#between-group variability

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Stages of Decomposition

The decomposition process occurs in several stages following death:

Pallor mortis

Algor mortis

Rigor mortis

Cadaveric spasm

Lividity

Putrefaction

Decomposition

Skeletonization

PALLOR MORTIS

The first stage of death.

Occurs once blood stops circulating in the body.

The cessation of an oxygenated blood flow to the capillaries beneath the skin causes the deceased to pale in appearance.

In non-Caucasians, the pallor may appear to develop an unusual hue; the skin will lose any natural lustre and appears more waxen.

Occurs quite quickly, within about 10 minutes after death.

ALGOR MORTIS

The cooling of the body after death.

The cooling process will be influenced by many factors, including the deceased’s clothing, or whether they are covered with bed linen such as blankets or duvets.

The body will typically cool to the ambient room temperature, but this alters if there is heating in the room or if there is a constant draught cooling the body.

RIGOR MORTIS

Can occur between 2 and 6 hours after death.

Factors including temperature can greatly affect this.

Caused by the muscles partially contracting, and the lack of aerobic respiration means that the muscles cannot relax from the contraction, leaving them tense, subsequently resulting in the stiffening we associate with rigor mortis.

This stage typically begins in the head, starting with the eyes, mouth, jaw and neck, and progresses right through the body.

The process is concluded approximately 12 hours after death (although, again, certain variables may occur) and lasts between 24 and 72 hours depending on circumstances.

Contrary to popular belief, rigor mortis is not a permanent state and is in fact reversed, with the muscles relaxing in the same order in which they initially stiffened.

The reversing process also takes approximately 12 hours, when the body returns to its un-contracted state.

It is possible to ‘break’ rigor mortis by manipulating and flexing the limbs. This is usually done by undertakers, pathologists or crime scene investigators who are attempting to examine or move a body – or by a murderer trying to hide their victim in the closet or the boot of a car.

CADAVERIC SPASM

A phenomenon that can be misinterpreted as rigor mortis.

The instantaneous stiffening of the body (most commonly the hands) following a traumatic death.

Unlike rigor mortis, the stiffening of the affected limb is permanent and is not reversed, causing the deceased to maintain the rigidity until such time as putrefaction causes breakdown of the particular muscle group.

Examples:

The deceased following an air crash were later discovered still clutching their seatbelts or arm rests in a final, desperate act of survival.

In a drowning case, the victim was discovered with grass from the riverbank still grasped in their hand.

Perhaps the most famous case of cadaveric spasm involves the rock band Nirvana’s lead singer, Kurt Cobain. Cobain reportedly committed suicide in April 1994. His body was discovered a few days after his death with a shotgun wound to the head, and tests revealed he had large traces of heroin in his system. He was reportedly discovered still clutching the gun in his left hand, due to cadaveric spasm. However, a great deal of controversy surrounds the veracity of this latter assumption, and indeed the cause of his death, with many people insisting and attempting to prove that he died as the result of foul play rather than suicide.

LIVIDITY

Also known as livor mortis, hypostasis, or suggillation.

Once blood can no longer circulate, it will gravitate towards the lowest point of the body.

Example: A supine body will display pinkish/purple patches of discoloration where the blood has settled in the back and along the thighs.

Occurs about 30 minutes after death, but will not necessarily be noticeable until at least 2 hours afterwards as the pooling process intensifies and becomes visible, finally peaking up to between 8 and 12 hours later.

Once it is complete, the lividity process cannot be reversed.

Therefore a body discovered lying on its side, but with staining evident in the back and shoulders, must have been moved at some point from what would have been a supine position at the time of death.

It is worth noting that if the body has had contact with the floor, a wall or other solid surface, lividity would not occur at the points of contact as the pressure would not allow the blood to seep through the capillaries and pool. The specific area of pressure will be the same colour as the rest of the body and a pattern of contact may well be evident.

PUTREFACTION

Derives from the Latin putrefacere, meaning ‘to make rotten’.

The body becomes rotten through the process known as autolysis, which is the liquefaction of bodily tissue and organs and the breakdown of proteins within the body due to the increased presence of bacteria.

The first visible sign is the discoloration of the skin in the area of the abdomen.

Bacteria released from the intestine cause the body to become bloated with a mixture of gases; over time these will leak out, and the smell will intensify to unbearable proportions.

Typically, this will attract flies that will lay eggs, which develop into maggots.

Bloating is most evident in the stomach area, genitals and face, which can become unrecognizable as the tongue and eyes are forced to protrude due to the pressure of the build-up of gases in the body.

At this stage, the body will also begin to lose hair.

The organs typically decompose in a particular order: starting with the stomach, followed by the intestines, heart, liver, brain, lungs, kidney, bladder and uterus/prostate.

Once all the gases have escaped the skin begins to turn black: this stage is called ‘black putrefaction’.

As with all the other stages of death so far, the rate of putrefaction depends on temperature and location. A body exposed to the air above ground will decompose more quickly than a body left in water or buried below ground.

During putrefaction, blistering of the skin and fermentation can also occur:

Fermentation - a type of mould that will grow on the surface of the body. This mould appears white, and is slimy or furry in texture. It also releases a very strong, unpleasant, cheesy smell.

As the putrefaction process comes to an end, fly and maggot activity will become less, which leads to the next stage.

DECOMPOSITION

The body is an organic substance comprising organisms that can be broken down by chemical decomposition.

If the body is outside, any remains that have not been scavenged or consumed by maggots will liquefy and seep into the surrounding soil.

Thus when the body decomposes it is effectively recycled and returned to nature.

SKELETONIZATION

The final stage of death is known as ‘dry decay’, when the cadaver has all but dried out: the soft tissue has all gone and only the skeleton remains.

If the cadaver is outside, not only is it exposed to the elements but it also becomes food for scavengers such as rats, crows or foxes.

As the remains are scavenged, the body parts become dispersed so it is not unusual to find skeletal remains some distance from where the body lay at the point of death.

The way in which skeletal remains are scattered in such cases is of interest to archaeologists, and is referred to as taphonomy.

Where a body has lain undiscovered at home for a period of time it has also been known for family pets, typically dogs, to feed on the body. The natural instinct of a pet is to attempt to arouse the deceased by licking them, but once it gets hungry, its survival instinct will take over and it will consider the body as little more than carrion: it will act with the same natural instinct as a scavenger in the wild, which will feed on any corpse, be it animal or human, if it is starving.

Obviously the number of pets, the body mass of the deceased and the time lapse before the body is discovered will influence to what extent it has been devoured.

For further research on the stages of decomposition and the factors that affect it, look up body farms. These are medical facilities where bodies are donated for research purposes so scientists can specifically observe the decomposition process. However, be aware that some of the images are quite graphic.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Autopsy ⚜ Pain & Violence ⚜ Injuries Bereavement ⚜ Death & Sacrifice ⚜ Cheating Death ⚜ Death Conceptions

Writing Resources PDFs

[kquil]

Request: Remus Lupin x ravenclaw!girlfriend!reader

Plot: Just them appropriately loving on each other, chaste kisses on shoulders and wrists while sitting in positions that may not look innocent, but it doesn’t go farther them that?

I don’t usually ask for bland ones, but some peace would be nice.

SIMPLE LOVING

LENGTH : 0.7k

TAGS : fluff ; remus being smitten ; feeding each other ; couple goals ; tickle fight

NAVI.

“How was Herbology, Rem?” you ask, sitting between his outstretched legs under the willow tree as it cried over the black lake. It was lunch break and because it was one of the lovelier days outside, you and your boyfriend decided to have lunch picnic-style along with the rest of his friends. Your group were also free to join, as always, and sat not too far from where you were comfortably melded against Remus, who lent back against the willow tree’s trunk. The both of you were cradled by its roots and shaded relatively well by its mourning silhouette. It was a perfect day. 

“It wasn’t bad,” Remus mumbles against your hair before pressing a brief kiss against your temple. Straining your neck only slightly, you share a smile before relaxing into one another once more, “how was Charms?” he asks, wrapping one arm around your torso as his other hand extends out to your right and pulls the small plate of lunch you brought out from the dinner hall. Remus had done the same but hadn’t touched his lunch yet. He prioritises yours and begins to feed unprompted. Caring for you comes so easily to him. 

In between mouthfuls, you reiterate the happenings of your Charms class. Remus didn’t care if the conversation got boring or had extended pauses, he merely enjoyed being around you. He also really enjoyed tending to your needs in small gestures. People often saw him carrying your heavy books to classes, helping you with your assignments and carrying spare hair ties on his wrists for you. Boys didn’t appreciate his setting of the standard and girls envied you for having such a considerate lover. 

“The flick and swish always gets me. There’s no standard for it so the outcome is always variable. The others made it look easy but I’ll show them and master that charm soon enough,” Remus smiles at your attitude and rids your pout by offering another spoonful. He loves listening to you talk. He loved hearing the sound of your voice; it was one of the most beautiful sounds he could hear. Whenever you got to talking, he always made sure to be completely silent and gave your words special attention. Oftentimes, whenever he’s reading his academic books for references and pre-reading relevant material before classes, your voice would be the one reading out the verses in his mind — that way, learning became a little more enjoyable and he got through the material much quicker. You finish up your plate of lunch soon enough and lovingly turn your face to kiss his inner wrist in gratitude.  

“Your turn, Rem,” you giggle and reach for his neglected plate of lunch. Smiling warmly, Remus observes as you turn in place before moving to straddle his lap. Naturally, his large hands move to hold your hips and you begin to feed him bite after bite.

In the background, your friends gape obnoxiously at the affectionate display, some burn bright red in the cheeks and others hurriedly look away. It was incredibly easy to mistake your activities for something much as the willow tree’s roots cradled your forms and obscured your lower halves. However, your innocent feeding of his lunch was all the indication they needed to know you weren’t doing anything beyond that. 

“You’re a mischievous little minx, you know that, darling?” Remus muses, licking his lips as you set down his finished plate. 

“Hmm?” you tilt your head innocently and lean down for a kiss, licking away the remnants of his lunch from his lips as you pull away, “What do you mean, Rem? I don’t know what you’re talking about,”

He laughs at your playful display and carefully throws you off him, to the grass. As you lay on your back, giggling sweetly, he leans over your form and captures your lips in a heated kiss. A stray hand traces the curves of your waist and hips as the other keeps him hovering above you. He never goes too far with intimacy, especially in such a public place but you savour the scandalised gasps of your distant friends. Your handsome boyfriend pulls away with a hidden smirk and buries his face into your neck, kissing your sensitive skin and tickling the area with his nose. 

“Remus!” you squeal in delight, laughing as brightly as the sun overhead. His wondering hand and the loving kisses to your neck and shoulder had quickly divulged into a tickle attack. Onlookers stare on, envious of such a loving and harmonious relationship. 

“Lily, can we—”

“No!”    

NAVI.

A/N : i'm so sorry it took me such a long time to get to this request, my love, i was in a rut with requests for such a long time and i kept overthinking them all. I'm afraid i don't make any explicit mentions of reader being a ravenclaw but it's still fluffy and cute and perfectly sweet for you x

[cherryredstars]

Ok so i have this fic idea where reader and mig are from different universes and reader is a scientist and one time mig and her get drunk and start talking about the multiverse and suddenly they are on the topic of what would happen if people from different universes had a baby together. (You see where i am going with this...) they end up drunkenly fucking and saying it's for "research" because they can't admit to themselves that they are in love. If this request is too complicated feel free to ignore. Thank you in advance cherry!! I hope u have a marvelous new year!! 💕

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Penetrative Sex, Mentions of Oral Sex, Mentions of Animal Testing (for science), Breeding Kink

A/N: Thank you, love! I hope you're well!!!

You know there is a process.

And you know this isn't it.

There are supposed to be hypotheses and written out procedures. Dependent and independent variables, a control group. Fucking hell, you should be experimenting on fucking mice. You should be limiting the margins of error, should be going with the most direct, straightforward pursuit for results.

And yet...

You don't stop Miguel when he pushes you back onto the couch. You don't pause or even really think when he's pushing your pants down your legs, placing kisses along the skin as he goes. You lift your hips to aid him when his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, shivering when his warm breath fans over your exposed sex. If this experiment was in any sense proper, you would get straight into it. Cut out all the unneeded steps. But you can't help but pull his head closer to your aching core, craving the way his warm tongue laps at you. If you weren't already drunk, you would be drunk on this feeling alone.

But god, nothing has even been more satisfying than doing the work. You know the data would be void in a real experiment. The trials bleeding into each other hardly make for adequate data, but the way you beg him for more is involuntary. It feels too good, to have him desperately thrusting into you. It makes your mind numb, and everything you know about your life's passion is erased. The only thing that fills your head is the words Miguel grunts into you ears, promises of fucking a baby into you. Vows to make you bloated with load after load of his cum. That all it'll take is one of his orgasms to make it happen.

You guess that is a hypothesis in itself: Miguel O'Hara can get you pregnant with just one orgasm.

Too bad he's too desperate to find out if that hypothesis is correct. Because he doesn't stop at one. No, he keeps going. One after the other with no breaks in-between. But you guess that's to be expected, he is a man of science himself. A passionate one at that.

He's almost crazed in the way he overstimulates himself. Sweat beading in his hairline as he grunts down at you, watching the way he creamy cock slides in and out of your abused pussy. You've lost count of how many times you've come alone, but you know based on the way your body shivers and jolts that it's far more than you've ever had before. It's almost painful now, the way your next orgasm rips through you and shatters your soul again. You let out strangled breaths as you fight through the aftershocks and the continued pleasure of Miguel's cock slamming against your cervix. You swear you black out before he finally stops, your eyes and mind groggy as he pulls your hips flush against his as he spills into you.

You can feel him trying to push deeper into you as he pants ruggedly, his cock twitching against your walls until he's milked dry. Even when he's done filling you, he stays connected. He collapses onto you, breathing in the linger smell of sweat and sex on your skin.

"Got to make sure it takes."

Well, does the process really matter if you get the desired result anyway?

Part 2 Part 3

[beakers-and-telescopes]

OKAY THIS ARTICLE IS SO COOL

I'm going to try to explain this in a comprehensible way, because honestly it's wild to wrap your head around even for me, who has a degree in chemistry. But bear with me.

Okay, so. Solids, right? They are rigid enough to hold their shape, but aside from that they are quite variable. Some solids are hard, others are soft, some are brittle or rubbery or malleable. So what determines these qualities? And what creates the rigid structure that makes a solid a solid? Most people would tell you that it depends on the atoms that make up the solid, and the bonds between those atoms. Rubber is flexible because of the polymers it's made of, steel is strong because of the metallic bonds between its atoms. And this applies to all solids. Or so everybody thought.

A paper published in the journal Nature has discovered that biological materials such as wood, fungi, cotton, hair, and anything else that can respond to the humidity in the environment may be composed of a new class of matter dubbed "hydration solids". That's because the rigidity and solidness of the materials doesn't actually come from the atoms and bonds, but from the water molecules hanging out in between.

So basically, try to imagine a hydration solid as a bunch of balloons taped together to form a giant cube, with the actual balloon part representing the atoms and bonds of the material, and the air filling the balloons as the water in the pores of the solid. What makes this "solid" cube shaped? It's not because of the rubber at all, but the air inside. If you took out all the air from inside the balloons, the structure wouldn't be able to hold its shape.

Ozger Sahin, one of the paper's authors, said

"When we take a walk in the woods, we think of the trees and plants around us as typical solids. This research shows that we should really think of those trees and plants as towers of water holding sugars and proteins in place. It's really water's world."

And the great thing about this discovery (and one of the reasons to support its validity) is that thinking about hydration solids this way makes the math so so so much easier. Before this, if you wanted to calculate how water interacts with organic matter, you would need advanced computer simulations. Now, there are simple equations that you can do in your head. Being able to calculate a material's properties using basic physics principles is a really big deal, because so far we have only been able to do that with gasses (PV=nRT anyone?). Expanding that to a group that encompasses 50-90% of the biological world around us is huge.

[dammit-tazmuir]

TLT Theory: Pyrrha was the Necromancer

No get back here, hear me out. I'm not saying Gideon didn't become one as a Lyctor. But I've been noticing a lot of things adding up weird here...

In Ch6 of HtN, when preparing for the first trip through the River, they call it Pyrrha's trial.

Much later, when Pyrrha is mad at Palamedes for the soul fuckery he and Camilla are doing, she refers to it as one they designed together, but that doesn't negate Mercy calling it Pyrrha's first and foremost. And...

She's worried about Camilla's brain, and okay, sure, they only have Camilla's body. But with Cris and Mercy, it was Cris getting cracked open. With Harrow and Gideon 2, it was always Gideon in danger, not Harrow. And with Gideon 1 and Pyrrha, it was Gideon's skull, Gideon's brain, getting the testing done. No mention of the same kind of testing or Mercy or Pyrrha. The principle of it is the necromancer's consciousness being overlaid onto the cavalier's brain, right?

But okay, maybe Pyrrha just doesn't mention herself, and Gideon's "a control variable" to compare herself to? But there's more.

Pyrrha fights with guns, prefers them. Gideon fought with not just a sword but a whole ass massive spear for an offhand, and has easily more physical prowess than any other necromancer we've ever seen. His stomach is still desiccated in typical necromancer fashion, he's dehydrated and not a scrap of fair fat on him, but he's a wall of muscle and sinew. Yes he looks "like an idiot's construct", probably because John regrew him from an arm when he was still getting the hang of using that level of power, but he's distinctly not built like other necromancers. If he wasn't a necromancer prior to being a Lyctor, his build might make more sense. Moreover, we've seen other cavaliers turned into sort-of-constructs, with both Protesilaus and Kiriona.

I also want you to look at the Saint of Duty and tell me that man isn't the walking essence of what it means to be a Cavalier.

And he rarely uses necromancy. He can travel in the River, and he drains thanergy, but he never really uses theorems or sets up wards. His necromancy is used pretty exclusively in passive ways or to remove obstacles between himself and his weapons. But Pyrrha is extremely knowledgeable about all kinds of necromancy. She tells Harrow fresh thalergy is harder to drain. She sees Ianthe's brilliantly inventive combination of wards creatively mimicking the effect of Mercy's trial and can accurately tell what they're going to do, as well as how to break them. Among other things. She also says she walked the Eightfold. Maybe that means being led willingly as a cav, but what if she was in control of the process?

With Harrow, Gideon was constantly in and out of awareness, watching from Harrow's subconscious, things that Harrow was fully conscious for. Palamedes doesn't have that with Camilla, and both of them being conscious is rare and dangerous, as detailed above. Pal and Pyrrha are frequently compared with their situations. How did Cam and Pal work out how to do the switcheroo, especially while Pal had extremely limited ability to move or perceive? How did they work out a safe time limit before too much irreparable damage was done? Could they have had guidance from someone who's done it? Done it with a necromancer's knowledge, letting him know where he can safely go under in the brain, how to come out at will, what to watch out for?

On a separate note:

Lyctor names are sacred, but the Houses were founded before Lyctorhood was achieved. Anastasia did not become a Lyctor, so her name was not removed from history, and became common in her House. Judith and Marta are part of the Dve Territorials, and while that doesn't prove anything or could even be evidence against, I feel like it would make sense to have named prestigious military groups after the House's "main" Founder, before there were Saints and the decision to erase the Saints' names.

On a more meta level, I think it would be weird to have "their names were meant to be forgotten", history knowing jack shit about the cavaliers of old, and even emphasis on the Lyctors forgetting each others' House names, only to have a cavalier's House name in active use somewhere, if that information wasn't supposed to be serving a narrative purpose. If we weren't meant to question why.

"But they call her his cavalier. She calls him her necromancer."

Sure. And maybe that's straightforward; this is a theory, I could be wrong. But switching titles after Lyctorhood doesn't sound too out of the question to me. What's a bit of revisionist history in TLT? John knows where memory lives in the brain, and on Pyrrha's end, at least after Lyctorhood Gideon was the necromancer, after all.

(Edit to add: Augustine calls attention to how astonishing it is that Pyrrha never divided opinions, that not one of them has ever had a single bad thing to say about her. She's great but we've met her. We've seen John rant about her calling out his bullshit, in the dream. Not one bit of annoyance or criticism, from anyone? I'm just saying, if Something Happened that led to John needing to tweak memories, making everyone remember her nothing but fondly feels plausible.)

"So why can't she do necromancy when she's in control?"

"He took more from me than got taken from you" feels like explanation enough to me. He got her aptitude and more. She's a partial soul. If anything, she could even still has an ounce of it, to retain the body's healing capabilities. If Gideon was fully giddy-gone and the soul that was left had zero aptitude, what would the furnace be burning? But if Gideon's consciousness is dead and what's left of his soul is in the furnace with a (partial) necromancer at the helm, well, that's not far off from Lyctorhood working as intended.

"Why though?"

And there's the part that gets really tricky but interesting. My best guess short answer is, one of them was dying, and it was an act of desperation.

Maybe Pyrrha was dying and so brutalized her body wouldn't have healed right even becoming a Lyctor, but given what they're like and the Cam/Pal parallels, I feel like an even more likely answer was that Gideon was dying. Cris and Alfred had already put Mercy and Augustine in that position, and they took their souls to preserve something, but Pyrrha would have seen how well that worked, assuming the third ascension wasn't immediately after the first two. So perhaps in her own desperation, with endless adoration for the man so willing to burn for what he believed, she said no. You don't get to throw your life away. If you're going to keep throwing yourself on things, I will make sure you can survive it and keep surviving it, even if it kills me instead. And then walked the path in reverse, pinning her own soul to his instead of pulling his into her.

I've seen a post around here pointing out how when Pyrrha tells Nona about her first tantrum, she's laughing with her mouth but not her eyes, and it looks like it reminds her of something her brain doesn't want to bring back, and the post proposes maybe Alecto killed Pyrrha. And I do think there's a solid possibility it was Alecto's tantrum that mortally wounded whichever (or maybe even both!) of them and prompted them to ascend. If Pyrrha didn't blame Varun for Gideon recently, I doubt she'd hold it against Alecto either.

Either way, wouldn't something like that more than earn the title of Duty? Wouldn't it be beautiful that they both fit the title if both had in ways been the cavalier? Wouldn't it be fitting to allow the name Dve to stand in the military as a monument to such a woman?

I know this might still be a long shot, but I definitely think there's enough little things sprinkled around to at least to warrant some solid suspicion. And it honestly would explain a lot.

[gowerhardcastle]

Seven Hard-Won Tips Specifically for Writing Interactive Fiction

This is pretty fun, putting together these lists of writing tips. Today's list is explicitly about interactive fiction.

The trick to writing great interactive fiction that anticipates, foreshadows, introduces themes early, and has interesting choices that set up later events is to *go back and rewrite the earlier chapters* after you’ve written later chapters.  That way you look like a genius who can plot things out way in advance, but in fact, you just went back and made it seem that way.  Good writing is recursive, and that’s just how it is.

I start with an outline, then I write a code skeleton, leaving blanks for the prose, and then go in and fill in the prose.  This way I’m either in code-brain or prose-writing-brain.  I don’t like switching between the two.  Then, after than phase, I go back one more time and I do the callbacks—you know.  Might the main character be wearing a feathered boa in this scene?  Here’s some custom text.  Might the main character be limping?  Here’s some more custom text.  If you do that after you write the prose, you’ll have the leisure to think of anything fun and specific you can use. 

Callbacks tell players that their choices are unique, important, memorable, and valued by the writer.  It tell them that their choices have led them down their own particular path that the writer is rewarding with unique prose.  It doesn’t have to have a stat effect or create a new fork in the narrative.  Great prose is the reward.

Find an group of alpha readers to read your work early and often and then shut up while they read it and just listen to what they say and comment.  You must resist the urge to explain because you won’t be there at everyone’s house when they are playing your game or reading your narrative.

Make rules for yourself about how you are going to name your variables.  Don’t do what I did, with a horrible blend of sometimes calling a chracter “gil” in the variables and sometimes “gilberto”; sometimes “fitz” and sometimes “fitzie”; sometimes “metvyv” and sometimes “met_tabby”—ugh!  This is self-torture.  Don’t do what I did.

Keep your initial creation of variables super organized.  Write comments in there explaining what these variables are and when you might need them.  I comment most when I am creating variables.  You might create a variable in chapter one called “mustardallergy” that you don’t need until chapter eight, so write a comment that says “variables for chapter eight” and stick that “mustardallergy” variable under it.  I didn’t do this for my first games, and I regretted it. 

Use generic variables and make your life easy.  If you are writing a scene at the racetrack, just make a “xrace” modifier and add and subtract to it willy-nilly to represent just general ups and downs of fortune.  Stub your toe?  -5 xrace.  Wear a fine hat?  +8 xrace.  Throw around some money at the bar?  +12 xrace!  Eat some bad shellfish?  -15 xrace! Then add xrace to every test.  It’s a way of tracking just the ups and downs of fortune.  You can omit it when it doesn’t make sense, but it’s just a great way to make tests and rewards and penalties cumulatively meaningful without having to have a billion variables tracking every last *reason* for the rewards and penalties.

Discover more mini-essays about writing interactive fiction, writing in general, and the process of writing the forthcoming Jolly Good series below.

[andy-wm]

Moving out, Moving in

Mission accomplished by sleight of hand?

This is just a collection of thoughts so it's probably full of holes, but it seems to me that Jimin and Jungkook always have a plan in motion.

I guess it's not surprising since they live and work in a fast paced environment in which most of their waking hours are scheduled to the max. It's not just the day to day that's planned down to the wire, their albums and tours are planned years ahead of time and coordinated with military precision.

Their lives run on plans and schedules

Random anecdote: Someone I was friendly with a couple of years ago worked on the BTS Samsung ads as a translator. She described how she was expected to be awake and ready to take calls and edit copy at literally any time of the day or night. Hybe does not sleep. There are staff all over the world, working around the clock. Time is money.

We've all heard these stories, right? So we can imagine the project/event management going on there. The place must run like a Swiss watch.

When you live like that it becomes your normal, so i have no doubt ALL the members are used to planning out their lives.

Also, when you have hardly any free time you use it carefully. If you want to do anything you have to plan and schedule it.

I'm not suggesting they project manage all these things on their own. What's the point of having an endless well of money if you can't hire people to help you make life happen the way you want it to. But I am saying they would know that if they don't plan it, it aint gonna happen.

So, back to Jikook and their plans.

Solo albums

Despite how different their solo album were in terms of musical styles and themes, their promotional materials were astonishingly similar. From colour palettes to photo styling to identical outfits they were far too similar for it to be a coincidence. In fact, if those albums had been people walking down a street they would have been couple dressing without a doubt.

Are You Sure

The travel adventures they squeezed in between deadlines and performances must have been carefully orchestrated too.

Home sweet home

And let's not forget Jungkook finding time to design, plan, and execute the building of the Itaewon house in between everything else.

They plan down to the fine details. And they also play the long game. It's how they're used to operating.

Keep that in mind as i move onto the next thought. This is the interesting bit...

Military service.

It's a reality for every able bodied man in Korea. For a group like BTS it's another thing that would have been carefully considered. Enlistment timing, yes, and every other variable they could choose: locations, divisions, roles etc.

They would have been thinking about their options for MS from the time they were eligible to enlist. Jungkook would have been acutely aware that his tattoos would prevent him from doing anything in security. But that didn't prevent him from inking up his whole arm.

So, we can assume other plans or priorities for MS existed even then.

And those plans included a major decision:

Companion enlistment.

They would have thought carefully about this, having heard all the horror stories of how it can go wrong.

Besides that, despite being dismissed as no biggie by most of the fandom it is extremely rare for idols to enlist as companions.

I did the research. There might be one other occurrence of this. Enlisting at the same time does happen (still rare) but as companions... almost never.

It meant their enlistment was even more newsworthy. They must have known it would highlight their closeness. Was that a conscious choice too?

Maybe.

Everyone, not just jikookers, knows they're inseparable now. It's proof for those who needed it that their relationship is genuine and not fan service.

If they were concerned about how their relationship was perceived i guess thats a bonus. But they coukd have just been more visible in Seoul.

So I'm still asking myself... why?

Why take the chance? Why risk the relationship? So many couples just have to deal with the MS separation, it's simply a fact of life. All the other members had to go through it alone. Jimin and Jungkook could have done it too. They spent months barely seeing each other when they were on solo schedules.

And I'm absolutely not denying they most likely wanted to be together if at all possible. But besides that, what could be gained? Its a long game, remember... so what could be their ultimate goal here?

Where will this lead?

What comes next for them?

Logically the biggest thing for any of the members one they've completed their MS, is their adult life. On a personal level it's the next step.

Nobody is naive enough to think these guys are still going to play boyfriend to the fandom. Not when Hobi our sunshine, who wouldn't even show his armpit on camera, describes the Sweet Dreams lyrics as BEST HOT SEX and then adds 'am I right?' with a smirk because he knows ARMY are all adults too (or that's the part of the fandom he's choosing to engage with).

There's going to be an expectation - or for some ARMYs a resigned acceptance - that the members will actively date, maybe settle down and have a long term partner or a family. But it's only acceptable for those who are going to date or marry a woman. It'd have to be an unknown and discreet or better yet totally secret lover if they're with any other gender.

Which brings us back to Jikook

So what might adult life look like for our lovebirds?

<<content warning: unbridled speculation>>

As a person who believes they're in a long term intimate relationship with plans for a future together, i think they'd want to share a home.

Could they share a home & future?

Imagine the absolute pandemonium that would ensue if Jimin and Jungkook suddenly paired up and set up house together. It would be wild. Possibly the most scandalous thing to ever happen to kpop. The press would roast them, carve them up, and serve the to the nation for dinner. Every conservative right wing mouthpiece would have an opinion on their morality. It would be hideous.

Unless....

Unless they didn't need to suddenly pair up because they were already living together!

Like maybe... as companion enlisted soldiers. And not just any ordinary soldiers but cream of the crop, highly commended, much adored soldiers. Soldiers who have done their nation proud together.

By enlisting together they've already bridged the possibly fatal social chasm they needed to navigate (aka rampant homophobia) if they wanted to move in together.

They ALREADY live together

They've done the hard bit.

It would be no big deal, really to continue to do so. All they'll be doing is relocating to the house in Itaewon.

And my goodness what serendipitous timing... the build was completed while they were snuggled up in their barracks so there's no awkward in between stage. They can just slide right in to their cosy new home and nobody can really say a thing.

What a cunning plan

Now before anyone yells at me of course i have no idea what their plans are. Zero. Nobody does except their trusted circle. This is entirely fabricated. But ya know what?

It's also entirely possible.

💜🏠💛

[genderless-naper]

tattooed fingers

trafalgar law x alt!strawhat!reader

tw: slight choking, jealous law hehe

wc: 1.5k, lowercase intended !

a remark about his fingers might leave you feeling speechless

the crew was lively as usual traveling the seas on the sunny. everything was where it was meant to be except for one unknown variable: trafalgar law. the current alliance your captain accepted without much thought was questioned by all your crew mates. still they held hope in their captains decisions, and welcomed the unknown pirate on the ship. it was obvious he wasn’t much of an engager; especially when he gave blunt responses to any of the crew mates attempts of conversation.

instead he was an observer. specifically an observer of you. you stood out in the group of pirates. it was hard for him to avoid looking at you. your confident demeanor, your bold personality, and your style of clothes were all setting his attraction levels on an all time high.

he fought hard to push away the thought of your fishnets clinging to your thighs, and how he would rip them open to do unspeakable things to you. he tried to deny any sense of captivation, but when he sees your choker hugging your neck he becomes angered that it isn’t his hand choking you instead. his attempts to ignore you seemed impossible with the way your boots clanked against the deck boards. the strain it put on him to imagine how you two would sound with one of your legs held in the air and him in between.

at the end of the day it didn’t matter. you were a strawhat, so he did the best thing to make sure you stayed away from him.

he never responded to you. he never looked at you when you talked to him. he never addressed you when he talked to the group. he needed to make sure you didn’t get close to him so he wouldn’t fall for you more than he has. he buried his feelings inside him in hopes they would go away on their own.

during the day you decide to show off the new garter belt you were gifted to your crew. you were excited to finally open it up and try it on. the belt wrapped around your waist perfectly and connected with a section that hugged one of your thighs. you tightened it as you expressed your excitement to your crew. nico robin had gotten it for you knowing it would fit your wardrobe perfectly. your sense of style made her your biggest admirer (second to law). you thanked her with a big smile.

after cooping himself within the sunny the tattooed man surfaces to the deck solely for a refill of his coffee cup. during his coffee breaks he did his best to avoid you. he made the grave mistake of overhearing your conversation with nico robin about the garner belt. his eyes gazed over to your figure, and the leather belt wrapped around it. he couldn’t stop looking you up and down while fighting his feelings from resurfacing. he watched as you two laughed together effortlessly, and how she tighten the belt for you. she was dangerously close to you for his comfort.

after your laughing fit with the woman you finally saw law glaring down nico robin. after constant horrible interactions you’ve found yourself to heavily dislike the man standing near you. you crossed your arms as you spoke to him in annoyance, “can we help you? the kitchen is that way you caffeinated freak.” you pointed to the kitchen on the other side.

law snaps out of his thoughts. in an attempt to hide his emotions he responds without much thought, “so why exactly are you dressed so edgy?”

you rolled your eyes at the pure hypocrisy coming from him, “says the guy who has ‘death’ tattooed on his fingers on both hands. youre the most edgiest man i’ve ever met.”

law glances down at his fingers as a realization hits him. the reason he was so drawn to you was you two shared so many similarities. having nothing left to exchange with this man you turn back to nico robin and continue your conversation.

he spent the rest of the day trying to steal glances of you, but them just being ruined by you being so close to nico robin. he didn’t understand why you were so attached to her. if he couldnt have you then why should she?

he hated the way your conversations flowed so perfectly. how you could talk to her for hours and she would just admire you. he especially hated when you touched her arm while laughing at her joke. if he couldn’t experience those things when why could she?

it went on for the rest of the day. the two of you becoming closer and closer. the sharing of intimate platonic energy went well into the night as well.

the last thing that broke his patience completely was went she asked you if you’d like the stargaze with her. he looked at you in disbelief when you agreed excitedly. he expected you to reject the offer. a ting of jealousy crawled up his throat as you laid close to her to share a blanket. she pointed to the different constellations to show you.

“look there y/n” she points to the sky at a group of stars. you tried to follow her finger to the stars and she talks, “thats called the andromeda constellation.”

“robin i dont know what youre pointing at!” you pout slightly. nico robin takes a hold your face to help you look at the constellation properly as she connects the stars together, “do you see it now y/n?”

you nod fast, “its so pretty robin!”

the women smiled softly while starring at you, “its pretty just like you y/n.”

you blush slightly. before you had the chance to respond you hear footsteps approaching you both.

law had enough of seeing robin all over you. he could deal with you two talking and laughing together, but laying under the stars together while she called you pretty? thats where he drew the line.

he towered over you. your annoyance all starting to come back again from earlier in the day. you sat up ready to shoot him a sassy remark before you feel him grab your arm and pull you up. you try to tug your arm away, “let go of me trafalgar! what the hell do y-“

before you could process whats happening you find a blue bubble engulf you both. law activated his power to get you both away and somewhere more private.

he mumbled in annoyance not expecting you to hear, “i couldn’t stand watching her all over you like that.”

you raised a brow, “all over me? what are you talking about?? thats just how we are. not that its any if your business anyways!” you yank your arm back and cross it.

a fire lights in his eyes as he narrows them at you slowly, “so you’re both all over each other all the time..? are you serious y/n-ya?”

you were confused at his sudden acts. he was making you feel like you did something wrong. the memories of law ignoring you or being rude still fresh in your mind. you scoffed, “i don’t know what the hell you’re trying to say right now.”

law shot back without thinking, “i’m saying you need to stop that shit right now. i don’t want you cuddled up with someone watching the stars. i’m sick and tired of being in the background having to accept you be gifted stuff like this.” he loops a finger in the belt around your waist to pull you closer to him, “i like you too much for you to be tainted by these other people.”

you were shocked at the words coming out his mouth. he was probably just as shocked as you were, but the jealousy was overriding his chances of thinking logically. the thought of nico robin’s arm around your waist or the way she grabbed your face burned fresh in his mind. you pushed him away with annoyance setting back in, “all this caffeine is driving you insane.”

he shook his head, “you’re the one driving me insane y/n-ya” at this point he realized he couldn’t lock his thoughts away anymore. there was no going back, but did he really wanna go back when you stood in front of him looking so perfect?

he slowly raised his hand to your neck. he felt you tense as he brushes his fingertips against the skin above your choker. he stared at it with envy before he speaks in a commanding tone, “take this off.”

you hesitated to follow his instructions. you slowly open the clasp and take it off. the difference of having it off didn’t last long once it was replaced with law’s hand gripping your neck gently.

he smirked as he rubbed his thumb along a vein pressing on it slightly, “so what exactly were you saying about my tattooed fingers?”

[eelliotss]

— A Curse Between Us, part 2

Bound by a curse and centuries of longing, he scours the universe to reclaim the woman who once shared his soul, only to find her fractured by forgotten memories and a life that no longer includes him. As he fights to reignite their bond, you emerge— a black box of secrets and power capable of shattering the fragile balance of his kingdom and plan, a new variable that alters the balance of his life

“I was supposed to be the last of us,” he breathed.

Will she always be his fate, or will your introduction into the picture tip the balance of his destiny?

⚠️ Spoilers to Sylus’s myth. Reader is not MC, and in this story, Sylus is still a dragon.

word count: 3.2k

SLOW BURN

masterlist

previously:

“I was supposed to be the last of us,” he breathed, the words heavy with a mix of wonder and dread. The room felt smaller now, charged with an energy both of you have not felt in centuries. The air was pressing down on your lungs as adrenaline coursed through your body.

“This shouldn’t be possible,” you whispered. A frown quickly crawled up your face as you hurriedly turned away, dashing into the crowd. Before Sylus could react, a voice rang in his ear: “Sylus, can I use your card?” That small distraction was enough for him to lose you. Somewhat annoyed, he answered, “Don’t bother me with such trivial matters.”

In that moment, the Onichynus leader knew the balance of power had shifted.

This was no mere encounter. It was a collision of forces that would change everything.

◆◇◆─◆◇◆─◆◇◆

He stood motionless for a moment, his crimson eyes fixed on where she had been moments before. The energy she left behind lingered faintly, a tantalizing hum that refused to dissipate. It unsettled him. Another one of his kind? It was impossible. It had to be.

But he didn’t have time to entertain impossibilities.

Shaking off the unease clawing at the edges of his mind, Sylus turned his attention back to the voice ringing in his ear. “I’ll take this for a million,” she spoke, reminding him of the task at hand. Whatever Relia’s presence meant—whatever secrets she carried—would have to wait. There were more pressing matters to attend to. She was waiting for him.

“Five million.”

◆◇◆─◆◇◆─◆◇◆

The corridors of the auction were buzzing with activity, the hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses filling the air. Sylus navigated the crowd with ease, his towering figure parting the sea of attendees without effort. He caught sight of her near the center of the auction floor, standing amidst a group of bidders. The soft light of the chandeliers above bathed her in a warm glow, making her stand out even among the richly dressed crowd.

She was laughing. It was a rare sound, light and carefree, and it sent a pang through his chest. She was pretending, of course. That laugh was just part of the role she was playing—an act to keep the bidders’ attention away from him and the true purpose of their visit here. But even knowing that, it was enough to stir something deep within him.

Sylus stopped a few feet away, leaning casually against a nearby pillar as he watched her. She was radiant, even in her feigned joy. His jaw tightened. She shouldn’t have to do this. She shouldn’t have to risk herself for this mission. But she had insisted, as she always did, and he hadn’t been able to refuse her. Not when she looked at him with that fire in her eyes, that unyielding determination that reminded him so much of the girl he had fallen in love with.

But she wasn’t that girl anymore. Not yet.

Sylus approached MC just as a well-dressed man leaned in closer, his expression filled with thinly veiled intent.

“That pendant,” the man said, gesturing toward the delicate piece resting on her chest. “It’s extraordinary. I’d offer you a fortune for it, along with a dance, if you’d indulge me.”

MC’s smile was tight, polite, but before she could reply, Sylus stepped forward with the ease of someone who owned the entire room. His smile was sharp, cutting through the tension. “Its a gift from me,” he said smoothly, his crimson gaze locking onto the man. “And, as for the dance, I’m afraid she already owes me one.”

The man hesitated under Sylus’s piercing stare before chuckling nervously. “Ah, I see. My apologies, then.” He bowed slightly, stepping back before disappearing into the crowd.

MC turned to Sylus with an arched brow, her irritation barely masked. “He was about to offer me ten hightowers for a dance. What are you going to offer me?”

Sylus’s lips curved into a knowing smirk, his usual arrogance gleaming in his expression. “My charming company,” he quipped, his tone teasing.

“Now, stop wasting time. The aether core. Do you know where it is?” She sighed, her demeanor shifting back into sharp focus.

Sylus’s smirk deepened as he gestured toward the far end of the auction hall. “Don’t ask useless questions. They took the bait. Let’s hurry before things get chaotic.”

He led her through the building’s corridors and stairwells until they emerged onto the rooftop. The air was sharp and electric, crackling with the unstable energy of a protofield. A swirling vortex of power surrounded the rooftop’s center, where a large, jagged stone pulsed with erratic light.

Sylus’s expression remained calm as he gestured her forward. “After you,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement.

MC stepped closer, her focus fixed on the glowing stone. As she approached, the energy intensified, swirling into chaotic patterns. Sylus stayed close behind, his presence steady as he guided her through the unstable field.

The moment she activated the stone, the air split with a deafening screech. From within the vortex, a massive electric-type wanderer emerged—a bird-like monster with jagged wings crackling with raw energy. It spread its wings wide, arcs of lightning cascading into the night sky.

MC’s breath hitched, but Sylus’s voice cut through her fear. “Don’t worry,” he said, his tone low and reassuring. “We’ll handle it.”

The battle that followed was fierce. The wanderer was fast, its strikes relentless, but Sylus moved with precision, his chains coiling and striking with deadly accuracy. MC supported him, her movements deliberate as she worked to weaken the creature’s defenses. Finally, with a combined effort, the bird let out a final, piercing cry before collapsing into a burst of energy.

Amid the remains of the creature, the aether core sat gleaming faintly. MC approached it cautiously, her hand reaching out to claim it. The moment her fingers brushed against its surface, it glowed faintly before shattering into pieces.

“What…?” MC’s voice was filled with confusion as she stared at the fragments. “What… happened?”

Sylus remained silent for a moment before answering, his voice quiet but steady. “That’s what happens. The core breaks as soon as its power enters you.” He glanced at her briefly before turning his gaze upward, his expression distant.

The rooftop felt heavier now, the silence pressing down on them. Sylus’s eyes scanned the dark sky above, but his mind was elsewhere. This place—it wasn’t just a battlefield. The setting resembled his graveyard of memories, the place where it had happened. Where she had been tortured. Where she had driven the blade into him, ending their shared tragedy with her curse.

And now, she stood here again, her gaze filled with curiosity and confusion, with no recollection of what had transpired. Of what they had been.

He swallowed the surge of emotions rising within him, his voice low as he finally spoke. “Let’s go,” he said, turning away from the sky. “We’re done here.”

MC followed, unaware of the storm of regret and longing swirling within him.

◆◇◆─◆◇◆─◆◇◆

The journey back to Lincoln was uneventful for MC. He watched her departure from the shadowed balcony of one of his many hideouts in the N109 Zone, his crimson eyes fixed on the car as it disappeared into the distant haze of polluted skies. A part of him wanted to follow, to keep her within his reach, but he forced himself to stay. She was safer in Lincoln, far from the chaos that defined his domain.

But even with her gone, her presence lingered, clawing at him like a restless ghost. His fingers brushed against the red pin on his blazer as he leaned back against the cold metal railing. Memories of her—of their past—haunted him, as vivid as if they’d happened yesterday. He had been so close to her tonight, closer than he’d been in what felt like lifetimes, yet the distance between them felt greater than ever.

He pushed the thought aside, turning his mind toward the storm brewing in the N109 Zone. The auction’s aftermath had left ripples throughout the city, whispers of what had transpired spreading among its dangerous inhabitants. The acquisition of the Aether Core would draw attention, but Sylus knew how to handle such matters. What concerned him more was the unexpected element that had revealed itself during the auction.

You.

The memory of you lingered in his mind, your eyes and calm demeanor a stark contrast to the chaos around you. You weren’t just another player in the Zone’s intricate web of power struggles. You were something else entirely—a black box, a variable he hadn’t accounted for.

The N109 Zone was his domain, a place he had shaped and bent to his will. He knew every player, every hidden agenda, every unspoken alliance. And yet, you had slipped through his grasp, your presence unexpected and unaccounted for.

He tapped a button on the console embedded in his desk, summoning his second-in-command, Kieran. The door to his quarters hissed open moments later, and Kieran stepped inside, his crow mask reflecting the dim light in the room.

“You called?” Kieran asked, his tone casual but attentive.

Sylus turned from the document in his hands, the list of the auction’s attendees, his crimson eyes meeting Kieran’s. “I need information. On her.” He tossed the paper onto the table, a red circle highlighted one name on the list.

Kieran raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise breaking through his usual stoic demeanor. “The princess of the N109 Zone? Thought she wasn’t on your radar.”

“She is now,” Sylus said sharply. “I want everything—her movements, her alliances, her purpose here. And I want it yesterday.”

Kieran nodded, his expression turning serious. “Consider it done. But… if I may, why so suddenly?”

Sylus didn’t answer right away. His mind was already racing, piecing together the threads of a plan. “She’s an anomaly,” he said finally.

Kieran hesitated for a moment, then nodded again. “Understood. I’ll have a report for you within the day.”

As Kieran left, Sylus returned to the window, his gaze distant. The pendant in his hand grew warmer, its glow intensifying for a brief moment before fading again. It was a reminder of what he was fighting for, what he had sacrificed everything to protect.

◆◇◆─◆◇◆─◆◇◆

As expected of the right hand man of Onychinus’ leader, Kieran entered the boss’ office within a few hours, a stack of documents in his hands and a bemused expression on his face.

“Got something for you,” Kieran said, dropping the papers onto Sylus’s desk. “But, uh… don’t expect anything groundbreaking.”

Sylus arched an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “Go on.”

Kieran gestured to the papers. “Yn. Turns out, she’s exactly what you’d expect. The adopted daughter of Darian Graves, the second most influential man in the N109 zone. She was adopted when she was seven into power because of Grave’s inability to have kids despite years of trying, he boasted about how him finding her was destined, and showered her with anything a girl could dream of. She’s the true definition of daddy’s girl. Barely steps out of line, barely makes appearances except in her father’s place or companies her dad to events, keeps to herself most of the time. The only thing remotely interesting is that she doesn’t seem to care about the politics of the Zone. She’s more focused on… well, nothing, really. Just a quiet life under her father’s shadow.”

Sylus frowned, flipping through the documents. The information was mundane—locations you frequented, interactions with key figures, a few inconsequential purchases. Everything painted a picture of someone perfectly normal. Too normal. Well, as normal as the daughter of a black market business owner can be.

Kieran smirked, leaning against the wall. “Seems like you’re wasting your time on her. She’s as harmless as they come.”

Sylus didn’t respond immediately, his eyes scanning the pages with precision. Harmless. The word didn’t sit right with him. He’d felt the hum of her presence, the weight of something far more dangerous beneath the surface. This couldn’t be all there was to her.

His fingers paused on a photograph tucked among the papers—a candid shot of you walking through a crowded market, your expression calm and distant. Dark eyes, straight black hair, and an aura that seemed almost too composed. Sylus stared at the image for a long moment, his mind churning.

“Harmless,” Sylus murmured, his tone laced with doubt. “We’ll see about that.”

◆◇◆─◆◇◆─◆◇◆

It wasn’t long before the opportunity to learn more about you presented itself.

A week passed. The N109 Zone was as chaotic as ever, its underbelly teeming with activity. Sylus spent his days managing his organization, keeping the Zone’s delicate balance of power in check. Yet his thoughts kept drifting back to you. Your presence had disrupted the careful structure of his world and the reality he had always believed.

His chance came when one of his subordinates reported a gathering of high-ranking figures in the Zone. A private meeting, hosted by none other than Darian Grave, your father, second most powerful figure in the N109 Zone. The meeting itself wasn’t unusual; such gatherings happened often, as rulers of the Zone’s territories maneuvered for influence. What caught Sylus’s attention was the guest list: you were rumored to be attending.

Sylus decided to go, not as a participant but as an observer. He rarely attended these meetings, preferring to operate from the shadows, but this time, curiosity won out.

The meeting was held in a sprawling underground hall, its walls adorned with symbols of wealth and power. Sylus arrived unnoticed, his presence concealed as he watched the proceedings from a shadowed alcove. The room was filled with familiar faces—warlords, smugglers, and mercenaries, all vying either for dominance or a powerful ally in the Zone. Desire laced every part of the room, from people’s eyes to the air within. He was well too accustomed to those looks.

The ballroom was a masterpiece of excess and elegance, a stark contrast to the chaos of the N109 Zone outside its walls. High vaulted ceilings stretched above, their intricate carvings illuminated by chandeliers dripping with crystal shards that refracted light like fractured stars. The air was thick, almost suffocating, with the pungent scent of colognes—bold, sharp, and overbearing. It was the kind of smell that tried too hard to assert dominance, an attempt to mask insecurities and project an air of power. The notes were harsh, peppery, and metallic, layered with a faint undertone of sweat and stale cigars. It clung to the room like an invisible fog, mingling with the distant tang of industrial steel that seeped in from the Zone outside.

The floor, a gleaming expanse of black marble streaked with veins of gold, reflected the movement of the guests as they glided across it. Women in shimmering gowns of every jewel tone imaginable swirled past men in sharp suits adorned with subtle metallic accents. The soft swish of fabric and the click of polished shoes against the marble provided a rhythmic counterpoint to the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

In one corner, a live string quartet played a hauntingly beautiful melody, their music weaving through the air like a silken thread. Each note rose and fell with precision, managing to carry over the noise of the crowd without feeling intrusive. The sound was accompanied by the faint clink of glasses as waiters moved deftly through the room, balancing trays of crystal flutes filled with golden, bubbling liquid.

And then you appeared.

You entered the hall with an air of quiet confidence, accompanying your father like a jewel that adorned him, your movements fluid and unhurried. You wore a sleek black gown that shimmered faintly in the dim light, your dark orbs scanning the room with practiced indifference. Your aura was subdued, almost hidden, but Sylus could still feel the faint hum of your power—a reminder of your true nature.

Your father stated a grand speech, thanking everyone for joining his annual ball. And thus, the game officially began. People scurried to those they thought would benefit them, greed and lust lacing the air they breath out. After all, this ball was one of the gatherings of the most powerful people in the N109 zone. Unsurprisingly, the crowd around your father and you was one of the largest, with people almost begging to be seen by Darian— the man only second to the notorious Onichinus leader. You didn’t speak much, content to let your father dominate the conversation. Yet your mere presence commanded attention. Sylus studied you intently, his mind working to piece together the puzzle you presented. Your calmness was unnerving, your lack of overt ambition unusual for someone in your position.

As the mingles drew out, you found a way to excuse yourself from your father’s side. You glided to a server nearby to grab a glass of something that, hopefully, could drown out some of the noice around you. The peace was short-lived.

“Miss Yn,” a man approached you. Of course you saw their eyes, the eyes of men brimmed with lust, eyeing you from head to toe. The need in their eyes— for your wealth, power, and body— sent shivers down your spine. Your gaze met his with a soft smile on your lips. “I’m Alex,” he introduced. He rambled on about his business, seemingly boasting about how competent he is. You simply listened with a polite curve on your lips, occasionally throwing in a chuckle at his flat jokes, if you could even call them one. You must’ve acted your part a bit too well, giving him the confidence to inch closer and placing a hand on the top of your waist. “I heard you do not have a partner tonight,” his voice dropped along with his gaze. “How about we step away from this crowd and… get to know each other better?”

Bile rose in your throat as his suggestion hung in the air. You shifted slightly, sliding out of his grasp with practiced ease. You shifted slightly, creating just enough space to remove his hand without making a scene. “I appreciate your… enthusiasm, Alex,” you said, your tone calm but edged with frost. “But I’m afraid I must decline.” He frowned, his smile faltering. “Come on,” he pressed, stepping closer again. “Don’t be like that. I can—” “You can leave,” you interrupted, your voice sharper now, cutting through his excuses. Your midnight eyes met his with an intensity that made him pause. “I’ve been polite, but my patience has limits. Don’t make me repeat myself.” Alex hesitated, his confidence wavering under the weight of your gaze. His hand twitched as if considering another move. “You’re done here,” you said, your voice dropping lower, almost a growl. “Walk away before you embarrass yourself further. You wouldn’t want me calling for my father, would you?” The flicker of fear in his eyes was brief, but it was enough. He stepped back, muttering an incoherent excuse before retreating into the crowd, his bravado shattered.

You exhaled softly, the tension in your muscles easing as you released your tail from its hold. Lifting the champagne glass to your lips, you took another sip, savoring the bitterness that lingered.

“Handling your admirers with grace, I see,” came a familiar voice from behind you.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was Sylus. He leaned casually against the nearest pillar, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. Your eyes met his without surprise. If you were startled by his sudden appearance, you didn’t show it.

“You’re not very subtle,” you said, your tone as calm as ever.

Sylus smirked, leaning casually against the wall. “And yet, you noticed me. Maybe I wanted to be found.”

You tilted your head, studying him with a faint hint of amusement. “Or maybe you’re just bad at hiding.”

The exchange was brief, but it was enough to confirm what Sylus had suspected. You weren’t just another player in the Zone’s power games. You were something else entirely—a force that could reshape the rules of the game itself.

And for the first time in a long time, Sylus found himself intrigued.

[perfectsunlight]

VLOG MOMENTS FROM THE KIM VACATION

minjeong x reader (ft. jennie kim)

synopsis: the kim sisters go on their annual summer trip to hawaii, but this time around, y/n decides to bring her girlfriend, minjeong.

a/n: this is just an idea i had while writing something for my other series: the variable

THE FLIGHT

the video starts with y/n leaning against jennie’s shoulder in the backseat of a car. the blackpink member zooms in on her younger sister’s face, causing y/n to smile and hit the camera playfully.

jennie quickly turns the camera to herself and starts speaking. “we’re currently on our way to the airport, we’re going to be in hawaii for a week. are you excited?” she turns to her younger sister, who nods rapidly.

“y/n is taking her ‘friend’ with us this time, so she’s meeting us there at the airport.”  y/n’s lips curve into a small smile as she shakes her head at her sister’s remark and looks out the window. 

a quick cut shows y/n running up to another person in a hoodie. jennie chuckles lightly and zooms in on the two embracing. there’s a second cut and y/n is recording with her head against someone’s shoulder. “guess who's coming with us,” she says in a sing-song tone and shows the camera, revealing minjeong’s face. the aespa member smiles and waves, earning a chuckle from y/n behind the camera. “cute.” the younger kim whispers at the sight of her girlfriend. minjeong smiles sheepishly before jennie’s voice is heard in the background. 

“i’m sitting in between you two on the flight.”

SHOPPING IN HONOLULU

jennie points the camera at minjeong and laughs as she watches her carry several bags in her arms. “are you sure you can carry all of that?”

the blonde shakes her head quickly, looking over in the direction of where y/n appears to be somewhere off screen. the girls seem to be at a mall. “my arms are about to fall off. i think i need to get back to the gym.” minjeong jokes, earning a laugh from jennie. y/n comes into frame with two more bags in her hand shortly after.

jennie puts her little sister into the frame of the camera. “what did you buy?” she asked while minjeong can be seen adjusting the bags she was holding and stretching her arms.

y/n smiles and waves the bags playfully in front of the lens. “new bathing suits and a new charger because i forgot mine on the plane.” 

“i’ll hold them,” minjeong quickly says as she gently takes the bags out of the younger kim’s hands. the action causes the older kim to start laughing. jennie focuses the camera back onto herself and shakes her head as the trio began walking out of the store. before the clip ends, y/n and minjeong’s voices can be heard off frame.

“baby, you’re already holding everything, it’ll be too heavy.” “it’s nothing, now let me hold it.”

THE BEACH

y/n is seen filming this time, showing the scenery around her. she zooms in on jennie, who seems to be taking a small nap in the shade with her sunglasses on. “unnie deserves a good rest,” the younger kim whispers to the camera before it cuts to the next part, where she’s walking with minjeong as the sun sets behind them. 

minjeong waves to the camera quickly before pointing at the beautiful sunset behind them. “look how beautiful,” she gently takes the camera from y/n to show the sky better.

“more beautiful than me?” y/n says quickly as she jumps in front of the sm idol’s shot. both flustered and amused by the girl’s actions, all minjeong can do is chuckle. “midnight's album is out july 7th.”

“we’re on vacation and you’re promoting your group’s album?” minjeong teases as she gently shoves the other idol. “of course i am,” y/n replies with a smile. “i care about my stargazers.”

“do they know i’m the number one stargazer?” minjeong says quickly as she wraps an arm around y/n’s shoulder. the younger kim points the camera at the other girl again while laughing at her remark.

“you’re not, jennie is.”

THE HOTEL

jennie is seen in pajamas and laying in bed with the hotel tv on. “i’m so tired today, we decided to go snorkeling so we couldn’t film it.” the blackpink member snickered as she recalled an event from earlier that day.

“if you guys didn’t know, y/n doesn’t like snorkeling because the last time we went, a fish went up to her mouth.”

almost immediately, y/n’s voice is heard from off camera.

“jennie unnie,” she groans playfully before climbing into bed with her sister and laying on top of her. she was in a pj set exactly like jennie’s. “don’t expose me.”

jennie chuckles as y/n joins her in bed, wrapping her arms around her sister in a playful hug. “sorry, but it's too funny not to share,” jennie teases, affectionately tousling y/n's hair. 

y/n lets out a mock sigh, feigning annoyance. “i should tell everyone about your swimsuit incident,” she says, shooting jennie a mock glare before breaking into a grin.

jennie gasps dramatically, feigning shock. “you wouldn't dare!” she exclaims, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. the younger girl giggles, knowing she has the upper hand in this playful exchange. 

“oh, i think blinks would love to hear about the great swimsuit malfunction of 2024,” she teases, poking jennie's side. “so what happened was–”

before y/n could finish her sentence, her sister put her hand over her mouth. “we’ll see you in the morning,” she said loudly to the camera, struggling to keep her hand over the younger girl’s mouth. 

“goodnight!”

YACHT

“today we’re spending the afternoon on a boat,” y/n says as she leans against jennie’s shoulder. “minjeongie is taking pictures over there.” she points the camera towards the deck where the aespa member is taking pictures of herself. 

“i’m wearing a blue swimsuit today to match minjeong’s,” y/n takes the camera and shows a quick glimpse of her blue bikini. “yesterday we didn’t film it, but i was matching with jennie unnie at the other beach.”

a quick montage of the ocean, sky, and the trio taking pictures is shown before jennie is the only one in frame. she zooms in on the two younger idols who appear to be taking polaroids with each other.

“y/n always brings her polaroid everywhere,” jennie explains while the focus is still on the other two girls. “she’s always showing her pictures to lisa.”

suddenly, minjeong is seen leaning in very close to y/n’s face. “hey!” jennie shouts at the aespa member, causing her to immediately sit straight up and back away from y/n with her hands in the air. y/n rolls her eyes playfully and laughs at her sister’s antics. “she was moving something out of my face, unnie.”

“i’m sure she was.”

jennie said as she made her way over to the pair and sat in between them before waving goodbye to the camera with a blushing minjeong and a smiling y/n.

[batsovergotham]

Chapter 7: Lost to the Unknown Part 2

"Your personal road to ruin. Each will be different. But whatever the story, for you… the nightmare will become real. Just know that I sympathize. Because right now, Angstrom, who poisoned my life threatens everything I love… my nightmare is already real."

Main!Mark Grayson x Psychic! Reader

warnings: more smut </3, panic attacks, angst, baby oliver is a cutie

w/c: 11.5k

a/n: decided i'll finish posting unshaken first before posting my next fic! ty for the feedback :)

The war room is cooler than normal.

Not temperature-wise, though the steel walls and lack of windows give it that artificial chill, but in mood. In the stillness that extends too long between statements. In the way everyone avoids eye contact until they have to look at each other.

Cecil stands at the head of the table. Arms folded. Tablet under one arm, face unreadable. The way it always is when he’s treading a delicate line between diplomacy and control.

Around the table are the highest-ranking Guardian officials. Atom Eve. The Immortal. Black Samson. Dupli-Kate. Bulletproof. A few senior-level analysts. Two additional from the metahuman observation section. You’re not there.

You weren’t invited.

And Mark, he's standing at the back, arms crossed over his chest, his mouth taut. You wouldn’t have realized this meeting was happening if he hadn’t given you a warning half an hour ago.

> Cecil’s calling a closed session. It’s about you.

He’d followed up with a second message seconds later.

> I didn’t know.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

“Let’s not dance around it,” Cecil says finally, breaking the stillness. “You’ve seen the reports. You’ve studied the footage. This latest glitch wasn’t just a random rupture. It was targeted. Sustained. And Ace was at the epicenter.”

Eve is the first to speak. “She didn’t cause it.”

“No one’s saying she did,” Cecil answers easily. “What I am saying is that her connection to it wasn’t incidental.”

Black Samson leans forward. “We’ve always known her powers were… unstable.”

“Unstable,” Cecil repeats. “And growing.”

The Immortal’s voice cuts in. “So what are you proposing?”

Cecil taps his tablet. The hologram in the center of the table lights up. A pulse graph appears, one of yours, clearly labeled. “Her readings during the event were unlike anything we’ve recorded. Spikes in psychic output. Dimensional field overlap. A surge of reality-bending pressure coming from inside her.”

Dupli-Kate raises a brow. “Is that the same as saying she opened the glitch?”

“No. But it’s closer to saying the glitch opened through her.”

The room goes quiet again.

Mark speaks up, his voice low but cutting. “She didn’t do anything. She was walking. She didn’t touch a building. She didn’t use her powers. It happened to her.”

Cecil turns to him. “You were there. You saw it. Are you saying what happened wasn’t different from every other problem we’ve experienced so far?”

Mark says nothing. Because he did see it. He did feel it.

Cecil glances back at the group. “Ace has always been an anomaly. We’ve kept that secret for years. GDA training. Emotional regulation. Psychic constraints. And yet, every year her authority rises. Becomes something harder to define. We used to classify her as a telepath with kinetic applications. Now she’s a walking quantum variable. And as of yesterday, she’s the first individual to make touch with whatever’s driving these dimensional breaches.”

“Contact?” Eve repeats. “You think she spoke to it?”

“I don’t think it was words,” Cecil acknowledges. “But something reached into her. And she felt it. She said so herself.”

Mark takes a step forward. “And what? That’s enough to pull her off active duty?”

“Temporarily,” Cecil says. “Yes.”

Eve shakes her head. “Cecil—”

“This isn’t disciplinary,” he replies, harsher now. “It’s precautionary. Until we understand what’s happening, I’m suggesting Ace be banned from full field operations. She’ll still have access to intelligence. Training facilities. Controlled labs. But no patrols. No missions. And no near to active breach zones.”

“And if she resists that?” the Immortal asks.

Cecil doesn’t flinch. “Then we have a problem.”

Mark’s voice raises. “You think cutting her out is going to make this better? She’s the only one who’s connected to what’s happening. If we sideline her, we lose that.”

“If we lose control of her,” Cecil responds, “we lose everything.”

Silence.

He lets it sit.

“She hasn’t done anything wrong,” Eve adds finally, voice strained. “She’s been there for us. For months. Don’t treat her like a loaded gun just because she’s scared.”

“I’m not treating her like a gun,” Cecil explains. “I’m treating her like a mirror. Something that the other side is already trying to use.”

He stares around the room, reading the expressions. He’s not searching for agreement. He’s seeking for capitulation.

And after a beat, he gets it.

No one says yes. But no one stops him either.

Cecil turns back to his tablet.

“I’ll talk to her tonight.”

Mark’s hands clench into fists. “I’ll do it.”

Cecil pauses.

“I should be the one to tell her,” Mark adds. “She’ll hear it better from me.”

Cecil nods once, his face inscrutable. “Fine. But make sure she knows the stakes.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

You know.

They’re going to treat you like a danger.

Even the ones who claimed they wouldn’t.

Even the ones who love you.

And nevertheless, it still hurts.

You don’t mean to stop walking.

You’re halfway down the corridor, shoes echoing gently on the linoleum, Mark’s hoodie slung over your shoulders because you hadn’t bothered to change after patrol. You thought maybe—maybe—this would simply be a brief check-in. A standard follow-up following what transpired in the district. You knew Cecil wanted to chat. You knew the instant the glitches rippled about you like you were their lighthouse, this wasn’t going to be normal anymore.

But you didn’t expect to hear this.

You’re not even at the door yet. Just near enough for the voices to carry.

“…full containment isn’t off the table,” Cecil replies, voice muted but audible enough through the reinforced glass. “Not indefinitely. Not yet. But I want every branch ready. If she destabilizes again, we need eyes on her, and we need them fast.No holes in surveillance. No more waiting.”

Your breath catches. You slow to a standstill.

Inside the room, the murmur of answers. People agreeing. Some quieter than others.

A new voice—Dupli-Kate, maybe? “Isn’t that a little extreme? We’ve been working with her for months.”

“She’s never synced with an anomaly before,” Cecil answers. “Not like that. That wasn’t simply proximity. That wasn’t simply exposure. She merged.”

“She didn’t mean to,” someone else mutters.

Cecil doesn’t pause. “Intent doesn’t matter if the outcome is world-ending.”

Your heart falls, sluggish and heavy, like a stone dropped into water.

And suddenly, you’re back there. Not on the sidewalk. Not in the shimmer of bending time. No—before that. Before any of this.

Back in the white room. Back under the hum of the collar. Back to the antiseptic calm of the hospital where you weren’t yourself, just a label. A code name. A risk factor. A lovely little lockbox full of stuff they didn’t comprehend.

Your fingers clench on the sleeve of Mark’s sweatshirt, knuckles pale.

And without intending to, you whisper—

“He’s going to lock me up again.”

The words feel like someone else’s voice. A version of you that’s still thirteen, still sitting cross-legged in a white cage, assuming the picture books they handed you represented freedom.

You inch closer to the door. Just far enough to look through the tiny window.

Cecil’s standing at the head of the room, shoulders squared, chin taut. He doesn’t appear furious. He seems like he’s already decided.

“…temporary mission restriction,” he’s saying now. “Field access revoked until further notice. She stays in observation, works via internal debriefings solely. We watch any unexpected surges, follow trends in her talents, and if she shows any symptoms of breach synchronization, we elevate to level six response.”

You flinch.

Level six.

You know what that implies. Sedation. Psychic dampeners. Isolation units two miles below the GDA complex in Colorado. It’s the same approach they employ for dimensional trespassers and renegade multiverse versions.

They’re not only treating you like a danger.

They’re ready to treat you like a weapon.

Someone says something else—soft, careful. “Have we told her?”

Cecil doesn’t glance up from his tablet. “Not yet.”

You take a step back.

You want to burst in. Demand answers. Call them out. Shout. Scream. But your heart is pounding, and your stomach’s already flipping itself inside out. You can’t go in there like this. Not when you already know how it ends. Not when every breath you breathe feels like it’s being measured through glass.

The meeting isn’t done.

They don’t know you’re here.

Not yet.

But they will.

And when they do—when you open that door and confront the room of individuals who’ve spent the past twenty minutes studying your existence like you’re a malfunction waiting to happen—you’re going to have to decide if you go in as a soldier...

…or as something they’ll never be able to box up again.

From the open doorway on the other end of the hall, a voice broke in, sharp, familiar, and dripping with the type of hatred only one person could carry off so nonchalantly.

“Oh, fuck this.”

Everyone turned.

Rex is leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows lifted like he’d just walked in on a bunch of grownups fighting over something minute. He’s civilian clothes, hoodie half-zipped, sunglasses tucked into the collar, and yet looks like he hadn’t slept, shaven, or given a shit in at least three days.

Cecil didn’t blink. “You weren’t invited.”

“Yeah, and yet, here I am. Weird, huh?”

The room is quiet. Dupli-Kate blinked from her place toward the rear. Even Eve appears caught off guard. Not by his presence, no one was actually astonished by Rex stepping up unannounced, but by the look on his face. He wasn’t grinning. Wasn’t smirking. There was no proud twist to his mouth. No cocky, self-assured shrug.

He looks irritated.

And worse, serious.

“Go home, Rex,” Cecil says tiredly. “This doesn’t involve you.”

“Bullshit it doesn’t,” Rex shouts, moving completely into the room. “I was in the Guardians with her. I was there when she pulled Kate out of the crater in Prague. I’ve seen her keep a building together while bleeding out. Don’t tell me it doesn’t concern me when you’re in here talking about boxing her up like she’s some living EMP with anxiety issues.”

Cecil straightens slightly, his voice strong. “You heard the report. She was at the core of the greatest abnormality we’ve detected to far. She’s changing, and we don’t know how. I have a responsibility—”

“Yeah, I know,” Rex interjects, pacing now, teeth tense. “You’ve got a responsibility. To the world. To safety. To bullshit words that justify dumping people in places they don’t belong when you’re nervous.”

He turns, looking Cecil dead in the eye.

“You always do this. Something changes, and you behave like it’s a problem that requires a cage. But what if it’s not a problem? What if she’s the only person who can actually stop this shit, and you’re too busy treating her like an infection to notice?”

“She���s unstable.”

“We’re all unstable!” Rex snaps, voice rising. “That’s the whole gig, man. You think any of us sleep at night after the shit we’ve seen? You think we’re not all one bad day away from snapping? The difference is, she’s never broken. Not once. Even when she had every reason to.”

Black Samson leans closer again, observing him intently. “No one’s saying she’s the enemy.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Rex chews out. “Cecil’s practically back in the lab, drawing up collar blueprints.”

Cecil’s voice falls, harsh and frigid. “That’s enough.”

But Rex didn’t stop. He seldom did.

“You know what I remember?” he asks, quieter now, edging closer to the table. “I remember being nineteen and scared out of my fucking mind because the Guardians were dead and we were supposed to fill their shoes. She was the one holding it together when the rest of us were coming apart. So okay, maybe she’s a bit cracked around the edges now, but so are we. That doesn’t mean you get to lock her in a cage and call it mercy.”

Eve speaks out from the corner, her voice gentle. “He’s not wrong.”

Cecil turns toward her, and for the first time, he appears really cornered. “I’m not doing this because I want to.”

“Then stop pretending like you have to,” Rex responds. “You want to monitor her? Fine. Talk to her. Work with her. Don’t pull this cold-shoulder confinement shit and expect her to thank you for it.”

Dupli-Kate looks around at the others, apprehensive yet resolved. “She’s been one of us for a while. She deserves more than this.”

Cecil’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer.

Rex takes a breath and shrugs, less casual now, more like a last statement.

“I get it. You’re afraid. But if you treat her like a bomb, don’t be surprised when she quits trying to be anything else.”

He turns and walks out.

No explosion. No mic drop.

Just the sound of the door hissing shut behind him, and the heavy weight of a reality no one in the room wanted to carry.

The conference finishes with a hollow-sounding click as Cecil powers down the projection.

Chairs scratch. Voices begin to mumble in low tones—some exhausted, others hesitant, all of them too quiet to cut through the tempest forming behind Mark’s eyes. He doesn’t move. Not at first. Not even when the Immortal pulls back from the table and gives him a long, knowing look before leaving.

The others started filing out. Dupli-Kate brushes by him, hesitating for just a minute like she may say something—offer some kind of quiet apology or uncomfortable reassurance—but then thinks better of it and goes walking.

Mark hardly hears her disappear.

He’s fixated on Cecil.

And when the door finally hisses shut behind the last police, the stillness that lingers is thick. Charged. Alive with the tension he’s been holding back from the minute your name was mentioned like a warning sign.

“You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

Cecil doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t glance up from his datapad, continuously typing through data. “Good to see you’re still holding in your emotions, Grayson.”

“I sat there and listened to you talk about her like she was some kind of monster.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, it’s worse,” Mark snaps, voice rising. “You didn’t say anything directly—you just let your paranoia fill in the blanks.”

Cecil glances up at last, his countenance dull, inscrutable. “You want to tell me I’m wrong? That what happened in the district didn’t show we’re in over our heads?”

Mark moves forward, fists clutched at his sides. “She didn’t do anything. The anomaly discovered her. And instead of asking why, or allowing her space to digest it, you sat in a room full of people and spoke about her like she was already halfway to being a villian.”

“I’m talking about keeping people safe.”

“You’re talking about caging the first person who’s actually connecting to whatever’s going on.”

Cecil stands then, gently. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t bristle. He merely moves around the table, pausing a few steps from Mark, that same inscrutable face securely in place.

“Mark,” he replies, “you care about her. I know that. And that’s exactly why you’re not thinking clearly.”

Mark shakes his head. “You don’t get to say that to me. Not after everything you’ve done. Not after how many times you’ve used people.”

Cecil’s voice hardens. “And it kept the world spinning. Do you think I like this? Do you think it’s easy, witnessing someone I helped nurture into a soldier transform into something I can’t predict?”

Mark moves in closer, chest rising and falling. “She’s not a threat.”

“She’s not stable.”

“She’s human.” Mark’s voice is firm. “She’s scared. She’s being driven apart by things no one else understands, and instead of helping her, you’re already creating a prison.”

“She is the prison, Mark!” Cecil eventually breaks, the cold mask breaking. “We’re not talking about trauma or volatility anymore, we’re talking about a possible anchor point for a dimensional collapse! If she slips, it won’t be a breakdown. It’ll be an event.”

Silence.

Mark stares at him, teeth gritted, his hands quivering with the effort it takes not to shatter anything.

And then, softer—deadly quiet: “She heard you.”

That causes Cecil pause. “What?”

“She was outside the door.”

Cecil’s mouth parts, barely. “That wasn’t—”

“She heard you planning to isolate her. She heard you call her unstable. She heard you say she might not have a choice.”

Cecil’s shoulders slump, ever so little. “That’s… unfortunate.”

“Yeah,” Mark replies, hollow. “It is.”

He takes a step back, his voice low now, devastated.

“You know what the worst part is? She trusted you. Still. After everything. She told me, once, that you were the only one who never flinched when her powers started appearing early. That even as the collar went on, you stared her in the eye. Like she was still a person.”

Cecil says nothing.

“But now,” Mark goes on, his voice straining, “you’re not even pretending anymore. You’ve chosen who she is. What she’s supposed to be. And you didn’t even have the guts to tell it to her face.”

Cecil drops his gaze. “I made a call based on the data.”

“No,” Mark growls. “You made a call based on fear.”

He turns, striding for the door.

“Where are you going?” Cecil asks.

Mark stops, one hand on the sensor panel.

“To find her,” he adds without looking back. “Before you take the last thing she has left.”

And with that, the door hisses open.

And he’s gone.

Leaving Cecil alone.

With nothing but statistics on a screen,

And the silent thought That maybe—for the first time— He’s made a mistake he can’t calculate his way out of.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

You don’t recall leaving.

One second, you’re standing in that hallway, outside the briefing room, hearing your name dissected like a problem to be solved, and the next, you’re moving. Fast. Quiet. Like muscle memory took over. Like your body decided it couldn’t bear another second pushed against that glass door, listening to people who once claimed they had your back act like you were a broken lock about to crack.

You don’t make a scene. You don’t burst in or yell or ask why. You just leave.

The fluorescent lights blur above as you move, too quickly, not fast enough. Every footstep resonating in your brain like it doesn’t belong to you. You’re not sure if you’re holding your breath or if you just forgot how to exhale.

You don’t know where you’re headed. You just know you have to get out.

Past the laboratories.

Past the common area where two interns peek up and then away swiftly, evidently advised to keep their heads down. Past the elevators. Down a maintenance stairs you scarcely think to take. The concrete is cool under your boots. Smells like steel and cold and disinfectant. You keep walking. Keep inhaling like it hurts.

Your hands are shaking. You stuff them in your pockets.

‘They’re going to lock me up again.’

You don’t need to speak it loudly anymore. It’s already burnt into the front of your brain, looping like a warning.

‘They’re going to lock me up again.’

They’re going to take away your name and give you a confinement code. They’re going to reduce you to a danger level on a secret chart and assess your humanity in how still you can keep your hands.

You’re halfway down a lower-level hallway when a voice yells out your name.

You stop. You shouldn’t. You want to keep going. But your feet root to the floor like they don’t belong to you anymore.

Mark rounds the corner first.

He seems breathless. And wrecked. Like every word stated in the meeting scratched its way beneath his skin. His chest rises and falls in tight, shallow motions. His jacket’s partly unzipped. His hair’s a disaster.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he—not at first.

Then he lifts a hand, nearly reaching for you, before he pulls it back like he’s terrified to touch you. Like you may break.

“I was going to tell you,” he adds gently. “I didn’t know—he didn’t—Cecil didn’t say it was about containment until—”

“I heard all of it,” you say, voice low and piercing and too even to be anything but a warning. “Start to finish.”

Mark winces. “I was going to tell you myself. I swear.”

“You let them talk about me like I wasn’t even real.” You don’t mean for it to come out like that. But it does. “Like I wasn’t just outside the door.”

“I didn’t know you were there—”

“That’s not the point.”

Silence. He knows it. You saw it hit him. The remorse seeping behind his eyes like something he’s trying to avoid.

“You’re not alone in this.”

You swallow. Your hands clench into fists in your pockets. “I feel alone.”

Before Mark can speak again, another voice echoes down the corridor.

“Jesus Christ, you walk fast.”

You blink. Look past Mark.

Rex.

He’s jog-walking toward you, appearing as irritated as always but strangely still… different. His hair’s a mess too, and his hoodie’s half-unzipped like he didn’t even bother attempting to make himself appear like a superhero today. But he slows when he sees your face.

And for once, he doesn’t crack a joke. Doesn’t smirk. He merely exhales, long and low.

“You good?” he says.

You don’t answer.

“You heard the meeting,” he says. “Of course you did. And sure, it was a shitshow.”

“You could say that.”

“I did say that. Loudly.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and stares down the corridor. “I’m probably banned again. Which… is surprising, given I didn’t even formally work here anymore.”

You nearly grin. You don’t.

Mark steps closer to you again. “We’re not letting this happen.”

“‘We?” you inquire, glancing between them.

“I mean,” Rex adds, lifting a brow, “I’m not usually one for emotional solidarity, but yeah. We.”

You glance at them. Really look.

Mark, still too stiff, still trying too hard to mend things with his hands while the damage was in the stillness. And Rex, bracing against the moment with snark and impatience because he doesn’t know how to remain still amid someone else’s agony without squirming. But he’s here. They both are.

“I didn’t ask for you to fix this,” you mumble.

“We know,” Mark says. “We’re not trying to fix it. We just… don’t want you to go through it alone.”

You don’t notice you’re shaking until Rex’s voice softens.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re still you. Powers or no powers. Glitches or no glitches. And if they think they can box you up like some sort of scientific project, they’ve got another thing coming.”

You finally breathe. Really breathe. A full breath.

And your voice, cracked, exhausted, human, says

“I don’t know who I am if I can’t use what I am.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Mark promises. “We’ll figure it out.”

Rex nods. “And if not, we’ll blow a hole in the wall and bust you out. Old school.”

You nearly laugh.

And for now, that’s enough.

You don't go back upstairs.

Not straight away.

The three of you sat in the maintenance corridor like students who fled class and sought a quiet stairway to pout in. It's chilly down here, concrete and buzzing pipes, the subtle industrial scent of metal in the air, but yet it feels more honest than the briefing room above. No one’s faking here. There’s no plan, no tact. Just the raw weight of what was spoken, and what it represents.

You sit with your back against the wall, legs splayed out in front of you. Mark’s a few feet distant, head low, forearms braced on his knees. Rex sits directly on the floor, hoodie hood pulled up halfway over his head like he can hide from the shitstorm building over all of you.

No one speaks for a time.

It’s Rex who breaks the stillness first, because of course it is.

He huffs out a breath. “You ever notice how every time we think we’ve figured things out, Cecil finds a way to make everything feel like a trap?”

You tilt your head. “I don’t think it ever stopped feeling like one.”

Mark doesn’t look up. “It’s different now. He doesn’t trust us, he doesn’t trust you. And that changes everything.”

“I don’t think he ever really trusted me,” you add gently, startling yourself with how solid your voice sounds. “I think he just convinced himself he could manage me. Same as the collar. Same as the basement cell. Keep me quiet, keep me confined, make sure the leash is long enough that I don’t realize it.”

Mark finally glances at you. “I don’t think of you like that.”

“I know,” you whisper, gazing away. “But he does.”

“Yeah, well…” Rex mutters, tossing a little bolt he discovered on the floor and catching it again. “Cecil’s whole thing is turning people into weapons and then getting mad when they don’t want to stay pointed at the target.”

You grin weakly, the type that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s a good line. You should write that down.”

“I would, but then he’d probably have me assassinated.”

That earns a giggle from you. Mark, too, makes a tired huff of amusement, even if he still looks like he’s carrying the weight of the entire debate upstairs.

“I keep thinking…” you trail off, fingers fumbling in your lap. “What if they’re right? What if something’s changing in me and I don’t even realize it? What if the next time I glitch, I pull half the city with me?”

“You won’t,” Mark responds quickly.

“You can’t know that.”

“I do,” he affirms, voice quiet but definite. “Because I’ve seen you fight harder to stay grounded than anyone I’ve ever met. Even before we realized what you were capable of. You’re not reckless. You’re afraid. And that’s okay.”

You swallow heavily, throat burning.

“But being scared doesn’t mean you’re out of control,” he continues.

Rex lays out alongside you with a groan. “Also, side note, if you ever did pull half the city with you, I’m like 80% sure I’d still be on your side. Might complain the whole time, but I’d be there.”

You laugh, actually laugh, and it’s a touch wobbly, a little shocked. “Thanks, Rex.”

“Hey, I’m a man of loyalty. And sarcasm. Sometimes both.”

You rest your head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. “I used to think that if I stayed good, if I followed the rules, if I made myself useful enough… they’d stop being afraid of me.”

“And?” Mark asks softly.

“They’re never going to stop being afraid.”

The words hang in the air like frost.

Rex shrugs. “Fuck 'em.”

You gaze at him.

“No, seriously,” he adds, supporting his elbow on one knee. “Let them be scared. You’re not here to make them feel safe. You’re here to be you. And if that comes with a little chaos? Fuck it.”

Mark exhales gently. “You don’t have to earn your right to exist. You’re not a weapon. You’re you. And that’s okay.”

You nod. Your eyes hurt.

And you don’t say it, but you think it:

I want to believe you.

A long stillness follows, yet it’s not heavy. Not this time. It’s the type that creeps in when there’s nothing left to protect and no sense pretending.

Finally, Mark gets himself to his feet and reaches out a hand.

You take it.

He lifts you up, steady and warm, his fingers lingering around yours.

Rex stands too, reluctantly, with a groan, and raises his arms above his head.

“So what now?” he says.

You wipe at your face, swallowing the last of the shakiness in your chest. “Now?”

You peek up the stairway toward the conference room, the chamber that still smells like uncertainty and policy and control. Then you look back at them, Mark, with his loyalty so intense it hurts; Rex, with his cynical voice and surprising sensitivity.

And you take a breath.

The sun hasn’t yet fully set as you push through the glass doors at the front of HQ. The air outside is sharp and crisp, early evening chill stinging against the warmth still clinging to your skin from the walk down. Street sounds are distant, muted by the thick paneled walls behind you. Mark and Rex are still somewhere inside, wrapping off loose ends with the briefing aftermath. You’d told them you needed air. That you only needed a minute.

You weren’t lying.

You just didn’t realize how little time you had left.

You’re halfway down the front stairs when it hits.

It’s not gentle. Not slow. Not like the earlier pulses that bled in at the edges of your senses like whispers in the dark.

This is violent.

A tug in your chest, swift and sharp, like a hook inserted beneath your sternum, pushed forward by unseen hands. Your knees buckle and you grab yourself on the steel railing with a strangled gasp, hand burning from the friction. Your vision becomes white for a second, then dark, then wrong.

The world bends.

The city before you, cars, streetlights, the gentle glow of offices in the tower across the street, all of it twists.

The air around you warps like heatwaves, yet there’s no heat, only pressure. Crushing. The sky overhead spreads thin, like paint stretched across canvas too fast. Colors flow into one another, amber into violet into green into something you don’t have a name for. Everything feels too slow and too fast at the same time, like time itself is trying to go in two ways at once and can’t decide which one to select.

Your air shudders out of you in short spurts.

You strive to focus, to anchor. You smack your hand against the rail, attempting to anchor yourself with pain, with feeling. It doesn’t work. You can feel yourself flickering, your thoughts changing in and out of rhythm with the environment around you. Your fingers appear overly long one second, too short the next. The cityscape in front of you swirls, becomes rural, then old, then alien.

Your knees strike the pavement. Hard.

You don't recall falling.

A scream is swelling in your throat, but you don't let it out. You can’t. Because somewhere behind the pandemonium, someone is watching you again. You can feel it. Like a presence just beneath the curve of space, pressing against the seams of the cosmos.

Then the voice returns.

Not uttered. Not out loud.

Not again.

It’s thought. But not yours.

The pressure surges, and the world around you shatters—at least that’s what it feels like.

The sidewalk slips away like paper. The air turns to glass and eventually to smoke. You see flickers, images sewn together like frames from several films: your own face, older; Mark’s figure, bloodstained and bleak; a battlefield under two suns; Rex standing in a corridor of mirrors, staring at something he doesn’t recognize.

You attempt to yell his name, but your voice melts into static.

And then—

It everything slams back.

Like someone snapped a rubber band across the sky.

You’re on the steps again, face pallid, chest heaving, palms scraped open. Your knuckles sting from how firmly you must’ve squeezed your hands. Your body is shivering uncontrollably, your whole neurological system screaming for a solution your brain doesn’t have.

But the street? The city? Back to normal.

Pedestrians stroll past if nothing happened. A man examines his phone as he passes you, hardly even glancing your way. Like you didn’t just glitch through time itself.

You’re still on your knees.

You can still feel the imprint of that voice behind your eyes.

Footsteps behind you—fast.

It’s Mark. And behind him—Rex.

You attempt to speak, but your throat is raw. Mark’s already kneeling alongside you, hands on your shoulders, anchoring you, frightened. You can see it on his face. He’s seen you afraid before. But never like this. Not like you’ve just came back from somewhere else.

“I’m fine,” you manage, but you sound far from it.

“No, you’re not,” he replies, eyes searching you like he’s checking for wounds he can’t see. “You’re shaking—what happened?”

Rex crouches on your other side. “What the hell was that? You look like you just went through a blender.”

You chuckle once, short, empty. “I think I just… went somewhere. Or everywhere. I don’t know.”

Mark’s jaw tightens. “You glitched.”

“No,” you answer, voice hushed now. “This wasn’t a glitch.”

They both glance at you.

And when you finally lift your head, eyes wide and wild, voice quivering with the weight of what you felt, what you heard, you say

“It’s getting closer. Whatever it is. It’s looking for me.”

You're still kneeling as the next wave hits.

It’s not as sharp as the first, not a blade this time, but a pulse. Rhythmic. Deep. Like the city itself is breathing, and the breath is wrong. Too sluggish. Too loud. You feel it through the soles of your boots, the bones in your jaw. The type of emotion that doesn't come from outside, it blossoms inside your blood, like your own heartbeat has gone out of rhythm with time.

And suddenly the world flickers.

Hard.

The sidewalk under your palms fractures, not with cracks, but with possibilities. You see flashes of it as stone, as sand, as nothing.The skyscraper opposite from HQ, glass-fronted, elegantly corporate, sputters like a dying bulb. One second it’s clean, next it’s a skeleton of itself, twisted metal beams stretching like fingers into a bruised crimson sky. You blink, and it’s back. Blink again, and it’s gone, replaced by its own devastation, then with something… alien. The city continues moving around you. Layered.

You double over, gasping, but the air’s too thick now. Tastes like static. Smells like ozone and ash.

“Hey!”

Mark’s voice rips through it again, but this time it’s not alone.

More footsteps. The unmistakable sound of powered boots, of hard impact, of gasping terror and armor plates sliding. The Guardians are rushing outside. Eve, already gleaming. Bulletproof searching the horizon, anxious and ready. The Immortal with his jaw set like a thunder cloud.

“What’s happening to her?” Eve sighs as she draws to a standstill, eyes widening at the warped skyline.

Black Samson doesn’t answer. He’s looking, frozen. Because the buildings? They’re not just flickering. They’re clashing. Existing and unexisting in jagged spurts, like time is struggling to remember which version it wants to retain. Every window becomes a coin flip. Whole streets dissolve into themselves before springing back.

And you—at the core of it.

You grasp the sidewalk like it’ll hold you attached, but even your hands are splitting, replicating in flashes, one minute bleeding, the next scarless. One hand tiny and childish. Another older, weathered, sporting a ring you’ve never seen.

Mark says your name again, gripping your shoulder now. His grasp is solid, anchoring. He’s kneeling with you, ignoring the flickers, gaze fixated on you. “Stay with me. You’re here.”

But then you see her.

The original version. Just to your left.

You turn, and there you are. But not you. A version of you, slumped over and bleeding out, eyes vacant. Another, across the street, limping, face half-covered in soot and ash.

You can’t breathe.

You stand without realizing it, wobbling upright, Mark rising with you in fear.

“They’re me,” you say, breath fogging in the thickening air. “I’m seeing… versions of myself.”

Eve’s voice is near now, wavering yet firm. “What do you mean?”

“They’re all me,” you remark, glancing around. “Dead. Different. Like the barrier’s gone. Like they’re leaking in.”

Bulletproof’s scanning grows quicker, more agitated. “I’m picking up energy signatures I can’t track. This isn’t just her, it’s multiversal bleed. All across the block.”

“No,” you murmur. “Not the block. Just around me.”

And then, another flash.

This one feels like it rips through you.

Your knees buckle, and suddenly, the city’s gone. Or not gone, replaced. You’re standing in a crater. Rubble. Screams. A crimson sky filled with smoke. And in front of you, Mark, broken and immobile, a version of him dead at your feet. Your knees strike the earth with a hollow sound, your lips wide in a mute scream. And then—just as fast—it’s gone.

You’re back.

Still on the HQ stairs. Still surrounded by people chanting your name.

You slump on Mark’s chest.

“I saw a version where you died,” you gasp, voice strained. “Where I killed everything. Where I—I don’t even think I was me anymore.”

He hugs you tighter.

“Listen to me. That’s not this timeline. That’s not you.”

“How do you know?” you snap, trembling. “How do you know I’m not becoming her? That thing—whatever’s pulling at me—it’s growing stronger. It’s not random anymore. It’s reaching through.”

You glance at him, desperate. “And I think it wants me to help it.”

The streetlights overhead flicker.

The air pulses again—slow and deep. A heartbeat. Not yours. Not human.

Behind you, Rex whispers: “Okay. Yeah. We are gone over red alert.”

The Guardians create a half-circle around you as the air begins to twist again. And Mark, still holding you, stares up at the changing sky, his mouth tight.

“We need to get her inside. Now.”

“I don’t think inside’s going to matter,” you mumble. “If it wants me, it already has me.”

And even while they strive to shelter you, to protect you, to fix whatever this is…

You realize

They’re not fast enough.

No one is.

Because the fractures aren’t only in the world anymore.

They’re in you.

The surge collapses like a wave reaching shore.

No huge explosion, no cinematic end. Just a long, rattling sigh from the cosmos, as if it had been holding its breath through you, and finally let go.

The metropolis returns to itself in parts.

The flashing ends. The buildings settle. The lights stabilize. That awful vibration in your bones begins to lessen, not evaporate, but recede like a predator that’s gotten its full for now. The distortion in the air disappears, leaving a peculiar silence behind. Not peaceful. Stunned.

You’re still crushed against Mark’s chest, your fingers fisted in the fabric of his jacket like it's the only solid thing left in your world.

“I didn’t mean to,” you mumble. It comes out hoarse. Weak.

“I know,” Mark breaths into your hair. “I know.”

But the others, Eve, Samson, Bulletproof, they’re all still there. Watching. Not with terror, not precisely, but with a kind of wide-eyed tension that aches more than you want to acknowledge. Like they want to believe in you. Like they're trying. But the vision of skyscrapers melting into ruins and your own shattered self standing shoulder to side with shadows of who you may become, it’s new. Still engraved in their pupils like afterimages from a too-bright light.

You can feel it. The change in the air.

The fear.

And then—

Footsteps.

Measured. Familiar. Cecil.

He passes through the wrecked HQ door carefully, signature red tie blowing softly in the air, clipboard discarded for once. No security crew, no guards. Just him. And that look on his face, that terrible, inscrutable expression you know too well.

He doesn’t appear furious. That would be easy. Anger is harsh and loud and predictable. But this?

This is disappointment. Confirmation.

He steps across a cracked chunk of pavement. The pavement where you slumped is still charred, still shimmering faintly with leftover electricity. There are signs where the concrete split, charred lines spiderwebbing away from where you stood like lightning scars.

He pauses a few feet in front of you, observes the street like he’s filming the crime scene of something inevitable.

And then, gently, like he doesn’t need to raise his voice to gut you—

“You just proved my point.”

Your heart lurches.

Mark’s body tenses around you, but you’re already pushing away, staggering to your feet. Your hands won’t quit shaking. Your skin’s chilly and burning at once. You’re not sure how you’re still standing.

“You don’t understand,” you say, breath shallow. “It’s not me. It’s something else, something that’s using me. I didn’t do this!”

Cecil’s face doesn’t alter. “That distinction may not matter anymore.”

The words struck harder than anything else that’s happened all day.

You feel your chest constrict. Like a fist is tightening around your lungs. You gaze at Mark, but he’s still frozen. Still torn between protecting you and digesting what just transpired.

“I can’t go back,” you remark abruptly, your voice rising. Your eyes widen at the understanding. “I can’t—I can’t go back to the facility. You’re going to lock me up again, I know it.”

Cecil’s quiet is deafening.

You step back. “No. No—no, I’ve been there. I’ve done it. You can’t—”

Mark starts as he says your name, advancing near you again.

You shake your head. “You said you wouldn’t let them do that again. You promised—”

“I meant it!” he shouts, but it sounds too thin now. Too little next to what you just done. What you are becoming.

Your breathing spirals. You can’t feel your hands anymore.

You backpedal like you’re under assault. “It’s not me—it’s not me! I was trying to stop it, not cause it—God, I didn’t ask for this—”

“Then control it,” Cecil adds.

Your vision blurs. “You think I didn’t try?”

You feel the panic rising in your chest, acidic and quick. You want to run. You want to scream. You want to dig your fingers into your flesh and pull whatever this thing is out of you until you’re clean again, human again.

But you know it won’t work.

That voice wasn’t wrong.

“I don’t know how,” you gasp out. “I don’t know how to stop this.”

Cecil takes one step closer, and even though he doesn’t raise his voice, the weight of it crushes the gap between you.

“That’s exactly why we have to contain you.”

You snap.

“No,” you say, too loud, too fast. “No, I’m not going back in a cell. I’m not going to be your experiment again. I’m not your mistake to take care of.”

And your voice—your power—echoes when you utter it. Just barely. Just enough to make the air ripple.

Eve steps forward then, cautiously. Hands lifted.

She whispers gently. “Just breathe, okay? Nobody’s taking you anywhere.”

But you don’t hear her. You’re already withdrawing within your thoughts, terror flashing like broken lights. Because you know how this ends. You've seen it. You just saw it.

You don’t get to be the hero.

You get to be the anomaly. The event. The variable that becomes too unstable to live freely.

And now the worst part? You’re starting to believe they’re right.

Mark says your name again, voice breaking now, coming between you and Cecil. “Look at me. Just—look at me.”

You do.

And for a minute, it’s only the two of you.

“You’re not alone. I’m still here. No matter what.”

You believe him. And you don't.

Because the tempest inside you doesn't care who loves you.

It only knows how to develop.

And in the silence that follows, you mumble the one thing you’re actually terrified of.

“I don’t think I can come back from this.”

Mark comes forward like a hurricane coming to a standstill, fast and sharp, yet terrifyingly silent. You’re still breathing behind him, your body trembling so violently your knees are barely holding you upright. But you don’t fall. Because he’s already there. Not simply in front of you—in the way.

His voice, when it comes, is low. Measured. Too calm. And it’s the type of stillness that causes everyone in the radius stop breathing.

“She’s not going anywhere.”

Cecil doesn’t blink. His hands are folded behind his back, tie flapping lightly in the breeze, the shattered concrete below breaking faintly from the residual energy still vibrating through your body. He keeps his eyes on Mark, but the air between them seems like it’s going to crack.

“I wasn’t asking,” Mark says, louder now. “She’s not going back.”

Rex moves next you, calm for once. No jokes. No sarcasm. Just observing with that unique, coiled knowledge of his that only shows up when things are going to go very awful.

Cecil’s eyes dart past Mark. To you.

You feel it—his stare like a weight over your shoulders, measuring you up like statistics, like figures. Not Ace, but a threat profile. A prospective occurrence. A ticking clock.

Mark sees it, too.

And something in him snaps.

“You don’t get to look at her like that,” Mark yells, pushing forward again until they’re nearly chest to chest. “Like she’s a problem you’re going to solve if you just put her back in a box.”

Cecil doesn’t move. “She just fractured three timelines, Grayson. In the midst of downtown. No warning. No control. You really want to tell me I’m wrong to be cautious?”

“I want you to shut the hell up about her like she’s not standing right behind me, terrified.”

You’re hardly breathing.

It’s too much. The air. The electricity still fizzing under your skin. The versions of yourself still flashing across your memory, burned-in ghosts of who you could be, who you will be, if this monster inside you keeps driving you apart.

You grip your arms firmly over your chest, like it’ll protect you from drifting away.

“I can’t—I can’t go back there,” you say, voice weak and cracking. “Please—Mark, I can’t. I can’t be locked away again. I’ll break. I’ll—I’ll lose myself. I’ll disappear and you won’t even know me when—when—”

Mark turns, fast, holding your face in both hands, pushing you to look at him.

“Hey. Look at me. You’re not going away. Not without me. Not like that.”

“I hurt people—”

“No, you didn’t,” he says. “You held it in. You stayed. You fought it.”

“But what if I don’t next time?”

“Then we handle it together. But I will not let them put you in a cell again and pretend they’re helping.”

You hear it, then.

The despair. The terror he’s concealing underneath the wrath.

He’s just as afraid as you.

And then Cecil speaks again—calm, cold, terrible.

“…Fine.”

The phrase drops like a cold stone in water.

Mark narrows his gaze. “What?”

Cecil exhales slowly. “She doesn’t go back. Not yet.”

Your knees buckle, and Rex takes your arm, steadying you.

“But,” Cecil adds, stare going steel-sharp again, “if she loses control again—if someone dies, or if the city folds in half, or if she tears another hole in the goddamn multiverse—then I won’t ask twice. Not again”

The quiet is immediate.

Final.

“And I won’t send a team next time,” he continues. “I’ll come myself.”

Mark moves forward again like he’s going to swing, but you seize his hand, fingers shaking.

He stops. But only just.

Cecil greets your eyes. For the first time, you see something flash there, not malice. Not cruelty. But something that hurts. Something that looks a lot like guilt wearing a mask.

“I don’t want to do this to you,” he says. Quiet. Honest. “But I will. If it comes to that.”

He turns, going back toward HQ.

And for the first time, you don’t feel safer inside.

You stand there for a moment, the air chilly against your sweat-damp skin. The sun has fully set now, and the destroyed block is lighted by emergency lights and the faint hum of shattered streetlamps. Everything’s still.

Mark hasn't let go of your hand.

Rex sighs alongside you. “So. That was fun.”

You don’t laugh.

You just glance up at the sky, where the colors finally stopped moving.

But you know it’s not over.

The city holds its breath around you.

Somewhere in the distant, sirens blur into the wind, their warbling call dying off as fast as they came. Above, the sky has finally settled into a genuine night, no more changing purples and greens, no flickering stars spilling across histories. Just a peaceful, cloud-cloaked black extending over the ruins below. But the stillness isn't peace. It's aftermath. That dreadful silence following the scream, where everything is too motionless, too meticulous.

You can still feel it humming under your skin.

Your body feels like it’s been stretched thin across realms. Your fingertips hurt. The bones in your legs feel like glass. But worse than that, you still feel it. That thing inside you. The echo of a tug that hadn’t come from outside, but from within. It’s quiet now, coiled someplace deep, but it’s still there.

Waiting.

Watching.

And you don’t know if it’s asleep or simply being patient.

Mark hasn’t moved since Cecil went away.

Neither have you.

The rest of the Guardians linger around the periphery, Eve, arms crossed and face pale, watching with concern but giving you space. Bulletproof muttering quietly into a comm, trying to coordinate a safe perimeter around the city block that just witnessed three alternate timelines crash into each other like waves.

And Rex? Still on your left, one hand clutching your arm, not tight, not constraining, just steady. Grounding. In case you fall again.

Your knees hurt. You’re still trembling. You haven’t uttered a word since Cecil departed, but the ringing in your ears hasn’t stopped.

Cecil’s words replay in your thoughts like a hammer on a bruise.

“If she loses control again… I won’t ask twice.”

The threat was almost gentle, and strangely that made it scarier. He wasn’t being harsh. He wasn’t even being theatrical.

You finally find your voice, silent and empty. “I don’t think I can fix this.”

Mark’s hand tightens around yours. “Yes, you can.”

“I don’t know how,” you mumble. “This isn’t just telepathy. Or projection. It’s not a power I can shut off. Something’s waking up in me, and it doesn’t care if I’m ready.”

Your chest tightens again. “It doesn’t ask. It takes.”

You gaze up at him, blinking tears from your eyes.

“And what if next time… it’s not me anymore? * What if it turns me into something you can’t stop?”

Mark’s jaw tenses. His eyes flare with something urgent, something hot and furious below the terror. “Then we drag you back. We fight for you. We don’t toss you in a goddamn prison.”

He draws you closer, voice low. “I’m not letting them take you from me.”

Your breath catches.

And suddenly, behind you, Rex speaks, dry but not nasty. “Yeah, seconded. For the record.”

You gaze at him.

He shifts uncomfortably, massages the back of his neck. “Look, I’m not exactly known for... emotional intelligence. Or stability. Or anything useful, actually. But I do know what it looks like when someone’s going to spiral and everyone around them starts flinching.”

He flicks his chin toward HQ. “That’s what they’re doing. Flinching. Preparing for the version of you that goes nuclear.”

You gaze at the ground.

Rex steps closer. “But you’re still here. Not some glitch. Not a recollection. You.”

“And we’re here, too,” Eve murmurs gently from the shadows. She goes over, kneels by you. “If this thing is in you, whatever it is, we figure it out. Together.”

For the first time since the world bent around you, something in your chest moves. Not fear. Not power. Just something small.

Hope.

You slump to the concrete again, this time not because you’re falling, but because you need to sit. Because you need to feel the earth and remind yourself that it’s real.

Mark sits next you without reluctance. Shoulder pushed to yours. Warm. Steady. Rex crouches on your other side, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet like he can’t keep still even in comfort. Eve crosses her legs in front of you. She’s gleaming faintly. Always.

The city is slowly returning to normal. Or at least trying to.

But you’re still terrified.

You sit there in the rubble of your darkest moment.

Hands bleeding, flesh tingling with something not quite yours.

The darkness breaks wide open.

You barely have time to scream before the world itself breaks open behind Mark.

No warning. No signal from your power. No gut-deep instinct like previously. This time it comes from somewhere else. A wound in space—vertical and bright green, sickening and pulsating like a pulse out of tune with the cosmos.

Mark turns—too late.

The tear taking him.

One second, he’s standing alongside you, hand on your back, chest rising with the same breath as yours. The next, he’s jerking forward like somebody lassoed him from the chest.

“Mark!”

Your scream doesn’t echo. The sound gets swallowed by the gateway, drawn into the infinite, churning light. Green arcs of electricity wrap around his limbs like they were *waiting* for him, dragging him toward the breach.

It’s him.

It’s not random.

This isn’t a glitch. It’s a target.

Mark’s fingers claw at the air, grasping for you—his eyes wide.

You don’t hesitate.

You launch toward him with everything you have left.

Your fingers find his wrist, grip tightening until your knuckles become white. He clutches your forearm in response, just as urgently. You sink your heels into the earth, already sparking with mental energy, pushing against the pull like you’re attempting to keep back the water.

The city transforms again around you. Pavement warps. Wind howls. Debris flies toward the green light like it’s being fed into a vacuum.

You lock eyes with him.

“I’ve got you,” you say, voice trembling. “I’ve got you!”

But even as you say it—you feel it in your core.

You’re losing him.

His grasp starts to slip. Not because he’s letting go. But because the pull is greater than anything you've ever felt, stronger than the universe wants you to be.

Eve’s shouting your name, but it’s far. Rex is rushing toward you, energy gathering in his palms.

Mark’s voice bursts over the thunder of the gateway.

“Let go.”

“No!”

“You have to.”

“I won’t.”

His fingers are slipping. His hand’s shaking so violently you can’t tell whether one of you is breaking apart quicker.

You see it in his face.

He knows.

This is the only way.

If you don’t let go, you’ll go with him.

And then, you make the mistake of looking into the portal.

You see it.

The other Mark. The one grinning. Standing just over the threshold. White clothes bathed in black-red blood. A reflection of the man you love, warped by something evil and eternal. He extends his hand in a false wave, then tilts his head, daring you.

Your grasp falters for a fleeting second.

It’s all the gateway needs.

Mark’s fingers fall from yours—

—and he’s gone.

Swallowed whole.

The gateway crashes shut with a sound like thunder underwater.

The street is silent.

The wind ceases.

The world halts.

And you—

You’re still grasping for him.

Your arm is stuck mid-air. Your body still shaking from the exertion. But your hand is empty. The space in front of you is empty. Your chest is—

Gone.

The scream that exits your mouth isn’t a sound. It’s a wound. It breaks loose from your ribcage like it had claws. You drop to your knees, not because your legs gave out, but because everything else did.

He’s gone.

Mark is gone.

And the last thing he did was make you let him go.

Rex falls to your side first, grabbing you before your face meets the concrete. “Shit, shit—stay with me.”

You’re not hearing him. You’re seeing green.

Eve is already on communications, her voice breaking. “We just lost Mark—Cecil, did you see that? Did you see that?!”

But even despite the mounting fear, the reinforcements rushing to the scene, the Guardians attempting to put together what just occurred, one thing becomes plain to you.

This wasn’t about your power.

This wasn’t about a mistake.

The breach came for Mark.

Specifically.

And now he's somewhere else.

Alone.

Or worse… with another version of himself.

You clamp your palms to your lips, shivering so furiously you can't breathe.

“I was holding him,” you murmur. “I was holding him.”

And no one knows how to answer you.

Because the truth is too terrible to express out loud.

You were.

And you still lost him.

The stillness once the gateway closed was awful. Not the tranquil kind, the sort that follows explosions.

The sort that fills your ears when your heartbeat is too loud, too sluggish, too empty.

You’re still kneeling where you collapsed, right hand floating mid-air like it’s waiting for his fingers to return. Waiting for him to bring you back to your feet as he always does, like this was just another near-death event to add to the long, terrifying list.

But he’s not there.

And this time, you know he isn’t coming back. Not today. Maybe not ever.

You taste blood in your tongue. You don’t remember biting your tongue, but it makes sense—somewhere in the shrieking, somewhere in the sob that tore away from you like it had a mind of its own. You can’t feel your throat anymore.

You can’t feel anything.

Says your name, one hand clutching your shoulder, his voice shorn of its typical harshness. “Come on. Look at me.”

You can’t.

Because if you look at him, it’s real.

If you speak it out loud, it’s true.

You blink hard, and a tear slides down your face, slow and bitter. You shake your head, still looking at your own hand. “I had him. Rex, I had him. I felt his hand. He was right there.”

Rex’s hand tightens.

“I didn’t let go,” you reply, softly. “I didn’t. I swear to God, I didn’t let go.”

Rex doesn’t answer. He doesn’t say ‘of course you didn’t’ or ‘it’s not your fault.’ Because he knows better. He understands such comments don’t help. They don’t touch this type of loss.

Behind you, Eve’s footsteps crunch over the concrete. She’s chatting swiftly into her earpiece—her voice tight, clipped, frantic.

“—Yes. Green energy signature, verified portal breach. No trace of Mark. No reaction from transponder. I said he’s gone, Cecil. Gone.”

She pauses when she sees you. Her face softens.

Her brilliance dims.

She lowers her arm.

You eventually glance up. Your face is pallid. Lips cracked. Eyes dull.

“I think he knew,” you whisper. “I think Mark knew it was coming. Right before it took him—he didn’t even fight it. Not really.”

Eve steps closer. “He was trying to protect you.”

You let out a faint, broken laugh. “He always does. Even when I don’t want him to.”

Rex sits back on his heels, stroking a hand over his hair. “That thing was looking for him. It wasn’t a random glitch. It came for him. You saw it, right?”

Eve nods, mouth hard. “Yeah. And the green? It’s not Ace’s color. This wasn’t her. This wasn’t her power.”

Your head is swimming. “Then whose was it?”

No one answers.

Because no one knows.

Rex rises immediately, pacing. “Okay. Okay. So we find out where it went. We figure out way to track it. We rip the universe a new one if we have to. But we get him back.”

“You don’t even know where he is,” you whisper. “He could be in a dead timeline. An alternative Earth. A collapsed dimension. We don’t know the rules anymore.”

“So what?” Rex says. “This isn’t even in the top five weirdest things we’ve faced.”

You gaze up at him again, eyes rimmed crimson.

Rex shrugs. “I mean. Maybe top three.”

That draws a puff of breath from you. Barely a chuckle. But it’s enough to help him ease a bit.

Eve kneels in front of you now. Her voice is gentle. Steady. “We’re not going to stop. You hear me? We’ll figure out where he is. We’ll discover a way to trace the energy signature, hell, Cecil’s got a whole wing of dimensional physicists already. And you? You’ve seen things no one else has. Whatever this thing is, you’re tied to it.”

You swallow. “So it’s my fault.”

“No,” she says, sternly. “It means you’re our best chance.”

You gaze back at the charred land where Mark vanished. It still hums slightly, like the planet hasn’t entirely healed.

You don’t feel healed either. You feel broken.

But somewhere inside the ache, something snaps.

Resolve.

You adjust your weight, bring your feet beneath you. Rex extends a hand and helps you up.

You wobble, knees weak, yet you stand.

And when you speak, your voice is stronger.

“Get Cecil on the line. Tell him I need every scan of that gateway. Every frequency, every variation, every frame of film. I want to know what took him.”

Rex blinks. “Damn. Okay.”

You keep going. “We’ll build something if we have to. A tracker. A gate. I don’t care. I don’t sleep till we bring him back.”

Eve nods, a gentle grin blossoming through the pain. “There she is.”

You don’t grin back. But the fire’s back in your eyes.

And this time, you’ll rip through reality itself if that’s what it takes to bring him home.

Far away, miles, maybe dimensions, removed from the flickering city skyline and the shattered street where you last stood shouting Mark’s name into a quiet emptiness, he watches.

Not via a screen.

Through a crack.

A window that doesn’t reflect light but bends it. One that hums quietly in the midst of a black chamber, the edges pulsating with residual energy drawn from a dozen dead timelines. It isn’t simply glass, it’s a creation of connected worlds, a multi-dimensional interface bound together with pure will and a deep, burning yearning for power.

And Angstrom Levy is quiet.

Poised.

Patient.

He leans forward with both hands on the edge of the platform, his mismatched eyes mirroring the final seconds of the mayhem in your timeline, your knees striking the pavement, Mark ripped from your hold, the horror on your face as the portal swallowed him whole.

Despair.

Not panic.

Not anger.

Not defiance.

Despair.

The type that unroots you. The type that makes even someone like you hesitate.

Angstrom’s smile curves slowly, carefully. Not wide. Not manic. Controlled. Calculated.

“She’s vulnerable now,” he says, more to himself than to the dimmed lab of alternate-tech and suspended variables around him. “Just what I needed.”

He straightens, the quiet echo of his footfall gentle on the metal floor. All around him, inactive gateways hum faintly, kept in stasis. Each one meticulously adjusted to a version of reality where you’re dead. Even when you never stopped fighting. And a few—his favorite—where you stood at Mark’s side till the end of the world.

He never liked those ones.

Too happy.

He looks to one of the closest monitors. The picture turns slowly—a version of you, fragmented, changed, younger. Held in a containment chamber. Not unlike the ones Cecil formerly used. You were dangerous there too. But tiny. Manageable. Full of possibility that hadn’t yet developed claws.

“I told them she was a liability,” he adds, touching the border of the screen. “They should’ve listened then.”

The picture flickers. Changes. Now it's you again—but this you, there and genuine, hunched amid the debris of your city block, hands clinched around nothing, jaw shaking in the aftermath of loss.

“But now… now you’re mine.”

His eyes travel to another screen. A static-ridden vision of Mark, somewhere away. Struggling in a setting not designed for him. Not human. Not anything he understands.

Angstrom tilts his head, looking.

“Don’t worry, Grayson. She’ll come for you. That’s the point.”

He moves away, hands clenched loosely behind his back.

His voice softens, almost gentle.

He grins again, teeth gleaming and even amid the glow of broken light.

“I’ll be waiting.”

And behind him, a dormant gateway flickers.

Green. Hungry. Alive.

And ready.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

You don’t remember the walk to Debbie’s house.

Not really.

You remember the streetlights passing like ghosts. You remember the cold. How it started to creep into your bones around the time you left the wreckage of HQ, after the emergency teams showed up and Cecil tried to offer you a place to “rest,”like rest could undo what happened. Like a cup of coffee in some sterile GDA room would be enough to stitch back the gaping hole where he had been.

You walked away without answering. You didn’t trust your voice to work.

And now here you are.

Standing on her porch with shaking hands and a shattered soul, unable to bring yourself to knock on the door. You can feel the heat of the house just behind it. You can hear the faint sounds of the TV playing inside, the laugh track of some sitcom echoing through the walls, blissfully unaware of what the universe just stole from you.

Your knuckles hit the wood before you make the conscious decision to do it.

Three sharp knocks.

The sound of them is loud. Jarring. Final.

The door opens faster than you expect.

Debbie stands there in leggings and a sweatshirt, her hair pulled back, eyes tired but warm. She was probably just settling in for the night. She smiles when she sees you, until she sees you.

Then the smile drops.

Because you look like you’ve been through something.

And the second you see her face, that familiarity, that quiet kind of strength that only mothers have, you break.

It doesn’t happen all at once. It never does.

It starts in your throat, a sob that trembles before it escapes. Then your knees weaken. Your arms wrap around your own chest, like you’re trying to hold your pieces in. Your breath stutters. Debbie says your name, already stepping forward. Her hands come to your shoulders. “Hey—hey, sweetheart. What happened?”

You can’t answer. You can’t breathe.

“I—” you try. “I lost—I—”

And that’s it. You’re gone.

You fall into her arms like gravity decided to stop pretending. Your body crumples forward, and she catches you like she’s been doing it her whole life. She pulls you inside, one arm wrapped tightly around your back, guiding you gently, urgently, to the couch. She doesn’t ask anything else right away. She just holds you.

Your sobs come in waves. Gut-deep. Ugly. You clutch at the front of her sweatshirt like a child, like someone drowning. Your whole body trembles with the weight of it.

Debbie just strokes your hair.

“I’m here,” she whispers. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s not okay.

But she says it anyway.

Because that’s what Mark used to say.

That thought makes it worse.

“I tried,” you cry. “I tried to hold on. I didn’t let go. I swear—”

She doesn’t say anything.

What can she?

After a while, when your sobs have dulled into tremors, she pulls back just enough to look at you. “What happened?”

And before you can answer, a soft little voice pipes up behind you.

“Ma?”

You turn.

Oliver stands at the threshold of the hallway in tiny pajamas, hair sticking up in wild tufts from sleep. His little feet shuffle as he rubs one eye with his fist, the other hand clutching his toy elephant. When he sees you, his eyes widen.

You try to smile. You fail.

“Bra Bra?” he asks. His voice is small.

Your heart cracks wide open.

You press a hand over your mouth as the tears start again, silent this time. All you can do is shake your head.

Debbie goes to Oliver, scoops him up into her arms. He curls against her chest, sleepy and confused.

“Where Bra Bra?” he asks again, blinking at you.

You inhale shakily. Your voice is a ghost when you speak.

“He’s gone.”

Debbie looks at you over Oliver’s head. “Gone… how?”

You swallow, hard. “A portal. It wasn’t mine. It was something else. Green. It… it opened behind him. Took him. I tried to stop it. I had him, Debbie. I was holding him. But it still—”

You break again, burying your face in your hands.

“I couldn’t save him.”

Debbie doesn’t speak for a long moment. You think she’s processing. Or maybe holding herself together for Oliver, who’s still curled against her, not fully understanding, but sensing the sadness in the room. He watches you with wide, solemn eyes.

“He will come back,” she says finally. Quiet. Steady. “You’ll bring him back. I know you will.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t see it. The thing that took him—it wanted him. This wasn’t random. This was intentional.”

Debbie walks back to the couch, sits beside you, holding Oliver in her lap. She rests her free hand on your knee.

“You brought him back from worse,” she says. “And you’re not alone. We’ll help you. I will. Whatever it takes.”

You look up at her. Your vision blurs again.

“But what if I’m not enough?”

She smiles, tired, broken, but real.

“Then we’ll be enough together.”

Oliver leans out from her arms and crawls awkwardly into your lap. He tucks his little body against yours and rests his head on your shoulder. You cradle him instinctively, your fingers trembling in his soft hair.

“Bra Bra okay,” he mumbles, sleepy.

You press your lips to the top of his head.

You want to believe that.

God, you want to.

But all you have now is the memory of Mark’s voice, his final words.

"Let go."

And the promise you made to yourself in that moment.

You will not rest. Not until he’s home.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

taglist: @ladynoirx321

comment if you'd like to be apart of the taglist<3

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Hi Elanor, I have a question. I'm chronically sick, I have fibromyalgia, but I really want to go to uni. Is there any point? Can people like me make it as students? I don't know anyone else who's disabled like me, certainly not studying at university level. Do you have any advice from your end of things? Thank you!

Well, first off: chronic illness sucks, and I'm sorry you're dealing with it.

As to your question - I actually know several people with fibro who made it through uni, and in particular I actually have two students studying with me currently who have it. Everyone is different, of course, and there are no one-size-fits-all scenarios; but, it's certainly possible for people with fibromyalgia to successfully complete university studies! Fear not.

The trick, of course, is finding how to do so without exacerbating your condition to such an extent that you leave yourself with mental or physical issues long-term. I'm happy to say I know a lot of people who did manage that, too, but I'd be lying if I said there are no examples of those who weren't able to achieve it. You have to be careful when juggling conditions like fibro, because they're finicky bastards and also poorly understood from a medical perspective, so you can accidentally trigger them.

There's no easy answer here - as I say, everyone is different, and a thousand variables can be at play. But, my general advice:

Stress can be a nightmare for exacerbating fibro, and uni can certainly be stressful! You therefore need to be conscious of how much is too much for you, and what options are available to help you manage it. For example: 1. Is the workload too high? If so, can you go part time? 2. Are you struggling to manage deadlines? Talk to student support - they can help with this

Be aware of the signs of your own limits, so you know when/how you need to take it easy. You're the only person who can truly gauge this, because it's unique to you. Additionally, work out what your triggers are! (If possible)

From day 1 - from before day 1, in fact, from the moment you get an offer - get in contact with student support. Let them know you have a chronic disability, with unreliable good and bad days. Be upfront with your limitations. Find out what they can do for you. Believe me, universities are waaaayyy more lenient if they know about your issues and you have been engaging with them.

But, of course, the response will vary from uni to uni (and even sometimes between departments). This is where your research comes in. Before applying, do what you can to find out how good the uni is for disabled students, and for student support/welfare. In the UK, this means looking up the NSS results - the National Student Survey. This ranks unis in different categories. Generally, you see a negative correlation with academic performance - a fancy Russell Group uni like Oxford is likely to score lower on student welfare, while the Metropolitans generally score much higher; but this is a rule of thumb. In any case, try to only apply to the ones that get the good welfare scores.

Keep an eye on the comments of this post, I'm sure others will want to chime in with their experiences. But please, don't be discouraged. If you want to do university, your fibromyalgia needn't automatically prevent you.

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Reptilia - Ciconiiformes

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Our next order are the Ciconiiformes, which contain one family, Ciconiidae, commonly called “storks”.

Storks are superficially similar to the unrelated cranes and herons, with a long neck, bill, and legs, but they are more heavy-set. They have large bills, with sizes and shapes that vary between genera, adapted to their different diets. Storks usually hunt by wading in shallow water, but some will also stalk through grasslands. Most storks eat frogs, fish, insects, earthworms, small birds, and small mammals. Some are also scavengers of carrion. Storks live all over the world, except for the North and South Pole. They live in a variety of habitats, and can survive in drier environments than other waterbirds, but they are most diverse and common in the tropics. Many stork species are migratory, and soar on thermals to conserve energy.

Storks range from being solitary breeders through loose breeding associations, to fully colonial, nesting in colonies of a few pairs to thousands of pairs. Some colonies may include other species of storks, cormorants, herons, egrets, ibises, and/or pelicans. Storks use trees in a variety of habitats to breed including forests, cities, farmlands, and large wetlands. Their nests are often very large and may be used for many years, with the pair returning and building onto it each year. Most storks are generally monogamous, but some species exhibit regular extra-pair breeding. Both parents take care of the young.

Like most families of aquatic birds, storks seem to have arisen in the Palaeogene, around 40–50 million years ago, with living genera dating back to the Middle Miocene (about 15 mya).

Propaganda under the cut:

The characteristic feeding method of storks involves standing or walking in shallow water and holding the bill submerged in the water. When contact is made with prey the bill reflexively snaps shut in 25 milliseconds, one of the fastest reactions known in any vertebrate. The stork is also able to sense whether its bill is making contact with prey or an inanimate object within those 25 milliseconds, and it is still not known how they do this.

Openbills (genus Anastomus) are specially adapted to feed on freshwater molluscs, particularly apple snails. They feed in small groups, and sometimes African Openbills (Anastomus lamelligerus) (image 4) ride on the backs of hippos while foraging. Having caught a snail it will return to land or at least to the shallows to eat it. The fine tip of the bill of the openbills is used to open the snail, and its saliva has a narcotic effect, which causes the snail to relax and simplifies the process of extraction.

Various terms are used to refer to groups of storks, two frequently used ones being a “muster” of storks and a “phalanx” of storks.

The Marabou Stork (Leptoptilos crumenifer) (image 2) is the largest stork, at a height of 152 cm (5 ft) tall and weight up to 8 kg (18 lb). With a wingspan of 3.2 m (10 ft 6 in), it joins the Andean Condor (Vultur gryphus) in having the widest wingspan of all living land birds.

Although it is sometimes reported that storks lack syrinxes and are mute, they do have syrinxes, and are capable of making some sounds, although they do not do so often. However, their syrinxes are "variably degenerate", and the syringeal membranes of some species are found between tracheal rings or cartilage, an unusual arrangement shared with the ovenbirds (family Furnariidae). Instead, storks mainly communicate by clattering their bills.

The two species in the genus Ephippiorhynchus are unique among storks for having colored sexual dimorphism. Saddle-billed Stork (Ephippiorhynchus senegalensis) (image 1) males have brown eyes and small yellow wattles, while the females have yellow eyes and no wattles. Black-necked Stork (Ephippiorhynchus asiaticus) males also have brown eyes while the females have yellow eyes.

Many ancient mythologies feature stories and legends involving storks. In Ancient Egypt, Saddle-billed Storks were seen as being amongst the most powerful animals and were used to represent the ba, the Ancient Egyptian conception of the soul, during the Old Kingdom.

Greek and Roman mythology portrays storks as models of parental devotion. Storks were thought to care for their aged parents, feeding them and even transporting them, and children's books depicted them as a model of filial values. The 3rd century Roman writer Aelian, noted in his De natura animalium that aged storks flew away to oceanic islands where they were transformed into humans as a reward for their loyalty towards their parents. The Greeks held that killing a stork could be punished with death.

According to European folklore, the White Stork (Ciconia ciconia) (see gif above) is responsible for bringing babies to new parents. German folklore held that storks found babies in caves or marshes and brought them to households in a basket on their backs or held in their beaks. The babies would then be given to the mother or dropped down the chimney. Households would notify when they wanted children by placing sweets for the stork on the windowsill. Subsequently, the folklore has spread around the world to the Philippines and countries in South America. In Slavic mythology and pagan religion, storks were thought to carry unborn souls from Vyraj to Earth in spring and summer. This belief still persists in the modern folk culture of many Slavic countries, in the simplified child story that "storks bring children into the world".

[i-draws-dinosaurs]

Would any dromaeosaurs have likely had bald heads like turkey vultures?

It's certainly possible, and I'd go so far as to say quite likely!

We do have some fossil evidence for dromaeosaurs with feathered heads:

Image sources: Tianyuraptor, Sinornithosaurus, Daurlong, Microraptor.

As for the rest though, we don't have a clear fossil of a bald-headed dromaeosaur! To be certain, we'd probably need to find specific impressions of naked skin around the head, which to my knowledge has not been found yet.

The feathered fossils above belong to either small (right side) or medium-sized (left side) dromaeosaurs, so it indicates that any dromaeosaurs up to a Velociraptor-type size certainly could have had feathered heads.

That being said, the level of head feathering is very variable in modern birds even within the same group. Some vultures have bald heads which may help with cleaning their faces and heat regulation, but there's much wider variation than you might expect! Even just within the clade Aegypiinae, we've got:

Image sources: hooded, griffon, red-headed, lappet-faced, white-headed, cinereous.

There's a whole range from nearly full plumage to fully naked skin folds to Justin Timberlake Ramen Hair, and I'd say there's no reason to think that dromaeosaurs and other feathered dinosaurs couldn't have had the same level of variation between species!

It's the kinda situation where in the absence of direct evidence, I'd consider varying levels of head baldness in dromaeosaurs as pretty reasonable speculation! So here's a Deinonychus decked out with a variety of different styles that are within the realms of possibility:

And that's not even taking into account that in a lot of bald-headed birds that skin space is prime real estate for all sorts of flippy flappy dangly bits and colours and lumps and bumps.

So basically, it's not like we can point at any particular dromaeosaurs and be like "that one probably had a bald head", but unless there's contrary evidence I feel it's very likely there was a lot of variation in how feathery the head was!

[tanktopdiaz]

You Just Smile and the Picture Sells

eddie-centric | gen | 1.8k | 8x12 Disconnected Coda Saturdays he goes to the northeastern part of town and spends the afternoon driving around lovely couples who couldn't care less for his picture of him, a toddler Chris, and Abuela nestled in a tight loveseat. Tips come in steady, and as the sun goes down he notices he's a bit more hypervigilant of the couples he's hauling around. Pretty dolled up women holding hands and giggling to each other, bulky men next to tiny twinks, a group of butch women filing into his Prius like it's a clown car and they're the dependent variables of his clown college thesis. or: Eddie installs a little picture frame in his car.

story under read more or read on ao3 <3

On Mondays Eddie likes to stock his air-vent frame with the picture of Chris at his first robotics meet, crouched down and squished between two mentors behind a little robot made to throw basketballs. Chris's glasses are covered in masking tape to make them blue since that's his team's color and Eddie wasn't going to drop money on a new pair at the time (the next year, he transferred to the middle school team - red and white color scheme. Much easier on the wardrobe).

Only one person's ever commented on it. It was a mom with two teens, both in the back huddled over their phones. The mom's in the passenger seat, anxiously adjusting the temperature to make sure the kids were getting A/C. "Ah, First Robotics? My niece is in it. He yours?" Eddie talks about Chris for the rest of the trip and at the end of it all, the mom puts her hand on his arm softly and says "best of luck at the next comp. I hope my niece's team kicks his team's ass, though." She tips an additional $10 and puts a note to spend it on goggles.

-----

Tuesdays, he finds a rhythm from 2pm-10pm with a picture of the 118 smiling back at him. Buck's hanging off his shoulder, Hen and Chim squished on their sides, Bobby's tilted and stretched face in the foreground as he takes the selfie of them all.

There's a bar on the west end of the city that hosts industry night on Tuesdays, and next to that a bar that offers karaoke coupons and discounts to nurses and cops. The discounts start at 3pm but the cover starts at 7pm, and he circles the nearest hospitals and attorneys offices for hours starting at 2pm. Rakes in the fuckin money. He's almost always picking up groups of 2 to 4 and everyone loves the picture and is never silent about it. He gets to say, "I used to be a firefighter, actually. Transfer down to El Paso didn't go so smooth," with a grimace and a forlorn look at the picture on his dash. They all sympathize with him, talk about their transfers to the city or their connection to firefighters and other emergency personnel. Theres even a couple who were once EMS personnel and they share anecdotes back and forth.

Once, he dropped off and picked up the same nurse 5 hours apart and when she gets in the car she insists on sitting in the front seat and getting all the details about each of them. He beams, stutters an "oh I could talk about them for hours" and he sits in front of her house for an additional 10 minutes cackling over the names Hen, Chimney, and Buck before she stumbles back in her house. $20 tip.

-----

Wednesdays he sleeps in.

The picture of the 118 and his influenced attitude from it all means he's made enough the day beforehand, so he drives Chris to school and drops back into sleep when he gets home. Picks Chris up from school, takes him to a movie or dinner or sits with him at chess practice. When he gets home he'll endure his parents until Chris is out of the room, growl out a "you do not dictate my relationship with my son", and take a couple rides into the night until his blood warms back up and his fists unfurl of their own accord.

He flips between two different pictures of him and Chris, one from Christmas and one from Easter. No one says anything - they don't have to - that's obviously his son. He's beaming with a kid in his hands, what else could it be? Sometimes his mind races. Do they think he's an absent father with only holiday pictures to show for it? Do they think this could be his nephew? Do they think he's doing this to provide? Despite the silence, he gets decent tips. Maybe because of the silence, actually.

-----

On Thursdays it's - surprise surprise - another picture of him and Chris. Buck and Bobby are in the background doing goofy faces, Eddie and Chris squished cheek to cheek with BBQ sauce decorating silly smiles of their own. Hen took the picture, a fried pickle hanging out of her mouth and a smudge of ranch on her cheek. It's nice to reminisce on in the morning when he picks up silent teens for school or half asleep business workers.

He picks the rides back up around 8pm, the same time most live music events in the city start opening their doors, and once it rolls around to the closing numbers his app starts pinging like crazy. "Oh my god this is adooooooooorable," crows every drunk women that pours into his prius. "You and - oooooooohhhh - is that your son?? He's a cutie patootie!!!!" they'll all but scream, party partners in the back both cringing and drunkenly egging their friend on. "Who's that in the back?" they'll ask, some continuing with no answer, "they look like family! Are they yours?" And Eddie will smile and nod and sometimes tear up when he speaks and they'll clutch their chest, tears in their own bloodshot eyes, and fawn over the picture until he drops them off at home.

50/50 on them raising their tips once they're in their own homes. Most of the tip increases come in the middle of the night, no doubt when they're coming down from their high and scrolling their phones to piece their night back together. They hover over the Uber app, gasp a smile, and remember him.

-----

Friday is much the same as Wednesday. Eddie puts a simple picture of him and Chris in his visor and takes Chris to school, survives off Thursday's tips until night comes and the clubs start to fill up then thin. He nearly overdoses on B12 as he prepares for a night going into the next day, but Friday partiers are a whole different breed down here, he finds. He keeps picking up men who try to intimidate him or make snide remarks about having a Prius in Texas where everything is supposed to be Bigger; women who bat their eyelashes and adjust their tops in his mirrors and pout out nonsensical questions when he's trying to make tight corners or convince them to be dropped off a block or two from their warehouse destination.

He doesn't get good tips on Fridays, unsurprisingly, and eventually decides he'd rather be with Chris. Chris would rather be with his friends though, and Eddie's happy to play chauffeur and hang in the background while Chris hops around town. His friends sometimes chuckle at the picture of the two of them and one evening there's a girl included. She sits in the front and smiles adoringly at the picture, cuts her eyes carefully up to Eddie's face every now and then. When he drops them off and drives to the back of the parking lot, he sees her lean towards Chris and put a flirty hand on his shoulder with a look towards him in the lot. Chris turns too, then turns back quickly, and the girl melts at whatever he says back.

He should get Buck on that pronto.

-----

Saturdays he goes to the northeastern part of town and spends the afternoon driving around lovely couples who couldn't care less for his picture of him, a toddler Chris, and Abuela nestled in a tight loveseat. Tips come in steady, and as the sun goes down he notices he's a bit more hypervigilant of the couples he's hauling around. Pretty dolled up women holding hands and giggling to each other, bulky men next to tiny twinks, a group of butch women filing into his Prius like it's a clown car and they're the dependent variables of his clown college thesis.

That first night, he hauls three people - a bored looking Latina in the front seat and two handsy young men in the back who keep glancing at him and toning their behaviours down. "I'm from LA," he blurts out 15 minutes into the 25 minute drive, cheeks flushing when they give him weary looks from the rearview mirror. "I know a - I have a lot of gay friends, so you're totally good to keep on, uh, what you were doing. No hate here." The boys are silent for the remainder of the drive and once they're out of the car the Latina in the front puts a soft hand on his arm and says, "they were awkward, but thank you. Texas isn't always kind to people like my brother." The curtain of hair and kind eyes don't escape him.

After that he decides on a picture of him and Buck - simple, out of uniform but perched next to each other on the loft island with the slightest lean into each other. Showing off his bisexual friend should surely make it easier to explain why they should find solace in his car. He keeps picking up obviously not-hetero couples and tenses his shoulders until he sees them look at the picture, then him, then give themselves private smug smiles. The picture worked as intended, he hums to himself. Everyone loves my bisexual friend. Is he supposed to NOT talk about his bisexual best friend to the gay people in his car who ask about him? Tips stay steady, but the ones who ride in silence still tip more.

His Sunday is really still Saturday, from the tip of the clock to 3 or 4am depending on his B12 intake. The gay people in his car get gayer, louder, drunker, kinder, and he finds that questions of his bisexual best friend start extending to him. "Aww, is that your partner?" And he says yes because it get him good tips. "Oh my god he's so hot" and Eddie will give a smug thank you and then they'll squeal, "you're in the picture too!!!" "How'd you two meet?" Hiccupping giggles through drunk lips when he talks about how much Buck hated him when they met and how quickly he nipped it in the bud.

As the night progresses it becomes more "you two look so happy" and "ugh, too cute, get it away from me" from a handful of singletons and "reminds me of me and my man" from the older crowd he picks up around the corner. Eventually he gets nothing but people dozing on his windows or silently staring ahead like they're processing the night. "Have you had a good night driving?" or "Been safe tonight, I hope." become the default small talk.

"He must be sick worrying about you out so late," an older woman tuts once, tapping the corner of the framed picture of the two of them. She's turned into the console with her other hand tight in her girlfriend's as the girlfriend leans head first against the passenger seat, drunk as a skunk.

"Nah," Eddie says with a tired grin. "He knows I'm coming home to him."

[sonic-the-hedgehog-2006]

GUN's decryption unit has presence in Soleanna, with the head of the unit, Frances, seeking to enlist local analysts in the military. After stating the "thinking work" is probably not Shadow's cup of tea given his apparent disposition for action-heavy missions, Shadow desires to "prove her wrong" by applying for the division.

After successfully completing the logic puzzles that follow, Frances begs for Shadow to join her team as with the tests results she estimates his IQ to be "about 200."

In another town mission, a mathematician named Alfano claims to have "a higher IQ than the famous Einstein" and regards Shadow as someone who's "always using muscle, and not enough brain." When Shadow completes his set of mathematics puzzles, Alfano becomes surprised and admits Shadow's brain is shockingly impressive. This makes sense, as scholarly sources tend to estimate Einstein's IQ as ranging between 140-160 (though he never took an official test, despite having been alive during their standardization). This humorously creates a range in which Shadow's IQ could be even higher than Alfano's, assuming Alfano's IQ is not many deviations higher than the high-average for Einstein.

Despite a proven accuracy on an individual level with low variance even in decade long control groups, IQ is often questioned as a quantifiable measure of "general intelligence." It is a score meant to measure relative understanding of academia and not definitive understanding, and does not measure broader forms of intelligence such as sociability and adaptiveness to a shifting median—things Shadow has been shown to struggle with, an example being his often portrayed lack of proficiency with modern computers (as in The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog and, to a lesser extent, Shadow the Hedgehog (2005)). That said, estimated proficiency in academia is regularly proven accurate based on IQ scoring above the median curve.

Shadow's IQ is over 6.5 deviations above the mean—a category often unnamed due to its rarity (though categorization is, again, often broad and inaccurate), and being within the 0.03 percentile (meaning Shadow's IQ range would be shared only by an estimated 2.4 million people on Earth). Worth noting is that—despite what could be assumed—medical studies show past instances of isolated memory loss don't affect a person's intelligence, general knowledge, awareness or attention span, but on occasion PTSD has been shown to cause decline in those categories listed (with no evidence of variability by the severity of trauma experienced).

The number for graduates specifically is difficult to find from scholarly sources, but students pursuing a PhD have an average IQ of 125. That said, and again, Shadow would still likely lack the general skills required to acquire such a degree in modern society.