out with his father, learning to fish and learning to sail. It was on his father's boat that Alan had first heard the ocean call out to him.
"Hear me, boy," the sea had said to him. The young Alan listened intently. "Hear my voice and heed it well, for I give you sound advice."
Alan had heard the voices and told his father, his father reassuring him that this was a gift from God. For the sea was run by one of God's angels, and this angel had decided to speak to Alan. As the boy grew, he developed a closer connection to the sea. He spent almost every day on the coast or on a fishing boat, waiting for the sea to speak to him. His family worried about him, for he would spend hours sitting at the end of the pier, just looking out across the water and listening to the seabirds cry to their mates. Sometimes they were concerned that perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him, but were quite sure it was indeed the ocean's angel speaking.
Alan's thinking was cut off by the sound of an angry Castilian, barking at him in his strange tongue. The man had obviously found him. The Spaniard commanded. He did not understand the man's words, but he understood their tone and their intent. And he could tell from the look in the man's eyes that he was clearly unhappy. The Spaniard picked up some of Alan's clothes that were strewn across the sand and pointed at them, clearly ordering Alan to dress himself. Alan had nothing to hide, so he stood up, gathered his clothes, and put them back on. He followed the Spaniard off the beach. The man took him to the edge of the settlement, where the slaves were working in the cane fields.
There was quite a large group of slaves there, and they all turned to stare at Alan. The Spaniard ordered him back to work, handing him a cane knife. The other slaves were mainly Moors and Pagans. They worked in the fields, cutting stalks of sugarcane. It was hard to communicate, as Alan did not share a language with any of the slaves. Alan could understand bits of Castilian solely from his knowledge of French, but certainly not enough. He made do by picking up various gestures and motions. Alan was able to make an acquaintance with a Spanish Moor, a man similarly red with burns as Alan is. The Moor had given his name as Zacarías Davídez. The two had become fairly close since Alan had arrived. While they first communicated with a simplified form of Castilian, to ensure their overseers could not understand, the two had begun teaching each other. Zacarías had taught Alan some of his native Arab tongue, while Alan taught Zacarías some of his Breton. Soon enough they were communicating rather comfortably in a strange mish-mash of Arabic, Breton, and Castilian.
Zacarías noticed Alan returning with the overseer from his rest near the beach and went over to speak to him. Alan heard Zacarías say something under his breath and then heard the man's rough Arabic curse. Zacarías turned to Alan. "The overseer is very displeased with you. I'm sure that's clear to you."
Alan nodded his understanding and returned to working in the fields. The day was hot and humid, as it often was in the Caribbean in the height of the summer. He would sweat profusely, his red hair clumped tightly to his head with wetness. It was a miserable way to spend a day. The sun beat down relentlessly, while the humidity hung in the air like a blanket. The slaves worked tirelessly, their backs bent and arms pulled taut in the effort. Zacarías helped Alan with his work. He had to show him what to cut, how to chop the cane properly and be easy to haul behind. The sun began to set, and the slaves stopped work to return to the huts for rest. In the darkness, the slaves would sit in groups and talk in whispers. Alan joined in and listened as the other slaves spoke of the land and sea spirits. They described to him their gods, the gods that were not Christian. Zacarías leaned over to Alan, whispering to him in the two friends' own language.
"There are many pagans here, they do not know of God and reject Him. They worship their idols blatantly. They will be punished for this in the hereafter."
Alan nodded quietly, understanding the importance of what Zacarías said. Indeed, it was good to have a friend who understood the importance of God, even though he may be a Moor.
—
It was not long before Zacarías introduced Alan to his friends. His friends were also Moors, and Alan was able to speak to them with his bits of Arabic and Castilian. As time went by, the men became his closest companions in the plantation, his only true brothers. Zacarías explained that he and his friends were rebels once, years ago. They had fought against the Spaniards to save their homes and families, but were captured and eventually sold off to slavery here in these islands of the New World.
Alan explained how he ended up here as a slave, and the Moors found it quite amusing that Alan was actually a nobleman, a man with estates and wealth!
"We are both here because we hate the Spaniards." Alan told Zacarías.
The Moor smiled. "Yes, we are. It is always good to find a brother who will understand."
They laughed together. This is when Alan learned about what Zacarías called "Islam", the religion of the Moors. Zacarías and his fellow Moors began to tell Alan of the Prophet Muhammad and of the Quran. Alan began to be fascinated by the stories of the Prophet Mohammed and the tales of battles waged against his enemies, eventually ending in victory.
Eventually, Zacarías told Alan that if he ever decided to convert, he should come to him for help, as Zacarías was a well-read scholar before his capture and life of slavery. Alan continued to listen to his new Moorish friends, learning the traditions and teachings of their faith.
Weeks later, Alan decided to convert in secret, afraid the Spanish overseers would discover it and beat him or kill him. In the darkness of night, he, Zacarías, and many other Moorish slaves had gathered to pray together, to honor their God.
They made their prayers silently. Then they would pray together and wait until the coast was clear to move back to the huts. Alan watched on, waiting for them to finish. When the Moors were done praying, Alan was approached by Zacarías.
"Are you ready?" Zacarías asked him.
Alan blinked, then nodded.
"Raise your finger and repeat after me. La ilalaha illallah Muhammadur rasulullah.''
Alan repeated the words that came out of the old Moor's mouth.
"La ilalaha illallah Muhammadur rasulullah." He said it aloud.
After a moment of silence, his companions nodded to him as well. Alan felt an immense relief. He had converted to Islam without the Spanish overseers knowing it. Zacarías grasped Alan's shoulders and smiled.
"Welcome to the fold of our religion, brother."
Alan bowed his head low, his face flushed with joy and gratitude for having been given a chance at redemption. All his sins were forgiven for becoming a devout follower of God, and his new friends would certainly give him much comfort and protection. Perhaps they would be able to fight the Spaniards together one day. They returned to the slave huts in the cover of darkness and fell asleep with smiles on their faces. Alan would hear the sea groan and moan, before speaking to him once again with words the Sea had told him before. These would bring him a sense of hope.
"West, my love, west. This is your destiny."

so a month ago, i found a bald patch maybe 2x2” on the back of my head.. after showering i had lost a lot of hair while detangling of course freaked out and looked for more bald patches .. and found around 4 or 5 little ones and lots of thinning around the hairline. confirmed with the dermatologist i have alopecia.. i thought that if i do the supplements/oils/anti inflammatory diet that would help buuuuut today i noticed the patch is bigger and there’s some more in the back of my head. my hair is pretty thick and curly so when it’s down i can cover it but any other style, or if the wind blows, them patches are gonna show 😭 while i’m sad about this still, my hair has been a huge part of my identity, i’ve decided i need to just learn to not stress about things i can’t control. long story short i wanna buzz it all off :) i’ve had buzzed hair before but not while having patches of hair missing. i don’t want to shave it down to a zero but maybe a one or two and i’m curious if bleaching my hair will help at least sorta camouflage the patches since it won’t be so contrasted, compared to the black hair against my scalp. has anyone done this? i’m having a hard time finding anything online.. would love your input bc i am over itttttt hahah
tldr: does bleaching hair after buzzcut help camouflage bald spots from alopecia ?

First/Prev
​
“Father?”
Mogan relaxed, wearing something like a small loincloth as he stretched out in something that was either a chair or a bed. After more than a week he still couldn't really tell which. He was leaning towards “bed” simply because he dozed off so often in it, but he thought that had more to do with his schedule than his age. At least, so he hoped.
“Father?”
At that, he was wearing more than most of the people here. Many walked around in clothing that seemed made mostly of strings. While it was an interesting view, he imagined it must be uncomfortable to walk in. Considering how warm it was, most of the San had picked up the local fashion quickly, although a lot of the tourists still considered them pretty conservatively dressed.
Last time he was on a beach like this it was with Hyeshi. Her clothing had been just about as minimal as his, and while he certainly didn't mind the view it had also been easier to see that she was showing with Ellisan.
Mogan had spent some time on the various types of watercraft, and even some of the small fliers, although he took it easy with those—not like Ellisan, certainly—but his schedule was too busy for most of that.
“Father!”
Mogan snapped out of his doze. “Sorry. What is it?”
“They've returned. The... ones... that were escorting the guests.” Even here, she was more careful about references to warriors or soldiers than most.
“Good. They're a day or two late, but I forgot sometimes how slow those guys travel.”
“And everything is fine. Nothing that really needs to be worried about.”
Mogan caught the hesitation around 'really,' heaved a sigh, and sat up.
“It can wait; you're wearing yourself out fixing everything here!”
“Did somebody do something stupid?”
Ellisan sighed. “Yes.”
“Is it something that will cause us trouble?”
She paused. “...Probably.”
“Then I can't just leave it.”
“Maybe, but you've got to delegate at least some of it. You didn't come home last night until almost morning. Breaking up the fight at the Seafront, dealing with the two idiots who got cheated in gambling at the Moonsrise, and then stopping that incident when some fool tried to start some bets on fighting.”
At least she didn't know about the two people he had to carry home because they were too drunk to move.
“Plus those two people you had to carry home because they were too drunk to move!”
Damn it.
“It's getting better.”
“It is.” Ellisan nodded. “They're not stupid, just not used to any of this. But you've done more than enough work. You should be out here enjoying yourself, not catching up on your sleep because you were cleaning up other people's messes all night.”
“Can't. There are two thousand people here, Ellisan, and they've all been through blood and fire the last few months. Most of them are drinking too much, but I don't know how to just cut them off. Tonight there'll be another fight at the Seafront—the owner doesn't care how many fights there are as long as he makes money selling drink. And there was almost a fight down at the walk, over the women offering... services... there. I'll need to be there part of the night. And—”
“And someone else will.”
“The chieftains are already busy.”
“Then tell someone else off,” she continued relentlessly. “Inton, that guy isn't stupid—let him handle the Seafront. And Burjit is the galaxy's premiere expert at dealing with men's stupidity; she can handle the walk just fine. Half of the time you know who the problem people will be, so find something to keep them busy instead of doing something stupid.”
Mogan sighed, defeated. “Alright. I'll delegate away all the hot spots for tonight. But for now, I have to see what this problem is.”
Ellisan shook her head, but lead him to the small gathering area under a few tents where the chieftains were relaxing. Mogan noted that they didn't look nearly as tired as he, which he found irritating. Burya nodded to him.
“I told you you didn't need to take care of every problem, Mogan. None of them tonight. For now... Have a seat. This should be interesting.”
Mogan wasn't sure he liked the way Burya said “interesting.” It sounded a bit like the way Ellisan had said “really.” But he sat, and someone handed him a drink that tasted something like fruit juice. Ellisan wasn't sent away. What her status was now, nobody knew, but she'd obviously saved enough lives to earn a spot in the circle. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Logog spoke.
“I presume everyone is familiar with my hunter Chadnov?”
“He's not the sharpest spear in the quiver,” Skalli nodded. “But he's certainly the biggest.”
Logog sighed. “That's the one. He was with the escorts. And over the next six days they traveled, everybody spent a lot of time talking. Sort of got to know each other, and...”
“And one of the soldiers is with child, isn't she?” Skalli snorted.
“We didn't know this was possible!”
Ellisan stared at Logog, raising an eyebrow. “You didn't know that humans and Sylfa could breed?” Her lower set of arms waved. “What in the Frozen Valley do you think these are: antlers?”
Logog snorted, trying not to laugh. “It wasn't a Sylfa, Ellisan.”
“There weren't many Shawing there, but they're good people in general.” Mogan nodded. “We should speak to her.”
“It... um... She, uh...” Logog was staring intently at the sand between his toes. “She's not a Shawing either.”
There was a horrified silence, that extended for two full minutes before it was broken by Ellisan's horrified giggle.
“Well....” Mogan paused. “Let's, uh, let's bring in the happy couple.”
“Her name is apparently Karshta,” Logog said, “one of the blade-walls. It seems the Sovereignty will pay them for having Meht children. They're generally considered stupid, so even though their Meht are smaller they're considered to sort of have the best of both worlds. I think we can all agree we don't want the Sovereign to find a Meht with that kind of power and our.... traits.... yes?”
Mogan chuckled. “Too bad Akin isn't here. He really wanted to do a wedding for someone. Still, if she wants to mix her strength with someone else's intelligence, she might have wanted to pick someone... different.”
“The situation is what it is, not what we'd rather it be.” Burya shrugged. Mogan swore he sounded more like an old man than any of the old men present. “But if she's up to it, a marriage would be a good way to solve the problem. She stays with us so the child doesn't end up in the Sovereignty's hands, we get her contributions, and Chadnov has a wife three times his height to keep him from getting a roving eye.”
The others voiced their agreement, and a runner was sent for the happy couple.
They were a nervous couple when they arrived, the man ahead of the Mantu. Chadnov was a huge man, easily the tallest and heaviest of the San. Mogan was of average height, and he didn't even come up to the man's shoulder. He probably weighed twice what Mogan did, for that matter, and he doubted any of it was fat. He had often amused the children—and the ladies—by lifting whatever seemed heavy: barrels, logs, stones, vehicles, prey, whatever couldn't run away. In hunts, he was often known to cast his spear straight through an animal so hard that it stuck into the ground or trees several yards behind it. Mogan wasn't completely sure who was the stronger of the pair. Or the smarter.
Karshta looked fairly petite for a Mantu, which meant that she was a little less than three times his height and probably weighed a little less than a bison. Her legs were bent, but he doubted they could straighten much more, at least not enough to stand any taller, and her feet were three-toed and longer than a spear, with claws that dug into the sand as she walked. A heavy tail trailed behind her, occasionally brushing the ground, and Mogan had no doubt that even without the armor they wore it could be a definite hindrance to any combatant behind her. Her hands were also three-fingered, like her feet. Mogan had thought of her as much like that strange and fearsome lizard he had fought back on New Klon, but those had tiny, useless arms, with sharp claws that were probably never used. Karshta's arms were so long that they almost reached the ground, and while the three fingers, one opposable, had claws, they were clipped and smoothed.
She had a longer neck than any human, or most animals he had seen, but not exactly snake-like, and her muzzle was more than a foot and a half long, big enough that she could probably grab a human by the waist and powerful enough that she could then touch her teeth together. Four eyes marked the front of her head, and two more closer to the sides, smaller ones.
It was a certainty that if Chadnov's attentions were not welcome, she could have made him aware of this in a fashion that left no room for confusion and little for healing. What wasn't certain was just how they had managed in the first place, but Mogan shook his head. That way led to the madness of the Auels.
He was amused to find three of the others shaking their heads as well. What had attracted Chadnov was also something of a mystery. Her own clothing was of the three-strings variety, but she had no breasts, nor hips, and the shape of her legs was mostly the shape of a lizard's legs.
“Welcome, Chadnov and Karshta.” The way Ansam paired the two, as if he was stating one name rather than two, was certainly deliberate. “This will take some time, and we don't want you to be any more uncomfortable. Sit, relax.”
The two sat, looking somewhat nervous. For Karshta, it simply meant folding her legs under her, although Chadnov sat cross-legged.
“Now,” Ansam began. “Rumor has it that you're expecting.”
“Expecting what?” The two spoke together, and brought another moment of stunned silence to the circle.
The silence stretched, as they stared at the two and the two stared at them, with growing expectation, until finally Ellisan broke it.
“The baby?”
“Oh. Yes, I will be giving birth.”
Mogan nodded. “Well... why don't you start with that? Do you lay eggs?”
Karshta seemed offended, but she told them. Apparently Mantu birthed live young, often three or four at a time but usually just one or two for their Meht, after a pregnancy of nearly a full year. While other species often looked down on their Meht, Mantu valued them immensely. This was only in part because the Sovereignty offered a hefty payment, and in part because Meht were able to get jobs that most other species could not. Mantu were often the heavily-armored barrier for Sovereignty armies—blade-walls, they were called—but were often not intelligent enough to manage vehicles or guns. Mantu Meht could carry massive weapons, or carefully pack and load valuable goods, or even serve as police forces or intimidating guards with far less chance of mishaps.
They did not have milk, but the babies were immediately able to eat mashed meat; they were apparently like dogs in that they were generally carnivores but could eat some plants. And perhaps because they had less brain to develop, they grew to adulthood in a shorter time. This made Chadnov quite nervous until he discovered that she was in her nineteenth year, and they usually lived to their sixties.
“And you're certain that Chadnov here is the father?”
Chadnov winced, but Karshta nodded. “He is a cute little thing.” Chadnov winced again.
“Well!” Ansam nodded. “Congratulations to the both of you, then.”
Chadnov's eyes widened in horror as he continued. “That means, of course, that our people have certain duties. We'd like you to come with us, Karshta.”
“You'll need help raising your children now,” Mogan added, “and we can do the marriage right here, if you'll take him.”
“You are referring to... a husband? A... human husband?”
Chadnov stared, and they could almost hear the wheels creaking as they turned. The hunter could refuse the wedding, of course. But “of course” meant the same as “really” and “interesting” in this case—it would be the end of his reputation and his aspirations. He would have a hard time leading anyone, joining hunting parties, or getting near a woman again if it was known that he had gotten a woman with child and abandoned her. All he could hope for was that she would refuse him, and by the look of it that wasn't going to happen.
“And all of your children will be Meht. Here's hoping you have many.”
The smile she turned upon her new fiance was downright predatory, and Chadnov found himself chuckling.