#genmod

[bigblueandbioluminescent]

Headcanon: the GenMod is kind of the area of the base that’s there for off-work time. There’s a constantly-updating digital library of every media you can think of, a game room with both physical playing cards, mahjong, and a few other vintage games (most stopped being produced to save on already-scarce paper) as well as the last six video game consoles, collected over the last 30 years of supply runs. There’s a courtyard with a few masks by the doors so people can safely take a walk outside, and an indoor multipurpose court for any sport you want to play. There’s a VR set that can hold up to eight people at once in one virtual location that you have to reserve in advance that will put you almost anywhere, real or fictional, or let you act through your favorite movies. It’s also commonly used for dates. There’s a ton of couches, armchairs, and tables scattered around the middle, and the room automatically charges all devices in it.

[lumpofwhump]

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Public Execution/Torture

CW: Gore, emeto, death wish, corpse desecration

--

“What’s this?” Paul Waldrop, co-owner of Waldrop-Thornton industries, asked his old friend, accepting an ornate envelope with a raised eyebrow.

“I have an announcement to make,” John Thorton replied.  “I’ve found the people who took Jinn.”

People, not person, Paul noted, trying to decipher where this was headed from John’s icy, distant expression.  As much as Paul hadn’t liked the disruptively softening influence that John’s missing wife had been having on his partner and their operation, he found this new version of his friend even more unpalatable.

“I’ll be needing to make some changes in management as a result.”

Paul’s blood ran as cold as John’s eyes.  “I’ll be there,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice even.

“Good,” John said with a thin smile, staring at his friend intently.  “I’ll need your support if things get messy.”

–

“Be careful of his eyes,” Thornton had said to his goons before they’d set in on Barclay Fletcher some seemingly interminable length of time ago. “I’ll want them good and open.”  After the beating, they’d left him bruised and with what he could only imagine were at least a couple broken ribs, alone in a dark room in the depths of the labs to think about this terrifyingly specific request.

When the door finally opened to his cell, his mismatched eyes were untouched but nonetheless ringed by dark circles and temporarily blinded by the slightly flickering overhead fluorescent lights at that.  Before he could fully adjust, Thornton’s men roughly hauled him forward by the arms, not bothering to let him try to keep his balance on his own.

“Ow – Where are we going?!” he demanded in a voice hoarse from screaming and then disuse.

One of his escorts backhanded him hard to the back of his head, eliciting a yelp of pain.

“Hey, careful,” the other said.  “The Director wants him conscious for this.”

They dragged and pushed him as necessary through the lab’s countless winding halls until he was biting back screams of pain from the effort of walking on beaten legs.  Finally, when they came to a wide room cleared of equipment, the two guards released him, leaving him to stumble forward and fall to his knees.  His face flushed with shame, and he looked up, a furious expression on his face.  He immediately went pale as he registered the scene around him.

Genmods.  Dozens of them, as many as a hundred.  He recognized some of them, the ones he had personally experimented on – tortured, some part of his brain corrected, despite himself.  The ones that even bothered to look at him had stone-faced, pitiless stares for him at best, and mocking smirks at his injuries more often than not.

Thornton stood toward the back of the room, looking down at him contemptuously.  Director Waldrop stood next to him, nervously adjusting his tie and pointedly not looking at Barclay, or really, anyone in particular.

“Hey, Fletcher,” came a snide voice from off to his left.  Barclay whipped his head to the side to see Ryan, Thornton’s monstrous, hulking genmod son, smirking at him and towering over another figure.

Director Richardson.

The last time they’d seen each other before he’d been hoisted from his bed, beaten, and locked in a cell some days – weeks? – back, the Director had been furious at him.  He was supposed to dispose of a subject who’d outlived its usefulness… his subject.  He couldn’t, though, for whatever goddamn stupid sentimental reason.  So he’d had one of the med techs sneak it out to the safety of Medbay, conveniently out of his or even the Director’s control.  Unfortunately, the Director had found proof of the call he’d made to arrange it.

You’re on thin ice, boy, the Director had told him.  First you let my servants leave from right under your nose, and now you’re letting useless subjects out against orders… I’m beginning to think through which sort of tests you’d be the best material for.

He’d slammed Barclay roughly against the wall by his throat and watched him frantically struggle and choke out pleas, only to switch his grasp to Barclay’s hair and send him hurtling back toward his room in staff quarters.

We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow, the Director had threatened.

Now, though, the man looked if anything more beaten than Barclay imagined himself to be.  His face was blotchy with bruises, one of his eyes thoroughly blackened and swollen shut.  He steadied his trembling, kneeling body on one hand, the other being horrifically twisted and broken beyond all recognition.  He wheezed in pain from injuries Barclay couldn’t see and definitely didn’t want to imagine.

“SIR!” Barclay shouted, or at least tried to.  His voice nearly shook, but he held it together.  For now.

The Director jerked his head up and over toward Barclay with an agonized expression.  “CLAY!” he responded just as frantically, and turned toward Thornton.  “My assistant has nothing to do with any of this, John,” he choked out.  “No more than I do.  Let him go.  If you do anything for me before whatever happens here –” He swallowed.  “Let Clay leave.”

Thornton narrowed his icy blue eyes and scowled.  “I owe you nothing, Dave,” he said cuttingly.  “And your boy here has done enough all on his own.  Pick him up,” he ordered his men, who Barclay vaguely remembered as having tried to drown him some years back.  

They hoisted him roughly to his feet, one of them not-so-accidentally brushing a hand against his broken ribs.  He let out an undignified squeal of pain, thrashing against the men on either side of him.  He glared, humiliated, in the direction of one of the genmods in the crowd who’d started to laugh at him, struggling for his freedom and what was left of his pride but causing himself more pain in the process.

“Don’t let him look away,” Thornton instructed.

“What - what is this?!” Barclay shouted, his voice tinged with panic.  He looked toward Thornton and Waldrop and briefly noticed that the latter quickly averted his gaze.  One of the men at Barclay’s side grabbed either side of his face and forcibly turned it back to face Ryan and the Director.

Ryan smirked at him.

Barclay tried to glare back, but from the genmod’s expression it was clear that he’d utterly failed to be the least bit intimidating.

“Now that everyone’s here, Dad,” Ryan said to John, “mind if I start opening my present?”

Barclay’s stomach turned at the euphemism while some of the genmods surrounding him chortled, if nervously.

“Don’t make it too quick,” Thornton said from behind Barclay, annoyance in his voice.

“Let him go!” Barclay screamed frantically.  “He didn’t kill your wife or whatever, Thornton.  Please!  Let him –”

“What, Fletcher, you’d prefer it was you, then?” Ryan said with a hideously sadistic grin.  With no further warning, he tore the Director’s left arm clean off at the elbow with a sickening sound, made worse by the older man’s seemingly endless shriek of pain.  Barclay’s own scream joined in to create a cacophony of agony.  He felt nauseous.

The Director collapsed forward onto his face, his remaining, shattered hand unable to support his weight.

“Oops, maybe I shouldn’t have started with your good arm,” Ryan said with mock-concern.  “Sorry about that.  Here, catch,” he said, turning to Barclay and throwing the severed limb at him.

Blood spattered Barclay’s shirt as the arm made contact, followed by vomit as the remaining contents of his stomach spilled uncontrollably out of his mouth.  He let out a sob, only to begin loudly dry-retching.  He shut his eyes to block out the sight of the bloodied Director writhing at Ryan’s feet.  This earned him another smack to the back of the head.

“Don’t get yourself knocked out, Fletcher,” Ryan warned him. “Unless you want to give Dave here a few days to develop an infection before we start up again.  Though… hm.  I actually kind of like it.  What do you say, Dad?” Ryan looked past Barclay at Thornton.  Apparently Thornton shook his head, because Ryan followed up with, “So that’s a no.  Eh.  I’m not exactly the patient type, so… works for me!”

With that, he lifted Richardson upside down by the leg opposite to his missing arm and tore it off before letting him drop to the ground with another, hoarser screech.

“STOP!  Stop, please stop!” Barclay begged, trying to pull free from the larger, stronger men holding him back.  Tears flowed freely from his eyes as vomit continued to drip from his mouth onto his knees and feet.

Ryan frowned and raised an eyebrow.  “What, you want to just leave him to suffer like this?  I knew you were a dick, Fletcher, but really, that’s a bit much.”  He shook his head chidingly.

“F-fuck you,” Barclay snapped, then involuntarily sniffled.

“Eh,” Ryan replied with a grimace.  “You’re really not my type.  Anyway!  Here we go with Arm Number Two!”

Even some of the Director’s former subjects were looking away as Ryan knelt down onto Richardson’s prone form, dislocated his remaining arm with a loud snap, and then tore it off with an expression of (im)pure glee.  He was as bloody as his victim now, if not moreso.  The Director, for his part, could no longer force out pleas that were even slightly comprehensible, reduced to sobs, gasps and shrieks.

“Make it stop, you bastards!” Barclay screamed over the din, thrashing as tears and snot ran down his face.  “What do you want?!  You’ve got whatever fucking revenge you could’ve wanted, now let us… let him…!”  He let out a despairing whine. “Sir… sir, please hold on, I’ll…”

“You’ll what, Fletcher?” Thornton said from behind him, sharply enough that Barclay flinched.  The guards turned to let -- or rather make – him face Thornton, who stared completely unimpressed at the pathetic sight in front of him.

Other than the Director’s screaming, the room was silent as Thornton studied Barclay.  Finally, he nodded to his men.  “Let go of him.”  Looking back in Barclay’s direction, Thornton spoke loudly enough for the entire room to hear.  “Go save your Director, then, Fletcher.  If you manage to fight off Ryan, I might even let the two of you go.”

“C’mon, Fletcher,” Barclay heard from behind him.  “Davey here can only wait so long before he runs out of blood.”

Barclay swallowed and turned around to face Ryan, eyes burning with tears and hatred.  His whole body was trembling.  He clenched his hands into fists and took a tentative step forward.  He was just steeling himself to make a run at Ryan when the huge man tossed the blood-soaked Director to the side and bore up to his full height, challenging Barclay to attack him with an upward jerk of his equally-bloodied chin.

Barclay forced himself a few halting steps forward on quivering legs.  He faltered as Ryan’s grin widened, and flinched when the genmod picked up one of the Director’s arms and bit a finger off with a gut-twisting crunch, never taking his eyes off Barclay.  He tried to will himself on with everything he had in him, but…

“I-I can’t,” Barclay admitted in a small, shaking voice as he sank to his knees.

“You want to say that again?” Ryan taunted.  “Dave’s screaming made it a bit hard to hear you just now.”

Instead of further humiliating himself for Ryan, Barclay jerked back around to look at Thornton and Waldrop.  “What am I supposed to do here, get myself torn apart?  Was that the plan?  Because - ha - I’m not playing along.  I’m not going to go and let that…” He let out a whimper, with an involuntary look back at Ryan.  “I just… I can’t, okay?” He finished weakly.

“And after all you’ve done for him,” Thornton said to the screaming Director as Barclay let out another sob.  “Hold him, and make sure he’s watching,” he ordered his men.

Barclay bolted before he could think it through, making a run for the door as two, then three sets of footsteps pounded after him.  He had to make it, or at least get them to make it quick for him, get it over with; he couldn’t let them drag him back to face the Director after his failure.

His determination meant nothing, though, as an enormous hand grabbed him by the back of his neck, scruffing him as easily as if he were a newborn kitten.  “And here I didn’t think you were capable of disappointing me, Fletcher,” Ryan said.  “But that… ‘ey, Dad, you sure I”m killing the right person here?”

Barclay started flailing in panic before Thornton even started to answer, imagining Ryan’s powerful hand wrapping around his arm, snapping bones, tearing them apart, his limbs one by one dropping to the ground in front of him.  “NO!  No, no, no, let me go, LET ME –”

“He’s made his choice,” Thornton interrupted with a shake of his head.  “And you have a job to finish in any case.  One thing at a time, Ryan.”

“Do you have to go and make this feel like work, Dad?” Ryan teased as Barclay shuddered at Thornton’s comment.  “Anyway.  Here.”  With no further warning, he pushed Barclay forward, sending him stumbling into the grip of Thornton’s guards.

Either because of the blood loss or because he’d screamed himself raw, the Director had gone quiet other than letting out low whimpers.  As Ryan approached, though, he resumed his pointless struggling, his one remaining limb useless in allowing him to escape.  With the rest of the room gone silent, Barclay could hear his defeated words, let out between painful, ragged breaths.  “Get it over with, you freak.  And then – !” The Director gasped in pain.  “And then let Clay go, he did nothing!”

“You’ve got that right,” Ryan said with a vicious grin at Barclay as tears streamed down the younger man’s face.  “So, what do you say, Fletcher?  Should I make it quick for him so I can start on you, or should I have some more fun here?”

Barclay shook his head as he mutely sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut to get both the Director’s mangled body and Ryan’s knowing, contemptuous grin out of his sight.

“Oops, you broke the rules there, Fletcher.  Not supposed to look away, remember?  Guess I get to choose, then.”  Ryan picked the Director up by his ankle, holding him up high enough to look him in the eyes.  “You really should’ve chosen a better assistant, man,” he said with a shake of his head.

He then tore another strained shriek out of the Director along with his last leg before dropping the helpless torso of a man to the ground, with an air of being disappointed at having broken his favorite new toy.  Ryan shrugged at the onlookers and started to walk away, only to abruptly turn back and make a running start, giving the Director’s head a vicious kick that severed it from his body with a sickening snap and sent it into the crowd of his former victims.

Barclay was helplessly dry-retching at the corpse now twitching lifelessly mere feet away from him.  The arms holding him let him go, and he collapsed into a heap on the floor, surrounded and overwhelmed by voices.

“John, what was –”

“Good on you, getting an eyeball!”

“ – disappeared my wife, Paul, they –”

“Get a knife, I want an ear.”

“ – gonna be sick…” The sound of vomiting.

“ – will you do with the boy, then?”

“He’s hardly a boy.  You don’t need to worry –”

Blood stained Barclay’s shirt as he wrapped his arms tightly around something.  It had been thrown at him, or maybe he’d crawled over to it.  He’d already forgotten; it hardly mattered.

“Should we take the arm from him, sir?” a voice standing over him called out.

“Get the rest of the body.  We’ll bring them back to the cell with him.”

Barclay clung for dear life to what he now felt to be Richardson’s mutilated hand, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as a guard grabbed him by the hair and yanked him hard toward the door.  He squealed and thrashed in pain, but his mind was somewhere else, or trying to get there.

In the end, it went blank.  He barely registered being thrown roughly back into his cell - only enough to crawl onto what was supposed to pass for a cot and curl in tightly around the severed arm, still oozing blood.

He didn’t know how long it had been by the time the door opened again, letting Thornton in to loom over him.  He didn’t dare move.

“What a mess,” Thornton said disgustedly, stepping on something laying on the floor with a crack and a squelch.  “And here you are doing nothing about it.”  He walked over and scruffed Barclay by the neck, holding him face down over the side of the cot so he could see.

The Director.  Or at least what remained of him.  Three limbs, stomped and bent all to hell.  A torso with ribs poking out through the bloodied remains of clothing.  And a head torn and beaten and mutilated beyond all recognition if Barclay hadn’t known what had happened to him.

Barclay abruptly started dry-retching again, his shaking arms finally letting go of his macabre comfort object.

Thornton’s hand squeezed tighter around the back of Barclay’s throat, turning his retching into struggling gasps.  “Pathetic,” he sneered, and tossed Barclay face first onto the hard floor.  A beat later, he dropped a bag in front of Barclay.  “I’ll give you three days to clean him up and put him back together,” Thornton said as Barclay shakily emptied the bag to find needles, thread, water bottles, glue, and a handful of other supplies that were hardly up to the task.  “The least you can do is allow him a good burial.”

I couldn’t do anything! Barclay wanted to shout.  You would’ve killed him anyways, and then me…!

He looked at the pack of needles for a long moment.

Maybe I should just…

“If you try to use those for anything other than their intended purpose, Fletcher, I will know,” Thornton cut in as if reading his thoughts.  “There are much more creative things I could do with a corpse.”

Barclay nodded, very much not wanting to know what they were.  “Y-yes sir,” he answered meekly.

Thornton’s lip curled in further disgust at this servile display, and he kicked him hard to the face.  Blood gushed from Barclay’s nose, and his voice was almost entirely too weak to be heard over the crack of breaking bone.

“Get to work.”

He couldn’t, not for the first two days.  Finally, he summoned the nerve to creep up to the body, arrange its dismembered pieces, set out the equipment with shaking hands, and then…  Where was he even supposed to start?!  Everything was slick with blood; the glue held the torn skin together for a matter of seconds before it tore open again.  Trying to sew the Director’s body back together was hardly more successful; even if he had any real experience working with a needle and thread, he could barely see what he was doing in the darkness.

He could only guess that he was running up against the deadline at a certain point, making him desperate enough to do whatever small amount he could for his murdered mentor.  Still, it seemed like he’d spent days making large, choppy stitches and applying thick layers of glue in some small hope of making the Director recognizable again.

The result was, if anything, more horrifying than the dismembered remains had been.

“You never fail to disappoint me, Fletcher,” Thornton said as he picked up Barclay’s best attempt, only to abruptly drop it to the floor.  The glued-on head lolled to the side and broke off halfway.  The more damaged arm flopped to the side, revealing that Barclay had sewn it on backward in his haste.  Barclay let out a sob.  

His eyes went wide, though, as Thornton’s two favorite guards stepped in with hands full of trash bags.

Thornton nodded to them.

“NO!” Barclay screamed, jumping from the cot and landing on the Director’s remains.  One of the two men chortled as he lay face down and trembling in the mess of decomposing flesh. “No, don’t, don’t, DON’T, I tried my best, I tried… sir,” Barclay begged, of Thornton, of the guard standing above him, of the Director’s ghost, he wasn’t sure which.

The man who had laughed grabbed him by the ankle and hauled him away despite his scrabbling hands, and he watched helplessly as Thornton’s other goon scooped up the crumbling body and dumped it piecemeal into the various bags with a look of disgust.

“Consider yourself lucky, kid,” the man restraining him threatened.  “We could throw you into the incinerator with him.  Keep making a pain in the ass of yourself, and maybe we will.”

Barclay froze up, his blood running cold.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Thornton said, not even looking in his direction.  “The dumpster will work perfectly fine.”

“No…. you said… you said you were going to give him a real burial!” Barclay yelled in despair.

“Well, you certainly fucked up that chance,” Thornton said dismissively.  “If nothing else, you gave Dave exactly what he deserved.”

With that, he walked out of the cell with a wave to his men, the first of whom flung Barclay against the wall with another short laugh.

Barclay didn’t dare move until the door slammed behind them, and even then he only slowly curled his aching body into a ball.  He tried not to think about how long he’d be here, or for what purposes.  There was no point, where no one would be coming to get him this time.

His nails dug into his knees until they drew blood.  It ran down to the cell floor, mixing with the tears that wouldn’t stop flowing.

–

It had been two months, and Paul was having the same damn dream again.  The one where John’s son had…

Where Dave had been…

Dave’s eyes had been so desperate, and so unbearably reproachful.

But worse was the boy.

No, not a boy, just like John had said.  Barclay Fletcher had killed subjects.  Tortured them.  Including the now-missing Mrs. Thornton.

Still, he hadn’t disappeared her.  That had been Paul’s own doing.

It was too late to confess it now, he told himself.  It wouldn’t bring Dave back even if he wanted to, and it was probably too late to save Fletcher too.  And besides.

“Paul?” his wife asked drowsily, turning over to face him with a look of concern.  “Is everything alright?”

He couldn’t let that happen to him.

“You know you can tell me,” she tried to reassure him.

For her sake, he told himself.

“I’m fine,” he told her, sinking back into his comfortable bed and disturbed dreams.

--

Based on an in-person roleplay scene between @skinofafish and I. Barclay Fletcher and Paul Waldrop are my characters. John, Jinn, and Ryan Thornton along with David Richardson are @skinofafish's characters.

--

Taglist:

@whumpsday / @skinofafish

@badthingshappenbingo

[jojaydoodles]

I dare you to care about my original characters for a change. I don’t just draw weirdly detailed Full Metal Alchemist doujins and stuff, you know. I have my own stuff.

And hey, if this isn’t ms Lyna Chung, your (un)friendly neighborhood genmod! Follow me on ko-fi to learn more about genmods and this fabulous young menace. And to see the full picture, of course.

[astrumocs]

also i wanted to ask if julius would ever try to genmod himself to give himself powers even if they werent befitting of the caste he was trying to assume and what his ideal psychic or psionic ability would be

HRMMM... I think Jules would not try and fuck around with giving himself powers if only because psionics and other similar abilities aren't something he's studied like, pretty much at all? Too risky...

That being said, if he Could give himself powers that were of a high enough value to risk standing out for or that he could reasonably hide, I don't see why not !!

I'm not sure what his specific ideal powers would be, but probably something highly defensive so he didn't have to fear other people and fear socializing as much Or something that allowed him to mess with time/his lifespan in some beneficial way...

[luuckyyou]

I honestly would love to know about your Crying Volatile 👀

Aw really? 🥺 Well, I don’t actually have THAT much on them, and I’ll probably change some things later on, but I can talk about them a little!

They’re essentially a bit of a disaster! They’re a rare mutation produced mainly when a dormant/underdeveloped Volatile (like those you see in Volatile Hives being guarded by mature Volatiles) comes into prolonged skin contact with THV Genmod. Exposure to THV chemicals usually just produces standard uncommon infected, but if an infected is already on the verge of becoming a fully fledged Volatile, their transformation gets a bit muddled in the final stages, and they end up with ever-changing mutations and some traits that differentiate them from standard Volatiles. Speaking of traits, they can be identified by limb and bone duplicates (additional limbs will usually fuse into large singular appendages around the original ones with multiple hands, feet etc.), bone dislocations, osteoporosis, and pustule growths!

Their mutations are usually confined to one part of the body at first (like an arm or leg), but will begin to affect other areas upon injury. Repeated trauma to the same area causes more extreme mutations. Unlike other infected, they never reach a point where they stop mutating and will continue to develop new mass throughout their entire life, so they could probably just become an actual blob of muscle tissue and bone at some point if they were exceptionally unlucky 🤷🏻.

Due to their uneven weight distribution caused by their mutations, they struggle more with the usual Volatile stuff like climbing and hunting. They tend to have uncoordinated movements, and they usually don’t have total control over fused limbs. Because of their natural instincts as a Volatile, they’ll still relentlessly pursue prey up buildings or tricky terrain despite the difficulty, probably breaking a couple of bones, falling off a great height or getting stuck somewhere in the process because of their body shapes and poor balance. They usually start to rely on food they can scavenge since the success rates of their hunts are lower than that of regular Volatiles, and they can force other infected to give up their kills easily enough.

For what they lack in agility, they make up for in aggression. Being in constant, agonising pain from ceaseless regeneration makes them more aggressive than the regular Volatile. They will even attack and kill other normal and uncommon infected if provoked, and they’re easily agitated by any kind of sound or light. Their volatile (ha) nature means that they can be tricked into clearing out groups of lesser infected (or enemy factions) by using sound to confuse them into attacking, so it does benefit survivors to have them hanging around sometimes as well.

The fluid inside of their pustules is corrosive and extremely flammable. They’re vulnerable to heat and can be easily dealt with by molotovs and flaming arrows, but it’s still dangerous to deal with them this way because the pustules will burst upon exposure to high temperatures, and you could end up getting burned very badly if you’re in range. Side note: they have also lost their ability to projectile spit, so that’s one less thing to worry about.

Due to their anatomy, they will lose mobility over their lifetime. The incessant development of new muscle and bone, osteoporosis, frequent joint dislocation and the body’s overcompensation for injury is going to eventually cause excessive tissue and bone to regenerate around joints in awkward ways and make movement increasingly difficult for them. This means they’ll have to exert themselves to move, will get more easily injured, regrow more tissue, and the cycle continues. Some time after this stage, the rest of their body starts to degrade if they’re unable to return to their original Hives, withering away as they’re unable to feed their extremely demanding metabolisms. Sometimes, they’ll make it outside and the sunlight will finish them off. If not, they’ll just kinda sit there and rot until they starve to death or something else puts an end to them. On the off chance that they do make it back to their original Hives, though, the other Volatiles will actually keep them alive and look after them by bringing them food!

Aaaand their name basically just comes from the fact they’re constantly leaking blood from the eyes due to internal bleeding (as well as occasionally vomiting blood mixed with pustule fluid and other excess fleshy matter. Gross.).

Sorry if this is a bit all over and boring, I still need to replay DL2 to refresh myself on the DL lore so I can add a bit more to these guys! Hopefully they’ll become more interesting with time, too :3

[aanandh]

Advanced Statistical Techniques with Clinical SAS: What You Need to Know

Clinical SAS (Statistical Analysis System) is a powerful tool used extensively in the pharmaceutical and healthcare industries for managing and analyzing clinical trial data. Among its many capabilities, SAS excels in advanced statistical techniques that are essential for complex clinical research. This blog delves into some of these techniques, how they are implemented in SAS, and their applications in clinical trials.

Understanding Advanced Statistical Techniques

Advanced statistical techniques go beyond basic data analysis to address more complex questions and scenarios in clinical research. These techniques often involve sophisticated modeling, predictive analytics, and hypothesis testing to provide deeper insights and support decision-making. Here’s an overview of key advanced statistical methods used in Clinical SAS:

Mixed ModelsMixed models (also known as hierarchical models or multilevel models) are used to analyze data with multiple levels of variation. They are particularly useful in clinical trials where data are collected at different levels (e.g., patients within different treatment groups). SAS’s PROC MIXED provides a framework for fitting mixed models, allowing researchers to account for both fixed and random effects in their analyses. This technique is valuable for analyzing longitudinal data and repeated measures.

Survival AnalysisSurvival analysis focuses on time-to-event data, which is crucial in clinical trials for evaluating the efficacy of treatments over time. SAS offers several procedures for survival analysis, including PROC LIFETEST for Kaplan-Meier estimates and PROC PHREG for Cox proportional hazards models. These tools help assess the effect of treatments on time-to-event outcomes, such as time to disease progression or overall survival.

Bayesian AnalysisBayesian methods incorporate prior information and update probabilities as new data become available. This approach is useful for adaptive designs and decision-making in clinical trials. SAS’s PROC MCMC (Markov Chain Monte Carlo) facilitates Bayesian analysis, allowing researchers to perform complex simulations and derive posterior distributions. Bayesian methods are especially beneficial for incorporating expert knowledge and handling small sample sizes.

Mixed-Effects Models for Meta-AnalysisMeta-analysis involves combining results from multiple studies to provide a more comprehensive understanding of treatment effects. Mixed-effects models are used in meta-analysis to account for variability between studies. SAS’s PROC MIXED and PROC NLMIXED are used for fitting these models, enabling researchers to combine data from different sources and assess overall treatment efficacy.

Generalized Estimating Equations (GEE)Generalized Estimating Equations are used for analyzing correlated data, such as repeated measurements on the same subjects. GEEs handle the correlation between observations and provide robust estimates for parameters. SAS’s PROC GENMOD allows researchers to implement GEEs and analyze data with non-normal distributions, such as binary or count data.

Structural Equation Modeling (SEM)Structural Equation Modeling is a comprehensive technique used to assess complex relationships between variables. SEM allows researchers to model direct and indirect effects and assess the fit of theoretical models to empirical data. SAS’s PROC CALIS supports SEM, providing tools for specifying, estimating, and evaluating structural models.

Multivariate AnalysisMultivariate analysis involves examining multiple variables simultaneously to understand their relationships and effects. Techniques such as principal component analysis (PCA) and factor analysis are used to reduce dimensionality and identify underlying structures in data. SAS offers PROC FACTOR for factor analysis and PROC PRINCOMP for PCA, helping researchers explore and interpret complex datasets.

Cluster AnalysisCluster analysis groups similar observations into clusters based on their characteristics. This technique is useful for identifying patterns and segments within clinical trial data. SAS’s PROC CLUSTER and PROC FASTCLUS provide tools for hierarchical and k-means clustering, enabling researchers to categorize subjects based on various attributes.

Time Series AnalysisTime series analysis is used to analyze data collected over time to identify trends, seasonal effects, and other temporal patterns. SAS’s PROC ARIMA and PROC TIMESERIES support time series modeling, allowing researchers to analyze and forecast outcomes based on historical data.

Decision Trees and Random Forests

Decision trees and random forests are machine learning techniques used for classification and prediction. These methods can handle large datasets and complex interactions between variables. SAS’s PROC HPSPLIT and PROC HPFOREST are used for implementing decision trees and random forests, providing tools for predictive modeling and variable selection.

Implementing Advanced Techniques in Clinical SAS

Clinical SAS provides a range of procedures and options for implementing advanced statistical techniques. Researchers can utilize SAS’s extensive documentation and resources to understand the syntax and options available for each technique. Here are some tips for effectively using these methods:

Familiarize Yourself with SAS Procedures: Each advanced statistical technique in SAS is implemented through specific procedures (e.g., PROC MIXED for mixed models). Review the documentation and examples provided by SAS to understand how to use these procedures effectively.

Leverage SAS Macros: SAS macros can automate repetitive tasks and streamline complex analyses. Creating custom macros for advanced techniques can enhance efficiency and reproducibility.

Validate Your Models: It’s important to validate the models and results obtained from advanced statistical techniques. Use diagnostic tools and validation procedures to ensure the accuracy and robustness of your findings.

Stay Updated: SAS frequently updates its software with new features and enhancements. Stay informed about the latest developments and best practices to make the most of SAS’s advanced capabilities.

Conclusion

Advanced statistical techniques in Clinical SAS play a crucial role in analyzing complex clinical trial data and deriving meaningful insights. From mixed models and survival analysis to Bayesian methods and machine learning, SAS provides a comprehensive suite of tools for addressing diverse research questions. By leveraging these techniques, researchers can enhance their understanding of treatment effects, improve decision-making, and contribute to the advancement of medical science.

Whether you are conducting longitudinal studies, analyzing time-to-event data, or combining results from multiple studies, mastering these advanced techniques in Clinical SAS will empower you to tackle complex research challenges and achieve more accurate and insightful results.

[vriendenboekjes]

en ook genetische modificatie. oh we moeten gentech vrij zijn? uhm bij de piratenpartij staat er tenminste nog van het moet niet allemaal gepatenteerd zijn maar ik vind het zo raar om te denken dat alle genmod slecht zou zijn. Weet je hoe watermeloenen er vroeger uitzagen?! als het niet ten koste gaat van de gezondheid van de landbouwgrond en mens en er geen kwetsbare monocultuur ontstaat en als het geen kapitaal kost of boeren uitbuit dan lijkt het me helemaal niet slecht als genmod voedsel wordt geteel. In hoeverre is genetische selectie zo verschrikkelijk anders dan genmod.

[drelldreams]

miranda only has natural human genes right? just the very best. so if she lives half again as long as the average human, that would mean some humans in mass effect actually do live to about 220 without gene mods… (which should be the equivalent to those humans living to 120 nowadays)

that‘s crazy. that‘s +100 years to the current record human lifespan within one and a half centuries.

damnit if shepard received the best genmods AND top of the line cybernetic enhancements during lazarus project.. will that make shepard live to 220+ too possibly closer to 300?

[lumpofwhump]

The Scavenger and the Forgotten 6: The Children of Io

Content warning: Minor character death, cult dynamics, bad caretaker

Continued from here.

--

"Look, ammo is what I've got," Clee insisted with a frustrated gesture. "Do you want it, or would you prefer to keep your stupid safe straw?"

The lean, sharp-eyed Girn on the other side of this negotiation scoffed. "Bullets for a KAM-5? The only guys using those right now would shoot me dead on sight. Meanwhile, it looks like Grampy here could use some stupid clean water from my stupid safe straw." She pointed to Radu, and smirked as the old genmod shrunk still further in on himself upon being noticed. "It's ten in coin or nothing."

"Coin?! Who the fuck carries coin anymore?"

"The two of you, from the looks of it," the other Girn said, sounding as calm as Clee did irritable. "Your friend's got some nice clothes. New ones, even. Can't buy those with bullets."

Clee groaned, tired of arguing with this smug bitch already. Up until a few minutes ago, this had been her first day in a week with no headaches. "Six," she conceded, all but tossing two pieces of metal currency at the woman.

She caught it easily, and inspected it closely before nodding with satisfaction. "Looks like the half-a-kriv can be halfway honest. Makes enough sense."

"Go to hell," Clee shot back.

The other woman smirked. "Which one?"

She was about to suggest Chemoghlu - the lady didn't seem like she'd hold up all that well being stuck swimming upstream through a river of scalding-hot shit in the midst of a stampede of angry deimels for all eternity - when Radu urgently tapped her on the shoulder.

"Yeah, fine, let's get going," she grumbled, managing not to snap at him even as her shoulders tensed. She snatched the water filtration straw from the other Girn's hand and turned around, her eyes settling on a group of five approached humans. Or humanoids, at least.

Clee felt a pit in her stomach seeing their hodgepodge armor, made up of lab protective gear patched together to fit people much bigger than its original owners. Of all the genmod factions she'd considered bringing Radu to, the fanatics calling themselves the Children of Io had been dead last on her list.

The guy in front, though… he wasn't from the labs, at not least as a subject. He barely looked genmod at all. He did look like he needed a good punch to the face, though.

Apparently the other woman agreed. "Shit, this guy again," she muttered, clamping her hand tightly over the coins she was holding.

He gave the group of them an unpleasant smirk as his four much more formidable friends raised weapons as varied as their armor at the group. "I thought we had this talk already… Izhekna, was it?" he said, eyes on the Girn vendor. "Just because you turned informant doesn't mean you can go back to selling us in our own territory." He gestured toward Radu.

"I-I wasn't -- the Hiukree here and her lab… her f-friend, they were robbing me!" Izhekna pleaded in thickly-accented Ganymedean, her eyes darting between Clee and the apparent leader of this squad.

"Nice try," the man said casually, ignoring Clee as she sputtered to defend herself against the accusation, right before one of the soldiers fired a shot directly into Izhekna's head. The older woman collapsed to the ground with hardly a sound, while Radu yelped and jumped back, his clothes now coated in blood.

Clee was equally blood spattered, but too stunned to react as two of the soldiers approached until their hands closed around her arms. She pulled and thrashed at her captors, jabbing one of them hard enough with the water filtration straw that they audibly hissed in pain. The same soldier pried the device out from between her fingers, not particularly gently, and threw it to the ground.

"Oh, are you fucking kidding me?!" Clee raged as this entire errand became worse than pointless.

As the straw hit the ground, though, Radu snapped to attention. "Clee!" he shouted. "Let go of Clee, she --"

"You don't have to worry about her anymore," one of the armored figures told him gently. "We won't let her hurt you."

"No, she helps me! I-I need her," Radu insisted.

"You know her?" The apparent leader groaned and squeezed the bridge of his nose. The arrogant bastard was unarmored, Clee now realized. "Well. this just turned into a giant mess," he said, sounding very put-upon by this situation. "Look, we're gonna take you both back to base and get things sorted out there, got it?"

"Doesn't look like we've got much of a choice," Clee pointed out. "Any way you can let me walk on my own here?"

He studied her for a minute without reply. There was a flash of something, maybe recognition, in his eyes, and he shook his head quickly. "Nah," he said, and started off back in the direction they'd come from.

The second pair of soldiers didn't put hands on Radu, but stood between him and Clee despite his attempts to push past them as they walked. The still-recovering older genmod was at a clear disadvantage against their much stronger, uninjured captors. At a certain point, he struggled to even minimally keep up with the group, and reluctantly accepted an offered hand from one of the two soldiers in front of him.

Twenty minutes later, they stopped just outside a single-story concrete building, miraculously all but completely intact. The plaque outside the gate was faded and rusted, and Clee could just barely make out some of the letters: R D OPM NT C NTE 8.

Before she could try to decipher it with her only tenuous grasp of written Ganymedean, though, she heard voices from above. A handful of sentries called out greetings, and the armed soldiers behind her waved.

"And look, he made it back," one of the watchers said in an amused voice, pointing to the unarmored man leading them. "'Ey Mira, you're taking over cleaning duty tonight, it looks like."

"Whatever," Clee could hear as they reached the gate. "You know I'm just gonna make him do it anyways."

One of the two soldiers pulling Clee along laughed along with the sentries. Meanwhile, their leader clenched his hands into fists with a low growl, his knuckles going nearly white.

No, not a leader, Clee realized. A human shield.

"So what's the Girn for?" Mira called down to her comrades, wrinkling her nose a bit.

The person to her left thumbed back at Radu. "Our new friend here wouldn't come without her."

"Huh," Mira said, raising an eyebrow. "Well, bring 'em in." With that, the group of them entered a walled-off sally port, which had traces of the same medical smell that had permeated Satellite Office 83.

"I'll search her," the apparent third captive of their group volunteered with a nod to Clee, a bit too eagerly, as the last of the four soldiers locked the door behind them.

One of her two escorts scoffed. "What, so you can take whatever she's got on her?"

"Can't be anything too valuable," the other said, raising an eyebrow at Clee. "'Sides. It's almost lunch. If we don't have to waste rations on this dipshit, so much the better." He turned to loom over the much smaller man in front of him. "Anything we find on you that hasn't made it into inventory, and the Commander'll be sending whatever bits of you are left to the GSH in a box."

He of the Punchable Face let out an undignified whimper and reflexively raised his hands. "Okay, I get the point!" he snapped with wounded pride, only earning himself a laugh.

The soldiers let go of Clee, finally, and headed for the door in front of them.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up and fed," the soldier that Radu was now outright leaning on for support tried to coax him.

As they passed, though, Radu grasped Clee's hand tightly. "Clee, though," he said, he said almost pleadingly. "I need -- what are you going to do with her?!"

"She'll still be here when we're done," they replied, a bit exasperated. "We'll get this sorted out, and who knows, maybe she can join us."

Clee guessed that the chances of that were pretty low. She forced a crooked smile at Radu, though, and squeezed his hand briefly before pulling away. "Hey, see you soon, alright?"

The soldiers seemed to relax more at this display than Radu did. He nodded glumly, slumping and letting himself be escorted through the door into the base. He looked over his shoulder with a last worried glance back at her before one of the soldiers closed and locked the door behind them.

"What did you to get him so attached?" the remaining human asked after a beat, echoing her own thoughts. "And what kind of a name is Clee, anyways?"

"It's my name," she snapped. "What's yours, anyways? Or should I just call you Dipshit like they do?"

The man scowled. Up close, his gritted teeth only were only slightly better than Radu's, and his narrowed eyes were mismatched, one brown and one green. "'Sir' would be fine," he informed her, taking hold of her roughly as he started to rummage through her pockets.

"Pffft," Clee responded, leading him to tighten his grip, his uneven nails digging into her skin. "Not even your own guys like you that much."

"They're not 'my guys,'" he fumed. "They're just a bunch of…!" He stopped short, looking quickly back toward the door. "Anyways. What've you got on you? Let's see… bullets? Meh," he said, stuffing them into his pockets all the same. "Some coin, that's a bit better, and… hel-lo, what's this?" He slid the pack of lycadone vials out of her coat pocket just as she remembered they were there.

"Hey, give those --!" she demanded, struggling and grabbing for them, only to be cut off a grating laugh of triumph from Sir Dipshit as he read the label.

"Oh MAN," he said, holding them just out of her reach with a gleam in his eyes. "You really made my day, you know that? Do you even know what this is?"

"It was my ticket offworld," Clee snapped. "What's it to you, a pat on the head? You heard them, they're not gonna let you keep it."

He shot her a glare, which she met with a smirk of her own. "You should maybe stick to worrying about your own problems," he shot back. "Like what'll happen when they find out you were gonna ditch the old guy."

"What do you --"

"'My ticket offworld,' wasn't that what you just said?" he said mockingly, with another unpleasant buck-toothed smile. "I'll let them figure that part out for themselves, though. I owe you one." He nodded to the vials in his hand, still frustratingly out of reach.

"Look," Clee said sharply in a low voice. "You don't want to be here any more than I do. We split the stuff, and we both get out of here." She regretted the words as she spoke them at the thought of spending any more time under the insufferable human, but she figured she could steal the already twice-over ill-gotten gains back soon enough. "And Radu… he'll be safer here. They'll know what to do for him."

The expression on her captor's face made her even less certain than she'd already felt. He shook his head and went on with his search, finding no further treasure to his obvious disappointment. "Let's go," he growled and edged her forward, driving a sharp foot driven down into the back of her heel. She let out a squeal of discomfort, and looked back indignantly at the human, who flashed her a nasty smile in response.

He pushed her through the door into the repurposed compound. She nearly gagged at the smell of what could be only described as that of death itself. She heard her escort swallow behind her, apparently no more inured to it than she was. He recovered enough to pull her collection of coins and bullets out of his pocket and hold them out for inspection, as well as inevitable confiscation. "And she would've had more if we hadn't caught her when we did," he said. "She was about to sell the other one off in exchange for passage to Earth."

"Not what we heard from him, Fletcher," a man lounging in a chair behind a long bolted-down metal table said in a bored tone, disregarding Clee's loud objections.

She immediately stopped short in her protests upon hearing his voice, one that she and every other resident of Ganymede had heard countless times over the vids throughout the dome. It took only a quick look to confirm it. He had light brown skin framed by pitch-black hair that seemed at odds with his strikingly pale grey eyes. Even sitting down he was a slight man, but had an aura of power about him that more than made up for it.

"'Oh, but we killed all the body doubles!'" the clone of Governor Jas Knossos said mockingly, echoing Clee's thoughts, before giving a casual shrug. "Is it really so surprising that they missed a few?" He gave her a smile that was not at all reassuring when coupled with his piercing stare. "So, Clee, if I remember right. Maybe you could help me figure out where things stand. Both of my sources at this point are hardly reliable." His gaze shifted over toward the human, taking on a look of contempt.

Clee swallowed. Double or not, speaking to someone with this voice, and worse still this face, was not something she'd ever expected to happen. "I-I was planning to bring Radu here anyways," she lied. The clone's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, suggesting that he saw through this, but she pushed forward into safer territory. "I had another way offworld anyways. Too bad this guy stole it." She thumbed at Fletcher.

"It'd have to be more than a few coins, then," the clone said, raising his eyebrows in interest but then pinning Fletcher with a sharp gaze.

"Try twenty four sealed vials of lycadone," Clee responded. "I can imagine that'd be pretty useful to you all."

Fletcher only laughed. "Search me, then," he said, arms spread out. "Just take me to a private room first if you're going to be thorough with it, will you?"

"That won't be necessary," the clone said. "Search their route here," he ordered the people behind him with only the slightest tilt of his head in their direction. Two of them nodded and passed by Clee and Fletcher, with one giving the latter an abrupt shove to the shoulder. He hissed in pain and tensed as if he'd been hit there before none too far back.

"Okay, I'm curious," Clee said after a long awkward silence that was making Fletcher visibly uncomfortable. "How'd you get this bunch, of all people, to follow the same guy who put them in the labs?"

Her captor chortled. "I'm not exactly 'the same guy' as the Lunan Exile. I grew up in the labs like everyone else here did."

The last person standing behind him, a woman with a distant expression who could have easily been his twin, spoke up. "Commander Alexei led us out of that place, and he leads us on to Io. He'll leave not a single genmod behind."

Clee tried not to grimace at the monotone recitation of the apparent party line. "And what about the rest of us?" she ventured.

"It depends," Alexei responded. "When it comes to you personally, what were you really about to do with your captive?"

"His name's Radu, and he's not my captive," Clee couldn't help but snap despite Alexei's narrowed eyes. "If it hadn't been for me, he'd be back in --"

"We found it," called out one of Alexei's guards as they returned. "Turns out he'd gotten his hands on a whole number of things." The guard spilled out the contents of a small box onto the bolted-down table. Coins, the lycadone, and worse still for Fletcher, a IET-12 plasma arc weapon.

Fletcher went pale.

"I'd ask what you were thinking of doing with these," Alexei said, not even looking up at him, "But I can't see you actually coming up with a plan." He turned his gaze in the vague direction of his guards. "I'm sure the GSH would be interested in having this one," he said. "And her… she can help around here until we can find out who'll pay a ransom for her."

Good luck with that, Clee thought bitterly. "Help out how?" she demanded as one of the guards took hold of her.

"Like I said. That'll depend on what we can find out about you and Radu," Alexei said.

The woman standing behind them stared blankly at the group of them as the guards turned Clee and Fletcher roughly away and marched them off further into the complex.

--

For his part, Radu wouldn't have noticed any of this even if he'd been able to hear it. He leaned into the wrinkled hand of someone he thought he'd never see again as she slowly ran a comb through his mess of hair with the other. Her appearance was different from what he remembered - red hair, she was supposed to have red hair - but he would've recognized that touch anywhere.

"Now let's look at the rest of you," the woman said in a reassuring voice, reaching around him to lift a hand covered in scabs that suddenly stiffened in fear. "Radu...! How did this happen? It looks like we'll have to relearn how to handle that, then, won't we?"

Radu's blood ran cold.

--

Taglist (let me know if you want on or off)

@verkja

@whumpsday

@skinofafish

@whither-wander-whump

[easyvapesa]

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[vapertastic-blog]

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[e-vapormo]

Qui préfère le plus petit écran de la Gen?

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[dirtybiowareconfessions]

Confession: Liara had a genmod in ME3 for bigger boobs.