#primitive medicine

[scifimedic]

Episode 2 of SciFiMedic Explains: How do I write broken ribs with primitive field surgery for a collapsed lung?

Original prompt submitted by @lancedoncrimsonwings.

“Character has broken ribs on one side, then fell from a horse (landing on the injured side and dislocating their shoulder by trying to brace to protect their ribs). Is it likely the fall would worsen the break, and if a rib punctured their lung, how would someone with them first aid that in the wilderness? (Medieval times, generally). They have access to water, a dagger, a form of herbal ish pain relief/sedative made from poppies, and reeds. Survivable or nay?”

This is a fun scenario!

Falling from a horse may seem fairly mundane, but many life threatening injuries can happen, especially if the horse steps on you. To end up with a dislocated shoulder, they would most likely land on their outstretched arm.

The instinct to fling out an arm when falling is stronger than the instinct to pull in and brace broken ribs. The shoulder would most likely dislocate anteriorly from this kind of injury. 

Source

Here’s a step by step guide on reducing a shoulder via the Hennepin technique: 

Lie down. Flat on their back with no pillow. 

The person who’s helping them should gently grab the injured arm by the wrist and bend the elbow to 90 degrees. Support the elbow with one hand, hold the wrist with the other. You can also hold their hand. 

Gently press the elbow to their side. 

Keeping the elbow near their side at all time, gently pull their wrist away from their body, externally rotating their shoulder away. This should go extremely slow, at least 10 minutes to allow muscles to relax. 

The shoulder will make an audible “pop” when it slides back into it’s socket. The pain goes away immediately, but is replaced with a dull throb a few hours later. You want to bind the arm to the chest to prevent movement of the joint as it heals. 

Source: Merck Manuals 

Now… it sounds like a dislocated shoulder isn’t the worst of their problems. Whoever is helping them may be more concerned about their obviously injured shoulder and focus on treating that first, while completely missing the fact that they’re showing symptoms of a pneumothorax, which is what happens if a rib punctures a lung. 

There are two ways you can play this. 

Option 1: Closed-Simple Pneumothorax

This can happpen when a broken rib pops a hole in the lung. This can be a tiny little nick, or a larger hole. Because it’s simple, that means that the air that’s coming into the pleural space (the area between the outside of the lungs and the inside of the chest, normall filled with slick fluid) is able to get back into the lungs again. There is a slight pressure build up, and the lung is slightly compressed, but you can have a simple pneumothorax and not notice it for literal months. The treatment is simple, let it heal on its own. There’s not much you can do, even with modern surgical practices. It’s better for everyone to leave it be. 

Option 2: Closed-Tension Pneumothorax 

Based on the supplies you’ve given me, this is probably what you’re thinking. A tension pneumothorax happens when that air coming into the pleural space isn’t able to get out. With each breath, more air is forced around the lung, collapsing it. The only way to relieve this pressure is to manually release the air by poking a hole in the chest wall. Before you do that however, we have to make sure they actually have a collapsed lung. Here’s the signs & symptoms: 

Decreased breath sounds on the bad side

Sharp pain in the chest

Panting

Fast heartbeat

Jugular Vein Distension (photo)

Tracheal deviation away from injured side (photo) 

Blue lips and fingernails

Jugular Vein Distention

Source

Tracheal Deviation

Source

While this is not a pneumothorax case, I could correctly diagnose a right-side tension pneumothoarx from this picture and listening to breath sounds. 

Alright, you’re sure it’s a pneumothorax? Fantastic. Now it’s time for the fun part. Here’s a step-by-step guide using the supplies (and time period) you’ve given me. 

Step 1: Identify the site you’re going to poke a hole. Refer to handy-dandy diagram for reference.

Source: PlumCast

Step 2: Clean as best you can. If you have strong alcohol, use that. If you have soap and water, use that next. Failing all else, use the cleanest cloth you have with some clean water to wipe off any dirt. The level you’re able to clean will determine the likelihood your character will survive. If you have alcohol, they’re more likely to pull through.  

You should be cleaning the chest, the daggar, and the tiny, hollow reed. 

Step 3: No time for pain medication, it’s not going to kick in anyways. DO NOT give them alcohol to drink for the pain. Use the smallest blade you have to make a small hole in the chest wall right between the 4th and 5th ribs. They only need to go about an inch if the patient is skinny. Most EMS units today use 3” needles, but not the whole needle is inserted. You probably won’t hear any air movement until you pull the dagger out, so it may take a few tries to get deep enough.

Step 4: Pull the blade out and insert the reed. Once the reed enters the pleural space, air and blood should come rushing out. Relief will be immediate, and the JVD and tracheal displacement should fix themselves in less than a hour. 

Step 5: Secure and prevent reoccurrence. That reed needs to stay in place. Use bandages or whatever you have to keep it there. You also need to create a one-way valve to prevent the air from just being sucked right back into the chest cavity through the convient hole you just made. Get a clean rag, soak it in lard, oil, or water if you have to and secure it loosely over the reed. The idea is that when they exhale, the free air in the chest is allowed to escape, but when they inhale, the cloth snaps shut over the reed and prevents air from entering. 

Step 6: And now it’s up to their body. The reed should be changed every 12 hours minimum to prevent infection, the one way valve as well. It’s important to note that if you’re using water on the cloth for your one-way valve, you’ll need to keep that wet. Now is the time for pain medication as well, boil the poppy seeds in clean water to make a tea. Poppy contains a similar chemical to morphine, so they will get some relief from this. It’s really hard to drink when lying flat on your back, so drip a washcloth in the tea and let them suck on it. 

Complications

Your biggest enemy is going to be infection obviously. There are several things you can do to prevent it. 

Clean the site. Alcohol or soap and water every 12 hours minimum (do it with the reed change). Make sure you’re cleaning the open wound, but don’t scrub into the chest wall, that’s going to push bacteria further into the wound. The signs of a local infection are: 

Red streaks coming from the wound

Pus

Warmth

Swelling

Green or yellow pus

Pain

If infection starts to develop, increase the cleaning to 4 hour rotations, and continue to replace the reed at that time. Signs of a developing system-wide infection: 

Fever

Nausea

Vomiting

Chills

Cold sweat

Fast heartbeat

Both honey and garlic have been clinically proven to have antibacterial properties . Apply crushed garlic and honey to the wound. Garlic also appears to be effective if consumed as well, honey is just topical. 

Sources:

Honey: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3609166/

Garlic: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4458355/

i can’t make this shit up

Pneumonia is a serious complication. Honestly, if they get pneumonia, they’re dead. They will have a high fever, start coughing, and die fairly quickly with a primitive chest tube in place. Sorry. :( 

Sepsis is also a death sentence. It’s a system-wide blood infection charterised by a high fever, low blood pressure, then sudden system shutdown and organ death. There’s not a lot you can do without real antibiotics, so avoid this if possible. 

Thankfully, the line between a bad local infection and sepsis is not easily identifiable without a hospital (a blood pressure cuff, really) so you can have quite a bit of angst around this and still have them pull through in the end. 

 What about the broken ribs? Leave them. There’s nothing you can do. Trying to manipulate them with your hands will only make it worse if you’re doing it blind (without X-Ray guidance.) 

It’s been awhile… now what? Normally, this patient would be rushed into the OR to repair the hole in the lung. Since you don’t have that, here are a few long-term options. 

The lung heals itself neatly. This is totally possible. You’re looking at at least two months though… and it’s a stretch. This character better have plot armor. Note: if you have pierced ears, you know that a hole in the body eventually seals itself off and doesn’t ever heal shut. Same with your makeshift chest tube. Once the lung has healed and it’s time to remove the reed, you may need to scrape the skin of the hole down a little to encourage healing. That’s another few weeks of healing. The lung can regain full capacity, and free air in the pleura will be absorbed into the bloodstream.

The lung heals poorly. As long at the hole in the lung is closed, the body will take care of the rest and absorb the free air. Same scraping for the chest tube site. They may lose use of the damaged lung- some people can learn to live without sections of their lungs but will never be able to do what they used to. It’s important to remember that the broken ribs may have healed in a place where they permanently damage lung function. 

The lung never heals. This means a permanent chest tube. The infection will eventually catch up to them, and they’ll die. 

Best case scenario survival odds: 60% 

Worst case scenario survival odds: 0%

Essentially, if you want them to survive, you can write it in a way it’s medically possible. But they have to fight hard, be strong, and have a healthy body with good fat stores before the accident. 

Disclaimer: Although I’m in school to become a medical professional, I’m not one yet. Please don’t sue. Can you even do that from a Tumblr post? I don’t know. All mistakes are mine, and I’m always open to discussion.

‘crimson, thanks for the detailed question. I had so much fun researching this stuff. Hope this helps, and feel free to ask clarifying questions. (Tension pneumo stuff can be really confusing.)

[songsofbloodandwater]

"Researchers have recorded a fair amount of information about how the Anishinaabeg work with plants and trees; however, much of this information has been colonized. In order to use this knowledge for cultural revitalization, it must be reworked and reinterpreted into a format that is appropriate and usable to anishinaabe-izhitwciawin (anishinaabe culture). One could argue that any published text is colonized because colonizers brought the publishing industry to North America, but such an argument focuses on the immediately noticeable results of imperialism and the colonization process: one people controlling another people’s land, government, and resources. [...] In this context, a “text” refers to the written documentation of this research: a book, article, or unpublished note. A “colonized text” fits either or both of the following definitions: it serves the interests of the colonizers and the processes of systemic racism and oppression, or it presents information according to the philosophies, cosmologies, and knowledge-keeping systems of the colonizers, which are alien to those of anishinaabe-izhitwaawin."

— Our Knowledge is not Primitive: Decolonizing Botanical Anishinaabe Teachings (2009) by Wendy Makoons Geniusz.

[kirbyddd]

[theawkwardone6]

I would like to live in the forest but I wouldn’t want to do it alone

[magiskarp]

Getting annoyed at commie talking points

[rhq2744]

Sorry for the ugliness of the view, or should I be the one sorry or the occupation? Of course, dear reader, you could not bear the ugliness of the scene, but what should I and my family say? We have been here since the third of December,

[ vertified by @nabulsi and @el-shab-hussein , num.221 on fundraising list ! ]

See the evidence below !

Note, the iron thing in the picture in the back is the primitive oven in which we bake our daily bread using firewood and plastic. CAN YOU IMAGINE ????!!!!!!! Is your food covered in sewage, urine and feces? Sorry for the words but this is crazy, I'm going to lose my mind!

We have been here since the third of December,in addition to the filth and waste, it explodes daily due to the presence of 30,000 thousand displaced people. It explodes and the place here is flooded with filth, sewage and dirt. It is definitely a hotbed of diseases. Why do I and my family have to live, sleep, eat and cook here?????? Do you see this little threshold? A few centimeters that separate us and it's not enough, a lot of insects and worms,If you go out with your shoes, they will get dirty and dirt will enter inside. We are inevitably stuck in dirt. Is there a decent person who would be satisfied with a life like this? I am tired. We are all exhausted by the disease. Everyone is here with yellow eyes and epidemic hepatitis. Everyone is like a zombie because of this tragic and inhuman situation in which we live. My family does not leave the bed due to the severity of illness and fatigue. [is there a bed? Of course NO, we sleep on the floor, specifically on dirt, but unfortunately we have begun... We get used to the tent like a house and we use its terminology. This habit and habituation is killing me. I cannot accept and do not want anyone to accept the humiliation we are experiencing Or try to beautify it in any way.]

If you would like to help even a little for my family, please do not hesitate for a moment. It is an unbearable situation. Our lives have been destroyed. Or you can help spread the link to our family to someone who might be able to help. Thank you for reading. Have a good day. At least someone should be happy today.

https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/u/0/d/1yYkNp5U3ANwILl2MknJi9G7ArY4uVTEEQ1CVfzR8Ioo/htmlview

[justletmeon12]

Freud talks a lot about "primitive languages" for someone who's clearly only interacted with German and English-speaking pts.

[fis-paprikas]

im unfortunately going insane about avatar (yes the one with the blue people)

[mysumeow]

HEAT 2/3 ✦﹐

BEFORE YOU READ! This is a continuation to this smut.

Warnings: reader is referred to with you/your, afab genitalia and breasts mentioned. PWP (plot what plot), threesome, piv unprotected sex.

Summary: The seasonal allergy is killing you, and the cart containing your medicine was destroyed by a group of hilichurls! Luckily, your dear friend Albedo can help you with that, but because of a mistake on his part, you end up taking the wrong medicine. Word count: 1.3k.

a/n: I kind of rushed this because today is my bday and ill be hanging out with my friends TvT we only see each other like twice a year so JKFDHSLKJFSH but i also didnt want to keep my readers waiting for an update so here it is. this smutfic is also super indulgent because tighnari and albedo are my favs from genshin so yeah :p i do have a third part in mind for this!

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ♡ 🌷 . . MASTERLIST | PREV

“You’re late.”

Tighnari’s mouth, which was agape a few seconds ago, closed as he shot Albedo an annoyed look.

“What do you mean I’m late?”

“Had you noticed sooner the scent, you would’ve helped to soothe that condition. You very well know which one I’m talking about,” Albedo was teasing the Forest Ranger, who didn’t seem all that joyous about. “However, the heat hasn’t subsided yet. Look,”

The alchemist shifted aside to give Tighnari an unrestricted view of your still dripping arousal. Tighnari’s ears perked up, despite his attempt at keeping his flushed face calm.

Under normal circumstances, he would’ve taken a more rational solution, either by simply walking away and letting Albedo solve it himself or by giving you a suppressant—although its efficiency would be dubious, considering that you’re supposed to take it before the heat starts and the fact that you’re not an actual foxkin.

And yet he closed the door behind his back, his body sensitive to the alluring warmth yours emitted. Your body’s call for someone to breed, the scent…it was too much for him. It shattered the neglected primitive side’s fragile enclosure he had always supressed. To this point.

Albedo sat and rested his back against the bed’s headrest, telling you to hold on to his shoulders as his hands went to your hips. When did he flip your positions? You couldn’t recall, but it’s not like you were about to complain.

Tighnari’s touch through his gloves was hot on your body, and if not for Albedo’s hands holding you up, you would’ve lost your balance when Tighnari laved up your drenched pussy. He licked up your lips, both hands placed on either side of your thighs to spread you open. He repeated the motion several times before covering the expanse of your hole with his mouth, tongue delving deeper inside of you.

“F-Fuck,” Tighnari sighed, enjoying the slick coating his tongue. It was as if he became addicted to your body, only desiring more from you after every suck and lick he delivered.

Albedo shifted your attention back to him and made you face him with his hand on your chin, his lips back on yours to swallow your moans and gasps.

You tried to speak, tried to warn Tighnari of your imminent orgasm, but you could not concentrate enough to form a coherent word—other than a broken, cut-off wait—

Tighnari groaned as you came hard, tightening around his tongue as your whole body trembled.

“I can’t wait any longer.” Did Tighnari whine? Or was that your imagination? You heard the rustle of clothes behind you, and soon, his hands were on your hips again.

You felt the tip tease your aching cunt before he eased in with a swift, effortless motion. Albedo’s hands wandered down to your wrists to keep you in place the moment Tighnari thrust with desperation, going fast from the get-go. Albedo’s hungry mouth swallowed your pleasured sounds, not giving you a single moment to relax your racing heart.

“You feel so good,” Tighnari moaned. His hands went up to your tits, and he squeezed your nipples. His face and chest pressed against your back, his weight about to make you collapse if not for using Albedo’s shoulders to stabilize yourself from the sheer need of his pounding. “And your smell’s driving me crazy. I don’t—I don’t think I’ll last more.”

“Fast. You’re going too fast,” You managed to gasp through heaved breaths. Despite you blurting that out, you found yourself moving your hips to meet his, close to the peak as well. “I-I’m going to cum.” You cried.

Albedo shifted closer so his hand could stimulate your clit, albeit with little precision thanks to Tighnari's rapid paced thrusts. That bit of help was, however, enough for you to dig your fingernails into the alchemist’s skin as the waves of your release snapped from within. You heard the forest ranger groan from the pleasure and came deep inside of you, the snaps of his hips not stopping as he filled you up.

“That should suffice for your heat, perhaps. How are you feeling now?” Albedo asked while your mind was still spinning around. “Hey, are you listening?”

Your arms lost whatever strength they had, and you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore. Your body gave out, your face rested against the alchemist’s warm abdomen.

“I’m sorry, I’m still hard,” Tighnari complained; his hands massaged your thighs as if in apology. “You don’t mind if we do it again, do you?”

“I think it’d be appropriate for you to allow some margin of recuperation,” Albedo caressed your head. His touch comforted you…

For a moment, you felt like you had fallen asleep… or maybe you did, because when you opened your eyes, Albedo’s arms were around your waist. Not a single sight of Tighnari, though?

You sat up, followed by a headache, which made you want to lie down again.

“Oh, you’re up already,” Albedo cranked an eye open; his fingers traced your hand. “Are you looking for something?”

“Ti-Tighnari. Where’s he?”

“Hm?” He sat alongside you. “What’s the matter? Are you still in heat and need me to help you?”

“No, I mean…” You stopped for a moment in contemplation. “Did I dream that?”

That piqued the alchemist’s curiosity. “What did you dream?”

You opened your mouth to answer, and you closed it back the instance you realized it was far too embarrassing to tell.

“Could it be that you had a wet dream with the forest ranger? You fell asleep almost right after I had brought you to an orgasm,” Albedo didn’t even give you a chance to defend yourself; he smiled rather amusedly. “I was aware that heat can make certain animal kins insatiable, but didn’t know to what extent. If you’re in dire need of another round, I can assist you again.”

“Please stop talking,” You covered your face with your hands. “For the love of the seven archons, please don’t ever mention this to Tighnari.”

Albedo fixed his attention on you. “You have my word.”

Alright, at least that was settled. You felt a bit more at ease.

“Nonetheless, I don’t take kindly to the fact that you dreamt of someone else. Especially in the sexual nature of said dream,” Out of the blue, he pushed you against the mattress as he got on top of you. “I consider a…disciplinary correction to be most appropriate now.”

“Huh?!”

“I jest, I jest,” He pulled away from you with a faint smile. “You seemed troubled, and I wanted to lighten the mood up.”

“Jokes are meant to be funny, not to give you a heart attack!”

He softly laughed. “Let’s get ready before Tighnari notices you aren’t in your room, yes?”

[keferon]

Why’d monster hunter brainstorm timetravel to the specific era the story takes place?

Will the others ever see his alt mode?

The reason is the same as in canon - he wanted to save Quark.

Okay, I'll try and keep this short and sweet.

Brainstorm lives in the far future and is happy with Quark, until one day it turns out that Quark has a fatal spark disease that will kill him if nothing is done about it. They of course go to the hospital, but it turns out that only certain types of the disease are treatable and modern science still can't do anything about it.

Long story short, no one knows how to cure Quark's spark.

Brainstorm, as a true scientist and a good conjunx, naturally begins to research the subject himself and stumbles upon some strange information. All the sources, studies and records on the study of this disease go back a long fucking way. All that modern scientists have been doing for the last million years is just improving and refining the method of treatment, which was invented in absolute antiquity.

Brainstorm investigates further.

He discovers, all the original research records belonged to a mech named Perseptor, who amongst many other things was studying sparks. And it's when Brainstorm manages to get his hands on copies of these very original records that he finally realises why no one has been able to take this research any further. The records are very well structured, detailed and accurate, but half of the information is taken out of nowhere. The Perseptor specifies the types of sparks that certain substances affect in certain ways, but nowhere does he mention where he got this information from. He might, for example, write that certain types of sparks tend to develop internal micro-cracks when exposed to certain factors for long periods of time. And Brainstorm, having read that, can only stare blankly into space, because yes, micro-cracks in sparks is something that exists. But even in his time, there's no equipment that can detect them if they're INSIDE. So how the hell did an ancient mech with his primitive tools figure all this out???

His curiosity isn't satisfied. The research just cuts off in the middle, as if the mech that did it just abandoned it or died suddenly.

Brainstorm, like many scientists before him, tries to start his own research based on the information pointed out by Perseptor, but finds himself at the same dead end as all the medicine of his time. He just doesn't have the same mysterious way of collecting data that this...Perseptor had.

And Quark isn't getting any better

Eventually, Brainstorm comes up with a brilliant idea. What if, instead of trying to find a cure, he just (ha! Just.) went back in time and saved the dude who was definitely going to invent the cure but didn't have time? He decides it's genius and creates a time machine.

He goes back in time to find Perseptor and well, he gets a surprise. Turns out the dude who researched spark disease was a spark eater. And also on the verge of starvation, but Brainstorm finds a way to help him, it's all good:) It turns out that all this time, Perseptor didn't have any mysterious equipment to analyse the sparks, he was the equipment himself. In fact, he didn't specify the sources of his findings for the research, because the phrase ‘I figured it out because it tasted different’ sounds incredibly compromising and would have signed Percy's death warrant if his notes had fallen into the wrong hands.

Next, I'm not sure how it would have developed. I think as the story progresses, Perseptor and Brainstorm work together to invent a cure for Quark. And then, if you like to cry, Brainstorm goes back to the future and cures him, and Perseptor stays in the past.

If you want adventure, Brainstorm could take Percy back to the future with him. Quark would be really fucking scared and confused at first, but they'd figure it out quickly and conjunx Percy into their futuristic fluffy pairing. (Also, I have a lot of fun thinking about Brainstorm and Quark showing Percy the advances of future science, and the future world in general.

Also, I think Brainstorm would do a good job of hiding his alt mode while he was in the past, but a couple of times would use it to escape from someone. One time he'd also give Percy a ride, and I know Percy would be incredibly freaked out by the breakneck speed that jets can achieve ahahaha

——

That…wasn’t as short as I wanted…..my inner fic writer took control

[evilminji]

I... am haunted? By my Midi-chlorian theory?

Cause they are PROBABLY? Some sort of Symbiotic Bacteria?

Which was my theory. Cause "micro-organisms" is vague af? And doesn't exactly tell us what KIND? But it's probably not a mammal or some sort of fish? So like... helpful blood bacteria. Got it! No different then a good gut biome. Makes perfect sense!

Yeah, THIS one has? For some reason? A hyper sensitivity to fundamental forces of reality? But I mean? Monkeys with type writers, right? Something, somewhere, was bound to get it. Some organisms get better smell to survive, some get sensitive whiskers. The blood bacteria got jacked in to Reality's newsreel. Some low ranking admin privileges.

Still? Needs a HOST to survive though. Doesn't, itself, even really HAVE a brain.

Cause it's a Bacteria.

A Bacteria and... and Bacteria can be multiplied. Grown. Obviously? Midi-chlorians refuse to do so outside of a living body. Or the Sith and various other researchers, bother ethical and UNETHICAL, would have figured out how to crack Midi-chlorian development.

They ALSO? We can only assume? DO NOT mix. As in? Any Midi-chlorian's? Removed from the Original Host™ die off pretty promptly. (In time with the blood rotting or new body assimilating the fresh, donated, blood.) So you presumably, couldn't take from, say, Skywalker and give to an average farmer, and have that farmer become mildly force sensitive.

Even THOUGH? The BLOOD? Is where his Midi-chlorians are! So PRESUMABLY? So long as he and the farmer had compatible blood types? That SHOULD happen! Because Anikin his a SHIT TON of Midi-chlorian bacteria in his blood and the farmer would be receiving some of that High Production Strain.

Not saying the farmer would ever become a powerhouse. But? There should? Be a difference? Even if it was only temporarily.

Yet? It seems? Like Midi-chlorian strains? Just don't MIX. They split off, during development of a child, begin cultivation of their own unique colony, and never again! Shall the stains blend. I'd go so far? As to say? They probably ATTACK other Midi-chlorians in THEIR space.

Like part of the immune system. Disease, poison, parasites, and of course? Those filthy, FILTHY Other Midi-chlorian Colonies trying to encroach upon THEIR resources. Get! GET!

Which is where? All past attempts have FAILED. Because they? Had an END GOAL first, and they worked their way backwards. Approached it all with either preconceived notions or complete derision of the subject matter. Ignoring countless culture's collective MILLENNIUMS of knowledge on the subject. The observations. The notes. The folk remedies and early sciences.

Arrogant. Forgetting or outright dismissing. Because THEY were better. THEY were SMARTER. Surely, THEY would crack the code! Unlock the SECRETS of this MYSTICAL building block of the Force!

Achieve... POWER.

But? The thing IS? Primitive? Does not and HAS not? Ever meant stupid. It means young. New. Doctors and scientists, doing the best they could, with what they had. To help as many as they could. The Force? It was a mysterious thing. They knew the shape of it. The edges, but not it's depths. They could observe.

If they did X... Y occurred. Medicine A? Brought about B and C side effects, avoid it going forward. Use Medicine D. So forth and so on. Building upon the knowledge of the past.

But OH, THEY? Didn't have fancy modern medical technology! Didn't know the modern terms! So obviously they were superstitious idiots!

Thus, attempt after attempt. Failed. Usually with innocent people, paying the price. Because Power. Because Fame. Because they could rule the galaxy and go down in history books... if only these simple little bacteria would COOPERATE. But.... they don't. Do they?

Because you lack understanding.

You. Can Not. Remove Them. From The. HOST.

They DIE.

They can exsist in exactly ONE(1) environment. Their NATIVE environment. Where you found them? That's where they need to STAY. If you found them in a tree? The need to stay in THAT specific tree. Dirt? Well then! Dirt from THAT specific region of THAT specific PLANET. No moving! Cease! Desist!

Are the Midi-chlorians in a baby? The start up strains were donated! Congrats! THEY LIVE THERE NOW. They are now NATIVE to the BABY. Can not exsist OUTSIDE the baby! In fact, will immediately begin to die! Outside that baby!

This is WHY Sith Alchemy is so fucked up. Lots of live experimentation and forcing Midi-chlorians into statis. Body horror everywhere. No mas! It DOES NOT SPARK JOY.

Which?! That leads me to my point! The part of all this THAT FUCKING HAUNTS ME!!!

Bacteria can be multiplied if you give it the right food. Fuck, it WANTS to multiple. WANTS to go gangbusters. Just? Absolutely apeshit. Thick enough in the blood to turn it all into PASTE. It doesn't have a brain. It can't look around and think to itself "hey, maybe we should slow down, we're straining the environment".

It's bacteria. Ultimately, in the end, JUST Bacteria.

Yes, it may be the medium by which we connect to The Force... but IT itself? Has no intelligence to negotiate with. Just like the cells in your body. And JUST like the cells in your body? It can be a cancer. Could kill you, if something went wrong.

If SOMEONE, deliberately, made things go wrong.

All in the name of "Science".

Yes, once again, I consider the SI-OC, even as I consider Midi-chlorians themselves. What "feeds" such a bacteria? A healthy body, presumably. Connection to the Force? Kyber, most likely. Force powerful items. We know they "call" to those who are Sensitive. But! As we know? The part of your body that can actually FEEL that call? Is the Midi-chlorians in your blood, which then transfers the information to it's host.

It is the Midi-chlorians that want that specific Force object. In all likelihood, because it benefits them. That it benefits you? Is a lovely side effect. That is can be used for things? Neat! Good on you for figuring that out! It would still call you to collect pretty, shining, rocks, even if you couldn't use Kyber for SHIT. You would be COMPELLED.

NEED it.

It makes the Midi-chlorians inside you go Brrrrr. Mmm, yes, happy chemicals. Positive reinforcement! You should continue to do OTHER things that help the Midi-chlorians! Like meditation, eating well, and being around others! Go on! Hug that baby! Yeeeeeah, good energy makes LOTS of Midi-chlorian food! (Bad energy too. We are not picky. But that Does Not Feel Nice. So like.... why tho?)

So! Consider!

You have yourself an UNETHICAL AF scientist. The Board does NOT UNDERSTAND THEIR GENIUS etc etc. They have completely lost their shit. Unfortunately, they have money. And Slavery and desperation abound. There are ugly, UGLY pockets of darkness in this galaxy.

They? Have An Idea™! (It is a terrible, horrifying idea)

This scientist? Is going to crack the Secrets of The Midi-chlorian! Become Famous! It is a plot heard many times before, sadly. Just as sadly? SI-OC's parents, who were on their way to the temple, never make it there. Make no mistake! Good people. Upset, of course, that they will be losing their daughter. But? As all good parents do?

They made the decision they thought was best for their baby girl. A lifetime of being understood. Supported. Of stable food and safe beds. A good, quality education they would never be able to afford. Being able to help people someday. They love their daughter. Weep for losing her. But sometimes? Loving your child? Means letting them go.

Not forgotten. NEVER forgotten. But somewhere better then they could ever give her. Safe from those who would see their child in chains.

They do not make it.

But they do not go quietly. When those bastards come for their little girl. They make it cost dearly. Not dearly enough. Never, ever, enough. But one of the other passengers is able to get off the emergency beacon. So the Jedi will know. They will come.

It... it has to be... enough...

And it is.

And they do.

But it is not just a pirate attack. Not JUST slavers. No... no this is far more horrifying. Far worse indeed. The Shadow sent to rescue the child? Stumbles into a festering shitshow. The sort that takes a TEAM to unravel. The not-pirates are mercenaries, are closing in fast. He send his data in full, in one big lump as an emergency download.

Capture likely eminent. They're experimenting on Force Sensitives. Need Back Up.

Help.

The Doctor is, of course, DELIGHTED! An adult specimen AND a child! Comparisons and contrasts! They ramble on, unhinged, to the horror of the Shadow. Who's eyes are locked on the Crecheling in a cage. He knows help will come... but will it come fast enough?

No. Not really.

But what keeps HIM from falling? Is the Crecheling that needs to be taught. Ironic, in a way, that the very thing their capture demands and demands? Is what helps them escape, however temporarily, their cages. Meditate. They are told. Or else.

Surrounded by stolen artifacts of Light.

Meditate.

Meditate.

Imagine, if you will, a dialysis machine. It filters the blood, yes? Pumps it outside the body? A terrible process. Trial and error. How far is too far? At what distance, do the midi-chlorians begin to die? The doctor kills... so, SO many innocent. Not their prize specimens. Jedi are hard to get! But slaves? Easy enough.

The Shadow can not Fall, he reminds himself. Can not give in to his grief or rage. His horror, his sorrow. It... it is so hard. To remember the Light. In this dark place. But the Crechling helps. The kyber, the artifacts. When... not... Not IF! But WHEN he gets out of here? He thinks... he thinks he should retire. Being a Creche Master sounds lovely, to be honest.

Bright. Peaceful.

The doctor completes their horror machine. He can not stop them from putting on SI-OC. After all... HE is done growing. It filters the blood, you see. Nice and close to the body. Through and around Force rich materials, in medical grade tubing. Exposing the Midi-chlorians directly to the energy they feed off of. Filter in a mineral solution to use as building blocks.

It WORKS.

The midi-chlorians in SI-OC blood start multiplying far faster and too far greater concentration then ever before. Slowly but surely boosting their Force Sensitivity as they go. What a rousing success.

If it weren't slowly killing SI-OC.

Ever imagine? What would happen if someone reached over and slowly started turning up the sensitivity on your eyesight? Your hearing? Your taste, touch, the FEELING OF YOUR BONES? If every breath was sandpaper, and every thought an adrenaline rush?

Could you imagine? FEELING the galaxy BREATHE? Knowing for a fact that your body had been specially designed for a certain level of sensitivity? And you had been broken? Because someone wanted to see if you could handle HIGHER?

Power without the support structure? Burns everything down.

Just because something CAN be done? Doesn't mean it will work the way you fantasize it will. Reality is not a story book. Where Power comes in pretty little packages, to be bought or sold or stolen. Midi-chlorians were always Bacteria. And trying to fuck with your own micro-biomes for more power? Was always destined to end in death and disease.

For you. For someone else. For every innocent you dragged into it.

They scoffed at the "primitive" scholars who warned not to fuck with it, yet still treat it like its a mystical power to be seized.

The Shadows that finally track down the lab? BURN it wil a VENGEANCE. It is a place of horrors. And initiate SI-OC is very, VERY sick. They aren't even sure they can risk taking her to Coruscant. Too many people. Jedha? Probably safer. Luckily their library has something that...? MIGHT? Be able to help treat this?

SI-OC probably never stops Tasting Time™ and seeing the Pretty Colors™ but? At least she becomes? Largely functional? Probably needs a disability animal. One that's mildly force sensitive, so it knows when she's ~~drifting~~ again. Keep her from walking into traffic or off a landing platform.

The random bouts of prophecy and mind reading are a bit disconcerting, but like? Lay off! It's not SI-OC fault! Be nice! She can't help it! Don't be rude! D:< she basicly has tiny Force Nexus in HER BLOOD. So WHAT if she occasionally stops to admire a sunrise that hasn't existed for thousands of years? It's probably pretty!

The younglings? Very understanding. Adults are a bit creeped out. But like? Eh. Just EXTRA Jedi-y Jedi... they guess? (No, no not really. This one had a serious Force Incident. But like FUCK we're breaking rank to tell outsiders that sooooo..... Sure? Yeah. Let's go with that!)

Ironically? I bet? Anikin gets along great with her? They're team "WHY YES, THE FORCE IS VERY LOUD. WHY ARE WE SHOUTING? SO YOU CAN HEAR US! OVER THE FORCE! WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S NOT THAT LOU-?". He got it naturally, she got it by getting fucked over. But? They can both go?

"Hey, you feel that thingy in the-?" *vague hand motion* and get a "oh YEAH! Wonder what's THAT'S about?". Does anyone else feel it? No. Is it obvious to THEM? Yes.

Will Anikin punch your lights out, if you mock his disabled friend? *boss music starts playing* R U N. Padme would help. Tag team, fuckeeeeer! *from the highbar with a steel chair*

Community is EVERYTHING. And sometimes? It's you, your secret wife, your brother-mentor-dad, the Clone army you adopted, and the perpetually Force High/Vaguely Brain Damaged jedi you call your best friend! And the droids. And your secret wife's body gaurd squad. And the younglings your friend-... actually? You know what? Your family's kinda big.

Awesome :)

@legitimatesatanspawn @babbling-babull @spidori @hdgnj @hypewinter @leftnotright @the-witchhunter @lolottes @mayfay

[leviathanleva]

Daisy

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader [DARK FIC]

Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

........................

[Blood and Injury, Ghoul Trafficking, Minor Character Death]

[5.8k words]

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Chapter 7 "The Road"

“She asked you a question.” the tip of his gun bumps against the skull of the poor man in angry sovereignty. “Not nice t’ keep a lady waitin’.”

The man in question is a scrawny fellow with yellowish, vein-ridden eyes and greasy black hair just shy of his shoulders. A sunbaked, chewed-out lab coat adorns his shriveled form, hiding a multitude of self-inflicted scabs and prickles, but you’d caught a glimpse during his scuffle with Cooper. A self-proclaimed doctor who’d used his own flesh and blood in the name of science and study, he looked nothing short of deranged, but he’d survived until the ripe age of sixty-two and that was enough solid ground for you to trust his expertise.

You sat opposite of him, occupying a wide, crummy slab of concrete that had once been the roof of his laboratory. The entire building was waning, descended to a few walls surrounded by a rusting fence, but it offered enough shelter for most wastelanders to deem habitable. That’s why you’d stopped by, having endured your second month of surface exploration during what you’d learned was the middle of summer, you’d built higher tolerance for the hostile environment, but still couldn’t compare to Cooper. You’d needed respite, to catch your breath under a shade while greedily gulping down lukewarm spring water.

The doctor had heard your intrusion upon his sanctuary and had been more than hospitable, shoving grimy bottles full of murky substances of different consistencies in your face to get you to buy something. When he’d announced that he was a representative of the medicinal sphere another idea had popped into your head, one that required more talking and less buying diluted piss in a corked test tube labeled “Acne Remover”.

He could teach you medicine. The basics, at least, ways to patch up a wound using primitive things you had on hand, and you’d read such books before, but none of them touched on radioactivity nor explained what RadAway or stimpaks were.

The ghoul had been surprisingly agreeable, however, before you could discuss a plan, he’d taken to his ways and was already rasping threats while cracking his knuckles. You’d thrown your hands in the air with a displeased eye-roll as their tussle heated the dust off the floor.

It’s always violence with him…

“A stimpak? I can. Of course, I can.” the doc hacks and spits a mixture of blood and saliva to the side, then turns back to you with a wet snort. “It’s easy. Anyone can make a stimpak. Anyone. Who can’t? It’s so easy.”

“Great.” you nod, gripping your pencil with such force it’s shy from snapping. This was not what you’d had in mind by exchanging information – no guns or violence and absolutely no blood. But your fiendish companion had other ideas and beggars weren’t choosers. You lick your thumb and turn your notebook to a fresh page. “Please explain then. Slowly.”

The owlish look you receive has you eyeing Cooper with a lost frown, a plea for guidance because this man was clearly out of it with no intent on returning to normalcy.

He’s the heavy hand to your soft words as always.

“Talk.” he snarls and digs his boot in the doctor’s ribs, kicking him off his knees and onto his side. There’s no discussion, no bargaining, just a built-in cruelty and lack of patience.

“Jeez, you didn’t have to – ” you scrunch back in abhorrence, reaching for your face as if you were the one taking the beating.

“ – My notes.” a gargled sputter comes from the wheezing man. He laughs, rotting teeth proud on display as he knocks on the side of his head with such force you heard it from where you sat. “Head’s not good. Can’t remember anything. Gotta see my notes. It’s in the notes.” his spastic gaze is bouncing between you and the ghoul. “I can get 'em. Right there.” he’s jutting a finger up at his workstation where a gnawed-out leather bag rests. “Gonna get 'em. Tell you how. Okay? Gonna get up, gonna get 'em.”

He’s motioning for peace with palms spread wide as he slowly rises. The pistol follows him with cold-blooded precision as he wobbles to his desk. You turn halfway to watch as the notepad rests on your thigh, then tuck a wild strand of hair behind your ear.

He sifts through his belongings and it’s not much, but he’s sustained himself so far with the scarce scraps he’d managed to find. Meanwhile, your backpack was still brimming two months later because you had the trinkets to trade for food and water. You had a bodyguard for free and the luxury to indulge in hygienic habits most commoners didn’t see even on their deathbeds.

Bearing a soft heart, you wanted to leave him at least a granola bar, a guaranteed meal with no strings attached so the upcoming night wouldn’t leave him convulsing in a corner from hunger. He was skin and bones at best, a walking skeleton with cracking, aged skin, and protuberant wild eyes, the kind that have seen too much.

But you knew better, rather he starve and struggle than you ending up facing the ghoul’s wrath for acting stupid again. There was no room for kindness here, there would be no praises, just you naively reaching out a helping hand and ultimately having it bitten.

God, you hated this mess of a world…

“Here! Here, here.” he exclaims through a scratchy throat and shows you a torn, brown folder stuffed with sheets of paper. He digs his nose into it, stubby, arthritis-ridden fingers roughly handling the pages like a manic man searching for the meaning of life between the words. “It’s here. Has to be. I wrote it, y’know. All by myself.”

A sharp whistle rings in your ears and your head snaps back to Cooper. He nudges his pistol toward the folder and cocks his head with a scowl.

“Take em.”

You’re taken aback. Your face falls and you glance at the madman behind you with a slack jaw – he’s pressed into his workstation, the folder held snugly to his chest and encased in his frail arms. His hair sways as he stiffly shakes his head with disbelief.

“No.” you breathe out, a voiced thought, then repeat with more authority. “No! I can’t take his notes, how will he work without them?” you’re gesturing towards him with pencil in hand and direness to your voice. “Look at him! He can’t even remember his own name. We can’t just – ”

“ – I ain’t sittin’ here all day just cuz you wanna play Broken Telephone with a con bastard.” he’s a harsh mentor, doesn’t bat an eye at the implication or the devastation his order might cause. The rim of his hat dips, painting menacing shadows over his already monstrous features. “Take the damn notes.”

There’s no equal ground for arguing and the doctor stands there, forced to watch as his life is put on an uneven scale. Either shot or left to wither away without his only source of income, he couldn’t even choose, he was left to be toiled between your hands and the ghoul’s.

You’re bubbling with righteousness, but that won’t do. There are many things your companion dislikes and for unexplained reasons, standing up to him while trying to do the right thing is one of them.

“Please.” the plea leaves your lips as a hiss. Your face is wrinkled with exertion as you attempt to stare Cooper down to a more agreeable state.

You’re grasping at straws, fighting not to drown in the reality of your actions being the cause of another person’s death. This was no raider, or cannibal, not a warped beast hunting you for supper. This was a fellow survivor, a struggling soul the wasteland hadn’t been as lenient towards. Beneath the delirium and madness, the jumbled words and soup of senseless thoughts, he was still human.

You couldn’t. You couldn’t.

“Was your idea, Sweetheart.” a derogatory coo, a sentence that rips up your act of chivalry. He’s almost smirking as he puts you down with just his gaze. “Gotta finish what you started. Now take the fuckin’ notes.”

Impatience nips at his command, only amplified when he sees you refuse to move. His weapon lowers and he takes a few strides with a searing grunt and bared fangs. He’s no gentleman; picks you up roughly by the arm and forces you to your feet as disapproval of your disobedience brings forth his crow’s feet. There is no grace when you’re non-consensually pushed toward your victim, no elegance guides your step to ease the mourning of the man you’re about to strip from any chance of long-term survival.

But you’re also meek with your gestures, approaching him delicately once your footing is set in stone, hesitantly until there is only a thin gap separating you.

His leg juts to the side with barely contained need to run and he once again winds up at gunpoint.

“Don’ be fuckin’ stupid now.” the ghoul spits as his chin dips, he’s peeking beneath his hat with eyes that could boil flesh off bone.

Regret drains the strength from your fingers when you pinch the bottom of the folder, left to weakly tug it out of his grip as he begrudgingly relents. Your vision is set low, trained on your feet, scorned by actions you couldn’t back away from. You take his prized possession and look away until not a blip of him poisons your vision, then after swallowing nothingness down a dry gullet you manage to mumble:

“I’m sorry.”

You skitter back to Cooper, each step hastening your pace until you’re in the sanctity of his proximity. You don’t falter to see his nod of approval, instead hiding behind him, the side of your head leaned between his shoulder blades. Pathetic, powerless, and made cruel, your brows twitch, pulling down the skin of your sweaty forehead as you clutch at the folder with a distant mind and quivering bottom lip.

You leap a thousand miles away, condemned to weigh the doctor's odds and spare your sanity the burden of his demise. There were always radroaches scuttling about, he could live off them. They weren’t your cup of tea but they were edible. If he was smart enough he could gather sand and pebbles, make a filter and cleanse his urine to a drinkable consistency. It wasn’t that hard, he could survive if he wanted to. Maybe he could…

Maybe –

The familiar click of a pistol rattles you out of the dreamlike state.

You tense.

“Wait.” your hand shoots out to lay over his wrist, applying a minute amount of pressure to stray the firearm. “We got what we needed, right? You don’t need to…Please?” your voice cracks and your beseeched eyes lift to face his. “Please.”

The doctor hasn’t moved, frozen solid and silent aside from the low, bizarre hums and attempts to cough out the gunk tickling his lungs. He was sick and mad, defenseless against a loaded gun, compliant with your inhumane deeds, hadn’t said a peep of protest. The least you could do was leave him be after ripping away the little dignity he’d had.

Your way is brutal though, leaving a helpless old man to be overcome by a death worse than a bullet to the head. But you weren’t one to make a tough decision in a dire situation, you didn’t have the guts to do what would be considered a mercy. His chances were null and shooting him now would save him a great amount of suffering. You could walk out and wait for the shot to ring out, turn a deaf ear to the shriek of oblivion.

But you weren’t doing what was best for him, you were doing what was least painful for you.

Masking your selfish spinelessness as a courageous act of standing up to your dominant half to spare a soul. This was no heroism, it was torture. You’d seen firsthand how sadistic fate was in this dystopian world you now called home, but what could you do when the sight of him had you near tears?

Cooper lowers his pistol with a disgruntled scoff and you release a shaky breath.

“Whatever you say…” he clasps his weapon back in place and flings both his bandolier and tato sack over his shoulder.

It was suspiciously easy, but you didn’t question his change of heart, instead keeping close to him after shooting the deranged doctor a last apologetic frown.

He’d been with you since you’d left the vault, acting as the spear to your shield, the one to take action while you sat back and prayed for the best. You were still as friendly and ready to lend a helping hand as when you’d met and if it hadn’t been for him you would have been long gone by now. The wasteland was working on remolding your antics, but it was a slow process in your case and until then it spelled hardships and disaster for both of you.

Actions have consequences, bad ones, good ones, all of them. He’s tried and failed to teach you so he decides a harsher lesson is in order, one that will stick. That’s why he ignores the shuffling behind him and keeps a heavy-lidded neutral expression.

Actions have consequences and yours is being swung straight towards your head.

The bits of gravel crunching beneath your boots keep your hearing busy enough to miss the vigorous grunts and noises being regurgitated some feet away from you. It’s inconceivable that the person to whom you showed mercy would do anything to cause you harm. His uncoordinated, rushed steps don’t even register until they’re thumping right behind you.

You’re a second too late to react before the empty glass bottle is shattered against the side of your head.

All you muster out is a choked gasp as the ground beneath you slips and you’re falling. The world spins with sickening speed yet your fall is delayed, like a swaying feather.

You don’t feel. You feel nothing below your neck.

Your stomach churns as everything is flipped upside down. The folder is snatched from the safety of your armpit. You’re numb when you collide with the dusty concrete, feel only a cushioned resistance from an impact that’s supposed to hurt.

The air is knocked out of your chest, you’re suffocating on dust. Cooper’s boots are doubled and swaying in your vision as they move. You squint to try and focus, but can’t manage much except to roll on your back and twitch when a shot is fired. A guttural scream, then silence.

The scarce clouds visible from beyond the hole in the ceiling are swimming. You want to reach out and touch them.

The sky always leaves you speechless.

“Why…? Why couldn’t you just let it go…?”

You sit up slowly, hunching over as your legs cross to keep you steady. The dull pulse blossoms into pain and you press a trembling palm against your head only to find it dampened by scarlet red. What you thought was snot tickling your cupid’s bow turns out to be blood once you wipe it off with your wrist to see.

Your breathing accelerates and you look to the ghoul before you succumb to a full-blown panic attack.

He’s bending down to retrieve the folder from a man now dead before approaching you with leisurely steps and placing it in your lap once he’s knelt in front of you.

You didn’t feel like crying before you were face to face, but now your eyes are brimming.

“Next time, you don’ fuckin’ stop me.” he speaks in a low tone, letting you weep. His image shakes and you try your hardest to focus, wiping at your eyes and blinking rapidly, all in vain. “When I speak, you listen. No talkin' back, no attitude. You wanna live, you do as I say when I say.” he checks you over carelessly, sees no glass stuck to your skin, only cuts, and deduces a potential concussion from your uncoordinated movements. “Hope you learned your fuckin’ lesson.”

Your downfall, your savior, your opposite, your everything.

He’s up and walking, and you’re given no time to tend to your wounds, not even to rip off some gauze and stuff it in your nose. You replace the notebook and pencil with a water bottle, cup a hand under it, and spare some water to then splash over your face and wash away a part of the bloody smears. A sip is forced down after a short struggle because your stomach refuses to welcome anything. With jelly legs, you rise, flail briefly because the act makes the world whirl and your brain feels like it’s pressing against the inside of your skull, a sickening sensation, seething and pulsing.

Your shoulder grinds against the walls to offer support for your off-course balance as you make your way out of the rundown building. There are no thoughts in your head, for once everything is still, a dark, blank canvas swallowing any image before it can even surface. There’s only a dull ache deep within your chest, mourning, partly for you, partly for the doctor.

Cooper is waiting for you outside with a cigarette pinched between his lips and kicking at the cracked soil.

High-pitched screeching deafens you as the sun’s rays nearly blind you on the spot. Your sensitive eyes are filling with more than tears of sadness, you’re snarling instinctively with a hand shielding your vision. It’s almost nauseating and leaves your knees weak.

Was it really always this bright?

The sun has no sympathy, it blasts scorching heat as if it knows exactly where your head is exposed and oozing, it targets you with viciousness because you’re battered and broken. You lift the stained folder, let it rest against your crown and give off enough shade to keep you from fainting.

With a pained expression, you follow after the ghoul once he takes a particularly long drag from his cigarette and turns on his heel.

A trail is left in your wake, blood, tears, sweat, all marking your path as you struggle not to trip over your feet. Each step is heavy and rattles both your teeth and your brain. It’s an alien sensation, not truly pain, it’s closer to pressure and it’s agony when combined with the rest of your unpleasant symptoms.

Your breaths echo in your ears, drowning out your footsteps because you’re heaving for air like a woman drowning. The world still swims albeit less so and sometimes it’s unbearable and you’re forced to cling to Cooper’s arm and squeeze your eyes shut as he guides you. All you want is to lie down somewhere soft and sleep, but there’s no building in sight, no trees, nothing.

You walk an endless road, hours of silent torment.

With enough distance and suffering, the day is finally coming to an end and everything is bathed in deep oranges and blaring pinks. The sunset is behind you, your shadow faces you and is as decrepit and tortured as you, you’re heading east, not that it matters. You can finally open your eyes fully without wincing and that’s one less discomfort to sulk over, but then another takes its place instantaneously.

Your backpack feels heavier than ever, it digs into your armpits and it would have been worse if you hadn’t sewn the ripped strap back in place, but it made no difference now. It weighed on your back, further ruined your posture.

You readjust it multiple times with a handful of irritated grunts.

“Ain’t nobody told you t’ stuff the whole fuckin’ vault in that thing.” finally he speaks after an eternity of wordless wandering. He’s eyeing you judgmentally while mouthing another cigarette. “Said to bring essentials.”

More fuel to the fire, more salt in the wound. He’s a relentless bastard when he wants to be.

You stop to rest your hands on your knees and catch your breath and you’re a pitiful sight, but that doesn’t stop you from glaring death at him. Too far gone, in too much pain and fear from failing to understand how much damage the blow to your head had caused, you’re a hair away from losing it completely.

“Nobody told you to bring that nasty attitude either, but here I am.” you snap back through gritted teeth. “Dealing with both.”

He pauses.

“Wha’d you say?” he’s tossing away the smoke and storming towards you, but you’re not your usual self – you don’t back down or shrink away or try to run. You’re staring him dead in the eyes with a nasty look. “Care t’ repeat, Missy? My hearin’s not what it used t’ be.” he’s taunting you while holding your face with one large hand, squishing your cheeks until your lips pucker.

“You’re an asshole.” you snarl with hatred; his roughness causes your nose to fill with blood again, a fresh batch that follows the edge of your curled back upper lip and dribbles down his glove. You look almost feral, you almost fit in with your environment, but your eyes are still soft despite everything.

“Only reason why you ain’t getting’ a beatin’s cuz you already got a concussion.” he jostles you harshly, always does when you’re stepping out of line, but he’s too late to deal punishments this time.

You’re past his demeaning attitude, you’re fed up with being flung like a ragdoll and tied up and blamed for existing because you attract bad attention and he has to waste bullets. You’re bleeding and bruised and hungry and out of patience for his teachings. It might be the concussion, might be something else, but you’re writhing.

You’ve had enough.

He was no hero. He was a fucking pest.

When he shakes you for the second time and pain stabs up your neck like a knife to the spine you shudder. The sound that leaves you is worse than your visage, a carnal bellow, a menacing reverberation that could rival that of a cornered animal.

You bite him.

You sink your teeth into the plush between his thumb and forefinger with enough force for your jaw to burn. You’re clinging to his wrist and when he forces you back your nails leave angry red lines over his skin, even through his coat. You take a wide stance to retain some balance and glare at him from behind a curtain of wild, sweat-drenched hair. Your nostrils flare wide and you spit out the grime you’d bitten off.

“Well I’ll be…” he sighs while tipping his hand slowly and looks over the blunt teeth marks adorning his glove. They glisten with a thick coat of saliva. A fowl grin cracks his somber features. “If you wanned t’ swap saliva, Darlin’, should’a just said so.”

He glides his tongue over the bitemark, then licks the blood clean off his fingers. He’s tasting you, he’s savoring you and your façade falls in repulsion.

That disgusting smile never leaves his chapped lips.

You’re on the verge of insanity, pushed to the brink from everything that’s happened in the past two months and today spelled your breaking point. You’re at your wit’s end and all he does is laugh at your misfortune without a drop of empathy. How can he enjoy your misery? What kind of sick man finds pleasure in another’s pain?

“What is wrong with you?!” you shriek as your hands ball, the folder you’d forgotten you still held, creases under the pressure. You land a fist against his chest, then another, and, of course, he doesn’t even flinch. “Why are you like this?!”

He holds your arms while stifling his cackles, softens your blows while you fuss, lost in your tantrum and throwing conniving insults his way while somehow avoiding any vulgarities. It would have been a comedic performance if your condition potentially worsening didn’t make him fret. He didn’t need you passing out in the middle of nowhere because you couldn’t control your frustration.

“Who did this to you?”

Who hadn’t? His darling wife had dug a knife in his back, taken his daughter away and left him to rot. He’d known the taste of betrayal and disloyalty before the bombs and now it was a free-for-all massacre. He’d not just lost everything, it had been ripped away from him. Every single person he’d known had either tried to kill him or left him stranded.

“Who hurt you so bad…”

But who were you to ask him such questions? Who were you to sink your claws so deep and stir him awake from his bitter slumber spanning over two centuries? Who were you to question his ways and fight to find better solutions? Who were you to mend wounds you’d not caused?

You were nothing.

You were everything.

“Easy.” he warns, paying no heed to your desperate laments, then releases one of your hands to snake an arm around your waist when your knees give out. “Easy now…Easy…”

You’re bawling into his collarbone, sobbing an ugly song, and staining his vest with heavy tears. Your fists uncurl once you’re done drumming at his chest and your fingers sink into the warmth beneath his coat. He’s a solemn golem, doesn’t react to your advances, he doesn’t see you as a threat.

“Why didn’t you just shoot me in the start…”

His heartbeat never changes, but you hear him swallow a lump. He watches over the top of your head as you succumb to periodic trembles and tire yourself out completely. A dainty and ethereal creature compared to him and even in your rage and unquenchable sorrow, both caused by him, you still cling to him.

You were similar in that regard. He had shown you the same mercy you’d shown to the doctor. Selfish spinelessness, lack of courage, weakness, twisted empathy. He was no hero, but you sure made him feel like one. A part of him was addicted to the goodness you carried and didn’t want to let you go. And he cared little for how fake or real it was, he just needed to have a taste once in a while, get a reminder that softer things yet thrive in the dark crooks of the apocalypse.

“Should’a stayed in Tillburry.” a rasp so low you could have mistaken it for a rustle in the wind.

He’s already locked eyes with you when you finally unfurl your face from his vest and look up. Newfound anger spells doom on your lips. It doesn’t suit you to be angry.

“I didn’t want to stay in Tillburry.” there’s spitfire in your voice as you talk down his feeble statement. A last soft punch to his chest to solidify your words as you continue. “I want to stay with you…”

“Y’ dunno what’d fuck you’re talkin’ about.” he gravels out a tender scold, his eyes dip to your frown, his mouth waters.

He inches closer, earning an inquisitive noise from you, but you don’t back away. You grip onto his coat and for once his heart is heavy as he lowers his head until the rim of his hat is brushing against your forehead. His breath hits you and it’s rich with the smell of cigarettes.

Your inhales are forced, brash and vocal, sucked in through parted lips as you take him in for the first time. Contrary to your beliefs, he had eyelashes, thick and dark and you wonder if he was brunette before he became a ghoul. His eyes were molten gold in the dying sunlight, prettier than yours would ever be, his cheekbones were high, accentuated by the lack of fat in his cheeks.

Once upon a time, he was a handsome man.

He’s pawing at your waist to keep you close, a precaution for the slim chance that your brain kicked back into function and you pulled away like you should. He had no right taking your first kiss, he had no right to anything of yours, but there was nobody present to stop him. A small guilty pleasure, a moment of indulgence, that’s all he wanted and he’d set you free.

You’re sweating, you’re shaking.

Were you really that scared of him?

“Coop – ”

“ – ‘S okay, Pumpkin. ‘S okay…” he coos in a hushed tone, tender and sugary. “I got you…Sweet thing…I’m here.”

A queer affection coming from a man who was anything but, your mind was hazy, you’d faint any second. Your stomach is bursting with fluttering butterflies as you give in to the needy hands kneading your sides.

What was this…

“ ‘M a bad man, I know…I know. Don’t deserve this.” he sees you searching for words, gives you a good squish and you’re so pliant under his fingers it makes him weak. “Is okay…Close those pretty eyes o’ yours.”

He’s so close he can feel the heat radiating off your skin, your nose is brushing against his cheek and his lips are ghosting over yours.

“Helloooo!”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

A caravan approaches, pulled by a pair of well-fed brahmin. A man is vigorously waving a hand your way, bearing a wide smile with mostly missing teeth.

You rush to straighten your dress once you’re abruptly released and pushed away. There’s danger dancing in Cooper’s stance as he mumbles an inaudible slew, his hand is at his holster and his shoulders become ridged. There’s a heat to your cheeks that you hope the sun masks and the medical folder is tucked in front of your chest as a barrier.

Judging by the ghoul’s reaction, this man, whoever he is, is trouble and you’re not mentally prepared to withstand another bloodbath.

He flings the reins, urging the brahmin to pick up the pace and the distance between your parties grows too short too quickly. You can only pray for a peaceful exchange. His cargo is large, rectangular and covered by a dark sheet bolted to the carriage on either side.

Once he’s close enough a distressful symphony reaches your ears and you step closer to Cooper out of habit. There’s the rattling of metal, a cacophony of pained moans and haggard groans, animalistic noises from a beast you’d yet to encounter.

Was he from a circus? What kind of animal made such sounds?

“Shut the hell up back there!” he slams his fist against the cargo, you guess it’s a cage of some sort, and the mystery animals fall silent. Then he stills the brahmin and flashes you a polite smile. “Evening, Miss.”

“Hello, Sir.” you nod and the firm hand on your hip tells you to be very careful with your next words.

He doesn’t even address Cooper despite him standing in front of you, just gives him a good full-body scan and averts his attention back to you. It’s strange, for once you’re not in his shadow, your gut warns of a dirty truth hidden behind that dark curtain, one which you didn’t want to delve into.

“Sorry to bother you this late an hour.” he plants an elbow against the backrest of his seat and turns to face you properly. “I was just wondering if you were selling.”

The wind picks up your hair, for a moment the world is still.

“Selling?” you cup a hand over your eyes to block out the dying red sun falling behind the distant horizon. Your brows lock in confusion because he certainly didn’t look like a merchant. “Selling what?”

“The ghoul.” he answers as if it’s the most obvious thing, then when you don’t answer immediately he decides to add a bit more honey to the mix. “Would pay good caps for that one.”

“The…WHAT?!”

Your blood runs cold. The moans you’d previously heard turn hauntingly grim and you try to look everywhere but the covered cage. The grip on your hip is bruising in strength; the only way to ease Cooper before he snaps is to step on his boot.

The bent stop sign a few feet down the road looks weak enough. You wonder if you can tear it out and bludgeon the man to death, then shake your head. He’s not a man, can’t be if your suspicions are true.

Because who would do such a thing…

“Stop.”

 It was impossible to entertain such thoughts. There exist so many words to describe the evil and grotesque and none of them come close to encompass such inhumane deeds.

“Sorry, Sir, not selling this one.” you muster out, shake off your horror and mask your malice with an awkward smile. You pat the ghoul’s shoulder like he’s a pet. “He’s a good mule, can’t imagine traveling without em.”

The words nearly make you gag while the man howls a throaty laugh.

“Sure looks like it. Real shame.” he sits back and grips the reins once more with a serene look as he stares into the sunset.

He doesn’t deserve to see such a sight, he doesn’t deserve to be so relaxed, he doesn’t deserve to live –

“ – Weeellp! If you change your mind, my establishment’s stationed in Pitfalls Valley. Big building, can’t miss it.” he gives you a playful wink and a click of his tongue before tugging at the reins “Have a good evening, Miss.”

The disturbance awakens the cage once more and the voices come back to life, despicable and anguished.

You can’t even process what had happened before you’re made to move.

“We gotta go.”

The gentle tug on your dress leads you away as you stare back unblinking. There’s a myriad of bony hands reaching from beneath the curtain, scraping at the bottom of the caravan, pulling at the metal bars, some of them are tiny.

Hate in its most primal state is an emotion you had never felt, not until today. You had never dreamed of killing someone until today. For once, you’re ready to watch a shootout, but it’s also one of those rare moments where Cooper prefers to walk away. You’re looking at him with pleading eyes and all he can offer is a bitter:

“It ain’t our problem.”

You’re no Mary Sue, you can’t charge into a battle and win, armed or not. You can’t be the hero those locked up ghouls need. You can’t do shit because this isn’t a fairytale. It’s life – cruel and cold, real and so unbelievably merciless, sick and twisted. There is no happy ending for anyone, there are no miracles.

All you can do is move along, stuff the memories in the depths of your subconscious and get over it because at least you’re still alive and free. It’s either wallow in despair or swallow it and survive. There is no joy, there is no love, no compassion, no humanity. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten.

You link your fingers with Cooper’s and squeeze.

“What kind of fucked up piece of shit sells ghouls…”

That cracks a smile from him. He closes his fingers over your hand until it disappears behind an aegis of leather.

“Well look at you startin’ t’ swear proper.”

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 8 >>>

🌼 Daisy Masterlist 🌼

Masterlist

Tag list: @bountydroid @windierhades @ultimatreality @gruffle1 @v3lv3tf0x

@fallout-girl219 @one-of-thewalkingdead @robin-the-enby @savanahc @whatthefuckkrichard

@rockst4rkitty @lisnamavka @lomlbillieeilish @itsyellow @cloudroomblog

@skykaykay @i-just-like-to-read @landlockedmermaid77 @enaelyork @maeplaysbass

@sgt-barnesveins

[southernmermaidsgrotto]

Herbalism book reccomendations 📚🌿

General herbalism:

The Herbal Medicine-Maker's Handbook by Green J. (2011)

20,000 Secrets of Tea: The Most Effective Ways to Benefit from Nature's Healing Herbs by Zak V. (1999)

The Modern Herbal Dispensatory: A Medicine-Making Guid by Easly T. (2016)

A-Z Guide to Drug-Herb-Vitamin Interactions by Gaby A.R.

American Herbal Products Association's Botanical Safety Handbook (2013) 

Medical Herbalism: The Science and Practice of Herbal Medicine by Hoffman D. (2003)

Herbal Medicine for Beginners: Your Guide to Healing Common Ailments with 35 Medicinal Herbs by Swift K & Midura R (2018)

Today's Herbal Health: The Essential Reference Guide by Tenney L. (1983)

Today's Herbal Health for Women: The Modern Woman's Natural Health Guide by Tenney L (1996)

Today's Herbal Health for Children: A Comprehensive Guide to Understanding Nutrition and Herbal Medicine for Children by Tenney L. (1996)

For my black folks!!!

African Medicine: A Complete Guide to Yoruba Healing Science and African Herbal Remedies by Sawandi T.M. (2017)

Handbook of African Medicinal Plants by Iwu M.M. (1993)

Working The Roots: Over 400 Years of Traditional African American Healing by Lee M.E. (2017)

Hoodoo Medicine: Gullah Herbal Remedies by Mitchell F. (2011)

African American Slave Medicine: Herbal and non-Herbal Treatments by Covey H.C. (2008)

The Art & Practice of Spiritual Herbalism: Transform, Heal, and Remember with the Power of Plants and Ancestral Medicine by Rose K.M. (2022)

Indigenous authors & perspectives!!

Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants by Kimmerer R.W. (2015)

Gathering moss by Kimmerer R.W. (2003)

The Plants Have So Much To Give All We Have To Do Is Ask by Siisip Geniusz M. (2005)

Our Knowledge Is Not Primitive: Decolonizing Botanical Anishinaabe Teachings by Djinn Geniusz W. (2009)

Ancient Pathways, Ancestral Knowledge: ethnobotany and ecological wisdom of indigenous peoples of northwestern North America by Turner N. (2014)

A Taste of Heritage: Crow Indian Recipes and Herbal Medicines by Hogan Snell A. (2006)

Medicines to Help Us by Belcourt C. (2007)

After the First Full Moon in April: A Sourcebook of Herbal Medicine from a California Indian Elder by Grant Peters J. (2010)

Latin american herbalism works!!

Earth Medicines: Ancestral Wisdom, Healing Recipes, and Wellness Rituals from a Curandera by Cocotzin Ruiz F. (2021)

Hierbas y plantas curativas by Chiti J.F. (2015)

Del cuerpo a las raíces by San Martín P.P., Cheuquelaf I. & Cerpa C. (2011)

Manual introductorio a la Ginecología Natural by San Martín P.P.

🌿This is what I have for now but I’ll update the post as I find and read new works, so keep coming if you wanna check for updates. Thank you for reading 🌿

[svsss-fanon-exposed]

Exposing SVSSS Fanon: 19/∞

XUAN SU IS A LARGE, BROAD, IMPOSING-LOOKING SWORD

Rating: FANON - CONFLICTING

The common depiction of Yue Qingyuan's sword Xuan Su is of a very large weapon with a broad blade. However, this design conflicts with the actual text of the novel, which states that Xuan Su is a rather plain-looking longsword.

Upon the white stone platform, a black hem was evenly laid, a plain and rustic longsword held firmly beneath it. Several empty, upended medicine bottles lay scattered about. (7 Seas, Ch. 24)

The "longsword" here is 长剑，which is a specific type of sword with a straight, double-edged blade around 1-1.5m (3-4ft) long, 3cm (1 inch) wide. Therefore, the width of the blade would not be the way it is often portrayed, which appears to be closer to hand-width.

Furthermore, longswords in SVSSS can be worn on the back or at the waist. Typically, in terms of sword-combat, longer swords are worn on the back and shorter swords on the waist.

Shen Qingqiu looked at Xuan Su at his waist. (7 Seas, Ch. 21)

Because Yue Qingyuan wears his sword at his waist, it can be inferred that Xuan Su is not abnormally long for a longsword-- and it can even be seen that the swords pictured in artwork wouldn't be able to be comfortably worn at the waist.

"Plain and Rustic" in the above description is translated from 古朴，which implies an old-fashioned, primitive simplicity. Xuan Su appears to be an old, basic-looking sword-- an image which contrasts the strength of its power.

The only other description we have for Xuan Su's design：

The all-black longsword at his waist abruptly sprang an inch from its sheath, revealing a blindingly snow-white blade. (7 Seas, Ch. 6)

From this, it can be said that the hilt and sheath are black and the blade glows white. Whether the metal itself is white or it only shines that way, it is unknown.

The depiction of Xuan Su as a large, claymore-type weapon appears both in the EN official art as well as the promotional art for the donghua:

However, this is not the first such depiction-- it has long been common in fanworks to give Xuan Su this distinctive, wide-bladed design.

Particularly, Xuan Su was also drawn somewhat large and broad by 老历茅台, a CN fanartist whose unofficial designs were very popular in early fandom, albeit this design was not so extreme as the later official versions, and seems to still fall under the specifications of a "longsword:"

For visual design standards, it certainly makes sense to draw attention to Xuan Su by giving it such a distinctive appearance. The size of the sword denotes its importance and power instantly to the viewer, and since the novel itself never attempts to conceal the fact that Xuan Su is a powerful sword, it would make sense to reveal this to viewers in visual mediums, which would not have the benefit of Shen Yuan's internal dialogue to bring this information.

By making Xuan Su appear imposing and larger than the others' swords, it sets it apart at a glance, while also demonstrating Yue Qingyuan's strength and power even though we do not often see him fighting.

However, in the text of the novel itself, Xuan Su is not described this way, so these visual depictions still run contrary to the canonical description of the sword.

[yandere--stuck]

Yandere!TFP!Knock Out x Human!Reader Headcanons

❤️‍🩹 Knockout had become relatively well known in local street racing scenes. He had meant to keep a low profile, of course, but with a model as beautiful as his, he couldn't help but stand out. Simply the cost of beauty! What he didn't expect, however, was to get a fan. Sure, Knock Out noticed familiar faces at multiple races, but this was different. Someone who always complimented his skills and good looks after races. It wasn't long before he began to pick you out from a crowd. Hearing the whispers of your voice in the tornado of a crowd, yet somehow still distinct to Knock Out. The more he crossed paths, the more he indulged in talking with you and the longer he strayed from returning to the ship.

⛑️ He always kept his tinted windows up, much to your disappointment. Said he wanted to keep this side of him secret, but he did open up. At least, partially. You wouldn't get a real name, but could call him Knock Out, as a nickname. He told you he had recently transferred over for a position in medicine. That he practically lived at work and the conditions were terrible. The second he got a chance, he turned to the open road to feel some sense of freedom. When you responded with sympathy, Knock Out found himself surprised. He'd always considered humans… Primitive. Cute and squishy, but not exactly the most evolved bunch. Humans were supposed to be animals. But, you understood Knockout. You shared your own troubles and related to him. To watch the exhilaration of racing is to be stuck in the moment, to forget everything except where the rubber meets the road and how fast you can go. Despite himself, Knock Out began to grow fond of you.

❤️‍🩹 Whenever Knock Out was aboard The Nemesis, he only thought of you - which led to a few slip ups during surgeries. And whenever he gets a moment to himself, he's so wrapped in seeing you that even racing just feels like a preamble to talking to you! And he's been staying out so late… It isn't long before Megatron catches wind of this, going so far as to threaten his life if he didn't shape up. So, what he was about to do really wasn't his fault. It was for the best. He wouldn't focus if he didn't have you with him and when they win this war, you'll be lucky he took you in. Besides, you don't really think those other humans deserve you more than him, do you?

⛑️ It's late. He purposefully kept you from leaving long after the streets were deserted and the sun was swallowed up the horizon. He told you he wanted to show you the real him. You aren't expecting his door to open, and you definitely aren't expecting it to empty. Seatbelts shoot out to wrap around your body, pulling you in. You fly forward and crash face first against the seats, failing to catch your fall as you slide inside. You hear clicks as the belts secure you in, yelping as Knock Out rocketed forward, taking off into the night. 

❤️‍🩹 Knock Out, being more knowledgeable on humans than his fellow Decepticons, acquires everything you need to live comfortably. Nothing but the best for his favorite human! He understands that you're confused, angry, upset, betrayed, even. But that's okay! You'll see, Knock Out will show you this is for the best. You're probably feeling homesick, too, and love's the only medicine! He can't deny that somehow you've wormed your way into his spark.

⛑️ He's cautious around who he shows you off to, but when he does, he's incredibly boastful and proud of you, his human. The best human, even, because Knock Out deserved nothing but the best! Someone like Breakdown might not get it, and hey, as long as he's happy, right? But, at the same time, he can't help but notice how oddly affectionate and sentimental Knock Out is with you. Almost, dare he say it, like what one would do with a conjunx. Holding you cupped in his hands, holding you against his face plate (even sneaking the occasional peck), petting your head carefully with a claw.

❤️‍🩹 Knock Out doesn't care what the others think in regards to hiding you, just that he worries you may get hurt or used as a bargaining chip, and he couldn't live with himself if something happened to you. He felt… Connected to you. He loved having you by his station as he worked. You've even begun to start talking to him again! And it makes him feel so, so happy. His perfect little human. He doesn't care what anyone, even Megatron, thinks. He… He loves you. And he will never, ever let you go, no matter how much you stroke his ego and plead to go home, but the flattery is still appreciated all the same. Maybe one day you'll actually believe it.

[spaghettioverdose]

Lovely how there's just blogs like "hello I'm the ecofascism blog. I just love ecofascism so much! We need to retvrn to primitivism just like all of those indigenous people who were like super primitive and had no civilization or agriculture or technology (totally not racist because I think it's a good thing)! Abandon your technology now! Don't be silly nuclear power and renewables are useless and the only way to save the planet is by somehow wiping out all industrial production and everyone who relies on modern medicine along with it! Yes this is a totally sane and normal position and btw did you read this book by a guy who lived in a cabin in the woods and made mail bombs yet?" and then tumblr anarchists will just reblog this shit either because they saw some edgy post by the ecofascism blog that said some vaguely leftist shit or because they just straight up agree with a lot of the views of the ecofascism blog. Like it's startling how many tumblr anarchists are straight up anprims at this point.