Serafina

[what-even-is-thiss]

I asked my dad if he had any fantasy book recommendations and he just handed me this massive doorstop of a book by Brandon Sanderson and told me “The story starts about halfway through”

[what-even-is-thiss]

1252 pages this book has. 383,389 words. This one book is only about 100,000 words less than the entire lord of the rings trilogy. And you are telling me, o father of mine, that the story starts halfway through?

[what-even-is-thiss]

It’s the way of kings book 1 of the stormlight archive for those of you wondering

[what-even-is-thiss]

I asked my dad if he had any fantasy book recommendations and he just handed me this massive doorstop of a book by Brandon Sanderson and told me “The story starts about halfway through”

[what-even-is-thiss]

1252 pages this book has. 383,389 words. This one book is only about 100,000 words less than the entire lord of the rings trilogy. And you are telling me, o father of mine, that the story starts halfway through?

[what-even-is-thiss]

It’s the way of kings book 1 of the stormlight archive for those of you wondering

[earthsparked]

You’ve never been this sick before. You’ve had tonsillitis as a kid, typical flus and colds, a memorable bout or three with bronchitis and, of fucking course, came down with covid a couple times. None of those illnesses were like this. Something has gotten inside your head.

You make a quiet noise of complaint as what feels like cold metal surrounds you, painful against your hot skin, even through the blanket wrapped around you. You feel so cold, but you’re sweaty and dizzy. The world isn’t right. Everything’s too big and bright and moving wrong. Your head’s stuffed full of cotton and you’re not thinking right. And there’s a voice you don’t know, rich and deep, with a strange modulation to it you can’t place.

Sorry, little one, but your internal temperature is creeping past the danger zone for your species with no signs of stopping. Much higher and you’re risking processor damage. Don’t be afraid, we’re going to help you.

A machine sort of noise and rush of air, with a very quiet addition you don’t quite catch. I hope.

You are too sick to do much of anything except feel horribly confused, weak, and cold. You flinch away from the light, its brightness like ice picks into your head. There’s another voice snapping something about photosensitivity, dim the slagging lights. The brightness fades, but even in the dim twilight you don’t really want to open your eyes. Everything hurts. You just want to go home.

There’s a hushed argument, and then something very large moves over you. In your delirium it registers as if you’re swimming deep underwater, and a pod of whales has come to say hello.

‘S illegal. Getting me in trouble…caught. You’re mumbling to the whales. You’re not ever supposed to approach wildlife. Even if you always dreamed of meeting them.

That rumbling voice sounds so tired, so sad, that you feel bad for it.

Are they conscious? Are they trying to communicate with us?

A pause. The other voice speaks. There’s a sense of something big hovering directly over you. You can feel it somehow, even with your eyes closed, like feeling a current in the ocean.

No, I don’t think so. Their brain activity is alarming compared to baseline. But who in the Pit knows? Organic processors are a mess to begin with, let alone one infected with something this species has never encountered before.

A big blue whale-song, mournful. We never should have come here. What have we done, Ratchet?

The other, more gruff voice. Also sounding tired. We couldn’t have known that the debris brought a contagion planetside until it happened. Don’t panic just yet, Prime. So far, they’re the only one directly exposed. We got them in quarantine as soon as Nurse Darby realized something was wrong beyond the usual illnesses. It was just bad luck they happened to come across the contamination before we could clean it all up. There’s no reason to believe it can jump from human to human yet.

There’s a pause, and the first voice is even quieter.

Will they live?

There’s more motion. Beeping noises. You must be in a hospital. Yes, you remember that much. Going into the ER late one night after the Tylenol wouldn’t touch your fever, which had come on suddenly.

I can’t make promises, you know that. I don’t know much about this contagion. I didn’t even know it could behave this way in organics when it’s harmless to us.

He sounds frustrated.

But I was fine, the groggy thought drifts up from the depths of your mind. Everything is slow and dark and cold, a thousand fathoms deep.

I was fine, I went out doing my volunteer work. And then I got sick.

You don’t remember meeting your doctors. There might have been an ambulance…you think? Flashing lights, sirens. A woman’s worried voice, low, as she adjusted the IV in your arm. It’s what is making you feel so cold, you decide, and with all your frail strength begin trying to grab and wrench it out.

An immediate shuffle around you, and the grumpy whale reaches out and stops you. You push weakly at its rubbery flipper. It’s a whale, a humpback whale you think. You have about as much chance of moving it as you do lifting an ambulance.

Eh-eh-eh! None of that, now. You pull that out and neither of us will enjoy me trying to put it back in. Optimus, hand me the - yes, thank you.

You whimper softly and cry out as you find you can’t move. There’s things touching you - seaweed, wires, tangling you. Everything’s cold.

There. Sorry, human, but we can’t have you hurting yourself. …why am I even talking to them, they’re not going to remember any of this.

You huff and decide very hard to remember this just because you were told you wouldn’t. You forget a minute later what it was you were trying to remember, and start thrashing around against the seaweed. The beeping gets louder, more painful.

Can’t ever make anything easy, can you?

What are you doing?

I’m going to use the medication June left to sedate them.

But didn’t she say that could -

Yes, but - well, look at them!

Look at who? You wonder, as you fight off the tangling seaweed. You should find the surface. You need to breathe. You’re starting to feel scared. You can’t breathe.

The humpback whale is distressed. Somehow you can feel it, you know it. If they were a mech I could put them in stasis, keep them from suffering like this. This is cruel, Optimus. I - I don’t know.

He sounds defeated, angry. So tired. You reach out past the seaweed to try and pet him, because if the whales are going to insist on hanging out, you might as well earn that huge fine for touching the wildlife. Your sensitive palm makes contact with cold, hard skin, almost like it’s absorbed all the ice in the ocean. There’s a feeling of surprise, and silence, and then something crashes like a wave in the distance. There are big booming sounds. Those waves slamming into rocky, echoing caverns.

Watch them a moment. I’m going to consult with June. Do not let them tear that IV out. Comm me if their breathing gets worse.

The big blue whale is back, filling in the absence of the humpback. It catches your hand in its massive flipper, then brushes your wet hair out of your face. You had always heard whales were impossibly gentle despite their enormous size. You hadn’t quite imagined they could be this dexterous, though.

I’m sorry this happened to you. You did nothing wrong. You and so many other innocents, harmed because of us.

You squeeze his flipper, you think, but things are getting very hazy.

Please live. There is so much more to the universe that you deserve to get to see. I don’t know if you can hear me, but don’t give up.

His voice, even full of pain deep as the bottom of the sea, is comforting. You don’t want him to be so sad. But that’s what whalesong always is, isn’t it?

The humpback comes back. He’s doing something with the IV. You had no idea whales knew how to do that. You didn’t know they could be white and red, either. Don’t tell Ahab.

June says to increase the dosage and keep giving fluids. The tests she’s running show this formulation should drive out the infection, but…

But?

…but not without…impacts.

What kind of impacts? …Ratchet?

We can’t be sure. This is all highly experimental, Prime, we’re working off of practically nothing. June thinks it’s doing something to their central nervous system. We don’t know what, yet. It’s going to be a race to see what gives in first: the infection, or their vital systems.

A rumble, contemplative. At least they seem to have calmed. Their heart rate is down to almost normal.

For now. A pause. If they recover, we can’t keep this one. Fowler can find somewhere to stash them, I’m sure.

Silence.

Oh, for - Optimus! We’re not running a xeno-zoo!

Let us wait and see if that is even a conversation we will need to have, old friend.

Disgruntled feelings like poprocks in your mind.

…fine. Oh.

Oh?

Their fever has come down two-tenths of a point. That’s a start in the right direction. Let’s get that oxygen mask on and see if it helps. Of all the gasses to breathe, they had to pick one of the most flammable. Who even designed this fragging species? I want a word with them.

The whales are singing, and you decide it’s not so scary down here, after all. It reminds you of that song. You wheeze out a few words.

Beyond th’ sea, somewhere…waiting…

Hush. Rest, now. Big blue, biggest animal ever on earth. And for some reason, it cares about you.

You fall asleep under a blanket of seaweed, and eventually the ocean doesn’t feel so cold. You’re part of a pod, swimming slowly compared to them, but swimming all the same. And at least you’re not alone down in the dark. Maybe when you wake, you’ll get to see them breach the surface, leaping into the warmth of the sun. Maybe you’ll get to leap with them.

[pomegranatelifethis]

Invisible Heart

Part 1 - part 2 - part 3

The thing about dying, you discovered, was that it was simultaneously more dramatic and more boring than you'd expected.

There were machines beeping, bright lights overhead, people in scrubs moving with purposeful urgency. Very medical drama. Very exciting.

But there were also long stretches of nothing—waiting for test results, waiting for doctors, waiting for your heart to decide whether it was going to keep beating or just give up entirely. That part was boring. Tedious, even.

You drifted in and out of consciousness, catching fragments.

"—severe dilated cardiomyopathy—"

"—why wasn't she on a transplant list—"

"—Guardian? We need to contact—"

"—Bruce Wayne, apparently, but no one's answering—"

That tracked. Of course no one was answering. It was gala night. The Waynes had more important things to do than answer calls about their dying daughter.

Except they didn't know you were dying, did they? Because you'd never told them. Because Bruce had kicked you out of his office. Because no one had cared enough to notice.

"We'll keep trying," someone said, and you wanted to laugh. Good luck with that.

At some point—hours? minutes? time was weird—you surfaced enough to find a doctor standing by your bed. She was older, South Asian, with kind eyes and tired features.

"Hello," she said gently when she noticed you were awake. "I'm Dr. Kaur. You're at Gotham General Hospital. Do you remember what happened?"

"Bus bench," you croaked. Your throat was raw. "Couldn't breathe."

"You had a cardiac event. A very serious one. Your heart is—" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Your heart is very sick. You have dilated cardiomyopathy. Were you aware of this diagnosis?"

"Yes."

"And you were being treated?"

"Was. Ran out of medication."

Her expression shifted—not quite anger, but close. Frustration, maybe. Disappointment in the systems that had failed you. "How long have you been without your medication?"

"Day and a half."

"And before that? Were you taking it regularly?"

"When I could afford to refill it."

Dr. Kaur's jaw tightened. "You're sixteen years old. You should not be managing a life-threatening heart condition on your own." She pulled up a chair, sat down like she had all the time in the world even though you could hear the chaos of the ER beyond the curtain. "We've been trying to reach your father, Bruce Wayne. We've called multiple times, but—"

"He won't answer." Your voice was flat. "He's at a gala tonight. Important people, important causes. He won't answer."

"We'll keep trying. You're a minor. We need parental consent for treatment, and we need medical history, and—"

"I can consent," you interrupted. "Emancipated minor laws. If my guardian is unavailable and it's an emergency, I can consent to life-saving treatment. I looked it up."

You had, actually. Months ago, when you first got diagnosed and realized you were on your own. Just in case.

Dr. Kaur looked at you for a long moment, something sad and angry warring in her expression. "You're sixteen," she repeated, softer this time. "You should not have to know those laws."

"Yeah, well." You tried to shrug, but moving hurt. "Here we are."

"Here we are," she echoed. She pulled out a tablet, started pulling up screens. "All right. Let me tell you what's happening. Your heart is functioning at about thirty percent capacity. That's dangerously low. We've started you on IV medications to help support your heart function, and we're running tests to determine the full extent of the damage. But I need to be honest with you—this is very serious. You should have been in treatment months ago."

"I was trying," you said, and hated how defensive you sounded. "I went to a clinic. Got diagnosed. Got medication. I was taking it. I just—ran out."

"Why didn't you get a refill?"

Because you were alone. Because you had no money. Because asking for help meant admitting how bad things were, and you'd been so sure you could handle it yourself.

Because you were tired of being a burden no one wanted to carry.

"Complicated," you said finally.

Dr. Kaur's eyes were too understanding. "I'm going to keep trying to reach your family. In the meantime, is there anyone else we can call? Other family members? Friends?"

Your friends. God, your friends. You were supposed to be at Dani's house right now, eating tamales and watching movies. They were probably wondering where you were.

"My phone," you said. "Where's my phone?"

"The paramedics brought your belongings. Hold on." She stepped away, returned with a plastic bag containing your waterlogged phone, your wallet, your keys. The phone screen was more crack than glass now, but when you pressed the button, it miraculously turned on.

Seventeen missed calls. Thirty-four texts.

Dani: where are you???

Marco: yo you were supposed to be here an hour ago

Jas: this isn't funny anymore. call us back

Dani: im actually worried now. please respond

Marco: if youre dead im going to kill you

Jas: we're calling the police

Dani: no wait marco found your location. your phones at gotham general. WHAT THE HELL

All three: OMW

The last text was from fifteen minutes ago.

"My friends are coming," you told Dr. Kaur. Your voice cracked. "They're—they'll be here soon."

"Good. That's good." She made a note on her tablet. "I'll let the nurse know to send them back when they arrive. But sweetie, we really do need to reach your father. There are decisions that need to be made, and—"

"He won't come." You said it with certainty, with the weight of sixteen years of evidence. "You can keep calling. But he won't come. Not for me."

"Let's try one more time." Dr. Kaur pulled out her phone, dialed the number the hospital had on file. You could hear it ringing on speaker.

One ring. Two. Three. Four.

"You've reached Bruce Wayne—"

She hung up, tried another number. "Is there an alternate contact? An assistant, maybe?"

"Alfred Pennyworth. He's—" What was Alfred, exactly? Butler felt reductive. Guardian felt inaccurate. "He takes care of things at the house. He might answer."

You didn't have Alfred's number. You'd never needed it. But Dr. Kaur got it from the hospital records—apparently it was listed as an emergency contact, which was more than Bruce had managed—and dialed.

It rang once before a familiar, cultured voice answered. "Pennyworth speaking."

"Mr. Pennyworth, this is Dr. Kaur at Gotham General Hospital. I'm calling about—" She glanced at you, and you nodded. "About your—about Miss Wayne. She's been admitted with a cardiac emergency."

There was a beat of silence. Then: "I beg your pardon?"

"She collapsed earlier today. She's stable now, but her condition is very serious. We've been trying to reach Mr. Wayne, but—"

"He's at the gala. They all are. I'll—give me ten minutes. I'm on my way."

He hung up. Dr. Kaur looked at you. "He's coming."

"Yeah." You felt something loosen in your chest. Alfred was coming. It wasn't the same as your father, wasn't the same as the family you'd wanted your whole life, but it was something. "He's good like that."

"I'll be back to check on you in a bit. Try to rest." She paused at the curtain. "Your friends are lucky to have you. I hope you know that."

"I'm lucky to have them," you corrected.

She smiled, sad and knowing, and left you alone with the beeping machines and your failing heart.

You closed your eyes, just for a moment.

You woke to the sound of barely contained panic.

"—just found her like this? On a bench? In the rain? What the actual fuck—"

"Marco, you need to calm down, they're going to kick us out—"

"I don't care! She could have died! She—" His voice cracked. "She almost did die, Dani."

"I know. I know. But she didn't. She's okay. She's—"

"She's awake," Jasmine said quietly, and three faces swiveled toward you.

They looked terrible. Dani's eyes were red and puffy from crying. Marco's jaw was clenched so tight you worried about his teeth. Jasmine's usual composed mask had cracked, revealing raw worry underneath.

"Hey," you said weakly.

"Hey?" Marco's voice pitched up. "Hey? You almost die and that's all you've got? 'Hey?'"

"Marco—" Dani warned.

"No! No, she doesn't get to just—" He was pacing now, all nervous energy and unleashed fear. "We've been terrified! You sent that text—just 'help,' that's it, that's all we got—and then nothing! Your location showed the hospital and we thought—we thought—"

"I'm sorry," you said, and your voice broke. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"What happened?" Jasmine asked. She'd pulled a chair up to your bedside, was holding your hand like she was afraid you'd disappear. "The truth this time. No deflecting."

So you told them. About the diagnosis three months ago, about the medication you'd been managing alone, about running out of pills and not knowing how to get more. About trying to tell Bruce and being dismissed. About the texts from the mysterious stalker. About collapsing on a bus bench in the rain.

By the time you finished, Dani was crying again, and Marco had stopped pacing to grip the rail of your hospital bed so hard his knuckles were white.

"You should have told us," Jasmine said. Her voice was steady, but her hand was shaking. "We could have helped."

"How? You're seventeen, sixteen, and seventeen. What were you going to do?"

"Literally anything!" Marco exploded. "We could have—I don't know, helped you pay for medication, or made you go to the doctor, or told your family, or—something! Anything would have been better than you handling this alone!"

"I didn't want to be a burden—"

"A burden?" Dani's voice was sharp. "You think—God, do you really think that's how we see you? As a burden?"

"You have your own problems—"

"So? Everyone has problems! That's life! That doesn't mean you have to face everything alone!" She was crying harder now, ugly-crying in a way that would have been embarrassing in any other context. "You're our best friend. You matter. You matter so much, and the fact that you don't know that is—it's—"

"It's fucked up," Marco finished. "It's completely fucked up. Your family doesn't see you, fine, they're emotionally constipated billionaire vigilantes, whatever. But we see you. We've always seen you."

"You're not invisible to us," Jasmine added quietly. "You never have been."

Something inside you broke. Not your heart—that was already broken, literally and figuratively. Something else. Some wall you'd built to keep yourself together, to keep the pain manageable.

You started crying, and once you started, you couldn't stop. Great, heaving sobs that made your chest hurt worse but felt necessary, like lancing a wound. All the fear and loneliness and exhaustion you'd been holding in for months—years, really—came pouring out.

Your friends held you. Dani on one side of the bed, Jasmine on the other, Marco standing at the foot, all of them anchoring you to the world, reminding you that you weren't alone even when it felt like you were.

"I'm scared," you finally gasped out between sobs. "I'm so scared. My heart is—they said it's really bad. And I don't know what's going to happen, and my family doesn't care, and—"

"We care," Dani said fiercely. "We care so much."

"We're not going anywhere," Marco added. "You're stuck with us."

"Even if you want to get rid of us," Jasmine said, attempting lightness. "Especially then."

You laughed, wet and messy. "I don't want to get rid of you."

"Good. Because we're going to be super annoying about this. We're talking daily check-ins, medication reminders, doctor's appointment escorts—the works."

"You don't have to—"

"We want to," Dani interrupted. "Let us be here for you. Please."

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

A nurse poked her head in. "Sorry, visiting hours are technically over, but—oh." She took in the scene—you crying, your friends clustered around, all of you holding onto each other like lifelines. "I'll give you a few more minutes."

"Thank you," Jasmine said.

The nurse left, and you settled back into the terrible hospital pillows, exhausted from crying but feeling lighter somehow. Less alone.

"Did they reach your family?" Marco asked after a moment.

"Alfred's coming. He should be here soon."

"And your dad?"

"At the gala. Won't answer."

"I'm going to key his car," Marco announced.

"You don't even know which one is his."

"I'll key all of them. Every single Batmobile or whatever the hell he drives."

"That's the Batmobile," you corrected automatically. "His regular cars are—"

"Don't care. Keying them all."

Despite everything, you smiled. "I love you guys."

"We love you too," Dani said. "So much."

"Even when you're being stupid and self-sacrificing," Marco added.

"Especially then," Jasmine agreed.

You closed your eyes, feeling their presence, their warmth, their fierce protectiveness. Your family might not have shown up, but your people had.

That had to count for something.

Alfred arrived twenty minutes later, and the change in energy was immediate. He swept into your room like a force of nature, all British composure on the surface but with worry radiating from every line of his body.

"Miss," he said, and his voice was rough in a way you'd never heard before. "My dear girl."

Your friends stepped back, giving him space. He took Jasmine's vacated chair and immediately took your hand in both of his, studying your face with those sharp butler's eyes that missed nothing.

"I'm okay," you said automatically.

"You are decidedly not okay." He glanced at the monitors, at the IV in your arm, at your pale face. "How long have you been ill?"

"Three months. Diagnosed, I mean. Probably longer than that."

His expression did something complicated—pain, guilt, anger, all carefully controlled. "And you didn't tell anyone."

"I tried. Bruce—" Your voice caught. "I tried to tell him. He was busy."

Alfred's jaw tightened. "I see."

"It's not your fault," you added quickly. "You have so much to manage. I didn't want to add to it."

"My dear child." His voice was gentle but firm. "You are never an addition to my burdens. Never. Do you understand? You are part of this family, whether they remember to act like it or not."

"They're at the gala," you said. Stating the obvious, but it felt important somehow. "All of them. Together. Being the perfect Wayne family."

"I will call them immediately—"

"Don't." You grabbed his hand tighter. "Please don't. Not tonight. Let them have their gala. I'll still be here tomorrow."

"This is a medical emergency—"

"I'm stable. The doctor said so. And if you call Bruce now, he'll be angry that I interrupted his important event. He'll come because he has to, not because he wants to. I don't—" Your voice cracked. "I don't want that. I'd rather be here with Alfred, who actually cares, than have Bruce show up out of obligation."

Alfred looked at you for a long moment, and you saw the war in his expression—duty versus compassion, protocol versus your obvious pain.

"Very well," he said finally. "But first thing tomorrow morning, I will inform them. This cannot continue."

"Okay."

"And I will be staying here with you tonight."

"You don't have to—"

"I am staying," he repeated, in a tone that brooked no argument. "End of discussion."

You nodded, too tired to fight.

He turned to your friends, who'd been watching the exchange with interest. "And you three must be the friends she speaks so highly of."

"She speaks about us?" Marco looked surprised.

"Occasionally. Usually when she's trying to avoid discussing her own wellbeing." Alfred's expression softened. "Thank you for being there for her. For seeing her when others did not."

"She's our best friend," Dani said simply. "Of course we're here."

"Yeah, you couldn't get rid of us if you tried," Marco added.

"I have no intention of trying. In fact—" Alfred pulled out his phone. "I would like your contact information, if you're comfortable sharing. Someone should know how to reach her support system."

They exchanged numbers, and you watched through heavy eyelids, feeling a weird sense of worlds colliding. Alfred and your friends, the two parts of your life that actually cared, coordinating.

Maybe tomorrow would be terrible. Maybe Bruce would show up angry or indifferent. Maybe your brothers would be uncomfortable and distant. Maybe this whole thing would just reinforce how little you mattered in the grand scheme of Wayne family dynamics.

But tonight, you had Alfred and your friends, and you were alive, and that was enough.

Dr. Kaur returned, ushering your friends out with promises that they could visit tomorrow. They hugged you goodbye—carefully, mindful of the wires and IVs—and left with backward glances and worried expressions.

"I'll text you," Dani called from the door.

"Constantly," Marco added. "Like, annoyingly often."

"We'll coordinate a schedule," Jasmine said, ever practical.

Then they were gone, and it was just you and Alfred and the steady beep of the heart monitor.

"Rest," Alfred said, still holding your hand. "I'll be right here."

"Don't you need to get back? The gala—"

"The gala will manage without me. You will not."

You wanted to argue, but exhaustion was pulling you under. "Alfred?"

"Yes, Miss?"

"Thank you. For coming. For caring."

"Always," he said quietly. "I am sorry I didn't see this sooner. I am sorry you felt you had to face this alone."

"Not your fault."

"Perhaps. But I should have looked closer. Should have noticed. That is my failure, not yours."

You wanted to say more, wanted to absolve him of guilt he didn't deserve, but sleep was claiming you. The last thing you heard before you drifted off was Alfred's voice, quiet and determined:

"I will make this right. I promise you, my dear girl. I will make them see."

𝑨𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒏, 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒎 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑯𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒍, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆 𝑭𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝑮𝒂𝒍𝒂 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑩𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒆 𝑾𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒈𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒆𝒄𝒉 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕. 𝑫𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒅𝒂𝒛𝒛𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆. 𝑻𝒊𝒎 𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒆𝒄𝒉 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔. 𝑫𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑾𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒅𝒂𝒊𝒏. 𝑱𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝑻𝒐𝒅𝒅 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆𝒔, 𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒍 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔.𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒆𝒅. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒔𝒄𝒉𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒛𝒆𝒅. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒍𝒚.𝑵𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒑𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔.𝑵𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑮𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒎 𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝑯𝒐𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒍.𝑵𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚'𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝒃𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕, 𝒘𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒇 𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓—𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒇 𝒔𝒉𝒆'𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒔.𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒍𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅, 𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘.𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆, 𝒂 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒇𝒊𝒕𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒚, 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒚 𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒃𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈.𝑻𝒐𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘, 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆.

[mamawasatesttube]

the thing about media literacy is that understanding why the author chose to specify that the curtains are blue is the same skill set as understanding that the way the author characterizes all black characters as angry or all chinese characters as meek and silent is racist. it is the same skill set as being able to identify when a news source is biased or when someone is feeding you propaganda. the ability to ask "why did this person choose to present this premise in this specific way?" is a critical skill in a world full of misinformation. why are the curtains blue? maybe it's a characterization detail. maybe it's extraneous worldbuilding. why is this character written as being right all the time? maybe you're intended to disagree with them. maybe it doesn't matter. maybe you should still ask why.

[straylaughs]

endo's actually the funniest person alive

[ichiharasenrii]

he warmed up to the kiryu plushie!!!!! HE IS SO CUTEEEEE!!! I LOVE HIM SO MUCH HE IS SO PRECIOUS TO ME🥹✨

[painterwolf]

Average Anzai interaction

inspired of a tweet

[ichiharasenrii]

channeling all hugs to nii-sensei so tsubaki will hug sakura more and more.💕

[nutongzhi]

[thememedaddy]

[koobiie]

i feel strongly about this

[ailurinae]

[moonbugggy]

Arguing with a more hot tempered bot only for them to lose their cool and slam their fist down on the table you're standing on to make a point. The words dying on their tongue when you instinctively collapse into a ball, arms over your head to protect yourself from... from them. Your fear is obvious, your chest heaving and limbs trembling. There's a small dent in the metal surface from the force of impact. Nothing the bot would have thought twice about before, just a part of normal wear and tear, but now it's a horrifying reminder of just how fragile humans really are and how much they've just fucked up

[what-even-is-thiss]

You point out that something going on in China is very capitalist and there’s always somebody who goes “but aren’t they communist tho”

My friends, pure communism in practice was dead the moment it started and Chinese internet influencers have so many fucking sponsorships per video. Have you had your head under a rock for the past 30 years?

[earthsparked]

You’ve never been this sick before. You’ve had tonsillitis as a kid, typical flus and colds, a memorable bout or three with bronchitis and, of fucking course, came down with covid a couple times. None of those illnesses were like this. Something has gotten inside your head.

You make a quiet noise of complaint as what feels like cold metal surrounds you, painful against your hot skin, even through the blanket wrapped around you. You feel so cold, but you’re sweaty and dizzy. The world isn’t right. Everything’s too big and bright and moving wrong. Your head’s stuffed full of cotton and you’re not thinking right. And there’s a voice you don’t know, rich and deep, with a strange modulation to it you can’t place.

Sorry, little one, but your internal temperature is creeping past the danger zone for your species with no signs of stopping. Much higher and you’re risking processor damage. Don’t be afraid, we’re going to help you.

A machine sort of noise and rush of air, with a very quiet addition you don’t quite catch. I hope.

You are too sick to do much of anything except feel horribly confused, weak, and cold. You flinch away from the light, its brightness like ice picks into your head. There’s another voice snapping something about photosensitivity, dim the slagging lights. The brightness fades, but even in the dim twilight you don’t really want to open your eyes. Everything hurts. You just want to go home.

There’s a hushed argument, and then something very large moves over you. In your delirium it registers as if you’re swimming deep underwater, and a pod of whales has come to say hello.

‘S illegal. Getting me in trouble…caught. You’re mumbling to the whales. You’re not ever supposed to approach wildlife. Even if you always dreamed of meeting them.

That rumbling voice sounds so tired, so sad, that you feel bad for it.

Are they conscious? Are they trying to communicate with us?

A pause. The other voice speaks. There’s a sense of something big hovering directly over you. You can feel it somehow, even with your eyes closed, like feeling a current in the ocean.

No, I don’t think so. Their brain activity is alarming compared to baseline. But who in the Pit knows? Organic processors are a mess to begin with, let alone one infected with something this species has never encountered before.

A big blue whale-song, mournful. We never should have come here. What have we done, Ratchet?

The other, more gruff voice. Also sounding tired. We couldn’t have known that the debris brought a contagion planetside until it happened. Don’t panic just yet, Prime. So far, they’re the only one directly exposed. We got them in quarantine as soon as Nurse Darby realized something was wrong beyond the usual illnesses. It was just bad luck they happened to come across the contamination before we could clean it all up. There’s no reason to believe it can jump from human to human yet.

There’s a pause, and the first voice is even quieter.

Will they live?

There’s more motion. Beeping noises. You must be in a hospital. Yes, you remember that much. Going into the ER late one night after the Tylenol wouldn’t touch your fever, which had come on suddenly.

I can’t make promises, you know that. I don’t know much about this contagion. I didn’t even know it could behave this way in organics when it’s harmless to us.

He sounds frustrated.

But I was fine, the groggy thought drifts up from the depths of your mind. Everything is slow and dark and cold, a thousand fathoms deep.

I was fine, I went out doing my volunteer work. And then I got sick.

You don’t remember meeting your doctors. There might have been an ambulance…you think? Flashing lights, sirens. A woman’s worried voice, low, as she adjusted the IV in your arm. It’s what is making you feel so cold, you decide, and with all your frail strength begin trying to grab and wrench it out.

An immediate shuffle around you, and the grumpy whale reaches out and stops you. You push weakly at its rubbery flipper. It’s a whale, a humpback whale you think. You have about as much chance of moving it as you do lifting an ambulance.

Eh-eh-eh! None of that, now. You pull that out and neither of us will enjoy me trying to put it back in. Optimus, hand me the - yes, thank you.

You whimper softly and cry out as you find you can’t move. There’s things touching you - seaweed, wires, tangling you. Everything’s cold.

There. Sorry, human, but we can’t have you hurting yourself. …why am I even talking to them, they’re not going to remember any of this.

You huff and decide very hard to remember this just because you were told you wouldn’t. You forget a minute later what it was you were trying to remember, and start thrashing around against the seaweed. The beeping gets louder, more painful.

Can’t ever make anything easy, can you?

What are you doing?

I’m going to use the medication June left to sedate them.

But didn’t she say that could -

Yes, but - well, look at them!

Look at who? You wonder, as you fight off the tangling seaweed. You should find the surface. You need to breathe. You’re starting to feel scared. You can’t breathe.

The humpback whale is distressed. Somehow you can feel it, you know it. If they were a mech I could put them in stasis, keep them from suffering like this. This is cruel, Optimus. I - I don’t know.

He sounds defeated, angry. So tired. You reach out past the seaweed to try and pet him, because if the whales are going to insist on hanging out, you might as well earn that huge fine for touching the wildlife. Your sensitive palm makes contact with cold, hard skin, almost like it’s absorbed all the ice in the ocean. There’s a feeling of surprise, and silence, and then something crashes like a wave in the distance. There are big booming sounds. Those waves slamming into rocky, echoing caverns.

Watch them a moment. I’m going to consult with June. Do not let them tear that IV out. Comm me if their breathing gets worse.

The big blue whale is back, filling in the absence of the humpback. It catches your hand in its massive flipper, then brushes your wet hair out of your face. You had always heard whales were impossibly gentle despite their enormous size. You hadn’t quite imagined they could be this dexterous, though.

I’m sorry this happened to you. You did nothing wrong. You and so many other innocents, harmed because of us.

You squeeze his flipper, you think, but things are getting very hazy.

Please live. There is so much more to the universe that you deserve to get to see. I don’t know if you can hear me, but don’t give up.

His voice, even full of pain deep as the bottom of the sea, is comforting. You don’t want him to be so sad. But that’s what whalesong always is, isn’t it?

The humpback comes back. He’s doing something with the IV. You had no idea whales knew how to do that. You didn’t know they could be white and red, either. Don’t tell Ahab.

June says to increase the dosage and keep giving fluids. The tests she’s running show this formulation should drive out the infection, but…

But?

…but not without…impacts.

What kind of impacts? …Ratchet?

We can’t be sure. This is all highly experimental, Prime, we’re working off of practically nothing. June thinks it’s doing something to their central nervous system. We don’t know what, yet. It’s going to be a race to see what gives in first: the infection, or their vital systems.

A rumble, contemplative. At least they seem to have calmed. Their heart rate is down to almost normal.

For now. A pause. If they recover, we can’t keep this one. Fowler can find somewhere to stash them, I’m sure.

Silence.

Oh, for - Optimus! We’re not running a xeno-zoo!

Let us wait and see if that is even a conversation we will need to have, old friend.

Disgruntled feelings like poprocks in your mind.

…fine. Oh.

Oh?

Their fever has come down two-tenths of a point. That’s a start in the right direction. Let’s get that oxygen mask on and see if it helps. Of all the gasses to breathe, they had to pick one of the most flammable. Who even designed this fragging species? I want a word with them.

The whales are singing, and you decide it’s not so scary down here, after all. It reminds you of that song. You wheeze out a few words.

Beyond th’ sea, somewhere…waiting…

Hush. Rest, now. Big blue, biggest animal ever on earth. And for some reason, it cares about you.

You fall asleep under a blanket of seaweed, and eventually the ocean doesn’t feel so cold. You’re part of a pod, swimming slowly compared to them, but swimming all the same. And at least you’re not alone down in the dark. Maybe when you wake, you’ll get to see them breach the surface, leaping into the warmth of the sun. Maybe you’ll get to leap with them.

[pinksheepchaosblog]

Why did no on tell me how funny Faust‘s route is?!😂

Edit:

I like Comte but I would trade the boring ballrooms etc every day to observe those three ‚dangerous‘ guys - its like a sitcome over in that castle!😂😂😂

[what-even-is-thiss]

I get people who are like “why do you play Bethesda games” and it’s like what other game studio lets me pick up basically everything in my environment and throw it at people