#it's just that if i identify it + explain my reasons for liking it this post will be super. long.

[tanadrin]

Can you explain in what what you think eugenics doesn't work? Does this basically boil down to skepticism about the accuracy of GWAS studies? My understanding is that academic consensus is "G probably exists, disentangling direct genetic inheritance vs genetic cultural inheritance is complicated but possible, we can identify a number of alleles which we're reasonably confident are directly causally involved in having a higher G factor"

when it comes to intelligence, its heritability, and its variation at the population level, my understanding of the science is:

highly adaptive traits don't, in fact, vary much at the genetic level between populations of a species because they are strongly selected for. in an environment where a trait is being strongly selected for, a population that failed to express that trait strongly will be rapidly outcompeted.

intelligence is probably the quintessential such trait for humans. we have sacrificed a great deal of other kinds of specialization in favor of our big brains. we spend an enormous amount of calories supporting those brains. tool use, the ability to plan for the future, the ability to navigate complex social situations and hierarchies in order to secure status, the ability to model the minds of others for the purposes of cooperation and deception means that we should expect intelligence to be strongly selected for for as long as our lineage has been social and tool-using, which is at least the last three million years or so.

so, at least as a matter of a priori assumptions, we should expect human populations not to vary greatly in their genetic predisposition to intelligence. it may nonetheless, but we'd need pretty strong evidence. i think i read this argument on PZ Myers' blog a million years ago, so credit where that's due.

complicating the picture is that we just don't have good evidence for how IQ does vary across populations, even before we get into the question of "how much of this variation is genetic and how much of it is not." the cross-national data on which a lot of IQ arguments have been based is really bad. and that would be assuming IQ tests are in fact good at capturing a notion of IQ that is independent of cultural context, which historically they're pretty bad at

this screed by nassim nicholas taleb (not a diss; AFAICT the guy only writes in screeds) makes a number of arguments, but one argument I find persuasive is that IQ is really only predictive of achievement in the sense that it does usefully discriminate between people with obvious intellectual disabilities and those without--but you do not actually need an IQ test for that sort of thing, any more than you need to use a height chart to figure out who is missing both their legs. in that sense, sure, IQ is predictive of a lot of things. but once you remove this group, the much-vaunted correlations between IQ and stuff like wealth just straight-up vanishes

heritability studies are a useful tool, but a tool which must be wielded carefully; they were developed for studying traits which were relatively easy to isolate in very specific populations, like a crop under study at an agricultural research site, and are more precarious when applied to, e.g., human populations

my understanding based on jonathan kaplan articles like this one is that twin studies are not actually that good at distinguishing heritable factors from environmental ones--they have serious limitations compared to heritability studies where you actually can rigorously control for environmental effects, like you can with plants or livestock.

as this post also points out, heritability studies also only examine heritability within groups, and are not really suited to examining large-scale population differences, *especially* in the realm of intelligence where there is a huge raft of confounding factors, and a lack of a really robust measurement tool.

(if we are worried about intelligence at the population level, it seems to me there are interventions we know are going to be effective and do not rely on deeply dubious scientific speculation, e.g., around nutrition and healthcare and serious wealth inequality and ofc education; and if what people actually want is to raise the average intelligence of the population rather than justify discrimination against minorities, then they might focus on those much more empirically grounded interventions. even if population differences in IQ are real and significant and point to big differences in intelligence, we know those things are worth a fair few IQ points. but most people who are or historically have been the biggest advocates for eugenics are, in my estimation, mostly interested in justifying discrimination.)

i think the claims/application of eugenics extend well beyond just intelligence, ftr. eugenics as an ideology is complex and historically pretty interesting, and many eugenicists have made much broader claims than just "population-level differences in intelligence exist due to genetic factors, and we should try to influence them with policy," but that is a useful point for them to fall back onto when pressed on those other claims. but i don't think even that claim is at all well-supported.

[nadianova]

I'm curious about what software you use to write. Also, since visual novels use name tags rather than "<character> said", how do you personally go about identifying who's talking in your drafts?

i used googledocs for the longest time and recently its typo autocorrect feature broke which is the main reason i used it so now i use libreoffice and even tho its buggy as hell and sucks ass at least its autocorrect works which is the only reason i use it

i dont identify who talks in my drafts by wrining anything i just know who is who . most dialogue scenes are like only two people talking and even for bigger groups you as the author should be only gettingf confused so rarely writing in character tags is a waste of time. even when i have my gf proofread she 99% of the time can intuit who is talking even withoit tags in the script file, when my writing is complete i add the tags when im copypasting my text into my renpy and adding syntax and rest of the code

sometimes if a scene is unclear andi i know that when about to send a snppet to someno i will just explain up front

[burinazar]

incomprehensible Sages shitposts. context explanations are in the tags but they are not going to help i promise

[nowendil]

been thinking a lot about womanhood lately

[235uranium]

gonna be real i have yet to see anything actually compelling for antipsych to be a decent methodology other than "psychology and psychiatry havent been very good at doing science, so clearly science cant answer this question"

[halfricanloveyou]

here’s the thing about being nonbinary for me personally: it is not and has never been about breaking boundaries or daring to be different or freedom of gender expression that made me suddenly choose to be nonbinary.

i have always been this way. i’ve always known but never fully understood why i felt so uncomfortable being a woman. it had nothing to do with leaning more towards femininity or masculinity or gender roles or hating women.

i have always felt that i have never been a woman. it never felt right to me being defined as one. though i share a lot of experiences with women due to society seeing me as a woman and people in society treating me that way, disliking femininity wasn’t what made me think i was nonbinary.

what made me really fully realize and understand was when i realized that when it came to me personally, i didn’t care about femininity OR masculinity. i didn’t really think in those kinds of terms when it came to myself either. the idea of gender isn’t one i felt applied to me, as a person.

i didn’t care about being a woman. i didn’t care about what things were labeled as “feminine” or what i was supposed to be like as a woman. i didn’t WANT to be a woman. i didn’t feel like a woman.

at the same time, i didn’t want to be masculine. i didn’t want to be seen as a man. though i feel i have more in common with men, i still never felt that i was a man.

it was always really difficult and alienating for me, not understanding why i felt so much dysphoria at being seen as a woman OR as a man. why being called either just never felt fully right to me. why trying to be either felt like a chore or a costume i had to put on, and when i was called or mistaken as either i felt like i wanted to scream and cry. why i never understood why i wasn’t good enough as either gender, not feminine enough or masculine enough, not fitting into either category.

i tried to force myself to be a woman. i tried really hard to be more feminine, really hard to force myself to see myself as a woman. i tried really hard to be like the many women i know and have known. and i tried the same on the opposite end. i tried to force myself to be more masculine. i tried to dress differently and posture differently. and it still felt deeply wrong to me.

i’d always appealed more to animals specifically because they didn’t have to worry or care about whether they were seen as boys or girls and they could be loved just as dearly even when their owners had no idea or what gender they were. how being a girl or a boy had very little impact on who they were because it didn’t really matter to them, and how people were always excited to see a dog or cat and what gender they thought the animal was didn’t change how they approached that animal because in reality, whether the animal was a boy or a girl came secondary to the fact that it WAS a pet, a dog or a cat, and in reality nobody really cared about what gender the animal was. and the animal itself also didn’t care or have any sense of it’s own gender outside of hormones and reproduction.

with the several farm cats i owned gender meant nothing when it came to their group dynamics: the cats that were “in charge” or the more combative cats that would chase off and fight cats outside of their colony or the ones who would hunt and bring food to share with each other, who were protective of the other cats in the colony and would attack any troublemakers that intentionally tried to pick a fight; or the ones who preferred to lay back and were more affectionate, who would all lay together and who would simply sit and stare when a cat they were unfamiliar with tried to enter their territory; or the cats that were the ones who seemed to be targeted and picked on by the other cats, who pushed the boundaries of the cats around them, who would randomly pick fights just to lose consistently, who would growl at the other cats and get into spats only to run away or be chastised; gender had nothing to do with which cats tended to fall into which role.

the cats i had that tended to be skittish or aggressive or active or affectionate…gender had no bearing on any of that. i always felt so jealous of that. i wanted to be a cat (especially in childhood lol) because i wanted to live in a world that had a dynamic like that. a world where gender didn’t matter, where no one really had any concept of gender and it really didn’t matter. no cat cared about whether the other was male or female and it didn’t change how they interacted. (unless it was something like intact male vs neutered male or female cat in heat and male cat)

when i finally heard the term non binary, that it was something that even existed, i knew instantly that it sounded like me. i was scared at first, went through a lot of self doubt and questioning myself, calling myself stupid for considering it. but then i started to understand what it really meant.

a gender identity that is neither male or female. a gender identity where the concept of gender simply didn’t apply. an identity where you didn’t have to pick one or the other or lean into one or the other. and once i finally let myself accept that identity i finally felt right. i didn’t have to pretend to care or go out of my way to be feminine or masculine. i didn’t have to care about being a lady or a woman or lean into being a man or wanting to present as masculine or any of that. i didn’t have to be what i was “supposed to be.” i didn’t have to be a tomboy or a girl that was proud to have masculine interests and still be as much of a woman as a feminine girly type of woman. i didn’t have to be a man at my core, being proud to have feminine interests while defining myself as just as much of a man as a more masculine man.

none of those felt right or felt like me or who i was. knowing that i didn’t have to force myself to be any gender or present/lean into any feminine or masculine ideal was freeing to me. that i could like any of the things i wanted without really thinking about whether they were feminine or masculine was so relieving. i could decide it didn’t matter to me. i could be someone who was neither or someone who none of those ideas applied to.

though i still suffer from low self esteem issues and mental health issues, i finally don’t hate myself for not being able to choose one identity or the other. i finally understand why i am the way that i am and why i felt so wrong and inadequate and unable to be the woman or man i was supposed to want to be.

in understanding that i didn’t have to be either if i didn’t want to, i was finally able to accept the person i’ve always been. and i’m finally able to accept that that person exists, even if people don’t understand or are disgusted by them or make fun of them. even though it’s supposed to be one or the other. i don’t have to choose. i don’t have to pick the option my body is biologically defined as.

[inkskinned]

which is fine, because love is love, and you're getting gay-married, so it would be kind of ironic if love was only sometimes love.

except The King Of Demons (his is Edmund) is always late, to everything, always. which is fair, because time doesn't work in hell, and it's not like he can just catch a bus. except that you specifically asked him not to do this, didn't you, because he's always doing things like this.

He splays out his hands, the light catching on long, ivory claw tips. god, doesn't he know not to wear white to a wedding?

so many people are screaming right now.

it's not that he's the golden child. you guys had normal parents, middle-class. your mom was kind of an "almond mom," according to your fiancée, who pursed their lips when they found out about how your mom used to wrinkle her nose any time you asked for an extra snack in your lunchbox.

you close your eyes for a moment. think of your beautiful almost-spouse. ashe. their name like a bloom inside you. how the dress looks on ashe's body, their shy little smile. how they'd walked down the aisle, and you'd both been half-laughing, half-crying. your hands had trembled when you saw them. like the whole world was pouring down your throat, golden. like you were catching a moment and casting it in amber.

ashe'd been the one to help you when your parents were pushing for you to invite edmund. god, the amount of fights you'd gotten in with your parents - the same six sentiments, over and over again.

you'd been sitting on your bed, biting your lip, your fingers hovering over the little button send. ashe'd nuzzled your neck. you used to be close, and i think that's important. but you know your relationship to him the most. i'm willing to make the effort, and i love you no matter what you choose, they'd said. we don't have to if you don't want to, though, no matter what your parents say about him.

you'd thrown yourself down, supine, arm over the eyes. he's just... we are just.... you tried to phrase that-which-is-love-and-rage.

you're the normal twin. your "big thing" was only "being a lesbian." in high school, edmund started being able to make birds die by looking at them. you came home, trying to tell your parents i kissed a girl. i think i'm - and they just kind of nodded at you. edmund was eating the bible in front of them, like a goat.

on the bed, you'd held your hands out vaguely to ashe. edmund is a just always a lot.

ashe had shrugged. don't invite him then. and it was that - that they were okay with either of your decisions - that is why he even got an invite, in the end.

and now here he is, like how you wanted (?), and your hands are red, clenched hard around your bouquet. the officiant is crying. some people are on their knees, praying. some are trying to touch your brother, like he could impart a blessing.

"i made it!" he's triumphant. "i know i'm late, i'm sorry, there was - do you know anything about right-wing politicians?"

"i'm going to fucking kill him," you say, although you're not actually sure who you're talking to, or if he can be killed.

ashe is blinking, their face in a tiny oh of surprise. you take their hand, drop their hand, take their hand again. they blink at your brother. their voice is low but steady. "there's, um. is there a dark halo around him?"

you duck your head to meet their eyes. "fuck, ashe. i'm sorry. he wasn't supposed to -"

"did i miss it?" Edmund is swinging his head around far-too-wide. his 2 sets of horns leave little red mist any time they scour through the air. "I didn't miss the kiss, right?"

the town clerk is in the audience, and she's frowning. you send her an apologetic look. she shakes her head. "as we've discussed," she manages to throw her gentle voice over the din, "the wedding isn't official if someone objects. that is the legal statute. which people tend to be understanding of." she sends a dirty look to edmund, and that makes you love her. she seems completely calm, which makes sense, because she works in the town hall, and this probably isn't even her first demon-showing-up-at-a-wedding.

he somehow hears her, holds his hands up. "i'm not objecting!" the back of the event hall catches on fire. of-fucking-course. "i'm not - don't mind me, uh, please continue." edmund sends a look to the back-of-the-room fire and it whimpers and gutters out. he flashes you a winning smile, and then puts his hand to his king's-garb chest and mouths sorry! and then cartwheels his glittering talons to say go ahead.

"i think i'm going to throw up." the officiant's voice is barely a whisper.

you watch in horror as edmund tries to awkwardly slide into a waiting line of chairs. the sound of begging follows him, people on their knees at hell's king. he pats a few of them on the head, holding up his finger in a sheepish shh! while his touch leaves a bleeding rune on their skin. his hooves click, and his footprints leave ruby-bright fireroses in his wake.

he tries to sit down, but the wooden chairs are made for people and not the lord king of demons, so he has to span his furred hindquarters over two seats. he smiles again, offers you a little wave.

the room is dead silent, minus the weeping. you look back to ashe. you ruined this. you shouldn't have invited him. you spent so much money on this event, and ashe looks so fucking handsome, and you haven't even gotten to kiss them. to make it official.

ashe looks up at you, manages a little smile. "could be worse?"

you feel yourself start to smile too, but then edmund's chairs give out, and he falls directly on the floor, and with his startled yelp, everything around him bursts into the cold whip-crease of hellflame, disintegrating everything that isn't-a-person, including the flowers and the decorations and the cake and the tables. everything you saved for months to be able to afford. the venue that you both agonized over choosing. you picked this place because it was significant to both of you and was equidistant from both your parents and had a deal with the local hotel for people coming out of town. two years of planning, literally burning down around your ears.

edmund manages to stop the fire pretty much immediately, but it's too late. the officiant faints clear away. the town clerk gives you a sympathetic look and mouths see you soon and steps neatly out of the room, taking ashe's parents with her, chatting gently. an arched flower frame collapses into dust with a loud whoomp. pretty much nobody is left in the building, and you're standing at the top of the steps, at the fucking hour of your marriage, and there is nothing left but blue-cold embers, the lights blown out in favor of the eerie hellfire glow.

you sit down, hard. after a few seconds, you feel ashe sit down next to you. you put your head between your knees so you don't puke with rage, which would be somehow more humiliating than everything else happening at the moment.

"okay, it's definitely too soon," they whisper in your ear, "but i have to admit there is something that's going to be so funny later about my name being ashe and my wedding going up in flames." they wrap their hand in yours. "i can't believe we worried about candles. we should have just gone with them instead of worrying about safety. are you okay?"

you send them a look. "am i - am i okay? this absolute bitch -" you gesture with your free hand out to where edmund is trying to piece together the cinders of his chair, "ruined my fucking wedding."

your mom is standing awkwardly in what used to be the "family" row of chairs. your father is absent, of course. she makes a noise at you. "don't call your brother a bitch."

"oh my fucking god." you have to put your head between your knees again, fighting that stupid fucking rage-puke urge. your blood pressure has obviously reached "skyrocket".

"he's here, isn't he? you're not being particularly grateful," your mother says, because of course she does.

"oh my god! ohmygod. ohmygod." you feel yourself hyperventilating, and then you start laughing, and you hate the hyena hysteria of it, the way it pitches dangerously close to a sob. "this is just - this is just like you! this is the fucking - you blow out the candles on the birthday cake! you curse the kids i'm trying to babysit! you get straight-A's on every test without studying, and get all the friends, and everyone is obsessed with you! and then when i graduate from art school, do i fucking get a party? nope! but hey, let's throw edmund a party for his 300,000th tortured soul! and his 300,001st! and fucking everything else. and fuck me, i guess! edmund gets hurt on the playground, let's burn down the playground. i got fucking bullied, and our parents don't even notice. i am fucking struggling, but we need to pay attention to edmund. he gets fucking everything. while we're at it, why don't we let him fucking ruin my wedding!"

you are dimly aware of ashe wrapping one arm around you and then the other, and then you are sobbing into their shoulder.

"oh, come on. stop with the hysterics," your mother chides you. "you had a perfectly fine childhood. all kids fight. you should have gotten the ceremony done faster. and you know i didn't approve of you spending all this money when you have student loans to -"

"respectfully," ashe's voice is cold and cutting while they rub circles on your shaking back, "and i know you're about to be my mother-in-law, but -" you hear them force a smile, "maybe you could choose this moment to leave your daughter the fuck alone?"

you are so fucking in love with ashe at that moment that it stops your weeping like you got hit by a truck. you look up at them, and want to go back to crying, just overwhelmed by the sheer fucking amount you care about them, but then you look over at your mother, and her shocked expression, and you burst out laughing.

your mother makes a few almost fish-like motions with her mouth, and then turns on her heel, stomping over cinders on her way out. and then it is just you and ashe and edmund and how you are half-crying half-laughing quietly to yourself, like a tap that won't stop dripping.

edmund has put the chair down. he is staring at his hands. he is at least 500 pounds and over 7 feet tall (he doesn't use metric, he's the devil). and somehow, right now, he just looks... small. crestfallen.

"yeah, i mean." his voice cracks. there's no boom of thunder or hellhound echo. he sounds like he did as a kid, before the strange powers and the levitating and the souls of the damned. he sounds like he did the night he accidentally melted most of the pieces in your first glass art show. he sounds - like your brother. he puts the heel of his palm against his eye. "i ruined my sister's wedding."

ashe offers him a little half-grin. "i do just want to say i love the aesthetic, by the way. but you did very much ruin my wedding too."

he points at them, finger-guns. "....ruined their wedding too." something in the attempt at humor - how his voice breaks on the words, how lonely he sounds. it makes you have to close your eyes against the sound. "....you seem cool," he says. "it's... it was nice to meet you."

you hear him come over, his hooves clacking slowly on the floor. when you open your eyes, he's sitting closer to you.

he opens his hand. inside are two little ceramic figures. wedding cake toppers. "i... i made them for you two. i figured i would try - how you make art, without magic. i... i took a class, and i made - i made them." he looks down at the little white-dressed people in his wide, calloused palm. "it's... i wanted to be ... good. i..." he looks at you, and then at ashe. "i tried, you know?"

ashe reaches up, lets him roll the figures into their palm.

he stands up. folds his hands in front of himself. "i don't. know how to be good. i know it doesn't come naturally to you, either. i saw you... choose. to be kind. you could have treated me different, too. like everybody? i was weird, and everyone knew. if you'd been ... mean? it would have been okay. but you." he shrugs. "one time you tried to kill me in the bathroom."

you don't know why you're crying. you look up at him through the cracks between your fingers. "twice," you croak. "but the second time i had a knife." you tuck your hair behind your ears. "but that was only after you pushed me down the stairs at grandma's and i broke my leg before a dance performance. you fuckin' deserved that one."

"i pushed you because you were being a wretched bitch."

"hey now," ashe says, a little edge to their voice, "that's my wife."

you squeeze their hand. "no, he's right. i had deleted his pokemon gold save file right before the elite four."

ashe drops your hand like you scalded them, showing the only horror you've seen this whole time. "you - girl, what the fuck?"

you shrug a little. "i was being a wretched bitch. and he did break my leg about it."

edmund shifts a little. "i just - you are...." his voice dies.

in your family, you don't say i love you. in your family, you don't touch each other or show affection. in your family, you just show up for each other, quietly. neither of you knows how to speak or process what needs to be said. you can see that lacking flashing over his face, literally playing out in shades of crimson. you get that weird twin-sense of something unsaid.

ashe sets the little ceramic people to the side. "she treated you like a person when everyone else treated you like a prophet."

you cut your eyes to them, and then edmund, who gives you one very short, sharp nod. "i, uh. i can. never try." he clears his throat. "i can never try hard enough. for that. i can - what you gave me. by. doing that. by ... just. i made. one thousand. wedding toppers. so it could be perfect. because - i ... it needed to be perfect." he appears to be dying of embarrassment, which does imply he might be capable of dying. oh good. in case i need to try to kill him a third time.

the thought makes a weird, wet laugh bubble out of you. "remember that one time i failed my math test and you set mr. fog's car on fire about it?"

edmund looks shyly at you, and a very small grin spreads across his face. not the dark lord - just a 30-something year old man who has just upset his one-and-only twin.

"you're throwing us the most ostentatious, egregiously expensive wedding," you tell him. "above land."

he frowns a little. "okay, but i'm not doing anything in miami. the vibes there give me the heebie jeebies."

ashe holds up their hand. "and you'll be repaying the deposit on literally everything. oh, and replacing the cake."

you kiss their cheek and then point to him. "and you'll be on time for it."

he shrugs a little. "okay, i literally can't perform miracles, so like. set the bar lower. i can't promise i'll-"

you look down at your feet. "i'd like you to be my man of honor this time. like. by my side. so. you can't be late this time. okay? we do it the right way. finally."

"huh," ashe says, looking between the two of you. "you guys have the same smile."

edmund's grin becomes a little wider, a little easier. he raises an eyebrow at them. "okay, i get that you're cool, but you're like, very cool about this whole thing."

ashe lifts a shoulder. "used to work for the monster under the bed."

"oh shit, simon? fuck." he points to them. "remind me not to mess around with you."

you want to tell edmund i love you and i missed you, but you can't. instead, you pick up the figurines. they're not perfect, but you can tell hours of his life went into each. his hands are so big - it must have taken him so much work to make these things so small. you picture him with his back bent over a workbench, trying to get a face into a tiny clay figure. the ceramic version of you is smiling. he's given you little fangs and a unibrow. he gave ashe a tiny yellow crown. you make the two figures kiss.

snow is falling indoors, little icicles of hellfire. ashe reaches out and take edmund's hand, and then, very awkwardly, he reaches out and takes yours too.

for a moment, it's just the three of you, and the beautiful quiet of the room.

You’re standing at the altar, about to get married to your beautiful fiancée. When suddenly the king of demons bursts through the door of the room, which naturally causes panic. You tried to warn everyone that inviting your sibling to the wedding would mean trouble, but they kept insisting.

[snekdood]

bitches prolly out here psychoanalyzing my old art on behalf of my abuser to cushion their belief that im a Horrible Person but then dont see the irony when I point out the shitty things my abuser has drawn and how I see it as clear evidence of their mindset and beliefs (of what's okay to do and how to treat people) descending and pairing that along with everything else they've done and it paints a clear picture of how this person got to the point of thinking it was okay to abuse me the way they did and then the people looking for reasons to hate me through my art will act like "they're just drawings !!!" about their art. which one is it. does someones art say something about them or not? or does it only say something about them if you hate them?

[porcupine-girl]

An important message to college students: Why you shouldn't use ChatGPT or other "AI" to write papers.

Here's the thing: Unlike plagiarism, where I can always find the exact source a student used, it's difficult to impossible to prove that a student used ChatGPT to write their paper. Which means I have to grade it as though the student wrote it.

So if your professor can't prove it, why shouldn't you use it?

Well, first off, it doesn't write good papers. Grading them as if the student did write it themself, so far I've given GPT-enhanced papers two Ds and an F.

If you're unlucky enough to get a professor like me, they've designed their assignments to be hard to plagiarize, which means they'll also be hard to get "AI" to write well. To get a good paper out of ChatGPT for my class, you'd have to write a prompt that's so long, with so many specifics, that you might as well just write the paper yourself.

ChatGPT absolutely loves to make broad, vague statements about, for example, what topics a book covers. Sadly for my students, I ask for specific examples from the book, and it's not so good at that. Nor is it good at explaining exactly why that example is connected to a concept from class. To get a good paper out of it, you'd have to have already identified the concepts you want to discuss and the relevant examples, and quite honestly if you can do that it'll be easier to write your own paper than to coax ChatGPT to write a decent paper.

The second reason you shouldn't do it?

IT WILL PUT YOUR PROFESSOR IN A REALLY FUCKING BAD MOOD. WHEN I'M IN A BAD MOOD I AM NOT GOING TO BE GENEROUS WITH MY GRADING.

I can't prove it's written by ChatGPT, but I can tell. It does not write like a college freshman. It writes like a professional copywriter churning out articles for a content farm. And much like a large language model, the more papers written by it I see, the better I get at identifying it, because it turns out there are certain phrases it really, really likes using.

Once I think you're using ChatGPT I will be extremely annoyed while I grade your paper. I will grade it as if you wrote it, but I will not grade it generously. I will not give you the benefit of the doubt if I'm not sure whether you understood a concept or not. I will not squint and try to understand how you thought two things are connected that I do not think are connected.

Moreover, I will continue to not feel generous when calculating your final grade for the class. Usually, if someone has been coming to class regularly all semester, turned things in on time, etc, then I might be willing to give them a tiny bit of help - round a 79.3% up to a B-, say. If you get a 79.3%, you will get your C+ and you'd better be thankful for it, because if you try to complain or claim you weren't using AI, I'll be letting the college's academic disciplinary committee decide what grade you should get.

Eventually my school will probably write actual guidelines for me to follow when I suspect use of AI, but for now, it's the wild west and it is in your best interest to avoid a showdown with me.

[clone-wars-retteyo-au]

YOU. YOU GET ME.

Canon genders the clones, both individually and collectively, pretty aggressively. They're men, brothers, boys, sirs. Omega is notable for being the "female" clone, to the point where she's not recognized as a clone in a meaningful way.

But the clones grew up without gendered social groups! Despite how clones are gendered by external factors, gender is functionally a nonentity in their lives until they meet civilians, and civilians do a load of other weird shit anyway.

So why do they still use gendered language?

My argument is that feminine language isn't used as a gendered form of address, but as a form of address that reflects a specific kind of power dynamic and relationship between parties.

Given the structure of the clone army, the only people a vast majority of young clones interact with who could insist on being called ma'am are exclusively kaminoans.

The kaminoans view clones not as autonomous subjects, but as property. They have and expect complete control over their lives and actions. Incidentally, the female kaminoans we see (such as Nala Se) tend to demonstrate an even more proprietary perspectives on the clones.

You can question a sir, like your superiors or trainers, at your discretion, but you can't question a ma'am. A sir is someone who has power over you, but is somewhat responsible for you. The have personal accountability to you in some way. Sirs are responsible for men under them. A ma'am is someone whose power over you is absolute, an authority without accountability, who is not beholden to you but that you must obey. You are tool or a number to a ma'am.

And when you bring clones out into the wider galaxy, I'm not sure anyone would figure it out that quickly.

Say you're a new jedi general. You meet your men, and they address you as "ma'am". Maybe you correct and move on, figuring that they've grown up surrounded by thousands of identical men and aren't great at guessing genders based on social and appearance cues. Scuttlebutt has your forms of address spread through the men by the end of the day, and you don't think about it again.

The clones, on the other hand, take this correction as he/him jedi stating that they want to work with them and suppourt them despite having so much power over them, which fits with both what they know of the jedi and, most often, their leadership style.

She/her jedi (see Shaak Ti especially!), clones maybe treat a little more as absolute authorities. This gendered divide in behavior gets met with, "hm, maybe they're just not used to women." For many jedi, they eventually switch to calling them sir as well, especially as they build rapport.

For Shaak Ti specifically, she is an absolute authority as the representative of the Jedi on Kamino, not just as a figurehead but as a decision maker and educator. Even as the clones grow to trust and love her, she's a relatively distant and all-powered figure. She has near total authority over them, and clones might ask for help or suppourt, but there's no social obligation for those requests to be met, she's just kind. It's compassion, not duty.

Senators, there's a good mix of different factors that make it confusing. "Senator" is always an acceptable form of address if you're not sure how'd they react, even if they should be ma'ams by default, but they're either trying to build rapport for some reason or genuinely want to work with you when they say to call them sir, regardless of the actual power dynamic at play. The she/her senators that respect the clones are in the same boat as Shaak Ti: Padme Amidala may care about clone rights, but I am still just one of hundreds to her and she has no personal accountability to me. Her position is such that she should not and cannot owe me anything. Same with Riyo Chuchi, Mon Mothma, etc. etc.

And a civilian that insists on being called ma'am or sir is going to be an asshole either way, and they technically have power over clones without personal accountability or responsibility for them. It works.

Finally, Palpatine.

He's a slimy rat fuck who pretends to be affable and kind, so of course he's going to laugh and say, "Oh, no, call me Sir!" when you call him ma'am. He is not personally accountable to you, and he does not care about you, but it helps his image and it helps him manipulate people to pretend, so of course he's making you use sir to build false intimacy despite the fact that he's the ma'am of ma'ams, both in power gaps and lack of accountability for his treatment of clones.

So having clones using sir vs ma'am not as a reflection of gender but as a reflection of power? Yeah, I think it works.

[copperbadge]

I'm getting depressingly good at identifying the formula for Pop Academic Books About ADHD.

Regardless of their philosophy it pretty much goes like this:

1. Emotionally sensitive essay about the struggle of ADHD and the author's personal experience with it as both a person with ADHD and a healthcare professional.

2. Either during or directly following this, a lightly explicated catalogue of symptoms, illustrated by anecdotes from patient case studies. Optional: frequent, heavy use of metaphor to explain ADHD-driven behavior.

3. Several chapters follow, each dedicated to a symptom; these have a mini-formula of their own. They open with a patient case study, discuss the highly relatable aspects of the specific symptom or behavior, then offer some lightweight examples of a treatment for the symptom, usually accompanied by follow up results from the earlier case studies.

4. Somewhere around halfway-to-two-thirds through the book, the author introduces the more in-depth explication of the treatment system (often their own homebrew) they are advocating. These are generally both personally-driven (as opposed to suggested cultural changes, which makes sense given these books' target audience, more on this later) and composed of an elaborate system of either behavior alteration or mental reframing. Whether this system is actually implementable by the average reader varies wildly.

5. A brief optional section on how to make use of ADHD as a tool (usually referring to ADHD or some of its symptoms as a superpower at least once). Sometimes this section restates the importance of using the systems from part 4 to harness that superpower. Frequently, if present, it feels like an afterthought.

6. Summation and list of further resources, often including other books which follow this formula.

I know I'm being a little sarcastic, but realistically there's nothing inherently wrong about the formula, like in itself it's not a red flag. It's just hilariously recognizable once you've noticed it.

It makes sense that these books advocate for the Reader With ADHD undertaking personal responsibility for their treatment, since these are in the tradition of self-help publishing. They're aimed at people who are already interested in doing their own research on their disability and possible ways to handle it. It's not really fair to ask them to be policy manuals, but I do find it interesting that even books which advocate stuff like volunteering (for whatever reason, usually to do with socialization issues and isolation, often DBT-adjacent) never suggest disability activism either generally or with an ADHD-specific bent.

None of these books suggest that perhaps life with ADHD could be made easier with increased accommodations or ease of medication access, and that it might be in a person's best interest to engage in political advocacy surrounding these and other disability-related issues. Or that activism related to ADHD might help to give someone with ADHD a stronger sense of ownership of their unique neurology. Or that if you have ADHD the idea of activism or even medical self-advocacy is crushingly stressful, and ways that stress might be dealt with.

It does make me want to write one of my own. "The Deviant Chaos Guide To Being A Miscreant With ADHD". Includes chapters on how to get an actual accurate assessment, tips for managing a prescription for a controlled substance, medical and psychiatric self-advocacy for people who are conditioned against confrontation, When To Lie About Being Neurodivergent, policy suggestions for ADHD-related legislation, tips for activism while executively dysfunked, and to close the book a biting satire of the pop media idea of self-care. ("Feeling sad? Make yourself a nice pot of chicken soup from scratch and you'll feel better in no time. Stay tuned after this rambling personal essay for the most mediocre chicken soup recipe you've ever seen!" "Have you considered planning and executing an overly elaborate criminal heist as a way to meet people and stay busy?")

Every case study or personal anecdote in the book will have a different name and demographics attached but will also make it obvious that they are all really just me, in the prose equivalent of a cheap wig, writing about my life. "Kelly, age seven, says she struggles to stay organized using the systems neurotypical children might find easy. I had to design my own accounting spreadsheet in order to make sure I always have enough in checking to cover the mortgage, she told me, fidgeting with the pop socket on her smartphone."

I feel a little bad making fun, because these books are often the best resource people can get (in itself concerning). It's like how despite my dislike of AA, I don't dunk on it in public because I don't want to offer people an excuse not to seek help. It feels like punching down to criticize these books, even though it's a swing at an industry that is mainly, it seems, here to profit from me. But one does get tired of skimming the hype for the real content only to find the real content isn't that useful either.

Les (not his real name) was diagnosed at the age of 236. Charming, well-read, and wealthy, he still spent much of his afterlife feeling deeply inadequate about his perceived shortcomings. "Vampire culture doesn't really acknowledge ADHD as a condition," he says. "My sire wouldn't understand, even though he probably has it as well. You should see the number of coffins containing the soil of his homeland that he's left lying forgotten all over Europe." A late diagnosis validated his feelings of difference, but on its own can't help when he hyperfocuses on seducing mortals who cross his path and forgets to get home before sunrise. "I have stock in sunburn gel companies," he jokes.

[enigmaris]

Reading a lot of DPxDC fics lately, heres my take on the Danny is Damian's twin AU:

Danny was injured to near death and left for dead by the League as a young boy. Ra's only wanted one heir and Danny was less bloodthirsty than Damian, so it was decided that Danny had to go.

Danny is found and taken to a hospital in Illinois, barely alive. He is saved and wakes up with basically no memories of where he was from and speaking a rare dialect of arabic that none of the cops investigating his case can identify. What words Danny does know in english are concerning so the cops figure Danny was being held by some sort of murder, death cult.

The investigation runs cold and Danny is sent to foster care once his injuries heal. He is then adopted by the fentons and moves to Amity Park. As he grows the only clear memories he has of his past is another boy his age who he felt safe with. He knows the other boy is important to him but not why. He cant even really remember his face, certainly not his name. Danny always felt shitty that he couldnt remember the other boy because if he did, then the cops would have rescued him from the murder death cult too. Instead the other boy is presumably there and getting hurt all the time like Danny was.

Danny gets his powers like normal at 14 and decides that now that he has superpowers he absolutely has to save that other boy. Sam and Tucker help him gather clues, he starts to remember a bit more. He remembers the word ahki and realizes that the other boy is his brother!! Which just really enhances Dannys need to save him from the murder death cult. Eventually Tucker finds a picture of Damian Wayne and Danny is like thats him. Thats my brother.

Wait.

Bruce Wayne is his brothers dad???

Bruce Wayne is a rich fruitloop like Vlad obviously, so he is probably a member of the murder cult. Danny has to rescue his brother from the illuminati.

Cue Sam going to a socialite dinner in gotham much to her parents delight. Getting close to Damian by talking about animal rights, slipping him some sleeping pills in his vegan food. Tucker hacking into the gala and causing a commotion. Danny lugging an unconscious Damian out of the Gala and into the GAV ( no, his parents dont know why he borrowed the car or where he is).

Damian wakes up and immediately tries to attack Danny thinking hes a clone. Danny is like woah shit no its me! Its your brother. Damian is like Danyal is dead. Danny is like obviously not. Now chill out im rescuing you from the cult.

Damian, who has been secrectly mourning his twin for years, has never heard anyone call the League of Assassins a cult. He has to reevaluate a lot of things while Danny drives the GAV out of Gotham as fast as he can. Danny explains his whole backstory and how he is sorry he didnt come to save Damian earlier, his memories were gone but he had never forgotten how important Damian was to him. Damian doesnt do emotions on a good day and is unable to handle that like a normal person.

"Father isnt part of the cult, Danyal."

"Hes a billionaire from Gotham, of course he is!"

Damian who has fought many rich people from gotham, all of whom were evil, tries to find an explanation that isnt 'our dad is batman'. Danny isnt listening to any of it, promising Damian that he will be safe from the murder cult in Amity.

Damian eventually gets out that their mother was in the cult and their father didn't know about them. Danny pulls the GAV over and looks at Damian.

"Did i just kidnap you for no reason?"

"It was a kind gesture at least Danyal."

"Fuck. I just kidnapped bruce wayne's kid in the middle of a gala, am i super villain now?"

"Not if you take me home. Father will understand Danyal."

"I dont want to go to jail!"

Damian gives Danny the address to Wayne Manor and Danny drives to Bristol.

When they walk inside Damian now has to explain the whole 'had a dead brother i never told you about' thing to a less than amused batfam.

Danny introduces himself to Bruce and says that he has an adopted family back in illinois, but that he would be happy to get to know Bruce, also sorry about the kidnapping i dont normally do that i thought you were part of the illumimati and i had to rescue my brother.

Bruce just hopes this kid is normal.

(Hint: he's not)

[inkskinned]

you're grabbing lunch with a nice man and he gives you that strange grimace-smile that's popular right now; an almost sardonic "twist" of his mouth while he looks literally down on you. it looks like he practiced the move as he leans back, arms folded. he just finished reciting the details of NFTs to you and explaining Oppenheimer even though he only watched a youtube about it and hasn't actually seen it. you are at the bottom of your wine glass.

you ask the man across from you if he has siblings, desperately looking for a topic. literally anything else.

he says i don't like small talk. and then he smiles again, watching you.

a few years ago, you probably would have said you're above celebrity gossip, but honestly, you've been kind of enjoying the dumb shit of it these days. with the rest of the earth burning, there's something familiar and banal about dragging ariana grande through the mud. you think about jeanette mccurdy, who has often times gently warned the world she's not as nice as she appears. you liked i'm glad my mom died but it made you cry a lot.

he doesn't like small talk, figure out something to say.

you want to talk about responsibility, and how ariana grande is only like 6 days older than you are - which means she just turned 30 and still dresses and acts like a 13 year old, but like sexy. there's something in there about the whole thing - about insecurity, and never growing up, and being sexualized from a young age.

people have been saying that gay people are groomers. like, that's something that's come back into the public. you have even said yourself that it's just ... easier to date men sometimes. you would identify as whatever the opposite of "heteroflexible" is, but here you are again, across from a man. you like every woman, and 3 people on tv. and not this guy. but you're trying. your mother is worried about you. she thinks it's not okay you're single. and honestly this guy was better before you met, back when you were just texting.

wait, shit. are you doing the same thing as ariana grande? are you looking for male validation in order to appease some internalized promise of heteronormativity? do you conform to the idea that your happiness must result in heterosexuality? do you believe that you can resolve your internal loneliness by being accepted into the patriarchy? is there a reason dating men is easier? why are you so scared of fucking it up with women? why don't you reach out to more of them? you have a good sense of humor and a big ol' brain, you could have done a better job at online dating.

also. jesus christ. why can't you just get a drink with somebody without your internal feminism meter pinging. although - in your favor (and judgement aside) in the case of your ariana grande deposition: you have been in enough therapy you probably wouldn't date anyone who had just broken up with their wife of many years (and who has a young child). you'd be like - maybe take some personal time before you begin this journey. like, grande has been on broadway, you'd think she would have heard of the plot of hamlet.

he leans forward and taps two fingers to the table. "i'm not, like an andrew tate guy," he's saying, "but i do think partnership is about two people knowing their place. i like order."

you knew it was going to be hard. being non-straight in any particular way is like, always hard. these days you kind of like answering the question what's your sexuality? with a shrug and a smile - it's fine - is your most common response. like they asked you how your life is going and not to reveal your identity. you like not being straight. you like kissing girls. some days you know you're into men, and sometimes you're sitting across from a man, and you're thinking about the power of compulsory heterosexuality. are you into men, or are you just into the safety that comes from being seen with them? after all, everyone knows you're failing in life unless you have a husband. it almost feels like a gradebook - people see "straight married" as being "all A's", and anything else even vaguely noncompliant as being ... like you dropped out of the school system. you cannot just ignore years of that kind of conditioning, of course you like attention from men.

"so let's talk boundaries." he orders more wine for you, gesturing with one hand like he's rousing an orchestra. sir, this is a fucking chain restaurant. "I am not gonna date someone who still has male friends. also, i don't care about your little friends, i care about me. whatever stupid girls night things - those are lower priority. if i want you there, you're there."

he wasn't like this over text, right? you wouldn't have been even in the building if he was like this. you squint at him. in another version of yourself, you'd be running. you'd just get up and go. that's what happens on the internet - people get annoyed, and they just leave. you are locked in place, almost frozen. you need to go to the bathroom and text someone to call you so you have an excuse, like it's rude to just-leave. like he already kind of owns you. rudeness implies a power paradigm, though. see, even your social anxiety allows the patriarchy to get to you.

you take a sip of the new glass of wine. maybe this will be a funny story. maybe you can write about it on your blog. maybe you can meet ariana grande and ask her if she just maybe needs to take some time to sit and think about her happiness and how she measures her own success.

is this settling down? is this all that's left in your dating pool? just accepting that someone will eventually love you, and you have to stop being picky about who "makes" you a wife?

you look down to your hand, clutching the knife.

[fallingfavourites]

the fisher king - cm fanfic

summary: Everyone on the team had gotten 2 weeks off. Elle and Derek decided to not waste a second of it and flew away to Jamaica. Hotchner went to spend time with his family. Gideon would most likely be birdwatching in his cabin if you had to guess, he doesn’t like sharing much about his personal life. Neither does Reid who is heading back home to Las Vegas. You stayed at home to relax. no one had expected the terrifying turn this vacation would take.

pairing: bau team x reader (platonic), hints/alludes at spencer reid x reader and elle greenaway x reader

cw/tw: typical cm violence, shooting, blood

word count: 8,568

a/n: basically just follows the fisher king episodes plot, english isn't my first language and im dyslexic so sorry in advance, tried to edit as best as i could! i hope this fic makes sense i dont even know anymore, enjoy!! feedback is always appreciated just dont be mean about it pls

main masterlist - cm masterlist

Everyone on the team had gotten 2 weeks off. Elle and Derek decided to not waste a second of it and flew away to Jamaica. Hotchner went to spend time with his family. Gideon would most likely be birdwatching in his cabin if you had to guess, he doesn’t like sharing much about his personal life. Neither does Reid who is heading back home to Las Vegas. You had just ended up on your couch with a cozy blanket and a movie you had been meaning to watch. A sudden loud ringing made you jump up. Rubbing your eyes so they can refocus.

You had fallen asleep. You would’ve laughed at yourself if it wasn’t for the constant loud ringing. Finally, finding your phone between the blanket you picked up without looking at the caller ID.  “Y/n? Y/n?” It took a second for you to register JJ’s voice as she repeated your name.

“Yeah, Yeah, I’m here is everything okay?” you asked, running a hand through your hair. “You need to get to the office. Now.” She sounded serious.

“What happened?” You asked as you vaguely heard someone talk to JJ. It kind of sounded like Gideon. If he came to the office, it must be serious.

“Tell me when I get there, I’m on my way.” You said, not even waiting for her to respond to your question and you hung up. A million thoughts race through your head as you put on a work-appropriate outfit. As soon as you were ready you got in your car and drove to the bau as quickly as you could.

When you arrive JJ immediately walks up to you and starts filling you in. Elle got arrested, Gideon received a head in the mail, Hotch had a strange phone call, and she had just gotten a framed butterfly. “So, someone is targeting the team?” Crossing your arms over your body. You’ve worked for the bau a few years now and have never experienced anything like this.

“You didn’t get anything?” JJ questioned. It was strange. “No, I haven’t.” You replied.

“Huh, that’s strange.” She said what you were just thinking. JJ frowned, clearly trying to think of a reason why you didn’t. “I’ll keep my eye out for anything strange.” You nodded as you told her.

After about 30 minutes of looking over all the evidence the team had gathered so far, Elle, Morgan, and Hotch stepped out of the elevator. JJ walked up to them, so you got up and made your way over.

“Virginia? You mean that son of a bitch is from here?” This is the first thing you hear Elle say as you open the glass doors. Talking about Frank Giles.

“I don’t know if he’s from here, but this is where he flew to. Arlington.” JJ started explaining as you stepped up next to her and Morgan. He gave you a nod as he acknowledged you.

“He’s got a long criminal record. Manslaughter, robbery, rape.” She continued as she read from the file.

“What about the victim?” You asked crossing your arms, “Marty Harris.” Derek filled in.

“Uh, he’s a two-time convicted fetish burglar, registered child sex offender…” JJ read from the other file. “And we have his head.” Gideon interrupted her. “CSU just positively identified the one delivered to my cabin.”

“Don’t waste time on the first victims. They were unrepentant, bad men. They only got what they deserved.” Hotch spoke up. “What is that?” Morgan asked him.

“I got a phone call last night before you called from Jamaica.” He said looking over at Derek.

“Any mention of a ‘her’?” Elle asks Hotch. “You must help him save her.”  he replies.

“Oh, so there’s a ‘him’ now, too?” Elle responds, clearly annoyed. Which is totally reasonable after getting arrested for murder and barely having any sleep.

“I think he means Reid.” You look over at Gideon. “Reid?” You and JJ both say at the same time. “We need to regroup.” Hotch says as last, and you all walk into the office.

You, JJ, Morgan, and Gideon are sitting at the round table. Hotch stood behind you and Elle stood near the tv screen. “So, clearly we have a psychopath intent on drawing us into his game.” Hotch said with his arms crossed. “Playing with us.” Gideon looked at his hands on the table. “Then let’s return the favor.” Elle says.

“He kept telling us repeatedly to save her. What ‘her’?” Derek questions.

“Items he’s sent must be some kind of clues.” You nod at what Gideon says. “Let’s get them up on the board.” Hotch nods towards the board as he says that.

“I got a Nellie Fox baseball card from 1963, and I got a head in a box.” Gideon starts as JJ gets up walking up to the board. “I got a rare butterfly in a shadow box.” She says as she starts writing it down on the whiteboard. “And repeated messages to ‘save her.’” Hotch adds.

“I got the decapitated body.” Elle says smiling sarcastically. “And a nice visit to the Jamaican Police Headquarters.”

Hotch looks over to you to say what you got. “I didn’t get anything.” You shrug.

“Not even a phone call?” He questions, raising an eyebrow. You shake your head. It looked as if Hotch was going to say something, but Gideon changed the subject. “Reid called from Nevada. He's on the way back here with a skeleton key and a note he got, too.”.

“And the guys who called me said, ‘the youngest holds the key’” Hotch adds on. “That’s Reid.” Elle says as she keeps pacing.

“Okay but wait a minute.” You look over at Derek. “Unsubs, they don’t contact us this way. I mean they might taunt us, dare us to catch them, but they don’t drag us into their fantasy.”

“Why not?” JJ asks Morgan when he finishes.

“Because their fantasies are sexual fantasies.” You answer before he can. “Right, taunting us is a show of power, but making us the object is…” He tries to search for the right words, “I don’t know what the hell that is.”

“There’s something else about the baseball card.” You look back to Gideon as he starts a new theory. “Nellie Fox was one of the stars of the 1959 White Sox. I went to almost every game with my father that year. Fox was my hero.” He says as he leans back in the chair. “So, is it a coincidence that he sends this to me, or does he know how I feel about him?” He questions looking over at Hotch. This makes JJ turn around.

“I collected butterflies when I was a little girl.” You all look over at her. “That’s how I knew what butterfly was in the box.”

“So, he knows us?” You question. “I got an anonymous message.” Hotch slightly shrugs. “I got a police raid.” Elle adds on. “But he knew exactly where we were.” Morgan says, supporting your theory. “Hotel in Jamaica Gideon at the cabin, Reid in Vegas, you at your home.” He lists off.

“He got that from the Bureau computers.” Penelope's voice makes you turn around in your chair; she looks nervous and has a file in her hand. “Your locations are always in there so they can find you if they need you. And I checked the log. The hacker was definitely in the personnel folders” She explains. Your brows furrow, how could this happen. “There were room numbers to the hotel in Jamaica, the address of Gideon’s cabin… There’s a lot of information in those databases.” She finished. Something about the way she’s talking is putting you off. There is something she isn’t telling you.

“Have you figured out how he was able to get into the Bureau’s computers?” Hotch asks her. She is silent. Just for a second. “I’m still working on that.” Lying to a room full of profilers probably isn’t the smartest thing to do. “Garcia, if you know something…” Hotch asks, clearly also picking up some things off.

“No, it’s, um…” Penelope's voice breaks slightly. “It’s just… I…” She’s clearly trying to find the right words, scared of upsetting the team. You give her a supportive smile. You’ve known her for years and know she would never do a bad thing on purpose. “I was playing a game yesterday.” She is silent for a second.

You look back to the team and catch JJ’s reaction. She clearly knows what Penelope is talking about. “An online game.” You look back over at the blonde with glasses. Tears shined in her eyes under the LED lights.

“A game?” Gideon asks. “Not on the Bureau computers, sir.” She quickly clarifies. “On my own personal laptop.”

“No, Garcia. No, no, no.” Derek says shaking his head. You close your eyes and lean your head on your hand. “I don’t understand.” Hotch looks for clarification.

“Wireless Internet.” You simply say. “By wirelessly hooking into the Net here to get online, the hacker could have gotten into my computer first, and… I have far less protection on my own laptop.” Penelope stoically explains it to him.

“And he could have gotten into the entire Bureau computer system this way?” You can’t see Hotch’s face as he says it but by the tone of his voice, you have some idea. “Yeah, it’s possible.” Penelope nods.

“Playing a game?” Gideon says as he gets up. “How could you be that stupid?” Seeing the look on Penelope's face, you have to resist the urge to defend her. Yes, she did do something stupid, but Gideon didn’t have to talk to her like that. “Information, files. You have a responsibility.”

“I know, sir. I’m so sorry.” Penelope replies to him. Gideon doesn’t reply. He just turns around. There is an awkward silence that hangs in the air. “But I found him.” Penelope eventually says. Almost full-on crying by now.

“You did?” You ask hopefully. “I know who he is, the hacker. His name is Giles. Frank Giles.” You all look at each other hearing this information. “He lives in Arlington, Virginia, four miles from here. I have his address” She continues as she hands the file she was holding to Hotch.

“Garcia, you said Giles?” Morgan asks her, wanting to confirm he heard it right. She nods quickly. “Let’s go.” Hotch only has to say those two words, and everyone is up and walking out of the office.

The team and you put on your bulletproof vests and got into the black SUVs. Sirens blared as you raced through the streets to get to Frank Giles as quickly as you could. The adrenaline is already pumping through your veins. Finally getting answers about why this is happening. You entered the building with the swat team. Derek kicked the door in, as usual. Everybody walks in with their guns raised. You hear some yell out that it’s clear. You, Derek, and Elle stand for a closed door.

“Frank Giles. FBI.” Derek yells out.

“Come out Giles.” Elle yells. They look at each other and both give a small nod. Then open the doors. As you enter you lower your gun immediately. You see Frank Giles’s lifeless body, only wearing underwear, laying on a dirty old mattress. A sword stuck in him.

“You got to be kidding me.” Elle’s the first one to speak.

“Hotch! Gideon! I think you’re gonna want to see this.” Derek calls out to them. You tear your eyes away from the gruesome scene to look at Elle. But she’s looking at the wall in front of you. So you look up to see ‘here thy quest doth truly begin’ written on the wall in blood.

All of you start taking in the crime scene. Vests already taken off. “He’s definitely playing with us.” Hotch speaks up. “His identification checks out.” Elle says handing his wallet to Hotch. “That’s Frank Giles.”

“There’s a big ol’bag of money sitting right here on the dresser.” Morgan says as he walks over to the bright blue bag. “So, Giles took Harris to Jamaica to kill him.”

“And then the unsub killed Giles.” You finished Hotch’s sentence.

“Yeah, but he paid him first.” Morgan says, confused about it.

“And left the cash?” Elle questions. “He must be well off.” You say, putting your hands on your hips.

“He said these were ‘unrepentant, bad men.’ Are we looking for some kind of vigilante?” Hotch asks, looking over at Gideon.

“No. The bodies are nothing but a way to get us interested. They’re game pieces. The killings are secondary.” Gideon explains nonchalantly.

“Well, this guy likes to write things in blood on the walls.” Elle says as she inspects the bloody walls.

Suddenly your phone starts ringing. All eyes are on you, but you look to Hotch. Silently asking for permission to step out for a bit. He gives you a nod and you step out to the hallway of the apartment building.

When you're alone you answer your phone.

“L/n.” You say but it stays silent on the other end. Pulling the phone away from your ear to check if you hadn’t accidentally declined the call. “Hello?” You ask as you put the phone back to your ear but it’s silent again.

About to hang up suddenly a voice comes through your phone.

“Agent Y/n L/n.” The voice sounds hoarse, you don’t recognize it. “Who is this?” You ask confused. Putting your right hand on your hip.

“It is your task to make sure they hear, and they listen.” The person ignores your question. You release this is the Unsub. “Do not let them stray.” He’s talking about the team.

He has to be. You’re about to respond as he hangs up.

“Damn it.” You let out a frustrated sigh. What could he have possibly meant by that? You keep staring at your phone.

“Hey,” a comforting voice takes you out of your thoughts, “You okay?” You look up to see Spencer walking up to you.

“What?” You look at him confused. Putting your phone back into your pocket. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright.” You smile, somewhat awkwardly.

Reid nods and sends a just as awkward smile back. It’s good to see him again. He looks around the empty hallway, hands in his pockets, hair slicked back behind his ears.

“Why are you out here?” He asks you.

“Oh, uh, no reason.” You shrug and let out a laugh. Why did you just lie to him? You honestly don’t know. It just slipped out. He also clearly doesn’t believe you, but before he can question you, you speak up.

“Let’s go, we can use you in there, genius.” You say as you nod towards the room the team is in. This time the smile you give each other isn’t awkward. They both are genuine smiles. Reid always gets a slight blush when someone calls him genius.

You never say it to embarrass him though. You say it full of affection. When you joined the bau, in your first case you got paired up with Spencer. He had been working at the bau for about a year. The two of you hit it off very well.

Walking back into the room you hear Hotch and Derek, “Midnight wouldn’t cast a shadow.” “‘Hour be none.’”

“3 P.M.,” Reid says as you walk in side by side. “Hey, guys. Garcia told me where to find you.” Hotch crouched near the body glances past Reid to look at you with a questioning gaze, silently asking about the phone call. You shake your head telling him it wasn’t important. And again, you don’t know why you are lying to your team about this. You tell yourself it’s because there are more important things right now and that phone call didn’t even make sense.

“3 P.M?” Gideon asks disrupting your thoughts.

“It’s medieval. The days used to be broken into hourly intervals, the canonical hours of the breviary.” Spencer begins to explain, “Prime, 6 A.M”., terce, 9 A.M., sext, 12 noon, none, 3 P.M., and vespers 6 P.M.”

Elle smiles at him fondly and points her finger at him, “Reid, do not ever go away again.” He smiles at her as Gideon starts talking. “Medieval. That’s why the language changed. ‘doth’”

“Everything this guy does is a clue.” Hotch says looking at the team.

 “Okay, but, guys, it’s 4:35. What do we do? Leave to the blade in till 3 P.M. tomorrow?” Derek asked.

“What if we block that window out?” You asked, pointing towards the window. Reid nodded at what you said and turned to one of the crime scene investigators. “Do you have any spotlights in your car?” He asked Gina.

“Sure.” She says as she's getting up, Elle thanks her.

When she came back with a flashlight she gave it to Reid. He crouched down next to where you were standing and pointed the light to the sword.

“See, this sun is right here at 5 P.M., Morgan, follow the shadow as I move the light higher.” Derek starts to move a small table out of the way to get closer to the wall. “Okay, and do what?” He asks when he’s finished.

“Tap.” Hotch instructs him. Derek starts tapping on the wall. He stops when he finds a hollow spot. “It’s hollow.” He says as he looks back at Hotch.

“Definitely an Indiana Jones movie.” Elle says looking over at you when you laugh at her joke.

“Feels like the wallpaper’s been replaced.” Morgan says to Hotch. “Tear it open.” He replies. Derek takes a knife out of his pocket and starts cutting open the wallpaper. Pulling back the wall.

“It’s a box.” He states looking back at the team. “Pull it out.” Hotch instructs him again. “Wait, are we sure that’s safe?” Spencer asks as he stands up. You look over at him. “You think it’s a bomb?” You ask him questionably.

“It isn’t. You think he’d be playing this game just to blow us up?” Hotch retorts. “He’d have already done that as long as we’ve been standing here.” Derek agrees with him and pulls out the box from the hole. He placed it on the table from earlier.

Hotch crouches next to Gideon to get a better look at it. You make your way over to see what it is, while Spencer doesn’t move. Morgan tries to open it, but it seems like it won’t budge.

“It’s locked.” He confirms, “You want me to break it?”

“No, we should process it first.” Hotch answers his question.

“The youngest holds the key.” Gideon suddenly speaks up. And you, Hotch, and Morgan all look at Reid. Spencer searches his pants pockets for the key. Only to realize he put it in the pocket of his button-up.

He does a little jog up to the box and goes to open it. Putting the key in and backing up slightly as he turns it. Music starts to come from the box.

It takes a second for you to recognize it. Turns out all those failed piano lessons are good for something. “Schubert.” Gideon says but before he can say which piece you beat him to it.

“The Trout Quintet.” He looks over at you confused, clearly, he didn’t expect you to know it. You just shrug in reply as you focus on the note that Spencer pulled out of the box. “Five people fishing.” Hotch says, giving context to the song.

“Never would it be night, but always clear day to any man’s sight.” Reid starts reading off the paper. “Well, that was worth it.” Elle says as she turns away.

“The lid.” Gideon points at the box, “Little tab right under the lock.” Morgan leans over Reid to open the lid.

As he opens it there’s a dvd in it, but also a blonde lock of hair tied with a pink bow.

“Jesus.” Slips out of you. “Oh, god.” Elle says at the same time.

Morgan pulls both out as Gideon lets out a tired sigh. Derek gives Elle the lock of hair. “Do you have that evidence bag?” She asks one of the CSI’s. “Here you go.” He replies as he holds out a bag for her to put the hair in.

“Thy quest.” Morgan says standing up and holding out the dvd so you all can see it. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Gideon putting his head in his hand. After everything is mostly wrapped up at the crime scene you all make your way back to the office.

Everyone is clearly tired and wants to catch this guy.

On the car ride back all you can think about is that phone call. It keeps repeating in your head. “Agent Y/n L/n.”  “Who is this?”  “It is your task to make sure they hear, and they listen. Do not let them stray.” You just can’t seem to make sense of it. What is it that you need to make sure they listen to? Maybe this dvd?

Without even releasing you’re back, sitting at the round table. The dvd is playing.

You see a barely lit office. A man stumbles into the frame and sits down at the chair, you can’t make out a face though.

“He moves funny.” Hotch noted. Derek looks back at Hotch to reply, “It’s like he’s injured or something.”

The man in the video starts talking. “I assure you, you will all understand in the end why it must be this way.” It’s the same voice of the man who called you at Frank Giles’s place. You shift in your seat as he continues. “You might even thank me.”

“Don’t hold your breath, scumbag.” You see Hotch glance over at Elle as she says this.

“You know now you’re on a quest. A young girl’s life depends on the successful completion of it.” The video shows a blonde girl being held captive. She’s throwing things at the camera and hitting the bars of the cage. “As you can see, she is quite beautiful and in distress.” The way he talks about her along with the footage makes your skin crawl.

“Now please listen closely for there is one rule and this rule must be followed.” You sit up straighter in your chair. The things he said on the phone call must be about this.

“The one rule is, only the members of your team may participate in the quest: Jason Gideon, Aaron Hotchner, Derek Morgan, Elle Greenaway, Y/n L/n, Spencer Reid, Jennifer Jareau, Penelope Garcia.” As he said, all your names and pictures of everyone on the team showed on the screen.

“A quest must be completed in the proper way, or it isn’t a quest, is it? That’s it. One rule. Simple. Now, you will be receiving an item soon that will hold the final clue you will need to finish the quest. You will find you will also need a book which has inspired many adventures like mine. Believe me, when I tell you I truly hope to see you all soon. It will mean a successful end to this adventure for all of us.” The video stopped playing. You look at everyone on the team.

“This guy’s got pictures of us?” Elle is the first one to speak up.

“What do we do now?” Reid asks Hotch.

“Well, the lock of hair’s being analyzed for DNA. There might be something on file.” He answers Reid.

“I’ll get Video to enhance the shots of the girl.” JJ says as she gets up to leave.

“Let's get the clues up on the board. Maybe we can make some sense of something.” Hotch instructs.

“Wait, we’re going to play this guy’s game?” Elle asks him, frustrated.

“Do we have a choice?” Spencer replies. But you’re not focusing on their conversation anymore, you’re focused on Gideon. You can’t figure out what he’s up to as he’s about to leave the room.

Everyone else turns around when they hear the click of the door opening.

“Be right back. You guys keep working.” Hotch says as he gets up to talk to Gideon. However, you don’t listen. The rest of the team looks at you as you follow him.

You’re following him out of the room for two reasons. Wanting to know what’s going on, everyone has always told you you’re too curious for your own good. And thinking now might be a good time to also mention to Hotch that you got a call from the Unsub.

“Jason?” Hotch calls out as he follows Gideon, “Jason!” He calls out again when the older man doesn’t stop. Gideon walks into his office and lets the door slam closed behind him. Before Hotch follows Gideon into his office, he gives you a disapproving look for following him. “We’ll talk about this later.” He says dismissively and walks into Gideon's office.

You let out a sigh. Why did you think this would work. You turn back around to have your walk of shame back to the rest of the group.

Morgan lets out a small laugh as he sees you walking back into the room. Reid gives you a questioning look, but you just shrug it off.

Not long after Hotch handed a paper over to Reid and said Haley received it. You, Morgan, Elle, and Reid had been staring at these numbers for a while now.

“My eyes are so heavy I can barely see it.” Elle says with a sigh.

“It has to be some kind of code, right?” You question, leaning against the table next to Reid. “The Unsub said we needed a book, didn’t he?” Reid brings up. You look over at him, curious about where he’s going with this.

“Yeah. ‘a book that inspired many an adventure.’” Morgan quotes from the video.

“It’s a book code. Each one of these sets of numbers represents a particular word.” Spencer explains and points at one of the codes on the paper, “For instance, page 118, line 30, word three. We need to figure out what the words are and fill in the blanks.”

“Right, but we don’t know what book.” You respond, another dead end.

“And the trouble is, it has to be the exact same edition of the exact same book that he used.” Reid adds on.

“Just got a DNA hit on the lock of hair.” JJ says as she walks into the room, “Rebecca Bryant.” She hands Elle a picture after showing it to you, “She’s been missing out of Boston for two years.”

You look over at her shocked, “Two years?” She nods as she looks at you.

“Guys, how are we supposed to figure out which book this code was copied out of?” Derek brings the conversation back after being handed the picture from Elle. “I have no idea.” Spencer replies. JJ walks up to the whiteboard and sticks the picture of Rebecca on it.

Reid was standing in front of the whiteboard, “He said we have everything needed to complete the quest.” he said as he turned around to look at you, Elle, and Derek. Derek was sitting on the chair backward, Elle practically laying in the leather chair, you were leaning against the table and JJ was sitting normally at the table looking over the evidence.

“The answer’s got to be up there somewhere.” Elle mumbles, very clearly tired.

“JJ, get some reporters here as soon as you can.” You quickly turn around as you hear Gideon say this. Alarm bells going off in your head.

Once again, the things the Unsub said on your phone call repeating themselves. It is your task to make sure they hear and they listen. Do not let them stray. Gideon’s not listening. “For what?” JJ asks him. “Just say we need help on a new case.” Is all he gives in response before he walks away.

You get up to follow him, again. You have to stop him from doing this. Gideon is always surprisingly fast for his age. You just barely catch up to him when he reaches Hotch again. “Sirs, you can’t do this.” You say, well it more sounds like you're begging.

Gideon and Hotch, both give you confused looks.

You take a deep breath. “He called me.” You say looking at them.

Their reactions are exactly what you expected. Gideon stays silent, he’s profiling you. “What? What do you mean he called you L/n?  When did this happen?” Hotch asks you with a stern look on his face as he crosses his arms. You feel ashamed. You should’ve told them. You know that. You just hoped you had figured out what he meant earlier so you could’ve given the team helpful evidence and not more questions. “Back at the apartment.” You say, placing your hands behind your back so they don’t notice how nervous you are.

Gideon just shakes his head and walks away. Obviously thinking he has better things to do than deal with you.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Hotch asks you.

“I… I don’t know,” The unsatisfied look Hotch gives you makes rethink your answer, “I wanted to figure out what he meant.”

“So, you could show off?” Hotch fills it in for himself. You quickly shake your head. That’s not why you did it. “No, no I didn’t want to add more unanswered questions for the team.” It sounds stupid and you realize that.

Hotch sighs and rubs his forehead, “What did he say to you?”

“He told me to make sure they hear, and they listen and to not let them stray. I think he was talking about the video.” You reply to him, “I think the press conference is a mistake, Hotch.”

“Gideon knows what he’s doing L/n, I trust him. You should’ve told us sooner.” He says before walking away. You couldn’t shake the nervous feeling. You went to get some coffee. Not ready to face your team yet.

On your third cup, you see Hotch walking back into the office. The press conference is over, there’s nothing you can do about it now. You see Elle walking out with Hotch.

“Anderson, take Greenaway home.” He says, looking over at him. “Yes, sir.” Anderson immediately replies.

“No, I’m fine.” Elle protests. “I’ll have your car brought over later.” Hotch tells her. “Alright, come on, Anderson.”

Do not let them stray. It repeats in your head.

“Sir, is it okay if I go with them? I can come back whenever you need me.” You ask Hotch. He hesitates for a moment, thinking it over. Elle smiles over at you, she appreciates it.

“Alright but keep your phone on and close L/n.” Hotch tells you.

Elle was struggling to stay awake the whole drive back to her house. Anderson dropped you both off and went back to the office. Elle let you into the house. You’ve been here before, many times, you and her occasionally have a drink after a case when neither of you wants to be alone.

Elle tosses her keys on the coffee table and drops her bag next to the couch and flops down on it. You can’t help but let out a laugh. She doesn’t even have the energy to glare at you, shifting on the couch to get into a more comfortable position.

You put down your own bag next to hers and take off your gun and gun holster placing them next to her keys on the table. You walked into her kitchen, you hadn’t eaten yet and doubted she had.

Opening the fridge just to find it practically empty. There are some leftovers, but they don’t look edible anymore. You grab them to throw them away, the smell hits you and you pull a face.

“Gross.” You mutter under your breath and throw it in the trash can. “Hey, I'm going to get some food, you want any?” You ask her as you walk back into her living room.

She lets out a noise that’s something between a hum and a groan.

“Alright, I’ll take that as a yes.” You say with a smile on your face, “I’m taking your keys, I’ll be right back.” Reaching for her keys on the table.

She gives you a thumbs-up while trying to stifle a yawn.

So, you lock the door behind you as you leave for the small supermarket near her house. It’s about a 10 minute walk away.

You grab some iced coffees and some simple heat-up meals. You’re done in about 5 minutes, pay for everything and walk back. The plastic bag is heavier than you expected it to be, it leaves imprints on your fingers.

You reach Elle’s front door and reach for the keys in your jacket. You try to open the lock as quietly as you can, not wanting to wake her up.

As you open the door you freeze. The plastic bag somehow becomes ten times heavier, and it drops to the floor. The ice coffee starts to leak but it’s the least of your concern.

Elle is laying on the floor covered in her own blood.

“Oh my god…” You whisper. You rush forward to her somehow without falling over your own feet. You fall to your knees. Hands reach up to her face. She isn’t conscious. You give her a few taps on her cheek and her eyes flutter slightly.

“Shit, Elle. You gotta stay awake, okay?” You look around helplessly. Her phone is on the floor next to her. Did she call 911?  You place one hand on the wound to try and stop the bleeding, knowing it isn’t doing much as you feel the red hot liquid slip right past your fingers.

You reach over her to check her phone. Luckily you know her password.

You check her out going call and see 911. A sigh of relief escapes you.

Help is on the way. You just have to do everything you can to keep her alive until then.

Blood is staining your hands as you try to stop the bleeding. Her eyes closed.

“No, no, no, no, Elle, stay with me. Come on, you gotta keep your eyes open. Keep them open for me. Fuck. Elle. Come on. Please… I… I can’t lose you. Please.” A million things ran through your head. If you had been here, you could’ve stopped him.

If you hadn’t left, Elle would be okay. God, why did they have that press conference. Why hadn’t you been more demanding with Hotch that it was a bad idea.

Vague sirens interrupted your train of thought. Taking one hand to check Elle’s pulse. Time stopped. You couldn’t feel a heartbeat.

“Fuck.” Panicking. What would cpr do if she was bleeding out? Not like you had any other choice. You started compressions.

No thoughts run through your head anymore. Just pure focus on the task. Not even noticing the sirens getting louder and louder.

A paramedic pulls you away from Elle. Only now realizing they had arrived. Their mouths were moving but you couldn’t make out any of the words.

You stepped back. Letting them do their job.

Everything is hazy, you blink rapidly. Tears fall on your cheeks.

Have you been crying this whole time? You didn’t even realize it. They place Elle on a stretcher and make their way back to the ambulance. You follow them without saying a word. You don’t think about the fact that your phone is still in your bag.

Getting ready to step into the ambulance you noticed a car arriving. Anderson. He stumbled out of the SUV.

“L/n, what happened?” He tried not to show his fear but the tremble in his voice gave him away. “Call Hotch. Meet me at the hospital. I- I’ll explain there.” You spoke hurriedly while getting into the ambulance.

The paramedics are rushing the stretcher into the ER. You’re having a hard time keeping up with them. The doctors take Elle over.

“I’m sorry, we are taking her into surgery. You aren’t allowed any further.” One of the nurses is holding you back. You have no fight left in you, so you just nod and make your way to the waiting room.

Anderson is already there. His eyes are red. Had he been crying? He looked like a mess. You didn’t even want to think about what you looked like right now. The way Anderson’s eyes widened when he saw you back at the house told you enough. You definitely looked worse than him.

“I called Hotchner. Him and Agent Gideon are on their way now.” Wringing his hands as he spoke. He’s nervous. “Do you... um, do you know anything yet?” He barely could get the question out without tears threatening to spill.

“She’s in surgery.” Was all you could manage to get out as you spoke. Wanting to run your hand over your face but as you reached you noticed the deep maroon stains and how much it was shaking so you put your hand back down.

“If you want to, I can wait here, so you can get cleaned up.” He offered. You gave him a thankful but tired smile.

Making your way over to the bathroom. The door handle stuck to your hand slightly, leaving a slight red imprint on it.

You let out a heavy sigh, resting your head against the door as you closed it behind you. Walking up to the sink you didn’t dare to look into the mirror.

You turned on the faucet and put your shaky hands under the ice cold water. The water colored red instantly. You tried not to think about the fact it was Elle’s blood you were washing off.

Keeping your hands under the water until it turned clear again made them start to tingle from the freezing water. Turning the faucet off, you placed your hands on the sides of the sink. Not daring to look at your own reflection.

Involuntarily you let out a shaky breath. Trying to recollect yourself.

Hotch and Gideon would arrive any moment. They would have questions for you. Questions that would force you to think back to what happened not even an hour ago, while all you’ve been trying this whole time is to forget about it. You couldn’t bear to try and remember.

You dried your hands and walked out of the bathroom, scanning the waiting room for Anderson. He was talking to two men in suits. Two men you could recognize anywhere. How did they get here so soon? How long had you been in the bathroom? You looked at your wrist. The face of your watch is stained with blood. You quickly pulled the sleeve of your jacket back over it.

“It appears she dialed 911 herself before she passed out.” You hear Anderson say as you get closer to them. Hotch and Gideon turned around when they noticed Anderson's gaze shifting to you.

The pity and maybe even guilt that Anderson feels when he makes eye contact with you is clear on his face. Or maybe it’s clear to you since profiling is your job, but then how come you couldn’t prevent Elle from dying. No. She isn’t dead. Not anymore. The paramedics shocked her back to life. She’s alive. She’ll be okay. She has to be. You would never be able to live with yourself if she wouldn’t be. Hotch keeps his eyes on you for a minute while Gideon turns back around.

“Why weren’t we notified?” He asks Anderson.

“The offender apparently took her ID and gun. The uniform I talked to didn’t even know she was in the Bureau until I arrived on scene.” He replies to Gideon quickly.

“Get back over there.” Hotch says turning back to look at Anderson. “This is a federal crime scene. Nobody touches anything. We process it.” He instructs the younger agent. “Go.”

“Yes, sir.” Anderson replies as he leaves to go and do exactly what Hotch told him to.

The two agents turn back around to observe you. You are staring into space; your mind is clouded. Nothing feels clear anymore. Hotch and Gideon glance at each other. Both concerned with the state you’re in currently. Gideon takes out his phone and walks a few steps away, going to call the office.

“L/n? Hey L/n?” An authoritative, yet comforting voice made you reorientate. Hotch squinted his eyes and ever so slightly tilted his head. He was profiling you. And you would’ve noticed if you weren’t so tired.

“Sorry, what were you saying sir?” Crossing your arms over each other.

“You’re lucky you weren’t there as well.” He said touching your shoulder. But you didn’t feel lucky. All you felt was guilt, but you simply nodded. “Is there anything you remember?” He crosses his arms just like you did.

“I-” You choke on your words. You close your eyes and shake your head trying to get your thoughts in order. “I wasn’t even gone for 30 minutes. If I had just… If I hadn’t left, she would be okay.”

“If you had been there, he most likely would’ve shot you as well L/n.” Hotch tells you. Before you can say anything, else Gideon walks back over to the two of you.

“Trap and trace got nothing.” He says leaning against the wall and putting his phone away. “Unsub used a disposable cell.” You look confused at that. Hotch notices.

“The unsub, he called us. Taunting us about Elle.” He explains to you. You let out an exhausted sigh. It’s as if this case never ends.

“We got our best CSU team. If he left anything, a print, a hair, sweat, anything…” “They’ll find it.” Gideon cuts Hotch off. You look down at your hands, they are still shaking.

“I’m going to grab a coffee.” You mutter out and leave the two agents.

After grabbing your coffee, you go and sit in the waiting room. It is completely empty. Would you rather have it be busy? You’re not sure which would be worse. Because now you must sit here in this hurt. This constant tight feeling in your chest, as if you’re not getting enough air.

A few minutes later Gideon walks in. He nods at you as you look at him. He sits down a few chairs away from where you’re sitting, giving you some space. You sit in silence, it’s not uncomfortable but it also isn’t exactly comfortable. “Hotch is calling JJ and Morgan.” He says, explaining where the other agent is. You just nod, not having the energy to reply. You look down at the coffee in your hands, you haven’t taken a single sip. It’s pretty much cold now. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Gideon scrabbling things down on the magazines that lay down on the table. You don’t ask him about it.

After a while, Hotch walks in and you look up from your drink. He’s gotten rid of his suit jacket. “Any word?” He asks Gideon.

“Nope.” Gideon replies simply.

“I called JJ. I told her we’d call them if anything changed.” Hotch tells the two of you as he leans on the two chairs in front of him. Gideon and you simply nod at what he says.

“What’s all that?” Hotch asks as he notices the writing on the magazines.

“This unsub’s extremely organized.” Gideon explains instead of answering his question, “He sounded truly shocked that we didn’t follow the rules. He honestly believed we would simply listen to his directions.”

“He’s delusional. He thinks he’s a mythological king.” Hotch says, his eyebrows furrow slightly.

“But delusion and this level of organization are almost mutually exclusive.” Gideon corrects Hotch, “You don’t meticulously plan contacts in the real world if you’re suffering psychotic breaks from reality.” Before Hotch can reply to Anderson walks back in. “How is she?” he quietly asks. You stare back down at your coffee again.

“No word yet.” Hotch replies to him, “Is the scene processed?”

“They’re finished. We still have it locked up tight, though.” Anderson explains.

“They find anything?” Hotch asks, he sounds exhausted.

“CSU found a partial print.” You look up as Anderson says this. “The shooter wrote a message on the wall in blood and,” He did? How did you not notice that? Hotch and Gideon glance at you just for a second, probably thinking the same. “In one of the smudges, they found a whorl pattern.” Anderson hands over the file to Hotch. “They made a lift. They aren’t sure whether it’s enough to get a hit, but they are processing it now.” Anderson continues as Hotch hands the file over to Gideon. You get up from your seat, still holding your coffee, you walk closer to Gideon to look at the file.

He grabs the top picture of a bloody fingerprint to reveal what the unsub wrote on the wall. RULES. Dripping down the wall. You try to think back as hard as you can but don’t remember seeing it. You should’ve seen it. Gideon reads what’s on the picture and looks up at Hotch. He places the file back down on the table in front of him.

Hotch leaves to get coffee. Leaving you and Gideon alone again. You go to sit back down in the chair but stop.

You can’t help the words that slip out of your mouth. “You shouldn’t have done the press conference.” You turn around to face him. “I tried to warn you.”

Gideon doesn’t say anything. He just stares down at the file. You want to yell at him. Scream that it’s his fault. But you bite the inside of your cheek.

“I was just doing my job.” He says quietly, so quiet it’s barely a whisper. You can’t help but let out a scoff and stare at him. If looks could kill Gideon would be six feet under by now. You respect him, you truly do, but he made a bad call and can’t own up to it.

The reasonable part of your brain tells you, you are projecting your own feelings of guilt and anger on him, but you don’t have it in you to be reasonable right now. So, you storm out of the waiting room. You throw your coffee in a trash can as you walk past it. Hotchner passes by you with two coffees in his hand, he’s put his jacket back on, he raises an eyebrow when you don’t acknowledge him. He looks back at you but keeps walking back to the waiting room.

You let out a frustrated sigh. You notice one of Elle’s doctors and go to ask if they have any new information.

She just tells you the same thing, “No, I’m sorry.” And she walks away.

You just wish someone could tell you something, anything. You’re tired, exhausted, angry, sad, terrified, guilty. Your eyes start to sting as you try and hold back your tears. You look around and walk into the nearest bathroom.

When the door closes the damn breaks and tears fall down your face. A sob escapes you and you place your hand over your mouth. You try to focus on your breathing to try and calm down. It works a little bit.

You decide washing your face might help you get grounded again, so you walk over to the sink. Turning it on and putting your hands under the water. Somehow the water of this sink is even colder than the one from before. You cup your hands under it and splash the water on your face.

You reach to grab a towel to dry your hands and face but catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You look even worse than you imagined. Your mascara is all over the place and so is your hair. There even is some dried blood on your face, you quickly scrub it off with a damp paper towel.

So many thoughts and feelings have been racing through your head over the past few hours, you can barely keep up with them. Did you overstep with Gideon just now? Possibly. You just couldn’t handle bearing all the guilt you were feeling anymore.

Before you leave you check yourself in the mirror again. You look… less chaotic to put it nicely. You smooth over your hair and clothes and walk out of the bathroom.

You start looking for Hotch and Gideon but only find the latter. He’s staring into space, the thing you’ve seen him do all day. You look around before approaching him, hoping to find Hotch instead.

“Hey…” You clear your throat as you stand next to the chair he’s sitting in. He takes a second to look up to his left and gives you a nod of acknowledgment. A certain awkwardness flows between you two. Neither saying a word.

His fingers are interlaced, resting on his lap. He’s trying to appear calm and collected, but his shaking knee is giving him away.

There’s a free chair next to him. You debate with yourself whether you should sit down or not. Gideon nods over to the chair as if he was reading your mind. “Just sit down, kid.”

A quick nod is all you give him in response as you go and sit down.

After sitting in this silence for a few minutes, you speak up. “She’s going to be okay right?” You rub your palms over your thighs, trying to shake the nervous feeling.

“Greenaway is strong, she’s a fighter.” He doesn’t know if she’ll be okay. He is probably as terrified as you are right now. Once again, you just nod. You wring your fingers. Letting out a sigh, you look over at Gideon.

“Sir, I’m sorry if I overstepped…” He looks over at you with a raised eyebrow, “Earlier, in the waiting room.” You remind him.

Gideon nods, he hadn’t expected you to bring it up again. He wasn’t mad at you; he was mad at himself. He should’ve listened. And he would regret the choice he made, along with all the other choices over his career. Gideon waved his hand at you, telling you that what happened didn’t matter.

You and Gideon sat in the hallway for another half hour before a doctor finally approached both of you. Hearing the news a sigh left you. Relief flooded your body.

Elle is okay. Elle is alive.

Gideon went to call the team as you followed the doctor. Elle was laying in the hospital bed. She looked peaceful. You can’t remember the last time you saw her this relaxed. You approach her bed and sit down in the chair next to it. All the memories of today wash over you again, the thought that you could’ve lost your friend. You wipe away a single tear that falls.  

Gideon walks up next to you after a few minutes. Laying his hand on your shoulder.

“They caught him, he’s dead.” You turn around to look at him, “They saved Rebecca.” You look back to Elle as you nod at what he says. Part of you wished you could’ve been there with the team. Gotten some justice for Elle. But you were where you needed to be. Right here. In the hospital, sitting next to Elle as she wakes up.

[creatureheart]

Made an updated version of this with a bit more info on things and a few tweaks, so go check out that version here!

I've made a few posts talking about things in the nonhuman and alterhuman communities recently, mostly just brief looks into them, so I thought I would share this one.

The info may not be all that much, and could easily be expanded upon, but I did my best for a simple bit of info for certain things.

All pictures have ALT text included, but I shall post the text also here, under a cut, cause it's a bit long, lol

Nonhuman as an identity: To identify as not human either fully or partially. (hate/trolls will be reported and deleted)

Reminder: These are all personal identities and why someone identifies as nonhuman and what term someone decides to use for themself is exclusively their business. In the end it is what makes the most sense to the individual and not up to others. Now, onto some of the communities that are included under the nonhuman identity:

Otherkin: from the term "otherkind" - an identity which typically encompasses being wholly or partially a nonhuman entity. Usually understood to cover those who identify as mythical creatures and other fantastical things. Also covers those that fall outside of beings and creatures.

Examples of non-being or creature based identities: Conceptkin: an identity where one identifies as a concept such as the concept of night or fire. Objectkin: and identity where one identifies as an object. Songkin: an identity where one identifies as a song.

Examples of being and creature based identities: Therianthropy: usually shortened to therian - where one identifies AS a nonhuman animal. Some will say that this term refers to only earthen animals, living or extinct, but it has never only encompassed earthly animals. The community's language came from those who identify as werecreatures. Theriomythic: an alternate identity term for one who identifies in some intrinsic was as a mythical creature. Paleotherian: an identity term for one who identifies as a now extinct earthly animal, like a dinosaur or mammoth.

Cladotherian or Cladokin: an identity term for one who does not identify as a distinct species, but a broader identity encompassing an entire genus or larger grouping. Cladomythic: an identity term for one who identifies as a group (clade) of animalistic mythical creatures.

Fictionkin: an identity term that covers all things fictional. For those who identify as something fictional like characters, animals, species, objects, etc. These can be from books, shows, video games, etc, but not always! Original fictional characters and such are also possible.

There are many other identities that fall under the nonhuman umbrella which is why it's important to do your own research to figure out if a certain term works for you. All these identities share the trait of being involuntary. You cannot choose to be therian, otherkin, or the other mentioned identities.

While the already mentioned identities are involuntary, there are some identities that fall under being voluntary. Otherlink: an identity where one voluntarily identifies as nonhuman. Copinglink: an identity where one voluntarily identifies as nonhuman to copes with things such as trauma, stress, etc.

A lot of people may also say that it is impossible to become a therian, otherkin, etc. While the identity is involuntary, things like trauma and neurodivergence can cause an individual to take on a nonhuman identity when they had not had one previously.

Most will usually see people explain that these identities are spiritual or psychological, but these are only some of the ways that individuals may experience them. Some other experiences of nonhumanity: Symbolic Metaphorical Ancestral Physical (Yes this is an actual reason for some and they are just as much a part of the community as anyone else. Physical and Ancestral nonhumans are part of the community's history and some of its founders.)

For those looking for more information, and community places, here are some places to check out! Werelist Nonhuman National Park Alterhuman Archive The Chimera's Library. The above are forums and archives of information on the community. Most archived information is thanks to who-is-page, liongoatsnake and frameacloud on tumblr.

While this is a brief look into the nonhuman identity that I could share, I do hope it has been helpful in some way. Remember to be true to yourself, and don't let anyone tell you how to feel. Ignore, report, delete and block the haters!

Yeen out~

[mostlysignssomeportents]

A media literacy handbook for Israel-Gaza

Next Tuesday (Oct 31) at 10hPT, the Internet Archive is livestreaming my presentation on my recent book, The Internet Con.

Media explainers are a cheap way to become an instant expert on everything from billionaire submarine excursions to hellaciously complex geopolitical conflicts, but On The Media's "Breaking News Consumers' Handbooks" are explainers that help you understand other explainers:

https://www.wnycstudios.org/podcasts/otm/segments/breaking-news-consumers-handbook-israel-and-gaza-edition-on-the-media

The latest handbook is an Israel-Gaza edition. It doesn't aim to parse fine distinctions over the definition of "occupation" or identify the source of shell fragments. Rather, it offers seven bullet points' worth of advice on weighing all the other news you hear about the war:

https://media.wnyc.org/media/resources/2023/Oct/27/BNCH_ISRAEL_GAZA_EDITION_1.pdf

I. "Headlines are obscured by the fog of war"

Headline writers have a hard job under the best of circumstances – trying to snag your interest in a few words. Headlines can't encompass all the nuance of a story, and they are often written by editors, not the writers who produced the story. Between the imperatives for speed and brevity and the broken telephone between editors and writers, it's easy for headlines to go wrong, even when no one is attempting to mislead you. Even reliable outlets will screw up headlines sometimes – and that likelihood goes way up in times like these. You gotta read the story, not just the headline.

II. Know red flags for bullshit

The factually untrue information that spreads furthest tends to originate with a handful of superspreader accounts. Whether these people are Just Wrong or malicious disinfo peddlers, they share a few characteristics that should trip your BS meter and prompt extra scrutiny:

High-frequency posting

Emotionally charged framing

Posts that purport to be summaries or excerpts from news outlets, but do not include links to the original

The phrase "breaking news" (no one has that many scoops)

III. Don't trust screenshots

Screenshots of news stories, tweets, and other social media should come with links to the original. It's just too damned easy to fake a screenshot.

IV. "Know your platform"

It used to be that Twitter got a lot of first-person accounts from people in the thick of crises, while Facebook and Reddit contained commentary and reposts. Today, Twitter is just another aggregator. This time around, there's lots of first-person, real-time reporting coming off Telegram (it runs well on old phones and doesn't chew up batteries). Instagram is widely used in both Israel and the West Bank.

V. "Crisis actors" aren't a thing

People who attribute war images to "crisis actors" are either deluded or lying. There's plenty of ways to distort war news, but paying people to pretend to be grieving family members is essentially unheard of. Any explanation that involves crisis actors is a solid reason to permanently block that source.

VI. There's plenty of ways to verify stuff that smells fishy

TinEye, Yandex and Google Image Search are all good tools for checking "breaking" images and seeing if they're old copypasta ganked from earlier conflicts (or, you know, video-games). The fact that an image doesn't show up in one of these searches doesn't guarantee its authenticity, of course.

VII. Think before you post

Israel-Gaza is the most polluted media pool yet. Don't make it worse.

There's plenty more detail on this (especially on the use of verification tools) in Brooke Gladstone's radio segment:

https://www.wnycstudios.org/podcasts/otm/episodes/on-the-media-breaking-news-consumers-handbook-israel-gaza-edition

The media environment sucks, and warrants skepticism and caution. But we also need to be skeptical of skepticism itself! As danah boyd started saying all the way back in 2018, weaponized media literacy leads to conspiratorialism:

https://www.zephoria.org/thoughts/archives/2018/03/09/you-think-you-want-media-literacy-do-you.html

Remember, the biggest peddlers of "fake news" are also the most prolific users of the term. For a lot of these information warriors, the point isn't to get you to believe them – they'll settle for you believing nothing. "Flood the zone with bullshit" is Steve Bannon's go-to tactic, and it's one that his acolytes have picked up and multiplied.

It's important to be a critical thinker, but there's plenty of people who've figured out how to weaponize a critical viewpoint and turn it into nihilism. Remember, the guy who wrote How To Lie With Statistics was a tobacco industry shill who made his living obfuscating the link between smoking and cancer. It's absolutely possible to lie with statistics, but it's also possible to use statistics to know the truth, as Tim Harford explains in his 2021 must-read book The Data Detective:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/04/how-to-truth/#harford

There's a world of difference between being misled and being brainwashed. A lot of today's worry about "disinformation" and "misinformation" has the whiff of a moral panic:

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2023/10/are-we-having-a-moral-panic-over-misinformation.html

It's possible to have a nuanced view of this subject – to take steps to enure you're not being tricked without equating crude tricks like sticking a fake BBC chyron on a 10-year-old image with unstoppable mind-control:

https://sts-news.medium.com/youre-doing-it-wrong-notes-on-criticism-and-technology-hype-18b08b4307e5

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/28/fog-o-war/#breaking-news