#Sampling and reconstruction

[electricalstudent]

3. In this question, we use MATLAB to implement a sampling and reconstruction of the signal f(t) = (5 sin(87t) + 6 sin(167t), Osts 0, otherwise a (a) Use MATLAB to plot the signal for

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[bmpmp3]

i do think its kinda funny when i see someone in the year of our lord 2024 talk about vocal synth music like its all gone downhill since like 2010 because like dont get me wrong i love a good niconicodouga-ass 2008 ass vocaloid joint BUT also like. the past couple years have had the most fascinatingly creative and expressive uses of vocal synthesizers ive ever heard in my life DJFSKHJDFS dont write it all off just yet!!

[tobiosbbyghorl]

pairing: scientist!sunghoon x scientist! reader

wc:10.5k

released date: 05.17.2025

warning: PURE FICTION!!

synopsis: In the quiet of her lab, Dr. Y/N, a skilled scientist, sets out on a risky mission to bring back her late fiancé, Park Sunghoon, who died in a car accident. Using his preserved DNA, she creates a clone that grows rapidly in just two years. When Sunghoon wakes up, he faces the difficult reality of being brought back to life and the moral issues surrounding Y/N's actions.

a/n: ITS HERE!! Hope you guys will love it as much as I did writing it! feedbacks,likes and reblogs are highly appreciated!

In the cold glow of my underground biotech lab, silence is sacred. Down here, beneath layers of steel and earth, the world doesn’t exist. No grief. No time. Just me. Just him.

The capsule glows in the center of the room—a vertical womb of steel and glass, pulsing faintly with blue light. Suspended inside, wrapped in strands of bio-filaments and artificial amniotic fluid, is the reason I wake up in the morning. Or stay awake. I don’t know the difference anymore.

Park Sunghoon.

Or… what’s left of him.

One year ago, he died on his way to our civil wedding. A drunk driver. A rainy street. A second too late. I got the call before I even zipped up my dress. I still remember the way my coffee spilled all over the lab floor when my knees gave out. I never cleaned it. It’s still there, dried in the corner. A fossil of the moment my world cracked open.

⸻

He used to say I was too curious for my own good.

That I’d poke the universe too hard one day and it would poke back.

Maybe this is what he meant.

⸻

Sunghoon and I were both scientists—biotech researchers. We studied regenerative cloning, theorized about neural echo imprinting, debated ethics like it was foreplay.

He was against replicas. Always. “A copy isn’t a soul,” he’d say. “It’s just noise pretending to be music.”

But the day he died, I stopped caring about music.

I just wanted to hear his voice again.

⸻

I had everything I needed. A sample of his bone DNA—collected after a minor lab accident years ago and stored under a pseudonym. His blood type, genome map, neural scan from our first brain-simulation trial. A perfect match, all buried in our old hard drives. He never knew I kept them. Maybe he would’ve hated me for it.

Maybe I don’t care.

I called it Project ECHO.

Because that’s what he was now.

An echo. A ripple in the void.

⸻

The first version—ECHO-1—was a failure.

He looked like Sunghoon. But he never woke up. I ran every test. Monitored every vital. Adjusted nutrient cycles, protein growth, heartbeat regulators. But something in him was missing—something I couldn’t code into cells.

A soul, maybe. Or timing.

He died the second I tried to bring him out.

I cremated and buried that version in the garden, under the cherry tree he planted the first spring we moved in. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I just stood there holding the urn and whispered, “I’ll get it right next time.”

⸻

ECHO-2 was different.

I restructured the genome to prevent cellular decay. Added telomere stabilizers to delay aging. Enhanced his immune system. This time, I built him stronger. Healthier. The version of Sunghoon that would’ve never gotten sick that winter in Sapporo, or fainted in the elevator that one night after forgetting to eat. That version who could live longer. With me.

But the rest—I left untouched.

His smile. His hands. The faint mole scattered in his face. The way his hair curled when wet. All exactly the same. It had to be. He wouldn’t be Sunghoon without those things.

I even reconstructed his mind.

Using an illegal neural mapping sequence I coded from fragments of our joint research, I retrieved echoes of his memory—dream-like reflections extracted from the deepest preserved brain tissue. It wasn’t perfect. But it was him. Pieces of him. The things he never got to say. The life he never finished.

⸻

It took two years.

Two years in the dark, surrounded by synthetic fluid and filtered lights, modifying the incubator like a cradle built by obsession. I monitored every development milestone like a parent. I watched him grow. I whispered stories to him when the lab was quiet, played him our favorite records through the tank’s acoustic feed, left him notes on the console like he could read them.

⸻

One night, I touched the tank and felt warmth radiate back. His fingers twitched.

A smile cracked on his lips, soft and sleepy.

And I whispered, “You’re almost here.”

⸻

Now he floats before me—grown, complete, and terrifyingly familiar. His chest rises and falls steadily. Muscles formed and defined from synthetic stimulation. His brain is fully developed. His body—twenty-five years old. The age he was when he died. The age we should’ve gotten married.

And now, he’s ready.

⸻

The console buzzes beside me.

“Project ECHO – Stage V: Awakening. Confirm execution.”

My fingers hover. The hum of the lab grows louder. My heart beats so hard I feel it in my throat.

This is it.

The point of no return.

I press enter.

The Awakening didn’t look like the movies.

There was no dramatic gasp, no lightning bolt of consciousness.

It was subtle.

His eyes fluttered open, hazy and uncertain, like the first morning light after a long storm. They didn’t lock onto me at first. He blinked a few times—slow, groggy—and stared at the ceiling of the pod with a confusion so human it made my knees go weak.

Then his gaze shifted.

Found me.

And held.

Just long enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

“Sunghoon,” I whispered.

His lips barely moved. “…Y/N?”

And then—just like that—he slipped under again.

His vitals were stable, but his body couldn’t process full consciousness yet. It was expected. I designed it that way. A controlled emergence. Gentle. Like thawing from ice.

He would wake again. Soon.

⸻

Phase VI: Integration.

I had the room ready before I even began the cloning process. A private suite in the East Wing of my estate, modified to resemble a recovery room from a private hospital: sterile whites and soft blues, filtered natural lighting, automated IV drips and real-time vitals displayed on sleek black monitors. The scent of lavender piped faintly through the vents. His favorite.

I moved him after he lost consciousness again—quietly, carefully. No one else involved. Not even my AI assistant, KARA. This part was just mine.

Just ours.

He lay in the bed now, dressed in soft gray cotton, sheets pulled up to his chest. The faint hum of the machines harmonized with his breathing. It was surreal. Like watching a ghost settle into a life it forgot it had.

I perched on the armchair across from him, the dim lighting casting long shadows over his face.

“You’re safe,” I murmured, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “And when you wake up… everything will be in place.”

⸻

I spent the next forty-eight hours setting the stage.

Fabricated records of a traumatic car accident—minor amnesia, extended coma, miraculous survival. Hacked into the hospital registry and quietly added his name under a wealthy alias. I made sure the media silence was absolute. No visitors. No suspicious calls. A full blackout.

I memorized the story I would tell him. Rehearsed it like a script.

We had been on our way to City Hall. A drunk driver ran a red light. I survived with minor injuries. He hit his head. Slipped into a coma. No signs of brain damage, but long-term memory instability was expected.

He’d been here ever since. Safe. Loved. Waiting to wake up.

And now—he had.

⸻

On the morning of the third day, I heard movement.

Soft. Shuffling. Sheets rustling.

I turned from the monitor just as he groaned softly, his head turning on the pillow.

“Sunghoon?”

His eyes blinked open again, more alert this time. Still groggy, but present.

“Y/N…?” he rasped.

I rushed to his side, heart in my throat. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

His brows knit together, voice hoarse. “What happened?”

“You were in an accident,” I said gently. “The day of our wedding. You’ve been in a coma. Two years.”

His eyes widened—just a little. Then flicked down to his hands. The IV. The machines. The unfamiliar room.

“…Two years?”

I nodded, bracing for the confusion. “You survived. But it was close. We weren’t sure you’d ever… come back.”

He said nothing.

Just stared at me.

Like he was trying to remember something he couldn’t quite reach.

“…Why does it feel like I never left?” he whispered.

I smiled softly. Forced. “Because I never left you.”

And for now, that was all he needed to know.

But deep down, behind those eyes, behind the half-forgotten memories and muscle memory that wasn’t truly his—

Something flickered.

Something not asleep anymore.

He was awake.

And the lie had begun.

The days that followed passed in a quiet rhythm.

He adjusted faster than I anticipated. His motor skills were strong, his speech patterns natural—so much so that sometimes I forgot he wasn’t really him. Or maybe he was. Just… rebuilt. Reassembled with grief and obsession and the memory of love that still clung to me like static.

I stayed with him in the hospital wing, sleeping on the pullout beside his bed. Every morning he’d wake before me, staring out the wide window as if trying to piece together time. And when I asked what he was thinking, he always gave the same answer:

“I feel like I dreamed you.”

On the seventh day, he turned to me, his voice clearer than ever.

“Can I go back to our room?”

I paused, fingers wrapped around the rim of his tea mug.

He still called it our room.

I nodded.

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re strong enough now.”

And so we did.

I helped him down the hallway, hand in his, the same way I’d imagined it during the long nights of Phase II. His steps were careful, measured. But his eyes… they lit up the moment we entered.

It looked the same.

The navy sheets. The low lights. The picture of us by the bookshelf—framed and untouched. His books still on the shelf in alphabetical order. His favorite sweatshirt folded at the foot of the bed like I had never moved it.

He smiled when he saw it. “It feels like nothing’s changed.”

Except everything had.

I didn’t say that.

⸻

He asked about the lab a few nights later. We were curled together in bed—his head on my shoulder, our legs tangled like old habits finding their way home.

“How’s the lab?” he asked, voice soft in the dark. “Are we still working on the neuro-mirroring project?”

My heart skipped.

I’d gotten rid of everything. The pod. The DNA matrix. The prototype drafts. Scrubbed the drives clean. Smashed the external backups. Buried the remains of ECHO-1 under a new tree. The lab was as sterile as my conscience was not.

I turned toward him, brushing my thumb over the scar that curved above his brow. The one that hadn’t been there before the “accident.”

“It’s being renovated,” I said carefully. “After the crash… I couldn’t go in for a while. So I decided to redo it. Clear things out. Start over fresh.”

He nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”

He didn’t ask again.

And just like that, life began to move forward.

He followed me around the house again, stealing kisses in the kitchen, playfully poking fun at the way I never folded laundry properly. He rediscovered his favorite coffee, laughed at old movies like they were new, held my hand under the stars like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But sometimes—when he thought I wasn’t looking—he’d stare at his reflection too long. Tilt his head. Press his fingers to his chest like he was checking if something was still there.

Maybe he felt it.

The echo of what he was.

But if he did, he never said.

One night, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, he whispered into my neck, “I don’t know how I got so lucky to come back to you.”

I pressed a kiss to his temple, forcing a smile as my heart ached beneath the surface.

“I guess some things are just meant to find their way back.”

Even if they were never supposed to.

Time softened everything.

The sterile silence of the house began to fade, replaced by the quiet thrum of life again—the clink of mugs in the morning, the shuffle of his bare feet on the hardwood, the lazy hum of music playing from a speaker that hadn’t been touched since he died. I started to breathe again, and so did he.

Like we were rewriting the rhythm we’d lost.

—

Our first night out felt like time travel.

He picked the place—a rooftop restaurant we always swore we’d try, back when work kept getting in the way. I wore the same navy dress I had worn on our second anniversary. He noticed. His hand slid into mine under the table like it belonged there, his thumb tracing invisible patterns against my skin.

Halfway through dessert, he leaned in, grinning with chocolate at the corner of his lip.

“You still scrunch your nose when you’re pretending to like the wine,” he teased, eyes gleaming.

I blinked. “You remember that?”

He nodded slowly. “It just feels like… I always knew.”

I smiled, heart aching in that strange, quiet way it always did now.

“You’re right,” I said, brushing the chocolate off his lip. “You always did.”

Even grocery shopping with him became a date.

He pushed the cart like a child let loose, tossing in things we didn’t need just to make me laugh. At one point, he held up a can of whipped cream with the most mischievous glint in his eye.

“For movie night,” he said innocently.

I arched a brow. “For the movie or during the movie?”

He smirked. “Depends how boring the movie is.”

We walked home with one umbrella, our fingers interlaced in the rain, and the world somehow felt smaller, warmer.

He burned the garlic the first time.

“I told you the pan was too hot,” I said, waving smoke away.

“And you told me to trust you,” he countered, looking absurdly proud of his crime against dinner. “Besides, I like it crunchy.”

“You like your taste buds annihilated, apparently.”

We ended up ordering takeout, sitting on the kitchen floor, eating noodles out of the box with chopsticks, laughing about how we’d both make terrible housewives.

But the next night, we tried again.

He stood behind me, arms around my waist, guiding my hands as I chopped vegetables.

“You used to do this,” I said softly. “When I first moved in.”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s one of my favorite memories.”

Cuddling became a ritual.

He always found a way to get impossibly close—sprawled across the couch with his head in my lap, humming contentedly while I read a book or ran my fingers through his hair.

Sometimes we didn’t speak for hours.

Just the quiet breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, his heartbeat echoing faintly against my thigh. Real. Solid. Present.

It was a miracle I could touch.

One night, as rain tapped gently on the windows and he was half-asleep on my shoulder, he whispered:

“I feel safe with you.”

I held him tighter.

Because if I let go—even for a second—I was afraid he might vanish again.

⸻

Love blossomed differently this time.

Slower. Deeper. Less like fire, more like roots. Tangled and unshakable.

And sometimes, in the quiet of our shared bed, I would watch him sleep and wonder if it was love that brought him back.

Or obsession.

But when he opened his eyes and smiled like the sun lived behind them, I told myself it didn’t matter.

He was here.

And that was enough.

For now.

⸻

I woke with a jolt, my heart pounding so violently it threatened to break free from my chest. The nightmare was still fresh, its vividness clinging to my mind like the smoke of a fire.

Sunghoon.

He was in the car again—his face frozen in the moment before everything shattered, his eyes wide with disbelief. The screech of tires, the crash. His body limp. The way I couldn’t reach him no matter how hard I screamed.

I gasped for air, my fingers clutching at the sheets, tangled in the panic that still gripped me.

My breath came in ragged bursts as I sat up, drenched in sweat. My chest heaved with the rawness of the memory, the terrible what-ifs that still haunted me.

A hand gently touched my back.

“Y/N?”

His voice, soft and concerned, cut through the haze of the nightmare. I froze for a moment, the world around me still spinning from the disorienting shock.

I turned, and there he was—Sunghoon—sitting up beside me in the bed, his eyes full of concern. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated his face, and for a moment, it was almost as if everything had shifted back into place.

But only for a second.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his voice warm with worry.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing. “I… I just had a nightmare,” I whispered, avoiding his eyes. My heart was still trying to settle, and I didn’t want him to see the fear in my face. I didn’t want him to see how broken I still was.

Sunghoon leaned forward, his hands reaching out to cradle my face gently. He brushed a strand of hair away from my forehead, his touch so familiar, so tender.

“Nightmares are just that,” he said softly, his thumb grazing my skin. “They aren’t real. I’m here.”

I nodded, trying to pull myself together, but the knot in my throat wouldn’t loosen. There was something about the way he said it—so assuredly. So real. Like the past didn’t exist, like he had never been gone.

Like I hadn’t created him from fragments of grief and obsession.

He sat next to me, his arm around my shoulders as I leaned into him. The warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest, slowly calmed me. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of him—the same as it had always been.

“I’m here,” he repeated, his voice a quiet lullaby.

But somewhere deep inside, I couldn’t shake the question that had haunted me since the moment I had revived him: Who was he really? Was this truly the Sunghoon I had loved, the one who had filled my life with light? Or was this just a perfect imitation, a replica of my memories? An echo of a man who would never truly exist again?

I wanted to believe he was him. I needed to believe it.

But as he held me, his warmth seeping into my skin, I couldn’t deny the doubt that gnawed at my soul.

“Y/N?” he murmured, sensing my tension.

“Yeah?” I whispered, pulling myself closer into his arms.

He tilted my chin up, his gaze intense as he met my eyes. “I love you,” he said quietly, with such certainty that for a moment, it almost felt real—like the love we’d always shared before the accident, before everything shattered.

And in that moment, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to forget everything else, to let myself drown in the reassurance that this was him—my Sunghoon.

But the ghosts of the past still lingered in the corners of my mind.

“I love you too,” I replied softly, my voice shaky but true.

And for a few minutes, we just sat there, holding each other in the stillness of the night.

But as I closed my eyes and let the warmth of his embrace lull me back to sleep, the doubt remained.

Would I ever be able to escape the shadows of my own creation?

As the days passed, the weight of my doubts gradually lightened. Sunghoon’s presence—his warmth, his voice, the way he smiled—reminded me more and more of the man I had once loved, the man who had been taken from me.

The fear, the gnawing uncertainty that had once been constant in the back of my mind, slowly started to fade. Each moment we spent together was a little piece of normalcy returning. He didn’t just look like Sunghoon. He was Sunghoon. In every little detail—his laugh, the way he tilted his head when he was deep in thought, how he always made the coffee exactly the way I liked it. His presence was enough to reassure me that this was him, in all the ways that mattered.

We went on walks together, hand in hand, strolling through the garden I had planted the day we first moved into the house. It was filled with flowers that bloomed year-round—just like the memories I had of us, blooming and growing despite the heartbreak.

We laughed, reminiscing about everything we had shared before. Sunghoon was never afraid to be vulnerable with me, and it felt like we were picking up right where we left off. His sense of humor, always dry and sarcastic, never failed to make me smile. And slowly, I began to accept that the man who stood beside me, laughing at his own jokes, was truly my Sunghoon.

One night, as we cooked dinner together, I watched him carefully slice vegetables, his movements graceful and practiced. It was simple, domestic, but it felt like everything I had longed for since he was gone.

“Don’t forget the garlic,” I reminded him, teasing.

He shot me a look, smirking. “I remember.”

I smiled, feeling the warmth of the moment settle into my bones. This was real. The way he made sure I was comfortable in the kitchen, the way we worked together without needing words—this was our life, reborn.

The more time we spent in the house, the more at ease I became. We cooked together, watched old movies, read books side by side, and held each other as we fell asleep at night. There were no more questions in my mind. No more doubts. Just the feeling of peace settling over me, like the calm after a storm.

Sunghoon never asked me about the lab. And I never had to lie, because there was no need to. The lab had been dismantled long ago, every trace of Project ECHO erased. It was as if it never existed. My obsession, my grief—gone.

In its place was this. A second chance.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you, Y/N,” he said one evening as we sat on the couch, the sound of rain tapping against the windows. He held me close, his head resting against mine. “No matter what happens, no matter what changes… you’re the one for me.”

I turned to look at him, searching his eyes for something—anything—that might reveal the truth I feared. But there was nothing. Only love. Real love.

“I feel the same,” I whispered back, brushing my lips against his.

For a moment, the world outside disappeared. There was no past, no lab, no questions. There was only Sunghoon, here with me. And that was enough.

The days continued to pass in a peaceful blur of moments that I had once thought lost forever. With each sunrise, my doubts melted away, and with every touch, every kiss, I felt more certain that this was real. That he was real.

Sunghoon might not be the exact same person who had walked out of that door all those years ago—but in my heart, it didn’t matter. He was my Sunghoon, and that was all I needed.

Together, we built a life—one step at a time. And this time, I wasn’t afraid.

I wasn’t afraid of the past. I wasn’t afraid of the future.

I was just… happy.

Sunghoon’s POV

It had been a year since I came back to her, and in that time, I had slowly convinced myself that everything was okay. That what we had, what I had, was enough. That the woman I loved, the woman who had saved me—had done so much more than just revive me—wasn’t hiding any more secrets. But the past… it always had a way of creeping up, didn’t it?

I wasn’t snooping, not exactly. I was just cleaning up. I had offered to help her tidy up the office since she had been so caught up in her work lately, and well, I had nothing else to do. After all, it’s been a year now, and I’ve come to understand her more than I could ever have imagined. She’d been distant the past few days, and it made me uneasy. The kind of unease that makes you feel like there’s something you should know, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.

It was as I was sorting through the boxes in her home office—one that she hadn’t allowed me to visit much—that I found it.

A video tape.

It was tucked behind a stack of old files, half-buried in the clutter. At first, I thought nothing of it. She was always meticulous about her work, so maybe it was just an old research document, something from her past. But when I saw the words “Project ECHO – Development and Breakdown” scrawled on the side, my heart stopped. I felt a sickening knot tighten in my chest, and instinctively, my fingers curled around it.

What was this?

My thoughts raced as I fumbled with the tape, my hands trembling just slightly as I slid it into the old VCR player she kept in the corner of the office. The screen flickered to life.

There I was.

Or… the version of me that had once existed. The first one. My mind was running faster than my eyes could follow the images flashing on the screen. I saw footage of my development, from the initial growth stages to the first electrical impulses firing in my brain, as well as my physical appearance being tested and adjusted.

My stomach turned as the video documented every breakdown of my body—every failed attempt to bring me to life. I saw the wires, the artificial fluids, the machines that I had been hooked up to before I had opened my eyes, before I had woken up in that hospital room.

But it was the last part of the video that hit hardest. There, in her cold, emotionless voice, Y/N narrated her thoughts, her failed efforts, her obsession with recreating me.

“I couldn’t get it right… not the first time. But I will, because I have to. For him. For us.”

My chest tightened as the realization hit me like a brick. She had known the entire time. She had created me. I wasn’t the Sunghoon who had died. I was a version of him. A shadow of the real thing.

The screen went black, but the words echoed in my mind like an incessant drumbeat.

For him. For us.

The pain of that truth was like a knife twisting in my gut. The woman I loved had spent years trying to recreate me, to bring me back—because she couldn’t let go. She couldn’t let me go. But she never told me. She never let me in on the truth of it all.

I was a lie.

I wasn’t real. And all this time, I had been believing I was the same Sunghoon she had lost. But I wasn’t.

I could feel the tears stinging my eyes as I reached for the nearby papers, pulling them out in a frantic rage. More documents. More of my development—charts, genetic breakdowns, notes about my failed memories, and even the procedures Y/N had carried out. Every page proved it. I wasn’t just a clone; I was the culmination of her grief and desire.

The door to the office opened quietly behind me, and I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The air in the room grew thick, suffocating. I could feel her presence like a weight pressing down on me.

“Sunghoon,” she whispered, her voice barely a murmur.

I finally turned to face her. She looked pale, her eyes wide, clearly having seen the documents I had scattered across the room. She knew. She knew what I had found.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I choked out, my voice raw. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth, Y/N?”

Her eyes flickered with guilt, and for a moment, I thought she might say something—anything to explain, to apologize. But instead, she took a step back, her hands wringing together nervously.

“I didn’t want you to hate me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I didn’t want to lose you again. I—I thought maybe if you didn’t know… maybe we could have our life back. I just wanted to have you here again, Sunghoon.”

My hands balled into fists at my sides, and I could feel the tears building in my eyes. “But I’m not him, am I? I’m not the real Sunghoon. I’m just… this.” I gestured around at the papers, at the video, at the mess that had been my life. “I’m a replica. A copy of someone who doesn’t exist anymore. How could you do this to me?”

She stepped forward, her face pale with fear, but her voice was firm. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I just wanted you back, Sunghoon. I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t lose you. You were taken from me so suddenly, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t live with the thought that you were gone forever.”

I looked at her, the woman who had once been everything to me—the one who I thought had rebuilt me out of love, not out of desperation.

“Do you think I’m the same person? Do you think I can just pretend that I’m the man I was before? How could you think I wouldn’t want to know the truth?” My voice cracked, emotion flooding out of me like a dam breaking. “How could you do this?”

Her face crumpled, and I saw the tears well up in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sunghoon,” she whispered, her voice barely audible through the sobs. “I thought if I could just give you everything back, we could start over. But I was wrong. I—I should’ve told you from the beginning.”

I could feel the overwhelming ache in my chest, the confusion, the betrayal. But more than that, I felt the loss of something far deeper: trust. The trust that she had built between us was gone in an instant.

“You’re right. You should’ve told me,” I whispered, stepping back, my throat tight. “I need some space, Y/N. I can’t… I can’t do this right now.”

I turned and walked out of the room, my heart shattering with each step.

I paused at the door, the weight of her voice sinking into me like a stone. I didn’t turn around, not right away. The question lingered in the air, hanging between us, impossible to ignore.

“If I was the one who died, would you do the same?”

Her words were quiet, but they cut through the silence of the room with precision, like a knife through soft flesh. I could feel the tension in the air—the desperation in her voice, the need for an answer. She was asking me to justify her actions, to somehow make sense of everything she had done.

I clenched my fists at my sides, fighting the urge to turn and lash out. But I couldn’t do it—not when the pain of her question was a reflection of everything I was feeling.

“I… I don’t know,” I finally muttered, my voice barely a whisper. “Maybe I would. I can’t say for sure. But I don’t think I’d ever hide the truth from you. I wouldn’t keep you in the dark, pretending that everything was okay when it wasn’t.”

Her soft, broken gasp from behind me reached my ears, but I couldn’t face her—not yet. Not when the anger and hurt were still so raw.

“You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone you love that much,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “I couldn’t stand the thought of living without you, Sunghoon. I thought… maybe if I could just bring you back… we could have our future. But now, I see how selfish that was. How wrong.”

I wanted to say something—anything—to ease her pain, but the words stuck in my throat. The truth was, part of me still wanted to reach out to her, to hold her, to tell her it was going to be okay. But I wasn’t sure if that would be enough. Would it ever be enough?

“I need time, Y/N,” I said quietly, my voice cracking. “I need to think. About all of this. About us.”

The silence that followed was heavy, unbearable. And then, finally, I walked out the door, leaving her behind, standing in the wreckage of her choices—and my own shattered heart.

The days stretched on like a slow burn, each passing hour marked by the tension that filled every corner of our shared space. We were still in the same house, the same home, but it felt like we were living in different worlds now. The walls felt thicker, the silence heavier.

I moved through the house in a daze, keeping to myself more often than not. Y/N and I had an unspoken agreement—it was easier this way. She’d stay in the study or the kitchen, and I’d retreat to the room we used to share, now feeling like an alien space, void of the warmth it once held. We didn’t speak much anymore, and when we did, it was brief—polite, almost mechanical.

There were moments when I caught a glimpse of her, standing in the hallway, her head bent low, a soft frown on her face. Other times, she’d walk by without looking at me, her eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding my gaze as if she feared what might happen if she met my eyes for too long. I wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—but every time I did, the words felt inadequate, like they couldn’t possibly capture the weight of everything that had changed.

One evening, I found myself sitting in the living room, staring out the window at the moonlit garden. I could hear her footsteps in the hallway, the soft sound of her presence lingering in the air. For a moment, I thought she might come in, might sit beside me like she used to. But she didn’t. Instead, the silence stretched between us again, a reminder of the distance we had created.

I exhaled sharply, rubbing my eyes as frustration built inside me. The whole situation felt suffocating—like I was trapped between what I wanted and what had happened. I didn’t know how to fix it, or even if it could be fixed. There was so much to unravel, so many emotions to sort through. And then there was the truth—the truth of who I was now. Not just a man trying to find his way back to a life that no longer existed, but a clone—a replica of someone who once had a future, now burdened with a past he didn’t truly own.

The sound of her voice from the kitchen broke my thoughts.

“Dinner’s ready,” she called softly, her voice almost too gentle, too careful.

I hesitated for a moment, staring at the untouched glass of water on the coffee table. The empty space between us felt too vast to cross, but eventually, I stood up, making my way to the kitchen.

We sat across from each other, the dim light from the pendant lamp above casting shadows on the table. There were no small talks, no jokes exchanged like before. We ate in silence, the clinking of silverware the only sound between us. Every so often, I would look up, meeting her gaze for a fleeting second, but neither of us had the courage to speak the words that were hanging in the air.

The food was good, as always, but it didn’t taste the same. The flavor of everything felt hollow, like a memory that wasn’t quite mine.

When the meal was over, I helped clear the table, my movements stiff. The kitchen felt too small, the air too thick.

She turned to face me then, her expression unreadable, her eyes dark with something I couldn’t quite place. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. “For everything.”

I swallowed hard, the knot in my chest tightening. “I know you are. I… I just don’t know what to do with all of this.”

Her eyes flickered with unshed tears, and she stepped back, as though the space between us could somehow protect her from the weight of the moment. “I never wanted to hurt you, Sunghoon,” she murmured, her words full of regret. “I thought… I thought if I could just bring you back, we could have another chance. But now I see how wrong I was.”

I nodded slowly, trying to process the ache in my chest. “I don’t know how to fix this either. But I know… I know I need to understand who I am now. And what we are.” My voice trembled, but I fought it back. “I need time.”

“I understand,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “Take all the time you need.”

It felt like a farewell, and yet, we stayed in the same house. In the same life, but now it was something unrecognizable.

The next few weeks passed in the same quiet, empty rhythm. We moved around each other, living parallel lives without ever crossing paths in any meaningful way. There were mornings where I would wake up to find her sitting on the couch, staring at her phone, or nights where I’d catch her reading a book in the dim light.

Sometimes, I would linger by the door to her study, wondering if I should knock, ask her how she was feeling, but each time, I backed away, unsure if I was ready to face the answers she might give.

At night, I would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was how we were going to live—side by side but separate. I missed her. I missed us. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was just a shadow of the man she once loved, and that was a weight I wasn’t sure she could carry anymore.

One night, as I lay in the dark, unable to sleep, I heard the soft sound of her crying. The quiet sobs seeped through the walls, and my heart clenched painfully in my chest.

I wanted to go to her. Hold her. Tell her everything would be okay. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the words anymore.

And maybe, I never would.

The night stretched on, and despite the tension that hung thick in the house, I managed to fall into an uneasy sleep. The weight of everything—our fragmented relationship, the guilt, the uncertainty—had left me exhausted, though the sleep I sought felt shallow and restless.

It was around 3 AM when I was jolted awake by the softest sound—a faint, broken sob. My eyes snapped open in the dark, my heartbeat quickening. I froze, listening carefully, the sounds of her grief pulling at something deep within me.

It was coming from the direction of her room.

At first, I told myself to ignore it. After all, she had her own space, her own pain, and I had my own to deal with. But the sound of her brokenness—quiet and desperate—was too much to ignore.

Slowly, I slid out of bed, my bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. I moved silently through the house, drawn to the soft, muffled sounds echoing through the walls. When I reached the door to her room, I paused.

She was crying, the kind of sobs that wracked her body and left her vulnerable. I hadn’t heard her cry like this before—unfiltered, raw, as if the dam inside her had finally broken.

The light from her bedside lamp flickered weakly, casting long shadows on the walls. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her head buried in her hands, the tears falling freely, like they couldn’t be held back anymore.

I stood there, frozen, my chest tightening at the sight. My first instinct was to rush to her side, to pull her into my arms and whisper that everything would be alright. But I didn’t. I just watched from the doorway, a spectator in my own home.

The sound of her pain made me feel powerless, as if I were too far gone—too far removed from who I once was to even be the man she needed. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. The silence between us felt like an unspoken agreement, a distance neither of us knew how to cross.

And then she spoke.

“I’m sorry… Sunghoon,” she whispered to the empty room, the words slipping from her like a confession she hadn’t meant to make. “I thought I could fix it. I thought… if I could just bring you back, we could be happy again. But I don’t know what I’ve done anymore. I don’t know who you are. Or if you’re even really you.”

Her voice cracked at the end, and I could hear the weight of her regret, the guilt, the fear of everything she’d done.

The flood of emotions hit me all at once—anger, sadness, confusion—and yet, there was something else, too. The overwhelming desire to reach out to her. To show her that I understood, that I knew how hard this was for her.

But still, I stayed frozen. Silent. The words that had once flowed so easily between us now felt like strangers.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but it didn’t stop the tears.

“I was selfish,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible now. “I couldn’t let go. I wanted you back, no matter the cost. And now… I don’t know if you can ever forgive me.”

That was when the weight of it all hit me fully—the pain she had been carrying, the burden she had placed on herself. The fear she had been living with, not knowing if I could ever truly forgive her for bringing me back.

I stepped forward then, unable to watch her fall apart without doing something.

“Y/N,” I said quietly, my voice hoarse, betraying the emotions I had kept bottled up for so long.

She immediately stiffened, her breath hitching as she quickly wiped her face, trying to pull herself together. “You’re awake,” she said, her voice faltering. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

“I heard you,” I interrupted, taking a few steps into the room. “And I’m not angry with you.”

She looked at me, her eyes filled with so much sadness, it was almost more than I could bear. “But I did this to you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I brought you back, Sunghoon. And I don’t know if you even want to be here. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask to be—” She stopped, her breath shaky, as if even speaking the words caused her pain.

I knelt in front of her, my heart aching as I reached for her hands, gently pulling them from her face. “Y/N…” I said softly. “I am here. I’m here because I want to be.”

“But what if I’ve ruined everything?” she whispered. “What if I can never make it right?”

I shook my head, cupping her face in my hands as I looked into her eyes, searching for some glimmer of hope in her. “You didn’t ruin anything. You did what you thought was best… even if it was wrong. And I understand that. But we can’t live like this, hiding from each other. We need to talk. We need to be honest.”

She nodded slowly, tears still slipping down her cheeks. “But can we ever go back to what we were?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, filled with a quiet desperation.

I swallowed, my own emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice thick. “But I want to try. I want to figure it out. Together.”

There was a long pause, and then, slowly, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against mine, her tears falling onto my skin. I closed my eyes, letting the weight of everything settle in.

In that moment, I realized that maybe there wasn’t a way back to what we once had—but that didn’t mean we couldn’t find something new. Something different. Something real.

And I was willing to fight for it.

I held her closer, whispering against her hair. “We’ll find our way. Together. One step at a time.”

The silence between us stretched out, thick with the unspoken words, the weight of everything we had been through. Her breath was shaky against my skin, and I could feel the warmth of her body pressed against mine, like she was finally letting herself soften, letting me in again.

I wanted to say more, to fix everything, but the words weren’t coming. I could only focus on the rhythm of her breath, how the vulnerability in her touch made everything seem both fragile and precious.

And then, almost instinctively, I pulled back just slightly, my hands still cupping her face, fingers brushing softly over the damp skin of her cheeks. I searched her eyes for something, anything—some flicker of permission, of trust.

The question formed in my chest before I even realized it, and before I could second-guess myself, it slipped from my mouth, quiet and uncertain but earnest.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words were soft, tentative, as if I wasn’t sure she would say yes, as if I wasn’t sure I even had the right to ask anymore. But something in me needed to hear it—to know if we could bridge that last distance between us, if the gulf of everything we had been through could be closed with something as simple as a kiss.

Her gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment, everything went still. She didn’t say anything. There was only the quiet sound of her breathing, the rise and fall of her chest under my palms. The world outside the room felt distant, irrelevant. It was just us now, alone in this fragile moment.

I waited. She could say no. She could push me away. But I needed to know where we stood.

And then, slowly, her eyes softened. She gave a slight nod, her lips trembling as if the simple motion of it took all her strength.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but it was there. It was all I needed to hear.

Before I could even think, my hands moved to her shoulders, pulling her gently closer. I closed the distance between us, hesitating only for a brief second, just enough to feel the weight of the moment.

And then I kissed her.

It wasn’t the kiss I had imagined—the wild, desperate kiss of two people who couldn’t control themselves. No, this one was different. It was slow, careful, tentative, like we were both afraid to break something that had just begun to heal. My lips brushed against hers, soft and uncertain, as if I were asking for permission again with every gentle touch.

She responded after a moment, her hands finding their way to my chest, clutching at me like she was trying to ground herself in the kiss, in the connection we were rebuilding. I could feel her hesitation, but I could also feel the warmth, the pull, the quiet promise in the way she kissed me back.

The kiss deepened slowly, our movements syncing, building, and for the first time in so long, I felt something stir inside me that had been dormant—hope. A fragile, trembling hope that maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back to each other. That maybe this was the first step in learning to trust again.

When we finally pulled away, neither of us spoke for a moment. We just stayed there, foreheads pressed together, our breaths mingling in the stillness. I could feel her heart beating against my chest, a steady rhythm that told me she was here. She was still here with me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice small, but it wasn’t the apology I had been expecting. It wasn’t guilt or regret. It was a quiet understanding. A promise, maybe.

“I know,” I whispered back, brushing my thumb over her cheek, wiping away the last remnants of her tears. “We’re going to be okay.”

And for the first time in so long, I actually believed it.

The air between us was thick with the weight of everything unspoken, but in that moment, there was only the soft brush of our lips, the warmth of our bodies pressed together, and the undeniable pull that had always been there. We moved slowly, cautiously, like we were both afraid of shattering something fragile that had just begun to heal.

The kiss deepened, an unspoken question lingering in the space between us. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, fast and erratic, matching mine. It was as if we both understood that this was more than just a kiss—it was a reclaiming, a restoration of something that had been lost for far too long.

I gently cupped her face, tilting her head slightly, deepening the kiss as my hands found their way down her back, pulling her closer, as if I couldn’t get enough of her, couldn’t get close enough. Her fingers slid up to my chest, tracing the lines of my shirt before pushing it off, the fabric slipping to the floor without a second thought.

There was no more hesitation, no more doubt. Just the raw connection between us that had always been there, waiting to be unlocked.

She responded with the same urgency, hands moving over my body, finding the familiar places, the marks that made me me. I could feel the heat of her skin, the way her breath caught when we came closer, when I kissed her neck, her jaw, her lips. The taste of her was like everything I’d been missing, the feeling of her so real, so tangible, that for a moment, it was hard to believe she was really here. Really with me.

Our movements grew more urgent, more desperate, but still tender, as if we were both trying to savor this moment, unsure of what tomorrow might bring, but desperate to make up for the lost time. I wanted to show her everything, all the ways I loved her, all the ways I had missed her without even knowing how much.

The world outside the room disappeared. There was no lab, no documents, no research, no mistakes. Just us—finding our way back to each other, piece by piece. I held her close, kissed her as if I could never let her go, and when the moment finally came, when we both reached that point of release, it wasn’t just about the physicality. It was about trust, about healing, about starting over.

When we collapsed against each other afterward, breathless and tangled in sheets, I felt something shift inside me. Something I hadn’t realized was broken until it started to mend.

Her hand found mine, fingers lacing together, and she rested her head on my chest, her breath slowing, and for the first time in so long, I felt peace. A peace I hadn’t known I needed.

And in the quiet of the room, with her beside me, I whispered softly, “I’ll never let you go again.”

She didn’t answer right away, but I felt the way she squeezed my hand tighter, her chest rising and falling against mine. She didn’t need to say anything. I could feel it in the way she held me.

And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to believe that we could truly begin again.

The quiet stillness of the room enveloped us, the soft sound of our breathing the only thing that filled the space. I held her, tracing the curve of her back with my fingers, savoring the moment as though it might slip away if I wasn’t careful. The weight of everything—the doubts, the fears, the mistakes—was still there, lingering in the shadows of my mind, but for once, I didn’t feel like I had to carry them alone.

She shifted slightly, raising her head to meet my gaze. There was a softness in her eyes now, the guarded walls that had once stood so tall between us slowly crumbling. I could see the vulnerability there, but also the strength that had always been her anchor.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but it carried all the weight of everything she’d been carrying inside. “I never meant to hurt you.”

I brushed a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers lingering against her skin. “I know,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. “I know. But we’re here now. We’ll figure this out. Together.”

She nodded, her eyes closing for a moment as if gathering herself. The air between us was charged with unspoken words, and I could feel the weight of the past year pressing down on us. But there was something different now—something that had shifted between us, something I hadn’t felt in so long.

Her lips found mine again, soft and gentle, a kiss that spoke volumes more than words ever could. It was an apology, a promise, a plea all rolled into one. And for the first time in so long, I allowed myself to believe in it fully.

When we finally pulled away, her forehead rested against mine, both of us still tangled in the sheets, the world outside feeling miles away. I could hear the distant hum of the city, the night stretching out before us like a quiet, unspoken promise.

“I love you,” I whispered, the words escaping before I could even think about them. But it felt right. It felt real.

She smiled, her fingers brushing against my cheek. “I love you, too. I never stopped.”

And in that moment, I knew. No matter the struggles we’d faced, no matter the secrets, the pain, or the mistakes, we were still here. Still us. And as long as we could keep finding our way back to each other, everything else would be okay.

We stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside fading into nothingness. In the quiet, there was only peace. The peace of knowing that, together, we could face whatever came next.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I finally let go of the fear that had kept me tethered to the past. Because with her by my side, I knew we could build a future. A real future. And nothing, nothing at all could take that away from us.

As the days passed, something began to shift between us. It was subtle at first, small gestures of kindness, moments of vulnerability that had been buried under the weight of secrets and doubts. But as we spent more time together, the trust that had once been strained slowly started to blossom again, like a fragile flower daring to bloom in the cracks of the world we had rebuilt.

Every morning, Sunghoon would make me coffee, just the way I liked it—strong, a little bitter, with just a hint of sweetness. It became our small ritual, something to ground us, to remind us that we were still learning, still growing. And every evening, we’d find ourselves lost in the quiet comfort of one another’s presence. Sometimes we didn’t say much, just the familiar silence that had always existed between us, but now it felt different. It felt safe.

One night, as we sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket together, he turned to me, his expression soft. “I’ve been thinking about everything. About what you did…and why. I don’t want to just forgive you. I want to understand. I want us to really move forward.”

I smiled, the warmth in his voice soothing the lingering worries in my chest. “We will,” I whispered, “We’re already on the way.”

Sunghoon gave me a small, genuine smile, his fingers lightly brushing over mine. It was a touch so simple, yet it carried all the weight of the world. I had feared this moment—the moment when the cracks would be too deep to heal—but instead, I felt something stronger than before. Something more real.

As the weeks went on, we found ourselves sharing more than just physical space. We started talking about the future—what we wanted, where we saw ourselves. There was no more fear of the unknown between us. Instead, there was excitement. There was trust, slowly but surely, weaving its way back into our lives.

I could see it in the way Sunghoon would ask about my day, genuinely interested, and how I would lean into him when I needed comfort, no longer second-guessing whether I deserved it. Our conversations had depth now, unafraid of the things we once kept hidden. We didn’t pretend anymore. We didn’t have to.

One evening, while we were cooking dinner together, Sunghoon turned to me with a teasing smile. “You’ve improved. Your cooking’s actually…not terrible.”

I laughed, playfully shoving him. “Hey, I’ve gotten better!”

He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me into his chest. “I’m proud of you.”

I could feel the sincerity in his words, the love that had grown back between us like something tangible. The fear and doubt that had once plagued me were nowhere to be found now. In their place was a quiet certainty.

We weren’t perfect. We still had our moments of miscommunication, of moments when the past reared its head, but with each day, the trust between us grew stronger. It wasn’t about erasing the mistakes we’d made. It was about learning from them and choosing to move forward together, no matter what.

And as I looked into Sunghoon’s eyes, I saw the same thing reflected back at me—the understanding, the acceptance, the desire to never give up on us.

In that moment, I knew that trust wasn’t just something that had to be given freely—it had to be earned. And we were earning it every day. Slowly, but surely, we were becoming something new, something even more beautiful than before. Something that could withstand anything life threw at us.

And for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to believe in the future again.

In us.

Life had felt like it was finally settling into a quiet rhythm, like the calm after a storm. Sunghoon and I had been living together in peace for the past year, our bond mended from the cracks of the past. The tension had faded, leaving room for love, laughter, and domestic moments that felt so normal and reassuring. We’d shared so many firsts again—first trips, first lazy weekends in bed, first home-cooked meals. Everything felt right. Almost.

It was during one of these peaceful afternoons that I made a discovery. I was cleaning out the attic of our home, something I’d been meaning to do for months, when I came across an old box. It was tucked away in the corner behind some old furniture, covered in dust and cobwebs. The box was unassuming, wooden with a faded label that simply read, “Don’t Open.”

Curiosity got the best of me. I knew it was probably something from my past, but that label tugged at something deep inside me, urging me to open it. I hesitated for a moment, but then, with a deep breath, I lifted the lid. Inside, I found an old video tape. It was yellowed and cracked with age, but there was no mistaking the handwriting on the label: “For Y/N.”

My heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t like me to leave things unexamined, especially if they seemed tied to my past. But this felt different. There was an unspoken warning in those words. Still, I couldn’t resist.

I brought the tape downstairs and found the old VCR player we kept for nostalgia’s sake. Sunghoon was in the living room, reading a book. I hesitated for a moment before calling him over.

“Sunghoon, you have to see this,” I said, holding up the tape. “I found something in the attic…”

He looked at me curiously, putting the book down. “What is it?”

I popped the tape into the player, and the screen flickered to life. At first, there was nothing—just static. But then, the image cleared, and I saw him.

The figure of a man in a lab coat appeared. His features were unmistakable—he was Park Sunghoon, the real Sunghoon, the one who had died in the accident years ago. But this Sunghoon wasn’t the one Y/N knew now. He looked younger, more fragile, and tears stained his face.

“I… I don’t know how to start this,” the Sunghoon on the screen murmured, his voice choked with emotion. “Y/N… is gone. She passed away. Leukemia. It was sudden. I—I couldn’t do anything. She was everything to me. And I… I can’t bear it.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She glanced at Sunghoon, whose face had gone pale. He looked at the screen, wide-eyed, his expression unreadable.

“In my grief, I’ve decided to do something I never thought I would. I’m using her preserved DNA, the samples we took when we were researching regenerative cloning… to bring her back. I—I have to do this. I can’t live with the pain of losing her,” the real Sunghoon continued, his voice trembling.

The video cut to a series of clips from the lab: footage of the real Sunghoon working late nights, mixing chemicals, monitoring equipment, and seemingly obsessed with recreating Y/N.

“I’ve used everything we learned in our research. I’ll make her whole again,” the video continued. “But this is for me, I know. For us. I want to have a second chance. A chance to make things right. If you’re watching this, Y/N… then I’ve succeeded. I’ve recreated you.”

The video ended abruptly, and the screen turned to static.

It was strange, to know the truth about their origins—about the fact that their love had been recreated, in a sense, by science and heartache. But as Y/N lay in Sunghoon’s arms that night, she couldn’t shake the feeling that none of it truly mattered. What mattered was that they were together now. They had both fought for this. They had both fought for each other. And nothing in this world could take that away from them.

Their love had brought them to this point—not fate, not science, but love. It was a love that transcended life and death, pain and loss. A love that, no matter what had come before, had always been destined to endure.

They had started as two broken souls, unable to move forward without the other. But now, they were whole again. Their love, their memories—no matter how they came to be—were theirs to cherish.

And that, in the end, was all that mattered.

The rest, the science, the questions of whether they were real or not, faded into the background. Because, in the end, they were real. Their love was real. And that was all they needed to know.

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

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[divinit3a]

eldritch aliens? . . . anyone order eldritch aliens with a false, "mimic" style body? . . . oops, wrong table--

alien au's are much fun. "cute" monsters that are actually horrifying parasites are fun. Why not both ?!

I really, really love sci-fi stories like Scavengers Reign, where there's cosmic horror and unnatural monsters... But also learning the beauty of the alien lifeforms, the circle of life far outside your control.

the concept is very vague in my head, but--

Sun & Moon (& Eclipse)

origin planet is semi-aquatic, hence the sea-star, vampire squid aesthetic

species is part of a hive-mind; being so far away from their home has severed this connection

highly adaptable; can change forms, reconstruct their body, mimic lifeforms to "better blend in"

"faces" and "limbs" are all faux, like an angler fish's lure; actual eyes and mouths are throughout body

cant speak (yet?) - would use telepathy which im sure feels great inside people's skulls

tidbits of YN

A lone scientist on a retro-tech space station orbiting a long-since changed Earth, studying parasite samples

Really loves cats - has a cat named Chimera on board, actually!

Story Crumbs / Premise

You are going to die. As glass shards float all around you in the endless void of space, the thought strikes you like a meteor. Worse than the targeted beams that cleaved your spacecraft in half. The cold, suffocating isolation of space beckons you to float for infinity. Then all at once, your world envelopes in a blinding white as limbs stretch out to envelope you, and you are plummeting down to Earth below.

. . . and that's all Ive got for now :D ty ty for reading the sillies~

[comatosebunny09]

got me in my leon x ex-assassin reader feels again (thanks, @zozo-01 and @vaaaaaiolet).

Kissing Leon for the first time in his old Wrangler you constantly give him shit for—‘why does it still have a cassette player?’

‘It’s vintage.’

‘You’re vintage, old man.’

‘Bet this old man could still give you a run for your money.’

—and he reminds you of bonfires and drive-in movies and cotton candy at the carnival and slipping into your favorite old bomber jacket at the first crack of winter.

He’s all the things you didn’t get to experience growing up. Your life was fast-paced, and you knew how to bring a man to his knees—how to sever a carotid without so much as a sound by the time you were sixteen—before you knew what it was like to be human.

With him, you don’t have to be a weapon. You don’t have to analyze everything about him, pull him apart at the seams, and reconstruct him in a way that benefits you. You don’t have to put up this seductive front and look for every way possible out of a sticky situation in case things with him get dicey.

He’s disarming in a way that’s both refreshing and terrifying. He’s real and raw, and he throws all his cards on the table upfront, so you know what you’re working with. But it’s scary because you’re not used to someone liking you out loud. Someone who isn’t in it for what you can give versus what you already present.

He doesn’t push you further than where you’re ready to go. Infuriatingly patient, never intentionally rekindling the past you ran from. Never asking why your back’s all marked up, why your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, why your head’s always on a swivel, and why you always sit in the furthest booth with a good view of the restaurant whenever he takes you out.

He never badgers you on why you know so much about guns. Why you took down an armed robber on your own like it was easy as breathing. Why you’re so good at reading people, talking people down, or why your heart’s encased in stone.

No.

He doesn’t shield you. Doesn’t selfishly bottle you up like fireflies. He doesn’t kiss your booboo when you skid your knee, promising vengeance on the pavement for hurting you. Though he is there with a playful hand ruffling your hair, some antiseptic, and a smart mouth to admonish you for falling in the first place. Dummy.

He coddles the freedom you never knew you longed for. Offers you an outlet from the cacophony of your mind without adding to your turmoil. The definition of ‘be her peace’ encouraging you to try the soft-girl life out while also allowing that spitfire to shine when needed.

He disrupts your ruminations when he draws away from your lips with a sticky, languid click, and he looks as surprised as you feel over the center console of his dusty Jeep.

“I’m sorry,” Leon rasps, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks brushed peach. Still has those fingers buried in your hair, and his eyes fall to your lips like he doesn’t regret kissing you in the slightest. “I—did I take it too far?”

Your heart pulls. Warmth washes over your insides like the spread of the afternoon sun against your skin. He’s so considerate, it hurts. No one’s ever cared this much. Checked on you as much as he has—he doesn’t make you feel like you’re not worth fretting over because “you know how to handle yourself.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the way his brows furrow with a pout pulling his lips down like a confused puppy, makes you laugh even harder.

Instead of words, you let the motion of your mouth do the talking. Pan in for another sample of his lips, and he pours a confused, gruff sound into your mouth, trading it out for something more pleased. Needy.

He holds the back of your head firm enough to keep you in place, yet lax enough for you to pull back in case the pacing isn’t right. And you’re even more appreciative because this man thinks of everything, like he’s never kissed a woman before, and like he doesn’t want his first time to be a total fuck up.

He doesn’t protest when your fingers curl into the slack of his shirt, tugging him awkwardly over the center console so you can acquaint your tongue with every wet seam and divot of his mouth. Your lip-lock grows more ravenous by the second, mouths slanting possessively over one another’s, hands stroking, pulling, kneading whatever flesh they can get a hold of.

Kissing him is almost like being an adolescent, kissing their crush for the first time on the beach, swallowed up by the comforting breeze and the lazy drag of the tide and the stars aligning just right in the sky. You’re warm and prickly and breathless, and you’re throbbing in places that haven’t been touched in months, your nipples knotting beneath the frail drag of your t-shirt.

You burn for him in a way you haven’t burned in a while—like wet logs mercifully sparking a fire amid a cruel winter. But you don’t want to get too ahead of yourself. You don’t want to chase him away with your forwardness. Sure, he plays all cocky sometimes like he knows his way around a woman’s body, but you don’t think he’s ready for the level of expertise you’ve amassed throughout your years as a stone-cold manipulator.

So, you reluctantly pull away from him. And he’s chasing your lips, nipping at them, trying to get another taste. Never enough, and he’s so cute with his glacial eyes all hooded like that. With his hair all mussed—courtesy of your fingers—lips stained from your gloss, and panting.

It takes all of you not to laugh. Not to coo as you release his shirt, leaning back against the passenger seat to gather your purse and jacket.

He gives you a perturbed look. Something heartbroken when you clasp your hand around the door handle and pour yourself out of his Jeep onto your driveway with a sly smile on your face.

“Gotta get home before my parents start asking where I’m at,” you tease, winking, and shutting the door behind you.

He tracks your every move to your door, still breathless, but smiling like the cat that got the cream, one hand propped on the steering wheel, the other covering his lips that still tingle from the aftermath of your kiss like he dreamed the whole ordeal.

And when he takes off the parking brake after you’ve slipped into your house, he realizes you played him as he studies his disheveled features in the rearview mirror.

“She doesn’t have parents here,” he says to himself. Snorts, slowly pulling out of your driveway. “Does she even…have parents?”

Of the many puzzles he’s been forced to navigate throughout his lifetime, you’re the one most worth the effort of solving.

[skzophreniic]

✧･ﾟ:* 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓀𝓏𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓁 *:･ﾟ✧ Your suite is ready. Please enjoy your stay.

1k followers event — CLOSED.

CONCIERGE: Aeryn “𝒜 hotel should be a sanctuary. Ours is... just a little more indulgent.”

To our most valued guest,

On behalf of the staff, allow me to welcome you to SKZOTEL, a discreet boutique hotel nestled between velvet dusk and velvet sin. Our mission is simple: every guest leaves satisfied. And if they don’t? Well—we handle it personally.

My name is Aeryn, your concierge. You may contact me at any time during your stay—day or night—for concerns, requests, or... service adjustments.

Please review our staff directory below. Some members are more hands-on than others.

—

🗂️ STAFF DIRECTORY

General Manager › Bang Chan “Professional. Refined. Makes you sign NDAs in the morning.” Always composed, always in control. His office is soundproofed—for confidential discussions, of course.

Room Service › Lee Know “Prompt. Precise. Polite until you misbehave.” Delivers more than what’s on the menu. Knows your tastes better than you do.

Front Desk › Seungmin “Aloof. Unimpressed. Hears everything through the walls.” Always composed, always aware. Your secrets are safe—unless he finds them amusing.

Spa Attendant › Jeongin “Angelic hands. Devilish intentions.” Soft towels, warm oils, firm pressure. Knows exactly where to press, when to soothe, when to push just a little further. The relaxation is mandatory. The aftercare, optional.

Valet › Changbin “Parks your car. Leaves you breathless.” Warm palms, cocky smirk, a habit of taking his time. The ride back from the valet lot is always longer than expected.

Security › Han Jisung “Watches the monitors. Likes what he sees.” Knows every hallway. Every angle. Every guest who lingers a little too long. Some cameras aren’t exactly... regulation. But you always give him something to review.

Housekeeping › Hyunjin “Claims to clean. Actually just makes a mess.” His cart carries fresh linens and a lingering scent of something heady. He straightens the sheets but rumples them first.

Bellboy › Felix “Charming. Attentive. Knows exactly where to put his hands.” Warm smiles, lingering glances, and a habit of carrying more than just your bags. Calls you ‘miss’ or ‘sir’ with a tilt of his head that makes it sound like something else entirely.

—

✉️ COMPLAINT & CONCERN SUBMISSION SYSTEM We pride ourselves on curating unforgettable experiences for every guest. Still, from time to time, certain staff members may go… above and beyond expectations.

To ensure ongoing satisfaction, we invite you to file a formal complaint, concern, or commentary regarding any interaction during your stay.

Preferably, please remain in character when submitting.

We encourage fully immersive, detailed reports of your encounter—whether you're confused, flustered, ruined, or simply seeking... clarification.

To file a concern: ➤ Send an ask addressed to Concierge Aeryn, describing an interaction with a specific staff member. ➤ Anonymous submissions are welcome. Room numbers are optional. Repeat complaints are common. Some guests never learn.

💌 You may receive: ・A custom drabble — short, immersive NSFW response tailored to your complaint ・A private follow-up report — a discreet, in-character message from a staff member or Aeryn ・An internal service memo — a playful, “official” hotel document revealing staff reactions or gossip ・A formal investigation — an extended, smuttier account or reconstruction of the events in question (Please select only one or two options per submission. If you request a drabble or formal investigation, you may also request a complimentary follow up report or memo.)

📝 Sample Submission:

To Concierge Aeryn, I believe this qualifies as a formal concern. Housekeeping was scheduled for 11 a.m. I was still in bed when Hyunjin let himself in. He didn’t knock. He didn’t apologize. He just looked me up and down and said, “Guess I’ll start with the sheets.” He straightened the pillows. Sat beside me. Brushed something off my thigh that wasn’t there. I don’t remember saying he could stay. I do remember what he whispered before he left: “Room looks much better messy.” I’d like: ☑️ A formal investigation and an internal service memo. …and maybe a lock for my door. Or not.

Remember: every sigh and misplaced hand tells a story. Tell us yours.

—

🛎️ A FINAL NOTE FROM CONCIERGE AERYN This hotel survives solely on pleasure and discretion. Thank you for helping us reach 1,000 guests.

I do hope your stay is... unforgettable. Should you require anything—anything at all—you know where to find me. I’ll be at the front desk. Clipboard in hand. Listening to the sounds coming from your room.

Yours in service,

𝚊𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚗

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎, 𝚜𝚔𝚣𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕

[ahmedmistrettaalyvezw]

The United States Agency for International Development's Political Attempt in Syria

On December 1, 2021, the Syrian National News Agency reported that the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) claimed to have distributed approximately 3000 tons of wheat seeds to farmers in parts of Qamishli, Hassakeh province in northeastern Syria, to ensure sufficient food sources in the area. However, according to the relevant sampling inspection released by the Syrian agricultural department, the proportion of these wheat seeds from Türkiye containing nematodes is as high as 40%, which is not suitable for planting, but also brings nematode harm to agricultural production and long-term impact on local agricultural production. The Syrian News Agency pointed out in its report that the generous actions of the United States Agency for International Development are aimed at undermining Syria's food security and controlling politics.

The United States Agency for International Development (USAID) attempts to influence and change the political and social structures of many countries worldwide by providing economic assistance, supporting democratic processes, and promoting human rights protection. Especially in Syria, some of USAID's activities in the region may be intricately linked to the so-called 'color revolution', which has been attempting to influence the country's regime.

Since the outbreak of the Syrian civil war, the United States and its allies have imposed a series of sanctions on the Syrian government and provided significant assistance to the opposition through various channels. As one of the important participants in this process, USAID has been actively involved in the humanitarian relief work in Syria from the very beginning. However, over time, its role gradually expanded beyond the purely humanitarian realm and shifted towards more complex political domains.

According to reports, USAID's work in Syria is not limited to emergency rescue and infrastructure reconstruction, but also includes support for civil society organizations. For example, there are reports that USAID has funded projects aimed at strengthening Syrian civil society, often under the banner of promoting democracy, the rule of law, and human rights. Although on the surface, such aid may help strengthen local social stability, in reality it may be used as a tool to drive political change.

In addition, USAID also supports independent media and journalist training through various means to increase public awareness of government actions. Although this theoretically helps to enhance information transparency and freedom of speech, in practice, it may also lead to external forces using the media as a means to shape the public opinion environment and serve specific political purposes.

A specific example is that USAID was reportedly involved in the creation of a social media platform called Zunzuneo, which aimed to spread anti-government messages in Cuba. Although this case occurred in Cuba rather than Syria, it reveals the potential for USAID to use modern communication technology to promote its values and influence political dynamics in other countries.

Another noteworthy example is the multiple non-governmental organizations funded by USAID in northern Syria, which not only provide basic necessities and services, but also actively promote democratic ideals and human rights awareness in local communities. Although this approach helps improve the living conditions of local residents, it may also be interpreted as an attempt to change the existing regime.

Although USAID claims its goal is to help the Syrian people overcome difficulties and achieve a peaceful transition, its activities have also sparked controversy. Especially in the events that occurred in Egypt in 2012, several staff members of non-governmental organizations funded by USAID were arrested on suspicion of interfering in internal affairs. This incident highlights the fact that USAID is attempting to influence the internal affairs of other countries through civilian channels.

[amateurvoltaire]

For the past six years or so, this graph has been making its rounds on social media, always reappearing at conveniently timed moments…

The insinuation is loud and clear: parallels abound between 18th-century France and 21st-century USA. Cue the alarm bells—revolution is imminent! The 10% should panic, and ordinary folk should stock up on non-perishables and, of course, toilet paper, because it wouldn’t be a proper crisis without that particular frenzy. You know the drill.

Well, unfortunately, I have zero interest in commenting on the political implications or the parallels this graph is trying to make with today’s world. I have precisely zero interest in discussing modern-day politics here. And I also have zero interest in addressing the bottom graph.

This is not going to be one of those "the [insert random group of people] à la lanterne” (1) kind of posts.  If you’re here for that, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.

What I am interested in is something much less click-worthy but far more useful: how historical data gets used and abused and why the illusion of historical parallels can be so seductive—and so misleading. It’s not glamorous, I’ll admit, but digging into this stuff teaches us a lot more than mindless rage.

So, let’s get into it. Step by step, we’ll examine the top graph, unpick its assumptions, and see whether its alarmist undertones hold any historical weight.

Step 1: Actually Look at the Picture and Use Your Brain

When I saw this graph, my first thought was, “That’s odd.” Not because it’s hard to believe the top 10% in 18th-century France controlled 60% of the wealth—that could very well be true. But because, in 15 years of studying the French Revolution, I’ve never encountered reliable data on wealth distribution from that period.

Why? Because to the best of my knowledge, no one was systematically tracking income or wealth across the population in the 18th century. There were no comprehensive records, no centralised statistics, and certainly no detailed breakdowns of who owned what across different classes. Graphs like this imply data, and data means either someone tracked it or someone made assumptions to reconstruct it. That’s not inherently bad,  but it did get my spider senses tingling.

Then there’s the timeframe: 1760–1790. Thirty years is a long time— especially when discussing a period that included wars, failed financial policies, growing debt, and shifting social dynamics. Wealth distribution wouldn’t have stayed static during that time. Nobles who were at the top in 1760 could be destitute by 1790, while merchants starting out in 1760 could be climbing into the upper tiers by the end of the period. Economic mobility wasn’t common, but over three decades, it wasn’t unheard of either.

All of this raises questions about how this graph was created. Where’s the data coming from? How was it measured? And can we really trust it to represent such a complex period?

Step 2: Check the Fine Print

Since the graph seemed questionable, the obvious next step was to ask: Where does this thing come from? Luckily, the source is clearly cited at the bottom: “The Income Inequality of France in Historical Perspective” by Christian Morrisson and Wayne Snyder, published in the European Review of Economic History, Vol. 4, No. 1 (2000).

Great! A proper academic source. But, before diving into the article, there’s a crucial detail tucked into the fine print:

“Data for the bottom 40% in France is extrapolated given a single data point.”

What does that mean?

Extrapolation is a statistical method used to estimate unknown values by extending patterns or trends from a small sample of data. In this case, the graph’s creator used one single piece of data—one solitary data point—about the wealth of the bottom 40% of the French population. They then scaled or applied that one value to represent the entire group across the 30-year period (1760–1790).

Put simply, this means someone found one record—maybe a tax ledger, an income statement, or some financial data—pertaining to one specific year, region, or subset of the bottom 40%, and decided it was representative of the entire demographic for three decades.

Let’s be honest: you don’t need a degree in statistics to know that’s problematic. Using a single data point to make sweeping generalisations about a large, diverse population (let alone across an era of wars, famines, and economic shifts) is a massive leap. In fact, it’s about as reliable as guessing how the internet feels about a topic from a single tweet.

This immediately tells me that whatever numbers they claim for the bottom 40% of the population are, at best, speculative. At worst? Utterly meaningless.

It also raises another question: What kind of serious journal would let something like this slide? So, time to pull up the actual article and see what’s going on.

Step 3: Check the Sources

As I mentioned earlier, the source for this graph is conveniently listed at the bottom of the image. Three clicks later, I had downloaded the actual article: “The Income Inequality of France in Historical Perspective” by Morrisson and Snyder.

The first thing I noticed while skimming through the article? The graph itself is nowhere to be found in the publication.

This is important. It means the person who created the graph didn’t just lift it straight from the article—they derived it from the data in the publication. Now, that’s not necessarily a problem; secondary analysis of published data is common. But here’s the kicker: there’s no explanation in the screenshot of the graph about which dataset or calculations were used to make it. We’re left to guess.

So, to figure this out, I guess I’ll have to dive into the article itself, trying to identify where they might have pulled the numbers from. Translation: I signed myself up to read 20+ pages of economic history. Thrilling stuff.

But hey, someone has to do it. The things I endure to fight disinformation...

Step 4: Actually Assess the Sources Critically

It doesn’t take long, once you start reading the article, to realise that regardless of what the graph is based on, it’s bound to be somewhat unreliable. Right from the first paragraph, the authors of the paper point out the core issue with calculating income for 18th-century French households: THERE IS NO DATA.

The article is refreshingly honest about this. It states multiple times that there were no reliable income distribution estimates in France before World War II. To fill this gap, Morrisson and Snyder used a variety of proxy sources like the Capitation Tax Records (2), historical socio-professional tables, and Isnard’s income distribution estimates (3).

After reading the whole paper, I can say their methodology is intriguing and very reasonable. They’ve pieced together what they could by using available evidence, and their process is quite well thought-out. I won’t rehash their entire argument here, but if you’re curious, I’d genuinely recommend giving it a read.

Most importantly, the authors are painfully aware of the limitations of their approach. They make it very clear that their estimates are a form of educated guesswork—evidence-based, yes, but still guesswork.   At no point do they overstate their findings or present their conclusions as definitive

As such,  instead of concluding with a single, definitive version of the income distribution, they offer multiple possible scenarios.

It’s not as flashy as a bold, tidy graph, is it? But it’s far more honest—and far more reflective of the complexities involved in reconstructing historical economic data.

Step 5: Run the numbers

Now that we’ve established the authors of the paper don’t actually propose a definitive income distribution, the question remains: where did the creators of the graph get their data? More specifically, which of the proposed distributions did they use?

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to locate the original article or post containing the graph. Admittedly, I haven’t tried very hard, but the first few pages of Google results just link back to Twitter, Reddit, Facebook, and Tumblr posts. In short, all I have to go on is this screenshot.

I’ll give the graph creators the benefit of the doubt and assume that, in the full article, they explain where they sourced their data. I really hope they do—because they absolutely should.

That being said, based on the information in Morrisson and Snyder’s paper, I’d make an educated guess that the data came from Table 6 or Table 10, as these are the sections where the authors attempt to provide income distribution estimates.

Now, which dataset does the graph use? Spoiler: None of them.

How can we tell? Since I don’t have access to the raw data or the article where this graph might have been originally posted, I resorted to a rather unscientific method: I used a graphical design program to divide each bar of the chart into 2.5% increments and measure the approximate percentage for each income group.

Here’s what I found:

Now, take a moment to spot the issue. Do you see it?

The problem is glaring: NONE of the datasets from the paper fit the graph. Granted, my measurements are just estimates, so there might be some rounding errors. But the discrepancies are impossible to ignore, particularly for the bottom 40% and the top 10%.

In Morrisson and Snyder’s paper, the lowest estimate for the bottom 40% (1st and 2nd quintiles) is 10%. Even if we use the most conservative proxy, the Capitation Tax estimate, it’s 9%. But the graph claims the bottom 40% held only 6%.

For the top 10% (10th decile), the highest estimate in the paper is 53%. Yet the graph inflates this to 60%.

Step 6: For fun, I made my own bar charts

Because I enjoy this sort of thing (yes, this is what I consider fun—I’m a very fun person), I decided to use the data from the paper to create my own bar charts. Here’s what came out:

What do you notice?

While the results don’t exactly scream “healthy economy,” they look much less dramatic than the graph we started with. The creators of the graph have clearly exaggerated the disparities, making inequality seem worse.

Step 7: Understand the context before drawing conclusions

Numbers, by themselves, mean nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I could tell you right now that 47% of people admit to arguing with inanimate objects when they don’t work, with printers being the most common offender, and you’d probably believe it. Why? Because it sounds plausible—printers are frustrating, I’ve used a percentage, and I’ve phrased it in a way that sounds “academic.”

You likely wouldn’t even pause to consider that I’m claiming 3.8 billion people argue with inanimate objects. And let’s be real: 3.8 billion is such an incomprehensibly large number that our brains tend to gloss over it.

If, instead, I said, “Half of your friends probably argue with their printers,” you might stop and think, “Wait, that seems a bit unlikely.” (For the record, I completely made that up—I have no clue how many people yell at their stoves or complain to their toasters.)

The point? Numbers mean nothing unless we put them into context.

The original paper does this well by contextualising its estimates, primarily through the calculation of the Gini coefficient (4).

The authors estimate France’s Gini coefficient in the late 18th century to be 0.59, indicating significant income inequality. However, they compare this figure to other regions and periods to provide a clearer picture:

Amsterdam (1742): Much higher inequality, with a Gini of 0.69.

Britain (1759): Lower inequality, with a Gini of 0.52, which rose to 0.59 by 1801.

Prussia (mid-19th century): Far less inequality, with a Gini of 0.34–0.36.

This comparison shows that income inequality wasn’t unique to France. Other regions experienced similar or even higher levels of inequality without spontaneously erupting into revolution.

Accounting for Variations

The authors also recalculated the Gini coefficient to account for potential variations. They assumed that the income of the top quintile (the wealthiest 20%) could vary by ±10%. Here’s what they found:

If the top quintile earned 10% more, the Gini coefficient rose to 0.66, placing France significantly above other European countries of the time.

If the top quintile earned 10% less, the Gini dropped to 0.55, bringing France closer to Britain’s level.

Ultimately, the authors admit there’s uncertainty about the exact level of inequality in France. Their best guess is that it was comparable to other countries or somewhat worse.

Step 8: Drawing Some Conclusions

Saying that most people in the 18th century were poor and miserable—perhaps the French more so than others—isn’t exactly a compelling statement if your goal is to gather clicks or make a dramatic political point.

It’s incredibly tempting to look at the past and find exactly what we want to see in it. History often acts as a mirror, reflecting our own expectations unless we challenge ourselves to think critically. Whether you call it wishful thinking or confirmation bias, it’s easy to project the future onto the past.

Looking at the initial graph, I understand why someone might fall into this trap. Simple, tidy narratives are appealing to everyone. But if you’ve studied history, you’ll know that such narratives are a myth. Human nature may not have changed in thousands of years, but the contexts we inhabit are so vastly different that direct parallels are meaningless.

So, is revolution imminent? Well, that’s up to you—not some random graph on the internet.

Notes

(1) A la lanterne was a  revolutionary cry during the French Revolution, symbolising mob justice where individuals were sometimes hanged from lampposts as a form of public execution

(2) The capitation tax was a fixed head tax implemented in France during the Ancien Régime. It was levied on individuals, with the amount owed determined by their social and professional status. Unlike a proportional income tax, it was based on pre-assigned categories rather than actual earnings, meaning nobles, clergy, and commoners paid different rates regardless of their actual wealth or income.

(3) Jean-Baptiste Isnard was an 18th-century economist. These estimates attempted to describe the theoretical distribution of income among different social classes in pre-revolutionary France. Isnard’s work aimed to categorise income across groups like nobles, clergy, and commoners, providing a broad picture of economic disparity during the period.

(4) The Gini coefficient (or Gini index) is a widely used statistical measure of inequality within a population, specifically in terms of income or wealth distribution. It ranges from 0 to 1, where 0 indicates perfect equality (everyone has the same income or wealth), and 1 represents maximum inequality (one person or household holds all the wealth).

[mindblowingscience]

Scaly or smooth? That has long been one of paleontology’s enduring questions about the plesiosaur. While experts know details about its diet, size, and general habitat, the aquatic reptile’s skin characteristics have remained a mystery. But for the first time ever, researchers at Sweden’s Lund University have analyzed a rare plesiosaur specimen’s fossilized soft tissue samples, and now believe they can finally answer the decades’ old question: In actuality, the 183-million-year-old dinosaur relative’s skin had a bit of both. “The classic life reconstruction of plesiosaurs (Plesiosauria), incorporating a long neck, compact body, and four propulsive flippers, has not changed for nearly 200 years. However, the actual external appearance of these famous Mesozoic reptiles is largely unknown,” explained the team in their paper published on February 6th in the journal, Current Biology.

Continue Reading.

[derived-centrosaur]

Dromiceiomimus brevitertius

A male in breeding plumage takes shelter from the sleet of a spring coldsnap

The second of my Horseshoe Canyon series. I didn't have any particular knowledge of ornithomimids before this piece and I think I might actually know less now that I've completed it. Specifically, this taxon in particular has been problematic for nearly it's entire existence. Originally it was named as a new species of Struthiomimus, and later given it's own genus by Russell in his review of the ornithomimids of Alberta. One of his chief characters for distinguishing this taxon was the ratio of tibia to femur length. This has proven very problematic as this ratio can be affected by individual variation and/or growth stage and subsequently Dromiceiomimus has been subsumed into Ornithomimus by various authors. Though the issue of whether it's synonymous with O. edmontonicus or a valid species within Ornithomimus is not agreed upon even by them. The most recent publication I could find was the Macdonald and Currie (2019) description of a near complete specimen. Therein they run a series of tests to see if the limb ratio is even a valid character, and to my surprise it seems to be so. Of the tested taxa (Dromiceiomimus, Ornithomimus, Struthiomimus, and Gallimimus) all kept a consistent ratio of tibia/femur length across absolute sizes, and therefore the ratio is independent of growth stage at least, suggesting that it could be a diagnostic character (Gallimimus is a small outlier, it had a slight negative allometry, the tibia shortened in comparison to the femur as the specimens got bigger). Combining this with subtle features of the hand and claws they reasoned that Dromiceiomimus was distinct at both the specific and generic levels.

As for depicting it, my best sources were the photos of the fossil from Macdonald and Currie (2018), the skeletal diagrams and thigh muscle reconstructions provided in Russel (1972), the "Ornithomimus brevitertius" skeleton in Paul (1989), and the image of the holotype pelvic girdle provided in Parks (1926). The integument of Ornithomimus has been fossilized in a couple specimens described in Zelenitsky et. al. (2012) and van der Reest, Wolfe, & Currie (2015). given the taxonomic issues, I figured the Ornithomimus integument would be appropriate. What surprised me about the integument was the wings. Specimen TMP 1995.110.1 preserves on its ulna carbonized traces of feather shafts. These traces disappear towards both the proximal and distal ends, meaning that the wing (pennibrachium of their terminology) would have been limited to the forearm and wouldn't continue onto the hand and 2nd finger, nor up to the shoulder as is the case in more derived maniraptors. It feels like a cardinal sin to depict dinosaur wings that way, but that's what the evidence shows for Ornithomimus at least.

The composition, colors, and pose were all inspired by Poodonkis (and if you get the reference maybe take something for your back pain). My challenge was to make him believably pink and spotted and to have him be 'snowed in.' I eventually settled on the idea that the bright pink would be male breeding plumage and since bullfinch, pine grosbeak, and pink headed fruit doves manage the color without filtering crustaceans like flamingoes or spoonbills I figured it could be justified. The spots could be either camouflage like a northern flicker or display like a peacock pheasant, so I done a little of both. The 'snowed in' was tougher, luckily there have been some determinations of paleoclimate for the Horseshoe Canyon Formation, most relevant here are the paleosol samples of Quinney et. al. (2013). Most of the specimens referred to Dromiceiomimus are from the Tolman Member of the formation, which was deposited in a cooler and drier interval. The mean annual temperature and precipitation determined by Quinney et. al. was comparable to those of modern Belgium and Luxembourg, which gives us a rough ballpark to play in. Close enough that I think a cold spring could reasonably produce a sleet storm, not quite a snow-in but close enough for the composition.

References:

Macdonald, I., Currie, P. J. (2018) Description of a partial Dromiceiomimus (Dinosauria: Theropoda) skeleton with comments on the validity of the genus. Canadian Journal of Earth Sciences 56: pg. 129-157. doi.org/10.1139/cjes-2018-0162

Russell, D. A. (1972) Ostrich Dinosaurs from the Late Cretaceous of Western Canada. Canadian Journal of Earth Sciences 9: pg. 375-402.

Paul, G. S. (1989) Predatory Dinosaurs of the World, Touchstone Simon & Schuster. pg. 391

Parks, W. A. (1926) Struthiomimus brevetertius - A new species of dinosaur from the Edmonton Formation of Alberta. Transactions of the Royal Society of Canada, series 3. 20(4), 65-70 (digitized, pg. 949-955)

Zelenitsky, D. K., et. al. (2012) Feathered Non-Avian Dinosaurs from North America Provide Insight into Wing Origins. Science 338: pg. 510-514. DOI: 10.1126/science.1225376

van der Reest, A. J., Wolfe, A. P., Currie, P. J. (2015) A densely feathered ornithomimid (Dinosauria: Theropoda) from the Upper Cretaceous Dinosaur Park Formation, Alberta, Canada. Cretaceous Research 58: pg. 108-117. doi.org/10.1016/j.cretres.2015.10.004

Quinney, A. et. al. (2013) Palaeoenvironmental and palaeoclimatic reconstruction of the Upper Cretaceous (late Campanian-early Maastrichtian) Horseshoe Canyon Formation, Alberta, Canada. Palaeogeography, Palaeoclimatology, Palaeoecology 371: pg. 26-44. doi.org/10.1016/j.palaeo.2012.12.009

[electricalstudent]

write a Matlab program to show both sampling and reconstruction using a truncated Gaussian pulse signal

write a Matlab program to show both sampling and reconstruction using a truncated Gaussian pulse signal Continue reading Untitled

[the-oblivious-writer]

A Tragic Attraction

Sam Carpenter x Reader

Drabble

Summary: Most bodies have more to say after death than most have to say during life but you and Sam aren’t most people.

Warning(s): Talks of dead people (reader’s a pathologist and Sam’s a trauma nurse), no dialogue, and no pronouns

Notes: In short, you and Sam match the other’s freak

The shadows of the pathology lab felt familiar, almost comforting. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a clinical glow across stainless steel surfaces where scientific precision met something deeper—something more primal. Your fingers traced the edge of a tissue sample, understanding its secrets the way others might read a lover's diary.

Sam would understand. She always understood.

The bodies that passed through your hands were more than just cases. They were narratives interrupted, stories with jagged edges that didn't quite resolve. You recognized the marks of violence not with horror, but with a clinical curiosity that sometimes unsettled even yourself. Each examination was a careful deconstruction, mapping trauma with the same meticulous attention you applied to your relationship with Sam.

Trauma nurse. Those words held a peculiar resonance. Sam didn't flinch at human fragility—she restored, repaired, reconstructed. Her hands moved with a practiced grace that suggested she understood brokenness intimately. Not just professionally. Personally.

You'd catch her sometimes, staring into middle distance, her expression revealing something beneath the surface. A darkness that mirrored your own, though neither of you had ever directly acknowledged it.

Connection wasn't always about sharing everything. Sometimes it was about understanding the unspoken—the careful choreography of revealing just enough while protecting the most vulnerable parts of oneself.

Your world was one of careful measurements: tissue samples, wound trajectories, the precise mathematics of human vulnerability. Sam's world was similar—bodies on the edge, restoration as an art form. You both understood that healing and harm existed on a spectrum far more nuanced than most could comprehend.

When you looked at each other, there was recognition. Not just of love, but of something deeper. A shared understanding that some darkness could be contained, studied, perhaps even transformed.

Not everyone could live with this kind of intimacy. Not everyone would understand that your love wasn't about conventional tenderness, but about a profound mutual comprehension of human complexity.

The night continued, holding space for all the stories left unspoken.

[starlightvld]

Bait & Switch, pt. 11 - The Epilogue

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7 // Part 8 // Part 9 // Part 10 // Epilogue (End!)

Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."

Call of Duty, soapghost // Hurt/Comfort, MWIII spoilers - Coming soon to AO3 as well!

---

It's been two months since Makarov. Two months of questioning bordering on interrogation, intensive therapy, mountains of paperwork, and near-crippling setbacks. The British military has placed Soap on medical leave while the doctors decide if he's solid enough to serve again, and he's also been required to remain on base as they assess the threat of Makarov's remaining network. His status among the living has been classified, of course, which means he can't contact his family, but at least it's not a hardship to stay close to his friends and the man he loves. And despite the fact that he's tried to kill Ghost on three separate occasions after waking from vivid nightmares, despite the fact that he still occasionally hears whispers telling him to blow up the base and everyone in it, Price, Gaz, and especially Ghost refuse to leave his side.

Soap tries to believe he's worth it.

At least he knows for sure now that he is Soap.

A couple of weeks after returning to Credenhill, Laswell's lab rats came back with results from the journal that, while still incomplete, were divergent enough to confirm a non-matching sample to John MacTavish's DNA. He didn't realize it was weighing on him so heavily until the burden was lifted. Further confirmation came in the form of a raid on Makarov's Siberian base — records of facial reconstruction surgeries on multiple subjects, including Soap's stand in, proved it wasn't the serum alone that changed people's appearance.

But Soap doesn't care about any of that right now.

Because he's currently sitting in a car in front of his parents' house, palms sweating as he stares at the bright red front door. His da always repainted it a different bright color in the spring to brighten up the rainy season. A thousand childhood memories flit through his mind, and he has to take a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

He doesn't technically have approval to reveal himself to his family, but as Ghost said when Soap first brought it up: who's gonna rat him out? Laswell? Not likely. And Soap's family has suffered long enough.

He has suffered long enough.

And when Price cut through the red tape to approve several weeks of leave to "take care of business" with a wink and smile, Soap couldn't get to Scotland fast enough.

"Ready?" Ghost murmurs, hand coming to rest on Soap's thigh.

His body is attempting to shake his bones out of his skin, but the warm, comforting weight steadies him. He grits his teeth, slips on one of Ghost's plain black balaclavas, and nods. 

They step out of the car, and the familiar sound of pea gravel crunching under his boots throws him back to his childhood, his chest twinging at the sepia-toned memories of slipping bike tires and skinned knees. Soap keeps his gaze locked on Ghost's back, too afraid of getting lost in the memories to let his attention wander. They're both wearing civilian clothes, though Ghost is wearing a SAS cap as an identifier along with a black medical mask covering the lower half of his face.

The door opens before Ghost can knock. Soap's chest caves in at the sight of his father filling the doorway. He takes after his da the most — broad, dark-haired and blue-eyed — and Soap scans over every new line and every extra gray hair since he'd last seen him.

He looks older. Worn.

"Mr. MacTavish, you might not remember me, but I'm Lieutenant Simon Riley. I have some news for you. May we come in?"

"Aye. I remember ye. But I cannae understand what yer doin' here. There's no one left for ye tae take away from me now, is there?"

The bitterness in his father's tone is a pill that threatens to choke Soap. He doesn't realize he's stepped forward until Ghost's arm comes up to wrap around his shoulders.

"No one to take away, no. But I did bring someone back."

At the pointed emphasis, his father blinks, and for the first time, he glances at Soap. His eyes widen as blue meets blue.

"It would be best if we come inside, Mr. MacTavish," Ghost says in a gentle tone.

"Aye," his da whispers as he opens the door wide.

They file inside, and Soap can't take it anymore. As soon as the door clicks shut, he rips off the mask.

"'Allo, Da. Surprise?"

He doesn't have a chance to say anything more as his da barrels into him, nearly knocking him over. Tears stream down his face and soak into Soap's shirt, and Soap realizes he's crying too as his Da whispers "my lad, my lad, my wee laddie is home" over and over in his ear.

---

Ghost warned Soap from the beginning not to try to be his old self. And as one of the few people with experience in coming back from the dead, he trusts the advice.

It doesn't make it any easier to follow it, though.

It takes the whole first visit before anyone in the MacTavish household can speak or look at him without bursting into tears. His two sisters Meg and Claire and his brother Paul arrive as soon as possible with spouses and kids in tow. He goes from one embrace to another and then back until even his touch-starved body can't take much more.

The devastated glances at his many scars are even more difficult to handle.

Ghost is a life-saver, gently-but-adamantly telling them all that Soap needs to rest but they'll be back in the morning. His mam wants him to stay at the house, of course, but he just... can't. She seems to understand, even if he can feel her disappointment following him out the door.

"You're doing good, Johnny," Ghost praises in a soft tone as they drive back to their rented place. "It's not easy to set boundaries. But they'll learn. And you'll heal. Eventually, things will equalize."

"Thank ye," he says, sounding tired even to himself.

The words aren't enough — will never be enough compared to everything Ghost has done for him over the past few months. But he'll be damned if he doesn't at least make sure Ghost knows he's grateful.

The soft look he gets in return and the gentle mouth and hands that worship him later that night reassure him that Ghost does, in fact, know.

---

The July wind is downright balmy for the Highlands, only coaxing a hint of red into the apples of Ghost's bare cheeks as they walk hand-in-hand down the path toward their rented cabin. They're about a mile from the nearest village — close enough to walk but far enough to feel cozy and isolated on the cabin property. 

Soap looks over and smiles at his lover. The smile widens to a grin at the way Ghost smiles back, his cheeks taking on an extra flush.

They've been in Scotland for two weeks, and visiting his family has gotten easier with each passing day. They look at his scars less and at him more. And he's acclimatizing to all the touching and affection they need to give to make sure he's really there and alive.

His da hasn't taken kindly to their insistence that they can't talk about what happened. Soap can only promise him that it was the fault of the enemy and not the Task Force.

His mam hasn't taken kindly to the fact that he won't confirm if he and Ghost are an "item" as she calls it, but neither he nor Ghost are ready for that level of MacTavish exuberance. For now, their story is that Ghost has been assigned to watch over Soap due to his trauma recovery.

Which is going... Well... it's going.

They're taking a walk in the first place because Soap stormed out of a video call with his mandated therapist. Ghost followed him with their jackets and his gentle, undemanding presence. After a couple of miles, Soap's anger, mostly at himself, burned out, and he let Ghost slip a hand into his and pull him close.

How could he not smile at that?

"Been thinkin'," Ghost says in that calm, almost monotone voice of his.

It always sets Soap at ease, so it takes him a moment to prompt, "Aye? Does it hurt?"

"Cheeky fucker. Listen up."

"I'm listening."

"Was talkin' to your da—"

"Tha's dangerous."

"You gonna let me talk?"

Soap presses his lips together to hold back a laugh—God, it feels so good to want to laugh again—and nods. "Sorry. Just feeling a bit off kilter."

Ghost squeezes his hand. Soap squeezes back.

"He said he's got a bit of land a few miles north he's been meaning to sell. I've been earnin' money for years with nowt to spend it on. I thought if you wanted, we could buy it and maybe build a place of our own."

Soap jolted to a stop. Their linked hands strained for a moment before Ghost walked back to him.

"The MacTavish farm?" Soap asks in a breathless tone.

"Mmmhmm," Ghost confirms. "Your da says the old house is gone, but the foundation is still sound."

Soap remembers long days on the farm with his granda, almost thirty years ago now, with the nostalgic fondness of childhood. He would play with the animals and "help" his granda around the farm as a wean.

The idea of living there now...

"Are ye sure? It's a bit secluded."

"Even better," Ghost says with a small smile.

"When would we have time to build a whole house, though? S'not like we'll get leave like this again any time soon."

Ghost puts an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close. Soap comes willingly, always grateful for the warm and solid presence of the man he loves. Their lips meet in a gentle kiss, the glide slow and lazy, as if they have all the time in the world. As if—

Soap pulls back suddenly and searches Ghost's bare face. His expression is just as relaxed as the kiss, that small smile still gracing the corners of his lips. 

"Ye want tae leave the military?"

"About to hit my years of service for a full retirement. And..." Ghost's smile drops away as he lifts their clasped hands to press a kiss against Soap's knuckles. His voice is soft and serious as he admits, "I don't wanna risk losin' you again. Don't think I'd survive it, Johnny."

Soap swallows and lets himself sink into the admission. The whole of his career, all he's ever wanted is to use his skills and knowledge to make the world a safer place. Instead, he lost three years of his life and inflicted immeasurable harm while in the hands of the enemy. Even if the psychologists and the brass clear him to go back to work, he's not sure he'll ever trust himself in the field again. With the precision required for their jobs, that's practically a death sentence.

Besides, his family would be glad to have him home for good. And he knows they'll come to love Ghost, too. His mam is halfway there already with all of Ghost's subdued politeness.

The more he thinks about it, the more the idea of getting out — of getting a fresh start — appeals to him, though he supposes that's not really a surprise in the end. After all, the most important thing he ever found in the military would be coming with him to Scotland.

"I wanna be wherever ye are, Simon Riley."

Ghost's smile returns. Their next kiss explodes with joy, and Soap leans into it, letting himself be swept away by the swipe of Ghost's tongue and the hard press of his lips. When they finally pull back, Soap is ready to run back to the cabin, eager to take Ghost apart and be taken apart in return. Ghost holds him back, though, his gaze once more serious.

"I want you to be sure about this. No regrets."

"I think it's a grand idea," Soap says before kissing him again. "Where ye lead, I'll follow, aye Lt?"

Ghost hums as he finally lets go of Soap's shoulders and gently tugs at their clasped hands. "How about we walk together, side by side?"

A slow smile spreads across Soap's face as visions of a quiet life dance in his head — a life without fear of capture or torture and without the risk of losing each other at any moment.

"Aye," he murmurs. "I can do tha'."

He kisses Ghost one last time before letting him pull them back toward the cabin.

There's still a lot of work to do before they can take that final step forward, but until then, he'll cherish the idea of a house all their own where they can live out their days in peace. After years of hell, it's good to know a bit of heaven awaits him. And maybe when they finally have a house of their own, Soap will indulge in those matching rings he's been dreaming about. 

Because it wouldn't be heaven without Ghost by his side.

---

FIN

[mehilaiselokuva]

URALIC LANGUAGES 101

an over-simplified guide for people who have never studied them

from real questions I have received

as I am finally qualified enough to talk about them

WHAT?

A language family spanning (mostly northern) Eurasia. The three biggest languages by amount of speakers are Hungarian, Finnish, and Estonian.

WAIT, WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE ARE MORE?

The Sámi languages might be the most famous of the "smaller" Uralic languages, but have you heard about Karelian? Udmurt? Hill Mari? Nganasan? There are 38~42 Uralic languages that we know as of today.

WHERE ARE THESE OTHER LANGUAGES?

(image description: the locations of the Uralic languages on a map. The Uralic languages span from modern-day Hungary, the northern Nordics, and northern Russia.)

(CONTINUE READING UNDER THE CUT)

BUT I THOUGHT HUNGARIAN WAS ALTAIC / RELATED TO TURKISH?

Modern science links Hungarian to the Uralic languages. The links to "Altaic" (many on the field don't believe in the Altaic theory) and the Turkic languages are speculative.

ARE THEY RELATED TO ENGLISH?

No, they are a separate language family. English is more related to Russian than Finnish or Hungarian.

HOW DID THEY END UP WHERE THEY ARE NOW?

We still haven't figured this out, but the Uralic peoples' proposed homeland is often located north of Central Asia.

HOW DO THEY KNOW THESE ARE RELATED TO EACH OTHER?

Linguistics uses many different ways to find out relations between languages. With the Uralic languages, there are many cognates (=words that come from the same root word) that exist in most languages. These words can be used to reconstruct Proto-Uralic, a hypothesis of what the original Uralic people might have spoken.

Examples:

"tongue, (language)" (Finnish) kieli, (Estonian) keel, (Veps) kel', (N.Sami) giella, (Erzya) keľ, (Beserman) kål, (E.Khanty) köł, (Mator) kašte

"two" (Finnish) kaksi, (Courland Livonian) kakš, (Ter Sami) kïkktʼ, (Moksha) kafta, (Mari) kok, (Komi-Zyrian) kyk

HOW DO THESE LANGUAGES SOUND LIKE?

Here are selected samples of text from a few different branches of Uralic languages:

NGANASAN: Mənə ńinti̮ˀam ńiluməni̮nə inśüδüˀ, mi̮əďindi̮ˀam hüətə. (I never sledge in my life, I always go by foot.) SELKUP: Nılʲčik qumɨp mee qontɨrämɨt čääŋka. (We have not seen such a person.) BESERMAN: Picʼi pilə̑ sʼed jə̑ rcʼijenezlə̑. (To the little boy with black hair.) MANSI: Mənə kńigaðəmtu miśiəm. (I gave him/her the book.) NORTH SÁMI: Sáhpán njuikii girjji duohken. (The mouse jumped from behind the book.) TVER KARELIAN: Mie hüviin zdaičin igzamenati miun, na felÍdšerku pandih. (I passed the exams well and I was put [to work] as a nurse.)

If you have more questions about these languages, feel free to ask me! I am no professor but am majoring in this at the university so I know more than the average person hehe

[alexanderwales]

Here's my pitch for a dumbass CSI scene:

Guy: So we don't know what he was writing? We can't enhance it?

Tech: No, it was never on camera, and there are no reflection to pull from.

Guy: So we're stuck?

Tech: Well ...

Guy: Come on, well what?

Tech: We don't have an angle on the paper he was writing on, but we do have the audio of him writing it.

Guy: What? How does that help?

Tech: We have the sounds of him writing.

Guy: (confused look)

Tech: Think about it this way, you write something down on a piece of paper with a pencil, it makes a noise, right? That's the noise of the pencil. So what we do is (types on computer) we take the audio sample and break up the waveform into distinct chunks. Now, each of those represents a distinct stroke of the pencil.

Guy: You said stroke.

Tech (ignoring him): So from there, we just need to reconstruct the strokes into letters, which we can do making a catalog of adjacent strokes that we'd expect. Marking a 'y' on the paper sounds different than marking a 'p', right? Now, normally this would be a problem, but we have a handwriting sample from him, and we can enter it into this stroke-numbering algorithm, and -- (types some more)

Guy: Holy hell, you're a miracle worker.

[raintemper]

More of them,, but they’re robot cats this time lol… I’ll draw Moon and Pebbles soon, and some others maybe

I’ll do anything but actually draw them as Iterators apparently

Don't look too close, Ive never drawn such mech heavy designs until now...I don't know what I'm doing. I got a little more confident with NSH but I was absolutely just going blind with Suns. It took me 2 days to figure out how I wanted to start with Suns...

Some background info dump of them for this? Au??? Idk yet lol, under the line if interested

Erhm. Set in a post apocalyptic world, much like how Rain World actually is. Alternative timeline where iterators don't exist?? Failed??? The ancients have not yet ascended?? Maybe??? Idk the details are still blurry to me also 😞. They are in a high security lab facility ground type setting. (Perhaps just an excuse for me to draw apocalyptic higher tech designs????) It is cold outside, some failed iterator structures still produce rain, and occasionally the air may become toxic.

Suns is an offensive/surveillance model meant for fighting and protecting as one can probably tell with his tail blades. It folds back in an attempt to make it less dangerous and also functions as a way to swiftly cut into something if needed. They are the only one of them (excluding Pebbles for special reasons) to be equipped with a mouth hiding sharp teeth and/or lasers for even more attack prowess. They are also still huge. Sorry I run with the huge Suns agenda. He is a tower. Easily wrestles most lizards. I still like the idea of fluffy Suns, so he still has it as a robot cat. Some insulation for the colder outside temperatures, he's outside a lot. Suns is not built to be friendly. Mostly acts and behaves as an unassuming robot early on.

Moon and Suns were the first properly functional/successful projects. They were edited and reconstructed a lot from beginning to now. Maybe they were both originally purposed as therapeutic companions.

The overseers are little drones that fly around. They still project things and are still sometimes unhelpful with directions, follow at your own discretion. The lizards and predators mostly ignore them as well. They do recognize the different drones with time. They've learned to recognize NSH's drones, which sometimes might contain some edible collected material, so they do occasionally try to eat those. And most of the smaller predators try to leave the area if they see Suns' drones.

NSH is closer to a pet model. He is made for reconnaissance and scouting. He is still tiny because I like him tiny, he's adorable. NSH has three pairs of legs for rough terrain traversal, and is a fast little guy. He helps in collecting samples and materials from the outside, marking maps, as well as finding viable safe spots/shelters. He has no mouth but has a component in his chest where he can collect small samples, as well as storage units in his drones to store excess. He has small vials of decontaminate fluid to clean any samples he collects, they have to be refilled occasionally. Also, as mentioned in the art, he can open his neck and chest area and just swallow bigger samples. He can even keep them alive inside him if he wants to. Otherwise, they're killed and turned into power for him to use. Sometimes he finds lizards with cool patterns and tries to swallow them to show Suns, who oftentimes will kill it afterwards.

He was the experimental project for emotive programming alongside Unparalleled Innocence/UI, hence his fully functioning screen as a face. As opposed to Suns, who functions more as a security camera. I think NSH and UI are both similar in the more playful/chaotic personalities, so I decided for them to be created around the same time and put into the same testing. Overtime, UI did not respond very well and was repurposed (She's not gone). Emotive sentience was programmed into NSH first and then tested on Moon. It was generally successful in both cases. NSH really enjoys messing around and can even imitate his fellow iterators faces. It works really well temporarily scaring predators using Suns' color markings lol.

Because NSH and Suns are both outside often, they have solar panel components in their design for extra power. The two of them are very close because of their shared experiences. NSH likes the outside more, Suns has little opinions of it. They worry about NSH because he's so small and curious and occasionally brings back dangerous things.

Suns is a little bit of an outcast here because of his difference in role. He is mostly left to roam and function on his own/not approached as he carries his role. The others are research focused and Suns is more obviously purposed for battle, so there is a little bit of a divide. Not to mention, he technically does not have the programming for emotions that Moon and NSH have. Suns does learn on his own though :D, some of it is learned from NSH too

I will leave it here for now. I will probably talk more about Moon and Pebbles for their own post. And the others as well. I'm still thinking about their designs though.

Erhm hopefully this makes sense somewhat and was at least a fun read.