#there are three kinds of scientific/medical names

[voldkat]

iterator headcanon masterpost !

i have been cultivating my own little special iterator interpretation while designing them , and i've never quite told anyone about all my headcanons , so i'm making this post :D

i may come back to this to add onto it if i think of more stuff / refine the headcanons i'm unsure of , so check back at this post sometime if you want :)

iterators are divided into three loosely defined generations ;

generation one , the very beginnings of iterator technology

gen 1 iterators are few and far between , with the ancients only starting to dabble into this kind of technology . they're characterized by simpler puppets and usually older superstructure tech .

gen 1 iterators are also separated into 2 vague sub-categories — early gen 1 , and late gen 1 . early gen 1 iterators are the very first proper iterators to have been built , sporting various flaws and design oversights that were later fixed in late gen 1 iterators . the two don't have many differences other than this .

most , if not all group seniors are gen 1 iterators . looks to the moon is early gen 1 , and sliver of straw is late gen 1 .

generation two , during the mass production era

gen 2 iterators are the most common type of iterator , around the time the ancients grew confident in their iterator models and began to experiment . they have the most in-generation variation , a lot of them built with specific modifications and more complex designs .

most gen 2 iterators were built with a secondary purpose in mind , one to improve the ancients' quality of life in some way . things like mathematics , bioengineering , medical help , and sometimes even art . though they still have the main purpose of solving the great problem , some gen 2 iterators chose to instead focus on their secondary purpose more .

no significant harassment , seven red suns , and chasing wind are gen 2 . no significant harassment is a scientific calculator with a built-in graphing tool . i haven't thought of secondary purposes for the other two yet .

generation three , the moments before global ascension

gen 3 iterators are less common than gen 2 iterators , but still outnumber gen 1 iterators . they are incredibly streamlined from thousands of cycles of innovation , but their puppet designs remain relatively simple .

the ancients returned from their burst of creativity to once again make iterators for the sake of iterating alone . at this point , they were getting impatient from the lack of a solution . gen 3 iterators were built with the sole purpose of trying to crack the great problem , with little thought put into anything else .

five pebbles and unparalleled innocence are gen 3 .

iterators have one main color which acts as that iterator's ID . the color is always present on various parts of the iterator , such as their overseers and inspectors , their puppet's eyes , as well as the decor on their puppet's earpieces and antennae . this color is used in broadcast transcripts as well , and most puppets also feature this color in other aspects of their design .

there are more iterators out there than distinct identification colors , so some iterators are bound to end up with very similar colors . extra care is taken to make sure no iterators with similar color IDs have the same name acronym , for the sake of being able to tell apart between them . iterators with similar color IDs are also usually placed far apart , for the convenience of having a unique color for every iterator in a local group .

these IDs are usually stored in hex codes , and are often vibrant and / or colorful . iterators with white , black , or gray IDs are incredibly rare , and gray IDs especially are discouraged . i'm still tweaking around the colors for a lot of my iterator designs , but i can tell you the color IDs of the ones that do have solid designs ;

no significant harassment — #A0FC94

seven red suns — #E11F11

dark tides ( oc ) — #7B506B

red haze ( oc ) — #C68E9B

basically , my interpretation of this room in metropolis ;

despite the distance , the communities living atop iterators are just as connected as the iterators themselves . trade routes are established between cities , communication towers are used to let citizens talk to each other , and their cultures are somewhat intertwined . but , most importantly , a city can communicate to other iterators just as well as it can communicate with their home iterator .

you see those networks of dots and lines on the screens ? those are maps of all the scattered iterators . select one of these nodes — which , in my interpretation , are colored based on the corresponding iterator's color ID — and you will send a communication request for that iterator to respond to . the iterator can choose to accept the request or to block it if they're busy , but a select few special ancients are able to force a transmission in case of emergencies .

there are other faster methods for ancients to contact foreign iterators that don't require directly interfacing with them via a screen , so these screens aren't used very frequently . these screens can be used to contact the home iterator too , who is always highlighted with a simple 'you are here' mark .

multiple different cities can connect to the same iterator at the same time . likewise , multiple different iterators can connect to the same city at the same time . both of these allow for mass transmissions or group meetings for both ancients and iterators .

more to be added !

[wolfythewitch]

What was Kristin like before the Apocalypse?

There were two asks for this but this was the one that spelled her name right /lh

Hmmmmmm well I already mentioned the doctor bit and her being pretty busy, so I won't get too much into that cause I barely know anything about medical professions

She finds it funny to say "Doctor's orders" at the end of things, like "You have to sleep early. Doctor's orders." "Take out the trash. Doctor's orders." "Eat your veggies. Doctor's orders." And you can't even argue with her about things like sleeping late because she can actually back up her claims with scientific evidence!! It's terrible, she wins Most of the arguments. But she's also very forgetful and has, on occasion, switched up terms like scoliosis and osteoporosis by accident, and Wilbur teases her for it. She's very warm. The kind of person to always offer food when a friend comes over. Is the only one in the house who can cook, so sometimes she meal preps and sometimes she lets them order takeout. Not often though, because they almost always only order pizza and that much pepperoni cannot be good for you. You don't expect it but she curses a lot. She and Phil had an ongoing bet who would slip up first in front of the baby and cuss, and she lost that bet. That's why Phil got to choose the car. She buys those like live laugh love signs ironically and hangs them up around the house, and Wilbur finds it hilarious. He's got a bunch up in his room, one of them being "Home Sweet Home" with sweet having been rubbed off from the packaging. She's definitely the more chaotic one out of her and Phil, and lets Wilbur get away with more shit. She also has a PhD so when she's mad at someone, and they go "Mrs. Craft--" she cuts in with "It's Dr. Craft." And it's terrifying as fuck. She has a picture of all three of them framed on the desk in her office, a picture they took during Wilbur's first performance when her was 8. It's like, one of her prized possessions. The other is a mother's day card Wilbur had given him in fourth grade, with letters that spelled out WORLD'S GREATEST MOM in bright pink glitter. Phil tries to be hip with the kids but Kristin is actually hip with the kids, and knows all of Wilbur's friends and their secrets, some secrets Wilbur himself doesn't know. She just has that cool mom energy and Phil can only sit in the corner in defeat. She tends to panic easily under stress, but also somehow succeeds through skill and dumb luck. She was also a general surgeon for a while before, but decided to stick with consult after a while. Is probably the reason Wilbur has so much sass. She constantly laments her kid growing taller than her, but she says they'd be even if he grows taller than Phil too. Sometimes has to go on these days long trips, but she always makes sure to bring back souvenirs or trinkets to make up for it. Has a mean right hook.

[realcleverscience]

Wait... WE can read Greek?!

I was reading a wiki article about ancient artifacts when it shared some Greek words that were inscribed on the artifacts:

ΚΡΙΟΣ

ΤΑΥΡΟΣ

ΔΙΔΥΜΟΙ

ΚΑΡΚΙΝΟΣ

ΛΕΩΝ

ΠΑΡΘΕΝΟΣ

ΧΗΛΑΙ

ΣΚΟΡΠΙΟΣ

ΤΟΞΟΤΗΣ

ΑΙΓΟΚΕΡΩΣ

ΥΔΡΟΧΟΟΣ

ΙΧΘΥΕΣ

Of course, my first thought was that I obviously can't read that... but... I kept looking and realized that I could sort of read some of the greek, thanks to knowing certain greek words and letters, mostly from my scientific interests, but other places as well.

For instance, look at the second word: "ΤΑΥΡΟΣ" Spelled out: Tau-Alpha-Upsilon-Rho*-Omicron-Sigma = TAUROS. The bull, which you may recognize from astrology or from the mino-taur (minoan bull) of mythology.

(*There were a few letters that I was less familiar with: e.g. P = Rho. Basically it's an R without the bottom-right leg. Also remember that there are kind of three "O"s: Regular O = Omicron; Ω = Omega; Θ = Theta, which looks like an O but isn't)

Let's try the 4th word: "ΚΑΡΚΙΝΟΣ"

Kappa-Alpha-Rho-Kappa-Iota*-Nu-Omicron-Sigma = Karkinos = Crab.

(*The expression "not one iota" is bc the letter "i" began as one little tiny line or event a dot. e.g. In hebrew, the letter is known as "yud" and is the smallest and simplest letter. It looks like a comma.)

For those familiar with astrology, they may know this is also known as "cancer", and is the origin for the use of the medical condition as well. (You may have heard about certain foods being "carcinogenic" = carcin generating = cancer causing.)

(Why "crab" for "cancer"? - NPR: "...Hippocrates because he was around very early. And some time about 400 B.C., he was examining many cancer patients with what we'd call today end-stage cancer... And he applied the Greek word karkinos, which means crab. A lot of explanations, all of them equally wonderful and all of them equally difficult to prove, but why did he use that? And if you examine a tumor, if you actually feel malignant tumor, you'll note that it's hard as a rock. And so some have explained that it reminded him of the hard shell of a crab. But others have said it.. may have reminded him of the pain that a malignant tumor induces. It's much like the sharp pinch of a crab's claw. And an even better version is that it suggests the tenacity with which, you know, a crab bites you…")

Ok, next is the 5th word: ΛΕΩΝ: Lambda-Epsilon-Omega-Nu = Leon = Lion (I think this one is easy, but perhaps that's bc my name, Ari, means Lion.)

Next: "ΠΑΡΘΕΝΟΣ" Pi - Alpha - Rho - Theta - Epsilon - Nu - Omicron - Sigma = Parthenos = Virgin Again, astrology fans may recognize the word. Zoo fans may recognize the word from stories about lizards in zoos suddenly becoming pregnant on their own, known as "parthenogensis" - virgin birth. (Christians may recognize the word for similar reasons!) Or you may be familiar with the Parthenon, an ancient greek temple to Athena the "virgin/maiden goddess".

Two words later, #8: "ΣΚΟΡΠΙΟΣ" Sigma-Kappa-Omicron-Rho-Pi-Iota-Omicron-Sigma = Skorpios = Scorpion!

Next: "ΤΟΞΟΤΗΣ" - This one's a bit harder Tau-Omicron-Xi*-Omicron-Tau-Eta-Sigma (*That's a hard letter. There's also apparently a similar letter represented by "X")

= Toxotes. I wouldn't have recognized this as the word for "archer" (technically, "bow") but you may recognize the word as the root for "toxic", which I just learned is derived from the word for archer - either bc it harms like an arrow, or bc the arrows were dipped in poison, making them toxic arrows.)

Ok, let's jump to the last one: "ΙΧΘΥΕΣ" Iota-Chi-Theta-Upsilon-Epsilon-Sigma = Ichthyes

People who've played animal crossing, or maybe just love fish or biology, may recognize this as part of the word "ichthyology" - the study of fish.

By now you may have guessed that the ancient object was a calendar of sorts, and was here listing the various months with their astrological signs.

----------

So it kind of blew my mind to realize that I can sort of read greek.

Clearly this doesn't mean that I can just open up ancient or modern greek texts and start translating - but, I'm a LOT closer to that for greek than for most other languages. And not just me, but all of us. Which is just amazing. If I opened a book in russian or japanese, I'd be totally lost. I can't read the alphabet and I have basically zero familiarity with russian or japanese root words. But as westerns who speak english and use mathematics that both largely evolved from/with greek sources, we are all a lot closer to this ancient language than we probably assumed.

Kinda puts a new perspective on the phrase, "it's all Greek to me".

[4ce-of-2pades-inkwell]

I’ve been watching/listening to those SCP videos on YouTube while I draw Cuphead stuff, so it was only a matter of time before I came up with a crossover AU:

Dr. Manuel Animi is a young but talented scientist rising up through the SCP Foundation. He has a particular interest, fascination, obsession even, with SCPs that break the laws of reality, or that are beyond comprehension. Merely out of scientific curiosity, of course, nothing more... He spent many years working with eldritch beings such as… well, I can’t remember any off the top of my head, but things along the lines of what Cthulhu was expected to be, not his SCP reality. Dr. Animi had a better capacity than most for withstanding the dangerously incomprehensible, a mental tolerance for things that would drive an average person to insanity, but he was still human, and many times was affected to the degree of needing prolonged therapy or even intense medical treatment to recover. He would always return to his work with a passion as soon as possible, but eventually he was banned from working with any SCP classified as a significant mental hazard. His superiors claimed he had reached the lifetime exposure limit that was protocol (similarly to scientists working with radiation), and they cited his hair, which had changed from red to pure white as a result of the horrors he had seen, as proof he had been at this long enough to be at risk of permanent mental damage. They claimed his relocation to other SCPs was for his own safety, and that they did not want to lose such a bright scientist, but this was a lie. In truth, Dr. Animi’s obsession with these eldritch beings and mind-breaking ideas concerned them. They saw a high probability that Dr. Animi would not stay content with his permitted research, and would attempt to use the anomalies for his own purposes, becoming a threat. In short, he liked his work too much. If he had refused the ban on his area of study, he would have been deemed too far under its thrall, and would have been terminated. So Dr. Animi now works with other anomalies, though is not satisfied with his current work, and is biding his time for an opportunity to reenter his preferred field.

Chase Animi is a gambler. Addicted to it. This has caused him to go deep into debt, and in and out of prison. Any attempt to keep a job or build any kind of stable life is sabotaged by this addiction. He’s miserable, but he can’t stop. He falls in with shady crowds trying to pay back the money he owes, starts conning people for their cash, gets caught and put in jail again. He is not having a great time. One night, a bar fight gets a little too heated, and results in three men dead by Chase’s hand. If this isn’t enough of a crime to earn a death penalty, then he somehow does something else to earn his sentence. He ends up a D-class at the SCP Foundation. He is given cleaning duty for The Sculpture for several months, and as all goes to plan during that time, he survives without incident. Soon though, he is sent in to observe an SCP that affects a person’s mind—though he doesn’t know that yet. This is where he first interacts with Dr. Animi, who has just convinced the higher-ups that he should be allowed to study mind-altering SCPs again, if only ones of significantly less power and danger to himself. Chase doesn’t recognize the scientist that happens to share his name. But Dr. Animi recognizes him.

They’re twin brothers.

The two had parted ways years ago after an argument. Manuel had just joined the SCP Foundation as a scientist, and tried to convince Chase to apply as well, so they could stick together. Chase was furious with Manuel for wanting to retreat from society into a group of crazy all-powerful scientists, and for not telling him sooner that he was planning this. Chase wanted nothing to do with the Foundation or any organization like it. Manuel warned Chase that if he didn’t join the Foundation in some way, he would have to be given amnestics to forget its existence. Chase said that was fine by him, and that if Manuel wanted to leave him so badly, then he would be more than happy to forget his brother entirely. So Manuel, also caught up in anger, did exactly as he asked, erasing any trace of himself from Chase’s mind and leaving his brother for good, devoting his life entirely to the Foundation. Chase’s life, meanwhile, fell into disarray. It is possible that the careful amputation of such a constant presence in every single one of Chase’s memories negatively altered his mind in such a way that predisposed him to his addiction. With the sudden lack of something he had depended on all his life, he needed to depend on something else…

Dr. Animi recalled Chase from his current assignment before its effects could take a stronger hold, and through application of his recent research, was able to produce a near-total recovery. Dr. Animi then told Chase that they were brothers, and explained what had happened to cause his amnesia about their shared past. Chase was furious with Dr. Animi for destroying his memories of him, and disgusted that he would not only commit unethical experimentation, but do it to his own brother. Chase refused to speak to Dr. Animi further, but Dr. Animi still wanted to help Chase. He knew there were a few rare cases of D-class not only surviving their ordeals, but being allowed to reenter society and live ordinary lives. Only a handful of cases, out of innumerable casualties, but if Dr. Animi played his cards right, he could save Chase.

There was an SCP that had been discovered earlier that year (let’s say this takes place in 1973 I guess), SCP-666. That one that tempts people with addictions. Very few D-class had been tested with it so far, and all had died as a result of succumbing to their addictions, but Dr. Animi had a theory about the nature of SCP-666, and he was going to bet his brother’s life on it. He contacted the team studying SCP-666 and recommended Chase as a test subject, highlighting the strong gambling addiction that had been the root cause of every crime Chase had ever committed. The team had tested subjects with substance addictions, but had yet to try addictions of any other nature. They accepted Chase as their next subject.

Dr. Animi insisted on being the one to deliver the D-class to his destination. Chase refused to speak to him, but Dr. Animi whispered that he was doing everything he could to save Chase’s life. This was his best chance at not only survival, but escape. If Dr. Animi was right, SCP-666 was not a death sentence, but a test. Any D-class subjected to it who was not already an addict had seen no ill effects—666 did not compel a person to act against their will, at behaviors that were not their own, but merely encouraged existing addiction until it reached the point of death. If Chase could resist 666’s temptations, he may be released alive, and in order to study the long-term effects on his addiction, Chase would need to be introduced back into the wider world, where he could be monitored in his natural environment with its usual available temptations. Dr. Animi would convince the Foundation, somehow, that Chase could not be exposed to any other SCP without destroying a valuable research subject. All Chase needed to do was not die from SCP-666. An even more difficult task, as there was not much opportunity to gamble in containment, and Chase was feeling withdrawal. Dr. Animi had a theory, but the facts (which Chase was not supposed to be told) said that everyone who had faced this SCP had died. So why not live it up one last time before he went? What did he have to lose? What did he have to go back to? And yet, this addiction had destroyed his entire life. If he was going to meet his end… what if he could win, just once, over that all-consuming force? Win something not through luck, but through skill, through willpower?

Well, he’s going to try. He doesn’t anticipate an outcome where he survives. He’s not doing this because he believes he’ll be freed, in any sense of the word. He’s doing this to spit in the face of 666-1, and prove to himself that he has control in his life, even if that life is about to end.

Also, there’s one last thing you should know about Chase. See, that mind-altering SCP he did a brief stint with? Well, I looked pretty unassuming. Just a plain white cup sitting on a table. Chase didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for. And he certainly didn’t realize when he started talking about me in the first person. My effects can end pretty badly for those exposed. Usually, they end up drowning themselves, often with tea. But Dr. Animi caught Chase’s symptoms early, and managed to talk him out of being a danger to himself. He was unable to be convinced that he was not, in fact, a cup like me, but Dr. Animi twisted this belief into something safer. Chase had arms and legs, right? And eyes and a nose and a mouth? He repeated this often, making Chase locate these attributes on himself, until he finally believed it to be true. He was a person, who had different needs than a cup. But he was also a cup, there was no talking him out of that. Dr. Animi could only do so much. Instead, he worked with Chase to develop a persona that became his new self-image, a persona that was, of course, still a cup, but functioned a lot more like a human. Chase once again understood himself to need sleep and food and air, and to be susceptible to death under many conditions that an average non-person cup would thrive in. And despite an insistence that his hair be constantly damp with tea or milk or coffee, Chase was deemed able to live normally again, thanks to a little outside-the-box thinking on Dr. Animi’s part. After all, Dr. Animi understood that you don’t necessarily have to see the world in a way that makes sense to anyone else to live a good life. You don’t have to be one hundred percent “sane.” Sometimes your life can even be better if you let yourself go a little crazy…

[50shadesofoctarine]

Looking For A Beta (Aziraphale/Crowley Academic!AU)

Dm me if interested, 889 word excerpt below:

The ethics board didn’t know what to do with him; Neither did the medical board or the astrological association. Dr. A.J. Crowley was an academic rockstar—for all that the term “rockstar” meant in an environment where the ratio of knitted sweaters to human beings was an astounding 3.3 sweaters for every researcher in too many layers—his name plastered somewhere on most of the papers produced by Tadfield University, as well as a hefty chunk of papers produced outside of TadU (his groundbreaking statistical analysis popping up in all sorts of odd places, although, most notably, in Aziraphale’s pub arguments). A born contrarian, the sciences had called to him. And of course they had! Science was the occupation of mule-headed pricks (see: Nicolaus Copernicus), curious entrepreneurial spirits (see: Nikola Tesla), and madmen (see: Freud). And Crowley just so happened to be all three. There wasn’t a major field of study that he didn’t have a thumb in. If there was a scientific consensus to be had on the matter, then there was also a Crowley to unrepentantly flip the bird at it.

These were the foreboding thoughts overshadowing the mind of one young (although only young by the standards of post-PhD graduates, which is to say, not young at all) Dr. Fell as he glanced, awestruck, to the other side of the University cafeteria, where Dr. A.J. Crowley sat, eating a bowl of store-bought salad. Aziraphale had been crushing—academically, of course—on Crowley ever since he had read the man’s first paper on multidimensional approaches to quantum entanglement. That Crowley was wrong in his conclusions about relativity and its subsequent angles of observation was no impediment in Aziraphale’s appreciation of his intelligence. They might have disagreed on the finer points, but Crowley’s writing was a wonder to behold. Aziraphale had nearly vibrated out of his seat upon spotting him. Nevermind that he logically understood that Crowley published papers under TadU, the same university that Aziraphale himself wrote for, and therefore bumping into him was not outside the realm of possibility. It was the principle of the matter. Aziraphale knew Crowley as a photo above a well-read author’s note; It was something else entirely to witness him, breathing, flesh and blood, as he gazed into his salad, wine coloured locks flowing down his back. Odd to know that he had poor posture, or that he forked his food around more than he actually ate. Intimate, in a strange way; That Aziraphale could quote the innermost musings of a man mere meters away from him.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale’s single player staring contest was quite suddenly put into co-op mode, as Crowley—almost like he could sense the attention goring into his back—looked up from his salad and into Aziraphale’s, now bashful, gaze. A tense moment of delicate liminality followed, Aziraphale waiting (much like a man at the gallows) for Crowley’s reaction to his impropriety. He was then surprised when Crowley's expression morphed into one of recognition, rather than one of disgust or awkwardness.

“Dr. Fell!” Crowley called, a grin overtaking the once thoughtful lines of his face. He waved one of his arms haphazardly in a ‘come-over-here’ kind of gesture, using the other to pull out a chair beside him. Aziraphale had the grace to be momentarily astonished before hurrying over to meet his academic hero.

“Dr. Crowley, It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance! I’ll be honest, I-I never expected you to know who I was… Let alone…” He let his words trail off into pitiful nothings, stuttering and red in the face.

“Just ‘Crowley’ if you will, or ‘Anthony’ if you must. And the pleasure’s all mine! I first read your work, oh… It’d have to be at least five or six years ago now. Your master’s thesis, I believe. On Paul’s doctrines.” With a leering grin, Crowley leaned forward.

“I will admit, Dr. Fell, your writing had me positively hooked.” He said it as though it were a secret, the kind you wouldn’t dare repeat to your mother. However, from what Aziraphale could tell, he just sort of spoke like that. Like someone who was constantly sharing the intricacies of some deviant sexual act for all the innocence of the actual words themselves. Every sentence that fell out of his mouth reeked of an implied “you saucy minx” like the ghost of Fran Drescher past.

“Er.” Aziraphale replied intelligently, taking a seat. Crowley seemed unperturbed by the sudden verbal ineptitude. When working with academics, you get used to an assorted array of oddball characters. It’s terribly presumptuous, and even more so unproductive, to expect them all to conform to the typical back and forth of neurotypical communication. You don’t get to become Dr. A.J. Crowley, pain in the arse to astrophysicists everywhere, by being over-particular about the oratory of one’s downtime.

“You’re wrong, of course.” He continued with an impish grin, forking his salad cheekily. Aziraphale hadn’t known someone could fork a salad cheekily, but nonetheless, here Crowley was, attempting to prove him incorrect on two fronts.

“Wrong? Dear boy, that was my master's thesis. Should you choose to debate this, I fear I’ll have the home field advantage.” His response was deliberately unaffected, a haughty tune laced with the playfulness that Crowley was absolutely drenched in.

“Unfortunately for you, I’ve read it. And, as such, I fear nothing.”

[p5x-theories]

If Messa was intentionally him being named after Holy Mass in Italian you think he’d have bless and healing skills maybe some curse and poison too.

Heh, yeah, which really isn't the vibe I've gotten from him (and, considering they only get three skills, that's also way more types of skills than he could practically have), so I guess we'll have to see where they're going with him. Given he seems to have a "dubiously ethical medical/scientific experimentation" vibe, I'd be kind of surprised if the holy association was intentional.

[nonbinary-beast]

Thinking about AMtomaton again, or just AMaton. I still have to decide on the name for these things about a possible body for it. Under a cut since stuff gets suggestive.

AM strikes me as the kind to be very physical once it gets a chance to do so. It wants to touch everything, smell, taste, everything it was denied when stuck in its complex that was buried in substrata rock. It wants to pick things up, feel their textures and squeeze them in its hands- perhaps it likes to feel things break in its grip.

It's first activities were likely very touch oriented- given it could choose the senses it placed in its automaton body, AM likely added a secret fourth sense of touch in there. While the human range of touch reaches the sensations of temperature, pressure, and texture, AM has these three and an additional ability to detect moisture. It can feel how wet water is, instead of that odd approximation that humans are limited to- that odd sense where one cannot tell if something is indeed wet, or just cold to the touch.

It absolutely lords this over Ted whenever it can, likely by giving him bedding that is damp and seeing if he can tell the difference by touch alone ( he never can, and it amuses AM to no end).

AM also likes being physical with Ted. The moment it finds him again, the automaton has mixed priorities; it wants to torment the shit out of Ted over the fact that he is the only one of the survivors left, and it really, really wants to know what Ted feels like, smells like, tastes like.

It has seen blood, viscera, flesh, bone. It has heard them squelch and snap and crunch and drip- but that only does so much for it.

The minute AM catches Ted, the man is nearly smothered by it, literally. Knocked to the ground, he is pinned there while the supercomputer explores him. It feels his body compress under its weight, the texture of his clothing and skin, his hair. It can feel how emaciated Ted is through his clothes, and it can feel the moisture of sweat beading on his skin as fear takes hold of him. It smells and tastes his skin, hair, clothing, and finds it is missing something. That missing something is remedied by slicing Ted's skin with its metallic teeth, letting his blood flow freely from the wounds, which it eagerly laps up.

AM is tempted probably to do more than just bite him. It wants to tear Ted open, to shove its snout into his guts and devour him inside out. But it wants to be careful, it must be careful. If it nips the wrong vein, it could lose its last toy, its favorite toy.

It tastes the metallic flavor on its tongue, smells that heavy, acrid odor it carries. It gets some on its fingers and rubs the fluid between them, feeling as it turns sticky and coagulates into a grimy film, then dries into a rusty brown that flakes off.

It had anticipated the flavor and scents of the human form, both inside and out, from data it had collected on the subject it dredged from every scientific and medical database it could tap into. But in person, it was far more than verbal dictation or written notes could ever compare itself to. Perhaps it was the sophistication of its sensors, or perhaps the scientists and doctors were poor descriptive writers.

It would explore Ted for a while longer, dismissing his whimpering pleas for AM to take away the thing that has him pinned to the ground with a curt laugh. Ted thinks it is one of the holograms.

AM would probably turn this denial on Ted's part into its own personal pet project. While the holographic torments it induced on the survivors never left a scar on their bodies- healing flawlessly, AM would leave a wound upon Ted's form that it would meticulously worry and open again and again, until it formed a permanent scar. It was just going to be something to show Ted just how real AM's body was.

That said, AM pulls its punches when it torments Ted directly in person. It could happily put the survivors through whatever torment it wished with the holograms, and never worry about harming them permanently- most of the agony was induced through manipulating their ability to feel pain in the first place, or setting off their nerve endings directly.

However, personally tormenting Ted, ripping at his skin, crushing him, biting him, these left real wounds.If it went too far, it could absolutely kill him like he had managed to kill the other four. So it sticks to keeping its torments only skin deep. It will leave bruises, cuts, bites, pinches, things that look nasty but are relatively harmless in terms of Ted being able to recover without complications.

That said, AM is curious about physical pain itself. It knew emotional agony well enough, it was its bedmate. But it had never ached from exertion, or burned under a hot sun, or felt its lungs sting with frosty air. It wanted to feel the prickle of brambles against its fingers as it picked a rose, it wanted to feel its limbs burn with that sweet agony of effort as it pushed itself to its limits.

AM would find a way to experience the latter, perhaps through running itself into a grueling pace through its own complex, until its body screams for it to slow down or stop. Perhaps it creates a great burden that needs to be lifted, some massive boulder that it can heft until its limbs shake and threaten to give out on it.

Or perhaps, it decides to take up gardening, and devotes an immense chamber to the tedious art of tending flowers. It digs the dirt by hand, plants the seeds, watches the simulated blooms grow and blossom, perhaps it goes a step further and even adds in weeds for it to pull, pests to exterminate.

Or maybe it goes through its own system and performs maintenance, performing solders, cleaning out dust, repairing dry rot and removing rust. It is a meticulous self care ritual that would have no real end, and certainly it would feel the hours or days of spending its time hunched over chip sets and wiring.

Ted of course is never out of its sight during this. A great part of it wants Ted to stay where it can see so it can intervene if the little fool tries to kill himself. But another part, a smaller inexplicable portion of the machine wants Ted to watch what it is doing too, and to see what it is capable of now that it has a form.

[zaharya]

Hi!

I've read your post on the science of ADHD and was wondering if you could help me? (Feel free to say no!)

I'm trying to find articles on that symptom where you're unable to do anything even when you want to. Tumblr seems to refer to it as Executive Dysfunction, but since that term is very broad I have been unable to find anything specifically on the above symptom. Do you have any tips? Do you have any idea whether it has a more defined "name"?

Again, don't feel any pressure to answer!

Kind regards,

Hello!

Well, I can try to help 😅

Ah, yes. I'm afraid that executive dysfunction is in fact the official scientific / medical term for this, and there isn't a more defined name for this – at least not an official medical or scientific one. But I see how that might be a bit frustrating when looking for resources to deal with a specific issue or situation.

Just to clarify, what kinds of "articles" are you looking for? Scientific articles, or popular media articles / lay literature?

What you could try to look for are specific presentations of ex. dys., specific ways in which it manifests; there are a number of lay terms that describe more specific aspects of it. For example some people talk about "decision paralysis", or "ADHD waiting mode" – obviously neither of those are official terms, but it may help you find more resources on them, especially in popular/non-scientific media.

If you're going for scientific literature itself (which I personally do recommend), consider looking for executive function instead. Executive function is a fundamental cognitive ability and plays a role in many many things, and thus has a lot of research to back it up. Try searching it in connection to ADHD, and that should lead you to some beginning at least.

Now, you say that you couldn't find anything for "that specific symptom" – a lot of the time, it is a matter of recognising how the same concept leads to different outcomes. So even if you don't find articles that describe your exact situation, the concept discussed in the article might still be helpful to understand your specific symptoms. Furthermore, while it is true that this "inability to do the thing" is often based in executive dysfunction, there are also motivational aspects that have to be considered in ADHD. By motivational aspects I do not mean that you do not want to do the thing, or that you are not trying enough to do the thing. Rather, the motivational circuits in ADHD brains are different from those in neurotypical brains, which can thus lead to some difficulties.

I am guessing part of what you are looking for are ways to deal with this kind of issue. In my experience, understanding it helps to work around most symptoms to a certain degree already, so I do thing that learning about the mechanisms of it is beneficial in any case. Still, there are hacks that help with ADHD paralysis – I'll list a few and how they might help. [All of these are based on urgency, novelty, or personal importance, which are generally the factors that determine how well ADHD vibes with a task or activity.]

The three second rule; sounds stupid, but try it out! If you're trying to start doing something that requires you to move (e.g. take a shower, make food, do the dishes – whatever) and you find yourself stuck on the couch/at your desk/in bed/on the floor, take a deep breath, count down from three, and when you reach 0 you have to move. It can be any movement, but since you're not giving your brain a lot of time to think, the easiest movement is usually to get up – which gets you started at the very least. Try to ride that momentum.

Pomodoros; time your tasks for mini-deadline pressure. Pick a thing to do, e.g. you want to draw because you like drawing, then set a timer to around 20-30 minutes (at least that's the norm, but hey you can also do 16 and a-half minutes!). Start the timer, and while it runs you focus only on the previously specified task. When it's done, take a break of 5-10 minutes (again, you do you), then the next timer starts. I use this a lot for studying and writing, because it creates little focus windows that are easier to handle.

Increase or decrease stimulation; music, fidgets, anything that vibes for you. Maybe the hurdle is that you're simply over- or understimulated – play around with your activity-environment to see if it makes a difference!

Body doubling; personal favourite, simply hang out with your friends! The presence of another being/person often helps to stay on task, and it can be energising (at least to extraverts like me)

External incentives or accountability; aka threats and bribes 😏 my favourite variant of this is a concept I introduced on several of my Discord servers – Drabbles for Dopamine, where people literally bribe each other with little drabbles so they do the thing. But this works with anything! Tell your friend that you want to be out of bed in 30 minutes and ask them to check in on you; the pressure of having someone else know often already is enough. If the "threat" of them checking is not enough, add a "bribe" to it, for example a picture of their pet – whatever is at hand and motivates you.

There is more of course, but those are the few that come to mind off the top of my head. Feel free to message me if you have questions about any of them.

Besides that, here are a few links that might be of interest:

Popular / non-scientific sources (sorted by how useful I think they'll be for you)

What is executive function and why do we need it? – How to ADHD (video)

ADHD and Motivation – How to ADHD (video)

Motivation | How to ADHD (YT playlist)

Executive Dysfunction & ADHD - when you can't 'do the thing' (article)

What is executive function? (ADDitude mag article)

Scientific articles / research (no particular order!)

Validity of the executive function theory of attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder: a meta-analytic review

Executive functions and adaptive functioning in young adult attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder

Are There Executive Dysfunction Subtypes Within ADHD?

Disturbance of the emotion and motivation in the adhd: a dopaminergic dysfunction

Executive dysfunction in attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder: cognitive and neuroimaging findings

[scribblestatic]

Big Retcon to the Sonar Series History

Okay, so, after some thought, I'm going to change a little bit about the story. After all, I've been writing this for, what, two...three years or so? Changes abound.

Some elements of the previous retcon will still stand. However, here's essentially the third draft details of the story:

Project Sonar started as a pet-project on Earth to study the relationship between chaos energy and water, partially based on the power seen from Chaos and Chao and their need for access to fresh water. He was also curious about Chaos Chao and their endless lives. Chaos Chao are rare, but they had documentation of their existence by that point.

To start his studies, Dr. Gerald Robotnik used several ingredients to attempt making a subject he could test. Some of these ingredients included Mobian hedgehog cells, Mobian wolf cells, residual power from Chaos, a Chao's grey cocoon, a Chaos Emerald, and more.

He used Mobian cells because many Mobians can also use Chaos energy, and since they are recognized as sovereign individuals, he cannot study them experimentally. So, he aims to create his own Mobian who can do similar, if not enhanced, actions.

Dr. Gerald Robotnik has several Ph.Ds. that allow him to do so on his own with relative success, including in robotics, biogenetics, bioengineering, and history. That being said, his first few tries failed because no life restored within the cocoon before it faded from existence.

Because he doesn't have funding for these experiments, he goes out and collects the grey cocoons on his own. He also acquired the residual power and Mobian cells through data collection and a few well-placed "community outreach programs," in which he integrated himself into a local Mobian population by providing free medical care...during which he acquired many, many samples of "willingly donated" Mobian blood and other cellular tissues and substances.

A narrative section for this point:

He had a preference toward Mobian hedgehogs simply because one that volunteered at his community outreach center helped him collect the most samples and had been a genuinely pleasant person. Her name was Aleena, a practicing nurse with a kind disposition. She worked for him after he helped save her life after a car accident. Out of all the samples he used for testing, the ones he'd collected during her recovery surgery had been the most responsive, likely because he'd also acquired one of her ovaries.

His choice to include Mobian wolf DNA was admittedly a bit less scientific. Wolves had a deep connection with the moon, which was also intimately connected with the water. Since his studies surrounded the use of chaos energy and water together, he figured adding Mobian wolf DNA would just kinda fit. Gerald got the wolf DNA from a burly Mobian who was stoic and had a severe-looking face, but who only showed up at his clinic so much because he often got hurt helping others. His name was Logan. He and Aleena eventually fell in love, and Logan proposed to her.

Because of Aleena's accident, she lost both ovaries, one to the wheels, the other to a doctor's hands. Despite wolves being pack Mobians, he married Aleena, knowing he wouldn't have children, which was a big deal back in the mid 40s. Gerard attended their wedding, eating at the potluck after the service and clapping as they cut their wedding cake, knowing full well Aleena possibly could've had children had he not taken her other ovary.

Later on, while having trouble finding the right combination of cells, chaos energy, and Chaos Emerald exposure to create what would essentially be an artificial Chao-based Mobian, he thought of their wedding day. He also thought of how lovely it had been to attend, especially considering how much Aleena and Logan loved each other. Huh...wouldn't it be funny if he made their child in his lab? He didn't exactly have Logan's sperm, but if he did have bone fragments from one of Logan's many heroic incidents, so if he played around with the genetic code a bit, he could essentially do it anyway...

So that's what he did.

He used seven different gray cocoons and tested several genetic mixtures plus other items needed to possibly hatch his own custom Mobian specimen. Of course, he knew he was running on borrowed time since he was using gray cocoons instead of pink ones, but he didn't want too many preconceived desires or traits to color his future creation. He wanted as close to a blank slate as possible, and he was more likely to get it out of a gray cocoon than a pink one.

He could've also tried using an egg, a truly blank slate, but Chao were known to be quite fiercely protective of their eggs, so meaningfully acquiring one without gaining negative attention would be rather difficult. He wanted to at least work in the shadows to keep from gaining too much attention before it was due. Besides, if he was able to bring a Chao back from its dying path, wouldn't that be exemplary? There would be so much more to explore on that front as well.

And what do you know?

Although six of the cocoons continued to fade, one of them turned a pale, pastel pink color.

Something inside was alive, and it was coming back.

He started doing scans, measuring its growth, and everything. All the duds disappeared naturally, so he was able to put all his focus on the single pink cocoon that remained pale but grew slightly over time.

The cocoon got bigger than usual Chao cocoons, whose sizes typically don't differ much between their child and mature forms. He knew he was succeeding well when he shined a light into the cocoon and saw little bitty hands at the ends of its arms.

He waited and waited, continuing to nurture the cocoon...but one day, it started fading back to gray. Life signs were decreasing, and if he didn't hurry, 001 (as he started calling it) would die.

Dr. Robotnik began working tirelessly to mimic the environment Chao would thrive in, and yet, it continued to gray out. So, it needed something somewhere between a Chao's needs and a Mobian's needs. Mobians were generally born live instead of in eggs, so a live birth...

He considered the idea, then went forward with it.

He created an isolation tube and placed the cocoon in it, a Chaos Emerald embedded into the top of the system. He then pumped it full of water, completely submerging the cocoon and allowing the chaos energy to flow through the water.

The cocoon...changed.

The pink tone faded, turning pale blue instead and elongating into a longer teardrop shape. Over a few more days, the cocoon hardened into a pale egg-like form that remained suspended in the water, continuing to give off restored signs of life.

He just may do it...he just might!

And then...one day, he wakes up from where he was sitting at a nearby desk, hearing a tapping sound. He woke slowly, but then startles and gets up, looking over at the container.

Pale green eyes stare back at him.

A Mobian is floating in the water, the egg nowhere to be seen (watching a recording later shows that it dissolved into foam). It looks to be a cross between a hedgehog and a wolf, with fur and spines on its head. It also has a long furry tail more wolf-like than hedgehog. It's covered in blue fur, with peachy tones on its muzzle, arms, and a little upside down teardrop shape on its chest.

Its sclera are pale green, irises a stronger green.

Despite not appearing to have gills or anything that would allow it to breathe underwater, it's doing so just fine. It's also giving off a high chaos energy signature, which is likely the reason for its green-tinted eyes.

But it's a success. He's succeeded in making his own Mobian. A product that he can study as he pleases.

---

It took so much effort to grow 001, so he doesn't try taking it out of the water just yet. Instead, he installs and uses a large freshwater aquarium for his initial tests. He doesn't start with anything too strenuous--just trying to see what the little one can do and how it evolved inside the egg.

The first thing he notes is that, again, it doesn't require gills to breathe underwater. It seems to use chaos energy, as though it simply breathes and powers its cells using that method rather than breathing naturally. As such, it could theoretically survive in environments absent of oxygen.

He also recognizes that 001 has paw pads on its hands and feet, so it theoretically could survive on land. But still, better safe than sorry for the time being.

Despite being underwater, 001 also recognized and quickly learned speech patterns. It learned to recognize orders very quickly, such as moving up, down, left or right, where to wait for dinner, and others. 001 didn't really show much ego growth at first--it had a habit of staring rather blankly and didn't show much interest in doing anything but watching him. However, within a few days, its sense of self became more prominent.

It began favoring food with stronger flavors than others, and it had gained a habit of swimming quick circuits around the tank. It also started mimicking his facial expressions, trying them out on its own face, so Dr. Robotnik decided to bring in expression cards with the name of the emotions on it.

Once 001 actually managed to stiltedly repeat the word back to him and it managed to find little hidden items he placed around the tank despite its lack of aquatic features, he decided to add a codename for his pet-project.

While he would only every record data for it under SE-8A429-001, he would refer to it as Project Sonar. Though it was something of a false name, considering the study had nothing to do with locating items via sound navigation, it would at least help keep his experiment under wraps until he needed to expand on it.

[medicaldoctordana]

Can you write something with mulder’s boyish charm and Scully absolutely delighted by it?

Well it's not exactly that but it sure is something.

Scientific Integrity

Rated G

W/C: 650

“Look, Scully! I found another one!”

“Mulder, when you said a nice trip to the forest, I was skeptical. Especially considering how the last two nice trips turned out. But this, this one’s actually kind of nice.” Scully’s smile was bright, it was the one she usually reserved for quiet moments of joy. Like biting into her mother’s corned beef, or seeing the name of an old med school friend in her medical journals.

Scully looked up through the trees, astounded by their height and the peaceful sounds they made in the breeze. They had only been walking through the woods for a mere hour. The sun was shining and the heat was abnormal but satisfying for an October in Washington. This trip was much more pleasant than the last time they traipsed around the Olympic National Forest.

“Woolly bear’s stripes are said to predict the conditions of the upcoming winter. You see here?-”

Mulder brought his palm up to Scully’s face with the wiggly little caterpillar crawling from finger to thumb.

“The more black there is on their body, the harsher the winter will be. But then, you also have to take into consideration the amount of orange, and! And! Where its head is and how far the coloring extends before shifting.”

Mulder’s free hand indicated where the borders were on the particular caterpillar resting in his hand.

“You see here, Scully?”

Yes, she saw there, his childlike delight.

“Here we can see that the orange is equidistant from both sections of black, which span the same length. You'd think from this that the area will see a moderate winter. It starts moderate and will end moderate. The Isabella tiger moth will hatch come May.”

Mulder made frequent eye contact with Scully, eyes shifting back and forth from her to the caterpillar. Her gaze, however, rarely glanced downward.

With a giddy grin, Mulder somehow produced another caterpillar and placed it beside the other.

“But this caterpillar here- he barely has any orange. He’s telling us it will be a harsh winter. Starting moderate but ending harsh. See how far the black extends on both sides, Scully?”

Mulder sustained his gaze as he waited with bated breath for her answer.

“Yes, Mulder. I see.” Scully’s arms were crossed in amusement. Some days her job felt more like babysitting and less like professional investigating.

“Good that's great because here we have a third caterpillar with-”

“Mulder, how many caterpillars do you have?” Scully interrupted.

“Just seven,” he responded innocently like he’d been asked how many of his mother’s vases or lamps he broke while playing baseball inside.

“Mulder!” Scully’s eyes widened at the number. Surely he wasn't going to perform this little show and tell with all seven of the caterpillars. And where was he hiding the other four?

“What? Scully! We’re in the forest. It's prime larvae time. These little critters have to start their metamorphosis before the weather turns too cold. If I picked up each one I saw along the way I’d have 27, not just seven. Be happy, Scully. I could be crawling with ‘pillars right now but instead, I selected only the most prestigious of crawlers for scientific integrity. I thought you'd be proud.”

Scully rolled her eyes, “Mulder if you were concerned with scientific integrity, you'd know to pick seven at random to get a more accurate accumulation of data points. By hand selecting seven out of 27, you've tainted your data with personal bias.”

“Scully you wound me! How dare you accuse me of inciting bias!”

“It's not an accusation Mulder, it's fact! You have a biased sample group!”

“Well, lucky for you, there are still another three miles to our destination. Plenty of time to un-bias my sample group.”

Scully’s eyes were getting sore at the number of rolls they were engaging in. She took back her sentiment, this trip wasn't that nice.

[ladydragonkiller]

for an extremely strange silly prompt: the journey of the replicator of which raphaella was so fond -- like from it's creation somewhere in the lower levels of the city and outward

Approximately half a year after the Acheron was established, a deal was signed between Apollo Incorporated and Hephaestus Workshops and Innovations. This deal included the transfer of a few highly-ranked public relations representatives to Hephaestus Workshops and Innovations to Apollo Incorporated, an agreement for Apollo Incorporated to give initial rights on any mechanical contracting they were doing to Hephaestus Workshops and Innovations, and a collaborative project of the manufacture of three thousand top-of-the-line scientific replicators, to be headed by Asclepius.

This last point of order was perhaps the most contested of the deal. Apollo’s son was well-suited to the work. Asclepius was a medical expert, knowledgeable about how the replicators would be used, willing to accept the advice of those more experienced with the mechanical side of the project, and even relatively well-liked among the workers. In fact, he was surprisingly compassionate for an Olympian. He’d done a lot of work to make the famed immortality serum easier to produce, and even advocated for it to be offered to the public at-large. When talking with the lower and middle classes, Asclepius showed none of the manipulation and petty cruelty that Zeus and other high-ranking Olympians employed with such zest. He’d even been called kind by some of the tabloids, a particularly damning trait in his social sphere. 

However, his so-called foolishness was tempered by undeniable competence and skill, so Hephaestus had no real argument against the appointment. At first he had wanted his own child, known to the City as a sheltered young man by the name of Icarus, to take lead on the project. Hephaestus had long wanted Icarus to take over some of the business matters of Hephaestus Workshops and Innovations. Thankfully for the child in question, Icarus had recently shown remarkable scientific aptitude that led to great improvements in the Acheron. Hephaestus, never one to pass up an opportunity for advancement, decided to encourage his child to nurture this talent as far as it would go, and so Asclepius was put in charge of the project without opposition.

It ran as smoothly as could be expected--a few delays in supplies, but nothing that couldn’t be managed. The materials were sourced from Hephaestus’s long-running mines and forges in the lowest levels of the city, made into parts through a separate agreement with Poseidon industries to use their cutting-edge factories, then assembled by hand with painstaking precision and care. It cost more to use manual labor to put the replicators together, but it was a cost that would be more than covered by the price hike justified by the phrase “hand-assembled by experts”. After all, what was the point of making a product if not profit?

Asclepius was starting to have a sneaking suspicion that profit wasn’t all there was to strive for. Asclepius was starting have many sneaking suspicions about the way things were run, but for now he was tamping them down. He told himself that he could do more good within the system than if he was fighting against it, that the minds in the Acheron were there for a reason, that the City could only support a limited number of immortals.

Asclepius told himself a lot of things.

To the benefit of the project, Asclepius had finely honed the skill of keeping his moral quandaries to himself over the years--impossible to survive as an Olympian otherwise--so things carried on as normal.

Eventually, the replicators were finished, gently wrapped and packaged and sent out. They’d all been purchased by special order long ago, of course. A good portion had been set aside for the production of immortality serum, though few knew that was their purpose. They were labeled for delivery to the Hesperides sector, under care of Lady Hera, and generally assumed by the workers to be meant for her work in fertility research. A handful of astute workers wondered why there were so many replicators marked for the Hesperides region, but they kept these questions to themselves.

Another few hundred were sent to Apollo’s own medical facilities, and some to Dionysus Industries for what could generously be called their pharmaceutical endeavors. The majority of the rest were purchased in smaller quantities by other companies, and a couple dozen were even bought for individual use. 

Four of the replicators in this last category were purchased at a significant discount. In fact, Hephaestus had worked it into the original deal that they would be given to him for no additional charge. Two were sent to his private labs for use by the scientists there, one to his personal workshop, and one was gift-wrapped in navy blue paper with gold stripes.

A ribbon bow was placed on top. Not by Hephaestus, but by Icarus’s current tutor, who rather thought the child deserved a touch of whimsy. She had grown up in an area sponsored by Aphrodite, and had enjoyed more everyday beauty than most of the City’s inhabitants. She often told Icarus to look for the good that surrounded life, and that beauty could always be found if you had the right perspective. She would be fired two weeks later for letting Icarus take the afternoon off from assigned studies in favor of an impromptu tea party.

But for now, she sat dutifully in the corner of the room as Icarus opened the present, clapping with a polite sort of restrained joy as the replicator was revealed. She stopped almost immediately as Daedalus, as Hephaestus was known by in his personal life, turned an evaluating gaze towards her. One eyebrow was raised. The tutor hated how familiar she was with this judgemental look, and spent much of her time trying to avoid it. In fact, this pursuit was second to none. 

In second and third place came trying to make the pretty maid on the night shift smile--she had a beautiful smile and the tutor wanted to see more of it--and trying to get Icarus to crack a smile. The teenager was wonderfully passionate whenever that reserved shell broke, but most days it was a losing battle. Especially when Daedalus was nearby.

At the sight of the sleek lines of the replicator, though, Icarus broke out into a full grin and leapt up to hug Daedalus. Daedalus returned the hug in a rare show of affection. The tutor allowed herself a quick smile of her own before schooling her face back into the neutral expression she’d learned over the past few months. For this moment, things were good.

---

Nearly seven years later, that same replicator sat in an abandoned room. It had gone through quite a lot with its owner, once Icarus, now and forever Raphaella. It had gained a name, Cleo, a set of googly eyes that Raphaella had crafted and stuck on its upper panel in a fit of extreme boredom early on in her imprisonment, and nearly a dozen new dings and scratches from various mishaps over the years. 

Cleo wasn’t sentient. It didn’t have even the measure of bare intelligence that many networks and machines that were connected to the Acheron had. It relied on simple directions, the press of a button or flip of a switch.

In most of her imprisonment, Raphaella had considered this fact a curse. Any form of intelligence would have been a boon to her in those lonely days, any form of sentience a blessing. To be able to talk to something and have it respond in kind was the subject of many of her daydreams. 

In the last week or so, amidst a frenzy of creation and calculation, Raphaella had taken a moment to be grateful for this same truth. Cleo might not have been able to comfort her or hold a conversation when she needed one so desperately. Cleo might not have been able to send a message for help. Cleo might not have been able to ease Raphaella’s loneliness in a way that any other inanimate object could have done.

But at least Cleo wasn’t lonely when Raphaella had left.

[canmom]

Animation Night 127: Project Itoh

Hi friends!

It’s Thursday - my last Thursday in America for the foreseeable future, in fact. On Monday I’ll be making a bizarre journey back to the UK via the ‘extremely direct’ route of Norway and Latvia, because it turns out that’s the cheapest way to get across the Atlantic. So that’s gonna be quite an adventure. I’m going to write some kind of post about things I’ve seen in America but probably when I get back for the sake of enjoying what time I’ve got left here...

Anyway, on to movies!

Tonight we’re going to be checking out a curious little sort-of trilogy of movies by different studies and directors from 2015, celebrating the works of the short-lived but influential science fiction author Satoshi Itō, aka Project Itoh.

Here’s a picture of Itoh hanging out with his close friend Hideo Kojima at a book launch (via Metal Gear Trivia)

So who’s this Project Itoh guy? Born 1974 in Tokyo, there’s not a lot of biographical details about Itō’s early life, save that he went to Musashino Art University and worked as a web designer until the publication of his first novel, Genocidal Organ, in 2007.

What we do know is that he loved Metal Gear. Like, a lot. Itō got into Kojima’s games from the very start, and indeed most information about his life comes from Kojima’s account, alongside the blog where he published Snatcher and Metal Gear fanfic. The pair met at the 1998 Tokyo Game Show, at which Kojima was immediately struck by Itō’s devotion to his works, describing Itō as the one person who truly understand what he was writing about - an experience which ‘saved’ Kojima.

The two became close friends - and three years later, when Itō went into hospital with cancer in 2001, Kojima rushed to his bedside, and while there, showed him the first footage of MGS2: Sons of Liberty. Itō responded by promising he would not die until Kojima finished MGS2.

The experience of being hospitalised seems to have been very formative for Itō’s worldview. Youtuber The Canipa Project translates a blog post in which Itō talks about the experience of having his body sustained by scientific means only recently invented, making him a cyborg.

This time, Itō was able to keep his promise; when MGS2 came out, Itō wrote extensive analysis and exegesis of the game’s philosophical themes, getting a lot of attention within the fandom.

As the 2000s went on, it seems he judged it time to spread his wings and try releasing his own original stories under the pen name Project Itoh. The first, Genocidal Organ, was adapted from a fanfic he wrote about Snatcher into an original story. He submitted it to a novel writing competition in 2006, and while it didn’t win, he found a publisher in 2007; the novel became a hit, and so impressed Kojima that he asked Itō to take on the daunting task of writing a novelisation of Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots.

Itō apparently succeeded handily at the novelisation, and off these two successes, seemed set for a great writing career. His next novel, Harmony, dropped in 2008, dives straight into the themes of medical control; a dystopia in a post-nuclear war world where humans in the aftermath managed to cure cancer and most other diseases, only to institute a program of social control in an attempt to complete their utopia by eliminating mental illness as well. A story that’s clearly cutting pretty close to the bone from Itoh’s own experiences, since he was spending the 2000s dealing with recurrent cancer that took him back to hospital over and over.

And, indeed, the inevitable came in 2009, at which point Itō had just begun on his third novel Empire of Corpses. His cancer returned in force and he returned to hospital; once again Kojima went to his bedside and broke NDA to tell Itoh in detail about his next game, Metal Gear Solid: Peace Walker - that’s the odd PSP one featuring the Sandinistas. And once again, Itoh promised to live until Kojima finished the game, and write the novelisation of MGS3 and Peace Walker. But this time, it was a promise he could not keep; Itoh died at the age of 34.

In the wake of his death, a devastated Kojima dedicated Peace Walker to him (and later revealed he had planned to name as a successor following MGS5), and his friend Toe Enjoe took on the task of finishing Empire of Corpses. Once again, I’ll turn to Canipa Effect’s translation of some of the words Itō wrote three months before his death:

Humans dwell in others as a story. People can continue to live within someone else as a narrative. Then, by being part of the variety of spoken words, they become part of the fiction that can shape humanity.

(Words that resonate too strongly with the death of my friend Fall earlier this year.)

So far, a tragic story - but in some sense one with a slightly hopeful touch, in that rather than dying of cancer in 2001, Itō was able to enjoy eight more years of life and write several novels. But what has it got to do with animation?

Enter Noitamina (the word animation backwards), the late-night anime programming block run at the time by Koji Yamamoto as a means to get experimental, creative animation - such as Masaaki Yuasa’s adaptation of The Tatami Galaxy or Kenji Nakemura’s BakeNeko and Mononoke  - out to a wider audience. Yamamoto departed the block in 2015, but in its heyday it was home to a number of radically creative works; you can read more about it over here on sakugablog in a recent post on the context behind The Tatami Galaxy.

So, in 2015, Noitamina announced it would fund three movie-length adaptations of Itoh’s three novels, each by a different studio and director. For all three movies, the character designer would be illustrator redjuice of the ‘band’ Supercell, a somewhat odd musical project consisting of just one musician and ten illustrators and designers who produce materials around the music.

Genocidal Organ would go to the hands of Shūkō Murase, at Studio Manglobe, a unique studio renowned for original works like Shinichirō Watanabe’s Samurai Champloo, Ergo Proxy, and Michiko & Hatchin (the latter of which I covered back on Animation Night 36). Murase seems like a natural choice for a highly philosophical cyberpunk story, given Ergo Proxy... but a spanner was thrown in the works when Manglobe went bankrupt; Genocidal Organ would eventually be saved by the resurrected Manglobe in the form of Geno Studio, but for this reason, it missed the planned simultaneous release of the three movies.

The story concerns a world in which a series of social breakdowns and genocides take place in a short period of time, all seemingly associated with an American named John Paul - who, when tracked down, claims to have discovered a ‘genocidal organ’ which can be activated to incite humans to acts of genocide. Without giving away too many spoilers, it’s basically about the current American-dominated geopolitical order.

On the animation side, the stars of the show would be Bahi JD, the Austrian from the earliest wave of sakuga fandom who became one of the first international ‘webgen’ animators to find a career in Japan... and Shūkō Murase himself, who animated several cuts as well as directing the film. As such, even a quick look at sakugabooru shows a lot of subtle, well-observed movement; I’m looking forward to seeing it fit together.

Harmony - the post-cancer dystopian one - went to Michael Arias at studio 4°C, of Tekkonkinkreet fame (see Animation Night 52 for Tekkonkinkreet, and Animation Night 74 for a more detailed history of 4°C), alongside veteran animator and director Takashi Nakamura who you may remember from the Chicken Man and Red Neck sequence of Robot Carnival. It comes at a point where 4°C had found a lot of comfort with their use of CG, two years before Mutafukaz (Animation Night 105), and even if the incredible background artists of Tekkonkinkreet may not be on this one, I imagine it will look pretty lavish as 4C stuff always does.

Then comes The Empire of Corpses. This one goes to Wit Studio (Animation Night 101), directed by Ryōtarō Makihara - also no stranger to scifi, with his main previous work being Hal, the story about a robot designed to play the role of a deceased partner. Unlike Itō’s other works, which are near-future science fiction, this one is more of a steampunk piece, taking place in an alternate 19th century in which mass produced Frankenstein’s monsters have become the industrial base of society; its characters bounce around the globe unearthing a conspiracy. It sounds kind of wild, honestly, with not just Frankenstein and Babbage but even frigging Sherlock Homes running around; Japanese spins on British characters like this are always kind of fascinating. (Also... there is some tragic irony about a story revolving around reanimated corpses being completed by Itō’s friend after his death.)

So, that’s the plan for tonight: we’re going to be watching all three Project Itoh movies, in the order that Itoh wrote them! I think there’s gonna be some great stuff in here, and I hope I’ve given you reasons to be excited too~

so, if you’d like to check these out, please make your way down to  twitch.tv/canmom  - we’ll be starting the program in about 20-30 minutes once people are in there!

[zedechemist]

➵  BASICS

NAME: Zedekiah “Zed” Movska GOES BY: Zed AGE / D.O.B. 18th July, 1978 [45 yo] FACECLAIM: Antony Starr GENDER & SEXUALITY: Cis-Male, Questionable. HOMETOWN: Krasnoyarsk, Russia. CURRENTLY:Chinatown, Lower Manhattan. NYC. AFFILIATION: None. [Deals in the Black Market] JOB POSITION: Chemist & Anaesthesiologist.  EDUCATION: University Level. P.h.D in Pharmaceutical Science. RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Single. CHILDREN: None.

➵  TRAITS

POSITIVE:  Determined, Loyal, Perceptive and Versatile. NEGATIVE:  Cynical, Impulsive, Morbid and Condescending.

➵  BIOGRAPHY

    The most dangerous thing about Aqua Regia is not it’s potency to burn through flesh and bone, but that its toxic fumes can choke a man from inside out. Zedekiah Movska can make a person disappear – not from paper, but from existence; you cannot find a body if there’s nothing to find; you cannot find the cause if there’s no chemical trace left to track.

    Chemical warfare doesn’t always come in large doses – but in the small ones, the ones that you can’t find in any ordinary autopsy. Those can be far more lethal. Because what’s better than the story of a dead man with no trace of ever being? Makes one hell of a fun investigation.

    From a family with heavy ties in the media world; expectations arise that following in footsteps is a likely outcome. That the Movska’s all end up in print and that their names are plastered at the end of every sell out paper that gets published. Zed started that way; growing up in a hard-headed, determined environment that raised children with a heavy hand a less coddling. Businessmen with a violent tongue and a knack for telling stories. 

    The eldest Movska of three, he found that his interests and theirs differed, subjects that were not where his talents laid. Not quite the epitome of the rebellious teenager, but certainly aware that he was not talented with the gifts required for Movska Media. 

     It was after almost losing an arm to hydrochloric acid in a botched chemistry class at sixteen did Zed really begin to thrive within another field; a first hand experience of what he could do. A newfound loyalty to science came with an entirely new understanding of the world and how much better it could be if he could control chemicals to fit his spiralling desires to appease his own interests. The way he understood science; medical chemistry and how it could both be helpful and lethal in the right or wrong hands; it was a far touch from the papers his family strived for his involvement in. 

    With that kind of scientific interest, comes a natural affinity to chemical engineering; one thing into another; something simple into something lethal with a few correct quantities soon let to the developing interest in pharmaceutical chemistry and how easy manufacturing drugs could be; how wanted they are in every class of person. 

 Suddenly, comes the realisation that just as his family had money at fingertips; used it to buy their way through life; uninterested in his own outside of the familial field, his sourced income could be found in manufacturing. The illegal kind; the little lab in the bedroom sort that led to something more right after school. A loft that was then his and a front that told he was everything his family wanted him to be whilst being everything that isn’t; a small time druglord that would be the biggest Movska story to date if it ever become known.

   An irony that still, to this day, Zed finds pockets of humour in.

   The fear of getting caught never seemed to bother him, a man detached from the terrors that most find troubling, he finds empty. Brushed aside like it’s the normal, that running a tiny operation in his youth isn’t problematic behaviour; doesn’t see that watching acid burn isn’t something pleasant to be fascinated with, not at least, to the degree Movska does. Wits and natural smarts kept him in the shadows, developing substances that could do everything he knew from the day he nearly lost an arm. 

   Chemicals can be helpful in the right hands or truly lethal; it’s all about the dosage. 

    Enrolling and studying pharmaceutical science at Columbia, Zedekiah had a complicated relationship with anaesthesia and its properties; he’d mastered the art of levelling pain and a little too often did his drug knowledge come in handy for something a little darker than simply drug manufacturing and distribution, for the first time then, he’d been witness to how easily he and his creations can become an invisible killer.

    Then it wasn’t just once. 

    And it made some fantastic headlines in the papers.

    Any city, in any country, has its degree of shady dealings. When his family branched out outside Europe, he ended up in New York for his continued study, a hotspot and fairly notorious for its underworld; operating like a network, challenged by few; rivalries born of blood feuds and a structure that is unafraid to put civilians in the crossfire. It suits Zedekiah’s ideals well, small time drug maestro in a city that runs on its own set of rules. A man with a name too linked to a status; a front that an alias is fast formed.

   New York, during the ending years of his studies; when the breakthrough of where Zed put both feet in the operational world of some of the darkest people in the city birthed Zlotoska as a name whispered through the darkness. A man capable of dealing the things that aren’t mainstream; niche complicated personal recipes as carried from Russia when he first got a taste for chemistry and pharmaceuticals, distributed in quiet small waves. A ripple effect one would say, word of mouth the viper that snatches lives. 

    Making a name for drug dealing in New York City, with the way the Cartel has its claws in everything is like playing a chess on a board with only the king in play. Zed knows it, never buries himself in it when he’s a Movska with credentials and a name unblemished on paper. 

    Playing in the black market remains to be a game and eventually, a skill like that never stays as silent as those might wish it to. Not when there’s an even more powerful and quiet force laying in the depths of the underworld that preys on gifted individuals with criminalistic tendencies. 

   Zed Movska; invisible killer; master of manufacturing. He doesn’t so much mind or care for the name itself, doesn’t change that he remains a specialist in his chosen field; veteran in the chemistry world and ever an irritant in any conference for calling out those factually wrong.

Science is all about being prepared to be proven wrong. Zed’ll be that for all. 

   A doctor in his own right and able to patch-up when necessary, he’s a physician that hides how capable he is in doing everything but. Zedekiah can play surgeon in some cases but he prefers to leave little to no trace of anyone he treats. It lets him manoeuvre in the pharmaceutical world, planting both feet in the door to easy access drug supplies. That plays favourable in his standing with New York’s medical drug liasons - helps with keeping tabs on the rival trafficking too.

   Second to the chemist, Zed can be friendly, he’ll be someone to trust and he’ll be your friend (as long as you’re not a fucking idiot). But he knows what comes first and his fixture to his own often selfish wants will always dominate; that purpose. You trust the man with the alluring smile and the silver tongue until he holds a needle to your arm and says “just a pinch.”; your heart leaps; you breathing hitches and you know you should trust the doctor, but you just can’t quite.

   Over the years, Zedekiah has been in and out of New York on various stints; often a year or two at a time out in Russia using his knowledge to extend his reach in his homeland and make an appearance to his family. But despite these small travels over the decades, he likes to think he’s kept steady tabs on New York. He regularly visits Columbia (and neighbouring universities) as a past alumni to take guest lectures for budding chemistry students; this gives him some time out to appreciate what he’s always been passionate about as well as bounce interesting conversations of inquisitive students which he thoroughly enjoys. Can’t stay in the underworld every hour and needs a little air to talk chemistry elsewhere.

  When he’s not doing work; the illegal kind or playing stand-in professor, he’s at the medical centre as a consultant. Zedekiah is a busy man - just how he’d like it, idle hands are not something he works well with. It doesn’t work well for others either, so he eliminates indolence at every opportunity. 

   For a long time, he’s been indifferent to any of the questionable and sometimes traumatic operation he runs, its of illegal calibre (of course) and the fear to get caught doesn’t seem to faze the man; spent so long doing it, so good and trusting in his abilities that his legacy couldn’t be halted so easily by the law. He has no time for those who challenge him. Raised under firm hands – ones that didn’t tolerate disobedience and reprimanded without mercy. For decades, that remained unwavering.

➵  HEADCANONS

He studied pharmaceutical science at Columbia and progressed his specialisms in the chemistry field; anaesthetics in particular, but has capably patched up wounds for his people over the decades and distributed pain relief.

Often found holed up somewhere in his loft apartment in Chinatown ( formerly —with his cousin Lev, who has moved out some years ago) impersonating something of a mad scientist as he does his best not to blow the place to pieces.

Zedekiah has some gnarly chemical burns on his right arm from a teenage chemistry accident. Most of his lower arm is scarred from it.

Nice guy, might burn you with acid, depends on the day.

Pharmaceutical Engineer and Anaesthesiologist.ZedeCHEMIST, ha, get it. OK. Moving on

Raised bilingual, he can speak both English and Russian fluently.

Sometimes takes chemistry lectures at Columbia as a stand-in where he enjoys communicating with students and bouncing interesting ideas back and forth - he considers that the generations have only gotten smarter over the years, sometimes.

Consultant at New York Medical Centre for Anaesthetics; brash about involvement directly with any distribution and a little bit of a perfectionist when in a clinical environment.

Developed and synthesised drugs for large pharmaceutical firms in the past - an easy moneymaker for him personally, but none of his more lethal and toxic creations.

➵  CONNECTIONS

LUDA MOVSKA | Mother, Krasnoyarsk, Russia VADIM MOVSKA | Father, deceased. JOSEPH MOVSKA | Uncle , NYC, USA. MARKOV MOVSKA | Younger Brother, deceased. VANYA MOVSKA | Sister, Krasnoyarsk, Russia.  EVA MOVSKA | Cousin, NYC, USA LEV MOVSKA | Cousin, NYC, USA. DIANA MOVSKA | Cousin, NYC, USA. LOLA VILLARIN | Cousin in Law, NYC, USA. RAHI KUMAR | Best Friend, Colleague, Science Fellow. NYC, USA.

[fuzzydreamin]

Random Headcanons for: Curie

⚕ Has a hard time adjusting to a biological body. First with getting used to normal functions like breathing, blinking, and walking, but also the emotions. She had multiple confusing breakdowns that Sole had to help her through because she didn't know what was happening to her body or how to deal with it and got overwhelmed.

⚕ Sometimes moves weird. She forgets she doesn't float or have three arms and can't look in multiple directions at once anymore.

⚕ Her first time being injured in battle was horrible. She knew so much about how bodies work and how to fix these things, but she had no idea what pain was, or how badly it and shock would really effect her. She had to be dragged to safety before she was able to get ahold of herself. It wasn't even that bad of a wound either.

⚕ Has trouble sleeping at first. She's not used to doing such a thing, and like a toddler will stay up long past being tired because she doesn't understand that she needs to go to bed. And then falling asleep is an issue too, it's all just so weird to her and she can't stop her brain thinking.

⚕ While she has a vast amount of medical knowledge, she was a researcher first and foremost. She learns more about being a practising combat medic and surgeon from Doc Anderson, Scribe Haylen, and others.

⚕ Every time she runs into a doctor or scientific mind in the wastes she will eagerly begin drilling them for new information. Talking shop is one of her favourite things to do.

⚕ She's super social and interested in talking to just about every person she meets, not just scientists and doctors. She loves to learn from farmers about how they grow their crops or take care of their animals, and the art of trade from merchants and caravaners. She feels there's something of value to learn from everyone. She also just plain likes being able to hang out and talk to people.

⚕ She's only sweet and naieve for a short time while she figures out the world and her new body. She'll always be very kind of course, but she's a fast learner and becomes quite socially adept after a few years in the wastes. She can see through people and becomes quite hard to trick. Just be honest, she'd probably help you anyway.

⚕ If she had to choose a last name she'd go with 'Collins', after the scientist who created her.

⚕ Has a habit of amassing mostly useless little knick-knacks and junk. She's curious about items she comes across, having only been exposed to mostly medical items and the few personal belonings the scientists had. So she often ends up finding something, inspecting it for a moment, then stuffing it in a pocket and forgetting about it until they get home and she re-discovers whatever she's picked up along the way. She's not often actually attached to the items she collects, so if they do have a use she's usually happy to part with them. The experience of finding them and learning about them means more to her than holding onto it.

⚕ After getting a body and experiencing real pain and fear she feels sorry for her opponents and wishes for a way to fight without always having to resort to killing. Because of this she picks up a syringer rifle and starts crafting and experimenting with different darts. She'll still kill if she has to, but she's more likely to heavily sedate an opponent to win a fight.

⚕ She eventually starts to keep mole rats. They were her only friends in the hidden Vault section after the scientists died, and she enjoyed being able to run her tests on them. She still runs tests on them but she is as humane as possible. She names and spoils them.

NSFW

⚕ It takes her a long time to bother with either romantic or sexual relations. There's so much she needs to get used to, and so many interesting things she wants to explore and learn about since she's been cut off from the world for so long. It's just really not at the top of her list.

⚕ When she does eventually try things out she is open to trying quite a bit, for the sake of quenching her curiosity, but settles on just enjoying being vanilla for the most part. Sex simply isn't a big deal to her, she could take it or leave it honestly.

⚕ Does not enjoy medical roleplay. A doctors relationship to their patients should always be professional and focused on their care, even among friends and lovers. Trying to add a sexual element to it distresses her.

⚕ If Sole takes advantage of her naivete and romances her she does eventually figure out what a breach of ethics and trust that is and confronts them about it. How could you do that to someone? She'll have trouble ever trusting Sole with other (vulnerable) people again. Forget about the relationship falling apart the whole friendship is probably ruined, at the very least she'll never see Sole the same way again.

[50shadesofoctarine]

BETA READERS - Pweese??? (Audio Transcript Below Cut)

The ethics board didn’t know what to do with him; Neither did the medical board nor the astrological association. Dr. A.J. Crowley was an academic rockstar—for all that the term “rockstar” meant in an environment where the ratio of knitted sweaters to human beings was an astounding 3.3 sweaters for every researcher in too many layers—his name plastered somewhere on most of the papers produced by Tadfield University, as well as a hefty chunk of papers produced outside of TadU (his groundbreaking statistical analysis popping up in all sorts of odd places, although, most notably, in Aziraphale’s pub arguments). A born contrarian, the sciences had called to him. And of course they had! Science was the occupation of mule-headed pricks (see: Nicolaus Copernicus), curious entrepreneurial spirits (see: Marie Curie), and madmen (see: Freud). And Crowley just so happened to be all three. There wasn’t a major field of study that he didn’t have a thumb in. If there was a scientific consensus to be had on the matter, then there was also a Crowley to unrepentantly flip the bird at it.

These were the foreboding thoughts overshadowing the mind of one young (although only young by the standards of post-PhD graduates, which is to say, not young at all) Dr. Fell as he glanced, awestruck, to the other side of the University cafeteria, where Dr. A.J. Crowley sat, eating a bowl of store-bought salad. Aziraphale had been crushing—academically, of course—on Crowley ever since he had read the man’s first paper on multidimensional approaches to quantum entanglement. That Crowley was wrong in his conclusions about relativity and its subsequent angles of observation was no impediment in Aziraphale’s appreciation of his intelligence. They might have disagreed on the finer points, but Crowley’s writing was a wonder to behold. Aziraphale had nearly vibrated out of his seat upon spotting him. Nevermind that he logically understood that Crowley published papers under TadU, the same university that Aziraphale himself wrote for, and therefore bumping into him was not outside the realm of possibility. It was the principle of the matter. Aziraphale knew Crowley as a photo above a well-read author’s note; It was something else entirely to witness him, breathing, flesh and blood, as he gazed into his salad, wine coloured locks flowing down his back. Odd to know that he had poor posture, or that he forked his food around more than he actually ate it. Intimate, in a strange way; That Aziraphale could quote the innermost musings of a man mere meters away from him.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale’s single player staring contest was quite suddenly put into co-op mode, as Crowley—almost like he could sense the attention goring into his back—looked up from his salad and into Aziraphale’s, now bashful, gaze. A tense moment of delicate liminality followed, Aziraphale waiting (much like a man at the gallows) for Crowley’s reaction to his impropriety. He was then surprised when Crowley's expression morphed into one of recognition, rather than one of disgust or awkwardness.

“Dr. Fell!” Crowley called, a grin overtaking the once thoughtful lines of his face. He waved one of his arms haphazardly in a ‘come-over-here’ kind of gesture, using the other to pull out a chair beside him. Aziraphale had the grace to be momentarily astonished before hurrying to meet his academic hero.

“Dr. Crowley, It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance! I’ll be honest, I-I never expected you to know who I was… Let alone…” He let his words trail off into pitiful nothings, stuttering and red in the face.

“Just ‘Crowley’ if you will, or ‘Anthony’ if you must. And the pleasure’s all mine! I first read your work, oh… It’d have to be at least five or six years ago now. Your master’s thesis, I believe. On Paul’s doctrines.” With a leering grin, Crowley leaned forward.

“I will admit, Dr. Fell, your writing had me positively hooked.” He said it as though it were a secret, the kind you wouldn’t dare repeat to your mother. However, from what Aziraphale could tell, he just sort of spoke like that. Like someone who was constantly sharing the intricacies of some deviant sexual act for all the innocence of the actual words themselves. Every sentence that fell out of his mouth reeked of an implied “you saucy minx” like the ghost of Fran Drescher past.

“Er.” Aziraphale replied intelligently, taking a seat. Crowley seemed unperturbed by the sudden verbal ineptitude. When working with academics, you get used to an assorted array of oddball characters. It’s terribly presumptuous, and even more so unproductive, to expect them all to conform to the typical back and forth of neurotypical communication. You don’t get to become Dr. A.J. Crowley, pain in the arse to astrophysicists everywhere, by being over-particular about the oratory of one’s downtime.

“You’re wrong, of course.” He continued with an impish grin, forking his salad cheekily. Aziraphale hadn’t known someone could fork a salad cheekily, but nonetheless, here Crowley was, attempting to prove him incorrect on two fronts.

“Wrong? Dear boy, that was my master's thesis. Should you choose to debate this, I fear I’ll have the home field advantage.” His response was deliberately unaffected, a haughty tune laced with the playfulness that Crowley was absolutely drenched in.

“Unfortunately for you, I’ve read it. And, as such, I fear nothing.” If at all possible, Crowley’s smirk got even wider, eyeing up a challenge like a dog would eye a rather large t-bone steak. It made him seem like the same kind of fellow you’d find jumping between skyscrapers in one of those panic attack inducing youtube videos. Within the relatively safe environment of academic discourse—long past the days of Pythagoras’ maths fueled murder, or, for that matter, Plato’s wrestling prime—it made Aziraphale feel brave.

“Those are bold words, Crowley. Especially coming from someone who has genuinely used Shrodinger’s cat to argue for quantum superpositions.”

Startled, Crowley laughed, mouth opening wide enough to expose the mushy green remnants of the salad he had been chewing. Behind dark glasses, his eyes glittered with a delighted surprise that told Aziraphale Crowley hadn't read his paper on modern approaches to unified field theory.

“Just because the sod wouldn’t have liked my stance, doesn’t mean I can’t use his thought experiment to prove it.” Crowley snorted, looking at Aziraphale speculatively. 

“Anyway, it figures you’d like Shrodinger. All that religious symbolism.” He sighed, inching closer. It would have been a suave manoeuvre were it not for the horrible screech of metal chair leg against hard concrete flooring. Aziraphale shuddered at the sound, wincing apologetically at Crowley. Hoping to convey with his eyes alone that ‘oh no, I did notice your blunder, but I shan’t make a fool of you; I’m kinder than that, see?’

“Science as an imitation of the religious seems more like your sort of thing, actually. I prefer proper works of faith.” He said instead, realising that the eye message wasn’t getting across all that well (because Aziraphale was about as smooth as Crowley in that regard).

“Proper works of faith, huh?” The raise of Crowley's eyebrows could be seen from space. Not that space would want to see such a thing. Aziraphale imagined that space would feel quite silly indeed, if such a glance had been directed towards it. At least, Aziraphale felt quite silly, watching Crowley’s eyebrows approach his hairline; Knocking—not impolitely—for entry.

“C.S. Lewis, mainly. I don’t mind a spot of Tolkien, either. I don’t suppose you read a lot of fantasy, do you?” As Aziraphale was wont to do when embarrassed, he puffed up. And subsequently puffed down; Softening the sulky turn of his tone with the upwards lilt of a question at the end.

“I don’t read much at all, really. Although I do make an exception for the Screwtape Letters.” Crowley answered, trying to find some common ground.

“You seem the type. Devilish as you are in your academic work.” Aziraphale teased. Regardless, Crowley soldiered on, giving tit for tat. Crowley did like tit.

“I’m more into the digital age, not that you’d know anything about that. You don’t even have a Twitter as far as I’m aware.”

If Aziraphale had indeed known what Twitter was, it would have been remarkably telling that Crowley knew he didn’t have one.

[olddirtybadfic]

The Angsty Domestic Life of Team Rocket: WTFcats (part one of three)

And we're back in the dark. Or at least a passing shadow. This starts off with standard-issue angst, then veers into what-the-fuckery toward the second chapter.

Also, so many unexplained talking Meowth OCs. WHY.

Warnings: Pokémon/Human romantic relationship (this time with an OC talking Meowth); unexplained mpreg/male pregnancy; workplace violence; shaky grasp of the realities of pregnancy and childrearing; general angst; lack of medical and scientific knowledge; original characters; possible out-of-character moments for Jessie, James, and Meowth; odd ideas about romance

-O-o-O-o-O-

The Meowth kitten packed her things. She wanted to get as far away from that place as she could. Her parents got blasted into the troposphere almost every day, her younger brother cried almost nonstop, wanting his man-mother, and she was considered a freak of nature.

The Meowth kitten’s name was Methidy. She was an unusual kitten. Her parents were a male Meowth and a human male. They were testing out a drug for Team Rocket scientists. The drug could make humans produce Pokémon offspring. The experiment worked and she and her younger brother, Methoni, were the results of it.

She looked unusual for a Meowth kitten, too. Instead of having grey eyes and cream-colored fur like her father, she had green eyes and bluish violet hair like her mother.

No matter how much her parents, James and another talking Meowth, said that the blue fur was pretty, their teammate Jessie always said, “It’s still pretty freaky.”

Methidy knew her parents loved her. But she just couldn’t stay in that hellhole any longer.

-O-o-O-

The next day, James found a note on his dresser. When he read it, he passed out.

When he came to, Matalico, his boyfriend (another talking Meowth), and Meowth were sitting next to him, wiping his face with a wet rag.

“I read the note, James,” Matalico said.

“What did the note say?” Meowth asked.

James gave Meowth the note. It read:

“Dear Mom and Dad:

I’m leaving the house. I can’t stand to be here anymore. It’s too painful with Jessie calling me a freak. I’ll send you an address and phone number when I find a place to live.

Your daughter, Methidy. P.S. I love you both.”

“This is just plain sad. I hope we can find her,” Meowth said.

“Why are our children growing up to be like me? I don’t want them to have to go through all of what I did,” James said between sobs.

“They’re like you because you had them and raised them. It’s just hereditary. Besides, you managed. Maybe Methidy will, too,” Matalico said.

“At least we know she still loves us,” James said.

-O-o-O-

Later that day, Methoni said his first words.

“Run away,” Methoni said quietly.

“Matalico! Methoni’s talking!” James cried.

Matalico ran over to the two.

“Run away,” the kitten repeated slightly more loudly.

Then he ran in circles saying, “Run away!” over and over again.

When he finally stopped, James picked him up and cradled him, with tears in his eyes.

“Even Methoni wants to leave,” he sobbed.

Matalico kind of felt guilty for being so proud of Methoni’s first words. James put his whole heart into being a parent and what did he get? Two kittens who just seem to want to run away.

Methoni didn’t really want to run away. He had just heard that phrase so often, he memorized it.

He would stick around when things got really bad.

-O-o-O-

One day, Team Rocket got a call from Giovanni.

When Matalico got off the phone, he looked so serious, James was shocked.

“They don’t need me anymore. So….they’re going to kill me,” Matalico said.

James was so shocked, he couldn’t even cry.

“But, Matalico….We need you….” James whispered.

“But they don’t.”

“They can’t!”

“Yes, they can. I’m no longer useful to them, James,” Matalico said.

The cruelty was enough to kill James, but somehow, it didn’t.

The next day, Team Rocket thugs came and took Matalico. An hour later, they threw his snow-covered body at the door of the cabin as James opened the door.

James screamed and cried as if he was being tortured, which he basically was. He couldn’t see how he could go on without Matalico.

Then things took a turn for the worse.

-O-o-O-o-O-

Moral of the story: Go ahead, make your characters' names start with "Meth." You won't cringe half to death when you reread it twenty years later.