I don’t think that’ll happen. Immunity to chemicals/poisons tends to be built up in matters of small exposures (I think, not my field) and the villains would have to be using the same basic chemicals every time, not likely. You’d also have to survive the prior exposures which seems not very Gotham~y. — Besides, it’s a fictional city and that wouldn’t make for a good story precedent to set, the citizens as immune to such a common plot point.
Now what I’d like to see is the people of Gotham building an immunity to widespread media panic about said Joker Gas.
It becomes like a pollen count on the weather. “And today’s expected Joker Toxin index is listed at 15.4, so make sure to put those breakable objects away on high shelves and put the kids to bed early, because this is going to be a bad one.”
And then the next panel shows an average family just matter-of-fact, getting the seatbelts (that they’ve installed by now) and strapping themselves in while green and/or purple clouds start filtering in through the window, so they’re safely secured when they start to have painful hysterical fits.
Every time the Joker breaks out, sporting goods stores have a BOGO sale on mouthguards.
Yes.
And like certain cities I know of down South where there’s a chemical depot, many citizens actually own gas masks and there’s sirens for leaks.
You wanna help out Bruce? Those gas masks that you and the Robins don to such good effect (until a villain knocks it off mid-fight), have Wayne Enterprises “develop” a cost-effective public version to sell since it’s such a regular issue. How to keep your giant ass company in business and make your night job easier. Hell, given how regularly it comes up, the government would pay for it. They do in real life.
I’d love to see little things about how there’s water filters commonly purchased advertised by being “Gotham-Grade” or how it was tested and proven to filter out chemicals just like was used in the Scarecrow’s last attack. Stuff like that.
Immunity isn’t likely, but companies capitalizing on the commonality of the threat, locals being desensitized to the repeated same threat situations — that’s stuff I’d buy.
I grew up in North Alabama. — We are not going in the safe room yet, that tornado cell isn’t close and it’s gonna be really boring sitting in a closet with the battery operated radio. Just leave the weather coverage running on the TV and come help fix dinner. — You learn to read how much of an immediate issue commonly occurring dangers are and you take reasonable action without flipping out. It’s part of the routine.
“Honey, get back here and finish your dinner. You heard the radio; Killer Croc is two blocks south of here and going the wrong direction. Your food’s getting cold.”
This is exactly the kind of Gothamite I would expect.
“Channel 8 says the fight with Freeze is going on in Tribeca and headed towards the West Village, your school is not going to be closed tomorrow. Now go write your report. You’ll wish you had to deal with Batman if you bring home one more D in Mr. Jones class.”
People choose entertainment based on how nondescript the name and theme are, and places with giant smiling faces/puns of ANY kind quickly go bankrupt. Street and buildings have been quietly renumbered so there are less 2s. Restaurants close on holidays and everyone has quiet meals indoors – Takeout places triple their business. Restaurants adapt by offering unnamed parallel days of celebration –
‘Come in February 17th with your significant other. Enjoy a quiet, safe meal – our dining room features no unnecessary decorations, and our name has no unfortunate associations in the world’s 32 most common languages!’
yes i want a gotham not crushed by murder and fear where people have adapted and are rarely in too much danger where businesses no longer have themes because theme criminals are so bad for business
Elf, it got better.
None of the museums will hold any exhibitions featuring statues of birds or cats.
Well, unless wealthy donor Bruce Wayne personally funds one. Somehow he seems to like to fund those exhibits, regardless of the risk. It’s okay, though, because Batman always foils the heists. Penguin winds up back in Blackgate. Catwoman just seems to disappear every time, sneaking off with Batman after the heist is foiled.
Category: Uncategorized
I came out to have a good time and I’m feeling so attacked right now. I keep walking this path of pain and thorns ;_; omg it’s so good but whhhhyy
If I replied any way but honestly, it would be a disservice to you, a lovely loyal reader who made the extra effort to write me a reply. So:
I like tears.
And I keep promising that there’s happy stories with these OCs and then posting what amounts to a long string of death fics. Which…these are Silmarillion fics. I can’t write true original flavor, but here’s how I try my best.
Hey, he gets reembodied and reunited with Indomunië and they live together at the inn she runs and he works as a delivery/messenger boy because remember, this is angsty only because I’m borrowing it from this.
Soooo….anyone want to ghostwrite finish a scene for me…
aka I’m re-reading various chapter excerpts Release from Bondage, and how obvious is it that I want to write some smutty scenes with Faron/Faelindis? but for reasons I am not a writer for explicit sex but hey here you go, this may or may not be in the final chapter, a promise that I wasn’t lying by calling it a slow burn romance in hell.
Faelindis’s skin was soft and smooth, the muscle under her pale flesh yielding to his touch. When he reached hip bones Faron found hardness to press against, but the rest of her was soft. His thumbs could find the edge where her ribcage started if he slid them upwards, if he pressed. His new fingers could not feel a difference compared to his old, but the knowledge that his hands had been restored, that both his scars and those that had marred Faelindis had been removed and their flesh returned to peak health, heightened the sensation of touch. He could not stop marveling over the smoothness. He forgot that he had touched her body before this moment. Perhaps the lack of clothing, even those threadbare rags that they had worn in Angband and that their bodies were clean of its grime and terror, made the difference. That he could touch her like this. The knowledge that they were safe and would not be interrupted by anyone, especially not any orcish master, added to the softness of this moment. The ability to just linger at her waist, to stay there until she alone moved him, intensified the intimacy.
The scent and flavor of apricot on his tongue overwhelmed Faron, even as he strained against that fruity taste to detect the unique scent of the woman in his arms. The songs that Faron had listened to as a young man stressed that lovers could recognize the perfume of their lovers. He worried that he was failing at that requirement. He could not conjure any poetic language to describe Faelindis in this moment. She was warm and soft and allowing him to touch her. She was encouraging him to touch her.
Her own fingers were slender and bony, pressing quite firmly against his arms and digging into his biceps and shoulders. Then Faelindis’s hands moved further up to his neck, reaching into the still short hair at the nape of his neck, curling against his scalp and pulling down. It was not as hard as it could be, but the persistence eventually convinced Faron to lift his chin up and open his eyes. Faelindis’s eyes, darker than normal, met his, and from this distance of only finger-breadths he could see that she had been biting down on her lower lip. There were lines of poetry about the long lashes of a lover’s eyes, something about roses and red lips, and Faron could not even give her that; she deserved beautiful words. His hands were drifting down again, seeking those divots at the bottom of her backside right before the soft muscle began to curve out again. He could not allow his hands to roam further than that point, but the curling and downward tugging of fingers against his hair was attacking that restraint.
“Say my name again,” Faelindis said, and Faron obliged. Under his hands he could feel her flesh shiver as he said her name aloud.
“Faelindis,” Faron said, watching her close her eyes. He repeated her name and closed his eyes once more as she leaned forward and began to kiss his lips. He expected them to be soft, and they were for a moment, but she was pressing hard, and he could feel her teeth behind her lips. All of her was pressing against him.
Yet seldom well and outlaw ends;
and Morgoth was a king more strong
than all the world has since in song
recorded: dark athwart the land
reached out the shadow of his hand,
at each recoil returned again;
two more were sent for one foe slain.
New hope was cowed, all rebels killed;
quenched were the fires, the songs were stilled,
tree felled, heath burned, and through the waste
marched the black host of Orcs in haste.Almost they closed their ring of steel
round Beren; hard upon his heel
now trod their spies; within their hedge
of all aid shorn, upon the edge
of death at bay he stood aghast
and knew that he must die at last,
or flee the land of Barahir,
his land beloved. Beside the mere
beneath a heap of nameless stones
must crumble those once mighty bones,
forsaken by both son and kin,
bewailed by reeds of Aeluin.In winter’s night the houseless North
he left behind, and stealing forth
the leaguer of his watchful foe
he passed – a shadow on the snow,
a swirl of wind, and he was gone,
the ruin of Dorthonion,
Tarn Aeluin and its water wan,
never again to look upon.
No more shall hidden bowstring sing,
no more his shaven arrows wing,
no more his hunted head shall lie
upon the heath beneath the sky.
The Northern stars, whose silver fire
of old Men named the Burning Briar,
were set behind his back, and shone
o’er land forsaken: he was gone.
Lay of Leithian, Canto III, lines 190-228
Ouch. If you don’t feel for Beren here, have your heart broken at his anguish and dilemma at having to finally abandon not just his only homeland but the grave of his father and family and companions these last nine years, the unmarked grave-mound he built with his own hands and thus the only one to know of its existence, the carrier of their fates and memories, to leave it with no sign of care to be reclaimed by the wilderness …. well, I don’t know what to say to you.
The grief of never returning home.
Of abandoning the war against Morgoth and how it must feel like a defeat even as his escape is a victory.
That to smoke Beren out from cover, to finally cower him and make him concede a loss in Dorthonion, Morgoth’s forces must literally destroy the very land itself, destroy every tree and bush. That as long as the earth has life to it, it shall sustain and guard its protector. There is something less human and more forest god to Beren in those four years after he loses his father, cousins, and companions.
That Morgoth, to stamp out hope, must stamp out growing things.
I love how Beren is described as he flees: “a shadow on the snow, a swirl of wind”. He is the intangible, the untouchable, the ethereal.
And the stars at his back. One, that he doesn’t look back after he makes his heart-wrenching decision. But the stars themselves – this is a constellation given another name in The Silmarillion.
“And high in the north as a challenge to Melkor she set the crown of seven mighty stars to swing, Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar and sign of doom” (p. 48).
The constellation is the symbol and warning that Morgoth will not rest uncontested, be in Utumno or Angband. That his downfall will come.
That though Beren flees now, he flees unbroken and free of the orcs, and he shall return one day with vengeance and victory.
(via squirrelwrangler)
@ferronickel this is actually you
@silv3rclouds-with-graylining Look! It’s me!
from this: http://squirrelwrangler.tumblr.com/post/87558600155/silm-otp-sigils-series-17-aegnorandreth
Ok, so I did another one of @squirrelwrangler ’s silmarillion sigils, that of Andreth, wise woman of the House of Beor, Finrod’s philosophy friend in the Athrabeth and Aegnor’s beloved.
I did the flowers a little more true to life than in the original design, I hope that is forgivable and did the holding stitches in blue, because I wanted all of Beor’s colours and it looks a bit like rain, even though it breaks the symmetry.
The flower are wisteria, which are a little poisonous but stand for devotion or welcoming. And can’t you imagine a wisteria tree in front of Andreth’s house in Dorthonion in a garden of fruit and vegetables and Finrod knocks on her door one day and is like ‘i ate this purple flower just now and I have really bad stomach ache’ and Andreth just shaking her head because… elves really?
literally the best part about ficwriting is the moment where you stop, smile to yourself, and think: “oh, man, they are going to kill me for this.” and then get back to work.
I LOVE THIS MOMENT. Then as you gleefully wait for the screaming and keyboard smashing to start. Yes, that is FUN.
Okay, but are they killing you in a good way or a bad way?
And is it your characters or your readers wanting to kill you?
I know what direction/central conceit to do for Edrahil’s one-shot for Beren’s Band of the Red Hand, and it works as the final piece disbarring the coda.
Grieving Superman/Clark in Justice League
“Martha is seeing everyone mourning this Superman character, but she’s mourning Clark, her son. And she can’t tell anyone that Superman was her son. It’s a terrible loneliness and pain for her to go through. It’s excruciating for both Martha and Lois to see all these people mourning a man that none of them truly knew.” – Henry Cavill
“[Lois is] now Lois after Clark. She’s not the same person that she was, and she definitely feels the absence of the hope that he had brought into her life. It feels devastating, so she’s isolating herself.” Instead, she writes fluff pieces for The Daily Planet, because “she can’t go back and face the world again just yet.” – Amy Adams
Just so you know, the newest Ingwe chapter draft is heavy on the fantasy domestication of dogs- and if anything is more *me* than that, I have yet to write it
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