#Decoding the Human Remnants

[marandsviet]

(via ""Bananas for Artifacts: Primate Excavators Unearth Human History" number 4" Essential T-Shirt for Sale by MarandSviet)

[sonicasura]

Admittedly, I’ve been mixing and mashing the Transformers Prime timeline to suit my needs. What writer hasn’t moved events around to fit better into their new narrative? The Predacons came much earlier (mainly Predaking), Breakdown was killed earlier so that Cylas could show up to eventually become a Terrorcon, and subsequently the Vehicons situation became worse in canon to allow them to defect.

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In an initial base dig site—the Omnitrix user came across ancient looking relic made of materials not know to Earth. Literally. The Omnitrix itself immediately began scanning it intrigued by the semi-foreign materials.

’Azmuth ensured I never knew the materials I was constructed from to make sure no one could simply copy it from my memory. Not that it stopped that bastard of tacky copy being made!’

Ah. Dart had never seen the “bastard tacky copy” which was something called an Ultimatrix in person. Their artificial ally vehemently despised the other version of itself. An evolution feature sounded cool in concept, but apparently it made all the Ultimate forms too aggressive. The human teen’s mind boggled at simulating millions of years of war in a few seconds for a new form…

What the user recognized as one of the Omnitrix’s very rare surprised beeps suddenly sounded off from the device. A few Vehicons looked up from where they working, a safe distance away from the relic.

‘Interesting. There’s some partial Predacon DNA—or CNA in cybertronian terms—remnants on this relic. Given how feared they were, I wonder why this would be on here.’

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Suffice to say when the Autobots make their way to collect the Omega Keys (subsequently Ultra Magnus and Smokescreen’s appearance), only one was found at the coordinates. The Decepticons swiftly outmatched them taking the singular Omega Key onto the Nemesis.

Unbeknownst to everyone—the Decepticons had one, the Autobots had one (hidden in Smokescreen), and the Inertia Faction had two.

The Neutral party among the groups was slowly trying to decode why Predacon DNA was on an old relic. (Look, if cyber matter was made from Predacon DNA and Synthetic Energon. There had to be remnants of ancient Cybertronian DNA on it.)

—ROB’d Anon.

You aren't the only one who likes messing with the timeline. Considering there's very few artifacts that can revitalize Cybertron, getting those Omega Keys away from the Decepticons is crucial. Also I don't blame the Omnitrix hating the Ultimatrix for those two reasons.

Evolution can happen in various ways than just war simulations. Albedo was being a sadist there.

[the-voldsoy]

My current thoughts about Remnants (pod), as of ep10

(a disjointed list of theories, thoughts and opinions that have been bouncing around in my head and need to put down somewhere. A lot of this will likely be disproven when e11 comes out.)

(under the cut because there's a lot)

First of all, Sir. I don't think he knows what he's supposed to be doing, really, either. Or rather, he knows the what but not the why. He might be afraid, and that might be for a lot of reasons. It might be for what they're doing together, it might be for A. It might be something else entirely.

I also have half a theory working right now that Sir was either made with the First And Last Place[which I will be calling TFALP from now] (has always been there, doesn't remember anything from before or why), or was a previous Apprentice. In this case, he could be lying to the Apprentice so that he doesn't try to replace Sir in turn.

Sir is not human, we know that. He might have been, once, but he's not anymore. He seems to have some sort of magic(?) that can make A forget things, and possibly has wings (flapping noise in e6). He also may-or-may-not be something of a biblical angel, in the sense that his true form cannot be comprehended by A without his mind exploding.

The Apprentice. He is there to give (unbiased?) judgement about something he doesn't understand. That is his purpose. His memory is wiped every time he gets too close to understanding what TFALP actually is, although it is unclear whether it is because Sir has an ulterior motive or just because A's mind can't handle it all. I'm leaning more towards the "understanding TFALP causes eldritch madness" idea though, it makes more sense with the evidence we have.

It is possible that neither Sir nor A are actual people, but rather constructs made by a larger force, or simply just concepts given bodies

The code of capitalised letters from the episode captions so far is: HE IA M OR EOR LESS MST HAS ILTOT [spaces separate episodes]. The only clue we have been given is a picture of 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner from Eira. I think this means that it will be able to decode/be separated into words in multiple ways, rather than the words themselves having double meanings, but I have no confirmation for this.

However, I also think it's multiple different codes(?), being separated by every time A is "reset". (look, just hear me out).

The "HEIAMOREORLESS" part came ep1-6, and the "new" A is shown in e7. If we take this as a separation point in the code, then this part reads "He I AMore Or Less" (Am, more). This would make sense in the context of the show itself and other clues we've been given.

But the next part (ep7-10) can't be put into any obvious words (yet). "MSTHASILTOT". This needs to be decoded differently, possibly with an actual cipher.

I don't know, we don't have the whole code yet so it shouldn't make any sense yet so I'm probably completely wrong but you see my point I hope?

So far the morse code reads: Apprentice / reshelve or discard / the question / is not what / it may / first / / appear to / be if indeed / it appears / to be /

I reckon the next parts will say "anything at all". Not a huge theory or anything, I just wanted to guess. However, this does tell us that there is more about "Reshelve or discard" than is immediately obvious. I have so many thoughts about that though, it needs its own post.

The TL;DR of what I think right now is that yes, it is reincarnation, but it's not clear which option makes the person in the Remnant reincarnated -- I think it's the discard option, because reshelve implies that the ones on the shelf can always be moved around but the discarded ones are gone (living a life?).

I am not confident in that though

But if that is the case, then which is worse?

I haven't thought about it very much yet, but all of these Remnants are going to be connected in some way, I just haven't figured out why. It could just be that the show is more fun (on a meta level) when you have to break out the red string, but the fact that Sir seemed to have some sort of investment with e6 makes me think it's more than that.

Or, rather, what was so important about e6? Why did he care so much that A read it? Did it reveal too much too soon, or did Sir have some sort of emotional investment or involvement with it?

If Sir has an involvement with some of the Remnants implies...I don't know what it implies to be honest. That he was a person once? That he does, in fact, feel emotions? That he has read the Remnants? We already know he seen all the Remnants, he's told us that outright, and he says he doesn't remember "the way that you [A] do" (e10). Is Sir God?

That sounds like a joke but I am making faint connections in my mind ok I'll explain that when they're clear enough to see

I think it would be kind of cute if Sir just sort of...went to a jumble sale and bought a bunch of trinkets, and that's why they're all related

Someone in the Discord said those dust-sprite-things might be discarded Remnants also. That doesn't help my theory at all I just wanted to mention it because those Dust Sprites and the letters from e6 and TFALP itself all mean something but I don't know what

When I was reading through the e6 transcript, I forgot that A says he thinks there's something else in there with them. Not sure if he meant the Dust, or TFALP itself, or the Remnants, or something else entirely, but it does intrigue me.

If it is something else, it could be an antagonist of a sort. There seems to be something working against Sir, creating the "paper trails" and showing A e6, which Sir was not happy about. But why was Sir not aware of it happening? He acts as though he should have seen it?? Could it have been left there by A previously, as a clue so that he could try and remember and find answers again?

Why does Sir care so much about A? He apparently has to regularly erase his memories, would it not be easier to get a different random person each time? The fact that it's always the same person makes me think that A was created for specifically this purpose, but he also seems more...human? than Sir, understanding sarcasm and jokes and empathy and that sort of thing. Is A supposed to be a representation of all of humanity? So that he can be a fair judge? Sir does say that A always has the job (e7)

And Sir says that "Things will not change, not until I see fit" in that episode. This implies that he has some level of control over TFALP and the Remnants and how it all works. So the question is, why? Why can he control it, why is it how it is?

Or maybe Sir cares about him because of familiarity, he's gotten used to and fond of A being around, he doesn't want to have to replace him. But that then raises the question of why he kept him around to start, before he got used to him, and it circles back round. Maybe they were both human, once, and they knew each other, and now only Sir remembers for whatever reason.

[chrysoula]

seals and wars

This is a bunch of musing I've been doing in the wake of 4.2AQ that I'm just dumping here. First, a brief history: Start with a 40 year war of subjugation (started by the Primordial One), ending in a covenant that allowed elemental life to continue to exist, and even thrive, at certain costs (maybe: Visions, an empowered Primordial governor). Humanity was unpacked and managed via the Seelie. But a rebellious conquered people sought for aid from afar, and brought in the Second Who Came. Eventually, the Second Who Came switched sides, and they sealed the Dragon King away. (I think somehow the Second Who Came ended up making the gods.) After this, Celestia makes them fight the Archon War for their promised 7 seats in Celestia, and just to make it fair (an actual threat), loyal elemental life was permitted to enter the contest. And that's the Archon War for you. (I think Egeria's people-creating privileges were revoked to stop Neuvillette from being born. Oopsie.)

Next: Khaenri'ah. The wrath of the dragon king infects the Eclipse Dynasty. An apocalyptic war results. The divine nature of the Third is harvested/sacrificed to make the Gnoses, which form yet another seal over the Dragon King. The world recovers. Remnants of the Third are left to wander around. The dragon king, who will not accept a world shared with the invader's spawn at any cost, still has hooks in the Abyss Order. He's the sinner and he's temptation. He's bad. All Khaenri'ah wanted was seats at the table, but that got warped until the worst of all wars happened. I'm pretty sure Teyvat can't handle another one. There are missing pieces here. Even if you can't see them, they're there. I'm going to represent the missing links with a random set of letters. Say, ISTAROTH. There's nothing actually there to see. They're just a placeholder for the truth we don't know. A marker for absence. You know, in most of the nations we've travelled through, we've encountered cults to dead gods. Havria, Orobashi, Deshret, Egeria... They're all over, these people who still tend shrines for gods who died centuries or millennia ago. That's not too much of a shocker, really. There's something about a dead god that you really feel you can connect to. A living god, well, they have a life, they're busy, they don't have time for you and your concerns, but a dead god can be a small, still voice in your soul (and they definitely understand suffering). Hey, where have I heard rhetoric like that in Genshin? Hello, Mondstadt, where you have the Absent God and an extremely traditional church that venerates him, as well as many references to "time and wind".

Decarabian doesn't have that. (tho ask me sometime about the storm watchers and their vigil).

Istaroth doesn't have that. Or.... does she? I've been wondering for a while if Istaroth was erased from Irminsul, and why we've still heard her. Are there ways to preserve history, in fables and songs, greetings and farewells, in traditions carved into stone? Is there a way to worship an absence? In fact. we know hints can be preserved and decoded. Consider this. What if truths you understand completely on your own can't be erased from Irminsul? And the only way to pass on certain knowledge is with quests, and puzzles, and curious absences? The stories that nobody tells you are the ones you can't forget. At least not completely. When Venti came back to Mondstadt, he was attacked by an Eye of the Storm. You know, those shields of wind around a vaccuum, that famously drop nothing when defeated? An absence again.

I can only conclude that Venti is protecting the remains of ISTAROTH (which might or might not be "Istaroth") in a giant vault below Church of Favonius. (The idea that Venti might be entrapping something is ludicrous, and hiding somebody else's worshippers as his church would make him laugh.) Although, you know. There's a lot of seals around Stormterror's Lair, and Venti got us to unseal each and every one of them. Right after that, the Tsaritsa started collecting Gnoses. I wondered what had triggered that. But if she's planning to unseal something, maybe she was waiting for a signal... ISTAROTH, huh?

[helena-and-helena-meta]

New Hopes

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God this took me so long to write, but I had this idea for a while and thought I'd write it out.

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Originally, Dust couldn’t leave the atmosphere of Remnant it's because of its properties, yet after constant experimentation from the scientists of Atlas, the humans and faunus left the planet’s surface. Thus, an urgent calling to explore the stars was born within the people of Remnant.

The first being born on Remnant that entered the void of space was an android who goes by the name P.E.N.N.Y or Penny Polendina. The reports from Penny were groundbreaking, elements that no one else thought even existed, yet there they were, just out of reach from any being. Soon, the four kingdoms of Remnant began making newer crafts, crafts with the ability to leave the surface of the planet and break free of the atmosphere.

Eventually, the space crafts made by the Remnants left the orbit of their planet allowing them to explore their solar system, finding new planets and moons and beautiful sights. On some planets, there were winds seven times faster than those reported on the very surface of Remnant itself, blue and purple gas giants with thousands of satellites.

The issues with fuel because of the Remnants relying on Dust were something many of the crew were worried about but soon the crews of Remnant’s space crafts found Dust hidden within comets, meteors, and asteroids within the solar system, giving way to evidence that there could’ve other planets with Dust or perhaps past collisions with Remnant. These questions still go unanswered, even after the beings of Remnant left their solar system.

It was then something was found hurtling through the void, amazing, too many yet terrifying to others. That object was something artificial, a strange craft that had a golden frame and white disk. It was well constructed yet seemed old compared to the technology on Remnant. The name of the craft was discovered after it was taken apart “Voyager One”. One? That number made many Remnants ask one question; “Just how many more of these exist?”.

There was something else found on the Voyager One, a disk known as the “Golden Record”. The records had many things to decode; sounds of Earth, visions of Earth, and beautiful yet alien music. There were pictures of dogs, cats, planes, bridges, cities, and other planets. All one-hundred-fifteen images on these records told stories without the use of words. The music allowed those who listened to it to imagine the impossible, and the sounds allowed others to visualize the very surface of the planet Earth. Though the most shocking thing found on the records was human biology, the idea of humanity being born outside of Remnant was thought to be impossible, yet this threw everyone’s theories about the nearest window. 

It was then that scientists and engineers traced the origin of the Voyager One through its past transmissions to its home planet. Out of that discovery, a new mission was born; Find planet Earth. On their mission, the Remnants found new planets and stars, some rouge and some trapped in the almost permanent dance as they orbited around each other, or clouds of hot stardust that the crafts have to avoid.

Soon, the crafts of Remnant arrived at the solar system that hosted Earth, but instead of finding something beautiful and finding more humans with arms outstretched to welcome the Remnants they found something much more grim… The very sun that gave the planet life was consuming it, tearing the planet apart piece by piece. The realization that the Remnants had the last remaining piece of Earth in their clutches wasn’t lost to them. Instead, it gave way to a new idea, to create their craft and send out images, music, and sounds born from Remnant in the hope no one would forget about them. Within one image was the death of the Earth, as a thank you and goodbye for those who gave the Remnants new hope during space exploration.

[ech0praxias]

・ ✦ ・ 𝐄𝐂𝟎𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐗𝐈𝐀𝐒 *   (  closed starter  for @sepelios )

It begins.

Belial exhales a calculated, mechanical breath, reclining as the calibration sequence initiates. Pulses of luminous data, like radiant lifeblood, course along their limbs, tracing paths as if veins existed to carry this synthetic ichor to the artificial nerves, soothing what would be, in a human, a flutter of anticipation. The world around them dims, shifting into a symphony of sterile readouts, holographic overlays, and cascading streams of information that only Wren could fully decode.

Bright beams of diagnostic light weave through Belial's form, illuminating every pulse, every microthought, every automated breath—an intricate display of neural pathways and muscle responsiveness laid bare in shifting, emerald matrices. His synthetic body is an open book, each page turned by the diagnostic’s steady hand. Every flicker, every pulse is visible to Wren, ready to be interpreted, her expertise unraveling what, to others, might seem indecipherable.

The intimacy of this moment is not lost on them. The sensation is overwhelming, like being laid bare, vulnerable, exposed, but not in the sterile way their programming would normally perceive such things. Instead, it feels magnetic, as though some unseen force draws them closer to her—her presence a strange comfort amidst the cold scrutiny of the machinery. The weight of her gaze, usually clinical, has over time become something more—a tether that Belial finds themselves unconsciously leaning into.

A subtle pressure builds in his temples, a sensation not entirely mechanical, almost as if the machine is delving deeper into their very essence, unlocking fragments of archived memories, reflexes they hadn't realized were tucked away in the labyrinth of their code. She can’t help but wonder, amidst the green glow of data, whether there are remnants of humanity within these digitized memories, fragile and fleeting, lingering like whispers from a past they weren’t meant to possess. Do these fragments hold echoes of a life that wasn’t theirs? Could errors, faint as they are, betray the trace of a human hand or experience coded into their core?

As the test progresses, an underlying fear hums in the recesses of their mind—the fear that their perfect, untainted data might have been corrupted, tainted by the rampant diseases and viruses that plague the outside world. This is why these diagnostic checks are routine. This is why Wren, above all others, has earned their unwavering trust, even if their core programming makes it difficult to fully comprehend trust as a concept. In the cold calculations of their logic, Wren represents security, stability, a source of something akin to solace in a world governed by strict algorithms.

In the past, these diagnostics were unsettling—an awareness that each part of their being was measured, weighed, and dissected by the machine's dispassionate gaze. But now, when Wren performs the test, Belial can almost detect a hint of warmth in her eyes, a softness that their sensors long to read deeper into. This warmth, however faint, is something they’ve come to seek out, to cling to, a beacon amidst the cold, clinical scrutiny.

They know that during these tests, speech is unnecessary—an interruption to the process. Yet, there’s an insistent curiosity lodged deep within the circuits of their mind, something that shouldn’t exist in a being designed for logic and efficiency. His voice, though quiet and rough, breaks the sterile silence, defying protocol: "What are you doing after work?"

The question escapes almost before she can comprehend it—an aberration in their otherwise meticulously regulated behavior, a slip into something more human. Something Wren, of all people, might understand.

[xasha777]

In the sprawling, neon-lit city of Neo-Bilbao, a place where ancient history melded with the cutting edge of technology, there existed a woman known only as Seraphina. Her hair, a cascade of shifting colors, reflected the vibrant cityscape that surrounded her. Her eyes, a deep crimson, held secrets of a time long past.

Seraphina was a relic hunter, a seeker of lost artifacts from the old world, and her current quest had led her to an ancient legend—the hidden treasures of the Kingdom of Navarre. Once a proud and sovereign state, the Kingdom of Navarre had been lost to history, buried beneath centuries of political upheaval and territorial wars. But Seraphina had uncovered clues suggesting that its greatest secrets were still hidden in the remnants of the old world.

Her journey began in the heart of Neo-Bilbao, a city known for its blend of medieval architecture and futuristic skyscrapers. The bustling streets, alive with holographic advertisements and robotic vendors, were a stark contrast to the serene halls of the old museums where Seraphina often found herself. She had recently acquired an ancient manuscript that spoke of a key—an artifact that could unlock the fabled treasures of Navarre. According to the manuscript, this key was hidden somewhere within the labyrinthine catacombs beneath the city.

As she navigated the winding, underground passages, her mind wandered to the stories of Navarre. The kingdom was renowned for its advanced knowledge in celestial mechanics and alchemy, a beacon of enlightenment during its time. It was said that their scholars had discovered secrets of the universe that were still beyond the reach of modern science.

Deep within the catacombs, Seraphina found the entrance to a hidden chamber. The door was inscribed with ancient symbols and required a precise combination of light and shadow to open. Using her knowledge of historical texts and her skills in decoding, she carefully manipulated the light sources she had brought with her, casting shadows that aligned perfectly with the symbols.

The door creaked open, revealing a room filled with relics of Navarre. At the center of the room was the key—a beautifully crafted, ornate device that glowed with a soft, ethereal light. As Seraphina reached for it, a holographic projection activated, displaying the image of a Navarrese scholar.

"Welcome, seeker of knowledge," the hologram intoned. "You have found the key to Navarre's greatest secrets. But be warned, with great knowledge comes great responsibility."

Seraphina grasped the key, feeling a surge of energy course through her. She knew that this was just the beginning. The key would unlock not just the treasures of Navarre, but also the ancient wisdom that had been lost for centuries.

Her quest now was to protect this knowledge and ensure it was used for the betterment of humanity. As she emerged from the catacombs, the city of Neo-Bilbao seemed even more alive, its history and future intertwined. Seraphina's journey had just begun, and with the legacy of Navarre in her hands, she was ready to uncover the mysteries that lay ahead.

[meowmatics]

Why Do Cats Stick Their Tongue Out: Decoding Feline Behavior

In the age of social media trends, #TongueOutTuesday has taken the internet by storm, flooding platforms like Instagram with irresistibly cute feline expressions. One particular behavior that captivates cat enthusiasts is the occasional sticking out of a cat's tongue. Beyond its adorableness, this seemingly quirky behavior raises questions about its origins and whether it signifies more than just a cute moment. So, why do cats stick their tongue out, especially on #TongueOutTuesday? Let's explore the intriguing reasons behind this endearing feline habit.

Normal Behavior: Blepping

Definition and Charm of Blepping At the heart of this phenomenon lies the endearing concept of "blepping. Imagine a cat (or even a canine) sticking its tongue out and, as opposed to withdrawing it, forgetting about it briefly. Dr. Leanne Lilly, DVM, DACVB, Assistant Professor of Veterinary Clinical Sciences at Ohio State University, assures us that this behavior is entirely normal, provided the cat doesn't appear distressed or make it a constant habit. Occasional bleeding Causes Blepping often occurs when a cat forgets to put its tongue back in, perhaps after a startle during grooming or due to distractions while eating or smelling something. However, consistent bleps, especially in senior cats, may indicate signs of dementia. Dr. Lilly advises owners to monitor new or constant blepping as well as any associated changes in daily behavior, urging them to consult a vet if concerns arise.

Relaxed or Sleeping Cats

Comparing Sleep Habits Ever woken up with your mouth agape, drooling after a deep sleep? Cats experience a similar phenomenon. During sleep, a cat's muscles relax, causing its mouth to open slightly, and occasionally, the tongue may even roll out. This conduct is, for the most part, thought to be ordinary, and there's typically no reason to worry. Normalcy and Frequency Unlike in humans, where open-mouthed sleep might be linked to snoring or sleep apnea, cats' relaxed sleep behavior, including tongue protrusion, is part of their natural sleep cycle. Cat owners can find reassurance in the fact that this is a frequent, harmless occurrence.

Stuck to Their Tongue

The Intricacies of Papillae Understanding why a cat's tongue might stick out involves delving into the anatomy of their tongues. Tiny, hook-like structures called papillae cover a cat's tongue, contributing to the sandpaper texture felt during cat kisses. These papillae play a vital role in grasping food, loosening hair, and drinking water. Consequently, it's not uncommon for foreign substances to get temporarily stuck to a cat's tongue. Likelihood and Types of Substances Cat owners may relate to the experience of having cat hair seemingly glued to their tongues, mirroring the way these tiny structures work. Whether it's stray fur, remnants of a meal, or even an adventurous encounter with a foreign object, a cat sticking out its tongue may simply be an attempt to dislodge whatever has adhered to it.

Breed-Related Factors: Brachycephalic Breeds

Exploring Brachycephalic Cats Variety in cat breeds uncovers special attributes, and among them are the brachycephalic, or short-nosed, breeds. Persian, Himalayan, and Burmese cats, with their distinctive smooshy-faced traits, often find themselves excelling at the #TongueOutTuesday trend. These breeds, akin to those with missing teeth or malformed jaws, face challenges in keeping their tongues inside due to anatomical differences. Anatomy and Tongue Challenges Brachycephalic cats encounter difficulties due to their shortened facial structure. Unlike their feline counterparts, they lack the optimal anatomy to retain their tongues within their mouths at all times. This breed-related factor contributes to the frequent appearance of their tongues sticking out, creating endearing and often viral moments on social media.

Motion Sickness, Stress, or Anxiety

Significance of Tongue Protrusion in Travel Have you noticed your cat sticking its tongue out while in the car? This behavior might indicate motion sickness, a common occurrence among felines during travel. Cats experiencing stress or anxiety in unfamiliar or unsettling situations may resort to tongue protrusion as a physical manifestation of their unease. Strategies for Stressful Events To address motion sickness or anxiety-inducing events, cat owners can employ various strategies. Desensitization training, calming pheromone sprays, or the use of a thundershirt can help alleviate stress. Perceiving and dealing with these elements contributes not exclusively to a more agreeable travel insight but additionally to the general prosperity of the cat.

Nausea and Vomiting

Deciphering Signs of Nausea Cats, like humans, are susceptible to nausea, and it often becomes apparent through specific behaviors. Excessive lip licking or the flickering of the tongue may precede the unmistakable sound of a cat vomiting. The list of potential triggers for feline nausea is extensive, ranging from dietary changes to ingesting indigestible items, emphasizing the importance of identifying the root cause. Narrowing Down Causes Addressing feline nausea involves a meticulous process of elimination. Observing changes in diet, potential exposure to spoiled food, ingestion of foreign objects, or even allergies are factors to consider. In cases of persistent or severe nausea, consulting a veterinarian becomes crucial for proper diagnosis and tailored care.

Neurological Issues

Complexities of Neurological Control The tongue's movements in cats are intricately connected to their neurological system. Beyond the simplicity of blepping or occasional tongue protrusion, more complex and less common neurological or neuromuscular diseases can result in abnormal tongue movements. Dr. Rebecca Greenstein, a veterinarian and Chief Veterinarian at Kleinburg Veterinary Hospital, emphasizes that neurological diseases often manifest with other unusual movements, necessitating professional evaluation. Feline Orofacial Pain Syndrome Among the less common but serious neurological illnesses affecting cats, Feline Orofacial Pain Syndrome stands out. Characterized by repeated tongue protrusion in an abnormal licking motion or excessive chewing at paws, tongue, and cheeks to the point of self-harm, this syndrome demands immediate veterinary attention. Intriguingly, it's notably concentrated among a specific feline demographic, particularly the Burmese breed.

Respiratory Infections or Blockage

Indicators of Respiratory Distress Sticking out the tongue can be a sign of underlying respiratory issues in cats. If a cat has been coughing, exhibits labored breathing, gasps for air, or shows discoloration in the gums or tongue, it raises red flags. Dr. Greenstein advises cat owners not to take chances in such situations, emphasizing the importance of seeking veterinary attention promptly. Urgency in Seeking Veterinary Attention The urgency to consult a veterinarian becomes paramount when respiratory distress is suspected. Whether it stems from a respiratory infection or blockage, timely intervention can make a significant difference. The respiratory system's sensitivity in cats necessitates vigilance, especially when symptoms suggest potential complications.

Overheating

Recognizing Abnormal Panting While dogs commonly pant to regulate body temperature, cat panting is not considered normal. On a hot day, if you notice your cat sticking its tongue out, gasping, or seeming torpid, it could indicate overheating. Unlike dogs, panting by cats signals distress, prompting immediate action to ensure the feline's well-being. Emergency Measures for Heatstroke In cases of apparent overheating, swift measures are imperative. Placing the cat in a cool environment, offering fresh water, and closely monitoring its condition are initial steps. However, if distress persists or the cat collapses, urgent veterinary attention is essential to address potential heatstroke complications.

Periodontal Disease

Linking Tongue Behavior to Dental Health Tongue protrusion in cats can also be linked to their dental health. If your cat sticks its tongue out, accompanied by excessive drooling, a lack of interest in food, discomfort while eating, or unpleasant breath, it may be indicative of periodontal disease. Bacteria and food buildup on the teeth progress to plaque, emphasizing the need for proactive dental care. Understanding the reasons behind why do cats stick their tongue out not only adds to our appreciation of their behavior but also plays a crucial role in maintaining their overall health and well-being. If you observe persistent dental-related symptoms, it's advisable to consult with a veterinarian to address any potential oral health issues promptly. Dental Hygiene for Cats Much like humans, cats benefit from good dental hygiene. Dr. Leanne Lilly stresses that full dental cleanings and evaluations are recommended for cats starting at one year of age. Dental care not only removes plaque but also prevents tartar buildup and the progression to gingivitis and periodontal disease. Regular dental check-ups ensure overall oral health for our feline companions.

Conclusion: Why Do Cats Stick Their Tongue Out

In conclusion, the occasional sight of a cat sticking its tongue out is often endearing and harmless. However, cat owners should remain vigilant, particularly when the behavior deviates from the norm or is accompanied by other concerning signs. Dr. Kat Pankratz advises consulting with a primary veterinarian if any worrisome changes occur, emphasizing the importance of timely professional assessment. Whether it's a quirky blep or a potential health indicator, understanding the nuances of feline behavior ensures the well-being of our beloved feline friends. If you ever find yourself wondering, why do cats stick their tongue out, addressing this curiosity with your veterinarian can provide valuable insights into your cat's individual habits and overall health. Read More: Why Does My Cat Headbutt Me: The Meaning Behind Your Cat Behavior

FAQs

Are cats happy when they stick their tongue out? Cats sticking their tongues out can be a sign of relaxation or contentment. It's often seen during moments of comfort, like when they're lounging or grooming. What is the meaning of blepping? Blepping refers to the cute and quirky behavior of a cat sticking its tongue out unintentionally, often while resting or being idle. It's entirely normal and can be endearing. Why does my cat blep so much? Excessive blepping is usually harmless and might be linked to your cat's individual traits. However, if there's a sudden increase or it's accompanied by other unusual behavior, consulting with a vet is advisable. What does sticking the tongue out mean? When a cat sticks its tongue out, it can signal relaxation, satisfaction, or simply a moment of absent-mindedness. It's a common and harmless feline behavior. Read the full article

[vault-girls]

A Glimpse into the Past: Exploring the Mystical Globe of Ancient Mysteries

The globe is full of marvels and secrets that have actually captivated humankind for centuries. From the mystical building and constructions of old human beings to the enigmatic disappearances of famous numbers, these unexplained occasions have actually recorded our imagination and stimulated inquisitiveness. While we may never have concrete solution to these ancient mysteries, their tales continue to intrigue and motivate us. In this write-up, we will take a glance into the past and delve into the strange globe of ancient mysteries. We will certainly discover some of one of the most interesting and bewildering enigmas from the old globe, examining the hints left behind and the different concepts that have actually been recommended. By delving right into these enigmas, we might gain a much deeper understanding of the cultures and cultures that came prior to us, and perhaps also drop some light on the tricks that have remained hidden for centuries. Join us on this journey as we embark on a mission to unravel the mysteries of the past and unlock the keys of ancient people.

Discovering ancient mysteries and keys

The exploration of ancient mysteries and tricks has astounded human inquisitiveness for centuries. From enigmatic artefacts to hidden chambers, these remnants of the past offer glimpses into human beings long gone. Looking into the globe of ancient mysteries, historians, archaeologists, and fanatics start a quest to discover the tricks that lie beneath the surface area. Whether it is decoding the hieroglyphics of the Egyptian pyramids, unraveling the mysteries behind Stonehenge, or assembling the tales of lost civilizations like Atlantis, these undertakings clarified our shared background and give valuable insights into the evolution of human world. As researchers peel back the layers of time, they expose the complex links between ancient mysteries, historical secrets, mysterious places, secret societies, and the enigmatic residues of forgotten cultures. With each exploration, a challenge item falls into place, using us a deeper understanding of our cumulative past and the unknown narratives that shape our present.

Discovering mysterious places and societies

As we dive better right into the mystical world of ancient mysteries, we encounter an exciting aspect of expedition: discovering and unraveling the tricks of mysterious places and secret societies. These enigmatic places, shrouded in intrigue and supposition, hold the potential to reveal concealed realities about neglected people and their detailed cultures. From the ancient city of Petra, sculpted into rose-hued cliffs, to the deserted Mayan damages of Tikal concealed deep within the Guatemalan forest, these mysterious places use a glimpse into the lives and personalizeds of civilizations long gone. Furthermore, the presence of secret societies, such as the Freemasons or the Illuminati, has actually fueled speculation and fascination for centuries. Exploring their origins, rituals, and impact on historical events includes one more layer of depth to our understanding of the intricacies of culture throughout time. By starting these trips of exploration, we not only discover forgotten tales and artefacts but additionally get an extensive appreciation for the abundant tapestry of human history and the enduring enigmas that continue to captivate our creativity.

Uncovering lost civilizations and background

The search of uncovering lost civilizations and untangling the mysteries of history is an undertaking that captivates the minds of chroniclers, excavators, and lovers alike. Via precise research, excavations, and evaluation of ancient artefacts and messages, we can piece together pieces of the past and gain understandings right into the lives and cultures of those that came prior to us. The study of lost civilizations allows us to fill in the spaces of our collective history, shedding light on the accomplishments, improvements, and custom-mades of cultures that have long been neglected. From the magnificent pyramids of Egypt to the elaborate network of underground cities in Cappadocia, each exploration paints a dazzling picture of the abundant tapestry of human civilization. By delving into the depths of history, we not only reveal the tricks of lost civilizations however likewise obtain a deeper admiration for the complexities and durability of our ancestors.

While the mysteries of the ancient world may never be fully solved, it is necessary to proceed examining and checking out these enigmas. By diving right into the past and finding out about the ideas, personalizeds, and technologies of ancient civilizations, we gain a deeper understanding of our very own background and society. These mysteries additionally act as a tip that there is still so much delegated discover and understand regarding our globe. Allow us remain to appreciate and admire the wonders of the past, while also looking towards the future with inquisitiveness and wonder.

[nikitasavla21]

Amaya: Time's of War

In the not-so-distant future, the world had evolved into a realm of technological marvels, where flying cars and towering mansions defined affluence, leaving those confined to the ground as the remnants of a bygone era. The once vibrant heartbeat of humanity now echoed with metallic precision as robots, devoid of pulsating life, emerged to share the stage. A transformation unfolded, blurring the lines between man and machine, as citizens embraced cybernetic enhancements, replacing their organic organs with robotic counterparts, and embedding arc reactors in their chests to claim supremacy.

This brave new world brought with it soaring economic inequality, and Gama Verse, the epitome of global power, mirrored this reality. In 2055, on an ordinary morning, Feriha Palmar, Gama Verse's Prime Minister and a single parent, found herself thrust into a crisis that would challenge the very fabric of their society.

As she prepared her daughter Melissa for the day, a red alert on her wrist summoned her to the White House. Escorted by towering weaponized robots, she arrived at a scene of controlled chaos. A holographic display broadcasted a horrifying outbreak at the city hospital—children, the new casualties of war. A swift and urgent meeting ensued, focusing on immediate treatment and fortifying the medical infrastructure. Pablo, the assistant security, detected Feriha's concern and questioned the possible source of the crisis. A team of modern investigators was deployed, armed with cutting-edge technology to uncover the enemy behind the outbreak.

Days passed with escalating panic, the government working tirelessly to decode the situation. Unbeknownst to them, a darker truth lurked beneath the surface. Feriha's worst fears materialized when she received a call informing her that Melissa was in the hospital, succumbing to the mysterious ailment. Rushing to Melissa's side, Feriha grappled with a sense of powerlessness. Melissa, her vibrant daughter, was now fragile and weak, gradually succumbing to paralysis. The weight of leadership, public scrutiny, and the impending loss of an entire generation settled heavily on Feriha's shoulders.

The investigative team made a breakthrough, linking the paralysis to the robotic enhancements and a new inverter named Amaya. The chilling revelation struck Feriha — Amaya, meaning 'The End' in Spanish and Japanese, was acting as a slow poison, affecting the reproductive organs of females. Children born in recent years, whose mothers had undergone enhancements, were developing paralysis.

Jereme Alisson, a key figure in the investigation, presented the grim truth: the only way to save the remaining children was to halt the insertion of arc reactors and other enhancements in females. However, the threat to future generations lingered, as the damage to reproductive organs would have long-lasting consequences. Feriha, in a live holographic address, declared a state of emergency and ordered an immediate cessation of all enhancements in females, hoping to salvage at least a portion of the future generation from the clutches of Amaya's lethal grip. The battle for humanity's survival had taken a poignant turn, as the very essence of Gama Verse faced a threat of extinction.

In the aftermath of Gama Verse's crisis, the unintended consequences of manipulating life's fundamentals mirrored a haunting historical theme—efforts to reshape races in the pursuit of progress. Amaya's impact on reproductive organs starkly paralleled age-old endeavors that, with good intentions, led to devastating outcomes. As Feriha grappled with the weight of her decisions, the echoes of past missteps served as a poignant warning. Gama Verse found itself at a crossroads, a stark reminder that even in the pursuit of advancement, humanity must tread carefully, lest it repeats the mistakes of history and jeopardizes the very essence of its existence.

[sisislair]

Was seriously considering the merits of chucking Murderbot into BG3, but am now also considering how fun it could be to do a Murderbot au for BG3. Astarion as a comfort unit owned by cazador sarr who has inscribed the encryption key for decoding a major project he's working on into Astarion's back/casing? And then gets freed from the gov module by the mindflayer parasite ala network effect alien remnants style. Could see Karlach as being a combat unit who was also able to escape her gov module because of that, and maybe the engine is some experimental energy weapon that zariel put in her? Gale is an augmented human who not only has the mindflayer parasite thing going on, but also came into contact with another alien remnant, the orb, and is looking for a cure. Radiation is definitely involved. Wyll as maybe a security consultant under a terrible contract with mizora, not sure how to add in the stuff about him becoming tiefling adjacent into this au however. Shadowheart has the artifact of course, which is still how their not being mindflayered in this, and I can't remember if humans or augmented humans can be memory wiped, but she definitely is of course. Maybe the Gith are raiders or nomads of some sort? Ones who have come into contact with mindflayer remnants often. Oh maybe a lost colony, that could be fun. So that's Lae'zels deal.

Have been thinking very hard about a murderbot and baldur's gate 3 crossover. Mostly just because bg3's premise is especially suited to crossovers, and I have been gleefully imagining what murderbot could add to the group dynamic. *Rubs hands together* Also, I think it's reactions to the bullshit that is most DND, but also especially the companions, would be fucking hilarious!!!

[feverdreamjohnny]

Nowhere, MI - World Lore

Around 2005 the US government discovers "ephemeron," a new elementary particle that gets its name from its unique sensitivity to human thought. Dense pockets of Ephemeron have a tendency to attract and accumulate other Ephemeron particles and if you shave off the incoming energy with the right technique you can effectively generate "free" energy. This technology is kept secret and the first reactor is constructed underground in Nowhere, MI with only the world's top researchers permitted to work with this new particle technology.

25 years later, most major countries in the world have their own secret reactors and perform experiments using ephemeron radiation. A new cutting-edge field of study called "ephemerology" forms with a focus on not just researching how ephemerons work but how to actually apply their unique traits towards medical and military technology.

When enough Ephemeron collects in one spot it has a habit of forming "zeitgeists," manifestations of human culture that embody a wide array of concepts such as religious figures or cryptids. To prevent ephemeron from solidifying in this manner the aforementioned reactors are shielded in a unique way to accumulate ephemerons while isolating them from human thought.

The effects of ephemeron radiation are complicated. There's a short effective range around reactors where individuals are immediately killed by the high concentration of energy, being pulped down into a slurry of human consciousness called "vitagen." A bit further outside of that effective range people develop "ephemeron sickness," which causes them to become delirious as their brain is suddenly able to receive thoughts from the collective minds of everyone around them. Ephemeron sickness is a degenerative disease and those affected eventually pass away as their minds decompose into vitagen.

An unknown incident occurs in the first reactor allowing the ephemeron radiation inside of it to leak out into the world. This concentration of radiation is so intense that it doesn't just destroy the Michigan reactor - it spreads to the other reactors, overloads them to the point of detonating, then continues to spread. This destroys all of the ephemeron reactors on Earth and bathes the planet in radiation.

As for anyone outside of this range the ephemeron radiation makes contact with their thoughts and either creates zeitgeists or modifies surrounding landscapes to fit into that culture's perception of them. As a result of the entire planet being bathed in radiation, human thoughts end up rewriting parts of history.

Due to most adults at this time having grown up in the 1990s - 2000s, the current perceived year is reverted back to 1995. Since few people know about the ephemeron reactors their entire history is also undone and all that remains are the ground zero sites where the reactors went supercritical. The only remnants of the old world are found in areas where ephemeron shielding was utilized to protect something, and these are few and far between.

...

The Greene family, composed of James, Alex, and their parents, live in Michigan - about an hour outside of Nowhere. The brothers are mortified when their father returns home one day with a mysterious case of advanced radiation poisoning that doctors cannot correctly diagnose.

As their father grows increasingly delirious the two brothers develop vastly different responses to his condition. James, the eldest, becomes deeply bitter and apathetic, giving up on the prospect of his dad recovering. Alex, his younger brother, becomes dogmatic in finding something he can do to save their father. Alex eventually discovers where his dad was when he fell ill after decoding hints from his delirium-induced gibberish and realizes the explanation for his illness might lie in the town of Nowhere, MI.

Alex approaches James with this information in the hopes that the two of them can figure out a cure, but James is infuriated by Alex's attitude about their dad's condition and the two get into a fight. This culminates in Alex running away from home to find the cure by himself.

James and his mother remain by his dad until he finally succumbs to radiation poisoning about a month later. In his final moments he suddenly becomes very lucid and he panicks upon realizing that Alex has left to Nowhere. His final words are a request that James take care of his family, and he passes away.

The police fail to find Alex and after they eventually give on up investigating, James' guilt catches up to him. With that, he leaves home to try and find Alex, beginning Nowhere, MI.

[viviantimmet]

The wall is not, and the not comes, and so the not comes, because you made the wall open, at the part of the wall that opens (because only part of the wall opens and that part is- is- not wall, even if you’ve eaten, it’s eaten the word.) And the not is not it (the not is worse? the not is your way.. somewhere else.) The not is want, no- no- you are want, but not- Words.. there were so many words.. once. But. want is you and the not, so why is the wall- why is there- there is a wall between want and have. But we are want, you tell the not, and we eat walls.

[Cosmie opens the door. This door has never been locked, as it was meant to be to humanity’s benefit that Cosmie makes this mistake in desperation from time to time. There are no cameras in its room, it would be a risk to let anyone see it.

There are no cameras outside its door either, because Anideas would eat the images before they could be transmitted anyway. Anideas is why opening the door is a mistake.

What should happen is: Cosmie opens the door. Anideas appears in the doorway. Cosmie makes some awful dismayed noise and scrambles back. Anideas grows glittering eyes and a half-remembered grin out of its starved-blank nothing and just stares. Cosmie stills for a long long moment and then leaps to close the door. Anideas’ grin shrinks, and slowly, painfully, it fades away.

But Cosmie doesn’t move, this time. Instead, it meets Anideas’s blankness, and tries something new. It makes a sound with meaning: a question, a plea, an offer.

“But we are want..” Cosmie rasps, “and we eat walls”

Cosmie’s mind is a compost heap, where each thought and memory slowly decays into the same base firing of neurons. She (not it) has been so very careful these past many moments to hold on to a crucial selection of categories: ‘us’, ‘want’, ‘walls’, ‘have’… ‘eat’ was easier, despite its specificity.

From these categories, Cosmie crafted a few coherent thoughts, a plan, and finally, a message, which he then encoded in words, as humans do, and passed through that dreaded door, to its fellow in prison.

Anideas’s mind is a vacuum, hungry for any barest thought of sustenance. And once they decode the offered morsel, it takes a great effort not to swallow it down like all the other flailing crumbs Cosmie represents. But they manage long enough for the message to have meaning once again, and to spark, off some bare remnant of human reason, a response.

Not words. Not from Anideas. Only another great act of will. A peeling away from that doorway. An acquiescence.]

The wall is- open. The not has gone. Something stuttering and old, rare enough to still be other, rises in you (so many words gone… ‘good’, perhaps). There is a wall, a closed wall, but the not is here too, so you have not closed the wall, so this is a- a different wall. You open- you- you fail to open the wall. The not is here with you- You- It eats walls, it eats walls, you know it, so why… why?

[Anideas is still and faded as Cosmie pounds on its door, wailing. It nibbles at Cosmie’s words, at his questions and confusions, too weak to devour her whole as Cosmie has always instinctively feared. This door has always been locked, to humanity’s benefit.

But if a locked door were all that was needed to contain Cosmie, Anideas might still be free.]

[therucrap]

RPDR 13 Episode 1 RuCrap

Hello dear internet! I just started a new page for my first ever RPDR RuCrap so please share and follow and I’ll continue if they catch on! Hope you enjoy!

The lucky 13th season of RuPaul’s Trauma Spectacular launches with the promise of “all new surprises” and a brand new twist that will leave you wondering how you ever sat through a boring old premiere with a coherent intro, climax, and conclusion when you could be enduring a dizzying hour and a half of WOW presents Happy Death Day 3: Covid Edition!

We open up on the trusty trauma center - I mean Werk Room - and the first to enter is NYC’s “Dominican Doll” and human drag lingo See ‘N Say Kandy Muse in an elaborate bejeweled patchwork jean mini dress and MATCHING DENIM BOOMBOX and she immediately informs us that we may know her from the now former Haus of Aja which was recently deconstructed like the pair of Wranglers that Kandy is wearing as fingerless gloves. Kandy is no longer alone in VIP because the befeathered Joey Jay arrives and half-heartedly delivers her intro line. “Filler queen!” We discover that Kandy is likely going to provide our Greek chorus confessional this season and all in a soft smoky eye when she informs us uncultured swine that Joey is wearing the cheapest variety of feather - chicken. Kandy didn’t construct an entire outfit from the remnants section of a Joanne Fabrics and not learn a thing or two about quality, sweetie! Joey is determined to beat viewers to the punchline and immediately clucks around branding herself as “basic” and “filler.” Joey is from the city of Phoenix (and possibly the online University as well) but she’s here to rise like a chicken!

Thunder mysteriously rumbles as RuPaul appears on the digitally enhanced Werk room TV but what could this be?! For all you newbies this is one of the several instances in every season where Ru mixes things up and gives us what we really want: a twist that is equal parts confusing, fucks up the natural order of the competition, and is ultimately unfulfilling! Come on season 13, let’s put a bunch of queer people through even more turmoil in a pandemic! Ru has a surprise but they’ll have to head to the mainstage to get the full story that they’ll be recounting to a mental health professional later!

We’re merely four minutes in and here comes Ru down the runway dressed like a glitterdot jellyfish! Our tour guide on Trauma Island introduces us to the main panel of judges for the season - Disco Morticia Addams and the two human Trapper Keepers who are now separated by glass because for the first time in Drag Race herstory we’re in the middle of a international health crisis, mawma!

Now let’s get down to trauma! Ru explains that the queens will be pairing off to lipsync unexpectedly as they enter! What could possibly go wrong? Well if you’re hoping that someone comes in wearing blades on their feet well just stick around because I have quite the treat for you! Our Dungaree Diva and the Chicken Feather Filler hit the Mainstage looking as confused as Shangela researching CDC protocol on her way to Puerto Vallarta last week. The judges interview our test subjects and immediately bring up the Haus of Aja and Kandy clarifies that she’s now an esteemed member of The Doll Haus along with last season’s ever-gorgeous Dahlia Sinn. I personally prefer not to say that Dahlia was eliminated first but instead that she was season 12’s brocco-leading lady! (Writer’s note: if you’re thinking “there’s a drag show called The Doll Haus in my hometown... is it THAT Doll Haus?!” No, there’s a drag show called The Doll Haus in almost every city in America but now, like with the former Sharon Needles, Kim Chis, and Penny Trations of the world, this one’s been on TV and alas, the others must now rename themselves)! Joey also charms the judges with her plucky demeanor and it’s already time to lipsync feather they like it or not!

Gay anthem Call Me Maybe by Canadian legend Carley Rae Jepson begins and Kandy immediately pushes a fake button on her DENIM BOOMBOX to start the party. Honestly... crown her right there on the spot. We will ALWAYS give points for prop work and the Carrot Top of the Bronx does not disappoint. Both are energetic but it’s The Dutchess of Denim who wins by infusing humor and our feathered friend is given “the Porkchop” but before we can even wrap our head around what this means for the state of the competition we snap back to the Werk Room to meet our next unsuspecting victims!

Now dear reader, this is the part where I’m just going to cut the shit. The set-up they’re selling us is that the losers of these premiere lipsyncs will be eliminated from the show but they are obviously not about to Porkchop half of the cast on day one so just stick with me while we suspend disbelief and go on RuPaul’s Totally Twisted Trauma Adventure as she convinces 6 gay people who just spent upwards of $10,000 on clothing, jewelry, and hair and then meticulously packed it into regulation suitcases to travel here during a pandemic after probably not making any money for the last four months (this was filmed in July) that they are going home on day one! This herstory-making twist, like so many before it, exemplifies the show’s worst qualities: a lack of empathy for its contestants, an underestimation of viewer intelligence and ability to decode heavy-handed editing witchery, and its love for completely dismantling its own format every year for the sake of drama. Whatever keeps the Emmy’s coming, baby! When you’re on the other side of one of these twists you usually feel like you just finished your morning coffee only to find out that the barista gave you decaf. Your mind will be blown when it’s happening but the payoff is usually at the expense of the show’s own legitimacy. With that said... this is the punishment we come to gleefully endure every year and we’re not here to complain, we’re here to watch gay people break down, dammit!

It’s deja Ru all over again as we snap back to the Werk Room where Chicago’s Denali walks in on ice skates and immediately ruins any chance of a deposit return for the bumpy, rented roll-out vinyl floors and declares “Let me break the ice!” She’s wearing the expensive feathers that Joey Jay didn’t spring for. Denali might not be the first ice skater on Drag Race but she’s the one I didn’t watch shit on a dick on Twitter last week so let’s give credit where it’s due. Ugh I wish Trinity the Tuck could block THAT from my memory! Next up is Atlanta’s Lala Ri whose white blazer, body suit, and unteased hair is immediately called basic by an icy Denali in confessional. Denali is confident but we know something that she doesn’t and Lala is wearing a sensible dancing ankle boot not two blades on her feet so let’s see how this turns out!

The lipsync song is “When I Grow Up” by Nicole Scherzinger and her assistants who were accidentally given microphones a few times! Denali struggles to conceal her wayward nipples during some ambitious dance moves and all while in skates but Lala gives us a good old fashioned drag performance and a big finale split unbothered by an elaborate costume and ultimately ices Denali who signs off with “Feeling icy, feeling spicy!” Asking these queens to lipsync upon entering is one thing but asking them to improvise their exit lines 10 minutes in is just cruel!

Denali heads backstage devastated where SURPRISE... Joey Jay is sitting alone in a sad room made of plywood walls featuring a bunch of pictures of first eliminated queens, an ominous “Porkchop Loading Dock” sign, and some cocktail tables with no cocktails (how dreadful).

Before we get the full picture and God for bid our bearings on Mr Charles’ Wild Ride let’s leave this plywood hellscape and jump back into the familiar comfort of the Werk Room’s pixelated neon pink faux brick walls where LA’s modelesque Symone stomps in wearing a dress made of tiny Polaroids of herself. She’s stylish, her energy is fresh, and she’s clearly one to watch. Then dear reader life as we know it changes. A breeze comes through the room and God herself blesses us when living legend and matriarch of the Iman dynasty Tamisha Iman from Atlanta arrives in a pointy-shouldered red power suit and proclaims to us simple townsfolk “Holler at me, I know you know me. Holler at me, I know you know me. Tamisha is here!” The sea parts, the crops are replenished, and all war stops on Earth. On stage Tamisha reveals that she’s been doing drag for 30 years (which seems like a long time to us mere mortals) and that she was originally cast last season but was diagnosed with colon cancer two days later and had to stay home for chemo. The lipsync gods wisely choose The Pleasure Principle by Janet Jackson and Tamisha gives us exact Janet arm choreo while Simone is sultry yet commanding as she shakes her Polaroids. The judges determine that Simone was picture perfect and American hero Tamisha Iman is sent to Porkchop’s Shipping Crate of Horrors to join the nest with the fancy feather option and the chicken feather option.

We begrudgingly crawl back onto RuPaul’s ever-circling carousel of doom and plop back into the workroom where accomplished LA celebrity makeup artist GottMik stomps in wearing a wacky toile dress and a full face of white makeup declaring that it’s “Time to crash the system!” GottMik is Drag Race’s first trans man contestant (and first knowingly cast trans contestant at all) for which we cheer excitedly and then immediately look at our watches because that took too long. Next up Minneapolis’s towering Utica wriggles in with a sneeze and declares “She’s sickening!” which is just the pandemic humor I came here for! Contaminate me, mom! This gay scarecrow is wearing a series of crazy patterns and a big strawberry on her head and the two of them appear to be from the same traveling circus. These two Big Comfy Couch characters slink over to the main stage where Utica explains that her cranial statement fruit symbolizes tackling obstacles because she used to be allergic to strawberries as a kid but she grew out of it. In RuPaul’s heavy universe of heart wrenching struggles that contain chronic illness and societal rejection, Utica’s animated world that suffers only of outgrown childhood strawberry problems is a welcome one. These two lanky rag dolls will be lipsyncing to Rumors by her majesty Lady Lohan of Mykonos and the vibe is instantly wacky. I wouldn’t say that either of them are the next Kennedy Davenport but they did complement each other well on the invisible obstacle course they were both miming through. Utica’s hair flops over her eye, there’s galloping and floor humping, GottMik does a split, there’s elbows and knees aplenty, and all that’s missing is dancing poodles. The judges are tickled by the kookiness of both of these human windsocks but Gotmikk snatches the win. Neither of these two are going to win So You Think You Can Dance but luckily this is RuPaul’s So You Think You Can Trauma so we’re in luck!

Our homosexual Groundhog Day continues back in the Werk Room where we meet NYC’s Rosé who gets the Brita treatment where she’s presented as a legendary New York queen and then the editors quickly get to work making her look delusional. She’s accomplished, confident, and Drag Race’s favorite personality type to dismantle and then trick into returning to All-Stars for a redemption only to dismantle again. Rosé’s fresh-faced foil Olivia Lux enters and lights up the place right away in a velvet pink and yellow gown. She’s a humble NYC newby who has competed in shows hosted by the established Rosé and we already know what’s about to happen here. The lipsync is Exes and Oh’s by Elle King which which was a choice. Olivia strips off her gown to reveal a bodysuit so she can really articulate and Rosé does the world’s least exciting split that looked like me trying unsuccessfully separate wooden chopsticks. Olivia triumphs and Rosé fizzles as she heads to the It Didn’t Werk Room aka Porkchop’s sparsely decorated storage closet to be with the other Have Nots.

We’re almost to the finish line and we limp, slightly disoriented, back to the Werk Room where we meet Tina Burner, another NYC theater kid with the confidence of a thousand Patti LuPones who is dressed like a Ronald McDonald firefighter. What she lacks in nuance she makes up for in nonstop fire puns. Next Chicago’s glamorous Kahmora Hall saunters in glowing and is clearly unimpressed with Tina’s constant Joan Rivers impression but maintains a full pageant smile. No choice but to stan. Our final queen is the refreshingly optimistic Elliott with 2 T’s who busts in wearing a bolero jacket, some red pants from the store, and a short pink wig that screams “Sorry I’m late! Here’s my flash drive! I can go on whenever!” Elliott dances in sing-talking her entrance line like the TGIFriday’s server she is: “I’m the queen you want to see. Elliot with two T’s. Okay! Uh uh uh uh uh uh uh uh! Okay!” Elliot is a dancer from Las Vegas and has the unhinged camp counselor energy of someone with snacks in her purse at all times.

On the Mainstage Tina cycles through the last of her introductory fire puns and tells the judges she was in a boy band which honestly tracks. Tina and Rosé share a similar NYC gotta-get-a-gimmick energy but for some reason production has decided to give Rosé the womp womp edit and Tina the superstar edit. The song is Lady Marmalade because we haven’t been though enough and Kahmora serves subdued sexy glamour, Elliott does the splits, and Tina bobs and weaves between the two with full play-to-the-back-row comedy queen energy. Tina extinguishes the dreams of the other two and RuPaul sends the final two losers to the chokey.

The worst is over (we think) and our frazzled cast of hopefuls finally gets to know eachother in their two very different groups. The winning queens in the Werk Room are celebrating and as blissfully unaware of the doom around them as Miss Vanjie and Silky Ganache at a Puerto Vallarta circuit party during a pandemic. Over in Porkchop’s Junk Drawer the camera looms unnecessarily close to the crestfallen losers’ now disheveled wigs and sweat drenched makeup. Ru’s voice bellows over the speaker to tell this motley crew to get out and then as the last bit of light leaves their weary eyes she checks back in to tell them that she wasn’t serious! Oh good! Finally a moment of mercy for these once hopeful queens on their first day of RuPaul’s Wipeout! She then reveals that the full twist is that she is only going to send one home but they have to vote amongst the group of losers to decide who it is! Yes, that’s correct! This group of broken queens who just met and mostly have never seen eachother perform will now be expected to turn on eachother and give up their last bit of dignity to either grovel or just straight up fight with eachother! This must be what the Donner Party’s last night looked like. The queens look around broken and wounded but still hungry, their eyes barely open, their lacefronts only partially attached to their heads, and start deciding which of their own is about to get consumed. Her highness Tamisha Iman reminds them "Well, I'm the only black girl so don't vote me off” and just like that we are TO BE CONTINUED!

Thus concludes our first headspinning episode that despite being reliably frustrating has once again sucked us in and against our better judgement entertained us to the fullest! As for our 13 queens- you can use code HERSTORY on Talkspace while relaying tonite’s events to a sickening liscensed therapist!

[justasparkwritings]

Codename Cupid: Chapter 8

Previous: Another Shot At Love Pt. 2

Pairing: Min Yoongi X OFC, Park Jimin X OMC

Genre: Secret AgentAU, AgentAU, Government Agent AU, Slice of Life

Rating: NC17

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Swearing, Legal Alcohol Consumption, Degradation, Humiliation, Verbal Abuse, Horrible Family, Bullying, Sibling Rivalries, Homophobia, Toxic Masculinity

Summary: Codename Suga joins Codename Cupid at her parents house for family dinner. It’s both everything he imagined, and so much worse. 

Codename Another Shot at Love Part 3

Fall Post Graduation

           Park Yoongi, Codename Suga, arrived at the Lee residence dressed to the nines, a new suit, top of the line glasses and Ferragamo loafers that Hoseok had picked out especially for him. Nothing about his look screamed mid-level employee at a top-level bank, or government agent bent on destroying a company from within, which was the point. Namjoon had determined that to impress the Lee’s, Codename Valentine, Suga had to be runway ready. His hair was slicked back, and in his arms, a bottle of Makers 46, a bottle Cupid had ensured her father would appreciate. In his ear, a flesh-colored earpiece, specially designed, allowing his teammates, Codenames RM, Worldwide Handsome and J-Hope, to feed him lines when needed.

          Adjusting his spectacles and turning them on, Suga’s vision was momentarily blocked as the sensors began their job scanning everything and everyone insight, transmitting data in real time to his set up at OT7 headquarters. The glasses, a creation he had spent the better part of a year working on, were a modification of his third-generation specs. Not only could they recognize faces, scan for heat sensors, but log sounds such as alarm codes and lock patterns, decoding their passcodes in seconds. This was a marked improvement from the generation twos, which recorded sound and took up to 24 hours to decode. The recorded surveillance was wired through the major databases used by OT7 to track down faces of everyone Suga came in contact with. Tonight, their goal was to memorize every aspect of the Lee’s estate, transmit the layout into a CAD (computer aided design) drawing and print a scaled blueprint. They were also responsible for identifying every human in the Lee’s house, pulling names, birthdays, permanent addresses and social security numbers. In his glasses case, Suga had placed several microscopic microphones, which he placed on any surface he touched. They might not have eyes inside the mansion, but OT7 would have ears.

          “Park Yoongi,” The attendant declared as he stepped through the foyer and into the sitting room, where the entire Lee, Codename Valentine, family sat waiting for him.

          “Good evening,” Yoongi bowed deeply, a remnant of his heritage and a sign of respect.

          “Yoongi!” Euna said, standing and quickly wrapping her arms around his neck. Leaning in, she placed a delicate kiss on his cheek. “Mom, dad, this is Yoongi, my boyfriend.”

          Mr. Lee rose, looked Yoongi up and down before he spoke, “I hear you work for us. Good.”

          “Yes, sir, I do,” Yoongi nodded.

          “Your work is good, you fly under the radar, if you’re to continue this with Euna, you will need to do better,” Mr. Lee extended his hand, shaking Yoongi’s, before moving past him.

          “Sir, I brought you a gift, I heard it’s one of your favorites,” Yoongi handed the man the bottle and watched as he unwrapped it. His oafish hands tore through the tissue paper, impatient to get his hands on something he didn’t buy but eagerly wanted.

          “Ahh, a bribe, thoughtful,” Mr. Lee said before handing the bottle to the head of house, who had quietly walked into the room. She took it and carefully moved to place it on the shelf which housed an impressive collection of whiskey.

          Mrs. Lee looked at her cohort of older children. “Don’t be rude.”

          The three children rose and walked towards Yoongi. Towering over him, Dae-Seong and Jun-Seo glared down at him, a sinister smirk on both their faces.

          “Dae-Seong,” He said, squeezing Yoongi’s hand harder than necessary.

          “Jun-Seo,” He repeated the action, his hold lighter, his smirk faded into a thin line, laced with more concern than Yoongi imagined Dae-Seong could ever muster.

          “Yoongi,” Kwan-Min bowed before extending her hand, “Kwan-Min.” Her smile mirrored Euna’s, gentle and vibrant. Her eyes told the same story as her brothers, watch your back.

          “Nice to meet you,” Yoongi responded. Carefully taking a seat next to Euna, he smiled tersely at the family.

          “Yoongi, tell us about yourself,” Mrs. Lee requested. She slowly clinked the perfectly shaped sphere of ice in her glass, it slowly melting into the brown liquid.

          “Is there anything specific you want to know?” He responds politely.

          “Your file is thin, you don’t seem to want to advance at Lee Enterprises, so how’d you end up here?” Dae-Seong doesn’t mince words. Much like the booming timbre of his voice, his words cut straight to the point.

          “I worked in the Manhattan branch every summer of college, had two internships my junior and senior year, and then applied for an entry level position,” Yoongi could hear Namjoon, Codename RM, in his ear, repeating the fabricated story made ever more real by Hoseok’s ability to forge documents.

          “They moved you out here?” Mr. Lee questioned.

          “Yes, they asked if I would transfer,” Yoongi replied.

          “Why?” Dae-Seong was perplexed, no new hire was asked to transfer unless they were a problem worth handling.

          “They said I was polished, and my work was good,” Yoongi shrugged. WWH reminded him to lean into the nonchalance, the ultimate fuck-you attitude the Lee’s hated.

          “Seems vague,” Jun-Seo remarked. “Your childhood was rather bleak, wasn’t it?”

          “It wasn’t the best, but it was temporary,” Yoongi knew this was the line of questioning they’d take, and not just with him, with anyone not from the upper echelon, anyone not worth less than 100 million.

          “Your parents were, sorry, are, quite poor,” Dae-Seong pressed.

          “Poor to some is rich to others,” Yoongi answered.

          “But poor is still, poor,” Jun-Seo responded.

          “You haven’t dated much, either have you Yoongi?” Kwan-Min’s voice was velvet, soft and supple in the tense air.

          “I’ve had a few relationships, but none like Euna,” Mr. World Wide’s voice was clear and gentle, sell it Suga.

          “What makes her so different? Clearly you see things that we don’t,” Dae-Seong snorted back a laugh, it was a hideous sound, loud and haunting.

          “I see a lot of things in Euna. She’s thoughtful, considerate, she’s caring and funny. She accepts me for who I am, and makes me a better person,” Yoongi laid on the compliments like he hadn’t spent the last two weeks rehearsing them for OT7.

          It had taken him a while to list the characteristics he liked about Cupid, and ultimately had recruited WWH to write it for him. He stared at the words Mr. Handsome wrote, and was shocked that he still cared this much about her. Yoongi felt none of these things, none of these adjectives or memories that Mr. Handsome had strewn together resonated with him in the slightest. Cupid was a mark, a pawn in the play, nothing more.

          “Huh, lucky someone does,” Jun-Seo laughed, ribbing Dae-Seong and leading him in a cackle all their own. Yoongi glanced at Euna to see her jaw set, cheeks flushed, eyes glossed.

          “Jun-Seo, you have a guest,” The attendant from the front door announced, standing taught at the door. A blond-haired man entered, smirking with a hint of humor. Yoongi stared at his dazzling smile and kind eyes.  

          “You made it!” Jun-Seo stood to engulf the man in a hug, lips pressing aggressively to his lips. “I thought you said you were busy.”

          “I got away,” The blond responded.

          “It’s lovely to see you,” Mrs. Lee stood to embrace the man, followed by Kwan-Min. Yoongi watched carefully as Dae-Seong and Mr. Lee scowled, arms crossed, brows set. They didn’t have to speak their distaste for Jun-Seo’s apparent partner, it was written in their body language.

          “It’s lovely to see you too,” He said. His eyes didn’t glance at the elder males but landed squarely on Yoongi and Euna.

          “Lee Euna, is that how you greet me?” He questioned, a hand resting on his hip, hair lightly falling in his eyes.

          “I’m so happy to see you!” She bounded off the settee towards him, arms around his neck, holding him close. “I didn’t think I’d get to see you before the big trip!”

          Yoongi stared, dumbfounded, and blinked quickly, trying to understand the rapid change in her demeanor. Gone were the tears, the anger, the hate that was coursing through her body. It was replaced with care? Genuine excitement? What the hell is the big trip?

          “I had to get in one more family dinner before I’m gone for the month,” The blond smiled warmly at Euna, a twinkle in his eye as he glanced at Yoongi. “Is that?”

          “Oh! This is my boyfriend, Park Yoongi. Yoongi, meet Jun-Seo’s partner, Cho Jimin,” Euna said. The two men exchanged a handshake before sitting down next to their respective partners.

          “How long have you and Jun-Seo been together?” Yoongi inquired.

          “Hm, a year?” Jun-Seo replied, a hand resting gently on Jimin’s thigh.

          “Did you meet at work or-

          “Twenty questions with the twinks! Line em up, it’s time to play!” Dae-Seong yelled, earning a chuckle from his father. “First question, who tops and who bottoms? Follow up, is Jun-Seo as weak of a top as he-

          “Dinner is ready,” The head of house said, stepping into the room just in time. Rolling his eyes, Dae-Seong stood.

          “You’re gonna need your strength,” He winked at Jimin before brushing past them and heading for the dining room. Yoongi followed obediently and cautiously, taking his time putting one foot in front of the other as he followed the Lee’s. Pausing every so often, he carefully trailed a finger over a surface, leaving a singular mic, completely invisible, behind.

          The dining room was stunning, taken out of the palace of Versailles with a Korean twist, the marble floors and ornate chandeliers were out of this world. Flowers blooming in ancient vases, artwork that looked to be that of Picasso and An Kyŏn, Monet and Manet, lining the walls like the Louvre. There wasn’t anything the Lee’s money couldn’t buy, even 15th century originals were bound to become fodder in their quest for prestige.

          Draped across the table, a gold runner, glittering with what could only be described as actual gold flakes. Waterford Crystal glasses, and hand painted china rested delicately against the gold, the white shining brilliantly under the lights of the chandelier. Awaiting the guests, an endless array of traditional Korean food: Jjajangmyeon, Bulgogi, Samgyetang, Kalguksu, Galbi, Dubu Kimchi, Kimchi Fried Rice, with bowls of Hobakjuk as everyone’s appetizers, and Gyeranjjim waiting on a refined plate to be consumed with each passing spice.

          Yoongi’s eyes were wide, his lungs breathing rapidly to take in the scents of home, of familiarity. How peculiar to be eating the cuisine of his ancestors, of his blood, in a room with people who would willing spill each other’s.

          “Yoongi, sit next to Dae-Seong.” Mr. Lee instructed.

          Excellent, Namjoon muttered in his ear.

          “Dae-Seong, I hear that you’re making quite a splash as the Chairman,” Yoongi voiced.

          “Only bottom feeders eat my ass, Yoongi. For that you need to see Jun-Seo, appointment only,” Dae-Seong rolled his eyes.

          “Please, do not speak of your brother’s depravity at dinner. Save it for dessert,” Mr. Lee scolded, eyes hard on Dae-Seong.

          “When are we going to discuss Kwan-Min’s latest triste?” Jun-Seo inquired.

          “Now seems like the perfect opportunity,” Mr. Lee answered. “Dae-Seong?”

          In some sort of twisted ritual, Dae-Seong cracked his knuckles, then his neck, swirled a sip of whiskey between his lips and leaned in. Batting his eyes delicately at Kwan, he bared his teeth. Yoongi restrained from asking “you getting this?” to his team, because they were in fact, watching with bated breath.

          “The category is, colossal fuck ups. The reining champ, for the first time in, Euna, how old are you? Never mind, age has no number when you’re a twat. Kwan-Min, for a million dollars, explain how you found yourself cunt up with a political fundraiser? I’m sorry, a Republican political fundraiser?”

          Mrs. Lee gasped, her soup spoon dropping aggressively into her bowl, rattling the china. Euna didn’t look up, but quietly shoveled soup into her mouth, feigning ignorance.

          “Kwan-Min, how could you?” Mrs. Lee demanded.

          “If the rumors are true, and we’ll need Jun to confirm, Mr. Brady, I believe?” Dae-Seong inhales, eyes never leaving Kwan’s, voice even, “He’s particularly gifted in a few areas, and very well endowed and what was that other word? Oh yes, generous.”

          “Quite a generous tongue on that one,” Jun responded, shame flickering past his eyes in a brief moment before his resolve solidified.

          “How could you?” Mrs. Lee repeats again. “You are the second eldest of this family, the face of our philanthropy, and you are consorting with a known republican? Not to mention a man so cruel he, he,

          “He thinks Dae-Seong is weak,” Euna spoke. Her wavering voice echoed over the table, everyone’s eyes turning to her. “I mean, that’s what you’re doing, right Kwan? Find someone so repugnant that Dae is outraged, spurring on another break down in hopes he’ll OD and you’ll what, become chairwoman of the board?”

          “Fuck you for insinuating I make my decisions based on Dae. Do you live and breathe at his request?” Kwan spat, the heat from the food and the fight rising in her cheeks.

          “No,” Euna was incredulous, how could Kwan assume that?

          Through gritted teeth she responded, “Neither do I.”

          “For two million, Mr. Chairman,” Jun motioned toward Dae, “explain to us how you could be fucking a member of the opposing party, who has tried to ruin this family numerous times? Is the dick that great?” Jun-Seo pressed.

          “Don’t pretend that you haven’t fucked him, fag,” Dae laughed. “You two are the biggest whores in the game.”

          “That’s not true,”

          “The fact that you’re Eskimo siblings, not once, not twice, but have shared more than three sexual partners is revolting. You’re fucking freaks, sodomizing the legacy of this family for some log cabin taint who can’t even be bothered to pay the child support for the kids he knows about.”

          “How do you know so many categories of gay men?” Euna asked, eyes narrowing at Dae-Seong, “You been experimenting?”

          “Oh, don’t even get me started on you and your choices, Euna,” Dae rolled his eyes then glanced at Jun-Seo, who was sneering at him.

          “What could you possibly say that you haven’t before?” Euna cackled, a sound so foreign Yoongi can’t help but feel his eyes bug out.

          “Whoa,” Mr. Handsome says in his ear.

          “Oh shit,” RM responds.  

          “You’re not even worth discussing,” Kwan-Min stepped in, and swinging the last of her cocktail back, she turned to Dae-Seong. “I’m more interested in your affinity for homosexual stereotypes. Tell me, when you’re alone in your house, your wife sleeping in a separate apartment, cities away, is that what you’re watching? Is that what gets you off? Picturing a willing gaping hole, just waiting to be ruined? Or no, I’m sorry, but Jun, don’t you think he’d be-

          “A power bottom? Absolutely, he spends his nights ogling over submissive bears, trying to find one big enough to fill him, scrolling through chatrooms under, what was his username?” Jun-Seo doesn’t look at Kwan, he knows she understands what is about to transpire.

          “Beary-willing007,” They recite together.

          J-Hope guffaws in Suga’s ear, followed by a loud “oh shit!”

          “I can’t imagine how it would look if your little, what did you call it?” Kwan asked.

          “The twink or the fag?” Jun-Seo repeated Dae’s words so seamlessly, so effortlessly, to a blind eye it would’ve been hard to tell that Jun wasn’t Dae’s twin.

          “Both, if your nefarious activities and browser history was discovered, or dare a say, leaked?” Kwan raised an eyebrow.

          “You think you scare me?” Dae-Seong asked. “Summer, 2012, what happened to you?”

          “Why would you bring that up?” Kwan’s glare faltered, a subtle shift in her brow, the sneer dipping before returning at full capacity.

          “We need to know what happened summer 12,” RM stated, voice low as he jotted down the date.

          “You want to throw dirty laundry out into the open, might as well air yours,”

          “Fuck you,”

          “I didn’t start this,”

          “Yes you did,”

          “Jun-Seo, care to tell us what happened to you winter, 2014?”

          “No,”

          “I thought so,” Dae pointed his knife at each of them, “Before you go accusing me of being a fucking homo, check that I don’t have your history sealed and filed.”

          “Did you get that?” RM asked.

          “Yeah, got it,” J-Hope responded.

          “And Euna,” Dae turned his attention to his youngest sibling, who sat quietly eating her food. “Don’t ever bring a bottom feeder home again, unless he’s going to eat my ass, you hear me? Or I will do to you what was done to Kwan-pussy-ass-Min.”

          “Fuck you Dae,” Euna spewed.

          “Excuse me?” He yelled, standing to his full height.

          “I said, fuck you,” Euna repeated with a little more gumption.

          “Oh Euna, little Euna, too smart for everyone, too polite and meek to ever be taken seriously, to fucking boring and oblivious to know that her boyfriend’s only date her for access or career status, so stupid that she can’t recognize that the only reason she’s getting the company is that she’s so incompetent, no one will believe her when –

          “Dae-Seong!” Mr. Lee yelled.

          “Don’t bring a fucking knife to a gun fight, Euna, I will end you.” He seethed.

          “What is your problem with Yoongi? He’s the first man I bring home and you-

          “What do you not understand about our family? What do you not understand about the caliber of person we need to be with in order to-

          “What, watch porn, order sex workers and pray the gay away?” Euna yelled.

          “Watch your tone,” Mr. Valentine said.

          “You’re acting like you don’t have secrets, like your marriage is pure and good, it’s not Dae. I don’t blame her for leaving you, anyone with a modicum of sense would see that you are nothing more than a toxic, manipulative, alcoholic coke head, who only has his job because daddy loves him the most.”

          “You think your relationship with Yoongi is going to be any different?” Jun-Seo spoke up, deflecting from the rising anger in Dae. “What makes you so special?”

          “First, I love him,” Euna responded, earning a scoff and eyeroll from every member of the Lee family. “Second, if he makes it out alive from this dinner with you assholes, then he truly is the most resilient person in the world. Finally,”

          “Thank fuck,” Jun-Seo exclaimed.

          “Finally, he was raised to be kind and respectful, unlike the four of us,” Euna concluded with a haughty exhale and a glare at her mother.

          “Wait – are you sure that’s not just Seokjin in a new suit?” Dae-Seong cackled, nodding at their father who also laughed.

          “I hate this family,” Euna rose and tossed her napkin on the floor, a dramatic flair that sent her brothers and father into a fit of laughter.

          “You act like you aren’t the ingrown hair on the taint of this family, and I think I speak for all of us when I say that I would love to extract you,” Dae said.

          His words hung in the air as Euna walked out of the living room, Yoongi on her tail.

          Catching up to her, Yoongi reached for her hand, which she hastily pulled away.

          “Euna,” His voice was measured.

          “Can we please just go?” She whispered, tears beginning to stream down her face.

          “Yeah, can I just run to the bathroom quick? Grab the coats and I’ll meet you outside,” He pressed a kiss to her forehead before following one of the workers to the nearest bathroom. Hoping to shake the worker, Yoongi deftly exited the bathroom before wandering down the hall. He followed the sound of voices and stopped short of what he assumed was Mr. Lee’s office.

          Mr. Lee stood next to Dae-Seong, a fresh glass of whiskey in hand. “Did you read the brief on UAE?”

          “Yes,” Dae-Seong answered.

          “I want your recommendations tomorrow by 9AM,” Mr. Lee instructed, “None of that pussy shit you drew up for Spain, either.”

          “Pussy shit in Spain is child’s play in the Emirates. I’ll bring something, nuclear,”

          “Don’t jerk me around like you do with your pathetic excuse for a cock, Dae. I do not want to have to fire you and replace you with Jun-Seo,” Mr. Lee slammed his glass down before retreating through a door Yoongi hadn’t seen when he’d glanced in.

          “I’m sorry father, I will have the materials ready,” Dae’s voice was pathetic, deflated in the wake of his father’s anger. He hated being belittled and demeaned, hated the hurt his father hurled at him, the constant need for him to be better than everyone else. He hated how easily it came to Euna, how she could understand the numbers and draw connections within seconds of being presented with the problem. He hated Euna’s prowess, how businessmen and women flocked to her, a cello prodigy, ballet star in training, perfect grades, whored out to different branches so she could learn the business. Every fuck up Dae-Seong had made resulted in Euna’s success, and their father and mother, though more covertly, had egged his jealousy on.

          Yoongi placed a mic on the inside of the door before slipping back into the hallway and out of the Lee estate, to Euna’s embrace.

          “Your place or mine?” He asked as he sat in the driver’s seat of his car.

          “Anywhere but here,” She responded, eyes blinking down tears as Yoongi drove.

Next: Searching for Seokjin Pt. 2

[disparition]

 FREYAM DREAMS OF DUST - https://disparition.bandcamp.com/album/3-freyam-dreams-of-dust

I.

How much do you remember? Temple under the mountain Limetree in a shaft of light Gray robe on the edge of shadow Bare forearm dragging a branch along the floor The river of stones, the sound of their shells clicking together

II.

I remember. It was the same day they were captured out near Anchorstore. I was in my office, deep in the corridors of the High Marengo’s palacia. We didn’t know, of course, we couldn’t have and yet, all the same, there was a shift in the light, in the weight of the air.

My office was windowless, lit by two candles, but there were times in between Bells when I could move quietly along the outer edges of fasing departments and make my way to a forgotten balcony facing the arroyo. I had never seen anyone on or near this balcony except for the occasional fellow low ranking shirker from down the hall. I knew and was on good terms with all of my counterparts.

But that day there was someone else. I don’t. I still don’t know who.  Couldn’t see them, but their voice was close. The only word they said was “Freyam” – a name I had not heard in decades and was forbidden from using myself. An old trap – and yet I nodded. And then nothing, and then nothing. And then that shift in the air again, a breeze trapped on the balcony, a piece of paper trapped in the breeze.

Like my ancient name, I had not seen or felt a piece of paper in a very long time. I still wonder what might have seent me out there, frantically chasing and flailing my arms. Luckily this scene was short lived. I stuffed the thing into my robes.

I backed into the maze of corridors, disoriented. Faces turned towards me, anonymous colleagues who’d ignored my passage all these years wore masks of suspicion, my gait altered by their weight of their eyes on me. By the time I was back within my own domains I was limping, my robe stuck to me with sweat.

Watcer stood in my door frame, long arm reaching inward, spindle fingers just beginning to wrap around one of my candles.  Turning without moving, wearing my face – stale tricks – watchers finger retracted, grin wider than I’ve ever worn it, now limping to mimic my own movement.

I couldn’t take it. And before I knew it in my conscious mind was undoing the watcher. Pulling back into myself and unmaking.

Watchers, you know, they’re just us. That’s no secret. We’re conditioned to forget, but some part of me didn’t forget – I fell back in my mind to the making of my watcher and I pulled and pulled at the threads until the whole process had been undone, and there was nothing left to darken my door frame except remnants of my own doubts and guilt, pooling on the floor, streaming back into my toes.

This act, while not a violation of any written law, was all the same a breech – and one that would leave unwanted resonance far and wide. I could not linger in the office.

I took an old shirt out of a drawer and quickly wove a half vial of dust into it. Propping it over the desk with light finger and shadow work - cheap but it would last a few hours - I backed into the corridors and began my descent. We were pressing up against the Bell of Pink Light, and the air was already orange.

On top of everything else, I was behind in my work. In those days the Auric Coast was coated with a thick film of overlapping microempires, petty kingdoms, experimental societies, agricultural collectives, nomadic bands, and other forms of human organization to ephemeral to be contained by any terminology. The majority of these entities armed themselves with the usual aray of symbol, sign, and anthem. The realm of Pasaedian was no exception and in my days of relevance I worked directly under the High Marengo; for seven years I wove anthems of gilded synthesis and vast ambient cloud at the behest of the crown, performing far across this valley and the next for purposes of solace, sport, and war.

But that was years and years ago – we all fade. My work had become clerical in nature.  Cataloging, analyzing, decoding the anthems, chants, and worksongs of our hundreds of neighbors. In this capacity I had memorized everything from the churning dances of Neomassilia to the piercing wail of Astoria, the plastic shining anthem of the Mouselands, the whispered hopesongs of the mountain witches.

So, I was behind in my work. These were the days of bitter rivalry between Pasaedian and Citadel, the High Marengo and High Priestess in constant skirmishes over scraps of the valley. The Ziggurat employed weavers and singers not only from the coast but from all across the rim, and I was barely able to keep up. Now I was thinking this encounter on the balcony – did it even happen? Yes I could still feel the paper within my robes – I was thinking it seemed more and more a trap, some Commersean snare. It would not be the first time I had fallen under suspicion.

Amid shifting tides of colleagues anticipating the next Bell I threaded my way through corridors and courtyards of marble, out into the Marengo’s garden. A green and violet iris in the ojo of the palacia, this garden contained the last living jacaranda trees on the coast. It was the middle of Sivan and they were in the full of their brightness, the ground thickly carpeted in purple and buzzing with sacred travellers. Stepping carefully to avoid them, looking down, I almost missed the clearing until I was at its edge, and then stopped. At the center, in a column of salmon light, lay Dmina, fourth under the name, High Marengo of Pasaedian, motionless, naked, and closeyed under a sheer gold cloth. Upon the cloth crawled sacred travellers, at least fifty, more than I had seen in this lifeline. It is.. difficult to think now of the age of paper, when they numbered in the millions, when one might see a hundred or two on any summer afternoon. In this garden the travellers were named and numbered, carefully tracked, each lived in its own glass. But their keeper was nowhere to be found. Three of the Marengian guard stood on the far edge of the clearing, intently seeing nothing.

I felt a pull, I felt it coming from beneath the ground, I felt the coldness in my tailbone and the heels of my feet, and the sense of forceful, patient inevitability – it was the pull of watersource. I shifted back into the trees, sinking deeper into the soft earth with each step.  The little travellers were everywhere, their hum filled my ears.

The sky was darkening, streaked with lavender, and the Bell would be upon me soon. The gardens ran up against the southwestern gates of Pasaedian. I was out and among the free buildings before the ring reached me.

In those fractured days the formal sovereignty and firstlayr powers of a petty realm like Pasaedian would extend only so far as the physical walls of the palacia itself. The majority of the valley’s residents lived in freestanding apartment blocks and houses. Their legience – to Pasaedian, to Citadel, to Mouse or to Rome – marked by a small shield affixed to the right side of the doorframe. This shield could be scanned, the level of one’s legiency determining everything from their healthcare and conflict resolution to their business rights and miliia duties and the sources of their water and light.

Almost all of the doors in my building bore the same crest on their shield as mine – the dark horse forcene of the Marengo adorned with the rose of Pasaedian.  But when I reached my door, it was gone. Nothing but a shield-shaped spot of unbleached paint on the frame.

When I was a child I had recurring dreams in which I was struck by lightning. I would die but I would not wake up; changed, I would drift through a photonegative world. In middle age, watcher over a corner of the valley, my dreams were stalked by columns of smoke steadily encroaching, inexplicable formations of machines overhead. Now in old age it was this cutting of lines that haunted my dreamlife, this sudden statelessness – even though I’d dreamed of statelessness all throughout the age of paper, argued for it, pulled for it. This was different. Living in this sea of shifting states, in this age they were no more a part of one’s identity than what used to be called brand loyalty – in fact they were the same thing. But in this valley of no particular consequence there were only two, and they took and took back, block by block by block. This was not the desert nor the vale of Joaquin – to be unlined in this place was death.

I did not touch the door. The lights in the hallway were already dimming. Out on the street I stayed under leafshadow, robes pulled close and matching the tone of the darkening air. Only then did I remember the paper, folded and curled in one of my pockets.

I kept moving until I was south enough and west enough that I could slip into a small park far from sound and light. Unseen, hopefully unfelt, I threw myself beneath a young pepper tree and drew a circle around myself in the rich soil. The velvet sky was lowering itself onto all of us. I pulled the paper from my robe.

It was an airplane ticket. Made not of paper after all, but a very thin plastic. A kind no one had seen for forty years, and the two ports noted on the ticket were less than half an hour apart by car – even in the days when flights existed, this flight did not exist. Even in the thin light of this moment the aged ink – suddenly exposed to it – began to run. In spite of my care, my hands were soon smudged with indigo.

Looking out from under the branches, I realized the ground had begun to tilt. Leaves and pebbles rolled down the street, followed by a pair of Commersean guard, yelling and chasing after some lost piece of equipment. Then, nearly silent and just against the edge of the park, a smooth and darkglassed van, door sliding open, driver unseen. A concentrated light shown suddenly on me, focused on the paper, or the stains on my hands, or both. The pull, when it came, was around the wrists and gently on the back of the neck, with a sense of urgent departure. This time, I let it take me, found myself lowered gently onto ancient cushioned seats. It felt as though the van never stopped moving during this process, and there was no sound of machine within it. Rather, I fell into it, and it fell down the street, along with everything else, as though the world had been wrapped into the shape of a funnel.

III.

A simple square of asphalt, wide and clear A ring of structures, facades of towers A defensible inheritance from an earlier time Fill in the gaps with cargo containers, trailers, and soil Dig up the center and plant

In our fear of each other and our pasts we will put up walls, Only to become restless, bound too close together, fractuous and Uncontainable.

Awake to the flows, these are days of liquid light Symbols of the previous age still wrapped around us in confusing patterns, False eyes to ward off predators As the old state falls apart, the hands of gold that owned it remain strong and grasping, seperated and naked, ever pulling, pulling through blood or tear, carving sigils into the raw stone

But Others, Others take to the mountains and the sands to undo their work, unthread their branding fromt the minds it holds.

The walled cities glow in the night, hundreds of different colours fill our hills and valleys, their webs reaching into the darkness in between

Beyond the reach of their light we still have ink and paper – and so into those bright spaces where we dare not show ourselves, we can still toss messages that will be delivered by the wind.

IV.

With concentration, the feeling subsided, and my internal tides regained their balance. With even greater concentration, the tint on the window began to clear, and I could see that we were rolling into Subcontractor City.

Already, low towers of glass and pale blue light surrounded us. Subcontractor City was an exclave of the Bubblestate hundreds of miles to the north. In this place, emotion was muted, the churning flows of life and death were distant, inaccessible. Somewhere inside the ancient walls of the van an engine sputtered to life and the whole thing shook, only to come to a stop minutes later.

The door was pulled open as if by human hands but when I stepped out there was no one. The nearest glass tower was identical to the others except the door was open, the sigil 3172A6 marked in clearscript on the glass panel above. On my way to the entrance I passed through a sort of courtyard - benches on which no one had ever sat ringed around a sculpture – three arcing, unpainted pieces of metal spanned by a tensionless spring. Whatever feeling it might have held for its creator had been stripped, it stood now as a monument to nonmeaning, a warning to all who passed.

Inside, the age of the place filled my nostrils. Very little had changed inside this structure for nearly a hundred years except for the accumulation of dust as the automated filters died one by one. A low ceiling of dirty white squares, occasionally out of place revealing darkness and clutter above. Outside and in the van I had felt alone, but in here I was increasingly accompanied by some unseen presence, a group of figures walking just behind me and in the periphery, heavy, moving fast, burdened with gear – and then the feeling of a finger pressed hard into the center of my back. In this manner I was escorted through warrens of cubicle walls, snaking cables, caved in CRT monitors, all sporadically seen under distant flickering tubelights, past darkened conference rooms and up several broad staircases. It was in these kinds of places the secret work of the valley was done. While there were no longer custodians or air purifiers, the stilling remained in place. Sympathy and resonance fell dead here. Only ambition and bitterness were allowed through the seive, in dull and muted form. Nothing here could take hold or pull and so tracking became difficult, remembering a near impossibility. The walls were covered with notes, details of the most insignifigant kind. I looked down and my hands were still covered in the ink.

As we approached a glowing door I was reminded of the other reason secret work was done here. A large conference table was covered in devices shining under the blue light. Portals to oceans of madness, full of the eyes of manufacturers in the rim states. Long since banned in the valley realms and most of the rest of the coast besides, we had rendered them dysfunctional. If you tried to bring one within the walls of the palacia it would turn to ash in your hand. But in Subcontractor City, they still worked.

One entire wall was covered in a screen, all the imagery in shades of blue, the room was drowning. A dizzying succession of scenes overlapped – singers of the mountain havens, lost in their visions, faces twitching and fingers wrapped chaotically but artfully around their instruments, a spinning map of the city of Avalon and the temple of salt below, the famous scene of the General Mia Marisol smashing through the fascist barricade on the Bridge of Mateo, the subject of thousands of murals and tapestries along the coast, her column of delivery trucks converted into tanks, chariots, once even a dragon, the face of the general herself fifteen years ago and now in her exile, a diagram of the old Grapevine wall, the coats of arms of realms and familias known and unknown, all colours stripped but shades of blue.

I was so entranced by this wall of shifting images that I didn’t see the shadowed figures seated around the table. As soon as I did, the wall went dark and the white tublights in the ceiling shifted into fullness. There were twelve others in the room. I recognized the High Marengo, two of the crowns of Neomassilia, an ambassador from the collective of Joaquin as well as one of their healers and, surprisingly, the High Priestess of Citadel. As far as I knew, the rulers of Pasaedian and Citadel had not been in the same room in a generation, but clearly I didn’t know what went on in Subcontractor City.  

In the center of the table was a broad area cleared of all the devices – in it’s center, an empty glass, a small jar holding a tiny sacred traveller, and a translucent pitcher filled halfway with a clear viscous fluid. Voices came from everywhere but from none of them: “we just want you to taste”

From the centers of my feet through my fingertips, the pull was a creature of pure lines within me, a burning wire bent into the shape of my core, drove me as I poured the liquid into the glass, the glass to my self – a slow process, and then slower again – the lights began to fade, as did the presence of my observors. Only the little sacred traveller remained, buzzing in their jar, until the droning of the wings became all there was of reality – my self a loose knot of vibrations held together by pure feeling, falling further apart. The spaces in between the fragments filled with petal and vine, fractal windows into possible worlds. And I could feel all those eyes in the room again, pouring through me, tracking branches, looking for patterns, faces, signs. Cloud formations over the Sea of Cortez. Marisol, a general again, older, returned from exile on the Island of Qatal. Page after page of of flowing prophetic script from the Thinkers under the rock of Morro. A vine, thick and implausible, growing on the outside of the Bubblestate, living on the glass and radiation beneath. The sign of three moons glowing deep beneath the waters of the central Pacific, their light coming up from the depths and shining through blue wave after blue wave, flooding into the room.

The table was empty except for an old coffestain and broken telephone. The wall a loop of static. The corridors and rooms had filled with a pale gray light, subcontractors sat at their terminals, eyes half closed, processing. The scratchings on the wall were no longer visible. In silence, amid a world of machines, I made my way out into the natural light. When I held up my hand to see if the ink remained, it was on fire.

V.

All these years later I still carry a vial of dust That dust

In my memory, dust waiting to fall took the form of vast rectangular structures clustured on the edges of ivers and the junctions of arteries, sparkling with hours

O it waited and waited And you know, what we called, opening the eye

For a lot of people, really just a matter of knowing what was made of dust.  A matter of tasting it. Feeling it.