#…brain surgery on your own self without tools to use and having to only use single electrical pulses from where

[vlyteng]

POV: you hate your face

On my blog, I have discussed before how our generation is unhealthily obsessed with our own physical appearance due to factors such as plastic surgery being glorified, unrealistic beauty standards, colorism and racism which you can read here. Due to society being extremely social media driven, we want to present the best version of ourselves to the world, sometimes we may wish to correct or remove little things that we see as “flaws'” in our photos such as pores, double chin, acne blemishes etc (which are totally normal human being things btw). So how do we remove or minimise these “flaws”? The answer is - beauty filters! Beauty filters are either developed by individual creators on social media or cosmetic brands and manufacturers (Isakowitsch 2023, p. 240). While some beauty filters only apply makeup, most beauty filters alter the contours and features of the face and majority of beauty filters alter user facial characteristics in a similar fashion (Isakowitsch 2023, p. 240). Filters are now a major part of every social media platform especially Instagram, TikTok and Snapchat. 

Beauty filters seem pretty harmless right? Well, depending on what you use it for, it can be extremely detrimental to your mental health and self perception! Fun!

As a girl living in the 21st century, it is almost impossible to avoid filters and I’d be lying if I said I can post photos or selfies without using beauty filters or editing them in some way. This could be due to the fact that more often than not, we are afraid of showing sides of ourselves that we find objectively “unattractive” to the human eye and pressured to look a certain way and post certain type of photos. Digital self-tracking tools and beauty applications express idealised body pictures, internalised body ideals, and social pressures (Newell 2022, p. 155). As a plus size girly, there is always some sort of pressure telling me that my stomach should look smaller, my thighs should be slimmer or my eyes should look bigger, which are all characteristics that I do not have. To achieve them easily, I use beauty filters. Just the other day, I was taking photos to post on Instagram. My friend was using the original iPhone camera to take my photos but no matter how I posed, the photos never came out the way I wanted them to. In the end, we just switched to using beauty filter cameras on Instagram. 

Neuropsychologist, Sanam Hafeez, compares the effects of applying cosmetic filters to addictions to drugs, alcohol, and gambling as they can “trigger the reward centre in the brain” and stimulate the dopamine pathway, encouraging behaviour to continue receiving the "rewards" (Calaor 2022). Media psychologist, Pamela Rutledge, claims that “our brains weren’t designed for social media” and she also says that things appear more significant in terms of social standards when they are frequent and receive social reinforcement in the form of likes and comments (Calaor 2022). This may be why we may think if we look bad in photos when we don’t get as much praise and compliments in the form of audience engagement on social media, hence feeling the need to always look picture perfect in every shot. 

If you’re comfortable in your own skin then the most beauty filters can do is wear out your self-esteem a little bit. But if you already have a history of disliking the way you look, the issue can run much deeper with even more permanent outcomes. One study found that approximately 50% of the participants claimed that social media had affected their decision to consider getting cosmetic operations to look like the filtered version of themselves (Quick 2023). This can be dangerous for minors that have not fully developed their brain as they believe that something is wrong with their face and insist on getting plastic surgery. Besides applying regulation and moderation on the kind of content minors endorse, it is also important for guardians to make them feel comfortable with their physical appearance and love themselves no matter what they look like to build strong character and self-esteem.

In summary, beauty filters are almost an essential in almost everyone’s everyday lives now. Besides making photos stand out, beauty filters are also used to cover up things that we don’t like about ourselves or what makes us insecure. In more serious cases, beauty filters may convince someone that they need to change their appearance by going through plastic surgery to be “pretty” or “attractive”. Self-love and self-acceptance should be taught to both minors and adults to reduce the amount of people making permanent choices that they might later on regret in life. 

References

Calaor, J. M 2022, We Know Beauty Filters Are Bad For Us, But Is Anything Changing?, Byrdie, viewed 15 June 2023, <https://www.byrdie.com/beauty-filters-5210360#:~:text=Many%20filters%20slim%20jawlines%2C%20noses,Euro%2Dcentric%20standard%20of%20beauty.>.

Isakowitsch, C 2023, ‘How Augmented Reality Beauty Filters Can Affect Self-perception’, Communications in Computer and Information Science, vol. 1662, p. 240, viewed 15 June 2023, <https://link.springer.com/chapter/10.1007/978-3-031-26438-2_19#citeas>.

Newell, M 2022, ‘Beauty Apps and Filters in Visual Digital Cultures: Perceived Sociocultural Pressures, Self-Rated Emotional Expressiveness, and Image Processing Algorithms’, Journal of research in gender studies, vol. 12, no. 2, Addleton Academic Publishers, New York, p. 155.

Quick, C 2023, How Beauty Filters Impact Your Self-Esteem, Her Agenda, viewed 15 June 2023, <https://heragenda.com/p/impact-of-beauty-filters-on-social-media-on-confidence/>.

[goldkirk]

it’s my first day of trying assignments for art therapy! my thoughts on what I kind of realized today are in the tags if you want to read 💛

[therewasatale]

his scars

On Ao3.

Summary:  Each Lord had their own rules, and you have broken Lord Heisenberg's.

Note: I saw a bunch of fanarts with Heisenberg having a lot of scars, so I played with the idea.

Each Lord had their own rules. Which if their servants did not follow, they had to pay a heavy price.

Rules like that; you must not go to the lower levels of the factory alone. If Lord Heisenberg said something, you had to do it without question, especially for your own safety. And if you visited his private room, you always had to knock before entering.

You’ve always followed two of them. However, your attention slipped over the last one as you hurried out of the elevator to Heisenberg's room. At each step, you could feel the slow, rhythmic thumping of the factory from behind and below you as the various machines and tools worked non-stop. Every click, tap, or squeak has become as familiar to you as your very being.

Pulling closer the book you got from him a month ago, you tried to gather your thoughts about what you wanted to say. You'd have never thought a darker fantasy would appeal to you so much. It had a mystery, a bunch of different, but still interesting characters, and an oppressive background that the story slowly began to bring to light by the end of the first book. The ending was open for a promising sequel.

And you entered his room. Without knocking.

Inside, the smell of thick tobacco and oil rushed your senses.

"Heisenberg, I brought back the book! And imagine it's already-"

"WHAT IN THE LIVING HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" He yelled.

You froze in place in the doorway. The sudden shout shook you up completely and you gripped the book tighter in your hand so you wouldn’t drop it.

Your gaze was immediately drawn to the man, as he was standing by the bed.

Heisenberg's shirtless upper body was covered in a myriad of thin scars, like cobwebs across his entire body. Starting at his neck, they ran down his chest all the way to his waist, and probably continued under the pants. The scars on his arms were gnarly, from long healed injuries, which were most likely the results of fights. However, some of those on his chest were too straight and clean to come from an accident.

"Get. Out." He didn't look into your eyes. Objects trembled around him. A knife rose into the air from his desk. "NOW!"

You didn’t look back when the door slammed close behind you. Not when the elevator was already climbed up a few levels. And not even when you got to your own room and threw your back at the door. You felt like a hand was wrapped around your throat and it began tightening its fingers, ever so slowly.

Long minutes passed and yet you still felt as if your heart was trying to break out of your chest. The only thing you could clearly hear besides the beating of your heart, was your own panicked breathing.

"Shit..." you slid down with trembling legs. You had to wrap your hands around your body to try stop the trembling.

It was over.

You broke his rule. And now he's going to kill you, if you're lucky, he will make it quick.

Each Lord had their own rules, and now you have broken Lord Heisenberg's. Like a stupid fucking kid.

"Shit!"

You were aware of the fact that the people in the Dimitrescu castle disappears and got replaced very often, and you were really surprised how different Heisenberg was from what you imagined. He shouted a lot and swore even more, but he never tried to hurt you, even on his worst days, he just grumbled impatiently and vented his frustration on his machines.

He was loud, but understanding in his harsh way. Impatient, but still a good listener on his good days. He was rough, but you knew he cared about you, in his own grumpy way.

You were happy. You enjoyed living here.

But now...

Now you had to get out of here.

The sudden thought helped to clear your head with such force that you have managed to get on your feet. You didn't want to die. You didn't deserve death for a complete nonsense.

You had to get away.

Heisenberg waited while as the elevator started upwards.

He didn't even have to move his hand. The knife spun around its axis then it slammed into the wall with tremendous force, then again and again and again. It didn't stop until the blade bent from the force. His fingers trembled, bolts and gears threw themselves around him in all directions. The legs of his bed buckled as the springs in his mattress straightened, pierced trough the material and then snapped and shot themselves into the ceiling.

"Fuck!" He grabbed his dirty-gray hair and pulled it hard enough so the pain would clear his head a bit. He needed to calm down before he smashed everything around him. The bed creaked behind him, as two of its legs finally gave up and fell to the ground with a thud. Then there was silence again. This snapped him out from his blind anger.

He shut his eyes tightly. Letting his shoulder sunk, he took a step back and threw his back against the cold wall. He needed to take a few deep breaths to slow down his pounding heart.

When he opened his eyes the first thing that caught his eye, was a scar running through his forearm. He clearly remembered getting it in a fight against a bunch of lycans. Years ago, when he started constructing his factory the territory of the lycans stretched all the way to the area where the main building would be. At the time, they didn’t even know who they were facing and sometimes they ventured through the fence. That evening, Heisenberg did not expect them in such numbers, let alone that they will attach wooden spears on their arm to counteract his powers.

With a sharp exhale he lowered his arm.

Those creatures became what they were thanks to Cadou. Technically, they were all related. He took a deep breath, knowing it well that these thoughts didn’t help and were not important right now.

He gave himself a disgusted look before he got dressed. When he buttoned the last button on his shirt, only then he let his thoughts wander again. An unpleasant feeling settled into his chest.

You saw him. And now you will run away.

It was over.

He knew that the body he had to live in was utterly repugnant. The body which was experimented on by Mother Miranda, conducting studies and surgeries until she was satisfied with it. The body she put the parasite in and which cursed him with this fate. He hated her for making him this way, and he hated himself for being her child.

He still woke up time to time drenched in sweat from nightmares where he has been implanted with the parasite over and over again.

It spread throughout his body and turned his existence into pure hell. His thoughts burned away by the eruption of the unbearable pain, he felt as if his chest would open up and his heart would tear itself out of its place. However, the worst part of it all, was the realization that something was trying to subsume his consciousness. Claws tore into his brain and tried to suppress part of his being. It was almost successful, but Heisenberg held on.

And when he woke up after the procedure, he found himself in a whole new hell.

You were the only thing, along with the constant building, that kept him happy day by day, and helped suppress his raging hatred. On the worst days he still could felt the Cadou trying to making its way into his head. But you always were there to help him, or at least, you tried and he was grateful, even when he didn't say anything.

He knew full well that this would not last forever. Because why would it last? In this godforsaken horrible place everything fell to pieces and rotted apart eventually.

He took out a cigar from the depths of his coat.

He didn't want anything; he didn't ask to being like this. And yet you stayed with him. He had you. But now, you saw him.

The bitter smoke slowly rose from his lips.

Everything was over.

 Hours have passed. Night arrived, or just the tiredness told you that.

You thought about running away again and again trying to figure out how, and when you should do it. The first thing you thought was that you had to find a way to do it as soon as possible. The elevator was an option, but you would have risked running into Heisenberg, or, more dangerously, into his servants. He could send them after you at any time.

It was risky.

Or there was a ventilation system that weaved through the factory. You could use that, though you were afraid of getting lost inside of it forever rather than getting out. Escaping trough, the dumpster promised only similar chances.

You even started to think that maybe first, you should talk to the man. Or at least try to talk to him. Though your reasonable-self protested profusely against this emotional suggestion.

However, your pride also spoke up and somehow, it made you stay. You're not going to run. Not anymore. Not from him.

So, you waited.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you hoped you would have a chance to talk to him. You just couldn’t decide when to go to him. Every part of your body shivered as Heisenberg's angry voice echoed in your head. You had to go to talk to him, but you were simply unable to leave your room, at least for now.

Fortune was on your side for once.

Your door opened slowly. You felt your shoulders tense up and you swallowed dryly. You couldn’t look up at him.

"I thought you would have left already." His voice didn't sound as harsh, as you would have expected.

You glanced up at the man who was leaning against the doorframe. He folded his arms in front of his chest, his eyes were hidden behind his black sunglasses.

"Why should I leave?"

"Well," despite his words his voice sounded surprised "I yelled at you."

"You've yelled before."

Heisenberg snorted a little and rubbed his hair under his hat. This didn’t go as he thought it would. "Well yeah, but..." his words let him down.

"What happened to you? I mean your body…?" You got up from your bed. He was just a few steps away from you.

The man drummed with his fingers a couple of times on his arms. "I fell."

"Heisenberg..." you took a careful step towards him.

"Lord Heisenberg." He corrected you. "If my bitch mother is forcing this prestigious bullshit then we should keep to it." He sounded more annoyed than angry. He continued to drum slowly with his fingers, but you could also feel his eyes watching you from behind his glasses.

"I'm sorry that I didn't knock."

For long minutes, the only thing could be heard was the rhythmic thumping background sounds of the factory.

"Well...Yeah..." He scratched his graying hair slowly as he pushed himself away from the doorway. "Listen, if you want to go, then go. I'm not going to stop you, just don't ever comeback. All right? Have a nice life, or whatever. That giant trash is actually looking for new maidens," He turned around.

You managed to stand up and hurried after him stopping him in front of the elevator.

"What?" Heisenberg glanced down at your arms as you hugged him. "(Y/N)?"

"I'm sorry." You snuggled closer to his back, hiding your face in the fabric of his coat.

"For what?" His hands shook, he had to stop himself from touching your arms. The thought made him tremble a bit, but he realized that you were trembling too. You were so close to him, he could felt your body against his, your finger griped into his clothes.

"For not knocking. And not saying sorry. And for not trying to talk to you." His coat smelt like tobacco and oil, just like everything around him did in this place. For you, it felt like home.

When he didn't answer, you spoke again.

"I don't want to leave. I'm sorry."

There was another quiet minute. You were about to let him go when he finally found his voice.

"Are you sure? But you saw me." He carefully caressed your hand with his fingers. "You saw what that bitch did to me."

So, you were right, those wounds were too straight to be from some kind of accident.

With your eyes closed you enjoyed the gentle touches, as he run his fingers along the top of your hands, and then slowly moved up on your arms as well. He slowly relaxed between your arms and leaned closer to your body. Even his breathing became more even.

When he sighed, you let him out from your hug and stepped beside him, looking up at him "Come with me, Lord Heisenberg." You gently took his hand and pulled him after you. heading back to your room.

"Hm?"

"I need some rest, and you too. And I'm sure you've destroyed half of your room."

Heisenberg pulled down his hat into his eyes. Damn.

"Why would I have done that?" Oh, for the love of god, shut up you, idiot! He snorted to himself.

"Because you care about me, just as much I care about you. Come." You pulled him all the way to your bed. Turning towards him you took off his hat and glasses.

"Mh, what?" His tired eyes looked straight into yours.

"Your eyes are really beautiful."

"Oh shut up." Stepping next to you, he threw himself on the bed.

You never dared to ask why you got a bed which was big enough for two people. Whether someone owned this room in the past, or the man had some kind of plan for you. But right now, as he leaned back to the bed, you haven’t really found a reason to worry about that. Climbing next to him, you hid under his arm. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you sighed deeply.

"Well, I hope you're happy."

"Very much, thank you."

He snorted and listened quietly to your steady and calm breathing as he tried to ignore his own pounding heart. He fervently hoped you wouldn't notice this. This hope was unfortunately false considering that you were only a couple of centimeters away from his heart.

The redness spread through his face even more so than before.

He didn't imagine this could happen. You shouldn't have been here anymore. You should have gone to the village a long time ago and not looked back. You should have left everything...and everyone behind.

Instead, you were here. And you laid next to him so damn close. His skepticism struggled against the notion.

Like anything would just become magically fine after this.

"You know, you can't fix me with cuddling, right? I'm messed up in the head and even more fucked up in my body." He swallowed dryly.

"What are you talking about?" Raising your head, you looked straight into his eyes.

"I just told you." He let out an impatient huff. "You can't fix me, I'm this fucked up. And it won't go away after some warm cuddling and snuggling. Sorry to ruin your hopes."

"I don't want to fix you, Heisenberg."

"What?" Every answer of yours caught him off guard.

"Why would I want to fix you when I like you this way?" You leaned closer, slowly kissing him. His body tensed, you could feel his grip tighten on your shirt, then his lips gently kissed you back. The kiss tasted bitter, like his cigar. He pulled you closer and didn't let go until you yourself pulled back.

Looking into his eyes you smiled gently. "Besides, I've been here a long time, so I'm pretty sure I'm just as messed up in the head."

"Damn." His grey eyes almost sparkled. "God damn."

You let him pull you closer, snuggling up to his shoulder.

"So, we're messed up together."

"Pretty much, yeah. But somehow it doesn't bother me."

Heisenberg was sure by then that you could feel the pounding of his heart, but he didn't mind it now. He gently caressed your face with his fingertips from your forehead through the line of your nose all the way to your chin. He spent a lot of time under your eyes.

"Listen, I know she did something to you." You placed your palm carefully on his chest. "But your body isn’t scaring or disgust me." You gently caressed around his heart trough his shirt. "It's your body, it belongs to you and I like it. I mean it's yours and it's fine."

"Mh," he replied tellingly.

His heart finally started to quiet down. Good. He needed to think with his god damn head and not with his heart. Everything happened differently. For hours he believed, no, he knew, that you have already ran away. He wanted to give you time, that was one of the reasons he didn’t come after you for so long. And yet, deep within him he felt he can't just let you go. Who knew what he would have done if you would have told him to his face that you are leaving him? He felt as if his whole world started to tremble.

It was as if you could feel what he was thinking you snuggled closer and rubbed your head against his shoulder.

The man sighed softly.

But you stayed. You were here, and you were honest. Maybe he could be a bit honest too.

"Sometimes, I dream that I'm just a machine myself." He gently played with your hair. It was a long time ago when he touched something this soft. "That I'm lying on one of Mother Miranda's experimental tables, and when I look down at myself I see nothing but gears and bolts that work together inside me. It's not my body anymore, I lost my real one. Then I start to lose my mind as well. And she just watches me, every damn time. Calling me his son. " He rubbed his face into his hands.

Raising your head a little you laid it back on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

"What are you-"

"Sh."

The man snorted, in confusion and embarrassment.

"Hm, all I can hear is your flesh heart beating in your chest. The rhythm is pretty fast but maybe because of the many cigars."

"Oh, shut up." He hid his face in his hands and tried to rub the crimson of his face away.

"All right, all right." You snuggled back to his shoulder. "Still, I'm not going anywhere."

"You can be a stubborn bastard sometimes."

You chuckled, clearly proudly and as you embraced him a smile remained on your face.

The room around you was filled with the sounds of the thumping factory. It felt comforting. Your heart started to quiet down as you let your consciousness relax from the rhythmic noises around you two. His hand drew gently circles on your shoulder.

"Can we stay like this for a while?" You asked, what he didn’t dare to ask.

"Sure." He pulled you even closer and buried his face into your hair. He seemed to relax even more. He raised a finger, and his sunglasses slipped off, levitated under his coat, and raising it up gently laid it on the two of you, before it landed itself on your nightstand with a small clink.

"Thank you." You muttered as you gently drifted towards sleep.

"Yeah-yeah." He kept his face hidden in your hair.

You won't leave him, at least not now. Maybe you will actually stay with him, maybe you were stubborn enough to do it. He ignored his worries about the future, instead, to his own surprise, he let himself be happy for once. He slowly fallen asleep with you on his side, listening to your breathing.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Wounded Love (Lady Dimitrescu/F!Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: M for mature. Blood, more blood, heavy language, seriously lots of blood. Literally the bloodiest/most detailed thing I've written. Genre: Super angst with some fluff to ease the pain. We're talking putting honey in your cup of poison to make it taste better. The ending is split, with both a happy and a sad ending. Warnings: Minor surgery (technically?) while the patient is fully awake (that's the reader, btws), blood loss, graphic depiction of a wound and how said wound is taken care of. Possible trigger for self-harm, as the reader is performing part of the surgery themselves. Also brief mention of cannibalism in the bad ending. This may very well be a Dead Dove: Do Not Eat sort of thing. Notes: While I have more medical knowledge than the average person, due to my Girl Scouts training + having a mother as a nurse, I am in no way shape or form a medical professional, and do not suggest that the methods of treatment used in this fic be taken seriously. If you find yourself seriously injured, do not attempt to replicate anything you read here. Only a portion of this is based on a real-ass incident I went through, the rest is based on a dream, and what I experienced was not what you want to do in an emergency.

{Wounded Love}

This was a mistake. Blood stains your leg, your fingers, and bruises start to form all over your exhausted body. And for what? Why had you, a tiny, fragile human, dared to pass through this damned, lycan-infested forest? Because a woman who didn’t even love you asked you to. Now you were going to die, body certain to get left out in the cold or reduced to a pile of gnawed bones. If you had more strength remaining, you might have slammed your hand into the ground in frustration, or screamed until your lungs burned from something other than frost.

But that wouldn’t get you anywhere. Wouldn’t help you get back to the castle, wouldn’t ease the racing of your heart. So you settle for the only thing that might do any good: One quick motion pulls the scarf from your neck, sending a chill down your spine that you promptly ignore. Even with shaky hands and numb fingers, your experience is enough to let you wrap the cloth around your leg, tying the ends in a knot to secure it. The pressure hurts, just not enough for you to prefer bleeding out. A test step reveals that walking is mildly more difficult now.

“I’m going to haunt her,” you muse, under your breath, tears starting to freeze at the corner of your eyes. Still, you are as quietly determined as ever, and so once more you limp down the path. Every time you put weight on your injured leg it protests harder. If not for the snow and ice covering the ground, you might have quickly searched for a walking stick. “What could be so important about this damn package? Couldn’t Doug or whatever-his-fucking-name-is deliver it? Man can practically teleport, and here I am, watching as blood loss and hypothermia race to see who can kill me first.”

Gods were you angry. Why had this happened so soon after you had settled in? Finally you had been comfortable in Castle Dimitrescu, no longer as frightened of the residents, even finding them… charming, in a way. Then the Lady of house called to you for what she claimed to be a simple errand. You had believed her, even when she explained that you would have to leave the relative safety of her home. What a fool you had been.

“What a fool she must be,” you murmur, “to think me safe here. To think I could outlast wolfmen prowling the village outskirts.” Would she even care if she saw you now? Would she be surprised, disappointed? Would she do something to change your fate? There was no reason for her to do so. It didn’t matter how much you had helped her, how much she claimed to appreciate what you did (heavy lifting, repair of clothing, massages). You were as replaceable as any other Maiden there was. And that, that was what made you have a double-take. It came to you in that moment, a thought so painful that you could not deny it was the truth. “She never thought I would survive.”

Bitterness coats your tongue, like blood in your throat, and your brain demands that you destroy your cargo, the very thing that got you sent here in the first place. You almost do it. Feet stopping, arms shrugging the carrying straps off, bloody hands taking hold of it. Tears fall, just two, and hit the package. At that moment your plan changed. This new idea would be far, far more satisfying… as long as you succeeded.

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

Spite was one hell of a drug. Enough of it and you could march your warm corpse right back to the castle, fist banging on the front door with everything you had. The path had been shorter than you thought, thankfully, but it had still taken so much out of you. Now you were leaning against the door, sliding down it, unable to support your own weight. Nothing inside the castle stirred. Were they ignoring you? Was Alcina really going to let you die inches from your “home”? Fuck that, you thought.

“Alcina!” You scream, loud as you can, startling the birds in the distant trees. The word echoes around you and rattles inside your ribs. It’s not enough. “Damn it, I am seconds away from dying, get out here now so I can look you in your fucking eyes!” Something tears a little in your throat, turning the last of your words into a hellish screech, leaving you to gasp and croak in the snow. You go to wipe your tear-filled eyes with your hands, only to remember just how much blood they’re covered in.

Sobs overtake you in just a few moments. You’re blinded by tears, deafened by sorrows, and numb from all the cold. In the aching seconds before you black out, you can only barely make out the silhouette of someone rushing to your side…

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

The first thing you feel when you wake up is mind searing pain. You try to jolt upwards, only to find a pair of strong, gloved hands holding you down. Someone shouts something, but you can’t make it out, and you feel another hand gently squeeze one of your own. Pained gasps escape your throat one after the other, but whatever is hurting you doesn’t stop. It takes a full minute for you to adjust enough to make sense of where you are. At last, you understand what’s being said.

“-it’s okay, shhh, please, we’re trying to help,” says none other than Lady Dimitrescu herself. She’s the one holding your hand, doing her best not to hurt you with her grip, trying desperately to calm you down. One the other side of you, Cassandra is positioned to hold you down. There’s a tight-lipped scowl on her face, and her brow is furrowed, but she’s not looking at your face, but rather eying somewhere in the opposite direction. Following her gaze, you find her older sister is sitting near your injured leg, and is undeniably the source of some of your pain. In one hand she holds a bottle of alcohol (notably not the wine her family produces), the other holding a wet cloth to your wound. No wonder it stings so much.

“Shit, shit, stop,” you growl, barely getting the words out. But all anyone does is look at you. Alcina’s mouth opens to speak, only for you to cut her off. “I’ve got medical training, for the love of Mother Miranda let me help! How long have I been unconscious?” This time Bela stops, glancing at her mother for direction. The grip on your torso grows looser, with Cassandra evidently heeding your words, and you take the chance to sit up, careful not to move your leg. At this point you realize that there’s a needle of sorts in your arm, attached to a tube, which trails up into a blood bag. It’s clearly been improvised with equipment from the “wine-making” part of the castle.

“Fifteen minutes at most,” a new voice chimes, from somewhere behind you. “I got that cloth you wanted, mother, but something tells me I’m not done fetching things.” Ah, Daniela Dimitrescu. Was the whole family helping you?... Why? As much as you wanted answers, there wasn’t (currently) time for questions. Not when one glance at your leg tells you that some of your flesh is rapidly decomposing. The wound was made only an hour ago, and already it was getting deadlier than you could even process.

“I need a sharp, clean knife, a needle with thread, a glass of water, and someone needs to put a metal tool, sterilized, on the stove, right now,” you said, finding it easier to talk now that no one was cleansing your wound. Without hesitation Daniela dispersed into a cloud of insects, heading towards the kitchen, while Cassandra stood up and moved towards the stairs.

“Guess I’ll get the needle,” she said, sounding rather unenthusiastic.

“What are you planning?” Alcina asks, more concerned than you had ever heard her before. Attempting to reassure her, you manage a small smile before explaining.

“Got scratched and slobbered on by a lycan. Whatever they have, it’s infectious. If I want to save my leg, or at least have a chance at surviving, I have to take measures to reduce the likelihood of an infection,” you say. Now Alcina is slowly stroking her thumb across your hand, eyes narrowed with concern. There’s a look on her face that you can’t quite parse, something she’s not saying. For now you ignore it and continue going over your plan. “The best thing would be to amputate. The tourniquet might have helped prevent the saliva from getting further into my body- and I do mean might- but I can’t keep it on forever. Problem is… I don’t want to lose it. God, I’m terrified of that, and with what we have in the castle I… I’d be more likely to die of shock than not. So, well, forget that idea.

“I’m just going to remove the wound. By making a bigger wound. It’s crazy, I know, but this will kill me if we do nothing. It will probably kill me if we do. The technical term is some shit like ‘de-bride-ing’?... No, debridement, I think. Except normally the poor fucker getting cut open is asleep for the procedure.” By the time you’re done, Lady Dimitrescu is looking at you with horror. Yeah, you had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate the idea. “Look, if this is too much… if it’s not worth saving me, if you’d rather give me a quick death, I understand. If I were-”

“Don’t be foolish, dear. You will not die, not as long as something can be done about it,” Alcina replies, quickly, eager to stop hearing you talk about dying. It’s… strange to hear her sound so confident about saving you, even stranger to realize what she called you. As if reading your thoughts, she shifts in her seat, avoiding your gaze for a moment. Shyness didn’t suit her, and you imagined it was more about her finding the right words. When she speaks, she’s looking right at you again. “I have hesitated to tell you the truth, and now I find the world playing a cruel trick on me, trying to take that which I adore. But I don’t want to aggravate your stress right now. Please, think nothing of what I have said.”

Before you could reply, footsteps reached your ears, and soon enough Daniela returns. In one hand she holds a large pitcher of water. In the other? Several knives, of various sizes, one of which you’re pretty sure you’ve seen Cassandra playing with before. As soon as you see her your face lights up, glad to be able to start the procedure.

“Oh thank fuck- or, I mean, thank you, Lady Daniela,” you stutter, reaching out as she offers you the items. Thankfully Bela had already made room on the table at your side, where she had set the bottle of alcohol down. For a moment you had forgotten that she was there. Had she already known about her mother’s feelings? Based on her lack of reaction, you could only assume that she was well aware. “I’m gonna scream, B-T-dubs. Just, uh, cover your ears?” You offer, already holding your chosen knife (big enough to be effective, small enough to offer precision).

“So… you’re going to do this yourself? Didn’t think you had it in you, red. Try not to cut anything important. Wouldn’t want to have to clean that mess up,” Daniela teases. As soon as she’s finished she has to shift into a swarm, as Bela flat out throws a knife at her. For a moment you freeze, watching as Alcina rises to her full height, staring her eldest daughter down. Behind her, Daniela reforms, clearly using her mother as a shield. “I was just trying to relieve the tension, jeez. It’s like you think she’s already dead.”

“Don’t speak another word!” Alcina snaps, sending a frightening stare towards Daniela. You cough, awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Meanwhile Bela is pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers, clearly tired of dealing with her sister’s sense of humor. “No one will speak a word until this is finished, unless my dear needs something, understood?” Both the girls nod at that, neither feeling a need to risk any further ire.

“I’m just going to start working now,” you awkwardly chime, taking a deep breath before leaning in towards your injured leg. On closer inspection you can see a strange, dark residue in the wound. They’re specks, scattered along the length of it, and they seem more common the closer you look to the gash’s center. Gross, you think. Half curious, half checking for legitimate reasons, you bring your other hand to the cut and gently spread both sides apart. It hurts like hell, and you have to bite down on your lip to stop yourself from screaming. But sure enough, the residue is practically solid at the deepest point of the wound. “Those lycans really should be on leashes.”

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Daniela exchange looks with Bela, but neither of them disobey their mother (yet). Shaking the thought away, you finally get to the brunt of the task at hand. Your hand moves slowly, reluctant to inflict such damage against its own body. As soon as the tip of the knife touches your skin, you start to doubt your ability to do this. It takes looking at Alcina, seeing the way she watches you with equal parts concern and tenderness, to remind you why you’re doing this. Death just wasn’t something you could accept right now; not after what she had said, what she had implied.

The knife is fantastically sharp. Hardly any pressure is needed before your flesh gives away, cells letting go of their neighbors like it was a casual affair. You start at the left side of your injury, digging down a little, trying to only go as deep as you needed to. Tears formed in your eyes but you quickly blinked them away. As the first of many screams leaves your mouth, you turn and twist the knife, cutting to the right, then up. Like scooping the seeds out of a pumpkin. Fresh blood springs from the wound, starting to fill up the crevice. Quickly you discard the skin you removed by tossing it into the same bowl that Bela had put a bloody towel in earlier.

“Yes,” you shudder through gritted teeth, “this hurts so fucking bad. No, I don’t need someone to take over yet.” At this point neither of the present sisters are looking at you, seeming oddly uncomfortable at the sight of you cut up like this. Hadn’t they done worse to your fellow Maidens?... Whatever, the thought couldn’t last long when you still had work to do.

Next you take a fresh, damp cloth and dab at your injury, ignoring how it throbbed beneath your touch. Then you resumed cutting, forced to press the knife deeper in order to remove the spreading residue. If you had been a scientist, this would have been utterly fascinating to observe. Whatever had been in the lycan’s saliva was slowly eating at your flesh, but not outright dissolving it. No, it simply left the skin where it was, but killed and rapidly broke it down. Yes, it would have been fascinating, if not for the fact that there was a chance you wouldn’t be able to outpace the bacteria.

With this in mind you force yourself to hold in your next scream, hoping to make it easier for you to focus. The knife continued to cut, going lower, setting nerves alight as it did. Your vision starts to blur, and for a few seconds you think you’re going to black out. Someone says something you don’t hear, and then suddenly there’s a hand on top of your own. When your vision clears you see Bela is responsible, her grip keeping you from dropping the knife. She doesn’t let go until you give her a clear nod. Even then, she seems reluctant to let you continue.

Around this time is when Cassandra returns. Her footsteps catch your attention (it’s your understanding that carrying objects is much harder in swarm mode), and you spare her a quick glance before getting back to work. A few moments later she’s placing a set of needles and a long spool of thread next to you. Ironically, they’re the same tools that you’ve used to repair and adjust Alcina’s dresses over the past year. Hopefully they work just as well on flesh, you think. Your next thoughts are canceled out by unbelievable pain. More cries leave your lips, and your hand starts shaking. Panic is settling in fast, your movements getting sharper, leading you to make a brash decision: Time to care less about precision and more about speed.

“Distract me, please,” you gasp between grunts. No one responds at first, and you know they need clarification. Speaking is getting harder by the second, but you do your best. “Brain can’t process many stimulants, same time. Just- fuck- trace skin around wound, touch hair, anything.” Somewhere between your semi-broken sentences and screams, Alcina gets the message. She’s moving closer, now, behind you, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other rubbing gentle circles on your undamaged leg. Across from you Daniela is too busy pacing to help, though you can hardly blame her.

“Should I get the metal thing from the stove?” Cassandra asks, silently hoping that Dani hadn’t assumed someone else was going to handle that part. You’re still in too much pain to talk, so you half nod half grunt in response. Not bothering to say anything, the middle child takes off, swarm moving at what might be a new speed record.

As much as your hands are shaking, you still manage to cut away another strip of flesh, tossing it aside with even less care than before. This time Bela wipes the wound for you, practically reading your mind. The moment her hands are completely out of the way you start cutting again, crying out, throat shredded to pieces from all your screaming. Alcina sounds like she might be close to sobbing, but she doesn’t stop her movements, doing her best to distract you just like you had asked. Even Bela helps, now, tracing spots around your injury whenever she knows she won’t be in your way. The effect is minor, in the end, hardly making a dent in how much pain you’re processing.

If you survive this, though, you’re hugging every daughter as tight as you can and showering them with affection… but only after you finish doing the same for their mother.

“You are so brave,” Alcina murmurs next to your ear. It’s even clearer now how close she is to crying, her voice seconds away from cracking. Hearing her like this almost hurts as bad as the initial lycan attack did. “You are so strong. No other mortal could ever be your match. Do you understand, my dear? You are blessed, divine, and I love you so much.”

In any other setting, her words would leave you melting in her arms, radiating affection so strongly that you might as well have been radioactive. Instead, you are unable to respond, or even look her way. All you can do is press the knife to your skin again, showing your own feelings by destroying yourself for her.

The blade is starting to find more resistance, and you’re having to pause more often, spots appearing in your vision. Going faster only makes things worse, your hand threatening to slip. You’re determined to finish this, no matter what, but your need to control the situation is gradually making things worse. Alcina notices this before you do, and acts before you have a chance to protest.

“Bela, the knife,” she says, then tightens her grip on your waist. Your confusion shifts to panic as your arm is carefully, but forcefully, pulled away from your wound. “Can you finish the job?” It takes you a few moments to realize that Alcina isn’t talking to you. No, she’s speaking to her eldest daughter, who doesn’t hesitate to take the knife away from you. It’s so easy for her, between her strength and your weakness. “Don’t struggle. Let us finish this.”

Protests rise from your throat and die in your mouth. Pain flares harder now that Bela isn’t distracting you. Once more your vision goes dark, but this time there’s no pause, no hesitation. You are suffering, horribly, and the Dimitrescu family refuses to make you hurt longer than necessary. It’ll be over soon, you think, not knowing whether you refer to your pain or your life itself.

Something wet drops onto the back of your neck, then darkness overtakes you…

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

“Damn those lycans, I should string Heisenberg up myself! They’re his responsibility, after all,” Lady Dimitrescu snarls, trying to ignore the tears in her eyes. Now that you’re unconscious, unable to hear what ails her, she feels free to voice her thoughts. “The damn things should never have come close to the path to the village.”

“What if she strayed from the path? Wouldn’t that explain it?” Bela suggests, even as her hands work to remove what seems to be the last piece of dead/infected flesh from your leg. She hates how the words feel in her mouth, hates suggesting that you of all people might have betrayed her mother’s trust. But it makes sense. After all, this whole mess, with you leaving the castle to retrieve a mysterious package, was all a test to see if you would try to run. It hadn’t been her idea, and Bela admitted to herself that she thought it was unnecessary.

“On the way back? Why would she bother getting the package if she intended to run?” Lady Dimitrescu asks, right as Cassandra returns. The middle child is practically juggling the metal spatula she’s carrying, irritated (not harmed) by the heat it produced. One of her brows perks up when she hears the conversation, but she keeps any thoughts she has to herself.

“Just a thought, mother, I didn’t quite believe it myself,” Bela chimes, after a pause. With that said she holds up her hand with pride, clutching between her fingers the last of the decaying flesh. The way the others react, one might have thought that a miracle had been performed. Daniela clapped her hands together, giggling a little, and finally stopped her pacing. “Don’t celebrate too much, now,” Bela reminded her, taking the spatula from Cassandra as she did. “There’s still plenty to do. It’s a good thing she’s not awake for this part.”

A good thing, indeed. She uses her fingers to spread the remaining skin a little, giving a quick examination, then deciding that she had successfully removed all remaining residue. Keeping her fingers where they were, she pressed the side of the spatula to your skin, putting the most pressure at the center of the wound. Three seconds passed, then she lifted her hand. A pause. She pressed it back into place, keeping a close eye on the affected area. This repeated several times, the gaps being necessary to prevent unintentional damage. Once the wound seemed properly closed she set the spatula aside.

“Is that it?... Did we save her?” Daniela asks, opting to finally sit down in a nearby chair. Something about her word choice makes both of her sisters scoff.

“I could sew it closed, as a precaution, but there’s no way I’d do it the way she had intended. It might be best to just give her time to rest, and see what she thinks when she gets back up,” Bela answers. For a moment her words hang in the air, but eventually Alcina gives a little nod and a hum.

“Very well. I shall carry her to my quarters, where she won’t be disturbed. Please, let one of the Maidens know to bring some food up this evening,” Alcina says, gently taking you into her arms as she does…

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

BAD ENDING: It’s been six hours, with no sign of you waking up. Your other wounds had been examined, cleaned, and bandaged. Food had been carefully prepared and brought up to you, though it now remained on the bedside table, untouched. Alcina has gone to call Mother Miranda, intending to speak to her about the growing unrest of the lycans, as Heisenberg hadn’t answered his phone. For the first time since you returned you are alone. It is now, of all times, that you awaken. A gasp sends you into a coughing spree, forcing you into a sitting position. The space around you feels like it's moving, and your vision blurs. Blood spills from your mouth as you finally regain the ability to breathe.

Seconds later your vision clears, but what you see is enough to make you wish you couldn’t. The blood that spilled onto the sheets is a dark red… with even darker spots scattered throughout it. All at once you know what happened: Residue had hidden from you, or gone deeper than your wound, infecting you before you ever stood a chance. Tears threaten to spill from your eyes, but something deeper starts calling to you. Something older. Darker. It drags you to your feet, ignores the pain of your wounds, and sends you out the bedroom door.

Your mind is racing, thoughts never quite clear enough for you to understand. It doesn’t feel like you’re in control of your own movements. Was something else in charge, or were you operating on an infection powered autopilot? Answers weren’t coming, just bloodshed.

“You’re not supposed to be out of bed yet!” A voice calls out to you, making you turn to investigate. On the other end of the hallway is a maiden, one you instantly recognize. You’ve worked with her before, plenty of times, tag-teaming more tasks than you could count. She was like a sister to you. When she sees the blood staining your clothes, she gasps, then moves to support you. “Please, Lady Dimitrescu will be so upset if you-” her words melt into a blood curdling scream. For a moment you don’t understand.

And then you swallow, a chunk of hot meat slipping down your throat, and the scream dies down.

“What?...” You whisper, finally tasting the blood in your mouth, watching as your friend’s body falls to the floor. There’s a chunk of flesh missing from her neck, and the dots connect themselves in your head. You did that. Every part of you wants to scream, wants to cry out and beg someone to come kill you. Instead you fall to your knees, hard, uncaring. Your hands move themselves, grasping at the still warm corpse. Something has made you stronger, or at the very least removed the mental limits that kept you from destroying yourself. Flesh gives under your touch, tearing like paper, and you start crying as it reaches your mouth.

Footsteps approach, thundering fast, and you want to warn whoever it is. When you turn to look, you feel your hands let go of your meal. Your gaze meets that of a stunned Cassandra Dimitrescu, then drifts to the sickle in her hand.

“Kill me,” you growl, voice distorted, practically echoing. “Kill me now!” Not needing to be told a third time, Cassandra moves lightning quick, swarm-jumping forward before manifesting behind you, sickle dragging across your throat in one smooth motion. But it’s not enough. She realizes this, though, and slams her foot into your back, sending you tumbling forward. It’s enough to prevent you from countering, which gives her time to advance again, this time pulling a knife from her boot and driving it into the center of your back. When you scream, it’s not with your own voice, but that of a monster.

“Fucking fuck, what the fuck, red?” Daniella asks as she rounds the corner, eyes immediately landing on your bloodsoaked mouth. She’s quick to take in the scene, drawing a conclusion easily, even if it breaks her heart a little. Your vision fades as she approaches, and you know that it’s finally over. If only you had expired a few seconds earlier… because the last thing you hear is the startled cry of your would-be lover.

“No! No, darling, what happened-” Alcina finishes her sentence, but you do not hear it. You do not hear anything, anymore. You do not know it… but there will be hell to pay for your death.

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

GOOD ENDING: When you awake, you find yourself in the softest sheets you’ve ever touched, a warm and familiar presence next to you. The first thing you see is Alcina’s sleeping face next to your own. She’s on her side, one arm around your waist, the covers pulled up to her hip. Warmth fills your chest as you take in the sight. For a few moments you just… appreciate this. Never before had you imagined that you would get to wake up next to the woman you loved so much. A sigh, one of bliss, leaves your lips. Slowly you move forward, gently placing a kiss to Alcina’s cheek. Seconds later her eyelids flutter open, and she tiredly takes you in.

“You’re… awake,” she murmurs, hardly awake herself. But her fatigue doesn’t last long. As soon as she’s fully processed the situation her eyes go wide. Then she’s pulling you closer, careful not to hurt you, and peppering little kisses over your face. “I’ve been so worried, dear. You scared us so much.” The hurt in her voice leaves you restless, making you curl up against her, desperate to soothe her worries. Moving hurts a little, but not enough to dissuade you from your goal.

“I’m sorry, love,” you say, tears pricking your eyes. “I’m okay, I’m alive, the plan worked out. You don’t have to fret for me anymore. I won’t leave you, I promise.” Slowly but surely, Alcina calms, exchanging kisses for softly running her fingers through your hair. There’s such love in her eyes that you can hardly believe you aren’t dreaming. “You’re amazing, Alcina. I could stay like this all day.”

“Maybe we should,” she offers, chuckling a little. Once again you give her a quick kiss, unable to resist the urge. “I should have never asked you to leave. I should have just trusted you.” The words give you pause, and you tilt your head in confusion. Realizing that you still didn’t know the full story, Alcina frowns. “The package is worthless, just a bundle of straw and a few rocks for weight. It was never what I cared about.”

Tension builds in your chest, and for a few seconds you have no idea how to react. It takes a minute for you to think, to connect the dots, but once you do it’s a tad bit easier to breathe. A scowl twists your lips as you think of what to say.

“If I had known that Heisenberg was forgoing his duties, I never would have sent you outside,” Alcina adds, the silence taking its toll on her.

“You shouldn’t have sent me either way,” you respond, bitterly, thinking of all that you had seen and heard on your journey. “I would have done anything to prove to you how I feel. There are other ways to show devotion- far less dangerous ways, at that.”

“I know, dear. You have every right to be angry… and watching you suffer has taught me all that I need to know,” Alcina says, still playing with your hair, trying to ease the tension. As upset as you about this recent revelation… it’s not enough to change how you feel about her, and you want her to understand that, fully and completely.

So you lean into her touch, let your eyes drift close for a moment, then softly place one of your arms around her as best as you can.

“We’ll need to talk about this more… just not right now. Right now, I need you, Alcina. I need to hold you, and be held by you, and just know that you’re here. That I’m here. That neither of us are going anywhere,” you say, resting your forehead against hers. “I need to feel safe, and your arms are the safest place I can imagine. Stay here with me?”

“It will be the easiest thing I have ever done.”

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

More therapy thoughts part 1/?

Behavior Theory Frameworks/Conditioning and What the fuck does Master Chief talk about in therapy?

Ramblings below - like a lot, like I spent too much time writing this and you should not read this

Behavioral Theory could work well as a framework with rehabilitating Spartan IIs if the case worker focused on Operant Conditioning Theory and Cognitive Social Learning Theory, which I talked about in this ask because I think I’m funny and this blog is an archive of me applying human behavior theories to video games.

Spartans have always been taught the mission comes first! Always! The 2s are indoctrinated from age 6-14 and then have that reinforced the rest of their lives. From the beginning they are taught to push themselves to the limits, earn their food by winning, form bonds with teammates but be ready to sacrifice them for the mission. The whole lives wasted vs spent conversation between John and Mendez after the augmentation surgery!

What the UNSC/ONI wants comes before their lives, the lives of other soldiers, civilians, AI etc. This constant conditioning of expectations and rewards has created the norms cemented in their minds. This becomes standard operating procedure.

Spartans are also an entirely separated social group, other people have made really great posts on how they are Othered and have their own way of communicating with body language. ODSTs hate Spartans, marines see them as cyborgs or saviors, and while they’re allies, Spartans are not seen or treated as human, by literally everyone. They are a means to an end, with the original goal being to maintain the UNSC’s position of power and crush the insurrectionists in the outer colonies, but uh oh Aliens!

Maybe the 2s aren’t as expendable as the 3s but the mindset and reinforcement of “mission first, people second” being repeated their entire lives is going to stick. So is the constant mistreatment and abuse from their fellow soldiers and handlers. 

Addressing the cognitive distortions that come from their upbringing while also balancing the fact that Spartans are so fundamentally different from the way they developed to survive would be so much work, especially considering how much information on them is given to their therapist.  The main distortion I would apply is minimization, making large problems small and not properly dealing with them, and specifically for John, personification, accepting blame for negative events without sufficient evidence. 

Like these are grown ass super soldiers who can kill you in less than a second and calculate the amount of gravity in a room on the fly but then also can flounder when trying to comfort civilians or make small talk because their experiences and values are so alien to adults who had more developmentally “normal” lives. 

Literally applying therapy to Spartans would be like, what was done to you was wrong, the ends do not justify the means, you were children and the adults in your life failed to protect you. You are a human person who is fallible and did the best you could with what you had. And the Spartan would say, “sounds fake but okay, can I pass my psych eval and go back to war now please?”

Jumping back to Behavior Theory

Different approaches to therapy under the Behavior Theory umbrella help modify negative behaviors with treatments like Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Dialectical behavior therapy that teach individuals adaptive coping like emotional regulation, distress tolerance, cognitive distortions, and interpersonal communication. And that’s just one framework under the umbrella of human behavior theories.

Social work therapy is different from psych as it approaches individuals with heavily researched, evidence-based theories and frameworks in a holistic viewing of person-in-environment, instead of a strong focus on internal psychology. 

Social work looks at all the interacting systems, environment, history, and internal and external factors affecting an individual. One of the most useful frameworks is the Biopsychosocial-Spiritual Frameworks (BPSS) when helping a client. It helps with identifying all the intersecting factors, both risk and protective, that shapes a client’s lived experiences. The most important thing to remember is that the individual is an expert in their own life, they know their experiences best.

The hardest part is applying this to Spartans because they Are So Fucked, their lived experiences, their environments and systems and institutions interacting with them, and the amount of their personal information that is probably so classified.

BPSS is a tool to help social workers assess individuals and their situations by collecting info that is related to the presenting issues and current and past circumstances. Info like medical history, hospitalizations, substance abuse, mental illness, personal relationships, family history and background, culture and norms, education, legal history, spirituality and participation etc. is all under this framework. 

For Spartan 2s most of this info is lost or classified and helping someone who has repressed every negative emotion they've had for the sake of the mission would be so much to unpack but that’s also why you’re reading the mad ramblings over an over caffeinated nerd on the internet.

Life Course Theory which looks at developmental milestones and the individual’s experiences versus the socially expected markers, how do you apply that to children who were taken and have lived such different lives? 

While early adolescence is when “normal” development of thoughts of self and identity take place alongside the physical changes of puberty, Spartans were being turned into emotionless calculating weapons. Sorry John, no forming a sense of identity and peer bonds for you, go kill that Watts guy who betrayed us and joined the insurrectionists. 

And now that I’ve gone this insane and opened 2 whole textbooks up, let’s get to Master Chief thoughts. If you’ve read this far thank you, I swear I’m normal, 2020 has just been a weird year. 

Why the fuck did I think I could write a therapy fic on a guy with 20 minutes of actual dialogue across almost 2 decades of games?

I make fun of him and call him a himbo, but he’s smart, he knows he’s being used and there is resentment there that’s been building for years. 

There’s also decades of trauma and combat experience, physical, and emotional abuse, the lack of a support network,  lack of an identity, the biological factors and aftermath of the augmentations and injuries he’s received, a whole lot of grief and self-inflicted guilt. 

The loss of a third of his peer group with the augmentation surgery, Sam’s death, the loss of Reach (the only place he’s considered home), Keyes, the Pillar of Autumn crew, Miranda Keyes, Johnson, Cortana. He cares about the marines who fight with him!!!

He just stands there and takes it and rarely snaps, and even then it’s just small cracks on the surface with fissures running deep. The few details I will pull from Halo 5 are Blue Team’s reactions to John pushing himself so hard from the beginning of the game, and the literal crack in his armor from the fight with Locke. Like dude.  

John’s a leader and will get the mission done but he tugs on the leash. He’s earned enough of a reputation and uses it to get his way.

Halo 2’s “Permission to leave the station” with Mr. “I’m going to hand deliver a bomb to the fusion reactor of a covenant supercarrier and hope my friends catch me”. 

Halo 4 is when we see him say no to a superior officer and then 5 is him going AWOL. Palmer literally points out that no one is going to stop him.

Halo 5 kills me for many reasons but John bringing up Halsey and what she did to him and also pointing out that he knows Halo 5 Cortana is trying to manipulate him with psychological tactics hurts. 

He knows what’s been done to him!

I cannot remember which book it was but John isn’t used to working alone. He literally takes fire because he was expecting someone to have his back! 

He’s lost without Cortana! She was in his brain! Y’all! I played Halo Combat Evolved on the original xbox when I was like 8 and I knew these two were meant to be together. From the moment they met they had great chemistry and relied on each other! Cortana literally goes after people who have it out for John! John wants her approval and shows off for her in one of the books. 

I’ve already written too much here but like all of the games have John showing off for Cortana, making dry jokes, jumping out of things he shouldn’t. 

The whole point of this rambling is to try and get my thoughts about how to approach John’s character under control.

And that’s the thing. He’s lost control. He’s lost people, he’s losing his position and being phased out as an aging spartan, a relic. John’s used to following orders and making some decisions on the battlefield but it was always short term.

He has no identity beyond being a weapon. Complete the mission, clear the LZ, get put in cryo. Rinse, repeat. 

The timeline of the games are what I'm most familiar with but with the comics and books too it’s one long run from Halo 2 to Halo 4. Cairo station to the Dreadnought to the crash landing to Forward Unto Dawn to Requiem to “The Didact is Dead but not really but we’ll deal with him off-screen”.

I know Hood apparently gave John R&R orders before Halo 5 that he ignored and kept running himself into the ground. This is a man who has to keep moving and keep being useful. 

I imagine him giving in and seeking help as a last resort to fix any problems he has with performing his duties rather than helping himself be healthier. 

Any professional he sees is going to have to approach him like they’re approaching a self sacrificing feral cat, with lunch meat and quiet. This man needs to have his support network closer, set up long term goals, and do some serious, and most likely incredibly painful, self reflection on where he’s come from and where he wants to go. Get him out of that tin can and into therapy. I don’t have a nice neat ending because this was a ramble and also therapy is not neat and tidy. Thanks for reading my words about mr halo

[eukennedy]

⟨ LORENZO ZURZOLO. DEMIBOY. HE/THEY. ⟩ though the mist might prevent some from seeing it, KENNEDY MORETTI-KING is actually a descendent of A T H E N A. it’s still a question of whether or not the TWENTY-THREE year old MEDICAL STUDENT from MILAN, ITALY has taken after their godly parent completely, but the demigod is still known to be quite BRILLIANT & SELFISH.

FULL NAME: kennedy moretty-king. NICKNAME(S): he prefers his full name, but gets ‘ken’, ‘kenny’ and ‘king’ often. AGE: twenty-three. BIRTHDAY: november 1st. GENDER: demiboy. PRONOUNS: he/they. ( mostly goes by he, but doesn’t care ) ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: panromantic. SEXUAL ORIENTATION: pansexual. MAJOR: he’s currently in med school, but completed a bachelor’s of science in neuroscience. HEIGHT: 6′1". MORAL ALIGNMENT: neutral evil. MBTI: ENTP HOGWARTS HOUSE: slytherin. TRAITS: ambitious, intelligent, disingenuous, judgmental, quick-witted, selfish, petty, passionate, outgoing, charming.

short bio blurb.

for your first few years of life, your cries are met with warm consoling arms, kisses over scraped knees and meals around the dinner table. as you grow older, the concept washes out of sight like a salty tide: slowly, then all at once. your parents draw the lines and your nannies color them in, and with time you realize you might in fact be the only kid in history who doesn’t resent them for it. not one bit.

a son of two brilliant surgeons ( your godly parent delivered you as a gift, but your real mother is not athena ), your life has been filled with ten-minute holidays and interrupted birthdays. as you grew to understand it, you discovered you hardly minded much. after all, you inherited your parents’ desire for medicine and excellence, and you aspire to be so busy one day, crave it, actually, so you fill your need for attention elsewhere and allot the rest of your time to achieving perfection. you’re in the stars and you know it; there’s no time to hold success against the people that drove you there.

though your family’s social circle shifted its orbit to the rich and powerful, they remain grounded as ever. for this, your ego is your best kept secret at home. mother and father would grill you for your narcissistic reputation, so you hide it when you’re back for the holidays behind big smiles and perfectly plated meals. they want you to be proud, not arrogant, but it’s not your fault: you just can’t help that you’re always right.  

if you fall, though, you fall far –- the morettis and the kings don’t throw money at problems.

they solve them.

your desire for greatness burns bright in your belly and your affinity for it has a habit of taking over the more tender parts of your heart. you’re not cruel, just destined, and nothing puts you on your toes faster than a threat, so you remove them. poll ten people and seven might think you brutal in your ambition, but all is fair in love, war and the pursuit of knowledge.

you’re focused but more romantic than what meets the eye.  while chocolates and flowers aren’t your forte, but loyalty and dedication are. there’s no better lover than one who has a habit of sinking its teeth into anything they love, and you’re a dog whose never given up a bone in his life.

your softer inner workings are there underneath and you’re not ashamed, not at all, they’ll bring you the other piece of the puzzle one day. someone to help you hold that trophy high above your head and someone to smile while they do. vulnerability doesn’t set you back; it propels you, but you’re still skating around how to equip it just right. you’re prone to using words like fire to mask your ego, and communication fizzles out by a stinging touch.

now, you turn your head toward the future. the snap of latex gloves and the slice of a scalpel. the desire to invent, to perform, to heal – anything along the way is a blip, a moment, but nothing that can’t be solved when you refuse to stop. your fate is in your hands.

background breakdown.

kennedy moretti-king is the son of two famous surgeons: dr. giada moretti-king ( mostly known as dr. moretti ) and dr. jason king. both have made several advancements in their fields, dr. moretti herself working on innovative tools to advance laparoscopic surgery as a general surgeon, and dr. king as a renowned cardiothoracic surgeon.

dr. jason moved to america to italy where he met giada and that’s also where they were gifted little kennedy here, so he was raised in milan for the most part, where both his parents work at grande ospedale metropolitano niguarda. 

while many others have struggled to find where a godly parent or a demigod child fits into their lives, their family was completely different. kennedy was an experiment of sorts, a gift from athena to one of the most intelligent human couples that couldn’t bear their own children. for that, athena has remained relatively removed from kennedy’s life, though he’s almost always been aware of her existence. athena remains quite happy with kennedy and his parents raising him as their own, and kenny knows giada as his mother, not athena. 

although his parents were absent more often than not due to their demanding work lives, kennedy knew from a young age that he wanted to follow in their footsteps. raised mostly by various nannies over the years, kennedy was bothered when he was younger when his parents didn’t make it to every recital; however, this was mostly erased as he grew old enough to understand their occupations.

it was love at first sight when kennedy visited the hospital. maybe not the bloody surgery part, but medicine in general, the intense need to know about the body. why it worked the way it did. he was absolutely fascinated. the time he did spend with his parents was used to soak up all the knowledge he could, and they never minded much. it gave them common ground to love the same thing.

the kings were glad to have one son that wanted to follow in their footsteps, and so even if there’s a large distance between them at times, kennedy has always had a fairly good relationship with his parents, even if that comes with immense pressure. his parents would’ve been equally as happy should he had wanted to pursue something else ( all they wanted was a happy and healthy child ) but kenny’s desire to pursue the same line of work was a welcome coincidence. they teach him everything they know, but they’re well aware it won’t be very long until he knows far more than they do.

due to his constant pursuit of knowledge, athena’s never quite bothered to interfere in his life but the threats that lurk outside the protected walls were the reason kennedy chose to pursue education within eonia’s campus.

it should also be said that his parents are extremely dope people, they both did a lot of pro bono work, charity work and partook in doctors without borders. they are Rich Rich and so is kennedy, but they very much wanted him to have a down-to-earth experience. it failed, in some ways, but while kennedy could be years ahead in his studies, it’s limited so he’s only about a year or so ahead of his peers. they wanted him to have a social life! and not be an emotionally stunted child genius! but alas, it did not entirely work out <3

personality breakdown.

to say he’s a perfectionist is an understatement. he simply refuses to go into a field and be the flop of the family, so his pursuit of knowledge is pretty unparalleled. he takes his studies seriously, and doesn’t really relate to the college life of skipping 8ams to nurse hangovers.

not that he doesn’t have them -– but we love a man that perseveres.

wish i had his confidence of just assuming everything’s going to go his way. his label means force or necessity, and that’s because kennedy has a way of making things working in his favor with pure force. ‘kennedy, aren’t you worried you’ll fail?’ ‘no.’ ‘how?i’ ‘because i won’t let myself. duh’

although he doesn’t have the softest personality due to the lack of being hugged as a child, kennedy, at his core, isn’t entirely evil. he’s capable of caring about people and does. he’s a passionate person, and that can translate to love and loyalty for the right people. he doesn’t half-ass anything, so when he commits it’s on.

still, the boy has quite an ego. for him to think something is good enough to commit to takes a bit. he’s got particular taste, never backs down from a fight, and almost annoyingly always thinks he’s right. his ambition can sometimes blind him to the point of selfishness at times, even if his heart is in the right place.

he’s got his good qualities, though! for someone he loves, he’s there. he’s quite dependent when he wants to be, and he’s smart as anything. if you need help getting out of a jam, his brain is basically hardwired to know how to land on his feet.

kennedy is very organized and put together. never catch a wrinkle, even on his plain t-shirts. he shows his love through helping: he’s more likely to help you clean your dorm or organize your study notes for your test than deliver a monologue on his love for you, but it counts! you just need to know what to look for.

a brat but sometimes a lovable brat.

wanted connections.

a best friend. kennedy grew up without serious parental figures ( not by choice, but they were busy rip ), so i’d love a childhood best friend with him that accepts him for his personality flaws. he would be hella ride or die for this person, which he isn’t for much of anyone else, so that means quite a bit! someone to keep him grounded, call him out on his bullshit, but not completely destroy his ego.

exes. honestly, kennedy can be quite the petty betch. i can envision a lot of ugly breakups in his past OR we can plot some exes on good terms! he’s not totally emotionally stunted, can be quite a good boyf when he wants to be, but also a complete nightmare too. any gender feel free !

hookups. self-explanatory. college life. the nature of their relationship will be entirely dependent on the muses and their dynamic, but kennedy isn’t always the nicest to his casual flings depending on their dynamic. some friends with benefits could work, though, for positive casual connections.

enemies. okay, look at this bratty bitch. there is no way he doesn’t have some, if not many, enemies. he has a temper and doesn’t like to be told no, so if you ever wanna verbally spat it out, feel free. he won’t swing, tho. those are surgeon’s hands, baby.  

hate-to-love friendship. someone dopey or complete unambitious that somehow kennedy still loves despite them being total opposites. he doesn’t get why they don’t do their assignments, or why they fall asleep drunk in the bathtub twice a week, but he really can’t deny that they amuse him and he cares about them.

anything else!

[fairycosmos]

That “new mental illnesses as a result from social media” is such a hot take and super interesting 👀 I’d love to hear more about what you mean, if you’d be willing to share (?) Love your blog btw 💕✨

you're a real one for reading those dumb ass tags omgggg 😣 honestly just speaking freely here.......i feel like the gradual development of new mental disorders is basically inevitable at this point, or at least the extreme exacerbation of preexisting ones. especially as more and more kids are born into the social media age. they have no alternative way of life to compare it to, nothing to reference other than having a camera in their faces from the moment they were born. listen i love the internet, i think it's one of the most important and significant tools humans have ever created. but the specific way that social media is being utilized and leveraged in recent years is just not conducive to a healthy society :/ there are so many ways we're being manipulated by it, so i'll cut to the bones of it: we're not supposed to be exposed to a continuous slew of sensationalized/false information. we're not supposed to be advertised to 24/7, especially subliminally. we're not supposed to feel watched all of the time, to always worry about this third invisible spectator. we're not supposed to swap out genuine human interaction for online interaction (a trap i fell into long ago lmao). we're not supposed to perform our lives for a sense of validation. we're not supposed to despise ourselves without makeup/fillers/plastic surgery/certain products. we're not supposed to build our own goals around the falsified, photoshopped content that those we 'idolize' shove down our throats. even more so because we only idolize them because we perceive them to have the perfect existence that we've been taught to chase. this sort of conditioning goes directly against our basic needs. i can not imagine how kids today see the world. their brains are so malleable, and the lines between what is attainable/real and what isn't have been completely blurred. thats their core impression of human existence, what the rest of their lives will be based off of :( so i cant help but to foresee emotional and social issues in their futures, and in my own.....but i think the commercialization of these apps really seems to be the crux of the issue, at least to an extent. they build a social hierarchy, peddle it to us non stop and promise it's possible to get to the top if you pay your way there, but the average person never will. obviously. like, once you're a consumer, you're looking for a void to fill - they take something away, whether thats your confidence or your privacy or your time - so they can then sell you the solution. and that's dangerous for everyone, but especially for children who don't even realize they're a part of this game. but of course they partake anyway, because everyone does. because it has so much control over us, using our need to share and connect and to feel appreciated against us. you know, people say it's not that deep but i beg to differ. think about the characteristics of many (of course not all) medically recognized mental illnesses - low self esteem, loose grip of reality, anxiety/insecurity, paranoia, emptiness and boredom, never feeling 'good enough', emotional isolation. and then look at what a lot of the communities on these social media apps inspire in us? there's definitely an overlap there. and i'm absolutely including myself in this too btw. i'm not about shaming ppl for simply being impacted by common/modern culture. just wish there was more of an honest or well known conversation abt it :( anyway sorry i just think about this pretty consistently for some reason lmfao so i have a lot to Say....thank you so much for enjoying my blog and for being willing to listen!! hope you're taking care and having a lovely day angel 💕✨

[mrmethbook]

             Chapter 2, First test and none of the rest.

WORNING!!!;...THIS POST MAY BE A TRIGGER TO ANYONE WITH PRIOR MATH HISTORY.

Finley after leaving that never-ending situation, Mr. Later tells me to do the usual driving maneuvers. Turn here, turn there, turn around here. 

After all of that, he tells me to drive out of town toward the old drive-in.

Heading out that way, he tells me. “Do you remember when I mentioned (misdirection is key) Bone’s, you’ll hear me tell you such and such is a key. Mr. Bone’s this is one of those times.

These things I tell you are keys to this little big city. Those such and such are like keys on a keychain, there the keys that will open the doors to this dark world.

“I’m teaching you these things to not only keep you safe. But more importantly, in this case, to keep me safe which is always most important. Understand?” He asks.

Do I understand? Fuck yeah I understand, you're talking straight and not all that twisted jib-talk*. I think to myself.

Looking at him I simply nod, then I tell him in an almost mocking tone of voice. “Yeah, I understand there like keys on a keychain, or like tools to use at my discretion.”

“Bone’s I can't stand a mockingbird, I go out of my way to swat the little bastards with my favorite tennis racket every damn time I hear one.” He tells me with a hornet's sting to his voice.

Then after what felt like four hours. But in actual none jib-time* is only a half an hour.

“Pull in the lane on the right-hand side just after the old drive-in,” Mr. Later tells me.

Pulling into the lane I notice a no trespassing sign that reads. IF YOU COME ON MY PROPERTY. I'LL SHOOT YOU IN THE FACE!!!. 

I also notice three vehicles for sale out front by the road. The first one I notice is a rusted out chevy cavalier, the second car is an old station wagon with no front bumper and is packed full of styraphome. Last I see a  

7

GMC Vandura A-Team van. It's black and red with the spoiler and everything, the only difference is there are no tires or rims on the van.

The lane is a half-mile off the road, with water-filled potholes, a few left and right turns. Both sides of the lane consist of treelines on both sides and cornfields as far as the eye can see. 

    I hope I never get lost and spun out here. It would be a horrifying labyrinth of lostness.

    The lane ends in what looks like tall junkyard fencing, its twenty feet tall and keeps on going into the blistering horizon.

    Pulling up to the metal fence I look to my left then to my right. All I can see is a twenty~foot wall as far as I can see.

    What in the hell kind of place is this? I ask myself.

    Sitting in the truck waiting for my next order, I notice a big ass pile of pop cans the size of a large dog house. Mr. Later tells me to turn off the truck, I have no idea what's going to happen next.

    “Well Bone’s first things first let's get high, but before we turn the bolts on this monster meth 

machine, I’m going to show you how to make your very own smoking bulb.” He tells me with a sideshow doctor’s demeanor.

    “Have you ever smoked meth out of a light bulb before boy?” I’m asked.

    “I've heard about using a light bulb, personally I've only used aluminum foil,” I tell him with immediate regret because of the look of, You fucking dumbass, is all across his face.

    By the look on my face, I can tell he knows I have no idea why he's making that face for.

    How in the hell am I supposed to know why in the fuck you're making that face for, no ones ever told me about any of this shit before. Of course, I don't tell him this.

    “You fucking tard aluminum foil gives you Alzheimers you dip shit, hasn't anyone ever told you anything before?” The calculative criminal asks me.

    I can tell this is coming from a man with no personal interest and has been in the jib-field* for many man-hours and light-years.

    “Well Bone’s today's your lucky day, I’m going to show you first hand how to make your very own smoking bulb.” The self~made man tells me.

    “Let's get out of the truck. We'll need adequate construction space, we’ll have to use the hood of your truck to complete this unforgettable feat.” He instructs me with an erector set master prowess.

    Getting out of my truck, I walk to the front hood of my S10 truck.

    “This is my M.T.S. Bone’s, or its also known as my mini~twak~sack*. Every Jib~Gyver* is required to own one, they're very important to tweakers all across the land.” Mr. Later tells me while taking off his camo fanny pack from his shoulder, it has pockets all the way around the fanny pack.

    I give him an inquiring look. 

    “This is what I keep all my tweek shit in.” I’m told with lowered eyebrows. ”What the hell else would it be.” He finished with panther in his voice. 

    Standing in front of my truck, Mr. Later perseids to start taking various items out of his M.T.S. 

                                                        8

He starts pulling out a brand new light bulb, needle nose pliers, salt shaker and one small hand torch. Amongst other miscellaneous tweek-tools*. He lays these items across my truck hood like a surgeon getting ready to perform surgery on his grandmother's favorite poodle.

    “I don't know if that rattle brain of yours can handle any more priceless knowledge Bone’s, are you ready?” He asks me with an all~knowing tone.

    “Yes Mr. Later, I’m always ready to learn, like they say knowledge is power right?” I tell the wisdom maker.

    “That's the smartest thing I think I’ve heard you say, boy.” He tells me with a sly smile across his graces.

    With bulb in one hand and needle-nose pliers in the other, holding the bulb upside down, he starts to tell me. “The first thing I’m going to show you is that you have to smash the dark glass with the side of your pliers when the dark glass is smashed you have to take off the flat round metal tab.”

    “Then use the needle nose part of the pliers to dig out the dark glass, making a circular motion until all the glass falls out, all that should be left is the lighting element that's inside of the glass bulb.” Mr. Later the magician shows me so I’ll wont have to relearn the precious process ever again. 

    At this point, I’m looking at him in awe like a magician's apprentice.

    “Now it's time to remove the lighting element, to do this you have to insert the tip of the needle-nose pliers into the newly made hole, once again make a circular motion breaking the lighting element, Make sure to be extra careful not to break the glass of the light bulb, it's easy to break around the light socket part.” He shows me on the bulb exactly where not to break.

    “Once the element is broken you have to shake all the glass out of the bottom of the bulb when the glass is all out,  there is a wire that is attached to the sidewall of the bulb, use the needle-nose pliers to break the wire-free.” Once again he shows me the wire, he breaks the wire, so I can see it.

    “After the wire is broken, its time to shack out the lighting element. Now for the salt shaker, pour some salt into the light bulb, it won't take much, put your thumb over the hole and shake until all the white coating is off the sides of the glass.” While doing this, Mr. Later continues showing me while he works his magic.

    “If you don't get all the salt out it will leave little black burnt specks inside the bulb when you use it, then you’ll waste your dope.” Mr. Later tells me.

    With mouth dropped I soak up the knowledge like a sponge, lighting the small hand torch he tells me. “Now this is the most important part, the carb. If you want a good blast you have to have good airflow like a fuel-injected carburetor on a 440 engine.” I'm told with precision.

    Putting the opening of the bulb to his mouth. He starts to blow constant pressure into the bulb with his mouth, then he puts the tip of the torch flame on one spot of the glass, making tiny circular motions.” The constant pressure in the bulb and the heat of the flame will pop a hole in the glass after a few seconds.” The glassmaker shows me the technique.

                                                         9

    After a few seconds, I hear a pop, the hole popped out of the glass like a rabbit popping out of a magician's hat.

    Mr. Later looks over the beautiful bulb for any modifications like a new mother looking to see if she has a six-fingered newborn baby.

    Mr. Later tells me. “Now we arrive at the final conclusion, the most important part, getting high as fuck.”

    “If I’m packing* the bulb your smoking the dope till it's all gone.” I’m told with wide eyes.

    “Of course I’ll be showing you first hand how to properly get a blast from the present past.” He tells me smiling.

    “If you're a fast learner you’ll learn to melt the dope and not burn it up.” I’m told from the criminal savant.

    “You smoke the hell out of the jib* while I go to meet some ignorant fool that's interested in buying one of the lemons for sale out by the road.” He tells me.

    How could I possibly say no to that, free meth, you can count me in.” I think to myself.

    But instead, I tell Mr. Later. “okay sounds good to me. When do I start.”

    “If that's what you want, let's get started.” He tells me while pouring methamphetamine a third the way full in the light bulb.

    “Bone’s I’ll hit the bulb a few times so you can get the jest of this precious process of never~ending endurance.” He tells me while hitting the bulb a few times in a row.

    Each time Mr. Later puff twist, puff twist, then he blows out a cloud of smoke so big I want to catch it in a ziplock baggie to save for later.

    “I'm going to leave you to the jib~vices* while I use your truck to go meet those dumb fucks that want to buy one of my shitty cars.” He tells me more then asks.

     Mr. Later puts away his tweek tools into his M.T.S, then slides into my truck without a second thought.

    Pulling down the lane Mr. Later slows to a stop in front of me. “Hay Bone’s if you get a chance between hits, sort that big ass pile of pop cans into the five~gallon buckets by the fence, if you don’t forget to put the bulb down it will send you into a time warp, Okay?” He tells me pointing at the pile of cans.

    “One more thing, don't let oblivion drag into its undertow of impending darkness.” Then he pulls down the lane humming that song again.

                                                 ~Mr. Later at his finest~

    Pulling down the lane Mr. Later thinks to himself. If this one passes the first test he's lucky he has a strong mind. That's the real test.

    Almost to the front of the lane, he sees a creepy looking van with the front passenger side fender taken off so the tweekers can scrap the metal to buy Mr. Later his L7s*.

                                                                     10

                             

    Thanking to himself. I love a tweeker that will do whatever it takes to get my beans*. It brings warm fuzzy feelings to my heart.

    Parking the truck, Mr. Later sees a pure twack~star* of a sub~human experiment gone way to wrong standing by the rust bucket of a Chevy Cavalier for sale.

    The creature has a headlamp on his head and a bandana covering the lower portion of its face, the scarrow crow of a man has a twack~sack with what looks like tweek~tools spilling out everywhere as he moves. This is all happening right in broad daylight.

    My kind of twack~ien* if you ask me.

    Slick Eddy stops whatever in the hell he was doing, then he walks straight for the truck.

    Slick Eddy yells. “YO LATER IS THIS CAR FOR SALE.” The dumb fuck yells at the top of his lungs.

    “That's what the sign says don't it, you remedial shit.” Mr. Later tells him in a shitty voice.

    Then Mr. Later hears someone yell from the creepy~ass van. “Hurry up, we have to go.”

    “I thought I told you to leave your sideshow of a wife at home you fuck, she creeps me out.” Mr. Later tells Eddy with spital coming out of his mouth.

    “You know how bitches are, they always have to come, or else.” The side-show tells Mr. Later. 

    “I got your box’s*of pseudoephedrine.” ecactuly at that moment Mr. Later cuts him off. “HAY YOU NUMBNUT FUCK, I’ve told you to call them L7s if you can't do that then kick rocks, you none remembering mother fucker.”

    Then Slick Eddy tells him. “Sorry, Mr. Later won't happen again.” Then he asks. “Don't you have a daughter?”

    “FUCK NO I DON'T HAVE A DAUGHTER AND WHAT IN THE HELL DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING YOU SLIMY SHIT!!” Mr. Later yells at him.

    Mr. Later hears the other sideshow in the front seat of the van say. “I told you he doesn't have a daughter Eddy.”

    Slick Eddy turns back around yelling at his fat ass whale of a wife. “Shut the fuck up you fat bitch and quite picking the dogs face, it looks like mutilated monkey meat and your the silverback gorilla, you stupid cunt,” Then she just goes back to picking the dogs face.

    “Eddy put the L7s in the floorboard of the Cavalier. "What you're looking for is in the console of the van, no, not your van you dumb shit, how could it be in your van already?” Mr. Later tells Slick Eddy when he starts for his own van.

    Looking over at Eddy’s van Mr. Later tells him. “Never bring that fat ass whale blubber of a wife here again.If you do I'll shoot her with a harpoon, do you understand me, you creep show?” Slick Eddy’s told by the striking viper that's sliding into the S10 truck.

    Pulling back down the lane Mr. Later hears a dog howling like he just got his nuts frozen to the train tracks. I wonder if Bone’s has sorted and counted the cans if he has I’ll be spunder~struck*.

                                           11

    

When Mr. Later pulls down the lane I look at the bulb in my hand thanking. It's time to find out what smoking meth out of a bulb is all about.

    I start hitting the bulb making sure I don't let the flame touch the glass of the bulb. just like Mr. Later showed me.

    I start puffing and twisting, puffing and twisting, my mind into a stuttering light speed.

    Then finally I look over to notice the pile of smashed cans the size of a large dog house.

    I look at the bulb, then back again, finally it clicks.

    The pile of cans Mr. Later asked me to sort them into the five~gallon buckets while he’s off doing whatever in the hell he's doing.

    Personally, at this point, I don't give two shits. I think to myself. If this is obvilion I’m holding on with my two hands and one of yours, never letting go.

    After two more hits, I sit the bulb down looking at the row of buckets against the fence. There are different kinds of pop/beer cans nailed above each bucket, Coca Cola, Budweiser, and A.&.W cream soda.

    At this point, I start sorting the cans at sub~jib light speed with complete one hundred percent accuracy of three~handed precision, after what felt like five minutes of frisbee tossing, in actuality is forty~five minutes of hindsight what the fucks.

    What in the hell is time when shit is this fun?

    After playing frisbee, I walk over to the five~gallon buckets, looking in them, I realize each 

bucket looks like they have the exact same amount it each of them.

    For just a second’s pause, I think. Is this me looking too far into this hole, the same amount of cans in the bucket thing? I ask myself.

    I start to count each bucket of cans. The first bucket has 23 cans, the second bucket has 23 cans, the third bucket has the same. Why 23 cans in each. I wonder.

   There must be 23 cans in each bucket. I assume.

    Looking up I see Mr. Later parking the truck, the first thing he asks is. “How many cans in each bucket Bone’s?”

    I look back at him with a quizzical gaze.

    He asks again. “Damn it boy, how many canes Bone’s?” This time he asks more intently.

He asks again. “Damn it boy, how many canes Bone’s?” This time he asks more intently.

    “23,” I answer him with a, I know I’m right kind of ring to it.

    Mr. Later strikes back with. “No you fuck 22cans in the fifth bucket, Why didn't you count each bucket, you wanting to get back to your bulb on the brain time?”

    I came straight back with. “Fuck no I didn't count them all, it would have taken too much time from what did you call it, My very own personal downward spiral,” I tell him.

    Mr. Later thinks to himself. This one put down the bulb long enough to sort the cans, just the fact that he put the bulb down means he might just have the right kind of mind for this lifestyle if he's lucky.

                                           12

    Mr. Later simply tells me. ”Mr. Bone’s like you told me earlier, without knowledge you have no power of the mind. Is that what you have a weak mind? People with weak minds are something I do not keep around me, or my family, that's for damn sure.” He tells me with a matter of fact tone of voice.

     Family? I wonder.

“Well Bone’s, are you ready for this fractured wonder opera adventure I’m calling a mishap?” He asks me while waiting for my answer.

    “Why not, I like adventures,” I tell him, with the thought of family still spinning in my revolving brain.

    “Boy, this is going to be one hell of an adventure. I can guarantee that.” Mr. Later tells me with his Grinch smile.

    “Get the hell in the truck, I’m taking you in. Not too many make it past the gate, although you may have the right kind of eyebrows to continue on this slaughterhouse adventure of twist and turns you'll never forget in a million meth years.” He tells me with a showmen's smile.

    I start my truck while he opens the gate, then he waves me in.

[blueyesandleatherjacket]

The Fallen, 8/17

Volume: 1.

Number of parts: 8/17.

Pairings: Nine x Rose.

A/N: Tagging @thebookster on her demand.

“We've all fallen, but at the same time we're not broken. There is the hint that we are going to get up again.” - Amy Lee.

CHAPTER 8:

“So, you’re fresh from the war. Damaged. Broken. Shattered. And you meet that girl. Rose Tyler. She’s showing you that life is worth fighting for. Traveling with her makes you feel alive again. Until her life is threatened. You sacrifice yourself for her to life.” “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing.” Nash shrugged. She had to pretend that she couldn’t understand the beauty of such a sacrifice. The concept of giving a life to save another should have been unknown to her as an assassin. Giving a life to save the one of the persons you loved was out of her reach though. She never had the chance to meet her soulmate but she had people she would die for. “But it doesn’t go as planned. You feel something is wrong…” “No, that’s not how it went. I just realised I didn’t want to leave her or my ship.” “Your time machine.” “Oh, she’s so much more than a time machine.” “A space ship.” “You’re so far from the truth.” “Anyway, the Doctor was gonna change into another man…” “Yep. And I was gonna die. And I had that irrational and universal thought that I wasn’t ready to die, that there was more to live. I made the wish to be sent back on Earth to stay around the woman I love.” “Even unsure that she would follow you?” “She was left with a new man. She trusted me, my daft old face… He certainly was prettier and younger and funnier to make a perfect match with her but he still remained a stranger. What would you have done?” No response. “I wanted to stay in her life but I woke up in Manchester with that deep conviction that something was wrong.” “Because you sensed that you had half of that Bad Wolf left in your mind.” “And since I could feel the other half around, it meant Rose still had it in hers.” “Which could be fatal to both of you.” “You’ve got it.” “So that Bad Wolf has quite amazing abilities. Meaning you’re some kind of superhuman now. You’ve got the control of Time and you can change whatever you want to. You’re also a telepathic being and you can access people’s mind and create a real mess in there. Change someone’s history, create false memories or erase it all.” “That’s not exactly how it works. There are rules.” “Who cares for the rules when you’re that powerful?” “I have a consciousness. So does the Bad Wolf. You can’t use its power for personal or evil purposes. Time Lords made the rules. They engraved it in their genetic codes. Anyone meddling with Time would go mad.” “Time Lords are megalomaniac. How could they not go against the rules?” “Oh, some have tried. And they paid the price.” “What about you?” “I ran away from home as soon as I could. Their philosophy wasn’t for me. I had my own dreams.” “What now?” “I intend to leave this place, find my Rose and survive this almost human life. Quite boring, I know.” “And the Bad Wolf?” “I only possess a part of its power. I can’t do much. Need my other half to be able to really do something with that power. Unless…” The Doctor voluntarily chose to stop his sentence there, to show a hesitation. Nash would get more curious if he wasn’t giving her all the answers. Or pretending to giving her the answers. He couldn’t forget that she was manipulated by Jeremy Backfire and that his goals weren’t clear enough. No need to give him what he desired by mistake. Better not give them Rose and the other half of the Wolf. He would die protecting them. Dying was exactly the card he was gonna play. So far, the Wolf and him had worked together but he was always in charge, except for some incidents that had happened now and then. The Wolf was remaining hidden for its own safety. I t was just fixing the damages Nash was creating to its human shell when she was done. He would have died a long time ago without this power, which ironically was also killing him. “Unless what? Is there another card you wanna play? You think that talking all the way through that session will save your ass? We can’t even tell what’s true and what’s not.” “It’s up to you to believe me or not. But just so you know, I am fully human and humans can’t handle the power currently stuck in my head.” “Which means?” “I’m slowly dying. The power is burning everything in me and you’re speeding the process up with your methods.” Nash smirked. Maybe she believed him and was concerned for him deep down, but on the outside, she had to act like she didn’t. She had to pretend it was a trick when the doctor inside her wanted to check his words and save him. She couldn’t see it, the power burning his mind and causing rage fits and complete blackouts when he was alone in his cell. He was holding on pretty well so far but he didn’t have much time left. They would realise it soon enough. “Nice try, Doctor.” That new voice turned his blood to ice. Jeremy had been there all along the session and had witnessed their exchange. That explained why she was so tensed and acting like the Quiston Assassin she had once been. Well, you never ceased to be an assassin. You just learnt how to hide this part deep inside you. The Doctor was well placed to know that. Jeremy was done with these games. Now was the time for round two. If the Doctor didn’t want to say the truth, he was gonna talk to his other self, the one he was keeping hidden all the time, and there was only one way to force him out. He came in the room and dismissed Nash who obeyed wordlessly. He pushed the machine to the maximum. However, the Doctor was strong and he resisted. Him and his Wolf were a powerful team. Powerful enough for Jeremy to fly off the handle. The yellow room wasn’t enough. He had to hit harder. The Doctor was breathless. All his body was suffering from the electricity that had just gone through it. He laughed in Jeremy’s face instead of complaining and raging. He was rewarded with a punch in the face. It added more to his physical pain but didn’t affect his mood. He was determined not to let Jeremy win, no matter the cruel things he had in mind to torture him. It was certain that he wouldn’t like them at all. Jeremy was furious. He turned around, opened a drawer and pulled out a needle. He checked the label on it. They had invented a special mix for him. One that wouldn’t wear off in the minutes that followed the injection. One that would keep him awake but unable to move or speak or think. The fluid was injected straight in his jugular vein and slowly followed the course of blood to spread in his whole body until there was nothing of him that could react to Jeremy’s threats. When the Doctor was completely paralysed, Jeremy called a bunch of his subjects to transfer the patient in another room he had never seen before. It looked like an OR, with red walls. There was a metallic table in the centre where he was strapped down. He couldn’t move at all but they were taking no risk. His head was placed in a surgical vice? All around him, the walls and furniture were immaculate, sterilised. There was a whole collection of tools for surgery, all perfectly sterile and waiting to be used on a new Guinea pig. Behind the strong smell of bleach, there was the smell of terror, of blood, of urine. Many had been taken there before him and many had suffered from irremediable damages. Today, the Doctor was gonna get familiar with the red room. Here, they weren’t gonna flood his brain with electricity. They were gonna go further. They were gonna explore the brain itself, for real. Jeremy Backfire was nowhere close to being a neurologist. That was gonna be a disaster. “Well, Doctor, it’s about time we use brand new methods. Forget about the soft ones Nash was using on you. Now, I’m taking the control of your case.” Jeremy slipped a finger down the collection of tools, seemingly looking for the proper one to choose. His mind was already set on the scalpel but making the choice last was playing on the Doctor’s nerves. Everything to make the unwavering man drop his mask of confidence he was wearing so proudly. “See, Doctor, I want something from you and I’m ready to get it at any price.” Jeremy placed his cold hand on the Doctor’s face and folded his ear to clear the way. The scalpel stroked his skin, just above the ear, and cut the tender skin deeply. Blood flowed and ran down his neck. Jeremy put the scalpel down, grabbed a drill and tested it. He pressed the trigger a couple times to make sure it was working. Then he drilled a hole in the Doctor’s skull. The patient was conscious. He was feeling everything and couldn’t defend himself or scream. A brain surgery without anaesthetics. It was gonna push him beyond his limits and forced the Wolf to come out. Exactly what Jeremy was wishing for. He inserted a little sensor in the hole. The Doctor didn’t see it properly but he felt it. A sensor inside his brain. It could have been a sensor to monitor his brain’s activity but he sensed that it was for another purpose. Another method of torture that needed two holes and two sensors, one on each side of his head. He had been scared of death once. Right now, he surprised himself to think that it would be a relief. Jeremy wouldn’t give him that. “Oh, now, you’re scared, big ears,” commented Jeremy, amused. “Excellent. That’s the right attitude. It means you’re gonna give me what I want.” The Doctor did, and not because he chose to. Actually, he tried to resist as much as possible but being electrocuted straight in the brain was proved to be efficient as a torture method. The human abandoned the battle in less than ten minutes. The pain and death threat hanging above its host’s head compelled the Time Entity sleeping in his mind to come out and protect him. So far, it had been too weak to even show up but it had found out that feeding on the evil vibes and negative emotions that were filling this place was more satisfying than feeding on a Time rift like the TARDIS needed. Being in a human body didn’t only have drawbacks. It could now take control and show that damn man who was the real boss around here. The Doctor’s eyes turned gold and a loud growl came from his throat. In the second, all the restraints and sensors vanished in golden particles and the Doctor, possessed by the Wolf, was on his feet. The cuts healed themselves. Jeremy stepped back, a smirk on his lips. He was scared of course. He knew partly what the Wolf was capable of. It was better not to make it angrier. It was mad enough at the moment. “There you are.” “Oh, so I’m the one you expected to see? You happy? Good. Because that’s the last thing you will ever have done in your miserable little life.” The Wolf took another step toward Jeremy. It wanted to lay its hands on him and feel his body disintegrating as it erased him from time and space, as he reduced his whole existence to dust. It had been provoked, but it also had been given the strength to finally be in charge. Wiping Jeremy away would also wipe Maxence away and that wasn’t an option. It had to reduce Jeremy to nothing and yet, keep him alive. There was one simple way to have its revenge on him and run away from here to find the real Doctor. “You think we didn’t plan it all? That we didn’t take any measure for the day you would come out again?” “Oh, you’re getting clever.” “Always have been.” The Wolf snorted, “What do you want from me?” “Do you even have to ask?” “Pure politeness.” Because the Wolf was already in his head and looking for the information it desired. Which wasn’t complicated. Humans were open books. They didn’t have any lock or any barrier to protect their minds. If they knew what was living among them, what was coming for them in the future, they would protect themselves better. At the moment though, it was an opportunity. “Hm. Humans are predictable but you have the merit of being different. On some points at least.” That hospital was only a façade. They were using this asylum to hide their real activities. Their basement had been turned into a lab and a prison for non-terrestrial species. The place was protected by all the human technology available at this time and it was doubled with some alien technology. They were capturing every alien specimen they could find and experimenting on them to get as much information as they could get. Worse than Van Statten and Torchwood. Jeremy had even offered himself some upgrades with this data. And one day, he had heard about the Doctor. “You want me. You want my power to rewrite yourself. My power and my immortality. Basic.” “I want the Doctor and I can’t reach him without you.” “You want to use me to get him?” The Wolf scoffed. “The Doctor left me on Earth, stuck in the mind of his now human former self who didn’t want to die. Do you think he cares about the bomb I am? If he did care, he would have taken me out of here and you wouldn’t have known a thing about it.” “He hasn’t come because he doesn’t know. We caught you before you could do anything and this place intercepts most of the calls. Telepathic or not. You did call him but if he got the message, he never came around.” The Wolf clenched its fist and a golden glow travelled through his veins. The anger burnt in its hosts body and mind. If it had any limit, Jeremy would have crossed them. It was about time to break the man once and for all. “You can’t have me or my power. I won’t let you. And if you want the Doctor to come, draw his attention with something big. Big ball of troubles. He loves that.” “I don’t remember giving you the choice.” Jeremy wasn’t losing his impertinence. “I can’t do anything to neutralise you completely and force you to obey, but I can still break your human shell.” “Go on, try.” Jeremy smirked. The Wolf pressed a hand on his face to reduce his brain to a puddle of grey cells, to make a vegetable of him. It should have seen it coming but it was one of those grey zones. The moments always in flux. The ones where a decision needed to be made. And Jeremy had just taken his when the Wolf chose to attack instead of submitting. There was a whistle caused by a flying object and the Wolf felt a distinct sting in his thigh. A needle. “YOU THINK IT’LL STOP ME?” it roared. It was really mad now. It began the process of killing Jeremy from the inside. Its other hand grabbed his throat and lifted him from the ground. He was struggling against the hand strangling him, his feet dangling in the air, but his face showed a clear victorious expression. “I was just the distraction,” he panted. The door of the room flew open and someone shot five times. The Wolf roared louder as the five needles jabbed in its back. It let go of Jeremy to run to the person who had dared shooting it. But it found itself unable to move anymore. It was losing its power, its control and slowly being numbed by the drugs he had been given. The Doctor couldn’t take over for the moment so the Wolf fought. In vain. It fell to its knees, to Jeremy’s feet who was watching him with a victorious smile. “I always get what I want, Maxence. You should know that.” Those were the last words the Wolf could hear before it completely fell to the ground, beaten by the high dose of modified drugs they had shot him with. Nash would have a furious Wolf to deal with on their next appointment. It wasn’t gonna forget or forgive that. Jeremy would pay for that. Not from the cell. It wanted to face this asshole when it would get his revenge. Just for fun. It would carve it in its memories to never forget. It would laugh about it. However, it would have to wait until later. The nurses chained up the Doctor’s body again and dragged him to his room. Since he was deeply asleep, they didn’t even bother carrying him. Dragging him was less tiring. They threw him in his cell and took away the chains before they left and locked the door behind them.

To be continued...

The Fallen © | 2019 | Tous droits réservés.

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[restoringtheattic]

Still navigating...

Hey y'all!

I'm back again! I'm going to attempt to reserve this post to "navigating life after Traumatic brain injury"

That is if my #tbi brain don't get the best of me and I start rambling about everything else 😂🙄

The organ which is the essence of everything I think and feel has been traumatically injured 😱

"Can I get a band-aid for my brain, please" 🙋

If only it were that simple, right? 🙄

I feel as a theif has broke into my skull and went through the cabinets and corners of my brain and has stolen my most important and precious belongings. Everything is fair game for brain injury to take and damage.

Now, it's been my ongoing mission to recover these things and place them back where they belong. But, like any good detective knows, this will not be easily done without some tenacious investigative work. 💪

When you recover these things, they are likely to be damaged. Maybe some missing parts. Broken and bruised. As you recover these items, you also have the task of attempting to place these things back EXACTLY where they were taken from. Impossible!

But, that's okay.🙏

I have to rearrange these items because I can't recall exactly where they were when they were taken from me. As I recover the pieces, I will arrange them back to something that looks similar to how it was before but not quite the same.

And thats okay 😊

"What if I don't find all the pieces that were stolen?!"

Well, that's okay too 😊 not without saying it can be incredibly hard to come to terms with not recovering your " missing parts". Our brains are banks that hold invaluable things, personality, emotions, memories, the very basis of how we function in life, the list is neverending. When these things are hijacked , the impact can be profound. But just maybe if we can learn to become more accepting of this "new normal" we can be more productive individuals. As for myself, Its an ongoing process to arrive at that "acceptance" destination. Which in part is what this blog is about 💕

I spent the first year or more after my injury in a sort of "Brain injury training course". Laying out the groundwork for my life that had been so suddenly rearranged. That year was undoubtedly the toughest, crawling my way around this new reality like a newborn. My emotions fluctuated, my reactions were intense. I was quick to respond without thinking anything through, and those responses weren't always nice 😡 Shout out to my family and friends for dealing with that for the first year, I'm positive I was a pain in the 🍑😂. (not to say I'm any less of a pain in the ass now 😂) With time and treatment, those things leveled out. 🙏

I withered so much time away being angry and asking "why me". Angry at myself, angry at God for "letting this happen", angry at the universe for letting me suffer. I felt as if the brain injury itself was just rotting away my mind.

It wasn't until I was talking to a former coworker I realized how negatively self absorbed I was being. I will be eternally grateful for that conversation and her bringing that issue to light.

"Lindsey, you've literally been given a second chance at life, your going to sit here and 🤬 waste it being mad at the world?".

I was offended at first! How could she say that to me?! I was injured, I was broken .

I had to sit with that thought for a minute before I responded (which proved I was capable of thinking before responding 😅) It didn't take me long to realize she was right. I needed to change my outlook. I was here, I had the tools to overcome this. I just had to put one foot in front of the other, so to speak 😊

I definitely still have many struggles, but so does everyone else. The world is not going to "give me a break" just because I have a brain injury.

The struggles I feel that impact me most are related to my physical appearance, but again, that's my own internalization of what I see in the mirror, not because anyone has told me I look weird or different. I'll be the first to tell you I'm not comfortable with what I see in the mirror when looking at my face (related to injuries from the accident) . Which is something I'm still working to overcome, with cosmetic surgery AND working within myself to make sure I have the right outlook- and that's OKAY 😊

The only person who can be responsible for how you will recover is yourself. I encourage anyone to always have the most optimistic attitude possible when it comes to yourself and how you bounce back.

Wherever you are in your recovery process, remember IT is OKAY. Progress, however slow or fast is still progress. Don't spend too much time in your own mind and think of things you could have done differently. These bodies that serve home to our souls are human, prone to damage, illness and error. There's nothing you could have done differently, you are where you're supposed to be. Brain injury isn't a "punishment", it's something that happens because we are human. God isn't up there handing out TBI punishment cards to us that misbehave on Earth (not to say you don't have to answer for your actions, but that's an entirely different blog post not related to this at all 🤨) with that being said it's up to you to deduct your own reasoning and purpose from your situation. As crazy as my journey has been, I can look back and identify a reason and purpose or lesson for every single tough time along the way.

As a final note, remember to laugh! 😂 laugh at everything, laugh at yourself if you have to (lord knows I do) there's definitely something therapeutic about finding humor in your own situation!

Thank you guys for reading!

Love and light to all of you🕯️❤️

As always, if there's anything I can ever help you with or discuss with you, just message me, find me on Facebook or Instagram, send a smoke signal etc...😂

IG: lindz_606

📧: lch5fd@gmail.com

[acaseforpencils]

The Ink Well Foundation.

The Ink Well Foundation is a non-profit that helps bring smiles to the faces of children facing adversity such as illness, neglect, and abuse. I cannot begin to express how big of an honor it is to have Elizabeth Winter on Case—this interview brought me to tears, and it means a lot to share her message on here, so that you all can help more children in need to be able to connect with this incredible foundation.

Bio: I am the Founder and Executive Director of the Ink Well Foundation. Growing up, I had cancer my entire childhood—it was a rare cancer that kept getting misdiagnosed, which meant a fair amount of biopsies and days in the hospital, and finally major surgery where I was told I might wake up without a leg. I am very fortunate in that the doctors were able to remove all the cancer without amputating, and I have been cancer-free since I was about 20 years old. 

That experience gave me a lot of empathy and compassion for kids facing long, isolating hospital stays. There were also other issues during my childhood: I experienced a lot of abandonment with a mother who just could not play the role of mother, and who eventually died when I was fifteen. In general, I just had a pretty severe lack of affection and emotional support growing up. All that made me very tough, in some ways too tough and it wound up creating only further isolation and pain. 

As an adult, I saw that pain mirrored in other children's eyes and I began to seek out a way to connect with them, to help them and myself learn to nurture and heal together. I strongly feel that genuine human bonding can fuel both physical and emotional healing. I also think getting out into nature and carrying that same respect to all wildlife helps us to become humble and connected in a very powerful way, so we stress those ideas in our work often.

In 2005, I was working in animation in New York City, and I stood up in a meeting at work one day, and asked if any of the other artists would like to come along with me to draw with kids facing illness and hardship. A couple people raised their hands, and we went together to Gilda's Club out in Brooklyn (that club house has since closed, but we still go to the one in Manhattan). The artists who came along in those early years, like Rami Efal and Ray Alma, Pedro Delgado and Sergei Aniskov—those people are all still volunteers today! That says so much to me about the kind of people this work attracts. We've all become like family over the years and I love those guys so much. 

It all began at Gilda's Club, but then I reached out to places like the Ronald McDonald House, St. Mary's Hospital and Bellevue Hospitals, and we slowly but surely became accepted and welcomed at healthcare and at-risk support centers all across New York, because the kids loved what we did, and at then end of every event they were begging us to come back. So we always did! That is the true mark of success for me every time, when the kids are yelling at us to get back there as soon as we can.

A few years ago, I learned about the great organization on the Upper East Side, The Society of Illustrators. Their Executive Director, Anelle Miller, connected me with all these other great artists like Stefano Imbert, Bil Donovan, Abby Merrill, and Elana Amity (who is now our Event Director at Mount Sinai Hospital, where she hosts a monthly live drawing call-in show that beams to all the kids' hospital rooms at once). They draw along with us and call or text in with questions and comments. It's hilarious and adorable. We also connected with the great people of the National Cartoonists Society, and wonderful artists like Ed Steckley, Adrian Sinnott, Howard Beckerman, Tim Savage, Marty Macaluso, Joe Vissichelli and so many more. 

After MTV Animation New York shut down, pretty much all my colleagues and I from great shows like Beavis and Butthead, Daria, The Head, and Celebrity Death Match all moved out west. So I had this great group of talented friends still living there, and based on the Ink Well's popularity in NYC, I thought, let's give it a shot there too! I reached out to my former colleague from Rugrats and Wild Thornberrys, Joseph Scott, and asked if he'd be interested in running things there. He is now heading up all our operations in L.A. and he is just the most phenomenally kind and talented person on earth. With his art skills he could do whatever he wanted but he devotes a huge amount of time to the kids we work with and I'm so moved by his giving spirit and boundless good energy. And Michael Daedalus Kenny is also stepping up in a leadership role as our newest Event Director, we've got amazing artists like Marla Frazee of Boss Baby genius, Monica Tomova from SpongeBob, Jeanette Moreno, king of The Simpsons, Chris Harmon from Futurama, Ashley Simpson from Phineas and Ferb, Christian Lignan of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, graphic novelist, Jeremy Arambulo and so many others so we're in great hands there. I just wish the traffic weren't such a problem! It really is tough to get around that city, unlike NYC where there's a decently functioning subway that goes to all our locations, so getting around is no real trouble comparatively.

Tools of choice:  Our events are usually very handmade by design so that the kids can feel like they could do all of this easily by themselves. So we come up with themes like, “Who is your Superhero?,” and we ask the kids to focus on their strengths and what superpowers they wish they would have, and we draw their portraits as such. We are not art therapists, but we feel these event themes help to make the kids focus on positivity and their potential, and therefore help them to bond and heal. 

We do sometimes get more elaborate, like when we teach stop motion, claymation, and we once even taught them how to build homemade rockets on the roof of Bellevue Hospital! One of our Event Directors at the time, Nathan Schreiber, used to come up with the most fantastic science-focused events. He now runs a company called Science Ninjas, that helps kids learn about science with fun card games. But usually it's simple by design.

We are extremely fortunate to have Blick Arts as a sponsor. Their support enables us to provide each child with their own art kit after each event so that they can keep creating on their own after they learn new skills with us so thanks to them we have a lot of the arts tools we need.

Tool I wish existed: I think we do great working with anything we've got lying around- we emphasize the potential of just about anything to become art: we often create characters out of inanimate objects, make flip books, sculptures and puppets— using everything from card stock to socks to toothpicks and gum drops. We keep it accessible and inventive. 

How can we support The Ink Well Foundation? Because our volunteers are by definition "the artists behind the kids' favorite books, films, comics, and TV shows," we don't solicit volunteers from the general public. We do have an online application on our site, so other professionals that meet our criteria in the illustration, animation, and cartooning industries are welcome to apply there. 

What the general public can do is to help us spread the word so that more children can see that others are going through what they're going through, and also so that they see examples of adults believing in them and encouraging them. We try to promote the idea of art as self-expression and a way to get through trying times, ideally together. Connectivity and encouragement are critical to healing, and honestly, to just building a better world. So we talk about that a lot on our social media and at the events themselves. We also honor the kids' intelligence by talking about art in general there— we highlight classic and new artists and ideas and encourage them to learn from those masters as they develop their own skills.

Because we are a very small 100% volunteer-run organization, we focus on giving the kids the greatest events possible, and sometimes that means we don't have a lot of time for social media, self-promotion, and fund-raising. So spreading the word is huge and we are always extremely grateful for, and in need of, any financial donations. 

Where are Ink Well Foundation events held? We operate in New York City and Los Angeles because that's where the top artists in our fields are concentrated. We go to hospitals and at-risk support centers like Ronald McDonald House, Gilda's Club, Bellevue, St. Mary's, Mount Sinai, Childhelp, Covenant House and more. You can see the full list here. 

How can children who don't live near Ink Well Foundation events benefit from your Pen Pals Program? This is another reason we want people to spread the word. Loved ones of a child experiencing serious illness or hardship, who is physically or geographically unable to attend our events, can apply to have a special artwork sent straight to them. We ask the kids what their favorite animated films, TV shows, or illustrated books are, and then we have an artist who actually worked on that production make something tailored to that child. We then frame it up, and send it off to them by mail. 

We've done this with artists from SpongeBob, Captain Underpants, and just a week ago, we delivered a beautiful drawing of Curious George that our Event Directors, Franz Palomares and Lisa LaBracio (both of whom worked on Curious George) lovingly made. This was for a girl named, Maryanne who lives in Florida. She suffers from a rare disease called, vein of galen malformation that has led to brain damage and vision loss. She is unable to talk or walk or eat through her mouth and she suffers seizures but she understands everything around her, and she can feel texture. So Franz and Lisa made her Curious George playing in a sand box, and they glued real sand into the picture, so that Maryanne could feel that, and enjoy the art on multiple levels. Maryanne's mother, Sandra, said that she was thrilled, and that she loves to hold it. 

Our hearts are full being able to share these works with kids who need that moment of light, and that knowledge that an adult they admire, someone who doesn't even know them well, can care enough about them to take the time to create careful, tailor-made artworks just for them. We hope that helps to bring a smile in the moment, and build self-worth long term.

Misc. I'd like to mention that everything we do is 100% free of charge. No one gets paid, no money ever changes hands for the art. We have brilliant artists like Peter de Séve who is on our board and attends many events, while also creating characters for Ice Age, The Little Prince, and all his New Yorker covers. He could get a mint for his works, but he comes down and does this for free, and that's a testament to the power of that loving connection we all feel when we are just selflessly helping one another.

I feel this most acutely when I'm working with youth who have suffered abuse and neglect. We have an Event Director, Jane Archer, who leads our work at Bellevue Hospital. Many of those kids are there because they have been through unendurable trauma, and Jane connects with them beautifully. She begins with a meditation where we all envision our strengths together, we talk about our talents, and hopes for a brighter day, we imagine embodying those gifts and then we gently, patiently, ask the kids to help us draw characters step by step. Many kids start out very suspicious and resistant, even angry. But by the end of the events they are almost always laughing and teasing us, and they don't want to stop creating. It is my greatest joy to experience that transition and I hope we may continue to spread this support and faith in one another for many years to come.

Website, Etc: 

We are @inkwellkids on every platform:

Website

Facebook 

Instagram

Twitter

Find more posts about art supplies on Case’s Instagram! There is a Twitter as well. If you enjoy this blog, and would like to contribute to labor and maintenance costs, there is also a Patreon!

[mochidoodle]

Houseki - 宝石

Since there’s been some curiosity about it lately, I’ve decided to officially introduce Houseki! Houseki is my original series made with the help of my faithful editor-in-chief @ukitakejuushiro​​​.

It all began with my first D&D character, a half-elf druid named Eizan Shen whose backstory I fleshed out over the past year. The story takes place in the elf nation of Liang (Chinese: 亮), meaning “light/brightness.” I incorporated my Asian heritage into a fantasy, magic-filled world brimming with all the classic (and favorite) fantasy story tropes. Sky-high towers and mages and dragons...a mix modern fashion with ancient Chinese wardrobes...and a set of unique customs built on Asian foundations. (ok now I sound like a chef on Chopped😅)

This explanation ended up hella long, so the rest is under the cut! I’m so happy people are curious about Houseki. It’s the culmination of my love for drawing, world-building, and storytelling (and anime ofc lol). Hope y’all enjoy my first original story!

The Kingdom of Liang

The prosperous Kingdom of Liang is a country landlocked on three sides, facing the sea on its west coast. It’s ruled by an oligarchy-monarchy mishmash I’ve yet to totally work out and three big political factions I won’t delve into too much now. The important thing to know is Eizan’s wife, Saya, connects him to the nobility because she’s the niece of the king. Her entire backstory is a wild ride involving a dispute for the throne, “dishonoring” her clan, and finding a family for herself. 

For the most part, the main plot revolves Eizan and his job. If you’ve read MTNN by Matsui Yuusei, you’ll figure out exactly who inspired Eizan...in fact he’s kinda like a (slight) Pokemon evolution of my favorite MTNN character (lol oops...)

Anyway, for that reason, I gave Eizan a similar-ish job. (I’ll keep Eizan spoilers to a minimum here because the campaign I’m playing right now has yet to reveal his deets... but if asked, I’d be happy to give’em!) We follow his adventures and meet his best friend, Taizi (a human) and his brother-in-law, Chai (an aspiring mage). 

Due to a horrific 100-year-long war (appropriately named the 100 Year War), Liang experiences the aftereffects of rampant xenophobia. Nowadays, border relations are peaceful and the xenophobia is minimal, but the bitter aftertaste of intermittent racism and elf elitism remains. 

We get a dose of this in Taizi’s backstory — Taizi and his human family were immigrant beggars rejected by the locals until Eizan’s father offered them a home and helped them get back on their feet. Ever since then, Eizan and Taizi have been the best of friends, like brothers. 

Meanwhile, Chai, the snooty son of one of the biggest royals around, learns what it means to be the “non-elite.” He meets Taizi, his sister marries Eizan (a commoner and a half-blood), and he becomes a working apprentice at the local woodshop. His is a tale of self discovery, treating people with fairness, finding his own goals, and opening his worldview when he crosses paths with characters from all walks of life.

Jade

One of the most important customs in Liang is the symbolism of jade. Jade is the most sacred stone, symbolizing a lifelong promise between two (or more) people. It is a vow of friendship, family, love, and loyalty. Jade is not to be gifted lightly. Royals tend to have a family and/or individual ring made of jade.

Most, if not all couples, will exchange unique jade pieces when they marry. I call it “Trade a Jade” (˚▽˚) For example, Eizan gave Saya her hair clip and she gave him a set of earrings. Sky gave Yuri a beautiful hair ornament, and she gave him jade chevron ear cuffs. (Couples do trade other items, but these happened to be similar gifts.)

Magic

The theory of magic in Liang is based off the number eight, representing harmony and balance. Mages use “anchors” to connect themselves to the natural energy of the world. While magic theory/technique may vary geographically, Liangese magic always utilizes eight anchors. A gate between the first seven anchors and the universe is established using your soul anchor (the eighth pillar, one’s own mana). The first seven are elemental anchors (fire, earth, water, etc) which draw power from the natural world. The stronger the mage, the purer the magic, meaning one can draw a greater quantity of power with a better connection.

Gemstones — houseki (宝石) — are used to enhance the channels established by anchors. Certain jewels even have elemental affinities. Stones with high purity resonate strongly and channel the best magic. 

Fun fact: If you take away the hat-shaped radical in the first character of Houseki, you get the word for “jade”...! 

Connecting to different anchors produces different spells. For example, combining several elements provides complex magics like telepathy and foresight. Using only one type of anchor creates create pure magic, such as straight up fire or water spells. However, magic is not produced out of thin air — it requires a trade of the user’s mana for the world’s energy. A spell’s strength still depends on the caliber of mage, not just what anchors they use.

Magic tools are very common. They use magic batteries made of gems/metal ores or simply rely on the user’s mana. Inscriptions and magic circles establish anchors if none are enchanted into the gems. High quality magic tools are made of metals with high magic compatibility. The more common items made from regular steel, stone, and glass include thoughtography radios, magic-infused cameras, and quartz crystal TVs.

Additionally, healing is possible by accessing life element anchors (found in your soul anchor or in organic objects) to summon sheer life force energy. Liangese healing magic is very advanced to the point where one can conduct brain and open-heart surgeries. However, the usage of certain magics is forbidden without qualification. Medicinal magic is limited to certified clerics, and alchemy is strictly prohibited unless you’ve graduated from the capital’s School of Alchemy. 

Note: Much sketchy underworld business revolves around black magic, illegal alchemy, and magic weapons trade.

Basic spells are taught in grade schools, but not everyone has strong magic affinity, so mastery isn’t a requirement. Most children continue on to a regular university, vocational school, or magic academy if they don’t enter a direct apprenticeship following primary education. Easy spells are frequently used in daily life to simplify tasks. For example, one can check the quality of materials or speed up certain processes using analysis/trace magic. Cooking magic is an entire art on its own, and very difficult to master.

There are laws banning time-altering magic and revival of the dead, but very few ever violate them. This is because these spells never end well. You can land in an eternal time loop or accidentally create a soulless, man-eating zombie. And then you die.  While spells that save someone on the brink of death in exchange for one’s own life force do exist, you cannot bring back the dead. 

There is only one exception to this, and even that singular instance required hundreds of years of research and preparation, not to mention the cost.

Finally, certain noble clans specialize in different magics, often attaining mastery of multiple disciplines. I’ll save that for a different post, but for now, just know that the Cheng Lis are primarily fire, alchemy, and space/time mages. Eizan is good with earth or plant-based spells (aka he has a great green thumb!)

commissioned art by Ling

Plot (???)

The plot of Houseki is still a work in progress. I have a general outline that I keep adding to as more ideas come. I’m writing out the fine details/arcs, which will include the dark underbelly of the royal world, black magic, a threat to the nation, the secret to life (?), and the truth behind the throne. Love me my cliches hehe~

Here are some character facts you might find interesting! ...okay, yes, my cast is like 90% one royal family and I have terrible naming sense (I legit named Taizi after my fave badminton player) but here ya go!

MAIN CAST 

Eizan Shen: A half-elf druid created for my first ever D&D campaign hosted by a friend! He’s a huge family man and an avid tea enthusiast. Very calm, levelheaded, and specializes in handling a knife...or many knives. (I don’t know where he keeps them...😨) Eizan gives off ultimate dad vibes and his most treasured thing in the world is his family.

Saya Shen: Eizan’s wife, a full elf born to one of the most powerful royal clans. She was supposed to be the first princess of Liang, but was disowned by her family when she rebelled from their ideals and married a commoner (and a half-blood, to boot). She’s an incredibly strong woman both mentally and physically, but also one of the warmest, most loving characters in the series. Oh, also her biceps are made of steel.

Chai Cheng Li: Saya’s little brother, a young mage prodigy who specializes in fire magic. He’s a tad snooty and arrogant, but at heart just a nerdy bookworm who loves magic. He grows up admiring his sister, feeling heartbroken when she “abandons” him and leaves the family, but later rediscovers himself and in his journey to become king. 

Taizi Ying: Eizan’s childhood friend. He and his family were immigrant beggars shunned by the locals until Eizan’s parents offered them a place to stay. After his parents died of illness, Taizi made it his life goal to repay the kindness that Eizan’s family showed him years ago. He becomes the greatest swordsman in the nation and earns great respect despite the human blood in his veins. 

Dae Ongaku: She is spunk in the form of a small elf girl, the one and only Dae. Head apprentice of the Shen Woodworking Company, her skills are nearly unrivaled. She’s known for her contagious smile, eccentric love of cheese, and her liveliness. It really isn’t a day without Dae Ongaku. (Character inspired and written by @ukitakejuushiro)

Sky Silvers: A cool and aloof elven ranger who befriends Eizan during our D&D campaign, later residing in the Shen household temporarily before he becomes a disciple of the greatest archer in Liangese history, Hanzhen Cheng Li. In the future timeline, Sky also ends up falling in love with Han’s daughter and marrying her. (Sky belongs to @ukitakejuushiro, and is her player in the campaign.)

Hanzhen Cheng Li: Youngest brother of the king and Saya’s uncle. Known far and wide as the One-Eyed Archer, Han is the strongest archer in all of Liangese history. He lost function of his left eye in the 100 Year War, hence his nickname. His wife passed away due to cancer, but thanks to my incredible plot armor (backed up by a decent magic theory), she will come back to life. They’re the cutest shit you’ll ever see, so I have absolutely no regrets. Best decision ever.

Yumiko Cheng Li: Han’s beloved wife, a cute little lady with a head of fluffy chestnut hair. She died approximately 75-85 years ago due to an incurable cancer, but I brought her back to life because Han was too lonely and I love her to bits. She is pure sunshine, the actual greatest good in this world.

Just look at this...how can you say no....

Yuri Cheng Li: Daughter of Han and Yumiko. Like her parents before her, she is a skilled archer, and her personality is a perfect mix of the two. She has a passion for fashion, art, and teaching, but her emotionally tragic past hinders her confidence and her relationships. Fortunately, she meet someone who helps her becomes brave again, and fate aligns just right :’)

Hokuzhen Cheng Li: We should finally introduce the King of Liang himself, shouldn’t we? Cheerful and easygoing, Hoku is a kind and intelligent king. He’s very perceptive of the state of the nation, while also keeping up with “hip and cool” trends much to his daughter’s dismay. He can be somewhat clumsy, often tripping over his massive robes. A good man with one too many dad jokes...

Alishan Cheng Li: The Crown Princess of Liang, named after the literal Alishan mountain range of Taiwan. She’s Hoku’s daughter and Saya’s cousin. Ali is polite and well-mannered but not particularly adventurous or motivated. She knows for sure that she doesn’t want to inherit the throne. Oh, and she loves food (especially mantou) ♫

Bonus:

Wakamori Yakaze: A spirit mage from the western island country of Kouhaku. Yakaze is Sky’s first teacher and Han’s best friend. Though he doesn’t appear in Houseki’s main plot, he’s a main character in Han’s spinoff story, which will rejoin the final timeline of the main series. Yakaze’s tale is one of angst and hopelessness and his journey to someday becoming whole again. Personally, I believe his friendship with Han is unrivaled, far surpassing both love and life. Keep an eye out for him in YUMI TO YA —弓と矢  (Yakaze belongs to @ukitakejuushiro)

ANTAGONISTS

Yan Wu Seigi: A cunning mage who runs an underworld spy network. He is the head of the Seigi clan (and political faction), but his heinous actions in the 100 Year War dishonored his clan, and they were stripped of their status. His sly methods and ulterior motives drive the underlying plot behind Houseki.

Akagi Kanshikan: Yan Wu’s adopted son. Akagi lost his family to a house fire when he was young. He grows up a wild, obsessive, and unstable youth who craves social intimacy but doesn’t know how to achieve it. His love for violence and lifelong training as an assassin don’t help much either. He meets Eizan during their school years and plays a large role in one of the more devastating arcs. 

Jimo Kanshikan: Akagi’s younger sister, a small, emotionless, and cold assassin. Trained to be a killer since her formative years, she is fast and deadly...but somewhere deep inside, she wishes Yan Wu would show her fatherly approval and she seeks warmth from her sibling(s). 

Shanmu Seigi: Yan Wu’s only biological daughter, a wicked poison enchantress who adores mind games. She supports her father’s regime but also has an evil plan of her own. The shame of their clan drove her to mother to madness, and Shanmu’s hand in her mother’s demise explains why she has become so twisted. Shanmu is a recurring antagonist who cleverly slips beyond reach of the law.

Hayazhen Cheng Li: The eldest Cheng Li brother, Saya’s father, and formerly the Crown Prince of Liang. He was once a benevolent man to his loved ones, but after an unfortunate plot twist, he begins seeking vengeance in the form of cruelly grooming his heir. Hayazhen is a key national figure and maintains strong influence behind political tides. 

Asuka Cheng Li: Hayazhen’s wife, mother of Saya and Chai. She supports her husband’s endeavors regrets her inability to help Hayazhen make wiser choices. Instead, she blindly takes his side, thinking it was the only way to support him. 

Junzhen Cheng Li: A stingy, arrogant second Cheng Li brother. He’s just straight up mean and rude, no holds barred. But no one gives a damn about him either lol.

SUPPORTERS & FRIENDS

Setsuna Reifan: A renowned healer who spearheads the movement for workers’ rights and class equality. She becomes an important ally to the main cast. 

Ichirou Reifan: Setsuna’s son, a member of Eizan’s team. A really average joe. Pleasant to be around, but not very interesting.

Hyouka Tsaomei: A quiet, sweet girl who specializes in illusionary magic. She loves strawberries. Her name means strawberry. Will kill for strawberry shortcake. 

Qiuzhen Rin Koori: Magic forensic specialist who only likes three things in this world — coffee, candy, and sleep. It pains him to get out of his chair, and it’s near impossible to extract him from his magic lab. 

Old Nao: Headmaster of one of the military academies in the capital. A kind man, but also incredibly ancient.

Torisu Bia: One of the Ongaku Daily Sun’s best political journalists. Doesn’t sleep much, loves to write, and gets her nose into sticky situations every now and then. Uncovers a great conspiracy.

Osamu Raisan: A bard of the royal court who plays the shamisen. Something about him is particularly ethereal and all-knowing...

Maikku Shantian: Another bard of the royal court. He sings. Loudly. A very popular bard amongst the populace. 

Layla Zanabaq: A local florist in the capital’s most immigrant-populated town, where Eizan and Saya live. Has a huge crush on Maikku. (Inspired and created by @harunnn)

Shu’un & Ranshao: Two of Chai’s university friends. The first is a salty little mage who uses familiars, and the second is the token idiot who only knows how to use explosion magic.

Paiya Yoon: Dae’s childhood friend and rival. She moves into the capital when she finds a new job there, rekindling their competitive friendship. She’s named after a papaya. Yes, you heard me, a papaya. (Inspired by @kyahgamis​)

Rem: Sky’s eternally sleepy childhood friend. Even while holding a conversation, there is a 99% chance he is asleep. May or may not be a ninja, but you didn’t hear that from m—

Collie: An archery kouhai from Sky’s youth. She looks up to him a lot and she flaps her ears when she’s excited, as if she might try and fly away. Collie is often mistaken for a boy.

Ra: A very Extra™ healer who has 100% faith in his skills (as should you). He calls people by their full name all the time (a power move), doesn’t skimp on eyeliner, and has known Sky since his village days as well. (Rem, Collie, Ra by @ukitakejuushiro)

FAMILY 

Ezi Shen: The plucky, curious daughter of Eizan and Saya! She adores the color pink and loves bows of all kinds: bow ties, ribbon bows, bow tie pasta, you name it! Ezi is quite the fearless little adventurer and one should consider it an honor to be invited to her weekly tea parties.

Daizan Shen: Eizan’s father, a master woodworker who owns the shop where Dae works. He’s a strict but fair man who earned great respect amongst fellow craftsmen with his hard work and skills. He and his wife serve as the liaisons between local mixed-race business and the corporate elf society. 

Meihua Shen: Eizan’s mother and Daizan’s wife. Though she was born to elite elven family, Meihua pursued her dream of being a seamstress. She now owns a beautiful dress and tailor shop. Despite being a pacifist, Meihua’s incredible intelligence was needed at the end of the 100 Year War, and she temporarily served as the head military strategist.

Tian Cheng Li: The only daughter of the previous king and sister to all of the Cheng Li brothers. Tian is an absolute riot who turns proper princess stereotypes on their heads. She is the root source of Saya’s spunky nature, the rebellious and boisterous Cheng Li aunt. 

Hayano and Irino Cheng Li: The notorious family twins, Tian’s youngest sons. They are the most chaotic duo of memes elves you’ll ever meet. They always have their hair dyed one wacky color or another. Lately it’s been orange (Hayano) and lavender (Irino). 

Hokkaia Hibari: Saya’s maternal grandmother, a very loving and tender woman who taught her grandchildren how to read and write. When the family dynamic turned sour, the children sought comfort in Hokkaia. She taught them to hope and dream :’) 

The Ongaku Family: Dae’s family of two fishermen, a navy boy, and the editor-in-chief of the Ongaku Daily Sun. They’re frequently so busy with work (coastal fishing, deployment, running the newspaper, etc) that they’re often absent from the household. As a result, Dae practically lives with the Shens nowadays.

Rei, Jun, & Maeno Cheng Li: The rest of Saya’s cousins. Rei is the oldest, an elegant but stiff woman. Underneath her guise of propriety, she seems lonely, like she just wants to have fun and be friends. Meanwhile, Jin is her stuck-up asshole of a little brother, a true snob. Don’t give Jin time of day, ever — it’ll get to his head. Finally, Maeno is the benevelent older bro of Tian’s twins. He has a soft, round stature and a warm smile.

Sei Ling Zhou: The former queen, mother of all the Cheng Li siblings, and the most renowned healer in history. She’s known for her quirky attitude and snarky clapbacks, having once turned down the proposal of the last king himself. Sei Ling will discover a never-before-seen spell that could very well be considered the “secret” of life...

Akira and Kawano Cheng Li: Akira is Junzhen’s wife and mother to Rei and Jin. She married into the family forcefully, desiring access to their magic libraries. Akira is not a stranger to getting what she wants. Kawano is Tian’s husband, a calm and steady man to balance out her spontaneity. He comes from a family that owns a fruit import company.

CUSTOMS

Jade: As mentioned before, the jade stone is the most precious and worshiped gem. Recklessly gifting jade would tarnish one’s reputation and belittle Liangese culture. Of course, they are understanding of mistakes, especially when foreigners are just learning about their customs.

Festivals: Liang has four big seasonal festivals — the Lantern Festival on the summer solstice, the Lunar Dance Festival in mid-autumn, the White Tiger Festival on the week of the new year, and the Jade Horse Festival on the spring equinox. People gather to pray to shrines, dance and sing, eat good food, and visit their families. 

Tournaments: Similarly, Liang also has four seasonal tournaments called “Medals.” Winners of the Medals, appropriately called Medalists, are recognized as the greatest master in their respective fields. (Minor competitions also occur, but these are the big ones):

There is the Swordsmanship Medal, which lasts five days and ends on the summer equinox (the day the Lantern Festival begins).

The Ceremonial Dance Medal in mid-autumn, which perfectly coincides with the Lunar Dance Festival. 

The Archery Medal on the winter solstice.

And finally the Horsemanship Medal during the spring equinox.

(all statistics are approximate and not quite final yet!)

Mastery of Arts: In Liang, mastery in any field (magic, arts, athletics, medicine, etc) is a very respected achievement. Oftentimes, masters are the older folks, hence why elders are held in high regard. An important plot point involves Taizi achieving mastery of the sword and winning the Swordsmanship Medal, defying classism and racism, and becoming one of the youngest and most respected masters of his generation. 

Market Day: A day-long event akin to an Asian night market or western farmers’ market. Shop owners, farmers, and restaurateurs gather in the central marketplaces of large and small cities alike to sell their specialty items. It’s a day to celebrate food and advertise your best goods! 

PLACES

Hisui: The capital. It has a circular layout and lies in the western central region of Liang. The Royal Palace sits at its center, hugged by a river that comes from the north. The Inner and Outer Capital are areas separated by the imaginary circle drawn by the river. This line divides the government and business sectors from the smaller residential districts.

Hayashi: Saya’s main hometown growing up. An industrial city slightly northeast of the capital.

Bing Harbor: Han’s city of residence in the northwestern province. It is Liang’s biggest port town, and thus the “gate” to the western world. Bing Harbor is known for its beautiful winter landscapes and seamless escape into vast forests.

Huamao: Eizan’s hometown, where he met Taizi. Known for its peaceful gorges, clear pools, and beautiful small cascades. 

Mountains: The mountain ranges surrounding Liang are classified into three different regions, each with their own specialty resources (i.e. mountain ore, lumber, etc). They are home to a few aboriginal clans. 

Huen: The southernmost Hisui district. It has the highest immigrant and non-elf population in the capital. This where Eizan currently lives. 

Haretsuki Lake: A large lake shaped like a crescent moon crashed into the sun. It lies in a valley to the southeast and has much historical relevance.

Here is a vague, incomplete map of Liang (still a really rough draft so far, and not quite the shape I want it to be...):

As you can see, I have great naming sense (´∀｀；) I either name on a whim or I throw in references to my family in some way or another... Anyway, I plan to change the shape and layout a bit. I’m not quite satisfied yet...

In conclusion... 

That...was a lot. If you made it this far, holy shit? Thank you?? Feel free to check out my Houseki tag and ask questions and just...please talk to me about my OCs omg I’m so excited ( ๑>ᴗ<๑ )

This is kinda my first big original “project.” I’ve always wanted to do something like this and I’m super excited to share it. Most of it’s on my personal docs or in chats with Danie, but I will share it all eventually! And I’ll update the (very unfinished) Houseki blog with all the formatting and plot, so stay tuned!

[mx-fawkes]

Die Historic on The Furby Road

Hey, thanks so much for the support and also for sending me on the most fun story research I’ve done in a while.

Junkrat spent more time in Roadhog's basement than he probably should. There wasn't much of use down here, just boxes of things Roadhog didn't want to look at or didn't think were reusable. He didn't have the keen scrapper instincts Junkrat did though, he'd once found a whole box of good quality cables down here. Roadhog couldn't even remember what they were supposed to be for!

He'd be lying if he said he didn't like the glimpses of what Roadhog had once been like he sometimes found down here. Never anything too revealing, no photographs or birth certificates, but things like a box of maps, carved wooden objects and an oversized mannequin were tantalizing hints of what had been important to Roadhog once upon a time.

Pawing through boxes in the semi-darkness was usually not a good idea, but he was pretty sure there was nothing too dangerous down here. He'd never found any signs of animal life, and it wasn't like- he froze as his hand brushed against something fluffy, taking two deep breaths before slowly pulling his hand away, hoping not to draw attention. Leaning back he flicked on his lighter, staring into the box in horrified curiosity.

Two lifeless eyes stared back at him.

The scream made it all the way to the garage, Roadhog putting down his tools with a sigh. It wasn't the first time Junkrat had freaked out on one of his basement diving expeditions, he'd once mistaken an old dressmakers dummy for an omnic, ready to burn the whole place to the ground before Roadhog dragged it out into the light.

Groans of protest came from the stairs as Junkrat ran for the surface, clutching a dusty cardboard box. "Roadie Roadie Roadie! You'll never guess what I found!"

The mask tilted questioningly.

"I mean I dunno what they are, but you probably do. Some kind of robot birds?"

He dumped the box on the floor between them, throwing it open and pulling out one the creatures, covered in black and white fur. "Pretty weird right?"

Roadhog's sharp intake of breath was audible through the mask, pulling the box closer to look at the contents. He'd forgotten he'd even had these.

Junkrat didn't seem to notice, messing with the one he'd picked up. "So, what are they?"

"Furbies."

"Right. Furbies. What are they about then?"

How to explain a Furby? Weird bird things that had been beloved by children that later found them creepy and annoying. Friends for a lonely kid who never got the hang of talking to people and wasn't allowed a real pet? An old toy that kept a community of fans long after they stopped being made?

"Kids toys. They can talk and respond to certain words." He winced as Junkrat shook the one he was holding.

"Hello?" He poked it when it didn't respond. "It's not talking, reckon it's dead?"

"There's a power switch on the bottom."

Junkrat flipped it over, trying to wake it up as he flipped the switch back and forth. "Still dead."

"Maybe the batteries need changing." Where they were meant to get AA batteries from was beyond him. Obsolete before he was even born, he doubted anyone here collected tech ancient enough to need a supply.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice Junkrat prising off the battery cover until he heard the yell of pain. A glance showed the batteries corroded and leaking, quickly grabbing Junkrat's hand before he put it in his mouth. "Don't. Go wash it."

A trail of curses followed Junkrat as he ran for the sink, swilling his hand in the water. "The fuck was that?" "Battery acid." "What kind of battery has acid in!?"

He shrugged, wiping the base of the furby clean with a nearby rag. "All of them did back before 2030."

It wasn't long before Junkrat strode back over, wiping his burnt fingers on his shorts. "It felt more like an alkaline burn." Like he could tell the difference. "Of course I can tell the difference!" He lent on Roadhog's arm, glaring at the old batteries. "Reckon I could rewire it to fit a proper battery. One that won't melt and burn people." - One dismantled remote control and a bit of solder later the Furby twitched, blue eyes blinking open. "u-nye-loo-lay-doo?" Its voice was rough, the speaker hadn't lasted well. Junkrat sat it on the desk triumphantly., "It's alive!"

The furby shifted, whirring quietly as its ears moved up and down. "Doo?" They both stared at it. "Yoo?"

Junkrat hummed, moving closer. "Do I what?"

"Boo."

Junkrat pointed a screwdriver at it, face scrunched in displeasure. "Look, either you start making sense or we're moving onto brain surgery."

Mako fished a manual out of the box, holding it in front of Junkrat until he snatched it, mumbling to himself as he read the instructions.

"Oh, we have to teach it English?" He shifted into a dramatic stance, raising on arm and closing his eyes,  voice uncomfortably loud in the small space. "We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service—two dishes, but to one table. That’s the end." He cracked an eye open, looking down at the Furby like he was expecting applause. "A man may fish with a worm that has eaten the flesh of a king, and eat the fish that has fed on that worm. "  

It chirped in response. "Me no listen."

"Alright you little-" Roadhog grabbed the hand that went for the screwdriver, pointing firmly at the Furbish-to-English dictionary.

Junkrat took it with a heavy sigh. "Fiiiine, wee tee kah wah tee?"

"Wah Tee!" The low fidelity wail it began to make wouldn't be out of place in a horror film, neither would Junkrat's burst of laughter.  He continued to flick through the guide. trying out new phrases as he went. It was almost comical, both staring wide-eyed at each other making nonsense sounds. Roadhog felt he should have seen this coming somehow, he'd spent his youth with a creature that always stared, always wanted attention and refused to shut up, and now he had Junkrat.

Quickly exhausting the commands, Junkrat dropped the manual. "Is that it? It only knows like five things."

"It's pre-millennium tech."

"Pretty sure they had better things than this pre-millennium."

"It was a kids toy."

Junkrat leant back, staring up at him. "So what, you kept a box full of toys you had when you were a kid?"

The clicking of the toy filled the silence until Roadhog finally replied.

"Only had one when I was a kid, got the rest when I was older."

"Why?"

Roadhog turned back to the box, fishing through until he found the right one. Green with a painted faceplate and a custom-made raincoat.

"People used to customize them for fun. Some people just changed their appearance a little, others changed the shape completely or attached them to other things. Lot of people added better AI."

"Huh. Maybe I would've done that if I was around back then."

Had Junkrat ever had a hobby? He loved building and blowing things up but they were also the closest thing he had to a job. Had he ever done anything without a purpose, anything that wasn't wired to survival in his brain? Hell, it had been a long time since Roadhog had made something just for fun.

"Do you want to do one now?"

Junkrat's eyes shone, bouncing to his feet. "Really? One of yours?" Furbies scattered as Junkrat upended the box, picking out one he liked. "This one!"

"No."

"Why not? It's practically falling apart anyway, not like I can make it any worse."

Because it had been with him for forty years. It had meant so much to him as a kid and even now he couldn't bear to get rid of it He didn't say a word, but Junkrat seemed to get it anyway, looking slightly stricken as he put it back in the box with exaggerated care.

"Hey, no worries mate, I'll use a different one. Wanna pick one out for me?"

Roadhog placed a blue and pink model in Junkrat's outstretched hand. "Paint it, circuit bend it. Do what you like with it."

"Thanks mate. Ooh! I think I've still got some of the gold spray paint left from doing the bricks."

He skipped away, leaving Roadhog to stare at remaining furbies. Well, no reason he couldn't mix this old part of himself with who he was now. They didn't see each other for a few hours after that, both working on their own projects. It wasn't until the next day that Junkrat decided he was finished, proudly strutting into the room and presenting his piece to Roadhog.

"Okay so first I used soot and grease to dye it black, didn't completely work, you can still see the original colours a bit. The fur on it's stomach was too patchy to fix so I covered it with this sack material, then since it had those dots around it#s belly first I did 'em over with some rivets I had going spare. Sprayed the ears and mask bit gold then gave it the goggles we snatched from that prick with the chainsaw a while back." "S'good." Junkrat followed his gaze to the clunky bit of plastic at the bottom.

"That's the second best bit. Basically I was like, what's the point of having a pet that's stuck in one place?" He reached below it, flicking the switch. It cooed as it floated into the air, hovering around his shoulder.

“Used some of the bits from that old assistance drone, the one I made into the scarecrow bot you thought was too creepy?“

Roadhog had never said it was creepy, but he hadn't liked the idea of a humanoid figure floating outside his farmhouse at night, even it was in the hope of scaring away anyone who wanted to try and get them while they were sleeping. He could feel Junkrat's desperate desire for a follow-up question. "What's the best bit?"

It should be impossible for anyone to smile so wide. Junkrat plucked the toy from the air, pointing it towards the open doorway.

"Fire in the hole!"

A tap to the head and it let out a distorted scream,  a stream of flame shooting through its open beak, "Imagine treading on that in the dark!"

Note to self, make sure that's turned off before Junkrat forgets about it and treads on it in the dark.

"So what did you make then?"

Roadhog reached into the box, pulling out his creation as Junkrat gasped in delight.

Its lilac fur had been dyed a vivid orange, face plate sprayed with chrome. The beak had been covered with carved yellowing teeth. A tiny decorated leather jacket sat on its non-existent shoulders, open to show a survival belt with a tiny knife attached. "I love it! Did'ya do anything with the insides?"

A flick of the switch and glowing yellow eyes completed the look, It danced in place before speaking in a clear, deep voice. "kah-boh-dah-kah-way-loh-kah-boh-koh-koh!"

[dipulb3]

Black or 'Other'? Doctors may be relying on race to make decisions about your health

New Post has been published on https://appradab.com/black-or-other-doctors-may-be-relying-on-race-to-make-decisions-about-your-health/

Black or 'Other'? Doctors may be relying on race to make decisions about your health

Nkinsi remembers the professor talking about an equation doctors use to measure kidney function. The professor said eGFR equations adjust for several variables, including the patient’s age, sex and race. When it comes to race, doctors have only two options: Black or “Other.”

Nkinsi was dumbfounded.

“It was really shocking to me,” says Nkinsi, now a third-year medical and masters of public health student, “to come into school and see that not only is there interpersonal racism between patients and physicians … there’s actually racism built into the very algorithms that we use.”

At the heart of a controversy brewing in America’s hospitals is a simple belief, medical students say: Math shouldn’t be racist. Patients like Nichole Jefferson agree:

The argument over race correction has raised questions about the scientific data doctors rely on to treat people of color. It’s attracted the attention of Congress and led to a big lawsuit against the NFL.

What happens next could affect how millions of Americans are treated.

Medicine has never been immune to racism

Carolyn Roberts, a historian of medicine and science at Yale University, says slavery and the American medical system were in a codependent relationship for much of the 19th century and well into the 20th.

“They relied on one another to thrive,” Roberts says.

It was common to test experimental treatments first on Black people so they could be given to White people once proven safe. But when the goal was justifying slavery, doctors published articles alleging substantive physical differences between White and Black bodies — like Dr. Samuel Cartwright’s claim in 1851 that Black people have weaker lungs, which is why grueling work in the fields was essential (his words) to their progress.

The effects of Cartwright’s falsehood, and others like it, linger today.

In 2016, researchers asked White medical students and residents about 15 alleged differences between Black and White bodies. Forty percent of first-year medical students and 25% of residents said they believed Black people have thicker skin, and 7% of all students and residents surveyed said Black people have less sensitive nerve endings. The doctors-in-training who believed these myths — and they are myths — were less likely to prescribe adequate pain medication to Black patients.

To fight this kind of bias, hospitals urge doctors to rely on objective measures of health. Scientific equations tell physicians everything from how well your kidneys are working to whether or not you should have a natural birth after a C-section. They predict your risk of dying during heart surgery, evaluate brain damage and measure your lung capacity.

But what if these equations are also racially biased?

Race correction is the use of a patient’s race in a scientific equation that can influence how they are treated. In other words, some diagnostic algorithms and risk predictor tools adjust or “correct” their results based on a person’s race.

The New England Journal of Medicine article “Hidden in Plain Sight” includes a partial list of 13 medical equations that use race correction. Take the Vaginal Birth After Cesarean calculator, for example. Doctors use this calculator to predict the likelihood of a successful vaginal delivery after a prior C-section. If you are Black or Hispanic, your score is adjusted to show a lower chance of success. That means your doctor is more likely to encourage another C-section, which could put you at risk for blood loss, infection and a longer recovery period.

Cartwright, the racist doctor from the 1800s, also developed his own version of a tool called the spirometer to measure lung capacity. Doctors still use spirometers today, and most include a race correction for Black patients to account for their supposedly shallower breaths.

Turns out, second-year medical student Carina Seah wryly told Appradab, math is as racist as the people who make it.

Race isn’t based on biology

The biggest problem with using race in medicine? Race isn’t a biological category. It’s a social one.

“It’s based on this idea that human beings are naturally divided into these big groups called races,” says Dorothy Roberts, a professor of law and sociology at the University of Pennsylvania, who has made challenging race correction in medicine her life’s work. “But that’s not what race is. Race is a completely invented social category. The very idea that human beings are divided into races is a made-up idea.”

Ancestry is biological. Where we come from — or more accurately, who we come from — impacts our DNA. But a patient’s skin color isn’t always an accurate reflection of their ancestry.

Look at Tiger Woods, Roberts says. Woods coined the term “Cablinasian” to describe his mix of Caucasian, Black, American Indian and Asian ancestries. But to many Americans, he’s Black.

“You can be half Black and half White in this country and you are Black,” says Seah, who is getting her medical degree and a PhD in genetics and genomics at the Icahn School of Medicine at Mount Sinai in New York. “You can be a quarter Black in this country — if you have dark skin, you are Black.”

So it can be misleading, Seah says, even dangerous, for doctors to judge a patient’s ancestry by glancing at their skin. A patient with a White mother and Black father could have a genetic mutation that typically presents in patients of European ancestry, Seah says, but a doctor may not think to test for it if they only see Black skin.

“You have to ask, how Black is Black enough?” Nkinsi asks. And there’s another problem, she says, with using a social construct like race in medicine. “It also puts the blame on the patient, and it puts the blame on the race itself. Like being Black is inherently the cause of these diseases.”

An overdue reckoning

After she learned about the eGFR equation in 2018, Nkinsi began asking questions about race correction. She wasn’t alone — on social media she found other students struggling with the use of race in medicine. In the spring of 2020, following a first-year physiology lecture, Seah joined the conversation. But the medical profession is nothing if not hierarchical; Nkinsi and Seah say students are encouraged to defer to doctors who have been practicing for decades.

Then on May 25, 2020, George Floyd was killed by police in Minneapolis.

His death and the growing momentum around Black Lives Matter helped ignite what Dr. Darshali A. Vyas calls an “overdue reckoning” in the medical community around race and race correction. A few institutions had already taken steps to remove race from the eGFR equation. Students across the country demanded more, and hospitals began to listen.

Four days after Floyd’s death, the University of Washington announced it was removing race correction from the eGFR equation. In June, the Boston-based hospital system Mass General Brigham where Vyas is a second-year Internal Medicine resident followed suit. Seah and a fellow student at Mount Sinai started an online petition and collected over 1600 signatures, asking their hospital to do the same.

Studies show removing race from the eGFR equation will change how patients at those hospitals are treated. Researchers from Brigham and Women’s Hospital and Penn Medicine estimated up to one in every three Black patients with kidney disease would have been reclassified if the race multiplier wasn’t applied in earlier calculations, with a quarter going from stage 3 to stage 4 CKD (Chronic Kidney Disease).

That reclassification is good and bad, says Dr. Neil Powe, chief of medicine at Zuckerberg San Francisco General Hospital. Black patients newly diagnosed with kidney disease will be able to see specialists who can devise better treatment plans. And more patients will be placed on kidney transplant lists.

On the flip side, Powe says, more African Americans diagnosed with kidney disease means fewer who are eligible to donate kidneys, when there’s already a shortage. And a kidney disease diagnosis can change everything from a patient’s diabetes medication to their life insurance costs.

Powe worries simply eliminating race from these equations is a knee-jerk response — one that may exacerbate health disparities instead of solve them. For too long, Powe says, doctors had to fight for diversity in medical studies.

The most recent eGFR equation, known as the CKD-EPI equation, was developed using data pooled from 26 studies, which included almost 3,000 patients who self-identified as Black. Researchers found the equation they were developing was more accurate for Black patients when it was adjusted by a factor of about 1.2. They didn’t determine exactly what was causing the difference in Black patients, but their conclusion is supported by other research that links Black race and African ancestry with higher levels of creatinine, a waste product filtered by the kidneys.

Put simply: In the eGFR equation, researchers used race as a substitute for an unknown factor because they think that factor is more common in people of African descent.

Last August, Vyas co-authored the “Hidden in Plain Sight” article about race correction. Vyas says most of the equations she wrote about were developed in a similar way to the eGFR formula: Researchers found Black people were more or less likely to have certain outcomes and decided race was worth including in the final equation, often without knowing the real cause of the link.

“When you go back to the original studies that validated (these equations), a lot of them did not provide any sort of rationale for why they include race, which I think is appalling.” That’s what’s most concerning, Vyas says — “how willing we are to believe that race is relevant in these ways.”

Vyas is clear she isn’t calling for race-blind medicine. Physicians cannot ignore structural racism, she says, and the impact it has on patients’ health.

Powe has been studying the racial disparities in kidney disease for more than 30 years. He can spout the statistics easily: Black people are three times more likely to suffer from kidney failure, and make up more than 35% of patients on dialysis in the US. The eGFR equation, he says, did not cause these disparities — they existed long before the formula.

“We want to cure disparities, let’s go after the things that really matter, some of which may be racist,” he says. “But to put all our stock and think that the equation is causing this is just wrong because it didn’t create those.”

In discussions about removing race correction, Powe likes to pose a question: Instead of normalizing to the “Other” group in the eGFR equation, as many of these hospitals are doing, why don’t we give everyone the value assigned to Black people? By ignoring the differences researchers saw, he says, “You’re taking the data on African Americans, and you’re throwing it in the trash.”

Powe is co-chair of a joint task force set up by the National Kidney Foundation and the American Society of Nephrology to look at the use of race in eGFR equations. The leaders of both organizations have publicly stated race should not be included in equations used to estimate kidney function. On April 9, the task force released an interim report that outlined the challenges in identifying and implementing a new equation that’s representative of all groups. The group is expected to issue its final recommendations for hospitals this summer.

The multi-million dollar lawsuit

Race correction is used to assess the kidneys and the lungs. What about the brain?

In 2013, the NFL settled a class-action lawsuit brought by thousands of former players and their families that accused the league of concealing what it knew about the dangers of concussions. The NFL agreed to pay $765 million, without admitting fault, to fund medical exams and compensate players for concussion-related health issues, among other things. Then in 2020, two retired players sued the NFL for allegedly discriminating against Black players who submitted claims in that settlement.

The players, Najeh Davenport and Kevin Henry, said the NFL race-corrected their neurological exams, which prevented them from being compensated.

According to court documents, former NFL players being evaluated for neurocognitive impairment were assumed to have started with worse cognitive function if they were Black. So if a Black player and a White player received the exact same scores on a battery of thinking and memory tests, the Black player would appear to have suffered less impairment. And therefore, the lawsuit stated, would be less likely to qualify for a payout.

Race correction is common in neuropsychology using something called Heaton norms, says Katherine Possin, an associate professor at the University of California San Francisco. Heaton norms are essentially benchmark average scores on cognitive tests.

Here’s how it works: To measure the impact of a concussion (or multiple concussions over time), doctors compare how well the patient’s brain works now to how well it worked before.

“The best way to get that baseline was to test you 10 years ago, but that’s not something we obviously have for many people,” Possin says. So doctors estimate your “before” abilities using an average score from a group of healthy individuals, and adjust that score for demographic factors known to affect brain function, like your age.

Heaton norms adjust for race, Possin says, because race has been linked in studies to lower cognitive scores. To be clear, that’s not because of any biological differences in Black and White brains, she says; it’s because of social factors like education and poverty that can impact cognitive development. And this is where the big problem lies.

In early March, a judge in Pennsylvania dismissed the players’ lawsuit and ordered a mediator to address concerns about how race correction was being used. In a statement to Appradab, the NFL said there is no merit to the players’ claim of discrimination, but it is committed to helping find alternative testing techniques that do not employ race-based norms.

The NFL case, Possin wrote in JAMA, has “exposed a major weakness in the field of neuropsychology: the use of race-adjusted norms as a crude proxy for lifelong social experience.”

This happens in nearly every field of medicine. Race is not only used as a poor substitute for genetics and ancestry, it’s used as a substitute for access to health care, or lifestyle factors like diet and exercise, socioeconomic status and education. It’s no secret that racial disparities exist in all of these. But there’s a danger in using race to talk about them, Yale historian Carolyn Roberts says.

We know, for example, that Black Americans have been disproportionally affected by Covid-19. But it’s not because Black bodies respond differently to the virus. It’s because, as Dr. Anthony Fauci has noted, a disproportionate number of Black people have jobs that put them at higher risk and have less access to quality health care. “What are we making scientific and biological when it actually isn’t?” Roberts asks.

Vyas says using race as a proxy for these disparities in clinical algorithms can also create a vicious cycle.

“There’s a risk there, we argue, of simply building these into the system and almost accepting them as fact instead of focusing on really addressing the root causes,” Vyas says. “If we systematize these existing disparities … we risk ensuring that these trends will simply continue.”

Change on the horizon

Nearly everyone on both sides of the race correction controversy agrees that race isn’t an accurate, biological measure. Yet doctors and researchers continue to use it as a substitute. Math shouldn’t be racist, Nkinsi says, and it shouldn’t be lazy.

“We’re saying that we know that this race-based medicine is wrong, but we’re going to keep doing it because we simply don’t have the will or the imagination or the creativity to think of something better,” Nkinsi says. “That is a slap in the face.”

Shortly after Vyas’ article published in The New England Journal of Medicine, the House Ways and Means Committee sent letters to several professional medical societies requesting information on the misuse of race in clinical algorithms. In response to the lawmakers’ request, the Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality is also gathering information on the use of race-based algorithms in medicine. Recently, a note appeared on the Maternal Fetal Medicine Units Network’s website for the Vaginal Birth After Cesarean equation — a new calculator that doesn’t include race and ethnicity is being developed.

Dorothy Roberts is excited to see change on the horizon. But she’s also a bit frustrated. The harm caused by race correction is something she’s been trying to tell doctors about for years.

“I’ve taught so many audiences about the meaning of race and the history of racism in America and the audiences I get the most resistance from are doctors,” Roberts says. “They’re offended that there would be any suggestion that what they do is racist.”

Nkinsi and Seah both encountered opposition from colleagues in their fight to change the eGFR equation. Several doctors interviewed for this story argued the change in a race-corrected scores is so small, it wouldn’t change clinical decisions.

If that’s the case, Vyas wonders, why include race at all?

“It all comes from the desire for one to dominate another group and justify it,” says Roberts. “In the past, it was slavery, but the same kinds of justifications work today to explain away all the continued racial inequality that we see in America… It is mass incarceration. It’s huge gaps in health. It’s huge differences in income and wealth.”

It’s easier, she says, to believe these are innate biological differences than to address the structural racism that caused them.

[chibioniyuri]

So, I wanted to share my current medical status with y’all, but only if you want to actively read it, so I’ll be throwing it behind a cut. Plus it’s pretty long. So there’s that.

So, I have a brain tumor.

Only, technically not. It’s within the skull but outside the dura mater, the protective membrane around your brain itself. So, technically not a brain tumor.

But let’s start from the beginning.

Starting around summer of last year, my grandmother was in and out of the hospital. Falling without being able to get up on her own, leading her to spend the entire night sitting on the floor waiting for someone to visit her because the phone was out of reach. Pneumonia extending her hospital stay. Getting home and refusing the home health care my uncle and aunt set up for her. Falling again. Repeat.

Around August-ish, my aunt was cleaning her apartment for her and found pain killers stashed all over the apartment. In bottles. Free pills on her walker. Next to the phone, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, stashed in both nightstands. Turns out she’d been asking nearly everyone who visited her to bring her bottles “because she was running low.” Including us. We could get large bottles of Excedrin from Sam’s Club for cheaper than were available in her country. We’d bring over two extra large bottles. We didn’t think anything of it; our visits were spaced roughly four years apart. But concurrently, some tests were showing the beginning stages of liver and kidney damage that could be caused by self-medicating in the way my grandmother was.

Cut to me. “Wa-oh,” says I.

For like two and a half years, that I could remember, I’d been having trouble sleeping. Beyond the normal, that is. Taking over an hour to fall asleep, sleeping roughly three hours at a time, eventually needing to take naps on my days off just to function safely on my work days. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I was finishing school. Looking for a house. Moving back into my parents’ house so I wouldn’t have to break a lease when I finally found “the one.” Exposing myself back to my dad’s special brand of tough love. I figured it was just stress, and that it would go away when things were less hectic.

They didn’t.

Right around April of last year, my headaches starting spiking. Again, I didn’t think much of it. For most of my life, I’ve dealt with headaches. I’ve become a pro at the art of ignoring the headache away. But suddenly, I was having migraine-level headaches, frequently. I explained it away as lack of sleep. This was about a year and a half into the lack of sleep saga. It seemed reasonable to me. And I was more concerned about the nearly-falling-asleep-while-driving and the crying on the way to work and the endless feeling of “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

But these new headaches were debilitating. So... I started self-medicating. A lot.

I really should have been more aware; I mean, as a medical professional, there were so many red flags. But nothing like that could ever happen to me, right? I was just weak. Attention-grabbing. I just needed to suck it up and get back to work. My dad, after all, had never taken a sick day in twenty years, even if he was sick. He’d had some baaaad headaches, too, and he just powered through. I needed to do the same.

My grandmother was a wake-up call for me.

I finally convinced myself to do something about it September of last year. I thought it was just my thyroid. It controls so many things: your sleep cycle, your metabolism, your temperature regulation. My doctor initially agreed with me, and blood tests corroborated it. My thyroid hormone was low.

Something must have niggled at my doctor though, because she ordered more tests. Then more. First blood tests. I was stuck so many times, it was ridiculous. I counted 9 vials in one sitting, which.... personally, is a record. I can’t speak about the standard levels for anyone else. Then an ultrasound of my thyroid. Nothing too abnormal. Some nodules that were enlarged, but nothing alarming. An MRI of my brain. Just a precaution, she said. Some of my medical history meant that she wanted to fully rule some things out.

I had my MRI on a Wednesday. That Friday, her nurse called me. Said that my doctor wanted to talk to me about my results. That I should just name a time that day and she would make sure it was available.

Oh shit.

I called my mom. I remember thinking that I wasn’t reacting the way I thought someone who received bad news should. I was acting like I had a particularly juicy piece of gossip. Jovial, almost.

“Hey mom,” I said. “That thing I was joking about, back when she first mentioned the MRI? Tumors and cancer? The thing I said wouldn’t happen to me? Pretty sure she found it.”

“What?”

“Her nurse just called. Told me to name a time I can come in today. Whatever time, and it would be available. That only happens with bad news, right? She found it. Mom, I have a brain tumor.”

My mom told me that I had to hear the actual words from my doctor’s mouth before I could worry. And that if it was real, we would deal with it. And that I should call my dad so he could come with me.

So I did. He told me roughly the same thing, that I couldn’t be sure until the doctor said it herself. And that I should schedule it so my mom could go with me.

“I scheduled it for roughly an hour from now.”

“Oh. I guess your mom can’t go with you, then.”

No mention of him going. I was too afraid to ask.

I found out later that he had already started drinking and was too afraid that someone would figure it out. He’s the type of alcoholic that feels like, since he named himself an alcoholic, that’s it, kumbayah, crack open a cold one, but instinctively lies to medical professionals about his level of intake. He excused it away by saying he wasn’t really an emotionally supportive guy anyway, and he didn’t offer because he didn’t think I wanted him there. Plus, he said, he would’ve started crying and that’s not being emotionally supportive. I agree that he would’ve. I also think he fell into a mild depressive state because his employer declared bankruptcy and he was without the job he’d worked at since being honorably discharged from the military in 1995 and was having an identity crisis because so much of his personal identity is tied up into his work, and without it, he’s nothing. But you’re not here to read about my analysis of my dad.

So I sat alone in that room while my doctor told me I had a tumor on my pituitary gland. That it was pretty large and probably the cause of a lot of the lethargy and difficulty sleeping. That I should let her know if I start having headaches.

“I’ve got those,” I said.

“You didn’t mention it to me?”

“No. I mean, I’ve had them since puberty, really. They were more frequent, recently, but I thought it was the not sleeping thing.”

She made sure I walked out with a referral to the neurosurgeon in my hand and advised me to call him right away. Well, as soon as my insurance cleared.

Since October, I’ve struggled to feel it was real. I’ve sort of stepped aside from it, I guess. I’ve viewed it as one of those interesting case studies from nursing school. “Mary’s MRI results show a 2cm growth on her pituitary gland. Her growth hormone levels are __. She complains of headaches, lethargy, insomnia, and weight gain. What nursing diagnoses would apply to this case? What interventions would you consider implementing?”

I’ve analyzed my reactions and compared them to the stories I’ve read, fictional and anecdotal, about others dealing with serious medical issues and found myself lacking. I’ve thought of how I would write this situation. Definitely dread, I decided. Fear. Worry. A sense that suddenly, the world is crashing down around you. And alternately, a sort of freeing feeling. Suddenly, you can go out into the world and really live like it’s your last day.

And then I looked at my bank account. I looked at my insurance paperwork. I decided that I couldn’t afford the surgery to remove it until next year. Definitely couldn’t take the time off to process it. Gotta make that money, pay those bills.

“You’re so strong,” one of my fellow nurses tells me. I want to tell her I’m not. I’m just incredibly aware that I’m financially precarious and that I can’t afford anything else. And it’s so much easier to fall into routine and focus on caring for someone else. Avoidance at its best.

So why am I sharing this all of a sudden?

My surgery is in less than two weeks: April 4. And it’s definitely real now.

Suddenly, all that stuff that I imagined writing is happening to me. The closer that date crawls, the worse I feel. At first, it was mild concern. It’s approaching absolute terror now, though.

I’m about to let someone send some tools up my nose, poke around in my brain, and remove some bits of myself that have gone renegade. I’ll be in the ICU in case of complications. I’ll need someone with me for a while afterwards, when I finally get discharged. I have absolutely no idea how I’ll pay for it, considering my credit card has wracked up a truly impressive balance due to my car breaking down last year, and then all the lab work, diagnostic tests, and specialist visits, which let me tell you, are a special sort of expensive hell. Add on my mortgage and my student debts, and I squeak by every month. I’ll probably pick up a second job to help out with whatever costs I accrue.

One good thing about this is that my dad has stopped asking me “do you want mine?” when I mention I have a headache. But now he’s joking that I’ll be in the hospital for ages because, “I hate to say it like this, but you don’t do so well with the pain thing.” Fuck you.

The truly good thing: my brother got leave from the Air Force to come home for a week. We haven’t seen him since last July, when he came home for our it’s-been-four-years-time-to-go-to-Germany trip. I’m so happy about that, I could cry. I probably will before this whole thing is over.

So, there you go. The full update.

I’ll probably be typing more things up to work through this. Typing all this out has been oddly cathartic.

[emeraldinthesky]

STRANGE TRAILS - Chapter 3 - Logsense

Cooper paused at room 321. He glared at the peculiar number, a boyish enthusiasm still flickering in his limbs and especially fingertips. The corners of his mouth remained turned up, and it seemed impossible for them to frown. He stepped closer to the door. He couldn't wait to tell her all about the Bookhouse Boys.

Yes, the town's secret organization was a secret; however, the peculiar thing with men is that the woman closest to them was their confidant. Be it mother, partner, or sister - they shared everything with her, and for agent Cooper, that role was still fulfilled by Victoria. And yet, as he was about to knock on the door, the beaming smile washed away from his face. He couldn't get himself to wake her, however gladly she would have listened to his stories, not after seeing her so tired. Not after what happened between them.

While Cooper further investigated the case late into the night, Vicky was catching up on sleep. That is, if you call tossing around in bed from nightmares, sleeping. She was never a good sleeper. Oftentimes, she went out for a cigarette in the middle of the night to stare at the current shape of the moon from Dale's balcony. She was familiar with all its phases: gibbous, waning, waxing… Of course, it was the most interesting to observe in its full glory, but Victoria found it much more soothing when all was covered in the heavy cloak of darkness. Especially when Cooper rolled out of bed to embrace her from behind, only to fall back asleep on her shoulder moments later.

…as the midnight of a moonless night…

She was used to nightmares, too, so much in fact, that she simply referred to them as dreams by this point. Rotting flesh pulsating alive again, beating hearts being opened with a scalpel, bodies moving with eery naturality as they were carved with medical devices like ancient stones and as you got to a certain organ, they spoke:

'Nurse, there's a twitching in my left thigh…'

She was called a nurse many times during her residency and the people on the surgery tables were rarely any different or more alive than the DBs she was investigating in her recent years. Both were flesh, still infused with the illusion of the self, but regardless… Flesh. Maybe it was this connection that made her more aware of the fine line that separated life and death.

This time it was the blonde girl, Laura Palmer, speaking to her, while Albert kept drilling her head into a strainer. 'Birdzzzzz… birdzzzz…' She repeated, syncing up with the instrument's buzzing, like a broken record, until her brain leaked from the holes like playdoh. Her eyes, her striking blue eyes remained locked on Vicky. Laura's thoughts evaporated from her cells. The cloud of memories engulfed the three of them as faint whispers, growing louder and louder, circling around the girl like a tornado, the wind picking up the drill from Albert's hand, carrying it away with Toto, yet the tool kept buzzing on and on and…

Vicky woke to the beeping of her alarm. She silenced it and her eyes darted wide open. She wasted no time, rushed to the small table by the window, and took the folder of evidence on it. A sudden blackness came over her. She threw the opened folder back to the table to grab the side of the furniture for stability. She saw nothing even though she was forcing her eyes to stay open. 'Breathe deep,' she thought to herself while taking a long inhale. The feeling was not unfamiliar to her. It was a frequent occurrence during her ambulance shifts whenever they had to storm out to a case. As she regained her consciousness, she fumbled around for a specific photograph she was inspecting right before falling asleep: the strange scars on Laura Palmer's shoulders. When she found it she immediately dialed: 'Albert!' She exclaimed when she heard the phone being picked up. 'It's bird pecks on her shoulders.' 'On the Palmer girl?' Her supervisor asked without missing a beat. The woman could hear a similar shuffling at the end of the other line, and after a short pause, Albert agreed. 'You're right. I'll have McCoy run it through the database. Did your date with Coop go well?' 'Yeah,' She replied absent-mindedly, failing to pick up on the mocking tone of the man's voice. 'When does the equipment arrive here?' 'Should be about an hour,' Came the reply. 'Good job, Vicky.'

~Invitation to love~ 'Don't fight it, Chet. You know as well as I there's still something between us. There always will be.'

High heeled, knee-length cowboy boots thumped into the sheriff's department. They weren't new, and the leather did crease in certain areas, but it was nevertheless weathering the wide-ranged usage. Vicky pushed the glass door open, and her outfit immediately earned her a complimenting whistle from the janitor, and a nod from an officer she couldn't recall. She turned to Lucy. 'Hey Lucy,' She smiled at the receptionist, curiously peeking in to see the TV broadcasting the newest soap opera. Victoria stopped to watch the situation unfold - she got hooked on the entangled relationship drama last night, when she was flicking through the channels at the Great Northern. She cleared her throat and turned back to Lucy. 'I believe Sheriff Truman told you that I'll need a lab at the station. Which is the unlucky room I will evade?' Lucy let out the breath she was holding in; probably from the fear that she might be humiliated by yet another scientist, but she was relieved to find that Miss Davis had manners. In fact, it was the first time she wasn't talked down to.

'I was hoping we would have breakfast together,' The agent noted when he stepped into the impromptu laboratory hours later. There was a slight, but unmissable resentfulness in his usually pleasant tonation, and Victoria couldn't help but chuckle. She walked past him to file away a folder. 'You gotta rise earlier, Dale.' His eyes wandered to the hem of her skirt dancing around just above her knees, showing a bit of her thighs. He knew this slight 'indecency' was more so due to her young age and her own perception of herself. She complained at some point that a longer skirt would make her look smaller and stockier - which wasn't true, but it never occurred to Cooper to oppose. He felt the urge to move his hands, so he buried them in his pockets. 'How's the evaluation going?' 'Calmly,' The woman noted in a surprised tone as she returned to her seat. 'We got back the match from the database for the ropes. The twine on the upper arm is pretty common, Finley's Fine Twine.' 'What about the ones on her wrist?' 'No match yet,' She shook her head. 'But the scars on her shoulders, they are bird bites.' 'Bird bites?' His eyebrows grew closer. 'Yeah… I had a dream, and… Anyway, it turned out to be correct. They are still running it through the database, but the results should be here soon,' Her slip of tongue made Cooper's heart flutter. He knew how methodical she was, and could recall many of their conversations about the topic - how dreams and unorthodox methods can further the investigation -, and Vicky often remained on the questioning side. Yet now, it seemed as though she finally understood what he was trying to tell her for so many years. 'The reconstruction of the plastic object found in her stomach is in progress,' She followed, not allowing silence to settle between them. 'The computer gave me a run for my money when I tried to assemble it,' Vicky eased her own tension with a smirk, then took an emerald green notebook into her hands. 'What about you, where the case is going?' 'I've met Dr Jacoby last night, visiting Laura Palmer's grave,' The agent leaned against the edge of the desk, while she scribbled down his observations. She realigned the desk lamp to illuminate the pages. 'Do you consider him a suspect?' 'Well, his name does start with a J…' Coop contemplated. 'He is suspicious, but he doesn't strike me as the type for it. I had him in for questioning this morning, in fact, he just left,' He straightened his tie. 'Laura was his patient, if I recall. Did you try to get something out of him about their sessions?' 'He was unwilling.' 'Of course,' She scoffed. 'But he knew about Laura taking cocaine. His psychological assessment deemed it as a good sign.' The pen in Victoria's hand stopped abruptly, and she raised her eyebrow at her colleague: 'He thought a seventeen-year-old sniffing cocaine for her mental health issues is a good thing?' 'He apparently had that opinion I'm afraid,' The man sighed. 'I'm so glad there are people like this in the world we can trust with our deepest issues,' She noted sarcastically, taking a sip of her coffee. 'What else? How'd that secret meeting with the boys go?' 'You know about the organization?' His jaw dropped and leaned ahead. 'Now I do,' She replied with a mischievous grin. 'To be fair, it is a close-knit community in a secluded area. There's bound to be a secret society of some sort, protecting the values of the community from outside attacks. And I heard you leaving the hotel not long after we said goodnight.' 'You'd be a wonderful detective,' Dale smiled with proud amazement. His conclusion earned a light blush from his colleague, but she was quick to brush it off. 'So, do I get a run-down on it or am I too much of a girl?' 'They had Bernard Renault in for questioning; he's the younger brother of Jacques Renault. They are smuggling cocaine over the Canadian border, but he was unwilling to cooperate. Still, he isn't the sharpest tool in the shed.' 'What else about Doctor Jacoby? Did he say anything else?' 'He saw a red Corvette the night Laura Palmer died. Harry said it must be Leo Johnson's.' 'If we confiscate it can I take it for a test drive?' Vicky crossed her legs as she sunk comfortably into her chair. 'Doesn't it contradict the rule of not disturbing the crime scene?' The agent retorted, but she was quick to remind him: 'I still have your greasy thumb filed under evidence for the Tallak case. Don't play with me.' 'Did you speak to Albert today?' He enquired. 'In the morning, but not since. Why?' 'He wants Sheriff Truman fired,' Coop explained. 'He handed in an OOJ and an AFO to Gordon.' 'Ah, Dale, I don't wanna be part of this...' Vicky pulled her mouth to the side. 'Coop,' Sheriff Truman stepped into the room. 'Hawk found the one-armed man.' 'Be right there, Harry,' The agent raised his palm then turned back to the woman. 'Please. For me.' 'Oh, alright… I'll talk to Albert,' She promised and Cooper's face lit up before the two men darted out. Victoria sighed as she returned to her work, but not before laying out a detailed list of things in her head: a list of things the agent better do to make things even. She knew she'd never hand that list in.

After a while, the lines blended together, regardless of how many times she blinked. She instinctively reached for the pack of cigarettes lying just across the table, only to find it empty. 'Typical,' She muttered to herself, brushing a strand of hair from her face, then checked the time. It was already past one. Vicky grabbed her wallet and her coat. On her way out, she stopped in front of the reception boot. 'Lucy, wanna come along for lunch?' 'I can't,' The receptionist whined. 'Sheriff Truman is out and I can't leave when they're not around.' 'Oh… Anything from the Double R, then?' 'A tuna sandwich would be nice.' 'A tuna sandwich to be delivered. Gonna grab lunch together some other time.'

'Tuna sandwich…' Vicky smiled to herself as she got into her car. Immediately, she shivered and drew her coat closer together. She was quick to start the car, hoping it would warm up during that short ride. While driving, she was reminiscing over a childhood friend of hers - Anne Marie and Lucy showed an uncanny resemblance, not in their features, but in their character. Anne Marie had dark hair and eyes, and hated tuna with all her might, but she was an avid fan of love stories. They frequently snitched their mothers' erotica novels only to stay up way into the night, reading each paragraph with crimson cheeks and excitement. Anne Marie was maturing physically at a much quicker rate, and she was only twelve when she was...

Vicky stepped into the break at the red light she almost passed by.

Love did not turn out to be anywhere near that glorified image they formed in the attic of the vacation house. It was not filled with the thrilling mystery that sent butterflies to their stomachs. It didn't take their breath with passion and soft words. It didn't warm their limbs with the softness of the July sun or shock them like the freshness of the spring they jumped into from the heat. It wasn't ultimate. It wasn't lasting. It wasn't happy.

It wasn't real.

Victoria arrived at the Double R and rushed in to wash the dreadful taste out of her mouth. A nice cup of joe should do the trick.

She thumped down into the barstool with such a force it let out a creek. Norma was quick with a strong brew and her red lips widened into the blissful smile of a mother. 'Good afternoon, Miss Davis. Tough night?' 'Nah, night was fine. Must be this damned weather.' Vicky sighed. 'How are you, Norma?' The woman tensed visibly at the question and there was no sign of the previous smile on her face. She caressed the coffee pot in her hand. 'My husband's due a hearing… About his parole.' 'Oh,' The forensic scientist added. 'And you, um, expecting him home?' 'Of course,' Norma replied dryly, but the very next second she followed as if the little innuendo didn't happen. She was a professional in her own right. 'What can I get you, Miss Davis?' 'Damn I didn't even think about it… It will be a tuna sandwich on the go and... Let's make that two, please.' 'Two tuna sandwiches,' The woman nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

The more she drank from her coffee the more she contemplated about lips. The lips of a certain individual to be exact. Wondering about the words those lips formed yesterday. Seeing them as closely as years before… Wondering about whether they still taste the same…

'My log has something to say to you,' The sentence was embroidered with loud chewing. Vicky glanced up. She was confronted with a pair of big, strong glasses and a pouted lip. A log rested gently cradled in the arms of the woman next to her. She didn't even give Victoria any time to reply or oppose. 'There are bruises that stay on the skin forever. Others remain on the soul. Innocence is taken from those who rob others of it,' The lady chanted, then resumed to chewing whatever she had in her mouth. 'Margaret!' Norma scolded the woman. 'Don't scare Miss Davis with that nonsense!' To which the woman only spat the pine resin on the counter, and forcefully darted out.

As Victoria was driving back to the police station, the sun peaked out twice - maybe even three times - from the clouds. Two tuna sandwiches on the passenger seat: one whole and one barely touched. After the initial hunger, her stomach dropped again as she replayed the words of the old lady. Was she going mad? What did the woman with the log know? It wasn't the absurdity of the riddle that upset her.

What did upset her was that it made way too much sense.