#prion au

[canned-goose-feathers]

XVI.

BdoubleO100 fell from a high place

BdoubleO100 fell from a high place

BdoubleO100 fell from a high place

Grian balances some mossy cobble in one hand to peek at his comm. Huh. Maybe Bdubs is building somewhere high? To be honest, he hasn't seen what Bdubs is building this season. He's been a bit preoccupied. The glare from the setting sun is enough to make him squint and raise his hands. Maybe he’s been working too long today. There’s another ping from his comm.

BdoubleO100 swam in lava

Grian purses his lips. The cobble in his hands is starting to slip, the moss wet with dew and his own sweat, so he shoves his comm in his pocket and reorients himself best he can. It's an active effort to shove his spiraling thoughts away these days. He's been avoiding Scar and Mumbo, claiming to be far too busy to help test their redstone or tour the park or play whatever new card game the rest of the hermits have become obsessed with. 

Thankfully they seemed to pick up on his mood, and had been giving him space. Most of the hermits had been giving him space. Save for Xisuma, who’s stopped by at least once to check on him; thankfully the admin’s made a point not to stand too close when he does visit, which Grian appreciates. 

By the time he sets the cobble down, his comm has pinged three more times. Dusting his hands off, Grian pulls it out. 

BdoubleO100 fell from a high place

Xisuma: you okay dubs?

BdoubleO100: fine

Grian frowns. Maybe Bdubs is having a hard day? He types out half a message in the global chat, erases it, and starts typing something in his whispers to Bdubs, but he stops. Were this a few months ago, he would jump at the idea of helping Bdubs out. After all, that’s what the hermits do, right? They help each other out, they’re a big happy family. 

Except they weren’t, were they?

Nausea creeps up his throat and sits behind his teeth until he shivers, wings fluffing out. He needs to fix this or . . . do something. He’s not even sure what it is that needs fixing, and thinking about it burrows spikes into his brain. He glances towards where he knows the Entity is as if he's some kind of compass bound to it. 

Grian’s tired. Not tired like he would be after a long day’s work, or exhausted like he’d feel on returning from a Life session. He’s tired, bone-deep, of the feeling of being hunted he’s had since he set foot on season nine. He’s been running like a rabbit for too long and now weariness weighs him down, slows his brain and body, even as the wolf gets closer. Except, of course, it never really catches him. Either he’s too stubborn, too unwilling to yield . . . or there’s no wolf. 

He stumbles next to his chest monster and barely catches himself on the edge of a shulker. Flying back . . . probably wasn’t the best idea. That’s okay, he’s thrown a bed down in the bottom of Dwayne for this exact reason. The sun has almost fully set when he manages to shuffle over to the bed, collapsing hard into it. He’s out like a light in seconds. 

He sleeps dreamlessly for what must only be minutes before a hand shakes him awake. He startles, wings flaring up. As consciousness comes back to him, so does confusion. It’s still nighttime? Sure enough, it’s quiet outside and he can see the darkness through the hole in the side of Dwayne. 

The second strange thing that deepens his confusion stands in front of him, holding a lantern. Bdubs looks . . . he doesn’t look good. There are bags under his eyes and a curl to his shoulders that Grian knows too well. It reminds him of season eight, when no one had slept well as the moon loomed closer. Bdubs shouldn’t look as ragged as he does though; It’s a new season. 

Grian props himself up and rubs an eye. “Dubs? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t sleep,” Bdubs says, staring unblinkingly. Grian shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze.

“Well, what d’you want me to do about it?” 

“I need you to kill me.”

That does wake Grian up. “What?”

Bdubs rolls his eyes, like Grian’s the one out of touch. Which, rude, but besides the point. “You know what I mean! God, doesn’t Scar tell you anything?”

Grian stares at him, wavering for a second before deciding that yeah, sure, this is a thing that can happen. He rolls somewhat inelegantly out of bed, his foot caught momentarily in the blanket in such a way that he bares his teeth at the offending object until he can free himself. He shuffles through his pile of belongings for probably a bit longer than necessary before grabbing his sword. There’s a half beat of breath as he steadies himself. Then, Grian lunges towards Bdubs and runs the sword through his chest. It slides through almost too easily with a sickening gush of blood along the enchanted metal edge. Bdubs gasps, his hot breath on Grian’s face and his eyes shining with instinctual tears. 

Grian is more than good at killing quickly, as long as the other party isn’t fighting back, and as he rips the sword from Bdubs’s gut, the man is already beginning to dissolve. There’s a tinge of copper in the air that makes Grian’s teeth chatter, but he shoves it down. 

BdoubleO100 was slain by Grian

Silence holds him down like a blanket. The buzz of the kill still trickles up and down his arms, but if he lays down right now and focuses, he should be able to get back to sleep. 

“No!” The sound of rockets and Bdubs’s frustrated yell dash his idea entirely. The now mostly bare hermit lands gracelessly on top of his items, shoving them in a shulker. “Quit playing around, Grian. Gosh, I knew Scar was the sadistic type but really, sometimes a man just wants to get some rest.”

Grian stares at him. Bdubs turns back around and puts his hands on his hips. 

“Now c’mon, are we gonna do this right? Do you need, like, a specific area? Some tools? I’m a bit too tired for a wine ‘n dine if I’m honest but I can write you an IOU—”

“Bdubs,” Grian cuts him off, his eyes wide and wary, “what are you talking about, are you alright?”

“I’m tired, and you’re being obtuse — I don’t really mean that — but seriously, Scar’s not here or else I’d go to him. I’m a creature of habit, y’know? But, in his absence, you’re the next best thing and . . . you . . .” Bdubs trails to a stop, finally seeming to take in Grian’s tense form. The silence is deafening, save for Grian’s shaky breath. His grip tightens on his sword (like that would do any good). 

Bdubs stares. Grian thinks there might be smoke coming out of his ears and his eyes rake over Grian in a way that makes him feel far too seen. Finally, he breaks the silence. “You don’t know, do you?”

It’s like throwing a rock at a glass wall. 

Grian’s mouth twists into what must be an unnatural snarl. It’s not the bright anger from the Entity that sparks like flint and steel, but instead his carefully-constructed barriers break under the weight of the rage behind them. Weeks, months, of being kept purposefully in the dark by his friends has taken more than a toll on him. This anger is all his, he knows that much. Now, he has an outlet. “No, evidently I don’t. But since you’re here and already talking, why don’t you tell me?”

“I can’t—”

“Why?”

“I just can’t, Grian, I—”

“You can’t.” Grian raises up his sword, taking a step towards Bdubs. “Scar can’t. Pearl can’t. Mumbo can’t. You all seem to know exactly what’s going on and you outright refuse to tell me. What, am I dying? Is my code being ripped apart from the inside?”

He takes another step. Bdubs begins to back away, his eyes wide, his hands held up as Grian continues to rant. “I deserve to know, don’t you think? I should know what’s happening with my own damn body. Because I certainly don’t know right now. I’m tired, Bdubs. You can at least appreciate that. Now let’s both leave here satisfied, hm? I’ll give you what you want, if you give me what I want.”

There’s a long silence. Bdubs has backed into a wall, the tip of Grian’s sword pressing into his chest. He’s breathing quicker, and some part of Grian preens at the idea that he caused this fear. Bdubs opens his mouth like a fish a few times, unsure, but Grian doesn’t waver. He’s tired of this. He wants answers. 

“I . . . Grian, I’m sorry, I can’t tell you,” Bdubs’s voice is barely above a whisper. 

Grian’s sword presses through his clothes and breaks the skin beneath. Red blooms across his shirt and the copper smell makes Grian’s mouth water. “Why not?”

“You have to ask . . . Scar.” There’s a beat. Grian narrows his eyes at the hesitation.

“Do you want to change that answer?” Bdubs shakes his head firmly. “And what am I going to ask Scar, then?”

“He told me not to tell you and . . . I can’t lose him. I can’t. If I tell you, everything I, we! Everything we built will come crashing down. Scar is . . . I don’t want to be on his bad side, Grian.”

“Scar. Scar Goodtimes. The man who is currently making a theme park and keeps blowing himself up by accident. The same man who maintained for a month and a half he was an elf and had those plastic elf ears. That Scar. That’s the one you’re scared of?”

“I’m not scared of him,” Bdubs snaps. 

“Then tell me!” 

“You’re not ready!”

Grian’s lip curls at that. “Not ready. He said the same thing to me, do you know that? Not ready. Shouldn’t I get to decide? Since when is Scar, of all people, deciding to be my knight in shining armor. Why on earth would he want to?”

“Now, that last one, I’m pretty sure you know,” Bdubs expression softens, something that Grian steadfastly and purposefully ignores in favor of pushing onwards. 

“This has to do with the Entity?”

Bdubs shrugs. Grian twists his hand and presses the sword deeper, earning a hiss out of Bdubs as his blood begins to run down the length of the blade. “Look! I don’t know, Scar doesn’t tell me about that, he’s just worried about you.”

“Fantastic way of showing it.”

“Look,” Bdubs says, raising his hands, “I don’t know jack about jack, and you and Scar clearly need to have a talk or something, so just like . . . kill me and I can go and I won’t bother you. Promise.”

Grian considers it for a long moment. It’s an effort to ignore the scent of blood and the ache in his stomach, but he does. Finally, he says “When you see Scar next, tell him to find me before I find him. It’ll go better that way.”

Before Bdubs can reply, Grian shoves his sword through the man’s stomach. Bdubs coughs and gasps, blood dribbling from his lips. Grian adjusts his grip to pull the sword out, but one of Bdubs’s bloody hands grabs his, stopping him. Grian’s brows knit together, but Bdubs just nods at him, slow and sure. Grian leaves the sword, leaves Dwayne entirely. Something about Bdubs bleeding out on the floor of his base makes him uneasy in a way he doesn’t like. 

BdoubleO100 was slain by Grian

It’s with shaking hands that Grian decides that he and Scar need to have a talk. Soon. 

[witchofthesouls]

How tiny would the second set of sparklings be after Overlord?

Very tiny and delicate as they're really premature. Their saving grace was that their forms were nearly settled and had begun the bulking phase.

Nickel was able to drop them inside an incubator, so their bodies could stabilize more and hopefully get more weight on them. And had a screaming match with some 'con medical personnel. She stole joints and sliced cabling since she's at the perfect height for knees and ankles before kicking people out.

It's unfortunate that the Decepticons don't have a blacksmith that's experienced with neonatal care, but there's a Prion medic and Camien nurse from Order the Luminara that made some plans.

Because the three are itsy-bitsy, they wear onsies for better thermoregulation. They're either sleeping or eating as they have severely limited reserves.

Tarn has upgraded to perch since all three can curl into the nook between his neck and collarfare, which is far easy to keep track of them since all three can fit in his palm and still have room to squirm around. The split-sparks are grumpy because that was their favorite spot, and they got kicked out to his chassis.

Nurse is grumpy because of the healing process, and the lack of biolights on their armature means Tarn's cozier to all the sparklings' senses.

[chimerahyperfix]

imagine utterly destroying yourself to save people that you can’t save. shattering to a thousand little shards to stop something that can’t be stopped, and you have to suffer until you break even more and give up. Stretching yourself as thin as you can— and further— for a thought of a fight against an unstoppable force. The world will go on, no matter what you do. If you’ve trapped yourself trying to stop the inevitable, that’s on you, and you’ll suffer until you give in and let it happen.

[chownkiies]

Gang

(there's more characters but these are the group that I focus more on ;-;) I want to draw Nickels group of friends back on Prion gwaa

[i-mean-technically]

OK BUT

Orion Pax Arc AU Time!

Orion is a Smart Cookie. He was all for destroying the government before he became Optimus Prime and worked in the biggest information/knowledge hub on Cybertron. He was raised by the Scribe Prime ok

He's intelligent and can make choices on his own and he's with the 'cons for less than a day and he will absolutely be like "this is sus as FUCK"

so

he just

fucking leaves

there's an AMNESIAC ARCHIVIST loose ON EARTH.

DOES HE EVEN KNOW HOW TO SPEAK ENGLISH???? DOES HE KNOW WHAT HE TRANSFORMS INTO TO????

oh my god Cybertron doesn't have a sun ORION PAX SEEING A SUNRISE FOR THE FIRST TIME

i feel like i should make a separate blog for writing about these AUs whatchy'all think

[chekhovs-nailgun]

is it more romantic for a cannibal to slaughter and eat their lover, or to worship their body like a saintly relic? is it more romantic to spare them altogether? is the most romantic thing to devour them slowly and savor their flesh, only continuing after their wounds heal?

if ashley were ever to butcher and consume andrew, it would be an act of possession. (stay with me)

if andrew were ever to butcher and consume ashley, it would be an act of conservation. (stay with me)

they are already devouring each other slowly.

[cxyotl]

WHATS THIS? THE NEW AND IMPROVED PRIONS AU FIC??

I have three chapters out and ready to go!! theres more chapters to edit, and i think i might mass drop them too between tonight and tomorrow so that we can be back on track and i can get back to writing the next chapter. after that i’ll go back to spacing out chapters again. the original had like 11 chapters out at the time of deletion so i got my work cut out for me lmao.

I talk about it so much, but Prions is my dsmp zombie au based loosely on the dsmp egg arc, chronic wasting disease, and slime molds!

This fic is written about dsmp characters, who i’ve modified slightly to be humans and in real world locations. techno and schlatt are main characters, with benchtrio and dapduo as supporting characters, and punz and purpled as antagonists.

[hi-im-lugh]

*Runs up to you with one of those wand cat toys held like a microphone*

Thoughts about zombie viruses in media?

(No presser to answer, I just thought you might have thoughts about it. Feel free to ignore this ^^;)

HI!!! IM SO GLAD YOU ASKED

Zombie viruses are INCREDIBLY hit or miss for me. I either love them or hate them and very often hate them.

My main problem is that SO much zombie media tries to be accurate to real life or take real world inspiration, and as someone who knows a lot about diseases, that ruins it for me SO bad. No matter what you do to Rabies it will not do that. Neither will prions. Honestly prions as a zombie virus often has racist roots in misperception of the Kuru outbreak in the Fore people. (Looking at you DEAD ISLAND.)

I like zombie viruses that are removed from reality. That's honestly why I've enjoyed the MLP infection au trend so much- quite a few of 'em hit the perfect sweet zone of fantasy science and pure fantasy. The Resident Evil series is in a similar spot- the science in that series is COMPLETELY insane and means nothing and it's beautiful.

When zombie media focuses on scientific explanations that are just- not science, it leaves out the much more amazing chance for weird story telling. Give me more magic viruses! Ancient curses! Completely implausible viruses that acknowledge they're implausible and don't focus on it!

....also sometimes when people learn I like diseases they immediately ask me about zombies and it makes me want to bite someone.

[an-organized-confusion]

Because med nerd (and watching a video about BSE)...

So. I called the zombie infection in the iZombie AU “ζvCJD-21“.

Just to break that down - the “vCJD“ part is named after “Variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease“ AKA “mad cow disease“.

“ζ“ is the lowercase Greek letter “zeta“... because zombies.

Aaand I think you get the naming convention behind the “...D-21“ part. (Outbreak was discovered that year, in this AU.)

But circling back on the main chunk... something I’ve HCd about the zombie infection here... is that if there is a cure to the infection, that it would still leave a sort of spongiform pattern of permanent damage in the brain. But here, specifically, the parts that process taste/smell. (Some can be compensated from rewiring/plasticity, but not 100%.)

(Though if the zombie progresses past Full Romero, the damage is more... diffuse and everywhere. If they stay fed, the agent behind the infection is stopped/slowed from progressing.)

If Logan has the opportunity to do autopsy on a zombie - that can be the histological findings (under the microscope) in their brain tissue.

(Just thinking of the implications for Team Z here - Janus, Virgil, the twins... and later, unfortunately, the twins’ parents.)

[eruisapenguin]

how would you feel if I tell a baby I'll be taking their privileges huh??? Bro had it coming, I be chewing on their bones and shit.

😭😭😭 AKSJSKSKA

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 42, 17 octobre 1896, Paris. Nos patrons découpés (Grandeur naturelle). Costume tailleur, corsage et jupe. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Détails et explication des patrons découpés:

(1.) Jupe. (Skirt.)

Ce patron se compose de quatre parties: (This pattern consists of four parts:)

No. 1. — Le devant, coupé double, droit fil au milieu, sans couture. (The front, cut double, straight grain in the middle, without seam.)

No. 2. — Le premier lé de côté, se rattachant au devant par un cran droit, fil du côté du devant. (The first side strip, attached to the front by a straight notch, grain on the side of the front.)

No. 3. — Le deuxième lé, que l'on coupe également double; deux crans indiquent le raccord au premier côté; la partie où sont placés les deux crans est droit fil; l'autre partie, se rattachant au lé du dos, est en biais. (The second strip, which is also cut double; two notches indicate the connection to the first side; the part where the two notches are placed is straight grain; the other part, attached to the back strip, is on the bias.)

No. 4. — Le lé du dos, se coupant double, droit fil au milieu, se rattache au deuxième lé de côté par trois crans. (The back strip, cut double, straight grain in the middle, is attached to the second side strip by three notches.)

Métrage: Pour la jupe, 4 mètres tissu grande largeur.

—

(2.) Corsage. (Bodice.)

No. 1. — Le devant, coupé ouvert et ajusté par une pince. (The front, cut open and fitted with a dart.)

No. 3. — Le premier côté, se rattachant au devant par un cran. (The first side, attached to the front by a notch.)

No. 4. — Le deuxième côté, formant patte dans le bas; deux crans indiquent le raccord au premier côté. (The second side, forming a tab at the bottom; two notches indicate the connection to the first side.)

No. 2. — Le dos, fermant au milieu. (The back, closing in the middle.)

No. 5. — Le col-revers; un cran indique le raccord au devant. (The lapel collar; one notch indicates the connection to the front.)

Ce corsage est donné sans la manche. Nous prions nos lectrices de se reporter aux manches déjà données. (This bodice is given without the sleeve. We ask our readers to refer to the sleeves already given.)

Métrage: Pour la veste, y compris la manche, 1m,50 tissu grande largeur.

Ce costume se fait en lainage épais: cachemire, drap, vigogne uni. Le corsage forme veste légèrement arrondie, s'ouvrant sur chemisette. Le patron du corsage se compose de cinq morceaux.

This costume is made of thick wool: cashmere, cloth, plain vicuna. The bodice forms a slightly rounded jacket, opening onto a shirt. The pattern for the bodice is made up of five pieces.

[canned-goose-feathers]

XV.

It’s amazing how quickly the pain and horror fades away when faced with the idea of having to do something silly and embarrassing in front of someone else. He sits inside the Entity, his legs crossed, with Pearl in front of him. Grian's scowl says enough, but he voices his opinion anyway. 

"Pearl, this is ridiculous."

"So you just want to keep telling that to the sentient rock that's possessing you?" Pearl gives him a withering look, "That'll solve everything, won't it?" 

She's right, of course, but the idea of sitting here and thinking about communicating seems absolutely mad. 

But, well, try telling Pearl that. 

"Take a deep breath," Pearl says. 

"Pearl—" 

"Grian."

"I told you already—" 

"You told me that the only times you lose control are when you get hungry," she interrupts, "and I'll guess that you've never tried communicating with it otherwise."

"Well, no."

"Then shut up."

Grian dutifully keeps his mouth shut. She quirks a brow at him and he sighs, closing his eyes. 

"Now imagine a thread," she starts, "what color is it?" 

He cracks an eye open at her, but her glare stops the complaint on the tip of his tongue. He closes his eyes again. "Red," he says after a beat. The deepest red that he can imagine, a dark color that shifts in his mind. 

"Good. Now imagine that thread starts in the center of your chest and extends out, tying you to the Entity, yeah?" He nods. He can see it in his mind's eye, though it seems tattered in places and knotted in others, as if it’s been clumsily tied together. Where it extends towards the Entity, it's consumed in inky blackness, as if his mind can't conjure the Entity. 

"Now pull." 

He takes a deep breath in and holds it, then imagines wrapping the thread around his hand and yanking on it. 

Air rushes out of him like he's been punched and if he hadn’t been sitting he would have collapsed. He feels his mind slide like oil off a wet rock, smooth enough that by the time he notices, he can't pull himself back. 

It feels dream-like, almost as if he’s watching in the third person, but somehow from the first person as well. It’s . . . disorienting, and even harder when he can’t hold onto his thoughts long enough to make any sense of it. His eyes open and he sees Pearl still sitting in front of him, watching curiously. She sways forward as if she’s thinking if reaching for him, but holds herself back. 

Grian's fingers curl around his knees and the feeling of his nails scraping sends electricity through him. He feels foreign interest at the sensation and turns his head to watch his fingers scrape his clothed knee. He tries to stop the motion as his fingers dig in harder and pain ripples up him, but he can only really watch as his knuckles turn white. 

"Grian?" 

His eyes snap up and he's flooded with danger, hurt, stranger. Muscles tense, but his body doesn’t move yet. He’s ready to, though. The sense of fear is choking him. It must show on his face, because Pearl turns her hands palm up. Grian tries to shove the feeling down, tries to project some kind of calm, but he’s so shaken on his own that he’s not sure how much it actually does.

"I won't hurt you. Do you have a name?" 

Grian's head cocks to the side. The wariness is still there and he tries once again to push back safety. 

"No." Grian's voice sounds rough and quiet, muscles not quite working in unison. 

She nods. "He calls you Entity. Can I call you that?" 

"Yes," he says with some hesitance. 

Pearl nods, pleased. "What exactly are you?" 

Grian can feel Entity rumble against the inside of his chest, a mixture of raw emotions moving too fast for Grian to process. After a dizzying few seconds, his lips move again. "Hunger."

"That's what you are, hunger?" 

Grian's head nods. He’s numb and tired in his own head. The Entity is cloying, smoke from a fire weighing him down and draining the energy from his will until he is lax and lethargic. It’s an effort just to listen to the conversation, but he pushes himself. 

"Why Grian?" 

"Safe," Entity says, almost purring in Grian's voice, "Mine."

"He doesn't understand. You need to speak with him."

"No." The instant response seems to rattle Pearl. The naturality to Grian's posture slides away in twitches and starts, as does Grian’s tenuous control. 

"Why not?" 

There's a curl to his lip as he says "He would starve us."

Pearl's brow scrunched together. "That doesn't sound like him. Why would he starve you?" 

"He thinks it gives him control," Entity says, nails digging hard again into its knees, knuckles turning white. "He thinks we will be weak."

Sweat begins to bead on Pearl's forehead. She wipes it away. "Then speak with him, you're clearly intelligent enough. Speak with him and help him understand."

Entity's eyes narrow at her, bloodshot and moving far too quickly. It's then that Pearl notices the heat building in the room, the way the floor shifts under her. It's then that she recognizes the hungry gaze that's never crossed Grian's face. That shouldn’t.

"There are other ways," Entity says. 

A malformed hand grabs onto Pearl's arm, then another onto her jacket. She flinches and turns, but the hands yank and pull her down, one covering her mouth. The Entity watches her struggle with the same, unmoving hungry gaze as the red meat of the room pulls her down. Her muffled shriek suddenly goes silent.

Entity licks a red stain of blood from its teeth and smiles.

Taglist

@shamise @bordanbee @mayathebea @tinypasserine @clownishnoob @tobias-vale @klm-zoflorr @speciesofanvora @thoughtsrunnigthroughmyhead @hawaiiptiii @nobodyyo @its-my-main-hello @devorakian-guilt @canthugeveryzahhak @whoopsie-daisies-sys @raesethedead @finch-beeps @mintchocolateleaves @hiiamafangirl

[witchofthesouls]

At least Tarn's a tank and can help feeding the little ones when the nurse sleeps or works.

Unfortunately no. In the donor clause au, Tarn's a Seekerkin mech. Any kind of personal refineries or shared fueling systems will be incompatible with any frame he has.

Nickel had beat that into his head before the impulse to get a botch job from a catalog took root. Tarn simply gets a thing for your own wells and becomes a walking encyclopedia on various personal refineries and fueling systems.

Unless it's bottle feeding, then yes. Luckily, the nurse has fantastic production. There's a nice surplus in the medbay and Tarn's quarters. He gets the bottle for the newsparks can suckle. Thankfully, Seekerkin sparklings develop a fueling rhythm within the clutch, so only one or two (particular to the split-sparks) need to be fed at a time and around the clock.

Seekerkin femmes have unique refineries of pure protoform. The D.J.D. got a good look at yours and are highly curious because it's not the silicone bags that needs to be emptied out before packed away like they're used to.

Helex and Tesarus were in a room with their own out and went, "Oh yeah, those are different. Let's ask Nickel."

Nickel understands what they're asking about. It's the same quirk that's that was an issue in Prion among their own brand of Seekerkin. Because on Prion, everyone had multiple alt-modes. It came with its own challenges to get their frames and coding in smooth order. Depending on the mecha's spark, some alt-mode unique characteristics need to be suppressed or taken out to work with others.

Because Nickel enjoys her submarine alt-mode, she doesn't have personal refineries. She has an external fueling system that's similar to a convoy where the access points are hidden along her torso and the cables can be pulled to a certain distance where it's tapped into her internal hold.

[nephitefortuna]

AU First Aid

Forged on Prion, First Aid is a rather helpful little guy, even if his anxiety makes him unreliable in combat he can still assist his allies by attaching himself to them or their weapons granting them a power up or helping them repair themselves faster. They were trained by Ratchet before being transferred to Firster Aid on the Paradronian Front. He is rather nervous when meeting new bots but hopes to make himself welcomed, especially in his new squad where there seems to be no immediate commanding officers.

[ask-cloud-rhider]

As the sludge drips down her face...Smiley realizes the mistake that she has made now making contact of the prion from the former test subject. Death is certain for this filly...and now all she can do is wonder what went wrong...

the infected AU's got to me...

I wonder what happened to her...

[spinedog]

OK misunderstood how this works before I think? So,

Talk about chaotic biology (RWBY - Drabble)

You can request a drabble and ramble here! Scroll down to see what I've been asked about so far.

No worries at all!! It's a weird concept.

Gonna start putting all of these under a readmore to save dashboards but to summarize:

Ramble - You ever heard of prions? Mad Cow Disease? Chronic Wasting Disease? Ever wonder if it would be safe to eat a brain? Let's talk about that.

Drabble - I sure hope you like FR&HH universe (wild west RWBY au) because you weren't specific and my brain Went Somewhere

So let's talk about prions because I deal with them at work. Unlike bacteria (definitely alive) or viruses (not really alive), prions are Definitely Not Alive because it's just a protein molecule. In fact, it's one of the many specific proteins that your central nervous system needs to be alive and do its job - except, for some reason, this protein has just slightly misfolded. And that slight misfold causes a chain reaction and misfolds all of its buddies. And the brain responds, very normally, to this by turning into a sponge. This makes being a brain very difficult, to the point of dementia-like decline and then death.

But as horrible as this is, it shouldn't be contagious, right? WRONG! Some forms are! But don't worry, you're human, so as long as you're not eating the brains/nerve tissue of infected cows (or people) you'll be fine. Unless you have a family history of one of the human versions. Or you come into contact with contaminated medical equipment. Or if the deer version follows in the cow versions footsteps and breaks into us, because that's probably the most out of control prion disease at the moment.

So that's prions, the broken puzzle peice that causes Mad Cow Disease (cows), Scrapie (sheep/goats), Chronic Wasting Disease (deer and relatives), Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease (humans), and many others. It is super rare in people, but always fatal when it happens - and it's the same death that a dementia or Alzheimer's patient would suffer. This is one of the many reasons why we have disease surveillance programs and why they're important.

sorry did i say chaotic biology i probably meant cursed biology let's do that drabble

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Another night, another dimly lit saloon. It was well past the respectable man's bedtime, yet the crowd was still lively. Most were miners, merchants from the neighboring stores, some ragged farm hands that had snuck out for an evening, and of course the ever present dancing girls that circled around. Some gathered around a contentious poker game off to the side, others took to their individual tables to swap tales and gossip with their neighbors. But, as with any gathering spots, loners settled into the quiet spaces between hotspots. Corners, lonely tables, the quietest barstools.

She had found a nice little nook along the back edge of the bar to roost. The drunkard that usually guarded the spot had been dragged out by his boss early tonight, vacating the spot. All she had to do was slouch in his image, invisible to all but the bartender. An extra dime and a sideways look was all it took to silence him.

Not that she needed to worry all that much - she'd checked the wanted posters on the way in. Hers was laughably out of date. No one would recognize her here.

She slid her fingers across the table to her nearly empty glass, a habit born of many a misjudged distance. The girl was supposed to be here before her and she hated waiting. Once this beer is gone, so am I.

A light touch on her shoulder.

The outlaw didn't jump, to her credit. But as her hand sprung to her holster, her gaze flicked to the bartender. Not even glancing towards them, polishing a glass and speaking to a man in front of him. If whoever had approached her was any kind of danger, he'd be watching from the corner of his eye. She slowly turned.

A dancing girl, shorter than her even seated on the stool, leaned against her a little more, pink dress swishing, one eye closed in a wink.

"Ah. I'm not inter..."

The girl tilted her head, and opened the closed eye. A red pupil and pink iris contrasted sharply with the plain brown eye on the other side of her nose.

Amused, the outlaw exhaled sharply through her nose and spoke in a much lower tone. "Are you planning on giving that dress back to its owner, or is this a new career for you?"

Neapolitan gave a careless shrug as she sat down, careful to turn her back to the bartender. She'd tucked her hair up into the feathered cap, only allowing the brown side of the two-toned mop to escape. As for the paler patches of skin around her eye and face, makeup, low lighting, and an air of comfortable confidence did wonders. It was really quite a skill, such a distinctive looking person blending in so easily.

Knowing full well the shorter girl couldn't answer out loud, she hissed. "So?"

Neo raised her eyebrows. She opened a fan, fluttering it in front of her face with an innocent blink.

For a moment, her temper sparked. Then the outlaw saw a piece of paper, neatly tucked into the fan's hinge and folded with it.

Beacon. One of the sheriff's deputies is her daughter. I'm told she's still in the area.

The fan snapped shut. Mismatched eyes stared into her, the glare becoming pointed.

She sighed. A quick look to confirm no one was looking. Then she reached into the pocket of her jacket. The tiny gold bar was cold and heavy in her fingers as she passed it to Neo, who hurriedly shoved it into her bosom.

"Careful girl. You haven't got the volume to hide much." She muttered.

Neo dabbed at her right eye, as though wiping away a stray eyelash, with her middle finger.

She snorted to herself, turning away. She heard Neo flounce away more than she saw it, but waited a solid minute before standing. She slid one more dime across the bar, and fixed a hat onto her head. "Thank you for the service, sir."

The bartender snapped it up, returning to polishing the glasses. "Anytime, ma'am."

She was careful to tilt the brim as she walked out of the bar. She was distinctive enough herself.

The lean black mare tied outside hadn't stopped pawing the ground from the moment she walked in. Her nostrils were still flared wide, a trough cut into the ground under her still thrashing forefoot. "Enough, Midnight." An ear flicked at the name, but the mare only stopped once weight landed in the saddle.

Against her better judgment, her eye came to rest on the wanted posters nailed to the saloon wall. As if by poetic justice, the two of interest had been placed side by side.

One drawing was of a woman with long dark hair, eyes peircing through her even from a sketch.

RAVEN BRANWEN - CONSPIRACY, ROBBERY, MURDER. DEAD OR ALIVE, $5000.

The other contrasted sharply. A little girl, barely more than twelve. Dark hair, wild eyes, and jagged scars wrapping around her neck.

CINDER FALL - MURDER, ARSON. DEAD OR ALIVE, $1000.

Midnight leapt into a run and the town fell away around her. In her humble opinion, Cinder Fall done well to get this far; but there was always a bigger fish to become.