#Suitability Report Generator

[advisoryai]

AdvisoryAI: Reflections on 2024 and the Road Ahead for 2025 - AdvisoryAI

As the year draws to a close, it’s a moment to reflect on how far we’ve come and look ahead to the opportunities waiting for us in 2025. At Advisory AI, 2024 has been nothing short of transformative. From significant milestones to remarkable achievements, last year has laid the foundation for an even more ambitious and forward-thinking year ahead.

Please click on the following link to read the full blog https://advisoryai.com/blog/advisoryai-reflections-on-2024-and-the-road-ahead-for-2025

[reasonsforhope]

"China has demolished 300 dams and shut down most of the small hydropower stations on a major tributary of the upper Yangtze River to safeguard fish populations as part of an effort to restore the ecology of Asia’s longest waterway.

According to a report by the state news agency Xinhua on Monday, 300 of the 357 dams on Chishui He – also known as the Red River – had been dismantled by the end of December 2024.

In addition, 342 out of 373 small hydropower stations have been decommissioned, enabling many rare fish species to resume their natural reproductive cycles, the Xinhua report said.

The Red River flows for more than 400km (249 miles) through the southwestern provinces of Yunnan, Guizhou and Sichuan. It is regarded by ecologists as the last refuge for rare and endemic fish species in the Yangtze’s upper reaches.

Over the decades, water flows have been increasingly blocked by the dense network of hydropower stations and dams, restricting water volumes downstream and occasionally even causing some sections to dry up entirely.

This has drastically reduced the amount of suitable habitat and spawning grounds. The stations also blocked the routes of migratory fish species between breeding grounds and non-breeding areas.

Zhou Jianjun, a professor of hydraulic engineering at Tsinghua University, said that the decommissioning of hydropower stations usually referred to the cessation of electricity generation.

“The key is not whether the facilities still exist, but that, after power generation stops, the method of water control can be changed to meet ecological needs,” he said.

According to the Xinhua report, the large-scale rectification work that began in 2020 has meant that aquatic wildlife species, including the Yangtze sturgeon, have regained their habitat and vitality.

Along with the Chinese paddlefish, the freshwater sturgeon species – known as the last giant of the Yangtze – was declared extinct in the wild by the International Union for Conservation of Nature in 2022.

The natural population of the sturgeon has declined sharply since the 1970s, largely as a result of dam construction and the development of a shipping industry in the Yangtze River.

No naturally bred young sturgeon had been found in the entire Yangtze River since 2000, but a team of scientists from the Chinese Academy of Sciences’ Institute of Hydrobiology has reported promising signs of recovery, according to Xinhua.

The team, led by Liu Fei, a researcher at the institute in Wuhan, released two batches of Yangtze sturgeon into the Red River in 2023 and 2024, which have successfully adapted to the wild environment and are thriving.

This year, the researchers decided to take it a step further and examine whether the fish could migrate naturally for reproduction. In April, they released 20 adult Yangtze sturgeon into a section of the river in Guizhou.

By mid-April, they observed the fish displaying natural spawning behaviour and successfully hatching fry, the researchers said.

“This achievement indicates that the current ecological environment of the Red River can now meet the habitat and reproductive needs of Yangtze sturgeon,” Liu told the news agency.

According to the institute’s latest monitoring results, the Red River’s aquatic biodiversity is steadily improving, with a significant increase in the number of fish species collected in various sections of the river.

China has launched a series of policy measures to protect the Yangtze’s critical role as an aquatic habitat, all centred on a 10-year fishing ban imposed in 2020 and the regulation of the small hydropower stations that have affected its biodiversity.

For example, by the end of 2021, Sichuan had essentially finished rectifying its 5,131 small hydropower stations, which included shutting down 1,223 of them, according to a local official report the following year.

The local government has also strictly prohibited sand mining in the rivers in a bid to create a more favourable environment for aquatic animals to breed and reproduce.

In a communique released in August last year, Beijing announced that aquatic biodiversity had steadily improved since the fishing ban and other measures were introduced.

Fish, invertebrates and amphibians continued to recover, while the overall water quality of the Yangtze and its tributaries was rated as “excellent”, it said. The intensity of sand mining and other projects affecting fisheries had also decreased.

-via South China Morning Post, July 11, 2025. Paywall-free link.

[dandelionsresilience]

Dandelion News - March 15-21

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles! This month’s doodles, like every third month, will be free to the public, so take a look!

1. Zoo 'overjoyed' as lion cubs increase pride to 10

“The litter of rare northern African lions was the second batch to be born recently at Whipsnade Zoo in Bedfordshire, after three arrived in November. […] "The youngsters will grow up side-by-side with their half-siblings, and I'm sure they'll love having an abundance of playmates."”

2. Ohio Appeals Court Rules Trans Care Is Healthcare, Strikes Down Ban For Trans Youth

“The ruling rested on two key findings: first, that gender-affirming care constitutes legitimate medical treatment, and second, that parents have the constitutional right to make healthcare decisions for their children.”

3. Oystercatcher Recovery Campaign Offers a Rare Success Story about Shorebird Conservation

“Fifteen years of coordinated conservation efforts have produced a significant recovery in the U.S. population of the American oystercatcher[….] Schulte predicted that the protection efforts will survive [federal funding cuts] because of the large number of non-federal partners involved.”

4. Fish-tracking robot aims to make fishing more sustainable in developing nations

“A solar-powered, transparent [robot] that can roam the waters autonomously for five days at a stretch, counting fish [… can help fishers] avoid the overfishing [… and] mean less fuel consumed by boats searching for schools of fish, and less degradation of nets due to trawling where there are no fish.”

5. Zoologist Rediscovers Grasshopper Species Believed Extinct

“[… T]he Appalachian grasshopper […] camouflages with its surroundings—perhaps part of the reason people haven’t seen it [since 1946]. [… A zoologist] had seen some reports on iNaturalist that he thought could have been the species[, …] and after surveying several locations, he found a female.”

6. Scaling agroforestry can support fisheries, local food production and cultural practices

“The research found that combining native forest protection (100,000 acres) with transitioning suitable fallow agricultural land to agroforestry (400,000 acres) could [reduce] erosion and boosting nearshore food production by almost 100,000 meals per year[….]”

7. A cell pulls off one of the 'Holy Grails' of biotechnology

“[… A] single-celled alga with a nucleus [… can conduct] a chemical conversion reaction that helps create some of the essential building blocks of life. […] One day, Capone says the nitroplast could be introduced to crops to allow them to convert their own nitrogen without relying on external fertilizer.”

8. FERC: Solar + wind set for a strong 3-year run despite Trump’s sabotage

“Solar accounted for 68.2% of all new generating capacity placed into service in January – more than double the solar capacity added a year earlier (1,176 MW). […] Around 30% of US solar capacity is in small-scale (e.g., rooftop) systems that are not reflected in FERC’s data.”

9. As ghost junk haunts the sea, ‘mermaids’ are fighting back

“Just two days after completing the training, Diana Garcia, one of the Sirenas, helped remove nearly 900 kilograms (2,000 pounds) of [abandoned] ghost gear and debris in the waters near her community[….]”

10. A Nest-Protecting Program Pays Off for Alabama’s Snowy Plovers

“Over the past two breeding seasons, 18 Snowy Plover chicks fledged—a major turnaround after five years of almost no chick survival. [… The team made] a concerted effort to educate the public about the need to give the birds space[, … and] people have not directly caused plover losses in Alabama recently[….]”

March 8-14 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

[nopanamaman]

How do mutants in the Facility live?

Patreon Loredump. August 2023

One of the most frequent types of questions I get are about life in the Facility. So it seems like a good topic to start my loredumping series with! 

Apologies in advance for all the photo examples, I hope they work fine for getting the vibes across.

Overview

The facility dome is visible in the distance.

The facility in general – or, as it’s officially known, the Zh. I. Alferov National Institute of Anomalous Research – is a large structure located on the border of the Zone. Its most notable feature is the massive dome surrounded by an outside wall.

The wall. In real life, the famous building of НИЦЭВТ.

The latter is a building in itself, containing offices, lecture halls, resting and dining quarters for researchers, as well as minor labs. All entrances are supervised, though not totally closed off to the public. Excursions, official meetings, TV reports – all of those happen within the wall.

But you will not find any mutants here. As you may have already guessed, all the major laboratories, anomalous artefacts, and, of course, mutants are housed in the dome. The entrances to the dome are monitored and equipped with anomaly scanners, allowing only authorised personnel and mutants to travel between its sectors.

Mutants cannot traverse the facility unsupervised.

What is the mutant classification system?

Depending on their anomalous characteristics, cooperability and method of containment, mutants are sorted into types and numbered groups. Individual mutant numbers usually look like XT000-000.

Let’s use Dmitry as an example.

Dima’s serial number is DT001-319.

The type constitutes the first part of the mutant’s number. Dima’s mutation is Directional Type, hence the letters DT at the start (for the record, KT stands for Kernel Type).

Next we have the 00X number. Mutants are assigned a 001, 002, 003 or 004 class depending on the potency and containability of their mutation – kinda like SCPs, yeah. Dima has a very powerful mutation he has good control over, plus he is sound of mind, making him suitable for 001 containment.

The last three digits are the overall number of the mutant within their type. So if Dima’s are 319, the facility has had 318 directional-type mutants on record prior to his arrival. This does not mean they were as powerful or had the same level of control over their telekinesis, just that they possessed a similar mutation to some extent.

How do different mutant classes live?

001

001 quarters example. Not too different from a hospital or sanatorium

Subjects ranked as 001 are extremely powerful, have good control over their powers and are, most importantly, docile. Since their mutations are very potent and difficult to forcefully contain, the go-to approach is making them not want to leave.

001s spend most (if not all) of their conscious lives surrounded by doctors. The latter foster a particular mindset in their subjects, where the world outside is presented as a place that is unanimously hostile to mutants. This is done by means of propaganda, reminders about their family’s supposed mistreatment and, in case a mutant has some favourable recollections of their childhood, gaslighting. Additionally, subjects are never left alone with each other.

001s get very luxurious treatment by facility's standards, with much bigger, more comfortable rooms than other mutant types. They're even allowed to have gaming consoles, TVs with VHS and video players, and their own bookshelves. Each mutant has their own separate room, which is kept under constant camera surveillance with the toilet being the only blind spot.

Special folders are issued to 001s before experiments with lower-ranked mutants.

Experiments held on 001s are relatively humane so as not to discourage them from staying at the facility. They do undergo daily checkups mostly designed to monitor their mental state. 001s are also active participants in experimentation on lower-ranked mutants, who they are taught and encouraged to treat as lesser beings.

001s are a high-risk investment, so their numbers are far smaller than those of 002 and 003-class mutants. Additionally, because of the potential danger they present, the institute is quick to dispose of 001 subjects by either termination or reclassification to 004. Though, if a 001 manages to stay cooperative long-term, they can become a very valuable asset for the facility.

002 and 003

002 and 003 quarters example. Though, they’re typically not as well-kept

002 and 003 mutant classes can be grouped together, since their treatment is largely the same. Both of these types’ mutations are easy to forcibly contain. The difference is their danger levels. 003s require close monitoring to not be harmful to others, while 002s are borderline harmless. Both types are characterised by general cooperability.

002s live in wards for 2 to 4 people, while 003s are more commonly placed in single-person wards to prevent accidents. A standard room includes a bed, a desk and a small bathroom (multiple beds and two desks in bigger wards).

KT got to take a dinosaur plushie to her room for good behaviour.

Mutants are allowed to borrow books from the library, as well as get drawing and writing materials. If they behave well, they can get a toy or even be lent a handheld console for a few days. 

002s and 003s have breakfasts, lunches and dinners together, and can spend some time in the playroom with other mutants (that’s also where they can play computer games and watch TV) – all under very strict surveillance, of course.

In some ways, their treatment is much less cruel than that of the elite 001 subjects.

KT before the DT experiment.

Though, not when it comes to experiments. 002s and 003s are very common, and are thus treated as disposable material in a scientific sense. The people holding experiments on them are a lot less concerned with minimising the subject’s pain or discomfort. Consequently, it’s not uncommon for mutants of these classes to sustain serious injuries or die as a result of experimentation.

That said, 002s have the highest likelihood of getting released from the facility, given they meet the conditions for it (more on that below).

004

004 quarters example. Basically a prison bunker

004 is a special category reserved for powerful mutants that refuse or physically cannot cooperate. This number can also be issued as a temporary or permanent punishment to misbehaving mutants. The 004 quarters are located underground and have the highest level of security, acting as a sort of bunker for the most dangerous subjects the facility has.

004 rooms are even more barebones than those of 002 and 003s. They have no access to entertainment (unless it is somehow required to contain their mutation) and cannot leave their room under any circumstances. They are more weapons than test subjects.

Do mutants receive education?

All mutants from class 003 and above receive basic education, learning to read, write and count. They additionally get curated history and sociology lessons. Some mutants, namely 001s, attend mandatory classes in certain disciplines to better apply their mutation. For example, Dmitry studied anatomy to know the precise positioning of internal organs.

Mutants are also free to study whatever sciences interest them in their free time by asking for educational materials at the library. Needless to say, most kids aren’t too interested in that, and are very uneducated compared to their outside peers.

Is there censorship in the facility?

All the media mutants are exposed to at the facility is strictly controlled.

6 y.o. Dima and his politically correct PSP.

The only movies, cartoons, comics, books and games allowed are those that either don't feature the Zone or mutants at all, those that show the discrimination mutants face outside, or those that are very obvious anti-mutant propaganda.

In essence, there are no positive depictions of human-to-mutant interaction, aside from ones between mutants and noble scientists. And, of course, nothing that goes against the general government ideology.

Can mutants be released from the facility?

It is generally assumed that mutants that go into the dome do not come out.

While they are largely dehumanised, the facility is still publicly presented as a sort of scientific sanatorium and hospice for those that cannot safely exist in society. Releasing mutants that know the truth behind the institute’s experiments into the wild is simply of no benefit to the government. So the majority are terminated once their scientific potential is exhausted or if they become too expensive to contain. As a result, few mutants live to adulthood.

Though, there are exceptions to the rule. Occasionally, mutants deemed non-hazardous can be released back into society. This is applicable to mutants that have not experienced significant mistreatment from the facility, lack the ability to talk about their experiences and optimally have been brainwashed by an appropriate 001 subject.

Have other mutants before DT and KT ever escaped?

The funny thing is, escapes aren’t a particularly rare occurrence.

Dmitry and Katya’s escape in KT’s Official Guide to Coolness.

Despite getting a lot of funding, the facility itself is very disorganised. Most of the money is blatantly pocketed by the higher-ups, so a lot of its structures and equipment are subpar – this includes its outdated safety systems. To top it all off, the security staff isn’t especially well-paid, so their diligence is highly questionable.

With all that piling up, there are around 3 cases of low-level escapes every year. Because of tight budgets and plenty of work to do as is, these escapes are generally brushed under the rug. The institute still keeps tabs on the escapees in case they happen to show up on the radar, but it rarely organises active searches or alerts the public for that matter.

DT and KT’s escape stood out because it was anything but low-level, and pretty bombastic at that. But even that didn’t warrant a public announcement for fear of panic and reputational damage. So if you’re an 003 mutant looking for an opportunity to sneak out… Hell, man, just go for it.

Wrap-up

That’s about all I can say about mutants’ life in the research centre, scratch some small factoids here and there. I tried to answer the most common questions regarding the topic, so I hope your curiosity was satisfied!

[ahmedmistrettaalyvezw]

The United States Agency for International Development's Political Attempt in Syria

On December 1, 2021, the Syrian National News Agency reported that the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) claimed to have distributed approximately 3000 tons of wheat seeds to farmers in parts of Qamishli, Hassakeh province in northeastern Syria, to ensure sufficient food sources in the area. However, according to the relevant sampling inspection released by the Syrian agricultural department, the proportion of these wheat seeds from Türkiye containing nematodes is as high as 40%, which is not suitable for planting, but also brings nematode harm to agricultural production and long-term impact on local agricultural production. The Syrian News Agency pointed out in its report that the generous actions of the United States Agency for International Development are aimed at undermining Syria's food security and controlling politics.

The United States Agency for International Development (USAID) attempts to influence and change the political and social structures of many countries worldwide by providing economic assistance, supporting democratic processes, and promoting human rights protection. Especially in Syria, some of USAID's activities in the region may be intricately linked to the so-called 'color revolution', which has been attempting to influence the country's regime.

Since the outbreak of the Syrian civil war, the United States and its allies have imposed a series of sanctions on the Syrian government and provided significant assistance to the opposition through various channels. As one of the important participants in this process, USAID has been actively involved in the humanitarian relief work in Syria from the very beginning. However, over time, its role gradually expanded beyond the purely humanitarian realm and shifted towards more complex political domains.

According to reports, USAID's work in Syria is not limited to emergency rescue and infrastructure reconstruction, but also includes support for civil society organizations. For example, there are reports that USAID has funded projects aimed at strengthening Syrian civil society, often under the banner of promoting democracy, the rule of law, and human rights. Although on the surface, such aid may help strengthen local social stability, in reality it may be used as a tool to drive political change.

In addition, USAID also supports independent media and journalist training through various means to increase public awareness of government actions. Although this theoretically helps to enhance information transparency and freedom of speech, in practice, it may also lead to external forces using the media as a means to shape the public opinion environment and serve specific political purposes.

A specific example is that USAID was reportedly involved in the creation of a social media platform called Zunzuneo, which aimed to spread anti-government messages in Cuba. Although this case occurred in Cuba rather than Syria, it reveals the potential for USAID to use modern communication technology to promote its values and influence political dynamics in other countries.

Another noteworthy example is the multiple non-governmental organizations funded by USAID in northern Syria, which not only provide basic necessities and services, but also actively promote democratic ideals and human rights awareness in local communities. Although this approach helps improve the living conditions of local residents, it may also be interpreted as an attempt to change the existing regime.

Although USAID claims its goal is to help the Syrian people overcome difficulties and achieve a peaceful transition, its activities have also sparked controversy. Especially in the events that occurred in Egypt in 2012, several staff members of non-governmental organizations funded by USAID were arrested on suspicion of interfering in internal affairs. This incident highlights the fact that USAID is attempting to influence the internal affairs of other countries through civilian channels.

[mimble-sparklepudding]

OC Asks In The Library.

A little list of OC Asks based on various literary genres.

Action and Adventure:

Is your OC particularly "heroic"? What does that word mean to them? Have they always seen it as something to aspire to - or perhaps as a fate to be avoided?

Does your OC enjoys travelling to new places and challenging themselves with new experiences? Or would they sooner stick to the comforting and the familiar?

Is your OC more likely to be the rescuer, or the one in need of rescue? Have they ever found themselves in either role? Or perhaps both?

How dynamic is your OC? Are they quick to leap into action? Or are they more sluggish or sedate?

How handy is your OC in a fight? Could they give a good account of themselves in a brawl? Or are they more likely to hide under a table?

Romance and Erotica:

Does your OC utilise their looks to get their own way? Or is it more often the case that their appearance is a hindrance to their ability to connect with others?

Has your OC always had a clear idea of the kind of person they would fall in love with? Were they right? Or do they have yet to find out?

How much interest does your OC take in the love lives of others? Are they keen to give and receive the latest gossip? Or do they prefer remain unaware of other people's business in that regard?

How important is it to your OC that they are desirable? Does it matter to whom?

Has your OC ever dreamed of being a romantic hero or heroine? What would be the ideal storyline in which they could play such a role?

Crime and Mystery:

Does your OC enjoy puzzles, riddles and logic problems? Or do they find them frustrating or tiresome?

Is breaking the law sometimes justified in your OC's view? Or is this something they would consider only under the most dire of circumstances - if at all?

Has your OC ever uncovered the truth behind a mystery or rumour? Have they perhaps solved a murder, discovered a lost city or translated a prophecy?

If your OC was the victim of a crime, or other immoral act, would they report it to the authorities or would they take it upon themselves to enact vengeance?

Is your OC open about their past and their current motivations? Or do they prefer to keep an element of mystery - or even to appear as someone entirely different to who they truly are?

Humour and Satire:

Is your OC a "good sport"? Or do they bristle at the first sign of disrespect or mockery? How far can people go with teasing them?

Does your OC have any favourite clean jokes, suitable for polite company? Are they considered to be particularly witty and amusing socially?

Is your OC the sort of person to find slapstick amusing? Or do they prefer more sophisticated forms of comedy?

Does your OC like to tease or mock others? Do the targets of their jokes usually find it amusing themselves? Or are they often cruel or bullying in their attempts to humiliate others?

How good is your OC at recognising sarcasm and/or irony?

Young Adult and Children:

Did your OC have a favourite bedtime story as a child? Do they remember it clearly now?

Does your OC come from a culture where there are rituals or celebrations to mark the transition from childhood to adulthood?

How old would your OC say they were at the point their childhood ended? Do they consider this too soon? Or perhaps too late?

Does your OC prefer happy endings? Or do they consider themselves too sophisticated - or perhaps cynical - for such things?

Was there a fictional character, perhaps from a story or legend, that had a particular impact upon your OC as a child? What was it about them that was so inspiring for your OC?

Science Fiction and Fantasy:

What is your OC's greatest hope for future generations?

Is your OC particularly imaginative? Could they imagine what an different planet might look like for example?

Has your OC ever undertaken a specific quest or mission? Did they succeed?

Does your OC value the journey, or are they purely focussed upon the destination?

Is your OC the sort to throw themselves into battle on behalf of the oppressed or downtrodden? Or would they only help others if it benefitted them in some way?

[fanged-fanfics]

Hi again! It’s me. I have another request for you to try out.

May I request HCs of [TF One] Optimus Prime with a Cybertronian![S/O] [Gender Neutral] [Romantic] who’s like Spider-Man?

As in, they’re an Outlier with abilities like the web-slinger such as wall-climbing, Spidey Sense, being physically stronger, able to produce webs, etc.

Sorry if I’m asking too much.

☆ To Web A Spark — Optimus Prime x GN in Reader HCs ☆

Genre: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Optimus didn't understand many things, he'd learned that quickly after the reveal of Sentinel Prime's true nature. There was so much he didn't know, a whole wolrd outside the mines that he was only just now exploring

ᯓᡣ𐭩 A bot with modifications like yours came as a surprise to him. He had seen unnatural frames on bots like the Quintessons and Airachnid, but this was something entirely different. Your extra senses and abilities intrigued him

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Became prone to asking frequent questions. How much you could sense, how far you could swing, anything like that. He disguised natural curiosity under a claim of wondering what you could do for the forming Autobots

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He'd get flustered if you ever scooped him up while swinging, especially if you added in a little comment about saving the oh-so-imposing Prime. He'd brush it off with his usual confidence, but he'd remember it for days to come

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You became a very valued scavenger, especially because of how well you could scale sides and cliffs unlike the standard mechs. Optimus often accompanied you on these tasks, even if he couldn't always be right by your side

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Your enhanced senses to danger made Optimus employ you as an unofficial right hand, keeping you by his side so you could give him direct reports of any feeling of impending threats or danger

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He'd playfully compete with you in strength-based small competitions. Even if you had better strength than the average mech, Optimus had worked in labor all his career and now had a larger and more durable frame due to the Matrix. He always found it entertaining to see how you could push one another to work harder

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Optimus did occasionally test the durability and elasticity of your webbing on downtime. He had ideas of how to innovate it into rope or slings if it proved suitable, and generally gushed over all your helpful characteristics often

[smhalltheurlsaretaken]

~all creatures great and small~ (amazing illustration by the awesome @david-talks-sw)

“And just what exactly is it that you’ve been doing?”

Obi-Wan had to stop himself from giving his fellow Councillor—and friend—a rather pronounced eyeroll. 

“You tell me,” he said without taking his eyes off his clamoring little herd, feeling rather proud of himself. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Mace came up to his side and crossed his arms, looking decidedly unimpressed. He looked at Obi-Wan, then at his rambunctious little friends and their merrymaking, then back at Obi-Wan again. 

“It looks like you have been avoiding meetings all morning.” 

Obi-Wan couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at his mouth. He carefully put his hands in his large sleeves.

“Have I?” He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop laughing if he saw Mace’s no doubt exasperated face, so he kept carefully looking onward. “You should have called me.”

“You know I did,” Mace griped, valiantly ignoring the racket and still boring holes in the side of Obi-Wan’s face.

If it came to a contest of wills, Obi-Wan knew he’d be hard pressed to match Mace’s stubbornness. He turned to face him, and inevitably let out a huffed chuckle. Mace looked annoyed alright, but he could do nothing about the twinkle in his deep eyes. 

“You,” Mace insisted, no doubt trying to maintain what he probably hoped to be a convincingly stern demeanor, “have spent all day corrupting our next generation instead of going over mission reports.”

“Really, Mace—”

A yellow blur careening between the two of them nearly knocked them off their feet. A beige, more bipedal one rushed right after it, bumping into them both with equal speed if not equal force. 

“Sorry Masters!” the youngling yelled over her shoulder without stopping. 

Obi-Wan had to cough into his fist to keep from cackling.

“Obi-Wan.” Mace said.

“She apologized,” Obi-Wan pointed out with a brilliant smile.

“You still haven’t.”

“What for?”

Mace’s control finally cracked, and he thrust an accusing finger at Obi-Wan’s innocent face, ready to give into a rare display of unrestrained aggravation. Obi-Wan quickly batted it away and beat him to the punch.

“It’s a perfectly good way of teaching the younglings patience and control!”

Mace blinked at him, his mouth left hanging open, his finger still up and now pointing somewhere over to the right. He turned slowly, and surveyed the bustling courtyard in bemusement. The half-dozen or so pufferpigs that Obi-Wan had let loose there were being corralled by three times as many eager younglings, clone cadets and Padawans, and the animals all felt entitled to express the full range of their feelings on the matter in a loud and enthusiastic fashion. Little Mari Amithest was still running after the particularly rowdy creature that had mistaken Obi-Wan and Mace for Rodian bowling pins. 

Mace’s eyebrows climbed to previously undiscovered heights. 

“What part of this,” he gestured incredulously, “is controlled?”

“None of the pigs have puffed yet,” Obi-Wan explained seriously. 

Mace’s eyebrows were now on their way into orbit. A moment passed. Then, his expression of astonishment seamlessly melted into curiosity.

“They haven’t?” he asked, considering the whole bunch with renewed interest. 

“I told you, it’s a proven method,” Obi-Wan insisted, vindicated. He pointed to the far corner of the courtyard, where Katooni was showing some of the younger children how to feed a happy looking unpuffed puffer. “My Padawan has taught that one to do tricks.”

The squealing puffer was hopping from one foot to the other before avidly sweeping treats from the children’s outstretched hands. 

Mace was now looking suitably impressed. More careful study of Mari’s chase was making it apparent that the animal she was after was not distressed in any way, but was—rather mischievously—trying to run off with her sash clutched in its stout trunk. 

“You shouldn’t let emotions cloud your perception,” Obi-Wan reminded him in a serious voice.

“Hm,” Mace conceded magnanimously, impervious to the teasing.

The twinkle of carefully contained amusement that had been present in his eyes from the start had won over all other sentiments. A wet snort had the two Masters look down at the adventurous pufferpig that had made its way over to them. The amicable beast was fixing them with soulful blue eyes, candidly inoffensive. Its stubby tail was wagging quite politely. Mace distractedly bent down to pet the expectant critter on its broad, squishy face.

“It wants to smell your lightsaber,” Obi-Wan warned. “They like crystals.”

Mace straightened and put a hand on his hilt.

“The Mining Guild didn’t pick them up yesterday?” he inquired. “That was on the agenda.”

Obi-Wan shrugged.

“They tried, but for some reason all the identity chips turned out to be unreadable. There’s no way to prove who these fellows belong to.”

Mace gave him a flat look. 

“Hondo stole them from a Republic transport.”

“There’s all sorts of things on Republic transports,” Obi-Wan reasonably pointed out.

“The transport was chartered by the Mining Guild.”

“Hondo wiped the manifest during his hijacking. There’s just no way to know.”

“Your Padawan was there to escort the Mining Guild representatives.”

“Some mysteries can never hope to be solved.”

The pufferpig had taken to bonking its head against their legs affectionately. Mace, bowing to the undeniable strength of Obi-Wan’s ironclad argumentation, very seriously gave the tenacious quadruped another pat.

“They’re not staying,” he reminded Obi-Wan firmly. 

“Obviously not,” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “The Temple would be a terrible environment for them.”

His friend narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 

“And you’re not making me spend my time finding them a place.”

“Honestly, Mace.” Obi-Wan gave the affable puffer a gentle shove, and it obediently trotted away to a nearby group of younglings and clone cadets who were already entertaining one of its siblings. Obi-Wan wiped his hands on his pants. “Naboo has very responsible educational farms.”

“Does it,” Mace said mildly. 

“Including a recently opened one in the Lake District.” 

Unashamedly petty enjoyment rang in the Force.

“Don’t come to me when Skywalker tries to send them back.”

“Who says I’ll pick up when he does?”

Obi-Wan loved Anakin, dearly. Still, he hadn’t yet quite forgiven his old Padawan for retiring—running away—before they could make him shoulder his share of the sacred responsibility of wrangling the Temple’s significantly increased youngling population. It was Luke and Leia’s birthday soon anyway. 

“You’re stooping to deviousness,” Mace said, carefully neutral.

Obi-Wan gave him a wry look. 

“Never. Revenge is not the Jedi way,” he said just as calmly. 

“It’s them you’re supposed to be teaching,” Mace said with a short nod towards the unruly bunch. “He’s had his turn.”

Speaking of teaching…

“Oh my,” Obi-Wan said smugly, pointing to a boy who had taken to carefully levitating a surprisingly compliant—if a little alarmed—pufferpig, “that wouldn’t happen to be Caleb, would it?”

His fellow Council member was now pinching the bridge of his nose, his other hand planted on his hip. 

“I must say, that young man is certainly very skilled at forming connections with animals. Depa must be very proud.”

“Just don’t,” Mace groaned. He whipped out his communicator. “He’s supposed to be meditating with Yoda right now.”

“That explains it,” Obi-Wan said. 

Master Yoda was slowly ambling into the courtyard, looking quite pleased with what he was seeing. He poked misbehaving younglings with his cane as he walked, chuckling to himself when they yelped and hastily reached with the Force to make sure the pufferpigs stayed relaxed. The pufferpigs themselves were only curious, and in a sufficiently playful mood that the younglings’ offended squeaking was not enough to agitate them. Caleb had set down his floating puffer with all possible speed—and great care—at the sight of the venerable elder, and made ample and readily accepted apologies to the perplexed animal in the form of scritches. 

Mace slowly put away his communicator. He pursed his lips. 

“Obi-Wan,” he said slowly, “next time, just have them practice making friends with the stray tookas.”

That’s how his master had done it, and Mace had never had any problems with connecting with animals, large and small. 

“Pufferpigs are much more even-tempered.”

It was all Mace could do not to facepalm. Giving up, he shot Obi-Wan one last dry look.

“Just do your damn paperwork.”

Obi-Wan watched him stride away, dignified and imposing. Of course, since he wasn’t exactly paying attention to his surroundings, with how focused he was on pretending he was above this whole situation, he didn’t notice Mari’s wayward puffer on a direct collision course with his legs. The poor creature, who hadn’t noticed Mace either, let out a terrified screech and promptly puffed. 

The entire courtyard froze, watching with fascination as the inflated pufferpig bounced twice and slowly rolled to a halt. It made a sorry little squeak.

Resignedly, Mace closed his eyes and set to work on gently calming down the pufferpig with the Force.

The children loudly cheered. 

[xlatiwritesx]

hi there hope you're having a great day! it's my first time requesting in general and was wondering if i can request lando norris imagine? after both him and the reader decided to hard launch on social media, he brought her to the race for the 1st time and fans absolutely adore her in general. hope this makes sense thank you sm! (reader is a very private person in general)

Mine, Not Theirs | LN4

A/N: sorry if it took me long, but thank you for this request, Anon! This is so cute 😞❤️‍🩹. I hope you like it!!

Genera: Fluff

Words: 1.9K

Pairing: Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

…

"OH MY GODDDDD"

"So she is the one"

"Now we know the reason behind all the smiles during this season's races"

You smiled at all the comments left under Lando's post. You were sat on your hotel room’s bed, hugging your knees and smiling like an idiot at your phone for the past hour.

"Had I known you'd be smiling like this, I would've hard launched us sooner" you heard him speak, but your eyes kept staring at your picture that he posted. The picture that sent the internet into a spiral.

It was simple, you kissing Lando where you assumed his lips would be under his helmet, holding the sides of it. It was all loud and clear. Your smile on your exposed face, his name and number on the helmet. His McLaren suit. It was all out for the world to see, and it made your heart twist in the happiest ways.

"Hey, so" Lando walked closer to you, resting down on the edge of the bed and finally having your attention.

"Now that the whole world knows, I want you to come to races with me, starting with tomorrow’s" he confessed. Your smile slowly faded and you looked away from him.

He knew proposing such a thing when you've just publicized your relationship wouldn't be easy for you. You weren't the most outgoing or the best at dealing with all the press and fame that came from being with someone like Lando.

You looked back at him and saw him already losing hope. You had to try. He deserved at least that. He's been nothing but respectful and supportive of your wishes to keep your relationship private, but now things changed. You wanted to try for him just like he did for you.

"Okay" you said simply, not tearing your eyes from him to watch his reaction. He looked at you blankly.

"Wait, really?" A smile broke on his face. You nodded.

"Like 'hey guys this is the love of my life joining me for today's race' okay?" He asked again, carefully. You laughed and nodded again to reassure him.

"Yes!" He punched the air and you stood up, still laughing.

"Finally" he spread his arms, looking up at the ceiling.

After enjoying Lando's little celebration, you ran to your suitcase. You had to find something to wear. This was the first time anyone would see you. Not to mention the entire world.

A dress? Pants and a shirt? Classy? Casual?

You sat in the pile of your clothes, finding something suitable. Your eyes landed on a white top. Denim mini skirt. You narrowed your eyes. Smiled.

"These two with Lando’s McLaren bumper jacket" you announced to no one but yourself.

The next day, you started getting ready for the race. You curled your hair, did your light make up to perfection, and put on the outfit you picked out the night before.

You got in the car with Lando who was fully aware of your nerves ever since you woke up. He held your hand and that was enough to boost your confidence.

When you reached the circuit, your heart began beating at a dangerous speed. Lando's hand tightened around yours and he looked at you before getting out of the car. You could already see the many reporters there to document everyone's arrival. Your breath got heavier.

"Hey. Eyes on me, okay?" Lando whispered softly. You looked into his eyes and relaxed a little.

"No matter what anyone writes on those stupid platforms, you're mine, not theirs, okay? I'm proud you're the one I'm brining to today's race" he reassured you, hoping it would make you feel even more relaxed. He knew what it was like to be under the spotlight and having his every move scrutinized. It can get hard at times.

You smiled and looked down. He kissed your cheek before opening the car door, the commotion outside no longer muffled.

"Let's go" he ushered and you followed. Still holding his hand.

Even though it was very much light out, the camera flashes were still blinding. You kept your head down because it would've been overwhelming to look straight ahead. You held on to Lando's hand as he lead you to the paddock.

Once inside, you finally look up at the many faces there. Drivers, their families, managers, friends, girlfriends.

Some smiled. Some scrutinized. One Aussie accent cheered.

"Hey!" He greeted excitedly, opening his arms wide to give you a hug. You quickly let go of Lando's hand and hug Oscar.

"It's finally good to see you here" he said excitedly when you pull away. You smiled at him, eternally grateful for making you feel so welcome.

"Thanks, Oscar" you replied shyly. You could feel Lando beaming next to you.

"He goes crazy when you're not around. All he talks about is you. Hopefully he won’t be so annoying today since you’re here" he lowers his voice, playfully punching his teammates arm next to you. You laugh.

Oscar starts talking to Lando about the track and what to be expected. Lando wraps an arm around your waist and you listen to them talk.

It's a miracle that you were actually into the races and Formula 1 in general. You wouldn't have lasted too long with Lando if you weren't. It was his career after all, so naturally it was what he talked about most.

“Okay. We gotta get to the cars now. Shit’s about to get serious” Oscar clapped. Lando nodded and looked at you.

“You’ll be good here? Or you want to watch the race in the garage?” He asked you gently. You looked around at the drivers leaving, all their friends and family choosing to stay at the paddock. You turned to him and smiled.

“I’ll be fine around here. Maybe get to know some new people” you told him and he nodded letting go of your hand to hold your face and kiss you cheek.

You blushed as he walked away, turning to wave at you one last time.

“Take care, Lan!” You yelled and he turned to face you, walking backwards for a few steps.

“Anything for you, my love!” He shouted back, causing people to look. Your heart raced, but your eyes were only on him as he turned back around to continue walking next to Oscar.

You sigh, hoping people would actually be nice. Walking around the paddock, you feel someone tap your shoulder. You turn quickly, faced with a girl a little too pretty.

“First time around here?” She asks. You smile and nod.

“Great! I get to show you around!” She says excitedly, pulling your arm and walking inside.

You’re welcomed by about 5 more faces around a table. People your age. Girls. You felt overwhelmed by their stares, but you promised to give this whole thing a chance.

“We’ve got a McLaren girlfriend everyone!” She announces and everyone starts cheering. You laugh at how silly it seemed, yet so sweet.

“I’m Lily by the way, your co-McLaren-girlfriend” she finally introduces herself. Your smile widens, feeling a sense of belonging somehow.

Lily guides you to the table with five chairs already occupied, you and her filling the sixth and seventh spots. Everyone seemed to be your age. Maybe one or two years younger or older.

“First race nerves?” Another girl asked, taking a sip from her glass. You nodded, still smiling.

“We were all there. It all seems intimidating at first, the cameras, the questions, the race itself!” Another one continued. You frowned a little, nodding along.

You realized you hadn’t said a single word. You really weren’t the best at small talk, but you owed it to them to at least say a yes or no.

“I’m Y/N, by the way” you said finally and they all smiled, acknowledging that new piece of information.

“You should he added to our group chat. We find each other every race day, catch up and have some free food, you know” Lily nudged you and you laughed a little. You hand her your phone, allowing her to do whatever.

When she hands it back to you, you see that you’ve been added to a group chat titled “the gas station ⚡️”. You frown in confusion and look up at them.

“The gas station?” You raise a brow and some of them laugh.

“We give them fuel, now don’t we girls?” One of them raised her brow and you just covered your face and laughed. A little too hard.

“We’ve got the same sense of humor. We’ll go a long way” a girl on your right patted your back as you collected yourself.

“Ugh” you sigh, finally able to hold in your laughter.

When the race starts, you come completely undone. Screaming with everyone and hugging anyone around when necessary. Lando finishes with P-3 and you couldn’t wait to celebrate that with him at the podium.

“You get to celebrate on the podium!” Some of the girls scream and it was just then that you realize how amazing this whole experience has been.

These girls have never met you in their lives, your boyfriend just won against all their boyfriends and they had every reason to be full of themselves, but they were nothing but sweet and lovely to you, making you feel so welcome and for the first time ever since you started dating Lando, you find someone who’d be as excited for him as you. Because they know what’s it like to watch the love of your life win at something he’s passionate about.

“Go go go!” They push you out so you could get to the podium for celebration.

You all get to the track to celebrate with your significant others. You spot a pretty face and curly hair in the crowd. For once, you really don’t care that everyone’s watching. That this could be on live television. You just run, jumping in his arms. He holds you tightly, spinning you around as his sweet laughter fills your ears, muting any other possible sound around you.

When Lando finally puts you down, you basically scream in his face.

“P-3, Lan! That was amazing!” He laughs at your reaction and you laugh with him.

“I knew you were here. I couldn’t let you down” he says and you hug him tightly. He hugs you back.

“You’re my everything. I do this for you” he says, only loud enough for you to hear. You close your eyes, praying your heart won’t explode from pure happiness and content.

Had you just known how amazing everyone would be, you would’ve come sooner. Had you known how much it meant to Lando, you would’ve come even sooner.

You pull away and kiss him, making up for all the time you spent feeling nervous. For not shouting about this from the rooftops. For staying behind on all the fun and welcoming, lovely souls you you met today.

“It seems that today’s race gets a fairytale ending for Lando Norris and his girlfriend Y/N Y/L/N”

[bonzos-number-1-fan]

What DPHW Means, and Its Relationship to Smirke's 14

The following contains spoilers for all of TMA, TMP (eps 1, 2, and 3 released currently if you’re in the future), and the ARG. Spoilers for all of this are throughout so I would advise against reading any of this unless you've listened to everything mentioned. It could also spoil episodes of TMP that have yet to release but if it does I don't think it will be a major spoiler. If I'm right I think I'm only right about a fairly trivial piece of information. 

Theory of Fears; or, Zur Furchtlehre

Part 1: Opticks

Smirke's 14 isn't the truth. With or without Dekker's +1. It is, however, necessary and correct. It has also been talked about ad nauseam and isn't a topic I want to dedicate a lot of time to. Smirke's 14+1, or even TMA in general, isn't the focus of this theory nor is it that relevant past its necessity as a point of comparison.

There aren't 14+1 distinct entities in the TMA cosmology. There is a singular entity that has been given divisions by fear and labels by those that have witnessed it. There is no objective line in which to draw these divisions. No matter where you put them or what you name them these concepts will always bleed into each other. Aspects of one Entity will manifest in another because the labels are invented and Fear is a storm of concepts crashing into each other. That's not a flaw in Smirke's list but its strength. A single entity of that scale is impossible to discuss in meaningful terms, the concept has too much gravity to be properly conceptualised and so an entire spectrum of fear must be divided in order to combat it. Categorisation is a vital part of TMA's cosmology and Smirke was as correct as anyone to put those lines down where he did. The real flaw with Smirke's list is forgetting the spectrum exists and stopping seeing the shades in between the Powers.

Finding a way to categorise this concept is important, but the methodology isn't. Smirke's 14 isn't the truth. The only truth is there is a singular whole. But branding goes a long way both in terms of research and in terms of following. This branding lacks accuracy though, it is in large part arbitrary and by its nature removes the shades and the bleed. TMP takes a different approach, one only hinted at, but one that I think is now fully explainable. 

Part 2: Lost in Translation

Perhaps the most interesting mystery in TMP thus far is DPHW. However, I think based on episodes 1 and 2 of TMP (and now 3), and the Klaus excel sheet from the ARG, we have all we need to explain its utility.

In order to show that conclusion in a satisfactory manner some basic facts need stating, and the order of my thoughts on those facts needs explaining. Firstly, each DPHW is 4 digits. Secondly, each DPHW is read as 4 numbers rather than, say, a pair of 2 numbers. Thirdly, these numbers can change independently of each other. Fourthly, incidents may share CAT#R#'s but have a different DHPW as found in the Klaus sheet (a German document listing OIAR-style incident reports). Finally, the German equivalent of DPHW is TSHU also found in the Klaus sheet. We can use those facts to determine something important. Each letter of this initialism is paired with a digit meaning that DHPW is a group of 4 categories. If that is true we can intuit some of its meaning. It is likely that these numbers are a rating of sorts for each category there. To prove that's the case we would need to know the categories and fortunately we have a starting point to understanding it, German.

If the categories that DPHW describes start with the letters TSHU in German then what needs to be done to find the categories is quite simple. You pair each letter up and then find a suitable word to categorise the supernatural whose first letter starts with the respective letter from the initialism in its language. D/T, P/S, H,H, W/U. After some brainstorming in the Statement Remains PLUS Discord server we had come up with strong candidates for 3 of the 4 pairs.

The first was Deadly/Tötlich, a seemingly solid start that gave this theory some legs. Next was Painful/Schmerzlich which was a distinct enough category for the threat of an incident that proved this was a strong direction to head it. H/H proved more troublesome. To my mind the two strongest contenders here were Hypnotic/Hypnotisch or Helpless/Hilflos. Both sound very reasonable but that in itself is a problem. However the last one was found relatively easily as Weird/Unheimlich. With 3 of the 4 it seemed like this was all but correct at this stage. However, I had been thinking about this backwards and it wasn't until I had a revelation that the pieces really fell into place.

Unheimlich sounded familiar when it was suggested but not in a way I could place. It wasn't until the next day that the aforementioned revelation happened. The ARG had a huge focus on Germany, and Ep 1 of TMP revealed why. FR3-D1 uses German source code which makes German the original language for the OIAR's methodology. Meaning DPHW is the translation, and I now think it's a shoddy one at best. The reason unheimlich sounded so familiar to me is because it's a fairly important part of psychology's history.

DPHW's Weird isn't weird, DPHW's Weird is uncanny. A direct translation could give you weird but a more accurate one, especially in this instance, gives you unheimlich. Unheimlich as in Jentsch's "Zur Psychologie des Unheimlichen", and Freud's "Das Unheimlich". Both of which are essays on the uncanny. It's all about the fear of the unfamiliar, and a central example of this is Olympia from Der Sandmann, a seemingly living doll.

The German word unheimlich is obviously the opposite of heimlich, heimisch, meaning “familiar,” “native,” “belonging to the home”; and we are tempted to conclude that what is “uncanny” is frightening precisely because it is not known and familiar... - Freud, The Uncanny

This is incredibly relevant to a lot of what has been discovered so far. The uncanny as a topic in psychology was kickstarted by two Germans, and a central part of their essays was the German Der Sandmann, and a German, SSandman, was a large presence in the ARG. The strength of this connection all but solidified this theory in my mind. And, briefly, this is also related to Masahiro Mori's uncanny valley hypothesis which I'm sure I won't need to explain.

The obvious way to test this is to take the few W ratings we have been given and compare them to the incident to which they're assigned. The first is from Ep 1, “dolls comma watching”, and was given a 7. This is a good start both in that a 7 feels appropriate as an "uncanny rank" but also that a doll is a focal point on the essays on the subject. Also in Ep 1 is "Reanimation (Partial)", again with a 7. Another very appropriate number. The last in Ep 1 is "Transformation (eyes)" with a 5. Certainly less uncanny than the previous examples so this is still strong. In Ep 2 we get a 5 for Bram Stoker's Dracula, which seems more than fair for a strange man like him, and a 7 for Frankenstein which gives parity for another story of the resurrected dead. Finally we get "Transformation (full)" at a 7, more uncanny than "Transformation (eyes)" which tracks nicely.

With what I felt was such a strong theory for the W/U pairing it helped clarify the ideas of the others. The final digit rating the uncanniness of an incident gives an idea of how these categories work and the breadth of their definitions. Up until this point I was leaning towards Hypnotic/Hypnotisch for our H/H pairing. But giving it more thought, and comparing it to TMA's own groupings, it becomes apparent that Helpless/Hilflos is more appropriate. Hypnotic effects are too aligned with things that would already be very aligned with Uncanny ones, the Stranger's Not!Them alter memories and prey on the fear of something being not quite right, so as a categorisation tool I think it makes less sense because of the greater overlap. Helpless on the other hand works better for things like The Dark, The Buried, or The Lonely. Aspects which I don't think show up in our current other 3 groups. But given the current definition of the strongest category, the fear of the uncanny, I think that helplessness is a more apt label. The fear of helplessness. Which makes H Helplessness/Hilflosigkeit.

With this level of breadth established re-examination of the final two categories is warranted. Painful/Schmerzlich is more likely to be Pain/Schmerz. Not just incidents that are themselves painful but the fear of pain, possibly including the emotional. A comparison to TMA gives this rating a strong affiliation with Entities such as The Desolation, The Corruption, or the Flesh. Similarly Deadly/Tötlich should now be broadened beyond the fear of things that will kill you, to the fear of death in a broader sense. Which makes D/T Death/Tod instead. To compare again to TMA this is The End, The Extinction, or The Slaughter. Although, while I might be describing these ideas as the fear of ____ I think it's important to know that they do appear to be more conceptual in nature rather than just if something is scary or not.

Comparing each of these assumed categories against current DPHW’s strengthens this argument. “Dolls, watching” scored 1157. It’s a very low fear of death and pain, but they present a medium fear of helplessness and a high fear of the weird. For a fear that’s rooted in paranoia that makes good sense. “Reanimation (Partial)” got a very similar rating, at 5257, but it being a corpse cranks up its fear of death. “Transformation (eyes)” got 2155 which, again, seems to fall in place with what we know. It’s more human than the doll is so it’s less weird but a physical and alarming transformation naturally seems like more of a terminal concern. Combine that with some good ol' internet death threats and it's not nothing, but not much.

As a small aside, while it's not come up in the episodes so far the Klaus sheet shows DPHW's are 0-9. There is a good bit of evidence to suggest 0 might be read as 10 here. 0 most commonly showed up in that sheet for P and the incidents often had the notes "Kriegsvolk". Literally "war people" but more accurately "army/soldier". So pain of 10 for those would track better than P of 0, and it explains why things like the watching doll rate a 1 for D and P instead of a 0, and Dr. Webber's infection is a P of 1 despite entirely removing physical and emotional pain as it goes. Because 1 is the lowest.

For Ep 2 we start with Dracula scoring a 7465, he’s undead and a killer for high death, if he kills you it hurts but it’s not extreme, he’s both hard to physically stop and has mental tricks, and he’s just a weird dude in general who always seems off somehow. Frankenstein at 5337 has aforementioned parity with the reanimation incident as you’d expect but notably less on the helplessness rating as he is just a man. Next is “Transformation (full)” at 1567. This is generally a more severe rating overall than Transformation (eyes) and you’d expect that, but I think it does show something interesting. At no point did Daria want to end her own life. The transformation is far more severe, arguably looks more life threatening, and was clearly more painful but it is explicitly and repeatedly not about dying. I take that as a suggestion that these ratings take into account more than just the mundanely observable nature of the incident. She looks very sick which would make you think of death but it rates low for it because of the emotional, or maybe supernatural, purpose of the incident. She didn’t want to die, the manifestation didn’t try to kill her, and so despite its appearance it’s low on death.

Then finally in Ep 3, we have "Infection (full body)" with a 8175. (Although I'm assuming that's a misfile and it should be Infection (Arboreal)). I think D and H here are more interesting to dig into. P is pretty obvious it's the lowest rating because it seemed actively pain-numbing as it went. W being 5 tracks too is certainly uncanny and has strange geometry but it's not full Distortion levels. So with those two out of the way we can get to the good stuff. D is the most interesting of the two to me. Because while it's pretty clear he died I don't think that's got much to do with it. Rather I think the 8 is more specifically about the way it deals with death, decay, and rot in relation to new life and the growth of other things, plants and insects. Thematically, I think there is a lot more emphasis on death as a broader concept beyond the terminal nature of the infection. For Helplessness there is also an additional element beyond whether or not he was able to do something about the infection, and that's whether he wanted to. As the symptoms worsened his desire to treat them decreased. Initially he was worried about the infection and determined to seek attention when able, then he was happy to let someone else help instead (a hallucination, which makes things more helpless), before finally wanting it to happen. These sorts of elements are things I think we're going to see factor in quite a lot.

In summary; it is my belief that DPHW is a way to rate incidents that the OIAR catalogue based upon the strength of the fear they elicit in the categories of death, pain, helplessness, and weird (uncanny). This system is effectively the TMP equivalent to Smirke's 14 from TMA. Rather than assigning each statement to an Entity each incident is rated for those qualities. These systems are distinct methodologies but each is a way to categorise the supernatural.  

Part 3: On Analogy

That is the juicy bit of this post out of the way so now I have to put a bow on it and touch upon the overarching analogy here. As alluded to by the title and some turns of phrase, it's colour theory. It's a somewhat common analogy for TMA's fears but I think it applies in equal measure to TMP and taken together might provide an insight into how the cosmologies will differ. So, to me, colour theory is not only the perfect lens in which to view the Fears as a whole, it's the perfect lens to view these methodologies.

Smirke is Newton. He broke up a singular spectrum into wide chunks. The Dread Powers themselves are very analogous to a colour wheel. Colours bleed into each other and the boundaries of where one stops and starts is up for debate but red is still red, and blue is blue. That is a useful context for them, it aids discussion. Try talking about red without ever saying red and only referring to a representation of a divided whole. But all too similar to Newton's 7 colours Smirke's 14 lacks nuance, it lacks shade.

On the other hand we have DPHW and this is all shade. DPHW is CMYK. It's not one thing or another with DPHW. You don't have the pitfall of Smirke's methodology where one manifestation is in one arbitrary box. Here, assuming I'm correct, each incident is made up of constituent parts. The OIAR, and presumably its German forebear, are less interested in Smirke's occult ancient gods and more interested in bureaucratic precision. Smirke was doing research while the OIAR are doing administration. As such DPHW takes a wholly different approach. It's now all shades. This has its own problems in that it's harder to discuss in broad terms. It's such a specific methodology that it's lost a lot of what Smirke triumphed with. This is well represented already given that no one has been shown to know what it means at all yet. But if there is a truly different cosmology at play here we might see the axes of DPHW being where alliances fall.

All that leaves us with is a comparison of these two. The only way to really do that is to talk about how Smirke's 14+1 would fit in DPHW's system. This is something I touched upon briefly. Death is strongly related to The End, The Extinction, or The Slaughter. Pain to The Desolation, The Corruption, or the Flesh. Helplessness to The Dark, The Buried, or The Lonely. Weird to the Stranger, or the Spiral. But that's not all of them and even within those it's already clear that something like The Vast isn't just about helplessness, and we've already seen Daria who would likely be an avatar of the Flesh rank highly in Weird. Which hits upon what I feel is the most interesting aspect of this entire theory. We've seen what happens with Smirke's boundaries on the Entities. We don't know if Entities even exist in this setting, or if they do exist whether they'll be the same ones, or even if they're not the same ones whether they'll function under similar rules. But now we get to see what happens when there aren't those boundaries. We get to see much broader mingling than TMA showcased. It was hinted at there, especially early on before the lore really settled, but now that mingling seems to be the whole point.

And as a brief mention, and to further labour the theme, I don’t think there is enough information to really discuss how CAT#R# works but there are some analogies to work with here. From the Klaus sheet we can infer that CAT# has the following values 1/2/3/12/13/23/123. Or three non-mutually exclusive groups. What those groups are is hard to say right now. There is some soul/body/spirit stuff for the alchemic tria prima that's got some nice connections but doesn't map well now that Ep 3 is out. Either way, this is RGB. An incident can be all red, or red and blue, etc. R#'s values we can infer to be C/BC/B/AB/A/S with maybe an AS in there too. That's a linear scale of similarly unknown value but could represent something like potency/threat. If that is the case then R# is saturation. Some things are more intense than others. We also know from the Klaus sheet that CAT is the German from the "kategorie" meaning "category" the R was from the German “rang” meaning “rank” and so probably has more meaning to it than currently implied.

[thesunloveschips]

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 5: Brothers and Sisters

Summary: In the wake of Rhysand’s ascension as High Lord, the Bone Carver gifts a prophecy. More than five hundred years later, Azriel continues to wait for the one who is finally reborn as his High Lady’s sister. All it takes a dip in the Cauldron for things to start falling into place.

Chapter Summary: The brothers discuss the sisters. Nyra has more relevant information. Newborn shadows are adorable.

Click here to access the Masterlist of the Eye of the Storm

****

Cassian was almost always the first to rise. He had a strict training regimen to follow and he would only compromise when there was no choice. For now, he figured he could still go over his training as long as he had a good glamour in place and an open space. With no shame whatsoever, he lifted the blankets off Azriel.

“Good morning, brother dearest!” The General was awfully cheery despite their current predicament. Azriel began to suspect that Cassian would now do anything and everything to get on Nesta's nerves even if it meant greeting him like the sun shone out of the shadowsinger's ass.

Azriel greeted him with nothing but a glare and the newborn shadows striking Cassian as if to punch him but they only felt like peanuts being pelted. The shadows had felt the need to tell him everything and explore everything. Consequently, the shadowsinger had to stay awake all night to rein them in lest they enter one of the females’ rooms and start reporting anything inappropriate. He had a suspicion that Nyra would be the primary target if these shadows had freedom to move around. Regardless of his restless night, he rose from bed and agreed to train.

The sun was just rising over the horizon, its rays kissing the snow. They were out of the room, walking towards the staircase when they spotted Elain dressed and holding a towel to dry her hair. She hummed a tune they recognised as the same one Nyra hummed for Feyre yesterday. While Cassian did little to quieten his footsteps, Azriel always had a silent presence. The sounds the General made alerted Elain and she looked up at them. Her freshly bathed skin that had been rosy just now seemed to pale.

"Good morning." Cassian grinned. The whole of Elain's body jolted at the greeting but she returned with a softer one of her own.

"Are there any large clearings around? We would like to train." Azriel's tone was much more gentler, having known that this sister was still wary of them.

Elain nodded. "To the east, there is a forest. There might be something there." She realized that the sisters were now very vulnerable without servants or guards in the estate. And without these fae around to protect them, they would probably be easy prey for anyone. She scurried back into her room and slammed the door too loudly. The salty scent of tears from behind the door to her room had Azriel and Cassian leaving immediately. They did not know how to react to a crying human female.

Cassian and Azriel soon exited the house, glamoured. They flew towards the forest Elain mentioned and found a suitable spot. They landed, removed their armour to be bare chested and began.

"So." The way Cassian drawled made Azriel realize that his brother was going to pester him about something. He remained quiet, knowing that Cassian would take the liberty to continue anyway.

"What are those?" The general's question resulted in a raised eyebrow. "Those shadows. You left yours behind and these are new." The conversation did not interrupt the clash of their swords.

"Shadows born during dinner last night." Azriel offered.

His answer seemed to be too short for Cassian. "Is there ever a trigger for new ones to be born?"

"Maybe." Azriel replied, irritated. Cassian looked unconvinced. "They are born when something significant happens. When I was in that cell," Both of them darkened at the mention of Azriel's imprisonment during his childhood. "Our oath of brotherhood. Becoming Carynthian. And so on."

Meeting all the Archeron sisters could be a significant event. Rhysand spoke into their minds.

"Possibly." Azriel did not think further but he saw the grin on Cassian's face. He was thinking of Nesta and the challenge between them. It was a dangerous game.

Try not to provoke Nesta Archeron. She might skin you alive. Rhysand's voice carried his mirth from a conversation he had with Feyre the previous night.

"Her twin is more amiable." Cassian noted as he defended against a strong strike.

That, she is. Rhysand sounded a little hopeful. Elain Archeron is perhaps more human than her sisters.

"Because she's afraid of us?" Cassian asked.

Her fear is what we expected from the twins. Clearly, they are not afraid. Nesta is annoyed by our presence and Nyra doesn't mind. Cassian grinned again. Nesta was most annoyed by him and it thrilled him immensely. Or maybe, the significant event right now is meeting Nyra Archeron. The way Rhysand said the word ‘significant’ had a teasing note that Cassian picked up. The General grinned and the Spymaster knew without another word what his brother might be thinking of.

"Whatever stupidity you are thinking of, stop." Azriel spoke with another strong strike. He landed a hit to Cassian's hand and caused him drop his sword. The shadowsinger abandoned his sword and readied his fists.

No more than that, you two. There is no need to frighten hosts with any more of your bloodied and bruised selves. Rhysand spoke. The two of them halted hesitantly.

"We continue in Velaris." Cassian grinned wildly at Azriel's declaration. He was already anticipating the rush their next sparring session would bring.

Your shadows certainly seem to think that meeting Nyra is a matter of significance. Azriel simply ignored the nosy High Lord he had as a brother while he wore his armour. He did not want to expect anything. He was already waiting for... And that was when it struck him. And Rhysand, who was still loitering around his brothers' minds to continue conversation, heard that thought. It could be a possibility.

Wishful thinking, Rhys. Azriel now spoke mentally. Cassian who was still linked to them heard all of it. He clapped on Azriel's shoulder once and asked. "But what if it is true?" It was the possibility of Azriel's mate, Rhysand's sister, reincarnating. Of the Bone Carver's prophecy finally coming true.

I dreamed of Feyre even before I ever met her. Even when I was under the mountain. Rhysand spoke of something he had yet to divulge to anyone else. It was a hope he wished Azriel would have. What were the odds that Rhys would meet his mate in a human who had been turned fae, for new shadows to be born when Azriel and Nyra met for the first time, and for Cassian to be drawn to a female who shared the same fighting spirit?

Hope is dangerous. Azriel warned. He looked over to Cassian who now frowned.

Says the one who has been waiting for five centuries. Cassian's voice was a bit low but still not low enough. He had made his point. Azriel's wings unfolded and he prepared for flight. After noting when the winds were convenient for him, he took off without a glance at Cassian who soon followed.

There is a possibility of your waiting period coming to an end, Az. Cassian sounded kind now. All the teasing had ceased and now, it was genuine.

And Azriel wanted to hope. So badly. He was needy. Ever since he discovered that he did not face the same symptoms as others whose mates had died, he resolved to wait. There must have been a reason his sanity survived. That he survived. The inside of him was numb and hollow and he waited for life to be breathed into him. Waiting to be woken up from some deep slumber his soul had gone into. And he returned to the Archeron estate with his brother with a confusion haunting him.

****

In the house, Rhysand and Feyre ran into Nesta at the living room. "I'm preparing breakfast." Nesta simply announced. "It will be ready in an hour." She turned on her skirts and headed to the kitchen.

Nesta looked around the kitchen and gathered the ingredients for a meal and then remembered Feyre's distaste for human food. She looked around for anything that her youngest sister could possibly consume.

"Nesta." Feyre's voice caught her attention but she did not turn around.

"Yes?" That one word was the only acknowledgement Nesta offered and Feyre took it.

"The letter is ready." Feyre placed the letter on the kitchen slab, a little further from the ingredients gathered and right next to a large vessel containing something hidden by a lid. "It's near this copper vessel."

"All right. I'll send it after breakfast."

"Thank you." Feyre turned around and was about to join Rhysand who was waiting for her just outside the door when Nesta called her name. "Yes?"

"Can you eat bread?" The question was an awkward one and invited more awkwardness between them. "Or rice?"

"I think I can eat rice." Feyre smiled just a bit for the sister who was clearly very unfamiliar at extending an olive branch. Nesta hummed and Feyre took that as a sign to join Rhys outside the room.

What Feyre did not expect was to see Rhysand and Nyra standing outside the door, next to each other, with their backs to the wall and staring at the ground. Rhys had just finished conversing with Cassian and Azriel while simultaneously sharing a moment of silence with Nyra as the two of them eavesdroppped outside the kitchen.

"That was... well..." There were never any words to describe any such interactions between Feyre and Nesta. The two of them barely got along with each other for most of their life and it seemed that was how it would remain.

A knock sounded at the door, alarming them.

"I'll get it." And Nyra walked away before anyone could say anything. Rhys and Feyre shared a glance, the former nodding once before casting a glamour on them. They risked a peak at Nesta who was busy with breakfast. Elain was nowhere around and surely, a fae couldn't answer the door.

As Nyra approached the door, Rhys and Feyre were just behind, ready to strike at anyone. The High Lord had already cast an invisible shield on Nyra and when she opened the door, it was just a man carrying letters.

"Post for the Archer..." He paused upon meeting Nyra. Nobody had ever met Nyra. She was somewhat of a myth and a reality only to those who ever truly met her. "Mrs. Laurent?"

"Is away for a bit. I'll take that." And she snatched the letters from the man's hand. The man continued to stare at her and when she finally noticed that, she frowned. "Yes?"

"Who are you?" The confusion was understandable. As the one with ill health, Nyra never opened the door in Mrs. Laurent's absence. It was either Nesta or Elain. She was always confined to the first floor where her bedroom, the library and their father's office were.

"An Archeron."

"I mean, who-"

"If you have something to say, please be quick. I have a life to get back to." It felt good saying that. Nyra had to constantly remind herself that she was recovering, somewhat. And if everything went well, she would be healthy again to enjoy life outside the house in a year or two. If they lived through this war.

"Nothing." The man blushed. He raised his hat once. "Good day!" And he ran away.

Nyra closed the door and started looking through the letters when she noticed Feyre and Rhysand.

"Are men usually like that with you?" Feyre asked, thoroughly amused at what she had just seen.

"The only man I meet is father and that is not often." She was still going through the letters when one of them caught her eye. She discarded the others on the nearest side table and ripped the envelope open. She skimmed through the contents of the letter.

"We have bad news." She looked at them. They immediately took a seat at the couch nearby and waited eagerly. She joined them, taking a seat on the opposite couch. "Vassa has been sighted on a ship headed for north from the Continent. She was unconscious and accompanied by the guards of one of the older queens."

"How do you think this will impact our negotiations?" Rhysand wanted to be prepared even if this was a losing battle. There was never any positive information related to the negotiations.

"Vassa is protective of her people. Therefore, she is more understanding despite what we’ve been taught about the fae." Nyra looked defeated.

"What about the others?"

"The older ones are highly prejudiced. They fund the Children of the Blessed from time to time who then spread those stories about the fae. And it seems like they are scheming something." Nyra rested her back on the sofa and craned her neck upwards. She closed her eyes and then suddenly opened them and leaned forward. "The other one. The golden one, is our best bet now."

Rhys rested his back and crossed his arms across his chest. "Why do you still think she would be our best bet?"

"Demetra is unpredictable. But that makes her the most dangerous bet."

The next moment, a swarm of shadows crawled into the room through the gap between the door and its frame. They seemed to swim as they moved towards Nyra. The shadows gathered in front of her and a tendril moved forward slowly as if waiting for her permission to touch her. Nyra extended a hand forward and the tendril gently wrapped itself around her little finger. More tendrils followed and both her hands were now engulfed by the shadows.

The clearing of a throat had the three of them turned to Nesta who had just entered the room. At the same moment, a sweaty Cassian and Azriel entered the room. Nesta did not even look at the General and all the frustration he tried to control by sparring hit him in the chest once again. She looked at Azriel and nodded in acknowledgement. The shadowsinger nodded back. She then looked at Nyra, Feyre and Rhysand and then at the letters.

“Good morning to the sweaty people with the most wonderful body odour.” Nyra sounded playful in a manner that reminded Feyre what about her older sister she had been missing. The wild humour she carefully concealed and had glued the sisters together. It was something, she realized with all the horror, that Nyra shared with Rhysand to an extent. Cassian might also share the same humour, maybe more than Rhys did. Azriel probably did not, or maybe he did. “Pray tell, why couldn’t you wait till breakfast for an adventurous tumble in the forests?”

Cassian grinned in delight. “We couldn’t wait for the inevitable. Right, Az?” He rested an arm on the shadowsinger’s shoulder. Azriel looked back at him with disbelief and mild disgust. “Maybe, after breakfast, we might continue. Would you be inclined to join us?”

Cassian’s blatant flirting and invitation raised enough eyebrows. The shadows playing with Nyra’s hands froze and then almost immediately enveloped her in their embrace, curling around her hair, hands, waist. Azriel’s silent command to them to behave was as lethal as he was. With a formidable glare, the shadows retreated from the girl and he walked forward.

“Are you alright?” He knelt by her side. His voice was gentle, like the caress of his shadows. “They won’t bother you anymore.” He wanted to vomit on Cassian for inviting Nyra. Why would these idiots tease him about her? And why would he even suggest such a thing even if she was the one who started this playful conversation?

“I’m fine. They felt nice.” Nyra replied with equal softness. She felt herself warm up under the shadowsinger's intense gaze. Before she felt any longer like she had a fever, Nyra turned to Cassian with mirth in her eyes. Azriel was too beautiful for her to look at for too long. “I’m not inclined to join anyone with that stench.”

Cassian laughed heartily. He walked forward and rested his hands on the backrest of Nyra’s couch. “Maybe after breakfast and a bath?”

“Who knows?” Nyra’s gaze then turned to Azriel. She shifted to one end of the sofa, clearing up for him. “Sit down. I suppose this sofa is large enough for your wings?” It was not but Azriel could care less. He nodded and tucked in his wings before sitting down next to her. It was uncomfortable but he was closer to her and his shadows were happy now. He saw the letter in her hand. She followed his gaze and frowned. Nesta noticed the piece of parchment.

"Please tell me you didn't write another letter." The shadows seemed startled at Nesta's words. They froze for a second before swimming towards Nyra. Azriel held up his hand and effectively collected them to stop the female sitting next to him from being startled.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Nyra's mirth seemed to be calming for the shadows. Azriel watched her and the shadows. The little bastards had abandoned him as soon as the two of them were in the same room. They constantly fawned over Nyra even when he had commanded them to separate from her. Impatient little snakes. With Azriel kneeling before Nyra and his shadows now with him, they were still a little closer to her than they were when he had previously banished them. Warm. Lovely. Weakened.

Nesta almost stomped over to Nyra, took the letter from her lap and asked. "Do you think I don't know what you've been doing? It might not be safe for you to be using father's seal like this." Nesta then proceeded to glare at the shadows as she took a seat on the armrest.

Azriel had been hearing the shadows describe Nyra’s hands. Soft. Pretty. Weakened. And then he heard them hiss when Nesta made her appearance. Their hisses were turning into growls. Azriel began to understand that the newborns felt like Nesta was a threat to Nyra from the expression she wore.

"We're probably going to die so if using a seal is going to somehow prevent that then I don't mind."

"And handwriting forgery."

"It's a necessary skill." Nyra looked at Nesta like the latter had said something unnecessary. As if she was questioning why it was even up for debate that handwriting forgery was a necessary skill.

"As necessary as picking locks?"

"You know its significance."

Nesta went quiet and then sighed. The twins had travelled back to their childhood for a few seconds before Nesta brought them back with her words. "Have some breakfast before you write to your little network of spies."

Azriel shifted his gaze from the shadows playing with Nyra’s hands to her face. It was difficult to believe that this ill female had any connections to the world outside her home. And here was Nesta, recalling that she would communicate with others and have her own network. As the spymaster of the Night Court, that piqued his interest.

"I do not have a network of spies." The shadows were attentive of her actions and ready to obey. They were now disobeying their master and were perched on her shoulders and arms and the skirts of her gown. They even hid behind her hair and Nyra did not seem to mind that she was now highlighted by them.

"You forge father's handwriting, use his seal, write letters to god knows who, get replies, knows things nobody knows, and keep your sources a secret. You have a spy network." Nesta’s revelations had Feyre widening her eyes. The youngest sister looked between the twins in utter shock. Rhysand smirked next to her and initiated a conversation with his lovely mate mind-to-mind.

"That is absurd." Nyra was not even trying to hide her amusement at the entire situation. She was one statement away from laughing. "I do not spy."

"You get others to spy. I've read your letters and I'm going to read this one too." Nesta's gaze had steeled as she read through the contents of the letter and she then set it aside as everyone settled. "Is this-"

"A reliable source." Nyra spoke. She sounded tired of all that she knew at the moment. Nothing seemed to be on their side. They had nobody by their side except for each other but that was clearly not enough.

The shadows headed towards Nesta, took the letter from her hand and placed it on Nyra's lap. "Thank you." She whispered. Azriel was now more than curious. He wondered if the shadows would obey if she asked for anything. Warm. Lovely. Home.

Feyre found that this picture was a precious one. Azriel and Nyra sitting on the sofa. Cassian behind it reading the letter Nesta held as she settled herself on the armrest. And she could cry at this. This painting that she now desperately wanted to paint. The four of them seemed to fit perfectly into each other’s pieces. And Feyre raised a hand to her mouth to bite on the sleeve. She was close to crying. Too close. And if the situation was different, if there was no war looming over them, then maybe, Feyre would paint this. And it was a promise to herself. A small tattoo inked itself on her chest. Two swords. One with fire and one with lightning crossed against each other.

"For now, Feyre darling and I will be off to practice a little magic." Rhysand stood up, picked on some non-existent lint on his blazer and extended a hand out to Feyre. She simply stood up, ignoring his flirty grin and looked at Nyra.

"We'll figure it out." It was odd. To receive reassurance from her younger sister. And yet, Nyra felt like she could breathe a little easily. Nesta was still rattled by reality and clutched Nyra's hand like a lifeline.

"We'll be back in half an hour." Rhys clapped his hands on his brothers' backs and then looked at them. "You stink."

"It’s part of the appeal.” Cassian turned to Nesta with a grin and winked playfully.

"You reek." Nesta spoke with convincing indifference before realizing that she had given Cassian attention. She saw his grin widening and the horror rising in her mind made her flee to the kitchen.

****

“Do either of you feel something different about the food here?” Nyra asked. The shadows were being ticklish now and she did not want to laugh in the middle of carrying plates. “Azriel, could you reign in the shadows for a bit? They’re being ticklish.” The shadowsinger blushed and nodded.

Newborn shadows were easy to command as he was naturally intimidating. His command had them retreating back to him where they found home on his shoulders, on his back, all over his wings. He had been used to the shadows’ touch all over him for so long that he felt out of place without them. Having these newborns eased that feeling that would be completely gone only when he returned to Velaris and the older shadows joined him.

“I’ve had worse.” Cassian began and Azriel closed his eyes with a defeated sigh.

“What he means is, there’s a difference but we don’t mind it.” The spymaster’s attempt was mainly to calm Nesta before the storm within her raged over Cassian.

“Then you may carry your own food to the mortal lands any time you deem to visit.” Nesta was clearly not calmed even at Azriel’s attempts. He looked at Nyra who sighed. She looked back at him and shook her head and a silent indication to be quiet with a finger to her lips.

“Are you inviting me back to your home?” Cassian asked, his bright grin taking over. Nesta blanched at the interpretation Cassian had somehow lead her words to. She glared at him but said nothing. He continued pestering her, picking up a spoon to taste the freshly cooked soup. She cleared her throat from behind him, armed with a glare and a very sharp knife that had a startled Cassian dropping the spoon.

While Nesta and Elain took over the kitchen and Cassian insisting on being wherever Nesta was, Azriel and Nyra were in the dining room with the crockery.

“Is it always like this?” Nyra gazed up from where she was standing near a chair with spoons in her hand. Azriel went blank for a moment and then she responded to his question.

“It wasn’t. Back when we were children, Elain and Feyre were left on their own while Nesta and I were groomed to navigate the social circles for husbands.”

Nyra sounded like she did not like speaking about it. Azriel picked up on that and spoke. “It is fine if you do not wish to speak of it.”

She turned around and looked at him for a few seconds before speaking. “It is a part of our past. I prefer to delude myself into thinking that it’s a story than a reality we once lived in.” She moved forward to the next seat to put a spoon. “Then, life happened. I fell ill. Grandmother died. Then our mother. Father lost his riches. Feyre going out hunting. Those two fae and their brainwashing magic on Elain and father. Life without Feyre. Wealth. My improving health. Elain’s engagement. And now, this.” By then, Nyra had placed all the spoons. Azriel had placed all the forks as he circled the table behind Nyra.

“All of it changed something in our family. For Nesta, it was like she had to weather so many storms all at once.” She turned around to face him but Azriel’s long strides resulted in him and Nyra colliding. He helped her regain her balance by holding one of her hands while she had used the other to grab the nearest chair. “Thank you.”

Breakfast was ready in an hour. Cassian had put in all his efforts into annoying Nesta. She slapped the General's hand away whenever he tried to taste anything, not understanding the warmth blooming within her. Azriel quietly helped Nyra and Elain before he froze for a few seconds. He walked closer to Nyra who looked at him in confusion.

"Take care." He sounded a little hesitant and his shadows were actively protesting against leaving her. Azriel gently took Nyra's hand, lifted it, bowed and kissed her knuckles. His final wish for her to take care of herself was a sincere one that she felt in her nerves as he kissed her hand. "If fate wills it, we shall meet again." Before Nyra could ask him anything, the shadows enveloped him in darkness and Azriel was no longer in the house.

“Stay inside.” Cassian suddenly commanded. “It’s not safe out there.” His red siphons were glowing faintly. Nesta wondered how the glow of the siphons and his attentive posture had suddenly made Cassian more beautiful. She found no reason to look away. The more she looked at him, the more she wanted to look at him even more for the mere reason that he was there. Standing in her line of sight. Breathing. Existing. And just being so beautiful.

Rhysand and Feyre joined them and the absence of the shadowsinger immediately attracted a question from Nyra. "Where is Azriel?"

"He will not be joining us for breakfast. He has something urgent to attend to." Feyre diplomatically answered and the implication of something bad did not go missed. Breakfast passed with a dark cloud looming over everyone.

The letters were delivered and a glamour was cast on the estate. Rhysand had Azriel send over guards to protect the mortal sisters and informed them of the same. Cassian, Feyre and Rhysand then bid farewell and left for Prythian.

****

TAGLIST: @waytoomanyteenagefeels@impossibelle@esposadomd@starswholistenanddreamsanswered@judig92 @bunnyredgirl@sh4nn@a-frog-with-a-laptop@kattzillaa@ronnieglennn@wallacewillow0773638@forgiveliv@justdreamstars@donttellthecats@cat-or-kitten@jojodojo02@wandas-dream@evylynny @weasleyreidstyles @stqrgirlies-blog @why4anne @acourtofdreamsandshadows @saltedcoffeescotch @mybestfriendmademe @macimads @footyandformula @noelli-smv @mqlfoyelf @thehighlordishere

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

09 — I'M HIGHER THAN THE HOPES THAT YOU BROUGHT DOWN

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad.

<- previous part | next part ->

When you had taken down the organisation by Shepherd’s side, it was the beginning of everything.

The first time you had drawn someone else’s blood was with a rifle in your hand and a vengeance burning in your veins. A single order from your General – your only support – to kill anyone with the organisation’s uniform. Anyone who raised a scope to you.

It’s difficult, usually, to remember what had happened. 

Sometimes, in your deepest of sleeps, the nightmares of your past came to haunt you. Flashes of blood on your skin, corpses underneath your feet, the crackle of a radio sounding in an empty room.

A congratulations from your General.

Congratulations for seeking revenge, and executing it like a soldier well-trained. Another cog in the military’s rusting machine. A weapon for them, more than a human with free will and determination.

You’d thrown up, after it all.

Heaving, sweating, crying, the endless guilt of what you’d just done. Were you no better than them? Sure, they’d killed your mother, but you had just carried out the same in turn. Tenfold. They had families that they’d never report back to. Families that they’d never get to say goodbye to. Dinner left untouched.

Shepherd had pat your back – then, he’d been in service, active duty. You hadn’t known it, but taking down the organisation was his last mission.

You never even learnt the name of the organisation. Shepherd had said that it was better that way, to detach yourself, not get yourself muddled with the logistics of it all. You weren’t meant for that. You were meant for weaponry and death and destruction.

That night, when you laid awake in the small camp set-up just a few klicks out from the organisation's site, you determined that you wouldn’t take another’s life without certainty. Unless it was for defence.

That night, you’d known that you would ask to be trained for field medicine.

Oh, how naive you had been. Young, aching for a chance to get revenge, to get what you felt you deserved.

Ten days later, you met one Phillip Graves.

A day after that, he offered you a place within the beginning of his mercenary company.

Half an hour after you signed the contract, General Shepherd announced that he was no longer suitable for active duty.

How naive indeed.

*

You think, in the very back of your mind, with the smallest grip you have on thought, that you’ve been carried to safety by men more than you have in your life, these past few days.

In and out, your mind wavers, senses completely gone, consciousness an impossible thing.

Minutes, hours, days. You’re not sure. How does time even work? What is time? Are you alive? Is this death? Another third, universally unknown state, an in between?

These past few days, the utter mess your life has become, has it finally worn you out? Destroyed you from the inside, shrapnel embedded into your flesh? A direct hit, a ticking time bomb gone wrong? A suicide mission with no preparation, no warning, no hope?

If you could, you’d cry.

Let tears fall down your cheeks, crystalline and pure against your dirtied and sinful skin. A mocking of all things good and right and beautiful.

Oh to be beautiful. To be right. To be good.

Heaven would taste like fairy floss melting against your tongue, you think. Sweet and pink and soft. It would furl around your tongue, season your mouth with the feeling of cotton and freedom.

White.

White blinds every inch of your body, the darkness of your eyelids lit with the shade. Chemicals fill the air, a stagnant, all too damning smell. Beeping, too, a constant background noise as you slowly come to.

Hospital – or, at the very least, a Med Bay. It’s something quite familiar, but the feeling of being a patient in one is a very rare instance for you.

That feeling of blood, sticky against your face and arm, has gone. Instead, the itch of fabric and bandage replaces it, an IV drip attached to your inner arm an annoying sting. Your hair feels as if it’s been carefully spread over the pillow underneath your head, a blanket wrapped over your form.

If your spatial awareness is at all correct, you think you can sense a few other people in the room, too. Soft murmuring chimes in over the beeping, now, as you return to full consciousness.

“Can’t believe all three of ‘em are down.”

Gaz – that honey-esque, smooth voice instantly has you recognising the Sergeant. From where his voice is coming from, he seems to be sat beside your bed. 

“It’s not your fault, Kyle.”

Price. Captain. He sounds… softer than you’ve ever heard him. Lost, maybe, upset. Disappointed? It’s hard to place, his tone, but it seems almost forlorn.

“Had a whole fuckin’ team of Marines and we couldn’t make it to ‘im in time. If it wasn’t for her–”

“I know, Sergeant,” Price snaps, shutting down the younger man’s nervous, distressed rambling. A scrape of a chair sounds, the sound of pacing footfalls a moment later. “There wasn’t anything we could do – and it’s not like any of ‘em are dying, now are they?”

“Don’t act like this didn’t affect you either, Captain,” Gaz bites back in return, his chair, too, scraping against the linoleum floor. “I heard your yell clear as day.”

“I can and will write you up for insubordination, Garrick,” Price warns, stern and cold.

Gaz’s responding laugh is biting, grating. “No, you won’t, Price. Because if you do that, you’ll have to report the others too. You really wanna risk losing us all?”

“Don’t test me.”

“Thought you liked that about me, Cap.”

“Kyle –”

“Good morning to you, too.”

Both men turn, then, to look at you with wide eyes. With a small groan, you move to sit up, eyes burning with the sudden overhead lights. Your shoulder aches, your cheek, too, but not as badly as they had before.

“Be careful, don’t –” Gaz goes to say, moving towards you, before you show him your palm.

“I’m fine. I know my limits, Gaz,” you say, a small reprimand as you shift into a comfortable position. “I’ll be out of this bed within the hour if I can help it.”

“You dislocated your shoulder,” Price says, insistent, brows furrowed as he looks down at you, arms folded over his chest. “It’s in a wrap. You’re lucky, Colonel, that they could perform the surgery here.”

Your brows raise.

“Surgery? How long was I out?” You frantically ask, sitting up straighter, wincing when you bump your shoulder. Your mind races with theories, fear trickling down your spine like a cold vice. There was so much you had to do – had to investigate, now.

“Only about a day. You were under anaesthesia – and your body near shut down,” Gaz leans forward as he sits, elbows on his knees. “You were awake, under high-intensity stress, for nearly four days.”

Four days? Had it really been that long? What had only felt like a day – it had been four?

You must show your inner panic on your face, because Price takes a step closer, hand moving to rest comfortably on your shoulder. He has a calming, understanding tilt to his lips that you appreciate. His eyes examine your body, before his blue eyes meet yours.

“Graves is already planning his next movement,” he says, gruff and true. His hand squeezes. “We were playing checkers, seems like he wants to play chess.”

The beep of the machines sat beside your bed and the overall feeling of hospital and gauze and injury has you realising something. A flash in the back of your mind, a bell ringing for you like a dog on a leash.

“Where’s Soap and Ghost?”

Price and Gaz share a look, before Gaz flits a nervous grimace to you. “Ghost… refused to be treated unless he was put in the same room as Soap. Soap, is, well…”

“Get yer bloody hands off me, aye am fine, let me see ‘er–”

Soap’s voice carries down the hallway, the standard-issues curtains surrounding your small area doing nothing to block the sound. Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, Gaz buries his face in his hands, and Price heaves a long-suffering sigh, muttering something under his breath about decorum.

“Sergeant, the doctor’s –”

“Tell Sarah tha’ aye can bloody well handle maself!”

A crashing noise follows the last statement, along with the sound of confused yelling, before the curtain surrounding you gets ripped open by none other than Soap MacTavish.

His grown-out faux-mohawk is messy, obviously having been laid on for a fair bit, his eyes wide and chest pounding in sweeping movements. Fist clenched in the scratchy fabric of the curtain, his frantic eyes focus on Price and Gaz, respectively, before landing on you. His shoulders loosen, and he lets go of the curtain as he trails down your form, analysing for any injuries or a single hair out of place.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, sounding all too like that single nickname is a lifeline, “Yer alright.”

You softly shake your head, disbelieving and confused and shocked and. 

And maybe slightly grateful. Lucky, even, to have someone care for you enough to act like your very presence is their saviour. Like your blood is as worthy as their own, your lungs virtually theirs, too.

“I’m not the one that nearly fell to my death,” you exasperate, voice as soft and vulnerable as you’ve heard it. At the very least, the most open you’ve sounded since your mother was around. “Did you just kill one of the nurses to get here?”

Soap’s creeping smile turns into a full, toothy grin as he shakes his head. “Nah. That’d be Lt.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Price mutters from beside you, along with Gaz’s choked off laugh. You can’t help your own private smirk.

“And here I was, thinking you were the dog, Soap,” you tease, except for the first time, it isn’t with the intention of goading. Of poking the beast. You’re… teasing just for fun. Because it feels natural and right and.

Oh.

Oh.

Soap scoffs. “Aye, ye did say that, didn’t ya? Ye haven’t seen a guard dog like Mr. Lt, lass,” He taunts, freckles dusting his nose, the hospital lights doing nothing to wash his tan skin out.

He says, as if your world hasn’t been flipped over, shaken about, and sat down on your shoulders like a snowglobe.

He says, as if everything is fine and normal and not cataclysmic.

“The nurse is fine.” 

Everyone, including Price, jolts where they are situated, eyes darting to where Ghost leans against the wall opposite your bed, picking at his nails.

He’s.

Unlike the balaclava, of which is all you’ve known of the bulky man, the only thing covering his features is a standard black medical mask, covering his mouth and nose. No ink stains the upper half of his face, either, and for the first time – you see his hair.

Dirty blond.

It oddly suits him, the shortly cut mess, the strands hanging over his forehead and ears. What strikes you is the lack of scars from the skin you can see, the unmarred skin, the softness of it. 

He’s pretty, in a rugged, unabashed way, and what a realisation that is.

With just a black compression shirt, sleeves cut to the mid-section of his upper arms, sleeves of talented ink cover his pale skin. A snake, intricately designed, covers his left, curving around the muscle. On his right, what looks to be a Greek god, its depth shadowed with blacks and greys.

“Good to see you in one piece, too, Lieutenant,” you say, and if it was at all possible, you’d swear that sparks shoot up your spine when his deep brown eyes catch onto yours. 

He raises an uncovered brow – pale and soft. “I meant what I said,” he threatens, a glint in his eye.

So, you suppose, not all has been forgiven. Your memories are shaky at best, but a few words stand out from your confrontation – kill, belonging, rank. A promise of death, but a vow of protection, too.

“What’re you talking about?” Gaz asks, looking between the two of you with a confused expression.

Neither you, nor Ghost, break eye contact as you simultaneously say; “Nothing, Gaz.”

Both Sergeants share a look, a cheeky one, the type that no one else in the room can decipher. You had seen the way that the two shared comments, winks, hits up the back of their heads. Joking and full of life, but with an unbreakable bond between them.

Yearning was becoming too familiar of a concept for you, you were finding.

“Laswell found a hit on some intel,” Price breaks the tension of the room, hands bracing on his knees as he looks to the four of you. A grim expression settles on his face when he looks to you. “It’s in the home of one of your Lieutenants.”

Your heart stutters in your chest as you swallow around a dry mouth. “What kind of intel?”

Everyone seems to collectively move in closer – Ghost’s hand rests at his belt, Soap’s at his back pocket, Gaz’s on the chain adorning his neck, a guitar pick attached to the gold.

“Intel on an ‘organisation’,” Price says. “A group of people wanting to overtake the military, one with a rising number of members.”

It’s as if you can feel nothing but the beat of your heart, the sensation of your fingers, the pain in your chest. The organisation. They were. You and Shepherd, you hadn’t eradicated them. Maybe stumped their growth, for a while, but you hadn’t.

You hadn’t realised they were still around. Growing, even, thriving.

The urge to just cry, pour out your emotions and weep is the strongest it’s been since your mother’s funeral. To just pull up the covers over your head and let tears fall down your cheeks, mourn in your misery, scream and claw at your skin and feel.

If only you could be that woman. Just for a day.

Instead, you reply.

“When are we going?”

Soap is, both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, the first one to speak up. His hands land on his hips as he studies you with a narrowed gaze. “Ye need to rest, lass. Yer broken.”

You throw your unwrapped hand in the air, waving in their general direction. “Have you guys seen yourselves? How the fuck you’re out of your gowns is almost crazier than you storming into here gunsablazing!”

“We didn’t get a concussion, a wound on our cheek, a dislocated bloody shoulder,” Ghost challenges, and your hackles rise in turn. When he gives, you return. The moon and the sun – the two of you, always taunting the other with a bone just to see if the other will bite.

“I saved your ass,” you seethe back, and with only a small wince, you pull the IV drip from your arm. If Price or Gaz debate that move, you ignore it. “And his. I don’t seem to recall hearing a single thank you, either.” You rise on shaky legs, pushing through the ache, pushing through the thunderstorm in your chest. You turn to Soap, “So don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” you turn to Ghost, “And you don’t tell me what injuries deem me weaker! I’ve survived this long without the lot of you, and you don’t need to start babying me now.”

The silence in the room should dispel your nerves, but it only serves to increase them tenfold.

“We’ll scope out the area and decide what to do after. Five days ‘til we perform an undercover mission, I suspect.”

With a small tilt of your head, you look to Price, who rubs at his jaw, scratching at the hair lining it. He looks deep in thought – ever the calculating leader.

You sigh, quiet enough to not be heard. “Thank you, Captain.”

The wrapping around your set shoulder seems recently done, and when you move the ligament in small circles, the pain is nothing more than a dull ache. Your cheek, too, has been bandaged, but the sting is nothing if not prevalent.

Someone had spent the time putting socks on your feet, so you’re grateful for the small mercy as you move to the side table and swallow down mouthfuls of water from the plastic bottle placed there.

A thought comes to mind then.

“Where do I sleep? Or should I, um…” You trail off, because the idea of finding a shoddy motel in the middle of nowhere is definitely not a pleasant one.

Silence.

Slowly turning around, bottle in hand, your brows furrow when you see that none of them are meeting your eyes. Even Ghost, which is most definitely a first.

“Are you banishing me? Worried I have cooties?” You tease, bouncing on the soles of your feet. When no one responds again, you truly start to worry. “That was a joke,” you confirm, as if they didn’t know that.

“There’s no spare rooms,” Gaz blurts out, and your eyes go wide.

Of all the things that had briefly crossed your mind, a lack of space was most certainly not one of them. The consequences of that fact is the next thing to be brought to the forefront of your muddled ideas.

“Right,” Soap nods, as if this is a newly found concept. He gestures to Gaz, a smile creeping onto his face. “Thanks for offering to let ‘er crash with ya, lad.”

“I didn’t say that –” Gaz starts, expression slowly creeping into one of exasperation as Price interrupts with a slap to the Sergeant’s shoulder.

“Real generous, Garrick,” Price commends, moving to stand from his chair and leave the room. Ghost follows closely behind him, shooting a look between you and Kyle, simply saying, “Thanks, Sergeant.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Gaz groans, head falling against the chair backing as he slides down the wood. Soap is quick to bound away from the room, too, with a cheerful, ‘See you tomorrow!’.

Gaz, eyes squeezed shut, seeming to try and melt into the floor, flutters one eye open to look at you where you stand. He grimaces, before slowly getting to his feet, too.

“Sorry for,” you bite at your lip, looking everywhere but at the man who seems to want to die more than host you, “Being a nuisance. Really, I’m fine sleeping at a motel, or whatever. Seriously.”

His hand grasps your chin, moving it so you’re forced to look up at him, his analysing gaze searching your own. The brown of his eyes glisten in the bright light, his features shining with it, and you’re hit with an overwhelming want to be cherished by this man. 

How bad had your concussion really been, to be making you think this way? You should really talk to Sarah about it, ask what kind of side effects came with one.

Oddly enough, you don’t think that this realisation is as sudden as you’re forcing yourself to believe.

“I didn’t,” Gaz begins, quickly looking away and setting his jaw before meeting your eyes once more, “I didn’t mean it like that. Just. Embarrassing, y’know?”

“How? Got a secret collection of pornos you don’t want me finding?” You quip back, a soft tilt to your lips.

He chuckles, a soft, girthy thing, shaking his head. “Nah. Nothin’ like that. Just… havin’ a girl in my room on such short notice is a bit scary. Gonna kill them all when I see ‘em tomorrow,” he mutters the last few words under his breath.

“I really am sorry,” you promise, “I didn’t realise that I’d have to impose on you like this.”

“You’re not imposing,” Gaz says, stern, thumb brushing along your jawline. “My bed should be big enough, anyways.”

Your cheeks heat at the implication, mouth opening and closing around nothing. “Your – Your bed? I can just sleep on the floor –”

“No,” he interrupts, shaking your head side to side softly. “If anything, I’ll crash on the floor if you’re uncomfortable. I won’t let you sleep on anything but my bed.”

“Such a gentleman,” you lean in, whispering the words over his lips, a smirk forming on your face as you pull back. Heading for the door, you miss the way his fingers raise to hover over his mouth, gaze flitting to you before he follows behind.

“Do I need to see Sarah? The only reason I was really in there was ‘cause I was passed out, right?” You ask, turning around as Gaz meets you, opening the door for you to walk through. His hand falls to the small of your back as he directs you down the hallways.

He shakes his head. “Nah, Price messaged ‘er. If your pain starts up again, just take some pain meds or see her.”

“I like the way you run things here,” you hum, looking around at the concrete walls and linoleum floors, barren of personality. “No wasting time or resources.”

A draft carries down the hall, and you find yourself rubbing your arm, biting at your lower lip from the cold. Gaz’s hand wraps around your waist, pulling you into his body heat subtly, and you’re silently grateful. “I’ll give you some of my spare clothes to sleep in,” he says, thumb rubbing against where his hand sits in tight circles.

Your stomach growls, then, and you can hardly find the energy to be embarrassed when you haven’t eaten in four days. Yikes.

“Sorry –”

“I made you. Um.” Gaz looks away, bringing up his other hand to rub at the nape of his neck nervously. “I made you some wraps to eat, because the guys love ‘em, and Price kept getting pulled into meetings. So.”

The smile that pulls at your cheeks burns as you softly say, “Thank you.”

His grip around your waist tightens, the smallest amount.

You don’t comment.

“While you change, I’ll go get them from the fridge,” he says, as the two of you pause outside a standard door. The barracks look the same as every other corridor in this base, you’ve found, three other doors sitting close to this one. The 141’s rooms.

Unlocking the door, he switches on the light, and as you step in, you look around at the small room.

A double bed, narrow but long, sits in the corner next to a small window. Next to it, a wooden bedside table, with photos atop it, and a few random medals and gum wrappers. A single poster is stuck to the wall – and as soon as you see it, a laugh bubbles up in your chest.

“What?” Gaz asks, looking through his chest of drawers, looking to you with flushed cheeks. “It isn’t that bad.”

Your laughs continue, racking your body with each inhale as you point to the poster, eyes watery as you look at the man. “Didn’t realise you were into the Spice Girls, Garrick.”

He shoves his clothes into your face, only making you double over with laughter. 

“It was from my mum,” he grumbles, and you grab for his cheeks, squeezing them as your eyes near-shut with the manic laughter bubbling from you.

“Mama’s boy,” you tease, pulling at his cheeks until he’s face level. He huffs, pushing you away with a hand to your jaw, making more giggles erupt from your chest. “It’s cute, Gaz, I’m not being mean, pinky promise.”

“I’m getting the wraps, you twat,” he tries to sound accusatory, but his dimples deepen in his cheeks, his mouth pulling into a stubborn smile as he shoves you onto the bed, slamming the door shut behind him as he goes.

The fondness in your chest aches, and as you pull on his clothes, taking off the medical robe, you realise something. A niggling, in the back of your mind, one you can’t seem to shake as you tie off the oversized grey sweatpants around your waist.

A singular realisation, but a damning one, nonetheless.

Your smile doesn’t fade.

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @oreo-cream @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee @simp-sentral @littlecellist @clear-your-mind-and-dream @browtfyoudoing @oreo-cream @fanngirl19

[dandelionsresilience]

Dandelion News - March 8-14

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles!

1. Caribbean reef sharks rebound in Belize with shark fishers’ help

“Caribbean reef shark populations have rebounded beyond previous levels, more than tripling at both Turneffe and Lighthouse atolls[…. The recovery] arose from a remarkable synergy among shark fishers, marine scientists and management authorities[….]”

2. Landmark Ruling on Uncontacted Indigenous Peoples’ Rights Strikes at Oil Industry

“[T]he Ecuadorian government [must] ensure any future expansion or renewal of oil operations does not impact Indigenous peoples living in voluntary isolation. [… E]ffective measures must be adopted to prevent serious or irreversible damage, which in this case would be the contact of these isolated populations,” said the opinion[….]”

3. America's clean-energy industry is growing despite Trump's attacks. At least for now

“The buildout of big solar and battery plants is expected to hit an all-time high in 2025, accounting for 81% of new power generation[….] The industry overall has boomed thanks to falling technology costs, federal tax incentives and state renewable-energy mandates.”

4. Study says endangered Asian elephant population in Cambodia is more robust than previously thought

“A genetic study of Asian elephants […] reveals a larger and more robust population than previously thought, raising hopes the endangered species could slowly recover. […] “With sufficient suitable habitat remaining in the region, the population has the potential to grow if properly protected,” the report concludes.”

5. Scientists are engineering a sense of touch for people who are paralyzed

“[Engineers are] testing a system that can restore both movement and sensation in a paralyzed hand. [… A]fter more than a year of therapy and spinal stimulation, [… h]is increased strength and mobility allow him to do things like pet his dog. And when he does, he says, "I can feel a little bit of the fur."“

6. Florida is now a solar superpower. Here’s how it happened.

“In a first, Florida vaulted past California last year in terms of new utility-scale solar capacity plugged into its grid. It built 3 gigawatts of large-scale solar in 2024, making it second only to Texas. And in the residential solar sector, Florida continued its longtime leadership streak.”

7. Rare frog rediscovered after 130 years

“The researchers discovered two populations of the frog[….] "The rediscovery of A. vittatus allowed us to obtain, more than a century after its description, the first biological and ecological data on the species.” [… S]hedding light on where and how they live is the first step in protecting them.”

8. Community composting programs show promise in reducing household food waste

“The program [increased awareness and reduced household waste, and] also addressed common barriers to home composting, including pest concerns and technical challenges that had previously discouraged participants from composting independently.”

9. Pioneering Australian company marks new milestone on “mission” to upcycle end-of-life solar panels

“[…] SolarCrete – a pre-mixed concrete made using glass recovered from used solar panels – will form part of the feasibility study[….] A second stage would then focus on the extraction of high value materials[…] for re-use in PV and battery grade silicon, [… and] electrical appliances[….]”

10. Beavers Just Saved The Czech Government Big Bucks

“The aim was to build a dam to prevent sediment and acidic water from two nearby ponds from spilling over, but the project was delayed for years due to negotiations over land use[….] Not only did the industrious rodents complete the work faster than the humans had intended, they also doubled the size of the wetland area that was initially planned.”

March 1-7 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Can you talk about a character’s physical strength and how strong they are? Isn’t Azul very strong and able to lift heavy things?

is anything mention about wizard being more physical strong or anything?

There's nothing that states that mages are stronger or more physically capable than a magicless human. However, it's important to consider that a mage's overall health and wellbeing contributes to their blot accumulation and recovery. You're recommended to eat and sleep to get rid of blot. This is why NRC has its students in P.E. class and organizes Vargas Camp: to keep the boys in shape for spellcasting.

About half of the cast are in athletic clubs. This includes Riddle, Ace, Deuce, Leona, Jack, Ruggie, Floyd, Jamil, Epel, Silver, and Sebek. I would also argue Jade counts as athletic, but his club is sort of a middle ground between athletic and cultural. The others--Cater, Trey, Azul, Kalim, Vil, Rook, Idia, Ortho, Malleus, and Lilia--are in cultural clubs. This doesn't automatically make everyone in athletic clubs stronger than those that aren't though. For example, Riddle has very low physical stamina (something which Kalim comments on in Riddle's P.E. Uniform vignette) and Rook, despite being in Science Club (ie a cultural club) is quite strong.

Here are some notable (physically) strong or muscular characters from NRC's student population!

Please note: just because I don’t list a character here doesn’t necessarily mean they are weak; a character could be fit/healthy but not be in this list because there isn’t anything in canon which indicates them as being a standout in terms of strength.

Deuce (ex-delinquent; infamous in his hometown)

Trey (he bakes (ie lifts heavy bags of flour and sugar) and used to play soccer; Magical Archives states his build is actually surprisingly thick, even moreso than Rook I think)

Leona (do I need to explain this one)

Jack (do I need to explain this one part 2)

Azul (grip strength)

Floyd (his infamous squeezing)

Jade (is able to hold his own in fights with his twin; he was also taught self-defense as a kid)

Jamil (professionally trained bodyguard)

Vil (trains with personal trainer who was an master kickboxer; he is careful not to train too much to avoid becoming overly muscular)

Rook (tells a story about how he got lost in the jungle as a kid and survived by himself until he was found; an archer, which takes considerable arm strength)

Malleus (can literally crack open coconuts with his bare hands and punch holes in cave walls to retrieve magestones)

Silver (Lilia's hellish training + he is a knight)

Sebek (same reasoning as Silver)

Lilia (an ex-war general, trained the other Diasomnia boys himself)

***Honorable mention goes to Ortho, whose physical capabilities vary depending on the Gear he is equipped with at any given moment.***

Let’s talk about Azul in more detail since he a the character named in the ask!

In the second Beanfest event, Floyd reveals that Azul actually has "crazy grip strength", even if his speed, reflexes, and stamina are lacking. This is because "Octopi are all muscle" and Floyd doubts that Azul's "crazy grip strength" would have diminished simply because he is currently in a form more suitable for land.

This is confirmed in book 6; Azul states that, "I'm confident I could take [Riddle] even without magic. My arms are quite powerful, unlike [his]." He is also confident that he can help Riddle hold up their Thunder Spear later in book 6, but it shocked by its heft. This suggests that Azul is used to having the strength to easily lift things.

Azul's arm strength persists in other events too. He is able to, for example, pry Stitch off when he was clinging on to Yuu for dear life, potentially drowning them both.

In an event yet to come out to the EN server (Tapis Rouge), Azul is able to keep pushy reporters at bay when they try to swarm Vil.

Finally, in Azul's Outdoor Wear vignette, it seems that Azul is well aware of his strength, but purposefully plays up being weak to make this situation stick out in Kalim's mind. He's being a real drama queen about helping Kalim gather firewood because he's hoping to get something out of this "kindness" later.

So yes! Azul is strong, even if he may not look it.

[noforkingclue]

I have a cute little Lucifer x reader ideas that I would like to share. May I please request a Lucifer x reader where the reader has been stood up by their date on valentines day but they get called into work and don't have time to change so they come in all dressed up fancy for their date and Lucifer gets mad when he finds out that the reader was stood up but also maybe admits his attraction to the reader.

I hope you have a great day and happy Friday eve.

Of course anon! This is my first time writing for him so sorry if this is OOC.

Anyway, hope you like the fic :)

Title: Over Dressed

“Y/n, I need you.”

“I’m flattered Chloe but I don’t swing that way.”

“That’s not what I meant. There’s been a murder.”

“Well you are a homicide detective.”

“I need you down here.”

“It’s my day off.”

“I’ll make sure you get it back.”

“How generous of you.”

“Look,” you could hear the guilt in her voice, “I know you had plans for tonight but I really do need you.”

“...”

“Are you going to make me say it?”

“Maybe…”

“Please can you come down here.”

“Fine. But Chloe?”

“Yes?”

“Can you make sure there are flat shoes down there?”

You grimaced as you walked into the crime scene, your heels held in one hand. Chloe had so graciously managed to get you a pair of trainers to wear. Your outfit had earnt you raised eyebrows from Chloe as she handed you the shoes.

“Hot date?” she asked

“Yeah.”

“Sorry,” there was that guilt tone again, “I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” you sighed, “there’ll be other nights. Ultimately this is more important.”

The two of you walked towards the crime scene. You knew that your short dress was getting you some… looks but you didn’t have time to get back to your flat and get changed. A double murder on Valentine’s Day trumped most things. At least Chloe had managed to get you out of your heels. You grimaced as you approached the crime scene.

“Don’t. Say. A. Fucking. Thing.” you said as Dan came into view

“I wasn’t going to,” said Dan slowly as he took in your outfit, “you look…”

He trailed off and briefly glanced at Chloe.

“Nice?” he finished

“Was that a question?” you asked, as you started getting ready to inspect the crime scene

“Err, I mean-” he coughed awkwardly, “You want my coat?”

“I’m just messing with you. And I’ll be fine, thanks though. Come on, let’s get this over with so I can get changed into some actually warm clothes. Whoever decided Valentine's Day was to be in the middle of February was a dick.”

Working in pathology, you usually wore plain sensible clothes. Stuff you wouldn’t mind getting dirty or potentially covered in blood despite wearing the suitable protective clothing. When you weren’t on the crime scene you were usually performing post mortems (and therefore in scrubs) or writing reports. Therefore, you had no reason to get dressed up. Even going out for after work drinks, it was just drinks down a bar. No reason to get glammed up.

Which was probably why you were getting so many stares.

“Hope your date doesn’t mind,” said Chloe, “about you being called away.”

“He’ll… he’ll be fine.”

You pursed your lips and moved towards the crime scene. Chloe paused at your reaction. That wasn’t quite the reaction she was expecting from you. You were hiding something from her. She thought that the two of you were close. Clearly your date hadn't gone as well as you were expecting. You had made an obvious effort and yet…

There was something off about you.

Something that she was going to get to the bottom of.

“Ah, Detective you brought the good Doctor and-”

And this was the only thing that could’ve made your evening worse. Lucifer. The prick. His smile seemed to fix when he spotted you. You began to regret not accepting Dan’s offer of his coat.

“New uniform, Doctor? Can’t say I’m complaining myself.”

“Shut up Lucifer.”

“And charming as ever.”

“I’m not in the mood this evening.”

“Ah, so there will be a time when you are in the mood.”

You rolled your eyes and knelt down beside the body. You grimaced as your dress rode up slightly and tried to subtly tug it down. Damn Chloe. Why couldn’t she have given you a bit of time to get changed? Ok, you knew that the real reason was that you needed to get down to the crime scene as soon as possible so any vital evidence wasn’t lost but still, it would’ve been nice to get changed.

“No need to worry about that on my account, Doctor. I don’t see any of us complaining.”

You jumped slightly as you felt Lucifer’s breath on the back of your neck. You turned your head and glared. Lucifer didn’t seem to care about your reaction.

“Do you mind?” you asked

“Not really.”

“I’m trying to inspect a crime scene.”

“And I’m just admiring your outfit. Can’t I pay you a compliment? I mean, you clearly put in a lot of effort.”

“Yeah and it was all wasted. I got stood up”

A tense silence fell over the group and you shut your eyes. You didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Fuck. Ignore me.”

“You got-”

“Drop it Chloe.”

“But-”

“And the same goes to you Dan!”

To your surprise, and mild suspicion, Lucifer had been unusually quiet. Chloe was probably keeping him in line as you inspected the crime scene. You really didn’t need this today although sometimes, it really was easier to deal with dead people than with the living. At least the dead didn’t make comments about you (lack) of a love life.

“Well, Doc?”

You looked up at Dan. Chloe and Lucifer had left the crime scene and you relaxed slightly.

“Cause of death?” he asked

“Deep penetrating knife wound to the chest-” you said, causing Dan to snort

“Don’t let Lucifer hear you say that.” he said

For the first time you smiled slightly.

“True. The blade probably went straight through to the heart but I’ll know more after the PM.”

You stood up and dusted the dirt off your knees. You looked around the crime scene and frowned.

“Judging by the lack of blood I’d say that he was killed elsewhere and then moved here.”

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose. Tonight really wasn’t your night. You jumped slightly when you felt a hand on your shoulder. Chloe gave you what she probably thought was a reassuring smile.

“I shouldn’t have called you,” she said, “I’m sorry. I’m sure-”

“It’s ok,” you said, “honestly, this kinda helped. It distracted me from… all the bullshit. You sure it’s ok if I head off?”

“Yeah, I’ve called in the backup.”

“So I’m still your first port of call even when I’m on leave? I don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned.”

You head away from the crime scene. Part of you wanted to stay. You really could use the distraction. You paused when you saw Lucifer leaning against that overly flash car of his. He smirked at you and held up your heels.

“I believe that these would go much better with your dress.” he said

“I find the trainers more comfortable.”

You began to walk past him but once again Lucifer surprised you by stopping you. You raised your eyebrows.

“I’ll drive you home.” he said

“I’m a big girl. I can manage by myself.”

“I’m aware.”

You held your hand out for your shoes but Lucifer didn’t hand them over.

“Give them back.”

“I’ll give you these when you get in the car.”

You tried to grab them but Lucifer held them above your head. Damn him for being so much taller than you.

“I’m not jumping for them.” you said

“Then get in the car.”

“Why do you care about me getting home safely? Unless Chloe put you up to it?”

Lucifer gave you a disapproving look and wiggled the shoes at you. Usually you wouldn’t give in so easily but you had a shit evening and those shoes were expensive. Reluctantly you got in the car and Lucifer smirked and handed you your shoes.

The journey was, again, unusually silent. You occasionally thought you saw Lucifer glance at you but you firmly kept your gaze firmly locked on the window. You frowned when you realised that you weren’t heading towards your flat.

“Where-”

“You need a night out,” said Lucifer firmly, “dinner, wine, dancing,” he smirked at you, “maybe something a bit more. It would be a shame for all your effort to go to waste.”

His grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“And not wasted on someone who doesn’t appreciate it.”

“No.”

“No?”

The car stopped at a red light. You finally turned to face Lucifer who was looking at you curiously. He leant closer and you tried to back away. However, it was a small car and not much space for you to go.

“Tell me,” Lucifer lowered his voice, his gaze drifting to your lips, “what is it you desire.”

You blinked, your mind suddenly going cloudy as you said,

“I want to go home.”

“I’m aware.”

“Take off this dress.”

“I can gladly help you with that.”

“Take off this makeup.”

“Hmm?”

“And pretend this evening never happened.”

This seemed to catch Lucifer off guard. He paused at your words, leaning closer. You could feel his breath fan across your face. You had never been this close to him before. Yes, Lucifer was happy to invade your personal space but this felt different. More intimate.

“Why?” you asked, “what do you desire?”

“Not what,” he said, “but who.”

He moved in. You knew you should stop him. Part of your mind was screaming at you to push him away. To not be like all those other people who willingly gave in. To be more like Chloe and-

The sudden beeping of a car horn dragged you out of your daze. You blinked and shook your head. You rubbed your forehead and shook your head.

“I…I just want to head home.”  you said quietly

“Right.”

The two of you drove in silence until you reached your flat. You relaxed as the building came into view and Lucifer parked up. Just before you got out of the car, Lucifer stopped you.

“If you ever require revenge,” he said, giving you a sharp smile, “let me know. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of people who would gladly turn a blind eye to whatever might happen.”

“N..no,” you said, “don’t worry. He’s not worth it. Err, thanks for the lift I guess…”

Lucifer watched you as you entered your building, only driving off when he saw a light flick on showing that you were safely in your flat. As he drove off he thought back to what you said. You hesitated at his offer to do something to your date. Maybe you wouldn’t be too opposed to whatever he was planning then.

[grumpyeagleandfriends]

Vigil - Chapter 2

Summary: Using the genetic material extracted from Yusuf al-Kaysani and Nicolò di Genova, Dr. Metak Kozak initiates Project Eos as an attempt to artificially replicate immortality through forced human trials. Nine embryos are created, implanted, and birthed under controlled conditions. The experiments she conducts represent a grotesque evolution of Steven Merrick’s work.

When Copley first uncovers the program, Kozak’s records declare total failure. "Group Gamma yielded no viable candidates. All subjects compromised beyond analytical utility." But six weeks later, an anonymous lab technician leaks damning footage. There is a single surviving child, a three year-old male designated "IL-9" with confirmed cellular regeneration and disease resistance.

The team must address the danger this discovery represents. Nicky and Joe are confronted with a child created from their stolen blood.

A/N: A post-cannon story imagining the concept of a lab-generated immortal and how it affects the Guard. Could also be seen as an examination of parenthood. Mostly that, actually. Medical torture. Dr. Kozak is her own warning tbh. Child Abuse. Nicky is a doctor. Death. Immortal Parents. Hurt/Comfort. Illness. Blood. Angst.

Masterlist

05:02 AM. 01 Feb. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

The back guest bedroom quickly became their entire world. Behind the closed door, time moved differently. It was measured in the rustle of sheets each time Nicky checked over Ilyas, the creak of floorboards as Joe traveled between the ensuite bathroom and the bed, bringing a cool washcloth or a glass of water. Copley had prepared the space into a makeshift medical suite before their arrival: the small adjustable bed stood opposite Joe and Nicky’s shared bed, flanked by an IV stand and a glowing vitals monitor. They moved like synchronized ghosts, one always lingering near the bedside while the other stepped away to take moments to breathe: gulping frigid air in the garden, choking down meals at the kitchen sink, scrubbing themselves red under the shower as if they could wash away the memory of the hell they left behind.

Stripped of his medical gown and dressed in soft, green and white cotton pajamas, Ilyas almost looked like any sleeping child—if not for the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger and the IV line taped to the inside of his elbow. Nicky had silenced the beeps of the vitals monitor to make the room feel less clinical, routing all alerts to his phone instead. It was doubtful that Ilyas was ever allowed much quality rest at the lab. With the heavy schedule of monitoring and testing, someone would have been coming into his room throughout all hours of the night. He fell into a heavy sleep the moment they got him settled in bed, his body in dire need of recuperation. 

While Ilyas slept, Nicky was able to perform additional tests. He fastened an elastic tourniquet around the arm not containing an IV. The boy didn’t stir once while he located a suitable vein and filled three small glass vials. The dark blood seeped out sluggishly, but he drew enough for a complete blood count, a metabolic panel, and a culture, neatly labeling each tube before setting them aside. Copley had a trusted contact who could analyze them and produce results in the same day. 

When Nicky withdrew the needle, he pressed a cotton ball to the small puncture wound in the crook of Ilyas' elbow. He held it there for only a handful of seconds before peeling it away to check the site. A bead of blood welled up, dark against the boy’s pale skin, but the tiny wound closed before his eyes. It wasn't instantaneous like his or Joe’s healing, but it was still too fast for any mortal. The skin smoothed over completely within seconds, leaving no trace of the needle’s entry. There was no bruise, net leftover mark. 

Nicky's thumb brushed over the spot. This confirmed what the lab reports described, but it was something he felt the need to see for himself. Perfect, unbroken skin.

He exhaled slowly, carefully packing away his supplies. The quiet of the bedroom felt suddenly stiff, the weight of this discovery pressed down on his shoulders. Beyond these walls, life continued. He could hear the muffled sounds of movement down the hall, the creaking footsteps as the others moved through Copley's house.

The team had respected the unspoken boundary surrounding the back room. No one approached unless summoned, wanting to provide Nicky and Joe space to tend to their fragile new reality. But just outside, the rest of the house hummed with activity.

Booker set up camp in the living room, his face hidden behind his laptop screen as he scrolled through the new trove of files. They now had ten times the intel they had gathered before, each document more disturbing than the last. There were things he read in the first few hours that brought on a sharp wave of sickness, one he wouldn't be able to fully shake for days. He tried to set aside the worst of it, leaving the video files and clinical reports in a separate folder for Nicky and Joe. That information belonged to them first, and they should be the only ones with the power to decide if anyone else ever saw. Instead, he focused on combing through for names. This included every researcher, every access badge logged at the facility, and every pdf of signatures for financial contributions. He was scrupulous in the way he compiled the information, forming what would soon become a master list. All staff tied to the facility would need to be traced. There could be no exceptions. 

Copley worked methodically in the study, covering any lingering footprints from the raid, creating new false trails where he could. A cup of untouched tea sat perpetually beside him. 

Andy cleaned and sharpened her axe by the window, preparing the few tools she would need for the next job. She didn't pace, didn't open her mouth to speak. Because these were the moments when her stillness was far more dangerous than anything. She would leave for Kozak before the next day, and she would do so alone.

Only Nile moved freely between these separate worlds. She stocked the fridge with meals that could be reheated with one hand and stacked clean clothes outside the back bedroom's door. Once, after catching Joe’s empty stare in the kitchen, she risked taking a train to the city to buy books in Italian, Arabic, and English, even a few children's stories. With a limited selection of foreign language titles, she was unsure if her choices were even to their taste, but she felt better knowing that they would at least have options while they sat back there. The very next morning, if she happened to find Alif Laila and Il Piccolo Principe missing from the small pile, she didn’t mention it.

Nicky passed the hours by monitoring Ilyas' ragged breathing. The first night bled into a grey, sluggish morning, but by then, the IV fluids and several hours of rest had begun to take effect. The boy’s pulse felt steadier under Nicky’s fingertips and read better on the monitor, the rhythm no longer frantic or racing. Pressing on his nail beds revealed quicker capillary refill, the pink color returning in two seconds instead of six. His fever stubbornly remained at a low simmer, but thankfully didn't climb any higher. The waxy pallor of his cheeks had softened into something closer to life. Even his eyes seemed less sunken, the dark shadows beneath them visibly lighter.

Satisfied but cautious, Nicky adjusted the IV flow to a slower drip, then pressed a fresh cool cloth to the back of his neck. 

It was near noon when Ilyas finally stirred. His feet rustled beneath the blankets. Nicky and Joe were both there, hovering nearby. 

His long lashes fluttered before he immediately screwed his eyes shut again. Even the weak sunlight diffused through a layer of grey clouds proved to be too much for him. He turned into the pillow with a whimper, his body curling inward like a creature retreating. 

"Troppa luce." Nicky remarked, already reaching for the remote to close the automatic shades on the windows. There was the gentle whir as the blinds slid down over the expansive glass, casting the room in only the dim glow of a solitary lamp in the corner. (Too much light.)

Joe lowered himself onto the side of the bed. He didn’t rush, allowing the boy several moments to adjust to his presence before he lifted the washcloth from the back of his neck. He pressed his palm to his fevered skin, only switching to then check his forehead. Immediately, Ilyas stiffened at the touch, not entirely in fear, but as if he found the gesture strange. Joe wondered if anyone had ever done this for him. 

He gazed blearily at the man sitting near him. Watching. Unsure.

Joe’s hand smoothed down his back, leaning forward to try and better peer at his face. "Does your head hurt?"

A pause. A slow exhale. Then his lips parted—

"Yes."

It was just loud enough to be audible, his voice raspy from disuse. Even this small effort seemed to greatly tax his strength, as he now struggled to lift his eyelids with each slow blink. 

Joe's breath caught, his mouth opened in hushed surprise. The word was hoarse but unmistakable. He glanced at Nicky, just for a second, and saw the same stunned realization in his eyes. They never imagined to hear him speak this soon. It was an outright revelation to their ears. Language meant comprehension. It meant that Ilyas could hear them—their reassurances, their apologies, their quiet debates over his care. It meant that he wasn’t lost.

“Yeah?” Joe replied in a soft breath, managing the faintest smile. His hand moved to wrap around Ilyas’ fingers, his thumb smoothing over his knuckles. “Okay, let us fix that."

He turned to look at Nicky, who was already administering another dose of fentanyl through the IV bag's medication port. 

"Thank you for telling us.” Joe continued, watching the boy try to follow Nicky's movements with his eyes. 

He didn't seem alarmed for the moment to be in this strange place, surrounded by two men he didn't know. Fatigue looked to be winning out against any fear or uncertainty he might have felt. His eyelids were loosing the battle to remain open. 

"Sleep a little more. It's alright." Joe encouraged him, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

01:57 AM. 02 Feb. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

The kitchen was quiet, lit only by the washed out glow of the stove's range hood light. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, but Joe was still awake, moving on autopilot as he rummaged through the fridge for something—anything, really—to eat. He couldn't remember having any appetite since before they were gathered into Copley's study two days ago, but his body was now stubbornly demanding fuel. His limbs trembled with each movement, the acid in his stomach burned for something to consume. He grabbed the first edible thing within reach, cold fried chicken left forgotten on a chipped plate, quickly tearing into it with his teeth. The grease smeared across his fingers, but to him it tasted of nothing. He felt too tired to sit, too wired to sleep. The last forty-eight hours had been a blur of violence and terror and that small, fragile body carried in his arms.

Over the course of nine centuries, he had seen many dying children, in plague houses, in famine ravaged villages, in the ruins of bombed out cities. But he had never held someone whose suffering had been so carefully designed. Joe knew now that this what disturbed him the most in this entire ordeal. Even if he refused to ever read the lab's reports, he knew they explained how each action was meticulously measured and plotted. How nine engineered human lives were reduced to mere data points, made to be harvested until they broke.

And so Joe forced himself to think of any other distraction—about what else he could find to eat, if maybe there was something sweet he could take back to Nicky, if the broth simmering on the stove for Ilyas needed checking. 

Ilyas.

In such a short amount of time, the name had managed to settle naturally into their life. Joe couldn't imagine the child being called anything else now, so much the soft syllables suited him. Earlier that day, while he and Nicky bathed him with a sponge at the sink, Joe had repeated it aloud more than once, making sure the exhausted boy met his eyes each time. It might have seemed foolish to an outsider, this insistence, but Joe needed him to understand that this name was his. Because he still feared, deep down, that it might be the only thing they would ever be able to give him.

Just as he lifted the lid of the stock pot, there were footsteps.

Andy stood in the doorway, dressed to leave—black jacket half-zipped, unlaced boots shoved onto her feet. Joe spotted her axe tucked into the sitar case by the door. The incongruity of it was almost comical, one of their oldest tricks, the kind of thing that would have made him smirk under different circumstances. A packed bag was slung over one of Andy's shoulders. She froze when she saw him, her expression flickering. There was brief surprise, then resignation. She hadn’t anticipated anyone to still be awake. 

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Of everyone in the house that could have walked in, Joe was glad it was her. Andy wouldn’t hover with pity or prod him with gentle, suffocating questions. 

She crossed to the table and dropped into a chair, yanking the laces of her boots tight with sharp, practiced tugs.

Joe leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, though they both knew that it wasn't really a question.

Andy’s fingers paused. “You neither, apparently.”

He sighed, short nails scraping through his beard. “Nicky’s with him. I just…needed air.”

She nodded, like that made perfect sense. Then, after a beat, “How is he?”

No one had asked yet. No one had dared, but this was Andy. In her six millennia of life, she had burned every bush anyone ever tried to beat around.

Joe’s shoulders drooped. He rubbed at the back of his neck, the muscles there stiff and begging for him to go lie down.

“Thankfully, he's still sleeping." The words came out clipped, factual, like if he said them fast enough, they couldn't possibly harm him on the way out. "He’s sick. We don’t know with what. He will need fluids for the next day or so. He’s—" His throat tightened, "—too thin. Can't grip my hand. Can't lift his head. We know that he's in pain, but he can't tell us much.” 

To his absolute relief, Andy didn't press. She just listened, her silence ever a solid thing. 

“We named him." Joe added quietly. "Ilyas.”

That made her glance up. “Yeah?” A faint crease formed between her brows. It wasn't disapproval, but rather something like recognition.

“Yeah.” He let his hand hover only a few centimeters from the top of the stock pot, the steam warming his palm and fingers. “Nicky chose. Said he should have something symbolic.”

Andy’s mouth twitched. Knowing, almost fond. “Sounds like him.”

Joe nodded. He didn’t feel like mentioning the second name, how Nicolò had spilled from his lips in the van without hardly any thought or pause. Because there simply were no words for the why of it, for what exactly compelled him to make sure Ilyas carried something from the man he loved. Some blessings required no explanation, because some intentions were too sacred to put into words.

He watched her finish fastening the laces on each boot, then the familiar way she tested both heels against the kitchen tile. 

“Where are you going, boss?”

She let one hand rest flat on the kitchen table as she looked at him. 

"To handle something that can’t wait.”

He knew. Of course he knew. But his breath still caught, just for a second.

Kozak.

The name idled there in the silence, sharp and acrid.

Joe's rings bit into the flesh of his fingers as his hands flexed. Every cell in his body screamed—fuck, needed—for him to suit up and follow her. To hunt, to carve his own hurt into that woman's throat and see for himself when she took her last breath. Because he knew the restlessness he felt would only ease once she was erased from the earth for what she had done. Not just to him, but to Nicky, to a child who flinched at every touch and didn't understand being held.

But he couldn't. 

And Joe knew with devout certainty that Nicky would want to do the same for his own reasons, but he couldn't either.

Their place was here, in this house, watching over that little boy in the back bedroom who didn't yet know who they were to him.

Andy rose. For a moment, she adjusted the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder. He caught a gleam of something unspoken in her eyes before she was quickly bridging the space between them. Her gaze held Joe's as she reached up to cup his face. He blinked and she was suddenly pulling him against her. The stiffness in his body temporarily gave way. He allowed himself to hide down against her shoulder, relishing the contact. Andy's hand found the back of his head, smoothing up his nape and tangling briefly into his curls before she pulled away, brushing a chaste kiss to his cheek.

She saw him and she knew.

He didn't beg. Didn't bargain. Just let the weight of his own debt press his feet deeper into the floor. Joe owed Andy so much, and for not the first time, he felt painfully young under her gaze. Helpless before her in the same way he and Nicky were nearly nine hundred years ago, stumbling together for days through the Cherkasy forest until they found her, Quynh, and Lykon. Desperate for direction and answers about this impossible existence forced upon them, most of which she could not give. 

Andy could read all of this in him. The same way now as she could back then, understanding all too well the need and weariness in his eyes. 

“I’ll see you when I get back.”

Joe didn't ask her to wait. Didn't say let me come. Though God knew how he wanted to. He gave the barest nod, the line of his jaw trembling with everything it cost him. 

The sitar case clicked open then shut. Andy didn't say anything more. She stalked out of the kitchen in the direction of Copley's entryway. The front door sighed on its hinges. She was gone. 

Alone now with the refrigerator's mechanical hum, Joe's shoulders dropped. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

01:42 PM. 02 Feb. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

The morning had been quiet, the kind of stillness that settles after several days of non-stop rain. Ilyas had slept through most of the first day, only briefly waking the times they changed his clothes and bathed him at the sink. 

Now, on the second day, Nicky was determined to get some kind of real food into him. He read in the files from the lab that there had been problems with feeding Ilyas even before the testing required to purposefully starve him. Ilyas often refused meals, with some notes describing him as disinterested and exhibiting a failure to thrive. Nicky balked at the very wording, as if his refusal to eat were due to some shortcoming and not a rational human response to a world that did not encourage him to live. On multiple occasions he was fitted with a feeding tube, and the reports mentioned four separate times where Ilyas ripped the tube out in frustration during the middle of the night.  

Nicky could have almost smiled at the idea of him causing trouble, but this was food, something essential and meant to be comforting. He could easily picture those small fingers clawing at the invasive thing in his nose, the silent rebellion of a body that refused to be force-fed. Any notions of pride he might have felt were chased away by his guilt, because he knew that defiance shouldn't have to be an act of desperation.

He didn't want to entertain the idea of feeding Ilyas sludge through a tube. His short life had been clinical and joyless for long enough. The boy deserved to taste good things and experience flavor, even if they needed to start with options that were light and mild. 

Nicky had been up before dawn, simmering bones in Copley’s too-pristine kitchen, filling the house with the rich, earthy scent of home-made chicken broth. It was the kind of thing mothers and grandmothers had prepared in the same manner for all of history—something meant to knit strength back into fragile bones. With all of the offerings in the modern age, this recipe had scarcely ever changed. 

By afternoon, the painkillers had softened the sharp edges of Ilyas’s discomfort, leaving him drowsy but lucid enough to try. Nicky knelt beside the the small bed they’d set up for him, his voice a steady murmur.

"Vuoi mangiare? Hai fame?" He repeated the question in English, softer this time. "Are you hungry?" 

Ilyas blinked up at him, his gaze slow and unfocussed, as if the question itself was a foreign concept. 

Joe stepped in without hesitation, hands slipping beneath the boy’s body. "Come here, it's okay." he murmured, using great care to not lift his slight frame too quickly. It would have been an easy mistake, with how little he weighed. Nicky followed, attentively guiding the IV line, making sure nothing pulled or snagged.

Ilyas made a sudden, uncertain whine at the movement, his fingers twitching against Joe’s sleeve. He was alert enough to register that he was being transported somewhere for something, and this seemed to ignite his concern. His eyes struggled to follow the movement, to place where exactly he was being taken. 

Joe stilled at once, cradling him close. "Hey," He whispered, tipping his head downward so the boy could see his face. "Just moving you to the big bed for a little while. Nothing bad, I promise."

Nicky watched, struck silent, as Ilyas settled almost instantly at the sound of Joe's voice. Whether it was simply tone or the words themselves that reached him was unclear, but the tension bled from his small body before he could grow too upset. 

Carefully, slowly, Joe settled down onto the large mattress. He shifted to sit against the headboard, positioning Ilyas on his lap, letting him lean back into the solid warmth of his chest. His arms loosely bracketed him on either side, not to restrain, just to make sure he wouldn't fall. 

Nicky perched on the edge of the bed and took the steaming mug of broth from the nightstand. He cradled it between his palms, testing the heat, then dipped the spoon and lifted it toward Ilyas' mouth. The boy's head lolled away abruptly, his lips pressed together in protest. 

Undeterred, Nicky bent closer, trying to catch his eye. "Dai, solo un poccino." he coaxed. (C'mon, just a little bit.)

Joe’s thumb brushed the curve of Ilyas’ cheek. He spoke near the crown of his head, his voice easy and warm. "Nicky made this for you, habibi. Not for anyone else."

The endearment gave Nicky pause. He had watched Joe comfort enough frightened children and animals to fill several lifetimes, but something in the way he spoke to this one was different, and he couldn't quite name why. This seemed to come from a different part of him, born from a deeper emotion that neither of them would have been able to explain. 

Ilyas remained unconvinced. He eyed the mug with open suspicion, small hands flexing restlessly against Joe's arms. He would have pushed them away if he possessed the necessary strength. 

This was going to be slow work.

They would never dream of force feeding him, so they temporarily retreated. The spoon rested untouched against the side of the ceramic mug as their conversation drifted to unimportant things. They would needed to do more laundry soon. Someone should ask Booker or Nile to go buy proper bread from a bakery, because Joe wanted good toast. The rain would return by nightfall. 

Ilyas remained nestled against Joe's chest, listening to the sound of their voices over his head, no longer looking at the mug. 

Seizing the moment, Nicky coated only the back of the spoon, continuing to talk about the coming rain as he smoothly dabbed a single drop onto the boy’s lower lip. Ilyas blinked in temporary surprise, but the tip of his tongue instinctively darted forward. He immediately frowned once the taste registered, which was followed by a tiny, almost comical furrow of his brow.

They both pretended not to watch him too closely. He seemed to be pondering, taking a moment to examine this new flavor. 

After a moment, Nicky tried again, this time with half a spoonful. "Ancora?" (Again?)

A pause. Then, the faintest hum, something close to yes.

"Bravo, piccolo." Nicky breathed, praising him as he eagerly took the bite offered.

There was the soft thud of Joe's head tilting back against the padded headboard. He directed a blinding grin at the ceiling when the boy opened his mouth for a second spoonful. His laughter was gentle. 

"Another victory for Italian penicillin."

Nicky huffed, but his lips flicked upward into a faint smirk as he dipped the spoon once more.

Twelve.

They managed to feed him twelve mouthfuls of broth before fatigue set in. It wasn’t enough, not nearly, but this wasn’t about volume. It was the way Ilyas leaned forward when Nicky lifted the next bite to his mouth. It was about seeing him actually want for something.

By the end, Ilyas was already fading, his breaths deepening against Joe’s chest. Exhausted just by the simple act of eating.

Carefully, Joe took him back into his arms and carried him over to his small bed. He settled him down before tugging the blankets up to his thin shoulders. He lingered for a moment longer, smoothing a hand over the newly healed skin where the lab’s electrodes had left his scalp raw. The oatmeal shampoo Nicky had insisted on must have helped. The irritation was gone, now leaving only stubbly regrowth.

When he straightened, Nicky was watching him. No words passed between them, but none were needed. The glance alone transmitted the weight of their shared determination.

Later. They would try again later.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

05:45 PM. 02 Feb. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

The doorframe was as far as Booker let himself go without permission.

He had timed this carefully, watching through the kitchen window as Joe's silhouette finally disappeared down the garden path with Nile and Copley. Their muffled voices faded into the early evening air, leaving only the faint click of the sliding glass door behind them. Nile had expertly finessed the situation, somehow convincing Joe to take his first proper break in nearly forty-eight hours. Booker owed her more than he could say.

The transformation in both men since they returned from the raid with the boy had been alarming. They had been holed up in that back bedroom for nearly two days now, only ever leaving to quickly grab food. Each time, their appearances gave everyone reason for concern. Both looked like phantoms of themselves, dark smudges beneath their eyes, beards growing unkempt, skin gone sallow from too many hours under artificial light.

Booker knew his role in all of this, and had no intention of ever forgetting his place in the chain of events. Even now, years after the betrayal, the weight of Merrick’s lab still pressed between his ribs like a malignant growth. Nicolò had forgiven him, yes, but forgiveness wasn’t the same as trust. And Yusuf's wounds ran undeniably deeper, the scars left behind still more visible. 

Booker's knuckles hovered an inch from the wood. He tapped softly. 

“C’est moi.” 

He kept his tone low, instinctively softening the words.

A pause. Then, Nicky responded, his voice rough with exhaustion. “Entra.”

He pushed the door open to a scene that wrung physical pangs from his heart.

The room was dark, save for a dim lamp illuminated in the far corner. Nicky sat slouched in an armchair, sock-covered feet propped on the edge of a narrow bed, laptop casting a pale blue glow over his unshaved face. But it was the small figure on the bed that made Booker's chest ache—a child sized mound beneath a knitted blue blanket, so still he might have been carved from stone. Clear plastic lines snaked from his arm to a gleaming  metal IV stand. Two bags hung suspended, one clear, one amber-tinted, their fluids dripping in silent tandem.

Christ.

Booker knew this tableau too well, the stoic watch over a child's sickbed. The paper thin skin. The shallow breaths. The way Nicky hovered nearby, standing guard against a threat that had already breached the door. He had lived this before. He had been in this exact position, years ago, watching his own son war through the rise and fall of his chest. Being in this room suddenly felt wrong for a myriad of reasons, but he couldn't back away, couldn't bring himself to leave just yet. 

"How's he doing?" Booker kept his voice hushed, nodding toward the small shape swallowed by blankets.

"Stable." Nicky didn’t glance up as he spoke. “He's fighting a bacterial infection, but it's taking Copley's biologist contacts some time to identify the strain. He's on antibiotics for now.” He tapped the laptop's trackpad, scrolling through files labeled with the lab's insignia. “I've been looking through the last two months of reports to try and understand what they did. But there are gaps in the files...”

Booker watched him rub at the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezing shut for a beat.

“Come in properly, libretto.”

The door clicked shut behind him after he crossed the threshold. He moved further into the room, keeping a respectful distance from the bed, choosing to stand near the armchair where Nicky sat. 

"What have you been reading?" He gently demanded, eyes glancing at the screen of Nicky's laptop. "The logs some of the resident physicians kept aren't the most consistent." 

Kozak had implemented a certain turnover schedule amongst staff, partially to protect the core of her findings and to assure that no single individual held a complete picture, but this was also to prevent anyone from developing empathy or attachment towards the subjects. She was a sadist by every clinical definition, but no fool. She understood the risks of using young children, the emotional element that this could raise for others wasn't one she felt personally, but she knew it could be dangerous to her work. 

Nicky nodded admittingly. "No. So I've been looking elsewhere, but now that we have so much information, it's slower work." 

Booker's hand came to rest on the winged back of the chair, he shifted his weight, the floor creaking beneath him. He gestured to the laptop, his voice carefully neutral. "There’s another folder you should see. With video files—hundreds of them."

Nicky’s fingers stilled on the trackpad. "Of what specifically?"

"Every test, every procedure, starting from the beginning all the way to this past month." Booker swallowed. "I didn’t watch. But the filenames are timestamped. I think they started to use video more than written logs towards the end. They're less subject to individual interpretation."

"Video is fact." A muscle jumped in Nicky’s jaw as he spoke. Booker recognized the look on his face—knew all too well his silent brand of anger.

"Nico..." He hesitated. The question 'how are you holding up?' died on his tongue. He knew the answer. Knew the way days bled together at a sickbed, the way food lost taste, the way the world narrowed to medication schedules and sponging fevered foreheads. He had sat exactly where Nicky sat now. The experience gutted him from the inside out.

"You should eat first." He insisted. "Sleep maybe, too. Even if just for an hour."

Nicky’s gaze flicked to Ilyas, to the slow rise and fall of the blanket. "After."

His voice wasn’t sharp, just final. He double clicked a file labeled: IL9_CoreStressTest_12.01.25.mov.

The screen filled with sterile white tiles. A metal table. Small limbs strapped down with nylon cuffs.

Booker turned away before the muted video played. He didn’t need to see to know what came next. The silence between them thickened, broken only by the hum of the laptop fan.

Then—

"Thank you." Nicky said quietly. "For finding all of this."

Booker nodded, his throat tight. He knew what the gratitude would cost him. He knew that Nicky would torture himself by watching every second of footage. He wished with everything that he could stop him. 

A thin, pierced sound interrupted the quiet of the bedroom. Not quite a cry, but the vulnerable whimper of a child hovering just between sleep and wakefulness. The small bundle in the bed shifted restlessly. Dark eyes struggled to blink the dimly lit room into focus. The boy looked to be searching for something, for some sort of anchor. 

Nicky sat up, setting the laptop aside. He left the chair, moving to crouch down by the small bed. The child shifted against the blankets, this time followed by a whine. 

Pain. Booker could tell from the pitch alone. 

"Shh, è tutto a posto..." The soothing words spilled automatically as Nicky reached out, his knuckles brushing down the boy's flushed cheek. (Shh, everything's okay...)

The heat radiating from the small body was alarming even before he covered the child's forehead with his palm. His mouth tightened into a grim line as he grabbed the thermometer from the nightstand, gently inserting the sensor into one tiny ear.

Nicky frowned at the reading. The fever had spiked again. Worse. 

He asked the boy if he wanted to drink. He brought a straw to his lips, patiently waited, but the child only turned his face away, a weak "no..." leaving him. 

Nicky glanced over his shoulder. “A cloth. Cold.”

Booker moved to the ensuite, wetting a washcloth under the tap. When he returned, Nicky took it without a word, folding the material around the back of the the boy's neck.

"Sono qui, Ilyas." Nicky murmured to him. "Close your eyes now. I'll stay with you.” (I'm here, Ilyas.)

His eyelashes fluttered momentarily before shutting. He remained curled on his side, toward the man continuing to speak quiet comforts, who continued to watch patiently until sleep took him under once more. 

Booker’s gaze lingered on the child, even after Nicky stood and returned to the armchair. He caught the name that had gently floated out—one he had never read anywhere in the files.

“Ilyas?”

“Yes, that's his name.” Nicky's voice softened, just for a moment. If he hadn’t been so drained, he might've worn the ghost of a smile.

“Elijah.” Booker repeated the Hebrew equivalent, approving.

Now that the boy, Ilyas, was asleep once more, his features were slack and calm, granting a clear view of his face. The resemblance was undeniable. Those were Joe's eyebrows, the same expressive arches that could convey entire conversations without words. The shape of his nostrils, the curve of his cheekbones, it was surprising to see how much of him was derived from their Yusuf. 

"Kid looks like Joe." Booker observed aloud before he could stop himself. 

This drew a hum of agreement from Nicky, who was settling the laptop back on his thighs. 

"Lucky for him." 

Booker's eye caught a colorful book settled on the corner of the nightstand. Even in the soft light of the bedroom, he could make out the title—Il Piccolo Principe, it must have been one of the titles Nile picked up in London. Under lighter circumstances, he would have launched into playful banter about the merits of reading Le Petit Prince in the original language, continuing their two hundred year-old rivalry of France vs. Italy, but he knew his brother was not in the spirit. The fatigue weighing down his frame, the darkening of his pale green eyes, both robbed Booker of any desire to tease. 

"Have you been reading to him?" He nodded to the volume on the nightstand. 

Nicky blinked momentarily before understanding. "Oh, yes." His hand smoothed through his own hair, pushing the unwashed strands back from his forehead. "We don't know if he likes it, but it's the only thing we can do other than let him lay there. Feeding him, bathing him—it all hurts and leaves him exhausted."

Booker had already stepped towards the door, but didn't yet reach for the knob. 

"You should. It's good for him." he offered, his voice rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. "Even when you think he can't hear you. Especially then."

Nicky turned to look at him, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

"There was a scarlet fever outbreak when my oldest boy was about his age—" He paused, the old ache flaring momentarily in his chest. He could still recite much of Les Aventures de T��lémaque from memory, just from how often he read the text to Philippe."—when they have fever like this, even when they're too sick to open their eyes, they still know your voice."

Booker met Nicky's gaze, willing him to understand. "It's not about the words right now. It's about him knowing you're both there."

Somewhere from the front of the house, out near the living room, Joe's voice could be heard. Booker only nodded once more at Nicky before his hand found the door handle. He quietly let himself out. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

06:33 PM. 02 Feb. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

Nicky had spent the evening combing through the videos, forcing himself to witness a cruelty that might not match the scale of Jerusalem's massacres or Warsaw's ghettos, but still revealed the same fundamental truths. These were people who woke each morning, drank their coffee, and came to work specifically to torture a child. Who watched his body jerk in pain and noted it down with academic interest. Who looked past his abject terror so they could move on to the next test.

He had read the dry reports, studied the sterile photographs, but nothing could have compared to watching it unfold in real time. Nicky was once again confronted with how easily human beings could do deplorable things when convinced it was for science.

He wouldn’t be able to eat that evening. 

In one video, Ilyas appeared smaller. He was dressed in a pair of shorts, shivering beyond his control, being held down in a metal tub of ice water, his lips already tinged blue. A nurse strapped his wrists to the sides, while weights around his thighs and ankles worked to keep him submerged. Kozak’s voice, crisp and detached, narrated in the background, "Subject IL-9, hypothermia trial seven. Begin timer."

Nicky’s chin rested in his hand, his fingers pressed hard against his closed mouth. His eyes burned, but he didn’t blink.

He forced himself to click the next file.

The same room. Ilyas strapped to a chair, blindfolded, this time his tiny body looked rigid with fear. There was no IV attached to him, no visible form of sedation or anesthesia. His small voice piped up once, asking why he couldn't see, but no one answered him. A gloved hand forced his jaw apart, shoving in a plastic device to keep his mouth propped open. A scalpel flashed, then slowly approached the back of his throat—

Nicky slammed the laptop shut. He folded forward, buried his face in his hands like in prayer. He didn't move from that position. Not when the bedroom door creaked open. Not when Joe’s footsteps crossed the floor.

"Nicolò?"   His voice was too soft, too careful.

Joe lowered himself before the upholstered armchair, his hands sliding up the backs of Nicky's calves, stopping to rest on his knees.

He couldn't lift his eyes to meet him. Everything about his touch was warm and meant to comfort, but he only found it too cautious, too unbearably gentle.

"What's wrong?" Joe searched, his fingers moving to guide his hands away. 

Nicky only shook his head. There were no more words in him, nothing more to say that they hadn't shared between each other already. What was he to do? Allow Joe to watch the same inhuman filth? To what end? So they could both feel the same devastation?

"Non è niente." He muttered dismissively, straightening with mechanical effort. "È solo la stanchezza."  He shifted to the edge of the armchair, shoving the laptop behind him. (It's nothing. Just the fatigue.)

Joe's dark eyes gleamed as they took him in, assessing. He sat back on his heels, letting his hands fall away in surrender. 

“You should go out to the garden.” He urged, long fingers resting down at Nicky's ankles. "Five minutes, love. Just to breathe.”

"No." He shook his head with no small amount of finality, his voice thin and tired. He nodded towards Ilyas' resting form. "Not while his fever's still climbing. I'll just shower." 

Joe nodded in concession, moving back so Nicky could stand. 

He relieved Nicky from watch duty long enough for him to bathe and force down a glass of water. During the time Nicky was away under the spray of the shower, Joe's gaze drifted over to where Ilyas lay in the bed. He looked undeniably worse than he had that morning. Now even in sleep, his face was drawn taut, his small brow pinched with discomfort. He lay curled on his side like a shrimp, his posture unnaturally stiff and protective. It was true that the heat rolling off of his body was palpable, thickening the air in the room. Joe didn’t need to touch him to know that Nicky had been right, it was burning worse.

He positioned more cold washcloths on Ilyas' neck, chest, and forehead. Anything to help the IV cocktail of cefotaxime and acetaminophen coax his fever down. 

Nicky re-emerged from the shower not long after, his wet hair dampening the collar of his t-shirt. 

That evening, they remained together in the back bedroom.

Joe sat with one of the books Nile had graciously bought for them when she snuck away to London, Pirandello's Uno, nessuno e centomila. Joe had only wanted to briefly thank their little sister that afternoon for her thoughtfulness, but she ended up dragging him outside by the hand into the garden. Much like Nicky, he initially tried to refuse the break, but the forced reprieve had helped to clear his head. The cool air in his lungs made him feel more awake, the fallen wet leaves on the ground reminded him of walking through maple orchards in Canada. The positive memory had soothed his mind some, and Nile's grip on his hand had worked to ground him. 

He cracked open the paperback and began to softly read aloud in Italian, the melodic sound of his husband's language forming a small bridge in the isolated bedroom.  

Nicky allowed Joe's voice to wash over him, if only to seek a moment's worth of calm for himself. Fresh from his shower, with his thoughts now feeling slightly more coherent, he sank back into the armchair beside the bed and resumed his grim task. The laptop was balanced once more on his knees, the screen purposefully titled away from Joe, the volume muted. There were only a few files from the last month, so he reasoned that he wouldn't have much to work through. 

He selected the most recent of the videos, timestamped only one day before the raid. 

Nicky watched, motionless, as the screen showed a bird's eye view of Ilyas. He was lying naked on an exam table, curled tightly in the fetal position. He was strapped down with thick nylon restraints. A gloved hand poured red-brown antiseptic along the delicate curve of his spine. The boy didn’t struggle. Didn’t cry. Just stared blankly ahead, breathing in and out, as if he had long since learned that resistance was pointless.

With the volume cut, there wasn’t the background noise of Kozak’s voice narrating the procedure. The needle went in. Nicky’s own spine burned in phantom sympathy while he watched the plunger depress, some clear solution vanished into the space between Ilyas’ lower vertebrae. 

He minimized the video, clicking back into the maze of folders to pull up the corresponding chief resident’s notes. The files weren’t just organized by date. Kozak’s work was also segmented into the four project phases, cataloguing the perceived milestones in her research.

Nicky’s eyes narrowed as he skimmed through the report.

Subject IL-9, Trial Sequence 01 (Project Phase IV). Intrathecal administration of enhanced neisseria meningitidis, Strain version S-29. Expected symptom onset within 24 hours (fever, photophobia, muscular rigidity). Objectives are to (a) measure regenerative response while under septic duress and (b) observe if fatal pathogen exposure induces permanent death. Vitals stable at point of commencement. Observational period set to begin-

He didn’t finish reading.

In one fluid movement he was already on his feet, the chair’s legs scraping the floor. Ilyas lay curled on his side, the same position he had favored ever since they brought him home. The same position he had been forced into on that table.

Aversion to light. Headaches. Curled position. Fevers that spiked but never broke. 

Nicky knelt beside the bed, his hands steady despite the unease he felt. Carefully, he began to remove the washcloths Joe strategically placed over his body to help soothe his fever. He pressed two fingers to his pulse point, while simultaneously regarding the vitals monitor. Too fast. The skin beneath his touch still burned.

“Ilyas,” he murmured, shaking him gently. “Svegliati un momento.” (Ilyas, wake up for a moment.)

Ilyas stirred with a whimper, his lashes fluttering. It took three tries before his eyes opened, glassy with sleep and pain.

"It's okay, piccolo. I've got you." Nicky coaxed, helping the boy shift onto his back. Ilyas went rigid, a wounded noise catching in his throat as the movement pulled at tight muscles. 

Joe’s book snapped shut. He sat forward, now watching them. "What is it?"

Nicky didn’t answer.

He cupped either side of Ilyas’ face, his thumbs tracing circles into his temples. “Shh, let me see,” he whispered, before slowly, cautiously, attempting to guide the boy’s chin toward his chest.

Ilyas only screamed, his muscles too stiff to cooperate. 

It was a raw, shattered sound, one that likely traveled to the far ends of Copley's home. His small hands flexed at his sides before clawing at the sheets. His legs lifted off the mattress in a futile attempt to curl once more.

Nicky released him immediately. Ilyas turned away, gasping, trembling.

Nuchal rigidity.

Joe was on the floor beside them in an instant, his hand gripping Nicky’s elbow. “Nicky—” His voice was clipped and strained, torn between trust and protest.

How he didn't see the signs sooner would haunt Nicky for days to come. His attention remained fixed on Ilyas. He stooped, now curling over the whimpering boy.

“Shh, mi dispiace tanto, Ilyas." He murmured softly to him, just able to meet his glassy brown eyes as his hand cupped over his sweat damp nape. "Te lo prometto, è finito ora, niente più male.” (Shh, I’m so sorry, Ilyas. I promise you, it's over now, no more pain.)

“Nicky.” Joe tried again. His name clearly meant as a plea.

"I know what this is." Nicky responded, never looking over his shoulder as he moved toward his supplies. He dug out an intranasal syringe prefilled with fentanyl, then shifted back over to Ilyas. With one hand he braced the boy's head and quickly fitted the nozzle of the syringe to his nostril, shushing him once more as he administered the two necessary doses. 

He paused to watch for a moment, verifying when Ilyas' pupils dilated in response. 

Finally, Nicky turned, meeting Joe's face that barely contained the silent demand of what are you doing.

He reached for him with a trembling hand, claiming his palm against his own. "Come with me." He stood, drawing them both upward, his grip insistent. 

Joe, confused and concerned, could only follow, because there was never any other option. He no longer remembered a time when his trust in this man didn't feel calcified into his very bones. His faith in Nicky had guided him safely to shelter underneath countless dark skies. Even now, with fear coursing through him, he let himself be led, because to question his love now would be like doubting the very laws that governed the earth. 

The bathroom's stone tile was cool under their feet, the air still thick with the damp heat of Nicky's shower. Joe positioned himself in the open doorway, body angled to keep Ilyas in sight while they spoke.  

Nicky swallowed hard. “They infected him.” he began, the words like ash in his mouth. “This is a strain of meningitis that they engineered. It’s—it’s meant to be resistant. Meant to kill him.”

Joe’s face remained a colorless mask as he nodded. His free hand rose, pressing to the column of his throat, rubbing as if something invisible constricted the area. 

“I need to perform a lumbar puncture tonight, so I can collect a sample of fluid from his spine.” Nicky continued, his voice numb. “I will need you to hold him.”

For a long moment, Joe didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

"Will it—" His voice cracked, but he caught himself. His teeth bit down on the inside of his cheek before he tried again. Slower. "How much will this hurt him?"

He glanced over to where the boy was resting. Even in the dim light, he could see how his gaunt face gleamed from perspiration. 

Nicky's expression softened, the underlying trepidation in the question pushing him to want to blurt reassurances, to say whatever he could to fix the insurmountable hurt in this situation for the both of them. But he would never insult Yusuf with empty comforts. He would never ask him to cross any sea without letting him plainly see the swell of the waves for himself. 

"I can sedate him enough so he stays calm. He'll be conscious, but he won't remember much after." He took a step toward Joe, watching how his eyes moved from Ilyas to meet his own. He was a man torn, wanting to simultaneously trust and protect, to question and defend. "I will numb the injection site completely. After that, he won't feel anything." 

Joe's hand dropped from his throat. He sagged against the doorframe, nodding down towards the tiles beneath them. He knew Nicky would never let this child suffer. He knew this implicitly. Yet the idea of using sedation and restraint gave him pause. After two fragile days of coaxing trust from Ilyas, would this feel like a betrayal to him? 

"I'll start the more aggressive course of antibiotics now, regardless." Nicky interjected. "But I have to do this, Joe. I need to know how far the infection has progressed." 

There was a moment of reflection that passed over them. Joe's gaze was fixed in the direction of where Ilyas slept

"Okay, yeah." The answer was quick, spoken softly but unwavering. "We'll do it tonight." 

Nicky's lips met his temple. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

07:17 PM. 02 Feb. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

The work to prepare the bedroom for the procedure was hurried, but everything felt to Nicky like they were moving through water. Each step made him more aware of his fatigue, each time he remembered another item he needed, requiring another search around the poorly lit bedroom, his head seemed more disorganized. He set out what he would need, sterile blue drapes placed over their bed, another over the nightstand to act as a work table for his tools. He lined up the sealed spinal needle, iodine, vial of lidocaine, syringes and collection tubes. He stared at each item a dozen times, wanting to make sure there was nothing forgotten.

He had already administered low-doses of midazolam and ketamine through Ilyas' IV port. Joe remained seated near the bed, watching over him as the medication took effect, as his small body went lax with the sensation of floating. They had removed most of his clothing, leaving him in just a pair of shorts. 

Nicky went into the ensuite to thoroughly cleanse his hands. Before he began, he leaned over the sink, firmly splashing several handfuls of cold water onto his face. The brisk liquid worked to shock him back to the land of the living, back to the present. The act of meticulously cleansing his hands helped to re-center him. He remembered sitting side-by-side with Joe, centuries ago, in the courtyard of a mosque in what was then Constantinople. They were together at the ablution fountain to perform the purification before prayers. Nicky had begun to occasionally accompany Joe for this, at his gentle insistence. His sleep had been so disturbed during this period of their life, and Joe was convinced that performing the motions of prayer, of kneeling and opening one's self to the divine through perfected repetition would maybe help free him from his own mind. Find peace with me, Nicolò—he had urged him, many, many times. Ultimately, it hadn't been the communication with God that finally soothed him enough to rest again. It had been Yusuf's constant warmth, his infinite patience with an angry and disillusioned Catholic who wrongly believed that relief only came through penance and self flagellation. 

It made him think what a merciful thing it was, that harm was able to be unlearned. 

Nicky stepped out of the bathroom donning blue surgical gloves, not the usual bare hands he normally prioritized when treating Ilyas. The boy had known so little touch that didn't come from sterile latex. They didn't want that to be his life anymore, but the procedure necessitated proper sanitization. 

He nodded once, signaling that he was ready. "You can move him over."

Joe turned from where he sat on the small bed's edge. Carefully, he peeled the blankets back, crouching to scoop Ilyas up from the mattress. The movement drew the first hushed noise from him. His head lolled against Joe's shoulder, his eyes dull and half-lidded. 

Joe's hand found the back of his nape, supporting him, assuring that he wasn't jostled. He took the time to speak to him, mouth positioned near the shell of his ear. "Easy, small man."

Mindful of the IV tubing, he took the three short steps over to the larger bed and gently settled Ilyas onto the blue drape. The moment he made contact with the new surface, a fragmented mumble escaped him, not any sort of intelligible word, but a blend of protest and confusion. Joe let Nicky instruct him on how to position his body, tucking his knees up, bringing his thighs to meet his chest. 

The boy blinked drowsily, struggling to sharpen his surroundings, to make sense of how he was newly oriented. 

Without hesitation, Joe moved around the bed, climbing on from the opposite side so he could stretch out on his stomach. His head was now near Ilyas, his arms reaching out to hold him steady in the curled position. He cupped one palm around the back of Ilyas' shorn head, his blunt nails scratching at his scalp. 

“Relax." He murmured. "I’m right here.”

Behind Ilyas, Nicky settled in, his face unreadable as he began to swab his back with a muddy orange iodine solution. He set the sponge aside and carefully drew a dose of lidocaine into a small syringe. 

Ilyas' eyes tried to search the corner of his field of vision. Joe could feel the minute twitch of his head, instinct making him wish to turn. His hand held him in place, keeping him still.

"Hey." He dipped his chin, forcing the boy's bleary eyes to meet his, their faces only a few inches apart. "Look at me, okay? Only me." 

Ilyas grimaced momentarily. Beneath the haze, there was a flash of fear that surfaced. Joe knew that he must be feeling the faint sting of the needle. His fingers spasmed against the drape before a soft gasp slipped free.

“You know,” Joe began, his thumb sweeping over the boy's brow, “when I was little, a few years older than you, but still little, I was locked outside my house when I wasn’t supposed to be.” His lips quirked, pleased to see the boy's eyes on him. “It was late at night. I thought I could climb up a tree along the side wall like a thief in the stories. There was an open window that I thought maybe I could reach if I jumped, but my shirt caught on one of the tree branches. I was stuck hanging in the air like laundry.”

Ilyas exhaled, the breath leaving him unsteadily. His gaze continued to cling to Joe's, even through the labored blinks of his eyelids. 

"I was with my cousin, Bilal. He tried to help, but he just threw rocks at me. I don't know whose foolish idea it was, his or mine, but I guess we thought it would knock me loose.” The memory forced a hushed laugh from him. “Of course it didn’t work. Just made me swing and one of the rocks nearly caught me in the eye. My uncle who lived next door woke up from all the noise. He came outside in his night clothes and found me up in the tree. Bilal ran away down the street to hide, leaving me there alone. My uncle found a ladder from one of the neighbors. And then—” His hand smoothed down Ilyas’ short hairs again, noting the velvet like texture. “Then I was in so much trouble. I think the entire village woke from my uncle's yelling, but I didn't care. I was just happy to be down from the blasted tree.”

"Almost done." Nicky's voice spoke from behind. 

"The next day," Joe continued, knowing they needed Ilyas' attention focused in the right direction until the end. "I found Bilal washing in the stream. For leaving me up in the tree, I stole his clothes and ran away as fast as I could. He had to walk home naked, and everyone was awake to see him. I mean everyone, habibi. The entire village." 

There was a quiet disapproving hum from Nicky. 

"—That wasn't very kind, Yusuf." 

Joe chuckled, the sound airy and warm from his chest. "No, it wasn't." He admitted, his grip on Ilyas readjusting, his chin still pressed against the mattress. "And I got in trouble yet again, but it was very funny." 

Ilyas gave no reaction to his anecdote, but this scarcely mattered. His brown eyes never strayed from his face, fixed there with a drowsy intensity. Even through the drug-addled haze, he was listening, or at least trying to listen. Maybe it was due to the sedation, but he seemed captivated just to have someone speak at length directly to him. They had little idea of his language level, but Joe couldn't help but wonder how much of the story he understood. If all he knew before was the inside of the laboratory, did he know what a ladder was? Or a stream? He made a note to tell him more stories, next time with some quickly drawn illustrations to help. 

"It's done." Nicky announced, shifting on his seat to back away, a collection vial held in one hand. 

Joe pushed up onto his elbows, his chest hovering over Ilyas so he could look. Other than the large iodine stain on the boy's lower back, there was nothing to see. His skin was left unmarked from the puncture, perfectly healed over. The needle had already been properly disposed of into the makeshift sharps receptacle Nicky made. A labeled glass tube containing cloudy liquid rested in his husband's gloved hand. From the set of his jaw, from the dip in his posture, Joe could see that whatever he found had already given him reason for concern. 

"Can I—" He cleared his throat, nodding to the curled boy between them. "—It's okay now if I pick him up?" 

The question pulled Nicky from his thoughts. His pale eyes lifted to settle on Joe's face. "Hm? Oh—sì, certo."

He didn't hesitate. Slowly, he coaxed Ilyas to uncurl from the tight fetal position, guiding his thighs away from his chest. Thankfully, the heavy medications used to sedate him kept most of the discomfort at bay, allowing them to move him more freely. Joe worked his hands underneath him, bending down to lift his body back into his arms.

Ilyas made a confused sort of gasp at the movement. His mouth parted to voice some sort of protest, but he fell silent the moment Joe shushed him. 

He stood cradling the boy beside the bed, watching as Nicky removed his gloves, then lifted away the blue drape to crumple it into a ball. 

"You did well, Ilyas. So well." Joe whispered down to him, swaying slightly on his feet. 

The bedroom door opened, and Nicky quietly disappeared down the dark hallway with the spinal fluid sample. He was off to deliver it to Copley, who would undoubtedly still be awake at this hour. It would be rushed out in the middle of the night to be anonymously analyzed by one of his contacts. They would have the results back before morning. 

Carefully, Joe settled himself onto the large bed, resting back against the headboard. He kept Ilyas in his arms, tucked against his chest. The boy's ear was pressed near his heartbeat, his eyes still open as he listened. The world likely felt strangely in motion for him, like the room was in permanent tilt while his body freely floated. His features twisted into a frown before he hid his face away, a shuddering sigh seeping from his lungs. 

Softly, Joe hummed a made up tune. The pad of his thumb traced lazily over the back of one of Ilyas' hands. Nicky returned not long after, joining him in their bed, their sides touching. 

"Dorme?" Nicky murmured in the dark, his large hand found the boy's slender ankle. No gloves now, just the skin of his bare palm, warm and slightly callused. (Is he sleeping?)

Joe glanced down, tilting his head to peer at the face smushed against his chest. "Almost."

They waited in the dark together for a stretch, knowing it wouldn't be long until Ilyas was properly out. The only sounds filling the room were the low, steady hum of Joe's voice and Ilyas' even breathing. With gentle encouragement, the boy finally managed to drift off. His slight weight went entirely slack.

“Tell me,” Joe said in a hushed whisper, switching purposefully to Arabic, a language he slipped into whenever he founds things too heavy.

Nicky understood him. He knew that he would demand to know the truth of things, to know exactly what kind of fate lay stretched before them. He was a poet, a romantic, an optimist, yes, but above all, he was someone who refused to look away.

He lifted his gaze, turning to fix his sights on Joe's face. His fingertips brushed his elbow just underneath Ilyas' still form. 

“This will only get worse before it gets better.” If it ever gets better. Nicky wanted to add, but he was patient. This conversation had only just begun. It would not be brief, nor would it be only a singular discussion. 

Joe exhaled through his nose. “How much worse?”

"—mettilo a letto."  (Put him to bed.)

It was a command, softened by the hand he brushed down the small leg draped over Joe's arm. They both needed to be entirely present for this, and the message passed clearly between them—first, set him down, then we talk.

The bed hardly moved as Joe delicately extracted himself. He carried Ilyas over to the small bed against the far wall, Nicky helping him cross over with the IV tubing. Gently, he deposited the boy back onto the soft mattress, only letting go when he was sure that Ilyas remained perfectly asleep. 

Once the blanket was smoothed back over his bare legs, Joe straightened and returned to their bed. Nicky remained motionless while he settled in beside him. His body's exhaustion was so pronounced, but sleep felt as if it would be impossible that evening. "Meningitis moves quickly." He began slowly. "With his biology, I can't know exactly how it will be for him. Given the date of infection, any normal child would be much worse by now." His legs shifted, his knee bumping Joe's thigh. "But as this progresses, there will be constant fever, delirium, neurological decline—it will be ugly. And even if his body fights…” His throat tightened before he forced out the hardest truth. "I cannot guarantee how it will end for him."

A pause. The wind outside rattled the trees. Somewhere in the house, they could hear water running from a different bathroom.

"I'll do everything to help him, but-"

Joe found his hand in the dark, their fingers deliberately intertwined. “-this might come down to just keeping him comfortable." He finished. 

“Yes.”

"Then that's what we do." Joe answered, pulling Nicky's hand to rest on his thigh. "We give him dignity." 

Nicky’s hand curled firmly around his in need, so overwhelmed by his own fears and the desire to address this guilt that neither of them knew how to correct. His head dipped, his shoulders curled inward against a hurt that threatened to choke him. “I can’t do this here any longer, Joe. I won’t.” The confession fell from him like a severed limb.

Joe understood immediately. Copley’s house felt all wrong, too full of ghosts. His wife had passed within these walls, Booker's betrayal had taken root here. It was a museum to a life that had fractured, to a life that wasn't theirs. The high ceilings echoed. The floors were always too cold.

“Genoa, then.” 

Nicky nodded. Their home by the sea, with its sun-warmed tiles and the golden walls of their back spare bedroom. The bed was quite new, but the room itself had held numerous transient souls over the past century—refugees, allies, once even a wounded enemy soldier that Nicky had nursed back to health. It smelled of salt and rosemary and the lemon tree just outside the window.

“We’ll need supplies,” Nicky murmured. “Everything we have here and more. Stronger medications—”

“Copley can arrange this.” Joe reminded him. He was already pulling out his phone, reverifying the travel time by plane. “He can set us up with a private flight. No customs, no headaches.”

Nicky’s gaze flicked to Ilyas, he watched the way his eyelids fluttered. “It's important to do it soon. He'll be uncomfortable during the journey, but if we wait too long, it will only be more painful for him.”

Joe's voice was absolute. "Nico, you would never allow him to suffer. Know that I know this, please." 

Nicky's body leaned over in his direction, his head finding rest on his solid shoulder. Joe shifted beneath him, positioning their bodies so they were more reclined, lifting his arm so Nicky would fit against his side. They didn’t speak for a long moment, listening together to the rasp of Ilyas’ quiet breathing.

It was decided. They would tell Copley that evening. 

“We’ve done this before.” Joe whispered. Not as a question or a reminder. Just a bare acknowledgement of the history they shared. 

A shadow passed over Nicky, he stared blankly at the space just beyond the foot of the bed. It was true that they had both waited at various bedsides, had both held onto stiff hands while watching light drain away from unseeing eyes.

“Yes. But never like this. Never for a child.”

Never for a child that is from you and me.

There lied the simple truth of it, the horrid core sitting firm and unmoving at the heart of everything. This could break them differently, potentially introducing one of those hurts that would once more rewrite them as people, changing the way they related to the world and the humanity inhabiting it. 

Just as all the other times before, neither one knew what to say when faced with that.