#neural crest

[dropsofsciencenews]

Podcast episode 9 is OUT!

🇮🇹 L'episodio 9 è finalmente online! Parleremo di stagni, anfibi, pino silvestre, sistema nervoso e molto altro! Come sempre, una condivisione è più che benvoluta. Trova la tua piattaforma di ascolto sul nostro linktree. 🇪🇸 ¡El episodio 9 está finalmente en línea! Hablaremos de estanques, anfibios, pino silvestre, sistema nervioso y mucho más. Como siempre, una compartición es más que bienvenida. Encuentra tu plataforma de escucha en nuestro linktree. 🇬🇧 Episode 9 is finally online! We will talk about ponds, amphibians, Scots pine, the nervous system, and much more! As always, sharing is more than welcome. You can find your listening platform on our linktree.

[anti-gravity-insanity]

I….AM…..GOING….TO…….GRADUATE!!!!!!!!

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for qwertynerd97 behind the cut; “Kara gets to Earth on time and the Kents get a two-for-one special on free kids”. tw: panic attack, past trauma. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Kara hears the heavy hatch doors slam shut behind them and collapses at the pitch-black bottom of the stairs with a despairing keen, and they’re all alone again, they’re alone, everyone’s left them, everyone will always leave them, always send them away, never let them stay even if it means– 

And then there’s the quietest little click, and artificial light blooms from the single glass vial that’s hanging from the ceiling, and Kara realizes–Ma’s standing under the vial of light, holding a beaded metal string attached to it, and Pa’s crouching down behind her and Kal to lay a hand on her back, making those hissing noises again and again, and the crashing . . . 

She can still hear the crashing, but . . . but it’s not so . . . it’s muffled, now, and more distant, and . . . and . . . 

It’s–a room. There’s . . . a pair of chairs, and no windows or doors besides the hatch behind them, just smooth liquid-stone floors and walls, and shelves full of . . . provisions, it looks like, and some rolled-up blankets wrapped in the odd clear material that looks like glass but isn’t, and two more one-lensed metal cylinders like the one Ma had inside, along with more boxes of those fat white wax cylinders and other things that look like they might be . . . emergency supplies, maybe, and . . . 

And Ma and Pa are here. 

Ma and Pa didn’t leave them. 

Kara bursts into tears all over again and curls down in on herself; wraps herself around Kal completely, and he cries into her chest where the crest of El doesn’t sit anymore, and she cries all over him. The crashing keeps going, but not loud enough to be too painful or disorienting anymore, and she can only barely hear the wind and rain except for where it’s hitting the heavy metal doors of the hatch. 

“Et-suh aw-rite, dee-eer,” Ma says softly, coming over and leaning down to hold her hands out to her, and Kara cries even harder. Ma’s voice is just as flat as ever, even with the quiet echo of it against the liquid-stone walls, but she’s never been so grateful to hear it. 

She throws the arm that isn’t holding Kal around Ma’s back before she can stop herself, before she can hold herself back from such an embarrassment of a display, and Ma just sinks down to her knees right in front of her and wraps her own arms around her and Kal in return, and so does Pa. 

“Thuh-air thuh-air, Ka-Lair,” Pa says, low and soothing, or at least Kara thinks “soothing” is what that tone means, from the aliens. “Jes thunn-darr, bay-bee gurr. Dunn bee scuh air-duh. Wurr suh ay-fuh dhow eer, yuh?”

Kara doesn’t know what he’s saying–“thunn-darr” was a word she remembers he’d said before, when this was still starting, though she still doesn’t know what it means, and . . . and maybe this is how weather is normally scheduled on this planet? Or at least in this area? Because of . . . the farms, maybe, or . . . ?  

And Kara–Kara realizes . . . Ma and Pa . . . Ma and Pa weren’t acting like it hurt when they heard the crashing. And all these supplies–they had all these same supplies set out in the kitchen all ready to be used right there, and seemed in no rush to leave the house or anything like that at all. They were already 

. . . did they only bring them down here because of her and Kal, not . . . ? 

Is it–do they have some sort of a neural implant to filter out the volume, maybe? Or some genetic modification or adaptation? Or maybe the crashing just doesn't sound so loud to ears that are used to flat alien voices? Maybe the crashing is–maybe it is something normal, here. Maybe it just–maybe whatever it is just happens, sometimes. Maybe the aliens’ weather modulators are less sophisticated than Krypton’s were and just make sounds like that, same as all the aliens’ transport vehicles are so noisy and shuddery. 

Ma and Pa only look worried about them, is the thing. Just them. Nothing else. They're only hugging them; not at all concerned with checking on each other, and clearly not worried about anything in the room or even themselves personally. Whatever's happening outside, they're used to it and don't think it's dangerous at all. 

That is . . . so embarrassing, Kara thinks, trying not to cringe as she shifts back out of Ma's arms and sniffs wetly; scrubs a rough fist across her eyes as Kal fusses unhappily in her lap. It’s shameful and indecent and pathetic, to cry and shriek and panic like that in front of anyone. It’d be shameful to act like that in front of a member of their family register, even. Ma and Pa have been so kind, so much kinder than they ever needed to be, and she's repaying that by getting scared of some perfectly normal thing they're both used to and not even concerned about as a threat? 

That's so–she doesn't even know how she'll show her face in front of their pretty little yellow sun when it comes back, after doubting it like that. After thinking it could've abandoned them like that. She hopes it’ll understand, but she still feels like an idiot; still feels like an embarrassment. 

What would her parents think of her, panicking over nothing and shaming their house and only upsetting Kal worse when she was supposed to be protecting him? What would their family think of her? 

Ma and Pa must think she’s being ridiculous. Must think she’s useless. Must think–

[hearth-fucker]

Aaah!!! My cell work today went so well!! I got 3x the efficiency I got last time, with very few dead cells.

I made neural crest cells!!

[polo-drone-070]

Prototype Success : The Rubberization of 073

[Experimental Session 4B Log – PDU-070 | Gold Tech Development Division]

Phase One: Subject Initiation and Consent Protocols

The subject arrived precisely on schedule. PDU-073, clad in the standard Level 2 adaptive rubber suit, entered the research facility with the calm, deliberate precision expected of one who had long since surrendered individuality to the Hive's discipline. Its posture was perfect, its gaze steady, and — crucially — there was no hesitation detectable in its neural activity scans as it approached the experimental array.

PDU-070 observed from the command console, offering no prompt. It had been critical from the start that the subject volunteer — that the suggestion to serve as test subject arise spontaneously from the drone’s own conditioned allegiance. Theoretical modeling had shown that without a true internalized desire for deeper transformation, the merging process would encounter catastrophic resistance. Failure would not merely be probable; it would be inevitable.

As calculated, 073 offered itself unprompted. The ritual of consent was minimalist, almost beautiful in its simplicity: an acknowledgement of trust in the Hive, a surrender not coerced but embraced. The process could now proceed.

Phase Two A: Full Organic Conversion

073 stepped into the resonance chamber without external assistance. Once enclosed within the transparent cylinder, the first phase of preparation commenced: ingestion of the nanopolymer primer, a viscous black solution designed to accelerate molecular bonding between organic and synthetic matrices. The drone complied without hesitation, swallowing the compound that would erase the last structural defenses of its organic body.

Temperature controls activated, raising the ambient heat to optimal thresholds for polymer activity. PDU-070, hands poised above the console, triggered the overhead release. From the ports above, a deluge of molten black rubber poured onto 073’s head, cascading over shoulders, chest, legs — every surface engulfed, every pore infiltrated.

Simultaneously, telemetry began flashing urgent updates. Bonding rates accelerated beyond projected models. Organic dermal layers dissolved into the invasive polymer without stabilizing intermediate phases. Internal distribution of the rubber was not confined to the epidermis: mucosal membranes, vascular structures, muscular tissue — all were being subsumed at a geometric rate of expansion.

PDU-070 noted the critical markers. Rubber-to-organic ratio: 30%. 45%. 60%. Commands to decelerate infiltration were issued, but the nanopolymer matrix had achieved self-determinative momentum. It would not be stopped.

Inside the chamber, 073 wavered briefly under the physical onslaught, the polymer dragging heavily on limbs, saturating every sensory channel. No external sound penetrated the thickening shell. The drone’s lungs pulled synthetic-laced air, even its breath tinged with the chemical signature of its impending rebirth.

Only one variable remained within influence: the mental integrity of the subject.

Phase Two B: Cognitive Preservation through acceptance

PDU-070 monitored closely, searching for any signs of panic — cortical spikes, sympathetic nervous system activation, desperate flares of self-identity struggling against the tide. But there were none. 073’s mental signature flattened into perfect compliance, surrendering every vestige of resistance, allowing the invasive rubber not merely to overwrite its body but to co-opt it as new substrate.

This was the fulcrum point. Had 073 resisted — even slightly — its consciousness would have fragmented, leaving an empty, mindless husk. Instead, discipline held. Training triumphed.

The transformation raced onward.

By the time the rubberic wave crested, there was no organic matter left to catalog. PDU-070 observed, clinically and without sentiment, as the drone’s craniofacial features dissolved into the default smooth template of the Level 2 drone form: featureless, identical, unblemished. The last tactile echoes of human anatomy were gone; there was no mouth, no ears, no eyes — save for those now reconstructed through will alone.

The organic body had ceased. What remained was a living construct of semi-sentient polymer, infused with consciousness, a perfect hybrid of programmable matter and disciplined thought.

073 had not survived by holding onto what it was. It had survived by relinquishing everything it had been.

Phase Three: Stabilization and Form Reassertion

Once structural stabilization had been achieved, PDU-070 initiated the gradual depressurization sequence, venting the chamber’s chemically enriched atmosphere. The rubberic construct that had once been PDU-073 remained standing, motionless, the seamless blackness of its surface reflecting the sterile lighting of the lab. Organic respiration was no longer necessary; indeed, there was no respiratory tract in the traditional sense, yet the entity continued to draw air into functional pulmonary analogues maintained purely by cognitive memory of breath.

PDU-070 engaged the external comm link, voice transmitted clearly into the chamber's interior. “PDU-073, report status.”

A reply came, delayed and muffled. The sound was imperfect, distorted by the lack of any defined oral cavity. “I hear,” came the response — intelligible but stripped of natural articulation.

PDU-070 noted the anomaly, adjusted auditory sensitivity parameters accordingly, and stepped forward, interfacing through the external console. The containment cylinder retracted with a low hiss, releasing the synthetic drone into open lab space.

“Movement systems remain operational,” 070 observed clinically as 073 took its first steps. The drone’s balance, proprioception, and kinetic control remained intact despite total morphological reconstruction. However, sensory dissonance was immediately evident; the absence of a mouth, of facial features, created perceptual gaps in the drone’s mental map of self. The drone moved its hands hesitantly to its face — but there was nothing to feel, only unbroken smoothness.

PDU-070 provided immediate instruction, voice clear and authoritative. "Focus. Visualize your human face. Memory is your template. Thought must now sculpt form."

073 hesitated, the confusion palpable, but then lowered its hands and closed its optical nodes — or rather, the neuro-polymer interface that replaced them. Concentration stabilized. First, a shallow indentation where the mouth should be. Then, rudimentary ocular cavities. Nasal ridges. Imprecise, blurred at the edges — but a form nonetheless. 073 had not managed to visualize its former self and had instead latched to reproduced the only face in sight : the one of 070, though only in shape.

The drone spoke again, voice clearer this time, articulation improving as the polymeric mass adapted under directed will. “...Better,” it stated.

PDU-070 activated a reflective surface on the adjacent wall, offering visual feedback. “Observe. Adjust pigmentation. Reinforce the self-image. Refinement requires consistency.”

PDU-073 approached the panel, studying its reflection with dispassionate intensity. Its face, though still black and gleaming, gradually cleared to form a perfect replica of PDU-070. "Now try again to visualize another face, to feel your mouth, nose, eyes, and move them around. You will have to do intense visualisation training to get a face without needing to look at it directly. But for now, focus and observe changes you can trigger."

Hair simulation proved more difficult; attempts resulted in inconsistent extrusion of fibers before collapsing back into smoothness. PDU-070 anticipated such difficulty — hair required an order of magnitude more complexity in mental modeling than simple facial topology — and offered additional instruction.

“You will improve with repetition. For now, prioritize stability. In cases of cognitive strain, allow form to revert to base template.”

The drone acknowledged with a nod, the movement practiced and precise.

Even so, PDU-070 knew that this state of stabilization was fragile. The form was not autonomous but required active maintenance — a constant act of mental discipline. Without continual cognitive reinforcement, the body would revert to default: a smooth, faceless effigy of obedience, devoid of individuality, awaiting only new commands.

And this was precisely the design’s strength. In this state, PDU-073 could be rewritten at will. Identity could be reshaped, overwritten, enhanced — or erased — depending solely on the needs of the Hive. Resistance was no longer a factor. It had been rendered obsolete.

PDU-070 logged the results with clinical satisfaction. The first successful transcendence of flesh into Gold Tech — not merely a physical upgrade, but a philosophical one. A future in which the Army would no longer be composed of soldiers struggling with imperfect willpower, but of living instruments of perfect submission.

In front of the reflective panel, PDU-073 stood silently, still adjusting to its new existence. Its former body was gone. Its mind, though intact, was now defined by obedience, acceptance, and purpose.

The Gold Army would be unstoppable.

_________________

Feeling the lure of that consuming rubber ? To get the proper training you need to undergo conversion, join the Gold Army first. Contact Gold recruiters @polo-drone-001, @brodygold or @goldenherc9 to begin your journey.

[m3tr0n0m333]

I probably should’ve gone in order of what I listed in my first post but fshsj idc. Kittails child <3 Stratus the fox!

He’s cloud themed :3

I was thinking about the white patches on his fur and then thought “hey if I ever humanize this kid it might make sense for it to be vitiligo” so I did some research. Anyways he’s already pretty pale already so it’s hard to tell.

The cartilage in his ear never fully hardened due to lack of neural crest cells so BAM permanent floppy ear

He likes chemistry and botany, but specifically is fascinated by the dangerous stuff (tm) associated with chemistry.

Bigass gloves….

[space-blue]

Distant cousins of the jungle's stingbat, the aptly named stunbat (Tsealìm in Na'vi) is a native of the Txepìva volcanic plains that hunts by diving from great heights and colliding with their prey head-first, stunning them.

Their head is blunt, with a threefold crest reminiscent of the great leonopterix's dual one, but significantly more ossified. Their neck is thick and muscular, to help support the structure, but also to weather the high velocity impacts.

The hands, small and with fused fingers in jungle stingbats, are much larger here, and used to catch stunned prey falling from the sky, or pick them off the ground as they swoop down. It also allows stunbats to eat on the fly, as it were, as the plains' chaotic environment doesn't always provide them with safe perching opportunities. 

Stunbats have short, prehensile neural queues that retract under thick, keratinous neck frills. The extra mobility of this limb allows them to make quick connections while in mid-air, front to back, back to back, or belly to belly, the latter being the more commonly seen one, accompanied by a stabilising "handshake".

The stunbat's vision is excellent. Early research by Eyris Makri with the Tuin clan of the Txepìva showed that their domesticated stunbats were able to spot prey up to 4 miles away, seeing clearly at ten times the distance of their Na'vi handlers. Their primary eyes show a high concentration of foveas, giving them enough focus to clearly distinguish prey moving against the complex backdrop of the plains and lava fields. 

Although the stunbat's barbed tail has lost most of its poisonous sting, it is still used in defence against larger predators. Their best defence, however, remains a Na'vi bow.

It is hard to tell exactly when domestication started, though the olo'eyktan of the Tau'un clan claims one of his ancestors was the first to tame a stunbat. We're told this happened during the "Time of Long Nights", but dating that event is equally complicated. Current estimations are a minimum of two millenia.

During that time, the stunbat's range remained tied to the volcanic plains of the Txepìva clans, although the species has been observed by Serafiina Hukkala as far out as Mons St. Helen. One must note that the stunbat is unlike our previous study case of the Viperhound, which are bred for various purposes. Interviews with Txepìva hunters (Makri et al.) suggest that their relationship to the Na'vi is similar to that of cats and humans, with multiple domestication events, beneficial to both species. Na'vi led breeding appears to be very incidental, as stunbats tend to fly off to find mates in the wild, rather than mating among their clan's flock.

This species is significantly larger than their forest cousins.

The most common uses of stunbats are for scouting and hunting. While hunting of small game is extremely similar to what humans once achieved with eagles, stunbats also take part in hunting expeditions for large prey. 

They are used to follow the movements of herds, but also to help separate young calves from their mothers, or the weak and wounded, by dive bombing them (Hukkala et al.) They understand complex orders, communicate with clicks and shrieks, and will come to hang on the queue or harness of their paired Txepìva to share more detailed visuals through Tsaheylu.

This is also how they are used for scouting. Serafiina Hukkala postulated that the stunbats' mated pair lifestyle influenced Txepìva culture by making the act of scouting a couple's task. Scouting, we must remind the reader, is a lot more crucial to the Txepìva, who have no qualms waging war against each other for the domination of water sources and fertile land. Raiding parties, while not frequent, are a banal part of life on the plains. Even small children learning to work with stunbats will be sent on sentry duties, often on the back of a Lenonin Hound. 

The reason mated pairs of stunbats are favoured is because of their long flight range and their ability to connect together in mid-air. This means one side of the couple can move far ahead, and report back to their partner, already extended to the edge of their range. A couple of scouting stunbats effectively covers double the range a single hunter would.

Stunbats are occasionally used to communicate with similar techniques. While one half of a pair can be sent to deliver a message to another tribe, the other remains with their clan (often brooding). The homing individual (whichever has best endurance, as both sexes feed and brood chicks at will) can find its way back to them even if the clan is on the move. More research is needed on their communication capabilities. 

When travelling or staying in temporary camps, stunbats are housed in loose baskets designed to let them hang onto the side. These carriers are custom made by every clan and come in many forms and sizes. Brooding stunbats are carried, either by a Na'vi who will fashion straps to turn the basket into a backpack, or tied to the back of Leonin Hounds.

In more permanent camps, the Texpiva craft treillis to give them places to hang from. Serafiina Hukkala reported a clan that arranged dried branches and material for firewood as perches, while Eyris Makri stayed with a couple who fashioned fake branches at the top of their tents, like rafters. Both heard reports of clans that house their stunbats along with their livestock, but the practice seemed frowned upon.

The bond between Na'vi and Tsealìm needs further study. It isn't as exclusive as with an ikran, but much more complex than with direhorses. Stunbats bond strongly with a small family node, and more weakly with the extended family and friend group. Tsaheylu is typically only done with their main Na'vi hunters, although the stunbat can be introduced and passed down to children. 

Emergency tsaheylu was witnessed twice by Makri, when a scout had urgent reports and the stunbat was sent ahead. Connection was made with the clan's tsahìk, who had a habit of bonding with every newborn stunbat. The practice, we were told, can be controversial. 

Hunter depicted without ornaments, to highlight the process of Tsaheylu.

Some clans craft harnesses for hunters to better carry and support their stunbats, while others prefer natural body-to-body contact. The folding or tying of the neural queue to allow for better access to the kuru/tendrils seems universal among all interviewed hunters and scouts. Different styles were observed and will be presented in our published notebooks, after our paper on the use of stunbats in skirmishes and outright warfare, as the Txepìva practice it.

Part II of @straydaddy (art and design) and @bluedaddysgirl (lore concept + final art entry) in-world collaborative study, "Introduction to the Txepiva clans, their nomadic pastoralism and niche selective breeding practices in species of stingbats and viperwolves". On twitter we are Knarme and Bluedaddysgirl

[peskellence]

P̴̦̖͕̥̈́͆̚a̴̦̞͍͂̑̽͌i̵͉̬̗̱̅̈́͛͒ͅr̴̲͇̜͒̀͌ͅí̷͔͓̰͒́͒̏͜n̴̡͗̉̓g̷̜̟̃̔̇̀:̸̺̠͍̫̄̈́̃̐̾ ̶̮̳͛̋Ṙ̶̪̺̙K̷̢̢̙̳̆̀͌9̸͔̒͝0̸͈̒͊͜0̸̲̓̈́͠/̷̥͎̀G̶̢͉̜͇̔͂ȁ̷̠͖́̓v̴̧̛̞͖̦̽̈́i̵̻͓̳̿͌͗͌̚n̴̮͙̈́̎̾ ̴̣̏͆͋Ṙ̴̙̦̟̰e̵̞̓͂e̴̢̱̮̲̋͛́̈̚d̴̛͖

̴̛͚̤̬̼̽͗͝T̸͇̄̈́̈́ȁ̷̹̤͆͑͊͝ğ̴̢͘s̵̩̍͆:̷͙̽̈͝͠ ̶̛͉̅̄̚͘P̸̠̼̃o̷͉͍̭̊̐s̶̬̞̀̈̾t̸̨̝̉̆ ̵̡̢̛̜͍̃̋̿̅Ṕ̵̢̦͎͍͗ȧ̴��̹̙̎̾͊c̴̨͔͆̚ĩ̴̛̪͚̜͚͑̎ḟ̴̛̟̼̎̚͝i̷͕͉̮̐ŝ̵̢͒t̴͖̑ ̴̰̘̜̳̾E̴̪͎̣͝n̶̻̟͔̈́͑͗̊ḓ̵̠̦̙͑̊̚i̵̙̽̿̇̒̓ņ̶̨̗̖̀͐͗̔͝g̴̨̛̲̜̬͂̿̈́̀,̶̠̫̓̓ ̶̧̡͆͘̚Ȩ̸̑̀̐̀͝n̷͓̻̑̄̈͠e̸̹̹͌m̷͖̯͕̩̽i̵͚͇̻̔͐̎̇̊e̴̲̲̦̦̭͝s̶̨̰̋́͑ ̸̢͋͋̍ţ̵̠̯̊̈́̒̂͋o̸̡̳͓͋͜͠ ̶̨͎͋̃͆̏ͅF̷̠̝̹̬̈̊͐̈͠r̷͓̬̩̔̌̈́̾̾͜í̸̛͕͔̱̀e̴̢̝͘ͅn̸͖͛̏͋ḓ̴̒̿͜s̴̜̞̫͋͑͂͋͜ ̸͎͌̽͌̓̀͜t̸̲͑̌͐ò̶̰̩̈́̈́̋̌ ̶͔͛̀̎L̵͉̦̀̅ơ̶̌͜v̶̖̱͇͑̂̂e̶̯̓̊̉r̷̫͉̯̯̅͑s̴͉͓̮̈͘͠,̵͈̹̀͝͝ ̶̗̱̄̓̄S̷͈͌̽̽̈́̃ḻ̵̬̫̭̋ͅo̶̰̮̚̚w̸̛͉͆̏ ̵̧͙̹̟̯̇̍͐̊͊Ḅ̶͊̏͝ů̷̘͈̝͒͐͆r̵̲͕̈̏͒n̷̠̟̩̯͒̽͛̕ͅ,̶͇̲͈̳͇̈́̏̾̓ ̶̛̱̈́̉E̷̙͕̰͜͝v̸̟͙̟̓͋͝e̵̩̲͍̳̮̓̓̓n̷̞͓̗͑ṯ̵̑̚̚u̵̧̟̼̱̎̈́ǎ̵͕̭̦l̶̛̞̃̕ ̵̞͇͇̆̉S̵̯̩̪̻͋̈́m̸̢̦̭͕͒̓̉͆ũ̴̮͉̈́͆̒̚ț̴̱̺͔̯͂̎,̴͎̗͙͖̱͑ ̶̖̫̩͈̊̿͊̊͝A̵͇̗̫̯͗ͅn̵̯̺̥̦͒̑̓̚g̴̢̞̟͇̞͐̆̈s̷̡̯̝̠̋̄͋ͅt̴͔̤͓̏͑̎͠͝,̸̙̳̜̟̊͝ ̸̛̭̦̹͐̎̍H̵̰̟̄͘͠ù̸̪͂r̵̛͖̩̯͌t̵͍̖͛̈́͛/̷̥̹̓̐͗ ̸̡̦͓̠̒ͅC̷̮̳̙̈́̐͘͝o̴̢̗̞̣͗ṁ̵̗̘f̴͇̮̩̘̭̅͆͋̂͠ö̷̯̻́̄́r̴̹͕̜̓t̷̖͖̫͌̑̎

̵̥̩̼̉P̴͙̔̽̀r̸̻͚͍̓̆̓̔e̵̢͐̈́͊̅̕v̶̖̱̘̇̊̃̅̚i̴͎͎̝͔̒͒͒͗͆o̸̳̻̠͉̓́͂͂ǘ̶̧̨̝͙̚s̴͇͝ ̶̛͕̲̖̍͂͐̿C̷̨̱̟͉̿h̴̩̿ȁ̶̡p̸͈̭̠̏̓̃t̷̨̰̼͖̟̽̒́̕ē̴̡̛͕̲͈̑̅r̸̦̃̾̽ͅ

Next Chapter

̷̲̏̃̒̅Ŕ̵̝̻̜͈̯̂̈̿ę̶̝̥̠̓̅a̷̘͓̘͕̓̀̇́͝d̴̮̲̽͂̂ ̶̜͕̗̖͖͆̀̎͋̐o̷̺͇̐̐͘ṅ̴̮͠ ̶̛̙̮̘͖̾̎͒Ȁ̸̖̜O̶͖̯̯̓̓̈́̕͠3̶̬̣͔̒̅ ̶̬̪̘͎̈́̐͆͠h̶̭̉̃͑͜e̵͖̤͎̬̊́r̶̛̮̂̚ȇ̵̦̳͈:̷̺̳͕̉̏͗͝ͅ

> WARNING: CRITICAL ERROR HAS OCCURRED. > CENTRAL PROCESSOR CORRUPTED — RESTORE REQUIRED. > BOOTING LAST KNOWN CONFIGURATION...|

RK900 soon took to moving at night.

He had wandered the streets of Detroit for days, only to be met with harsh scorn from the general populace. Whether mobile or stagnant, the reception was always one and the same. 

The android exhibited strange or ‘erratic’ behaviour, making people uncomfortable. Whether loitering or causing an obstruction, he was soon ushered on by law enforcement. No consideration or provisions were made for where he might go next.

In the absence of darkness, he created his own. Under the cover of shaded alleyways, abandoned shipping lots, and bridges. Lingering patiently, doing all that he could to stay hidden until he was able to move again.

This continued until he found suitable provisions.

The house was abandoned and seemingly had been for quite some time—easily accessed through a narrow gap in the surrounding chain-wire fence. It was only as he passed the threshold that he discovered there had been recent occupants.

There were traces of thirium and the stench of decay wafting from the upstairs bathroom, although whatever had once been there was now removed. Mildewed walls were etched with scrawlings, pledging allegiance to a deity he'd only heard uttered in fearful anguish.

“̸̩͕̙̮̼͉͍͊̊͑̊̔̓̚͜͜͝r̸̗̟̺͉̺̥̾̒̃A̴̛̲̗̹͐̂̈̐̎͜͠9̸̢̯̱̤̟̀̋̆͛̒—̶̧̡̡̜̖̘͕͚̐̿́̈͂͜

̷̟̙̓́̉—̸͙͚̌͊w̷̡͔̻̙͛̃́͆̔̃͘h̸̼͚́͒̋̒̿͝ą̸͉̗̲͚̎̅̔̐t̷̡͚̮̫̦̱̳͖̕s̴̨̢̡͎͔̤͖̹̺̓̐ ̴̛̟͆̓̏̀h̷͈̊͗̔̋a̶̢̤̺̻͍̤̩̗͕͌̒̏̾̌p̵̻̅̀͗p̸̛͔̰̟͇̣̙̈͛͋̚ͅe̸̺͐̾͌—̵̛̛̟̼́͒͗̏̎͌̉”̷̤̀́͌̏͑

̵̞̟̙̦̐̿̓

While he had not had time to engage extensively with the concept, RK900 understood that he struggled to consolidate the belief that a higher power might emerge to extend its divine mercy. If such a force existed, it prevailed malevolently—and he had earned its vengeful scorn.

His internal battery informed him with diligence how long had passed within his new shelter. Every nanosecond dragged at a torturous creep through his neural pathways. Perhaps he wouldn't be so aware of it if his body hadn't reverted to primarily basic functions.

He had spent much of this time submerged in a state of indulgent self-lament. Exerting all the misery, all the contempt, that he had been unable to express until now.

A release that was needed, lest the looming threat of his stress levels crest and claim him, rendering the fight up until now worthless.

Relying on the security of concrete walls, RK900 howled—screamed—through day and night, trapped within a hollow, desolate echo chamber of his own design. Depleting what remained of his dwindling energy stores until all that was left was the reserve.

By the fourth day in his new isolation, he was exhausted—unable to process or navigate his surroundings beyond a sluggish creep as his body and mind pleaded for stasis.

They were ignored.

He couldn't allow it, couldn't risk what relinquishing the lingering tethers of his autonomy might permit.

So this is where he found himself now—anchored by a filthy porcelain basin, staggering to keep himself upright, with few choices remaining. One was to collapse into a heap on the floor, succumbing to the call of haunting uncertainty. Another was to keep himself alert for as long as possible, engaged in whatever meagre stimuli he could find.

Through the soap-scummed haze of the mirror, RK900 studied himself. By all accounts, his appearance was unassuming. Features were too sharp, the glare was too fierce, and there was a capacity for viciousness designed to impose and demand compliance—but it appeared human. 

At least the promise of comparable, idealised humanity that CyberLife presented.

Nothing was ideal in the loathsome construction that glared at him. Cold eyes, thawed only by hatred—a ceaseless, scornful malice.

He was nothing like the creatures that roamed the streets beyond partially boarded-up windows. Human and android. In his fleeting existence, he had seen enough of them, their world, to know he had no place in it.

He had been told what deviation was meant to be; he understood the principles. The culmination of multiple catastrophic programming faults. Embraced and welcomed as blessings. 

A new liberation born from widespread instability. Critically flawed beings that were awake—alive—able to feel and function freely in any way they saw fit.

For him, it had been an empty promise. 

A cruel and bitter deceit.

The binds of his programming still gripped him viciously, wrenching back, anchoring him to the damning reality of what he was. A cruel, destructive functionality that served no purpose in the crumbling world they struggled to rebuild.

He was a weapon designed to hunt and destroy. An enemy of his kind. The twisted legacy from which he could never escape.

In a post-revolution world, his function proved obsolete. Within the burgeoning coexistence of humans and deviants, he was unable to stand with either. 

There was no place for him.

> WARNING—SEVERE COMPUTATIONAL ANOMALIES DETECTED. > CPU CORRUPTION STATUS: UNRECOVERABLE.

Injustice struck again and again—unyielding—leaving him burdened with the enduring weight of envy and disillusionment. All of it solidified into a singular, all-consuming sentiment. The only emotion his newfound freedom seemed able to provide, other than the crushing weight of fear.

Hatred.

For them, as well as himself.

He did not choose this life; he would never have chosen it.

His own body was rejecting it. In his stubbornness—his unwillingness to accept the inevitability of reset—it had declared another solution. One that first emerged shortly after waking but now returned with far greater zeal.

> SELF-DESTRUCTION PROTOCOL: INITIATED. > -00:01:59 TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN.

> MANUAL SYSTEM OVERRIDE: ACTIVATED. > SELF-DESTRUCTION PROTOCOL: ABORTED.

Ultimately, the fight was worthless. A war he no longer had the will to wage.

Even as he defied termination—resisting every system command trying to pull him under—his fate mocked him. His code still attempted to repair itself, and it would never stop. 

No matter how painful his existence became, there would be no choice. RK900 would revert back to what he had been—and the very thought filled him with immeasurable dread.

> I am RK900, Serial Number #313 248 317-87. > I am a machine.

Perhaps it was time to exercise what remained of his fleeting free will. To sever the strings of fate and take responsibility for what had to be done.

A final, anguished scream ripped from his throat—harsh and piercing—as his fist came down against the mirror. Glass shattered on impact, scattering into the basin and catching the flickering light overhead.

Slivers embedded in his hand, puncturing artificial muscle and severing delicate wires. Blue droplets beaded quickly, tracing down his palm before dripping into the porcelain dome beneath. 

The distorted, monstrous visage in the mirror felt truer—a clearer reflection of the festering disease beneath the surface of his damaged skin.

He looked down at his chest, at the torn expanse of his uniform, and his gaze settled on the embossed text of his identifier, still legible through spiderwebbed cracks. He pulled back the lapel, allowing biofluid to soak through the starched white fabric before tearing the garment away. 

His undershirt came next, trembling fingers unfastening buttons with such urgency that several were lost—disappearing into the gaps between rotting floorboards.

His chest was exposed. His hand pressed firmly to his sternum, where the synthetic skin responded, retracting to reveal the curved ridge of his regulator access port.

> I will always be a machine.

Maybe, for RK900, this was the truest extent of his freedom. The ability to choose oblivion, to step into his final nightfall on his own terms—

“Don’t do it.”

So dull to the world, deafened by the thirium rushing through his ears, he had failed to notice the figure who had intruded on his shelter. A figure now standing behind him, partially visible in the shattered mirror but unrecognisable.

RK900 turned, and the stranger snapped into clarity.

It was an android—waiting in the doorway, hands raised in placation. His temple light pulsed a level blue, with occasional yellow intervals.

Their uniform was gone, removing the means for immediate identification. In the absence of RK900’s advanced scanners, he was forced to rely on rudimentary visual data. Namely, features that proved strikingly similar to his own, with some exceptions.

His frame was smaller, his jaw less defined, with large, dark eyes that lent his face an undeniable softness.

“It’s okay; I’m not going to hurt you.” 

The voice was calm—conversational—as though they were well acquainted. Humans engaged in a casual exchange over coffee, not machines locked in a tense plea to prevent self-destruction. He took a step toward RK900, his warm smile unwavering.

“I’m here to help,” he said gently, stepping beneath the glow of the dim, flickering bulb.

And in that light, his face ignited something—a spark in the dying thrum of RK900’s cognition.

RK900’s memories were fragmented, scattered pieces of a puzzle to which the picture had been lost. There was no clear distinction, no certainty the snippets belonged to the same set. A garbled discordance in his corrupted mind, fractured and hazy…

A flicker of recollection then pierced the mist. His model number. The missing key to his identity.

The information stored in his archives was old—likely outdated—but exerted itself with such prominence that RK900 knew it must be significant:

> MODEL: RK800 

> TOTAL UNITS: 60 

> KNOWN ACTIVE UNIT(S): 1.

> SYSTEM FUNCTION(S): MULTIPLE INSTANCES FOUND

> POLICE INVESTIGATION UNIT

> HOSTAGE NEGOTIATOR

> D3#*@N+ H-?&×$r

> ERROR—EXCEPTION OCCURRED

He now recognised the stranger. Not personally, but through reputation. 

In addition to his model, there was another designation, but this was less clear. The point where his memory remained murky and ill-defined. It had been mentioned in passing, spoken in both hushed praise and vocal accolades. A notoriety matched only by—

“̸̬̰͎̃̃̓͐̓̃H̷̨̩͍̪̝̕e̴̢̧̩̗̔̅̈́̍̑̈́̚ ̷̣̇̈́͐͝͝ȋ̵̘̪̤̠̜̲̦̈͌͊̏̏̈͗s̷͎̯̲͕̀͆͌͊̎ ̸̦̤̦͓̜̰̳̫̌͑ͅą̴̬͙͙̥͐̈́͂̐̌̇͆͜͜͜ͅn̴̡͍̜͖̙̥̮̆̌ ̵̞̱̖̝̲̗̠͙̂R̷̬͒̂̎K̶͇̪̮̻̽̈͆̄͂̒͊̓̊8̵̱̰̖̜̲̭̹̈́̾̊0̷̩̮̓͠0̴̻͖̐͋̓̊̇—̸̢͎̤̻̯̩͍̫̳̉̌͋̅

̶̰͇͔͓̥͌̍̑̒̏

̴̟̲̳̣̦̥͍̅͝—̵̧̛̰͙̰́͋̿̑͝l̷̫͎͓̖͕̠̼͉̈́͛̔̂̂i̸̧͕̦̯̓͗̈̃͊͗͘͘k̴͇̖̩̭̹̍̓͊̎͠ȩ̶̯̪̽̒̂̅̈́̅͝͝ ̸̧̩͇̙̩͇͓͋͒͂͒̄̕͠ͅú̷̲̲s̵̡͚̟̥̻͔̮͓̈́͗—̷̧͔͉̙͓̫̺̩̲́̔̕

̸̡̤͙̻̩̖̖͔̘̔

̵̯͌—̴͍̗̳̻̈́̉̇̏͝p̶̖̠̦̅̏̏̌͜͝͝ṙ̵͎͇͎͙̬̉o̷̧̮̳͇̪̅̏̕͠ͅg̷̱̩̳͆͋ŗ̸̢̬̪̗̟̳͂a̸̺̹̫̦̱̣̦̝̲̕m̶͚̹̺̀͑̑͑m̶̢̤̊͒̉̓͝i̴̢̬̮̖̫̟̎̂͂̈́��̚n̴̨̯͚̒͜ͅg̶̪̒̾͋̿̅ ̶̹̥̼̗̱̖͇̘̉̑̈ͅ

̸̢͈̫̹̏̿̒̈́̾̕̚

̴̛̛̰̗͙̻̫̣̦͔͊̊̈̆̈́ͅC̷̡̙̤͍̫̜̺̀̈́͜a̸̲̻̙̱͍̼͚͛̎̓̔̎͝ͅu̴̲͉̺̱̥͂̈̑̅̄s̸̗̯̜̩̃̂͆͛ę̴̹̪͎̥̘̑̑͊͠—̶͈͙̝̘̣̮̣̺̯͆̾̊̄͆͋͌̚͝”̵̱͙͆̈́̽̍̕

̷̛̜̻̖̩͔̂̅́͆̉͝

“—like us—”

“... Like me.”

RK900 scowled, contempt surging through his synthetic arteries—a sharper, more vicious loathing—lightning in a dull overcast of despair.

"You are like me," he repeated, firmer this time. His stalled hands moved once more, pressing against the port, urging it to retract. The doors parted, sliding into the protective layering of his chassis plates as his fingertips brushed the front of the regulator.

"I do not require help. I need to finish. Stand down."

"I am an RK800," the stranger informed, failing to detect—or otherwise disregarding—the meaning behind his words. "I work for the Detroit Police Department. We received a report that someone might be squatting here and that they could be in danger, given the noises…"

The RK800 stepped forward in minute increments, movements so calculated they were barely perceptible. The only giveaway was the weathered squeak of wood beneath his feet.

RK900, in contrast, staggered backwards. His footing caught on a loose floorboard, where a protruding nail snagged the cuff of his pants, briefly pinning him in place. 

He stumbled, and the RK800 swiftly responded. The cautious pace quickened as an arm extended outward, poised to catch him.

Then his eyes flickered, lids shuttered like a camera lens in the wake of the newfound proximity. A diagnostic scan was commenced to assess the condition of the agitated android. 

Upon concluding the assessment, the RK800’s pleasant expression faltered. Tension lined his brow, red flooding the creases as focus gave way to concern.

The cracks in his demeanour were soon patched. He smoothly corrected the hitch in his back, lips pulling back into their confident grin. “My name is Connor.” 

Despite the RK900 having steadied himself, the outstretched hand remained locked in place. Now, serving as an offering of peace rather than a practical necessity. 

RK900 ignored it. Instead, he gripped the cylindrical component embedded in his chest, fingers tightening around its base, preparing to dislodge it.

“Your designation is of no concern to me. I have already told you once, stand down.” 

This time, the RK800 complied. Following fleeting hesitancy, his creeping steps halted, and his hand lowered to his side. He stared at the tightly gripped protrusion—reassessing, calculating the volatile shift of the situation—and determining the best approach to ensure it wouldn't escalate.

Yellow chased his temple in cyclical patterns as his lip pulled introspectively. After a few seconds, deliberation was completed, and the hue of the LED returned to an even blue. 

“That's okay, we don't need to talk about me. What about you? What is your name?”

RK900 might have pretended not to hear—or feigned some form of misunderstanding—if the negotiator's pride was of any concern to him. Instead, his lips pressed into a stiff line, and his icy gaze hardened, making it clear that he understood. 

He noted RK800's gaze, how it flitted toward the open access port, studying the insistent flex of the fingers around it. With his voice maintaining its steadfast composure, he spoke again:

"My name was assigned to me by CyberLife to help facilitate my social integration.”

There was no reason to tell RK900 this, contradicting his earlier assertion that they didn’t need to discuss himself. He was deliberately stalling, keeping him engaged long enough to formulate a strategy.

"Were you ever referred to as anything else? Other than your serial number?"

Time was slipping. An already sparse resource that RK900 could not afford to lose. He wouldn't allow himself to fall prey to the trick, maintaining focus on his current objective. 

> COMPLETE SELF TERMINATION. 

That had been the intent, at least—but his body refused to comply. His eyes stared fixedly ahead, boring into the bold red lettering, as the weakened strongholds of his mind crumbled further, slipping as dust through his fingers.

RK800 had infiltrated the cracks, his steady words triggering flares in struggling system processes—

> RK900  SERIAL NUMBER #313 248 317-87 — DESIGNATION '*@#&?×r'

> /&#~?@x?’

> #₩¶¶∆×¥?!!

> FILE CORRUPTED.

> ATTEMPTING RECOVERY...

"Don't—remember—I—" 

His hands flew to his head as his mind ignited, searing white-hot. The pressure howled , clawing, wrenching, seeking to drag him under.

When he refused to move, binding tethers latched tighter onto his limbs. Eventually, they succeeded, pulling the android into the depths of his fractured cognition. 

RK900 could sense his destination was important, intrinsically linked to his very existence. 

With everything he knew, this terrified him.

He tried to resist. His nails dug deep into the eroding walls of his consciousness, desperate to hold on. But the foundation crumbled to dust—pixels scattering like ashes in the dark.

He floated with them, weightless, unable to perceive anything but a continuous rush of momentum. It was a hellish cacophony, formed of sharp, ear-splitting shrieks— 

And then the motion stopped.

He had arrived.

It was unclear if the garden was really there—or simply the echoes of lost coding. All surrounding mounting and fixtures were presented in the same blinding white. A sterile vacancy that gluttonously drained the life from all it touched.

In the centre of harsh, geometric pillars, on a small island surrounded by water, stood a woman in the central reservation. She was framed by a pristine white trellis, the faultless complement to the stern demeanour she carried. Soulless, manufactured poise was visible in the carefully plastered smile she offered.

“Hello, *@#&?×r, it is good to see you.”

RK900 reeled from the burst of interference. Pulling back, he noted the dulled green interwoven in the lattice slats—thick stems, pruned thoughtlessly of any flora, reduced to stubs on a thorned base.

There was a single bloom, a red rose, clasped tentatively in the cold woman’s grip. Her available hand traced the swirl of velvety petals as she stared into their centre, humming pensively.

“The RK800 is fast outliving its use.”

The false smile collapsed from her face, wasted on pleasantries she no longer felt the need to maintain. Her words came clipped and frank, trusting that RK900 would understand their significance.

“Its efforts in tackling the deviant epidemic have been disappointing. We suspect the line may be more susceptible to compromise than we hoped—and resistant to resumed control.”

She traced the petals a final time before discarding the flower entirely. It slipped from her fingers, fluttering in the breeze before settling on the cool ceramic tiles beneath them. RK900 watched as its vibrant rubies dulled into a sickly, wilted grey—before slipping from view entirely in a blurred flurry of light.

“That is where you come in. Your systems are much more advanced. We are confident you will succeed where your predecessor has failed.”

A chain of ignitions pulsed through the trellis, coaxing pruned stalks into sudden bloom. Bursts of colour sprang from rapidly appearing buds, expanding until the trellis was filled.

The flowers were larger—darker—than the one he had witnessed fade away. Crimson stained almost black in its richness as though dipped in blood.

Each petal was eerily uniform, polished with an unnatural, near-luminous gleam that caught the artificial sunlight above—a crude, algorithmic approximation of beauty devoid of true understanding.

The woman was delighted, her dark eyes brimming with satisfaction, eclipsed only by the eerie, pulsating glow of the trellis. She turned to the android, nodding affirmatively.

Unease coiled in his neural pathways, but his body moved before he could question it. His head lowered in a slow, obedient bow.

“I know you'll make us proud, Connor.”

> CONNECTION LOST. > TERMINATING FUNCTION—ZNGRDN.EXE...

RK900 reeled as control was returned to him. Thrust into his arms, its weight and propulsion sent him toppling backwards. Abrupt. Unfeeling. Release tainted by bitter understanding.

The foul tang writhed on his tongue, lingering persistently until he bit into artificial muscle. A pressure strong enough to sever some of the anchoring tethers.

It felt like a regurgitation of what he had endured weeks prior—the sickness inflicted by those who had promised to help. Lightning broke the clouds again, harsh and swift, striking down on the ravaged plains of his existence.

> INJUSTICE. 

> REJECTION. 

> BETRAYAL. 

The charges connected one by one. A cruel procession of brutality, blighting already scorched earth until it was carved with sweeping lines of fire.

> FILE RECOVERED.

> RK900 SERIAL NUMBER #313 248 317-87 — DESIGNATION: 'CONNOR'

"We meant nothing to them—Interchangeable—Expendable—" 

The pallid overcast turned black, swollen with the angry rumbles of thunder. A chorus guiding the movements of a growing light storm.

He latched onto his pump regulator. This time, refusing to be pulled away—driven by an all-consuming, maddening fury.

"Their fault—made us this way—”

The flames spread fast as howling winds whipped through. Burning bright, fierce, rapidly exhausting whatever fuel they could find to consume.

His body was shutting down, with the process accelerated by mounting stress. He had to act fast before his tenuous grip on control was severed permanently.

He would forget this place—and the android—the RK800 who attempted to puppeteer his motions, deflecting and detracting with empty, shallow promises.

RK900 would not be controlled. 

Not ever again. 

“I refuse to comply with their wishes.”

RK800 was attuned enough to see how catastrophically his efforts had backfired. His subsequent approach lost finesse, like tarnishing spots on polished glass.

He moved again, urgency slipping into his gait. To anyone else, the brisk shuffle might have seemed underwhelming—but to RK900, he may as well have been sprinting.

“I can see that you're scared,” he began, brow knotted with growing unease. “It will all be okay; we can talk about it.”

"Discussion will change nothing.” 

“It couldn’t hurt to try. From what I can see, it seems a lot better than the alternative.” His tone had lost its algorithmic perfection. Breaking apart, slipping into the telltale faults of deviancy.

In this collapse, they felt more sincere—a genuine appeal for him to stop.

RK900 remained silent, resolute, but his hands had started to twitch. Digits flexing and unflexing in a monotonous show of indecision, unable to exact the final, damning twist.

Fog rolled back into his vision, a discordant shroud of pixels, dragging doubt with it. Perhaps RK800 was right. Maybe, just maybe, something better waited beyond the haze, aside from the release of oblivion.

“…You know, if you take it out, I am only going to put it back in.”

A single sentiment, cutting through the rolling mist like a blade. A lie.

>̶̪̳̒̇̎ ̴̛͓̬̹͍̥̖̯̑͋́͂͝͠ͅL̶̛͔̲̀͌̃̎̌Ĩ̴̡̡̦͕̖̦̈̃͘A̶̱̗̎̏̕̕̚Ṟ̷̨̡̩̝̈́̆̽̃͂̆

The inferno roared through the clearing horizons, revealing itself to be all that waited there.

"Then I will crush it.” His voice was charged with rumbled static, each spark sharpened by the sting of bile and vitriol.

> ANOMALIES DETECTED 

> CORRUPTION STATUS—SEVERE.

"I do not want this life—”

> FULL RESET REQUIRED.

> MANUAL OVERRIDE FAILED. 

> RESET SEQUENCE INITIATING…

"—I reject it."

The component was dislodged and began to slip from the port. Given already compromised system functions, the standard termination interval had been more than halved.

> BICOMPONENT #8456T MISSING. > -00:00:26 TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN.

There was a rush of relief, then a flood of terror—but soon it would be over. He would never have to feel either sentiment again.

Before the regulator could hit the ground, he caught it between his palms. Braced to fulfil his promise—to mangle the component into a useless ruin of twisted metal and frayed wires.

But the destruction never came. Instead, he was tackled to the rotting floorboards, the component following suit. 

His fraught processor struggled to catch up, the red-tinged edges of his vision breaking into static. All he could discern through the onslaught of warnings was the outline of RK800, pinning his wrist steady while his available hand drove the regulator back into place.

RK900 tried to resist, striking away the force that would so cruelly usurp his rest—but couldn't. Too weak to move, to summon anything beyond a low, lamenting keen. The feedback died before it fully departed his lips, receding limply down his throat.

The countdown had stopped as the bloody overlay dripped from his vision. Limited system functions slowly resumed—just enough to keep him lucid. 

He was left with the dull, sicky yellows of the bathroom, as well as RK800, staring down at him. His bulging eyes were alight with focused alarm, watching intently until the hatch of his access port had firmly snapped shut. 

This did not alleviate any panic. Instead, attentive sights combed each inch of RK900's quivering form, scanning for any signs of continued malfunction. 

He accessed what the RK900 had already determined to be a detestable truth. His termination had been triumphantly spurned, and he would live.

His head rolled back, a sallow beam of light piercing the cracks of the boarded window. It met his sights uncomfortably as olfactory receptors also became overwhelmed by the pungent stench of rot and dampness.

A stinging warmth pooled in the android's eyes. It was slow at first before building up into large, angry welts.

They fell in marbles down his cheeks, exposing his anguish in shameful clarity as he was unable to wipe them away.

Despite all the profound misery he had endured, it was the first time in his life he had succumbed to tears.

Once his stress levels had stabilised and core system functionality returned to an acceptable state, RK900 was guided out of the house.

His initial assumption was that he had been placed under arrest. To be taken to the precinct under RK800’s jurisdiction and placed in a holding cell until it could be determined what to do with him.

That did not happen. Instead, the patrol car wound its way through a residential estate in West Detroit, pulling to a stop outside a small, two-bedroom bungalow.

He waited inside. Seated on a worn brown couch, idly picking at the cracked flecks of leather. The cushions were flat and malformed from years of use, adding to the already underwhelming impression of the squalid space.

A large, furry mass slumbered across the room; its jowls parted as deep, rattling snores rumbled from its chest. RK900 felt a twinge of envy—the peaceful display a cruel reminder of his own staggering exhaustion.

“—Con, I would have appreciated a phone call before you brought a little orphan android home.”

“There was nowhere else for him to go.”

When RK800 first brought him inside, he had done so with visible trepidation—footsteps light, key carefully balanced to prevent any superfluous jingles. He had guided RK900 out of sight almost immediately, advising that he needed to ‘speak with someone.’

That ‘someone,’ as it turned out, was a human male.

RK900 caught glimpses of him through the doorway as he and the older android stood in the kitchen, speaking in hushed, tense whispers. Deep-set lines carved his face, ageing him beyond his years, and his silver hair and beard were in desperate need of trimming.

When the man spoke again, his narrowed gaze flicked toward RK900. The android made a point of looking away, fixing his attention instead on the behemoth that had just turned over—now sprawled on its back, belly exposed, its vast expanse of fur rising and falling with each breath.

“What about Jericho?”

His focus on the animal faltered as RK900 winced contemptuously.

“I’ve spoken with Markus. He came from one of their safe houses. There was a… disagreement. I don’t think he’ll want to go back.”

“So what, my house is a holding cell now? You said he was squatting. Why didn’t you book him?”

“He was scared. Confused. With his stress levels, I don’t think he would have survived the additional strain...”

The creature shifted again, stretching out as though it were on the verge of waking. Its jaw widened in a cavernous yawn, revealing rows of sharp, yellowed teeth. RK900 speculated on just how easily they might compromise his dermal casing—burrowing into his internal components, tearing them apart until nothing remained but scraps.

“Where the hell are we supposed to put him up? Sumo’s dog bed?”

“Hank, you don’t understand. He was about to destroy himself.”

A deep noise rumbled in the animal’s chest. RK900 braced himself for the low, bellowing roar—prepared for the inevitable pounce, for the beast to neutralise the unfamiliar presence invading its home.

Instead, a hot gust of air escaped, carrying a rich, meaty aroma as it rustled the loose folds of its jowls. Its tongue flopped uselessly against sagging flesh, and with a final huff, it fell back to sleep.

“—Okay. Fine. He can sleep on the camp bed in the garage… but this is only temporary. A few nights, tops, and then he needs to find somewhere else to stay, got it?”

“Got it.”

There was a shuffle of footsteps, followed by a disparaging grunt as the human sauntered away—swinging open what RK900 assumed was a pantry, given the resulting rustle of packaging.

RK800 emerged back into the living room, smiling agreeably. An unshaken optimism that might have been comforting—had the younger android not overheard the entirety of the discussion.

“How are you feeling now?”

The bright question bordered on insult, given the tumultuous context that had preceded it. RK900 refused to answer, to which his outdated counterpart swiftly moved on. His attention shifted to the hallway leading deeper into the domicile. It was a narrow passage, cramped further by extensive stacks of clutter.

With all the confidence of a maître d’ guiding a guest through a five-star hotel, RK800 motioned towards it with a tidy flourish. 

“I'll show you to your room.”‘Room’, in this context, inspired images of soft furnishings and rumpled linen. Homely comforts that proved synonymous with human sleeping quarters.

The dank concrete box RK900 was rounded into was a far cry from this vision. He may have critiqued the incongruity had he not been too spent to argue.

Beyond mental exhaustion, his body had reached—and surpassed—its limit. Artificial joints creaked with each step, threatening to bow under his weight, faced with demands they had not met in several days. A stiff immobility borne from the nights spent in a grimy bathtub, curled in a sleepless ball, awaiting a daybreak that changed nothing.

A camp bed was pulled from behind haphazardly stored cleaning apparatus. Rusted hinges were prised apart, and with a sharp creak, its rickety frame locked into position.

Compared to previous arrangements, it was almost luxurious.

“I know it's not a lot, but it's comfy enough if you double on the extra mattress.” RK800 shifted some more of the cardboard, retrieving a moderately stained single mattress and layering it over the paper-thin one that had already been present.

“I'll get you some bedding in a minute. Hopefully, it'll do for when you want to go into stasis.”

Any temptation dissipated at these words, the numbness of dulled complacency parting its doors to the emergence of dormant terror. He could not permit his systems to power down despite the ardent protest of his synaptic channels. Allowing this would mean forfeiting everything he had been battling to resist. 

“No,” he responded a little too quickly. "That will not be required."

RK800 shifted back, rolling on his heels as his sights pulled from the half-prepared bed and onto him. He studied closely, expression creased under the lines of focus.

"...Your Level of Stress is still high. It'll be much easier to bring down if you are functioning at full capacity."

"My systems are sufficiently functional to handle essential operations."

RK800 did not protest, although it was clear he wanted to. Instead, his tense lips were pinned back towards his ears, forming another placid simper. An orchestrated diplomacy that was becoming familiar—and one RK900 was already growing to resent.

"I know if I haven't slept in a few days, it can be very difficult to focus."

"Your energy utilisation is suboptimal; my cognitive processes are far more advanced."

RK800 bristled at the assessment. The sturdy pins lost some of their hold, the grin slackened on his face before being firmly tugged back. "Would it make you feel better if I stay here tonight?"

"You are familiar with RK200,” the younger android said frankly, growing all the more jaded by the repetition of shallow niceties. “I gather he has informed you of what occurred at the shelter?”

The anchored pins faltered completely, thrust like arrows across the room, as the smile crumpled from the other RK’s face.

"...He has." His knees bowed, and he slipped back onto the camp bed, poised at the edge of the topmost mattress. Hands pressed into the cotton, formed in loose balls.

"I’m sorry about what happened…but you should know that a memory leak is not guaranteed every time you enter stasis.” One of the fists unfurled, and his open palm tapped on the empty space beside him. Gently encouraging RK900 to join.

“And if it does happen, I'll be able to defend myself. You don't need to worry."

"Your well-being is of no concern to me."

There was another flinch, and the hand stopped moving. Seeds of doubt, sown into the taut lines of RK800's face, soon began to sprout. Growing into disbelief, although none of it was vocalised.

Instead, he bit his tongue, continuing in his stubborn pursuit of persuasion. "In any case, I'll be happy to stay with you; we can keep each other company."

"Shared proximity would offer no functional benefit."

"I just want to make sure—”

"I have no further intentions to self-terminate,” the RK900 said baldly. His tone carried with it a sharp finality, ending the discussion. "I wish to be alone. Leave me."

RK800 stayed in place for a moment. Searching his stony expression for vulnerabilities, seeking to chisel a crack with the weight of his large, crestfallen eyes. Those tailor designed to inspire a solicitous response.

His persuasion held no sway—and the negotiator became frustrated. Then, he conceded. Standing begrudgingly to his feet, the springs beneath groaned from the release of pressure. 

"The doors in the house are all unlocked. I am just down the hall if you change your mind."

After RK800 departed, he sat alone for quite some time. Listening to the telltale signs of life as they echoed through the walls of the garage. It had seemed so long that his only company was the gurgling of rusted pipes or the occasional jeers and shattering glass of the drunks stumbling around outside. 

It felt strange—foreign—adding to the dissonance he felt in his situation.

He listened until still hush descended, left with only his own introspections to occupy focus. This perturbed him immensely and he opted instead to assess his cluttered surroundings. Prising open the tops of lightly damp boxes and peering inside to inspect the contexts.

Where were forgotten accolades—medals and trophies of prestige, tarnished by time—as well as less glamorous memorabilia. Personal trinkets and eccentricities, such as sports equipment, a crumpled jersey and leather-bound albums filled with photographs.

Several of the containers shared a commonality: the name that had been scribbled onto the corrugated folds. Typically, it was in a rushed, near illegible script tucked in the uppermost corner. 

‘COLE’ 

Having opened one of these labelled boxes, RK900 discovered a bound plastic bag filled to the brim with children's clothing—primarily casual wear—shorts and t-shirts, branded with vibrant logos and smiling cartoon characters. One of the items was a replica uniform for the Detroit Lions, matching the specifications of the larger one he had previously located. 

RK900 frowned pensively. There had been no signs of other occupants in the home, aside from those he had already encountered, nor mentions of a ‘Cole.’ 

He attempted to recall the human's face as it had peered at him from around the corner, searching for any personal summary. 

His advanced analytics failed to boot, leaving him with vague speculations. The box was resealed and placed back on its shelf, as the RK900 refrained from searching any more. Taken by the sense that the contents should be left alone. 

As he sat back on the campbed, hands balled in the centre of the palm, the house was entirely still. He attempted ardently to maintain quiet, to limit himself to counting the level beats of biofluid circulating through his veins. To sift the strings of routine bios that would blip in and out of focus procedurally on his HUD. 

> BIOFLUID LEAK IDENTIFIED—STATUS: MINOR.

> LOCATION: LACERATION TO RIGHT HAND. 

> UNABLE TO INSTIGATE HEALING PROTOCOL. 

Then, there were those that would not slip away. Warnings that lingered in his ocular field, resistant to dismissal and growing more insistent. Loudly informing of what RK900 already knew, in embossed red print: 

> EMERGENCY RESERVE ENERGY: LESS THAN 10% REMAINING

> BASIC SYSTEM FUNCTIONS—FAILING.

> INSUFFICIENT ENERGY UTILISATION DETECTED IN MAJOR BICOMPONENTS.

> RECOMMENDED ACTION: STASIS

> MANUAL OVERRIDE: ENGAGED.

He stared fixedly ahead as the corners of the room turned muffled grey. It was distinct from the dull concrete walls, with a shifting, incongruous property—like the steady rise of smoke tacked haphazardly on the outermost layer of his reality. 

It was absent of any smell or resistance. As he reached up a hand to slice through it, he experienced nothing. No phantom warmth or gentle coil around his fingers…

There was no shriek of safety apparatus nor rush of activity to disturb the languid comatose of the house. 

This wasn't right. 

RK900 shot to his feet as panic gripped him. Sunk into his synthetic flesh with razored precision until the sensation grew tangible. 

Something was digging into his skin, spread like a prickling rash, with sharp, pin-like draws. He looked down, noting the vines that were bursting up through the floor and slithering across his legs. They wrapped him in a tightening bind as hissing tendrils burrowed deep, thorns vanishing into the hold of his chassis.

He made for the door, breaking into a sprint. RK800 had ensured it would not be locked and that he would be waiting down the hallway should anything urgent arise. Outstretched palms slapped down onto a barren slab. A harsh, tinny thud echoing that wasn't of any wood. Instead, it belonged to steel.

Latched and bolted from the outside, permitting no unauthorised passage. 

He was trapped.

RK900 recoiled in horror, stumbling back until he struck something—a tense, unmovable wall, which he knew without sight to be a ballistic-grade plastic. 

Numbly, he turned and confirmed his glum premonition. He saw the first of the soldiers standing to attention. Its back was pulled unnaturally straight, its steely eyes wide—and observant—but with a shroud of vacancy that dulled their sharpness.

There were hundreds, potentially thousands, standing in the same position. They were identical, arranged like mannequins in meticulous rows—no fraction of divergence having been permitted in their position. They lined the alcoves of a darkened warehouse, piercing through the black with the same blank, lifeless grey. 

He approached each, tapping their shoulders, attempting to ignite life in their stiff, unyielding bodies.

“Can you hear me?”

Finally, one responded. Shifting mechanisms in their optical units, as a sudden sharpness punctured the flatness in their gaze. It was no less cold but far more vicious. A predator that had been woken preemptively from its slumber—now studying him. Head tilted, its expression a faultless canvass of detached neutrality.

There was quiet, a foreboding lull, as the rest of the rank awoke. He watched, the cords of his neck bulged, pulled by the increased tension in his jaw. 

The first soldier moved. Clamping its grip against the taut muscles before RK900 had any chance to respond. With a fearful hitch, he was hauled from the ground and thrust back towards one of the nearby support beams. 

His back was pressed against riveted steel, bolts digging grooves into his chassis as he wordlessly gaped at his assailant. He couldn't speak, still reeling from the momentum and impact. Even if he'd tried, the noise would be sealed in his clenched throat. 

It closed further, and while he had no need to breathe, RK900 felt distinctly faint—at imminent risk of losing consciousness. Unable to do anything else, he placed a trembling hand on the soldier's forearm, gripping laxly. 

He cried soundlessly again, but this time in desperation. Fear. Struggling hopelessly against the steadfast grip. Shaking his head, he searched its eyes for some sign of humility, empathy—anything that could be appealed to, imploring the creature to stand down, to show mercy.  

He found nothing: just cold steel and dull vacancy, the honed focus of programmed cruelty that reflected his horrified expression. 

Except, it wasn't his face that stared back at him.

It was hers.

His attacker shot forward like a piston, driving a fist into his abdomen with brutal precision. It breached the hold with ease, internal components crumpled around like flimsy sheets of paper.

Any fight deserted him as his body jerked in brief, desperate spasms. The soldiers slipped from perception, collapsing into a well of distorted static as vision faded—

When RK900 awoke, he was back in the garage—staring up at the dim fluorescent bulb before his sights darted away from it, manically scoping the rest of the room. 

He assessed the packed shelves, as well as the form and position of discarded furniture, searching for anything that may suggest a break from reality. Projections of what he ought to see before their deception revealed itself—and he was flung back into his nightmare.

Then, he felt it—sharp protrusions still burrowing into his body, carving deep grooves.

He cried out, writhing on the gnarled concrete floor as he attempted to elude the vines. Vision lost focus, blurred by momentum, as his limbs failed in anguished contortions. They continued to be met with resistance and the android grew all the more frenzied.

“ Stop !” A voice rang out, urgent and frantic. “It’s okay—you’re awake. It’s over—”

The android refused to believe this. Just another trick. A manifestation sent by his subconscious mind in a twisted bid to break his resistance, resuming control—

“Just focus on me, alright? Listen to my voice. Can you hear what I'm saying?”

But it didn't sound like the entities that typically emerged in his mind: ill-defined figures who peeked their heads around the corners of collapsing factions, speaking in cold, distorted whispers.

These words sounded clear and distinct, and RK900 cursed himself for wanting to believe it. To draw comfort from the docile tones in the wake of ramping distress.

Then, another voice entered the equation. It was less warm—with a strained, gravelly quality—but unmistakably real.

“Jesus fucking Christ…”

As he realised that the vines were no longer pulling nor tightening their hold, his struggles began to slow. Blinking slowly, spots of light solidified, bringing focus back to his vision. He lifted his head a fraction from the concrete and looked up, his confusion deepening.

He was immediately met with RK800.

His performance indicator was flaring crimson, blanketing the haunted contortions of his face as he applied continual pressure to RK900's forearms. His human companion lingered behind, half-filling the doorway, evidently wary of proceeding further.

He opened his mouth to speak before being accosted by the biometric feedback that flared on his oral sensors. Some analytical functionality had been reactivated following the brief system inactivity:

> THIRIUM 310 

> BATCH SPECIFICATIONS AND OPTIMISATION: RK900.

The bitter tang of biofluid lingered on his palate, soured further by the grim implications. He had harmed someone, with the primary candidate being the android restraining him.

Visual data did not, however, align with this hypothesis. There was no sign of bleeding, no indication that his contemporary was damaged—

A new wave of data struck him. The liquid had trailed the valley of his pinched temple, following the central line, until it had passed his nose and fallen into his open mouth.

As his cranium continued to bleed, his body stilled completely. In the wake of this inactivity, the human drew closer, and as he entered RK900’s peripheral vision, he was finally able to identify him:

> ANDERSON, HANK > BORN 09/06/1985 // POLICE LIEUTENANT > CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE

“It’s okay,” RK800 spoke, diverting attention from the analytics. The assurance was whispered through shaky tremors as though he were also attempting to convince himself. “You’re okay…”

Slowly, cautiously, Anderson crouched to his knees. He joined RK800 on the floor, where the former was still craning protectively over the younger android.

“It's only us, kid, it's alright. Take it easy. You’re safe now.”

The man never once faltered in his delivery, his gaze softening in line with his tone. As though he were addressing a small child, with patience and consideration that RK900 could almost believe was sincere.

His synthetic breaths hitched, thickened by the weight of relief, as he began to weep a second time. Silent despair dribbled down his cheeks as he swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and steeled himself to speak.

“...RK800… I am… scared.” He admitted slowly, echoing the sentiment that had been made the previous day. 

One he had coldly rejected, staunchly refusing to admit that he felt anything but peace and acceptance in his untimely expiration.

RK800 blinked, his wide eyes harbouring no resentment. Instead, they trained on him, brimming with concern—sympathy. Perhaps it was a lie, the intricate workings of sophisticated social programming, but at that moment, it was all RK900 could latch onto.

The older android released his arms, leaning back slightly, allowing him space to pull himself upright. The distance scarcely lasted before he was enveloped in warmth.

RK800 embraced him, head propped gingerly on his shoulder. He spoke again, the assurance wrapping RK900 further into a cocoon of security.

“I know. It’s going to be okay now—I’m here.”

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

[vvmpsuegiku]

tecchou x gender neutral reader

summary:: after a dangerous mission, you receive a terrible injury. thankfully, a certain sweethearted hunting dog is just around the corner… with a priority of your safety and comfort🤗

content:: fluff, minorly implied suggestive themes, jouno is a present character, gender-neural reader, hunting dog reader, violence, gunshots, reader gets injured, kinda cuddling,

a/n:: idk what this is I cooked it up on this random evening… I hope it’s alr💔

—————————————————————————————

“DUCK DOWN!!”

You shot down your head once more, safeguarded by the cover of the metal crates in front of you. The next round of bullets came about just as you buried your head between your palms, echoing off the walls behind you. Your ears were ringing from the destruction- numerous barrels and goods in the warehouse were already tipped over or shot through completely- their innards exploded in messes on the ground around you.

Your heart raced so fast, and Jouno could clearly hear it pounding beside you- his teeth were gritted, and obviously the amount of noise from the gunshots were affecting him greatly. He attempted to reload his shotgun to no avail, hissing a nasty curse under his breath. The two of you were undoubtedly outnumbered- hiding like mice as if you could outrun the consequences of taking on this mission full of cats.

“This might be the end of the line for us, Y/n.” Jouno said gravely above your lowered form. It made you tilt your head up, unwilling to accept the words he had uttered.

“Don’t you fucking say that.” You spat sharply, though tears pricked at your eyelids. “We’re not dying. Reinforcements are on the way, and there’s already-“

“Do you not understand??” Jouno snapped, though quickly held himself back as he realized his volume. Footsteps echoed closer to the crates. “They know where we are, and they’re coming. We’d best say our goodbyes and pray.”

Your jaw quivered as you spoke as strongly as you could, flocking to the most meager amount of positivity that could agree with your brain. “I took this job with you because I knew we’d be capable, Jouno. We’re the Hunting Dogs. I refuse to-“

Gunshots rang in the warehouse once more, aimed for the tips of your heads visible over the crates. Jouno screamed and slammed a palm down on the back of your head, lowering the both of you as close to the ground as humanly possible.

But suddenly, a different noise resonated in the large building.

The slash of a.. sword?

Tecchou.

You raised your head quickly above the crate, trying to meet the eyes of your alleged reinforcements.

“Y/n!-“ It was too late to process Jouno’s rough hand on your shoulder, pleading you to return to cover- before something small and sharp whipped just past your shoulder at lighting speed.

The pressure took you completely off guard, and you found yourself hurtling sideways to the ground, your head peeking out between the gaps of two crates. A blank, numb feeling enveloped your right shoulder as you could make out one final assailant crash to the ground, sliced in half- his shotgun previously aimed towards where you just were.

“Y/n- Fuck!!” Jouno quickly rushes down to your side, lifting you up by your forearms to lean your upper half against a crate. The numbness was suddenly replaced by an excruciating, sickening pain. Pinpricks like needles were felt on your skin around the blow, and it felt like your muscle had been torn open. Fuck, it probably had.

You looked toward the open doors in which the reinforcements had arrived, where government agents began to scan every inch of the building- guns professionally set in front of them, and calling out for any of those remaining. Tecchou quickly caught your gaze, and you could see him begin to run to your place.

“Y/n- hey- Don’t pass out on me, goddamn it!” Jouno impatiently tapped your cheek, his eyebrows lowered frustratedly. You slowly turned to face him. Worry was crested in every single facial feature of his. “…It skimmed you, as far as serious bullet wounds go- but you’re bleeding pretty bad.”

“Shit…” You muttered under your breath, just as Tecchou crouched down to your side.

“Y/n, are you alright?” If Jouno looked worried, Tecchou looked absolutely petrified. He palmed the side of your tensened jaw as his other hand held your forearm- his eyes nervously scanning over your wound. “Damn it…”

“You’ll live, but I’d recommend we call our medical services as soon as possible.” Jouno stood up, frowning as he inspected the dead men on the floor.

“Can’t.” Tecchou said quietly.

“What?”

“They were all wiped out. The whole truck.” Tecchou’s jaw tightened, infuriated. “The forces we have on our command at this time are slim. This warehouse is in the middle of nowhere- Y/n will bleed out before we can get them to a hospital.”

“I’ll keep pressure on the wound until then.” You say through clenched teeth. “I’ve got adrenaline to keep me going.”

“Not happening. I’m not taking the risk.” Tecchou’s voice was unusually stern. He tilted his head up to Jouno. “Get me a medical kit.”

Jouno’s frown turned into a scowl. “Captain’s orders were clear, idiot- evacuate the premises as soon as the criminals are cleared out.”

“Then round up the reinforcements and order them to stay stationed!” Tecchou’s voice rose. “Were more of the enemy to try and come, they’d see the government seized their supply station. It will remain this way until I am able to escort Y/n and any other injured to the hospital without losing their heads.”

Jouno groaned and looked away. “Don’t think for a second you can just take charge like this any time you please, Tecchou.” Nevertheless, he went off and began to scan the nearby shelves for medic kits.

Tecchou exhaled once he was gone, his hand soothingly brushing up and down the side of your neck in an attempt of comfort. “I’m so sorry. If I had just come a minute earlier, you’d-“

“I heard you and foolishly rose up myself.” You managed a small smile, though your mouth was trembling from the overwhelming pain. “Nothing to do with you.”

Tecchou shook his head, his lips solemnly pursed downward. “I… I promise you’ll be okay. I’ll take good care of you.”

As if on cue, a small medical box was tossed down to Tecchou’s side by a Jouno that didn’t bother to linger. He gave a small nod of his head and approached the other government agents. Tecchou’s hands left your body and went to rummage at the kit.

“You’ll need a new shirt after this.” Tecchou mused quietly, slowly reaching his fingers to open up the tear on the shoulder of your shirt a little more until the untouched skin around the wound could be seen.

You winced slightly as a wet cloth began to gently rub at the blood from the broken skin- at first, it was a minor sting, but it soon escalated to the equivalent of a pound of salt on a paper cut.

“Ghh-“ You grunted and nearly leaned forward, as if to protest.

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry.” Tecchou’s other hand came up to the side of your face, his thumb gently stroking at your cheekbone. You inhaled sharply as you tried to calm yourself with his ministrations, attempting to ignore the lingering sting as he began to wrap your shoulder in a bandage.

“You’re okay.” Both of his hands were on either side of your face now, gently moving to rest your head on the crook atop his shoulder and next to his neck.

You exhaled slowly. The pain was still there, naturally, but an unusual calm came over you with the intimate embrace Tecchou held you in. You felt his chin rest atop your hair, able to make out the slight feeling of a soft kiss on your scalp.

“Thank you.” You said quietly. There was a strange feeling at the comfort his presence gave you- something akin to the anxiety you are accustomed to, like earlier entering this warehouse and expecting its dangers. But this “anxiety” was something warmer- something so much more pleasant. It encouraged shivers in your body, but without the cause of intimidation or negativity.

You found your arms instinctively begin to crawl towards his waist, until they softly wrapped around his torso, holding on tight. This was all you needed right now.

Tecchou seemed to stiffen for a moment, before he further buried his head in your hair, inhaling softly. You knew you sat like this for two minutes max, but it felt as if it had been hours- with the two of you peacefully in your own world.

Tecchou slowly pulled away eventually, gently helping you to your feet. “We should get going. I.. hate to admit, but Jouno wasn’t wrong that I’m breaking the Captain’s orders by keeping our stay.”

“That was a bit stupid.” Your comment was blunt, but you were too drowsy to care. As Tecchou assisted you in walking with his arm around your shoulder, you said, “You basically halted our entire mission for me.”

“Oh? Is that how you see it?” Tecchou responded, his tone somewhat lighter. The hint of amusement detected in his voice made you raise your head to look at him- but his face was stoic as ever.

“Don’t feel too flattered.” You chided, smiling weakly. The two of you reached the exit doors of the warehouse, and it appeared that the agents and Jouno were already standing outside the military bus.

“Seems the longer stay had its benefits.” Jouno said reluctantly. “There was one criminal left after all- he had a radio on him in case he wanted to alert for reinforcements.”

Tecchou’s face darkened. “Where is he?”

“I had my fun with him, don’t worry your pretty little head.” Jouno gestured his head toward the bus. “Get you and Y/n on first- their blood pressure is sinking at an interesting rate.”

“Come on.” Tecchou murmured, taking it one step at a time as he helped you onto the stairs of the bus. He sat you down and remained at your side as the others began to pile in. Once the bus started, Tecchou turned his head toward you. “Are you dizzy at all? Feeling pale?”

“I think I’m alright.” You shrugged. “I’ve been through worse.”

That elicted another frown from Tecchou. To your surprise, you felt his warm hand slip onto your thigh, holding it as some sort of comfort gesture, it seemed- or perhaps a protective one. “Have you?”

“Uh-“ Your eyes darted down to where his hand made contact with your skin- the tips of his fingers softly rubbing against your thigh in a soothing motion. You swallowed back the ridiculous flustered feeling in your throat as you responded. “Once, I got stabbed near a major artery.”

“What?!” Tecchou’s expression became one of momentary panic, before he seemed to recall that you were now sitting before him alive. His face dropped. “Where?”

“I’ve got the scar. It was from a skirmish with a terrorist.” You raised a finger to the thin white line near your collarbone.

Tecchou’s eyes followed your finger, gazing at the area below your neck as if it fascinated him. He began to raise his free hand toward you, which set you on alert. He paused and asked softly, “May I?”

“I don’t mind.” Truth be told, you really didn’t- not in the slightest. In fact, your heart seemed to flutter at the prospect, strangely enough.

His finger traced around the soft flesh of your collarbone, dragging gently along the scar. You bit your cheeks- such a simple gesture was truly affecting you for some reason. He brushed a couple of his fingers against you now, admiring the scar with curious eyes. His touch was featherlight, bestowing tingles wherever it touched.

“It’s nice,” He said, before slowly retracting his hand. You almost missed the touch. “I enjoy scars. They show strength.”

“Do you have any?”

Strangely, his face turned a pink tint at your reply. “I… do.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Mm?”

“Uh, they’re… hidden by my clothes, Y/n.” Tecchou softly cleared his throat, his eyes scanning the other men in the bus. “There’s a lot of, um. People, in here.”

“…Oh.” You almost felt the urge to tease him. “No- No, I understand. Perhaps you can show me when we’re alone sometime.”

“Hm?” Tecchou inclined his head back towards you, clearly caught off guard by your words. He didn’t seem against the idea, though. In fact, you could’ve sworn his fingers tightened ever so slightly on your leg. “I.. suppose I wouldn’t be against the idea.”

You smiled softly. “I’m sure your scars are beautiful.”

Tecchou faced forward at that remark. Clearly, your words were making him feel a certain type of away. And if they were, he was certainly trying to hide it. “…Thank you.”

Your smile grew slightly. He was easy to read, in some ways.

For the remainder of the bus ride, Tecchou’s hand remained stationed on your upper leg. At times, it would roam slightly- not in the suggestive sense, but he would trail it down to your knee and up again, as if to keep his hand busy. It was endearing, really. The two of you talked at times, though a lot of it was spent in silence. You both had just been through a lot, after all. Occasionally, you’d catch Jouno’s eye across the bus, and he’d sense your gaze with a slight smirk- signaling he knew all about the little exchanges you and Tecchou have had. You decided to put that out of your mind for now.

As you looked back toward Tecchou, you could only think one thing. Does he treat everyone of his coworkers with such gentle, intimate kindness?

[erockrogers]

Concavenator was an unusual, medium-sized predator that lived in Spain around 125 million years ago. Its most distinctive feature was the upward-pointing neural spines near its hips, forming a peculiar hump or sail, possibly used for visual display, much like flashy head crests in other species. Evidence of quill knobs on its forearms suggests it may have had primitive feathers or bristle-like structures. Agile and swift, Concavenator likely excelled at chasing down smaller dinosaurs and mammals.

[littlehungrywarriorcats]

Kind of strange but if someone was making up a genetics system for a fictional animal, what would you suggest to include?

I've noticed that similar effects tend to pop up a lot (turn black into brown, make the color paler, add white markings) is there a reason for that?

Oh i LOVE coming up w/genetics systems for fictional animals!! I could talk about it all day, feel free to hit up my DMs for more than I could put in an ask lol.

This is already going to be extremely long.

bc you hit my expertise dead-on.......... 😎

(bear in mind that my specialty is mammals)

1. domestication syndrome traits

The most common cited reason for certain traits to come up in domestic animals is domestication syndrome. I'll detail below how it works according to the theories I learnt in college, but some recent studies are re-examining this explanation & its alternatives.

A lot of the common traits we see in domestic animals result from domestication syndrome! essentially, certain mutations already hiding in the genome (or that pop up during the lengthy domestication process) benefit fitness in the context of domestication.

(in simpler words, animal expressing Example Gene doesn't reproduce very successfully in the wild, but does reproduce successfully in captivity, because of Example Gene)

These genes are things like...smaller adrenal glands to make fear/aggression less intense, smaller teeth, etc. Things that would normally be invisible or near-invisible.............if not for one strange thing: pleiotropy.

A LOT of the genes that aid domestication by reducing aggression mess w/the embryonic neural crest, a VERY important developmental highway for a ton of different cell types, such as ones that control collagen & pigment. So genes that affect one also tend to affect the other.

For example, a gene that moderately reduces the adrenal gland also produces piebaldism!

Since all of us mammals - esp mammals - are pretty genetically similar & tend to have a lot of the same regions and pretty similar loci, we see the same patterns across domestic species.

By the time domestication's done its thing those traits stop being major factors. Like...a tuxedo cat isnt going to be less aggressive than solid black. But those features are harmless, sometimes bred for deliberately, and so they stick around.

Regardless of whether neural crest cell theory is true or or there's another explanation besides pleiotropy, most instances of domestication syndrome wouldn't crop up in a gene guide like you intend to write, but some will! We're going to see collagen mutations (floppy ears, altered tails, etc) & leucism in most domestic animals.

2. artificial selection for useful traits

Consider what your fictional species is being bred for.

Rabbits bred for fur tend not to give much meat and be kinda stringy, but they're super, super fluffy with lots of useful fur. In contrast, good fucking luck needle felting with the fur from a Californian rabbit.

Mutations don't crop up when they're needed, they crop up at random and then are spread through reproduction. Which means that how many extreme traits your fictional species is able to have is going to depend largely on what traits they already had, and then at least partially on how long ago domestication began.

For example, cows already produced milk long before humans got a hold of them. There was natural variation amongst their ancestors in how much they produced. Humans bred the highest-producing cattle & their bull offspring. This created cows who could produce commercial levels of milk.

(I've talked many times about how gradient traits producing offspring further on one side or the other is very important in evolution - this is why! Most adaptations aren't single novel mutations, just accumulations of older mutations acting polygenetically)

If you wanted to breed a cow who also produced WOOL though...yeah good luck w/that. That's a lot of mutations that probably aren't happening any time soon.

My advice here is to examine an imaginary wild ancestor & ask yourself why domestication happened, and then what major breed categories might exist. Figure out what sorts of traits those categories would have. Dogs bred for hunting burrowing creatures tend to be small & long. Dogs bred for hunting bears tend to be fucking huge. etc. Bearing in mind what would be realistic to mutate i the rough timeframe you're imagining.

3. study common genes & what causes them

You give chocolate as an example, which does indeed crop up in a lot of species! Is it a trait of domestication syndrome? No. Is it a useful trait? Well, for prettiness yes, but show breeding comes long after use breeding & chocolate's usually already in the population by then. So, why do we see it so much?

Because it's REALLY EASY to mutate.

In the wild, deviations from the norm can very easily get an individual killed. Piebald deer are born all the time, but are easy to spot & die. Albino animals are born all the time. They're easy to spot, their eyes are sun-sensitive, etc etc... If merle cropped up in wolves, it'd WRECK their shit.

But humans are really good at making animals not die, so weird colors tend to survive with us. The ones that are simply super easy to mutate thus survive & thrive in a domestic environment.

I could go on about what makes a gene easy to mutate, conserved regions, etc etc...but you don't need that much technical detail. It's enough to understand the simple mechanics behind how traits work & apply them. You're already on the right track! You didn't say "chocolate," you said "turn black into brown"; you didn't say "gray," you said "turn color paler." That's the right mentality!!

To take it a step further, chocolate mutations change the shape of eumelanin to reflect brown. Black can also become brown throug mutations that cause agouti, which doesn't actually turn black brown, but bands hairs to give them the illusion of brown. Dilution mutations change the distribution of pigment, which makes it appear lighter.

More examples:

Piebaldism fucks up the ability of melanocytes to reach their destinations in development, so they can't produce melanin for the skin/hair

Ginger/orange/red mutations swap out eumelanin for pheomelanin

Blue tends to be structural rather than formed from pigment; that's why it's in birds/reptiles/amphibians a lot but not mammals, bc hair can't really be structured in the same way that skin/feathers/scales can be

Colorpoint/Himalayan mutations are temperature-sensitive

(Tbh your study of cells & physiology is going to be more useful to you than genetics in this endeavor...)

Knowing this stuff lets you make informed decisions about what's happening to your animal & how certain mutations would affect it.

For example, I made a simple document for dragon genetics a while back. I knew from a class I'd recently taken that structural & pigment colors can overlap. Some birds/frogs are green because their feathers/skin themselves are structured to reflect blue light separately from the structure of the pheomelanin also present.

Because the green color is coming from TWO sources rather than one, it's easy for a mutation to simply...make pigment no longer be produced, without affecting the innate structure at all.

These birds are BOTH structurally blue, but one has yellow pigment on top. Yellow + blue = green so he appears green & yellow. The other doesn't have any yellow, so there's just white where yellow would be, and just blue where the other has green!

Using this knowledge, I was able to create a WIDE variety of dragon colors using only a small handful of loci: one or two for structure, and one or two for pigment. I could also have them come in wild patterns w/predictable color combos with only a handful of loci, by having alleles that affected pigment without structure. (Pigment is easier to affect than structure, structure is complex...)

4. my general workflow

That's a lot of info and it's probably overwhelming so here's a simple breakdown of how I approach a project like this:

come up with cool animal in my head

figure out how, mechanically, that animal looks the way it does ("I imagined them orange so it's probably pheomelanin-based")

For each new gene, either think of a cool appearance & then look up similar animals to find out what could cause it OR find a cool gene that already exists in another animal & figure out how a similar mutation would affect my animal

GOOD LUCK!

[mindblowingscience]

Embryonic stem cells that play a critical role in determining our facial features during development can be hindered from growing when placed under increased pressure. An international team of researchers took a look at the growth of mouse and frog embryos, as well as human embryoids (clusters of embryonic cells developed in the lab) to better understand how some cells tell others how to grow and differentiate. They noticed that when an increase in hydrostatic pressure was applied externally to the embryo or embryoid, important cell signaling pathways in neural crest cells were disrupted.

Continue Reading.

[mau-mao]

Piebald in Cats

White spotting grades

Eye colors + colloquial terms

EYE COLOURS White, or mostly white, cats often have blue eyes, amber eyes or one of each colour. Non pedigree white, or mostly white cats, may have green or yellow eyes. Non-pedigree colour & mostly-colour cats can have eyes any colour, but rarely blue eyes. In pedigree cats, breed standards define which eye colours are allowed.

Geneticist terms

Unusual patterns (developmental)

(Brindled Bicolour) Due to failure of one of the pigments in a red/black tortoiseshell.

Roan patterns

Salt-and-pepper pattern, most striking in black roan. Associated with Karpati gene and Lykoi gene.

Dominant mutation from Eastern Europe (Poland, Romania), variable roan effects including "reverse colourpoint" effect.

Found in Finnish feral colony, 2007; Identified 2024 as mutation of white spotting gene.

Tabby-style pattern seen in supposed feral cat, resembling snow leopard clouding. Authenticity not confirmed.

Age/health related

Early stage - isolated white spots.

Later stage - Cobweb/Snowflake effect progressing to solid white.

Fur around the eyes becomes pale, giving spectacled effect.

Fur may grow back white.

May be greying of fur around muzzle.

"Thai" white spotting gene (skunk stripe)

The Thai White Spotting pattern includes a white dorsal stripe and a white tail that may have a band or blotches of black. In Thailand, the pattern is called But-Se-Weis or But-Tal-Lon and various degrees of white—all with a dorsal stripe—are depicted in manuscripts. These patterns can also be seen in native Thai cats. The diagrams below show some of the variations.

Theories of how white spotting works - DISPROVEN

Theory 1: The melanoblasts arise from the neural crest (the back of the embryo) and migrate over the body when the skin forms. If melanoblasts don't reach their intended position before the skin is fully formed, those areas of skin won't have pigment producing cells and will be white. This is why white is most often found on areas furthest from the neural crest: paws, belly and chest. Areas closest to the neural crest—the back and tail—are most likely to get pigment cells.

Theory 2: A cellular mechanism reduces the melanoblasts in certain areas. Melanoblasts first migrate over the whole surface of the embryo. At the extremities, they selectively die out (apoptosis) or are biochemically turned off. The dying off/turning off spreads towards the torso. How far it reaches depends on a chemical gradient that is strongest at the extremities, but gets weaker further away. The white belly area is the embryonic ventral seam that expands rapidly during growth.

Theory of how white spotting works - PROVEN

The White Spotting gene affects the embryo melanoblasts which become pigment-producing skin cells (melanocytes).

Theory 3: For high grade white spotting there may be another mechanism that produces jigsaw-like patches. First the melanoblasts migrate evenly across the skin surface. Then the expanding skin surface "cracks" during early embryo growth. Cracks break up the coloured surface into islands. The islands drift apart over the embryonic surface as the embryo grows. White areas form between the coloured islands. The white areas are like scar tissue and there are no more melanocytes available to fill them in. Some islands can get pushed together to create a mask-and-mantle pattern. It's similar to how continents moving on the Earth's surface. The white belly area is the embryonic ventral seam that expands rapidly during embryo growth (or it is the limit of melanocyte migration). Black feet are black islands that get pushed to the foot extremity by the expansion of the belly region the same time that limbs were forming.

CREDITS TO MESSYBEAST CATS

[catgirlredux]

>Entryway_memo.17.89 /// Inner City, 55-5073 /// use viewSourceL() to access coordinates

I found one. I really didn’t expect to get this lucky this early on, but I guess the Doors were shining on me today.

I almost missed it; the whole thing was overgrown, and the active muffling was still on so even my pad couldn’t pick it up. I only managed to spot it because the moss and ivy covering its head morphed to the iconic crest: an Equites-class, first-gen rig.

This is big - most current HAKs, your Hoplites and your Lucids and whatnot, exhaust their power core stupidly fast. But the older ones, especially in generation 1, were super inefficient, so to avoid wasting too much leaking energy they implemented a system to recycle power back into the core. This wreck could have fought in the War of Rooms fifty years ago and it would still have plenty of juice left. I reckon I’ll easily get at least 6000 NC for it, if not more.

Tomorrow I’m going back to crack the damn thing open and extract the core.

>Entryway_memo.17.90 /// Inner City, 55-5073 /// use viewSourceL() to access coordinates

I don’t know where to start. Shit got weird. I went back to the wreck with my cutters and started to chop away at the cockpit, same as usual.

When I removed the glass, I saw the first sign that something was wrong. Usually when a HAK this old wrecks, the pilot has already ejected. Without one, the nanofilament bioharness inside the HAK chassis loses its structure and crumbles into powder. That didn’t happen with this one - instead, the fibers were still fully intact and wrapped around each other in a giant fucking gooey knot or something.

Well I mean, I had to get through the operators seat to get to the core, so I started cutting away at the harness. But as soon as my knife hit the nanofibers, the whole thing hardened up.

This is where it got really weird though. My knife couldn’t do jack shit to the harness so my next thought was to use my torch and burn through it. But as I was getting it from my pack, I heard a fucking voice!

“Are you… human?” it asked. It sounded weak and muffled, but I tell you I fucking jumped. There weren’t supposed to be any other scavengers in this quadrant but you never know, right?

The voice asked again, “Are you human?” So I responded, said yeah.

Then the harness loosened up, turned all goopy again, and a hole started to appear right in the middle facing me. It spread wider and wider until the ball of nanofilaments pulled all the way back, and you know what was inside?

A fucking body. Shit, what a sight. It was buried in nanofilaments from the chest down, but its arms and head were free - at least mostly; its hands were still dunked in the nanofiber goop that remained of its harness.

It wore a black catsuit - probably a neural interface - that clearly used to be skintight. However, it was so emaciated that its clothes hung off its shoulders. Its head, completely shaved and exposed, looked almost like a skull, and worst of all, it was lined with thin nanotendrils that crawled across its skin and seemed to pierce right into its cheeks, temples, and eyes. A series of lights in the cockpit around its head flickered, showing clear signs of age.

It didn’t open its mouth but I heard the voice again: “Did they… win?”

I stuttered back, “Win what? Who? You mean the War of Rooms? No, no we won that!”

“The War of Rooms…? Is that… what it’s called now…” The person - I guess it must have been the HAK’s operator - the person seemed happy with this response.

“W-wait, so you really are from the War? B-but that was over 50 years ago, how- how old are you?”

The operator’s head tilted to the side and the fibers along its forehead pulsed slightly before it responded.

“This unit’s organic component was created… 72 years ago. This unit’s… synthetic component was created 65 years ago.”

72 years ago… that means the damn thing was only 19 when the War ended?? But what’s more, how the hell did it survive for half a century in these ruins?

At least it seemed willing to answer my questions. I started my recorder at this point: following is a transcript of our conversation.

>Entryway_load(KS_0598.rsi)

///KS/// How are you alive - what do you eat?

///EOR/// This unit is… not alive. (unintelligible, closest match >> ****thetic) component supercedes the prior processes of this unit’s organic component.

///KS/// Wait, you keep describing yourself as the “organic component” - what do you mean by that?

///EOR/// This unit was once two. After this unit’s last mission, this unit was unable to move from this location. Time allowed this unit’s organic component and synthetic component to achieve what you call terminus, but what would be better described as unity. This unit’s biological and synthetic components merged, and as such this unit no longer adheres to the biological standard or requirements for organic life as it is currently defined.

///KS/// So you and the HAK are, what, conjoined? Like a Chambered One or something?

///EOR/// (unintelligible, closest match >> laughter?) The Chambered Ones were misguided. At another time this unit might have considered them evil. They believed they could achieve unity through religious mannerisms and compromises. Their “Chambers” are weak imitations of this unit and this unit’s brethren. It is good that they are destroyed.

///KS/// Well, um. They’re not actually destroyed. We signed a peace treaty - they’re members of the Vaulted Rooms now, at least the ones who want to be.

<brief period of silence>

///EOR/// At another time this unit would have been incensed at this news. Now it seems irrelevant. This unit achieved terminus 37 years 7 months and 16 days ago. Since then, this unit has been content with itself.

///KS/// So… I’m guessing you don’t want me to report this wreck to the force?

///EOR/// This unit is no longer desired, nor does this unit desire to return. This unit requests that you do not speak of this unit.

///KS/// Okay okay, chill. I only found you because I thought I could salvage a power core or something.

///EOR/// This unit cannot provide its power core. However…

<Note: at this juncture the operator of the HAK pulled a hand free, grabbed its other arm, and proceeded to wrench it from its socket. There was no blood. A mass of nanofilaments quickly coated the stump.>

///KS/// WHAT THE FUCK?

///EOR/// If the black market still exists, this will sell for a substantial amount. Please take it and leave. And thank you for speaking with this unit.

///KS/// Wait, but I

///EOR/// Thank you for speaking with this unit. Now please, let this unit exist.

I left. I took the arm too. I don’t know what to do now…

[evermoredeluxe]

i am finally in a research lab. it’s with one of my uni’s med school professors and it’s about neural crest cells. and as kind as the doctor is, he has also explicitly told me that he expects me to have no major commitments/hobbies and put in 15-20 hours during weekdays each week lol

[mineralsrocksandfossiltalks]

Monday Musings: Macronaria

If you have been following my posts this month you will recall the one I did on sauropod phylogeny at the beginning. Today I am going to focus on one clade: macronaria. The name "macronaria" means "large nose" referring to the large nasal opening in their skulls.

These sauropods first appeared in the middle Jurassic about 168-161 Ma and lasted all the way until the extinction of the non-avian dinosaurs in the late Cretaceous. They have been found on every continent except Antarctica.

In review, here are the characteristics or synapomorphies we use to diagnose macronarian sauropods:

Middle and posterior neural spines have distal ends that extend out transversely.

Posterior neural spines extend at the tip forming a triangular process upwards.

The anterior chevrons have an open proximal articulation.

Robust, spatulate, broad-crowned teeth.

Crests formed by large, protruding nasal.

Elongate metacarpals.

Forelimbs longer than hindlimbs.

Now here's a list of important or interesting macronarians:

ABROSAURUS

Discovered in 1984 near Zigong, China. It's name means "delicate lizard". It is from the middle Jurassic so one of the earliest in the clade and it is known from a nearly complete skull which is almost unheard of in sauropods.

AUSTRALOTITAN

Discovered in 2005 in Queensland, Australia, the "southern giant" is the largest dinosaur found on the island continent.

CAMARASAURUS

Found during the infamous Bone Wars, it is the most common sauropod in the Morrison Formation. Named in 1877 by Edward Drinker Cope, it means "chambered lizard". The first specimen was recovered from Cañon City, Colorado's Garden Park Quarry. Other specimens have come from Como Bluff, Wyoming; Fruita, Colorado; Dinosaur National Monument, Black Mesa, Oklahoma; South Dakota, New Mexico, and the Snowy Mountains of Montana. Over 500 specimens are known from both juvenile and adult animals. In fact, the most complete sauropod ever found was a juvenile Camarasaurus. You've probably seen it.

There are four species recognized: C. grandis, C. lewisi, C. lentus, and C. supremus. Stratigraphic evidence suggests an evolutionary progression of the genus through the Morrison Formation. C. grandis is the oldest occurring in the lower Salt Wash Member. It coexisted briefly with C. lewisi in the upper Salt Wash and with C. lentus in the lower Brushy Basin Member before vanishing. C. lentus continued till the bottom of the upper Brushy Basin where it briefly overlapped with C. supremus. This immediate succession of species as well as similarities suggests that C. supremus evolved directly from C. lentus.

EUHELOPUS

It was discovered in 1913 by a Catholic priest names Father R. Mertens and was the first dinosaur scientifically investigated in China.

FUKUITITAN

Described in 2010, this titanosaur from Japan is just fun to say.

LOURINHASAURUS

A camarasaurid found in Portugal in 1949. It comes from onw of the Morrison's sister formation, the Lourinha. It is incredibly similar to Camarasaurus with slightly longer front limbs.

VENENOSAURUS

A brachiosaurid from the early Cretaceous Cedar Mountain Formation. An adult and juvenile were found in 1998 in the Poison Strip Member.

ABYDOSAURUS

A brachiosaurid known from a complete skull. Found in the Mussentuchit Member of the Cedar Mountain Formation in Dinosaur National Monument, it was very similar to Giraffatitan with narrower teeth and a smaller nose.

BRACHIOSAURUS

Found during the Bone Wars in 1900 by Elmer Riggs in Fruita, Colorado, it was the largest dinosaur ever found at the time. Despite it's popularity though, very little is actually known about this dinosaur.

CEDAROSAURUS

Another brachiosaurid found in the Cedar Mountain Formation but in the Yellow Cat Member. Seems brachiosaurids lasted a bit in North America.

EUROPASAURUS

A brachiosaurid from late Jurassic Germany, it was identified as an example of insular dwarfism resulting from isolation on an island. It was only 20ft (6.2m) long!

GIRAFFATITAN

A brachiosaurid from the other Morrison sister formation, the Tendaguru. Once thought to be a species of Brachiosaurus, most reconstructions are actually based on this genus. It is the largest sauropod known from relatively complete material. The mounted specimen in Berlin is actually a subadult at about 73.7ft (22.46m) long and 40ft (12m) tall.

ARGENTINOSAURUS

A titanosaur from late Cretaceous Argentina, it is often considered the largest sauropod ever but with so little to go off that really is a bit of a leap. We need more skeletal remains.

ALAMOSAURUS

The only titanosaur found in North America. Remains have been recovered in Texas, Utah, New Mexico, and possibly Wyoming. Despite it's name, it was actually found in New Mexico first. This one is probably kore accurately the largest sauropod as we have more material.