#what is the use of data flow testing

[dostoyevsky-official]

The Elite College Students Who Can’t Read Books

Nicholas Dames has taught Literature Humanities, Columbia University’s required great-books course, since 1998. He loves the job, but it has changed. Over the past decade, students have become overwhelmed by the reading. College kids have never read everything they’re assigned, of course, but this feels different. Dames’s students now seem bewildered by the thought of finishing multiple books a semester. His colleagues have noticed the same problem. Many students no longer arrive at college—even at highly selective, elite colleges—prepared to read books.

This development puzzled Dames until one day during the fall 2022 semester, when a first-year student came to his office hours to share how challenging she had found the early assignments. Lit Hum often requires students to read a book, sometimes a very long and dense one, in just a week or two. But the student told Dames that, at her public high school, she had never been required to read an entire book. She had been assigned excerpts, poetry, and news articles, but not a single book cover to cover.

[...] Twenty years ago, Dames’s classes had no problem engaging in sophisticated discussions of Pride and Prejudice one week and Crime and Punishment the next. Now his students tell him up front that the reading load feels impossible. It’s not just the frenetic pace; they struggle to attend to small details while keeping track of the overall plot.

No comprehensive data exist on this trend, but the majority of the 33 professors I spoke with relayed similar experiences. Many had discussed the change at faculty meetings and in conversations with fellow instructors. [...] Daniel Shore, the chair of Georgetown’s English department, told me that his students have trouble staying focused on even a sonnet.

Failing to complete a 14-line poem without succumbing to distraction suggests one familiar explanation for the decline in reading aptitude: smartphones. Teenagers are constantly tempted by their devices, which inhibits their preparation for the rigors of college coursework—then they get to college, and the distractions keep flowing. “It’s changed expectations about what’s worthy of attention,” Daniel Willingham, a psychologist at UVA, told me. “Being bored has become unnatural.” Reading books, even for pleasure, can’t compete with TikTok, Instagram, YouTube. In 1976, about 40 percent of high-school seniors said they had read at least six books for fun in the previous year, compared with 11.5 percent who hadn’t read any. By 2022, those percentages had flipped.

[...] Mike Szkolka, a teacher and an administrator who has spent almost two decades in Boston and New York schools, told me that excerpts have replaced books across grade levels. “There’s no testing skill that can be related to … Can you sit down and read Tolstoy? ” he said. And if a skill is not easily measured, instructors and district leaders have little incentive to teach it. [...] The pandemic, which scrambled syllabi and moved coursework online, accelerated the shift away from teaching complete works.

[...] But it’s not clear that instructors can foster a love of reading by thinning out the syllabus. Some experts I spoke with attributed the decline of book reading to a shift in values rather than in skill sets. Students can still read books, they argue—they’re just choosing not to. Students today are far more concerned about their job prospects than they were in the past. Every year, they tell Howley that, despite enjoying what they learned in Lit Hum, they plan to instead get a degree in something more useful for their career.

[...] For years, Dames has asked his first-years about their favorite book. In the past, they cited books such as Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre. Now, he says, almost half of them cite young-adult books. Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series seems to be a particular favorite.

[eikotheblue]

How do you *accidentally* make a programming language?

Oh, it's easy! You make a randomizer for a game, because you're doing any% development, you set up the seed file format such that each line of the file defines an event listener for a value change of an uberstate (which is an entry of the game's built-in serialization system for arbitrary data that should persiste when saved).

You do this because it's a fast hack that lets you trigger pickup grants on item finds, since each item find always will correspond with an uberstate change. This works great! You smile happily and move on.

There's a small but dedicated subgroup of users who like using your randomizer as a canvas! They make what are called "plandomizer seeds" ("plandos" for short), which are seed files that have been hand-written specifically to give anyone playing them a specific curated set of experiences, instead of something random. These have a long history in your community, in part because you threw them a few bones when developing your last randomizer, and they are eager to see what they can do in this brave new world.

A thing they pick up on quickly is that there are uberstates for lots more things than just item finds! They can make it so that you find double jump when you break a specific wall, or even when you go into an area for the first time and the big splash text plays. Everyone agrees that this is neat.

It is in large part for the plando authors' sake that you allow multiple line entries for the same uberstate that specify different actions - you have the actions run in order. This was a feature that was hacked into the last randomizer you built later, so you're glad to be supporting it at a lower level. They love it! It lets them put multiple items at individual locations. You smile and move on.

Over time, you add more action types besides just item grants! Printing out messages to your players is a great one for plando authors, and is again a feature you had last time. At some point you add a bunch for interacting with player health and energy, because it'd be easy. An action that teleports the player to a specific place. An action that equips a skill to the player's active skill bar. An action that removes a skill or ability.

Then, you get the brilliant idea that it'd be great if actions could modify uberstates directly. Uberstates control lots of things! What if breaking door 1 caused door 2 to break, so you didn't have to open both up at once? What if breaking door 2 caused door 1 to respawn, and vice versa, so you could only go through 1 at a time? Wouldn't that be wonderful? You test this change in some simple cases, and deploy it without expecting people to do too much with it.

Your plando authors quickly realize that when actions modify uberstates, the changes they make can trigger other actions, as long as there are lines in their files that listen for those. This excites them, and seems basically fine to you, though you do as an afterthought add an optional parameter to your uberstate modification action that can be used to suppress the uberstate change detector, since some cases don't actually want that behavior.

(At some point during all of this, the plando authors start hunting through the base game and cataloging unused uberstates, to be used as arbitrary variables for their nefarious purposes. You weren't expecting that! Rather than making them hunt down and use a bunch of random uberstates for data storage, you sigh and add a bunch of explicitly-unused ones for them to play with instead.)

Then, your most arcane plando magician posts a guide on how to use the existing systems to set up control flow. It leverages the fact that setting an uberstate to a value it already has does not trigger the event listener for that uberstate, so execution can branch based on whether or not a state has been set to a specific value or not!

Filled with a confused mixture of pride and fear, you decide that maybe you should provide some kind of native control flow structure that isn't that? And because you're doing a lot of this development underslept and a bit past your personal Balmer peak, the first idea that you have and implement is conditional stops, which are actions that halt processing of a multiple-action-chain if an uberstate is [less than, equal to, greater than] a given value.

The next day, you realize that your seed specification format now can, while executing an action chain, read from memory, write to memory, branch based on what it finds in memory, and loop. It can simulate a turing machine, using the uberstates as tape. You set out to create a format by which your seed generator could talk to your client mod, and have ended up with a turing complete programming language. You laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

[reasonsforhope]

"When Ellen Kaphamtengo felt a sharp pain in her lower abdomen, she thought she might be in labour. It was the ninth month of her first pregnancy and she wasn’t taking any chances. With the help of her mother, the 18-year-old climbed on to a motorcycle taxi and rushed to a hospital in Malawi’s capital, Lilongwe, a 20-minute ride away.

At the Area 25 health centre, they told her it was a false alarm and took her to the maternity ward. But things escalated quickly when a routine ultrasound revealed that her baby was much smaller than expected for her pregnancy stage, which can cause asphyxia – a condition that limits blood flow and oxygen to the baby.

In Malawi, about 19 out of 1,000 babies die during delivery or in the first month of life. Birth asphyxia is a leading cause of neonatal mortality in the country, and can mean newborns suffering brain damage, with long-term effects including developmental delays and cerebral palsy.

Doctors reclassified Kaphamtengo, who had been anticipating a normal delivery, as a high-risk patient. Using AI-enabled foetal monitoring software, further testing found that the baby’s heart rate was dropping. A stress test showed that the baby would not survive labour.

The hospital’s head of maternal care, Chikondi Chiweza, knew she had less than 30 minutes to deliver Kaphamtengo’s baby by caesarean section. Having delivered thousands of babies at some of the busiest public hospitals in the city, she was familiar with how quickly a baby’s odds of survival can change during labour.

Chiweza, who delivered Kaphamtengo’s baby in good health, says the foetal monitoring programme has been a gamechanger for deliveries at the hospital.

“[In Kaphamtengo’s case], we would have only discovered what we did either later on, or with the baby as a stillbirth,” she says.

The software, donated by the childbirth safety technology company PeriGen through a partnership with Malawi’s health ministry and Texas children’s hospital, tracks the baby’s vital signs during labour, giving clinicians early warning of any abnormalities. Since they began using it three years ago, the number of stillbirths and neonatal deaths at the centre has fallen by 82%. It is the only hospital in the country using the technology.

“The time around delivery is the most dangerous for mother and baby,” says Jeffrey Wilkinson, an obstetrician with Texas children’s hospital, who is leading the programme. “You can prevent most deaths by making sure the baby is safe during the delivery process.”

The AI monitoring system needs less time, equipment and fewer skilled staff than traditional foetal monitoring methods, which is critical in hospitals in low-income countries such as Malawi, which face severe shortages of health workers. Regular foetal observation often relies on doctors performing periodic checks, meaning that critical information can be missed during intervals, while AI-supported programs do continuous, real-time monitoring. Traditional checks also require physicians to interpret raw data from various devices, which can be time consuming and subject to error.

Area 25’s maternity ward handles about 8,000 deliveries a year with a team of around 80 midwives and doctors. While only about 10% are trained to perform traditional electronic monitoring, most can use the AI software to detect anomalies, so doctors are aware of any riskier or more complex births. Hospital staff also say that using AI has standardised important aspects of maternity care at the clinic, such as interpretations on foetal wellbeing and decisions on when to intervene.

Kaphamtengo, who is excited to be a new mother, believes the doctor’s interventions may have saved her baby’s life. “They were able to discover that my baby was distressed early enough to act,” she says, holding her son, Justice.

Doctors at the hospital hope to see the technology introduced in other hospitals in Malawi, and across Africa.

“AI technology is being used in many fields, and saving babies’ lives should not be an exception,” says Chiweza. “It can really bridge the gap in the quality of care that underserved populations can access.”"

-via The Guardian, December 6, 2024

[ild-rllrcstr]

The Second Seat part 1

Lando Norris X You (female driver) / slight angst / 2.5K

part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5

Summary You worked your way up to Formula One, contracted with McLaren, defying all odds. You play the team game: humble, strategic, and willing to follow orders, even if it means sacrificing podiums so Lando Norris can be the world champion. Every lap you sacrifice, every time you hold back, the world starts to doubt your talent. Lando sees it all. So he makes a choice: to give you the race, the recognition you deserve, and maybe his heart. You came for the drive, but you stayed for something more.

Warnings None A/N Thank you all for liking my work! I don't know how much parts this is going to be, I'm kind of going with the flow, there’s not yet a lot in part 1 but I promise it’s building the plot up! Let me know how you guys like it!

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The headline of you signing a contract with McLaren shocked everyone who watches F1. For most people paying attention, you are talented and often seen as a black horse rising from nowhere, winning karting competitions, all the way to champion of the F1 Academy in a very short time.

Two years ago when you won your first F1 academy champion, some media asked you about the possibility of you competing in F1, your respond were simply humble:

“I think if the door is finally open to us, there are also many my fellow Academy drivers that have more experiences and deserve to compete in F1.”

Turns out, you were more ready than anyone thought.

The year after that, you were signed for a year of testing during F1’s qualifying while still competing in the Academy. It had people making assumptions, but most media took it as a non-serious opportunity for you.

Being a female driver, you don’t really get to be taken as seriously as the male drivers. There were female drivers in the F1 history, but not in the modern era of F1. The doors existed but were never really considered.

You spent the year in the shadows of simulators and data sheets, growing into the shape of something undeniable. Quietly, relentlessly, you were preparing to become.

And McLaren noticed.

While other drivers posted ski trip selfies and yacht photos, you were at HQ, bent over telemetry graphs, simulator feedback, and car fittings with the engineers. You started to feel that the McLaren team wasn’t just trying to plug you into a role. It feels like they were building space around you. Not just putting you into a dubbed car of the main pilot.

Some said it’s a good image for the team, to be a pioneer, some took it as a big joke. But no matter what people said, you are here where you are. It has always been what you truly believed in. You saw the opportunity, thought it was the right thing to do, and you went with it.

At first, Lando was as curious as the public, but the more he saw you doing your work, the more his convinced about the team’s decision.

The first time you crossed paths more in private, he had popped into the sim room after a debrief. You were midway through another long test.

“Didn’t know vampires were on the team now,” he said, sipping whatever he was drinking. “Do you ever leave this building?”

You barely looked up. “Only to get blood. Want to offer yours so I don’t have to go through the effort of hunting?”

He chuckled. “Bit aggressive. You’ll fit in just fine.”

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The season kicked off with the showcase night. That was the first time you officially attended a McLaren public appearance since the news of your contract. You were presented at the table of the McLaren team. All eyes were on you, but you came prepared with a lot of PR training ahead of the event. 

The night started with a red carpet, and you were dressed elegantly by your stylist. The goal is to strike a good image from day one.

Close to the end of the night, the McLaren team was under the spotlight, the media buzzed as you stepped into your race suit, white with subtle papaya-orange details, tailored perfectly.

You walked in front of the McLaren car with Lando. In contrast to you, he’s a natural, completely used to the crowds and how the media works in the world of F1. He quickly gave you an encouraging smile, making sure you were okay before the host came down with the CEO of McLaren, beginning with the interview. 

“Earlier, when you were at the table, I thought we were at the Met Gala, the dress was absolutely fabulous,” the host joked. “Y/N, our very special rookie and the first female driver to compete in F1 this century, how does it feel to be in orange tonight?”

The whole room was silent, focusing on you.

You smirked, microphone in hand. “Thankfully, the suit’s mostly white. I’ve heard orange doesn’t go too well with my skintone .” You joked and hinted a bit at the criticisms you received since you signed with McLaren.

Lando let out a soft laugh beside you, and you felt the tension ease in your spine.

“Seriously though,” you continued, “I’m grateful for the team. We’ve been working very hard through the off-season to get me prepared, and I know there’s pressure, but I’m here to race. And hopefully,” your voice warmed with defiance, “not be the only woman on this stage for long.”

 As the interview wrapped and you walked down beside Lando toward the car, he leaned in just enough to whisper, “You crushed that. They didn’t see the fangs.”

“Only the smile,” you replied, walking with your head high.

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You didn’t have much time to breathe after the showcase, because you hopped right on the plane the next day for the pre-season testing in Sahkir. 

The attention only got more intense on you once you were in Sakhir, as the three days of testing, the world will see you properly driving in your own F1 car as an F1 driver. 

You and Lando now shared track time, garage chatter, and endless data runs. The engineers called you “the sponge,” absorbing feedback faster than they could give it. Every day you arrived early, and most nights, you stayed late.

Your performance did not go unnoticed during the testing, as you were able to do pretty much the same number of laps during the testing as the other driver. You tried to test as many settings as possible, and the media responded quite positively to everyone’s relief.

“You make the rest of us look bad,” Lando joked one afternoon, catching you alone in the sim room again.

You shrugged, not breaking focus. “Then drive faster.”

He smirked but stayed. “You know... people keep asking me what it’s like having a female teammate.”

You paused. “And what do you say?”

“I say ‘teammate,’ full stop.” He gave a half-smile.

You didn’t say anything, but you didn’t need to. He got it.

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Australia quickly came. 

Qualifying P9 wasn’t just a success, it was a statement. The paddock had to take you seriously now. Although some media still whispered: lucky run, soft tires, media hype. But you knew better. 

On Sunday, you crossed the finish line in P5. Hands still tight on the wheel, your heart pounding not from nerves, but from the surrealness of it all. The first race. Your first race in F1. Call it a miracle, but you finished in the points, not just scraping by, but holding strong, making moves when they mattered, staying clean when it counted.

The radio cracked with cheers. Your race engineer's voice came through, shaky with excitement:

“That’s a P5, Y/N! Amazing work. We did it. You did it.”

You laughed, really laughed, for the first time all weekend.

“We did it, thank you! It was amazing,” you echoed, eyes flicking up at the fireworks bursting over the circuit.

And somewhere ahead of you, Lando crossed in P1.

You stumbled back into the paddock, soaked in sweat, aching and wired. Physically, you are still adapting to the intensity of F1. The rush of the race still buzzed in your blood, but your eyes were still scanning your own performance lap by lap in your head. The cheers for McLaren echoed around the garages, louder than usual.

When Lando finished his podium and press conference, he found you behind the McLaren motorhome, still holding his celebratory champagne bottle, mostly empty.

“Hey,” he said, pulling you in for a quick, sweaty hug. “P5 on your debut. That’s massive.”

You smiled, brushing a few damp strands of hair back. “And congrats to you for the huge win!”

There wasn’t a trace of rivalry in the air, just mutual respect. You didn’t feel the pressure to match him, not yet. You knew your place in the team. Second seat, rookie, still learning. But even so, standing there beside a race winner in the same suit, there was pride. Not ego, just quiet pride. You belonged here.

“I’m just happy to have finished clean,” you admitted. “No contact, no chaos. I did everything we planned.”

“And more,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “You held off Carlos and Fernando for half the race. That’s not beginner stuff.”

You shrugged. “I still have a lot to learn. You made it look too easy out there.”

Lando smiled. “It wasn’t. But that’s the difference, you’ll get there. And trust me, it’s nice having a teammate who’s not trying to stab me in the back every session.”

You laughed. “Not yet.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Noted.”

There was a shared pause then, both of you looking out at the chaos of the post-race celebrations, team members hugging, photographers shouting, the McLaren orange shining under the spotlights.

“Come on. Let’s go get some food. You’re no good to us if you pass out from adrenaline.”

You followed him inside, a strange warmth blooming in your chest. Not pride. Not relief.

You didn’t feel the need to be first today. Today was about arrival. Not proving you were the best, just proving you were meant to be here.

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The little honeymoon feeling did not last long. Round 8, Monaco, where everyone’s busy partying, enjoying the luxurious and exciting vibe of the city. You are pacing in your driver’s room with telemetry sheets in your hands. Your heart is heavy. 

A week ago, Imola was tough. You tried to gain more pace and positions, but the instructions you were receiving made you felt like they were just to ensure Lando’s pole-winning. Way earlier pit stops, being the rear gunner blocking the others behind, testing the setup and having the better result for Lando. 

You know you are the second driver, but sometimes you are starting to feel like you are not being able to do your best because of it. Some strategies made you feel like you could’ve finished better to gain more points, but it’s always a priority to get Lando on the podium. 

So many times, you almost broke down in your driver’s room or when you got back to the hotel.

One thing you are good at is putting on a smile for the team and for the media. You are getting really good at the whole PR thing, perhaps it has something to do with you being praised as an extraordinary actress when you did theatre class back when you were very young. Deep down, you know it’s not good for you, and sooner or later, you need to deal with that properly. 

Before you know it, you’re on the track, 35 laps out of 78, rain is pouring over Monte Carlo, and the pit stop has been seen more in action due to the weather. Lando is still running P2, where he started, right behind Lewis. You are in P5, a position you earned yesterday in qualifying. You’re running on the fresh, wet tires, gaining in speed, while behind you, a line of eager drivers are gaining in fast, waiting for any gap to pass you. You’re pushing more to gain more distance and hopefully catch up with Hadjar, who is one second in front of you. 

But your engineer’s voice came like the thunder of the rain,

“Y/N, we’re switching to plan C.”

“I’m not far from Hadjar, I think there’ll be an opportunity soon.”

“Y/N, need to switch to plan C now, Lando’s boxing.” 

Lando’s boxing, of course, that’s why they are pulling plan C, they need you to stall the others to create a bigger gap, for him not to lose too much position for boxing.

Plan C wasn’t even discussed in the pre-racing brief, but it’s the given instruction, the team strategy, so you gripped harder onto the wheel and executed. You adjusted your brake balance, slowing just enough, delicately, subtly, but it hurts so much to see Hadjar distance away from that one-second gap. 

Monaco doesn’t need aggressive defending. One car slightly off pace is enough to create a train. Stroll and Albon got visibly frustrated, their own races slipping into chaos as you executed the perfect plan C in McLaren’s strategy book. As Lewis boxed, Lando took the clean air and managed to come out of the pit before Lewis could pass him the lap after.

By the time you had to pit again in lap 50, the drivers behind overtook your position, leaving you coming back out and finishing Monaco in P9. 

Lando finished P1, for him, it was champagne and headlines. 

For you? P9, two points and one short official quote.

“It was a team race today, I just followed the instructions, they see the race with a bigger picture, I can’t from down there.”

The media speculated. Some praised your composed attitude and tactical skill, being calm about the situation, while some other drivers might’ve refused or snapped emotionally. Some questioned the fairness of the strategy at McLaren and whether it’s wise to sacrifice you for Lando to be the champion. 

After the debrief, you quickly congratulated Lando and retired early to your hotel room while Lando was swarmed by the media and people wanting to celebrate with him. He only got a chance to quickly thank you, but you only smiled, a fake smile, too good of a fake smile, people might think you do not care about your own scoring this year. You were always expressing your gratitude to be in F1, but people think you're happy enough to just be here.

It was 10 P.M., the party of the night had just begun, but you’re not at all in the mood. You just wanted to sulk by yourself in your hardly lit hotel room.

The ringing of the hotel telephone took you by surprise. 

“Miss Y/F/N, Mr. Norris requests to visit,” you sighed quietly, but agreed. 

Hung up, you quickly dressed up a little, keeping up with the image. The knocking soon arrived at the door. You turned on the dim light near the entrance and opened the door. 

“Hey, are you not coming?” Lando grinned softly at you, he’s all dressed up, obviously, he’s prepared for a big party.

“Where to?” you pulled a nice smile asking, knowing the answer, pretending to be oblivious. 

“My party. Can’t party without my Plan C savoir.” He grinned even bigger, thinking about his win.

You couldn’t help but the corner of your smile crooked, and your smile faded a bit. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m a bit tired, I don’t want to poop the party. Probably need some rest tonight.”

“Ah,” Lando’s smile faded a bit, his eyebrows frowned a bit, and worry crept into his mind. But before he can continue, Carlos called and says they need him down in the club now. 

“Go, have fun, don’t worry.” You took the chance of the call to pull back that energetic smile of yours, assuring the champion to go and have fun.

The hotel room was closed behind, you leaned to the door and slid down, tears streaming down your cheeks, you have your hand on ur mouth, muffling the sobbing, there’s no one in your room but you still unconsciously try to hide your crying.

On the other side of the door, Lando stood there staring at your closed door. He frowned. But the impatient Carlos kept ringing.

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[ckret2]

Chapter 42 in human Bill Cipher's imprisonment in the Mystery Shack about to get a whole lot worse, featuring:

A history lesson on a second dimensional cult and its obnoxious child leader.

And Dipper making the mistake of asking Bill what "reality is an illusion" means.

And most importantly... The Eclipse: Prologue.

####

The source of light is a completely hypothetical phenomenon.

Just a couple of centuries ago, scientists postulated that perhaps light was a side-effect of magnetism generated by the poles of planets, and that someday the study of magnets might explain how light shifted over the course of a day.

But modern scientists theorized that light emanated from some force or object in a higher dimension, and that the unseen movements of this source-of-light explained how light ebbed and flowed around the perimeters of objects over the course of a day. Physics experiments backed up this hypothesis of a "third dimensional" origin of light.

Scientists adopted the term "sun" to describe this hypothetical light source. Experiments also suggested the third dimension might have a multitude of weaker light sources that provided much less illumination—perhaps spread across the third dimension like water droplets suspended in fog—which they dubbed "stars."

Roughly once a year, light (or rather, the "sun") was eclipsed. This was a very long time; a child born just after an eclipse might already be in school, have mastered measuring angles and reading, and begun learning multiplication and division by the time they saw their first eclipse. Some years were skipped, such that they wouldn't have an eclipse for two, three, sometimes even four or five years—it was possible to almost reach middle age without seeing an eclipse—with no discernible pattern to these gaps. Eclipses usually occurred around the new year—indeed, New Year's Day was fixed to the average date of the eclipse—but eclipse season ranged up to three months in either direction.

Experiments were being conducted to test ideas about the nature of eclipses—the two most prominent theories were that the sun naturally flickered off and on like a lamp, in a rolling pattern that accounted for how eclipses didn't affect the whole plain simultaneously but had been proven to move; or that the sun was obscured by some object in the third dimension, like a ball thrown in front of a lamp. There were solid arguments in favor of either theory, and thus far the data on hand couldn't disprove either.

But where science petered out, religion took up the baton.

A new religious movement called the Higher Dimensional Gate was picking up steam in the northwest. The cult (as some watchdog organizations called it) had been started a few years ago by a married couple—line and trapezoid—who gave largely inoffensive New Age-flavored sermons about spiritual purity and enlightenment. Their shows would have been unremarkable if not for their inclusion of their child—a charismatic young equilateral triangle they claimed had an "inner eye" that granted him clairvoyance. Every show, they put him on stage for a few minutes, where he'd point out audience members and offer seemingly-psychic insights into their lives. As he approached adolescence, he was given more and more stage time, which he'd use to recite the same sort of rhetoric as his parents while tossing in some novel claims about the third dimension that reflected the public's modern scientific fascinations.

It wasn't until the line's death that they evolved from a traveling psychic sideshow with a few zealous supporters into a burgeoning religious movement. The trapezoid adopted a background role as the precocious triangle took over all their speaking engagements, which he used to spin a novel mythology describing the third dimension as a separate spiritual plane found in an unseeable direction "upward, but not northward" from the mundane mortal plane. It was at this time that they adopted the name Higher Dimensional Gate, and their young leader announced that his spiritual contacts in the third dimension had granted him the title Magister Mentium—teacher of minds (or, perhaps more ominously, master of minds).

Higher Dimensional Gate aggressively recruited new followers, with the Magister leaving school to support a frenetic pace of traveling speaking engagements. More and more devotees followed him from town to town, overfilling hotels wherever they went and flooding parking lots with a caravan of RVs and trailers. Fliers they left in their wake offered mail-order pamphlets, sermon recordings, and religious paraphernalia. But the cult didn't break into the national consciousness until a couple of theoretical astrophysicists published a paper debunking pop culture misinformation on the third dimension.

Along with referencing several sci-fi shows spreading the idea that the third dimension allowed time travel, the authors dove into the bizarre beliefs of several New Age authors, speakers, and religious movements. They particularly maligned the ideas put forth by Higher Dimensional Gate, calling their descriptions of angelic aliens and spirit guides "misleading fairy tales" with no scientific basis in reality. They said the Magister Mentium would have done better to finish a basic public education before making claims about the third dimension.

The paper didn't receive much notice outside popular science magazines—until the Magister Mentium released a vicious public rebuttal that made national news for its absurdity.

Soundbites from his twenty-minute rant were broadcast in news segments about fringe religious movements and scientific literacy. Talk shows played quotes as fodder for jokes. Editorialists predicted that the young triangle was the sort of crooked cult leader who'd be on trial in a decade for cheating his worshipers out of their life savings. Only a few programs played even as much as a full minute from his speech:

"These scientists want you to think that the third dimension is some dead realm hidden behind a door you'll never see—and I'm telling you it's not! It's the dream realm! It's the realm of spirits and positive energy! It stretches into all possible futures, and if you could peer into it, you'd see the road to your own best possible future!

"And I know this. Because unlike these pessimistic brainiacs who mock what they don't understand, I can see the third dimension. I can witness the 'sun' in all its glory—a blazing white circle, more dazzling than anything you've ever seen, so bright it burns like fire to stare at it! I can see it pass through the pinpoint white lights of the 'stars'!

"And I can prove it.

"The most 'educated' minds in the scientific community can't predict an eclipse. They look at their historical records and they do a little math, hope they'll get lucky, and shrug if they're wrong—what do they know? All they can do is guess! 

"But with my own all-seeing eye, I've personally witnessed a phenomenon that scientists can't even imagine. I know what passes between the sun and our plane—and I know when it's coming.

"I note all my detractors are in the camp that thinks the sun flickers.

"So let's run a scientific experiment. I challenge the scientific community to predict the next eclipse more accurately than me. I'll give it to you within the minute. In fact—I'll sweeten the deal! I'll give a million dollars to any nerd who can guess more accurately than me! I will personally hand you the prize money!"

"But if you want the prize, you'd better guess soon. Because the eclipse will be here in two weeks. I can already see it on the horizon."

It was nearly seven months until New Year's.

Sources close to the Magister's family claimed he was a spendthrift with nowhere near a million dollars on hand.

When asked to comment on the public ridicule his challenge had inspired, the Magister snidely replied, "We'll see who's laughing after the eclipse."

####

Gideon approached the Mystery Shack disguised in a pair of sunglasses and a camo jacket from his father's closet. The jacket was as long as a dress on him. It was hot.

He kept outside the tree line as he circled the shack, passing the gift shop, the house door, and finally the long side of the house where tourists never parked and the residents rarely ventured.

Gideon peered anxiously at each window for witnesses. He looked up at the attic dormer which once held the window of Bill's face; he caught a flash of bright golden curls pulling out of sight, and flinched. No, that was fine. That was who he was here for. Weren't any other blondes in the house.

When he was sure the coast was clear, he ran across the open ground from the trees to the side door, heart threatening to beat out of his chest. By the time he reached the door, Bill was already downstairs in the floor room, hands and grinning face pressed to the window like a child awaiting a special delivery. He waved excitedly at Gideon.

Gideon hissed, "Shh!" and immediately felt stupid about it.

He partially unzipped his jacket, pulled a manila envelope out of an inner pocket, knelt, and shoved it under the door. As Bill had promised, the door had poor weatherstripping and the envelope slid in easily.

A napkin covered in faint dry marker writing slid out. Gideon picked it up and read it. "Nice work ☆ Boy! I'll pass you the next message at Town Hall. Get yourself something nice, my treat. ◡̈" Inside the napkin's fold was a $5 coupon to the hardware store. It was expired. 

Looking at the coupon, Gideon asked himself what a powerless imprisoned demon could really do to help his father's business.

Inside the shack, Bill checked the doorway to ensure no humans were coming for a few minutes, flopped onto the flat old sofa, and pulled several sheets of notebook paper out of the envelope: the answers to all the questions he'd told Gideon to ask his worshiper. He skimmed past her name to the second question: how had they located Bill?

At the sight of a familiar name, his heart leaped into his throat, then slowly sank into its cage again as he read the rest. "Someone calling himself Stanford Pines reached out, claiming to be an ex-cultist wanting to help other victims of the cult. He said the cult's 'founder' was incarcerated. He sounded like an enemy, but they thought he might know something about your disappearance and sent Sue."

Until the last moment, Bill had held onto a sliver of hope. As much as Ford said he couldn't stand Bill, somebody had had to contact his artists, and who else...?

But there it was. It had been Ford; but he hadn't been trying to save Bill. He'd just been trying to rip the nails out of one more thing Bill had built.

Fine. Bill wasn't wasting time on lost causes. He'd never really seen Ford as a friend, anyway. If Ford was stupid enough to throw away a god's favor, that was his loss. Bill could kill him with the rest when he had his power back. He didn't care. He'd just... really thought he could win him back over.

He crumpled up the pages, tossed them on the floor, and hunched forward to rub his eyelid with his hand.

Well, trying to get Ford back on his side had just been a way to pass the time. He hadn't taken it seriously. Not really.

He leaned back, flopped his head on the backrest cushion, and sighed; and then he fished the pages off the floor and smoothed them back out.

He read through the rest of the information Gideon had obtained. His girls in Death Valley had indeed been awaiting his arrival "as Bill requested"; and when he didn't show up on schedule, they'd taken to waiting for him in shifts for half a year before giving up. The way Bill had "requested" was to stack themselves into a human throne for him—he imagined Sue hadn't wanted to mention that detail on the phone with a kid. And they'd kept that up for six months? In shifts? That was hysterical. What a bunch of lunatics. He couldn't wait to meet the gals in person, he was just going to love them. Sue was set up at an inn a few towns west—not a lot of motels in this lonely part of Oregon—and there were a couple more girls in Portland who could be here in an hour.

They'd also made contact with a few devotees of Bill's teachings in Washington, but hadn't told them his exact location. Unsurprising—if they were the devotees he was thinking of, they were less "hardy New Age hippie spiritualists looking forward to the creation of a bright new world" and more "paranoid doomsday preppers anticipating being the last survivors of the doomed old world." The Death Valley group probably didn't trust them. Just about all of Bill's "students" were freaks of one sort or another—if not when he met them, then by the time he was done with them—but different varieties of freaks usually clashed. He had to keep them safely corralled into separate sects to maintain the harmony and their loyalty.

They were all so, so close—all these humans just waiting for an opportunity to meet him, touch him, save him, serve him, love him. They were so close he could almost reach out and grab them.

But "almost" wouldn't get them into his hands.

Something would come up soon. He was sure. He could feel it.

####

Sometimes, stairs just weren't worth the effort.

Bill understood, intellectually, that stair steps had a "top" surface and a "side" surface. He also understood that, given how gravity worked in this dimension, you could only step on their top surfaces. He knew this. He was smart. He'd personally worked out the equations to calculate how gravity worked in this dimension ages before an apple beaned Newton.

It was just that, when he looked at a staircase, he couldn't shake the impression that someone had simply taken a 2D plane and artistically folded it into a zigzag. And on a folded 2D plane, there wasn't a "top" surface and a "side" surface; there was just the surface, and a 3D body could stand anywhere atop the surface with no problem.

So he would try to get from the attic to the kitchen, subconsciously decide that rather than walking "down" the stairs standing vertically he wanted to walk "up" the stairs standing horizontally, and he'd try to lean forward to put his foot on the side of a step—and then his face was on the floor again.

And even when he kept his ups up and his sides sideways, sometimes over-concentrating on where to step distracted him into tripping anyway.

The stairs in the Quadrangle of Qonfusion never gave him trouble. They worked fine both vertically and horizontally, he'd designed them that way. And also he didn't need to use them. He could float. They were mainly there for the outerplanar Henchmaniacs and because Bill liked the zigzag motif. He was much less fond of stairs these days. When he got home, he was ripping them all out and replacing them with ladders and slides.

He was better with stairs than he'd been when he first occupied this body. But when he didn't focus on every single step, he still tended to slip up. He often got to the stairs and saw his body crumpled on the landing fifteen seconds in the future. If the damage wasn't too severe, sometimes he just resigned himself to the bruises and stepped off the ledge. Had to get downstairs somehow, after all.

But sometimes the future held a broken leg, or an unconscious heap, or a lot of blood. When that happened, sometimes he'd shuffle his footing a bit until the future looked less painful and then try descending. Sometimes he'd creep down to the last safe step and then look for a less fatal route the rest of the way down.

And sometimes he got halfway down the stairs, saw looming disaster, couldn't for the life of him figure out how to avoid it, and thought forget it and just sat down in the middle of the staircase. If he waited there long enough, eventually whatever he'd been about to instinctively do would change, and he could safely finish his journey.

Stairs were, by far, the most frequent and most stupid of his inconveniences as a human.

He never thought to bring something to read in case he hit unexpected delays on the stairs. There was nothing interesting to do, and he didn't so much as have a window to look out of. He got bored. He was constantly sleep-deprived. Sometimes he fell asleep, leaning against the wall.

He'd overheard the humans speculating on why he liked to nap on the stairs. The leading theory was that it had been normal in his home dimension, followed closely by runner-up theory "just to annoy us." None had asked him directly. They usually just left him alone on the stairs. But not today.

Bill flinched out of sleep as his leg was kicked. A fizzling field of white pinpricks filled his vision and faded as he opened his eyes. "Mruh?"

"You're blocking the stairs," Dipper said. This time Bill had fallen asleep on the stairs below the landing, slouched down with his shoulders and head against the wall, legs stretched across two stair steps and knees raised.

"And you're disturbing my sleep." Bill yawned and glanced downstairs. Coast was clear. He could get to the living room with nothing but a fumble on the next to bottom step now.

"Get out of the way." Dipper kicked his leg again.

Well, now Bill didn't want to get up. He kicked Dipper back. "No. Your ancestors lived in trees, act like it."

"What?"

"Climb, monkey boy."

Dipper grumbled, but surveyed his roadblock thoughtfully. He experimentally lifted a foot over Bill's abdomen, considered how far down it was to the next step, and scooted down to Bill's feet instead. Bill watched with a smirk as Dipper clung to the railing and gingerly stepped over one foot to the edge of the stair step, and then the next. Bill briefly considered tripping him, decided it wasn't worth getting in trouble, and instead twitched a foot up as Dipper passed over and laughed when he jumped.

"Jerk," Dipper muttered. "This is why you only have one friend."

The jab ripped at a raw sore in his chest. Ex-cultist. "Whatever!" He laughed loudly. "My real friends are all one little interdimensional rift away, I didn't come here to make pals with humans." He jerked his hood down over his eyes and slouched lower, arms crossed tight. "I don't even care. This entire universe is a hologram and nothing's real anyway."

There was silence. Bill congratulated himself on getting the last word in; and then Dipper said, "What does that mean?"

"What kind of stupid—it means I don't care about you, what do you think it means? You're made from the exhaust belched out of a star's tailpipe—"

"I meant, the hologram thing. You're always saying stuff about the universe not being real, what are you talking about."

Bill thumbed the hem of his hood up and glanced down at Dipper. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up determinedly. He'd pulled out his journal and pen. He was serious. He was all ready to learn about the secrets of the universe.

Ford's little wanna-be protégé with his little knock-off Journal, wasn't he adorable. He wanted so much to be just like his great uncle. And in many ways, he was like a younger Ford. The ignorant, arrogant, insecure, naïve, easily-flattered, easily-exploited younger Ford, back before he grew a personality. Except even back at his most boring, Ford had found the strange beautiful where this kid only found it interesting. You don't have what it takes to be Ford.

Bill was already filling this brat's head with gunk—bogus conspiracy theories, wild goose chases after lucid dreaming, nightmares about whole dimensions that existed only as parables for somebody else. What was a little bit more? He could give this kid something to talk to his therapist about. Something that—in his darkest, lowest, loneliest moments—would come back to mind, and remind him that nothing he did would ever matter.

Plus, he hoped Ford would look in on the living room and seethe about not being his student anymore.

"All right kid, sure! Fine. You just so happened to catch me on a day when I've got nothing to do." Bill stood, stretched, and sauntered down the stairs. He fumbled on the next to bottom step. "You wanna know about the universe? You wanna know the big secret?"

"Uh..." Dipper eagerly flipped through his journal, looking for a blank page. Apparently he hadn't expected Bill to actually indulge his curiosity. "'Secret'?" He trailed after Bill into the living room.

"Okay, okay, maybe it's not a 'secret'—a secret suggests somebody's trying to hide it. It's just that nobody thinks you're important enough to tell and you're too primitive to see it for yourself."

Bill turned around, a lecturer on a stage. Dipper sat on the couch and tried to position his journal on his knees to take notes. He looked so attentive. He thought he was going to enjoy this.

"So you remember what I told you about the second dimension. That from the third dimension's perspective, it's nothing but shadows cast on a wall."

"Plato's cave. Yeah."

"Your dimension is a lot like that. There are higher dimensions than this, and your entire universe is being projected down from one of them. If being in the second dimension and seeing into the third is like being a shadow looking at the entrance to the cave, then being in the third and seeing into the fourth is like a character on a movie screen looking out at the film projector. While you're distracted by the movie, I'm studying the film reel and watching the frames coming up. It's how I tell the future—and you can't even tell yourself I'm lying about that, because you've seen me do it."

Dipper grumbled, "You've spoiled the killer on Duck-tective."

"I've spoiled the killer on Duck-tective! Twice!"

Dipper was furiously taking notes. "Wait—so, the fourth dimension really is time? Mabel and I kinda visited the fourth dimension once, but I wasn't sure if it being 'time' was, like, some kind of metaphor..."

"Ha! Listen to you! That's like asking if the third dimension is light. No. Time isn't the fourth dimension. It's just in the fourth dimension," Bill said. "And for the record you didn't really visit the fourth dimension. The glowing blue tunnel with floating clocks and calendars? That was a metaphor."

"Aw man," Dipper muttered, disappointed.

"So when you say you can see the future, you mean—you literally see it? With your eyeballs?"

"All-seeing eye," Bill said smugly.

"Can... you teach me?"

"No. It's not a learnable skill. You're either born with an inner—what's the human phrase?—a third eye, or you aren't."

Dipper processed that. "How do I find out if I have—?"

"You don't."

"Aw."

Bill waited for Dipper to scribble down a couple more lines before he casually dropped the next bombshell: "In fact, not only have you never been 'in' the fourth dimension—your universe isn't really even third dimensional."

Dipper's pen gouged into the page. "What do you mean, it's not third dimensional!"

"I mean you've got two dimensions and the third's an illusion. Hologram, remember?"

"What are you—" Dipper waved a hand around in the air. "I'm moving my arm through the third dimension right now!"

"No you're not."

Dipper threw his pen on the ground. "Okay, you're messing with me!"

"Not this time. Listen. Got a little riddle for you: what do Plato's cave and a movie theater have in common?"

Dipper pursed his lips angrily, but he'd been issued a riddle and couldn't resist trying to solve it. "Sitting in the dark, staring at shapes?"

"Ha! Look at it, it still thinks it's part of the audience!" Bill wagged a finger disapprovingly. "In both cases, everyone and everything in the show is an illusion—just light and shadows projected on a flat wall."

"But—! The world would look flat if it was 2D—"

"It does look flat. 2D is all you've ever seen," Bill said. He held his hands out, thumbs and forefingers forming a rectangle like a picture frame, his exposed eye staring through it at Dipper.  "Your eyes only see a pair of two-dimensional images that your brain interprets as 3D because it's been trained to. Depth perception is an optical illusion! You can't actually witness the depth of an object—your brain uses context clues to guess it! And the context clues are lying to you."

Dipper scowled. "But." He paused. "It's different."

"Uh-huh." Bill leaned against a wall, feigning a yawn. "Okay, wow me with your philosophy."

"Pictures on paper are 2D, and they don't look 3D, so since the real world does look 3D..."

"Hey, you know that autostereogram art your sister's friend likes so much? Magic Vision Posters?" Bill asked. "Cross your eyes a little and a 3D illusion pops out of the page?"

Dipper's frown deepened.

Bill's smile widened. "And those are just manmade pictures. The projectors I'm talking about are cosmically complex. If it's so easy to trick your brain into seeing something three dimensional in a flat image, then how do you know, really know, that everything around you is 3D rather than an infinitely complex 2D hologram?"

"Be... cause..." Dipper looked around, grasping for another defense of reality as he knew it. He picked his pen off the floor. "Because I can touch an object and feel it's 3D! Even if my eyes can be fooled, I can... look, I can feel the curve of the barrel and everything."

"And?" Bill asked. "If your laundry comes out of the dryer unexpectedly cool, you think it's damp because your species didn't evolve wetness-sensing nerves. And you still trust your sense of touch?"

"Wait, that's why that happens?"

"Uh-huh. Water is wet, your t-shirts aren't, and your third dimension's an optical illusion."

Dipper slouched back on the couch, arms crossed, chewing his pen, brows drawn and eyes unfocused. Bill watched with a smirk as Dipper's faith in an objective observable reality slowly eroded before his very eye. For someone so eager to burrow into the strange, Dipper wanted so much for the world to make sense. That was why he was burrowing into the strange in the first place: to shine a flashlight on the things that go bump in the dark.

Maybe that was what rubbed Bill so wrong about this kid. Bill was sure that, deep in his heart, Dipper didn't really know how to celebrate the weird; he only wanted to expand the boundaries of normal. Disgusting.

Finally, Dipper mumbled, "How did you find this out?"

"This little shadow peeled itself off the wall and flew out of the cave—do you think I stopped there? I've seen further! What looks like an inescapable labyrinth to a two-dimensional Minotaur is nothing but a fun maze in a puzzle book when you can see over the walls from the third dimension's perspective. And once you can see the fourth dimension, your so-called 'third' dimension looks no different! I can see through walls, into boxes, past barriers; and I can see just how flat your world really is. Like taking a photo and looking at it from the edge."

"Hm." Dipper was still staring into space.

Bill's smug smile drooped into a frown. Dipper didn't look like he'd absorbed anything Bill just said. He hated an inattentive audience.

He crossed the room, planting a hand on the couch backrest by Dipper's head to lean over him, and waited until Dipper looked up into his eye. Bill said, "And I can tell you, beyond a shadow of a doubt: you're no more real to the things projecting your universe than the shadows in Plato's cave are to you. This. Entire. Universe. Doesn't. Exist. And nothing that happens here matters."

That little look of doubt edging into dread was so, so satisfying.

Bill pushed himself upright and sauntered to the door, his hex cast, ready to leave Dipper alone with his budding existential crisis. "So that's why I try to have fun with it! Your whole dimension is like an amusement park. Why hang out in a cave unless you're leaving cave paintings, who cares what the shadows think about the graffiti?"

"What's in those higher dimensions?"

Bill paused, glancing over his shoulder. "'Scuse me?"

"Something's gotta be running the 'projector' or whatever, right?" He asked it with an edge of desperation, like if Dipper could just make it that far, the world would make sense again. "Movies have audiences. Who're they?"

Bill stared at Dipper—and then slowly grinned again. What a glutton for misery. Feed him a bitter spoonful of poisonous knowledge and he asks for the bowl. But of course—tell him that reality isn't real and the next thing he wants to know is where to find reality.

Okay, fine, Bill would keep playing—this was almost fun. "Higher dimensional beings! Duh."

"What are they like?"

"Wretched incomprehensible shapeshifting contortions of flesh and bone that appear to gorily mutate as their vast bodies pass through the dimensions your limited eyes are capable of viewing. Seeing them will drive you mad."

"Ah. Great," Dipper said. "But what are they like as people?"

"From your perspective, all-knowing and unknowable. Talking to them will also drive you mad."

"I'm detecting a theme here," Dipper grumbled.

Bill gave him a polite golf clap. "Another win for human pattern-detection instincts! Give 'im a hand." (Oh, Bill wished he had his powers. It would be so funny to give Dipper a giant disembodied hand.)

In spite of his visible irritation, Dipper was still taking notes. "Is it possible for a human to meet one?"

"You've got more pattern-detection instincts than self-preservation instincts," Bill said wryly. "But sure, of course it's possible. In fact, I think you already met one."

That got him looking up from his journal. "I did?"

"Sure! Not here, but in a parallel universe that doesn't exist anymore. No clue what you talked about, I steer away from that guy when I can. But hey, maybe you'll remember it someday."

"How can I remember it if it happened to a parallel me in another universe?"

"When things like him speak, they leave vast echoes. Even across timelines."

Dipper considered that. "Could I meet him again?"

"Maybe if he takes an interest in you. Pray he doesn't. Prayers won't actually help, but it's something to keep your mind occupied!"

"Is it possible to be more proactive about meeting one of them?"

Bill laughed. "Kid, you're stupid. And that makes you very entertaining."

"Great?"

"But if you wanna break into some cosmic horror's living room, sure! If they don't come down here, all you need to do is go up there."

And back to taking notes Dipper went. "You gonna elaborate, orrr..."

"Ha, fine. The issue is you're not built for higher dimensions. Like I said, you might seem real to yourself here, but there you'd just be a light on a wall." He made a circle between his forefinger and thumb, turned his hand upside down, and peered through the circle like a monocle. "If you want to ascend, you need an aperture to translate between dimensions—something through which fourth-dimensional spacetime can be compacted enough to appear three-dimensional, or pseudo three-dimensional spacetime can be augmented with a fourth dimension. With an aperture like that, you can climb up and down the dimensional ladder to visit anywhere level of reality you want—from the zeroth dimension to the billionth."

"Including wherever our universe's projector is?"

"Bingo. Unfortunately for your suicidal ambitions, inventing an aperture capable of manipulating spacetime like that needs a lot of science humanity is nowhere near mastering; but with the materials humanity currently knows how to manufacture, I bet building one would be pretty simple if you got instructions from a species that's already done it." Bill arched his brows mockingly. "Hey, might even make a fun little summer project, if you don't mind going insane. Something to take to the science fair next year, huh?"

"Shut up," Dipper said. "And—if you got out of your dimension—do you know about species that can give those instructions?"

"Suuure! Heck, give me a couple pieces of paper and a pen and I could probably whip up the blueprints myself."

Dipper nodded. Dipper processed that. Dipper glared at Bill. "Wait a minute. Are you trying to get me to build another portal for you?!"

Bill cackled, doubling over. Voice shrill, he said, "I was wondering how long it'd take you!"

"Oh my god."

He groped for an arm chair and dropped down, still laughing. "I was this close to saying 'why don't you ask your uncle for the blueprints' to see if you'd get it!" He wheezed, "Can you imagine the look on his face!"

Dipper chucked his pen at Bill. "I hate you."

"Hook, line, and sinker! You idiot!" He slid halfway out of his seat, covering his face with his hands.

Dipper groaned. "So you made up all that stuff about the third dimension being fake and the universe being a hologram?"

Bill struggled to control his laughter enough to catch his breath. "No—no, all that was true. A hundred percent scientifically verifiable!"

"Shut up, man." Dipper got off the couch, kicked the back of Bill's armchair as he passed, and trudged into the gift shop.

####

"Hey Grunkle Ford? Is the third dimension actually an illusion being projected out of the fourth?"

"Been talking to Bill again, have you?"

Dipper winced. "I mean. Well. But he's not telling the truth, is he?"

"Mmm..." Ford waggled a hand uncertainly.

"What."

"Based on our current knowledge of quantum mechanics, it's not impossible," Ford admitted. "And it would explain some things about black holes."

"Ugh. That's the worst thing I've ever heard." Dipper rubbed his eyes. "How do you live with that?"

"With what?"

"Thinking the entire universe might be, just... some kind of projection? Like a movie?" Dipper said. "I mean... what's the point of doing anything if everything's fake. That's awful."

Ford pressed his lips together.

####

1981

"The universe is what?" Ford asked.

His muse shrugged apologetically. "Sorry to break it to ya, kid! I figured you'd rather hear it from me than—"

"But—but that's amazing!" Ford started pacing across the dreamscape's translucent grid floor. "The implications for physics, for faster-than-light travel, for, for—for religion?" He looked at Bill. "Is the projection a natural phenomenon or someone's creation."

"Uh," Bill said. "Creation?"

"Then who made it? Descartes' 'evil genius'? A demiurge? God?"

Bill laughed. "Kid, depending on your interdimensional political opinions, those are three names for the same guy."

"He's real?"

"Define 'real'," Bill said. "And 'he.' And 'is.'"

"I... I cannot do that!" Ford resumed pacing, muttering again about the implications.

Eye crinkled in amusement, Bill said, "I've gotta say, Stanford, you're taking this pretty well. Most humans don't like hearing they're secretly flat."

Ford barked a laugh. "'Most humans' didn't like hearing that the Earth isn't the center of the solar system. I'm a man of science! If we could prove this, it would be the biggest leap forward in physics since special relativity!" He beamed at Bill. "Do you realize what this means?"

Bill pointed at their portal calculations. "It means if you want to get this working, you need to zero out all the depth values."

"Ah." Ford's shoulders sagged. "Yes. That too."

"Wish you'd taken that fourth semester of Fifth-Dimensional Calculus now?"

"Hush," Ford said sourly, and was immediately mortified at himself for being so disrespectful to his muse; but Bill laughed with what sounded like genuine delight.

####

2013

"Right," Ford said self-consciously. "Awful."

####

At three a.m., Dipper lay in bed, gnawing at his shirt collar, staring at the ceiling.

Yeah. Oh yeah. He could feel it. Wondering whether reality was real would haunt him the rest of his life.

####

Bill slept like a baby.

Nothing like bullying a child to improve a miserable day.

####

Bill woke the next morning from a nightmare about—what had it been about. Being trapped in the bathroom as a metaphor for... something or other. Being trapped in general, probably. Great, had that incident given him trauma? Was he gonna start having recurring nightmares? Would this be a thing he had to deal with? What a miserable malfunctioning species humans were.

He could see the beforeimage of Mabel coming upstairs; not enough time to pull out his dream diary. He'd just have to remember it to write down later. He sat up, cracked his sore neck, and shuffled to the stairs in search of breakfast.

His foot missed the first step and landed on empty air, his stomach lurched, and he braced for a rough landing. In the split second he hung in the air, he thought that he wasn't supposed to fall, he'd looked. Hadn't he looked? He was sure he had—he didn't remember looking, but he could always see, if there'd been an injury in his imminent future he would have subconsciously noticed it and stopped to evaluate, the fact that he'd just walked meant there was nothing for him to notice—right? Idiot, why hadn't he double checked before he just walked off half-asleep—

It occurred to him that this split second was lasting a lot longer than it was supposed to.

He caught the handrail. His fall stopped as he gently bumped into the wall.

"Huh." He straightened up, gave the stairs a puzzled look; and then, experimentally, did a little hop. He went higher than he'd meant to, and hung in the air longer than he should have. He repeated the experiment a couple of times; and then, took a bigger jump forward, aiming for a couple of steps down. He seemed to float in the air for a moment before his feet gently settled on the wooden board. "Oo-oo-ooh." He looked around the stairwell, baffled; and then he looked up, eye burning as he stared through the roof and into the sky.

A chill ran up his spine. "Uh-oh."

####

Dipper frowned at his syrup bottle as the syrup painstakingly oozed out. When he let up his squeezing even a little bit, the syrup sucked back in.

"Come on." He squeezed again and shook the bottle over his pancakes. Like morning dew on the fruits hanging above the head of Tantalus, a round drop of syrup glistened under the skin-softening kitchen light, but never fell. "What's the problem?" Dipper wiped the drop onto his finger and wiped his finger on his pancakes.

Mabel slammed the door open and pounded into the kitchen. "Dipper! Come outside, I need to show you something!" They ran out.

Mabel stood on the edge of the porch, held up an orange glitter-filled super bounce ball the size of a walnut, and said, "Watch this!" She flung the ball down on the porch step as hard as she could.

It rocketed up into the sky, arcing away from the Mystery Shack toward the forest. Dipper's jaw dropped. "Whoa!"

"I just lost four balls that way!" Mabel planted her hands on her hips, watching with satisfaction as the pinprick point of the latest ball soared upward until it disappointed. "I'm gonna get some more!" She ran inside and bolted up the stairs.

Ford passed from the gift shop into the living room, frowning. He picked up a magazine left on the dinosaur skull, flipped through it, and observed how slowly the pages fluttered. "Hmm."

From the entryway, he could hear Stan down the hall on the office phone: "Hello? Doctor? This is Stan Pines. Yeah, I got a medical question. I stepped on the scale this morning, and it says I lost twenty percent of my weight overnight. Do I have cancer?" There was a pause. "Eighth call this morning?! What is this, some kinda bug going around town?"

Dipper closed the door as he came back inside. "Hey, Grunkle Ford? I think there's something..."

"Something strange going on? Yes, I've noticed," he said. "It seems that gravity is about twenty percent lower than usual." He pulled his sparkly birthday pen out of his coat pocket and dropped it from several feet up into his other hand. It fell just a bit slower than normal—not enough that it looked like it was on the moon, but enough that the motion looked uncanny.

"What's going on?"

"I don't..." Ford trailed off as a flash of bright yellow appeared in his peripheral vision. He turned toward the stairs.

Bill had stepped onto the landing. He looked at the bottom half of the staircase with a critical, calculating gaze; and then jumped off the top step. In a single smooth, slow arc, he leaped over all the stairs and descended, slow as a feather, to land lightly on the floor.

"Whoa." Under his breath, Dipper said, "That's a lot more than twenty percent lower."

It just figured he had something to do with this. "Bill," Ford snapped. "What's going on?"

He wasn't expecting Bill to give him such a solemn look.

"There's an eclipse coming," Bill said. "I'd give it three days."

####

(Be honest how long did it take you to figure out Bill was just seeing if he could get Dipper hyped about building a portal. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!! We're heading into the biggest storyline so far—plotwise, lengthwise, and emotionwise—so I'd love to hear what you're thinking and expecting so far!)

[jjwolves]

LIVING WAGE ➽───────────────❥

What: 5 Headcanons of ENA the Worker X Reader Who Doubts Her Sincerity

Who: ENA the Worker from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~1800 words, ~9 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G, Comm -> @namosaga <3<3<3

Warnings: Profanity

When had you started thinking you loved her? Was it when you hired her to unlock that damn taxi you were stuck inside and she screamed so hard into her megaphone that the doors imploded out of the universe? Was it when she picked you up off the ground and dusted you off--that kind of simple act of politeness you made for people who tipped extra well? Or was it when, much later, she kept you company on your quest to get the Frigid Transistor and animatedly chattered about "pitching a tent to father nature's board of representatives". Maybe it was how she looked when you talked to her, an understanding, crimson smile which bent her eye. And the way she always remembered what you said, even weeks (if weeks even existed anymore) apart. "Quit looking at me like as if I shouldn't remember! You said it, didn't you?! Your own words obviously don't mean much to you if you throw 'em away right after you use 'em!! LITTERBUG!! If I'm on memory duty, you'll need to start paying me more." Even if she was being a bit rough around the edges, you appreciated her clumpy-sugar-with-rocks-in-it style sweetness. Although, the last part made your chest tighten a little--which was odd. You weren't sure if you even had organs anymore, for one, but mostly you startled at the idea ENA laid out, joking or not. Realizing that you loved her was a bump over the head, but realizing that she might need extra compensation to stay around was a concussion. Just like that, the simple bliss of lovely daydreams from afar had taken on a new dimension you didn't want to look too hard at. Somewhere, the blossom petals flowing about in the air deepened and darkened in negative color.

"Oh my. You look prepared for an aristocratic seminar. Of course, I know there's no seminar. That's what makes your style so very choice. Unless you're going to host one right now?" A smooth titter. Once again, ENA picked up on things that you thought would go straight over her head. You nervously straighten your tie, the small figures of ancient warriors painted on it shaking fists at you for temporarily throwing their world off-kilter. You say that you enjoy being presentable. It's not necessarily a lie, but your deepest intention is to impress a certain bi-colored worker. It's impossible to know if she's predicting the trend of your intentions and just hasn't shown you the wares yet, or if the data has gone in her eyes and out through her hat. That is, until she slyly points it out, voice dripping with her own brand of suavity. "I'm flattered that you're dressing for two. Although... Shouldn't I be the one getting stylish for my most beloved customer?" A playful elbow makes you wonder if you're receiving a hint or an off-brand red herring. You're sure of one thing: there was never such a nuisance of a word such as customer.

You start using the pretense of business to test the waters with ENA. The results are... inconclusive. You hire her for tasks that you may or may not have fabricated just to see her for a little longer--offering money in exchange for helping you find, say, your family's prized "tuning paperclip". You suppose that she's likely been on the receiving end of much stranger requests, considering she doesn't bat a rhomboid eye at the idea that you two need to "wait" together at a restaurant for your treasured paperclip to "return" to you, and that you needed her help "waiting". "You can rest assured that you've made a safe investment. We'll get your prized paper pincher back ASAP. Yesterday!" Little did she know that you had the paperclip you spraypainted gold in your back pocket in case you needed to pretend that you found it. There's no time to dwell on your hidden desperation, though, when ENA is sitting next to you and willing to kill some time. For some reason, she actually took her hat off before coming in. Your favorite polygon begins drumming her fingers on the table, and when you look at her, you swear her eye flits away from your face at the last second. Maybe she was staring, maybe you were just hoping too hard. Something about the air of the restaurant, rich with the sound of the ceiling-ocean occasionally letting go of a brief rain, felt like ENA was waiting for you to say something. And so it went for a while... This newfound anxiety made it impossible to begin a conversation without inspecting it from every angle before it was out of your mouth. You would have liked to have tried, if ENA hadn't let out a surprised boop and deftly pilfered the faux heirloom out of your back pocket the moment she noticed its sparkle. She held it out for inspection, top of her face subtly shadowed over. "Are you fucking serious? This is your heirloom? You sure know how to inherit 'em." ENA carelessly tossed the paperclip onto the table and stood up before you could get a word in, try to apologize, try to explain. Beg, maybe. "And here I really thought... Well, either way, I'm done wasting my time here. Consider this stupid job completed." She was out the door before you could muster an ounce of courage.

You suppose you could have taken that for an answer. It was obvious that ENA was annoyed that you'd wasted her time--you'd stepped over the line drawn for anyone performing a service as an act of exchange. It was clear. And yet, you felt like something was left unresolved with your parting. Maybe a stairway to heaven had broken off, fallen into your brain and dream-angels had taken it over, but you were gripped with the sense that every conversation, laugh, even interaction had been real. If it was about money at first, ENA had really cared for you once she got to know you nonetheless, and you were too busy spiraling to see it. You remembered when you helped her move a jade slab and how her hand lingered on your shoulder. The time she brought turron for you unprompted. You remembered the odd silence at the restaurant. What if she was waiting for you the whole time? Somewhere, a clock's ticking hand freezes and traps a flower petal. You should settle this once and for all.

You do everything you can to meet with ENA again, even if you can't find her available for hire at the Hub. You pester the Receptionist, interrogate Froggy, yell at a cactus, bother Coral Glasses for Blood ID. The last option is the only one that yields any results: directions to the Bed Door. Not long after, you're knocking on the door of some sort of burned-out shell of an old Japanese home beneath a blood red sky. Clouds of fleas fly about overhead. From the inside, you can hear shouting. "I'M OFF, YOU HEAR ME! OFF!" A pause as an angular eye scrutinizes you through the peephole. Your patience is rewarded with a door swinging open to reveal a tired-looking ENA, crimson smile brittle as a disembodied arm holds her head in place. "Well, hello there." An expression you're not used to seeing on her, of eyes downcast, slips onto her face. "I suppose there's something else you want me to do. Sorry to inform you, but I'm off today. It is a weekend, and on weekends, there's no days left to work lest you fall into the time-end; quite hazardous--ahem. I'm unavailable." You steady yourself for a moment before releasing the burning truth: The whole restaurant thing, the awkward little moments on all of your jobs--you were just nervous. "Ah. 'Nervous.' I'm sure someone sells something for that around here." You asked her why she was holding her head in place. "Ha. You see, I'd rather not launch into uncouth behavior and say something that'd damage our professional relationship. We, heh, have a nice thing going. Right?" You sigh and lean against a wooden beam. You say that you want to hear what's on her mind--not as a customer or reviewer or anything, just as someone who knows her. Someone who's... sorry they're so bad at saying what they need to. ENA allows herself to spin into a quiet fury, kicking her door further open and storming outside, angrily pacing about. "I just--You! GHH! You made a fool outta me! I was waiting for you to say something--do something! Anything! But you didn't do shit!" Shrinking under ENA's presence, you admitted that you were nervous because you liked her. ENA's eyes widen. Hell, you like her a lot. You were just too nervous--you didn't want to overstep boundaries or make it seem like she had to as an employee, and you thought that maybe she was just flirting to be friendly to a customer, and... ENA put a hand to your mouth to shut you up, gruff voice ripping through your ears. "Just shut up for a second. What you're saying... I don't... I was waiting for you to say something. How obvious do I have to be?! Do I have to light a star balloon on fire and wave it around?! And that restaurant, g0d, I can't stand the fact that you didn't even try to spend time or anything. FLAKE! I thought we were starting to-!! And flirting to be friendly?! Would I be talking to you like this right now if I was a PUSHOVER?! You have some nerve!" ENA grabbed you by the collar and you couldn't bring yourself to look away as ENA bit down on each word with gnashing teeth. "There, feelings all out on the floor?! Enough PR bullshit, you owe me a date. And oh, I'M paying by the way. Are you better now?! Can you function for once?! I can't be any clearer, buddy." Your favorite polygon shoved you off her porch. "Put on that suit from earlier--you know which one--and meet me at the same place in 26.9 minutes, worm! GET TO IT!" And just like that, she was swallowed by the darkness of her house and her door was slammed in your face as she stomped upstairs to get ready. Your head was heavy with swirling thoughts, mainly: Was that all it took this whole time? and I better get home and change ASAP. Yesterday.

A/N: I hope it lives up to expectations! The idea is slow burn-oriented, so the story ends up being a little longer than normal.

A/N: A story where Meanie gets shit done in a merciless streak of productivity. My PC is about to die OK gn :o)

[buckysthunderbolts]

Maternal Instincts

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: After avoiding Bucky for far too long, you're forced to come to him and ask him to help you walk through memories you don't believe are real. Only this time, it involves two people that look suspiciously like you and Bucky.

Warnings: Eventual 18+ content, canon-typical violence, knives, injuries, mentions of suicide, language, blood, needles, trauma, angst galore

Word Count: 5k+

Author's Note: Here's part two! This story is just flowing out of me and I'm really enjoying writing it. I really enjoy writing fics where there's really strong emotional intimacy and I hope you're able to see that here! Please let me know what you think and remember to comment and reblog fics you read and enjoy!

Chapter 2: The Patriot

THEN

My first solo mission was my last solo mission. It was shortly after the war ended and I was completely and utterly alone. Steve sacrificed himself and Bucky fell off the train shortly after his regiment was rescued. The future Bucky dreamed of us having was dead, gone and buried. I would never have that with anyone else.

So instead of moving on and living my life the way I know Bucky would’ve wanted, I was on a mission to do everything I could to harm the people who took away the person I loved most in the world. Even if what I did killed me in the end, I didn’t care.

In exchange for his biological work, scientific research, and continued protection by SHIELD, Arnim Zola gave up numerous HYDRA shell locations. I was responsible for gathering intelligence on their whereabouts, including all research on biological weapons and projects, and individuals who’ve escaped justice.

I was undercover at an underground bunker in Russia as a biologist to get access to all the intel I needed for SHIELD to take the necessary steps to take out the underground locations and gain control of their data. I was under strict orders not to engage in direct conflict. The intel was too valuable to stay in the wrong hands. I could not engage in conflict. I had two weeks to gather what I needed and then quietly leave as if I had never been there in the first place. If it took longer than two weeks, I was on my own and help would not be coming if I was discovered and captured.

On the day I was supposed to leave, there were whispers and rumors from the doctors and scientists that an asset was being delivered to the bunker. They called him the Patriot. He was allegedly an American soldier captured from the war that wasn’t released with the remaining prisoners of war when it ended. He was being used as their test subject for the biological experiments I was pretending to help facilitate. It was rumored that whatever was given to him gave him superhuman strength.

I decided then and there I would try and take him with me. If I had the opportunity to save someone while I’m here, I have to try. It’s what Bucky and Steve would’ve done if they were here instead of me.

I adjust the satchel across my body and keep my hand hidden inside, ready to shoot and kill anyone who gets in my way. The long maze of hallways and dark corridors don’t deter me as I listen to my heart race and the desperate cries of the soldier hidden away in a locked room. Two guards are posted in front of the door, and I eye the set of keys on one of their belts.

I let out a careful breath and brush my hair from my shoulders. I force a smile on to my face and the men eagerly return it. I approach them like a girl ready to be carried away into the sunset. They smirk at me, and I let my free hand trail down the arm of one of them towards his belt. He grins at the attention I give him. My fingers carefully hook on to his belt and I look into his eyes. I think his name is Aaron.

We’d been playing a cat and mouse game since my arrival and now that he was guarding whoever was behind that door, I needed to use it to my full advantage.

“Wanna sneak out for a second? There’s an unlocked room calling our names,” I asked quietly in Russian.

He flashes me a toothy grin and nods. He turns to the other guard, and they share a quick word. I grab his hand and quickly move down the hall. I open the door to the unlocked room and push him inside. He laughs eagerly as I shut the door, and his mouth finds the side of my neck. I involuntarily shiver and he grabs the hem of my shirt, pulling it out from under my pants. His hand palms my skin and slides up to squeeze my breast. I lock the door and turn to face him.

“We need to be quick and quiet, yes?”

He nods in agreement and takes me by the hand towards the table in the room. I slide my hand up his arm again and he grins at me. This time, I return the grin before twisting his arm. He lets out a surprised cry and I use my body weight to throw him into the table. He claws at my arms as I choke him from behind before he goes limp.

I exhale a heavy breath and unclip the keys from his belt loop. I readjust my top and shake out my shoulders. I step over his unconscious body and slip out of the room. I hurry down the hall again towards the lone remaining guard. His brows pinch together, and his hand hesitates on the gun at his hip.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t give him the chance to say anything. Instead, I press my palm into his throat, and he immediately chokes. I swipe his legs underneath him and his eyes widen in surprise. I hold his head between my thighs until he goes unconscious.

I stand quickly and insert the key into the locked door. The door creaks open and I pull the guard in from behind me before slowly shutting the door. I let out a deep exhale and try to catch my breath by briefly taking in my surroundings.

There’s a blinding white light hanging from the ceiling illuminating the room. The man, who I can only assume is the asset and American soldier they’re calling the Patriot, is strapped to a metal table. The thing that stands out to me the most is that he’s missing his left arm. He’s dressed in rags for clothes, and it looks like he’s gone far too long without proper food and water. The only thing clean about him is the white bandage where his arm should be. He's muttering quietly and soft cries fill the room.

I slowly approach the table and look down at him. A gasp escapes my throat, and I start to feel dizzy. I feel like I’m staring at a ghost. My hands shake and my heart starts racing.

Oh my God. Oh my God.

The Patriot is Bucky. My Bucky. My Bucky who’s been presumed dead for more than a year. My Bucky who dreamed of a life for us after the war. My Bucky is the one who’s been tortured and experimented on for who knows how long.

A wave of emotions hit me in my chest and stomach. Relief, anger, grief, and elation flow through me and tug at my heart.

Tears threaten to spill over my cheeks, and I gingerly reach out to touch him. His eyes are closed and there’s a dried spot of blood on his temple. Dirt, sweat, and grime cover his skin. Bucky’s eyes fly open, and he flinches when my hand makes contact with his forehead. He winces against the harsh artificial light and blinks a couple times before his eyes meet mine.

“Bucky,” I can’t help but cry. “How is this possible? How are you still alive?”

Bucky’s brows pinch together, and he whispers my name like he’s in a trance. His voice is rough, and he winces when he speaks. “Am I dreaming? Are you real? What are you doing here? Where are we?”

I move quickly and unbuckle the straps that pin his arm and legs to the table. I help him sit up and glance through the small window at the door. The hall was still empty, and the alarms still haven’t been signaled.

“As much as I would like to answer your questions, we don’t have time. I will answer them later. We have to get out of here. Now. Can you stand?” I asked him, carefully reaching for his arm.

“I’ll just slow you down. You need to leave me here. You have to save yourself. If they catch you-”

“No,” I interrupted him. “That’s not an option. I won’t leave you. We leave together or not at all.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, and I carefully help him to his feet. He leans on me as we walk to the door. I open the door slowly and pull my gun from the satchel, aiming it straight ahead as we walk together towards one of the emergency exits that lead to the vehicle transports.

The alarms break through our heavy breathing, and I lean us against a wall in a hidden alcove. I turn to look at Bucky and he’s white as a sheet, but he’s eyes still hold the same warmth they’ve always had when he looks at me. I brush his hair out of his face and his shudders at my touch. I press a soft kiss to his mouth and rest my forehead against his.

“You ready? We have to move quickly. If I get stopped for any reason, you run as fast as you can, you hear me? Do not stop and help me to be the hero, no matter what,” I carefully take the satchel from across my body and throw it over his head. “Get these to Peggy Carter.”

He starts to protest and I shut him up with another heart pounding kiss, my hands holding the sides of his face. “I will not lose you again. There is no time to argue. Do you understand me? Promise me you’ll do what I say.”

Bucky nods silently and braces himself against me, his arm wrapped protectively around me like a warm blanket, “I promise.”

 We step out into the light and run as fast as we can towards the exit. I shoot anyone that gets in our way and break through the exit door with Bucky beside me.

My eyes find the nearest vehicle and I pull Bucky towards the passenger door when pain rips through my shoulder. A silent scream fills my lungs, and I fall to my knees, my gun falling uselessly at my side. Bucky yells my name and reaches for me. Blood soaks through my shirt and the pain blinds my vision. I can’t hear anything.

Bucky quickly grabs the gun and stands up, aiming it at the men that face us. He takes a careful step back and I’m forced to my feet. I cry out and feel the barrel of a gun against the side of my head. My heart pounds loudly against my chest.

“Let her go,” Bucky demands, his eyes passing between me and the men holding me up.

“I knew there was a rat in our midst,” Dr. Nikolai Frolov hummed beside me. His hand wraps in my hair and he tugs harshly, pulling my head back. I yelp and tears fill my eyes. “I could just smell it. It’s a shame such a pretty face made such a stupid decision. Why risk your life for someone you don’t know?”

“Bucky, shoot me,” I begged, looking at him. Tears stain my cheeks.

He looks at me like I shot him. His eyes are wild with desperation as he stares at me. Silent tears coat his face and mix with the sweat on his skin.

Frolov hums again and looks between us. “I misspoke then; you do know each other. From the look in your eyes, the desperation seeping from your skin, I’m guessing you know each other too well, hmm? Is this the woman you cry out to, Sargent? What did you say her name was?”

A beat of silence passes over us and it feels like time has stopped. Frolov digs his fingers into the wound on my shoulder, and I collapse in agony. I can hardly see, but I look up at Bucky.

“You promised me you wouldn’t try to be the hero. Please. Shoot me, Bucky, please,” I cried.

Agony fills his face, and he aims the gun at me. I close my eyes, waiting for the end, but too much time has passed. I open my eyes again and look at him. Bucky has the barrel of the gun pressed against his temple.

“If I kill myself, all your research and progress goes away, yes? Whatever you’ve been doing to me will die with me? You can’t do whatever it is without me,” Bucky threatens, finger lingering on the trigger. “Let her go and I won’t kill myself.”

Frolov laughs and shoves me to the ground. I’m too weak to catch myself and my head hits the ground with a loud crack. The blinding pain from my shoulder travels up my spine and surrounds my head. My head spins and I can’t see straight.

“Go ahead and try,” Frolov replied. “There’s a reason you haven’t yet and that’s because you can’t. I have been able to rewire your brain and alter your self preservation, but feel free to test it out. You’ve had multiple opportunities to kill yourself and yet you haven’t, have you stopped to think and wonder why that is? As much as you want to leverage your life for hers, you can’t. It’s admirable what people try to do to save the people they love most. She’s asked you to kill her. Go ahead.”

He grabs me by the hair again and drags me until I’m at Bucky’s feet. He forces me to look up at Bucky. Silence fills the hanger, and I try to take slow breaths. I can see the calculations and risks Bucky’s weighing in his eyes. His lip trembles as he moves the gun from his temple down to meet my forehead. His finger hesitates over the trigger.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “It’s okay. I asked you to. It’s not your fault. I love you.”

“I love you. I’m sorry, please forgive me,” Bucky murmured back before falling to his knees in front of me, raising his hand in surrender. The gun falls out of his grasp.  

No! A sob rips through me, and we’re instantly surrounded. Guards shove him to the floor and pin his arm behind his back. The sound of Frolov’s laughter fills the room once more and he claps eagerly.

“You promised me!” I cried as guards dragged us a part. Desperate sobs fill my lungs and agony and betrayal coat my skin. “You promised you would do what I said. You promised me you wouldn’t be the hero.”  

“Take them away,” Frolov demanded. “Make sure to separate them. Take her to the lab, I have plans for her. Subdue her if you have to.”

I start to scream and thrash against the guards pinning me to the floor, fighting as hard as I can. “No! No! No! Bucky!”

A blinding pain hits the back of my head, and I crumble to ground. My vision goes dark, and I succumb to the pain.

….

NOW

I slowly come to. My throat burns and it feels like my chest is on fire. There’s a slight ringing in my ears and I hear the slow, steady beating of the heart rate monitor. Disinfectant fills my nose, and my eyes moves slowly inside my head.

A groan settles in my throat, and I open my eyes. I blink a few times and reach to rub my face, but I can’t. I look down and my arms are pinned down to the bed in leather straps. Panic grips me and I pull against the leather. My heart races and the sound of the heart rate monitor grows with each passing second. Alarms go off and a team of doctors and nurses enter the room.

They do nothing to ease my panic. It’s like I’m not even here. Fear fills my chest at the sight of the white coats, clipboards, and scrubs. My eyes fly to the door, and Yelena comes racing in. Tears blur my vision and a sob escapes me. My voice fails me. I feel helpless. It brings me back to memories I have tried so hard to forget and move on from.

“Back off!” Yelena yells, shoving them away from me. She looks at the cuffs strapped to my wrists. “Can’t you see you’re scaring her? Take the cuffs off.”

One of the faceless doctors turn to Yelena and barely spares me a passing glance. “The restraints are for her own safety as well as for our own. Until we deem she is no longer a threat to herself or others, they stay on. She’s on suicide watch because of what she did.”

I watch Yelena grit her teeth and straighten her spin. Her presence and energy towers over them. “I’m telling you right now she is not a threat. She is not suicidal. If you don’t take them off or let me do it for you, there will be a problem. Do you want there to be a problem?”

Yelena’s threat fills the air and makes the room heavy. The medical team glances at each other and the doctor that spoke lets out a heavy sigh. He moves towards me, and I hold my breath and stare down at his hands as he frees my wrists from the restraints. I immediately hold my hands to my chest and rub my wrists between my fingers.

“Good choice.”

“We’ll be back shortly,” the doctor muttered before he and the other doctors and nurses exit the room.

Yelena approaches my bedside and pulls the chair from the corner of the room to sit beside me. A shaky sigh leaves my mouth, and I rest my head against the pillows at my back. Tears silently coat my cheeks. Yelena gingerly takes one of my hands into hers and rubs her thumb across the back of my hand, carefully avoiding the needle pumping fluids into my veins.

I turn my head away from her and look towards the bare wall. I bite my bottom lip to suppress a sob and fail miserably. Yelena whispers my name, and I turn again to look at her. Shame bursts inside my chest so big that it hurts. She has stitches across her forehead and a bruise along the side of her face. I know without asking that I did that, that I hurt my closest friend.

The mission comes rushing back to me. I failed so spectacularly. I had one job and couldn’t even do that. Memories of Bierhal blowing a powdered substance into my face flash every time I blink. The loss of control I felt when I couldn’t speak and couldn’t tell Yelena or Bucky why I was trying to hurt them. The suffocating familiarity I felt when I looked at and tried to attack the two people who looked like me. The realization dawning on Bucky before he had the chance to stop me when I stabbed myself in the gut to prevent Yelena from shooting.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered before coughing uncontrollably.

I wheeze and wince at the burn in my abdomen. Yelena reaches across to the small counter beside me and fills a plastic cup with water. She leans over me and tips the water into my mouth, the cup brushing against my lips. The cool water coats my throat, and I swallow hard. I gasp in relief and relax against the bed. Yelena brushes her fingers against my forehead and gently tugs my hair out of my face.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. You weren’t in control. You didn’t mean to hurt me. You didn’t have a choice.”

Silence falls between us, and Yelena helps me with sips of water whenever I cough. I let out a careful breath, considering my next words. I swallow hard. “What happen after…”

“After you stabbed yourself in the stomach?” Yelena asked.

I nod silently.

Yelena sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “You coded twice on the jet. Even though the doctor is an asshole, he saved your life. It’s a miracle you’re still here. They took samples of your blood to try and figure out what was in the drug that Markov doused you with. The lab is still waiting on the results.”

“And Bucky?”

“He was distraught, obviously. He had to watch Joaquin and Sam perform CPR and use the defibrillator until your heart started again.”

Another wave of tears break through, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I press my palms into my face and Yelena reaches for my hand again and squeezes it firmly. “He hasn’t left your side since you got out of surgery. Sam had to drag him out of here so he could shower and get some sleep.”

I nod quietly and ignore the lump in my throat and the ache in my chest. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Yelena and I sit in silence for a while before the doctor returns. He glances at the chart in his hands before glancing at me through his glasses.

“I don’t know what possessed you to stab yourself, but you’re lucky to be alive. You pierced your small intestine. If it wasn’t for the quick thinking of Mr. Wilson and Mr. Torres, I can’t say for certainty that you would still be here. You also have a broken nose and several bruised ribs. I also stitched the laceration on your forehead. How are you tolerating the pain?” he asked.

I swallow hard and Yelena gives me some more water before I answer. “That explains why it feels like my gut is on fire,” I hissed through gritted teeth.   

“I’ll give you some morphine for the pain.”

The thought of taking morphine makes my heart race. It just brings back memories of torture, pain, and never being fully present for the things HYDRA did to me. The alarms on the monitor fill the room and Yelena places a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“It’s okay. I’ll be here when you wake up,” she promised. “No one will hurt you.”

I nod slowly and watch the doctor take a syringe and push the liquid into my IV. The pain subsides after several minutes, and I dip into a dreamless slumber.

….

The next time I wake up, I feel better than I did before. I open my eyes and turn my head, finding Bucky sitting beside me. His arms are crossed over his chest and his head leans back on the wall, eyes closed.

I wince as I sit up and Bucky immediately opens his eyes. He leans towards me and hesitantly takes my hand in his. Both flesh and metal hands envelop my hand, and he brings it up to his mouth, kissing my knuckles gently. He’s careful to avoid the IV on the top of my hand. It sends shivers down my spine.  

“Hey,” I mumbled quietly, my voice rough with sleep.

He reaches for the cup of water on the table attached to the hospital bed and helps me take a sip.  He brushes his metal hand gently across my forehead and the coolness of his fingers is a welcome relief to the heat in my chest. Bucky sits back down but doesn’t let go of my hand. His fingers brush against the bruising on my wrist.

“Hey,” he whispered back. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than before, but everything hurts still.”

Bucky nods silently and I take in his haggard appearance. His hair’s a mess and he has bags under his eyes. His shirt is a wrinkled mess. He has a scrape on the side of his face, but its already on its way to healing. It’s a stark contrast to what he looked like the last time I saw him, the way I usually see him.

Since his tenure as a Congressman and Avenger started, Bucky was the picture of what it meant to be put together. Crisp suits, neat hair, tailored beard, clean skin. It’s strange to see him like this.

There’s so much I want to say to him, to ask him, to explain to him, but I don’t know where to start. How do you explain to the person you love most in the world why you pushed him away? How do you ask him questions about memories you’re too afraid to relive, too afraid to admit that it was true and not a figment of your imagination when he’s the only one that has the answers?

Bucky swallows hard and his eyes find mine again. I try to find the right words to say but they fail me. I used to be able to say anything and everything to him, and now I can’t. The slow beeping of the heart rate monitor fills the room as we stare at each other. We may as well have been at opposite ends of the earth with the space that filled the silence between us.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky apologized quietly, as he squeezed my hand and rubbed my skin.

My brows pinch together in confusion as I stare at him. I sit up a little straighter. “Sorry?” I asked. “What do you have to be sorry for? The mission failed because of me, not because of anything you did.”

Tears threaten to spill from his eyes, and he squeezes my hand tightly. “Back then… when you tried to rescue me when you were undercover. I promised you I wouldn’t try to be the hero and broke that promise when I didn’t kill you like you asked. I betrayed you when you needed me the most. If I had… the things that were done to you… the things I did to you… what happened during the mission… none of that would’ve happened if I wasn’t such a fucking coward and did what you asked.”

Bucky says the word with such venom that I wince. Silent tears coat my cheeks, and I bite the inside of my cheek and swallow hard. “I put you in an impossible position, Bucky. I should’ve never put that on you in the first place. I was desperate for you to escape, even at the cost of my own life. Even if I was angry with you, I forgave you a long time ago. None of what happened after that was your fault. You didn’t have a choice and neither did I. Now I just have to live with the decisions I made that led us to this point.”

His face crumbles and he pushes the chair impossibly closer to the bed. He leans his elbows over the bed. “Then why push me away? If it wasn’t my fault, why does it feel like you’re punishing me?” Bucky’s voice cracks and is filled with desperation. “Explain it to me.”

He holds my face between his hands and looks at me with such love that it hurts to breathe. He brushes away my tears and I sniff quietly. “Bucky, you’re an Avenger and a politician. You’ve healed so much and I just… I haven’t. I get these flashes of memories I know you have the answers to. I’m too scared and too ashamed to ask you about them, so I pretend they don’t exist. I don’t want to hold you back from moving on.”

The weight of my confession hangs in the air, and I stare at my lap. Bucky’s stare burns the side of my face. He moves to stand, and I expect him to get up and go. It’s what he deserves. Instead, he carefully climbs into the bed beside me and holds me in his arms for the first time in so, so long.

My shoulders shake and fat ugly tears stain my face. It feels like I can breathe for the first time. The weight in my chest and in my heart from keeping this from Bucky goes away. Bucky’s own tears wet my hair and his mouth presses against my skin for the first time in decades. He kisses my cheeks, my throat, my forehead. He breathes me in and for a moment, I’m brought back in time to the days before the war, before everything changed forever.

“None of that means anything to me if I don’t have you to share it with,” Bucky whispered against my skin. “I have spent over 80 years trying to get back to you, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.”

Silence fills the room again and I’m nearly asleep again when Bucky mutters something against my skin that I don’t quite understand or catch. “Hmm?”

“Why did you stab yourself?” Bucky asked, playing with the ends of my hair between his fingers. I feel his hot stare on the back of my neck.

My spine stiffens and I swallow hard. A cold sweat starts to form on my back, and I shift uncomfortably. “You know why,” I murmured.

“I do. I just want to hear you say it.”

A shaky sigh leaves my mouth as I build up the courage to answer him. “Whatever I was drugged with rewired my brain and made you and Yelena into combatants. I couldn’t speak and tell you what was going on or what happened. When Yelena knocked me to the floor after I tried to stab her, she had her gun trained on… on her. I didn’t know what to do. You were preoccupied with him. I couldn’t hurt them because of the drugs, and I didn’t want to hurt you or Yelena, so I panicked. I thought if I created a big enough distraction, no one I cared about would get hurt. It was a calculated risk I had to take, and I don’t regret it.”

“Do you remember who they are?”

The question weighs on my shoulders and sits on my chest. I let out a careful breath and nod. “I didn’t at first. When I looked at them… really looked at them, I knew. I knew like my lungs know how to breathe for me. It was like I was staring at them for the first time. I knew I was staring at our kids. Maggie and Peter.”

Bucky kisses the side of my head and brushes away the last of my tears, “Yes.”

[aliesbienish]

The study of wolves - Part four

chapter one ✩ chapter two ✩ chapter three

“This is it,” you declared, confirming your GPS location with the ones of the latest wolf sighting.

It was still a fairly wood area, only a small clearing letting in a circle of sunlight. You placed your bag on the side of the trail and began to have a scan of the area.

Paul watched you in awe as you examined the ground for paw prints and the brush for any animal made tracks. After a few minutes you saw an area of flattened grass a few feet off the trail that peaked your interest. The animal made path left the small clearing and continued on downhill, meandering past rocky outcrops and large pine trees. Importantly you can hear the faint sound of flowing water in this distance, making the path a possible trail from den to the stream.

“Can you bring me my backpack?” You yelled to Paul.

“Here you go,” Paul passed over the bag a few minutes later. You went searching for the small motion sensor camera tucked at the bottom. “You found something?”

“Yup, our first spot! There is an animal trail here, you see? I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s our wolves, but the location makes sense with the water down that way and possible den locations up higher. I think we place it here for now and come back in a few days to see what it’s captured.”

“Why don’t we follow the path up or down?” Paul questioned.

“Honestly this is the easiest spot for us to access and find. If we do capture photos I think we could probably go place another camera down near the stream. I probably wouldn’t risk going up to the dens, they only use them when they are rearing pups and I don’t particularly want to piss off a mother wolf when we go to collect the camera.”

“I’d protect you,”

“I don’t doubt that cowboy. But what if it’s Jared with me when we are collecting them? You and I both know he’s sacrifice me to save himself,”

“Good call. Here it is,”

You wrapped the strap of the camera around a sturdy tree trunk at the bend of the track. Hoping you’d capture wolves coming and going from both directions.

“Okay, I need you to test this out for me!”

“You what? No thanks,”

“Oh come on, you just have to walk up and down the path. I promise to only put one of the photos in the data report, got to credit you somehow” You joked.

“Oh ha ha,” He stated starting to head up the trail. Once he was out of your sight you called him back, and he performed a turn any catwalk model would be jealous off. After walking down the track a few yards you checked the photos captured and gave your go ahead. Quickly snapping a photo of the site, noting the coordinates and saving a location on your phone it was done.

“Well that’s us good to go, nice modelling work there. I think the elders would be silly not to put out some Quileute merch and leak those photos,”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, I just happened to be channeling my inner wolf.”

“Of course, I forgot wolves are known to be natural stutters.”

“And don’t you dare leak those photos, because I’m sure as shit that the elders would have no clue how,”

“Don’t worry cowboy - whoops I’m sorry wolf boy, I’d make sure to get photos of Sam and Jared as well. The world deserves to see all three of you rock khaki,”

You reserved almost an animalistic growl from Paul for your comments, that probably should have startled you but realistically made you feel hot and bothered.

Paul himself wasn’t sure if it was in appreciation of the wolf boy comment or the jealously towards Sam and Jared.

“Come on smart arse,” he quipped, helping you put your backpack over your shoulders, “We better start to head back to the car before I give into the temptation to leave you here,”

“Go right ahead - I’ve been leaving a breadcrumb trail all day, so I can easily find my way back without your help,” You stuck your tongue out, and confidently stated heading in the opposite direction of the car.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Next chapter

But of a short (but hopefully sweet) chapter. Is Paul absolutely OOC when he’s with reader, yup. If anyone thinks that’s wouldn’t how he would be one on one with his imprint then fight me xx

Thanks for reading!

[schroedingerscryptid]

good evening mothers and fuckers of the jury today i bring: Amphoreus Is A Neural Network 

my credentials: i’m a first year CS student in 2025.

if y’all’ve been on hsrtwt in the past few days and watching leak after leak come out, then you probably know what i’m yapping about. if not, check this, this, this, and this out.

if you’d rather wait for 3.4 to come out, this is your chance to scroll. rest of y’all are with me lets go gamers

to summarise the 3.4 leaks, lygus and cyrene are apparently running tests on phainon to make the perfect lord ravager, and phainon’s been through 33550336 loops (girl help him wtf) by now. in each loop, he has to watch everyone die over and over again, and phainon, obvi, cannot remember anything. each loop, he’s a complete blank slate, ready to be traumatised over and over again. lygus keeps track of each loop, and keeps refining the data he puts in at the start of each timeloop to remove the ‘imperfections’ from the previous loop that were corrupting his experiments. 

ok anyways this is not about this shit we’re here to talk about why amphoreus is a neural network.

all of us here hate ai so i’m pretty sure you know the basic strokes of how it works, but if you don’t, then here’s a simple explanation: a neural network works based on input data. there’s many methods to training a machine, but the most generalised ones are the supervised vs the unsupervised models. how they work is what’s on the lid: supervised models mean that the input data is clearly labeled, and unsupervised models mean the input data is not labeled, which forces the ML algorithm to identify data on its own. based on what we know, i’m inclined to think that lygus is probably using a supervised model each time by removing outlier data and/or noise. 

wonderful, let’s talk about mydei now. y’all’ve probably seen a bunch of theories and leaks, but mydei’s highly likely to be a glitch in the system, or even worse, might be a virus that someone’s trying to use to break everyone out of this loop. between all of the theories i’ve seen, the one that connects mydei to the amphoreus loop is the theory that he’s a type of fileless malware. 

Tweet ref: https://x.com/tts_maruadelei/status/1932082549217751271

much like the other chrysos heirs, mydei doesn’t actually exist, but let me say: ain’t it interesting how mydei, the demigod of strife, who should have risen to be a titan that governed disputes, is the one who caused glitches in lygus’ system during the forgotten years?

let’s go back to the theory for a second: fileless attacks, simplified, operate based off of memory alone, which makes it much, much harder to detect compared to normal malware and viruses in a computer system. these fileless attacks can manifest in multiple ways, and one of those ways is a Distributed Denial of Service attack, aka, the infamous DDoS attack. DDoS attacks are among the most common cyberattacks of the modern century, and involve ‘botting’, where multiple bots attack one system to overwhelm the system with a high volume of requests.

the idea of ‘overwhelming’ a system can come in the form of exhausting resources like bandwidth, the Central Processing Unit (CPU) and, most importantly, the Random Access Memory (RAM). you know, the RAM being where most fileless malware operates out of. i’m sure you see where i’m going with this. 

for more psychic damage, there’s a type of attack called a ‘buffer overrun’ or ‘buffer overflow’. wikipedia defines data buffers as regions of memory that store data temporarily while it’s being moved from one place to another. a ‘buffer overflow’ is a type of DDoS (SIGHS) attack in which data in the buffer exceeds the storage capacity and flows into the following memory location, and corrupts the data in the secondary memory locations, and are the most common DDoS attack styles. sound familiar? 

bringing allllll of this back to amphoreus, i wouldn’t be too surprised if mydei’s older versions gained sentience, and started botting lygus’ AI/neural network and caused a DDoS attack, which caused his saves to be completely wiped due to a buffer overflow. thank u for listening can 3.4 hurry Up.

[worldofsaia]

MICHAEL TALBOT ;

the holographic universe • 1991

what if reality isn’t as solid as it looks? what if it’s more like a projection from something beyond?

TALBOT explores an idea—taking principles from the legendary physicist DAVID BOHM, and neuroscientist KARL PRIBRAM that suggest that behind the projection, there's interconnected existence.

in THU, quantum mechanics connect to paranormal experiences where current technologies fail, and this suggests that consciousness might be non-local, influencing reality like the observer effect.

these cases follow: telepathy, near-death experiences, synchronicities, and psychic abilities.

¹ ˙𖦹 *∴ A HOLOGRAM BRAIN

KARL PRIBRAM, in his research, realized that memories were not localized to any specific brain region, and, inspired by the holography concept, began to explore how the brain processes and stores information, leading to the holonomic brain theory.

the brain has FOURIER-LIKE PROCESSING, rendering information using wave interference patterns.

╰╼ a fourier transform is a math construct that takes complex signals (like sound waves) and breaks them down into simpler parts (like individual notes). your brain is doing this with information all the time, i.e;

— you suddenly remember a song you haven’t heard in years.

— a childhood memory pops up randomly.

— people with brain injuries sometimes recall after amnesia, or even access entirely new skills and epigenetic memory.

in these moments, your brain isn't like a hard drive storing data in little compartments—it’s more like a receiver, tuning into a bigger field of information.

and if that’s the case, is your brain creating consciousness, or is consciousness something bigger that your brain is just accessing?

other theories state that consciousness is a fundamental aspect of the universe, with the brain acting as a receiver or filter, it's the blueprint that allows the brain to do what it does, or even better, a physicalized avatar of consciousness, the same as the body and the world.

²˙𖦹 *∴ A HOLOGRAM REALITY

In the 1980s, DAVID BOHM thought mainstream quantum physics was missing something. dissatisfied with conventional copenhagen interpretations of his time, he proposed that reality itself is a projection from a deeper, invisible order—like a video game rendering a 3D world from 2D code.

consider: you think about someone, and they text you. you think of a number or an animal, then you see them everywhere, you convince yourself so thoroughly that you'll fail your driving test, and do so spectacularly awful it feels prophetic.

coincidence? maybe. or maybe your brain is tuning into a frequency—filtering reality based on what you’re focusing on—just like the sims 4—where the game only loads what you’re looking at.

physics states that particles remain connected even when they’re light-years apart. this is called nonlocality; everything in reality is deeply connected.

in bohm’s holistic view; these connections undeniably imply an “unknown and undescribable totality” which he calls the “holomovement,” which is the fundamental ground of all matter or; implicate order, which our observable reality, aka explicate order, comes from.

even black holes are theorized to store reality on their horizion surface, like a hologram—so what if the whole universe does the same? if our reality unfolds from a largely unseeable, unknownable infinity, it's right to call it a projection.

³ ˙𖦹 *∴ TIME, SPACE, MATTER

if reality is really holographic, then time, space, and matter are illusions emerging from a deeper level of unity.

we've already connected non-locality with space, so what about the other two? in quantum physics, TIME doesn’t always flow the way we think it does.

entangled particles not only connect to each other, they can also act on each other across what appears to be impossible distances in no time at all.

time dilation (proven by EINSTEIN) shows that time slows down near the speed of light, shows that time is relative.

even in daily life, time feels different depending on what you're doing (boring class vs. fun weekend). that's why we have calendars, watches, units and systems to measure something that, otherwise, doesn't exist unless we're paying attention to it.

as a matter of fact, ‘time’ seems to happen without time. the projection we watch (our observable universe) still follows its own internal “script” that includes processes like aging and cellular decay. even if you don't know time, you know progress, because you expect it.

okay. what about MATTER? when we look at the world around us, everything seems solid, right? your phone, your chair, your body—all solid objects. but at the smallest scales, where they become particles, collectives of atoms participating in unison, none of these things behave the way we think they do.

even stranger—particles (like electrons or light) can either act like solid little particles (like a tiny ball) or like waves (like ripples in the water), when we observe them closely. they “choose” to behave as particles.

this means at the most basic level, matter isn’t really “stuff”—it’s more like potential until we observe it. it’s only when we look that it “decides” to act like a solid thing.

⁴ ˙𖦹 *∴ SHIFTING W/ HOLOGRAPHIC MODEL

if we take the holographic universe theory seriously, reality is a hologram, then your consciousness is the projector. shifting should be as simple as changing the film running in that projector, right?

yes. and you've shifted so many times! it's just that the more you ‘try’ to shift, the more you reinforce a reality where you're trying to shift—not the one where you've already shifted. and your brain filters out changes to keep you itself stable and safe. this is why reality feels so monotonous, even though it's constantly shifting in little ways.

to break out of the loop, you need to glitch reality—enough that your brain stops autopiloting and lets your consciousness move freely. it's important to note you're not traveling anywhere, you're just wiping your glasses—aka, consciousness, the lens of your reality.

STEP ONE

the fact that you even know about shifting means it’s already happening. you’re just stuck in the “trying” loop. reality runs on predictable patterns, and your brain fills in gaps to make it feel stable. naturally, the quickest way to shift is to mess with that stability.

here are some ways to do that, stick with one or two of them or all of them, it doesn't matter:

— walk into a room and act like something changed (without checking). even if things look the same, in your mind, keep running the “program” that you're already in your dr.

— misremember something on purpose (“Wait, wasn’t my blanket blue?” Even if it never was.)

— when you do anything, like check your phone, act like it’s your DR phone. what would be on your screen? if your DR has no phones, imagine you’re reading a book or getting a message another way.

— if someone talks to you, mentally swap their words for what they’d say in your DR.

— throughout the day, remember that you shifted, mentally say: “Wait, when did I shift?”

— or ask yourself: “Wait, what was I doing again?” (in your DR) it doesn’t matter if you don’t “believe” it, act like it’s obvious.

STEP TWO

notice how you shift realities when you least expect it? when you’re half-asleep, zoned out, or so exhausted you stop caring? that’s because caring too much locks you into your current state.

— before bed, or when making an attempt, prime your mind by saying: “I actually don’t care about shifting anymore,” or “Shifting isn't so important after all.”

you’ll either 1) shift because you stopped resisting the process, 2) wake up feeling slightly different, which means you did shift but your brain is pretending nothing happened.

NOTE

if it feels weird, good. that means your brain is questioning it. when your brain starts doubting reality, it will try to restabilize by convincing you, “this is normal, nothing happened.”

your consciousness moves faster than your logical brain, meaning 9/10 you literally shifted—but your brain is reconstructing old memories to keep things feeling ‘normal.’ so if you keep asking, "did i shift?", you’re just reinforcing your old reality.

[imitationgame77]

Pinging and Tapping

In the world of the Murderbot Diaries, communication is often conducted via comm and feed. Generally, comm is used when internal network is not available, or when one is trying to communicate across space, and feed is used when people are on the same network and allow each other access.

We also often see “pings” and “taps” as a way of quick communication.

Generally, pings are used for comm communications, and taps are used for feed communications, but there seem to be different purposes. Here are what we can gather from the story, and also from real life examples.

[Pings]

Purpose in the MB world:

Pings are typically used for signalling, checking connectivity, and getting responses from other systems or units. They act like a way to see if the other side is present and ready to communicate or respond.

Purpose in Real Life:

Network Connectivity: In computer networks, a "ping" is a diagnostic tool used to test the reachability of a host on an Internet Protocol (IP) network. It measures the round-trip time for messages sent from the originating host to a destination computer.

Usage in the MB World:

Status Checks: Used to check if systems, such as satellites, drones, or transports, are active and responsive. For example, pinging a satellite to see if it responds​​.

Communication Initiation: Used to start communication with other systems, often to establish a connection or share data. For instance, pinging a transport to offer media files in exchange for a ride​​.

Detection: Used by systems to detect the presence of specific units, like SecUnits, without direct contact​​.

Usage in Real Life:

ICMP Echo Request/Reply: The ping command sends an ICMP (Internet Control Message Protocol) Echo Request message to the target host and waits for an ICMP Echo Reply.

Network Troubleshooting: Used to determine if a particular host is reachable and to measure the latency between the source and destination.

[Taps]

Purpose in the MB World:

Taps are used more for internal communication within the network or feed. They serve as a means to acknowledge, signal actions, or provide private communication without verbal interaction.

Purpose in Real Life:

Internal Communication: In many systems, "taps" or similar mechanisms are used to signal and communicate internally within a network or system.

Usage in the MB World:

Acknowledgments: Used to acknowledge received messages or instructions. For instance, tapping back an acknowledgment to confirm receipt of instructions​​.

Private Communication: Used to send private or secure messages within the feed, often to communicate specific commands or information discreetly. For example, tapping the feed to communicate privately with another character without others listening in​​.

Control Signals: Used to signal or control actions within the feed, like tapping to instruct a character to fall back or take specific actions​​.

Usage in Real Life:

Signalling Mechanisms: Within computer systems, taps can be analogous to various signalling mechanisms like inter-process communication (IPC), which includes methods such as semaphores, shared memory, and message queues.

Acknowledgments and Control Signals: In networking, control signals and acknowledgments are crucial for managing data flow and ensuring reliable communication. For example, TCP (Transmission Control Protocol) uses acknowledgments to confirm the receipt of data packets.

Network Taps: In the context of network security, a "network tap" is a device that allows access to data flowing across a network for monitoring and analysis.​​.

[Comparison]

In both the fictional world of Murderbot Diaries and real life, pings are primarily used for external signalling and connectivity checks, while taps are used for internal communication and control within the feed network

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

[Something Worth Noting]

There are some instances where taps seem more reasonable, but pings are used instead.

In Artificial Condition when Murderbot was watching Sanctuary Moon, and ART was trying to get its attention, asking to watch World Hoppers together. (see Artificial Condition, Pings, 5, 6 my AO3)

In Network Effect, when Murderbot finds that a hostile vessel (i.e. ART) was approaching and notifies the team quickly (see Network Effect, Pings, 1 my AO3)

In Network Effect, when Murderbot was locking itself up in the bathroom (see Network Effect, Pings, 11, 12 my AO3)

In Network Effect, when ART requested a private connection (see Network Effect, Pings, 13 my AO3)

In Network Effect, when Amena comes along with Murderbot to investigate Barish-Estranza shuttle, but is told to wait outside. She offers to help to which Murderbot pings acknowledgement (see Network Effect, Pings, 14 my AO3)

At the end of System Collapse when Murderbot pinged Three to ask if it wanted to listen to Holism explain planetary infrastructure (see System Collapse, Pings 15 my AO3)

Of these, 1, 3, 4 are where ART was sending pings to Murderbot. This is actually quite sweet, because we can tell that ART is being very polite to Murderbot. ART is fully capable of slamming into Murderbot’s private feed, but in all of these occasions, Murderbot has been rejecting feed communication which it reserves for friends and clients. ART is respecting this.

Instance 2 is unusual, and I am not 100% sure why Murderbot chose to use ping here. But since it was emergency, and ping is a protocol where it receives automatic response if it had been received at the other end, it was sufficient for its purposes.

When we read the context in which 5 happens we notice that Murderbot is now inside the B-E shuttle, and for security reasons, ART had cut it off from the feed network. So, Murderbot has the options of either verbally answering to Amena, or sending a ping for acknowledgement, and it chose the latter.

In instance 6, Murderbot seems to be being polite to Three who is busy (?) watching educational media. They are cordial to each other, but because Three is still not used to being a free SecUnit, Murderbot is being more careful around it.

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

If you are willing to be bored to death, you can see my AO3 post for the list of all the instances where pinging and tapping happen!

[tough-girl9]

Dear Data

Summary: When Geordi learns that Data has been forced to resign from Starfleet to avoid Maddox's experimentation, the Enterprise's Engineer writes a heartfelt letter to his android friend about everything he's feeling.

Posted on both AO3 and FFN

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Dear Data,

I still can't believe you're really going away. I keep thinking this is all a nightmare that I'm sure I'll wake up from any minute, but I keep not waking up. It keeps staying real. Awfully, unfairly real. You're really going away.

It's so unfair, I want to scream. I want to throw my hyperspanner across Main Engineering. I want to give that puffed-up idiot Maddox such an earful of everything I think of him that his damn skinny head will be ringing for weeks. I want to rage at everyone who was stupid enough to let this happen.

You're one of the best Starfleet officers I've ever had the honor to work with, if not the best. And I don't just mean your super android abilities. It's in how deeply you care about our mission, the thoughtfulness you put into the details of every project you work on, the devotion to nothing short of excellence in everything you do. It's the love you have for your job (yeah, Data, I know you can love). I've become a better Starfleet officer just by working alongside you. The Enterprise is losing so much with your departure, and I can't believe anyone would let this happen.

But I'm not just losing a great co-worker; I'm losing a friend. That might be what hurts the most. It's not everyone who gets to work alongside a dear friend, and I guess I took some of that for granted. I love my job, you know I do, but working with you made the days fly past. I'm realizing just how much I'm going to miss. I'm going to miss how easy it was to talk to you: how I could say something that would leave most people staring blankly at me but you would instantly understand. We were both Perceivers and that's something I'm going to be damn hard-pressed to find again. I'm going to miss your questions about sneezing and sleeping and life and death that made me think more about my own humanity. I'm going to miss watching someone use a colloquialism in front of you and smiling to myself when you immediately turn to me for an explanation. Damn it, Data, I'm even going to miss your never-ending string of awful jokes.

I keep thinking of all the things we'll never do together now. The dozens of ideas we had for future Sherlock Holmes adventures that'll never happen. The plasma flow regulator recalibration that we were going to work on together next week that I'll be doing alone now. That "game night" you were hoping to plan to test out all those 20th century Terran board games you found patterns for in that old replicator program you were fiddling with last week. I know everyone on the Enterprise is missing out – and everyone else in the galaxy whom you'd have been able to help if you'd lived out your career – but I feel like I'm the one who's losing the most. Maybe that's selfish of me, but I feel what I feel.

I know you're not dead, that you're just going away, but it still feels like I'm mourning a thousand little deaths all at once.

I know there are ways we can keep in touch, but it won't ever be the same again.

I hope you're able to find another path that feels as right for you as this one did. I hope you're able to get that teaching job that you were considering and that it brings you the same level of fulfillment that serving in Starfleet did. Most of all, I hope you're all right – out there in a world that sees androids as nothing but machines who can be ripped apart without compunction. I wish the whole world could see you the way I do – white glow and all – and recognize the wonderful person you are underneath that synthetic skin.

I just want you to know, I'm glad to have known you, Data. Even if it had to end like this, I'll never regret the year and a half I had to get to know you and work alongside you. You're the best friend I ever could have asked for. I really thought I'd grow old working on this ship with you, and I hate that everything had to be cut short far too soon. But no matter what, I'll always treasure the time I did have with you, being your friend.

I'm angry for you, Data, and I'm sad and I'm hurt, but more than anything, I'm so glad you were stationed here on the U.S.S. Enterprise with me. Take care of yourself out there.

Love,

Your Best Friend, Geordi

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A/N:

I wrote this little one-shot about a year ago, when I found myself in Geordi's shoes in real life. A wonderful co-worker and dear friend whom I'd worked extremely closely with for over four years was very suddenly and unfairly bullied into resigning, leaving both her and me unable to do anything about it. This one-shot was just as much my way of processing my own sudden rage, feelings of crippling loss, and deep sense of unfairness with it all just as much as it was about Geordi and Data. And unlike Geordi and Data's story in "The Measure of a Man", my story didn't have a happy ending.

This story is dedicated to Jenn, the best Teen Librarian I've ever gotten to work with. This story is dedicated to all the program ideas we never got to do together, the stories we never got to share, and the time that was cut short far too soon. I'm glad I got to be your Geordi while it lasted. Live long and prosper.

[reasonsforhope]

Scientists have developed a new solar-powered system to convert saltwater into fresh drinking water which they say could help reduce dangerous the risk of waterborne diseases like cholera.

Via tests in rural communities, they showed that the process is more than 20% cheaper than traditional methods and can be deployed in rural locations around the globe.

Building on existing processes that convert saline groundwater to freshwater, the researchers from King’s College London, in collaboration with MIT and the Helmholtz Institute for Renewable Energy Systems, created a new system that produced consistent levels of water using solar power, and reported it in a paper published recently in Nature Water.

It works through a process called electrodialysis which separates the salt using a set of specialized membranes that channel salt ions into a stream of brine, leaving the water fresh and drinkable. By flexibly adjusting the voltage and the rate at which salt water flowed through the system, the researchers developed a system that adjusts to variable sunshine while not compromising on the amount of fresh drinking water produced.

Using data first gathered in the village of Chelleru near Hyderabad in India, and then recreating these conditions of the village in New Mexico, the team successfully converted up to 10 cubic meters, or several bathtubs worth of fresh drinking water. This was enough for 3,000 people a day with the process continuing to run regardless of variable solar power caused by cloud coverage and rain.

[Note: Not sure what metric they're using to calculate daily water needs here. Presumably this is drinking water only.]

Dr. Wei He from the Department of Engineering at King’s College London believes the new technology could bring massive benefits to rural communities, not only increasing the supply of drinking water but also bringing health benefits.

“By offering a cheap, eco-friendly alternative that can be operated off the grid, our technology enables communities to tap into alternative water sources (such as deep aquifers or saline water) to address water scarcity and contamination in traditional water supplies,” said He.

“This technology can expand water sources available to communities beyond traditional ones and by providing water from uncontaminated saline sources, may help combat water scarcity or unexpected emergencies when conventional water supplies are disrupted, for example like the recent cholera outbreaks in Zambia.”

In the global rural population, 1.6 billion people face water scarcity, many of whom are reliant on stressed reserves of groundwater lying beneath the Earth’s surface.

However, worldwide 56% of groundwater is saline and unsuitable for consumption. This issue is particularly prevalent in India, where 60% of the land harbors undrinkable saline water. Consequently, there is a pressing need for efficient desalination methods to create fresh drinking water cheaply, and at scale.

Traditional desalination technology has relied either on costly batteries in off-grid systems or a grid system to supply the energy necessary to remove salt from the water. In developing countries’ rural areas, however, grid infrastructure can be unreliable and is largely reliant on fossil fuels...

“By removing the need for a grid system entirely and cutting reliance on battery tech by 92%, our system can provide reliable access to safe drinking water, entirely emission-free, onsite, and at a discount of roughly 22% to the people who need it compared to traditional methods,” He said.

The system also has the potential to be used outside of developing areas, particularly in agriculture where climate change is leading to unstable reserves of fresh water for irrigation.

The team plans to scale up the availability of the technology across India through collaboration with local partners. Beyond this, a team from MIT also plans to create a start-up to commercialize and fund the technology.

“While the US and UK have more stable, diversified grids than most countries, they still rely on fossil fuels. By removing fossil fuels from the equation for energy-hungry sectors like agriculture, we can help accelerate the transition to Net Zero,” He said.

-via Good News Network, April 2, 2024

[kurishiri]

epilogue . . . “ the medical record of the love between the hunter and me ”

— this translation may not be 100% accurate or may contain creative liberties for characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost or claim these as your own!

— this is the epilogue story for roger’s past records, which is available after sending hearts 700 times. this is told in kate’s point of view, and takes place after they become a couple, so i would personally recommend reading this after you've read at least one branch of his route. (but it's not necessarily required!)

— cw: roger without glasses 🤭, nsfw (fade to black), a bit unedited.

It was the early afternoon, the weather clear, a little after Roger and I had become lovers.

“Your medical records could use some polishing, lil lady.”

That was what Roger said as he called me to the laboratory.

Roger: I asked Victor for your diagnostic tests, right? As for your weight——

Kate: Don’t read it out loud!

Roger: Humans are about the only living beings that care about every little thing about their weight.

Kate: Well, I can’t argue with that, but still...

Roger: It’s all well and good you grew up big.

Even after becoming lovers, it seemed Roger’s tendency to lack delicacy sometimes was going strong.

(Well, that said... I also love that about him too.)

Kate: Wait, I’m pretty sure filling in my medical record won’t make much difference... there’s not much point...

Roger: ‘There’s not much point,’ you say?

Kate: I mean, what you want is data on the Cursed ones, right?

K: As much as I’d love to be of help to you, I’m not Cursed myself...

Roger: Hey now, don’t go saying sad stuff like that.

R: Kate, as my special fairytale keeper, you’ll need to continue to accompany me on missions from here on out.

R: And that’s already asking for more danger than a normal person. That’s all to say,

R: if I get to know you on an even deeper level, I can save you more.

With a broad grin, Roger’s canine tooth peeked out.

That smile alone was enough to make me happy...

(To think Roger’s thought this much about me!)

The happiness at having become his lover spread through my entire body, and I gave him a broad nod in turn.

Kate: If that’s the case, I’ll answer anything!

Roger: .........Anything, huh.

In my enthusiasm in answering, I missed Roger’s words, which came in a whisper.

Roger: Then, let’s start the examination.

Kate: Alright, I’ll be in your care!

Roger: What’s your type, lil lady?

(.........Huh?)

Kate: Is... is that needed for the medical record?

Roger: Very much actually. I’m a former doctor, so you think I’d go around asking pointless questions?

Kate: W-well, besides, we are dating already, so do I really need to say my type out loud...

Roger: Your type could be different, even if we are dating. So I have to ask, just in case.

(Is... that true?)

There was no hesitation in Roger’s tone, so it would be strange not to be able to answer.

My type, huh——Roger’s figure popped into my mind then.

Kate: Uhm, I like to watch someone eat a lot, I think.

Roger: Eat a lot, you say? Ahh, so you mean me?

Kate: T-that’s not necessarily the case!

Roger paid no mind to how flustered I was from him hitting the bull’s eye, instead asking the next question.

Roger: Okay, next. What’s something you’ve found fun recently?

He asked the question so quickly to me, I felt I had to answer quickly.

Kate: Something fun is... ah...

K: Yesterday, I had some very hot food, and it was so spicy I ended up laughing.

Roger: You’re talking about the one we were eating together, right? I remember that too.

Kate: ...Eh, ah...

Roger: Okay, next. Who in Crown do you find the most charming?

Kate: That...

I didn’t even have to mull over it; that was just how charming Roger was.

(...Oh no.)

——This is definitely not for filling in the medical records.

But by the time I realized, it was already too late.

Roger: What, keeping quiet? Then, let me ask a final question, for a bad patient.

Roger’s fingertips poked over where my heart was.

Roger: You’ve been teased so relentlessly, and yet your heart’s beating so fast... why is that?

Roger has the ability to hear sounds up to 100 yards away.

So it came as no surprise that he was aware how fast my heart was beating.

Kate: Please don’t listen in...

Roger: No can do, your heart’s the one that’s too noisy.

R: See, it’s going thump thump so fast, it’s pretty cute.

Kate: Uu...

Roger: Oh? You’re going to cry? In that case, by all means, feel free to. I’ll be happy about that.

(T-this man, I swear——!)

I threw him the sharpest glare I could muster at a grinning Roger.

Kate: I thought this before we got together, too, but why do you always have to do things like this!?

K: You say you don’t like doing anything unnecessary, but then you go and do exactly that!

Roger: That’s because I want to take care of you.

R: Because your crying face is cute.

R: Because I want to talk more with you.

R: And because, if it’s with you, I don’t find any of it unnecessary.

R: I’ve got loads of reasons up my sleeve. You wanna hear more?

He hit me with one sweet reason after another as if being shot by a gun, rendering me unable to respond.

No matter how frustrated I got at his teasing, I ended up on the palm of his hand,

and I end up wagging my tail in happiness, like a dog.

I really do like Roger.

(God... I really want to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him right now.)

But, if I wag my tail so easily for him, I wouldn’t be any different than Ale.

(I’m the woman who’s been trained by Roger, so I need to have some kind of comeback.)

(After all, I’m not someone who just falls on the palm of others!)

Regaining my composure, I tried to act out a confident, capable woman.

Kate: Haven’t we talked enough about me? Now you answer my questions.

K: It’s not fair if I’m the only one doing the answering.

Roger: Hmm? Okay then, ask away.

Kate: “What’s your type,” Roger?

I returned the question that had left me flustered before back at Roger, and I inwardly chuckled to myself.

(Hehe, it would be nice if I could make Roger feel the same way I did, even just a little.)

——But, my intentions were seen through all too soon, to my disappointment.

Roger: “My type” is someone who’s much like a dog, and someone who can think for themself.

R: And if you have the spirit to try and get back at me for what I did to you, all the better.

R: Ahh, come to think of it, someone like the one right before my eyes is really my type.

Kate: Wh...

Roger: “What’s something you’ve found fun recently?”

R: Right now, this moment.

Kate: Ah...

Roger: “Who in Crown do you find the most charming?”

R: If you count as a member of Crown——then it can only be you, Kate.

I could only blink in response as Roger’s strong arms wrapped around me.

My ears were pressed against his warm chest...

Roger: Here, listen to my heart.

Being hit with those sweet words on top of that, I felt myself going dizzy.

Kate: I think my heart’s being too noisy... so, I can’t tell.

Roger: Pfft, hahahaha!

R: Guess that makes it my win.

Seeing him laugh so happily while patting my head, that sort of innocence was rare coming from him, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

(...Jeez... I really am no match for him.)

Kate: Hehe, I don’t recall this ever having been a match, but I surrender.

I was always on the palm of his head, and that was so frustrating it was unbearable.

But, I’m not someone who will fall into anyone’s palm.

(Roger, you are the most special to me, and I wouldn’t replace you for the world.)

(That’s why, I will happily fall into the palm of your hand.)

Roger: What’re you talking about, isn’t it too early to surrender?

The hand that had been on my head slipped before grabbing and lifting my chin.

Roger: We’ve only just become lovers. So we have to get to know each other more.

The eyes before me pierced me with a heat that resembled a hunter aiming for his prey.

He didn’t even try to conceal that heat, and it brought out my desire as well.

Kate: ...What do we need to do, in order to get to know each other deeper?

Roger: Let’s see now, first of all...

Kate: Mn, nn...

While kissing me, Roger lifted me before pinning me down on the lab table.

Roger: Do I need to spell out the rest... lil lady?

Just thinking about what he was going to do made the bottom of my stomach throb.

As if seeing through my desire, Roger’s fingers traced my thighs before they made their way in my underwear.

Roger: ...Hm?

(Ahh, jeez...)

I removed Roger’s glasses, and in an attempt to divert him from my embarrassment, I turned my face away.

Kate: ...I know, but still... tell me.

Roger: .........Alright, I’ll tell you everything.

—— Time skip ——

As the night deepened, Victor and Roger’s shadows were present in the lounge.

Victor: Oh, right, Roger. About Kate’s medical records...

Roger: Ahh, that. I have it here.

Victor: Thank you, that was quick as always. Oh? This date...

V: To think you’ve taken such detailed records on her since the day she started as a fairytale keeper...

Roger: Well, yeah.

Victor: I’m sure if Kate knew, she would be delighted.

Roger: No, best to keep that a secret.

R: Since the day I met her, the thing I liked the most was giving her a bit of trouble.

Fin.

← main story 👑 ecb story 🪞🍻

full masterlist 🍻

END NOTES: i believe this basically concludes my translation of roger’s past records! and a big big thank you to everyone who read to the end! i had fun translating this story, since in addition to roger, we can see a variety of other characters being featured — and they even feature a chapter where crown is just being the dysfunctional found family they are 🤭

i hope this story can serve as a good starting for roger’s route (and perhaps future routes too, though in the end we still don’t know too much about victor, haha). i’d love to hear your thoughts 🥹🙏

[scientia-rex]

If you don't mind, I saw your post about smoking while on hormones recently and I have a couple questions.

Obviously quiting smoking is better for you in general. But are the adverse effects while on hormones the same for testosterone and estrogen?

Secondly, is this mostly about the nicotine in cigarettes (generally what people mean when they say smoking) or is it about smoking anything at all (weed, vapes, nicotine vapes, etc)?

Thanks!

Good questions and unfortunately I have to say that we don’t have enough solid data for great answers on either.

Testosterone raises risk of heart attack or stroke, in part because it causes an increase in red blood cell production. You might be familiar with blood thinners that can be used to prevent heart attack or stroke; blood thickeners do the opposite. However, this data is nowhere near adequate in the transgender population. I cannot tell you much at all about how dose, method of delivery, duration of treatment, or T levels during treatment affect this long-term risk, especially over decades. The best response to this uncertainty is for trans men and transmasc people on T to protect their cardiac health from all other risks as much as possible.

Which then leads to the question of type of smoke. I would love to be able to offer you conclusive answers on that, but the Feds made it virtually impossible to study marijuana until a couple of years ago, so I can’t tell you whether marijuana is as dangerous as tobacco or not, or whether mode of intake matters. I can tell you that tobacco is bad but that people consistently underestimate the risks of nicotine by itself. Nicotine is the insecticide component of tobacco. It will cause your small blood vessels to contract, decreasing blood flow to critical areas of the body and heart. Nicotine impedes healing—smokers are notoriously bad at healing after surgery to the point where I know multiple surgeons who will literally do a blood test for nicotine metabolites before doing higher risk surgeries. They don’t trust patients to tell them whether they smoked, and they have reason to distrust. You want top or bottom surgery? Quit smoking. Now.

I had an attending once describing to me watching what happened to a woman who had fingers reattached. He warned her that if she ever smoked again, she would lose the fingers. She didn’t believe him and thought just smoking a little would be fine. The fingers necrosed—died—immediately, because those small blood vessels are critical to healing a process like a reattachment or transplant. So then she had open wounds with gangrenous fingers attached to them. Great.

We don’t have long-term health outcomes data on vapes yet but for my money they’re going to turn out to be really bad for you as well. Nicotine is a poison. Your lungs don’t love poison delivery by any mechanism. The combustion products of tobacco are also REALLY FUCKING BAD for creating cancerous mutations in your cells, but don’t inhale poison if you want to live a rewarding life where you get to enjoy doing things you want to do, like fucking. (Erections also depend on blood flow and healthy blood vessels. Treat yours with kindness.)

[totallynotokguys]

Wild Life: The Great Test

With every wild card I've asked myself, how could Grian potentially use these wild cards for a future season?

Let me back up a bit. In my mind Wild Life is a proof of concept. A hypothesis being tested out for everyone to see and analyse. Can Grian work together with multiple different sides of the Minecraft community to make something wild? How far can he go with bringing his vision to life? Will his friends find it fun? How will the audience receive it?

(p.s. I just typed in wild and the snail emoji showed up as a suggestion. I've never used this emoji in my life EXCUSE ME! Phone how are you doing tha-)

I know there have been complaints and its not the favourite season for most people, but I think it accomplished its goals. The developer, designers, musicians, programs, artists, mcyters all worked together to make something so special and cool like oh my gosh the things they pulled off! And the fun Grian's (stop changing his name to groan spellcheck!) friends had, you can hear it in their voices and I love what Skizz and Impulse said on their podcast it was a blast for me to watch and a blast for them to any and all the great moments that came out of it (plus several of my favourite blorbos placing the highest they've ever placed in a season let's go!) was just so good I'm so happy.

The only thing I didn't like were unavoidable considering the nature of Wild Life as testing grounds. First, it felt disjointed. There's something about previous seasons that seems smooth to me, each episode flowing easy into the next with an overarching theme connecting them together (especially with limited and secret life). This is something that Wild Life cannot help as it's theme is literally experiments. Each episode is a separate experiment to test out how people will interact with this one mechanic. Some tests went better that others and each let the team (everyone, developers, content creators, artist- EVERYONE, guys) walk away with valuable data (snails too fast oops, really funny stuff came out of that slow mo one, food way more deadly than thought, look how each person used their superpowers wow didn't think of that application).

But the good thing about data collecting is you don't just gather it for funsies. There is a greater purpose behind it. A future goal.

My other problem is how short it was. Not the overall season, we all know seven episodes is the norm (Double Life you are my favourite but man were you short). No, I mean the wild cards. I wanted more than one episode with the size changing or the superheroes! Loved what the CCs did with those and would have loved to see them play around with them more!

But again, this season was a test. Imagine if Grian had dedicated a whole season to one wild card and it turned out his friends hated it. He'd be crushed! So Grian tested the waters to see which card his friends thrived with and which were just meh.

Side note: Of course they loved them all because Grian is their friend and this season was basically a gift and they'd never spurn a gift from a friend. They are all good friends who care about each other this is why we love the life cast! Even if they wouldn't have liked it, the fact that it came from Grian and he worked so hard on it maked it special to them.

Ever get a gift that you never would have gotten for yourself but suddenly because it came from someonewho cares for you and you can just tell they put a lot of thought into it so it's the best thing in the world and you end up cherishing it forever? Yeah, sign of a good friendship. What a wonderful feeling.

Go watch Imp and Skizz podcast wild life recap and you'll see. Grian literally says it each wild card was like giving a Christmas present.

Finally, what my whole speal has been leading up to. Wild Life is a test, a gateway to something greater. Grian has a team greater than ever before, new ideas and concepts that have been tested, and full support from his friends (and he's got my support as well as the majority of the fandom o let's go!). He is definitely going to be cooking with these new ingredients.

And because I am always starved for more life series content I'm going to be going through my favorite wild cards to see if I can turn them into full seasons! Maybe even predict future seasons while I'm at it (a person can dream, Herald!)

See you maybe then or maybe never. Either works!