#why does my brain keep thinking mean things

[smallnico]

i'm literally so flattered by this. i wish i'd come up with a more thought-out argument so i could properly fight your student. i can do the counterargument now if you'd like.

i'm not scared of generative ai. i'm genuinely concerned for the impact it'll have on the neurological development of young people if they become overexposed to the instant gratification of "bringing their ideas to life" and never practice or develop the skills and labour actually associated with creating something from nothing. it means that if the ai gives you dogshit (and it will), you don't have the ability to fix it, because you're so alienated from the process of creating (writing an essay, drawing a picture, organizing a playlist, composing a song, listening to and analyzing and summarizing the art you're examining) that you don't know what isn't working or how to make it work correctly. if you don't learn how to analyze, if you don't train your brain to do these things, they don't stop needing to be done. you will be dependant on ai, or on others to do these things for you. others, you can sometimes trust, but it really helps to be able to really grok the difference between a grifter, an ignorant person, and a person who knows what they're talking about -- and again, the more you alienate yourself from the construction of their arguments, the less you are able to take them apart and see what isn't adding up. and ai is dogshit, frequently incorrect and incapable of doing the small calculus the human brain can do (if you train it to) to tell the difference between quality of sources and reliability of data, so it should never be trusted, period.

the only part of this "new technology" that i'm scared of is based on a history of ideas that i have actually studied. historically, the more we alienate ourselves from the process of labour, the less we are able to grasp it as a reality, and the more people are able to use that fact to exploit us. if you look at, say, the paper coffee cup on your desk, really look at it. where did that come from? it didn't spring fully formed from someone's imagination. someone had to design the shape of that cup, engineer it so it could contain a hot beverage and keep it hot, come up with the sleeve to make sure the drinker could actually hold it, but there's even more to it than that. someone had to make the cup. someone had to source the paper (or the compound) for the body, the material for the lid, the glue that holds it together. someone had to harvest those materials, in whichever country they were sourced, and someone had to package them and transport them to the company responsible for assembling the cup. someone designed the logo and the pattern on the outside, and someone is monitoring the machine that prints those images on the cup. someone will be responsible for picking up the waste and transporting it to a recycling plant, or to the landfill where it'll end up. let's not even start on the drink inside it. farming, harvesting, shipping, receiving, assembling, serving. it takes time to manifest something, and you are in a position of immense privilege to not have to think about where it all comes from on a regular basis. but what happens when the supply lines get shut down? what happens when there's a failure of irrigation or something in the paper mill and the glue holding the paper together doesn't work? do you know? i don't, personally. but there is someone along the line whose job it is to know, and i appreciate the work they (probably aren't paid enough to) do so that i can grab a coffee on my way into my own work. i have to appreciate it because i know that if the process goes wrong somewhere, i have no fucking idea what to do about the problem.

but i'm not pretending to know. i'm not applying for a job at the papermill to work for pennies instead of someone who does know the perfect chemical makeup of coffee cup cardboard because i can order a ton of coffee cups online from amazon in bulk. that's why generative ai offends me. the work that goes into creating art and writing still has to be done, because all generative ai knows how to do is steal, and it doesn't steal like an artist. artists look at the works of others and think, oh, i see how they did that, i want to try doing that, and then they can, because they learned how to appreciate the process. they've actually worked, and practiced, and spent time engaging with the process step by step to create something they find pleasing. generative ai looks at art and spits out a copy by comparing one image to another and assuming based on Uncredited Data that sometimes, pictures have hands in them, and hands sort of look like this. and the computer doesn't have a goddamn clue how many fingers the hand has, or how to translate that data into a visual. you know what does? the human brain. you know what you can do instead of bemoaning that you, a high school junior, can't produce a rembrandt on your first try? you can actually try drawing something.

you can actually try to turn your ideas into a drawing. you can do research into how to make it look the way you want it to. who knows? you might actually have fun doing it. because the creative process can be fun! it isn't for everyone, but unless you actually sit down and try, you won't find out, and if it's not for you, you'll never grasp on that physical experiential level that the creative process is actually a lot of fucking work, and we should respect artists for being able to sit down and do it so we don't have to, same as we respect the farmers who grow our food or the plant workers who mix the slurry that becomes our coffee cup cardboard.

i'm not scared of spotify for pushing ai bullshit down my throat. more than anything, i'm kind of offended, because i do put a lot of work into my playlists, and i have a lot of fun doing it, because i like listening to music and analyzing lyrics and relating the themes of songs to my little characters. i took it so personally because i Want to be involved in the process. i'm paying spotify a lot of my real adult money to have access to music and the tools i can use to entertain this pastime of mine, and it's kind of fucked up that they're raising their monthly fee to fund a tool that makes me, the user of their product, motivated to use their product less. insulting, even. why should i pay more for a computer to do a worse job than me at Having Fun? making a playlist isn't even that fucking hard.

i'm just tired. stuff takes work to make. it takes care and time and effort to create something from nothing, and a lot of the time, the process is necessary to make the thing good, because it forces you to take the time you need to spot and fix mistakes. i hope by now that it's self-explanatory why i don't want an entire society run by a dipshit program that doesn't know how to do what it's doing and doesn't know how to solve the problems it creates faster than human hands could ever manage, and i hope the dipshit machine and the grifters who push it are inextricable from each other in the minds of anyone who's read this whole post. i don't want them to run society either, because they Know that generative ai sucks and can't do anything right, and they're still trying to tack it on to everything to devalue the labour of artists and make a quick buck for themselves.

the best quote i've ever seen about generative ai is "why should i bother reading something nobody bothered to write".

we are a social species. alienation from labour alienates us from each other, from our communities, and makes us feel alone. when we're alone, we're vulnerable down to our core psychology, and there are a lot of people out there who know better who want to take advantage of vulnerable people to manipulate society at large. they want to make money off of your suffering. they want to reduce you to a number for their own convenience so they can use the One Life You Have On Earth to play their own personal tycoon game and get a slightly higher score. they want you to spend less time having fun, creating art, spending time with your family, thinking about what they're Doing to you, so you don't ruin their good time. i'm not scared because it's new, i'm pissed because it's the same old late capitalist shit i've already been dealing with, and i'm sick of seeing it everywhere because it stands a very real chance of turning everyone's brains to even more detached-from-reality mush than late-stage capitalism already has already.

And, on top of all of that, spotify's algorithm sucks shit already, so why on earth would i want it to make my playlists for me. the other day i saw it put zombie by the cranberries on a halloween playlist. she doesn't know dickety shit about my ideas or vibes or anything. so

no, spotify, i don't want to use ai to "turn my ideas into playlists". i already fucking do that with my brain and hands and i do it for fun. what, should i get ai to pet my cat for me? to play my silly games for me? to spend time with my beautiful wife for me? how about i rend you asunder

[malk1ns]

november 8 2024 @ capitals, 4-2 win

the next part in my soulbond series (1, 2, 3, 4). hope you like it!

Sid can feel this season rapidly slipping out of his grasp.

He’d had a lot of talks with Kyle over the summer. Kyle was up-front about his plans for the year, honest and forthright about what he realistically thought the team could do. Their final conversation before Sid signed his extension ended with Kyle telling him, the Penguins are your team, Sidney, but if the direction we’re headed isn’t how you want to finish your career, I understand. It’s up to you.

He’d signed. He’s staying. It wasn’t ever really a choice.

Sid thinks there’s still a part of him that hoped, though. He’s never going to give up on winning, never going to stop chasing the ultimate goal, and the part of his brain that asks his barber to shave down the hair on his temples until the gray is less visible is the same part that clung to the idea of contending.

And, well, anything’s possible. They’re not even a quarter of the way through the season. But.

Worse than the team, though, Sid can feel Geno slipping away.

Geno’s been avoiding him since the Islanders game. After the hellish Carolina blowout, Sid tried to pin him down for a conversation, to actually talk about this bond and how they can fix it, but Geno slipped away, insulated from Sid on the plane by the poker game group and practically running up to his hotel room when they landed in DC.

For a moment Sid even considered going to morning skate to corner him, but Geno’s gameday routine is even more rigid than Sid’s own, and Sid can’t bring himself to mess up Geno’s rhythm, not on a day like today.

Games against Washington always have a little extra importance. Sid takes every game seriously, of course he does, but he won’t lie and say that the Capitals don’t stand out on the calendar more than the rest. Especially now, with records in sight and careers coming to an end.

It’s why he loses his temper and screams on the bench when they blow another lead again in the second.

Losing to an opponent because they’re just better than you is one thing. But what Sid can’t abide, won’t tolerate, is a lack of effort, sloppy play and ignoring the details and fundamentals, making careless mistakes that lead to chances against.

His line is playing well. He can’t say the same for anyone else.

At intermission, Sully stays out of the room at first, and Sid lets loose all his frustrations with the year so far, his anger at the losing streaks and his own struggles, and shouts the team down until they’re properly cowed. And when the coaching staff comes in again, Sid marches up to Sully and tells him to take Geno off the top line.

He says it loud enough for most of the guys to hear, but he doesn’t look over to see what face Geno’s making.

Geno’s been on his wing because of a bond he clearly doesn’t want, and Sid’s been taking advantage of it. If Sid can’t score with the wingers he has, he deserves any failures coming his way.

He spares a thought for his parents, somewhere up in the stands because Sid’s getting close to yet another milestone. Maybe he should tell them to go home.

It was the right decision. Partway through the third, Geno reads a rebound like only he can, breaks the tie, and the Penguins don’t look back.

Winning in Washington always means a lot, but even watching Alex smash his stick and yell at himself on the Capitals’ bench as time ticks down doesn’t make Sid feel better. He keeps his head down when he strips out of his gear, spends entirely too much time on a cooldown bike, and is the last one on the bus, barely making it before Sully would have started yelling about him being late.

At least they have the weekend off.

Sid can feel Geno watching him on the plane. Normally after a road trip like this, Geno would commandeer the window seat next to him, sprawl out and get his legs in Sid’s space, jostling him until Sid relaxed enough to laugh and poke back, the two of them picking at each other until they settled enough to get some sleep.

Nobody takes the empty seat next to Sid this time. He tugs his hat over his eyes and purposely thinks about nothing. At least it’s a short flight.

When they’re deboarding in Pittsburgh, for the first time ever Sid reaches out with the bond on purpose.

The recoil he gets from Geno is enough to send him practically running to his car, racing through the quiet streets to Sewickley faster than he’d normally drive. He feels sick.

Geno might hate him. It was Sid’s lagging production that pulled him into this bond, after all, chained Geno to his side for a week until Sid stopped being selfish and forced them apart again. Geno had been sick, Geno hadn’t been producing, and the second Sid let him free he scored, so… Sid can’t say with confidence that he wouldn’t be furious if their roles were reversed.

He’s so wrapped up in his own self-recriminations that he doesn’t realize Geno’s coming over until he hears a key in his lock, and suddenly Geno’s presence in the back of his mind is inescapable.

“Sid?” Geno calls, and Sid, sitting at his island in his dark kitchen, drops his head into his hands and waits.

When Geno finds him, he swears long and low, a tumble of Russian that Sid would have gotten the gist of even without the bond pulsing concern and guilt his way.

He flinches when Geno flicks the lights on, blinking up at where Geno’s suddenly looming over him.

“We need to talk,” Geno says, and Sid stares at him helplessly, because what is there to say?

Geno shakes his head and sits on the stool next to him, pressing their knees together. Sid feels a wash of relief at the contact so powerful he has to blink away dizzy darkness from the corners of his vision. Geno frowns, the downturned corners of his mouth digging lines into his face. In the harsh overhead lights, he looks haggard, skin pale under the remnants of his summer tan and the bags under his eyes dark and pronounced.

“My fault,” Geno says, holding up one big hand when Sid opens his mouth. “It’s me who starts this, like, after Sochi. I’m think probably I know it’s there and we’re ignore for so long it’s say, no more, has to happen. We have to fix or we’re sick for season.”

Sid shakes his head. “It’s me who made it…whatever,” he says, gesturing. He doesn’t know the right words for what’s happening to them, never read up on bonds because he never expected to have one. “Like, I needed you and made it…this.”

“You needed me,” Geno repeats, and his voice is toneless, but Sid feels a soft bloom of…something in the bond, something that makes him want to reach out and touch.

“I always need you,” Sid mutters, staring at his hands instead of Geno’s face. Almost twenty years together on this team and it shouldn’t feel so strange to admit, of course they need each other, but something about saying it now, out loud…the way he’s feeling, the way he can tell Geno is feeling, makes the words feel fraught.

There’s a long silence, and when Sid looks up, Geno’s biting his lip. “Don’t know what to do,” he admits, and Sid shouldn’t feel relief there, but at least he’s not alone in feeling totally lost.

There’s no real literature for this, not really. They haven’t even been able to have more than a few quick consults with bond specialists since they’ve been on the road.

Sid startles a little when Geno reaches out and covers Sid’s hands with one of his own. His palm is a little damp, but he’s warm, and his hand is big enough to cover both of Sid’s where they’re twisting in his lap.

It’s late. They both should get sleep, even with two full days off from games.

They sit in Sid’s kitchen in silence as night deepens outside.

[coffeegnomee]

ugh sometimes watching Kab pov I get real sympathetic for how difficult it must be to be in her brain and just be so confused all the time and exhausted about masking her feelings to make other people trust her and her pain in wanting to be vulnerable and receive vulnerability and feel deep reciprocal love.

But then she says shit, really fucking mean and toxic shit towards mental health and healing and it triggers my own fight or flight and i become a ball of rage.

And like, I do get it. When you start your journey of mental health healing you often become the toxic one as you throw the shit people have said to you at everyone who also has similar mental health issues as you. (been there done that) Doing it to process your own rage at being told these things, or thinking, out of desperation, that if you can just get them to fix themselves quickly, you can fix yourself quickly. The bullied becomes the bully.

But then time passes and you realize this shit is hard to overcome. (or maybe it won't ever be overcome! and that's okay!) And you stop being toxic and you start being compassionate, to yourself and others. And eventually you start to heal and become confident in your own self worth and the validity of your emotions.

But before then it's the fucking worst place to watch someone be in. And that place is unfortunately where we are right now.

below is a short transcript of the convo this reflection is based off of. it can be triggering so like, don't feel obliged to read it.

11/10/24 kab vod: "I have no idea what's happening"

1:42:00 KAB: “what about how he makes me feel? Why is it so important what he feels and to accommodate everything he’s feeling? Why do i have to conceded to that???”

1:44:00 “I’m sick of having to accommodate to everyone else’s actions” 

realizing your masking is hurting you is one of the worst realizations (imo). bc the mask keeps you safe, but if you can't process or give worth to your real emotions, it's not serving you.

so she swaps from processing her own feeling to being angry at zam.

1:47:00 She gets he needs time and space, but “We don't have time for to try and sit and process your emotions properly. Do it after we deal with this fucking issue [...] sometimes you just need to toughen up” 

Fucking hell the trigger i just felt for just toughen up. 

1:48:00 “i need to know what he’s thinking so that we can work together. In a team!” 

what team!?!

“‘Does zam really hate communication more than he likes spawn and the server’ literally. Like pick your priorities dude.”

I’m going to fucking throw up. Because yes. Actually yes. Unfortunately and actually yes. He's gotten a lot better but like.

1:53:00 “I dunno. I wish he would care about himself as much as i care about him. Hard to see him like this [pause] maybe he does need more nurturing than i can give him bro ugh. I am just not- i am not good at that shit. I think it’s stupid [..] when you have a job to do [..] just shove your emotions away for a bit. And then you can process them later” 

I was going to say this is just eclipse, but I just realized that maybe it's just this is exactly the perception Zam had of Vi: that Vi just wanted him to move on when he couldn't. All his deepest fears of what Vi wanted from him are being personified into a new person. 

(also he is shoving his emotions away and that's why he's not processing it and giving you an answer for why he "doesn't know"????? but since he's not a perfect ball of joy and masking to you and because he is doing what you can't (shove emotions away) you are in rage)

1:54:00  “But it’s like, while there’s a life or death situation that literally determines the entire server we don't have time to be like, holding your hand, you know? Like, you're an adult” ughh fuck. being broken is inconvenient for others and age is seen as an invalidation to any of your real brokenness. If you're old you no longer have the right to be broken. Can we please change this narrative? thx

“If he cared enough he would actively try and do something to help himself in this situation” 

Interesting choice of words to say "he would try to help himself if he cared" complaining about others not "working" on themselves (and you can never know if someone is working on themselves bc you're not in their brain) helps nobody bc you can only control yourself.

“You just want to sit and feel bad about yourself” no that's what you're doing kab

“He got me to fucking open up to him and pour my heart out and is now turning his back on that entirely. That’s what i’m actually more upset about” 

oh the naive belief that because you pour your heart out to someone they must reciprocate. That is the risk you take when you are honest with someone about your feelings. They are at no obligation to reciprocate ever. Never ever. But that doesn't mean your feelings aren't true and it doesn't mean you shouldn't have done it. Love is a risk.

But also she feels she was forced into it. Forced to be vulnerable and she hates the vulnerability. She doesn't remember (or believe) that Zam promised to not use it against her. She isn't willing to give him the chance to not use it against her. He simply knows and that is a threat.

So love turns into spite. Instantly. And she doesn't want to talk to him anymore. And decides that she will just be fake to him.

oh girl. keeping the mask on doesn't help anything. 

“I’ve lost a lot of respect for him today. I’m done trying to impress him”

and so the mask returns. and healing stops.

[darkbluekies]

2nd year anniversary get to know the author

I have always loved the "chosen one" concept.

ever since I was little, I've written stories where the main character is special. I've always liked it when the character is chased for something only they have/do. Like, they're not just replacable or killable.

Ex. When I was 11, I wrote a story about a pair of twins that have different blood than normal people, which becomes a "super weapon" once their blood touches. By this, the main characters can't be killed, but they're hunted because they're different. Chosen.

Which is probably why I like the yandere style. The main character is chosen and special, something that can't be killed but can be imprisoned.

Some of the best book plots I have ever written are fanfictions I made during my teens

It's insane how well my brain was thinking when making up certain stories. Like me today are still in love with the plots (need reworking though, but the core of the plot is amazing) and I'm jealous of that now.

I painted my room when I was 12 to match the bedroom my character had.

I love(d) that character so much (at the time she was the main of the mains, if you get what I mean) and wanted to be her. She was one of the twins with special blood. There was something about her that just resonated deeply with me.

I feel like I can't write certain things

My notebooks are private, no one is allowed to read in them. Never will. But I have this feeling that either when I have children, they'll read my notebooks because kids are curious, or they'll be published once I'm dead.

I want to explore writing sexual scenes so that they keep up with the rest of the style in a story, if the plot asks for a sexual scene, but I don't feel like I can write them becuase they'll never feel private enough. It feels like someone is always watching whenever I try anything that commes close to sexual scenes. Like I'm doing something bad. Which is stupid, because I'm an adult lol.

I had another oc planned instead of Hedwig

I knew that i wanted one yandere to exist in a school, like the original yandere concept (for me that's yandere simulator) and created a "quiet kid" oc. Funnily enough, i actually found what I had written for him. I thought I had deleted it

But then I decided to make it a girl, because I wanted it to be more similar to the original concept<3 and that's how hedwig came about<3

There was another Edmund

While finding the quiet kid oc, I also found a king yandere oneshot I had written before writing the very first Edmund oneshot in January 2023. This is ALSO four days before writing my first oneshot for this account. This oneshot is older than the entire darkbluekies account. Older than Silas. Older than all of them!!!

Doesn't really feel like Edmund though, does it? Too nice

[forwhump]

a/n; for my anon that was having a bad week <3 IM SORRY FOR THE DELAY I couldn’t find the thing I wanted to post for you but I couldn’t just keep posting nothing so here’s something instead <3 I hope I didn’t make it way worse 😚 (if I did pls lmk I’ll redeem myself 🫡)

disclaimer: if you haven’t already noticed yes this is just a big outlet for me for every whump thing I want in the world <3 thanks for coming along for this ride w me 😚 LOL

tw/cw: medical torture, medical abuse, surgical torture, living weapon whumpee, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, severe brain injuries, amnesia, threats of violence, graphic depictions of violence, gun violence, science fiction

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Silas says, cracking his knuckles. “I like you, man.”

Medic’s face doesn’t change but he swallows so loudly Silas can hear him over the pounding of the alarm. Sitting behind his desk, he stares up at him, his pale face glowing red every few seconds in the flash of the emergency lights. The flickering red light of his shock collar glows out of time, keeping him cast in red. It makes him look really sick. Kinda frail. Silas had never noticed quite how small Medic is. They’re all so fuckin’ small. Why is Silas the pet?

It makes him think of Wren, as most things do. He’s always thinking about Wren in some capacity; everything always comes back around to Wren somehow, even without his meaning to. They’re all so small but Wren is the smallest, so small it’s hard for Silas not to find it kind of bizarre, so human it gave him this glowing, angelic sort of quality. Silas had been engineered for violence, for easy slaughter, but he hadn’t been engineered to be a guard dog — that was something Wren brought out in him, something organic. Maybe the only bit of free will Silas had ever managed, and there’s Wren again, at the centre, glowing and holy and so fuckin’ small.

All anybody wants to do is hurt him. It makes Silas violent, just as much as it’s never made a lick of fuckin’ sense to him. All anybody around Wren ever wants to do is hurt him. Silas lives and breathes violence — Wren does, too. It follows him. This silvery, holy thing.

Everything about Wren is good, is silvery, is holy. He’s angelic in the way he shimmers, but in everything else about him, too, every organic cell and strand of DNA. Wren is so good. Wren is pure goodness. His view of the world is narrowed to a single point, but it’s hard for Silas to imagine many corners of the world are much worse than this. Are people not most themselves at their worst? Wasn’t it Wren that told him that?

Silas isn’t a good person. He knows that. He isn’t at peace with it, he’s been fighting it tooth and talon, but he knows what he is, and he’s a bad dog at the very kindest. Freak fuckin’ science experiment at worst. He’s violent. Mean. Quick to anger and just as quick to slaughter. He’s impatient. Wren had to teach him manners, and he’s had to teach him more than once. Still, Wren taught him. Wren teaches him still. Wren, who’s been hurt in ways even Silas kinda struggles to fathom, who would have every reason in the world to be just as violent, as mean, as impatient as Silas, but who isn’t. Who sat on the floor with him for days at a time and patiently taught Silas to write his own name. Who spends days sitting at Silas’ bedside, reading to him quietly, when Silas is too incapacitated to move. How can anybody want to hurt a person like that? How can everybody?

To Silas, they’re all so small. Disposable. But they’re so much bigger than Wren. Point was always so much bigger than Wren. Point always liked to hurt him the most.

Silas cracks his neck. “I just want to know where they are.”

There had been a lockdown. Silas had been the cause of every district lockdown so far — he’s never been on the outside of one before. It had happened during a field test, and it was the first time he’s ever seen the manufactured sun of the arena turn red. He should’ve known it was an omen. From there, he was thrown into isolation, but it was like no other time Silas had been in isolation. Nobody showed up to skin him, or cane him, or beat him, or gut him. Nobody showed up to taunt him. They didn’t even restrain him, not really, they just left him alone in the dark. He was left in proper isolation for the very first time.

When he was finally allowed back to the unit, Wren was gone. His room was cleared out. His books had been taken from Silas’ room like he had never been there at all. They keep trying to tell him he had never been there at all.

But Point had never come back, either, and Silas isn’t a smart man, but he’s smarter than these people keep giving him credit for. He was smart enough to figure that one out. When it comes to Wren, there isn’t anything he can’t do. Wren makes him smart, and he makes him invincible. If Wren’s out there somewhere, Silas is going to find him, it doesn’t matter what he has to do. If Point had taken him, if Point is putting his hands on him, if Wren is out there somewhere and he’s hurt, and he’s scared, he’s probably thinking about Silas, and there isn’t anything in the fuckin’ world Silas won’t do to save him. He’ll massacre everybody in this place and outside of it if he has to.

He doesn’t want to kill Medic. He’s always been good to him. But he will if he has to. He’ll kill any one of them if he has to.

“I don’t know,” Medic tells him, and he’s doing a good job of keeping his face straight but his eyes are huge, shining in the flashing red light. “You know they don’t tell me anything. Come on, big guy.”

“Medic,” Silas warns, almost sing song.

Abruptly, he pushes his chair back, and it collides with the concrete wall with a sound that makes Silas’ back teeth hurt. “I don’t know, buddy,” he says. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

There’s already blood on Silas’ hands — on his teeth. He’d had to kill a lot of Medic’s team to get here. He didn’t even know Medic had an office; he’s never been in this part of the medical bay before. It will never forget him. He’ll be a stain on the walls, and the floors, and the ceilings of this place for a very long time.

He picks a chunk of flesh out from under his fingernail and says, “Medic.”

“Silas,” he tries. “Come on, big guy. I’d tell you if I knew. I think — I think he’s probably in a lot of danger and I want you to find him, buddy. You need to find him. But I don’t know where he is.”

Silas tilts his head. Watches him, for a moment, through flickering red light. “Are you lying to me?”

“No,” Medic croaks. “I’ll come with you. I can help you, big guy. You don’t — you don’t know what you’re in for up there up, Silas, but I do, and I — I can help you. I can help you find him. I can help him when we get there. He’ll need a doctor and I — don’t hurt me, buddy. Come on. I’ve tried to be good to you both. I can — I can help.”

Silas watches him again, silent. It feels like bait and he doesn’t like it, but he used to trust Medic. Wren always trusted him, before he disappeared out from under his nose, and Wren’s trust goes a long way as far as Silas is concerned.

And he’s right, to a degree. Silas would make quick work of butchering every breathing thing above ground to find his way to Wren, but it would still take time he could spare if he knew how to find him.

Slowly, he lifts his chin.

Medic’s face finally changes. Not for the better. “Silas —” is all the time he has before pain explodes through the back of Silas’ head.

It comes out of nowhere and it almost knocks him off his feet. It’s hot, it’s blisteringly hot and his sweatshirt starts to stick to his back, wet.

The red light continues to flicker but it dims, it gets sort of smoky, and through the smoke Medic is saying something but Silas can’t hear him at all.

Fuck, he thinks, and lifts a hand to the back of his head. Accidentally almost sticks his finger in a gunshot wound.

Instinctively, he turns.

He’s executed in Medic’s office by means of firing squad.

Staring blankly up at the ceiling, Silas listens to the crackle of electricity as it courses and the hollow chirping of the machines keeping him alive. “I don’t wanna die,” he says. He’s not ready yet.

Medic sniffles. He’s been crying for hours and Silas has never felt the way he feels now, not once in his short life. “I’m so sorry, big guy,” he admits, rubbing his face. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do now.”

Silas has died a lot, and he’s died miserably, but never permanently. Never for real. He’s always been revived, reanimated. He’s never had to fear death because it never really meant anything to him. He’s out of his element now. He doesn’t know this part.

For as long as he can remember, Silas hasn’t been human. Now he’s only meat and machine. The only part of him that’s still him, the only part of him that’s still working on his own is his brain, and that’s only until they finally decided to take him off life support and remove it.

He’d been eviscerated. The flayed skin of his chest and his stomach are pulled tightly over the table, clamped in place. Most of the meat and the muscle had been removed, his ribcage pried apart. Every organ, a lot of his major veins and arteries, they’re threaded with wires and cords, sparking with electricity and the current that courses from the chrome and flickering lights at his bedside, keeping him alive until they decide to shut it all down.

Silas is going to be put down.

It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t feel like anything. It’s the most painless way he’s ever died but it’s bitter at the back of his throat. Metallic. Finally, Silas is going to be put down.

Wren is still out there somewhere, and Silas is never gonna know what happened to him. He’s not gonna be able to save him this time. He isn’t all that familiar with death, the permanent kind, and he doesn’t really know what comes after, but he knows for sure that he isn’t gonna end up in the same place Wren does. He wishes he could go where Wren’s going. He’s never gonna get to see him again.

Silas always knew his life was gonna be short. There wasn’t ever really a question. But it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He’s not ready to go.

This can’t be it for him, not really, not permanently. It can’t. Not while Wren is still out there.

He’d been too violent in the aftermath. He hadn’t reacted well. And they can’t control him the same anymore, not without Wren to hold over his head. He was formally declared a liability. He’s no longer worth the risk.

Turning his head slowly, Silas says, “do something for me.”

Medic sniffles again, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Anything.”

“You gotta get out of here,” Silas tells him. “You gotta find him. You gotta help him.”

He looks at Silas, and he looks at him earnestly. He’s been crying on and off the entire time he’s been at his bedside, and it’s been moderately irritating at the best of times, suffocating at worst. But he’s been at Silas’ bedside the entire time. The whole time he’s been dying, Medic has been there. He’s never left. He’s done his best to keep him comfortable. All things considered, Silas owes him most of his lives. He doesn’t owe Silas anything, he’s done more than his part, but he says still, “I will.”

“Take care of him for me,” Silas says.

“I will,” he repeats, and he sniffles again but his nod is firm. Definitive. “He’ll be okay.”

Silas looks back up at the grey ceiling and tastes bile. Out of habit, he takes a deep breath.

When they had first disemboweled him, when they had strapped him down to the table and peeled all the meat away from his ribcage, pulled his ribcage apart, the inside of his body had been loud, but it had been wet, it was alive. Now, it’s just as loud, maybe louder, but the sounds are wheezy and dry. Mechanical. Only his brain is working on its own — the rest is all simulated. It’s all machines.

It hurt a lot as his body was dying. Mercifully, it doesn’t hurt anymore. He thinks it’s kind of fucked up that his most permanent death is gonna hurt the least.

“Do you think he’ll forget about me?” He asks the ceiling.

“No,” Medic answers, even before he’s finished speaking. “I think he’s going to think about you every day for the rest of his life.”

Silas had spent every day of his life, since meeting Wren, thinking about him. Most of what Silas thinks about, in fact, is Wren. Everything he did, he did for Wren. He didn’t usually make his life any better, any easier, but he tried. Fuck, he tried.

He wasn’t a good dog, that’s the worst part. He tried, tooth and fuckin’ nail he tried, but to what end? Silas’ brain is going to be removed. Wren’s gone, and Silas doesn’t know where. He isn’t safe, he’s being hurt, he knows that, but for the first time, Silas is absolutely helpless to do anything about it. Silas is going to die without ever seeing him again.

“Nobody that’s known you will ever forget you, big guy,” Medic tells him. “I don’t want you to worry about that.”

“I’m not worried about me,” Silas says. The beat of his heart sounds like the beeping of a heart monitor.

He sighs softly, shifting in his chair. He sniffles again. “I’ll make sure he’s okay,” he says. “I promise.”

“This sucks, man,” Silas says helplessly.

He chokes out a wet laugh. He sobs, too. “I’m gonna miss you, buddy,” he says.

Restrained to the surface, he lifts his fist from the table as far as he can. “See you in hell?”

He sobs again. He laughs, too. “I’ll see you there. Tell you what,” he says, knocking his fist against Silas’, “when I get there, you can call me Jed.”

“Why?” Silas asks. “What’s Jed?”

He chokes out another sound, rubbing his mouth as he does it. “My name.”

“I thought your name was Medic,” Silas says, but it makes sense that it wouldn’t be his real name, because that’s also his job. He’d just never considered him having a real name, and he doesn’t wanna think about how much else is out there that’s he never considered, that he doesn’t know, that he’ll never know, but he can’t help it and it would make him vomit if his stomach had anything in it but active circuits and live wires. As it is, it crackles loudly with electricity.

But Medic laughs again, and it lightens the burden a little bit. It sits better than the crying. “That’s a lie,” he says. “It’s actually Jed.”

Silas lifts the corner of his mouth. “You might have to remind me next time.”

“I will,” he agrees. When the door beeps, a keycard being accepted, Medic takes his hand. “I’m gonna miss you, Silas.”

Silas says, “find Wren.”

It’s Carver that comes to loom over the head of the table. Carver specializes in head, face, and brain; Weaver specializes in organs and meat.

“Asset Park,” he says, “we want to thank you for your service.”

“Get fucked,” Silas says. Panic rises in his chest, and it surprises him.

The last thing he ever thinks about is Wren.

Jed doesn’t move from his chair, and the surgeon doesn’t ask him to. He doesn’t know if this one is Carver or Weaver; he doesn’t care. They’re both creepy, surgeons straight from horror movies, mad scientists from some especially miserable circle of hell.

He sits, watches. Doesn’t quite know why; figures Silas deserves that. Doesn’t deserve to be alone for this.

Except it isn’t what Jed thought it was going to be. Silas’ brain isn’t removed. It isn’t destroyed. Once his scalp is peeled down over his face, the top of his skull is sawed off, and once the bone is lifted out of place, the surgeon starts cutting into his brain, injecting into the tissue, with his other hand, something that Jed doesn’t recognize, something that looks like oil in the syringe.

He has to swallow before he can ask, “what are you doing?”

The surgeon doesn’t answer him.

He’s been crying for days, but it stops quickly. Nausea roils in. Silas was scared, and for that, Jed can’t imagine, but Silas’ life had been so miserable. It had been so painful. As resistant as he had been, he was tired. He deserves to rest. “You’re not gonna let him die?”

The surgeon doesn’t lift his head, but he makes a, “heh,” sound, which probably passes as amusement for him.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he says.

“Asset Park is our most advanced weapon,” the surgeon answers, clipped, not lifting his head. “His execution would be a bitter waste.”

“What are you doing to him?” Jed asks, and the words are stale.

“Cutting out the cancer,” he says.

The first time Silas wakes up, he’s pissed. He’s pissed. The creepy surgeon dorks are supposed to be smart. They’re supposed to be the smartest. Even they can’t kill him?

The first time Silas wakes up, he wakes up during surgery, and he is so. Fuckin’. Tired. Of being awake during surgery. It’s hard to explain how much something like that hurts; it’s a pain beyond Silas’ means of description. They have to think he’s dead, they have to, because his arms aren’t restrained, but they should be smarter than that, right? They can’t tell the difference between a dead Silas and a live one?

He grabs the closest by the throat. He doesn’t know who it is — he can’t tell any of them apart in surgery, not really. They look identical, Weaver and Carver and their swarms of surgical teams. They all dress in black, surgical caps and masks and scrubs. They all have the same hungry eyes. Silas grabs one of them by the throat, it doesn’t really matter which one, because a different one quickly slits the inside of his elbow, then his wrist with a scalpel. He drops them, grunts in frustration. Drops his arm back against the table with a thunderously loud noise. Loses a couple seconds as unconsciousness creeps up on him again.

When he comes to a second time, one of the surgeons is looking at him with shining eyes. “Still,” he tells Silas, “somehow, you surprise us.”

When he wakes up, he wakes up in a bland, grey room, beneath bland, grey sheets. The surgeon standing over him is a jarring contrast, dressed all in black. It’s very small. He doesn’t recognize it.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” It asks, leaning in too close to his face.

He thinks. He can’t think of anything.

The surgeon’s eyes crinkle above its black mask. “Excellent,” it says.

[berryberrytaeberry]

THE BERRY AGENDA IS NOT RISING WHY DO I HATE EVERYTHING AND WHY ARE THE VOICES IN MY HEAD BEING MEAN I AM A NICE PERSON, ME, STOP BEING MEAN!!! GRR GRR GRR WHAT IS HAPPENING

[oozeandgoo-art]

everyone is sooo in love with vakori on account of le is so cool and smart and deeply pragmatic and is also completely batshit insane

[coquelicoq]

Then the SecUnit said, "They're coming. You have to go." [...] The SecUnit's voice was different from Three's. A different tissue batch, maybe. (System Collapse, chapter 10)

ummm hello can we talk about this?? mb thinks it's notable that not all barish-estranza secunits have the same voice. there are tissue batches, which i knew was a possibility because if you can clone human tissue once presumably you can clone that same tissue/dna more than once, as that is what cloning is all about lol, but...the implications this has?? how many other company units are there out there who are from the same tissue batch as mb?

[bunnihearted]

I like u a bit but i think u have a victim complex

hmm well... i've been a victim so many times that why would my brain not get stuck in a victimization mode... i'd love to be normal but we all have our roles in this existence </3

[dbphantom]

you know if you guys voted for stretch armstrong i probably would have shut up a lot sooner tonight

[miabrown007]

a minute of silence to my skills to estimate how long a project is ever going to take

[dutybcrne]

Kaeya is rather touch averse, cringing away from casual contact people give him under the guise of being distracted or idle movement. He's used to it, the Ragnvindrs and Adenlinde got him used to frequent affectionate physical contact, but it can still be entirely Uncomfortable if he's touched by someone outside those he is close to or someone he's otherwise Allowed to touch him.

[kangaracha]

post the smau i’ve been without writing for three days and i already want to go back throw something else on my plate to distract me

rain is Plotting so just Wait also get out of here, i'm blocking you, remember. there's a whole 20k of nevermore waiting for you to read it. there's a whole 100k of heart.

[caffeinatedopossum]

Events of last night:

Me: *crying*

My girlfriend: what's wrong?? :(

Me: *struggling to form words* intrusive thoughts are bad... I don't want to talk about them because then I'm scared that they're true and you might think I'm awful

My girlfriend: ah I actually get that. I have those a lot. It doesn't mean anything though, intrusive thoughts are just like dreams. Like the things you do in them aren't really things you want to do, it's just stuff your brain comes up with.

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

when I love something this much and get overwhelmed by it whyyyye does it then make me want to harm

[bednbunfast]

eepy