#Murri's detectives

[mariacallous]

Timofey Sozaev left Russia in September 2019. After nearly 20 years as an LGBTQ+ rights activist, cofounding several organizations, he found out, while visiting friends in the United States, that the Kremlin had become aware of his advocacy work. He didn’t go back.

It wasn’t an easy decision. Sozaev knew that not returning would mean “handing over everything that I love and that is valuable to me to the enemy: obscurantist homophobes, an inhuman political regime that will stop at nothing.” Still, while he was in the US, he realized he was experiencing symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder: depression, hypervigilance, problems sleeping, poor concentration. They got worse as the day of his scheduled return approached. “My psyche and body just told me ‘no,’” he says. He applied for asylum.

Five years later, life for LGBTQ+ Russians is even more harrowing than it was when Sozaev left. Over the past decade, building on the anti-“gay propaganda” laws that had targeted Sozaev, President Vladimir Putin has imposed further restrictions on the freedoms of queer citizens, citing a desire to return the country to “traditional family values.”

Last year, Russia enacted a law banning gender-affirming care. In March, the government added the “LGBT movement” to its list of extremist and terrorist organizations. It represents, says Ksen Pallegedara Murry, an Oregon-based family law attorney who works with LGBTQ+ clients and Russian immigrants, a “direct government campaign targeting the extermination of queers.” As authorities raid gay bars, queer Russians have moved off of open social networks and onto private Telegram chats to organize, socialize, and even find the support and resources necessary to flee.

“Telegram is now an empowerment tool for Russian LGBTQ+ people,” Sozaev says. It gives them the “opportunity to feel and see that they are not alone. This breaks down isolation and restores people's belief in their strengths.” Since arriving in the US, he has started his own Telegram channel to provide help to the Russian-speaking LGBTQ+ community in the US. It has more than 2,000 individual subscribers, a number that doesn’t include the people who view it without subscribing.

Sozaev’s channel is one of many, though exactly how many is all but impossible to determine. Roughly half of Russia’s 140 million residents use Telegram, so being on the messaging app itself doesn’t draw unwanted attention. Still, LGBTQ+ citizens routinely create new channels to avoid government surveillance and detection. Under Russia’s latest restrictions, any website deemed to have pro-LGBTQ+ content is added to a national block list, making it inaccessible without a VPN (and even VPNs are in jeopardy). Telegram is the next best option.

Because it allows for large group chats (channels can have unlimited subscribers; groups cap out at 200,000 people) as well as private messages, Telegram gives LGBTQ+ people in Russia and beyond the ability to help each other as a group or one-on-one. But it’s also not ironclad. There are constant worries of government surveillance, and the app has been a hub for the Kremlin’s anti-queer propaganda.

The presence of that propaganda also may provide a bit of cover, says Kyle Walter, global head of investigative research and innovation at Logically. Putin, for example, banned Facebook and Twitter/X in 2022 for failing to toe the line on Russia’s war in Ukraine. Because Telegram purports to be an agnostic platform, the Kremlin can keep its own messages on it while drowning out messages from actual queer Russians. “Because they're able to utilize Telegram so significantly in their propaganda and disinformation operations,” Walter says, “there's less of an onus to crack down on it.”

Still, Walter notes, there’s always speculation that the Kremlin has access to the platform’s backend data, and it’s risky to openly communicate on the platform as a queer person. (Telegram did not respond to several requests for comment on this story.)

This makes Telegram both an essential tool and one queer Russians use in secret. Adriana Espinosa, the director of cash assistance and emergency travel support with Rainbow Railroad, a nonprofit that helps at-risk LGBTQ+ people worldwide get to safety, explains that the organization is reliant on digital communication “with activists on the ground as well as persons facing persecution,” but wouldn’t say which messaging apps or platforms the organization uses, citing security concerns. Espinosa added that assisting queer people in Russia has become harder in recent months, and some grassroots orgs on the ground have had to cease operations.

“We cannot disclose specific details of how we support the relocation of individuals, as this would jeopardize their safety and our ability to support them,” Espinosa says. “The Russian LGBTQI+ community is resilient, and some individuals have found their own ways of leaving the country.”

Telegram’s centrality to the lives of Russians, LGBTQ+ and otherwise, dates back to its launch. Founded in Russia in 2013, Telegram now claims nearly a billion users worldwide. Practically since its founding, though, experts have wondered how safe those users’ data is. Although often referred to as “secure,” it only offers end-to-end encryption in its “secret” chats. On messaging apps like Signal, end-to-end encryption is the default.

Despite this, Telegram has become popular among groups worldwide looking to organize. In the US, it’s a hub for QAnon conspiracy theorists and extremists; it was also reportedly used by those calling for disruptions at President Joe Biden’s inauguration in 2021. Several far-right channels were kicked off the platform around the same time. It’s also been a gathering place for extremists in the UK and Ireland.

Iran outright banned Telegram in 2018 after it was used to organize street protests against the regime the previous year. The ban had serious implications for activists, journalists, and others seeking to exchange information. Russia also attempted to block the app in 2018, after founder Pavel Durov refused to hand over user data to the Kremlin. Those efforts ultimately failed, and the ban was lifted in 2020. Durov made a similar commitment to protect the data of users in Ukraine following Russia’s invasion of that country in 2022. Security experts expressed concern, but Telegram has remained a popular news and communication tool in the region.

Telegram’s prevalence as a far-right hub in some parts of the world and a place for both pro- and anti-LGBTQ+ content in Russia gets at broader questions of moderation and regulation on social media platforms. Any platform that’s not trying to crack down on any type of content, Walter notes, will become “a place where people who are not able to express themselves freely on mainstream platforms are gonna move, because they just feel safer posting there.”

As Russia’s war in Ukraine has continued, it has embarked on a campaign to eradicate what it sees as the West’s influence, including acceptance of queer people. Walter notes that some anti-LGBTQ+ Telegram propaganda campaigns in the region go so far as to claim Ukraine is training its soldiers to be gay. Nine months into the conflict, the country’s parliament passed a law criminalizing attempts to promote “nontraditional sexual relations” in everything from movies to ads to online posts.

“The restrictions, which render life precarious for LGBT+ individuals in Russia, have a much more ambitious purpose—to consolidate conservative support at home and position Russia as the defender of ‘traditional values,’” Graeme Reid, the director of Human Rights Watch’s LGBTQ+ rights program, wrote last year. That precariousness has only increased in the year since.

Before Sozaev fled Russia, his primary organizing tool and social media hub had been Facebook. A Russian court banned Facebook, along with Instagram, in 2022, labeling the Meta platforms as “extremist.” The ruling spared WhatsApp, but for organizers like Sozaev, Telegram has become their meeting place.

Still, LGBTQ+ people remain cautious. Some of their public Telegram channels have been targeted, indicating that the government is watching. Anyone who uses their real name on the app risks investigation. Sozaev explains that people often encourage each other to delete the Telegram app from their phones before trying to cross the border. Their devices could be searched, and the presence of the app could put them in jeopardy and prevent them from being allowed out of the country. Telegram groups also provide tutorials instructing LGBTQ+ people on what they should do if they are being questioned by Russian authorities.

“Just going on our Telegram channel and seeing concrete steps for how people get out” and then finding community with other LGBTQ+ Russians is what is most effective, says Maxim Ibadov, the national coordinator for RUSA LGBTQ+, a nonprofit formed in 2008 to support Russian-speaking queer people in the US.

There are about 1,000 people on RUSA LGBTQ+’s Telegram channel, and although most members are US-based, people in Russia frequently reach out to the organization looking for ways out of the country. Often, people active in the chat connect people looking to escape with organizations like Rainbow Railroad. Others share strategies for where they crossed the border.

Ibadov notes that Telegram is one of the primary ways their organization connects with people trying to leave Russia and community members who have recently arrived in the US and need support rebuilding their lives. “They don’t know where to go, and they might not have the desire or comfort to go to our in-person events at first,” Ibadov explains, noting that being able to follow the RUSA LGBTQ+’s Telegram is a way to build trust and confidence in the organization and its members.

Telegram also helps RUSA LGBTQ+ community leaders know what kinds of support their members need. The organization recently started a Telegram chat for queer-identifying parents after a lesbian couple who made it to the US from Russia reached out looking for opportunities for their children to connect with other kids.

The interactive nature of Telegram also lends itself to community members providing mutual aid to each other. Ibadov says that often someone will come to their Telegram channel to ask about how to access health care or legal support, and before RUSA LGBTQ+ staff or volunteers can respond, numerous community members will have already weighed in.

Ibadov notes that for many LGBTQ+ people in Russia, Telegram is one of the few places they can see people living openly. As a result, they see their organization’s presence on the platform as vital not just for providing resources but also giving hope. “LGBTQ+ people in Russia can’t [publicly] fight; we have to fight for them here,” they say, “so there is hope for them there.”

[delta-queerdrant]

Neelix, I need another pot of coffee (Prototype, s2 e13 & Dreadnought, s2 e17)

I don't have much substantial to say about "Prototype" or "Dreadnought," two enjoyable robot-of-the-week episodes that center on Torres delivering compelling technobabble to a machine for 45 minutes. They are both extremely watchable, and "Protoype" especially worked for me with its first contact moral quandary premise, which felt straight out of pulp science fiction in the best way. And who doesn't love an android who looks like they shop at LL Bean?

So instead this is going to be a meditation on science fiction depictions of women in STEM, and why they seem to be so deeply lodged in my psyche.

The first adult novel I ever bought was Contact by Carl Sagan. This was at my middle school's Scholastic book fair. When I think about my twelve-year-old self I immediately remember that mass-market paperback, which in some hard-to-pin-down way summed up all my aspirations for my future adult life.

I'd encountered Contact as a hardcover book at a relative's house a year or two earlier. For those not in the know, it follows an astronomer who detects a first contact transmission. The book spends a lot of time imagining the political and social impacts of discovering extraterrestrial life, as well as the challenges Ellie Arroway faces as a woman in her field.

In the space of a weekend, I raced through the book but didn't have time to finish it. Soon after, the film came out, and I saw it in theaters. It was a movie that felt like it had been made specifically for me (aliens! science mysteries! an extremely hot Jodie Foster!)

My relationship with science and STEM is contradictory. As a kid growing up watching Star Trek and reading Madeleine L'Engle (shout-out to my other formative science girl, Meg Murry), I was so hungry to learn more about astronomy, programming, math, and electronics, but I never seemed to get my hands on those opportunities. This was before "STEM" was popularized as an acronym, and casual opportunities to be a kid science nerd were slim. At the same time, it was the "post-feminist" 90s, and I was never particularly conscious of being excluded from the sciences due to my gender.

As I grew older, my main STEM interests were web design (as evidenced by many lovingly hand-coded early-2000s websites) and microbiology (I am still filled with rapture whenever I contemplate protein synthesis). I also harbored a deep and all-encompassing love for the Museum of Science in Boston. But my career aspects were mostly in the humanities or social sciences, and I never got around to taking a formal programming class. As I became an adult, I stopped running Linux on my laptop or freaking people out at work with my DVORAK keyboard setup. I drifted away from a conception of myself as that kind of nerd.

It's natural for interests to shift as we age, but something about this particular transition felt devastatingly final to me. STEM is a closed world that doesn't welcome casual interest. There is almost no space for adult women to dabble in a STEM hobby. Science museums are for children, and popular nonfiction about physics and math are, implicitly, for men. (Earlier this month I watched some Youtube videos about astronomy, and immediately started seeing gun advertisements.)

I sometimes think that what I enjoyed as a kid was the aesthetic of science - in other words, the reason we consume science fiction in the first place. Why do we love a science girl? For me this attraction feels very extremely gay, though others' mileage may vary. "Scientist" is, yes, traditionally a male-coded role, but to young me, it felt like a means to escape gender roles entirely. Science girls and science queers are smart and curious and independent; they are hungry for adventure and have no time for your societal expectations.

When Voyager came out, there were virtually no shows that featured multiple women working in the sciences (outside of medical shows). But for me, a kid reading and watching science fiction, it was normal. Roxann Dawson complained that most of her episodes in early Voyager are her alone in a room talking to a robot/missile/herself, but she's very good at it! The troubleshooting scenes feel lived-in and naturalistic, especially in the way they portray her satisfaction from solving a technical problem. She's so tickled with herself when she achieves a breakthrough! I felt similarly when I mastered the art of inline CSS in the year 1999.

Science fiction that accurately portrays the experience of working with technology is rare, and to be clear, Star Trek doesn't always bother. But Voyager seems genuinely interested in dramatizing problem-solving and collaboration skills - scientist as something you do, not something you are.

I still use my computer skills at my day job, and while I don't work in the sciences, I like to think that the way I move through the world owes something to all the hours I spent as a kid imagining myself into starships and astronomical observatories.

And with that, I'm off to watch some more videos about the twin paradox.

4/5 power modules.

[glassheadcanon]

harvest - what fictional character do you most identify with? Why?

Ooh, this is a tough one! Not sure I can single out just one character given who I know myself to be as an adult...I can say for sure that when I was younger, there were a few literary characters I gravitated towards most, likely due to my own personality:

As a child, I had was drawn to both L.M. Montgomery's imaginative and romantic Anne Shirley of "Anne of Green Gables" as well as Donald J. Sobol's Sally Kimball, the no-nonsense, kickass, karate-wielding sidekick to his boy detective, Encyclopedia Brown. Later, I found myself with an affinity to Meg Murry from Madeleine L'Engle's Time Quintet (probably due to her feelings about herself, and her protectiveness towards her youngest brother).

When I read Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice as a teen, I immediately resonated with Elizabeth Bennet, due to the dynamics she had with her mother and father. Let's just say, I could strongly relate. :D

Thanks for the "autumnal ask", @sayonaramidnight!

[iviarellereads]

A Wind in the Door, Chapter 4 - Proginoskes

(THIS PROJECT IS SPOILER FREE! No spoilers past the chapter you click on. Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For the link index for the Time Quintet, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

In which we get a new-old word to use!

Meg wakes before dawn, suddenly. Still wondering if the previous night was a dream, she rushes to get dressed and go out to the rock where they left Progo. She promised to go to him before breakfast anyway. She doesn't encounter any fake Mr. Jenkins this time, nor Louise the snake, just Progo. He thanks her for not taking too long to come out, and when she says she has an hour before breakfast, he says they can do a lot with just an hour.

Progo guesses that if they're to work together, then Meg must be a Namer, too.(1) At Meg's puzzlement, he says last time he was with a Teacher he had to memorize the names of every star in the universe, just because. Some aren't known to many people, so the stars get lonely.

Meg asks if that's all a Namer does, and Progo thinks it's about making sure each name is distinct and unique to its owner in some way, and perhaps Meg's job is to make humans feel more human. Meg asks what that means.

Progo asks how he makes her feel, and Meg answers honestly with "Confused." Progo asks who makes Meg feel least confused, and she says Calvin, without hesitation. So, Progo says, Calvin makes Meg feel more like herself, that's the feeling he means. He asks who makes her feel the least like herself, and that answer is Mr. Jenkins, so Meg has to explain who he is to explain why she's so upset at the thought of him. Only, Progo says there's more to it than that.

Meg admits that something happened to scare her, and at his prompting that it might be important, she tells him about the fake Mr. Jenkins. He names it an Echthros,(2) and after confirming details, he's almost as sure of it as he is terrified of them. More, he's sure they have to talk to the real Mr. Jenkins as part of their trials. Meg says that's impossible, she doesn't go to that school and she can't exactly fit a cherubim with a ten foot wingspan in her backpack.

Progo maintains that having seen an Echthros makes everything different, and he can be invisible to go with her, no problem. He demonstrates this, and while he's out, she can feel him. He asks if she feels brave, and she says no. He says being brave should be easier together, then wonders if Blajeny knows there's an Echthros involved.

Meg finally asks what Echthros means, Progo mentally draws her into yesterday,(3) where they watch the cosmic scream and the rip in the galaxy. He explain that this is what happens when the Echthroi have Xed things from existence.(4) Meg finds it even more terrifying than the Mr. Jenkins Echthros.

She closes her eyes and tries to think of a happy memory, which she feels Progo help with, except she hears her father and mother talking about the phenomenon she just saw, and the way that even their own country, their own town feels less safe than it did ten years ago. Mr. Murry even posits, in the memory, that the wee farandolae might be related to the cosmic disruptions.

Mrs. Murry makes the connection: the same cry that the new instrument detected in distant galaxies is the one she heard in the ailing mitochondria with her micro-sonarscope.(5) She gets upset, and Mr. Murry says it's not like her, and reminds her of the good and the order in the universe. Progo says he's a wise man.(6)

Meg is a little surprised that Progo heard the memory with her, but he says she's learning to kythe, to communicate mind-to-mind directly. She asks if Progo would mind helping her to try and see the calculation Mr. Murry was doodling on the tablecloth, it feels important. They go back into the memory, together, and find he was writing the Greek characters for "Echthroi". She's astonished that he'd know that, but Progo points out that her parents know well enough the evil in the world.

Progo asks her to look at the rip in the sky again. She does so, reluctantly, and asks how the Echthroi could have done that. He says the Echthroi are like un-Namers, annihilating things from existence instead of firming them up. When Meg wonders what that has to do with Mr. Jenkins, Progo says he thinks that's part of their first task together. So, time to get going. He draws her back to the present in the real world again and asks what they do now. Meg hasn't the foggiest, and feels this is too much responsibility for a child.(7)

In fact, Meg is so resistant that Progo has to ask her if she's refusing the ordeal. She says she'll do it, she has to help Charles, but it's so much. He asks her again, what they should do now. She decides to go have breakfast, and get on the schoolbus, and asks Progo to meet her at the bus stop at the right time to leave.

Progo dematerializes with an acknowledgement, and Meg heads back to the house. She encounters Louise the snake on her way, but thinks the snake mostly wanted to wish her well, which is comforting. She eats her breakfast less enthusiastically than usual, and heads to the bus stop with the strangest feeling she won't see it again for a while. The twins, walking with her, wonder what will happen today, and decide it will be the usual: nothing.(8)

=====

(1) A very childlike assumption, that someone you're made to work with must be like you in some way, and not because your strengths are different and complementary to each other. (2) Ancient Greek, meaning stuff like, something hateful or hostile, or an enemy. Not easy for my fingers to keep spelling over and over, I'm using find-and-replace on this sucker to fix what my brain wants it to be. (3) Just a mental-power exercise, or are they Tessering somehow? Could Progo have some control over that ability? The vision of the rip seems distinct from the memory dive shortly after to me. (4) Wow that's such a readable term for this. [unamused face] (5) Gotta love a good goofy scientific instrument name or two in the same sentence. That's surely half of why Star Trek is so popular. (6) I feel a need to point out that chaos is not inherently evil and order not inherently good, those associations are things humans assigned to them to justify our preconceptions and biases. But, it does make children's storytelling easier to stand with the assumptions. (7) I'd tend to agree and apply that to MOST situations kids get into in children's literature, but that is half the point: learning how to have the big feelings so they don't feel so overwhelming. (8) Subtle setup, ma'am. Real sneaky.

[genrecollector]

psst

tv show:

tinga tinga! tales from africa~

slides to you a library list that says books i read or reading:

i went with lover to a smaller bookstore but still on the bougie business block. a nook they had beanbag chairs setup. she had her heart set on sapphic literature, while i browsing for a memior, something social but not necessarily a sappy romance, and a writing style i found "digestible". the book seller passed it by. i took a gander, a look, "indigenous peoples history of the united states". though some may find this content too differing of their thoughts of the united states, my head did not spin. some of the worser truths i parsed carefully about while sipping myself a luke-warm coffee.

trevor noah's memior. i read in its entirety already.

articles of prydain. (lloyd alexander).

"stars beneath our feet" for young readers so theres fewer details. its a historical fiction about a young black boy living in memphis.

"inquisitors apprentice" book 1. library find. a detailed historical fiction about a teenage jewish kid navigating (various social systems of) new york city, unraveling mystery of witches and a nod to steampunky science fiction and watson's accounts of sherlock the detective.

the house on mango street. vinyettes. (sandra cisneros) i'd like to read the spanish version.

"bad kitty vs uncle murray" (nick bruel) comic book where murry learns how to babysit a scaredy cat and if you like repetition skit humor its funny. my mom ordered this one online.

(if only i understood people bodylanguage like i do a cat's!)

"peace, (kids book)"comprised by mary anderson. collection of quotes about peace. i read this in 5th grade.

[welcomehomenewneighborsocblog]

Detective Ally Wu (Welcome Home Oc)

Name: Ally Wu

Age: late 20's

Residence: Home; Hidden Trails Town (formerly)

Relatives: Basil Wu (father); Irene Wu (mother)

Occupation: Detective 

Ethnicity: Chinese

Headcannon Voice Actor: Constance Wu

Species: Humanoid Puppet

Personality: On the surface she might seem eccentric and can miss the mark at first, but then she shows she really is more perspective than she lets on and can actually solve a mystery. She is constantly curious and loves cracking mysteries that interest her. She also can be a bit scatterbrained, but shows herself to be smarter than she looks. She is very energetic and excited which often times can make her arrive at wrong conclusions until she straightens herself out and gets all the facts. She's never above taking any case and seeing it her customers are satisfied. 

Background: She grew up in the a quiet town where she was always solving mysteries, taking cases, and cracking codes. She eventually wanted to go around the countryside solving mysteries so she backed her bags and traveled around. She eventually came across Home where she helped solved a mystery (with a few fumbles) and was congratulated by the members of the neighborhood. She then decided to settle where she could solve more cases and help neighbors with their problems. 

* She is based on Sherlock Hemlock. 

* She can speak English and Chinese. 

* She is a reboot character. 

* Her skits are about solving mysteries using different type of subject matters with an emphasis on also problem solving and clue finding. 

* Due to being Chinese, there would be some episodes dedicated to her cultural traditions. 

* She is close with Ollie, Murry, Barkley, Connie, Patsy, Eddie, Julie, Jerry, Barnaby, and Howdy. 

* Her skits would burrow a lot from noir types of stories. 

* She would also sometimes be shown sucking a lollipop. If this was the og show then she would so be shown a cigarette. 

* Her office serves as her workplace and home. 

Created through picrew.me/en/image_maker/20089…

[innonurse]

Using digital health technology to care for homeless patients

- By InnoNurse Staff -

Dr. Robert Murry, chief medical officer of NextGen Healthcare, will speak on a session at HIMSS23 about employing technology to provide coordinated care to patients through street medicine.

Read more at Healthcare IT News

///

Other recent news and insights

Prana Thoracic, a medical device firm creating a tool for early lung cancer detection, said last week that it had secured a $3 million series A funding round (InnovationMap)

A wearable device that monitors single-neuron activity as people walk (Medical Xpress)

Utilizing organ-on-a-chip technology to investigate the pathophysiology of COVID-19 patients' livers (CiRA)

[murrieri]

Несказанное

ineffable

[theblindgoddess]

I got this Batfam fic idea that I might write out one day, but until then I’ll just tell you guys about it.

So Tim’s out doing Red Robin stuff when he gets captured by some bad guys that are new to Gotham. These guys have some magic but are really bad at using it. They end up turning Red Robin into a baby. Tim is still Tim, mentally, but physically he can only do what a 6 month old baby can do.

Tim is miffed, but he knows his family will come and save him and then they can fix this mess. A week or so later, the Batfam find the bad guys hideout, and Tim is waiting in whatever room they have been keeping him in and excited because it will finally be over. But then Red Hood enters the room, and he does not recognize that the baby is Tim.

So here’s Jason, his brother has been missing for a week, they’re turning the bad guys liar upside down looking for him and coming up empty, and then he finds a random baby. And as a spur of the moment sort of decision, Jason decides to adopt the baby. After they clear out the base, still unaware of Tim’s whereabouts, Jason takes the baby to Leslie's for a check up, goes late night shopping for necessary baby supplies, and heads home without telling the rest of the fam about the baby he found and that he has decided to keep said baby.

Jason starts to work out the necessary paperwork to adopt the baby, naming him Mercutio after the best character in Romeo and Juliet (Mery, pronounced like Murry, for short), and bemoans Tim’s absence because he would make the paperwork forgery process easier and less boring. Meanwhile, Tim is very annoyed and wondering why he ever looked up to Jason in the first place. But, Tim figures, Jason will eventually introduce his new baby to his family, and then someone will realize that Tim has been turned into a baby.

While Jason gets everything settled with the new addition to his life, Tim is just chilling, it’s relaxing to just sit there and let someone take care of everything, and Tim really needed a break. Plus, as a baby it’s really easy to mess with Jason and not get in trouble for it, the amount of times he’s giggled as he peed on Jason’s face while getting a dipper changed or thrown the same toy over and over again and whined until it was returned to him are beyond the human brains number comprehension, and Jason just keeps dealing with it.

Eventually, Jason is ready to introduce his new ‘son’ to the rest of his family (except for Tim who is still missing but not really because Tim is literally right there but Jason does not realize it), and brings ‘Mercutio’ to Sunday Family dinner. Baby ‘Mery’ is very exited, because “Finally, this mess will be over!” and Jason is happy that his baby is happy to meet the family. But woe of woes, no one present at the family dinner recognizes Tim! Not Bruce, nor Dick, nor Cass, not even Alfred! Tim didn’t really expect Damian or Duke to recognize him, and Steph is off in New York for nursing school, but Bruce is the World’s Greatest Detective! And Dick was close to Tim when he was younger! And Alfred and Cass are Alfred and Cass! Tim expected at least one of them to recognize him! But no one does.

So Tim has no clue what to do. His only hope now is Steph, but who knows when she’ll come and visit, and with the way everything else has gone he has little hope she will do better then the others.

The Batfam is smitten with ‘Mercutio’. He is a cute little baby, and while none of them expected Jason of all people to want to adopt, they are all happy for him. Bruce is cautious because he doesn’t really know what to do with babies but he wants to try for his new grandchild, Dick is one of those “It’s a baby!!” people so he is all about spending time with and holding his nephew but has new clue what he would do if he was left alone with the kids, Alfred is of course all knowing in all things baby and is going to be Jason’s go to for baby sitting, Cass and Duke are both at about the same level when it comes to babies they can take care of him for a small amount of time but in the end always give the baby back to someone better at it, and Damian is just glad he’s no longer the youngest.

While Tim is very upset about this new development (the moment he realizes no one recognizes him he breaks down crying, causing Jason to yell at Dick for crowding and scaring his son since Tim started crying when Dick was baby talking to him), he does realize one benefit to all of this. Revenge on Damian. When Damian first entered the family in a violent way, Tim was constantly told to calm down and to give Damian space and time because he was just a little kid and he didn’t know better (the telling of quickly died down as time went on, but Tim is still salty about it) . Well now the roles are reversed, and by golly Tim is going to make Damian feel the same way he did! And this time the “he doesn’t know any better” arguments will actually make sense because Tim is baby, never mind the fact that it’s untrue. So when he gets left alone with Damian for a little bit Tim starts to plot. It is actually fairly easy to bug Damian, since he gets up close to Tim and starts talking about how he is now the youngest and has to deal with all the cons of holding that position. Tim responds by throwing his favourite toy at Damian, hitting him square in the nose and giggled. And since Damian was so close to him the toy was in easy reach of Tim’s little baby arms, so he picked to toy up and threw it again. This repeated a few times before Damian got fed up and stole the toy from him and began to scold the baby. Tim responded by crying, very loudly. Damian got in trouble because “he’s just a baby, he doesn’t know any better.” meanwhile Tim is giving Damian the most smug look ever over Jason’s shoulder but the moment someone else looks he is back to sad baby face. Damian can’t prove anything but he knows the kid is doing it on purpose. Tim does this many times when ever Jason brings him to the manor.

Some time passes and Tim is trying to figure out how to convey to his family his situation but every idea that he tries ends up failing and its staring to get annoying. And then Steph pops o-in for a visit from collage, takes one look and Jason’s new ‘son’ and breaks down in laughter, and Tim knows that he has been saved! He knew showing Steph some of his baby pictures would pay off at some point! Once Steph is finally able to catch her breath she explains to the batfam that the baby is Tim, and after taking a moment to reflect they all realize that they probably should have seen it sooner.

They get Tim back to his actual age and come up with a believable story as to why he was missing for a few months. Tim and Steph are never going to let the others live this down, and Jason is a little bit sad that he doesn’t have a baby anymore. Tim as a thank you to Jason for taking care of him when he was unable to take care of himself, registers Jason on the very long list of people looking to adopt and does some behind the scenes work to move him up the list as fast as possible. A few weeks later Jason now has a beautiful baby girl named Emma, after the title character in Jane Austin’s Emma, and Tim is a proud uncle.

I might make a second post about scenes for this fic that don’t affect the general plot.

[biomedicool]

Stem cells for therapy - types

Bone Marrow Cells (BMCs)

Whole bone marrow cells (BMCs) and bone marrow mononuclear cells (BMMCs) are the most accessible and studied source of stem cells.

BMMCs are isolated from whole bone marrow, and contain a diverse cell population, including mesenchymal stem cells and hematopoietic progenitor cells. 

Mesenchymal Stem Cells (MSCs)

MSCs can be isolated from a variety of tissues such as bone marrow, adipose, and umbilical cord; although it is not clear whether their properties are uniform (Selem, Hatzistergos and Hare, 2011). 

MSCs are of particular note due to their immunopriveleged nature – a reduced expression of MHC class-I molecule, and lack of MHC class-II and co-stimulatory molecules, means they could potentially be used for allogeneic grafts (Zimmet et al., 2005). This means that they don’t produce an immune response and could be used in transplants - the body won’t reject them.

MSCs inhibit the activity of various immune cells, including T cells, B cells, natural killer cells, and dendritic cells via cell to cell contacts and soluble factors (Laflamme and Murry, 2005). 

Foetal and Umbilical Cord Cells

Embryonic stem cells (ESCs), the prototypical stem cell, can develop into all cell types in the body. However, the practical application of human ESCs remains limited due to ethical problems, teratoma formation (cancer), and immune rejection. With rapidly expanding knowledge of molecular and genetic pathways for ESC differentiation, it may become possible to avoid contamination with undifferentiated ESCs, thereby inhibiting teratogenesis when transplanted into the body (Kucia et al., 2006). 

Foetal-derived stem cells can also be isolated from the amniotic fluid, which include both pluripotent and committed stem cells. 

Umbilical cord cells can be gathered at birth and stored, eg if for treatment later on if a defect is detected in utero.

Induced pluripotent stem cells (iPSCs)

Induced pluripotent stem cells are a more attractive alternative to ESCs, as they are autologous. This means cells can be taken from an individual, ‘reset’ back to their stem cell stage, and then administered to that same individual to avoid rejection. Pluripotency transcription factors are introduced to adult terminally differentiated somatic cells, such as dermal fibroblasts, in a novel strategy which ‘reprograms’ the cells back to an embryonic stem cell-like stage (Yu et al., 2007).

Despite slight epigenetic differences associated with reprogramming, iPSCs fully resemble ESCs in terms of differentiation capacity, morphology and gene expression profile; and have the ability to differentiate into other cells.  Ethical and immune response dilemmas are bypassed by the autologous nature of iPSCs, however clinical application is not yet on the horizon due to their teratogenic potential and the oncogenes and virus vectors required for the current method of pluripotent induction (Yamanaka and Takahashi, 2006).

 Skeletal myoblasts (SM)

Skeletal myoblasts (satellite cells) are derived from skeletal muscle and have the capacity to differentiate into muscle fibre, which makes them obvious candidates for treating conditions such as heart damage following infarction. However, clinical trials have been halted as SM have been observed to couple with resident cardiomyocytes, resulting in dysfunctional electrocardiology and arrhythmias, and have struggled to transdifferentiate into cardiomyocytes in vivo (Reinecke, Poppa and Murry, 2002).

[manychocolatefactories]

CatCF Dark Chocolate: Part 2, the tour

Willy Wonka and his factory:

For the Factory in this version, I wanted to give a feeling of the factories of the 19th century. Something between a place where a mad scientist would work and a steampunk fantasy. Willy Wonka himself is based on Jules Vernes.

Willy Wonka himself is a man with an "impressive beard", a solemn but kind air on his face, and an overall feeling of knowledge and wisdom. Wearing a thick and tight jacket, a black top hat and a dark green coat, his appearance actually gives mixed signals: his short hair is fluffy and shaggy, like a man of free spirit, of amusement and not much care, but his beard and mustache are neatly trimmed and cut, like any serious and respectable man. His hair is brown, chocolate-colored, but with touches of white and gray here and there. His eyes are kind and twinkling, but his mouth is a harsh thin line. He is the kind of man that will say the most extravagant things perfectly seriously, but treat serious and common business as a joke. Don't think however that is an extravagant or funny man. Again, he rather gives the feeling of a kind mad scientist.

As for the Factory itself, actually the locals, the people of the town over which the Factory looms, dislike it. Sure, the Factory is admired by people wordlwide - tourists come to see it, painters come to paint it, it is a landmark admired in foreign countries. But the locals do not like it at all. It is a tall, dark, cold and stern building, with no color of beauty, only locked doors, metallic fences, thick walls and high chimneys. The Factory does not employ anyone of the town, in fact no one ever saw the Factory workers arrive or leave. Wonka himself has never left his factory for decades now. Couple that with strange white silhouettes seen at the windows, and the ramblings of the local homeless man who apparently hates the Factory and keeps insulting it, and quickly a bad reputation was built for it. Adults believe Wonka is trying to hide a shameful secret, the kids tell tales of "the haunted chocolate factory"...

In fact, I wanted an air of creepiness for the Factory. I took back the original idea of Dahl that all the workers are regular humans dressed in white, and I pushed it a little further: they are basically so covered in white you can hardly see them anymore. They have white blouses and jackets, white gloves, white masks, white caps, white helmets... After each kid's demise, a mysterious poem is recitated (like in Dahl's original drafts), mysterious voices that could be eithe the worker's or something else... In fact, with each kid demise there is an element of sppokiness which may be the kid hallucinating out of fear, or not (Augustus in the river thinks something is tying to catch him or drag him down  ; Wilbur and Rice in the dark hear and feel creepy things...). And Wonka himself keeps making ominous references to "selling your soul to the devil"...

But in truth the Factory isn't a death trap at all. Behind the scenes, the workers are just normal people with their own life and their usual office routines, and who happent to leave very discreetly the Factory. The Factory is also based a lot on the Menier chocolate factory, which is the "real-life" Wonka factory. I may speak more about it one day.

Anyway... now let's go on with the tour!

# The Labyrinth. Behind each entrance, before each exit of the Factory, is a labyrinth, a maze Wonka designed after the works of Penrose and Möbius. Only he and his workers know the way out of them. This is merely a security measure.

# The Edible Garden. For this garden, I wanted to insist on the idea of it being fake and artificial - Wonka didn't try to create a perfect replica of a landscape. This room doesn't even have any real sense in the Factory, it is merely a piece of art he created so that he could come in here to relax and mediate. There are no windows, all the lights come from spots on the far-away ceiling and the ground is grey stone (because Wonka is revolted at the idea of making grass out of candy, it would be too dirty). There are trees of hard caramel and mint candies, orchards where the fruits are made of gummy, lollipops shaped like flowers and numerous sculptures of sugar - none of this is to be eaten however. At the back of the garden, there is the Chocolate River. The River serves a double use: on one side, it is merely an aesthetic addition to the Edible Garden. On the other, it is a source of energy for the Factory - it used to be a water mill, and Wonka kept the ancient structures but replaced water with chocolate. As such, the production of chocolate actually helps create energy back - and the river ends with a series of different pipes, each one leading to a different room where the chocolate will be used.

This is where Augustus Pottle meets his demise. The competitive  glutton tried to empty the river of its content, and fell into it. Sucked up by one of the glass pipes, he did a long travel through the tubes and pipes of the factory, which crushed and reshaped his fat into a cylindric body - before he fell into one of the boiling vats. There, the heat was enough to have all his fat melt, like in a super-intense sauna. Hopefully, he was rescued before being boiled alive - but Augustus left the factory as a mass of sagging, extra-skin, his wrinkled folds dragging on the ground, like a skeleton wearing a bride's dress made of human flesh.

# At the back of the Edible Garden, there is a long hallway that passes by a balcony. Said balcony allows one to see the "Mosaic room", a place where Wonka makes mosaics out of pralines - and since the room is really vast, he can make giant mosaics.

# The Vanilla Fudge Mountain. While it looks like a miniature mountain kept inside a giant room, this titanic hunk of vanilla fudge is actually a fragment taken out of the Honeylaya mountain range (located somewhere between the great Black Thunder chocolate mines, and the sugar marshes of the Sea of Marmelade). [References to the Himalaya, the Black Thunder coal mines, the Black Thunder chocolate bars, the Sea of Marmara and salt marshes ]. This room is basically a copy-cut of Dahl's deleted chapter of the same name, with workers breaking down the mountain, piling the fudge in wagons and then sending it to the Cutting and Pounding Room.

This is where Wilbur and Rice meet their demise. Unruly, and tired of having all their pranks and "fun" sabotaged by Wonka and Bertie Upside, they decide to ride the wagons. Of course, they are sent down the Cutting and Pounding Room - hopefully for them, Wonka has installed an intelligent wire strainer/net that can catch all impurities detected, to clean the fudge. So the kids are saved, right? Well the thing is that, while waiting on the wire strainer for someone to save them, the kids, bored and gluttonous, ended up eating all the fudge that fell down around them. They ate so much of it, that the machine ended up identifying them as "fudge" instead of "impurity" (since they were basically 80 percent fudge after their gorging Xp). So they where sent down in the Room, thrown on a conveyor belt... ready to be pound and cut into slices. The workers realized this of course and stopped the conveyor belt before the knifes - but the kids still got pounded. Wilbur, who was lying on his side when he got pounded, became tall and thin ; while Tommy, who was standing up, got pounded on the head and became small and large. In fact, when they got out of the Factory, their angry parents ended up mistaking one for another and going home with the wrong boy.

# After the Vanilla Fudge Mountain, the tour goes by another hallway, this one with numerous tall and colorful windows - stained glass made of sugar. Each window illustrates a famous chocolatier or candy-maker, but in the style of saints in churches. You have Philippe Suchard (the grandfather of Milka), Henry Isaac Rowntree (the maker of the Fruit Pastilles and Fruit Gums), the Menier family (the biggest chocolatiers of 19th century and first half of 20th century Europe, and distant relatives of Wonka) ; the Murrie family (creators of Hersheys) and the Mars famly (bheind the Mars bars, the M&Ms, the Snickers and the Milky Ways). "All families" Wonla notes with an air of sadness. Indeed, Wonka always wanted a family - or rather at this point in his life he regrets to not have a family and an heir, isolated that he is in his factory.

# Inventing Room number 3. There are numerous "Inventing Rooms" in the Factory, dedicated to developping, inventing, testing, studying products or just do crash tests. The number 3 is clustered with huge, squat and heavy dark machines, with vats, cauldrons and ovens, and all sorts of other structures dragon-like due to the steam and fire they spill out. It quite a grim and sinister place, but it is also where Wonka tests his most fantastic inventions, like the Rainbow Drops, the Luminous Lollies or the Three-Course Meal Gum.

As you guess, this is where Violet Beauregard will meet her demise. I set myself a rule to avoid all blueberry transformations when dealing with the demises of the Violets, so here I rather use the tomato soup: after chewing (not only did Violet took the gum due to her "talent" but also because she misheard Wonka and thought it was a "tasting" room), her face becomes red and chubby, her skin smooth and glossy, her cheeks puff out, her nose bulges, her forehead bloats, her throat becomes big, her lips thick and her ears thin, pointy, green. Result? Her face looks like a mass of tomatoes. Tomatoes for cheeks, a tomato for a forehead, tomatoes instead of eyelids, a tomato for a nose and two for the lips... Think of the Arcimboldo paintings, how he made faces out of flowers and vegetables. It is the same thing here. And while her parent is furious at first, they end up actually realizing it might be for the better - because now she is truly unique and attention-attracting, and that's what her parents always wanted...

# Follows a long hallway with a series of different rooms: two are taken from the original book, the Fizzy Lifting Drinks and the Squares that Look Round. One I changed slightly: the Chocolate Milk Room, where Wonka keeps special cows that have a chocolate-flavored milk.

# The Heating Room. A room taken from Dahl's deleted chapter "The Warming Candy Room".

This Heating Room looks like the negine room of a submarine or a freighter, filled with turbines, pistons, pipes, wheels and pressure gauges. This is where Wonka creates all of his heat-related products: hot ice-creams to fight chilling days, hot ice-cubes to give back warmth to a cold drink, and finally the warming candies (see the original deleted chapter). Marvin Prune, absolutely outraged by what he perceives as Wonka breaking all laws of science and physics, tries to prove that he is a quack by stuffing himself with handfuls of warming candies. Which results in him over-heating: he becomes red, sweaty, thirsty, removes all of his clothes (save for his underwears) and screams to death.

Wonka will have him put in the freezer, and also covered regularly in water, to avoid him drying up to death or combust. But even as he is leaving the factory, he is still red, sweaty, steamy and in underwears - the falling snow melting as it touches him.

# The Nut Room. Another classic piece of the original factory that I wanted to reinvent. Basically, here the kids do not visit the Nut Room proper, but the Under-Nut Room, or Sub-Nut Room. You've got the Nut Room where the white-clad workers separate good nuts from bad nuts Then the "bad" batch is then in this under-room, where trained squirrels will sniff out any potential "good nut" the workers may have missed. All the nuts are on a conveyor belt, that is getting then thrown down a chute.

Of course, Elvira Salt meets her demise here by trying to take one of the squirrels by force, resulting in a squirrel attack. However, the squirrels do not push her down the chute. Rather, she climbs on the conveyor belt to avoid them and has her fur stuck in the belt. She could have escaped if she had let go of it, but she refused to let it go, so she fell down the chute... and Wonka cannot remember if this particular chute leads to the compost vat he uses to grow his fruits, vegetales and berries   - or to the furnace...

But don't worry, she actually falls down in the compost. Elvira will leave the factory extremely dirty, unbearably stinky, so much not even an entire week of baths and showers can remove it, and probably with one or two diseases, but alive.

# The Television Room. I did not had time to clearly prepare this one, but it will be where Michael (Mike) T-V meets his demise. Discovering he can go inside television, he is more happy to oblige, and is absolutely thrilled to be in his favorite shows. But as soon as he leaves the television, he realizes that he is now as small as a television character! No bigger than the screen! He will be sent back to his home, now only able to play with his toys and figurines, the only things at his doll-like size.

# The Molding Room

This room is also taken back from Dahl's original draft. Basically, it is where Wonka creates many of his chocolate sculptures - he has an entire zoo of chocolate animals, and very recently created a machine able to form men, women and children out of chocolate. And this is also where Bertie Upside will meet his demise.

You may be wondering: Bertie? What has he done wrong? He is kind, gentle, generous, perfect. He helped Charlie on numerous occasions, he stopped the mischief of the brats... Isn't he a good kid?

HE IS NOT. Grandpa Georges was right all along: if he appears better than the others, it means that he twice as worse.

Bertie Upside truly has a heart of gold. Which means a heart of cold and hard metal, not of flesh.

Bertie Upside is a psychopath, a sociopath, an evil little boy. Sure he knows how to put on a nice and gentle facade, but it is just manipulation. If he is orphaned, it is because he killed his own parents, and now that he is left alone with Charlie (Wonka being busy elsewhere), Bertie will try to kill him, just for fun, by putting him in the "Chocolate Boy" mould so that he would be smothered in a chocolate statue.

However (I have to admit this part is a bit blurry), Charlie will resist and Bertie will end up thrown inside another moulding machine... A piñata-creating machine. When Bertie will get out of the machine, he will still be a living boy... but now with a flesh as fragile as papier-mâché, and insides filled with candies. Now he is really a sweet kid inside as he is outside. And  he will have to be really gentle... if he doesn't want to break.

And of course after that Charlie gets the factory, as it turns out that Wonka was looking for an heir with this tour. Happy end!

   Now, as I mentionned a poem forms itself through the story, rhymes being added after each kid's demise (an idea originally taken from Dahl's first drafts of the story). It goes like this:

"Nine little children, in the garden they went,

But one fell, and then they were eight."

"Eight little children, an unruly mix,

Two rode to Chicago, and then they were six."

"Six little children went into a room as busy as a hive,

But one did not listen carefully, and then they were five."

"Five little children, less and less at every door,

One had a fever and then they were four."

"Four little children saw squirrels down the tree,

One fell down the squirrel hole, and then they were three."

"Three little children, and none are new,

One went to play and then they were two."

"Two little children, we are soon to be done,

One got his trickandtreat, and then there was one."

"One little children, everything he won,

He lived ever happily, and now we are done."

[buyproperties42]

Florence: The Lady Who Saved the Old Bridge

Queen Victoria loved this renowned old bridge. After a visit, the Marchese Torrigiani, Mayor of Florence, ran to the railway station to make his bow. She shook an aggressive finger at him and warned: "Never touch Ponte Vecchio".

Walburga, Lady Paget. was the great-granddaughter of Justchen von Krosigk, née von der Schulenburg, and granddaughter of Field-Marshal Count Gneisenau.

From her hilltop setting at Villa Bellosguardo, formerly Villa Michelozzi, she could gaze down towards the river Arno, over the city of Florence, up to Fiesole and the far-away mountains.

In the early years of the 20th century, she gives us a dashing account of her days of martyrdom during a sojourn in Florence. A gushing portrayal of all her tormented and stomach-churning experiences with the local Florentines, and the Italians: "... a race that has no moral courage, a race I could never fear"

She found solace in her angelical dogs, her sheep, goats, and sulphur-breasted cockatoo that resided in one of the Villa's corridors. She found gratification in her battles for a better life for children, animals, and the preservation of ancient buildings, and in her constant imprecations against the Florentines.

The cacophonic inventory of her Villa Bellosguardo tea-time guests and neighbours included Madame Zizi Narishkin, née Princess Kourakin, Princess Corona Bariatinsky, Count Mouravieff, Monsieur and Madame de Zoubow, the Princess Croy Solre, née CroyDuelmen, Countess Harrach, sister of Princess Lichnowsky, and Resi Palffy.

Struck with horror at crimes that had recently been perpetrated in Florence and in Italy in her days at Bellosguardo, Lady Walburga reports that most people go about armed and she herself is armed when out late. Just the other day, she reports, as Marchese Ugo della Gherardesca was driving to his villa he was assailed by three armed masked men. He shot one dead and put the other two to flight. While sitting on the balcony of her villa one day, Marchesa Bricchieri was shot in the neck, probably by her factor. Countless people have been attacked on or near her Bellosguardo hill-top home, and several of the neighbouring villas have been burgled. Even the Stanhope family home, she reports, has been burgled twice. Know more here avenue south residence

Italian newspapers, she continues, are full of articles about disgusting crimes. There are currently half a dozen cases - some have been in progress for years: Lieutenant Modugno who is accused of shooting a young lady, Teodilinda Murri, who showed her true colours by engaging her lover and others to poison her husband, Count Notarbartolo. He recovered from the unsuccessful attempt, so they shot him. A lady called Rosacca vanishes, perhaps murdered by her son, who draws her pension without reporting her disappearance. In a room in his villa, the young Count De Vecchi is attacked, tied up, and forced to make a will bequeathing his great fortune to his aggressor, who then threatens the servant and orders him to drown the young count in a bathtub and then throw him into a canal. Fortunately, the order was never carried out and sometime later, on being detected, the aggressor shot himself to avoid capture. Further, the Minster of Finance, Rosada, shoots himself after only a few days in office.

What a state this country is in, she admits.

In due course she tells the story of an Englishman living in Rome who had the laudable habit of giving a coin to a certain beggar whenever he met him on his way. This beggar, he heard one day, was in fact a rich man and a money-lender, a "strozzino", a ruthless 'throttler". The Englishman then steered clear of him and kept his coins in his pocket.

The beggar deliberately sought revenge. He brought a lawsuit against the Englishman declaring that he owed him a large sum of money. The ill-fated Englishman, not a rich man, was in a state of depression. He revealed this to an Italian friend who, unperturbed, replied, "Don't worry. Just leave everything to me." A short time later his friend told him that it was now all cleared up and that his troubles were over.

"How did you manage it?" - asked the Englishman.

"Simple. I found five witnesses who were instructed to say that they had seen you reimburse the money."

"How much did it cost?"

"Very little. A witness in the city only costs 10 francs, and one from outside the city walls is even cheaper - 5 francs."

Lady Paget's unfaltering efforts to alleviate suffering meted out to animals and children, her Anti-Vivisection campaigns, Preservation of Ancient Monuments crusades, and "Hygiene Conferences", as she calls them, all awaken our greatest admiration. With Countess Tommasini she arranged an interview one day with the Mayor of Florence in order to try and put an end to the brutality employed to horses in the area. It was agreed that the Mayor, a lawyer by profession, would receive the ladies at five o'clock. Now it happened that on that particular afternoon her horses were suddenly engaged in another more important mission and she was left to walk to the city centre. She strongly resisted a bitter "tramontana" north wind, she tells us, as she made her way down the hill from Bellosguardo, crossed the river Arno and reached Palazzo Vecchio where she and the Countess met and then advanced to the Mayor's office. An employee said that the Sindaco could not see the two ladies that afternoon as he had forgotten all about the matter and had other things to do. Lady Paget had failed. She understood the hopelessness of this or of any future mission. She rebelled, tongue-lashed the employee who could only writhe and thrash about without a reply and the two ladies left for home. Italians, she later reports, are always stunned by straightforward assertions.

Lady Paget then reports that of late she has been wholly absorbed in horse-dealing, in Florence a jawbreaking and strenuous venture for such a stately lady. Lies and double-dealing, we hear from her, are freely exercised in such a way that "we Northerners" always end up being severely trounced and done in.

With Princess de Croy an attempt was made to persuade the Archbishop to order his parish priests to instruct the parishioners to put and end to the indiscriminate slaughter, by shooting, trapping and netting (and consequently roasting on a stick) of little song birds, especially on Sundays when the entire male population wanders around weighed down with rifles.

A servant left her after she had regularly given him his dismissal notice. Like all Florentine servants and coachmen, people she had engaged to take them out of their misery, he claimed three months wages and began legal action. Lady Pager was badgered and pestered for months, lies galore were fabricated. Her lawyer reassured her that she would win, but Italian law can come up with shattering disappointments. It can go on for years.

[razorcrst]

characters i’m adding to my roster: 

casper mcfadden, from the film version of casper. immortal. appears to be eighteen years old. heir. pansexual. seasonal muse. fc: owen joyner.

wendy wardwell, from the film casper meets wendy. witch. nineteen years old. student / works at her aunts’ shop. bisexual. seasonal muse. fc: sabrina carpenter. 

kim boggs, from edward scissorhands. twenty years old. student. pansexual. seasonal muse. fc: anya taylor-joy.

adam hansen, from mom’s got a date with a vampire. twenty years old. student / vampire hunter in training. pansexual. seasonal muse. fc: louis hofmann. 

sharpay evans, from high school musical. eighteen years old. student / aspiring broadway actress. pansexual. main muse. fc: savannah lee may. 

characters that are pending:  

shaggy rogers, from scooby doo. twenty years old. pizza delivery boy / amateur detective. pansexual. fc: lucas wong. 

fred jones, from scooby doo. twenty-two years old. model / amateur detective. pansexual. fc: jake manley or wolfgang novogratz.

velma dinkley, from scooby doo. twenty-one years old. research assistant / amateur detective. homosexual. fc: isabella gomez. 

daphne blake, from scooby doo. twenty-one. fashion design student / amateur detective. bisexual. fc: camila mendes or kim jisoo. 

meg murry, from a wrinkle in time. fc: zendaya or jaz sinclair.

billy butcherson, from hocus pocus. fc: finn wittrock. 

[iviarellereads]

A Wrinkle In Time, Chapter 11 - Aunt Beast

(THIS PROJECT IS SPOILER FREE! No spoilers past the chapter you click on. Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For the link index for the Time Quintet, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

In which we are encouraged in a small way to think about why we treat others in a way we wouldn't want to be treated.

Mr. Murry refuses to have his daughter taken from him, which only seems to amuse the beasts. The leading beast says they'll communicate better with Calvin, and seems to detect his fear as they ask who and what he is.

“Tell me,” the beast said. “What do you suppose you’d do if three of us suddenly arrived on your home planet?” “Shoot you, I guess,” Calvin admitted. “Then isn’t that what we should do with you?”(1)

The beast holding Meg suggests they aren't used to alien visitors, and Calvin says Earth's never had any, as far as he knows.(2) They ask if the humans' home is a dark planet, and Calvin says it's shadowed, but they're still fighting. The leader asks Mr. Murry where they came here from, and he answers Camazotz, where his youngest son is still trapped.

Meg is angry at them both for being so open with the beasts, until the warmth flows into her again, easing her pain. The one holding her says they have to take her. Meg begs her father not to leave her like he did Charles, and gets angrier when the beast tells her just what IT did, not to fight, that she's only making it worse for herself.

The beast says that Meg is in danger, and Mr. Murry asks if they can save her. The beast thinks so, but the coldness of the darkness can burn unless treated. But, Calvin and Mr. Murry will be attended to while they wait.

Meg feels unwillingly comforted by the beasts as all three come to stand around her. They smell so nice, she hopes she doesn't smell bad to them, but she knows somehow that they wouldn't mind if she did.

As the tall figure cradled her she could feel the frigid stiffness of her body relaxing against it. This bliss could not come to her from a thing like IT. IT could only give pain, never relieve it. The beasts must be good.(3) They had to be good. She sighed deeply, like a very small child, and suddenly she was asleep.

When Meg wakes, she remembers great pain, but it's over, and she's comfortable. Some beasts are rubbing her muscles with "something warm and pungent". She thinks briefly about how her father wasn't the one who saved her, that was all on the beasts.

One of those very beasts asks if the pain is gone, which Meg confirms, but she can't quite sit up under her own power. The beast says she'll need help for a bit, as the darkness doesn't give up its victims easily. When Meg asks, the beast answers that her father and Calvin are resting, as they and the beasts learn about each other

Meg asks why it's so dark, and it comes about that the beasts don't have a sense of sight, they simply know what and where things are. They can hear the songs of the stars, so why need to see them? Seeing must be very limiting, the beast says, but Meg says no, it's wonderful, truly.

Thinking about Earth makes Meg think of others and, then, her brother, and she asks if they're going to help Charles Wallace. The beast says there's a meeting underway to discuss what to do. They've never even met someone who escaped a dark planet before. Meg worries about abandoning her brother, but the beast says that's not their way, but they also won't let haste jeopardize the actions that are needed. They put a robe around Meg, and tell her that her brother won't be left "behind the shadow".

The beast feeds Meg slowly, talking about not having had a young one to care about in a long time. Meg tries to ask questions, but the beast shushes her and says she must eat and sleep, and when it's warm there will be much to do. Meg asks what to call the beast, who definitely reads Meg's mind and runs through the options Meg's been thinking about. Mother and father are already taken, not sibling, teacher, or friend, acquaintance has no meaning to the beast, but aunt will perhaps do. The beast also dislikes "thing" and "monster", but allows that Aunt Beast might be the most appropriate name.(4) Meg asks Aunt Beast to sing to her, and she does, and it's beautiful, and Meg sleeps again.

Meg wakes, this time, to find Aunt Beast slept next to her. AB wakes up, and asks how Meg feels. Meg feels great, and starts asking questions. We learn that this planet might be called Ixchel, and shares a sun with Camazotz,(5) and they are in spiritual communion with the higher power of the universe, which they conveniently assign the usual Christian masculine uppercase pronouns. However, some of Meg's questions quite overwhelm AB, so she bathes and dresses Meg and carries her back out to her father and friend.

The sight of Mr. Murry makes Meg feel disappointed in his failure again in both him and Calvin, so Meg turns to AB for all the help she needs. AB sits Meg on the bench and serves her. Mr. Murry says they were trying to come up with a plan to rescue Charles, but he doesn't have the skill to tesser accurately, even alone, and the beasts can't tesser onto a dark planet. He and the beasts think the only reason he stayed in the same solar system was because of Mrs Who's glasses, which have lost their special virtue in the using.

Meg asks if they tried calling Mrs Whatsit yet, and at the negative, asks if they even care about rescuing her brother at all. AB chides her gently, and Meg sees how hurt her father is over his failure. But, this only makes her angrier, and she insists they have to call for the Mrs, it's the only option left. AB explains that sometimes the darkness leaves "spiritual damage" behind that's harder to heal than the physical.(6)

Calvin turns away from Meg, and tells her they've been trying to tell the beasts about the Mrs, but sure, Meg can have a go. AB suggests Meg try to explain them, and also the anger and guilt she's feeling about all this. So, Meg fumbles through describing them, but AB says perhaps she shouldn't use words, they're fighting her, just think about what the Mrs are. But, Meg can't shake the visual nature of her memory of them.

Eventually, Calvin finds the words he's been looking for to describe them: angels! Messengers of God. AB almost thinks she got it from that, but it still wasn't clear enough.(7)

“How strange it is that they can’t tell us what they themselves seem to know,” a tall, thin beast murmured. One of Aunt Beast’s tentacled arms went around Meg’s waist again. “They are very young. And on their earth, as they call it, they never communicate with other planets. They revolve about all alone in space.” “Oh,” the thin beast said. “Aren’t they lonely?” Suddenly a thundering voice reverberated throughout the great hall: “WWEEE ARRE HHERRE!”(8)

=====

(1) And you know what, that's a fair damned question. For all the people who claim to live by the golden rule, an awful lot of them forget it when it's convenient to their fear of the other. (2) Now, Calvin, you know the Mrs aren't human. (3) It's too bad things aren't so simple in the real world, and it's all too easy to mistake some kinds of pain for comfort when you want to believe in the people who are giving it to you. (4) I have really mixed feelings about a lot of this. I could let it go because ~kids story~ but also, no, it's important to interrogate the stories we share with children and make sure they don't have too many unintended consequences we can't talk through, right? So I dunno if it's just because I'm from the pro-monsterfucker end of the queer playroom but I kind of hate that the only other time "monster" appears in this book is when Meg self-describes herself to the kitten in chapter 1, and here Aunt Beast agrees that a monster seems a terrible thing to be. Monster carries connotations of danger, it's understandable that she comes to that conclusion, but also… fuck that, we've reclaimed monsters in the last 60 years and it's for the better. And it's not like beast is much better, a beast carries only ambiguous danger but is definitely considered lesser than a person. But, I don't feel like Aunt Beast naming herself is a reclamation so much as an error in communication to coincide with how the narrative around Meg was already referring to this species. (5) TWO planets in the goldilocks zone? How unlikely. Then again, if Venus had less greenhouse effect, or Mars had more atmosphere, both of those would be reasonably habitable by life as we know it on Earth. (6) It's a very common thing in fiction, I'm sure, but the example my brain goes to is in Final Fantasy X, when Tidus arrives in Spira and has to keep explaining his lack of knowledge of their culture with "uhh I got too close to Sin's toxin." In this case, though, it's important that Meg learn, sooner or later, that she's still responsible for the harm her choices and her actions do. (7) Realistic? Yes. Frustrating? ALSO YES. (8) Finally!

[craniumculverin]

Crude Fortuity (part 2)

It’s not as many scenes as I wanted to have done, but I decided to stop nitpicking and just post what I have done! Some of this has been written for like 2 years now, for pete’s sake... Enjoy!

 A brisk wind whips through the tents, the sound of taut canvas joining that of the camp’s weary denizens. The fires built for light and warmth are but embers save for one or two that are more sheltered, drawing those still awake. Percy is quite content to remain sequestered away from the rough voices and occasional shouts. One of the tents closest to where he’d been working until dusk had been designated as a sickbay, which is where he currently sits, recording the day’s events.

Luckily, aside from the two that had abruptly ensured his stay, many of the cases he’d seen were relatively minor, and thus could sleep without supervision. Hypothermia had been the most widespread problem, some minor lacerations and a few instances of frostbite, fewer of which required amputation. Quite a fortunate outcome, medically speaking. Of the three and a half dozen or so men only five had been found dead, and right before nightfall all had finally been accounted for. Quite fortuitous indeed, considering how many had been trapped. The two unconscious forms currently occupying the other end of the tent, however, were anything but fortunate. They’d taken up most of Percy’s time, and rightfully so.

The arguably worst off was a Mister Lorcan Quinn, a young Irishman of diminutive build, about 19 years of age. When he was laid out on a table he’d been unconscious and terribly pale from blood loss and exposure. Besides multiple fractures to his right leg, numerous abrasions and extensive bruising, his left leg had been crudely amputated below the knee, a makeshift tourniquet of rope tied just above - it was so tight and slick with blood Percy had given up on removing it in the end. Truthfully it’d likely been the only thing that kept the boy alive during the apparent trek down the mountain, but the damage it had caused had been an issue in and of itself. As the doctor rushed to stop the flow of blood, it also became evident something had occurred prior to the amateur amputation.

“…Both tibia and fibula appeared to have suffered severe comminuted fractures prior to where cuts were made, as large bone splinters were still present in surrounding tissue, some of which would have had to be removed. The bones had been twisted severely at the knee - tendons and muscle damaged beyond recognition. Likely to have been broken or mangled in a way that trapped him, thus the amputation. Most probable to have been done with an ax, with extreme force, done in 2-4 swings.

Due to the severity of the knee’s condition, massive blunt trauma caused by crude technique, extensive tissue damage from the rope, and lack of viable skin to create a flap, further amputation was required. Patient awoke as sawing of femur began but quickly passed out. Procedure went fairly well, assistant performed admirably despite inexperience. Setting of fractures in right leg left to assistant and two other men, done quickly and precisely. Bandaging finished and treated for remaining injuries and hypothermia once in sickbay.”

Percy sighs as he finishes his entry, writing slightly askew from having to balance the journal on his knee. He curses his inability to find a pencil and hopes he wasn’t using his good blue ink - the lamp he’d been given is too dim to tell, and too low on oil to make any brighter. Pausing to let the page dry, he removes his spectacles to rub at his tired eyes before placing them back on the bridge of his nose.

Looking over to the prone forms across from him - particularly Mister Quinn, who’s shivering required an extra blanket - Percy feels a little resentful. As of yet no one has bothered to see that he himself has somewhere to sleep, and frankly he didn’t want to leave the decently warm tent to inquire about it. They’d given him a chair at least, one with a sturdy enough backrest. What little luggage he’d packed aside from his medicine chest sat in the corner, a number of coats and shirts inside suitable to sleep under. He could make due for tonight, if it meant not having to interact with anyone until morning.

The doctor flips to the next page for his final record of the night, glancing up at the other occupant of the sickbay’s cots. The snoring man’s bandaged feet hang over the edge, a few dry pairs of stockings stretched over them. His hands are wrapped as well, but neither are anywhere near as thickly bandaged as his head. A small frown crosses Percy’s features as he dips his pen, unsatisfied with how he’ll have to start this particular entry.

“Patient: Alfred (surname unknown)”

He huffs after finishing just the one line. Why no one in camp would come forth with the man’s full name was a mystery, and the Captain had been too preoccupied to be of any assistance on the matter. Surely at least one of these loggers would be privy to such information? In lieu of a surname Percy opts to include a more thorough description - some way of properly identifying him.

“Blond, green eyes, fair skin, strong nose. Likely English accent. About 6 feet in height, solidly built. Age anywhere from 20-25 years.

Severe head trauma resulting in large laceration over right parietal, no fracture or depression, unable to detect possible intracranial hemorrhaging. Likely moderate to severe concussion. 3 broken ribs, at least 2 partially fractured. Moderate to severe bruising across body, primarily front of torso, legs, and arms, unable to detect possible internal trauma or bleeding. Moderate abrasions, lacerations to face and hands. Minor abrasions, blistering to feet. Beginnings of frostbite to all extremities, particularly hands. Hypothermia.

Patient was found carrying Mister Quinn at the outskirts of camp after the avalanche and resulting landslide. Reportedly collapsed as assistance approached but remained conscious, became distraught when Quinn was taken from him. Put up weak resistance at first before being half-dragged into camp. Appeared confused and unable to form intelligible speech, no other immediate signs of brain trauma. Repeatedly tried to get up during procedures and had to be held down. Eventually forced to be made unconscious by way of chloroform when-”

“Dr. Hewlett, you awake?”

Percy’s eyes close of their own accord at the sudden intrusion. “Yes, come in.”

The flap of the tent’s entrance is pulled open, letting what little warmth that had accumulated out into the night. The Captain pokes his head in, quickly frowning. “Where’s your cot? Told Ben to bring one for you soon as he was done with whatever he was up to with those bloodied rags.”

Ah, that explains it. Benediktus, the camp’s New Pthumerian “doctor” turned assistant, had been sent to use what was left of the boiling water to wash out any bandages that could be reused. Given the nature of the task and his apparent perfectionism, he was likely still at it, much to the chagrin of the cook.

“Ben is likely still at work on his last task I’m afraid. Is there something I can do for you Captain?”

“There isn’t, just wanted t’check in before I make m’last rounds. I’ll have a cot and blankets brought in,” the man pauses as he inspects the cramped space, “unless you want t’sleep elsewhere? Not sure a third will fit comfortably with your equipment and such…”

“I’d rather sleep here. Neither of these men are stable enough to go unsupervised for long.” And they were better company than anyone else he’d have to share a tent with, being unconscious for the foreseeable future.

“Alright then…” The Captain gazes over to the slumbering patients, a surprising amount of worry etched into his weathered features. As explosive as the man’s temper was, Percy had quickly come to realize he cared deeply for those working under him. He knew every man by name, and as soon as they’d all been found his demeanor gradually shifted from a demanding tyrant to a concerned leader - strict and immensely gruff, but concerned. A much more pleasant man to deal with than Percy’s initial interaction had led him to believe.

After a short time the Irishman must have realized he was lingering; he clears his throat and stomps his boots before entering, shutting out the chill outside air. “Is there anything else I can d’for you Doctor?”

“Thank you Captain, I do have one request,” Percy shifts to better face him, motioning to the larger of his two patients. “What is Alfred’s surname? I couldn’t find anyone that knew, or were willing to say.”

The stout man is quiet before bursting into laughter. “Pwaw hahaa! That’s all? Sorry Doc, I’ll have t'check the ledger for his full name - Alfred’s never been fond o' using his, ever since I first met the lad. As t’why the others won’t say, he tells anyone that asks something different. T’mess with them, I think.”

“Really? How odd.”

The physician leans back in his seat as he considers his strange patient. The other man grunts in agreement, then shrugs his broad shoulders. “Aww he’s prolly just a bastard or a runaway is all. People are strange about such things… Anything else before I away?”

Percy is silent for a moment before his eyes light up. “Ah yes! I am curious - why do you call yourself ‘Captain’? A strange choice of title, for such an occupation.”

The Irishman’s face instantly falls into a grimace. “I don’t, but the men do. I figured it’d save time and confusion if you just called me by that bloody nickname. If you want t’call me by m'proper name it’s Murry Buckley, though by now most o' this lot likely’ve forgotten it.”

“…Well that was sensible of you. That’s all for now Mister Buckley, thank you.”

“Thank you, Doctor. These two would be goners without you, I have no doubt about that. And the other men you saw to as well - I truly appreciate your efforts.”

“Hmm Lorcan yes, absolutely - he was practically dead when he came to me. But Alfred… hmmaybe,” ponders Percy aloud as he watches the two patients. “His head wound probably would have closed on its own. Eventually. But inflammation and discharge would've been an issue, not to mention his chances of… Anyway! You’re very much welcome. I myself appreciate being allowed to stay here for a time.”

“…Right,” the Captain gives him an odd look, “I’ll eh, I’ll make sure that cot gets t'you. G'night Dr. Hewlett.”

“Good night Mister Buckley.”

----------

One would think being stuck in a logging camp so soon after a natural disaster would be stressful, what with the questionable terrain and so many antsy workmen, but as far as Percy is concerned it's really quite dull.

His time is primarily spent cooped up in the sickbay tent or directly outside at the tables, his responsibilities keeping him anchored to where he can easily be found amidst the rows of canvas and piles of equipment. It's hardly the natural beauty he'd expected to appreciate during his time here, and to make it worse Buckley is adamantly insistent that he stay within the camp proper until their surroundings are deemed safe. Given that more than half of camp is either buried under snow and mud or is where the men are working, that leaves Percy just enough space to feel much like a caged animal, restless as it paces along the bars.

There's technically something to do with his free time - even in the midst of seeing to the injured on that first day, Ben had eagerly asked he impart any medical knowledge he'd be willing to share. He later agreed, despite having mixed thoughts on the matter; it's something to put his mind to besides the very few instances that someone requires medical attention, yet also involves having to plan on regular interaction with the young man. However, it turns out the student's shockingly wide range of duties keep him far too busy or exhausted to hold a focused conversation, and when he can he tends to stop in unannounced and for too short a time. While hashing over lectures is pleasant enough, doing so has begun to feel rather meaningless as the boy never lingers long enough to finish any. Percy may as well just open a textbook to a random page and tell him to start reading!

Speaking of, the physician had cracked open his neatly packed chest of books as soon as he'd made adequate space in the sickbay to do so. Many of the tomes he simply couldn't leave behind also happen to be those he enjoys rereading, which he quickly decided on doing - only to realize a logging camp may in fact be the worst place to attempt such an activity. Maybe once the men are spending more time sawing logs and climbing trees they'll stop shouting all the time, and with such colorful profanity.

So, with such a severe lack of things to occupy himself, he's taken to observing. Everything.

How the fog grows and shrinks along the foothills as time passes, what sorts of wildlife can be seen along the outskirts of camp, the cloud patterns and wind directions in relation to the terrain, the unfamiliar types of trees and plant life, where paths have formed from foot traffic and which are used more, how the Captain maintains order and directs the men, the sorts of roles present within the camp, which men tend to do what, who interacts with who and how, all the while sorting out which names belong to which faces. None of it is in the slightest bit interesting, but it's something to pass the time.

And of course he properly sees to any and all medical complaints the workmen might have, as he'd promised. He's not negligent after all, just bored out of his mind.

As for his two long-term patients, neither have been able to remain conscious for an extended period of time. It's a day and a half full of incessant humdrum before either finally come to, and unsurprisingly it's the young Irishman. While the redhead has simply been in too weak a state, Alfred had developed a fever during the first night, which, along with his head trauma, has made it difficult for him to stay awake for even a minute at a time. According to Mister Quinn - or simply Lorcan, as he prefers - his coworker would "snap out of it soon as he gets hungry enough." Percy sees no point in rebuffing his deplorable grasp of medicine as, despite the constant pain and soreness he's sure to be experiencing, the boy is already talkative enough without further prompting. The doctor has to repeat himself thrice just to get his name out amongst all the questions and chatter.

Once word to both the Captain and the cook - whose name is actually Cook, poor man - has been sent, Lorcan finally quiets enough to take in an explanation about the extent of his injuries and what has become of his leg. He wearily pushes away the covers to examine his new stump as Percy finishes, condolences left to hang in the air. A decent amount of time passes of him blankly staring at the mass of bandages - then he heaves a sigh and winces through a shrug, expression belaying a sense of minor annoyance.

“Guess I’ll be working for m'dah after all. A boring job for me back home then, hurrah."

He throws his hands up in mock celebration, earning him a bemused look and raised brow from the physician. “My, you appear to be handling all of this exceptionally well. I’ve had men make more of a fuss over losing a single finger than you are with most of a leg. May I inquire why that is?”

Something dark crosses Lorcan's features before he shivers and wraps bruised arms around himself as best he can. “T'is better than being dead out in the middle o' nowhere. T'die in the country God forgot…”

“Hm…" Percy idly considers the patient as he moves to gently cover his residual limb - much like a listless cat eyeing a possible plaything, contemplating if it's worth the trouble of pouncing on. "…If it’s not too upsetting, could you recount what you remember? Of how you came to lose it, I mean - from my understanding such an injury isn’t common to receive from an avalanche or landslide.”

The hint of humor goes completely unnoticed as the young man is absorbed into his thoughts, a frown crumpling his freckled features. Lithe fingers begin to pick at the stitching of his blankets.

“…I woke up with m’leg trapped under a tree, likely the one we’d been up when it hit. I d’know how long I was out before that, but… I already knew m'leg was done for. All that blood… and the pain was- I was ready, wanting t’die by the time I heard Alfred call out,” Lorcan looks over to his slumbering compatriot and dryly chuckles. “I was gonna ask him t', t'just- …But he was out of his head with how hard he must’ve gotten knocked. Thought he could somehow get the both of us out of there alive, all on his lonesome.”

“A belief that turned out to be true.”

Lorcan is shocked when he turns back to Percy, before disbelief quickly blossoms. “We weren’t- the others didn’t come find us up there?”

“No. At the time they were all occupied with digging out those still trapped under the snow and debris. Alfred carried you to the edge of camp, where the two of you were found.”

There's a brief silence as the two stare at one another, and then Lorcan bursts into laughter.

“Hahahahaaoo damn! Of course he did, the lunatic! Couldn’t leave behind anyone what showed him a lick o' good will! Bloody idiot!” Despite the harsh words, tears well up in the redhead's eyes as his voice begins to waver. “Gonna get him- himself killed for sure one of these days, with that stupid loyalty of his! Pigheaded l-loon!”

He suddenly turns away and clutches at his curls for something to hide behind, no longer able to keep from outright crying. Percy quietly moves to focus on the contents of his medicine chest to let the boy gather himself. There’s evidently some history here, concerning Alfred risking his personal well-being for others' sakes, and it seems he may have done so for Lorcan at some previous point. Unless the boy is simply wont to being ridiculously over-emotional. Hopefully neither of these possible traits will interfere with their recovery in any way, or his time tending to them.

A few sniffles are heard as Percy finishes noting what and of how much he'll need to restock upon reaching civilization. Lorcan is rubbing his reddened nose along his forearm when the physician pointedly turns to face him, his bleary eyes glancing up before sheepishly breaking eye contact. His voice is somewhat hoarse as he tries to casually continue the conversation as though nothing had happened.

“…Didn’t take him long t’take his ax t’my leg though, that’s for sure. Smiling like a madman he was!”

“An ax? Goodness!” exclaims Percy, brows raised in faux shock. He’d obviously figured that out right after getting the residual stump clean enough to see the damage, however practicing a little more sympathy and interest than he usually bothers with may be appropriate, given the youth’s sensitive nature - and it's proven to do wonders when he has to stay in constant contact with a patient.

Still, Percy is ever curious. “How many swings could that have taken? Alfred seems like a strong sort, it couldn’t have been too many… The pain must’ve been truly exquisite!”

“Hell if I know Doc - I was screaming my throat raw just from him tying the rope ‘round it. Once he put the ax t’me I must’ve been out like a light! Just heard him say t'close m'eyes after stuffing his gloves in m'mouth… What’s ‘exquisite’ mean?”

“Intensely felt, as in pain that is 'agonizing' or 'severe',” says Percy somewhat listlessly. He’d gotten his journal out to make an addendum, but alas, his curiosity is to remain unsatisfied. His guess is still at around three swings.

“Oh. Then yeah, it was the exquisitest pain I ever felt!”

The boy attempts to shift himself further upright only to lean too far on his stump. He jolts backward with a yelp, gripping at his blankets as all color drains from his face. Before he can do any further possible damage to the immense amount of work, Percy jumps up to push him down to lay against the flimsy cot. He checks for any fresh blood seeping through the strips of fabric, a distinctly calm but chiding tone in his voice as he works. “You won’t be very active any time soon, I’m afraid - bed rest is of utmost import for a proper recovery. Don’t try to do anything without assistance until told otherwise, you’re in quite a delicate state. Should we both do our best, your chances of survival are still less than desirable.”

“Great, okay, sounds good,” Lorcan deafly wheezes as the doctor’s nimble fingers painfully press and prod, “don’t feel much like a walk anyway. Not that I could.”

About a half an hour of constant one-sided gab passes before Ben asks to be let in with three dented cups of steaming soup in hand. Assuming the third is for the New Pthumerian himself, Percy stands, expecting to be asked for another impromptu lesson. But the student merely shakes his head as he’s offered the seat and hands the older man two of the cups. “It’s not for me sir, I’m needed back at the stove. Cook said to bring it for Alfred in case he woke up as well. Wouldn’t let me leave unless I did, sir.”

“Oh? Mister Cook must be confidant of Alfred also waking today if he’s willing to risk rations going to waste. Thank you Benediktus.”

“It won’t go t’waste, I’ll eat it if it gets t'cold before Alf is up!” says Lorcan, panting around a mouthful of the too-hot food.

The pale assistant bows slightly before seeing himself out, allowing Percy the space needed to sit back down to his meal. Inspecting it reveals it’s the same three main ingredients that every dish has been comprised of thus far - potatoes, salt pork, and beans. Cook added some kind of local herb to alter the flavor at least, and soup is new to the menu. Chewing on a bit of tough pork, the doctor wonders how many of the men have suffered from scurvy since becoming loggers.

“Sometimes we find berries in the wild, or catch fish and trap rabbits and the like. Around here are hermit-types living in the hills that sometimes give us veg they couldn’t eat or sell, though it’s usually started t’rot.”

Percy looks up to see Lorcan watching him with a mischievous grin. “You looked like you were thinking about how shite the food is - which is fair, ‘cause it is. Not even Cook can change that, though at least he bothers t’try.”

Swallowing is difficult with how little chewing has accomplished, but the physician manages. “Not- ahem, not necessarily, no. Just that what’s on hand is rather nutritionally lacking. I’m surprised all these men can handle such long hours and hard labor on so little.”

“Eh, t’is not so bad,” the redhead licks his spoon clean before setting the empty cup on the nearby makeshift nightstand, “Sometimes Cap’n bags an animal, what with having the only gun. He’s already shot down a wild pig since we set up this camp - took Alf ages t’cut up! Huge, monstrous things they are here, can get big as a coach! Still get extra meat with how much was dried.”

Percy looks up as he pokes at a chunk of gristle. “Alfred butchered it? Why not Mister Cook?”

“‘Cause he wasn’t ever trained at butchery like Alf was.”

He halts his meal to arch an eyebrow. “He was a butcher before becoming a logger?” Seems like quite a step down in terms of lifestyle and earnings.

“He wasn’t, but he did work for one way back - before enlisting in the Army.”

That causes the other brow to rise as well. “A soldier turned logger, with a history of butchery… Interesting choice of career changes, to say the least.”

“And he wanted t’be a priest before all that!”

Lorcan's gleeful excitement suddenly disappears and he leans closer as he hurriedly glances in his friend's direction, obviously uneasy. “Don’t go spouting off that last part though, and don’t let him know I told you any of that! I don’t think he’d like me sharing it! Oh, and never call him Alf like I do! He hates that!”

“Never, and I won't say a word,” Percy says as he finishes his soup, making note to be careful of what he says around the lose-lipped youth.

His cup is placed atop what luggage he couldn’t fit beneath his cot, next to the third serving. He pauses to consider whether or not to actually wait or just split it with Lorcan now. Why let hot food go to waste by going cold on such a chilly day? As he reaches for it a quiet gasp catches his attention. Turning, the doctor sees Lorcan wide-eyed and fully focused on the sickbay’s other occupant, prompting him to swiftly make his way between the two cots to inspect his feverish patient.

Alfred’s eyes are open, blearily staring at the ceiling. Resting a palm against what little of his forehead isn’t wrapped reveals his fever has come down some since morning. The waking man clenches his eyes shut and weakly tries to shake Percy's hand off, grumbling. “Responsive to touch-” He gently turns Alfred’s face toward him, forcing one eye open, then the other. A hand knocks into his elbow, clumsily trying to push him away. “-pupils are of equal size, coordination isn’t overly impacted, no hand tremors…” 

“Alfred, you awake? You alright?” Lorcan anxiously leans back and forth, trying to see around the physician's bent form. Alfred squints up at Percy and mumbles before swallowing, voice hoarse and gravelly from disuse.

“Whadda… we havin’…?”

Both Percy and Lorcan pause to stare at him out of confusion, but the younger's exuberance soon returns. “Soup! With the same old taters and meat as always, but this time Cook did something t’make it taste different!”

“Smells good…”

"Able to swallow unaided. Comprehending and responding to speech, his own is minimally slurred though this may be from just waking… Southern English accent…"

“Don’t it though?“ Lorcan laughs and claps a hand on his remaining knee. “What’d I say Doc! The smell o' food wafts across that snout o' his, t'is only a matter o' time 'til he’s awake!”

“Lack of facial movement is due to swelling… Hemorrhaging seems unlikely, concussion doesn’t appear to be overly severe…”

“So it would seem,” says Percy absentmindedly as he starts checking the dressings over the head wound. A few chunks of blood-clotted hair had already been cut out of the way to clean and close the injury; now that what remains has been washed and dried, he sees that more will have to be removed to keep redressing from becoming a hassle. “Perhaps I should just cut it all off - trim the beard too, keep those whiskers from getting caught in his cuts and scrapes.” Once his mind is made up he realizes the blond has been staring at him, expression blank save for a hint of slack-jawed confusion. Percy smoothly draws away to retrieve a flask and the third cup of soup before returning. “Do you need help to sit? You’re parched I’m sure, have some water.”

"I’m alright,” croaks Alfred, clearly having trouble moving with the pain of his battered ribs and limbs. Eventually he figures out how to rock forward until he can get his elbows wedged behind his back. Once fully upright he doesn’t take the proffered flask, instead looking across to Lorcan with an air of utter perplexity. “Why’s you only have one leg Lorcan?”

The redhead’s smile falters. “’Cause you cut it off, ya dolt. Don’t you remember?”

A second passes before Alfred’s bruised features try to distort in disbelief. “I wouldn’t do that! ‘Least not to you… ‘less you really deserved it, or…” He trails off as his gaze drifts back to the doctor, face falling into open-mouthed puzzlement. Then he squints harder. “…Who’re you?”

Percy flashes a pleasant smile as he empties a hand to extend to the bewildered man. “My name is Dr. Percival Hewlett. I’m a physician that has been tending to you and Lorcan for a few days now.”

“Oh…” He looks down to the hand before taking it into an awkward, bandaged grasp to give it a weak shake. “Call me Alfred.”

“Very well Alfred.”

The blond doesn't relent his grip on Percy's hand as he continues to dumbly stare up at him. An awkward silence grows heavier with each passing second as Lorcan looks back and forth between the two, even more baffled than the physician. Then Alfred knits his brows together. "Your hair is white.”

Percy stifles a sigh and forces his smile to remain extant. “Yes, it is. Drink please.”

The water flask is held directly in front of Alfred’s face, which he finally takes. He can’t quite get the cap off, but once Percy’s done away with it he drains the contents in a few gulps. Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, his drooping eyes light up on seeing the cup still in the doctor’s grasp.

“That breakfast? What are we having?” Percy wordlessly hands it to him before excusing himself to go stick his head out of the tent, hoping to catch a passerby to report to the Captain.

“I already said, it’s soup,” Lorcan gingerly leans forward to get a better look at his friend’s face, “you feeling alright Alf? Hearing okay?”

Alfred pauses shoveling food into his mouth to think. “Ah guht ah headehk tha’ hurths ah lot,” he says through meat and beans, swallowing before he continues, “and breathing hurts, and my head hurts. A lot. My hands-”

He frowns as if he’s just noticed why his fingers can hardly bend. Percy returns with the chair to sit closer, noticing Alfred’s unnerved expression as he looks between his wrapped hands and bundled feet. “You had signs of frostbite in a few of your digits. You’re lucky to have not lost any, however it’s likely the affected areas will be especially sensitive to cold from now on.”

“Oh,” the blond says flatly, before gobbling down the rest of his soup.

The cup and spoon are forgotten - and retrieved by Percy - as he settles into vacantly staring at the tent's entrance. Or, perhaps more accurately, whatever happens to be in front of him. Lorcan is openly worried as the doctor comes back from setting their emptied cups outside, casting a sidelong glance his way as he sits.

"Is he… okay?"

Percy can't resist giving him a vaguely curious look. "Why? Isn't he always like this?"

"He… isn't…"

"Ah. Well I figured as much," his tone suddenly turns matter-of-fact, "he has a concussion, which is the cause of his odd manner and may plague him for some weeks. Otherwise, considering his injuries and the exertion of getting back to camp, he's doing remarkably well."

"Oh, okay. Good." The youth is still troubled as he watches Alfred, but seems a little more at ease. "So he's not gonna stay like this then?"

"There is possibility of permanent changes to his overall demeanor, but I believe it's quite an unli-"

"You're both too damn loud," Alfred gruffly mumbles. A drawn out groan escapes him as he rests his head in his hands. "Why do I have such a God-awful headache…?"

"You got hit on the head really hard, got a bad bump and passed out," says Lorcan in a surprisingly confident tone. This time Percy's curiosity is genuine as he stares at the boy. "It's worse than when you got decked in that nasty fight outside the last camp - you need t'sleep and rest up, lay low and all that."

"Oh." Alfred appears to think over his friend's words. "…I got in another fight? Did I win?"

"You didn't. We both lost and got the beating of a lifetime. But that's not your fault, just is how it is."

"…Oh."

The blond sounds disappointed as he fiddles with the bandages on one of his hands. He looks over at Lorcan to say something but stops short on seeing the sickbay's doctor, silently observing the two. Percy matches his gaze, both concerned and impressed at how little appears to be going on behind those dull green eyes. Perhaps permanent changes to one's faculties following a concussion may be more likely than he'd originally thought… Lorcan's sudden assertiveness melts away as he looks between them, his anxiety now almost palpable in the sudden quiet. Interesting - and here he'd suddenly sounded so sure of himself. Was this sudden change just some sort of show, trying to impress the doctor for some reason? Or maybe it was meant to be something familiar for his debilitated compatriot; a tone and voice Alfred would be more used to hearing from him? Something to help anchor him to the present, since he's unable to-

"Who're you…?"

Percy's brows rise as he brings his focus back to the man in front of him. Without missing a beat he smiles and uncrosses his arms to offer a hand. "Dr. Percival Hewlett, a physician. I've been tending to you and Lorcan for a few days now."

"Oh," says Alfred as he awkwardly takes it in his own, "you can call me Alfred."

"Very well Alfred."

The doctor's hand is allowed to be gently pulled away as Alfred dazedly blinks. "…I'm gonna sleep now."

Percy nods ever so slightly, still smiling. "You do that."

Alfred dips his head in a sort of nod, then eases himself back down. After getting comfortable his breathing instantly evens out, and soon snoring once again pervades the sickbay. Lorcan is the first to break the silence that has fallen over the tent's other occupants. "You sure he's okay?"

"…He will be, with time."

----------

With the monumental task of getting his logging camp back in working order, the Captain isn't able to drop by until the next morning, just after breakfast.

Despite having been awake just minutes prior to scarf down his food, Alfred is asleep when the foreman enters and somehow remains so as Lorcan loudly greets him, eager to finally talk at someone other than Percy. "Cap'n hey! How's the camp? We still have a job out here, still in business? And who's dead? Doc said men died but didn't give any names! Have y'heard from the employer yet?"

Mister Buckley pauses in removing his cap to give the voluble boy a tired frown. He sits in the chair Percy had offered with a sigh, the hat coming off to reveal a bald head in stark contrast with his wildly bushy cheeks. "Calm down Lorcan, it's not even been a week. We're still just getting our bearings - I'm only just figuring out who to send to the nearest town, and even that's hardly a priority right now! No word's gotten t'our employer so no word's come from them, and as for the men… Well, none o' that's anything for you t'worry about. How are y'feeling, lad?"

Lorcan visibly deflates at the lack of news, but brightens on being asked his status. "Horrible! Everything hurts, I'm more bruised than not, m'legs hurt like a bitch even though one of 'em is- M'leg is gone! That's a damn good indicator of how I'm doing!" He winces after leaning forward too far as he gesticulates, but quickly sits back when he sees the flash of concern in the Captain's face. "But! I'm still alive somehow, and Doc says m'stump's doing well, and that he'll give me something for the pain it's causing. So it's not all bad, I guess."

"The morphine is for your overall pain," Percy chimes in from where he sits on his cot, still focused on once again trying to read one of his books. "I doubt it'll have any affect on the amputated limb sensations you're suffering. Unfortunately there's very little known about the phenomena, and even less on treating it."

"Oh that, I still get such pains m'self from time t'time," Buckley mutters as he shifts his walking stick to eye his wooden hand. "It'll hopefully die down for you like it did for me, but I've heard one can suffer these phantom pains constantly - for years, even a lifetime. Only time will tell."

Lorcan frowns and momentarily falls silent, lip quivering as he again stares at the remainder of his leg. He suddenly shuts his eyes tight and shakes his head, only to stop with a roguish grin directed at his superior as he jabs a thumb in Alfred's direction. "Anyhow, enough about me - let's talk about Alf! He got knocked in the head and now he's stupid! Useless as a toothless saw he is, dull as one too!"

The Captain's brow furrows as he glances at the slumbering, bandaged blond, then twists in his seat to give the doctor a questioning look. With a heavy sigh Percy sets aside his attempted reading, casting the giddy redhead a disapproving glance before addressing the foreman. "Alfred has a significant concussion. He's having trouble retaining new information along with remembering events directly before and after he sustained his head injury. However his cognition will improve in due time, so no, he's not 'stupid' or 'useless' now."

Buckley instantly relaxes back to his neutral frown. "I'm familiar with those too, aye - apparently had a few m'self over the years. Explains why he's sleeping so soundly for once." He suddenly turns back to Lorcan with a scowl, jabbing his own finger at him. "Don't you go spouting rumors about Alfred like that! The last thing I need right now is for him t'get riled up again and lose me even more men!"

The physician raises a brow as Lorcan scoffs and waves him off. "Aw y'know I'd never do that, he's m'best mate! Besides, every time he's really pummeled one of the guys it's been for good reason. Remember when-"

"I remember every damn time he's caused me trouble, thank you very much!"

"Come on now, he's just one logger! He can't've done that much."

"Oh? How's about I list off what he's done just since you joined up!" The captain leans forward to shove his remaining hand out to start counting. "Got in a fight with a driver for talking bad about his own wife! Got in a fight with other workers over going out t'solicit some doxies! Knocked out a prospective employer for- wait, no, I told him t'do that… But! I didn't tell him to stomp his face in, which he did anyway! Gave some village bloke a blackeye for striking his mouthy brat! And in the camp before last, he beat a couple o' newly-hired men into a bloody pulp! Over something as silly as possibly planning t'rob a nearby-"

Something between a snort and a scoff erupts out of Lorcan. "Possibly?! They asked if I wanted in on it when I caught 'em talking! Were gonna use your employering them as their alibi, was the only reason they joined up! Christ Cap'n, Alf wouldn't've bothered beating 'em that badly if they were just thinking about it!"

"And how the hell d'you know that?! He's prone t'overdoing it regardless of who or why, damnit! The one time I agreed t' let the lot o' you that hang around all year off for a day, I get word he got drunk and broke someone's jaw! Over bumping in t'him!"

Face a mottled red at this point, Lorcan seems at a complete loss as he gapes in disbelief. His voice comes high and drawn out once he finds it. "That guy broke a chair over his head! During a fisticuffs tourney! Not even the bloke's mates felt bad for him after Alf was through with him! Who told you that?!"

Buckley's own reddened features make a minute shift from furious to contemplative. The tent feels utterly devoid of sound as the two Irishman glare at each other in some odd sort of battle. Even with the sudden lull, Percy is still far too entertained to interrupt, let alone cease his covert notetaking.

The Captain is first to break, his shoulders lowering as his expression turns more curious than infuriated. "…Was Alfred and that man in a match when he took a chair t'his head?"

Lorcan flings his hands up. "Yes!"

Buckley straightens in his seat, still frowning. "Well that was just unsportsmanlike, that was."

"Thank you!" The vexed redhead's hands are thrown in the other's direction before they're dropped into his lap.

"Would you all jus'… please shut up…"

The three turn as one toward the source of the weak request, who is now very much awake. Alfred's face is set in an aggravated grimace while he attempts to cover his ears, turned as far away from the raised voices as his injuries will allow. Percy is immediately up and maneuvering around Buckley to lean over the blond, a touch regretful for forgetting his patient's current sensitivities in lieu of some enthralling snippets of his past. To their credit the two Irishman look exceedingly sheepish, the older moving himself and the chair closer to the entrance to be out of the way. Once he's settled he gives Lorcan a glance before addressing his other employee, voice lacking most of its previous volume.

"Apologies Alfred, y'know how Lorcan and I can get going… How are you, lad?"

There's a long pause as Alfred merely grumbles, blankly squinting up at Percy as he makes sure no dressings have come loose from his head or hands. When he answers he closes his eyes with a frown, as if watching the physician takes up too much of his concentration. "Head hurts a lot. Chest hurts like hell… When's breakfast?"

"You had it not ten minutes ago, mate," says Lorcan, concern once again lacing his unusually quiet voice, "salt pork with wild radishes and broth? You said it tasted bad?"

Alfred's expression twists into something even more sour. "Oh… yeah, it tasted bad." He opens his eyes to dully stare up at Percy again, wincing at what light there is within the sickbay's canvas walls. "…Who's this? 'S'hair's weird..."

Percy makes no reaction even as Lorcan snorts in amusement, but it takes a moment for Buckley to angrily splutter his shock. "Don't be rude, boy! That's the good doctor, he's the one that saved you and Lorcan's lives! You've been living in the same tent for days now, y'could at least remember his name!"

"Lay off 'em Cap'n, Doc wasn't lying about his memory…"

Lorcan suddenly sounds exceedingly tired from behind Percy as he straightens after finishing his inspection. "I have a better chance of learning t'read just from being near all o' Doc's books than Alf does of remembering past a few hours ago. Dr. Hewlett's been patient as a saint, he has - introduces himself every time Alf asks."

"I believe repeated phrases and experiences may help form new memories faster, particularly for cases such as this," the physician quietly comments to the Captain before turning back to Alfred, hand extended. "My name is Dr. Percival Hewlett, a physician. You and Lorcan were badly injured some days ago, I've been tending to you since."

His words are met with a rankled, blank stare that lasts long enough to become unsettling. Without looking away, Alfred slowly draws a hand from where he'd buried them under his pillow to take the offered hand. He gives it a rigid shake. "…Call me Alfred."

Pain erupts in Percy's hand and he's suddenly wrenched downward. Another hand slams into his chest to halt his descent, the fingers curling into an equally crushing grip on his shirtfront. Their faces are mere inches apart, but the chilling, furious intensity of Alfred's glare freezes him in place.

"Don't call me Alf. Or Fred. I hate that."

The doctor barely manages to keep his alarm in check as he forces himself not to struggle. He gives a shallow nod. "Duly noted."

A suffocating silence fills the meager space for the span of a second, and then a red-faced Buckley takes an incensed breath only to be cut off by a frantic Lorcan at full volume. "He knows already, mate! I already told him! You like him, remember?! Remember you told me that - you said it just this morning!"

Alfred's expression returns to one of agony as soon as his friend starts shouting, forgetting his grip on Percy's captured hand just enough for it to be pulled free. The grip on his shirt falls slack as soon as he tries to lean away; he straightens and shuffles back until his calves bump into the other cot, massaging his aching hand as covertly as possible. "What a shockingly strong grip for being wrapped as such, in an overall weakened state - and with the pain of frostbitten digits! Goodness, what an extraordinary tolerance for…" He forces that thought to a standstill, lest he start thinking up experiments he has no way of making seem necessary, let alone acceptable.

Lorcan's loud assurances send Alfred rolling into the canvas wall as he cringes in pain. A choked sob escapes as he curls in on himself and grasps his head again, eyes clenched tight enough to draw tears. "Fffuuuckkin' Christ, just… shut up! How can I like him if we jus- I don't like him! Same as I don't like anyone right now! Just sod off, all of you!"

"Alright, we're done here."

The Captain curtly stands and dons his cap with a grimace. "He can throw a tantrum which means he's feeling fine enough. I'll try to check in t'night before lights out, but no promises. Lorcan, keep your voice down. Alfred, don't you dare strike anyone, especially Dr. Hewlett - I'll have you sacked if you do!"

Alfred flinches at Buckley's sudden unrestrained volume and practically snarls on hearing his name, spitting grumbled curses at the man as soon as he stops talking. Meanwhile Lorcan simply nods and remains silent where he lays, anxiously glancing between his friend, boss, and doctor. Very much content to put more space between he and his decidedly unpredictable patient for now, Percy follows the Captain out into the overcast daylight, quickly shutting the flap behind him when a pained, angry hiss comes from inside. As soon as he turns the old Irishman bids him to follow to one of the further tables nearer to Cook's firepit, already hobbling there himself.

"M'sorry about that Dr. Hewlett," he says ruefully once they're out of earshot. "Lorcan and I fall int' arguing easily - or rather, we get t'discussing loudly. I wasn't thinking. I know for m'self how bad light and noise can be with a head injury, so I don't blame Alfred for getting so bothered. Are ye alright?"

Percy simply hums, too intent on organizing his thoughts to respond. He ceases rubbing his sore hand to cross his arms against the chill, finally looking away from the sickbay to focus on the other man. "I take it this sort of… volatile manner isn't uncommon for Alfred? Until now he's been nothing but amiable; I'd never have guessed he'd be anything but."

Buckley sighs and sits at the end of a bench as if already weary of the topic. "Aye he's- he can be a temperamental lad. Like a kettle that doesn't whistle every time its come t'a boil, if that makes sense. Little t'no warning of when he'll… But I don't think you've anything t'worry about, Doctor, it's not too common an occurrence when he acts out. Plus Lorcan seems t'think he already likes you. Heh, aren't you lucky…"

The physician tilts his head slightly, gaze drifting as he taps a finger against his arm and quietly weighs his words. "…Pardon my eavesdropping, but from what you'd shared with Lorcan, it sounds like he's quite prone to acts of violence. I would think I should've been made aware of that as soon as we knew he'd live. Especially when he's in such a delicate state right now, mentally speaking."

The Captain grunts, absentmindedly fiddling under his jacket's cuff at whatever keeps his fake hand strapped on. "I'd've mentioned it beforehand if I thought it'd be an issue, honest. It's not- Look, Alfred can be a hotheaded eejit at times, but he's no rampaging madman. More often than not he gets violent because someone has acted out of line - and he's usually good about knowing where the line is, and when it's a matter o' talking or striking! He's a pain in m'arse when he wants t'be, but he obeys every order I give and makes sure the rest o' the men do as well. I'd honestly say he's only a touch more heavyhanded than someone in a peacekeeping position ought t'be, in this line o' work… And, if he really is fond o' you..."

Buckley's gaze turns vacant and his demeanor to one of amused ponderment as he spins a lock of facial hair between his fingers. He abruptly stops to haul himself back to his feet with the help of his cane before looking at Percy once more. "Far as I know, the only person Alfred's ever actually claimed t'like is Lorcan, and we've all seen now what he's willing t'go through for him. I think you've less to fear from the lad than most, Dr. Hewlett."

A chortle escapes Percy before he can think to stop it.

"Oh I'm not fearful, Mister Buckley, not for my wellbeing," he says with an amused smirk. "If this information affects anything, it's my concern for Alfred's recovery and the state of your operation. You already have to make due without him and his 'peacekeeping' for a number of weeks; it'd be a shame if his volatile nature were to somehow lengthen that time."

Another grunt comes from the Captain at the thinly-veiled warning, understandably far more weary than before. "Between you and Lorcan being his only company for the time being, I certainly hope that volatile nature of his finds no reason to show itself in the first place… If you'll excuse me, Doctor."

With a nod the older man turns to trudge up to where the majority of the men are gathered, still hard at work clearing out the remaining debris from their previous worksite. Percy watches him for only a few seconds before he retreats back to the sickbay, his lack of layers having thoroughly chilled him through. Rubbing his hands together nor blowing into them relieves the numbness beginning to nip at his fingers, but a satisfied smile graces his lips regardless. Despite the need for warmth he slows the closer he draws to his tent, every snippet of information he's gleaned within the last hour running through his mind.

The only intriguing, possibly worthwhile thing to be found in this bustling camp, and it's one of the two men he has to stay in nigh constant contact with. Time will tell if this is as much a blessing as he hopes it could be, or more the curse he's already begun to suspect it is… No, it's a blessing and a curse, really. But he won't squander this chance just because it's unpleasant and far from optimal.

Nothing is pleasant at the moment, but it'd be even less so without the distraction of a temporary study subject.

----------

It's not as cold this morning when he wakes up.

His breathe doesn't come out in such huge puffs of steam as he stares up at the ceiling of the tent. Alfred runs a hand over where his head feels itchy, finding fabric instead of skin or hair. His head hurts really bad. For a few seconds he's lost as to why before he remembers he got hurt. Really bad. He breathes in deeply and winces when the inside of his chest burns, but it's not as bad as he thought it would be. It's too much to open his eyes all at once, so he tries to slowly ease them into a squint. On looking at his hands he can see they're not bandaged, and wiggling his toes reveals they're in a similar state. Alfred's smile is lopsided but genuine; he's getting better.

Sitting upright is also easier than he expects, so he tries standing as well. That's much harder but he manages, wavering when the pain in his head skyrockets and his vision goes dark around the edges. Eventually he can see Lorcan asleep in the cot next to his, which is good. With just the one broken leg now it'd be strange for him to be anywhere else.

Alfred looks over to the other end of the tent where the flap is, wanting to go find food. Sitting with a periodical in hand is a spectacled man with odd hair, passively watching him from his place blocking the exit. He's familiar, but…

Alfred knits his brows together and frowns. "Who…?"

"Dr. Percival Hewlett, a physician," the silver-haired man says coolly as he closes the magazine and sets it aside. For some reason it feels like they should shake hands, but there's no offer, and it feels like he shouldn't offer either. Obviously because they've… met before?

"Right, right," Alfred sheepishly mutters as he scratches at his stubbly cheek. Of course he already knew Dr. Hewlett's name, and that they'd met. He's Alfred's doctor. "How long has it been since what happened… happened?"

"Six days. An earthquake caused an avalanche which in turn caused a landslide that toppled the tree you and Lorcan were up. You carried him to camp and have been in my care since. Your head hurts because you have a concussion, you've already eaten breakfast, and it's nearly noon."

"Oh…kay…"

Having his questions answered before asking them is unsettling. Hewlett is an unsettling man.

"Yes, so I've been told. Please sit down."

Alfred's eyes go wide - did he say that out loud? He instantly sits as he was told, ignoring how the room wobbles in response as he rubs at his mouth, cheeks tinged red. The doctor remains seated, smirking now as he continues to stare at him in silence. It was annoying and uncomfortable, Alfred decides. He's never liked people staring at him for very long, like they're sizing him up - especially if he's not looking nice. It makes it more difficult to ignore like he's supposed to, when people annoy him. If he doesn't he otherwise might accidentally punch them. It makes them stop, but usually just makes things even more annoying in the end.

"Does that happen often? You 'accidentally' harming people?"

This time Alfred flinches and makes a noise treacherously close to a meep. Hewlett outright chuckles at him as he leisurely stands, causing the blond's ears to burn - from embarrassment or anger he couldn't say. The throbbing pressure in his head intensifies so much he presses it into his hands to keep it from bursting, hissing as he draws a breath. God, but his head hurts something terrible…

"Yes, I'm aware. There's not much else I can do to help with that, I'm afraid. Here."

Alfred just huffs when the doctor mind-reads again, but looks up when legs come into view. A few strips of jerky are in an outstretched hand, a tin cup in the other. Suddenly remembering why he wanted to leave, Alfred's face brightens. "Ah, thank you!"

Dr. Hewlett hums and remains there long enough for the foodstuffs to be snatched up before returning to his seat. He doesn't pick up the periodical but instead pulls out a little book from his breast pocket, along with a pencil stub. For a while the only sounds in the tent are of scribbling, the occasional page flip, and Alfred gnawing on cold jerky. Eventually his meal is gone and he gulps down the tin's remaining water before setting it on the nightstand. Then he just sits.

He's not sure what to do now that he isn't hungry, so he tries to think. It's easier than it used to be, he's fairly sure, but it still doesn't feel right. His head hurts worse than a hangover, but it's also… really foggy, like it's caught in a raincloud. Thoughts get lost before he can find them and he can't remember things the way he usually does. It isn't a good feeling… Can he still read? Alfred suddenly sits a little straighter as panic starts to bubble up. He can't stand the idea of not remembering how to read - it's one of the only things he's got in life! He looks to Dr. Hewlett for an answer but gets none; the man doesn't even look his way. He must not have been thinking loud enough this time. "Can I still read?"

Now the doctor looks up, mild surprise in his expression. "You can read?"

Alfred is annoyed again. "Can I?"

Hewlett seems confused for a moment before his eyes light up. "Has the concussion specifically affected your ability to read? Is that what you mean? Hm…" He picks up the magazine and comes closer to hand it to him. "Can you tell me what's written on the cover?"

Alfred has to concentrate to make his eyes focus, and then even harder to figure out how to say words he's never read before. "…The… assehh- ass-ee-luhm journal, of men-tall science… i-issue t-twaahgh!"

The headache grows so intense that his vision blurs and darkens before he can finish, each throb accompanied with a spike through the back of his brain. A whine works its way out as he drops the magazine to hunch over and grip at his dressings in a bid to lessen the dizzying pain. The presence next to him silently disappears as the world shifts and turns unnaturally, only to reappear again.

Alfred doesn't want to talk anymore. He's about to blindly throw a punch when the doctor softly speaks up. "Here, lay down. I've something to cover your eyes to keep out the light."

For a moment he wonders if Hewlett is really talking to him; his tone is more gentle and kind than Alfred has heard directed at him in a long time. He blindly settles back into the cot and then something weighty and fabric is laid over his eyes, making it so he doesn't have to keep them shut as tight. It doesn't make his headache go away but it makes the ache around his eyes stop. "Thanks…"

"You're welcome. You can still read by the way."

"…That's good," Alfred winces at his own voice, "Is there anything you… for pain…?"

"I'm afraid not. Everything I have on hand would likely tamper with your recovery," Hewlett sighs. It sounds as though he turns away as he mutters, "Medicus curat, natura sanat…"

Already trying to will himself back to sleep, Alfred frowns. "…'Nature heals?' Why're you… speaking Latin…?"

"You know Latin?" the doctor quietly exclaims, more surprised than before. He gets no reply, as instead soft snoring begins to fill the small space.

Hewlett watches his strange patient for a moment longer, before retrieving the little journal to flip to a certain page and add to its contents.

[welcomehomenewneighborsocblog]

Murry Magical (Welcome Home Oc)

Name: Murry Magical

Age: late 30's 

Occupation: Magician

Sexuality: Straight

Residence: Home 

Headcannon Voice Actor: Tom Kenny

Relatives: Dingle Magical (father); Cassia Magical (mother)

Species: Humanoid Puppet

Personality: He is very showy and loves a performance. He often boasts of his magical skills which often range from workable to not always going the way he wants. He very much looks up to his parents as magicians and wants to one day become as great as them. While he often is set back by his magic, he will always go forward and learn from his mistakes so he can do better next time. He tends to also hold himself proper despite sometimes bumbling his acts. Even though science isn't his field, he does have a respect for it and thinks science and magic can go together. 

Background: He was originally born and raised by his parents who were a wandering magician act called the Miraculous Magicals. He was trained by as a magician by them until he decided to go off and do his own solo act. He would drive in a van around places until he got to Home where he took up residence after a show and got along with Sally who truly appreciated his work. He now stays in the town practicing tricks and putting on performances. 

* He would be inspired by Mumbo from Teen Titans (2003) and the Amazing Mumford. 

* He is in the reboot. 

* He's designed to be a bit older than most characters. 

* His catchphrase is "Abracrabapples". 

* He can waver from being competent to having inept moments depending on the situation. 

* His skits would also involve him getting sometimes his magic mixed up and the viewers and characters have to help correct them. 

* He is close to Cammie, Farley, Vinnie, Julie, Sally, Doli, Detective Ally Wu, Dr. Henri, and Barnaby. 

* He sometimes will volunteer some of the cast members in his magic shows. 

* His hat and wand were personally made by his parents. 

* His parents are still doing their duo act. 

* He's never had a permanent home until he came to Home. 

* He sometimes calls himself "Mr. Magical". 

Created through picrew.me/en/image_maker/50273…