#or at least the scant handful i can identify

[technocipher]

Some may wander onto the church's balcony, never once sparing a glance at the rolling rack of plants. "They're just plants. Who cares? Doesn't Eva grow flowers over there?" Sure, there's a scant number of plants growing there. Nothing seems to support much life over there. No signs of any vegetables from those seed packets we give her, either.

(In all likelihood, the developers probably thought that few would notice that section. Fleshing out the balcony with more plants might've been deemed a pointless gesture.)

What many don't realize, however, is that many plants are medicinal! Consider that the next time you pass by the herb pots at the grocery store. Common thyme, for example, is antibacterial! It can also be steeped as a tea for sinus infections, and that's just a small fraction of what it can do!

The central shelf on the rolling rack carries rosemary, along with a plant I could not identify. Just generic, silly nonsense, right?

Wrong! Rosemary is more than just a kitchen spice. It's a fantastic herb for the brain!

It acts as a brain stimulant!

It aids with memory!

It aids blood circulation to the brain!

It aids with treating early onset dementia/Alzheimer's!

It acts as an antidepressant!

It acts as an antiviral!

It aids concentration!

It also has anti-anxiety properties!

Where the revenants are concerned, I'd say that's quite the vital herb! With the help of scavenged alcohol and some sterile jars, bottles, and lids, there's potential for the crafting-- and trading-- of rosemary tinctures! (In the absence of proper sterilization, whatever they can use to rinse would have to do. Above all else, these chosen jars and bottles would need to be airtight enough to prevent oxidization. An oxidized tincture is not desired-- it can lose a lot of those helpful properties!)

If water is still consumed by the revenant population (and if it is, I haven't seen it mentioned)... they can take these tinctures through water. A couple drops or barely a spoonful would go a long way! Some may attempt to slip these under their tongues and get quite the burn for their trouble. At Home Base's bar, there are numerous bottles of blood bead leukocytes. These could possibly handle a small dosage... if our favorite revenants can stand to hold the first sip for ten seconds.

Now, the uppermost shelf of the rack holds some decorative plants... and some parsley, growing out of a generically-labelled tea tin. Parsley? Really?!

Parsley's got quite the high vitamin content, though. I don't know if revenants require the same intake allotment for vitamins like humans have-- I've never seen it mentioned before. But if you factor in the maintenance of the host' body, vitamins are just as important! Whether or not the BOR parasite directly benefits remains to be seen, but for now, we're covering the fun stuff.

What the heck does parsley do, anyways? Well...

It's got stupidly high amounts of Vitamin K, which is not only good for your bones, but also boosts blood production!

It's full of other key vitamins and antioxidants!

It acts as a diuretic!

It also helps to keep your eyes healthy!

In the grand scheme of things, it might not seem like that big of a deal. But it could help boost a revenant's regeneration. Code Vein flip-flops a bit on how regeneration works, especially with gameplay in mind. Could parsley increase the healing amount, or even the number of times it can be tapped into? Quite possibly! It could also be circulated to the shelters, and thus assist blood donors with recuperating quicker. The diuretic properties can also be utilized to help flush status effects quicker. And as for the eye health of revenants far and wide, wouldn't that go a long way? That's a lot less stress on them, isn't it?

Though I cannot identify the other plants on the rack, that doesn't mean that they're lacking in benefits. There are some flowers that can be eaten and be used in medicine. Calendula, for example, is an edible flower that can be used to aid the healing of wounds. Besides, it's such a bright and cheery flower-- why not keep a few blooms just to look, and let them go to seed, while you're at it? (Calendula is very easy to grow-- save those seeds!)

Another one is chrysanthemum, which is another edible flower. Its primary benefit is eye health, and I believe it's even stronger than parsley in this regard. (Do not consume the store-bought ones, as they have been treated with a myriad of extremely harmful chemicals! The best way to avoid this is by growing them yourself. Remember to buy non-neotic seeds; these are better for pollinating insects and keeps you safe, too!)

And if the parts above the soil aren't safe for consumption, remember that the roots can still be used! Roots can have loads of medicinal properties! Some can be edible, while others can be dried and infused into oils! An example.of an edible root is the humble dandelion. Though the entire plant is completely edible, its taproot is a potent liver detoxifier! Should it be roasted and brewed into tea, it tastes just like coffee!

Even if revenants aren't taking these medicines themselves, consider how much it would benefit the human population living in the shelters. If we really gotta split hairs, the medicinal benefits could carry over into blood donations. Entire categories of enhanced blood could be produced by the shelters, and distributed to the revenant-occupied shelters. In times of disease where the latter is concerned, these unique products could be life-saving. Even then, the more positive trading arrangement may improve human and revenant relations-- a massive issue omnipresent within the Gaol of the Mists. This isn't just food and decoration; it's something greater.

Just a little thing that makes life a bit more bearable.

[blackjackkent]

Prompt fill for @astreamofstars from this ask meme: Lord Huron Lyric Prompts

Khalid (and Jaheira) - "watch for a sign in the midnight sky"

My first attempt at proper writing of Khalid! Deeply enjoyed this and I hope you do too. :D

-----

Khalid fidgets aimlessly with one sleeve of his armor, trying in vain to get the leather greaves to settle more comfortably in place. It is all new equipment, purchased out of his scant funds on his arrival in Baldur's Gate, and it has not yet had time to become fully broken in. 

Had he been able to bring his amlak armor from home, perhaps he would feel more comfortable now. Miserable though he was in Calimport's city guard, his armor at least had been very good, carefully polished and molded to his body from months of hard use. But it has been left behind, along with everything else about his old life - the corruption of his superior officers on the one hand and the disinterested cruelty of his father and half-brothers on the other. 

So here he is, for better or for worse - half a world away in ill-fitting armor, chasing rumors and wild hope. He has heard the tales of an institution where his skills would go to better use, a group of warriors who fight not for power and coin but for balance. Perhaps the Harpers will prove to be the true family he has been searching for.

The recruiter he spoke to - a furtive, laconic fellow with a hand always on his dagger - said Khalid measured well in conversation, but that the only real test of a new Harper was action. “Wait tonight in the square in Norchapel,” he had said with the ghost of a smile. “I will have some of my people find you near midnight. Identify yourself to them, and they will have a task for you. Prove true in that business and there may be a place for you among us.”

It's a cold night. The Norchapel square is empty and lit only by the ominous flickering light of the single streetlamp under which Khalid is waiting. Privately he is starting to wonder if this is part of the test - to hold to his patience in spite of the chill and silence - and if the task that lies ahead could in truth just as easily be done in daylight. But nevertheless he waits, just as instructed, as the clock in his mind slowly ticks from midnight on towards one o'clock. 

“Watch for a sign in the midnight sky,” growls a voice almost at his elbow, making him jump. He hadn't heard anyone approach. 

Then he steadies himself, swallows nervously, and gives the counter-phrase without turning around. “F-f-for by the m-moon's light, we unearth all s-secrets,” he says earnestly. 

His new conversational partner emerges out of the shadows and into the light of the streetlamp where Khalid can see him. He's a big, bulky human with dark skin and hair, broad and muscular, which makes it all the more impressive how silently he moves, his feet rolling heel to toe across the cobblestones.

On his left is a brass dragonborn with a pair of lethal-looking katanas and an incongruous cocksure grin. On his right is a young half-elven woman, about Khalid's own age, with a quarterstaff in one hand and an expression as unreadable as the stone wall behind her. All three of them wear the subtle silver pin of the Harpers at the fastening of their cloaks. 

“By the moon's light indeed,” the human says pleasantly, reaching out a hand for Khalid to shake. “You'll be our new recruit, then? Khalid yn Munir?”

Khalid hesitates as he releases the handshake. “J-j-just Khalid,” he finally says quietly. 

“As you wish,” the Harper agrees. He doesn't seem surprised; Khalid is no doubt not the first initiate to be leaving something behind. “My name is Vartan. This is Kambas and Jaheira,” he explains, gesturing at each of his companions in turn. “We are to accompany you on a test of your skill and commitment. Hold true and the Harpers shall welcome you.”

“Y-y-yes,” Khalid says earnestly. “I am ready t-to assist in any way I c-c-can.” 

He gets rather stuck on the last word and Kambas laughs softly, a rumbling noise like an avalanche. “Twitchy little thing, isn't he,” the dragonborn says. 

As mockings go, it’s far less malicious than the ones Khalid is used to; indeed, the Harper doesn’t seem to be saying it with cruelty. It’s just an observation, as if he was commenting about the weather. Khalid is already shrugging it off automatically - but to his surprise, the half-elf, Jaheira, stirs suddenly. She’s been watching Khalid in silence with deep, appraising intensity, but now nudges her companion with the butt of her staff.

“Do not be unkind, Kambas,” she says sharply.

The dragonborn’s grin widens and he lifts his hands defensively. “Just messin’ around, Jay,” he says with an air of affable mischief.

“Choose your targets with more care,” she says firmly, “and while you are at it, do not call me that.” She rolls her eyes and catches Khalid’s gaze; a subtle smile twitches her lips up at the corners. “You see you should not take it personally; he is a little shit to us all in equality.”

“So is maintained the balance,” Vartan intones, and Kambas laughs again.

Khalid feels himself start to relax, and smiles back at Jaheira. “I th-thank you for the s-s-support,” he murmurs.

For just a moment - almost as if in spite of herself - her smile settles into something less sardonic and more genuine, and he finds himself struck to inner stillness by the way it lights her eyes. She is a few years his senior and her face already bears the marks of whatever violence in which the Harpers have employed her, but the smile does a great deal to soften it, to show an edge of kindness beneath the cool front. She looks at him and seems pleased with what she sees.

After so many years flanked by various flavors of cruelty, he finds himself utterly captivated by that soft edge, that approval. He stares back at her and feels heat climb up his neck. His tongue, already given to betraying him, feels heavy as lead in his mouth and in that moment he’s not sure he could speak at all.

Then it’s gone. The moment passes; her eyes hood over again and she looks away from him towards Vartan. “Well. Shall we be about it, then?” she asks briskly. “Let us see what our new Harper can do.”

[bird-of-no-feathers]

Callakai

There used to be a great river that traced a path from north to south through the canyons that remained in its wake. I don't actually remember this river. The best I can surmise is that before my time, some great and terrible action or series of actions resulted in either a failure to flow or complete redirection.

I may never know what happened to it or even where it was exactly, but that's okay.

The river isn't the point.

What I'm getting at here is that what I know about the river is based on the idea of the river. For all I know, there never was any river anywhere at all.

I've never tasted its water, never felt it swell around me. I've never marked it out on one of the maps that I drew during my brief interest in cartography.

The river is gone now, but it's immortalised in the stories that people tell about it. It lives on as a concept.

One day, that too will be just a memory. We'll tell stories about stories about the river. Maybe the direction of flow will change. Maybe it will combine with other rivers that still exist. Maybe someone will fruitlessly search for its origin, overlaying maps until they identify a point thirty kilometers south of the mountains where groundwater accumulates.

Maybe one of my maps will be included in that.

But again, the river isn't the point.

The river isn't even that special. It's just the first thing I could think of to explain this concept.

My home, my city is deserted.

I don't even know if I can blame it all on whatever it was in the water. Maybe the sickening of our minds was just the last step in a series of endlessly worse decisions. The finality of our degradation of morals.

Maybe it didn't even do anything at all.

Maybe it was simply that we were cut off from everything and everyone until the extant dread made us turn on one another.

I think that thought scares me the most.

Because if the disease that so thoroughly brutalised everything was entirely a false creation, that means that I shouldn't be alive.

I accept that my hands will be forever soaked with blood, but I try not to consider that the blood could have been my own.

I could be one of the ones lying dead as a few scant survivors scrambled to claw each other to death faster and harder and more irreversibly than was necessary.

I don't actually fully know what happened, because I find myself at an age too young to be attuned to society yet too old to expect it to be done for me. Most of my information comes secondhand from Boston.

I haven't actually seen him dead. But I haven't cared to look. It's the tendency towards hope that keeps me from doing so.

I hope with all my heart that he somehow survived, though I know how impossible that would be. And while I haven't seen his limbs drenched in blood and snapped in half resting askew on a body that breathes no longer I can continue to hope.

I'm not strong enough to face myself otherwise. Because there's nothing special about me. Nothing that meant that I survived when others didn't. Everything about the situation comes down to luck.

Someone has to win the lottery.

But I might as well use the life I've stolen so unfairly from others more prepared to do what I do best.

I'll write.

Because the idea of a river is something so commonplace but unique that it's worth repeating, even as simply an aside in a moral tale about how to treat one another.

And with that idea of an idea of a river, comes the idea of an idea of a city.

One that disappeared so suddenly that the mystery of how might carry its existence in memory far beyond a time when all its buildings have been carried away as dust in the wind.

Or, at least, that's what I hope for.

Maybe they'll even remember my name. Maybe the story will be remembered in pieces, such that my name is attributed as the name of the city itself.

Surely that bears more remembrance than the piteous man who crawled out of that devastation with countless lives weighing on their soul.

Surely.

But though I know it's a selfish desire, I hope they do remember my name. I hope that they remember me.

I will not live to see it if they do.

[1starqi]

rewrite of ~something~ that i will not further elaborate but want to share

The horn on the train whistles from an unseen space above, rousing me and my newfound bunkmates from a disagreeable slumber. When I fell asleep, the cloudy windows provided a view outside of the hot, dark train in the form of fields that baked in the boiling heat and farmers tending said fields, struggling to make their living. Instead of the familiar landscape of my hometown and the area surrounding, the view outside the train is no less clouded, but the scenery–if you could even call it that–is different. Paltry brick houses are packed tightly together in blocks, giving way to alleys and streets with any number of clotheslines and household items hanging above and around them. My bunkmates are just as sweaty and irritated about this journey as I am, and the person below me–a middle-aged man with wizen hair and an angular face–groans as the train wobbles along its tracks. I stare blankly at the ceiling and the smooth metal above. This trip never gets easier, I thought. And though that is true, it’s a different atmosphere among the passengers this time around. Passengers–refugees, rather–from the border are increasingly among those in attendance, identified by their issued tickets to the cities and the unusual number of bags cluttered among them, different from the scant packs held by the regulars. They have enough hope in their eyes and tension in their brows to concoct an otherly touch to the air when paired with the dull constant of train travel among the other passengers. The train blares, another groan coming from the man below me. 

My sweaty left-hand grips my money, from both salary and scrounging, as my bag grates against the myriad fabrics belonging to faces that blur together in my haste as I push my way between a few muttered ‘sorry’s and ‘excuse me’s, with at least three people cursing me in at least two different dialects for my, admittedly rude, efforts to get off the train. 

A squat man with a round face, strong eyebrows, and a passion for making his own life harder, slams a bundle of cash on the table and yells at the vendor–a tall, dark, apron-wearing woman with piercing hooded eyes that aren’t putting up with the customer’s antics. 

“What do you mean it’s not enough? Last time I came it only cost five, and now I have to spend seven on your average tailoring? This is outrageous!” He spits.

“Look, things aren’t easy for me either, but that doesn't change. Pay seven or get out.” She counters, voice firm, and gestures in a shooing motion. As I pass them, he continues to yell at the vendor for the rising prices. 

My ankle nearly buckles on the pavement as I approach an exchange. A good quarter of my money isn’t in standard currency—that portion from scrounging, not salary—and thus to buy the most, an exchange and its exorbitant rates is my best bet. Of course, the exchange isn’t one-to-one, they like to tout it as equal, though. I line up behind the wall of a man that stands in front of me wearing the uniform of a dockhand tinged with the smell of fish and salt and sweat. After the civil sound of a ‘thank you, sir’ from the dockhand, it’s my turn to be scammed.

“How much for thirty-four?” I demand, keeping my voice steady in an effort to appear put together. The money is red and thin, with delicate curlicue designs decorating the edges–I have a ten, a five, a fifteen, and two twos in the currency unknown to me. Under an iron-black bench in a city to the north—Stop Nineteen, according to the train—an open leather wallet with edges buffed from wear and fraying stitches had the capital inside for me to buy something nice down south. The person working was androgynous with cropped hair and a flat nose and staring hard at me. 

“Thirty-four? You can get fourteen.” They say, curt.

“No. I get sixteen if you want to abide by the law.” I don’t know what the law is, but a threat with a steady voice and furrowed brows in a busy city where we both want to get this over with is usually enough for me to get my way.

“The law says that I give you fourteen.” 

“The exchange over there will give me at least seventeen, I bet.” I nod my head in the direction of another stall, I don’t know what the exchange over there would give me either.

“I can do fifteen-fifty.” They cross their arms and adjust their posture. “Fine.” Score, I thought—careful to not let my demeanor betray my inner dialogue. If I was a saint, I should’ve gotten 14.

[sciencespies]

What Happens When Scientists Become Allergic to Their Research

https://sciencespies.com/nature/what-happens-when-scientists-become-allergic-to-their-research/

What Happens When Scientists Become Allergic to Their Research

Bryan Fry’s heart was pounding as he stepped back from the snake enclosure and examined the bite marks on his hand. He had just been bitten by a death adder, one of Australia’s most venomous snakes. Its neurotoxin-laced bite could cause vomiting, paralysis and — as the name suggests — death.

Fry, at the time a graduate student, had kept snakes for years. Oddly, the neurotoxins weren’t his biggest worry; the nearby hospital would have the antivenom he needed, and, although data is limited, people who receive treatment generally survive. Anaphylactic shock, on the other hand, might kill him within minutes.

“Anaphylactic shock is the single worst feeling you can possibly imagine,” recalled Fry, now a biologist at the University of Queensland in Australia. “It is just insane. Every cell in your body is screaming out in mortal terror.”

Fry, who had spent his life admiring and eventually studying venomous snakes, had become deathly allergic to them.

Bryan Fry observes a cobra on a trip to Pakistan. He is now deathly allergic to snake venom.

(Courtesy of Bryan Fry)

While most cases are not so extreme, anecdotal reports and expert analysis suggest that it is far from rare for scientists, students, and laboratory technicians to develop allergies to the organisms they study. Perversely, some allergy researchers say, it is the researchers’ passion for their subjects — the close observation, the long hours of work each day, and the years of commitment to a research project — that puts them at such high risk.

“It is true that some things cause allergies more often than others, but the biggest factor is the frequency of the interaction with the study organism,” said John Carlson, a physician and researcher at Tulane University who specializes in insect and dust mite allergies. “You probably have about a 30 percent chance of developing an allergy to whatever it is that you study.” While data is limited, that estimate is in line with research on occupational allergies, which studies suggest occur in as many as 44 percent of people who work with laboratory rodents, around 40 percent of veterinarians, and 25 to 60 percent of people who work with insects.

Federal guidelines suggest that laboratories have “well-designed air-handling systems” and that workers don appropriate personal protective equipment, or PPE, in order to reduce the risk of developing an allergy. However, interviews with researchers and experts suggest that there may be little awareness of — or adherence to — guidelines like these. For scientists working with less-common species and those engaged in fieldwork, information on what exactly constitutes appropriate PPE may be very limited.

Many researchers, perhaps especially those who do fieldwork, are used to being uncomfortable in service of their work, Carlson points out. “I think that a lot of researchers are so interested in the process of the research,” he said, “that they aren’t really considering the long-term effects that it could have on them.”

In general, allergies develop when the immune system overreacts to a substance that is usually harmless, or relatively harmless. The immune system monitors the body for potentially dangerous invaders like bacteria, fungi, and viruses. Sometimes, for reasons that are not well understood, the immune system identifies something benign, like pollen or animal dander, as dangerous. To help mark the intruder, a person who has become sensitized in this way produces antibodies, or types of proteins, to identify it.

When that person comes into contact with the substance again, the antibodies flag it as an invader. As part of the response, immune cells release compounds like histamine, which irritate and inflame the surrounding tissues, resulting in allergy symptoms.

Although some risk factors have been identified, researchers who study allergies are often unable to determine exactly why this overreaction occurs in some people but not others. But it’s clear that, for some substances, repeated exposures can increase the likelihood of an allergic response.

While anecdotes of allergic scientists abound, research into the issue is scant. The best documented are allergies to rodents, which are ubiquitous in biomedical research. But some scientists report allergies that are almost completely unstudied, potentially because relatively few people — at least in wealthy nations in which many allergy studies are conducted — regularly come into contact with the organisms that cause them.

For example, while most people avoid regular contact with leeches, University of Toronto doctoral student Danielle de Carle goes out looking for them. De Carle studies leech genetics in order to figure out how different species are related to one another and to understand how blood feeding evolved. To study the leeches, she first has to catch them, and like other researchers in her field, she uses her own body as bait.

“We wade into swamps and stuff, and we let them attach to us and feed from us,” she said. For most people, leech bites are relatively painless. When de Carle needed to keep the leeches alive in the lab, she would let them feed on her then as well.

Doctoral student Danielle de Carle now uses sausage casings filled with pig blood to nourish the leeches she studies.

(Courtesy of Danielle de Carle)

After about a year and a half of this, she started to notice symptoms. At first, the bites became itchy, but the more she was exposed, the worse it got. “The last time I fed a leech — which I try not to do anymore — my entire hand swelled up so much that I could hardly make a fist,” she said. “It itched like crazy.” De Carle said that, when she’s out hunting leeches now, she can avoid an allergic reaction if she removes the leech after it attaches itself to her, but before it starts to feed. For the leeches she keeps in the lab, she’s switched to feeding them pig’s blood from a butcher shop instead of letting them feed on her.

Nia Walker, a Ph.D. student in biology at Stanford University, has also begun reacting to her research organism. Walker studies how genetics influence coral bleaching resistance and recovery. She began to notice rashes on her hands during her third trip to conduct fieldwork on corals in Palau, an island nation in the South Pacific. “And then each subsequent trip after that, it got more and more extreme,” she said. “It got to the point where my face would bloat and I’d get welts on my hands from touching them.”

While her symptoms are especially intense, Walker said she’s not the only member of her lab who has developed a sensitivity. By now, she said, everyone in the lab has “developed a slight irritation to corals.” Walker has been able to manage her allergy by using protective equipment and over-the-counter antihistamines. “It’s sad,” she said, “but it’s also pretty funny.”

Sometimes, allergies that scientists have picked up during lab work can spill over into daily life. More than a decade ago, evolutionary biologist Karl Grieshop worked in a fruit fly lab in which bananas were a key part of the flies’ diet. Ever since, he said, his throat gets itchy every time he eats a banana. Jon Giddens, a doctoral student in plant biology at the University of Oklahoma, said that he didn’t have any allergies before he started studying Eastern redcedar, a small evergreen tree that is widespread in some regions of the country. But now, even though it’s been more than a year since he last worked with the species in the field, he has year-round nasal allergy symptoms, he thinks from the redcedar pollen in the air.

Likewise, Brechann McGoey, who received her doctorate in ecology and evolutionary biology from the University of Toronto, said she didn’t experience hay fever before she started her graduate work. But after repeated exposure to ragweed pollen during experiments, she developed symptoms like post-nasal drip and persistent cough. Even though she no longer works with the species, she still gets hay fever every fall during ragweed season. “It’s a souvenir from my Ph.D.,” she joked.

Reflecting previous research on occupational allergies in veterinarians, most of the researchers who spoke with Undark did not seek medical attention or get a formal diagnosis for their allergies.

Biologist Nia Walker attaches an ID tag to the base of a tabletop coral on the northern fore reef in Palau. Everyone in the lab she works in has “developed a slight irritation to corals,” Walker says.

(Dan Griffin / GG Films)

In many cases, scientists report that their allergies are annoying but manageable. But sometimes, the allergies force researchers to make major changes.

Entomologist Chip Taylor began his career studying sulphur butterflies as a Ph.D. student at the University of Connecticut. When he started his own lab at the University of Kansas in 1969, he had every intention of continuing to work with the species. But, he said, “by the time it rolled around to 1973, I realized I was so allergic to these butterflies.” Taylor began to experience asthma-like symptoms whenever he worked with them.

In the summer of that year, during a research trip to central Arizona, Taylor and a colleague rented a trailer to use as a workstation to process butterfly wing samples. “I could not go in the trailer,” he recalled. “I slept outside with my back up against a tree so my sinuses and my throat could drain.” To manage his symptoms, he was regularly taking prednisone, a powerful anti-inflammatory drug that can have serious side effects. “I decided that I had to get out of working with those butterflies,” Taylor said. “I had to readjust my career to work on something else.”

Taylor spent the next few decades studying killer bees. He returned to butterfly research in 1992, when he started the monarch butterfly conservation program Monarch Watch. Taylor said he’s never experienced any symptoms while working with monarchs — maybe, he guesses, because the two species produce different types of pigments.

Fry, the biologist who became allergic to snake venom, also said his allergy has shaped his career. The venoms of different snake species share similar components, Fry said, so someone who is allergic to one type of snake is likely allergic to many types. Because of this allergy, Fry also has to be extremely careful even around venomous snakes that are usually not dangerous to humans.

“Whenever I work with these animals now, I look like I’m going into the Hurt Locker,” he said, referencing the Oscar-winning movie about U.S. Army specialists who defused bombs in Iraq. “So, of course, in the tropical sun I’m absolutely melting.” Those limitations, he said, have made working with snakes less enjoyable. “I can’t just blithely interact with these animals that I find so absolutely fascinating, knowing that death is just around the corner at any given moment, even from a snake that normally wouldn’t be a medical problem.”

Fry survived his encounter with the death adder thanks to a snakebite kit containing injectable adrenaline and antihistamines, as well as a quick-thinking friend who raced him to the hospital. The allergy, he said, has caused him to redirect much of his research to studying venoms in other animals, including Komodo dragons, slow lorises (the world’s only venomous primates), funnel-web spiders, and box jellyfish. “I’ve managed to turn it into a good thing,” he said, “but it’s been nevertheless very frustrating.”

Allergy experts say that reducing exposure is the key to preventing allergy development. Exactly how much the exposure needs to be reduced is less clear, and increasing protection may be costly for institutions and inconvenient for researchers.

Some laboratories that use mice and rats have equipment and policies designed to reduce exposure to allergens. These labs install ventilation systems for the cages, use a robotic system to clean them out, house fewer animals per room, and provide an area for workers to change out of allergen-contaminated clothing. PPE such as masks, gloves, and gowns can also help researchers reduce their exposure.

But actually applying those preventative measures can be challenging, said Johanna Feary, who studies occupational lung disease as a senior clinical research fellow at Imperial College London.

In 2019, Feary and several colleagues published a study of seven research institutions in the United Kingdom that performed research on mice. They found that facilities that used individually ventilated cages, instead of open cages, had dramatically lower airborne allergen levels. But even that was not sufficient to prevent technicians from becoming sensitized to mouse allergens. The facilities with the lowest levels of sensitization were those where workers also wore properly fitted masks. The research, she said, demonstrated that, at least in the U.K., the development of allergies to lab animals “is probably preventable in almost all cases.”

But Feary said that lab animal allergies continue to be a problem for many people. “We should be getting better at it,” she said. “I’m not sure we are getting better at it.” The main reason, according to Feary, is that it can be costly to install equipment that reduces allergen exposure, such as those robotic cage cleaners, especially if it requires renovating older facilities.

It’s also hard to accurately assess the magnitude of the problem, she said, especially given that conditions and practices differ widely around the world. While well-run facilities will monitor workers’ exposure and health, “at the other end of the scale, you have filthy places with poor health and safety,” she said, where recordkeeping is patchy and people who develop allergies may simply feel compelled to seek work elsewhere. “So, it may look like everything’s fine, and nobody’s got any symptoms, but actually all the sick people have left,” Feary said.

It may also be the case that only the best-run facilities will report their data, she said, while the rest will simply not engage. Indeed, several years ago, when a group of Duke University researchers attempted a nationwide survey of the incidence of anaphylaxis associated with lab-animal bites in the U.S., only 16 percent of facilities even responded.

And with less well-studied allergies, there’s simply little information available regarding prevalence and what sorts of protections are sufficient to prevent their development. Several scientists living with allergies, though, said they think that more information and awareness could help increase the number of scientists taking precautions in their research.

Fry said there is more awareness of snake venom allergy than there was when he started formally studying snakes in the late 1990s. But, he added, “it’s still not as well-known as it should be.” Researchers in the field, he wrote in a follow-up email, can be reticent to talk about venom allergies. But, he said, “I’m quite candid about it because, you know, this is life-saving information.”

Walker, the coral biologist, said more research on allergies among researchers would be helpful. “A lot of these things can be addressed if you knew to look out for it,” she said.

Early-career scientists generally receive thorough training on proper handling of biohazards and harmful chemicals. Institutions often provide extensive safety plans for fieldwork to help researchers prepare for the various risks involved, from dehydration to hypothermia to bear attacks. But scientists may learn little about the potential for developing allergies to seemingly harmless organisms.

“I feel like maybe there’s a bit too much of a casual attitude about protective gear,” said McGoey, who developed an allergy after doing research on ragweed. “Maybe especially if you’re working with a plant or animal, where it’s like a natural thing, and you’re not in the lab with a chemical, maybe people are just not careful enough.”

“As silly as it sounds, just maybe having more emphasis on using PPE and the consequences of not doing it would be kind of nice,” said de Carle, the leech researcher. “It can be really easy to just think, like, ‘Oh, I don’t really need to wear gloves; I’m just touching flowers or whatever.’”

Carlson, the allergist, said that even well-informed researchers can get caught up in their enthusiasm for the work and rationalize not taking the proper precautions.

In 2009, Carlson worked on a project that involved collecting data on house dust mites, microscopic arthropods which cause nasal and respiratory issues in millions of people worldwide. Despite his expertise, he neglected PPE. “I know all this,” he said. “I know I should be wearing a mask, but it’s hot, and it’s sweaty, and I don’t have a boss telling me what to do.” As he worked, he developed a runny nose and itchy eyes — the first steps toward a full-fledged allergy. “I pushed through and I ended up hyper-sensitizing myself,” Carlson said, to the point that even getting down on the ground to play with his then-young children made him “absolutely miserable.”

Carlson is saddened thinking about those scientists who have to give up the work they love due to allergies. “I really do feel for these folks doing their work and developing an allergy,” he said. “The more we get the word out there, the better.”

Hannah Thomasy is a freelance science writer splitting time between Toronto and Seattle. Her work has appeared in Hakai Magazine, OneZero, and NPR.

This article was originally published on Undark. Read the original article.

#Nature

[nieithryn]

Ghost Company

"Commander."

The men were soaked. The rain poured down in sheets in the still air, seeping into every nook and cranny and turning the dusty floor of the compound to mud. Steam rose from the mouths of his brothers, especially those who had been woken in the middle of heir downtime for this inspection. Some had come in their blacks, and though they shivered, they made no complaint. Others had been on-duty when inspection was called, and were dressed in their dress grays. Still others were wearing their armor, called in from patrol or guard duty, or fast enough to don it in the scant time they were allotted for inspections. As was usual, natural-born troopers had taken over for them so they could be inspected.

This was a clones-only inspection. They usually were.

Something about the armor his men were wearing was prodding at the back of his mind, but what exactly it was he couldn't quite identify. So long as the General didn't seem to care, he would let it go for now.

In front of the men, their natural-born general prowled, moving from squad to squad, man to man, inspecting with his critical eye. While he always found some small fault, he seemed in good spirits tonight, and even seemed to smile and toss out an off-handed joke or two. Of course, part of that was likely the clones' misery. While they wore cheap plastoid armor that leaked at the joints, and cheap boots that soaked to the skin, he wore a well-oiled overcoat and sturdy, weather-proofed boots that kept him warm in the otherwise chill downpour. At the moment, Cody's feet sorely envied the idea.

"Commander, this is the most presentable this company has ever been." "Thank you, sir." "But Commander, I must inform you that this company is an utter disgrace."

The general's smile didn't falter one moment as he turned to his Commander, his pleasant tone almost friendly. Behind him, Cody watched as his brothers tensed almost imperceptibly, and subtly drew together. His gut clenched, but he forced himself to remain calm.

"Cody, can I talk to you?" Boil didn't ask to talk to him much these days. Not since....well. Not for awhile. Cody couldn't blame him. But he waved the lieutenant to sit in the chair in front of his desk, and set his padwork aside.

"Of course. What's on your mind?"

A heartbeat of silence. Two. Boil had never been shy, and Cody didn't think the scout was afraid of him. He never had been in the War, after all. No, this felt more like Boil was...considering. Maybe double-thinking what he wanted to say. Cody waited. He was patient. That hadn't changed, anyway.

"Me and the boys...we wanna leave." "Leave what?" He hoped he sounded less surprised than he felt. He'd thought his men had wanted to stay under his command, as grouped together as they could manage. Even if it was under these circumstances, at least...at least he'd kept them together, as best he could.

"...the Empire, Sir."

"I don't understand, sir. You just said-" "They're perfectly presentable, yes, Commander. Nothing I would show Lord Vader, or the Emperor, but perfectly presentable, given the circumstances." "Then I don't-" "They are a disgrace to your kind, to their uniforms, their armor, and, of course, to the Empire. Disloyal clones....tsk tsk." The General shook his head, smile falling as he took on a melancholic air. Disappointed.

"You can't be serious!" "I am, Cody. We're free men, and yet here we are, betraying everything we were raised to believe, to fight for!" "Boil, the Empire will hunt you down. It will kill you. All of you! Runaway clones are almost as bad as escaped Jedi!" "Then come with us! No one in the battalion was half as good at command as you, no one could even compare at the strategy table! Next to General Kenobi-"

The room went silent, an unspoken line crossed as the Commander turned away, shoulders slumped.

"...Cody. This isn't where we belong. We're better than this...than them. Come with us." "I wish you luck, Boil. But I...I can't."

The silence returned, heavy and aching.

The general clicked his tongue softly, reprimanding, and raised a hand. Around the compound, blasters were aimed at the assembled clones, some of whom were fast enough to draw their weapons. For a long moment, no one moved, before the general swept in front of his commander, and motioned. A soldier stepped forward, and removed his helmet. He was a clone, with hard eyes and firm features. Off-hand, Cody couldn't remember his name. He'd been a shiny when the War ended, a good soldier. Kept his head down, mostly.

Something in his eyes made Cody's stomach harden. Made it drop like lead to the floor. He looked...satisfied. But not in the way the Order made someone. It was...worse than that. It was personal.

"Cody. We all tried to kill Kenobi. You didn't do anything more than any of the rest of us." "You know that's not true." "It wasn't your fault. He would under-" "Rex tried to tell me, and I wouldn't listen, Boil! I had a chance to stop it, and I didn't! And we...and I..." He sighed, dropping his face into his hands.

"...I hope you make it out, Boil. But I don't want to know any more. I....I can't, Boil. I'm sorry." "...good luck Cody." The lieutenant stood, and made for the door...then paused, lingering. "I'm sorry, Cody." "...so am I."

"The nice corporal here has been very forthcoming about your plans to escape. I'm sure I needn't tell you gentlemen that desertion is a crime punishable in only one way. Particularly for people such as yourselves." The sarcasm that dripped from the General's voice was venomous, and even in his shock, Cody had enough presence of mind to growl. The General, however, ignored him, plowing along his monologue as Cody watched his brothers shift, watching their former allies like hawks.

"Lieutenant Boil. Please, step forward." Silence. "Oh please. Must I really resort to violence? Step forward, Lieutenant!"

No movement, and the General sighed, motioning to a pair of soldiers off to the side. They moved forward, and the clones closed ranks. The pair struggled to push through, as the clones began to mutter insults and push them back. The noise began to grow, both sides getting reinforcements, and Cody finally managed to shake the shock off. He opened his mouth-

"Enough!" Boil. Boil, no...

"Let me through."

Hesitantly, the clones parted for their lieutenant, and Boil emerged. It was only now that Cody realized what it was about the armored clones that had been eating at him: there was color to their armor. No longer was the plastoid bare white, as the Empire demanded, but...but the 212th gold was back. His 212th. They looked like members of Ghost Company again. It was almost enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Boil stood at perfect attention before their general, eyes stern. "Yes, sir?"

"Lieutenant. I hear you orchestrated this attempted escape. Is that so?"

"Yessir." "Honest. I like that. Captain?"

The birth-born officer didn't hesitate. The butt of his rifle slammed into Boil's gut, even as his partner swept the lieutenant's legs from under him. The brothers behind protested, but a warning shot kept them behind the line of birthborns holding them prisoner.

 "Lieutenant, I want you to know I really respect your planning. You did well. But you failed, and now, you and your brothers will die."

The General drew his pistol, checked the clip, and hummed. "No, stay down, Lieutenant. I like you right there."

Boil's lip curled in a snarl.

“Rather die on my feet, if it’s all the same to you, Sir.” “I’m sure you would. But I think not. Hold him down.”

“Sir.” Cody’s voice sounded hoarse even to his own ears. The General paused, tipping his head. There weren’t any rifles aimed at Cody, he realized. Why weren’t there rifles aimed at him?

“Sir, please. Let me speak with my men, I’m sure I can-” “Sure you can what, Commander? They didn’t trust you enough to include you in this little endeavor, I doubt they’ll listen to you.” The surprise and pain must have showed on his face, as the General tipped his head, frowning slightly. “The corporal claims you to be innocent, and I see no reason to argue it...unless you do?”

He should have said yes. It would all have been so much better if he’d said yes. It would be so easy to disarm the General, kill him...he and his brothers could take the natural-born officers by surprise, kill them, and then...

And then what?

A company of clones on the run? They couldn’t get off-world. They couldn’t run forever. There weren’t many places for a company to hide, after all. And what about food, credits, equipment? Let alone transport.

And even if he’d had answers for all of those questions, he realized something else.

He was being tested.

And Boil knew it too. The scout was looking at him from the ground while the General faced away, eyes softer. Understanding. Even as Cody watched, he offered a half-smile, and mouthed It’s okay Cody.

“...no Sir. What would you have me do?”

The General grinned. It was a nasty, predatory look. A nexu looking at penned livestock. “Take care of this execution, Commander. Then get us some more men.” Without warning, he tossed the blaster pistol to the Commander, and folded his hands behind his back. “I expect this all to be cleaned up in an hour or two.”

With that, the General turned and moved for the command center, whistling cheerfully. The natural-born officers stepped back, weapons trained on his brothers, but leaving him with Boil.

The world seemed too loud and too quiet. He could hear his heart beating.

He shook his head, looking down at Boil as he leveled the blaster. The safety was off. Had he hit it, or had the General?

"It’s alright Cody...it’s okay.”

No, it wasn’t. This felt like some sick nightmare, and he wanted nothing more than to wake up. There wasn’t a winning strategy here, just agony. Just blood. Just death.

“Boil, I-” “Don’t, Cody. We knew the risks.” “Hurry up, Commander.” The General’s voice was bored, and Cody felt himself nod...and felt the ache in his chest sharpen.

“I’ll tell Waxer how much you miss him, Sir.” “...I’m sorry Boil.” “So am I, boss.”

The single shot rang out in the compound. For a few heartbeats, the only sound to be heard was the soft thump of Boil’s body hitting the ground as the rain poured down. It hid the tears as Cody looked at nothing in particular.

A murmur went through the assembled clones, and Cody swallowed hard before turning to one of the natural-born soldiers. “You hard the General. Get this cleaned up, Captain.” “Yessir!”

He tried to ignore the excitement. Instead, he stepped back, and watched as the screaming began.

                                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” “Sir?”

The General had been in a good mood the last day or so, though he’d run his commander ragged. Not that he minded much. It kept him from sleeping.

“Your company used to be known as Ghost Company, yes?” “Yessir.” “Now they’re a company of ghosts. Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

The commander swallowed the lump in his throat, but his neutral tone never wavered.

“Yessir. Ironic.”

[absentplatypus]

Hey, remember how I said I was going to post a little something writing today? Well, here it is. It’s called ‘The Krakow Tapes’ and it’s a story/document about five tapes found in Krakow, Poland, (hence the name). It’s very inspired by the SCP Foundation, but it is not an SCP, it’s my own original piece. I think it also has some of the vibes of the Magnus Archives, so think of it as a bit of a combo between the two. Full story under the cut, as it’s 3,556 words.

Entry #: 4061---------> The Krakow Tapes

Description:

The Krakow Tapes are a collection of five recordings recovered in Krakow, Poland in 2015. These recordings feature a variety of locations in and around the city. The recurring cast, so to speak, is formed by a redheaded woman, a blonde woman, two men with dark hair, and the man behind the camera, of whom we only get scant glimpses.

The recordings are made using equipment that would date them to the 1960s, but the dress of the people and the tapes they are found on would suggest the 1980s. (Note: The tapes were able to be played on a VCR.) The one exception to the 1980s style clothing is the shirt worn by the blonde woman in one of the tapes, which displays an asexual pride flag, despite that flag’s creation dating to 2010.

The identities of the five people in the tapes remain unknown, but efforts to identify them are continued as of the writing of this entry.

The recordings are of comparably high quality, given the equipment used, but all of the tapes experience audio or visual interference at a variety of points. All those present in the recordings speak in Polish, and translated transcripts are available, attached to this document.

The tapes were found scattered on the ground in an alleyway unlabeled, and no other physical evidence has been found pertaining to these recordings, as of the writing of this entry.

There is no official order, chronological or otherwise, for the tapes. Additionally, as of the writing of this entry, they remain undated.

[End description.]

Transcripts:

The following are the transcripts of the tapes, translated into English. As such, the transcripts may not be fully accurate.

Tape #: 1.

[The recording begins with the redheaded woman, standing on a rooftop. It is late afternoon. The rooftop is painted white. Other buildings are visible in the background. The woman is wearing ripped jeans with a short sleeved shirt and leather jacket.]

Cameraman: “We’re going.”

Redheaded woman: “We’re going? Oh, good, good. Hey everyone! [She spreads her arms wide, smiling.] “We’re back home again, back in the city.”

[The camera turns to show the skyline, and the blonde woman is visible in the shot.]

[The redheaded woman laughs.] 

RW: “We’ve been having a good time so far, much better than we’ve had recently.”

CM: “Yeah, safe to say we’ve been sleeping a little rough.”

[RW nods in agreement.] 

RW: “Yeah. I always have us prioritize food and water over other things.”

[The blonde woman walks into frame.]

Blonde woman: “That’s because you’re bossy. When you get going it's hard for us to get a word in edgewise, much less argue.”

[A vocalization is heard. The camera pans over, and the source is revealed to be one of the dark haired men.]

RW, from offscreen: “What are you doing?”

[The two men are embracing, and swaying back and forth. (Note: Due to what evidence is available, it is believed that they are in a relationship. This theory has not given light to any new leads to the identity of the people, or purpose of the recordings.) The vocalizations are believed to be singing.]

Singing dark haired man: “Having fun, buzzkill!” 

Other dark haired man: “He’s gonna be a music man. Right?”

DHM: “Shut it, you.”

[The other dark haired man smiles and rests his head on the other man’s shoulder. The camera moves back to the RW and BW.]

RW: “Right, back to it. We’re staying here for now, but the view is gorgeous.”

BW: “We love this city.”

[The CM vocalizes his agreement.]

[RW begins to walk, and reaches a cooler, opening it. The sound of heels clicking is heard. She removes a bottle of water.]

RW: “We’ve got lots of water this time, so we’re set for at least a month. Food’s easier to come by, since we’re in the city, so I’m not worried about that.”

[RW takes a sip of her water.]

CM: “Yeah, we’re way better prepared than Paris.”

[RW laughs. The motion shakes her earrings, which dangle from her ears, and the chain attached to her jacket.]

RW: “Paris was a mess! We were stuck down there for days, and then we got separated.”

[RW shakes her head. There is notable visual distortion here.]

RW: “It was a lot.”

[BW fully enters the shot.]

BW: “All because that one guy wouldn't leave us alone.”

[Both RW and BW shake their heads.]

RW: “Some people just don’t know when to live and let live, as they say.”

CM: “We didn’t even take that much from him. And it’s not like any of the stuff was stuff he couldn’t replace.” (Note: This conversation, along with other bits of information found in the tapes, would imply the people in these recordings are involved in criminal activity. No police or court records have been found matching what evidence is available. This aspect is still under investigation.) 

[The dark haired men move closer, and BW greets them.]

ODHM: “It’s getting about that time. Who’s turn is it to grab the night supplies?”

RW: I’d do it, but my ankle hurts so I’m not gonna be up to the climb.”

CM: “If you don’t feel up to it, we’re not going to make you, sweetheart.” (Note: There is evidence suggesting CM and RW are in a relationship. This theory has led nowhere.)

DHM: “You might be willing to let her off the hook. We’ve all done more in worse states.”

BW: “I’ll do it.”

[The camera is set down on a ledge, and the remaining fifteen minutes of the recording is footage of the skyline and the sunset.]

[End transcript of Tape #: 1]

Tape #: 2

[The recording begins on the same rooftop as before. It’s nighttime, and a few stars are visible. There are sleeping bags spread around the roof, duffle bags and backpacks, and a second cooler in addition to the one from the first recording. A fire pit has been set up in the center of the roof, and a fire has been lit. Wood is piled beside it.]

CM: “Beautiful night here. Not too cold, and we managed to snag a fire pit.”

[The sound of heels is heard, and RW jumps on CM from behind.]

CM: “Hey, hey! Careful of the camera!”

RW: “I know, I know.”

[The camera turns to face her, and she is dimly lit by the fire.]

RW: “You can be no fun sometimes, you know that?”

CM: “I’m careful.”

[The camera is moved in a panoramic shot of the rooftop. The dark haired men are sitting in chairs next to the fire, holding hands. The blonde woman is walking on the ledge, making a vocalization that is believed to be humming. She is holding a glass bottle in her hand.]

RW: “Do you want me to grab you a drink?”

CM: “Sure. You know what I like.”

[RW moves into frame as she walks to one of the coolers, and removes two glass bottles. One of the bottles is lit well enough to identify it as beer. RW hands one of the bottles to CM.]

DHM: “Come sit!”

[RW and CM walk over to the chairs, and each take a seat. CM sits across from the three of them, so that they are in frame. The camera zooms in on the night skyline, and remains there for five seconds, and then zooms back out, and the people are again in the shot.]

ODHM: “I love the city at night. So peaceful. Plus, I’m with you.”

DHM: “Yeah.” 

[DHM smiles and gives ODHM a kiss on the cheek. RW smiles.]

RW: “Anyway, we plan on staying here for a while. We’re not going to have the fire on too much longer, but I’m not super concerned as there’s a chimney on this building.”

[The vocalizations from BW grow louder, and appear to be singing. It is noted that there is audio distortion at this time.]

ODHM: “Be careful! None of us are going to catch you if you fall off.”

[The camera is moved so that it is pointed at BW. She is still walking along the ledge with the bottle, and her step is noticeably more uneven. There is slight visual distortion, which may be a result of the equipment used.]

BW: “I’m fine.”

RW: “Just come down, please. You can come sit with us!”

[BW stops walking. The camera zooms to show her mock pout, and zooms out to film her walking towards the rest of the group. She takes a seat next to DHM.]

RW: “Should we talk about our plans for what we’re going to do next?”

ODHM: “Sure. We’re going to lay low for a while. Like we said before, there’s that one guy who won’t get off our backs.”

[RW and DHM roll their eyes.]

ODHM: “Besides that, we never do anything here, in our home city.”

DHM: “Yeah. We want this to be our safe spot, a place we can come back to. Whenever we do something, if the fallout is bad enough we may never come back. We like the freedom to move.”

BW: “We talked a little about going to Moscow next, right?”

RW: “Yeah, we did. Nothing’s set in stone, as if we ever do that, but yeah, I think we should.”

ODHM: “From what we’ve heard, there’s definitely a space there for what we do. Even if it’s not what we do next, we’ll definitely do it at some point.”

CM: “Personally I’d like to go because the city is beautiful. I’d love to take pictures there. City that big’s gotta have a decent place to develop them, too.”

[DHM and BW sound their agreement. RW gets up and tosses a couple of logs onto the fire.]

RW: “We’ll let it get through those and then put it out. Gotta sleep sometime, and we really shouldn’t be sleeping with an open fire around.”

ODHM: “Yeah, I’d rather not go up in flames in my sleep.”

[The next few minutes of the recording are extremely distorted, and when that ceases, RW and DHM are putting out the fire.]

BW: “You guys got it?”

RW: “Yeah, you head to bed. Or bag, rather.”

[The fire is put out, and the camera lingers on a shot of the city skyline. The recording is turned off after approximately a minute and thirty seconds.]

[End transcript of Tape #: 2]

Tape #: 3

[The recording begins with a shot of a rose. The camera moves to show a park, all of the people, save CM, are shown in this shot.]

CM: “You guys can talk now, I’ve got the shot.”

RW: “Oh, cool. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

[BW nudges RW in the arm. They are seated on a bench, and BW is wearing a shirt with the asexual pride flag on it.]

BW: “Didn’t you say we were going to have lunch now?”

RW: “Yes! I left the basket in the car. I’ll be right back.”

[RW gets up and heads offscreen.]

DHM: “While she’s getting that, I’ll give you a brief rundown. We had a bit of time to ourselves, and we decided to hang out in this park and have lunch.”

[ODHM laughs.]

DHM: “Well, I said it’d be brief.”

ODHM: “Yes you did.”

[RW returns with a picnic basket in hand.]

RW: “Did we decide where we’re eating?”

DHM: “Uh, the park?”

[RW rolls her eyes and crosses her arms.]

RW: “I know that, Mr. Sarcastic, but I’m talking about the specific spot. We can eat on the benches, but I did bring a blanket.”

BW: “Just spread it out in front, if someone wants to sit on the bench they can, if someone wants to sit on the blanket they can.”

[RW and BW spread the blanket on the ground. RW sets the basket down on the right side, and CM sits on the blanket, with the others remaining in frame. RW and BW sit down on the blanket, and DHM and ODHM remain on the bench.]

ODHM: “Can you still see us okay?” 

CM: “Yes.”

ODHM: “Cool, cool.”

[The next ten minutes of the recording are of them eating. There is light conversation throughout, but audio distortion makes it mostly inaudible.]

DHM: “So yeah, not eating there again.”

[They all laugh.]

BW: “Fun story, but it is really the one to tell while we’re eating?”

ODHM: “She’s got a point.”

[DHM rolls his eyes.]

DHM: “You’ll be fine.”

[ODHM takes DHM’s hand.]

ODHM: “You’ve gotta lotta snark in you, don’tcha.”

RW: “Yeah, he does.”

[RW pats DHM’s knee.]

CM: “If we’re all done, we should put the food stuff back in the car.”

BW: “Ever the clean freak.” 

[BW smiles into the camera, looking at CM.]

DHM: “I’ll help, if you’re doing it.”

BW: “Okay.”

[BW and DHM clean up. RW and CM get off of the blanket. RW and ODHM fold up the blanket and pass it to BW. BW takes the basket and heads offscreen. The other three sit on the benches while CM stands.]

CM: “Good to be here, with you guys. I hate it when we can’t be together.”

DHM: “Yeah. It almost feels like we’re always together when we are, but when we’re apart it’s like we never have.” 

[RW and CM make noises of agreement.]

ODHM: “I love you guys.” 

[The camera is set down, and all but the legs and feet of the people are out of frame. It is believed that they are embracing each other here. The camera stays on this shot for six seconds, before becoming incredibly distorted. When the recording is clear again, it is on a shot of BW and RW embracing each other. BW is holding out a camera, pointed at them, and RW has her arm draped across BW’s chest and her hand is resting on her shoulder. ] 

[End transcript of Tape #: 3]

Tape #: 4

[The recording begins with footage of the carpeted floor of a restaurant. The camera moves as CM walks. After fifteen seconds the movement ceases.]

DHM: “We’re clear.”

[CM moves through a door into a bathroom. The camera remains pointed at the tiled floor.]

CM: “We’re the only ones in here?”

BW: “Yes, we are.”

[The camera moves up to about eye level. BW is in front of the camera, wearing a deep blue dress with criss-cross cording down the front. RW is half out of frame.]

ODHM: “Everyone’s in here, we’re just behind the camera. Small bathroom, you see.”

[The camera moves in a circle around the room. RW becomes fully in the shot, wearing a knee length silver dress. DHM and ODHM are shown in frame, and they are wearing suits. The camera completes its rotation and stops once BW is in the frame again.]

CM: “Do you want to explain? I stopped on you, but I can move.”

BW: “No, no, I can do it.” 

DHM: “Awesome.”

BW: “If you don’t interrupt, that is, please and thank you.”

DHM: “Sorry.”

BW: “Anyway, this is very impulsive and not what we’re supposed to be doing, we’re working right now but we all look gorgeous and we wanted to preserve it for posterity.” 

RW: “Yeah we do!”

[The camera turns to focus on RW, and she spins to show off her dress. When she’s done, she blows a kiss toward the camera. The camera moves back to BW.]

BW: “So, yeah. We can’t talk about what we’re doing, we’re not supposed to, but we are enjoying ourselves. Can’t say that about every time when we’re working.”

[ODHM voices his agreement.]

BW: “How much time do we have in here?”

RW: “I think about five more minutes. Food is gonna be here soon and we’re already been gone for a while. Don’t want them to get suspicious.” (Note: Whoever ‘them’ is has not been identified. However, the restaurant the people are in has been identified, based on the carpet pattern. The restaurant is no longer in business, but the building still has the same carpet.)

[RW walks in frame. She stands next to BW.]

RW: “Let’s get a shot of us all together before we stop.” 

[RW gestures DHM and ODHM over to the same side of the bathroom as her. CM has to take a couple of steps back to get them all in frame. As he steps back, a brief glimpse of his reflection is visible in the mirror. The facial features are mostly blurred, but the man appears to have light brown hair.]

DHM: “Can you see us all?”

CM: “Yes.”

[DHM and ODHM position themselves on the outermost side of RW and BW, respectively. They stand there and smile. A knock is heard at the door. The camera points towards the ground and is shut off.]

[End transcript of Tape #:4]

Tape #: 5

[The recording begins with a shot of a bridge. Traffic is moving at a steady interval on the road on top. The bridge was painted white, but the paint is peeling, and much of the bridge has been graffitied.  One section has what more closely resembles a mural, with an impressionistic sea scene and birds flying above it. Four of the five people are standing under the bridge.]

CM: “You know, I like this bridge. It’s not the most unique, but something about it is just nice.”

[ODHM spots the camera and jogs over. He smiles.]

ODHM: “I knew you couldn’t resist filming the bridge.”

CM: “It’s a nice bridge.”

[ODHM laughs.]

ODHM: “Yeah, I guess it is. Come on, we’ve snagged some fruit. Your favorite!”

[He turns and walks over to RW, who is holding a plastic shopping bag. CM follows.]

CM: “For your information, fruit is not my favorite. I just like eating healthy food. It seems strange to you because you’re twenty-five percent chips.”

[ODHM and RW both laugh. RW rests her hand on her stomach.]

RW: “Hey, play nice you two.”

ODHM: “We will.”

[ODHM tosses his arm around RW’s shoulders. DHM comes into frame.]

DHM: “Did you get any bananas? I’ve been wanting some lately.”

RW: “Yeah, right here.”

[RW rummages in the bag, removes a banana and hands it to DHM, who begins to eat it.]

CM: “Now, what do we say?”

[DHM snorts.]

DHM: “Thank you.”

CM: “There you go.”

DHM: “You realize I’m, how old? I’m old enough to know when to say thank you.”

RW: “First of all, do you not know your own age? And second, it’s not just knowing when, it’s doing it, too.”

BW: “Manners!”

DHM: “Why don’t you come over here and tell me yourself?”

[BW jogs over to be in frame.]

BW: “I was talking to a squirrel, who was chasing another squirrel that was trying to eat a nut.”

[They all laugh.]

RW: “Yeah, sounds like you.”

[RW reaches out and pulls BW to her side.]

ODHM: “Dork.”

[ODHM smiles at BW, who smiles back.]

BW: “I am. And you are too.”

CM: “We’re all dorks, I think. It’s probably why we get along so well.”

RW: “Birds of a feather.”

CM: “Exactly.”

[BW points behind CM.]

BW: “There go the squirrels!”

[The camera is spun around to catch the squirrels chasing each other. The camera zooms in on the animals running after each other, and eventually up a tree. The camera turns back toward the people.]

ODHM: “Other than watching squirrels and eating fruit, we haven’t been up to much lately.”

RW: “We’ve decided to take a little break, and just enjoy life for a little while.”

CM: “Like this bridge.”

RW: “Like this bridge. And really, would we be proper miscreants if we didn’t hang out under bridges?”

DHM: “I feel like ‘proper miscreants’ defies the whole point of miscreants.”

[BW shrugs.]

BW: “It’s possible.”

RW: “Anyway, we were going to go down to this pond and feed some ducks. I have bread in the bag.”

[RW smiles at CM.]

RW: “Do you want to put the camera down and come with us? Live in the moment, you know?”

CM: “Yeah, yeah, alright. I’ll come along.”

[The closing shot of this recording is of the four people in the frame smiling, until the camera turns off.]

[End transcript of Tape #: 5]

End Notes:

There isn’t much to say, on this one. Most of the information we have is already in this entry, and what’s left is just menial stuff that is filed somewhere else. The annoying thing about cases like this is that unless any new evidence turns up, we’re never going to fully solve it. Usually if cases like this are solved, it’s just people messing around, making one of those ‘alternate reality games’ that are so popular nowadays. It’s rare for it to be something that needs a real investigation.

Well, I guess it’ll just stay open, then. This is just a weird set of tapes with a bunch of time inconsistencies and some possible offscreen criminal activity. Nothing we can turn over as actual evidence of something going on.

If you’re reading this, you know the protocol. If anything else turns up related to this case, you notify the research team. Unless you have specific permission to do so, do not edit this entry. You know the consequences.

[End (End Notes)]

[End Entry #: 4061---------> The Krakow Tapes]

[spidermilkshake]

Isolated Element--Part 1: Captoptromancy

Welp, I'd best post writing on the hellsite too. What better place for the unhinged fanfiction that spills between my brain's cracks?

IP: Kingdom Hearts (powerfully headcanon'd)

Genre: Fantasy, Mystery+Suspense

Word Count: 2,400+

TW: Unreal/derealized dream states, mild body horror

(Next)

1: Catoptromancy

It had been a few years since she had last come this way. Already, nothing was at all like she remembered. Years back, Traverse Town didn’t even have its proper name; it was only known as the settlement cobbled together from Gaia’s refugees—from Radiant Garden to Corel to Nibelheim—a hybrid of survivalist shelters and shanty-town as more and more hunks of unfortunate Worlds materialized in the outskirts, sometimes bringing hundreds of new people with them. A few years ago there weren’t quite five thousand folk crowded in here, getting by on salvaged bits and crisis aid given by the Elveshmean military and the Elvaan Źduhace (the Elven Dragoon Order). If not for the work of Radiant Garden’s more progressive intellectuals, Gaia’s ties to Elves and even fellow Human nations would not have been so strong, and if not for these ties, the alarm at the sudden radio silence would not have been so swift in onset. If not for this, Traverse Town would likely have remained a guttering, suffering den of survivors—languishing and on their own.

Aqua sympathized.

As she disembarked the transport cruiser into a grey, stale-smelling rain she noticed immediately the place’s changes. She pulled the sides of her hooded poncho together, pausing by the platform’s railing to look out over the newly-constructed bell tower, and the mis-matched buildings surrounding it. Formerly, this area had been half-built and strewn with piles of salvaged rubble. The wrecked hulk of an Interspace-Airship hybrid, the Highwind Mark IV, had lain propped up on blocks, its engines burst and drained of power. It had since been moved—or taken apart, likely to go towards the Mark V. Shaking the oil rivulets dripping down her hood away, Aqua brought herself back to the present. Traverse Town was now equipped with signs; she began following some, scanning the terraced levels and built-into underpasses for signs of nightly lodging. A warm, elevated porch caught her eye—its swinging sign lit up with a covered manatech lantern, the orange glow making “Bedknobs+Broomsticks: Food—Rooms—Entertainment—Vacancies Available” legible through the weather. She climbed the stairs to the entrance, taking a moment to shake the rain from her poncho again, to not drip a soot-marred trail all through the place. The least she could hope for was that this one wasn’t already grimy, and without her griming it up for the proprietor.

It did turn out to be clean inside, mostly. A few active spiderwebs decorated the high, out-of-the-way corners, but a polished oak bar-top was well-shined, and a row of recessed booth seating looked to be mostly clear minus some spice containers. It was a tiny place, a staircase and a cramped elevator entrance intruding halfway into the diner-like area. Clearly, most of the establishment was on ascending floors and this scant hole-in-the-wall was the only important thing besides cheap beds. At first she assumed she was alone on the floor—some clanking in the doorway behind the bar area implied one distracted kitchen worker only. A sound like sheafs of silk rubbing together turned her head, and the slight, constant movements caught her peripheral vision.

She jolted, instinct forcing her to grip thin air after a Keyblade that would no longer come to her. After all this time, she’d assumed she would be used to the full range of weird entities roaming the Three Realms, but apparently this… entity, was still a surprise.

He was wedged into the outermost side of the closest booth, in the shadowy corner. His feet were propped up on the table and half-crossed, but it was not their electric-green claws and webbed toes the color of “drowning victim” that was so terrifying: The rest of him was by far more strange. Tall, slender, with swept-back pointed ears and some of his dark reddish hair braided into an Elf-Knot identified his species—and the bustling array of mutations he bore brought that species into question again. Above the protective gloves and bracers he wore, his forearms were that drowned-blue color, and slithering with several large tentacles each. His ripped jeans were a similar story at the hip joint—and even more sprung from a point near his shoulder blades. The deep V-neck of his shirt allowed a travesty of more subtle issues to be on display: His shoulders and across his collarbones had stubby, green quills protruding from them, the veins of his neck close to the surface were a green hue too and hideously engorged. On second glance, Aqua suppressed a shudder of revulsion as she saw the veins on his arms and even one faintly popping from his temple were the same. A moment passed in which this Grey Elf paid no attention to her—engrossed with a ratty-looking, thin book propped open against one knee—but then, vivid purple eyes flicked over to the onlooker.

“Well, well, cydezé,” the twisted elf greeted her, gaze flicking over her from the Keybearer’s Chi-Rho emblem on her chest to the lacing ornaments over her corset and spur-stabilizers on her boots, landing at last on her muted blue hair and bright eyes. “They say it’s rude to stare, stranger.”

“Sorry, I, uh…” Aqua stalled her movements by force of will, as instinct was sending her creeping backwards. “I couldn’t help but look.”

“’Swhat they all say!” He snickered, snapping his book closed. She couldn’t be so sure of this relaxed, humored response; her eyes lingered on the tentacles as they coiled back over themselves. “No offense taken at all, eh, miss..?”

“I’m Aqua,” she suppressed a flinch, especially as one of his eyebrows raised in intense interest.

“Aqua, eh?” Finally, he slid the mutated pair of feet down from sight. “Excellent. I’m named Oppidimy—though some call me the ‘Octomancer’. Or a walking accident.” He chuckled again, grinning.

“Now we’re introduced, at least—so! You didn’t come in here after me, I’ll assume, but surely you’re looking for someone.”

Aqua’s brow twitched as it was tempted to furrow, “What makes you say that?”

“You have that ‘looking for someone’ quality,” he smirked, tipping a hand towards the scene outside, “It’s a safe assumption. Most who come here are, in fact, trying to find people.”

The young Keybearer half-bit her tongue; appearance aside, she was unsure of how wise it would be to make even a guarded mention of her goals. Oppidimy was clearly a mage of some sort: What kind was as uncertain as how he’d come to be half-elf, half-aberration. And what kind of magic-user he was made all the difference.

“Actually, I wasn’t looking for someone,” she chanced it. She figured she could downplay the importance it had, leaving little clue that the lost item in question was the sacred Keyblade. “Something, actually. Several somethings.”

“Lost some stuff?”

“Actually… more like stolen.” She sucked in a breath, reigning in the residual outrage that lingered even years later, “A sword, and a set of plate armor. They were very important to me and I don’t have much idea of who took them from where I last saw them.”

Oppidimy clicked his tongue, eyes hooding in a disgusted expression as he nodded.

“That’s cute—people really are out there like that. World’s in the process of ending and they’ll still try robbin’ you blind.” Aqua blinked hard at the statement, but he carried on overtop of her visible bewilderment, “Odds are, the culprit’s one of a short and nasty list; the only types who would be out to steal anything that wasn’t provisions, these days.

“I might be able to help y’ out,” a slow, crooked smile spread over his pointed features, and his gloved fingertips settled together into a triangle of scheming thoughts. “At least, if you’ll have me. At the very least I could help rule out some of these skeezballs.”

“And how would you accomplish this?” Her voice turned suspicious, and the Rurcelan mutant obviously cottoned on. He disbanded the triangle of wicked contemplations with a series of assuring waves, shaking his head and chuckling.

“Ah, ah, I know that tone—relax! My methods are one hundred percent legitimate, completely moral. Even though I blend in quite well with society’s villains and monsters, the ‘look’ was not exactly intentional. But, if you’ll take up my offer, you’ll see how it serves to my advantage.”

As Oppidimy began to stand and tuck his book amongst the grips of the tentacles issuing from one elbow, Aqua tilted her head:

“…So you specialize in espionage?”

The elf raised a gloved finger to his lips and the quills on his bare shoulders went rigid, suddenly looking grim and serious.

“Not so loud,” He slid past her, the Keybearer wearing a stone face even as she cringed internally at the tendrils coming inches from brushing by. Stepping towards the stairs, he turned back to call over his shoulder, smirk returned: “Come see me some time if you need a hand, yeh? I’m in 32. I’d suggest giving that old office door a knock so you can get a room of your own before it gets too late.” He began to cackle, “Owner’s a bit narcoleptic, so knock hard!” His laughter echoed, becoming cartoonish as he ascended the narrow stairwell and the raucous noise faded out. She paused a few seconds just to breathe.

Never had she encountered someone quite so exaggerated—it felt like a front—or a trap. She could be the intended victim, but just as easily the intended bait, a lure to draw in the unsavory targets he’d referred to. Only further investigation would bring that to light.

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

As suspected—the place was a cheap joint for cheap beds. The need in town was high, and the cramped room she was assigned was, at the very least, livable. Crumpled under the stiff, rough-textured outer sheet, every attempt to calculate the dubiousness of the elf’s offer, versus the likelihood she could finally close in on her lost Keyblade, set her sleep back another hour. And another. But slowly, surely, sleep and Aqua arrived at an uneasy truce.

She had the dream again. Different—and clearer.

The vision of that round, white, metal-plated room, the gaps in this armoring (or acoustic featuring?) showing faint glints of pipes, cables, and other hints at underlying manatech. It mocked her. She was for a second so infuriated at its recurrence that she almost missed the new features: Insignias in a stark black marked the walls, familiar but strange. It was much like the Keybearer’s Chi-Rho—or the Heartless Emblem, itself very much a cheap plagiarizing of the order’s sign—upside-down, so that the spikes forming the “Chi” took the peak position.

The miasma of her unconscious half-lucidity swam around her as she struggled to turn around and face the raised central area. She had already seen what was arranged there during the prior dream states. Her armor, and her Keyblade, where she knew it last. If the passage of time was to be believed, someone had been keeping it tidy and dust-free.

The chair was new. Aqua’s jaw hung in silence a moment, unable to react, as she faced its occupant. Outside of this recurring hallucination she knew she was asleep—and she wondered if he, within the dream, was also. His dark-toned skin and wildly-arranged silver hair were uncomfortably familiar, and his face itself also so but for different reasons. His ears were slightly-pointed as a half-elf’s would be, but since his eyes were closed she couldn’t tell if he possessed the mish-mash of colors and features she dreaded. She had seen this man before, she was sure this was… but somehow, her mind refused to let her assume this was the same person. Or persons, technically. He had to be, and yet… she was sure this quietly seated man was another entirely.

Her frown began to appear, giving some control of her face and voice back. Whoever this dead-ringer for Terra (and Xehanort) was, there was no likelier suspect for the role of the one who had relocated this Chamber—her Keyblade with it.

“Where are you?”

Aqua nearly jumped, though her dream-self felt far too sluggish for it. Exactly as and exactly what she had been gathering up energy to say the man with closed eyes had asked in a low murmur, devoid of feeling. Though, this she supposed could be from him truly being asleep—mumbling and aware of her regardless.

“No,” she barked, “You tell me. Where are you? And who are you?”

The man paused, eye movements flickering behind their lids. In painfully slow motions, he began to shake his head.

“I cannot answer you. You must tell me first.” He was still almost deadpan, with a hint of tired annoyance creeping in now.

“You can’t force me to tell you, and you can’t do anything to me. This is a damn dream-state. So, if you want anything, you first.”

He huffed, his brows twitching, and the sleek black fabric that made up his gloves straining as his grip on the armrests tightened.

“No,” he growled. “You don’t understand. I cannot answer you first because I have no answer. I don’t know who I am.” He let silence return to the humming void around them, becoming neutral in expression, “But perhaps, if you tell me your name, I can know more.”

A spike of hope softened her expression; the frustration and the intonation was so like his, melded neatly with the rigid aura of calm he imposed on himself—two traits so Terra-esque and incongruous with each other they seemed unlikely to be performed. And very un-Xehanort, in this way.

“I’m Aqua. Do you have a name, by chance?”

“I do,” he nodded, brows knitting slightly, “But it would mean nothing to you. It is a chosen name, taken after the time you seem to recognize me from.”

“Are you Terra?” She forged ahead, prepared for a let-down.

“I am aware of who that name belongs to, but I do not think so,” he surprised her, “Before you ask: I am equally aware of the one called Xehanort. I am not him.

“You have seen this Chamber before, haven’t you?” A dim inkling of curiosity entered his soft tone, surprising her alongside the change of subject. “Years ago I began to see this place. In my dreams at first, and then, every time I closed my eyes. I suspect you saw these visions. You saw the way into the room, hidden in what is left of the bastion of Radiant Garden.”

“How did you figure that out?” But, already guessing the answer, her eyes wandered to the sections of her armor propped on the central dais.

“I have memory I can’t explain,” he began. “I remember the name of the one this Keyblade, and its armor manifestation, belongs to. Aqua.” Sudden, jarring, he seemed unable to resist letting his eyes snap open and zero in on her with their bright, orange intensity, “This belongs to you, doesn’t it?”

An immediate shock came over her—but not only from being eye-to-eye. As soon as it happened, a spell broke. She felt roaring in her ears; the Chamber of Repose winked out and she was filled with the sickening sensation of half-awake, confused floating just above one’s body. Psyche-wise, she felt slammed back into her self as she bolted awake, still curled under the cheap inn’s terrible sheets, the room quiet and empty.

She sat up, waiting for some soreness that never came. A vivid dream. Not exactly, but closer than really being there. For a minute she just listened; a few muffled clangs of activity echoed from some lower floor, and she could hear through razor-thin walls the sounds of folk opening and shutting doors, exchanging bleary greetings, and going about the act of “morning”. A sliver of weak light creeping in between shut curtains confirmed the early, small hour. She collected her wits, and stood. She wasn’t getting any more sleep now anyways.

To Be Continued

[angstmongertina]

hidden meanings

Mishka answered an ask about what A meant when they said that they aren’t “good at this sort of thing” and it fucking destroyed me so here we are, like a week and some 2.6k words later. (I’m sorry I’m a slow writer lol.)

Guys, I love Adam so goddamn much.

Most of the dialogue is Mishka’s. I’m just expanding out the scene with more introspection than is entirely healthy lol.

AO3 Link

Adam is not, by nature, a man of change.

Of course, living through nine centuries has done something to temper his obstinacy, and he knows that he is at least less technology-adverse than Nate, but he is also fully aware of the fact that that comparison means hardly anything. Even so, in his long life, he has also found it far easier to simply focus on the present and his duties to the Agency, the organization that, despite its own changes, has remained one of the closest things to a constant in the rapidly evolving world around him.

This world that he does not truly belong in, but that he also cannot leave, that he has simply been existing in for nearly a millennium.

Still, he has long since learned that it is easier, that it is better, to concentrate on the task at hand, to do his job without unnecessary frills and complications. He only has need of himself, his assignment, and his team, those very select few he has come to work with and trust. Those others who have proven themselves, who are also frozen in time, permanently caught in the eddies of the steady stream of life. Who, like him, have secrets and memories that lay guarded, shrouded in the past, out of sight and out of mind.

At least, that has all been the case until Unit Bravo found themselves assigned to Wayhaven and to her.

If anyone had told him, a scant few months earlier, that a human woman, still so young and inexperienced, the daughter of his unit’s handler, would have brought so much change to all of their lives, he would have called them crazy. And yet…

He glances down to his side.

It is a strange thing. At a first pass, the figure walking beside him, taking at least two steps for every one of his, is not one he would have expected to make such an impact. While he has to admit that Agent Langford herself is not of any impressive physical stature, she has an elegance, a commanding presence, that has always served her well, both on the field and behind a desk. Her daughter, on the other hand, manages to be of even smaller frame, not even reaching his shoulder in height, and so slender that she looks as though a strong wind might be able to knock her off her feet. Despite the potential dangers of their mission, her dark hair hangs in messy waves down her back, long and unbound and utterly impractical for combat. All in all, she is, at least at first glance, utterly ordinary, looking for all the world like another resident of Wayhaven that has shown up to this accursed carnival. Except…

Except, in spite of the crowds, the noise and the sights and the chaos, of everything that he loathes, everything that should be overwhelming to his senses, even in the best of times, all of it pales in comparison to her.

As if sensing his thoughts, or at least his attention, she tilts her head up, raising an eyebrow, and his chest tightens at the inquisitive look in the stormy grey eyes that lift to meet his, at the way his traitorous hand twitches in its attempt to reach out for her. Her lips part, all soft curves compared to the bright sharpness of her gaze, and he only realizes when she presses them together, a heaviness resting in their corners, that she has asked him a question.

One that he cannot for the life of him even begin to recall.

Instead, he gives his usual noncommittal grunt, at once a deflection and a response, one that has always served him well. Except this time, his typical antagonism does not appear to hide his preoccupation; for a split second, something flashes across her face, disappearing so quickly that even he, with his supernatural speed, cannot identify it. Its swift departure does not, however, prevent it from settling poorly in his stomach, a sudden storm of unease that has him looking down, unable to meet her eyes and the depths of what he might find there.

He cannot help but be thankful that it is only a few steps further to the carousel, a bright, swirling mixture of colors and music that seems to draw the attention of everyone in range. Almost as if it has been expecting them, the ride slows as they approach, and he does not fail to notice the way Surina’s face brightens as she sets foot onto the steps, the first hint of true enthusiasm he has seen from her since their disagreement in the car.

The animation in her features, highlighted by the twinkling lights of the ride, is nearly enough to make him stumble as he follows her. Climbing up with more difficulty than he cares to admit, he stiffens, clearing his throat before crossing his arms over his chest.

Given her preoccupation, he is almost surprised when it cuts through her reverie, but somehow, it does and in spite of the bustle of others climbing on around them and the general din of the park, her quiet intake of breath echoes in his mind. She turns from inspecting one of the fiberglass creatures to give him another questioning look, but this time, he is prepared for her keen gaze and instead, he glances about them, eyes narrowed. “I don’t think both of us should be seated for this ride. One of us should stay standing to cover us in case of issues.”

The words come out stilted, heavy against her excitement, and part of him finds himself regretting them when they seem to settle over her shoulders, pressing down against the cheer that had lifted them only moments earlier. For a second, he wonders if she will argue, contemplates apologizing, but she only exhales in a long breath before giving a nod, though a hint of a smirk replaces the faint frown on her face, one that is usually enough to put him on his guard, except…

Except, this time, those grey eyes lighten to a softer blue, once again dancing with her amusement, and he can feel his chest tighten in response, enough so that he almost, almost, misses her next statement.

“All right. You sit and I’ll stand.”

It is a challenge and he knows it. Her face is alight with the force of her energy, her eyebrow quirked teasingly with a hand braced on her hip. Despite his best efforts, his breath catches in his throat as the corner of her mouth curls into a smirk, and he has to actively force himself to look away, running a hand through his hair to resist the urge to wipe that cocky smile off of her face, to taste the insolence on her lips…

“Fine.”

Blindly, he reaches for the nearest creature, climbing into the fiberglass saddle before the form of his chosen steed registers to him. It isn’t until she steps closer, her grin growing wider, that the curved neck and pale white wings filter into his consciousness, and he finds himself resisting the urge to growl.

“Seems appropriate.” She chuckles, apparently too preoccupied with running a hand over the bright orange beak to notice the way he stiffens at her words, his heart pounding so loudly that it’s a small wonder everyone on the ride doesn’t notice, but, oddly, instead of mocking, her gaze is playful, a soft invitation. “You know, the whole bad-tempered part?”

She takes another step closer and he says nothing, cannot begin to form a coherent sentence in lieu of gritting his teeth as her arm brushes against his, a warmth that he can feel even through his coat, and he resists the urge to flinch.

Judging from the way she glances away, her expression falling yet again, he is not as subtle as he hopes.

He is not sure if it is perfect or horrendous timing that the ride begins then and she rocks onto her heels, her hand wrapping around the pole just under his, so close that he can feel the heat from it, can almost feel the fluttering of her heartbeat, soft and rhythmical under the cheerfully chiming music, interwoven with laughter and conversation from the other patrons. Steady and intoxicating.

He swallows once, hard, and looks away.

“Maybe we should talk… or something?” Her voice is quiet, enough so that he is certain that anyone without supernatural hearing would not have been able to hear it, and his eyebrows climb at the show of hesitance from his normally combative companion. “Help blend in with everyone else.”

In spite of his better judgment, he lets his eyes drift back over the crowds to where she stands at his side, her face tilted slightly to meet his gaze, and finds his thoughts scattering under the weight of that soft grey. “Talk?” The word comes out slightly strangled and he hastily clears his throat. “Talk of what?”

A slim shoulder rises in a shrug. “Anything, I suppose. We just stand out because we’re so silent.”

“We’re on a job. Chatting isn’t a priority.”

The reply falls out of his mouth without thinking, with the reflexes born from centuries of sidestepping and ignoring attempts at unnecessary conversations and sentiments, of focusing on his missions for the Agency, of maintaining his distance from this world that he does not quite belong in. It is the simple truth, the best, safest approach for everyone involved. And yet…

And yet the flicker of emotion in her eyes before her face smooths out stings, a keen ache in his chest that somehow hurts far more than any amount of anger would have, particularly when she only looks around before leaning closer, her voice dropping to scarcely more than a breath on the evening breeze.

“That was a little loud, Adam. People might overhear.”

The mild censure manages to filter into his consciousness, and he only barely manages to stop himself from flinching at the warning. Their investigation, their mission for the Agency… They are paramount, are the only reason why she is here with him now, playing out this little charade. They must be. Which means…

He turns to meet her gaze once more, taking a deep breath as he catches her eye, now dark and swirling with a myriad of emotions, just out of reach, that he does not dare to try and recognize, that he will not, that he cannot, lose himself in.

Not again. Never again.

Even so, his traitorous heart clenches in his chest, sharp and almost stifling, each pounding heartbeat sending a fresh pang through his entire being. Each breath is constricted, straining against the tightness that binds him, wrapping around his chest until he is drowning in the fierce ocean of his own intense reaction. In wild desperation, he arches his back, focusing on the way his muscles stretch and tighten, on the weight of his coat shifting over his shoulders, on the breath that escapes his lips, warm in the cool evening air. On the space his movement adds between them, the distance that he needs to maintain.

On anything but her.

And still, he can feel those stormy eyes watching him, unwavering, waiting. He can feel his walls cracking under that heavy gaze, feel as it seems to draw the truth from the depths of his soul, and as much as he wants to hold it all back, he cannot. Not to her.

“I’m not good at…” At maintaining appearances around her, at opening up to other people, or even himself. At vulnerability… “At this kind of thing.”

For a moment, her expression softens, and he stiffens ever so slightly at the gentleness in her gaze, at the way she leans even closer, apprehension and hope waging war in equal measure in his mind. “You don’t have to be,” she says, her voice so soft that he can scarcely hear it over the thundering of his heart. “You just have to try.”

Her words echo in his mind, quiet and patient and somehow they shake him more than  anything she has said to him before, threatening to peel back each of his painstakingly constructed layers until he is exposed, raw and bare and…

Crimson flowing in thick rivulets from the gashes in her neck, staining the concrete floor. Soft grey eyes fluttering closed over a shaky smile. Fear and desperation drowning out every rational thought, every ounce of sense in his mind—

He swallows hard.

…And dangerous.

This world is, he is, a threat to her, one he cannot let himself expose her to, no matter how desperately part of him wants to. Not if he brings naught but pain and destruction to her, as he inevitably will.

He has learned that much, at least.

His free hand clenched in an effort to not break the bar he still holds, he takes a deep breath against that persistent tightness in his chest, letting it out in a long sigh. “You are…” The ride separates them gradually, irrevocably, and he cannot be sure if it is relief or disappointment that floods his system, that has the corners of his mouth relaxing. Just as he cannot be sure whether it is fear or anticipation that quickens his heart as he returns once more to meet her gaze, still with that strange, unfathomable patience. As he bites his tongue, holding back the words he longs to say, the truths he cannot tell. “Difficult to talk to,” he finishes quietly but the words feel hollow in his mouth and he cannot hide from the way she lets out the breath she was holding, from the disappointment that streaks across her face, that finds the cracks in his already weakened defenses and cuts, deep and piercing.

“Why?”

The ride has shifted until he is level with her once more and, this close, he can feel the puff of her breath against his skin in the cool evening air, the gentle caress drawing his gaze until all he can see is the soft curve of her lips, parted and frozen, waiting. He can feel the heat of her hand curled around the pole, just below his, skin fluttering with the rapid beating of her heart, so exposed and fragile. He can feel the shape of her name in his mouth, his lips forming around each syllable, the sounds hanging heavy in the space between them, careful and hesitant and yet, somehow, right…

A small jerk throws him off balance, sending Surina stumbling a few steps to the side, and he reacts on instinct, sitting upright as she catches her balance, his muscles tensing when he realizes that he has begun to reach out a steadying hand. Her gaze is still on him, dark and inscrutable, slowly, inexorably drawing him into that pool of something deep and overwhelming and he can’t.

With an effort, he wrenches his gaze away, his hand once again tightening into a fist. Their surroundings filter back into his consciousness, the other riders dismounting, the din of their laughter and conversations crashing back over him in waves of noise and sensation. Cold. Shocking.

A reminder.

Clearing his throat, he slides off the swan, the simple action less fluid than he would like to admit, and finds himself tugging at the collar of his coat. Instead, he folds his arms across his chest, sturdy and resolute. Shielding. “We should move on.”

It is nothing more than a simple statement of truth. He knows this. And yet, he cannot quite suppress the disappointment that wells in his chest when she nods, her reply a quiet whisper, and follows him back into the crowd.

[donaldcapwell]

Citizenship Matters

Citizenship is a complicated matter. Did you know that there are, at the time of this writing, 249 countries, territories, or areas of geographical interest on our planet? Of the 195 recognized nations, only 2 base citizenship on ethnicity (Liberia & Mali), 33 nations unconditionally recognize WHERE you were born as a determining factor for your citizenship (birthright citizenship), 16 issue birthright citizenship ONLY IF you petition for it, 39 base citizenship on the status of your parents or length of residency, 7 that grant citizenship only after you reach a certain age, and 4 that require both parental citizenship AND age requirements be met before one can be considered a citizen (details HERE). This list is not comprehensive, and doesn't even touch on the matters of DUAL-citizenship, but I'm sure you will agree that citizenship is, indeed, a complicated matter! But it DOES matter!

This is Kyong... My beautiful bride of over 26 years, and my partner as I walk on this Earth. Kyong was born and raised in South Korea, and according to the laws of that country, individuals automatically receive citizenship at birth if at least one parent is a South Korean national, whether they are born within the Republic of Korea or overseas. Since Kyong was born in South Korea, and both her parents were South Korean, Kyong was a South Korean citizen - and that was true, until 2002.

When my wife came to the US in early 1992, she didn't speak very much English at all. The US was a completely new world for her, with new customs, language and people - that were all SO different from what she was used to "back home." Supermarkets, wide-open spaces, everyone looked and sounded so different! We married in late 1994, and around early 2000, about the time Jake, our 3rd child was born, Kyong began mentioning that she would like to get US citizenship. I was quick to tell her no, explaining that she should be proud of her heritage, and that I would NEVER give up my citizenship, regardless of where I lived!

I must mention here that I never once thought that Kyong ever came to America "to become a citizen," as is a common thought that many have about people's motivations for US citizenship. On the contrary, Kyong had a great life, career and family that she left to come here. Even so, since the first mention of becoming a citizen, Kyong would occasionally bring it up from time to time, and I would continue to say that I didn't think it was right. Finally, in around late 2001, before our fourth-and-final child was born, Kyong brought it up again, and I asked her why it mattered so much to her. Her answer caught me off guard. She said "my husband is an American, my kids are American, I should be an American, too. I don't feel like I'm fully part of you because my legal citizenship is different!"

I was floored, and I could no longer deny her. Her motivation was not to dishonor her heritage, or walk away from everything important to her, but it was to tie herself "legally" to her family, her hopes and dreams, which were no longer in the country she was born, but in a country of her choosing. In her heart, she was already an American - not because of where she lived, but because her whole world and everything she loved was here. (And by mid 2002, she became a legal US citizen).

I've been to a handful of countries on Christian missions trips, and others for work or pleasure. I very much love to travel, and to experience new lands, new peoples, and new cultures. This said, I have never once gotten of a plane in a foreign land and said "I'm now a citizen of (fill-in-the-blank country)," simply because my feet were on that soil. No, everywhere I've been, for whatever duration I was there, I always remained an American citizen. Simply visiting a country does not change your citizenship, even if you learn the language, eat the food and wear the clothing. Citizenship is a right, and only available to those that qualify for it.

In Philippians 3:20 and Ephesians 2:19 we learn that, as Christians and members of the house of God, we are "citizens of Heaven." But how do we obtain this citizenship? Ephesians 1:5, Galatians 4:5-7, Romans 9:8, and Galatians 3:26 are but some of the verses that speak to our adoption into God's Kingdom through our faith in and obedience to His Son, Jesus Christ. So, just as the US provides "birthright citizenship," so, too, does the Kingdom of Heaven. When we are born into His family, we are citizens of Heaven, and co-heirs with Christ for all eternity! We ARE citizens of Heaven - but do we value it? Do we live FROM this place?

So if, as a Christian, I am a citizen of Heaven, but in the natural I am a US citizen, does that mean I have dual citizenship? Sadly, many of us live our life that way, but NO! 1 Peter 2:11 refers to believers as "temporary residents and foreigners" (NLT) on this planet - this is NOT our home - we are just visiting! Romans 12:2 warns us "do not conform to the patterns of this world," nevertheless we live our lives as if this is it - this is all that matters! Too many only give scant remembrances to our REAL home, and our eternal citizenship in Heaven. We go through our day-to-day lives building up for ourselves treasures in THIS world, giving very little thought, indeed, to our real home and where we will spend all of eternity.

Here's my point... we live from whatever citizenship we identify with! For my wife, although I had always identified her as "Korean," in her mind she was American - and had been for a very, very long time! She did not consider the food she ate, or language she spoke, or location on the planet as the reason for her citizenship, but her citizenship was where her heart was! She was an American because her husband was American, and her kids were American. If we had, as a family, picked up and moved to Spain, or China, or the Philippines, my wife would STILL have been American.

2 Corinthians 5:17-21 says

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new. Now all things are of God, who has reconciled us to Himself through Jesus Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation, that is, that God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself, not imputing their trespasses to them, and has committed to us the word of reconciliation. Now then, we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God were pleading through us: we implore you on Christ’s behalf, be reconciled to God. For He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him.

If we believe in Jesus Christ, and He is our Lord, then we are NEW creations. The old has passed away! We are no longer citizens of whatever country we reside in or have naturalization, but are citizens of Heaven, and whatever we lived for before is now changed... we have a NEW purpose - one of reconciliation. We are simply ambassadors here on Earth. An ambassador is a representative of one country, living in another. Although he/she may likely speak the host countries language and practice the culture, he represents and carries the full weight and authority of the country he/she comes from! He is IN a country, but lives his life FROM another one all together!

Are you a citizen of Heaven? Then live that way! Just as my wife's heart was drawn to be with her family, so ours must be drawn to be with our Father in Heaven! We have not been called home to Heaven, yet, but we should live FROM Heaven, should we not? And, when we do so, we have access to all of the provision and authority from our home, which is the Kingdom of God. Our time on Earth is but a breath, and our life on Earth is a vapor - yet we live as if we'll be here forever. Are you friends with the world, or does it hate you? John 15:19 says "If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you." (Does the world hate you, or are you trying to curry favor with it?)

Citizenship matters - and we have been born into a Kingdom, and adopted as sons and daughters as Kings and Priests. We can no longer live as if our Earthly citizenship is of any value - and we must invite as many people to live in our Kingdom as we possibly can! There is power in our citizenship! There is authority in our citizenship! There is peace and rest in our citizenship! Why would we want to live and be from anywhere else?

Although there is still much to say on this topic, I leave you with this quote from Paul , in Romans 12:1-2

I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service. And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.

Blessings! Cap

[thecat-inthehat]

3. Muster

Crossposted to ao3, as chapter 4 of “Let’s Call it Scientific Curiosity” 

What will you say? >Why choose this form here on the First? >Actually... Nevermind. 

The comforting shade of the trees overhead thankfully blocked out the Light overhead, making it at least somewhat bearable. Emet-Selch could only stand so much Light in a given day, thank you very much, and even beneath the shaded boughs of the Rak’tika greatwood was cutting it. 

Then again, with the amount of shade being thrown his way from the Scions he needn’t worry overmuch. 

The group was milling about amongst themselves, with the roegadyn woman and the hyur man having a furious discussion, and the hyur woman and elezen man both giving him glares. The young blonde girl with strange eyes was staring at him, but she seemed to do that with everyone, so he didn’t take much offence. What did interest him was the miqo’te wearing a hat who’s tail was flicking left and right like she was about to pounce on some unsuspecting victim. She glanced at her companions, then at him, then seemed to square her shoulders. 

It was an interesting effect, really, to watch her gather herself up like she was about to march out into the front lines, facing off as a general against a battlefield. It was nostalgic almost, reminding Emet-Selch once again of his days in Garlemald, of pushing his weak mortal body into the frontlines and carving out a path to victory with nothing more than the gunblade in his hand and the luck of the draw. She reminded him very much of his second in command, he reflected, the poise, the sharp eye underneath her hat. 

The Warriors Three were formidable adversaries, but time and time again the most dangerous of them proved to be the miqo’te. Technically the weakest out of all of them, she had shown an aptitude for tactics and strategy that had bested several Ascians singlehandedly, and caused the permanent demise of Nabriales, Igheyorm, and Lahabrea. 

To say that he was nervous over her marching straight up to him like a captain about to draw a line in the sand over his spilled entrails was a bit of an understatement. 

“What is it now, then?” He drawled, slouching ever so slightly more to give off the illusion of being less threatening. “Do you expect me to regale you with friendly banter like your dear companions?” 

“Not at all, you’re not my friend.” The miqo’te said, tipping her head back to look at him. “Instead I have some questions, if you don’t mind.” 

“... Oh, very well. I will humor you this once. You may consider it my latest act of good faith.” Emet-Selch said, sniffing in mock disdain. Hopefully she wouldn’t ask any particularly prying questions as to their plans. “Come on, then. What do you wish to know?“

“Why chose this form here on the First?” she asked, tilting her head at him. “As far as we’ve seen, there’s no other Garleans around on the First, so you obviously wanted to be spotted by us, or at least be conspicuous. Nevermind the fact that you’re wearing Garlean clothes, clothes that only have importance to the scant few of us that actually recognize them. So... why? Why not hide and use some other face?” 

What. 

“Well, well,” Emet-Selch drawled, intentionally dragging out the words to give him time to think. What the hell kind of question was that? “What a curious question. Hm... Mortal flesh is but the vessel into which we Ascians pour the elixir of our souls, molding it as fits the occasion. Or not, if we so choose.“ 

“So you can--” She started, then cut herself off, and waved for him to continue.  

Emet-Selch’s eyebrows rose. That wasn’t what he expected at all. “Be it for a year or a millennium, I prefer to retain the same form until my duty is done. So, after arriving here in the First, I fashioned some hapless body into the man you see before you.” 

The miqo’te’s eyes narrowed at him, as if she thought he was trying to trick her. “Did you take a corpse, or a living being? I was under the impression that corpses were easier to possess, given how Ascians operate, but then again, with Lahabrea overtaking Thancred...” 

“Ah... Lahabrea,” Emet-Selch sighed. “He was ever the rash one. Jumping from vessel to vessel. Never heeding the toll it took on him. We can choose to forgo molding our vessels as we wish, as Lahabrea did, or keeping the same form for eons. It merely depends.” 

“... You make it sound as though Lahabrea’s willingness to ‘put up’ with his host’s looks is what tired him out,” the woman said, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her claws against her arm. They were covered in tattoos, in what looked like aetheric ink, and Allagan in nature. Summoning sigils, unless he missed his mark. 

“Well... yes. As powerful as our souls are, our identity is, in part, shaped by how we present ourselves,” Emet-Selch mused. “To jump from vessel to vessel without due consideration for ourselves strips our self away bit by agonizing bit. To continue to keep a form, to impose it onto the host we have chosen to bear our souls, it helps ground us. To pretend to be anything other than what we are for too long would give rise to falsehoods and madness.” 

The woman tapped her claws against her arm again, clearly thinking through a problem. “So the masks that you identify yourselves with aren’t just to keep your faces away from us, but to keep your selves for ... yourself.” 

Emet-Selch blinked. And blinked again. She wasn’t wrong, per se, but... Lacking context.  “A fascinating speculation. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one.” 

“Then how long have you had this form, then?” She asked, instead of continuing on with her previous observation. “If it’s the late Emperor of Garlemald, surely your job would be done by now, you’ve passed on, and your Empire will implode in less than twenty years, hopefully ushering in another Calamity.” 

“My, my, spicy today, aren’t we?” Emet-Selch laughed. “You’re not wrong. I had thought my job done as well, but then my dear grandson saw fit to ... actually do his job. And I couldn’t have that. So out of the depths of the dead I came to steer Garlemald on it’s rightful course.” 

“Varis did seem rather incompetent,” she murmured. “At least he wasn’t as stupid as Zenos, however. But still, how long have you had this particular form? If you’ve had it in order to usher in another Calamity, then wouldn’t you have had the chance to change it, or mysteriously die once the Seventh came crashing down?” 

Oh he liked this one. He was keeping this one. 

“True, but the Seventh was not actually my doing. I have been working on another, so my form is ... more dependent on that. Haven’t you noticed that the sin eaters look an awful lot like the golems in the ruins of Amdapor?” Emet-Selch asked, smiling down at her. 

Her claws paused, and she squinted up at him from underneath the brim of her hat. She considered him for a long, long moment, then smirked. “Oh, Y’shtola’s going to be so mad at me, because I just won our bet.” 

Emet-Selch’s peals of laughter rang around the forest, and he nearly doubled over from the force of it. He stood back up and wiped the slight tears from his eyes, and glanced down at her. “You never cease to amuse me, Warrior of Light. Tell me, what is your name?” 

“Nivelth Ajuyn,” She said, rolling her eyes. “Though honestly you should know that by now.” 

“Yes, but you haven’t introduced yourself to me properly,” Emet-Selch chuckled once more. “Nivelth Ajuyn, then. I don’t suppose you have a shorter name?” 

She gave him a wry smile, and offered her hand for him to shake.  

“Nive.” 

[the--sad--hatter]

No Survivors - Chapter Two

Fandom: None, this is an original work of fiction.

Genre: Sci-fi, fantasy, space opera

Rating and warnings: 18+ ONLY. Contains scenes of graphic violence, death, gore, cursing, and scenes of a sexual nature.

Disclaimer: All content and characters are created and owned by me, and my work is NOT to be reposted anywhere else without my explicit permission. Reblogs are fine, and very much appreciated.

The No Survivors Tumblr Blog | Masterlist 

Blurb:

6000 years into the future and humanity is thriving, having made their home in The Emerald Galaxy, lightyears away from their home planet. They’ve come a long way since the days of Earth. Lifespans have tripled, interstellar travel is a daily occurrence and humans have successfully integrated with alien species. All is well.

But for Captain Ice, nothing has been well for a long time. The once distinguished Captain is now a disgrace and a liability, carrying the weight of the cost of war on her shoulders. All Ice wants to do is carry on drinking herself into an early grave pod, but the Emerald Empire has a use for her yet.

Deep in The Emerald Galaxy lies Sector 12, or The Empires armpit as it’s referred to in polite company. When Sector 12’s Captain retires, General Felicity Hart decided to rid herself of a nuisance and instructs Ice to form a new crew and take over the job of glorified janitor.

Humanity survived the annihilation of its home planet and a journey across the universe, but can it survive the adventures of a disgraced Captain and her mismatched crew, or will there be… No Survivors?

The tall towers of the citadel were dark and imposing, carved from the black obsidian that was abundant in the mine shafts of Heart. Inside the looming spires the same darkness was copious, dark marble and stone as far as the eye could see, onyx around every corner that J`ess`inca ‘Jess’ Crowley had turned on her way to the laboratory she spent every day in, though she’d come to see it more as a self-imposed prison. She idly pretended to be diligently taking notes as her boss talked very quickly and very inaccurately about cell stabilisation until she couldn’t take it anymore.  

“Doctor Marx it’s impossible, even if you were able to create a shield around each individual cell, the rapid shrinking would damage them inside it and that’s before you displace them and then resize. Teleportation just isn’t possible” She interrupted.

He paused and looked up from his screen, putting extra effort into his sneer so his lowly assistant knew how little he thought of her.

“You’re my assistant, you’re here to take notes not give your opinion.” He snorted derisively, the white wispy hairs of his unkempt moustache fluttering from the breath.

She didn’t know his exact age, but the wrinkles and grey hair indicated he had to be at least 260 years old. How someone could live for two and a half centuries and be so tactless and obstinate, she would never understand.  

“It’s not my opinion, it’s the facts.” She argued calmly.

Doctor Marx could look down on her all he liked, she would never let the opinion of someone she didn’t respect have any effect on her. Before Doctor Marx could foolishly rebut the logic, a sharp rap on the labs open door had the two doctors turning around.

“Yes? What do you want?” Marx demanded impatiently.

He was more than used to having to provide his services to the Empire’s army so he wasn’t overly concerned, though admittedly most Captains didn’t bother to come to him directly. He might have been disinterested with the woman standing impassively by the door, cutting an imposing figure but Jess was intrigued. Captains were not a rare sight in the Citadel, in fact the base was crawling with them, but none like this. She was clad in the standard garb, the leather Captains coat they were all identified by, but she didn’t wear it the same way every other Captain did. It was loose, worn and battered and ill-fitting and yet the woman wore it more naturally than any of the stuffy uptight Captains that roamed around.

“I’m recruiting for my new team and I need a scientist.” The woman shrugged.

Jess felt a little jolt of jealousy run through her. All crews required a scientist and a medical doctor to to accompany the teams across the galaxy and partake in their adventures. It was the kind of adventurous life she had dreamed of, but as bright as her future once seemed, she knew better now. Her life was never going to be more than surviving, never living.

“Well we’re busy. Go away.” Marx snapped.

He clearly thought his research was too valuable to be abandoned in favour of running around the galaxy with a group of trigger-happy goons but that was no excuse for being so disrespectful, especially to someone who outranked him. Jess sighed and walked over to her, extending her hand with an apologetic look.

“I’m Jess Crowley, Doctor Marx is in the middle of something. He doesn’t mean to be so rude.”

The Captain smirked knowingly and took Jess’s hand in her own, grasping it firmly.

“Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Crowley. I’m Captain Ice.” She introduced herself, watching carefully for the inevitable reaction.

Jess felt her own eyes widen as Marx looked back up from his screen in shock and awe. Captain Ice was more than legendary, she was iconic. Jess was too young to remember The War properly, the one that had taken her father from her, but she had heard the stories. Hidden away from the sharp ears of the Empire the truth was whispered reverently, ‘The Empire didn’t win the war, Captain Ice did’. Enough people had seen the Captain for her existence to be confirmed but she was so elusive that she had become something of a folktale. Nobody knew the truth about The War, who it had been with or why, all they knew was billions of people had died, an entire sector of the Galaxy had been destroyed and that when it was all over, Captain Ice had been the only person The Empress had personally thanked. Legend had it that The Empress had decreed that Ice was the only subject in The Empire who would never kneel for her, and that The Empress had herself knelt for Ice.

“Captain Ice, I’m so sorry, I had no idea. Please accept my apologies. Recruitment you say? By Ice herself? What an honour. I would of course be happy to accept.” He stammered.

Even Marx wasn’t immune to the reputation of the Captain.

“You can go away, I’m here for her.” Ice dismissed him, not taking her eyes off of Jess’s.

Jess physically recoiled, trying to stuff away the spark of hope that flamed to life in her heart, even as she protested.

 “Me? Oh, but I’m Marx’s assistant I can’t…”

“Doctor J`ess`inca Crowley, you received highest honours in your graduating class from the Empire Academy. In all fourteen of your subjects. You are most definitely the smartest person in the Galaxy and yet here you are, taking notes for a crackpot.” Ice interrupted.

“I beg your pardon?” Marx spluttered.

“Get out.” Ice ordered with all the care of swatting a bug.

“This is my laboratory!”

“Now.” Ice snapped in a tone that brokered no argument, fixing him with a chilling glare that had him looking terrified and hurrying away.

As soon as he scarpered from the room, practically tripping over his own feet in the process, Ice turned back to the young Doctor with an expectant look. Jess inhaled shakily before she straightened her shoulders and stood tall.

“I’m flattered, really I am, but I’m staying here.” She said resolutely, hiding her disappointment in having to pass up the chance to live out her wildest dreams.  

Ice hummed thoughtfully and nodded, wandering around the lab, peering at the screens with scant interest. She found a large model of the Galaxy in the centre of the lab and reached into the centre of it to snap the model of Planet Heart from the display and tossed it in the air like a ball as she regarded Jess thoughtfully.  

“Humanity cracked the secrets of space travel, broke the light and sound barriers, invented gravitational force fields and synthetic atmospheres. We have eradicated most of the diseases that threaten us, slowed the aging process, tripled our lifespans and we did it all six thousand years ago. We still haven’t got teleportation right, which means we probably never will. Even if we did, Marx isn’t going to be the man behind it, which means you can’t steal the technology from him.” She announced, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Jess swallowed her heart back down as it jumped into her throat. If Ice knew the truth then she was done for. The Captain wasn’t here to recruit her, but to arrest her.

“Steal it? I wouldn’t, that’s not what... I mean why would you think that?” She asked thickly.

“Because that’s what you are being paid to do, so you can pay off your brothers considerable gambling debts.” Ice explained.

Jess’s shoulders dropped. It was over, she had been discovered.  

“You’re here to take me in.” She whispered.

“No.” Ice corrected.

Jess frowned. For one of the first times in her life she didn’t understand.

“I told you, I’m recruiting you. I’ve paid your brothers debts. You’re free, so is he. Welcome to the crew Doctor Crowley.”

Ice tossed the model planet through the air one last time before she held it out to Jess with an expectant look. Jess reached out, her fingers tentatively closing around the miniature replica of the planet they were standing on, the rich green sphere pressing into the palm of her hand.

“Why?” She asked softly, squeezing the planet in her hand.

“I have a new assignment and I need a crew for it, which means I need a scientist and a doctor. You tick both categories because you really are the smartest person in the known worlds. And because Captain or not, I don’t particularly care about the law.” Ice scoffed, pulling a small tablet from under her coat and passing it to Jess.

“Now, according to The Code, I still need at least one cadet, a first lieutenant and a mechanic. Let’s get going.” Ice finished briskly, making a beeline for the door.

Jess stood there for a moment longer, tablet in one hand and… the whole world in the other. She laughed softly in disbelief as it all started to sink in. Her brother was safe from the thugs who threatened him, she was free from Doctor Marx and a living legend was walking down the hallway after literally just handing her the whole world. Slipping the model planet into her pocket she hurried after the her Captain.

 ~~~

He knew that most of Earth’s history had been lost, or twisted beyond recognition, but believed that the old tales of warriors who fought for the spectators were true. Standing before the cheering crowds with sweat dripping down his face and his opponent groaning on the floor beneath him, he knew it had to be true. The allure of adoration, the thrill of victory, the burn of exertion, it was addictive.

“You have a long way to go before you’re ready to rise up the ranks, Corporal.” He scoffed, stepping over the bleeding person he’d defeated.

When he’d made lieutenant he hadn’t for a second imagined that he’d end up here, stuck on the same planet he’d spent his childhood, stowed away in the training rooms so he couldn’t embarrass his family any further. He’d made the best of it, acting like it was a choice, using the opportunity to show off his combat skills. He spent his days preparing men and women for a future he couldn’t achieve and his nights in the arms of whatever adoring fan took his fancy, all the while trying to convince himself that it made him happy. So what if he never made it to First Lieutenant, never advanced up the ranks, never achieved the same glory his sister had effortlessly snatched from her competitors? He had everything he needed here, in the training pits below the citadel.

He eyed the crowd of cadets and citizens, eyes drifting over them until he found one that stood out to him. Someone he could wrap himself around, bury himself inside, a distraction for the night. Beautiful men and gorgeous women alike were considered and discarded until his gaze fell on two anomalies. Two women, standing together, one in a lab coat and the other in a Captains. That wasn’t what caught his attention about them though, it was the lack of interest in him that had him walking over to them. The lab coat didn’t even glance up at him as he approached, her eyes glued to the tablet in her hand. The Captain just stared at him impassively.

“Captain. Doctor?” He greeted them, slamming his fist into his chest as he was expected to do in the company of a Captain.

“Lieutenant Hart.” The Captain responded, stating his name blankly.

“I see my reputation precedes me, but I don’t know you two. Which is strange because I know most of the Captains, especially the beautiful ones.” He tried, turning on the charm that always had people warming to him.

“I’m Doctor Crowley, we actually have met. You tried to buy me a drink once.” The lab coat informed him, finally looking up at him.

“Tried?” He pressed, bemused.

“Tried.” She confirmed, firmly no less.

He nodded respectfully, accepting the unspoken terms of their interaction she had set out for him. The Captain cocked her head at the Doc, amused or confused he couldn’t be sure.

“I’m Captain…”

“Ice.” He interrupted her introduction. “The whole citadel’s talking about you. More than usual that is. The legend has finally returned and she’s taking over Sector Twelve. I’ve heard about your little recruitment drive and as soon as the doctor introduced herself I knew who you were. I thought you’d look more intimidating.” He noted.

The same day she’d been made into a legend was the same day he’d been branded a failure, and yet he had never crossed paths with the woman before. He knew all about her of course, well, as much as anybody knew. Probably a little more than most, though not much. The woman was shrouded in so myth and mystery that to see she was just flesh and bone, and not very tall, was anticlimactic.

“I’m not the only one with a reputation.” Ice reminded him.

He dropped the friendly grin and clenched his jaw at her vicious remark.

“You should be nicer to the people you are trying to recruit.” He snapped.

He knew why she was here, there was no other reason for her to seek him out.

“Trying to recruit? I’m a Captain, you’re just a lieutenant. I can draft you to my crew if I want.” She pointed out, far too smugly for his liking.

“My sister is the General, you can’t force me to do anything.” He spat, furious at having to bring up Felicity.

“I don’t see any other Captains offering you the chance to add First to your Lieutenant title and it was your sister who said I could have anyone in the Citadel for my crew, and look where you happen to be standing.” Ice told him, looking pointedly at the ground.

“I have no interest in patrolling the Armpit of the Galaxy for a washed up has-been of a Captain. If you want me, you have to fight for me.” He sneered, his lip curling back over his teeth.

He issued the challenge hoping to get a reaction of some kind, but she disappointed him, slipping off her coat without blinking. The Doc held her arm out for it, already so obedient for her new master. Ice stepped forward, rolling her shoulders to loosen them up.

“Terms?” She asked, raising her hands defensively and placing her left foot back.

“First person whose back hits the ground loses.” He suggested, a little shocked he’d been goaded into issuing the challenge and that she had accepted so easily.

Ice was unreadable, nothing tangible or recognisable behind her eyes. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that someone who could wear a mask that effectively only showed emotion if they wanted it to be seen, so he had a sick feeling in his gut that he was being played. She had reminded him of his reputation and put him down just to get his hackles up. Most likely so she could humiliate him, break him down and prove she was his superior.

He clenched his hand into a fist and struck out, aiming below her raised arms for her ribs. His fist never connected, she moved back and trapped his wrist between her forearms, twisting his arm between hers and pulling him forward, off balance. He let himself stumble forwards, falling to his knees and twisting his upper body so he could slam his elbow into the soft flesh of her waist. She didn’t even grace him with a grunt of pain, but it clearly hurt her because he was able to free his trapped arm and spin away, getting to his feet and facing off against her again.

“You’ve got a lot more fire than your name implies.” He snarled at her.

“Ice can burn you just as badly as fire can.” She smirked, waving him forward to try again.

He feinted left, like he was going for the bruise he’d likely already left and she didn’t flinch, reading his body expertly. He felt a flicker of begrudging respect. He opened his mouth to ask her if she was frozen in place but before he could get the words out she stepped forwards, faster than he had ever seen another human being move. He never stood a chance, the impact of her fist slammed into his ribs, knocking the breath out of his lungs. She wasn’t overly strong, but she was strong enough. It was her speed and dexterity that made her deadly, because as soon as her knuckles left his ribs she fluidly turned her back to him and stepped into his body, wrapping her arm behind her - around his waist. It all happened in a split second, too fast for him to realise what had happened, never mind defend himself against it as she leant forward, pulling him with her so he was flipped over her shoulder.

As his back slammed towards the ground something twisted inside his heart and it was only decades of Empire training that saved him. He got his feet on the ground first and threw his hands underneath his body, holding his back centimetres off the ground. He saw her raise an eyebrow at his gambled manoeuvre, and her nod of approval sent a wave of anger blazing through him.

He neither wanted nor needed her approval. She was the darling of the Empire, respected by every person residing within it. A life that should have been his, had he not fucked it up. He was the first son of the first family of The Emerald Empire, in the days before the democracy that ruled The Empire now, he would have been a Prince. She was a nobody who had risen through the ranks on nothing more than her own ability, earning what should have been his birthright. She was better than him in every way, and they both knew it. He didn’t want her approval, because it was just thinly veiled pity.

He used his upper body to flip to his feet, holding back the snarl inside his chest as he attacked, raining blow after blow down on her. Most of them were blocked with ease, but a few landed. The seconds ticked away as they engaged in a violent dance, spinning across the floor in a macabre and dangerous waltz. For every blow he managed to land on her, she retaliated with two more. They were far from evenly matched but though she was faster and nimbler, he was stronger and built to take more damage, thus neither of them achieved the upper hand. He realised it was going to be stamina that won the fight, and there was barely a sheen of sweat on her skin. If he wanted to win he wasn’t going to do it by playing to his strengths, he had to play to his weakness.

He waited for an opening, a chance to step forward and leave his face unprotected, steeling himself for the hit that would be coming as a result of it. He’d known it was inevitable, he’d opened himself up to it, and yet he still didn’t see her move. It was only after the side of her fist slammed into the space between his neck and his shoulder that he knew she’d done it, by the pain shooting through him. Agonizing as it was, it was what he needed. He stumbled back, wincing in pain. Ice almost casually followed and kicked his legs out from under him, letting him fall to the ground. At the last possible second he grabbed her wrist and pulled her body into his, cradling her against his chest.

The dull thud of them hitting the ground signalled the end of the fight, the silence that followed only broken by his laboured breathing.

“You lose.” He whispered, pushing himself upright until he was kneeling on the ground.

Ice lay on her back, stunned. He’d used his own fall to bring about hers, pushing her under him in a move she couldn’t have foreseen. After all, she was a warrior and in a real fight, he’d have just gotten himself killed.

He stood up and held his hand out to help her up, but was unceremoniously shoved out of the way.

“Are you alright? Did your head connect with the ground?” The Doc demanded, clucking worriedly and looking over her slightly bemused Captain.

“No, it didn’t. His hand was cradling my head, because he didn’t stumble at all. It was a manoeuvre wasn’t it?” Ice deduced, looking up at him with more of that respect he hated.

He forced a smirk onto his face to mask the ire, glancing around as he only just registered that they’d had an audience. They were clapping for him. For the first time in his life he turned away from the adoration and watched as Ice climbed to her feet, gently swatting away the Docs attempts to help.

“Well done, nobody’s bested me in a long time. A deals a deal, I won’t recruit you.” Ice declared, tugging her coat out of the Docs arms and slipping it back on.

“Seems you’re not washed up after all, you are as good as people think you are,” He admitted, “It just so happens that I’m better.” He added, unable to help himself.

She just nodded, seemingly agreeing with him and walked away. Apparently she meant it, she wouldn’t be trying to recruit him after all, and that meant she had no further use for him. Shaking off the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach he turned back to the crowds and held out his arms.

“Who’s next?”

~~~

“I want to ask if you let him win but I can’t think why you would let your ego take a beating like that.” Jess muttered, side eying Ice with lingering concern as they left the training bays.

Ice pulled the door open and held it for her, frowning slightly.

“I don’t have an ego.” She stated as Jess passed her.

It wasn’t a rebuttal or protest, just a simple irrefutable fact.

“But you’re….”

“I’m what?” Ice pressed when the doctor trailed off.

“Captain Ice.” She uttered, like it should be explanation enough.

“Putting that massive IQ to good use I see. See Daniel, he has an ego,” Ice said, waving her hand in the direction they’d come from, back towards Lieutenant Hart, “And people with ego’s are easy to manipulate. They either develop an ego because people inflate it for them or because they need to inflate it themselves as a shield. Either way, you bruise the ego and you’re an enemy. I need a First Lieutenant, not an enemy.”

“So you don’t have an ego because you don’t want to be weak?” Jess formulated, trying to make sense of her new superior who was more forthcoming than she had expected.

It occurred to her that Ice wasn’t really being all that talkative, she was just answering Jess’s questions, treating her like an equal, letting her work her brain. It was refreshing.

“I don’t have an ego because I am weak, and I know it. Most of the tales they’re telling about me these days aren’t true, and the ones that are have been embellished. Listen to me Doctor,” She demanded, stopping dead in the middle of the corridor and staring Jess down, “Better people than me died in The War… My reputation is fuelled by their bloodshed and built on a foundation of their bones. You’re a scientist so don’t put stock in fairytales, examine the evidence yourself and form your own opinion.”

It was said gently, she wasn’t being scolded, but still, she had to prove that Ice was right to seek her out for the job, to save her from monotony and crime.

“Who’s coat are you wearing?” She asked.

Ice quirked her eyebrow and tilted her head to the side slightly, curious about the sudden line of questioning.

“Captain’s coats end at mid thigh, yours ends mid-calf. There are creases in the leather around the elbows from the amount of times you’ve pushed the sleeves up. The coat wasn’t made for you, it was made for someone much taller.” She continued, pointing out her deductions calmly.

The corner of Ice’s lip twitched minutely in a ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ motion.

“You’re right, I was someone else’s. It’s mine now though.” She validated, starting to walk onwards again.

She wanted to ask whose it was but it somehow didn’t seem kind to press the issue any further. After all, most Captain’s didn’t retire.

“Why Lieutenant Hart?” She asked, moving to what seemed like a safer question.

Apparently she’d assumed wrong because Ice just shot a blank look over her shoulder instead of actually answering.

“Why do you need a crew at all? What’s the assignment?” Surely Ice would answer that one, since Jess was going to find out sooner or later anyway.  

“I’ve been assigned to Captain a sector.”

“Which one?” Jess gushed, rushing to fall into step beside Ice again.

A new solar system, dozens of potential planets to explore. The things she could learn and discover, the adventures she could have. Her mind filled with visions of the acid rains of Tregelorth in Sector 3, the black diamond moons of Artemis in Sector 412, the iridescent hallucinogenic gas from the trees of Fairthorlia in Sector 77….

“12.” Ice announced as she swung open the outer doors and stepped outside.

“The armpit?” Jess asked somewhat dejectedly, her daydreams shattered.  

“You were raised here on Heart weren’t you?” Ice scoffed, glancing up at the teal skies above them.

“Yes?”

“Then the armpit is an upgrade considering you grew up in the Empire’s asshole.” Ice informed her.

“What?”

Ice held her arms out, gesturing to the expanse of the Planet.

“This is where all the Empires shit comes from.”

NS Taglist (OPEN) 

@cateyes315​ @severepienerdturkey @justellu​

I can’t explain how grateful I am to everyone who has read this. I’ve had this concept in my mind for years and I have wanted to tell this story for so long. 

Reblogs (especially reblogs), comments, likes, anything you’re willing to give is massively appreciated. 

[nomanwalksalone]

INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY AND MENSWEAR

by Josh M

It is surprising that in this tremendous field, ranking conservatively among the first five in the United States, such unregulated and primitive conditions obtain that unreserved pilfering is tolerated and openly permitted.

The leaders of this gigantic segment of our commercial life who have labored so effectively in strengthening the weak spots of their organization, have completed ignored a situation that is eating away at the very roots of its existence.  Style and creation constitute the life blood of this multi-billion dollar business.  Without them, the industry would fade into obscurity.  Yet, for some unknown reason, style piracy is treated more indulgently than much lesser offenses involving deprivation of one’s rights and property.

Samuel Winston, Inc. v. Charles James Servs., Inc., 159 N.Y.S.2d 176, 718 (Sup. Ct. 1956).

“There is no justice in the fashion business,” Karl Lagerfeld once remarked.

Indeed, many clothing designers in the United States would agree.  Recent years have seen a proliferation of ���fast fashion” chains, offering an array of inexpensive, unauthorized copies of designer clothes.  Thanks to digital photography and fast production, these chains can offer nearly indistinguishable copies of a designer garment months before the original even reaches stores.

To make matters worse, these practices are legal.  Although intellectual property (IP) law in the United States covers a wide range of artistic works, inventions, designs, and images, it offers effectively no protection for fashion designs.

On one hand, proponents of protection rely primarily on traditional arguments for protecting IP:  copyright for fashion designs would encourage greater innovation by ensuring that the profits from a design went to the designer and not to those who merely copied the work.  Unestablished designers and labels especially need protection, they argue, as copying stymies their efforts to build a brand.  On the other hand, opponents of protection argue that unique features of the fashion industry make IP protection for fashion designs counterproductive.  The fashion industry, they argue, thrives on imitation, and IP protection would impede the formation of trends and slow the rate of change in fashions, chilling innovation and hurting the industry.

Much ink has been spilled on IP protection in the context of the women’s fast-fashion industry.  Kim Kardashian’s relationship with Fashion Nova, and her lawsuit involving Missguided, is nearly household knowledge at this point (well, at least for me).  This article, following a brief discussion of the IP protection available in theory to clothing designers, briefly addresses IP protection—or a lack thereof—in the “Menswear” industry, and touches on considerations for consumers.

A brief overview of IP protection in the United States

Clothing designers can seek IP protection in three main areas:  patent; trademark (and trade dress); and copyright.

A patent is used to protect “any useful art, manufacture, engine, machine, or device, or any improvement therein not before known or used.”  If possible, clothing designers will typically seek a design patent (as opposed to utility patent), requiring the designer to show “novelty, non-obviousness, ornamentality, and non-functionality.”  There lies the rub.  First, clothing is inherently functional; it serves the purpose of covering the body (for better and for worse).  Second, designing an article of clothing that is non-obvious is nearly impossible given the derivative nature of the industry.  Finally, even if a designer jumps these legal hurdles, it typically takes the Patent and Trademark Office (PTO) over two (2) years to review each application.  By that time, we may yet again be reaching for low-rise, flat-front pants.

A trademark refers to:

any word, name, symbol, or device … used by a person, or … which a person has a bona fide intention to use in commerce and applies to register … to identify and distinguish his or her goods, including a unique product, from those manufactured or sold by others and to indicate the source of the goods, even if that source is unknown.

At base, the mark must be distinctive.  That is, it must be “(1) inherently distinctive or (2) have obtained distinctiveness by way of acquiring a secondary meaning.”  Trademark law provides a great deal of protection for certain types of designs when there is a logo affixed to them and protects the designers from others using the logo or anything substantially similar that would lead to a consumer being confused.  Consider, for example, the “Supreme Box Logo Tee.”  While trademark refers to a symbol or a name affixed to the article, trade dress offers protection to the overall look and feel of a non-functional product.  This includes the protection of features “such as size, shape, color or color combinations, texture, graphics, or even particular sales techniques.”  A distinctive color can be a protected interest in the fashion industry. Tiffany’s aquamarine blue, for instance.  But it’s not easy. Off-White’s numerous efforts to seek IP protection for its “signature” red zip-tie highlights the difficulty of obtaining trademark and/or trade dress protection under United States law.

Copyright protection would “offer[] the most protection,” but currently “is extremely limited.”  Section 102 of the Copyright Act provides that copyright protection extends to “original works of authorship fixed in any tangible medium.”  Problems for clothing designers arise because this type of protection does not extend to “useful articles,” a category which encompasses clothing designs.  Because clothing articles are inherently “functional” and serve the utilitarian purpose of covering the body (again, for better and for worse), it is extremely difficult for designers to find refuge in copyright protection because the bar to prove that their design is “non-functional” is exceedingly high.

The scant IP protections that are available under United States law help to explain the proliferation of certain trends in the fashion industry, i.e., Louis Vuitton placing its logo on, well, just about everything that it makes, Bottega Veneta utilizing its trademarked, signature weave, or Christian Louboutin tending to use lacquered red soles on all of its high heels.

IP Protection in Menswear and Considerations for Consumers

If your eyes glossed over reading the last section, I can summarize it for you briefly: intellectual property protection in capital-M “Menswear” is effectively nonexistent.  In an industry where adjectives like “staple,” “timeless,” and “versatile” abound, the vast majority of clothing is inherently functional, non-distinctive, and useful – particularly, from the perspective of the rest of the world.  This may, depending on your perspective, create issues.

For example, I would characterize the late Eidos x NMWA cut as distinctive – perhaps even revolutionary – in lieu of what was available on the ready-to-wear market.  Since then, less expensive replicas have appeared.  Was the Eidos x NMWA cut ever capable of IP protection?  Probably not.  

Because of this complete lack of protection, we, as consumers, must decide – is this something that is worth protecting?  For me personally, I feel that even if the law doesn’t recognize in clothing the same kind of inspiration and creativity that it recognizes in art and literature, I can recognize it myself. And when I do recognize a piece that contains an idea, I want it straight from the person who thought of it, rather than an imitator.

Of course, each person will draw their own boundaries between imitation and development. One person may view, for instance, all garments inspired by U.S. military designs as knock-offs and only want the original vintage pieces. Others may view the same design made in a different fabric as an innovation. These things won’t get decided in court, so we don’t have to agree on them. But it’s part of my appreciation of my own clothes. I enjoy them a little bit more knowing that what I’m wearing came from someone who had an idea.  

This article represents the views of its author, who has little training or experience in intellectual property law, and is not legal advice.

[christiewryte]

Something Beautiful

Aryll heaved the body of the unconscious goblin onto the bed with a groan, and resisted the urge to throw herself down next to her. It had been three days since the warband had attacked the little village of Groat, and Aryll, who by chance had been passing through, had rallied the villagers in the inn. She had spent the next three long, sleepless days and nights fending off attempts to break in, of listening to their worgs scratching at the doors, or trying her damnedest to keep up a smile and keep telling the survivors that it was all going to turn out alright. And by some miracle, it had. A group of adventurers had come along, and with their help, the goblins had been defeated. Some driven off, most killed. 

But not this one. Aryll knew the goblins had taken captives, so she’d stopped the adventurers from finishing off the unconscious one she’d found pinned under the body of her felled worg. She was their best chance of finding out where the villagers had been taken. 

This was the room Aryll had rented the night before the attack came, and her rucksack was still sitting in the corner. She dragged herself over to it, ignored the coil of rope that hung off the side, and dug down to the other one in the velvet bag at the bottom of the pack. Her fingers worked through her mental fatigue on sheer muscle memory to tie the knots from the goblin’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts, not helped by the fact that the bed was sized for humans. 

She groped at her waist until her fingers found her last healing potion. Boy, she’d had a lot more of these a few days ago. What quest had she even been on that had brought her through this little podunk town? It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

The thought swam aside like her vision as she climbed onto the bed and uncorked the bottle with her teeth. Cradling the unconscious goblin’s head upright, she parted the goblin’s lips with one hand and brought the potion to them with the other. Like this, it looked like the goblin was just sleeping peacefully, and maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking, but right up close and not trying to kill her, the goblin was actually pretty cute. Even when she sputtered on the potion and jerked awake in a panic. 

“Easy, easy,” Aryll said. She couldn’t understand the literal meaning of the gibberish coming from the goblin’s mouth, but she had more than enough experience to recognize, “Where am I? What happened?” in any language. “It’s okay, I’m hurt gonna not you,” she assured, paused, shook her head, and tried again. “Not gonna hurt you.” She swirled the rest of the potion around the bottle for emphasis. “D’you want the rest of this? I just wanna ask you some question. Questions.”

The goblin twisted her neck to look from the bottle, to Aryll, to her bonds, and grimaced in horror. “What are you gonna do to me?”

Aryll blinked a couple times, trying to focus her vision. Oh, yeah, huh, this probably looked pretty bad from the goblin’s perspective, didn’t it? “I’m not gonna do anythin’ to ya. I jus’ wan’ ya ta answer some questions, and then I’ll lecha go. Now d’you wan’ the resta this, or not?” She shook the bottle again. 

The goblin eyed it suspiciously. “Is this a trick?”

Aryll groaned, and took a swig of the potion herself, reducing both the small amount left in the bottle and a few more of her own lingering wounds. Her head even felt a little clearer for the moment; clear enough to recognize how close she was to falling asleep on the spot, at least. She offered the potion once again. 

The goblin still hesitated for a moment, but finally opened her mouth as if she was the one doing Aryll a favor. Aryll shook her head, and put the bottle to the goblin’s lips. A stray thought crossed her mind, and she couldn’t stop herself from vocalizing it. “Heh, indirect kiss.”

The goblin sputtered on the potion. Aryll couldn’t help but giggle. “Careful!” she said. “Don’t choke to death!”

“You can’t choke to death on healing potion, fool,” the goblin said, wiping her mouth on her shoulder and refusing to meet her eyes. So cute…

“Sure y’can, my uncle’s sister-in-law’s neighbor’s… niece? I think? Totally knew a guy once who died that way.” Aryll brought the bottle back to her own lips again. No point letting the last few drops go to waste. When she tilted her head back down, the goblin was blushing furiously. At least, Aryll thought that was blushing. Her cheeks were violet, but with green skin, maybe that was just how goblins did it? 

“What?” she said, wondering why the goblin was staring.

“You just said that was an indirect kiss.”

“I said wha?” Ayrll yawned, rubbing her eyes as her short term memory groped around its bedside table in the dark and found nothing. “Look, you’re cute, but you’re not seducing your way outta this,” she said, plowing right over the goblin’s sputtering protest. “I jus’ wanna know two things. Why’d’ja guys kidnap the villagers, and where’d’ja take ‘em?”

The goblin’s mouth worked up and down, as if chewing on words she couldn’t articulate in her flustered state. 

“Alright,” Aryll sighed, sliding off the bed. Leaning heavily on the corner post for support, she unbuckled her sword belt and tossed it into the corner, then started undoing the fly of her pants. 

“What are you doing?” the goblin asked in a panic.

“Gettin’ ready for bed,” Aryll grumbled. She had gotten her pants down to her knees and hit a brick wall in getting them off, and only now put it together that it was because her calf boots were still fully laced up. “If yer not gonna talk now, then I’m goin’a sleep and we can try this again in th’ mornin’.”

The goblin squeaked anxiously. “An… and what, leave me like this all night?”

Aryll got her first boot off. “Well I can’t exactly take yer word y’won’ run off, now can I?”

“Nyerrrrgh,” the goblin groaned, writhing against her restraints. “Okay, fine! You win!”

Aryll sighed as she finally got the second boot off and her pants along with it, and climbed back onto the bed. Sitting cross-legged with her chin in her hands, she pinched herself on the cheek for a quick booster shot of wakefulness, and tried to focus on the tale being spun. 

By the time the goblin was finished, Aryll’s face was stinging like a hornet’s nest from all the pinching and slapping she’d done to keep herself from simply toppling forward into unconsciousness. Her informant had rambled on and on about a lot of information that Aryll hoped was extraneous, because she’d only managed to absorb the jist of it, which was that a sorceress had recently seized control of her clan by blasting any opposition into cinders, and turned them on the local settlements in search of treasure, slaves, and, for some reason, a dwarf. 

“We’ve got them in a cave a couple miles northeast of here, following the river to a toppled snag, and with all the losses we took in this fight, they’ll probably abandon the prisoners and just retreat. Now let me go!” the goblin finished. 

“Uhkay,” Aryll groaned, teetering forward until she landed on her hands and knees, and crawled over to the bindings around the goblin’s left wrist. “Y’see? I’mma wommun of m’word. Y’r freeta go, but fair warnin’, those ‘venturers are pro’ly still up, an’ I hadta stoppem from killin’ y’ once already.” She reached for the rope and started fiddling with the knot. Crud. Either she’d been too far out of it when she tied it, or she was super far out of it now, because it should have come undone with a single tug. “Bu’ listen, if y’stay th’ night, I’ll gecha outta here in th’ mornin’, and even help y’with yer sorceress problem.” 

The goblin frowned. “Why would you do that?”

“‘cause tha’ witch sounds like a bad time f’r e’eryone ‘round here.” There. She had been tugging on the wrong part of the rope. The knot came undone, freeing the goblin’s wrist. “Y’got m’word. An’ as y’know, I’mma wommun of m’word.” 

That was as far as she could force her beleaguered state of consciousness to keep chugging, and as she collapsed toward the pillow, she was asleep before the end of her last sentence could stumble drunkenly past her lips. 

* * *

Aryll stirred late the next morning to a pounding on her door. One of the adventurers was checking up on her.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” she called back, rubbing her eyes with a groan. She felt like she could have slept another day and a half easily. As her lids creaked open, the unexpected feeling her brain had been lagging too hard to identify without visual aid suddenly made sense. The goblin was still there. Not only that, Aryll had apparently cuddled up to her in her sleep, and the goblin’s free hand had wrapped around her back. 

“You stayed,” she yawned happily, as the goblin also stirred awake, realized she’d been caught snuggling, and shyly jerked away. At least, as far as her remaining three bindings let her. 

“I didn’t have much choice, did I?” the goblin grumbled, but the way she blushed and wouldn’t look Aryll in the eye made her suspect that the goblin hadn’t made much attempt. “You fell asleep right on top of the only arm you untied.”

“Sorry,” Aryll chuckled. Yeah, that was definitely just an excuse. The goblin was absolutely strong enough to pull her own arm out from under Aryll’s scant 36 pound body. “Let me get those for you.” 

The remaining bonds each came loose with a single tug in the right spot, and the goblin sat up rubbing at her tender wrists and ankles, watching her warily. “So… you’re really gonna help me get rid of the sorceress?”

“Absolutely,” Aryll said, digging a fresh pair of leggings out of her pack while the fragments of last night’s conversation slotted themselves back into her brain. As she shimmied into them, her stomach rumbled, reminding her that while she’d been running the previous three days on no sleep, she’d also been running on only whatever food she could scarf between skirmishes with the raiders. Hopefully someone downstairs had made breakfast by now. “Hey, I’m gonna pop downstairs for a minute. You want some brekkie?”

The goblin frowned in confusion. “Do I want some of what?”

Aryll frowned back. “Brekkie.”

“Yeah, what?” the goblin snapped. 

Delight spread across Aryll’s face as understanding set in. “Wait, is your name, ‘Brekkie’?”

The goblin fidgeted and turned deep violet. “N-no! Of course not! What kind of name is that?”

“Then what is it?” Aryll was beaming.

“...Brekogba.”

By the gods, she was adorable, Aryll thought. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Brekogba.” Aryll knew she was never using that name again. This goblin was 100% Brekkie from now on. “I’m Aryll Flynn.” She offered her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Brekkie took it. 

“Nice to meet you, too, I guess,” Brekkie said, shyly looking toward the window. 

Aryll hummed happily as she left the room and skipped down the stairs. She had a feeling that this was the start of something beautiful.

[f-nodragonart]

Are predators in general smarter than prey, or is it the opposite? And why would that be?

so first off, intelligence is a tricky subject to even identify, much less to quantify or grade on a hierarchy. we humans are HEAVILY biased in what kinds of intelligence we consider valid, not to even MENTION more specific cultural biases therein. we humans tend to base a lot of our intelligence testing on social skills and abstract thinking, b/c we’re a social species that has the tools/language to properly communicate the abstractions that float through our heads. not every animal (predator OR prey) is social, nor do many of them have the tools at their disposal to communicate abstract thoughts. and that’s even IF they have abstract thoughts in the first place, which they certainly *might* (plenty of species have been shown to grasp abstractions within human testing environments), but they wouldn’t always necessarily NEED to understand abstractions for their survival, depending on the abstractions in question. cognitive maps are an example of an abstraction that would be practical for, say, a traveling animal to develop and use, but this isn’t always the case for certain abstract intelligence tests

thus, things like sociality and more anthropomorphic abstract reasoning simply can’t be parameters of intelligence for non-social animals that may have little reason to think abstractly in the ways we do. hell, intelligence shouldn’t even *be* graded/compared in the first place, due to this complexity. and I’m certainly not the first to make this argument– human IQ testing is p wack and based on a lot of ableist and racist eugenic ideals, for example, which truly only reveal the test’s contextual shortcomings 

when questioning the intelligence of a nonhuman animal, we HAVE to be incredibly careful to take the animal’s specific circumstances into account and frame the test around what THEY may be expected to naturally do based on their abilities and past behavior– not what we’d expect a HUMAN to do in a similar situation. the ways in which animals may respond to certain stimuli/situations may seem confusing or stupid to us, but in-context may make perfect sense given their natural habitats, circumstances that animal has had to deal with in the past, the range of their sensory abilities, etc.

and even beyond all that, the pred/prey boundary in general is kinda false and grey, which further complicates this question. life is not as simple as slotting all animal species into two preset boxes, and most animals can be both predator and prey (and scavenger) depending on the situation and how we decide to analyze their life and behavior. not to mention that vague pred/prey groupings encompass VASTLY different clades of animals with different neurological setups from one another, from insects to fish to mammals. while humans tend to think of mammals as the most intelligent clade b/c we ourselves are mammals, that’s just a false assumption and I won’t be making that silly distinction here

but if we rly want to try comparing animal intelligence, then, “intelligence is measured in animals by their ability to learn from situations they are exposed to. Learning stems from what is called phenotypic plasticity, which allows for short-term and long-term changes in behavior to permit individuals to adapt to changing situations or environments.” (x) thus, some of the most informative tests of ‘intelligence’ in nonhuman animals are those that study adaptability to new situations. every organism has some level of adaptability b/c that’s just life and evolution, so seeing how adaptable an animal is to new/tricky problems can reveal interesting insights into their capacity for learning and change

now I must reiterate– there does NOT seem to be much solid evidence for either preds or prey being more or less intelligent due to the complexities I detailed above. BUT I will throw some food for thought your way– just some of my armchair theorizing. and for the sake of simplifying my point for this, you can assume that the predators I’m talking abt are exclusively apex, obligate predators, and the prey are obligate herbivores, giving us a more simplistic hard-line of comparison

so, generally speaking, safety+time+energy are the big things an animal has to worry abt in the most basic bare-bones of survival. an animal that has guaranteed safety and/or free time/energy can use that extra time/energy to, say, explore a new situation out of pure curiosity, develop non-essential skills, or to simply play. animals that don’t have this guarantee of safety+time+energy that encounter a novel situation are more likely to flee or fight out of fear for theirconstantly-threatened safety and scant energy stores. while this isn’t specifically a sign of intelligence, it is an interesting development that’s worth noting

that in mind, many apex predators have more safety since they’re prolly not being hunted by anybody, so they don’t have to waste time/energy being vigilant for their lives. additionally, a lot of top predators like lions or wolves can usually gorge on a large meal once and can go at least a few days or longer before the energy from that meal is eaten up and they HAVE to hunt again. and I’ve also heard that it generally takes longer to digest protein-rich food? so preds just need to rest more to digest anyways. a lot of prey, on the other hand, must always be on guard for preds, and have to constantly keep eating b/c their chosen plant matter (particularly leaves/grass for grazers) doesn’t have as high energy levels per unit

though this is of course being very generous in assuming that the preds in question have a decent hunting success rate and are bringing down large kills– hunters still have to dedicate time/energy to finding/capturing food, and there are plenty of preds that live on the edge of starvation. and on the flipside, there are plenty of prey species that DO lead relatively safe/lax lifestyles just b/c they’re so goddamn huge that they rarely have to worry abt being hunted (like elephants), or they may live in large groups where only a few individuals need to keep watch for the group’s safety, thus they have free time/energy to play/explore

tho there’s also an argument to be made that adversity– rather than safety– actively pushes the development of new skills. after all, tools aren’t invented unless there’s a need for them, and the needs of survival can lead to some incredible solutions to tough situations. so, one could argue that the starving predators or fear-fueled prey are the most intelligent, as they are living on the razor’s edge of survival, yet they’re still going using whatever tricks they can

though none of this rly answers whether preds or prey are smarter– just complicates that question further with more examples of diverse lifestyles among the two groups. this isn’t rly the cut-and-dry question that a lot of ppl seem to think it is, sorry to say. but that’s just how ethology is– it’s all abt context and educated assumptions

-Mod Spiral

[weirdlyokaywithit]

Soldier? Part 1

I watched him on the monitor, he was quick and methodical. Never thinking twice and acting on pure raw instinct, he killed mercilessly.

“Well, what’s your assessment?”

I scoffed and turned to look at Steve, he was watching me intently.

“That’s a joke, right?”

Steve shook his head and I turned back to the monitor.

“He’s a killing machine. Strong, calculated, smart. If you can find a way to keep his madness at bay, he’d be an asset,” I spoke, my eyes never leaving the soldier.

Steve moved beside me and clicked a button on the dashboard, the monitor changed and showed the subject locked in a containment cell.

“He’s here?” My eyes searching Steve’s.

He gave a curt nod, and I turned my eyes back to the screen. The subject was sitting on the bed, his eyes never leaving the door. His body was taut and he was tense, probably assessing the situation for a way out.

“Why am I here, Steve?” I tore my eyes away from the monitor to search his face.

“Fury recommended you for this. He said your background in this type of situation would come in handy,” he couldn’t meet my eyes when he said it.

My background meaning that when Fury found me, I was a brainwashed psychopath who tried to kill anything that moved. I wasn’t fortunate enough to have been brainwashed by Hydra, my organization didn’t have the sense to give me a handler who could neutralize me. Fury and Banner worked with me to cage my demons so that I could function as a normal person, well as normal as you can be when you’re genetically enhanced. It took five years.

“Steve, this could take a long time,” I said, my voice small.

“It’s a good thing I’ve got time then.”

“It took me five years to get functional.”

When Steve’s eyes met mine I could see the pain in them, he knew this man. Or at least who he used to be.

“Might as well start now then,” I sighed.

Steve looked alarmed, “You’re ready for that?”

I chuckled.

“Steve, I’m still enhanced. He can try to kill me but it won’t work.”

Steve nodded looking relieved, “Containment room C.”

I turned on my heel and left the screening room, when the door shut behind me I exhaled softly. My boots clicked on the tile floor as I made my way to see him.

I stretched my arms and rolled my shoulders, stopping in front of the guarded wing. The two guards nodded and pressed a few buttons to let me through. A loud buzzer sounded and the wing door slid open, I stepped through into the white hallway.

I inhaled deeply in front of containment room C, the door was no joke, it looked to be two foot thick. I hit the red button next to the door and leaned over to scan my iris. The door clicked and I slid it open enough to let myself through and the shut it behind me.

The subject was now standing against the back wall of the room, blue eyes watching me with distrust. His long dark hair was hanging somewhat in his face, his arms were crossed against his chest. The metal of his arm glinting under the fluorescent lights, the dark scrubs they had him in didn’t hide his physique.

I pressed my back against the door, my hands hung by my sides palms facing outward. To show him that I had nothing to hurt him with.

“What do you want?” His voice was gruff and full of disgust.

“Me? I want nothing from you. They want me to see if I can clear the fog on your mind,” I spoke clearly.

His eyes narrowed and his face twisted.

“I don’t care what they want, so whatever you try it’s not going to work,” he spat.

I shrugged, “Then it won’t work.”

He seemed taken aback by this, and his eyes never left me as I pulled the metal chair from the desk and sat down.

We sat staring at each other for an hour, blinking and breathing but never backing down.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, finally breaking the silence.

His eyes narrowed, “I’m not an idiot, they put sedatives in my food.”

I briefly flinched, I knew how those felt in your system. No control, hazy, unable to move.

“No sedatives when you’re with me.” I spoke with so much graveness in my voice that he cocked his head at me.

I clicked the com button on my sleeve and spoke loud enough for him to hear.

“Bring me a meal. No sedatives or I’m kicking someone’s ass. I’m serious.”

He never moved from the wall until the food came and he pushed off of it and stood ready to hurt someone. The guard handed me the tray and swiftly closed the door behind him.

I looked down at the food they brought, spaghetti with green beans and bread. I grabbed the fork, stirred the spaghetti and took a huge bite. He watched intently as I did the same with the green beans and bread. I took a swig of the water and set it on the tray and then put the tray on the floor in the middle of the room.

He waited five minutes before making a move for the tray, watching me intently to see if there was anything laced into the food.

He sat on the floor against the wall and ate quickly, watching me all the same.

When he was done he pushed the tray to the middle and resumed his position against the wall.

“Did you kill them?” I asked quietly.

His eyes flashed with something before he spoke. “Who?”

“The ones who did this to you.”

He nodded firmly and then looked away from my eyes. Like he was ashamed.

“I did too,” I admitted quietly.

His head snapped up and curiosity was in those sapphire eyes.

“I was 12 when they found me. My parents had died in a fire, no other family. An orphan. No one to care if I went missing. They took me and experimented on me, brainwashed me, turned me into a soldier.”

I couldn’t read his expression but I could sense that he wanted me to go on.

“I was 15 when Fury found me, at that point I’d killed countless people. I was so mindless that I would attack anything that moved. I got locked in a room similar to this until they could undo what had been done to my brain. It took a year for me to stop attacking things that moved. Two more for me to assess and identify friendly forces. And another two for me to operate in the field without reverting.”

“I don’t want to operate in the field.” His voice was quiet.

My eyes found his and my heart squeezed at what they saw, a broken man who wanted to be left alone.

“I thought the same thing. But there is no getting out for people like us.”

He looked down at his arm and his face twisted. When he looked back up at me, his face was blank and his eyes were cold.

“I want out.”

Here we go, I thought to myself.

“I know,” I responded.

He stepped away from the wall and closer to me. I didn’t move from the chair, if he was going to hurt me I wasn’t going to provoke him into it.

He stalked closer to me, and leaned down into my face. His features were perfectly sculpted, he was handsome. No questioning it.

“Let. Me. Out.” His words were harsh and said through clenched teeth.

I didn’t flinch or react, I calmly shook my head and looked into his ocean eyes.

His metal arm glinted as he grabbed my shirt, he leaned in closer until we were scant centimeters apart.

“I’m. Not. Asking.” He bit out angrily.

I opened my mouth to respond and his eyes shot down to my lips. His pupils dilated and his brow furrowed.

“I can’t let you out, James.” I spoke softly.

He stared at my mouth, brow furrowed and fist still clenching my shirt. His eyes darting back and forth like he was trying to figure out something.

“James...” He said quietly.

His head reared back slightly and I flinched, anticipating him to head butt me.

“I don’t-... I don’t like being called that...” He spoke like his words surprised him.

I hid my smile and said, “What do you like being called?”

His grip on my shirt tightened and his brow furrowed deeper. His mouth opened and his tongue ran along his bottom lip.

“Bucky?” He said tentatively. As if it was a question.

I nodded and spoke softly, “Okay, Bucky, I cant let you out of here.”

His eyes met mine but he wasn’t looking at me, he was lost in a world of his own. His hand released me shirt and he stepped back and sat on the bed.

I slowly rose from the chair and walked to stand in front of him.

“Do you remember anything?” I asked softly.

His looked up at me, and what I saw sent chills down my spine. A broken man forced to do things, confused and angry but not sure where to go. He was lost.

“I can’t remember who I am. But... I think I was good. There’s little ticks I still have... that I can’t place.” He spoke slowly.

I nodded, and slowly reached my hand out to touch his shoulder. Before it landed, his metal hand shot out and grabbed my wrist and shoved me backward. Hard. My back hit the desk and I hissed with the impact.

“I.. I don’t like to be touched.” He was half standing, like he was readying for an attack.

I straightened and rolled my shoulders and nodded.

“I’ll be back tomorrow... Bucky.” And then hit the red button by the door. The door clicked and I slid it open so I could slip out. Once I closed the door I collapsed against it.

I exhaled with a mixture of relief and satisfaction. So far he was doing a lot better than I had, that’s good news for Steve.

I shoved off the door and exited the wing and abruptly crashed into a wall of muscle. I looked up into blue eyes, I stepped back as Steve reached out to steady me.

“How did it go? Are you okay?” He asked eagerly.

“Well, he’s doing a lot better than I was when I started. He did shove me but it’s my own fault. I reached out to touch him, not a good call. I think I’ve established trust between him and I. Although it’s going to take several more sessions before he’s going to open up.” I divulged.

Steve was nodding intently and listening to my plan on how to get him to slowly want to interact.

“Also, no sedatives. Period. Ever. They should never have been given to someone like him who suffers with control.” I said the words very harshly.

Steve looked guilty but I wasn’t backing off, Bucky already had trust issues as long as the Nile River and sedatives made it worse.

“We didn’t know what to do, we couldn’t get him to calm down,” Steve’s voice was thick with guilt.

“Sedatives have been used on him for years, he’s coming out of a fog that’s lasted decades. We have to establish trust. No more. From now on, I will be in charge of what happens to him. For everything,” I said.

Steve nodded and his expression brightened slightly, “So you’re staying to help?”

“I’ll stay but I get whatever I want. And I want no one questioning my methods.”

“Done.”

—————————————————————————

That’s all for this part!