#and then....... the hilda consumption of my mind

[eggmeralda]

I have genuinely been living 6 decades in the past for like the last 4 months

[transhuman-priestess]

A High Place in El-Bariyah

The crew of the Huntington grieves the loss of one of their own, while a malevolent force in a distant corner of the solar system forges its newest weapon.

The highly anticipated continuation of The New Flesh is here.

This story contains graphic violence, sexual content, depictions of surgery, brainwashing, identity death, dismemberment, implied rape, abusive parents, firearms, anti-queer slurs, and healthily moderated but melancholy consumption of alcohol.

As always, this story is for adults 18 years of age or older, it's also the third in an ongoing series. Get caught up before you read it!

Chapter 1: The New Flesh Chapter 2: The Third Law

Remember, if you like it, reblog it, and tell me what you liked! I thrive on feedback and shares. I write this stuff for the joy of sharing it with others. Your reblog puts validation directly into my gay little soul.

January 24, 2253 1800 Earth UTC

The Hildas, 530 million kilometers from Jupiter

7 hours. It had been 7 hours since the Huntington had escaped her assailants, and Chester Silvera, First Mate, hadn’t seen the Captain in 6.

He’d just gotten out of the shower. The entire crew was in shock. Most of them had served with Jenna Powell for years. She was their friend, and despite the frequent clashes between her and Holder, Silvera knew that the crew respected and liked both of them.

Silvera surveyed his quarters, a moderately-sized suite of around 20 square meters, containing a modest bed, a small galley, a lavatory, and the shower he had just vacated. The Huntington’s crew accommodations were far from palatial, but they were home.

Chester walked to his dresser, donned a black band T-shirt (The Carowells, Jovian Tour 2250), khaki shorts, and sneakers. He grabbed his portable radio off the table, clipped the handset to his belt and the remote mic to his collar. It chirped reassuringly as he turned it on.

Keying the mic he said, “This is Silvera, anyone seen the Captain?”

A moment later, Jill Campbell’s voice crackled to life on the speaker. “Door logs say she’s still in her quarters. Her radio’s off, want me to ring her?”

“No, I’ll just walk right over, thank you.”

“No problem.”

He opened the door to the hallway outside. The corridor was well-lit, and lined with short-pile navy blue carpet and fake-wood-grained wall paneling that had probably been quite fashionable 20 years ago, but now gave the ship a hopelessly outdated look. Chester actually quite liked it. The old girl was past her prime, but she had a sense of style, and you had to admire her for that.

Holder’s quarters were 10 meters down the hall, on the same side as Silvera’s, adjacent to the bridge entrance. Between their rooms was a corridor that led to the now-vacated Engineer’s quarters, the mess hall, the rec room, and the crew dormitories. As he passed the hallway, Silvera caught a glimpse of Powell’s door. It was closed, and unadorned. He thought about peering inside, but decided that wasn’t his place, and instead he continued to Holder’s room.

Silvera knocked a syncopated pattern on the Captain’s door, and was greeted with a dull, “Enter.”

He turned the knob and swung the door open to reveal the darkened bedroom beyond. A window faced out towards space, looking aft over the ore holds. The #3 bay was still open, its massive door blocking the view of the engines’ yellow-white exhaust plumes.

The captain was lying in her bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. She hadn’t shaved her face yet today, and her stubble was creeping in. Silvera never liked to say anything, but he always thought it gave Holder a dashing, roguish look. Right now though, she just looked exhausted.

“Can’t sleep?” Silvera asked, casually, as if this were a normal cruise under normal circumstances, and he had not a care in the solar system.

Holder just lay there, still staring at the ceiling. Silvera waited for her response. When none came, he asked, “Mind if I come in?”

“Sure,” was all she said.

He turned the lights on to their lowest setting and closed the door behind him. This was the first time he’d managed to get a good look at the captain’s quarters. She hadn’t yet put up any decorations, but she had managed to situate a small bookshelf, her favorite armchair, and a small table that currently held a laptop terminal.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Silvera joked, “Feels just like home.”

“Chester,” said Holder, without looking at him, “can you fucking not right now?”

Silvera smiled, though Holder didn’t see that. He knew his captain, and he knew he had to get her on her feet to keep her out of trouble. Holder was a problem-solver. She needed dirt on the tires and grease on her hands or she got restless. With the ship moving and no burn scheduled for another 10 days, Silvera had to become that problem.

“Terry, the crew needs to hear something from you,” he said, “They’ve just been through hell. They’ve lost a friend. Now they need a leader.”

“Some fucking leader.” was Holder’s bitter reply.

“You can’t be everywhere at once,” he said, “It’s not your fault Powell didn’t put the tether on.”

“Tell that to the court martial.” the captain said, rolling to face away from him.

“I will,” he said, “and so will the rest of the crew.”

Holder sat up and looked at him, “Are you sure about that? They knew her for years. They met me last month. You don’t have to be a physicist to figure that one out, Chester.”

“The crew will stand by their captain.”

Holder stood now, apparently she’d lay down to sleep in her blue khaki work uniform, “Why? Why will they stand by me? I got Powell killed, Chester. She is dead, because, I fucked up.”

“And how did you do that, hmm?” he asked, “By not breathing down her neck and by treating her like a responsible member of the crew?”

“Chester,” Holder’s voice got louder and she began pacing, “You just told me, right before all of this,” she waved her hands in front of her for emphasis, “that I had to drop my grudge against her. That we’d been butting heads for a month and that I was too hard on her.”

“Terry,” Silvera kept his voice even, “you are not the first Captain to lose a crew member to that crew member’s carelessness.”

“Her carelessness?” Holder said, incredulous, “Chester, I am the Captain, everything on the Huntington is my responsibility, the cargo, the safety of the crew, the integrity of the ship, everything!”

“You are one person.” Silvera could feel his fist clenching

“Who is tasked with maintaining discipline and order,” Holder shot back, “I failed in both. Jenna Powell is dead because I couldn’t control her,” Silvera thought he saw tears in her eyes, “I should have supervised the EVA, I should have checked the suit inventory,” she was shouting now, “I should have turned back and looked for her!”

“And gotten yourself and the rest of the crew killed?”, it was Silvera’s turn to shout now, “With all due respect, shut the fuck up, Theresa!”

Holder was momentarily speechless, incandescent with rage. Finally, she found her voice. “If you ever speak that way to me again, Silvera, I will personally make sure you’re-”

“Yes, yes,” he cut her off, tired of the show, “you’ll personally make sure I’m cleaning out waste reprocessors on Io until I’m old and gray, I’ve heard it before.”

“What is your problem?”

“You! This!” was his response, “Your crew just suffered a trauma and you’re sitting in here feeling sorry for yourself like some first-year cadet when you should be out there, tending to your crew as a captain should.” Holder collapsed into a sitting position on the bed and buried her face in her hands, muttering something Silvera couldn’t quite hear.

“What was that?” Silvera asked.

“I said,” Holder brought her hands away from her face, and Silvera could see the tears lining her cheeks, “That they deserve a better captain than me.”

Chester Silvera had been friends with Holder for half a decade. They’d met on a cargo hauler, the Venture, where Silvera had an engine technician. She’d stayed up helping him study for his command examine, and he’d been her first mate ever since he’d gotten his commission.

“Terry,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I have served under,” he counted in his head, “4 captains, including you. Now, maybe it’s just my incredibly wise influence,” he paused briefly, and Holder cracked a tiny smile, “but I would say that you are, by far, the best.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just, like, your opinion, man.” Holder said, bashfully.

“I wasn’t finished,” Silvera continued, “I’ve never had a truly bad captain, but the ones who’ve impressed me the most have never been the ones that put on a stone face and hide behind their command. The best captains are always those who suffer alongside the crew, who laugh and cry with them. You need to be out there. They don’t need you to be their rock, they need you to be beside them in the flotsam while they’re adrift, so that when someone spots land, you can lead them back to it.”

They sat in silence for a long moment. Finally, Holder grabbed her radio, keyed it, and said, “This is the captain. We’ve had a bad day, probably the worst any of us has ever had. Let’s all meet in the mess hall at 1930. Drinks on me.”

* * *

Time Unknown

Location Unknown

Jenna wasn’t sure if she was in hell yet. She couldn’t possibly be alive in this state. Every signal her body sent was telling her that she should be dead. Her face felt like it was still on fire, her shoulder was in pieces, and she was pretty sure her rib cage was caved in, too. Every breath was agony. She had long since stopped trying to move any part of her body. Even with concerted effort at stillness, though, new pains danced and bloomed throughout her.

Time was behaving strangely, too. She was dizzy, like she’d had too much to drink. Her stomach felt like it was being twisted on an auger. Through the haze of it all, in the back of her engineer’s brain, she knew that if she wasn’t dead yet, she soon would be. She’d taken at least 50 grays of hard fusion radiation. By all accounts, she should have been dead by now.

And yet, she lived. The thing—for that was all that Jenna could call it—that had taken her from the emptiness of space had carried her over its shoulder to some kind of medical facility. It lay her on a cruel-looking steel table and cut her suit off, injecting her with a syringe of some oily substance that filled her mouth with a rusty taste she couldn’t shake. Even now, what had to be hours later, it remained.

She drifted in and out of consciousness for some time. Each time she woke, her head felt slightly clearer. After what felt like half a day, she woke and found that she could move her neck without feeling the crunching of bones beneath it. How long have I been out?

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a wave of intense nausea swept over her. Though the pain had dulled slightly, it still felt as if she might shatter when she reflexively rolled onto her side, and wretched. Nothing came out. She braced herself with her right arm and was surprised to find that she could bear weight on it. She marveled at this only a moment before another convulsion gripped her stomach. This time, she threw up. The room was dimly lit with a warm light, but even the yellow glow could not hide the contents of her stomach as it spilled onto the floor.

Blood. Lots of blood. Some clotted, some not. Some was bright red and some was nearly black. Jenna heaved again. More vomit, more blood. Her engineer’s brain chimed in again. Sodium-24.

The deuterium-tritium fusion that drove the Huntington’s main engines took two hydrogen atoms, one with an extra neutron, the other with two, and smashed them together to form helium and heat. The helium atoms, technically they were alpha particles, were of little harm to the human body normally, though the sheer quantity of them in fusion exhaust posed a danger. The real problem, however, was the neutrons produced as a byproduct. It was them, she knew, that would seal her fate.

It was the sort of thing that had captured her imagination as a young boy in Dublin. A particle so small and nonreactive that it could pass right through solid objects. Except sometimes, it didn’t. Sometimes, the neutron would hit an atom’s nucleus square-on, and stick there. The nucleus would become unstable, rippling like a drop of water falling from a cloud, and then it would break apart. Do this to the right substances, and you could generate power, build a bomb, trace the flow of blood through the human brain. Do it to the wrong substances, the ones that made up your body, and you became a bomb in slow-motion, destroying yourself, unable to prevent your own demise.

Much of the sodium in her body had absorbed neutrons, changing from stable sodium-23 to radioactive sodium-24. While fusion exhaust had neutrons and alpha particles, both of which penetrated relatively little, sodium-24 emitted gamma rays, and those gamma rays could pass through almost anything short of lead, including the human body. As they did, they stripped the ends off her chromosomes, shredding her DNA and leaving her cells unable to replicate themselves properly. The result was that she was dissolving. As the fastest-dividing cells in her body reached the end of their lifespans, they died. Rather than being replaced, her organs were simply shutting down.

But it didn’t make sense. She had taken so much radiation she should have died within an hour. Why hadn’t she? She was pondering that question when the thing that had brought her to this room stepped through the door.

Jenna’s head was clearer now and she was better able to absorb the figure’s appearance. It had a human shape. Bipedal, standing about 180cm tall. The basic outline of it implied that it was, or at least, had been, female. Cybernetic prosthetics were not unheard of but this lay outside the extreme end of that. The thing’s joints were covered in layered segments of metal with a dark oxide coating, tubing ran over its limbs. The only skin that Jenna could see was its face. The face was almost human. Dark lines ran as veins underneath the skin, the lips gunmetal gray, as if the blood inside had rotted. There was hair, a short tangled mess of raven black. One of the eyes was distinctly mechanical, a bright, electric blue. The other was green, and looked natural.

“You are awake,” was all the thing said.

Jenna made a dry croaking sound as she tried to speak. After several seconds of halting attempts, she finally found her voice, “How...how am I alive?” It hurt to speak. She thought she might have burns on her larynx from inhaling fire.

“We have been able to repair your DNA to a degree,” the figure replied, “However the process is not sufficient to ensure survival. Do not be afraid. We will make you one with us.”

“Let me die.” Jenna begged.

“You have been selected to become an assimilator unit for the hive.” was the figure’s flat reply.

“It hurts.” Jenna felt tears running down her face, “Please, let me die.”

“Your body will be modified and augmented to assimilate others into drones for the hive.”

“Like…you? No...no...”

“Do not be afraid. Your body will be altered surgically and mechanically. Due to the extensive mechanical and radiation damage your body has endured, most of it will need to be replaced with a synthetic chassis.”

“No...god, please”

“You will remain conscious during this process.”

Jenna tried to scream but all that came out was a dull rasp

“You are afraid now, but you will enjoy it, soon.”

The figure placed an anesthesia mask over Jenna’s face.

“As your external tissue is so damaged,” it said, in that flat, synthetic voice, “we were unable to administer the nanites in the usual manner. Instead we have given you a 10cc intravenous infusion.”

“Please,” Jenna whimpered, “please kill me”

Her pleas fell on deaf ears, however, “Usually,” the figure continued, “The surgical procedures would have begun immediately, but the nanites needed time to stabilize your biological processes. We will now begin.”

It grabbed Jenna’s wrists with shocking strength and fixed them to cuffs on the table. She struggled and pulled and twisted, trying to break free, but she wouldn’t have been able to, even with all her strength in her. And she was so tired. Her heart had been racing since the thing had come in, and the adrenaline had worn her down. It wasn’t so much that she resigned herself to whatever happened, she just couldn’t keep up the fight anymore.

Jenna heard a hissing sound come from the mask as the figure reached beneath the table and twisted something. A sharp, sweet chemical aroma curled into her nostrils. As she inhaled, she could feel herself relax. For a moment she almost forgot about her troubles, but her engineer’s brain started sounding alarm bells. They’re drugging you. It had to be that.

“Please,” said the figure, its voice friendlier, more familiar now, “do not resist the gas.”

“I...I don’t,” she croaked out, “I don’t want this.”

“You do not know what it is you want.”

Don’t I? Jenna thought to herself, Maybe, maybe it’s right.

It was like falling into the arms of a lover after a long day at work. Warmth, softness. Jenna’s mind wandered to an encounter she’d had with a young naval officer she met at a Titan bar not that long ago. How her consort’s uniform had glided so effortlessly off as soon as Jenna’s quarters door closed. How her soft fingers had wrapped around Jenna’s cock at the same time she’d suckled at Jenna’s tits.

Jenna realized her pain had subsided greatly. She also noticed that she had an erection.

“Subject arousal maximized,” said the figure beside her. Jenna looked over her again. She was female, decidedly. Broad-shouldered, but delicate. An artisan’s body. How had Jenna failed to see the beauty there before? “Initiating neural reroute.”

The pain quickly came roaring back, different than it had been before. Before, it felt like her body was on fire. Now it felt like tiny teeth were chewing up her insides. She tried to scream but even as she opened her mouth, it subsided, a beautiful warmth replacing it. It was like falling into the softest bed after the most filling meal in the coziest house in the world.

The world took on a brighter, sharper appearance. Jenna could hear people talking, but couldn’t make out any words. Next to her, the figure spoke, “See, isn’t that better?” As she spoke, the woman ran a mechanical hand up Jenna’s leg. Jenna couldn’t help but curl her body up in pleasure. She closed her eyes and let herself fall into the pleasure.

Oh, she thought, I guess you know how to treat a girl.

We have much experience in providing pleasure. Jenna’s eyes shot open. She had heard the woman, not with her ears, but in her head.

The neural transceiver is already functioning? The woman said, You are a promising candidate.

Jenna’s engineer brain was working double-time in thick, deep mud. Neural transceiver?

Jenna could hear the voices again, more clearly now, and realized that they, too, were inside of her. Though every rational fiber of her being screamed to pull away, her curiosity overtook her, and she reached out.

It was like stepping through a door into a crowded amphitheater. Sights, sounds, smells, textures, tastes, movement all seemed to stream into her head from everywhere at once, as if she were both infinite and singular. She flew around the ship, it was smaller than the Huntington. She saw dozens of people and yet felt only one presence. Her mind flicked through them all, letters and numbers appearing with each figure before finally slowing to a stop in the room where she was. The assimilation chamber. Sigma-26 stood above her, warmth on her face. The nascent drone on the table, what had it’s name been?

Deep within Jenna’s mind, a part of her began fighting, kicking, screaming that this was wrong, that there were people out there who missed her. Jill and Karl. Iris and Phoebe. Chester Silvera and Jack Thorton. And Theresa, her captain. Holder hadn’t left Jenna out of spite, or anger. She had been doing her job. She had been trying to keep the others safe and alive.

And yet, the drone now in her head thought, she didn’t even try to save you, did she? She could have tried to scoop you into an ore bay, or given you a few more seconds to make it to the airlock. Instead, she left you out there, adrift. The hive found you. The hive took you in. The hive healed you. Shouldn’t your loyalty lie with them?

Jenna didn’t care. She knew that it wasn’t Holder’s fault. She resisted, trying to pull herself back from the warm light of the Hive. She could feel them working their way into her head. She felt the Hive push into her memories. No, not those!

She was 10, a boy in a flat in Dublin. Her mother has taken her sister, Penny, to the doctor. Her father is asleep, and she’s snuck into Penny’s room. She’s trying on Penny’s dresses when her pa walks in. She’s never seen him so angry.

She was 14, in the boys’ locker room at school. Everyone is showering but she can’t bring herself to take off her shirt. 3 of the other boys corner her. She hides the bruises from her parents.

She was 20, a student at University College Cork, sitting in a doctor’s office. The doctor is writing her a prescription for estrogen. He seems uncomfortable, but says nothing.

She was 21, seeing her family for the first time since starting hormones. Her mother opens the door. She’s confused, but polite. Her father sees her and screams to get out of his house, that he won’t have a faggot for a son. She leaves. It’s the last time she sees her family.

She was 27, on shore leave at Olympus Station, orbiting Mars. She’s leaving a bar, alone, again. After a few minutes of walking, someone hits her hard in the back of the head, knocking her to the ground. The man shoves a chrome handgun in her mouth and says if she makes any sound he’ll blow her tranny brains all over the decking. She thinks about her mother.

She was 28, assigned to MV Huntington, her first posting as chief engineer. The crew are kind to her, but none seek her out. She never grows close to any of them.

She was 30, her new captain wears a nickel-plated .45 on her hip. Jenna’s heart races and suddenly she’s back on Olympus. She runs to her quarters and vomits. The new First Mate knocks on her door. She opens it with tears running down her cheeks. He asks her what’s wrong. She cries for 10 minutes before she can say a word. When she finally speaks, she begs him not to tell the captain. He promises he won’t.

She’s 30. Her face is burning, she’s floating through an abyss, abandoned and alone.

Thinking back on all of these things, the last bit of Jenna Powell, the part that was fighting and screaming for her humanity, grew weary. She had never desired power, or money, or the secrets of the universe. The only thing she’d ever wanted was home. She’d never had it.

The last part of her let go of the cliff it clung to. It fell, backwards, through an infinite abyss. And where it had been, only the drone remained.

“I am a drone of the hive.” she said, “Shape me to a razor’s edge.”

* * *

1930 Earth UTC

MV Huntington mess hall

Captain Theresa Holder stood just outside the entrance to the mess hall. The crew was seated in 2 rows at the long table, nine on a side. Chester was sitting on the left side nearest the empty chair at the head.

The Captain had not told the crew to wear anything special. She didn’t like the formality, and the crew, in turn, had donned their ragtag Sunday best. Jill Campbell wore a navy blue polo. Karl Miller had tied his hair, normally past his shoulders, into a tight bun. Iris Owens was actually wearing a dress. A bright, neon-pink dress with a skull printed on the front, but a dress nonetheless.

Holder, for her part, was wearing her blue dress uniform. Deep navy wool with brass toggles, her captain’s pips on her shoulders. The Civil Navy did not award medals to be worn with dress uniforms, and so on her left breast was a patch that simply said “HOLDER” in light grey letters above the embroidered silhouette of a Shinkelobwe-class ship.

As she entered the hall, Silvera stood, “Captain on deck!” he barked. The crew stood with him. Holder stopped half a meter beyond the threshold. Funerals at sea were one of the times that regulation permitted her to wear the pistol strapped to her hip. Despite this, she made a show, while the crew watched, of removing the belt and hanging it on a hook next to the door. She pulled the pistol from its worn leather holster, and racked the slide back. She had not loaded it prior, and so manually locked it open before replacing it in the belt and turning to the crew. “At ease,” she said, and the crew sat.

She walked, not to the head of the table, but to the foot. She remained standing, and spoke.

“We are here, tonight, our number one too few,” she began, “We have lost our colleague and friend, Genevieve Powell.” She paused, she hadn’t written anything down and was struggling to remember the bits she’d thrown together in her mind as she’d shaved and showered.

“Look,” she said, dropping the air of pretense she’d held before, “Nobody comes out here expecting to die. We didn’t join a combat fleet. We didn’t sign up to be shot at or blow up troop depots or raid supply outposts. We’re miners.”

She looked around at the crew a moment before continuing, “And miners die. It’s been happening ever since humans started digging holes in the ground. Tunnel collapses, methane explosions, tidal shifts. But what happened today, that’s not something, I think, that any of us expected.

“Jenna and I didn’t exactly get along. It feels a bit ghoulish to be up here, praising her, to tell you the truth. Like I’m taking credit for something I didn’t earn. But I need you all to hear this. What happened today, it’s my responsibility. You all performed admirably in a situation that none of us was prepared for. This morning, you were asteroid miners. This evening, you’re heroes, all of you. None more so than the woman who should, by all rights, be sitting at the head of this table.”

Holder gestured in the direction of the empty place setting, “Jenna Powell died trying to get you all to safety. When you tell your friends and families about today, don’t sing praises of your captain. Heap your praise on Jenna Powell, whose loyalty and courage cannot be disputed. Chester, the bottle.”

Silvera stood, grabbing a bottle of whiskey that he had placed on the floor next to his chair. He walked towards Holder, and handed her the thick, ornate glass vessel.

Holder broke the seal and uncorked the bottle. She walked around the table, gently pouring a finger of the amber liquid into each crew member’s glass. When all had been served, she poured herself a glass, and holding it in her left hand, raised it. “To Jenna.”

“To Jenna,” the crew replied, smiles and tears all around, and drank.

After downing her glass, Holder placed it on the table and picked up the bottle. She held it high and said, again, “To Jenna.”

“To Jenna!” the crew said once more.

And with that, Captain Theresa Holder silently drained the rest of the bottle out onto the floor of the mess.

Timecode Error: Format Not Recognized

Hive Interdictor K-14

The drone lay on the table, no longer restrained. Her tired flesh would soon be discarded, replaced by metal, composite, and plastics.

Sigma-26 stood above her, “The radiation has severely damaged your body,” she said to the new drone, “your augmentations will be rather more extensive than most.”

The new drone silently confirmed receipt of this information. 26 began hooking life support tubes into the new drone’s neck. The plan was already clear in her mind. She was eager for it, eager to leave behind the flesh that had confined her and become one with the hive. To feel the electricity run through her wires and hear the thrum of motors and pumps.

26 approached, pulling down an armature from the ceiling that held a large band saw. Wordlessly, she turned it on, and began lowering it towards the new drone’s hips. The blade bit into the damaged flesh of her right leg first, right where the femur met the ball of the hip.

The new drone heard the hive through the wire, It is not clear yet how much of your body will need replacing, it said, the process will proceed in stages to ensure stability.

The blade ground through the new drone’s leg, spitting bits of meat out to the side. As it struck bone the motor bogged down slightly, and the drone felt a high-pitched vibration through her entire being. Waves of pleasure overtook her, the ecstasy of death and rebirth. The nanites in her system worked to seal off the femoral artery and other blood vessels, protecting the brain from losing its precious supply of oxygen. The external life support systems were not yet needed, but that time would come soon.

26 removed the severed limb from the table and began amputating the other leg. Another fine mist of gore sprayed out. It felt so good, the new drone felt itself grow hard as the last bit of skin was severed.

In order to assess tissue damage, the hive spoke again, we will need to access your abdominal cavity. The life support systems will take over now.

Wordlessly, 26 plunged a scalpel into the new drone’s abdomen, just above the pubic bone. She worked it around to the right hip, then back and down almost to the table. She turned then and cut upwards, under and around the lower segment of the rib cage. The new drone’s cock was nearly bursting now, and she gave in, releasing herself, firing juices all over her stomach.

When the scalpel had circumnavigated the new drone’s belly, 26 reached in just under the sternum, and peeled the skin back. It pulled and twisted and sucked, a mass of skin, fat, and muscle a few centimeters thick. It, too, was tossed aside. Another drone came in the door and retrieved the severed legs and the skin flap, whisking them away to a reprocessing terminal.

26 examined the new drone’s organs. The new drone could not see them, but could hear the hive as it wordlessly assessed the situation. The radiation damage was too severe. Her body, even with most of the skin and organs removed, was too damaged to remain.

Full submaxillial amputation necessary, the hive declared.

26 grabbed a port with several needles on the end of various bores. She gently cupped the new drone’s head in one hand, lifting it up, before gently pushing the cable in to the base of the skull. Nanites in the port flooded in, connecting themselves to nerves, building microducts to carry oxygenated blood to the brain after the next step.

When the connection was complete, 26 reached into the open abdominal cavity and began paring out organs. She started with the bladder and intestines. The new drone watched as meters of glistening tubes were removed from her. She could feel herself becoming lighter. The stomach came next, along with the pancreas. Each cut was like an orgasm in and of itself. A blast of pleasure that washed over the new drone like fire consuming kindling.

Her liver and lungs were removed. The new drone could feel her brain stem panicking, trying to force her to breathe with lungs that could not draw air. It was driving her mad, she could feel pressure building up behind her genitals again, and once more she fired off, her glistening seed spurting into the now-empty cavity.

At last, all that was left was her beating heart. It was pounding so fast, and her body was so much lighter now, that she actually thought she might be popping off the operating table under the power of its palpitations. The new drone met 26’s eyes as the latter reached for the band saw. 26 switched the tool on, its blade accelerating to full speed almost instantly. In anticipation, the new drone opened her mouth wide.

26 brought the saw down between the new drone’s jaws. It first caught her cheeks, tearing into them and spraying blood inside her mouth and out the side. She could taste it, the hot, metallic taste of her own body, the last thing she would ever taste. As the blade continued downward it met her mandible, the blade shrieking inside the new drone’s head. It passed out the back side of the bone and immediately dug into the drone’s throat. Blood spurted down it. The pleasure of it all was overwhelming. Finally, 26 angled the blade to pass up through the top of the spinal column, just below the brain stem.

As the blade exited at the end, the new drone felt her body disappear. A nuclear bomb of pleasure went off in her, her eyes rolling back in her skull. The few muscles that remained, as well as the stumps of mandible that had not yet been removed thrashed wildly, for 12 minutes and 22 seconds. When the last wave of orgasm subsided, the new drone opened her eyes.

26 was standing above her, smiling. She felt her hivemate grasp her on either side, and lift her up. It was a curious sensation. She felt so light, so free. Wordlessly, 26 strode over to a person-sized case standing in the corner of the room.

Behold, said the hive, your new form.

The mechanical body was slightly taller than the new drone’s old one. It was sturdier too, with a more muscular look. On top of the neck sat a mechanical mandible. There was no skin, that would be artificially grown over it after assembly. 26 carefully placed the new drone atop the stack, and, using a scalpel, cut away the last bits of her original jawbone.

The artificial mandible responded without command, screwing into the joint sockets on her skull and connecting artificial muscles to mechanical ones. Soon, the drone could feel small actuators gripping the blood vessels inside her and making permanent connections. 26 stood back and watched the process. Finally, she reached behind the new drone and removed the life support tube from the plug. The new drone became momentarily dizzy during the changeover, but 26 was quick to connect the body’s hookup to the port on the skull.

Step forward, came the voice of the hive.

The new drone complied. Wordlessly, she turned around, facing herself away from 26, who began fixing armor plates to the back of her skull, covering up the sensitive port. When 26 was finished, the new drone turned back to face her. She stared down at her new hands, sleek and metal. She flexed her fingers, feeling the power of them. A full diagnostic ran automatically, the results appearing in the corner of her vision, confirming all systems were functioning as designed.

“What is your designation?” 26 asked the new drone.

The new drone looked at her, and said, “I am Sigma-38, assimilator unit.”

Welcome, Sigma-38, came the voice of the hive, we will do great things together.

[wanderingviktus]

Drowning Sorrows

These scenes happen right after Heavensward quest.

CW: NSFW, Copious consumption of Alcohol, Bad Coping Mechanism, Yaoi

----

Perhaps I should cease the countless night of overindulging in alcohol.

I don’t miss the worried glances that Alphinaud sends my way nor the gentle touch of Tataru’s hand on my own, pressing my calloused drinking hand down on the table. The way she murmurs my name in worry, or the gentle guidance of Hilda’s companions as they drag my inebriated body to the quarters I was borrowing for the night.

I had learned sooner it was all the better to hide away from House Fortemps, I could not bear to step into the home despite Lord Edmont’s worried summons.

I was a coward; I couldn’t even face the man who had given me refuge since we were branded traitors by the realm, we fought tooth and nail to prosper.

Deep down, I didn’t mind being told to go here and there. It gave my life a semblance of direction, the path though drench in sorrow and macabre.

Ah, these will be thoughts left for another night.

“Viktus…”

I tip the last drops of brandy onto my tongue, settling the glass on the weathered table to give Gibrillont a questioning look. He merely sighs, taking my now empty glass and stepping away. “I think you’ve had enough for the night.”

“Yes, I do think so myself.” The words are slurred but I was stalwart. I do believe I was still sober, save for the slight waver in my posture. Hilda throws me a worried glance, but I stop her from standing up. I didn’t want to return to the cot The Forgotten Knight so kindly offers. Not for tonight.

I glance back at Gibrillont, haphazardly slamming a handful of gil, “For the trouble.”

“You better watch yourself, Viktus.” He murmurs as he slowly slides the coins into his palm.

“When did I ever drop my guard?” I chuckle, staggering away from the counter. I grip the handrails as I ascended the steps, perhaps some time outside could perk me up. I didn’t want to sleep yet, who knows what nightmare was waiting for me this time.

The creak of the door welcomes the shock of cold on my skin. I shudder at the dip in temperature but this was what I wanted right? I grumble softly, stepping out of the warm tavern, letting the door close behind me.

The thin material of the scholar’s clothing provides little warmth under the onslaught of the Ishgardian weather. My breath fogs in front of me but my eyes ever wander, taking in the bleak scenery. The moon sits high within a cloudless sky as snow continues to fall all around me. What time was it? Far too late to wander with a muddled mind yet I cared none for decorum.

 I stumble my way towards the Congregation, a name on my lips. Firmalbert was startled at my drunken presence, kind enough to offer assistance to bring me home.

I could laugh to myself.

Home? Where was home?

Long have the days gone and nowhere feels like home. With all that happened, where can I rest my head?

I clear the errant thoughts from my mind, telling him that I had business here. Though he looked skeptical at my words, he steps aside to give me passage. My unsteady steps would most likely arch a brow but he did not comment as I made my way inside. The hearth casting warm around the room, but the landing wasn’t my destination.

I turned to the side, nodding to the guard before I make my way to the Lord Commander’s office. He steps aside to let me through though I notice the worried crease in his brow as I was passing through. Thankfully he made no comment as the doors closed behind me, though it eased little of the tension hanging in the air.

The air feels much colder inside than outside, chilling my fevered skin as I take the last few steps to the Lord Commander’s study. My calloused fingers wrap around bronze, twisting the small knob so silently; the man in front of me hardly pauses from his task.

Carefully, I step into the simple office, my booted feet making no sound on carpeted flooring. Dragging the door behind me as slowly as I could my gaze hardly shifting from the scene in front of me. It’s only by the gentle click of the lock does Aymeric finally bring his gaze up, his body jolts in surprise at my presence.

“My friend, what brings you here? At this hour no less.” He hastily drops the paper within his hand, pushing the pile to the side as his other hand wipes the tiredness on his face. Had I been sober I would have frowned in worry, but that was a thought that I hardly cared for at the moment.

He clears his throat, closing he distance between us until he stands an arm’s length in front of me. His smile falters lightly, perhaps the strong scent of alcohol from my body was a giveaway. I sway to the side, blushing lightly at the sign of weakness.

The Lord Commander’s hands are quick to steady me, though he remains a safe distance. I look up to find his brow creased, thinking, hesitant. I straighten myself, his hands guiding until they slide away, leaving a warm trail on my skin.

“You should be home and in such a state no less. I shall have a guard aid you on the way back. House Fortemps is quite a walk.” He looks away, cheeks lightly stained red, “I would have accompanied you but I have some documents that need tending to.”

“We both know I can’t stay upright for that long.” I chuckle and Aymeric joins in.

“True. I should have been more astute in my assessment.” I watch his lips mouth the words, the pompousness of his vocabulary grated me in my drunken state. “Though, embarrassing as it is, I have only the seat to offer as a space of respite.”

“That is more than enough for a weathered traveler such as me.” I joshed.

“Ah, I had forgotten you are not a novice to such unfavorable circumstances. Do forgive me, my friend.” He was talking too much.

Aymeric’s hands steady me as we make our way to the seats, my body sagging as we sit down. The plush pillows around me was enough to lull me to sleep but sleep was a place I hardly run to at the end of my days.

“Now, perhaps I can fetch for some blankets to ease your stay. For a moment, let me- “So noisy.

I grasp his wrists, pulling him down to me. The clink of his armor fills my ears as I close my eyes, warm lips against my own. So quickly to press, so quickly to leave.

“Ah! My apologies, I stumbled against you.” Aymeric sputters and I open my eyes to see the crimson sprawl of a blush on his pale cheeks. He steps back, a hand covering his lips as he stares at me, “Truly I am sorry, my friend.”

His apology rouses me momentarily to sobriety, for a moment I feel shame. My hands lose their hold on him, falling into my lap as I stare at the callouses decorating my palms.

“No, it’s my fault.” I swallow thickly, quickly rearranging the pillows around me, “I’m sorry Aymeric. That was a stupid thing to do.”

“No- “

“Yes, it was. I apologize.” I feel the pinprick of tears stinging my eyes, stupid, stupid. “Well, please leave me to it. I don’t want to be a nuisance to your tasks.”

Aymeric grasps my hand, the metal of his greaves shock my body, “No it wasn’t…”

He trails off, pursing his lips before he looks away. The tips of his ears turn red in embarrassment but his hands still enclose my own.

“I’m clearly drunk and putting you in such a spot would be- “

“No,” Aymeric purses his lips, “I would want what you are offering…”

I arch a brow, more awake, perhaps a little soberer than a moment ago. “Are you-?”

He looks surprised before looking elsewhere, perhaps I will never hear the words from the Lord Commander’s lips.

“Then, you’ll let me…?” He nods to my query, and all hesitation leaves me.

I bring a hand to cup his jaw, bringing him closer. Aymeric’s deep blue eyes become half-lidded as he stares me down through thick lashes. I slide my hand to his nape, pulling him flush to my lips once more. This time I drink the sounds that spills from his lips as his hands make a trail along my sides.

Fingers undoing the intricate claps that keep his attire intact.

I cursed under my breath as I peeled layers and layers of Aymeric’s cumbersome armor. What is with Ishgardian nobility and the pompousness of their clothing? His own hands match my fervor, easy to part cloth and buttons as compared to my own hand’s work. The cool air summons goosebumps upon my skin, clothing sliding off my scarred body.

The clatter of armor against the carpet softens the sounds we’re adding to the late Ishgardian night. I pray the guards do not become nosy to the events behind the closed door.

Errant thoughts flit into my mind, compelling me to worry, to second guess, to wonder all the wrongs of the moment. Yet Aymeric’s lips chase the noise away, his touch burning the chill that has clung to my skin.

I want a time where I am not the warrior of light, or the savior of Ishgard, merely,

“Viktus.”

The hot press of his palm against my scarred body rouses my blood. His lips on mine, biting, needy; matching the fervor of my own touch.  Two fools, so eager to just forget their shortcomings; chasing at the promise of warmth. A momentary reprieve to chase the cold, the emptiness.

I could almost laugh. Pitiful as we are, titles, armor and medals decorated our very being but we’re all the same once bare.

I remember vaguely how the night continues, only the hot rush of being wanted. For a night, the gentle embrace of another chases the nightmare away.

But how long should I continue running?

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Mad About the Boy

Word Count: 1,345 Character: John Whittaker 

(ARTIST APPRECIATION SUBMISSION)

Hi friends! Juuuuust sneaking in before the weekend officially ends here on the East Coast so I can stick to my #WhittakerWeekend schedule. Really- whose demeanor is better suited for weekends than John’s? No one’s, that’s who. So this submission is admittedly a little different than the others that I have written for, because I am actually tying it to Let’s Face the Music & Dance (hope you don’t mind!!) as a sort of side piece, though you do not need to know anything about that story to understand this...or to understand that it is a SERIOUSLY stunning piece of art. When @alraedesigns​ sent me this submission by @pheedraws​ we both admitted to thinking it was a photograph the first time we saw it, and then we talked about how we each freaked out over the fact that no, it is not a photograph, but a painting- a flawless, intricate, beautiful painting. Of a flawless man with a stunning smile. 

So Phoebe, from @alraedesigns​ (and I) and let’s face it anyone who has seen your work: THANK YOU FOR BLESSING OUR EYES WITH THIS MASTERPIECE. YOU ARE TALENTED. YOU ARE APPRECIATED. YOU ARE OUT OF THIS DAMN WORLD. 

(His smile is everything that is good in this world. Prove me wrong, you cannot.)

Mad About the Boy 

There were certain books she read depending on the time of year. The majority of her literary consumption consisted of things she’d never read before, usually new works from her favorite authors, or else recommendations from friends with similarly discerning taste to her own. Mattie’s reliable, but I simply can’t get through the drivel that Angela enjoys. She ran her fingers over the spines of the leather and cloth bound titles that graced the shelf she’d deemed only for her favorites; Madame Bovary, Tess of the D’Ubervilles, A Doll’s House, A Room with A View. Each had their time to shine in her cycle of new and old reads. But she passed them all up in favor of another, one she always read in the final days of Summer, when golden sunlight melted and dripped from the sky to gild the leaves of trees instead, when she was reminded how quickly things can change and how important it was to live now. Lawrence understood. 

She found the book she’d been looking for and pulled it from the lineup. Lady Chatterley's Lover. A door closed somewhere in another room and she sighed, swiping one hand over the cover and greeting it with the sort of smile one would share with a close friend. He needs his time to himself, and I need mine. I don’t ask what he… where he goes. And he doesn’t ask what I… While some… let’s face it, most… women would find their arrangement deplorable, Larita found it quite agreeable, and so did Jim. 

She wasn’t sure if she loved him, and she honestly wasn’t sure if she wanted to. With him it was always more about being seen and heard and respected than it was about physical attraction or romantic feelings. The fact that they happened to have good chemistry was somewhat of a cherry on top of what they’d both come to accept was the best case scenario for a pair such as themselves. If I’m putting myself out to pasture at least the company will be good. She knew that the third time rarely was the charm, and he knew that whatever part of him might have made for a good husband the second time around never made it home from the front. No need to push our luck on love. 

Crossing the parlor, she curled herself into the tufted armchair in the corner, opened her book and began to read. With Jim, she never had to abide by the staunch rules that other men- American, English, I imagine it wouldn’t make a difference where they came from- would enforce on her through marriage. Long lists of expected skills and hobbies, none of them useful in any real way, and short lists of appropriate clothing styles; even shorter ones of acceptable reading material. If that was the price to pay for love, then perhaps love wasn’t what she needed anymore. 

She’d loved her first husband, deeply and completely and he’d loved her too, fiercely and unquestioningly, and it still ended in a heartache she’d never fully heal from. Affection, interaction, physical touch... they could all be had without-  Turning the page, she sucked in a breath as a photo slipped out and into her lap. Larita let the book fall closed against her thighs, thin fingers plucking the photo from where it had landed, unfolding the crease across the bottom from where it had been pressed against the book’s binding. Oh, John… 

It was a photo from their wedding day, his young face lit with excitement, his dark eyes shining like the small but clear diamonds that once graced her left ring finger.  His smile on any given day was the most genuine she’d ever seen, but the way he’d looked at her that day, when he naively promised her forever… No one will ever look at me that way again. She let her fingertips slide over his face in the photo, a wistful smile forming on her own lips. No one ever could. When he’d told her that he couldn’t have loved her more than he did, she knew that he was telling the truth, that he believed with all of himself that he was giving her all that a person could give, all that a person could love. She loved John- loved his light heart and free spirit, adored the wide-eyed wonder with which he viewed the world. She loved the way she felt when they were together and she loved him for making her feel it. But I was foolish to think that it would be enough- that she would be content with what someone else deemed all the love that they were capable of, but only a fraction of the understanding that came with that word. Oh, John, it wasn’t your fault, not at all. Whereas some women- no, most- might turn bitter in the face of a failed second marriage, Larita felt only well wishes towards her ex-husband. I hope you find someone to give all that light to, John, someone who your love will be enough for, someone who’s mad about you.

Unsure of what to do with the photo- I can’t put it back in the book...I’ll only be surprised by it again next year, but… she looked down at it...I can’t throw it away either- she tucked it into the pocket of her trousers just as she heard her name, Jim announcing his return and calling out to find her. “In here,” she responded, closing her book and setting it down on the cushion she’d just vacated. He stepped into the room, expression much more tense than it was when he left only an hour or so earlier. “Everything alright? You look-”

“Hilda’s engaged to be married. Did you know?” His hands went straight into his pockets, a deep frown cutting across his face and she stepped closer to lay a hand on his arm. Perhaps she wasn’t in love with him, but she cared for the man, cared about the things that upset him. 

“Of course I didn’t know, I wouldn’t keep that from you, you know that.” It was true and he knew it. And I know that he knows it. It was easier, avoiding tiffs when emotions could be de-escalated before they came to a head, and Larita saw that she was right, Jim’s brow unfurrowing. “How did you hear the news?”

“There’s to be a party next month at…” he sniffed, “Well at the estate. I’ve just run into Martin Horning and he relayed the message.” Larita winced at the hurt that only she would have caught in his tone- the hurt that he hadn’t warranted an invitation. “Larita? Do you think...should I, should we go?”

Blinking quickly she felt her lips drop open. It had been one thing to see John’s picture unexpectedly, but seeing him in person when things had been left the way that they had… that was something else entirely. She let out a breath and shook her head slowly. “No, Jim, I...that’s not a good-” 

“She’s my daughter! Don’t I...shouldn’t I?” 

“And she didn’t invite you.” She said it as calmly and as soothingly as she could, real empathy in her heart as she took his cheeks between her palms. “Maybe the best gift you can give her, give all of them is…” She thought of John’s face, smiling in her pocket and how he deserved a chance to find someone to bestow it on. She thought of Hilda’s innocence and charm and how she deserved the happiness that came with those things. “Is just to let them move on from…” She felt a tear in the corner of her eye and didn’t even try to blink it away. “From us.” 

Jim brushed his knuckle over the apple of her cheek, ridding the tear as she knew he would. He sighed, the sound sad and low, but his face softened. “As usual, darling,” another deep breath came from his lungs as he conceded, “I believe you’re right.” 

.

.

.

Thank you a million times to all of you fabulous artists! If you are an artist in the Ben Barnes fandom, or you want to surprise an artist with a quick drabble based on their art, send me a message and link me to the posted artwork. Let’s show these talented folks how much we appreciate them and the things that they create!

[iwritesometimes]

i know i'm a jaded and joyless crone but. it seems to me celebrating as body-positive and uplifting art of a woman's body created by a man specifically for men's sexual consumption is........missing a point somewhere.

like i'm genuinely of two (or more lol) minds about this. i see people claiming Duane Bryers' Hilda the Pinup Girl as a positive image bc she's fat and happy and enjoying herself in all his images of her "even when she's not being sexualized" and i just. she is ALWAYS being sexualized, her existence is to BE a sexual image, it's why she was conceived and created. and i am as hungry as any fat girl for positive images of us literally anywhere, and of course i think Hilda as art is an endearing figure in a Norman Rockwell-esque idealized alternate universe kind of way - i like the images! they're fun and the artist never seems to be using her as a punchline or a moral, which is a nice change from most media featuring fat women. it's fun and in some way freeing to see someone fat (even Idealized Fat) get to be casually, carelessly sexy.

but like. she doesn't exist at all outside Duane Bryers' libido. just because the dude wanted to fuck chicks with big tits and asses and chubby, idealized bodies doesn't mean Hilda was ever a person with her own agency, and so to me the pictures will always look and feel exploitative. there's the extra layer of...like, self-voyeurism that i hate, too: in a world in which every woman and especially fat women (and especially fat women of color and fat disabled women) are already, at all times, hyper-aware of our appearance, our presentation, of being watched, constantly, judged, constantly, i am always always gonna feel skeeved and not empowered by a man's observation of a woman. Hilda's just another way for a man to peer in on a woman while she's trying to live her life, another series of moments in which some woman has to perform sexiness for...not just a specific man, but all men, for consumption.

it fucks with my brain and it's not a nice kind of feeling i get from the images. which is not to say people shouldn't love them or find comfort or enjoyment in them, i just...have to grit my teeth a little seeing Hilda lumped in with empowering media when those images have always felt intrusive and somehow mocking, to me.

[bronanlynch]

“““weekly”““ media consumption roundup

listening: so I don’t listen to much Christmas music, however there’s this one piece that’s like. variations Come O Come Emmanuel that absolutely fucking slaps. we played it in concert band freshman year of high school and it kind of blew my mind (and also was the first time 6/8 time made sense to me lol). there’s not really any especially great recordings of it on youtube but there are a couple of better ones on sp*tify (the one I linked is fine in terms of the playing but it’s so quiet even on full volume)

for the record: my official Christmas playlist is that, Sleigh Ride but only the instrumental arrangement for similar high school band nostalgia reasons and also because it slaps, Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos because before they had kids my parents used to go to a Bach festival that happened right around Christmas so that’s what we listened to when we decorated the tree and baked cookies (no link because there are like. a million recordings out there and I can’t find the one online that matches the CD that my parents have), Vienna Teng’s The Atheist Christmas Carol (which absolutely knocked me the fuck out this year, as it does every year, but something about hearing the line “it’s the season of possible miracle cures” on xmas eve 2020 when you’re waiting for the results of your covid test is. a lot), Froggy Fresh’s Christmas song (it’s a bit, I’m sorry, sometimes you just can’t let your college friend group memes go), and Straight No Chaser’s 12 Days of Christmas

reading: so that delightful piece of writing about the snake fight portion of your thesis defense (FAQ: The Snake Fight Portion of Your Thesis Defense by Luke Burns) was a yuletide fandom on Ao3 this year apparently which led to this fic (link contains pictures of snakes), which is one of the funniest things I’ve ever read. it’s formatted like academic emails and it’s just. extremely real. love to lovingly make fun of academia

watching: finally something different to go here. spent part of christmas day and then most of new year’s day marathoning Hilda with my roommates and it’s very cute and very fun and very good. it is very much a children’s cartoon abt the power of friendship, but also there are lots of fun magical creatures and surprisingly strong political themes abt like, environmentalism and treating people with respect and not listening to cops. also there are ghost pirates, and witches, and a goth librarian lady, and an amoral lady scientist. also the main character has a pet that’s like. a combination of a deer and a fox and it’s incredibly cute

playing: Knife of Dunwall finally. this time around I didn’t get stuck and give up before even getting to the main part of the first mission, which happened last time because I got so frustrated by how shitty Daud’s version of darkvision is. have lots of Thoughts and Feelings and Opinions about the labor politics of this mission, since the premise is that the slaughterhouse workers are striking, and there’s a bunch of ambient announcements about how any sort of organizing for essential workers, sorry, “industries deemed vital to state interests,” is punishable by death. love to see it.

kinda don’t love how the main agitator is actually a plant for a rival factory, but she does talk abt how the workers are treated better where she works so there is that. I do think it’s funny how I’ve been playing this mission low chaos, deliberately not killing anyone, and then she gives me the option to blow up the factory in exchange for the information I need, instead of torturing it out of the factory owner, and I immediately went. oh hell yeah let’s do that

I might not end up actually going through with it because it’s real hard to get to all of the valves I have to sabotage without being spotted so. maybe I’ll torture the factory owner anyway. I just think it’s interesting how the priorities of like, the city itself as represented by the chaos meter favor torture over property destruction (yes I know probably people would die in the explosion but still. Abigale does make a point of saying that all of the workers are outside because they’re striking, so it’s just the guards and the scabs I mean butchers)

making: this is not the best or most photogenic mince pie and I didn’t even really make most of it if we’re being technical since I used a pre-made crust and a jar of mincemeat and I do not know why the powdered sugar on top looks so weird but. whatever. it was tasty. merry christmas to me personally, since I’m sad that you can’t just like, buy mince pies in the grocery stores here. also none of my roommates like it apparently which means I got to eat most of it myself, which is a rare treat since the leftovers of things I made that I like hardly ever stick around long enough for me to get any but that’s a whole other tangent

writing: has been a struggle recently. however I did finish and post this fic that I started a few months ago for a Persona rarepair event. it has very little to do with any of the events of the game and much more to do with the inherent homoeroticism of tending someone’s wounds, and also trying to survive under capitalism and wanting to do something to make the world better when you’re just so tired. please look at this testimonial, one of the best comments I’ve ever gotten on anything, I do love both themes and women

[dailynewswebsite]

Cannabis: the problem with defining products around THC content

Sam Doucette/Unsplash, FAL

Hashish coverage is present process a world revolution. World wide, legal guidelines are altering. Within the US, there at the moment are 15 states wherein hashish for adult-use functions is authorized, and almost three dozen the place it’s authorized for medical functions. In 2018, Canada turned the primary G7 nation to legalise hashish for all functions, following the primary nation to take action, Uruguay. Greater than 40 nations, on each continent besides Antartica, have applied a authorized framework for hashish, primarily for medical functions.

Within the UK, consumption of hashish – and cultivation, manufacturing and distribution that’s unlicensed for non-medical or non-industrial functions – continues to be unlawful, topic to a warning or a advantageous of £90. Penalties for possession and provide manufacturing vary from 5 to 14 years in jail, limitless fines or each.

However in November 2018, the UK authorities legalised medical hashish, marking the opening of its authorized, regulated market. This adopted information that Billy Caldwell, a younger boy with extreme epilepsy, was hospitalised after his hashish drugs have been confiscated in June 2018. The method of reform was expedited after the UK public known as the morality of the federal government into query.

Regardless of legalisation, affected person entry stays restricted – the few hundred individuals who have obtained medicines have primarily accomplished so by non-public healthcare. On this context, the truth that the UK has traditionally been the world’s largest exporter of medical hashish is one thing of a shock. This paradox cuts to the guts of lots of the developments throughout the worldwide hashish market.

The CBD market

Though medical hashish entry is restricted, there’s one other in style, authorized hashish market the place over-the-counter cannabis-based merchandise can be found. They’re predominantly made up of a cannabinoid known as cannabidol, generally known as CBD, which as an remoted compound is authorized within the UK.

A method CBD is outlined is by its THC (delta 9 tetrahydrocannabinol) content material. THC is likely one of the most generally studied and well-known hashish compounds, a precept chemical within the plant that individuals affiliate with “getting excessive”. THC for non-medical functions is illegitimate within the UK, and CBD merchandise should comprise lower than 0.2% THC and fewer than 1mg of THC per product: i.e. very, very small ranges.

Shoppers purchase CBD for power ache, anxiousness and inflammatory associated points, in addition to sleep, metabolism, pleasure and temper. Title your want – from intercourse to sleep, aid to restoration, focus to health and pores and skin well being to intestine well being – there doubtless is a CBD product that claims to kind it. At present, the UK CBD market worth is round £300 million.

Analysis has discovered advantages of CBD use for a variety of circumstances, reminiscent of epilepsy, anxiousness issues, and decreasing tobacco use. Acceptance is rising. Product alternative is ample, from beauty balms, gel capsules, liquid tinctures, meals and drinks, trans-dermal patches, even toothpaste and mascara (the latter lacks proof to be used).

CBD merchandise are marketed round the concept that they “can’t get you excessive”. This, in spite of everything, contributes to why they’re on the accepted facet of the legislation. And it’s true. You gained’t expertise a stereotypical excessive. However such jargon perpetuates the concept that “getting excessive” is shameful. To some sufferers, THC, or different psychotropic cannabinoids, are obligatory compounds of their drugs.

All through my analysis into the authorized hashish market, I’ve noticed how the commercialisation of the CBD market has created a deceptive dichotomy of “dangerous” THC versus “good” CBD. Media commentary about CBD invariably discusses THC as a worse “choice” – as if there have been solely two choices.

‘THC free’. PharmaHemp/Unsplash, FAL

THC vs. CBD

Out of the 400 plus chemical compounds within the hashish plant, CBD and THC are solely probably the most well-known, and researched, cannabinoids. Each are psychoactive substances. However, THC is psychotropic, and CBD is non-psychotropic.

Psychoactive results are a each day expertise to most. Regardless of how you’re taking your espresso, know that it features a dose of psychoactivity. Morning caffeine jitters and submit “espresso highs” are such symptomatic results. Chocolate lovers may have additionally skilled psychoactive results, reminiscent of improved temper, stress discount, and focus.

Psychotropic results, against this, are what folks stereotypically determine with the “excessive” of hashish. There is likely to be temper and mind-altering results, which change behaviour, ideas, notion and psychological and motor exercise. Most of the legal guidelines round hashish, each within the UK and elsewhere, cling on to this distinction between psychoactive and psychotropic compounds as a simple technique to distinguish between “benefical” and “dangerous” substances.

However the synergy of THC and CBD, and different cannabinoids like THCV, CBN, CBG and delta-Eight THC, are below investigation by scientists to discover how a number of compounds improve the potential impact of the plant. This characterises a idea known as “the entourage impact” that means that the synergy of varied molecules present in hashish, when mixed, maximises potential efficacy of a complete plant compound, relatively than remoted extracts.

This has been researched within the context of tension and temper issues, migraines, ache and complications, most cancers, irritation and Crohn’s illness. Traditionally there have been restrictions to conduct hashish analysis, so these research present a helpful basis for ongoing investigation.

Hashish is a fancy plant. People are complicated, numerous beings. Hashish legalisation within the UK – and lots of different nations – has aimed to simplify the plant, and its derived merchandise, however the commercialisation of this has created two clumsy and unhelpful classes. Finally, that is detrimental to the longevity of affected person entry, scientific analysis and public information about cannabis-based merchandise and different plant medicines.

Jessica Steinberg is the Founder and Managing Director of worldwide hashish consultancy, The World C. She works primarily with the North American and European hashish markets, together with tasks associated to hemp and CBD, medical hashish and adult-use hashish. Her analysis is partly funded by varied our bodies on the College of Oxford, together with her faculty, St. Hildas, and her division inside the School of Regulation. She was a John Blundell Scholar awarded by the Adam Smith Institute.

from Growth News https://growthnews.in/cannabis-the-problem-with-defining-products-around-thc-content/ via https://growthnews.in

[logh-icebergs]

Episode 18: The Lippstadt Conspiracy

April 797/488. Now that Reinhard’s pick for Kaiser has taken the throne, the oppositional Braunschweig and Littenheim assemble a motley crew of disgruntled nobles to overthrow him and take down Reinhard in the process. Obviously, this goes poorly for them. Before that happens, Hilda takes the initiative to arrange an alliance with Reinhard, firmly positioning herself as the only remotely intelligent noble not already in his admiralty. Braunschweig appoints veteran admiral Merkatz to lead his anti-Reinhard charge; Ferner (unsuccessfully) takes matters into his own hands; and Reinhard, having gotten the jump on Braunschweig, struts around extremely pleased with himself. Annerose, meanwhile, gazes sadly at nothing in particular, and I think Reuental and Mittermeyer are too busy arresting treasonous nobles to go on a date. Oh well.

A few episodes ago, Rebecca introduced some of the less prominent—though still important—characters in the Alliance. Well, the time has come to do the same for the Empire! Episode 18 has some politically important plot stuff, and finally (finally!) properly introduces Hilda, but in terms of hidden meaning below the surface, there’s not much to speak of. So without further ado, I present to you a Who’s Who of some of the Empire’s many side characters (and Hilda)!

Hildegard von Mariendorf

I’ve mentioned Hilda a couple times before, but there wasn’t really any reason to until now, beyond the fact that she’s my favorite character and I love her. Now, we get to spend some much-anticipated quality time with the galaxy’s best and brightest lesbian. I’ll get more into the queerness of Hilda later on, when it’s discussed more directly; for now, let’s take our cue from the show and focus on what she does rather than who she is.

Hilda is the smartest person in every room, especially when that room is a bar full of Imperial aristocrats.

When we first meet Hilda in episode 18, she’s eavesdropping on a bunch of nobles gossiping in a bar about who they plan to support in the upcoming battle for supremacy between Reinhard and Braunschweig et al. Hilda, of course, has already made up her mind, which we see in a flashback to a very recent conversation she had with her father on the subject.

Unlike all the other dads in LoGH, Hilda’s dad, Franz von Mariendorf, is not a piece of shit. He takes his daughter seriously, respects her political opinions, and has no qualms about ceding his family power to her.

The uniquely positive nature of Hilda’s relationship with her dad, like other contrasts and comparisons in the LoGH universe, draws attention to the intentionality of the creative team’s choice to show us so many bad fathers. I’ll be talking about this a LOT more later, so keep it in the back of your mind.

Hilda has (correctly) realized that betting on Reinhard is so safe it can hardly be called a bet, and with her father’s blessing, she arranges to meet with Reinhard himself to discuss terms of a mutually beneficial alliance. Her frankness and obvious political acumen impress Reinhard, who takes an immediate liking to her, accepts her proposal (even agreeing to give it to her in writing, when she pushes him on it), and then leaves to go start the civil war that she predicted.

Did you somehow miss that Hilda is super driven and intense? Her expression here should clear up any remaining doubts.

The most striking aspect of this scene, though, isn’t the political maneuvering—it’s the introduction of the dynamic between Reinhard and Hilda, one of the most interesting relationships in the whole show. Almost right away, Reinhard is caught off guard not by Hilda’s boldness, but by how much he obviously likes her. His invitation for her to dine with him sometime in the future is the first time we’ve ever seen Reinhard take the social initiative with anyone other than Kircheis.

Fun fact, though: The first word that Reinhard ever says to Hilda is actually none other than, you guessed it, “Kircheis.”

As we’ve discussed at length before, relying on heteronormative shortcuts will get you nowhere in LoGH: The mood of this scene, despite containing within it a man and a woman, is as businesslike as Hilda’s uncompromising tone throughout; Reinhard’s interest is, of course, platonic. I love them.

Ernest Mecklinger

As I’ve said, Reinhard/Kircheis and Reuental/Mittermeyer are the two Great Romances of LoGH, so among Reinhard and his admiralty and for the purposes of a queer reading of this show, I’ve been focusing primarily on those four. But the rest of Reinhard’s admiralty is worth talking about too! I’m not going to go through all of them yet, because honestly very few of them make an impression at this point, but I’d like to spotlight a couple (no, not an actual couple, for once) of the more prominent less-prominent admirals who have been adding background color and texture for a while now.

(From “My Conquest.”)

First up, Ernest Mecklinger! Canonically, I think he’s the only one of Reinhard’s admirals who has hobbies beyond “war” and “drinking.” They include: painting, general consumption of the arts, and presumably waxing his mustache. Mecklinger can usually be counted on to be level-headed and generous; he chooses his words carefully, and later on we’ll see scenes in which the only way to describe how he acts is Like A Sweetheart. In the novels, we are told that Mecklinger is nicknamed the “Artist-Admiral” because of how cultured and well-rounded he is.

Fritz Josef Bittenfeld

(From episode 16.)

On the complete opposite end of the spectrum is Bittenfeld, the short-tempered, bombastic commander of the Black Lancers (basically picture the intensity and camaraderie of the Rosen Ritter, except a fleet instead of an infantry unit, and without the long history of defection and betrayal). Bittenfeld has already been the recipient of one slap on the wrist—that would have been a lot more severe if not for Kircheis’s intervention—and frequently gets into trouble for rushing into dangerous situations before he’s fully thought them through, both on and off the battlefield.

Look, I did my best to sum up the differences between Bittenfeld and Mecklinger but I honestly don’t know why I bothered when this one exchange captures them so perfectly.

Anton Ferner

Here to answer the eternal question of “What if Oberstein, but hot?” is Anton Ferner, an Imperial cop who is loyal to whomever he dubs most able to make use of his loyalty. Like Oberstein, Ferner views himself less as someone with ambitions of his own and more as a tool to be wielded by someone more powerful. Also like Oberstein, Ferner has an unsettling air about him, made only slightly less so by the fact that he doesn’t habitually remove his eyeballs (that we know of).

You may remember Ferner from back in episode 9, when he sardonically refused to fire on the suicidally destructive Klopstock because a statue of Rudolph von Goldenbaum stood in his way.

However, whereas Oberstein has an overarching philanthropic goal that drives his utilitarian machinations, Ferner’s only motivation seems to be the joy he derives from serving someone he has deemed worthy. And here we get to the main difference between Ferner and Oberstein (other than their respective levels of hotness): Ferner can, in fact, feel joy! Or amusement, anyway.

Ferner is constantly smirking when he’s been bested in some way; he absolutely gets off on other people being powerful and talented, but again, we’re not here to kinkshame.

After Ferner ignores Braunschweig’s orders, attempts to assassinate Reinhard on his own, and is summarily defeated, he surrenders to Reinhard and offers him his loyalty. Reinhard, never one to scoff at potential no matter how it ends up in front of him, accepts and, appropriately, gives him to Oberstein as a pet.

I’ll bet you thought I was kidding.

Oberstein and Ferner, the creepiest utilitarian weirdos in the galaxy, have found each other at last! I’m sure they’ll get along great; Ferner, at least, will probably think Oberstein’s removable-eyeball trick is hilarious.  

And we must never ever forget that Ferner, according to Matsuri Okuda’s original character designs, started life as a rejected Reuental concept. Which may explain why I think he’s so beautiful.

Otto von Braunschweig (and Ansbach)

Have you noticed that nobody on Reinhard’s team—not even anyone of noble birth—has that awful George-Washington-style aristocrat hair? Even Mecklinger, who keeps his hair long, doesn’t wear it in a ponytail with an enormous bow. My point is that Braunschweig’s hairstyle, which is hideous, is also a good indicator that he is evil, or at least regressive. And whereas there’s an abundance of nuance when it comes to whether the Empire or the Alliance is morally “better,” everyone can agree on one thing: The Imperial nobles are bad. And Braunschweig, as their leader, is the most bad.

Another way to tell Braunschweig is evil is that he frequently does things like imply that if celebrated admirals don’t do his bidding, he’ll have their young daughters killed.

Braunschweig—who is the late Kaiser Friedrich IV’s son-in-law, by the way—is actually too unambiguously evil to be interesting on his own. The only thing that holds my attention about him beyond the fact that I want to cut off his ponytail is the fact that he is one half of yet another pair of men. And his loyal retainer and counterpart, Ansbach, is in turn only interesting insofar as parallels are set up between his relationship to Braunschweig and Kircheis’s relationship to Reinhard, particularly (so far at least) in episode 9:

Remember this? The similarities between Ansbach and Kircheis’s frenzied searches for Braunschweig and Reinhard, respectively, are too striking to be anything but intentional.

Like I said in my episode 9 post, though, there’s no reason as of yet to think that the relationship between Braunschweig and Ansbach is romantic; even if that’s what the parallels point to, they’re one-sided at this stage, so if Ansbach’s feelings of devotion do cross over into romantic territory, it’s unlikely that they’re reciprocated. Sorry, Ansbach.

Incidentally, Ansbach doesn’t have a last name. Or he doesn’t have a first name. In any case, he only has one name, and it’s Ansbach. Also, if I didn’t hate him so much, I’d be worried about his skin. He looks like he could use several glasses of water, maybe applied directly to his face.

Willibald Joachim von Merkatz (and Schneider)

Merkatz was actually voted the class of 447’s Most Expressive Eyebrows at military academy. Wow!

Merkatz, a very accomplished and grizzled admiral who has been griping about Reinhard and his youth since episode 1, will spend more time in the spotlight later, but I wanted to mention him now for a couple reasons: First of all, his eyebrows are incredible and I can’t stop watching him move them. I honestly don’t know what he’s saying most of the time because I’m too focused on his eyebrows. I’m simultaneously impressed and scared. Second of all, we can go ahead and add Merkatz to the growing stack of (male) characters who are one half of a defined (male) pair.

Merkatz’s counterpart, Bernhard von Schneider, is a young officer who spends most of his screentime in episode 18 with his jaw on the floor while Merkatz explains to him the concept of nuance.

Or maybe he’s just mesmerized by Merkatz’s eyebrows. Same, Schneider. Same.

Anyway, keep an eye on these two, and by these two, I mean Merkatz’s eyebrows. I’d also recommend maybe paying attention to Merkatz himself, and Schneider too, because there will be a lot more to say about them down the line.

Stray Tidbits

I really enjoy how ostentatious literally everything to come into contact with the Imperial nobility is; like how are Reinhard and Kircheis's ships less flashy than something? How?

I am being personally victimized by the fact that this guy’s monocle doesn’t actually fall out.