The local bat species in the mid-Atlantic area of the US is myotis lucifuga a/k/a the little brown bat. Alfred is nonplussed by Bruce’s assertion of bats as fear-inducing, because myotis bats are tiny and button-eyed, and look exactly like Russian dwarf hamsters with wings. Alfred knows this because he occasionally encounters them sleeping in disused rooms in Wayne Manor.
Honestly what I hate most is that features and styles that are painfully obviously black are accessorized on nonblack Sims like a caricature. Like the lips are unaturally large and the body proportions are unrealistically heavy at the hips and thighs. It’s like almost a fucking joke or gimmick.
And I hate that I have to even address this because black people are not a monolith of people who are either buff, tall and well endowed or curvaceous with large butts and small waists. Like we come in a variety of colors shapes and styles. But these same features are fastened to white and nonblack images so often that it’s painstakingly obvious that it’s influence comes from the concept of stereotypically black features being attractive if they belong to people who are not black. Or at least don’t appear to be.
Like the choice to give your white sim lips disproportionate to their face with the rest of their light eyed button nose white European features intact doesn’t come from a place of innocence. It’s not made in a vaccum. And I wish some of you clowns owned up to it.
Piper was sitting on her hospital bed, ignoring the IV that was in her wrist, glaring at the sheets of pictures she had- graded homework was some, poems on another, pictures of the button eyed family. She stopped when she saw the drawings and through the whole thing into the trash, putting her head in her hands and choking back a sob.
Now that Adeline was taken care of, it was time to find her other two friends. She was exhausted, battered and bruised, but she knew she had to keep going. She was right here, in the middle of the button-eyed children, and that alone was enough to reassure her that she’d succeeded, or she was at least on her way to succeeding.
It was only when she turned to her right that she saw one of the people she was looking for – that golden hair was unmistakable, at least to her, and she rushed over. She knew now, she knew that it was unlikely that Marisol still had memories of her, but she was going to try anyway.
“Mari? Marisol?” She crouched down in front of her, keeping her hand in her pockets, ready to bring out the girl’s soul at any moment, when the time came. “…You probably don’t remember me, do you?”