#it's radio technology and coding that makes me shed tears

[perilegs]

ok ok as soon as i develop the ability to understand clear instructions i will have nøkk with both autopsy AND top surgery scars in my game and then it's over for me

#i'm trying so hard with the unique tav mod but the instructions for it are not for my brain #usually when ppl make instructions they refer to things and what theyre referring to is clear as day to everyone but me i feel like #like 'unpack the xyz file' ok! easy! no idea what file we're talking about! cant find a dl or mention of it anywhere else! #and after almost crying i Get It #that wasnt specific to this mod but like me modding games in general #i dont have enough modding knowledge for this shit gdvdhdbkw #i feel like i'm getting a bad grade in computer #and like. i already do that at uni can we not do that irl too #wait i lied i actually get pretty good scores on classes about computers #it's radio technology and coding that makes me shed tears #leevi liveblogs

[unityghost]

Morning Glory

Part 25 (yikes, wow, homegirl needs a social life) of the Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels series.

Based on one of the most intriguing prompts I've ever received:

Gabe's always torn between wanting to be hurt and wanting to be looked after, so if (somehow) he ended up being caught by a djinn what would he see? and how would he react once someone (read Sam lol) woke him up? like, would he be guilty for dreaming of going on hunts with the Winchesters and feeling like family or freaked out BC he'd just seen Sam attack him with the archangel blade? - Type40Treklock (Fanfiction.net)

It took me too long to get to this. Tumblr followers ... you have been patient with me. Thank you and I'm sorry for the wait!

                                         Morning Glory                                                   

Is everything okay?

You’re not hurt, are you?

I’m not the only one who’s worried. If we don’t hear from you, we’ll come and shake you out of whatever hangover is keeping you from texting back.

“Gabriel,” Castiel interrupted, “I doubt that they’ve gone four days without contact just because of a drunken stupor.”

Gabriel looked up from his phone. “Oh yeah? You’d put it past Dean to take a long-ass Epicurean detour?”

“No, I wouldn’t. But we should at least have heard from Sam. Don’t you agree?”

Gabriel sighed. “Yeah. I do.”

“In any case,” Castiel went on, “You’re right that there’s nothing in your recent exchanges with Sam to shed any light on their predicament.”

“Hey, hey, there might not even be a predicament. This radio silence could be chalked up to anything.”

“Yes.” Cas looked somber. “That’s exactly why we’re here. Speaking of which, I don’t mind flying you back home if you feel ambivalent about this.”

“Cas, please. I already told you eight hundred times that I don’t want you looking into this by yourself.”

“You know that I’m perfectly capable of self-preservation.”

“All right, I get it: I’m not. Don’t try to butter me up with subtext, Castiel.” Besides their voices, the only sounds were the twin notes of a chickadee hiding in the brambles that flanked a nearby playground. The air was heavy and warm, and the sky threatened rain. “Now listen: are you really going to spend your energy on how high I’ll flip my lid if I find Sam hurt, and not stop to consider how I’d react to you getting caught off guard just because you didn’t come with backup?”

Cas grew uneasy. “It isn’t that I don’t understand, Gabriel; I just ...” But he didn’t continue.

“I’m going to take the east wing,” Gabriel told him. “You take the west. Let’s scope the place out for those negligent blockheads instead of wasting time.”

A weird case out in some abandoned hospital, Sam had told Gabriel. But pretty routine, it looks like. Doubt it’ll take more than a couple of days.

Cas had had the good sense to trace the brothers’ cell phones. Locating the signal meant two things: one, the phones were turned on and Sam and Dean could have been answering if they wanted to; and two, Cas and Gabriel didn’t have to spend too much time figuring out exactly which drowsy pocket of suburban Idaho hosted the ruins of an orphaned hospital.

Cas and Gabriel strode to the doors together, but Castiel pulled Gabriel back before either could go inside. “Wait.”

“What?” Castiel appeared vaguely uncomfortable. “I … I have my grace.”

“Mazel tov.”

“And you have ... you have ...”

“Not yet clawed my way back to the surface of the pitiful noodle-pond that used to be raw, untethered cosmic power? What, really, are you sure? Because I hadn’t noticed.” He shook Castiel off. “Cut it out. I wouldn’t have followed you if I thought I couldn’t handle my part in the game.”

That was not entirely true, Gabriel acknowledged privately. He wasn’t useful so much as he was expendable: if he could buy them any kind of time, the extent to which he was able to protect himself wouldn’t matter. What was important was that they find Sam and Dean and, if either of the brothers were injured or trapped, ensure their safety.

The doors were not locked, and probably hadn’t been for a long time – partly because the empty building was ideal for anyone who didn’t want to be noticed by police, and partly because crime rates in this town were impressively low.

The lobby offered an unsettling mixture of scents: there was the damp, rotted wood of the front desk; there was rainwater that had leaked through cracks and crevices; they could smell moldy blankets and a warm undernote of something that might have been human decay.

“Let’s split up,” said Gabriel, just as Castiel said, “Let’s stick together.”

“What did I say about east and west?” Gabriel reminded him. “That’s what this is for.” He held up his phone. “I’ll text you to let you know where I am. You do the same. Or, if things get out of hand, call me and use code phrase ‘Bengal cat.’”

“I really think –”

But Gabriel ignored him to follow the metal wall plaque that directed him to the east wing of the hospital.

What he found was disconcerting: several of the beds were stripped, but some displayed carefully folded sheets that had flushed to the color of jaundice. There were rooms full of cots lined up side by side, and others whose beds had been turned over or shoved into corners. A few of the wards, and one stairwell, had old bloodstains on the floor.

A vengeful spirit, we think, Sam had said. Possibly more than one.

Gabriel bent down to peer beneath each bed. He knew that neither Sam nor Dean could lie there undetected, but perhaps he would find clues, something to guide him to their exact whereabouts or to suggest that they were in trouble.

Truthfully, Gabriel hoped he would find nothing. He was not searching for a body, and had no desire to muddy that conviction with anything that would look at home in an evidence bag.

Any luck? Castiel texted.

I found a mouse, Gabriel wrote back.

A mouse?

Neither of them; I checked. It wasn’t wearing plaid.

Half an hour later, Gabriel got in touch again: I can’t find anything. Gonna check the basement.

The message didn’t send. So he tried a second time, and once more it failed to go through.

Gabriel didn’t have much faith in his relationship with modern technology, because there was plenty he had missed during his time in Hell, and he hadn’t taken much time to acquaint himself with the multiplicity of devices that had flooded the world he thought he would never see again. It wasn’t a priority; there was so much else to learn, so much else to figure out.

With reluctance, Gabriel tried communicating with Castiel telepathically. If Cas felt anything, there was nothing to show for it, and Gabriel did not want to exhaust what little grace he might be able to access in case of an emergency. His grace had lately been fluid, unpredictable, and messy; he could rarely anticipate how much he might have at his disposal at any given time.

He could only assume that the message would send sooner or later, that perhaps it was moving slowly because of signal problems.

Not until Gabriel was in the basement did he realize exactly what was in the basement.

He squared his shoulders and reminded himself that of course they had to check the morgue; it made sense. The morgue was like any other section of the hospital, a room that might contain the living as well as the dead – and, perhaps, the not-quite-living and the maybe-dead.

But Gabriel hesitated. There could be no denying the stench of human putrefaction at this point. This was the first time since his arrival that he realized Cas might have been right to worry about him.

So he detached himself and pretended that he was watching another individual press his palms to either of the cold metal doors.

That was when somebody seized him from behind.

“No!” Gabriel screamed, and tried to throw his captor off. Its grip was hard and tight and unforgiving; this grip was confident and hungry, and Gabriel knew what that meant.

For a moment, he wondered how he could have ever confused the cautious warmth of Sam’s hands with the hands of a monster: this kind of touch, this kind of brutality, was fully recognizable as evil.

He tried to kick the thing’s legs and bite its hand. He felt a palm pressed to his mouth and this time not only smelled but tasted the meaty odor of decay.

He screamed into its hand until there was the tang of blood in his throat. He reached inside of himself for his grace, desperate for power that simply wasn’t there.

“Sleep,” the thing whispered into his ear, and Gabriel grew sick with panic. His nightmares were here, alive and real and ugly, and there was no one to help guide him back to a sense of security.

Gabriel could not remember ever wanting Sam as badly as he did in that moment.

The hand on his mouth was so strong he couldn’t breathe. Somewhere in his mind he knew that he didn’t need to breathe in order to survive, but the terror didn’t abate.

He was still screaming, still sobbing, when he opened his eyes and saw that he was lying in bed in an unfamiliar room illuminated by sunshine.

The smell of death was gone, replaced with the cool scent of cleaners and laundry detergents. The carpet was spotlessly white, and in the corner stood a table with a half-empty bottle of wine and four glasses that still had crimson dregs at the bottom.

He choked on his own tears and stole as many quick, ragged breaths as he could.

The door clicked open and he scrambled away, slipping off of the other side of the mattress.

“Gabriel!”

It was a voice he knew, and the arms that lifted him back onto the bed were not the arms of a brute.

Gabriel was shaking and moaning. He knew how helpless and pathetic he sounded, but he also had heard himself make those sounds before.

“You’re all right,” Sam murmured. “Just a bad dream, okay? Just a bad dream. You’re all right.”

“Where am I?” Gabriel rasped. “What happened?”

“Ssh, it’s like I said - I think you just had a nightmare. Sorry, I thought a nap would help you feel better. You wore yourself out setting all this up for us, I think.”

“What are you - ” Gabriel blinked rapidly, shivering and whimpering as he tried not only to form a question but to figure out whether it was even safe to ask. “Set what up? I didn’t - I don’t - ” His eyes flicked over the room, and he knew then what he wanted to say - A non-smoking suite, I see, spic-and-span as Aunt Doris’s pearls - but couldn’t get it out.

Sam seemed at something of a loss. All he could offer was a hand on Gabriel’s arm, trying to steady him.

“Two minutes ago,” Gabriel managed, “I - I was - ” There was the possibility that he had finally broken, had finally lost his mind really and completely; and the thought made him feel dizzy.

But there was a second possibility that slowed his blood to an icy crawl. “Sam?”

“What is it, Gabe?”

“Does Asmodeus have anything to do with this?”

Sam’s voice was gentle. “Hey, no, of course not. He won’t hurt you again, bud."

“He can mess with me; he can screw around with my memory, my perception - ”

“Yes. He used to be able to do that.” Sam gripped Gabriel’s shoulder. “But not anymore. You’re safe, Gabe, I promise.”

“Where am I? Am I still in Idaho?”

“Idaho?” Sam used his sleeve to help wipe Gabriel’s face, and Gabriel didn’t try to resist. “With this many beaches and kangaroos?”

Gabriel shut his eyes. “Jesus O’Malley, we’re in Australia.”

“Yeah. You brought us here, remember? Set up this hotel for us. Everyone else is down at the pool right now. Jack got to hold a koala this morning. You did a lot for us, and I think maybe you’re just exhausted.”

Gabriel shivered. “Sam, did you ever have so much trouble telling them apart? Dreams and - and what’s really happening?”

Sam considered. “I don’t think so.”

“Not even with Lucifer?” Gabriel was desperate for Sam to be right; he longed for confirmation that he really had just tired himself to the point of oblivion. Or perhaps Sam was lying to him and pretending that Gabriel had achieved something of which he had not been capable for hundreds and hundreds of years.

Sam frowned. “With who?”

“You know who. With my skeezewaffle of a brother.”

Sam looked puzzled. “Who, Jack’s dad? I met him twice at most.”

Gabriel simply stared.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.

“Um. I just … I feel like an idiot.”

“Don’t feel - ”

“This should have been obvious right away.” Gabriel felt his shoulders relax slightly: he was in no danger from Asmodeus, or from his own insanity.

Before Sam could press him, there was a vigorous rapping at the door.

Gabriel swept the heels of his hands over his eyes in a final attempt to dry them. “Is that Africa by Toto?”

Sam sighed and went to open the door.

“Catch!” cried Dean, throwing a towel across the room to land on Gabriel’s head.

Gabriel tore it off. “This is wet, you maniac! I don’t need your cooties.”

“It ain’t my fault if your reflexes are molasses.” Dean was clad only in neon-orange swim trunks. “I figured a whiff of chlorine might wake you up.”

“You’re gross, Dean,” said Sam.

Castiel and Jack stood behind Dean, dressed more modestly with t-shirts over their swim trunks.

“Jack,” Gabriel croaked. He felt a strangely potent sense of relief at the sight of his nephew.

But Cas spoke first. “Are you feeling refreshed? If you’re up to it, we can go out for dinner.”

Gabriel didn’t reply. Instead, he did what he would have done in any situation: he looked at Sam, hoping he would have answers.

“We’ll order in,” Sam said. “It’ll be fun to try some of the local cuisine, don’t you think, Gabriel?”

“I … I guess.”

“Poor guy’s still recovering from last night,” Dean interrupted. “Doesn’t even have his voice back from the karaoke.” He nudged Gabriel, who tensed at the contact. “Don’t worry, I got the best of your performance on video.”

“Really?” exclaimed Jack. “I want to see.”

Dean glanced at Gabriel. “I don’t know if I’d sanction a G rating on that one.”

“Well,” Castiel chimed in, “We had a good night too.”

Jack’s face brightened. “Yeah, Sam and Cas and I had pizza and ice cream and watched the latest Steve Irwin special.”

“Lucky bastard and all his academy awards,” said Dean. “I hear he’s got his own theme park now.”

Jack peered more closely at Gabriel. “Uncle Gabe - have you been crying?”

“No,” said Gabriel.

But Jack looked disturbed. “I’ve never seen you cry before.”

“Really? I mean, uh - I’m fine. I’m okay. I think I might be allergic to Vegemite.”

Jack took a moment to evaluate, then stepped forward and hugged him.

Gabriel froze.

“I love you,” said Jack. “You’re the best.”

It took Gabriel several seconds to remember that he was supposed to hug back. The embrace lingered until he pulled away, before the smell of chlorine and the dampness of Jack’s hair on his cheek could become any more real.

Dean spoke up. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I could use a shower.” He waltzed into the bathroom and shut the door. Then there came the hiss of running water.

Sam groaned. “You can kick him out and make him use the bathroom you set up for him.”

“I think he likes your custom shampoo,” Jack told Gabriel.

“So I suppose after we’ve all freshened up,” said Cas, “We can decide what to do. Or rather, Gabriel, you can decide whether you have any energy to go out. Trust me, no one will feel neglected if you’d prefer to keep things on the quieter side this evening. Oh, and Sam - ” Cas laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “If you aren’t feeling up to anything - ”

“Don’t worry about me, Cas.” Sam smiled. “ I’m fine.”

“I know, but … the last hunt was a lot. You were in pain. So if you’re still feeling the effects, we can lie low tonight. I can make sure that - ”

“Relax. I’m good. It’s like Dean said at breakfast, you’ve done enough for us. All right? No need to keep trying to take care of everyone.”

Gabriel’s gaze flitted back and forth between the two of them. “What hunt are we talking about?”

Sam waved a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve hardly thought about it since you healed me up. Cas is overreacting. Which I appreciate, but I’m really okay.”

Cas nodded. “All right.” He slid his hand from Sam’s shoulder. “In that case, why don’t Jack and I go back to our room and settle down for a while? I have no reason to suspect that Jack is anything but satisfied with the shampoo in our bathroom.”

Jack smiled at Gabriel, and Gabriel snapped his eyes away.

“So,” Sam began once Jack and Cas had exited the room, “You okay?”

“Yes.” The word came out as a whisper.

“No you’re not,” Sam insisted. “I haven’t seen you like this in a long time.”

“I’m … I’m feeling fine, Sam. It’s like you said: just a really awful dream.”

“Do you want me in here with you? I don’t mind sticking around for however long you need me for.”

“I don’t. Obviously I’ve got your brother to keep me company.”

Sam’s eyes flitted to the bathroom door. “He means well, I guess. I think he needed some time off.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for. Me, my supercharged celestial batteries, and a non-stop flight to the land down under.”

Sam smiled. “I’ll come back to check on you in a little bit, okay? And if Dean gives you any trouble just throw him to the dingoes.”

“Mm. You know I will.”

Gabriel watched Sam exit the room, studiously ignoring the surge of grief at the back of his throat.

He gave himself no time to dwell on what would happen next.

The first place he checked was the bedside drawer. There, he found a copy of the King James Bible that contained what were more than likely Gabriel’s emendations: “Don’t be afraid, Mary,” said the angel, “For you are in favor with Daddy-o. Congratulations, it’s a boy, and you shall call him either Jesus or Scott - I forget which one.”

He moved to the closet, which turned out to be full of clothing better suited for a wedding or seventies-themed disco party than a relaxing weekend away. Which, Gabriel reflected, made sense if he and Dean had decided to take advantage of traits that, in another life, might have led to something like companionship.

When an examination of the closet yielded no results, Gabriel moved to the table and bent over the duffel bag on the chair. When he unzipped it he found swimwear, perhaps his own. There were trunks, a pair of goggles, some flippers.

Sitting on top of the aquatic regalia sat a rectangular box: slim, unassuming, and discreetly coffin-like.

Feeling triumphant, Gabriel lifted the lid.

Then he heard the bathroom door open behind him.

“Don’t,” said Dean.

Gabriel straightened up but didn’t turn around. “It’s not real.”

“It kind of is, man.” The shower was still running. Gabriel could feel the steam coming from the bathroom, as lifelike as anything else he had encountered thus far. “Look, nobody’s trying to force philosophy into what should just be a nice little family getaway, but - ”

“Don’t use that word,” Gabriel snapped.

“What word?”

“Shut up; you know what word. And I agree that we should keep superfluous proselytizing to a minimum.”

“If you do this,” Dean told him, “You’re making it real.”

Gabriel sighed, then turned to face him. Dean had a towel around his waist.

“You know what, sensei?” Gabriel said. “Get back in the shower and don’t watch if it bothers you so much.”

“Once you see how easy it is, Gabe - ”

“It isn’t easy. It’s practical. Listen, pal, I’ve been around long enough to remember how to pop this lock. Getting out of here will be a breeze no matter what shortcuts I gotta take.”

Dean shook his head. “What reason to you have to leave?”

“You know perfectly well what reasons I have.”

“You’re worried about Sammy, right?” There was an odd melancholy in Dean’s face - an expression halfway between resignation and desperation that Gabriel had never seen on him in real life. “Now’s as good a time as any to worry about your own happiness, Gabriel.” Gabriel tensed, annoyed by the warmth of his full name. “You’re allowed to stick around for you if that’s what you want.”

Gabriel swallowed. “It’s not what I want.”

“Really? Just because you know Sam would miss you?”

Gabriel traced his fingers over the flat of the blade as though toying with a Rubik’s cube. “I miss him, too.”

“He’s right here, Gabe.”

“It’s not the same and you know it.”

“And what’s he going to say when he finds out about this? You have any idea what kind of pain this would cause him? To know what you did to get out? To know how damn easy it was to get your hands on the archangel blade in your deepest fantasies?”

Gabriel closed his eyes. “Who says he has to find out?”

And he raised the knife.

Gabriel remembered very little of what happened after it was done. Somebody lifted him, possibly even tried to carry him - until he fought with such ferocity that the newcomer let go, and Gabriel staggered forward with some assistance.

Somewhere amid the confusion and exhaustion, he registered that there was no odor of death on the arms that guided him. The voice in his ear, saying things like, “Try not to fall over” and “It’s just me,” was soft and familiar.

The next thing of which Gabriel was entirely conscious was waking up in his own bedroom, rolling onto his side, and seeing nobody.

Not real, he thought, but then remembered that it probably was. He had done what needed to be done in order to extract himself from that venomous amusement park with all its perfect temptations.

He pushed off the blankets. Someone had made sure to leave the bedside light on. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d worn on his trip to the hospital. Gabriel felt himself relax slightly: nobody had stripped him down.

When he tried to sit up, he hissed in pain. Peeling back his shirt, Gabriel saw that there were bandages on his abdomen, moistened with blood. Of course - there would not be enough grace for him to heal any injuries sustained during unconsciousness. He hoped it was Sam who had tended to the wound.

That was when Gabriel remembered that Sam could be anywhere, that he might have imagined his presence in the hospital earlier. Panicked, Gabriel forced himself to his feet and ignored the dizziness that came with the sudden movement.

He heard hurried footsteps, and the door slammed open.

“Sit down!” Sam cried, hurrying over to him. “Come on, don’t try to get up - not yet.”

He guided Gabriel back down.

“I’m fine,” said Gabriel. “Just made the fatal mistake of trying to stand up before all my senses had a chance to rehabilitate themselves. Did your spidey senses tingle?”

“No, I - I just heard you moving around.”

Gabriel closed his eyes, willing the vertigo away. “Hey. Potato brains. You told me you were facing down a vengeful spirit.”

“Yeah, we were.” Sam tucked the blankets more securely around Gabriel’s shoulders. “The djinn was the one to kill the guy.”

“Well, didn’t you two just hit the jackpot.”

“You shouldn’t have tried chasing after us, Gabriel.”

“Wasn’t my idea.” Gabriel opened his eyes and focused on Sam’s face. “I didn’t want Cas going solo.”

Sam sighed, looking worried and relieved all at once. He seemed to be waiting for Gabriel to speak.

Finally, Gabriel did. “Look, I’m sorry. I wish I’d been able to defend myself. At the very least to put up a good fight. If my grace levels were anywhere near where they should be, that thing wouldn’t have gotten within two feet of me, let alone into my head.”

“It’s okay. Don’t apologize.”

“How long was I down there, Sam?”

“Not long, I’m pretty sure. We heard you screaming.” Gabriel blinked. “Then you were down there with me? I was on your trail?” Please tell me I did something right.

Sam nodded. “By then, we’d caught on that we might be looking for more than just a pissed-off spirit. Guess you were in the right place at the wrong time, huh?” He forced a smile. “Thanks, but why didn’t you at least wait for backup?”

“Didn’t want to lose time. Cas was half-convinced we were on the prowl for a pair of Winchester-shaped corpses. Sam … in what universe did you think it was okay to ignore us for that long?”

Sam shrugged. “Couple of teenagers stole our phones. And wallets.”

“How hunterly of you to allow adolescent fugitives to make off with your valuables. Why didn’t you at least pray to me or Cas? I mean - I don’t know that I would’ve heard you, my grace being as floppy as it is, but he would have.”

Sam offered another weak smile. “We didn’t think about that, Gabriel. We weren’t in any serious trouble. Why would we ask for help when we didn’t need it?” He peered more closely at Gabriel, whose expression must have betrayed something of which Gabriel was unaware, because Sam added, “Hey, it’s okay; I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d be that freaked out. We got everything back in the end, when we - ” He hesitated for a second before concluding. “When we found the kids in the morgue.”

“In the … ah. I see. The rendezvous spot for illicit recreation.”

“Just enough to mortify their God-fearing parents, probably.”

“I’m sure Dad was plenty concerned with their antics. What about Castiel; is he all right? Did he get out?”

“He’s fine. Cas wasn’t hurt.”

“All right. Good to know I’m the only one who can’t look out for myself.”

Sam caught the bitterness in Gabriel’s voice. “Stop.”

“No, actually - ” Gabriel pushed himself up a little straighter. “Don't you want to know what kind of utopic frenzy that bastard cooked up for me?”

Sam was quiet. Then he replied, “Honestly, I kind of do.”

“Good. Because in the interest of science, I want to get it on the record that I can tell you the whole thing without breaking down. As a reward I’ll let myself take home that this didn’t all happen just because I’m brittler than fried seaweed.”

Sam looked pained. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I understand.”

“No, no, let me see - so I have it on the books - how far I can push myself before sacrificing my dignity to an inflamed maw of shitty memories. First, can I get Sigmund Freudchester’s opinion on something?”

“I … yeah, sure. What?”

“What does it say to you that the djinn made things so that I’d still been held prisoner by Asmodeus?”

Horror passed over Sam’s face. “You were with him? In Hell?”

“No, no, yuck, not with him; it had still happened to me, though, and you were the good egg who kept wasting fuel on the little engine that couldn’t. What’s your take on that? What do you think?”

Sam’s face had gone pale. “I don’t know, Gabriel.”

“Really? Well, I think I do.” There was something manic in Gabriel now, something he couldn’t control. He was, perhaps, a little angry, a little frantic, although he could not have said why. “It just confirms for me that if I had the opportunity to unwrite this script, to change what happened to me, to make it so that I had never been his favorite toy - ”

“You wouldn’t.” Sam looked horrified, but did not sound surprised.

“Exactly,” Gabriel told him. “Because I wasn’t meant to be treated any differently. Getting out of Hell was just a maggot turning into a fly. No real upgrade. And if I didn’t have the courage to actually wish that I was back where I was supposed to be, then I at least had the common decency to take some of what I deserved.”

“Gabriel, please don’t - ”

“I only knew for sure it was just tripe when you came out and said you’d never faced Lucifer. No - wait - you called him ‘Jack’s dad.’ As if you’d signed the adoption papers, bada-bing, bada-boom, the kid’s ours. And Jack - he was so damn innocent, nary a shit to give, just some happy little kid who made it clear how hardcore he loved his uncle. Because Uncle Gabe had the power of freaking kangaroos on hand, and - ”

“Stop.” Sam held up a hand. He seemed to have recovered a little. “You know what the djinn does, don’t you? You’re supposed to - to think that its world is better. You’re supposed to not want to get out.” He paused. “Um …”

“Go ahead,” Gabriel pressed. “You know how I got out.”

Sam looked at him. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

Unconsciously, Gabriel touched his stomach. The wound there was from where the monster had stolen blood. “Let’s just get this out of the way. I know you’re probably angry as Hell about it.”

That seemed to take Sam by surprise. “No! Well - I mean - if you still think about that sometimes; if you … if you can’t help …”

“It’s fine, Sam; I get it. Be pissed.”

“I’m not pissed. I … I mean … do you want me to be mad?”

“I don’t want anything from you, Sam; you do you.”

“Listen, I get that some days are better than others, and that sometimes you’re just not going to … you know …” Sam gave a frustrated sigh. “I’m just trying to say that I know you can’t control what goes through your head. It’s not your fault, that’s all. But I wish you could shake off this idea that you deserved what you got. And that you somehow have to - I don’t know - to make something up to us.”

“Sam,” Gabriel pleaded, “Jack got to hold a koala.”

Sam just laid a hand on his arm, waiting, perhaps, for Gabriel to say more.

“You have every right to be angry,” Gabriel said finally. “You know - you can be upset about the archangel blade. Because you do everything in your power to make me care about myself, and all I do is fight back.”

“Gabriel …” Sam kept his hand in place as he thought about how to respond. “I’m not mad. Really. I’m not. You used it to live. You could have been happy there, but you decided to come back. How could I be angry about that?”

Gabriel tensed. “Uh. I was more thinking along the lines of how easy it was to get to it. It was sitting there in a duffel bag, right where I could grab it in an emergency. You know, you never know when you might need to - to slice open a cantaloupe or …” He trailed off, then cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s the freedom of having the choice. You get that, right? Sort of?”

Sam nodded. “And you made a choice. Look at that.”

Gabriel shivered.

“You cold?” Sam asked.

“No,” Gabriel told him, “Just a wreck. Make a note in the spreadsheet for further evaluation later. This is proving to be an interesting experiment, wouldn’t you say?” He took a deep breath. “I can’t give you what you gave me, Sam. A home. Good memories. A feeling of safety. Somewhere to be afraid without getting hurt in the end. I can’t give that to you or Dean or Cas or Jack.”

“We don’t need those things from you.”

“You need them from someone, Sam, and I owe you at least that much.”

“You need to be - oh, hey - ” Sam withdrew his hand and used the blankets to help dry Gabriel’s face.

“Add it to the log,” Gabriel whispered. “I failed the experiment.”

“It’s okay to be upset. You know that. Crying is probably good for you.”

“You know what else is good for you? Bikram yoga. But it sucks and you look like a clown doing it.” Gabriel shuddered again. “You know - his hands, they felt like - they reminded me of - ”

“Whose hands? The djinn’s?”

“Yes.”

“What about them?”

“They felt like his. And I just - right then, when I felt him - ” Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut and felt a tear trickle over his temple and into his ear. “Sorry - when I felt him, I thought of you. Not because it felt like how it feels when you’re with me, or when you touch me. Because it felt so different.”

“I could lie down with you, if you want.”

Gabriel didn’t answer, and kept his eyes closed. He felt Sam, who had learned to read Gabriel’s silence, recline next to him.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me about?” Sam asked.

Gabriel curled in on himself and cried.

He felt Sam pull him close. “You’re tired, Gabriel. You need some rest. Try and sleep, yeah?”

Gabriel didn’t respond.

“Sleep,” Sam repeated.

It sounded so different coming from him.

#supernatural #spn #fanfiction #fanfic #post-asmodeus sabriel feels #pasf #sam winchester #gabriel #sabriel #platonic #friendship #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #djinn #jack kline #castiel #dean winchester #comforting sam winchester #caring sam winchester #protective sam winchester #ptsd #post-traumatic stress disorder #gabriel has ptsd #asmodeus #gabriel lives #post-season 13 #gabriel has issues #gabriel needs a hug #scared gabriel #hurt gabriel

[snazzamazing]

Stupid random theories, headcanons, and unpopular opinions of mine

Btw, these are all long so sit tight

My mangle theory :

I cant be the only one here who thinks that mangle was taken apart by little kids. It wouldn't make sense that little toddlers would be strong enough to pull apart a metal robot. That's because the kids didnt break her, william did. Mangle seems like he was an inspiration from funtime foxy because sister location happened before AND a lot of times, "toy foxy" is often referred to "funtime foxy". Due to this inspiration, mangle had the ability to record voices and things just like funtime foxy. Why am I pointing this out? Well, why would mangle randomly have static noises and a broken radio sound? It's her recorder, it's broken. He recorded many things and then recorded something that someone didnt want anyone to find out about. That someone would be William afton. William is always suspicious and doing evil things.Let's say that, oh idk, maybe William murdered someone, some person called the cops on him, (which explains the police messages n stuff in the radio) William killed that person and his the evidence of the murders. At least that's what he thought. Mangle was somehow recording the whole thing. William had no other choice but to take her apart and destroy him. But then William thought that it would to suspicious to have mangle be randomly broken the next day and so he fixed mangle up in way where it looks like shes fixed, but one tug hes broken and the kids are there to blame for. All of this might be a stretch I know, but apparently in one of the fnaf 2 minigames where theres a mangle Sprite, in the files or sources codes or WHATEVER IDK, there's a hidden message that says "he was here" or something like that. THAT CAN SUPPORT THIS THEORY errr headcanons? Idk I should go sleep lol

Micheal headcanon:

I always wanted to believe that Micheal was the older brother/Bully and that the bite victim was a different character. Why? Because I want more..character for Micheal. He went to sister location because he wants his torn apart family to be back together. He went to save Elizabeth and he never forgave himself for being the one to 'kill' his brother and all that failed. I wanted Michaels story to be exciting and emotional because of his past and the whole family thing

I also always liked to think that Micheal started working out to gain some strength before becoming a technician because he knows that the robots are strong and dangerous. That way things can be more action packed with Michael punching through pipes and walls, and holding back animatronics trying to grab him, and just...cool stuff

Fnaf headcanons:

Freddy has a nice deep voice and that's his real voice. When it comes to preforming during the day, he talks in his "family friendly" voice which is all goofy and fun (kinda like Patrick star's voice) The animatronics are a lot different on stage. It's as if they play as characters and they change their voices sometimes (like Freddy). Chica acts like this ditzy cute country gal, Bonnie is a laid back chill bon, foxy is just more ...pirate, and Freddy is a fun loving silly lead singer

Nightmarriones pupils change shape to Express his emotions. (Sad=tear drop pupils, sick=swirly pupils, angry=skull or fire pupils)

Lefty has his own voice instead of a whispery girly voice because he is his own character. He may look like the rockstars but he was made differently. The rockstars were built by some factory or company and they have advanced technology which gives em the ability to have emotions, personalities and to do tricks. Meanwhile lefty was built by henry in a shed or something. Henry only focused on programming him to find charlie and he had to make lefty look like the rockstars to blend in and not be suspicious. Other than that, lefty was a total rush job. Henry only wanted Charlie therefore, Henry didn't care to give lefty a personality, emotions, an EYE, or stablness.

In the afton family, the mother is sweet, kind, caring, and over protective while william is outgoing, silly, and isnt afraid to do anything (before he went insane). Usually kids have similar personalities to their parents soooo I like to think that Micheal is more like his mom but looks like his dad and that Elizabeth looks like her mom but acts like her dad. Why? Because I always saw Michael as a hero, he cares for others and he wants to save his family. He is sweet and protective like his mom. Elizabeth is rebellious and sassy. In the sister location mini cutscene with William and Elizabeth, she disobeys william to see baby and that's a rebellious move. Elizabeth likes adventure and crazy things so she wont follow the rules any time soon.

Funtime chica does all the rockstar's make up. When months pass by, the rockstar's paint would peel or chip and so ft. Chica would repaint their lipsticks, eye shadows, cheeks, etc. And they look fresh and new afterwards

Even though puppet and Goldie (and all the other animatronics) have been through so much shiz, they still try to keep their cool and enjoy life

In the rockstar crew r. Bonnie is the creepiest. Yeah, he seems chill and is self centered, he is the only rockstar who is most likely to murder someone if he's told to do so (this isn't counting ucn where they all kill). All on Bonnie's songs are so creepy and he sings about killing you in unique ways. Stuff like making slivers (or slippers) out of you, flaying your flesh, smashing your face into concrete, ending your life, and stabbing your heart with his guitar. He's definitely into gory stuff

Springtrap has two different personalities. Most of the time he's himself, spring bonnie. A kind fun loving bun who completely changed his personality after becoming springtrap. He is know constantly scared, upset, and afraid of Williams next move. He hates being an evil monster but it's not something he can control due to William still having control over him. When the slringbonnie side of springtrap gets mad or upset that's when hes weak and William takes control and becomes the evil side of springtrap. Springtrap is very aggressive and very strong. Slringbonnie tries to fight back Williams spirit, but as time went on and when the kids got sent free, spring bonnie got lonely and gave up which let William take full control over him. Sprjngbonnie is gone, its William now (which explains scraptrap)

Idk if this is a theory or headcanon but fnaf 1 bonnie is blue. Yes, he is known to be purple and everyone says and draws him purple but he's blue. Maybe it's the certain blue color he is but due to lightning it makes him look very purple. When he's in more darker areas, bonnie is very blue but when he's in the light areas, hes purple. Let's not forget how every single version on bonnie is blue (except for extras like spring springbon and bonnet etc.) Exept for fnaf 1 bonnie. That doesn't make sense if one of the originals would be purple but all the other versions are blue. One more thing, in the silver eyes, they mention that bonnie has blue fur ;) this was a dumb rant sorry

Shadow bon is evil and can shape shift cause hes a goopy shadow boy and shadow fred is his lil assistant

After fazbears fright burned down, William got to take control over springbonnie(trap) and roamed the streets at night. He roamed dark allies and probably killed whoever slighted him. It was a long walk but he was just trying to get to his destination, fred bears diner. Because of the fires, the springtrap suit was more ruined and unsturdy and so it was time for a change. Somehow William got out of the suit but he's weak without one so he picked an old spring bonnie suit, scraptrap. (According to the fnaf minigames there are multiple spring bonnie suits so that why spring trap looks different)

I got more headcanons but this post is already to long :p

My Unpopular opinions:

Am I the only one here who's not way into the whole Michael AI theory?? Like it kinda makes sense but at the same time, making a whole new robot son with advanced technology IN THE 80s does not give the fnaf-y feel?? Ya know what I mean? Like it doesn't fit the theme? Also the ai thing is in the books and the books are a different universe from the games sooo idk why matpat still connected them?? Hsjsbsjsjsn fnaf is just waaaaay to confusing. Also please dont get mad at me for this opinion cause matpats ai thing is just a theory, its not canon

Foxy isnt super great. Dont get me wrong, I love foxy and he's an amazing character but I don't get why he got so much attention and hype

Bonnet and lolbit should just be canon already. They're not canon characters but they're included in sooo many things in fnaf so might as well make em canon

Funko needs to make a fnaf 2 figure set where you collect t.chica,t.bonnie,t.freddy, puppet, one of the withereds or shadows and you collect them all to make a mangled mangle figure. I would DIE for a fully formed noodle fox figure, how cool would that be?

Scraptrap design is perfect. I know that we all make peanut and Jimmy neutron jokes but honestly I love his sharp teach, creepy eyes, AMazInG voice, and his stabby arm. Sometimes in some angles, he can look heck a creepy

SCRAP BABY LEGITIMATELY FREAKS ME OUT SHES SCARY

butter sock

#fnaf #five nights at freddy's #fnaf sister location #sister location #fnaf ucn #fnaf theories #fnaf headcanon #im sooooo tired #all of these are dumb but i just wanted to get em off my chest #not art #yay

[axolotiels]

Kick in the Head Ch. 3

We return to our passive-aggressive/panicky robots today! Thanks to @weavingmemories who is better at writing GLaDOS than me and is also a doll. Thank you for the support, again, it’s phenominal,,

     It took a good ten minutes or so for Wheatley to boot himself back up. Or really, if it was up to him, he was sure he would have remained in sleep mode for quite some time longer. But something sharp and shock-y had jabbed itself into his non-existent side and had jolted his systems awake. Wheatley himself was only partially conscious during the boot-up, his ‘thought’s muddled with delirium and the absence of any recent memory. He didn’t even recognize his own voice.

   What? Oh.. ugh.. What happened… It wasn’t even a question really, more of an aloof statement that he couldn’t remember saying two seconds after saying it. Or rather, thinking it.

   Personality loaded. Commencing autonomy boot and motor control boot.

   He didn’t know whose voice that one was in the least, but it didn’t matter. Something was being loaded up to help him feel less like he’d been tossed from a high ledge. Usually after waking up from sleep mode he was right as rain could be while floating about in space. Today was horrible and he hadn’t yet loaded the cognitive ability to figure out why.

   Autonomy boot complete, motor control at 54%.  Okay, okay, that was all fine and good, now he could think.

   It was like waking up after a nap at an odd hour of the day: rather than feeling rested he thought he’d been dunked into a wash basin and flung into the orbit of the earth. He was having a bit of trouble trying to actually remember what had happened and how long he had been out. He was in space and had been in space since he had to way to get out of space, and so therefore it should stand to reason that he had been in space before he had knocked out.

   Let’s see, he’d been cleaning up his files and tucking the undesirable ones away. Wheatley would use the word ‘undesirable’ to describe technical files and repression files and the occasional recipe for food that he could neither prepare nor eat.

   The shutters over his optic creaked open, and he found himself staring into the spotty and starry abyss that awaited him when not looking at the earth, the sun, or the moon. If he had a nose, he would have wrinkled it in mild dismay. He glanced from side to side, attempting to spin himself a bit to get a more interesting view. The little core did indeed spin but it ended up being much too quickly for his liking.

   Irritated, he waited until he stopped and watched the white star pinpoints turn into pale white smears that bled into the blur of the earth and the moon. That voice that was not his own spoke up again.

   Recent connection to Michigan Relay Tower 48 was broken. Host is requesting contact: y/n?

   To say that Wheatley’s blood had run cold would not be accurate. Neither would be that ‘he was biting his nails’ nor ‘he was at death’s door’. Instead, imagine for a moment what it is like to have the rug pulled out from under you. Then imagine being wrapped in the rug, thrown down a flight of concrete stairs, picked up by the feet, lit on fire, and rolled from the top of a steep mountain only to be plunged into icy water hundreds of feet below. That would be about half the intensity of the amalgamation of emotions that Wheatley felt once he remembered everything that had recently happened.

   The voice asked again, Grant host access to your communication channel: y/n?

   It was like he’d had a bucket of cold water dumped on him, which he may have actually preferred to this. At least with the bucket of water he’d fizzle out until his systems managed to clean it away. All Aperture technology could shed water, after all; they would only get water damage if they were submerged. He did not remember how he knew this, likely something had gone wrong while he was still near the scientists and therefore still near water, but that was here nor there.

   No no no, reject, reject! He yelped despairingly, none the wiser that the voice-that-was-not-his was not to be refused easily.

   Please open the communication hub. The prompt continued and was silent for a few seconds before reiterating its wishes. Wheatley was at least thankful that it wasn’t her voice, but he knew it was probably her sending them.

   Many expressions that we commonly use are often understatements, like the cavalcade of emotions that Wheatley was processing being boiled down to simple ‘surprise’. To say that the personality core had a ‘funny feeling’ that something bad would happen when he opened the communication hub to silence the nattering little voice would be like saying circus performers had a slightly challenging job or that Android Hell might be real. To describe it in a commonly used expression: it would be another understatement of the century.

   Please open the communication hub. The voice-that-was-not-his said again, it’s tone not changing but Wheatley getting more and more put off each time it told him to. His cracked optic settled on the little bit of earth that he could see, and aside from the clouds nothing much had changed. It was still the lump of green, blue, brown, and white rock that it always was, or always had been to Wheatley anyway.

   Quite suddenly, the little core remembered that GLaDOS’ relay tower was not the only thing that he had gained access to while sweeping out the code-y cobwebs of his head. There had been a radio station, one that had kept him occupied for a small period of time before he decided to bite the bullet and connect to the relay tower in Michigan. Now that Wheatley thought about it, albeit not very deeply, he wondered if the United States were still united at all.

   While he was still in the facility being tweaked and poked and prodded by the white-coated buggers that dared to call themselves scientists he had gathered from being told that 1. He was in the United States, and 2. That the US was the only country that seemed to make scientific breakthroughs. He’d also gathered from a very angry and sick sounding man over the speakers that a country named Black Mesa had stolen quite a few things from Aperture, which Wheatley had in turn learned was in fact, not a country, but a building inside of a state inside of a country. For all the things that Wheatley had learned, he retained a remarkable amount, but only in hastily written jumbles of code that read more like stereo instructions than notes on the world around him.

   But he was no longer in Aperture or its parent state or its parent country and was instead floating in the earth’s orbit with two little nattering voices to keep him company while he was on the brink of a simulated anxiety attack. Wheatley didn’t like his emotions in the least; they seemed rather useless to him. He’d seen other cores, one that lacked sufficient emotion or ones that were made entirely out of emotion, and they seemed to have no moral dilemmas on which direction to travel in that day or what to use to make spike plates look cooler before murder.

   It was quite the easy dilemma to pick which station to tune into, but even despite this Wheatley had an even funnier feeling that GLaDOS could patch herself in any time that she wanted. She knew where he was in the atmosphere now, she could trace him. She probably had a little locator button pinging off over an image of the earth now.

   Please open the communication hub. The voice said again, breaking his two-cart train of thought. Wheatley squinted uneasily at the earth again, and sighed.

   He did open the communication hub, but rather than the hellish screaming and grating he had endured for two days straight, he was given the list of stations to pick from again. Michigan Relay Tower 48 was blinking green; he wouldn’t touch that with a ten-line code. Pirate Station Sinatra was still active, and a few others had been added to the list, but they looked to be relay towers for said station with names such as Sinatra Station 2 and Sinatra Station Kaltag.

   So Wheatley did the logical thing and tried to shut himself off again.

   Error: solar charge capacity reached. Unable to initiate sleep mode. Please connect to server.

   Oh that’s just lovely. Wheatley scoffed at nobody. That was how he was still alive? Solar power? Solar powered what? I’ve got nothing to absorb sun juice or whatever it is I’m doing.

   Wheatley was doing something known as ‘stalling’. Stalling can be talking an inordinate amount of time to someone you do not wish to talk to in order to buy time for either a friend or yourself to delay the oncoming and awful news that you do not want to hear. Stalling can also be described as doing any number of activities to keep yourself from doing a task that you find particularly boring or do not want to do anyway. Some will stall to avoid having to clean a tank of alligators as punishment for daring to have an opinion that a large sum of people did not like, likewise as some will stall by writing a four page essay on comedians or voice actors one particularly likes rather than writing a four page essay on the history of titanium alloy. In fact, you might say that I am stalling now while attempting to avoid work by writing this story or that I am stalling against telling the actual story in favor of descriptors, and you would be correct.

   Wheatley shuffled between Station Sinatra’s access points a few times, feeling sure that if he opened any channel then some screaming and scraping would ensue, and if he did not open a channel then a channel would open itself and then things would get worse from there.

   The command prompt hovered over acceptance of Pirate Station Sinatra, and he accepted. There was a horrifying few seconds of nothing, then the three connecting beeps that were followed by the middle of a song. He remained still and terrified that a high pitched shriek would tear through him at any moment, but it never came. The song that had been playing, whatever it was he could not remember, faded out into a light static buzz.

   It was soon replaced by another song, one that actually did feature Frank Sinatra, though he would be damned if he knew which one. He liked them, but most of his music sounded the same. Baby this and sweetheart that all piped over a saxophone; if Wheatley hadn’t been starved for sound he would have disliked it all much more quickly. Luckily enough, Frank Sinatra was not all that played on Station Sinatra.

   Wheatley fitfully listened to the music that was funneled up from the station, not really having anything to look at but looking out to see anyway. Many songs passed, some of them jaunty and some of them sad, but most of them blending together into one gramophone and radio filtered cluster of sound. It had been quite a while since Wheatley had found his thoughts wandering by accident, but beginning to wander they did.

   The core, for once, asked all the correct questions. There are useless questions that he could have asked, like ‘How many budgerigars could I buy for 50 dollars’ or ‘If I was a human stuck in space how much flesh would be left on my body with nothing to break it down’. There are even more questions that would prove useless to him but prove quite useful in other situations, and it was a miracle that Wheatley did not ask any of them. But the questions that Wheatley did ask, be it of himself or of the night sky that he couldn’t get away from if he tried, were appropriate.

   What is she going to do to me? Was the first and foremost, and for all he knew there was a bug or a tap in his head that let her monitor his thoughts. He wouldn’t put it past her to install such a thing. Another question was When is she going to do it?

  Wheatley had been shuffling from absolutely panicked to bitter to oddly calm and all the way back for about two hours at that point. He was not very good at distracting himself on a good day, and absolutely horrendous at distracting himself when he had nothing else to do. The core decided that knowing others was just too much of a strain on him.

   The scientists had been a strain, the other cores had been a strain, she had been a strain. He had often been torn between feeling sorry for himself, feeling sorry for her, and feeling angry at her in his early months in the atmosphere. Now he didn’t know how he felt on the issue, but most of it was bitter and the other half dismissive. All he had tried to do was help her, then she had the nerve to go behind his back, talk about him to that… that great yellow-eyed demon, and… and…    Wheatley tried to concentrate, his shutters closing. That was what happened, right? He thought, having trouble recalling. He chirped to himself half-heartedly in a thinly-veiled attempt to not remember, because he simply did not want to. Of course that’s what happened, yes! I only fight back when I'm bein’ pushed, not unfair at all.

   Wheatley, of course, was being very unfair.

   He was glad there had been no leftover testing residue in his body left after he’d been ripped out of the chassis by the vacuum of space. He shuddered to think of how bad the itch could get if he were not wired into any sort of testing system at all. Serves her right now, to have no test subjects. The core thought resolutely. Killin’ them all off, what did she think was going to happen?

   Wheatley did not acknowledge that he had done the same thing on a lesser scale. The core did not acknowledge a lot of things that made him feel guilty, as most of us do not. It is in human nature to disregard things that make us feel bad, dismal, or any other word that describes a negative feeling, and though Wheatley was not human, he was certainly more than capable of feeling those things. As previously discussed, he hated being able to.

   A-and if you’re listening, you… you… He was going to say something that would be far too heinous to type out here, but luckily enough for me, he did not finish his sentence. Instead, he trailed away and rethought attempting to bolster her any further.

   He sat in silence again, listening to Station Sinatra and their spurs that jingle-jangle-jingled. That’s definitely not ol’ Frank. He thought, staring down at the blurry sphere of the earth.

  “I got spurs that jingle-jangle-jingle (Jingle jangle)”

   It did not occur to Wheatley that he had begun twittering along, at least mentally.

   “As I go ridin’ merrily along,

   And they sing, "Oh, ain't you glad you're single",

   And that song ain't so very far from wrong!”

   “Wrong!~” There came a voice that was not his, was not the prompt voice, and was not GLaDOS’ voice but sounded an awful lot like it. He froze immediately, the music still piping along and the voice continued on.

   Oh, what bloody now? The screaming wasn’t enough for you? You can’t let me rest after 2 days of nonstop android agony? He asked all these questions in an endless panicked stream of words, sounds, and the most raw fear that Wheatley had felt since GLaDOS had first patched in. Well, that wasn’t true. The first time was much worse, but that did not stop him from feeling as ‘ill’ as a machine could feel.

   It is an odd thing, to speak nonstop in the face of danger. There are some places in which speaking nonstop is appropriate, such as attempting to call for help from nearby people or putting on an hour-long stand up special to a particularly drunk crowd. And then there are places in which it is the least appropriate thing in the world, like attempting to talk down a hungry looking pack of coyotes or trying to get a homicidal AI not to crush your smelly human in her claws like a fiberglass banana.

   Wheatley’s predicament fell somewhere in the middle, as he was neither hosting stand-up nor was he trying to keep an ungrateful human fleshbag from getting her spine snapped. He was in no immediate danger, but dreaded the screeching that he was sure would be patched in at any second.

   The robots on the other end of his incessant babbling could never have been more confused.

   P-body was fairly smart, even as Aperture appliances go. GLaDOS didn’t refer to her as ‘P-body’ often, as she felt that would spoil her more than she already had been, likewise she did not refer to Blue as ‘Atlas’ for the same reason.

    She was honestly a bit disappointed in herself that she had made them so sentient and then had not made them for doing anything useful, other than testing of course. They had seemed overjoyed when she had given them a task that was not completing a testing course, and had been attending it dutifully, which was a relief. She didn’t need them to do it, really, but it would be one less bunch of jargon she’d have to concern herself with until repairing the seemingly ever-growing facility was done.

   GLaDOS heard Orange give a high pitched little warble in tandem with the radio that had been piping away since the moron’s broadcast had turned back on. She had a microphone feed coming in from the room where they were monitoring the signal, and it was soon jammed with panicked babbling and pleading.

   It was all very amusing, especially the commentary that she found her two test gremlins to be giving.

   Is this really the core who… who took over her facility? Orange twittered, her singing broken away.

   He’s like a scared little kid who happens to sound like a 40 year old human. Is he still going? Blue responded testily.

   “Of course he’s still going, he thinks he’s getting away with something.” GLaDOS droned through her own input, and was quite pleased when the yammering stopped.

   There are many ways in which things can go wrong in a facility like Aperture. There could be the more bland things like coffee being spilt and frying a few wires, or you could go to either end of the homicidal AI extreme, be it with the original or a replacement core with a particularly annoying habit of never shutting up. There are other instances in which other things can go wrong that are more within the confines of the facility itself than to be blamed on any AI in control of said facility, and that is precisely what went wrong.

   It could be felt all the way in her room, and the two test bots that were floors lower felt it even more so, frightened by a rather unpleasant sound: that of metal bending and collapsing. It made a horrible groaning and squeaking all at the same time, and several of GLaDOS’ image feeds went blank.

   A bit startled, she tried to figure out what the problem was as Blue and Orange both gave surprised wails and scrambled to the nearest corner. Flipping around several of her nearby cameras and remaining feeds, she found that, much to her horror, one of the long pieces of rebar she had been using to make a reinforcement plate beneath new Aperture had buckled from the wall. The whole left side of the facility that had been resting on it had begun bending it.

   This was easily enough fixed, she merely collapsed most of those rooms and shuffled them off to the side until she got their standard railings mounted. When she heard someone speak, she was both annoyed and even more surprised.

   “What the hell was that?” It was Wheatley, who had been silent since she had patched herself into the communication relay.

   She physically narrowed her optic; what the hell was he trying to pull?

   “I would have thought you were aware of the grotesque mutilation you’ve imparted on my facility. I’ve been trying to repair it, you dolt.”

   A soft staticy silence. “For… for three years?” He sounded astonished.

   GLaDOS was angry, there was no doubt about that. She was also embittered, surprised, and even a little bit baffled by his inability to comprehend the amount of damage he had done to her home. The rebar had stopped creaking by then but she felt it as the bent piece finally broke away and shook the framing that she’d been setting, so she sent the sectional nanobots to repair the jagged edges of the broken bar.

   For once, she didn’t know exactly what to say. This happened very rarely, usually when she was having a mental fit or there were too many scathing options to choose from. Today, it was a bit of both but mostly the latter. She sorted through her options painstakingly for what seemed like seconds, and decided it would be more fun to remain silent.

       For good measure, she muted Blue and Orange’s audio input as well. A few moments passed as she resumed rebalancing the rooms that had been resting on the one faulty piece of rebar and she waited like a cocky leopard in the underbrush.

   It wasn’t long until she either had another bit of reinforced steel brought or the little moron started chattering like a parakeet.

   “Oh… hello? God what was that?” and then more to himself, “Bunch of idiots, it’s been three years and they’re still letting whatever it was kick around in there! Miss High-and-Mighty, Miss ‘You-Ruined-My-Facility’, she hasn’t done anything to keep that from happening’ again, has she?”

  GLaDOS narrowed her optic again, knowing full well that the talking was more for the sake of himself rather than attempting to make contact. After all, what would that little idiot know about repairing a facility; he didn’t even destroy it all the way.

   A few more moments of relative quiet passed and the nanobot crew reported the even shaving of the broken beam; she waved them away as he started talking again.

   “This-this isn’t funny anymore.” He sounded afraid; good. “Oh… oh no.. that was… that was my only way… oh, nonononono.”

   Here was a signal being sent in from Blue and Orange’s monitor room. “What’s going on? Is-is the facility collapsing?”

     GLaDOS muted that signal too; far below a reinforced bar was being burned into place. She’d have to see what caused it to break in the first place from the nanobots soon, but for now, this was fun.

       She didn’t think Aperture constructs were able to have panic attacks but he sure was trying. “Oh nononono, this… ohh, this is bad. This is very bad. That could have been my only way out, oh no.”

   It was at that time another tremor did happen, and she realized that while she had many things focused in places that they needed to be, that this was causing quite a few things to rupture, a word which here means ‘explode violently and send tremors rippling through the facility, probably shaking rebar loose’. GLaDOS was practical in every sense of the word but even she could get distracted when playing around with someone who was isolated in space.

   “You know, I’ve been thinking,” She began, finally giving him a response and shattering his chain of panicky babble. “Not that you would know how to think, of course, but anyway.”

   GLaDOS couldn’t help but narrow her optic again, even though there was nobody there to witness it or the way her chassis coiled up to the ceiling like a venomous snake. “Simply put, it’s funny watching you squirm in space. But it’s only funny for a little while. Even if you aren’t here, you still manage to somehow take apart this facility in one way or another.”

   Something in her told her told her that he’d flinched a bit, probably the gyroscopic mechanism that could only twitch in space. Another something or other shook and she turned several cameras, annoyed; Blue and Orange were still shaking in their built-in long-fall boots and pressing the contact button frantically. She blinked the disassembler to life and they scrambled for it, allow her to return her attention to the talkative little idiot that she could not see.

   “I'm going to be very, very generous today, metal ball, so you might want to listen. Well, if you value your audio processors anyway. Given I have my hands full fixing my facility, I honestly don't have the time to be distracted by your... incompetence. So, instead of you deciding when to continuously break my concentration, I've come up with a better idea. Are you listening? ”

   GLaDOS would imagine that he did, since he had no other choice but to listen, but he’d probably find a way to miss every point she’d made.

   Her voice went smooth again, almost mimicking the purr of some great metal leopard.“If you check in to this channel every day for… say, an hour, then I won’t patch in Room 939. Unless you say something stupid, which let’s face it, is very liable to happen. Have we reached an agreement?”

   Another ripple, but smaller; The reactor cores were finally calming down. There was no audible response but the channel was still live.

   “I’ll take that as a yes.” She admonished in the same tone that a school teacher does when a troublesome student is finally expelled. “You already took up too much of my time today, even with the monitors on you, so-”

   “Monitors?” Wheatley squeaked, scared and indignant at the same time.

   “Yes, monitors. Those two robots you were going to use for nothing but testing? I’ve given them several other occupations, because unlike some constructs, I know when to quit.”

  Blue and Orange were still in the disassembler but pinged something toward her, which she did not immediately answer.

  “O-oh…” He sounded as though he was withering, even if he was in space and was a robot with the inability to wither. A bit of static struck the channel as the power surged, but GLaDOS wasn’t worried about that. “Do I… what time do I check in?”

   “You have no internal clock.” She said simply, and without giving him a solid answer, cut the channel for the day and focused on making sure her facility did not fall into even more disrepair.

#portal #portal 2 #GLaDOS #Wheatley #Atlas #P-Body #kick in the head

[itsworn]

Group 19 Factory Speed Parts Highlight Original-Owner 1969 AMC SC/Rambler

Jim McKee’s mom, Dorigen, was just fed up. Over the years her four-door Bonneville had become the church bus of sorts, the sole means of transportation for her and her lady friends to get to mass on Sunday mornings. She was tired of being the taxi to their holy house of worship and needed a way out. Luckily, young Jim had a plan to help his mom out of being church chauffeur, and without looking bad in the process.

Being a teenage AMC fan, Jim was well aware of the new-for-1968 AMX, the sporty two-seater being offered out of Kenosha. He decided to show his mom a dealer’s ad for a new AMX to see if she was interested in grabbing one to be her daily driver. For him it was a simple solution: Buy this sporty little compact, and your days of driving the “Divine Miss Daisies” around town were finished.

Surprisingly, Jim’s mom thought he had a great idea and purchased an AMX. It was no base car, either, loaded with a 390, automatic, disc brakes, and air conditioning. White with a black racing stripe, it was a Go-Pack car to boot. It came with every option AMC had except for bumper guards, headrests, and a stereo eight-track player. Imagine the looks on the faces of her church lady friends when she rolled up to the cathedral’s front steps in that little hot rod AMC.

Goin’ Rogue The following year, Jim was a high school graduate and ready to purchase a new car. It was 1969, and it was an easy decision for an AMC guy like him to go with the wild new SC/Rambler. He chose the B paint scheme, the more understated of the two ways AMC coated the hot Rambler. More importantly, he now needed to make sure he got the most performance possible out on the street.

He decided that AMC’s performance add-ons were a must. “I didn’t want my Chevy, Ford, or Mopar friends to embarrass my SC/Rambler, so my plan was to have the applicable Group 19 parts on hand, ready to install within a week after delivery of the car,” says Jim.

Interestingly enough, the AMC saw no street time until the installation was finished. Soon after, his SC/Rambler was a 12-second car at the track on slicks. It quickly gained a reputation around town, and that got back to the dealership. “The dealer rather quickly signed me up for discounts on AMC parts for cars used in competition, and suggested I buy my own parts. It was a polite way of cancelling my powertrain warranty,” admits Jim.

Jim took the SC/Rambler with him when he went to college in Atlanta to study engineering. There he would continue to enjoy the fruits of his purchase. He also did some moonlighting. “During my college career, I spent many evenings hanging out at the AMC factory-sponsored International Motor Sports Association race shop warehouse in downtown Atlanta.” After college, the car, like so many others, was set aside for family and career. But it was never forgotten.

Restoration Plus It would be 25 years before Jim felt the time was right for an intensive restoration of his beloved SC/Rambler. For those in the know, the sourcing of parts for these restorations can be more than half the battle. Few parts exist for these cars today, and 20 years ago, well, the supply came mostly from N.O.S. and junkyard parts. So Jim knew he had a lot of work ahead of him.

A bevvy of parts cars would soon head to his driveway in Florida, where they would be stripped down. Salvageable parts were saved in a newly built shed out back, while the carcass lasted until the local code enforcement said it was time to clean up the mess. Then a new donor car would be brought in, and the process continued. What he found was that six-cylinder parts for these cars could not be given away, and that each one of six donor cars provided only a few needed pieces to the puzzle.

Luckily, Jim also had a nice Rogue in the garage. This car served as a template to help him reassemble his beloved car, which was also the recipient over the years of several parts off another, badly damaged, A-paint-scheme SC/Rambler. The car was a needed visual aid, as the manuals for these AMCs were vague at best at some important junctures.

Once he felt he was armed with what he needed, the process of tearing down his SC/Rambler started. With just over 62,000 miles, his car was worn in, but never abused. During the restoration, Jim was careful to document each item and preserve it for reassembly. He realized that his car was now far from a stock SC/Rambler with all its performance parts, and early on he decided that his car would be rebuilt with all those speed goodies intact.

The dismantled body was shipped to Revivations in Wachula, Florida, where it was immersed in an alkaline solution to remove all the undercoating and paint. Then it was immersed in a second tank, and DC electric current separated the rust ions from the steel over the entire body. It was sprayed in an etching primer, then bodywork commenced. The car was in excellent shape and needed little work to its sheetmetal.

Straightline Body in Clearwater, Florida, handled the bodywork and paint. Not having vinyl decals available, the shop painted on the stripes and buried them in the clear. Advanced Auto Interiors, also of Clearwater, did the headliner, seats, interior panels, and carpet. C-Thru Glass in Odessa, Florida, did outstanding polish work on the original SC/Rambler glass and installed new front and rear window glass.

Ramble On! Jim originally built his SC/Rambler to take on the competition, and it certainly boasts a laundry list of AMC’s finest speed parts. Nelson Competition Inc. in St. Petersburg did the machine work on the engine, and Jim took over from there. The rebuild of the 390 is also the single departure from stock on the car, except for painting some components that were originally natural cast iron or steel from AMC to make it easier to clean for shows.

“The engine is my vision of blending original AMC Group 19 parts into the latest state-of-the-art race engine technology,” says Jim. “In my mind, requiring VP 110 gasoline doesn’t detract at all from the ambiance of the car’s engine. Besides, I think a well-tuned high-compression engine’s exhaust smells really good, and the sounds of a 12.5:1 compression engine ringing in the headers are nothing short of exquisite.”

Jim restored many of the parts himself, and some of the extras went to his needy Rogue. Once completed, the Hurst SC/Rambler immediately caused quite a stir on the show circuit. It went on to be featured at Summit Racing Equipment in Atlanta, revolving on the turntable out front for all to see. It also was invited to be on display in the convention hall at the Inaugural Hurst Nationals at Carlisle in 2018.

Jim’s wild Group 19-built SC/Rambler is happy at home now in sunny Florida, under the watchful eye of its one and only owner.

At a Glance 1969 SC/Rambler Owned by: Jim McKee Restored by: Owner; Revivations, Wachula, FL; Straightline Body, Clearwater, FL; Advanced Auto Interiors, Clearwater, FL; C-Thru Glass, Odessa, FL; Nelson Competition, St. Petersburg, FL Engine: 390ci V-8 Transmission: BorgWarner T10 4-speed manual Rearend. AMC with 3.54 gears and Twin-Grip Interior: Gray vinyl split bench seat Wheels: 14×7 AMC factory-painted Magnum 500 Tires: 225/60R14 BFGoodrich Radial T/A Special parts: Hurst shifter, front disc brakes, sway bar, Sun tach, AM radio, Group 19 parts

AMC finished the SC/Rambler in two paint schemes. The A paint scheme, with a large red panel on the sides of the car, was both more radical and popular with consumers. The more sedate B scheme, with red and blue stripes along the lower body panels, made up just 326 of the 1,512 cars produced.

All SC/Ramblers were produced with AMC’s vaunted 390ci, 315hp V-8 and were rowed by a BorgWarner T10 four-speed transmission. Group 19 parts here include an Edelbrock R4-B intake; a Holley 950-cfm three-barrel carb; and a Mallory coil, coil resistor, and distributor. Compression is now a healthy 12.5:1.

Jim McKee bought his Edelbrock R-4B intake even before his car was delivered. It’s one of two early production intakes he has seen without the Edelbrock logo on it.

The SC/Rambler interior consists of a split bench seat up front, with the upholstery done up in charcoal gray vinyl. The look is finished off with patriotic tricolor headrests. Jim pieced together the interior from the best pieces from both this B car and an A-scheme parts car. The single deviation from stock here is a Racemark steering wheel that has been in the car since 1977. It is from Gene Felton’s AMC factory-sponsored No. 96 Gremlin.

The SC/Rambler interior consists of a split bench seat up front, with the upholstery done up in charcoal gray vinyl. The look is finished off with patriotic tricolor headrests. Jim pieced together the interior from the best pieces from both this B car and an A-scheme parts car. The single deviation from stock here is a Racemark steering wheel that has been in the car since 1977. It is from Gene Felton’s AMC factory-sponsored No. 96 Gremlin.

AMC took stock Magnum 500 wheels and painted them blue for all SC/Ramblers. They were finished with chrome lugs, trim rings, AMC wheel centers, and E70-14 Goodyear Polyglas tires. Jim kept the trim rings off this set of wheels and then shod them with BFGoodrich radials. He has a set of Magnums with repop Goodyear Polyglas tires for show duty.

After convincing his mom to buy a new 1968 AMX 390 Go-Pack car, Jim McKee stayed with the Boys from Kenosha and ordered this wild 1969 SC/Rambler to run the streets. Purchased new in Jim’s senior year in high school, the car received several Group 19 add-ons before he left for college that fall.

Jim’s AMC Group 19 Grocery List

The AMC Group 19 High Performance Equipment options for 1969 vehicles installed immediately after Jim McKee took delivery of his SC/Rambler included:

PN 448 5729, Edelbrock R4-B Intake

PN 448 5730, Holley 950-cfm Three-Barrel Carburetor

PN 448 6719, Cam Kit

PN 448 7989, Crane Cams Aluminum Roller Rocker Kit

PN 448 8049, Mallory Dual-Point Distributor

PN 448 5058, Mallory Ignition Coil Resistor

PN 448 8059, Mallory Voltmaster Coil

PN 448 8475, Blocked Heat Riser Intake Manifold Gasket

Not listed in Group 19 performance parts, but installed by Jim:

Remote Oil Filter Plate (PN 3187222)

Doug Thorley Headers (listed in the AMC Performance American Style booklet)

The post Group 19 Factory Speed Parts Highlight Original-Owner 1969 AMC SC/Rambler appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network https://www.hotrod.com/articles/group-19-factory-speed-parts-highlight-original-owner-1969-amc-scrambler/ via IFTTT

#IFTTT #Hot Rod Network

[reallifeblogthings-blog]

COMM 3P18 Blog #2

Welcome back! Did you miss me... Just kidding. As the week has continued on so has my learning in COMM 3P18. First focusing on specific media rating and target market, to interpreting and decoding such mass media texts. Using my own personal examples with the help of real-world examples I have noticed that media in today society is basically a commodity, and in order for an item to be sold like one, you need to know what consumers need. It has become clear that we “need” more than what we really do.

I think back to when I was a kid, watching TV with my two older brothers, and as soon as a commercial were to come on, one of us would go to the bathroom, or grab snacks, and would only rush back at the sound of one of us hollering “IT’S BACK ON!.” This is that notion of “free” television where we as the consumer are forced to sit through an advertisement as a price to pay. As stated in the textbook “at the same time that the television program is being “sold” to the audience, the attention of the audience is being “sold” to advertisers”, the audience commodity (Sullivan, Pg 81). But now, commercials are something that I rarely see due to streaming services such as Netflix. Netflix has found a new was to generate revenue while still giving the consumer (me) what I want. Through a monthly fee, I am able to watch a movie as a whole, I am able to pause or play it whenever I would like. Netflix was the beginning of more streaming services, so they also had to keep up with producing more and more media content for viewers to keep up. I found this similar to a news piece we looked at in lecture. “Why Youtube Content Creators are Burning Out” was an article based on youtubers who have become too stressed to churn constant content out for their viewers. Although Netflix has multiple people helping to create content, it has become clear that they now have harder competition that is currently willing to put out content that Netflix may not be able to get certain rights to. So similarly, Netflix and Youtubers cant stop producing content without their viewers going elsewhere. Now that it’s spooky season (October), my roommates and I are looking for classic Halloween movies to get us into the mood of the season. The other day we were looking specifically for “Halloweentown”, a movie we all used to watch when we were younger. We first checked Netflix, but to our surprise, it was not available, so without even a flinch, we went to a separate streaming service to find the movie that we craved to watch. This is a perfect example of the implication that large media sources have when they can't produce the content media audiences crave, we look elsewhere. This is why uses and gratifications of audiences have become an increasingly important topic in the world of media. We have smaller niche audiences all over the world who crave different things, and by using the research of uses and gratification companies are able to research what audiences members want to get from those specific mediated forms. I believe this is why the example of Walmart was used in the textbook because Walmart even though it's not a media source, is the king of using consumer information to fit the needs of what they want in the future.

Uses and gratifications are becoming an increasingly popular subject as the world becomes more technologically advanced, it is after all the understanding of why people use specific media to satisfy certain needs. As Sullivan states “Uses and gratifications relies upon self-reports of individuals, information about individuals’ inner states of mind is only accurate insofar as they can readily identify their needs and can recall them” (Sullivan, Pg.122). I found this interesting because the more I thought about this quote the more I realized how accurate it is with the people around me, and things I hear around me. In class we looked at Herzog, who asked why women listened to the radio, now although this was is the 40’s, I believe there would be similar results if you asked the same when listening to the radio now. The results revealed it was an emotional release, a fantasy as wishful thinking, and a source of advice.

During the summer I similarly was using the radio for entertainment, when I heard a story that had a similar outcome. Now when I listen to the radio, personally it’s something to pass time as well as create amusement throughout my drive, I never sought advice from the radio hosts. I was listening to 99.9 virgin radio while driving to work, mostly to listen to music. Yet, after a song, the hosts came on and started to talk about people who need dating advice. The hosts ended up calling an audience member who had written into them earlier, concerning a recent date she went on, but never received a callback. The woman explained how the date went wonderfully, she even went home with the man at the end of the night, this is what lead her to wonder why she never received a callback. I found it quite odd she chose to call a radio station for advice rather than someone who is closer, such as a family member or friend. I then thought back to what Herzog said, and how in that specific study women would also use the serial radio as a source of advice. This must be due to her own self-fulfillment to be gratified by a large audience of others (those who listen to the radio) through the media source, which would be the radio in this case. It may also depend on her situation. This gratification can be due to the fact she is embarrassed to tell someone who is close to her, so instead seeks help from another source to ensure she receives an emotional release.

The reading in the past week of 3P18 was surprisingly interesting, and truly grasped my attention when it comes to watching movies or tv shows. We recently learned about the hit Netflix series “Dexter” which originally aired on Showtime. I’ve never watched an episode of Dexter, but after just a few previews I found myself extremely interested in watching this show in the future. The narrative adds a twist to the character Dexter Morgan, who is a professional blood-spatter analyst, but also a serial killer to those who “deserve it”. As I watched more and more previews I couldn't help agree with Dexter's character, even if I would personally do something so brutal myself. I then related it to Bandura’s theory of Moral Disengagement. Bandura suggests that we as viewers “use rationality to either excuse immoral behavior to redefine it as more” (Decoding The Code, 2016).  I was able to simply redefine the actions of Dexter killing a human, to make it seem “ok” based on the fact he was killing bad people. If I found his character utterly appalling or maybe had different views on how criminals should be treated, then my thoughts would fit under a certain moral domain when I examine character like Dexter. Thus, if it weren't for the way I thought about criminals (I HATE THEM..) then my moral code would change my view of Dexter to be more negative. I started to think about shows I specifically watch, such as Grey's Anatomy, and the Office when talking about the modes of audience engagement. While watching Grey’s Anatomy, I get extremely attached to characters, crying when they cry, happy when they are. It truly makes me feel as though I am part of the show. This would be considered under the first mode of audience engagement Transparent: where I “get lost in the fictional world of the text” (Granelli, Zenor 2018, Pg. 5058). This is when I put myself a little too deep in the show, with the strong emotions that I feel towards the characters. For example, 5 main characters in the show got into an extremely bad plane crash, two characters died, while others terribly injured. This episode was extremely upsetting and even made me shed a few tears when it came to some of my favorite characters dying. Now, on the other hand, The Office, a comedic show, I don’t find myself shedding tears much. The characters in the office are awkward and almost uncomfortable to watch which leads me to have less of an emotional attachment to the characters. I find this show connects more to the second mode of audience engagement, referential. Referential is when I as an individual “read the text as like life… Assessing the meaning of the text, the individual moves outside of the text itself, and compares it his or her own real life for interpretation” (Granelli, Zenor 2018, Pg. 5058). For example, the boss Michael is an odd character, truly a loose cannon, while Pam the front desk receptionist is a down to earth woman. I think I compare well to Pam, in the way she handles certain things Michael's character does. Michael once decided he was going to jump off the office building into a bouncy castle to make a point about suicide. Pam eased him down to talk him out of the situational pretending she had a “gift” for him, and he had to come down to receive it. Now, I don't work in an office nor plan on realistically having a boss like that, so I was able to move outside of the text itself, and compare if I would do the same thing in such a situation.

Now, I know that I “need” all these media to keep me entertained, but until we looked at audiences in the news I had never really thought about how we are appealed to an audience member... What do producers know about me? and how? According to Bloomberg, there has been a huge controversy over Netflix tailoring its movie or tv show promotions based on race. “Netflix users have complained that the service is trying to manipulate them into watching certain programs by trouting secondary characters that are the same race as the viewer” (Holman, Shaw 2018). Now, personally, I have never noticed this… I also am a white female, which makes it even more difficult for me to notice something like this. But, it did get me thinking about what images Netflix “recommends” to me as a user to watch a specific Netflix program. Is this an example of culture industry? The culture industry is defined as the “process of manufacturing dominant ideologies” (Sullivan 2013, Pg 139). This theory was discovered a while ago, based on ruling class, which was white males. It’s difficult to say if Netflix chooses to base movies and TV shows off this considering I enjoy a lot of the content produced, also, due to the fact I wouldn't necessarily call myself a feminist. But with still wondering how media producers know what I want to watch and how I did, in fact, find a connection in the intertextuality of the media. When we as individuals see logos, we are able to quickly associate a brand with a specific meaning. Netflix, although I don’t notice the potential racial recommendations, I do notice them pushing their own TV shows. I have never enjoyed a Netflix original, and even though I don’t watch them, Netflix constantly puts them on my recommended page. But, as the brand signifier “Netflix” I now know not to even bother with watching a preview or giving the show or movie another chance due to my understanding that those show won't be much good (personal opinion). It’s clear that Netflix makes more money when we watch an original, so this is why they push so hard for us as viewers to watch it. But since I now associate the word Netflix on the image of a new tv show or movie as a Netflix original, I can avoid the disappointment of their terrible productions.

We know media producers need us to watch or go on their content, and now it is clear that we need media to fulfill our own needs. To fill a need, media needs to find what we seek in the first place, and through ratings and recommendations, media can find what we like and why we like it. But, with our great need, will companies like Netflix be able to keep up with their consumers? I guess we will see.

Works Cited

Good, J. (2018). Lecture on Audience studies. Personal Collection of J. Good, Brock

University, St. Catharines ON.

Granelli, S., & Zenor, J. (2016) Decoding “The Code”: Reception theory and moral judgment

of  Dexter. International Journal of Communication, 10, 5056-5078.

Sullivan, J. (2013). Media Audiences: Effects, users, institutions and power. Sage Publications

Inc., New York, NY

Sundar, S., & Limperos, A. (2013). Uses and grats 2.0: New gratifications for new media.

Journal of Broadcasting & Electronic Media, 57(4), 504-25.