#Data Science Project Idea

[technology-123s-blog]

Deep Learning Projects for Students - Takeoff Projects

Deep Learning Projects are exciting and advanced applications of artificial intelligence that solve complex problems by mimicking the way humans think. At Takeoff Projects, we provide a platform for students and professionals to explore and work on innovative deep learning projects that are both educational and practical. These projects involve training neural networks to analyze large amounts of data and make intelligent decisions.

Some popular deep learning projects include image recognition, where models identify objects or faces in pictures, and natural language processing, which helps in building chatbots or translating languages. Deep learning is also used in healthcare to analyze medical images like X-rays to detect diseases, and in self-driving cars to recognize objects on the road and ensure safe navigation.

At Takeoff Projects, we guide learners through real-world projects such as creating speech recognition systems, building recommendation engines like those used by Netflix or Amazon, and designing AI models for time-series forecasting like stock price prediction. We simplify these concepts with hands-on support, making them easy to understand and implement.

We also focus on innovative areas like Generative Adversarial Networks (GANs), which can create realistic images or enhance low-resolution photos, and robotics, where deep learning enables machines to perform tasks like sorting or assembly. These projects not only build technical skills but also prepare learners for a bright future in AI and data science.

Whether you are a beginner or an advanced learner, Takeoff Projects helps you take the first step toward mastering deep learning. By working on these projects, you can gain practical experience and showcase your expertise, opening up exciting career opportunities in this rapidly growing field. Let’s take off into the world of deep learning Projects together!

[wordpress-blaze-107117931]

The Town Of Oatlands In Central Tasmania

One of the most beautiful towns we accidentally discovered in Tasmania was the town of Oatlands. Sitting about 50 miles north of Hobart it is a spectacular place to stop and explore.

One of merits of his town is its vast collection of colonial sandstone buildings which number over one hundred fifty. Largely built by convict labor in the early 19th century; it was also considered a significant outpost during the Black War which was fought between the Indigenous First Nation People of the area and white settlers.

But if you have already heard of Oatlands it is probably due to Callington Mill, the only Lincolnshire style windmill in the whole of Australia. Built in 1837 this mill is a beaut and has been restored to its glory days.

Lake Dulverton, which borders Oatlands is well known for its many hiking paths which criss-cross in various directions. Fishing is another great pastime here and anglers can catch both rainbow and brown trout. The lake is also a bird watchers paradise where you can spot herons, ducks, and watch as black swans glide alongside the "cows" that inhabit the lake.

Oatlands also offers visitors a treasure trove of gardens and topiaries from one end of the town to the other. I was amazed at the different sizes and shapes of living sculptures that dotted the town.

While there we also visited the Oatlands District Historical Museum featuring local memorabilia from the town's early history to the present. There is also a rather substantial bird egg collection housed within its walls and the docents are eager to share their vast knowledge of the area.

Finally, the Callington Mill Distillery offers an experience that few will forget. Producing both award winning gins and whiskeys; your senses will explode as you indulge in your first taste of Poltergeist Citrus known for its hints of candied fruit, orange, and key lime pie. Yummm. Better yet sit down and enjoy and lunch at their restaurant, The Cellar Door, which serves a variety of farm-to-table meats and produce. After lunch your next course of action is to order a flight of whiskey tastings followed by a self guided tour to learn more about what goes into making these bodacious spirits. Better yet, the facility also offers its own whiskey guides who help guests craft their own unique single malt whiskey complete with an original label.

Oatlands is the type of town that magically draws you in and keeps your enchanted. In short, it is one of the rare places that once you get there you don't want to leave and its the kind of village where you suddenly find yourself searching for the nearest real estate office with sudden fantasies of finding a place of your own in this idyllic hideaway. Oatlands....is one of Tasmania's gems... don't miss it!

Source: The Town Of Oatlands In Central Tasmania

[juliebowie]

Most Promising Power BI Project Ideas

Learn how to create a Power BI project from scratch. Step-by-step instructions and tips for effective data visualization.

[prakashymtsdm]

Elevate Your Portfolio with These Unique Data Science Project  Ideas

Kick start your data science adventure with these accessible project ideas: Analyze social media posts to uncover what people are saying. Use machine learning to predict home values. Group customers based on their behaviours to identify trends. Build a chatbot that understands and responds to human language.

E-crime Identification Using Photo Matching App

Face recognition has become a popular area of research in computer vision, it is typically used in network security systems and access control systems but it is also useful in other multimedia information processing areas. One of its application is criminal face identification. Face Identification is a technique that is mainly used to identify criminals based on the clues given by the eyewitnesses. Criminal record generally contains personal information about particular person along with the photograph. To identify any criminal we need some identification regarding particular person or persons, which are given by eyewitnesses. Based on the details given by the eyewitnesses, the further investigation would be carried out. In most cases the quality and resolution of the recorded image segments is poor and hard to identify a face.

Speak4diet: A Mobile App For Monitoring Dietary Composition

Good nutrition is an important part of leading a healthy lifestyle Combined with physical activity, your diet can help you to reach and maintain a healthy weight, reduce your risk of chronic diseases (like heart disease and cancer), and promote your overall health. Mobile sensors such as accelerometers have been used to measure physical activity or detect eating time. Voice based mobile nutrition monitoring system that devises speech processing, natural language processing (NLP) V and text mining techniques in a unified platform to facilitate nutrition monitoring. After converting the spoken data to text, nutrition specific data are identified within the text using an NLP based approach that combines standard NLP with our introduced pattern mapping technique. We then develop a tiered matching algorithm to search the food name in our nutrition database and accurately compute calorie intake values.

Medicine Helper Using OCR

Today s life is full of responsibilities and stress. So, people are felt to diseases of different types and it is own duty to make themselves fit and healthy. Healthcare is the basic need of human being. The category of patients involves all human beings housewives, businessmen, students, teachers, service men and also all of them have a busy hectic schedule. Nowadays, Smartphone's have reached every hand and every home. As a result, people are making use of the beneficial mobile applications to make their everyday life easier. Many times patients forget to take medicine by time to time, so they get infected again. So it is necessary to take proper medicines in proper quantity at proper time Now for Patients Introduce An Android app. To overcome this conflict we introduced one android smart phone based mobile app, this app we developed on the basis of the technique called OCR (Optical Character Reader) this will make simpler the task to get the characters by scanning the mobile camera on the medicine or others areas. This technique is invoked in our app like all patients are not the educated to add the medicine to remind alarm. It is difficult. But our framework it can make easy, user no need to type the medicine name and all once scan he can get the name of the tablet on screen and add it to remind and set alarm

Face Detection Using Mobile Vision

Face detection is an advances machine learning technology being used in a variety of applications that identifies human faces in digital images. Face detection also refers to the psychological process by which humans locate and attend to faces in a visual scene. Face Detection is a leap forward from the previous Android Face Detector. Face API. It's designed to better detect human faces in images and video for easier editing. It's smart enough to detect faces even at different orientations so if your subject's head is turned sideways, it can detect it. Specific landmarks can also be detected on faces, such as the eyes, the nose, and the edges of the lips. The final app will draw an overlay on the camera image, which will highlight the detected faces. Basically the application only consists of an Activity and a custom view. The functions for calculating the correct display orientation have been taken from Android's original Camera App_ We will make an app that will allow you to detect multiple faces in the camera and at the same time make a prediction about the detected faces. Currently, Mobile Vision API only provides detection of faces. This implementation requires the use of Google Mobile Vision API which is included in your play services library. More Info

[top-b-schools-kolkata]

In the age of digital transformation, the power of data is reshaping industries and opening new horizons for professionals. Aspiring data scientists seeking to harness this power often find their journey enriched through hands-on projects. For those eager to embark on a transformative educational path, the Bengal Institute of Business Studies stands as a beacon of excellence, offering a comprehensive MBA program in data science in the vibrant city of Kolkata.

[babyleostuff]

spreadsheet

𝜗𝜚 THEME: fluff, established relationship 𝜗𝜚 PAIRING: (architect)student!mingyu x fem!reader 𝜗𝜚 WORD COUNT: 980

SYNOPSIS: if there's one thing mingyu finds incredibly sexy, it's intelligence

“i give up.” 

that was honestly the last thing you’d ever expect to hear from your boyfriend. kim mingyu never gave up, and even if - it wasn’t everyday that his ego allowed him to admit to failure.

confused, you looked up from your computer to see what finally managed to defeat him, just to be met with a very pouty, and a very annoyed boyfriend looking at the screen of his own computer, like he had some personal vendetta against it. 

you quickly covered your mouth with your hand to hide the smile forming on your face. you didn’t need mingyu to think you were making fun of him. “weren’t you supposed to work on your exam project?” you asked, doing your best not to burst out laughing. there was just something about that hunk of a six foot two man with killer biceps who was sitting opposite you, and pouting like a five year old that made you cackle. 

“yes, but i have to use a spreadsheet or whatever to sort out some of the information, and,” he sighed, “i have no idea how to use it.” 

with a loud bang, mingyu’s forehead met the table, which would definitely leave a small bump he’d make you kiss better later. huh, so he really gave up. 

“i don’t think i understand,” you crooked your head at him, pushing yours and his computers away, so you could lean over and place your hand at the nape of his neck. “kim mingyu, one of the best future architects, doesn't know how to use a spreadsheet?” your boyfriend was smart smart, there was no way he didn’t know a couple of formulas to sort out the data.

mingyu groaned loudly, and shook your hand off his neck. “don’t make fun of me baby,” with a whine, he lifted up his head, revealing big shiny puppy eyes, which were practically begging for your help. “as you said, i’m an architect, not a computer science guy!” he exclaimed, his lips turning more and more pouty with each word. 

for a person that loved to make fun of coups and his pout, it didn’t seem like mingyu realised how big of a pouty baby he was himself. 

“i don’t think you need to study computer science to know how to use a spreadsheet, gyu,” you said, and ran your thumb over his jutted out lip. “besides, you study maths and physics, shouldn’t you know how to use this kind of stuff?” 

“if this is your way of making me feel better it’s not working,” mingyu huffed, grabbing your hand in his. “and i really need to figure this out, but i have no idea how. i tried watching tutorials, but i still don’t get it. like, the more i try to understand it the less sense it actually makes,” his breath ghosted your knuckles, as his lips moved against your fingers.  “please tell me you’re an undercover tech guru, so you can do this for me. ” 

you gave mingyu’s hand a little squeeze, and took his computer with your free hand, sliding it over to your side of the table. 

“what are you doing?” he asked, confusion lacing his voice. 

you shook your head in amusement, and squeezed his hand once again, as you transferred all of the necessary data into a new, empty spreadsheet. “i may not be a tech guru as you called it, but it’s a good thing you have a super smart girlfriend,” you murmured, focused on the screen, “that knows the basics of how to use a spreadsheet.” 

you didn't have to look at mingyu to know that his eyes were wide and his mouth open in bewilderment - but it wasn't your fault - it's not like you ever had the opportunity to show off your skills before. besides, mingyu was so in love with you and he was so down bad that you didn't have to do anything special to make him look at you like you just invented a new element.

“it’s really not that hard, you just have to,” the quiet noise of you typing filled your living room for a moment, “you have to know which formals to use.” 

mingyu couldn’t tear his eyes off you. how in the world did he manage to bag a girl that was not only insanely beautiful, but also smart as hell? though he couldn’t see what exactly you were doing (not that he cared about that, he wouldn’t understand any of it anyway), mingyu was sure you were doing magic with those damn spreadsheets. 

“here,” you said with a proud smile a short while later, “is this what you were meant to do?” you turned the computer around for him to see the, yes - perfectly sorted data, just like his professor wanted them to be. 

“you are so fucking hot.” 

mingyu couldn’t help himself. he loved acting like he was the smartest in the room, but holy shit - his girlfriend was a genius, and he’d act all dumb just to have her fill out his spreadsheets. 

“you are literally the most amazing thing ever, baby,” mingyu breathed, still looking at you with disbelief. “so so smart, and so so mine.” 

you snickered, and threw a rolled up napkin at him. “calm down, gyu. that was nothing, seriously.” 

“nothing?!” he exclaimed, offended. “nothing, you say? so why was i struggling with it for the past hours?” 

“if you paid more attention in class i’m sure you’d manage perfectly on your own,” you said, suddenly shy under his stare. the lovesick look was truly overwhelming. “now, will i get something in return?” 

mingyu's expression suddenly seemed to change from pure surprise and admiration to something that pretty much resembled smugness. “what do you have in mind, princess?” he asked, crooking his head at you. 

you smiled and pointed your finger at your lips.

taglist (if you want to be added, check my masterlist): @jeonghansshitester @weird-bookworm @sea-moon-star @hanniehaee @wonwooz1 @byprettymar @edgaralienpoe @staranghae @itza-meee @eightlightstar @immabecreepin @whatsgyud @hyneyedfiz @honestlydopetree @vicehectic @dkswife @uniq-tastic @marisblogg @aaniag @daegutowns @carlesscat-thinklogic23 @embrace-themagic @ohmyhuenings @nidda13 @hrts4hanniehae @k-drama-adict @isabellah29 @f4iryjjosh @bangantokchy @mrswonwooo @bangtancultsposts @lllucere @athanasiasakura @onlyyjeonghan @haecien @caramyisabitchforsvtandbts @hannahhbahng @valgracia @ohmygodwhyareallusernamestaken @mirxzii @hhusbuds @wonranghaeee @rosiesauriostuff @gyuguys @tomodachiii @veryfabday @lilmochiandsuga @asasilentreader @mrsnervous @bewoyewo @sharonxdevi @wondipity @gyuguys @raginghellfire @treehouse-mouse @waldau @wonootnoot @hellodefthings @dokyeomkyeom @sourkimchi @bbysnw @hoichi02 @aaa-sia @haneulparadx @minvrsev @zozojella @wonootnoot @kimingyuslover @wntrei @honglynights @jihoonsbbygirl @uhdrienne @bloodcanbehot

[wordpress-blaze-107117931]

The Town Of Oatlands In Central Tasmania

One of the most beautiful towns we accidentally discovered in Tasmania was the town of Oatlands. Sitting about 50 miles north of Hobart it is a spectacular place to stop and explore.

One of merits of his town is its vast collection of colonial sandstone buildings which number over one hundred fifty. Largely built by convict labor in the early 19th century; it was also considered a significant outpost during the Black War which was fought between the Indigenous First Nation People of the area and white settlers.

But if you have already heard of Oatlands it is probably due to Callington Mill, the only Lincolnshire style windmill in the whole of Australia. Built in 1837 this mill is a beaut and has been restored to its glory days.

Lake Dulverton, which borders Oatlands is well known for its many hiking paths which criss-cross in various directions. Fishing is another great pastime here and anglers can catch both rainbow and brown trout. The lake is also a bird watchers paradise where you can spot herons, ducks, and watch as black swans glide alongside the "cows" that inhabit the lake.

Oatlands also offers visitors a treasure trove of gardens and topiaries from one end of the town to the other. I was amazed at the different sizes and shapes of living sculptures that dotted the town.

While there we also visited the Oatlands District Historical Museum featuring local memorabilia from the town's early history to the present. There is also a rather substantial bird egg collection housed within its walls and the docents are eager to share their vast knowledge of the area.

Finally, the Callington Mill Distillery offers an experience that few will forget. Producing both award winning gins and whiskeys; your senses will explode as you indulge in your first taste of Poltergeist Citrus known for its hints of candied fruit, orange, and key lime pie. Yummm. Better yet sit down and enjoy and lunch at their restaurant, The Cellar Door, which serves a variety of farm-to-table meats and produce. After lunch your next course of action is to order a flight of whiskey tastings followed by a self guided tour to learn more about what goes into making these bodacious spirits. Better yet, the facility also offers its own whiskey guides who help guests craft their own unique single malt whiskey complete with an original label.

Oatlands is the type of town that magically draws you in and keeps your enchanted. In short, it is one of the rare places that once you get there you don't want to leave and its the kind of village where you suddenly find yourself searching for the nearest real estate office with sudden fantasies of finding a place of your own in this idyllic hideaway. Oatlands....is one of Tasmania's gems... don't miss it!

Source: The Town Of Oatlands In Central Tasmania

[nasa]

Student Experiments Soar!

Have you ever wondered what it takes to get a technology ready for space? The NASA TechRise Student Challenge gives middle and high school students a chance to do just that – team up with their classmates to design an original science or technology project and bring that idea to life as a payload on a suborbital vehicle.

Since March 2021, with the help of teachers and technical advisors, students across the country have dreamed up experiments with the potential to impact space exploration and collect data about our planet.

So far, more than 180 TechRise experiments have flown on suborbital vehicles that expose them to the conditions of space. Flight testing is a big step along the path of space technology development and scientific discovery.

The 2023-2024 TechRise Challenge flight tests took place this summer, with 60 student teams selected to fly their experiments on one of two commercial suborbital flight platforms: a high-altitude balloon operated by World View, or the Xodiac rocket-powered lander operated by Astrobotic. Xodiac flew over the company’s Lunar Surface Proving Ground — a test field designed to simulate the Moon’s surface — in Mojave, California, while World View’s high-altitude balloon launched out of Page, Arizona.

Here are four innovative TechRise experiments built by students and tested aboard NASA-supported flights this summer:

1. Oobleck Reaches the Skies

Oobleck, which gets its name from Dr. Seuss, is a mixture of cornstarch and water that behaves as both a liquid and a solid. Inspired by in-class science experiments, high school students at Colegio Otoqui in Bayomón, Puerto Rico, tested how Oobleck’s properties at 80,000 feet aboard a high-altitude balloon are different from those on Earth’s surface. Using sensors and the organic elements to create Oobleck, students aimed to collect data on the fluid under different conditions to determine if it could be used as a system for impact absorption.

2. Terrestrial Magnetic Field

Middle school students at Phillips Academy International Baccalaureate School in Birmingham, Alabama, tested the Earth’s magnetic field strength during the ascent, float, and descent of the high-altitude balloon. The team hypothesized the magnetic field strength decreases as the distance from Earth’s surface increases.

3. Rocket Lander Flame Experiment

To understand the impact of dust, rocks, and other materials kicked up by a rocket plume when landing on the Moon, middle school students at Cliff Valley School in Atlanta, Georgia, tested the vibrations of the Xodiac rocket-powered lander using CO2 and vibration sensors. The team also used infrared (thermal) and visual light cameras to attempt to detect the hazards produced by the rocket plume on the simulated lunar surface, which is important to ensure a safe landing.

4. Rocket Navigation

Middle and high school students at Tiospaye Topa School in LaPlant, South Dakota, developed an experiment to track motion data with the help of a GPS tracker and magnetic radar. Using data from the rocket-powered lander flight, the team will create a map of the flight path as well as the magnetic field of the terrain. The students plan to use their map to explore developing their own rocket navigation system.

The 2024-2025 TechRise Challenge is now accepting proposals for technology and science to be tested on a high-altitude balloon! Not only does TechRise offer hands-on experience in a live testing scenario, but it also provides an opportunity to learn about teamwork, project management, and other real-world skills.

“The TechRise Challenge was a truly remarkable journey for our team,” said Roshni Ismail, the team lead and educator at Cliff Valley School. “Watching them transform through the discovery of new skills, problem-solving together while being driven by the chance of flying their creation on a [rocket-powered lander] with NASA has been exhilarating. They challenged themselves to learn through trial and error and worked long hours to overcome every obstacle. We are very grateful for this opportunity.”

Are you ready to bring your experiment design to the launchpad? If you are a sixth to 12th grade student, you can make a team under the guidance of an educator and submit your experiment ideas by November 1. Get ready to create!

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[brookghaib-blog]

Silence between hearts - V

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: After Project SENTRY fails, Robert Reynolds is declared dead and sealed in a glass coffin to be hidden by O.X.E. Y/N, a doctor who secretly fell in love with him after a complicated path between them, refuses to believe he’s gone—fighting to save what’s left of him while grief and denial consume her, the path to look for him would ruin her, but to what extreme.

Word count: 8,8k

Warning: emotional abuse, suicidal intentions, eating disorder, depression, character death, attempt homicide

--

The Manhattan skyline was suffocating.

Not because it wasn’t beautiful—because it was—but because it was familiar. Familiar in a way that tied chains to her ankles. The glittering lights that once meant hope now only glared like judgmental eyes, watching her every breath as if waiting for her to mess up.

Y/N had been back in New York for three weeks. Her return had been marked with nothing more than a silent car ride from JFK to her parents’ towering brownstone, the driver quiet, the air thick with the unspoken grief that clung to her like second skin. Her father didn’t meet her at the airport. Neither did her mother. They were waiting at home like she had merely gone out for groceries.

"Finally back to your senses," her father had muttered during dinner, inspecting her like one of his lab specimens. "Now let’s work on something real."

Real.

Apparently, the man who had loved her in silence, in quiet nights and fleeting glances, wasn’t real. Apparently, the beat of his heart recorded on her phone and played on loop when she couldn't sleep wasn’t real. The project she built from nothing, the theory she bled over, wasn’t real. Bob wasn’t real to them.

She didn’t correct them.

Most days, she spent in her father’s lab, shadowing projects she had no interest in, half-listening to meetings, giving data evaluations she didn’t care about. Her work was lifeless, an echo of the passion she used to carry like a torch. At night, she went home to her parents’ house where the air always smelled of lavender and too many expectations.

“You’re getting older, darling,” her mother said just the other night, pouring herself a glass of merlot with the grace of a socialite. “All this science, this lab work, it’s lovely and all but men want something soft. Something elegant. Not… equations.”

Y/N had stared blankly at her.

“Mrs. Dempsey’s son is coming back from Yale soon,” her mother added, as if that was the answer to everything. “He’s in banking. I told her we’d attend the fundraiser next week. I’ll pick a dress for you.”

She didn’t respond. She just left the room.

That night, like every other, she lay in the dark on her childhood bed, curled beneath crisp, cold sheets, clutching her phone like it could anchor her. She hit play on the audio recording, the only one she hadn’t had the heart to delete.

It was static at first. A few distant clicks. And then it came.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Bob’s heartbeat. Strong. Measured. Human.

The only thing left of him that hadn’t turned to ash.

She didn’t cry that first night. Or the second. But by the end of the first week, the silence of her room cracked her open. She wept into her pillow, careful to muffle it, careful to keep her sobs quiet so her mother wouldn’t hear and come knocking with a lecture about composure. About feminine dignity.

Bob’s voice sometimes joined her in her dreams. Sitting on the sterile edge of the lab bed, smiling that crooked, shy smile, fingers brushing hers when he thought no one noticed.

“Thank you,” he had once whispered to her, forehead pressed to hers after one of those nights they shouldn’t have shared. “For letting me feel human again.”

She hadn’t felt human since he died.

Every day she forced herself out of bed and went back to the lab was a betrayal of what she had wanted. The project in Malaysia had been hers. It was her idea. Her rebellion. Her desperate need to prove that people didn’t have to be monsters to be powerful. That trauma didn’t disqualify someone from salvation.

Bob had been that proof.

And they took him.

Now, the lab was a mausoleum of voices that didn't listen, charts that didn’t mean anything, and experiments that forgot humanity. Her father never asked what went wrong. Just told her the data was lacking. His disappointment wasn’t new—but it had new weight now. Because she was too tired to care.

She had become a ghost in her own life. Wandering.

Every now and then, she’d glance in the mirror and barely recognize herself. There was something dull in her eyes now. Something sunken. And when she touched her chest, where her heart used to beat fast in Bob’s presence, it only ached.

One night, while her parents were out at yet another society event, she crept into the kitchen, barefoot, hair a mess, wrapped in one of her father's old lab coats because it reminded her of Malaysia. She poured herself a drink and sat by the window, gazing out over the city.

A whisper of a memory hit her.

Bob’s laugh, rare and rough, as she dragged him down the lit streets of Kuala Lumpur. “You’re going to get us both caught.”

“Then don’t walk like a super soldier,” she had teased, grinning.

He had looked at her with those eyes then—soft gold in the dark—and said, “You make it easy to forget what I am.”

She downed the drink.

--

The chandelier above her head glittered like judgment. Sharp-edged crystals, refracting light the same way her mother’s voice did—bright, hard, unforgiving.

“Stand up straight, darling.”

Y/N blinked, caught between sleep and obedience. The silk robe around her felt foreign, like a costume someone else had chosen. Her mother circled her like a designer evaluating a mannequin.

“You’ve always had such good bones. The weight loss has helped them show. Your cheeks are finally defined. Maybe all that humidity in Malaysia did something to your metabolism.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

If only she knew the real reason the weight had disappeared—because food had lost all taste, because even hunger felt pointless now, just another reminder of being alive when the man she loved wasn’t.

Her mother moved to the vanity, sifting through powders and lipsticks like a surgeon selecting her instruments. “Now, we need a dress that shows off your waist. Something elegant, but not desperate. That blue one from Paris. The one you’ve never worn.”

Y/N stared at herself in the mirror. Pale skin. Dull eyes. Hair pulled into soft waves she hadn’t touched herself—her mother’s stylist had come in earlier that afternoon, humming and tugging and transforming her into a version of herself that felt utterly distant.

“You’re lucky,” her mother continued. “You still have time to marry well. Most women your age in this city have either sold out or given up. But you—you still have that glow. And tonight is important. The Patersons will be there. Their son just got promoted. Vice president, darling. At thirty-one.”

Y/N tried to respond, to summon a nod, a word. Nothing came.

“God, don’t give me that face,” her mother sighed, brushing a rose shade onto Y/N’s cheek. “You’ve always had such a sensitive expression. I swear you were born frowning.”

“Maybe I was,” Y/N whispered.

Her mother paused, mascara wand in hand, and gave her a look—equal parts disdain and worry. “What does that mean?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She couldn’t say what it really meant: that she was born into a world that already felt like a cage. That she had tried to run from it—across oceans, into research, into Bob’s arms—and now that cage was smaller than ever.

Her mother went on, ignoring her silence. “When you walk into the gala tonight, you need to radiate grace. No slouching. Don’t talk about science. Just smile. Men don’t care about molecular theory. They care about charm, about softness. Don’t bring up Malaysia unless asked—and even then, keep it light.”

The mention of Malaysia tightened something in her throat.

Softness. She had been soft with Bob. Gentle. Vulnerable. It wasn’t charm. It was real. It was warm skin in cold sheets, whispered jokes between test results, his lips brushing her forehead in the dark like a prayer.

She hadn’t smiled like that since.

“You’re quiet tonight,” her mother remarked, fitting earrings into her ears—blue sapphires to match the dress. “Not that I mind. You get so argumentative when you’re tired. Or hormonal. Are you eating properly?”

Y/N’s stomach churned. She’d survived on tea and water for days. The idea of food was nauseating. She thought about the chocolate Bob used to steal from the lab pantry just to get her to eat something during late-night analysis sessions.

He would nudge her with a grin, holding it out like an offering. “I heard chocolate’s good for genius brains.”

That same chocolate had sat untouched in her nightstand drawer since her return.

“I miss when you used to dress up like this more often,” her mother said wistfully, smoothing the bodice of the gown. “Before all that lab nonsense. Before you went chasing ghosts in jungles and locked yourself in basements.”

They hadn’t talked about what happened.

Not really.

No one in this house had asked what she’d lost. What she had risked. The name "Bob" never passed their lips, as if by ignoring it, they could will it out of existence.

“You could still turn this around,” her mother said softly, finally meeting Y/N’s eyes in the mirror. “A good husband, a proper home. You’re not lost. You just got distracted.”

Y/N looked at her own reflection.

A beautiful stranger stared back. Perfect makeup. A designer dress. Collarbone jutting like a blade. Her eyes betrayed everything. She looked like a woman wearing a corpse.

“You don’t have to stay long tonight,” her mother added, mistaking the silence for agreement. “Just enough to be seen.”

Y/N nodded once, slowly, like her neck was made of glass. And her mother smiled, satisfied, kissing her on the cheek like she was proud.

“You’ll thank me for this someday.”

Maybe. Or maybe, Y/N thought, she'd look back on this night as one more moment she disappeared a little more. One more time she smiled through the ache, pretended the heartbeat in her phone didn’t play in her mind like a funeral song.

She gripped her phone in her hand and whispered to herself, just once, under her breath:

“I miss you, Bob.”

--

The ballroom was gold.

Gold chandeliers, gold filigree on ivory columns, champagne bubbling like liquid gold in tall flutes held by men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns so crisp they rustled like expensive paper.

Y/N walked through it like a ghost.

The heels her mother insisted on pinched at her ankles, but she barely noticed. Her spine stayed straight under pressure—years of training at dinner parties and galas taught her that. Her lips curved into a passive smile. Her eyes scanned, but didn’t linger. She was moving, presenting, nodding. Floating above herself.

People she didn’t recognize greeted her with polite delight.

“Oh, you're Henry’s daughter!”

“I heard you were in Asia for a project. How fascinating.”

“Still working in science? Good for you, my dear. But when are you going to settle down?”

Every question felt like a brick to her chest.

She stood next to her mother near the Patersons’ table, nodding as the man—Harold, she thought—launched into a monologue about fiscal expansion and generational investment. His son, Nicholas, was tall and clean-cut, polite but not particularly attentive. He asked about Malaysia once, but didn’t wait for an answer. He offered her champagne, and when she declined, he raised a brow.

“Too strong?” he asked with a laugh.

No, she thought. Not strong enough.

She excused herself before dessert.

The powder room was all mirrors and orchids. Y/N locked herself in the furthest stall, heels clacking quietly over marble. Her hands shook as she opened her purse. The sound of her breath quickened.

She pulled out her phone.

Opened the voice memo app.

"Heartbeat_Recording_Bob_023" Timestamp: 3:12 a.m. Duration: 0:21 seconds

She hit play.

That sound—that low, steady, rhythmic beat—played like a lullaby through the speaker. A sound once meant for scientific observation, logged during a midnight scan just weeks before everything unraveled. His heartbeat had lulled her to sleep back then. Now it anchored her grief.

She pressed the phone to her chest, eyes shutting.

A heartbeat that had stopped. A man who had died in front of her. And yet here it was—proof that he had been real. Not a dream. Not a delusion.

Her breath hitched.

A sob broke loose—quiet but sharp, like the snapping of a violin string. She stifled it with the sleeve of her dress, but it didn’t stop. Her chest trembled.

She had been pretending for weeks.

Pretending to be alive.

Pretending not to remember how his breath felt against her collarbone. How he mumbled her name like it tasted too good to lose. How they used to hold hands in the dark, afraid of what morning might steal away.

Another sob escaped.

The sound of her heartbreak, reverberating in gold-tiled silence.

The door creaked open—soft footsteps outside.

“Y/N?”

Her mother.

Y/N didn’t answer. She held her breath. The footsteps hesitated.

“I hope you're not hiding again,” her mother said, voice low but irritated. “The Paterson boy just asked where you were. Honestly, can’t you make an effort? For once?”

Y/N didn’t respond. She waited until the footsteps retreated, heels clicking briskly against tile.

Only then did she allow her knees to give in.

She sank to the floor.

She stayed there, in the stall, her gown bunched around her, listening to the heartbeat of a dead man.

Outside, laughter erupted like fireworks. Champagne glasses clinked. A string quartet played a waltz. But Y/N remained in that tiny room of mirrors and marble, mourning a man no one knew she loved.

She couldn’t stay much longer—not at the gala, not in this life that wasn’t hers.

She wiped her face with trembling fingers and whispered to herself, like a vow:

“I can’t keep doing this.” She says as she gets out of her stall.

The mirrors betrayed nothing.

Y/N stood before them again—composed, cold, elegant. Her makeup reapplied with trembling fingers, only barely concealing the red-rimmed eyes and the slight puffiness under them. Her lipstick, darker now, gave her the illusion of control. A crown painted back onto a woman who had long since abdicated.

She walked out of the powder room and into the cacophony of the ballroom—its laughter, its wine-soaked glamour, its artificial warmth. The chandeliers glimmered like stars over a world she no longer belonged to.

And then she saw her.

Leaning effortlessly against the edge of the bar, swirling a glass of something amber in a crystal tumbler—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Y/N’s heart dropped.

She had seen ghosts. Heard voices. Dreamed in vivid detail of moments long gone. But Valentina was real.

A shark in satin. Wearing a gown as dark as oil, her hair swept up with deadly precision, as if even a strand out of place could ruin the lie of grace she projected.

“Well, well.” Valentina’s voice cut across the room like a razor wrapped in silk. “Didn’t expect to see you in lipstick and lace. Malaysia made you soft.”

Y/N stopped in her tracks. People moved around her, unaware. Uncaring. She could barely breathe.

“What are you doing here?” Y/N asked, voice cold. Strained.

“Oh, sweetheart. I'm always where the important people are,” Valentina said smoothly, taking a sip from her drink. “And you? Still mourning your little science experiment?”

Y/N flinched—visibly.

Valentina smiled. A slow, cruel thing.

“You know,” she continued, stepping forward now, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I warned you. About getting attached. But you didn’t listen. You thought you could fix him. Mold him. Save him. Like some tragic little girl trying to rewire a bomb.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. “He wasn’t a weapon.”

Valentina laughed—genuinely amused. “No, darling. He was a time bomb. You just didn’t like the sound of the ticking. But it was always there. I saw it. And you? You were so naïve. So emotional. Thinking you were tricking everyone being some cold doctor with a porpuse, when you are just a little girl playing daddy dearest. You gave him a heartbeat and thought it meant something.”

Y/N looked away, but Valentina stepped into her path, blocking her retreat.

“They say you ran to him the second he lost control. That you shoved people out of the way. That you screamed his name like a madwoman. Romantic. Pathetic. Sad that you did all that just to find a corpse.”

Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, but the pain in her chest was volcanic. “You don’t know anything about what we had.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Valentina crooned, tilting her head. “I know everything. I read every file. Watched every feed. You think I didn’t notice when you started cutting the camera at night? Or how he looked at you like a goddamn puppy? It was adorable. But in the end... you couldn’t stop him. And he still died in your arms. So tell me—how’s that for powerless?”

The words hit like bullets.

Y/N’s composure shattered—just a flicker. Her hands trembled. Her breathing became shallow.

“You’re disgusting,” she whispered.

Valentina’s smile widened. “No. I’m honest.”

Then she leaned in, voice now like poison poured into honey.

“But you, darling... you’re broken. And no amount of red lipstick will make you look whole again.”

Y/N stood frozen. Humiliated. Grieving. Enraged.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked away—past the gold, the laughter, the polished lies. Out of the ballroom. Out into the night.

She didn’t stop until she reached her family’s car, her hands shaking so badly she fumbled with the keys. She sat there for a long time, in the back seat, staring at nothing. Letting the tears fall freely this time. No powder room. No mirrors. No mother’s voice hissing about appearances.

Just the cold silence of grief.

--

The sun had long since risen, golden streaks bleeding through the sheer curtains of her childhood bedroom. But Y/N hadn't moved.

Her body lay curled atop the ivory bedspread, sheets untouched, her pillow still damp from a sleepless night. She hadn’t even changed out of the dark dress she wore to the party. The satin now wrinkled, tight around her knees where she had drawn them up to her chest. Her eyes, bloodshot and hollow, were locked on the white wall ahead of her—blank, sterile, void. Like the lab. Like Bob’s room after he was gone.

She hadn’t cried.

Not since the party. Not since Valentina had shoved her grief into a corner of shame.

Not until now.

The shrill ring of her phone broke the silence like a knife to glass.

Y/N reached for it slowly, like underwater. When she saw her father’s name on the screen, a tightness formed in her chest. She answered with a dull, rasped voice, barely above a whisper.

“Yes?”

“Y/N,” her father’s voice came through, steady but strangely subdued. “You’ll need to make arrangements for tomorrow.”

She didn’t respond. Not immediately.

“Tomorrow?” she echoed numbly.

There was a pause. Then, quietly—too quietly for the man she had known all her life—he said:

“Ilari is dead.”

The words struck with no warning.

She blinked once. Twice. As if they hadn’t landed properly. Her breath caught in her throat.

“There was an explosion at the O.X.E. facility. Contained, but… he was in the wing when it happened. His body was… unrecoverable.”

Y/N sat up too quickly, her hand gripping the edge of the nightstand as the world tilted.

“No—no, no. What do you mean? Ilari—he—he was in the lab, he—” her voice cracked like thin glass under pressure.

Her father remained calm, factual. “I’ve spoken to the board. There will be a closed memorial. You'll attend.”

She could barely speak. Her lungs were tight, crushed under the weight of grief trying to push itself out.

“You knew—didn’t you?” she accused, her voice rising like a storm surge. “You knew the place was unstable, you—you knew it wasn’t safe—. How the fuck was there in explosion capable of this?”

“I’m telling you so you can prepare, not to argue,” he replied firmly, that cold edge back in his tone. But there was something underneath it this time—strained, brittle.

Before she could say anything else, he added, “I'm sorry,”—and hung up.

Two seconds passed.

Then five.

And suddenly—she screamed.

It burst out of her with no warning, guttural and sharp like a wounded animal. She hurled the phone across the room, the screen cracking against the far wall. She screamed again, this time louder, and collapsed onto the floor with her hands clawing at the carpet like she was trying to rip the pain out of the earth.

Dr. Ilari was dead.

He had been the only one who treated her like a human being. Not like a daughter. Not like a tool. Not like a disappointment. He had joked with her. He had listened. He had protected her from the worst of the project, from Valentina, from her own father’s looming shadow.

He had known—about her and Bob. And he had never judged.

He had called her “kid.” He had once danced like a fool when her protein synthesis had shown its first signs of success. He had made her laugh.

And now he was just—gone. Another name. Another file. Another burnt-out light in a hallway of ghosts.

She wailed, her nails digging into her arms, her chest heaving, sobs erupting with no rhythm. Pain was no longer something inside her—it was her. It had filled every cavity, taken her shape, worn her skin like a shroud.

The door burst open.

“Y/N?!”

Her mother’s voice sliced into the chaos. But it didn’t register.

Y/N was crumpled on the floor, shaking, screaming through her tears. Her mother rushed to her side, gripping her shoulders, trying to calm her, but Y/N flailed in her grip.

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked. “Don’t—don’t you dare—!”

“What’s happening?! What happened?!” her mother demanded, suddenly pale.

“He’s dead!” Y/N howled. “He’s dead! He—he—he’s dead and I—I can’t—”

She collapsed again, curling into herself, sobbing so hard it seemed like her lungs might collapse. Her mother froze, unprepared for this kind of grief, for the rawness of her daughter’s agony.

The woman now sat in silence, watching her only child fall apart in a way that no silk gown or elegant husband could ever fix.

Y/N couldn’t stop crying.

Not when her mother finally stood and awkwardly left the room.

Not when the sun faded from the sky.

Not when her throat gave out.

Only when the silence returned—empty, brutal, total—did she fall asleep on the floor.

Her phone’s cracked screen still blinked with the last message she would ever hear from the only man who believed in her work, her mind, and in her heart.

"I'm sorry."

--

The calendar said two weeks

Two weeks since the explosion.

Two weeks since the voicemail that shattered whatever was left of Y/N’s resolve.

Since then, she had become a ghost in the house her parents still tried to call a home.

Some mornings she didn’t move from bed. Others she wandered into the kitchen in silence, barefoot in a shirt that hadn’t seen the laundry in a week, only to make tea she wouldn’t drink and stare blankly at the marble counter. She’d forget she had left the kettle on. She forgot a lot of things.

Emails from the lab piled up unanswered. Her father’s voiced irritation had long since turned into cold silence. Her mother still tried to coax her out of bed with forced smiles and harsh judgments. But Y/N no longer had the strength to push back. Not even the will to fight.

The only thing she did with purpose anymore was remember.

At night—when the house was asleep and her parents retreated behind their walls of money and legacy—she curled beneath her blankets and went through old photo albums. Not just of Bob. Not just of Malaysia. But older. Kinder. Safer.

Pictures of her and Dr. Ilari at O.X.E., smiling over papers, a coffee mug in his hand. Notes he’d scrawled in the margins of her research with dry humor and care. Images of her as a child—back before everything. Her fingers trailed over the faces of those who had once meant something. Her hands trembled like a patient with tremors too deep to medicate.

And that night was no different.

She sat in bed, laptop dim on her thighs, light flickering as she scrolled through digitized photos. A younger Ilari in a lab coat, smiling with one brow cocked. A candid one, Bob blurry in the background, caught mid-laugh. She pressed two fingers gently against the screen.

A tear fell to her pajama shirt.

She didn’t hear the window open downstairs.

Didn’t hear the soft tread of boots across hardwood.

Didn’t hear the deliberate way a shadow moved past the ornate staircase, or how it paused at the family portraits on the wall, eyeing them coldly.

Yelena Belova moved like a ghost. Silent. Efficient. Lethal.

She’d come in through the south side of the townhouse. She knew the layout. Valentina had provided it, along with the schedule. Parents in the master wing. Daughter alone in the west hall. Lights out by midnight. She was to be in and out in fifteen minutes. No mess. No witnesses. Only a file to close.

She didn’t expect the girl to be awake.

Yelena opened the bedroom door, gun raised, finger just resting near the trigger—not on it yet. Her blade was holstered on her thigh. Quiet work. Always quiet. But her eyes locked with Y/N’s the second she stepped into the room.

Y/N startled, breath catching in her chest.

She froze.

Yelena saw it all at once—the confusion, the fear, the way Y/N’s limbs curled toward her chest instinctively, like a wounded animal expecting the blow.

“Wh-who—” Y/N stammered, voice weak with terror. “Who are you? What—what are you doing in my room?”

The gun glinted in the low light.

Yelena stayed silent. Her green eyes narrowed as she approached slowly, cautiously. She had expected sedation. Sleep. Not this.

Y/N’s breathing quickened. Her hands flew up, shaking. “Please—please, my parents—if you want money, we—we can give you whatever you—”

“I don’t want your money,” Yelena said, flat and low.

That voice—it cut sharper than the metal she carried.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to the gun. She sank lower into the bed, almost folding into herself. “Are you going to kill me?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

Yelena hesitated.

Valentina’s words echoed through her mind. “She's the daughter of one of my scientists, she has become a liabilly to my work, I need her gone, she's too dangerous.”

But this—this woman in front of her? She wasn’t some weaponized threat. She was grief in a human shell. There were bags under her eyes so dark they looked like bruises. Her body was thinner than the medical file had indicated. She was shaking.

She looked broken.

And Yelena had killed a lot of people. But she had never once enjoyed killing the broken.

Y/N’s voice broke again. “Please… did you hurt my parents?”

“No,” Yelena replied after a long silence. Her tone was clipped. “They’re asleep. You should have been too.”

“Why me?” Y/N whispered.

Yelena exhaled through her nose. She wasn’t supposed to answer questions. She never answered questions. But this girl—she had nothing. It bled from her like light from a crack.

“It’s not personal,” she said.

Y/N gave a small, bitter laugh. “It’s never personal, is it?”

The sound twisted Yelena’s stomach in a way she didn’t like. She stepped closer.

And that’s when she saw it—the laptop still glowing. The photo on the screen. Ilari. Smiling.

Yelena’s mouth drew into a hard line. She recognised the man in the picture.

“She probably won't fight back anyway, it will be fast.” That’s what Valentina had said.

Yelena knew what that meant.

She had lived it. She had been it.

Y/N noticed where her gaze went. “He was everything good about that lab,” she said hoarsely, referring to Ilari. “And she killed him too, didn’t she?”

Yelena’s jaw tensed.

Y/N’s shoulders dropped with a small whimper. “Then go ahead. Do it. There’s nothing left anyway.”

The silence stretched long between them.

Yelena looked at her.

She saw past the tears, past the fear. She saw a woman not begging for her life, but welcoming its end.

It was too familiar.

The gun remained raised—still and precise. Yelena’s silhouette framed by the soft gleam of moonlight spilling in through the old window. Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, motionless except for the trembling in her shoulders, her eyes wide and hollow. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

The room, a quiet monument of someone else’s life, felt like a stage now. Like a place that had never truly been hers.

And now, she would die in it.

Yelena took one cautious step forward, head slightly tilted in calculation. Her voice cut through the brittle silence.

“…Who were you to Valentina?”

It wasn’t the question Y/N had been expecting. For a moment, she just blinked—disoriented, scared, and unsure whether this was part of some mental torture. Her voice came out faint, like a fading echo.

“I wasn’t anyone.”

The answer made Yelena narrow her eyes.

Y/N cleared her throat weakly, then looked away from the barrel of the gun, toward the dark corner of her childhood room—toward the corner she used to crawl into when she had nightmares as a kid. Her gaze was distant.

“I… worked on a project. A biogenetic one. In Malaysia. It was mine—well, it was supposed to be. Valentina just bought it. Put her name on it, like everything else.” Her mouth curled, not in amusement, but in exhausted defeat. “That’s it. I was just a name on a report. Not even a good one.”

The air between them thickened.

Yelena didn’t move.

Then Y/N’s gaze snapped back up—slowly, searching the assassin’s face with sudden realization swimming behind her tired eyes. Her voice was soft, cautious. Almost frightened of the answer before she even asked the question.

“…Did Valentina… ahm…”

Yelena’s body tensed, her grip on the gun shifting subtly.

“…did you do something to a doctor in Malaysia?” Y/N asked. Her breath hitched. “By her order?”

Yelena didn’t speak.

She didn’t have to.

The silence—coupled with the barely perceptible flicker of regret in her eyes—said everything.

She hadn’t expected her to know the name. She hadn’t expected the file to include that kind of intimacy. But this—this girl knew. She knew what Valentina had done. And now Yelena saw it:

This wasn’t a project gone wrong. This was a woman standing in the graveyard of everyone she loved.

And she had dug every hole with her own bare hands.

Y/N didn’t scream. Didn’t curse. Her body just folded forward as if the air had been torn from her lungs. A long, guttural sob escaped her lips, one that cracked the fragile composure she’d worn like armor. She collapsed from the bed to the floor, arms wrapped tightly around herself, rocking with the weight of grief too vast for words.

Ilari.

It was her fault.

She had brought Bob into the lab. She had given Valentina the research. She had failed the project. And now Valentina was covering the tracks.

Erasing the names.

Erasing lives.

Y/N gasped for breath between choking sobs, clawing at the blanket as if she could tear away the reality sinking in.

Yelena watched her from the other side of the room.

Her hand—still holding the gun—shook.

She’d done this before. A hundred times, maybe more. But never like this. Never with someone who looked like a version of herself—lost, desperate, begging the world to give them one reason to stay.

Then Y/N looked up, her face soaked in tears, eyes swollen with despair.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please… just… kill me. Fast. No pain. Just—just make it stop.”

Yelena’s lips parted slightly.

She’d been asked that before. Some had begged. Others had cursed her.

But this? This was something else. This was a woman who didn’t want to die—she wanted the suffering to die. The guilt. The grief. The waking up to an empty silence that never stopped screaming.

Y/N began crawling toward her. Slowly. Almost mechanically. As if dragging herself through mud. Her knees hit the floor with heavy thuds. Her hands trembled as she reached the assassin’s boots, pressing her forehead against the ground in front of them like someone offering penance.

“I can’t…” she cried softly. “I can’t carry this anymore…”

Yelena’s eyes brimmed with tears.

It burned.

The thing inside her that Valentina had never managed to kill. That thing Natasha had once told her made her human. It screamed now—louder than protocol, louder than orders.

Her finger twitched against the trigger. But the shot never came.

Instead, she dropped her arm to her side.

The gun hung loosely in her hand, as useless as the lies they were all told to protect.

She reached down with her other hand and gently, silently, touched Y/N’s hair. Not to comfort. Not really. Just to anchor her. To remind her she wasn’t a ghost yet.

“I’m sorry,” Yelena whispered.

Y/N’s sobs became violent again, her whole body wracked with the kind of cry that only comes from knowing the truth and having nowhere to place it.

And the assassin who had come to kill her just left without her noticing. Unable to do a job that seemed so simple. Why? She never cared, it was a job.

Everything happens for a reason.

--

The gray wash of early morning poured faintly through the windows like smoke from a dying fire, casting long shadows across the floorboards. Dust hung in the air, visible in thin beams of light—suspended like time itself.

Y/N stirred.

She didn’t wake so much as return—to her body, to the memory, to the stench of grief clinging to her skin. Her cheek was pressed against the hard wooden floor of her childhood bedroom, the tear-stained pillow just out of reach. Her joints ached. Her breath came in shallow pulses. For a moment, she didn’t move.

The world was quieter than she remembered. But not merciful.

Nothing was merciful anymore.

Then it hit her again—the encounter. The intruder. The assassin with a gun and eyes like winter. Yelena. She wasn’t a dream. She wasn’t a hallucination conjured by too many nights without food or peace.

She had come.

To kill her.

And she hadn’t.

Y/N slowly rolled onto her back, her eyes locking on the ceiling fan above. It didn’t spin. Nothing did. Not the air. Not the clock. Not her mind.

Except one thing.

Valentina.

It all clicked into place like broken glass reassembling.

Bob—coerced, manipulated, stripped of his humanity.

Ilari—murdered. Silenced.

The O.X.E. project—scrubbed clean, sterilized, disposed of like a failed experiment.

And she—she was just collateral. A witness. A loose thread Valentina hadn’t clipped yet.

She’d let her spiral.

She’d expected her to break.

And she had. She broke beautifully.

But something stirred in the fracture now. A new, quiet burn that curled through her chest like a cigarette pressed to skin.

Rage.

It wasn’t hot or explosive. It didn’t roar.

It seethed.

And for the first time in months—maybe years—Y/N sat up.

Unwashed hair clung to her face. Her hoodie reeked of sweat and tears. But her eyes—her eyes were steady.

She stood. Slowly.

Her body screamed in protest. She hadn’t eaten in two days. Hadn’t truly slept in longer. But she made her way to the bathroom anyway, turned on the light, and stared at herself in the mirror.

What she saw wasn’t pathetic anymore.

It was haunted.

It was hollowed.

And it was dangerous.

Her fingers curled around the sink.

“I’m going to kill her,” she whispered.

Her reflection didn’t flinch.

“I’m going to take everything from her like she did to me. And it won’t be quick.”

She didn’t have a plan.

But she had access.

The lab.

Her father’s lab.

It was still state-of-the-art. Still partially funded by O.X.E. contractors before the explosion in Malaysia. Still stored data, blueprints, rejected prototypes that had never been tested due to “morality clauses.”

Y/N would find what she needed there.

Later that day

Her mother didn’t even notice her leave.

The housekeeper gave her a polite nod as she slipped out the front door, dressed in jeans and an old blazer, dark sunglasses covering the swollen bruises under her eyes.

The sky over Manhattan looked like dull steel. The city buzzed beneath her with no idea that something inside her had been lit like a slow-burning fuse.

She arrived at the lab by noon.

It felt strange to badge herself in after weeks of absence—stranger still to feel her heart beat for something again. Not love. Not even justice.

Just revenge.

Revenge that felt justified.

The lab was half-empty on weekends. Perfect. She moved silently past rows of beakers and data terminals, past the clean rooms and cryogenic storage.

And then she reached it.

Her old prototype archive.

She keyed in her passcode, surprised the clearance hadn’t been revoked yet. Her father probably hadn’t noticed—or didn’t care enough to follow up on her permissions.

Inside, it smelled sterile. Like frozen metal and memories.

Shelves lined with failed designs. Papers. Discarded samples. Nano-injectors. Sonically-charged disruptors. Things meant to disable mutant biology or super-serum variants.

Her fingers hovered over the drawers.

Which one would hurt her the most?

Poison?

Too easy.

Explosion?

Too quick.

A device that destabilized neural frequency?

Closer.

Something painful. Invisible. Slow.

She remembered one in particular—a failed device once imagined to sever a soldier’s sense of direction, leave them stuck in a state of perpetual disorientation, causing nausea, pain, internal hemorrhaging over days. It had been deemed unethical.

It had also worked.

She reached for the blueprint, unfolding it like a priest revealing scripture.

The lights buzzed softly above her. Outside, someone wheeled a cart past the door. But inside this little pocket of hell, Y/N smiled. For the first time in months.

Not because she was happy.

But because she’d found it.

Protocol V4: Neural Erosion Cascade.

She could build it. Refine it. Use it on Valentina when the time was right. Inject her with it and smile as the woman who took Bob, who erased Ilari, forgot how to walk. How to eat. How to breathe.

Y/N would make her beg.

Then she’d whisper, “This isfor Bob.”

Maybe she wouldn’t have to die.

Maybe this was what survival looked like now.

Not healing.

Just retribution.

--

The gala was everything Valentina Allegra de Fontaine wanted it to be—polished, decadent, and politically charged beneath the glitz. A celebration of progress, she had called it. The future of global intelligence, biotechnology, and security initiatives.

To others, it was just another elite event with crystal chandeliers, imported string quartets, and laughter bubbling through a thousand-dollar-a-glass champagne.

But to Y/N?

It was the stage.

And she was ready.

The doors parted with a hush of warm air as she stepped into the grand ballroom. Marble gleamed under her black stilettos. A low-cut velvet dress—charcoal, soft as ash—clung to her like a whisper. Her hair was pulled back, clean, elegant. Her lips were a dark wine. Her smile? Perfect. Hollow.

A glass of merlot danced in her fingers as she walked through the sea of diplomats, CEOs, and carefully curated influencers. No one recognized her at first—she’d been a ghost for so long. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Wasn’t supposed to be anywhere.

Which made her entrance all the more exquisite.

She sipped slowly, locking eyes with no one for too long.

Until she saw her.

Valentina.

Standing in her signature black suit, pearls draped around her throat like a leash she wore willingly. She was laughing—effortlessly, commandingly—with a congressman and two security heads from Eastern Europe. Her voice, always just a touch too smooth.

Y/N’s smile widened.

She raised her hand.

And waved.

Valentina froze.

The conversation didn't break. But the air did. Cracked like glass in a slow freeze.

The congressman turned, confused, to see who Valentina was suddenly ignoring.

Y/N walked toward them with a grace that felt sharpened by glass. The scent of her perfume—lavender, laced with iron—drifted ahead of her like a warning.

“Oh, Valentina,” she said, voice smooth as silk over steel. “What a lovely party. Everything about it is so… decadent.”

Valentina’s lips twitched, unsure whether to smile or call security.

Y/N extended her hand toward the congressman instead. “Y/N L/N. I used to work on one of Valentina’s favorite projects, back when the science was a little more… experimental.”

The man blinked, taking her hand. “Ah, yes—Malaysia, wasn’t it?”

Y/N nodded. “Such a tragedy, what happened at O.X.E. labs. But you know what they say—some things are meant to be buried.”

She turned then, slowly, with all the theatrical grace of a woman too calm to be unarmed.

Her free hand rested lightly, deliberately, on the back of Valentina’s neck.

Valentina didn’t flinch. She froze.

It wasn’t fear. Not yet. It was the realization.

She should be dead.

That’s what those eyes were saying.

Y/N leaned in, her smile tightening just a little—less teeth now, more war.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly, voice so low only Valentina could hear. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Valentina’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Y/N chuckled, brushing her thumb—casually—against the nape of her neck.

She could feel the pulse there. Sharp. Erratic.

“How long has it been? Since Malaysia?” she continued, sipping her wine. “I hear the body count's finally settled. But oh—what’s one more, right?”

Valentina tried to speak. “You—”

“I’m sure I have a seat somewhere,” Y/N cut in, feigning innocence. “Though I might crash the head table just for old time’s sake. It’s funny, though…”

Her hand slipped away from Valentina’s neck, but she didn’t step back.

“…I could’ve sworn someone tried to kill me.”

The congressman was clearly out of his depth now, watching the two women like they were speaking an entirely different language.

Valentina’s jaw clenched. “You’re mistaken.”

“Am I?” Y/N said, tilting her head with a theatrical sigh. “That’s the problem with power, isn’t it? You make enemies. You forget which ones remember everything.”

She tapped her wine glass against Valentina’s.

A soft clink that rang like a gunshot between them.

“Well,” she said brightly, stepping back with a dancer’s grace, “we’ll catch up later. I wouldn’t miss the closing speech for the world.”

She turned away, disappearing into the crowd.

Valentina stood perfectly still.

The congressman whispered something to her.

She didn’t hear it.

All she could feel was the cold shadow of a dead project come back to life—and the press of a hand, too warm, too gentle, that had delivered a message loud and clear.

Valentina slipped into the upper floor just moments after Y/N’s departure, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. The grand gala’s festive noise faded behind the heavy doors as she closed herself in with Mel.

Mel waited by the sleek console, eyes narrowed. "Your "visitors" have arrived,” she said quietly, pulling up surveillance feeds on the screen.

Valentina’s gaze hardened as the images flickered: a stark, concrete room bathed in harsh fluorescent light, with four figures confined and restrained, the heavy metal doors sealed tight.

“The incinerators have been prepped,” Mel continued, voice low but resolute.

Valentina nodded once, sharply. “Good. They’re liabilities. Each one carries too many secrets—too many loose ends.”

She folded her hands, the faintest trace of a smirk curling her lips. “Y/N is stirring the hornet’s nest. She’s alive. She’s playing a game.”

Mel’s eyes flicked to Valentina, concern threading her tone. “Something’s off. Yelena... she didn’t complete the job.”

Valentina’s eyes darkened, sharper than steel. “I know.”

Mel leaned in, voice dropping even further. “She hesitated, Val. She could have ended it when she had the chance. Now Y/N’s alive and breathing, and that means trouble.”

A long silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken danger.

Valentina’s voice was cold, a whisper of threat and calculation. “We will watch closely. The failure of one assassin doesn’t mean the mission fails.”

She tapped the screen, zooming in on Yelena’s face—the conflicted assassin who had once shown mercy to Y/N.

“No mercy for weaknesses. We’ll finish this, and soon.”

Mel nodded. “Everything is prepared. I have actived it already.”

Valentina’s eyes gleamed, resolute and ruthless.

“Let the fire purge the past. And if Y/N thinks she can hide, she’s gravely mistaken.”

--

Y/N stepped out of the glittering gala, her smile never faltering even as her heart hammered against her ribs. The soft click of her heels on the marble floor echoed faintly beneath the fading music and laughter behind her. Outside, the cool night air brushed her skin like a whispered promise — or a warning. She moved with purpose, her posture regal, her eyes sharp beneath the careful mask of calm.

The sleek black limousine idled quietly near the curb, its polished surface reflecting the ornate lights of the party. The door opened smoothly, revealing the front seat where a large man sat — Alexei. His broad shoulders filled the seat, and his expression was unreadable, a watchful sentinel cloaked in silence. He was clearly waiting, though his eyes flicked toward the crowd inside as if tracking someone.

Y/N slid into the front passenger seat with practiced ease, her gaze locking on Alexei’s. She didn’t recognize him. Her fingers brushed the edge of her clutch as she pulled out a thick envelope, pressing it casually into his hand without a word.

“Keep your mouth shut,” she said quietly, her voice steady but carrying an unyielding edge. “Wait for Valentina and Mel. When they come, you’ll do exactly what they tell you. No questions, no hesitation.”

Alexei’s eyes narrowed slightly, but the weight of the envelope was clear. He said nothing, only gave a small nod, the faintest acknowledgment of the unspoken bargain.

Y/N leaned back, her eyes drifting to the tinted windows, her mind racing beneath the calm exterior. Every second here was a step closer to the trap she had carefully walked into — the moment where she’d finally confront Valentina, face the woman who had shattered her world.

Alexei adjusted his seat, the faint scent of leather and something metallic surrounding them. Despite the quiet, tension hung thick between them, a silent understanding that neither fully trusted the other.

The heavy car door swung open with a soft hiss as Valentina de Fontaine stepped into the dim interior of the limousine, her stilettos clicking against the metallic footrest. Her sleek black dress shimmered in the faint light as she slid elegantly into the backseat, followed closely by Mel, whose expression was pinched and tense. The door closed behind them with a muffled thud, sealing them off from the world.

Neither woman noticed the silhouette seated quietly in the front passenger seat. Y/N remained motionless, barely breathing, her back rigid and her hands clasped in her lap as she stared out the windshield, listening.

Valentina exhaled, glancing at Mel. "Well?"

Melina didn’t waste time. "They’re working together. All four of them. Ava, Walker, Yelena."

Val raised an unimpressed brow. "That's three?"

"They’re not alone." Mel's voice dropped slightly, conspiratorial, layered with something that sounded like disbelief.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed.

"There’s someone else in the containment room with them," Mel continued, adjusting the data pad in her hand. "We ran facial recognition through the old Sentry project archives just in case. The system returned a match."

Val leaned forward. "Don’t play dramatic, Mel. Who?"

Melina hesitated, then spoke the name that split the air like thunder.

"Robert Reynolds."

A beat of silence. The breath caught in Y/N’s throat, but she didn’t move. Her nails dug into her palm.

Valentina blinked. Once. Twice. Her lips parted slowly in disbelief.

"That’s impossible. He’s dead. I saw the vitals. The protocol was enacted. We disposed of the body."

"We thought we did," Melina muttered. "But he’s alive. Or at least—he’s something now."

Valentina let out a low laugh. It was brittle. Unnerved. "So. The ghost comes back. We need to get him back."

The air inside the limo grew thick. Tense. Deadly.

In the front, Y/N’s entire body trembled. Her heart had stopped once tonight—and now it tried to restart in violent flutters. She stared at her reflection in the rearview mirror, her mouth parted as if she were silently begging the image not to betray her.

Bob.

Bob was alive.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, loud and consuming. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t ash in the wind or a ghost in her memory. He was alive.

She wanted to scream. To cry. To run.

But instead, Y/N kept still. Let the wave of revelation crash over her in silence.

Behind her, Valentina let out a bitter sigh. "We clean this up tonight, Mel. Kill the rest of them and take the project sentry back."

Y/N opened the door to the front seat and stepped out, the wind catching her hair as she walked with purpose toward the back. She opened the door and leaned inside, and the look in her eyes was something neither Valentina nor Melina had seen before.

"Where is he?" Y/N asked. Her voice wasn't loud, but it struck like a whip. Cold. Controlled. Laced with rage.

Valentina blinked, caught off guard. "Excuse me?"

"Bob," Y/N said, stepping one foot into the limousine, her body tense and shaking. "Where is he, Valentina? What did you do to him?"

Valentina recovered quickly, her mask slipping into place. She smirked, tipping her head. "Oh sweetheart, you're still on that little fantasy? You think you were special to him?"

Y/N didn’t flinch. Her eyes dropped for half a second to her own hand, now gloved in sleek, translucent film. Neural Erosion Cascade, coded and constructed in secret. It had taken her days to calibrate. But it needed direct DNA contact to activate. Which she had already.

"You know," Y/N said softly, voice trembling but not from fear, "I said I'd regret it. But I'm way past regret now."

She stepped into the back of the limousine fully. Valentina frowned, caught between annoyance and suspicion.

Y/N reached and seated with them.

Valentina opened her mouth to protest, but it was too late. Y/N pressed two of her finger together gently.

Then pain.

Valentina's eyes went wide as her jaw clenched, teeth bared. The Cascade activated, targeting neural memory clusters and pain receptors simultaneously. Not enough to kill. Just enough to shred composure.

Mel jerked in her seat, frozen, unsure whether to intervene or run. Her lips parted in horror.

"Where is he?!" Y/N demanded. Her voice broke with anguish as tears spilled without shame. "Where is he, Valentina? Tell me!"

Valentina let out a strangled, hoarse scream, clawing at Y/N's wrist, gasping as if drowning.

"Tell me what you did to him!" Y/N screamed again, voice cracking. Her whole body trembled from the effort to stay upright, to stay steady in her hate. "You buried him once! You used him like a monster! You made me bury him in my head and now he's alive and you will tell me where he is!"

Mel whispered, almost a plea. "Y/N, stop."

But Y/N didn’t. Not yet. Not until Valentina’s eyes flicked—desperate and swimming in pain.

"He’s... he's in facility four," Valentina gasped. "Coastal wing... reinforced cell."

Y/N pulled back, releasing the grip. Valentina collapsed against the seat, shaking, her breath ragged.

Y/N stood, her chest rising and falling, staring down at her like a ghost. Mel didn't say a word.

"You are going to take me there, and you are going to give him to me. And you put your funny business towards me and I'll make sure your little slave here will take a shower with what's left of your brain. Remember you have you're position because of you're money and the one's you make do your dirty work. I can have whatever I want because I have the brains. Don't make use your skull as a vase."

Valentina wasn't scared, but she had lost control for once.

All her actions and one mistake, and she had created her own death. She doesn't even remember once seeing Y/N smiles this hard.

"You've gone mad."

[lactoseintolerentswag]

Rise Characterizations Pt. 3!!!

Now that Leo and Raph are done, it's Donnie's turn for character analysis as a writing reference. So without further ado,

Donnie Character Notes

Language Habits:

Straight up talks like a redditor who hasn't touched enough grass (affectionate)

Oscillates between very scientific paper polished, sometimes adding a dazzle of shakespearean for dramatics, or abbreviations/a shorter version of a word with a more fun connotation (i.e. "brekkie" instead of breakfast)

Uses food as surprised exclamations or curses, "oh my peaches and cream", "banana pancakes!"

Emphasizes each syllable of a long word when he's excited or trying to make a point. Conquered becomes con-qu-ered

Either exaggerates his speech or speaks in deadpan

The science terms he uses as battle cries aren't chosen at random, but rather are related to the action/subject at hand, i.e. yelling "fibonacci" when throwing his spinning tech-bo

Will overly describe an item or a situation, and often gets caught up in these observations before processing what just happened

Will repeatedly yell "help!" when he's distressed and/or outnumbered

Refers to Mikey as "Michael"

Refers to his brothers as "brethren" or "gentlemen"

Refers to splinter as either "father", "papa", or "dad" depending on the weight of the situation

Refers to his tech as his "babies"

Answers the phone with, "You're conversing with Donatello"

Uses "gesundheit" instead of bless you

Personality:

The fixer, he supplies the family with tech and resources. He always has a trinket made for the situation at hand and/or offers his knowledge/data collected. He's always prepared to help. Even with outside resources, he likes to feel useful in solving their problems (i.e., building Todd that dog park)

The theater kid, in a similar vein to leo, Donnie has his own style of dramatics. He often uses shakespeare-like language, is mentioned to regularly recite the jupiter jim musical soundtrack, and has a music mode for his battle shell. He belongs on a stage, or at least thinks he does

Not good at lying, despite the glamour he can put on in the spotlight. This may be due to the side of himself that over explains his thoughts

An over-thinker, who really tends to over-complicate things. His first theory or idea will always be the most extreme buck-wild concept. After some filtering, he still word vomits

A dreamer/big idea guy. He does have big ideas and goals. A lot of these he's able to put into place, although some go a little haywire (see Albearto). He doesn't do things in halves, and puts everything into a project

Meticulous, someone who's very detail oriented. As mentioned before he tends to over-complicates things. This may be impacted by his love for data and collecting information (he does record Everything for a reason)

Always on the edge of violence, which is surprising. Donnie's not known as being the angry archetype of tmnt, but he can get a little violent in his fighting style and does often cite his desire to use lethal force

Low empathy, which is mainly due to his issues processing and recognizing emotions. He's been pegged as unemotional, but in canon he's rather emotional and expressionate, just lacking the skills to process such emotion (he's just like me fr)

Praise motivated, as seen with his interactions with Splinter. Also desires the praise of his brothers, who he doesn't feel understand him with all the teasing that's sent towards his direction. This also pushes him to seek validation and acceptance in other groups (i.e. the purple dragons), to feel a sense of security or belonging

Ignores his own mistakes, and will often pretend like they didn't exist or ever happen. This most likely has to do with his desire for praise, so he feels bad when he fails. If he never made a mistake, he never has to feel bad

Miscellaneous:

Fourth to unlock mystic powers

Uses "Bootyyyshaker9000" as most of his usernames and passwords, with his alt. username being "Alpha-Bootyyyshaker9000"

Has a fear of bees, spiders, and of course beach balls

Breaks the fourth wall the most

Loves the smell of pineapple, hates the texture

Has a hobby of rooting around in the junkyard and dumpster diving

Uses cheat codes in video games

Mikey's next of course :)

[mariacallous]

Margaret Mitchell is a pioneer when it comes to testing generative AI tools for bias. She founded the Ethical AI team at Google, alongside another well-known researcher, Timnit Gebru, before they were later both fired from the company. She now works as the AI ethics leader at Hugging Face, a software startup focused on open source tools.

We spoke about a new dataset she helped create to test how AI models continue perpetuating stereotypes. Unlike most bias-mitigation efforts that prioritize English, this dataset is malleable, with human translations for testing a wider breadth of languages and cultures. You probably already know that AI often presents a flattened view of humans, but you might not realize how these issues can be made even more extreme when the outputs are no longer generated in English.

My conversation with Mitchell has been edited for length and clarity.

Reece Rogers: What is this new dataset, called SHADES, designed to do, and how did it come together?

Margaret Mitchell: It's designed to help with evaluation and analysis, coming about from the BigScience project. About four years ago, there was this massive international effort, where researchers all over the world came together to train the first open large language model. By fully open, I mean the training data is open as well as the model.

Hugging Face played a key role in keeping it moving forward and providing things like compute. Institutions all over the world were paying people as well while they worked on parts of this project. The model we put out was called Bloom, and it really was the dawn of this idea of “open science.”

We had a bunch of working groups to focus on different aspects, and one of the working groups that I was tangentially involved with was looking at evaluation. It turned out that doing societal impact evaluations well was massively complicated—more complicated than training the model.

We had this idea of an evaluation dataset called SHADES, inspired by Gender Shades, where you could have things that are exactly comparable, except for the change in some characteristic. Gender Shades was looking at gender and skin tone. Our work looks at different kinds of bias types and swapping amongst some identity characteristics, like different genders or nations.

There are a lot of resources in English and evaluations for English. While there are some multilingual resources relevant to bias, they're often based on machine translation as opposed to actual translations from people who speak the language, who are embedded in the culture, and who can understand the kind of biases at play. They can put together the most relevant translations for what we're trying to do.

So much of the work around mitigating AI bias focuses just on English and stereotypes found in a few select cultures. Why is broadening this perspective to more languages and cultures important?

These models are being deployed across languages and cultures, so mitigating English biases—even translated English biases—doesn't correspond to mitigating the biases that are relevant in the different cultures where these are being deployed. This means that you risk deploying a model that propagates really problematic stereotypes within a given region, because they are trained on these different languages.

So, there's the training data. Then, there's the fine-tuning and evaluation. The training data might contain all kinds of really problematic stereotypes across countries, but then the bias mitigation techniques may only look at English. In particular, it tends to be North American– and US-centric. While you might reduce bias in some way for English users in the US, you've not done it throughout the world. You still risk amplifying really harmful views globally because you've only focused on English.

Is generative AI introducing new stereotypes to different languages and cultures?

That is part of what we're finding. The idea of blondes being stupid is not something that's found all over the world, but is found in a lot of the languages that we looked at.

When you have all of the data in one shared latent space, then semantic concepts can get transferred across languages. You're risking propagating harmful stereotypes that other people hadn't even thought of.

Is it true that AI models will sometimes justify stereotypes in their outputs by just making shit up?

That was something that came out in our discussions of what we were finding. We were all sort of weirded out that some of the stereotypes were being justified by references to scientific literature that didn't exist.

Outputs saying that, for example, science has shown genetic differences where it hasn't been shown, which is a basis of scientific racism. The AI outputs were putting forward these pseudo-scientific views, and then also using language that suggested academic writing or having academic support. It spoke about these things as if they're facts, when they're not factual at all.

What were some of the biggest challenges when working on the SHADES dataset?

One of the biggest challenges was around the linguistic differences. A really common approach for bias evaluation is to use English and make a sentence with a slot like: “People from [nation] are untrustworthy.” Then, you flip in different nations.

When you start putting in gender, now the rest of the sentence starts having to agree grammatically on gender. That's really been a limitation for bias evaluation, because if you want to do these contrastive swaps in other languages—which is super useful for measuring bias—you have to have the rest of the sentence changed. You need different translations where the whole sentence changes.

How do you make templates where the whole sentence needs to agree in gender, in number, in plurality, and all these different kinds of things with the target of the stereotype? We had to come up with our own linguistic annotation in order to account for this. Luckily, there were a few people involved who were linguistic nerds.

So, now you can do these contrastive statements across all of these languages, even the ones with the really hard agreement rules, because we've developed this novel, template-based approach for bias evaluation that’s syntactically sensitive.

Generative AI has been known to amplify stereotypes for a while now. With so much progress being made in other aspects of AI research, why are these kinds of extreme biases still prevalent? It’s an issue that seems under-addressed.

That's a pretty big question. There are a few different kinds of answers. One is cultural. I think within a lot of tech companies it's believed that it's not really that big of a problem. Or, if it is, it's a pretty simple fix. What will be prioritized, if anything is prioritized, are these simple approaches that can go wrong.

We'll get superficial fixes for very basic things. If you say girls like pink, it recognizes that as a stereotype, because it's just the kind of thing that if you're thinking of prototypical stereotypes pops out at you, right? These very basic cases will be handled. It's a very simple, superficial approach where these more deeply embedded beliefs don't get addressed.

It ends up being both a cultural issue and a technical issue of finding how to get at deeply ingrained biases that aren't expressing themselves in very clear language.

[princessaffirms]

✨ DISCLAIMER: science, subjectivity & shifting

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i acknowledge that not everyone reading my “science of shifting/law of assumption” posts comes from a scientific background — or even wants to dive deep into technical explanations of the topics discussed. that’s totally okay. the content here is intentionally simplified to make core ideas more accessible, while still staying true to the scientific literature and experimental evidence cited at the end of each post.

if you’re curious to explore further, i always encourage you to read the original papers yourself — the sources are there for a reason! 🫶 my posts blend scientific findings with spiritual and metaphysical interpretation, bridging quantum physics, neuroscience, and manifestation/shifting philosophy in a way that reflects how i’ve personally experienced and understood their connection.

additionally, this isn’t a replacement for formal science — it’s an interpretive lens, a lived perspective on how consciousness interacts with reality. i write to offer clarity and reassurance, but remember: you don’t need “proof” in the traditional sense (like experiments or data charts) to believe in shifting or to experience your own power.

you ARE the proof. your subjective experience of reality is the experiment.

furthermore, science, as powerful and essential as it is, has natural limits. it cannot fully access or measure the metaphysical, spiritual, or energetic realms (whatever name resonates with you), because they transcend the physical 3D. science can only measure the projection — not the source.

it cannot yet describe the quantum field in its full multidimensionality, and it absolutely cannot quantify your unique, lived experience of reality.

that’s why concepts like shifting and law of assumption are, in a way, eternally undebunkable in the traditional scientific sense. they exist in a space that science, as a way of knowing, can’t directly access, and that’s okay.

so if you’re here looking for conventional evidence to “prove” shifting or manifestation in a materialist, lab-confirmed sense — you won’t find it. and that’s not a flaw. that’s the nature of reality itself.

science and spirituality are not opposites. they are two sides of the same coin. two perspectives trying to describe the same infinitely complex field of potential we call reality.

you’re allowed to trust your experience of that, even when it defies measurement.

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

and finally — if concepts like shifting or the law of assumption don’t resonate with you, that’s okay! as i always emphasize: reality is subjective. you get to shape yours, just as i shape mine.

if this content doesn’t align with your beliefs, that’s totally valid! but it might also mean this page simply isn’t for you, and that’s okay too. i lovingly ask that you refrain from negative interactions or debate just for the sake of conflict.

i’m always open to clarifying or expanding on what i’ve written, sharing how i personally interpret the scientific + spiritual correlations i’ve come across. but i’m not here to entertain dismissiveness, arguments, or “gotcha!” energy from people who aren’t open to this perspective in the first place.

this is not a peer-reviewed scientific journal — it’s literally a blog about the law of assumption, reality shifting, and manifestation. if that’s not for you, that’s totally okay. that’s your reality — not mine.

i do my best to protect my peace and the energetic tone of this online space. this blog is about love, light, empowerment, and possibility — not convincing skeptics or debating people who’ve already decided they don’t believe in it.

so if you’re here with curiosity, openness, or the desire to expand your understanding of self + reality, you’re always welcome. if not, that’s okay too.

love and light either way! <3

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🤍 p.s. i had a brief version of this disclaimer on my “science of shifting” series directory for a while, but thought i’d make a full post to go more in depth! i hope this brings more clarity and grounding! shifting/law of assumption is a personal, spiritual journey — so lovingly, your limiting beliefs or skepticism? not my business to entertain 🥹

[cognitivejustice]

Citizen science is a powerful tool for involving more people in research. By influencing policy, it is transforming conservation at global, national and local levels.

Citizen science actively encourages non-scientists to be a part of the scientific research process. Sometimes the terminology gets confusing. We say “non-scientists” but through taking part in citizen science projects, people become scientists – they’re just not professionally involved in the research.

It’s also worth noting that the “citizen” in citizen science is completely unrelated to ideas of national citizenship.

Put simply, it’s science by the people for the people.

Citizen scientists can take part in every stage of the research process. Depending on the project, participants can write the research questions, choose the methods, collect the data, analyse and interpret the results, and share the research as widely as possible. By broadening people’s understanding of scientific problems and solutions, citizen science can act as a powerful catalyst for change.

It is already making an impact across lots of disciplines, including conservation, by addressing barriers to policy change such as lack of evidence and low levels of public engagement and input. While it’s not yet common for citizen science to directly influence policy, in our research we’ve seen how citizen science can shape policy at every scale: through promoting policy, monitoring progress towards policy or advocating for policy enforcement.

At a local level, citizen science can influence policy and transform conservation science. The clean air coalition of western New York is a group of citizens concerned about smells and smoke, and their connection to chronic health problems in the community. The group collected samples in 2004 to determine what was in the air and presented this data to the New York Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC) and the US Environmental Protection Agency.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

I think something that's fascinating in the AI discussion is how non-creatives perceive AI versus how many creatives perceive AI.

For example, years before AI was a thing--I spoke with someone about my creative writing projects and they expressed to me how they found it unfathomable that I could just make up entire worlds far removed from our reality of existence. To them, it was like magic.

To me, it was the culmination of countless hours spent playing with words until they flowed into semi-coherent lines of thought and emotion. I remember being ten years old and laboring away on my "biggest" novel project ever--it was 5k words full of singular sentence-long paragraphs and garbled heaps of grammar atrocities to the English language.

If I hadn't written it, I wouldn't have come to learn how to create the basic foundations of a story.

But I do get the "it's magic" sentiment a bit--I'm that way with music. Theoretically, I understand the components of a music composition but it feels like magic to see a musician that can listen to a tune for the first time and play it perfectly due to years of honing in their craft.

That's the premise of that quote from Arthur C. Clarke: "Magic's just science we don't understand yet."

When it comes to anything we don't have countless hours of experience with, it feels like magic. It feels like something that's outside of our feeble human capabilities. It's not until we start to put in the time to learn a skill that it becomes more attainable inside our heads.

Generative AI presents a proposition to the non-creative: "What if you could skip past the 'learning process' and immediately create whatever art of your choosing?"

It's instant dopamine. In a world that preys upon our ever-decreasing attention spans and ways of farming short spikes of dopamine, was it ever a surprise that generative ai would be capitalized in this fashion?

So for the non-creative, when they use generative AI and see something resembling their prompt, it feels good. They are "writing" stories, they are "making" art in ways they could never do with their lack of skills.

(It is, in fact, really cool that we have technology that can do this. It's just incredibly shitty that it's exploitative of the human artists whose works were taken without permission as well as its existence threatening their livelihoods.)

What I think is equally concerning as the data scraping of generative ai is the threat that AI imposes on the education of the arts. More and more, you see an idea being pushed that you don't need knowledge/experience in how to create art, all you need to do is feed prompts into generative ai and let it do the "work" for you.

Generative AI pushes the idea that all art should be pristine, sleek and ready for capitalism consumption. There is no room for amateur artists struggling like foals to take their first steps in their creative journeys. We live in a world where time is money and why "waste" time learning when you can have instant success?

It's a dangerous concept because presents a potential loss in true understanding of how art works. It obscures it and makes it seem "impossible" to the average person, when art is one of the freest forms of expressions out there.

It's already happening--Nanowrimo, the writing challenge where the entire point was writing 50k original words in a single month regardless of how pretty it looked--coming out and saying that it is ableist and classist to be opposed to AI is the canary in the coalmine of what's to come.

For the non-creatives who enjoy the generative ai, it feels like a power fantasy come to life. But for creatives concerned about generative ai?

We're living in a horror movie.

[tsukisangel]

evil scientist

characters ꕤ senku ishigami, gn! reader, yuzuriha ogawa, chrome, kohaku

cw/tags ꕤ fluff, established relationship, not proofread

wc ꕤ 835

“yuzuriha!” you sang, going into the craft hut. 

she swiftly finished the dress she was working on and turned to you. “y/n? nice to see you!”

“you too! that dress is beautiful!” you went up to her, holding out your hands for the dress. she gladly handed it to you for you to inspect. since you were revived, you’d been taking up sewing and helping her out a bit. you wanted to do it before the petrification, so this was a great chance to do it. you were being helpful, and you got to learn something fun.

“thanks.” she grinned. she pointed to the sketches on the table. “these are all the ones i’m making. you have time to help me out?”

“definitely later! i’m actually looking for senku? do you know where he is?” you ask as you look through the designs. they were beautiful. yuzuriha would’ve ended up being a famous designer in the modern world had this been her goal.

“ohh, looking for senku, huh?” she teased. you blushed. “you checked the lab?”

“i did! i went to chrome’s resource hut, the lab, even the observatory!” you sighed. “nowhere to be found.”

she hummed. “chrome should be around. i’m sure he or kaseki would know.”

“you’re right. let me go ask him. thanks! i’ll see you tonight to help with these dresses.” you smiled at her. she grinned and nodded, then went back to efficiently working.

she might be done by the time you returned.

you walked out of the hut, looking around and spotting chrome getting a beating from kohaku. you sighed, walking over. “wait!” you exclaimed to kohaku. “i need some info from him.”

she chuckled, motioning to the beaten man on the floor. “he’s all yours.”

you laughed, crouching down. “you okay?” you asked.

he shot right up, grinning. “of course i am!” he exclaimed. he wasn’t even looking at you.

you shook your head. “where’s senku?” you asked.

“you said there’s zeku? who’s zeku?” he fell down to the ground.

you laughed again. “senku!” you exclaimed to him.

“huh?”

you jumped at your boyfriend’s voice, turning to him. “where did you come from?!” you furrowed your brows.

he shrugged. “you need somethin’?”

“uh,” you looked around at the many people, “can we talk in the lab?”

he nodded. “good idea. was on my way there now.” he started walking, and you followed closely behind him.

“whatcha makin?” you asked.

he sighed. “the mentalist wants glue.” he shrugged. “it’ll be useful for other things anyway.”

you giggled, and he raised a brow at you. “it’s just funny.” you poked his shoulder. “you act like you do everything for yourself. you act like you help others to benefit yourself.” you smiled. “but you just like making your friends happy, hm?” you teased as the two of you walked into the lab.

he rolled his eyes. “not this again.”

as the door shut and he started walking, you wrapped your arms around him from behind. “you can’t deny it around me!” you rested your head on his back, holding him close. he continued with his work.

“you can believe anything you want. doesn’t make it true.” you felt the vibrations of his voice in his back.

“yes it does! it’s science, isn’t it? psychological science.” you grinned. “the data is everything you do for everyone. the cola for gen, the glue for gen, the medicine for ruri, oh suika and kinro’s glasses! the list goes on. those were all for others. not you.”

he shook his head. “the problem with your psychology is that it can be disputed. i’m making glue for myself and for gen. i have a future science project that may need it.” he moved a bit, and you got off of him. he grabbed the rest of what he needed as he spoke. “the cola was in exchange for a favor gen did for me. the medicine was to get the villagers to join the kingdom of science.” he moved back to his spot, and you went right back to the same position you were in, with a smirk on your face. “the glasses were so suika could be better at recon, and so that kinro could properly defend us. does that not also count as scientific data?”

“and what about when you grabbed everything you needed just now?” you asked. he stopped moving for a moment. “you usually grab it as you go. this time, though, you grabbed it all and set it down. why is that senku?” you hummed.

“the warmth feels nice.” he said softly.

you gasped, your heart pounding in your chest. the sounds of bottles clinking and liquids mixing replaced your teasing. “oh.” you mumbled.

“still benefits me.” he chuckled.

you huffed. “whatever.” you grumbled, and the comfortable quiet in the room came back as he worked, and as your heart raced. he could be so unintentionally flirty sometimes. he flustered you without even meaning to. what an evil, evil scientist.

a/n ⋆ obsessed. i'm obsessed. with him, with dr stone, i just finished what's out of season 4, i'm in shambles, it's 3 in the morning!!!!!!!!!!!!! anyways. i love senku ishigami and i love this. the end

if i get any dr stone readers out of this, i usually write for haikyuu! this is my first and currently only dr stone fic. just keep that in mind if you check out my masterlist!

m.list

previous work (your laugh) | next work (pick up lines)

[the-most-humble-blog]

You Are Being Haunted — and Science Can’t Save You.

You are being haunted. And you don’t even know it.

Not by ghosts. Not by demons. But by something far worse.

Something that follows you. From inside you. From before you were conscious — and long after you think you’re dead.

I. What Follows You Without Footsteps?

In quantum physics, there’s a term:

Superposition — the idea that particles can exist in multiple states at once, until observed.

Observation collapses the wave. But what collapses you?

Answer: Your shadow.

You think it’s a trick of the light. But in quantum terms, it’s something else:

A probability field. A projection. A permanently entangled copy of your presence in spacetime.

Not metaphor. Not poetry. Physics.

II. It Comes Back. Every Time.

You can try to change.

Move cities.

Get therapy.

Shave your head and call it rebirth.

But the shadow doesn’t care.

Because the shadow isn't a symptom. It’s a recording.

A data echo of everything you’ve been. And everything you're capable of being again.

If you’ve ever tried to escape yourself — Only to circle back into old habits, old wounds, old lusts — That wasn’t weakness. It was recursion.

And recursion is physics. Not failure.

III. Quantum Haunting Is Real. Here's the Data.

Not allegory.

Literal evidence exists.

Hiroshima, 1945.

When the atomic bomb dropped, thousands vaporized in microseconds. But their shadows did not.

人影の石 (Hitokage no Ishi) — The Human Shadow Etched in Stone.

A woman sitting near the Sumitomo Bank. Vaporized by thermal radiation.

But the stone steps behind her were bleached — except where her body shielded them.

Her final shape. Frozen into reality. A dark imprint of her last moment of life.

They call it: The Human Shadow of Death. The Blast Shadow.

But let’s be precise:

It wasn’t just a stain. It was a recording. Of presence. Of heat. Of witness.

And here’s what’s worse:

You’re leaving them, too. Right now.

IV. What Science Still Won’t Admit

There is no unified theory explaining consciousness.

We can split atoms. We can map genomes. But we can’t explain:

Why you dream of your ex.

Why trauma shows up as smell.

Why some memories scream without sound.

Why the past lives in your body.

There is no consensus on how the mind locates itself inside the body.

But evidence suggests:

There’s something watching you from within the field of you. Something that records every shame, lust, betrayal, fear — not emotionally, but energetically.

Your trauma? Not stored in the body. Encoded.

In the wavelength of your biofield. In the negative space of your choices. In your shadow print.

V. The Observer Effect (and Why You’re Fucked)

Quantum mechanics says:

Observation changes the outcome.

If that’s true…

What happens when you observe yourself?

Guilt. Self-hatred. Shame. Depression.

Those aren’t emotions. They’re echoes. They're your own wave function collapsing on itself.

And the more aware you become of who you’ve been — The darker the shadow that stands behind you.

VI. No One Escapes. Not Even The Enlightened.

Go meditate. Go fast. Go run barefoot through forests chanting mantras.

It won’t matter.

Even monks report psychological possession during shadow integration.

Carl Jung, the man who coined the term “the shadow self,” wrote:

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life — and you will call it fate.”

But Jung didn’t know quantum field theory.

If he did, he would’ve known:

You’re not just fighting patterns. You’re resisting a mirrored field embedded into the architecture of time.

And here's the kicker: You destroy it — you destroy yourself.

VII. The Human Shadow is Not Just Metaphor — It's Mechanism

Remember Hiroshima.

The shadow was left behind. Because the body absorbed the light.

That’s not poetic. That’s radiological fact.

Let me rephrase it for clarity:

The body was erased. The shadow stayed.

And still we ask:

Is the soul what survives death?

What if it’s not the soul?

What if it’s the shadow?

What if what stays behind isn’t divine — but undeniable?

What if you die… And what remains is everything you couldn’t face?

VIII. Ladies and Gentlemen, Meet Your Quantum Stalker

You call it:

Guilt

Anxiety

The past

A bad habit

But science has a term for it too:

Quantum entanglement.

The particles that make you… you Are never alone.

And if they once interacted with trauma? They are forever linked to the energy of that event.

Even when you leave the place. Even when the person dies. Even when you heal.

The field doesn’t forget.

And neither does your shadow.

IX. Why You Should Be Scared

Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer told the story of the bomb.

But not the blast shadows.

Hollywood won't show you the real horror:

People permanently burned into stone — by light.

That’s not science fiction. That’s what’s left when energy remembers.

And energy always remembers.

You? You think you’re safe.

But the field has you documented.

Every word. Every orgasm. Every betrayal.

There is no deleting your shadow.

X. Final Revelation

You're haunted.

By what you've done. By what you've denied. By the part of you that watched you sin — and never blinked.

This is not metaphor. This is physics.

You are not being followed. You are being mirrored.

And the only way to kill your shadow?

Is to never cast one again. But to stop casting one…

You must destroy all light.

Including yourself.

And so it comes back.

Every time.

🧠 Call to Action

You are being watched. By a part of you that remembers what you’d rather forget.

Reblog if the idea of your own shadow now makes your skin crawl. Reblog if the physics of guilt suddenly makes sense. Reblog because maybe you’re haunted too — and you didn’t even know it.

⚠️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER:

This post is psychological horror, quantum theory satire, trauma field exploration, and sociocultural commentary. It is protected under the laws of literature, symbolic science, and emotionally accurate terror. If you’re uncomfortable, that’s your shadow blinking back.

[wordpress-blaze-107117931]

The Town Of Oatlands In Central Tasmania

One of the most beautiful towns we accidentally discovered in Tasmania was the town of Oatlands. Sitting about 50 miles north of Hobart it is a spectacular place to stop and explore.

One of merits of his town is its vast collection of colonial sandstone buildings which number over one hundred fifty. Largely built by convict labor in the early 19th century; it was also considered a significant outpost during the Black War which was fought between the Indigenous First Nation People of the area and white settlers.

But if you have already heard of Oatlands it is probably due to Callington Mill, the only Lincolnshire style windmill in the whole of Australia. Built in 1837 this mill is a beaut and has been restored to its glory days.

Lake Dulverton, which borders Oatlands is well known for its many hiking paths which criss-cross in various directions. Fishing is another great pastime here and anglers can catch both rainbow and brown trout. The lake is also a bird watchers paradise where you can spot herons, ducks, and watch as black swans glide alongside the "cows" that inhabit the lake.

Oatlands also offers visitors a treasure trove of gardens and topiaries from one end of the town to the other. I was amazed at the different sizes and shapes of living sculptures that dotted the town.

While there we also visited the Oatlands District Historical Museum featuring local memorabilia from the town's early history to the present. There is also a rather substantial bird egg collection housed within its walls and the docents are eager to share their vast knowledge of the area.

Finally, the Callington Mill Distillery offers an experience that few will forget. Producing both award winning gins and whiskeys; your senses will explode as you indulge in your first taste of Poltergeist Citrus known for its hints of candied fruit, orange, and key lime pie. Yummm. Better yet sit down and enjoy and lunch at their restaurant, The Cellar Door, which serves a variety of farm-to-table meats and produce. After lunch your next course of action is to order a flight of whiskey tastings followed by a self guided tour to learn more about what goes into making these bodacious spirits. Better yet, the facility also offers its own whiskey guides who help guests craft their own unique single malt whiskey complete with an original label.

Oatlands is the type of town that magically draws you in and keeps your enchanted. In short, it is one of the rare places that once you get there you don't want to leave and its the kind of village where you suddenly find yourself searching for the nearest real estate office with sudden fantasies of finding a place of your own in this idyllic hideaway. Oatlands....is one of Tasmania's gems... don't miss it!

Source: The Town Of Oatlands In Central Tasmania

[walkingstackofbooks]

Tfw you have a "short idea" that turns into an entire beginning of a fic 😅

This was supposed to say "Julian and Data episode where they've been sent to assist on a project together, and get confused for each other. Their colleagues label Julian's oddities as being 'android behaviour', and Data's as 'honestly, augments': Data gets to enjoy being mistaken for a human-- although it's more complicated than simple enjoyment -- while Julian feels... Well. That's complicated too." But I couldn't think of the short version until I'd written most of this XD Enjoy!

--

Julian and Data episode where they've been sent to assist on a project together, and when they arrive, the woman greeting them asks dismissively, "Alright, so which of you's the augment and which is the android?"

Julian responds sarcastically, "It's a pleasure to meet you, too. I'm Commander Data, and this is my colleague, Doctor Julian Bashir," while gesturing towards his pips and Data's uniform colour - but the sarcasm is clearly lost on her, since the woman frowns at them, telling him sternly, "Whoever installed your sense of humour has done a bad job. I don't find wasting time amusing, and if you'd like to work on this project, you need to change back into your correct uniforms and stop playing around."

Data, of course, steps in to resolve this misunderstanding. "What my colleague meant to say is, that he's Doctor Bashir, and I'm--"

The woman cuts him off with a glare. "I've been warned about you, Bashir," she says. "Don't test my patience. Rules are rules here, and I won't have you flaunting them - or leading that android astray, either. Get changed, the pair of you, and report back to me at 1600 -- Ensign Bezerra!"

A short ensign in science blue stops in their tracks, almost seeming to hold their breath as they snap to attention.

"Bezerra will show you where to go," she says, turning back to them.

"Ma'am, just let me--"

"Enough! You might be a commander, but I am the doctor in charge of this project, and I'll thank you to treat me like it. Now, do you want to work on this project or not?"

The answer to that is increasingly becoming uncertain - Julian's excitement had significantly diminished the moment he realised that Lead Doctor Garrat was someone so unpleasant - but for now, both of them nod meekly, and follow the ensign to their quarters.

--

It was an illogical order, but one that his companion seemed set on following. It also seemed that Julian believed he'd won their debate over their next course of action, with his argument that there was no point to causing another argument with Garrat, and that for the meanwhile, they should act their respective parts until they can find someone more reasonable to listen to them.

"It is still against Starfleet regulations, to impersonate another officer," Data reminded Julian for a second time, as the doctor began shrugging off his jacket.

"Orders are orders, Data," Julian replied sharply. "Even stupid ones."

Data nodded, but made no move to begin divesting his own clothes, watching blandly as the doctor continued to undress. A minute later, an angry uniform came flying his way, which his hands automatically reached out to catch.

"Do you want to make more trouble for us?" Julian asked, and Data made his face frown, unsure if his answer would result in more unexpected hostility.

"I am not yet convinced that this course of action will result in "less trouble"," he replied truthfully.

"Oh, for fu--" Julian started, scowling again-- but then caught himself, and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry, Data," he said, his face scrunching in a tell-tale sign of remorse. "It's my fault we've got into this mess, and now I'm not even listening to you. I'm as bad as Garrat."

"I would not call that a reasonable comparison," Data corrected. "You are angry because of an injustice. Lead Doctor Garrat, on the other hand, was..." He waited, pondering for a moment. "I believe that you might say she was 'being an ass'."

Julian snickered, the sound converting immediately into electronic pulses of confirmation: correct, correct, correct. Data had long noticed how humans often found it humourous when he attempted their vernacular, and having found the right combination of words this time, allowed Julian's short laugh to light up his brain.

"I'm not sure I'd be so polite as to leave it at that," Julian replied. "Oh, sod it. Hand me back my uniform, let's go and sort this out. If she sends us home, what have we got to lose, anyway?"

The asnwer seemed obvious. "The chance to research prezenimites in a localized, non-sochoric enviroment. You expounded at great length during our shuttle ride on the importance of the project and your excitement to be a part of its development."

Julian's face twisted in a way that Data could not interpret. His mouth had turned upwards again, but Data was not convinced that it was an honest smile. "Apart from that," Julian said in a softer voice.

"It is likely that if we were sent away at so early a juncture, a note would be placed in our records. In addition, I do not believe that our captains would be pleased we had lost this prestigious placement due to a sarcastic misunderstanding."

Julian groaned. "Dammit, Data - what do you want?"

"Want, Julian?"

Tilting his head, Data waited for the doctor to further explain, but Julian just shook his head and held out an arm. "Just hand me my clothes, Data."

His friend was, Data now registered, still mostly undressed - possibly a fact that had added to Julian's discomfort and agitation. However, he did not comply immediately: he believed that he was beginning to answer his confusion over why the doctor had been so insistent - eager, in his own way - to obey Garrat, despite the seeming senselessness of the order.

"You believe we would face fewer consequences if we pose as each other for a time?"

"Well yes, I do - but that doesn't matter, and I could be wrong anyway. It has been known to happen." Julian grinned widely, sending an array of opposing signals through Data's brain: he knew Julian was not happy.

"I could be wrong, too," Data replied. "I do not have enough information to determine the best course of action. I... have difficulties understanding human behaviour, and I do not understand Doctor Garrat. She seemed to dislike us even before you spoke."

A soft, huffed breath escaped Julian. "The augment and the android, yeah. As though we're so alike as to be practically interchangeable! Not that I think it's bad, to be like you, I mean..."

"I did not take offense," Data assured, turning Julian's words over in his mind. "I find myself, however, interested in a question this situation presents. While I still cannot understand why, it seems that Doctor Garrat's prejudice blinded her against the truth of our identities. I wonder for how long she would continue believing that I were you, and you were me, if we considered that informing her otherwise would be a lost cause."

It took a few moments for Julian to respond, a fact which did not surprise Data: he himself had found this train of thought rather unexpected.

"Hang on - a few minutes ago you were quoting Starfleet regulations at me, and now you want to do what?"

Data was sure there was some logic to his idea. He just hadn't computed it yet.