make it clear if it's black or white

N’s Backstory

Okay I’m just going to make it clear from the get-go that I’m going to be disregarding a lot of game canon in this post, particularly the stuff from Black and White 2. I didn’t much like the expansion they did on N in those games and take a difference stance on his and Ghetsis’ relationship. So. Here we go.

N is Ghetsis’ biological son (because how could he not be, let’s be honest? They look the same) and was born to a long bloodline of vaguely royal ancestry. The Plasma cult was established long before N was born, and his future as its king predetermined before he was even conceived. However, despite his place in a grander scheme, Ghetsis genuinely loved his son at first. He told him, constantly, that he was destined for greatness. He wanted him to succeed, to stand by his side and help him turn Plasma’s dreams into a reality.

It was a difficult birth. The Plasma cult was ancient and weighed down by tradition, so N’s mother was denied any form of pain relief, let alone the assistance of a medical professional. She made it through, but only just, and her general health grew worse in the following months as a consequence. She had always been a frail woman, but she was dedicated to her husband and his practices, and so proud to have borne him a son. 

Initially, N went by the name Neyiri. He was a curious child, bright and social, revered and adored by all in Plasma. Even at a young age, he was encouraged to play in the gardens surrounding the castle, which were populated by both wild and abused pokémon, brought there to escape the ruling of humans. N would wander the vast, woody forests and plains for hours at a time - accompanied, at first, by Concordia or Anthea or some other dedicated nursemaid. As time wore on, however, they felt able to trust the pokémon in the gardens, who treated N as one of them, to keep him safe on his expeditions. They kept as watchful an eye on him as any human, and certainly knew the dangers of the grounds better. 

And that was how N, barely older than three years old, found himself padding through the woods unaccompanied, with only wild Pokémon to supervise him. He had long since formed a close friendship with a zorua, which was barely older than him and pined whenever he went away, and it liked to follow him around, unwaveringly, as he explored the gardens. There were others, of course - a darmanitan, a liepard, an unfezant - that looked in on him and checked that he had come to no harm, but the zorua was his true companion. It never left his side. 

And it was this zorua that saw N die.

It happened suddenly, one lazy afternoon in July, the sun still high in the sky. N, about three and a half at the time, discovered a gentle stream in the middle of the woods, and set about to shedding his shoes and playing in it. The zorua joined him, darting in and out of the current, trying to jump across the water without falling in. It was only when N tried to copy it, leaping back and forth over the stream, calling for the zorua to watch, that he slipped on the grass and hit his head. 

The zorua froze. It barked at the boy, patted him, tried to get him to wake. When he wouldn’t, the zorua panicked, and did the only thing it could think of.

It cast an illusion over itself, and turned into the boy that it had just watched die. 

It took hours for the zorua-N to find its way back to the castle, so long that Concordia and Anthea were ready to venture out and search for him. He was eventually discovered in one of the castle halls, standing limply, blood all over him and completely silent. 

The place fell into panic. They steered N aside, scooped him up, asked and asked and asked him how he had hurt himself, who had hurt him, where he had been hurt, but he wouldn’t - couldn’t, as a young zorua - reply. It wasn’t until they washed the blood away entirely that they noticed he was unscathed.

He wasn’t like the real N. He couldn’t be. A young zorua has no idea how to be human. He couldn’t speak, turned his nose up at human food, lost all of his curiosity and social flair. It grew so concerning that regulation was broken, and an outsider was invited into the castle. A doctor.

The doctor explained that N was likely to have undergone a trauma. Not a physical one, as the blood hadn’t come from him, but something so psychologically unnerving that his mind had gone into shock. It wasn’t uncommon, he explained, to stop speaking in response to distress, nor to abandon your usual habits and seem completely disconnected from the real world. But until N started to process what he had experienced, or regain his speech to tell them about it, there wasn’t much they could do.

Concordia and Anthea accepted this explanation. So did N’s mother. But Ghetsis couldn’t. The more time passed, the more time he spent around N, the more convinced he became that this child, so silent and distant, was not his real son.

How he knew, it was anyone’s guess. But he couldn’t force himself to believe otherwise, and nor could anybody else. He grew resentful to N, accusing, would no longer call him Neyiri - not that name, not his son’s name. His wife pleaded with him, but she was growing weaker with the stress, and she knew she wasn’t long for the world. She died less than a year after her son, before making Concordia and Anthea promise to look after N, and to protect him from Ghetsis to the best of their ability.

They did their best, but the death of his wife only made Ghetsis worse. N became a pawn to him, something that he would use but not acknowledge. Even when N started to pick up speech, using broken sentences and mismatched grammar, Ghetsis did not relent. Upon listening to the boy’s stilted grammar, strange vocabulary, odd speech tempo, his suspicions were only cemented further in his mind - his son had never talked like that, never used those words.

So N was neglected, confined, controlled. Manipulated into believing exactly what Ghetsis needed him to believe, and tricked into thinking that he was the true leader of Plasma. Ghetsis couldn’t let this changeling take his son’s place as king, but he could use him to gain the power for himself. N was still the beautiful, innocent waif that people liked and listened to, the perfect public figurehead. If he wanted to pretend to be Neyiri, Ghetsis would pretend to make him team Plasma’s king, and take the power for himself once N’s work was done. In his mind, it was a fair exchange. It was revenge.

Somewhere along the line, N would have forgotten that he was a zorua at all, and convinced himself that he really was the boy he once befriended. That is why reshiram would present itself to him. To help him uncover the truth about what he was, and show him that the boundaries between humanity and pokémon are not, truly, black and white. He is the proof of that.       

“I’ve been picking at the skin on my nose for a few months now, it’s not intentional mutilation but every time I catch a glimpse of the familiar entity in the mirror as I brush my teeth I notice the holes that line the veneer. Two fingernails squish the epidermis and white speckles of nothing are removed, leaving behind raw red skin, the same craters being mined the next day again for nothing. The skin is clear but squeezing the pours is habitual, it’s a tendency. The skin peels away from the nose in the morning, black tweezers being used to pull away, the fragments come off easy, its almost like scraping white out off a table, or pulling a sticker from your t-shirt in year 1. Flecks resemble fine salt. It stings though, each application of moisturiser does the opposite of what is expected. I’m not even fussed; it’s become part of me.  He calls me a pepperoni pizza.

Its hard for me to make personal work, how tacky.”

White Holes and Black Holes are not related.  Please stop spreading misinformation for an overly hopeful headcanon.

Please.  This is honestly embarrassing, as the post that sparked the headcanon has risen to 2000 to 3000 notes by now, and it does not seem to be stopping.  On top of that, my attempts to add to the post in a reblog or make my own posts about it from mobile prove futile, as Tumblr mobile keeps eating my posts and not putting them out there.

To clarify what I have been trying to say, black holes are not holes.  They are pits in space time.  A single point with near infinite mass, a singularity, causes an extreme dip in the spacetime continuum that is like a sharp dropoff pit, which is why nothing can escape its gravitational pull.  They are, however, again being very clear, holes.  That said, white holes are not holes either, and are related to black holes in name only.  They are sudden bursts of light, energy, and matter that sputter out of existence as soon as they occur, although all of this is hypothetical as there has never been a guaranteed account of a white hole sighting.

What the author of that headcanon was going for was a wormhole, which, again, is a completely unrelated concept altogether.  While some theories state that black holes can form wormholes, they would lose the traits that make them look like a black hole if this were the case.  Wormholes are temporary to permanent links between two points in space and time, but are again only theorized and not observed to actually exist.

So no, the ghosts are not being sucked out of the old universe and spat out into the new one.  That’s quite frankly a ridiculous notion.

I think that there’s been issue lately, where people have forgotten that RWBY has been trying to make a theme about how morality isn’t just black and white. It’s not clear cut all of the time. To be honest, it’s not clear cut even some of the time, in the series.

When a character does something, and it yields a mixed reaction, obviously some choose to criticize those actions; some choose to analyze and understand those actions from an objective or neutral point of view; and some choose to defend those actions. And some people may even do a mix of the three.

But the problem lies where some people on one side think the others are wrong, and are trying to “convert” others to their viewpoint, sometimes in very forceful and inflammatory manners, and it becomes messy.

The fact of the matter is that characters, just like real people, can do bad things with good intentions. Characters can have good intentions, but be really shitty about achieving them. Characters have complex ways and reasons for achieving those means. Weiss, Blake, and Yang. Adam. Jaune. Ironwood. Cinder. Just to name a few.

Yes, a character can have an excuse for what they did, or even a very good reason, but there is still consequence that follows for those decisions, and its something to keep in mind. Trying to completely absolve those characters from those consequences is unrealistic, and not how life works. Trying to disproportionately punish characters as consequence for their actions is also unrealistic. And even the 4 protagonists of the show aren’t immune.

When it comes to the characters in this show: there’s no such thing as pure evil. Every character has a bit of “light” and “darkness” within them, and early in the show, RWBY makes a point that striking a balance between the two qualities is important. And not every character has appeared to have mastered that balance. But we’re still seeing those developments as the show unfolds.

But just because a character does something that doesn’t go over well doesn’t mean they’re completely awful. Likewise, just because a character does something nice or good, or has established good relationships a few times doesn’t mean they’re completely good either. But trying to convince people of different points of view that your way of perceiving them is the right way, especially when you forcefully and rudely try to do so, is not going to go over well.

By extension, some criticisms, defenses, and analysis of their behavior is fair, and being receptive of those three things from other peoples’ points of view can lead to a better understanding or perception of that character. Also trying to understand, or perceive why people go out of their way to criticize, defend, and analyize those characters the way that they do goes a long way as well.

The point of this post is: bear an open mind with fellow fans and complex characters. At least try to understand why they do what they do, and go from there. And note that “understanding” does not equal “compliance” or “excuse.”

But don’t be surprised if, when you make it a point to refuse understanding other people or characters, that things begin to get messy. Because from what I’ve observed, that’s where it really causes issues.

The Beast of Horner Mountain

There was a crisp chill in the breeze that blew through the Rockies, despite the fact that there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Their famous purple tint could be seen in the crags and precipices farther away, but the closer ones were a much less breathtaking mix of greens, browns, and greys. At this time of year, only the evergreens still had their leaves; brown oaks and white aspens reached up toward the sky with bare branches and near skeletal twigs.

The narrow roads that wound around and between the mountains were fairly busy with traffic, as people took advantage of the clear weather to enjoy a day among nature. Among those vehicles was a black van, nearly taking up the entire road with its size. Fist sat at the wheel, his eyes repeatedly flicking to the right as he drove, as he tried to make sure the van didn’t go off the road…and over the cliff that ended just a couple feet past the shoulder.

Ice, who sat in the front passenger seat, was doing a much better job of ignoring said cliff, focusing instead on the map that was folded out in front of him. “Aight, looks like tha town should be just ‘round this corner.”

As the road curved to the left, the cliff started to extend further beyond the shoulder, gradually morphing into a narrow valley. At the far end, a small cluster of buildings could be faintly seen.

“There it is,” Ice said as he started to fold up the map. “Twin Creeks.”

Once they had crossed a creaky wooden bridge over a dry river bed, they had entered the town proper. Many of the buildings they passed were visibly old, with siding of slightly warped wooden planks and dusty windows. The road itself was unpaved dirt, and the sidewalks were also made of wood slats. The largest building was also the only one with two floors, and Fist pulled the van into a large dirt plot located across the street from it.

As the three climbed out, the faint hushing of a nearby river could be heard from behind the building. Plenty of other people were walking up and down the sidewalks, looking at the various buildings and checking out the small shops, and another vehicle drove up or down the road every few minutes.

“Pretty hoppin’ for a ghost town,” Cobra idly commented as he looked around.

“Yeah.” Ice nodded towards the two-story building, which held a slightly faded sign reading “Twin Creeks Lodge.” “Come on, lessee what we can find out here first.”