7423/Maybe We're Crazy

Maybe We're Crazy
Date of Scene:	18 August 2021
Location:	Robbinsville - Bleake Island
Synopsis:	Anarky makes a point.
Cast of Characters:	Lonnie Machin, Tim Drake

---

Lonnie Machin has posed:
There was silence from Lonnie when Tim texted him, for several hours - not unheard of. Lonnie replies when he wants to reply.

But finally he textsd back.

...

Later

I want to talk to you

Meet me at Panessa Studios

In an hour

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim doesn't sweat the lack of instant reply. Really, Tim could look into UltraCollectrGU#69420 himself, if he wanted, but he's headed home to crash for a couple of hours--which, ugh, turns out to be a big mistake when he wakes up drenched in sweat and shaking, but whatever--so it's tabled for now.

    And unlike Lonnie, he pretty much responds immediately, all the time.

    New text to: Black Hat
    k, see you there

    And thus he goes, sitting himself on the edge of the abandoned studio's rooftop, cape swept around him by the wind. He has a thermos of coffee clutched in his hands as he looks out over the street. There's tension in his shoulders, moreso than usual at least for someone who is basically always under a non-zero amount of stress.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    There's a light on at one of the old film stages - and fog? Somebody's turned on one of the old industrial strength fog-machines, on what turns out to be an old haunted house set.

A text shoots back-

In there

Inside, it's dark, alternating with splashes of eerie noir lighting that creates disorienting patches of brightness and shadow, along with the fog.

A text buzzes Tim's phone.

This set is 'House of Owls'

It's one of my favorite silent movies

The lighting, the pacing, all of it's perfect

And there's no sound, just the image on the screen. It sucks you in.

Haven't been able to sleep have you

I think my initial theory was wrong, it was in the air

But the effect is aggravated by alcohol

Meaning we still have it in our systems

I haven't been able to sleep

And I had something you said on my mind

A shape looms out of the mist - a mannequin wearing a rubber werewolf mask. It hurtles past Tim and across the floor with a crash.

Tim Drake has posed:
    For obvious reasons, Tim doesn't have his phone on him when he's in the costume. But his texts get routed through to the HUD of his domino mask. So he's seeing them come in in real time as he walks into the studio, head slowly panning from left to right.

    Normally, Red Robin isn't the type to startle easily. His reflexes are too honed for that. It's been trained out of him. But he's exhausted, eye sockets shadowed beneath the edges of his domino mask, movements sluggish. Just slightly. But enough.

    Though his shoulders hunch upwards as the text about his lack of sleep comes in, TIm doesn't respond to it. But after he receives a couple more, he does.

    "There was a compound in the alcohol served at the club," he says. "But it wasn't anything that could have caused the reaction we saw. Promethazine. It's primarily an anti-nausea medication, but it has sedative effects like most other antihistamines." He steps forward, the fog around him swirling as he moves. One of his hands extends out into it, carefully.

    Everything works towards him being more on edge than he usually is, so he lets out an audible intake of breath when the mannequin sails by him, stepping quickly back and out of the way. "What are you doing?" he asks, voice tense, bordering on angry. "I don't want to play games with you, Anarky."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie's voice, tinged with that distortive electric flang that's part of his mask, echoes through the old studio. "A catalyst, maybe. Alcohol plus promethazine plus...?"
    There's a noise behind Tim - the sound of a cage being opened, and then the sound of squeaking and scurrying feet. A wave of rats comes running out a door, toward Tim, causing the fog to billow - and just as they're about to reach them, there's the hiss of Anarky's taser warming up, and a dark shape jumping at Tim from above.
    "I don't play games. I'm as serious as a coronary. You know that."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "A catalyst," Tim repeats, flatly. That... could be something. His chin tilts down as his thoughts start to crash together. Like he's just upended a box of puzzle pieces and dumped them out on the table. There's no careful slotting together, not tonight, the shapes just the slightest bit too fuzzy for him to bring them all together and see the big picture.

    The scuttle of rats isn't an unfamiliar sound. Ratcatcher exists and is awful and maybe Tim would love it if he never has to deal with the man again, but he can at least draw on that past encounter to keep himself from reacting with anything more than a slow turn of his head to look over his shoulder.

    It's less the movement and more the sound that makes Tim leap to the side from a blow that he makes his best guess about where to expect it coming from, and he's right, at least. The fog parts behind him like the red sea as he runs out his momentum in a quick turn, staff extending as he takes it from his belt. "Dammit, Anarky," he spits out. It's as good a sign as any of his mental state right now, because he's not often the type to lose composure. Swearing is a part of that, even if it makes him seem like a boy scout.

    It's not about the curse words themselves but the implication of their use. Red Robin is almost obsessive in the way he maintains the persona he's established for himself.

    He doesn't move to engage. "Don't do this. Come on. You said it yourself, you're not sleeping either. We're in this together, then, and if you're having as tough a time as I am--this is more stress we don't need."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie lands, but advances on Tim, in a combat-ready stance. "Really?"
    "Do me a favor Tim, I know that Batman does an exhaustive workup on everyone he encounters, even lil' ol me. So tell me - what's my pathology? Hm?" He raises his cane to bring it down at Tim in an overhead swing, the electric arc that cane leaves glowing in the light. A tap from it will stun a horse.

Tim Drake has posed:
    He's still not engaging. But at the same time, Tim isn't going to stand there and let himself be attacked, so one foot slides back behind the other slightly as he shifts into a defensive stance. Around his staff, his grip tightens. Both hands on it, now.

    Mention of the Dark Knight has his jaw tightening, but Tim doesn't budge. Figuratively, at least. Of course he moves when Lonnie swings at him, staff coming up to intercept the cane's downward progress. Electricity flows through where metal meets metal, but Tim's grip isn't just tight. It's careful, precisely placed. Electricity snaps and arcs off the ends of his staff, but he's untouched, perfectly insulated against it. "No," he mutters. "I'm not doing this."

    He pushes upwards, to fight Lonnie's cane away, and then he's taking several steps backwards. More space between them. "Whatever this is, I'm not going to take part in it."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie charges in, to lock his cane with Red Robin's staff in a clinch. "I asked you a DAMN QUESTION!"
    That blank mask just stares, but Lonnie's green eyes are fire, and the skin around them is wet with sweat. "Fine. I'll start. You are completely wrapped up in agonizing over being - or not being - what other people want you to be. I could see it all over your FACE when Lady Shiva sent you that message. 'What does she want me to be?'"
    "What she WANTS you to be is an extension of HERSELF!" Lonnie presses his weight in, "Someone remade in HER image! And you, Tabula Rasa - always asking everybody else 'Who am I?' but not looking in the FRICKIN' MIRROR." He tries to twist Red Robin's bo staff out of his hands.
    "You can feel it right? Heart racing, adrenaline pumping through every cell in your body, lighting the nervous system on fire. Everything around you slows down, but your brain moves like *lightning*? It's addictive. We're all a bunch of damaged adrenaline junkies."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Another clang of metal against metal, another burst of ozone as electricity shoots off the ends of Tim's staff. He's hooked, held still, but Tim hasn't let go. Lonnie has inches on him, enough to likely swing the balance of strength in his favor, but Tim is willful, stubborn. He doesn't let go.

    The lenses of his domino mask don't show the widening of his eyes or the narrowing of them that follows immediately upon that well-timed name drop.

    Tim's teeth grit together. He probably has to wear a mouth guard when he sleeps.

    As his muscles shake with the effort of fighting back, holding still, Tim says, "You think I don't know what she wants with me? She trained me. You're not telling me anything I don't already know!"

    The sharp twist of Anarky's cane rips Red Robin's staff away, and it clatters to the floor. Too easy. Because Tim didn't lose his grip.

    He let go.

    His arm rears back and then he darts forward to try and slam his fist into that perfectly blank mask. "You ASSHOLE! What the hell is your problem, Lonnie? I shouldn't even be here! You know how much of a risk I took with you? You can analyze me all you want but you don't know me at all if you don't realize how much effort it takes me to set everything aside and allow myself an *ounce* of trust in someone else!" Whether or not the hit lands, he doesn't follow up with another. His arms just hold stiffly at his sides, fingers digging into his palms so hard that he'd have crescent moon shapes on his palms if he weren't wearing gloves.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Do you know what the difference between you and Batman is, so far as I'm concerned?"
t"I can surprise Batman. Consistently. Repeatedly. I can't *fool* him, because nobody can. But I can surprise him - it's just a matter of picking your moment and never trying the same gambit twice, because once you've done it, he'll never fall for it again."

    Anarky leans in. "I've never been able to surprise you like that. Not since we were fourteen years old and I wore a fake head. You're constantly, obsessively running the angles and figuring things out - plans. People. I asked you what my pathology was because you KNOW it and I can tell when you use it to manipulate me into doing what you WANT me to do."
    "But I can also see that your biggest weakness is that there's a big question mark in the middle of a Red Robin shaped outline. The one code he can't crack, the one puzzle he can't figure out-"
    "Who is he!? Getting to know you has made me respect Batman a lot more - because he could've molded you into whatever he wanted, but aside from training you, he's obviously restraining himself. Lady Shiva won't have that ethical pause I'm sure."
    He glowers. "Also, if you haven't figured it out yet, this is a test - I'm seeing if the fear-to-anger adrenaline progression can't burn this garbage out of our systems."
    "So far, as far as I go, you're delivering, because you're INFURIATING."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Even without a cowl like Batman, Tim's always been good at keeping his emotions off his face. Or only showing the emotions he wants people to see, which is often as good a tool as a grapple gun or a telescoping staff.

    Right now he's doing a terrible job.

    The rate of his respiration has picked up, enough that it's noticeable. Somewhat tied to the amount of physical exertion their standoff had required, but it's anger and distrust and unease too, and those are visible in the twitching at the corners of his mouth, the slow formation of a tense frown on his face.

    It flinches into something deeper for a moment when Lonnie calls him out on the manipulation. A sore spot, maybe.

    "You're still not telling me anything I don't already know," he says. His tone of voice, he's gotten control of at least. It's measured, like conscious thought is going into how he's keeping his syllables even. "It's 2021. None of the questions I ask myself on repeat are all that different than what anyone else our age goes through. Maybe there are more consequences attached to my answers, but I'm--just." Tim sighs, and his shoulders droop.

    He doesn't react all that much to the revelation, though he does snort out a breath at being called infuriating. "Right back at you," he says.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "So quit angsting and fight. I assure you, you're unlikely to do anything to me that you haven't already done. No holding back now." Lonnie kicks Tim's staff up and to him, and then he makes a 'come on' gesture with two fingers. "I'm a big boy, I can take it."
    As he recieves whatever charge Tim does or doesn't make, Lonnie replies, "That's because you're not seeing what I'm seeing. For instance. What YOU see when you percieve yourself is the least naturally physically talented out of all of Batman's students. The least skilled fighter. The least athletic."
    "Whereas I see the most intelligent of Batman's students. The hardest worker. The one most skilled at finding leverage - and applying it. Do you think the short kid would've *ever* been able to catch me back in the day?"
    "Not that I'd want him to, that boy ain't right."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's hand extends to catch his staff, and then his arm lowers. He doesn't collapse the weapon, though; instead he rolls his neck and then shrugs his shoulders up and down a couple of times. "No taser function and no gadgets. I know you like your theatrics," and he manages a self-deprecating smile as he stands there in a costume and cape, "But you need to be able to take down anything that comes out of you with a basic weapon and nothing else."

    "And right now, I'm not sure you could manage that." The smirk that follows is obviously goading.

    But Tim still attacks first, spinning his staff in to swing it towards Lonnie's side.

    This isn't a spar, this is a fight. Not to the death, which is not a thing he does of course, but maybe there's something to be said about the adrenaline junkie thing. "You're laying it on pretty thick, Anarky." Unlike before, Red Robin is on the offensive now, and the sound of their weapons rebounding off of each other is only another opportunity for Tim to try another strike. Between them, he snorts again at mention of his successor.

    "What's the ulterior motive? I know that our friendship is built on an intricately balanced system of reciprocity," he pauses to save his breath for a quick tumble, shoulder rolling down as he moves past Lonnie and twists to sweep his staff backwards towards his opponent's feet. "Maybe a little bit of mutually assured destruction," he adds.

    He springs up, not perfectly, a little slide to his step as he comes back up vertical. "So what's in it for you, then?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "At the root of my soul I may be an intellectual, but I'm also a punk." Lonnie says, "So I don't need my toys." He's quick, unpredictable, just like always. From stillness to action in the space of a single thought - but he does turn off the tazer. His training, largely self-pursued, is in judo, krav maga, and bartitsu- thus the cane. The staff-strikes, he blocks, one by one.
    The sweep to his legs takes him out but he lands in a crouch, and uses one of those long legs to lash upward at Tim's solar plexus. "As I'm sure you're aware, I have a difficult time making friends. I swear I had some, when I was twelve, but maybe I just thought I did. I used to hear my parents arguing whenever I'd see the school psychologist. 'Brilliant but antisocial. Egotistical. I mean. I'm *confident*, but you have to be, right?" He springs to his feet. "Reciprocity, when we very well know we'll probably find ourselves at opposite sides of an issue one day. "Can we be friends, if we're both incapable of trust?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Lonnie will feel his kick land--well, they both will, of course--but Tim manages to move with it rather than absorbing the full force of the hit, and his body armor helps to mitigate a little bit more on top of that.

    "You know, if you wanted to watch House of Owls you could've just asked." He takes a few rapid steps backwards. Enough distance to take a breath, shift his weight a little, resettle. "But you have to make popcorn. And we're watching Seven Samurai after."

    His staff collapses with a twist of his wrist and then he pitches it right at the white target Anarky's mask makes, a throw comparable to Nightwing with one of his escrima sticks if admittedly lacking some of the finesse.

    Tim's on the move practically as it leaves his hand, closing the distance between them to leap onto Lonnie, arms around his neck, trying to swing onto his back and go for a grapple. "We might not share the same philosophy about everything," he says, breathing hard. "But we're not that different. We grew up in an era where it was impossible to ignore how terrible the system around us was, how much it was failing."

    He plants his boots against Lonnie's back and pushes, releasing his grip at the same time, trying to put Lonnie on the floor and pivot himself into a backflip to, once again, extend the distance between them. "It's more that I have problems with your methods than your views."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    The mask hits Lonnie's mask - while it's made of solid stuff, it's still not the cutting-edge gear the Batman dishes out - it cracks, and Lonnie's head snaps to the side. That lets Tim get hold of him and push him to the floor. "See? There's that desire for *control* reasserting itself. You can't control nature and by extension you can't control other people, not really. If you do they're just... pieces on a board you push around."
    "Maybe in some other universe, I'm wearing your costume. Wouldn't that be a trip? Instead your Batman's brain trust and I'm a punk living in an abandoned subway station." He puts his hand on his chin. "But I'm not bitter."

    He gets up smoothly, and then he's on Tim again. He switches to kickboxing, using his superior height and reach to try and force Tim back against the wall, so he can batter away at him.
    "I see no reason to change my methods, as I've gotten older I simply try to be more thoughtful in how I employ them. This almost certainly means we'll end up on opposite ends of some issue. So knowing that, how can we trust one another?"
    "Obvious answer? We can't." He begins to throw punches at Tim's face, as he dodges and weaves to try to avoid counter-punches. "Un-obvious answer, why can't we? Trust is a conscious choice to open oneself up to risk of injury at the hands of another. Much like, despite it all, Batman trusts Catwoman. Maybe not with his *wallet*, but with his life."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "That's not how I see it," Tim's saying, as he's landing. "People aren't pieces on a board. There's no board. It's more like... variables. You can't ever know for sure what they're going to be--how someone will react--but there are rules that everyone follows."

    His staff is now too far away for Tim to reach, and Lonnie's between him and it, anyway. He puts his fist up, a grim smile on his face in-between the defensive form of his arms. "Order of operations, if we're being simplistic. Well-understood proofs. The square root of a prime number is always irrational. I know that I can't control anyone's behavior, but I can constrain the governing equation."

    The thing about Tim's fighting style is that it was forged in fights with opponents who were taller, heavier, stronger. He was short when he was Robin and even though he's grown, now, he's still going up against bigger opponents on the regular.

    So maybe Lonnie has him on the defensive, a little bit. But he knows better than to let himself get pushed into a corner or backed up against a wall. He uses his speed to move out of the way of hits that would've otherwise chipped away at his stamina, and he keeps moving, circling around.

    "Sure," he agrees. It's not like being on opposite sides would be new for them.

    He ducks in and aims a punch at Lonnie's kidney. "I do trust you, you know. Hard as it is for me to admit that--I know, control issues, I get it--but I think ultimately what you want and what I want aren't all that different. And I think you'd make the right decision, the tough one, if it came down to you."

    His expression cracks, and he smiles. "I wouldn't trust you with my wallet either," he adds.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Well that's good, because I wouldn't trust ME with your wallet either." That fist hits Lonnie's kidney, and despite the ballistic t-shirt, he's forced to back off, which gives Tim space to maneuver - at least until Lonnie tugs at a glove and rolls a capsule of something into his hand - he crushes it between his fingers, and blows an acrid cloud of SOME kind of powder at Tim.
    "So I cheated." He says, as he throws a jab at Tim's face. "Sue me." Then he's trying to grab hold of Tim, to use those long arms and legs and bring him down to the ground in a submission hold. "I enjoy being outsmarted." He admits. "It's *rare*."
    "I suppose I'm trying to head things off at the pass, where Shiva is going to try to get into your head and - nn - use your uncertainty about your own self-identity against you. It is, after all, your only *real* weakness."

Tim Drake has posed:
    The expectation has kind of been in the back of his mind this whole time: when's Anarky going to get sneaky? And it happens, so Tim doesn't feel guilty about it.

    It's less about trust and more about knowing Lonnie's pathology, after all.

    He empties his lungs of breath in one gust and then clamps a hand over his mouth and nose as he tries to move out of the way of the powder cloud. This of course means he's at a disadvantage for blocking any hits, so he can do little more than turn his head to try and avoid some of the momentum of Lonnie's fist.

    Either way he'll have a bruise on his jaw, after this.

    "It's okay," Tim says as he goes down. Lonnie's got a hold on him, but Tim has at least managed to twist and pivot his body, one arm free as they drop to the floor. "I forgive you."

    Something sharp pierces the crack of Lonnie's mask as Tim slams the side of his fist against it. Maybe it goes deep enough past for Lonnie to feel a small but very real graze of pain against his cheek. "I cheated too."

    There's a shuriken clutched in Tim's hand, one sharp edge peeking out from the grip of his fingers. Not long enough to do any real damage, because Tim's calculating has always been careful and tightly regulated. But he thinks his point is made.

    If Lonnie's willing to pardon the pun.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie maintains the grip - and then his eyes narrow. "Okay then." He says, before he reaches up and takes off his mask. He tosses it away.
    "You know maybe I should move my hideout here." Then he casually turns his head - his face is dirty, covered with sweat, his eyes sunken from lack of sleep - he still has that hold mostly locked-in if he felt like reapplying it. Of course Tim still has that shuriken ready to stab him in the face. "So did a sudden spike of adrenaline help our bodies start the process of clearing this toxin? I have... no idea."
    "But as I was saying, trust. I'll choose to trust you with the things we need to trust one another with. My life, I guess. But that requires a concession from you, hostis dilectae. I can't trust a man who can't trust himself. Who is Red Robin?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    "It's nice," Tim admits as he tips his head back to look upwards, at their surroundings. Well, that's what the angle of his head suggests he's doing at least. "Suits you. Theatrics, like I said."

    His hand falls away from Lonnie's face... somewhat. It doesn't go far. But he does start to twirl the shuriken around in his fingers.

    The only answer he gives to the question-slash-hypothesis that started this whole thing off is an uncertain noise in the back of his throat. Of course, Tim hopes it does. Underneath the domino mask, he looks as tired as Lonnie does. But he's also too pragmatic to have any kind of expectations, especially not when they have so little evidence to go on.

    There on the ground he twists, shoving his elbow indelicately into Lonnie's stomach as he starts to push himself upwards. "You want a real answer, I'm guessing." He sighs and rubs his jawline, near where that bruise is already forming. "He's not me. Red Robin is a... holding pattern. I'm a fledgling that's been pushed out of the nest, but I haven't decided if I'm going to fly or let myself hit the ground."

    Tim's accompanying laugh is only a little bit breathless. "Sorry," he says, humor in his voice. "Couldn't resist the bird analogy."

    He tips his head. "Is that answer good enough for you, for now?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "It's a start." Lonnie says, as he gets to his feet. "Take a little while. Go meditate on it. I'm going to listen to Rage and drink a lot of pomergranate juice." He rolls his neck, and grunts as it pops - he's tense, too. He wipes blood off the corner of his mouth and then mumbles "I do like fighting you better. The short kid would've just gone for my liver."
    "For what it's worth, I appreciate that you're making a good-faith attempt to be my friend. I am FULLY aware that I'm a hard person to like. And while I don't really CARE what other people think of me, it is - tiring - sometimes. Only having my dog to talk to. Not that he isn't a good listener! ...He's just also easily bribeable with chicken hearts."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's up and standing basically just as soon as Lonnie is. The shuriken gets tucked back away before he folds one arm behind his head and grips it at the elbow with his opposite hand, stretching until he grimaces faintly and it feels like something clicks back into place. "Meditate. Uh huh. Ugh, try not to turn me into a pretzel next time, would you?" He repeats the motion with his arms reversed, and then he blows out a deep, slow breath.

    "Yeah, and he probably would've found it. With the tip of his sword."

    He stands there for a moment with one hand on his hip. "It's not that hard," he says, after a lengthy pause. "I'm not exactly the most sociable person in the world either. Most of my relationships are due to circumstance more than anything." The muscles of his jaw tighten, but he doesn't quite frown at that. "You forget that we have a lot in common. Anyway, say hi to Yap for me. I'm sure he misses me." Before he leaves, Tim tracks down his staff where it'd rolled off to, and then he's heading out without so much as a wave goodbye.

    Something like four or five hours later, Lonnie gets a text:

    the adrenaline thing didn't work

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie replies:

No it didn't

And for the record the reason why people keep seeking you out is because you're an intelligent thoughtful - usually - human being who also looks like he could cover GQ, after I beat the stuffing out of him

Just saying

Do you know a neurochemist maybe

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim glares at his phone with one eye from where he's laying on his side on the cold tile floor of his bathroom, as he tries to work up the wherewithall to take a shower after he sweat through his t-shirt and shorts thanks to this most recent nightmare.

    But he still texts back:

    saying you beat the stuffing out of me is being a little generous don't you think

    "people" (ladies way out of my league) keep seeking me out because i work very hard to keep from giving into my worst traits, like manipulating my friend into doing things for me rather than just being honest and asking him for help

    sorry about that, by the way

    also i feel like maybe the quotation marks made it seem like i'm implying i don't think women are people which is ????? not what i meant please ignore me i feel like i'm going to puke

    i might know someone. gimme a day or two i'll see what i can do

Lonnie Machin has posed:
Lonnie shoots back, from where he's sitting with headphones on, using the loudest possible cacophony to stave off sleep,
    I'm pretty sure I did
    Sure what am I going to do snap and go on a rampage ha ha ha ha ha

Ha ha ha ha ha

lol

Tim Drake has posed:
    The only reply Tim sends back immediately is:

    lmfao

    But then, like, at least five minutes later, which implies he's made it himself, Tim sends an image of that lobster fisherman (well, woman) yeeting an unworthy lobster away with the word 'Us' over the woman, 'healthy coping mechanisms' on the lobster, and 'wearing dumb costumes and punching people' on the boat's sorting table. He doesn't respond to anything else after that.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Then Lonnie just... gives up, and begins texting Tim stupid jokes.

    What's green and black and blue all over

    The Riddler when Batman gets through with him

    Has Batman ever gotten mad and said he was going to hit the Riddler so hard his question marks turn into exclamation points?

    I bet he has

Tim Drake has posed:
    After an amount of time that is probably a bit too long for anyone to be in the shower for (but Tim thinks he might have microslept leaned against the wall for a while) Lonnie gets a series of rapid-fire texts about the interrobang, its creation, and why it is unequivocally the future of the English language. If someone came up to Tim and asked him to give a surprise lecture for an hour about one topic, he could absolutely do it about punctuation. Which is maybe ironic given how little he uses in texts.