#vague approximation of what a cat looks like

[lunarriviera]

yet another shen yi meta [uts2 spoilers]

hi hey hello everyone i continue to be tormented with obsessive thinkings about s2 Shen Yi so i must holler about them/him some more, feel free to stop reading if you have not watched through approximately episode 11 which is where i still am. it's taking me longer to watch because i keep pausing to rewind/screenshot and/or weep in anguish about Him and What He Is Going Through. and how NO ONE IS PAYING ATTENTION. or insufficient attention. cf. Ryan Gosling in the Papyrus sketch screaming WELL IT WASN'T!! ENOUGH!!

[more. much more. behind the cut]

let's start here, with shen yi's artwork. in this scene he competed with AI to paint a chosen image and, surprising exactly no one, he won, partly because he's brilliant but tbh mostly because AI art is garbage and always adds dolphins, rainbows, and hands with six fingers.

but here's the thing: is no one going to question this? does anyone think to themselves "ah yes, shen yi is absolutely the BEST person in the world to make a painting in 30 minutes that depicts, quote, a lonely man on a beach." so here is this miserably hunched, despairing figure, surrounded by murky howling early-picasso blue, LOOKING IN FACT QUITE A LOT LIKE SHEN YI HIMSELF—even dressed like him (in the snowy white and dainty pastels he seems to favor this season)���and not a single person thinks: huh, wonder if this guy's okay?

in fact s2 seems to be repeated evidence of the fact that shen yi is Very Much Not Okay, and yet no one is really paying attention. he supports everyone else emotionally and they all seem to assume he either a) has no emotional blowback to deal with, or b) can deal with it himself unaided somehow. (through painting, maybe? but have you seen what he's painting lately? e.g. monstrous abusive parent figures, in some kind of breathless fugue state during which he can psychically hear lines from someone else's traumatic childhood?) he goes to li han's house to help her, which is so like him, and he says:

oh! you might think. well, maybe he will self-disclose a little? tell li han about some of his own personal difficulties that he's had to overcome, just to bond with her, get her to open up? HAHAHA ARE YOU NEW HERE, of course he doesn't, he just listens to her while she sobs out her tragic backstory, gives her a tissue, relates her struggles to a vaguely terrifying metaphor of his own device about a sealed room filling up ineluctably with floodwater, then smiles and takes her out for pizza. (totally unrelated but wow the product placement is heavy-handed this season. xiaomi! pizza hut!)

since we're talking about the li han case, consider this moment, too, when he interprets someone's house-person-tree drawing. does no one ever think, "for someone who talks constantly about love and connection, how interesting that shen yi has no family, refuses to date in very pointed and deliberate way, and lives alone with a cat."

shen yi knows all about love! never shuts up about love! constantly dispensing bromides about what real love should be like! and wakes every day ALONE from horrific guilty nightmares ft. creepy small girl in blood-red dress, pls will no one help this man pls he's drowning.

couple more bits and then i swear to god i'll shut up i'm starting to feel really stupid. but first consider this little story, in three parts:

"an image of despair" um okay well…technically it's just a dead body, albeit after a fairly grisly stabbing, but sure go off i guess

2. du cheng: wow even for you that was unusually poetic and weird

3. also du cheng: back to investigating the murder i guess [wanders away]

this kind of thing happens again. and again. either no one notices assorted horrified/devastated expressions on shen yi's face (in the way of classic extradiegetic reaction shots, where the camera sees them—we see them—but none of the characters onscreen do) or, when du cheng does notice, he's immediately distracted by his actual job, and/or the fact that he doesn't really know how to help his partner, because lbr he has all the emotional intelligence of a pony.

one more mini-story in three parts, and then i really will put a sock in it:

shen yi: why, what did i do. why are you looking at me like that

2. du cheng: bc you just lied your whole entire face off with alarming unsettling proficiency, since when are you that good at being dishonest

3. shen yi: hehe

in an earlier episode we also saw shen yi shouting at a suspect in the interrogation room, so convincingly that afterwards du cheng admits, you scared me. lol! says shen yi in carefree manner, i learned that from you! haha! agrees everyone, and they go about their business.

but ghastly things keep happening to and near him. at least once per episode, shen yi makes a face like this, because people are jumping off cliffs in front of him or abruptly smashing things with hammers or just lashing out with all kinds of antisocial behaviors in his vicinity:

to be fair, he has other expressions. for instance he also repeatedly employs his patented creepy ruthless smile, of the "i am going to fuck you up" variety, an expression reserved especially for criminals:

as well, i'm also leaving out all the ridiculously adorable/domestic scenes with him and du cheng, in which they share candy, roast each other about assorted nonsense, briefly co-parent a child, and, you know. are just generally disgustingly married. but that's a different meta.

also, admittedly du cheng does SAY things. he says, "are you still having trouble sleeping," he says "do i not care about you?" and "don't push yourself so hard" and "if you run into troubles, don't try to take them on alone." (i am sparing you all these screenshots since this is a meta about shen yi but trust me i have carefully accumulated every single shred of evidence in which du cheng is protective.) but, as frequently as du cheng expresses concern, he also just keeps clapping shen yi on the shoulder in a brotastic way and then strolling out. which i fear is just not going to be adequate. ("i don’t think this is literally papyrus. maybe that was the starting point but they clearly modified it?" "well whatever they did, IT WASN'T!! ENOUGH!!")

i leave you with two final images of shen yi, seen here continuing to be very much Not Okay, and to quote the bernie meme, i am ONCE AGAIN ASKING YOU, drama, is anyone going to care enough about this man to stop him going over the edge of the cliff with Evil Art Critic Eugenicist Moriarty Weasel Man? because he will, he will do it. because he's lonely and he's misunderstood and he's—

[cane comes out and drags me offstage]

[mousy-nona]

Chronicles of Cursed Cat Alastor

One day, the hotel woke up to see Alastor’s perpetual “on air” sign had been turned off. His room was empty, his coffee ice cold. 

And in the middle of the lobby was a cat. Or what seemed to be the approximate shape and size of a cat, but with the strangest, most evil face any of them had ever seen. It grinned up at them and wagged its little stump of a tail, which made Charlie melt into a puddle of happy tears.

“Isn’t he adorable?” She squealed.

And that was that. The cat joined their weird little family – and Lucifer secretly resolved to get his daughter to an eye doctor. Stat. 

—-----------------

“Charlie, are you sure about this one? There’s something weird about that cat.” Lucifer eyed the red thing warily. “It’s looking at Keekee like it wants to eat it!” 

“Don’t be silly! Mr. Montgomery is probably trying to be her friend!” She frowned. “It’s so strange. Keekee’s never been this skittish around other cats before.” 

A thin line of drool was falling from the edge of Mr. Montgomery’s mouth. When he noticed Lucifer watching, he sucked it back up and graced him with a freakish, utterly too human grin.  

—-----------------

Lucifer’s wedding anniversary hit him like a truck. That is, he didn’t handle it very well. He got up, fully intending to make a show of his utterly fantastic mood – haha, look how great I feel! Your mother didn’t crush my heart and set it on fire with a flamethrower after all! – but found it was all too much of a bother, and sat promptly back down. He laid his head on his desk. Just a few more minutes. Then I’ll leave. 

He didn’t even notice Mr. Montgomery had waltzed in until the abomination jumped up onto his desk. The cat loomed over him, his razor teeth inches from Lucifer’s nose. 

“Can I help you?” He sniffled. Couldn’t a man mourn the end of his marriage in peace? 

Mr. Montgomery tilted his head with a sickening crack, his neck nearly bending into a right angle as he studied Lucifer’s red eyes, the mountain of used tissues accumulating by the desk, the ring he was clutching in his hand.

Stretching leisurely (in the exact same way he learned from Keekee, Lucifer noted), Mr. Montgomery strolled over to a picture of Lilith he had on his desk – and smacked it off. He stared at him the entire time, as if daring him to do something about it.

“Are you…are you power playing me right now?” 

“Meow,” Mr. Montgomery sneered. 

“That’s it, you little freak! Come to Daddy!”

When Charlie got home, she found Lucifer with his six wings fully spread and the hotel half destroyed by angelic bolts, panting and wheezing as he tore a couch apart. 

“Dad, what are you doing?” 

He whirled around, his eyes wild as he zapped a vaguely cat-shaped shadow into oblivion. “It’s that monster! That cat! I can hear him in the walls!”

“Isn’t he behind you…?” Vaggie asked.

And he was. Mr. Montgomery was sitting on a shelf over the reception, licking his paw and yawning. 

Lucifer deflated. “Ah. I guess he is.”

“Dad, isn’t today…?” Charlie trailed off, blushing a little.

“Oh! Right. Yes, it is,” Lucifer said. He’d been so busy chasing Mr. Montgomery around, he’d completely forgotten about his anniversary. 

“Are you doing okay?”

He sighed and pulled her into a hug. “Yes, I’m fine. I was a little sad at first, but then I got distracted.”

“Burning down the hotel?” Vaggie asked. Mr. Montgomery meowed and started purring, looking as pleased as a cat that had gotten the cream.

—-----------------

“That cat is trying to kill me!” Lucifer roared, pointing at the wholly unrepentant Mr. Montgomery.

The accused murderer jumped onto Charlie’s lap and started kneading her lap. Everyone let out a collective awww! Charlie nearly teared up, and Angel Dust snapped a picture for his Voxstagram. Even Vaggie, the sole voice of reason, was making what the kids called heart eyes at the monster. 

Lucifer nearly tore out his hair in frustration. “He’s tricking you, don’t you see? That cat has it out for me! This is the third time he’s tried to kick rat poison into my food!” 

“Don’t be silly, Dad! He’s just a cat. Cats knock stuff over all the time!” 

“Rat poison? Three times?” 

Charlie looked around, frowning. “Who keeps putting rat poison on the shelves?” 

No one fessed up. Mr. Montgomery let out a loud purr and fixed Lucifer with the most hair-raising, devilishly smug grin Lucifer had ever seen. 

“Did no one see that? Seriously, did no one else see that?”

—-----------------

A few weeks passed before someone finally broached the question that was on everyone’s mind.

“Has anyone seen Alastor?” Charlie tapped her nose with her pencil, frowning a bit. “It’s strange for him to be gone this long.” 

“Oh, oh! I’ve seen him!” Niffty raised her hand and waved it frantically. “He’s right over there!”

Everyone turned – but all they saw was a furry red blob warming himself near the fire. 

“Niffty, doll, have you been sniffing the toilet cleaner again?” Angel Dust asked gently.

“Nooo, silly. The cat is Alastor!” Niffty chirped, clapping her little hands with delight. Mr. Montgomery – no, scratch that – Alastor blinked his left eye, then his right eye, and smiled blandly up at all of them.

“But…but…how?” Angel Dust stuttered.

She shrugged, her shoulders going all the way up to her ears. “Dunno. He’s got a few weird friends who like to play tricks on him. Isn’t it great? He showed up all fluffy and cuddly! Perfect for hugs!” 

Alastor the Cat looked remotely nervous for the first time since he’d appeared. 

“How do we turn him back?” Lucifer demanded. He would rather die than admit it, but he sort-of-kind-of missed the sadistic demon that made his life Hell. It was getting kind of boring without him around. 

“Dunno! Ask him!”

Once again, they all turned to the cat, who opened his mouth – “Meeeeow.”

[coldbronzemoon]

Thinking Caps

How Ford and Fiddleford goofing around accidentally prevents the near end of the world.

Fiddleford sat on his wobbly twin bed and watched Stanford pace like a dog with no bone in the cramped space of their dorm, his eyes fixed on his friend’s wild head of curls. Stanford was working his hand through them at the moment, raking all six fingers through and then picking out a tangle to work through or a curl to split into two.

He couldn’t imagine that the feel of three-days-since-showering hair grease was all that pleasant, especially for a man that often complained of textures he hated, but that was perhaps a hypocritical thought. Having grown up on a farm, Fiddleford was well aware of how easily one could acclimate to unpleasant things. Including greasy hair.

Still, he wished Stanford was a little less acclimated to his own hair texture. It was making it hard to put his plan into action.

“—and I swear, she has no right dismissing my thoughts about the likelihood of the Mothman’s existence and its possible prophetic powers when she’s all in on the idea of astrology,” Stanford went on, pivoting on his heel. “Really, how can the placement of stars and their movements being for the benefit of some animals on one planet be more reasonable than a singular being having insight into the future?”

“Uh-huh,” Fiddleford said to the pause Stanford gave in his speech.

He had doubts that Stanford would’ve noticed if he said a completely random word instead of agreeing with him, a theory he’d have to test later to see if he could mess with Stanford about it the way Stanford gave him hell about the spittoon. For now, he was focused on a different way to tease him.

Stanford flung his hands out, gaze stuck inwards, perhaps thinking of the girl he’d had his very argumentative date with. “Think of its cosmic scale! How many starts and planets and moons would have to be arranged just so to be visible to the human eye to—what? Come up with the most vague predictions and assumptions possible from them? To what end?”

“It’s a big ask,” he agreed. 

Internally, Fiddleford was busy thinking, turn around, turn around, do NOT put that hand back in your hair, daggummit…

Aha! Another pivot. Stanford’s hands were still held out to gesture a poor approximation of how big the universe was. 

Fiddleford sprung up from his bed, as silent and spry as a cat, well trained from years of living in a house with far too many nosy, whiny siblings and floorboards that wailed like sinners. His hand swiftly pulled out the hat he’d hidden behind a pillow, careful not to let it make any noise.

One step, two—Stanford was ranting half to his Carl Sagen poster instead of Fiddleford now. Fiddleford seized the chance and placed the hat gently, so gently, on Stanford’s curls. He slid it down as much as he dared, then backed up as quickly as possible.

He waited for Stanford to notice and immediately yank the thing off. A second. Five seconds. Stanford didn’t even turn around.

Success!

Fiddleford barely clamped down on the wild cackle that wanted to burst out of him. That would ruin the whole thing. He sat back on the bed, grinning as Stanford continued to quite literally talk to a brick wall.

He took the camera out from behind the pillow as well, lining up the shot. He managed to snap a picture just as Stanford gesticulated in a particularly wild way.

The sound of the camera caught Stanford’s attention. He whirled around, hands splayed out, blinking wildly behind his glasses. Fiddleford took another picture.

“F, what on earth—?”

“Aw, just havin’ some fun, Stanford,” he said.

He plucked the first photo out from the front of the camera and shook it before taking a look.

“That doesn’t speed up the development,” Ford said, as he always did.

“Hush.”

Fiddleford was too busy grinning at his results to roll his eyes with the shushing as he usually did. The photo was exactly what he hoped for: Stanford, half turned away, looking completely absurd. His button-down shirt rumpled and creased, his lower half clad in those ridiculously short green shorts and a pair of mismatched socks, one bunched around the arch of his foot instead of fully off. Half a dozen sticky-notes resided on parts of his body.

Best of all, the piece de resistance, Stanford had a tinfoil hat of Fiddleford’s own making stuck on his wild hair. With his intense scowl and failing arms as he spoke to his poster, he looked every inch the mad conspiracy theorist. 

Fiddleford cracked up, his high cackles ringing through the stuffy dorm room air.

Stanford strode closer and managed to look at the photo as well, eyes going wide as he realized there was something on his head in the image.

His hands flew up to his head immediately, yanking the tinfoil hat off. “Fiddleford, what—how long was this on my head? Did I walk in here with it on?!”

The astonished wail only served to make Fiddleford howl with more laughter. He flopped backwards on his bed, still clutching the camera and photo.

“Fiddleford! Fiddleford! Get up, you’ve got to tell me if I’ve had this on the whole day—”

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

Another day in the cabin, another quick cat-nap to receive some guidance from Bill. 

It thrilled him every time, getting to see the starry void of his mindscape, getting to speak to such a being as Bill Cipher, both as a worker and a muse and as a pair of friends.

Today was a visit focused on business, Bill nudging him along with more theoretical work on the portal and how to handle its immense energy needs. Really, the word immense was the only one to use; tearing at the fabric of reality took a lot of energy.

“Unfortunately you guys haven’t got anything better than nuclear fusion, so we’ll have to work with that,” Bill said. 

“It’s going to be hard to reduce the energy needs down to even what that would provide,” Ford muttered, studying the information written out in floating, glowing script.

Bill made a sound like the clicking of a tongue as if he possessed one, which he didn’t seem to. Ford burned with questions about how he produced that sound, if it was one he made naturally or if Ford’s mind was interpreting a linguistically-similar sound Bill’s species would produce into a version he understood, but he couldn’t ask.

Not because he restrained himself from asking, though he usually would, considering Bill’s aversion to speaking too much about his own form, but because they were interrupted.

One moment, everything was fine. The next, Ford experienced a very, very strange feeling, almost like bringing a hand close to the screen of a television and feeling the staticy crackle of it working, if such a feeling was blanketed over his whole body and burrowed into his bones. He had a single second to see Bill’s eye grow wide, and then Bill was gone.

Ford’s mouth dropped open uselessly, staring at the now-empty chair, and then he was startled awake before he could think to do anything. 

He nearly fell out of his rolling chair as he rocketed forwards out of sleep. Beside him, there was a familiar yelp as Fiddleford leapt away before he could be knocked into or have his toes rolled over.

Ford looked around wildly, but it was just the two of them in the room. Nothing looked disturbed or out of line.

“Fiddleford, what’s—” Ford realized there was something on his head, and he abruptly went silent to focus on pulling it off. Instead, he ended up ripping off a piece of it.

He blinked down at the fragment of tinfoil in his hand. 

“Sorry, Stanford,” Fiddleford said, frowning at him worriedly. “Was just tryin’ to have a bit of fun, is all, didn’t mean to spook ya.”

Ford gingerly set the tinfoil fragment on his desk. “...It’s fine. You didn’t know I would wake up. Why are we bringing back the hat?”

The Hat, as he called it, had become an erratic tradition between the two of them in college. Whenever they were looking too much like overtired mad geniuses, the hat was retrieved from a desk drawer and placed on one of their heads like a bizarre, science-y cone of shame. Ford had crowned Fiddleford many times after his friend got too invested in his blueprints for ‘theoretical’ death lasers and murder robots, and Ford had received it himself for his own sleep-deprived spirals. It was childish, maybe, but everyone had their little in-jokes.

Fiddleford raised his eyebrows. “Have y’looked in the mirror in a while?”

“Ah,” Ford thought it over. “No.”

“Take a look before you come with me to eat, it’ll be real illuminating,” Fiddleford said dryly. He pointed at Ford. “And I mean it about you eating, I will drag you up there.”

Ford laughed. “Yes, alright. Give me a minute to finish a note and I’ll be up.”

With narrowed eyes, Fiddleford wrenched a promise from him that yes, yes, really, he’d be up in a minute, and then he left to start figuring out what groceries they still had.

Ford pulled off the tinfoil hat as the elevator started creaking up to the actual cabin part of the cabin. He jumped as a yellow shape popped into existence the second the foil left his head.

“Fordsy, there you are!” Bill chirped.

“Bill,” Ford said, puzzled. “What was that about you disappearing just then?”

Bill laughed, bringing his cane into reality to twirl it nonchalantly. “Oh, nothing to worry your busy little head about. Had some trouble to deal with a couple dimensions away. You know how it is with an all-seeing eye, everyone wants a piece of your attention!”

“That’s never happened before, though,” he observed. “The tinfoil hat, did it have some—?”

“Nope!” Bill said, sharp and immediate. His body almost seemed to flash another color for a fraction of a second. “Completely unrelated—put that thought out of your mind!”

There was something about his tone that was almost blustering. 

Ford smiled at his muse and did not press the issue. If he was a being of pure energy, he’d be quite embarrassed to admit that something as simple as tinfoil could stop him in his tracks as well. It was so terribly simple a barrier against so powerful a being.

Not that Ford would judge his muse for such a thing! It stood to reason that even something as great as he would have odd little troubles like that.

“Now, how ‘bout we get back to those funny little numbers?” Bill said, slinging a rubbery, non-corporeal arm around Ford’s shoulders.

“Right, of course,” Ford said. “After dinner. Fiddleford will have my hide if I start getting dizzy from hunger like I’m back in college.”

Bill huffed. “Should’ve told me your dumb meatsuit was kicking up a fuss, big guy! Shame you humans haven’t figured out how to become pure brain matter yet. That can be your next project after my portal, huh?”

“Well, until such a time, I’ll try to remember to eat regularly,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s totally what I want,” Bill said.

The matter was dropped as Bill popped away, this time intentionally. Ford discovered he really was rather hungry.

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

Ford felt his stomach roll again, a brief gag overtaking him. 

He had no idea what Bill had fed him this time. Something worse than spiders, he presumed, though there was no mocking video left to inform him this time. He could only hope it wasn’t something like rat poison—Bill still needed him, needed him alive and able-bodied. That was the only reason he could think of for Bill not taking his body on a full joyride and killing him the minute Ford refused to join him after revealing the true use of the portal.

His stomach rolled again. This time it was due to the thought of the universe being destroyed, due to the thought of Fiddleford lying prone on the ground, eyes glassy and unseeing…

Fiddleford begging him to stop the project and walking away from Ford when he refused. God, why had he refused?

Ford gritted his teeth against anything that might come up, poison or alcohol or unidentified meat or otherwise. His legs ached from new, mysterious bruises, but still he paced around the study of the lab, gathering all of his scrap-paper notes. 

On their own, they shouldn’t be enough to operate the portal, much less recreate it, but Ford wanted to take no chances. These, he would be burning. It would be satisfying to do, really, though a part of him ached to get rid of the pieces with Fiddleford’s familiar scrawl on them.

Ford took a deep breath of the cold, dank basement air, hoping to avoid any further nausea. It was a useless endeavor.

He gave his brain something else to focus on by going through the drawers of the desk. Old books on quantum theory, manuals on some of the few pre-made parts they could use, random collections of screws and bolts. Ford was barely registering what he was rummaging through by the last drawer, but then—

A flash of silver. The thin, flimsy tinfoil hat Fiddleford had fashioned only months ago to tease him was crammed in the drawer, though he couldn’t remember which of them put it there.

Memory struck him like a lightning bolt. Bill popping out from his mindscape seemingly the moment Fiddleford had put the cone of metal on his head, the quick way he had denied the connection when Ford probed about it…

Ford jammed the tinfoil hat over his head, his stomach now rolling with what might’ve been excitement or fear. Perhaps both. He couldn’t even bring himself to hate how absolutely humiliating it was to be reduced to putting a tinfoil hat on to keep the demon aliens out of his head like some complete parody of a mad theorist—he’d put himself in this position, hadn’t he?

There was no way to know if it could really keep Bill out yet. He’d only know once he’d gone to sleep a few times; Bill didn’t take his body every time.

But if it did, if it did… a world of possibilities opened up in front of Ford.

He secured the hat as best he could. It didn't feel like a thin mass of crinkled foil. It felt like a gladiator's helmet.

[senka-mesecine]

This may sound sooo weird but could I request some predator/prey play with Barnes? Thank u!

WARPAINT.

Robert Barnes x Reader

-

-"Dusk's settling. It's time."-

You remark standing on the threshold of the house looking out into the woods as you shrugged into your jacket, zipping it up for warmth there to ward off the chill of the great outdoors. The agreement was made. Was a done deal. Bob's impaled you on a stare from inside the house like he was hellbent on giving on a quiet head start and wordlessly intending to make sure you take it; in fact, those were the agreed rules of the game. You go on right ahead, start walkin', he said, and I'll be right behind'ya, because if I go at it right now, you won't make it past the front porch. And you believed him. Truly. You did. There was simply something quietly fascinating, perhaps a little daunting and curious how seriously he took this whole thing. Like it was an actual insurgence or ambush and not two lovers deliberately toying with one another. Like it wasn't mere foreplay, for lack of a better word. -"I'll just go out there and start strolling, alright?"- You carefully explain and re-explain as if though you weren't over this a hundred times before --- the whole cat and mouse thing? Needed to seem natural and spontaneous. Like you were truly someone caught unaware instead of a person genuinely chased. At first anyway. That was the impression that was meant to be projected. It was just that Robert was so very stern and grim looking you had the odd impression he already started the game, at least inside of his own mind, all while you were still here assessing the rules and preparing for it, fidgeting with your zipper, awkwardly staring out into the bosom of the forest. A distant pheasant shrieks somewhere in the bush and the sound nearly makes you shiver. God.

-"And please, come and find me soon, Bobby. I can't stand the dark."-

You borderline plead, disguising it, perhaps, as a tiny, mild mannered little joke especially once you pepper in an endearment for good measure, stepping off the threshold and across the porch, still talking to the man who hasn't even made a single move outside the house, merely assessing you, back leaning against the wooden pillar holding up the ceiling, almost casual in his body language. Something about his eyes relaying what you could only translate as him saying 'Bet' before you ran out down the trail leading into the tree lot, house becoming smaller and smaller behind you.

---

-"Robert!?"-

You call out, approximately what you could only deduce as a full hour later. Your voice echoes into the abyss, but no response comes. You vaguely pondered if bringing a wristwatch with you would make everything better or worse, but it was a moot point. You particularly cursed yourself for not having a flashlight, but you supposed you were the vulnerable, hunted party to exuberant degrees as it were. Didn't need to worsen your chances as much as you actually wanted to be caught prematurely, so Bob could take you back to the warmth of home so you could call it a night. -"You there!?"- You try again, understanding that the game wouldn't have you giving away your position this blatantly, but thing was you assumed he'd show himself sooner. After all, he's promised. Maybe he's changed his mind and you're merely being teased. You wonder. No, no. That wasn't Bob. When he set his mind to something he went through with it. This wasn't meant to be, in your mind, a chase in the woods at dusk, but you stumbling around in the dark, borderline as blind as a bat, your only relief of light coming from the half moon above head, careful steps following the pale ribbons of light squeezed through the foliage of the trees as you watched you step, the occasional dry branch or twig cracking underneath your feet, alerting an unseen hooting owl in the distance. Must've been ten at night by now, according to your vague assessment. Somehow, the gravitas of the situation settles in like a rock around your neck; if it was so scary, why was your heart thumping fast? Excited? Catching your breath on a downward slope you lean against the trunk of a nearby pine tree, leaning your back against it and using it as a momentary rest and refuge from sight. Love did make you do stupid things; if someone told you'd be in forests of Tennessee playing hide and seek with someone, you'd snort in amusement. You embrace your arms around yourself, around your torso and the jacket on it, keeping your warmth intact, imagining the hands were his. A distant echo cuts through the silence. You stir, breath hitching, calming only once you realize there was a silhouette between the pines; grazing in the distance in the moonlight, causing your shoulders to drop in relief. A deer. Just a deer that didn't notice you.

Scared the crap out of you.

It was late. You move, deciding you had to at this point, either heading further into the woods or back, towards home, following back the trail leading towards the house and hoping to God you'll run into Robert somewhere along the way only for the soul to jump out of your body, on the steep top of the precipice where the three lot started to thin above you, he was right there against the moonlit sky. You'd recognize the outline of him anywhere and before you can think, you yell, unsure if you feel happy or terrified to see him. Maybe both. How long was he there, how long was he there, long was he there and how on earth did you not hear him, your mind races, feverishly, looking for questions that didn't have any momentary answer and you feel it reflect in the way your voice comes out shivering like a leaf. -"Bob!? Where were you? I was waiting for you!"- You words crack in your throat, echoing all around you, getting no response back. -"What are you doing!?"- You inquire; sheesh, what took him so long? You watch his silhouette shift from one leg to another, leaning his weight sideways. He was about to taunt; you knew that stance. You knew that body language. It's just that you couldn't predict what he was going to say next no matter how cognizant you were of his mannerisms.

-"Deer huntin'."- He drawls candidly, stepping forward and shit ---

If you run, you run on pure instinct.

Your legs simply take off from under you like they were operating with a mind and a will of their own, rushing through a maze of trees, bushes and branches, making decisions independently from your brain and the rest of your body, giving you no time to process anything but the primal survival instinct that told you to flee. Flee as far as you can. You loved him. You understood that. But every atom in your body carried you as fast as it could out of there to the degree you couldn't even stop yourself. Even if you wanted to. If someone stopped you there and then to ask you if this was still only foreplay or if you were truly running from Robert Barnes you were convinced you'd have no precise answer to give with a head full of white static and noise, hearing his footsteps behind you loud and clear and swearing that it couldn't be him; must've been the frantic beating of your own heart in your chest, in your head, in your ears. The Robert you knew was too quiet for this. A moment of distraction is all that it takes. The sleeve of your jacket gets harshly tangled into a sharp branch, and with a volatile tug, the material rips, taking the fabric of your shirt with it along with some of your skin. You're scratched. You're bleeding. But, you're still running. The tattered remains of your jacket remain hanging limply and in tatters from a nearby pinecone riddled bough. Shit, shit, shit --- the pain's intense, even with all the adrenaline pumping through your system.

-"Mhmm-hmm! Lettin'ya flag get captured, girl."-

You hear him from behind you gloating like he knew something you didn't, almost humming in contentment, and when your own frenzy briefly allows you to throw back a glance across your shoulder, Robert's there, standing some twenty odd feet behind you, the dark outline of him anyway, holding up the remains of your sleeve like they're a trophy. He either moved like the wind, soundless and as fast as a hurricane or you were much slower than all of this subjectively felt and your mind was playing tricks on you. He could've caught up to you right now, you concluded, but he didn't want to. He wanted to hunt. You envied that deer from earlier just now, grazing in the dewy forest grass. Envied and understood it. Wanted to be quite as lithe and fast it probably was and slip into the night, never to be found again. The only thing that slows you down is the burning sensation stemming from your scratch; the fact that the blood was trickling down your elbow and that you could feel it pooling in your coiled fist, dripping down into the foliage. You stumble back like a wounded domestic animal, forehead lined with cold sweat. You ain't got no fuel or air left in you. You breathe, loud and ragged and desperately fast only to find him there, leisurely striding in your direction down from the hill, inspecting a blood stained piece of cloth with pursed lips like the sight of it almost entertained him in ways you couldn't comprehend.

He dips his finger into the bloodstained material, maintaining eye contact.

Bringing it up to his face and drawing a straight crimson line across his cheek.

Slowly, almost leisurely, like he wasn't in a tremendous hurry whatsoever.

Then repeating the exact motion with the scarred side of his face.

It was makeshift warpaint.

Warpaint made out of your blood.

A trophy made out of your own sleeve tucked promptly into his belt.

-"Bob, you're scaring me."-

You gulp hard, you exposed bit of skin erupting in goosebumps as you were holding up your hands defensively, speaking as fast and as firmly as your hyperventilation and lack of breath allowed you, catching yourself flying. It was a bold faced lie and you knew it even as it was spoken. Or perhaps a half-lie at best. You weren't just scared. You were aching. You were aching to stop running, walk towards him, give yourself up and let him do whatever he wanted with you here and now and be wholly content doing so, which was mad. It was insane. He was the most horrifying sight you've ever seen so to want this meant that, the way Robert himself would put it, you've gone dinky dau. Totally unhinged. You wanted to escape and never return here again just a second ago. Now you wanted him to fuck you. Were was the logic in any of this? God forbid some trekkers, mountaineers or hunters come this way and spot this scene; they'd think you're both unhinged or that you're about to be murdered. -"Hell's bells, so run, then, if'ya so scared."- He shoots back and judging by the harshness of his voice you felt like he was giving you an order and disbelieving you at the same time. It's like your mind's been read; he knew how turned on you were right now and how guilty you felt about not feeling guilty about it. -"You're talkin' the talk and not walkin' the walk, darlin'."- And there it is; he's taunting you again, stepping forward soundlessly, hit by a ray of moonlight, faced adorned with your own blood. He was right. You could've started running again by now, instead, you were here listening to his soliloquy, mesmerized. -"I'd reckon,"- He begins. -"y 'thought it'll be all fun an' games out'ere and the fact that it ain' made'ya feel alive."- There it is; hitting the nail right on its head, as always. At that point, you feel your thighs practically pulsate with need, your lurching guts tying themselves into a million tiny knots. -"And you want me for all my horrible self."- He tilts his head smugly. You were like a deer in the headlights. Just bleeding and not even being able to deny what he was saying. You were prey wanting to get caught. -"You ain' 'fraid of the dark neither. You thrive in this shit."- He takes your very own words, reformulating them and so deep is his influence that only once he tells you, and you know the words are coming, do you actually start sprinting again.

God, what did he do to you?

He was in charge of your very soul. You were literally obeying commands.

Robert wasn't hunting wild, untamed big game tonight.

He was hunting his domesticated, well-trained house pet he personally set loose.

-"Go on. Run, bun. I know y'love me."-

He quips with a hard, raspy baritone that shakes the forest and you attempt to run finding yourself clumsily stumbling about instead through the bushes, practically sobbing up; exhausted, hurt, burned out, you practically hear yourself whimper with every move. He catches you. Does so effortlessly. Could have done so ten times by now, but the fact he does it now when you're weakest sends a little wail past your quivering lip. -"No!"- You sniffle as his hand halts you in your tracks mid-movement practically having your whole body haul itself back like you were lighter to him than a feather, his index finger and thumb holding you right above your bleeding scratch; you hiss instinctively, captured. The last feeling in the long list of sensations you needed now was pain.

-"Oh, god, please."-

You moan, begging as he lifts the arm he had his vice grip around up, poking the wound with an index finger, almost as if inspecting it, or perhaps intending to cause you some unease in a bout of sadistic inspiration, no more than you could handle, right before he leaned his head down with eyes still on you in the dark like daggers, taking his mouth to the blood and sucking on it, tasting you, hot saliva cleaning away the dried ichor of your fresh scar and whatever specks of dust and dirty got caught in the surface like it meant nothing to him. You throb and your mouth parts as you cry out, more so when he lets go, done with savoring, hands around your waist once your back gets pressed into the trunk of a nearby pine tree, held in place by him, causing you to go lightheaded with exhaustion, never even noticing he's wrapped your own ripped sleeve tucked into his belt around your gash instead of a bandage or that his other hand produced a knife, doing away your sweat drenched, wet blouse, cutting it down the middle with a ripping sound no differently than cutting through paper, using his knee pushed between your legs to keep you from falling over, maintaining your thighs parted. You were certain you were as wet as a person can be by now. The prey's been caught.

He kisses you rough enough to bruise, all grunts and desire.

A kiss with the aroma of rust and metal; the lingering aftertaste of blood.

Leaving you no space to breathe.

You moan into the contact, your blood smeared over his face smearing back unto yours along with the potent cocktail of his sweat mingled with yours, feeling his hands everywhere, rough, heavy and calloused; ripping at the thin strap the held your bra together in the front, on your throat, squeezing, around your waist, pulling by the hair and yanking back rough, grabbing your jawline, puckering your face up, biting your cheek and leaving behind teeth marks you could feel like he really intended to fucking eat you alive, not a bit of finesse or poise to him, bloodshot, feral eyes glazed over, angry yet blank, seeing the moon and nothing but yourself reflected in them, finding his stare simultaneously hollow and beaming with something primordial. Around these parts people used to gossip how sometimes, if you look carefully enough, that Barnes guy, as they called him, had eyes that shine red in the dark and right about now, you believed them regardless of how much you never enjoyed them talking shit about your man, the rut that ensues being rough, crude and quick --- hungry --- without preparation or maybe this --- all of this --- was all the preparation you needed as he fucks you against the dark pine bark, back scraping against its surface. You were a hole. Just a hole for him. In this neck of the woods, here and now, anyway.

Would you be able to walk or stand up straight after this?

You had to wonder.

Probably not seemed like a plausible answer.

-"You animal."-

You whimper and gasp as you're grabbed with both arms, practically thrown on the grass, him standing over you, his legs on either side of his body as he loomed with his head against the pitch black sky, your clothes torn, flesh exposed here and there and everywhere for him. He was magnificent. Holding his cock in his hand pulled out through the zipper of his slacks and undone belt buckles like it was a barrel of a rifle about to shoot. Appearing like he wasn't offended by the moniker that slipped past your lips unwittingly, more as a statement of the truth than an actual tease; in fact, he smiles even though he smiled so rarely, his scars embossed into the surface of his skin reflecting the pale light of the moon, making his face appear like it was smashed to pieces, centered only by his teeth on display, still red from the blood he practically drank from you. He kneels over you as you catch your breath from being hauled down as you were, spreading your legs even further, deciding it seems he prefered to have you on the cold hard ground, rather than standing up. Your feeling, aching fingers coil into the dirt, bracing yourself. Deer about to be slaughtered and displayed above the mantlepiece. Bob? An animal? More like a whole zoo. This was going to be a long night. He leans down with his visage still drawn out with the scarlet fingerpainting camouflage for a second time, speaking so closely to you you feel his breath in your nostrils caressing you, all heat, liquor and nicotine. His tongue proceeding to trace the inside of his cheek like he was itching to chew into his own flesh, spitting on the nearby soil, frustrated and wild,

Right next to where your jacket lay discarded and forgotten by the root of an old tree.

Places his hand covering nearly your entire face against your mouth.

He liked doing that as a habit from time to time, containing your moans and screams and keeping them all to himself, like he didn't like to share even the faintest echo of your desire with the world, letting it wash against the skin of the palm of his hand like a muffled, trapped cry instead; not unlike something he could close around his fist and keep like a tangible thing long after he's done with your body. It was his. All his. Every part of you was. Your soul and the very breath in your lungs.

-"Animal?"-

His expression is raw, lips crooked to the side as he cocks his head.

-"Darlin', you ain' never seen what an animal is. Not half of it."-

[coveey-s]

solaris

word count: 1.8k

paring: spencer reid x oc (but sorta y/n ish lol)

summary: spencer and ariana go to see a showing of 'solaris' (referenced in season 6 ep 14)

warnings: none?? just fluff lol

i don't really write fanfic this is kinda a one off so mb if this is a bit clunky 🤗🙃

Ariana Striker didn't really watch a lot of Sci-Fi. But ever since joining the BAU about a year ago and befriending a certain Spencer Reid, she knew more than ever before.

She was packing up her things for the night at the office after a case in LA when she noticed him talking on the phone at the desk over.

Ariana heard him mention something called 'Solaris'. What was that? A new planet he'd discovered?

Spencer hung up the phone with an odd look on his face.

"Who were you talking to?" Ariana asked, she couldn't help being curious.

"Emily, I was asking if she wanted to see Solaris in the theater with me, since she and I are the only ones who understand Russian," he answered, putting his phone in his pocket, "But she's busy with Sergio."

Her eyes widened, "Ooh, a new guy?"

"Her cat," Spencer replied, "But I thought the same thing."

"Oh," Ariana laughed, "Anyway, what's Solaris?" she asked.

"It's a Sci-Fi film made in 1972 that follows a psychiatrist sent to investigate the death of a doctor and the mental states of the cosmonauts in a space station orbiting a planet named Solaris." Spencer explained.

"Really? Interesting, a Russian sci fi film." she pondered.

"It's approximately five hours long, it's one of the greatest sci fi mediation films of all time." he added picking up his bag, "Well, bye," he started off.

"Wait," Ariana half laughed.

He stopped and turned raising his eyebrows.

"You didn't ask me about my plans?"

"Oh, what are your plans?" he asked.

"I was planning on eating Ben & Jerry's and watching 21 Jump Street..." she began.

"What's 21 Jump Street?" Spencer asked.

"You've never- you know it doesn't matter, point is the emphasis is on was. "

"What are you doing now?" he rested his hands in his pockets.

Ariana shook her head, "You know what nevermind, it's okay. Enjoy your movie, Reid." she smiled, slipping her coat on.

Spencer frowned, "I have a feeling I'm missing something."

She stepped out from behind her desk and walked towards him, "I was hinting that I could go to the movie with you but it seemed to-" Ariana made a woodshing sound and waved her hand over her head.

"Oh," Spencer said, "You don't understand Russian."

"Y'know for a profiler you seem to be highly confused by my behavior. I'm trying to make a nice gesture, so you don't have to go alone." Ariana motioned vaguely.

"You want to watch a five hour movie in a language you don't understand?"

She had to admit it didn't sound like the most fun, but maybe it could be, with him.

"Why not? I can probably pick up on stuff with the visuals and if you give me a quick explanation of the plot before we start ." Arriana shrugged.

"I can explain on the way," Spencer said enthusiastically.

"Let's go," she replied, patting him on the shoulder.

~~~~~~~

When they arrived she was once again baffled at the way his mind worked, however she doubted if she'd retain all the information she'd heard.

"So what's the probability that there really is a water brain planet out there?" Ariana asked as she grabbed her popcorn.

"I don't think there's an exact probability, but only 0.05 percent of the galaxy has been explored so it's possible." Spencer reasoned.

"Wow, you don't have an exact stat for something?" Ariana teased, popping a piece of popcorn in her mouth.

"I know," Spencer said sadly.

"Popcorn?" she offered, pointing the bucket at him.

He shook his head.

"More for me," Ariana said happily.

The theatre was small and old, it still had the light box lettering on the outside and little red seats on the inside.

They took their seats in the back, despite Spencer's point that the best seats were technically in the middle.

"But back here, you get to see the full screen, and you don't get people hitting you in the back." Ariana remarked.

He seemed to accept that and settled into his seat as the beginning credits began to play.

Ariana pulled off her coat and leaned back. She glanced at Spencer who's brown eyes were trained on the screen.

Just as she looked away she felt his gaze on her. Ariana peered at him through the corner of her eye, and neither of them looked away for a moment. She smiled and he smiled before she focused her attention on the movie, hoping she wasn't blushing like a school girl.

The movie was interesting, but her sleepless nights at the hotel the past few days were finally catching up to her and she was struggling to stay awake.

She was abruptly pulled out of her daze when the movie stopped for an intermission. Thank god, she needed to stretch her legs and wake herself up.

Ariana stood and stretched her arms over her head, "I could do with some fresh air, come on."

Spencer followed after her into the cool night air.

"What do you think of it, the movie?" he asked.

"Good, very Russian." I answered.

He nodded and his mouth fell into that flat line like it always did.

Ariana thought for a moment, "You know what I can do? I'm really good at catching food with my mouth," she clapped her hands together.

Spencer looked at her puzzledly, "What?"

"You know, people throw peanuts or something and people catch them in their mouths?" she threw a piece of popcorn at him.

He watched it fall, "I see,"

"Here," she shoved the popcorn bucket into his arms, "Throw a piece, I'll show you."

"I have terrible aim," Spencer added matter-of-factly.

"Try your best,"

He threw a piece of popcorn in the air and Ariana successfully caught it.

"See," she said between bites.

Spencer laughed a little, "Cool."

"Now, your turn," Ariana took back the bag.

"No, I'm okay," he insisted.

"Just try, I'm gonna keep throwing popcorn at you until you do," Ariana threatened.

Spencer shrugged, "Okay, I'll give it a shot,"

She threw it up and he surprisingly got it, "Wow you're a natural, I've been honing my skills for years." Ariana smiled.

"It's more physics than physical ability, but thank you," he said earnestly.

"No, you're the chosen one." Ariana chuckled.

Spencer did too and they continued throwing popcorn until intermission was over.

Once they returned to their seats Ariana prayed for the strength to stay awake for another two and a half hours.

It didn't work.

Five minutes later, Ariana was out.

Spencer turned to her to see her fast asleep, head half resting on the back of the chair.

He laughed to himself and just watched her for a moment, she really was pretty. But of course that didn't matter. Spencer cleared his throat and shifted his arms against the arm rests.

Approximately fifty five seconds later, Ariana slumped down further, and her head rested against his shoulder.

Spencer's eyes widened, she was still deeply asleep, and her head was on his shoulder. Her head was on his shoulder.

He was never overly touchy, but his team was the exception, often sharing hugs with them. And Ariana, she gave great hugs.

So there was no logical reason as to why her head on his shoulder was distracting him so much. But it was.

He made an active decision to not focus on the warmth of her body against his or the smell of her conditioner, he would miss the movie.

For two hours and twenty eight minutes, Spencer didn't move his left arm, and found it to be quiet numb.

The movie ended and Ariana was still slumbering so Spencer made an attempt to wake her.

"Ariana," he muttered, "Ariana, the movie is done."

She stirred and then opened her eyes a little, squinting at the light. Coming to her senses, Ariana shot up.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to," she motioned to his arm.

"It's okay," he said quietly, flexing his hands, trying to get blood flow back.

"What happened? Is the movie over?" Ariana looked around.

"Yes," he answered.

"Oh, Spencer, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," she said, rubbing her face, "I'm just a bit sleep deprived."

"Don't be, you got some sleep and I enjoyed the company." Spencer concluded, standing and grabbing his jacket.

"I suppose that's true," Ariana said as they exited the theatre.

"You've got a pretty comfortable shoulder," she added.

"Thank you," he said contently, "You've got a...nice head..." Spencer scratched the back of his head.

She chuckled at him, "Thanks. We should do this again sometime," Ariana proposed.

"There's a showing of Silent Running next week," Spencer replied.

"It's a date." she winked.

Spencer smiled at the ground.

"So," Ariana nudged him, "I gotta know how Solaris ended."

"So," Spencer began.

[cheerforrevenge]

The reason why animal shelters are so careful about adopting out dogs is because [checks notes] they want animals to have adequate homes. They want to ensure the animals go to people who will care for them appropriately, that they will have less chance of ending up back in the shelter.

I volunteered at my local cat shelter for approximately a year. They were very diligent in getting references and checking and explaining how to introduce a new animal into your home especially when you have pets already.

We still had:

- people returning pets within a week because their pets didn't get along (they didn't do a slow introduction)

- a family adopted a cat and the day they brought the cat home, decided to go to (nearest big city which is over 2 hours away) and left their NEWLY ADOPTED CAT outside so that the cat could "play". They never found the cat again. No idea what happened but we live in a place with: many large predators, cars, etc.

- we had a cat who was returned repeatedly to the point where she's now 16 years old and looking for a place just to live out the rest of her life. She was there when I volunteered in 2018-2019

- we had people adopt the cat and return because they didn't like the personality of the cat in the end. Too clingy, too scared, hid, was always under foot. The medical need was too much to handle (despite being told previously). Nothing these cats did seemed just right.

Meanwhile, my town has: found kittens in a bag at the rec center (Alive and well), had cats come in extremely injured needing surgeries to remove eyes and limbs and ears. Found cats that were clearly tortured before their horrible deaths. And that's not even to talk about the dog shelter, which I can't speak to because I never worked there but I DO see the posts from them about similar issues.

When I adopted mine (Michael), I knew I needed to clean his ears regularly to avoid infection due to injuries he had sustained pre-shelter. I also knew he can't ingest fish because he is allergic (he gets bad tummy problems, which is what he was struggling with at the shelter, but it turns out he also has tummy problems when he's upset/stressed just like me lmao because it cleared up as soon as he came home with me).

I slowly introduced him to my dog and later my new kitten, and they all get along SO well. I took my time, followed directions, and now he's spent 6 of his 9 years in a loving home. No more worries for ending up in the shelter.

So excuse shelters for not falling over backward to hand out living creatures to just anybody who shows a vague interest. Pets are an investment. Time, money, love, and sacrifices you have to be willing to make consistently. Many people prove themselves to be unwilling to do so and shelters are at max capacity all over the place. If they didn't have to be so picky that'd be great but they do.

[theredstargalaxy]

helloo, new mutual! i'm waving so much! o/

you all seem really cool and i just wanted to send an ask to enquire about anything any of you might want to infodump about. i love to listen and learn about anything and everything under the sun, so don't hold back!

thanks in advance for your time!

Hello there, friends! Thank you for the follow, and this lovely message! We appreciate that you're here with us!

There are many things I could infodump about; so many that, if I were to dabble in all of them, we'd be here for years. So, I'll pick one subject, and give you some knowledge on it. The question is: What should I talk about?

How about something I've been familiar with for twenty odd years: Pokemon?

I'll begin this infodump with a question: What Pokemon is the first one? For some, this is a question they may know the answer to on the basic level; it's just an innocuous inquiry with no real reason to be all that deep. For those well-versed in the Pokemon canon, this question is, in fact, quite vague, and even can be seen as a trick. Allow me to elaborate.

In Pokemon, there's this nifty little device called a Pokedex; a device that holds data on every Pokemon you encounter on your journey. Every monster is sorted numerically. In Pokemon Red, Blue, and Green, the Pokemon with the number 001 is Bulbasaur, the grass type categorized as the Seed Pokemon. This makes it the first Pokemon in the Pokedex.

In the Pokemon mythos during the franchise's early days, there was only one Pokemon that was deemed the creator of all others. A Pokemon that, somehow, avoided scientists for decades up until the events of Red, Green, and Blue. This creature was the subject of many a playground rumor when these games were still fresh. And before you ask: No, you can't find it under the truck in Vermillion City. You can, however, find it with another method--I'll get to that later. In terms of the question asked above, this Pokemon was canonically the very first, and the creator of all other Pokemon. The monster in question is, of course, Mew.

However, there is still one other Pokemon who has the right to claim that title. This monster was the first to be created by art director Ken Sugimori, appearing in the earliest documented concepts for the game. It was also the first to be programmed into the games when development began. This Pokemon is none other than the Rock/Ground type, Rhydon.

Now, for that method I mentioned earlier. Back in Pokemon Red and Blue, a programmer at Gamefreak added Mew at the last minute, which not only angered Nintendo, but could have completely broken the game. The first Pokemon games weren't exactly all that stable; it was less like a well-built home, and more like a hut put together with toothpicks and glue. So, as you can see, the last minute addition was a tad dangerous. However, as you are already aware, the game launched without a hitch. But, our little, cat-like friend was nowhere to be seen-- until someone discovered it years later, in 2002.

This method to finding Mew is fairly complicated, and requires the use of the Trainer-Fly glitch. This particular glitch occurs thusly: When encountering a trainer that's looking south, you have exactly one frame to press the Start button before you're dragged into a battle. If you successfully pressed Start, then the main menu will pop up. You can do one of two things here: You either go to your party, and select a Pokemon that knows Fly, Dig, or Teleport and use that move to flee. Or, you go into your bag and use an Escape Rope. Once the move or rope is selected, you will be transported away from the trainer. This makes the game think that you've started a battle, which causes certain data to be read incorrectly. Once you've successfully done that, you can move on to the next step: Battling a different trainer. You can't simply walk up to a trainer; you have to be approximately one or more tiles away for this to work properly. If you're too close to the trainer, your game will softlock, meaning you'll have to reset your console and restart the process. After you battle the trainer, you'll have to Fly back to the location of the one you fled from. Then, the game will call up a prebattle text box with the ID of whatever text that was previously seen-- which should be the start menu. Once that pops up, close the menu and a battle will start. Depending on the special state of the previous Pokemon you fought, a random Pokemon will appear. If the previous monster's special stat was 21, then you'll encounter Mew. I suggest finding a trainer with a Shellder, or Slowpoke, whose special stat is 21.

There are two methods that you can obtain Mew with. However, if I were to go into detail about those, then we'd be here for 94 years./j So, I'll end it here. If you'd like to know more, I suggest using Bulbapedia or searching it up on YouTube. Thank you for reading this entire infodump, friend!

[deimos-awaits]

Ironsong Initiate Two

Some time has passed and Theophilus is more advanced now

Theophilus Attaliates was no longer a child. He was now a psalti, having undergone years of training, blessed indoctrination, and the ritualized surgeries of the Ironsong. He could recognize himself now in the morrow when he looked, violet eyes flaked with brown and a shaved head. He couldn't quite remember what he looked like before the neural ports and other changes that had happened to him.

Theophilus Attaliates was scared. He remembered vaguely how that felt but now mainly just recognized it as something to be categorized and put away for later. “Fear Cat 2 - mortal peril, useless at current moment to be felt fully later” After all it would be silly not to be fearful when orks were firing in your general direction. “Arrogance Cat. 1 : orks might be lucky and shit my armor. Would hate to have to do my purple paint if it gets scratched.” All psalti were required up to a certain degree to care for the upkeep of their armor and were taught various rituals to placate its machine spirit.

The psalti was not alone. He was operating with the rest of the advance squad. Nine of his other brothers and sisters as well as a small detachment of mechanicus ground troops. He had worked before alongside mechanicus skitarii rangers before. One of the principle lessons that the Ironsong strove to indoctrinate into all recruits was the benefits of cooperation on the battlefield and as such their neophytes often went side by side with scouting units from their closest allies.

He turned to look at the hooded ranger. “Distance to objective?”

The blue robbed skitarii blurted out a string of static that hurt the ear. “Annoyance Cat. 1 Can't the tech priests just let them speak still?” His helmet translated it to, <<Approximately 42 kilometers Psalti-Hypostrategos Attaliates.>>

At roughly 17 standard years old, Theophilus was the most advanced and oldest of the psalti he had been leading. He already by this point had most of the supplemental organs installed and had gone through that strange misma that affected all the Ironsingers. Thus he was the leader of this group. Theophilus once heard another of his number refer to it as the oldest child leading children which wasn't exactly wrong but also left him feeling some sort of way.

He had talked to the Strategos of the Themata regarding this point of view. Siderenia head dispensed some decent amount of wisdom that while it was true, some soldiers also even space Marines needed ways to reduce stress and humor was a window to that for some.

Theophilus smiled. He was not one given to rousing speeches at least not yet nor was he given to suicidal charges. He looked around at the other aspiring members of the Irosong chapter. Words reportedly attributed to both Commissars Gaunt and Cain came to mind. Heros of the Imperium them both. “Children of the Omnissiah!” For that is what they were, even him with solely his metallic hand, “Do you want to live forever!’

“No, sir, no!” Came the chorus of replies. It was after all better to die for the emperor then to live in cowardice.

“Then let's go! Skitarii Ranger Alpha RAX-XIX, provide cover fire!” Theophilus made sure that his bolter was loaded. You made one quick look from behind the shelter that they had taken behind a set of crumbling walls. Their mission was to help place down sensor arrays as close to enemy lines as possible and report back the size of the Waaaaaagh. The skitarius let out a burst of static that Theophilus knew by well meant yes or affirmative translation was not the easiest but he was definitely familiar enough to recognize what it meant.

He would ensure that both objectives were done. He led the charge into the breach of what was one some kind of manufactorrum while galvanic rifle fire pelted the air around the squad. Theophilus did not need to look back to know that his squad mates were following him; the footsteps behind were proof enough. Theophilus felt worried. “Worry Cat 3 if this does not go well then most of the squad will be eliminated or worse by Orks. Their geneseed and implants would have been wasted.”

Theophilus did not like fighting orcs if he could be said to enjoy fighting xenoa at all. T’au weee perfidious and unhonorable, Votann Leagues woul just like backstab him, and Eldar strangely had a more than negative relationship with his chapter though he had not ever been informed as to why. He had never fought dhrukari and did not think that he wanted too. Most of this was based on what he had been taught as well. He'd only ever seen orks.

Those thoughts were distracting him from the current mission ahead he categorized them aside for later just as taught in the hypno conditioning. Now you had to face accuracy was never their strong suit however they more than often made up for that in sheer volume of fire. Thankfully his allies had much better aim volley after volley of galvanic fire was clearing out all visible orks in the manufactorum.

Words from the Forge-Priests came to him, to not allow arrogance, pride, or hubris consume them. Theophilus slowed as the entrance to the rubble was discovered. The skitarii processing cover fire quickly advanced with a mechanical precision he was jealous of admittedly. “Jealousy Cat 1 other servants of the machine god are blessed in ways I will never be. Forge-Priest Justinian's words, that we too are blessed by the machine god to be a unison of flesh and steel in our own myriad ways.”

Theophilus made a simple hand signal to one of his squadmates. Psalti Anastasia Thermopili used her vox array to signal back to the base that the way had been cleared. As of yet in this sector the ork Waaaaaaaaaagh did not seem to have large forces present in this area. They had taken down twenty full sized boyz already. It was a slog. They seemed to be contained to the first floor of the ruins.

From then on it was a relatively simple mission climbing to the top of the ruins and with the precision fire eliminating any orks that laid in wait. When they were about halfway up the building, Theophilus turned back to look at his troops. Most of them seemed to be in good spirits. The skitarii were as always silent, most likely communicating through the noosphere. Their goggles were cute. “Unclear emotion Cat 3 warmth in chest observing skitarii’s actions.”

He looked at Anastasia. The strange warmness did not go away. “If the biggest issue we have from here on out is climbing then, I think we shall be asked to be spared from the battle feast honors, no?”

Anastasia laughed. It was like her voice: deep and beautiful. Theophilus liked it almost as much as he enjoyed watching her shave her face. See of course could not see her face due to the helmet she was wearing but he's seen it enough times before. The rest of his squad laughed with her as well. The skitarii stayed silent as they did often throughout most missions.

Anastasia was the only one to respond back, “I hope not sir! We have bolters blessed to kill xenos! Besides, sir, battle feasts are always the best!”

As they continued up to the roof of the factorum they began to receive scattered updates with regard to the greater battle. Ork forces had pushed forward in a charge most suicidal and therefore for them fun and directly into the line of Fourth Themata artillery. As the battle kept going, orks became sparser and sparser in this part of the front line. They ran towards the obvious sounds of fighting. The small squad of scouts and rangers was able to mount the box array on the top of the ruins providing full data for the local airspace.

Theophilus felt so very scared in the feast hall though he did not know why.

[chungledown-bimothy]

don't mind me, just having an existential crisis because they grew living rat neurons, attached them to a computer, and taught them to play doom.

logically i know, essentially, how brains work. i know what neurons are and the broad strokes of what they do and how. but i struggle to square that applying to me.

everything about me, who i am not just physically but as a person, is billions upon billions of electrical signals. that's it.

which makes, for example, the jeremy jordan obsession feel even sillier. like, there's not some deep thing to it- the way he looks and sounds triggers certain sequences of signals that i happen to very much enjoy. and i don't understand how or why that reaction is so much stronger to him than anyone else.

i really, really get why people believe in souls and such. it would be comforting to believe that there's more out there, more to me than electrified... meat? goop? idk man i googled if brains are meat and apparently people have been arguing about it forever and it also depends on if you mean it in a culinary or biological way.

but i don't. so i'm trying to take comfort in the knowledge that humanity isn't special. that, on a fundamental level, we run the same way every other animal does. no one's saying cats have some sort of higher purpose, or that they have to aspire to greatness. it's totally cool that they just want to live a comfortable life. so that can be enough for me, too.

i know how this reads. i know how much this sounds like a load of stoner bullshit. which is fair- i am a stoner and full of bullshit. but i'm currently sober, just fully spiraling in this existential crisis. i just wanted to watch a video about turning gatorade into meat before going to bed.

this maybe isn't even comprehensible- i'm not editing shit. this is purely stream of consciousness vent babeyyy this is a vague approximation of the parts of what it's like inside my electrified goopmeat that i'm able to put into words.

[pickerelstripe]

ClayClan’s Mythology

ClayClan has a developed religion!  They believe in six gods, who made the world and have power over it; Silverpelt, the place where dead Clan cats reside; and various other myths and folk heroes. Their culture has no hell equivalent, as cats barred from Silverpelt are instead believed to remain on earth after death as ghosts. Note that, in-story, the nature of ClayClan’s mythology is vague - I’m not confirming or denying it as a true force in the world, but it does impact the characters through their faith. 

Below the cut: Notes on the gods, patrons, the origin of ClayClan, death and the afterlife, blessings and curses, bobcats, and more

The Gods, Patrons, and ClayClan’s Origin

ClayClan’s pantheon is made up of six gods. The gods are considered genderless - they use a special set of pronouns, shaf/shafs, and may be referred to with molly, tom, or jack depending on the story. The imagery associated with a god is not what they truly look like, it’s just what Clan cats can approximate about their appearance - the exceptions to this are Yiaow, who is literally considered to be a bobcat with the head of a Clan cat, and Rhurr, who is literally considered to be a long-haired cat with a magnificent mane and flowing tail.

Rhurr God of the sun, moon, stars, and wisdom. Represented by a longhair cat with a great mane, sitting with its tail over its paws. Prayed to for knowledge, leadership skills, and important desires. Often seen as the leader of the gods. Parent of Hyaash and Mrrha.

Chikik God of seasons, natural change, and cycles. Represented by a snowshoe hare with its ears laying down against its back. Prayed to for good seasonal conditions and safety against negative change. Also prayed to for healing, as they’re associated with the cycle of life. Parent of Fulgurr.

Fulgurr God of clouds, rain, storms, snowfall, and travel. Represented by a bald eagle. Prayed to for good weather, protection against natural disasters, and for safety on physical journeys. Often seen as a protective spirit over messengers. Child of Chikik.

Hyaash God of hunting, fighting, and teamwork. Represented by a longhair cat with an open mouth and unsheathed claws. Prayed to for good hunting, good fighting, and to solve disputes between Clanmates. Seen as a protective spirit over apprentices. Child of Rhurr and littermate of Mrrha.

Mrrha God of creativity, clay sculpting, and community. Represented by a longhair cat laying down with a kitten tucked in its belly. Prayed to for good luck in life and for familial or romantic relationships. Child of Rhurr and littermate of Hyaash.

Yiaow God of the ocean, predatory animals, and all things unknown. Represented by a bobcat with the head of a Clan cat. Prayed to for safety against physical danger. Often depicted as having a strict sense of justice, or enforcing “an eye for an eye” - this contributes to a healthy fear towards them.

Living cats cannot contact the gods, but sculpting their image is said to appeal to them or bring their favor upon whoever prays with the sculpture (for more information, see my entry on sculpting). It’s believed Silverpelt ferries messages between the gods and the living; these messages manifest in omens and dreams. 

While cats respect every god, some cats will have a patron, a specific god they feel close to and pray to more often. It’s common for a cat’s patron to change over time - for example, a captain whose patron is Hyaash may switch over to Rhurr after becoming deputy.

It’s said that the first three gods were Rhurr, Chikik, and Yiaow; Rhurr and Yiaow as opposing sides to the same leaf, with Chikik as an in-between force of change. Chikik’s child Fulgurr came to be around this time. Rhurr eventually led the cats of the world to form ClayClan to keep them safe from Yiaow’s dangers. The cats didn’t know how to live in a community, so Rhurr bore two kits, Hyaash and Mrrha, who taught the cats how to live properly.

Death, Killing, and The Afterlife

When Clan cats die, they ascend to Silverpelt, a mythical afterlife represented by the sparkling night sky. This is a direct result of their connection to the gods - due to this, it’s believed that cats only go to Silverpelt if they’re buried on ClayClan territory. This custom is kept tightly by the living and has led to a dedicated graveyard. If a cat disappears or is presumed dead without a body, the acolytes sculpt a clay rendition of them and bury that instead, out of honor.

Killing is mandated by the gods under specific conditions; cats may kill prey and predator, but only when necessary. Killing beyond these boundaries upsets the natural way of things. Killing another cat is majorly frowned upon, but killing a Clanmate is downright sinful, and a surefire way to get cursed by the gods (see the next section for more info). The concept of killing in self-defense applies only to non-Clanmates.

Blessings and Curses

The gods may bless or curse living cats based on their actions. 

Blessings and curses take the form of events in someone’s life. Blessings may manifest as especially bountiful hunting, completing a difficult task, etc; curses may manifest as losing something important to you, being injured, etc. They’re very up to interpretation.

Curses are generally brought down upon someone for committing acts against ClayClan or the gods. Two examples are murder and faking omens - murder because it disrespects the proper way of life, and faking omens because it is both pretending to know the gods’ will and deceiving your Clanmates into thinking that as well.

These concepts come into play in the story primarily through Pickerelstripe (who lied about being blessed) and Cootfeather (who killed her former mate).

Bobcats and The Ocean

Bobcats have a dedicated spot in ClayClan’s mythology, despite rarely venturing into the territory. They’re seen as uncanny, devilish figures - like cats, but not quite right. Myth states you can sell your soul to a bobcat... you’ll receive an incredible bounty in life, but when you die you’ll be cursed to become a bobcat yourself, barred forever from the gods’ light in Silverpelt. 

The ocean also has myths surrounding it. It’s seen as the end of the world; as far as ClayClan is concerned, it stretches past the horizon forever. Being around or in the ocean is incredibly dangerous.  Though ClayClan is technically near the coast, cats would have to walk for a day or two before hitting the ocean. its reputation for danger and association with Yiaow mean that nobody really attempts this.

[pikagatogirltits]

Asks for catgirl! Hana, what do you look like in y'all's headspace? And do you have any particularly feline mannerisms that appear when you're fronting?

Hmm...kind of like a modern skater AU Izutsumi from DunMeshi would be a close approximation? But with anime T-shirts. My ears and tail are a tortoiseshell pattern, a mix of black and orange. And like...sort of Japanese? Maybe like half-Japanese. Lexi is white, so I don't really see myself as actually Japanese but I think a lot of her love of anime and maga got mixed in with me because I view myself as vaguely anime inspired, if that makes sense?

The others have said I have some very cat like tendencies in how I sit and lay, and I seem to be more flexible than the others...but nothing else we've noticed so far.

-Hana 🌸🐱

[ofpokemon]

@earth-master said: There's something decidedly familiar about this individual Giovanni brushes past, enough to make the ex-Rocket leader pause in his stride, alongside Persian. The big cat almost doubles back to take another look at the green-haired man. [Do you feel that?] she asks. He's not sure what he's picking up on, other than an approximate feeling of familiarity. But whether or not it was having met before, or something else, he couldn't place. "She seems to like you," he states instead, turning back on his heel to face the other. Persian seems to purr in affirmation, stretching her paws out in front of her. "She doesn't care for many out of hand."

A chance meeting, nothing more. As he passes the other man, going opposite he can't help but hear his Pokémon's voice. He turns to look at her, and before he can reply he is face to face with the man.

There was something about him, N felt, something that almost made him on edge. What it was he wasn't sure. Perhaps just intuition? Or was it the confidence the other held?

Despite it he offers a polite smile, as he holds a hand out for Persian, where do you itch? that one spot on the back of the neck perhaps?

"Ah I tend to have that effect on Pokémon." he states more vague then he had in the past. Over the years he had learned to not be so open with his ability, should he be used for it again. "Your Persian, she looks well cared for. You can tell by the luster of her coat. You two must be very close. May I ask how long you have been partnered together?" as he asks this his eyes flick from Giovanni to the Pokémon, as if he was querying them both.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

Why does this feel like the start of an Adam Sandler movie

The three of them vacation in Miami to get Uncle Steve (played by Adam Sandler) feeling like he has something to live for again. The anthropomorphic wolf (played by Kevin Hart with Cats Movie CGI, the VFX has vaguely racist undertones that the producers will deny) has the whole schtick that he keeps sneaking off to eat people, which will get old approximately 10 minutes into the film but they will continue to use the joke till the closing scene and in a post-credits scene that has one of them breaking character.

The huntsman will be played by David Fumero, and his whole character is that he doesn't know how to do anything but swing an axe, which will be his solution to all their problems and they will have to shout him out of it every time yelling "WHAT THE HELL MAN NO". That will be the entirety of the jokes about him. Repeated till the end.

None of them will have any character growth, but they will all find pretty women, played by huge names that the producers blew half the budget on. Reese Witherspoon, Selena Gomez in a shocking return to acting, and the third is an actor that no one has heard of but who looks vaguely familiar in an irritating way because you cannot place her. This will distract you every time she's on screen. People will wonder why the fuck Witherspoon and Gomez are in this film.

There will be nostalgic 2000s songs that have aged poorly lyrics wise. There will be more bodily humour than necessary. It will receive a 27% on Rotten Tomatoes. They will make a 150 million dollar profit.

inspiration struck in a really, really weird way

[ariadosanon]

:33 < the closest i’ve gotten lately is a weird approximation of a catmon, unfortunately

:33 < looks like a cat enough though

:33 < ever heard about sneasler?

:33 < it’s as close as i’ve gotten so far, but it’s poison and it’s vaguely feline

I actually HAVE heard of Sneasler. They’re far too expensive and temperamental for my tastes. Always thought they were more… What’s the word? Furret-ey. They remind me of ZANGOOSE a little.

[olichat-reads]

Mrow | Part One

Bakugou x roomate!reader

Summary: you've gotten yourself into a quirk accident & were now..?? a cat??

A/n: if there's one thing i like about the mha universe is that the existence of quirks make up so many plot possibilities to play with. i had a lot of fun writing this & i hope you enjoy reading too!

🌟

You were a cat.

Your day most certainly could not get any weirder than this.

You were chasing after a petty thief down the alleyway when it happened. You almost felt bad for going after what could be the most skittish crime offender you've ever encountered.

Then she struck you with her quirk.

The force of it knocked you to the ground & your sight went blurry. You vaguely heard her apologized profusely, swearing it was an accident & stammering that you'll be able to figure out how to undo it on your own, leaving you to slowly black out.

When you came to, you found yourself absolutely drowning in a mass of clothes that you soon realized was your hero outfit. Horrified at the discovery, you looked down at your naked body only to find out you weren't exactly naked.

You were covered in fur.

Cursing out in confusion, you heard your own voice rang through the alleyway. But it didn't sound like your voice & what came out was most definitely not coherent words.

Panicked you scrambled to get out of the alley, almost plopping face first into what seemed to be a ridiculously huge puddle, barely catching yourself as you fell on your furry butt. Peering into the muddy water, you felt your heart sank at the sight of your own reflection.

You were a cat.

🌟

You've sat at your front door for approximately 15 minutes, glaring at the wood, willing it open with your mind.

You decided quickly that heading to your agency will do you no good, already concluding you aren't getting a productive two-way conversation with anyone while you were in this form. Trying to alert other pro heroes on your way did not work out, unless them cooing & making baby voices at you counted.

The familiar sound of heavy boots approaching your door made you perk up. Your roomate was home.

You padded aside to make way for your roomate to open the door, you little body slumping in relief. You didn't notice Bakugou skeptically raising an eyebrow at your presence but saying nothing otherwise.

The click of the door unlocking had you sighing inwardly. Ugh. Thank fuck. You thought as you padded in tiredly. Curling up in bed after the day you had the only thing on your mind.

You barely made it two steps in before your feet were no longer on the ground, making you squeal in surprise.

"Oi."

You heard your own angry mewls as Bakugou grabbed you by the scruff, holding you up to his face.

"Who the fuck do you think you are waltzing in like you own this place?"

You wanted to scream. You were too tired for this shit right now.

Oh my god. Bakugou! I do own this place. Its me! Y/n!

You tried explaining to no avail as you thrashed in his hold. Bakugou muttered something about you being 'a loud little fuck too' & started heading for the front door.

This made you bristle in irritation even more.

There was absolutely no way you were turned into a cat & getting kicked out of your own apartment on the same day. Not fucking happening.

The moment Bakugou dropped you off out the front door, you launched yourself onto his pant leg before he could close the door in your face, clinging on to dear life as the blonde yelped in surprise at feeling your little claws dig into the fabric of his sweatpants.

"Are you fucking kidding me??" He yelled, swinging he's leg around, jostling you with the movement, trying to get you off of him.

No! Thats my line, you bastard! Don't fucking kid with me!

You yelled profanities at him. All of which, to your dismay, came out as high pitched wails while Bakugou stumbled around as he tried to pry you off his leg while you held on with all your might. In his struggle, he bumped into the front door, cracking it open just a smidge. Seeing this opening you leaped off of him & made a mad dash inside, hearing your angry roomate shout after you. You dove for the living room sofa, barely wiggling your way through the narrow space underneath, only just escaping the angry blonde's grasp.

You heard Bakugou yelling at you to get out, to which you yelled right back at him- non-threatening little mewls be damned. You weren't standing for this bullshit.

Fuck.

There was no way of communicating with him like this. Where the fuck was a convinient scrabble board game when you needed one.

🌟

"Oi. Come out. You must be hungry. I got you food."

No! You'll try to throw me out again! Out of my own home may I add!

You heard Bakugou snicker at your yowls from under the sofa, making your tail puff up in annoyance.

"Calm down, brat. I won't throw you out. Promise. Just food."

You contemplated your options for a moment before relenting to his offer. Bakugou chuckled at the sight of you poking your head out of your hiding place, looking up at him with doubts written all over your furry face.

You watched him place two saucers by the table, one of steamed fish, the other filled with clean water before moving on to set his own meal & take a seat at the table. Trotting over nervously, you looked up at him one last time, just in case he was bluffing, only to have him roll his eyes at you. "Hurry up. My foods getting cold."

You tilt your head at that.

His food? Was he waiting for you to eat together?

You wanted to ask but your tummy growling & confirmation that you could hold Bakugou to his word had you making your way to your dishes. Plus your questions would only come out as mewls & squeals anyway so.

Sitting on your haunches you meowed out a 'thanks for the food' before digging in, making the blonde laugh.

"At least you have some manners for a feral little thing."

🌟

You didn't have time to worry about getting kicked out after dinner, having seemingly become the least of Bakugou's problems after a phonecall left him agitated & fidgety.

You watched Bakugou pace the living room back & forth, whilst holding his phone up to his ear, seemingly getting more & more frustrated by the minute as he grumbled under his breath ever time the call went to voicemail.

"Mrow?"

Bakugou barely acknowledged your presence with a glance before he's dialing the number again.

"She's not fucking answering."

Who?

"The other dumbass that lives here. She should've been home ages ago. Its getting dark."

Oh. Oh, he's worried about you.

Cursing under his breath at another voicemail, Bakugou muttered something about calling your agency again while you watched him barely contain his distress as he learns no one has seen you since your patrol.

"This fucking dumbass. Where the hell are you??" Bakugou growled while tugging on the boots of his hero outfit, the worry underlying his voice made your gut churn with guilt.

You scurried over to where he sat at the door, swiftly lacing up his boots. He paused when you meowed, peaking around his side.

Keeping your eyes on his, you tested the waters by perching up on his thigh, front paws on his tummy with those red eyes watching your every move. When Bakugou didn't push you off, you continued wiggling your way up his chest, his hand instinctively coming under your legs to support you.

Face to face with him, you see the distress on his face, the expression making your heart heavy. Pushing your little body on your hind legs, you bring a paw up to the wrinkles between his brows.

I'm right here, Bakugou. You mewled quietly.

The blonde huffed out a quiet laugh at that. "Whats with you? You're way too perceptive for a regular fluffball." You perk up at his words. Maybe he'd finally notice!

Thats 'cause I'm not a cat! Its me! Y/n!

To your dismay, he only chuckled at your frantic meows. "Alright, alright. I have to go now," he rumbled out with an amused grin overlaying his worry. He stood up slowly, picking you up in his large hands to set you on the ground. "M'bringing that idiot home so I can introduce ya. I'd bet she's gonna love ya."

You could only watch as Bakugou stepped out into the night to search for you, knowing he wouldn't find you out there tonight.

Part Two

[fractalcloning]

From the very moment Narek had closed the doors and left her to die, until right now, Soji has been desperate for someone to actually comprehend the depth of her loss. Kestra had been the first shadow of that, but like everyone else there was a facet that extended beyond what she could understand. As Soji let that wan smile drift across her face, still tired from all her earlier waterworks, the look she got in return made her feel startlingly seen. She almost started tearing up again at the delicate look of compassion he sent at her. Fortunately, Data's double take and delighted shock at the mention of...the cat? Well that was a dramatic shift and the mood was an easy one to mirror. "Uh, yeah," Soji starts, confused by the abrupt spike in his enthusiasm. The cat was named Spot II, had he known Spot I? "She's about..." Soji lifted her hands to approximate the size of the housecat. "Yea big, orange tabby. Altan made her with the same process he made the butterflies. I...have no idea where she is right now. Probably sunbathing on the concrete somewhere?" While he'd seemed absolutely absorbed in the sight of the androids in the plaza, this seemed like a great time to head down. Soji gestured to the stairs down on the other side of the walkway. "I'm sure we'll find her somewhere," Soji assures him. "If not, we can wait by Altan's hammock. She has a pillow over there that she likes." Soji had extrapolated most of this from snippets of conversation, half heard, drifting during the tense days she'd spent waiting for the armada to arrive. Some of it had been told to her personally and some of it was a vague proto memory, but it felt comfortable and easy to relay to him. That was a nice, if unexpected change from the norm. She led the way down the stairs and out into the warm afternoon. Coppelius was arid bordering on desert. Soji was still somewhat undecided on whether she liked it or not, but it wasn't unpleasant. As expected, though, the moment they crossed out into the plaza and the sunlight, Data had a dozen eyes on him. Some of them tilted their heads, took him in at an angle, but most simply paused what they were doing to observe. "Soji, there you are. I made cookies, would you like one?" Soji had to twist to look back. Walking up the sloping path, with a plate in hand, was Arcana. Soji's expression shifted to a frown as she recognized the the direction of her approach, but Arcana was unbothered and Soji's smile came back quickly enough. As the other synthetic walked the winding path, Soji knew the very instant that Data came into view for her. "Oh!" Arcana announced softly, her expression going surprised and curious in equal measure. She came to a stop next to them, studied Data for several seconds, and then looked to Soji to explain. Soji had no idea how she knew, but she knew what that particular tilt and stare meant when Arcana did it. "It's him. Yeah." She could have explained but Arcana didn't require it. A bright and welcoming smile bloomed on her face and held there as she turned her attention to Data. "Hello, Data! Welcome, it is so very nice to meet you." And, as if that statement was permission in and of itself, all the passive observers in the plaza moved and started to gather around them. They'd done the same to Picard when they arrived a few days ago, but somehow they were less reserved with Data. The ones who had expressions that contained delight were positively glowing. Others wore looks of placid interest as they gathered.

Cognisant of the transition from pristine white walls to tall windows overlooking a foreign topography, of a courtyard embellished with synthetic life, of a view rendered with a palette of kaleidoscopic colours, floating prominently in his peripheral vision, the android conserved his attention, prohibiting it from wandering while Soji was answering his torrents of enquiries. He listened patiently, his chartreuse eyes never once strayed to the surreal environment below.

“If you count Arcana and I as a pair...” A phrase he logged under the tab “pending queries,” although he could make an educated guess as to why Soji would count herself and the other android as a pair; he surmised that Arcana’s identical twin had likewise been terminated. How and why, however, was a mystery to him, for now. But she did not leave him much time to ponder the matter as she continued. His head jerked mechanically at the mention of a cat, — synthetic or organic? He conjectured the former, since he had enquired after the number of synthetic inhabitants, but he did not interrupt her supply of information to verify his preliminary determination.

When Soji became stationary, so did Data; his eyes, inadvertently, travelled down to the plaza, his pupils dilated the second his gaze encountered the first artificial countenance. Inquisitively, he magnified the visuals that were presently being relayed to his central processing unit, resolute in his self-induced pursuit to ingest as much information about this type of android as he possibly could.

Data acknowledged her suggestion with a faint nod of the head, distracted, occupied; his visual sensors were tracing a masculine-built android who had emerged from a room on the ground floor, he watched the synth cross the white stretch of concrete, zigzagging between the other denizens without impeding their itineraries — a well-rehearsed dance —, prior to vanishing into the adjacent building. Instantaneously, his eyes hopped to another, one that was tending the garden — feminine in design, jet-black hair, metallic gold epithelium, a hue deviating from his own alabaster-coloured bioplast sheeting. However, not all androids adhered to this design; he had noted that a selection of the androids had more human toned skins — and even the pigmentation in their eyes varied, not all of their irises were a hue of yellow like his.

‘Remarkable,’ he whispered, wonderstruck, his voice barely distinguishable from the murmurations emanating from the room that contained the Captain, Agnes, and Dr Soong.

In many ways, his introduction to this strange, new world was reminiscent of his first trip to Earth, after the Starfleet officers of the U.S.S. Tripoli had rescued him from Omicron Theta. He had been struck by a similar wonder, and established an unquenchable fascination with the human race, with their achievements, their architecture, their traditions, their beliefs, their ideologies, their technology, and their curiosity for outer space, their innate desire to explore beyond the boundaries of the Sol system. His first destination had been Starfleet Headquarters, in San Fransisco, where they had interrogated him, but discovered that he could not provide the answers they were looking for: the enigmatic disappearance of over 450 Federation colonists and the desolate state the planet found itself in, regardless of the countless documentations stating the opposite. His second destination was Daystrom Institute of Advanced Robotics, in Okinawa, Japan — a considerably less agreeable experience...

Data discontinued the freight train of evocations that came hurtling toward him and concentrated on the androids, his people instead, listening attentively to Soji’s words about the synthetics’ textbook understanding of negative emotions. He had experienced fear shortly after the installment, or should he say the fusion of the emotion chip and his positronic brain, on the Amargosa Observatory. He was glad to ascertain that these androids were not capable of fear — it was a most disconcerting and disarming sensation.

For the first time, his observation of the androids was temporarily suspended; his unspoken question had received a confirmation: Arcana had lost someone, her sister, presumably. His attention was rerouted to Soji, his pale complexion overlayed with a film of compassion — he was familiar with the concept of loss, and he could, despite his inability to experience the corresponding emotions, empathise with others, Arcana, Soji... When their eyes met and his daughter attempted a smile, his synthetic features did not reciprocate the expression; he did not think it appropriate to incorporate a smile in the present context of their conversation — he could be wrong; human behaviour was still not his specialty.

He had discerned two synthetic Blue Morpho butterflies during his precursory survey of the station and its residents; Soong’s proficiency and accomplishments were stupendous — a true virtuous in cybernetics. Data instructed the servomechanisms in his neck to return his head in a position from which he could resume his assessment of the synthetics, but the initiation was promptly cut short at the pronunciation of the name of another old friend.

Spot?! His Spot? Or a facsimile? A namesake...

Immediately, his head snapped back to Soji. His eyes widened in curbed ecstasy, in mild disbelief. Two decades had elapsed, and a small subroutine in the back of his mind reminded him of the inescapable reality that Spot, when he rescued her, had been 10 years old — a rough estimation —, and therefore, could not possibly be alive now...

‘Spot?’