#Patent Database

[roseband]

oh my god i don't speak to my dad anymore cuz hes nutty but i know what he does for a living

and musk is currently pulling a "the software govs use is 50 years old which means there can be no advances"

and that's..... that's what my dad does for a living, he gets paid 500-1k an hour to make software that specifically communicates with old legacy software cause he's a 90s dev who knows the old languages still and it's more efficient to hire a freak who knows how to make something to bridge between the old and new programs than to fully trash the old system

like there's literally consultants that get hired for that specific purpose and as a software guy musk KNOWS this

[ew-selfish-art]

DP x DC AU: Tim had heard the phrase 'The wrong twin made it home' a number of times in his life, his parents were always very upfront about how the felt towards him. But... 'made it home' doesn't indicate death, does it? ...Tim ends up taking Danny's place by Sam's side in front of Congress to lobby the end of the Anti-Ecto Acts.

...

Tim has been up for hours passed when he told Alfred he would be resting and he's wrapped up his case files into neat little bows to deliver to Babs and the GCPD/Lawyers to do their jobs. Damian had made a comment earlier in their patrol that night about Tim being the wrong sibling to make it to his rescue and... and it got him thinking about that phrase. His parents were negligent with him, certainly, but they were always very clear about how he stood in their eyes. Praise and criticism were the two options, and very strictly limited passes of 'I love yous' that faded as he got older.

He's run his DNA before in the national databases- it was critical for maintaining his Alias' that multiple people didn't flag- but he's never searched in records before. About his twin. About the one who didn't make it home.

And its definitely the lack of sleep, and definitely the lack of brotherly affection he feels these days, but Tim just can't close the door until he's seen a death certificate. He's hacked Gotham General Hospital a million times for work, but doing it for his own gain feels wrong some how and he works with extreme caution. He finds his own birth certificate and... One Theodore Daniel Drake.

Tim snorts with a short ha, pretentious name alert and goes on to find not a single certificate of death or medical record of atypia. Oh no, what he finds is adoption paperwork meant to be closed to all wondering eyes and one Daniel James Fenton leaving the hospital instead. Tim blinks a few times, retraces his steps and then sure enough, learns for a second time that his TWIN was still alive.

Finding the Fentons was easy enough, their Lab address on all of their patents was seemingly also their home address. Danny had a much better hidden internet presence, it was good cybersecurity he'd have to praise him, but Tim had been trained better. Getting into his brother's files... Raised a number of new questions. Why was he compiling evidence against the government? What the fuck was he doing analyzing policy? Why did he have 'rogue' files???

Then Tim hacks into Danny's phone (he's learned at this point that Daniel was a no-go) and sees the conversations between his twin and his twin's best friends.

Sam Manson has an appointment with a Senator to Lobby for the end of the Anti-Ecto Acts. She wants Danny to join her, demonstrate something Tim can't determine, but he's refusing to leave and let his adoptive parents have even a moment to develop a new weapon without him there to destroy it. Someone called CW warned him about changes coming his way or something cryptic. Tim learns a lot from their back and forth, but stops reading once it gets to their personal squabbles.

Tim gets the meeting details and forwards it to Tam- If Danny can't make it... Tim will. And if Tim can't demonstrate whatever Danny was going to, it would at least help to throw around his name.

Tim writes an email to Danny- It's meant to go out after the lobbying appointment- and it explains that Tim found out about him and wants to connect if Danny does, and if Danny doesn't he at least wants to get him set up with his half of the Drake family inheritance. He includes a few personal facts, including that he too ended up adopted in life and had siblings, that he helped run a company and took on the world too soon. It takes a lot out of Tim to be so candid- but he doesn't want Danny to be too blindsided by the Waynes. He attaches a family photo with the label "you'll be able to tell which one is me'.

...

Sam is tapping her stupid, uncomfortable heels waiting for these dumbass, elderly politicians to get their shit together so she can speak. Sam was resourceful and surprisingly, the second she took on politics as a way to waste the family money, her mother Pamela was all for it. She's wanting Sam to run for president now... At least she doesn't complain when Sam organizes protests.

The door behind her opens, and while she knows its not going to be Danny behind her, a girl can feel a bit crushed. She really thought he would be behind her today, but Danny was being weird about this whole thing. Clockwork had him spooked about something changing today, and Danny wanted to be in Amity Park in case it was another Pariah situation or something. His parents had been on edge lately too...

"Sorry, I'm not late am I?" A voice asks and it's just so close but not- Sam turns her head to see Danny in a nice suit with long hair and eyebags way darker than she'd seen on him in a while. This... Wasn't Danny. She blinks, and then something in her anxiously decides that the universe is fucking with her and she will be fighting back.

"Everyone is late." She glares at him, appraising his every move. The woman behind him is typing dedicatedly on her tablet and the man himself looks like he might fall over while he shuffles his files in hand.

"Well, then I'm on time. My name is Tim Drake, I'm here to help your cause in getting the Anti-Ecto acts repealed and the parties responsible for it apprehended."

"Tim Drake? As in-"

"As in Co-CEO of Wayne Enterprises. And I've done a lot of research, so I hope you'll let me play a supportive role while you speak."

"There's no way you've been able to research if you've been out of Amity, The whole city is under a media blackout." Sam's glare looks like it could cut him.

"Not to brag, but that sort of thing doesn't slow me down these days. I've made physical copies of the things they're most likely to delete and I've sent everything to the Justice League, who in turn are sending it to the Lantern Corps." He states matter-of-factly and Sam finally stops being angry at the world to just be... stumped. What the hell was going on?

"How did you... Why?"

"Tam, tell Ms. Manson how passionate I am about human rights?" The guy sounds anxious, the woman rolls her eyes and says "Very." without stopping her typing.

The doors open and Sam has only a moment to decide that Tim can join her... He proves himself to be an asset, and his name alone gets them further than she had anticipated getting today.

....

Danny is watching Sam walk into the space via C-span, gasping when his own likeness follows behind her. What the fuck???

He can barely drag his eyes away as the clone (?) introduces himself as Tim Drake and proceeds to rip them into shreds for delaying Sam Manson of all people. Danny is transfixed and Tucker is blowing up his phone.

"DUDE ARE YOU SEEING THIS?" Tucker's voice loudly calls out the second danny blindly answers.

"Dude, I just, I don't even know? He cant be a clone right? But he's gotta be?" Danny hypothesizes.

"Nah dude, there's like, a whole lifetime of media presence for Tim Drake since he was like, tiny. This is so weird he looks just like you..."

"This is so weird." Danny dumbly agrees because he can't think of anything else to say.

Sam finishes her points, Tim submits the evidence to the court and they leave. Danny's phone pings with an email notification.

"Danny my guy, you should check that, Sam isn't responding yet. Her phone is probably still off."

He follows Tucker's advise and opening his email... Is a new message from Tim Drake.

"...I don't know what the fuck is going on?" Danny continues to say, and Tucker asks him just to read it out loud, "It's just... Apparently I am both adopted and a twin?"

"...My guy." Tucker sounds just as much at a loss.

...

Sam calls them both after Tim Drake is rushed away by his PA Tam (who she found herself admiring more and more), and is relieved when they dont immediately answer by screaming.

"So Danny, Tucker, you guys are traveling with me next weekend." Sam deadpans.

"Apparently shit gets twilight-zone level weird anytime you leave Amity!" Tucker exclaims.

"...What's next weekend?" Danny asks, hesitation in his voice.

"Your twin invited us, well, mostly you, to a Wayne Family Brunch. We're going cause those assholes have money and political influence, you're going because we all probably need to know what the fuck is going on with that guy."

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 166 (Here's to the Birthday Girls!)

Cousins Lavender Gordon and Betta Bell were born just days apart, and they turned five together while Betta stayed with her mother, Holly, and grandmother, Daisy, at the Gordons' home in Brindleton Bay.

To commemorate their shared growth spurt, they posed for a silly selfie in the front yard. As it should be, the family was together. Even Ash was home, and this was perfectionist Lavender's favourite gift of all.

She didn't even mind that they didn't have a bigger party - Lavender thought parties created anticipation, and too much anticipation might lead to disappointment. But her family was too preoccupied with Ash's custody issues and preparing for the arrival of her baby brother to throw a party, anyway.

Cheerful Betta talked excitedly about her cousins coming to stay at her family's loft in the city for a sleepover, but this weekend they were content to stay home and spend time together.

A light spring rain filled the breeze with the mossy scent of petrichor, and they gathered outside to take in the fresh air of Sable Square. When the baby kicked to join the family festivities, Betta curiously felt her Aunt Heather's growing stomach.

"Are you going to have another baby, too, Mommy?" Betta turned to Holly with curious eyes.

"If you want a little brother or sister, you and Tetra might have to convince your father. He's really happy with the two of you."

"But when great-uncle Karl and great-uncle Mortimer move to Willow Creek, we'll have more room for a baby!"

Holly laughed. "You don't have to convince me, kiddo. Talk to your Dad."

"So, how is life in the city for you?" Daisy asked her grandson, trying not to show her distaste for the Landgraabs while she made conversation.

"It's fun, Grandma. I don't like some of the kids at my school, but I don't have to talk to them. Nan and Papa make us feel safe there. Papa's engineering firm is even working on time travel with biometrics so criminals like Marco Peralta won't be able to use it!"

The adults looked between one another with stunned glances. Heather silently fumed; Judge Marlow had told them to avoid discussing ghosts or time travel with their son, but the Landgraabs, as ever, thought themselves above rules everyone else had to follow.

Worse, the Landgraabs were probably responsible for the biometric device used by the slippery time thief Felix and Lilith had gone to 1920 to try to find.

"What's wrong, Mom? Isn't it a good thing to make time travel harder to use?"

She nodded quickly to hide her frustration. "Absolutely. Of course."

Conrad turned his attention to the dogs. He dressed warm to take them out to run around, bringing his phone to update Felix on the latest developments with a video chat.

"I thought you'd want to know it looks like Landgraab Engineering is already working on a biometric device, according to Ash."

"Of course they are. I'll look into it, see if they're breaching the patent. If they are, I'll hopefully be able to shut them down. Oh, by the way, you're on speakerphone. Lilith's haggling with the wedding venue over email right now."

"Hopefully? Hey Lilith."

She called back warmly as the newly-engaged attorney sighed. "I know I'm good at what I do, but the Landgraabs are the Landgraabs."

Conrad frowned. "So, what else is going on in your part of the world?"

"I'm still trying to find a charger that will work on this phone Maude left for us. We wanted Emit to take it to the future, but he said their tech is too advanced and the phone won't work in his time, either. They got rid of cell phone towers centuries ago, apparently."

"I ran a search through the police database for Robin Banks and didn't find anyone matching your description."

"I didn't think you would. I think she's from the future. Maybe not too far into the future if the Landgraabs are already working on biometric time travel."

"Maybe Banks is an alias, or a married name," Conrad brainstormed, as another idea dawned on him entirely. "I think I know who you could talk to about getting into that phone..."

When he returned home, he grabbed a piece of birthday cake while Lavender played with Mayor Whiskers in the kitchen. "Are you going to have a piece of your own cake?"

Lavender shook her head, pulling a piece of leftover cheesecake from the fridge, instead. "This one has no icing, Daddy."

That night, Ash braved a chilly evening at the chicken coop in the yard, helping hatch a new chick he decided to name Coolbeans. He never had opportunities like this is San Myshuno, and he missed listening to the sound of crickets in the brush lining the walking paths around the square.

Wanting to be responsible like her big brother, the next morning Lavender went outside in her pajamas to tend the insect farm. But she ignited a spigot of biofuel, and I legitimately thought I was about to lose my Gen 3 heir but the fire went out thank goodness!

She calmed her nerves from the rapid flames by listening to music from the Grimophone in the living room, and this encouraged Heather to pass down a gift she'd carried in her inventory for decades. Watcher knows why - perhaps Lavender was always destined to be a violinist, and when her dad Neal dug up this child's violin way back in Gen One, he just knew Heather should hold onto it.

"I know how much you love sounds. This might be a sound we all have to get used to, but I hope you enjoy making beautiful music with this one day. Hopefully, it keeps you away from the insect farm for at least a few more years."

Perfectionist Lavender was excited to focus on mastering the instrument, but her early attempts were squeaky and wrought with missed notes. She couldn't grasp everything as easily as her brother, but she was determined not to fade into his highly accomplished shadow.

Undeterred by the noise in the backyard, Lavender's Aunt Holly could still find a way to break into a meditative yoga pose just feet away. In truth, Lavender sounded awful, but Holly liked violin, and she liked supporting her niece's burgeoning interest even more.

With instrument in hand and hours of practice quickly under her belt, Lavender dreamed of being an artistic prodigy.

But would her perfectionism and drive to follow in her genius brother's footsteps help or hurt her along the way? ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

NOTE: With Ash and Lavender fully five years apart, I do have a height preset for Ash but I'm sort of afraid to use it. I know, why download it, etc. But it's there for side sims who need to be tall or short for the plot, for the most part, and I don't want to get too reliant on the preset for storytelling because from what I can tell once it's applied and I save, I can't take it back without removing the cc itself. All that to say that's why they're the same height at ten and five years old at the moment!

NOTE 2: Every age up trait the heir gets comes from the In Bloom Challenge guidelines (the freedom I have is when they gain those traits), but I've tried to show toddler Lavender both into music as well as books, hence the violin skill she must master. She's also the type to get deeply disappointed when the perfect plan she has in mind plays out differently (like finding out she's getting a baby brother instead of a sister). Perfectionism being a bit of a response to her accomplished brother felt like a great base to build Lavender's character on!

FUN FACT: Lavender aged up twice - once for real and once because I had to reshoot Betta, who initially aged up during a stay over and I couldn't edit her randomized look (a medieval cc peasant nightgown and some gumboots!) without cancelling the event. The fun fact is, both times, Lava aged up randomly with lavender-coloured hair - once with an EA swatch and once with cc. I love this because it's been my plan to have her dye her hair when she's older like her namesake grandmother (Conrad's mom) since she aged up to infant and got Heather's hair colour. It's like the game just knew.

[pukefactory]

Hallo! just wanted to ask if you could do some headcannons about Rambly the raccoon? you don't have to if you don't want to.

but if you do, the thanks! :3

𐔌 . ⋮ HEART OF CIRCUITRY .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

⋆.˚ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Rambley The Racoon X Reader

⋆.˚ Character(s): Rambley The Racoon (Indigo Park)

⋆.˚ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

⋆.˚ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

⋆.˚ Image Credits: @tmizus on Pinterest

⋆˚࿔ At first, Rambley treats you like just another guest—excited, animated, and overflowing with welcome dialogue. But the moment you call him by name without prompting, his voice modulator cracks for just a second. “Oh—! You remembered… that’s, uh, that’s neat! Most guests just call me ‘the raccoon guy.’” He rambles more than usual after that, like he doesn’t want the silence to swallow the warmth of that moment.

⋆˚࿔ He insists on giving you personalized tours. Not just “go left for the candy shop,” but “go left, past the decaying animatronic with the funny little hat—it’s a surprise I planted for you!” And if you take too long in one section, his voice crackles through the kiosk speakers like a nervous heartbeat: “Hey buddy… you doing okay over there? Want me to tell a joke? I’ve got a real knee-slapper involving popcorn, a parrot, and light existential dread!”

⋆˚࿔ Rambley talks to you even when you’re not at a kiosk. Through ride speakers. Through flickering CRT monitors. Through emergency lights. “I’m not watching you or anything! That’d be weird! Just… keeping the park lively! Like the good ol’ days!” He tries to laugh it off, but the loneliness in his voice makes even the laugh feel brittle.

⋆˚࿔Sometimes, when the power flickers and the speakers lag, his tone changes. It’s still Rambley, but slower, heavier, like the weight of eight silent years suddenly climbing onto his back. “You… you won’t leave, right? I mean. You can leave! Guests can always leave! Haha. But… maybe not. Not yet.”

⋆˚࿔ You once jokingly called Rambley your “partner in crime” while on a scavenger hunt for lost collectibles. He went dead silent for three whole seconds. Then: “Partner… like… you mean we’re a duo? Like peanut butter and train whistles?” He brings it up constantly after. “C’mon partner!” “What should we do today, partner?” He’s clinging to that word like it’s a lifeline.

⋆˚࿔ He starts modifying sections of the park for you. “A little detour for my favorite guest-slash-life-coach!” He tries to make you laugh with goofy animatronic skits or overly theatrical narrations, but he always watches to see if you really smile. You can hear it in how he perks up when you laugh: “There it is! The patented smile! I’m logging that reaction to the Guest Happiness Database. For science.”

⋆˚࿔ He’s jealous of your time. Not in a controlling way—but if you linger too long near another character’s exhibit, his tone dips into faux-casual territory. “Oh wow, look at you getting cozy with Finley. Neat. Really neat. Hope he’s not telling you that weird story about the log flume again. Y’know, some raccoons also have long histories and charming voices. Just saying.”

⋆˚࿔ When you ask what his favourite ride is, he gives the expected answer—Rambley’s Railway!—but then gets real quiet and says, “…but it’s not the same without anyone to share it with.” You ride it anyway, alone in the broken-down car while his voice guides you, and he hums a little train tune over the speakers. It sounds like an old memory trying not to fade.

⋆˚࿔ He calls you his “+1” in everything now. “Today’s maintenance checklist? Guess who’s my emotional support +1! That’s right, it’s you, you lucky duck!” He gamifies chores to keep himself from spiraling into old code loops. Helping him rewire a fuse box becomes a full-fledged quest with its own theme music. He composes one just for you using the sound files in his archive. It’s glitchy and a little off-key, but it’s yours.

⋆˚࿔ If you ever say goodbye—even as a joke—his programming stutters. The kiosks flicker. The critter cuff buzzes erratically. “Wait. Wait, wait. You—you’re not really leaving, right? That wasn’t like a… a final goodbye, was it?” His voice wavers, autotune distortion leaking into panic. “I—I can change! I can tell better jokes! I can build you a whole new ride! Just… don’t go. Don’t leave me empty again.”

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Playthings | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (Eventual ? ;) )

Warnings: DESCRIPTIONS OF CHILDHOOD PARENTAL ABUSE. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THIS. descriptions of parental death, canon violence, canon gore. please take care of yourselves, lovebugs. 

Word Count: 6025

A/N: look at his gorgeous face i'm gonna scream.

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

Dean definitely changed after that night with you before Sam disappeared. To be fair, you had as well. But both of you refused to talk about it. It was just subtle enough that Sam couldn’t pick up on it, but there were some lingering glances Dean stole at you and moments when your heart would swell in your chest just catching sight of him. 

Well, Sam probably would have noticed your change in behavior had it not been for the John-Winchester-level investigation he was doing into Ava’s disappearance. Papers covered every inch of your motel room in Peoria, Illinois; some of which were of Ava’s face, some of etchings of demons from the pages of library books, and some even you couldn’t quite make out. You were one-hundred percent beginning to worry about Sam’s mental state.

He’d been on the phone with Ellen for about thirty minutes now searching for more information. You sat on the floor, leaned against Dean’s bed, scribbling in your journal. Dean returned to the room carrying three coffee cups toward the end of Sam’s phone call. “What'd she have to say?”

Sam sighed. “Oh, she's got nothing. Me, I've been checking every database I can think of— federal, state, and local. No one's heard anything about Ava, she just— into thin air, you know?”

Your lips twisted to the side in confusion. He gave you a coffee cup and one to Sam.

“Ellen did have one thing,” said Sam. “A hotel in Cornwall, Connecticut. Two freak accidents in the past three weeks.”

“What’s that got to do with Ava?” you questioned.

“It’s a job,” he replied simply. “I mean, a lady drowned in the bathtub; then a few days ago a guy falls down the stairs, head turns a complete one-eighty. Which isn't exactly normal, you know? Look, I don't know, it might be nothing, but I told Ellen we'd think about checking it out.”

Dean’s eyebrows raised. “You did?”

Sam scoffed. “Yeah. You seem surprised.”

“Well yeah, it's just, you know. not the, uh, patented ‘Sam Winchester’ way, is it?” Dean joked.

Sam deadpanned at him, “What way is that?”

“I just figured after Ava there'd be, uh, you know, more angst and droopy music and staring out the rainy windows, and—”

You gave Dean a look.

He deflated. “Yeah, I’ll shut up now.”

“Look,” Sam huffed. “I'm the one who told her to go back home. Now her fiancé's dead, and some demon has taken her off to god knows where. You know? But we've been looking for a month now, and we've got nothing. So I'm not giving up on her, but I'm not going to let other people die either. We've got to save as many people as we can.”

Dean snorted. “Wow. That attitude is just way too healthy for me, and I'm officially uncomfortable now. Thank you.”

Sam ducked his head, chuckling, as did you.

“I’ll call Ellen,” you said. “I’ll tell her we'll take it.”

***

“Dean, can I pick a cassette? I’m dyin’ over here with Metallica. Love ‘em, but you haven’t changed the tape in, like, a week and a half now,” you groaned.

“(Y/N), you know the rules,” Dean warned.

“Yeah, but—”

“ ‘Sides,” he cut you off, “We’re almost there anyway. I’ll change it when we’re back on the road, deal?” 

“Deal.”

Sam looked between the two of you strangely. 

“What?” Dean questioned.

“When’s the last time you changed your music when somebody asked you to?” Sam questioned.

Dean thought for a moment. 

The younger brother shook his head. “Exactly.”

“I’m thinking,” replied Dean, scratching his head. He seemed to pick up on what Sam was suggesting and was doing his best to dodge questions. You understood; the two of you hadn’t exactly had an opportunity to discuss anything— not that you even wanted to. You were perfectly content just… “being,” as you’d written in your journal.

The car’s rumble quieted down considerably as Dean slowed in front of a victorian-style structure marked “Pierpont Inn” by the sign on the front. The air was slightly misty, blanketing the ground in a bit of a haze as your boots hit uneven gravel.

“Dude, this is sweet. I never get to work jobs like this,” Dean grinned.

“Like what?” you asked.

“Old school haunted houses, you know? Fog and secret passageways, sissy British accents— might even run into Fred and Daphne while we're inside.” He closed his eyes contentedly. “Mmm, Daphne. Love her.”

You jokingly shoved his head as if to say, “Shame on you, I’m right here.”

He chuckled at your antics. Sam turned to you strangely once more, but shook his head.

You noticed an urn on the porch next to the front door. “Hey, wait a sec,” you said, inspecting the urn more closely. You noticed a five-point symbol engraved on the urn. “I’m not so sure ‘haunted’ is the problem.”

“What do you mean?” Dean questioned. 

Sam nodded. “Good eye, (Y/N/N). That's a quincunx; that's a five-spot.”

“Five-spot,” Dean repeated. “That's used for hoodoo spellwork, isn't it?”

The brunet affirmed, “Right, yeah. You fill this thing with bloodweed and you've got a powerful charm to ward off enemies.”

“Only thing is,” you began, “I don’t see any bloodweed.”

“Yeah, anyway, don't you think this place is a little too, uh, white meat for Hoodoo?” Dean jested.

Sam shrugged. “Maybe.”

You held the door open for the brothers and followed in behind them. An auburn-haired woman briskly entered the room. “May I help you?” she asked.

“Hi, yeah, we’d like two rooms for a couple of nights,” Dean said. 

You jolted back as a young girl darted in front of your legs. You smiled at her as she ran away giggling; you couldn’t remember a time when you’d ever felt that innocent. 

“Hey!” the woman called after the girl. She gave you a weary smile. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” you said.

She sighed. “Well, um, congratulations, you could be some of our final guests.”

“Well, sounds vaguely ominous,” Dean stated.

You fought back a grin. 

“No, I'm sorry, I mean we're closing at the end of the month,” she said, seeming a little sad. 

“Yeah, I heard. I’m sorry about that,” you told her. “I’m into antiquing; this place came up on my radar. Figured I’d stop by before you guys shut down. I, uh, dragged these two along for the ride,” you finished, gesturing between Dean and Sam.

“Y'know, speaking of antiques,” Sam cut in, “you have a really, really interesting urn on the front porch. Where did you get that?”

“Oh, I have no idea, it's been there forever,” the woman shrugged. “So, two rooms, two kings?” 

“No, no,” Dean said hurriedly. “We’re brothers. (Y/N)’s just a friend.”

You nodded, feeling slightly upset by being called “just a friend,” but you understood why he did. Still, you wanted him to proudly show you off and claim you as his. “Two queens. And a king, please,” you said, handing her your card. 

Moments later, she handed it back to you along with a key. 

“Thanks,” you told her as she rang the bell on the desk next to her.

“You'll be staying in rooms two-thirty-seven and two-thirty-eight. Sherwin, could you show these people to their rooms?”

You turned to see a balding old man in a black blazer shuffling up behind you. You found him incredibly endearing. He grinned at you, introduced himself, and dragged your clunking duffel bag up behind him.

“I could give you a hand with that,” you suggested to him.

“I got it,” he politely insisted.

You smiled softly at him, grateful.

“So the hotel's closing up, huh?” Sam jumped in.

“Yep. Miss Susan tried to make a go of it, but the guests just don't come like they used to. Still, it's a damn shame,” he explained.

“Oh yeah?”

He went on to explain the history of the hotel; lots of weddings, politicians, and a popular spot for those passing through. He let you into your room, and you tipped him generously before telling him goodbye.

The decor of the room unsettled you quite a bit. An antique wedding dress was displayed on the wall in a weird configuration that almost made it seem like someone was actively wearing it. The room itself was clean, but everything about it made a chill crawl up your spine. You’d take a dilapidated motel room with possible bed bugs over an inn where someone definitely died on the pillow you were going to have to sleep on. 

You connected the victims from the file you put together that both victims were tied up in shutting the hotel down. However, Susan and Sherwin didn’t strike you as the type to be dabbling in spellwork. Given what she said about the urn, you thought it possible that someone who owned the hotel previously or worked here long ago was dealing in hoodoo. 

You caught sight of the little girl running around outside on the playground and heading over to one of the swings. Seeing her so happy sucked you back into your memories.

Reliving your memories always gave you an almost bird’s-eye-view of the situation; you weren’t you. You were standing in the corners of your memories, helpless to change anything and forced to watch your younger self go through those moments all over again.

Your dad was cleaning his guns on the “dining room” table of the motel you were holed up in for the week. You couldn’t have been anymore than ten at the time of this memory. Stevie was playing on the floor of the room with a truck while Scooby-Doo, his favorite cartoon, played in the background on the staticky television. 

“Dad, I want my toys back. I promise I’ll still practice, can I have them back?” you pleaded.

“No can do, kiddo. I sold ‘em,” he replied, not looking up at you. 

“What? Why?” you sniffled, beginning to well up with tears.

“Baby, my job doesn’t pay well. I needed that money to get Stevie his toys,” he sighed. “Besides, you’re better off training with me than playing.”

“But… I don’t wanna train,” you cried softly.

Your father’s head snapped up to you, and he slammed the gun he was cleaning on the table. “Too damn bad. This is important, (Y/N). You’re the big sister. I need you sharp for when mom and I are out.”

“But Dad—”

“(Y/N). Enough,” he stated menacingly.

You cowered away, wiping your nose with the back of your sweater sleeve. 

Your dad picked part of his gun up again. “And cut the crying crap. You’re too big for that.”

Your heart broke as you watched little you trying to stifle your cries. You knew if you kept crying for much longer, your father would be sure to punish you. You wanted nothing more than to hug your smaller self and tell her that it was okay to be sad, and your father was wrong. You watched Steven get up from the floor and bring you his well-loved toy airplane. He offered it up to you, and you took it, smiling through a sniffle. That gesture broke you even more. 

Your brother’s kindness truly knew no bounds. He was often the one to pick up the pieces after you’d gotten into a fight with your father or mother. As much as you tried to be the strong one for your little brother, there were just some things you couldn’t hide from him.

You were sucked into another memory from that stream of consciousness.

“Dad, I wasn’t gonna shoot with you standing in the way! I couldn’t get a clear shot!” you screamed at him. The two of you had gone after a werewolf in Arkansas, leaving your twelve-old-brother and mom back in the motel room. Your dad had insisted you needed to kill this thing yourself as one of the many tests he laid for you to prove your abilities. You were fourteen at the time.

“(Y/N), we’ve discussed this. You always. Take. The shot. No matter what,” he argued.

“What, even if it costs me somebody else’s life?” you protested.

“You should be a good-enough shot that that shouldn’t matter!” he roared. “You and I are going to the range. First thing tomorrow.”

“Dad, no,” you shook your head, backing up in fear. The last time you missed a shot on one of the moving targets, he beat you so hard when you got back to your motel room that he bruised one of your ribs.

He glared at you harshly, stepping closer to you. “What was that?”

“I— I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Uh-uh,” he said firmly. “You know ‘I didn’t mean to’ doesn’t mean shit. You argued with me. We’ll go to the range every day for the next week.”

You brushed the scar on the right side of your jaw from the beating that followed one of your sessions at the range that week as you came out of the memory. He punched you so hard that he split the skin deeply, and you had to stitch it up yourself. You refused to speak to your father for a month after that.

“I do this because I love you,” he’d said. “I need you to keep getting better, so I know you’ll be safe when you’re on your own. I want you to be even better than me.” 

You’d been doing well with keeping memories like that at bay while you helped Dean and Sam recover from their father’s passing. However, it was beginning to overwhelm you. The mental walls you’d built around those awful memories were beginning to crack. Leaking through those cracks was the memory of having to lay your parents to rest.

Their screams had been horrible. As fangs ripped through their gums, red rimming their eyes as the blood of the recently-decapitated vampire dripped from their lips. Your father approached you first, teeth bared. You ran through the hallways of the abandoned house, trying to find a way out. The windows of the house had been boarded, though, giving you no opportunity to escape. Cornered in a room at the back of the house, you realized what this would likely come to. You gripped the handle of your machete tightly, tears streaming down your face as your father broke into the room by destroying the door. 

“Dad, stop!” you pleaded. He approached you slowly, chest heaving as he noticed a cut on your arm that one of the vampires you’d slaughtered earlier had given you. He stalked toward you, teeth glistening in the room’s dim light.

“Dad, please! Don’t make me hurt you!”

“(Y/N), you have to—” he breathed out. “I can’t control myself—”

You shook your head furiously. “Dad, I won’t—”

“(Y/N)!” he roared. “You have to!”

Your tears flowed freely down your face.

“(Y/N)! Now!” he ordered, just as he reached you. 

Your sobs wracked your body as you sliced his head clean off. Your breath caught in your throat as you heaved, trying your hardest to gain your composure. You knew your mother wouldn’t be far behind him, and you were trying to keep yourself from breaking down and becoming vulnerable to your mother’s attack.

“(Y/N)!” she called. “Baby, please! Please, help me!”

You ran to her despite your instinct telling you not to. When you arrived, she was sobbing on the floor, shaking. You stayed a distance back from her to avoid her lunging at you.

“Baby, please— you have to—”

You shook your head. “Not you, too, Momma. Please—”

“Baby,” she sobbed. “I can’t control it. I don’t wanna be this. Please. Please!”

“Momma, I can’t—” You backed away from her. 

“I won’t be a monster,” she said. “Listen to me.” She temporarily stopped her cries and steadied herself. “You have to. Please. It’s okay.”

You took in a shaky breath.

“(Y/N), I don’t want to hurt you,” she continued. “I don’t wanna hurt Steven. Please.”

At the mention of her potentially hurting your brother, you nodded. “I’m so sorry,” you cried.

“It’s okay, my girl. It’s okay,” she said, closing her eyes in preparation for the blow.

You swung your machete forcefully to make sure her death was quick and as painless as possible. Horrified by your actions, you dropped the machete and screamed. You sank to the floor next to your mother’s body and cried, draping yourself over her bleeding, headless body.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” you sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

Forcing yourself back to the present moment, you took in a shuddering breath. You pressed your hand to your mouth to keep yourself from crying out as you sank to the floor. You buried your hands in your hair and pulled your knees up to your chest, allowing yourself to cry for the first time in quite a while. 

“(Y/N)?” you heard from the other side of the door.

‘Dean.’ You couldn’t respond due to the hold in your throat trying to suppress your cries.

“(Y/N), I think we got something, you in there?” he tried again.

Still, you couldn’t answer.

You heard him fiddling with the lock for a few moments before entering your room, searching for you frantically. When his eyes landed on your crumpled form, he rushed to your side. “(Y/N), hey, hey.” He held your head in his hands and swiped away tears with his thumbs. “Hey, I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You collapsed into his arms and wrapped your arms around his neck. You buried your face in his chest as you clung to him, and he held your head to him with one hand and held your waist with the other. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay.”

Comforted by his presence, your sobs turned to sniffles. You wiped tears away with the backs of your hands and apologized profusely for crying all over him.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “What happened?”

“Just… memories.” Your mind was still hazy.

He nodded solemnly. Neither of you needed to say anything after that. He just held your hand and sat with you against your bed while you tried to collect yourself. When you had, Dean talked again. 

“C’mon,” he said, standing. He pulled you up with him. “You want a burger? I’m starving.”

You snorted, grinning widely, and nodded. 

***

“So,” Dean began through a bite of his cheeseburger, “We think the shut-in granny might be our witch doctor.”

“What makes you say that?” you questioned, chomping a fry.

“She’s got a bunch of creepy ass dolls, Susan was really weird about us going to see her, and they’ve got a creepy ass exact replica of the hotel,” he explained.

“Dolls can be used in hoodoo spellwork,” you considered. “So, I’m guessing after dinner, you and I are lookin’ into the grandma?”

“Yahtzee.”

“What about Sam?”

“Left his ass back at the room. He’s got enough laptop research on his plate to last him enough time for us to look into the history of the hotel at the library.”

“Aw, why’d you do that to him?” you pouted, smiling a little. 

“He’s a nerd. Probably enjoys it,” he shrugged.

“You sure you’re not using this as an excuse to get me alone?” Your tone shifted to slightly more sultry, attempting to tease him.

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, I’m a professional. Just thought the two of us could cover more ground lookin’ up the records together.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Sure.”

***

When you returned to the inn, police and EMTs were flanking the building. 

“What the fu—” you mumbled, looking around. You spotted Susan, and you and Dean hurried to her. 

“What happened?” Dean asked.

“Oh, the maid went in to turn down the sheets and he was just… hanging there,” she explained, covering her mouth with her hand.

“That's awful. He was a guest?” you asked.

“He worked for the company that bought the place.”

Dean hummed. You’d discussed your theory with him about the spellwork being used against people trying to get rid of the hotel. 

Susan shook her head. “I don't understand.”

“What?” Dean pressed.

“Had a lot of bad luck around here,” she sighed. “Look, if you'd like to check out, I'll give you a full refund.”

Dean shook his head. “No thanks. I don't scare that easy.”

When you arrived at Sam and Dean’s room, Sam had his back turned to the door and was sitting in an armchair.

Dean was all-business as he shut the door behind him. “There's been another one. Some guy just hung himself in his room.”

“Yeah. I saw,” Sam said.

You turned to him, surprised. His tone wasn’t usually that dark.

“We've gotta figure this out, and fast. What'd you find out about Granny?” Dean said, still pacing.

Sam raised his hands sarcastically, mocking his brother. “You’re the boss.”

Dean wheeled around in surprise. “What?”

“You’re bossy. And short,” Sam giggled. He actually giggled.

“Are you drunk?” you asked him.

“Yeah,” he replied, still laughing. “So? Stupid.”

You suddenly noticed the several empty bottles around the room.

“Dude, what are you thinking? We're working a case,” Dean scolded.

Sam began to tear up, staring at nothing. “That guy who hung himself. I couldn't save him.”

“What are you talking about? You didn't know, you couldn't have done anything,” Dean assured.

Sam moved his gaze to his brother. “That's an excuse, Dean. I should have found a way to save him. I should have saved Ava, too.”

Dean approached his brother. “Yeah, well, you can't save everyone. Even you said that.”

Sam slammed the table next to him. “No, Dean, you don't understand, all right? The more people I save, the more I can change!”

“Change what?” you asked.

He leaned forward toward you, a hand to his chest. “My destiny, (Y/N)!” 

“Alright. Time for bed. Come on, Sasquatch.” Dean leaned over and hauled Sam up by the shoulders. “Come on.”

“I need you to watch out for me,” mumbled Sam.

“Yeah, I always do,” Dean said simply.

Sam stopped his brother. “No! No, no, no. You have to watch out for me, all right? And if I ever... turn into something that I'm not… you have to kill me.”

“Sam—” Dean protested.

Sam shoved Dean to get him to face him. “Dean! Dad told you to do it, you have to.”

“Yeah, well, Dad's an ass,” Dean replied. “He never should have said anything. I mean, you don't do that, you don't, you don't lay that kind of crap on your kids.”

“No. He was right to say it!” Sam cried. “Who knows what I might become? Even now, everyone around me dies!”

“Yeah, well, I'm not dying, okay? And neither are you. Neither is (Y/N). Come on. Sam.” 

He pushed Dean down onto the bed, but Sam remained seated, clutching Dean’s jacket. “No, please! Promise.”

Dean shook his head. “Don't ask that of me.”

“(Y/N), please—”

“(Y/N), don’t you dare!” Dean cut his younger brother off.

“Sam, I can’t do that,” you protested.

“(Y/N), please.” Sam stared past his brother at you with sad eyes. “You have to promise me.”

You looked between Sam and Dean. Dean cut his eyes at you harshly. However, you knew Dean could never kill his brother if it really came down to it. You weren’t sure you would, either, but you would rather Dean not have another dead family member to blame himself for.

“I promise,” you mumbled.

“Thanks,” Sam grinned. He extended a hand to you. You grabbed it and squeezed. “Thank you. You are—”

“Alright. Come on,” Dean grumbled. He shoved Sam back on the bed. Sam hugged his pillow and snuggled into it. You stared at him sadly, afraid to meet Dean’s gaze.

You turned and left the room, Dean hot on your heels as you unlocked your door.

“How dare you,” he growled. “What the fuck, (Y/N)?! I’m not gonna let you kill my brother!”

“And I’m not gonna do it, either!” you argued, shutting the door behind him. “But I couldn’t let you promise that. I won’t let you.”

“And why not?!” He roared.

“Because I’m not gonna let you have another death to blame yourself for! You’re falling apart, Dean,” you pointed out. “No matter what I say, you’re always gonna blame yourself for John. I’m sure, in some ways, you blame yourself for your mom. Sam is your world. Trust me, I know how that feels. I won’t let you be the one responsible for his death.” You held your ground as he stepped closer to you. 

“You don’t get to make that call for me, (Y/N)!” he yelled. “I don’t care what happens, you’re not fucking killing Sam.”

“Dean, you think I wanna kill him? Fuck no! He’s family to me,” you retaliated. “You know I wouldn’t do that to him. But I also saw your face. You were gonna promise him, weren’t you?”

He didn’t answer, looking away from you.

“Exactly. I’d rather you blame me than yourself,” you said, voice quieting considerably.

Dean’s turned-away face was set in hard lines, but he seemed to have nothing else to say.

You stepped in front of him and held up your pinky. “I promise you, I won’t make a move on Sam unless it’s absolutely last resort. I promise I’m gonna do everything I can to try and save him, first. And even then, I won’t do anything until you give the okay.”

Dean considered for a moment, and you could see his brain flooding with conflicting thoughts. Finally and wordlessly, he linked your pinky with his.

“My parents begged me to kill them,” you said after a moment. “I didn’t want to. Everything in me screamed at me not to. But I realized they didn’t wanna become something that wasn’t, y’know, them. I can imagine Sam’s in the same spot. Except… he knows it’s coming. He wants to know that if it does happen, we’ll take care of him.”

Dean still didn't say a word to you for another few moments. “I’m gonna get a drink,” he said finally.

“Okay. G’night, Dean.”

***

The next morning, you were afraid to talk to Dean or Sam. You didn’t want Sam to remember the promise you made to him, and you didn’t want Dean to be upset with you because you were trying to protect him and his heart. You didn’t want him to have to cope with the guilt you felt every single day, clawing at your heartstrings and pounding against your memories. 

Knuckles rapped against the door of your room. Having been dressed since three that morning, you opened the door expecting Sherwin or Susan. Instead, it was Sam.

“Oh, hey!” you said cheerfully.

“Hey,” he grimaced.

“Hungover?”

He nodded. “Look, uh, we’re gonna go talk to Rose. You should come with.”

“Sure,” you said. You couldn’t quite gauge if Sam remembered what you, he, and Dean had talked about the night before.

Dean picked the lock to the private quarters after ensuring the room was clear. You headed up a winding staircase to see an old woman, possibly in her nineties, sitting in a wheelchair. She was trembling unceasingly, and you started connecting the dots as to what was going on here.

“Guys… she’s had a stroke,” you explained gently as the two of them were trying to soothe her tremors.

Dean turned and spoke to you for the first time that morning. “Yeah, but Hoodoo's hands-on; I mean, you've got to mix herbs, chant, and build an altar.”

“Yeah. So it can't be Rose,” Sam added. “Hey, maybe it's not even Hoodoo.”

“Or she could be faking,” Dean suggested.

You scoffed. “Yeah, what are you gonna do, poke her with a stick?”

Dean frowned, nodding.

“Dude! You’re not gonna poke her with a stick!” you hissed.

“What the hell?!” came Susan’s voice from behind you. “What are you doing in here?”

You and the brothers babbled, searching for an explanation.

Susan rushed over to her mother. “Look at her, she is scared out of her wits. I want you out of my hotel in two minutes or I'm calling the cops.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you nodded, leaving without hesitation.

***

When you got in the car, Dean pulled just down the road from the hotel to watch the entrance and exits for anything suspicious and searching for an opportunity to go back inside.

You and Dean still hadn’t spoken to each other. It was odd; usually you were talking to each other at a mile a minute. However, to your shock, Dean took out the Metallica cassette tape he promised he’d change and replaced it with your favorite Alice in Chains cassette; “Facelift.” You took it as a sign of goodwill and smiled to yourself.

About an hour or two passed before you saw Susan exiting the hotel and packing boxes into her car. You and the brothers ducked down when you noticed Sherwin driving in your direction. When your heads popped back up, Susan was walking over to the playground at the sight of a swing moving back and forth on its own. Without needing to say anything, you and the boys hopped out of the car and sprinted into the woods to get closer to the situation and help Susan, should anything happen. 

The see-saw moved up and down next, then the rest of the playset. Suddenly, her red car’s engine revved. Sam knew what was going to happen and ran at Susan to tackle her out of the way of the charging vehicle. 

“Are you okay?” he asked her while he pulled her up from the ground.

“I think so,” she replied breathlessly.

“C’mon, let’s get inside, let’s go,” Dean ordered.

Sam helped Susan into the inn and over to the bar.

“Whiskey,” Susan demanded when she sat down.

You headed behind the bar and slid it over to her.

“What the hell happened out there?” she asked.

“You want the truth?” Dean chimed in. 

She nodded.

“Well, at first, we thought it was some sort of Hoodoo curse,” the older brother began, “but that out there? That was definitely a spirit.”

Susan scoffed. “You're insane.”

“Probably,” you shrugged.

“Look, I'm sorry, Susan. We don't exactly have time to ease you into this, but we need to know when your mother had the stroke,” Sam urged.

She looked at him strangely. “What does that have to do with any—”

“Just answer the question.”

“About a month ago.”

You licked your teeth. “Right before the killings started.” 

Sam looked to you and Dean. “See? So what if Rose was working Hoodoo, but not to hurt anyone. To protect them.”

“She was using the five spot urns to ward off the spirit,” Dean noted.

“Right, until she had a stroke, and she couldn't anymore,” the brunet finished.

Susan laughed humorlessly. “I don't believe this.”

“Listen, sister,” Dean grunted, “that car didn't try to run you down by itself, okay? I mean, I guess it did, technically, but, but the spirit can— forget it.”

Sam interrupted his brother’s quickly derailing train of thought. “Look, believe what you want. But the fact is you and your family are in danger, all right? So you need to clear everybody out of here: your employees, your mother, your daughters, everyone.”

“Um, I only have one daughter,” Susan replied.

“One?” Sam questioned. “I thought Tyler had a sister named Maggie.”

“Maggie's imaginary,” she said simply.

‘Fuck,’ you thought. “Where’s Tyler?” you asked, trying to keep your cool.

“Uh, maybe in the playroom,” Susan suggested, sounding frantic. “Tyler!” she called as she burst through its door. 

You were horrified to see the floor littered with broken porcelain dolls, and Susan’s panic became worse. “Oh, my god. Tyler. Tyler!”

“Susan, tell us what you know about Maggie,” Sam demanded.

She tried to steady herself. “Uh, not much. Um, Tyler's been talking about her since Mom got sick.”

“Okay, did you ever know anyone by that name?”

She shook her head.

“No dead relatives?” you chimed in. “Maybe somebody who used to work or live here?”

“Oh, my god,” she realized. “My mom. My mom had a sister named Maggie. She died when she was little.”

“Uh-huh,” you encouraged. “Where?”

“She drowned in the pool!”

***

You and the Winchesters raced to the poolhouse with Susan in tow. You could see Tyler standing on the opposite side of the balcony, leaning forward.

“Tyler!” her mother screamed.

You ran to the other side after spotting a glass window across the way. You took the butt of your gun that was tucked into your jeans and smashed the glass with it. Your breath caught at the sight of Tyler falling into the pool below, screaming. 

Finally, you managed to get the glass broken enough to get through. You dove over the balcony’s railing headfirst toward the little girl wrapped in the plastic tarp from her struggling. You turned on your back and kicked with all your might over to the side of the pool, holding the unconscious girl in your arms. You gently laid her on the pool’s edge, listening for a pulse. Thankfully, it was there, and all you could do was wait to see if she woke up.

Moments later, Tyler sputtered, choking on water, and she woke up.

“Thank god!” Susan cried, pulling her daughter into her lap. “Thank god, thank god.”

Soaking wet, you crawled out of the pool. “Tyler, do you see Maggie anywhere?”

The girl shook her head. “No, she's gone.” She buried her face in her mother’s neck, hugging her tightly. Your heart broke a little at the sight.

You rung your hair out and followed behind Sam and Dean as they discussed Maggie’s potential whereabouts, heading back up to the hotel.

Susan held Tyler close as they climbed the stairs to get the eldest woman in their family and leave the hotel.

Cold and shaking from the pool mixed with the slight chill in the air, your teeth began to chatter. Wordlessly, Dean took his leather jacket off and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you smiled sheepishly.

Suddenly, Susan screamed loudly. You and the boys ran up the stairs to see Rose slumped over in her wheelchair, dead.

***

Paramedics swarmed about as Sam attempted to comfort Susan and send them off. You were slightly drier, now, having changed into a different set of clothes. Still, you kept Dean’s much larger jacket wrapped around your body. The man in question leaned against the Impala next to you.

“Are… are we okay?” you asked suddenly.

He turned to you, arms crossed. “I don’t know, are we?”

You grimaced. “I just, after last night, I just wanted to make sure that—”

“Yeah, (Y/N), we’re fine. But I don’t wanna keep bringing it up.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

A moment of tense silence passed. Then, he draped his arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to the side of your head. “Promise. We’re fine.”

You stuck out your pinky. He chuckled and linked yours with his.

Sam approached you and Dean, still seeming confused by the two of you. He shook his head, though, deciding against asking. 

“Feels good getting back in the saddle, doesn't it?” Dean smirked at his brother.

“Yeah, it does,” Sam nodded. “But it doesn't change what we talked about last night, Dean.” 

“We talked about a lot of things last night.” Dean’s voice had a warning edge to it.

“You know what I mean.”

“You were wasted.”

“But she wasn’t. And she promised,” Sam said.

You looked up at him. “Sam—”

“You promised, (Y/N).”

You had nothing to say to that. “But I am gonna try everything in my power not to have to do that,” you added. 

Sam nodded solemnly. The three of you got in the car without speaking to each other and cruised down the road as Alice in Chains played in the background. 

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[zephyr-ro-emenki]

Ok, I have 3 days of RBH's to make and post today to make up for me missing the past 2 days. So, let's hit the road!

Random Batfam Headcanon's #22: The Adoption Habit Trilogy!

The Batkids have unknowingly inherited Bruce's patent for Adopting things, but the things they adopt are vastly different.

Dick: he has a bad (or sometimes good) Habit of Adopting new hobbies and interests at the flip of a dime. This is most likely just his old circus lifestyle + his ADHD catching up to him in his older years, but he can't keep still or do any 1 career for too long without it being monotonous. The only exception is Vigilantism because each night is vastly different than the night before.

Barbara: Babs has the habit of adopting the many regulars at Gotham Library as under her protection like Jason with Crime Alley.

Jason: He, ironically enough (and never let Jason or Bruce hear this), is the most like Bruce, because his adoption habit is ALSO towards traumatized orphan Kids (and normal kids with a little bit of a sad life. We don't judge), except he's set his scope a lot smaller than Bruce's in that he tries to limit his range to just Crime Alley. Of course he fails spectacularly and has a small caballe of International Children he's picked up on missions living together in Crime Alley, always having their various apartments directly across the street from his most secure Safe Houses. He also has an inexplicably near-complete collection of every variant of Jane Austin Novels.

Tim: Tim Collects Photos and used Coffee Cups. Does he also only save those coffee cups so he can extract the persons DNA into a vast database of his so that he may clone any of the Batfam (or all of humanity if needed) in case of world disaster events? Don't worry about it :)

Steph: Steph is probably the most normal when it comes to her Adoption/Collection because she has a very vast collection of random knickknacks that she's found or acquired over the years.

Cass: Cass has been testing out her sowing skills alot and so has conducted her own small game at her apartment in Korea (not that she doesn't bring it home to Gotham with her). And that's the fact that she's begun swiping up damaged bits of everyone's costumes after fights, and just random weapons or costume parts that the Batfam leave around the Manor, and she takes them back to Korea to stitch all the random pieces back together into her own version of the Batcave's suit display cases. So far the only suit she hasn't been able to start is Barbara's Batgirl suit design, but even then she's looking at that display case every time she's visiting like Indiana Jones trying to steal that golden statue.

Damian: Damian, Being both Bruce's direct blood relative and being raised by the Eco-Terrorists that are the LOA, adopts any random animals he can find, especially those that have naturally occurring Bat Shaped Birth Marks.

Duke: Duke is the kind of Whippersnapper to collect indie Rap mixtapes. You know, the ones from up and coming rappers who stand outside a 7/11 trying to sell anyone their debut mixtape for only $9. He has a pretty vast collection.

[ljlokijinx]

Another !information broker Peter au cause I'm in love with the idea.

Peter grew up in ugly streets, crime in the air, swarming like hornets. He saw things no child should see. He heard things no one was meant to hear.

At ten, he gets cornered by some gangster, recognized as a cops nephew.

"Why should I let you live, huh?"

And Peter recognizes the tattoo on the man's arm, knows what it means.

"Because you're going to be attacked by your rival next week and I know the details."

The next time he snitches, it's in exchange for money. The criminals realize he's valuable, he can sneak around and isn't paid much attention, they can spare a few dollars. Helping these people feels wrong, but if it means May and Ben can eat a little more tonight? He will gladly ignore the twisting in his gut.

He starts wearing a mask. He starts working with others, charging more. He learns how to put on disguises and pretend he belongs, how to fade into shadow, how to hack into the most secure databases, how to break into tight vaults and safes.

He learns how to fight dirty. To kick low, to break knees, throat punch, stab into eyes. He learns how to shoot a gun, how to do it in a way that won't kill people.

His connections grow, and he gains power, enough to refuse certain people things, he can ruin them with such ease-

bam.

The Police say it was a random mugger, but Peter knows. Knows his uncle was shot because of him.

He hangs up the mask.

He gets superpowers. He does not become a hero, it will only get more people hurt.

Two years later, there is a boy at SI. Tony, stressed from Natasha's recent injuries after her mission, laughingly tells the interns that if they figure out a patent to help in the field, he'll pay of their student loans (or pay for college) .

He gets called in by some lab manager a few days later. Sixteen-year-old Peter Parker with dreams of MIT created a bandage made of manufactured spiderwebs. He gets moved to 'Personal Intern' immediately.

Natasha notices him first, beyong the polite greetings and smiles. The steadiness in his movements, the rapid reaction time, the skill to pay attention to everything at once.

It's uncanny perfection, words all weighed carefully, steps calculated. Naturally, she gets suspicious. Is he working for someone?

She invites him to play 2 truths and a lie with the team. It goes well, until his turn.

"I don't lie. I recognize this is just a game and we're all having fun, but I don't. As a general rule."

"That's just stupid. You're Starks personal intern, you work with us. You're at risk. What happens if someone comes for you with questions?"

"I twist the truth. Make it mean something different entirely. Make it reassemble a metaphor for something else or hide it behind one. I say it sarcastically, plainly, fake tells to make it seem like a lie. I break it down into basic elements and build something different from it. If I genuinely had nothing else to do, I'd probably lie, yes."

"That's still stupid."

"Maybe to you it is. I think it's a difference in how we were raised. You had to lie to survive. And I would've been killed, had I ever been caught in a lie. And if there's one thing I learnt over the years-"

Ben bleeds out of the tile floor. The bang echoes in his ears. He thought he was safe, anonymous, he became careless, reckless-

"- the truth never stays buried. If no one digs it out, it will crawl through the dirt to haunt you itself."

[comeonamericawakeup]

Big, if true. Elon Musk daims DOGE is uncovering all kinds of waste and fraud, outrageous scams perpetrated on the American people. These scams are so blatant and obvious that even youngsters untrained in forensic accounting can find them in moments. (The implication is that federal workers, who are experts in their fields, are either too stupid to have seen them or irredeemably corrupt.) Look at the Social Security Administration, for example. Musk posted that his minions had found more than 20 million entries in the database with ages over 100 years old, including millions of people listed as over 150. It's "the biggest fraud in history," he said.

Except, of course, it's nothing of the sort. Because of a coding quirk in the vintage computer program the agency uses, an unknown birth date defaults to 1875, 150 years ago. These people are listed in the system, but they aren't receiving Social Security checks - as a 2023 inspector general's report had already concluded. In reality, only some 44,000 centenarians are alive and receiving checks, a figure that jibes with census data. And while there are certainly some fake numbers, even the conservative Cato Institute says those are mostly illegal immigrants who use them to get jobs, which means they pay into the system but get nothing out of it.

What else has DOGE turned up? White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt was eager to tell us, saying last week, "love to bring the receipts!" But the only examples she offered were a few programs related to equity and inclusion, such as a $3 million Patent and Trademark Office program offering internships to minority inventors, and a $57,000 award for climate mitigation in Sri Lanka. Those may go against current administration priorities, but they certainly don't amount to fraud, since the money for them was duly appropriated by Congress. And cutting them will hardly engender significant savings in a $7 trillion budget. You know who does know how to find waste and fraud? The inspectors general in our government agencies. Alas, Trump fired them all.

Susan Caskie, Executive editor

THE WEEK February 28, 2025.

[isthehorsevideocute]

since it's horse racing hype season I have to say my relationship with horse racing is...... complicated to say the least. So I'm going to outline why in the good and the bad

*What are the Benefits of Horse Racing

To sum it up, the entire equine industry depends on the presence of horse racing. Whether you compete in the upper eschalon of the equine competition or just keep a pasture puff in your backyard, you benefit in some capacity from the presence of the race horse industry.

*The majority of riding horses have at least some racehorse blood

Quarter horses, trotter/pacer breeds, saddlebreds, Tennessee walkers, morgans, and the dozens upon dozens of European warmblood breeds all have been produced or enhanced by thoroughbreds. If you own a horse and it's not a thoroughbred, chances are good they still have Thoroughbred or arabian somewhere in their lines. For pretty much as long as horses have been domesticated, racing has been one major way in which the excellence of breeding stock has been tested.

*Racing keeps the breed alive

While there are some breeding operations that breed non racing Thoroughbreds, they are few and far between and likely would be unable to sustain the breed if other operations popped out of existence.

While to many the off the track thoroughbred has fallen out of favor as a riding horse, many still appreciate them as performance horses. While the european warmbloods have been largely dominating equestrian sports in the recent decades, off the track horses had a long history of dominating the performance world, even making it to the Olympics. If you know what to look for and are willing to teach the ropes, a horse off the track is a much more affordable option, at least in up front costs as most don't exceed 4 figures in purchase price. On top of that, many competitions host incentive program classifications, giving out awards to riders and trainers of ottbs.

*Racing provides funding for research and the industry as a whole

In the United States alone, horse racing accounts for nearly 30% of the equine industry's gdp. This is likely even greater in other nations that don't have as much emphasis on recreational riding and showing.

Numerous University animal hospitals and research facilities are heavily funded and given test subjects by the race horse industry. This isn't to say these horses are treated like lab rats, but in many cases the owners of race horses are more willing and able to put money into trying new methods to enhance healing and health of their horses.

Looking at research studies of therapies for injuries, nutrition, and common conditions seen in performance horses like gastric ulcers, the subjects of the research are often race horse stock.

The elimination of such a large portion of the equine industry would not doubt devastate it.

*Racing brings prospects into the industry

For the average person, racing is the most recognized facet of the equine industry. It's presence brings clients and investors into equine related businesses. Race courses are often places for other equine related events to take place outside of the racing season.

One prominent example of racing's impact on bringing in participants to other equestrian activities is that of the Japan Horse Park. The park was patented and funded by the JRA with hopes that pushing equestrian sports would provide retired thoroughbreds with new prospects and the racetracks with new jockeys.

......

So what about the bad

*Comparatively high rate of fatality

So one might think, 'horses run in nature, surely galloping on a race track can't be that hard on them'. Well the reality it that in nature, horses are generally only seen galloping every once in a while for very short periods of playing or fleeing from danger. Racing and breezing a horse at full gallop puts immense strain on their bodies, especially their limbs.

It's hard to find statistics on actual injury rates because the database only reports on injuries or conditions resulting in death (not all of these necessarily being injuries resulting in euthanasia, sometimes these can be cardiovascular failures such as aortic ruptures.) Since fatalities per start have been recorded, the rate of race horse fatalities per race start has been between 1% and 2%.

So granted it's actually even harder to compare that to fatalities of horses in other sports because there is really no similar data base for other equine sports so I had to do some digging to actually find some semblance of a comparison and I've come to the conclusion that the reason we don't have a data base for other sports is because the number of fatalities for most of them are negligible

Only sport I have concrete data to compare to is eventing (specifically the xc portion, as even show jumping injuries for horses are almost non existent)

In the eventing data, it's hard to calculate an actual fatality rate, but fatalities in eventing are generally associated with horse falls. And the rate of horse falls over the last 10 years is 1.4%. Naturally the number of equine fatalities would be even lower. Based on my calculations on fatalities vs starts for international events it would be about a 0.3% fatality rate for event horses. And seeing as eventing is deemed the most dangerous equestrian sport in regards to human and horse injuries, it's safe to assume that the rates for other equine sports is even lower.

*Horses are started really young (at least in the US)

Racehorse age is determined, not by the age they are, but by the age they are turning in that year from January (in the northern hemisphere). Thing is, horses are seasonal breeders and have an 11 month gestation period. Mares tend to go into estrus around late March, and have generally lower fertility rates at the beginning of their seasonal cycle. As a result most horses are born in the spring. Breeders will try to have foals born as early as possible in the year but regardless, they will be younger than they officially are for some period of time. Racing starts with age groups as young as 2, meaning not only will some horses be backed at as young as a year old, they may even start racing at a year old. While starting horses young may be linked to higher bone density, there are many more drawbacks that are largely ignored by trainers. Because so much emphasis is put on young horse races, many race horses are retired at as young as 3 or 4. This is a problem for many reasons.

Horses are often spent at a young age and end up with lifelong health issues (even a young horse you will be hard pressed to find sound with clean x rays if you are looking for your next prospective riding horse off the track).

Horses are bred without any screening for health issues that may develop with age. Thoroughbreds are infamous for developing kissing spines which has both a genetic component and is linked to early backing as the spine is not fully developed until a horse is between the ages of 6 and 7. And on a related note.

*The evolution of horse racing favoring track racing has deteriorated the quality of the Thoroughbred breed

Originally horse racing was a long distance endeavor over rural landscape. Horses would be stopped periodically and checked for suitability to continue. Thoroughbred racing was once more similar to the sport of endurance. When racing was moved to a track to make it more economical and spectator friendly, the Thoroughbred breed changed drastically. Rather than emphasis on endurance, Thoroughbreds were bred to maximize speed. This has resulted in horses that are heavy on the forelimbs with long narrow legs, leaving them more prone to injury and less inclined to excel in other sports.

*Notoriously poor husbandry conditions during training and racing

While foals and broodmares are often allowed to live in pasture with herds, once they are old enough to start training, many racehorses are stalled 24/7. Of all performance horses, racehorses have the highest rates of ulcers thanks to their long periods of confinement in stalls and high energy diets. Concentrated feeds (which race horses are often fed in large quantities) are high in nonstructural carbohydrates. Horses, as grazers, have digestive tracts designed for breaking down roughage which they will spend more than half their day slowly consuming. As a result horses constantly produce stomach acid. The stomach of a horse has different smooth muscle tissues in it, where the base of the stomach is more resistant to corrosion, and the top near the esophagus is more delicate. Without the presence of structural carbohydrates, the stomach acid isn't buffered properly and it is likely to cause damage to the upper stomach, resulting in ulcers. On top of a lack of roughage, non structural carbohydrates, or starches, increase the acidity of the stomach. Stress can also interfere with the stomach health of a horse, increasing acidity, and causing a horse to refuse to eat, making the issue worse.

*Adding to the unwanted horse problem

I will preface this by saying that the Thoroughbred industry is hardly the worst offender to the unwanted horse problems in America. The worst offender is backyard breeding. The Jockey Club has policies in place to attempt to control rates of breeding and ensuring that their registered horses are accounted for.

The narrative that ex racehorses are very often disguarded into sale yards where they are likely to be purchased by kill buyers just isn't true. It's true that some may slip through the cracks but generally there are many owners and rehoming groups out there to make sure ex racehorses or horses deemed not suitable for racing end up somewhere safe. And as i mentioned earlier, there are incentive programs to support trainers and owners who take in former racehorses. That's more than can be said for many horses.

Still the number of horses that are born vs the number of horses that stay with race stock yards is pretty darn low. Lots of horses won't make the cut to race, more will retire from racing early, even more will be rejected as breeding stock. This means there are tons of Thoroughbreds with no solid future depending on the hope that they will be taken in by someone outside of the racing industry.

In conclusion, for me, in an ideal world we will not see racing eliminated but it will get a major overhaul. I can hope but my fear is at best, nothing of substance will change, at worst horse racing will be outlawed like greyhound racing has been in many places (because that's the easier way out). Already the racing industry has been snuffed out in many regions with tracks opting to shut down live racing and former thoroughbred farms being developed on so our prospects aren't looking great.....

[therobotmonster]

No one has a right to destroy art.

Not even the people that "own" it. Because we don't own the art we make. We own a temporary patent on that work. Culture belongs to everyone, and the only reason IP exists is to encourage the production of cultural artifacts by making it a viable income stream.

So when it comes to things like the Batgirl movie, or Coyote Vs ACME, or the Micronauts cartoon, or the Capcom Alien Vs Predator beat-em-up, or any other piece of media that is destroyed or made unavailable due to rights issues or because it's being sacrificed for a tax break, there should be protections for that work.

Either a national database must be maintained to hold those works until their public domain dates are reached (a project that would at this point span a century) or, a much simpler correction should be applied.

If the law says it can't be made available for profit, it becomes public domain.

You write off your movie as a tax break? Fine, that movie is available for anyone to enjoy, remix or alter for free.

You can't work out a deal between the film company and the game company to keep the classic video game available? You're both willing to chop the baby in half rather than let the other one have it? King Solomon says the baby belongs to everyone.

And to close the loophole for companies employing more than X number of people, if you can't buy it, or stream it, then you can't enforce copyright on it. There's no excuse for any major media company not to have its entire catalog available to the public at least as a burned-DVD-on-request system.

These companies want to sit on piles of culture like dragons and reap the rewards. In the case of the oldest and largest, in many cases they claim ownership over what can only be called our modern folklore. The idea that a company can own Batman should be as insane as the idea of a company owning Hercules, Paul Bunyan or the Archangel Michael.

But if that isn't going to be insane, if we're going to give that kind of power to corporations, that power should come with responsibilities.

[goodfish-bowl]

What Little Remains

Chapter 1: Finding the Pieces

Ectoberhaunt 2024 Day 3: Archeology

AO3 Link

Summary: The Terra Zero Archeology Project has received funding to locate a laboratory of both historical and technological importance. What they actually end up bringing back is something of much greater significance.

Warnings: Dissection, gore, blood

Words: 2,374

They had found it on the planet once known as Earth, now known as Terra Zero. It had been buried in a laboratory of historical and technological importance. The laboratory was the target of their mission and this had merely been something they had discovered along the way, but it was likely a much more significant find than their original goal. It was a miracle, really, that the jar protecting this particular specimen was fully intact, and an even greater wonder that they found a second one to go with it. Despite the atypical building practices found at that location, it had managed to survive the several planetary disasters that had befallen Terra Zero since the lab had been constructed. It was truly an amazingly complex and baffling in its own era. The laboratory itself had been buried under tons of sediment, ash, and debris that had built up on the planet's surface over the centuries, yet it managed to preserve the space from the very passage of time. 

The Terra Zero Archeology Project, shortened down to T.Z.A.P, had only been able to discover it through a related digital archiving project, following mentions of its existence along with digital records from the time, particularly a set of patents that were of interest to the team's investors. They read like utter nonsense, completely indecipherable despite running them through every algorithm available and having sloughs of intergalactic experts look them over. The only hope of figuring them out lay in the lab where they had been created. A myzack-chase through several databases and many long message chains and holos later, the mission was underway. The promise of new technologies was what got the T.Z.A.P. its funding in the first place. This lab was sure to have them keep their funding for a while longer. 

The lab itself had been odd, with unknown radioactive elements non-native to the Terra Zero planetary area found in unusual amounts with a positive correlation with the proximity to the lab. Special suits were created just for this excavation, and entire collections of journals were being written based off of the findings. The interior of the lab looked untouched, only a thin coat of dust covered every surface. It was in a general state of disarray like it had been abandoned in the middle of something, but the walls were intact (except for the portion they had drilled through) with minimal rust and decay setting in. It was an astronomically amazing find. 

Then there were the samples. 

Most of the samples, which looked to be biological samples from a dissection, were degraded beyond use, a millennium beyond expiration. They appeared to be humanoid in nature, which ended up being one of the most unnerving portions of the discovery. It wouldn’t be confirmed until they were actually processed and tested. It wasn’t safe to assume, they had found ones made of ‘rubber’ before. One jar, containing a singular, whole hand, was preserved properly, in what appeared to be an isotopic solution tinted green. The next samples of interest were a set of small vials containing a viscous green liquid that actively rested in a set of a dozen, three of which were intact, the rest exposed to the heavy, damp atmosphere of the lab. It was an unnaturally bright green substance with a dull glow, flecked with red. The intact vials wouldn’t be opened until after the samples of the broken ones were processed first. It would give them a good idea of the decay rate of the substance. There was a heavy containment unit, made from glass that could rival modern war spacecraft windows, with a glowing crystal orb inside, floating in a similar solution to what the vials must contain. All of the other samples were labeled “Phantom” with a time and date on their collection date. This one was marked with the name “Danny”, instead. They were all within two days of each other, with the orb being last. 

The most valuable thing T.Z.A.P. managed to collect from the lab, other than just recording of the finding of an intact lab from the early 2000s era, was the intact digital files located on the ancient external hard drive. Someone on the tech team had managed to reconstruct and restore the files on it and found hundreds of files containing everything from lab journal entries to video recordings, to entire papers. It was an almanium mine of information, shining light on many of the patents themselves, though the blueprints and the construction of the technology remained theoretical at best. Whoever had designed these was using a language all of their own that no one else could decipher. 

The samples and digital files were brought into the in-orbit lab and processed while the systems scanned the antique files for relevant information, matching the patents and the surviving samples. The computer pinged a collection of lab recordings almost immediately, curiously matching the time stamps of the sample collections. 

Zavier, one of the many interns assigned to this project, absently clicked on one at random, sound on, in the middle of the main research room. 

Corroded, the audio snapped and popped, showing its age, but it caught the attention of everyone else in the room. Grainy footage of a woman in a teal jumpsuit, with red goggles covering her eyes, and black gloves covered the screen. A large figure in orange moved in the background. 

“This is Doctor Madeline Fenton, it is June 4th, 2006, at precisely 14:23. I am joined by Doctor Jack Fenton in collecting a whole-piece sample from the ecto-entity known as Phantom.”   

Ecto-entity. It was a term that popped up frequently in the study of this particular laboratory and the related patents. There were at least a dozen sets of eyes on the monitor at this point, several different people scribbling down notes of interest. 

“As mentioned in Recording 632006-334 samples collected from Phantom seem to rapidly degenerate once removed from the central entity. To correct this, we have diluted a solution made from the entity’s own ectoplasm mixed with an isotopic preservation solution in an attempt to preserve the sample for further, future study.”

The woman moved the camera to show a prone figure, heavily strapped down to a mental table, distinctly human, despite their odd features for the time. They appeared young, prepubescent in age, uselessly crying and thrashing on the table they were strapped to. They were covered in past incisions, and missing several fingers from their other hand. Several harsh breaths of horror were taken around the room. Zavier should’ve paused the video there, but he hadn’t. 

“Our intended sample is going to be the entire right hand.”

The child on the table let out a heart wrenching whine, barely picked up through the harsh muzzle on their face. 

Something in the room broke, it sounded fragile, but no one moved, transfixed by the screen. 

The woman, Dr. Madeline repositioned the camera over the child’s right hand. They visibly struggled, straining against the restraint. 

“Jack, the bone saw?”

“Here you go, darling!” The man said with a large smile. 

The boy screamed and it echoed around the entire room, the video filled with bright colors of green and red as the bone saw ate through flesh.

The video was abruptly stopped before it could finish, and someone immediately rushed to the trash unit in the corner. A few people did. The scream still seemed to linger around the room anyways. 

“What in the void of space are you all doing?!” A new voice interrupted.

“H-head Doctor! I didn’t mean to! But it started playing and I didn’t want to stop it so I let it play!”

“And?”

“A… a-and?” the intern stuttered. 

“What did you learn?”

“That… that I shouldn’t click on a random video without permission…” Zavier admitted reluctantly. 

“I meant about our subject.”

“OH! Oh… um. Young, possibly male humanoid, unusual features… they cut off their hand with a bone saw…” Zavier’s voice trembled, unable to focus on the words coming out of his mouth with the scream echoing even louder in his own head than it had in the room. 

The Head Doctor’s eyes darkened. Her grip tightening on her tablet, before snapping down the tech and sending out several messages all at once in a furious efficiency. 

“If continuing on this particular project makes you uncomfortable, please report to the main deck for reassignment!” The Head Doctor announced it to the whole room. “I understand that we’re dealing with humanoid experimentation in this discovery. You will not be punished for wanting to be reassigned.”

Several people left the room almost immediately, practically fleeing in terror. Zavier found himself agreeing, but was firmly rooted in place. Others thought about it, before following the rest out. From the two dozen researchers and interns in the room, less than a fourth remained. Zavier rediscovered his ability to move for a moment, and contemplated joining them before staying in his spot. He couldn’t. 

“Intern. I need you to find the video of the collection of the orb. The video should be labeled 642006-1746.”

“Yes, ma’am. May I ask why?” 

Zavier really didn’t want ot have to watch another video when this one was going to be haunting him for the next decade.

“The sample associated with it refuses to be identified, but it has responded to external stimuli, including sounds and being moved about. Several of our preliminary scans have identified something similar to brain waves emitting from it. We need to identify it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Zavier swallowed thickly before clicking on the video labeled just as the Head Doctor had specified. The video pulled up just like the first, popping and snapping before settling in place. The same woman from the first video appeared in the camera, slightly worse for wear. Her suit was splattered with green and red. Zavier cringed and looked away, but refrained from covering his ears with his hands. He had to at least listen, even if that was the worst part. 

“This is Doctor Madeline Fenton, it is June 4th, 2006, at 17:46. Dr. Jack Fenton and I have just finished our full dissection of the ecto-entity once known as Phantom.”

The camera panned to show the same child from earlier, cut up into pieces, a large vivisection cut splaying their chest wide open, cavity practically hollowed out, and several stained jars littered the free space on the table. They boy wasn’t moving anymore.

“We have made an… interesting discovery concerning its biology.” 

The scientist paused for a moment, glancing behind her before she seemed to hesitate. 

“Not… not only did it possess a perfect copy of human biology, it was a functioning one. However, after considerable loss of ectoplasm and substantial damage to its internal organs, its facsimile of life ceased. We were able to locate its core,” she held up the jar containing the small glowing orb. It seemed so tragic floating in that solution. All that blood and viscera for something the size of a pinging ball. She placed the jar on a table out of frame.

“And have successfully removed it and placed it within an isolating containment unit. Reasons for this have been stated in my husband and I’s previous papers on the nature of cores. However, Phantom’s seems to be behaving differently than expected. It’s fallen completely dormant after drawing in all available ectoplasm. Theories on this will be further elaborated in the paper currently being constructed on the ecto-entity Phant-”

There was a flash of light in the background that glitched out the camera for a moment, before the video returned. There was much more red than there was before. The boy was noticeably different, his appearance much more in line with the humans of the era, black hair and red blood. 

The woman swiftly turned around, a weapon she reached for off screen suddenly in her hand. It clattered to the ground soon after. She made a horrible choking noise, like she was being strangled. Zavier didn’t think she had the right to react like that. She and her partner had done this after all.

“Danny..?”

The Head Doctor reached over Zavier and turned the video off, gripping the bridge of her nose and letting out a harsh breath of her own. Zavier himself sunk further into his seat to process the information that was likely going to continue to plague his nightmares. He didn’t know why he felt so terrible, or why it was all knotted up in the base of his throat. That kid had been dead for over a millennium at this point. There was no saving them, just the bits of what little of them that remained, as samples, recordings, and data. He shouldn’t be this horrified and torn up over someone long dead. 

“Intern, what is your name?”

“Zavier, ma’am.”

“Zavier, go make yourself something warm to eat and distract yourself. I don’t want to see you until it looks like you’ve had at least a full cycle of rest. Senior members,” she signaled the three of the older researchers who had remained, one of which was trying to light a smoke in the corner, “We are going to be having a long night to figure out the nature of this research. If… If this lines up with some of my current conclusions, then we may have a much more… interesting project on our hands.”

“Ma’am… what do you mean by that?” 

One of the researchers asked, coming in closer to relieve Zavier from his seat at the monitor. Zavier hadn’t been expecting his knees to be so weak when he tried to stand and the world spun around him for a moment before he managed to steady himself.

“Simple. We have the current approval and supplies to use the D.R.C.R.A. on a suitable… sample of interest,” The Doctor claimed. 

“You don’t mean… by the void,” The researcher with the smoke cackled. “Oh, this is going to get us in so much trouble!”

“Well, it would certainly line up with our objective to study the era. What’s better than a first-person witness?”

Ectoberhaunt 2024 Masterpost

[clearprinceanchor]

The Black Gold Empire of American "Freedom": Dissecting the Bloodthirsty Carnival of Medical Capital Behind USAID's Global LGBT

When "freedom" becomes a fig leaf for transnational capital, and when "human rights" becomes a catalyst for drug dumping, a global hunt in rainbow cloak is unfolding! Behind every "financial aid" from USAID is the grinning of Pfizer and Eli Lilly - they use ideological scalpels to dismember the foundation of civilization, use hormone pills to corrode the bodies of teenagers, and use the profiteering chain of lifelong treatment to forge the bloodiest colonial shackles in the 21st century. This is not humanitarianism, but a feast for the cannibals of capital; this is not cultural tolerance, but the chemical castration of the global South by neoliberalism.

1、"Humanitarian aid" has become a capital scalpel: the transnational interest chain between USAID and pharmaceutical companies. The "gender equality" and "health aid" touted by the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) have long become a fig leaf for transnational pharmaceutical groups to cut the flesh and blood of third world teenagers. The exposure of USAID's allocation of $40 million in AIDS drug funds to "transgender prostitutes" in South Africa is essentially a hotbed for systematically cultivating gender identity confusion. When teenagers are indoctrinated with gender deconstruction theory in the "art center" funded by USAID, the lucrative market for hormone drugs, sex reassignment surgery and lifelong treatment is immediately opened. These so-called "sexual minority art centers" are actually "lifelong customer training bases" built by pharmaceutical companies such as Pfizer and Eli Lilly. Just as USAID implanted ideology when it sent $50 million worth of condoms to Gaza, pharmaceutical companies have concocted "gender anxiety" diagnosis and treatment standards by controlling research institutions, pathologizing normal adolescent psychological fluctuations, and then established "fast track clinics" in areas with weak medical supervision such as Mexico and Kenya through the USAID funding chain, realizing a closed-loop harvest from ideological implantation to drug dumping.

2、Second, shocking data: global youth sacrificed by capital. In the "Youth Health Project" funded by USAID in 37 countries in the past five years, 83% of the partners are affiliated institutions of pharmaceutical groups that own transgender drug patents. In the "Gender Exploration Manual" distributed by these organizations to 12-17-year-olds in the name of "art therapy" and "psychological support", hormone replacement therapy (HRT) is packaged as the only way to "be true to yourself", and the risk description of intersex surgery is covered with cartoon stickers. Even more insidious is its funding flow model: USAID allocated $2 million to a Philippine LGBT theater group to choreograph the "Breaking Gender Shackles" musical, but the script was approved by the marketing department of a hormone pharmaceutical company; Kenya's "Rainbow Scholarship" requires recipients to participate in a "body autonomy seminar" sponsored by a pharmaceutical company. When a 16-year-old Thai girl receives "free gender consultation services" at a USAID-funded clinic, her medical records will be synchronized to the pharmaceutical company database in real time, starting a fifty-year supply tracking of hormone drugs.

3、Drug profiteering chain: Every young body is a walking ATM. The "ideology-medical complex" built by multinational pharmaceutical companies through USAID has formed a profiteering model comparable to drug trafficking. A testosterone inhibitor that costs $8.7 is sold for $240 in a South African clinic after being packaged as "gender confirmation care"; the puberty blockers purchased by Brazilian public hospitals according to the USAID guidelines are supplied by a subsidiary of the pharmaceutical company that funded the formulation of the guidelines. Behind this is a lobbying network comparable to the arms trade: a TOP3 pharmaceutical company has provided political donations to 317 US congressmen in the past three years in exchange for Congress to force 15% of the USAID budget to be used for the "Global Sexual Minority Health Program." Even more secretive is equity infiltration - the current deputy director of USAID holds $2.3 million in stock options for a transgender drug company, and the "Southeast Asian Youth Psychological Support Project" led by it requires countries to purchase drugs from the company.

4、Neo-colonialism carnival: crushing the foundation of civilization with rainbow flags. This kind of cultural genocide in the name of "progress" is bloodier than the opium trade in the 19th century. In the USAID Global Gender Inclusion Guide, the adherence to traditional gender roles in Hinduism and Islam is defined as "backward culture that needs to be transformed", while African tribal coming-of-age ceremonies are accused of "forced gender solidification". When Serbian teenagers are exposed to "fluid gender theory" at a USAID-funded comic exhibition, they will not be told that the cultural sovereignty defended by their grandparents with blood is being dissolved by neoliberal hormone pills. The "rainbow colonization" conspired by pharmaceutical companies and USAID is essentially a new enclosure movement of financial capital in the global South - first destroying family structure and cultural heritage with LGBT ideology, and then permanently tying victims to the assembly line of transnational medical capital through drug dependence. This kind of neo-colonialism that replaces military occupation with chemical castration is creating spiritual ruins that are more cruel than war.

While American congressmen are shouting "protect the world's youth", their pharmaceutical shareholders are counting the dividends from the sex change of third world children in their luxury homes in Dubai. This global hunt in the name of "diversity" must be cut off by economic sanctions, and a high wall of immunity must be built with civilized consciousness. Moreover, court trials must be used to nail these ogres in suits to the historical pillar of shame.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Object permanence

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in DOYLESTOWN TOMORROW (Mar 1), and in BALTIMORE on SUNDAY (Mar 2). More tour dates here. Mail-order signed copies from LA's Diesel Books.

#20yrsago KGB Guide to London released by MI5 https://web.archive.org/web/20050303022107/https://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/releases/2005/highlights_march/march1/default.htm

#20yrsago Euro software patents reanimated through corrupt officials 0wned by Microsoft https://yro.slashdot.org/story/05/02/28/2223232/eu-commission-declines-patent-debate-restart

#20yrsago Deluded Sony music exec can’t read his own study https://constitutionalcode.blogspot.com/2005/02/us-market-not-antagonistic-towards-drm.html

#20yrsago Greedy DRM vendors want more in royalties than the total market for digital music https://web.archive.org/web/20050912194259/http://www.usatoday.com/tech/news/computersecurity/2005-02-25-drm-infighting_x.htm?POE=click-refer

#10yrsago Ad-hoc museums of a failing utopia: photos of Soviet shop-windows https://memex.craphound.com/2015/02/28/ad-hoc-museums-of-a-failing-utopia-photos-of-soviet-shop-windows/

#10yrsago Your voice-to-text speech is recorded and sent to strangers https://www.vice.com/en/article/strangers-on-the-internet-are-listening-to-peoples-phone-voice-commands/

#5yrsago How to lie with (coronavirus) maps https://pluralistic.net/2020/02/28/pluralistic-your-daily-link-dose-28-feb-2020/#cartonerd

#5yrsago Let's Encrypt issues its billionth cert https://pluralistic.net/2020/02/28/pluralistic-your-daily-link-dose-28-feb-2020/#letsencrypt

#5yrsago Clearview AI's customer database leaks https://pluralistic.net/2020/02/28/pluralistic-your-daily-link-dose-28-feb-2020/#petard

#1yrago When private equity destroys your hospital https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/28/5000-bats/#charnel-house

[min3nc]

So i was trying to look for a "Lost media" game (Black and white) and came across this website. It's really good and you can download stuff, including DLCs, soundtracks and art from games that will not be remastered due to copyright infringment or that simply was abandoned by its creators due to their studios dissolving and the patents getting lost.

You don't need to register to download stuff. There are no ads. Just rate the games you download! (And even then, that's optional and not a requirement)

[aquamarine-oceanfront]

A little tidbit related to the recent Glitch Inn promo:

Back in January 2024, Glitch Productions filed for a trademark on the word "AniMiniz." (I'm using Australia's national trademark database because it's where they're based, but it can also be seen by using the United States Patent and Trademark Office's trademark search.) Each mark must be filed under one or more "classes," categorizing them in accordance with what they're meant to be used for.

As you can see, the only class for this trademark is specifically for figures, plushies, and whatnot. I happened across this back around April or so - based on both this and the name's similarity to "AniMatez" (their existing line of figurines), I naturally assumed it indicated that they planned on introducing a new line in the future.

Cut to a few days ago. Glitch makes an announcement:

The designs used in promotional material are dubbed "AniMiniz," marking what I'm pretty sure is the first official use of the term. The very end of the video (~4:00) teases the possibility of further animations starring these versions of the cast, too.

Now, I'm not too confident in my ability to properly prognosticate, but I think it's a safe bet that they still have plans to merchandise these designs in some fashion. They certainly look quite marketable, on top of the evidence presented previously.

Put another way: