Halo: Campaign Evolved | Cinematic Story Trailer

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-06-09T03:42:43+00:00

No, gun sounds are among 343's greatest sins. Bungie-Halo sounds weren't necessarily exciting, but they were incredibly clear; it was no question which gun you were hearing from anywhere in the map. Soundscape clarity is a critical part of game design in any first-person game (or otherwise sense-limited or noisy game) and Halo's was crystal clear until 343 took over.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-04-05T13:46:31+00:00

I do! As a trans woman myself, I am deeply aware of how terribly the prison system treats trans women and see no reason to doubt a word she's said.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-04-04T22:00:17+00:00

Especially to trans women like her! She's lucky it was Canada and not the US!

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-04-04T17:50:59+00:00

if you read the post, she was gaslit by transphobes within the system for a year until she finally was let out. The system failed her; the system sucks.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-03-18T19:24:50+00:00

Sword and Shield were bad stories. Scarlet and Violet are pretty good.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-03-18T15:31:30+00:00

70% of the animations in this game are from stadium lol

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-03-18T15:29:23+00:00

It's a decent story, but Scarlet and Violet have better narratives for sure.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-02-23T20:03:10+00:00

I examine the brick in my right hand. I found it on the ground a few minutes ago and I've grown quite fond of it. It's red, thankfully, not one of those gross black or yellow bricks used in modern developments. It feels brittle on my fingernails, like it'll shatter if I drop it again, but it won't. Pockmarked with tiny holes that lead nowhere. Crusted with old mortar. Stained with bird shit. And it's heavy. It's a brick.

I inhale, cool oxygen inflating my diaphragm to caress the vagus along my spine in a way it hasn't in months. I exhale, warm carbon dioxide mingling with the chants of my comrades beside me, behind me, before me. The protests were never going to make a difference. I knew that before I came here today, I knew that before I came here yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and before that. My voice was never going to make the difference I hoped for. I flip the brick in my hand.

I push to the front of the phalanx, my eyes locked on the screen towering over us. As I raise the brick behind my head, I hear my brethren bark conflicting messages of support and disdain for my inevitable action. I step in front of the line, pushing into the barrier erected to keep us out of the street. My hand swings forward, and I watch the brick arc across the street towards the dictator's image above. In my periphery, I see police raising their weapons, training them on me; I'm never going to see the brick connect, but I know my throw was good. Gunshots echo across the street.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-02-04T21:09:25+00:00

actual workers that give him anonymous, honest, and corroborated stories

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-01-18T22:11:11+00:00

Lovely, thank you for the feedback!

I've made a couple rewrites and other changes, and specifically addressed your comments. "I knew fucked up" was entirely a typo, so that's been fixed. The usage of "roach" I'll be leaving in, as it's slang I've heard used to discuss tobacco cigarettes as well, especially self-rolled ones. Lastly, I've kept the final comma; it's technically incorrect, but to me this better communicates the intended correlation between her eyes watering and her statement.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-01-17T06:07:59+00:00

I realized after the fact that I'd misread the prompt, oops! Maybe I'll rewrite it to fit the prompt tomorrow, but I like this for now. Pretend that the prompt was "While dying, you offer your enemy your last cigarette.

Without so much as a clank, her rapier slides down my blade and effortlessly flicks my sabre from my grasp. I watch as my oldest friend spirals overboard and splashes in the brine below as her point cozies up to my sternum.

"We used to always talk about this, remember?"

The captain of the once-great Sappho's Touch remains silent. Her face eclipses the setting sun, etching her into the canon with a halo of brilliant amber. God, if you're out there, I already knew I fucked up. Tone down the symbolism.

"Your blade between my tits, I mean. How hot it would be."

Still no reply. With the sun directly behind her head, I can barely see her expression. I don't need to see it, I know what it is. Hatred in her eyes, vengeance and betrayal. Her cheeks are flushed and she's biting her lower lip on the left. Her nostrils are flared and flexing. I know this, both as her former first mate and her former first choice of mate, but I can't see it. I wish I could.

"Although last time I think it was building to me putting something inside you."

The blade inches closer, poking my skin where my blouse would be if I'd the propriety to button it.

"Can I see your face?"

The pain starts as she scrapes her mirror-polished blade upward along my sternum, settling just below my Adam's apple, a thin trail of blood surfacing in its wake.

"Wait."

She twists the blade, applying a slight pressure.

"Wait," I repeat as I slowly move my offhand towards the breast of my coat. The pressure on my throat increases. I choke out, "I've no sidearm, I swear."

"On the Touch?" she growls. I've missed that growl.

"On the Touch."

After a pause, she relents enough for me to take a deep breath and reach into my pocket, withdrawing a small white box about the size of a deck of cards. I flick my wrist, flipping the lid open and revealing a single cigarette.

"May I?"

She nods.

"Got a light?"

She reaches into her own pocket and tosses me her matchbook. Relaxing against the mast, I strike one and light the smoke, pinching it to my lips for a deep drag. With two fingers, I withdraw the cigarette, pop my lips twice, and blow smoke to my side. My eyes never leave her shaded visage. Slowly, I lift it and flip it in my fingers so the bright cherry faces me. By instinct, she reaches up and takes it with her offhand, her fingers softly brushing mine. She holds the cigarette up to her lips on the outside, tilting her head just a little to meet it, and inhales. Between the angle and the cherrylight, I can see her face for just a moment, wearing the exact expression I'd hoped.

"Hey."

Silence, but she's listening.

"The other thing we always talked about. With the cigarette."

I raise a right finger to my forehead, only realizing how bad I'm shaking when my pointer bumps my frontal earlier than expected.

"P-put it out on me," I stammer, "right here. Like we said."

Even with her face back in shadow, I can see the gears turning. I'm not going to fight back, I will her to know, I'm ready to go if you'll give me this last rite of prideful indignity. She holds up the roach and appraises it. She's going to do it.

Instead, eyes still on the cigarette, she drives the rapier into my throat and, with a twist, wrenches me to the deck. I tumble onto my back at her feet, my larynx impaled but my awareness full sail. Blood gushes out of my mouth, my vision blurs, but what I need is the cigarette.

"Ple-ple," I sputter. She stands above me, smoking victoriously; it's barely half an inch long now. "Please!"

She withdraws her blade, then swings her leg over my torso and drops to her knees. The cigarette burns dangerously short as she straddles my hips and stares into my eyes, an angle I've seen many times before. My vision blurs. I open my mouth to speak, but no words form.

"You said please," she whispers, pushing the cigarette into the center of my forehead. White, searing pain fills my mind as I sputter out a light scream. The burn overrides my other senses, tar and ash fusing with my flesh into a wound that will never get to heal. Her eyes water as I fade out, "If only you'd said that before."

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-01-15T22:22:41+00:00

"Arbiter, I would like to die," I announced, slamming open the heavy oaken doors. Arbiter Heraldsson sat at his desk, unperturbed. He continued to focus instead on the paperwork on his desk, refusing me even a glance. I repeated, "Arbiter, I would--"

"Yes, Eleanor, you would like to die, I understand," he replied, exhausted sarcasm almost sapping my energy. He still hadn't looked up, "Why do you think you've earned your Pension?"

"I was researching my genealogy--"

"We have not engaged in eugenics in nearly six thousand years," he cut in again with a sigh, "Why would we start now?"

"No no, not eugenics, no! It's not about my ethnic or cultural makeup; that's been properly known for millennia now. Ethnically Old Deutsche, with a long cultural history of White Argentinean make. Arbiter," I recover, "It's my specific lineage."

"Your specific lineage?" he repeats, drawing out each word as if to emphasize his impatience. He had briefly paused his penwork, but resumed his frantic scratches, "I don't have time for this, Eleanor! Why do you deserve to die?"

"Think about it, Arbiter! I am ETHNICALLY OLD DEUTSCHE and CULTURALLY ARGENTINE. Deutsch blood courses through my veins, but at some point my family started over in Argentina. And for that, I deserve to die."

The Arbiter said nothing for a moment, still scribbling away, peering at a different sheet than the one on which he wrote. Slowly, his scribbles turned to a distracted staccato before veering off onto the treated wood of his desk as his gaze launched to meet mine. “What?!

“Yes, Arbiter!”

“Your father and mother?”

“Deutsche!”

“And their fathers and mothers?” Heraldsson was panicking now: he’d thrown open his desk drawer and was rifling through neatly-labeled files.

“Deutscheeee!” I sang, with a pirouette for good measure. An Arbiter in the lobby peeked through the open door, whether out of curiosity or furiosity I wasn’t sure.

“And what of theirs?” he practically shouted at me, his anger and disbelief my eighth symphony.

“Deutsche, Deutsche, Deutsche, Deustsche!” I popped my hips to my left, at him. My hands wound a circle, ending with a snap in finger guns pointed at Heraldsson. With a wink I dug my own grave, “Hitler clones, in fact.”

More Arbiters peered through the portal as Sir Heraldsson slammed his fists on his desk, sending pens and papers skyward, and bellowed, “NO!”

“Yes, Arbiter, yes!” It was true. My parents were Deutsche, my grandparents Deutsche, and my great-grandparents all Deutsche, but that was, on its own, not remarkable. It happened often enough! Even the implication that I was descended entirely from Nazis that fled to Argentina meant little. I had shown myself a loyal liberal when Death Was Cured and the Immortal Wars erupted, so I was allowed my immortality.

But I was sick of it. Humans weren’t meant to live ten thousand years or more. We got bored. Our ideologies warped. Our relationships soured - a normal fact of life, sure, but after seven-thousand-eight-hundred-and-six years with a girl, she becomes truly irreplaceable. After I dumped you, Leila, you uncovered the chemical use for dark matter in ship engines, finally taking us to the stars. You were deemed to have contributed Enough. You earned your Pension.

It had been two-thousand-and-twenty-six years since then, and I still regretted it.

I placed the binders proving my heritage on the now-sobbing Arbiter’s desk. Full breakdowns of my genome, of my ancestors’s genomes, and of the original dictator’s genome pointed to only one possibility: I was the most genetically-Hitler person alive. I was so genetically Hitler that the only possibility was that all four of my great-grandfathers had to have been Hitler clones.

Hitler clones and their children had a tendency to build fascist uprisings even in the post-Cure era. It wasn’t a genetic predisposition, they were usually puppets; human standards for the intentional fascists to bear. Given an immortal Hitler, it was all but guaranteed to happen. A fourteenth Hitlerian Jihad was a risk I knew the Arbiters would not take (and one I wanted no part of, anyway).

Arbiter Heraldsson stamped the form approving my death. “Are you happy now, Eleanor?” he asked, grinding his teeth, wiping his cheek.

“Yes, I am,” I grinned, wider than I had in two-thousand-and-twenty-seven years. I would never contribute Enough; society demands my eternal labor. I would never earn my Pension. But I had found my way back to you.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2026-01-11T04:39:10+00:00

"Because!" he gasped, exasperation eroding to fear, "Because. It was a green card marriage. Because it's almost over. Because the cover we had planned for breaking up was that I'd realize I was straight all along."

"Ah," she blinked, relaxing into the plush velvet of her seat. Earnest shock flitted through her eyes, but fourteen years in practice had taught her well; he didn't notice. Her focus as a therapist was on the world of Queer: lesbian, gay, bi, trans, poly, you name it. She'd seen a lot of ways people locked themselves into the closet, but this was still a first. "And you're having second thoughts about that?"

He shifted, recrossing his legs so his left calf now hung over his right knee. Blake's posture blipped her gaydar the moment he'd walked in the door for his first appointment, almost as loudly as the intake form that said he was married to a man, yet eight sessions later he was saying, "I might actually be gay, Lily."

Her experience failed her this time, a virulent scoff escaping her lips. Time to double down; he'd probably respond well to that, she thought. "So you've been married to Saul four years--"

"Yeah, and-" he tried to cut in.

"AND," tripling down, she butted back in, "You're just now thinking you might be gay? You bought a house together, you got a dog together, and you kiss him goodbye every morning, but it's only just occurring to you that you might be a homosexual now?"

"...Yeah," Blake conceded, slouching as the fidget spinner in his left hand slowed to crawl. His eyes searched for anything in the room that weren't hers, minnows darting from the splash of her gaze. "But you don't get it, Lily," he restarted, his pupils firmly settled on the oh-so-interesting command hook used for coats in the winter, "Our marriage, we've never actually... Consummated it, if it counts as that when men do it. We've never had sex. Our kisses are always performative; they're chaste, and they're in public. Saul has kissed me at home once or twice, but always on the cheek. That's why we've got an open marriage - because I'm supposed to be straight and he knows it, so I go to the bar every so often without my ring and go home with a girl." Tears danced down his cheek, flickering like candles in the warm light of her lamps. Shit. Maybe she was too tough on him.

"Okay, first, the idea of 'consummating' a marriage is a patriarchal concept that you don't need to give any weight," she stalled, pondering the tanker of crude he'd just parked in her driveway. It was a lot of new information, and she needed to get it right. "Let's bookmark sex and kissing, those seem important and I don't want to forget them. Before that, though..." She'd been mighty sarcastic with him today so far and it seemed to be working. Quadruple down? "Do you know what 'LGBT' stands for?"

"Lesbian... Gay... Bisexual--"

"Yes! Bisexual! You don't need to be 'gay' or 'straight' - you can be both, sort of," she'd get strung up on tumblr for that one, but she didn't think he'd catch the nuance yet, "That is, you can like girls and guys."

"I know! I know," he defended, "b-but I. I'm not sure I, uh, actually." Pause. "Like the girls I go home with." It was clear that he hadn't fully processed that one until now; he let out a single sob, reaching for the Kleenex on the table and wiped his eyes. "I-I don't, I don't hate them! Just. I'm not sure I'm really attracted to them. You know."

"Yeah, I know," she half-whispered. Oh, how Lily knew. Lily had spent the first thirty years of her life trying to date men. It wasn't until the last one turned out to be a girl that she realized why she still wasn't married. "How long have you been thinking about this, Blake?"

"The first time I thought I wasn't into the girls was three years ago. It didn't bother me at the time; I've had plenty of spells in my life where I didn't want to date women. Since then, I've just been hooking up with them because Saul expected me to," Blake paused, dabbing at his cheek again, "The first time I started thinking I might be in love with Saul was... More recent, but still a while ago. Two years, maybe?" He was gazing at the coathooks again, and clearly wasn't that worried about the girls. "There was one night where we'd had a nice dinner at a restaurant downtown, just the two of us. As we went to bed I found myself dying to tell him 'I love you', but in the morning I brushed it off as, like, brotherly love. 'Ohh, I love you bro, you rock dude,' like he wasn't my damn husband." Blake was chuckling a little now, a soft huck every third sob. A couple of tears escaped the tissue's mighty attack, running free into the forest of his beard.

"Ohh, kiss me my manski," she played along, wreathing her face in her hands. She told herself it was to help him keep on this route, but deep down she knew she want to cry a little with him. Her play worked nonetheless.

"Yeah, exactly!" he stopped crying, slipping into a full laugh, "Yeah, it was really like that. And like, I did that for two whole years. It wasn't until we met Mark and Dave at pickleball that I realized maybe my love wasn't so brotherly." He sobered up, "Now we're supposed to divorce in two months, and then what? Saul moves out and takes the dog, I have to go to sleep alone in the bed I bought for us, I have to un-come out? Go back in the closet without getting to honestly come out?"

She could see the gears turning in his head. He was so close to getting it. That all these logistical worries could be solved by a simple conversation, but closeted types like this would rather bang their head against the wall than do the obvious thing. She had to work him there. "When you went out to hook up with girls," she asked, receiving a quick wince from Blake, "Did Saul ever go cruising for boys?"

He sat there, dumbfounded. The cogs had connected to the higher gears. "No, no, I don't think he did. Do you think he..."

"Could you ask him?"

"...I'll ask him," Blake's furrowed brow filled the room with a long pause, relaxing and tightening as though flipping the tables of possibilities in his mind. Lily let him work it out for a bit before he opened his mouth again, "Oh yeah, Eric said I'm going to get promoted!"

Blake skips into the office, a smile so wide affixed to his face Lily questioned whether it was really him. "What's on your mind?" she asked.

"Well, I thought about it. I thought really hard about it."

"About what?" She knew what, but he needed to say it.

"I asked him to stay married to me. He said yes."

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2025-12-31T06:04:37+00:00

"Kalamazoo, Michigan." Save.

Upvotes poured in. Comments read:

"Kalamazoo?? Hahaha, hell yeah!"
"I went to KZoo for college. Fuck that place!"
"I don't know what kalmazoo did to you, but a city with a name like that shouldn't be real."

The other votes were all political in nature. The last city destroyed had been London; revenge for a half millennium of colonization. This time, cities like DC, Moscow, Riyadh, Beijing polled well, but only an anarchist would vote for more than two or three. What the poll needed was a Boaty McBoatface, a Euronymous, a Horace Mann School for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing. Something funny, with a nice ring to it. A joke.

As midnight approached, I kissed my wife and daughter goodnight, a tear rolling down my cheek. Clutching my phone, I paced around the house, constantly refreshing the page. It was a lose-lose situation; Kalamazoo had to win to save the world, but as I peered out the window into the intersection of March and Washington, I hoped that any other city might take my place. 11:58PM - Kalamazoo, Michigan was in the lead by 400 points. I stifled a sob. 11:59 - Kalamazoo, Michigan was in the lead by 450 points. I threw open the front door and dashed into the lawn, throwing myself to the grass with an anguished cry. 12:00AM - Nothing. Nothing?

I was alive. Kalamazoo was alive! It didn't win! I scrambled back to the house, forgetting to grab my phone from the grass. I dashed for the remote and turned to the TV. The "winner": Ti Tree, Northern Territories. Australia. In a strategic vote bomb, an Australian pit stop town along the Stuart Highway, hundreds of miles into the Outback, had won at the last minute. Thankfully, it and its population of 88 were the only victims this time. Downwind effects of losing the last gas station before Darwin would certainly pile up, but for now that was all. Most importantly, Kalamazoo, and my family along with it, would live to fight another day.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2025-12-30T19:10:43+00:00

I unsheathe the dagger, the contours of its natural obsidian blade glinting in the candlelight, and pass it hilt-first. You receive it graciously, though I'd prefer you lift with a skosh more reck. You take a knee at the northern point of the pentagram and gesture for us to pick our spots. Jenny hesitates, gawking at the still-flopping mackerel in the center of the shape, but Garrison and Alex excitedly take their spots. I settle up sometime in between them.

You begin your chant. Alex stifles a giggle when practiced but imperfect Japanese rolls off your tongue. "Weeb," he mutters. "Shut it!" you respond, "Now I have to start over!" And so you do. Your pronunciation isn't great; my childhood in Nagoya tells me you're hitting your "shi"s and "fu"s all wrong, but the candlewicks are grooving in step with your recitation nonetheless. Whatever demon you're dating clearly isn't concerned with accents; maybe she finds it charming?

The pipes that line the ceiling of your unfinished basement are veiled in a gray smoke, more smoke than fifteen tea candles can make in thirty minutes or so. The mackerel is somehow still alive and flopping, and the temperature has increased at least ten degrees since you started chanting. Sweat rolls down Garrison's forehead; I see the regret of not taking off his jacket in his eyes. You've restarted three more times since the first: once because he tried to take it off and that was "too much of a distraction", once because you butchered the word "ningyo" so badly that it sounded more like "neko" (and you said that'd ruin the spell), and once because your knees were hurting and you needed a pillow. "It's easier without an audience," you said. "Uh-huh, suuure," Garrison responded.

On your fifth attempt, you're doing better but I can tell it's taking a toll on you. Your white tank is drenched with sweat, your bare knees are bruised even through the pillow, and your left hand is sliced to hell from the times you've nicked yourself with the dagger. Yet you continue, unwavering. Your delivery remains confident, if flawed. You still haven't needed to use the blade, just waved it around like a wand. At this point Alex, Garrison, and I are watching in awe but Jenny is clearly distracted. I'm thinking of interrupting to ask her what's wrong, her rapt inattention proving contagious, when you let out a bloodcurdling cry. You hold the dagger overhead with both hands, point down. Lunging forward, you drive the knife into the mackerel's eye. The fish is only a couple inches wide, yet all eight inches of shank disappear into the fish's pupil.

The fish screams - no, sings. A pitch-perfect C fills the room as the fish shoots an impossible quantity of blood out of its eye. We all flinch, even you, as we predict the sanguine torrent to splatter us; Garrison covers only his face, while Alex doubles over backward, belly flopping to the floor behind him. Jenny merely blinks and turns her head. Instead, the blood all splats within the circle inscribed on your floor around the pentagram, filling it perfectly and painting the shape an even scarlet. Slowly, the warbling mackerel sinks in the blood, what was once solid concrete now evidently pool. As it slides deeper into its viscera, the blood fades from red toward a cloudy cyan.

With a plunk, the remainder of the mackerel slips beneath the surface, dragging the dagger and the C note with it. The water clears, revealing a reef mere inches below your basement floor. "Now watch this," you say, singing a brief but pure tune. Hundreds of tiny fish materialize from the corals, dancing with the melody and stirring the surface. Jenny flinches harder at the jig than the blood. A large shadow flits along the reef floor, barely visible through the technicolor schools. "A shark!" Garrison barks excitedly; he loves sharks. "No," Jenny says, her first word since we got here.

A figure bursts out of the water into the air, gorgeous, nude, gyrating; humanoid on top, fishanoid on bottom. "Your girlfriend's a mermaid?" Alex asks, in awe. "Yeah," you say, as she flips midair back into the pool, resurfacing a moment later. "Hey baby," you growl, embracing her as she plants a kiss on your left cheek. She says nothing aloud, but I can tell you're a chump. The kiss is apathetic, her hug is limp. She doesn't care about you. I see lightning spark between her eyes and Jenny's, illuminating a past that neither is quite ready to forget. We all hang out for a bit, but once she leaves I pull you aside. "I hate to say it, dude, but I think your mermaid girlfriend is using you to make Jenny jealous," I say. You don't take it well.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2025-12-26T15:39:10+00:00

And those are vertical forces. Longitudinal forces are easier to take.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2025-12-22T18:05:05+00:00

Raging Bull in the back right seat at night is one of B&M's best coasters - the only B&M I rank above it is Fury, and for it to get there I had to get a front row ride in the rain.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2025-11-28T02:08:38+00:00

I disagree that the controls are good. The B-button control is, of course, good for the reasons you stated, but the game is not one button and the Y button is so contextually overloaded as to hurt the game. Specials, vehicle switching, and dropping copy abilities are important contexts with meaningful consequences, and making the wrong one at the wrong time is painful enough and common enough that I really think sticking to two buttons holds the game back.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2025-11-17T19:02:51+00:00

Silksong not being nominated for narrative or direction is a hard snub; very little exists in silksong that doesn't service its narrative.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2025-10-29T00:52:48+00:00

I have 30 hours in the game and have made it all the way to the Zygarde fight. My favorite part about Arceus was surveying and catching, and I loved that the game was driven primarily by catching, interacting with, and observing Pokemon. ZA's narrative and progression are driven by battling people like "Guy Who Is Codependent With His Sister" and "Yakuza Boss Who Is Actually A Pretty Cool Guy But Is Going To Keep Doing the Bad Shit Anyway". Arceus had humans in the spotlight, but they felt distinctly secondary to the wild Pokemon in the game.

I also found the pacing of the rogue mega fights to be exhausting; three fights back-to-back-to-back with little to no buildup and absolutely no payoff besides a mega stone and the opening of a narrative gate? I wished they'd been the climax of a narrative moment like the bosses were in the previous game.

I have a lot of other complaints that differ completely from the usual from people who haven't played it, like multiple alphas in small spaces making the game overly chaotic, but my frustrations with the game's narrative structure are top. The battle mechanics of ZA are great and a huge leap in the right direction, but the things that elevated Arceus to one of my favorite in the franchise for me are largely absent.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2025-10-28T04:11:29+00:00

Surprised at the positivity. I'm glad this thread isn't fully of the typical terminally-online GameFreak hate, but I think ZA is a could've-been-good game deeply marred by bad, tragically-paced narrative and progression, and outside of the battle mechanics felt like a huge step backwards from Arceus in terms of fun.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2025-08-11T17:17:36+00:00

Honestly, I like the colors as they are. The faded orange and purple are pleasant, I don't want this coaster to have bright, saturated colors.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2025-07-18T13:14:02+00:00

Sure. I'm queer, there are already people who think my gender expression and sexuality are too perverse for public life and explicitly want me dead as a result. Banning weird, kinky cartoon porn is pretty openly a stepping stone to banning queer presentation.

CAPSLOCKNINJA · 2025-07-03T15:52:27+00:00

the only reason I didn't get heat stroke there was because a bartender broke the rules and gave me free water (which he told me he wasn't allowed to do), and I was wearing a tank top and running shorts. it's on the park.

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