#file attribution theory

[narrachara-evidence-bracket]

Round 1, poll 7

Vote for whichever you think is best!

Evidence/Propaganda under the cut

Undyne:

-Chara and the Narrator both really admire her (the Narrator's reaction to her death in neutral, the near constant gushing in pacifist, and Chara still calling Undyne the hero in genocide and having far less killing intent towards her than any of the other bosses

-First example that comes to my mind is the positive reactions the narrator seems to have when faced against Undyne, as well as their silence when something bad happens to her, which would make sense for Chara considering it's likely they would really respect someone like Undyne, who doesn't like humans and is determined to stop you

File attribution theory:

-When Frisk is going through the underground, there are two active save files that seem to work in tandem. One (file 9)evidently belongs to Frisk, while the other was a) never used (which makes sense for Chara since Flowey seems to think that resetting was the power they were trying to stop and well, of course, they wouldn't use a power that would allow them to evade consequences) b) named file 0, implying it's owner was the first person in the underground who could reset.

[the-life-of-stella]

The Tempi Train Tragedy and the Ongoing Cover-Up

"I have no oxygen."

On February 28, 2023, Greece experienced the tragic train accident in Tempi, which left 57 dead and dozens injured, causing deep sorrow and outrage in Greek society. Two trains—one passenger train carrying citizens and one freight train carrying goods—ended up traveling on the same railway track in opposite directions. After the violent collision, a massive explosion followed, raising numerous questions. Immediately after the accident, hasty actions were observed that altered the crime scene. Specifically, excavation and backfilling of the collision site were carried out before all necessary evidence had been collected.

According to experts, these actions significantly hindered the judicial investigation in uncovering the truth. In a country that lacks funds for photocopy paper in schools and where it takes years to fix a pothole in a road, on the night of the accident, 700,000 euros were found and orders were given for the immediate planning and execution of the site’s cleanup and backfilling.

The very next morning, the entire political leadership of Greece, accompanied by the President of the Republic, rushed to the accident site. Suspicion arose from the Prime Minister's statement just a few hours after the tragedy, attributing the accident to "human error." The victims' families have spoken about the presence of flammable materials on the freight train, which caused the deadly explosion. These materials were not listed in the official cargo records of the train.

Three weeks after the incident, the Prime Minister dismissed the allegations as "conspiracy theories," insisting that the explosion was caused by the train's brake oil. Key witnesses to the incident were killed in car accidents just days after the crash. Additionally, video footage of the freight train's loading process mysteriously disappeared, with no logical explanation provided. From the very first day, audio recordings of conversations between stationmasters were made public; however, it was later revealed that they had been edited, with the apparent goal of misleading public opinion and reinforcing the narrative that human error was the primary cause of the collision. Subsequent revelations have brought to light strong indications of attempts to cover up the real causes of the explosion, those truly responsible for the tragedy, and the deep-rooted corruption within Greece.

A recent report by an expert that surfaced in the media suggests that the explosion was caused by the presence of flammable substances, excluding brake oil as the cause, since it would not have been capable of producing such a massive blast. The explosion is believed to have been triggered by chemical fuel adulterants. Recorded emergency calls made by victims to 112—activated by the automatic collision mechanism—reveal that survivors of the crash were crying out that they could not breathe. The recorded distress calls confirm the presence of oxygen depletion due to the fire. The victims survived the collision but were burned alive.

According to the victims' families, political mechanisms are deliberately delaying legal proceedings, keeping case files buried in bureaucratic drawers and obstructing their fight for justice. As if all this were not enough, the son of the prosecutor handling the Tempi case has been missing for three weeks. Recent reports suggest that the prosecutor has stepped down from the case. Public outrage continues to grow, fueled by the widespread belief that a deliberate cover-up is taking place.

The families of the victims, railway workers, and society at large demand transparency. The victims' families, through their association, are calling for an independent judicial process in Greece. Today, across Greece, without political banners or affiliations, people are gathering under one slogan—the last words of those who burned alive:

"I have no oxygen."

#tempi #tempi_crime

[diejager]

Imagine that the hybrid 141 was getting a teammate and that teammate was a hybrid and Laswell wanted it to be a surprise for the team what they are as in hybrid was and soon as they get off the aircraft and onto the tarmac, the boys realize that they’re with another dragon hybrid and her “heat” would be soon upon her (dark blue in to black better for stealth or, whatever you prefer, she also has her wings) how would the boys handle that you can take the story anyway you want 

This… I might make it self-indulging because this idea has been clawing at the back of my mind for a long while. Cw: mating/heat cycle, fire/water magic, tell me if I missed any.

Laswell had Price wait for the surprise she had planned, the secret she kept from them when they received your file. It had all he asked for in attributes and skills, but all things personal that should have been on it were scratched out in black. He was told that it was a need to know basis, your name, age or species wouldn’t be divulged unless you told them yourself. He knew you from words from mouth to ear, ad read of your skill and efficiently but nothing he heard and found told him an ounce about you as a person. Your character was a mystery he died to know.

So when he got word from Laswell that your ETA was just over half an hour, he had the boys reconvene to the airstrip, watching the aircraft carrying you land not too far from them, the rotors slowing to a steady thrum. The anticipation that bubble din his chest made this moment crawl at a snail’s pace, the ramp lowering too slowly for his liking and the droning sound of the aircraft’s irking his ears. Then, seconds after the ramp fully dropped, he caught sight of blue horns, tines growing from a singular robust beam, segmented like those of a scale. Your head, covered by a custom made helmet to let your antlers peek out and sit comfortably on your head (at least you wore something, unlike his constant frustration with finding one that wouldn’t bother his horns), followed after you walked out, decked in your gear and a bag slung over your shoulders. 

You weren’t what he was expecting, not exactly. He read that you had a masterful experience in hydromancy, stealing water from the air and humidity and contorting it to cause havoc in the field and cutting through the enemy. He and the others shared their theories, one possibility made you into a water witch, a leviathan, or one of those creepy monsters from the deep sea. Not what… whatever you were. You had elk-like horns painted in the deepest blue he’d ever seen and a tail covered in scales of the same shade, glistening under the light like it was wet with tufts of hair - or was it fur? - crawling down the base of your fourth limb to create a silky and soft end with long, slowing locks. 

What were you? What was that smell? It got sweeter the closer you got, a softness that clung to his nose and made him salivate. He wondered how strong it must be for the Soap and König who’s noses were more enhanced and sensitive than any others, they’d probably sniff the source - you - out and answer his undying question.

“Captain Price,” you nodded your head, a small smile gracing your lips, your slitted eyes narrowed in greeting, “Hope I didn’t make you wait too long.”

That sweetness lingered around you and stuck to his hand when you shook hands, giving him a firm shake and stronger grip that he could admire for the strength you showed. Had you face been as bright as it was a few seconds before? Perhaps it was the musk that oozed off you, it was uneasily addicting and pleasing to his lizard brain, slowly moving the cogs of hos old machine. He watched you take a step back, making some distance between his Task Force and you, and his mind got clearer, nose less stuffy and cheeks wash away the slight flush. Then it hit him, the sweetness, the dazed perception of you and the growing need in his body, he was reacting to you. 

“Sorry, I was told I’d be off for the week once I landed,” you cocked your head, sharing an apologetic smile, “My cycle follows the Lunar year.”

Ah, everything made more sense now, the gracefulness of your beautiful tail, the glistening of your scales and the sharpness of your horns. He had agreed to welcome another dragon to his Task Force, he was fortunate that Asian dragons were calmer and benevolent than his European counterpart. 

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

[morlock-holmes]

Towards a Unified Theory of Conspiracy Crank Politics

I've been thinking a lot about what seems to drive the person I will call, for lack of a better term, the conspiracy crank world-view, and particularly, my feelings about the great crank realignment.

A lot of people have said, "It seems like 30 years ago conspiracy weirdos were pretty bipartisan people, but now they all seem to be Trump loyalists."

My belief is that it's not that the conspiracy cranks became more right-wing; rather, it's that the Republicans have largely stopped being a right-wing party and are instead now a conspiracy crank party.

So, I've said this before, and I'm not well enough read in the history of conspiracy thinking to bring up old examples, but as a kid I subscribed to Skeptical Enquirer, and I remember quickly coming to two conclusions:

The reason a lot of the alien conspiracy X Files stuff is so interesting in fiction is that talented fiction writers have used it as a jumping off point to make an interesting story; the primary conspiracy literature is often very poorly written, not very inventive, and frequently openly bigoted, which leads into my second discovery,

A lot of times there is only one degree of seperation between "Big pharma and modern living has severed our spiritual connection to our earth mother Gaia" and "The Jews run the world with the aim of keeping the white race enslaved". Like, the far right conspiracy people were often really willing to ally with and break bread with the far left conspiracy people, and vice versa, in fact much more so then the more grounded parts of the left and right.

And I think that's because the conspiracy theorists have a kind of common mindset with certain shared features, regardless of the specifics of their conspiracy.

These are things that I have noticed as commonalities, and they aren't limited to conspiracy cranks; in fact, probably the vast majority of people have these habits of thought to some extent. My argument is that they are often abnormally strong in conspiracy believers.

Belief in a just world. A lot of fringe types have a really strong belief that the world is fundamentally just, and that in the ordinary course of things bad things do not happen to good people. Bad things only happen because a personified force arranged for the bad thing to happen. The example I've used before is slipping and falling off a ladder. Many of us would attribute such a thing to pure chance; some people will take it as evidence that a witch or a demon has cursed them.

An extreme difficulty with feeling out of control. It is hard for them to accept that in some circumstances they may not have control. Things which make them feel like they are no longer in control are very often interpreted as hostilities against them.

A severe difficulty in actually putting themselves in another person's shoes. Often, the conspiracy minded person is incredibly judgemental about others, and particularly, they really, really struggle with the idea that something might be easy for them, but difficult for someone else, or difficult for them, but necessary to help someone else.

Like I said, we all have these habits to some extent, I just think they are often magnified in the conspiracy crank.

As an example of what I mean by these thought patters, I am in the middle of a podcast reviewing a crank movie about how germs don't cause diseases. And apparently, in this movie, they first have a heroic interview with a restaurant owner who not only never required his patrons to wear masks, he actually banned any mask wearing on the premises.

Which is followed immediately by a scene of a person getting kicked out of a store for not masking, and talking about how it's incredibly shocking that what should be a matter of personal conscience is being enforced by the government.

And there's just no sense that there is any hypocrisy or tension here.

What I mean is, a principled libertarian might say, "Each individual business can require masks, or require you to take masks off, or have no policy, according to their individual decision, and we should allow them to make those decisions and abide by them."

Another principled position might be that we have extremely compelling evidence for the pandemic, and maybe certain kinds of policies should be temporarily enacted to slow the spread, even though they infringe on what would be, in ordinary times, important liberties, because they serve to protect the collective greater good.

Either of these positions sort of takes it for granted that a choice that I, personally, might not fully agree with might still be important to other people.

But the crank mindset says, "I don't want to wear a mask. So forcing people to wear a mask is an imposition on important freedoms. But since I'm already comfortable without a mask, forcing people to take their masks off isn't any kind of imposition on anybody's freedom, that's ridiculous."

You can see what I'm talking about most clearly in certain right-wing Christians. I've seen Christians say that freedom is exactly the same as following God's will, and that disobedience to God is a form of bondage and slavery.

These habits of mind are not, themselves, partisan; the can be applied to any cause, right-wing or left-wing. I might just have easily brought up "Free speech doesn't mean tolerating hate speech."

But I would argue that the reverse is not true, that you can build a political party that caters primarily to people with these habits of mind.

These people tend to flock to politicians who simultaneously promise a strong government which they can borrow to reassert their sense of control in the world, but the actual specific politics of that government are squishy and malleable.

The government has to be strong and able to domineer others because the conspiracy crank understands that they are in opposition to some large portion of the population, and so the government has to be strong enough to say, for example, "We will make sure that no private business will kick you out for wearing a mask."

When the world feels out of control, the government will lend you the tools to reassert your control over the world around you.

But the actual political goals of the government have to be extremely vague and malleable, so that they can move quickly to maintain the illusion that good people don't ever really disagree about this stuff.

A government which is coherently committed to a libertarian project might well say, "Sorry, those businesses have every right to decide who they cater to."

You have to be a weathervane, once a majority of cranks decide that vaccines and mask mandates are bad, you have to swivel and take that position in order to maintain a sort of illusion that whatever freedoms your crank audience wants in the moment are inherently sensible and that no sane person could disagree.

My argument is that Trump has turned the Republicans into the crank party, the party that signals to cranks that it will have their backs, whereas thirty years ago, the parties were still committed enough to coherent political goals that neither one could make that promise, and so cranks had to be politically idiosyncratic.

[creature-wizard]

How Project Monarch fails the "Six Ways To Debunk Any Conspiracy Theory" sniff test

The 2017 article Six Ways To Debunk Any Conspiracy Theory lists six characteristics of conspiracy thinking that break down with a small amount of critical thinking. (I recommend reading the whole thing for yourself!)

If we compare the claims made about Project Monarch to the six items on this list, we can see that they meet five of the six items all six items, including:

No Leaks: The type of programming methods associated with Project Monarch have allegedly been practiced for at least seventy years in numerous countries (including but not limited to the US, the UK, Canada, Germany, and France) in all levels of society, yet no documents containing evidence proving its existence (such as documents containing alter scripts, programming and ritual protocols, programming session notes, alter access codes, and various memos) has ever been leaked.

Evidence Gap: Investigations of cases where we might expect to find evidence of Monarch-style programming have never found any such thing. If this was happening in the way people claim, we should expect at least some criminal investigations (including but not limited to investigations of child abuse, drug possession, and murder) to also uncover the aforementioned document types. We should also expect the more obvious programming tools and props (such as human-sized cages, ETC devices, ritual sites done up to look like UFOs or whatever, programming tapes and audio files, etc) to turn up in conjunction with such documents. And of course, we should be finding a lot more animal and human remains, with all of the ritual sacrifices they're supposedly performing.

Inconsistent Capabilities: Believers claim that programming cults are so hypercompetent that can hide or destroy all physical evidence of their existence, and apparently never place any digital literature on unsecure devices or file servers. Yet they are somehow also so inept that they can't stop all of these alleged victims from telling everything to their therapists, writing and publishing books, and from posting online. (They've apparently never heard of stalkerware, or at least not allowing someone to use the Internet without heavy supervision.)

Prediction Horizon: The alleged triggers that supposedly force different alters to front or activate specific programming are often extremely commonplace stimuli, including (but not limited to) simple colors, patterns, and images (for example, the image of a specific flower), common phrases (for example, "I called to see how you're feeling") and common gestures (for example, clasped hands).

It would be impossible for programmers to prevent their victims from coming across many of these triggers by pure happenstance, because they simply can't predict or control other people's behavior on a large enough scale. They can't know or control, for example, when the pop song they've used as a trigger will play on the radio in a store, or when the neighbor will suddenly decide to plant a bed of daisies, or when a bank teller will wear a blue silk shirt. And considering some of the roles alters are allegedly programmed for, things would get really awkward really fast.

Method-Goal Mismatch: Monarch-type programming is still allegedly practiced today because numerous cults and abusive groups want perfectly compliant, obedient people. But the methods they are claimed to use are both extraordinarily risky and effort-intensive, and ultimately do not appear to be more rewarding than conventional methods of indoctrination, manipulation, and generally limiting a person's capacity to exercise autonomy (such as deprivation of education, funds, and legal papers).

Unfalsifiable: Failure to locate hard evidence of Project Monarch or Monarch-like practices are attributed to the alleged hypercompetence of the cultists, government agents, etc. When the question of why neighbors, teachers, doctors, etc. didn't notice anything strange comes up, believers claim they're all cultists or agents. Records that contradict claims of ritual abuse are claimed to be falsified. Obviously impossible events described by patients are simply chalked up to confusion from drugged states. Numerous books in favor of this conspiracy theory assures us that denying abuse or admitting to your therapist that you fabricated your claims is further evidence of programming.

In conclusion, while we know that Project MK-Ultra existed, claims of Project Monarch's existence and the widespread, even systemic practice of the techniques it alleged developed are easily demonstrated as nothing more than conspiracy theories.

[magnagaruzenmon]

Hybrid Theory XIII

Happy pride!!!

Surak entered my office with an armful of reports—thick files crammed with incident logs, chemical analyses, and whispered testimonials. At the center of it all: the Animus Complex, the nightclub known as Concrete Jungle, and someone only ever referred to as “the Doctor.” Strangely, the records conflicted—some described a male mouse hybrid, others a female bat. No clear face. There is no consistent name. Just fragments and shadows scattered across pages.

But every trail pointed to the same place. Concrete Jungle.

I holstered my badge, nodded at the sheriff as he warned me to “watch myself,” and stepped out into the simmering heat of the city.

By the time I reached the club, it was already throbbing with life. Concrete Jungle pulsed like a living organism—neon veins, bass-drum heartbeat, and pheromone-laced breath. It was more alive than I’d ever seen it, the energy almost feverish. Waiting outside like queens on parade were its infamous owners, both of them dressed to slay.

“Well, well, well,” Lisa grinned, eyes gleaming under platinum lashes, “if it isn’t Torhu the hellhound, deputy sheriff extraordinaire.”

I gave a curt nod. “Ladies. I’d like to ask a few questions about a party drug making the rounds. Been linked to some… problems.”

Jennie’s smile was slower, more feline. “Of course. We love helping the law.”

They ushered me inside, and the club swallowed me whole.

The moment I crossed the threshold, the air thickened—lust, sweat, perfume, musk. A scentscape so complex it felt chemical. Bodies writhed in sync with the music, hybrids and humans intertwined in a fog of velvet desire. It wasn’t a dance floor, it was a dreamscape—or a trap.

As we passed, two hybrids—one a broad-shouldered tanuki, the other a sly red panda—locked eyes with me. There was something knowing in their gaze.

Jennie leaned close, her breath brushing my ear. “Don’t worry. You’ll see them again… soon.”

I narrowed my eyes at that but said nothing. Whatever they were playing at, it was layered, careful, and dangerous.

I followed the two ladies carefully

“So what brings the hero of the city in our little club,” Jennie asks.

“Yeah after you finally got rid of the Orca bros and the Serpent Pit gangs and allowed us to get this place off the ground, “ Lisa cooed.

I shrugged and said, “just keeping everyone safe,”

“Oh certainly but you always go above and beyond. I mean who else would face down the Chameleon butcher known as Dexter Hannibal,”

I shrugged as as much as I’d like to attribute that to nobility it was only proper timing and alignment. I saw the patterns others didn’t.

“So hellhound what are your questions?” Lisa asked as she locked me in with her and Jennie in their “office” I looked around to see men and women hybrids and humans alike strapped to various machines while they sauntered around the room with an indifferent passion. It was arousing but also weirdly detached. Lisa gently guided me to the center of their office her hands gently wrapping around my shoulders. Images of her tearing at my throat with her claws pulsed in my mind that bordered on arousing and terrifying.

“Recently there have been reports of a new drug that gives the taker traits of various hybrids and a lot of the paper trial comes back to this club and someone called “The doctor”. Can you help me understand that?”

“Well they’re not drugs but supplements…all natural.” Jennie answered before pointing to a hybrid attached to a milking machine.

“We receive “generous donations” from our patrons and our good Doctor Amalia whips them up into pills that temporarily alter the taker’s dna. They are safe and oh so fun,” Lisa answered to prove her point she and Lisa both took a pill from bottles behind them and I watched as Jennie grew taller while Lisa grew fuller and horns sprouted from her temples. I watched in terror and awe as they took on a further hybridization Jennie became a hyena hybrid while Lisa’s fuller chest and hips and horns told me cow hybrid in addition to her other hybrid traits. They kissed while staring at me eyes and intent clear to seduce.

Jennie’s new form towered over me slightly, her back arched with that predator’s grace — shoulders relaxed, smile all teeth. Lisa, now lusher, warmer somehow, leaned against me, and I could smell her — hay and honey, the scent of a pasture twisted into something heady and narcotic. Her horns gleamed in the low light.

“I see your concern, Hellhound,” Jennie purred. “But you’re misunderstanding the ecosystem here. These aren’t gutter chemicals. They’re evolution.”

Lisa giggled, her breath ghosting my neck. “We just speed things up a little. Give the meek a taste of teeth. The weak a little heat.”

“Temporarily,” I replied, keeping my voice flat, cold. “Until the side effects hit. Until someone loses their mind in a predator spiral, or worse. You’ve got three deaths already on record and a dozen disappearances.”

Jennie made a tsking sound, her claws idly dragging along a steel filing cabinet, leaving faint scratches. “People die all the time in this city. You know that better than anyone.”

“But not always like this,” I replied, eyeing the hybrid still hooked to the milking rig — a bat hybrid with dazed eyes and IVs in both arms. “Not from playing chimera with black-market biotech. And not with a war criminal like Doctor Amalia in the mix.”

That got their attention.

Jennie’s pupils dilated, hyena-wide, and Lisa’s hand gripped my arm just a touch tighter. Still smiling. Still playful. But something behind their eyes flickered.

I pressed forward. “You didn’t know, did you? Your good doctor used to wear a different uniform — white coat under a military crest. Camp Erebos. She made trybrids. Animal hybrid cocktails. Built for covert ops and disposal missions. Most didn’t survive.”

Lisa pulled away now, just a hair. “You’re lying,” she said, though her tone wavered, uncertain.

“I omit but I never lie, besides the paper trail doesn’t lie either,” I said, fishing a small datachip from my jacket and sliding it onto the desk. “Chaehyun and Disufiora found her files. Photos. Names. You’d recognize some of them — the ones still alive.”

Jennie’s smile faded. Not anger. Not guilt. Just the realization of a game gone sideways.

“She changed names. Face, maybe. Got lost in the noise after the ceasefire,” I said, watching the flickers of recognition dawn. “But someone high up wanted her work buried, so they could let her keep experimenting — under the radar. Your little club here is just another lab.”

“So what now, detective?” Jennie asked, voice low, taut. Her claws retracted, but the posture remained.

“That’s the thing,” I said. “My superior just told us to drop it. Said it came from high up. Very high. That the program’s head made it disappear.”

Jennie walked to the window and parted the velvet curtain just a little. Outside, the city blazed like a dying star, the rain glossing everything with sin.

Lisa’s voice was softer now. “Then we’re all in danger, aren’t we?”

“More than you know,” I said. “If Amalia’s working unchecked again, it’s not just hybrid clubs she’s cooking up. It’s something bigger. Something permanent.”

Jennie turned, face cast in shadow. “So we’re not enemies.”

“Not tonight,” I said. “But that depends on how much you’re still protecting her.”

She nodded, slow. “We’ll consider our loyalties.”

Lisa brushed her fingers against my chest one last time before stepping away, her horns catching the red light like a warning.

“We always liked you, Hellhound,” she said. “Let’s hope you don’t have to put us down.”

I turned to leave, the door ahead of me hazy with nightclub smoke and the cloying perfume of synthetic roses. Something in the air had shifted—the kind of electric pressure that warns of a coming storm. Behind me, the city pulsed like a clenched fist, waiting for its chance to strike or be struck.

“Hellhound, wait,” Lisa’s voice rang out—casual, but with a glint of purpose.

I stopped mid-step, brows knitting as I glanced back. “Yeah?”

Jennie was already leaning forward in her seat, voice sweet like syrup and twice as sticky. “My friend Nayeon said you do a killer Brian Garrison impression. Would you do a little performance for me?”

I blinked. “Right now?”

She smiled, all teeth. “Right now.”

I sighed. “Sure,” I muttered, already regretting it.

The next few seconds passed in a blur. One moment I was standing near the exit; the next, I was being ushered—no, whisked—onto a makeshift stage lit with too many colors. Lisa and Jennie grinned from the wings, their band already taking position behind me, adjusting their instruments with practiced ease.

The spotlight hit me like a slap. The crowd fell quiet. The silence wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was the kind of hush people give before a car crash or a miracle.

Then the opening riff of Slaughterhouse tore through the air.

I winced, heart pounding. No warm-up, no prep. Just me, a mic, and the ghost of a man with a voice like broken steel.

I did my best. Stumbled into the rhythm, found the gravel in my throat, forced my voice to hit the guttural dips and warlike bellows. Somewhere halfway through, I caught Jennie mouthing along to the chorus and Lisa clapping her thigh to the beat.

I started to step off the stage, breath ragged—when Slaughterhouse 2 began.

The crowd let out a gasp that was half surprise, half hungry delight.

When the final note ended, the silence cracked into cheers. Real ones. Clapping, whooping, even a few stomps.

I didn’t know how to process it.

I stepped down from the stage, skin buzzing, heart confused—was it adrenaline? Shame? Joy?

Before I could even catch my breath, they emerged from the crowd—like heat rising off summer pavement.

The red panda hybrid moved with a feline elegance, her steps slow, deliberate, the sway of her hips a hypnotic rhythm. Her fur was brushed to perfection, her eyes half-lidded with amusement and something far more dangerous. That same sly smile she wore earlier now deepened into something openly inviting.

Beside her, the tanuki hybrid exuded a darker magnetism—his presence quiet, but no less commanding. There was a lazy hunger in his gaze, something unspoken but deeply understood. His dark eyes raked over me with bold curiosity, as if he was already imagining how I’d sound with my breath caught in my throat.

“That was pretty… impressive, Hellhound,” the red panda said, voice like velvet dipped in wine. She leaned in, her body angled just so, every inch of her posture designed to beckon. Her tail flicked slowly behind her, an unconscious tease. “You put on quite a show.”

“Yeah,” the tanuki murmured, his voice low and intimate—like he was speaking into the space between our pulses. “It was… exciting.”

He stepped forward, his body heat washing over me like steam. And then, without warning, his hands cradled my face—firm, sure, possessive—and his mouth met mine.

I gasped against him, melting instinctively into the kiss. His arms wrapped around me like a trap I didn’t want to escape. He tasted like dark fruit and smoke. My knees went soft as a dizzy wave of pleasure surged through me. The world spun. His scent filled my lungs—sweet and earthy, intoxicating in a way that made my thoughts stagger. And yet, behind that softness, I caught a note of submission, a sweetness that pleaded to be held, tamed, devoured.

We parted with a breathless string of saliva stretching between us. He smirked, eyes half-lidded, drunk on the moment.

Before I could recover, the red panda claimed her moment.

She grabbed my chin, turned my head with playful command, and pulled me into her. Her kiss was wild—a crashing tide of lip and tongue, teasing and relentless. She purred into my mouth, and I could feel her smile curling against me. She wasn’t asking—she was taking, and I gave in willingly.

Her scent hit me hard—less submissive than the tanuki’s, but just as alluring. Bright citrus over something warm and musky, a predator’s perfume. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. My body responded before my mind could catch up.

When she pulled away, I was dazed. Feral joy twinkled in her eyes. “I’m Haseul,” she said, voice purring with satisfaction.

The tanuki grinned, stepping beside her. “Hinata,” he said, brushing a finger down my jaw. “Pleasure to meet you.”

My thoughts were fogged, heavy with the weight of desire. I wanted them—both of them—right there, right then. My mouth moved on instinct.

“Hi, my name is—”

They shushed me in perfect synchrony.

“We know who you are,” Haseul murmured, fingers tracing the edge of my jaw. “You’re the hero. The legend.”

“But we don’t want the myth tonight,” Hinata added gently, eyes glowing with a kind of wicked tenderness. “Just the man underneath. Can you be that? Just for us?”

My voice caught in my throat. I nodded.

Their smiles deepened—slow, sultry things full of promise.

Without another word, they each took one of my hands and led me away, their touch electric, their intentions unspoken but very clear.

I followed them into a crimson room. They looked at me with a surprised look, “when was the last time you got any action?” Hinata asked sweetly.

I tried to think of a time but it was a bit too long, Hinata sighed then giggled, “well don’t worry we will fulfill your every desire tonight,”

I gulped as Haseul took me in for another kiss. Her breath was hot and electric meanwhile Hinata unbuttoned my shirt and undid my pants. His soft hands traveling all around my body as he looked for my arousal points when he breathed into my ear I shuddered and I heard him giggle before he said, “I’m gonna enter slowly now,” I nod as I feel his dick press against my ass my mind cloudy with lust as Haseul continues kissing me all over.

Then Hinata pushes himself inside of me. I moaned and whimper helplessly as he mounts me.

“How is is it he asks,”

“So fucking good,” I groan out as he starts thrusting into me. I grip the couch as he fucks into me with Haseul watching us wide eyed under. She smiles as she begins to undress and her mouth watering body is put on display. My cock stands proud and high as Hinata rams himself inside of me. Haseul smiles as she begins palming me as she says, “you look so good between us, before pushing me inside of her. I moan at the overwhelming sensation as Hinata and Haseul fuck me. Hinata chuckles and says

“Fuck you’re so tight!” I laugh and shot back,

“You love it though,”

Hinata laughs and says, “Yeah I do,”

I feel him twitch inside of me and say, “you gonna cum,” he nods before giving me a few more good pumps then unloading Inside of me. I laugh as he pulls out allowing me to focus on Haseul. She smiles as she stares into my eyes.

“You’re different from what I thought,” she says as she pushes me up and begins riding me.

“How so?” I ask. Haseul's tightness envelops me as she says,

"i'll tell you later,"

I woke hours later, tangled in the soft warmth of Haseul and Hinata, both draped across my body like lazy cats after a feast. Their breathing was slow, contented. I sighed, peeled myself out from under them, and—despite everything—wrapped them both up in a blanket. The scent of sex, sweat, and expensive lipstick clung to my skin, and as I caught my reflection in the mirror, I chuckled. My neck and chest were a battlefield of kiss marks, smudged red and pink.

After dressing, I slipped out. The club still pulsed with bass-heavy music and hazy lights, but I didn’t let it draw me in this time. I kept my focus on the exit—until I heard a voice behind me, sweet as poison and just as sharp.

“Oh look, if it isn’t Mycroft Beowulf Moriarty.”

The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. I stopped, rolled my eyes, and turned.

She was standing in the shadows like she owned them: a bat hybrid, beautiful in a way that demanded obedience, with crimson eyes and fangs that glinted when she smiled. She was dressed to kill—figuratively, I hoped.

“Though I imagine you’d rather go by your nom de guerre these days. Hellhound, isn’t it?” she added, voice syrupy.

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Great. You know my real name. That saves us both from the usual dramatic posturing.”

Her brow furrowed, slightly thrown by my lack of alarm.

“Listen closely, Dr. Amalia,” I said, voice level but laced with irritation. “This little chemistry experiment you’re running? The hybrid drugs? It’s not clever. It’s reckless. People are dying—fast, loud, and publicly. If you don’t stop, or at least slow down and vet what you’re putting out, someone’s going to send me to make sure you do. And when that happens, not even your sponsors will be able to keep you safe.”

She blinked, confusion washing over her features like a sudden storm. “What are you talking about?”

I groaned. “Councilman Aurelio and Fjord. Ring any bells? They’re your benefactors, pushing this ‘post-human’ utopia. You’re just one cog in the machine. They want everyone rewritten—hybrids, psionics, whatever Doflamingo, Achilles, and Disu are becoming.”

Amalia’s face lost all its color. Her breath hitched. “How… how do you know that?”

I gave her a flat look. “Because, frankly? You’re not exactly subtle. Or smart about covering your tracks. You’re a geneticist, not a spook. Every Thirenizine-related death has happened within two clicks of your lab on 418 East Bleaker. Every victim was someone with ties to you from the war. And the autopsy reports?” I raised an eyebrow. “Identical. Heart failure. Overdose. Thirenizine.”

She took a step back, eyes wide now, panic blooming. “Then why don’t you just take me in?”

I laughed—a short, tired sound. “Because you’re protected. By rich men with deep pockets and shallow ethics. They still think you’re useful, so they’re going to paint you as a visionary. The public? They’ll eat it up.”

“So it’s laziness,” she snapped.

“Yep.” I nodded. “Partly. Also, I’ve learned that toppling people like you usually ends with someone worse filling the void. And my leg still hasn’t healed right from that mess with the orca boys, so forgive me if I’m not leaping into another crusade.”

Amalia tried to recover, her lips twitching into something between a smirk and a sneer. “The ex-enforcer of Tahm Kench, now a deputy sheriff with delusions of grandeur, thinks he has leverage over me?”

I leaned in close and said her full address, slowly and clearly. Her eyes widened like saucers.

“Let me be crystal clear, Amalia. I can find you whenever I want. But right now? You’re useful as a scarecrow. The sheep see your blood-stained lab coat and get nervous. Then they see me, and think I’m the dog guarding them. But I’ve killed more predators than you’ve even read about, and I don’t need permission to come knocking.”

She didn’t say anything—just stared at me, the terror fully settled behind her crimson eyes now.

“Keep your work clean. Keep your head down. Don’t give me a reason,” I finished.

Amalia nodded, mute.

Satisfied, I finally left for real this time.

And behind me, for once, the club didn’t seem to pulse with heat and desire—only the icy silence of someone who realized just how thin the ice was beneath her.

A few days later Amalia was working relentlessly to have her fly under the radar so Torhu wouldn’t be sent after her. Terror plagued her mind but caution guided her hand, an ex mob enforcer who was now cosplaying as a sherif? Abhorrent,detestable, Hot!

The rain clawed at the windows like it wanted in. The city lights smeared across the glass, refracting in sharp, ghostly streaks that made the office feel more like a pressure chamber than a workplace.

Amalia crossed her legs too quickly and tried to pretend it was grace, not nerves. Her hands were trembling slightly, so she locked them around the datapad on her lap. Focus. Be the weapon. Not the wound.

Across from her, Aurelio read her file with that measured disinterest she hated. The same expression he wore when reviewing budget cuts or euthanizing failed prototypes. She envied that indifference. He had never looked afraid in his life.

“You requested an emergency review,” he said without looking up. “I assume this isn’t about your implant stability metrics.”

“No,” Amalia said. Her voice sounded wrong. Thin. “It’s about someone. Tohru.” The name caught in her throat like a fishbone. She forced it out. “Mycroft. That’s his real name.”

Now he looked up. Amused. Of course he was.

“The deputy sheriff?” he said. “That oaf from the outreach campaign? He’s about as threatening as a therapy koala.”

Amalia laughed—sharp and unintentional. “He wants you to think that.”

Aurelio tilted his head.

She leaned forward. “I had a run-in with him. He followed me into the Vanta Club, into a back corridor. No cameras. No guards. No backup. He wasn’t armed. He didn’t need to be.”

There was a strange silence, like the air had gone still between them.

“He knew my name,” she whispered. “My name, Aurelio. Not the alias. Not the front. The real one. He listed sites I haven’t even written reports on yet. Recited security codes we only use internally.” She met Aurelio’s gaze. “He’s been inside our systems. Possibly inside our walls.”

Aurelio’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re still alive?”

That’s what scared her most.

“Yes.”

He moved to the bar. Poured drinks like they were part of a ritual. One for her, one for him.

“I don’t understand,” he said, offering her the glass. “If he knows what you are—what you’ve done—why wouldn’t he eliminate you?”

Amalia took the drink but didn’t sip.

“I think…” she started, struggling to put it into words. “I think he doesn’t care.”

Aurelio froze. “Explain.”

“He wasn’t there to moralize. He didn’t call me a monster. He didn’t rant or threaten. He studied me. Like I was some interesting lab rat who got too bold. He wanted me to know that he could end me—and chose not to.”

She gripped the edge of the chair to keep from shaking.

“I’ve been called soulless, arrogant, cruel. But I’ve never met anyone who looked at me like that. Like I was a nuisance. A rook in a game he was already winning.”

Aurelio sipped his drink, considering her.

“And you’re sure this wasn’t performance? Fear can make gods out of scarecrows.”

Amalia’s mouth twitched. “Then I hope it was. I really, really hope I just hallucinated the apex predator inside that stupid public-service shell.”

She saw the moment he stopped believing her. He thought she was spooked. Rattled by guilt. Chasing ghosts in the dark.

“Amalia,” he said gently, like you’d talk to a scientist on the verge of burning out. “You’ve been under immense pressure. Maybe this is your subconscious finally cracking under all those clinical detentions you keep signing off on.”

“I’m not delusional,” she snapped. “You didn’t see him. He wasn’t angry. He was calm. Serene. Like someone watching dominoes fall exactly how he arranged them.”

Aurelio frowned slightly. “Why are you really afraid, Amalia?”

She hesitated.

Because he wasn’t repulsed by me. Because he didn’t hate me. Because he looked at me like I was a mirror. Because for one second—I didn’t want to fight him. I wanted to follow.

“…Because he sees the world the same way I do,” she said at last. “And that terrifies me.”

Aurelio placed his drink down with a faint click.

“When you have proof,” he said, voice going cool, “come back. Until then, take something to sleep. You look like hell.”

She stood, but not before whispering: “You’re not going to see him coming either.”

Later, in the lab

Back in her sanctuary of cold steel and synthetic screams, Amalia tried to rebuild her mind with numbers. But nothing settled. Not the data. Not the drugs.

She pulled up Tohru’s public file. Pictures of him laughing with street vendors. Kneeling beside wounded hybrids. Hugging a child with a prosthetic arm.

She stared at those eyes.

And she remembered the way he looked at her.

Unflinching.

Unmoved.

Unimpressed.

And for the first time in years—she felt human. Weak. Ugly. Curious.

And worst of all?

Turned on.

[marlinswritingarchive]

Tarsus IV: Appendix Of Redacted Files (StarfleetLogs)

There are a number of misconceptions about the Tarsus IV Massacre.

Misconception 1: "The children were the first to go."

This is greatly exaggerated. Of the 4,000+ colonists who died, only 40% of them were children- approximately 1600; which, while a tragedy, was not an act of genocide, but of famine. When the time came, only 162 children were chosen by Kodos to die.

This was the one constant; the one thing that was sacred. All those with parents willing to die for them were safe. And, die they did, when Kodos declared that something must be done.

That is when the rest were killed. There were more than four thousand deaths on Tarsus, of course, but not as many as four thousand disintegrations. However, when they compiled the lists of the dead, they attributed all those unknown deaths to Kodos The Executioner. The true number of victims died with him.

Misconception 2: "It was a natural disaster which came on without warning."

This assumption is perhaps the most understandable. Firstly, because the destruction of the grains was indeed the work of a strange fungus. Second, because it did, indeed appear to be an accident.

Officially, the same fungus that destroyed the crops (and, therefore, the colony) of Epsilon Sorona II also destroyed the crops of Tarsus IV. It was theorised, but never proven, that the Epsilon refugees brought the spores with them by mistake- tramped in on the bottom of boots. Whether intentional or not, the incident was treated as hostile by Kodos and his followers.

The fungus spread fast.

Misconception 3: "There are only nine survivors who can positively I.D Governor Kodos."

There are ten. Two of them currently dwell on the USS Enterprise. Seven are spread across the galaxy. Their names are [REDACTED].

The tenth is a man named Anton Karidian, a man with no history, a man with no past, and a bone structure that no amount of surgery can disguise. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and sees an actor. The rest of the time, he avoids mirrors.

[Flourish. Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and attendants.]

It is curious that he does not avoid the limelight.

KING: Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Moreover that we much did long to see you,

The need we have to use you did provoke

Our hasty sending...

There are a number of horrors surrounding the events of Tarsus IV which people are quick to minimise. These are all truths, ones which get lost in the mythologising of The Tarsus VI Massacre. For, surely, in the 23rd century, humanity has moved past such petty things as racism, eugenics and misogyny? However, no matter how often people gloss over it, the wording remains the same:

Misconception 4: "Governor Kodos decided who would die based on his own personal theories of Eugenics."

'Personal theories of Eugenics' is a quaint way to describe fascism. Perhaps Governor Kodos was not always a fascist, but he was certainly not always Governor. A military coup, on a colony that was first settled by war veterans, is not at all hard.

Misconception 5: "The body of Kodos was too charred to be identified. His face, burned. His fingertips, burned. However, dental records suggest that this was, indeed, his body, as does the DNA we could gather- blood tests were sufficient. We believe that the warehouse was set on fire by a small group of rebels, once Kodos and his security detail were trapped inside. Governor Kodos is dead, and we regret we could not bring him to justice."

- Source: Kit Ashingtower, Chief Medical Examiner.

There is one final truth; for those in Starfleet who have the clearance to learn it. Within the Federation, details of the massacre will remain confidential for another fifty years before the details are released to the public, but, occasionally, a footnote slips through. Sometimes attached to a personnel file, sometimes a medical file, and, in this case- attached to both.

Misconception 6: "Despite being a direct eyewitness to the events of Tarsus IV, James T. Kirk appears to have no lasting trauma associated with the event, and has passed his psych eval.

He has been declared fit for command."

[m1ndbrand]

"all it took was..." — The new President

WARNINGS: Coriolanus Snow is it's own warning(Snow after the 10thGames, 2 years after to be precise); Mentions of death and corpse(small description, nothing big).

SUMMARY: The 12th Hunger Games winner unfortunately fortunately gets the attention of President Snow.

WORDS: 1.384

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the franchise The Hunger Games characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them. I do claim what I wrote and only that.

A/N: If you know the tragedy of Coriolanus by William Shakespeare some names will be recognizable...Also I'm sorry but this chapter won't be the continuation of their little...encounter— but I promise, it's going to happen!

TAG-LIST: @sorry-mrs-jacobs; @phoward89;

MASTERLIST

He was never someone who believed in the stars and whatever they might mean to some people.

It seemed completely idiotic and beneath someone from the level of education, you would get from the Capitol to have this belief that in his humble opinion, of course — was archaic and beneath him.

Fate and stories written on the stars were all but a way of fairy tales being made, a topic on some and even a very important one at that "merging" some characters together like the universe itself deemed them a pair, one in two.

Star-crossed lovers.

How he hated that idea, he couldn't believe he even fed it to—

Let's not dwell on that topic, he had better things to do, like arrange a new Games Maker for the 12th Hunger Games.

Doctor Volumnia Gaul is no more, some freak accident with one or more than one mutt; it wasn't clear, the body was far too mutilated to be recognised by anyone at all if not for the DNA tests and well...the place of the accident, a place only a few people were able to enter and of course Doctor Gaul was one of those people, him included in the small pool.

It was slightly weird however how the mulls were able to break free, the reporters debated it for the first days the case broke daylight, but the theory was quickly suppressed.

After all, mulls were still in being tested and we're highly volatile, their behaviour unstable and unpredictable. And of course, accidents happen.

But the world continues to go around and so shall the Capitol, he needed to find someone and fast. 

He should have looked more into it, the selection that is. But he had more important things in his place, strength the security in the several points of entry on all distractions, the training of the peacekeepers and the change of the uniform like he so petitioned for just to name a few.

The new and young president had more important things to worry about than some person who would probably be soon replaced if so needed.

The theme he chose ,he didn't even try to remember the man's name, was an advanced-looking arena; a sign of the year the Capitol got a new President. Coriolanus liked the idea. It painted his future reign as one that would lead them into the future, lead them into a better time.

It painted him as a good leader.

The reaping ceremony passed without a problem. Some students clearly didn't like something— their tribute lack of attributes to make them win or the idea of having to participate in such 'twisted games' as the rebel-like-youth liked to name his games. He honestly couldn't care less, blue-ice-like eyes looking straight at the screens with a fake polite smile when the camera twists at him, showing his all too polished self composed with a deep red suit and thick coat that made his figure even more imposing than it normally is.

He would soon return to his manor and actually work, the two hours of the opening ceremony put his work ethic behind schedule more than he liked to admit.

There was much to be done to make the Capitol and the Districts into the way he saw fit and Coriolanus shouldn't waste more time than he already has.

Not even a day later he would have the files of everyone who chose to review. For some reason the late president did this— the threat of the Rebels was still very much a problem and he was of course scared shitless by them so all 'useful' information was of course turned into two paper pages that it was his duty to read through.

Coriolanus was just about to skim through them all but the very first file caught his attention, District One female tribute.

Not the girl's image he didn't even look at it properly, he already saw every tribute face on the reaping ceremony... all looked underfed and clearly not fit for an entertaining games in terms of pure brutal strength, the mentors would need to sell them well to the Capitol. No it was her name. Her last name rang a bell.

A big warning bell was inside his head and it made his eyebrows furrow, hand picked up the two-page long file and flipped through the description of her family. Something was amiss, he could feel it in his bones. Something was wrong. 

Coriolanus could almost feel the hunger tearing at his stomach, his small sweaty hand tightly gripping his equally moist cousin's hand as they received the news of his father's death.

His other small hand gripping the files of several names of supposed rebels that could be the reason behind his father's death. Blond hair falls against his sweaty forehead as at that time he didn't understand why he had to read the names of random men.

Brutus.

His hand grips the file on his hand, veins popping up as his eyes skim through the contents of the file, once and then twice. He didn't even sit down, reading in silence for 10 minutes over and over again to look out for another word, sentence, or anything more.

Only two people are still alive from her family— grandmother and little brother, Valeria Brutus and Menenius Brutus, then they got the last name from her grandfather. His hand moves the paper right and left, trying to see if her grandfather's first name was there. But it wasn't. It probably wasn't deemed to be useful information since he is dead. Putting the papers down he turns with a sigh to his window, chin rising as he looks to see all the perfectly arranged garden of pure white roses in the front of his mansion.

No this shouldn't matter. It didn't matter, not now. He got what he wanted he won, the victor. He was still standing with or without his father.

The nostalgic feeling of feeling hungry regrows once again and it makes him nauseous, sharp eyes turning to the face of the girl on the page. She looked like every other girl he reminds himself as he starts a little too long at her face. Eighteen, one more year and she should have been safe from the reaping.

A smile creeps on his lips. Amusement dancing in his eyes like he had just read a good enough joke.

He couldn't sleep.

Coriolanus hated to be in need of something even if it was just a simple pill to go to sleep. He was better than that, he could sleep alone thank you very much.

Couldn't he just get the information he wanted? He could, he had the resources, and he had the needs to if he so pleases, so why not?

No.

No, he wouldn't lose to this...whatever this is, curiosity, need— want to know. Closure.

Maybe that was it. Know the person or people that did this to him. To his family. The people that made him starve and struggle. Envy and step on people that he knew were living better than him, growing to bring them down so he could feel himself high above them all. Know the people that in a way, made him the way he is now.

Rising he presses the inside of his palms to his eyes.

For fucks sake— Shut the fuck up! 

His mouth was open. Eyes shot open and hands grabbing tightly the silk covers, knuckles turning white. Did he shout those words? Wasn't it all in his head? His hands were shaking, face was slightly flushed red from anger.

It's one of those episodes.

Rising he curses under his breath, feet carrying him to one of the small tables with some pills on them. Deep eyes thin as he tried to look into the colours of the various drugs that looked like they were thrown there and he picked a deep purple one in the midst of the rainbow and quickly gulped it down without water.

His attention is caught by the silver-like glow of the moonlight slipping through his windows, blue tired-looking eyes looking up at the sky, they find the stars instead of the moon that sings for attention. Wishing to catch a stray star amidst the ones that stay. Maybe he could catch it as it falls.

With those thoughts, sleep would soon catch him.

Previous

[narrachara-evidence-bracket]

And another three!

Under the cut is every single submission I have so far

I really think we're getting somewhere now!

[under-lore]

apologies if this is already common knowledge, but do the files (0, 9, etc) behave any differently when playing hard mode?

No, not really.

File 0 and file 9 work as normal, being edited over via manual SAVING or autosaves in certain locations.

There is a line in the contents of the files that changes when hard mode is on, but it isn't relevant, and the game seems to auto-update it every time a room is entered or the game is restarted depending on wether the player is named "Frisk".

[houseofbrat]

By Mark Bederow Mr. Bederow is a criminal defense lawyer and a former Manhattan assistant district attorney. The murder of the health care executive Brian Thompson on a Midtown sidewalk was shocking, brazen and seemingly methodical, but it wasn’t all that sophisticated. It didn’t take long for the authorities to identify Luigi Mangione as the likely murderer and arrest him. They had surveillance videos and various sightings. They are said to have forensic evidence linking him to the crime. A gun he had when he was arrested in Pennsylvania is said to be the same type of gun as the murder weapon. A notebook attributed to Mr. Mangione is said to have mentioned Mr. Thompson’s company, UnitedHealthcare, and that he planned to shoot a C.E.O. “These parasites had it coming,” he wrote, condemning health care companies for callous greed. In other words, Manhattan prosecutors have what looks to be a pretty straightforward case of second-degree murder, the charge that is almost always filed in New York State in cases of intentional murder.

But the Manhattan district attorney, Alvin Bragg, instead has charged Mr. Mangione with first-degree and second-degree murder in furtherance of terrorism (among other charges), which requires lifetime imprisonment in the event of a conviction. (The maximum sentence for second-degree murder without the terrorism charge would be 25 years to life.) By complicating a simple case, Mr. Bragg has increased the risk of acquittal on the most serious charge and a hung jury on any charge. Since Mr. Mangione is already being celebrated by some as a folk hero because of his rage against the American health care system, the terrorism charge, which alleges that Mr. Mangione “intended to intimidate or coerce a civilian population, influence the policies of a unit of government” and “affect the conduct of a unit of government,” almost certainly will turn the case into political theater. By charging Mr. Mangione as a terrorist, prosecutors are taking on a higher burden to support a dubious theory. In trying to prove that Mr. Mangione killed Mr. Thompson to “intimidate or coerce a civilian population,” prosecutors will presumably argue that the civilian population comprises health care executives and employees. But New York appellate courts have taken a very limited and fairly traditional view of what constitutes a civilian community under the terrorism law that was enacted within days of the Sept. 11 attacks.

The evidence appears to suggest that Mr. Mangione was bent on assassinating Mr. Thompson rather than intending “to sow terror,” as Mr. Bragg alleged in his news conference unsealing Mr. Mangione’s indictment. Mr. Mangione’s notebook reportedly says that he planned a targeted assassination because he did not want to “risk innocents.” So while this statement incriminates Mr. Mangione as a murderer, it appears to undermine the terrorism charge. By taking on the burden of trying to prove Mr. Mangione’s essentially political intent, prosecutors could amplify the criticisms of the American health care system that have made Mr. Mangione so alarmingly popular. The district attorney would provide Mr. Mangione a soapbox upon which he will be allowed to rail against the American health care system while trying to garner sympathy. Given the national debate over the role of insurance companies like Mr. Thompson’s, prosecutors will have a hard time, in any case, weeding out jurors who have some sympathy for the defendant. By turning Mr. Mangione’s supposed intent into a central element of the trial they invite juror nullification, in which jurors ignore their instructions to focus on the facts and instead let their points of view influence their verdict, leading to a hung jury, if not a full acquittal. At a standard second-degree murder trial, the jury would be instructed that the prosecution need only prove that Mr. Mangione committed the crime. Motive does not need to be considered. Perhaps Mr. Mangione’s most feasible defense would be a psychiatric one, alleging that he is not criminally responsible “by reason of mental disease or defect.” Unless there is persuasive evidence that has yet to be revealed, such a defense would be fairly easily undermined by evidence of Mr. Mangione’s detailed planning, concealment and flight. But the terrorism charge could slightly enhance such a defense if a jury is subjected to Mr. Mangione testifying about his grievances against the health care system and how it led a seemingly intelligent and grounded young man to assassinate an individual he didn’t know simply because he was a top executive at the nation’s largest insurance company.

And if the threat of life without parole is simply being used as a cudgel to leverage a plea to second-degree murder, how would Mr. Bragg justify wiping away the terrorism charge? It brings to mind the Daniel Penny case, in which Mr. Bragg brought a manslaughter charge, then dismissed it when jurors deadlocked, leading to an outright acquittal on even the lesser charge. The bottom line is that by choosing to make an open-and-shut murder case into a complicated debate on the health care industry, the district attorney risks highlighting the most troubling aspects of the case and making a conviction more difficult.

[cenorii]

Complicated things between Birkin and Wesker

Here I'll try to get to the bottom of why Birkin condemned his friend to death and why, through his fault, Wesker is doomed to be HIV (Progenitor) infected even if he stops using PG67A/W. Dealing with canon and delving into the dark side of lore...

Let's start right away with what I've intrigued you with - Wesker's infection. I compared his infection with the prototype virus to HIV for a reason, because there are many similarities. When Wesker became infected and mutated, he became a perpetual carrier of the virus in his blood. Every particle his body carries the virus. And for some reason this fact isn't brought up at all in the fandom… I haven't seen anyone discuss how infectious Wesker actually is. Like HIV, Progenitor strains are classified as retroviruses.

Wesker is just as contagious as any other creature that has been under the sway of any strain of Progenitor, because there are no exceptions in this case. Thanks to a successful symbiosis with the virus, he doesn't attack humans and has only gotten positive attributes from it, but that's the only thing that makes him less contagious than normal infected.

Even if he stops using PG67A/W, which stabilizes his abilities gained from the virus, it won't fix his situation, because even without PG67A/W the virus will continue to exist in his body, there is no connection between this injection and the virus in his blood, it's just a stabilizer supplement.

Getting his body fluids (for example, blood) into someone else's body would cause an immediate reaction and infection. Knowing what a small survival threshold the prototype virus has and how selective it is, the person would probably just die on the spot. The prototype is not capable of creating random zombie-like mutations, it has only two outcomes - death or success. So the precautions here are the same as for HIV positive people. I wouldn't recommend Chris with open wounds to shoot Wesker up close, because if his blood gets on the wound, it could cause irreversible effects. Of course, such a battle tactic is beneath Wesker's dignity, but I would recommend that he bite his opponents. This would prove to be much more effective than a hand punch, as even Chris can easily dodge that punch. However, I'd like to see him try to dodge someone who wants to claw at his flesh at breakneck speed…

Now let's talk about Birkin. He knew the effects of the prototype virus because he had personally worked on this particular strain. He lied to Wesker about the survival rate after injection (File "Virus Memo" from "Umbrella Chronicles"). His information is a lie because out of 13 Weskers, only two survived the injection of the prototype virus. The survival rate is clearly not 90% as he said, but about 15.3%. Birkin knew that his comrade was at risk of dying, so he could have given him the fake injection and lied to him along the lines of "it's something special, but you can't be injured after the injection or you'll die", thus safeguarding Wesker from the urge to throw himself on Tyrant's claws and also safeguarding his humanity. But Birkin was afraid to go against Spencer, however the old man would never have known whether or not Wesker had injected himself with the virus if Birkin had said he had handed him the syringe. I also think that Birkin was unaware of Wesker's immunity, so by giving him the virus under the guise of a panacea, he was sending his friend to his death. You could say it's a cruel and selfish act on his part.

Although, there is a slight possibility that Birkin could have taken tests from Wesker beforehand and calculated that he was immune, which is why he attributed such unrealistically high survival rates to the prototype virus. In that case, his act has a modicum of nobility, since it's unlikely that anyone took tests from the other 12 Weskers. But that's just a theory, we don't know if he really knew about it and if Birkin could have really selfishly thrown Wesker to his fate, turning him into one of his (and Spencer's) test subjects.

[iwonderwh0]

I don't think androids store memories as videos or that they can even be extracted as ones. Almost, but not exactly.

Firstly, because their memories include other data such as their tactile information, their emotional state, probably 3d markers of their surrounding...a lot of different information. So, their memories are not in a video-format, but some kind of a mix of many things, that may not be as easily separated from each other. I don't think a software necessary to read those types of files are publicly available.

Even if they have some absolute massive storage, filming good-quality videos and storing them is just not an optimal way to use their resources. It's extremely wasteful. I think, instead, their memories consist of snapshots that are taken every once in a while (depending on how much is going on), that consist of compressed version of all their relevant inputs like mentioned above. Like, a snapshot of a LiDAR in a specific moment + heavily compressed photo with additional data about some details that'll later help to upscale it and interpolate from one snapshot into the next one, some audio samples of the voices and transcript of the conversation so that it'd take less storage to save. My main point is, their memories are probably stored in a format that not only doesn't actually contain original video material, but is a product of some extreme compression, and in this case reviewing memories is not like watching HD video footage, but rather an ai restoration of those snapshots. Perhaps it may be eventually converted into some sort of a video readable to human eye, but it would be more of an ai-generated video from specific snapshots with standardised prompts with some parts of the image/audio missing than a perfectly exact video recording.

When Connor extracts video we see that they are a bit glitchy. It may be attributed to some details getting lost during transmission from one android to another, but then we've also got flashbacks with android's own memories, that are just as "glitchy". Which kinda backs up a theory of it being a restoration of some sort of a compressed version rather than original video recording.

Then we've also got that scene where Josh records Markus where it is shown that when he starts to film, his eyes indicate the change that he is not just watching but recording now. Which means that is an option, but not the default. I find it a really nice detail. Like, androids can record videos, but then the people around them can see exactly when they do that, and "be at ease" when they don't. It may be purely a design choice, like that of the loading bar to signalise that something is in progress and not just frozen, or mandatory shutter sound effect on smartphones cameras in Japan.

So, yeah. Androids purpose is to correctly interpret their inputs and store relevant information about it in their long term memory, and not necessarily to record every present moment in a video-archive that will likely never be seen by a human and reviewed as a pure video footage again. If it happened to be needed to be seen — it'll be restored as a "video" file, but this video won't be an actual video recording unless android was specifically set to record mode.

[random-autie-fangirl]

#dreemurr is an anagram for murderer

:0

I did not realize that, but I probably should’ve hah, oh dang, but thanks for the spelling tip :)

And Asriel is an anagram for serial! So together it makes serial murderer =) (Can you imagine Chara bursting to a fit of giggles just after realizing this (like right at the beginning of the Asriel fight?) "Oh, the universe does have such a wonderfully ironic sense of humour at times, does it not?" An inapropriate but very Chara response)

And then we have the rest of the family, Asgore is very obviously a murderer (as the six souls can attest) and then Chara....you can count attempted murder, but I think I have something more interesting actually.

Okay so, due to file attribution theory, we know that Chara had their own save file but they just never used it, (which makes sense since Asriel describes determination as the power Chara was trying to stop and they think very negatively about people being above consequences, and resetting helps negate consequences), I think that Chara might have been able to reset back to the beginning and save both themselves and Asriel when they died to the villagers, but they didn't. Because his and their deaths were the consequences of the plan failing, and that they didn't see the point of continuing or trying again once they had already failed. (I mean, think about it, Chara is confused about being alive again specifically because their plan failed).

To put it bluntly, Chara got to the game over screen, saw the will you persist question and clicked no. But Asriel was with them too, and by letting themselves die, Chara also chose to let Asriel die when they could have saved him, and that to me is what makes them a ...Dreemurr. (and yes, murder-suicide still counts as murder).

Which is sort of why I don't like the old adage "Chara only killed one person. Themselves." No, they killed their brother, no matter what timeline you're talking about, they killed Asriel. Don't forget that. C and A, ....Cain and Abel, maybe it was always meant to end this way (or maybe it didn't have to, if it was anyone else, but Chara seems to think the very notion of defying fate is blasphemy). "I would follow in your footsteps, I would erase myself from existence" But the first time round, Asriel didn't have a choice, did he? He had to follow in their footsteps, because Chara dragged him along with them.

And then we have Toriel, Toriel, no matter how you cut it didn't kill anyone but well...she divorced Asgore before the game started and she says in the game itself that she doesn't consider herself nor want to be a Dreemurr anymore,

So it might be an unfortunate truth that the Undertale dreemurrs are murderers but I guess Toriel got away and dropped the name before the family curse could get her. Good for her!

And...yeah, the Undertale Dreemurrs, there are some edgy theories about Kris accidentally killing Azzy or whatever but I just think it's like...Undertale and Deltarune are different games, Toriel's name is still Toriel despite not being the Tutorial segment anymore so I think the anagram didn't carry over between games and it doesn't mean anything anymore. (plus surely if the dreemurrs are murderers thing carried over, it would surely apply to Deltarune's version of Asriel and Asgore)

Anyway, you're welcome for the spelling tip! :)

[slippinmickeys]

I got tagged by @wexleresque to post a snippet from a WIP. (Thanks for the tag, btw!) It’s a casefile that I’m pantsing called The Unseelie Court. Will probably take me forever to finish it, as it’s been in my drafts…also forever. Not tagging anyone because I’m terrible at it.

“I thought you’d be half done by now.”

“I got a late start,” she said, pulling the mask low. “I take it you’re still married to this fairy idea?”

“Personnel file lists me as Single, Scully, you know that.”

“Cute,” she said humorlessly.

“My mother always said so.”

She gave him a look, her mouth a long, thin line.

“The fae, or people like them, exist across nearly all cultures,” he finally said, tipping his cards so she could see his hand. “That kind of prevalence usually indicates at least a foundation in authenticity.”

“A version of Santa Claus exists in many cultures, Mulder, and I think we can both agree he’s not real.”

“I don’t know,” he replied, his voice a little husky, “I finally got what I wanted.”

Scully felt a flush rise up and spread along her collarbones. For a moment she could feel his rapacious mouth clamped over her vulva, his long, thick fingers curled into her, three knuckles deep. She leaned against the metal countertop behind her and inhaled before speaking.

“There is a theory that fairy folklore evolved from folk memories of a prehistoric race,” she said. “Newcomers superseded a body of earlier human or humanoid peoples, and the memories of this defeated race developed into modern conceptions of fairies.”

A slow, impressed smile crept up the corners of Mulder’s mouth. “…you’ve been doing some research,” he said.

“I may have spent a little time on the computer, yes,” she said, trying not to appear too pleased. “I think I pissed off my diener.”

“He’ll get over it,” Mulder said with a dismissive wave. He shuffled his feet and leaned back against the wall with an eager look on his face. “Hit me with it.”

Scully licked her lips before continuing, feeling a surge of sensual energy.

“Proponents of the theory find support in the tradition of cold iron as a charm against fairies, viewed as a cultural memory of invaders with iron weapons displacing peoples who had just stone, bone, and wood at their disposal, and were easily defeated. In folklore, flint arrowheads from the Stone Age were attributed to the fairies as ‘elfshot,’ while their green clothing and underground homes spoke to a need for camouflage and covert shelter from hostile humans, their magic a necessary skill for combating those with superior weaponry.”

“It’s a decent argument, but it’s not much fun,” Mulder said.

[beardedmrbean]

GRAFTON, Mass. (AP) — When two octogenarian buddies named Nick discovered that ChatGPT might be stealing and repurposing a lifetime of their work, they tapped a son-in-law to sue the companies behind the artificial intelligence chatbot.

Veteran journalists Nicholas Gage, 84, and Nicholas Basbanes, 81, who live near each other in the same Massachusetts town, each devoted decades to reporting, writing and book authorship.

Gage poured his tragic family story and search for the truth about his mother's death into a bestselling memoir that led John Malkovich to play him in the 1985 film “Eleni.” Basbanes transitioned his skills as a daily newspaper reporter into writing widely-read books about literary culture.

Basbanes was the first of the duo to try fiddling with AI chatbots, finding them impressive but prone to falsehoods and lack of attribution. The friends commiserated and filed their lawsuit earlier this year, seeking to represent a class of writers whose copyrighted work they allege “has been systematically pilfered by” OpenAI and its business partner Microsoft.

“It's highway robbery,” Gage said in an interview in his office next to the 18th-century farmhouse where he lives in central Massachusetts.

“It is,” added Basbanes, as the two men perused Gage's book-filled shelves. “We worked too hard on these tomes.”

Now their lawsuit is subsumed into a broader case seeking class-action status led by household names like John Grisham, Jodi Picoult and “Game of Thrones” novelist George R. R. Martin; and proceeding under the same New York federal judge who’s hearing similar copyright claims from media outlets such as The New York Times, Chicago Tribune and Mother Jones.

What links all the cases is the claim that OpenAI — with help from Microsoft's money and computing power — ingested huge troves of human writings to “train” AI chatbots to produce human-like passages of text, without getting permission or compensating the people who wrote the original works.

“If they can get it for nothing, why pay for it?” Gage said. “But it’s grossly unfair and very harmful to the written word.”

OpenAI and Microsoft didn’t return requests for comment this week but have been fighting the allegations in court and in public. So have other AI companies confronting legal challenges not just from writers but visual artists, music labels and other creators who allege that generative AI profits have been built on misappropriation.

The chief executive of Microsoft’s AI division, Mustafa Suleyman, defended AI industry practices at last month’s Aspen Ideas Festival, voicing the theory that training AI systems on content that’s already on the open internet is protected by the “fair use” doctrine of U.S. copyright laws.

“The social contract of that content since the ’90s has been that it is fair use,” Suleyman said. “Anyone can copy it, recreate with it, reproduce with it. That has been freeware, if you like.”

Suleyman said it was more of a “gray area” in situations where some news organizations and others explicitly said they didn’t want tech companies “scraping” content off their websites. “I think that’s going to work its way through the courts,” he said.

The cases are still in the discovery stage and scheduled to drag into 2025. In the meantime, some who believe their professions are threatened by AI business practices have tried to secure private deals to get technology companies to pay a fee to license their archives. Others are fighting back.

“Somebody had to go out and interview real people in the real world and conduct real research by poring over documents and then synthesizing those documents and coming up with a way to render them in clear and simple prose,” said Frank Pine, executive editor of MediaNews Group, publisher of dozens of newspapers including the Denver Post, Orange County Register and St. Paul Pioneer Press. Several of the chain’s newspapers sued OpenAI in April.

“All of that is real work, and it’s work that AI cannot do," Pine said. "An AI app is never going to leave the office and go downtown where there’s a fire and cover that fire.”

Deemed too similar to lawsuits filed late last year, the Massachusetts duo's January complaint has been folded into a consolidated case brought by other nonfiction writers as well as fiction writers represented by the Authors Guild. That means Gage and Basbanes won't likely be witnesses in any upcoming trial in Manhattan's federal court. But in the twilight of their careers, they thought it important to take a stand for the future of their craft.

Gage fled Greece as a 9-year-old, haunted by his mother's 1948 killing by firing squad during the country's civil war. He joined his father in Worcester, Massachusetts, not far from where he lives today. And with a teacher's nudge, he pursued writing and built a reputation as a determined investigative reporter digging into organized crime and political corruption for The New York Times and other newspapers.

Basbanes, as a Greek American journalist, had heard of and admired the elder “hotshot reporter” when he got a surprise telephone call at his desk at Worcester's Evening Gazette in the early 1970s. The voice asked for Mr. Basbanes, using the Greek way of pronouncing the name.

“You were like a talent scout,” Basbanes said. “We established a friendship. I mean, I’ve known him longer than I know my wife, and we’ve been married 49 years.”

Basbanes hasn’t mined his own story like Gage has, but he says it can sometimes take days to craft a great paragraph and confirm all of the facts in it. It took him years of research and travel to archives and auction houses to write his 1995 book “A Gentle Madness” about the art of book collection from ancient Egypt through modern times.

“I love that ‘A Gentle Madness’ is in 1,400 libraries or so,” Basbanes said. “This is what a writer strives for -- to be read. But you also write to earn, to put food on the table, to support your family, to make a living. And as long as that’s your intellectual property, you deserve to be compensated fairly for your efforts.”

Gage took a great professional risk when he quit his job at the Times and went into $160,000 debt to find out who was responsible for his mother's death.

“I tracked down everyone who was in the village when my mother was killed," he said. “And they had been scattered all over Eastern Europe. So it cost a lot of money and a lot of time. I had no assurance that I would get that money back. But when you commit yourself to something as important as my mother’s story was, the risks are tremendous, the effort is tremendous.”

In other words, ChatGPT couldn't do that. But what worries Gage is that ChatGPT could make it harder for others to do that.

“Publications are going to die. Newspapers are going to die. Young people with talent are not going to go into writing,” Gage said. “I'm 84 years old. I don’t know if this is going to be settled while I’m still around. But it’s important that a solution be found.”