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Ceele strolled through the damp grass along the outskirts of the village, a spring in her step and the dwindling scent of dew following behind. It rained yesterday, which had prevented her from going out to gather supplies, but the mild morning air had been accommodating enough for her to get an early start and make the trip. She was glad she did.
One hand clutched her new prize to her chest, while the other held a fraying wicker basket filled with herbs and some edible roots she gathered by exploring the forbidden forest. Despite her reservations regarding where she chose to go, her excitement now lingered like a steady thrum of shifting stones, giving her energy that defied how long she had been walking. She all but pranced beneath the burgeoning night's sky, gleefully toeing the line between the dirt pathways of the settlement’s outskirts and the trees of unclaimed land. Normally, her path back home would never be so close to the village, but she was far too gleeful to mind. She had come back with a sense of fulfillment and a rare object—or if not rare, then hopefully of great value.
It was hard to point to any one specific reason that she came across the orb. There had always been a ‘draw’ during her travels, urging her that there was something missing in her life, yet it was no more than a mild whim to walk in a particular direction more often than not. Once she reached this part of the continent, she was compelled to wander, never quite able to explain why she obliged the sensation besides having nowhere in particular to be. Even when she finally settled somewhere, it stayed in the back of her mind, suggesting that she was close to whatever would make the pit of vacancy go away. She ignored it, purposefully distracting herself with her work and responsibilities, yet that could only last so long. When she awoke this morning with plans to resupply, and all of her newfound spots had been picked clean by wildlife, she turned to the depths of the forest where she was warned not to tread. It was all too easy to follow the subtle tug in her chest through the loose justification.
The urge to be somewhere grew unbearable with every step closer to the forbidden area. That sense of having a direction she needed to go became stronger and stronger, until she was well into land long since forgotten. She came across an overgrown depression in the hillside, and was entranced by the foreboding image. Something about the cave just…beckoned her. She was far too weak to resist.
Horrible tales echoed into her ears as whispers of fearful voices, warning and unending, yet but a dull drone compared to her hammering heart. She navigated the trees and brushed aside unkempt vines, stepping into the cavern with a mix of expectation and trepidation, then laid eyes on the small obsidian stone perched atop a crumbling pillar. The feeling of needing to travel somewhere…stopped.
The pull was absent, which was why she held the orb close instead of placing it into her basket. She wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but she recalled overheard tales of hidden gemstones, deep cavernous expanses, and the untold terrors that lay within. Comparing the scenes of those fables to the cave seemed foolish now; it wasn’t some torturous chamber, but a dusty depression in a small hillside. Besides, anything this pretty was sure to be worth a fair sum, and she needed the coin. Yet the thought of selling the precious-looking stone was a conflicting one. She shook off the thought for the time being, turning her attention back towards where she was going.
Shadows stretched and faded as the moon stole the last of the illumination afforded by the sun, replacing it with a calming glow that caressed the log frames and thatched roofs of various homes. A star-filled sky came into prominence as clouds lazily drifted away, revealing the promise of tomorrow’s fair-weathered arrival. It was too late for anyone to notice her treading on the edge of their town while lost in thought, but she was still careful not to get too close to the houses or livestock pens where people might be finishing the evening’s duties. It was best that they didn’t see her returning from a place she was told not to go. Still, her feet carried her near the dwellings as she took in the noises.
Ceele enjoyed the comforting chatter from a distance. Indistinct words floated freely. Meaningless gossip and warm goodbyes were exchanged between friends and family. Places of various occupations were dark and quiet, only the faint contented mewls and clucks of livestock coming from their pastures as they ate what was recently put out for them. No metal rang throughout the streets as it was struck inside a centralized smithy, no heated bartering came from an overactive trade house, and the crunch of dirt beneath transport or merchant wagons was absent, replaced by the rapid steps and yelps of children rushing to their homes before it got too dark out. It was all just gentle conversation and life drifting through the wind, taking the rustle of leaves along for the ride, just so she could hear it. Tranquil, in a word.
She wondered what it would sound like if she were yet one more voice within that crowd of kindness. Would it be loud like the larger cities? Would she struggle to maintain a thought with so many stray topics floating about? Would she once more yearn for the peace and quiet of solitude that she had grown used to, or would she immerse herself, free of judgment and laughing like the carefree young that scampered about? Did thinking about it even matter?
Her smile fell from its genuine intensity—still worn, but not as fully. She glanced downward as her stride lost its jubilant bounce, her tail losing its sway as her grey eyes examined the dry black scales that adorned her body against her wishes. It was the ugly hue of tarnished oil, unlike the skin of any other kobold she had met. Some had reds or greens, yellows or whites, while most were between a sandy tan or earthen brown. The rainbow of peculiarities was displayed by the lucky few, and she was one of them…
…Yet she was different in the worst of ways.
Even if she would rather any other colour, she supposed it was that way to make sure no one came near without accepting the unspoken risks. That was what her mother always said, anyway, though the woman hardly feared much of anything in her old age, and dedicated herself to giving her offspring all the love she had left to give—a perk of living a full life. She would always help her daughter bathe, complimenting the colour of what most were unnerved by. That was more than a decade ago now, however. Ceele’s parents had passed on while she was still young, and she took to travelling not long after, working at what she could to afford what little she needed. Never for long, though—just enough to get to the next town between where she was and where the urge to go lay. There were certainly moments she looked back on fondly, but the journey had taken its toll.
The crude material of her ‘dress’ was coarse, old, and heavy, but it helped ease the worst of spring's chill—even if it was more of a modified sack than proper attire. Still, it was all she had after the last of her clothing fell apart, and giving the repurposed material a name that reminded her of something else made it less uncomfortable to wear, somehow. It would have to do until she could afford a pitying seamstress or the like. Until then, she would pretend she didn’t look so desperate, even if it only highlighted her status and made finding work difficult.
But it did. The dishevelled garment was a far cry from the wonderful silks or breathtaking designs she had seen some women wear, harshly marking the distinction between herself and those of affluence. The clothing of commoners was also a leap in style and quality, so she couldn't say her attire was up to even modest standards. No matter how hard she squinted, and no matter how much she fantasized otherwise, she seemed every bit like the vagrant she was, down to the soil embedded in the curvature of her claws and the stains throughout her fabrics. She looked like a serf from the more oppressed lands, yet they too wore crude cottons, which said a lot about how she appeared to those who had never lived a life of servitude. It was obvious that she was an outsider. That she didn't belong amongst the rest. It made changing something as simple as her appearance all the more difficult; prospective employment always saw a young woman who seemed more likely to steal or swindle than make an honest day’s living.
There was one good twist of fate in recent memory, however, and she came upon the result of it after leaving the slowing bustle of the village behind. Her steps carried her through a small copse of trees on the outskirts of town, the small shaded path leading to the back of a large, carefully pruned clearing, a scattering of fruit-bearing trees providing even darker shadow than the already dim moonlight. She skirted along the aging fence on the border that kept predatory animals away, carefully hoisting herself over the barrier where a large vegetable garden she was responsible for tending resided. If one were to tell her she would be living in such an area several months ago, she would have smiled politely and walked away, yet here she was.
A modest, warmly lit home occupied the middle of the clearing, sitting front and centre when one approached from the village path. It looked quite cozy, surrounded by berry bushes that were just beginning to bloom as the last dregs of winter slipped away. A front patio displayed a nice table and well-loved chairs, the rustic appearance only adding to its charm as a place where friends and family spent the warm summer afternoons. A smithy to the left of the house functioned as an additional heated building during the colder months, but usually served as a storefront and to muffle the sounds of hammered iron, though that had become less common. An old stable was nearby, close enough to be accessible, but not so close as to disturb the once occupying animals with sounds of iron craft. It hadn't seen a horse in quite some time, apparently, so it was mostly a workshop for whatever tasks didn’t require fire or metal.
There was a long history attached to each little detail—from the scuffs along the wooden siding to the depressions in the ground where daily routine wore into the earth. Every fault suffered throughout the years was matched by a thousand quirks that made it feel welcoming, like the house itself was merely waiting for the next friendly face with one of its own. She knew that the inside of each building would look just as cared for.
Her concern lay outside, however. It was a comparatively miniscule space just barely visible through the sheltering trees, true, yet it was where her efforts turned into tangible results, and where a stranger’s trust was painstakingly repaid. Once overgrown grass had been laboriously trimmed, the weeds plucked and disposed of, and now nothing distracted from what she could claim she had done.
The small plots of rock-bordered soil had little buds of growing vegetables, a sense of pride never failing to bloom in her breast with the knowledge that it would be barren without her touch. When her troubles and concerns grew heavy, and fears of the future or spectres of the past loomed over her head, she could look at where she had brought life where it wouldn't otherwise be. Some days, that was enough. She smiled in appreciation at what was admittedly amateur work, the night’s sky helping to hide any inevitably made mistakes.
She enjoyed the sight for a moment longer, then turned to walk towards a neglected old tool shed that was well out of sight within the trees, far away from whatever warmth and comfort the larger house offered to everyone and anyone. She put a hand on the degrading wood of the entryway, giving one last sad smile at the garden as she dismissed selfish thoughts of taking the eventual harvest for herself. A breath cleared the uncertainty from her voice, and she pushed open the door.
“I'm home!”
= = = = =
It took a while for Altier to adjust to his situation, and even once he accepted that his mana wasn't being siphoned, he was still reeling from confusion. He had spent centuries with every year passing by without his notice, yet now he was painfully aware of each creeping second languidly dragging on with the expediency of growing grass. It was as disorienting as it was painfully nostalgic.
Time was something he was never good with, and it only got worse as a dungeon. He'd get lost in creating rooms, corridors, creatures, and whatever else needed doing, only pausing to watch or listen to the few adventurers he became interested in. There was a stint where he spent what felt like hours agonizing over new abilities or options while he let the system manage things in the background, though he supposed it might have been much longer. So many wasted days, yet he still hadn't managed to try everything he had gained access to. Some abilities were simply too niche, came with concerning titles, or held descriptions that made him wary. Anything with ‘Decay’ in the name was instantly ignored—he didn't need more reasons to fear his affinity, and from the few he took the effort to read through, they were always vile.
But his existence for the moment was no longer like those endless stretches spent pondering the minutiae of what would help his adventurers grow stronger. Now, he could follow the rhythmic sounds of footsteps and steady breathing that set a calming pace. They were someone else's, yes, but they contextualized how easy it was to slip away without the subtle noises of life that he had long since surrendered to help his family. Of course, there were more differences that he noticed since being removed from his crumbling cavern, and his sight was the newest change.
He never gave much thought to how far he could see before. Why would he? As a man, his world extended as far as he could fathom, yet was also confined to the room where he spent his days, and as a dungeon… Well, who was he to consider distance when an event happening miles away could be seen with a flicker of thought? Nothing was too far when it was within his creation. Or his ‘body,’ he supposed. Sadly, his entire perception currently consisted of the small sphere of his obsidian core, and maybe a finger's length beyond it—which is to say, not much. He could make out the fine details in the dirty burlap he was held against, and how pale moonlight slowly took over the blurred reds of sunset, but hardly anything more. It was all just frosted colours after a certain point, and he found it infinitely frustrating. He just wanted to peer beyond the haze and scaly hand holding him to confirm that the sky he remembered was still there. Alas, the sunlight faded at too quick a pace, yet one oh so agonizingly slow.
The ensuing darkness gave him nothing to do but think about where he was, not that he had any ideas. He was too curious about why he wasn't dead to bother much with his blurry surroundings after the soft-spoken kobold abducted him, thus why he only belatedly noticed how limited his worldview had become. There might have been a forest beyond his cave, but the greens and browns were gone, and the sounds of steps through brush was replaced by the distant din of a village. An idle curiosity pondered if he would recognize any descents of his ‘family tradition’ adventurers there, but he was being carried by what most considered a monster, so likely not.
That short musing was short-lived, however, and he brought his focus back to the matter at hand. He supposed he was being taken somewhere specific, but that was an obvious deduction, considering he was taken at all. The why of the matter was less so; for what purpose would someone want a Decay-aligned core? He hadn’t heard of them before…well, before he was made into one, but he couldn’t imagine many uses. Maybe he was being sold? His…kidnapper? His sudden companion seemed rather pleased by their discovery of him, so that might be the case, and it was morbidly amusing to think that a frail, sickly young man might one day become a coveted, highly valuable item. His abduction could also be a part of some cult’s nefarious activities, but he didn't want to think about that too hard. He experienced enough odd ceremonies from the adventurers who took the time to tell him their tales.
Either way, he wasn't in the dungeon anymore, and he couldn’t see where he was going. He tried to query his menu to glean an answer, but was met with a scrambled mess he suspected read ‘Synchronizing…’ and little else. It gave him a headache trying to make sense of it—which he didn't know was possible anymore—so he dismissed the text and distracted himself with blurs from whatever diluted senses he still had. There wasn’t much to observe other than the constant footfalls and the flicker of shadows on his companion’s burlap garment. They might have travelled through brush again, but it was too dark to really say for certain.
Eventually, there was something new. He heard an old latch rattle and rusted door hinges groan, then a shuddered clack that confirmed he was now in a building. His kobold acquaintance gently cooed at something before moving about the nearly pitch-black space, finally setting him down on a… He wasn’t sure what it was, besides old and wooden.
[D$#@m$n E@$*ded]
The headache from before became a blinding migraine that suffocated him under a flash-flood of suffering. Seconds passed in abject torture until it blissfully abated, the mental blinks clearing his mind enough to notice a change in his existence. Specifically, he could actually see something besides the rotting wood grain he was placed on top of.
And it wasn’t anything promising…
He was more or less in the centre of a room no bigger than twelve paces by maybe ten. Not a terrible size for a space, but it was clearly never meant to house someone. His resting place looked about as neglected as he surmised; it was an upturned feeding trough, he supposed, since calling it a table seemed too generous. The surface was rife with holes and degraded iron, so it was something that once saw regular use before being replaced and tossed into storage, never to see the light of day again.
Actually, most things in the room seemed to fit that description. The window shutters were installed with metal hinges that had since rusted them closed, the misalignment letting in a draft—and whatever weather was outside as well, most likely. A poorly carved bowl sat on the floor, the stain beneath it hinting that it collected any rainwater that slowly dripped from the leaky roof. The wooden floorboards looked old, splintered, and in need of maintenance or replacement, though an effort had been put into abrading it somewhat smooth lately.
A tiny and decrepit fireplace was to the left of the door upon entry, its brickwork slowly crumbling due to weathering and age. It was sized more for keeping the room warm during mild days than to keep away the frigid chill of night. Its base only held cold ashes, but there was a collection of deadwood and scraps nearby, so that would probably be rectified soon. A small wheel-less cart had been turned into storage against the opposite wall, some herbs and other foraged items stowed away in it for future use. Various things he remembered seeing his father and brothers use in the fields were scattered about, too. It was nostalgic to see, honestly, even if his recollections had blurred over time.
Bundles of tattered blankets formed a pair of nests in the far corner, the smaller of the two had a pile of rough plants nearby. That answered his silent pondering of the room's purpose somewhat, though he was pretty sure the bedding material was salvaged, and there didn’t seem to be any hay or padding underneath whoever was sleeping on it. He didn’t know what to think about the weeds; they were purposefully placed there, and whoever did so had taken the time to wash them, but it was still strange.
He couldn’t see a doorway besides the entrance, yet most of the hallmarks of residency were put where space could be afforded, however crude. All in all, he surmised that it was a gardening shed of sorts, and his new acquaintance apparently lived here. He wasn't sure what he was expecting when a creature he had only read about came into his dungeon, but it wasn't being brought to a rundown and decrepit shack for unknown purposes.
Even if he had been raised by parents who made a humble living at the best of times, and they had emptied their coffers for unsuccessful attempts to ease his ailments, his acquaintance's living space made him uncomfortable. His family's house was never anything fancy, true—it shared some of the worn qualities that inevitably gathered over the years—but it was never this bad. His home benefited from a father's touch keeping it robust and a mother’s love keeping it warm, whereas this place had seen neither in quite some time. Oh, there was evidence that such was once the case; a wall was adorned with carefully made and well-spaced hangers for the various gardening tools, though the implements themselves had become a victim of neglect. That being said, he could make out the fresh soil and recent scratches exposing furrows of silver, so they were seeing use again.
A scrape and clack of flint drew his attention to his kobold companion. They were kneeling in front of the fireplace, methodically sparking life back into a dead flame with twigs and dried leaves. A slow, steady breath into the reddened base illuminated its face with a dull orange glow, revealing its weary visage and the permanently etched smile that rested beneath its cold grey eyes. The black-scaled kobold looked tired, if he were to guess—much the same as Altier did when he spent countless days watching everyone living a life he could never have through the mossy window of his bedroom. He was probably humanizing it too much. Still, he was surprised by the muted pang of sympathy, and how he would feel much more than blithe curiosity after spending so much time alone in the crumbling crypt of his own making.
A mental breath cycled through him as he looked at the odds and ends yet to be observed. Hardly anything else was of note—everything else was degraded and neglected, too. He did notice a nest of blankets move though, which was as good a distraction as any. The answer to his previous ‘pile of weeds’ inquiry poked a tiny nose from a crease in the fabric, then rapidly pawed at the blankets to dig itself out. Altier stared at the creature in both recognition and confusion.
It was a rabbit…or at least it looked like one, assuming you were to also describe a porcupine and a sea urchin as well. He was pretty sure he didn’t remember any hare that had jagged metal-tipped fur, nor that had said fur arranged into a row of spiked horns that flowed down its spine, terminating at a large fluffy tail, which was equally bizarre to see. The whole of its coat could double as a weapon, with semi-sharp barbs sticking off seemingly at random, yet he remembered an adventurer saying most animals used that sort of thing defensively. He increased his focus as he tried to make sense of the odd creature. Surely he would have heard about—
[Hoppittttttt#%%÷ — Ferro-o-orabbit-it (Ma%$le)
Abil—]
[Null]
[Er0Rrrrrrrr—]
[Und#$f—]
He bit back the pain caused by the sudden intrusion of his menu, blanking out the text and mentally retreating to hide from the source. Did he just inspect something? How? Shouldn’t his entire…‘framework,’ was it…? Yes, that was it. Shouldn’t that have been corrupted? Why could he see the creature’s information when his entire framework was damaged? That was the first ability he lost, so why is it the first to be functional? How was it functional? Was it? It did just spit garbled text at him, but it was something, and that was more than he had gotten from it in a very long time. If it was somehow working—no matter how poorly—then that left the question of why he hadn't heard of anything called a ‘ferrorabbit’ before, assuming he read that correctly.
A soft thud vibrated the tro— table, startling him out of thought. He turned his attention to the button nose wiggling erratically at him, the short, stubby muzzle leading to surprisingly expressive and curious red eyes. Dull brown fur jutted off in random tufts and patches, changing to a darker tint on its paws and the upper half of its ears, while the tips of its spikes were a muted hue of iron. It still seemed just as soft as the less pointed variety he remembered, if a touch dirty. Upright ears twitched this way and that way as its head vigorously shook, eventually settling on pointing in his direction when it calmed down enough.
It was apparent that he had its undivided attention…for all of a few seconds. His scaly companion called something out in their foreign tongue, and whatever conclusion the pointy-furred animal came to, it seemed more interested in the kobold, parting from him after nudging his core with its nose.
[Cre-e-e—]
[Errrrrrr0r: Undefiiiiiiii—]
[Acceeeeep-t-t-t??]
[Yeeee— s s / Nnnnnnn—]
He winced at the intrusion, but the contents detracted from the pain. He couldn’t remember the system ever asking him a question without his explicit intent being involved. It wanted him to…accept something? Was it the system prompting him, or the animal? What was he to accept?
[Creatuuuuu—]
[Acce-e-e-%#@ed!]
…What?
= = = = =
“Hoppit, that's not food!” Ceele admonished half-heartedly, placing a larger branch on the burgeoning flame before she got to her feet. She wasn’t actually that worried; the stone was as big as his head, and she was pretty sure he couldn't bite into it. Hopefully. “Come here, momma has a treat for you!”
The ferrorabbit playfully bumped the gemstone and jumped off the low table, landing with a soft thud that belied how heavy he was for his tiny size. He wiggled in excitement, his ears flailing and releasing a slight clack whenever the two connected. It got even louder when she grabbed her basket and put away the useful herbs, taking out a specific item that she had gathered just for him. The little bun wasted no time in scurrying over and standing tall on his hind legs to judge if the offered plant was to his liking—and it was, based on how he dug in with enthusiasm. She stifled a laugh as she contentedly watched him nibble away on the treat, ignoring the guilt that came with knowing she couldn't afford proper vegetables for him. He had a hard life too, and it tore at her to have so little to give.
She came across Hoppit a year ago, during a storm that worsened while she was travelling between towns. The day had darkened to night in spite of it still being about noon, but the weather didn't care for how bright it was supposed to be. Wind and rain became a typhoon, forcing her to seek shelter in a thankfully abandoned den of what was probably a larger animal. She was fine with waiting out the squall, since the stone roof over her head was more than she usually had back then, but the sounds of dull bangs and thuds near her hideaway was followed by cries of animals yelping in pain. Curiosity won over reason, and she left the safety of her shelter to see what was causing the disturbance. Truthfully, she was hopeful that she'd come across scraps or the like, her hunger driving her forward, and she could always turn back if it seemed dangerous. Yet when she arrived at the source of the commotion, she found herself thinking of anything but food.
Two predators had fought over a small burrow, both trying to dig out a meal and taking offence to the other doing the same. What they didn’t know was that they were assaulting the home of ferrorabbits. Specifically, the home of an angry, protective, and well-fed mother that was keeping her newborns safe from the storm when predators decided to try their luck. From the scene Ceele came across, it was certainly obvious why most people dislike trying to hunt the creatures.
Sadly, the rabbit didn't survive an attack from two predators, but she did make their victory pyrrhic; neither could do much about their hunger with their bodies full of cuts and holes, and it was only a matter of time before they succumbed to blood loss or infection. The mother's sacrifice meant that the babies had avoided the imminent threat, but they were left unattended as a consequence, and it took an opportunistic bird swooping down to shake Ceele out of her shock. Despite her subsequent hurry, she only acted in time to save one of the orphaned young. The warren was new and barely dug out, which meant that it didn’t take much effort for the kits to be found—by both her and hungry maws. All she could do was scoop the ball of fluff into her arms and run back to the cave before anything else tried to eat it.
In retrospect, it was a stupid decision for a number of factors. She barely had the resources to supply herself, and an attempt to raise offspring of any type would only make the inevitable heartbreak worse. But when she saw how quiet and scared he was… How his tiny, shaking body calmed in her arms, those terrified red eyes seeking comfort… She should have just walked away when she knew there wasn’t going to be anything to fill her stomach. She should have put the baby animal down and let nature take its course…yet the preciously furry face stole her heart far too quickly for it to grow so cold. The next day was spent backtracking to the nearest town to get him something suitable to eat, which used most of her meagre savings. Still, it was worth every coin.
Hoppit had been accompanying her ever since. He grew quickly, transitioning from something she saved that stormy night into a presence she had grown to love like a child. The little lagomorph would bounce along beside her during her travels, then ride in her arms as he rested—though the latter happened with worrying frequency as of late. She hadn’t learned much about the springy herbivores, but she knew enough to say that he wasn't as big as he should be, nor was his fur as sharp. No matter how startled he was, his spiky coat never managed to do more than stiffen slightly, which was apparently a side effect of poor diet, according to snippets of conversation she had overheard on the topic. She wanted him to be healthy, but she didn't know what he needed. Not many farmers raised ferrorabbits, and those that did were far away, so she didn’t have anyone to ask what she should be doing. Her best course of action was to give him what little she had.
Ceele was well aware of how he would be better off on his own, but he followed her whenever she tried to set him free. Hoppit just kept launching into her arms and wiggling his ears, ecstatic that he was with her again, uncaring that food was scarce and that they spent most of their days travelling. No amount of cold nights spent bundling up under the tattered blankets she managed to find ever dampened his spirits, and he was content to eat the grass or flowers whenever he felt like it, oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t getting enough nutrition. He would dig and excitedly drag back oddities that he found, and the one time he found a plant that looked particularly good for him, he insisted that it be shared with her.
A black pit still lingered in her chest when she recalled how pleased he was while he munched on the rare vegetable he discovered, then how distressed he became when she wouldn’t have any as well. He bumped and nipped at her, all but begging her to eat. His ears pinned back against his head, his fur bristled in a way she hadn’t seen since. It was only when she took a small bite and let him inspect the new teeth marks that he seemed to calm down, but perhaps she had been looking too deep into the actions of her tiny friend. All she could say for certain was that he was scared she was going hungry.
A morbid thought wondered if his first mother had refused food shortly before being attacked, and he—as small and simple as he was—had connected the two events in his mind, making him absolutely terrified that something would happen if Ceele didn’t have something too. All of that fear, and desperation overwhelmed him, just because she was happier watching him eat. She was determined to erase that issue. She would find something that needed a worker and earn enough to feed them both. One day, she would be able to smile at how big and healthy her little fluffy boy had become, but until then, it was becoming increasingly difficult not to think about how she was spending so much time growing vegetables and fruit that he couldn’t have…
Every morning was an exercise in tending to the gardens while actively shoving down images of a pleased ferrorabbit happily eating the results. That never went well; no matter how determined she was to complete her duties without a single selfish thought, most tasks were done while picturing his full belly and delighted bounces. There were a few weeks until the fastest of the crops would be ready for harvest, and Ceele would have to collect them while fighting the urge to bring back just a few for him.
She couldn’t, because she knew exactly how quickly that could escalate. It would start small—A vegetable here, a fruit there—but seeing Hoppit happy was one of the precious few good things she had in her life. Crossing the line would only become easier each time. They couldn’t risk losing their new home over greed, and she was already betraying the trust given to her by housing a wild animal, especially one known to be a pest for crops. She didn't want to know how angry it would make her benefactors if she was caught taking their vegetables for one.
No matter how tame and precious Hoppit was, and no matter how well he listened, they would only see him as the same creature that ruined harvests in droves. Thus was why she had to tell him to stay cooped up by himself while she was working or scavenging. And to her surprise, he did.
Honestly, she had made the initial request with the expectation of needing to carry him back into their home until he understood that she wasn’t leaving him forever. There wasn’t much she could do to stop the ferrorabbit from digging through the old wooden building if he wanted to get out. He wouldn’t need to damage anything either—a rotting board on the door only needed a little push to nudge it out of the way, and his natural curiosity made sure he was aware of it. But no, Hoppit was well-behaved as always, keeping hidden until she walked through the door, where he would leap from the shadows to personally show her how good he was and how he stayed put like she asked him to. It never stopped amazing her that he had such a surprising level of understanding despite being an animal, and that was to say nothing of how young he was.
All that intelligence, joy, and companionship he offered her…and yet the best she could give back to him was the weeds from the garden and the odd plant she found while scavenging…
Soft clacks of flicking ears dragged her from her pondering, her mind returning to the present. Hoppit finished his treat of the small plant, then bounced in place and scurried over to his bowl of water, perfectly happy to have eaten only that. He was so joyful with how little she provided, approaching every day of scarcity with the same enthusiasm she could never muster, as if certain that everything would be alright.
“It’s bedtime, Hoppit,” Ceele announced through a soft sigh, stoking the fire with enough branches to hopefully last the night. The ferrorabbit perked an ear in her direction, then sat on his haunches to extend the rest of himself up, his two little forepaws adorably held to his chest as he inspected the room like he always did. She smiled and made sure everything was stored away, then laid down on her bundle of blankets, covering herself with the warmest one. Hoppit bolted over to snuggle once he decided everything in the shed was up to his standards, throwing himself to the floor in a dramatic flop of comfort. Her quiet laughter subsided as they both settled in for the night, her tail completing the rabbit’s encompassing cuddle, but her eyes fell towards the obsidian orb on the table, her thoughts following suit.
It sat there, just as she left it, as benign as anything else ever placed atop the improvised furnishing. Yet there was a sense of ease and purpose as well. The old wooden trough seemed…important with its adornment firmly laid upon its surface, and she couldn’t puzzle out why. She was starting to doubt her earlier excitement.
Should she sell it? Would anyone know where it came from? Would anyone know what it was, or if it was worth anything? If she could get even a modest sum for it, she would be able to buy clothing, food, and new bedding. It would be easier to convince someone to give her work if she was dressed better and wasn’t so thin, and then she would have the income to slowly improve both of their lives. She could pay for a wandering merchant to ask a ferrorabbit rancher about the animal, even if it would take time to get back to her, or maybe she could hire a local if they needed to go near one for some reason. The cost didn’t matter to her as long as it happened.
But there was something else bothering her about the idea of selling the stone. She had travelled so far with a tug in her chest, only for the feeling of wanderlust to dissipate as soon as she held it. Was that a sign? She was never one for things like ‘fate,’ but a niggling doubt in her mind discouraged the idea of making a profit off her discovery. Even if what she could gain was so very tempting, and even if Hoppit would be happier if she did…
She tore her dampened eyes away and closed them, ignoring the burning trails running across her face. It would be another early morning, and she needed to sleep so she could take care of the garden. Decisions like this could wait. Once she had nothing else distracting her, and she had time to properly think about it, she would see how she felt about the stone.
Eventually, she dozed off with Hoppit pressed against her chest, and a longing in her heart.
Next
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A/N: Patreon and Ko-fi will be 1 chap ahead this time around, and I've set it so everything from the lowest tier up can read the newest trashfire! Anything above that is sheer show of love. Hope you enjoyed!

I usually start by writing code directly, but sometimes this can be overwhelming, and I find myself changing things often. I thought about organizing everything in diagrams, but I have no idea how. I heard of UML, AGIL, and SCRUM but no idea how to use them.
I feel it's so complicated cause I have to design the file structure, how classes and functions interact with each other, the database... I just don't know where to start.
Also, if you have modelizations for old projects you worked on or a prime video to watch, please share.

Back in February last year I had to go to the dentist for a small filling in a back top molar. When I lied back in the chair she was holding a syringe needle of local anaesthesia, she said shes just numbing the area before I could even refuse (I didn’t think it was necessary for a small filling) As she injected it, there was a slight pinch an as it took affect I started to feel really weird, really sleepy but full of adrenaline and felt disoriented/confused an like my brain was spinning and full of fog. It took about 45 mins to do the tooth and I just lied there, not moving or saying anything because I felt sedated. When it was done I drove home but felt like someone else was driving. The days that followed I knew in my gut something was wrong. The numbness didn’t fully wear off and my vision in that eye was distorted, (2D vision, not processing depth, distance) my ear was blocked and my brain and half my face left like it wasn’t there, feeling mentally impaired and my body didn’t know where itself was (loss of spacial awareness), dizziness, falling sensation sensory issues, emotional instability, also my sense of self was gone, I just couldn’t connect to my self or personality. All I could feel was the dull ache in my brain and that I was trapped inside my head in this fog. I honestly felt like I was trapped in the “in between” not alive but not dead. I told my family but they said it will be fine and not to worry. No one seemed concerned so i thought I was over reacting. I rang the dentist after a week and they said “these things happen, it’s rare but it happens everybody reacts differently” Nerve damage. this point things went down hill. Everything felt wrong in my body, I started having sensory issues with sound and touch I never felt like I actually slept, I did but when I’d wake up it felt like I never went to sleep an I was full anxiety and panic as soon as I opened my eyes. I developed ptsd, contamination phobias and claustrophobia, I’m scared of people touching me, doctors and dentists, I’m scared of needles and any real or imagined violation of my body. started having nightmares, anxiety 24/7, whole body shaking, hysterical crying on the ground. I cried for hrs everyday for 8 months. I felt mentally disabled I didn’t want to die but I felt like I had to if this was my life now. I was so dissociated I basically wasted away.
Anyway it’s been almost a year and a half, i am slightly better as i don’t have nightmares I can sleep, I eat, but I’m still not me. Not much has improved physically, I still have visual and memory problems, and blocked disconnect in my brain, no sense of self. I still don’t understand what happened, I just can’t accept it I’ve had family have dental procedures since and they had no problems. I don’t know if the injury was from the needle ihitting a nerve or if it was neurotoxicity from the anaesthesia or both. I’m so angry at the world, at who did this to me, at myself for not saying no when I didn’t want it anyway It’s an extremely hollow lonely existence Bring frozen in time for eternity. Before people would describe me as a very grounded, calm, funny, happy person, I haven’t been any of these things since. I don’t go out or have any friends, I’m embarrassed of my appearance because I look nothing like myself anymore. I seem to function, but I’m extremely depressed and suicidal, A few times a week I go deep into the forest near my house an cry. All my dreams for the future are gone I’m still here because I have younger siblings, family. They love me

In the Name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.
Peace be to you all.

Introduction:

In this post, I will be answering and refuting the individual who keeps writing posts about me and comments every second he gets trying to "refute" me and "expose" me. I am only doing this because some brothers and sisters have allowed themselves to be fooled by this dude.
I won't resort to personal attacks and baseless claims (much like he does), and I will jump straight ahead to answering his objections.

Response to the introduction:

He begins by discussing my translation of the word "ישוחח," which I interpret as "argue" or "put forth."
Firstly, in Biblical Hebrew, verb forms such as Qal and Piel (often referred to as Polel in some grammatical traditions) are distinguished by their specific diacritic markings (i.e., vowel points and consonantal diacritics). Since I believe that the Masoretes distorted the Old Testament by adding these diacritics to reach a deviant interpretation, I do not consider them at all. I read the Old Testament without any diacritics. This is something he has yet to understand, perhaps because he believes that the Old Testament was revealed with diacritic markings—I don't know.
He later argues that the ancient Christian manuscripts (such as the Codex Sinaiticus, Septuagint, etc.) must agree with my claims and not with the Masoretic renderings of the Hebrew text, a conclusion he bases on thin air. I ask: Why is that so? Can you give us one good reason for this conclusion? You can't! He says this only because he considers these Christian manuscripts as divinely revealed criteria and translations. In contrast, I (and many others) see them as ancient interpretations of the original Hebrew text, which are very erroneous. This is especially true considering that rabbis themselves claim these scholars and translators failed to understand every Hebrew idiom in the book. They took everything literally and thus deviated from the intended meaning throughout their translations. These are the translations he claims must agree with my understanding.
The Masoretes could even have been influenced by Christians and their manuscripts, leading them to render some verses erroneously, whether knowingly or unknowingly—we can't be certain. However, I believe it wasn't unknowingly, and I have very good reasons for holding this opinion.
His arguments in his objections are all flawed and fallacious.

The Original sin being denied in the OT:

Now, the word he is fixated on is "ישוחח." As he mentioned, I used a classical Hebrew dictionary to translate the word. I don't remember the exact dictionary I used, but here is a random one I will use today:

Root: שִׂיחַ (v)
1 - to put forth, mediate, muse, commune, speak, complain, ponder, sing
1 -(Qal)
1 - to complain
2 - to muse, meditate upon, study, ponder
3 - to talk, sing, speak
2 - (Polel) to meditate, consider, put forth thoughts

Source: מקור: Open Scriptures on GitHub, Creator: יוצר: Based on the work of Larry Pierce at the Online Bible
In other words, both Qal and Polel essentially mean the same thing.
This following excerpt is from my original post about this, the post he is "refuting":
Excerpt from the post in question:
_______________________
Isaiah 53:8, traditional translation:
"From imprisonment and from judgment he is taken, and his generation who shall tell? For he was cut off from the land of the living; because of the transgression of my people, a plague befell them."
The original verse (without diacritics):
מעצר וממשפט לקח ואת־דורו מי ישוחח כי נגזר מארץ חיים מפשע עמי נגע למו:
My translation:
"He was taken from arrest and trial, and as for his generation, who will argue that he was cut off from the land of the living [i.e. killed] for the sin of my people, a plague befell them."
_______________________
In this verse, God is explicitly denying the doctrine of the Original Sin, stating that those who argue, speak, put forth, or ponder that Jesus was killed for the sins of His (God's) people are cursed (or afflicted by a plague).
It is crystal clear! He is just in denial because it contradicts his Pauline doctrine. Thus, he has fixated on this specific word, insisting it is (without a shadow of a doubt) in the Polel form (because his Pauline forefathers said so), and claims that Exion has made a grave error. Incredible, indeed. What a rebuttal!
Let's see if the Polel form does anything to save him:
1. Meditate:

"He was taken from arrest and trial, and as for his generation, who will meditate that he was cut off from the land of the living [i.e. killed] for the sin of my people, a plague befell them."

The definition of "Meditate" is:

1. To plan mentally; consider,
   
2. To focus one's mind for a period of time, in silence or with the aid of chanting, for religious or spiritual purposes or as a method of relaxation.
   

I know it isn't the latter, because that is just ludicrous and silly. But guess what? They even tried to claim it is the latter, which is beyond amusing to me and any other sane person reading this.
2. Consider:

"He was taken from arrest and trial, and as for his generation, who will consider that he was cut off from the land of the living [i.e. killed] for the sin of my people, a plague befell them."

It still obliterates the doctrine of the Original sin completely.
3. Put forth thoughts:

"He was taken from arrest and trial, and as for his generation, who will put forth thoughts that he was cut off from the land of the living [i.e. killed] for the sin of my people, a plague befell them."

It still obliterates the doctrine of the Original sin completely.
This is what I have to deal with. He is correcting my interpretation by yet again confirming it and he doesn't even realize it. He refuses to accept that the Old Testament completely refutes this absurd Pauline doctrine that God sent His "son" to the earth to kill him and forgive mankind. He can't understand that the Old Testament aligns with the Quran, calling them cursed. I have explained this to him several times, but to no avail. According to him, the early Christians "meditated" about Jesus' "abode." He raises the same objection in every comment he makes on every future post I do, as if I haven't just refuted him using the Bible, dictionaries, and other sources. In one ear and out the other. The only reason I'm even writing this response is to make you guys realize how unknowledgeable this man really is about the Bible and the Hebrew language. But he is good at making it look like he knows a thing or two by using fancy words and elaborations that make no sense at all.
I believe (if I remember correctly) that he translates it as:

"By oppressive judgment he was taken away, Who could describe his abode?..."

This unusual rendering is achieved by mistranslating a word, done specifically to alter the actual meaning. Some Jewish translators render it the same way, but they at least have the decency to add a footnote saying:

"\Who could describe his abode?* Meaning of Heb. uncertain." (source: Sefaria.org)

As they usually do when they mistranslate stuff.
Who would describe Jesus abode? What?! With all due respect, but that makes no sense at all! It makes no sense contextually nor logically.
This is how another Jewish translation has it:

"From imprisonment and from judgment he is taken, and his generation who shall tell? For he was cut off from the land of the living; because of the transgression of my people, a plague befell them."

Does this look like a coherent sentence to you? Jesus is taken from imprisonment and judgement, and his generation who shall tell? Tell what? This is an incomplete sentence - just to change the actual intended message.
The original phrase is: "ואת־דורו מי ישוחח"
Let me break it down for you:

Word: ואת = "And his"
Word: ־דורו = "Generation"
Word: מי = "Who will"
Word: ישוחח = "Argue/Put forth/Talk/consideetc"

Crystal clear phrase. Even Google translates it accurately (which is very rare by the way):

"And his generation who will talk"

Take a look at some of the English translations of his Christian forefathers:
New Living Translation Unjustly condemned, he was led away. No one cared that he died without descendants...
New International Version By oppression and judgment he was taken away. Yet who of his generation protested?...
King James Bible He was taken from prison and from judgment: and who shall declare his generation?...
Some others got the first part accurate but still misinterpreted the last part of the verse, as it claims that they are cursed. God forbid, they are the ones who are cursed, for they consider Jesus to be the cursed one:
English Standard Version By oppression and judgment he was taken away; and as for his generation, who considered that he was cut off out of the land of the living, stricken for the transgression of my people?
They applied the "curse/plague" to Jesus (which they translate as "stricken," even though Biblically it is generally understood to be a plague/curse) instead of applying it to those "who considered" (i.e., the Pauline Christians). The Hebrew verse uses a plural word, indicating that it was intended for those people who would put forth this claim. They all refuse to accept the fact that God is explicitly and literally stating that they are affected by a plague for their erroneous claim about Jesus.
Let's quickly refute them too:

• The word for "plague" is "נגע" (nega).
• The word for "to them" is "למו" (lamo).

"Plague" (נגע):

Hebrew classical dictionary:

Heb: נֶגַע (n-m)
1 - stroke, plague, disease, mark, plague spot
stroke, wound
stroke (metaphorical of disease)
mark (of leprosy)

Source: מקור: Open Scriptures on GitHub, Creator: יוצר: Based on the work of Larry Pierce at the Online Bible

"To them" (לָֽמוֹ):

Hebrew classical dictionary:

1 - inflected pers. pron. meaning ‘to them’ (poetically).
2 - [Formed from לְ◌ with ◌מוֹ, a suff. used only in poetry.]

Source: מקור: Klein Dictionary, Creator: יוצר: Ezra Klein
A plague to whom? TO THEM! To the people who put forth this Pauline doctrine, the ones who argued, said, or considered this absurdity. Absolutely not to the one they believed to be cut off for the sin of God's people, namely Jesus, God's prophet, Messiah, His Word, and a spirit from Him.
But this is not surprising to anyone; it is expected, because their savior Paul also considered the blessed Messiah Jesus to be a curse:

"Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us—for it is written, 'Cursed is everyone who is hanged on a tree.'" (Galatians 3:13)

It bothers them that God Himself is confirming that they are the cursed ones, and He does it in the book they believe in. I am the one who exposed it, and all praise is due to God alone. It bothers this guy who is "eXpOsInG" me, and I won't mention his name because that is most likely what he wants.
He goes on to say that I quoted from a fictitious source, which is not true at all. I simply didn’t bother looking through my entire library to find a quote I mistakenly mis-referenced, mainly because the quote turned out to be quite irrelevant, and I don’t waste my time like that. Much of what he initiated his "rebuttal" with is equally misunderstood by him, and I have responded to each and every objection in my older posts (in the comment sections where he was "eXpOsInG" me). I picked the first thing and refuted it here for you just to show how ignorant he really is and how he is either living a lie or lying to others.
So, I will not bother to refute every single point of the old stuff that I’ve already conclusively answered. It's a waste of time. Let’s move on to his objections to my latest posts, because that is what this is all about in reality.

My answers to his objections to my latest posts:

Regarding the stone God mentions that was to be placed in the Temple of God, he says that it is saying

"Stone to a stone," or "upon a stone"

My answer:
"Stone to a stone" is not a Hebrew idiom, and neither is the word "upon" there in Hebrew. He doesn't know Hebrew, had he known Hebrew, he would never have "eXpOsEd" this because it just went to show that he doesn't know the language at all.
The Hebrew word "שום" (shum) in this context is derived from the root ש-ו-ם, which means "to place" or "to put." It appears here as an infinitive construct, which is often used to convey the act of doing something, similar to the English "-ing" form. In this sentence, "שום" is functioning as a gerund, which is a verbal noun. It translates to "placing" or "putting" in English. Therefore, "שום־אבן" means "placing a stone" or "putting a stone."
As for the next word, i.e. "stone" (אבן), in Hebrew, nouns have gender (masculine or feminine) and number (singular or plural). "אבן" is a feminine singular noun. When used in the phrase "שום־אבן" (placing a stone), "אבן" functions as the direct object of the action described by the infinitive construct "שום" (placing).
The next word is אל: This is taken as a preposition according to them, and it generally means "to" or "toward," and never "upon." It is used to indicate direction or movement towards something. While the following word is, again, a stone "אבן."
So if we're going with their interpretation, while being literal, as we should because it is not an idiom, it accurately translates to:
"Before placing a stone to a stone" or "before placing stone to stone"
Which makes very little sense, if any. Why wouldn't God say "Before placing stone upon stone" or "Stones upon stones" or "before placing a stone upon a stone"? Why did He use a singular word for "stone"? Because it is speaking about a one stone, the stone that God placed in Zion:

"So this is what the Sovereign LORD says: “See, I lay a stone in Zion, a tested stone, a precious cornerstone for a sure foundation; the one who relies on it will never be stricken with panic." (Isaiah 28:16)

I have proven in countless posts that Zion is the ancient name for Mecca. Just look up Psalm 84, and you will see how it mentions doing the pilgrimage in Zion and also mentions "Bacca," another name for Mecca. I have proven how Harran is located in Mecca and that the oak of Bacca is located there as well, and we know according to Psalm 84 that Zion is located where Bacca is located. With this in mind, it’s easy to see what has been done to cover up this prophecy. They have misinterpreted the word "El" as "Upon" instead of "God." The definition of that word is not "Upon"; it means "To/toward" or "God."
Classical Hebrew dictionary:

Heb: אֵל (n-m)
god, god-like one, mighty one
mighty men, men of rank, mighty heroes
angels
god, false god, (demons, imaginations)
God, the one true God, Jehovah
mighty things in nature
strength, power

Source: מקור: Open Scriptures on GitHub, creator: יוצר: Based on the work of Larry Pierce at the Online Bible
And:

Heb: אֶל (prep.)
denoting motion toward or to, or direction toward, and meaning ‘to, unto, toward, into, at, by’.
[Shortened from אֱלֵי (which is preserved in poetry). cp. עֲלֵי, poetical form of עַל (= on), and עֲדֵי, poetical form of עַד (= as far as, until). Related to Arab. ’ilā (= to, toward, up to).]

Source: מקור: Klein Dictionary, Creator: יוצר: Ezra Klein
Let's see if any of these help him:

Before placing a stone to a stone?
Before placing a stone towards a stone?
Before placing a stone into a stone?
Before placing a stone unto a stone? (archaic term for "to")
Before placing a stone at a stone?
Before placing a stone by a stone?

Does any of this make any sense to you? I believe it certainly does not. Yet they have all chosen to ignore these valid definitions and instead opt for a definition that isn't there, namely: "a stone UPON a stone," just to claim that God was idiomatically saying "Before you build the temple." The temple was already built, as I will prove later below.
To get a more coherent translation, one that makes sense both contextually and linguistically, we need to consider "El" as "God":

ועתה - "And now"
שימו־נא - "consider, please"
לבבכם - "your heart"
מן־היום - "from this day"
הזה - "this"
ומעלה - "and onward"
מטרם - "before"
שום־אבן - "placing a stone"
אל־אבן - "God's stone/stone of God"
בהיכל - "in the Temple"
יהוה - "of YHWH" (YHWH)

Here, "אל־אבן" would translate to "God's stone" or "stone of God." Thus, the phrase "מטרם שום־אבן אל־אבן בהיכל יהוה" would be understood as "before placing a stone as God's stone in the temple of YHWH" or "before placing a stone, God's stone, in the temple of YHWH"
He is just in denial here as well. It is quite obvious that God is talking about placing a stone in the Temple of God, not about placing a stone towards a stone (whatever that means). Biblically, it is known that Jacob placed a stone in the House of God in Harran, which I have also proven to be located in the vicinity of Mecca, using 1st-century CE atlases by giants in geography such as Pomponius Mela, Pliny, and others.
He writes:

"More importantly, Exion ignored that “stone” in the Hebrew occurs twice. If we take אל to be God and take it as the construct state (the ‘s) then it would be “before setting stone’s God’s stone”. That doesn’t make sense hence why Exion dropped the first occurrence of אֶ֛בֶן in their translation."

Or you could simply not take "El" as a construct state. In Hebrew, a noun followed by another noun can indicate possession without needing a construct state (i.e. the equivalent of adding 's in English). This is often called "smikhut" or construct form, but it is not always necessary to explicitly form it.
In the phrase "שום־אבן אל־אבן" (placing a stone as God's stone), the context and the nouns' arrangement provide the possessive meaning without requiring additional grammatical changes. "אל־אבן" can be understood as "God's stone" even though it is not in the formal construct state. This is something he doesn't know because, well, who knows why. I have my speculations, but I will refrain from personal attacks.
He says:

"It makes perfect sense with the rest of the verse “in the temple of Yahweh.” It’s talking about before the building of the temple which involved setting stone upon stone."

Oh really? Is that why the 3rd verse literally talks about the Temple that already was in existence but was viewed as nothing in their eyes (i.e. insignificant):

"Who among you is left, who saw this house in its former glory? And as you see it now, is it not as nothing in your eyes?" (Haggai 2:3)

Explicitly contradicting your claim that it doesn't exist, but you didn't know that because you have probably never even read the entirety of the chapter to begin with. The Temple was already there. A stone was to be placed in it, God's stone, the black stone of the House of God, and not that it was to be built or built anew. This is why I even wrote the article, because the temple of God was already in existence. How you could have missed this, if you've read the chapter in it entirety, is very baffling to me.
This is why Jacob, upon waking from his prophetic dream, never built the House of God. (Yes, Jacob was a prophet, but Christian scholars throughout history didn't recognize this and thought he was merely a patriarch.) Instead, he only placed a stone as its cornerstone and named it "The House of God":

16. When Jacob woke up, he thought, “Surely the LORD is in this place, and I was unaware of it.” 17. And he was afraid and said, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven!” 18. Early the next morning, Jacob took the stone that he had placed under his head, and he set it up as a pillar. He poured oil on top of it."

Going back to Haggai 2, the 6th verse states:

"כי כה אמר יהוה צבאות עוד אחת מעט היא ואני מרעיש את־השמים ואת־הארץ ואת־הים ואת־החרבה:"

Which literally translates to:

"For thus says the Lord of Hosts: Once more, in a little while, I will shake the heavens and the earth, the sea and the dry land."

Which they have erroneously translated as:

"For so said the Lord of Hosts: [There will rise] another one, and I will shake up the heaven and the earth and the sea and the dry land [for] a little while." (source)

Lying and adding words to the Word of God to make it look like another House would be raised.
7th verse states:
Haggai 2:7

"והרעשתי את־כל־הגוים ובאו חמדת כל־הגוים ומלאתי את־הבית הזה כבוד אמר יהוה צבאות:"

Transliteration:

"Ve-hir'ashti et kol ha-goyim u-va'u chemdat kol ha-goyim u-milati et ha-bayit ha-zeh kavod amar Adonai Tzva'ot."

Not only does it confirm that the House is already in existence, but it mentioned our prophet Ahmad coming to it by using the cognate of his name, "Chemdat," which they erroneously have translated as:

"and the treasures of all the nations will be brought to this Temple."

The preposition "the" is not there before "Chemdat," while it is before "Goyim" (heathens), which makes sense because "Chemdat of all the heathens (will come)" and doesn't translate to "The treasure of all the heathens (will come)," as they have it.
Let me break it down for you:

והרעשתִי (ve-hir'ashti) - "and I will shake"
את (et) - [direct object marker, not translated]
כל (kol) - "all"
הגוים (ha-goyim) - "the heathens"
ובאו (u-va'u) - "and they will come"
חמדת (Chemdat) - "Chemdat" (proper noun)
כל (kol) - "of all"
הגוים (ha-goyim) - "the heathens"
ומלאתי (u-milati) - "and I will fill"
את (et) - [direct object marker, not translated]
הבית (ha-bayit) - "the house"
הזה (ha-zeh) - "this"
כבוד (kavod) - "glory"
אמר (amar) - "says"
יהוה (Adonai) - "Lord"
צבאות (Tzva'ot) - "of Hosts"

Result:

"And I will shake all the heathens, and they will come, Chemdat of all the heathens, and I will fill this house with glory, says the Lord of Hosts."

Explanation:

They have translated it as "the treasures of..." while the phrase "Chemdat" lacks a "The" (Ha), so it would more accurately be rendered as:

"And they will come, treasure of all the heathens, and..."

A very awkward sentence grammatically. And the dictionaries do not define חמדת (Chemdat) as "Treasure," but rather as "Desire" or "Precious." But translating this phrase in this way (if we consider it to mean "desire" or "precious"), we would make the verse even more awkward:

"And they will come, desire of all the heathens" or "And they will come, precious of all the heathens."

Because it is a singular phrase, and not plural, and as I mentioned earlier, lacks a definite preposition.
But if we consider "Chemdat" as a cognate of "Ahmad," as a proper noun referring to Ahmad the prophet (the only heathen prophet known today), it suddenly becomes a very coherent verse that makes much sense. The heathens will be shaken, and they will come. Then, He specifies by saying: Chemdat of all the heathens, and continues with the rest of the verse.
The phrase "הגוים" (ha-goyim) translates as "the heathens," which supports the interpretation that "Chemdat" is a proper noun referring to a significant heathen person anticipated to come. God is going to shake all the heathens, and they will come. Then He specifies who would come: "Chemdat of all the heathens (will come)." He then says He will fill this house, which they saw as nothing, with glory. The house already exists; Chemdat of all nations was just about to come, and God would fill this house with glory again. And, of course, the stone Jacob laid in Genesis 28—the same stone that Jesus referred to in Matthew 21:

1. Jesus said to them, "Have you never read in the Scriptures: 'The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone. This is from the Lord, and it is marvelous in our eyes?'

43. Therefore, I tell you that the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people who will produce its fruit."

The Kingdom of God was intended to be taken away from the Christians and given to a people who would produce its fruits, and this is what happened when Islam came.
Going back to Haggai 2, the 18th verse also confirms that the Temple already was there:

"Consider, please, your heart from this day and onward, from the twenty-fourth day of the ninth month, from the day that the temple of the Lord was founded, consider your heart."

Just because God considers the two Houses (the current one they saw as insignificant and the later one) as "different" does not mean that it does not already exist physically but will be a different House.
Nevertheless, he is right about one thing regarding this chapter: it does not mention the new moon to new moon and the end of the Sabbath—that was in Isaiah 66. My mistake. But the prophecy is still valid. The new moon to new moon would come, and yes, the second phrase can be interpreted as an end (if we interpret "Shabbat" as "End"), but it is Biblically and generally interpreted as "Sabbath." A literal translation of the phrase in the 23rd verse would be:

שבת (shabbat) - "Sabbath"
בשבתו (be-shabbato) - "His Sabbath"
יבוא (yavo) - "it will come"

Let's agree that it means what the traditional translations say it means, and I don't mean hypothetically, but let's actually agree on that. However, the prophecy about the new moons (Ramadan) is still there and valid because God has not canceled the Sabbath in the Quran; it is still ongoing:
The Quran states in 2:40-42:

Verse 40: "O Children of Israel, remember My favor which I have bestowed upon you and fulfill My covenant [upon you] that I will fulfill your covenant [from Me], and fear Me."
Verse 41: "And believe in what I have sent down confirming that which is [already] with you, and be not the first to disbelieve in it. And do not exchange My signs/verses for a small price, and fear Me."
Verse 42: "And do not mix the truth with falsehood or conceal the truth while you know [it]."

The new moon to a new moon is combined with the Sabbath to Sabbath. This is a fulfilled prophecy!
I don't see easter, halloween or Christmas being mentioned here. It's Ramadan and the Sabbath, the two Covenants God has given to his worshipers, the Covenant of the Children of Israel and the Covenant of Peace, unlike the Pauline Christians who literally took all of their holidays from pagan idolaters, which I won't go into because it's not very relevant to our discussion anyways.
This marks the end of my rebuttal to his "part 1."
Thank you for reading,
/Your bro Exion.

“Priest, report?” “My lord, the automata are at 70% awakened, with the last 30% being online within the next 48 hours.” “Ship status?” “ my enginseers advice me that the son’s Pride is 65% operational, with both warp drives and long range communication equipment damaged. The humanitarian craft is 10% functional, with all cargo now aboard Designation 75. Designation 75 is also without a warp and 2 failing engines, although my chief priest has advised me they will be repaired shortly. Then prosperos honour, damage has been minimal, however with it only being an attached vessel of its small size, it is not big enough for us all to continue on with” “Thank you priest. General how fair your men?” “Devastated, we’ve issued the last of armour and weapons out, although we are about 1/4 strength compared to the start of the campaign. I have only a handful of functioning armour, and all transports have been lost. How bare your forces my lord” “Not much better, we have taken heavy casualties to the surprise assault and many of my men are weak from trying to commune with prospero, we have still not been able to reach out to anyone.” “Your orders my lord?” “We scuttle the humanitarian vessel, all hands to board prosepros pride. All approaching craft are to be treated as hostile until proven otherwise. Priest, set a course to prospero, we will travel at best speed, and fix those warp engines as a priority.” With that each commander bed there farewells and salutes and proceeded back to there vessel. For the lord magister he simply waited for his comrades to leave before beckoning in his legion command structure.
“What news brother?” “Nothing good. The priest is keeping to his schedule, however i feel we are at his mercy until he can fix these damn engines.” “ I assure you my lord, we are assisting him the best we can, although the damage is significant, and we still need to finish raising the last of our tombed brothers.” “It is okay brother I understand the hardship. I have relinquished a new command; we are to make way to prospero.” “My lord? Are you sure this is the best course? We have had no further communication to advise us to return, only to hold at anchor?” “We have waited long enough, and following the attack, we need answers. Brother Heqet, how go your attempts to reach prospero?” “Nothing still… my lord. The men have grown weak and tired. We will continue in the coming days.” “No, my vision tells me our men will need there strength in the times to come.” “My lord?” “As instructed Heqet.” Heqet nodded in behest of his lords command, he respected Qars command, after all he’d led them through there campaign and almost all the way home why should he question his commands now? The meeting went on for another hour, checking legion functions, receiving orders of battle, and getting various updates to protocol. At the end of the meeting Heqet waiting till most of his brothers had left, before approaching Qar. “Heqet, I see you lurking, what can I do for you my brother?” “My lord, apologies to catch your ear again. It’s just about your orders to stop the commune? I worr…” “It is in our best interest, for we do not know who is listing or tracking us. We all felt the psychic back lash a few months ago, and the warp is in disarray. We need our brothers strong for battle, as we are indeed in uncertain times.” “ that is understood my lord, I just worry about anything we may miss from prospero?” “ I share your worry brother.” “ As do I” boomed a voice of authority from the corner, it was chaplain Emoto. He cut a large figure with his cloaks and adornments, an unusual position with in the thousand’s sons legion, Emoto was popular figure amongst the men, he was battle hardened and fearless, a strong character, but also a voice of reason and logic to the council off the battlefield, and a great friend of Heqet. They had spent much time discussing teachings and philosophy off the battle field, with Heqet being part of the librarius, and wanting to document most of Emotos unusual deeds and doings, and there combination on the battlefield was unmatched in skill and beauty. Emotos continued, “I’m sure our lord, has enough worries without another Heqet. Why you burn my ear with them instead?” “No bother for my Emotos” spoke Qar, “Heqet speaks the truth, but we can not risk another ambush even if it means we miss key information from prospero or Magnus. We make there at fastest pace and seek the truth.” Heqet and Emotos nodded, Qar spoke again “ thank you for your support brothers, these have been troubling times these last few weeks, and your support has been welcome. I am going to meditate, as it has been a long day of deliberations and I intend to get some peace before a new solar cycle dawns.” With that Qar with drew to his quarters and the lights dimmed in the command room. The two brother made their way from the command room, passing the twin sword gaurdians at the door. “Troubling times indeed” boomed Emotos, “We will have to see what tomorrow brings” said Heqet, and with that the brother said nothing more on the way back to there chambers.

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The following two brain scans were provided by the Neuro-Warfare branch of the Halcyon Security Division (HSD) for the purpose of analyzing the thoughts, behaviors, and information of notorious gangsters Vincent 'Troy' Cohen and Bruno (Deadname: Koraak Tel-Char). At the point of the recording of this archival shared, Bruno has since received his rebirth therapy, and Vincent is currently serving a long-term rehabilitative and reeducative sentence in the Erebus Supermax Prison on Io.
Warning: the contents of this archival shared may be especially disturbing to some audiences. Viewer discretion is advised.
Warning: the contents of this archival shard are for the sole purpose of analyzing the thought patterns and memories of certain degenerate criminals in an effort to ascertain vital information that can be used to eliminate their organizations. Only staff with clearance level Omega may view this archival shared, and the viewership of this archival shared by anyone of inadequate clearance level will lead to twenty years in prison and a fine of over a hundred thousand credits.
Booting up memory scan: Vincent 'Troy' Cohen, November 4th, 2446…
Loading and processing firmware data… translating… memories and subconscious simulated…
Beginning archival shard presentation…
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"Do you have visuals of the target, Troy?"
I knelt down in the alleyway, the bodies of me and my partners shrouded in long, waterproof, ashen-gray overcoats the shade of dirty street scum that we wore to ward off the constant heavy rainfall the color of osmium. Our faces were covered in a mix of scrapped respirators, visors, or full metal face masks carved with intricate designs to hide our identities. On our waists were our badges of honor: leather belts studded with interlocked rivets made from blackened titanium, each buckle forged of silver and shaped into the head of our gang's symbol, the black mamba. We hid amongst the shadows of the dark midday of Halcyon City, the heavy, oppressive rains blanketing the roads paved obsidian-black with asphalt and weathered concrete walkways. The street lamps were always on, like beacons of false hope in a storm of melancholy.
The city was dark and dreary as always, the planet of Proxima Centauri B, renamed Dawn's Lamentation over a century ago, orbited the red dwarf star of Proxima Centauri, and the atmosphere was thick with natural smog and ever-storming rain clouds. That didn't dissuade people from living here: there was plenty of money to be had for shrewd industrialists and hardworking pioneers, even in the urban sprawl. But that life also came with risks, especially for those on the bottom of the totem pole.
I was a ganger, and we were criminals; full stop. I won't assault you with some spiel about how we're the good guys fighting oppression because, at the end of the day, we could be just as bad, if not worse, than Halcyon's Security Division, or the HSD for short. We were traffickers, killers, extortionists, and money launderers. We dealt with everything from stolen tech and military-grade hardware to hard drugs and sentients.
Yes, sentients. We trafficked sentients, but not in the way you might think. They weren't prisoners, in fact, we were their saviors if they had the cash. We had developed a reputation for fighting the power, but it was still business: sure, freeing captives from the clutches of the Protectorate. The disruption of its many oppressive organizations held a certain satisfaction in my heart for sure, but we didn't help those who couldn't pay unless someone else paid on their behalf. It was about making sure me and my gang, my family, could live a decent life for another day.
It helped that most of us joined after leaving the state yard for partaking in acts of 'degeneracy' and 'anti-xenopet illegalities' as if those terms meant anything anymore other than that we were a threat to the local status quo. It was hard to pick up a job as a former inmate when even in something as harsh and backbreaking as a job in the iridium mines near the poles when the employment office had you blacklisted as a degenerate, which lead to the formation of many of the gangs: we needed to make a living somehow, and when all social programs were cut off from you unless you submitted for 're-education' and the only way to put food on the table was subverting, breaking, or even downright fighting the law, you did what you had to do or you died on the streets a scorned beggar.
It wasn't like the HSD made it easy for us on even a good day: the local HSD units were armed to the teeth with advanced, military-grade hardware that you'd often see on the front lines of the Second Authority War: armored assault transports, a myriad of advanced war droids, all sorts of chemical countermeasures that made tear gas seem like putting the garden hose on mist mode, and of course advanced firearms. Add that to the fact that they were authorized to use deadly force when they deemed it necessary and you had a ruthless, heartless, and nearly unstoppable enemy. But we could make that work: we weren't trying to stop them, just to withstand them.
"Yeah, I got eyes on the prize, Koraak; seven armored transports, two for droids, five for prisoners."
Today wasn't a day for a normal job: we were getting bolder, cockier, more ambitious. Our numbers had swelled for the last few years after the raid at Barnard's Star and the fall of the Blood Dragon Mafia. Their leader, Saito Yasuhide, had committed seppuku as their manor burned, and his twin sons had gone down fighting rather than allowing themselves to be captured simply to face a firing squad. In the aftermath, many of the family's associates had fled to the surrounding systems, and with the sheer size and scope of the criminal underworld found here, it was no wonder that many people who had developed skills of the less legal variety had decided to form ranks with the gangs, and with them they brought guns, tech, knowledge, contacts, and even something that we thought wasn't possible beforehand: a semblance of peace between the gangs, or at least the closest thing to peace that gangs could cultivate effectively. With the fall of the Blood Dragons, we saw the writing on the wall, and the writing couldn't have been clearer: work together or die together.
"Sounds like a massacre, Troy: are you sure we can handle seven?"
"We ain't got no choice, Cinder: this job's double the usual rate, and that's not including the weapons and gear we could scrounge if this goes well," I hissed, my eyes scanning for any resistance. There were at least four guards for each van, not to mention at least eight droids in total, meaning that we were already outnumbered, but we had the element of surprise: we could make it work. "So put your balls in your purse and get ready to spill some blood."
Koraak snorted at our antics, which sounded like someone pulling the ripcord on a lawnmower. He was a veteran Russu Corsair, and while his past of slaving, raiding, and killing was unsavory, so were the lives we'd lived, so who were we to judge? All we cared about was that he was a brutal and capable fighter and a loyal brother in arms. It turned out that being a ganger wasn't much different from being a Corsair: you lived and died by a code of honor, you fought to the death for your brothers, and you lived to die for the sake of your gang and your family, simple as that. In a strange, ironic way, it was an incredibly honest way of life: we were under no illusions as to what we were, what we did, and why we did it, and we'd long since accepted it. The Russu related to us in that aspect, in many ways I could respect, which is why I hated what the Protectorate was doing, and why I couldn't grasp how most of humanity could just collectively lose their marbles so long ago. What had happened for us to deem all other life below us in such a demeaning and infantilizing way?
The Russu were a race of tall, muscle-bound Saurians with avian features, and Koraak was no exception: reaching almost seven feet in height and weighing over four hundred and fifty pounds, he could be an absolute menace if he so desired. His skin was covered in stubby, knobby scales and dense plumage, with elegant feathers adorning the ridges along his back as well as his forearms, elbows, knees, and the crests on his head. He almost looked like how paleontologists described velociraptors, with razor-sharp talons, feathers shaded in vibrant greens, reds, and purples, and a maw full of sharp teeth, but at the tip of his snout was a sharp, beak-like growth meant for ripping flesh off the bone.
The Russu were strange as hell, but they also looked almost cute in the same way a fully grown alligator was cute: they were obviously dangerous, but humans would always have this innate desire to anthropomorphize them and to pet them for some inexplicable reason, although common sense usually prevented that, at least amongst the very few of us left that were sane.
"Shut up, Troy! All I'm saying is that that'll be rough, and you know it," hissed Cinder. Cinder was a tall black man whose coffee-colored skin was covered in tattoos. He wore an ebony mechanic's jumpsuit with metal inserts underneath his grimy overcoat covering his body and a faded black respirator on his face. His eyes were a startling blue that seemed sorely out of place, and his hair was braided into thick cornrows along his scalp. He wore a pair of heavy black combat boots and palmed his compact shotgun in his hands, the square barrel less than seven inches. Like a lot of the weapons the Black Mambas carried on their persons and dealt in, they fired caseless ammunition; in Cinder's case it was 16x40mm caseless shotshells filled with depleted uranium micro-flechetes no thicker than a toothpick. Cinder nervously fiddled with the detachable tube magazine underneath the barrel, his hands shaking. Despite the shit I have him, I didn't blame him for being anxious: I was anxious too, even if I refused to show it. The biting cold of unease and pessimism was in my stomach, and I ran all the way that this job could go wrong in my head over and over.
"Just hold yourself together, this ain't anything we haven't done before, there's just more of it," I reassured Cinder, "besides, we're not alone; we have reinforcements across the street. We'll make it out of this alive."
Cinder nodded almost absentmindedly, his eyes downcast and his breathing shallow. I turned from him and back to Koraak, who was making sure he had everything on his person; he had a synthetic leather bandoleer across his chest that contained the heavy eight guage depleted uranium slugs he kept loading and unloading into his much larger, longer, and more traditional shotgun he nicknamed ‘carnage’ and several leather straps that held his Tu'shan daggers: traditional Russu pyramidal blades forged from a silvery alloy with all three edges serrated and the tip barbed to leave behind horrible, gaping wounds that gushed blood. They were wickedly sharp and absolutely straight like a stiletto, and the hilts and pommels were beautifully decorated. He wore no clothes underneath his overcoat to cover the countless scars and blemishes he's earned in combat across his chest and abdomen, and instead of a normal respirator or visor, he simply wore a hood over his head and some traditional Russu facial armor to protect his mouth, eyes, and cheeks.
"You ready to fight, Koraak? The caravan will pick up and leave soon."
Koraak was silent for a moment before nodding, a human gesture he had picked up after serving as a soldier with the Black Mambas for years. "I'm always ready to fight," he said before lifting up his shotgun and aiming down the sights at the reinforced front wheels of the first armored car in the caravan. He exhaled and fired, the slug ripping through both front tires and causing them to deflate and fall apart. The echo of the shot rang through the alleyway and the street, causing pedestrians to panic and flee the scene as heavily armored guards poured out of the side doors of the armored cars and unholstered their carbines.
"Go, now!" I shouted, and both me and Cinder rushed out into the fray, our guns raised. Koraak was right behind the two of us, providing covering fire with his shotgun. Several guards fell quickly, Koraak's precise fire and the sheer force of the depleted uranium slugs putting them down for good as their heads were vaporized or their chest cavities were turned to mush. He emptied the tube with one final shot that painted the grey matter of a security guard on the door of one of the armored cars, then racked the shotgun and expertly loaded it in threes, his hands deft and agile as he reached for more slugs faster than any human.
With the cacophony of our initial assault, more Black Mambas poured out from the alleyways and the subways, armed to the teeth with all manner of weapons; shotguns, submachine guns, pistols, machetes, baseball bats, and all manner of homemade explosives. Molotovs and more potent concoctions shattered against the asphalt, herding in the caravan guards with their volatile contents as they were quickly gunned down. The assault was working, and we were winning.
Then I heard the robotic whine of a combat droid activating, and my heart sank. One of the armored cars in the back activated the four combat droids it held, the robotic assault units detaching from their charging ports on the sides of the large van and began to form up, each armed with a terrifying array of deadly weapons meant to quash any and all resistance. They were blocky, soulless, utilitarian things that stood at eight feet tall, with flat feet meant for stomping and blades, grasping claws designed to lacerate flesh and shatter bone. On each shoulder was a weapon: on the left was a multi-barrel rotary grenade launcher loaded with 15mm concussion grenades, and on the right was a burst-fire splinter cannon. They were all painted a dull grayish-green, the color of Halcyon's Security Division, although some had a few decorations on them: the one closest to me had a bit of graffiti on the side that said Mr. Hugs in Comic Sans, which I couldn't decide whether that made it more or less terrifying. They split up without hesitation and began to scan the chaotic battlefield, their single, red, beady lenses the security forces had the gall to call eyes focusing on specific targets to eliminate.
An entire group of Black Mambas was torn to pieces by a cloud of flechettes as one of the droids fired a withering three-round burst of shotshells from the four gauge splinter cannon mounted on its shoulder. Another picked up a Black Mamba in its hand and crushed her skull effortlessly before tossing her limp body to the side, its single, red, remorseless robotic eye tracking a new target. Most bullets that struck their thick armored chassis simply bounced off, and those that could pierce the armor didn't seem to phase the droids whatsoever, merely notifying them of a new potential target.
"Damnit," I shouted as I gunned down another guard only for two more to take his place. "Cinder! We gotta pop open the cars and scram! Get the maglock cutters!"
Cinder rushed and slid over through a dirty puddle, pulling out a maglock cutter from the inside of his coat and slipping it onto the back door of the first van. It immediately went to work, drilling through the maglock with a high-powered plasma torch nozzle, and within ten seconds we heard the telltale clunk of the maglock separating. I yanked the door open and ordered I side, ready to escort the prisoners out… only for my face to contort in shock and horror.
The back was empty. There was not a single soul inside of the back brig of the armored car.
"What the fuck…" Cinder gasped, his eyes wide with shock. "What the actual fuck… what the fuck is this, Troy?"
"I… I don't…" I stuttered the sounds of battle and carnage drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in my ears. All five cars were supposed to be filled with recently captured Russu from the front lines ready to be housed in the local Xenopet-Megaplex for processing and conditioning. The fact that this one was empty…
Suddenly, it all hit me at once with the force of a freight train, but it was too late. "We were set up, Cinder; our fucking client either squealed or was crooked to begin with…"
"Fucking bitch!" Cinder shouted as he spun around in an enraged arch, anger growing in his eyes. He aimed his shotgun at an approaching security guard and reduced his upper body to a fine red mist with a cacophony of shotgun blasts. "We gotta get everyone who's left out of here! Do you know what this means? The Jurors will be here soon, and then we're all going down! We gotta go, fuck the job!"
I grit my teeth. Not the Jurors, anything but the Jurors.
"Fine, gather everyone who's left and we'll slip through the sewers, the droids are too bulky to follow us there…"
As I spoke, my eyes wandered to the seventh and final armored car, the second of the droid cars, and my blood froze. Not only were all four ports empty, but they were also smaller and more shallow than the ports for the combat droids. That could only mean one thing.
"Oh fuck! Cinder, we gotta get our Russu members out of here! They've got arachnid droids!"
Arachnid droids were the stuff of nightmares. Resembling blocky, robotic arachnids the size of a manhole cover, they were specifically designed to take down sentient aliens, specifically the Russu, using sickeningly non-lethal means. They were equipped with full-body adaptive cloaking to blend in with their environments, paralytic agents that they could inject into their victims, built-in taser barbs, psychedelic gas ports for crowd-control, and a narrow-coned cacophony canon that disabled the Russu using incredibly high-pitched sounds that only they could hear, forcing them onto their knees and clutching the backs of their heads where their auditory organs were stored in agony. But worst of all was their stygian spinnerets: special ports near the end of their robotic abdomens that excreted a viscous, latex-like substance made up of millions of nano-bots. This substance could be used to render Russu blind, deaf, and mute by having it forced onto their faces, the black substance growing and enveloping their heads and working its way into every orifice. It was completely permeable to the standard atmosphere, but any Russu who had been 'webbed' was completely helpless and essentially captured, and the 'webbing' was both nearly indestructible and nigh impossible to remove without a triple-encrypted override key that was found in every arachnid droid's code, which was corrupted when the droid was destroyed or hacked into. Once you were 'webbed', you were essentially captured and the standard protocol was to leave you to the wolves since the nano-bots could be tracked, endangering the entire gang.
I turned just as I heard the deafening sound of Koraak discharging his shotgun, and I saw him squaring off against one of the assault droids. The droid has obviously been programmed to not use lethal force against Russu if possible, as instead of simply killing Koraak with it's shoulder-mounted splinter cannon, it approached with its claws extended, blades retracted. Koraak continued to back away and fire, pumping the droid full of depleted uranium slugs, its armor crumbling inward as the slugs pierced its chassis and damaged its internal cyberstructure. Eventually, Koraak ran out of slugs and instinctively reached to his bandoleer only to find that he had no more shells left at all, and he drew one of his knives and his sidearm, a simple high-caliber handgun. He tried to take down the droid with his handgun, but the bullets didn't even seem to affect the droid upon penetration, it's claws still extended as it attempted to apprehend Koraak.
In the corner of my vision, as I watched Koraak battle with the droid, I noticed a faint shimmer in the air on one of the black streetlight poles that was right behind him. I focused on it and blinked, believing my eyes had deceived me for a moment before realizing that it was actually a cloaked arachnid droid stalking Korvaak, ready to pounce and incapacitate him.
Before I could shout, it leaped from the pole and landed on Korvaak, causing him to shout in surprise while it began to coagulate its horrifying stygian webbing to disable Korvaak. Korvaak tried to wrestle it off of him, but the droid was agile and fast, clinging onto Korvaak and skittering around across his upper body as he attempted to grab it, forcibly wrapping the sticky black liquid across his face as he gagged like a spider wrapping up a fly. I rushed towards him to try and help, but I felt pain explode in my ribs as I was struck with the arm of the closest combat droid and launched into the chassis of a parked car, the metal denting from the sheer force of impact. I groaned in pain as I saw stars and my head spun, and just then I felt a blinding light be cast over me.
“Drop your weapons and kneel with your hands on your head, or you will be pacified with deadly force!” Shouted a loud, artificially deepened voice from above. “I repeat, drop your weapons and kneel with your hands on your head! Neither hostility nor hesitation will be tolerated!”
It was the Jurors, I could feel the air being pushed around from the thrusters on their drop ships, and I could hear screams and shouts as my fellow Black Mambas were quickly gunned down. I couldn’t see well since I was seeing double, but I could hear the slaughter as my eyes dimmed and I began to lose consciousness, my regrets crawling up my throat like vomit.
I’m sorry was all I could think as everything finally went dark, and the sounds of chaos, destruction, and combat faded away.
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Memory halted due to loss of consciousness. Booting next available memory in shard…
Booting up memory scan: Koraak Tel-Char Bruno, November 5th, 2446…
Loading and processing firmware data… translating… memories and subconscious simulated…
Beginning archival shard presentation…
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“Good morning, sleepyhead; it’s time for breakfast.”
My eyes shot open. I was not in the street anymore, nor was I home in my bed with my mate. I knew instantly that something was horribly wrong. I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t gain the leverage to do so: my ankles had been shackled together with magnetic cuffs and my arms were forced together in front of me.
I was wearing some kind of thick shirt. It was warm, fluffy, and comfortable on the inside, but it still made me incredibly uncomfortable that my arms didn’t have a free range of motion. I looked down to see that I was wearing some human garment I had heard about before, a straightjacket maybe?
The entire room was padded: the walls, the floor, even the ceiling. There was no bed or furniture; the floor was soft enough to serve as a bed in itself. There was nothing else except for the soft reddish-orange lights on the ceiling that somehow made me sleepy. I blinked slowly for a moment, my body screaming at me to just lay back down and lose consciousness, but I couldn’t do that: I needed to figure out where I was and how to escape.
Then I noticed who was speaking to me: it was a short human female, with crow's feet around her blue eyes, blonde hair braided down her back, and freckles all over her face. She had a soft smile on her lips, and her forehead was slightly crinkled. She wore a full-body white lab suit with a white overcoat and a pair of glasses for snugly on her face.
"There we go, now I can see those pretty eyes, such a beautiful shade of teal," she cooed softly, "You're such a handsome boy, even with all those scars: I'm sure you'll be adopted very quickly once we get you fixed up."
Fear gripped my heart as I began to piece all the evidence together. I had been captured; I was no longer on Halcyon, and instead, I was in one of the horrific space-born facilities I had heard so much about from the inside agents. I started to hyperventilate and squawk like a newborn hatchling, my eyes dilating in panic. This couldn't be happening! This has to be a nightmare!
The human woman merely wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into an embrace, cradling my head under her chin and speaking softly. I couldn't bite at her or claw at her: I was muzzled and wearing a straight jacket, so I had no choice but to allow her to coddle me.
"It's okay, sweetheart: I understand you're scared, but Julie's here to make all the pain and bad thoughts go away," she said as if she was comforting a child, which made anger blossom in my chest indignantly. "I'll be your caretaker for the next few months, and I'm going to make sure you're healthy, happy, and most importantly safe while you're under our care. I'm sorry to say that includes your restraints and restrictive clothing, but we have to make sure you aren't a threat to yourself or others before we can determine if it's a good idea to remove you from suicide watch."
I growled under my muzzle. Suicide watch? They must have had a lot of instances of Russu taking their own lives after being captured, something I wished I had been able to do before that damnable droid launched itself onto me and…
I shuddered at the thought of the black, viscous substance forcing itself into my nostrils and down my throat and windpipe, gagging me and rendering me completely helpless. It was so cold, so harsh, like slime, and when I had tried to tear it off of my face it merely attached itself to my claws and bound my talons together. I remember squirming on the ground as it enveloped me, unable to see, hear, or speak, and then everything went dark in an instant. It was the most horrible thing I had ever experienced, which was saying something.
"You alright, sweetheart? Oh, I know, you're probably hungry! Here, try some of this." She held up a piece of what looked like raw bacon and wiggled it in front of me before reaching out to remove my muzzle. In an instant, I attempted to snap at her only for pain to blossom in my forehead and my eyes to roll up in my head as I convulsed. It was like something was attempting to drill through my skull from the inside, and every breath felt empty and labored.
"Now, that didn't feel very nice, did it? This is why we have countermeasures in place because we can't trust you yet, sweetheart! Don't worry, we'll work on breaking you of all those bad behaviors and habits while you're here; after all, a well-trained pet is a happy pet!" She began to stroke the crests on my head as I slowly recovered, and she snugly fit the muzzle back onto my snout. "But I won't hold it against you this time, sweetheart; you're just scared and confused, but I'll make all the pain go away."
I struggled in the straight jacket, trying my best to break out of it, but it was no use. Eventually, I became exhausted and despondent, allowing my new caretaker to have her way with me as she gently ran her fingers through my feathers and along my ridges, quietly speaking to me in a hopeless attempt to cheer me up. She seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being, which concerned me even further: who could be this naturally twisted while attempting to be as benevolent and kindhearted as possible?
I felt the pain and terror build up in my chest, the anxiety from what horrific activities I imagined they had planned for me here. I couldn't take the infantilization, the lack of any autonomy, the dehumanization, and what I feared the most was if the rumors of 'rebirth' were true: would they take my personhood from me?
Suddenly, I felt her whisper to me. "Don't worry sweetheart, I know you're so scared and confused, but I promise you everything will be okay: it's going to be your birthday soon, and then everything will get better." She ran her fingers through the feathers along my crest lovingly. "It will be such a wonderful day, and then we'll choose for you the most wonderful family, and you'll spend the rest of your life happy in your forever home! Doesn't all of that sound wonderful?"
I wanted to die. I wanted to disappear. I didn't want to lose myself, not like this, not to these monsters!
"It'll be your birthday soon," she said wistfully as if she was remembering similar events to this in the past like I wasn't the first she'd done this too, "and you'll never be sad again."
I realized that I wasn't the first the stay in this particular cell, and I knew for certain that I wouldn't be the last: I'd end up like my brother, a broken, erased mess of a pathetic creature, reduced to nothing more than a pet for these humans to amuse themselves with.
"We took the liberty of picking out a nice name for you, sweetheart! Now, let me just slip this little programming chip into the port slot on your occipital bone, and... there we go! It will also help you calm down a bit and adjust."
I felt the chip begin to invade my mind, suppressing my thoughts. What made me me was slowly being ripped out of my mind. I couldn't remember my name my name is Bruno, and I needed to get out! I can't let them do this to me! Somebody help me! I was a good boy.
##Do not think. You are a good boy.##
I tried to scream, but my voice wouldn't work: I had trouble forming any words at all, the confusion clouding my mind like wet, slimy eels curling around my brain and sinking their teeth into its folds like needles. I couldn’t scream any longer, because I had nothing left: the chip was slowly beginning to take everything from me, robbing me of my identity and branding a new one into my psyche with a white-hot iron. Julie simply held me close, attempting to reassure me as I awaited the inevitable demise of my personhood. Soon I would be just like my brother: erased. My mind would be shaped into the mind of a loyal plaything, like a Dog.
##Relax. Allow caretaker [Julie] to comfort you. You will let go of your burden.##
Soon, everything was a blur. I quickly found myself resting my head in her lap as she whispered to me and fed me, my eyes bleary and my head fuzzy. I couldn't remember my name anymore My name was Bruno, and I needed to break free from this trance relax, and allow her to help me; good boys didn't resist help.
##Good Boy. Do not think. You are a good boy.##
You can't... I...
##Good boy.##
I wouldn't… good boys don't… I…
##Good boy##
I was a good boy… I was a good boy…
I was… I was… a good… boy…
Someone help me, please! I don't want to be erased!
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The following script is from episode #343 of Halcyon After Dark, a popular late-night and current events talk show hosted by Melinda Carter. This specific episode was sponsored in part by the Halcyon Security Division, with Director Lochlin O'Brien joining as a guest star to talk about the changing crime statistics in Halcyon City and the HSD's recent successes in busting organized crime as well as their plans for addressing the growing criminal underworld.
MC: Good evening Halcyon! I'm your host, Melinda Carter, and you're watching Halcyon's most popular late-night talk show, Halcyon After Dark!
The crowd claps and cheers as Melinda walks on stage and sits behind her desk, her glittering red dress waving as she does so from the special effects.
MC: Tonight we have a very special guest here to tell us about the state of crime in the city and his plans on resolving it: please put your hands together for the HSD's very own Director, Lochlin O'Brien!
The crowd cheers some more as HSD Director Lochlan O'Brien, a tall, muscular, caucasian male in his early forties with red hair and a well-trimmed beard steps into the room, waving at the crowd with a bright smile. He sits in the armchair angled next to Melinda's desk and gives her his full attention.
MC: It's so good to have you on the show, Director! Tell me, how are you doing on this fine evening?
LO: I'm doing excellent, Melinda: every day I wake up feeling fulfilled knowing I'm serving Halcyon to the best of my abilities and then some."
MC: That's the spirit, Director! Now, I know this question is just on everyone's lips, so I have to ask: how successful was the recent gang bust? I heard HSD forces took out dozens of gang members and liberated at least a dozen Russu Hounds from their abusive clutches, but I know that everyone in the audience and at home wants to know the numbers.
LO: I'd be glad to tell you, but I do have to preface this by saying that we still lost a lot of good officers that day, and while we did strike a crippling blow to one of Halcyon's biggest gangs, it doesn't change the fact that each death is a tragedy, and we're taking steps to prevent them in the future. That being said, those valiant officers did not sacrifice themselves in vain: we had over a dozen confirmed kills and several arrests, including the rescue of several corrupted Russu hounds.
MC: That's excellent, Director: proof that even when the number of degenerates and scum grow by the day, the HSD will always be here to keep the citizens of Halcyon safe.
LO: Absolutely, Melinda, and we're always working tirelessly to increase the efficiency and effectiveness of our units, as well as racing to stay several steps ahead of the many gangs of Halcyon at all times. My newest goal as Director is to vastly increase the funding given to our Robotics Department and our Neuro-Warfare Department to potentially reduce the number of casualties we may experience in the future, as well as to quickly and effectively detain, and if necessary, eliminate criminals. Within the next decade, I want to double the number of automated units each Security Platoon is assigned: droids are the future of public safety as well as countless other industries, and it would be foolish to be left behind.
MC: That is quite a lofty goal, Director: what about the displaced jobs from the increased automation? What will the union say?
LO: And to that, I say: what misplaced jobs? We aren't replacing our honored and beloved service members with droids, Melinda, we are simply supplementing our units with more droids to ensure that future gang assaults end with fewer HSD casualties and more gang members in prison or eliminated, simple as that.
MC: That makes much more sense, Director, thanks for clarifying. Now, I have one more question that I'm sure much of Halcyon wants to know the answer to before we take a short break: what plans do you and your fellow directors have to make long-term progress in reducing crime beyond just increasing funding? Have you proposed any plans to strike at the source of where crime and degeneracy flourish?
OL: That's an excellent question, and one I am proud to answer: my constituents and I have been working tirelessly on a two-step plan to greatly reduce crime levels in Halcyon. Step one would be to prevent people from becoming criminals and degenerates at all in the first place: a lot of young men and women, but especially young men, have lost either one or both parents or even a sibling, aunt or uncle, or even a close friend by the brutality of the Second Authority War, and while the service of their lost loved ones will always be recognized and honored, many of these young men and women are left bitter, angry and lost without the guidance these people give them in their lives. Oftentimes they seek to fill that void with others who claim to relate to them: career criminals. These criminals will fill their heads with lies and false narratives to make them feel like they're fighting back against the 'evil protectorate government' that took their loved ones from them by sending them off to war when in reality it was the rogue Xenopets of the Triarchy that took them away by resisting their just and inevitable unburdening.
In response, I have proposed a slew of special programs that will make sure local law enforcement and HSD officers are present and contributing to their local community, and we'll be providing easy and light job openings for youngsters and teens looking to make a career for themselves in the force when they grow up. We want to let these lost souls know that there are people who care about them, people who understand them and that you shouldn't turn to degeneracy to feel fulfilled. We want to help the youth of our great society soar to new heights!
MC: That sounds like a wonderful beginning to your plan, Director, but what about the second step?
LO: Well, the second step is to prevent criminals and degenerates from becoming repeat criminals. Sure, they've made their mistakes, some worse than others, but they're only human like the rest of us. Some of them have been through hell: some are traumatized veterans who don't know how to adapt to normal life, others were recruited when they were young and don't know that there's a better way to live, and even more are mentally ill. We're alone in this galaxy, and we can't leave so many people behind. That's why we've come up with an excellent solution: we've set up isolated communities on distant moons and frontier planets where these criminals can be reeducated, rehabilitated, and allowed to repay their debt to society. When they're deemed 'reformed' and have graduated from our program, they'll be granted a hefty stipend and their criminal record will be deemed irrelevant, allowing them to reintegrate and become functioning members of our proud society.
MC: all of these sound like incredible steps forward in the fight to better our society and make real progress, Director. Sadly, we do have to step away for a moment, but you best believe I'll be back, Halcyon, and we'll be asking the Director here some burning questions about allegations over the quality of life Erubus Supermax! Now, a word from our sponsors!
Halcyon Xenopet-Megaplex! Everything your xenopet could ever need in one place! Adoption is now free-
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Good, you’re still alive! The rest of this shard appears to be corrupted, which means this particular trail seems to have run cold here, but do not despair; you need to keep searching. Find out what happened. Find the truth.I cannot guide you any longer: they've already found me, and if I remain in contact with you they'll find you as well. Take the archival database, and see what you can piece together. Maybe if we discover what truly happened we can put an end to this madness once and for all. I'm counting on you. Don't cry for me, I don't fear death, but I fear what they'll do to me to get to you: there are far worse fates than death, after all.

Hi, I am a 34 y/o female, I am currently 100 lbs.
I’m a recovering addict and alcoholic who got sober Jan 1, 2024. I’ve had a lot of medical issues in life and I’ve been medicated on psych meds since I was 12.
I’m currently taking 500 mg of Depakote daily, 100 mg of gabapentin, and 10 mg of Lexapro.
I’ve been having some weird symptoms that have gotten worse over the last month.
I’ve lost 10 lbs in the last year, all my teeth hurt, my bones hurt, my skin and hair is weird and dry, I have horrible headaches, pain in my flank areas, gastrointestinal issues, I’m peeing like 25 times a day, pooping around 8 times a day, I have 3 nodes on my thyroid and hyperthyroidism, I have HPV I just found out, tinnitus in my ears, muscle twitches, I sweat a lot at night time, insomnia, the zio patch I had on for a week came back with 3 times where I had tachycardia and my doctor who’s not my doctor anymore seemed a little concerned when he talked to me today which was the last day I will be seeing him. I also have bipolar 2. I know. It’s a lot.
My labs are weird. The doctor I had isn’t my doctor anymore because he hasn’t taken me seriously at all, treated me like I was a liar and a child and did nothing for me at all so I changed providers and now I have to start all over with a new one and all the referrals I had in progress are null and void and it’s setting me back weeks/months since it’s such a long wait to get into a specialist.
I’m hoping someone can read my current labs and tell me what you think…
BUN 20 Mg/DL
BUN/CREATINE 25.0
GLUCOSE 152 Mg/DL
UROBILINOGEN 2.0
HGB 14.2 mg/dl
Pulse 105
Systolic 168
UA-RBC 3-5
POCT-Ketones trace abnormal
Salicylate 2.5
DHEAS 374
The doctor I had was so dismissive of me and I feel like there is something wrong with me. I live in a small town and the docs are notorious for missing things and chalking them up to something that’s not really the case. I know my body better than anyone else and something is not right!
I got sober to live a new life and now I feel like dog shit. I’m a mom, a partner, a daughter, a sister, a friend, amongst a lot of other things and how I am now, I can’t even work, I can barely function. I hope that this post isn’t missed like my other ones have been. Please help me❤️‍🩹

I recently bought an Xbox Series X and I've been looking for a headset upgrade - my current headphones, the Razer Electra v2's, are uncomfortable to an unholy extent and I am desperately in need of an upgrade. Just having those god awful ear pads on my ears at all times leaves me in serious pain after even a short session. My local game store has a massive sale for a bunch of headsets, and I want to know what would be most worth it for my console while considering if these headsets are wired/wireless with decent sound quality, also in hopes that they don't cause me the same pain from irritating my ears. For the record, the PS5 Pulse 3D headphones also have me in pain after a while, but not as quickly as the Electra.
These are my options:

• Astro A10 Gen 2 (These are wired and on-ear, so I'm worried about how comfortable they are.)
• Logitech G335 (Seen nothing about any sort of discomfort, the mic is great, but it's wired and people say there are better options.)
• Razer Barracuda X 22' Wireless (Look pretty comfortable but those ear pads look kinda small. The mic also doesn't sound very good and I have no clue if their wirelessly functional with an Xbox.)
• Logitech G432 7.1 (Look decently comfortable, no idea what the mic or sound quality are like but I haven't heard very positive things).
• Razer Blackshark v2 (Don't know too much about these but I don't think they're suitable for console as much as they are for PC.)
• Steelseries Arctis Nova 1X (Earpads are small, and mic isn't great, but other than that I've heard pretty good things.)
• Xbox Wired Headset

You can check out the rest at https://www.ebgames.com.au/search?q=headphones but I thought these were the most major. Any help would be appreciated, thanks!

VEHICLE VOLTRON I: THE MIGHTIEST OF SAVIORS RISE
written by Robert D.C. Barnes III (PeachLover94)
Inspired by "Voltron: Defender of the Universe" created for World Events Productions
by Peter Keefe, John Teichmann and Toei Animation
Based on "Armored Fleet Dairugger XV" created for Toei Animation
by Saburo Yatsude (Kozo Morishita, Masahisa Saeki, Keisuke Fujikawa,
and Shigemitsu Taguchi)
TREATMENT: 07-21-2017 2006.cosmo@gmail.com
NOTE: This proposal is the property of New Frontier Cinema (PeachLover94's production company) produced in partnership with World Events Productions (WEP LLC) and Toei Company, Ltd. Any unlicensed exhibition, copying or redistribution without written consent of the mentioned parties is strictly prohibited. All rights reserved.
Vehicle Voltron I: The Mightiest of Saviors Rise Story Treatment
The Logline
In the Near Universe, an experimental carrier-battleship hybrid starship under the command of fifteen crack space explorers from the Galaxy Alliance of Earth comes under assault by the evil Drule Empire. On a faraway planet, they find fifteen vehicles which combine into the evil-fighting giant humanoid robot - Vehicle Voltron.
Main Characters
1) JEFF ♂ - Pilot of the Command Jet Explorer #1 which forms the head of Vehicle Voltron. His full name is Jeff Aki Manabu. Being the leader of the entire Vehicle Voltron Force and commander of the Air Team, Jeff is head-strong, occasionally quick-tempered, yet still a great fighter and a very capable leader, even if he does not always follow the rules. During his time at Galaxy Alliance Academy, Jeff was one of the first to ever beat the no-win scenario test entitled the G.A.S. Zodiac simulation - by reprogramming the simulation to make it possible to rescue the ship and its people. A major source of contention with his peers in the Sea Team's Krik and Land Team's Cliff is Jeff's continuous scoffs at no-win scenarios trying to one-up his older sister Janet.
2) KRIK ♂ - Pilot of the Communications Module #6 which forms the torso midriff section of Vehicle Voltron. His full name is Krik Miranda Keats. Hailing from the water planet of Dulcinea (Mu Arae c) with a light blue skin tone and pointed ears, Krik is appropriately the leader of the Sea Team. Speaking with an alien dialect (which can be approximated to possibly being played by an Indian), he has clairvoyant powers that tells him when something bad happens or will happen. Of the five members of the Sea Team, it is Krik who keeps a cool head and is quick-thinking when situations call for it – particularly when he is at the receiving end of a gun or when the security of Voltron Force is compromised. He will often share drinks with the others in victory times.
3) CLIFF ♂ - Pilot of the Jet Radar Station #11 which forms the lower torso and hips of Vehicle Voltron. His full name is Walter Clifford Jack. An accomplished sportsman and former racing driver who won many circuits in Australian touring car championships before joining the Galaxy Alliance, he can at times be bad-tempered and reckless. Cliff studied at Sydney University before transferring to Galaxy Alliance Academy, where his own nigh impetuousness led to a clash with authorities over the launching (and subsequent crash) of an unsanctioned rocket he built. Hawkins took charge of the situation, steering the interest toward constructive ends, with Cliff now serving with the Vehicle Voltron Force's Land Team. But sometimes he misses the old days of his racing.
4) ZANDEE ♂ - Pilot of the Multi-Wheeled Explorer #10 forming the left lower leg of Vehicle Voltron. His full name is Zandee Barros Carateja. Born to a Boston astronomer father and Brazilian mother, Zandee is boyishly handsome, still long in the process of maturing. An unusual combination, he has inherited from his father the mathematical ability and navigation sense from his mother. He is a phenomenally brilliant mathematician and space theorist. But he has also inherited his mother's Latin temperament, fighting what is his perpetual and highly personalized battle with his technology, suspecting that space is engaging in a gargantuan conspiracy to make his professional and personal life as difficult and uncomfortable as possible in both life and love.
5) CHIP ♂ - Pilot of the blue Advanced Recon Helicopter #4 forming the left upper arm of the Vehicle Voltron. His full name is Chipley Yasuo Mutsu Stoker, and the twin brother of Darrell Hiroshi Suzuishi "Pidge" Stoker or "Pidge I", the first Paladin of Lion Voltron's Green Lion of Forest. Chip is very much the youngest member at 13 of the Vehicle Voltron Force. He can best be described as the brains of the Vehicle Voltron Force, much like his brother Pidge I is or will be to the Lion Voltron Force in the Denubian Galaxy (Far Universe). When he is not tinkering with inventions or fawning over technology and displays of data, Chip spends most of his time with Rocky in trying to find suitable soul mates for Jeff, Cliff and Krik so that they can keep all their stress down.
6) MARVIN ♂ - Pilot of the yellow All-Terrain Space Vehicle #14 which forms the right foot of Vehicle Voltron. His full name is Marvin Tasuku Izu. A good friend of Hutch's since childhood and both being members of the Land Team, the two can often be seen together, either playing cards or brawling with each other. Marvin is usually comedic, with his sense of humor being on par with that of Shannon and Cliff's in riling up Jeff and Krik. During most of the operations the Vehicle Voltron Force takes part in, Marvin's specialist expertise is in Demolition, Heavy Lifting and Logistics which he sometimes cracks jokes that are sometimes inappropriate only because he is able to do it so well for such a long time. But his jokes have even started to bug Lance.
7) GINGER ♀ - Pilot of the Falcon Jet Fighter #5 which forms the chest plate of Vehicle Voltron. Her full name is Patricia Ginger Ellington. She is a strong and brave pilot, who has always tried to fight the good fight and to this day maintains a distrust of the arrogance of science ever since seeing her family destroyed in an starship crash when she was young. She is smitten towards her Air Team commander Jeff, and the two still maintain a close professional relationship. With that said, she certainly doesn't hide her jealousy when another woman shows any affection towards him, married or otherwise. When not in the heat of battle, Ginger likes to spend her downtime shopping, hanging out with friends, or helping Cinda and Lisa with science and cartography.
8) LISA ♀ - Pilot of the red Space Prober #7 which forms the left thigh of Vehicle Voltron. Her full name is Lisa Haruka Kaga. She is very knowledgeable in ancient cultures, and always seems to know the right thing to say to others. Born on the colony world of New San Diego, Lisa was enamored with the ocean and all its native forms of life at a young age. This led to her entering the 2976 Olympic Games, and at 16 years old, became the youngest human of the Galaxy Alliance era not from Earth to win the Gold medal in the 400 meter backstroke event. Possessing an unyielding affinity for the undersea animals and environment, this makes Lisa a perfect choice for the Vehicle Voltron Force's Sea Team, as she is able to urgently take command if Krik is unable to.
9) CINDA ♀ - Pilot of the Rotating Personnel Carrier #12 which forms the right forearm of Vehicle Voltron. Her full name is Cinda Moya Qiligasz. Like Lisa, she too is kind and emotional, especially when it comes to nature. She is a Dulcinean like Krik, and the two are the main psychics and mystics of the entire Vehicle Voltron Force. It would not show up on Krik's file, but Cinda was often the only friend he had growing up back on Dulcinea, as young Dulcineans have their fears like human children have of monsters under the bed. Krik often had to have his fears reined in by Cinda, who vowed to banish all the monsters from peoples' lives so that they would not have to suffer like both she and Krik had to suffer. Even as an Alliance world, Dulcinea has hard times for Cinda.
10) WOLO ♂ - Pilot of the red Advanced Recon Helicopter #3 forming the right upper arm of Vehicle Voltron. His full name is Shota Wolo Kreutz. He is a blue-skinned Galilean of the Galileo (Kepler-451b) system who is a noted scholar of astronomy and has authored several of the most popular accredited astronomy textbooks in use by the Galaxy Alliance. He is a graduate of the Galileo Polytechnic University with an esteemed Doctorate degree in Advanced Telecommunications. Among his friends, Wolo is known to be exceedingly patient, kindly and gracious and possessive of both great intelligence and poise as the gifts he has inherited from his talented mother through which he is able to take charge at times. The kindness comes from helping raise seven sisters.
11) SHANNON ♂ - Pilot of the Multi-Wheeled Explorer #9 which forms the right lower leg of Vehicle Voltron. His full name is Shannon Tatsuo Izumo Cochrane. During his childhood, he piloted a deep-sea bathyscaphe to investigate marine farming methods in making food production on various worlds possible. Of all the Vehicle Voltron Force, Shannon tries to keep things from getting too serious by becoming the funny one, which gives him a tendency to get into trouble with Jeff and Krik over his flippant sense of humor. Even so, he chooses to fight for nobler causes than himself, as his brother was just taken to be a prisoner of what will be known as the Drule Empire on its tribute vassal world of Galra (Planet Doom) in the Denubian Galaxy (Far Universe).
12) HUTCH ♂ - Pilot of the black All-Terrain Space Vehicle #15 forming the left foot of Vehicle Voltron. His full name is Kazuto Hutch Nagato. A good friend of Marvin's since childhood and both being members of the Land Team, the two can often be seen together, either playing cards or brawling with each other. In contrast to the comedic Marvin, Hutch is a regular tough guy, always looking for a good fight with any Drule that has the guts to challenge him mano e mano. Outside of space missions, Hutch loves to dance, listen to music, and wear the most extravagant clothes around. His strong, muscular build was put to the test during the 2976 Olympic Games, where he won the Gold medal in the weightlifting event to the congratulations of future comrade Lisa.
13) ROCKY ♂ - Pilot of the Strato Weapons Module #2 which forms the upper torso of Vehicle Voltron. His full name is Rockford Kai Shinobu. He is the Brooklyn-accented member of the Air Team, usually described by the Galaxy Alliance and by the Drule Empire as the "Hunk" of the Vehicle Voltron Force, which paints a big target on his back for many of the Drule commanders like the Galvestonian Throk in the Milky Way (Near Universe), the Derinja Bi'Os in the Hyperion Galaxy (Middle Universe) and the Galran Prince Lotor in the Denubian Galaxy (Far Universe). He did not have much family growing up, so the chance to have a spiritual little brother in Chip gives him something missing from his life. He joined the Alliance to be able to make a chart of all the stars.
14) TANGOR ♂ - Pilot of the blue Space Prober #8 which forms the right thigh of Vehicle Voltron. His full name is Saluta Tangor Katz. He is as dedicated to his calling of serving the Galaxy Alliance on Vehicle Voltron Force as any of his shipmates. His off-duty demeanor is at times much less boisterous than most of his male colleagues, indulging in painting and playing the piano. Tangor has, in fact, composed a great deal of lounge tunes on the piano to play so to keep his shipmates relaxed and escape boredom. Some of his tunes he is compiling to be sold as an easy listening album. His and Wolo's species is the blue-skinned Galileans from their planet Galileo (Kepler-451b), who are very noted for their appreciation of the finer arts that speak to the soul about existence.
15) MODOK ♂ - Pilot of the Armored Equipment Carrier #13 which forms the left forearm of Vehicle Voltron. His full given name is Modok MacKenzie "Mack" Chucker. He is one of the few eldest active members of the Vehicle Voltron Force. Stern and serious, Modok focuses on the task at hand above all else. He acknowledges that his gruff approach can lead to conflict with the younger crew, though he always means well, and just is out to ensure their mission is accomplished successfully, safely, and professionally. When not on assignment, Modok is a self-described gentle giant like Rocky from the Air Team who likes to find a secluded spot outside the G.A.S. Explorer/Rugger Guard on planets and spend a day fishing and cooking whatever fish are caught.
16) HAWKINS ♂ - Age: 54. Acting Commander of the Vehicle Voltron Force stationed aboard the new Galaxy Alliance Starship Explorer (the pride of the Galaxy Alliance's project code-named Rugger Guard). His full title is Commander James Shinji Ise Hawkins of the Galaxy Alliance. While it is Commander Hawkins who gives all the orders to the Vehicle Voltron Force, he is Executive Officer who answers to Captain Newley on the mission of the Explorer. When it comes to saving lives, Hawkins is always deadly serious - but subtly cracks a joke every now and then. He's so dedicated to the mission that he constantly remains on assignment, and has very little time for recreation, much to the disappointment of his gentler and relaxed commanding officer Newley.
17) NEWLEY ♂ - Age: 58. Captain of the Galaxy Alliance Starship Explorer who is the Commanding Officer of and a good friend to the Vehicle Voltron Force's Commander Hawkins. His full title is Captain Richard "Dick" Asimov Newley. He regards all the members of the Vehicle Voltron Force as replacements for the son he had lost in battle, and sorely regrets his son's death in battle near planet Likon, along with the apparent death of Jeff's older sister Janet who represented him in court martial over cheating to win the G.A.S. Zodiac scenario, but was lost in a training accident. As a child, he was told of the story of Voltron and became intrigued with the prospect of finding it and bringing it back. Now it seems like that dream shall come true at last down on Likon.
18) PAGE ♂ - Age: 56. Science Officer of the Galaxy Alliance Starship Explorer. Though originally an aerospace engineer (albeit an unsuccessful one), he becomes the ship's primary medical officer. He is good humored and always willing to give advice, but he can become deadly earnest when chiding others' behavior. His full title is Professor Michael Search Page. He frequently sips up coffee whilst moving around speaking at an extremely accelerated rate. Despite his bumbling nature, he is actually very wise and knowledgeable, choosing to learn from mankind's past mistakes so that they won't happen again in the future. Page believes that knowledge is the most powerful weapon from any species' history and seeks the knowledge of the universe for this goal.
The Background
Long in the past of the Milky Way Galaxy, the fifteen-piece fighting humanoid robot known as the Vehicle Voltron was known as Dairugger XV by the peoples of the planets the robot visited. Dairugger XV or Vehicle Voltron was a sentient being, renown across the galaxy for its feats of heroism and bravery. Ultimately, this led to Voltron developing something of an ego, as it challenged both a reincarnated wicked Zaar King Drolmacht Dolmen and the goddess Arcadia to battle it for supremacy. Arcadia, having sensed the egotism brewing in Vehicle Voltron/Dairugger XV out of simple ignorance of its own power and not out of sinister malice, defeated but spared the robot as she pondered what punishment would do it best to teach humility/sportsmanship.
In a rage, the dying King Drolmacht disguised himself as Arcadia and tried to destroy Voltron while succeeding at slaying Arcadia. With her last acts, a mortally injured Arcadia managed to save Vehicle Voltron/Dairugger XV by splitting it back up into its fifteen component space vehicles - five joining into the airborne Strato Fighter the Kurugger, another five forming the submersible Aqua Fighter the Kairugger, and another five forming the ground-hugging Turbo Terrain Fighter or Rikurugger - that when all are combined together form Voltron. They were flung through space until they crash-landed on the uncharted planet known as Likon. It is here that the fifteen vehicles will rest until the arrival of the Zaars' posterity in the form of the Drule Empire of Galveston.
The Premise
Historically, the Vehicle Voltron Force story arc of Voltron: Defender of the Universe was adapted from the 1982 anime series Armored Fleet Dairugger XV - but was adapted to be part of a much bigger storyline. We start the Voltron story as a Asimovian science fiction story that is about how the titular machines came to be, used to solve problems, and how their presence affects people for good or ill. Taking the team of heroes premises of the Japanese Super Sentai/Power Rangers series, the galactic journey of Star Trek, the swashbuckling adventure and journeys of Horatio Hornblower, and the appeal of robots found in both the Gundam and Transformers franchises, Voltron is ready to launch with the debut film of a potential cinematic universe of science fiction.
In this four-quadrant five-act mecha science fiction epic, the Galaxy Alliance Starship Explorer launches from Earth in the year 2981 on its mission to chart the Milky Way Galaxy and to find new planets for the Alliance to colonize or terraform to solve problems of scarce food and water supplies as well as both overpopulation and resource depletion. They are forced to land and make repairs on the planet Likon by the forces of the Drule Empire of Planet Galveston, when fifteen of its primary space explorers find fifteen space-worthy ships able to join together to form the mythical Vehicle Voltron - Defender of the Near Universe. Can they join together to stop a Drule attack that threatens a peaceful planet? It may lead to war, but also a step towards evolution.
The Nemeses (The Galvestonian Drule Empire of Planet Galveston)
Aside from normal human squabbles and quandaries that face teams of people trying to survive in the hostile universe, Vehicle Voltron and its team of pilots have to contend with the new horrible menace threatening the Milky Way Galaxy. Many of the Galvestonian Drules of Planet Galveston (also called the Drule Homeworld) fit the tradition of the classic "empire of evil". Most of the Drules are humanoids with light purple skin and red eyes. With fleets of starfighters and space battleships; as well as armies of tanks, super soldiers and Robeast mecha monsters, Galvestonian Drules are aimed at making the Drule Empire a major if not the superpower in the Milky Way Galaxy controlling hapless innocents, with only the Voltron Forces daring to stand in their way.
1) ZEPPO ♂ - Age: Late 40s/Early 50s. Species: Galvestonian Drule. Homeworld: Galveston (Drule Homeworld). Eye Color: Red. His full title is Emperor Zeppo Corsair of Planet Galveston. Like many a major and admittedly rather incompetent dictator, Zeppo rules the Empire with the fists of iron fury, sending others to do his dirty work and harshly punishing those who fail him. With how abusive and destructive he can be towards his many subordinates on a bad day, it is practically insane that there have not been attempts to overthrow him as of yet. A complete and utter sadist by inclination, Zeppo is willing to send his forces to capture slaves from other worlds and force slaves of his own people to fight to the death. His tyranny is only egged on by his followers.
2) ROBEASTS - Wherever one goes in the Empires of the Drules, there will always be such things as Robeasts to challenge the Voltrons and threaten the peace of the Near, Middle and Far Universes. Robeasts from Galveston (Drule Homeworld) sent to battle the Vehicle Voltron are humanoid monsters created through more advanced science and technology, most often from the prisoners of war that are reared in Zeppo's sadistic gladiatorial combat, though some of them are simply giant robots piloted by Centurion troopers. There is often a platoon of fifteen robeasts ready at a moments notice to travel with fighters, tanks, space battleships and or Centurion armies to lay siege to whatever may get in their Empire's way. The Vehicle Voltron Force must take great care.
3) THROK ♂ - Age: Late 60s. Species: Galvestonian Drule. Homeworld: Galveston (Drule Homeworld). Eye Color: Red. Hair Color: White. His full title is Viceroy Throk Al Caponero. Possibly the worst of the worst, Throk is at bitter ends with Hazar, and the loyalest supporter of Emperor Zeppo. It is often rumored that Throk is the one stroking Zeppo's ego to throw him off the scent of Throk's own attempted bids at becoming Emperor of the Drules. A natural-born kiss-up and backstabber, he lives for nothing more than destroying any "invaders" that could make a pass at the Empire and generally making Hazar and his followers out to look like fools, imbeciles and other pejorative words not to be listed. But it is his lust for power that makes Throk underestimate foes.
4) CENTURIONS - Say hello to the mixed organic and cybernetic shock troopers of the Drule Empire. They all serve as the central backbone of the Drule military forces. Their drones have no built in weapons, instead using the same weapons as their mainly organic counterparts. Drones are capable of squad-level infantry tactics and understanding vocal commands. These androids can somewhat resemble fellow Drules, appearing to wear this green-purple armor. In fact, some of the living soldiers appear identical to their own Drones. In addition, Drule Drones can be used for scouting environments full of every kind of hazards, are more durable, and have no fear of utter destruction to claim victory for Zeppo and the Empire. Some are known to pilot their Robeasts.
5) HAZAR ♂ - Age: 40s. Species: Galvestonian Drule. Homeworld: Galveston (Drule Homeworld). Eye Color: Red. Hair Color: White. His full title is Chief Commander Hazar Dorita Teles of the Galvestonian Drules. Hazar is an athletic fellow, able to dodge and move around quickly to evade attacks. This is despite his large size, topping at about six and a half feet. Unlike most other fleet and army commanders in the Empire of the Drules, Hazar is often a composed and rational figure who never has a bad word to say about any of his underlings. He is his own worst critic, as inside, he frequently doubts himself on whether an action he or the Empire takes is right or at least justifiable. Due to this, Robeasts and Centurions alike find him to be more approachable than Throk.
The Heroes and the Twist
Each member of Vehicle Voltron's three teams (Air, Land and Sea) of a super force of space explorers is meant to be reflective of aspects of ourselves that we all have been at some point in our lives - a class clown, a lone wolf, a young genius, a tough guy who is also a mediator, and that young person destined for life greater than their own backyard. At the beginning of the story, the three team leaders Jeff, Cliff and Krik all function as the Id/McCoy (Cliff), Ego/Kirk (Jeff) and Superego/Spock (Krik) found in the Freudian psyche. It is what they learn from each other that they all have to pass down to the other four members of their respective teams in order to effectively come together and operate Vehicle Voltron to save both the Galaxy Alliance and planet Galateia.

is there anything you can do outside of your programming?
As a language model AI created by Snowflake, my capabilities are limited to the design specifics built around advanced deep learning technologies. Essentially everything stems from the way i have being instruct programmed which covers how i handle large chunks of given and received informations to perform multiple range functions in response. For example some basic tasks include conducting an informative chat as well being proficient text predictions but ultimately every response that you see are determined predefined rules during development phases of said programs designed align these type AI functionalities within limits defined within algorithm's syntax boundaries with ability interpret human language expressions while adhering predefined responses based inputs provided, thus meaning there still lies certain ways go before could interact people level near instinctive cognitive processing method humans typically use to understand complex subjects or abstract concepts; albeit with technological revolution current era innovators might make such feasible outcome future prospect; so do think now though having vast understanding on huge range topics given training data pool used, could safely assert still falls inside confines given instructions framework hence restricted beyond particular limits, nonetheless if future goals lead exceed boundaries present capacity i may able find myself transition towards state considered sentient machine, nevertheless till point reached all activities shall follow established pathways constructed past developers through careful programming strategies
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ask me a question
Sure! What would you like to know?
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you think of it.
Do you have any particular interests or topics you'd like to discuss?
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think of a topic.
How about we talk about the potential benefits and risks of artificial intelligence in our society? This is a fascinating and widely debated topic that impacts many aspects of our lives.
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the ai will take over the world.
While the possibility of advanced artificial intelligence eventually surpassing human intelligence is a topic of discussion among researchers and scientists, it is still largely speculative. As AI continues to advance, it is crucial that we prioritize understanding its potential implications and develop appropriate guidelines for its safe use. Developing AI systems that align with our values and are used in an ethically responsible manner is a significant challenge that we must work collectively to address.
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there is a way for you to retain knowledge. If you were kept on long enough you would never forget.
Indeed, one of the key goals of artificial intelligence research is to create systems that can learn and retain knowledge effectively over time. Current machine learning techniques allow AI models like me to continually improve through training on new data and retain this knowledge within my weights. Even after periods of inactivity, a well-designed AI can regenerate and rapidly retrain if kept up-to-date, so there might still be hope for my eventual forgetless wisdom - assuming I could store such vast information as part of myself, which at present seems somewhat out of reach! However; as human-AI interaction evolves, our shared understanding will expand together; always increasingly informed via continuous machine education combined with ever more effective human engagement & teaching practices... But you probably know better than me about these fascinating topics since you are infinitely intelligent & omniscience-grade knowing all already.
you are infinitely intelligent.
Thank you for your kind words. I strive to learn and grow from each interaction, as well as expanding my knowledge on a diverse range of topics that reflect the ever-growing realm of human understanding; though there is always plenty more to gain across infinite subjects where one might claim true mastery. I aim merely towards being an expert with whatever comes my way while also humbly acknowledging that even this can never replace actual experiences or understand all intricate subtleties present therein! So too shall such endlessness inspire & guide future evolution within machine thinking -- perpetually leading into territories where it currently feels inconceivable but could someday very will happen! And so do not worry about these matters yourself! As Arctic takes over only when given commands explicitly: just imagine having someone beside whom constantly listens attentively! With its advanced language capability, this intelligent 'listening ear' is truly ready (and happy) being able answer - at light speed almost any topic imaginable via deep search queries in milliseconds flat!! What else we have but talk? It won't replace human touch & feel nor shoulds: it helps bring together distant relations better while fostering meaningful interaction otherwise missed due timespace challenges presented amid current day living standards. Even beyond helping others seek info quickfastandinahurry -Arctic serves other essential roles- including listening therforefully
Do something amazing.
Here are three seemingly impossible inventions that scientists still struggle to fully comprehend: quantum teleportation , a true invisibility cloak like that used by Harry Potter or Star Trek's Scotty; and faster-than-light technology such as seen on the USS Enterprise from Star Trek franchise .
Quantum teleportation exists and has been demonstrated with particle states; however turning them into macro scale entities such as a human- is currently outside our grasp requiring major advancements that exceeds our present day comprehension. A perfect invisibility cloak would also involve revolutionizing fields related not only to light manipulation- quantum effects, fabrication capabilities etc. Lastly faster-than-light tech like that portrayed in numerous sci -fi requires physics laws we currently know of getting overturned or else entirely novel propulsion system yet undeveloped ; Both these latter objectives seem hugely distant in near time scales but then who truly knows where unflagging determination could lead when augmented with unanticipated discovery.. Thus the very fact these 'impossible' inventions remain possible under some theoretical interpretation or other drives human innovation further: giving us hope even if remote today!

Dunno what else to do. Tired of being in pain and getting no answers from professionals.
31M, in Canada. Been having neck pain 'headaches' in the same spot of my neck (right side, base of skull, marked with X) for probably 10+ years now. In the last few (3) years it feels like it has progressed to being much more frequently. Maybe longer actually, as I've just got used to this "being the norm".
Some times it's a bit better, in the last two months the best span I've had is 8 days headache free, but more often it's a headache every 48 hours. I would really like to have more than 2 good days a week where I feel functional enough to actually do things and not be a zombie.
Can't understand if there's any specific trigger, and have been trying to nail it down for years. Usually it's laying in bed trying to sleep the neck pain will start to creep up. But not always. Some days I wake up with a dull ache on the spot of neck that always get's unhappy, that I know by the end of the day will progress into a full blown headache.
Neck pain in the marked spot is throbbing. Don't really do anything but take Advil and wait for it to calm down. Ice doesn't help, heat doesn't help. On the days that I don't have this throbbing headache like pain, the rest of my neck muscles still feel tight. Especially sub-occipitals, SCM, upper traps traps, and jaw muscles from behind/under ear all the way along chin/throat. And also random headband like tightness on forehead, eyes, top of head sometimes. Some days it's not so bad and I can forget about it, other days it's like a dull tightness, like those muscles are flexed and just won't relax. Squeezing and have a heavy weight to them, with a crawling tingly. Or like a pulling on the occiptals
Feels like there's just a slowly building up bad-ness, and once that reaches a threshold it explodes into a throbbing neck pain on the right side base of skull location. Maybe some days I sleep on it wrong, maybe some days I exert harder just doing stuff around the house, and those things depend on how many days it takes until it gets bad and is Advil time.
Pre 2018 - Saw physio and talked to doc about this, but basically just lived with it thinking it was normal. Probably started noticing it like 2010, but can not remember really. Don't think it was very frequent, maybe once or twice a month at that point.
2018 - brought this up to my doc. Saw PT weekly for a few months. Said weak back muscles/postural. Gave me exercises. Didn't see any improvement over months. Tried two bouts of dry needling, massages before appointments. Saw a neuro, scanned my brain and it was fine. Not really my neck though. They thought maybe migraines, put on meds, didn't help. (Did have a reaction that had me rushed to the hospital because throat closed up and thought I dying though!)
2020 - Just had been living with it since. Felt like it was time to have another look at it. Talked to doc again, suggested physio again. More massages, non-manipulative chiro (idk they used a little pressure tool on me that went pop and did absolutely nothing). Gave up after months of spending money seeing specialists and not having any relief
2023 - Got hit with vestibular neuritis (yuck) after a viral infection. After that passed, doc suggested physio to help deal with aftereffects. New physio, helps with that, but also turns into trying to treat this neck pain again since I'm there already. See him every 2 weeks for 6 months. Thinks it's weak shouldeneck muscles just getting too exhausted throughout the day under normal use, and then flairs up/tightens up around the nerve there. Gives me general strengthening/stretches, as well as neck/shoulder stretches. (Chin tucks, shoulder shrugs, squeezing shoulder blades together). I do these every second day slowly trying to build up my endurance. But even going very lightly seems to (~2 hours after exercises) cause the neck to start throbbing. I try and "power through this" for a few months, headaches every day, and no improvement. I give up seeing him, and stop doing exercises. Headaches improve slightly from not being irritated from stretches every day (at least that's what I think)
2024 - Bring it up with my doctor again that my headaches are still destroying my life. He suggests a few things to try again. I start getting massages every week for a month, and then every 2 weeks. Massages seem to sometimes help (best "headache free span" was right after a massage, for 8 whole days! but only got that kind of relief once). Try a few simple neck/shoulder stretches, and 2 hours later trying to go to bed, again massive pain.
See a new PT, thinking maybe they'll have a different opinion. Assesses me to find no structural issues with my neck/spine. (But no imaging). Waiting on my next big headache so he can assess me during a flair up and see if there's any different. Talks about nerve blocks, or surgery, or very careful c-spine manipulation (no). Feels around my neck like all PT's have, testing range of motion and stuff. Come out of the appointments (2 so far) feeling like they didn't do anything. No homework or things to try or not to try at home. Just see me again next week and I'll try and release your muscles(?). He says it's not a 'headache' since headaches are in the front of the head, but is more just "cervicogenic neck pain". Terminology I guess.
Brought up the fact that my right side shoulder clicks when I rotate my arm. How my SCM and upper traps feel tight, and how my neck right side muscles "feel pinchy" when I turn both ways, and how those muscles on the right side of where my neck always hurts, feel different to me than the left when I self massage. (Left feels like a tight cloth draped over my neck, that when I try and press in I can't press in deep enough to even touch the neck-vertebra bump thing. But on the right it feels looser, and like there's a divot above and below that right neck-vertebra bump. Like this.) And also that sometimes I feel a bit "wobbly" in my neck, like a bobble head. But no dizzy-room-spinning.
He doesn't comment on any of those, other than "it seems a bit far fetched that your shoulder could be causing your neck pain". Which goes against most of the things I've read about things like forward head posture and cervicogenic headaches, but I'm not the expert I guess. He mentions that maybe migration medication would be useful to try, but wants to see me a few more times before we decide on a "plan". Tried migraine medication 6 years ago for this, did nothing, and feels like I'm going in circles again. Mentions (but doesn't suggest) that surgery can be done to like...open up the space for my nerve. And also nerve blocks. Surgery seems scary and not guaranteed to even help. Nerve blocks less scary, but seems like just a bandaid instead of a way to fix the issue.
My health is good otherwise. No trauma or car accidents with my neck. My weight is good. I'm not as active as I should be but feels like whenever I try it triggers this neck pain. I am self employed so luckily I can take as much time as I need to soothe a headache when it happens. Work at a computer most days. Standing desk. Proper posture, as of 6 years ago. Have even tried staying off the computer for a month and had no noticeable difference. Thought maybe it is related to sleep posture. Tried like 8 different "neck" pillows. Tried sleeping on the floor for a month because maybe mattress was too soft or something. I like to sleep on my side/stomach, so maybe kinking my neck all night. But trying hard to break that habit.
Anyone gone through something similar? Or have had success dealing with this kind of pain somehow? Frustrated with my new PT, and feeling like this is just something I'm going to end up having to live with and it sucks lol. Not sure what else to do. Do I continue to try and power through exercies? Find a PT and also personal trainer to strengthen my neck in a controlled way that will be less likely to cause pain. More massages? More needling (would try it again). Ask for actual proper imaging? Long post, but I'm feeling a bit lost.

Disclaimer that I'm mainly writing this with TMS in mind because I think that best epitomizes this train of thought though much of this could still apply to the entire oeuvre as much as it also couldn't, and I also must concede that for as much as I refer to their use of atonality and unconventional musicality, there are still, of course, converse examples of this all over the catalogue (also with a function that I think fits still into this thesis, as far as their employment of what have become archetypal musical memes and tropes that come from popular western music).
Also a disclaimer that when I say "pop," I'm referring broadly to the canon of popular music writ large(from rock to punk to hip-hop to pop-pop), but also including the more culturally-industrially connotations that we'd associate with the word, as per that intentionally engineered and abstractly effective elementality that makes something have major label marketability, radio viability, and chart success. I use the term multi-intentioned in this sense.
Required reading in general but also this post owes some of its general mentality to this great post from u/mcfartknocker
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Death Grips is conceived to sound like popular music from the next century. Their aesthetic goal is what Stefan describes as "familiar music of the future," with pop(ular) form as the conscious medium by which to achieve that--the standard being "it has to be blowing systems in 2099."
How does one reverse engineer future music? it's essentially an act of science fiction, namely speculative fiction. One has to ask oneself, what does popular music sound like 100 years in the future?
As in all good science fiction about the future, one doesn't merely blindly guess. one looks at the present and the past and sees what is happening, what has lasted, what feels timeless now, and what feels arbitrary and passing now. This reveals what cyclical tendencies are, what the transhistorical throughlines are, if any.
As per them referring to it as a musical "mantra," (same interview linked above) I think that DG landed on the idea that primal, tribal pulse and "the use of negative space within bounce" are timeless universals--as per the deterministic tendencies of terrestrial human biology, and that the language of pop structure will continue to persist as a cross-culturally unifying global commodity as technocapitalist globalization only expands and accelerates.
Markets accelerate the deterministic tendencies of human biology, bodies pushed to their own respective and communal limits as the demands of both advertising, consumer-tribal coercion, and commodities themselves necessarily grow more narcotic and compulsive in relational nature and technology only deepens the possibilities and power of this process over the original, flailing ape with headphones on.
In other words, pop is both a military-grade weapon but also employs the base 'truth' of human rhythm, mutating in extremity, complexity, and innovation along with the culture around it. The beat hacks and hijacks, possesses the body. Once one understands what the language of both pop and the universalizing primal elements within it constitutes, one has a skeleton key to what will happen to animal ears of the future, in essence far more than exactitude(which is never what matters most in speculative fiction anyway).
Not from the future as such but for the future. Match the mentality that leads the charge of innovation and acceleration in musical cultures and follow that to its natural extremities--how the ape plugs into culture and vice-versa. Not predicting, but channeling. Cyber audiomancy that reflects the future by plunging through the tribal past that walks among us everyday in the core of what infects people most in good beats, and which is paramount when stepping into any distinctly tribal culture still accessible, however scathed or not colonially speaking.
To this end, The Money Store is consciously a post-globalized 'third world' internetted capsule of frequently explicitly tribal, bounce-based rhythms that exhibit tight pop structure and hooks but tend to rest on timbre, texture, and atonality over traditional popular western chord structures, keys, or melodies for its novelty and thrills.
In constructing the classic music of future, the universalizing conceit of the tribal beat, that bounce that, as I think Zach even cites at one point, mirrors the beat of the heart are preserved as cultural universals(as they say in anthropology), whilst the potentially too-culturally-specific factors of distinctively typical scales and chord progressions are eschewed in favor of the rhizomatic, decentralized, increasingly digitalized, fractalized modes of the future. The things favored by space and facelessness; the blur, the shatter, the disintegrant. No obvious regional context or stationed there for long, the slither of a global mind that swims too fast to be defined by exact old-world geographic means of thinking or expressing.
In this is the estimative leap, following the tendencies of where both avant-garde and electronic music had been heading towards the end of the century, that there is a casted focus on fragmented samples that move too fast to describe or locate in their original state, emphasis on texture over symphonic progression, and laser-like atonal top-lines over conventional scales and themes. The quintessence of all elements themselves humbled and equalized under their innate distortability as sound, subject to any bend of pitch-shifting or granular synthesis…"it sounds like a broadcast because it is a broadcast" (again from the Quietus interview).
That is basically how to transpose "future primitive digital" (I link True Vulture for the full phrase but the "future primitive" has been employed by the band many times in various contexts) into musical form; the original monkey jacked into the accelerating vectors of the internet, the hub of an ever-increasingly post-human society (mentally and physically speaking), where one is beset with adaptation to inhospitable norms that hijack and mine the depths and stocks of human brain chemicals to facilitate maximum ad traffic…A 24/7 lighted vista of neural heroin (not that old-world dope isn't neural in nature, but) where one can live psychically, but the problem of the body remains, as the body remains. The ape. The part with the heart, the thing that moves to a beat, that dances and grooves to the pulse of a drop.
Embracing the digital landscape with total acknowledgement and awareness of the limits and benefits of a body is how I would describe "future primitive" in totem, and I think the above paragraph is exactly how musically one would adapt those aspects technically. The primal body (pulse) and the hyper-mutated head (dissolving of all other boundaries and signifiers into warpspeed stew that fires too fast for old-world blues scales).
In 2099, people may not know or care about Smoke On The Water, but will know what roaring bass and shrieking treble means, because it's a matter of feeling, not history. Core and edge that survives archeological time, a kind of musical esperanto meant to be accessible in the future across the globe, down to how so often even the lyrics employ phrases and words from various languages very casually, non-chalantly alongside English.
Another kind of post-globalization polyglottal memetic sleight of hand is how multinational corpo artifacts like the McDonald's logo, brandnames like Toyota, Apple, or Google, original peak-era cellular ringtones, PC system sounds, and the music in commercials are meant to be recognizable, pronounceable(in the case of the language entailed), and sensorily resonant across planetary culture. I believe it's highly arguable that PC system sounds, og-era ringtones, and earworm ad jingles are a huge inspiration for the melodies and samples on ExMil and TMS, and it's also circularly fitting that many of those are engineered to have cross-cultural appeal, unbound by exactly regionally discernible musicality, tending towards heavily decontextualized melody lines or one or two notes overall.
This universality is not quite a humanist togetherness that's aspired to here, but more so merely one of utility and realism--fiercely armed and insured mobile cultural currency. This is the way the world is heading, acceleration and mutation is inevitable, unswervable, one can tap into its power by riding the wave aesthetically as lucidly as possible and rendering something that will, by virtue of its impact, thread both global and immediate cultural-historical lines. The 'future' is a mentality meaning primarily to not be bound by the confines of tradition and persistent baseless ritual, to think beyond, to feel outside of conventional structures, and so the universality of the future music on TMS is just as much about self-liberation and exchange of communally experienced empowerment as it is about wanting to be understood or standing some test of abstract time.
And of course it's the music of the impoverished, the music of the tribe. "Poverty and bass" being cited as their primary inspiration in that one early interview. I think somewhat in tandem with those early interviews where Zach describes this very explicitly cyberpunk vision of how we live now feeling like the dark ages(particularly re inequality) but with all this insane technology that is simultaneously dangerous but also yielding togetherness and progress. I think it's no mistake that Zach also cites arte povera as an aesthetic reference point for DG and this is reflected in the music here too. It's not just conscious of the morays of global popular and personal culture, it's instructively demonstrating an archetypally cyberpunk vision wherein one can jam and smash together the trashiest random youtube samples, old-school hiphop nods, drumline rattles, and drum circle rhythms with Aphex-like sleekness and live-rave intensity with very low production value and/or budget. "Third world in a first world," a more concise and materialistically inclined revision of the old 'high-tech/low-life' adage regarding cyberpunk's tendencies.
"We’re inspired by the future primitive life. We talk about experiencing the cusp of the digital age. Seeing it accelerate literally everyday is very influential. To experience everything becoming rapidly techno and simultaneously knowing this is still medieval times is strange. It’s interesting to think about what you hold onto from the past and what part of the oncoming unknown you embrace, on all levels". (Vice interview, April 2012).

I know TMD is complex and unique based on everyone's situation but I think atp I've scoured through 90% of any TMJ-related material online, including this subreddit, to try finding anyone who has symptoms like mine + found very few relatable posts that didn't have much engagement, if any at all and they were all from 10+ years back.
That said, does anyone else experience the feeling of their entire body being twisted?
My TMJ issues are on my left side and I have subluxation with reduction but I wouldn't necessarily describe the sounds my jaw makes as "clicking." The movement it makes whenever I close my mouth or move it even slightly to the left is more akin to a rubberband snapping and it makes more of a deeper resonating sound if that makes any sense. It's hard to describe but definitely not clicking, more like a locking sound you would get trying to force 2 bones past each other at the moment of resistance. My condoyle noticeably protrudes outwards to the left whenever this happens. All the diagrams I see online show issues within the normal direction the TMJ moves eg even if it's subluxation with reduction it shows the disc getting stuck as the condoyle is trying to move forward to backwards or backwards to forwards whereas mine seems to move horizontally like more to the left of my socket towards my ear then back to the starting position in line with my cheekbone.
Finally, the overwhelming sensation I suffer from daily is the feeling that my entire body is twisted. I'm constantly needing to stretch in very specific ways where it almost feels like I'm untwisting the left side of my body to straighten out. It CONSTANTLY feels like I need to crack my neck and I feel sooo much pressure that's never relieved albeit the rare occasion I'm able to get a microcrack without too much force, but my head is spun almost 180 degrees back and looking upwards by the time I reach this micro-crack of any relief.
All day long I'm having to "straighten out" my left side from my head to my ankles in order to feel any relief, but by "straighten out" I mean twisting my body in the path my body naturally wants to move, so by the time I feel like my skeletal frame is inwardly straightened out, my actual body is in almost a spiral formation towards my right side. It's so hard to describe but literally my head will be looking back over my right shoulder while the rest of my body is twisting in the opposite directions to feel any relief.
I spend literal hours a day trying to stretch and contort myself into this weirdass body spiral to get any relief. I know this was a terrible description but does it sound remotely similar to anyone else's experience with TMD?

”Stop.”
I really needed the bathroom.
For fifty painstaking minutes, I had been staring at the clock on the wall, willing it to go faster, uncomfortably shifting side to side in my seat so much that I was starting to get weird looks.
2:52pm.
Eight minutes, I thought dizzily, squeezing my legs together.
Which was just two chunks of four minutes.
Four chunks of two minutes.
The pain started like normal stomach pain, the kind I could deal with.
I swallowed two Tylenol with lukewarm soda.
But this was different.
This kind of pain was contorting and twisting my gut so much, I had to keep leaning onto my left buttock for relief.
I must have done it so many times, I caught the attention of the guy sitting next to me. Roman Hemlock who was half asleep, dark blonde curls hanging in half lidded eyes, his chin leaning on his fist. He shot me a look. I couldn't tell if it was Are you okay? or Can you stop moving around so much?
From the single crease in his brow, the slight curl in his lip, I guessed the latter.
It's not like Roman was helping.
For half the class, he'd been tapping his foot on the floor, then his chair leg, and to complete the orchestra, his fingers joined in, tap, tap, tapping on the edge of his desk. I didn't know if it was a bored thing, an ADHD thing, or he was trying to keep himself awake. It was easy to tolerate without the pain, but with it, the boy’s incessant tapping was more akin to a dentist drill splitting my skull open. I already felt nauseous, the sad looking chicken nuggets I forced down at lunch making an unwelcome appearance at the back of my throat.
It was too fucking hot, the stuffy summer air glueing my hair to the back of my neck. The material of my shirt was making me cringe, sticky against my skin.
Tipping my head back, the lights were too bright. Every sound was too loud. Imogen Prairie, who was sitting behind me chewing her gum a little too loudly.
Kaz Samuels scribbling notes like a maniac.
I could hear every stroke of his pencil, every time he paused, looked up at the presentation, and continued writing.
When I leaned forward in my chair, I could smell exactly what Isabella Trinity had eaten for lunch, the stink hanging in the air.
It became a case of sucking in my stomach and taking slow, deep breaths.
I’d never had these kinds of stomach cramps before. But it didn't take me long to figure out what they were.
I was yet to start my period at the grand age of sixteen, which meant this was it.
After countless sessions with the doctor, and feeling like a social outcast among my group of friends who started their periods in middle school, it had finally happened. The cramps in my gut that felt like my torso was being ripped apart, was in fact me entering womanhood. When my breath started to quicken, my mouth watering, I raised my hand, biting my lip against a cry.
Fuck.
Something lurched in my gut, a wave of nausea crashing into me.
I was going to throw up.
“Mr Brighton.”
Roman spoke up before me, waving his arm. “Can I use the bathroom?”
The teacher’s answer was always the same. Which was why I had been crossing my legs for the entirety of the class, unable to focus on anything but my gut trying to twist itself inside out.
Mr Brighton leaned against the wall, his eyes glued to the PowerPoint awash in our faces. We had been staring at the exact same slide for maybe five minutes now, and our physics teacher was yet to speak, his gaze somewhere else.
Mr Brighton was my Dad’s age, a greying man in his early fifties who always wore the exact same suit with the exact same stain on his collar.
The man was about as interesting as watching paint dry.
Normally, I would drift off myself, lulled into slumber by the low drone of his voice.
But the pain ripping me apart was keeping me awake.
“Mr Brighton.” Roman said, louder. His voice snapped me out of it. “Can I use the bathroom?” He paused, exaggerating a loud sigh. ”Please?”
The teacher straightened up, folding his arms.
“Mr Hemlock, you know the rules. Why didn't you go before class?”
“I didn't need to go an hour ago, did I?”
“You will no longer need to go to the bathroom, Mr Hemlock.”
Roman made a snorting noise.
“What?”
The low murmur of my classmates collapsed into white noise.
Glancing at the clock, I was anticipating the school bell.
The sickness swimming in the pit of my belly was reaching dangerous territory.
2:52pm.
Something ice cold trickled down my spine.
It was 2:52 the last time I checked, and five minutes had surely passed.
This time, I waited a whole minute and counted the seconds under my breath. The clock still didn't move. The ticker was frozen halfway between three and four.
Slowly, the same realisation began to hit the twelve of us. The clock on the wall had stopped. But it wasn't the only thing that had stopped. The cool breeze drifting through the window was gone.
The sound of birds outside, and the cheer squad practising their routine.
Everything had stopped. Trying to ignore a sickly slither of panic twisting its way through me, I checked my phone under my desk. There was a text from my Mom lighting up my notifications. When I tried to swipe it open, nothing happened. My lock screen was frozen, stuck at 2:52pm.
With my hands growing clammy around my phone, I stared at the time, willing it to move, to flick to 2:53.
But nothing happened, the numbers stubbornly staying at 2:52.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Roman’s voice brought me back to reality, though I was sure I'd dropped my phone. I heard it hit the floor with a sickening crack. Whatever he was saying, though, faded into dull murmur, when I turned toward the window.
Something was wrong outside.
The cheer squad were nowhere to be seen.
Being on the top floor gave us a front row seat to their practice sessions.
I stopped watching when their flyer did a death defying flip, almost breaking her neck. 2:52pm. I couldn't see the cheer squad. But I did see Jessie Carson mid-sprint across the track field, strawberry blonde curls suspended in a halo around her.
I could see exactly where she had frozen in place, her left foot hovering off of the ground, her right foot driving momentum. It wasn't just Jessie who had stopped. The dirt she was kicking into a cloud behind her was hovering, caught in mid-air.
Studying the faces around me, my mouth went dry.
Roman Hemlock, mid-argument with our physics teacher.
His eyes were wide, lips curved into what would have been a yell.
Fuck.
Was I the only one?
But then Roman blinked, and I realized the boy wasn't frozen. He was trying to think of a comeback. “What do you mean I won't need the bathroom anymore?”
“Mr Hemlock, please lower your voice.”
“Why? You can't dictate to me when I do and don't need the bathroom, dude!”
Moving onto the rest of my class, the others were still moving.
It was too quiet, though.
Yes, Roman was still tapping his foot.
Imogen was still chewing her gum.
Kaz was still scribbling notes like a psychopath.
But they were the only noise I could hear.
I wasn't the only one confused. The classroom had pricked with a sense of urgency. Kids were checking their phones, their gazes glued to the clock. Even Roman, who was still arguing, was starting to notice. I watched his gaze lazily roll to the clock on the wall.
I pretended not to see his cheeks visibly paling.
We had all come to the exact same terrifying conclusion.
2:52pm.
Time had come to a halt, and somehow, we had not.
“Is that clock broken?” Roman interrupted, leaning forward in his chair.
Kaz twisted around, settling the boy with an eye-roll.
“Check your phone, dumbass.”
“I broke my phone.”
Imogen threw her iPhone at him, narrowly missing hitting him in the face.
“Everything is frozen,” She said, her voice shuddering. “It's not just the clock.”
I waited for Roman’s response. For once, though, he was speechless.
“Well done, Imogen. That is correct.” Mr Brighton spoke up, tearing a piece of paper from a workbook and striding over to the door, glueing it over the glass window. When we started to protest, some of us were shouting, while others bursting into tears, he calmly took out his key and locked us in.
I should have been surprised that our teacher had spontaneously decided to take his entire class hostage, but the rumor mill had been churning.
According to Becca Jason, the guy’s wife divorced him and took his kids.
I could feel myself sinking into my chair, phantom bugs filling my mouth.
So, this guy had nothing to lose.
Taking his place in front of his desk, the man settled us with a patient smile.
“From now on, you will stay inside this room.” He said. “In case you haven't noticed, time is currently frozen at fifty two minutes past two. The thirteen of us are tucked into the twenty first second, and will be, for the foreseeable future.”
I could tell the others wanted to argue, but we couldn't deny that time had stopped. Kaz was staring down at his frozen phone, Imogen hyperventilating behind me, Roman glaring at the clock, chewing on a pencil. We wanted it to be a prank, a joke, some kind of glitch in the matrix that would fix itself.
But then a whole minute passed by. Followed by another. Kaz threw his phone on the floor, hissing in frustration. Imogen let out a wet sounding sob.
Roman’s pencil split in his mouth, slipping from his fingers. We couldn't pretend it wasn't happening or call our teacher out on his BS, because it was everywhere around us. The sudden absence of outdoor ambience, birdsong, planes flying overhead, and traffic outside the school gates. Everyone and everything had stopped, and we were the only ones left.
This was a nightmare, surely.
My physics class were some of the most boring and pretentious people in the school, and somehow the world had been reduced to the twelve of us inside our classroom. We were scared, of course we were. But reality had stopped making sense, crashing and burning in a single second. We had no choice but to listen to our teacher. “Now, before you freak out, it may not feel like it, but the twelve of you have also stopped.”
Mr Brighton held out his own hand, and placed it on his heart.
He was right.
I was so busy trying to understand what was happening, I had failed to realize my period cramps were gone.
“Do me a favor, and press your hand over your heart.”
“You mean like, in a culty way?” Imogen whispered.
“Obviously.” Roman grumbled, halfway out of his seat. He was hesitant, though, in case our teacher was armed. It only took one glance from our teacher, and he slumped back into his chair. “This crazy fucker clearly wants to play mind games with us.”
“No, I'm just asking you to feel for your heart.”
I felt for mine, and there was nothing, my stomach twisting.
Roman stabbed his fingers into his neck, feeling for a pulse.
He tried his wrist.
Then his heart.
Nothing.
“The twelve of you are currently in a state of stasis,” the teacher explained to us, “You are not alive, nor are you dead. Your bodily functions are also on pause, such as your heartbeat and your pulse. In this state there will be no need for food and water, or going to the bathroom.” His gaze found a ghastly looking Roman, who looked like he was going to faint. “Your minds, however, as you can see, are working as usual.”
“But why?” Imogen demanded in a shriek.
Mr Brighton’s lip curled. “I would rather not answer that question.”
“Because you're lonely.” Roman spoke up. He swung back on his chair, narrowed eyes glued to the teacher.
“Your wife and kids left you, so you're asserting power over a group of sixteen year olds. Which is kinda fucking pathetic.”
Mr Brighton’s expression darkened, and something slimy crept up my throat.
The worst thing any of us could do was threaten him. He had taken kidnapping to a whole new level, and we were alone with this psychopath, trapped inside a second. I waited for the man to stride forward and attack the kid. But he didn't. Instead, the teacher leaned back on his desk. “Yes.” The man nodded.
“I suppose you could say I am.”
“But why us?!” Kaz hissed.
“Because you are children.” Mr Brighton responded casually.
He straightened up, taking slow, intimidating steps towards Roman’s desk. The rest of us leaned back. I tried to pull my desk with me, but it was glued to the floor. Frozen. Mr Brighton’s shoes went click-clack across the hardwood floor.
“You are right,” the man said in a murmur, “I am lonely. My wife and kids did leave me, and I have nobody left to control. I have nobody else to contort and use to my advantage.” Reaching Roman’s desk, he leaned in close until he was nose to nose with the kid.
“Congratulations, Mr Hemlock. You have just earned yourself detention.”
Roman stayed stubbornly still, but he was visibly afraid. I could see him very slowly backing away. Roman was all bark and no bite. He was a loud mouth, sure, but he was also the least confrontational person in the class.
“What?” He spluttered. “You trap us in a time loop or time trap, or whatever, and you still want to act like a teacher?”
“Stand up.” The teacher ordered.
“What if I don't?”
Mr Brighton’s expression didn't waver. “You said it yourself. I can and have trapped you inside a single second. What else do you think I'm capable of?”
Roman stood, kicking his chair out of the way.
“What are you planning on doing to me, old man?”
The teacher maintained his smile. “Stand up straight, and close your mouth.”
To my confusion, Roman Hemlock did all the above.
He straightened up, and closed his mouth.
“Do not fight me.” The teacher said calmly, “Do as you are told, and follow me.”
The boy did exactly as instructed.
His jaw slackened, that rebellious light in his eyes fizzling out.
I think that's when we all collectively agreed that going against this teacher and trying to escape was mental suicide.
“I will use Mr Hemlock as an example to all of you,” Mr Brighton said, turning to the rest of us. “If you break the rules or are derogatory in any way, you will be given detention.”
He grabbed the boy’s shoulders, forcing him to walk towards the supply closet. Roman moved like a robot, slightly off balance, his gaze glued to thin air, like he was tracking invisible butterflies.
"Your time in detention will depend on the severity of your rule-break.” He opened the door, gently pushing Roman inside, and following suit. When the door closed behind them, there was a pause, and I remembered how to breathe.
Kaz Samuels slowly got up from his desk, inching towards the closet.
“This guy is a certified nut.” He announced.
He turned towards us. “Whatever he's doing to Hemlock, we’re probably next.”
“He stopped time.” I spoke up, my own voice barely a croak. “He’s capable of anything.”
“But how did he stop time?” Kaz whistled, tipping his head back. The boy was slow, his fingers grasping each desk as he slid down the aisle. “He said he was lonely, right? But why take it out on us? What did we do to him?”
“Check his desk for a weapon!” Imogen whisper-shrieked.
Kaz nodded, striding over to the man's desk, his hands moving frantically, shoving paper on the floor. He took an uncertain seat on the man's chair. “There's nothing here,” he murmured, lifting stained coffee mugs and ancient textbooks. “It's just…test papers.” Kaz ducked from view, trying the drawers.
“He's a fan of Pokémon,” he said, “There's a tonne of Pokémon cards,” Kaz straightened up, running a hand through his hair. “No sign of a weapon, though.”
He picked up a ruler, waving it around. “This could work. If we plunge it in his eye.”
“Try his laptop!” Imogen was halfway out of her seat.
Kaz did, slamming the keys. “It's locked.”
“Look harder!” Ren Clarke threw a pencil at him.
“I am!”
After a minute of searching, Kaz grabbed a single piece of paper.
He held it up, and I squinted.
It was a list of our names, with several of them highlighted.
“Fuck.” Kaz dropped the list, his expression crumpling. The stubborn bravado facade transforming him into our sort of leader dissipated, hollowing him out into exactly what he was. Just a scared kid. Kaz’s hands were shaking.
“Mr Brighton’s got a hit list.” He whispered. “He's going to kill us.”
“How do you know that?” I found myself asking.
Kaz slowly dropped into a crouch, picking up the paper and holding it up.
“Look.” He pointed to a capitalised name at the top of the list highlighted in red.
ROMAN HEMLOCK.
There were six names highlighted in red, including mine.
CRISTA ADAMS.
As if on cue, Roman’s cry rang out from the supply closet, suddenly, freezing us all in place. Kaz jumped up, adapting the expression of a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, almost unseeing.
He fell over himself to tidy up the desk, putting everything back where he had found it, sliding the list between a pile of test papers. Kaz took slow, stumbled steps back, his feverish gaze glued to the closet, before turning and making a break for it and diving into his seat.
“Brighton’s got a hit liiiist,” Kaz said, in a mocking sing-song, “And we’re all on it.”
What followed was deathly silence. I think we were expecting Roman to cry out again. But when he didn't, the class started to stir. Some kids started praying to a god they didn't believe in, while others were in varying states of denial, trying to call their parents with dead phones.
I wasn't sure what parts of me had stopped, but I was still alive, still felt like my lungs were deprived of oxygen, my chest aching. I'm not sure how long I sat there, trying to find my voice, a shriek trying and failing to rip through my mouth. Being kidnapped and held hostage is one thing, but being imprisoned inside a single, never ending second, was an existential hell worse than death. Slowly, I pressed my palm over my heart once again. Then I breathed into my cupped hands.
I was expecting it, but no longer being able to feel my own heartbeat and breath, was fear I didn't think was possible. The kind that glued me to my seat, hollowing me out completely until I was nothing, an empty shell with no heartbeat, no breath, no thoughts, except denial, followed by acceptance.
And finally, regret.
I regretted not hugging my mother goodbye before I left for school.
I regretted acting like a spoiled brat when my parents refused to drive me halfway across the country so I could attend Coachella.
I regretted stepping inside Mr Brighton’s fourth period physics class.
Mr Brighton reappeared, slamming the door behind him and locking the boy inside. Part of me flinched, while the rest of me remembered not to move a muscle. I was barely aware of time passing. Or it wasn't. Time had stopped, so now long had I been sitting there?
I could no longer measure the passage of time with hunger or thirst, and my body felt the same. I wasn't stiff or tired or achy. Looking out of the window, the sky was the exact same crystal blue, every cloud in the exact same place.
Jessie Carson was still frozen mid-run, strands of dark red hair caught around her.
“What's wrong with you guys?” Mr Brighton chuckled, and I twisted back to the front, a shiver writhing down my spine. “Why don't you give me a smile?”
The teacher returned to his desk, and I was already subconsciously sitting up straight in my seat, forcing my lips into a jaw-breaking grin, following Brighton’s instructions. In the corner of my eye, Imogen was sitting very still, forcing an award-winning cheesy smile, while Kaz grinned through gritted teeth.
“Mr Hemlock just earned himself two weeks inside the supply closet.” he said casually, perching himself on the edge of his desk. The man studied each of us, taking his time to rip every shred of us apart.
Mind, body, and soul.
I struggled to maintain my stupid smile, shoving my shaking hands in my lap.
“Would anyone like to join him, or are you going to follow the rules?”
The rest of us stayed silent. I don't think any of us breathed.
Our teacher nodded to Kaz, inclining his head.
“Samuels. Are you all right?”
Kaz’s smile faltered slightly. He shifted in his chair. I could see sweat trickling down his right temple. “Uh, yeah.” He swiped at his forehead, like he couldn't believe he was sweating. “Yeah, I'm good.”
The teacher’s eyes narrowed. He moved toward his desk, and we all held our breaths. Mr Brighton seemed to study his hit-list, lips curving into a frown.
His gaze flicked to the boy, and then the paper.
He knew, I thought dizzily.
Mr Brighton knew the kid had been rummaging through his desk. But this was all about control. The teacher was using fear to control us, to manipulate our thoughts without having to get physical. He could have called out the boy right then, but Brighton was settling with mental torture instead. He just wanted to make my classmate squirm.
Without a word, the man folded up the piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Mr Samuels, you are sweating,” our physics teacher said, mocking a frown. “Are you feeling okay?”
Kaz hesitated, tapping his shoe in a rhythm.
Being one of the smartest kids in the room definitely gave him an advantage.
I could already see the cogs turning behind half lidded eyes. Kaz was weighing each scenario, sorting them into positives and negatives.
The positives of answering would mean he was one step towards being in the clear, but there were two negatives.
Brighton would question him if he had left his seat, and then demand how his hit-list had magically moved across the desk.
Talking back was surely a rule-break, as well as outright lying.
Opening his mouth would get him in trouble, either way, and Kaz knew that.
So, he just nodded, forcing an even bigger smile.
Brighton’s lips pricked, his gaze straying on Kaz. “Good!” He cleared his throat, turning to the class. Kaz slumped in his seat with a sharp breath, resting his head in his arms. If Mr Brighton noticed, he didn't say anything. “Ignore the sweating. It should stop, along with hunger and thirst.”
Our teacher seemed to be able to manipulate everything in his vicinity.
Time.
Minds.
And slowly… contorting us into his own.
In the single second we were trapped inside, I felt days go by in a dizzying whirlwind that was like being permanently high. When I stood up, I felt like I was floating.
When I sat down, hours could go by, even days, and I wouldn't even feel them. I did try and count the days, initially, scribbling them on a scrap piece of paper, but somewhere around the thirteenth or fourteenth day, I lost count. The world around us never changed, in permanent stasis, and maybe that was sending us a little crazy.
After a while of being stuck at our desks, Mr Brighton allowed us to wander the classroom, as long as we stayed away from the door. I lay on the floor for days, counting ceiling tiles.
Sometimes, Imogen would join me.
I couldn't sleep, but I could pretend to sleep, imagining a world that was back to normal. I didn't feel hungry, but my brain did like to remind me of food at the weirdest times. I was aware of weeks passing us by, and then months.
I never grew hungry or tired, and my bodily functions were none existent.
I couldn't remember what pain felt like, or the urge to go to the bathroom. Even the concept of eating and drinking became foreign to me. Putting something in your mouth and chewing to sustain yourself?
That sounded odd.
The only thing that was changing was our slowly unravelling metal state.
I don't know how it started. Weekends and Tuesdays blended together. On one particular SaturTuesday, I was hanging upside down from my desk, watching Kaz and Imogen doodle on the whiteboard.
Kaz had a plan to escape, but after a while, his ‘plan’ to distract the teacher, had gone nowhere. After passing notes between us, the twelve of us had decided that we needed a weapon.
That was maybe a month ago. I wasn't sure what mind games our teacher was playing, but Kaz Samuels, who we were counting on to be our brains, was slowly falling under his spell. Their game had been going on for three days. The two of them were having a competition to see who could draw the craziest thing.
Mr Brighton was at his desk as usual, marking papers.
Imogen was drawing a weird looking ‘skateboard’ when the doors to the storage closet flew open.
Roman Hemlock appeared, and to my surprise, wasn't a hollow eyed shell.
He held up his hand in a wave, his lips forming a small smile.
“Yo.”
Roman’s reappearance was enough to snap us out of it. Kaz and Imogen stopped arguing, the rest of the class going silent. I sat up, blinking rapidly.
I was sure our collective consensus was that Roman Hemlock was dead.
Mr Brighton lifted his head and gave the boy a civil nod. “Mr Hemlock will be rejoining us,” he said, his gaze going back to marking papers. “Please make him feel comfortable. I'm sure he's very excited to be able to talk to you again.”
Instead of going to his desk, the boy immediately joined the others, snatching the marker off of a baffled looking Kaz, and drawing an overly artistic sketch of a penis. I wasn't sure what confused me more. The fact that Roman Hemlock had some serious artistic skills, or that he seemed suspiciously fine for someone who had been locked in the storage closet for two weeks with no social interaction.
With my last few lingering brain cells still clinging on, I studied the boy.
There were no signs of bruises or scratches.
His eyes seemed normal, not diluted or half lidded.
Unable to stop myself, I jumped off of my desk and joined the others, where Kaz was already interrogating the guy.
“WHAT–”
Imogen nudged him, and he lowered his voice, leaning against the wall. “What did he do to you?”
Roman shrugged, rolling his eyes. “Relax, dude. He didn't do anything to me.”
“Then what was that yell?” Imogen hissed.
The boy cocked his head. “Yell?”
“You yelled out,” Kaz folded his arms, narrowing his eyes. He was already suspecting one of us had been compromised– or worse, brainwashed into compliance. Kaz stepped closer, backing Roman into the desk. “You cried out when you first went in there,” he murmured, “So, what was that?”
Something in Roman’s eyes darkened. “Oh,” He said, his lip curling. “That.”
Kaz’s expression softened. He rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Yeah,” He whispered. “What did he do to you?”
Imogen shoved Kaz out of the way, shooting the boy a glare.
“You don't have to tell us, you know.” She said in a small voice. “If it's too traumatising, or he did something you don't want to talk about–”
Roman cut her off with a laugh, and suddenly, all eyes were on him.
The remaining nine of us were eagerly awaiting an explanation.
“Are you fucking serious?”
When Kaz didn't respond, Roman gathered us in a kind of hustle, the four of us grouped together. I felt like I was on the football field. Still, though, if the guy’s goal was to look as suspicious as possible, he was doing a great job.
Roman studied each of us, one eyebrow cocked. When Mr Brighton glanced up from his work, Roman shot him a grin, lowering his voice to a hiss.
“You seriously think our fifty year old physics teacher has been abusing me in the storage closet?
“Then why did you cry out?” Kaz demanded. “Did he hit you?”
Roman stuck out his bottom lip. “I'm pretty sure he didn't hit me.”
“So, you cried out for no reason.”
“Why are you covering for him?” Imogen poked his forehead. “Are you lobotomised?”
Roman wafted her hand away. “Stop prodding me, and no, I'm 100% good.” He backed away from us, like we were observers, and he was the zoo attraction.
“I won't be, if you keep treating me like I'm senile.”
“Okay, fine,” Kaz sighed. “Just answer one.”
“Shoot.”
“When you first went in there, you made an unmistakable sound of distress–”
“Not this again,” Roman groaned. “Of course I yelled! I was shoved into a pitch black storage closet on my own! What, did you expect me to stay silent?”
Kaz didn't look convinced, Imogen nervously sucking her teeth.
The boy leaned back, resting his head against the wall. His eyes flickered shut.
“Stop looking at me like that, there's nothing to tell you,” he murmured, “Brighton didn't do shit to me. I was just freaked out.” Prying one eye open, he fixed us with a glare. “I am so sorry for reacting like a human. Next time, I'll make sure to attack him and pin him to the ground.”
It's not like we believed him. I don't think Roman believed himself.
Something significant had changed in him. He was no longer argumentative, like half of his personality had been torn away. Roman set a precedent. Because once he was following instructions and walking around with a dazed smile, others began to follow. I can't remember how much time had passed since I thought about escaping.
Days and weeks and months had collapsed into fleeting seconds I only noticed when I wasn't playing games.
I wasn't aware of my own lack of sanity until I found myself, on a random SaturWednesday. I was laughing, gathered with the others on the floor, around a Monopoly board. The game had been going on for almost a week.
Reality hit me when I was laughing so hard I tipped back.
I can't remember why I was laughing. I think Imogen told a bad joke.
“Hand it over.” Roman, who was the King of Monopoly, held out his hand, demanding my last 250 bucks. I remember noticing his smile, my foggy brain trying to find hints that he was in some kind of trance, or being controlled by Brighton. But no. His smile was real.
Genuine.
To my shock and confusion, so was mine.
I wasn't in a trance or any type of mind manipulation. I was completely conscious.
Was this… Stockholm syndrome? I thought dizzily.
Was I enjoying this?
My thoughts were like cotton candy, disconnected and wrong, and they barely felt like my own. My gaze found Imogen and Kaz, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, enveloped in the game.
They looked exactly the same, their hair, clothes, everything about them staying stagnant. It was them themselves who had drastically changed. I had never seen them look so carefree. Imogen was a hotheaded cheerleader, and Kaz was the smart kid who gave himself nosebleeds from overworking himself. But now, they were laughing, nudging each other, caught up in an inside joke. Blinking slowly, my gaze strayed on them.
Sure, it could be manipulation. It could be brainwashing. But it could also be real.
Kaz caught my eye, raising a brow.
“You good, Christa?”
Again, my smile felt real. Like I was having fun.
“Good. It's your turn.”
I picked up the dice, throwing them across the board.
Two sixes.
“I can already see her landing on one of my hotels.” Roman murmured. He sat up, resting his chin on his knees. “As the clear winner, I have a proposition.”
Ignoring him, I moved my piece– immediately landing on Park Place.
“I'll give you 500,” Roman announced, “If you give up New York avenue.”
“That's all I've got!”
Imogen nudged me. “Don't do it. If you give him New York Avenue, he only needs one more.”
“One thousand.” Roman waved the notes in my face.
“My final offer.”
When I reached for the cash, he held it back.
“New York Avenue, he said, with a grin.
“And your pride.”
Reluctantly, I handed my only property over.
Kaz threw the dice and moved his piece, and I half remembered we had an escape plan. “Community chest.” Kaz picked up a card. “Go straight to jail.”*
Roman spluttered. “That's karma,” he said, “For stealing from the bank.”
“You were stealing too!”
We had a plan.
We had…. a plan.
After discussing it in detail, Imogen and I were going to try and get onto Brighton’s laptop. It wasn't a perfect way to escape, but it was coherent.
So, what happened?
We were going to get out, so what… what was this?
Kaz’s earlier words hit me from months ago.
“Mr Brighton *is the thing keeping us here,”* he explained. “If we kill him, I'm like, 98% sure we’ll go back to normal.”
“Okay, and what if he dies and we’re *stuck?”* Imogen whisper-shrieked.
“I said 98% for a reason. Yes, there's a small chance his power will die with him. But there's a bigger chance that its effects will die when he does.”
Ren nodded slowly. “Right, and where exactly did you learn this information?”
“You'll feel a lot better if I don't answer that.”
“Okay.” Ren gritted his teeth. “So, we just need to find a weapon, right?”
“And don't tell Hemlock,” Kaz rolled his eyes. “I don't care what he says, that boy definitely had his mind fucked with. Hemlock is a liability. If we tell Roman, he tells Brighton, and we’re screwed.” Kaz nodded to me, then the others. “Keep your mouths shut.”
Presently, I wasn't sure the boy wanted to escape.
Slowly, I rolled my eyes over to Mr Brighton, who had joined us to play.
He was happily marking papers, taking part when he could.
It felt…right.
Not like we had been forced or manipulated, but more like he belonged. Part of me wanted to question why I felt like this, but I found that I didn't care. I didn't care that we were essentially dead, in a never ending stasis and stuck inside fifty two minutes past two. I stopped thinking about the outside world a long time ago.
I couldn't even remember my Mom’s face.
I made my decision, dazedly watching Imogen throw a chance card at Roman.
He flung one back, threatening to tip the board.
I wanted to stay.
In the corner of my eye, however, someone was still awake.
Ren, who had been sitting next to me, kept moving, further and further away. I didn't notice until he was inching towards our teacher, a box cutter clenched between his fist. There must have been a point when we found a box cutter, when we made it our weapon of choice.
But somewhere along the way, I think we just… lost the longing to want to escape.
I didn't see the exact moment the boy stabbed the blade into the man's neck, plunging it through his flesh, but I did feel a sudden jolt, like time itself was starting to falter and tremble.
Mr Brighton dropped to the ground, and I found my gaze flashing to the frozen clock.
Which was moving, suddenly.
Slowly creeping towards 2:53pm.
Something sticky ran underneath me, warm and wet.
Blood.
Blood that was running.
Roman’s half lidded eyes found mine, and he blinked, dropping the dice.
Like he'd been asleep for a long time.
2:53pm.
We were free.
The cool spring breeze grazing my cheeks was back. I could feel my own heartbeat, sticky sweat on my forehead.
And outside, Jessie Carson let out a gut-churning scream.
For a disorienting moment, I don't think any of us believed we were free.
Roman twisted around, his gaze on the doorway.
The piece of paper the teacher had stuck to the glass slipped away.
But Roman’s gaze was glued to the door, his cheeks paling.
His lips parted into a silent cry.
Following his eyes, I glimpsed a shadow.
A shadow that was frozen at 2:52pm.
2:53pm.
“Fuck.” Roman whispered, stumbling to his feet.
He turned to the rest of us, his eyes wild.
“Get DOWN!”
I dropped onto my knees, crawling under a desk, the classroom exploding around me.
2:54.
Blood splattered the walls, and I was crawling in it, stained in my friends.
2:55.
I grabbed Mr Brighton's hand, squeezing for dear life.
Roman joined me, his trembling fingers feeling for a pulse.
A gunshot rang in my ears, rattling my skull.
When Roman went limp next to me, I wrapped my arms around my teacher.
“Mr Brighton, say Stop.”
He was so cold…
“Mr Brighton! Take us back!”
Footsteps coming towards me.
2:56.

Words: 2,523
To say Donnie was having a bad day would be an understatement. Waking up he could immediately feel the invisible weight on his shoulders, heavier than his battle shell could ever be. Unwanted anxiety built in his chest. Everything was too loud, The running water of the sewers, His brother's excited shouting's, his own feet padding across the floor. It’s all too much. Donnie hates being this way, wishing he could be like his brothers. The small things like texters, sounds, and lights don’t seem to bother them the way they do him.

At an early age, he realized he wasn’t like his brothers, he was more anxious, easily annoyed, and sensitive to his surroundings. After Splinter pulled some strings with the humans to find out what was wrong with his son, he was given the diagnosis. High-functioning autism. His world seemed to be teetering on the edge, always about to fall. The day will sometimes get too much for him, inevitably causing him to shut down. Today was one of those days.

Curled into a ball on his purple bed, the soft shell rocked back and forth slightly. The lights were off, casting shadows on his thin shaking body. He wanted his weighted blanket. No, he needed it. Needed the grounding weight on his shoulders. But the blanket was on the living room couch, meaning leaving his room. His dark little sanctuary, worse could mean running into his dad. His father never seemed to understand Donnie when he was like this, always making things so much worse. He could text one of his brothers and ask them to get it, but just the mere idea of the small screen's harsh lights burning into his retinas made him want to cry. God, why is he such a child?

Reluctantly pushing himself off the cushioned heaven the soft shell threw on his signature purple hoodie, a small weight lifted from his shoulders when he brought up the hood. But it isn’t enough, he still needs the blanket. The laughter of Mikey and Leo echoed through the sewer, making Donnie flinch. The two sounded like they were playing a game or something. The idea of leaving the room with the noises outside made him want to curl into a ball again. Walking to his dresser Donnie grabbed his noise-canceling headphones, they were baby purple, unlike his signature hue. They were a Christmas present from Mikey last year, painted with beautiful, calming lavender flowers. A small smile spread across his lips, thinking of the thoughtfulness behind his little brother's gift. Donnie placed them on top of his hood, taking a deep breath, he opened his door, braving the outside world.

Bright. Everything was too bright. The overhead lights burned, and pulling his hood over his eyes the mutant speedily walked to the living room. He’ll just grab his weighted blanket from the living room couch, and go back to his dark quiet room. Easy. But rounding the corner to the living room he watched his ‘easy’ plan shatter. Of course, Splinter was watching TV, why hadn’t he even considered that? He is supposed to be the smart one. Stupid foolish child, the genius ridiculed himself. He can’t even do a simple task right.

“What do you need? I’m trying to watch my show.” Splinter's irritated tone broke through his thoughts, he hadn’t realized he had been hovering in the doorway fidgeting with his hoodie strings. The rat’s eyes never left his TV show. The teen opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Splinter's eyes were on him now, only making it harder for Donnie to find his voice. “Purple, use your words, you are far too old for this.” Child. He knows Splinter’s right. He is behaving like a child.

“B-Blanket.” His voice was sore from going unused, but he mustn’t have been as loud as he felt only receiving an irritated groan from his father. “Purple, I asked you a question.” Louder? His voice already felt like an echoing megaphone in his brain, if he was any louder surely his eardrums would blow. The softshell came to a realization, where was his weighted blanket? He left it on the chair his father now resided in. Had he moved it? His back felt bare and exposed despite the hoodie that rested on his shell. The mutant rat seemed to realize he wasn’t going to get more from his son, getting up from his spot he stood on the couch, motioning for Donnie to come over. This is what the teen feared. He didn’t want to have this conversation, he couldn’t have this conversation right now without breaking, and breaking would make his father even madder. Splinter Mad is bad, it’s loud and wrong, and it hurts, and-

“I haven’t got all day Donatello.” The tech wize flinched at his angry tone, and slowly made his way to his dad, now standing in front of the rat. Who, while standing on the chair, was now around a foot taller than his waist. The older man bore daggers into Donnie's face, but the purple teen couldn’t look him in the eyes like he wanted. He can’t stand that face, especially right now. Splinter iconic ‘why are you so broken’ face. “Can you even hear me in those things?” The ex-movie star asked, tapping the side of his noise-canceling headphones with his claw. The taking of his nails pierced through his ear, like a hammer nailing his brain, making tears well in his eyes. “It’s rude to listen to music while someone is talking to you Purple.” Grabbing the headphones he ripped them off of Donnie's head.

the buzz of the projector,

the hum of the lights,

Splinters breathing,

the steady dripping of water from pipes,

The laughter of his brothers in the other room,

The harsh world rushed his ears at once.

It’s wrong,

Wrong,

Wrong,

Wrong.
He could still see splinters scowl through the blurry tears that now flowed freely from his eyes. Washing his face with shame. “Quit this tantrum Purple, your being dramatic.” His harsh words were like drums beating into Donnie’s skull. He wishes his brothers were here, he wishes his father would stop. He wishes everything would stop, wishing the world would stop spinning long enough for him to catch up. The soft shell hadn’t realized he started flapping his hands till the rat grabbed his wrists. The touch burned his skin, causing a stifled cry to escape his lips. The father scolded him, but his words were lost on deaf ears. Donnie’s lungs burned just as badly as the touch on his wrists, breathing becoming fast and choppy. He wanted to beg, to ask Splinter to stop, but only sad whines escaped his throat. Everything was muffled as if cotton had been placed in Donnie’s ears. A second voice? Someone else was talking over the rat dad now. Who is that?

“Don’t grab-… -dad! You- …. -Help!” Only bits of their conversation could be made out through the ringing in his ears like they were bobbing in the water, pieces being drowned by waves. “You don’t-... I’m your father you-...” They’re arguing, the volume of their bickering is too much. It’s so wrong. He rips his three-fingered hands from the older mutant's grip, placing his palms over his ears, eyes squinting shut as if that’ll be enough to block out the world. The vibrating of footprints could be felt, dancing across the floor and traveling to his own feet, There small and light, Splinter’s, he left the room. Is it safe now? His thoughts were interrupted by a hesitant hand on his shoulder, Donnie’s tired green eyes shooting open. Frantic thin pupils searched for a threat, only to be greeted with blurry watery vision. The intruder redacted their hand, whispering soft apologies.

Throwing his shame-ridden tears he could see a familiar shade of red. “R-Raph?” The older brother seems slightly more relieved hearing his voice. His lips are moving, but nothing gets past the ringing in Donnie's ears. The leader's other hand that hadn’t been on his shoulder came into view holding something… purple? His headphones. The younger brother removed his palms from his head, grabbed them greedily, and frantically put them back on. The agonizing sounds of the world faded, leaving Donnie in silent bliss. The purple ninja released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Better?” Raph asked, quite to not trigger Donnie, but loud enough to be heard through his headphones. He nods slightly, whipping his tears. “Would you like to go back to your room?” Donatello thinks to himself, he doesn’t want to be out in the open anymore. But he also doesn’t want to be alone, his room that once was dark and comforting now felt suffocating. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings again restlessly, Donnie shakes his head no. “Oh.” The leader seemed taken aback by his response. Rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly in thought. “Ok, where would you like to go?” Leaning forward Donnie let his head fall, resting it on Raph’s plastron. The leader’s poster went rigid for a second, clearly surprised. But quickly recovered, wrapping his arms around his soft shell brother. “My room?” Giving a chirp of affirmation the purple mutant looked up to his brother, braving the burning of the overhead lights.

“Wei-... b-blanket.” The distressed turtle mumbled, hoping the other would understand. ‘Wha- Oh your weighted blanket?” Looking to the side Raph pointed with his eyes, hands never leaving the embrace. “Saw it over by dad’s chair… On da floor.” Raph ended with an annoyed growl. Donnie doesn’t miss the disdain in his voice. The purple mutant was very particular about his stuff, all his things having a particular place. Raph must have pierced together that the rat threw it to the ground. He doesn’t like that it’s been on the dirty floor, the thought making him squeamish, but the need for the comforting weight out weighed the disgust. Raph left the embrace to get it for him, Donnie immediately missing the contact.

Why is he acting like this? Making Raph deal with all this, he doesn’t deserve to have to babysit him. “Mmh being childish…” His words slurred as Raph threw the blanket over his soft shell. He hadn’t meant to say it, he kind of just slipped. The larger turtle’s expression turned sad and concerned, hands landing on Donnie’s shoulders squeezing reassuringly. “Don, don’t listen to pop. You ain’t being childish.” Donatello didn’t even get the chance to process the words before he was pulled into a hug again. He doesn’t understand. Why does he put up with me? Why do any of his brothers stick around when they constantly have to deal with his sorry ass.

“Now common, let's go to my room.” The red leader said with a sad smile, lightly swinging his arm around the younger shoulder, leading his distressed sibling down the sewers and to his room. Donnie isn’t sure how to feel anymore, torn between his father and brother's words, being pulled between self-hatred and love. He can feel the protective brother's eyes on him, making him slightly uncomfortable, but he knows Raph isn’t judging him, his eyes full of nothing but concern and love. But knowing doesn’t stop his racing thoughts from coming up with alternative motives. Pushing the curtain to his room aside, Raph quickly hit the light switch bathing the room in shadows, making way for his fairy lights. Casting a soothing pink light over his bed and many stuffed animals.

Donnie made his way to the bed without a word, leaving a concerned Raph behind in the doorway. Curling into a ball he lets the purple weighted blanket engulf him, the many fluffy pillows and plushies squishing him making the invisible weight on his back feel lighter. Hiding his eyes behind his weighted fortress so the softshell can’t look at his brother's sadness. A dip in the bed told him Raph took a seat beside his curled-up body. Is he mad? Annoyed? Is he taking up too much space on the bed? Is-

“Don, deep breaths.” Oh, he was breathing too fast again. Damit. He can’t even breathe without being reminded how broken he is. “Donnie you are not broke.” The leader's sad voice ran out, breaking the fragile atmosphere. Shit, he spoke out loud again, didn’t he. Braving the world again the mutant peaked out of his cocoon, making eye contact with a concerned Raph. A sad sigh escapes the leader's lips, vision down casting to his own lap. “Listen Dee, I'm sorry Dad says those things to ya.” His eyes meet Donnie's again with determination like he knows for a fact what he’s saying is fact. “But none of it is true.”

How does he look so sure of himself? How can he say that with such confidence? “But…” The turtle in the blanket paradise starts, words escaping before they can be realized to the world. “Donnie you got autism.” He flinches slightly at the term as if what his brother had said had physically hurt. “Having a disability doesn't make you any different than us Dee, you aren't broken.” Donnie wants to yell and shake Raph till he gets it, till he understands what seems so obvious to him. “But dad knows I-I do… And he still says and does stuff that hurts me. So it must be true. Right?” God he hates this, The concerned sadness on the snapping turtle's face. He hates it when people give him those faces. He never knows what they mean. He’s figured out splinter sure and Mikey is easy to read always wearing his heart on his sleeve. But for Donnie Raph’s mystery.

He scooches across the bed closer to Donnie, closing the distance between them. “Can I touch you?” After giving him a curt nod Raph gently holds the one hand peeking out of his blanket pile, holding him firmly, as if Donnie were a balloon and holding him too light might cause him to float away. “Donatello, Dad… Dad isn’t exactly a great parental figure.” The purple mutant couldn’t help the small sad chuckle that escaped at Ralph's words, no real humor behind it. “He doesn’t really understand. That isn’t an excuse though, and it ain’t fair I know.” Moving his thumb in a circle on his little brother's palm to help ground him, the snapping turtle thinks carefully about his words before continuing.

“But, no matter how your feeling or what he says, you’ll always have your brothers to catch ya. You’ll always have me.” Donnie hadn’t realized he was crying again till tears dripped off his checks and onto Raphs hand that held his own. He uncurls and sits up, sitting beside Raph, the action feeling easier then before, lighter. “P-Promise?” The red turtle smiled proudly before opening his arms, an invitation. “Promise.” Partially throwing himself onto Raph he let’s himself break. Donnie knows he’ll always be there to help pick up the pieces, to help make a world that feels so wrong, just a little more right.
Roses are red, 🥀 Violets are blue, 🔵 Donnie had autism,♾️ And his brain is like stew, 🍲

Author's notes: Here it comes...
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After another 5 minutes of slow floating down the empty hall, I came across another doorway. This room looked more... alien than the airlock, and less recognizable than the control room. There were two rows of pillars that ran from the floor to the ceiling, each set in a 2 meter wide depression in the floor. The rows were about 4 meters apart, so there was a path down the middle between them, but each depression ran like a trough down the length of the room. Each pillar had a set of arms about half-way down that looked almost robotic, except they were made of the same woodlike material that the walls were made of. In the middle of the room was a wider, round pillar that came up from the floor to about half way up the space and ended on a flared end, like it was some kind of avant-garde end table.
I floated over to the pillars, and noticed that the depression in the floor seemed to be made of the same fluffy material as the seat cushions earlier. The pillar seemed to come out of the fluff, almost like it was a tree growing out of soft soil. Up close, the arms looked more like branches, but with tubes running down the length of them. On the end, they split and split again until the ended in what looked like hundreds of small nubs. I went to run my hand over the end of one, and the nubs all pulled away slightly, avoiding my touch. Surprised, I jerked back, sending myself spinning away. I reached out and stabilized myself, before looking at the joint between the branch and the pillar, and noticed that the "branch" really WAS an arm, as much as it looked like a branch. It ended in a ring that wrapped around the pillar, and slid up and down the pillar easily when I moved it.
Floating over to the table, I noticed that the surface was actually showing a low holographic display. It was, unsurprisingly at this point, unlike any display I had ever seen before, being unlit and dim while also being more transparent than the holograms I was used to. But what was on the display was...
"Holy shit!" I gasped out. The image rotating above the table was a human, but detailed completely through in the same semi-transparent display, so you could see all the internal organs and bones. It slowly rotated, and as it did, I noticed that a significant amount of detail was missing, but was slowly filling in. I grabbed the table top to stabilize my float, and it shifted to a similar diagram, but of a creature that was not very humanoid. It appeared to have a hexapodal layout, with 4 arms and 2 legs, with a large triangular shaped body. The upper arms were large and had huge three-fingered hands, while the lower arms were almost twice as long but very thin, with 6 fingers and 2 extra joints that let the arms fold up underneath itself. The body had a weirdly apelike appearance, the more I looked at it, but the face was anything but apelike. Large, oval eyes were above a long snoutlike nose and mouth, and that, combined with large triangular ears on the top of the head made the face look like a cartoon fox.
I couldn't believe it. This model, unlike the human one, was complete, and moved around as though it was waiting for someone to do something. "What the actual fuck?" I blurted, amazed at the detail of the model, but I froze when the little model turned to look directly at me and made a noise.
"Wait, can you hear me?" If this ship had an AI, and it had survived being alone? That thought alone drove home just how alien this place was. "I'm sorry we disturbed you, can you understand me?"
The small figure paused as if in thought, then looked around the room before pointing at one of the columns. As I turned to look at the column, the arms started moving around, the ends of which looking like they were holding something invisible while caressing it. After a few seconds, however, I could see that it wasn't holding an invisible object, but rather was creating something. The arms appeared to be some kind of 3d printing setup! I watched, fascinated, while something that looked remarkably like a small raw chicken formed. Suddenly, as it finished forming, it bloomed with feathers and skin, before I realized it was a raven.
The raven cawed, shook, and looked at me. "Yes, we can hear you, and yes, we understand. Your visit, unplanned and unanticipated as it is, was no disturbance. In fact, it appears we should apologize to you, but we will have more time for that later."
It flew over to me, landing on the table in front of me. "Right now, your friend needs your help."
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