#Cast metal repair process

[rebabbitting]

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[metalstitchinglocking]

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[engineoverhaulingservices]

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[rapowersolutionsposts]

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[hazshit-hotel-hater]

I’M STUCK ON THIS FUCKING PLANET. I’M STUCK ON THIS GODDAMN EARTH.

Tap photo for better quality

That’s right!! I’m talking even more about sinner bodies because I’m CRAZY!!! RAAHHH!! 🤪 SHES SO CRAZY WE CANT TAKE HER ANYWHERE!! 😝 it’s 3 in the morning and I can’t stop thinking about this goddamn TV.

I think Vox is genuinely the most fucked up character in this rewrite currently. Not really morally fucked up, there’s definitely worse people, but physical alterations in hell out of the main cast he definitely has it the worst. In my last post I talked about how Angel formed in hell and I want to go back to this because Vox did not form in hell as a TV or even a robot at all. He got formed on the road after dying in a car crash and was literally just this fucked up clump of wires and metal panels and had gross little robot hands and he had to make everything else himself and wait for his body to adjust to it, so he literally cannot regenerate normally. He didn’t even have a face yet or screen of any kind, just a little camera to see out of. If his screen shatters he needs to get a new one or if his body breaks he needs to get it repaired, thats why he’s able to upgrade his body and stuff.

And like yeah some tech sinners do just form as robots but Vox just is a fucking mess and I think about it all the time and thats why his demon form is all fucked up like that and I think thats partially another reason he hates Alastor’s ideals so much sometimes because hes like “technology bad!” even though he literally is also partially a tech sinner and hes just stupid but like without technological advancements Vox literally would have nothing like they wouldn’t’ve met, Vox would not have a company, etc, etc and thatd probably help a lot of people yeah like the Vees would not fucking exist but ignoring that, just on a personal relationship scale I imagine your “friend” being like “man I really hate the thing that gives you life and allows you to live a somewhat normal existence” hurts a bit.

Technological regeneration is a bit more confusing and hard to explain than biological regeneration since machinery can’t really “heal” in real life. The concept sounds almost bewildering, like you can’t cut a wire and have it slowly heal like skin would, you’d need a whole new wire. But Vox internally, the things that allow him to move and live how he does now, it’s the only part of him that he can heal, and to him, it’s still “defective”.

Vox is disabled mentally and physically; he has Autism, ADHD, and epilepsy, all of which he is unable to be medicated for due to his new body. These are all things that he hates to acknowledge and will become irrationally upset by if they are mentioned to the point he will actively to deny certain aspects of disability. Being a man from the 1900’s-1950’s his views on mental disabilities and mental illnesses are… less than uh.. “acceptable” for today’s standards. He often disregards slurs towards this being called slurs and insists that “They used to just be words” or “It’s a medical diagnosis.” yet still gets incredibly upset when he is ever called a slur that actually could apply to him. In a way he tries to come off as purposely ableist so that he doesn’t have to confront this aspect of himself that he doesn’t understand. His knowledge in technology or sharks or economics aren’t “special interests” to him, they’re just “regular things a man likes”. He can’t process what a hyperfixation is. He doesn’t know that it’s normal for him to be unable to speak on occasion or that certain textures make him severely uncomfortable. These are either seen as weaknesses or “average people things”. Aside from how terribly disabled people were treated back around the 50’s, he views the neurodiverse aspect of his mind as something that only serves to further push him from grasping the feeling of regular humanity again.

For physical disabilities, he doesn’t lie or deny that he has epilepsy, yes he has an intense disdain for mentioning it, but for very few people he is close with he will disclose this information to them privately. There are a very select few people that are aware of this and two of those people are Velvette and Alastor. This post isn’t really about diving into Vox’s epilepsy so I’m keeping this concise because I have another post to put all of that in. Hope you all enjoy the wacky art :)

The binary says “Trust us” for anyone curious

[yogurtverse]

Fuck it, the Homestuck kids and trolls with JJBA stand abilities

John Egbert: Jesus of Sburbia

Namesake: Green Day song

Jesus of Sburbia allows it's user to create a room around them, then disassemble any non living object into a currency. The stand can then rebuild anything it can either see or remember disassembling at the cost of said currency. It may also store objects inside it that the user might want to use later on.

Rose Lalonde: Nightwish

Namesake: Finnish metal band

Nightwish takes the form of a lovecraftian tentacle monster, and has the power to peer into the minds of it's opponents and scan for their worst fears. It can then shapeshift into the fears and cast grimdark illusions into the opponents mind.

Dave Strider: Deltron

Namesake: Rap Group

Deltron works differently than your average stand master relationship. Instead of the normal "Kill the stand kill the user." rule most stands apply to, if the stand or user is defeated, the remaining one will pull from another timeline (more likely to find doomed Daves anyway) and use their spirit to replace the stand. However, this weakens the user and stand until the merging process is complete.

Jade Harley: Sweet Trip

Namesake: Indie Rock band

Sweet Trip is a combat based stand that mostly focuses on guns. It has the secondary ability to set these guns to teleport objects by firing a bullet somewhere and then shooting a second target, in which case the shot target takes the place of the fired bullet.

Aradia Megido: Tornado of Souls

Namesake: Megadeth song

Tornado of Souls can put people in a sort of sleep paralyses, freezing an opponent in place. During this process, Tornado of Souls can implant memories of deceased people known to the victim and torment them.

Tavros Nitram: Rhapsody

Namesake: Power Metal band

Rhapsody is a rallying stand that allows it's user to enter talks with and recruit any creature to their cause, acting like a translator between the two.

Sollux Captor: Remain in Light

Namesake: Talking Heads album

Remain in Light is a two headed stand that allows it's user to pinpoint two objects to fall under the effects of RiL. Once they are, the stand can both produce powerful beams as well as transfer any feeling from one target to the other. (For example, if Sollux was to punch someone under RiL, the impact of the punch could transfer to the other person, having them feel the impact)

Karkat Vantas: Death Grips

Namesake: Experimental hip-hop group

Death Grips is probably the weakest stand in terms of pure combat potential in the session. However, it's main ability lies in it's ability to infiltrate electronic systems and destroy them, no matter how complex. If a device is turned off while Death Grips is still inside, it will go haywire and destroy the machine beyond repair. If Death Grips is inside a shut down machine for too long, it will start to lose power and die.

Nepeta Leijon: 100 Gecs

Namesake: Hyperpop duo

100 Gecs is a colony stand made up of 100 small catlike creatures. They can be controlled by Nepeta for either attacks with their claws or using them to cover herself or allies for defensive purposes.

Kanaya Maryam: Black Halo

Namesake: Kamelot album

Black Halo allows it's user to remove the light from anything it comes across, storing the light to either illuminate areas or blind others. When a lot of light is collected, BH can fire it in concentrated beams or throw it as a shield

Terezi Pyrope: Follow the Leader

Namesake: Korn album

Follow the Leader forces it's user to follow their own moral code, whatever that may be. If the victim is forced to break their moral code through things like peers and circumstances beyond their control, FtL slowly begins to hurt the victim. If they reject their own morals too much, the pain will kill them.

Vriska Serket: Mind Fuzz

Namesake: King Gizzard and the Wizard Lizard album

Mind Fuzz takes the form of a spidery woman with eight legs. Once one of these legs touches a victim they become temporarily mind controlled and forced to enact Vriska's bidding. Vriska can also shake it's limbs and it will randomly point a leg upwards or downwards. If all eight point upwards (surprisingly more likely than you'd think) Vriska can make a wish to alter the area around her.

Equius Zahark: Powerslave

Namesake: Iron Maiden album

Powerslave allows it's user to drain the strength from their opponent and add it to the stand, while the stand can transfer the gathered strength to either Equius or others around him.

Gamzee Makara: Atrocity Exhibition

Namesake: Danny Brown album

Actrocity Exhibition is a combat stand that can also produce an extremely high frequency noise that drives people into a manic state as well as heightening their senses. The user is not immune from this, often adding to the mania.

Eridan Empora: Headmaster Ritual

Namesake: The Smiths song

Headmaster Ritual works as a science powered stand with full access to the periodic table, being able to change any two elements. This runs the risk of creating extremely volatile changes, so using the stands secondary ability of channeling the elements into objects such as wands or guns is all but nessesary to avoid harm to the user.

Feferi Peixes: Queen of the Stone Age

Namesake: Metal band

Queen of the Stone Age is a wearable stand dedicated to helping the ruler survive any sort of pressure and move along any sort of surface, be it from lava, water, space, etc. Feferi can also extend the stand to anyone she's physically touching.

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 2. FALLOUT

❝I am the ruin you made.❞

Cradle Rock M.List

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

The air in the room is thick with the stale scent of death—mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

Harsh fluorescent lights cast a cold glow over the space, illuminating the splatters that streak the wall and pool across the floor.

Two masked men stood at the threshold, staring at the aftermath of the brutal chaos that had erupted only moments ago.

The Chief of Security lets out a low chuckle as his gaze sweeps over the scene, nudging at the twisted corpse with the toe of his boot.

"Jeez...sure did a number on him," he mutters, almost impressed half-amused. Its limp arm flops lifelessly from his kick.

There's no trace of sympathy in his tone—only a detached, mocking curiosity as he surveys the remnants of the fight.

A scowl crossed the face of the doctor who trailed behind, his own apprehension barely concealed. 

It goes away upon spotting two figures on the ground a few feet away.

The body of your mother—no longer your mother—lay twisted.

Her gurgling groans were the only sound that broke the unbearable stillness.

You laid slumped on her chest, eyes closed, lost somewhere beyond this nightmare.

The infected woman twitches once they're near and begins to writhe. 

Milky eyes stay locked on them; her bloodied hands clawing weakly at the floor as if reaching for the intruders who had entered her space.

Her legs were useless—shattered beyond repair.

Prevented from fully rising, she drags herself forward in small pitiful jerks, grotesque fingers scraping along the tiles.

The movement jostles you causing your body to roll off her chest where you remain motionless on the floor.

In some twisted lingering instinct her outstretched arm fell just short of you—almost as if in some distorted memory of protection.

Visibly repulsed, the doctor folds his arms and steps back, his eyes never leaving the infected woman as she continued her disturbing advance.

"Will you stop playing around?!" he hissed sharply, his nerves clearly on edge.

He watches the guard's amusement from the scene disappear as his lips curl into a displeased sneer, his eyes rolling in annoyance.

"Killjoy," he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for the doctor to hear, with the faintest edge of bitterness.

Swiftly pulling out his gun with a practiced aim, he fires a single shot.

The loud crack echoes as your mother's head snaps back, the life (what little of it remained) snuffed in an instant.

Her body slumps. Immediate threat removed, both men turn their attention to you.

You laid limply where you rolled off during your mother struggle.

Dr. Allen approaches cautiously, watching for any sign of infection, his eyes sharp as he kneels to inspect your face.

"No visible contamination," he murmurs to himself, his fingers brushing a streak of dried blood near your cheek.

You looked peaceful; no traces of decay, no signs of the sickness clawing its way into your flesh.

To anyone else you simply looked asleep—a stark contrast to the horrors strewn around the room.

He turns back to look at the guard with uncertainty. "Think it worked?"

Your eyes suddenly snap open causing the two men to stagger back startled.

In a swift jerking motion you sit up. But instead of speaking a violent retch overtakes you.

Dark putrid vomit spills from your mouth in thick sickly splatters, your body convulsing as if something vile is being purged from deep within.

The guard flinches, a string of curses under his breath as he takes a hasty step back, drawn gun still pointing at you with unwavering readiness.

"What the fuck?" he spits, his hand tightening on his weapon.

Before they could process what was happening, your eyes roll and your body began to convulse violently.

"Shit! What's going on?!" The guard's eyes were wild, darting between you and the panicked doctor.

Your limbs thrashed uncontrollably, heels scraping against the floor as the seizure took over with a terrifying force.

The doctor stumbled. "I—I'm...I" the man stuttered, his tablet clutched in his shaky hands as he frantically scrolled through streams of data.

His face paled with each passing second. He mutters to himself, skimming through records—searching for anything that might explain your symptoms. "I...I don't know!"

The guard glares. "The hell you mean you don't know?! This is your expertise four-eyes!" he snapped, fear twisting his voice.

"It means it's never fucking happened before you dumbass!" the spectacled doctor barked back as his own fear flared into anger. "There's nothing in any data about a reaction like this! This wasn't supposed to—"

"Then maybe get a clue," he snarls. His gaze is glued to your spasming body, trigger finger itching as if debating whether to take matters into his own hands.

Abruptly you still. Your body falls limp, blank eyes emptily staring at the cold ceiling above.

The silence that follows is thick. For a long beat, neither of them move, their breaths held as they study your unmoving form.

The guard's eyes narrow as he sends a wary glance to Dr. Allen. "...is she dead?"

His mouth opens but no words come out. He's frozen, staring down at you, lips parted in a mixture of dread and fascination.

Muttering something under his breath the guard tugs off a glove.

His other hand kept his gun trained on you, ready for any unexpected lunge or bite.

With a clenched jaw, he cautiously bends down to press a bare finger under your nose.

Feeling the faint warmth of your breath he leans back and glance over his shoulder. "She's still kickin'. Just bein' a lil' weird."

Closing your lids with a firm press to seal away the unsettling blankness in your stare, he stands up and sends the doctor a curt nod. "Go ahead and get your lil' samples."

He didn't need to be told twice. Signaling for his team to come in, their gloved hands making quick work of setting up around you.

They slipped your bloodied clothing from your still form and replaced it with a sterile hospital gown as nearby stationed guards kept their eyes trained on you, weapons ready for any sign of danger.

Efficiently hooking you up to their mobile lab equipment, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor began to echo through the room—blending with the hushed murmurs.

You're carefully transferred onto a gurney, your limp limbs positioned with clinical precision.

One assistant, trembling slightly, draws your blood before quickly darting over to the facility's Leading Researcher with a syringe of your blood. "S-sir."

Dr. Allen face tightens as he accepts it without a word. He moves to a sterile station, his hands steady but his eyes haunted.

He takes a fresh petri dish and carefully dispenses a few drops of your blood into the center, watching as the crimson droplets pool and spread in the confined area.

The room fell into complete silence as he readied a pipette filled with the blood of your infected mother.

Adding a drop of her blood to the same petri dish, Dr. Allen leaned into the microscope with bated breath, his mind racing with the possibilities of what he might see.

'If it works...if this is it,' His eyes are locked on the microscopic scene, his heart pounding with expectation.

All the trials, all the sacrifices, all the lives they'd taken and lost has led to this: a chance to turn the tide of everything.

His fingers grip the microscope as he remembers the usual reaction—the way infected blood would hungrily invade and consume uninfected cells, blending until nothing pure was left.

'This time,' he tells himself, 'there will be something different.'

Every eye watched, every breath held as seconds turned into minutes with nothing but the sound of the machines and the anxious shuffling of feet.

But he remains silent—frozen in his hunched position.

His knuckles turned white as he gripped the microscope. His body seemed locked in place, a statue carved from dread.

Finally, one of the assistants couldn't stand it any longer.

"What's happening? What do you see?"

Slowly, Dr. Allen lifted his head, turning to face the room. Even behind his mask it was clear something was deeply, terribly wrong.

His skin was ashen, glassy wide eyes wide filled with tears that slipped down his cheeks, dampening the protective mask.

His gaze was empty. He opened his mouth, words catching in his throat  as he struggled to find what to say.

Your cells...the infected...they t—

"She's human... " his finally says, voice hollow. "there's no cure."

The words dropped into the silence like a bowling ball, dragging all hope with them as a stunned suffocating stillness settled over the room.

One by one, eyes slowly turned to you—lying peacefully on the gurney, oblivious to the weight of the revelation.

Your blood...

Why hadn't it worked?

It was supposed to bond with the infected cells.

It was supposed to be the cure they had been searching for—the answer that would reverse this virus and save everything they had lost.

So why?

Why hadn't it worked?

Why?

Why why why why why why why why why why why wh—

"WHY!!" Dr. Allen's roar cuts through the stunned silence, reverberating off the walls like a physical blow.

The sudden outburst made everyone in the room jump. His eyes are ablaze with despair as he rips his glasses off and throw them.

In a fit of unbridled rage he grabs the edge of the mobile lab cart and flips it with a deafening crash.

Its contents scattered—vials, instruments, papers—spilling across the floor in a mess.

The team flinched, some instinctively stepping back as shards of glass skittered past their boots.

He grabbed whatever his hands could find—test tubes, trays, even an abandoned clipboard—and hurled them against the wall.

Vials of blood exploded on impact staining the colorful surfaces with splashes of coagulated maroon.

The room became a canvas of chaos, streaked with red and littered with broken glass, the gleam of shattered pieces glinting ominously under the fluorescent lights.

Dr. Allen staggers, ripping off his mask with heaving breaths as he sank to his knees amid the wreckage.

His shaky hands move to clutch his hair, fingers twisting into the strawberry blond strands as tears spill freely down his face.

"It's over isn't it?" he hoarsely whispered under the weight of defeat. "The lies...the secrecy...all of it."

His body shook, racked by silent sobs as the finality of it all settled deep into his bones. 'I was supposed to save us...'

"Dr. Allen?" The voice calling his name was muffled by the thick fog of grief. He didn't move, didn't respond.

His gaze remained locked on the mess surrounding him, accusing him of the promise he'd failed to keep.

The research team exchanged looks of pity and urgency.

One by one, they stepped back, slipping out of the room to prepare (and hopefully survive) for what was inevitable to come.

The guards lingered only a moment longer, ensuring you were no longer a threat before following suit, the click of their boots fading as the doors swung shut behind them.

Dr. Allen barely registered their departure. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was a ghostly pulse in the background steady and unaffected.

He stared at the scattered shards of glass, at the blood drying in dark splattered patterns.

"Scott..." A warm hand settled on his shoulder, the weight of it firm and grounding.

The doctor's vision swam with unshed tears as he slowly turned his head to meet the steely but understanding gaze of Troy.

Even beneath the tired lines around his eyes he saw the truth—the shared weight of fear, the exhaustion gnawing at them both.

For a moment they took in that quiet understanding: two men worn raw by the same relentless fight for the uncertainty of tomorrow.

Dr. Allen lets out a deep shuddering sigh, the sound thick with a grief that words could never capture.

He nodded slightly as if releasing everything knotted within him and took the man's offered hand to pull himself up.

His shoes scrape against the broken glass as he stood and his eyes drifted to where you lay—so still, so heartbreakingly innocent amid the sterile chaos.

Without hesitation he walked to the corner of the room where your little library of books sat.

The shelf was lined with books worn from use, their spines creased and pages dog-eared from hours of eager reading.

Troy's gaze narrowed at the doctor's movements, brow furrowing as he watched him grab a bag and start stuffing it with books and items he knew you'd cherished—the ones you'd reach for time and time again.

"What are you doing?" His voice was sharp, a mix of confusion and warning.

Dr. Allen didn't stop. His hands moved with a frantic desperate rhythm. "We made her watch her mother die for a lost cause. The least we can do is get her out of here."

"Now wait a minute Scott. We can't just—"

"Just what?!" Dr. Allen whirled around, fire blazing in his eyes. "What else is there Troy? Her blood isn't immune. The world is going to end in few months and I—"

His voice broke, jaw tightening as he forced himself not to let the tears spill.

Troy's expression shifted, the sharp edges softening just slightly as he took in the doctor's trembling hands.

Dr. Allen turned back, exhaling shakily as he placed one last well-loved story into the bag and zipped it up with a final resolute pull.

"She's going to die just like the rest of us," he said with a bitterness of defeat coating every word. "Why not let it be beyond these walls?"

His words seemed to finally get to the armed man.

Taking in your unmoving frame on the gurney, Troy let out a long reluctant sigh tinged with reluctant understanding.

"And where exactly will you put her? She's got no name, no records. You know what'll happen if they find out we lied about eliminating all subjects."

Bag slung over his shoulder, Dr. Allen glance back with a catty grin. He tapped the side of his head with mock flourish.

"Did ya forget? I'm a doctorrrrr!" Twirling on his heel with an exaggerated flair that almost bordered on hysteria, he spun all the way out the room.

Troy's mouth twitched. "Dumbass..." he muttered, the word softened by a tone laced with something like admiration.

Turning back to you his expression softened.

He walked over and reached for the heart monitor, the steady beeping that had filled the room for so long suddenly going silent as he unplugged it.

The cold sterile cords were slipped from your arms and chest, leaving faint indentations on your skin.

He hesitated only for a heartbeat before bending down and lifting you into his arms. You were lighter than he expected; your limbs limp and your head resting against his shoulder.

You instinctively curled closer to his warmth even in unconsciousness. "...mm...Momma..."

Troy froze. He glances down to see your brows furrowed as a hint of pain crossed your sleeping face before smoothing back into a calm expression.

Though brief, the tender moment lodged itself deep in his chest—a reminder of what you had lost, what he had witnessed firsthand.

Troy's gaze drifted to your mother's motionless body still lying in the corner.

He remembered the day she first arrived at the facility—a shell of a woman, eyes too hollow for someone still breathing.

And yet she always manage to able to smile in the darkness. Resilient even when hope was nothing but a distant memory for her.

'Even when—'

He stopped the thought before it could finish, blinking hard to clear the sting in his eyes.

Guilt pressed into his chest like a vise but he pushed it down with a huff, instead shifting his focus to the task at hand.

As he turned to carry you toward the doorway something caught his eye that made him pause.

Your mother's outstretched arm, frozen in a protective reach toward where you had been, was adorned with a small colorful bracelet.

The tie-dye stitch stood out starkly against the complexion of her skin.

He recognized it immediately as a memory surfaced, sharp and clear: your small hands fumbling the strands of thread with frustration etched on your young face as you begged him to help make it. He didn't wanted to at first—protocol and all—but the quiet determination in your eyes had chipped away at his resistance. He'd relented, showing you how to braid, watching as you painstakingly finished the gift with a triumphant smile.

The sight of it struck him like a blow. It was a poignant reminder of the bond you shared—one that defied every rule, every cold regulation the facility had laid out.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the sharp ache that surged in his chest.

Adjusting his hold on you he steps closer. His hand hesitates for a moment, lingering near hers.

With a renewed resolve he moved to the doorway, leaving behind the only home you ever knew.

Your entire world...and humanity's could have been salvation.

There, beside the overturned cart, amid shards of shattered glass and stained papers...lay a single discarded petri dish.

To the few who might have noticed it, it nothing more than another piece of used medical equipment smudged with blood—a cruel reminder of failure.

If only Dr. Allen looked just a moment longer.

If only he had peered past the blur of his tears and thrum of defeat might he seen it.

Because within the confines of that simple forgotten dish, your blood had not been consumed.

It was surrounded by the infected's.

[the-blossica-fan]

Greetings!

Actors AU - who had the most intricate or expensive outfit? How would I2 designs be used in the AU? (Like Lucy questioning her design or Isolde having so many layers to put on)

And uh, we canonise the plushie saga into this au. So the plushies in this au are actual 'official' merch, so what its the reaction of the cast to the plushies?

Hello there, Comrade!!

Vertiny it's no longer Halloween please stop spooking the R1999 fans/silly

So far, it might be Lucy's costume. You see, it's made out of real iron and the paint has to be made for every scene, they also have to ensure that Miss Lucy doesn't have any allergic reaction to the paint or any difficulties with the costume.

And repairs are quite the thing so, yeah. As for a close second, we have the garments. Spathodea has a similar problem but without the paint and Lilya's armor is also made with real metal and made by a professional, so... They paid quite some money for a singular garment. Luckily it was the most famous one.

How the i2 outfits work is quite simple, they do change clothes a lot in the series so they're not wearing the same outfit all the time except for the Foundation workers, who have to wear the same outfit. Vertin doesn't change often unless it's for relaxed scenes (she never relaxes), meanwhile Sonetto only changes in specific scenes like season 4 or season 7, and Matilda is the more free one because of her rank so she has quite a wardrobe.

Isolde doesn't actually complain, she's actually glad she doesn't have to change as much as she does in an opera. Those two dresses are surely something but she's fine with it.

Meanwhile, Miss Lucy sighs every time she has to get in her costume. It's a whole procedure that's quite annoying to go through every other scene. She did ask for a change of proportions but, well, they made slight changes so she could fit in the metal parts.

As for Lucy's i2 outfit, it's just the Actress having freedom from some parts of the metal body.

Miss Lucy: I have to say, I don't hate the costume but having to go through all that process is time consuming. Thankfully I always get a health check and ensure my safety.

Regulus is the one with the most outfit changes, she might even wear her usual clothes and call it a day. Makes Lilya and Vertin a little jealous since they're not allowed to change outfits.

Pavia willingly doesn't use his i2 outfit as much, he likes the colors of his i0 outfit so you will only see him in his i0, i2 is a collective imagination from the fandom (jk)

I can picture Vertin holding a Smallneider and making a video of herself sobbing while hugging it to feed the fans. She has a lot of fun with the plushies, holding them in her arms. And putting them in difficult situations

Meanwhile Isolde holds dearly a Kakania plushie because that plushie ACTUALLY pays attention to her. Isolde has made some bitter comments to Klara who's like "Oh? Yeah the plushie is so cute! It looks like a mini-me"

She's about to make a wedding with the Kakania and Isolde plushie to send it to Klara but she knows her thick head will not get that crap.

Then there's Lilya and Regulus throwing plushies at each other, "The plushie war" if you will.

Lilya: Hey, wanna play angry birds? I put the Arcana plushie in here and you throw the rest at her.

Regulus: Damn you're a genius. Lemme get the Vertin plushies ready.

Theophil: Isolde, could you please stop sobbing onto Mini Kakania? I can hear you from here

Isolde: Shut up Theophil, I'm depressed

Theophil: You're always depressed- Hey! Don't throw them at me!

Semmelweis is always seen with a Bela and Semmelweis plushie somewhere in her emo clothes, if you stare long enough, you'll see it. They're her emotional support plushies she sometimes throws at Valentina when she's unaware.

Oh and Matilda hates (liar) her duck plushie. She's NOT a duck. Mercuria and Kanjira have taken pictures of her cuddling up to that plushie like her sanity depends on it. Little ducking liar.

[glitterguts13]

hello! wanted to ask you about the biker Mavuika and retired military officer Capitano fic; how’s it going? no pressure, ofc, but if you’re currently working on it, are you satisfied on how its coming along?

—Reikanon

I am working on it! I'm only one chapter in, and I want to get a few done before I post, but here's a snippet of the start!

The flash of red catches his attention before the fist is thrown squarely into his face. Muscle memory takes hold before he can stop himself, catching the woman’s fist in the palm of his hand, leveraging her weight, and throwing her onto the gravel. Hitting the ground with enough force to knock the wind from her lungs, her eyes flash dangerously, one long leg kicking out and catching him under the chin.

“Bastard!” he stumbles back, but doesn’t loose his footing, “Do you have any idea how much money it’s going to cost to repair the damage you did?”

“I’ve told you time and time again, Mavuika. Do not park your motorcycle in my driveway.”

“It was there for five minutes! I just had to run in and drop some things off next door, and Chasca doesn’t have room for me to park!”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Capitano can feel the migraine forming behind his eyes.

This had been going on for over a year. Since he’d moved into the neighborhood Mavuika and her little gang of hellions had been a constant thorn in his side. Reeving up their bikes before the crack of dawn, holding parties till the morning hours, and using his property as a communal parking spot, destroying his lawn in the process.

“I don’t care if you used my land before, I live here now, and you need to respect that.”

Her fingers twitch, eyes narrowing, the scent wafting off her was bitter, poisoning the air around her.

“Things are different in Natlan. We aren’t neighbors here, we’re family. Everyone shares with each other, we make sacrifices for each other.” it takes a great deal of effort to avoid scoffing at her words. His silence only seems to irritate the Alpha further,

“You’re paying for the damage you caused to my bike.” he casts his gaze towards to hunk of metal laying on its side. Perhaps, he had done a little more than was necessity, but a year of frustration had built up, and taking a crowbar to the wretched thing was rather cathartic. The Alpha knows full well he’s at fault this time, even if it was on his property, he could have easily moved it aside. There wasn’t any need to bust the damn thing up as badly as he had.

However, he was far too prideful to admit that.

“No. It’s about time you face some consequences for your actions,” he looks the other Alpha up and down, “At your age, you really should know better.”

“My age- That’s rich coming from you.” Mavuika circles around him, head held high, lips curled back into a snarl.

“I’m not paying for the repairs unless you get a court to order it.” it only fuels her rage further. The rage in her eyes burns hot, and for a split second, Capitano thinks she’s going to swing on him again.

“A bet.”

Blinking, the old Alpha crosses his arms over his broad chest.

“Excuse me?”

“We settle this,” she motions to herself, her small gang of misfits that were watching with equal parts concern and shared fury, and to her destroyed bike, “All of this, with a bet.”

Capitano wasn’t a gambling man, and perhaps it was the lack of sleep, being worn down from the last year of constant bickering, or simply age dampening his common sense, but he finds his mouth opening before his brain stops him.

“I’m listening.”

Mavuika growls, deep and low, teeth barred.

“A fight. Hand to hand, no weapons, five minutes, no holes barred. Whoever pins the over for ten seconds wins.”

Brows knitting in confusion, he speaks once more,

“And what is in it for you? I pay for your repairs?”

“No,” she spits, “The loser gets bitched and bred.”

[hasufin]

Modification

I want to share a little project I've been working on this past week. It may seem like nothing, but it was a lot of work and a big pain until I got it done.

Back when my spouse and I moved into our current house, I immediately recognized a dearth of counter space in the kitchen. We resolved this by purchasing a buffet table from Ikea. The table in question was a "Norden" model, which they have since discontinued. Simple enough table, a bit over a meter long and maybe a third that in depth, two drawers and two additional shelves. Great for holding kitchen appliances on top and storage below.

The first thing I did was add locking casters to the bottom so I could move it around easily. That's been a big bonus, as it makes cleaning much easier. I also put some hooks on the ends to hang my cast iron pans.

The problem arose I guess about three years ago when I upgraded to a commercial-grade espresso machine. The Gaggia was okay, but the Expobar is in a completely different class. And that's GREAT for good coffee. For a tabletop that's made of laminated particle board? Not so much.

Now, I had been aware of this problem for a while. I'd tried to ameliorate it by putting a silicone baking mat on top of that side of the table; that slowed down the deterioration, but did not stop it. It was also a daily annoyance, as the espresso machine moved a bit when I torqued the portafilter in place and it would get bunched up. About once a week I would have to lift the espresso machine and move things back.

This came to a head two weeks ago when I took the espresso machine in for some repairs and had to face that the tabletop was ruined. My initial thought was to get a replacement top from Ikea and then put maybe a piece of stone countertop in where the espresso machine sits.

This ran into two problems. First, as I mentioned before, this particular item is discontinued. Ikea will honor the warranty, and the Ikea rep tried pretty hard to make that work, but the reality is I got it too long ago and whatever abuse it's undergone is my problem; they don't sell the parts for it anymore.

Second, stone countertops are EXPENSIVE. While I just want what might be considered scrap, it was still going to be a lot of money, and I was not able to find a source.

Eventually I want to replace the entire thing with something I build myself, and I have some ideas for that. However, right now I have neither the time nor skill to make that happen. I was going to have to replace the top myself.

Since I didn't want to pay for stone, I opted for metal. I ordered a 4'x2' sheet of metal from McMaster and proceeded to prep the top. I sanded down the areas which were bubbling up and roughed up the rest of the surface.

Then, once the metal arrived I used my angle grinder to cut it to width and round the sharp corners. I had this notion that I might bend it over the top and maybe nail it down, or see if I could knurl the edges. However, while I think that was maybe possible, to do it well would have called for tools I don't have and skills I generally lack. The steel was 0.03" thick rolled mild steel. While that's not exactly a knife's edge, and you can touch it without cutting yourself, it's not exactly safe. And although I got much better with the angle grinder in the process (I had a grinder and hardly ever used it), the cut edges were a but uneven. So, I ordered some rubber edging.

In the meantime, I put the metal on the buffet table and prepared it.

I opted for a matte finish, since I would need better buffing tools than I have to get a mirror finish, and matte is easier to maintain than brushed. Since it's mild steel - which rusts easily - I sealed it with a spray lacquer.

Today, the rubber edging finally arrived. This is the same stuff you have on the edges of your car door. I glued it in place, except for one small section which is removable so I can easily clean detritus like coffee grounds off the table top. I also added two receivers to hold the feet of the espresso machine so it doesn't move when I put in the portafilter.

And, behold!

The result looks almost nothing like the original buffet table from Ikea. Someday I'll make something better, but whatever I make will be strongly informed by this, which has been heavily modified to fit my use case.

[jukebox-arts]

Two Weeks

A little thingy I started as a crossover of my Legacy AU and @garbagechocolate 's Truth Virus. I might continue as it's short and meant as pure angst, if that's desired; it'll go on AO3 if that's the case. It's not canon to my AU at all, but it does have Legacy-canon-compliant information that may or may not be relevant when the time comes~

Content below the cut:

Overhead lights hummed, casting dirty yellow-white light across cement, tile and metal rebar and pipes, trying and failing to make the dirty underground service bay seem somewhat sterile but only managing to pick out every crack and spot of dirt in grimy, perfect detail. Normally, Parts & Service was busy and filled to the brim with techs and programmers looking for something to do during the day, but at this moment only two could be found operating the repair pod, the others long gone on daily tasks of some sort or hiding out of camera view to catch a smoke or pilfer uncollected fries from the warmers. Fingers drummed the service pod keyboard lightly–click-clack-clack–but never enough to press a key by accident. That was what rookies did. Contrary to the opinion of corporate, they were not rookies. They were not paid like rookies, and yet…

Yet.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t just wait for Phil?”

Balling a fist, the older technician slammed his fist into the desk, avoiding the keyboard altogether but still startling his coworker into biting his own cheek with fright.

“Owowow–”

He gave the younger worker a hard look, stilling their whining so he could speak, sharp and firm as a stroke of a key on the computer. “It’s a fucking patch for the new system they wanted the jester thing to test run.”

This was true.

“It’s from the server at fucking corporate, so it’s gotta be legit, right?”

This was also true.

“We shouldn’t have to wait for Mr. Espresso For Dinner to supervise us every fucking time the talking pipecleaner needs a spit shine”

Nervously, the younger technician nodded, then shook his head. “But Phil–” He stopped for a moment. “Mr. Mercer was extremely clear about us being careful with the theater unit after the–”

“I. Don’t. Care,” the older man cut in, face creased with angry lines and graying brown hair. “I’ve been working here almost as long as that junkrat in a trenchcoat. Just because he’s Reed’s favorite little dumpster fire he gets the head IT position, but I’m just as capable of working on the attendant as he is. I’m not a fucking rookie–no offense.”

“N-none… taken,” the younger man squeaked, unable to voice further concerns.

“Just get the fucking twink down here so I can get this done, will you?” With a sigh, the older man wheeled his chair to the desk and began to prepare the file for processing, grumbling under his breath. “It can’t be that hard to install a fucking patch for something that’s already in their system, it’s robotics, not fucking rocket science!”

~

“Let me guess.”

Sun fidgeted with his ray, fingertip flicking over the point rhythmically, eyes looking anywhere but into the acid-bright hazel eyes staring him down from behind unkempt brown-black hair.

“You didn’t stop them because Mason’s a jackwad and you didn’t want to cause more problems?”

Nodding, Sun’s fingers closed around the end of his ray tightly–a nervous reflex. Before he could do any real damage, a hand wrapped around his wrist, firm but not overbearing. It still got him to jump, gaze darting up in spite of himself to see the hazel gaze was less of a disappointed burning and more of a concerned flicker, one that knew well and good about his… ‘problematic’ tics that had been developing over the months.

“I’m not mad, Sun,” the man said, voice gentle as he slowly brought the jester’s hand down from his head. “Not at you two, anyway.”

Sun couldn’t help himself, the apologetic babble coming up before he could really stop it, “I’m so so so sorry, Phil! I know you’ve told us not to let them bully us, but the new employee was so nervous and we didn’t think it was a big deal, we just–”

Phil’s palms pressed into both of Sun’s cheeks, causing him to stop as the short human got his attention, face unchanging. “Sun,” he started, speaking slowly and firmly, “I. Am not. Mad. At you. Understand?”

Feeling his jaw quiver, Sun nodded; the hands left his face, turning to hold the man’s chin in thought as he finally broke eye contact. Quietly, Sun folded his own together at the fingers, trying desperately to contain the guilt he felt as he noticed the stirring in the back of his programming of Moon as the night unit tuned in from wherever it was he found himself during daylight hours.

“Is he mad?” the crackly voice inquired.

Sun knew only he could hear his brother but it didn’t offer any solace–it was upsetting, if nothing else. Wrong. Even after months, he still wasn’t used to it, finding himself turning to answer only to be met with an empty room. This time, though, he was acutely aware that Moon wasn’t there. That turning would net only a concerned gaze from their maker, Phil Mercer.

“Not at us,” Sun whispered back, aloud.

Phil’s gaze flicked to Sun at the sound, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t need to. Instead, Phil mumble, a bit loudly on purpose so they boys–the theater jesters both–would hear without needing to be direct, “That idiot can’t even set the time on a microwave without using wikihow. I could run diagnostics myself and see if it worked but Al’s already up my ass as it is and I don’t have time for a full sweep…” He sighed with exaggeration, folding his arms together.

Sun’s head was tilted curiously at the mutterings, his fingers fidgeting over each other rhythmically.

“Of course Mason picks this week to be a pain. The inconvenience can’t be helped.”

“We’re sorry–”

“Shush.” Rubbing the back of his head and neck, Phil came to a decision–he only hoped it wouldn’t come back to bite them all later. “How’s daycare duty treating you both? Any issues outside of the whole ‘Moon didn’t switch from theater to nap time’ thing the patch was for?”

With a click and whirl of his rays, Sun smiled, glad for something good to talk about--relatively speaking. “Oh, it was lovely! The children are so much fun to interact with! Such wild imaginations!”

A half smile crept onto Phil’s face under his 5-o’clock shadow. “Moon? What about you?”

Sun waited as Moon spoke, relaying his answer precisely while switching the voice setting to the blue unit’s default. “It’s different trying to make the little ones sleep instead of cheer or laugh. Keeping them up by mistake was… odd. But I’ll learn.”

“Well,” Phil mused, “hopefully you find it easier now but I’ll be honest, I don’t trust that patch corporate sent–especially knowing Mason was the one to install it.”

“I don’t trust that guy as far as we can throw him,” Moon muttered, earning a snicker of agreement from Sun.

Catching this, Phil asked, “What's so funny?” still grinning.

Eyes wide, Sun stuttered, “N-nothing! Moon just–doesn’t like Mr. Mason!”

Knowing how this game went, Phil pressed, “So what did he say?”

“It’s not that funny, really!”

“Then why’d you laugh, Sunny D?”

With a raspy giggle, Moon kept on in the back of Sun's mind, “I saw him struggling once to change the input source on the TV in the P&S bay when he pulled a late shift.”

Sun’s voice cracked with disbelief. “What???”

“Let me in on the joke,” Phil begged dryly, giving the tall robot a playful elbow.

“No no–stop!” Sun laughed, rays spinning while Moon dropped more little things about the man named Mason and his prevalent skill issues; if he could cry he’d surely be in tears from laughing, between the snark of his brother and the amused ribbing of his friend on either side as Phil started piling on his own observations of the tech’s mishaps. “Please, this is so mean!”

“You’re feeling better though, right?”

The others stilled, giving Sun a chance to catch his breath so to speak. “I… am, yes.”

“Good.” Phil gave his back a pat. “So listen carefully, alright?” Sun nodded, feeling Moon’s presence close in as he leaned in to hear. “I’ve already got a bunch of things to go over and finish up for you guys for this new trial run they want you two to do. I’m going to work on my own fix for the default program issue but I can’t install it until I’m back.”

Sun’s rays retracted just a hair, giving off a series of clicks that gave away his sadness as he clamped his hands against them with embarrassment. “Ah!”

Phil’s brows raised in a sympathetic arc. “I know, I wouldn’t leave it be like this but Emilia’s…” Without meaning to, Phil’s voice trailed off for a moment, his mind going a thousand miles away briefly. “She’s having a rough trimester.”

“Oh no.” Carefully, Sun’s hands grazed Phil’s shoulders, attempting to comfort the man . “Of course, of course! You can take time for Mrs. Mercer as much as you need!”

Phil gave the lanky robot’s hand a grateful pat. “Appreciated, Sunny, but I still have a job to do. I’ll be home for two weeks and I’ll come back with all kinds of things to clean you up and make you the best daycare attendant those chucklefucks at corp–”

“Phil, language!” Sun blurted, catching both of them by surprise for a moment.

After a second of seeing Sun’s shocked face, rays retracting with embarrassment, Phil let out a deep laugh. “Well, it’s already working so that’s a relief!”

“Can we do that to all the adults?” Moon wondered quietly, a devious feeling creeping into Sun’s mind of how his brother wanted to abuse that feature for his own amusement. It was admittedly tempting with the way some of them talked.

Exhaling briskly, Phil got the pair’s attention before they could get caught up with mischief planning. “Do you think you two can handle me not being here for that long?”

“We should." Sun hoped saying it would give him some confidence in the idea.

“Can you promise me not to be too agreeable with the new guys and keep your butts out of P&S until I get back?”

That one would be harder. “W-we can try. The kids…” Images of the last few days flashed through Sun’s active mind–colorful paper, sliced apples, pillows soaring through the air–and glue.

So.

Much.

Glue.

“You are too new to this to have that look of ‘back in ‘Nam’ already, Sun.”

Sun blinked and came back to the present, grin shaken but not gone. “It was just a lot! Great, but a lot! We can handle it! The helpers are very good at keeping us ready to go!”

Moon mused, “Especially Nana,” which made Sun’s smile change from nervous grin to gentle curve at the mention of the older woman with curly, gray hair and too many bracelets that insisted on everyone, even the staff, calling her ‘nana’ or ‘granny’ despite none of the kids in the daycare being her family by blood.

Phil observed all of this quietly, taking note of Sun’s expression and how he tended to look off to the side whenever Moon spoke. Despite being unable to hear the entire exchange, he had some idea what they were talking about; nothing those two did went unknown to him for long, even in spite of their best efforts to hide some of their hiccups from him at first. If nothing else, he was glad they could still talk to each other actively. I’m glad those mooks in the office are still afraid of the big bad OSHA man, he thought to himself smugly, thumb twitching against his forefinger.

With habitual movements, the messy haired man pulled a sucker out from somewhere in his pocket, peeled the wrapper off in one graceful tug and popped it in his mouth–he grimaced as the sour tang of lemon-lime graced his tongue. Peeking at the wrapper, he saw a small green gator-shaped icon stare back at him. Of course it would be Gator Blast.

“Phil?”

Said man glanced up, realizing the yellow jester had finished his aside in time to see the face Phil pulled at the bizarre flavor of Faz-pop he’d managed to fish out. “Hm?”

“What’s wrong?”

Rolling the candy to his cheek, Phil grumbled, “Monty’s lollipop flavor tastes like plastic and battery acid.”

Horror and concern flickered through Sun’s optics. “Should you be eating that??”

“Too late now.” He checked his watch quickly and made a displeased sound in his throat. “I’ve gotta go wrap some stuff up before Al starts in on me, promise me you two will be careful.”

“We promise!”

“I’ll see you in two weeks. Moon.”

Sun felt his brother’s awareness lean in again just as he was recoiling to whatever mental corner he claimed for himself.

Brow raised as he placed a hand on the daycare exit doors, Phil stated, “Behave,” despite knowing full well it wouldn’t be obeyed for very long. Waving politely, Sun affirmed on Moon’s behalf that he would, indeed, behave as much as possible–Moon himself made no such claim but chose not to argue the point for the moment. No, it would be more fun later to bring it up if and when Phil eventually found out he was not, in any capacity, behaving himself.

With the daycare functionally empty now, the yellow attendant set about checking his new and improved To Do list. Equipment and playsets loomed above him, one of the few things he found that could make him feel small–and hesitated. They still were not used to sharing a body, never mind the bizarre sensation of action overrides that happened on occasion when one of them felt too strongly and it overtook the other’s priority listing, but this one Sun had gotten familiar with. Though he himself didn’t have any issues with the bright plastic tubes and tangled nets that so many kids--and himself-- loved to scramble and climb over, he knew his brother had some… lingering hesitations about them.

For good reason, he knew, despite having been assured Moon wouldn’t remember the details, yet it didn’t stop the lunar unit from the occasional fear response whenever either of them found themselves looking up at the bars and bridges too long. Gently, Sun murmured, “Moon?” just loud enough to get his pair’s attention and snap him out of his trance–immediately, Sun felt his knees relax and motion return to him.

“Sorry, Sunny,” he heard back after a moment.

Carefully, Sun picked his way across the daycare floor to the great glass wall that enclosed the play area; there was a spot they knew where the shadows on the other side made the glass just a bit more reflective, allowing them a murky look at themselves if they stood in just the right spot. For a moment, Sun saw only himself staring back, red frill laying neatly around his neck, eyes bright and baby blue against his yellow and gold facial mold; he blinked hard and was not surprised in the least that when he look again, what stared back was a red frill laid under a blue cowl, navy and gray features replacing his own as grayed eyes peered back from the glass. A quirky little feature that had taken getting used to, but Phil never passed up on a chance to make things a bit easier on them, even when corporate threatened him with termination for making ‘unsolicited upgrades’.

Guilt crept through Sun’s circuits as he met Moon’s gaze in the glass; part of him was glad Phil hadn’t manually swapped them out to see for himself, but the betrayal of trust was almost too much for the yellow jester to bear. Feeling this, the reflection of Moon’s face creased with concern–he couldn’t touch his brother physically, but Moon knew he could be heard regardless. “You could have told him,” the night-colored bot said gently.

Sun started, “Its–” but hesitated, unable to maintain eye contact with the reflection. “I’m sure it’s nothing major. Mr. Mason isn’t the most… careful with us, and Phil has enough to deal with. You heard him, Mrs. Mercer isn’t feeling well and she’s having a baby–!”

“Sun.” Moon’s voice was firm, cutting off the tirade of excuses before it could get out of hand. “You’re doing it again.”

“I’m sorry.” With a start, Sun realized he’d grabbed onto one of his rays again while talking.

“Why do you do that?”

The barest hint of a shrug moved Sun’s shoulders. “Maybe the same reason the playsets make you freeze in place?” Sun’s brow furrowed. “I–I’m sorry, I…”

That hadn’t meant to be said aloud.

Moon seemed just as confused as Sun felt, thankfully, his brow an exact mirror of Sun’s, bunched in confusion at the odd vocalization. “It’s… fine,” he eventually managed to say, shaking his head. “I don’t mean to do it, I just…”

“I know.” Standing straight, Sun brushed imaginary fluff from his collar, attempting to make himself ‘presentable’ in an effort to get some kind of control over himself. “And you’re right, I should have told him about your eyes, but if he’s going to give us a big system clean-and-polish when he comes back, we can wait until then. Right?”

Their gazes met in the glass again.

Moon closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “It’s probably just Mason being clumsy, nothing major. We’ll tell Phil once he’s back. Mrs. Mercer needs him more than we do right now.”

“Exactly!” Turning quickly, Sun moved away from the glass, no longer able to maintain a sense of ease while his brother stared back with the empty, gray eyes that didn’t belong to him. “Today’s list has something new on it–” Pausing, Sun raised a finger in thought. “I don’t know where they keep the disinfectant.”

“I hope it’s not behind the desk.”

“Me, too!” Set about to find the elusive chemicals, Sun didn’t dare to check the glass again. At first, he’d hoped he'd been wrong when they chatted after the patch update and he thought Moon’s eyes were off somehow, but then a worker commented on it.

“Why are his eyes gray?”

Thankfully, by some miracle, that tidbit hadn’t gotten back to Phil yet.

Not that it made it feel better in Sun’s coding when he was met with empty gray irises any time he used the glass or a mirrored surface to see his brother.

Moon’s eyes shouldn’t be gray, he told himself fretfully.

They should be yellow.

[rebabbitting]

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[metalstitchinglocking]

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[skullhaver]

Night, informal, wardrobe, makeup and alternative for Athren

This set of prompts truly is well-tailored (hah) to Athren's interests. And it gives me an excuse to share the art you created of him!

wardrobe: How big is your character’s wardrobe? Do they wear things threadbare, or can they afford new clothes often? Are they any good at mending and repairing their own clothing?

Prior to coming into a small fortune during the events of Dragon Heist, Athren's financial situation was like:

Food $200 Rent $800 Clothing $3,600 Books $150 someone who is good at the economy please help me budget this. my family is dying

He definitely spent way disproportionately above his means on both quantity and quality of clothes. Happily made sacrifices in other areas of his life in order to dress better. In his former life as a noble House servant in Menzoberranzan, not only did he have to spend all his working hours in a uniform, but his clothing choices during his non-working hours were heavily restricted by both his finances and his caste. Now that he's on the surface, getting to express himself through clothes is HUGE to him.

Athren likes having a lot of clothes, especially by the standard of renaissance fantasy pre-industrial-manufacturing. For him, clothes are an art collection. He never throws anything out. If something he wears frequently starts wearing thin, he'd mend, modify, or get it re-tailored into something new. For statement outfits (like the outrageous Sean Connery Highlander look worn to the Cassalanters' midsummer ball), it will have a place of honor in his closet forever as an art piece to display and enjoy.

He doesn't have the skill to make his own clothes, but he does know how to mend simple tears, replace buttons, etc. The kind of thing anybody who grows up poor or middle class would know. And he also knows a lot about maintaining clothing to keep things in excellent condition, although he is very happy to have enough money to pay other people to do his laundry these days. And I love watching YouTube videos about historical clothing, so I have definitely thought about how his clothes get washed.

I was having so much fun with these!! I'll put the rest under a readmore.

night: What does your OC wear to sleep? Do they have a favorite pair of PJs, or are they more the birthday suit type?

Going to take you through my thought process verbatim on this one.

Huh, never thought about this. Even sleeping/in reverie, he'd still want to feel luxurious. But he'd prioritize comfort, too. And what's physically comfortable would be something that's familiar to him. I wonder if spider silk is soft. It would be so funny if he used his Dragon Heist earnings for super special Underdark-imported spider silk pajamas. Hey isn't Rae's Dragon Heist PC Kiarhys from a merchant family specializing in textiles, with business operations both below and aboveground?

Something something I think there is a worldstate where Athren and Kiarhys meet via his quest for fancy pajamas.

makeup: Does your OC wear makeup? How often? What kind? Why do they wear makeup, and do they like it?

Rarely, but for special occasions or to coordinate with certain ensembles, sure. I'm quite partial to the way in The Mask of Mirrors men casually wear metallic eyeshadow/eyeliner sometimes. Also I think highlighter on his already nice cheekbones would be devastating. Davil should get to be quietly dazzled on a date where he sees Athren wear makeup for the first time.

informal: What’s your OC’s lazy-day look? How do they like to dress when they’re winding down?

Although I devote a lot of time to finding sumptuous Elizabethan outfit refs for Athren, the man does actually own regular, comfortable tunic-and-trouser renaissance fantasy staple clothes.

alternate: What would your OC’s alternate universe look be? If they’re a fantasy character, what’s their modern look?

The best way to capture Athren's sartorial sensibilities in a modern AU would be to put him in a semi-alternative fashion that looks flamboyant but still sharp. I'd dress him in the Black Dandy revival style. Some examples: The Iconic Dandy Wellington:

From Meet the Black Dandies:

[doctorfiction]

Go Ahead . . .Suspend My Disbelief!

Question: Do you have any general suggestions for an author who wants to write a thriller with a medical theme as its hook?

This question is very timely for me as I am just starting a new book. I would like to say that this is my second novel, but like many authors, I have a number of books in progress and struggle to find the one that inspires me to push through to the end.

That said, I took a look at my “works in progress,” and found that they all have something in common.

I like searching the web for a new scientific breakthrough or discovery that fills me with hope and scares the shit out of me simultaneously.

There . . . you see . . . we have the makings of a good thriller already. Kind of like Schrodinger’s Cat, it’s both alive and dead at the same time.

I am delighted and somewhat surprised to announce that my debut novel, Immortal Red, has just become an Amazon Best-Seller in the Medical Thriller, and Crime & Mystery / Science Fiction genres.

As such, I will use it as one of my examples for how to select an idea / premise for a novel. Shameless Plug: The eBook edition of Immortal Red is on sale for a limited time for $0.99 on Amazon. CLICK HERE for a deeper explanation and the opportunity to buy at $0.99 if you wish. While searching the web for second-hand parts for an ancient Lotus Elan and a used tweed jacket on Poshmark, I came across this article about a unique creature.

Fact: Turritopsis dohrnii, the dime-sized jellyfish with the bright red stomach, is the only creature on earth with the gift of immortality (notice that the title of the novel, Immortal Red, is chosen from the headline). When confronted with death due to advanced age, starvation, or trauma sufficient to kill but not obliterate, turritopsis dohrnii has the ability, through a process called transdifferentiation, to repair itself by converting adjacent healthy cells of one type into precise replacements for damaged cells of another type. This is not unlike a fetal stem cell, except for the fact that turritopsis can do this a seemingly endless number of times. Through this mechanism, turritopsis is able to effect a complete repair of all damaged tissue and emerge young and healthy.

Now I was intrigued and looked for a way to make this a universal concept, something that would appeal to everyone.

Questions: Would you want to live forever? Would you kill to be able to live forever? If everyone you know and love—dies of old age—would you want to go on? Would you be motivated to do anything if you had all the time in the world?

Suspension of Disbelief: A marine biologist snorkeling off the coast of Cape Fear discovers the jellyfish and takes it to her lab for further study. She kills the little invertebrates over a hundred times only to have them come back to life, new and perfect. She wonders if there may be mammalian applications. The Institute finds her research interesting but unimportant and cancels funding. Her husband works for the eighty year-old director of a CIA black ops division charged with doing jobs too dirty for the rest of the agency to touch. Surprise, the aged director offers to fund her research—and we’re off on a tale filled with a diverse cast: Nick, an archaeologist turned CIA “fixer,” who is dying, Tommie, a Native American who has died more times than he cares to remember, and Lucy, a young graduate student on the run with the “Cliff’s Notes” for immortality.

Procedure: At this point, I had to invent science sufficiently credible to allow human application of transdifferentiation. I took liberties with the existing science, but remained true to basic scientific and medical principles to allow the reader to suspend disbelief.

Here is another example of a simultaneously hopeful and horrifying scientific “breakthrough.”

CRISPR: (Clustered Regularly Interspaced Short Palindromic Repeats) By use of a hand-held “gene gun” scientists are able to coat a heavy-metal projectile with specific gene material and literally fire it into a cell, inserting this genetic material into a strand of DNA to repair the strand or eliminate the sequence of certain diseases such as Cystic Fibrosis. . .

or to create a genetically modified “super” tomato.

All well and good until a Chinese scientist used the process in utero to create genetically modified super-twins. He’s now in prison, and there is a selective moratorium on the use of CRISPR in humans.

But once the cat is out of the bag . . .

The internet is chock full of tidbits like this if you just dig a bit. Below are the workings of machinations of one such headline:

“Combining a Virus and Genetic Material for Insertion into a Human Genome.”

Consider the following premise: the military, searching for a way to offset its ever shrinking ranks decides that it needs to create soldiers who can operate on the battle field without the constraints of conscience or the PTSD that often results from such activities.

The researchers note that the limbic system plays a vital role in the inhibition of violence and manifestation of the inevitable mental trauma of these actions. A plan is developed to insert DNA from the limbic system of a reptile into the limbic system of a test subject. Researchers note that reptiles are able to attack their prey without anger or regret. They simply do what is necessary to survive.

Ideally, the effects would be limited in both time and scope, manifesting on the battlefield and dissipating soon afterward. To that end, a decision is made to combine the type-specific DNA with a virus and literally give the subject’s limbic system a short-term “cold.”

What could possibly go wrong?

Well—it turns out—not only are the changes not limited to the target organ—the subjects are also contagious.

This premise happens to be the idea behind Elegant Beasts, a novel I am currently working on.

Below you will find the teaser prologue illustrating the evolution of an idea from Science Fact to Created Science to Suspension of Disbelief.

Elegant Beasts

Prologue

            What if? The two most dangerous words in the English language. What if he hadn't ignored that nagging pain in his gut? Or better yet, what if he had never worked for that chip manufacturer growing those damn silicon crystals for micro-circuits and then cleaning them with trichloroethylene?

            But that had been 1973. Who knew, another provocative word pairing, that “Tricky” would turn out to be one of the most potent hepatic carcinogens the world had ever seen? A time bomb that could sleep soundly for decades before waking to spawn a tumor that would quietly, double every 6-8 months, seeding the lung and regional lymph nodes. before bursting free, to take out its host in six months.

            “Damn.” Albert Fontaine, MD rolled on his left side, brought his knees to his chest and palpated the growing mass under his right ribs. If he lay perfectly still, in a tight fetal position there was no pain. But moving—well— that was something else.

But, this morning, something was different. He didn't know what. But it didn't matter, given his present circumstance, different was good. The mass felt, not so much smaller, but softer, somehow less of a challenge to his survival.

            Elizabeth Gilmore, PhD in Genetics and Virology or as he nicknamed her, Elizardbeth, now shortened to simply Lizard had told him this was just a “taste” of what was possible. A cure for the incurable. But at what cost he thought, picking at the scaly rash that had appeared on his forearms.

            Life for his humanity. But not the life he had now. Was it a good trade? He supposed it was a matter of perspective and belief. He was no longer the Catholic schoolboy who accepted everything the nuns told him. But he was not quite ready to accept the Kansas rock band's thesis that “all we are is dust in the wind.”

            The skin of the creature was the worst part.

            Albert Fontaine had always been fascinated with skin. It was an overlooked wonder of evolution and accident, a twenty-one-square foot organ with an exceptional ability to regenerate itself. He had once read that dead skin cells accounted for a billion tons of dust in the atmosphere and he wanted to believe it, but as a scientist, he had no faith in how they’d arrived at that figure. Measured how many cells the average individual lost in a year, he supposed. 30,000 cells a minute? Was that right? Skin was always changing. Microbes roved its surface, fighting disease, the miniature populations unique to the species they protected. Fontaine liked this idea of humans hosting one kind of vibrant community and dogs another and baboons and sharks yet another. He was not religious, but this felt close: every moving creature a solar system for another world, every beating heart a sun, each world contained by living, seething skin.

Albert brushed the now vaguely greenish flakes from the rash on his forearm.

Lizard had hinted at the existence of another subject, someone months further along in their “treatment.”

And so, Fontaine had broken into Elizabeth Gilmore’s lab to see for himself.

Broken in wasn’t quite the correct term, since he had used a key card to gain access, but he’d acquired the duplicate key card under a false premise. So whatever that was, it was enough that he felt jumpy. He was not given to criminal activity; he did not get speeding tickets, he did not cross against the light, and he did not eat donuts from bags labeled with other people’s names in the break room. So long as the rules made sense, he was a rule follower.

But Elizabeth Gilmore’s research did not make sense.  She had been one of DARPA’s (Defense Advanced Research Project Agency) “golden girls,” a rising star in charge of a government-funded “super soldier” program. Fast forward six months: The Lizard had been unceremoniously booted from her high-tech digs in the Virginia Tech research center and banished to a hastily outfitted lab in one of the many dozens of remote abandoned buildings that dot the nearby Radford Army Ammunition Plant Army Base  

As Fontaine prowled through her lab, he tried to look as if he belonged, although he didn’t truly believe he would be interrupted. It was after hours for most of the staff and he’d watched Gilmore leave as he arrived. She worked the twelve-hour day shift that was typical here, seven am to seven pm. Fontaine was on the exact opposite, pulling nights since beginning his circadian skin research.

Gilmore’s lab was impeccable, not just spotlessly clean but fastidiously organized. A radio had been left on and it played the glimmering ‘80s music she listened to relentlessly. He’d somehow expected her research to be secret, hidden away, but the isolation chamber was clearly labeled.

Fontaine hadn’t been able to see anything through the glass square in the door, so he dutifully scrubbed down and searched for a hazard suit. Finding none, he considered his options. Given his dismal prognosis he decided to go for it.

The door opened with a snake-like hiss as the chamber decompressed. His vision adjusted slowly to the faint red lighting.

There it was.

One fell straight into uncanny valley just to look at it. Two legs, two arms, those frightful hands, the eyes. Was it a thing that looked human or a human that looked like a thing? It was impossible for Fontaine to tell which direction the slider was being pushed.

And the skin was the worst part. On some areas of the body, it was smooth and hairless, the surface marked only by striations that reflected the arid environment of the isolation chamber. But on other others, particularly the arms and the face —

He was reminded suddenly of his younger brother, a miracle baby. He’d been born with Harlequin Ichthyosis, a rare skin disorder that left him plated with a thick armor of his own skin, a tiny stegosaurus-human chimera. The red, scaly plaques had to be operated on to keep his limbs from auto-amputating, and to this day he had to constantly manage his scaly, red skin.

Looking at Gilmore’s research, he was reminded not of the adult his brother had become, but the tiny, scaled hybrid in the ICU he had begun as.

“Dr. Fontaine, you seem lost.”

Fontaine startled.

She was there. Of course, she was there.

Elizabeth Gilmore stood just outside the isolation chamber, her narrow, shapely face framed in the thick glass window. He saw the thick blue lanyard at her neck; she had not left at all.

“What is the use of such research?” Fontaine demanded, his voice raised in order to be heard. “What practical application can there possibly be?”

Gilmore smiled. It was neither amused nor friendly. “It cured her anxiety disorder entirely.”

Her. Somehow it was far worse to think about the creature as possessing a gender.

“This is unethical,” he told her.

Gilmore merely blinked at him.

“How did you even get someone to volunteer for this?” he asked.

Gilmore looked away for a moment; she was tapping something into the keypad. When she looked back at him, her smile was gone. She said, “They wander in after hours.”

He heard the lock slide into place.

[floatingcatacombs]

Patlabor is On Lock

12 Days of Aniblogging 2023, Day 3

While Gundam is the most recognizable mecha anime I got into this year, most of my time was really spent working my way through the Patlabor franchise, and it’s quickly become one of my favorites. I’ve always loved the quiet moments in mecha shows, which makes sense considering I started with Macross and live for the bridge bunny gossip and off-duty downtown hangouts. Patlabor is built with this downtime at its core, operating with more of a slice of life mentality than anything else.

A lovable cast is crucial for making this work. Thankfully, Noa Izumi is a wonderful and unique protagonist, a scrappy soft butch who’s in it for the eroticism of the machine. The first Patlabor opening is a love letter from Noa to her mecha, and I get it! The AV-98 Ingram is an iconic design, with its asymmetric bunny ear antennae and shoulder lights and comically oversized revolver that requires the right hand to pop out in order to draw, exposing the arm wiring in the process. This is a show clearly written by first-generation mecha otaku, and plenty of time is dedicated to showing how the Labors have to be transported and recharged, how the movement software depends on reinforcement learning, showing off corporate model revisions, and of course repairs in the hangar.

Going back to the human characters, Noa’s work partner Asuma is clearly the more passive one within their dynamic, and it’s sweet to see that played out sincerely. And then there’s Kanuka Clancy, the stern weirdo badass from New York who’s constantly swearing and dropping one-liners in English. She’s the obvious breakthrough character of the show, and also the perfect opposites-attract pairing for Noa if you’re the kind of person whose yuri meter went off the charts during their drinking contest episode. Most of Patlabor’s cast seem fairly one-note at first, and one of the great tricks of the show is giving them just a little bit more depth than you would expect. Pretty much everyone, even the most jokey characters, eventually get a standalone episode or two that further sketches them out and offers real interiority. Captain Goto is another fan-favorite, and it’s definitely his mixture of laziness and wicked perceptiveness that does it, plus his main character billing in the movies.

SV2 may be a law enforcement unit, but this really isn’t a police procedural at the end of the day. These guys are the bum department out in the sticks who everyone hates, and the upside of that is that SV2 gets stuck with the oddest of jobs instead of cop work. Sometimes that’s dealing with a runaway military prototype, other times it’s arguing with the insurance company. The best kind of episodes are the ones that take almost entirely on base as everyone tries to solve a problem of their own making, like an Ingram falling into the sea or the mechanics getting into a fight with the only restaurant that delivers to them.

A main plot does eventually emerge, with a shadowy company developing a mysterious jet-black Labor piloted by a child who is the girlish boy to Noa Izumi’s boyish girl. The Griffon is sleek and curvy and has superiority in the water and air – it’s a machine designed to defeat Ingrams, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Yoji Shinkawa looked here when designing Metal Gear RAY. Automation is a fundamental ideological enemy of mecha – faceless mass production and artificial intelligence mean an end to the era of personal combat. Even Patlabor, a warless series, dips its toes into this idea in the later episodes, with Noa and the mechanics alike worrying that the neural networks in their new Labor models will make them redundant.

Overall, this show is hilarious and sweet and clearly loved by an older generation of otaku. So why didn’t I hear about it earlier? Partly it’s on me for not hanging out with the right mecha fans online for a while. But if I had to guess, it’s also because Patlabor is one of those works that’s straightforwardly, unobjectionably good in a way where it already says everything there is to be said about it. You can have near-infinite arguments about Zeon ideology or mobile suit powerscaling online, but there’s only so many times you can say “yeah, Noa Izumi, love that girl” precisely because everyone agrees. It can also be hard to pitch things by their vibes in a genre known for adrenaline and intrigue. Patlabor’s vibes, for the record, are immaculate.

I'm probably gonna be chasing the high of cel-era sunsets forever

Mecha’s also a bit looked down upon from the outside. Anything that makes it into the larger conversation has to be understood as “elevated” or a “genre deconstruction”, even if the very first Mobile Suit Gundam is already about Amuro’s trauma and PTSD from being made into a child soldier. This elevation is actually happening to the second Patlabor movie as we speak - it’s becoming increasingly discussed as a major component of Mamoru Oshii’s filmography, divorced from its source series and instead compared to his subsequent Ghost in the Shell movie. Funnily enough, Oshii’s contributions to the Patlabor TV show are actually the more lighthearted gag episodes.

A lot of recent Patlabor retrospectives have drawn attention to the artist’s collective Headgear, established and owned by the series creators so they would be able to retain the rights for the franchise. This structure is fairly unique for the anime industry and probably only makes sense for established creatives, but it does seem to have worked out great for them, providing financial stability and strong creative control over the franchise. This allowed Patlabor to thrive in the relative wasteland of late 80s TV anime, a time when even Gundam had fled to the OVA market.

That being said, it does take Patlabor switching back to OVAs to truly spread its wings. The New Files are a conclusion and continuation of the TV series that are willing to move at their own pace, resulting in some dramatic and surprisingly thoughtful stories. It’s genuinely touching to watch Goto and Nagumo try and fail to communicate their feelings for one another in a very restrained episode as thick with long-stewing emotions as it is empty space. Of course, the very next episode has half the cast get stuck in the sewer labyrinth underneath their base and there’s a bunch of Wizardry references. Oh, Oshii.

The Patlabor movies fully lean into this melancholy and uncertainty, and it’s a welcome evolution for the series. The first movie still ends with an all-out action set piece in a half-built mecha factory that stands in for the Tower of Babel, but the second one stays serious the whole time through, going as far as pivoting to a more realistic artsyle. It’s a challenging film. The politics are all-encompassing but fairly straightforward, as Oshii effectively infodumps a presentation on the postwar history of the JSDF throughout. Instead, what the makes the movie so difficult is its willingness to face the end of an era – the Cold War is over, the bubble economy has popped, and the former members of SV2 have all gone their separate ways. The conditions that have created Patlabor, both internal and external to the show, have dissipated. And the movie makes it clear by having the military stage a raid on SV2’s headquarters, tearing their Labors to shreds with gunfire in a beautifully animated act of desecration.

After watching her be a lovable mecha dweeb for 50 episodes, it hurts a bit to hear Noa Izumi say that she doesn’t want to be that girl obsessed with robots for the rest of her life! These characters are growing in such a way that will remove them from the focus of the narrative, and it’s a movie about letting go just as much as it is about looking towards an uncertain personal and national future. I love Miyazaki’s Porco Rosso, but the fact that Oshii put this out just one year later paints a delicious contrast between the two directors with regards to escapism versus reality with regards to militarism. There's some great interviews from the era where they're just taking potshots at each other about all this.