#decomposition patterns

[skeetsk]

Another double knit tapestry! This one was much smaller than my last one, using the yarn left over from that project. (did I run out and have a visible color change? maybe)

As before this pattern was free on ravelry, but I did change the bottom + added tassels to tack the edges together. I'll have to find a cool stick to hang this one on, the dowel seems a little too clean for this project lol

[magical-reid]

could i pretty please request prompt #18 with spencer reid and a forensic scientist reader? would be super duper cool if she was part of the bones (tv show) crew, as i’ve always thought them and cm should have done a crossover. thanks!! ❤️

The Science of Luck

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: 1K

Prompt: 18: "I thought I had the worst luck, until I met you"

Summary: Dr. Spencer Reid, a staunch skeptic of luck, finds himself questioning his beliefs after an encounter with a clumsy forensic scientist, who joins the BAU team on a challenging case. Despite their initial bickering and contrasting expertise, the two begin to form an unlikely partnership while investigating a serial killer, leading to a surprising and potentially life-changing connection.

Dr. Spencer Reid didn’t believe in luck. Probability? Sure. Coincidence? Of course. But luck? That was just a cognitive bias humans relied on to explain randomness.

Yet, as he stood ankle-deep in Virginia mud, his pristine pants ruined, watching as yet another forensic scientist nearly slipped and took out an entire evidence table, he found himself reconsidering.

“I thought I had the worst luck,” he muttered, barely dodging a flying clipboard, “until I met you.”

The forensic scientist in question—you—wobbled but managed to right yourself before disaster struck. You shot him a glare as you readjusted your Jeffersonian ID badge. “Not my fault this crime scene is a swamp. And it’s not luck, it’s physics. Slippery surfaces, unstable ground, and a lack of proper traction—”

“That sounds an awful lot like an excuse for bad luck,” Spencer countered.

You huffed but couldn’t argue. You were a forensic scientist, not a field agent, and being thrown into an active crime scene with the BAU was not in your usual job description. You were used to working in the pristine, controlled environment of the Jeffersonian Institute—not chasing serial killers through the backwoods of Virginia.

And yet, here you were.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It all started with a body—or rather, bodies. Multiple skeletal remains had been discovered in various locations across the D.C.-Virginia border, the work of a particularly meticulous serial killer. The BAU had been called in due to the pattern of abductions matching an existing profile, but given the advanced state of decomposition, the FBI had reached out to the Jeffersonian for forensic assistance.

That’s how you ended up here—cold, wet, and questioning all of your life choices.

Agent Hotchner, ever the professional, barely batted an eye at the tension between you and Reid. “Dr. (L/N), thank you for assisting us. Dr. Brennan recommended you personally.”

You straightened your back. Temperance Brennan doesn’t recommend people lightly. “I specialize in isotopic analysis and forensic taphonomy. If your unsub is moving bodies across state lines, I can determine where they were before they ended up here.”

Hotch nodded approvingly. “That would be extremely useful.”

Reid, however, still looked skeptical. “That’s assuming there’s a pattern in the body disposal locations. If the killer is deliberately choosing random drop sites—”

You crossed your arms. “Then I can still tell you about the soil composition, insect activity, and post-mortem damage, which could help narrow down a timeline. It’s basic forensic science, Doctor Reid.”

A small smirk twitched at the corner of Hotch’s lips as he turned away. “Work with Dr. Reid and see what you can find.”

You and Reid stared at each other for a beat too long before sighing simultaneously.

“Fine,” you said.

“Fine,” he echoed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Jeffersonian, you had the advantage. This was your turf, your lab, your meticulously organized work environment. And Spencer Reid—despite his genius—was a little out of place.

“Don’t touch that,” you warned as he hovered near a set of isotopic samples.

“I wasn’t going to,” he shot back, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You raised a brow. “I literally just watched you reaching for it.”

“It was a reflex!”

“Uh-huh.”

Despite the bickering, you had to admit—Reid was sharp. He picked up on patterns even before you finished running tests, and while his knowledge of forensic anthropology was limited, he had an uncanny ability to connect seemingly random details.

Together, you started to piece together the unsub’s movements. The isotopic analysis revealed that the victims had spent time in an area with a unique mineral composition—suggesting an underground water source near limestone deposits.

Reid’s encyclopedic brain immediately pulled up a connection. “There’s an abandoned mining town about twenty miles west of the last body dump site. It was shut down in the 1980s, but the underground aquifers match your analysis.”

Your eyes widened. “If the bodies were stored there first, that could explain some of the inconsistencies in decomposition rates.”

He nodded excitedly. “Exactly. We need to check it out.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The abandoned town was eerie. Old buildings, rusting equipment, and an unsettling silence. You were with Reid, Morgan, and Booth—because of course Booth had insisted on coming along.

“What are the chances the unsub is actually still here?” you asked, glancing around nervously.

“Statistically?” Reid started, but before he could finish, a gunshot rang out.

“DOWN!” Morgan shouted, pushing you behind cover as bullets ricocheted off the crumbling brick walls.

Your heart pounded as you scrambled for safety. “I am so not cut out for this!”

“Yeah, well, welcome to our world,” Booth muttered, drawing his weapon.

Reid, crouched beside you, looked equally shaken but determined. “Stay close to me.”

“Not like I have many options!”

A tense firefight ensued, but the BAU and Booth’s tactical skills won out. The suspect was apprehended, and the nightmare was over.

Mostly.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Jeffersonian, you were still rattled. Lab work was one thing. Nearly getting shot was another.

“You okay?” Reid’s voice was softer than usual.

You exhaled. “I will be. Just… not used to being a target.”

“Statistically speaking—”

“Reid,” you warned.

He smirked. “Right. Not helping.”

There was a beat of silence before he hesitated. “For what it’s worth… I think your bad luck might just be situational.”

You gave him a look. “Says the guy who gets kidnapped at least once a year?”

His lips quirked. “Fair point.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. “Guess we’re both unlucky then.”

He nodded. “Yeah. But… maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I mean, we did solve the case together.”

You tilted your head. “Are you saying we make a good team?”

Reid shrugged, but there was a hint of a smile. “I’m saying… maybe luck isn’t the worst thing. As long as you have the right person to balance it out.”

You studied him for a moment before smirking. “Are you flirting with me, Dr. Reid?”

His ears turned red. “W-what? No! I mean—maybe? I just meant that—”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe you were unlucky. But if it meant crossing paths with Spencer Reid?

Maybe, just maybe… luck wasn’t so bad after all.

[kelsh]

A (somewhat) accurate process of Mike rotting after he got scooped because I'm literally obsessed with the stages of decomposition and I've been curious about it since seeing that cutscene in SL.

disclaimer!!! I did not use gore photos or non-con photos of the deceased, my references were pigs or medical literature

Close-ups below + decomp timeline:

Stage 1 - Immediately after to a couple hours since death, Pallor Mortis (paling of skin) and Algor Mortis (gradual loss of body heat) occurs. Livor Mortis (pooling of blood to extremities) begins to set in.

Stage 2 - A couple hours to a couple days after Michael's death, Livor Mortis has become fixed, giving the lowest extremities on his body (hands, feet) a purplish hue. Rigor Mortis (stiffening of muscles) occurs and fades after a few days. Autolysis (destruction of cells by the self) causes loosening of skin, fluids released gives it a sheen. Eyes start to cloud.

Stage 3 - A couple days to almost a week since his death. He should be bloating like a balloon but the giant fucking hole in his stomach from the scooper releases all gases (he stinks.) Ennard puppeting his body made it hard for flies to land but they eventually got there and the maggots have hatched. Continued decay of his flesh turns him greenish and makes his skin slough off. Liquefied meat seeps from his orifices. Eyes are fully clouded.

Stage 4 - A week to a couple weeks since the scooper. Bro is experiencing premature male pattern baldness. He's all squishy and slimy from the body fluid and rotting. Exposed parts become a purplish-black colour and the maggots are graduating to further life stages. Eyeballs cave in, get eaten, or in Michael's case, pop out.

Stage 5 - A couple weeks to a month since bro's death. The last chunks of his hair are holding on by a miracle. Most of his outer flesh is eaten away and is almost entirely a purplish-black. Maggots have mostly turned into flies and left for college.

Stage 6 - Ennard realizes they can't stay in a zombie anymore and decides to dip. Leaves Michael a fresh set of eyes as a "sorry" gift. His rotting has thankfully stopped but it'll take a while for him to regenerate. Or not. I have no idea how remnant works. For now, he's basically a sack of rotted flesh and exposed bone. Bald.

This entire post is essentially-

[xponentialdesign]

Quilted Decomposition Pattern 1080p - 60 frames - 50 FPS

[hughiecampbelle]

Autopsy (Will Graham Oneshot)

Character/s: Will, Hannibal mention

Word Count: 1,363

Tag List: @locke-writes

A/N: Heavily inspired by the freezing temperatures that have come on suddenly :) I just love the winter and the snow. Something about it makes me feel alive lol. Anyways, I am having so much fun with these fics!!! I was really afraid I wouldn't be able to stick with it, and ik it's only the second day, but I have a good feeling. I have a lot more to watch lol bc I want to write for Hannibal too, I just feel like I can write Will better, if that makes sense? I know him better. Idk lol. I hope you enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated!! ❤❤❤❤❤❤

WRITING EVENT 🔪🩸

I still think of you. The words come to his mind as they have constantly, consistently, since the day you died. Not dead, he corrects, but murdered. The day you were murdered. Taken from him with violence, with cruelty, without remorse. Small things. Big things, too. Reminders. Lately, the change of the season, autumn to winter. The long, dark nights he searches in the linen closet for an extra blanket. The way the stars seem a little brighter. How the leaves, what remains of them, shudder in the wind. The hot water he shivers under, trying to warm himself up. The air is sharp, nipping and biting at his skin as he stands in the yard, in the road, in the woods. Shivering. The frost in the grass, on the pavement, sparkles, threatening to melt in the sunlight. The apples of his cheeks growing rosy, his face shielded by the collar of his coat, by the frame of his glasses, by the knit hat he wears that belonged to you. 

I still think of you, he chants. A quiet, naive, foolish part of him hopes you know. I Hope you can see him, feel him. He doesn’t bow to a higher being. He does not break his back and contort his spine in a manner of prayer. He does not step forward between the doors of a church, a temple, a house of holiness. This is as close as he’ll get to believing, to worshipping. Standing here, the temperatures dropping, the sky a watercolor painting of pinks and oranges, purples and blues, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. He can crawl into the minds of killers, of degenerates, of the insane. That is easy. The crime scenes spell it out for him in a language no one else seems to speak, to read, to understand. He can watch as they stab and slice and suffocate without flinching. A witness to the filth of humanity. What he cannot do, what he cannot understand, is your perspective. He has studied the autopsy reports. He has memorized every inflicted wound, every mark of self-defense. He has touched the objects, the weapons, that were used against you. But when he tries to get into your head, your mindset, there is a blankness that mimics untouched snow. 

Were you scared? Did you beg for your life? Did the infinity that is death creep up on you while you slipped away or was it thrust upon you like a white hot pain? Did you cry? Call out for your mother, your father, for him? They found you in the snow. A shallow grave dug before a storm, a blizzard. It made things harder. Slowed decomposition. You were missing for two weeks. That’s all. Fourteen days. He smiles despite himself. The absurdity of it all. He should have fought harder. He should have threatened until he got his way. Of course he had a bad feeling. They all did. But he wasn’t prepared for this. You didn’t come home. Your side of the bed sat empty, undisturbed. Your boots, your coat and hat and gloves hung with care by the front door, left on the mat so you wouldn’t track in slush and snow. The books you were reading, the case files you were analyzing, all waited on the coffee table, expecting you home at any time. Even the dogs, unaware of the situation, slept soundly. They knew where you lived. They stalked you for weeks on end. It was their pattern, their modus operandi. They wanted you. They loved you. And that is why they had to kill you. 

Killed because of him. His therapist disagrees. It wasn’t anything he did. It wasn’t anything he could have prevented. That’s a lie, he thinks, but doesn’t vocalize. A nervous habit: bringing your engagement ring to his lips, holding it there, before dropping it back on the chain around his neck. He waited a long time to get it back. Finally, Jack agreed. He hasn’t taken it off since. He tucks it under his shirt, the cold of the ring against his skin. You haven’t been sleeping, Hannibal states, and Will has no choice but to agree. Bruise-like circles painted beneath his eyes. How can he? How can he when the bed is so large and there is a gaping wound where you used to lie? How can he rest when he knows how you’ve suffered? The instruments used to hurt, to kill. He ends up downstairs, on the couch, his eyelids heavy. The image of your body on that metal slab. You must’ve been cold, that much he knows. You ran out without shoes, your socks, mismatched with silly patterns, thick with frozen mud. Without your jacket, without insulation, your thin shirt torn and ripped. Cut open. They were in your house. They watched you. How can he sleep when he sees a pair of eyes, bright in the dark, staring him down. Watching him. Waiting. 

It should have been me. The thought never leaves him. He can shun it away for a few fleeting moments. Between sips of coffee, tea. Before and after he spits his toothpaste in the sink. As he cleans his glasses on the hem of his shirt. Should, Hannibal points out, is a dangerous word. He nods, but does not comprehend, does not care for. The killer learned your routines. They knew when he would be out, when you were alone, when you were at your most vulnerable. He never should have. But how could? Don’t. This is my fault. The idea is sickening and, strangely, comforting. He ruminates. He sits for hours in the morning, at night, in the time between lectures and crime scenes. He goes over what he could put together. The house, your home, littered with investigators, with yellow tape and analysts. Collecting hair, fur, fingerprints. He has nowhere to go. Him and the dogs staying with Hannibal. Just until they’re done, he assured him, but he didn’t mind. When the time came to unlock the front door, to walk through and re-enter the life he’d put on hold, he couldn’t do it. Backed away from it like it was wielding a knife. Just recently has he been able to face it. It was as if nothing had ever happened. Your things right where you left them. Even the dishes, a glass, a mug, a plate, exactly as before, nestled in the sink. Dirty. Unwashed. Begging to be scrubbed clean.  They wouldn’t come after him, that he was painfully aware of. They got what they wanted. He was of no use to them. Not anymore. He could bloody his hands and knees, begging and pleading, but they are gone. Looking for their next victim. Their prey. If they’re not going to hurt him, hunt him down as they had done to you, he will punish himself instead. He will stand in the cold, the frozen temperatures, and wait. He will watch his own breath until it’s too dark, until the night takes over and the sky, inky black, mocks him. Another day you have not seen, experienced, lived. He will shed everything until the thinnest layer. He will put himself in your place, laying in the snow, waiting for his skin to grow numb. If he could he would bury himself. Dig his own grave. But the ground is too thick, too hard, and so he must wait. He must imagine. He must be patient. When it’s become too much, when he is sure he can no longer feel his limbs, he will drag himself back to the house, the dogs, the lonely bed. And he will try again the next night, thankful the winter lasts as long as she does. Dreading the days the sun waits to set and the snow melts, when the wildflowers bloom and the cold dissipates. It’s only been a year and yet, it’s felt like a lifetime. How much longer can he carry on without you? How much longer can he live this life where he cannot sleep, he cannot eat, he cannot find your killer? I don’t know, he shrugs. I don’t know.

[tvstaticanger]

they match each others freak (coffee date to discuss blood splatter patterns and decomposition rates)

[mutant-distraction]

4,700-year-old ball of yarn discovered near Lake Bienne in Lüscherz, Switzerland, dated to at least 2700 BC

In the Neolithic period, the development of textiles was a significant leap forward for early societies. While direct evidence like the 4,700-year-old yarn ball is rare, indirect clues have painted a broader picture. Impressions on pottery, discovered at various sites, reveal patterns and techniques of weaving, indicating an established practice. Tools such as spindle whorls and loom weights, essential for spinning and weaving, have been unearthed as well.

In some exceptional cases, actual cloth fragments have been found, often preserved in unique conditions like bogs that prevent decomposition. Additionally, Neolithic art and iconography occasionally depict clothing and textile patterns.

source: Cosmos University

[covaleka]

The captain is the only harbinger that I liked initially and the appearance of which I was waiting for. And I'm happy with the plot with him. I watched different videos, and I wanted to draw him young and cursed. I saw that his decomposition is usually shown in black and blue "patterns" like Dainsleif's. But I thought that maybe decomposition could be like infections in the Rift and the Kingdom of Night 🤔

(I tried not to spoil his mystery ha ha)

I'm actively playing genshin again.This has never happened before, and here it is again :'D

I decided to quickly go through the main plot and scored on the tasks in the tribes, now I'm going through them ✌

[cinnamongorll]

a fragile line - chapter 1

read on ao3! (111k words) | next chapter | masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC

Story summary: three years ago, Juliet escaped her father's religious survivor camp, ending up in the Boston QZ. Juliet created a life for herself in Boston, desperate to forget the trauma of her upbringing. One day, Juliet arrives home to find a mysterious letter which forces her to return to her home town. Juliet can't travel the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape alone, so she enlists the help of the grumpy and, at times, frightening man she works alongside: Joel Miller.

Tags: extreme slow burn, age gap, older man/younger woman, protective joel, jealous joel, hurt/comfort, pov third person, mutual pining, angst, sexual tension, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, feral joel, parental abuse.

Word count: 2k

Chapter 1: ‘Marked for Death’

Death coated the back of Juliet’s throat.

This was not unusual. The aroma of rot and decomposition was commonplace in the body disposal department of the Boston QZ. However, if Juliet could actually taste it simmering on her tongue, it meant one thing: she needed a new mask. 

The threadbare fabric tied tight around her nose and mouth was singed earlier in the day when her shift partner tossed a body, with more force than necessary, into the large fire pit in the middle of the square. A few wayward sparks had settled on her mask, gradually burning through the cheap material. 

Juliet often wondered how the sickly sweet smell of decay could still remain when fire and smoke cleansed the air.

It didn’t surprise her, though: death always lingered. 

It was hour eight of her usual Tuesday shift. One more hour and Juliet could collect her ration cards, find her way to the nearest fabric stall then drag herself back to her tiny apartment. Exhaustion weighed heavy on her today, settling in her bones and restricting her movements. Her shift followed a pattern: walk to the loading truck, pick up a body, place it in the fire and try not to look as the skin blackened and blistered. 

The same task, the same people, every week, every month and every year of her residence in the Boston QZ. Every day was a repeat of the previous but she was safe and she was hidden, which was all she could hope for. 

More bodies, more fire and her shift was over. Another day completed. Juliet used the stained fabric of her t-shirt to wipe the ash from her hands and forehead as she joined the ration queue. She was in line behind Joel Miller, a man who had worked at body disposal as long as she had, probably longer actually.

Tall, with broad shoulders and dark brown hair speckled with grey and ash, Joel Miller towered above her with more than his height. He was impressive, intimidating. Juliet watched as he stretched his neck to the side and wiped the sweat beading on his skin, his shoulders were tight, his stance solid. 

Joel had a presence difficult to ignore, being around him always felt like the air had a little less oxygen, as though he took up a bit more space than everyone else. He didn’t talk much, or ever really, just a few grunts and hard instructions grumbled under his breath to whoever was partnered with him on shift. 

Juliet found herself drawn to Joel, despite their lack of interactions. Her eyes would follow his movements as they worked, observing his cool indifference as he performed their grim duty. She would notice him around the QZ, too. He was a ghostly presence, often found haunting street corners and disappearing in a blink of an eye. 

Juliet knew little about Joel, only that he sold drugs to her weird neighbour who had drunkenly offered her some while attempting to break into her apartment the other night. She added another lock to her door after that.

“Next!” barked the ration officer, shaking Juliet from her thoughts. 

She took a step forward and watched as Joel disappeared around the corner, shuffling ration cards in his smoke covered hands. Juliet wondered if he, too, had grown entirely numb to their gruesome occupation.

Juliet wondered if something worse, something more ghastly, haunted his daily life. 

After collecting her ration cards and buying a new mask, Juliet made her way home to her crumbling one bedroom apartment. Home was perhaps a strong word, what with its peeling twenty-year wallpaper, mould stained ceilings and less than ideal neighbours. But it was her’s. 

Turning the corner onto her street, Juliet’s eyes landed on a hunched form on the front step of her building. Juliet let out a sigh, quickened her steps and forced a smile onto her face. Margaret was waiting for her.

Margaret was her eighty-five year old neighbour who lived on the bottom floor of their building. She enjoyed long conversations, hard liquor, and gossiping about the inner workings of her neighbour's lives. 

“Juliet!” Margaret gasped out.

“Hi, Margaret,” Juliet called as she approached, her plastered smile beginning to falter as Margaret struggled to stand.

Juliet moved to hold the woman’s frail arms, she was frantic, her hands grasping at Juliet’s shoulders, desperate to gain her full attention.

“No, you must listen,” Margaret began, before doubling over, releasing a series of strangled coughs and gasps.

“Someone,” she coughed. “Someone was here…” croaked Margaret while pointing her shaking hand behind her, towards the door. 

“What? Who?” Juliet asked, she had never seen Margaret so panicked before. 

“Oh it was awful,” Margaret began, once again clutching Juliet’s arms, her arthritic fingers formed in a vice-like grip. 

“I was knitting at my dining table, working on my sweater… I must show you Juliet, it’s looking so wonderful, I used…”

“Stay focused,” Juliet interrupted, her voice soft and pleading. “What happened?”

“Yes! So, then I heard what sounded like someone marching through the hallway,” Margaret continued, her words quick and tense. 

“I knew it wasn’t yourself or Kenny because you were both working. So I got up and looked out my peep-hole.” Margaret’s voice had grown quieter, now almost a whisper.

“And I watched as two men with dark jackets walked past my door and headed upstairs”

“Next thing I know, I hear this horrendous crash. Now, I know it must have been bad because I could hear it! And you know how terrible my hearing is.”

Shock covered Juliet’s features, their apartment building had always been quiet, always lucky to avoid the crime raging the Boston QZ. 

“Did you see them leave?” Juliet asked, her voice urgent.

“Yes, thank god,” Margaret answered. “But dear… I think it was your apartment they went into, and by the sound of it, they surely broke down the door.”

Fuck, Juliet thought. Her heart now feverishly pumping the familiar blaze of fear throughout her body. “Stay here,” Juliet ordered, her voice hard as she moved to release her arms from the old woman’s grip. “I’ll go check it out.”

“Please be careful,” Margaret urged, clasping her hands together in a silent prayer. 

Stepping into the building, Juliet paused, listening. So familiar with the hum of her neighbours’ usual routines, Juliet could recognise any foreign noise. But no sound was unusual, nothing was amiss… that she could hear anyway. 

Feeling somewhat certain no strangers were lurking in the building, ready to emerge from a dark corner and grab her, Juliet decided to keep moving.

Climbing the steps to the first floor, her body was on high alert; any weariness from her gruelling shift was gone, adrenaline now coated her muscles. Only a sharp, steady focus remained. 

Reaching her apartment, Juliet stopped, her feet frozen. The door lay open with three of her four locks fractured, surrounded by splintered wood and chipped paint. The fourth lock lay on the floor by her feet, where it must have fallen after being brutally pried from the door. Juliet felt a sinking feeling deep in her gut. Each lock had become an emblem of her security in the Boston QZ. Now they were shattered. A stark reminder that her safety was never guaranteed. 

Juliet reached out, her fingers grazing the fractured wood as she gingerly pushed the door all the way open, moving into her apartment. A deep breath and a long exhale later, Juliet stood in her dining area, eyes now locked on a piece of folded paper on her kitchen table. 

She moved closer, Juliet’s body had lost its stamina, her limbs weighed her down. Each step towards the yellowed piece of paper was like wading through dark, chilled water. 

When she was close enough to recognise the handwriting, everything stilled. The air, the room, her beating heart… all slowing around her. A chorus of no, no, no, no, no, surged through her mind, spiralling inward, forming a shield around the memories threatening to resurface at the sight of that familiar scrawl. 

One hand gripped the edge of the table, tangled in the tablecloth, while the other tentatively lifted the paper. ‘My sweet Juliet’ it read in writing she knew so intimately it could have been etched on her heart. Carved with a sharp, brutal knife. 

A high pitched ringing enveloped her mind, numbing all sound apart from the echo of her shallow breaths. Juliet’s ash caked fingernails traced the edge of the worn paper, she pulled it apart to reveal a message: 

‘Juliet, 

How does it feel living so far from home? Surrounded by strangers. 

I admit I was shocked that night you left, I wondered what more you could desire, out in the wasteland of our world, that I had not provided you with? I imagine you have come to the conclusion, by now, that there is nothing else worth living for than the love of our lord. You see, I have eyes and ears in places you could never imagine. My men know the power of our lord and live with his blessing every day. I sent these men to find you, Juliet. I sent them to bring you this message. 

I have your friend Ethan in my care now, he has taken your place until you return to me. I have every hope that will be soon my dear, Juliet. He, too, screams when the judgement of our lord is upon him.  

Travel safely; the lord does not bless the sinners of this earth, 

Your father.’  

Ethan… No.  

Three years, three blissful years only focused on her own survival, liberated from the torture of her childhood. She left Ethan behind, she thought he would be safe. She was wrong, so very wrong.

Why, though, had her father waited so long to find her? To threaten her with Ethan’s safety? His life? She must have hidden well, burrowed herself so deep in the mundane of everyday QZ life, that even her father’s men, dotted about the country, had not found her for three years. 

Yet now her nameless existence had come to an end, slaughtered in a matter of seconds. Juliet’s hand clenched, crushing the paper within her palm. 

She had to go back. For Ethan, she would go back. 

The thought alone made her choke on her breath, gasping for air in the silent room.

Experience had taught her not to take her father’s threats lightly. 

Her journey to Boston was monstrous. Juliet witnessed sights which forever scarred the insides of her eyelids, appearing before her on dark and sleepless nights. Could she travel that distance again? Alone? Knowing what’s out there? No… she would die and so would Ethan. 

Juliet stumbled to her moth-eaten couch and sank into the decaying cushions. She reached her shaking hands to her eyes and pressed her fingers to her eyelids, pushing harder until only a dark nothingness remained. Her life in the Boston QZ was over…for Ethan she would return to the man who haunted her every step, his existence always reminding her she would never be fully free. 

Reluctance acceptance washed over her. For Ethan she would return to her prison, almost assuredly never to escape again. 

Removing her hands from her eyes, Juliet released a trembling sigh. Accepting her powerlessness brought a distance from her emotions. The thought of Ethan and the immediacy of the situation had started to drown out her terror and regret, leaving behind a cold numbness. 

In her emotionless stupor, Juliet started to plan her way out of the QZ.

A loose floorboard hid a map and a variety of makeshift weapons, including a switchblade which Juliet liked to keep sharp. Both were now on the coffee-table before her, Juliet hunched over the map tracing her journey with the tip of her blade.

There was one problem she couldn’t solve: this was not a journey she could make alone. Juliet survived her journey to Boston on sheer luck and willpower. She would risk her own life, but not Ethan’s. She had to get there alive.

Her blade stilled, its tip pierced through the rough paper into the hardwood table. Juliet’s racing thoughts had settled on the one person she knew had both spent a significant amount of time outside of the QZ and had a route out…

Joel Miller. 

Fuck.

[mybeingthere]

Francis Offman, born 1987 in Butare, Rwanda, lives in Bologna.

Exhibition "Weaving Stories", 29.5. – 31.8.2025

"The walls of the stairwell that leads to Francis Offman’s exhibition Weaving Stories are covered in dried coffee grounds. The dark tactile material transforms the narrow entrance to the exhibition space on the first floor into an immersive olfactory experience.

Coffee is both at the core of Francis Offman conceptual understanding of painting as well as a signifier of the two worlds that are connected within the artist’s life: he grew up in Rwanda and witnessed the genocide in 1994, during which extremists from the Hutu majority murdered between 800,000 and 1,000,000 people – most of the victims were Tutsi, but moderate Hutu were also killed. In 1999, Offman emigrated to Italy, where he has lived ever since. Whereas coffee culture is an integral part of Italian identity today, it wasn’t embedded in Rwandan society until German colonial rule (1897–1916). Coffee was grown, for export only, in areas farmed by local people whose livelihoods were destroyed and that were forced to work on the colonial plantations.

Offman started working with coffee grounds when opening the last package his mother brought him from Rwanda. The loss of his homeland, migration and separation, the traumatic experiences of his parents and the longing for the Rwanda of his childhood are evident in every one of his works.

To prevent decomposition, Offman prepares the coffee grounds with glue and primer to create colour fields on canvas. The meticulous, almost old masterly processes he applies in his work are firmly grounded in the Italian art historical canon. The artist considers his assemblages, which are animated by different textures and materialities, “abstract paintings”. Sometimes materials protrude over the edges of the unstretched canvasses, further emphasising their haptic and three-dimensional potential. Despite conveying a certain lyrical spontaneity, Offman’s works are made in a time-consuming process to prevent them from shrinking or tearing. Although they speak of a dedicated engagement with media-specific and technical questions, they cannot be reduced to an apolitical formalism; on the contrary, they are infused with the artist’s life and the history of (neo-)colonialism.

Offman’s artistic process begins before the actual work on canvas: with the gathering of found and gifted materials that not only create shapes and gestures, but also hold individual histories and cultural contexts. What was once due to the artist’s precarious situation has now become his distinguishing feature: the exchange and encounter with different people who provide him with materials – Rwanda has an especially strong tradition of oral storytelling – are an important part of this work. At the beginning of his practice, the artist used gifted dowry bedlinen as support for his paintings. Patterns are created by using clothes that once belonged to his mother. Scraps of paper come from shoeboxes. Cut-off collars are a reference to a political gesture of resistance against the authorities by people in Rwanda. Oftentimes, expired gauze bandages he once gathered during a residency form gestural strokes. They refer to the body and evoke a sense of vulnerability while at the same time pointing to the distribution of expired medical products to aid projects in Africa.

For Offman, his paintings are like sacred objects – the immersion into their creative and destructive energies is a form of healing and therapy that has the potential for transformation. Or in the words of the artist: “I love working with my hands. When you engage with my paintings, you can almost smell the coffee or lavender. I enjoy how different surfaces create unique sensations, how colours interact with textures, and how this interaction gives rise to a visual language that speaks to people. This is why I like experimenting with different materials. When balanced correctly, they form a language that allows me to connect with others, evoke or preserve emotions, and explore deep questions about life.”

[kerosene-in-a-blender]

Currently mulling over how all the corpses encountered by the expedition in "Fathom" are all described as being in a condition akin to bog mummies, which in our world occur when a body is submerged in an anaerobic bog, because those anaerobic conditions prevent decomposition from occurring in the same way it can in aerobic environments. Also mulling over the fact that the Fold at the depths The Ship is current at is described as thick, more of a jam consistency than the fog it's described as in the Shallows. So it seems to me like The Ship has gotten deep enough that it's currently traveling through some form of Fold sapropel (especially because the interface between the water above a sapropel and the sapropel itself can be extremely gradual) the conditions in which result in the decomposition patterns seen in the corpses that are just, everywhere down there.

[compneuropapers]

Interesting Papers for Week 44, 2024

The role of the human hippocampus in decision-making under uncertainty. Attaallah, B., Petitet, P., Zambellas, R., Toniolo, S., Maio, M. R., Ganse-Dumrath, A., … Husain, M. (2024). Nature Human Behaviour, 8(7), 1366–1382.

Modeling hippocampal spatial cells in rodents navigating in 3D environments. Aziz, A., Patil, B. K., Lakshmikanth, K., Sreeharsha, P. S. S., Mukhopadhyay, A., & Chakravarthy, V. S. (2024). Scientific Reports, 14, 16714.

Anterior cingulate cortex provides the neural substrates for feedback-driven iteration of decision and value representation. Chen, W., Liang, J., Wu, Q., & Han, Y. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 6020.

Firing rate adaptation affords place cell theta sweeps, phase precession, and procession. Chu, T., Ji, Z., Zuo, J., Mi, Y., Zhang, W., Huang, T., … Wu, S. (2024). eLife, 12, e87055.4.

Non-Hebbian plasticity transforms transient experiences into lasting memories. Faress, I., Khalil, V., Hou, W.-H., Moreno, A., Andersen, N., Fonseca, R., … Nabavi, S. (2024). eLife, 12, e91421.3.

Gaze-centered gating, reactivation, and reevaluation of economic value in orbitofrontal cortex. Ferro, D., Cash-Padgett, T., Wang, M. Z., Hayden, B. Y., & Moreno-Bote, R. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 6163.

Modulation of alpha oscillations by attention is predicted by hemispheric asymmetry of subcortical regions. Ghafari, T., Mazzetti, C., Garner, K., Gutteling, T., & Jensen, O. (2024). eLife, 12, e91650.3.

Contributions of cortical neuron firing patterns, synaptic connectivity, and plasticity to task performance. Insanally, M. N., Albanna, B. F., Toth, J., DePasquale, B., Fadaei, S. S., Gupta, T., … Froemke, R. C. (2024). Nature Communications, 15, 6023.

Consequences of eye movements for spatial selectivity. Intoy, J., Li, Y. H., Bowers, N. R., Victor, J. D., Poletti, M., & Rucci, M. (2024). Current Biology, 34(14), 3265-3272.e4.

Prediction error determines how memories are organized in the brain. Kennedy, N. G., Lee, J. C., Killcross, S., Westbrook, R. F., & Holmes, N. M. (2024). eLife, 13, e95849.3.

Neural Representation of Valenced and Generic Probability and Uncertainty. Kim, J.-C., Hellrung, L., Grueschow, M., Nebe, S., Nagy, Z., & Tobler, P. N. (2024). Journal of Neuroscience, 44(30), e0195242024.

Selective consolidation of learning and memory via recall-gated plasticity. Lindsey, J. W., & Litwin-Kumar, A. (2024). eLife, 12, e90793.3.

A synergistic workspace for human consciousness revealed by Integrated Information Decomposition. Luppi, A. I., Mediano, P. A., Rosas, F. E., Allanson, J., Pickard, J., Carhart-Harris, R. L., … Stamatakis, E. A. (2024). eLife, 12, e88173.4.

Memorability shapes perceived time (and vice versa). Ma, A. C., Cameron, A. D., & Wiener, M. (2024). Nature Human Behaviour, 8(7), 1296–1308.

Mixed Representations of Sound and Action in the Auditory Midbrain. Quass, G. L., Rogalla, M. M., Ford, A. N., & Apostolides, P. F. (2024). Journal of Neuroscience, 44(30), e1831232024.

Neural activity ramps in frontal cortex signal extended motivation during learning. Regalado, J. M., Corredera Asensio, A., Haunold, T., Toader, A. C., Li, Y. R., Neal, L. A., & Rajasethupathy, P. (2024). eLife, 13, e93983.3.

Using synchronized brain rhythms to bias memory-guided decisions. Stout, J. J., George, A. E., Kim, S., Hallock, H. L., & Griffin, A. L. (2024). eLife, 12, e92033.3.

Cortical plasticity is associated with blood–brain barrier modulation. Swissa, E., Monsonego, U., Yang, L. T., Schori, L., Kamintsky, L., Mirloo, S., … Friedman, A. (2024). eLife, 12, e89611.4.

Structural and sequential regularities modulate phrase-rate neural tracking. Zhao, J., Martin, A. E., & Coopmans, C. W. (2024). Scientific Reports, 14, 16603.

An allocentric human odometer for perceiving distances on the ground plane. Zhou, L., Wei, W., Ooi, T. L., & He, Z. J. (2024). eLife, 12, e88095.3.

[kadavernagh]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: 69 Decompe Lane PARTIES: Regan and Eve SUMMARY: Eve has arrived at Regan and Jade's house to fix a laptop and ends up getting a few surprises along the way. Same time next week?

Regan paced the length of the living room, occasionally glancing at her phone’s cracked but functioning screen to check the time. Five minutes until this “Eve” arrived to fix her laptop. Which meant five minutes to make sure everything in the house looked normal. Human normal. She was human. Well, she had been human, once, hadn't she? More or less.

So Regan scanned the room, nodding with satisfaction. Everything looked perfect, and Jade would have agreed. The chalk outline of a couch next to the green couch was ideal for when they had too many guests (but not necessary for only Eve, unless she wanted to try reclining on both). The framed pictures of ulcers and decomposition stages alongside the (tasteful) nudes of her and Jade? Classic decor. And the numbered list of reasons they should be together was displayed prominently on the wall, impossible to miss, a true centerpiece. Everything passed muster. Regan didn’t think any of this would raise a brow. In fact, Eve would likely be impressed at how normal and domestic it all was.

Only… the dead fox on the porch needed some attention. Not because there was anything wrong with having it there, but because the cloud of blow flies had grown so expansive that any visitors would need to walk through it. Regan scooped the fox up, stroked its stiff fur once, and placed it in the garden between the tulips and what she thought might have been kale. She’d have to check one of the gardening books they had (asking Jade rarely helped, because Jade didn’t know what she planted and where).

The laptop sat on the kitchen table, the cracks across the screen reminding her of the stellate pattern found around the bullet entrance wound on a skull. Pretty, if it weren’t so exasperating. This was the third one this month. The first had shattered when she'd yelped after one of the cats startled her. The second… well, she didn’t tell Jade, but it broke when she woke up from a tar pit-related nightmare, her grandmother’s long fingers trying to pull her under. And this one? This one had cracked when she’d tried her best to swallow back an actual death scream. It wasn’t for Jade, she knew that, but there hadn’t been anyone else nearby, and she’d choked it off too much to receive the vision. The only victim for certain was the laptop. Regan’s fingers carefully grazed the cracks. Control. That's what she needed. What she'd lost, and what had taken only months to deteriorate after taking years of brutal training and command to build. 

The doorbell rang, jolting Regan away from Saol Eile. Again. “Normal. Human. Normal.” She muttered, trying to remember what it felt like, what her world had been before she knew what death tasted like, and she’d been hollowed out to be filled with something else. Did humans offer food to laptop repair technicians? Beverages? Was her attempt at a smile showing too many teeth or make her look like she was in pain? Was her necklace secure? Would Eve actually be able to prevent her screen from cracking again, or was this trying to glamour over something that couldn’t truly be concealed?

The door – and Eve – awaited. Regan opened it. Yes, the smile was definitely not quite right. She tried to adjust it, watching closely for Eve’s reaction. “Hello. Come in.” Regan used the same voice she used when speaking to others at the morgue, or once upon a time when she’d spoken at conferences. Tried to, at least. It was difficult to find it. “The laptop is on the table. Do you require any food during – oh, the laptop isn’t – it’s on the table out of convenience, not because I’m offering it to you for food. I have normal, human food.” Not convincing enough. Say something else. “And cups, for the water.”

—---

Eve had been pretty sure the address was a hoax when she'd been sent it, but here it was, out of the way. After the week she'd been having, first with Emilio and then with the magical wave of chaos, it would be nice to have a normal job: just a broken screen for her to replace. 

That thought died as soon as Eve stepped onto the porch. Her back prickled in two verticle lines right between her shoulder blades, like it was trying to grow wings. Like there were fae nearby. Eve took a breath, eyes skimming around the exterior of the house for any signs of pixies or gnomes. Household fae were a common enough occurrence throughout the town that Eve knew not to immediately jump to conclusions, but it was worth keeping an eye out. The gun in her backpack was always reassuringly within reach, along with the knives discretely strapped to her under her clothes, but Eve would prefer not to need them. 

Even if the lingering smell of death and blowfly larvae on the porch weren't a promising start.

She smiled as the door opened, even though the woman in front of her looked.. panicked? Delirious? Or just uncomfortable with interacting with a person. Decades of training lying and deception meant her smile didn't even wavered as Regan (presumably?) invited her in.  “Hey, lovely to meet you!” 

She looked around the house as she stepped in, but her eyes looked back to Regan as she was offered human food. Perhaps Eve was not dealing with a household fae, then. “That's so kind of you to offer, but I just ate lunch, so I'm fine. I'll let you know if the laptop starts looking tasty,” she joked.

Rule fifteen of hunting: never accept food and drink from a fae. Or from someone who wasn't a confirmed fae yet, but had just offered her human food. Long term exposure to fae could make any human a little odd, so Eve knew better than to jump to a conclusion… but it also wouldn't be that far of a jump. More of a small step.

Whatever species of fae was living here, Eve was confident in saying that they weren't a muse. She followed Regan to the table, eyeing up the pictures and photos displayed on the wall. Putrid close ups of what Eve recognised as skin slippage, adipocere, and putrefaction were proudly displayed, but even they did not give her as much pause as the nudes of Jade Bloodworth right beside them.

Regan was Jade’s partner, the maybe-fiance. The possible fae. The option of muse slid right back onto the table, along with faun. Hopefully not, but she had to check. She owed it to Jade. Eve looked back to Regan. “Sorry, I was just admiring the decor! You have a beautiful home. What inspired you to decorate like this?”

She sat down in front of the laptop, using her hand to help swing her prosthetic leg under the table. Eve whistled as she took in the screen. “That's a hell of a break. What's the story, dare I ask?”

—

Though she wouldn’t admit it, Regan was relieved when Eve declined the offer of human food, but… was it a missed opportunity to demonstrate how normal she was? Regan thought back. Did most hosts press a matter like that, offer an actual beverage or something edible regardless? Once, these gestures had been second nature, but now they felt like a foreign language she’d studied in high school and then mostly forgotten (apologies to Spanish, too). So Regan stood awkwardly between the doorway and the table, absentmindedly fiddling with her necklace. Her wings prickled with anxiety, making her stand even more stiffly than usual as Eve surveyed the room. What was wrong with it? Cliodhna’s dying room had been full of skinned rabbits as casual decor, so surely Regan and Jade’s choices were an improvement.

Most people, Regan remembered, had never been in Cliodhna’s dying room. But what had inspired Regan? “Death. And Jade. Death and Jade. Oh, she’s my bone partner. I mentioned before…” She trailed off, clearing her throat. “The photos of decomposition were taken around town. They aren’t humans. I mean, not these ones. Well, not – I’m experienced with human decomposition, but not like – this one is a deer, see?” She gestured to a macro photo of a rotting deer, its stomach exposed and skin without fur. “We have all different stages here. It’s rare to capture some of these so clearly.” She nodded toward the one Eve seemed to be admiring. “That one is an example of saponification. The adipocere is especially nice – intact after three months submerged in a bog, can you believe it?” Why was Eve’s expression like… that?

Regan cleared her throat again. “The laptop! Yes. Right.” What happened to it? The lie burned before she could even fully come up with it. “It…” Regan began, then hesitated, trying to settle on a near-truth that didn’t make the contents of her stomach roil. “I was working late, writing reports. Autopsy reports. The humans I mentioned before, and I received… news. It startled me, and the screen, uh, broke.” Of course, she left out the death scream that had built up inside her like a gathering storm for the longest 15 seconds, the vision that kept pushing against her composure, and the way she’d needed to choke it all back until her lungs burned and her throat felt raw, but not before a hint of it escaped from her mouth, enough to turn her screen into a crime scene.

Regan’s hand drifted higher, clutching the necklace harder until her knuckles were impossibly white. Her gaze drifted over Eve. She couldn’t help it. She had of course noticed the prosthetic leg, and she couldn’t help but be curious, however unbecoming her grandmother would have found it. But the weight of silence both offended her and made her uncomfortable, so she did what her grandmother would always approve of: she broke it. “I’m bad with electronics,” she offered lamely.

—

“Amazing, I can see the influence,” Eve said, convincingly impressed. Muse was back off the table. “I actually happen to know Jade, we’re buddies. She’s talked about you, actually, just not by name. All good things.” All vague things. No description, no details. The only thing Eve had known about before now were the pictures of the ulcers. It had always seemed sensible, to Eve, to keep the private and the hunter life separate, so that the inevitable suffering in either wouldn’t bleed onto the other. 

Except now it was feeling like Jade had a completely different motive. Her back prickled, her leg ached. This had been a fucking week and a half already. But she listened attentively as Regan explained, and when her eyes lit up at the explanation of the saponification, that at least was genuine. “You know, that is wicked cool. I had a long term boyfriend who did a masters in Medical Forensics, so I’ve seen all the pig decomposition pictures. It’s fascinating!” 

Not that Eve’s interest in decomposition (and specifically how it could obscure a cause of death) was one she wanted to paint on the walls of her own apartment. And the little tidbit about human decomposition was definitely one she wanted to dig into later. If Eve didn’t already spend all her time around serial killers, this would also give off serial killer vibes. 

Laptop in front of her, Eve opened up her backpack to pull out the replacement screen, matching the part number to the product on the bottom of Regan’s laptop. She double checked that the laptop was off, and began carefully prying the broken out of the shell as Regan explained. 

“Autopsy reports?” Eve asked curiously, deflecting the conversation as she looked up at Regan, whose knuckles were bone white around her necklace. Whatever had happened with the computer, she was uncomfortable talking about it, “Are you a pathologist? Or work with one? Not to sound like a broken record, but that’s so cool.” She leant the laptop back, trying to peel the screen out of place without dropping too many shards, although a couple fell onto the table all the same. Eve careful picked up each one, sliding it into a reinforced waste envelope as she thought. 

The screen cracks didn’t radiate from the sides, which didn’t imply a drop onto an edge. Nor was there the classical spiderweb pattern of a punch. The smell of death, the pictures on the walls, the death related job. It all was starting to point a certain way. Of course, there were ordinary humans obsessed with death (Eve could possible even be described as one of them), and it would be worse to assume and be wrong. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Eve said, smiling back up at Regan as she watched her work. “It happens to the best of us. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve cracked my phone screen over the years. Seriously, this isn’t the worst laptop I’ve seen this week.” Another lie. 

“So, pretty unique career path! What drew you to it?”

—

Regan watched with what she thought to be an appropriate level of interest as Eve worked on the laptop. Whatever else Eve might be (besides enviously human), she definitely had some level of expertise. When the question about her career path came up, Regan finally released her death grip on the necklace, though she was still stiff, her spine feeling like it had been flat-ironed. Which would have at least been novel – something she hadn’t seen before, medically-speaking. But work talk was safe. Work was where she could still feel human without the performance, where detachment and impassivity were virtues rather than oddities. 

“Death has always found me,” Regan offered a little too matter-of-factly, before realizing it might sound ominous to normal, human ears. “I mean – I’ve always been drawn toward understanding it. Medically, scientifically.” She shifted her weight, grateful Eve seemed to be splitting her attention between the task at hand and what Regan was saying. Or appeared to be, anyway. Most humans would have had no issue answering this question, and it was that jealous thought that spurred her forward. “I used to find dead things on the beach. Gulls, clams, seals… a human toe, once. The toe… I wanted to know what separated it from its owner.” 

Regan’s eyes flashed to her beloved photos, and her confidence grew, at least a bit. “Most children have a phase where they’re fascinated by death, don’t they? Even adults. Mine simply never ended… and has no limits.” Some of those memories never really ended either. Her father’s face that day, the dawning horror flashing on it as he realized what his daughter was. Regan hadn’t understood then what that look meant, what all of those future looks meant. Now she knew. “I went to medical school and specialized in forensic pathology,” Regan continued, trying to climb out of the tar pit of the past. “The dead are good patients. And they have a lot to teach us, if you’re willing to listen.”

Was it just her, or was the room growing increasingly heavy? Uneasy. There was something expectant about Eve. Practiced. Not quite clinical, but Regan could feel there was some kind of a goal to her questions. Her thoughts turned to Jade (as they often did without complaint). 

“You said you know Jade?” Regan asked, unable to help herself, though she couldn’t keep the hint of protective suspicion out of her voice. “Buddies” was such a vague term. But cordial. She’d stay cordial. Like a good, proper human. (Where had she heard that kind of thing before? A good, proper… forget it.) “I think you should tell me more about that – how the two of you know each other.” Wait, did that make her sound jealous? Was she? No, that wasn’t it. This felt strange, though. Jade was sociable to the extreme, and she had a lot of acquaintances through her work as a delivery driver (like the people at that taco place). But something about how Eve had responded made Regan suspect more than just a passing encounter. Had Jade mentioned an “Eve” recently? Regan had a good memory for names, and she couldn’t remember this one. But then, her mind had been fairly scattered lately, between trying to be human and failing, and trying not to be a banshee and also failing.

Regan needed something to keep her hands busy that wasn’t going to risk her accidentally clawing her own necklace off. She gave Eve a cautious look and selected a bottle of water from the fridge, though she wasn’t actually thirsty. Should she have gotten one for Eve, too? She had said no earlier, but… Eve still seemed absorbed in the laptop, anyway. “What do you think?” Regan asked. “Will you be able to save the data that are on there? I save what I can in the clouds, but I seem to lose one or two things every time this happens. Perhaps I should have learned my lesson by now.” All of them. 

—

As Regan spoke, Eve gently peeled the contact pads for the new screen open, carefully sticking them to the right electricals within the shell. Her mind was spinning with the implications of what Regan was saying, how perfectly her experience lined up with the textbook definition. After never having met a banshee in her life, wasn’t it bizarre she’d met two in a few short months? If they would be anywhere, Eve supposed it would be Wicked’s Rest. They were drawn here for the same reason she was. 

Eve wondered if Regan knew how obvious it was. Wondered if she cared. (Did Jade?)

“Incredible. I don’t think I’d have the stomach for it, only seeing death day in and day out. And it’s definitely not a job that gets the recognition it deserves,” Eve meant it -the second part, anyway. As much as her work likely made that of the Medical Examiner’s Office harder, she did admire it. People didn’t realise how important answers were until there was a dearth of them.

The shift in Regan’s tone made Eve look up again, as she was ordered to tell more about how Jade and Eve knew each other. There was a small amount of… suspicion? Jealousy? Perhaps a little of both in Regan’s tone. As Eve answered, she looked back at the screen, carefully easing it into the shell. “Oh geez. We met pretty soon after we both moved here, in some random bar, and got chatting. She’s so much fun to chat with, and she’s hilarious. We like the same kinds of media, we’re both from big families. We just immediately hit it off. We don’t see each other that often, we’re just drinking buddies, but she’s great.” 

It was a simple enough answer, completely true apart from everything it omitted. One thing Eve had noted after spotting Jade’s portrait had been that there were no weapons lying around the home. Awesome for Jade being secrecy aware, but it meant Eve had no idea how much Regan knew about Jade’s night life. Not that she had any intention of revealing how closely they were linked anyway. Apparently, the superficiality of their conversations had always been a mutual decision, rather than Eve’s automatic preference for a little distance. It was hypocritical that it stung a little, but Eve was more than capable of being hypocritical. (In her defense, the last week had already come with plenty of heart ache, and nowhere near enough sleep.)

The monitor clicked back into place. “I didn’t see any obvious damage to anything behind the screen, so it might be gucci, but we’ll double check,” Eve said, switching on the computer. She didn’t know what damage a banshee scream might do to delicate motherboard circuitry. Somehow, that had never come up in her childhood lessons. The computer began booting up normally, as Eve breathed a small sigh of relief. “Do you want to log in and double check?”

—

As Eve set every laptop component back in place with capable hands, Regan watched in a silence of her own making she didn’t particularly like. At Eve’s invitation, she took over, turning the laptop to type in her password without prying eyes. The screen was good as new, and all of her files were there, as expected. It seemed nothing was broken that couldn’t be repaired – if only that were a truth that extended into other matters, into people. Regan double checked a couple of files before turning her attention back to Eve. 

“It works,” she announced, acknowledging the job well done. “I appreciate this.” But. There was still something there, and Regan had a feeling they were both measuring each other up in some way she couldn’t place a finger on. Why did a computer repair technician have a prosthetic leg? Was she really “bar buddies” with Jade, or was there some other relationship there? She thought of Emilio. Of the seemingly endless stash of knives and weaponry that had commandeered an entire room of their new house – one gathering quite a lot of dust. Paranoia, or logical thinking? Jade collected friends the way Regan collected carcasses. Eve could simply be one of them, another fox bloating on their front deck. 

Regan closed the laptop, her hand lingering on its surface, smooth against her fingertips and utterly absent against her palm. There was a novelty to having something fixed and functional despite her touch. “She does spend a lot of time at those places,” Regan started, knowing it was obvious who the ‘she’ in question was. And how Eve seemed to be as curious about this shared connection as Regan was, even if neither of them outright said it, beyond the too-careful way Eve went about explaining and Regan’s revival of the subject. “Though lately, not as much. You must not have seen her for a while.” She watched Eve closely, meeting her eyes in a way that Regan was sure might be unnerving. “Shall I confer a message to her on your behalf? She likes to hear from ‘buddies,’ you know. Something… light in the heart, as they say, rather than any unpleasantness clotting up an aorta.”

Regardless of whether Eve truly was a simple bar acquaintance, a “hunter,” or an old fling, it hardly mattered. Regan thought about how many more nights Jade spent at home (to Regan’s relief, but also unease), the weapons laid aside – the good – but also the times Regan found Jade sitting in front of the outline couch at 3AM, staring at nothing, a cup of coffee growing stale somewhere nearby. The way her smile seemed a little less real at times. The way not all of her had gone to California and not all of her had come back. Eve seemed to be avoiding looking at the nudes on the wall, but if she had, would she see that it was more than a lack of clothes that might make that Jade differ from the one she knew? And, on that note, was Eve’s Jade the one Regan knew?

Perhaps there was nothing. Perhaps, Eve’s leg was not the only part of her laid bare here. Perhaps Regan was jealous. What would it feel like? Would she even know? She and Al were Irish triplets, with jealousy between them, but even that had been different… and so long ago. 

Regan did know some things, though. One set of lessons, then another. She was pragmatic enough to appreciate Eve’s help (and the fact Eve truly did ask few questions about the how of all these broken screens), and curious enough to want to be confident in her conclusion. Further research needed. 

And so. “The same time next week, then?”

—

“Yeah, say hi to her for me! I’ve made plans for Mai Tais with her soon, once my current period of busy-ness chills a bit.” Eve packed up her kit, sealing the envelope of broken glass. “I, uh, wouldn’t want to be a clot in her aorta.” She didn’t even know what that meant, metaphorically speaking, but it didn’t sound great. No doubt about it; whatever Regan was, she was also totally bizarre. Eve smiled at the thought, thinking how much Jade would enjoy this kind of strangeness. If she wasn’t trapped. Big if. 

Eve huffed a laugh as Regan invited her back, and nodded in agreement. “I’ll book you in. Call if you end up not needing it.” She finished packing up her back and stood back up, showing herself out the door. 

“See you round, Regan.” Eve called, stepping out the front door. The burning in her back receded as she walked back to her car. She wondered if Jade would let her poke around when Regan wasn’t there, just to eliminate the possibility of household fae. 

Probably not. Eve drummed her fingers against her dented steering wheel, looking at 69 decompe lane a little longer. Maybe it was fine. Maybe no promises had been made. Maybe no emotions were being magically manipulated. Not every interspecies romance had to be like Owen’s, Eve thought, and even if it was, was Eve even the right person to try and interfere? Emilio’s words rang in her ears, like needles in her heart. She switched on the engine. 

It would all come down to how Jade reacted. Eve had no doubt she’d know soon enough. 

[b-skarsgard]

“I thought it was fascinating to watch Bill and think that, under all of that prosthetic decay and decomposition, there was such a strong, visceral feeling of the guy, obviously wealthy, entitled, the beautiful young man that he might’ve been centuries before.” - Costume Designer Linda Muir

Be warned at the link above there is concept art attached that maybe too spoilery! Details of Count Orlok’s costume from the article are under the cut—no spoilers—but if you choose to see Nosferatu completely blind I don’t recommend reading it.

Meanwhile, Muir had fun digging into the 16th-century costuming for Orlok in a way that affected everything about him, from his speech to his manners to his castle. She went for an overall look of decadence and opulence, epitomized by the gold bar-like buttons on his large cloak (called a mantle), which was lined in fur and had a massive collar. It only slightly recalled the silhouette of Max Schrek’s Orlok from Murnau’s “Nosferatu.”

The outer coat has very long arms, which got Muir researching how the men wore them. “You could put your arms through the coat and wear it, or you could wear it as more of a cape, like Dracula, without putting your arms through it,” Muir said.

“And I thought that’s really fascinating because that’s like on the super-rich nobility level, and it’s also on the poorest of the peasants in the mountain by themselves, shepherds. So Orlok has that as his major piece. And he has the Hungarian fur hat and we played with the size of that so that it appears significant.”

Muir wanted to convey the image of an ancient nobleman without overwhelming Skarsgård with a heavy outfit while obscuring enough of his decay to not arouse fear when he meets with Thomas in his castle.

“And then he has underneath a beautiful dolman, which is like a tunic,” Muir said. “And that is layered and layered and layered. It has patterned silk, and I tried to choose textiles that have a lot of gold threads because I knew [cinematographer] Jarin [Blaschke] would be using firelight and candlelight and this beautiful moonlight. So things that could twinkle and reflect back to us to give the shape of an outline.

“And then he has kind of Mick Jagger trousers,” she continued, “which are mustard-colored, kind of shiny gold thread, skin-tight trousers and a beautiful sash at his waist. And then he has the coolest footwear. He has leather. They’re like mules, so a slip-on. But for safety and comfort, they gave Bill another 4 inches or so in what is already a really beautiful, thin, tall outline.”

And, for practical purposes, Skarsgård wore a hefty harness next to his body that came through the tunic and clamped inside of the cloak because of the tremendous weight, heat, and prosthetic makeup. “So we tried to make it so that we could release him as quickly as possible,” said Muir. “We cooled him off between takes, in between setups, and not tire him out from walking around with this. It also had to look effortless, like he wouldn’t fall off, like it’s mesmerized onto his shoulders, and magical, too.”

[thesilliestrovingalive]

Updated: June 20, 2025

Reworked Character #9: Tequila

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to death, torture, suicide, child abuse, cannibalism, crime, alcoholism, and divorce.

Real name: Godefroi Bracquemond-Kagamihara (he legally changed his name to Severiano Titouan Kanikoja)

Alias: Maestro of a Thousand Skirmishes

Occupation: Lieutenant General of the S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S., Brigadier General of the Regular Army, Army Chief of Staff for the Rebel Army (formerly), florist shop cashier (formerly), grill cook (formerly), sniper and spy for the Theophylaktos Union (formerly), and member of a cartel (formerly)

Retirement plans: Open a florist shop, become a philanthropist dedicated to supporting child welfare and war veterans, and establish a company that designs and manufactures affordable, electric vehicles

Special skills: Coordinating covert missions and training programs for new recruits, proficiency in tactical planning and the operation of heavy machinery, mastery of disguise, and rescuing hostages

Esper abilities: He can teleport short distances, allowing him to instantly vanish and reappear in locations within his direct line of sight. He boasts flexibility rivalling that of an octopus due to his extreme hypermobility, and agility nearly identical to that of a cheetah. Furthermore, his senses are incredibly acute, featuring eyesight as keen as an eagle's, hearing as sensitive as a bat's, a sense of smell as discerning as an elephant's, and touch sensitivity as refined as a star-nosed mole's.

Whenever he suffers a debilitating three-minute headache, accompanied by a brief, cryptic glimpse of the future, it signals his sensitivity to global events and cosmic anomalies that will significantly impact Earth. Furthermore, he possesses a passive ability to sense environmental changes, allowing him to predict weather patterns, earthquakes, and other meteorological and geological events within his immediate region. This precognitive awareness is limited to a fifteen-minute timeframe before the event occurs.

He has two black half-orbs, one in the centre of each palm, which possess a red-violet lustre and serve four distinct purposes. Firstly, they enable him to absorb memories and knowledge from the recently deceased and bodies in various stages of decomposition. Secondly, he can conjure balls of radiant blue fire, precisely directing them at his enemies. Thirdly, by tapping into the energy of shadows and nighttime darkness, he can forge obsidian-handled scythes with glowing bluish-white blades that inflict severe burns even with the slightest graze against skin. Once he's finished wielding the scythes, the orbs disintegrate them, reducing their physical forms to nothing but a pile of ash. Lastly, by touching someone's heart, he can absorb their emotions to heal minor wounds and partially mend major ones. However, this leaves the individual emotionally numb, stripping them of their emotional depth forever.

Hobbies: Playing underground poker games, watching demolition derby events, tinkering with and customising his own vehicles, cultivating deadly plants and sweet-smelling flowers, and engaging in friendly fire incidents during covert missions

Likes: Gourmet grilling, the innocent curiosity of children, enjoying a drink after a long battle, the symbolism and cultural significance of flowers, and exploring exotic destinations and natural wonders

Dislikes: Troublemakers, bureaucratic red tape, having to blow his nose in the middle of battle, being stuck in tight spaces during an escape, and witnessing comrades and children being oppressed and caught in situations of gratuitous violence

Favourite food: His own gourmet grilled food

Favourite drink: Tequila (preferably tequila sunrise)

Sexuality: Biromantic graysexual

Gender: Male

Age: 50 (in 2022), 56 (in 2028), 58 (in 2030), 60 (in 2032), 62 (in 2034), 69 (in 2041), 71 (in 2043), 72 (in 2044), and 75 (in 2047)

Blood type: A-

Weight: 109 lbs. (49 kg)

Design: He’s a 5 ft (152.4 cm) Canadian-Guatemalan ectomorph of French and Japanese descent with a lean, semi-lanky build, subtle softness around the midsection, and a weak yet surprisingly stocky musculature. He has sloping shoulders, beige skin (it was pale ivory during his younger years), and a small black mole on the right side of his chin. His face shows noticeable signs of aging with forehead lines, frown lines, tear troughs, and nasolabial folds. He has a missing second premolar on his lower jaw and heterochromia eyes: his right eye is a medium sky blue and his left eye is a deep cyan. Tequila sports a brownish-black spiky crew cut dyed a light auburn, which is paired with sideburns, semi-bushy eyebrows, and a slightly dishevelled five o'clock shadow. On his right outer thigh, he has a tattoo depicting a seven-horned Lamb of God, its legs bound, holding an olive branch in its mouth. The lamb is set against a backdrop of a gilded Chi Rho symbol (☧), which is encircled by a radiant, flaming aureola.

He bears numerous battle scars from past encounters, including: half of his upper back being heavily burned; a series of jagged cuts on his left arm caused by shrapnel; a deep, curved scar on his temple; a thin, horizontal knife scar on his chin; a slight cut on his left cheek from a bullet that flew past him; and a bullet wound below the right side of his diaphragm. Tequila also has a series of deep stab wounds on his right shoulder and right lumbar region, a severed tendon (flexor carpi ulnaris) in his left forearm, and a partially cut left thumb.

After being experimented on, his body underwent significant transformations: his muscles have a coppery hue with bronze streaks, his bones are gilded and steel-hard, his fingers and toes are tipped with razor-sharp claws and talons, and his eyes glow a deep crimson in the nighttime. His back is covered with blotchy, necrotized flesh that bears a resemblance to the starry night appearance of the Avatar of Evil's skin.

Tequila's military gear consists of brass-plated night vision goggles with yellow-orange lenses, a bone white tank top, and greenish-black gloves. He wears army cargo pants in a camouflage pattern featuring brown, beige, and olive green, which are tucked into spike-soled liver brown combat boots. His pants have two crudely stitched patches: a triangular Cambridge blue one on the right knee and a rectangular burgundy one on the middle of his left outer thigh. Tequila wears a metal dog tag necklace with his name, black elbow and knee pads, a bronze-buckled leather belt, a sheath for his combat knife, and a drop leg holster for a handgun with a silencer. A rust-coloured waist pack is secured to the back of his belt, containing a bronze-finished flask filled with his tequila cocktail of choice for the day.

He wears a linden green flight jacket, often left unzipped, featuring a brown wolf-fur lining, a metallic silver zipper, and gilded epaulets. The jacket has four pockets and boasts the S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. logo emblazoned on the back. His jacket has a concealed compartment on the left side, secured with a strap, holding the latest rolled-up newspaper. Additionally, he wears an earthy green Lightweight Helmet (LWH) and a reseda chartreuse armband on his left sleeve, adorned with the Regular Army insignia. Slung over his right shoulder, he carries the scoped bolt-action rifle he retained after leaving the Theophylaktos Union.

Over his tank top, he dons a Soldier Plate Carrier System (SPCS) with a brown, beige, and olive green camouflage pattern, which carries around his walkie-talkie and ammo for other firearms. He wears three dark grey bandoliers: one draped over his right shoulder holds flashbang grenades, another over his left shoulder holds smoke bombs, and a third wraps around his waist above his belt, holding ammunition for his handgun. Tequila carries around a steel blue load-bearing backpack that contains camping equipment, tactical explosives, portable ammo boxes, a canteen full of water, a brown bear fur blanket, a grappling hook, and a disguise kit that adapts to the specific requirements of each mission. It also contains a Grenade Gun, mechanic and lockpicking tool sets, a tissue box, and a photo album filled with Polaroid pictures.

The pockets of his flight jacket carry around a metallic blue-green lighter, the key to his motorcycle, noise-cancelling earplugs, and a hundred-eyed cowrie shell, a gift from Gimlet. Tequila treasures a collection of cherished photographs, which are carefully stored in the pockets of his flight jacket. One shows him with his ex-wife, Margaret, and their late son, Thomas, enjoying a spring day at a Quebec park. Another captures a moment with his former team in front of the old Joint Military Operations Headquarters in Andrew Town, where a teenage Gimlet stands proudly beside him, beaming with a thumbs up. Other cherished photos include: a Swiss brassy ringlet on a yellow mountain flower; Red Eye playfully placing an orange tabby cat on a sleeping Donald Morden in his former office; a mountain hike with Clark; and a triumphant pose with Marco, Tarma, Gimlet, and Red Eye standing before a destroyed Tani Oh.

He has a stash of cigars and a half-empty pack of cigarettes tucked away in the right pocket of his army cargo pants, while his left pocket is occupied by a burgundy instant camera, a digital recorder, a silver engagement ring featuring a princess cut diamond, and a golden wedding band. He wears two distinctive necklaces: a black cord with a teardrop-shaped nazar charm and a gold chain holding a pendant of the Immaculate Heart of Mary impaled by a longsword.

His custom-made motorcycle is a glaucous BMW R75, adorned with forest green cheetah spots outlined in sandy beige. The motorcycle comes with a sidecar, which serves as storage for extra supplies and his load-bearing backpack. The sidecar features an intriguing design element: a Swiss brassy ringlet on the antler of an elk skull, proudly displayed on its side. The sidecar is outfitted with a greenish-black rocket turret, while two rotating miniguns are mounted on either side of the front wheel of his motorcycle.

Character summary: He's a cunning, wise, rebellious, and skeptical individual with a strong aversion to being bossed around unjustly. He has a tendency to bluff and revels in the raw power and adrenaline rush that comes with high-intensity situations, which makes him feel alive. He has a strong sense of camaraderie with those he considers comrades and close friends, going to great lengths to ensure their happiness and safety. Tequila is especially devoted to Marco, Tarma, Red Eye, Gimlet, Clark, Eri, and Fio, holding their well-being in the highest regard due to the deep affection he feels for them. Depending on the situation, he can be very blunt, believing that people need to quickly learn that the truth is often a hard pill to swallow. Whenever his patience is running thin or he deems it necessary, he isn't afraid to speak his mind, though his words can be abrasive and unsettling.

Despite his perpetual weary expression, he’s a fundamentally kind-hearted and morally upright leader. Tequila is a tough-as-nails and hypervigilant individual that has a tendency to engage in occasional reckless behaviour. He has a cynical, pessimistic outlook on life, which he occasionally masks through social drinking, reading the newspaper or immersing himself in his hobbies. As an introvert with exceptionally high intellect, he finds it challenging to connect with others, often feeling like a societal outcast burdened with knowledge that nobody should have to bear. Whenever he faces death accompanied by intense mockery directed at him or unsavoury comments about those he's loyal to, he always finds the strength to fiercely push back and make them pay for their disrespect. He has a deep-seated compassion and strong protective instincts towards children who are vulnerable to abuse and exploitation. Tequila views it as a moral obligation to safeguard them from harm and foster a secure environment that allows them to thrive.

He battles alcoholism, stemming from guilt over not helping his adopted sister during her darkest moments, the accidental loss of his first love, and the devastating death of his son. Despite these painful memories, he's actively seeking help and working to improve his mental well-being. Remarkably, he's also willing to support friends struggling with similar alcoholism issues, using his personal experience to help others. When drunk, he exhibits clumsiness, boisterousness, sorrowfulness, physical aggression, and increased insulting behaviour. Additionally, he's even more likely to make awkward attempts to flirt with anyone who catches his eye.

He's particularly self-conscious about his height and extremely hates being teased about it. When someone teases him about his height, he tends to respond in one of two ways: either with sarcasm, pretending to find the joke amusing, or by lashing out with rude insults, often targeting their appearance-related insecurities. When he's feeling scared or furious towards someone who has visibly angered him, he has a habit of jumping on their back, which may follow up with an attack. Tequila has zero tolerance for cowardice and incompetence, viewing them as lame excuses for people to avoid putting in effort and failing to contribute meaningfully to their roles in society. He dislikes people who are overly pesky or slimy, individuals with a bratty and entitled attitude, unnecessary trouble, political corruption, and duplicity.

As a devout Catholic who also believes in the evil eye, he abhors war and can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for new military recruits, knowing their innocent worldview is likely to be shattered. Nevertheless, he recognizes that everyone has their own reasons for enlisting and refrains from criticising their choices. Although he once devoutly followed the Avatar of Evil and still respects the principles the deity represents, he now sees them as a primarily malevolent force, akin to the Devil, with a destructive influence on human life. He wants to believe in the singular, all-powerful deity of his Catholic faith, but he's aware that this conviction is challenged by the confirmed existence of multiple deities and the possibility of attaining godhood.

He takes pride in being regarded as a living legend, thanks to his distinguished reputation as the Regular Army's top covert agent. He can be somewhat tough and slightly strict when interacting with military rookies, teaching them valuable life lessons as well as combative and strategic skills. He only considers someone a rookie if their military abilities don't measure up to top-notch soldiers and covert agents. He can be quite harsh and openly dismissive towards rookies who deliberately cause trouble, consistently push his buttons or display a rude and disrespectful attitude. He becomes vengeful when he encounters people who have been unreasonably hurt or when he feels betrayed and devastated after losing something he deeply cares about. He’ll only betray someone or a cause if he senses that they’re crossing into morally reprehensible territory.

He lives with sleep paralysis, atypical depression, and PTSD. He has mild borderline personality disorder, which often leads to sudden outbursts of anger, resulting in yelling and occasionally breaking things. He engages in novelty-seeking behaviour because he tends to get bored quickly. Additionally, he has a tendency to view the world in extremes, perceiving people as either entirely good or entirely bad with little recognition of a middle ground. During episodes of sleep paralysis, he often experiences anxiety and helplessness as he's unable to move or speak and feels as though he's suffocating. His hallucinations include shadowy figures that appear demonic and dangerous as well as distorted, violent scenes of war.

When seeking solitude and contemplation or grappling with doubts about his faith, he withdraws to a secluded natural haven, wrapping himself in a fluffy blanket and using earplugs to shut out the world. Whenever he encounters a pair of glowing red eyes, a creeping sense of unease settles in, leaving him questioning his grip on reality. He becomes visibly upset when he learns of suicide cases or attempts. In such situations, he promptly offers comfort and support to those affected, providing valuable guidance and a listening ear. He's devoted to being a loyal friend and mentor to all, going out of his way to politely share the impressive global knowledge he has retained over the years whenever the opportunity arises.

He harbours a deep-seated hatred towards his former friend, General Morden, stemming from his subsequent betrayal when Morden's megalomaniacal desire for world domination consumed him. He's a good friend of Hyakutaro, and they often hang out together after missions, talking about how crazy their day was, sharing vacation plans, and discussing a wide range of random topics. He's a really good friend to Red Eye and is very patient with her, especially considering that she has dissociative identity disorder (DID). The sudden shifts in her personalities can be quite jarring for her. He always makes it a point to help her calm down and alleviate her anxiety or confusion by guiding her through simple breathing exercises and carefully explaining what's happening.

He perceives Margaret as promiscuous and attention-seeking, disapproving of her flirtatious behaviour as a means to cope with loneliness. Despite their divorce, he remains deeply invested in her well-being and still harbours lingering romantic feelings for her. As a result, he has been gradually rekindling their romantic connection, alleviating her loneliness and showing her she’s still loved and valued. Through this process, they're also working together to heal from the profound loss of their son.

They sometimes bicker like an old couple, but they often make up by grabbing a quick bite to eat or having a round of rough intimacy. He believes that Margaret is quite obsessed with him because she frequently shows him physical affection that's slightly raunchy, boldly flirts, and finds excuses to help him. Tequila gets easily flustered by her shameless compliments, often affectionately saying that he's her "Super Devil". Despite their somewhat estranged relationship, he treats her with gentle kindness and occasionally flirts back. He isn't afraid to put her in her place when she causes problems for Sophia and her other colleagues, especially when he notices that those around her are feeling uncomfortable or frustrated.

He has a strong affinity for Vasser, whom he sees as a surrogate son, striving to educate and guide him on the right path. However, he often finds himself disappointed by Vasser's ill-tempered bully attitude, his excessive thirst for blood and action, and his tendencies to cause mischief and make unwanted advances towards women. He also feels deeply disappointed when Vasser disregards his advice and falls short of the standards he envisioned, which were modelled after his deceased son Thomas—an exceptionally well-behaved child with a keen mind and an eagerness to learn. He becomes extremely frustrated with Vasser's antics and consistently reprimands him for his poor behaviour, urging him to take responsibility for his mistakes and learn from them. He's consumed by guilt, feeling that despite his best efforts, he's failed as a father and wonders if he could have done more to prevent Vasser's bad behaviour.

Backstory: Godefroi Bracquemond-Kagamihara was born on December 23, 1972 in Chichicastenango, Guatemala. His biological parents were Jean-Louis Bracquemond, a French-Canadian construction worker from Trois-Rivières, Quebec, Canada, and Tsukiko Kagamihara, a Japanese-Canadian entrepreneur who owned an open-air market selling homemade Japanese craft goods. He had an adoptive sister who was six years older than him named Ximena, who had been abandoned by her alcoholic father.

As expected, he had inherited Tuatha Dé Danann DNA from his parents, which became noticeable when he frequently mentioned seeing a pair of glowing red eyes watching him. Godefroi's parents had also noticed that his intelligence grew at rapid speeds, which they greatly encouraged. Between the ages of 1 and 4, he read numerous books on various subjects, including mathematics, engineering, sociology, psychology, architecture, ancient history, geography, political science, and world religions. By the age of 5, he had taught himself to speak Japanese, Korean, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Romanian, Russian, and German, and learned about their respective cultures.

Before Godefroi's 7th birthday, his father was assassinated by a hitman in retaliation for killing the right-hand man of a prominent Québécois organized crime family near Montreal. Jean-Louis had previously worked for them but realised that a life of crime was unfulfilling after meeting Tsukiko. When he unintentionally got her pregnant earlier than intended and they had a shotgun wedding, he knew that his position in organised crime would put his family in danger. Before he had to flee with his wife and unborn child to Guatemala, his boss refused to let him go because he was skilled at his job as a weapons manager, trafficker, and builder. In a fit of anger, he killed his right-hand man and attempted to shoot his boss at point-blank range before guards were sent in to stop him, but he swiftly escaped from capture. The crime family, seeking revenge and viewing Tsukiko and her children as potential assets, planned to force them into hard labour and prostitution. Out of fear, Tsukiko made the difficult decision to put Godefroi and Ximena up for adoption, hoping they would be safe. Shortly after, Tsukiko mysteriously vanished, leaving behind only speculation that she had fallen victim to the sinister activities of the Québécois crime family.

They were adopted by an organ harvester named Tecuani, who took pity on them after learning about the fate of their parents. Despite his illicit profession, Tecuani went out of his way to ensure that Godefroi and Ximena were well-fed and properly educated. He even taught them essential survival skills for navigating the dangers of the streets, giving them a better chance at thriving in a challenging world. However, their time together was short-lived, as Tecuani was promptly arrested after one of his employees reported him to the police for operating an illegal organ harvesting business.

As a result, Godefroi and Ximena were placed into the foster care system, where they experienced a tumultuous journey through four different foster families. The first family was neglectful, frequently failing to provide basic necessities like food, and instead, leaving Godefroi and Ximena to fend for themselves. Additionally, the foster mother struggled with alcoholism, while the foster father was battling a prescription drug addiction. His second family harboured hardcore conspiratorial beliefs and were intimidated by Godefroi's exceptional intelligence. They suspected him of being a government-trained spy or even an extraterrestrial. The third family, although initially kind and lenient, had an uncle who would secretly subject Ximena to sexual harassment and Godefroi to physical abuse. Ultimately, all three families lost interest in caring for the siblings. The third family even went so far as to claim that Ximena and Godefroi were a bad influence on their young son.

Tragically, their last foster family was a source of immense pain and suffering. The foster father, a business executive named Clifford, was controlling and abusive, lashing out physically and emotionally, especially when Godefroi dared to stand up for himself. The foster mother, a psychiatrist named Magdalena, failed to provide a safe and nurturing environment, neglecting their needs and belittling them with hurtful words that preyed on their insecurities. During this period, he struggled to connect with his sister, their vastly different intellectual abilities driving a wedge between them. Additionally, he would occasionally get into altercations with children from more stable homes at the local park, struggling to manage his frustration. Ximena, who had always been dear to Magdalena, struggled with depression, PTSD, and body dysmorphia, which ultimately led to her eventual suicide when Godefroi was just 12 years old.

At age 15, Godefroi joined a newly formed cartel that promised him refuge and financial assistance in exchange for killing and cannibalising his foster parents. Initially hesitant due to his disgust at the idea of consuming his abusers, he was motivated by the prospect of exacting revenge. He followed through on the cartel's demands, completing his initiation and rapidly rising through the ranks thanks to his street smarts. He played a key role in gathering valuable intelligence for the cartel's boss and devising strategic plans for financial management and tactical attacks.

To cope with his emotional pain and seek excitement, he turned to drinking various tequila cocktails, eventually leading to an alcohol addiction and a particular fondness for tequila sunrise. His struggles with addiction led to him being dubbed "Tequila" by those around him, a nickname he unexpectedly embraced as part of his identity and later adopted as his codename for military operations.

The circumstances of his departure from the cartel are unclear, but rumours suggest that the cartel was either absorbed into or annihilated by a relatively obscure cult-like guerrilla group from Venezuela known as the Theophylaktos Union. However, it was confirmed that he joined the Theophylaktos Union at age 19, becoming a skilled sniper and tactical spy for Zoilo and his operations. He zealously embraced the depraved, militaristic faith that Zoilo had constructed and many others had fully adopted because it made him feel validated and welcomed, fully aware of the harsh ridicule and physical beatings he would face if he denied the existence of the Avatar of Evil. He confesses that during his time in the Theophylaktos Union, he had a boyfriend, but their relationship was tragically cut short. His partner was inadvertently killed in a friendly fire incident, a devastating consequence of his own actions while infiltrating the Argentinian police to gather firearms. This was also when he began exploring mechanics and constructed his first custom-made motorcycle.

At the age of 21, during a raid on a Brazilian town, he encountered a frightened child clinging to her dead mother and her severely injured younger brother. Initially, he callously shot her, believing her to be an obstacle to fulfilling the Dark Lord's supposedly twisted desires. Yet, upon reflection, he questioned his actions and his allegiance to the Theophylaktos Union, ultimately realising that this path was not for him. He subsequently retired from the group, which greatly infuriated Zoilo, who saw him as a traitor to his brethren and the Darwinistic faith of the Dark Lord. As assassins were sent after him for his perceived treachery, he feared for his life and made the difficult decision to leave South America. In total secrecy, he managed to evade his would-be assassins by changing his legal name and relocating to Trois-Rivières, Quebec, Canada. He also sought rehabilitation to address his escalating alcohol addiction and converted to Catholicism in search of new purpose and direction in life, desperately wanting to break free from the beliefs of Zoilo that he had once firmly embraced. To financially support himself, he took on two part-time jobs: working as a grill cook at a bar and grill, and serving as a cashier at a local flower shop.

During his lunch break at the bar and grill where he worked, he met Hyakutaro, fresh from completing a gruelling mission for the Regular Army. They quickly formed a strong bond after sharing their personal struggles and aspirations. Hyakutaro encouraged him to join the Regular Army, hoping it would give him a sense of direction and purpose. Inspired by their conversation, he made a drastic career change, leaving his Quebec-based jobs behind to enlist in the Regular Army at 25.

He then went on to specialise in high-stakes hostage rescue missions. He also developed expertise in camouflage, secret identities, and intelligence gathering, earning recognition as the Regular Army's top covert agent. His exceptional leadership skills, tactical planning, and recruitment abilities further propelled him to the rank of Brigadier General. However, his experiences soon exposed him to the harsh realities of war and corruption, witnessing the brutal deaths of many friends and comrades. These traumatic events would haunt him, fuelling recurring nightmares and night terrors.

Four years after joining the Regular Army and Intelligence Agency, he was among the first to be transferred to the newly established S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. special forces unit, becoming one of its founding members, alongside Red Eye. He met Margaret Southwood shortly after the S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. was established, encountering her at the Combat Academy section of the Intelligence Division during a visit to ensure everything was running smoothly. He immediately fell in love with her and assisted her in teaching important military strategies. Although he would never admit it, Margaret often teases him about the time he nearly physically confronted a recruit who made mocking jokes about his short stature. She had to intervene to prevent him from escalating the situation and temporarily removed the recruit from class.

After that class was over, Tequila asked Margaret out on a date, and she eagerly accepted. Their first date took place at Margaret's home, where they tended to the orchids in her greenhouse and discussed their shared passion for gardening. On another occasion, they enjoyed slow dancing to smooth jazz tunes with Margaret teaching him how to dance. Over the course of ten months, they went on several dates, allowing their love to blossom into a full-blown romance. As their relationship grew stronger, Tequila proposed to her during a nature hike in the rural Canadian wilderness, and Margaret gladly accepted, having been eagerly awaiting that day. They got married shortly afterward and spent their honeymoon in Hokkaido, where they enjoyed passionate intimacy in their hotel the day after they arrived.

Margaret became pregnant and eventually gave birth to a son they named Thomas on January 6. Although he was uncertain about wanting to be a father, Tequila believed it was a blessing in disguise. He was overjoyed to have a son and felt immense happiness in his new role, which helped him forget his past sorrows for a while. He and Margaret made sure to give him all the attention he needed while sharing wise words that he could understand. As Thomas grew older, Tequila noticed that he hadn't inherited his special genes, but he proved to be quite smart and very curious, showing a talent for completing difficult word puzzles.

A month after Thomas turned five-years-old, tragedy struck when he attempted to cross the road on his bike after spending the day with his best friend, who lived a few houses down. Tequila was driving home in Margaret's borrowed car after an afternoon of drinking at the bar with Hyakutaro and his comrades. He was very intoxicated and ended up running over Thomas, leaving Tequila disoriented as he mistook his son for a strange speed bump. Tequila crashed into a nearby tree but fortunately sustained no injuries.

Tequila is reluctant to discuss what happened next, but he remembers all of his former neighbours deemed him a reckless drunk and an irresponsible father. He ultimately ruined his marriage with Margaret because she had a very hard time forgiving him for what he did, deeming him a murderer. As they both struggled to cope with their grief, Margaret turned to promiscuity while Tequila sought solace in alcohol. Unfortunately, these coping mechanisms created an insurmountable rift, leading to their divorce. After a few years, they would eventually make amends, acknowledging the pain they had caused each other.

At age 39, after exiting a pub and heading back to a nearby Regular Army base on his motorcycle, he noticed a malnourished teenage boy lying in an alleyway with a bruised and bloodied face. He took great pity on the boy and promptly aided him, noticing the boy's eerie silence and uncanny resemblance to Thomas. He decided to head back to the base later and instead tended to the boy's wounds with the medical supplies he had on hand. After that, he took him to a restaurant that served delicious sandwiches and bought him lunch.

After a couple of minutes of trying to encourage the boy to speak, he finally introduced himself as Vasser Gutenschiff-Wolstenholme and shared his story of taking to the streets to escape his abusive father, Kanan. Moved by Vasser's situation and seeing it as a duty to protect children from harm, he vowed to enact vengeance. With the assistance of Vasser, he ambushed Kanan by breaking into his house, then adopted Vasser through the Regular Army's orphan program.

A couple of years after Vasser's adoption, he met Morden unexpectedly while serving with the North American Garrison, which was assisting the European Garrison and Middle Eastern Garrison in thwarting an Oceania military organisation's attempt to spark a full-scale nuclear war. Following the successful completion of this mission, they forged a bond over drinks and shared stories of their challenging childhoods. Morden also expressed his admiration for Tequila's courage in his espionage work and leadership abilities within the North American Garrison.

He would eventually become a revered mentor and friend to many, including Clark, Red Eye, Tarma, and Marco. Notably, he encouraged Vasser to join the Peregrine Falcons Squad, but this guidance had an unexpected consequence: Vasser began to reveal a more attention-seeking and bloodthirsty side, indulging in troublesome and lecherous tendencies that led to several issues. In addition to rescuing hostages, he consistently went above and beyond to save children who were in imminent danger or at risk of harm, making their safety a top priority regardless of the mission. One mission that remains etched in his memory is when he rescued a group of children being trafficked and sold on the black market, while his team simultaneously took down the criminals responsible for this heinous crime.

He played a key role in the Arms Deal Barrage and defeating the remnants of the Serapion Fellowship. He was primarily responsible for leading rescue missions for prisoners of war, gathering and providing crucial intelligence on enemy positions, and leading his team in combat operations. He's the primary reason the event bears the name “Barrage”. He orchestrated an artillery bombardment on the fortress housing a critical power facility and a massive space rocket, significantly weakening the Serapion Fellowship's defences. He almost had the chance to kill Ptolemaios for good, but he was struck by insurmountable fear, leaving him frozen like a deer in the headlights, trembling violently and panicking slightly. As a result, Ptolemaios managed to escape, which became a massive regret for Tequila. He feels intense anger whenever he thinks about this missed opportunity and Ptolemaios, disgusted by his heinous actions and how he allowed the Ptolemaic Army to become so cruel and perverted.

However, the mission would uncover a shocking truth: the Regular Army was secretly involved in an illegal arms deal with the Serapion Fellowship. This revelation was shared by him, alongside Gimlet and Red Eye, with Sagan, Logan, Hyakutaro, Morden, and Allen O'Neil. This moment opened his eyes to the Regular Army's secret corruption, but he remained silent, fearing that speaking out would make him a target for swift assassination as a whistleblower.

Three years after the Central Park bombing, Morden secretly approached him at a bar and convinced him to defect. Believing it was a good opportunity, he quietly resigned from the Regular Army and S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. to join the Rebel Army. Tequila soon learned that Sagan and Logan had been secretly working as double agents for General Morden after the Central Park bombing. Despite his displeasure, he vowed to keep Sagan and Logan's secret, promising not to reveal their duplicity to Gimlet. However, he added a warning: if they ever harmed him, he has the right to expose their deceit to Gimlet.

He excelled as a top-notch spy, often disguising himself as a Rebel soldier in a woodland military uniform for land troops. He rose to become Morden's right-hand man, serving as the Army's Chief of Staff. However, after nearing one year of service, he discovered General Morden's true intentions and how he had fully succumbed to his megalomaniacal desires. Horrified, he promptly left the Rebel Army and defected back to the Regular Army, warning them about the impending rise of the Rebel Army. However, despite his inside knowledge, they were unable to prepare in time as General Morden successfully launched a surprise attack, overpowering them and rapidly consolidating his global dictatorship.

During the Great Morden War, he aided Marco in leading the governmental resistance against the Rebel Army. Although he held a higher military rank than Marco, he allowed Marco to take the initiative, recognizing his great potential to become a truly charismatic leader. After being ambushed by Morden and his forces, he was brutally tortured and forcibly killed in front of Marco and Tarma. However, Morden promised to bring him back in a greater form, sending his deceased body to Doctor Amadeus. Doctor Amadeus successfully revived Tequila, but as a semi-clone of Hyakutaro, significantly altering his existence. Unlike Gimlet and Red Eye, he was the sole recipient of a small infusion of godly DNA.

[acheronist]

🧛🏻‍♀️⚰️

disclaimer i am not a scholar or a historian or an archaeologist. i just like vampires in a freak way and read a lot of weird articles + listen to podcasts and think about this a lot.

so the vampire burials that i know the most about were done in the general region of like... hungary / slovakia / romania / poland kind of following along the line of the carpathian mountain range. but also then in like, early america as well for some reason. random ass 1700s vampire hysteria panic swept the nation (all 25 square miles of it).

anyways so this area in europe is notorious for vampire folklore anyways so it tracks that where the european vampire folklore was originating = where people are most frightened of it for real. and so the vampire graves that have been excavated and studied are HONESTLY PROBABLY just the graves of like..... normal people who were ill in some way, and therefore cast into a suspicious light, and then died. but it was a fairly common belief that if someone WAS a vampire, especially prior to dying, then they'd return from the dead and attack and kill their family first before moving onto friends and neighbors and the rest of the community. bad for the community. so after the "vampire" in question died, the living would take extra steps to ensure that the deceased would not rise from the grave again and start killing them because well No One would like that! so one one hand its really kind of upsetting that-- essentially-- the dead were being accused and vandalized without the ability to protect or defend themselves AND THEN ALSO having their burial rites get screwed around with. sure you prevented the vampires but now we've got fucking ghosts. great work everyone.

and then on the other hand morbid freaky trivia is so fascinating to MEEEEEEE so here some of the most dramatic methods that i can recall from the top of my head:

dismembering the deceased's corpse ( with an emphasize on decapitation)

and for the decapitation, sickles or hand scythes were placed over the deceased's neck, so if they lived and sat up again, they'd cut their own throat

also rearranging the dismembered body (pieces) or the body (whole) in specific patterns

padlocking the deceased's feet together

placing bricks or rocks into the deceased's mouth, either breaking their teeth or making it impossible for any postmortem vampire zombie bite damage to be inflicted upon the living

pinning the deceased's corpse into the ground via steel or iron stakes to keep them from getting up. often stakes were stabbed thru the heart which is where the motif in media today comes from

but also sometimes removing the heart from the deceased completely and burning it also happened

burying the deceased with wreathes of garlic and poppy seeds and paprika peppers to act as wards to keep them where they were. which is hilarious also when you take into account how much garlic and poppy and paprika gets used in eastern european cuisine

and i might be making this part up LMAO but i feel like in my heart. and brain. that i remember a colonial american(?) story where an autopsy was performed on a recently deceased girl(??) whose organs still looked "fresh" and functional, as it were, and not like the organs of someone dead. because she was obviously rising from the dead and drinking the blood of the living which we can tell from her remarkably fresh organs. this was another great instance of vampire organ harvesting but i for SURE need to go try and find my source for this again.

and similarly, i also am like 90% sure I've read about exhuming someone who had been accused of being a vampire, and judging how their rate of decomposition was going, and if they looked too fresh and alive then they were a vampire and we can brutally kill them again. obviously differences in burial climates and situations would have no bearing or affect upon the body's rate of decay btw.

but then as we work our way up thru history, illegal body snatching also became an incredibly common thing as anatomists and doctors and surgeons needed the bodies to learn from. and I'm SOOOO so certain that grave cages / mort safes were invented because normal people did not want their corpses to be body snatched and turned into underground med student dissection homework. BUT ☝🏻 i have also seen claims that cages over the graves were put in place to keep the vampires IN the grave, not to keep body snatchers OUT of the grave. and then I went hmm. where have I seen big elaborate grave cages before?

mother fucking henry ford has a mort safe cage on his shit, so the only reasonable conclusion to all of this is that henry ford was a vampire. amen. my edible is hitting now and i cant think of a good conclusion to this post sorry. someday i will write an essay. or finish making my gay ass zine about this.