#Sample for Leave Application

[astriiformes]

Finally managed to talk to another professor about serving as my faculty mentor for an undergraduate research project, which means that now I have less than a week for formulate my actual proposal if I want to get it funded for the fall

Cue just a little bit of internal screaming

[hrformats]

Sample Leave Application Format Due to Heavy Rain

Easy letter Format of Leave Application due to Heavy Rain. Write a Request letter about Absence / leaving work early due to bed weather.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Humans are not perfectly vigilant

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in BOSTON with Randall "XKCD" Munroe (Apr 11), then PROVIDENCE (Apr 12), and beyond!

Here's a fun AI story: a security researcher noticed that large companies' AI-authored source-code repeatedly referenced a nonexistent library (an AI "hallucination"), so he created a (defanged) malicious library with that name and uploaded it, and thousands of developers automatically downloaded and incorporated it as they compiled the code:

https://www.theregister.com/2024/03/28/ai_bots_hallucinate_software_packages/

These "hallucinations" are a stubbornly persistent feature of large language models, because these models only give the illusion of understanding; in reality, they are just sophisticated forms of autocomplete, drawing on huge databases to make shrewd (but reliably fallible) guesses about which word comes next:

https://dl.acm.org/doi/10.1145/3442188.3445922

Guessing the next word without understanding the meaning of the resulting sentence makes unsupervised LLMs unsuitable for high-stakes tasks. The whole AI bubble is based on convincing investors that one or more of the following is true:

There are low-stakes, high-value tasks that will recoup the massive costs of AI training and operation;

There are high-stakes, high-value tasks that can be made cheaper by adding an AI to a human operator;

Adding more training data to an AI will make it stop hallucinating, so that it can take over high-stakes, high-value tasks without a "human in the loop."

These are dubious propositions. There's a universe of low-stakes, low-value tasks – political disinformation, spam, fraud, academic cheating, nonconsensual porn, dialog for video-game NPCs – but none of them seem likely to generate enough revenue for AI companies to justify the billions spent on models, nor the trillions in valuation attributed to AI companies:

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

The proposition that increasing training data will decrease hallucinations is hotly contested among AI practitioners. I confess that I don't know enough about AI to evaluate opposing sides' claims, but even if you stipulate that adding lots of human-generated training data will make the software a better guesser, there's a serious problem. All those low-value, low-stakes applications are flooding the internet with botshit. After all, the one thing AI is unarguably very good at is producing bullshit at scale. As the web becomes an anaerobic lagoon for botshit, the quantum of human-generated "content" in any internet core sample is dwindling to homeopathic levels:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/14/inhuman-centipede/#enshittibottification

This means that adding another order of magnitude more training data to AI won't just add massive computational expense – the data will be many orders of magnitude more expensive to acquire, even without factoring in the additional liability arising from new legal theories about scraping:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/

That leaves us with "humans in the loop" – the idea that an AI's business model is selling software to businesses that will pair it with human operators who will closely scrutinize the code's guesses. There's a version of this that sounds plausible – the one in which the human operator is in charge, and the AI acts as an eternally vigilant "sanity check" on the human's activities.

For example, my car has a system that notices when I activate my blinker while there's another car in my blind-spot. I'm pretty consistent about checking my blind spot, but I'm also a fallible human and there've been a couple times where the alert saved me from making a potentially dangerous maneuver. As disciplined as I am, I'm also sometimes forgetful about turning off lights, or waking up in time for work, or remembering someone's phone number (or birthday). I like having an automated system that does the robotically perfect trick of never forgetting something important.

There's a name for this in automation circles: a "centaur." I'm the human head, and I've fused with a powerful robot body that supports me, doing things that humans are innately bad at.

That's the good kind of automation, and we all benefit from it. But it only takes a small twist to turn this good automation into a nightmare. I'm speaking here of the reverse-centaur: automation in which the computer is in charge, bossing a human around so it can get its job done. Think of Amazon warehouse workers, who wear haptic bracelets and are continuously observed by AI cameras as autonomous shelves shuttle in front of them and demand that they pick and pack items at a pace that destroys their bodies and drives them mad:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/17/revenge-of-the-chickenized-reverse-centaurs/

Automation centaurs are great: they relieve humans of drudgework and let them focus on the creative and satisfying parts of their jobs. That's how AI-assisted coding is pitched: rather than looking up tricky syntax and other tedious programming tasks, an AI "co-pilot" is billed as freeing up its human "pilot" to focus on the creative puzzle-solving that makes coding so satisfying.

But an hallucinating AI is a terrible co-pilot. It's just good enough to get the job done much of the time, but it also sneakily inserts booby-traps that are statistically guaranteed to look as plausible as the good code (that's what a next-word-guessing program does: guesses the statistically most likely word).

This turns AI-"assisted" coders into reverse centaurs. The AI can churn out code at superhuman speed, and you, the human in the loop, must maintain perfect vigilance and attention as you review that code, spotting the cleverly disguised hooks for malicious code that the AI can't be prevented from inserting into its code. As "Lena" writes, "code review [is] difficult relative to writing new code":

https://twitter.com/qntm/status/1773779967521780169

Why is that? "Passively reading someone else's code just doesn't engage my brain in the same way. It's harder to do properly":

https://twitter.com/qntm/status/1773780355708764665

There's a name for this phenomenon: "automation blindness." Humans are just not equipped for eternal vigilance. We get good at spotting patterns that occur frequently – so good that we miss the anomalies. That's why TSA agents are so good at spotting harmless shampoo bottles on X-rays, even as they miss nearly every gun and bomb that a red team smuggles through their checkpoints:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/23/automation-blindness/#humans-in-the-loop

"Lena"'s thread points out that this is as true for AI-assisted driving as it is for AI-assisted coding: "self-driving cars replace the experience of driving with the experience of being a driving instructor":

https://twitter.com/qntm/status/1773841546753831283

In other words, they turn you into a reverse-centaur. Whereas my blind-spot double-checking robot allows me to make maneuvers at human speed and points out the things I've missed, a "supervised" self-driving car makes maneuvers at a computer's frantic pace, and demands that its human supervisor tirelessly and perfectly assesses each of those maneuvers. No wonder Cruise's murderous "self-driving" taxis replaced each low-waged driver with 1.5 high-waged technical robot supervisors:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

AI radiology programs are said to be able to spot cancerous masses that human radiologists miss. A centaur-based AI-assisted radiology program would keep the same number of radiologists in the field, but they would get less done: every time they assessed an X-ray, the AI would give them a second opinion. If the human and the AI disagreed, the human would go back and re-assess the X-ray. We'd get better radiology, at a higher price (the price of the AI software, plus the additional hours the radiologist would work).

But back to making the AI bubble pay off: for AI to pay off, the human in the loop has to reduce the costs of the business buying an AI. No one who invests in an AI company believes that their returns will come from business customers to agree to increase their costs. The AI can't do your job, but the AI salesman can convince your boss to fire you and replace you with an AI anyway – that pitch is the most successful form of AI disinformation in the world.

An AI that "hallucinates" bad advice to fliers can't replace human customer service reps, but airlines are firing reps and replacing them with chatbots:

https://www.bbc.com/travel/article/20240222-air-canada-chatbot-misinformation-what-travellers-should-know

An AI that "hallucinates" bad legal advice to New Yorkers can't replace city services, but Mayor Adams still tells New Yorkers to get their legal advice from his chatbots:

https://arstechnica.com/ai/2024/03/nycs-government-chatbot-is-lying-about-city-laws-and-regulations/

The only reason bosses want to buy robots is to fire humans and lower their costs. That's why "AI art" is such a pisser. There are plenty of harmless ways to automate art production with software – everything from a "healing brush" in Photoshop to deepfake tools that let a video-editor alter the eye-lines of all the extras in a scene to shift the focus. A graphic novelist who models a room in The Sims and then moves the camera around to get traceable geometry for different angles is a centaur – they are genuinely offloading some finicky drudgework onto a robot that is perfectly attentive and vigilant.

But the pitch from "AI art" companies is "fire your graphic artists and replace them with botshit." They're pitching a world where the robots get to do all the creative stuff (badly) and humans have to work at robotic pace, with robotic vigilance, in order to catch the mistakes that the robots make at superhuman speed.

Reverse centaurism is brutal. That's not news: Charlie Chaplin documented the problems of reverse centaurs nearly 100 years ago:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modern_Times_(film)

As ever, the problem with a gadget isn't what it does: it's who it does it for and who it does it to. There are plenty of benefits from being a centaur – lots of ways that automation can help workers. But the only path to AI profitability lies in reverse centaurs, automation that turns the human in the loop into the crumple-zone for a robot:

https://estsjournal.org/index.php/ests/article/view/260

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/01/human-in-the-loop/#monkey-in-the-middle

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

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Jorge Royan (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Munich_-_Two_boys_playing_in_a_park_-_7328.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

--

Noah Wulf (modified) https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Thunderbirds_at_Attention_Next_to_Thunderbird_1_-_Aviation_Nation_2019.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

[pooksgetspooked]

Teacher’s Pet

Summary: Leon was never good with people. Not since Raccoon City, not after the DSO, and certainly not after he’s involuntarily signed up to be a temporary professor at a University. He simply didn’t have the same charm that others envied, so thank the heavens he didn’t have to be when you were there to charm him instead.

Pairing(s): Professor!Leon s. Kennedy x Student!Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Content Warnings: MDNI! Age gap, Both of them are a bit of a creep, But they’re cute so it’s okay, Obsessive & Stalker undertones

“So, does anyone have an answer for this first question? Yeast deletion library can be used to validate tumor suppressor genes identified in tumors from humans. From such studies, we can infer that these genes function mainly as…? Anyone?” A lengthy silence followed, cut short by a sigh. “Mainly as cell cycle regulators.” The air of confidence ebbed away, leaving a soft murmur meant for his ears only as he slumped into his chair in behind the front desk.“Come on Leon, this is stupid. Awful. Am I even doing this right?” 

A calloused hand carded through blonde locks, tousling them as the man took a deep breath while sifting through his slides once more. “Is there anyone who knows what cell cycle regulators do? No, that’s too textbook, they’ll understand better in a real life application question,” he grumbled once more to himself within the vacant classroom, “real life application… I better start bringing lab samples if I’m gonna start talking about real life application,” he snorted dryly. Odd, maybe that’s an inside joke between him and himself. You couldn’t help but giggle softly to yourself; actually to yourself, unlike Prof Kennedy. Poor sod. Sat outside the classroom with your ears pressed against the door, you were jotting down notes to yourself with some scribbles for entertainment purposes. 

Your attention was rapt however, when you heard him murmur your name. Breath hitched, you froze while scrambling to pack your things and get away before he could open the door. “Yes, you. Do you have an answer to this question? It’s alright if you get the answer wrong, but i’d like you to try.” You let out a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging as you realized he was just practicing, but that didn’t stop the warm flush of your cheeks while your hand came up to cover your lips. Was he practicing with the thought of you in mind?

Professor Leon Kennedy, or Prof Kennedy as some of your classmates preferred to address him by, was the new professor teaching the principles of genetics module. You had heard whispers about him being younger than most of the geriatric professors, something something government involvement and a temporary break.

You were more concerned about this guy’s ability to teach, because you were damn sure if you had someone with the teaching capacity of a TA as your prof, you might personally see to that he clocks in his early retirement. 

But turns out, he was a pretty alright professor. You’ve definitely had better, he wasn’t exemplary. No, Prof Redfield took the cake for that. Eye candy, and brutal at Chemistry. You didn’t hate O chem any less than when you first started, but he was convincing enough to keep you from skipping. 

While Prof Redfield was masterful at his subject and teaching, Prof Kennedy was diligent but at the same time, kind of a grouch. It was kind of sweet to see how hard he was actually trying to make lectures more bearable, but you had every reason to believe that he himself could hardly stand being there when he never had anything beyond an impassive expression. You were pretty sure you’ve seen cadavers with more life in their face than he did 95 percent of the time. The other 5 percent was when class ends and he’s got the same urgency to match the pace he’s packing, because somehow he’s always the last guy in and first guy out of the lecture theatre.

“Alright class! Can anyone tell me about- no that’s not right, what am I saying?” Leon was near his wits end. Couldn’t recall why on earth he agreed to teach at some university as a break. Actually no, he did recall. 

He recalled how Chris and Claire had both coaxed him into the idea during one of their nights out drinking, and he recalled not recalling signing anything, but apparently he was already signed up for it within the same week of his disgruntled verbal agreement. He wished the government would work just a fraction as fast as whatever organization body that was desperate enough to take him in as a professor. Oh, but I think you’d be a good match Leon, what with all your lab background, you’ve got the knowledge they’re looking to teach. Plus, it’s an easy paid holiday from work! Leon rolled his eyes as he recalled the muddled voice of Claire, or was it Chris? Doesn’t matter. They considered a whole lot of his technical abilities, and a lot less of his social skills neck to neck with a nut. Tipping his head back as he stared up at the fluorescent lights, he thought back to his first lecture. Fucking terrifying, mind you. Facing BOWs with the ability to detach his spine from his head wasn’t anywhere near the same kind of nerve-wrecking when he had to stand in front of a whole auditorium of students. The second lecture was better, but only but the smallest sliver.

Lesser students this time, but still too many eyes for comfort. The only saving grace was that this time, he practiced. Spent an embarrassing amount of time going through the lecture materials with himself before stepping up on stage. 

Asides from that however, he had a little more brain capacity to actually observe the students during his second attempt. Most of which, jotting down notes on their ipads, using their phones; he couldn’t blame them, genetics can be pretty dry, and he would’ve chosen to teach something else as well if he was given the choice. However a little something stood out from the crowd. You were nearer to the front, rather dolled up. You were cute. And not only that, lo and behold, you were a nodder. Lecturers must love you, because Leon sure as hell did when he finally caught notice of you, and how you seemed to reciprocate his lectures with an encouraging nod and a smile whenever your gaze met. He found it a little easier to go up on stage after that. His gaze deviated more towards you, and at some point he just pretended like he was just teaching you. Drowned out the rest of the auditorium, and acted like it was just the two of you. 

That’s how he first came to know of you. Not actually though; professors don’t actually interact with the students. He didn’t get paid enough for that, and he didn’t want to come off as a creep, so he left you alone for the most part. 

Just did his own private digging to find out your name, and oh, would you look at that? You should really learn to safeguard your particulars better because it took him less than 5 to find your address, birthday, education history and wow, your grades were nothing to scoff at. Pretty, and smart? A girl after his heart, except that was a violation of so many school conducts that the idea was quickly carted off. He noticed starting from the fourth week that you were starting to find a voice in the class, and his attention all but zeroed in on you. The immense relief Leon felt when for the first time ever, a student actually tried to answer his question and not leave him to bask in awkward silence. It was only near the end of the lesson that he realized that his question was meant to be a rhetoric. It was an opening to the next chapter. You weren’t supposed to know what he was talking about, so how’d you know the answer? Do dean-listers just study ahead of class? “I just do some extra studying outside of class,” you had smiled sweetly up at him the one time he mustered the courage to approach you after the lecture ended, “you did a good job with this week’s lecture, by the way. The math was a little dry and confusing, but you made it a lot more bearable than it would’ve been.” The man was a real slump, but you could appreciate his effort, even if the exact opposite was reflected on his face every lesson. 

“Thank you,” caught off guard by the compliment, Leon sheepishly scratched at his chin, cheeks tinged warm, “if you ever need help, i’m usually free outside of lectures.” Both you and Leon blinked at each other. Whoa. Did the grumpiest professor you’ve ever interacted with just offer their time outside of class? Willingly? You were going to buy a lottery ticket later for your course code.

“Oh, I appreciate the offer,” your lips parted and closed as you tried to think of how to carry the conversation. You almost turned him down out of reflex, and frankly you never thought you’d make it to this stage. Sure, you were creeping just a little bit with the one sided after school supplementary class, but were you really about to push it? “how’s this friday?” The answer was yes. Yes, you were. Who knows? It might even be fun. This friday? Leon was going back home this friday to sleep away the school air and hopefully into a coma. Maybe he could sneak some drinks in, in his couch alone at home. That’s what he was doing this Friday. “This friday? I can do friday. I’ll email you later, and we can work out a time?” Or maybe not. “Sure! Thanks Prof,” he remembered how you beamed so warmly up at him, almost blinding, before strutting off with your bag hauled over one shoulder. With only the linger scent of your perfume tickling his nose, he was left to stand there by his lonesome.

It took a grand total of one and a half occasions for him to cave. The first was Friday. 

Friday came quick. Too quick, really. Maybe all that alcohol from a couple years back was finally coming back to fragment his memory, but it was like time was lost on him. Whatever time between that week’s lecture and Friday was lost on him while he was too busy imagining what the tutoring session would look like. Maybe he should smile a little more, come off more amicable and nice. Or should he just stick with the grumpy vibe? He knows that’s been hitting it off with some of the girls in school, he’s heard some of the passing comments. No, but you seem like a nice girl who would like a sweet guy. “Hey Prof, you okay?” Oh, why would you look at that? It seems his sense of time was failing him again. 

“Hm? I’m okay, just a little tired is all,” he blinked back to life, rubbing his face as he gave you a nonchalant wave of his hand, “don’t worry about me.” You frowned softly, eyes scanning him with an intensity that made Leon feel the same tingly warmth from last lecture. Before he could convince you any further, you leaned in close, and that might’ve been the closest Leon has ever been to a woman who didn’t have the ability nor intention to kill him in 3 seconds flat in a very long time.

He swallowed nervously, adam’s apple bobbing, but he otherwise made no move to push you away. Blue eyes flitted from your eyes; soft and glittery, down to your lips; Plump, pillowy and shiny. He noticed you usually had a tube of lip gloss on your desk during lectures. He went to google it, said it was strawberry flavoured. Suddenly, he was having cravings for strawberries. 

His lids fluttered, half lidded as he stared down at you, mind empty yet reeling all the same. What were you doing, little minx? “Your eyebags are pretty bad, a little too pale, your cheeks are kind of sunken as well. You should take care of your health a little more,” you suddenly said, before pulling away and returning back to your seat, back straightened as though nothing had happened. As though you didn’t lean in close enough for him to smell the strawberries off your lips. Didn’t threaten Leon’s self restraint to close the gap between the both of you. “ I can take care of myself. Thanks for the concern, but don’t worry about me kid,” he coughed, voice a low rumble as he glanced away. Right. He remembered reading about you being a medical student. He was getting ahead of himself. A doll like you with damaged goods like him? The notion was laughable, but Leon would never admit to the tinge of warmth that bloomed at the thought of it.

“Everyone could use a little help regardless of what stage of life you’re in,” you shrugged all to nonchalantly, like you were stating a fact. Which you were, before glancing towards him as you fished out this week’s study materials from your bag. “And you think you can help me?” “I’m sure I could be of some help, one way or another,” You flipped open your notebook, ipad on the side with your questions all prepared. What Leon wouldn’t give to have coworkers as efficient and enthused as you. Maybe he could put in a good word for you in his lab, pull you in for your internships. A relationship between co-workers would be alot less inappropriate than a relationship between professor and student. He knew he was still going to get shit from it from his office though, but that was a problem for later. Maybe then you could help him out. Out of his ditch of misery, out of his wandering mind, help him out of his pants. Whoa. Where did that come from?

He cleared his throat, swallowing his spit before picking up your notes. “We can talk about that another time. For now, what’re you having trouble with?” Half an hour in, and Leon was struggling. Fighting for his life, actually, because he’d been sporting a boner beneath the table 10 minutes in after your legs accidentally brushed against each other. He couldn’t tell if he was suffering from acute testosterone poisoning, and the horniness was deluding him into thinking that you were dropping him hints, or if you were genuinely showing some sort of interest in him. Your lashes fluttered when you stared up at him, lips coated in a sheen of gloss puffed into a soft pout everytime he explained something through tripped words and stutters. Everytime he found it in himself to knock the thoughts out of his head, you always found some innocuous way to enthrall him and his dick back into your whimsy, imaginary grasp. He wondered if your hands grab onto dicks as hard as you grabbed his attention. Just as Leon felt like he was finally going to see which would pop first; his dick or his blood pressure, the lesson was cut short. He wasn’t sure if he found the hour long session too short or too agonizingly long. Your eyes finally flickered away from him to your ringing cell, your lips rounded in surprise. “Sorry, this’ll be quick,” you gave him a sheepish little chuckle, manicured nails plucking the cell as you stood upright. To match, Leon’s cock sprung upright too. As you waltzed off, humming a small hello through the phone, all he could really see or hear was your bare thighs and waist, easily small enough for him to grab. And your ass? By god. He could see it from your physique. You were soft. Far softer than any of the ladies he had worked with for the last miserable 10 something years, all of which could easily deck and curbstomp him for having the thoughts he had towards you. 

You had a habit of leaning on one leg, Leon had noticed by the third class. You’d rest on one leg, your hips jutting out in that direction while the plush of your thigh squeezed beneath the hem of your pants to give a small pudge. Denim shorts day was a particular treat for him. Shame that today wasn’t one of those days, but it was still shorts day, so it was half a win for him. 

“Fine,” Leon blinked hard, gaze snapping right back up at the sound of your reluctant little sigh, “I’ll go, sure, but I’m not going for next week’s, I have some papers coming up. I’ll see about the week after,” you huffed into the phone, swapping the cell to the other hand so you could lean on your other leg. “Yeah?” He could hear your giggle, sweet and lithe. What other way more fitting words were there to describe you? “Alright, I’ll see you tonight. See you! Mhm, bye bye!” “Sorry about that, I thought I had my phone on silent, but I must’ve forgotten,” you slipped yourself back into your seat, your gaze rising from the screen of your phone back up to find leon’s, who was watching you ever so intently. “Some friends invited me to a party,” you supplemented, mistaking his stare for one of curiosity. 

Well, he wasn’t that curious before, but he certainly was now. He had heard all sorts of things about university parties, but never got the chance to actually experience one for obvious reasons. He had just about accepted his life ended at the tender age of 21 back in Raccoon City, before it was handed over and detained by the DSO for the unforeseeable remainder of his hopefully clipped life. 

So the idea of something as normal as a party charmed him, and through the shine of his eyes, you could tell. Your head tilted, an amusing little quirk of yours whenever your attention was hooked on something and the cogs in your head was turning. 

“You go to parties a lot?” he cleared his throat awkwardly, his turn to be fidgety under your scrutiny. He knew you were thinking. He knew you were thinking something of him, specifically. But he didn’t know what you were thinking. 

“I wouldn’t say a lot, I get invited a bunch but I don’t always go,” you word trailed off into a soft drone, mind pacing with considerations before you cracked a smile, “but would you like to come to this one?” “Uh, join you to a party?” the nervous chuckle slipped past his lips before he could even think to hold it back. You didn’t seem the slightest bit dejected from his apprehension however, instead choosing to press on. “You don’t have to of course, but if you’d like, you’re welcome to come to this one, it’s an open party, so other people will be there too!” 

 Oh god, what was happening. “I’ll uh, I’ll think about it?” He did. Sort of? He slept on it, more than anything. The rest of the session was a blur, you were a fast learner who pretty much solved the remainder of your own questions once you picked up on the first couple of questions. That, and he was pretty sure all the blood meant for his head was relocated to his dick, so forgive him if he was tripping over himself in a rush to get home and jerk himself off until his dick went raw.

By the next afternoon when he had stumbled out of bed with his crotch still sticky and bedside tissues stiff, imagine his surprise when we saw that you went ahead and did him the liberty of actually emailing him the party address; he had thought you were just saying it to be nice, honestly. 

‘Hey Professor Kennedy! Here’s the address for the party, again no pressure if you don’t feel like coming, but there’ll be free drinks if you do!

Take care!’ 

He spent way more time than he cared to admit considering your offer. Somehow, you’ve reduced him from a grouch wagering bets as to whether tomorrow would be the day he bites the bullet, into still too old of a man feeling like a perverted youth with a libido to match.

He thought long and hard through the myriad of fantasies that played out while he went to shower. As his hands absentmindedly lathered his soapy, blonde locks, his gaze fixed on the water stained glass. He could picture the droplets sliding down your back and past the curves of your ass. The size of the shower would force you to press flush against his chest, his stiff mast resting on your lower back, balls against the perk of your butt. 

Would you pant as he lays his weight on you, your breast pressed up against the glass and the shaft of his dick shower in the slippery dip of your pussy? Maybe you’d mewl as he toys with your nipples, rough pads pinching and twisting at the nipples while grubby hands knead and paw at the plush of your chest. He bet he could make your breath hitch and your eyes well with tears as he feeds just the tip of his dick to your gummy walls, never pushing himself all the way in. Just the tip, until you’re begging like he was your lifeline and that you’d be his good girl. 

His jaw clenched, chest tight and knees buckled as milky fluids splattered against the glass, catching the drops of water that rolled down. Leon’s lips parted as he blinked himself back to the present, the fluorescent light making it difficult for his sight to return, his ears ringing while his chest heaved desperately for air. 

For that second that your imaginary presence coaxed his undoing, he forgot how to breathe.For as much as he wants to be your lifeline, you were quickly becoming his.

[mothhball]

II – VIRIDIS

viridis – marked by youthful vigor

JONATHAN CRANE X FEM!READER

summary Drinking your woes away was a temporary solution, and it ends up in tears. But even in the darkest night, there's the chance of a silver lining. Just be sure you're well-informed about your shiny spark of hope.

warnings NEEDLES, BLOOD SAMPLE, very mild medfet (a whisper for now), alcohol, reader gets drunk, some mildly foul language, unhappy relationship,

notes oooo longer chapter! and things are MOVING

! MINORS DNI !

story masterlist • main masterlist • taglist • kofi word count: 5.2k

The news themselves were already bad, but even worse was the pity from everyone you told about the rejection. Behind every sympathetic smile and half-hug was a hidden “I told you so” that no one said out loud, but was obvious enough.

Despite what people told you, apparently no one had believed that you could make it in the first place, and that realization caused a rage to burn and fester within your guts. A rage which found no outlet since that wretched Thursday that you since then blacked out with a fat sharpie from your calendar. Reading that letter felt like repeatedly getting hit over the head with a steel pipe, beating you into a pathetic, bloody pulp right where you were standing in your kitchen. Your boyfriend tried to rub your back, but you bristled and immediately turned away from him, scowling like it was him specifically who sent the rejection. His little pout disgusted you. But what made you actually nauseous was the relief in his eyes. Never once, in 3 years of this relationship, did you resent him like you did on that Thursday afternoon. Bitter, seething resentment which almost caused you to lash out at him like a riled-up dog.

But instead, you chose to take the high road. Or rather you fled, left the apartment and drove over to your best friend Mina’s to cry and shout into one of her lovely couch pillows. The smart, admirable choice would’ve been to write an email to Potomac. To timidly ask Dr. Rabin to turn a blind eye and allow you to send in a late application. But every time your fingers hovered over the keys of your old, ratty laptop, the embarrassment was too much, and you slammed it shut once more, leaving the unfinished request behind. But your boyfriend Tristan, in his seemingly endless quest of half-heartedly trying to manage your future, urged you to send the email. So, you did. At least that’s what you told him. A little white lie to let him keep his peace of mind. 

Your mood only got worse towards the weekend, prompting a few of your friends and your boyfriend to drag you off to do the responsible thing. Get drunk and shake off the tension during a night out. And now here you are, downing shots on a Saturday night in an attempt to forget your woes at least for a little while.

The club is packed and stuffy, and the lights flicker over a mass of people that seems to have grown into one hive mind of an entity, allowing you to feel swallowed and anonymous for just a few blissful hours. Every mouthful of alcohol that you swallow works in your favor to numb the anxiety gnawing at your bones while the bass gently licks at your feverish skin, causing your heart to vibrate in your ribcage. It’s easy to lose yourself in sips of colorful shots and cocktails. At least until a firm hand on your shoulder prevents you from placing another order. Turning your head, you’re met by Tristan’s disgruntled eyes, and before you can shake off his grip, he’s already pulling you away from the bar to a relatively quiet spot in another hallway of the club. Still, he has to raise his voice when he speaks to you, already laying the foundation for a screaming match.

“What are you doing??” he asks, giving you a once over that only serves to further sour his mood.

“What do you mean? I’m just having a couple of drinks,” you slur back at him, returning that nasty look he’s sending you. Tristan scoffs, shaking his head like you’re a lost cause, even though he’s not exactly sober either.

“You’re getting wasted. Are you still sulking over that rejection? Jesus…”

That actually makes your jaw drop, and you’re speechless for a few seconds, which your boyfriend takes as his cue to continue.

“Just let it go. Some things aren’t meant to be. It’s better this way”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” you hiss back at him, curling your fingers tightly into the fabric of the little dress you’re wearing.

“I… Listen, we both know Arkham isn’t… your style. You… you’re not that kind of person –“ Tristan sighs, somehow trying to make his statement seem less insulting and vague by waving his hands around in your face.

“The kind of person to what??”

“The kind of person who’d make it there! You would’ve quit after two weeks! Let’s be real for once. And then you’d have to start over again and you would have to wait yet another semester to graduate!” Every word that leaves his mouth pisses you off even more, and a truly ugly emotion rears its head within you. Things are escalating. You still have half a mind to realize it. You should call it a night, go home and talk things out in the morning. But this is the first time that Tristan is being brutally honest about your career choices.

“Oh, I didn’t know it was a race, Tristan! How silly of me! I’ll make sure to plan every future decision around your life schedule from now on!” You get in his face, venom dripping off of every shouted syllable that slips from your tongue a little too easily.

“You’re putting words in my mouth! I never said I wanted you to plan your life around me! I’m just worried! All of my friend’s girlfriends –“

“So that’s what this is about? The girlfriends of your little business school friend group?? Am I part of some weird dick measuring contest?” You continue before he gets a word in, asking a question that’s been burning in your throat for a few months now.

“Are you ashamed of me??”

You’re met with silence. Silence that’s so obviously an answer in itself that it causes your heart to slip out of your chest and shatter on the sticky floor below. Tristan notices the devastated expression on your face, but his drunken audacity eggs him on to double down. 

“I wouldn’t have to be if you just acted like an adult! You can’t always get what you want! For fuck’s sake, just be happy with what you have for once!” You wish you had a drink you could throw in his face. But your hands are empty, shaking with anger and disappointment. You can’t look at him anymore.

“Screw you, Tristan.” And with that, you turn, leaving him standing there while you rush to find an exit as tears well up in your eyes. He doesn’t make a move to follow you, and it simultaneously calms and saddens you even more. 

Navigating the club is even more complicated with your blurred vision, and you bump into a few people, no doubt spilling a few overpriced drinks in the process. But you’re either too fast or they’re too drunk to really do anything about it.

Finally, finally, you make it outside, choking out a strangled noise that’s a pathetic mix between a sob and a whine, and you quickly duck into a nearby alley to give way to the tears. You’re drunk and overly emotional, you try to rationalize with yourself, but it doesn’t lessen the ache in any way. So, pressing a palm over your mouth, you reluctantly allow yourself to cry. The night air is icy, but fresh enough to comfort you and slowly clear up the lump in your throat, and after some cathartic five minutes, you start to calm down again. Your tears run black at this point, dragging your favorite mascara down your cheeks, and you sniffle as you into your purse to grab a compact mirror and assess the damage. 

It's in that moment when your phone display lights up, alerting you to an incoming call. Your stomach twists into knots as you fish the phone out of your purse. A call from Tristan might make things worse, and you’re not really in the mood to talk to him right now, so – 

But the call isn’t coming from your boyfriend. Your eyes widen before they narrow into slits, and annoyance bubbles up within your chest. There on the phone display, proudly displayed as the caller ID is Dr. Jonathan Crane’s name. Your thumb hovers over the glass before you decide to pick up the call. As soon as you hear his voice, annoyance gives way to a little spark of hope. It also serves to sober you up a little. You barely have time to rasp out a “Hello?” before he speaks, sounding almost relieved that you picked up.

“I know that calling at such a late hour is quite unusual, but I’m glad I could get ahold of you before it was too late. Believe me, I was just as surprised as you most likely were. To be frank, I was so certain that you'd be joining us that I didn't even check the list to confirm it.” Papers rustle on his end of the line. He must still be in his office.

“Yeah, I… I was optimistic as well. Maybe… Maybe a little too much,” you admit softly, trying to concentrate on your words to avoid slurring. Crane hums, and you can’t tell if it’s in understanding or amusement. Reading him in person was already hard enough, but it’s nigh impossible over the phone.

“Tell you what, I believe you dodged a bullet. I clarified with the other staff members what the responsibilities of those interns will be, and that wouldn’t be right for you. Sorting files and sitting in on group therapy sessions at the Low Security Wing? No, that would be a waste of your time. You’re not that kind of person. Which is why I’m offering you something else.”

You lick your dry lips, still tasting the salt of your tears and some last traces of your lipstick. For a second, you’re unsure if you heard him correctly. “Something else?”

Crane glosses over your question, and in your mind you understand. This might be sensitive information. Drunk-You feels a little like a spy, keeping a secret from Tristan who would surely be mad that you’re even talking to the director of Arkham Asylum right now.

“Are you free to come in tomorrow? I know it’s quite late already –“

“Yes. Yes, I am,” you interrupt, feeling brave. 

“Good. Then let’s meet in my office at… let’s say… 10 am? Is that alright?”

“I… uh, absolutely.” You quickly rummage through your purse, using a lip liner and an old receipt to haphazardly write down the appointment. “I’ll be there.”

“Perfect. Enjoy the rest of your night,” he says before he hangs up right after. You have no chance to say goodbye properly as the line clicks. Maybe it’s for the best. Knowing yourself, you would’ve wished him a great night as well with the addition of a plea to “get home safe”, which would’ve been a little much.

When you head back inside, you’re spotted by your worried friends and an indifferent Tristan, and dear GOD, the urge to boast and gloat has never been this strong before in your life. But you stay quiet as you put on a smile, avoiding to look at your boyfriend. You stay quiet as your group gets into a taxi, and stay quiet as you get back home and head straight for your bed. “You’re not that kind of person” was something you heard twice in one night. And only once did it feel right.

The pounding ache in your skull serves as your alarm clock the next day, tearing you out of a restless sleep only 10 minutes before you were supposed to get up anyway. A frown finds its way onto your features as you tiptoe out of the bedroom, catching a glimpse of the still sleeping Tristan on the couch in the living room. Neither of you have said a word to each other since the fight, and you'll be damned if you start the conversation about something he messed up in the first place.

You walk past him, feeling the cold surface of the floorboards beneath your feet as you head into the bathroom to try to make yourself look (and smell) presentable. The stench of alcohol leaves your tongue after brushing and rinsing with mouthwash thrice, and an overindulgence of body wash in the shower solves everything else. The final touch is a generous amount of concealer under your eyes, and you're surprised that you actually pass off as someone who doesn't have an awful hangover right now.

Getting dressed is another challenge, though. You can't exactly say that Drunk-You had the gift of foresight to pick a suitable outfit for your second meeting with Dr. Crane, so you dig through your closet to make yourself look presentable. Your fingers wander over the different fabrics, tracing cotton and polyester, wool and tweed as you grumble to yourself. Christ, this shouldn’t feel like rocket science.

This dreadful indecisiveness eats up a sizeable chunk of your time, and as you button up your blouse, you realize how late it suddenly is.

Breakfast consists of an aspirin and a large black coffee, and you make sure to let the coffee machine shriek as loudly as it wants just to spite Tristan a little more before you rush out of the apartment. 

This time around, the drive to Arkham Asylum feels a little more familiar. You still depend heavily on your GPS, but you remember some of the turns and streets, and you don’t feel as tiny and insignificant as you did a week ago. You’re here with an explicit purpose now. Crane knows who you are and asked you to come back nevertheless.

Upon entering the still intimidating building, you stop by the reception again, spotting a familiar face. The receptionist seems just as surprised to see you, sharp eyes flicking down to a visitor's list that seems to confirm the validity of your return before she points a manicured nail towards the security check. You raise your hand to wave at her as you pass. She doesn't wave back. Oh well, you can't get them all.

The maze of a third-floor feels straightforward as well today, made possible by the ever-present red lines guiding you to your destination. This time, you're able to meet Crane in his office, and his request to enter can be heard through the door after the first knock.

Everything still looks the same as you enter, save for his now orderly desk. The chaos of files from back then is now a neat stack that the doctor rests his folded hands atop. You open your mouth to greet him, but Crane speaks first, completely catching you off-guard.

"The bunny is back. I'm glad to see it."

"Excuse me?" You blink at him before you look down at yourself. No, no bunny-themed clothes or accessories anywhere that might have given him the idea to call you that. You’re drawing a blank. Unsure whether this is part of a hazing process or an inside joke you must’ve missed, you lift your gaze back up to him. There’s a fleeting look of sardonic amusement on his face before he reels himself back in to elaborate.

“That's what you reminded me of the first time you came here. Glancing around, all skittish and frightened in the hallway…” he explains, already turning his head away from you to reach into one of his desk drawers and retrieve a folder. Your folder. “Please, close the door and take a seat. We’re already running low on time.”

After following his instructions, you find yourself sitting in the same chair from a week ago, foregoing the act of presenting yourself as a confident person. It’s no use, anyway. Crane already knows you’re desperate. It’s seeping out of your every pore, giving your worries a rich and sweet taste that the director of Arkham seems to indulge in for a moment. At least, that’s what you assume based on the expression in his cold eyes. You’re no fool. It’s basically a guarantee that his offer will bite you in the ass in some way or another. 

“You must be a little put-off by this meeting. It’s not exactly orthodox to ask you to come in on a Sunday, but I read the list of this year’s interns just minutes before I called you last night. And that was purely by chance. Like I said, I was positive you’d be one of them.” Crane opens your folder, but his eyes stay on your face. “I have no idea what goes on in the heads of my staff sometimes, and now I’m fairly certain it can’t be much. But I don’t intend to waste a person like you.”

You shift in your seat, listening intently to every word that leaves his lips. It’s your lifeline. And he knows it.

“So, I am making you an offer. Just promise to listen first,” he says, and one of his eyebrows twitches upwards at the intensity in your gaze. “The position I’m offering you would be exclusive. It won’t be approved by anyone else but me and it technically didn’t exist before I made up my mind about it. I am offering you the position of intern assistant.”

Your eyes widen. Even in his darkroom of an office, it feels like the air just became lighter and the colors brighter. Crane lifts a finger, continuing his offer.

“No surface scratching – You’d be my shadow. Which means more work and responsibilities, but also more privileges, more insight, more knowledge. I’ll teach you what you need to know to get ahead in this field, and by the end of it, your fellow students will eat your dust. Your professors as well, if I’m being honest.”

Before you can even respond, he’s already reaching back into his desk, pulling out a massive stack of paperwork. And then the rushing begins. Crane checks his watch, clicking his tongue before he pushes the documents over to you, along with a fountain pen.

“How long would it take you to read this? I have to hand this in within the next 50 minutes to make sure you’re cleared in time. If you even accept my offer, that is. It’s a terrible time crunch, I know, but I’d really like to have you as a member of staff in one week.”

Tentatively, you reach out for the fountain pen, twirling it around in your fingers for a moment as you think about his offer. This hesitancy only causes him to lean forward and flip through the first pages, pointing out a handful of sections for only a few seconds each before he moves on.

“It’s the regular stuff, I guess. Everything I just told you in cumbersome wording. I really wish I could take my time and go through each page with you, but the circumstances just won’t allow it. If you have any questions, I’ll gladly answer all of them once you’ve signed.”

It’s shady as hell. A red flag that’s so glaringly obvious that it makes you wonder how Crane can keep a straight expression. But this is your one chance of getting a look behind the scenes. Your one chance of proving them wrong. Professor Campbell, Tristan, everyone who doubted you could do it. This could go horribly wrong. But it could also be your ticket into the big leagues. Shadowing the asylum’s director would be a privilege that no one else gets. A chance to make connections and grow. Not to mention that your résumé would look incredible with Crane’s recommendation attached to it.

Hell, he may be exploiting you, but who says you can’t exploit him right back? It’s your good right to milk this opportunity as much as you can.

Meanwhile, the psychiatrist continues to ramble on, rattling off half-apologies and made-up reasons why you have to sign as quickly as possible once he reaches the last page of the contract. The page where you have to place your signature on the intended line. Both of you are surprised by how quickly you sign it. 

As you place the cap back onto the fountain pen, it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room, creating a vacuum in which both of you seem to grapple with the reality that you’d be stuck to Dr. Crane’s side for a few months, following every step and instruction of his. You manage to break the silence first.

“There. I have questions now.”

“Of course. I already expected as much,” Crane says as he pulls the freshly signed contract back to his side of the desk, staring down at your signature as if he’s half expecting it to jump off the paper. But then he places the thick document back into the drawer it came from, letting out a quiet breath. You notice that he seems significantly more at ease now, movements once again patient and effortlessly measured, and your brows furrow a little as you speak.

“What’s my hourly rate?”

“There’s nothing of the sort, I’m afraid.” Your blood runs cold at his nonchalance, and your lips part to protest when he cuts you off. “You will be working the same hours as me. And since my overtime and schedule is a little unpredictable at times, we will just have to see. You will be paid at the end of the month, however. The amount will depend on how much we actually did.”

“I… alright.” You bite your tongue, even though your displeasure is obvious. Nevertheless, you proceed with your second question. “You mentioned more responsibilities. I guess there’s a catch, then? Or a few?”

Crane chuckles, getting up from his chair to walk over to a cabinet in search of something specific. He speaks to you from over his shoulder.

“Right to the point. Wonderful. But yes, there are a few peculiarities that come with the position. Starting with – You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

He closes the cabinet, returning to the desk with a little tray containing various items.

“We’ll start with a mandatory blood sample. I hope this isn’t a problem. I just need to know that my assistant is in peak condition. And didn’t smoke anything on the way here.”

You want to scoff, but swallow the sound at the last second. The fact that you took offense to his unspoken accusation is written across your face, and Crane doesn’t comment any further on it as he sets the tray down on the desk and pulls his chair closer to yours.

“I’m fine with needles,” you murmur, already pulling up your sleeve.

“No trypanophobia? A shame,” Crane chuckles, sitting down again before he reaches out for your arm. Your doubts whether he’s even qualified to do this as a psychiatrist vanish the moment his hands come in contact with your skin. He’s cold. Almost uncomfortably cold as his fingers brush over the bend of your elbow in search of a suitable vein. Once he’s successful, he picks a tourniquet from the tray of equipment and fastens it around your upper arm. His movements seem too perfect to be experienced. As if he’s a green med student working with the textbook perched on his lap. As if he’d burst into flame if he did something wrong.

“So, about the catch,” he continues, grabbing a bottle of disinfectant and spraying it over the spot he picked on your arm. Surprisingly, the liquid isn’t much colder than his touch. “Since you’ll be my shadow, you’re also required to accompany me to appointments outside of Arkham. Conferences, meetings… so on and so forth. I also have some upcoming court dates within the next few months. Obviously, I’m not the defendant. I’m just an advisor.”

You nod along to his words, eyes following his hands as he rubs disinfectant into his own skin before he pulls on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Crane stretches the material over his hands until it’s taut, making it squeak before he shifts closer until his knees touch yours. At this proximity, you can smell his cologne, and the combination throws you off a little. It’s mainly sandalwood and bergamot, but there’s a hint of something else you can’t quite grasp. Something chemical, almost acidic. The psychiatrist continues to speak, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Another catch is that there’s a required dress code for you. As my assistant, you need to always look presentable. You can’t be running around looking like a hobo since your actions and appearance will reflect on me as well. And I’d rather not be associated with… any of those cheap trends that seem to be popular with the bottom of the barrel nowadays. You’ll have to give me your clothing size so I can prepare a new wardrobe for you. It’ll just save us time in the long run.”

Your brows furrow, but his request seems reasonable. “Alright. I suppose that’s fair,” you say, watching closely as he runs his thumb over the bend of your elbow. Then, he presses down to anchor the vein. It’s right in this moment when he decides to drop another bombshell.

“Which brings me to probably the biggest drawback in all of this.”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his. He’s already looking at your face, watching for the slightest twitch in your expression.

“You’ll have to stay at my place for the duration of your internship.”

What follows is a solid minute of deafening silence. Your pulse races, thumping softly against the pad of Crane’s thumb. He can tell you’re displeased, and he frowns a little, surprisingly empathetic.

“What?” you manage to croak out, swallowing dryly.

“Believe me, I spent all night trying to come up with a better solution. Sometimes, I get emergency calls in the middle of the night and it’s vital that you’re there with me. Those cases are the real deal. They’re raw and unfiltered, often much more than incidents that happen during the day. And as you told me during your interview, you live quite far away from here.”

You nod stiffly, gaze dropping to where he’s still pressing his thumb down on your arm. Crane can see and feel how uneasy this condition makes you, and he tries to lessen the blow.

“You’ll have your own bathroom and bedroom, of course. We will only share the kitchen and living room. And the laundry room, but I suppose that is the least of your worries. I won’t bother you.”

When he sees that you’re still not too happy, he quickly adds, “You can also tell me to be quiet whenever I mention work after hours.”

This at least gets a reaction from you. You force yourself to crack a smile, meeting his eyes once more.

“Okay. I’ll hold you to it.”

“Perfect.” The psychiatrist nods, wasting no time uncapping a butterfly needle and puncturing your skin with it. The sudden sting almost makes you flinch, but his grip suddenly is so tight that you don’t get any wiggle room. You watch as your blood travels down through the attached tube, filling up a small sample bottle and shortly after, a second one.

“You’re pretty brave for a bunny,” he jokes, setting your blood samples down on the tray before he releases the tourniquet and reaches for some gauze. His eyes stay on yours the entire time as he pulls out the needle and presses the gauze against your arm, soaking up your discomfort in a way that only fascinated scientists are capable of. 

“Press down.”

You mutter a “sure” as you obey his instruction, relieved when he finally turns away from you to discard the needle and his gloves. The final touch is a little band-aid over the tiny puncture wound, and you keep your hand over it as Crane pushes his chair back into its rightful place and takes a seat once more. He studies one of the full sample tubes as he speaks up again.

“You must be a little overwhelmed right now. Which is understandable, don’t get me wrong. But I’d like for you to go home and start packing your most important belongings. I’ll text you my address and will take care of the rest. You just need to show up next Sunday and get started on Monday.”

“Do I need to bring anything in specific? Like… a notebook or something?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “You’ll get your stationery and other supplies here. I’ll make sure to try to organize you a separate desk. Maybe even one of the more comfortable office chairs. But I can’t really promise any luxuries.”

“I know this establishment oftentimes seems like a revolving door when it comes to staff applying and quitting. But I don't want that with you.” Crane tears his eyes away from your blood sample, giving you his undivided attention again. “There won't be an easy way out, however. Either you prove yourself and do your job until the end of your internship, or else there will be no certificate and you'll have to try your luck elsewhere. And I hate to worry you, but getting a job without one of my letters of recommendation might be a little tricky. But I assure you, that's the absolute worst-case scenario."

You let out a little breath and nod, straightening in your chair. Your mind is already racing, spinning around in a colorful variety that ranges from dread to genuine excitement. The biggest problem, however, is that you will have to break the news to your boyfriend. The thought makes you a little nauseous, but if Crane notices it, he’s generous enough not to mention it. 

Your goodbyes are brief, and you’re still holding your hand over the band aid as you leave the building and reach your car. Dark clouds are brewing overhead, announcing one of Gotham’s common rainy afternoons, and it already smells earthy with a hint of wet concrete.

The drive home doesn’t take as much time as you would’ve liked, even though you’re stopped plenty of times by red lights or passing cop cars with their sirens turned on. No, you reach the apartment much too soon, climbing the stairs with a heavy heart and sweaty palms. The band aid feels like it’s burning a hole into your flesh, hidden away underneath your sleeve. A secret hint of the meeting with Crane. Your key hovers in front of the lock on your front door as you freeze. Telling Tristan about the internship would mean telling him about your impending new living arrangements. Yes, you’d get the satisfaction of proving him wrong about your capabilities, but he’d blow up about everything else. Even worse, what if he reports the conditions of your internship? What if he ruins everything before it has even begun? 

Another big fight doesn’t fit into your schedule either. Neither does a breakup. Taking a breath, you unlock the door and step into the apartment, almost immediately meeting Tristan in the hallway. Time freezes for a moment, and then you say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I need to pack. They want me back at Potomac.”

It’s okay, right? It’s no big deal. After all, it’s just another little white lie to let him keep his peace of mind.

@ellebelleshelby @cilliansprincess @mcumorningstar @x0xomady @mandies24

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@ashdrinksoatmilk @nnattu @ptolemaniac @kiss-me-cill-me @celebrities-imagines

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@ryecosse @strangeobsessed @xsweetcatastrophe @cillianslvt @ilovedottore

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

Just as psychology research had its WEIRD (“western, educated, industrialized, rich and democratic”) sampling bias, autism research has not only a WEIRD sampling bias, but also has essentially oversampled the same, narrow band of what are considered the easily “researchable autistics,” and expected those findings (as well as the applications and interventions that resulted from them) to apply to everyone.

But the spectrum is far more diverse and heterogeneous than we realize. Sure enough, even as I review past autism research as part of my studies, I look at the autistic participant profiles and the truth is that a majority don’t represent autistics like me. Autism research participant selection is filled with implicit and explicit exclusionary criteria, such as IQ cut-offs, ability to be able to sit still, to perform tasks and engage, to respond orally and not have co-occurring or complex conditions. But why should IQ be an exclusionary criterion when it is mutable and has been historically problematic for marginalized groups? I have to then wonder how findings from studies with so many exclusionary criteria would benefit autistics like me.

Research participant selection bias is especially problematic in a disability like autism because the primary goal of research is to provide explanations. Studies also influence policy priorities, interventions, treatments, who gets access to funding, access to spaces, and even societal attitudes. Most importantly, research leads us to applications and solutions. If we are left out of research, we are left out of the solutions as well.

author hari srinivasan is minimally speaking autistic with high support needs and oral-motor apraxia, whose autism & disability very visible. he went to undergrad at UC berkeley & now doing PhD in neuroscience at vanderbilt university.

paired with

[very-sincerely-yours-zine]

Q. When will applications open?

Applications will open on May 1st and run until May 31st! Applicants should expect a response during the week of June 7th.

Q. What do I need to apply?

The writer's application will ask for three samples of written work of any size and format, while the artist's application will ask for five samples of visual art! None of the samples have to be Holmes or even fandom-related, and we encourage everyone to apply even if they have a limited body of work or have never joined a zine before.

Q. When will this zine be available to buy?

The anthology will run a Kickstarter campaign hopefully throughout the month of November, at which time it will be possible to pre-order a copy of the anthology in physical or digital formats! Printing and shipping will require at least two months, meaning that the earliest zines will arrive is in January 2026.

Q. How much will this zine cost?

The PDF should cost around $10 USD, and a physical copy around $30 USD. There will be additional Kickstarter tiers featuring merchandise, the prices of which are to be decided. Shipping within Canada and the US will be approximately $14 - 20 USD, while shipping outside Canada and the US will average upwards of $20 USD.

Q. What is the theme about?

The theme is homes and the idea of home, particularly as it relates to the history of queer domesticity! The iconic setting of 221B Baker Street is instantly recognizable as the house of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, but what really makes it their home? There is also the fact that each character has, at different points in the canon, left and returned to 221B—what can we make of that? There are its predecessors: Montague Street and Watson's hotel on the Strand. There are its successors: Watson's Kensington practice and Holmes' cottage in Sussex. Each of these living spaces represent something different to Holmes, Watson, and their relationship, which we hope to explore.

Q. Where is the title from?

The title comes from the note Holmes leaves Watson at the edge of Reichenbach Falls, before he leaves both his dearest friend and the world of the living for three years. Although not a terribly uncommon way of signing off a letter in those times, it denotes a sense of love and belonging to modern ears that we thought appropriate for our theme.

Q. Will this zine feature fan work of Holmes adaptations?

This project will focus on Holmes and Watson from the ACD canon, meaning that artwork and writing should be centered around the events of canon and in the Victorian/Edwardian time-period. However, there is space for flexibility, and contributors are welcome to take inspiration from adaptations similarly set in the Victorian/Edwardian era!

Q. Will contributors be paid for their work?

Half of the project's proceeds will go towards compensating our creators for their work, divided evenly between all contributors! Additionally, contributors will receive a free copy of the physical book with the shipping paid for.

Q. How can I support the zine even if I'm not a contributor?

We will have a public Discord server where you can keep abreast of project updates and see previews of the contributor's works in progress! The link to the server will be made available after the applications period in May.

[Updated 4/14/2025]

[hotguycomiczine]

EXTRY EXTRY! CALLING ALL BETA READERS!

Have you ever thought a zine could use more beta reading? Have you looked at a fic and thought, ‘I could fix you’? Do you enjoy helping people improve their grammar, spelling, and punctuation?

THEN THE HOTGUY COMICS ZINE NEEDS YOU!

We're looking for a handful of beta readers to proofread both comics and oneshots alike. These beta readers will be working underneath the guidance of our lead editor Mod TJ, who will assign each one to a small group of contributors to help keep our zine's quality consistent. Beta readers will be working alongside their contributors as helpers, brainstormers, and friendly ears to keep the process running smoothly. If you've ever wanted to join a zine but have been too busy to write or contribute art, this is your perfect chance!

Requirements to apply are simple: all you have to do is send in 2 excerpts between 200-400 words in our Editor's Application, showing what they looked like before they were edited, and then the final product after! These samples don't even have to be related to the zine— and you can use both your own writing or another author's, so long as they've been credited in the application.

So apply as an editor for the HOTGUY COMICS Zine today, and don't miss your chance to leave your personal mark on this incredible, one-of-a-kind, collaborative project!

🖊️ EDITOR: Apply with this form → https://forms.gle/x554d4AsekBvhaJv7

[zipafterdark]

A Brief, Cautionary Tale About Reading The Fine Print -- [One Shot]

Word Count: 1100

Brief Summary: An idiot ruminates on all the things he should have done and did not do as he steps into a terrifying new reality

Content: G/t, shrunken man, fear via cold and unfeeling science

Click here for commission info!

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Maybe he should have told someone that he’d signed up for this.

He should have looked a little harder for other work. He should have rewritten his resume, he should have asked around, he should have walked every mile of the city in search of Help Wanted signs, he should have filled in every application available to him.

But no, Alan saw an opportunity for a quick buck, and he’d jumped at it without a second thought.

Though in his defense —if there was any to be had— he would never have imagined what the outcome would be, not in his wildest dreams. “Volunteers Wanted to Test New Products - Same Day Pay” had sounded a lot like he was going to be sampling food or lotion or soap or something reasonable. He would have never considered that they were testing devices, and that those devices could alter him so drastically.

He should have asked more questions. He should have paid more attention. He should have read the very fine print of the piles and piles of paperwork they’d had him sign down to the letter.

He should have made a break for it when they pointed the fearsome beast of modern machinery at him. He should have done anything but stand still on the little ‘x’ made from blue painters tape. He should have taken the large whir and the sudden glow of the device as a bad omen.

There were so… so many things Alan should have done.

But he hadn’t.

Alan had only let it happen to him, like the idiot that he was, and this is where it had landed him: craning his neck up to the sky just to try and meet the gigantic faces of the several story scientists who had pulled the trigger. He’d expected maybe some concern on their part, or even satisfaction at the result, but instead he only found them scribbling on clipboards as if shrinking to a twelfth of his size was as droll of outcome as a vague rash.

“I think we could still call this a success.” Said one, his voice louder than life despite the fact that he wasn’t shouting at all.

“We weren’t trying to build a shrink-ray, Johnson. I’m not sure if we’ll be able to chalk this up as a win to the board of directors.” Replied the equally loud voice of the other as she continued scribbling her notes, sounding almost bored with the situation, if not slightly annoyed.

“But think of all the applications a device like this could have! We could use this to use more sophisticated and complex tools or-...”

“-You’re getting ahead of yourself. We haven’t even assessed the outcome properly.” She snapped before handing her clipboard over to the other, striking green eyes now locking on the tiny form of their subject.

Alan’s knees were shaking. Every breath left him as a small whimper, and his heart was racing so quickly that he was certain that it might tear out of his own chest and go skipping across the floor. He knew what he was, he knew what had happened, and yet his brain was finding incredible difficulty in digesting the idea or accepting it as a situation he was now facing here in reality rather than imagination.

None of this was helped at all by the massive, pinching fingers of the scientist as she plucked him up from the ground, leaving him to dangle in her grasp as she stood once again. Alan was far from proud of the noise that left him in that moment, but it was the least of his concerns as he tried to stop his head from spinning while being shot several feet into the air, or as he tried to regulate his breathing despite the fact that his whole middle was being crushed by the grip of her digits.

“Fascinating,” she whispered, turning him back and forth to observe the entirety of the tiny man. “- he does appear to at least be completely unharmed.”

“Unharmed???” He found himself barking in response, his offense too great to withhold at all.

“If not a bit distressed by the situation.” She continued, apparently pretending that she hadn’t quite heard him despite his volume. “This will warrant further study.”

“Do we have anything in development that could reverse it?” Asked Johnson, who was now peering over his glasses and leaning closer to the little man to observe him like one might a fine, rare jewel.

“We didn’t have anything in development that was supposed to do this to begin with. I highly doubt anyone is working on an enlargement device at this time.” She hummed casually, as if that wasn’t the most terrifying thing that could have possibly been said in those moments. A whole new level of fear gripped Alan, even tighter than then sharp ends of her fingers, and he could only combat the idea by writhing and grunting and whimpering even more than he already was.

“But Dr. Royce, don’t you think-...”

“He signed the contract, Johnson. It’s all in the fine print, or are you also too lazy to read it? We don’t have to fix anything, we’re not liable for anything, and he is to stay on the premises until the end of the experiment.” She held the doll of a person a little closer to Johnson, wiggling him around in front of the man’s eyes and eliciting a small yelp from the subject. “Does this look like a completed experiment to you?”

Johnson appeared to wilt a slight, only for the fact that he was being talked down to again. “No ma’am, I don’t suppose it does.”

“We’ll need further observation to see what we can glean from this. There could be something salvageable if we’re lucky. Contact the boys in the rat-lab and see if they’ve got any open cages.”

They couldn’t… they didn’t actually mean to…-

“Of course ma’am. Do we need to be discreet?”

“Only until I can find a positive spin to put on this”

Alan’s blood stopped, his eyes widened, and terror manifested as little wet trails of tears skipping down his cheeks.

They had no intention of fixing him, they weren’t even apologetic, they only planned to keep him in a little box like an animal until they could figure out some sort of use or reason or ‘positive spin’ for him. In the course of a single afternoon he’d signed away his life and well-being for the potential of a few extra dollars.

There was no one to blame but himself.

[terramythos]

Its very funny for me to recall this but I used to be HEAVILY into neopets. back in the day people with really nicely named or painted pets would put them 'up for adoption' and require like, custom web page applications for them. Maybe people still do this, idk, but this was before you could legally 'trade' pets on the site.

I knew this lady who had some really great names (like common real words with fantasy undertones) on her pets and we were both frequent posters on the same off-site neopets forum. She was in her 30s and I was like 14 and we both were aware of this. Anyway she put one pet up for adoption and her requirements were insane, like it required huge writing samples and personal art of the pet and custom CSS coding for the app page and stuff like that to prove they really wanted the pet.

She asked me for feedback and I made an offhand comment that that kind of standard was a little ridiculous for a virtual pet on a kids website. We'd chatted before so I didn't expect a negative reaction, and like she'd asked ME for help so I was honest with her.

Anyway she completely flipped out at me. She started to leave angry or sarcastic comments on any post I made on the off-site forum for the next year or so. If she saw me post on the official Neopets chat boards she'd do the same thing. She led this campaign against me and insulted me to any mutual friends. She was fairly well known on the forum (I was too) so whenever she did special projects or anything she explicitly banned me from participating in any of them.

It was totally insane, she knew I was a young teenager and this was a full ass adult woman twice my age (and I have reason to believe she was truthful about her age-- she made a pretty sophisticated neopets fan site that required some professional understanding). I cannot stress enough this was for a minor negative comment on something that didn't matter on CHILDRENS WEBSITE NEOPETS DOT COM. This had to be mid/late 2000s by my reckoning.

After I'd moved on from the forum a couple years later and played Neopets less frequently she would STILL angrily comment on whatever Neoboard comments she happened to see me make. Like she did this for years. I don't think it was direct stalking because it was fairly random when it happened. I just ignored it.

She never even adopted out the pet, pretty sure what apps she received didn't follow the insane rules EXACTLY so she disqualified all of them

Now that I'm in my 30s I literally cannot imagine being that angry at a teenager. It's extremely funny what a loser she was. Like it was so beyond the pale it sounds like I made it up or am exaggerating. except I remember how upset I was being targeted and bullied by an adult for fucking years. I literally don't give a shit about it now but like I have to wonder how this woman copes with everyday life to have this level of obsessive hate for years over something a teenager said to her. Online. About a virual pet. So fucking bizarre, I have to wonder if she targeted others

[zzzerozine]

🧵The best of any shows~? BANGBOO KNOWS!

Keep track of this thread for answers to your burning questions! If there's something you're curious about, shoot us a message on our inter-knot account, or leave a question in our interest check⏬

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Q: I want to apply as a writer, but all my ZZZ samples are ship-related. Can I still apply with those?

Thanks for sharing your curiosity! Gen and ship content alike will be accepted in your applications. And that goes for other apps too! Keep in mind this is a gen zine though!

[hollybrookee]

Excerpt from Steve vs the World with cool enderman anatomy

[one of my fav scenes to write hehe]

“I'm leaving now. Have fun with the rest of this exam Nightingale. Fair warning, this one throws punches,” Steve snipped with a bitter expression.

Nightingale lifted his intense gaze from his patient`s wounds and his face morphed into something akin of ill masked panic. Steve turned on his heel towards the exit but came to face with a woman knocking at the slightly opened door. He startled at the intrusion.

A drowned nurse with a neat braid and powder blue scrubs presented a sheet of paper to the phantom with a green hand. “Doctor Nightingale, the blood panel came back for this patient.”

The doctor promptly stood and crossed the room. “Steve, stay,” he ordered as he passed the indignant human frozen from almost bumping into a member of the hospital staff.

“Nightingale, are you serious?” Steve murmured to him in frustration.

He placed a hand on Steve`s shoulder and leaned into his ear. “I have an idea but I need you to stay put,” he whispered.

Atticus blinked rapidly. He seemed to be recovering from the shock.

“You took my blood?” Atticus incriminated after recovering from the revelation that he had yet again been violated in the eyes of medicine and the law. He struggled to sit up again with a scowl. He didn’t get very far.

The night doctor accepted the document and scanned the report. “Not the only samples I took. Been checking your blood oxygen content regularly and we took radiographs shortly after you arrived, found a cracked rib, nothing too severe so don’t you worry about that, and then signs of acute pneumonia which is pretty common in endermen experiencing humid climates or rain for the first time. It's nothing we can’t treat. I’ve already started you on oxygen, which you are going back on, by the way.” The doctor pointed at the respiration machine and its face mask. He continued to study the pages.

Atticus seemed…overwhelmed, but Nightingale didn't let this cease his medical jargon rambling.

“We've started you on an antibiotic via IV so your lungs should be free and clear of fluid soon. The antibiotic is called azithromycin and we have you on a pretty hefty dose so don't be alarmed if you start to experience nausea, G.I. upset, loss of appetite, headaches, or dizziness. These are all normal side effects, but just let me know if they happen. This med can be pretty heavy on the body but it's better than going septic so we're gonna cut our losses, yeah?” the doctor rambled at the downed soldier trapped in the confines of his temporary bed.

Atticus looked horrified at the unknown treatments. “What’s a radiograph?”

Nightingale ceased his scrutinizing of the results to address the room once more. He nodded and began to take a more gentle approach to his explanation.

“Right, new to the overworld, I always forget our improvements in modern medicine are a bit more, shall we say advanced? Then the End or Nether. In short, our redstone engineers and leading researchers, I was on the team actually, created an ‘X-Ray’ machine that generates electromagnetic radiation and channels it through the body to create an image. Essentially, it helps us see what’s inside of you without having to cut you open to find out. Just the wonders of devoting research into its practical applications as opposed to a war effort I suppose. And very helpful for your diagnosis might I add,” the doctor spoke animatedly with his hands. He returned his gaze back to the paper to further interpret the findings.

“And you did that to me?” Atticus’ eyes were wide with distress and his mouth hung open. The enderman was panting. He was hyperventilating. Steve recoiled at the pitiful sight. He kinda felt for the guy. Probably because once upon a time he was in the same boat, a terrified patient of Dr. Nightingale’s in an unfamiliar city with an uncertain future.

“Oh relax,” Nightingale dismissed his anxieties with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

He flipped through the pages and scanned the data. He hummed at random intervals. Nightingale clicked his tongue as he traced a finger down the paper to follow each of the levels printed on the page. His finger paused at a number and the clicking ceased. He looked solemn.

“Low CBC,” Nightingale enunciated. He tapped the page with the pen several times. He was stalling.

The doctor looked up at the enderman, making eye contact with the respirator next to his head instead of his eyes. “I had a hunch.”

“And?” Atticus pressed through his unsteady breaths.

“I was debriefed by the proper authorities when you were taken into custody and I was informed I would be treating you,” the doctor began apprehensively, “each account said that one of the enderman, I’m referring to you, by the way, didn’t teleport out of harm's way. Your results indicate cytopenia, low CBC if you will.” Nightingale chose his next words with utmost care.

“An Enderman’s cardiovascular system, unlike other species, contains an extra organ. Their ender pearl is connected to their heart by an extra vein stemming from their superior vena cava.” The doctor pointed a finger at his own chest in a demonstration. “The pearl is responsible for much of the enderman’s hematopoiesis instead of relying on bone marrow. It’s also responsible for an enderman’s ability to teleport via a blood process where the blood cells go through a semipermeable membrane to the outside of their skin, then evaporate, except this happens at light speed. Similar to osmosis in other species with water but in enderman we get something similar with their blood, and this is the fun part, this quick process of moving blood cells from one place to another triggers a quantum reaction.”

Nightingale snapped his fingers. He was getting more excited with each sentence. It was candid that Nightingale was passionate about his work. He loved spilling science lessons into a room and always has. The phantom continued his ramble, “hence, the ability to teleport. With your pearl being damaged, your body is being deprived of blood cells and your cardiovascular system can’t function without that pearl being in tip-top shape. This explains why you’ve been experiencing fatigue, headaches, lightheadedness… But it also explained why you didn’t teleport. You couldn’t.”

Doctor Nightingale pushed his glasses up with his pointer finger then tapped the ballpoint pen onto the stack of papers again. “Science,” he added proudly.

[phoebepheebsphibs]

Double-Mutated Mikey

Chapter 37: Autophobia

Continued from the short story written by @boots-with-the-fur-club

Prev || Next

The vehicle pulls into the garage and after the driver swipes a keycard, they are taken down below to a sublevel. April watches nervously through the window as they go lower and lower and lower. The parking garage gets darker and darker and darker... unnatural light hits the walls at odd angles and gives the entire area a sense of growing dread, like being trapped in a fever dream. April starts to get sick from the constant driving down in a circle motion. Eventually the van parks. A few EPF guards open the doors, and everyone is directed inside. It's a dramatic change, from a dirty and dark stone and concrete world to one of blindingly bright fluorescent lights in an icy cold hallway made of white walls and floors.

"Have they assigned you to a sector yet?" Dr. Finn asks April, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"No," she responds as casually as she can.

"Well, you can stick with me until they do," Abigail says with a smile. "Come on, we've got work to do."

"On the guys? Uh, I mean, turtles?"

"Not yet. But hopefully soon!" Dr. Finn answers. "For the moment, we'll be conducting some research on Mikey's bloodwork. We also got a few samples from the others, thanks to him."

April shivers.

"How... how do you know his name is 'Mikey'?" April asks. "I mean... if he never spoke, how'd you come up with that name?"

"I think the story is that when they initially captured him, he had a cellphone and was calling someone. Probably even those mutants we have now. While he was on the phone, one of the doctors heard someone on the other end call him 'Mikey'. After detaining him, they found weapons on his person that also had the name 'Mikey' carved into them, so--"

Dr. Finn is interrupted by a hand that stops her. A woman in a tight dress and pulled back hair stands in their path, holding up a single hand as she stares them down.

"Ms. Campbell!" Dr. Finn gasps. "I didn't see you there. What do you want?"

"Who is this accompanying you?" Ms. Campbell asks, eyeing April carefully.

"One of the interns, she -- actually, I didn't quite get your name?"

"April... O'Neural?" she offers.

"April O'Neural," Dr. Finn repeats with a nod. "She wasn't assigned anywhere, so I was going to take her with me."

"That won't be necessary," Ms. Campbell says with a smile. "I'll take it from here. I'm sure I can find where she's been sanctioned."

"Oh. Very well then," Abigail shrugs, leaving April with Ms. Campbell.

April follows nervously after the strange woman until she directs her into a long corridor. Something doesn't feel right...

"Uh, where does this lead--"

"MOVE."

April is shoved forwards. When she tries to run back the way they came, the woman grabs her by the wrist and forearm and pulls her along. April finds that the lady is practically carrying her, walking swiftly with a scowl on her face. There's something cold and unnatural about her eyes...

Ms. Campbell drags April to a door at the far end, opening it to reveal a man in a white coat sitting behind a desk.

"Ah, Ms. Campbell. Who is this?"

"She came in under the pretense of being a newly hired intern. I ran facial recognition and found no matching ID within our system. But she did come up as a companion to the turtle mutants we found, based on security footage from the past two years."

April stares at Ms. Campbell in shock. How did she--?!

"Ah, I see. Does she have a name?" the man asks.

"April O'Neil, according to her college ID, job applications, resumé, drivers license, Warren Stone fanclub membership, and birth certificate."

"Wait, h-how -- where did you--" April stammers, before being interrupted by the man behind the desk.

"Thank you, Ms. Campbell. We can assume she's here for our new subjects. I think it would be wise to place her in our detention ward for now. A missing person will attract unwanted attention, but she can't be allowed to reveal anything. Hmm... inform Dr. Timothy that we'll be conducting neural surgery with the purpose of memory erasure within the next two days."

"HOLD UP!" April shouts. "You can't just do that! I have rights, this is illegal! This is crazy, and --"

"Sweetheart, we're above the government," the man says with a sneer. "I can do anything I want. That will be all, Ms. Campbell."

"Yes sir, Dr. Chaplin."

April is dragged away kicking and screaming and shouting some very targeted four-letter words describing various places they can visit and exactly where they can shove their insane ideals.

.

.

.

"...And that's what happened," CJ says, gasping for air after the long explanation he just went through. "Everyone's at the new site on Staten Island!"

"Then that's where we'll be going, too," Splinter says with a determined nod. "My boys need me."

"But--"

"And me," Cass says, whipping out her hockey stick and mask with a flourish. "There's no way that I'm being excluded from this fight!"

"What about you, Draxum?" Splinter asks, turning towards his former nemesis.

"Of course," the sheep Yokai says, a deep and guttural anger in his voice. "These humans are a scourge. They will plague the rest of humanity with their crimes unless we stop them."

"I'm not sure the Baron or Master Splinter should come," Casey interjects. "If these guys are hunting down mutants and Yokai, it would be better for you two to stay here."

"I will not abandon my sons--!" Splinter argues, before Draxum places a hand on his shoulder.

"...He's right," Draxum growls. "I hate to admit it, but if we go in, it is possible that we may make the situation worse."

"How can you say that?!" Splinter shouts. "I thought you cared--!!"

"I do. But I also care about the Yokai and Mutant populations. Their very existence is in threat, and I will do whatever I can to assist their safety. We can help from afar, though, running surveillance with Donatello's technology and providing the transportation when needed. And, I can assist in one other way..."

Draxum takes Casey Jr.'s hand and places a tiny vial of glowing blue liquid in his palm.

"Is... is this the cure?" Casey asks.

"It is the prototype, but it should work," Draxum says quietly so Splinter doesn't overhear his slight uncertainty. "I used his blood as a base for the formula to avoid, but the majority of this formula is actually an anti-serum variation of the chemicals O'Neil discovered."

"That illegal herbicide?" CJ asks, eyes wide. "Won't that kill him?"

"No; as I stated, I've altered it to ensure it will not destroy any of his originally mutated DNA. It will target everything else, especially the Krang."

"Will it hurt him?"

"If it's working properly, he should be in excruciating pain. But it won't damage him, if that's what you're worried about," Draxum says glibly. "But be careful with it, that's the only formula I have. I would hope you don't need to use it so soon, but if worst comes to worst -- administer the retro-mutagen to him. I suspect that the TCRI won't want him as badly if he's no longer their monster..."

"Okay... how do I administer it?" CJ asks.

"Inject it directly into his bloodstream. It should take immediate effect."

"Got it," CJ nods, taking the vial and placing it in his fanny pack. "Now... let's go save our family."

.

.

.

"Let me go!" April shouts as Ms. Campbell carries her down through the TCRI building.

Eventually, they arrives at a floor filled with dimly lit glass rooms and grey linoleum flooring. Fluorescent blue lights offer minimal luminance, casting long shadows down the corridors. Ms. Campbell walks down the hall, opens a door, and flings April inside. She lands with a thud against the wall, her back aching from the impact. Even still, she gets up immediately with a battlecry and runs to the door. It shuts with a loud clang, the glass walls glazing over until they become blurry and semi-opaque. April watches the silhouette of Ms. Campbell leave.

"Hey! Don't you walk away from me! Open this door!!" April shouts, banging her fists against the cell door.

"Who's that?" a voice from the next cell over asks hoarsely.

April flinches and turns to find the voice. Through the strange smoky glass, she can see a small figure sitting limply against the wall in the room beside her.

"Who are you?" April asks quietly, stepping away. "What are you doing here?"

"My name's John," the voice responds quietly. "John Bishop."

"You're the secret agent Casey told us about," April gasps.

"You know Casey?"

"Yeah, I do. He said we could trust you."

"'We'... so, you know Mikey and his family too, huh?" Bishop chuckles. "Are they okay? Did they....... they're here, aren't they?"

"...Yeah..."

"They found him. And they caught his brothers too?"

"...Yup."

"And you came here to rescue them?" Bishop asks, his voice conveying his surprise. "By yourself?"

"Well, no... to be honest, nothing's gone according to plan. We came to get Mikey after they tricked him and kidnapped him again. But... I think they used some funky machine or whatever on him. I heard one of the scientists say that they made him fight his brothers..."

"The A.L.P.H.A. device," Bishop sighs.

"What is the A.L.P.H.A. device thingy?" April asks.

"It's essentially a mind-control machine for anyone infected with Krang. They used it on Mikey the day he was taken back by his family," Bishop explains.

"Why would they make that?" April asks. "I mean, obviously mind control does not sound like a good thing, right??"

"They don't care about good or bad here, in case you missed it," Bishop groans.

He hisses, and April can just catch his blurry figure clutching his side.

"What... what happened to you? What did they do to you?" she asks nervously.

He chuckles, the laugh turning into a cough.

"Don't worry about me," he sighs. ".It's just a calling card from the EPF and TCRI. Besides... I might deserve it. I saw what they were doing to Mikey and I did nothing to stop it... I knew it was wrong. But I let them get away with it all... And now this is karma."

"Look, karma or not, you did the right thing in the end," April responds. "And that's gotta count for something. I know a few people who've made some pretty messed-up life choices, but when the time came, they chose right, and it changed everything for them."

"I bet they didn't end up in a cage..."

"Well, no. One guy got his soul sucked out and went from being a warlord living in luxury to a lunch lady undergoing physical therapy in a run-down apartment. Another finally got the thing she always wanted, but discovered her victory wasn't so great after all. But they both decided to do the right thing, and change their ways, and fight for what was right."

Bishop leans his head against the wall.

"Well... good for them."

"Now come on, we need to get out of here."

"I've been here for days, kid. There's no way out unless someone on the outside releases us."

"We have to try!" April yells back, kicking at the door.

"...Keep hoping, kid. Maybe you'll find a way before it's too late..."

.

.

.

"Uugggghhhh..."

Leo groans once he realizes he's conscious. His head pounds, there's a throbbing pain on the right side of his temple. He presses a hand to it as he tries to sit up.

"Leo?"

His eyes open sluggishly, slowly. At first he's not sure that he's even opened them, the room is so dark. But once his vision adjusts, he sees that he's trapped in an iron cage. Raph is trapped in a separate cell across from him; the cage is much too small for the mutant snapping turtle. Donnie is in a cage to Leo's left, fidgeting with the wraps on his hands. His headgear and battle-shell have been removed.

"Guys...? Is everyone okay?"

Donnie huffs, an empty laugh. Leo sees his hands shaking. Ever since his experience on the Krang ship, Donnie has been extra uncomfortable without his protective shell. And in a place like this, with danger all around them, Donnie's anxieties are only doubled.

"We're fine," Raph answers half-heartedly. "Everyone is okay, no damage done... How are you doin'?"

"Ohhh... my head," Leo groans again, the room spinning softly. He leans against the bars to steady himself. "Mikey really got me with that kick--"

Raph clears his throat, a warning for Leo.

Why? What is he --

Leo suddenly hears sniffling. A quiet, stifled sob. It's coming from a cage further away in the far corner of the room.

"Oh. Is he... Mikey's in here too, huh?" he whispers.

Raph nods sadly.

We woke up some time before you did. Mikey's... he's having a rough time. He knows what he did. Apparently Dr. Chaplin told him everything.

Everything...?

Be gentle, Donnie adds.

Leo tries to get up, but finds that his ankles are bound with heavy shackles and chains. He can't really stand, and even if he were unbound, his headache and possible concussion would have still been a deterrent.

"Mikey? Buddy, you okay?"

Mikey doesn't respond. In the darkness, he can just barely see him curl into a ball, clutching himself tightly as he cries.

Leo crawls in his direction, hands and knees scraping the floor as he drags himself to the edge of the cage.

"Mikey, I know you can hear me. Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Mikey stifles a sob.

"I... I hurt you..."

"You didn't mean to. That wasn't even you, Mikey!" Leo retorts. "It's okay, we'll find a way out of here."

"But... I-I deserve to be here..." Mikey whispers. "He was right... he was always right, I am a monster... I'm nothing but a monster... I hurt you, I only ever hurt, kill, destroy... I even destroyed myself... I destroyed my family..."

"Mikey--"

"I'M NOT MIKEY!" he shouts back, turning back to glare at Leo, his eyes sparking light in the darkness. "I'M JUST THE MONSTER HE LEFT BEHIND! I am not Mikey, I'll never be Mikey again after this! I can't be! I ruined it, I ruined him, I ruined everything! I'm not even your brother anymore!"

Leo reels, trying to find an argument he can use. He's too stunned to say anything... fortunately, his brothers tag team the conversation.

"Mikey, you're still our brother! Just because you... did that... doesn't mean we don't still want you!" Raph responds.

"But I don't want me!" he weeps. "Don't you get it?! Don't you understand?! I know you think I'm a monster! You'll never be safe with me around, a-and I'll never be who you want me to be! I can't! You don't know what I did, you don't know what I had to do --"

"Mikey, I saw the footage," Donnie interjects calmly. "We all did. We know everything."

"...Then you know I'm right," Mikey sighs, curling back up into himself, his back turned to them all. "I really am a monster. You... you all would have been better off without me."

"Never!" Leo shouts. "Mikey, you gotta stop thinking like that! You're still a member of this family! We'd do anything for you--"

"JUST STOP IT!" Mikey shrieks, his tail barbing in anger. "Just STOP! I don't WANT YOU TO! I hate this, I hate me, I want you to stop!! Stop lying to me!!"

"Lying?"

"I know you all wish I was the Mikey I used to be! I know you're scared of me, scared of what I do and why and how!! You say that I'm not broken -- HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT?! How can you say that I'm not broken and scarred and destroyed -- You're all acting like you want to pretend that I'm not different anymore, but I AM! I'm NOT Mikey anymore! I'm not, I'm not, I'm not, I'm... I'm not.... I...."

Mikey sobs as he buries his face. Leo can see Raph start to cry as well, hiding his own face in his hands to keep them from seeing. Donnie sits frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at Mikey's outburst.

"I... I'm not your brother anymore. I... I killed him. He's gone. He died."

"...Mikey..." Leo tries, his voice hushed and cautious. "...M-Mikey, please... we didn't... I didn't mean to make you feel like... I-I'm sorry, Mikey, I'm so sorry..."

Mikey's tail wraps around himself.

"...You shouldn't be. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have yelled, I... I just wanted.... I thought that maybe I could be better, for you, I... but I should have known. All I'll ever do is hurt you… You'd be better off without me. I'm just the monster."

Leo feels tears running down his face, as Mikey starts to feel even farther and farther away. The yards between them become miles apart, countries, worlds... until Mikey is lost in his own Prison Dimension, and Leo can't reach him anymore.

"...It's all I'll ever be."

Prev || Next

[savepalestineinfamily19]

Urgent Humanitarian Asylum Request from Gaza – Coordination Required for Evacuation via ICRC

To the Honorable Embassy [Sweden, Norway, Belgium, France, Spain, Ireland] or any embassy who can help getting me out of Gaza

My name is Mohammed Majed Ahmad Al-Madhoun, born on June 20, 1999, currently residing in northern Gaza Strip, along with six members of my immediate family, and my married sister and her two daughters, who now live with us in the ruins of our bombed home.

We were displaced to southern Gaza between November 2024 and January 2025 due to the intensifying bombardment. Since returning to our destroyed house, we have constructed a makeshift shelter in which we struggle to survive.

I am a professional graphic designer, working remotely with a Swiss company, Bamboo Montreux, yet due to the lack of electricity and internet access in northern Gaza, I am unable to maintain a stable income or regular workflow. Many companies have declined to hire me under these conditions, despite my broad experience and strong portfolio.

Each day, we face the constant terror of airstrikes, drones, and bombardment. There is no electricity, no water, no connectivity, no safety, and no future. My dream of establishing a design studio and building a meaningful life has been shattered. All I now wish for is to survive — to be evacuated to a safe country where I can rebuild my life and contribute to society.

I am writing to urgently request your humanitarian intervention, by coordinating with the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) to facilitate my safe evacuation through the Kerem Shalom crossing, as this is currently the only viable route. I am unable to leave Gaza independently, despite several attempts.

Attached are:

My European-format CV

A motivation letter

Supporting documents and samples of my work

Identification and family details

In addition, I am sharing this link to my Google Drive folder, which contains all my academic qualifications, certificates, volunteer experience, and work samples to support my application:

https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1-5DYjCne25s6BWejGaZSCgWQb_96WbXZ

https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1_i-QhybBJOb_DA7WueGsrxYY37r9fpxy

I kindly and humbly appeal to you to consider my case as one of extreme urgency and to grant me and my family a chance to live in safety and dignity under your protection.

Sincerely,

Mohammed Majed Ahmad Al-Madhoun

Gaza Strip

mhmdalmdwn23@gmail.com

[thewertsearch]

FUTURE carcinoGeneticist [FCG] 3 HOURS FROM NOW responded to memo. FCG: HEY DON'T TALK TO HER LIKE THAT YOU UNCOUTH PIECE OF SHIT. [...] CCG: IT MUST BE PERIGEES EVE, BECAUSE GET A LOAD OF THIS HUGE BEHEMOTH LEAVING THAT JUST GOT DRAGGED IN. CCG: JADE, OUR DUTY IS CLEAR. WE MUST DECK THIS TURD TO THE NINES. FCG: OH MY GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE I ACTUALLY THOUGHT THAT WAS A CLEVER THING TO SAY. WHAT A DIPSHIT. ?GG: aaauugh what the hell!!!

Honestly, at this point Jade should just close the chat and come back in an hour.

?GG: i cant take this anymore!!!!!!!! ?GG: i dont even know what im reading here but its preposterous and ive had it! ?GG: i am just so angry, i cant believe i let you push me around all those years ?GG: you are completely out of your mind, i was too nice by just blocking you and typing frowny faces and stuff ?GG: i should have let you HAVE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This Jade Violence has been a long time coming. Unleash it!

?GG: if you want to apologize then great i am all ears! but just mentioning it off hand and then yelling at yourself the same way you yell at me all the time as if i need a knight to come save me from yourself is so lame [...] ?GG: you treat everyone horribly, even yourself, i cant even fathom how awful it is to be you

Several other characters have self-esteem issues, but Karkat's the only one who directly attacks himself in conversation - and I'm not really sure why. You'd expect it to be the Time Player whose issues are expressed through time duplicates - although, come to think of it, Aradia's fatalism was evident in how her alt-selves considered themselves expendable.

Maybe, then, Karkat's own direct self-hatred says something about Blood. We don't know a lot about the aspect - and it's hard to derive much, when your sample size is one Player with an unknown Quest - but we can certainly speculate.

There's a lot that Blood could symbolize. Violence would work, as would pain or injury - but none of these stand out as particularly applicable to Karkat or his issues. Sure, he's been injured before - but in Sburb, who hasn't?

Family is another contender, and it'd be interesting to see how that would map to Alternian culture. Plus, it actually does apply to Karkat, since he's the one who cloned the trolls. Nanna even mentioned that a team's ectobiologist is, in a sense, the 'parent' of the other Players...