#what is anomaly detection

[firsteigen-databuck]

What is Anomaly Detection? Anomaly detection – also known as outlier analysis – is an approach to data quality control that identifies those data points that lie outside the norms for that dataset. 

[moeblob]

Right and his work menaces (Brent and Karen).

I don't remember last I mentioned it but apart from crude nicknames to people (except Chris), he also just puts them in his phone really weird (except Chris, who is literally in his phone as Chris). And I bring this up because in Right's phone, Karen is saved as "Lawful Obligation".

[bizlybebo]

rewatched atsv yet again a bit ago and having so many pd thoughts.sighs

[venniekocsis]

The Future of Perception: Unlocking the Power of Quantum Resonance Scanning

In an era where science and consciousness are converging, a new frontier is emerging—Quantum Resonance Scanning (QRS). This advanced method of detection, analysis, and perception has the potential to redefine how humans interact with their environment, detect hidden structures, and even perceive interdimensional anomalies. But what exactly is Quantum Resonance Scanning, and how can humans harness…

[oksoimstilllongforusernames]

To this day I still wonder how The Knight is in my photo album but like, from way back in 2014 (NEARLY 10 YEARS AGO)

[himbodruid]

Ancient Instinct

Sylus x Reader

-:-breeding kink -:- Sylus loses control -:- consent king -:- primal, carnal, frenzied -:-

Present timeline mirror to A Dragon in Rut

INTENDED FOR 18+ READERS. MINORS DNI.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

“Hey…there’s something wrong with the boss.” Kieran’s voice was filled with concern, enough that you knew it wasn’t some weird ploy by Sylus to get you to visit. Plus, Luke was usually the one that called if Sylus wanted to casually bully you into visiting.

Your phone dinged and you quickly pulled it from your ear to view the message. It was a photo from Luke, showing the destruction of the front room of the base. Furniture was smashed, paintings torn from the wall, and other various decorations thrown about. The brandy decanter that’d been on a side table laid shattered on the ground, along with the two glasses that typically accompanied it.

“Kieran, what the fuck happened?” Worry sank into you as your eyes darted over the photo, hoping you wouldn’t find blood. There weren't really any signs of a struggle, just aimless chaos.

“We don’t know, we thought you might. He came home last night in a scary good mood and then halfway through the night, he just started wrecking the place.”

“We just had dinner and took a walk around the park, there wasn’t anything unusual about anything.” You tried thinking over the night and still couldn’t come up with an answer. “Where is he now?”

“He’s holed up in his room now, but we’re leaving. Before this temper tantrum, he asked us to go pick something up so there won't be anyone here.” There was a hint of uncertainty in Kieran’s voice, as though the twins were reluctant to leave Sylus in the state he was in.

“Okay, that’s fine,” you pinched the bridge of your nose. “I just got home from work, so I’ll be there in a bit to see if I can talk some sense into him.”

The call disconnected and you hastily packed a bag for an overnight stay in the N109 Zone. You were out the door and on your motorbike in a matter of minutes, speeding through the darkening streets to get to him as quickly as you could.

When you arrived, the house was eerily quiet. There was almost always something from Sylus’s collection of vinyls playing, the sound filtering through the halls from deep within the façade, but not tonight. It was dark, too. Not a single fireplace or lamp was lit. For all intents and purposes, the house was empty. But still you cautiously pressed onward.

“Sylus?” Your voice echoed in the house as you stepped gingerly over the debris, the light of your phone guiding your way. You made your way to his bedroom, knocking on the door.

“Sylus?” You called again when you cracked the door open. A single dim lamp let you see that the room was in similar disarray to the rest of the house. Still, there was no response, and you thought that maybe he’d left.

A feral-sounding growl emanated from the room. It didn’t sound human at all, and you wished you’d brought your weapon. Was all of the destruction the result of a wanderer? Your watch didn’t detect anything but-

“Leave.” Sylus’s voice was strained and…off. Instead of the usual gravel, there was a hint of something more, something beastly. You had heard stories of people turning into wanderers…was it possible that Sylus was a victim to this anomaly?

“Sy, is everything okay?” You dropped into his nickname out of habit, hoping that whatever had taken over his mind would recognize it.

“If you know what’s best for you, Kitten, you will leave right now.” His words echoed in your head, something familiar about them and this situation. You had brief flashes of tapestries and a cave before your mind returned to the present.

“Sy, are you hurt? The twins called me,” you said calmly, stepping further. You still couldn’t see him, but you could hear his ragged breathing coming from deeper in the room.

You had just cleared the archway that separated the sittig area from the sleeping space when you were pushed roughly against the wall. The side table holding the lamp teetered violently before falling over and taking the lamp with it, shattering the bulb. In the brief seconds the light was on him, you could see that Sylus’s pupils were blown wide and his face was flush. In the newfound darkness, his hot breath fanned across your neck in a series of shaky pants.

“Sylus, please. Tell me what’s wrong, you’re worrying me,” you say, raising your hand to cup his cheek. He made a sound like a barely restrained groan as he turned his face into your touch, inhaling deeply. He pressed his lips against your fingers, your palm, your wrist. You were certain that if he’d had a tail, it would be lashing about in agitation.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he growled. “I don’t think I can be very accommodating or gentle right now, Kitten.”

His warning rolled off him, and yet he still pressed further into you. He buried his nose into your neck, inhaling sharply and his lips trailed your pulse.

“S-Sy,” you gasped as his teeth scraped against your skin, in a spot that held an echo of an ache that no longer existed. Worry was very quickly being replaced with something else, something that pooled deep in your core.

“Mmh,” he purred, nuzzling his face against your neck again. “Your scent…steamy and sweet, like cherry wine. It’s been driving me insane all day.”

“Sylus, what-“ your question was cut off when he slanted his mouth across yours. All thoughts escaped you as he consumed you, plunging his tongue into your mouth the moment you opened for him. Worry and doubt fled from you and every sense was filled with him. You’d even forgotten why you arrived at the base in the first place as he hoisted you up against the wall. Your legs hitched up to wrap around his waist and your arms folded around his broad shoulders. He growled in approval, still devouring you as he pressed impossibly close. You could feel him standing at attention, hard and ready, and you wondered how long he’d been in that condition.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice a breathless whisper against your lips.

“Well, I am here. What’s going on with you, you’re worrying me.” You had to tug at his hair to get him to back off just the slightest bit. Even with your eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, his face was too far cast in shadows. He was definitely still Sylus, though- you didn’t see any signs of him transforming into a monster. Just the raging hardon that was pressed against your core.

“Kitten,” he whined, dropping his head against your shoulder. His breathing was ragged, sharp inhales let go as shaky exhales. “This need I feel…it’s like I crave you on some primal level.”

He groaned when you tugged at his hair again, just a gentle pull to guide his mouth back to yours. His chest rumbled in what felt like a purr, the vibrations rolling through you to gather at your already wanting core. You gave your silent consent to him by pulling him closer, devouring his mouth in equal fervor. You gently caught his bottom lip between your teeth and his entire body shuddered.

“You should-” lips found your leaping pulse.

“Run away-“ his teeth scraped the slope of your neck.

“While you still can-“ he latched onto your collarbone, sucking at the spot with a hard draw to create a mark there. You gasped and squirmed as best you could while crushed against the wall by his bulk. The action ground your core against his length and he groaned when he released you from his mouth.

“Take me,” you breathed into him. “Use me. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

He groaned again and hauled you against him, pulling away from the wall to stumble blindly to his bed. There he dropped you onto the mattress, bathing you in the pale lights of the city filtering in from the window. His eyes were still cast in shadow, but you could still see the desire that darkened his expression. He was silent, save for the sound of his heavy breaths, as his hand stroked from calf to hip. Heat blazed from his touch, sinking through the fabric of the leggings you wore.

“Last chance, Kitten,” he growled, the sound rumbling low in his chest. Hands rested at your hip, teasing the waistband in silent question. Though you had already given explicit consent, he waited.

Rather than voicing your answer, and rather than giving in to what he so very clearly wanted, your hands found the collar of his shirt. With slow precision, you unbuttoned his shirt while keeping your eyes locked on his. His breath came in shuddering bursts, his body trembling as you teased him. It was a cruel test of his control, even knowing how close he was to snapping. But you couldn’t help yourself. There was something about seeing carnal desire written in every feature, in every motion, that made you want to take advantage of it.

A sharp inhale, followed by a shuddered exhale when your hand trailed down his newly exposed chest in a tantalizing sweep. He caught your hand before it could trail too far down his abdomen, bringing it to his lips and laying a kiss across your knuckles, and another at your wrist.

And then his lips found yours in a searing kiss to seal your agreement. There was nothing short of passion in the way he devoured you, the way he coaxed you open to tangle his tongue with yours. The heat of his mouth trailed along your jaw, down your neck, searing into any exposed skin he could access until he was stopped my the lapel of the button down shirt you wore. Without warning, he grasped the overlapped edges at the front and ripped your shirt wide open. Buttons flew in every direction and all you could do was muffle your moan with a gasp. Because damn, that show of strength was not one you expected to be so hot. You didn’t even care about the loss of the shirt, you wanted him to do it again.

With the obstruction out of his way, Sylus continued the forge a blazing trail of kisses down your body. The bandeau you wore as a bra was shoved down so that he could swirl his tongue around one nipple and then the other. Soft bites to the undersides of your breasts as he continued downward elicited a sharp inhaled gasp from you. His fingers slipped into the waistband of your leggings at each hip and then tugged, removing them and your underwear in one swift motion. Shyness coursed through you when you were finally fully bared to him, but you didn’t fight him when he held your legs in place, spread for him, so he could rake his eyes up and down you.

His lips found the inside of your knee, teeth finding your thigh, and then his face was dangerously close to your core. You swore you could see his eye flash a quick glow, but the next moments pushed all thoughts and reason from your head.

“I’ll start with your warmest spot…” he murmured against your skin. And then he dipped his head further, his breath fanning against your slick folds. “And until I’m finished, you’re not allowed to stop me.”

And then he descended, overwhelming your cunt with precise strokes of his tongue. You tried to twist away from him, crying out in pleasure, but he held you fast. His gaze bored into you, even as your hands sunk into the silky strands of his hair. He worked you until you were right on the precipice, but then pulled away with a devilish grin before you could crash over the other side. You whined at his unfair treatment until he set about removing his own clothing. Your own gaze devoured him the more he exposed of himself, and fuck he was perfect in every way.

He crawled languidly up your body and settled over you, reclaiming your mouth in a hard, punishing kiss. His knee wedged between yours, pushing and coaxing until you had enough thinking power to wrap yourself around him. This put the head of his cock right at your entrance, and you strained your hips towards him in a desperate bid for penetration. A dark chuckle escaped him when he realized what you were attempting.

“All mine,” he growled. Your knee was hooked over his elbow, one at first and then both as the kiss progressed to a carnal need. You were open fully to him now, and all that was left was for him to take that plunge.

And fuck, did he ever.

His hips snapped forward without hesitation, not even affording you the time to adjust to his girth and length. Not that it was necessary, not when he glided into you easily on the slickness of your arousal. He slammed against you, sinking into you to the hilt, and you couldn’t help the pleasured sound that escaped you. You folded your arms around his shoulders, nails biting into his skin when he tried to pull back. He didn’t get far before his hips jerked forward again, almost off their own accord.

It was as though there was some primal instinct that drove him into you so impossibly deep. You couldn’t understand where it came from, but fuck it felt good. The sensations of his cock slamming into you paired with the guttural moans erupting from him brought you back to that precipice rapidly. So rapidly that you barely had a moment's notice before you came apart around him. Pleasure zipped up your spine, turning your mind blank. All you could do was arch beneath him, crying out his name even as he continued to plunder your body.

He so easily folded you in half and set a pace that was bordering on punishing. What little control he could claim to have had in this moment was gone as he rutted into you. The sounds of your bodies colliding over and over rose to join your pleasured cries and his own grunting moans. You were glad the base had emptied due to his tantrum, because it would be very obvious what was happening should anyone step on the floor landing. Hell, even floors below could probably hear your loud, frenzied mating.

Feeling bold, maybe even mischievous, you lifted your mouth to the jumping pulse at his neck and scraped your teeth against it. Sylus let out a shaky, breathy moan and tilted his head away to grant you more access. With a grin, you bit down on that corded muscle that made up the slope of his neck.

His head fell against your chest with a deep moan, slamming his hips into you hard. Your bite turned into sucking on his neck, raising a mark to show your claim on him to anyone who would dare to look. And he also latched his mouth to your skin, drawing out the same kind of mark.

With a growl, he released your neck to observe the purpling mark he made. His gaze darted to yours, locking eyes with you as his thrusts increased to a breakneck pace. Pleasured expressions flitted across your face and you were almost certain that’s what he was looking for. And then you were arching into him again, crying out his name as your walls pulsed around him. The edge he had been chasing came and went, and he spilled into you with a guttural cry of his own. His hips jerked and slammed into you, his cock twitching as you milked him for everything he had.

He kissed you feverishly, and even as you came down from the high of release, he was still impossibly hard inside you. He rocked into you with small thrusts and you could feel his heart hammering beneath your touch.

“Fuck, how do you feel this damn good,” he whimpered against your lips. His body crashed against yours when you whimpered his name in response, over and over as he chased another release. It came to him with a sharp snap of his hips against yours, a shudder that swept through his entire body, and then more hot ropes of cum were flooding your cunt again.

And he still somehow wasn’t done with you.

A brief respite was all that was granted before he was thrusting deep into you again. At this point, you weren't even sure where you ended and he began. You were beginning to wonder if you would be leaking his cum for days after this encounter, even moreso when he slammed into you again with a guttural, primal cry of ecstasy. This one brought you over the edge with him, the feel of his cock pulsing and twitching inside you drawing release from you without warning.

Finally, after one more orgasm ripped through both of you, Sylus slumped against you. He nuzzled into your neck, soft kisses peppering your skin as you both attempted to regain your breath. He released your legs from his pressing hold and you ran your thighs down both sides of his body, delighting in the way he shuddered again.

You were both a sweaty mess, and you were certain the sheets needed to be changed once he slipped from your body. But he took his sweet time with you, giving gentle kisses that were a stark contrast to the primal possession he just exhibited. The weight and heat of him pressing you into the mattress felt like heaven, and you made a mental note to request this kind of skinship again in the future. Maybe with a little less mess. Or maybe with more, who knows.

You complained when he removed himself from the bed, grudgingly allowing yourself to be carried by him to the bathroom. You were exhausted and couldn’t work up the energy to feel embarrassed as he cleaned you up in the shower, but you were delighted in the way his hands massaged your scalp as he washed your hair. You nearly fell asleep when he blow dried your hair, making him have to carry you back to bed. He slipped you between fresh silk sheets and climbed in behind you, trailing kisses along the back of your neck and shoulders as he wrapped himself around you.

Safe and cozy, you fell into the deepest sleep you’d ever experienced.

And when you awoke to Sylus being gone, you couldn’t help but pout. Until he pushed through the door with a tray in hand, wrapped in his favourite brocade robe. He wordlessly set the tray down in front of you, and you saw it was filled with various crackers, cheeses, and fruits.

“Consider this my apology,” he said with a chuckle as you eagerly dug into the tray. He sat next to you in bed, allowing you to feed him. He was content enough to watch you enjoy the tray, but couldn’t say no when you turned to offer him bites.

“What was that all about anyway?” You ask finally, after working up the courage to not be shy. Sylus’s brows drew down in thought.

“I’m not entirely sure, I don’t think I’ve ever experienced something like that before. I came home to being surrounded by your essence, your scent, and it's like a switch flipped in my head. Like I was possessed. Like some sort of primal instinct that wouldn’t leave until I had you flat on your back with my cock driving into you.”

You blushed furiously at his casual words, occupying your hands and face with more food, so that you wouldn’t put those hands and your mouth all over him in some sort of retaliation. He chuckled darkly and leaned close, inhaling deeply at your neck.

“Mmh. I think I like my scent being intertwined with yours,” he growled into your ear.

Neither of you left his bed for a while following that, and you were grateful it was your weekend.

[countcard]

Hello everyone, it's me, got a new chapter out everyone Mozo is now here!

[stealingyourbones]

"This better get on the front page" Lois mutters under her breath. She's currently hiding in a crate that's being transported into a secretive "government" facility that calls themselves the GIW. No official data has been released as to what that acronym stands for. A new facility of theirs opened up in Metropolis and Lois is determined to find out what this organization is doing behind closed doors. From the rumors she's heard it sounds like it's Project Stargate level of crazy. This might get her another Pulitzer Prize.

Lois feels the truck holding her, and many many pallets of lead lined crates, pull to a stop. After that it's a blur of muffled words spoken by GIW employees as they unload the truck. Her crate gets picked up by a forklift and moved somewhere deep into the facility. Perfect.

After ten agonizing minutes, the forklift stops and lowers the crate into an unknown room and drives away.

Lois waits.

She has a thermal reader to detect if anyone is inside the room with her that (thank you Bruce) works through two inches of steel and lead.

The only thing she saw that was noticeable was an oddly large cold spot in an adjacent room.

Well it's now or never.

Lois moves cautiously, slowly opening the lid of the crate from underneath just enough to crawl herself through and then slowly put the lid back, careful to not make a sound.

She turns away from the crate and goes to investigate that cold spot.

Past a door, through a short hallway, and inside a high security cell, Lois saw the source of the temperature anomaly.

It's a boy. A boy no older than her son… A boy who was emaciated, collared, handcuffed, and covered in gauze.

A boy who looked near identical to her son's best friend, Damian.

[mariasont]

i loved lipgloss!!! i was wondering if i could pls request smth where spencer walks in the BAU unaware of the lipgloss on his lips from kissing bimbo!receptionist or on his cheeks from being kissed then everyone's like "👀☝️🤨" (english isnt my first language im sorry😭)

STICKY SITUATIONS - S.R

a/n: back with the lipstick trope yeehaw, can't tell you all how much i appreicate u all and how patient u guys are with me when i ghost for like 5 months at a time. thank you so much for the request sug <3

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x bimbo!receptionist!reader

warnings: spencer daydreaming about inappropriate things! PDA!

wc: 1.1k

Spencer woke up feeling untouchable, like nothing in the world could shake him. The kind of invincible where even the sky didn't seem like a limit. You had stayed the night, as you often did, and yet every time he woke up with you beside him, it felt like walking on air. Today was no exception.

You made sure he was late today — both of you were. He blamed you entirely, though he didn't mind. You pinned him down with a thousand little kisses, laughing as you insisted that it's essential for a day filled with good luck, and how else was he going to catch all the bad guys without a little charm from you?

Spencer's body vibrated like it was attuned to some invisible, higher frequency, one you alone could set. The smile threatening to break free felt inevitable, like a law of nature, as his mind drifted to thoughts of you — so unavoidable it was as if trying to pinpoint an electron's exact position and momentum in time. 

He had half a mind to swing by the reception desk just to see you. Just for a second. He'd convince himself it was enough, even though it never really was. Today, however, there was no chance he'd make it to his meeting. Not when you were wearing that skirt — his favorite. The one that fit you like it had been hand-stitched by hand for you alone, showing off your thighs in a way that made him picture them around his —

“Reid, you're —,” Hotch's voice snapped him back into reality, his brows down turning as he regarded Spencer with a curious frown before shaking his head. “Late. C'mon.”

Spencer followed Hotch into the conference room, their entrance as routine as ever, or so he assumed. But the moment they stepped inside, something shifted. The room crackled with stifled laughter, a ripple of poorly contained snickers breaking out across the team.

He froze mid-step, confusion knitting his brow as he scanned the room. His gaze flitted from face to face, trying to uncover the source of their amusement. The laughter, he realized with growing bewilderment, was somehow aimed squarely at him.

His pulse quickened as self-awareness kicked in, and his eyes darted downward, trying to detect the anomaly that had captured everyone's damn attention. A loose thread? A stain? Panic bloomed in his chest as he mentally ticked through a list of possibilities. His sweater seemed intact, no wayward strings. His pants were fine, no errant coffee stains or wrinkles. And his hair — well, his hair always had a mind of its own, but it wasn't that unruly today. Right?

Bastards.

He cleared his throat. “Okay, what did I miss?”

Emily tried, and failed, to smother her laughter behind a closed hand, shaking her head. “I think you might need to go to look in the mirror, lover boy.”

Spencer didn't bother questioning her. No explanation would be offered, at least not freely. He knew he'd get no real answers from this group, and honestly, he wasn't even sure he wanted them at this point. Instead, he slipped out of the conference room and headed down the hall, his mind a muddled tangle of confusion.

He was so distracted, so consumed with trying to figure out what he'd missed, that he nearly missed the sound of quick, approaching footsteps. It was only at the last second that he looked up, just in time for you to collide with him.

His hands moved instinctively, catching your waist as you stumbled forward, stopping you from toppling over.

Spencer's breath caught. Gods know if you'd fallen in those heels, you'd be lucky to escape with just a sprained ankle. But you didn't fall. Instead, you let out a startled giggle as you looked up at him wide-eyed.

“Whoopsie,” you said with a smile. “Hi there, handsome.”

The instant the words left your lips, you clamped a hand over your mouth, fighting back a high-pitched squeal of laughter.

Spencer, even more bewildered, furrowed his brows in confusion. “Okay, what?”

“Hold still,” you instructed, though your voice wavered between stifled giggles. You reached up for him, your fingertips hovering near his face.

He followed your hand with his eyes, still clueless, until you gently cupped his cheek. Whatever it was on his skin drew another wave of laughter from you, and in response, he prodded at your sides, each poke sending you into another fit of delighted squeals.

“Hey, that's not holding still, Dr.!” you gasped, halfheartedly swatting at his hands while you finished wiping away the last bit of whatever had clung to his face.

“Whoopsie daisy,” you said again, still brushing invisible flecks from his cheek, your voice reminding him of what he envisioned sunshine poured into a teacup would manifest as. “Aw, Spence, looks like I kinda-sorta-maybe left a tiny little lipstick stain behind.”

Your tone was drenched in honeyed innocence, as if this kind of thing just happened and you had no earthly clue how.

Spencer's eyes narrowed. “Is that why I've been subjected to my team's thinly veiled harassment?”

Your eyes went wide, and you gasped as if you'd just witnessed a high crime. “They were giving you trouble? Oh my gosh!”You pressed your fingertips to your lips. “Do I need to have a word with them?”

The determination in your voice sounded all too serious, and he was a little scared that you were actually prepared to march back to that conference room in your pretty heels and give the entire BAU a piece of your mind.

Spencer nearly chocked on a laugh. Of all possible reactions, yours was the sweetest, most fiercely protective, and downright hilarious. He held up a hand in a placating gesture, lips curving into a boyish grin. 

“Hmm, I appreciate the offer,” he murmured, gently tapping his chin with a finger as if considering it. “However, I think you might need to have a word with the real culprit who decided my face should double as her personal canvas this morning.”

“Me?” You pressed a hand dramatically to your heart. “I would never! I mean, sure, I might've given you a million good-luck kisses before you left, and maybe one or two... or three of my lip gloss stains decided to stick around, but that's hardly my fault!”

You shifted your weight to the balls of your feet and wiggled your fingers in a helpless sort of gesture. “That's just how good my gloss is, y'know?”

“Right,” he replied, voice quieter now, eyes warm as they traced your face. “Clearly the lip gloss is at fault. We'll have to issue it a stern warning later.”

“Exactly! Don't blame poor, innocent me.”You paused, lowering your voice conspiratorially, leaning close enough that he caught the faint scent of your perfume. “And if any of the team give you grief again, you know where to find me!”

Spencer hummed, placing a light hand on the small of your back, steering you gently away from the corridor.

“I'll keep that in mind,” he murmured, smiling as if the world had just aligned perfectly in that very hallway. “But for now, maybe we should try to make sure I get back to my meeting... gloss-free.”

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[kenyummy]

✰ 07. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 07. a fools own parade.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: im not really sure if it counts as it's a very small passage but tw for a lil bit of an identity/existential crisis??? not very sure haha I mostly just write what comes to mind

also, first father appearance! yay! he finally shows up, and he's as mysterious as ever, hehe. next chapter will be either dink focused or ... someone else... 🤔🤔🤔

prev. ✰ masterlist ✰ next.

You dab at your nose with a tissue, cringing at the sight of crimson still pouring out from it. How hard was that guy's chest, anyway?

A thick bandage is stuck tightly on your nosebridge, taped to your skin and soaked in blood. Changing it every hour was a giant pain, but you'd rather have a bloody bandage than clothes.

Thinking back on it, you almost can't imagine the look in Tim's eyes again. Nothing strange. Nothing too out of the ordinary, but different enough to make the hair on your arms raise.

(You're the greatest anomaly in his life. Isn't it natural a detective wishes to solve such a damning mystery?)

How differently his entire composure grew once he saw you laying there, dirtied hands clutching your face. Was it normal for a guy like him to change his entire stance at such a moment? You'd be inclined to believe he couldn't care less about something like this, from all those diary entries spanning several years.

But seeing that look, when you'd stopped him from coming closer, putting distance between you two, as you thought there'd always been, how could you possibly think that? That look of worry, fingers twitching as he reached out, and expression of pure betrayal when you'd stepped backwards. Away. From him.

Wasn't that how it'd always been? You couldn't stop thinking. Maybe you were wrong? Maybe your spidey sense, for the first time in your life, was wrong?

They say that a fool's time spent thinking is wasted time.

You spent hours sitting at your desk pondering all of this. What it meant. Why your siblings seemed to all give you this strange, sinking feeling in your stomach. Raise goosebumps up your arms.

Soon, these thoughts spiralled back to your home. How you could help Reed. Speed up the process. Not wishing to mess with his delicate work nor rush him, but also getting restless with this family.

This family who's known you for their whole lives, yet seems to similarly know nothing about you. This you, their you, any you. Too little to care, too much to hate. The worst kind of balance that upset the universe and made your stomach twist with bile.

But at this point, you weren't too sure who was who, which was which.

If, tommorow, you'd lost everything and if you were caught in a blazing heat, would it be you who had died? Or somebody else? Would it be you in that coffin, underneath a stone who's name carved into it, did not belong to you?

The concept of being your own person, what did it mean? What could it mean when there were more of you, exactly the same, only shaped by their environment? An endless amount of copies, down to the genetic level, each in different worlds yet unmistakably the same?

When you stare into the mirror, nothing is the same except the red that flows down your knuckles when you slam your fist into it. Nothing remains the same except what you look like inside.

Though—in the end—even that belonged to them, didn't it?

You barely ever see your sister, nor her blonde friend. The ginger haired woman has more pressing matters to attend to than ever seeing you, it seemed—something you'd actually grown to appreciate, seeing how positively suffocating those other "siblings" had started to become.

Dick, who was thankfully off in Blüdhaven around now. Jason, who should be out doing his own thing, but seemed to always spare some time for you... as much as you insisted on him not doing that. Tim, who always stared with a little too much intensity and danger hidden behind a sharp smile.

And Damian—your only blood-related sibling, seeming to take great pride in such a fact as he brings it up far more often than not.

You'd begun to realise a distinct lack of a parental figure in your...—

This. This life.

Not yours. This life absolutely was not yours. Everything is seriously messing with your head. Belonging to another unfortunate soul, who happened to have your name, shared your face and voice, yet was everything you never were. Experienced things you never did, yet as you lived in a freedom they could never dream of.

You pitied them more than anything else. But that didn't mean you could just give everything you've ever known up. Your people, your city, your friends, your freedom. This blood that runs through your veins and makes your heart beat steady—it may belong to them, but you never will.

As it spills, you will be free. Losing that chain that binds you and perhaps you will be allowed to feel that wind hitting your face once more. Allowed to swing, fly, feel air and be everything you were destined to become.

Your suit forms over your body and you leap out of your window, leaving nothing but a gust of wind in your wake.

Because, despite everything, it is still you.

The Spectacular Spidey seems to swing and never sleep—the alliteration in the title of this news article you've read makes your head hurt. Said only as an unfortunate pun referring to how you swing from building to building, and only operate during night hours.

(Yet, still careful on avoiding your dearest family... as difficult as that may be—your senses are seriously saving your skin... wait, now you're using alliteration—)

You don't have anything against working during sunlight. In fact, it would be preferable for you. But escaping from school has now become increasingly more difficult after you'd "opened your heart" to MJ and Harry.

Both were completely convinced you were spiralling down a bad path after how you'd acted with Jason, or concerned for both your homelife and general wellbeing—sometimes you truly did damn yourself for picking such good friends.

Nevertheless, you couldn't possibly be worrying about something like that right now, when there's a much bigger problem right in front of you.

A man dressed in a rag-like coat lay beneath your heel, defeated and hands bound together with your webbing.

You'd originally expected to leave immediately, hoping to catch Reed before he was off looking for whatever new part he needed for his grandest project. But now, you can't even hope to move at this point—swamped by flashing cameras and microphones shoved into your face.

Suddenly, you're so incredibly grateful you wear a mask, because you aren't too excited at the prospect of having such unflattering photos of you taken.

"Spidey! What are you doing in Gotham?"

You stammer, "Uh—well, you know—"

"Spiderguy! What's your thoughts on the articles calling you a knockoff Batman?"

"How am I anything like him?" You gesture to your bright red suit. "Also, it's not Spiderguy—"

"Spidey! Spidey! How do you create that webbing fluid? Is it organic? And is it environmentally sustainable? Who's going to clean it?" The reporters move closer and closer.

You inch backwards, "Uh—well, you know, my webbing dissolves in a couple hours by itself, and of course it's sustainable—"

Before you can finish, a multitude of voices all ring through your ears at once. Piling atop eachother, all at the same time, forming into a mush of different tones and accents, indistinguishable from one another.

You can't even hear anything anymore, not until a voice, loud and clear, cuts through a multitude of others and strikes your ears with ease, "Hey, Spidey! Our viewers have a question for you—how have you gotten past Batman? I'm sure you know he doesn't allow metahumans in Gotham, right?"

You freeze. Shocked, but soon, that shock soon morphs into confusion at what exactly a metahuman is.

"I... uh—" You glance to the side. You know, doing this will spark way too much gossip for your own good. Doing this is practically asking for those headlines that, while technically true, are completely outlandish. You were a reporter yourself (for your alter ego, to be fair—but it still counts).

You know this can't end in any other way than complete disaster.

That's why you reach up, webbing to a building and wave goodbye to those pesky paparazzi, "No comment!" With all the wit a Spider must have, you decide that your flight or fight response instead chose: Web away with a sly remark.

"They should be around here, Batman."

Oracle's voice rings out through the earpiece. Barbara had taken the liberty of helping him in his little crusade after seeing that stunt on live television—that spider-hero running away after hearing that metas weren't allowed in Gotham... though, it provided more questions than answers.

Babs was growing restless. For one: that reaction possibly explained why they were so wary of any member of their family even coming close to them. Always running at the first sight of them, webbing away faster than they could hope to catch up. Escaping Batman and his Robin, Babs couldn't help but wonder about them.

They're good. Smart. They're not some new hero. Clearly whoever's behind that mask has experience.

But this raised far too many questions in it of itself. Why had you only popped up now? Why not years ago —if, judging purely by her own gaze, with the years of experience in crime fighting you must have? Why Gotham?

And perhaps, the most daunting question of them all, "Who exactly are you, Spider?"

Bruce's gruff voice reaches her ears, "What was that?"

Her eyes widen, not realising she'd spoken aloud. Shaking her head, she relents, "No... sorry, it's nothing. Right... according to witness sighting and where they were last spotted, you should be meeting them in the middle right now. Do you have any sightings?"

Bruce shakes his head, jumping over to the top of the next apartment block roof—cowl landing in a swoop behind him. "No. Not yet. See if there's any new sightings."

Bruce Wayne was beginning to grow tiresome of this new hero's antics. Running around through Gotham without a care in the world—all too bright and cheerful as if this was all that mattered. Running around as a meta—unchecked and absolutely dangerous.

Nothing good could come out of this. Not without knowing exactly who you were and what you wanted. He never was a dictator type—never had it in him—but with a crime-riddled city like Gotham, he had little choice.

One small mistake could ruin everything. Collapse all that he's worked so hard to create. A better city, a better future. A regular human—as he is—couldn't possibly ever handle a rouge meta... and in the end, this city may not want him, but he really is the type of hero it needs.

So, that's why, instead of patrolling through his sector—he asks Orphan, Batwoman, and Spoiler to take over for tonight, so he can do some much needed digging into this anomaly.

Tim told him that his webbing sample, one he managed to collect around a month ago, when he'd first come into contact with them, had dissolved within hours. Not enough time to perform any kind of intricate testing, not by a long shot.

Batman has taken the almost passive stance—uncharacteristic of him—but now, he realised with such a slippery Spider, he had to do what he does best, and corner them.

His whitened eyes dart up at the flash of red that flies past him. He snaps his head back and finds the Spider—the one he'd been looking for all this time—swinging from building to building, fast.

But not nearly fast enough. With one false swoop, Bruce is after you, grappling towards you, eyes narrowed and mind absolutely determined.

"Batman? Batman?" Oracle pipes up—he assumes she's been talking for the past couple minutes, but only realised she was speaking into his earpiece now. "Can you hear me? Do you have a visual?"

"I see them. Nearly have them."

The Spider darts their head over their shoulder almost frantically—moves stuttering when they see how close he's gotten toward them.

"Hey! Why are you so obsessed with me, huh?" Thrir voice calls out—unlike anything he'd ever heard. "I mean, okay—yeah, I get it. But if you want a fashion taste like mine, I can make you a suit of your own!"

He clenches his jaw to stop himself from saying anything back.

Their voice grows more framtic at his silence, "H... Hey! You're getting really close, there—let it go! I'm not a villain! I swear!"

More silence, and they seem to let out a loud groan of frustration, seemingly aimed at him.

They stop. Heels landing flat atop a building, and Batman, with his cowl wrapped around him like a cloak, follows on their heel, stalking closer towards them.

You raise your hands in defence, stepping backwards and shaking your masked head, "Waitwaitwait—! Don't get violent with me, I don't want to fight you!"

"Then what do you want?" His voice grows deeper, more gruff and cold. "No metahumans are allowed in Gotham without my permission. There's too much trouble that comes with it. Too many difficulties."

He pauses. "Too much crime. Too many deaths. Unnecessary, preventable ones. Who are you to be an exception?"

"I said wait—!" You shriek as he practically stalks into your personal space bubble. "I'm not a metahuman!"

He stops in his tracks. "... What?"

You let out a heavy sigh, now that he's stopped. Batman taps on his earpiece, "Oracle, can you hear this?"

"Reading, Batman."

You look around, to see nobody. "Oracle? Who's Oracle?" You never read anything about an Oracle.

"None of your business. Now speak. If you aren't a metahuman, what are you?" His whitened eyes narrow, and suddenly those pointy ears aren't so silly looking anymore.

You blink. Once, then twice. "Would you believe me if I said I was from an alien planet full of spider-people?"

Despite the reprocessing telling him your backstory would have on you being near non-existent—you still aren't too fond of the idea of the Batman, your father, knowing your secret backstory.

Besides, Oscorp really does exist in this universe, too—Norman is actually pretty nice. You don't want any unwarranted blame falling on him.

"Not a chance." He folds his arms over his bat-symboled chest and you falter with a sigh.

Worth a shot.

"Fine." Not to say he was the reason you finally relented—but his stare was pretty unnerving. "I was bit by genetically modified spider on a school field trip. It altered my DNA so I became stronger, faster, could stick to walls and became three times more flexible than the average person."

You finish with a winded breath, eyes scanning his expression for any hint of an emotion. You found none.

"Why should I believe you?"

Pausing, you glance away. Crouching down on that rooftop, on the ledge, staring down at the city below. Dimly lit roads and the people littering it. So much like your home, yet so different.

You could see why Batman was this city's protector. You could see why he was so careful about this world, and you almost respected him for it. At the same time, though, you couldn't help but think to all those chicken-scratched diaries.

By a helpless child, unable to depend on anybody but him in this world, and he had still failed. For that, you couldn't face him. Not now, not ever.

"You don't have to believe my story." You finally manage to unlodge the words from your throat. "I'm just saying that whatever your rules are—my existence doesn't defy them. You have no reason to keep chasing me down."

His sharp, whitened eyes narrow. It's the only thing visible in such deep darkness where he lingers.

"Actually..." Oracle's voice rings out through Batman's ears. "Their story... might have some truth to it. Check this out—Oscorp's been working on developing a, quote, super-powered spider. Says spider venom is the cure for disease and pandemics. They've been developing in this field for a while."

A super-powered spider sounds absolutely ridiculous, he thinks. But nothing he hadn't seen before. In a world full of aliens, heroes, personification of life, death, and everything in-between—he shouldn't be surprised at the prospect of gaining superpowers from spider venom.

Looking down at you now—slouched, facing away from him, and almost seeming restless... "Oscorp."

You look back at him, confused. "Huh?"

"Did that spider come from Oscorp?"

... You bite down on the inside of your cheek, hard. Looking back away before you could stop yourself. "No. I'm not from around here. I live far. Far away."

"What do you mean by far away? Why are you in Gotham, then?" He steps closer, to the point he's standing over you with all that intimidating bat-aura that makes the criminals of Gotham run for the hills. Still, you can't bear to see him. Because if you do, you know you'll spill everything you've been holding in like a waterfall.

"I don't know," you admit, honestly. "I don't know why I'm here. I want to go home, but I don't know where that is anymore. All I know is that, while I'm here, I might as well help people. Because... that's what I do."

For a moment, there's no sound other than the honking of cars on a busy road. He's quiet, as silent as he always is. Always was. For a moment, you think you almost see him as that father from so long ago.

But only for a moment.

"... How old are you?"

To your surprise, he doesn't immediately go to accusing you of lying again, or keep his standoffish persona any longer—only asking you this simple, yet strangely personal, question.

In simple words, you're really confused. "What? Why does that matter?"

"You sound young. Too young. And from the way I've seen you fight, you're experienced in fighting high, street-level crime. If I had to guess, I'd say you've been doing this for at least three years. Maybe more."

Sweat beads at the back of your neck, and suddenly everything starts caving in, crumbling like failed architecture. How did he know? How could he have possibly—

Batman continues, "The way you talk, and the way you behave in the public eye, you can't be an adult. I'm assuming you're a child. Meaning you've been fighting crime since you've been in your early teens, right?"

"What are you talking about?" You stand up at your full height, staring up at him. Glaring, as well as you can manage from underneath those refractive lenses. He doesn't back down. "I'm not—"

"You're a child," He repeats. "Don't carry this weight. You don't have to carry the weight of—" Gesturing towards the ground below, he stares down at you, strangely sadly, "All this. Especially not all by yourself. Not as a child."

The only word you want to spit out at him is hypocrite.

"Don't act all high and mighty. That Robin you have looks 12. You're saying a 12 year old is capable of fighting crime but I shouldn't? I'm nearly an adult, for god's sake! I'm—"

You slap your hands over your masked mouth, but still continue. "Don't treat me like I don't know better. You don't know me. You have no idea what has happened in my life."

"I only take Robin under my wing because he needs it. So I can watch over him."

You glare, "So what? So he can turn out like you?"

"So that he doesn't."

And to this, your lips feel sealed shut. You want to say something, but you can't. What could you possibly reply to this?

Even Oracle is silent. Not a word, not a peep. Nothing. The honking of cars has ceased, and it's like the world itself had just gone quiet for that one, stunning moment.

"You're not from here, so I don't know you," Finally, he speaks, and it's like the silence has been shattered like glass. "You're right. But... you're a child. You aren't obligated to this. This isn't your responsibility—to make this world better. If you can live normally, you should."

Isn't such normalcy why you ended up like this in the first place? All those entries, wishing to be like the rest of them—and here your father is now, telling you to be yourself.

If only they had heard this, you think, bitterly. Then, you'd know you were right. That he would only ever see you if you had become one of them.

The thought makes your stomach churn. How pretentious could this man—this devil—possibly be?

"You're wrong. To live normally like this, when I was given the strength to be better, to do things to be a better me... that's just wrong." You clench your fists, hard. "I already made that mistake before. It doesn't matter whether I'm 18 or 80. All that matters is that I'm doing what I know is right."

You pause, allowing the words to sink in. "But to discard the normally in your life is a waste. That's why I live the way I do. To protect the normalcy around me, the ones who can't protect themselves. With great power comes great responsibility... my responsibility is to be the best Spidey I can be."

...

You angle your wrist up and don't bother to look back at him when you walk away, "You and your birds can come after me all you want, but I won't stop doing what I think is right. 'Cause I'm a hero."

When you thwip away, you aren't so sure how you'd forgotten that. How a hero protects the ones they love above all else.

Your family aren't heroes. Perhaps, to the public, and even the whole world—but not to you. They'd failed to protect that child, a miserable, small child, left in that massive world.

To make it so they felt they had to save people, to take that responsibility of power to matter—that was their greatest failure.

"... Batman?" Barbara's voice is a dramatic shift from the silence that started to consume him. "Batman,are you okay? Batman? ... Bruce? Are you..."

He takes a moment to regain his composure, world still spinning as he speaks, "I'm fine. They're... they're okay." Saying the world's like they're hard to spit out, or like he's unsure himself. "I'm coming home."

Barbara wants to say something. About that spider. About what they said to him. Power, responsibility, protection, normalcy, love. But she doesn't. By the sound of his voice, he seems just as frazzled as she is. A conflicted Batman means no good for anybody, including her.

So, she will let him think. Oracle can take a back-seat for now. So can Batman. For now, she's just Barbara Gordon. And he's just Uncle Bruce.

Holding her tongue, "Cass and Steph aren't back yet. Kate left a while ago... said there was something she needed to do. ... Everyone else should be at home, I think..."

"Okay." He murmurs, quieter.

Barbara shuts her mouth and leans back in her chair. There's nothing else for her to say, so once more, there is silence.

...

When Bruce returns back to the Manor, he finds himself pushing past everything and everyone, including Alfred, and rushing up the stairs. Not even bothering to take off his suit fully—tossing his helmet behind him and walking away.

Down a hall to the left, then up right, then left again. Stopping once he, finally, stands in front of a door. Blank. Colourless, dull. Like the rest of the manor, blending in away from those extravagant suits and too-bulky armours.

After a brief moment of confliction, he brings his fist up, and knocks. Standing there, almost the size of the doorway, waiting for any kind of reply.

"Hello? What—"

You freeze at the sight of your father staring down at you—this time, his eyes were as blue as ever and his face was less grim. This time, you could see the greying of his dark hair and the crease of his brows.

This time, there was no escape.

"[name]." He says your name as if it's foreign, unfamiliar. Testing it out like a new spice or seasoning, then seeming to come to the conclusion that he likes it. "It's been a while."

You're frozen in place, mouth open yet unable to speak. What could you possibly do now? Run? Swing? Duck past—

A hand places itself on your shoulder and every siren in your body blasts itself tenfold. Blaring like the most buzzing and painful alarms—so awful that you have to grab the side of the doorframe to stop yourself from falling over.

Panic gnaws at every side of you, chest rising and falling erratically when your headache grows.

What is this? This is so much worse than when I'm with Jason—

His face morphs and blurs as does his words, yet you manage to catch the few, "I think we should spend more time together. Become closer, like how it was before. You are my child after all. The only one who doesn't have patrol or scoutings with me. That calls for more regular ways of bonding, right? That's my responsibility... as your father."

He's smiling. Hardly so, but you're about to collapse. A deafening buzz in your skull, you spit out any agreements you can manage through squeezed eyes, waiting for him to go, to leave, so for a moment, you can finally breathe.

"I'm glad you agree," he says, moving back. Clearing his throat, he looks down at you, recovering as he gives you space. "Next week, then?"

You clutch your head, jaw taut and stance tense. It's a wonder how he hadn't noticed your absolute discomfort, but you digress—just wanting him to go. "Sure."

"Good, then—" Before he can finish, your door slams shut in his face and once again, that barrier has returned. Bruce pauses, staring at that slab of wood keeping you from his line of sight.

Bruce lingers for a few moments longer, fingers hovering the handle, before retracting back and swallowing thick.

Batman walks away, but glances twice over his shoulder, cowl falling behind him.

You slump down your door with a heaving sigh, feeling your head start to clear and breathing stabilise.

That feeling of fear, of utter terror—it was the feeling you'd get with Jason and Tim, but tripled. It was torture. Absolutely awful. Unbearable. You'd not relt anything while you were Spidey on that rooftop, but seeing him here now send your senses spiralling into a whirlwind of chaos.

You grab your head and it falls onto your knees, pulled up to your chest.

Your eyes fall bleak and everything blurry again. Are you going to cry, like a child? To prove him right again, that you're afraid of this? Of him?

Maybe you were more similar to his version of you than you were lead to believe. Maybe—

Still, though, your phone buzzes.

A strange sounding noise compared to the cheap, hand-me-down one you had in your other room. Probably spammed with stupid videos from MJ, and worried texts from Harry. Maybe even the odd "how are you?" from Matt, or something.

(You still don't know how he texts, but that's beyond you).

You pick up your phone, despite the lingering thought it could just be from one of your family members. Siblings, or father.

... You were half right.

From a contact customised to say, the #coolest auntie, there's a text.

Hey, kid. Let's go out. It's been way too long.

You stare down at the bright phone screen for a few seconds longer than you should've. Surprised, sure, but just as confused. Swallowing and considering your options for a second.

You haphazardly let your fingers fly over the keyboard. If your contact name for her was this comfortable, she must be a good person, right? Maybe she could provide an outside perspective on everything. Your family, their hero-lives, even you.

You press your lips tightly together narrowing your eyes down at her contact profile picture. Short, red hair and a smug smile. Pale skin, and the features reminiscent of your father.

Sure. Where?

When you watch the text bubbles pop up on the screen, you can't help but wonder what exactly you're going to do next.

taglist: @hello-bina @cosmosluckycharms @1abi @yhin-gg @insideoutjulie @bluepanda08 @omnivirgo @vanessa-boo @dind1n @welpthisisboring @lunaetiicsaystuff @marsmabe @atanukileaf @findingjaxx @4mrplumi @bunniotomia @lostsomewhereinthegarden @bat1212 @gaychaosgremlin @bongwaterflavoredgatorade @randomlyappearingartist @cxcilla @spidermanluvr444 @cruzerforce4256 @mybones537 @xjesterxjacksx @nirvanaxx1942 @djpuppy-kittens @br33zy-blizzardz @moon0goddess @0sunnyside01 @mei-simp @redsakura101 @the-dumber-scaramouche @wizzerreblogs @lovemiss-vale @deathbynarcisstick @allycat4458 @wonmyheart @luckyangelballoon @one-piecelover @hartwyrm @horror-lover-69 @maria-trisha @4rachn3 @galaxypurplerose @duskeras @coffeeaddictxd @lithiumval @kaz-playz

taglist is open!

[reasonsforhope]

"When Ellen Kaphamtengo felt a sharp pain in her lower abdomen, she thought she might be in labour. It was the ninth month of her first pregnancy and she wasn’t taking any chances. With the help of her mother, the 18-year-old climbed on to a motorcycle taxi and rushed to a hospital in Malawi’s capital, Lilongwe, a 20-minute ride away.

At the Area 25 health centre, they told her it was a false alarm and took her to the maternity ward. But things escalated quickly when a routine ultrasound revealed that her baby was much smaller than expected for her pregnancy stage, which can cause asphyxia – a condition that limits blood flow and oxygen to the baby.

In Malawi, about 19 out of 1,000 babies die during delivery or in the first month of life. Birth asphyxia is a leading cause of neonatal mortality in the country, and can mean newborns suffering brain damage, with long-term effects including developmental delays and cerebral palsy.

Doctors reclassified Kaphamtengo, who had been anticipating a normal delivery, as a high-risk patient. Using AI-enabled foetal monitoring software, further testing found that the baby’s heart rate was dropping. A stress test showed that the baby would not survive labour.

The hospital’s head of maternal care, Chikondi Chiweza, knew she had less than 30 minutes to deliver Kaphamtengo’s baby by caesarean section. Having delivered thousands of babies at some of the busiest public hospitals in the city, she was familiar with how quickly a baby’s odds of survival can change during labour.

Chiweza, who delivered Kaphamtengo’s baby in good health, says the foetal monitoring programme has been a gamechanger for deliveries at the hospital.

“[In Kaphamtengo’s case], we would have only discovered what we did either later on, or with the baby as a stillbirth,” she says.

The software, donated by the childbirth safety technology company PeriGen through a partnership with Malawi’s health ministry and Texas children’s hospital, tracks the baby’s vital signs during labour, giving clinicians early warning of any abnormalities. Since they began using it three years ago, the number of stillbirths and neonatal deaths at the centre has fallen by 82%. It is the only hospital in the country using the technology.

“The time around delivery is the most dangerous for mother and baby,” says Jeffrey Wilkinson, an obstetrician with Texas children’s hospital, who is leading the programme. “You can prevent most deaths by making sure the baby is safe during the delivery process.”

The AI monitoring system needs less time, equipment and fewer skilled staff than traditional foetal monitoring methods, which is critical in hospitals in low-income countries such as Malawi, which face severe shortages of health workers. Regular foetal observation often relies on doctors performing periodic checks, meaning that critical information can be missed during intervals, while AI-supported programs do continuous, real-time monitoring. Traditional checks also require physicians to interpret raw data from various devices, which can be time consuming and subject to error.

Area 25’s maternity ward handles about 8,000 deliveries a year with a team of around 80 midwives and doctors. While only about 10% are trained to perform traditional electronic monitoring, most can use the AI software to detect anomalies, so doctors are aware of any riskier or more complex births. Hospital staff also say that using AI has standardised important aspects of maternity care at the clinic, such as interpretations on foetal wellbeing and decisions on when to intervene.

Kaphamtengo, who is excited to be a new mother, believes the doctor’s interventions may have saved her baby’s life. “They were able to discover that my baby was distressed early enough to act,” she says, holding her son, Justice.

Doctors at the hospital hope to see the technology introduced in other hospitals in Malawi, and across Africa.

“AI technology is being used in many fields, and saving babies’ lives should not be an exception,” says Chiweza. “It can really bridge the gap in the quality of care that underserved populations can access.”"

-via The Guardian, December 6, 2024

[ready-to-read7]

Ancient of Space

Based off of this prompt from @theglamorousferal

After Amity Park was transported into space, new rules and divisions were established. Thanks to Danny, the area slowly began to expand, incorporating nearby asteroids and lost pieces of debris that could be drawn in and added to the field. Due to the change in environment—and the exposure to external energy and ectoplasm—the residents of Amity Park began to change. As they became more and more liminal, their ears started to become pointed, and their eyes began to glow.

Not to mention, thanks to frequent interactions with ghosts, most (if not all) of Amity Park now speaks the language of the dead. Lifespans also dramatically increased—what used to be 80 to 90 years now stretches to 200 to 250. And when someone passes away, they automatically become a ghost.

Most of the adults have already turned into ghosts—though not all. Some didn’t become liminal enough, or didn’t live long enough for the transformation to take place. All the students from Casper High are now adults in their early hundreds. They know lifespans have increased because Danny asked Clockwork directly, concerned about the effects that much ectoplasm might have on the human body.

Danny has fully embraced his title as the Ghost King. He even technically made Amity Park part of the Infinite Realms. A large portal now allows travel back and forth, and ghosts frequently pass through to fulfill their obsessions or interact with the living members of their kingdom. Likewise, Amity Park residents often venture into the Realms for various reasons. It’s safe for them, thanks to an inner residential zone Danny set up—an area not meant for living, but stable and protected enough to travel through and interact with the Realms.

Back on Earth, Amity Park has become a legend. All evidence of its existence disappeared along with Danny and the town.

But that’s not the focus right now.

The Young Justice team—Wonder Girl, Impulse, Superboy, and Red Robin—was aboard a spaceship returning from a mission when they detected an unusual energy signature coming from a previously unexplored section of space. No one knew why it was uncharted; as far as they knew, the Lanterns had already mapped every accessible region.

As they approached, they expected to find maybe a destroyed planet, a dead star, or some other anomaly. What they didn’t expect was a massive floating landmass, torn straight from the ground and left suspended in space, surrounded by meteors linked to it via domes.

Suddenly, a young woman approached the ship. She had flowing white hair, Lazarus-green eyes, and pale skin. Most striking of all, she floated through the vacuum of space without a suit—breathing seemed optional.

She hovered in front of the ship's window and blew a cold breath on it, fogging the glass. Then she wrote a message asking if she could come aboard. After a brief discussion, the team decided that the best way to get answers about this strange place was to speak to one of its residents. They nodded in agreement.

Without warning, the girl density-shifted through the glass and gently floated to the ground in front of them. She greeted them in a language they couldn’t understand. Realizing this, she paused, thought for a moment, then switched to English.

“Hello,” she said. “My name is Elly. Welcome to Amity. So… what brings you here?”

Impulse, true to his nature, zipped around excitedly before stopping in front of her. “Hello, Elly! It’s great to meet you. I’m Impulse—this is Red Robin, that’s Wonder Girl, and over there is Superboy. We were flying back home and noticed this unexplored zone on our map. We got curious and came to check out the weird energy signal.”

Elly chuckled at Impulse’s boundless energy. She then offered to escort them to the main area of Amity. At first, the team hesitated, but Red Robin accepted the offer, recognizing it as an opportunity to gather valuable information.

They landed in the central district of Amity and exited the ship with caution. The first thing they noticed was the people: not too different from humans—at least, not most of them. But their glowing eyes and pointed ears gave away their altered nature.

Elly offered to give them a tour and answer any questions they had. The group accepted, unaware that the moment they entered Amity’s vicinity, all tracking and monitoring systems were disabled.

To the Justice League, it looked like all four of them had simply vanished.

(I would've made this longer but I lost motivation so I decided to finish it)

[residentwordsofaffirmationdealer]

tracking barbara gordon's skillset as oracle:

she provides directory assistance for several international and intergalactic teams of superheroes (the birds of prey, justice league of america, the outsiders, and she has worked with the titans before).

she is the primary hacker and information network source for many of these heroes.

she helps provide mercy ops (disaster relief and humanitarian efforts) globally.

she is able to hack into the white house cameras.

she hacks into the united states air force routinely to use their memory capabilities.

she is seen as a pentagon level threat.

she writes her own code for scanning new satellite images for human habitations and anomalies.

she's accessed air force rockets no one is supposed to know about and overridden them to fire them.

she has a team of drones ready for surveillance.

she's put her own security systems on arkham asylum.

she hacks into information databases from federal complexes and assembles blueprints and guard schedules so she can send her agents to break into them.

she sets a government complex on fire (she says it is a small and contained fire.)

she also sets the clock tower on fire to force batman to not do murder/suicide.

she hacks into cia debriefing transcripts to obtain information.

she controls a large portion of the world's internet and power grids.

she also is the reason why many world leaders are in power.

she has access to the bank accounts of several supervillains, whom she toys with (specifically for blockbuster, she regularly steals millions of dollars from his accounts in a way that he cannot track who is stealing it and where it is going -- she's stolen 3 million, 17 million, 6 million, twenty million and also a hundred million from him).

she can also hack alien drones.

she can control traffic.

she has several booby-traps in the clock tower for potential assaulters. she also a device to monitor movement of people around it, in case batman decides to show up.

cited panels down below!

"she's the four-one-one for the jla, she the database for the g.c. ex-p.d. she runs mercy ops around the world." nightwing (1996) #38

"you have cameras in the white house?" "don't be silly. the white house has cameras in the white house. i've just tapped into them." nightwing (1996) #66

"i mean, someone hacks into our system and routinely uses our [united states air force] memory capabilities!" "i know!" "often." birds of prey #1 (1999)

"i run a database and search engine for a select few free-land crimefighters." birds of prey: manhunt (1996)

"we scan the most recent images for anomalies. things that don't belong." "where'd you get a program for that?" "i wrote my own code for that one." birds of prey (1999) #3

"they've accessed whitehorse, sir." "whitehorse? no one's supposed to know about that!" birds of prey (1999) #9

"and oracle? we're going to need eyes on several places at once." "i think we can manage that." detective comics (1937) #1077

"they've accessed whitehorse. what's the chance of them arming it?" "all clear?" "oh yeah." "fire!" birds of prey (1999) #9

"[arkham's] security is good, but piecemeal. i installed my own system there after the last breakout." infinite crisis special: villains united (2006)

"batgirl -- that incident a couple months back? when those government agents caught your face on tape? i found out where they're keeping it. it's a federal complex in virginia. i've sent you blueprints, guard schedules -- everything you'll need to break in." batgirl (2000) #17

"where did you get that kind of information?" "they traded another prisoner last month. i hacked into his cia debriefing transcript." birds of prey (1999) #9

"kat, do you have any idea... any notion at all, of how much of the planet's entire internet i control? how many power grids? how many world leaders owe me their positions?" birds of prey #1 (1999)

"i transferred all the funds in her cayman islands account to another offshore account. if she doesn't get the paintings to me in the next forty-eight hours, that money's going to my favorite charities." birds of prey: catwoman/oracle (2003)

"where do you get current [satellite] shots of rheelasia?" "that's my secret, you little netnik." birds of prey (1999) #3

"but the asborbascons were created using languages long dead even on my planet. they are uncrackable." "yes. the absorbascons are uncrackable. but the alien drones aren't." convergence: nightwing/oracle (2015)

"do you have that kind of cash?" "no. but i know someone who does." "there's been a... discrepancy, mr. desmond." "in plain english, mr. vogel." "at one point, three million was electronically transferred from your numbered accounts in the caicos to a bank account in hasaragua. from there to karocco, then yemen, then split between banks in senegal and manila. and then... my hardware couldn't keep up." birds of prey (1999) #3

"seventeen million from your account in the caymans. six from santa prisca. twenty from rheelasia. and a hundred million plus from other holdings of yours around the world, mr. desmond. and where it all goes? nobody knows." birds of prey (1999) #18

"they're taking your cash from impregnable accounts and transferring it electronically to their own." "and you can't find the source?" "there's subsequent transfers performed at lightning speed. the money's split up, rerouted in and out of various banks in an eyeblink. even i can't keep up with whoever this is." birds of prey (1999) #18

"let me handle the traffic." birds of prey (1999) #58

"all of you. keep your hands where i can see 'em." "not a problem. malory. ripken. peppermint." nightwing (1996) #39

[deldaydreams]

Same Old Lie

Warning: Yandere stuff, gender-neutral reader.

-English is my second language so it could be some mistakes.

Summary: You were an anomaly-timeline agent. Your job was to make sure that canon events in your universe happened and to eliminate possible anomalies. But something went wrong. Something that shouldn't have happened in the timeline happened because of you. Because of that, you disappeared and your beloved batfam is going crazy.

A.T.A. stands for Anomaly and Timeline Agency. The agency responsible for the smooth running of every canon event and timeline in the parallel universe. And you were an Anomaly-Timeline agent. Your job was to follow the canon events in your own universe and eliminate possible anomalies. For this reason, you took on a secret identity and became little Bruce Wayne's legal guardian.

Becoming Bruce's legal guardian wasn't that hard. All you had to do was get close to his parents and make a few small changes to their will.

When you first moved to the mansion, Bruce, who had just lost his parents , didn't welcome you well at all. You didn't even want to guess what would have happened if Alfred hadn't intervened.

As I said, Bruce was very difficult towards you at first. He was doing his best to annoy you and drive you away, but over time he started to get used to you.

Maybe you weren't so bad? He stopped ignoring you at the mansion. Insinuating sentences were replaced by harder-to-deal questions. What's your favorite food? What are your hobbies? What kind of movies do you watch?..

Getting close to Bruce had its advantages as well as disadvantages. To put it simply, he would ask so many questions and go into so much detail that it was very difficult not to reveal your true identity.

However, one of the biggest problems was your “business trips”. Whenever you were going to leave the mansion to hunt anomalies or follow up on a canon event, Bruce would make every effort to keep you from leaving the mansion. Your business trips were unnecessary for Bruce. You had to take care of him. That’s why you were here. Besides, he was rich enough to take care of you as well. Why did you always go on business trips? Anyway , every time, he would eventually let you go in return for bringing him a gift from wherever you went.

Time passed. Many things happened . Bruce learned your real name (fortunately, he still didn’t know your duty and job. It’s very hard to hide something from the best detective in the world.) Bruce became Batman (Of course, he explained this to you.) And your first Robin, Dick Grayson, came to the mansion.

Dick has always been a good boy since he met you. The perfect boy who always listens to you and helps you. We can say that you have almost never had any problems with him. Just like Bruce, Dick also knew his limits. The taboos that should never be spoken about. That is why he never questioned why you never aged (Since there are different time streams in different universes, the dimensional travel watch you wear to avoid being affected by the time streams prevents you from aging physically.) or why you constantly go on business trips. Dick trusts his intuition. And his intuition is that you can leave them and disappear at any moment. For this reason, he is very aware of not crossing those limits if he wants to have a happy life with you.

Then came the second Robin Jason Todd. When you first met Jason, he was very cautious towards you. Especially when he saw old photos and realized that you had not aged at all, he was really scared of you. He was harsh and aggressive towards you at first as a self-protective mechanism, but fortunately he opened up to you in time.

When he came back after his death, Jason was naturally angry with you as he was with the whole family. The reason for his anger was your fear of forgetting him. Although he didn't accept it, when he first met you, Jason, who was jealous of your closeness with Dick, had worked very hard to win your favor. Tim's arrival after his death brought this fear to the surface again. He didn't want to be pushed to the background. The loss of those years you could have spent together had deeply affected him. But fortunately, his anger towards you passed when you hugged him and talked to him.

After Jason's death, the third Robin Tim Drake came. It was very difficult to deal with Tim, who was a very good detective like Bruce. The boy would constantly ask you questions or corner you with some of his assumptions. For this reason, you had to be extra careful around him. Whenever you went on a business trip, your bag, shirt, or any of your belongings would definitely have a chip attached to them. Luckily, Alfred, Bruce, and Dick would intervene and this tracking issue didn't go much further. Of course, what Tim did was right from his point of view. Tim, like the others, is aware that you could leave them at any moment. According to him, if they want to keep you with them, they need to know about you, down to the smallest detail. You know everything about them, so why don't they?

Finally, as you expected, the last Robin arrived, Damian Wayne. As you expected, Damian was arrogant, self-important, sarcastic, and made it very clear that he didn't like you, which didn't last long. Although Damian didn't accept it, he quickly got used to your presence and started following you wherever you went like a tail. Damian, who has a very jealous nature, definitely doesn't wants you to give others more attention than you give him, otherwise he would make your whole day miserable. Also, Damian's overly controlling personality made it very difficult for you to do your job. Who do you see? What are you looking at? Where are you going? When will you be back? Damian is worse at tracking than Bruce and Tim, and he doesn't try to hide it. Why are you going on a business trip? The Waynes are very rich. He constantly argues with you about quitting your job. Luckily, the other family members constantly come between you. Or rather, stop Damian.

You leaned yourself against the balcony railing. You were planning on watching the city here until you got caught. You couldn’t escape Bruce’s grasp tonight. He had dragged you to tonight’s gala with him. You sighed. You had escaped from the stifling hall and hid on a small balcony, and Bruce was probably inside looking for you.

“There you are. The fugitive has been found.”

You smiled at the familiar voice. Oops. It seems you were caught. Bruce wrapped his arms around you from behind. He buried his head in your neck.

“I don’t like it when you just disappear. What were you thinking when you left me all alone?” He mumbled.

You held yourself back from laughing and smiled slightly. As you turned your head slightly towards him, you were caught in Bruce’s gaze that drew you in. Those gazes… They made you feel like a predator’s prey. You turned your head back.

“Y/n, no matter what happens, you will always stay by our side, right?” His voice was hoarse. He would ask you this question whenever he felt bad.

“…Of course.” And you told your same old lie again before disappearing.

Notes: it’s messy and I know it. Probably going to make this a series. I hope you like it. And please let me know if you liked it.

[reiding-writing]

hiyaa, cold reader series is so so amazing i just read it all in one sitting again but i was wondering if you could do one where she's jealous of a woman who starts flirting with spencer on a case maybe? maybe she's pissed because it's "unprofessional" but really she's pissed because he's being flirted with

AS IT SEEMS — SPENCER REID!

a local detective seems to hang on spencer’s every word. the unprofessionalism of it all really frustrates you.

spencer x cold!reader | 3.3k | flangst | cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n — is this… progression?

The flashing red-and-blue lights of the local PD’s vehicles paint shifting patterns across the asphalt as the BAU team steps onto the scene.

The air is thick with the scent of damp pavement and something acrid—gunpowder, maybe, or the lingering remnants of a nearby dumpster fire.

Officers mill about with that particular brand of tension that comes from knowing the FBI has been called in, half-relieved, half-defensive.

You take it all in quickly, the details slotting into place in your mind like a well-practiced routine. The weight of your badge clipped to your belt, the holster pressing against your hip—everything is familiar, grounding. But then she appears.

Detective Elena Foster is sharp-jawed and self-assured, the kind of woman who wears authority like a second skin. Her strides are long, purposeful, the confidence in her posture making it abundantly clear that she knows exactly how competent she is.

And she’s looking at Spencer like he’s fascinating.

You stand slightly off to the side as introductions are exchanged, arms crossed over your chest, expression unreadable. You’re practiced at this—at keeping your face neutral, your tone cool, your presence sharp enough to command respect without ever needing to raise your voice.

It’s always been easy. But right now, as Foster’s hand lingers just a little too long in Spencer’s when she shakes it, something tightens in your chest.

“Dr. Reid,” she says, eyes flicking over him with open appreciation. “I read your paper on statistical anomalies in serial offender data last year—brilliant work,”

Spencer, to his credit, looks momentarily startled. “Oh—thank you,” he says, blinking. “That was actually an extension of some previous research on—”

“That’s impressive,” she interrupts, flashing him a smile. “I’d love to pick your brain about it later, if you’ve got time,”

You watch as her fingers graze his forearm in a way that is entirely unnecessary.

He doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with processing the compliment, his mind already spinning with whatever information he had been about to share. You, on the other hand, notice everything. The deliberate lean-in, the way her voice dips just slightly when she speaks to him, the way her eyes linger.

It’s unprofessional.

That’s what irritates you. Not the fact that her attention is singularly fixed on him, or that he’s being flirted with in the middle of a crime scene. Certainly not that she’s touching him when she doesn’t need to be.

It’s the principle of the matter. This is an active investigation, and Foster should be focused on the case, not Spencer’s academic credentials and whatever else has caught her interest.

Your jaw tightens as you glance toward Hotch, who doesn’t seem to care about the interaction as long as it doesn’t interfere with the briefing. Morgan, beside you, exhales a quiet chuckle under his breath, like he’s picked up on something amusing. You ignore it.

“I assume we have a body to look at?” you say, voice even.

Foster blinks at you, as if only just remembering your presence. You don’t react, don’t shift under her assessing gaze, don’t give her anything to work with. Eventually, she nods.

“Of course,” she says smoothly. “Right this way,”

She turns, and Spencer follows, already mid-sentence about some statistical deviation he had noticed in the case file. And you?

You stay exactly where you are for half a second longer than necessary, exhaling slowly through your nose before following after them.

—

You follow the team through the cordoned-off area, past uniformed officers and the murmuring press lingering at the edges, searching for scraps of information. The crime scene is up ahead—an abandoned warehouse, dimly lit and rank with the scent of stagnant water and decay. It should have your full attention.

But instead, you feel your focus splintering.

Just behind you, Spencer is still speaking, his voice carrying that familiar, eager cadence he gets when discussing something intellectually stimulating. “It’s interesting—well, not interesting in the traditional sense, given the context, but rather statistically significant—that the unsub’s victim selection aligns with a pattern previously seen in—”

“Oh, I love that you talk like that,” Foster’s voice is warm, teasing, admiring. “Most people dumb things down, but you don’t. That’s rare,”

You stiffen.

It’s unprofessional.

That’s what you tell yourself as you watch the way she tilts her head slightly when he speaks, as if absorbing every syllable. As if he’s the most fascinating thing in the room. She leans in a fraction closer—just enough to make it noticeable, just enough to make your stomach twist.

It’s unprofessional, you think again, but the words don’t sit quite right in your mind anymore.

Because the truth is, you shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t be noticing the way Foster looks at him. You shouldn’t be hyper-aware of the way her fingers brush the edge of his sleeve again, so light it could almost be accidental. You shouldn’t be waiting for him to pull back, to shake off the attention like he does when social interaction becomes too much.

Except he doesn’t. He just lets it happen.

And that irritates you.

So you do what you always do when something threatens to knock you off balance—you shut it down.

“Reid.”

Your voice cuts through the air, sharper than you intended. The team stops, turning toward you. Even Foster straightens slightly, blinking at the sudden shift in tone. Spencer glances over, his expression a mixture of mild confusion and concern.

You exhale, tightening your grip on the case file in your hands. “We’re here to solve a murder,” you say, your voice even but firm. “Not to make friends.”

Foster’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t comment. Morgan, who had been watching the interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, makes a low sound in his throat—something close to a chuckle. You ignore it.

“I wasn’t aware discussing case patterns was off-limits,” Spencer says, tilting his head. His tone is neutral, but there’s a hint of something else there.

You meet his gaze, keeping your own unreadable. “It’s not,” you say. “Just keep it relevant.”

It’s not a lie. You are focused on the case. You do want to keep things professional. That’s all this is. That’s the only reason your patience is stretched thin.

Except.

Except you can still feel the ghost of Foster’s laugh curling around Spencer’s words. Except your shoulders haven’t relaxed since the moment she touched him. Except your own thoughts are turning against you, pressing in like a vice, asking the question you really don’t want to answer—

If you’re so unaffected, why do you have to convince yourself of it?

—

The investigation continues with the same steady pace, but your attention keeps wandering.

Every time you glance toward Spencer and Foster, you find her leaning in a little too close, her voice a little too sweet as she asks him to clarify some trivial detail. She’s careful—always careful—never quite crossing a line, but the way she speaks to him, the way she looks at him, it grates at you.

The word “unprofessional” loops endlessly in your mind, but each time you tell yourself that, something inside you pushes back.

You’re not jealous. You just want her to focus. This is a case, for God’s sake.

But the more she smiles at him, the more he just stands there, absorbed in the conversation, oblivious to the subtle dance she’s performing, the more that uncomfortable twist in your stomach tightens. Every laugh, every overly familiar gesture, stirs something inside you that you can’t quite name.

You can feel your teeth grinding as they talk, your gaze hardening on the two of them. You’re trying to focus on the case, you’re trying to ignore the nagging irritation building in your chest, but the more they interact, the more annoyed you become.

She’s practically flirting, and Spencer isn’t doing anything about it. Or, if he is noticing, he’s pretending it doesn’t bother him.

But it bothers you. Why does it bother you?

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the evidence bag in your hand, and before you know it, you’re standing too close to them, watching as Foster tries to steer Spencer away from the group to discuss something you know is irrelevant to the case.

It’s not urgent. You know it’s not urgent. But when you hear the soft cadence of her voice inviting Spencer to join her for a “quick chat” away from the others, the words explode out of you.

“Reid.” you say sharply, the sound of his name a snap. The words feel harsh even to your own ears.

Spencer’s head jerks around, blinking at you in surprise. His lips part, but you cut him off again, your voice colder than you intended. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Foster stops mid-sentence, blinking in confusion at the sudden interruption. Her eyes flick to Spencer, and then back to you. The tension in the air thickens, but you don’t care.

You don’t care.

Except you do. And that makes it worse.

Spencer’s gaze softens as he turns back to you, the furrow in his brow deepening, something akin to concern flashing across his face. It only makes you more frustrated.

“I’m not finished yet,” Spencer protests quietly, but there’s a careful note in his voice, the kind that suggests he’s trying to be diplomatic, to avoid upsetting you.

You blink, realising you’ve taken another step too far. Your heart skips a beat at the softness in his voice, and for just a moment, you feel guilty. He’s just trying to help, trying to be professional. And yet, the only thing you can focus on is her.

You don’t let the guilt linger long. “Then stop getting distracted.” you snap, then force yourself to look away, eyes darting back to the scene as if it somehow holds your attention now. You’re already backing off, leaving the words hanging in the air.

Spencer stares at you for a beat longer than necessary, confusion and concern still flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t press it. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t question you further. Instead, he shifts back toward the group, muttering something to Morgan about a pattern in the evidence, and you hear the subtle shift in his voice—he’s letting it go.

But you don’t feel relieved.

The knot in your chest tightens again. Why did you say that? Why did you let her get to you?

You tell yourself it’s about professionalism. It’s about the case. You don’t have time for distractions, not when the clock is ticking. And you definitely don’t have time to unravel this feeling that’s spreading through you like an infection.

Spencer doesn’t argue. He doesn’t snap back at you, doesn’t give you the defensive posture that you might expect from anyone else. Instead, he does something that immediately pulls the rug out from under you.

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

For a moment, the world around you blurs, the noise of the crime scene and the murmurs of the team fading into the background. It’s just Spencer’s eyes, filled with something you can’t quite place—concern, maybe, or confusion, maybe a little of both. But it’s soft. Too soft.

Your pulse spikes, and for a split second, it feels like the floor is tipping beneath you. It’s so disarming, the quiet concern in his gaze, and it makes the frustration building inside you flare even higher.

“Are you okay?”

The question is simple, unassuming, and it cracks something inside you. It’s not a challenge, not a reprimand—it’s genuine, and that’s what makes it harder to brush off.

No. You’re not okay.

You’re furious, but you can’t explain why. You’re hurt, but you can’t pinpoint the cause. You’re jealous, and the idea of admitting that to yourself is enough to send your thoughts spiraling. And all the while, Spencer’s standing there, oblivious to the storm building inside you, just waiting for your response.

You can’t look at him anymore.

“I’m fine,” you mutter quickly, not meeting his eyes. You swallow, forcing your chest to loosen, fighting the sudden weight that presses down on your shoulders.

Your words come out stiff, rehearsed, and even to your own ears, they sound like a lie. But you say them anyway. Because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You turn abruptly, your boots echoing on the concrete floor as you walk away, away from Spencer and away from the nagging feeling that he might see through you if you stay.

But you’re not running. You’re not hiding. You’re just… focused.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

As you round the corner, your mind keeps racing, fighting to keep everything in order. You tell yourself you don’t care about the detective’s attention.

You tell yourself it’s unprofessional, it’s inappropriate. And you tell yourself that you’ve seen it all before, that Spencer’s just being Spencer—oblivious to the subtle ways people gravitate toward him.

But none of that feels convincing anymore.

By the time you’ve reached the far side of the warehouse, your hands are trembling slightly. You push them into your pockets, trying to centre yourself. You feel the familiar coldness wrapping around you again, your professional mask sliding back into place like armour. It’s easier this way.

A sharp breath escapes your lips as you lean against the wall, your head pressed back, eyes closed for a moment. Focus.

You force yourself to take another breath. You’re here for the case. That’s all.

But as the minutes pass, the tight knot in your chest refuses to loosen, and all you can think about is the way Spencer’s face looked when he asked you that question. Are you okay?

And, just for a fleeting second, you wonder if he knows more than you think.

—

The rest of the case proceeds, but something has shifted.

There’s an undeniable tension now—both around you and within you. As you walk through the newest crime scene, examining evidence and speaking with witnesses, Spencer doesn’t give you the space you’d expected.

He stays close, hovering just behind you, always near enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence even when you’re too busy to glance at him.

He’s speaking to you more than usual, asking for your input first, even in situations where it’s clear he already has the answers. It’s as if he’s checking in with you constantly, gauging your reaction before making any decisions of his own.

The subtle shift doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Foster, who had been so eager to claim his attention earlier, is starting to back off, visibly frustrated by his sudden disinterest in her suggestions. She tries a few more times to pull him away for a “quick chat,” but Spencer doesn’t respond to her advances the way he did before.

Instead, he looks to you.

“Hey, I think we might need a second look at the victim’s phone records,” he says, voice casual but with an edge of expectation, like he already knows you’ll agree. “What do you think?”

You pause, the request startling you slightly. Spencer doesn’t usually ask for your opinion on the more technical aspects of a case, but you don’t have time to process it. The words come automatically.

“Yeah, definitely. It might give us a window into the unsub’s next move.”

Spencer nods in approval, his face softening slightly as he absorbs your response. But there’s something else there, something unspoken—a quiet acknowledgment.

He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stay close as the investigation progresses, as if he’s subtly keeping his distance from Foster without even addressing it.

You’re still frustrated—at him, at the detective, at yourself—but there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in your chest. That small part of you that feels like you’ve been seen. That he noticed.

Every time Foster attempts to direct him away from the group, Spencer brushes her off with a polite but clear, “I’ll be right with you,” his eyes flicking to you before he moves to stand closer. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you even want to acknowledge it. But it’s there—an undercurrent you can’t ignore.

Your mind still races with frustration. You can’t shake the gnawing feeling that something’s off, and you can’t decide if it’s the case, the detective, or yourself. But every time Spencer looks to you for direction, every time he positions himself just a little too close, your frustration starts to dull, replaced by something else.

He’s noticing you. He’s listening.

When the team breaks for a quick huddle to discuss their next steps, Spencer stands beside you. Not next to Morgan or Hotch, not pulling away to talk to Foster. He’s deliberately close, his shoulder just grazing yours as he flips through his notes.

“You alright?” he asks again, in that soft, concerned tone that makes you almost uncomfortable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to admit something, like he already knows there’s something you’re not saying.

You want to brush him off, to tell him to stop worrying about you, but the question catches you off guard. For a brief moment, the irritation—toward him, toward Foster, toward everything—subsides, and you're left with something unspoken hanging between you two.

"I’m fine," you mutter again, a little more convincingly this time, even though it’s not true. But you can’t find the words to explain it. Not when you’re still trying to convince yourself that none of this should matter.

Spencer doesn’t push. He just nods, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before he pulls away to engage with the team, but he keeps an eye on you, always just a little more attentive than usual.

You try to shake off the feeling that this—whatever this is—matters, but it’s hard to deny. The connection between you two is there, unspoken, and for some unknown reason you’re feeling a lot more vulnerable than usual.

And that, more than anything, is what frustrates you the most.

[comicaurora]

If you were a sci-fi writer, how would you solve the Fermi paradox? That being the discrepancy between evidence for alien life, versus the likelihood of their existence? (basically. If alien so likely, why we not see?) The Dead Space series has an amazing cosmic horror solution, but i'm curious what you're brain could come up with!

There's a lot of possibilities, some more interesting than others.

The speed of light and the distance between inhabited stars makes it prohibitively slow to detect, make contact with, or reach any star with alien life. It doesn't matter if we're not alone, our corner of Space Reachable Within A Human Lifetime is so comparatively small that we may as well be. We're all blindly wandering through an infinite desert, calling into the void. Space exploration is a long game, and on that timescale, even whole civilizations blink out very quickly. If we manage to catch a signal and follow it, we might find nothing on the other end but ruins - or an asteroid field where a planet's orbit used to be.

The universe is too young for us to find anyone else out there. We're the first. How will we shape the galaxy to make life better for those who come after us?

The life that formed on Earth is terrifyingly invasive. The atmosphere and ocean is choked with monocellular life, and its surface is coated with a mass of multicellular organisms finding new ways to devour one another. Even extinction events don't keep down the biomass for long. If life on other planets looks anything like us, the problem isn't going to be detecting it. It'll have gotten everywhere. The problem is going to be not immediately getting colonized and eaten alive by it. And if life on other planets DOESN'T look like us, our whole planet is probably a class 1 biohazard and contamination risk. Multicellular earth organisms contain microcosmic ecosystems that proliferate explosively when they die. If anything inside them can find ANYTHING to eat, it's over.

Life evolves frequently, but always in oceans. It is extremely rare for any alien life to leave that ocean and adapt to life on land. Without this step, the jump to space exploration - even space contemplation - becomes infinitely more unlikely.

Monocellular life is seeded on planets from an outside source and allowed to self-cultivate and grow until the biomass reaches a certain volume. Then the farmers return to harvest it.

There is not a single other species on our entire planet that humans can actually reliably communicate with. It takes tremendous amounts of training to make an animal capable of recognizing even a handful of words, and very few of them can use them. Humans can't even communicate with other humans with 100% clarity, even if they're using the same language. When we find alien life, if we even recognize it as anything resembling life as we know it, we have absolutely no way of communicating.

Space colonialism has been disallowed by the space geneva conventions due to massive past tragedies, parasitic exploitation of worlds and senseless loss of life. Human expeditionary efforts are being watched warily through targeting sights.

We've known about radio communication for less than 200 years. We haven't yet figured out the medium through which all advanced civilizations communicate.

Alien life exists in abundance, but the vast majority of it is extremely tiny. We wouldn't spot an anthill on a satellite photo, and none of their ships are large enough to survive passage through our atmosphere.

Earth's oxygen atmosphere is an anomaly, and our first and most enduring extinction event. The explosive proloferation of cyanobacteria and their oxygen photosynthesis irreparably altered the planet's prebiotic atmosphere and wiped out everything that couldn't handle the sudden massive increase in a highly reactive and flammable gas. Earth is considered highly toxic and unstable, though recently detected increases in methane and CO2 might signal that nature is finally beginning to heal.