#then you're doing the assignment for real

[alarajrogers]

My experience is similar to this. I'm experienced with a lot of lo-code/no-code technologies, but my Javascript skills are... somewhat lacking. I've found that when I clearly explain my problem to ChatGPT, it can give me code that doesn't work, but gets me a lot closer to my goal. I make my modifications, I change my code, it still doesn't work, I ask ChatGPT why it doesn't work, and it can often identify the problem and set me on the right track.

I don't see any evidence of sycophancy or "this is the best idea ever"; it bluntly but politely tells me "You're on the right track, but here are some issues that might be why your code doesn't work." I also don't think it's affecting my brainpower any -- the contrary, in fact, because I'm learning a lot about Javascript by working with it on the real world problems I have to solve, with ChatGPT's help. Sometimes I can even write one from scratch without its help, now.

I believe computer code is kind of unique about this, though. Well, or maybe math too. While coding is semi-creative in that there are multiple ways to code the same result... it's finite, unlike essay writing. There are a limited number of ways to code that will get you the result you want. And without ChatGPT, I'd be spending hours googling and trying to synthesize the results I get, but a lot of it would be over my head.

Should I learn Javascript? Absolutely, now that I have a job where I can do 85% of the assignments without trouble but then there's that 15% that's over my head, and that includes the Javascript. Improving all the skills this job requires is one of the reasons I was so excited to get it, because it's a job doing nothing but the only shit I like to do in IT. But learning a new skill while working full time doesn't go super fast.

Code isn't creative enough to have a plagiarism issue, or a "this was plainly machine output" issue, and if you approach it from the perspective of trying to understand why the machine told you to do this thing, it improves your skills rather than degrading them. All computer systems nowadays, but especially the lo-code/no-code sector, are either created by corporations who like to randomly change everything for shits and giggles, or are created open source by a giant base of developers, and either way, no one human has enough time in their life to learn everything about a technology before that technology changes completely. And because it will never give you perfect cookie-cutter answers that work every time, it does not empower people who know absolutely nothing to leave out the IT worker entirely; you still have to know what you're doing to use the tool. It's a perfect use case.

This is not the same case as having it write your college essays, because until you go through the process of crafting essays, you will not understand why the essay it created works (or doesn't work, and then you won't be able to fix it.) It's not even the same thing as having it do your programming homework -- I've been doing lo-code scripting languages for 25 years now. Just, not Javascript specifically. But I know how scripting languages work, so I can figure out why the code ChatGPT gives me works (or doesn't, and I can often then figure out how to fix it.)

Once you learn how to do something and you're reasonably adept at it, ChatGPT can help you do it faster. If that thing is "write articles", then we run into the fact that it learned by reading all kinds of shit its creators did not pay for and that the authors did not give it permission for, but if that thing is "write code"... exposed code is all over the Internet, the people who create the code we use want us to use it and usually have extensive documentation about how we should use it to make what we want happen, and nothing in a scripting language should ever be construed to be under copyright protection, because you can't compile a scripting language. Anyone who can see the site it runs on can see it, or enough of it to figure out how it was written. And developers know this. If you want something to be proprietary and secret, you write it in code that compiles, not scripting language.

I feel like using a computer to write better computer code is kind of the ideal use case for using a computer assistant. I'm still very much against having ChatGPT write your essay or do your analysis, though.

Why are you using chatgpt to get through college. Why are you spending so much time and money on something just to be functionally illiterate and have zero new skills at the end of it all. Literally shooting yourself in the foot. If you want to waste thirty grand you can always just buy a sportscar.

[mari-starz-writing]

dusekkar x reader ^o^

I don’t have any headcanons for dusek lol, feel free to use ur own!

Sorry that it took me so long to do this request. Was deciding some reader specifics and I've been quite busy with mental and physical health...

Dusekkar x shy!reader headcanons.

・Dusekkar finds your shyness quite adorable. When cuddling, he'll often be the big spoon, and he'll be the one talking usually if someone is chatting with the two of you. He also likes kissing your hand or cheek sometimes.

・(preforsaken) Whenever you two would go out for a date, to maybe a café, or a store you wanted to go to, he'll always be the one to pay. He is an admin, after all. And you're... Most likely too nervous to make a rebuttal against it.

・At the cabin, if you have a list of chores chores assigned to you, he'll secretly do some. You're too people-pleasing, after all... You have that large list of chores. So he has to help you, right? But he does it in secret to make the surprise better.

・(Thanks @goobergobax2, for helping with this one.) If you're talking to someone rude or loud with him, you'll hide behind him while he does the talking. Afterwards, he'll turn around and give you some hugs and a few kisses as compensations for the scare.

・Whenever you're sleepy, you'll fall asleep on his shoulder. Dusekkar finds this cute, and will move your head to his lap so he can still try and read something, and because it's more comfortable. He'll pet your head occasionally and once done with what he's doing, will make sure you get to your bed.

・Sometimes, Dusekkar will bring you along to his meetings with the other admins if you don't have anything to do that day. The admins think you're adorable, and enjoy when you're there.

・He would try and cook for you, although it sometimes ends up a bit messed up due to his magic acting up while doing so. Usually, it does taste good, thankfully...

・Dusekkar is the one who makes the shots usually. He does make sure it's what you want as well, for example, if you're both deciding where to go for a date, he'll make some suggestions of something that fits both your interests.

・Dusekkar enjoys going on walks with you, and will point out flowers and their meanings, sometimes giving a compliment about you along with them. He loves seeing your blush and smile whenever he does so.

・He enjoys doing small PDA, such as hand holding or a kiss on the cheek, but not so much for full on flirting or anything. However, Dusekkar does enjoy the sight of you covering your face as you blush from a compliment...

I hope you enjoyed, Cody. Again, I apologize for taking so long. Some matters in real life have been postponing this...

[itsnotyouithink]

AFRAID

SUMMARY: During practice, you find out Tara Carpenter is the girl from the new Stab 7 movie.. the real girl. The guilt hits hard — especially when the two of you end up locked in the gym that same night. She’s not just your tutor anymore; she’s a mystery you’re suddenly dying to understand.

PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader

WARNINGS: ghostface mention, daddy issues.

WORD COUNT: 3.2k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: are they getting too close too fast? it’s abt to heat up so idkk

part one | part two | part three | part four |

____________

Mindy had always been careful — just never neat. She could recite obscure film trivia without blinking, but somehow lost her pencils, notebooks, textbooks, novels, art supplies, even an entire school-issued camera kit in the weirdest, most impossible places. Anika once told her, "check yourself twice before leaving a room."

She never listened.

You were mid-drill, ball in hand, sweat still fresh on your skin, when she barreled onto the court waving her phone like it was on fire.

"Okay, just look into the camera and say: 'come to the Blackmore Cinema at 8 p.m. next Friday for the film festival,'" she rushed out, breathless.

You sighed, palmed the ball under your arm, and plastered on a practiced grin.

"Hi everyone," you chirped, way too rehearsed. "Come to the Blackmore Cinema at eight p.m. next Friday for an insane film festival. My team and I are pulling up, so you should too."

"Perfect!" she squealed, just as the unmistakable voice of your coach echoed across the court.

"I love you," Mindy added dramatically. "Come over for dinner tonight!"

You squinted at her.

"Dinner where? I've seen your dorm. It's like three feet wide and smells like broken dreams."

"What? No." She scoffed. "You think I'd voluntarily subject people to that trash bin? Hell no. It's at Tara's. We're doing like, a friend dinner or whatever."

You blinked at her like she'd just asked you to run suicides voluntarily.

"Hard pass. I'm not about to walk into my torturer's home."

"You are so dramatic," she groaned, already turning away. "Maybe join the theatre department instead of the basketball team."

You snorted and shoved her shoulder. Right on cue, Coach's voice sliced through the gym.

"Hey! Four! Baseline. Now!"

Your teammates groaned like you'd personally betrayed them. You grimaced. "Great. Thanks for getting me killed, Mindy."

She only grinned. "Always happy to help."

And with that, she trotted out of the gym — leaving her bag sitting dead center on the bleachers like a forgotten plotline. Practice was already bleeding into the evening, the gym clock ticking toward 5 p.m.

You jogged to the baseline, ignoring the muttered curses from your teammates. Eight laps. That was the punishment.

By lap four, your legs were already aching — and so was your ankle, screaming with each step like it had something to prove. You pushed it down. Again.

Sarah caught up to you by lap five, eyebrows raised and smug.

"So," she panted, "you still failing that easy-ass film class?"

You wiped the sweat from your brow with your jersey.

"First of all, it's not easy. Film is technical. And creative. Which are two things I severely lack. Second..." You winced. "Kinda. But I've got a tutor."

Sarah's laughter cracked across the track.

"You're doing so bad they had to assign you a tutor? Damn, I thought people were just joking when they said you couldn't analyze a movie to save your life. Why'd you even take the class?"

You don't answer right away.

The truth is heavier than your legs feel.

Your mom had pushed you into it — ever since you were a kid. Because your grandfather was some hotshot director back in the 60s or 70s, and your mom practically grew up on soundstages. She chased the acting dream once, but it didn't pan out. She settled for memories and nostalgia. And, apparently, forcing her daughter to take intro film classes at college.

"They said it would be easy," you muttered.

Sarah just laughed again, breezing past it. "Okay but who's the lucky tutor? Anyone I know?"

You hesitated. The pain in your ankle spiked — sharp and sudden — as your foot struck the floor wrong. But you didn't let it show. You couldn't. Your dad had made that very clear.

"Uh. Probably not. She's... kind of introverted?" you said. "I don't know. All I do know is that she hates me. Like, full-on loathes my existence."

Sarah raised a brow. "What's her name?"

"Tara Carpenter."

And just like that, Sarah's expression twisted — less surprise, more oh.

Her pace slowed for a step. You noticed.

"Okay... why'd you slow down?" you asked.

"Tara Carpenter is your tutor?" she asked, like she was double-checking the universe.

You blinked. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Oh," she said, breath catching, "you don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" You narrowed your eyes.

"Have you seen the newest Stab movie?"

You blinked again. "I don't watch movies."

Sarah gave you a look like you were an alien. "Well, they're based on Tara and her sister. She's from Woodsboro. You know... that Woodsboro. Her and her sister got attacked — brutally. One of her close friends went full Ghostface. It was all over the news."

You stopped mid-stride, almost slipping on the court. "What?"

"Yeah." She unscrewed her water bottle as the whistle blew for your final sprint. "It's insane. And, like, Tara's not introverted. Not even close. She just hates everyone. Drinks a lot. Parties a lot. And honestly? I get it. If the whole internet was calling my sister a psycho, I'd be drunk every weekend too."

She jogged ahead, leaving you behind — frozen. Breathless. Numb.

You'd only ever known her as your tutor and Mindy’s close friend from high school. The girl who rolled her eyes every time you got a director's name wrong. The one who always acted like being around you physically hurt her.

But now?

Now she had a backstory. A tragedy. Headlines attached to her name.

Wait, was Mindy a part of this too?

You'd never watched Stab. But you knew that mask. That voice.

What's your favorite scary movie?

You exhaled, long and shaky.

And for the first time since this whole tutoring thing started, you felt it — the guilt curling in your chest like smoke. Why would you ask her what her favorite movie was? Fuck. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot!

You had no idea.

⸻

The gym was nearly silent now, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights and the soft creak of the old bleachers cooling in the evening air. The echoes of practice—whistles, laughter, the bounce of basketballs—had long since faded into memory.

You sat on the bottom row of the bleachers, ankle stretched out, sock peeled halfway down, your shoe abandoned beside you like it had given up too. The swelling had gotten worse. Angry and pink and tight.

But you weren't looking at it.

You were looking at her.

Not in person. On your phone.

Frozen images of Tara Carpenter lit up your screen, too-bright photos taken without consent, grainy screenshots from security cams and news segments. A clip sat paused where her name was captioned in bold, capital letters beneath her pale, exhausted face.

"Woodsboro Survivor Speaks Out."

"Final Girl: The Carpenter Legacy."

"Stab 7: The Real Story of Tara and Sam Carpenter."

You didn't even realize how deep you were in it until the door creaked open.

Your head snapped up.

She was already inside.

Tara stood a few feet from the entrance, hoodie on, bag strap slung over her shoulder. She paused just long enough to register the scene: empty court, one player still here, and her best friend's gym bag forgotten near the top bleacher.

Her gaze fell to you.

Then to your phone.

Back to you.

She didn't blink.

Your stomach dropped.

"I—" you started, fumbling to lock the screen and shove the phone face-down. "Sorry. I didn't think anyone would—"

"Be here?" she finished, voice flat.

She walked slowly toward Mindy's bag, each footstep somehow too loud in the quiet. She picked it up like it weighed more than it should, then turned around and leaned back against the bleacher railing, arms folded.

"I guess I should be used to it by now," she said. "People looking."

You stood up too quickly—your ankle shouted in protest. You hissed, nearly stumbling before catching yourself. Tara didn't move to help. But her eyes flicked down to your foot and then right back up.

"I wasn't trying to—"

"Sure you were." Her voice wasn't angry. Just exhausted.

You stood still, phone still in your hand. "I didn't mean to make it a thing."

She shrugged. "Too late."

The lights above flickered once. Faint, but noticeable. You glanced at them, then back at her. "Mindy leave her entire life here again?"

"We were supposed to have dinner tonight but she had a dinner date with someone named 'free sushi.' So, basically ditched us for her girlfriend — again."

You smiled, tentative. "Oh, right. Dinner. At your house."

Tara didn't return it.

The silence between you thickened.

"I wasn't reading it to... judge you," you said, softer now. "I didn't know. Not really."

Tara's jaw tightened. "That's the problem, isn't it? Everyone thinks they didn't know. But the moment they do, it's all they can see."

She turned toward the exit. And that's when it happened.

A mechanical click. Subtle. Sharp. Final.

You both froze.

Tara's head turned slowly. Her eyes locked onto the gym door. She took a step forward and tried the handle.

It didn't move.

She pulled again. Harder.

Nothing.

You felt your stomach sink. She loudly gulped in front of you, "Wait—what time is it?"

You checked. "6:10."

Tara stepped back, laughing—but not like she was amused. "Of course. They installed the auto-locks last week."

"I also... forgot to sign out."

She looked at you, something sharp in her gaze. "You didn't sign out?"

Innocently, you raised your hands up like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, "I didn't know I had to. I thought it was just a suggestion! That's a new thing, right?"

"It was in an email."

"I don't read those."

"Clearly."

She didn't say anything. Just stood there.

Still.

Too still.

You moved toward her. "Hey. It's okay. They'll do a sweep—Coach always checks before locking the building down for the night."

"Unless he left early."

You blinked. "He wouldn't."

She didn't answer.

Her breathing was shallow now, eyes fixed on the door like it was a trap. Like something on the other side was about to burst through it. You could see the tension running down her arms, her spine, her fingers flexing around the bag strap like she wanted something to hold onto.

You stepped closer, careful. "Tara."

She didn't look at you.

"I get it," you said. "I know this feels... familiar. And wrong. And like the lights are about to go out."

Still no answer.

"But they're not," you added. "You're here. You're safe. You're not seventeen in a hospital bed anymore."

That made her flinch.

You winced. "Shit. I shouldn't have—"

"No," she said suddenly, voice tight. "You're right. It's just a room. Just a gym. Just a locked door."

She exhaled slowly. Then again.

You shifted your weight and your ankle pulsed, making your whole leg throb. You grimaced, half-sitting on the bleacher beside you.

"Are you okay?" she asked, eyes flicking to your foot again.

"Yeah," you lied. "Just overdid it."

She raised an eyebrow.

You grinned. "Fine. I fucked it up three games ago and have been pretending it's fine ever since."

Tara shook her head. "Idiot."

"I prefer 'dedicated.'"

"Self-destructive."

"Passionate."

"Reckless."

You shrugged. "Semantics."

Finally, a smile. Barely there. But it counted. You shifted your weight, and your ankle screamed beneath you. You managed not to wince. Barely.

"I could use a distraction," she murmured, like it hurt to admit it.

You perked up. "I happen to be an expert at those."

Her brow lifted. "Do you usually flirt your way through disaster scenarios?"

You smirked. "Only with emotionally complex horror girls."

A long pause.

Then, finally: "Fine. Distract me."

You bent down—carefully—and picked up the ball. "Let me teach you to shoot."

Tara laughed, dry. "Absolutely not."

"Too late." You bounced the ball toward her. She caught it—awkwardly, palms stiff like she didn't trust it.

"You're lucky I don't throw this at your face."

"You'd miss," you teased.

She shot you a look. "I hate you."

But her lips twitched.

You limped a little closer and stood behind her, hands gentle as you guided hers on the ball. "Okay. Spread your fingers a bit. Relax your elbows. No death grip."

"Stop whispering like this is a Ghost pottery scene."

You grinned. "I'm a woman of many talents."

She turned her head slightly. You were close enough to see the fine strands of hair falling loose from her clip. Close enough to see her eyes change when she realized how close you were. Your voice dropped. "Try bouncing it. Not slapping—just push."

She did. The ball bounced crooked but came back.

You smiled. "Look at you. Natural."

She rolled her eyes. "Liar."

You stepped in front of her. "Shoot now."

"It's gonna be humiliating."

"I'm ready to be humbled."

She squared up. Breathed in. Took the shot. It bounced once on the rim—then dropped in. Her jaw dropped.

You gasped like she just hit a half-court buzzer-beater. "Holy shit, Carpenter. You're a prodigy."

"No way—did that actually—"

"You. Are. Athletic royalty."

Tara covered her mouth with her hand, laughing into it. It was soft and breathy and real. And for a second, she looked like someone who hadn't grown up dodging knives and headlines.

You stepped toward her, heart still racing. "You want to try again?"

She nodded, breathless. "One more."

You handed her the ball. "This is how it starts, you know."

"What?"

"Every sports romcom. The cool jock and the snarky outsider, locked somewhere after hours..."

Tara laughed. "Is this the part where we slow dance with a boombox?"

"I forgot the boombox," you said. "But I can hum The Notebook score if you want.”

She tilted her head, smiling at you now, but in that different kind of way—warmer, quieter. "You're not what I thought."

You looked at her. "What did you think?"

"That you were just another athlete who couldn't name a single female director."

You mock-gasped. "I'll have you know I cry during Greta Gerwig movies."

"I bet you do."

A beat passed.

Then she stepped closer. Ball in her hands. Looking up at you like maybe—just maybe—this was the first time she felt safe in a long time. Her voice dropped. "Thank you. For this."

You smiled, heart pounding, ankle forgotten. "Anytime."

And then—

BANG.

The gym doors burst open.

"TARA?!" Sam Carpenter's voice cracked like a whip.

Tara jumped back. You both turned as she stormed inside, her eyes wild, scanning for blood or bodies. Coach followed right behind her, winded and visibly pissed. "We've been calling you for twenty minutes—security had to override the damn system—"

"I'm fine," Tara said quickly, wiping her hands on her jeans. "I swear, we just got stuck."

Coach turned to you. "You didn't sign out?"

Your heart jumped into your throat. "I forgot. I thought practice ran longer."

His eyes narrowed. "You better not have been doing drills alone."

"No, sir." You shook your head with a tense close-lipped smile.

Tara didn't look at you.

But she stepped a little in front of you. Subtle. Quiet.

Coach scanned the room. "I want both of you out of here. Now."

Sam still hadn't stopped hovering. "Why weren't you answering?"

"I left my phone in Mindy's room," Tara muttered. "We're fine, Sam. Calm down before you catch a stroke or something.”

Coach sighed, rubbing his face while turning towards you. "You're lucky I was still here."

Tara glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes found yours again. And this time, they were soft. Still a little scared. But soft.

She mouthed it more than she said it: "Thank you."

And then she left. But not before her sister thoroughly — and scarily — glared at you. All you could do in return, was gulp.

——————

You're flat on your back, one arm draped over your forehead, ankle still elevated on a bunch of useless Calculus textbooks and throbbing in sync with your heartbeat. The room's dim, lit only by your phone screen and a distant streetlamp flickering through the blinds.

You're not texting her.

You refuse to text her first.

Probably.

Wait, does she even have your number?

But then—

[9:41 PM – Unknown Number]

still thinking about the shot i made

tell the WNBA to start scouting me immediately

You sit up so fast your pillow slides to the floor. Your heart? Immediate cardiac tap dance.

[9:42 PM — You]

who is this?

is this the girl who missed the rim like 8 times in a row before finally scoring?

[9:42 PM — Tara Carpenter]

it was 7

i won't be slandered by someone with a busted ankle and an inflated ego

[9:42 PM — You]

i think you secretly loved it

you looked so proud

i haven't seen a smile like that since we team beat NYU

The bubble pops up immediately. Typing. Pausing. Typing again.

[9:43 PM — Tara]

yeah, well

it felt weird

good weird

like... maybe i'm allowed to be proud of something again

You don't breathe for a second. You read it twice, then three more times for no reason other than you need to be sure she meant that.

You settle back, fingers tight around your phone. She's not just flirting. She's letting you in.

[9:44 PM — You]

you are.

you should feel proud more often

i think it looks good on you

There's a pause after that. Your stomach coils, the silence somehow louder than the pain in your ankle.

[9:45 PM — Tara]

you're too nice

it's unsettling

aren't jocks supposed to be emotionally unavailable?

[9:45 PM — You]

oh i am

but you bring out my soft side

congratulations. you've unlocked a new level

You stare at the screen, waiting. Waiting for her to pull back. Make a joke. Pretend it didn't land.

She doesn't.

[9:46 PM — Tara]

careful

keep that up and i might start thinking you're into me or something

Your pulse stutters.

You grin, sharp and stunned.

[9:46 PM — You]

depends

would that be a bad thing?

No answer.

Just the typing bubble. And your heart, doing acrobatics.

Then finally:

[9:48 PM — Tara]

wow

someone's feeling bold tonight

okay, varsity

try not to let the attention go to your head

You drop your phone. Literally drop it onto your chest like you've been hit.

Varsity.

You blink. You swallow. You scream inside. You reread it like it's poetry, like it's prophecy, like it's not the thing that's going to live rent-free in your head for the next decade. A nickname feels different coming from her.

[9:51 PM — You]

"varsity" is wild

not denying it tho

kinda sounds hot when you say it

[9:51 PM — Tara]

i'm immediately regretting it

consider it revoked

[9:51 PM — You]

too late

putting it on my jersey next season

[9:52 PM — Tara]

please don't

i'll transfer schools

[9:52 PM — You]

that sounds like a long-winded way of saying you'd miss me

[9:52 PM — Tara]

shut up

how's your ankle?

You glance down at it. Purple. Angry. Still pretending you're fine. You've been ignoring your dad's insistent calls to you for the night, you're trying to choose peace tonight.

[9:53 PM — You]

loud

dramatic

demanding attention

basically me in bone form

[9:53 PM — Tara]

perfect

you can bond

i'll bring ice and coffee tomorrow

unless that's weird now

Your heart softens. You sit there for a second, staring at the message like it might vanish.

[9:53 PM — You]

not weird

kinda the best thing i've heard all night

[9:54 PM — Tara]

good

see you tomorrow, varsity

You bite your lip so hard it leaves a mark.

[9:54 PM — You]

sweet dreams, final girl

[9:54 PM — Tara]

oh, and next time don’t skip dinner at my apartment

Oh, fuck.

[okavara]

For the past few days now, I’ve had a burning question about a scenario involving Cryptid Kel; what would he do/how would he react if ASO decides to consider him part of the anomalous zone and its denizens, and thus ASO sends another poor soul out there to not only to do the regular tasks as well, but also to study him in a way regular surveillance can’t? Assuming this new guy has about as much of a clue of what is going on as Kel did when he first arrived? I guess ASO’s equivalent of throwing a D-class in with an SCP and seeing what happens.

I can just imagine the heart-stopping panic cryptid dr.Kel will feel as an E-mail notifying him about a new colleague comes in, (and also the frustration of thinking that ASO was listening to his earlier cries for help, and it took them a whole quarter year to hire someone to help)

This is EXACTLY the kind of noodle cooking I wanna see when rotating CotV in the brain OOH OOH OOH okay okay. I've answered stuff like this before but now I can finally talk about POTENTIAL REASONS they might even send a new guy Chapter 6 spoilers under the cut for CotV for those who haven't read that far yet etc etc

We know now from (???) and Bao's conversation that the greys got bored of Kel. So, a possible new reason to send another Canary could be a proposition from (???). The greys have kind of stopped bullying Kel because 1: He's not as terrified of their shit as he should be, he just kills and eats what they send, and 2: it's too much of a resource sink when the arirals keep blowing their shit up

Realistically I think they'd wait until the arirals left (which they won't really do, at least as long as they can afford to) but. Yeah. Maybe as a test instead of killing Kelryptid (he still does his job, whatever.) usually they kill their canaries when their contract ends, but Kelryptid is an exception just because he's. Weird. What's going on with him. Bao wanted to let the experiment run a little longer than usual because of the strange circumstance.

Not sure why they don't double up canaries, so I couldn't say if this would actually happen, but I think it's reasonable that eventually (???) goes "Hey let's just throw a new guy into the ring. Why not. While we're at it, assign him/her/them to send us some notes and intel about wtf is happening to him"

Kelryptid's reaction to this would be... Bad. It would also be bad for him. It absolutely would be a heart-stopping moment, once he realized another human was there. Either through an E-mail (which I actually find likely) or, as a complete surprise, showing up as a second yellow blip on the radar.

The confusion. The bargaining. It couldn't be real, that there could be another person. He'd become so anxious and scared that he could nearly throw up from it, but- it's a different kind of fear than he regularly experiences in Dunkeltaler.

The fear of rejection.

He'd be terrified what a new person meant. Would they hurt him? If ASO sent another, then... His heart would sink at the implications.

No... No!

They sent another. They sent someone to keep doing his job. Was he not sending enough drives? Were his hashcodes incomplete, despite his perfect score?

Maybe there's something else about this position.

Either way, he has to get himself the fuck away and hidden for a bit while he figures out how to face the first human he'll have seen while looking like how he does now.

He'd try to leave notes out, and maybe lock up the base first just to buy himself a little extra time, before hiding out on the roof with a notepad, or eventually fleeing to the ariral camp. "You're not alone, this is my house now, don't be scared when you see me okay? I don't look human anymore."

He'd do his best to help the new guy, explaining everything he'd encountered so far, how things work in Dunkeltaler, and show him his field guide to Dunkeltaler that he wrote himself in the case of his own death and someone new being hired to replace him. It's clear to Kel that's what happened with the last guy- I think Kel is smart enough to have figured that out by day 120+ or whenever they end up sending a new guy.

Well... Until things start to go bad.

Be careful, new Canary.

There are struggles he's about to go through in some future chapters. VAGUE SPOILERS BELOW

Deep within him is an urge of violence brought out by his new form (Something Furfur gets a good hoot about watching him feel conflicted over), a literal bloodthirst. The taboo nature of human meat is what attracts him, but other meats can work just as well.

It would be a very slow onset- well. I should probably just write the future chapters huh? hehe. I will say, it's complicated for him, he could never hurt another soul, and he wouldn't unless if the situation was very dire and there were many, many compounding factors that forced his hand, so the new guy should be relatively safe.

There will be times when Kelryptid does have to leave the base though, to make sure the other guy is safe from him.

[terrortree]

Dolorosa (!COE33 SPOILERS!)

The OST album has some extended versions of the songs and OSTs in the game (with the Youtube channel assigning them to certain characters). Verso has his titular song "Verso" and another song I don't see mentioned called "Dolorosa".

The first part of Dolorosa plays in "Epilogue: Alicia" during the nightmare where Alicia watches the real Verso burn to death, with the full english lyrics (through Google Translate, because I unfortunately do not know french) being:

Sorrow /Painful Sorrow / Painful Dream, dark Diluted into nothingness Dream, dark In the shadows Let me Let me Fly away in smoke Dark shadow in the twilight Dark in the twilight Dream, dark Diluted into nothingness Dream, dark In the shadows Let me rest in peace

Here is where I put on a tinfoil hat, because this gives me the impression that the song is from the perspective of the real Verso (or rather his ghost) - And leads to a second half-devloped theory that it is him, not painted Alicia or Aline, who is giving Maelle the nightmare visions and premonitions during the game. The particular nighmare where Dolorosa plays is BEFORE the events of the game and in a space where the painted Alicia could not possibly have given it to her real-life counterpart. Another thing of note is that Alicia has this nightmare the same morning that she enters the Canvas and in it, Verso reassures her "You're okay".

The remaining visions that Maelle experiences during her dreams in the Canvas is of events where the painted Alicia was not a direct witness or has not witnessed yet (and are from an outsider's perspective): The painted Verso killing Julie, Maelle screaming at the Paintress, Maelle standing next to Verso and Gustave and the citizens of Lumière holding a burning candle, the painted Verso embracing the painted Alicia, the painted Alicia and Renoir side by side, and finally the first vision of Verso burning to death in the mansion. Maelle says she has had these nightmares since she was born and they seemingly stop coming after she meets the painted Verso.

It may very well be that her brother is trying to communicate with her or guide her from the grave, but stops when she meets the other "him" who can help her in person. The painted Verso, interestingly, says he is used to having nightmares himself but that recently it has just been "an oppressive void" (though this could just be him describing his depression I could put a tinfoil hat on the tinfoil hat and say it would be cool if this started happening after he met Maelle, and this was Verso's way of keeping the two together.).

Anyways, tinfoil hat off. This game tickles my brain. Verso has always haunted the narrative but may also be literally haunting the narrative.

[t00thpasteface]

there's a lot of comparisons to be made between catch-22 and m*a*s*h, and i think those have a lot of merit, but the thing about catch-22 is that in addition to the dark humor and pointed social commentary, it's DEEPLY absurdist. and for this reason i would say the most apt popcultural comparison for catch-22 is not m*a*s*h, but rather... ace attorney

[skyloftian-nutcase]

I'm looking at the Zora May prompts and wanna write stuff, and now my brain's just giggling with ideas LOL like--

Imagine, after Age of Calamity, that Link and Mipha get together. That has its whole set of fun and drama - a Hylian/Zora marriage would mean a lot anyway, but particularly when it's the Zora princess and the Hero of Hyrule. Link and Mipha start to have a family, Zelda is settling into being queen, and they all have their own set of stressors and joys and the three are still besties and it would be just so funny to see y'all. Like... Link takes his oath as a knight seriously, so he still assists Hyrule often, and just this scenario in my head came and--

Zelda, sighing: I hardly slept last night. I was up late researching the latest Zonai discoveries and almost forgot I had a meeting with the Rito delegation this morning. I'm so tired.

Link, hair a mess, on his third cup of coffee after dealing with one of his kids having a meltdown while the other kept everyone up crying all night, dealing with Mipha also trying to do royal duties, having just teleported over here via Sheikah towers: .....That sounds rough.

[starfieldcanvas]

this is what i meant in this post when i talked about how English essays are about learning to bullshit and people assume that learning to bullshit will enable bullshitters to recognize bullshit in return.

they aren't the same skills!!! guysss they aren't the same skillsssssss.

being a very good bullshitter can just mean you overestimate your own ability to spot bullshit (especially when it doesn't look like your own), or it can mean you assume everyone else is bullshitting when they aren't. if you do happen to be good at both, it may just be because you're good at a sufficient mix of relevant overskills—confidence, critical thinking, reading comprehension, pattern recognition, inductive logic—rather than because 'bullshitting' and 'recognizing bullshit' are actually reciprocal skills.

just, you know, think for a second. trump bullshitted his way through his entire business career and all the way into the presidency. and yet he is constantly being snowed in by whoever sucked up to him last. yeah, you personally may not find his bullshit convincing, because he's radically opposed to your politics so to you it seems obvious he's a clown, but prior to his run for president, this man regularly convinced banks to give him huge amounts of money by confidently bullshitting about his net worth. he is a professional bullshitter. he is also incredibly gullible!!!!!

[agalychnisspranneusroseus]

RiAAU Sasha's complicated relationship with her adoptive parents, Percy and Braddock, stems from an awkward mixture of unconditional love, resentment over their inability to protect her from Grime in her childhood, and their fear of what she's become.

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

wanna ask how you feel about the eridan bpd headcanon/theory(?? not sure what to call it!) you're so good at your character analysis and i'd love to see your outlook on it

Since I don't have a degree or any formal training in psychology, I feel deeply uncomfortable diagnosing characters. I've made an autism joke before but only because I'm on the spectrum. He's definitely traumatized and anxious, but I mean those as descriptors of his behavior rather than capital-D Diagnoses. I try to focus on those when I can - the cause and effect of cognition, self-image, and behavior - and those factors may very well match up with DSM criteria, but I try not to touch an actual diagnosis with a ten foot pole unless the author has explicitly stated that X character has Y condition.

[juniepops]

i don't think cis guys should be allowed to have opinions about egg jokes or forcefem

[maespri]

not to sound like im policing people's headcanons because i'm really not trying to. but i feel like at a certain point you have to stop tossing around serious personality disorders and assigning them to fictional characters who have exhibited 1 stereotype of that disorder and nothing more. like. can we bring back informing ourselves a little bit more

[allonsybadwolf]

I'm pmsing hard and my brain has checked out of the building and I have two papers to write and I don't wanna

[thatfaerieprincess]

if one more well meaning relative asks me if i have done any drawing recently i will start screaming and flip a table 🤪🙃

[moe-broey]

🧍

[sammygender]

the thing thats always missing in conversations about gender in general is the fact that 'cis', as an identity, is not a innate Thing Some People Are, but rather a state of acceptance society grooms us into from birth