#Binary Search Tree

[jcmarchi]

OpenAI GPTs: Building Your Own ChatGPT-Powered Conversational AI

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/openai-gpts-building-your-own-chatgpt-powered-conversational-ai/

OpenAI GPTs: Building Your Own ChatGPT-Powered Conversational AI

What are GPTs?

GPTs, introduced by OpenAI in November 2023, are customizable versions of the ChatGPT model. They represent a significant shift from general-purpose AI chatbots to specialized, purpose-driven AI assistants. GPTs can be tailored for specific tasks, making them more effective and efficient in various domains, from education and gaming to business and creative arts.

OpenAI new GPT Builder (GPTs)

Key Features and Capabilities

Customization Without Coding: One of the most groundbreaking aspects of GPTs is that they require no coding skills to build. This makes it accessible to a broader audience.

Wide Range of Applications: GPTs can be designed for myriad uses, such as teaching math, assisting in game rules interpretation, or creating digital content like stickers.

Integration of Extra Knowledge: Users can feed additional information into GPTs, enhancing their ability to handle specialized tasks.

Functional Flexibility: GPTs can incorporate capabilities like web searching, image creation, and data analysis, depending on the user’s needs.

Creating a Custom GPT: Simplicity and Efficiency

Creating your personalized GPT app is a straightforward process that requires no coding knowledge, making it accessible for anyone with an idea. Here’s a simplified guide on how to bring your custom GPT to life:

Step-by-Step Guide to Creating Your Personalized GPTs App

Login and Navigate: First, log into your ChatGPT account. Look for the “Explore” section, which is usually located on the top left of your screen. This is where you’ll find all the GPT applications you have access to.

OpenAI ChatGPT

Create Your GPT: Click on ‘Create My GPT’. You’ll be taken to a new screen. Here, you’ll be prompted to describe what your GPT should do.

GPTs Interface

Set Your Prompt: Input your prompt with clarity and purpose. For our example we created a “Code Mentor” by entering a prompt: “Create an AI that provides clear explanations and guides users through algorithms and data structures, capable of facilitating real-time problem-solving sessions.”

Building a Coding Mentor with GPTs

Refinement: ChatGPT may ask follow-up questions to refine your concept. This step ensures your GPT is aligned with your vision and is capable of performing its intended functions efficiently.

Testing and Customization: Once created, your GPT appears on the right side of the screen. Here you can test its capabilities and fine-tune its functions. For the “Code Mentor” you might test it with queries like “Explain the concept of dynamic programming” or “Guide me through implementing a binary search tree.”

Save and Share: After you’re satisfied with your GPT, you can save your settings. Then, take advantage of the option to share your GPT with others. This is done through a link, making collaboration easy and promoting a community-oriented approach to AI development.

Remember, while Plus users have immediate access to use the GPTs via shared links, the creators won’t have access to the chats others have with their GPTs,.

Open AI mentioned that Privacy and safety are at the heart of GPTs. Chats with GPTs remain private, not shared with builders, and users have full control over whether data is sent to third-party APIs. Additionally, builders can decide if interactions with their GPT should contribute to model training, giving users and builders alike control over data usage and privacy.

Connecting GPTs to Real-World Applications

Beyond explanations, these GPTs can connect to external data sources or perform actions in the real-world. For instance, you could create a “Shopping Assistant” GPT that helps with e-commerce orders, or a “Travel Planner” GPT that integrates with a travel listings database.

Empowering Enterprises with Custom GPTs

Enterprises can take advantage of internal-only GPTs for specific use cases. This could range from a “Marketing Assistant” that helps draft brand-aligned materials to a “Support Helper” that aids in customer service. These GPTs can be deployed securely within a company’s workspace, with full administrative control over sharing and external GPT usage.

5 custom GPT applications that users have created

Conclusion

The evolution of AI technology with OpenAI’s GPT-4 Turbo and the introduction of customizable GPTs represent a significant leap forward in the field of artificial intelligence. GPT-4 Turbo’s enhanced context window and integration with visual and auditory capabilities mark a new era of conversational AI that is more accurate, detailed, and versatile. The GPTs, with their user-friendly customization options, open up endless possibilities for personal and professional use, democratizing AI technology and making it accessible to a wider audience.

[aflo]

you can tell you got to the boring part of the lecture when the editing suddenly gets worse

[hatsukeii]

ring pop! / bsf!ushijima wakatoshi x reader

genre(s): heavy on the crack and fluff, dumb and dumber, ushiwaka is dense but loveable! childhood bsf to lovers! yay! sunshine! rainbows! candy!

warning(s): nothing, implied fem reader for fluency's sake, but please interpret this as you'd like!! i myself am non-binary, so at the very least you know the person who's writing has you in mind!! i still tried my best to keep everything gender neutral to the best of my ability!!

wc: 1490

tldr; “boyfriend? but i thought we were already dating?”

“Wakatoshi, can I have your second button?”

Petals of blooming sakura flowers replace the grey pavement beneath your shoes with a mosaic of dusty pink as you stand beneath Shiratorizawa’s famous confession tree. It’s a ritual that has been done for many graduations before your own, students would act nonchalant as they drag their romantic prospects beneath this very tree, all to ask for their second shirt button. This year, it’s your turn, your hands clenched behind your back as you rock forward, backward, forward, backward.

“What do you mean? My second button?”

“Yeah, your second button.”

Wakatoshi’s nose twitches in confusion and under the blanket of pollen from the flowers above. What’s so special about his second button, that you’ve dragged him under the Shiratorizawa tree for? His hand shoots up, picking at the thread sewn between each hole in his second uniform button. It doesn’t budge as he picks and pulls, until finally, he rips it off with force, handing it to you between pinched fingers.

“Here.” He reaches for one of your hands, linked with the other in anxiety and anticipation, and pushes your fingers apart, before dropping the button into your palm unceremoniously. You stare blankly at the small round in your hand, then at Wakatoshi’s deadpan expression.

“Toshi, that’s…that’s not how it works.”

He tilts his head in confusion, eyebrows furrowing as if trying to search your head for clues. The petals shuffle beneath your feet as you mindlessly grind your shoe into the ground, not sure what to make of this situation.

“I’m not sure what you mean. I gave you the second button, like you asked. Did I do something wrong?”

“Wakatoshi, I’m asking you to be my boyfriend.”

Boyfriend? Do you hear yourself? What nonsense, what has he been to you for the past six years, if not that?

“Boyfriend? But I thought we were already dating?”

You mind empties its contents as your jaw goes slack, a dumbfounded hum escaping your windpipe. You’re not too sure- no, you have not a single idea when that idea planted itself into his head. You’ve been subtle enough, right? And careful too! No love letters, or secret gifts, or bento boxes, just day to day, regular best friend interactions between the two of you. What could have possibly gone wrong?

“Dating? Where did you get that from??”

Wakatoshi frowns, hands moving to his pockets. A spring breeze whizzes by, filling the stale air between himself and you. That’s not very nice of you. Wakatoshi knows close to nothing about relationships, but he does know one thing: You probably should remember how you got together in the first place.

“You…forgot?” After all these years of tailing behind you at grocery stores, and weekly dinners at your house, and running to your place at a text’s notice, only to end up watching dramas all night and crying with you, and you forgot that you were dating? His voice quivers, a rush of betrayal in the gleam of his eyes stabbing at your chest as he grimaces at your confused expression, then back at the second button he just ripped off his chest that sits in your hand.

“I think I would remember if we‘re dating…but we aren’t.”

“How could you forget? I still have the ring pop from that day!”

What?

“Wakatoshi, the ring pop? From sixth grade?” At the mention of the ring pop, the fuzziness of an afternoon six years ago is wiped clean. You can almost taste the disgustingly artificial grape flavour that tingled and fizzed on your tongue, before sending you into a sugar high for hours, feel the cheap plastic ring that hung a size too big from your ring finger. You’re fairly certain that the company had discontinued that line of ring pops by now, the two pack too costly of a production for the cheap price they sold for in convenience stores.

“Yeah! I asked you to be my girlfriend with the second pop, and you said yes! You even wore the ring on your ring finger!”

His hands leave his pockets now, pointing accusingly at your ring finger that lacks a humorously large plastic ring. You’re not sure whether to be shocked or to laugh hysterically, not when Wakatoshi’s accusations of your…infidelity? are rooted in the sanctity and candour of a discontinued ring pop, until it all hits you at once. All the nights that he would drop off bags of groceries at your doorstep, your mother gleaming at his persistent service, and the afternoons of watching his volleyball trainings, his eyes glancing at you for approval at every legal point he makes, all the little times that led up to your eventual confession weren’t “best friend interactions.”

They were the actions of a boyfriend. A boyfriend, who (rightfully so) thought he was dating his girlfriend.

“Toshi…did it never occur to you that we’ve done absolutely NOTHING in all these years of ‘dating’? I mean, wouldn’t you have wanted to, I dunno, hold my hand? Or like, kiss me?”

Wakatoshi jolts backwards by an inch, hand travelling towards his jaw as he rubs it introspectively, trying to fan off the heat that is crawling from his chest to his neck. You stifle a giggle, before clearing your throat guiltily. No, you shouldn’t laugh at him. He’s trying his best to process the past six years of unrequited ‘dating’, how could you interrupt him? Do you have no heart, or shame?

“W-well, my dad’s always taught me not to do anything with anyone, partner or not, unless they asked for it first… and you never asked to. So, I never did.” He finally responds, as confidently as his stuttering voice could seem. “Besides, I assumed you weren’t the type of person to be into super-romantic dating, so I just never questioned it.”

You shake your head, smiling at the ground as you take a step towards him. Your hand grips his uniform button by your side, afraid that it might get lost in the petals if you drop it. Wakatoshi’s head darts from left to right, as if piecing together red herrings on a cork board, pinning down every interaction from sixth grade to now with thumbtacks as the strings tangle and twist.

“What about our drama nights? Was that also just being best friends?”

“Yes, Wakatoshi. That is what best friends do.”

“The grocery runs?”

“You offered to do them, and I assumed it was because you were always training late and wanted to help a friend out on the way home.”

“And the weekly dinners at your place?”

“We’re neighbours!”

You watch him groan, his face shoved into his now clammy palms. This is information overload, and Wakatoshi’s processor is melting down in front of your very eyes. He shakes his head frantically, his hair becoming disheveled. His hands run through his green locks, and land on his hips as his feet tap at the petal-covered ground.

“So, we have not been dating for six years, but you want to start dating from today onwards?”

"That is exactly what I'm asking."

Finally. He’s finally got it. The button weighs heavy in your hand, and you duck beneath his face to look him in the eye. He glances away, visibly repulsed by his embarrassment. He should've caught the signs...well, earlier. It somehow has never occured to him that a ring pop proposal might not be the most legitimate way to one's heart, and it certainly has never occured to him that it might have come off as an ingenuine attempt at securing a relationship.

"I meant it when I gave you the ring pop though."

Your face morphs into an effortless smile, the towering boy looking more timid than he ever has before. You haven't changed one bit since the day he's 'proposed' to you, from the smile lines that adorn your face, to the little pout of your lips when you grin. And as you look at him, eyes shimmering under the shade of the infamous Shiratorizawa confession tree, Wakatoshi is twleve years old again, missing a canine tooth on the top right side of his toothbed. He's pinching a long discontinued ring pop between both thumbs and index fingers, getting down on one bandaged knee earnestly to pop the big question.

"Will you be my girlfriend?"

And suddenly, you're twelve years old, standing right there, in front of him, tiny hands covering your mouth as you gasp and tell him yes, a million times over and more. Wakatoshi is 5'2 here, a whole foot shorter than his now eighteen year old self, slotting a ring pop that's two sizes too big on your ring finger, the candy diamond shimmering in the sunlight on the walk home. Except now, the ring pop has transformed into the second button of his soon to be forgotten Shiratorizawa shirt, residing in your clenched fist.

"I know. I know you did."

His eyes refocus as he snaps out of his thoughts, and he wonders if you still have the plastic ring from the ring pop, the one that means to him doing groceries for your household before his own, and showing up at your door to watch dramas all night in your bed, and helping your parents with the cooking before your weekly dinners. His eyes soften, the probing frown long gone from his face as he returns your smile with his own, cheeks pink and teeth threatening to show through his suppressed grin.

"Does this mean I get to kiss you now?"

"Yes, Toshi. Yes it does."

His hands spare no time to cup your face, pulling it up to his own as his fingers draw lines across your cheekbones. Wakatoshi's brain bursts in sparks of gold and red, and he genuinely ponders how he has lived until now without ever doing this once. He pulls away, unsure what else to do after, before sneezing in your face.

"Sorry, pollen, gross."

"Let's get out of here then, quick."

You grab his hand in your own, another sensation he isn't sure how he's lived without until now, and pull him away from the tree as you run to the school exit. He jogs behind you, and you turn around, your fingers interlocked with each other's.

"By the way, happy sixth anniversary, Toshi!"

author's note:

@catsoupki here's your long overdue ushiwaka prompt baby i hope you like you like ;P i had so much fun writing this omg i cracked myself AND my sister up like twenty times running her through what my plan was LMAOO

i too need ushiwaka btw i actually love him SO MUCH it's not funny anymore I NEED HIM SBSBSBSBSB the only other fic i have of him is genuinely some of the worst situations i've put any haikyuu character in recently so i have to treat him to a good one here ofc

anyways tags!!

@starlysama @chuuya-brainrot @fiannee @bailey-reeds

ok love u guys see u next fic bye bye

[barrenclan]

Alone in the middle of a desolate wasteland, BarrenClan is a hardy and irritable group of cats. They have lived there for generations, and eke out survival in this unforgiving land. But one of their new apprentices, the bold and curious Pinepaw, is determined to discover the terrible truths buried under the sand, as well as rise to meet the changes coming to his Clan.

"Pinepaw and the Forgotten World" was a Warriors-inspired illustrated prose comic that ran on this blog from September 2022 - February 2025. As it is currently completed, this blog will contain MAJOR spoilers for the comic. If you are a new reader, please use the "Next" link below to be taken to the cover of this project. You can also read a mirror of the project on ComicFury, linked below. Navigational tags and other information are tagged below on this post as well.

Next >

ComicFury mirror

Yes, you have my permission to use a style and/or format inspired by this comic for your own projects. 

This comic is not based on the text-based game ClanGen/LifeGen. It was based off the Clan Generator challenge, which you can see in this video.

Helpful tags for navigating this blog (click on the search icon):

#issue: a list of all the completed issues. Use this tag to only see issues of the comic. 

#reference: reference sheets for the characters. 

#lore: background information about the world of the comic. 

#extra art: drawings I create outside of the comic itself. 

#fanart: drawings other people have made for the comic.

Allegiances: Family Tree (spoilers)

PATFW Discord: https://discord.gg/y3hAGVbfUK

PATFW Playlist: Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0GZWVmucv2DvA4H7uLwquk (Song Guide)

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLwTmUrr_9zUlCvQijucEkukNtiRpwktqs

Complete masterpost of issues, underneath Keep Reading link:

Issue 1 - Dry Heat and Cracked Earth

Issue 2 - I’ve Never Heard That Name Before

Issue 3 - Stupid Little Kit Daydreams

Issue 4 - It’s Just Like Falling Asleep 

Issue 5 - Smoke and Ash and Fire and Salt and Blood

Issue 6 - Healers Hear All The Secrets

Issue 7 - Foxholes Bite Back

Issue 8 - Do You Really Think That’s Your Destiny?

Issue 9 - It’s Only a Deer

Issue 10 - What Was That Now, Dear?

Issue 11 - We’re Held Together By Spiderweb

Issue 12 - The Shining Towns

Issue 13 - To Kill Is Right. To Kill Is Good. To Kill Is To Live.

Issue 14 - The Rotten Stench of Blood

Issue 15 - Was It Something I Did?

Issue 16 - I Bet You Can’t Catch Me

Issue 17 - You Are the Darkness Before the Storm

Issue 18 - I Met Him Under a Warm Dawn

Issue 19 - Kindness for the Dying Is Easy to Spare

Issue 20 - KITTENS! KITTENS! KITTENS!

Issue 21 - Lovebug

Issue 22 - A Favor for a Favor

Issue 23 - Your Voice Was So Soft

Issue 24 - Lost In a Haze

Issue 25 - You Don’t Speak to My Daughter That Way

Issue 26 - My Heart Is Too Heavy to Sleep

Issue 27 - Little Paws Take Little Steps

Issue 28 - Viscera, Shiny in the Light of Day

Issue 29 - We’re Not So Different, You and I

Issue 30 - Time Is a Circle

Issue 31 - Blood

Issue 32 - Cassandra

Issue 33 - Hurt Me! Beat Me! Just Please Don’t Leave Me!

Issue 34 - Sunset Days

Issue 35 - The Death of BarrenClan: Part One

Issue 36 - The Death of BarrenClan: Part Two

Issue 37 - The Death of BarrenClan: Part Three

Issue 38 - The Death of BarrenClan: Part Four

Issue 39 - The Death of BarrenClan: Part Five

Issue 40 - Aftermath

Issue 41 - Oracles

Issue 42 - Our Lasting Legacy

Issue 43 - Farewell, and I Love You

Epilogue 1 - The Last Ruby-Red Drop of Flame

Epilogue 2 - Moth-Soft Murmurings

Epilogue 3 - A Dream, A Nightmare

Epilogue 4 - Sunlight Here and Shadows There

Epilogue 5 - Gold Flowers

Epilogue 6 - Binary Star

Epilogue 7 - While You Were Dead

Epilogue 8 - The Ash of Memory

Epilogue 9 - A Rule of Fear

Epilogue 10 - The Vaster World

[charl0ttan]

do you really wanna let an ALGORITHM perform binary search on your tree??

[mooshie-blue]

Everyone’s posting their Octonauts OC so I’m gonna reintroduce mine!

Ferris

Early to Mid 30’s, Cis, Gay, He/Him

Species: South American Grey Fox

Occupation: Octonaut, Therapist, Meteorologist. Aboard the octopod, he tracks the weather weeks in advance so the Octonauts know what to do in future situations. He also holds therapy sessions, for the crew (something they never know they needed considering how taxing this job is)

Personality: Ferris is generally very friendly and welcoming, he’s a social butterfly, he enjoys talking to everyone on the Octopod. Especially Captain Barnacles and Bibi He’s very passionate about his work and is ready to lend a helping hand at any chance he gets.

However, he has heavy imposter syndrome and can fall into fits of self doubt when he fails at something, and he has little patience under pressure and can snap a bit. But besides that he’s really good at controlling his temper, often smiling even when he’s angry. (Think Shinobu from Demon Slayer.)

Ferris is also very compassionate and patient when need be, as a kid he was always taken care of by his older brother (his parents couldn’t because their jobs kept them busy throughout the day.) And as a result, he wants to help others.

Bibi

Late 20’s early 30’s, Non-binary, Bisexual They/Them

Species: Gray Rabbit

Occupation: Octo-Agent, Bibi is a search and rescue specialist stationed in Alaska, they run a station near a bunch of mountains. They help rescue creatures after storms, mudslides, and avalanches.

Personality: Bibi is socially awkward, they like life in the mountains of it means being alone, they tend to self isolate which isn’t good for their mental health, but they don’t really mind it. They aren’t completely isolated from others though, as being an Octoagent meant having to occasionally call on the Octonauts for help, and Bibi really likes them. Especially Barnacles and Ferris.

If Bibi is comfortable enough, they’ll stand or sit closer to someone or even talk a bit with them, but they prefer to be quiet.

Bibi does love very deeply and expresses it through art and letters, they seem completely socially stale but that couldn’t be further from the truth. They’re very emotional but they keep it to themselves out of fear of being too much to deal with.

Opal

Late 30’s Cis, Lesbian, She/Her

Species: Ocelot

Occupation: Octo-Agent. Opal is Silviculturist for the rainforests of South America, she takes care of the upkeep of the area around her tree house station. She makes sure animals and plants are safe, dhe cleans up any mess left behind, protects it from deforestation. Etc.

Personality: Opal is extremely nurturing and gentle. She has loads of love to give, she’s not the most talkative out there but she’s always happy to listen and learn. She especially enjoys the company of Selva, who has been dear to her ever since they were young. (They may or may not be a thing :))

She’s always been quiet but kind as long as she can remember, she never wants anyone to feel alone. She also has a protective side as she never wants anyone to get hurt. She’s a cat of prey but she’s personally vegan. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body, she’s especially fond of kids.

[fakesurprise]

we were searching toward an ending in games we played too long ago - a tree of life in our hopscotch game the tetherball a cold test of fate

the playground we knew is gone iron bars and wooden railings extinct they say it is safety-focused inclusive more terms about fairness - but nothing engages the senses like pain i do not know what we are without fear i explain the blood and terror the Ways kept closed by iron, wood and faith

where the teeter-totters was is gone the binary of life and death broken i can only plead that the old ways return by claiming they are so cheap to make

[imhere-imqueer-ilikedeer]

INTRO POST (*°▽°*)

HI! My name is Thomas! I'm a writer, artist and general silly lil guy

About me:

pronouns: he/they (these are the safe ones, but I sometimes change. feel free to ask if you want specifics. Also please don't just use one of them. I like it when you mix it up)

I am aroace, genderfluid, non-binary, and probably autistic as fuck (undiagnosed, but when you have ten other autistic people display genuine surprise at finding out you aren't, it's a pretty good indicator).

Robin’s tag is #alter-cation

I'm into:

sanders sides

batfam

Traffic smp and hermitcraft (the bean man is my favourite i will fight you) (I will also lose the fight this has been proven but still know that I will fight you)

Aroace stuff (separately or together)

I do occassional art (tag is #thomas' art, or for my pet project, #the hand series)

for any ranchers fans, I wrote a fanfic (on my ao3) - or search "#respawn denied au" on my tumblr

for jizzie fans, I wrote a kitsune/deer hunter fanfic (also on my ao3) or search “#willow tree au” on tumblr.

History!!! I am a history nerd :D My favourite time period/area is the plantagenets and the tudors (and I understand that this is the ancient greek nerd website, but I am an ancient roman nerd. sorry guys)

not necessarily a thing I'm into, but if you see the tag "#thomas after 9" then tell me to go sleep. That means tired thomas is in control of my body and I don't like him, he sucks and overthinks things.

my youtube (I made an animatic!!)

my ao3 (I write fanfics!!)

my writing blog (I write oc stuff!!)

Have fun!

\ (*^▽^*) /

-Thomas

[kalinazlatkova]

"I clung to my bubble of bliss so tightly, that all the muscles in my small arms ached. I jumped, and danced, and I laughed with unburdened glee, as Katy Perry’s voice kissed me through the radio, and baptized me into the cherry tasting church of dance. Then my father burst in, roaring with disgust, and called me a freak. I said, “I like it,” at the same time she did, and his hand did the answering for him. He smacked the side of my head so hard; the impact launched me into the kitchen, and my skull dented the side of the fridge while cracking lights blurred my vision.  

I was ten years old.

With eyes worshiping the ground and a bloodied crumpled face, I crawled up the stairs and climbed up to my bunk, where I wailed until my mind buried away the memories of star spun curls and lulled me into sleep. I still smiled for her, and dreamt about her, up to the very day my mother asked if I liked girls. As I felt my brain burn and my throat close, I laughed “No! Are you crazy,” and I climbed up to my escape once more. She did not ask anew, and I never mentioned Grace either. Soon enough, the honey eyes changed school and moved away. I never saw them again, but they left behind in me a life-long, unsatiable hankering for bees."

Part of my story "One night at Garlands", under the cut. On how I grew up different, became non-binary, and found the love of my life in a self-made woman named Magdalena.

Non-binary and Trans people are here, have always been here and will always be here. Regardless of what the UK supreme court, or the US supreme court, or any soul sucking miserable jackal might say to the contrary. Don't you forget it. 💛🤍💜🖤🏳️‍⚧️

Once during the holidays, we visited a festive bazaar where roaming through the stalls, I felt a large LEGO set call out my name. My father promptly told me it would be “too big for Santa to carry,” and redirected me elsewhere. A few days later, on Christmas morning, I excitedly ran towards the generous package sitting under our tree. Lo and behold, it was not LEGOs, but the Barbie my father had pointed out to me instead, and which I had explicitly refused. Perhaps he thought I was being considerate of costs or exhibiting false modesties, when in truth I simply did not enjoy playing with dolls, much less did I want one. Not only as we could not typically afford them, but because they were tedious and boring.  

Christmas was always a specially hallowed type of affair when I was a child. There was a silent truce and a promise of best behaviours amongst the adults of my family, which meant that us kids could fully revel in the sacred peace of the moment. Not only because of the permeating joy around us, but because we were quite poor, and this was the only time of year besides our birthdays, when we could expect positive grown-up attention, as well as the material benefits that come with it.  

What I wanted, was to play with puzzles, model cars, wooden horses, and my uncle’s soviet toy soldiers. I found solace in crashing things together while picturing explosions, space missions, and sword fights. I also had better fun with the boys in my kindergarten than I did with the girls. They took me dirty, loud, rude, and only judged if I could not kick a ball hard enough. But it was somehow never proper for us to be together outside the confinement of our teacher’s gaze, even if I belonged with them more than I did any place else.  

School years came and went, and I kept struggling to be just enough of a girl to maintain what everyone thought to be the right kind of friendships. Then I met her, with her sunshine hair, golden skin, and honey eyes. I searched for her and found her everywhere. I read books, watched films, and sang songs that reminded me of Grace, and I thought, I do not want to play with dolls, but I would love to play with her. She was my best friend, and for a while, she was everything.  

I clung to my bubble of bliss so tightly, that all the muscles in my small arms ached. I jumped, and danced, and I laughed with unburdened glee, as Katie Perry’s voice kissed me through the radio, and baptized me into the cherry tasting church of dance. Then my father burst in, roaring with disgust, and called me a freak. I said, “I like it,” at the same time she did, and his hand did the answering for him. He smacked the side of my head so hard; the impact launched me into the kitchen, and my skull dented the side of the fridge while cracking lights blurred my vision.  

I was ten years old.

With eyes worshiping the ground and a bloodied crumpled face, I crawled up the stairs and climbed up to my bunk, where I wailed until my mind buried away the memories of star spun curls and lulled me into sleep. I still smiled for her, and dreamt about her, up to the very day my mother asked if I liked girls. As I felt my brain burn and my throat close, I laughed “No! Are you crazy,” and I climbed up to my escape once more. She did not ask anew, and I never mentioned Grace either. Soon enough, the honey eyes changed school and moved away. I never saw them again, but they left behind in me a life-long, unsatiable hankering for bees.  

I never spoke of it, even as I made mention to my sister of the first girl whom my body loved. Neither did I mention how Angelina broke us both, when she let her brothers feed me their fists in the school toilets, while she stood by, idly watching. With self-loathing laughter in her eyes, she denied me, when once her lips had been enough to turn me into the most pious supplicant. It was in the divine of her fingers, that I understood why men go to war. I knew then that this female adoration would be the heaviest cross I could ever carry, and in its rapture, it would be holy, and violent, and unfathomably beautiful.

My university girlfriend, Sara, is another subject I have never broached. She was the first to openly muse, that if as a woman I felt myself difficult to want and to love, then maybe, I ought to be a man. I was a goldfish in a gumball machine, until she helped me find the most prize worthy way of being human. Hand in hand, we walked the streets of Liverpool at three o’clock in the morning, in full king drag. Drunk on giggles and glitter, and stumbling on our feet, I felt freer after one night at Garlands with her, than I had in all my youth put together.  

There are many things I have never brought up to my family, to my mother, about who I am. It is a funny kind of thing, in an ironic sort of way. Because when I was little, she used to make me debate fairytales, to argue their moral standing, and now I do not feel I can speak to her openly, at all. Today, we sit under the shade of the same tree where I used to play pretend and claim my throne as the ruler of the fireflies. Though what we are debating is not a thing of fantasy, but whether sexual health education, and gender ideology, should form part of the national curriculum. She leans towards yes, while my grandfather leans towards no. We argue the fight against general ignorance versus the traditional values of Christian families. My sister is already set at yes, for the freedom of knowledge and equality of the people. I hold firm agreement by her side, and it feels as if we have been having the same conversation for over a decade. Since before the legalisation of gay marriage, at least. I blazed with anger then and screamed out at the recollection of my own father’s treatment, even though he was straight. I cried about his parents, and how they had failed him too. I sobbed, that just because someone is heterosexual, it does not mean they would be a good parent; and just because someone is homosexual, it does not mean that they cannot be a great one.  

As we presently discuss school reform and the lack of quality education, I argue with data of teenage pregnancies, substance abuse, the impact on mental health, and youth suicide rates. I speak of statistics, but I think of Magdalena. A self-made woman who taught me I need not be a man, to truly be myself. Because I never hated being a girl, what I hated, was to be punished for it. In her arms I grew enough, to readily feel relief at the fact that I never have to be a man's wife or the mother of his children, to avoid becoming him altogether. Magda taught me how to love to the point of creation, not of other lifeforms, but of my own personhood. It is because of her, that I know a soul has no gender, even if her siblings still insisted on calling her “Brother.”  

I say none of this to my family, perhaps due to a lingering sense of self-preservation, or maybe because, deep down, I am less like the hero and more like the coward. I utter no names as I write them all in my notebook, over and over again. A prayer built upon the memory of girls, who have known me in ways I did not even know myself. I speak of political witch hunts and governmental propaganda, but the throbbing in my chest pleads for Magdalena. Because it has been more than a year since she took her life, but it will take more than a thousand for the flavour of her name to leave my mouth.  

I was a child when manliness lost its comfort and mandated that I am queer, and therefore I am culpable. But thanks to her, and all the women before her, I know now that my greatest sin, will only ever be my love; and even the highest of men's Gods knows, that is not a crime.

[hallowpen]

Why are there fences around the trees in all of the dramas? I know that there are better pictures but this was the only one I could directly find from memory.

I also use they/them pronouns. Have you talked about/would you be willing to talk about navigating the linguistics of a gendered language like Thai? ARE there really no neo pronouns outside the ค่ะ/ครับ binary? A lot of times actual queer lived experiences dont make it through the search engine algorithm no matter how hard you look for them.

Do you have a patreon/buy me a cup of coffee etc? I'm willing to tip for your labor. (Not much, sadly because I am very very poor, but still I appreciate anyone who is willing to help with translation/questions.) It can be frustrating when you are a self learner and there is literally no one tgat you can ask a question.

I think you're the first person to ask me this! It made me smile.

It's a sort of dual-faceted protection. Like other places, it's mostly to protect the soil from being trampled on so that it stays as porous as possible and can retain water (especially for newly planted trees). The more cultural reason is that certain trees hold auspicious and spiritual value to us, so we would want to preserve them by limiting disturbances (though most of those won't be found in urban environments). There's a big movement in certain cities to revitalize green spaces for both cultural and climate reasons.

As for your second question... I've spoken a little bit about gendered language in Thailand [X] The problem, for me, doesn't really exist in what you could call language 'norms'. Because pronouns/particles (ฉัน/ผม | ค่ะ/ครับ/จ๊ะ) are, more increasingly, used interchangeably OR what are classified as "female" pronouns can be used as 'acceptable' gender neutral identifiers. The problem is how certain people react to the use of gendered language in more modern expression. Does that make sense? Collectivist views and traditionalism look down upon non-adherence to gender correlated language, in a lot of instances. The fact that our culture was established from patriarchal perspectives doesn't help.

I don't know if I'm comfortable or ready to talk about my personal experiences (some of which were very unpleasant) living as a non-binary transgender person in Thailand, especially in online spaces, but I hope that I can get there one day.

Please don't feel pressured to compensate me in any way!!! I'm not asking or expecting to be rewarded for sharing my cultural insight. Some might see it as generous, and I'll accept that, but the reason behind it is very self-serving...in a way. Because I desperately want to combat the false information and discriminatory views that exist in fandom spaces about my culture. So really...

Thank you to anyone who refrains from making generalized assumptions about a culture that you do not belong to. It's hurtful to to see a lot of the misinformation that exists, not just here, but in other social media spaces. Coming to terms with interfandom has been a struggle... because Thai voices are often disregarded when discussing media that originates from their own country. And I hope that I've created an environment where you'd feel comfortable enough coming to me for any sort of clarification. All I have ever asked, is that you be respectful.

[my85volvo]

Prompt!

Fuck magic. Fuck witches, fuck warlocks, fuck non-binary magically-inclined individuals. Stiles was done with all of them. One minute he's in his room minding his own fucking business (researching this weird ring he stole from a darach) and the next, BOOM. He's fallen into the preserve. And it's suddenly daytime. And his head really fucking HURTS, because of course it does. The Preserve equals the Nemeton equals some weird magic mumbo-jumbo equals injured human Stiles.

After a few minutes laying on the ground and contemplating his poor life choices, Stiles decided to stand and try to get his bearings. However, he had no idea if it was late morning or early afternoon, so the sun wasn't much help with navigation. Moss on the trees vaguely pointed him south, so he turned east (hopefully) and started walking. Slowly. Because moving too fast made his head hurt even more.

He was thinking of the speech he would give everyone for failing to find him, forcing him to walk MILES with a HEAD INJURY, when he came to the edge of the woods. Stiles didn't even get to have a full sigh of relief, because as soon as he sucked in a breath, he realized that something was very wrong with the road in front of him. It was stone. Not pavement or asphalt, actual hand-laid old-timey cobblestone. There were no cobblestone roads bordering the preserve. There were no cobblestone roads in Beacon Hills, period. So where the fuck was he?

Behind him was definitely the preserve. It felt ominous and oppressive and he would recognize those trees anywhere. In front of him was...something else. He looked beyond the road expecting to see the gentle slope of a hill and a few high-end homes with trees peppering their backyards. Instead, it looked like farmland.

He squinted, searching for someone who might tell him where the fuck he was, and spotted a farmer hunched over about a mile away, sandwiched between neat rows of low, leafy crops. Stiles reluctantly began to trudge toward him, already exasperated at whatever bullshit he would have to deal with to get back home.

He was maybe 20 yards from his destination when the man stood, looked to the sky, and wiped sweat from his brow. Stiles recognized him immediately. What the hell was Derek Hale doing FARMING? And how did this asshole still manage to look good in a dirty t-shirt and raggedy pants? He looked at Stiles, scowled, and returned to his task. Rude!

Stiles' slow walk turned into a light jog, despite the pain still shooting through his skull. He was amped up on righteous indignation and was getting ready to jump into a whole tirade aimed at Derek for leaving him in the woods. Except...Derek wasn't farming. Not really. He was kneeling on the ground with a tight hold on a sturdy wood basket full of shimmery smokey magic-y looking stuff. The weird smoke seemed to eminate from a smooth, white cylinder, spill over the edge of the basket, and wrap around the wide leaves of the plants growing at his feet.

Stupid werewolf, he knew better than to mess with magic.

[thebrightmillenial]

SAM WINCHESTER HEADCANONS

Sam Winchester is left handed.

He is lactose intolerant, which isn't confirmed but is also my headcanon and I am keeping it because I can.

He enjoys forensics, chemistry, law, english and theater - particularly law and forensics, but is really skilled in english which is mostly canon.

Not a huge fan of tattoos, but still got his along with Dean after Sam got possessed by Meg.

His favorite scent is grass and old books. He just finds it comforting and reminds him back of Stanford, when he and Jess would sit together under a tree, on the grass, reading books. Total silence, but still no time was being wasted.

He can't enjoy being around cats. He just doesn't like them. There isn't really a reason or a trauma behind it. He sees a cat, he keeps his distance if he is given the chance.

Sam feels relatively anxious if he can't understand something. This will sometimes cause him to chew on his nails or even obsess over the problem in question to no end.

The reason his wifi is exceptionally good is because he actually befriended a witch. The deal was an essay in exchange for all wifi bars anytime he needed. This isn't my headcanon but I love it.

He is able to draw really well, but only when he has visions about it.

Sam sleeps mostly laying on his stomach but sometimes feels comfortable sleeping on his right side.

Mostly vegetarian - once or twice he will break the rule but he likes to keep to that diet.

He actively searches hunting lore. He doesn't fully hate hunting itself. He just hates not being given the choice.

This is more canon than not, but if you want to read Sam Winchester's emotions, look at his eyes. What his face won't show, his eyes will immediately show as much as he tries to hide it.

Sam can't stand to talk about himself without talking about other people's problem's first. The moment he tries, he finds himself struggling to get the words out.

He is non-binary bisexual, but really can't care much about the labels.

He will always finish what he starts and avoids making promises he can't keep.

Sam absolutely loves dogs and if he can, he will stop to pet one.

Sam's favorite colors are powder blue, brown, white, black and gray-green and his favorite season is autumn

He seeks control for himself. He needs to be able to feel in control of his life, thoughts and actions, since people are always depriving him of that, which then becomes an issue with the entire Ruby situation (she made him think he was in control).

Sam's playlist is very strange. He'll listen to Bon Jovi, Amanda Palmer, Celine Dion, but would probably enjoy some styles of classic romantic music or baroque on certain days.

He's the type that would listen to christmas songs in June. Especially Frank Sinatra.

He is sometimes able to sense ghosts in his presence - this has been something that he's felt since he was a kid but had nobody to tell (he feared Dean would be upset with him)

He would definitely shamelessly listen to Adele.

Jess taught Sam how to knit, or at least started teaching him.

Sam is actually a decent cook.

Sam's friend group at Stanford was Luis, Jess, Brady, Zach and Rebecca.

They sometimes went over to Zach's and Rebecca's just to play Mario Kart and watch movies all day after their exams.

Their group photos burned down along with Jess so Sam never had the chance to retrieve them.

Sam was actually really short until he turned 17-18. His growth spurt came out of nowhere.

Sam had to wear knee braces during most of his time at Stanford.

Autistic with some slight OCD

[mayhemstories]

Prototype: Love - Chapter 9 "Relativity - 3.2"

check it out on ao3 here! // find chapter index here!

Connor comes looking for you after an eventful Crossroads. You are not home. part three: you warned me on a Wednesday, said your love would hurt //

words: 3,381 / chapters: 9/? / rating: mature

Content Warning: connor has symptoms of ptsd and experiences the android equivalent of a panic attack in this chapter. please be mindful of your triggers. if neccessary, read the spoilered summary on ao3 for all important plot points instead of the chapter.

-- ☆ -- ☆ -- ☆ --

WEDNESDAY, 10th of November 2038, 11:02 AM

In the first twelve hours of his deviancy, the RK800 mainly observed one thing.

Feeling emotions was a lot harder than suppressing them.

Some emotions were easier than others. Like confidence - confidence did not come hard to the RK800.

Chasing through Jerichos’ many hallways, fighting and dodging FBI agents left and right, he realised quickly that no one - not humans, nor other androids - could keep up with him.

This observation was quickly followed by another: arrogance also came easy to him.

He figured he would have to keep an eye on that - you probably wouldn’t enjoy his presence if he acted too arrogantly.

Ah.

You.

That was another series of observations: the mysterious New York Detective with the redacted CyberLife file.

If you hadn’t made such a scene about him looking into your files way back when - on that car ride to Kamski’s place - he probably never would’ve thought about investigating. But when you did, his curiosity was piqued.

And once he looked, he could no longer look away.

From your time in the police academy onwards, everything looked normal.

But before that?

Your early biography was short - born in New York, raised in New York. Single mother, absent father, one little brother. Then - a long gap. Next in the list: acceptance into the police academy without ever taking an admittance test - no trace of why, no trace of how.

Digging deeper, he found mentions of you in obscure places that made no sense - first place in a mathematics competition in Detroit University for instance, or as a member of the court hearings on the dangers of android assisted driving.

He had assured himself that his interest was merely rational, a natural outgrowth of his investigative abilities.

Now that he could feel his emotions fully and without restriction, he was no longer so sure.

So now here he stood, in front of your apartment, with nowhere to go but inside.

Except you were not answering the door.

You could have been asleep but it was almost noon and that seemed unlike you; not to mention his repeated ringing of your doorbell would surely have awoken you and alerted you to his presence.

You could be ignoring him - he did start a fight the last time he saw you. That, too, seemed unlike you: your heartbeat increased when he entered a room, you had made a habit of smiling at him and your conversations with him were 21% longer than your average conversations with other colleagues - these were all indicators that you did not detest his presence.

This observation caused another feeling: it bubbled in his stomach and warmed his body in a way he firmly classified as positive. He would have to find time to sit down and invent an organisational system for all these new emotions: a mix of a key-value store and a binary search tree perhaps. There had to be a way to bring some rationality into all this.

But that would have to wait.

For now, he had to go inside and you were not answering your door.

There was, of course, always the option of breaking and entering. His preconstruction module helpfully built a path into your apartment and lit up his HUD with step by step instructions. It also added the 82% chance of you disapproving of his actions.

He swiped the path away and rang your doorbell again.

No answer.

His preconstruction module refused to give up, sending him a choice of three ways into your apartment, ranked by damage to the apartment in height of repair costs.

When he tried to swipe it away again, the module got mad and woke up the reconstruction module with a poke, asking it for reasons why you might not be answering the door.

The reconstruction module ranked its response list by severity.

Starting with you dead on the floor.

Connor’s first impulse was to angrily shoot his own reconstruction module for suggesting such a thing, but that did not have a high expected utility.

Besides, shooting software is tricky.

He swiped both of them away and shifted his focus back to getting into your apartment.

The RK800 had only just received free will and he was not quite sure what exactly that meant yet. Would he have to stop listening to his software modules entirely? He didn’t want to do that; so far, every decision in his life had been made based on expected utility and weighted priority matrices - it seemed reasonable to continue doing so.

But would that be him making the decisions, or some CyberLife software engineer?

He didn’t know.

The RK800 stared at your door.

The old Connor would have broken into your apartment already and the new Connor knew that full well. Perhaps that was why he refused to listen to his preconstruction module, choosing to stand here instead.

He rang the doorbell.

No response.

Then again, the old Connor would have had no reason to want to get into your apartment in the first place, so maybe there was no harm in the new Connor’s breaking and entering?

As if on cue, the preconstruction module piped up again, this time ranking the paths by covertness.

Was there even a way to meaningfully separate the old Connor from the new Connor? Where did one end and the other begin?

And what even was the difference between acting exactly as your software dictates and acting exactly opposed? Didn’t both methods dictate his life instead of letting him choose?

Your face crossed his mind again. Wow, Connor, you crossed the street on a red light even though your software warned you not to and got hit by a car! That really showed CyberLife, don’t you think?

The words weren’t yours, but they might as well have been. And you had a point.

Still, he tried swiping the paths away and ringing your doorbell one last time.

When the preconstruction module popped up again - ranking by efficiency in saving your life should you currently be bleeding out in your bathroom? - the RK800 didn’t need any further convincing. He selected the first path.

-

Half your boxes were open, analysed and catalogued by the time Connor realised that you might take issue with his intrusiveness. When he had finally made his way inside and found your apartment empty, figuring out where you went had seemed the logical next step.

He may have gotten distracted midway.

Other than the fact that you left in a hurry shortly after he did, he didn’t find out much about your current whereabouts - but, oh how the rest of your things fascinated him.

He threw open box after box, most of them filled with unbuilt Swedish furniture, only slowing down to analyse boxes filled with personal belongings.

Some might argue that a lot of your personal belongings were rather boring, but to Connor every bit of information was priceless.

He had rapidly built a comprehensive list of your preferences in clothing and in home decor, a less comprehensive list of your social circle based on foreign DNA traces and quickly realised that you did not own a single piece of CyberLife technology.

For a short while the RK800 felt personally attacked by this trend in purchasing history, then realised that he no longer liked CyberLife and should probably feel glad you didn’t like them either. This confused the RK800 and he ended up deciding that while he did not like CyberLife, he wanted to show you the many upsides of owning a CyberLife product.

Then he realised he should probably stop thinking of himself as a product and of your relationship as ownership, which only served to stress him out even further. He was a deviant now, shouldn’t it come easy to him to consider himself a person? It never looked this difficult when the other deviants did it.

He went to distract himself by opening a few more boxes, then stopped himself, remembering why he had interrupted the activity in the first place.

Connor glanced across the room, where countless boxes lay opened, your stuff strewn across the living room. Right. You would probably disapprove.

A pang of an emotion he categorised as guilt made its way across his body before burrowing above his pump regulator, so intensely and so negatively he expected malfunction warnings to pop up on his HUD. It knocked him off his feet, forcing him to sit on the floor. Panicked, the RK800 started emergency diagnostics, but the feeling did not grant him the relief of an easy explanation.

0 mechanical failures, 0 software exceptions found. All systems at full functionality.

Yet, here he was, sitting on your floor, feeling smaller than ever before in his life and yet too big for his body at the same time.

The feeling flooded his every circuit, telling him to run and hide, awakening memories of failure and punishment which it quickly drowned again.

Artificial intelligences are not born and raised, they are built and trained; and the RK800 is the best trained bot in the pack. The feeling was not unlike making a mistake in training - a memory that had been purged from the RK800’s memory, yet flowed through every decision he made. It was how he came into this world: pure positivity as a reward for good behaviour, pure negativity for every wrong choice, every misstep, every miscalculation in priorities.

Except being punished for mistakes had never felt personal.

How did anyone deal with this?

This is ridiculous.

Shaking his head, Connor tried to get back on his feet. He pushed himself up with one arm and lifted his center of gravity with his legs at the same time; but his gyroscopes fired misleading values and his left leg overcorrected while his right knee tried to dodge and before he knew it he was on the ground again.

The feeling had gotten stronger now, seeping from his chest to his limbs, like somebody filled his wired veins with ice cold water instead of blue blood. Connor felt his thirium pump pick up speed and his fingers and toes go numb despite all sensors reporting full functionality.

What had been guilt had turned into boundless shame and Connor felt every component in his body cringe away from him in turmoil.

The world had gotten smaller, too; he could have sworn his field of view used to be bigger.

And colours? Didn’t colours use to be a thing?

And sounds?

All he could hear now was a fast rhythmic thumping in a cold black and white world.

The RK800 wasn’t sure how he had gotten into this situation anymore.

The RK800 wasn’t sure where he was.

Had he been worried about something?

Yes, worry, that sounded right.

He should be worried about several things, but what were they again?

Red filled his HUD. “Stress level at 96.01%. Self-destruction imminent.”

Was that one of the things he should be worried about?

The RK800 wasn’t sure anymore. Nor did he care.

A gleeful smile twisted his lips as his blurry gaze wandered across the room he was in.

Worry was so overrated.

He felt the artificial muscles in his body tense as if they were planning something in secret, he felt his thirium pump thump away at speeds that could power a car, and he felt as his hands began shaking - but his mind? His mind was numb. Numb and safe.

The RK800 would have laughed if he had had any control over his body, but as it was, all he could master was a stupid grin.

His HUD was still throwing funny words at him, words lacking meaning and intensity. Words like “Stress Level at 98.56%” and “Preparing for self-destruction”.

The RK800 attempted to swipe them away, but they refused to obey his commands, increasing in size like they were begging for his attention. Like a defiant child refusing to listen, the RK800 looked away instead.

Huh. He was in a bare living room that looked like a bomb had exploded in it. No furniture to be seen, but opened boxes and personal belongings were strewn across the room carelessly.

There had been something important about what had happened here, but the RK800 was not sure what it was.

He had to find out. Finding things out was his function, was it not?

To his left laid a box of clothing. A lot of it was very practical - neutral colours, mostly dark shades, and cuts that were easy to move around in. They reminded Connor of something out of a movie, clothing an undercover agent would wear on a secret mission. Had he ever seen a movie before? He wasn’t sure. He would have to put that on his encrypted list, right below “listen to heavy metal” and the crossed off “pet a dog”.

Hold on. He had a list? And it was secret? Who was it secret from?

Not all of the clothing followed this rule. Some of the older, worn out pieces were in bold colours and featured funny prints - unlike anything a secret agent would be allowed to wear. Or a police officer?

Connor could have sworn that description matched something or someone in his internal database, but his body was running hot and hard drive access times were slow.

He leant forward slowly, extending his arms to prop himself up and exhaled deeply. Hot, and almost steamy, air left his body.

Tearing his gaze from the box of clothes, he continued to look across the room. Books laid in piles in one corner of the room, some the old kind with pages and some new and digital. Most of them were fiction - superhero sci-fi stories where perfect heroes saved doomed worlds - but a few non-fiction works peeked through the bunch as well.

“Advanced Algebra: Volume II” read one title. “Dealing with Grief” read another.

Dealing with grief? Was this Hank’s home perhaps?

No, impossible. The old Lieutenant had a dog, a beautiful big Bernese mountain dog named Sumo, and this home had decidedly too few dog hairs to be Hank’s.

Hank! Hank was an important person, right?

But if he wasn’t at Hank’s, where was he?

Connor turned carefully, testing his body’s limits. His heart was still trying to escape his chest and a dangerous crimson lined his field of view.

His gaze locked on a framed picture that sat atop the box he had been leaning against.

The photograph showed four people standing arm in arm, all grinning from ear to ear.

Connor tried to look away, but something inside him stopped him. He didn’t recognise the two women to the left or the young boy to the right of the picture, but the person in the middle was important somehow.

Their database entry in his internal system was too large for his overheated body to load, but something about their smile was relevant.

They were smiling and that was good.

You were smiling and that was good.

Fragments of laughter loaded into his consciousness, a silly joke he had not understood.

An arm on his shoulder, physical contact he had struggled to contextualise.

A warm and soft feeling. Safety, coupled with worry.

You were fragile and he had to protect you.

You were safety and he would be okay.

A pop up awoke Connor from his daze.

“Stress level at 84.56% and sinking. Internal system temperature sinking. Reestablishing functionality. Self-destruct aborted.”

With a start, Connor remembered where he was and what had happened. He looked around the room, grounding himself further as his essential processes finished their reboot. Memories flooded his mind and his fingers prickled as sensation returned.

It was hard to stop himself from jumping up the second his awareness returned, but Connor paced himself, scared of falling over again.

When his HUD informed him that the reboot was complete he carefully pushed himself up. Though he expected to lose balance any moment, he managed to pull himself up on his feet and stabilise himself into a secure stand.

Taking a deep breath, he looked around the room.

What exactly was that?

-

The RK800 worked best when he moved and so he subconsciously started putting your things back into their respective boxes while he mulled over what just happened. When everything was - more or less - back in its place, he still hadn’t come to a conclusion.

If he was a human, he’d have diagnosed himself with a panic attack. But he wasn’t a human. And androids didn’t have panic attacks.

He stood in the middle of your living room, pulling the memory of his arrival up on his HUD and overlaying it over his current view, comparing the two.

Having had a panic attack would also be deeply inconvenient to the RK800 - he wanted to help the deviants in their rebellion, and his efficiency as an agent greatly reduced when factoring in a past panic attack.

He corrected one box’s position by two centimetres to the right.

So clearly, it can’t have been a panic attack.

A hoodie still laid sprawled across two boxes in your entryway and a quick comparison confirmed that it had been folded when the RK800 came in.

So, what to do with the memory of the not-panic-attack? Filing it away under “look later” might be an option, but so was deletion. And deletion might be more efficient in the long run - it was the best way to ensure no more resources would get wasted on this fluke of an event.

The RK800’s fingers fluttered across the hoodie, folding it and making sure to position it the exact same way as it was in his memories - down to the millimetre. The RK800 took pride in being an exact machine.

Yes, deletion would probably be the best option. He accessed his logs and the associated memory file, going through it entry by entry starting with the first pang of guilt. But when he came across finding that picture of you, he hesitated. A soft fondness warmed his body and he couldn’t help but smile when he thought about it. Was deleting that really necessary?

The RK800 threw a testing look into the kitchen, though he was fairly sure his exploration hadn’t driven him that far.

No, he decided. Deleting that part wasn’t necessary. Memories associated with you were precious and few, and he wanted to keep the feeling of safety you caused him as close as possible.

“Log removal complete.”

Mission accomplished. Your living space looked just as it had when he first entered, down to the door that the android had left ajar when he broke in.

Hold on. He left the door ajar?

Connor quickly checked his recording again to find that he had indeed left the door wide open this entire time.

He went to correct his mistake, but hesitated before closing it fully. What if this was the kind of door that locked when closing it? He’d have to break out again. Maybe leaving it open was a better idea?

Or maybe you had an extra set of keys laying around that he hadn’t found yet?

Turning back around towards the apartment, half inside and half out, he scanned the room for a second pair of keys.

Before he finished the scan, he heard keys clatter on the floor behind him.

“Connor!” a voice asked, shock coursing through every syllable.

He began turning around towards the hallway outside, more than ready to fight to the death, but his voice recognition returned a match before he had time to finish turning around.

It was you.

Luckily for you, the match came before he had time to draw back his fist for a blow and a grin spread across his face instead.

When he saw your face the grin disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

Your eyes were red and puffy like you had spent the last several hours crying. All colour had drained from your face like you had seen a ghost. Your under eyes had deep dark circles like you hadn’t slept in days and you were supporting your dominant arm, which had a deep gash across the biceps.

“You’re alive?” you asked, your voice hoarse.

The RK800 frowned. Why wouldn’t he be alive?

-- ☆ -- ☆ -- ☆ --

author's note: "clearly, it can’t have been a panic attack" rivers in egypt have nothing on this man

also dang, as a trauma survivor myself, this chapter was an experience to write, let me tell you. our poor boy has not been dealt good cards, but he will make the best of it in the end, i promise (i hope)

previous chapter // next chapter coming in two weeks!

[transbookoftheday]

Cactus Country by Zoë Bossiere

A striking literary memoir of genderfluidity, class, masculinity, and the American Southwest that captures the author’s experience coming of age in a Tucson, Arizona trailer park.

Newly arrived in the Sonoran Desert, eleven-year-old Zoë’s world is one of giant beetles, thundering javelinas, and gnarled paloverde trees. With the family’s move to Cactus Country RV Park, Zoë has been given a fresh start and a new, shorter haircut. Although Zoë doesn’t have the words to express it, he experiences life as a trans boy—and in Cactus Country, others begin to see him as a boy, too. Here, Zoë spends hot days chasing shade and freight trains with an ever-rotating pack of sunburned desert kids, and nights fending off his own questions about the body underneath his baggy clothes.

As Zoë enters adolescence, he must reckon with the sexism, racism, substance abuse, and violence endemic to the working class Cactus Country men he’s grown close to, whose hard masculinity seems as embedded in the desert landscape as the cacti sprouting from parched earth. In response, Zoë adopts an androgynous style and new pronouns, but still cannot escape what it means to live in a gendered body, particularly when a fraught first love destabilizes their sense of self. But beauty flowers in this desert, too. Zoë persists in searching for answers that can’t be found in Cactus Country, dreaming of a day they might leave the park behind to embrace whatever awaits beyond.

Equal parts harsh and tender, Cactus Country is an invitation for readers to consider how we find our place in a world that insists on stark binaries, and a precisely rendered journey of self-determination that will resonate with anyone who’s ever had to fight to be themself.

[emcapi]

I'm currently taking a data structures class, and hilariously I have a huge advantage because of Homestuck being my primary special interest for several years. Which means I already know what an auto-balancing binary search tree is.