#Concepts of Recursion

[rowanthestrange]

Fear.

I get it now, the mirror fucks it up because it itself is a mirror. A mirror of the fear a person has of it, therefore the mirror would cause recursion: mirroring itself forever and it would explode.

So it had to do a big bang attack straight off the bat to create initial fear, but then what it would want? You don’t want to be big and obvious because that’s not actually scary, that’s a threat you can fight, to create the most fear you have to be as light a touch as possible. Just a flicker. Just a whisper.

It’s just Fear, like literally just Fear, the god of Fear, Fear consumed poor Aliss the cook, no skills, no baby, saw everyone die, had to kill her friend. That’s why she’s all Who Turned Out The Lights, Fear consumed her, ate her, like the Vashta Nerada. She’s a husk of Fear.

It might literally just be ambient to the planet, maybe it is the radiation.

And oh how it must have hated being in a reflective-diamond tourist trap - designed, quite probably by the Doctor themselves sometime in the future or a past lifecycle, to be the antithesis of Fear. The universe’s most beautiful Spa resort.

And maybe this was the plan: it had to slowly pare them down to one incredibly frightened individual in order to take over them (like in Midnight) building and building and building and building until it could take a permanent hold in her mind and- Wait. Wait for the inevitable other people to come. No sign of needing to eat, this cook that makes us question the food situation, just that she stayed sat there in the middle of a room, cus she’s already gone.

So what next? You build bigger, right? Well now you see, you don’t want to get too crazy with it like last time - you want to be Big but you also want to get off the planet to spread further. Cus what’s the goal of being Big? Fear breeds. And so by the time they’ve figured out the mirror thing, maybe because it’s an imperfect mirror or maybe because it’s big enough that it can’t be fully destroyed while what remains of the host(s) is still alive and ‘afraid’, it doesn’t get recursioned to death. Cus they’re still afraid, terrified as they run.

If the Fear is ambient, even if it can be stopped in one form, if it got Big enough then the scars are there carrying remnant. And Fear as a concept is ultimately unkillable just able to be made small. But they’re not making it small.

There’s a look of anger in Aliss’s eyes as the Doctor starts to laugh, confidently, because that is the antithesis of Fear. Thus a monstrous form must chase him, bring it back to him. And everyone else is still afraid.

And when it’s just the four of them they’re still afraid enough to coalesce the fear and build and build and build so by the end of even just a few minutes boom you’ve potentially now got another one. Cus Belief makes things real, and Fear is the purest manifestation of that.

And now what’s happened? Not only are you carrying potentially multiple sources of Fear on the ship, not only are there people leaving to tell other people to spread the Fear…

The Doctor told them to nuke the planet. Make sure everyone knows how dangerous it is.

That planet is now going to be a breeding ground for Fear for eons to come and they are the ones who will make sure of it.

[looseartist]

ma 0_0 low res

[definitelynotshouting]

quick question- are grian and pearl siblings in hunger au? trying to write a hunger au fic and i would feel quite silly if i made a reference to it and it turns out they weren’t related. sorry if you answered this somewhere else i was digging for awhile in the au tag but couldnt reach the end!

OKAY SO THE ANSWER IS A BIT NUANCED FOR THIS ONE

Technically, Grian and Pearl were Spawned in rather than born, so they arent actually related. That being said, culturally speaking since being born is INCREDIBLY rare as opposed to being Spawned in, i think its fairly common and accepted practice to just go "yeag thats my sibling" about people you're incredibly close to sometimes. This ofc doesnt even BEGIN to get into the entire concept of play on an universal level, and how often people will i think claim siblinghood for one server only to completely disavow it in another. Which is... not very helpful as far as answers go, when you get down to it 😅😅😅

I think for Pearl and Grian, they dont really call each other siblings, but their relationship is very consistently sibling-like, which i think actually holds more weight in-universe than just arbitrarily calling themselves family would. So... yes and no??? Not related, probably wouldnt directly call each other siblings, but i think they both have the silent understanding that they are very much each other's chosen family, if that makes sense!!

[carsickcrow]

i’ve been obsessed with this concept for possibly my entire life and now i have a whole bunch of words for it. not that using -ception to colloquially refer to it is wrong but it’s not the most accurate. i love learning i love wikipedia

[blackfem]

Constantly caught in a tug-of-war between indulgent presence and running away from my own life

[yoko-goto]

My latest fanfic of Silicon Valley is going to be called...

...Wait for it...

... The Recursion of Souls

💗

[kirby-is-good]

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts

I love recursive scripts ~esc~

[nyashifts777]

Detachment

aka your friendly neighborhood time-thief. I'd be super mad about it too, if time wasn't an illusion.

No you didn't "detach" and finally shift, you just stopped actively reaffirming against your desire and shifted.

Don't get me wrong. I used to do that too, still do sometimes—reality can be a hoe like that.

Because, the concept of detachment—is one that is, at worst misunderstood; at best, doesn't even need to exist—it can easily turn into an recursive loop. Before you panic, the loop can just as easily be broken.

Why? At a certain point, you have to realize that the key is just... thinkingꜝꜝ

Affirming -> thinking

Setting intention -> thinking

Deciding -> thinking

SATS -> thinking

Mental diet -> thinking

Robotic affirming -> thinking

Assuming -> thinking

Methods -> ....

....

....

Still thinking ᐢᗜᐢ

Said one word too many times, and now its lost all meaning 🫠 Send help

♡*::;;;;::*୨୧*::;;;;::*୨୧*::;;;;::*୨୧*::;;;;::*୨୧*::;;;;::*୨୧*::;;;;::*୨୧*::;;;;:♡

Master list

❥ Nya

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 004. the blueprint.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 4.3k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: holyyyyy its finally here !!! this chapter was totally supposed to be the chapter that kind of puts things in perspective and establishes some world building BUT ALAS I GOT SIDETRACKED... -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

The lecture hall is silent, save for the occasional shuffle of paper and the measured rhythm of Anaxagoras’ voice. The afternoon light cuts sharp lines across the rows of desks, dust motes drifting in the air like suspended thought, catching on the edges of his words.

“A fractal begins with a base function,” he says, voice steady but threaded with something deeper—something that hums in the spaces between his syllables. “This is its essence. The foundation upon which all complexity unfolds.”

He doesn’t write an equation. Instead, his hands move through the air in clean, deliberate arcs, shaping the concept in motion.

“The Mandelbrot set,” he continues. “begins with a simple recursive function. A value is taken, transformed, then fed back into itself. Each iteration alters the outcome—but the fundamental pattern remains.”

He pauses, letting the weight of his next words settle into the quiet.

“Small differences in the starting value can lead to vastly different structures. But no matter how much it expands, the same signature is imprinted within it. Recursion does not create randomness. It does not erase its origin. Instead, it refines, elaborates, expands. The original form is never lost—only expressed in infinite variation.”

The pen in your hand is warm from where you've been holding it too tightly.

Anaxagoras moves seamlessly into the next thread of thought. “The human mind operates on patterns,” he says, underlining the phrase on the board with a slow, deliberate stroke. “Not in the sense of mindless repetition, but as a structured, evolving process. We recognize, reinforce, and refine information based on prior input.”

Something tugs at the edge of your mind.

“Consider language acquisition,” he continues. “A child is not born knowing a language, yet the structure for it already exists. Exposure, experience, and interaction shape the outcome, but the capacity is inherent. The process is iterative—the same foundation, refined through use, altered by context.”

Your pen hesitates, ink pooling in a single dot on the page.

Ilias nudges your arm. “That same page has been open for five minutes,” he mutters.

You don’t answer. 

It’s there. Right there, just beyond reach—woven between the lines of his lecture and the contours of your own thoughts.

Your gaze lifts to him.

Anaxagoras isn’t looking at you directly, but you recognize it now—the way his tone shifts when he lingers on certain ideas. His phrasing is precise, yet measured, as though anticipating the moment someone follows him past the obvious.

Anticipating you.

Ilias nudges you again. “You’re making the face.”

You blink. “What face?”

“The one where you’re about to say something wildly specific that sounds normal to you but makes the rest of us reconsider whether we know what words mean.”

You swat at him without looking, keeping your attention fixed forward.

"If individuality is a function of iteration," you say suddenly, the thought slipping free like a thread pulled from a greater weave, "then at what point does the original form stop being relevant?"

Silence.

A shift in the air—it’s subtle.

Anaxagoras pauses. The chalk in his hand stills just before it touches the board. But he doesn’t turn. Not yet.

"You assume it does," he says instead, his voice measured. "Why?"

You hesitate. "Because—" You try to grasp at the thought, but it’s slipping, unraveling. "Because if every iteration changes, then the original—"

"Changes how?"

You blink. "Through variance. Accumulated difference."

He nods, but it’s not satisfaction. It’s expectation. "And yet?"

You frown. "And yet it still carries the same process—"

"So is it severance?"

You inhale sharply. "No."

He turns now, finally, and the weight of his gaze lands fully on you. "Then what is it?"

You search for the word, the shape of the idea curling at the edge of your thoughts.

"Extension?" you murmur.

Anaxagoras watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then—so slightly you almost miss it—his fingers tighten around the chalk.

"Hm."

A pause. 

The weight of his gaze—assessing, acknowledging, remembering, as though he’s not just hearing your words but recognizing them, as though he’s tracing a pattern he’s seen before but can’t quite name.

Then, just as smoothly, he turns back to the board as if nothing happened, resuming his explanation.

You exhale sharply, pressing your lips together to stifle a grin.

You’re not sure if you should thank Anaxagoras or be absolutely, thoroughly frustrated with him.

Maybe both.

He takes a step forward, chalk tapping against the board in a series of crisp strokes as he shifts the topic. And then—

“Ilias.”

Ilias straightens instantly, caught mid-whisper.

Anaxagoras doesn’t turn. “If a system is defined by iterative transformation, how do we distinguish between growth and replication?”

Ilias scoffs, leaning back like this is the easiest question in the world. “Obviously, if a system changes with each iteration, it’s growth. If it just repeats the same process without meaningful difference, it’s replication.”

A beat.

Anaxagoras finally glances over his shoulder. “Incorrect.”

Ilias blinks. “What.”

Anaxagoras turns fully now, expression unreadable. “Your answer assumes that change alone defines growth. It does not.”

From beside him, you let out an involuntary snort.

Ilias’ head snaps toward you. “Oh, now you have an opinion?”

You press a hand to your mouth, eyes gleaming with barely suppressed amusement.

Anaxagoras waits.

Ilias flounders for a moment, then straightens again, clearing his throat like he can salvage this. “Okay, well—uh. If the transformation process is… uhh… significant enough, then—”

A long silence.

You don’t even try to hide your giggle this time.

Ilias throws his hands up. “Why are you laughing? You got to say your freaky little statement in peace!”

Anaxagoras raises an eyebrow. “Language.”

Ilias pales.

You wheeze, turning away.

Ilias exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair like he’s fighting for his life. “Alright, fine. Recursion isn’t just about repetition, but about… contextual… refinement..?”

The silence hung thick, oppressive, as Ilias struggled to string together a coherent thought. His hands fumbled with the papers in front of him, and his voice cracked under the pressure. It was clear to anyone with half a brain that his attempt to impress Anaxagoras had backfired—again.

Then, cutting through the stillness, came a voice. Quiet but firm.

"It’s not just about change. It’s about the system responding to its environment. If it doesn’t, it’s not really transformation. It’s just… repetition."

Ilias’s head snapped up. The voice had no warning, no introduction—just a cool, steady presence that seemed to effortlessly cut through the tension.

For a split second, he blinked in confusion, his mind scrambling to process what had just happened. He’d been so caught up in his own rambling, he hadn’t noticed anyone else was around. But there, seated a couple chairs over, was a girl he hadn’t seen before. Dark, hair, eyes sharp with quiet confidence, arms folded across her chest. She was a mystery—a calm, collected contrast to the chaos that he had just created.

Ilias swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "That was… uh. Really well put." His laugh was quieter this time, edged with something like genuine relief. "I was—yeah. Definitely struggling there." He hesitated, then, almost earnestly: "Thanks."

The girl didn’t say anything right away. Just tilted her head slightly, studying him with a kind of quiet amusement.

Anaxagoras’s gaze flicked between them, the silence stretching just a beat longer than comfortable. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose, barely a sigh but just enough to be perceptible. His eyes landed back on Ilias.

"Struggling is a generous term," Anaxagoras said dryly.

Ilias groaned, dropping his head onto his desk with a thud.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Anaxagoras exhaled slowly, a faint, begrudging noise escaping him. His gaze flickered back to the girl for a moment, a brief acknowledgment that didn’t quite touch his eyes.

“Acceptable,” he said, his voice crisp and without fanfare, before his attention returned to Ilias. “This time.”

It was as close to praise as Anaxagoras was ever likely to give.

You grin. “That was impressive. Truly.”

Ilias glares. “I hate you.”

But across the room, Anaxagoras’ gaze flickers back to you for a fraction of a second—just enough for you to notice, just enough to make your pulse quicken.

And then, as always, he moves on as though nothing happened.

Yet, your thoughts linger, trailing behind you as the lecture ends, as you gather your things, as you step into the quiet corridors where the conversation still churns in your mind, unfinished.

The evening air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of autumn leaves as you and Ilias walk down the winding campus path, the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes the only sound for a few moments. It's a comfortable silence—both of you are still processing the mental gymnastics Anaxagoras just put the class through.

And then, of course, Ilias ruins it.

“I’m being publicly executed in that classroom,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Every. Single. Lecture.”

You glance at him, amused. “What are you even talking about?”

He throws his hands up. “Oh, I don’t know! Maybe the part where he treats me like an enrichment activity for the class while you get revered like some kind of academic deity.”

You snort. “I am not—”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he cuts in, shaking his head dramatically. “You don’t know what it’s like to be the designated clown. To live in fear of the moment he decides today is the day to obliterate me for sport.”

You raise a brow. “Maybe if you stopped making questionable philosophical takes—”

“No. It’s too late for me. But you—” He points accusingly. “You get the pauses.”

You blink. “The what?”

“The pauses,” he repeats, exasperated. “You ask something, and he actually stops. Like, for a second, he’s just standing there, processing, recalibrating his entire existence before he answers like he saw it coming all along, and proceeds worships the ground you walk on. Meanwhile, I breathe wrong, and he materializes a ten-minute verbal essay on why I’m incorrect.”

“…That’s not true.”

“Oh, it is,” he deadpans. “I’m a walking rhetorical question to that man. You, on the other hand? He actually looks pleased when you speak. It’s sickening.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “You’re being dramatic.”

“And you,” he sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, before something catches the corner of his eye– "Hey! It’s a dog!"

You barely have time to process before he veers off-course, pointing toward a scruffy-looking mutt curled up near a campus bench. The dog lifts its head, ears perking, but doesn’t bolt. Its fur is a patchwork of colors—mostly brown, with streaks of white and black—and though it looks a little unkempt, it seems well-fed.

"Do you think it's a stray?" you ask, stepping closer.

"I mean, it’s wearing a bandana." Ilias crouches, squinting at the little fabric tied around its neck. The dog watches him, tail thumping hesitantly against the ground. "Could be a lost pet. Or maybe it just—"

The dog trots forward, sniffing at your shoes before nudging its head into Ilias’ leg. He yelps, stiffening. The dog wags its tail harder.

"Okay," he breathes, lowering his hand. "Okay. This is happening."

Just as his fingers brush the dog’s fur, a voice interrupts. "Ah—hey, hey, don't scare him!"

You turn towards the source—a striking figure with windswept white hair, piercing blue eyes, and an air of effortless charm, jogging up to you, grinning like you’ve all just been reunited after years apart. His crisp, button-down shirt is a pristine shade of ivory, tailored to fit perfectly without appearing rigid. Over it, he wears a sleek, deep-blue blazer, unbuttoned, its lapels lined with subtle gold embroidery that catches the light as he moves. The blazer is paired with well-fitted slacks of a similar navy hue, pressed yet comfortably worn. A fine gold watch glints on his wrist, peeking out whenever he gestures animatedly. His shoes—polished but practical—carry a quiet confidence, much like him.

His energy is immediate, warm and bright, like he’s been waiting all day for a reason to talk to someone. 

"Sorry about that!" He slows to a stop, catching his breath. "This little guy's not a stray—he just likes hanging around here. We feed him sometimes."

You blink. "We?" 

The dog immediately abandons Ilias and darts across, tail wagging furiously as a second man crouches, offering food from his hand—a stark contrast. This one has sharp red eyes, dusty red hair falls at his shoulders. He, in contrast, wears black. A fitted, long-sleeved dress shirt clings just right, the top few buttons left undone, exposing the faintest hint of skin. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing the inked patterns winding down his left arm. A single silver ring rests on his hand, catching the light as he idly scratches behind the stray dog’s ears. His charcoal-gray slacks fit comfortably, cinched by a belt with an unembellished black buckle. Unlike… blondie’s polished look, his ensemble leans effortlessly sharp—a perfect balance of refinement and disregard. 

"That answers that," you murmur.

The white-haired one—Phainon, judging by the way his companion sighs his name in exasperation—grins. "Sorry if he harassed you. He’s just a friendly little guy. I’m Phainon, by the way! And the one who’s pretending not to give a damn right now is Mydei."

At his name, the other man—Mydei glances up briefly, gaze flickering over you and Ilias before returning to his task. He places the container on the ground, and the dog immediately perks up, trotting over to eat.

Ilias, still kneeling awkwardly, exhales. "Okay. Not a stray. Noted."

Phainon beams. "Yeah, he just likes people! Kind of like me."

"Don’t compare yourself to a dog," Mydei mutters, scratching behind the mutt’s ears. Despite his dry tone, there’s a distinct lack of bite to it.

You exchange a glance with Ilias, who looks like he's trying to decide whether this interaction is going to be amusing or exhausting.

Mydei, meanwhile, finishes setting down the food, and the dog immediately perks up, trotting over to eat. Phainon watches with fondness before turning back to you both.

Ilias, undeterred, crouches slightly, watching as the dog happily devours its food. Then he tilts his head. "Wait, does he have a name?"

Phainon perks up. "Oh! Yeah, we call him—" but before the word fully escapes, Mydei cuts in flatly. "No, he doesn’t."

Phainon sighs, as if wounded. "Well, someone refuses to name him anything else–" 

"He doesn’t need a name," Mydei replies, scratching the dog behind the ears. "He’s fine as he is.” 

“We call him—his name is Dog." Phainon interrupts and proudly exclaims. 

Mydei exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "'Dog' is not a name."

"It's a perfectly functional name," Phainon counters, crossing his arms. "It tells you exactly what he is."

"It tells me you’re uncreative," Mydei mutters.

Ilias lets out a quiet laugh. "The dogs name is… Dog?"

Phainon nods enthusiastically. "Yes! And he responds to it! Watch—Dog!"

The dog does, in fact, lift his head, ears twitching.

Mydei gives him a long, unimpressed stare. "He also responds to literally any sound you make. You could call him ‘Toaster’ and he’d do the same thing."

Phainon gasps. "Toaster is kind of cute."

"Absolutely not."

You exchange a glance with Ilias, both of you barely holding back laughter. The dog—Dog?—wags his tail, blissfully unaware of the existential debate happening over his name.

Phainon turns his attention back to you, his grin softer now, less performative. "Anyways, you two should join us in the evenings if you’d like to befriend Dog over here! We usually hang out around here and—well, I do… and Mydei pretends he just happens to be here."

"Because I do," Mydei deadpans, but he doesn’t refute any further, turning his gaze to you instead.

Ilias glances at you. "Well, I don’t have anything better to do."

You hum, considering. The dog has finished eating and is now curled up against Mydei’s side, content. Phainon looks at you expectantly, his posture light, easy.

...That does not sound like a productive use of your time.

"... I’m in." you say. 

Phainon cheers, Ilias pats you on the back, and Mydei only shakes his head, unimpressed.

But even as laughter rings in the air, your notebook sits heavy in your bag, pressing against your side like a restless thing. The pages whisper against each other with every step, the unfinished nonsensical equations scrawled within tugging at you like a sleeve caught on a nail—persistent, insistent, refusing to be ignored.

Maybe that's what brought you here, you tell yourself.

The door to Anaxagoras’ office door creaks as you push it open, stepping into the dimly lit office. Anaxagoras looks up from his desk, dark eyes flicking to the threshold with the mild expectation of a routine interruption. But when he sees you—alone, unannounced—something in his expression shifts.

You don’t exactly wait for permission, as you cross the room, pull out the chair opposite him, and sit.

His pen hovers over the page. He does not tell you to leave, nor does he acknowledge your quiet audacity. Instead, he sets his pen down, fingers pressing lightly against the desk’s edge, and waits. A slight lift of his brow, but no verbal response. Just patience. A steady, expectant silence.

"Professor," you greet, as if a sliver of formality might excuse the sheer audacity of your unannounced arrival.

Your gaze flickers down to your notebook, its pages filled with hurried, half-formed thoughts—equations scrawled into the margins, trailing off as if they were abandoned mid-realization. You don’t need to check them. You already know they lead back to the same question.

"The base function," you begin, voice measured, "remains the same, no matter how many iterations occur. No matter how much complexity emerges, the original structure is never erased."

Anaxagoras leans back slightly in his chair, studying you with the kind of intrigue usually reserved for theorems that refuse to be solved.

"And?"

You exhale, fingertips brushing over the ink-streaked paper. "If that applies to consciousness—if the mind isn’t just pattern recognition, but recursion—then that means identity isn’t fixed. It’s an evolving expression of an underlying structure." 

Something flickers in his gaze. He rises.

Not abruptly, not impatiently, but as if drawn by the gravity of the conversation. His chair scrapes softly against the floor as he crosses the small space between you. He does not sit at the edge of the desk, does not fold his arms in some passive stance of authority.

Instead, he leans over your notebook, shoulders nearly brushing yours.

The scent of coffee lingers on his shirt, mingling with the fainter trace of old paper and ink. His gaze moves over the mess of your notes, scanning the tangled web of equations and annotations, before settling on you again.

"You're making an assumption," he says, voice lower now, more measured.

You tilt your chin slightly, meeting his gaze. "Of what nature?"

His fingers hover near the edge of the page, not quite touching, but close enough that the movement draws your attention. "You assume that the core of identity—the thing that stays the same through every iteration—is purely structural." 

The silence stretches between you, taut as a thread on the verge of snapping.

Your breath is steady, but something in your pulse betrays you. He is too close. Not inappropriately so, not in a way that crosses any boundaries—only in a way that makes the air shift. The room smaller. The moment stretched just slightly beyond its logical bounds.

It would be easy to answer. To argue, to press forward, to let the academic current carry you both into safer waters.

Instead, you only watch him. 

And for the first time, you wonder if he feels it too.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your pen.

"The base function has to be structural," you counter, though your voice is softer now, measured against the weight of the space between you. "If it weren’t—if it were mutable at its core—then what holds continuity between iterations? What prevents identity from collapsing into chaos? What keeps one’s identity from falling apart?"

Anaxagoras doesn’t move away. He studies you the way he studies difficult problems—patiently, intently, as if waiting for the answer to emerge in real time.

"And yet," he muses, "if it were purely structural, if the function was rigid rather than dynamic, then identity would be deterministic. There would be no true variation between one individual. and another"

Your breath catches—not at the words, but at the way he delivers them. Low, deliberate, as if testing their effect. 

Your eyes flicker back to your notes, searching for the answer already buried in the ink-scrawled equations.

"If recursion alone dictated identity," he continues, fingers brushing the page near a half-written derivation, "then all of our decisions would be predictable, predetermined by the constraints of that function. But something else is at play."

You glance back up at him. "Emergent complexity."

A small, almost imperceptible nod. "Iteration isn't replication. Each step in it's expansion is influenced not just by the base function, but by external conditions—context, interference, interaction. No two paths are identical. Every recursive process has the potential for divergence."

You inhale sharply, following the thought as it unfolds, as it threads itself between the logic you already understand and the realization taking shape. 

He watches the shift in your expression—sees you arrive at the same conclusion.

"If identity," you say slowly, "is shaped not just by its internal function, but by its interactions—"

"Then when two distinct but intrinsically linked patterns cross paths," he interjects, "neither walks away unchanged."

The words land too heavily.

Not just because they are true, because they make sense.

But because he isn't speaking in hypotheticals anymore.

For a moment, neither of you move. He is still leaning over your desk, too close, breath dusting lightly against your shoulder—warm, uneven, just barely there. His presence presses into the space between the pages, the margins, the frantic scrawl of your thoughts. 

Your fingers brush against the edge of your notes. "And what happens," you murmur, almost to yourself, "when two of these... structures become entangled?"

Anaxagoras holds your gaze.

"You tell me," he says.

A slow breath. Hesitation.

"...Change is inevitable," you murmur. "Not a choice, not an accident—just a consequence of proximity." 

Something flickers across his expression—too brief to name, too quick to be certain.

He should correct you. Should challenge the conclusion you’ve drawn.

Instead, he watches you, head tilting just slightly—less like a professor considering a theory, more like something else entirely.

Your breath stills. The moment lingers too long.

You shift slightly, glancing down at your notes.

"Perhaps," Anaxagoras says at last, his voice quieter than before, "but not all change is equal."

"... And what determines the difference?" you ask, softer now.

His eyes don’t leave yours. "The depth of the resonance."

The night air hums with a quiet sort of clarity as you step out of the grove, the weight of the conversation still curling around your ribs like an uncollapsed waveform. The campus pathways are near-empty at this hour, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight. Each footstep crunches softly against the gravel, the rhythm steady, measured—nothing like the chaotic pulse beneath your skin.

You aren’t entirely sure how long you sat there in his office. The concept of time had blurred somewhere between the pages of your notes and the weight of his gaze. Between the fractal recursion of thought and the unsettling realization that—perhaps—you weren’t just speaking of equations anymore.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as you walk.

(If recursion applies not just to thought but to interaction—if the base function of identity is altered through contact—then what does it mean that his presence lingers in your mind long after the conversation has ended?)

The wind shifts, cool against your skin, but it does little to steady the unshaken cadence of your pulse.

Anaxagoras had let the silence stretch before you left. No dismissal, no final remark to wrap the conversation into something neat and containable. Just that lingering weight—his dark eyes studying you, as if waiting for you to arrive at the realization before he acknowledged it himself.

(The depth of the resonance..?)

You exhale sharply, shaking your head as if that alone could unravel the thought from your mind.

Your dormitory looms ahead, its familiar outline silhouetted against the night sky. The building is quiet when you step inside, the soft hum of distant voices muffled through the walls. You move through the dimly lit corridors with muscle memory, feet carrying you forward while your mind is still somewhere else.

Your door clicks shut behind you, shutting you into the quiet stillness of your room.

Everything here is familiar. The unmade bed, the clutter of books on your desk, the notebook you’d left open earlier with some half-scribbled thought that now feels embarrassingly simplistic. The air smells faintly of old paper and the lingering trace of coffee grounds from this morning—scents that should root you back into the present.

But they don’t.

Not when your mind is still back in that office.

Not when you can still hear the quiet cadence of his voice, the deliberate pause before he spoke—

You press your fingers to your temple, willing yourself to unspool the loop of recursion that has latched onto your thoughts.

It’s fine. This is fine.

The conversation had been an extension of an intellectual discourse, nothing more. You were both speaking in abstracts, exploring a hypothesis. That’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done.

Then why did you feel so different?

You swallow, exhaling through your nose.

Your notebook is still in your hands, the pages curled slightly from the way you’d gripped them on the walk back. Slowly, carefully, you set it down on your desk, flipping back to the last scrawled equation.

Identity = f(Iteration, Context, Interaction)

A slow inhale. Your fingers brush over the ink-streaked margin, a reflexive motion—an attempt to ground yourself.

Then, after a moment, you reach for your pen.

The ink flows smoothly as you add another line beneath the equation, hesitating for only a second before you let the words take form.

Resonance determines the rate of transformation.

You stare at it.

And then—slowly, deliberately—you close the notebook. 

-> a/n: hey, if you've made it this far i SERIOUSLY commend your strength. i had to take several breaks while proofreading this because i, the writer, myself could not process their words at one stretch... erm... so, here's a mini explanation with an analogy, if any of you are actually interested in what they were talking about. Imagine you're building a snowman. At first, it’s just a small snowball in your hands. But as you roll it, more snow sticks, and it grows bigger and bigger. You stack more snow on top, shape it, maybe add a scarf or a carrot nose. No matter how much it changes, the first snowball—the one you started with—is still there, buried inside. It never went away, it just became part of something bigger. That first snowball here is like the core of 'identity'. Everything else—your experiences, choices, and changes—builds on top of it, but it’s always there, shaping who you are.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette@hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom@yourfavouritecitizen @sugarlol12345 @aspiring-bookworm @kad0o @yourfavoritefreakyhan @mavuika-marquez @somniosu

[everythingisamazing]

The hexcore being sentient is among my favorite interpretations of canon. I also heavily fw the idea of it instinctively not liking Jayce.

From what the show suggest with it being triggered into action by absorbing Viktors blood, it could be interpreted as a somewhat Nosferartu-esque creature. And Viktor, with his brilliant mind, affinity for taking risks and failing body is kind of the perfect victim.

The fact Viktor starts to have visions because of it, also aligns with the Nosferatu allegory - it's basically a horror trope and I think Viktors story equally feels like gothic and cosmic horror.

But here’s the thing: the show never tells us explicitly how to interpret Viktor’s fusion with the Hexcore. Is it a seamless blend of his consciousness and the core’s will? Is it still entirely Viktor, with the Hexcore subtly influencing him at critical moments? Or is it something more metaphysical — two distinct entities now sharing a single body? There is one scene of dialogue that explores this - right after Viktor emerges from the hex-goo. It's also what sparked the idea of writing this post, because it exemplifies the concept of the hexcore being sentient and it's feeling towards Jayce so well. Here is what I mean: Jace: "You must be cold" Viktor: "Cold? No I don't think so. I feel a...charge. A potential. A recursive impulse. Unpleasant but 'cold' isn't its name" 

Viktor is basically telling Jayce how he feels. But the way it is worded is so distinct and unusual that I am certain it is no longer just his own feelings, but also the "feelings" of the hexcore that he is trying to navigate. And it makes me land on the interpretation, that at least at this point in time, Viktors feelings exist simultaneously to the "feelings" of the hexcore. The brilliance of this piece of dialogue lies in how each word can be interpreted as meaning something slightly different, depending on if you think it is coming from the hexcore or from Viktor.

I'll go through each section of Viktors line and my understanding of it. "Cold? No I don't think so." This part basically tells us that Viktors body no longer translates sensation in the way a human body would. The hexcore and Viktor are in alignment on this

"I feel a...charge." Here is where things get interesting. Imo charge could refer to both the energy of the hexcore now lacing through Viktor, but also how the situation he is in with Jayce feels charged. It's like he is saying the quiet part out loud, because while Viktor can feel it, he is currently not able to integrate the emotion because of the hexcores presence.

“A potential.” This could allude both to the general potential of Viktor’s new power and to the potential he sees in his connection with Jayce. For Viktor, this potential may lie in the way Jayce has changed — in his willingness to leave everything else behind and stay with him. (There’s a great post explaining how, in other timelines, Jayce likely does join Viktor in the commune.) I think that’s what has become possible in this moment.

From the hexcore’s perspective, however, the potential in Jayce might refer to the same potential it perceives in all humans — the ability to absorb it and bring it closer to perfection.

“A recursive impulse. Unpleasant, but ‘cold’ isn’t its name.” Oof. This part kills me — because there are so many ways to interpret it, and they all carry weight.

To me, the recursive impulse is definitely related to Jayce — but what exactly the impulse is, remains ambiguous. It could refer to the urge to absorb him into the hivemind and reshape him, something Viktor is actively resisting. But it could also be something more abstract: a depersonalized, almost alien way of describing how Viktor feels in Jayce’s presence — caught in a loop of unresolved emotion, unable to move forward.

My favorite interpretation is that this line reflects a conflict between Viktor’s emotions and the hexcore’s urges — a feedback loop, recursive because there’s no resolution. They keep pulling in different directions.

Notably, Viktor says this right after Jayce embraces him. You can actually see the surprise on his face shift into something closer to sadness. I’ve always read that as the moment he realizes: the thing he’s always longed for is suddenly within reach — but it doesn’t feel the same anymore. Because Jayce has broken his trust. And also, quite literally, Viktor’s sensory experience is no longer what it used to be.

Later, when he says “In my confusion, I was unable to reconcile this,” I believe he’s referring back to that exact moment — the emotional and cognitive dissonance he couldn’t resolve at the time.

I also need to mention, how the hexcore alters Viktors voice when he speaks - completely taking over in certain moments. Him saying the word "affection" is one of those. It puts so much emphasis on that one word - and the choice of using that term in particular. Because affection has a double meaning, referring either to emotional warmth, like love in everyday language or to illness or pathological conditions in medical terminology. The latter being how the hexcore views Vikors feelings towards Jayce. There is more to be said about the interplay of Viktors mind and the hexcore, when it comes to the realization of Jayces true motivations for keeping him alive after talking to Singed in the commune. But this post is already long so I will move on to the final scene in the astral plane, and my headcanon for Jayvik postcanon in relation to the hexcore:

I like to think that, at the very end — on the astral plane — the arcane is actively trying to keep Jayce away from Viktor. But then it realizes that it’s futile, because Jayce will never let go of him again. So it shifts its approach and, instead, fuses the two of them together in some way.

I think that would perfectly align with the idea of the arcane being capable of learning, as Jayce once described it. It’s not something that can ever truly be defeated — but it can adapt. And now, it adapts to having two hosts instead of one.

The narrative potential of what that could mean for both Jayce and Viktor is huge. (And on a lighter note: this would technically give us a canon throuple in Arcane — Jayce, Viktor, and the Hexcore.)

[wotchernewt]

Adjective (as in enjoyable, diverting)

"Gem," Three acknowledges. "Three," Gem responds. "What are you doing?" "I do not think I understand fun." "Cool," Gem says. "That doesn't explain why you're doing a washed-up corpse routine at my base." - Three and Gem do some casual sparring and discuss the elusive concept of "fun". There is fishing involved.

The second of two fics I wrote in @mcytrecursive for @strifetxt, recursing solving counting sheep by @theminecraftbee!

[ko-existing]

Bear with me.

If all phenomena-thoughts, emotions, perceptions-are merely modulations of an undivided awareness, then isn't the very notion of "ignorance" itself just another fleeting appearance within that awareness? In other words, if nothing has ever actually been separate, if the so-called "self" has never truly existed as an entity apart from the whole, then how does the illusion of separation arise at all?

And if we say that it "appears" to arise, but never actually does in any real sense, then who or what is it that experiences this apparent delusion? Can there be an illusion without an illusory experiencer to perceive it? Wouldn't that mean ignorance is only ignorance from the perspective of ignorance itself-a recursive loop with no real foundation?

Moreover, if effort and seeking belong only to the imagined self, yet realization itself is seen to be already fully present and unavoidable, is the very concept of"awakening" just another narrative construct within an impersonal unfolding?

And if realization is inevitable because there is no real bondage, is even the act of pointing to this truth redundant-an unnecessary gesture toward a freedom that was never absent?

Would love to hear how you'd even begin to untangle this. Or you know, if the untangling itself is the final knot.

(if I forgot to address an important part, let me know)

It sounds like you're genuinely investigating this for yourself, which is good and the only thing that really matters. You're noticing the paradox—that ignorance itself is just another appearance within awareness, and that even the idea of an ‘illusory experiencer’ is part of that appearance. The idea of separation arises only as a seeming appearance, yet never actually happens. Just like a mirage of water doesn’t mean real water is there, the illusion of self doesn’t mean there’s an actual separate self. Whatever you think is not part of the plot, is actially the plot

And you're right—if realization is simply the recognition that nothing was ever separate, then the entire idea of 'awakening' becomes just another story. A story told to whom? To no one, really. The so-called 'seeker' is part of the play, and the ‘seeking’ was never necessary to begin with. But that’s the paradox—seeking seems to happen until it’s seen that nothing was ever lost.

So is pointing this out even necessary? Maybe not. But in the dream of separation, hearing it said clearly can be the final nudge to recognize what was always the case. No - thing!

So, with all that being said, notice what noticing and see where all those stories and ideas happen in.

Self itself is a Paradox while making complete sense

[stainlesssteellocust]

Concept: What if Sulla’s dull and purple-prosed memoirs are actually just as bullshit at Cain’s official propaganda, and she’s just like him fr fr.

She (wrongly) believes that a Hero of the Imperium has the utmost faith in her and can’t bear the consequences of failure should she not live up to his high expectations (which he doesn’t have) and masks it behind her eager soldier persona so hard that even Cain doesn’t see it. And then when she becomes famous a whole generation of Militarum girls read Valhallan Valkyrie at a formative age and start thinking they need to live up to her. Just an endlessly recursive loop of imposter syndrome.

Like what if in For the Emperor when she leads her command squad in a risky flanking attack and nobody is quite sure afterwards whether she was being brave or stupid and she hyped the whole thing up in her memoirs, what she actually wrote in her private diary was:

Obviously the last thing I wanted to do was leave my nice safe command vehicle, which could shield me from the heretic lasbolts until His Majesty got down from the throne, and head out into the open where they could cut me to bits. But the only reason I had a command vehicle at all was because all the real officers had been torn to bits by Tyranids and I’d been shoved into a position I didn’t deserve. It had been made clear that our commanders were counting on me, and if I showed myself to be unworthy I could expect to be back on the frontlines within a week, if not in a penal legion.

Worse, an honest-to-the-Emperor hero had put his trust in me. How a man such as Ciaphas Cain didn’t see at once through my ridiculous persona I will never know - but if Cain had one weakness, and as a woman who had the honour to fight along side him for many years, I think I know better than most his hidden heart - it is that he was perhaps overly trusting of the men and women in his command. Such a noble warrior could not imagine that a regiment such as ours could hide a coward as craven as myself, and if there was anything other than the Emperor’s own grace that forced me out the entrance ramp that day, it was the need not to bring our company shame in his eyes.

Besides, if I didn’t live up to that utterly undeserved faith there’d be no more commands for Jenit Sulla, and I’d probably dead within the year. The only way to keep myself out in danger going forward was, ironically, leaping feet-first into it today. And so, cursing myself every step of the way, I fixed the old “Valkyrie Warrior” expression back onto my face, stepped out of my Chimera, and gave the order to advance.

[ilions-end]

oooh i love reading interpretations i haven't considered before! you know that part in book 9 of the iliad when the embassy finds achilles at his tent with the lyre, before he spots them:

With the lyre he was bringing pleasure to his heart, singing about the celebrated deeds of men. Patroclus, his sole companion, sat there facing him, waiting in silence until Achilles finished singing.

and it's a wonderful little moment of recursion in the epic where achilles acts as a rhapsode of heroic songs within a song of heroes performed by a rhapsode

the thing is, i've always read the end of that line as patroclus calmly waiting for achilles to finish his song so they can proceed with some other planned activity (a meal or whatever). but i'm reading gregory nagy who interprets that line as patroclus waiting for his turn to sing, and to continue the unnamed epic narrative that they both presumably know. taking turns performing an epic!

i don't know how common that interpretation is, but the concept is very appealing to me. imagining that patroclus is not a passive listener in that moment, but a collaborative storyteller, ready to take over when achilles needs to rest his voice. does their song change slightly from one to the other, are details added or changed to engage each other? it becomes a nod to the tradition of oral storytelling itself, the tradition that created the iliad

[lizhly-writes]

svsss fic masterpost

A list of all my SVSSS writing, for ease of navigation.

Last updated: May 22, 2025

remedies for ruin (#remedies for ruin, chrono): a universe based on the concept that Cang Qiong Peak Lords traditionally marry each other for sect unity. Contains three branches -- the original (sqh/yqy), the battle is the cure (lqg/sqh), and all things are poison (og!sqh/yqy).

All snippets viewable in this masterpost.

zero is my favorite number (#shen jiu luo binghe roleswap, chrono): Luo Ling is the slave-turned Peak Lord, and Shen Jiuyu is his most hated disciple -- not that Luo Qingling would ever let anyone know it.

the summary?

zero and seven

on the sale of luo ling: 1 2 3 4

the aftermath of a reunion

you have my face: 1

nine days of rain

the master accepts a new disciple

therapy: a wondrous innovation of the modern era! (#the therapy fic, chrono) (mbj/sqh): In a past life, Mobei-jun killed Shang Qinghua. In modern-day China, Shang Houhua and Mobei Yi deal with this revelation in couple's counseling.

workplace power dynamics: 1 2

what if we consider therapy: 1 2

luo bingmei's backstory!

have you considered writing your feelings

the tie-in: everything is fine (#everything is fine???, chrono): 1 2 3 4 5 6 dreams

help! i've transmigrated into my own stallion novel as the protagonist??? (tag, chrono): Airplane-Shooting-Towards-The-Sky is reborn as Luo Binghe!

transmigrator blues

once upon a time: 1 2

schrodinger's son (#schrodinger's son, chrono): Shang Qinghua gets amnesia and while desperately trying to figure out what's happening, makes the assumption that Luo Binghe is his son.

hey so i have amnesia???

how do i have a son: 1 2

who the fuck poisoned me: 1 2 3

whoops got caught

mu qingfang's terrible romcom (#mu qingfang's terrible romcom, chrono) (mqf/sqh): Mu Qingfang accidentally gives Shang Qinghua a love confession. This is his attempt to take it back before Shang Qinghua realizes it's a love confession.

a totally normal thing to be happening

it's no burden taking care of you

i'll pay you back!

mission prep: 1 2 3 4 5

welp time to run: 1 2 3

conundrums of travel

the object permanence of doppelgangers (#svsss: fake twin au, chrono): Disciple Shen Jiu wakes up with a doppelganger in his bed. Through System error, his face and backstory have been copy-pasted to another person. Shen Yuan is having a terrible time.

our happy daily life

what kind of name is shen shi

one offs:

gongxi xiao read scum villain

a-hua and the system: 1 2

liz's terrible gameshow

sqh and father figures

a conversation between head disciples

the dose makes the poison

recursive fiction:

sqh 12/12 achievement

hallmaster jiang and disciple wu

the genderswapped sqh/qqq moment

crossovers

loyalty, and the holder thereof (mdzs) (#loyalty and the holder thereof, chrono): Jiang Fengmian brings back a starving orphan from the streets, and his name is Yue Qi.

a new disciple

the young heroes

you look just like him

plucking fish eyes (mdzs) (mxy/og sqh): Jin Guangshan calls in a favor from Peak Lord Shang Qinghua and sends his son to Cang Qiong. Mo Xuanyu grows up as an An Ding disciple. 1

grandmaster of something-or-the-other (mdzs) (#grandmaster of something-or-the-other, chrono): Airplane-Shooting-Towards-The-Sky is reborn as the only child of Wei Changze and Cangse Sanren.

what a weird fucking kid

it's okay, you're just like me

sect leader jiang!: 1 2

two roads diverged in a yellow wood (mdzs) (#two roads diverged in a yellow wood, chrono) (jgy/sqh?): Shang Hua and Meng Yao grow up in the same brothel.

brothel kids: 1 2

i'm off to find my destiny: 3

if i live to be a hurricane (mdzs) (jc/sj) (#if i live to be a hurricane, chrono): In which Shen Jiu becomes inadvertently becomes a Jiang disciple.

All snippets viewable in this masterpost.

in this lifetime and the last (mdzs) (coming at some point)

the concept

THAT ONE SJW x TLJ CRACK SHIP (solo leveling): 1 2

li jianyu is a stupid name (the good place): 1

[mcytrecursive]

There's Still Time!

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Recursive Fic is fic inspired by other people's fic, taking the specific characters or world or concepts, and doing something new with it. You know how sometimes you get to the end of a fic and there's a list of fics inspired by it? This is an exchange specifically for that subsection of fic, and also art, and also web weaves, and also podfic, and we are open for signups until the 28th of February! 

We have a database of all sorts of nominated works you can scroll through, we have helpful tutorials on how to sign up— we have a lot of excited people ready to talk to you about their favourite fics and art and web weaves! The mods are standing by in the questions channel, ready to help! Join our discord, join the conversation— come! Join us!