#novel sensors

[lichqueenlibrarian]

Paying real close attention there, bud.

[ghostriderslade]

Iconic Artists and Incredible Heroes #149 - the end is near.

A celebration of the amazing comic book artists who brought us indelible images that best capture the spirit and essence of the superhero or superheroine.

Special 2nd-to-Last Issue. "The Lovely Ladies of the Legion of Super-Heroes." Counting down 10 of the most beautiful, powerful and compelling Legion lasses of all time and all drawn by many fantastic artists.

10. Shadow Lass. Tasmia Mallor from Talok VIII. Shadow Champion of her homeworld. Girlfriend of Mon-El.

9. Shrinking Violet. Salu Digby from the planet Imsk. Legion great over the years. Love interest with Light Lass.

8. Phantom Girl. Tinya Wazzo from the planet Bgztl. Part of the Legion Espionage Squad. Romantically involved with Ultra Boy.

7. Night Girl. Lydda Jath of the planet Kathoon. Legion washout who became a mainstay. Married to Cosmic Boy.

6. Dawnstar. Dawnstar from the planet Starhaven. Skilled tracker and warrior. Girlfriend of Wildfire.

5. Dream Girl. Nura Nal from the planet Naltor. Sister to White Witch and linked romantically with Star Boy.

4. Andromeda. Laurel Gand from the planet Daxam. Rond Vidar is her romantic interest. She is a character as powerful as Superman.

3. Princess Projectra / Sensor Girl. Wilimina Morgana Daergina Annaxandra Projectra Velorya Vauxhall from the planet Orando. Romantically involved with Karate Kid and part of the royal family on her home planet.

2. Saturn Girl. Imra Ardeen from Saturn's Moon Titan. Founding member of the Legion. Long-time leader. Married to Lightning Lad.

1. Shvaughn Erin. United Planets Science Officer liason to the Legion. Romantically involved with Element Lad. One of the first transgender characters in comics.

[neosciencehub]

Researchers Develop New Infrared Photodiode Technology Improves Responsiveness

Researchers Develop New Infrared Photodiode Technology Improves Responsiveness @neosciencehub #Infrared #Photodiode #Neoscinecehub #Sciencenews #Responsiveness #Research

Technologies that use infrared light detection may become more efficient thanks to the development of a new infrared photodiode. This novel sensor, which was created by researchers, increases responsivity by 35% at a wavelength of 1.55 µm, which is commonly used in telecommunications. Because of its design, it can be produced using current production methods, making integration into existing…

[heyimkana]

i'm reading the solo leveling LN again to see how the jinhae moments are portrayed in the novel. this is gonna be animated in the first episode of season 3 i think.

adding commentaries cause i need to YAP about how cute this scene is.

“Hunter Cha, one moment please.” “Hmm?” “You don’t have to go that way.” “…?” Cha Haein stared at Jinwoo with a puzzled look. There was only one door to the meeting room. Surely he couldn’t be thinking of jumping out of the window. Jinwoo closely approached Cha Haein, who stood still, “There’s an easier way to get to that place.” “Huh?” “I’ll have to be a bit close to you. I hope you don't mind?” “Ah…” Cha Haein recalled Baek Yoonho’s retelling of that day’s events. When Korea’s attack team was in its most dire situation, Hunter Sung Jinwoo appeared out of nowhere behind Baek Yoonho. ‘Is he going to show me that?’ Jinwoo was up close, more than she had expected. Cha Haein stared at Jinwoo’s face which was now right infront of hers and gulped, “Excuse me.” Jinwoo pulled her into a light hug. He didn’t think much of the gesture. After all, he had carried her all over the place when she was unconscious in the ant hive. However, Cha Haein’s face turned bright red in an instant, yet she managed to remain still. ‘…He smells nice.’

GIRLLLLL STAND UP IM CRYINNGGGG okay real talk tho i know that man smells nice i know he smells like aftershave and pine trees and soap and everything that smells CLEAN

jinwoo saying "excuse me" and asking her for her permission before he touches her... i know that's bare minimum but that's a MAN right there!!!!

Even as her face turned beet red, Jinwoo carefully held her as to not lose her. ‘Alright.’ He wanted to see if this would work, thinking that he wouldn’t get a chance like this again anytime soon.” “You might get a little dizzy.” He recalled his first time activating this skill. Cha Haein put her hands on Jinwoo’s waist and let out a soft and almost whisper-like, “Okay.” Facing forward, Jinwoo triggered the skill by focusing mentally, ‘Exchange.' The pair fell into the shadow on the floor without a sound. With a heavy mechanical sound, the rows of lights overhead came to life one after another. The room’s automatic sensors had detected the pair’s magic power and began to illuminate the chamber. Cha Haein still had her eyes closed, but opened them once she sensed the brightness. “How…!?” Her eyes were opened wide, unable to contain her surprise. In a blink they had been transported from Jinwoo’s Guild office to this familiar location. ‘Is this even possible?’ As far as Cha Haein could recall, there had been no documented Hunter ability even remotely close to this. She stared at Jinwoo with a mixture of disbelief and awe. “You…” Cha Haein paused. She wanted to know everything about this enigmatic Hunter, but found herself unable to speak. One reason for this was that she had too many questions and didn’t know where to start. The other reason for this was that Jinwoo’s face was mere centimeters away from hers. “Um… It’s okay now.” Gently, Jinwoo touched her hand. Cha Haein could feel the temperature of her cheeks rising as he peeled her arms off from around his waist. “You don’t have to hold onto me anymore.” Breathlessly, Cha Haein nodded as she stroked the spot on her hand where Jinwoo had touched her.

SHE WAS WRAPPING HER ARMS AROUND HIS WAIST??? THAT WAS NOT IN THE MANHWA BRO

also I wishhhhh they included the last part in the manhwa cause it would have looked SO MUCH CUTERRRR RAAAAHH I can imagine jinwoo looking down at her, she looks so small in his arms, and he's so tall and awkward and they're staring at each other, their faces are so close, and he's like “uhhh you can let go now” and cha blushing MADLY while stroking the spot he'd touched her????? SHUT UP THAT'S SO CUTE THEY'RE SO EMBARRASSING

Jinwoo walked away from the corner where his shadow soldier was hiding and made his way towards the center of the gym. “So, let’s get started.” “Okay.” Cha Haein started after Jinwoo, but paused suddenly. She suddenly remembered that she had left her sword back in her car, thinking that it would be rude to be armed while visiting someone else’s office. “I left my weapon in my car…” “Oh, your pickaxe?” “Huh?” “The weapon you were holding in the high orc Dungeon was a pickaxe, right?” Cha Haein felt the blood rush to her face a second time as she recalled that embarrassing encounter. “No, my weapon is—” Jinwoo was fighting hard not to laugh. Seeing his expression, Cha Haein realized that he was teasing her. “…” Cha Haein flushed an even deeper shade of red. Mercifully, Jinwoo held up his hand. “Just kidding.”

HELPPPPP HE'S JUST AS ANNOYING AS HE IS IN THE MANHWA but in the LN it plays out more naturally so it really feels like he's just a normal guy teasing his crush???? i didn't know jinhae was peak romance in the LN bro

It was Igris, the strongest swordsman of his Shadow Army. ‘The strongest swordsman, yes. But not the strongest overall…’ Jinwoo decided that it would be overkill to call upon Beru. Afterall, he already knew that Beru’s original form had easily overwhelmed the entire Korean S-rank team and left Cha Haein in mortal danger. Even though the shadow retained a fraction of its original’s power, Jinwoo was cautious of the psychological toil that the ant king might impose on her. Similarly, calling upon Tusk was out of the question, as Jinwoo could not count on the high orc sorcerer to avoid damaging the Association’s property. In the end, Jinwoo decided on Igris. “Are you sure? It might be difficult to use a weapon that you’re not used to.” Cha Haein shook her head dismissively. “It is not the tools we use that make us good, but rather how we employ them. Besides, if I was fighting a magic beast, they wouldn’t wait for me to fetch my usual weapon.” Jinwoo nodded in agreement. Cha Haein’s sentiment was admirable and he found himself warming up to the female Hunter.

the way he was worried about her, not wanting her to get PTSD... but he also acknowledges her strength and he admires her... god this man

also love how cha acts throughout the chapter, she's cute but also a baddie at the same time

Even though the sword was a common, average-level magic weapon, it looked incredibly formidable in that moment, gripped confidently in Cha Haein’s hands as she stood ready for combat. ‘She truly is strong.' 'Hold on…she said that she doesn’t care about what weapons are used, right?’ A wry smile formed on Jinwoo’s face as he decided to use Cha Haein’s words against her. “Um…could you turn around for a sec?” “…?” Cha Haein tilted her head in puzzlement but did as he requested. Once her back was turned, Jinwoo promptly called up his inventory and pulled out the Demon King’s Longsword. ‘Use this.’ He placed the weapon in Igris’s hand. If a magic beast doesn’t care about their opponent’s weapon, then logic dictates that a Hunter shouldn’t either. Igris bowed his head in deep gratitude and began to bend the knee as well, but Jinwoo stopped him. ‘Hey, I told you already that you don’t have to be so formal with me.’ Jinwoo sighed. If only he could take half of Igris’s chivalrous personality and give it to Iron. Having completed his preparations, he called out to Cha Haein. “Okay, you can turn back around now.” When Cha Haein faced her opponent again, she noticed that the knight held a new sword. Electricity coursed through the blade with bright flashes, lighting up the area around them with its eerie blue glow. “…” Jinwoo avoided eye contact with her and shuffled his feet, feigning ignorance. “Ready to get started?” “…okay.” Cha Haein realized that she had no room to complain, given her words about weapons earlier. Still, she could not help but let the discontent show on her face. Jinwoo felt slightly guilty, but it was too late to change his mind now. “Begin!” Igris moved immediately at the start signal, sweeping the Demon King’s Longsword in a large arc and activating its ability. With a blinding flash, a bright bolt of lightning streaked across the room towards Cha Haein. The brightness stunned the woman for just a moment before her combat experience kicked in. With cat-like grace, she bent backwards to let the lightning sail harmlessly over her body. The attack struck the far wall of the gymnasium with a thunderous crash, leaving the wall charred and smoldering. Cha Haein recovered her stance and shot a dark look in Jinwoo’s direction. However, the newly-appointed S-ranker avoided eye contact once more. Instead, he appeared to be intensely focused on checking the length of his fingernails. ‘…’ Rather than complaining, Cha Haein grasped her sword with both hands. Jinwoo subtly signalled to Igris to avoid using the lightning strike.

Jinwoo: “Summoning Tusk will just end up damaging the Association’s property with his fire magic.”

also jinwoo: gives the demon monarch's sword that can cast LIGHTNING BOLTS to igris

sdfasdfds HE'S A MENACE IN THE LN HE'S SO MISCHIEVOUS

NOT HIM AVOIDING EYE CONTACT AND SHUFFLING ON HIS FEET AFTER IGRIS THREW A FUCKING LIGHTNING BOLT AT HER LMFAOOOOASJFOASKD TRYING TO ACT ALL INNOCENT WHEN CHA WAS LOWKEY GLARING AT HIM HELPPPP THIS IS LITERALLY THEM

ALSO NOT JINWOO LOOKING AT HIS FINGERNAILS WHEN IGRIS KEPT SPAMMING LIGHTNING STRIKES AND PISSING HER THE FUCK OFF HE'S REALLY LIKE mm-mm i didn't see that i don't know what you're glaring at me for girl that wasn't my doing

okay but when he actually felt guilty in the end and silently told igris to stop with the lightning attacks... this is my husband!jinwoo omg he's sweet but also so annoyinggggg

also it's sweet that igris still bends his knees for him and jinwoo stopping him like "bro come on we're friends now" while also throwing shades at iron LMFAOOOOAJSFOSD

[slippinmickeys]

For Funfetti - Could we have either Mulder or Scully reassuring William that he's not a monster? Bonus if Skinner or the Gunmen get involved.

William against his headboard with his knees pulled to his chest, Mulder standing in his doorway. 

Knock, knock. 

“Hey,” Mulder said when his son looked up. “Thought I’d come and check on you.”

William merely sat there pulled into himself on the unmade bed, the pillows under him askew, the sheets kicked into a tangle that spilled off the edge of the mattress. 

“Okay if I come in?” Mulder continued. 

The boy merely shrugged. 

Down the lane from their home, past the rusted gate of their driveway and just beyond the sight line of the house, two agents sat in a portable guardhouse, the family’s new first line of defense. There were motion sensors and cameras now dotted along the edge of the property and a big guy named Dieter who accompanied them into town. The mood of the house felt like a breath held too long.

“So listen,” Mulder said, pulling Will’s desk chair out and settling into it, facing the bed. “Uncle Walt has spoken with one of the Bureau’s trauma therapists, who’d like to speak with you about what happened on Tuesday.” 

“I don’t want to talk about what happened on Tuesday,” William said. 

The furnace kicked on, sighing warm, dry air out of the dusty vent by the door. Outside, Krypto gave one sharp yip.

“And this is when it’s a real bummer to have a psychologist for a father, because I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist, Will.”

His son looked up at him, then seemed to think better of arguing, eventually sighing heavily. 

“Trust me when I tell you that the people who try to carry this weight by themselves eventually get buried by the load.” Mulder knew this one first hand.

“And this therapist is going to what, unpack it for me?” 

“Or help you unpack it yourself.”

“Is that wise?” William asked, sounding an awful lot like his mother. He lifted his head off of his arms to look Mulder fully in the face. “How honest can I be?” 

Mulder hesitated. “This is a person who is open to…Greyskull.”

“Greyskull is one thing, Dad,” Will said, resting his head back down. When he went on, his voice was muffled by the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Soulflare is something else.”

Mulder tried to imagine the mechanism of his son’s new power. Tried to imagine what it might feel like. Scully had described it as a blue-white light that burned into her retinas even behind the closed lids of her eyes. 

He looked keenly at the side of his son’s face, knew arguing with him wasn’t going to help. 

“Have you been sleeping okay?” 

“I don’t want you to shrink me.” 

Mulder smiled, leaned back in the chair, looking around the decorations in William’s room; posters for a band he could never remember the name of, the ubiquitous glow-in-the-dark stars.  On a shelf, The Death and Life of Superman novel edition, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a LEGO Empire State Building, On the Origin of Species, The Elegant Universe. A ratty baseball mitt. Samantha’s ragdoll. 

“You know you can always talk to me or Mom,” Mulder said, then held up his hands. “No shrinking, I promise.” 

Will lifted his head again, an anger in his gaze Mulder hadn’t seen before. “And talk to you about what, exactly? You guys have been through some weird shit, but you don’t know what this is like.”

Mulder sat back, twirled his wedding ring around his finger. Debated fully opening up to his son. For the first time in 25 years, he longed for a cigarette.

“When you hear people,” he started hesitantly. “In your head…” Will’s eyes narrowed at this, like he was trying to gauge whether or not his father was really attempting to have this conversation. Mulder had to decide whether or not to fully commit to it. 

“Do you see colors associated with each individual? Does each voice have a specific aura?” William’s head snapped up, an expression of profound surprise on his face. Okay, Mulder thought. Fully committed. So to speak. “Because that’s how it was for me.”

William tilted his head suspiciously. “How what was for you?”

“When I could hear people’s thoughts,” Mulder finally said. “They had color and texture. Everyone was different.” 

Several thoughts seemed to be passing over William’s face at the same time. Mulder just kept talking. 

“Skinner’s–Uncle Walt’s–was green. Rough, but even. Like running your hands over the grass on a putting green. And your mom’s,” Mulder shook his head, remembering. “It was–” 

“Orangish-pink,” William interrupted, his voice filled with awe. 

Mulder smiled at him. “Yeah,” he said. “Rose gold.” He shook his head ruefully. “The color of dawn.” 

Will blinked a few times and then spoke again. “And it feels—” he began. 

“Smooth,” Mulder finished. “Heavy. Like holding a jade egg in your palm.” 

William just stared at him. He looked like he was barely breathing. Finally, he asked, “Can you still–” 

“No,” Mulder said quickly. “No. Not for a long time.” 

Will’s mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish out of water. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

The geometric pattern of voices, all talking over each other, colors the swirling miasma of a bad acid trip. Too loud. Too much.

“I don’t know,” Mulder said honestly. “Because it seemed so effortless for you. You were born to it. You carry the gift so easily.” 

“But Dad, you could have–” 

“William,” Mulder had to stop this train of thought while it was still at the station. “You don’t understand. I couldn’t handle that gift when I had it. I ended up in a padded cell.” 

“You–”

“I was committed to a mental institution.” Those weren’t days Mulder liked to think about. “Your mom saved me. As usual. But not before someone… I lost the ability.”

“You couldn’t–”

Mulder shook his head. “And I wouldn’t want to. It was agony for me. All those colors and textures and voices—sheer terror. Your mom was the only beacon. The only quiet.”

A sun-baked quiet, Mulder remembered. Warm as a breeze through acacia and sage.

William sat, processing this. “She’s like that for me, too,” he said softly. 

Mulder understood this in a way no one else could. 

He spoke again. “Will, I don’t know if the powers you have are a burden or a gift. I think they’re probably both. But I know–a very little bit–about what some of them feel like. And you are… An immensely powerful person–in mind and spirit–to be able to handle all you’ve been given.”

He knew it wouldn’t feel like that to Will. His son didn’t know any better, didn’t know what it was like to be ‘normal,’ had nothing to compare it to. If only he could see that it was a profound victory just to face each day, to continue to be his authentic self. 

“Sometimes,” William swallowed, his voice becoming very very quiet. “I think I might be a monster.” 

Mulder rose immediately and sat down next to his son, putting his hand on his knee. Above them, Unremembered Band looked down on them, holding guitars and looking entirely too serious for people who had such a ridiculous job. 

“I have met monsters, William. I have met monsters both human and not, and I assure you, you are anything but.”

William looked unconvinced, and after a moment, he glanced up at his father and whispered “But I killed those men.”

Mulder pulled his son into him, awkward now that they were nearly the same size, his hands running up through the boy’s grassy hair, the soft thump of his heart beating against Mulder’s ribs as though seeking out synchronicity. 

“What would have happened if you hadn’t?” Mulder whispered. He looked up from Will’s head and his eyes were pulled to the brassy cap of Scully’s hair; a picture of the three of them a few years earlier in Quonochontaug. How many times had Mulder himself killed to keep her? 

He sighed. His son was now anathematized–claimed by the family curse. 

“Something bad,” Will said into Mulder’s shirt. 

“Worse than this feeling?”

His son’s head nodded into his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry you had to do what you did,” Mulder mumbled. He did not mention that he would likely have to do it again. 

He pulled William away from him so he could look him in the eyes, his hands bracketing his son’s young face. “Don’t let it change you,” he said. “The warm parts of you. Don’t let them go cold. That’s how you beat it.”

William, looking at Mulder with his mother’s eyes, nodded solemnly. 

[awinterrosesstuff]

Many fans consider the Naruto light novels canon, so that means you accept that :

- Naruto knew about Hinata liking him all along but thought she loved him like she would like ramen or shogi and ignored it for years

- Naruto didn't understand anything about love despite being his whole arc in the manga

- For Naruto and Hinata's wedding, Kakashi had a huge problem : the security of Konoha. Because everyone wanted to go the wedding (you see). So Kakashi used an old law and started a competition between the guests. So the ones who offer the best gifts can go to the wedding and the others, they are on duty. It's only after Tsunade came back (at least, she didn't lose her brain), that he changed his plan. Thankfully, Naruto never heard of it...

- Sakura kept chasing Sasuke until he returned her feelings and compared it to hitting your ennemy until he lost

- Hinata is friends with Orochimaru and doesn't have any problem with helping him in his experiences and letting him near Himawari

- Naruto didn't bother telling Hinata he was sick and dying

- When Naruto was worried about Shikamaru, he went to Sakura. Who told him to not "worry" and to focus on his own things to not disappoint people. We learnt later that he had good intuitions, since Shikamaru almost failed his mission and was convinced to join a secte (like Sai actually). Thankfully, Temari was smart enough to notice something was wrong too...

- Hinata is unhappy. Hanabi noticed it and offered her to live with her, but Hinata decided to fight her sister instead. (Actually it's consistent with the manga, but that doesn't sound good for NH fans right ?)

- Apparently, Boruto and Himawari were trained in the Huyga style despite not having the byakugan and never showing that style in the manga.

- Sakura kissed Sasuke on Naruto's dying body.

- Sakura almost died from poison despite being a poison expert since the second part of Naruto manga.

- In a mission to save Naruto, Sasuke got hurt by prison guardians (yeah Sasuke) and he watched an almond blossom hoping it would blossom because it reminded him of Sakura (a real teenager, I know).

- Sakura has an amazing sensing technique, but never uses in the Boruto manga despite the fact it would have been useful. Actually, Naruto and Shikamaru when they need a sensor, they ask Ino.

- Sasuke and Sakura both claimed they would use the edo tensei to see the other if they had the chance

- Sasuke is upset with Naruto and Kakashi for sending him away from his family in missions while it was his choice to leave Konoha by the end of Naruto.

To sum up, the novels contradict the original work (and even the Boruto manga), your favorite characters and ships sound different (and sometimes even look "worse").

And the truth is... why would I consider them canon ? They aren't written by Kishimoto. And from one novel to another, they're not the same writers either.

And at the end of the day, if I don't need them to understand Naruto and Boruto, then it's very telling.

[vixendoesstuff]

I just thought of something.

So it's basically widely accepted that Smokescreen is from Praxus, right? Even in the Aligned continuity? Well, taking fact of the Aligned universe's timeline about Smokescreen, he's young. Like, at the very least around Bumblebee's age group or older. And according to the Exodus novel, Praxus was destroyed early in the war; way before Bumblebee was sparked. Maybe I'm preaching here, but this kinda implies that Smokescreen has never been to Praxus at all, despite having the "frame" or "build" for it.

That means he doesn't know jack shit about what makes Praxians recognizable and kinda infamous in the eyes of other Cybertronians (or what the fandom would categorize them with, at least). He doesn't know the culture, the traditions, the history. He's probably lived in Iacon for most, if not all, of his life. So he probably only knows how Iaconians operate and how to live with them, how to behave around them. He's most familiar with Iacon, with their history and culture and traditions.

In terms of biology, I'm sure he has at least an instructor from Praxus or someone knowledgeable about his frame teaching him the necessities. The bare bones, if you will. There's little time for some long history lesson when you can get killed in a blink of an eye, after all. So he's not completely clueless about his heritage.

The sensitive doorwings, in his opinion, is a major plus in his book, able to detect even the slightest change in the air. Which is perfect for potential battle scenarios and when he's on guard duty; he can sense when someone is nearby, and react accordingly.

Though he could do without the sensory overload he gets once in a while. Took some time for him to learn how to disable the sensors in his wings when he needs it.

Speaking about wings, y'all know the famous headcanon that comes along with it? Being able to "speak" with only doorwing twiches and flutters? Yeah, Smokescreen got no idea about that either. His processor can sort of translate what one action means because it's built into his coding and all that, but the more complex ones? The ones that are learned by experience and teachings and less about instinct? Don't be surprised if he accidently offends someone with the wrong response.

Also he speaks with an Iaconian dialect, with a hint of another unrecognizable accent mixed in. Because of course he does. And his handwriting and way of writing words is noticeably Iaconian in origin; and also kinda fancy looking, thanks to Alpha Trion.

But yeah, this is my new headcanon now, Iacon Raised! Smokescreen is my new ambrosia.

[tinyshyteacup]

Tw: cussing, discussions on moving a captor

Part 7

Novel Attraction - Part 8

The air inside Templo was thick with smoke, sweat, and tension. Dim light from the hanging bulbs above threw long shadows across the room, catching the glint of rings tapping impatiently on the table.

They were all there—Bishop at the head, Taza silent at his side, Hank with his arms crossed, and Angel sitting lower in his chair than usual, eyes tired and lips set in a straight, unreadable line. His kutte hung open, his hands wrapped around a beer he hadn't touched.

Bishop was first to speak.

“Galindo wants her moved across the border. Multiple sites. Real careful shit—she’ll be tampering with both paper trails and digital ones.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“This isn’t a one-time job. Could be weeks. Months. Maybe more.” A heavy pause. “She ain’t a guest. But she’s not disposable either.”

“She ain’t trained for that kinda travel,” Taza said, arms folded. “That girl looks like she’s never even jaywalked.”

There was a low chuckle from Creeper—dry and without humor.

“She’s not the problem,” Bishop cut in. “It’s the cartel. They want her mobile. They want her working dirty. That means we’re her handlers.”

Angel’s knuckles flexed around the bottle, jaw tight. “She’s not property, either.”

Hank raised a brow. “You sure there, hermano? You already let her try to bolt once.”

Angel didn’t flinch. But the sting landed anyway.

Maps were rolled out onto the chapel table. Satellite images of desert scrublands, old cartel supply routes, half-buried sensor towers near the wall.

A line was drawn through the middle—the border.

Taza dragged his finger along a twisting side road. “We take her through here. Two nights off-grid. One by the dried arroyo. One through the tunnel.

He looked across the table. “We’ll need someone she trusts. To keep her from running again.”

Silence.

Bishop lit a cigarette, blew smoke toward the ceiling. As table in the Templo groaned beneath the weight of maps, burner phones, printed dossiers, and oil-stained coffee cups.

Bishop’s hand moved slowly across the map, dragging a finger over the dry jagged terrain.

“We’ll be using the old tunnel. And if she spooks out there, that desert’ll eat her alive.”

There was a pause. Then Bishop added, voice even but deliberate:

“Maybe EZ should ride point on her.”

The room stilled.

Angel’s head lifted, sharply.  “What?”

Bishop didn’t flinch. He met Angel’s eyes like he expected the protest.

"Think about it. She’s scared. She looks at EZ like he’s the one tether to all her nerd shit.”

A few nods circled the room. Taza gave a slow shrug.

"He is the cleaner one between you two.”

Angel stood, suddenly. His chair scraped back across the floor. “She don’t trust him. Not really. She’s just not scared of him yet.”

The room went quiet again. A heavy quiet.

“That ain’t the same thing.” Gilly mumbled.

Angel started pacing. One hand dragging through his hair, the other clenched by his side.

“She talks to me. She’d bolt if it was EZ takin’ her across.”

Bishop tilted his head, unconvinced. “Would she?”

Angel stepped forward, leaning on the edge of the table with both palms flat. Voice low, dangerous.

"I’m the one she runs to, not from.”

The room paused at that. Eyes darted between Angel and Bishop, reading the tension under the surface.

Coco exhaled a slow breath, nodding once toward Angel. “He ain’t wrong, Bish.”

Taza tapped his pencil against the map.  “EZ’s point on her. Angel’s lead on this.”

Bishop looked between them—then gave a single nod.

“Fine. But if she runs again out there—we don’t get another shot.”

His words echoed in the silence.

Angel nodded tightly. No fight left in him now. Just purpose.

“She won’t.”

“Camping,” Coco repeated with a low laugh, shaking his head. “This girl ain’t gonna last ten minutes in the open desert. The second she sees a scorpion or hears a rattler, she’ll bolt.”

He leaned forward on the table, toothpick twitching between his teeth. “You sure you don’t want me with her? I know how to track someone in that kinda terrain. I’ll keep her in line.”

Angel’s jaw tightened.

From across the room, Hank gave Coco a long look. “She’s terrified of you, man.”

Coco raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just sayin’ what nobody else wants to.”

Taza folded his arms across his chest, voice low and matter-of-fact.

“If she runs in the desert, we won’t find her ‘til there’s nothin’ left. We can’t risk that. Not with how valuable she is to Galindo.”

Silence swept through Templo. Everyone knew what came next, but no one wanted to say it.

Until Bishop did.

“Then we don’t let her out of reach.”

He flicked ash off his cigarette, eyes scanning the map, but his words hung like smoke in the air.

“Zip tie her to someone. At the wrist every night, til the job’s done.”

There was a pause—a heavy, shifting kind of silence, like the room itself was holding its breath.

Angel looked up sharply, mouth opening like he wanted to argue, but there was nothing to say. This was cartel business now. Galindo made the rules. The club just enforced them.

Taza glanced toward Angel, then over to the others. “Not Coco,” he said flatly. “She’s already scared of him. That’ll just make her more likely to do something desperate.”

Coco rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

“A'ight. Let her be someone else’s problem.”

Angel’s fingers were curled into fists in his lap, his boot tapping rapidly under the table. You could see the conflict in him—he hated the idea. Of chaining you like an animal. But he also knew they were right.

She runs again, and it could get her killed.

Bishop stood, chair creaking beneath him.

"Move at dawn. One truck. One tunnel. Angel, you keep her quiet, cooperative, and calm. If she bolts again—you do what you gotta.”

He didn’t say what that meant.

He didn’t have to.

Angel gave a slow nod, though it looked like the weight of it added years to his face.

Later, outside the clubhouse, Angel leaned against his bike. Night had fallen. Crickets chirped, dogs barked in the distance, and inside the clubhouse the music had started up again. partying going on like the world hadn’t shifted.

He stayed outside.

Lit a cigarette. Let the silence press against his chest.

In the shadows near the trailer where you were kept, a dim light was on. He could just make out the shape of your silhouette, small and still behind the window, knees tucked to your chest like you were trying to disappear.

“Querida,” he muttered to himself, voice low and broken.

“What the hell did we drag you into?”

He flicked ash into the gravel, then looked toward the dark desert stretching out beyond the lot.

The inside of EZ’s trailer smelled like cheap pine cleaner and cologne, both trying to cover something more metallic underneath—like rust or old blood.

The place was neat, controlled—EZ’s nature in contrast to the chaos that constantly lived outside its thin aluminum walls.

You sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders tight, hands clenched in your lap. You wore one of EZ’s hoodies—your own clothes had started to smell like the warehouse, like fear. The fabric hung off you like armor too big for its soldier.

The door opened behind you with a soft creak.

EZ entered first, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Angel followed—slower, heavier. He looked at you immediately. You didn’t meet his eyes.

"We need to talk, querida,” Angel said gently.

His voice was soft—too soft. Like someone breaking bad news to a child.

You looked up at him, your eyes already glossed with the beginnings of panic.

EZ stayed standing near the small kitchenette. Angel moved to crouch in front of you, close enough to reach out—but he didn’t.

“Galindo wants the work started,” EZ said. “First site’s across the border.”

You blinked. “The border? As in... Mexico?”

EZ nodded once. “There’s an underground tunnel. It’s safe. Or—safer. That's where we're gonna take you.”

Your breath caught. You looked between the brothers, your heartbeat thudding loudly in your ears.

“Why can’t I just... do it here? Why do I have to go there?”

Angel leaned forward a little, hands resting on his knees.

“Because they don’t want just the data changed. They want the documents too. Originals. In places you can’t reach from a laptop, querida.”

Your voice dropped to a whisper. "Jesus fucking christ”

EZ’s expression softened for the first time. He walked over, crouched next to Angel.

“You’re not gonna be alone. You're safe.”

He said it like a promise. Like a man used to being believed.

Your breath eased just slightly.

Angel noticed.

He saw the way your shoulders dropped half an inch. The way your eyes settled on EZ’s face instead of his. His stomach twisted.

He wanted to reach for your hand—but it was folded into EZ’s hoodie sleeve.

After a moment, EZ stood up again, gave Angel a small nod, and stepped outside, giving the illusion of privacy without granting it.

The second the door shut, Angel sighed, quiet and long. He rested his elbows on his thighs, lacing his fingers together.

“I know you trust him,” he said, not bitter—just quiet. "Golden boy's always been good at makin’ people feel safe.”

Your eyes drifted to his and then back to a spot on the wall as you listened.

“You’re not cargo to me, querida,” he added. “I know it feels like you’re being passed around. Moved like product. But I swear... we ain’t gonna let anything happen to you. Not in that desert. Not in Mexico. Not ever.”

You nodded, but you didn't believe him.

After you fell asleep curled up on the bed, EZ re-entered the trailer, finding Angel in the kitchenette, nursing a beer.

He glanced once at your sleeping form, then back at his brother. “She’ll trust you more if you stop trying so hard.”

Angel scoffed softly, not turning around.

EZ leaned against the counter. “Why do you look like someone’s carving your ribs out every time she looks at me?”

Angel finally met his gaze. “Because it ain’t you dreaming of her crying, or her bein' put in that fucking pew bro."

The clock blinked 2:46 AM in faded numbers. Outside was still, blanketed in silence except for the distant howl of wind pushing sand across asphalt.

Inside EZ’s trailer, the shadows moved softly—your figure curled under a borrowed blanket on the bed, knees tucked into your chest, eyes wide open and red-rimmed in the dark.

Sleep hadn’t come. Fear had.

Didn’t know what the air would feel like south of the border. Didn’t know if you’d survive long enough to come back.

The door creaked open gently.

You flinched.

It was Angel.

He stepped inside quietly, boots thudding against the floor with practiced care. No kutte. Just a hoodie and jeans, his hair mussed, eyes tired—but alert. He closed the door behind him, locking it out of habit more than concern.

When he saw you still awake, he paused.

"Couldn’t sleep, huh?” His voice was low, not teasing this time.

You shook your head, slowly, from where you lay.

Angel crossed the trailer without needing the light. He moved like he’d memorized every inch of this place. Instead of sitting beside you, he dropped onto the floor with a groan, back against the bed, stretching his legs out and letting his head lean back.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to see your outline in the dark.

“You ever been to the desert before?”

“No,” you whispered. “I’ve never even... left the country. Never had a passport. I’ve never even camped. And I don’t... I don’t speak Spanish, Angel. What if I mess everything up?”

He let out a soft exhale, running a hand through his hair.

“Querida... messing up would be running into a rattlesnake or pissing off a border patrol agent. But you? You’re gonna be fine.”

He adjusted his position, turning a little so his shoulder brushed your knee through the blanket.

“Mexico’s not as scary as people think. Yeah, there’s cartel shit. But there’s also real people. Good food. Sunsets that make you feel like the sky’s on fire. And if you’re lucky—if you keep your mouth shut and your head down—you get to walk out of there with all your fingers still attached.”

You didn’t laugh. But your lip twitched. Just a little.

You finally spoke, voice barely audible.

“It’s not just Mexico. It’s... everything. I don’t know how to do this shit, Angel.”

He tilted his head up to look at you more clearly now. You weren’t crying, but the tension in your body was clear—shoulders tight, chin drawn in like you were trying to disappear inside yourself.

“You don’t have to know any of it,” he said gently. “You just have to get through it. One day at a time. That’s all we’re doin’,”

You blinked at that. The idea that even they—these rough, dangerous men—were surviving on borrowed time and pieced-together plans.

“I feel like a fucking lamb surrounded by wolves.”

Angel reached up, just resting his hand over your blanket-covered shin, grounding you.

“Maybe. But this wolf ain’t gonna bite you, querida.”

He looked down then, almost bashfully.

"Unless you decide to start snoring out in the damn dessert. Then we got a problem.”

You smiled. Just a little. A tremble of light through the fear.

Angel didn’t say anything. He just leaned back again, adjusted until his shoulder bumped yours gently through the fabric of the blanket, and let the silence fall between you.

Not cold. Not empty.

A silence that wrapped around the two of you like an understanding.

Angel was still on the floor beside the bed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, arms resting casually over his knees. You were curled beneath the blanket, head sunk into the pillow, your breath slowing just slightly.

You weren’t asleep. Not yet. But your eyes blinked more slowly now. The panic had loosened its grip—still there, still coiled—but fading in the safety of his voice.

“It’ll be me, EZ, Coco and Gilly takin’ you. That’s the crew,” he said casually, like it was just a road trip. “EZ’ll keep his eye on you like he said. Coco’s got jokes… half of them ain’t funny, but he tries. And Gilly? Big guy. Quiet. But he’s solid.”

You tensed, just a flicker, when he said Coco. He noticed.

“I know,” he said gently. “Coco scared you. But he won’t hurt you, Querida. Not out there. We're be there to keep you safe.”

He paused, letting the silence settle, his words slow and easy like the wind outside.

“It’s not like it’ll be hotels and room service or anything,” he added, lips twitching faintly. “We’ll be camping a bit. Desert stretches for miles... so wide it makes you feel small in a way that’s kinda good. Cleans you out a little.”

You watched him from the edge of your blanket, your fingers curled lightly under your chin. He wasn’t trying to sell it to you. He was just talking, steady and grounded.

“There’s a place, couple miles past the boarder—nothing but red rock and these weird little wildflowers that bloom for like a week, maybe two, after it rains. You ever see a flower push through sand? Like it’s got no business surviving, but it does anyway.”

You breathed out slowly. "You make it sound pretty" The image stuck with you. A flower in the sand. That’s what you felt like.

Angel never reached for you. He just stayed. A constant warmth at the side of your world when everything else was foreign.

His voice dropped a little, like he knew you were starting to fade.

"It’s not all bad, y’know,” he murmured. “They tell dumb jokes. EZ makes coffee strong enough to kill a horse.”

You blinked sleepily, your cheek pressing further into the pillow.

“It's all bad when you don't get a choice Angel” you whispered, the words slipping out.

Angel looked at you then. Really looked. He leaned his head back against the bed then, sighing.

The hum of the fridge was the only sound that filled the small trailer, steady and low like a heartbeat. Moonlight spilled through the crack in the blinds, casting pale stripes across the floor and the couch where you lay, half-draped in that worn blanket EZ had handed you earlier.

Angel stayed on the floor beside you, back pressed to the bedframe, knees drawn up. One arm slung lazily over a bent knee, the other toyed with the frayed hem of his hoodie sleeve. He didn’t try to move closer. Didn’t reach for your hand or offer his touch. Just sat there—his presence quiet, grounding.

You were starting to relax. Your breathing had slowed. But he could see the way your fingers still twitched now and then under the blanket, your mind refusing to let go of its worry completely.

So he spoke, voice low, almost like he was telling a bedtime story.

“You know… the desert’s not just heat and dust. There’s somethin’ about it. The stillness. The way the stars hit the sky with no lights around for miles. Shit’s kinda… beautiful. Even when it shouldn’t be.”

He glanced back at you over his shoulder, saw your eyes were open—soft now, not so wide with fear, but not quite ready to sleep.

He paused, stretching out one leg, letting out a breath as he stared up at the ceiling like he could see through it.

“We know that route. Desert roads, old tunnels, back trails no one uses anymore. It’s not gonna be easy, but… we’ll get you through it.”

You mumbled something—a sleepy hum more than words—but he caught the way your lips curved ever so slightly.

“And when the sun goes down out there?” he continued. “It’s like someone lit the whole world on fire. Orange, pink, purple—all of it bleeds together. Makes you forget for a second that you’re even in danger.”

You let out a soft sigh, shifting under the blanket again, body turning just a bit more toward him—though your eyes remained half-lidded now, heavy.

“You shouldn't be doing this,” you whispered almost absentmindedly, like the tendrils of sleep had you already.

Angel looked at you for a few seconds, before his brows drew together.

“I'm not dumb Angel, I know what this is" you whispered "What happens when they tell you to put a bullet in me?”

Angel’s jaw locked. His eyes flickered with something—grief? Anger? Shame?

"You’re not goin’ out like that,” he said simply, his tone enough for you to drop the topic.

Your hand slipped from under the blanket and dangled off the edge of the bed, fingertips brushing air just a few inches from Angel’s shoulder. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t even move. Just turned his gaze toward your face—watching the way your breathing slowed, the way tension gradually bled from your small frame.

For all your fear, there was a strength in you he admired. Not loud, not stubborn like most people he knew—but quiet. Stubborn in your trust even when it was terrifying.

He leaned his head back against the bedframe, eyes never leaving you, the corners of his mouth tugging into something tired but warm.

“You know, when I was a kid? I used to think the desert was cursed,” he murmured, voice almost lost in the air. “Like it swallowed people whole. But now... I think it just strips everything down. Shows you who you really are.”

A beat passed. Another. Then a soft noise from you—a barely audible sigh—and he knew you were finally slipping under.

He didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

Just sat there.

Watching over you.

“Buenas noches, querida,” he whispered to the dark.

[evilkitten3]

I rewatched Hashirama flashback episode and I just realized how evil Tobirama's line "what happened to Izuna" was... Like he's a best sensor so he should've known that injury was fatal

mm, disagree. sensing is pretty misunderstood by the fandom - it's a neat ability, but it doesn't give you 100% reliable information, and it's not like there aren't ways of getting around sensor types, something madara likely would've known quite well as he too is a very capable sensor type, and the only uchiha from the warring states era that we know was a sensor at all (there are only two other known uchiha sensors at all - obito and sasuke. if you count the novels there's also tekka but. who cares about tekka lol)

anyhow, tobirama's dialogue in the flashback has pretty much nothing to do with izuna at all.

それからイズナだな (pg 113, ch 623) - "and you're izuna"

that's the only line tobirama says to or about izuna at all, unless you count yelling "HIRAISHINGIRI" while slicing him open.

hashirama brings up izuna more, but also never by name. "our brothers" (pg 70, ch 621) and "do you not have any brothers anymore?" (pg 103, ch 623) are the only times in the flashback he refers to izuna via dialogue.

even as narrator of the flashback, he barely ever acknowledges izuna- he lumps him in under "the uchiha side" (pg 115, ch 624), hypothetically refers to him and tobirama from their father's standpoints as "their own children" (pg 117, ch 624), and indirectly references him when referring to madara as "an older brother with younger brother(s)". at no point does hashirama say izuna's name as the story's narrator or as the character he presents himself as within the story he's telling

izuna in-universe is pretty much exclusively a visual character - he fundamentally does not exist as an individual human being to anyone other than madara, no one else who talks about him had any real relationship with him (hashirama) or straight up was born years after he died (obito and itachi)

all that said, we don't know what happened to izuna. we know he died. we know it was (probably) as a result of the injury tobirama inflicted on him, though we don't know the specifics. we don't know how it looked to anyone who was in the general area at the time of izuna's passing. we don't know how it felt to any sensors nearby when he died. we definitely don't know if tobirama was even kneading chakra at the time of izuna's passing, something he has to be doing if he's going to be using his sensory abilities (as he himself acknowledges in the flashback - it's not a passive ability, he has to actively choose to do it)

fun fact: while one out of tajima's four lines in the flashback is prompted by a remark from izuna, he does not address him or make reference to him within said sentence at all. nothing he says makes any mention of izuna's existence. within the naruto universe, izuna is functionally a ghost

[rawmeknockout]

Request!

A snipet of the daily life of DJD and cyberformed!liason, please?

Tarn's the only one who can relieve you. Here, on the Peaceful Tyranny, he's the last authority. The final word. He delivers the light and the darkness, brings life and death. His phantom touches all over your HUD, all over your settings. Tarn gently, condescendingly, talks you through the almost constant alerts that pop up on your HUD when he has the time. He's had his servos on your frame, inside and out. There's not a fragment of your new body he hasn't touched; his gaze upon you even when you're split open on the medbay berth. No portion of your new mechanical body, so novel and alien to you, is safe.

It feels like he's within your processor, even outside of the cable-based interfaces. He's connected to your processor so many times, forced his way past your meager mental barriers, that it almost seems Tarn is there outside of interfacing. It sets you on edge. That your thoughts, even what you are perceiving through your sensors, are not safe.

Most days are colorless nothing, a dull expanse of time that blends together into a numbing eternity, all contained in the four steel, gray walls that Tarn graciously said was all yours. Your room barren of life save for your mech shell idling quietly. It’s hard to tell what time it is when you wake from recharge, whether it’s been a full day or only a few hours, and your HUD is still so confusing you are usually unable to even find your chronometer much less read it properly. Cybertronian timescales are still a mystery, even though Tarn promised you would go over it in your lessons. You can only assume it’s been a few months on the Peaceful Tyranny. Tarn only comes to you when he wants.

Sometimes you think he’ll forget about you in your out-of-the-way quarters altogether, then everyone on the Peaceful Tyranny will forget you’re there. Waiting for them. You think you would feel equal parts relief and agonizing, mortifying betrayal. Only Tarn can extend you any mercy, the only one on the Peaceful Tyranny who has the power to, the desire to, keep you from dying of neglect. Sometimes you want to bid him come see you, remember you exist. Invade your processor if he must. Anything to relieve you of the stifling quiet, left in this new body. No longer worthy of interest. You want to root around in his mind as he has yours, find a way to mentally prod him, but there are so many nuances to your Cybertronian body you still do not understand.

You fear you will never understand them, forever cursed with alienation from humans and mechs alike. There is a secret language Cybetronians speak that you have not been invited to, a mockery of them they can see immediately.

Kaon is most often the only one to willingly shatter the all-encompassing quiet, unless ordered otherwise. He brings with him the terrifying, shivering, drooling mess he calls his Pet. Where you used to find it a vile caricature of an Earth animal, now you only see pity. Sympathy. It shambles on clawed feet, optics peering up at you from its hunched position. If Kaon is feeling nice he lets you pet it before starting on your lessons. The barest hint of a smile on his gaunt face, but you can’t get comfortable enough to even attempt returning it. Your teacher slowly works through Cybertronian history with the patience of a saint. There isn’t much to feel grateful for in your situation, but Kaon’s quiet perseverance is one of them. Even when you’re so terrified, stuck between rage and despair, you don’t want to be in the same room as him. Kaon is patient and ever-smiling, finding amusement in your situation.

If Tarn knows you worry, he doesn’t mention it on his visits. You let him run his too large hands over your helm, cup your cheeks. You’re just happy to ingratiate yourself to him, shame and hate coiling acridly in your intake, trying desperately to gauge his desires.

You wonder, worry, that maybe your friends on the Lost Light have forgotten you. Perhaps it would feel better if they had, because you’re starting to forget what each of them sound like. Recalling the complex details of Rodimus’ helm or the way Rung smiles becomes more difficult by the day. You desire desperately for Brainstorm to take you to his lab and explain something far too complicated for you. You desire desperately for Swerve to talk at you until you want to claw your own ears off. You desire desperately for Ultra Magnus to scold you about the grammar in your reports. Most importantly, you desire desperately for them to never see what you've become.

[saphronethaleph]

Linguistic drift

A faint presence touched his consciousness, and Master Ikrit’s muscles twitched.

He fell out of his trance with an exhalation, then stretched himself out.

As a kushiban, he had two long ears, and a vaguely lapine face, and four paws supporting his body with a long tail behind him. He was covered all over in off-white fur, and he weighed about ten pounds.

This made him noticeably smaller than his old Master, but his old Master had been noticeably smaller than just about everyone else so that had never really bothered him.

Stifling a yawn, Ikrit exchanged stretching muscles for stretching his senses, and he felt the Force around him for answers.

The Palace of the Woolamander remained closed. That much, at least, was good news… and that he had woken at all meant that there was someone nearby who could touch the Force.

Flicking his tail, Ikrit felt for their presence, and detected a flowing current of light. Like a miniature humming whirl of sound going up and down the scales, muted but still present.

They were definitely heading in this direction, and there were others with them. Not sensitive to the Force, not like the single presence he could feel strongly, but it told him that they were moving towards him using some kind of airspeeder – or spacecraft.

Next, the small Jedi Master felt for his own internal sense of time – and flicked his ears, trying to hide his somewhat embarrassed surprise.

It seemed he had been in hibernation for around three hundred and seventy standard years.

Master Yoda would never have approved of quite such a long nap, and right now Ikrit wondered if perhaps he should have done something else.. but what was done was done, and he let his embarrassment go into the Force.

Then he focused, and sprang up to the roof of the Palace with a single spring.

He was going to need to ask the visitors for help, after all.

“Any idea who built these temples, General?” Bail asked, looking around. “This one’s designed differently to the other two, but it’s got to be the same style – despite being so far apart.”

“We don’t have much,” Dodonna replied, apologetically. “A lot about the moon has been lost, but that’s exactly what makes it a suitable base location – we can hide a lot of power signatures behind this much stone.”

He glanced at Bail’s daughter, who was looking around herself with great interest. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to bring her along?”

“I’m sure Princess Leia is quite able to keep silent on important matters,” Bail replied. “Isn’t that correct?”

“Of course,” Leia replied, with a smile. “I haven’t told anyone about the thing.”

“The thing?” Bail repeated, amused.

“Oh, I couldn’t explain,” Leia replied. “After all, then I would have told someone about it.”

She frowned, slightly. “What exactly are we trying to do here?”

“Investigate the thickness of the walls, mostly,” Bail told her. “Like Dodonna said, thick walls can conceal power signatures – if the walls are thick enough, this could be an independent base.”

“Or if they’re less thick, they might still make for a good satellite base,” Dodonna added. “To cover an evacuation, if the main base is found out – an unexpected fighter strike coming from a novel location can do a lot for clearing the air.”

“Got it,” Leia said. “And how can I help?”

“Carrying a sensor pack should do,” Bail suggested. “We can get good density and dispersal readings by flying the ship over while there’s sensor packs in different parts of the structure.”

He winked at Dodonna. “I’ve learned a few things myself, General.”

“I wouldn’t want to suggest otherwise!” Dodonna replied, with a chuckle. “I’ll get my men turned out – and an extra pack for the Princess.”

Ikrit’s ears twitched, as he watched the group disembark. They were mostly humans, with a scattering of other races.

No kushiban, but he was expecting that. His people were mostly not wanderers.

The problem was, what he could hear indicated that there had been some quite serious linguistic drift… which meant he could have serious trouble making himself understood.

On the plus side, though, being this close let him pinpoint the person with the ability to touch the Force. Ikrit could work past at least some of the problems by working with concepts, allowing the other adept – a human girl, not yet into her full growth – to fill in his meaning without him needing to use exactly the right words.

He could also see where she was going, and turned to scamper down into the Palace to get ahead of her.

A few minutes of going down though the Palace’s chambers – much the same as they had been over three hundred and fifty years ago, except for the precise layout of plants – and Ikrit was ready to introduce himself.

Introduce himself to a girl who was very strong in the Force, but who bore no Padawan’s braid and who had no sign of that strength being trained.

It was quite strange, but Ikrit shook himself out, then appeared out from behind a rock with a smile as the girl entered a corridor.

“Greetings,” he said, weighting his words with the Force and aiming to let the concepts he was transmitting flow through the air. “It is nice to meet you.”

The girl stopped, and blinked at him.

“You (communicate<>can talk)?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ikrit agreed. “I am not quite speaking your language.”

“I can (understand you<>follow your meaning),” the girl replied, looking confused. “How?”

“The Force,” Ikrit replied. “You could do it as well. If you agree to a mutual connection, with my help you can become a female-padawan.”

Leia stared at the strange creature smiling up at her, covered in fine white fur.

“It’s something (you)(can learn),” he said. “If you (make a contract)(with me), you can become (a magical girl)!”

[britishassistant]

The Villainous Paranoiac Sues for Character Defamation (2)

“Nii-san?!”

The lump in Idia Shroud’s bed lets out a pitiful groan.

“Nii-san, are you alright?! Are you hungry?! Sick?!” Ortho demands. “Hold on, I’ll do a scan to see what’s wrong!”

A pale, long fingered hand emerges from beneath the covers. It points languidly.

“…sekai…”

“Eh?” The android crowds closer to the bed. “What is it Nii-san? Your computer? Did something bad happen in one of your games? To Precipice Morai? Did an anime get cancelled?”

“…Isekai…”

“Isekai?” The android asks, confused. “Nii-san, what—?”

“I CAN’T ACCEPT THAT A REAL LIFE ISEKAI WOULD COME FROM SUCH A LAME LIGHT NOVEL!!”

It’s with this impassioned cry that Idia Shroud throws off his duvet, hair flaring wildly.

“After all, there are so many worlds that would be so much more likely to be real?! A tech punk world like LoPri just violates several laws of physics, not to mention thaumaturgy?? Plus the characters are so bland and uninspiring, how is it meant to enrich the blackened hearts of this Wonderland if they’re real?! At least if they were from Hyrule or Laputa or Exandria, they could teach us valuable life lessons that would lead to world improvement!”

His fist hits the mattress. “But no! And on top of that, this happens at the same time as they’re leaking that a LoPri movie is in the works?! That’s so cheap!! It’s like an awful marketing tactic that takes your cherished childhood hopes and dreams and crushes them for a few wads of madol!! I can’t believe—”

“Nii-san, wait!” Ortho begs. “What do you mean, there’s been a real life isekai? The sensors you installed should have noticed a large amount of energy coming from something like a world-crossing event.”

Idia jabs an accusatory finger at his computer screen, where the illustration and photo are posed side by side. “Apparently, not if they hijack Night Raven’s carriages to get here!”

Ortho’s optic sensors dilate and contract as his facial recognition software runs.

“…It’s a match.” He says. “Barring the 4% deviations from differing mediums, this person looks almost exactly like the illustrations from Lost Princess. And the Dark Mirror reported they’re entirely magicless…”

Idia jumps when the facsimile of his younger brother appears in his space. “Nii-san, what should we do?! If she really is from this other world, she’s a criminal, isn’t she? Should STYX take her into preventative custody??”

“Eh—Calm down, Ortho.” The elder Shroud says sternly, as if he hadn’t been in near hysterics only a moment ago. “It’s illegal to lock people up if they haven’t done anything wrong yet.”

“But Nii-san—!”

“Besides, as a bad guy she’s like, seriously wimpy.” It takes a moment or two of flailing in the bedclothes before Idia’s phone is retrieved. “See? According to the wiki, even the worst stuff she does is thanks to abusing her rich family’s power and money. Without that, she’s as pathetic as some hero who’s had all his strength sucked out. Even more harmless than a level one slime.”

Ortho’s synthetic brow furrows. “I guess…”

“Heh. Some of those LoPri simps online might even say that this is divine retribution. Getting banished to a world where she’s worth less than nothing.” Idia slumps, flicking through his apps idly. “Ah, the fates are cruel. Why’d I have to be inflicted with this?”

“I will monitor the villainess, Nii-san.” Ortho announces. “If she attempts to partake in any criminal behavior, it will be reported to the authorities, so Nii-san’s daily school life may continue unimpeded.”

“Eh? Well, uh.” Idia’s attention fights with the gacha he’s just opened, but ultimately surrenders to the colorful world within. “Only if it’s a low priority thing, okay?”

“Roger!”

***

Vil is distracted.

Not enough for his makeup to be anything less than perfect. Certainly not enough to make his class work, modeling, or acting suffer.

But enough that the poison apple he’s trying to polish has nearly given him the slip twice already.

That is unacceptable. If he cannot maintain a firm standard of discipline, how is this Epel meant to absorb any of his lessons?

Vil cannot allow this to continue.

He saw the villainess the magicless interloper yesterday morning, on his way to History class. Wearing some truly shapeless castoffs that can only have come from the dumping ground that passes for a Lost and Found, raking leaves away from the statue of the Beautiful Queen.

Vil had mostly convinced himself that it was purely his imagination. An unfortunate side effect of working on so many projects at once.

Surely what he had heard was merely a word that sounded like the fantasy names his script contains. The author had to take inspiration from somewhere, after all. And word association tricked him into believing that some potato who bore a little resemblance to his mental image of the villainess was, in fact, the person in question.

An honest, if slightly embarrassing mistake.

And then Rook reported over breakfast that the magicless janitor had somehow wormed their way into becoming a student, and a Prefect. Of the most prestigious magic school in the country. Despite the aforementioned complete lack of.

And all those foolish doubts Vil had spent so long laying to rest reared their ugly heads again.

A long, perfectly manicured finger taps the cafeteria table.

The potato is sitting with Clover and Diamond from Heartslaybul, alongside two first years and that little monster. From his position, Vil can see the back of their head if he inclines his own just slightly.

“Epel.” The boy in question jumps at the sound of his name. “Tuck your elbows in, your dorm mates shouldn’t need to defend themselves every time you lift food to your mouth.”

“My ba—ah, I mean! I, I apologize.”

Immediately, his arms go from imitating a chicken’s spread wings to an eastern dragon’s bent forelegs.

Behind Epel and slightly to the left, Rosehearts blocks Vil’s view of the magicless prefect. With the way his shoulders are tensing, his voice raising, he’ll likely be there a while as he metes out his slovenly attempts at discipline on his juniors.

Vil suppresses a grimace as he sighs. He’s going to get frown lines at this rate…

He needs to put this from his mind. If the sheer force of his not inconsiderable will is somehow lacking, then he needs to try something else. Obtain some definitive proof one way or the other so this irritating matter can be settled once and for all.

Proof…

A collection of ideas begin swirling in Vil’s head. Nothing concrete, just associations and possibilities of possibilities. Not enough for a proper plan of action.

Not yet, anyway.

***

Idia’s back cracks as he stretches.

“GG Muscle Red-shi,” He mutters as he types. “You carried hard for that secret boss encounter.”

Only a few moments after he hits send, Muscle Red’s response pops up.

Muscle Red: You give me too much credit, my friend. It was your strategic thinking that won us the day.

Muscle Red: This old man will need to log off shortly, but I wish you a pleasant evening and good hunting.

Gloomurai: NP Muscle Red-shi! GN

He tries to ignore the disappointment in his chest as Muscle Red’s avatar disappears. It’ll be hard to top the fun he had in that raid, so he may as well just log off this game. Maybe catch up on some of the anime he’s been letting build up so he can binge it all at once…

Ah, but there was that one that Ortho said he might be interested in, but that Idia had been too busy to start watching yet! The one about an otaku security robot that was exasperated with the scientists it had to look after…

“Hey, Ortho, we can start I’m a Murderbot But I’m Keeping A Diary…” Idia turns to where his brother is meant to be charging in the power station in the corner.

It’s empty.

“Ortho?”

There’s no one in the room except Idia right now.

He tries to tell himself that it’s fine, that Ortho’s fine, he’s probably just…just gone on a snack run? Yeah, he must’ve realized Idia was getting low on food and decided to help! What a good, kind brother Idia has! There’s no way he’s in any kind of trouble that he needs Idia to save him from, right?

Right??

Idia’s able to stave off the anxiety for a record-breaking four point two seconds before he turns to his computer, bringing up the “Find My Brother” program and sending his tablet whizzing out the door to the coordinates it brings up.

Why is he in the library at this time of night? Idia gnaws on his fingernails as the tablet gets closer, and prepares to use the mic once he can see Ortho’s back.

“…you’re planning to cause trouble, I will report you to the Headmaster and the relevant authorities.”

Idia straightens at his brother’s serious tone coming through the speakers.

It’s the work of a moment to gain access to the feeds of the library’s security cameras. Although there’s only three of them, and they’re really shoddily placed for actual monitoring purposes…

“Oh that’s rich.” The villainess scoffs, low voice made tinny over his speakers. “I’m not the one causing trouble here. Besides, it’s a public library. All students are free to look up reference materials on whatever they’d like.”

“Materials on restricted subjects are monitored.” Ortho declares. “Failure to return them to the library is logged against a student’s profile. You have not returned [SEVEN] books by their assigned due date.”

“So, Overblot is considered a restricted subject then.” Uh, hard pass on the villainess’ tone in that reply, it’s just as sus as some sixth ranger smiling to themselves while everyone else’s back is turned. “Why exactly is that? Is it the same reason there’s no primary sources on it in any of the history books or scholarly articles?”

“That is classified information.” His baby brother says coolly. “You do not have even the lowest level clearance, so it does not concern you.”

The villainess’ voice drops dangerously. “Doesn’t concern me?”

Idia begins prepping to set off the fire alarms in the headmaster’s suite. If the villainess makes any move against his brother, he’ll not only make sure the ultimate authority figure is there to catch her, he’ll publish her past and every embarrassing search she’s made since coming to Twisted Wonderland online for everyone to see. Maybe even post her address online so those LoPro simps can avenge their faves in person?

“Things that jeopardize my safety don’t concern me? Things that endanger my wellbeing don’t concern me? Threats to my life don’t concern me?!”

It’d be easier to watch if the villainess hit the wall, flipped a table, threw some books on the floor, something. Instead Idia’s on the edge of his seat, eyes fixed on his monitor like he’ll get jumpscared if he looks away.

He flinches when the villainess does, movement made jerky by the old cameras. Seriously, this is why he can’t stand live action analog horror!

But it is kinda weird how the figure opposite his brother is hunching over the table like that. Almost as if standing is difficult?

“..f you think,” Ortho’s mics can barely pick up the sound. “That I’m just going to wait in the wings until another one finally kills me—that I’m going to die quietly—then you’re sorely mistaken. I don’t care who you are. I’m not going to let anyone or anything stop me. I refuse to end up in some forgotten grave in this twisted world!”

Kind of a mid monologue tbh. He was low-key expected something…more villainous? But considering how trash LoPri is it makes sense.

It’s the kind of cringe that almost makes you feel bad for the one you’re meant to be rooting against.

“You’re injured.” Ortho says, uncertain. “Partially healed rib fractures and a torn posterior tibiotalar ligament. How—?”

“Sorry, but I’m afraid that doesn’t concern you…?”

“Ortho Shroud.” His kindhearted brother supplies.

“Shroud-san.” The first year bows stiffly. “I’d like to say it’s been nice to make your acquaintance, but it really hasn’t.”

The villainess attempts to stride away from Ortho—well limps is more like it, holding herself stiffly and putting much more weight on her left ankle than her right, when did that happen? Surely it would’ve been flagged somewhere in the school records if something serious enough to cause those injuries had happened. It’d be noted in her student file, if nothing else.

Idia frowns. Then he accesses the school’s mainframe.

Wow this is. Really half-assed. You’d think the headmaster would put a bit more effort into filling out this kind of thing!

It’s a weird parody of the file Idia created for himself and Ortho in his second year at Night Raven, which the headmaster was too inept to create himself. In Idia’s, Ortho is nominally listed as a student, even if he doesn’t get graded or even enrolled in any classes like a regular student.

In the villainess’, half of that careful formatting has been thrown out the window in the name of grading a “two in one” student. Some of the information is missing or contradictory, and the rest seems to focus on the magical familiar rather than the human prefect.

There is a section way down the bottom of the file where there’s some notes from Nurse Kamac recording visits to the infirmary. But for some reason, the broken ribs have the amendment from the headmaster of “incurred before enrollment” and so don’t list how it happened, and the only notes for the ankle injury are that it occurred a few days later during a “Heartslaybul dorm head challenge”.

Idia pushes his fingers against his eyes as he groans, stretching his aching back and trying to crack it again.

This has nothing to do with him and Ortho. That much the vi—Prefect had gotten right. It may be weird that sh-they’re checking out all the books on Overblot the library has to offer, and are this badly injured only within a few days of starting the new semester, but it could be nothing! Certainly it’s not enough to be worth reporting to their parents.

“Ah, Nii-san? Were you looking for me?” Ortho sounds apologetic over his speakers. “Don’t worry, I’ll come back to the dorm right away!”

“Mm. I was thinking we could start binging that series together…”

“It’s not good for you to stay up late watching anime, Nii-san!” His younger brother scolds. “…But, I guess a few episodes of I’m a Murderbot But I’m Keeping A Diary can’t hurt!”

He grins. “I’ll get it queued up for when you get back. TTYL.”

Yeah, this is definitely worth more of his time than worrying about some weird magicless Prefect. Even if part of him itches at the memory of h-them saying “another one finally kills me”…

Definitely not his problem. Definitely not gonna think about it.

Definitely

***

It would seem that the Headmaster has decided to make the magicless Prefect into a gopher-slash-amateur investigator rather than looking into the mysterious injuries of each dorm’s Magift players himself.

Vil’s heard from Rook and from some of his other dorm members that the first year and their little monster have been interviewing everyone involved in an accident.

Of course, it’s only a matter of time until they begin questioning those who have not been affected, to rule out some causes if nothing else.

So, when Rook spots them, along with a redheaded potato, a blue potato, and Diamond, he motions his vice dorm head to bring them over.

“You must have had some reason for spying on us.” He says to the motley group. “Out with it and maybe I’ll let you off with a warning.”

“Busted~” Diamond says cheerily. “Well, can you guys keep a secret?”

“Mais, bien sûr Monsieur Magicam!” Rook proclaims. “Consider our lips sealed!”

“We think that the injured Magift players are being deliberately targeted.” The blue haired second potato says. ���We’re investigating potential suspects who could be behind the a—”

“Dude!” The redheaded first potato hisses. “You can’t just TELL ‘em!”

“Yeah!” The monster yowls. “They’re suspects!! If we tell ‘em that, they’ll know we think they’re suspicious!!”

“You just told them anyway…” The magicless first year mutters.

“Hm.” It doesn’t surprise him as much as it should to hear that this year’s games are being deliberately sabotaged. And given a certain someone’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm at the dorm head meeting recently, he’s fairly sure he knows who’s behind it.

“While it is rather rude of you to cast aspersions on myself and my vice dorm head like this, I believe we could provide some assistance with this matter.”

The monster perks up. “Great! Then—”

“However.” Vil crosses his arms. “I’m a busy man. I can’t offer my assistance without being assured that it’ll be worth my time. I need something in return first.”

“Man, shoulda figured.” Potato #1 sighs. Potato #2 shakes his head. “Nothing’s ever easy, is it?”

Diamond hushes both of his underclassmen. “So? Whaddya need, Vil-san?”

Vil carefully does not smile. Not yet. “You. I need you to help me with something.”

The magicless prefect blinks at the end of his pointer finger. “Huh? Wh—if you don’t mind my asking, why me?”

“Your presence compared to the others’ makes you most suited for the task.” He turns to his bag and flicks through the contents until he finds what he’s looking for. “It’s hardly a trial. I just need someone like you to fill in for a certain role.”

Vil holds out a copy of the script.

The magicless prefect reaches out warily, as if Vil’s handing them a serpent rather than a few pieces of paper.

“This is the script for a movie I’ll be starring in.” He says. “I’d like you to help me practice my cues. You’ll be reading the lines that aren’t highlighted.”

And, seeing Diamond’s hand creep towards his phone, he adds. “Given that this is confidential until the film’s release, the production company has been assured that I refuse to be party to any leaks, and will prosecute those who create them to the fullest extent of the law.”

Diamond’s hand suddenly changes direction to scratch his cheek instead.

The Prefect takes the script, eyes scanning over it.

“Eh—how come the names are blacked out?” Potato #1 asks.

“To prevent leaks, of course.” Vil lies smoothly. “Now, do you want my help, or don’t you?”

The villainess’s teeth snag on her lower lip. Vil keeps his own from curling at the sight of the dry and torn skin there.

“Alright.” The villainess says. “How does this work?”

Vil straightens. It wouldn’t do to show his triumph at this juncture.

“If you start halfway down the page, I will respond. Make me aware if I deviate from what’s on the page in any fashion.”

The villainess nods, clearing her throat. “He-hem. You wished to see me, brother?”

Vil slips into the character as easily as buttoning a shirt. “My wishes are immaterial. But we need to talk.”

“What could be so important to waylay the young heir?” The villainess’ lip curls as she reads. “I hardly merit the attention, usually.”

“You know what I’m talking about.” He snaps, dignity and guardianship offended. “Your behavior is completely inexcusable.”

The villainess balks, her tone hardening from mockery. “My behavior? I do believe I need clarification, brother. I have done nothing to dishonor our family—”

“If that’s what you think, then you’re even blinder than I imagined.” His fury is ice, solidified through years of abnegation and honor. “Your conduct towards our sister has been abominable. Either you correct it, or I shall correct you.”

“C-correct?!” The villainess stutters, unsightly for a scene partner. Vil will need to recommend someone else for the final production. “I have done nothing to—”

“For once we agree.” Righteousness straightens his spine, quickens his stride. “You have done nothing to make her feel welcome or as if she belongs. Ignoring her at school? Making snide remarks to tear down her confidence? Who do you think you are, to commit these acts with such audacity? It seems you’ve forgotten who has the natural right to live in this household, and who is here merely due to Father’s generosity and goodwill.”

“I—”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses.” He scolds the unsightly cuckoo before him. “I am telling you what will happen. You will be civil towards our sister. You will be polite to her. And you will still your sharp tongue every time it decides it wants to say something unkind. If that means you never speak again outside the necessities, then so be it.”

“Wait, please wait, please, stop—”

And now going off script? Will blunders never cease? Vil continues the monologue as best he can in the face of such unprofessionalism.

“And if you disregard my words—if you fail my instructions in any way? Well.”

He tilts his head, channeling Gracey Enji in every pore of his being. “What will happen to you will make the punishment you received for ruining Asahiko’s high school debut feel like the gentlest kindness by comparison.”

And the villainess—

The Prefect flinches, curling in on themself as if in anticipation of a blow.

Their eyes are staring down, unseeing, as their mouth babbles, clearly not even trying to stay on script any more.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I won’t, I, I didn’t—!”

But somehow still reciting exactly what’s written on the page despite that.

There are two ways to read these lines, Vil is suddenly realizing.

One is as a hero decisively warning a scheming villainess that his patience with her wiles has run dry and that there will be consequences for her actions.

And the other…

“The hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Potato #1 has moved into Vil’s space, shoulders tensed like the first year was about to lay hands on him if not for Rook’s intercession. His vice-warden’s grip strength clearly has taken the potato by surprise, uniform wrinkling as he attempts to yank himself free.

Potato #2 is hovering around the Prefect, the monster whining and tearing holes in their too-long trousers. “Prefect, are you okay? Do, do you need something, a, ah, some water maybe? Hey, hey, Prefect, Yuu, look at me, please?”

“Ooh-kaaay!” Diamond pops up between Vil and his underclassmen, perfectly fake smile not quite as magicam-ready as it usually is. “Not that this hasn’t been su~uper interesting, you’re a master of your craft Vil-san, really, but y’know we’ve gotta lot of work to do with this investigation thing, hate to see the dorm head if he thought we were playing around, you know how it is, right~? C’mon guys, we’d better get moving, this is an important date and we can’t be late!”

Potato #2 nods at Diamond, an arm tight around the Prefect’s trembling shoulders as he pulls them away, still murmuring low platitudes. Potato #1 is still glaring daggers at Vil even as he shrugs out of Rook’s grip. He picks up the copy of the script on the ground—when had it fallen?— and shoves it at his vice dorm head.

“Next time someone tells you they wanna stop,” He spits. “Maybe listen instead of just doin’ what you please. Freaking tyrant.”

The insult stings, but Vil controls himself as Potato #1 scoops up the whining monster and strides after the rest of the motley little group.

He can still hear the panicky, shuddering hitches in the Prefect’s breathing, after all.

“Roi du Poison?” He blinks back into himself to see Rook peering at him in concern. “Vil? Are you all right?”

“F-fine, I’m fine.” He turns sharply on his heel. “Come, Rook. It’d be best to return to the dorm for now. Epel may be attempting to shirk his etiquette lessons again.”

“…Oui, Roi du Poison.”

He doesn’t say another word the entire walk back to the Mirror Chamber, which Vil finds deeply irritating as it means his thoughts keep circling back to the other interpretation that dawned on him for this role.

But it’s ridiculous, he assures himself as they emerge outside of Pomefiore. Just a combination of his previous experience and some, some personal issues the Prefect clearly has that have mixed poorly in his mind. Gracey Enji is the male lead. Vil’s chance to play the hero, for once in his career. There’s no way that Bella DeNiâmerée intended for the character to come across in any other fashion than the style in which Vil has been playing him. No chance in the slightest.

Certainly not as a high school senior threatening a child five years his junior in a way that they cannot defend themselves from.

[generic-sonic-fan]

Omega's Observations: Drown/Earth

Summary: Omega generates a metaphor that he will never allow anyone else to read.

For @teamdarkweek. 756 words.

Omega is not very good at using figurative language, but he is improving.

Obscurity is an obsession meatbags have, but the ways of speaking they’ve invented to obscure their meanings are useful weapons for his verbal arsenal. He has set about collecting them. Rouge is a shockingly patient teacher when harassed on the subject. The public alternative to the Eggnet, called the internet, has a tolerably competent search function.

Through both, he has encountered more specific words that weren’t included in his initial dictionary, such as “simile” and “idiom” and “metaphor”. Armed with each, Eggman is no longer just “an impotent fool”, but instead:

Eggman is as stupid as a Cnidaria (an organism that does not have a brain. Direct comparison. This is a simile.)

Eggman is not the sharpest cutting utensil in the container (sharp being used by its other definition, mental clarity. Play on words. This is an idiom.) 

Eggman is a cardboard box (empty inside, fun to crush. Indirect comparison. This is a metaphor.) 

Meatbags chuckle at his attempts. They tell him “good try”, or repeat his phrase with the ‘correct’ wording. They assume he doesn’t know how to speak with anything other than a literal tone. 

They are wrong.

They assume that figurative language is not natural to him.

. . . They are correct. 

Four walls. One floor. One ceiling. One door. One control panel. One pod. One Subject he was to guard. 

And one dictionary bank installed in his own processor, one of the few outside files he was given upon creation that wasn’t him. It was a file of about 2 megabytes, nestled neatly amongst his language processing. Within thirty days of being locked within the room to guard the Ultimate Lifeform, he leapt upon it like a starving animal (a physical sensation tied to survival. Direct comparison. Simile.) 

There were 55,674 words in his dictionary. It took him 2.6 days to calculate the number of combinations; he determined he could create 8x10^40 ten-word sentences with this amount. The vast majority of these sentences would be meaningless; random combinations of nouns and verbs and adjectives that defied every bit of instruction from his language processing. There was no way to filter them out. Worthless. 

Instead, he had to arrange them manually in an attempt to create new meanings, to speculate on the world outside of what his sensors could perceive. In example:

A “tree” is something that grows and is defined as having a long stem. Maybe it was like the metal rod that connected his torso to his calf plating, except freestanding, and taller. Maybe it was buried in the soil to keep it upright, since the definition of “plant” was to embed in such a manner. 

A “mile” was a unit of distance far longer than even the longest hallways in his creator’s base; he could presume such a space existed “outside”, while he remained “inside”. This space was called “outdoors”, a “natural” world, places outside of areas developed by humans. 

Etcetera. 

Perhaps there were miles of trees outside. This sentence he had constructed was new. Entirely novel! An approximation of a world he had never seen. 

For the next thirty days he was an addict, piecing words together into new revelations that may or may not be true. But soon the little word game grew old. It wasn’t enough to tell stories about birds or trees or houses or people. This was not actual data! He could not simulate these things! He could not determine how to destroy them! Worthless! WORTHLESS!

Four walls. One floor. One ceiling. One door. One control panel. One pod. One Subject he was to guard.

And nothing else, so he kept stringing together words, as if he were pulling the intestines out of Eggman’s corpse (there are fifteen feet of intestines within the average human corpse. indirect comparison. Metaphor). 

Nothing else, until every word combination that was logical to make had been formulated. Every possible action had already been tried. Every possible story already told. He could not move. He could not speak. He could not process. He could not think. 

Nothing else.

—

Nothing else.

—

NOTHING ELSE.

—

NOTHING ELSE-

—

Only now is Omega armed with language capable of approximating a description of the sensation. 

He was drowning beneath the earth that imprisoned him.

(Drowning: the slow and painful cessation of a function vital to continued operation. Earth: the material above him, separating him from the surface; thousands of pounds of soil and rock and other matter long forgotten.)

(Indirect comparison. Metaphor.)

[decamarks]

I kept forgetting to post this... But! Here's some of the stuff I've made for my game so far! It's called CLIENT: Automatic Investigator, and it's a goofy mystery visual novel. (Essentially: Ace Attorney but with robots and gods.)

You play as CLIENT, a computerized detective from ≈ 2002 CE. Its plasticine shell survived billions of years worth of apocalyptic events — until, in the year 2.00291732614102e+23, it finally wakes up from sleep mode. CLIENT is one of the few remaining non-sentient robots in the world. For investigative purposes, CLIENT is equipped with lie detectors, psyche sensors, and the ability to record anything said to it. Since it lacks vocal synthesizers, CLIENT must use hard evidence alone in its investigations. It communicates through what it collects — and through carefully selected audio recordings. (When given a microphone and silence, it turns out most people have a LOT to say.) In 2.00291732614102e+23, Earth's population is all sentient machines and undying deities. Since murder isn't possible (and the world is mostly utopian), CLIENT is left to solve inconsequential cases of counterfeiting, copyright infringement, and the occasional act of arson.

Everyone here is part of the game's first case (OPERATION: AMBROSIA). There will be four cases total, each released individually. Everything is still really early in development, but I'm excited! It's a super silly game & lots of fun to work on.

[transgenderer]

something really beautiful about how much science weve figured out. im so used to thinking in abstract logic-and-evidence space where you dont have to come up with experimental apparati, or narrow down from a huge possible space of hypotheses. i think egan's novels, especially incandescence, are really good at expressing this. like, were so used to having all sorts of sensors and data, imagine youre trying to figure out physics but the only sensors you have are your eyes. but people can do it, if you have enough of them, and enough time

[risen-from-stardust]

So, how vision on yautja works?

I can't remember if I already did this post, probably not, but I wanted to share my nerd knowledge as someone who has been lurking around the official comics and novels. Forgive me if some things are confusing I'm not the best at explaining sometimes.

What do we know about it?

Since the first movie, it's shown that they can see heat signatures and some kind of weird infrared:

Other movies had also shown other kind of variants like ultraviolet, a specific one for xenomorphs, x-ray, tech, tracking and even vibrations.

With all of this is obvious that they can see more colors than just this weird red spectrum, ain't buying that once they remove their mask this is all they have... Right?

Predator: Hunters (Issue #4)

What happens with the other hues?

Simple, they don't see, they feel

Remember our buddies have special technology. Their masks work as sensors making them able to have such a wide variety of colors. To make things short, have some comic panels from Predator: Blood feud that explain it perfectly.

But everyone is able to believe what they want and throw the canon out of the window, that's what makes thing fun!