#Source: National Geographic"

[sitting-on-me-bum]

A red-eyed tree frog clutches a branch in a rainforest in Australia. Frogs are challenged by the climate crisis, pollution, and a deadly fungus—exacerbated by Europe's demand for their legs. Conservationists say the EU should do more to help regulate the trade and protect species.

SCIENCE SOURCE

[missugarpie]

Ford Thunderbird advertisement featured in National Geographic

[hannah-the-red-head]

TRAUMATIZED

Death: Little one, explain to me why you are acting strange as of late- Hannah: I don’t want to talk about it! It’s better if I kept it a secret so no one else feels the way I do. Death: I have faced many horrors that would paint Lucifer’s darkest nightmares haunted, so trust that I give you my word that whatever it is, I will not be so easily- Hannah: I saw Lilith and Samael having sex. Death:

Later… Strife: So, did you ever find out what was bothering the ki- Death: WE WILL NOT SPEAK OF IT!

[knowledge-first]

Did you know that dolphins have names for each other?

These intelligent marine mammals use unique whistles to communicate and identify themselves within their pods! 🐬🌊

[bodymachine]

my mom decided we should do “‘vision boards’” for the new year and i actually had fun making this lol

[image-sourcerer]

1. Mycena lucentipes, Brazil. May 2014 issue. Photo by Taylor F. Lockwood.

2. Eruption on Kīlauea, Hawaiʻi. November 1983 issue. Photo by Steve Raymer.

3. Off the coast of South Georgia. March 1989 issue. Photo by Frans Lanting.

4. Cheetah cubs in Kenya. January 2005 issue. Photo by Anup and Manoj Shah.

5. Arctic wolf, Ellesmere Island. May 1987 issue. Photo by Jim Bradenburg.

6. Petals of an orchid. July 2002 issue. Photo by Jonathan Blair.

7. Thunderstorm over Ardmore, Oklahoma. June 1987 issue. Photo by Gene Moore.

8. Psilothrix beetle in Bardenas Reales, Spain. April 2012 issue. Photo by José Antonio Martínez.

9. Phyllodesmium iriomotense. June 2008 issue. Photo by Jennifer Hayes.

10. Waimanu Valley, Hawaiʻi. December 2002 issue. Photo by Adriel Heisey.

Various National Geographic Magazine Scans.

[sycopomp]

watching a quote unquote big cat olympics doc

but they fell into the pitfall of most grading metrics these days

the tests were one-size-fits-all, and the rules were almost entirely arbitrary compared to what would actually be useful as a big cat predator nevermind to that specific species at all

one of em isn't even a Big Cat... muttergrumble...

[vodrae]

Damian Wayne : *Watching national geographic. Global warming hurts animals.*

"Mhhh."

*Runs to Tim's room*

"Luthor said you won't find a clean and sustainable power source in your life."

*Slams doors. Leaves.*

Timothy Jackson Drake : "THAT BITCH." *Angry tools noises coming from the garage for 5 minutes* "Take that bald motherfucker !"

Stephanie : "It's been 5 years and I'm still not sure if i'm scared or impressed by you all."

SaDamian : "Penguins won't fall anymore."

[mutant-distraction]

The king protea is the national flower of South Africa. It is also the flagship of the Atlas Protea Project, run by the South African National Botanical Institute. The king protea has several color morphs and horticulturists have recognised 81 garden varieties..

also read beautiful story👇 https://caaox.com/nature/aquatic-life/

source: Earth Geographic

[endearing-dalliance]

Arcane Team's Bias Bastardized Piltover and Zaun

I am not an LoL player, but I read up on the lore because I was that fucking disappointed in season 2. Some key points of original Piltover and Zaun lore, which the team kept parts of. Emphasis on parts.

Geography and Symbiotic Economy:

Zaun was established first. A geographic disaster literally split the earth and sunk part of the city, splitting it into what we know today. Many of the wealthier citizens and those involved in the profitable sea trade ended up on a cliffside and industrial parts of Zaun were now across a river and below. They then became separate city-states in a symbiotic relationship.

"Zaun thrives, its people vibrant and its culture rich."

Zaun has multiple levels of "good" areas like the college and Bridgewaltz market where both citizens shopped for music, food, technology in addition to progressively more polluted and dangerous lower levels.

Piltover’s wealth has allowed Zaun to develop in tandem

Zaun's issues like the Gray were attributed to their own factories and labs that benefitted their own people

Culture and Relationship:

Zaunities collectively take great pride in themselves and their thriving city. Many choose to live there, especially scientists and inventors who find Piltover too restricted, because "their right to do as they please is what makes Zaun the freest city-state on Runeterra"

"A citizen of Piltover is typically self-reliant, does not expect handouts, and always aspires to do better."

Piltover has an elected "very empathic and progressive" government and is "one of the least militarized city-states"

Zaun's technological progress and academic institutions are described as being Piltover's only technological and academic rival. 

Both cities' citizens augment their bodies. Piltover's are more flamboyant and display their wealth, even if they are originally necessary; Zaun's are more practical and "necessity is the mother of invention" very much applies.

So this was what they had to work with. I can understand why many people would prefer to live in Piltover, but Zaun is treated as an equal place to be, with its own distinct and proud culture, complex structure, and thriving economy.

Moving on to Arcane (finally lol) and the now infamous original Arcane pitch. Either Christian posted that while every sane person was asleep, or none of them realized how profoundly terrible it makes them look. 

There's a lot in here that's problematic. Piltover is a gleaming wonder, a pure and magical place while conveniently leaving out why its this flourishing utopia. The next bit frames the entire conflict as Piltover's decision. It screams "Mommy and Daddy need to punish the naughty kids or they'll wreck the house." Except the starving kids are locked in the moldy basement and trying to break the door down to escape.

Now about Zaun...here its called the underground district. This becomes more important later, when you realize how many different and contradictory labels they give Zaun. Its an undercity, sister city, part of Piltover, wannabe Nation of Zaun. It establishes again the underlying superiority of Piltover. And of course it is, because Zaun's people are boiled down to dangerous, manipulative criminals (bonus points for an antisemetic reference!) with no morality.

I firmly believe this team has a fundamental deliberate misinterpretation of what LoL Piltover and Zaun are, and it is due to their own biases and privileges of a team that is primarily white, middle/upper class, able-bodied, and mostly male. It is abundantly clear that they see as Zaun is objectively lesser and that its their own fault. They're just a foil for Piltover and source of enemies. Three quotes from Arnaud-Lois Baudry:

"My role as a Production Designer was to make sure we don't negatively impact other teams at Riot Games and contribute to adding value and enriching the worldbuilding of those cities."

"Once we figured out the shape language of the wealthy city of Piltover, Zaun needed to be its dark mirror. We started by combining Victorian architectural pieces and some old industrial elements and added some asymmetrical flourish ornaments made from handcrafted upcycled pieces."

"Canonically Zaun is supposed to be super-dark, oily, and dirty with green smoke everywhere." Dude it is literally called The Gray. Zaun's marketplace, college, and an example of their architectural style from the LoL website:

Zaun is literally an afterthought. And I think its very telling that once again, Piltover was the priority. Magical, pure Piltover with its moral code...and Zaun was literally just designed to be its opposite. They claim that the show was designed to show the good and bad parts of both, but they failed to include any direct evidence that the problems in Zaun are entirely due to Piltover's treatment of them. They literally just took LoL Zaun, scooped the top (more prosperous) levels off, and buried it under Piltover. Piltover was enriched, and even benefited by inspiration from Eastern European culture like Nikola Tesla and Czech artist Alphonse Mucha. And then gave Viktor the only "foreign" accent in the show to further emphasize his disadvantaged upbringing and displacement in Piltover society. As someone with an Eastern European/Slavic background, I cannot emphasize this enough: fuck. every. last. one. of. you.

*sigh* Moving on to the "value and enrichment" given to Zaun:

cities described as "dissonant halves of the a greater whole" rather than symbiotic

Piltover came first, and the undercity later develops into Zaun. No mention of historical or present-day Zaun having anything to do with Piltover's success. Literally nothing is explicitly connected, though we do get Cait committing war crimes using tech her Mom installed to help the Zaunites from suffering the effects of pollution.

Speaking of pollution, AoA explictly states neither city has "big industry, there are no factories". Uhh then where is the pollution coming from?

It is portrayed unflatteringly with two notable exceptions (the Last Drop and Firelight tree), specifically in the ways that are in real life associated with racism, classism, body shaming, and cultural shaming. Its subtle at times, but a constant theme in their book, interviews, and the show itself.

In AoA, the Piltie extras are "understudies" and the Zaunites are "a motely crew".

Piltover has “normal” food like tea and sandwiches, while Zaun has what appears to be slugs in a muddy sauce from an unsanitary food stall that also displays drooling animal heads and tentacles.

All the Pilties are thin; the only overweight people (who are also usually morbidly obese) are from Zaun.

In Art of Arcane (AoA) they talk about how they specifically chose to design the Chem-Barons "more cartoony than grotesque" and that they made sure to have "a few landmarks, like the bridge, so it doesn't feel too cartoony" when designing Piltover.

Only the Zaunites use augmentation. Its a defining characteristic and objectively "bad". AoA explicitly correlates Viktor fixing his leg and spine with losing parts of his humanity. Lord know what they think of the multitude of augmented-out-of-necessity Zaunites. Coincidentally, the other character most associated with augments is Smeech, the cartoony drowned-rat-looking antagonistic Yordle, whose fight serves as a humorous scene endearing Jinx to the viewers.

They created the Piltover Council and then decided to make the Chem-Barons their direct counterparts, because DUALITY! Seriously, is anyone in Zaun NOT somehow just a "worse" version of a Piltie?

[love-of-the-red-star]

That time I got reincarnated as an Aeon

(Series)

Chapter four: This is why you don’t leave your Aeon unsupervised (In which you get kissed, again)

Warnings: References to violence, mentions of castration (not graphic) heavily not edited (RIP first draft, you will not be remembered)

“Ohoho this is neat!”

“It’s not neat man— more like dead meat.”

“Come on don’t be a downer! Look bro, it’s your very first wanted poster!” Boothill roughly grabbed you closer to him in good spirits as he grinned widely at the paper he’s holding with another hand— specifically, your very first wanted poster.

“I’m happy I have one but the problem is— it looks so…” You cringed, seeing your pose with a chair. Well at least they didn’t get their details wrong. “I don’t know, fuckass??”

Boothill snorted. “Nahhh don’t sweat that darling, it’s your first one after all. You should have seen mine, it’s wayyyy uglier than yours.”

“I didn’t expect to be known as some chair using murderer though.” You mumbled, it wasn’t exactly a complaint considering it was and had been technically your weapon ever since you occasionally roped yourself in Boothill’s shenanigans. “I’m just gonna have to pray the other people in the express won’t look at me weird once they see my face on the news.”

The chances of it happening were slim— you didn’t like media attention, whether it be for the purpose of turning you into a subject fit for a National Geographic™️ documentary or have your entire face on the news. Thankfully you weren’t in the level of a stellaron hunter yet, but damn the IPC sure knew spite.

“I don’t know why they even bothered with putting a bounty on my head, it was just some lackeys I helped you with sending out six feet under— wait, was it because I castrated one of them using the back of my shoe?” You blinked, brows furrowed as you continued to stare at your own poster some more as Boothill cringed and hissed through gritted teeth.

“Probably.” He said— although lacking balls himself, he felt a tinge of sympathy for the poor lad whose jewels you’ve severed using a blade you have very creatively embedded in your shoe. “Some of their folks can get reeaal petty.” He drawled. “Friend of theirs that escaped probably put that bounty on your head because they’re scared they’d be next on the clock chopping board.”

In your end you did say “Say goodbye to deez nuts!” and brutalized that poor poor man so much his friend pissed themselves and peaced out.

“Pffft.” You laughed. “Clock chopping board—“.

“Yeah yeah laugh all you want.” He rolled his eyes. “That aside, you’re a pretty thing. If you go around killing them while accompanying me they’re bound to remember your face.” He tapped you on the cheek lightly.

“Thank you?” You said, unsure.

There’s a ring in the air that you identified to have come from Boothill’s phone.

“Welp, time to go.” He said, snatching a shot glass and downing the last of the whiskey and swallowed the bullet that accompanied it.

“Later darlin’, still got some business to do.”

“Good luck!”

—————————

“It’s nice to finally meet you, time hasn’t been very kind.”

What the fuck?

Green eyes, blond hair and good looks, the man that stood before you was none other than Kirschtaria Wodime— wait no, wrong name and fandom, it’s Otto Apocalypse?? No, you internally shook your head, wrong again.

This bitch was Void Archives, and he’s the source of Welt’s old man yaoi PTSD.

And you were probably going to have a rivalry, because unfortunately for everyone in this train including yourself; he didn’t pretend he was pretentious, he was the pretentious prick.

“Well, hello and nice to meet you I suppose?” You blinked, unsure of how to approach him as you awkwardly extended your hand for a shake. Void Archives took it, surprisingly gentle with how he grasped it before giving it a firm shake.

“Void Archives.” He introduced himself but you already know that, he didn’t though.

“[Name].” You replied.

In your opinion, this man smelled suspicious. Very very suspicious, and a bigger red flag than you. (If he had the face of Otto Apocalypse then it was an automatic sus banner plastered on his profile for you, but the bit— Void Archives, doesn’t know that you know.)

You scowled the moment he was out of the room, clear displeasure displayed into your face as you thought of another way to deal with another shitshow— except the Express was involved. You didn’t know much about what happened, but you do know he caused some not so good shit for everyone.

On the bright side, you would meet Dan Heng.

Dinner was served and pleasantries were exchanged, with you remaining uncharacteristically reserved towards Void Archives. If the other two people in the express noticed this, they don’t speak of it.

———————-

You retreated to your quarters for that night and returned to your true body, surprised to find Yaoshi there with you, sitting idly as if waiting.

“I see that you already have a name.” They smiled sweetly. “And a more formed body too.. yes….this one suits you just fine indeed.” One of their many hands rested on the top of your head, taking a lock of hair in between their fingers as they looked at you with the thousands of their eyes adoringly. “You have grown well, I am glad.”

“Welcome back?” You managed to utter, much like your encounter with the Void Archives, Yaoshi too made you at a loss for words.

“You were waiting for me?” They came closer to you with a pleased expression plastered on their disturbingly ethereal face as you heard the stretching of branches and the sound of limbs being torn off again.

“You did promise you would come back to visit.” You told them. “Were you here for a while?”

“No, but I was watching you.” They shook their head gently. “You spread freedom and sow in seeds of kindness, will you liberate more from suffering?”

“I mean, I don’t like having to see shit like people being constrained. So technically, yes.” You replied to them, and they seemed pleased with that response, holding your waist with another pair of arms, caressing you in a way you would have felt as a maddening and yet detached kind of love had you been a human.

Now that you thought about it, it was no wonder Yaoshi’s followers seemed.. a little crazy.

However their hold on you seemed to be personal. You’re not sure how to feel about that.

“How kind,” They said, voice remaining sweet and expression tranquil as they pulled you closer and closer, til you’re caged in the branches and the thousands of arms— they’re ensnaring you in a hug, or at least you thought it’s a hug.

“You liberate people of their suffering, lessening their burden in the cycle of being.” They sighed like a maiden in love. Briefly, you thought of the man whose balls you severed with the back of your shoe and felt the urge to rebut Yaoshi of what they said, but ultimately chose not to speak as they didn’t seem to tire in adoring you.

You found it a little off putting but you couldn’t judge; they were free to feel anything towards you as much as you were free to think of anything towards them. They were a fellow Aeon, although if you were a mortal, you would have found this interest towards you incredibly terrifying, knowing full well how their love always ends.

While losing yourself to mara and growing branches and leaves in your body wasn’t sexy, you weren’t going to restrict Yaoshi in feeling things, so long as they don’t cause trouble to your little train.

“May you be as free as those whom you chose to be free, Kind Freedom.” The branches receded and so did their arms, with only two hands to cup your face gently. “May we meet again.” After they uttered those words, they kissed you just as they did before when you were just new to the world, then left.

If you were a human, you think you would have just gone cathartic from too many things happening at once, because what the hell was their business in kissing you in the mouth before dipping??

You did remember that Yaoshi said that they felt as if they knew you before, and thinking about it now, were the Aeons acutely aware of you watching when you were playing the game behind the screen?

No, they wouldn’t be. But you’d like to think they could feel your presence, just not identify you.

It was in the simulated universe too, so there was no way unless they actually fully interacted with you outside of it as the Trailblazer. You thought of it some more, recalling past conversations, then you remembered Lan stating your presence felt familiar too.

It still didn’t really explain why Yaoshi would be compelled to kiss you as if you were a lover— but on god, you hoped not. As disturbingly beautiful as your fellow Aeon might be, you’re well aware and lucid enough to acknowledge they’re a big fat red flag.

For a moment, you wondered if they’d ask you to marry them next, worse, they could just tell you you’re married to them and call it a day.

Could Aeons even marry?

There’s a lot for you to think about, but you brushed the thought of a marriage when you remembered the other train passenger— Mr. Blonde Prick. You groaned, at that time not noticing the noise you made was heard by the cosmos.

It was a groan for you, but for the humans who heard it certainly did not sound like it.

You told Welt to shut off the broadcast in the next day the moment you heard a very familiar intro, not wanting to hear your voice documented and broadcasted for everyone to hear again.

———————

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V (HERE),Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII….

And there we go for this chapter! This is just pure brain vomit but enjoy :33

[wttcsms]

anatomy of desire, satoru gojo

part i. terminal velocity

with mysterious circumstances centering around a first year med student's "suicide", you do something stupidly noble: reporting to a detective that you saw satoru gojo slipping out the backdoor of the very same building yu haibara supposedly jumped from. in doing so, you start a twisted, sick game of cat-and-mouse with the most powerful and insane student on campus. the only thing keeping you alive? the fact that satoru gojo is apathetic towards everything and everyone, besides you. ( fem!reader )

chapter contains description of dead body word count 3.7k [ next ] [ masterlist ]

There’s an ongoing joke that only those who attend Tokyo Metropolitan College are privy to. It’s posed as a question, serves to make people laugh, but like all things spoken by these students, the intention of the words said are different from what they’re truly asking. It goes like this:

How much was your application fee? 

The joke is the idea that any of them would ever actually have to pay something as plebeian as an application fee to attend a college their parents or family have attended for generations. The “joke” has layers to it, though: how much did your parents have to cough up to get you in here? Did they only “donate” a new building? Did they agree to sponsor the next charity event hosted by the university? Or did Mother and Father only have to invite the head of admissions to a dinner party? For children who come from money, social currency holds a significant amount of value in their eyes. 

With an acceptance rate lower than most of the Ivies, alumni that consist of the world’s most powerful political leaders, actual royalty, and the most influential celebrities in the public eye, and the prestige that comes from graduating from such a decorated institution, attending Tokyo Metropolitan College should have been impossible for someone like you.

Full ride scholarships to TMC are nearly unheard of and are only extended to the best high school athletes or the brightest minds of the current generation. You’re smart, of course, but not at the caliber Tokyo Metropolitan demands. 

With your worn-out bookbag, drugstore makeup routine, and outlet clearance shoes, it’s obvious that you’re a scholarship student. Your classmates might have been willing to ignore your crime of being poor, but not even being able to at least wear last season’s runway designs? Some sins are just unforgivable. 

It’s fine by you, of course. You’re nothing but honest, and so if you were to ever be asked the cost of your application fee, you’re not sure how they would react when you confess that it cost a life. 

You fall in love with journalism when you’re ten years old. At the clearance grocery stores, the type of shops whose air conditioning never seems to work and there’s a perpetual leak at one area of the ceiling, there’s a rack of magazines (your mother tells you these are called “tabloids”) by the checkout line. Of course, there’s usually only one cashier working out of the entire store, and you spend most of your time waiting in line than you do actually picking out your groceries. 

While your mother shuffled her coupons clipped from last week’s newspaper, you would grab the latest issue of National Enquirer, your eyes eagerly soaking up every last word of the publication. Outlandish headlines, anonymous sources, poorly Photoshopped paparazzi photos — this tabloid is your first taste of journalism. It might not be Pulitzer Prize worthy articles, but it is the spark that ignites your insatiable, burning hunger for a story. A true story. 

As you grow older, you swap National Enquirer for National Geographic and Time, going so far as to even grabbing your father’s discarded newspapers from the recycling bin whenever you catch a glimpse of an enticing headline. Everyday, there are hundreds, thousands, millions of stories, all happening at once. Depending on who’s telling the story, the immortalized version of events could very well differ from the truth. And at your young age, when you declare to your entire middle school class that you’re going to be the world’s best investigative journalist who uncovers and reports only the truth, you are met with polite, bored applause. 

Looking back, you realize just how silly you were. You used to walk around with a Hello Kitty notepad, one of those jumbo sized book fair pens (the one where it comes with like, five different colors you can pick from), and an annoying habit of never minding your own business. It pays off eventually, though. Your inquisitive (all the adults call it nosy) nature and hunger to get to the bottom of things leads you to find out that your seventh grade homeroom teacher was stealing money from the classroom’s activity funds. You got your picture in the local paper (it still hangs on the kitchen fridge, even after all these years), and the school principal even encourages you to start a school newspaper club. 

You fear you’ve peaked in the seventh grade, though. It’s been nearly eight years since that incident, and you haven’t quite uncovered anything else that’s newsworthy. You suppose the hot topic on campus right now could be worth getting to the bottom of: did Mei Mei get a boob job or not? If you figure out the truth behind that, maybe then people will actually start to care about what you have to say. 

Good stories don’t just fall into your lap; most journalists don’t spend their time sitting at their desk, typing up their finds. Instead, they’re actually on the ground, actively hunting. 

You tell yourself — justifying your eavesdropping, really — that this is just you hunting for a good story. Besides, if the conversation was meant to be so private, why wouldn’t he at least have it in his dorm room? 

“Listen, Ken — after tonight, I’ll be set for life.” The hushed whisper immediately catches your attention. You pause, glancing behind you to see if anyone’s coming. They’re not. The Liberal Arts Education building houses the least amount of students here at Tokyo Metropolitan, and everyone’s either already in class or getting lunch off campus. No one even bothers with this outdoor walkway; it’s too cold to justify walking in the shade the overhead supplies, and the vending machines located here never have any of the good snacks — just stale packs of peanuts and the brand of soymilk no one likes. 

You don’t make a habit of listening in on people’s phone calls. You have some concept of boundaries. It’s just… The Liberal Arts class is such a small group of fish in an already small pond. You’ve run into everyone who has a reason to be in this building. You were forced to take Public Speaking with at least half of them, and this voice you don’t recognize. 

That, and everyone who can afford to spend years at college, stress-free and getting a degree in the arts, don’t need to make hushed phone calls behind unwanted vending machines to discuss how they’re going to be “set for life.” Ninety-nine percent of the student body here already are.

“Just trust me,” the voice mumbles. “I’ve got it all under control.” 

You’re really trying your hardest to fight the urge to listen, but you can feel it — that sense in your gut that tells you that this is a story worth pursuing. Who cares about whether or not Mei Mei got a boob job? Whatever this student is up to is certainly of more interest than breast implants. 

When he stops talking, you recognize that he must’ve hung up the phone. Trying to remain casual, you continue to walk towards the vending machines, and when he comes into view, walking in the opposite direction of you, you briefly glance at him. 

Brushed brown hair, slightly taller than you — kind of cute, actually.

“Excuse me,” you call out to him. He stops to turn at you, a polite smile stretching across his face. 

“Yes?” 

“Do you happen to know where room L203 is? I just switched to that Japanese Literature class, but I’m still trying to navigate this building.” 

“Hmm.” He takes a second to appear in deep thought. “I’ve never had to take the course, but L203 should be on the second floor, left side.” 

“Thanks!” You chirp out, letting him go on his way. A majority of the buildings here are built similarly; the first number always dictates which floor the room is on, and odd numbers go to the left, with even numbers on the right side of the hall. You know damn well where L203 is; you just needed a second to commit this student’s face to memory. That, and you wanted a good look at the embroidery on his black jacket. 

It says Tokyo Metropolitan College Zenin School of Medicine. 

One thing about medical students is that they (and the college) can never seem to let anyone forget, for even a split second, that they are a medical student. 

You immediately head to your dorm, cracking open your 2006 MacBook that begs dearly for you to put it out of its misery every time you power it on, and wait impatiently as the website for the Zenin School of Medicine page to officially load. Every year, the administrative team at the med school makes a big deal out of welcoming the newest incoming class, and you’re hoping that he, whoever he is, has been enrolled within the last three years. You’re not sure your laptop can handle clicking through more than three links in the timespan of five minutes without excessively overheating and then exploding on your dorm room’s desk. 

You luck out when you realize he’s from this year’s incoming class. The picture is taken outside, in the familiar quad in front of the med school’s buildings. There’s only about a dozen students entering, and you spot his bright, smiling face. To the untrained eye, he fits in well with the rest of his peers. Nothing about him appears to be different, but three years learning to navigate this world has taught you well: he doesn’t have the same social standing as these students. In a sea of On Clouds (for the active students, you presume) and Dior sneakers, he’s wearing a pair of Skechers. 

You squint at the small font of the caption, listing the students from left to right. 

Yu Haibara. 

When you search his name on the school’s site, another article appears, confirming your suspicions. 

Yu Haibara, Latest Recipient of the Zenin Merit Medical Scholarship. Every other year, the Zenin Family provides a scholarship to a promising individual who will “change the medical field for the better.” With his easygoing smile and genuine attempt at being helpful, you can believe it. Yu Haibara seems like a very nice guy.

Which is why, in the glow of the setting sun, you feel a bit guilty for tailing him. No matter what he does, it’s not even like it’s going to be something publishable for the school paper. Putting a first year medical student’s side hustle on blast isn’t anything newsworthy; you know this. The rational part of your mind tells you to go back to your dorm and actually start working on your history paper due next week. You know, something actually productive and beneficial for your future. 

But the gut feeling you’ve never been good at ignoring… It tells you that the hunt is on. There’s something here for you to uncover, and even if you have to keep it a secret to yourself, the satisfaction of satiating your curiosity will be enough. 

Following Yu isn’t really a hard thing to do. This side of campus is unsurprisingly busier than the side you normally stay on. There are more bodies for you to blend in with, more noises to disguise your footsteps, and Haibara doesn’t even seem to be paying much attention to his surroundings. He walks with his arms swaying by his sides, and he makes casual, fleeting conversation with a few faces you recognize from the class photo on the school’s website. You’re hoping that wherever he’s heading to isn’t his dorm; if it’s secrecy he wants, it would make sense for him to do everything in the privacy of his own residence, but—

“Hey, girl, what’re you doing over here?” Distracted by the greeting, you take your eyes off of Haibara’s back to look at who’s speaking to you. Sakura; you share a good portion of classes with her. You remember her mentioning a boyfriend who’s in medical school. Something about her making an offhand joke about being a future surgeon’s stay-at-home wife. It’s not like working was something she was actively going to do in the future, anyway. Her mother is a hotel heiress, and her dad owns a hefty share of Vogue. 

“Sakura, hey!” You smile at her, trying to peek over her shoulder. Haibara makes a left turn, you note. “I wanted to meet with a professor here, actually. To see if he wanted to give an interview on his research. Running out of article ideas for the school paper, honestly.” 

She crinkles her nose. She works for the school paper with you, too, but she’s never paid much attention to anything beyond her submissions to the Beauty & Fashion column. “Have fun with that.” 

“Definitely will.” You chirp, glad that Sakura’s not the type to care about what some old doctor has to say about cancer. The sidewalk is crowded with students grouping together, discussing where they want to eat out tonight, but as you make a left turn, trying to follow Haibara’s steps, you notice that the lampposts lining the walkway are fewer and farther between. It’s still not dark enough to really need their warm, yellow glow, but you’re certain you’ll need them on the walk back. 

There are less students frequenting this area, too. The buildings here are older, less maintained. You doubt any of the major classes are held here, and the only building you can really justify Haibara disappearing into would be the one at the end of this walkway. A three story brick building, whose large sign can be read even at your distance.

OLD KASHIMO LABORATORY.

Old certainly seems fitting. You wonder if the building is even still in use. 

Leaves crunch under your sneakers (that are unfortunately not straight from Rick Owens’ latest drop) as you continue to move forward, heading to the lab. It’s a big building, and it seems a shame that it isn’t as well-maintained as the front-facing buildings that make up the medical school. Your legs are practically burning by the time you make it to the steps leading to the front door. If you realized just how far of a walk it is from your dormitory to the complete other side of campus, you would have at least stretched first. 

Anything to get down to the truth, though. 

Selfishly, you hope whatever Haibara’s up, it’s something scandalous. If it’s boring, and your gut feeling is entirely wrong, you’re going to be so annoyed that you got your daily steps in for no reason. 

Pushing through the large oak double-doors of the building takes some effort, but when you do, you realize the lights here, unlike the other buildings you’ve been in, aren’t triggered automatically by movement. At least the windows all over the walls allow the fading light of the setting sun to filter through the massive entrance. 

Way down on the other end, you see it. A silhouette of someone else; you see them, but you’re shocked you don’t hear them. 

Haibara?

No. Even from this distance, this figure seems taller than the brunet boy you’ve been stalk— following — for the past hour. The figure pays you no attention, but when it opens the backdoor, for a split second, they’re — he’s — bathed in the glow from the nearby lampposts and sunset. 

White hair, sharp jawline, broad shoulders, and even at this angle, his sharp, blue eyes that are recognizable anywhere.

Satoru Gojo. 

The difference between college and high school is that in high school, it’s pretty common to have a few people designated as “popular.” College is different. Everyone is a grown adult now, whether they like it or not, and concepts as juvenile and irrelevant as “popularity” no longer matter.

At a school like Tokyo Metropolitan, though, social hierarchy is everything. A school this small, this exclusive, this prestigious, thrives because parents send their little heirs and heiresses here in order to network. These kids grew up trading Pokemon cards by utilizing tips from The Art of the Deal.

In a small group where only the wealthy and influential are allowed in, Satoru Gojo comes from the wealthiest and most influential family there is. His father has global politicians trying to cozy up to him, and his mother comes from a family who supposedly made their fortune off of blood diamonds (naturally, the Gojos deny this claim, squashing any speculation about how the wife’s family made their money by spamming the news with nothing but reports of their charitable acts). Instead of pursuing business, Gojo makes headlines by his father announcing how proud he is that his son is choosing the noble path of medicine. 

“He’s all about helping people,” the reporter quotes Mr. Gojo. 

That must be true; it’s why Gojo’s so known all over campus. It’s not enough that socially, he’s better than all of them, which makes being his friend all the more appealing. It’s the fact that he’s just a good guy. You remember how last year, the school paper did an article on how Gojo funded the entire extravagant retirement party for a beloved professor at the school. You heard a rumor that the one and only time he was late to class (by three minutes) was because he was helping a student get her kitten out of a tree. During his undergrad, he was captain of the basketball team and took them to the championships every year. He does all of this while remaining absolutely humble, kind, and top of his class. 

You wonder if there’s a story there. If maybe Satoru Gojo, who is too perfect to be real, isn’t real. Maybe his parents figured out where to get their hands on an ultra-realistic robot, something that poses as the perfect son. That would explain his eyes, you think.

You’ve always tried to see the appeal in Gojo. He’s handsome, yes. He’s nice, no doubt about it. You don’t think you could find anyone with a single bad thing to say about him. But during your freshman year at this school, you think about the moment where you had to fill in for the school’s photographer. You had to photograph Gojo accepting an award for being MVP on the basketball team (once again), and while Gojo was charming everyone, from the coach to the dean of the school to the girls in the crowd cheering him on, there was your gut feeling telling you that something was just off. 

“You’re not the usual photographer, are ya?” He peers down at you, hands in his pockets, a big grin on his face. He’s not teasing you, at least, not in a rude way. He just has a light-hearted inflection on all his words that makes everything he says seem… warmer? Like, he’s trying to put you at ease. 

You’re fiddling with the settings on the camera, unused to the tech. “Um, yeah. I’m a freshman, but I’m just subbing in for my senior who got sick.” 

“Really? That’s neat!” He says it, and it sounds so sincere, that you nod along. Yeah, maybe it is neat. 

(Gojo’s good at that. Putting people at ease, getting them to see things from his point of view.)

“Try your best to make me look good, and I’ll do my best to make sure whatever shot you get is fine! Deal?” He’s still smiling at you, and all you can do is nod. Even at this point in time, a fresh-faced baby to this school, you’re aware of Gojo’s power. When you’re looking at him through the lens of the camera, you think it’d be impossible to get a bad photo of Gojo. 

The uneasy feeling you get around him gets chalked up to nothing more than nerves. You’re a writer, not a photographer. Gojo is a legend amongst men, and being in such close proximity to him would make anyone nervous. 

But when you look back at the photo once the article gets published, you know why you felt so weird around him. 

When Satoru Gojo smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You’re not sure why Gojo is — or, more accurately, was — in this building, but it’s none of your business. You’re here for Haibara, and whatever weird ass, secretive but lucrative side hustle he’s got going on. Probably dropshipping. Or, maybe he’s selling old test banks?  

Chances are, it’s nothing special or noteworthy. The reason why you haven’t gotten a good story lately might simply be because your senses, your so-called reliable gut instinct, has just gone dull. Maybe you’ve never even had a good instinct to begin with. Or, maybe losing it is just the karma you deserve for everything you’ve done to get to where you are now. It would serve you right, wouldn’t it? The universe must have a taste for poetic justice sometimes.

You’re hungry. Your legs are sore. It’s getting late. Whatever Haibara has going on, you don’t care anymore. You’ve got a paper due, and a protein bar somewhere in the bottom of your book bag that will serve as dinner for tonight because you don’t have enough funds to get anything halfway decent at the dining hall, and what a waste of time today was. 

You’re opening the doors of the building, letting the cool evening breeze hit you in the face as you exit. You still need something to write for the school paper; the lie you told to Sakura might actually be the only valid idea you have, and— 

“Holy fucking shit! Is he dead?!”

You look to your right. There’s a trio of students gathered around a lump on the ground. Someone’s screaming, then they’re all screaming. More students are flooding out of nearby buildings, and despite the protest of your limbs, you turn and head right where the screams are coming from. 

Bringing your hand to your mouth, you barely manage to hold back your own scream. 

Lying on the concrete walkway is Yu Haibara, with his neck and body at two different odd angles, his head cracked open and spilling blood that leaks onto the manicured grass of the campus.

[herpsandbirds]

A premontane hotspot for herpetological endemism on the windward side of Refugio de Vida Silvestre Texíguat, Honduras

Josiah H. Townsend, Larry David Wilson, Melissa Medina-Flores, Efraín Aguilar-Urbina, Benjamin K. Atkinson, César A. Cerrato-Mendoza, Arnaldo Contreras-Castro, Levi N. Gray, Luis A. Herrera-B., Ileana R. Luque-Montes, Mayron McKewy-Mejía, Alionso Portillo-Avilez, Alexander L. Stubbs & James D. Austin

Abstract

Herpetofaunal inventory work totaling 2,320 person-hours of sampling on the windward side of Refugio de Vida Silvestre (RVS) Texíguat documented the presence of 47 herpetofaunal species, including 3 salamanders, 11 anurans, 12 lizards, and 21 snakes. Among these are 14 species endemic to Honduras, including three undescribed species (two bolitoglossine salamanders, one colubrid snake). Though herpetofaunal research and conservation assessment in this geographic area are ongoing, the windward slope of RVS Texíguat, along with two other areas in the Cordillera Nombre de Dios, the leeward slope of RVS Texíguat and Parque Nacional Pico Bonito, is among the most signiicant regions of herpetofaunal endemism in nuclear Central America. Thirty-three species found in at least one of these areas are endemic to Honduras, and these represent approximately one-third of the country’s endemic herpetofauna. We recommend that local national management authorities make substantial protection of this region the centerpiece of Honduran biodiversity conservation efforts.

Source:

A premontane hotspot for herpetological endemism on the windward side of Refugio de Vida Silvestre Texíguat, Honduras

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

2,000-Year-Old Fayum Portraits from Roman Egypt: also known as "mummy portraits," these funerary paintings were often fastened to the coffins of the people they depicted

Above: Fayum portrait of a woman from Roman-occupied Egypt, c.100-110 CE

Fayum portraiture was a popular funerary practice among the upper-class families of Roman Egypt from about 50 CE to 250 CE. Given the high mortality rates for children during this period, many of these portraits depict children and youths, but adults were often featured, too.

Above: portrait of a youth wearing a golden wreath, c.130-150 CE; the wreath and the background of the portrait are both gilded

The population of the Faiyum Delta, where most of these portraits were found, largely contained individuals with both native Egyptian/North African and Greek heritage. The Greek lineages can be traced back to the Ptolemaic period, when the Greeks gained control of Egypt and began to establish settlements throughout the region, gradually leading to a cultural diffusion between the Greek and Egyptian populations. The Romans eventually took control of Egypt in 31 CE, absorbing it into the Roman Empire and colonizing much of North Africa, but the demographics of the Faiyum Delta remained largely unchanged.

Above: portrait of a man with a mole on his nose, c.130-150 CE

Many of these Fayum portraits reflect the same blend of ethnic and cultural roots, depicting individuals with both Greek and native Egyptian heritage (a claim that is supported by both archaeological and genetic evidence). Some portraits may also depict native Egyptians who did not have any European ancestry, but had been integrated into Greco-Roman society.

Above: portrait of a bearded man, c.170-180 CE

These representations of native Egyptians provide us with unique insights into the actual demographics of Roman-occupied Egypt (and the ancient world at large). Non-European peoples are rarely included in depictions of the classical world; it's also interesting to see the blend of cultural elements that these portraits represent.

Above: portrait of a priest of Serapis, c.140-160 CE; the man in this portrait is shown wearing a fillet/crown that bears the seven-pointed star of the Greco-Egyptian god, Serapis

As this article explains:

In the 1800s and early 1900s, Western art historians didn’t know what to make of these portraits. Scholars of Roman history labeled them Egyptian. Scholars of Egyptian history labeled them Greco-Roman. These binary academic classifications failed to capture the true complexity of the ancient (or, indeed, modern) Mediterranean. In reality, Fayum portraits are a syncretic form, merging Egyptian and Greco-Roman art and funerary practices. They reflect the cosmopolitanism of both Roman and Egyptian history.

Above: portrait of a man, c.80-100 CE (left); portrait of a bearded officer, sometimes referred to as "Perseus," c.130-175 CE (right)

Above: portrait of a young woman in red, c.90-120 CE

Nearly 1,000 of these portraits are currently known to exist.

Above: portrait of a man wearing a gilded ivy wreath, c.100-150 CE

Above: portrait of a bearded man, c.150-170 CE

Sources & More Info:

Curationist: Fayum Portraits

Harvard Art Museums: Giving the Dead their Due: an Exhibition Re-Examines Funerary Portraits from Roman Egypt

Getty Museum: APPEAR Project

Getty Museum: Faces of Roman Egypt

National Geographic: Ancient Egypt's Stunning, Lifelike Mummy Portraits

The Athens Centre: The Myth of Whiteness in Classical Sculpture

Forbes: Whitewashing Ancient Statues: Whiteness, Racism and Color in the Ancient World

[soracities]

where do you find articles or personal essays to read? and also do you have any favorite sources for news? i want to read more but i’m having a difficult time finding sources 🤍

I've answered this just recently but here's a more complete list for essays from places I visit most often (favourites are marked **)

LitHub**

Electric Literature**

Guernica Magazine**

Hazlitt**

Longreads**

Pangyrus

The Dial**

Bloodknife**

Aeon **

The Marginalian**

Asymptote Journal

N+1

Nautilus**

Quanta Magazine**

The Believer

Ordinary Plots**

The Point Magazine

The Baffler

Paris Review (Redux newsletter is good for things usu behind the paywall)

The New Yorker

The Artifice

The Collector

The Rumpus

Catapult

Tin House Archives (the online section is no longer running but past publications are still available)

Additionally, highly recommend switching to Mozilla Firefox and trying the "Pocket" feature on their homepage: it collects links to articles across the web on topics that are either trending or based on the Pocket suggestions you usually click on. I'm on private browser 99% of the time but there's still 2 or 3 articles at least that I'm always interested in and I love it!

Some other places I read things: Poets&Writers, Atlas Obscura, The Guardian, The Independent, New Scientist, Al Jazeera, The Atlantic, BBC, National Geographic, Wired, NY Times, GQ, NPR, The Irish Times / Independent, etc., I don't have favourite news sources as a rule since I usually read 2 or 3 articles on the same topic from different places depending on what it is (I don't like relying on single sources). But on the whole this covers most of what cross my orbit unless I'm looking for something specifically 💗

[cerenae]

did you know that ONE disposable pad takes at least 500 years to decompose? (source: national geographic)

say goodbye to endless purchases with reusable pads.

it only takes starting with one pad to see the difference. choose sustainability, choose the future.