#Tube Graffiti

[heavygyroscope]

London 2024

[spraydaily]

Bad Ideas , Worse Intentions. A London Graffiti Movie

40 minutes of puree action in London, watch tons of tubes and other trains getting painted in this full length movie.

[londonedge]

Let's Adore…those flying tube carriages in Shoreditch

[radicalgraff]

"More money for train drivers"

Graffiti seen along the Piccadilly line in London.

#railstrikes #tubestrike

[gothteddiesdotcom]

dreaming of building my own stuck-in-wall glory hole in the spare closet of our bedroom again

[choiceroyce]

Wacky!

[jvicblak]

[akarts]

I got a new sketchbook recently and the solid black color is getting boring. Probably gonna do more on it later.

ID: A drawing of a person smiling over their shoulder at the viewer and writing on the background, a graffiti style "YEOWZA!" behind them.

[ebtookaphoto]

underground aboveground, London, UK / 2.27.24

[eternally-anomalous]

i think sunrise would really enjoy being gently patted down after having himself cleaned, then dried orf with a warm blow drier until his fur was nice and soft and warm, and finally to hage his fur tested for its softbess. tbh.

that does sound like it would feel nice..

makes me want fur

ill have to figure out a time we can do that, and make a blow drier...

the blow drier is easy enough to do, maybe we could do this after the hot tub? or would it be better with cold water, so the heat of the blow dryer is a nice contrast and relief after the chill...

thatll be nice for me too, sunrise will be so soft after that, perfect for cuddling

-eternal anomaly

[juniper-sunny]

The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 1

As a professional artist, you've made a career out of bringing works of art to life. The colors of Zaun are no exception, and your current commission is literally larger-than-life: a mural in the Undercity. But then you meet a young revolutionary named Silco who shows you a side of the underground that you've never seen before...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Fix-It || SFW | WC: 3k

beta readers: @silcoitus @deny-the-issue

ao3 || Masterlist

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

There’s color everywhere in the Undercity. It’s not that hard to find, but most people don’t care to go looking for it. But you’ve always been able to appreciate it in all its forms: dandelions straining through cracks in the concrete, eclectic graffiti in hard-to-reach places, pale weak lighting streaming through broken glass and ironwork…

Anywhere you look, there’s always a feast for the eyes.

There are plenty of artists from the Undercity, and you proudly count yourself among their number. But not many of them manage to cultivate a steady clientele; fewer still manage to attract the attention of wealthy Topsiders. They’ve sustained you for years now, since the beginning of your professional career. Making the transition from tagging crumbling stone walls with graffiti to painting on smooth, delicate canvas was a huge learning curve, but you make great money from commissions. And there’s a seemingly never-ending supply of wealthy Piltover families who want family portraits, individual portraits, pet portraits, portraits of long dead ancestors, portraits of them participating in historical events that they weren’t present at…

Whatever opinions you have of your clients, you keep them to yourself. They probably have their own issues with you since you were born and raised in the Undercity. But you wouldn’t give up your upbringing for anything. Certainly not the hallowed halls of Piltover’s art schools, learning to paint only in the styles of long-dead “masters” who romanticize poverty as an abstract concept, something to be studied and observed at a distance. 

Today, your work brings you to the periphery of the Undercity, where Piltover’s largest bridge ends at the aboveground levels of Zaun. You’re working on your biggest commission yet, literally: a mural high on the side of a whitewashed gray brick building in the Promenade, the emergent layer of the Undercity’s glass and iron jungle. Still close enough to the surface to be touched by the sun, illuminated in the early hours on days with good weather. Your artwork is going to encompass at least two-thirds of the wall, over a hundred times larger than most other wall art in this area of Zaun.

The location has you nostalgic for those bygone days of your childhood, but the fresh air and warm sun are miles above where you used to run around in the lowly gutters, competing with your friends for the best real estate and vandalizing each other’s work, showing off who can paint the fastest and most elaborate pieces before Enforcers come stomping around. That’s when you’d all scatter like rats, only to do it all over again the next day.

The mural you’re working on is large enough to warrant the use of a scissor lift, which you’re standing on right now. Its highest extension brings you standing higher than the wall, level with the roof’s ledge. When you lean back and stretch as far as you can, a cool breeze trails through your fingers. You can’t help but savor the beautiful day for a little while longer before getting started.

Just as you lean over a yellow paint can to open it, the sound of running footsteps makes you pause. You lean over the scissor lift’s railing to look down at the alleyway below. It’s narrow due to the close proximity of other buildings, pipes and glass tubes rising above rooftops and wrapping around windows like fungi. You squint hard, trying to make out the source of the noise.

It moves so fast you almost miss it. A blur runs over the irregular stonework on the ground, coalescing into a shadowy figure that dodges and jumps around the landscape with ease, darting and almost flying on a deliberate path. Maybe it’s an avian Vastayan? 

This area doesn’t see a lot of foot traffic around this time of day; you deliberately chose your working hours so you wouldn’t be disturbed. Still, it’s not unusual to see or hear people nearby. But what really gets your attention is when the thing ducks around your scissor lift and peeks out, using your machine as cover to look back where it came from.

You don’t know why you’re watching, but something compels you to. Compels you to defy the first law of survival in the Undercity: mind your own damn business. Or else.

For a moment, it doesn’t move.

Then, it looks up. Catching you staring at it.

No, not “it”—a man. Human, dark-haired with brilliant blue eyes, staring back at you in defiance and uncertainty.

He turns and goes down to his knees, crawling to a nearby manhole cover and lifting it, then jumping in. His movements are swift and graceful, no doubt thoroughly practiced at using this specific escape route. 

Footsteps fill the air again. You turn away to look down the other end of the alleyway where the man came from. These footfalls are slower and louder; whoever they belong to, they’re wearing heavy boots and don’t seem to care about being subtle.

A pair of Enforcers turn the corner, navigating the debris and unsteady ground much more clumsily than the stranger.

“He can’t have gone far! Damn gutter rat…” one of them swears angrily. 

They’re about to pass right next to your scissor lift. 

You hold your breath as you grab two of your paint cans at random and pry their lids off as quickly as you can…

Perch them carefully on the railing…

Take aim…

And then—

SPLAT!!!

Your aim is perfect: the cans drop like bombs, crashing into the Enforcers’ shoulders and clanking onto the ground, spinning wild arcs of paint all over their boots. They’re both drenched in paint from head to toe, prim and proper gold and blue outfits stained in long drips of light pink and pure white, bright enough to be seen even from the great height you’re standing at. Just as you hoped, they stop their pursuit to shake themselves like mangy dogs, trying to swipe the paint off of their sleeves. One of them takes off their hat and whips it frantically up and down, splattering the nearby walls and your scissor lift.

You school your face from a triumphant grin into a serious, mournful expression as you lower the lift to the ground. The loud hum of the machinery drowns out their furious cursing.

“I’m soooooo sorry officers, I didn’t see you there!” you apologize profusely as you climb down to approach them. 

“Dammit, woman!” one of them shouts, brandishing a paint-splattered baton at you. “What the hell—”

“If you want to be reimbursed for your uniforms, just let Councilor Salo know and he’ll cover the costs,” you smoothly interrupt the Enforcer, unbothered by his outburst.

The namedrop makes them pause. You pull your business card and a golden engraved crest out of your pocket. One of the officers takes them both, not bothering to look at your card. Instead, he carefully examines the crest, a pure gold and tacky letter “S” in calligraphic script, set in a delicate filigree of a leafy bush laden with berries. The crest is given by the Councilor to his contractors to give them free entry to restricted areas in Piltover. You’ve only ever used it so far to gain access to his gated mansion, but right now it’s coming in handy too: having Salo as a patron basically tells people that they shouldn’t mess with you unless they want to piss off a councilor.

“It’s genuine,” the Enforcer mutters to his partner and hands the crest back to you. He clears his throat and addresses you in a calmer, more formal manner. “And it’s not a problem, ma’am. We won’t bother the Councilor with something so trivial. Have you seen a—”

You gasp melodramatically, exaggeratedly widening your eyes. “Your uniforms! You need to wash them right away! Or else they’ll stain permanently!”

They glance at each other impatiently. “It’s fine. We’re looking for a—”

“And your skin! Did you get any on you?? It’ll stain you too!!”

That gets their attention. One of them tucks his hat under his arm, rubbing a gloved hand furiously at his pink-and-white cheek. You shove the other Enforcer with all your might, pushing him away.

“Scrub your bodies with tomato juice and then soak in onion peels! That’ll get it all out! But hurry!!”

They finally break out into a run, out of Zaun and towards Piltover where they belong. You snicker to yourself and toss the crest in the air. It flips over and over, casting bright reflections that spin dizzily on the walls as it catches the light. Those Enforcers won’t actually have to do all that to get the paint out of their clothing, but it feels like a small victory against the cruel arm of law enforcement who cause even worse trouble whenever they visit the Undercity.

You catch a glimpse of something twinkling on the ground. It’s the eyes of the man, still watching you from underground. 

As you suppress the instinct to wave hello at him, he pulls the manhole cover back into place, disappearing into the sewers.

The next day starts off like any other, and you’re looking forward to getting more work done. But as you climb your scissor lift, a jolt of fear zaps up your spine. Prickles on the back of your neck crawl upwards to settle at the top of your head. It’s an Undercity instinct, a warning that someone you can’t see is watching you.

And they’re looking down at you like a bird of prey.

You dart into the shadows, crouching low against the wall. You take deep breaths to settle your nerves. The high ground gives them an advantage against you. If they have a gun, it’s just a matter of them pointing and shooting—

But then, just barely, you’re able to catch a whiff of smoke. It smells of cheap nicotine, and you look up to see a ring of cigarette smoke uncurling lazily against the backdrop of a cloudless sky.

The cigarette smoke is as good as a signal fire. If they wanted to hurt you, they wouldn’t make themselves known like that. Still, whoever it is, they know where you work and were waiting for you. That makes you wary enough to grab your sharpest palette knife and hide it in your pocket. It’s not a conventional weapon, but there’s no way you’re going to confront a stranger unarmed when you ask them to leave you alone. Your grip around the knife’s handle is tight as you punch the button to extend the lift to its fullest height. It brings you level with the roof and the person waiting for you.

It’s the same man from yesterday, now close enough for you to notice that his narrowed, suspicious eyes aren’t blue but turquoise, clear as the ocean and just as deep. He’s pointy and whip-thin, leaning against the roof’s ledge with crossed arms, a cigarette squeezed between the clenched fingers of a tight fist.

“What kind of person works for a councilor but won’t turn in a wanted man?” he asks, curious. His voice is low and smoky, a smooth baritone intonation rolling over gravel. It’s a beautiful voice, tempting you into lowering your guard. If you closed your eyes, you could be fooled into believing that his voice belonged to a Topside radio host or a curator giving tours in a museum. 

“Just wanted to help a fellow ‘gutter rat’,” you reply, shrugging. 

“And why would you do that?” His fashion is typical for an average Zaunite: his dark shirt is made of rough and well-worn fabric, long sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal wiry but muscled forearms. On his left shoulder is a leather pad, studded with brass buttons and stitched with metal wires, all highly polished and shining brightly in the sun, reflections dancing off them like flares. His left wrist is wrapped in bandages while a leather bracelet threaded with silver coins adorns his right wrist. 

“Why not?” you ask. “Isn’t life hard enough already? We should help each other out whenever we can.”

He doesn’t acknowledge your statement with a reply, but instead raises an incredulous eyebrow. You let the silence continue as the two of you mutually size each other up. His high cheekbones and long, narrow and shapely nose are framed by straight hair, black as coal. It looks so soft, parting in the exact middle of his forehead to end in drapes around his chin. His skin is pale with an ashy undertone, a symptom of living long-term in the deepest guts of the Undercity where its denizens rarely get to enjoy any sunshine at all. His lips are thin, the irregular cupid’s bow longer on his right side than the left.

This man’s face would be an interesting challenge to paint. 

“Now that’s not an attitude you encounter every day in the Undercity,” he muses. His eyes are especially striking. They gaze at you with such intensity, it makes you self-conscious of your paint-stained attire, a loose workman’s jumpsuit that prioritizes utility and comfort over style. He doesn’t seem to pay any mind to your painting materials, which you’re suddenly realizing are lying out in the open… He could get a good price for them if he stole them from you. Yesterday’s prank was a spur-of-the-moment decision; losing some easily replaceable supplies was worth inconveniencing the officers, but you suddenly regret painting a target on your back. 

That’s why you have to keep to yourself in the Undercity. If you help a stranger, they could stab you in the back instead of thanking you. 

But the man seems more interested in staring through you, scrutinizing you with such focus that it could put yesterday’s Enforcers to shame. 

“Well, it’s fun to mess with Enforcers, too,” you chuckle at the memory. Staring back with casual indifference, you quietly readjust your grip on your knife. Another rule of survival in the Undercity is to never break eye contact with someone trying to intimidate you unless you want to be seen as weak. If he wants to start a fight, you’ll be ready to finish it. 

“That, I understand all too well.” The stiff line of his lips quirks upward in appreciation before settling again into wary neutrality. He finally breaks eye contact, turning away to take a pull on his cigarette. You let out a low breath you didn’t even know you were holding. Your eyes are drawn to the elegant, lazy movement of his hand as he puts out his cigarette, grinding it against the ledge. The wind carries away small brown flecks of ash in a sudden breeze. 

His demeanor is stony, but not hostile. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking just from looking at his face. But he went out of his way to come here and find you, and that says a lot about his determination overriding his sense of caution. You didn’t get a good enough look at him yesterday to track him down, either to turn him in or demand a reward. He could have just as easily carried on with his own life on a path that never crossed yours again. 

He must be really curious about you. 

You don’t know why, but the feeling is mutual.

“You’re welcome for yesterday, by the way,” you smile at him, relaxing your hold on your knife. “Those Enforcers would’ve caught you if it weren’t for me. Although you’re so skinny you could literally slip through their fingers.”

His impressive façade cracks as he bares his chipped teeth, bristling and ready to attack. “I did not need your help. I was perfectly capable of escaping on my own.”

You thoughtfully stroke your chin. “Guess we’ll never know.”

He stands tall to his fullest height, towering over you, a dangerous challenge in his voice sharpening its edges into a threat. “What makes you think it would be a good idea to antagonize someone wanted by Enforcers?”

“Ooooh, the Enforcers want to lock up little ol’ you. You’re such a big baddie,” you tease. “If they had it their way, they’d have every single one of us locked up. You’re not special.”

He leans forward again, curling his hands over the ledge of the roof. “Perhaps I’ve done something especially terrible to warrant particular attention from Topside.”

“Let me guess,” you purse your lips as you examine him. “You pickpocketed some rich guy?”

He smiles slyly. “Worse than that.”

“Running an illegal Poro-fighting ring?”

“No.”

“Impersonating a councilor?”

“Not quite.”

You shake your head in bemusement. “What was it?”

“Seducing a Piltie noblewoman,” a mischievous twinkle shines in his eyes. “I all but rescued her from a cold and loveless marriage. Unfortunately, her husband didn’t seem to feel the same way.”

“Really?” you laugh again, more out of surprise than humor this time.

“No,” he winks. “I guess you’ll never know.”  

“If I bump into those Enforcers again I’ll just ask them— not that I’d tell them where you are,” you add hastily. It was meant as a joke, but from the way he glares at you with humorless alarm it was clearly the wrong thing to say. “Besides, if you did seduce a Piltie lady, you’d be doing her a favor.”

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “And what do you mean by that?”

You blush. It was something you thought when you first laid eyes on him properly, but it just slipped out while you were babbling— he’s handsome. “You’re probably better looking than her husband.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” his smile this time is accompanied by a soft exhale of amusement. He leans forward again, this time a slight slouch in his shoulders as he allows himself to relax. “I also owe you my gratitude for coming to my rescue. Thank you, madam.”

You wince at the word. He doesn’t look that much older than you, so there’s no need for him to address you so formally. “Please don’t call me that.”

“May I have your name then?” he asks politely.

You give it to him. He repeats it slowly, as if appreciating the shape of it. Something about the way he says it makes you want to step forward. The opportunity presents itself when he reaches his hand out for you to shake.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Silco.”

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! <3

Chapter 2

[heavygyroscope]

London 2024

[tainted-liquor]

'Tiny hands; Little Baby ...ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡ ft. 42Miles

...‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

✩ingredients: Sugar, kisses, and baby powder!

˙⟡TWs: Cussing, Miles speaks mostly Spanish, so ready ur spanishDict

✩A/N: Miles is soft when it comes to his children. Its not ooc, he was based off of MY sisters father. parents usually 'calm down' after having babies. pls don't start complaining

When you think of the ideal father, you usually would think of two types of people. The happy-go-lucky super kind and outgoing person, or someone who balances both fun and order. You never in your life expected to be a mother, or even wanted kids as a matter of fact. But everything changed when you met him. Miles.

Admittedly, when you met in high school shit was rocky. Typical 'anti-social social' kid. Everybody knew him, but nobody was ever able to say they talked to him. But things slowly began to change as the school year passed, and you seemed to pop up more and more in each other's lives. Art projects, a shared interest in graffiti, seating charts in chem, and ending up at the same bodega during the wee hours of the night.

You waltzed into the small store, grabbing a tube of Pringles and a bottle of cherry Faygo. You had a project to get done within the next 5 hours and spent 3 days working nonstop so you wouldn't fail this semester. Your eyes were low and sleepy, your movement was slower than average and it looked like you had been crying. A lot. What is a girl supposed to do when she feels like her life is being drowned out by constant numbers and big words?

You waited by the counter, tapping away on your phone as you waited for the man behind the glass to finish making your chop cheese, slowly raising your head to see who just swung open the door. You made eye contact with Miles for a brief moment, nodding upward as a form of greeting before suddenly being startled. Miles's eyes widened for a moment, taking a tiny step back as he took in how sleepy you looked. Your hoodie wasn't even on properly, one arm completely off your shoulder and exposing a fraction of your black tank top to the world around you. "Well damn, nigga. I know I look like shit but don't make it obvious" you snorted, rolling your eyes as you dropped your head back to your phone screen.

"Oh, my bad. Just not used to seeing you outside of school" he shrugged, making his way to the counter to order his food and standing next to you in silence. You both tapped away on your phones, scrolling through your Instagram while you waited for your sandwich. There was nothing else to it, really. You both waved bye to each other as you left the store, silently building a smidge of a relationship compared to being just strangers. For the most part, it was like that at school too.

There was no real reason to talk to him, outside of a small hallway talk and a nod or a wave. And it stayed like that for a long time, until a random day in the school's library. Miles came strutting through the oak wood doors, seemingly pissed off as he slammed his supplies on a nearby table and started working silently. You side-eyed him, continuing to blast the music in your headphones until you felt a presence begin getting closer to you. You grabbed one of your AirPods, removing it from your ear as Miles stood over you.

"Hmm?" You hummed, looking up at him as you paused your music. He said nothing, only showing you a piece of paper with honors calculus work. "Do you need help?" you asked, scanning over the paper briefly before putting your AirPods in your case. He nodded, letting you take the paper from him as he leaned against the table. "Aight, sit down. I'm only doing one problem though" you muttered, scooting your chair over to make room for Miles.

When Miles left that table, you were closer than normal. You spent the rest of the afternoon helping him 'study' (talking to each other while he finished his work) and exchanging numbers and Instagram. "Good luck with your test!" You smiled, waving from across the room as he left the library. He gave you a nod before swiftly exiting, leaving people asking you left and right "What's Miles like?" You didn't think anything of it, at all.

You never would have imagined that that same boy would be the father of your child almost ten years later.

“MILES!” You shouted as loud as humanly possible. “SÍ? QUÉ HICE??” He shouted back from the kitchen. “MY FUCKING WATER BROKE START THE CAR!” You yelled as you stared down in absolute shock. And it was absolute chaos from there. Miles was practically stumbling out of the house as he ran to start the car, muttering curses as he ran up to get you out of your shared room.

Unfortunately for Miles, he had no idea what was happening. He was terrified but tried to be as supportive as possible through the entire situation. He was out cold for most of the delivery, having fainted 10 minutes in from anxiety. "Sir? SIR-!"

BOOM

But other than that, everything went amazing! He cried for 20 whole minutes when he got to hold his beautiful baby girl. "W-what...sniffle... are you going to...sob...name h-her, love?" he asked between a puddle of tears. You took a good look at your baby through soaked eyes, realizing she was born...quiet. She had one green eye, and one dark brown eye that was taken right from her father's face, a cute little button nose, and a head full of placenta-permed hair. She cried once the entire birth and remained silent the rest of the way, just like her nonchalant-ass daddy. "I'm thinkin' about...Asomi" you replied before bursting out in tears, causing Miles to burst even further into tears.

You attempted to reach for your baby, earning a watery glare from your boyfriend. "Nigga I JUST PUSHED HER OUT! GIMME MY BABY!" you giggled as you attempted to grab your daughter. "nuh-uh. I'm not done holding her" he retorted, flashing you a middle finger as he held Asomi even closer. "Miles Gonzalo Morales."

"Lo siento. Te amo mucho. Tú eres muy bonita y inteligente" he quickly replied as he handed your daughter over.

And from that moment forward, everything in Miles's life revolved around his beautiful family. He spent hours rambling on and on to 'Omi', as he calls her, about anything under the sun. "Entonces," Miles began as he attempted to give 'Omi a sink bath. "Tú mami me dijo que necesito hablar más inglés a ti. I won't though, cuz you're my lil princess" he whispered as he curved Omi's hair into a bubbly mohawk and giggled like a child. He played with the bubbly water, pretending to be one of the countless tiny rubber duckies she had floating around in the water.

"Alright, c'mon. Necesito vestir tú antes consigue frío" he giggled as he put the kid in a prowler onesie you told him not to buy. He blew raspberries on Asomi's little belly, earning adorable giggles from his daughter as he carried the tiny baby with one arm. He cleaned up some of the toys on the floor, briefly pushing them inside the toy bin before grabbing the tiny purple pacifier and soft wooly lamb-lamb plush. Omi clung to his shirt, laying her head on his shoulder as she held the tiny lamb-lamb plushie. Miles kissed her on the forehead, sat down on the couch, and fell asleep with Omi dozing off right beside him.

You came home to two of your two favorite people in the world snuggled up on the couch. Omi's tiny hand gripped Miles's shirt as Miles held her like an inmate protecting his tray. You giggled to yourself, snapping a quick pic for the memories before joining their 'nap circle'.

"G'night, pretty babies" you whispered, pressing kisses on both of their cheeks.

"Mmh...noches."

...‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

Taglist:

@ashsostrange @chessbox @janaeby @faeriesoiree333 @fivestardior @an1bara @bachirasegoist @kxllanxtdoor

Taglist form on my profile !! pls fill that out to be added <3

[funkinmadnesss]

Throws these here finally KDMDHSSK

I was. Hoping to have posted more original art of literally anyone else but Mysterio before these saw the light of day but uuuhuuhghhg that didn't happen got bless <3

But huzzah! Earth-4918's Sinister six (Vaguely) TSSM styled (and by Vaguely I mean I put way too much detail in them, there just TSSM shaped)! (+Tinkerer, he's not a member but I'm posting him so it's even. The last member is Sandman but he belongs to my best friend and we haven't got around to making him a TSSM ref like these yet </3)

All references/orginal images I used came from here (x) (x) !

Little facts below cut for those itchrested :]

General info: They were all Human at some point and bonded over the fact they became this way by Norman's hand. Every inhuman feature about them is purely genetic now (Excluding Myst+Tink+Sandman). The whole group bonded over their shared hatred for Osborn in general though.

Adrian: He's an Egyptian Vulture. Tall as HELL, he's the second tallest. He's technically the leader and carries the burden of having a team made up of traumatized mutants while also being a traumatized mutant-

Lizard: Trans woman, Her name is Camila :] She has exactly 5 different lizard species in her DNA (5 points for anyone who can guess them all just from her design)

Rhino: It no longer identifies with anything from its life before getting mutated in an attempt to have some control over its life. Rhino strictly uses It/Its. Aside from Rhino DNA, It also has wooly mammoth DNA.

Lizard and Rhino fuckin HATE eachother. It stepped on her tail ONCE and she never forgave it. Mysterio often has to split the two up with his Alien form.

Electro: Graffiti artist. Has somewhat control over his bio electricity, Gloves and chestplate (which is what that tube attached to the back of his head is connected to.) help maintain that control.

Tinkerer (bc he's there): (My silly, my skrungly, my funny lil old man blorbo hehheghem-) Trans man :] Has a cat he rescued off the streets (bc i kept seeing people give him a cat and its like. Its a good headcanon) He and Beck met during his stuntman days (He was technical support on a movie Beck worked on), He isn't very fond of alot of the sinister six (Him and sandman are chill tho) but he tolerates them for Beck.

Okie thats all mwah/p

[preservationofnormalcy]

Are there any other harmful extranormal religions to look out for? Other than Radiant Heart, I mean.

I’ve actually been meaning to put out some information on this. We’ve been seeing a lot of weird stuff lately in certain areas of the country and we haven’t yet collated it into an official statement. I checked and I’m okay to give you a rundown of this ahead of a more detailed overview later on.

If you’re in the southeast of the United States, please keep an eye out for an organization of interest that seems to be self-identifying as Cult of the Coaxial. Currently several members of their organization are wanted for—

You might wanna put a content warning on this one, Norm.

Oh, right. That’s smart. You okay?

I hear hold music in my head when my phone is across the room.

Yeah, that’ll do it. Anyway, uh, content warning for explicit mentions of violence here. Theft, murder, assault, brain uploading, extranormal mutilation and/or vivisection, torture, attempted apotheosis, transmogrification, attempted creation of a post-post-post-human being via cyborgification, trafficking harmful extranormal items, the list sort of goes on.

We’re still trying to nail down a belief system or ontology. The ones we’ve managed to corner are not super…talkative. But we think that they’re related to The Signal, an extranormal force/phenomenon our AbTech division dealt with in the 1980s. We don’t know much about that either, but what we do know is that it travels or exists entirely within analog transmission devices and exerts a cognitohazardous effect on humans or near-humans.

Now, we don’t know how widespread they are, but we’re asking people to keep their eyes open for the following warning signs:

- cathode ray tube televisions behaving oddly

- an abnormal amount of static in televisions or radios

- a heightened interest in cathode ray tube televisions in the local population up to and including theft of such devices

- abnormal appearance and behavior of visually standard coaxial cables including growth, self-propulsion, splitting and “ivy” behavior

- blood or other substances “leaking” from the aforementioned devices

- persons using the aforementioned devices in place of surgically removed body parts, or integrated into the body. This includes coaxial cables, televisions, radios, VHS tapes or players, etc.

- graffiti or markings relating to any of the above

Please report any and all deleterious analog activity to our Office tip line.

[choiceroyce]

When you see that one friend you haven't seen in a while