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love when a dynamic is like. this would be deeply toxic for anyone else but considering the people involved this is actually far and away the healthiest option

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What if we were morally dubious scientists on an arctic base for 150 days what then huh

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Carl Phillips, from “Late in the Long Apprenticeship,” in Silverchest

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"die mad about it" um i WILL? be dying mad? about many things. that has always been the expectation??? the inescapable human condition? why what were u planning

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“You love him. The story still ends.”

— there is no absolution for the fallen, only the dying | p.d 

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my aesthetic is the kid on the playground who tells all the other kids that ring around the rosie is about the black plague

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“Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud.”

— Richard Siken, Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out (via quotesandstardust)

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you call it ‘a heinous violation of legal and ethical rules;’ i call it ‘creative problem-solving’

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has this been done before?

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"People bring the dead things to me, I don't chase around after them like some pathetic primordial being." Wick wrinkled his nose and then took a sharp, hissing inhale when the gum popped by his ear. The cycle started again, the incessant chewing, the wet sound of it. God awful. His eye twitched, ocular myokymia and he hadn't even had too much caffeine yet this morning. "Fascinating, too bad the curtains are in such dire straits." He dropped the line savagely and smoothly, walking on without even giving eye contact.

Another moron, unsettled by the labyrinthine metal structure that loomed out of the snow, or even sadder, someone unsettled by the comparitively few exits. Doors meant extra heat loss, something they could ill afford, there were only two rooms that Wick could think of that had something approximating a window and they were firmly, firmly set in place like airplane windows. No hinging open. What on earth was he thinking of running from already?

Wick blinked at the next pop, the soft blow of the air expelling from the bubble wafted near his face. His lip curled again. "Well, that just sounds like you don't ask any valuable questions at all. So prepared."

"This, is your dream?" Wick gestured to the humming electricals, hissing pipes. Must have been bad out there, if this dirtbag who clearly enjoyed using people willingly marooned himself with people whom he wouldn't be able to get away from.

He was being visibly baited, the lopsided speed walk almost comedic with how fast the newcomer was attempting to go to get the perceived upper hand. So showy with it, no subtltly to wielding the knife, telegraphing his moves so clumsily with each bluster-filled swipe he attempted at Wick's ego. With a put-upon sigh and a brief touch to the bridge of his nose, Alexander jutted out a hand toward the newcomer; encased in black fingerless gloves, the nails rounded neatly and extremely clean.

"Doctor Alexander Warwick, head of medical." The latter half wasn't said with any particular edge but it always was a good thing to get out of the way: if you're hurt, I'll be there with a Hello Kitty plaster... or to dig my thumb in the wound, as you like.

STATION 42; ARRIVAL

150 DAYS BEFORE MISSION END

He was intending to make a good impression on whoever ran this place - the impression of someone who knew where he was and was prepared for it, like he was meant to be there and this wasn’t some last ditch effort to be as far away from civilisation as possible. That means sprucing up — a clean shave, hair dyed, gelled and dragged over his scalp to form the illusion of no receding hairline. But then he’d been told there was no need for a meeting, and been handed the plane tickets without much fanfare after.

The cold had forced him to hide the expensive (second-hand) suit under layers of sweaters and thermals and a puffy coat. Saul was a man clearly accustomed to a better climate. Minuscule icicles clung to his eyelashes, to the tip of his nose, to his feet, to everything. Hell, it felt like if he sneezed he might send shards of slimy ice scattering across the snow. What had been a moist hair gel now felt like super-glue dried to his scalp. And all of this was while Saul was inside the snowcat ferrying him to the final destination.

Station 42, The Station, his new station, was sat squat in the expanse of endless fields of ice. The vehicle that had brought Saul there was already beginning to have a building film of snow atop its roof, the weather having come out in full force to greet him. The passenger door had swung open, the motor’s hum becoming a stuttered groan against the wail of frozen wind. A sharp look from the driver told Saul it was time to hop off. The man had to move quickly, waddling through knee-deep snow and cussing with every step. By time he reached the compound, Saul was ready to tear the door off the hinges to get out the cold. He’s gotten this far and, as far as he saw it, the only thing that was gonna stop him was an avalanche dropping on his head.

“Come on, come on, come on-“

Patience was never one of his virtues, and he stamped his feet in an attempt to get some feeling back into the tips of his toes.

“-Fuck me.. let me in! It’s fuckin’ cold out here! I’m gettin’ frostbite!”

It must have only been thirty seconds; the outer door was a reinforced hunk of metal, after all. But at this temperature, thirty seconds felt more like thirty eternities. And when it did open, only halfway, the way in was blocked. The man stood in the entrance was dressed in layers of flannel, tired looking eyes boring into his. It looked like he was more interrupted by the intrusion than excited for more company. Good. Saul wasn’t a team player anyway.

“Are you the new lab-“

The man doesn’t get to finish his question; Saul splayed his hand out and stepped forward, letting the base of his palm collide with the mans sternum to make some space. Whether it’s out of disgust for being touched or actual force, the small window of space there was became Sauls - and he was slamming the door behind him as quickly as possible.

“Yeah, Yeah, I’m the new lab.”

He flashed a cocky grin that he didn’t expect to get a warm response from. The man wasn’t a security officer, so he wouldn’t be a problem. Just as his new lab partner for 150 days opened his mouth, Saul stole the space again.

“Now. Important things first. Where the fuck is the AC here?”

Step one is to act like you’re the top dog, because otherwise you never will be.

( @atwicksend )

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tiny transparent healthpacks

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Scenery in The Long Dark 01/??

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The interloper buzzed around in Wick's wake like a mosquito, one of the pests Wick hadn't missed by being in the frozen wastes. It annoyed him further that the newcomer seemed to find him delightfully amusing rather than prickly enough to steer clear from but he almost enjoyed the idea of a lab tech that would be a challenge to break. Not that they'd ever dare reveal that, even at gunpoint. They strode past the cafeteria apace, Bill briefly raised his hand in a slight salute to Wick as they carried on past and he rolled his eyes before glancing back to the newcomer, Jim dissolved into a laugh opposite Bill at the table.

"The polar bear would be hunting you. I think you'd actually make an excellent rug." That was as close to a compliment as this person was ever getting. They vividly imagined stepping on the man's face, with barely concealed relish, no more talking either if he was being used for floor insulation. Wick did finally turn to look at the person walking behind him, in the ever so slightly untailored monkey suit. Beady, hooded eyes seemed to dart nervously in every direction and Alexander wondered what he was looking for exactly. "You could have fooled me, who are you trying to impress in that get-up? Do you have a hunting permit, then?" The entire two-part question dripped with disdain.

The rustle, the snapping crunch, already making mouth noises that weren't even talking. He'd have to train that out of him, immediately.

Wick turned on his heel at the loudness of the statement, the irritating tone bouncing down the metal hallway in an echo that made his ears hurt. He sighed loudly, folding his arms tersely. "What?"

"Correct, you're right, I didn't." The stitching on the pocket of his lab coat denoted him as Dr A. Warwick, he wasn't about to point this out.

STATION 42; ARRIVAL

150 DAYS BEFORE MISSION END

He was intending to make a good impression on whoever ran this place - the impression of someone who knew where he was and was prepared for it, like he was meant to be there and this wasn’t some last ditch effort to be as far away from civilisation as possible. That means sprucing up — a clean shave, hair dyed, gelled and dragged over his scalp to form the illusion of no receding hairline. But then he’d been told there was no need for a meeting, and been handed the plane tickets without much fanfare after.

The cold had forced him to hide the expensive (second-hand) suit under layers of sweaters and thermals and a puffy coat. Saul was a man clearly accustomed to a better climate. Minuscule icicles clung to his eyelashes, to the tip of his nose, to his feet, to everything. Hell, it felt like if he sneezed he might send shards of slimy ice scattering across the snow. What had been a moist hair gel now felt like super-glue dried to his scalp. And all of this was while Saul was inside the snowcat ferrying him to the final destination.

Station 42, The Station, his new station, was sat squat in the expanse of endless fields of ice. The vehicle that had brought Saul there was already beginning to have a building film of snow atop its roof, the weather having come out in full force to greet him. The passenger door had swung open, the motor’s hum becoming a stuttered groan against the wail of frozen wind. A sharp look from the driver told Saul it was time to hop off. The man had to move quickly, waddling through knee-deep snow and cussing with every step. By time he reached the compound, Saul was ready to tear the door off the hinges to get out the cold. He’s gotten this far and, as far as he saw it, the only thing that was gonna stop him was an avalanche dropping on his head.

“Come on, come on, come on-“

Patience was never one of his virtues, and he stamped his feet in an attempt to get some feeling back into the tips of his toes.

“-Fuck me.. let me in! It’s fuckin’ cold out here! I’m gettin’ frostbite!”

It must have only been thirty seconds; the outer door was a reinforced hunk of metal, after all. But at this temperature, thirty seconds felt more like thirty eternities. And when it did open, only halfway, the way in was blocked. The man stood in the entrance was dressed in layers of flannel, tired looking eyes boring into his. It looked like he was more interrupted by the intrusion than excited for more company. Good. Saul wasn’t a team player anyway.

“Are you the new lab-“

The man doesn’t get to finish his question; Saul splayed his hand out and stepped forward, letting the base of his palm collide with the mans sternum to make some space. Whether it’s out of disgust for being touched or actual force, the small window of space there was became Sauls - and he was slamming the door behind him as quickly as possible.

“Yeah, Yeah, I’m the new lab.”

He flashed a cocky grin that he didn’t expect to get a warm response from. The man wasn’t a security officer, so he wouldn’t be a problem. Just as his new lab partner for 150 days opened his mouth, Saul stole the space again.

“Now. Important things first. Where the fuck is the AC here?”

Step one is to act like you’re the top dog, because otherwise you never will be.

( @atwicksend )

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Im just looking respectfully at his hands

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i am NOT gaslighting you. i am lying to you. gaslighting implies a level of effort that i am simply not putting in. deceiving you does not require much