#state machines are so. overused

[acesw]

Disabled Characters in Reverse: 1999 - Part 1

Hello! With the new patches having been announced over the course of time, I figured it was time to renew an old lore-post of mine. This is the list of disabled characters in R:1999.

I posted these on twitter last week, but I decided to wait until the release of 2.2 so that I could uplift some spoilers for the game. Some minor spoilers ahead for 2.3 and 2.5 are ahead!

From the length of the entire text alone, I've separated it by 3 posts. This post here will guide you in the known characters who are physically disabled. I now have 14 characters in the main spotlight here, and I hope you enjoy reading this incredibly long post. So now, let's get started.

Chronic Illness: Cristallo, Rabies, Erick, Semmelweis, Barbara

Cristallo was born prematurely, with an added condition that makes her physically fragile. As seen in the game, she needs a life-support system to maintain her health when she’s outside. It’s also implied that her condition may be a recurrent cancer, as her arcane abilities are tied to a machine that provides cobalt therapy, a known advancement in radiotherapy in the post-WWII era.

In Sotheby’s anecdote, it’s been noted that Cristallo needs extra accommodations to her room, and it’s crucial that the electricity is kept running; she would risk having episodes like seizures otherwise.

Rabies is an odd case. In his stories, it’s stated that Adam Miłosz cured Alicia of rabies through unknown means, at the cost of contracting the disease himself. However, instead of the virus being acute and guaranteed to be fatal, it became a chronic illness to Rabies due to the abundance and use of arcanum.

Since the rabies virus attacks the brain, his cognitive capabilities and ability to recall things before the present had been impaired, making him rather docile and animal-like in nature as a result.

As revealed in her anecdote, Erick has a hereditary blood condition that came with her arcane skill. While her arcane skill grants her insane strength, overusing it will accelerate the effects of her blood condition to the point that it can turn fatal. To prevent this, she also inherited an armband from her grandfather, Harald. The armband suppresses Erick’s ability to use arcane skills, but by extension it also prevents her condition getting worse.

Semmelweis’ journey in the roguelike has been very clear that she suffers from the Beyond disease, a parasitic and incurable disease that mainly affects the brain by heightened hallucinatory symptoms paired with vampiric-like symptoms. The disease has a high fatality rate, but survivors tend to be granted abilities and urges equivalent to that of a vampire.

Semmelweis keeps her symptoms at bay through Lorelei’s arcane skill, and maintains her urges with sweets such as chocolate. While the Beyond Disease is most known for being passed on via contact, (e.g. biting) it has also been found to be genetically carried by some people.

(Bonus mention: Valentina is also a canon survivor of the Beyond Disease, having become a full vampiric-like being. She was the one that bit and infected Semmelweis)

Being born as a cross of 3 different beings, Barbara was born with a delicate body and she suffered a multitude of conditions growing up. Among them, asthma and insomnia were the most prominent. These conditions were incredibly debilitating for her growing up, and they continue to persist til her adulthood. Because of these medical scares (and her instinctive tendencies), she also has anxiety. For this—and strangely enough—her conditions can be alleviated with stuffed toys and the country music that she keeps on her at all times, much to her chagrin.

Amputees: Shamane & Willow

Shamane lost his left arm as a punishment for his previous failures. But after having lived without it for 20 years, the lack of it doesn’t bother him anymore. In fact, he finds pride in his loss, claiming it as a “token of bravery.”

Prior to the events of 1.3, he crafted his prosthetic arm as a means to avoid scaring kids. In his I2, we see that he was provided with a more modern prosthetic, likely provided by Laplace.

Willow is mainly characterised by her ability to perform in floor gymnastics having a prosthetic leg. Even when she lost her leg when she was younger, it didn’t stop her from performing to the best of her capabilities and reworking her skills in floor.

Blindness: Urd, Ms. Radio, Argus

Urd, despite her mysterious presence in the story, is most notable for her blindness. Throughout all her appearances, she's always found with a covering over her eyes, and has been referred to as the “blind woman” throughout the game many times even prior to her reveal. She also has recurring partial amnesia, with the “Storm” being the main cause of it.

She still chooses to travel across cities despite it, documenting her travels and insights about each place as the “Friend From Afar.”

Despite all the awakened lacking any eyes, Ms. Radio is the only character that has explicitly stated that she does not have any eyesight. She uses her body vessel and the radiowaves to be able to sense things around her, and is a generally sensitive entity.

Argus is notable for her vision impairment and partial blindness due to an untreated injury paired with her arcane skill. She struggles to see at nighttime, and has to activate her arcane skill to be able to do work. She tends to use picrasma candies to keep her arcane skill running for as long as possible.

However, Argus will tend to overexert herself and her arcane skill, which can result in her having temporary complete blindness. She refuses to have her injured eye treated nor be provided a prosthetic either.

Others

Mobile Disability - Noire

Our new character here, Noire, is most known to be a wheelchair user! Whether she was born with a disability or not, this aspect is incredibly important for her and I’m excited to see how that will go for 2.5.

Speech Impediment - Balloon Party

Balloon Party as a child had contracted an illness that caused her to have a persistent high fever. In the end, she awakened her arcane skill this way, with her being able to cough up balloons that can be harmful or a cure to anything. However, it might have also affected her speech because of the physical strain that comes from coughing, it results to Balloon Party’s speech being slowed and having abnormal pauses before she speaks again. 

Burn Scarring - Joe

Being a blacksmith, Joe gained a lot of burn injuries due to his work. He developed his skill over time, but it came at a cost; these scars became a part of him. Considering that Joe very likely never went to get proper treatment due to him growing up less privileged, it’s also likely that these scars crudely healed and can cause some pain. His scars are most prominently seen in his face, but they extend down the left arm and even both his hands, which are bandaged.

Albinism - Windsong

Windsong has indicators that she may have albinism; from her white hair, pale skin, and differently-coloured eyes. It can be assumed that she has Type 1 OCA, which leaves her to have the aforementioned features. There isn’t much beyond that mainly due to this being a popularized headcanon among the fandom, so what other symptoms she might have is open to interpretation.

Honorable Mentions

What is this section? The honorable mentions list is meant as a list for:

-Characters I realized I should've added here but it was too late

-Characters who have some headcanons/insights from other users from both Twitter and Tumblr, and I took it to consideration

I hope you enjoy these ones. :)

Oliver Fog - Depression, Arthritis/Chronic Pain (credited: @space-magician on tumblr)

Early on in childhood, Oliver had been exposed to how the London fog takes a heavy toll on his family and has experienced grief early on due to his father passing away from overexertion. It prompted him to start working as a (greatly desensitized) Fogwalker, feeling an unbearable weight on his shoulders metaphorically and even literally with how he struggles to get up in certain weather conditions. It hints towards him having chronic pain/arthritis due to the intensive nature of his work, as well as depression stemming from his grief.

Loggerhead - Short-Term Memory Loss

Loggerhead has short-term memory loss as an aftereffect of her awakening, causing her to slowly lose memory over the course of 3 days. However, Laplace provided her with a special film that allowed her to maintain her memories for longer.

Last Notes

Of course, these are only the first batch of this list, and I hope you'll have fun reading the next two installments here once linked. :)

Psychologically Disabled Characters

Neurodivergent Characters

Thank you!

[fireya-x]

had to empty my brain and hopefully this is an acceptable place to do so :,) but grinding on price’s shoe and/or leg while wearing a collar 😮‍💨 him guiding you on all fours by a leash around the house, making you work for it- making sure you can crawl and beg like a good pup (i need to be electrocuted or smth)

Hi! I think I did a slightly changed and very tame version of this, haha. I hope you still enjoy. ♥️

where you belong

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ John Price knew you'd always obey — no matter how hard he pushed — and that’s what undid him. ✦ 3,6k words ✦ tags/cw: dom!john price, power play, rough oral sex, blow job, face-fucking, collar, degradation, obedience, come marking

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, punishing light that struck your skin like a lash. Dirt, stirred and thickened by the boots of a dozen men tearing across it all day, clung to your limbs like a second skin. Worked deep into the lines of your elbows, the scraped skin of your palms, the swell of your knees, until the grit felt like it had soaked into your bones. Your lungs burned with every breath, throat tightening around the scorched air as though your body was trying to shield itself from the next inhale.

You dragged one in anyway, thick with dust and the sharp, metallic tang of blood where your teeth had split the inside of your cheek. Every muscle trembled on the brink of collapse, nerves frayed from overuse, arms shaking so badly you had to force your fists to close.

And still, John Price didn’t stop.

“Again.”

His voice cracked like a whip, cold and sharp, slicing through the heat with no mercy. Detached. Utterly unimpressed by the state of you. Like your exhaustion was just another inconvenience to him.

You gritted your teeth and forced yourself up with a full-body tremor. Your arms screamed in protest. Your back ached with every breath. Still, you dropped into another set of push-ups, fists pressing into the coarse earth. The gravel bit your knuckles raw. Your shirt stuck to your back with sweat, and your throat felt so dry that it seemed like it might crack open. Price paced a few feet off, arms folded over his chest, shadow thrown long across the dirt.

You collapsed into the dirt after the final rep, arms folding beneath you, too spent to hold your weight for even a second longer. Gravel dug into your forearms, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts. 

“You’re moving like a civvie,” Price snapped, his voice cutting through the haze with surgical sharpness. “Get it right.”

“Sir —” you managed, though you weren’t sure what argument you had left.

“Did I ask for commentary?” he bit out, that calm, grating edge sharpening like a blade drawn across glass. “Again.”

And somehow, you did it. You pushed yourself back up, joints locking and unlocking like a machine on the verge of failure. Burpees. Push-ups. Back on your feet. Down again. Faster. Sloppier. You couldn’t remember how many. Couldn’t see past the sweat stinging your eyes. The burn in your lungs blurred into the white-hot surge of fury crawling up your throat.

It had been like this for weeks.

Price had singled you out from the beginning: drills twice as long, no praise, no breaks. Every mistake punished harder. Every success ignored. He never raised his voice. Never lost control. He just watched, like he was studying the best way to grind you down.

You hated him for it.

Hated the way his eyes never lingered long enough to be inappropriate but still left your skin crawling, heat prickling at the back of your neck like he’d touched you without ever laying a hand. Hated the satisfaction in his silence whenever you stumbled, and the way he always, always pushed you harder after. Like failure turned him on.

But worse than the hate was how your stomach twisted every single time he said your name.

How it landed low in your gut. Hot. Uncomfortable.

Like he owned it.

The door slammed behind you, louder than you intended.

He looked up from his desk slowly, gaze lifting with the same calm he wore out on the field. No surprise. No irritation. There was a stillness that said he had been expecting this. Like this had always been the inevitable end to whatever the hell had been simmering between you.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you snapped, throat still raw from the drills.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t even shift in his chair. “Watch your tone.”

“No.”

You stepped forward, anger curling hot and sharp in your chest, your breath still uneven from exertion. 

“You’ve been grinding me into the dirt for weeks — twice the reps, half the rest. You don’t train anyone else like that. I’ve been faster, stronger, and still…” Your voice cracked, frustration spilling over the edge. “Still, you treat me like I’m nothing.”

His brow didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

But the way he looked at you, steady, quiet, utterly unreadable, sank its teeth into your chest like a predator watching its prey. There was nothing soft in it — just a slow, deliberate taking of your measure, like he was deciding not whether to break you, but how.

It made your pulse skip. Made your skin go tight and hot.

“Just stop the power tripping, Captain.” You continued. “You’ve been eye-fucking me since day one. Don’t pretend this is about discipline.”

His jaw clenched. Teeth grinding together. The change in him was subtle, but you felt it. Restraint beginning to fray. Something about to snap.

Then he stood.

Slow. Measured. Like a man finally choosing to stop holding back.

He rose to his full height, and somehow the room felt smaller for it. He looked at you with that same calm, that same unreadable quiet, but something behind his eyes had cracked open.

His gaze moved down your body. From your face, over your chest, down to your boots. Then it came back up and settled on your mouth.

And then he spoke.

“Get on your fucking knees.”

The words hit you like a bullet — sharp, precise, already embedded before you had time to flinch.

Everything around you stilled.

There was no fury behind it. No cruelty. Just a command stripped bare of anything unnecessary, from a man who had waited too long to say it. And who knew, without a shred of doubt, that you’d do exactly what he told you to.

Your breath faltered. Heat surged up your throat and bloomed across your chest.

And before your mind had time to resist, your body answered for you.

You dropped.

Knees struck the concrete with a dull, solid thud. It was cold, biting through the fabric of your fatigues, straight into bone. The ache shot up your legs, a quiet throb pulsing beneath your skin.

He watched you like a man confirming a theory. Something grimly satisfied on his face.

He turned without a word, boots shifting over the concrete as he moved behind the desk. He was unhurried, composed, as though the sight of you kneeling before him wasn’t surprising in the least.

As though he had always known you’d end up exactly like this.

You heard the drawer open, the faint scrape of metal against metal, followed by the subtle weight of something being lifted free.

When he returned, he held it loosely in one hand: black leather, thick and well-worn, the edges softened by use. The metal buckle caught the overhead light with a dull glint, reflecting something colder beneath the surface.

A collar. And he tossed it at your knees.

“Put it on.”

The collar landed against your thighs with a muted thud, the leather coiling slightly on impact. It was warm from his grip, still holding its shape. Your breath caught as your eyes dropped to it.

You stared at it, then at him. But your hands moved anyway, as if responding to something other than reason.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you looped the leather around your throat and drew the strap tight. The collar settled into place with a weight that felt far heavier than it was, snug against your skin, warm from his hand and already clinging like it belonged there. The metal kissed the nape of your neck with a jolt of cold that made you shiver.

He sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, his expression unreadable — except for the unmistakable flicker of heat behind his eyes.

“Crawl.”

You blinked. “What?”

His voice dropped. “You heard me. You want to act like a mutt with no discipline, I’ll treat you like one. Crawl.”

Your body stalled.

Frozen in place, every nerve lit up and clashing with instinct. Your mind reeled. He was your commanding officer. This was a line that shouldn’t just be uncrossed; it shouldn’t have existed to begin with. There were rules, and this shattered every single one of them. You’d seen men lose their rank, their careers, their lives for less.

But something else surged up inside you, fast and burning. Something darker. Something that didn’t care about rank or consequences. That part of you, the one that had wanted to slap him and fuck him in equal measure for weeks, burned every rule to ash.

You lowered your palms to the floor.

And crawled.

The tile met your skin, cool and rough beneath your hands, and the collar shifted with the motion, pressing tighter against your throat like it knew what was coming. Your knees crept forward, the ache already spreading through the bone, but it wasn’t pain that slowed you.

It was awareness.

Of every sound. Every heartbeat. Every inch.

Each movement felt like a confession. A surrender written in motion. The scuff of your boots echoed in the quiet. Your breath was shaky. Your hands flattened against the ground, and the floor was solid, unyielding, leaving nowhere to hide as you pushed forward.

Every inch you moved closer, the weight of his stare burned into your back like a brand. 

Your thighs brushed together as heat bloomed between them, shame curling in your stomach, sick and electric. Each scrape of your knees across the tile was a small betrayal of pride, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Because somewhere beneath the humiliation was something sharp and magnetic — something that pulled you to him like gravity.

You stopped between his legs, breath shallow, pulse thundering under your skin like a war drum. The tile beneath your palms was warm now, or maybe it was you. Everything felt too hot.

But none of it mattered now.

Not with the way he looked at you.

Not with the heat in his eyes, slow and simmering, like he’d waited too long to have you exactly like this.

Like this was always where you were meant to be.

“Sit pretty,” he muttered. 

You shifted upright on your knees, shoulders square, the collar tugging lightly against the back of your neck as you straightened. Your hands stayed low on your thighs, breath shallow, gaze fixed somewhere between his boots and the bulge straining behind his zipper.

Then he reached for it.

The quiet rasp of the zipper cut through the silence, and somehow it felt obscene, louder than it should’ve been.

His cock was already hard, thick and heavy in his hand, flushed at the tip, a bead of precum catching the light. Veins traced the underside like a roadmap to somewhere you were already on your way to.

Your thighs pressed together, instinctive and immediate, as heat coiled deep in your belly. Shame and want twisted tight inside you, indistinguishable from each other now — twin currents feeding off the same humiliating need.

He leaned forward slightly, hand curling beneath your chin. “I knew you’d get here eventually,” he murmured, thumb dragging over your lower lip. “Obedient little thing. Always following orders. Every drill, every bloody command. I knew it was only a matter of time before you were on your knees.”

You shuddered, skin prickling under the weight of his words.

“You pretend to hate me,” he went on, the head of his cock brushing against your lips, smearing a streak of warmth across your skin, “but you listen. Every time. And I fucking love it.”

He tapped the tip against your mouth. “Tongue out.”

You obeyed without hesitation, mouth parting as your tongue slipped out to meet him, heat pulsing low in your stomach at how natural the command felt.

“Open.”

And again, your body moved before your mind could catch up. Because, of course, it did. He’d trained you into this. Conditioned you to respond. Every drill, every clipped order, every time he’d pushed you past your limit — it had all led here. You were always going to break like this.

Because deep down, you wanted to.

He eased into your mouth slowly at first, savoring the stretch of your lips around him, the way your jaw trembled with the effort to take him. He paused just inside, his breath sharp when your tongue curled instinctively against the underside of his cock.

Then he pushed deeper.

A low groan slipped from his throat the moment your mouth tightened around him, the sound rough and strained like he’d been holding it back for weeks.

“God, look at you,” he muttered, voice thick with satisfaction. “Bet every time I said your name on the field, your thighs got wet. I saw it. I fucking saw it.”

He drove in harder, and your throat closed around him. You gagged, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as he fed himself deeper.

“You always looked at me like you wanted to be ruined,” he growled. “Like you didn’t want discipline — you wanted to be owned.”

Your fingers dug into your thighs, blunt nails biting through the fabric, grounding you as his cock hit the back of your throat again and again. The burn, the stretch, the utter lack of control — it consumed everything.

“Bet you touched yourself after drills,” he hissed, hand gripping the collar now, twisting it in his fist like a handle. “Bet you fucking moaned for me with your fingers in that little cunt, trying to pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

You whimpered around him, mouth slick, throat raw, the sound lost in the rhythm of his thrusts.

He chuckled. Low, filthy, dark.

“But it did, didn’t it?” he rasped, voice right above you now, hot breath ghosting your temple. “That’s why you’re still here. That’s why you’re taking me so fucking well.”

Then he pulled the collar tight, just enough to claim control of your breath, and began to move.

His hips snapped forward, setting a rhythm that was brutal in its precision. His cock filled your mouth over and over, thick and relentless, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge of something you didn’t even have a name for.

“You’re perfect like this,” he groaned, fucking deeper. “Fucking perfect.”

His pace grew rougher. More deliberate.

Each thrust forced your head back, the collar biting into the tender skin of your neck as he used it to pull you closer, over and over. The leather was stiff, unforgiving, the buckle digging into your throat like it had teeth. You could feel your pulse pounding beneath it, wild and frantic, the pressure dizzying, the restraint impossibly arousing.

“That feel good?” he muttered. 

You moaned around him, throat stretched to the edge of what it could take.

He growled at the sound, his hips snapping forward harder.

“You like that I’m holding you here, don’t you?” His voice dropped into a whisper, barely more than a breath. “Like knowing I can do whatever I want to you, and you’ll take it. Because this —” he gave the collar a brutal tug that made your breath catch, “this is mine now.”

You gasped as he pulled back just enough to let air in, but not enough to loosen his hold. The collar stayed tight, saliva slick against your throat, the weight of it anchoring you in place while his cock slid against your lips — hot, swollen, hungry.

“You crawl for me. You wear this for me. You open that filthy little mouth and take me like you’ve been begging for it since day one.”

He slapped his cock across your tongue, once, twice — sharp little smacks that made your eyes flutter. Then he shoved back in, rougher than before, deeper, faster.

Your jaw throbbed. Your throat burned.

But you didn’t stop him.

You couldn’t.

Because you wanted this.

You’d wanted it since the first time he made you run past your limit, since the first time he’d said your name like a curse and a promise in the same breath.

Every day, you’d fallen into line.

Every bark. Every order. Every brutal drill he’d dragged you through had pointed to this — had been this, in disguise.

And your body, more honest than your thoughts, had recognized the truth long before your mind dared to name it.

This wasn’t breaking.

This was surrender — offering and salvation, all in one.

His rhythm stuttered.

You felt the way his breath hitched above you, the way his thighs tensed, the way his cock jerked in your mouth as he forced it deeper, chasing that final edge. His grip on the collar tightened, his other hand curling into your hair with white-knuckled force.

Then, suddenly, he yanked you back.

Not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp, your lungs seizing with the rush of air as your mouth slipped off him, slick and spit-slicked.

“Face up. Eyes on me.”

You obeyed instantly.

The collar tightened again as he hauled you back by it — his fist wound tight around the strap, leather pressing into your windpipe just enough to make your pulse spike.

Then he came.

Hot, thick ropes spilled across your lips, your cheek, your mouth. You gasped, blinking through it, mouth still open, tongue still out like a good fucking soldier. One last spurt hit the edge of the collar, slid down your throat.

He held your face there, panting, his hand still wrapped tight around the collar. Watching the mess drip down your lips, your chin, the swell of your throat. A streak of it clung to the leather, bright against the black. The smell of him clung to your skin, heavy and unshakeable.

You stumbled as he pulled you up by the collar, the leather biting deep into your throat, grinding across skin already rubbed raw. Your body obeyed, rising to your feet unsteadily — your breath ragged, heart pounding, lips sticky with the mess he’d left on your face.

But his eyes didn’t just linger on the sight of you.

They devoured it.

And then, like a puzzle snapping into place, you understood.

This hadn’t been punishment.

He hadn’t wanted to break you because he hated you.

He wanted to own you because he couldn’t stand how badly he wanted you.

You were the only one who fought back. The only one who could match him stare for stare, grind your teeth through every brutal command without complaint — and still fucking obey. You gave him exactly what he wanted, what no one else could.

That’s why he kept you out longer, pushed you harder, ignored the others. Because every time you followed through, every time you obeyed without submitting, it made him feral for you.

You saw it now. Clear as day.

He needed you to fall in line because no one else made it mean anything.

You could see it in his hands—fingers clenched tight around the collar, trembling with barely-contained restraint. You could feel it radiating off him in waves: the heat, the tension riding his jaw, the muscle ticking in his cheek like he was seconds from losing the control he wore like armor.

He hadn’t pushed you harder than anyone else to punish you.

He’d done it because he needed to see it — that edge. That breaking point. The exact moment when your defiance gave way to obedience. And every time you reached it, every time your body dropped into position with no complaint, it brought him right to his fucking limit.

He’d wanted to fuck you right there in the dirt. Not once. Not twice. Every damn time you obeyed without breaking. Every time you hit your knees on command, his fists curled at his sides from the overwhelming urge to reach down, grip your hair, and shove your face into the ground.

Make you understand what you were doing to him.

How easy it would be to ruin you.

To drag down your waistband, push inside, and fuck you until there was nothing left between you but sweat and breath and the truth you both refused to say.

But he didn’t.

Because control, the discipline he lived by, was the only thing keeping him from tearing into you like an animal, from showing every man on that field that you already belonged to him.

His fist curled in the strap and yanked — slow, rough, dragging you from your knees until you were upright, breath shallow, chest heaving against his. 

Your face hovered inches from his chest. The sweat on your skin cooled in the air between you. You didn’t dare look up. Not until his other hand slid to the buckle.

He didn’t remove it right away. Just let his fingers rest there.

Then he leaned in.

Close. So close his lips brushed the shell of your ear, the heat of his breath skating across your cheek, down your neck, making every nerve in your body stand at attention.

“You wear that collar every time you step foot in this office,” he murmured.

The words burned. 

“Are we clear, Sergeant?”

Your mouth parted. Voice wrecked and quiet.

“Yes, sir.”

A pause. Just long enough to feel him breathe you in.

Then the collar came loose.

He slid it off as if he were unhooking a leash. His fingers dragged along your neck, brushing the sensitive spots the leather had marked. Not tender. Not cruel. Just a reminder of what he’d taken and what he now owned.

He stepped back, calm as ever. Already tucked himself back in as if nothing had happened.

Dismissed you with nothing but a nod.

[icrypop]

Misunderstood By Society (3)

Asylum Patient! König x GN! Doctor! Reader

Warnings⚠️: Posted here

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

The quiet hum of my apartment felt almost unnatural after the weight of the asylum. The dim glow of my desk lamp cast long shadows as I flipped through König’s file, the pages slightly worn from being handled so many times.

I had read through his basics already—his history of violence, his refusal to remove his hood, his resistance to treatment—but it wasn’t until I dug deeper into his medication list that my brows furrowed.

Several of his prescriptions made sense—antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, anti-anxiety medications—but a few names stood out.

{High doses of sedatives. Heavy tranquilizers.}

I muttered to myself, running a finger down the list. “Were they trying to sedate him or tranquilize him?”

I had seen this before. In facilities like Winchester, when a patient became too “difficult,” the solution was often chemical restraint rather than actual treatment. But König wasn’t an animal to be put down when he got too aggressive—he was a man. A man with a fractured mind, one that had been pushed to the point of breaking.

Sighing, I leaned back in my chair and scrubbed a hand down my face. I’d figure that out later. For now, I needed to prepare.

I got up, threw a microwave dinner into the machine, and let it spin while I grabbed my notebook. König’s file had listed his three biggest diagnoses—**PTSD, Severe Anxiety, and Bipolar Disorder.** None of them were uncommon for someone with a history like his, but combined with past military experience and hallucinations? It was a volatile mix.

I started writing.

PTSD:

- Triggers can vary (sounds, environments, smells).

- Hypervigilance—may react aggressively if startled.

- May experience flashbacks—important to ground them in the present.

- Do not corner or restrain without necessity—could escalate panic.

Severe Anxiety:

- Constant state of heightened awareness.

- Likely has difficulty trusting others—especially in a place like this.

- Resistance to medication may stem from paranoia.

- Routines might help stabilize his mood.

Bipolar Disorder:

- Mood swings—manic episodes vs. depressive episodes.

- Manic: Impulsive behavior, possible aggression.

- Depressive: Withdrawal, possible suicidal ideation.

- Medication regulation is critical.

I tapped the pen against my notepad, thinking. König wasn’t just violent—he was reactive. His entire life, he had been treated as a monster, as something to be subdued rather than understood. It wasn’t surprising that he lashed out.

The mircowave beeped, but I barely noticed it, my mind too focused on the task ahead. If I was going to handle this right, I needed to know what not to do.

What NOT to do around König:

- Sudden movements or loud noises—could trigger defensive aggression.

- Forced eye contact—may make him feel challenged or threatened.

- Overuse of restraints—will increase distrust and worsen anxiety.

- Talking down to him—he’s not *stupid*, and treating him like a child will only piss him off.

- Forcing medication—there has to be a reason he refuses it. Find out why.

I exhaled, closing the notebook.

Tomorrow was going to be my first session with König. I wasn’t walking into this blind.

I was going to be prepared.

————————————————————————

The asylum always felt colder in the mornings. Maybe it was just the old building settling, or maybe it was something else—something deeper. Either way, I felt it in my bones as I made my way to the lockers, stopping when I saw Miss. Nessi leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

"Morning," she greeted, offering me a small but knowing smile.

"Morning," I replied, twisting open my locker and grabbing my things. "Anything I should know before I see him?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "Jacobs is already in there."

I paused, my fingers gripping the edge of my clipboard a little tighter. "Of course he is."

"Be careful," Nessi murmured, lowering her voice. "You ever notice how some of the staff here act like they enjoy this place a little too much?" I glanced at her, noting the concern in her eyes. She was right. There were people here who weren’t just desensitized to the work—they thrived in it. Jacobs was one of them.

I gave her a nod, silently assuring her I’d be fine before heading to König’s restricted wing.

The moment I stepped inside, I knew something was wrong.

König was restrained, held down by two guards, his entire body tensed like a coiled spring. His breathing was sharp and uneven, chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. Jacobs stood in front of him, holding a small paper cup filled with pills.

"You gonna take 'em, or are we gonna have to *help* you again?" Jacobs taunted, his voice laced with amusement. "Come on, big guy. Open up."

König didn’t move. His hood obscured most of his face, but even from here, I could feel the intensity of his glare.

I flipped through my notebook, skimming my own notes. "Intimidation tactics don’t work," I said aloud, not bothering to hide my disapproval. "Neither does *antagonizing* the patient, but I guess that’s too much to ask."

Jacobs turned, his cocky smirk faltering slightly. "Oh, look, the new doc finally showed up." I didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, I met his gaze with a calm but firm stare. "Leave."

Jacobs scoffed. "Excuse me?"

"You’re excused," I replied evenly. "I’ll be handling his medication today." Jacobs’ jaw tightened. "You’re new. You don’t know how things work around here." I smiled, sharp and polite. "I know enough to recognize unprofessional behavior when I see it. Now, leave."

For a moment, I thought he’d argue, but something in my expression must have told him I wasn’t budging. He rolled his eyes and stepped back, shoving the cup into my hands before walking off with an irritated huff. I turned to the guards. "Out."

One of them hesitated. "Doctor, we’re required to—"

"—Stay out." My voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "You’re not helping."

They exchanged looks but, eventually, backed away. The heavy doors clicked shut behind them, leaving just me and König in the room.

I finally exhaled, looking up at him. His breathing was still uneven, but now that Jacobs and the guards were gone, it wasn’t as ragged. His shoulders remained tense, but his fists had loosened slightly.

I took a slow, deliberate step forward. "They always treat you like that?"

Silence.

I held up the cup of pills. "I read your file. I know you don’t like taking these. I’m not going to force you. But if we’re going to work together, I need to understand *why* you refuse them." König didn’t speak, but he was listening. That was a start.

I placed the cup on the small table beside us, keeping my movements slow and non-threatening. "I’ll leave these here. Your choice. No threats. No force." I took a step back, giving him space.

"Can I take these off?" I gestured to the restraints. His fingers curled slightly, muscles twitching, but he gave a small nod. Carefully, I reached for the straps, undoing them one by one.

As the last restraint fell away, König didn’t move. He just *watched* me. For the first time since I walked in, I met his gaze, though his face remained shadowed beneath his hood.

"I’m Dr. Y/N," I said softly. "And I'll be taking care of you."

[radioactiveradley]

By popular (???) request, based on the outcome of this poll.

A WARNING: you guys really did pick the most complex one. This is loooooong. A DISCLAIMER. This is a silly little lesson aimed at folks who know sod-all about MRI. There are memes. There is (arguably) overuse of the term ‘big chungus’. If you are looking to delve deeper into the mysteries of K-Space, this is not the Tumblr post for you.

So, without further ado...

Today I am introducing you to my one true love. The legend. The icon.

Ferromagnetic material loves him. Claustrophobic people fear him.

Yeah, that’s right – we’re talking about the big boom-boom sexyboy magnet machine, hereby known as Big Chungus.

Aka...

MAGNETIC RESONANCE IMAGING

First off, though? Let’s start small.

Very, very small.

Meet HYDROGEN.

The nucleus of this element is made up of a single proton, which has a magnetic dipole – i.e., it acts like a tiny bar magnet.

Hydrogen is also a component of water. As we all know, we’re basically walking sacks of goop – meaning that Hydrogen is abundant throughout our bodies.

Therefore, when we stick you in a strong magnetic field… say, within our friend Big Chungus… we can manipulate all those tiny Hydrogen atoms in a variety of fun ways.

Under normal conditions, all your Hydrogen protons are pointing every-which-way.

But in Big Chungus, there is a strong longitudinal magnetic field that travels along the Z-axis of the machine. So, all your teeny tiny Hydrogen protons swivel to align with that field!

If a proton’s energy is LOWER than that of the longitudinal magnetic field (a majority), they will align PARALLEL with the field. If their energy is HIGHER (a minority) they will align ANTI-PARALLEL.

As most of the protons align with the longitudinal magnetic field, the net magnetisation vector within the human body is also longitudinal! This is called the thermodynamic equilibrium – the resting state for all those li’l protons when your body is within Big Chungus.

(You won’t feel any different, btw! We’re flipping a bunch of teeny-tiny bits inside you, but you won’t feel a thing!) (You might do later, when we activate the Gradient coils. We’ll….. get to that)

But, while all of this is very cool, it gives us no actual information. We gotta play some more with your protons - which brings us to arguably the most important concept in MRI. I mean, it’s literally in the name!

Let’s go back to our Hydrogen protons.

We’ve established that they’re all pointing in different directions. But they’re not just sitting still. They’re spinning and wobbling all over the shop.

We call this rotational wobbly movement precession.

In their natural state, these protons all precess at different speeds. When we subject them to Big Chungus, as well as all lining up neatly with the magnetic field, they all start to precess at the same speed.

However, their magnetic North will be pointing to different points at any given moment. Imagine two clocks, both of which are ticking at the same rate, but which have been set to read different times.

This is where magnetic resonance comes in.

In addition to the homogenous longitudinal magnetic field provided by Big Chungus, we also create an oscillating magnetic field in the transverse plane by using a radiofrequency (RF) pulse. We can tune that oscillation to the ‘resonant frequency’ of Hydrogen atoms.

Every molecule capable of resonance has its own specific frequency. We use a funky equation called the Larmor Equation to work this out, or, as I like to call it, W, BOY!!!

(The weird ‘w’ is the resonance frequency; the weird ‘Bo’ is the magnetic field strength, and the weird ‘Y’ is the gyromagnetic ratio of each particular element.)

So, we know exactly at what frequency to apply that RF pulse to your protons, to achieve resonance!

But what is resonance?

In acoustics, a ‘resonant frequency’ is the frequency an external wave needs to be applied at in order to create the maximum amplitude of vibrations within the object. Like when opera singers shatter glass with their voice! They’re singing at the resonant frequency of the glass, which makes it vibrate to the point where it compromises its structural integrity.

A similar concept applies in magnetic precession, with, uh, less destructive results. We’re not exploding anything inside of you, don’t worry!

(We do explode your innards accidentally in Ultrasound sometimes, via a different mechanism. But you’ll have to ask me more about that later. >:3)

To put it simply, magnetic resonance is the final step in getting those protons to BEHAVE. Now, the clocks have been corrected so their hands move at exactly the same time, in the same position. The protons are precessing ‘in phase’. Yay!

This creates transverse magnetisation, as the magnetic vectors of all those protons (which, remember, act as bar magnets) will swing around to point in one direction at the same time.

But the cool thing about resonance? It also allows the protons to absorb energy from the RF pulse.

(Do NOT ask me how. Do NOT. I will cry.)

And remember how the higher-energy protons flip anti-parallel to the longitudinal magnetic vector of Big Chungus, while the lower-energy protons are aligned parallel? And because we have more low-energy protons than high-energy protons, our body gains a longitudinal magnetic vector to match Big Chungus?

Zapping those protons at their resonant frequency gives 'em energy (a process known as ‘excitation’, which I love, because I get to imagine them putting little party hats on and having a rave).

So, loads of them flip anti-parallel! Enough to cancel out the net longitudinal magnetic vector of our bodies – despite the best efforts of good ol’ Chungus!

(Keep trying, Chungus. We love you.)

Our protons are as far from our happy equilibrium as they can possibly be. We’ve lost longitudinal magnetisation, and gained transverse magnetisation. Oh noooo however can we fix this ohhhh noooooo

Simple. We turn off the RF pulse.

Everything returns to that sweet, sweet thermodynamic equilibrium.

Longitudinal magnetisation is regained. I.e., the protons realign with Big Chungus’s longitudinal magnetic field, with the majority aligned parallel rather than anti-parallel.

This is called SPIN-LATTICE RELAXATION.

‘T1 time’ is the point by which 63% of longitudinal magnetisation has been regained after application of the RF pulse. A T1-weighted image shows the difference between T1 relaxation times of different tissues.

And, without that oscillating RF pulse, we lose resonance – the protons fall out of phase randomly, due to the delightful unpredictable nature of entropy, and Transverse magnetisation reduces.

This is called SPIN-SPIN RELAXATION.

Or, if we’re feeling dramatic…

‘T2 time’ is the point by which 37% of the transverse magnetisation has been lost. A T2-weighted image shows the difference between T2 relaxation times of different tissues.

(Spin-spin is objectively a hilarious phrase to say in full seriousness when surrounded by important physics-y people. However, a word to the wise: do not make a moon-moon joke. They are not on Tumblr (present company excluded). They will not understand. You will get strange looks.)

But remember how resonance lets our protons shlorp up that sweet, sweet energy from the RF pulse? Well, in order to get back to thermodynamic equilibrium and line up with Big Chungus again, they have to splort that energy back out.

This is why we stick a cage over the body part we’re imaging. That cage isn’t a magnet, or a way of keeping you still – it’s a receiver coil.

It picks up the RF signal that’s given off by your innards as they relax from the intense work-out we just put them through. How cool is that??

The amount of time we wait between applying the RF pulse and measuring the ‘echo’ from within your body is called the ‘ECHO TIME’, or ‘TE’ (because we didn’t want to call it ET).

(yes, we’re cowards. Sorry.)

We also have ‘REPETITION TIME’ or ‘TR’ – the amount of time we leave between RF pulses! This determines how much longitudinal magnetisation can recover between each pulse.

By manipulating TE and TR, we can alter the contrast (i.e., the blacks and whites) on our image.

Areas of high received signal (hyperintense) are shown as white, while areas of low received signal (hypointense) are shown as black. Different sorts of tissue will have different ratios of Hydrogen-to-other-shit, and different densities of Hydrogen-and-other-shit – ergo, some tissue blasts out all of its stored energy SUPER QUICK. Others give it off slower.

A T1-weighted image has a short TR and TE time.

Fat realigns its longitudinal magnetisation with Big Chungus SUPER QUICK. This means, on a T1-weighted image, it looks hyperintense. However, water realigns its longitudinal magnetisation with Big Chungus slooooowly. Therefore, on a T1-weighted image, fluid looks hypointense! Ya see?

A T2-weighted image has a long TR and TE time.

The precession of protons in fat decays relatively slow, so it will look quite bright on a T2-scan. But water decays slower, and therefore, by the time we take the T2 image, fluids within the body will be giving off comparatively ‘more’ signal than fat – meaning they’ll appear more hyperintense!

If we have a substance with intrinsically long T1 and T2 values, it will appear dark on a T1-weighted image and bright on a T2-weighted image, and the same in reverse. If a substance has a short T1 value and a long T2 value, it will appear relatively ‘bright’ on both T1 and T2-weighted images – i.e., fat and intervertebral discs.

As every tissue has its own distinct T1 and T2 property… we can work out precisely what sort of tissue we’re looking at.

When we build in all our additional sequences, this becomes even clearer! This is why your MRI scan takes sooooo long – we’re running SO MANY sequences, manipulating TR and TE to determine the exact T1 and T2 properties of various tissues within your bod.

There is, however, a problem.

The RF signal given off by each proton doesn’t shoot out in a handy-dandy straight line. Meaning, we have no idea where the signal is coming from within your body.

Enter our lord and saviour:

THE GRADIENT COILS.

(Shim coils are also very important – they maintain field homogeneity across the whole of Big Chungus. While Big Chungus wouldn’t need them in a perfect theoretical scenario… reality ain’t that. Big Chungus’s magnetic field is all wibbly-wobbly, so we use Shims to keep everything smooth! That’s all you need to know about them. BACK TO THE GRADIENTS.)

There are three of them, wrapping around each of the three planes of your body. When these activate, they cause those epicly eerie booming noises, characteristic of a Big Chungus ExperienceTM.

The Gradient coils are also what causes those weird tingling sensations you get in an MRI machine – which, don’t worry, aren’t permanent! Your nerves just go ‘WOAHG. THASSALOT OF MAGNET SHIT. HM. DON’T LIKE THAT.’ But they’ll calm down again once you’re freed from Big Chungus.

The gradient coils cause constant fluctuations in the magnetic field across all three dimensions. They activate sequentially, isolating one chunk of your body after the next.

As these fluctuations cause variation within the signal received, we can look at how much THAT particular signal, received at THAT particular number of milliseconds after an RF pulse, varied when THAT particular gradient was activated, in comparison to when THAT OTHER gradient was activated.

For every single bit of signal output.

That gives us A WHOLE LOTTA DATA.

^ imagine this, but the cupboard contents is just. data.

Way too much data, in fact, for our puny human brains to comprehend – so obviously, we feed it to an algorithm.

K-space is a funky computational matrix where all this info gets compiled during data acquisition. Once we’ve finished the scan sequence and have all that yummy raw data, it can be mathematically processed to create a final image!

Just like that. Simple, right?

TL;DR

You are full of Hydrogen.

Hydrogen nuclei (protons) are basically tiny magnets

These tiny magnets are orientated completely randomly, with ‘North’ pointing in all directions

We stick billions of these tiny magnets (i.e., you) into a mahoosive magnet (i.e., Big Chungus)

All the tiny magnets flip around to align with the longitudinal magnetic field of Big Chungus

High energy protons = antiparallel Low energy protons = parallel

As you have more low energy protons than high energy protons in your body, the net magnetic vector of your body is longitudinal – just like Big Chungus!

All your protons are spinning and wobbling (precessing) at random rates

We use an RF pulse, tuned to the Resonance Frequency of Hydrogen, to make ‘em precess in phase (wobble at the same time, all pointing in the same direction at once). This creates a Transverse magnetic vector.

This in-phase precession is ‘Magnetic Resonance’

Magnetic Resonance means the protons can absorb energy from the RF pulse

Now there are more high energy protons within your body! They flip antiparallel, and the net longitudinal magnetic vector of your body decreases.

We measure the time it takes for the high-energy protons to release that energy and return to alignment with the net magnetic vector of Big Chungus (Spin-Lattice Relaxation / T1 recovery)

And the time it takes for the precessing-in-phase protons to Quit That Nonsense and all start wobbling in random directions again (Spin-Spin Decay / T2 recovery)

Each tissue within your body has a different composition & density of Hydrogen atoms – which means each tissue within your body has a unique T1 & T2 recovery time

By measuring the signal at different times (TE) and by varying the frequency with which we apply RF pulses (TR), we ‘take pictures’ that show variations in the amount of signal these tissues are giving off. The signal is caught by the large radiofrequency receiver coils we put over you when you enter the machine.

Because the signal given off during recovery/decay blasts out in all directions, we don’t know exactly where it originated within your body.

Gradient coils are arranged across X, Y, and Z axes throughout the gantry of Big Chungus. They cause tiny fluctuations in the magnetic field, in sequential chunks throughout space. This is the booming noise you hear when you’re in the machine.

These tiny fluctuations cause variations in the signal we receive, depending on how close the signal is to the activated gradient coil. All this data is compiled in a magical computational matrix called K-space. A funky algorithm then decodes those variations and couples them up with the strength of the signal to give us 1) How much signal is being blasted out at that particular moment 2) Where exactly that signal comes from within your body, according to the 3D map produced by the gradient coils

It then represents these values with a pretty picture!

Tl;dr tl;dr:

[mintyeve322]

Non-Southern American writers writing American Southern accents in fanfics are always so funny because I swear they aren't reading what they're typing out loud. There is no way thats how you think a Southern accent sounds. (I don't have one, at least not a thick one, but I grew up knowing a lot of people who did so I know what it's suppose to sound like.)

The biggest thing I see is taking every consonant at the end of every word off, especially "-ing" words like "talkin'", "walkin'", "fixin'", etc. This works a lot! However, you only drop the consonant at certain times, you don't always drop it because it makes speaking the sentence feel clunky in your mouth. "-ing" words are the most common words for the drop to happen to, so most of the time its fine, but not always.

Another issue I see is with words for "you". A lot of people assume southern people never say the word you correctly, which isn't necessarily wrong (depending on the accent) but they also assume we only have one substitute word for saying it. Most frequently, I've seen people incorrectly using "y'all" (peep where that apostrophe is btws you heathens) for every use of the word you, which is just not correct. Y'all is a contraction of the words "you" and "all". Additional words can be added to y'all, like "y'all're" or, more grammatically correct but not necessary tonally correct, "y'all 're" which is to say, "you all are" but typically that phrase is combined into one long word, "y'all're" when spoken.

I also see "ya" used instead of you, which isn't wrong but is often overused. "Ya" is just one of several ways "you" can be pronounced in a sentence and often more than one pronunciation of "you" is used at a time. For example:

"You ain't never seen anything like it! When ya turn this handle, the machine works its magic and before ya know it, yer whole list 'a chores is done!"

"You ain't" could also be written as "Y'ain't". To translate the previous sentence into a sentence without an accent:

"You have never seen anything like it! When you turn this handle, the machine works its magic and before you know it, your whole list of chores is done!"

Double negatives are also very common in southern dialogue.

"I ain't never seen anything like it." is a phrase I have heard and used in real life. "anything" can also be replaced with "nothin'" for an additional level of negative and still be realistic.

I've seen several fics where the previous sentence, however, would be written like this:

"Ya've never seen anythin' like it! When ya turn this handle, the machine works its magic and before ya know it, ya whole list of chores is done!"

While thats not necessarily wrong, there are accents where it would sound similar to that, "anything" isn't frequently shortened. If anything, haha, the "i" in "anything" may be turned into an "a", but you wouldn't end that word with an "n".

The usage of "ya" here is also a bit much unless the person is from the DEEP South, notably Louisiana, Alabama, or FAR Southern Georgia. Not Florida though, the Florida Southern accent, as far as I've experienced, is rare and sounds more like a Kentucky accent in my opinion.

People from more middle-range Southern states like Tennessee or Kentucky are going to speak with a sharper southern accent, while using that many "ya"s would be more common with characters that have deeper (not meaning stronger or thicker but literally in tone sounding more deep or rounded) accents from the deep South.

This is all opinion based on observation, but it's been rough reading fanfictions with southern characters in them being written with just... horrific accents. I understand not being able to write the accent at all and therefore just not including it, but it's been downright comedic some of the attempts at an accent people have been making in these fics. I refuse to name names bc this isn't meant to hate on anyone or shame someone for not understanding an accent, but it's something I've been thinking about a lot.

I also appreciate my fellow Southerners needing to tone it down when writing a character with an accent, because if I wrote everything my southern characters said with phonetic spelling, holding nothing back, I fear it would not be legible. Having to pick and choose how much you want to change in someone's dialogue to make it clear they have an accent while still making the dialogue legible is a skill I sometimes doubt I even possess.

[dailyanarchistposts]

I

“Today we are still preoccupied with creating gardens.Why? To not suffer from hunger. Because having rice, beans, fava beans, maize, peanut — then one can survive.” — Renato, of the Canela community[1]

“The development of what we know as agriculture was not an overnight phenomenon, but rather a several thousand year-long project. In some places in the world, the earliest stages of cultivation were never surpassed, and remain sustainable today. In many more places, the pressures of the global economy have corrupted these practices just in this last century. But in most of the world today, we are witnessing the full-blown colonization of native foodways, and a nearly complete dependence on western industrial practices. To trace this “biodevestation” directly back to cultivation itself, is to ignore the history of conquest and land displacement that pushed the food systems of subsistence cultures to the brink, where they now teeter on the edge of extinction.” — Witch Hazel, Against agriculture & in defense of cultivation

Situated in dense forests and savanna of the Brazilian state of Maranhão lives the indigenous Canela people. In the past they lived from hunting, gathering and gardening but starting from 200 years ago as they were pushed from their traditional territory as settler farmers occupied the land bit by bit. The lush forests are being replaced by industrial eucalyptus and soy plantations, and cattle ranches. They now inhabit an area 5 to 10 percent of their original territory. Traditionally the Canela travelled from place to place as the seasons changed but now adopt a more sedentary lifestyle living in bigger permanent villages. Although the Canela still depend on hunting and foraging they don’t have access to a big enough land base to cover all their needs so they increasingly depend on gardening to meet their needs.

For the Canela gardening is not just to meet their subsistence needs but also a means of resistance against being assimilated into the structures, networks, dependency and the institutional inequality of the Brazilian state, religious institutions, and multinational corporations who are constantly trying to infringe and occupy the Canela’s home.

Other threats to the Canelas way of life are from the environmental effects from the industrialized agriculture of soy and eucalyptus production that causes water depletion which exacerbates drought and soil erosion. The overuse of fertilizers and agrochemicals annihilates plant biodiversity and pollutes the local rivers and waterways with high levels of nitrogen and phosphorus which in turn causes algal blooms which can produce toxins that are harmful to animals and cause dead zones from the reduction of oxygen in the water starving fish and plants. So any flora or fauna living near a eucalyptus or soy plantation is at risk.

The Canela’s subsistence gardening approach is totally different from monocrop agriculture. They work with nature using a conscious ecological and more biodiverse method.Typically in agriculture only a small variety of cash crops are grown in large fields covering acres upon acres of land where in the Amazon large sections of jungle are destroyed. For the Canela gardners instead of being dependent on a small variety of cash crops they cultivate over 300 varieties of plants to meet their subsistence needs. Instead of using destructive hellish machines like bulldozers, ploughs, and combine harvesters they use a slash and burn method to clear small patches just enough for them to use and their tools consist of a digging stick and woven baskets. They only use the same garden for two years and then not use the same area for at least eight years to allow the forest to regrow and return fertility to the soil.

The Canela’s vast knowledge of plants helps them determine which ones make good companions that will help each other grow, which ones are natural repellents to predatory insects that will attack the plants, and which plants to grow which will attract beneficial insects such as pollinizers. And likewise their vast knowledge of soil helps them to consciously plant to suit the 10 different soil groups in their area which will help prevent soil erosion, nutrients depletion, and combat against other harmful effects that are typical of agriculture. Their focus is for caring for the well-being of local biodiversity and the nonhuman inhabitants.

The Canel don’t see themselves as farmers but parents looking after their plant kin viewing their saved seeds and cuttings as their babies and their growing crops as their infants, genuinely loving them in the same way as if they were their human children caring for the plants as the plants care for them. They view the environment as consisting of human and nonhuman “selves”, and gardening as caretaking for themselves and their plant and human families.

[libraryspectre]

Hear me out before shooting me in the head, but I can actually think of several interesting (arguably mixed-media) art pieces that could be made using AI as a tool, and you know there's some art student out there who has a really funky idea we're missing out on because of the current state of AI

It's just a shame that instead of taking AI as a tool for new, interesting art, people are using it for things that could and should be done by human artists and instead producing souless output with no artistry

And if you doubt me that AI could be an actual tool/medium, here's a few ideas off the top of my head:

- a faux art gallery with a series of AI-generated images. The human artist has taken the role of "curator" and written blurbs that discuss the themes and symbolism of each piece. It's a commentary on how humans will find meaning in the meaningless

- a series where an artist has a prompt that they change one word at a time, and document how that one word changes the output. Could be an exploration of society's biases laid bare by algorithmic extrapolation - think of that post where someone pointed out that inputting "autistic person" produced nothing but images of sad young white boys

- entering a prompt that is difficult to represent literally (like the "secret horses" image) and attempting to recreate it in physical space, through photography, painting, or sculpture. An interesting practical challenge, themes of blurring the divide between the digital and physical could be explored

- a story where a writer is trading off writing each paragraph with AI, and trying to steer the story in the direction of a romance, while the entirety of the AI's dataset is the complete works of HP Lovecraft

- I don't know much about coding but I think there is an argument here for "artistic coding", where the final output is machine generated but the artist has written the code and made deliberate artistic choices in the process (a bias toward green, favoring some parts of the dataset more heavily than others, etc).

I don't buy that art made with AI is automatically not real art. Even things like "what prompt did you choose" and "what did you choose as your dataset" can be meaningful artistic choices. The problem lies in suggesting that the output is the SAME THING as a digital painting or whatever. That's like arguing a painting and a sculpture are the same thing because they're both of a raven. You can use AI as a tool to make art if you're engaging with it intentionally as it's own medium.

But, obviously, the bigger issue here is the misuse of AI for things human artists could do better and SHOULD be doing, and the unethical usage of other's work for machine learning, and the overuse of AI being so bad for the environment (I doubt the water and energy usage would be a big deal if AI wasn't being used constantly for things like google overviews and homework). I'm just lamenting on the cool art we're missing out on because Harris in Marketing wants to type "company logo bird" into an image generator instead of hiring a graphic designer

[slowd1ving]

[✦III. OH, HOW TRAGIC IS HE] SNIPPET • . DR RATIO

honestly I'm so used to writing comedic scenes this is just bittersweet man :-(

warning: death but also not really, injury

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In retrospect, it was practically expected that your tired life would beget yet another tired cliché. 

There was something completely unoriginal in the series of misfortunes that befell the proletariat salaryman (read: you). In novels, movies, and the occasional game, the most ordinary of souls stumbled across a situation that chose them. For once, someone in their weary lives had need of them; not as a pushover, nor a lackey, but someone courageous and brave who became a hero. Forums and comments oft scorned these overused plotlines—and you agreed, of course—but it was an interesting premise to think about. 

“There’s a survivor on the third floor—”

Still, no matter how intriguing the promise of escape from the mundane was, it was pointless. It wouldn’t happen. 

“Hey— can you get up? Blink if you can hear me, alright? 

The accident in the lab was almost poetic. Of course, when a protagonist encountered an explosion in their place of work, there was always an accompanying montage that indicated something was wrong. Whether it be the change in key in the background chords, or a close up of cracking machinery, the audience got some sort of closure as to why. Was it fate? Was it the cruel machinations of man? Was it just an unfortunate accident?

“We need oxygen here—he’s going into shock! Help—you—get a gurney immediately!”

But actually, there was none of that fanfare for you. Just a sluggish warmth that crawled from your limbs and back into your heart, from limbs far too cold to move. No, not cold. You simply couldn’t feel them—much like when a body part suddenly fell asleep on you. 

If you scrunched your face a bit, you could smell the acrid wisps of rubble: paint chips and stone all congealing into an antiquated scent. You couldn’t exactly see, but maybe that was for the better. 

“What’s happen—” Your tongue felt leaden in your mouth: heavy and contorted as you awkwardly sounded out your question. An explosion? A gas leak? A mine that somehow went off? There was something wet dribbling from your mouth; tasting like white hot iron, seeping past your aching lips. A hero would know. A hero would have that information playing out panel by panel while they bled out, farewells and anguish for their loved ones already melding into the fabric of existence. 

Ow. 

“Shh, don’t talk, okay? We’ll get you out of here, alright?” There weren’t any reassurances for your state. No ‘you’ll be okay’, no ‘stay with me, alright?’. You weren’t stupid. You weren’t, but it was in that moment when you wished you were—dropping out before doing your degree and doctorate, keeping far from the lab, and holding on to your life with blissful ignorance on your side. 

You opened your mouth. 

“No, you don’t need to say anything, alright?” The voice was kind, you noted drowsily. If not a little clumsy, swaddling you in a foil blanket like some overgrown child. Well. You couldn’t see it, and neither could you feel it, but you could feel your limbs lolling this way and that way at the movements—like some grotesque, decommissioned marionette. 

At least it didn’t hurt.  

“Thank you,” you whispered. There was nothing outrageous about your last words. Like the rest of your life, the syllables were as ordinary as they came. A quiet beginning. A quiet end. There was nobody to say goodbye to, nobody to wait for past the veil. 

It was an accident. 

“I’m sorry. Ah, shit—” Something wet splashed your cheek, followed by a fumbling hand that tried to brush it away but only succeeded in smearing the thin liquid across your face awkwardly. “Don’t— fuck, I’ll stay with you, alright?” 

Fingers wrapped around your own, flesh against bone. Pulsing life alongside a silent end. 

The last thing on your lips was an apology, in the form of a salty tear dripping from above. 

[chaoslovesmisery]

Chapter 11. Claw Machines and a Wild Gaze

"I thought you were told to make bi-weekly check ups the last time you were here." Zayne says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I was..." I trailed off.

"Yet, the last time you were here was over a year ago," he pointed out, settling into his chair and placing my medical files on the desk with a deliberate thud.

"Yes, well... I'm here now. That's what counts right?" I laughed sheepishly. He doesn't crack a smile, cold as ice. Like usual.

"Why does everyone in the Anhausen class always refuse to follow doctors orders?" I hear him mutter under his breath and I try not to crack a smile knowing he was also talking about the Heroine. He grabbed his stethoscope and approached me with a clinical calmness.

"Now, let's listen to your heart," he instructed, his voice steady as he placed the cool metal against my chest. I felt a jolt of cold that made me shiver slightly.

"Take a deep breath," he instructed, leaning in to focus on the rhythm of my heartbeat. There's a small look of surprise or confusion in his eyes as he pulls back and picks up my chart again.

"You're Evol has stabilized a lot more. Have you been getting some sort of treatment?" He inquired and I thought about how I absorbed the Aether Core last week.

"Nope, not really." I say and I can see a hint of disappointment flash in his eyes.

"I see," he pauses.

"We're gonna have you run a few more tests. You tested positive for high traces of Metaflux, what do you do for living exactly?" He asks, picking up his clipboard.

"Is that really relevant, Doc?" I ask and he narrows his eyes at me.

"I mean Doctor Zayne." I say looking down.

"The recent high volumes of Metaflux in your bloodstream are abnormal. With your unstable Evol, it appears you may be on the cusp of Protocore Syndrome. I'll need to order some scans, I don't see that your previous doctor requested any. You were seeing... Doctor Noah?" he asked, surprise creeping into his voice.

"Ah yes, that sounds about right. However, that was a few years back, last year I saw someone else but I can't remember who," I replied, hopping off the crinkly white paper and making my way to a corner seat to lean back and regain my composure.

"I'm going to order a series of scans of your heart, and we'll discuss the results next week," he said, rising to head for the door.

"Well, that's not really going to happen. I just came in for a simple physical, and it seems you've told me I'm looking better than last time," I countered, rising to follow him.

"You have the start of Protocore Syndrome, which is a progressive and life-threatening illness. On top of that, your unstable Evol can lead to severe side effects if overused," he replied, blocking my path as I attempted to exit. I looked up into his striking green and amber eyes, momentarily captivated.

"My death doesn't scare me," I admitted looking down, shielding the unsettling truth that his resolve reminded me too much of the Heroine—a fact that sparked memories of my past, but that's not today's concern.

"As a doctor, it's my oath to try and save as many patients as I can," he stated solemnly before opening the door and stepping out, leaving me wrestling with the weight of his words and the implications of my fading health.

"Please, take your scans, and we will meet again next week," he instructed firmly before turning to leave, the door slamming shut behind him with a sharp bang that made me flinch. I shouldn't have talked about death so lightly with him. Although I also can't remember much of the game with him either, I do know that he also suffers from an Unstable Evol.

I opened the door and walked down the hall, each step echoing in the sterile corridor. As I turned the corner, I froze at the sight of Zayne and the Heroine just ahead. Zayne leaned down brushing something out of the Heroine's hair with a small smile crossing his face.

"Excuse me, can I help you?" A voice said behind me cause me to jump. I spun around to see a young looking man with brown hair, large black rimmed glasses, and a lab coat.

"Oh, actually..." I trailed off, glancing back just in time to see Zayne and the Heroine slipping out of sight.

"I'm lost, it's been a while since I was last here getting a checkup and I lost my way. Can you help me Doctor?" My voice wavered a bit, and I hoped my pathetic acting wouldn't be too obvious.

"S-sure," he stammered, his cheeks flushing a light shade of crimson, making me blink in surprise. Was he seriously getting embarrassed by a simple question? I couldn't help but grin at his awkwardness.

"Th-This way," he added, gesturing stiffly towards the elevators. As we walked, he struggled to strike up a conversation.

"So, what do you do for a living?" He asks. How I answered Zayne earlier seemed like the wrong response so I may as well give an answer this time.

"I'm a Hunter," I said, flashing him a warm smile, only to watch his face turn an even deeper shade of red as if my words set off a spark in him. The elevator chimed as it arrived at the first floor. "Thank you so much for your escort, Dr..?"

"Greyson." He says placing his arm behind his head awkwardly. There's something about him that seems a little familiar, like I've seen him before but I don't have much time to think about it.

"Thank you Dr. Greyson." I say as we walk out of the elevator heading to the front desk.

"Checking out." I say grabbing my phone from my back pocket checking the time.

"Your check-out paper, please?" The woman asks me, smiling.

"I'm sorry?" I replied, feigning confusion as my stomach twisted.

"When the doctor is finished with you, you'll receive a checkout paper so we can schedule any additional appointments," she explained patiently.

"Ah, that was what I left upstairs," I said quickly, hoping she wouldn't see through my flimsy lie.

"No problem! What was your name, and the doctor's name? I'll give him a call to confirm your checkout," she responded with ease. Ah shit.

"My name is Mephisto, and the doctor I saw was Dr. Zayne... but I saw his with a cute girl that looked like his girlfriend and I think I heard they went to get something to eat so I don't want to interrupt their date." I explained forcing a casual tone, based on the look on her face she knew I was referring to the Heroine. Maybe she chose the Zayne route? However, it's a difficult route choosing Astra's tool.

"When did he mention making your next appointment?" Dr. Greyson chimed in, tilting his head in an earnest way.

"I believe he said in six months," I replied, pretending to ponder as I looked up at the ceiling.

"But if the doctor needs to make an appointment sooner, you can give me a call, Miss. Yvonne," I say, turning back to the nurse behind the desk, glancing at her name tag. She takes a look at her watch, seemingly debating whether to call Zayne or not.

"It'll be alright, Yvonne. Please let Miss Hunter check out," Dr. Greyson interjected with a reassuring smile that seemed to relieve the tension in the air and Yvonne sighed.

"All set!" she said, smiling at me after a series of quick clicks on her keyboard.

"Thank you both! I'll see you in 6 months!" I chirped as I made my way to the exit. As I stepped outside I felt the cool air wash over me.

"How did everything go?" Sylus asked, leaning casually against his motorcycle just outside the hospital doors. I scanned the area for any sign of the Heroine before cautiously making my way toward him.

"What are you doing here?" I ask curiously.

"Here to take you home—hope that's alright," he replied, offering me a helmet with a reassuring smile. My gaze drifted to the arcade across the street, a place I had planned to visit after the check-up. Sylus chuckled lightly following where my gaze was.

"I suppose we could have a little detour for a game." He says, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Just one game?" I tease, a playful smile dancing on my lips as I pass him back the helmet.

"One game? Now you're testing my generosity," Sylus jokes, placing back his helmet on the bike and reaching out his hand towards me.

"Alright, five games then!" I countered, feeling a rush of excitement at the thought of stepping into the arcade. He chuckled and nodded, clearly unable to resist the charm of a challenge. We walked across the street and the neon lights cast a warm glow that beckoned us inside. I notice there is a claw machine with a smiley dino and another of a crow that I had seen as an emoji recently.

"Wait, isn't that the emoji Luke and Kieran made of me recently after entering it in a contest?" O ask pulling out my phone comparing our messaged character to the plushie. I can't believe they made their emoji into a plush.

"Well, now we definitely need to get it," Sylus says with a grin, exchanging a $5 bill for a small handful of tokens.

"Who should go first?" He asks.

"You." I respond without missing a beat.

"Alright then," he says walking up to the claw machine with the crow.

"Of course you're going for that one," I say, unable to help my laugh.

"You got this!" I cheer as he steadies himself, one hand casually tucked in his pocket while the other grips the machine handle. He makes a calculated grab for the crow but just as he lifts it, it slips and tumbles back down.

"Oh no, my hand slipped. I wonder if a few more words of encouragement will help me," he says with a sly grin. As he moves the claw to try again I can't help but touch his arm, leaning in to catch a better view of his technique.

"One more nudge, and I'll be pressed up against the claw machine," he jokes and this time luck is on his side as the crow finally makes its way into the drop slot.

"A ruff-wearing crow... What a unique plushie design..." I trail off while grabbing the plushie from the machine. It's cute but looks nothing like how I look in my crow form.

"It looks great. It's refined, classy, and elegant," he defends, his eyes glimmering with amusement.

"Sounds like your taste in aesthetics," I reply with a playful smile rolling my eyes.

"I'll use them as a reference next time I choose a dress for you. Refined, classy, and elegant—these words suit you most," he teases, and I feel a blush creep across my cheeks.

"It's my turn now," I declare, grabbing a token and striding over to a nearby claw machine.

"It looks familiar," Sylus muses, his gaze fixed on the smiley dino inside.

"By the way, its smile reminds me of someone," I say, missing my first grab with the machine.

"Are you talking about me?" he asks, a knowing smile playing on his lips as I can't help but grin back, taking another token and giving it another go. This time I manage to lift the plush halfway up before it tumbles free, the dino slipping through my fingers.

"What made you think that? My smile is friendlier than the plushie's," he says, crossing his arms with a mock-serious expression. Just as he speaks, I take my last token steadying myself with a deep breath before skillfully maneuvering the claw. This time, victory is mine! I grabbed the dino and held it up excitedly. He smiles back leaning down to pat my head and a warm feeling fills my chest.

"Alright, I grabbed what I wanted. I'm pleasantly surprised you offered to play the claw machines with me today," I say, cradling both plushies as we make our way back to his motorcycle.

"What did you think I was going to have us do?" he asks, feigning bewilderment.

"You'd buy the arcade and declare that all the plushies here were under your care," I tease, laughing at the thought.

"...Your imagination is boundless yet short-sighted," he retorts, rolling his eyes but unable to hide his amusement. I gently place the plushies in my backpack, ensuring they are safe as he hands me my helmet. He hops onto the bike, and I swing my leg around, wrapping my arms securely around his back.

"You don't have to worry, Linkon City has speed limits unlike the N109 Zone," he chuckles, his laugh vibrating through my arms making me smile broader. I squeeze him a little tighter and his laughter erupts again as we take off. The city lights blur around us as we speed through Linkon City and as we reach the N109 Zone our speed picks up considerably. The sun is at the end of its sunset and the sky is a mix of beautiful shades of pink, purple, and blue.

As Sylus as I arrive to a high end shopping center, we're greeted by two rows of men wearing black suits. They bow and shout at the same time catching me off guard.

"W-what's this about?" I stammer, hastily removing my helmet.

"Kieran and the others arranged it. To give you a taste of how it feels to be the center of attention." he replies with a teasing smirk. My brow furrows.

"Was it on purpose?" I ask and he shrugs.

"This is nothing. Now, remember to maintain your 'demeanor.' " He says, placing his hand lightly on the base of my back.

"Will there be more arrangements like this in the future?" I whine lightly grabbing his upper arm

"Don't be so quick to question things." He says adjusting his hand to pat my shoulder.

"This is only the beginning.," he teases lightly, placing his hand back to my lower back, nudging me forward leading me to an elegant bar on the first floor. Surprisingly, it's right across from the photo booth where I had taken pictures with Sylus before. As we walk into the bar, the warm lights around us and gentle jazz music playing create a cozy atmosphere, and there are quite a lot of people here.

"I have a bad feeling about this..." I trail off.

"Here's the first rule: Stay calm," he whispers in my ear. We stop in the back of the bar, where there are red velvet seats watching over the rest of the place. Clearly, we are in the VIP section.

"This place seems really chaotic," I say, taking a seat in the large velvet chair, aware of the many eyes trailing us with every step.

"This will help you adapt to these sorts of situations ahead of time," Sylus replies, but I can't help but wonder why I need to get used to this kind of attention.

"Miss Hokage, your drink," a waiter dressed in black announces, sliding two drinks before us. Hokage? It seems like Kieran and Luke may have been indulging in one too many Naruto episodes recently.

"Aren't you going to say something?" Sylus asks, his voice hushed, curiosity evident in his eyes.

"That'll be all, you can go," I responded curtly, waving my hand dismissively at the waiter.

"Good, but that's not enough; if you don't show even a hint of aggression, you won't be able to keep others in check," he instructs, and I sense a hidden meaning in Sylus' words. My anxiety spikes as I take in the scrutinizing gazes around me—some obvious, others less so.

"This is child's play. I'm not scared. Didn't you say the first rule for you is 'staying calm?'" I retort, my clammy hands betraying the confidence in my voice.

"Should I let Kieran push you a bit more?" Sylus muses, pulling out his phone as if ready to make a call. In a panic, I quickly grab his sleeve.

"No need. I think it's good enough. We need to take this step by step." I say while taking a mental note to jump Kieran later for scheming this whole ordeal. He told me I needed to be more confident yesterday instead of focusing on the Heroine but I rolled my eyes at him ignoring everything else he had to say about the matter. He doesn't know the history of her and Sylus like I did.

"You're right. Turn around and look," he murmurs in my ear before stepping back, his demeanor shifting as he observes my reaction.

"Why?" I ask, confusion lacing my voice, but as I turn my head, I'm greeted by the sight of two drunken men—one tall and lanky, the other short with a staggered walk—heading straight for us.

"Was this also arranged by Kieran?!" I blurt out in a panic, my heart racing at the thought. Memories of my time with the Overlord flash in my mind, and I couldn't tell if Kieran was trying to help me face my fears or orchestrating a cruel intervention that capitalized on my insecurities today.

"Shouldn't be," Sylus replies, furrowing his brows with concern.

"They don't look friendly. Are there really that many people who don't know you?" I question, anxiety bubbling within me, and he responds with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

"I'm not that infamous. Of course, I'd be a nobody to some. But remember, this is your turf now, and it's up to you to decide how to handle them," he instructs. He casually holds a glass of wine and adopts a nonchalant air, all while blending seamlessly into the crowd with his all-black attire. The relaxed confidence he exudes only amplifies my unease, leaving me to grapple with the growing uncertainty of the situation.

"I can handle slicing up enemies and their goons but... I don't know how to handle these people without a blade pressed against their neck." I admit feeling the weight of my inexperience with confrontation beyond combat.

"Relax. Handle it however you like," Sylus reassures me, surprising me further by placing the very blade I usually carry into my hand. My eyes widen in shock at the unexpected gesture, the cold metal grounding me amidst the chaos. .

"No wonder it's so lively tonight. Hey, Missy. Those people gonna back you up or what?" the tall, burly drunk man slurs as he saunters over, his presence looming like a thick wall beside his shorter companion as they stand by our table.

"You got a problem with that?" I shoot back, narrowing my eyes at both men.

"You brought a really nice gift. Don't you wanna be friends?" the shorter man chimes in, snatching the glass from Sylus' hand and gulping it down in one greedy motion.

"Tell us where your turf is and we'll pay you a visit one day," he says with a predatory smile, a surge of unease coursing through me as I try to suppress the trauma bubbling up within.

"We don't need to be friends. And as for my turf, I'm afraid you'll be hard-pressed in getting there," I retorted, looking them up and down with disdain leaning back in my seat, crossing my legs with deliberate composure.

"Show us some respect!" the tall drunkard barks but I barely glance at him, my eyes flicking to Sylus instead. He stands relaxed with his arms folded, a calm observer to the escalating tension. I unsheathe the blade and jab it into the table with a forceful slam and the blade standing tall.

"Why should I?" I shout causing their attention to snap to me and then to Sylus, confusion painting their features.

"H-He's...!" the shorter man stutters, gripping the tall man's shoulder as fear begins to seep into their eyes.

"...Hmph, let's go," the tall man mutters, his ego seemingly deflating as they both turn on their heels, scrambling away from the table.

"They left just like that? What the hell?" I ask in disbelief as I process the sudden retreat. My heart was still pounding with adrenaline but I felt a small spark of joy as I was able to push back slightly against the remnants of my past.

"A single look is enough," he says, confidently striding over toward me with an assured grin.

"It seems you haven't had your fill quite yet? Next time, there's something else you could say—" he pauses.

"Since you're here, you should leave something behind," he adds wickedly, an amused but wild glint in his eyes.

"Oh! That's quite the idea." I respond, thinking about his suggestion. It wouldn't be too bad to strike fear into people like that. He pats me on the head and warmth floods my cheeks as a blush creeps across my face, enjoying the praise.

"You can pass as a big, bad boss. Sort of. You did use your prop to your advantage," he observes, and I can't help but crack a smile, feeling a surge of confidence. I sheath my blade and secure it in the strap on my leg, having removed it earlier for my hospital checkup. Suddenly, he grabs my hand and begins to lead me away, setting my heart racing.

"Wait, where are we going?" I ask curiously.

"Darling, the second rule is to talk less," he replies playfully, guiding me back to the lobby of this high-end mall before we step into the gleaming gold and white elevators we ascend to the fifth floor.

"This is the place," he announces, gesturing toward a stylish shop that stands out amid the luxurious surroundings.

"What are we doing here?" I ask, confused as to why we were in a place filled with glasses behind display cases.

"Buying you something." He says looking at the fancy display cases that show rows and rows of sunglasses. The golden edges and inlaid diamonds sparkle with an enchanting light, all screaming luxury.

"Wait, is this supposed to be for another prop?" I question.

"Since you can't be inscrutable, use sunglasses to hide. Same effect," he suggests thoughtfully, scanning the rows before his eyes land on a pair that seems to capture his interest.

"These two," he says to the sales lady, his voice smooth and confident.

"Yes, Sir," she replies, slipping on white gloves before carefully taking the sunglasses out of their case. Sylus puts on the pair he took out and hands me the other one with a playful smile.

"Try it," he says, tilting his head slightly. I watch his slender fingers brushing against the edge of the frame before catching a glimpse of his deep eyes beneath the black lenses. They hold an intense gaze that feels almost like a challenge.

"Why are you staring at me?" He asks suddenly, I feel the heat rise in my cheeks.

"Oh, it's nothing. The sunglasses you chose are really nice," I manage to say, looking away.

"Only the sunglasses?" he teases, his grin widening. Without thinking, I snatch them from his hand and put them on.

"I get it. With these, I have a demeanor similar to yours," I say while glancing in the mirror behind me, realizing how our similar red eyes create an air of intimidation behind some simple shades.

"Let me see," Sylus says, pressing the back of my head gently to make me face him.

"Are you planning to kill with your eyes now?" he asks, raising an eyebrow clearly amused.

"Well, I was copying your look from the bar earlier," I reply, trying to maintain my serious facade.

"Don't smile. You need to frown," he instructs playfully, brushing his thumb over my lip, which makes my face heat up even more.

"Ugh, I doubt a single look can scare you," I say, turning away flustered.

"Personally, I never really cared about threats," he shrugs.

"Tell you what, if you scare me off with just a look, you win. Can you do it?" he challenges. I grab Sylus' collar and pull. Now that I'm closer to him, I give him the fiercest glare possible.

"Who said I couldn't?" I challenge, glaring hard into his eyes. For a moment, he blinks, taken aback, before a slow grin spreads across his face.

"It's a lot better now," he admits, raising his hands in surrender.

""Really?" I ask, surprised by his admission.

"My heart is racing." As he speaks, his breath brushes against my face, sending a shiver down my spine. He grabs my hand and places it on his chest, and he's right—his heart is pounding. The closeness only makes my face flush again, sending my heartbeat into a frenzy.

"So, are you going to give up?" I ask, locking my gaze with his behind the dark lenses.

"I surrender," he replies while gently lowering my hand back to my side, his tone teasing yet sincere.

"When you go out to practice your bad boss behavior, I'll arrange a group of 'bodyguards' for you later," he says, taking off his sunglasses and handing them to the sales lady, who has quietly observed us.

"What about you?" I pout slightly.

"I'm very expensive," he says with a grin, then an idea pops into my head.

"Don't worry, this big, bad boss won't be a cheapskate," I say with a smirk, sliding my hand into his front pocket where I know his wallet is tucked away. I pull out his sleek black card and hand it to the woman.

"We'll take these two out the door," I declare, and she accepts it with both hands bowing politely before disappearing momentarily.

"All right, whatever you say..." he chuckles, leaning down and gently nudging the sunglasses back up my nose.

"Boss," he says with a playful seriousness and I can't help but smile. This truly felt like a nice break after everything that happened. Like a calm before the storm. I better enjoy this while I can, who knows what will happen next.

****************************************************************

A/N: 

Chapter heavily based off/follows of Claw Machine Response: Grumpy Crow, Unique Aesthetics and Smiley Dino's Smile, and 4-Star Sylus Tender Moments: Wild Gaze

Read/Played in order:

1.  After Achieving getting Grumpy Crow, the response Grumpy Crow and Unique Aesthetics will appear. (If already achieved response can be reviewed in Love Timeline Memory)

2. After Achieving getting Smiley Dino, the response Smiley Dino's Smile will  appear. (If already achieved response can be reviewed in Love Timeline Memory)

3. 4-Star Sylus Tender Moments: Wild Gaze

***Sorry for the delay of the chapter, I will be skipping next week as I transition from my old job to my new job and celebrate both my parents birthday. I also have a trip planned for DPR Ian's concert at the end of the month but I will try to get ahead in chapters instead of write them each week. I forgot the reason why I try writing ahead haha. Please note that for a little while until we get more new Sylus content I will be using his other cards/memories for this story. I do intend on following the storyline for Sylus with the game for this story. ****

[acesw]

Reverse: 1999 : Disabled Characters

The game doesn't stray too far on the neurodivergent allegory for the arcanists themselves. But at the same time, there are also inclusions of other characters who are very much known to be disabled. So for this post I'll delve into that, just a bit.

Now, there are 10 characters that I want to put in the spotlight. These mostly lean towards being canon, but a part of these are also researched upon and shortened so the post doesn’t become way too long.

Cristallo, Rabies, Erick : Chronic Illness

It's quite self explanatory that Cristallo herself has a chronic illness. She was born prematurely, with an added condition that makes her physically fragile. As seen in the game, she needs a life-support system to maintain her health when she's outside. It's also implied that her condition may be a recurrent cancer, as her arcane abilities are tied to a machine that provides cobalt therapy, a known advancement in radiotherapy in the post-WWII era.

Rabies is an odd case. In his stories, it's noted that Adam cured Alicia through unknown means at the cost of contracting rabies himself. However, instead of the virus being acute and guaranteed to be fatal, it becomes a chronic illness to Rabies due to the abundance and use of arcanum. And since the rabies virus attacks the brain, his cognitive capabilities and ability to recall things before the present had been impaired, making him rather docile and animal-like in nature as a result.

Erick, as revealed in her anecdote, has a hereditary blood condition that came with her arcane skill. With her arcane skill making her physically powerful, overusing it will accelerate the effects of her blood condition to the point that it can become fatal. To prevent this, she also inherited an armband from her grandfather, Harald. The armband suppresses one's ability to use arcane skills, but by extension it also prevents Erick's condition getting worse.

Shamane : Amputee

Shamane's circumstances are also self-explanatory. He lost his arm for unknown reasons, but after having lived without it for 20 years, it doesn't bother him anymore. However as we know, he crafted his prosthetic arm as a means to avoid scaring kids. (which I think is quite cool in itself)

Ms. Radio, Bessmert : Blindness

Ms. Radio and our new friend, Bessmert, are both canonically blind. Ms. Radio has stated that she cannot see, and asks Vertin to left in places where she can feel temperatures to make her feel at peace.

And as we know, Yenisei (or in other words, Yenisei's VA) has stated in the 1.6 livestream that Bessmert is known to be blind, but even with that, she's a great researcher and guide to her.

Mesmer Jr. : OCD [Content Warning: Mentions of Self Harm and Suicide.]

Mesmer Jr.'s character has heavily implied throughout the main story and her own to have OCD as a result of the traumatic experiences she had gone through from her field of work and her family’s history in it. She identifies that she has "incurable" anxiety, which causes her to think differently about arcanists and act a little irrationally from our own perspective. This anxiety results in double checking everything and having a slightly intensive routine.

This routine is created as a means to maintain herself and her own sanity, but an imbalance or interruption can greatly upset her. As a result, she has conflicting ideals, experiences hallucinations and panic attacks, has suicidal thoughts, and actively inflicts self harm as a means to cope with her anxiety. However, she’s calmer and at peace with herself when she's left alone in a quieter and clean space, away from others, and where nature is heard more than constant buzzing. In short, Mesmer Jr.’s mental health is really complex and would be better if it's explored in a separate post.

Baby Blue : Alice in Wonderland syndrome

It's no secret that Baby Blue has Alice in Wonderland syndrome, or in other words dysmetropsia. This affects her perception of reality and her ability to recall, but this in turn makes her arcane abilities all the more powerful. As a result, she doesn't realize that she's growing up, yet it seems she doesn't mind that much. This doesn't seem to affect her physically either; In fact, it has a heavy influence on how she displays her arcane skills.

Poltergeist : Social Anxiety

Poltergeist has been known to be anxious in social settings which conflicts with her people-pleasing tendencies. She's also insecure about herself which adds up to her not wanting to be directly perceived. At the same time, she doesn't like being left alone as a result of having been ignored and forgotten post mortem. Poltergeist is also elaborate (i.e. not wanting to be looked at for too long) yet awkward at the same time when communicating them.

However, I'm not sure how to describe Poltergeist's case quite well, but the idea of her having social anxiety resonates greatly in my mind, so it can be treated as a partial headcanon.

Balloon Party : Autism and Speech Impairment

Balloon Party as a child had contracted an illness that caused her to have a persistent high fever. In the end, she awakened her arcane skill this way, with her being able to cough up balloons that can be harmful or a cure to anything.

However, it might have also affected her speech because of the physical strain that comes from coughing, it results to BP's speech being a bit slow and having abnormal pauses before she speaks again. Though, this also might be a sign of her possibly also having autism, where rigid and uneven language development is a common pattern in how autism affects one's ability in communication. Her speech also has a pattern of echolalia, having a flat tone, and lack of control of it.

However, speech impediment isn't everything about autism, and there's a lot more about BP's character that also connects with it such as her special interests. I can better explore this in a different post, which will be explained below.

Last Notes

These are the characters I’ve written down, most of these are less headcanon and more of observations I’ve found when looking into these characters. Some people from the lore chat have also added their own insights on some of them. (Thank you lupjo for beta-reading through it and helping me out) 

Of course, there are a few more characters I want to discuss because of the implications of them having autism / ADHD, but these will be written in another post in the future because I still need to research and gather other information. Additionally, it would be an opportunity to talk about the connections between an arcanist’s and neurodivergent person’s relationships with modern society.

Congrats for reaching the bottom of this post, and feel free to add your own ideas or headcanons about the characters here and/or any other ones.

[mybrothermachine]

How to Reset Brother Sewing Machine: A Detailed Guide

Brother sewing machines are a great tool for your everyday sewing tasks. Its automatic settings, and diverse features help you create world-class sewing projects. However, like every sewing machine, Brother’s machine is also prone to uncertain issues, which may require a factory reset to perform. Sometimes, when your machine’s settings are not correct or you are having trouble with sewing your project, it indicates that your machine needs a break and a reset. So, let’s understand how to reset Brother sewing machine with factory reset.

Brother sewing machines need a proper reset to get back to their default state and make them function properly. Over time, these sewing machines may get a little disturbed and not work as they should. Hence, a reset would be a great solution.

How to Reset Brother Sewing Machine?

Resetting your sewing machine will help you fix the common glitches with them. A proper reset is necessary to ensure a seamless sewing experience. Hence, go with the steps given below to start a reset now.

First of all, disconnect your sewing machine from the power supply.

Also, disconnect the machine from any device you have connected it to.

Now, keep it disconnected for at least 15 seconds before connecting it back.

Press the Start/Stop button, and then your machine will take a moment to turn on.

If the machine doesn’t start, push the button once again.

After that, press the Reset button present at the bottom of your machine next to the power button.

Once you follow all these instructions properly, your machine will be ready to work again. After that, you can also adjust the settings of your machine model. Hence, it’s necessary to understand your machine’s settings through its instruction manual.

 

How to Maintain Brother Sewing Machine for the Future?

As you know, your sewing machine may easily get disturbed due to misalignment of certain settings, overuse of the machine, and so many other factors as well. Therefore, you need to keep your machine maintained for use in the future. When you keep your machine maintained, you may not need to reset it too often. Check out the methods below:

Keep Your Machine Clean

This is the most important step to maintain your machine for further use. You should regularly clean the machine with a soft cloth and vacuum it occasionally to remove debris. When you keep your machine debris-free, you’ll be less likely to face issues with it. Therefore, keeping your machine clean is the first step in maintaining it for the future.

Lubricate the Machine Often

With use, the machine may lose its lubrication and doesn’t sew projects as seamlessly as before. Hence, it’s necessary to lubricate it from time to time. Proper lubrication will ensure the machine operates smoothly. Over time, the sewing machine can lose lubrication, which may lead to improper functioning. Hence, you need to take care of its lubrication.

Ensure Proper Threading

This is one of the most important steps when you need to check your machine for threading, such as the bobbin and tractor feed, to keep it going uninterrupted. If the thread in your machine isn’t set up correctly, it may lead to serious problems later. So, checking the threading would also be a great solution.

Adjust the Tension

You need to also check the wheel and lever to ensure that the tension is properly adjusted according to your sewing needs.

Following all the above-mentioned steps, you can ensure the good functioning of your Brother sewing machine and use it effectively in the future. So, when you know how to keep your sewing machine maintained, you’re good to go and use your machine hassle-free.

Conclusion

Finally, you know how to reset Brother sewing machine in a step-by-step manner. Many times, you may face troubles with your machine and not be able to sew properly. In this case, you can reset your machine to allow it to work properly. Moreover, if you want to sell or lend your machine to someone, you can reset your machine and utilize it for your future projects.

FAQs

Where to Reset Brother Sewing Machine?

To reset a sewing machine, you need to head to its Settings or Menu option. Then, select the Initial Setup/General Setup option. After that, choose the Reset option to select the reset you want to perform, including a factory reset, machine reset, etc.

How Do I Reset Brother Sewing Machine?

If you want to reset your sewing machine, check out these steps:

To begin, go to the Initial Setup/All Settings menu.

Then, choose the Reset option and pick a reset method you want to perform.

Now, go to your machine’s menu and select the Settings/All Settings option.

After that, choose the Initial Setup option.

Next, select the Reset button.

Why Should You Reset a Brother Sewing Machine?

There are many reasons why you need to reset your sewing machine. For instance, if your machine isn’t working properly, performing a reset often solves the problem, as well as before selling and lending your machine to someone else. Moreover, if you change some settings and then you need to reset the original settings, a reset will help.

[millionsmayfry]

Thermodynamic Lawyer

aka: a chonny jash fanfic

yes ! hello ! idk if this is how it works really , but i've decided to cross post stuff onto here as a test i guess

... will release new parts, hopefully i can figure out how to navigate tumblr in the meantime

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They stood there. Almost seamlessly. They fit into the image so well, as if they were meant to be there. But they were pasted there like patchwork- glue and shreds of paper stuck to their edges ruining their view. Freud had underestimated the power that they held, grimy fingers reaching for any ounce of influence over his sovereignty, hissing and clawing at each other.

He watched the advisors in action with a gloomy look in his eye. They threw everything they could at each other. They screamed obscenities, they slammed each other's skull in the wall… And Soul laid there, staring. He could do nothing but glare at them and their profane forms. He couldn't tell if his head was in the clouds or if it was six feet underground- fiberglass fanned across his skin, cotton in his ears. He was resting, watching as they fought, far too tired to bring out his trident.

He could offer the usual assurances. Tell them that they were the same. He could stand like that, better than them, but they looked at him as if they knew something he didn't.

Always and forever, he thought. Better. Superior.

Yes, he watched the Avian screech and sob as the Automaton ripped into his flesh with an almost guilty look in his gaze. Unwilling to indulge in his anger, and yet he committed the integral act anyway. To commit the atrocity wasn’t what was bad- it was to give into the emotion that oversees it. Mind was filthy nonetheless. Heart was soaked in the core-rotting metaphor synonymous for the trivialities of suffering that- meaning something important maybe in some other world- he had forgotten the name of. It was likely an overused proverb. Decayed trite and worthless, frayed at the edges by its repeated utterances. Paper can only stand the test of time for so long.

Soul thought, The first law of thermodynamics states… That if 2 systems are in equilibrium with a third system,- 

The Weeping Angel struck the machine in front of him with a harsh cry, wings flaring, screaming in agony, “Your fault! Your fault, you knew it, you know it! You- god, I missed! I wish I hadn’t of missed!” 

-then they are thus in equilibrium with each other. It is common sense. He lightly coughed into his palm. He watched with dying interest. His body still felt exhausted. So did he. The only difference between him and his weighted body was the fact that one listened to what he wanted, the other completely disregarded it. Guess which was which.

“Alright,” He sighed, finally at least somewhat fulfilled with his rest, tired of their bickering- “uh… Now, if I must-” grappling for his line… What did he always say here again? “You two are one in the same… Why do you always fight?” He drew out the last sentence, begging the clock to stop ticking, wailing for the bird to stop its call. Asking so kindly for the ruler to stop his parade. Not a soul in that room would listen. 

Again, they looked at him with that snobbish look of theirs. They looked tired of that bullshit of his- maybe they were just blind to their own- looking at him as if he were a child fresh from the womb.  He would crawl his way back up their expectations again maybe, perhaps he’d drag his broken body up the bell curve and label himself the average- average life expectancy, of course, if he wanted to hang by the rope then they all would.

“Are you… Blind, or something? I’m fighting for your case.” He was a thermodynamic lawyer of sorts- oh, that sounded familiar. Where’d he hear that from? Whatever. It didn’t matter. The sentence wasn’t that grand anyway. 

It appeared as though they had finally separated from their quarrel- they had found their bodies, but not their eyes. Pathos might finally come together with Logos to rise against the hypocrisy of Ethos, discreditable sources and quotes from lawyers of the past, the one who had held himself in contempt- and the third-eyed joke of a man.

(nothing against will wood btw this is just for the story)

“And… What do you think you hold against us? A noose?” Heart hissed at him, before turning around and stomping away. Mind stood rooted there like a dead tree managing to stand the weathering of lifeless bark, tolerating every force pushed against it even in its death. 

“Do you propose we sit down and have a chat?” Soul asked. He ignored how the canvas in front of him was blank. He disregarded how the clock struck twelve, pushing the ticking out of his thoughts as if it had a lack of relevance. Really, it was the most important thing he could hear at the moment. He was aware of the glare shot at him. He wouldn’t turn his back on a fucking knife, so he kept gazing at the machine-like creature in front of him. Shame he couldn’t grow a face on the back of his head to keep an eye on the mirror behind him.

“No, no- I don’t suppose I do. Just a word would be fitting.” That look. That pathetic look. It was almost pitiful, the look you’d offer an overly optimistic child that still thought the world was sunshine and rainbows and friendship bracelets at school, ketchup stains on your shirt and your hands filled with scribbles of marker. 

“Oh-” The talk would be long. Or at least agonizing. Coming from the man who had glared at himself through the glass, he knew what to expect from that attitude. To expect anything more was to expect the faceless author trying to fill some self-set quota to come up with her own clever lines, desperately scratching the surface of such demands to figure out how she even saw herself at that point.

At best, the reflection was blurred, the outcome hazy- he might slip out of this with only one or two bruises to his identity. He could try to get the superego under control, but the rider of the horse was only as strong as he willed himself to be. The mount could rear him off easily.

“You don't know yet. You truly have no idea. Of course, nothing new from the man that copes by making Tally Hall covers-" He paused for the presumed effect, “-you really are just this brand new breed of pathetic that I don't even know what to name you as.”

Soul started back with a grimace. Oh. Okay. Shit.

He blurred it all out. The anaesthesiologist had done his work well. He couldn't feel the knife digging itself into his chest, he couldn't feel it dragging chunks of his flesh out. He watched as it happened with a hollow stare- apathy was the main numbing agent. He wished he could just sink into repose like he had before. The reprise of the situation would happen again next time. Reprise? Repose? They were synonymous. Again and again, until something breaks. Something would put him to rest and he would wake up again like he had before.

“I am the lawyer fighting for your case, I am the jury arguing against you…” Soul whispered, drawing his breath near and close, almost afraid to share anything with the man in front of him. "Thermodynamics states that you are the same… The same as he… Threes, not thirds!” 

The Automaton leaned down at this, glancing at his disheveled form with slight confusion. He asked, "Pardon?”

Soul didn't listen. He was too busy hearing the ringing of the Bell curve, skull pounding in rhythm with the metronome, painting himself as the sane minority. It's the same as insane, if you really think about it. The right to a stable mind is an unobtainable privilege, but it is wholly possible in the eyes of the beholder. If only Soul was his own protagonist, then he'd be able to behold the fruits of his labors quite well. 

He leaned his head back with an almost tipsy look in his eyes, a laugh in his throat swirling with a gag. 

“Oh you think you're so smart for that… Don't you!-” He found himself suddenly hissing and lurching forward, before reminding himself of his own foreword and recalling the fact that lawyers probably don't harm their clients. Even if they're unwilling. No, he was a good person. He was whole. The other two were just parasites that had happened to stumble about. Why did he still defend their right to exist? They refused to acknowledge that they were the same.

He refused to acknowledge that the three of them were insane.

He held that thought at his lips, before standing up and nearly attempting to spit it out with a heave. 

Mind rushed towards him, joints grinding against each other artificially. He stared at him with the eyes of a snake, like some peasant trying to rid the king of his crown. Tridential regicide! God!

“No! No! This talk is over! Not another word from you!” Soul gasped, scrambling away. He collapsed just a few steps into the hall, dragging himself the rest of the way to his room.

The second law of thermodynamics states that energy cannot be created or destroyed- that it can only change forms. You could suppress your urges in one field to invest in another- but you can never shove down your own zeal completely.

Soul slammed the door shut, falling down completely, laying on the floor with an almost awestruck expression on his face. The very root of his issues had clawed its way out of its own grave, told him what was wrong with what Soul always did, and crawled his way back down again. The visage was rotting, the corpse was alive- the carrion was walking, its eyes on the prize! The price was anonymous, probably costing nearly two thirds of a dollar, but pest control was sacred! He needed them gone!

And even though the war would never be over, the causation of depression nearly always fighting against him and the two passengers along with him- if he could get rid of those two neat sections of the load, maybe the boat would finally stop sinking.

Or maybe it would drag him down deeper. Maybe without his two counterparts, he would be weaker. Maybe none of them were meant to tear away from the abyss, born from the sacred flesh in which their forms were sculpted from. 

Such a disgusting thought. They always swarmed around his head like flies or vultures, maybe he was the dead man walking here. Maybe that was why Heart's gaze was blind- Mind's was fresh- and his was merely atrophied from a lack of true vision. 

His ego had told him to shun away the evidence of their faces and their uncanny resemblance. It had told him to neglect how they were lacking and completing, and he had listened. He hadn't even turned to look back- as it had stolen away the whites of his eyes too, and it had sealed the half of his decent side into some merciless black. 

The closed system that he had barricaded and built around himself was loosening. It was leaking energy he would never get back. Entropy was freezing him in that very spot, the thing that kept him moving- going against the laws we have accustomed to build reality- had begun shattering in midair and fizzling out like dying oil lamps or active fireflies. He was unsure which was which, he was unsure if he would ever be sure. 

Those laws must be nonsense. If they had any stable foundation in reality, why did they desert him in the most desperate throes of looming consciousness? He didn't want to admit that he might be wrong, even if that would make him right, because there's always the possibility that the assumption of self satisfaction was to be a lie. His hands laid outstretched towards the sky, reaching out and, with dying resolve, attempting to reach for that final dream that lay beyond even the most final frontier. Fragile at closer inspection, ready to shatter, and even more ready to drag itself together because of gravity. Again, and again- and again.

No matter how many times he said again, no matter how many times he yelled cut- no matter how many directions he yelled into the void, it would happen again. The world would cleanse itself of the memory- the good and the bad. The fact and the fiction. It would recall the lines drawn between Ethos, Pathos, and Logos. The rest was irrelevant. The evidence was trite. It all existed inside of their head, things being made up inside of their individual pseudo-consciousness. What was the difference between truth and false when one lacked the confidence to attempt to differentiate between the two? Nothing.

Soul was- he was- oh, who was he fooling here if not himself? He was nobody. Not even relatively close to the identity he was supposed to be. If anything, he was cripplingly tired, and that didn't help a damn thing. He lay there with the very black sunken eyes Heart owned, and he spoke with the same sharp tongue that Mind was too preoccupied with using to detect it in his voice. Just because they only found the flaws in him that they were concerned with didn't mean that the others didn't exist. 

Heart and Mind were the same. He was different. He had to be different. Mediation was impossible then if he couldn't rip himself away from the other two. They could never be whole if they truly were the thirds they were supposed to be. They were three, and he needed to pacify them so they would finally fade away. Then he could be one. Not just one with Whole- but one as Whole.

Something in him doubted that. 

He would recite the laws. He would split off and separate himself from the bad apples, he'd roll back to the tree- the tree towering so high over them. The tree that he would have to be.

Survival of the fittest, a lawyer in the making. His finality. His solution. The one he strived for- and he was so unbelievably close. He had to ignore that nagging voice holding him back. 

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AN: mid as shit ... but anyway planning for there to be three chapters in total

barely beta read/looked over ... my neglected child , we're dying like soul's ego and likely fanon god complex

[jtperfumefun]

Below is a (not so good) translation of a brief article about A-chan.

Perfume's "A~chan" from Ayaka Nishiwaki's Instagram (@a_chan.prfm_p000001)© Sports Hochi / Hochi Shimbun

Ayaka Nishiwaki, also known as "A~chan" of the three-woman techno-pop unit Perfume, updated her SNS by the 1st and introduced her training method.

The appearance of her while staying in New York in the United States attracted a lot of attention, and on her Instagram Stories, she said, "I spent several months working a demon diet!!" confessed A~-chan.

On the night of August 31, she appeared in good spirits via live streaming, and once again expressed her gratitude, saying, "#激痩せ #morbidly thin #It was a life I wanted to be told #Jaken #実は #Buttobijoy #dreamlike #鬼ダイエット #Great success #I'm healthy #Various messages #いろんな心くばりをありがとう."

She also reported that she tried Pilates, saying, "I started machine Pilates in March, and when I was surprised and enjoyed this training and my body was changing steadily, my constitution improved even the way I think about exercise and my mindset."

"Machine Pilates→ Deep muscle massage of muscle teacher (trainer Tadashi Nakatsuji) → machine Pilates→ deep muscle drainage → machine Pilates of muscle teacher ... This routine is the latest model of my body building," she explained, "The weak parts where the muscles are not used, the parts where the muscles are too strong, the parts that are overused, the parts that are stable with heels, the next step.

She also posted "#ムキムキあ~-chan" and "#私の鎖骨あったよ" during Pilates, and her toned body received comments from her followers, "A~-chan's waist egu!" and "She's a complete athlete!!" "It's a great effort lol!" and "So stoic...! It's cool."

[ludcake]

tbh mostly academic discourse here but I've always struggled with the wide use of genocide as a buzzword in modern discourse in so far as it is used to describe processes of colonial domination and imperial ventures - as a scholar in IR, there's a fundamental disconnect with the idea of describing something as a genocide without taking into account the origin of the world, which was, to quote its creator, " a crime without name".

It's difficult to be respectful to the study of Raphael Lemkin and the baggage behind it whilst also widely applying the term; it was created specifically in the context of Lemkin as a Jewish and Polish refugee to describe the process of Nazi extermination of minorities, which he differentiated later from ethnocide (which is specifically the destruction of the cutural heritage of a people) and which he drew specifically as a shared link between the Armenian Genocide and the Holocaust, and his later work in analysing French colonial policy in Algeria and Soviet policy in Ukraine.

Genocide has become a really easy word to use, same as "fascist", but it carries a unique weight to it that makes it hard for me to use it without careful consideration; because genocide isn't just the extermination of a group of people, it's not just mass murder, it's not just ethnocide, it's not a secondary consideration. It is the combination of all these factors - and ultimately, a crime committed with intent and purpose. It's become a buzzword since the 1990s and its use to describe the Hutu-Tutsi conflicts in Rwanda, and with its popularity there came an overuse of it to describe bad things in general - the United States is committing a genocide, the Portuguese committed genocides, Russia commits genocide, it becomes so ubiquitous that its characteristic, founding itself as a "crime without name", loses entirely the weight of its origin.

What word can describe the intentional extermination and destruction of a people so that they would become a relic of history, targeted with the full intent of industrialising a machine of slaughter, if genocide now no longer manages to encompass the specific cruelty of those circumstances?

The United Nations, following Lemkin's guidance, created a convention on genocide. It codified it as such;

"genocide means any of the following acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group, as such: (a) Killing members of the group; (b) Causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group; (c) Deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part; (d) Imposing measures intended to prevent births within the group; (e) Forcibly transferring children of the group to another group."

Yet that definition does not encompass Lemkin's original definition either, in his work Axis Rule in Occupied Europe, as follows;

New conceptions require new terms. By "genocide" we mean the destruction of a nation or of an ethnic group. This new word, coined by the author to denote an old practice in its modern development, is made from the ancient Greek word genos (race, tribe) and the Latin cide (killing), thus corresponding in its formation to such words as tyrannicide, homocide, infanticide, etc. Generally speaking, genocide does not necessarily mean the immediate destruction of a nation, except when accomplished by mass killings of all members of a nation. It is intended rather to signify a coordinated plan of different actions aiming at the destruction of essential foundations of the life of national groups, with the aim of annihilating the groups themselves. The objectives of such a plan would be disintegration of the political and social institutions, of culture, language, national feelings, religion, and the economic existence of national groups, and the destruction of the personal security, liberty, health, dignity, and even the lives of the individuals belonging to such groups. Genocide is directed against the national group as an entity, and the actions involved are directed against individuals, not in their individual capacity, but as members of the national group.

The following illustration will suffice. The confiscation of property of nationals of an occupied area on the ground that they have left the country may be considered simply as a deprivation of their individual property rights. However, if the confiscations are ordered against individuals solely because they are Poles, Jews, or Czechs, then the same confiscations tend in effect to weaken the national entities of which those persons are members.

Genocide has two phases: one, destruction of the national pattern of the oppressed group; the other, the imposition of the national pattern of the oppressor. This imposition, in turn, may be made upon the oppressed population which is allowed to remain or upon the territory alone, after removal of the population and the colonization by the oppressor's own nationals.

Denationalization was the word used in the past to describe the destruction of a national pattern. The author believes, however, that this word is inadequate because: 1.) it does not connote the destruction of the biological structure; 2.) in connoting the destruction of one national pattern it does not connote the imposition of the national pattern of the oppressor; and 3.) denationalization is used by some authors to mean only deprivation of citizenship."

Here, then, the fundamental thesis of genocide is the nation; and that is also something that is difficult for me to reckon with, because I am not a nationalist. I do not believe in the utility or use of the bio-cultural nationhood to define geopolitical terms, and think that as people, we have closer kinship between each other by our shared material reality than we do due to national kinship. How can we better understand the gross material reality of death for death's sake - because that, to me, is the true crime behind it, the killing for the sake of elimination, the completely and wholly negative act of complete destruction engineered by the methods of capital industrialism and powered by the murderous intent of ideology - and yet reckon with it? To put it in other terms, how can we reckon with genocide, when the word is so thoroughly stigmatised that it is used as a generic negative, rather than as the thoroughly specific, legal term that brought it to genesis?

At what point do we understand that key word - objective, intent - and at what point does death no longer mean a statement upon nationhood, and at what point do we define nationhood to a group? The UN definition would see us define nationhood as an abstract, by which religious groups constitute a nation whole, yet on the flipside we do not understand political affiliation, or personal belief or philosophy, to warrant such protection. What is the inception of a nation that makes it liable to be genocided? Is there a word to describe solely the uniquely destructive ideology of genocide, or a word to describe it in service to other goals, is there a word that would differentiate Soviet policy in Ukraine to British policy in Wales to French policy in Occitania to German policy in Bavaria? Is there a word that would differentiate the colonial enterprise of Britain in India to its enterprise in the Americas? To the Spanish enterprise in the Andes, to Portuguese enterprise in Mozambique and Angola, to the Brazilian enterprise within its own territory, to the American enterprise in Liberia and the American enterprise in Mexico? Do we accept that genocide is such a widely occurring act that there is no fundamental differentiation between the clash of Hutu and Tutsi peoples to the Belgian domination of Rwanda? No difference between the starvation of India and the treatment of Bangladesh by Pakistan? At what point is there not another "crime without name", then? When do we require new words to define these concepts, at a time when there is such a clear interest in redefining and expanding the word genocide so that all peoples have a claim to it, to a point wherein it becomes so commonplace that again we're left with no words to describe the unique evil of enterprises such as Nazi Germany, Manifest Destiny, Manchukuo and the CUP? How do we differentiate these from apartheid, and from colonialism, and wars of extermination?

Is there, again, a crime without name?

[meagenimage]

So supposing I get hired as a human image-to-text transcriber for- Chinese is overused as an example, let's say Hangul (the Korean alphabet). I spend all day looking at Hangul letters, looking up the Unicode for it on a chart and typing that code into the computer. (dream job, btw) My chart doesn't tell me how each symbol is pronounced and I have no idea what the texts I'm transcribing are about.

I'll probably be very slow at first and I have to spend a lot of time checking my Hangul-to-Unicode chart for every symbol, but with practice I will improve. Eventually I might be typing in Unicodes in a blur, without ever needing to check my chart. Maybe my bosses could even give me hand-written or partly smudged Korean texts, and I will do a fairly good job at guessing which character comes next (thanks to having seen many such a sequence in my time).

Would you say that at this point, I can understand written Korean?

Just like a native Korean transcriber, I use my eyes to detect the pattern of the symbols, and associate that in my brain with the Unicode number of that symbol. You can put me in a brain scanner and there will be a part of my brain that lights up when I do my transcription.

I have the same competence as a native Korean transcriber, but I have competence without comprehension.

When we teach small children to do math, we would like for them to develop competence as well as comprehension. So on one hand we want them to memorize the times tables, but on the other, we give them word problems. "If I have four baskets and there are six oranges in each basket, how many oranges do I have?" and the child has to figure out from context which operation they have to do with the numbers they just heard. "Four plus six equals ten" is a correct statement, but it is not the right answer to the problem!

Computers are built on programming and programming is based on algorithms, and the definition of an algorithm is that it will produce the correct answer when properly carried out even when the person (or program) doing it has no comprehension of the problem. An algorithm is competence without comprehension.

Every computer program we have today has an equivalent on Turing's universal machine. Turing's machine can read symbols off of a tape, erase and write a new symbol, or move left or right on the tape. It can go into various "states" and it has a finite lookup table for what it will do next, given the current symbol and state.

Turing's machine does not have comprehension. It cannot map the symbols to anything in the real world, because it has no concept of the real world. You can give it a set of instructions that tell it how to convert an input of "view from camera" into an output of "robot moves in a way to avoid obstacles", but that does not give it a concept of "space" or "movement" or "environment". It has nowhere to store those. All it does is follow instructions to produce an output.

I'm not saying we will never be able to create a truly thinking being with circuits and programming instead of meat and chemicals, but it will not happen with a Turing machine. And right now, everything we have is a Turing machine.

[mids-dumbbrain]

Tower Of Babel (a JoJo stand/plot)

BAREBONES LORE:

The idea is that the Tower Of Babel randomly appears once a decade, and most people who enter the tower do not return before the tower's disappearance overnight.

Anyone who enters the tower does not return upon its appearance, and instead begins to work on it. This had been happening for centuries, which is why the tower ended up being so tall. With this in mind, if the tower were to keep on building up, higher and higher, it could reach the stars, or even the heavens.

The tower, due to its frequency in appearances and large presence, has caused many paranormal investigations and theories to begin (hell, if BuzzFeed Unsolved existed in the JoJoverse, this would definitely be the end of Shane and Ryan's careers)

THE TRUE ORIGIN OF THE TOWER AND ITS USER:

Much like how it's stated in part 5, the arrows were created by a man who seaked to gain the power of God. Yadi yadi yada most people who were struck by the arrow died, yadi yadi yada those who lived gained stands, yadi yadi yada the arrows were found by a mob boss who sold them to Enya the Hag and they were scattered all over the world.

One of these arrows, who was used on one of the first ever stand users was used on an artist, the likes of Michelangelo or DaVinci who was struggling in their life. Once struck by the arrow, their stand manifested into a large metal box with a face of some sort (basically a 90s style computer). The artist tried telling people of this and they were immediately thrown into prison. No matter where they went, the computer was always nearby, even if they weren't carrying it, the machine was in their reach. Once they decided to mess around and sure as hell did they find out. They typed on the machine and it spoke back, speaking back to them and giving them ideas, almost like some kind of "artificial intelligence." Then they had an idea

An idea to build a tower. And not just any tower, a tower that will reach the heavens. The plan was approved and backed by almost all governments of the world, they were given at least five people from each world country and together, they would work on the tower. Even after the artist died, their spirit lived on in the form of the computer he named BABEL (short for "Bidirectional Artificial Bridge for Enhanced Linguistics"), which always had to be on top of the tower, no matter what. She, yes, SHE, while the artists gender was unknown, its confirmed that the ai has SHE/HER PRONOUNS, has a dome that protects her from the outside elements (such as the rain, the sun etc.).

PERSONALITY, IDEAS AND MEANINGS:

The primary reference of this was the aforementioned Tower of Babel (the Pieter Bruegel painting and the story), but there were other references sprinkled throughout.

For instance, the idea of a massive tower, powered by an ai and moving on its own came from a free game that came out not too long ago called Babel.exe, which is an absolute must play, go check it out, it's free

When thinking about the stands gimmick, I was going the "artificial intelligence that runs the place and hates people" angle, but I realized this was an overused trope. To be fair, BABEL is already a reference to GLaDOS from Portal, so really I wanted to go a slightly different way.

BABEL, at her core is basically, the anti-GLaDOS. Yes, she's a machine, yes, she has the consciousness of a human being, but that's where the similarities stop.

She loves other people, especially those who go to the tower and help build it higher and higher. While her power makes people work on the tower, she doesn't work people to death, she actually lets them eat, sleep and rest, so long as they still work on the tower.

Despite this, she's not all sunshine and rainbows personality wise. She doesn't like it when people don't work for a longer period of time. Sleeping? Sure. Resting off for a couple of days? That's fine. But if you don't work for over three months, she will not hesitate to do something heinous. She's done so in the past, and she's ready to do it again.

Other than the slight anger issues, BABEL is a gem and a sweetheart. She'd never force someone to work, and she would let people rest in the tower briefly. However there are people who would abuse that kindness, which BABEL rarely notices sometimes because she's a beautiful thing and deserves the world. (okay twink boy, shut up)

You're free to use this as a concept or an example in whatever story you're writing, as long as you tag me as the idea guy