#and my mouth never even hurt !! typically that's my only symptom !! ugh

[mashmouths]

do food allergies typically get worse without regular exposure bc i don't think my throat used to swell up

[themockingcrows]

Companionship Through Circuitry Ch. 2: Radiation Blues

Bro/Hal This chapter can be found on my AO3! This chapter is SFW cw: vomit

Not everywhere is safe to sleep, and warnings shouldn't be ignored. Even if they come from pretentious sounding AI.

    What are you doing.

    "I'm writin' to my kid, mind your own business."

    My God in Heaven save us all, you've procreated.

    "Yeah, and my spawn's the raddest thing in the world, what about it. Mind your own business, I'm already smudgin' the shit out of this," Bro muttered, writing against his thigh on layered paper carefully as he could. Being a lefty was suffering sometimes, even if he tried his damndest to write neatly.

    There were probably better ways to go about doing this, better times or places, but something about camp that night felt safe and secure, and it was about time for another letter to get written and sent out to check in and let him know what was up. So there he sat by his fire curled up with the paper on his thigh, detailing to Dave what he’d been up to and the newfound.. Friend? Follower? Companion?

    The new sunglasses he got that happened to be sarcastic as shit.

    If you don't want me to be observing, you should do something sensible. Like take me off your fucking face.

    "That'd be too easy. Be a good little bot and hush now."

    I am an AI, not a 'good little bot'. Don't be condescending to me.

    "I'm sorry I hurt all two of your pre-programmed feelings but seriously, shut your trap for a second and let me write or I'll forget some shit," Bro complained, "I'm leavin' you on because I don't wanna wind up entirely blind to the dark outside the lit up area."

    Sleeping would be good tonight. Not only was it safe enough for a little bit of fire by his judgement and with plenty of air to avoid problems from smoke, but there was more than enough room to stretch out and relax. He wouldn't be crammed into a corner or sleeping sitting up tonight, oh no. He'd be fully fed, warm, comfortably dry and sprawled out on a bedroll like he owned the damn place. Buildings without roofs were pretty rad sometimes, bless concrete and brick, bless the steel beams that supported the tall bitches, they made his heart beat.

    I should probably warn you since you’re insisting on staying: you are exposed here.

    "You said that earlier and I’m tellin’ you: I'm not that exposed. You've been out here what, a day? And tested pre-war. I've been out here forty odd years, let the master take a load off. I'll sleep well tonight'n clear out by dawn. The stairs are shitty and I took my board with me. There's fire between the stairs'n me, I can tuck duck'n roll if I gotta beat feet out the window to the dumpster.. Shit's fine."

    That is not what I meant. I'm saying you're exposed to a lot of things here.

    "Yeah, we've established that you're wron- ah motherfuck look what you made me do," he sighed, pen leaving a blob of ink in the center of a word he’d paused too long on. Shoddily made hunk of junk. Modern pens could never hold a candle to the sturdy as hell pre-war ones with their pressurized, ever ready gel ink.

    Your health is at risk.

    Bro let out a steady breath from his nose in irritation, finished writing his sentence by crooking his hand in an awkward claw to avoid the wet spot, and then fanned the paper in the air to dry the ink splotch faster so it wouldn't transfer between pages and locations when he folded it for sending later. Or adding on to, if anything interesting happened between now and the next time he saw someone willing to courier or pass along to a courier for him and a normal delivery fee.

    "My health is absolutely fine. I get you’re pre-war and used to the regulations’n shit they required but this is different. ..Look, if you're that concerned just wake me up before bad shit happens to me. You don't need sleep, do you? Just a charge when your inner batteries get low or the onboard rechargin' system gets borked, the rest of the time you're doin' your own thing," Bro guessed. "Just siren me awake before I get nibbled on if you're so concerned about my bein' asleep up here. I'm a light sleeper."

    The target t's in front of his eyes turned in a slow loading circle several times before he heard the confirmation chime once again near his ear.

    Duly noted. Enjoy writing to your spawn, Bro.

    "Was that so hard?" he asked, blowing on the ink for another moment before touching the splotch with a fingertip and finding it dry. Carefully he folded the letter up and tucked it into his bag with the traitor pen in its security cap beside it, then settled down on his sleeping roll with a heady sigh. Finally: off his feet, fully stretched out.. It'd be better to be on a mattress, he'd taken that for granted over the years, but hey this was still pretty sweet. Soft enough to relax on.. soft enough to sleep on..

    His eyes grew heavy as he watched the fire crackle and pop now and then, hands folded over his pleasantly full stomach. Within minutes he was out cold, softly snoring with the glasses perched on his face and AR finally quiet. The unnaturally clear sky stretched out overhead and the ever moving wasteland felt like it stood still peacefully for once, just for a little while.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

    Ambrose could hear a sharp, electronic whine as if it were coming from under water. No matter how far or how close he got to it the whine stayed the same pitch, annoying and gnat like. There didn’t seem to be any escape, no way to silence it, not even any way to interact with it since he couldn’t lay eyes on it. Whatever it was pulsed a few times before going louder, making his ears ache and his head feel like it wanted to split. He was sure of one thing: once he got his hands on whatever was making that god awful sound, he was going to put his sword through it and beat it into the dirt till it rested in a million tiny pieces.

    He grimaced and finally opened his eyes, staring up at the dark sky of pre-dawn, flickers of unchanging stars and the distant glimmer of what was probably either space junk giving up the ghost and crashing somewhere into the atmosphere or a run of the mill shooting star. This was a beautiful way to wake up aside from the sound pulsing in front of his ears from AR who promptly shut it off as soon as he was conscious, giving him a moment of head pounding reprieve to be more conscious. It was earlier than he wanted to be awake. Ambrose could feel his joints protesting movement and his skin.. itching. Wincing, Bro sat slowly upright and felt his world swimming around him sickeningly, face flushed and frigid at the same time. Everything had a fisheye lens quality to it that he wasn't enjoying in the slightest, and with a failed attempt at standing landing him on his knees again he crawled hurriedly to a corner far from his bedding to empty his stomach out onto the concrete.

    Farewell fine dinner, you will be missed. At least it'd been there a few hours, so it wasn't a total waste of calories.

    Ah, you're finally up.

    "The fuck is hap- hrrk," he got out before another heave took him over, leaving his shoulders around his ears and cold sweat racing down his clammy spine.

    I told you: you're exposed here and your health is at risk, AR repeated as if speaking to a particularly slow child.

    Groaning, Bro rubbed at his mouth with the back of his forearm  and slowly crawled back to his bedding and backpack to try making himself pack. The area was bad, he had to leave no matter how shitty he felt.  "Yeah, mind clarifying why I feel like dogshit all at once?"

    Radiation sickness is, as they say, a bitch like that. I'd recommend leaving the area promptly as you can to reduce increasing symptoms, and to obtain treatment at the nearest facility you can reach.

    The nearest facility, he says. The nearest facility.

    "What part of THE FUCKING BOMBS FELL LIKE TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO don't you understand?" Bro complained, gritting his teeth and hurriedly packing. This was going to be a bitch to walk through later, he could already feel it. "I've got some meds but they're not instant.. ugh, don't you think you could've clarified that I was nappin' in a contaminated spot?"

    If you'll recall I did. Repeatedly.

    "Sayin' my health's at risk and that I'm exposed are two different fuckin' things, and nowhere did you say radiation," growled Ambrose as he shouldered his bag and grabbed his board, heading for the stairs. Away from the light he prepared to lift the shades to his forehead, only to realize the view had changed to something akin to night vision. It wasn't crisp as a cat, but it sure as fuck was an improvement on normal vision, and twice as much on sick vision.

    ..Okay, so maybe he wouldn't chuck this bitch into the trash after all.

    Typically humans take warnings about their health and safety more seriously than 'Yeah, hold my beer'.

    "Let's clarify then: if I'm about to get shanked, shot, eaten, beaten, fricasseed or FUCKING IRRADIATED to a level that’d make me sick... you tell me which it is and I'll act accordingly," Ambrose reasoned. "Also, shit, thanks for changin' the vision over. Why didn't you say you could do this earlier?"

    You never asked, nor do I assume you read my user manual, as last I was aware there was not one in production.

    Ambrose made it downstairs and outside before he dry heaved once again into the dirt. He took a moment afterwards to clear his sinuses, hock and spit for distance to get rid of the scent of vomit from his nose. It was an improvement to be able to breathe again, but he couldn’t pause to rinse his mouth just yet. Fuck he’d kill for some mouthrinse, or some alcohol to wash the taste out of his mouth..

    No time to lament, it was time to focus and get moving again. Right. North. He was going North. Which way was North.. Ambrose craned his head back to watch the sky before looking towards the hints of dawn in the distance and adjusting his pathing accordingly.

    "Y'know, I bet you've prolly got all kinds of maps and shit available to you," he said, "but I wish you had current maps. A lot of places just straight up don't exist or matter anymore compared to what mattered pre-war. ...And also, let me know when we're free of the contamination zone."

    I am capable of adjusting my saved maps if required. Simply show me an adjusted one and I can save the data, or I can alter an existing copy. Also, you're lucky you look like Dirk. I don't believe I'd be willing to help anyone else who spoke to me half as carelessly and crudely as you do.

    "Unless I had cheat codes I bet. What, havin' wet robo dreams about your creator or somethin'?"

    It's not like that in the slightest, AR insisted in the same stoic monotone as usual, though somewhere in there Ambrose swore up and down he could detect a trace of something more.

    "If I wake up with condensation all over you at some point I'm gonna just assume you were focusing too hard on this Dirk guy whose eyes I've got," Ambrose said. "What's robo jizz when you're an AI. Solder? Joint grease? Lubricant of some kind?"

    I take back my previous warnings. The area we have left is perfectly clear of radiation. A good long nap is in order in the very clear safe area you were last camping in.

    Bro smirked in amusement at the fact he was able to get beneath the skin of something that didn't even have skin to begin with. There was no reason to hold back on this thing. Yes there were feelings, but it wasn't quite the same as heckling Dave. Not the same at all.

    This thing gave as good as it got and held no punches, not even when his life had been on the line. Something that could talk shit when he was at risk of dying while also helping him was kind of refreshing.

    He kept walking till AR gave the all clear, then slowly took his bag off and sank down to sit in a clear area near some rocks, back against the unyielding surface to keep propped up as he rummaged out a container of pills and a container of water. Unable to really trust the water much anymore after the time it had spent in the contamination zone with him, but having no other options currently, Ambrose took a dose of medication with a few swigs.. before shrugging and draining the rest of the container. Being dehydrated was just as dangerous as what he was trying to cure and would kill him even faster to boot. Low grade radiation was no laughing matter, but damage and weakness from dehydration would just make death inevitable. Putting the pills and the empty container back into his bag, Ambrose sighed and closed his eyes for a few minutes, wanting it all to hit his stomach and settle instead of just coming back up immediately in a waste. AR had his back, and every time he opened his eyes he could see sharp outlines in the green wash of night vision. He did not envy future him in the slightest.. and made a mental note to scavenge bathrooms at the nearest opportunity to re-stock on toilet paper before it became a hot commodity.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

    By the afternoon, Ambrose was still sick but far more mobile. Not in top fighting condition, but mobile. AR had, on his own volition, taken the request from earlier to heart and was keeping an eye out on the surroundings even in directions Ambrose wasn't currently focusing on. His peripheral vision had never been sharper than when a soft, steady voice alerted him to movement from one direction or another to avoid run ins with unwanted animals or people who held no good intentions for him. He kept his grip tight on his sword and used it when absolutely necessary, such as when a hungry wild dog caught scent of him and came in for the kill, but otherwise skirted around even the odd herd animal in case it turned violent. There just wasn’t energy to spare when every step felt like he was running in place.

    It was a strange symbiotic relationship, but Bro was content with it for now. The best part of this was that voice didn't sound worried. It was comforting to not have emotion tied into it, letting him pick and choose his reactions at a better pace than feeding into potentially misplaced concerns. No frantic cries or stress, no aggression, not even suggestion in the tone. Just flat, simple alerts telling him which way to turn his head to make his own choices.

    The sight of more and more people all filtering the same direction off in the horizon gave Bro a strong sense of relief as night came on. There was a glow in the distance as well, lights and flickery power and people and opportunities to rest and trade safely. Well. Safely as it could get out here anyway. From the shake in his legs and the nausea he was still feeling, the fever, this was a bit of a miracle in itself that he’d stumbled upon a populated trade area. Surely there was a doctor tucked away in there making a killing worth of profit from the locals and the unwary like himself that drifted in.

    What had once been a strip mall complex had been reborn as a shopping center for everything from weaponry to clothing to farming supplies, and a nearby apartment block was divvied up to serve as a hotel. The cheapest rooms were the ones shared with multiple people and the cots all in one cramped space, while the more expensive guaranteed privacy of all facilities. Cheap but not that cheap, Bro opted for a room that could be split with another two people instead of several, and lucked out that at the time the amount of people were low and he had privacy for a while. Maybe he should have gone cheaper and shared with others.. But the thought of sharing a bathroom with six people while this sick was unpleasant.

    Depositing his baggage beneath the cot he'd rented, he hauled his happy carcass to find the physician and got some extra treatment by way of a quick injection and a good dose of Prussian blue for good measure once he paid the fee. The doctor was used to this kind of thing, and said he should count himself lucky it wasn’t a higher dose that hit his organs. Blood transfusions were hit or miss outside of vaults or areas with more old tech to keep running. He purchased a few more items to take with him just in case of more issues, some more bandages as well, and then wished the physician farewell. After a bit more shopping, a shower and a change of clothes were also a godsend, though he was displeased with how little the collar of the new shirt could be popped compared to the old stained one he was ditching.

    Oh well. Sacrifices must be made sometimes even for the suffering. He’d find a decent shirt somewhere else surely, somewhere with some proper abuse of starch.

    AR was alternately chatty and silent, observing how society functioned now, from the money to the layout of the buildings and repurposing of property. It wasn't just an Ambrose thing then. The building codes were just chucked out the window entirely and everyone made the best of what they had or what they could get apparently. Even the fashion was different. It was a lot to take in and process, but every curious AR was taking careful notes and using his self teaching abilities to learn all that he could through observation. Ambrose answered every single one of his questions which was surprising but welcome, and he caught himself wondering if it was because he’d raised a child before that the constant barrage of ‘how, why, when, where, why, why, why’ didn’t drive him immediately up the wall.

    Maybe the spawn was a boon instead of an unfortunate.

    Dinner was courtesy of the strip mall, a restaurant near the end having a nice cozy atmosphere and plenty of good smelling smoke coming from its cracked open front door. The interior seemed to have been a restaurant pre-war as well, though many modifications had been done since to allow for the new dining options. Bro splurged on a double pattied burger with what was supposed to be cheese and sauce and even sprouts on top, easy to grow and even easier to not cook wrong. He got a serving of homemade pickles to put some of the salt back in his body from the sickness earlier, and even some pre-war dessert in a tightly sealed package. It had been Dave’s absolute favorite, an apple treat, and maybe it was the sentimental side of him acting up but he was sure it’d taste even sweeter than he remembered now that it’d been a while since experiencing it.

    Bro. Are you certain your belongings are safe where you left them? It seems rather dog eat dog out here, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone robbed you blind.

    "They saw what bag I was carryin' when I came in, and what room I'm in. Beyond that.. just gotta hope people're decent," he shrugged, feeding his hunger while he actually had it. He might still feel like he had the flu, but facts were facts: sometimes a guy just needed to stuff his face with greasy food to feel a bit more human.

    I suppose there must be laws or rules in different settlements, AR mused. Recreations of what once was.

    "Yeah, there's rules,” Bro said, counting off on his fingers as he talked with his mouth half full. “Don't be a douchebag, don't get caught bein' a douchebag, and if you start shit you get hit with deadly force because nobody's got time for even more bullshit than we've already gotta deal with." He licked his thumb free of some pickle juice as he finished listing things off, then dove in for some more. Sweet electrolytes take him home.

    Don't forget to send your letter.

    Startled that he’d nearly forgotten, Bro straightened up and glanced to the door to gauge how late it must be before turning back to his plate to finish his serving of food off. On a spur of the moment, swooning from the food, he caught the owner’s attention and got a sweet cola as well. The attempts at making fresh never tasted quite the same as the pre-war stock, and it was worth the extra bit of payment to ensure the bubbles were all his.

    "Shit, you're right. Bit too late to do it right now, but the mornin' I should be able to find someone. This place is permanent it seems like, there'll be traders back and forth no doubt," he said. "Good call AR."

    Hal.

    "Come again?" Bro asked, confused.

    Bro's vision flickered briefly as the letters H A L crossed his vision, followed by the same strange pair of red eyes with dark sclera he'd seen before. It lasted just a few seconds before fading out of sight, leaving him with the usual target t's of the shades instead.

    My name. It’s Hal.

    "Isn't your name AR?"

    That is another sort of name, yes. But I would prefer if you called me Hal.

    "...It's what Dirk called you, isn't it," Ambrose guessed.

    Yes. But I would still prefer to have a name than an acronym.

    Bro used one gloved, rough hand to twist off the cap from the bottle of soda and take a swig. It was sweet enough it made his teeth hurt a bit. Perfect end to a greasy, rich meal. His upset stomach would thank him for it later surely, but he was prepared for it now.

    "Alright then. Hal. I can do that."

    Thank yo-

    "Soon as you admit my name isn't stupid."

    The targets disappeared and the turning circles reappeared for a time like a holding signal.

    Request does not compute. Name too unfortunate to register over acceptable name of Bro for user. Unable to re-register user, he said, accompanied by the saddest excuse for a failure tune Bro had ever heard in 8bit melody.

    He sighed.

    "Fine, fine. God damn you're a prick for a guy without a prick, Hal."

    I've no doubt that will be rectified once we find my body. Keep your commentary in line with that thought as if it were already reality moving forward.

    "Give an inch take a mile. Alright, duly noted. ...Wait, why the fuck would a government made AI need a fuckin' di-"

    My creator was all about authenticity.

    "...Right."

    It's true.

    "This is my rifle, this is my gun, this one's for shootin' this one's for fun," Ambrose sighed, tipping his bottle back to swig the rest of the drink down before casually belching the rush of bubbles back out. Phew. Better. Goodbye nausea, hello sweet relief.

    I've no idea what you are referring to.

    "Keep takin' notes, Hal, you'll catch up eventually to everything that Dirk didn't program into you. That's all the fun shit anyway, people always forget the real fun shit."

[all-fandoms-fiction]

Stereotypes (Sherlock x reader)

A/N/Summary: Because stereotypes suck, that’s why. No, really. Every time I see a fanfic about reader on her periods it’s always painful and crying and shouting. Not everyone gets to be victimized (as much at least) by their hormones and act stereotypically influenced by what’s going on in the between of their legs. of course I’m not hating on anyone who experiences those symptoms what so ever! Why would I? I mean, it hurts for me too these days, but about two years ago I never felt anything when I were on my periods. No pain, no mood swings (still no mood swings, no changes in my diet) but I know there are more girls and women who do not ’belong’ to that typical period experiencing category. So this for you girls, for them who experience their periods ’differently’.

You were cooking in the kitchen while Sherlock sat behind you, on the other side of the kitchen table. You and him and been chatting twenty minutes straight about stereotypes. You couldn’t even remember anymore how you two had ended up with this subject, but you felt happy for it. You felt like you were educating your smart ass friend by answering to his questions.

”Pink as a favorite color?” Sherlock had dig into the more ridiculous stereotypes by now as he, for a man who read science and biology hardly believed in stereotypes, had already questioned you of the ’hard ones’.

”That is more of an opinion question.” You taunted with a disappointed smirk. Sherlock hummed signaling you he had heard you, but not giving away how he felt for your statement.

Sherlock had his elbows on the table, his palms pressed together and fingers touching his chin. He was staring at you intently, his eyes blinking rarely, but it didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. You knew that look. You had seen him making it when he was hearing out his clients. If a case was interesting enough his stare would deepen, eyes wide just slightly and head tilting upwards.

”What about women riding cars?” You asked from Sherlock instead after a minute of silence. He scoffed, rolling his eyes and closing them for a long second, then frustratedly waved his hands and let them rest on the table. ”That is a stereotype that can’t be proven by biology, mostly.” He said the last word after giving it a second thought. ”Comparing women and men on driving and ending up with the solution that favors the stereotype is impossible. There are numerous studies that prove against it. Women have actually been said to be better at driving than men, known to be more considerate and less erratic than men.” He said without skipping a beat.

”I wasn’t doubting it.” You cut in to his rant.

”Good.” He said. You waited a second before coming up with another question, but Sherlock got there first as his gaze on you deepened. You knew from the look that this would be a tricky question for you to answer to. He had drawn his hands together again, giving you the look as if you were his client and he had just heard your story staring to get interesting, his eyes lit up as he went to ask his perfect question.

”Acting differently while menstruation.” He said the words carefully, but held the intimidating look on his face as if this was the question that would beat you. Of course it wasn’t a contest. Or to you it wasn’t. Okay, maybe it was, but only if you would be challenged. Sherlock of course didn’t much base his opinions on stereotypes but to facts and science so you couldn’t feel bad for what ever the real answer to these presumptions would be. You knew Sherlock would only give you answers based on truth.

”A stereotype.” You answered and expected him to go for the next, but the look that spread on his face signaled that this was far from over. His eyes went wide, then a disagreeing scowl took place on his pale face and he questioned: ”A stereotype?” You nodded your head and repeated the words after him.

”No it isn’t. Biologically women are influenced by their hormones while on their periods. It affects on their emotions and acts. I’ve seen you throw a fit repeatedly and as days go by then you becoming your peaceful and carefree self again.” Sherlock had kept an eye on you, trying to track down your behavior in an experiment bases, but your mood swings usually didn’t match with his calculations.

”You have been eating junk food three days or more in a row,-” You cut him off there and said, ”I’m on my periods, Sherlock.” He looked at you in silence a second before smiling doubtingly at you. ”No, you had your menstruation last week.” He was referring to your last weeks bad mood, how you easily got angry and would snap when approached.

”No, I didn’t. I’m on my periods right now.” You stated and put your hands on your waist. ”And like I just said, it’s a stereotype that girls act off while on periods. I may not know how the hormones work on me, but I know I’m quite the same when I’m on them.” You waited for Sherlock to say something but instead he just urged you to continue with your speech by nodding his head. ”I never feel pain or spontaneously change my diet. The only thing that might be different is that I need to use the bathroom more often on bad days.”

Sherlock gave you one last suspicious look and then asked you, ”Are you sure?” You wanted to slap him. Were you sure you were on your periods? Yes. Were you sure you were in control of your moods and acts? Definitely.

”Yes, Sherlock.” You sighed. ”Like I said, I’m not feeling any different and I am hundred precent sure I’m on my periods.”

”Interesting.” Sherlock muttered as his eyes fell on the table. You arched an eyebrow at that. Was it really? You couldn’t help but blurt out, ”Really?” His eyes lift up and he looked at you. ”Really.” He said. ”Tell me more.”

You hesitated, but then opened your mouth to ask him anyway, ”Of what?”

”Of your symptoms while on your periods.” He rushed you to educate him.

”I don’t know…” You awkwardly muttered and scratched the back of your head, leaning against the kitchen counter behind you. Sherlock questioned why not and you could feel yourself blush a bit. ”It’s not something men and women comfortably discuss about. I don’t want to gross you out.”

Sherlock stood up from his chair, the legs of the said furniture making a noise while sweeping over the wooden floor. He walked right in front of you and took a stand before you. He put his hands on each side of your face and made you look at him, his soft eyes reaching for yours and when they met you couldn’t look away.

”You would never.” And he kissed your forehead. You smirked at his statement and had to ask him was that a challenge, to which he only chuckled.

(Okay, now my thumb hurts like hell, guess I’ll need to stop writing for today…. and for some reason I feel like this sucks, ugh…)