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When it’s cold as fuck in the music lab and you have to attack back, one level after another. School, if you see this, please fix the temperature system in the lab. #stlawrencecollege #coldaf #cloak #hood #selfie #inthelab #please #help (at St. Lawrence College) https://www.instagram.com/p/B22ZuOkAvbd/?igshid=zi62nog541j2

#stlawrencecollege #coldaf #cloak #hood #selfie #inthelab #please #help

Photo Cred @daveghet Magic is just science we haven’t figured out IM HIGH Im excited because new Mix Tape drops Oct 17 3crates.bandcamp.com beatsociety.bandcamp.com #beatsociety http://3crates.bandcamp.com #hezekiah #pruducer #inthelab cureforthecommonsoul #inthestudio #banger #bangerz #makingbeats #lovewhatyoudoanddowhatyoulove https://www.instagram.com/p/BowHf20DkXZ/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=163pjoawzi4a5

#beatsociety #hezekiah #pruducer #inthelab #inthestudio #banger #bangerz #makingbeats #lovewhatyoudoanddowhatyoulove

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#cookinup for this submission!! #music #beats #producer #imakebeats #instrumental #instrumentals #musicislife #musicislove @cspmusicgroup #dope #vape #vapegang ##musicandvape #vapeandmusic #studiosession #session #inthelab #cookup #vapeguy #vapegamestrong #underrated

Working on a weird Frankenstein piece, cobbled together from the remnants of fallen pieces past. Really trying to flex that freestyle collage muscle, baby! This is for a very cool thing HAPPENING this weekend that I'll be posting about more very soon. #musclebaby #💪 #Frankenstein #wip #experiments #inthelab #handcutpaper #collage💪 #unlicensedsurgeon #madscientist #madsmikkelsen #sadsmikkelsen #badscientist #stayoutofthebasement #goosebumps #cutpaper #imlosingit

#cutpaper #inthelab #badscientist #musclebaby #frankenstein #madsmikkelsen #wip #handcutpaper #collage💪#madscientist #stayoutofthebasement #experiments #unlicensedsurgeon #goosebumps #imlosingit #💪#sadsmikkelsen

“the control group”| mascot reveal | open

The whole time this happens, he fidgets with the Rubix cube.

There’s a dog. A very cute dog, admittedly, the kind he’d like as a pet. And there’s a message. And there’s a whole new set of layers poured over this scenario- each one causing more unease than the last. It complies into this messy feeling he feels coalesce. From the hollow field in his chest just below his sternum and spreading to the pit of his stomach, it spreads. Quickly. Not fear- no, he wouldn’t describe it as fear. Nonary doesn’t understand afraid. No. The feeling would be better and more aptly put, like a being on a boat during a storm spot. Swaying back and forth, a low feeling of sickness.

16 heroes. Cooped Up. Escape? Kill another. Don’t want that? Then only one of them could leave. Barriers. Powers canceled. Oh gosh, his brain was moving way too fast- faster than he could actually keep up with. His hands press into the facets of the cube, faster and faster does he play with it. X*Y*F to the negative first. Switch, flip flop, create a plus in the square. Corner swap. Edge swap. It’s all mindless nonsense to keep him busy. Is he breathing slower than usual? Probably. But he stops thinking. He stops thinking, and starts calculating. He’s breathing out, breathing out like he might need to sit down, but he’s locked in place.

Almost everyone in the world had some relation to another person. Remove those estranged, the post-mortem, water those statistics down to sixteen people. Outside that, there were simple principles. People hated being deprived of their liberty- something something, uh, reverse psychology, right? Right, right. Under the assumption that each killer yields only one victim, one average, that’s 0.000048% of the american populous who has ever committed murder. Now divide the current number of people held hostage here by the total population. . . 5.01724679e-8. Such a small number. Now let’s take that and multiply it by the percentage. 2.4082785e-14. It’s. . . Ridiculously small percentages someone here would be driven to murder. Especially considering everyone here IS a superhero. These aren’t normal people you could just stab.

Realistically, he should feel easy. No one, the figures say, would murder. Every killing has it’s reason, and this was not a good enough one. So why does he still fidget? 1, 3, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 31- Why does he recite all the prime numbers he cares to in ascending order? Why does he keep biting his thumb, thinking about the Menger Sponge? Infinite surface area, yet no volume. Is that was this is? A mathematical concept, poking more and more holes into the wood?

Of course not. Despite everything, he’s still █████ ███████. And so long as he’s here, a solution is as well.

“. . .” Think, Nonnie, think. He’s the leader here. Someone has to do something. . . Something, anything. But. He can’t quite get ahead of himself.

“KEHEHEHEHHEHEHEH!” He laughs. He simply and plainly laughs. God’s algorithm. A computational formula to deduct what moves to perform when solving a Rubix cube when relating the finished product to the completed one. “Really? You think just because you’ve trapped us here, we’re, we’re going to just drop like flies? Statistically impossible!” There is only one true solution, the solution that requires the least amount of steps. There are over forty three quintillion possible solutions because there are 43 quintillion possible starting points. “Ah, haahaha, haaahaHAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! As if! If anyone here dares try something, I’m waaaatching!”

. . . What even was that? Despite his monologue of sorts, the scientist flees the room, hand clasping the wired side of his head. He seems to mutter something under his breath. Geez, he feels sick, almost. But he can’t get sick. There’s no pathogen in him. But he goes to stand over those files, still sick. Still biting his thumb.

#inthelab #mascot reveal #openthedoors

“your hypothesis?” | ch 1 | hayate

Menger’s Sponge is a three dimensional representation of the fractal curve. Though it’s appearance is not anything special to the normal eye, it’s a physical manifestation of the Sierpinski Carpet. But unlike Sierpinski’s Sponge, the holes are not carved in the inside of the cube, but on each face. Starting in the middle of each face, divide the face into nine squares. Cut out the middle cube. Then divide the remaining 8 squares into 9 smaller squares, and cut out the middle cube of that. Then the cubes around the cube you just cut out is divided into nine faces, and the middle one is cut out. This occurs ad infinitum. The product? A single object with near infinite surface area, yet zero volume.

He feels like he’s trapped inside one of those. Paragon Tower had so many holes in it, some metaphorical (like the not knowing what happened), and some quite literal (the tattered tower itself). It’s oddly suffocating. That statement was actually kind of ironic, judging how much time he spent cooped up in a decently sized lab, running back and forth like he is now. Scouring every room for something only to be more and more disappointed when nothing significant turns up. He does smuggle some of those action figures from the gift shop into his room, though.

Nonary finds himself blankly staring off the balcony, down to the gala floor. He wishes this balcony would at least show them a glimpse of the outside. Just some sunlight, some blue skies or something. At least he did have the freedom to leave before. Just a single airplane, even a pigeon passing by would have given him some sort of. . . Not relief. He couldn’t feel much relief right now. Not more than percentages or odds. Something that’s like. . . A fresh breath of air.

The white haired man stares back down at the gala floor. The words “infinitely recursive” pop into his head for some reason. The banisters are worn, looking just about ready to break off. Judging from the average story height of ten feet or more in a building, and regarding that 50% of workplace fatalities occur from falls less than twenty five feet. . . Yeah, if someone were to fall from here, they could very well die. Which means someone could very well use this if they ever got the wrong idea.

Nonary doesn’t have faith in these people. He has faith in what he understands- himself, and numbers. Numbers were always straightforward. There was always an answer for everything, and it was always clear cut. There was so much to do with just values. They said so much more than just lead on paper. He sighs. These heroes should be familiar with the concept of danger, and their lives at risk. He should just try to make sure he was okay first. But if anyone here could be killed, anyone could involve him. So when there’s footsteps around him, he turns to face a certain dancer.

“Hey, hey, you! Help me fix these railings, prompto!”

#inthelab #protocol; [HATATE]#ch1

“ethics first” | prologue | open

There’s a hitch in his systems.

He wakes up not gradually, but rather jolting up from the floor and smacking both his hands hard down onto the floor beneath him. There’s a dull sting of pain and a faint noise from the impact that shivers up his arms. Well, that definitely hurt, he muses. But a single glance tells him that there’s simply no time to whine. His eyes immediately narrow. Roughly pushing downwards, he jumps straight onto his feet- oh joy, left foot is still a bit sleepy. He wobbles for a bit, but his head snaps around, taking all the information in around him. Desolate. Cold. Dusty. He feels like there should be something more to feel about this, but not in the moment. There’s an emotion on the tip of his tongue.

Instead of letting that word out though, Nonary immediately squints. Last known location is registered in his memory as the Heroes Gala, for sure. Despite it’s now torn and ghost harboring appearance, he remembers the image of the grand Paragon Tower. He ponders the situation. The passage of time required to naturally deteriorate into an inhabitable location? Far too long for any of them to survive. The scientist touches his face. No palpable wrinkling, no eye bags- yes, no significant aging on his part. So he’s definitely not sixty years in the future.

Well, technically, they. The sixty year hypothesis would have been upheld had the downed figures been corpses. But no, they’re alive, and no, he doesn’t recognize them from the gala. Curious and curiouser. Hah! So he’s surrounded by fifteen strangers. Statistically, the whole ordeal here would be over with were he to just destroy part of the tower and make a huge enough hole! But Nonary, despite his impulse, retrains. He doesn’t know the set up of the tower, or whether it would continue to stand without crushing them all were he to blow the wall open. Nor does he now how his fifteen compatriots would react to it. But the biggest thing. . .

“. . .”

Someone was able to render him unconscious, obviously somehow clear out the gala and the Paragons, yet chose to spare his life. Quite obviously now, he’s getting all readings for a life and death scenario. True enough, he hasn’t quite made any personal foes, and he was in costume. . . How curious. If the force behind this wished him dead (and perhaps one of these passed out weirdos) dead, truly dead and done, they’d have done it. Ah yes, the most interesting part of this reared it’s head. An unknown factor of why they all remained alive. How nefarious!

“Huh. So that’s how today’s going to start, then! End? Continue. . .?”

A moment of pondering. Silence. Then his boisterously loud voice.

“Ah, who cares about the time? We could all be dead in the next hour anyways!”

Which is promptly why Nonary decides to run up to the chairs by the bar. He jumps onto the seat of the nearest stool. Dissapointedly, he does not twirl around, stuck with a bit of an oomph. So he tries the next. And the next. Until finally, he finds the golden seat and begins aimlessly twirling around, laughing to himself. He’ll be fine, or at least, lacks the information to determine he won’t be fine.

#inthelab #prologue #openthedoors