You know, with all the language throughout Star Wars about “giving in” to the Dark Side, how the Dark Side makes you more powerful, how the Dark Side makes you age strangely and destroys you, it sure doesn’t sound like an “opposite side of the coin” so much as the “deeper end of the pool,” like it’s actually the true form of the force and being a Jedi is about keeping it tamed so it doesn’t eat you the way it actually wants.
the force is entropy
Eldritch Jedi pls
This is one of the reasons i love the second Knights of the Old Republic game, wherein one of the major characters (who defines herself neither as Jedi nor Sith) actually views the Force this way, saying “I hate the Force. I hate that it seems to have a will, that it would control us to achieve some measure of balance, when countless lives are lost.”
It’s also the game that gave us the two most entropic, eldritch characters in the franchise: Darth Nihilus, whose dark-side-borne ability to feed on the Force and consume life itself has twisted him into a half-living “wound in the Force”, more presence than flesh
and Darth Sion, whose entire body is a ruin, his flesh nothing but ragged scar tissue, every bone and muscle broken and torn, kept animated by will alone as he forces himself, second by agonizing second, to exist
I wish there were more horrifying perspectives on the force like that
This is one of the reasons the term “Light Side” never felt right to me, even before it was used in any official media; The Force always struck me more like an ocean than a binary concept: the deeper you go, the darker and more crushing it gets — at a certain point becoming an effectually consistent darkness — and while light filters down and fades for some distance, if there is a truly light “side” it’d be the surface.
Which isn’t to say “the Force is evil unless you flounder about near the top” — just that it’s a natural force, and as such is something you need to respect and be adequately prepared for. (Take electricity, for example: super awesome and pretty dang useful, but OH HOLY SMOKES don’t try and harness it unless you REALLY know what you’re doing!)
In this sense, being tempted by the Dark Side is less a case of “Hey, I wonder what’s on the other side of this coin it looks pretty cool haha oh whoops I’m Space Walter White now,” and more one of “The deeper into this thing you go, the harder you’ll need to fight to resist the ever-increasing pressure, to remain whole, even to just see whatever the heck you’re actually doing.”
(which is why Jedi training is so important: those padawans gotta build themselves a mental Deepsea Challenger!)
THIS META BLESSED ME
Does anyone really use the Force? Or does the Force just use you?
The authors of the extended universe have always done a better job at developing this concept than Lucas has.
if someone says the phrase “don’t think of pink elephants,” the hearer immediately imagines pink elephants. but when someone says “imagine dragons,” is the first thing you envision dragons? no. it’s that stupid band. they have reduced the number of imaginary dragons in the world, and it’s a damn shame
1,500 drones light up the sky over Shenzhen on June 22 with a flying dragon
this amazing display kicked off China’s Dragon Boat Festival, taking place on the 5th day of the 5th month of the Chinese calendar, commemorating the ancient poet Qu Yuan
One under-appreciated breed of fic writer are the ones who hyperfocus on logistics to the exclusion of all canon shortcuts, and thus usually strike upon an awesome way to flesh out the worldbuilding or characters.
Like, I’m not necessarily talking realism here since often it’s still pretty far from realistic, but more like, “someone has to be running spies in this fantasy kingdom, and we’ve seen the whole royal court, so which background character is it? How does that change these three major interactions?” Or “real life historical nobility did in fact have some things to do that were like jobs, how does this human disaster cope with running an estate?” Or “there’s no reason for a sci-fi robot detective to know how to whitewater kayak, where’d she learn?” Or “if this guy is serving the emperor directly he has to be way high up in the space empire servant hierarchy, why is he doing this menial task for someone else? What’s his motive? Does he perhaps have the secret space telepathy?”
Anyway I’m always DELIGHTED to find a fic or writer who asks these questions because the fics themselves are universally bangers.
person who knows how logistical things works has picked up the cannon, hefted it thoughtfully, and put a single chalk mark precisely on the problem.
“Mom, there’s someone under the bed.” You bend down and see your son there instead and he whispers “Mom that’s not me up there!” You take a step back when someone tugs your shirt. You turn, your son is in the closet asking “who are they?” You suddenly hear him calling from downstairs “Mommy?”
You sigh, raising your voice so that all of your sons can hear you. “All right, everyone into the kitchen. Now.” Hearing a shuffle in the attic, you add, “Yes, Duncan, that includes you.”
You don’t see any movement as you go down the stairs, but you’re used to that. You know they’ll all be there by the time you walk through the kitchen door.
As usual, your children have all fitted themselves into the kitchen. The dimensions of the room are a little wobbly with so many of them present, but you’ve long ago learned to ignore how the laws of physics only occasionally apply to them. A host of little faces look up at you anxiously, and you smile gently.
“It’s okay, none of you are in trouble,” you reassure them. They relax - and how astonishing is it, that they trust you so much? You’re so proud of their progress.
One, however, still looks nervous. You beckon him forward, and he comes reluctantly, shoved by his identical older brothers.
“Are you new?” you ask carefully.
He nods, and you drop to one knee. “It’s okay, sweetie,” you tell him firmly. “I love all of my sons, even ones I haven’t met before. Ask your brothers, they’ll tell you.”
“’m here because I heard you were nice,” he says in a tiny voice.
You open your arms, offering a hug but waiting to let him decide whether he wants one. This child must have seen hugs before, because he flings himself into your arms and starts crying. That’s good. Some of your sons are traumatised from what they’ve seen, knowing more slaps than kisses.
Eventually, the sobs dry up, your other kids patiently waiting for your attention again. “Why do we look like this?” he asks, curious.
“Because this is what the first of you looked like - Wilson, where are you?”
A hand raises from the crowd and waves energetically.
“Wilson took on my son’s form to play Child or Double. Calling from downstairs when my son was in bed, getting tucked in when the child I bore was playing out in the garden. Once I figured it out, I hugged him and told him that as far as I was concerned, I now had twins. It took him some time before he believed me.”
Wilson shrugs unrepentantly.
“When my son died, Wilson stayed. It helped, having one of my sons with me while I grieved. Then another of you began to turn up, and I had twins again. Then more. Until now, when I have more of you than will technically fit in my kitchen.” You give your sons a look of motherly disapproval, but they only giggle. They know you don’t mind.
“It’s not like you need to feed us!” calls out one of your bolder sons. Eric, probably. Your newest, unnamed child looks up hesitantly, then steps out of your arms to join his brothers. Lucas might be a nice name, you think idly. You don’t have a Lucas yet.
“That does help,” you admit. You put steel into your next words. “However, there are Rules in this house, and one of them is no messing around at bedtime. I know that bedtime is a traditional time for the Child or Double game, but four of you is pushing it.”
You’d say more, but there’s a knock at your back door. You turn to answer it, knowing that your sons will have evaporated before your fingers grasp the handle, and brace against the cold night air as you pull the door open.
Two identical little girls stand there. One has a bruise on her cheek, and has clearly been crying recently. The other - the other is a Doubler, just like your sons. After this long, you can tell the difference.
“Please,” the Doubler says, and her voice trembles on the word. “Please. She needs somewhere to stay.”
Part of you is shocked, already looking ahead to the potential legal issues. The rest of you is all mother, and you whisk her into the nice warm kitchen and get her a glass of water.
Your son’s bed will be occupied by someone else tonight. You think he’d have been okay with that.
Oh my god Wisconsin’s governor just used a line item veto to secure school funding increases every year through 2425. He struck out a line so it now reads “through the 2023-2425 school year”. He’s allowed to do this lol
Dan for part of his parole is tasked with cleaning up the equivalent of ghost oil spill, otherwise known as the Lazarus pits.
He goes around with a liquid modified Fenton ghost weasel/Fenton vacuum to all of the pits and vacuuming all the ghost oil. Maybe he runs into one of the bats and they asked him what he’s doing and his only response is “… parole.”
Dan running in Ra’s and he looks at him like he’s one of those oil spill seagulls in a dawn dish soap commercial.
An excellent addition in the comments.
He came out of the Fenton Thermos like flotsam left behind on the beach after the tide. The anger had bled out of him ages ago leaving him tired and drained. Dan was apathetic as he sat up and felt out his solid form, less bulk but still a large man. Flexing muscle felt good and a small part of him was grateful Clockwork let him have this silence to gather himself.
By the time he was on his feet he almost felt ready to deal with whatever was coming next. He doubted they were letting him out for good behavior; since he still occasionally slammed against the sides of the thermos, and cursed at anyone who spoke to him. When he turned he was surprised to see a mini Clockwork lounging in a chair and tinkering with a Fenton Weasel.
“Who-.” The figure stilled, the hood obscuring their face and Dan felt an irritation when they didn’t look up.
“I finally managed to wear C-Dubs down to a parole agreement.” Why would? “My name is Fractal Time. Or as you might know me better,” Dan stepped back when Fractal looked up and lowered his hood.
“Tucker?”
“Got it in one. What you thought I’d leave my best friend to rot in a thermos forever?” Fractal laughed a little and continued his work.
“Yeah well you didn’t have to go and die about it.” Dan huffed, walking closer to see what he was doing. It looked like he was increasing its capacity. “I don’t know if you know this but-“
“You were kind of an ass? Yeah I know. You dropped a building on me and Sam. I was there.” Dan jerked back some at the dry unimpressed tone. “Doesn’t mean you deserve eternal isolation.”
“I wiped out a planet. Killed people, ghosts too.”
“So has a particularly dedicated clown. You’re not special Dan. Now do you want to hear the terms of your parole or not?”
They looked at each other for what felt like longer than the minute it was.
“Yeah alright pretty boy. Tell me what to do.” Fractal smiled at him and Dan experienced a feeling he didn’t think he would again. Dread over not knowing what his friend was up to.
————
Cleaning up the ectoplasmic equivalent of oil spills turned out to be pretty easy. Some worlds were faster to clean than others and some he got a work out fighting off people who didn’t want him to do his job. Too bad it wasn’t up to them.
He kind of liked those ones best. Since he could fight so long as he didn’t kill or end anyone. It was nice to get in a work out. Sometimes he even did so a Dan Fenton after Fractal had been kind enough to explain he wasn’t as dead as he thought. Being a halfa was so god damn weird.
He was currently taking a brief break in some city called Gotham and cleaning up the small traces that spread through the poor thing. The city was hurting and it was clear to him it was the corrupted ectoplasm bubbling and flowing through its streets. By now he was over the embarrassment of vacuuming streets, so when one of the cities knights dropped down beside him in an alley, he didn’t flinch.
“Can I help you pal?” And Dan turned to look at the guy. His voice altered by the modulator likely in his red helmet. With a sigh he turned off the Weasel™️, and took out a small handheld version from his bag.
“Yeah hold still.” He answered, standing a good five inches over the vigilante. It was a little satisfying to watch the shiver run through him when he spoke, and started running the Hand Weasel over the guy.
“Why are you… vacuuming my armor?” He asked finally, clearly suspicious but not moving away. Dan wondered idly if it was because he felt better getting that shit out of system, or if he liked what he saw.
“Parole. Should be good. Call me if you start feeling like shit again but that should be all of it.” He tucked the Hand Weasel away and offered him a card. “Or if you want a good time.” He smirked, showing a little fang before vanishing. He left the vigilante standing there alone after savoring the sharp intake of breath.
Who said having a little fun was restricted to fist fights?
——————
This had to be the rankest pond of corrupted ectoplasm he’d come across yet. Made worse that it was being protected by fucking ninjas. Actual god damn ninja in a gothic city. Why the fuck not right?
Not that it mattered since he had powers they weren’t able to cancel out. He was tempted to scare the shit out of them with his ghost form but he wanted to see if he could get this world down only human. It limited his strength in attack but apparently he was still more powerful than they were prepared to deal with.
“What is the meaning of this?!”
Dan looked up and instantly regretted it. He continued to vacuum the pond up while looking at the most disgusting mother fucker he’d ever seen. If the pond was rank this guy had to have bathed in it more than once. He was sure his face was doing something similar to the Soul Eater response to Excalibur.
“Christ you are filthy.” He said as the biggest understatement of his month. “Absolutely not.” He flicked out his power to wrap the… human shaped form of nasty, in ectochains and gag.
Dan ignored the grumbling and cursing that was muffled as he finished cleaning up. Just as he was finishing his phone rang and Dan was smirking before he had even answered.
“Hey.”
…
“Yeah, I just finished here, I’ll meet you there.”
————
Good thing this world had a lot of spills. Maybe he’d take his time. Even settle down here when his Parole was up.
Red Hood was very persuasive on that being a good idea.
Now see, I’m picturing Dan forcibly bathing an angry Ra’s al-Ghul with the ecto equivalent to Dawn dish soap with the rest of the League stared in bewildered confusion.
“Don’t worry, old dude. I know you’re just pissed because you’re covered in all this nasty crap. We’ll get you cleaned up right away!”
“DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM???”
“Someone who needs to not bathe in spoiled food. That’s just sick, dude.”
On July 26, 1959, Rankin was flying from Naval Air Station South Weymouth, Massachusetts, to Marine Corps Air Station Beaufort in South Carolina.[4] He climbed over a thunderhead that peaked at 45,000 feet (13,700 m); then—at 47,000 feet (14,300 m) and at mach 0.82—he heard a loud bump and rumble from the engine. The engine stopped, and a fire warning light flashed.[1] He pulled the lever to deploy auxiliary power, and it broke off in his hand. Though not wearing a pressure suit, at 6:00 pm he ejected into the −50 °C (−58 °F) air.[1] He suffered immediate frostbite, and decompression caused his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth to bleed. His abdomen swelled severely. He did, however, manage to make use of his emergency oxygen supply.[1]
Five minutes after he abandoned the plane, his parachute had not opened. While in the upper regions of the thunderstorm, with near-zero visibility, the parachute opened prematurely instead of at 10,000 feet (3,000 m) because the storm had affected the barometric parachute switch and caused it to open.[5] After ten minutes, Rankin was still aloft, carried by updrafts and getting hit by hailstones. Violent spinning and pounding caused him to vomit. Lightning appeared, which he described as blue blades several feet thick, and thunder that he could feel. The rain forced him to hold his breath to keep from drowning. One lightning bolt lit up the parachute, making Rankin believe he had died.[1]
Conditions calmed, and he descended into a forest. His watch read 6:40 pm. It had been 40 minutes since he had ejected. He searched for help and eventually was admitted into a hospital at Ahoskie, North Carolina.[1] He suffered from frostbite, welts, bruises, and severe decompression.
On 14 February 2007, in spite of weather reports heralding the presence of violent thunderstorms, Wiśnierska decided to try to fly in order to train for the 2007 World Paragliding Championships near Manilla, New South Wales, Australia. She was sucked into the ascending current of a cumulonimbus cloud, a cloud responsible for large and heavy rains, usually with hail inside and extremely low temperatures. Unable to get out, she was lifted to an altitude of 9,946 metres (32,631 ft), according to her GPS. The GPS variometer also tracked vertical speeds of up to +20 m/s (77 kilometres per hour (48 mph)).[4] She landed 3.5 hours later about 60 kilometres (37 mi) north of her starting position.
my theory is that reincarnation is real and that’s why everything is so fucked up. we got too many people on earth and their souls were supposed to spend a few more cycles as endangered animals or smthn but we fucked the environment and overpopulated. so we get guys who was SUPPOSED to be black-footed ferrets or whatever til their soul reached maturity but instead they’re like, influencers and politicians. this is also why furries exist.
ALT
ALT
ALT
ALT
ALT
ALT
![datasoong47:
“datasoong47:
“ultrafacts:
“source {x}
”
Holy crap, it’s real, and what a story!
“On July 26, 1959, Rankin was flying from Naval Air Station South Weymouth, Massachusetts, to Marine Corps Air Station Beaufort in South Carolina.[4] He...](https://64.media.tumblr.com/c76c96ae7097eace7361dd9981eb5fa9/4f43fc6d20c3e245-a9/s400x600/f415837a1f441ebcc6b42214da9535c01cea865c.png)
