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#spectral interpretation
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"NASA is inviting the public to take part in virtual activities ahead of the OSIRIS-REx (Origins, Spectral Interpretation, Resource Identification, and Security-Regolith Explorer) asteroid sample return mission. Members of the public can register to attend the sample return virtually."
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volcoross · 20 days
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kind of wish they talked more about wow characters disabilities like. actually affecting them instead of just mentioning it once and never again
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sysig · 6 months
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For a second request: Philza and Ghostbur interacting! Ive always found this idea SO interesting. Like, that's your son that you killed interacting with you even though it's not technically your son but he looks like him and kinda sounds like him but it's NOT him. The mental toll that would take.
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Day 6 - So many friends!
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slakedbyiron · 11 months
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zarei and spender circa 14 years ago
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oldkitty · 6 months
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OSIRIS-REx Sample Return (NHQ202309240001)
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OSIRIS-REx Sample Return (NHQ202309240001) by NASA HQ PHOTO Via Flickr: The sample return capsule from NASA’s OSIRIS-REx mission is seen shortly after touching down in the desert, Sunday, Sept. 24, 2023, at the Department of Defense's Utah Test and Training Range. The sample was collected from the asteroid Bennu in October 2020 by NASA’s OSIRIS-REx spacecraft. Photo Credit: (NASA/Keegan Barber)
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groovyruckus · 8 months
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Spooky Halloween Clip Art Set Digital Art Scrapbooking ClipArt Illustrations Style Personal Printable Commercial Scary Ghosts Clip Art
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Introducing our enchanting collection of digital watercolor clip art featuring Halloween ghosts! These whimsical and spectral illustrations capture the essence of the spooky season, infusing it with a touch of charm and mystery.
Each watercolor ghost clip art portrays these ethereal beings in a range of playful and eerie poses. The delicate watercolor strokes add an air of fluidity and softness, making them a perfect addition to your Halloween-themed projects.
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ckret2 · 1 month
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Chapter 39 of human Bill Cipher is SURE he's about to escape being the Mystery Shack's prisoner:
Ford's confronted with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he's a little bit too obsessed with Bill.
And meanwhile, Bill has found a way to reach his loyal cultists... if he can find somebody willing to help him make contact.
He thinks Ford is the perfect target.
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Maybe, just maybe, the obsession goes both ways.
(warning for an incident of self-harm via burning, and depersonalization and/or dysphoria (depending on how you interpret it) re: Bill feeling even worse about his body than usual.)
####
Soos, Stan, and Ford had stayed up half the night trying to generate enough NowUSeeitNowUDontium to prevent it from vanishing the moment one of them lost (or gained) focus. They'd eventually given up and stayed the night in Northwest Manor. Soos had texted Melody around midnight, and she'd immediately replied (which alarmed Ford, but Soos assured him she was used to those hours) and agreed, with some trepidation, to spend the night by herself in the shack so that the kids wouldn't be alone all night with Bill. She'd texted a half hour later to report that the bathroom was a disaster, but the kids had reassured her it was just some werewolf thing, so, not a big deal.
Ford had thought getting to spend a night without Bill under the same roof would be a relief. Instead, he found his sleep was even worse. He kept worrying about what Bill might get up to so far away and out of sight, where Ford couldn't do anything to stop him. Surely, by nighttime, Bill had to have noticed that the only humans he'd seen all day were the kids? Would he consider Melody any kind of threat, no veteran to combating Gravity Falls' weirdness?
It figured that the dream demon would find a way to disrupt Ford's sleep when he wasn't even there.
####
Ford had given up on sleep around two in the morning and gone wandering until he stumbled across a den with walls covered in bookcases, massive windows overlooking the forest below, and a pair of richly upholstered armchairs turned to gaze out the windows. He drifted between the chairs to one of the windows. It was the kind of personal library he'd dreamed of accepting esteemed guests in, back when he'd fantasized about one day being rich and famous. He suspected the Northwests had never read a book in this room.
Ford had been staring out at the still night and the dark pines for several minutes when he heard the creak of a door and soft footsteps behind him. He whirled around, raising a weapon. "Back, you spectral fiend!"
"Whoa! Easy, Sixer!" Stan held up a hand defensively. "It's just me!" He lowered his hand. "Why are you holding up a dinner plate?"
"Er—sorry." Ford sheepishly tucked the silver dish under his arm again. "I'm sure I saw a ghost earlier. I thought it prudent to arm myself."
Stan muttered, "This place sure is creepy enough for it."
"Mm. It's built on more than its fair share of bones." Ford returned to gazing out the window, hands clasped behind his back. "I'm sorry today was a failure. When I'm staring right at an experiment on which the fate of the entire universe depends, it's hard not to think about it."
"Eh, I wasn't doing too hot either," Stan admitted, joining Ford at the window. "There's only so many times you can hear Soos whisper 'Think about the miniature particle accelerator' in your ears on a loop before you zone out and start thinking about fishing season."
Ford huffed. "Maybe we should have switched places."
"Yeah, probably. I retired from thinking about science after I got your dumb portal running, and once you get your head stuck on something you can't stop thinking about it."
Ford laughed wryly. "Unfortunately accurate."
There was a moment of silence; and then Stan said cautiously, "Speaking of you getting your head stuck on something..."
Ford didn't like that tone. "Hm?"
"I was, uh... doing some light reading..." He held up Ford's journal.
A jolt of anger and fear shot through Ford. "Give me—" He snatched the journal back.
It wasn't until it was in his hands that he registered the absurdity of his own action; for the past year, he'd given Stan free access to Journal 5. He'd used it to document their travels and discoveries as a reference for them both; he'd even asked Stan to contribute a couple of entries. Based on a prior precedent of seven months, Stan had every right to look at Journal 5. Revoking that access now was... Well, it didn't look good.
Stan didn't immediately say anything. Ford supposed his own actions said enough. He tucked the journal under his arm with the silver dish.
Stan cleared his throat. "I think we're a little past the 'superhero nemesis' thing."
"It's not a problem," Ford said tersely.
"Not a prob—? Ford, you're letting him consume your life."
"He's consumed all our lives. The kids haven't been able to invite anyone over, Melody all but runs to her car after work, you ended up in a showdown with fae nobility—"
"It was just the tooth fairy!"
"Do you know how important a fairy has to be to claim dominion over all teeth?"
"Forget about the fairy!" Stan waved off the whole fairy topic with one hand. "Look, I'm not the one who's dedicated half a journal to talking about him!"
"You don't keep a journal, Stanley—"
"That's not the point!"
"—I'm just saying, if you did keep a journal, I think he'd have come up on more than a few pages—"
"But like this?" Stan gestured toward Ford's journal. "This is turning into an obsession. And not one of your normal obsessions."
The back of Ford's neck heated up. He wanted to argue that he had to obsess over Bill if he hoped to find a way to kill him—but Stan already knew that Ford had passed off that project to Fiddleford weeks ago. "How can I be 'obsessed' with somebody I barely even see? I'm avoiding Bill like my life depends on it! I talk to him less than Mrs. Ramirez does!"
"And you're using avoiding him as an excuse to obsess over him even more in private!" Stan gestured again, angrily, at Ford's journal. (Ford defensively tucked it further under his arm.) "You're acting like a stalker, Sixer. Not that I care about him, but, I'm starting to worry about your head."
"A st—?! I'm a scientist, he's a scientific curiosity! I'm documenting him! I document plenty of things!"
"Not like this, you don't."
"There's a lot to document!"
"Including spending a whole page trying to figure out—how to draw his—?!" Stan gestured furiously toward his boxers.
Ford pointed at him severely. "You were just as curious as I was to find out how a giant eyeball and a sentient triangle make that work, don't pretend you weren't."
Stan grimaced. "Okay, fine, I'll give you that one. But writing a full entry about his posture?"
"He's not only an alien being in a human body but a two-dimensional creature in a three-dimensional body, how he moves and gestures could tell us about how an utterly unfamiliar species perceived space! Nearly all his gestures adhere to an invisible coronal plane, that betrays worlds of information about his original anatomy. Do you know that elbow thing he does when he walks—"
"Ford. You're using your great-niece to get drawings of his childhood bedroom."
Ford raised a finger. "That's—" Ford lowered his finger. Ford sat in a nearby armchair, put his chin in his hands, and stared into space. "What am I doing."
Stan patted his shoulder.
Ford slid his journal and the dish out from under his arm and settled them in his lap. He stared at the cover, then thumbed through the pages. It was obvious when they'd returned to Gravity Falls; the drawings of Atlanteans, were-rats, shorelines, and boats immediately gave way to page after page of staring slit-pupiled eyes.
"It's just... Bill is an ancient being, many times older than our universe, and the last surviving specimen of his own bizarre species. As both an anomaly and a source of esoteric knowledge, he's an invaluable subject of study. He's going to die soon, and he should die, but... between now and then, I don't want to pass up the last ever opportunity to study him."
Stan sank down into the chair opposite Ford. "You're listening to yourself, right?" He didn't sound angry anymore, just worried. "This is a guy who tried to kill us. He isn't a 'specimen' you can add to your collection of weird stuff, you know that, right?"
"I know, I know." That was exactly why it was so important—why it seemed so important—to capture Bill in words and pictures before it was too late. (It was funny, Ford thought, how Stan's very first conversation with Bill had been a murder, and yet he was the one who talked about Bill like he was just some guy; while Ford had spent so many years obsessively trying to find out who Bill was that he'd almost forgotten he was a person instead of a terrible idea.)
"When execution day comes and you think you haven't dug up enough of his history, what'll you do? Give him a stay of execution until he's dictated his memoirs to you?"
"No," Ford said immediately. "No, of course not. I'm just taking advantage of the opportunity to learn what I can, while I can. It's no different from your 'shopping trip' at the mall—"
"Hey!" Stan pointed a finger at Ford. "Watch it! That was strictly business! It's not like I'm attached to the guy—"
"I didn't mean anything by it! I just meant—as long as we're stuck with Bill, make him useful, and—and to heck with him after that. Right?" Like Stan had said about the scratch cards: why throw away free money just because of the source? "He'd do the same to us."
Stan hesitated. "And you're sure that when the time comes, you'll be ready to pull the trigger?"
"I know I will. It won't be the first time. I'm just glad that this time I'll be able to aim at his own head."
"Hm." Stan didn't look convinced.
Ford sighed. "But, if I think I'll waver—I'll hand you the gun."
"Is that a promise?"
"Yes, yes, of course. I promise."
But he knew he didn't need to.
####
Soos drove the tired gang home just past dawn, early enough for him to open the Mystery Shack on schedule.
"Soon as we get home, I'm going back to sleep," Stan muttered crankily. Ford—eyes shut, leaning against the window—nodded in agreement. Stan yawned, "And there'd better not be any nasty surprises at the shack."
####
Bill sat sleeping in his attic window seat, knees to his chest, leaning against the window, ear pressed to the glass.
Outside, Stan wailed, "My car!"
Bill's eyes snapped open. He smiled.
He ran to the kids' room, knocked on the door—"Hey, the bigger Pines are back!"—and bolted for the stairs.
####
Soos got the door open at the exact same time Bill stumbled off the stairs and collided with the living room doorframe. Bill grabbed the doorframe just long enough to steady himself, and then bounded over to the door, shoved Soos and Ford aside, and leaned out onto the porch. "HIYA, STAN!"
Stan whipped around to face Bill. "YOU!" He gestured furiously at the wizard graffiti on his car. "WHAT did you DO to my CAR!"
"Do you like it?"
Stan let out an inarticulate scream of rage.
"Oh, you love it!"
"You massacred it! I've had this car forty-five years! I've done things in this car I can't say! And it's never, never been so—so—violated!"
Grinning ear to ear, Bill said, "What do you think of the girl wizard?"
"The what?!" Stan circled the car. He screamed again.
"Uh-huh?"
"Why does she have a beard!"
"Go on," Bill said gleefully, "tell me what you think! I want the full review!"
"This," Stan said, "is the most ugly, hideous, terrible—"
Bill glanced back at a sound on the stairs. "Oh, hey Mabel! Get over here!" He gestured proudly as Mabel joined him in the doorway. "And here's the artistic mastermind herself!"
Stan choked on his words. "—b... beautiful, stunning, museum-worthy work of art I've ever seen."
Mabel beamed. "It's not finished yet, we ran out of some colors! I was going to add a dragon on the hood!"
Stan's face went white. "No no, it's... perfect the way it is. Don't—don't change a thing."
"Really? You're sure? I don't mind!"
"Really." Looking slightly nauseous, Stan said, "I love it just like this, pumpkin."
Mabel squealed and ran outside to give him a big hug.
Bill was fighting back silent laughter so hard he almost fell down.
####
"...And I still haven't found any sign of the Nightwigglers," Dipper said, sighing dejectedly and dropping his journal on the counter next to the cash register. "So, I dunno, maybe I should give up on this one and move on."
Wendy was sitting back with her feet kicked up on the counter, but she straightened a bit to look at Dipper's journal. She skimmed the news article he'd paperclipped to one page. "Oh, I heard about this," she said. "The cops talked to me about the first burglary. I was in the thrift shop that day."
"Oh, yeah?" Dipper pointed at the picture next to the article. "Did you see anything like this?"
Wendy's eyes widened. "No—but I think one of my brothers did."
"Wait, really?"
"Yeah, he was talking about it a couple nights ago. He said it was like an armless white thing wearing pants that went up to its face. We all thought he got spooked by a deer butt or something and made up the whole story. Then dad said we should drop it and told us we should stay in at night."
"That's when they come out! At night!" Dipper laughed excitedly. "Do you think your dad knows something?"
"Pfff, not if he can help it." Wendy pulled her feet off the counter and checked the clock. "I could show you the start of the trail my brother was on. It's like ten minutes by bike and the next big tour bus isn't getting here for half an hour, wanna sneak out?"
"Are you serious?! Of course!"
"Just promise you won't tell Gus if we find something. We've been making fun of him for days and I don't want to  admit he was right." Wendy laughed. "Let me grab somebody to cover."
"I'll get my bike!" Dipper was already headed out the door. "I've been looking for a lead for days! I dug through half the dumpsters in town searching for their nests..." The door swung shut behind him.
Wendy ducked into the living room. "Hey Goldie."
"Yello?" He was sitting cross legged on the couch watching TV.
"I've gotta do something with Dipper, do you mind covering for a little bit? Just twenty, thirty minutes."
His gaze flickered to the TV, then back to Wendy's face. "Sure! Anything for you, cool girl."
Wendy had a brief, eerie sense of déjà vu. She shook it off. "I'm not interrupting anything good, am I?" She nodded at the TV.
"Naaah, it's one of those terrible specials about pyramid conspiracies." He shook a cider can, "I'm taking a sip every time they mention Fishmasons or 'ancient dinosaur-worshiping civilization.'"
"Dude. You'll be wasted before the first commercial break."
"Really, you're saving me from myself." He set the can on the TV and followed Wendy into the gift shop. (As he did, Bill checked to see if he had anything on under his hoodie. No? The Pines didn't want him to be seen in public in his hoodie; they thought it would make him "too obvious." He rolled up the sleeves to hide some of the brick pattern and surreptitiously tucked the hood and the bow tie drawstrings into the collar.)
As she headed out the door, Wendy repeated, "Just twenty minutes! Thirty tops. I'll get back before the next tour bus, promise."
"No problem!" He waved her off.
"I owe you one!"
Bill made a note of that.
He looked around the gift shop—any readily-obvious mischief he could get up to? He grabbed an 8-ball cane and took it to the counter. And then he took the stool behind the register, propped his chin in his hand, gazed toward the living room, and resumed watching TV through the wall and backwards. He didn't miss hearing the conspiracy talk—he was sure it was actively making him stupider—but credit where credit was due; they made those CGI pyramid models really hot.
A cutaway of one pyramid showed its internal tunnels and chambers. Bill bit his lower lip. Oh yeah. That's what he came here for.
Several minutes went by. The door opened and a lone tourist crept in, a middle-aged woman with a sun-damaged tan. Bill straightened up and switched his eye patch over to hide his bleeding eye. "Heya! Next tour's in..." He checked the clock, how long until the next bus? "About fifteen minutes."
The woman nodded and quietly started circling the gift shop.
Bill glanced toward the living room, decided he'd better not start damaging his other eye too, mentally cursed the tourist, and pulled out one of Wendy's magazines to read. "Let me know if you need anything."
The tourist spent several minutes making a slow circuit of the room, and then crept up to the cash register. Bill looked up with a smile, didn't see any souvenirs in her hands, and asked, "Can I help you?"
Hesitantly, the woman said, "The sun sets a deep blood red."
Bill's eye flew wide open, his heart leaped into his throat, and his breath hitched. His gaze roved over her exposed skin until he spied a tattoo on her right arm: four triangles stacked atop each other, starting with an equilateral and each getting shorter and more obtuse as they descended, until they'd reduced completely and a single horizontal line underlined all four triangles. This wasn't quite the happiest he'd ever been to see the symbol of a devastatingly self-destructive high-control cult, but it was close. "Oh! Oh, this is—" He rubbed his temples, squeezing his eye shut. "I know this. I rhymed 'red' with 'pyramid.' Why do I give everyone a different code. 'But rises gold over the pyramid'—something like that, right?" Bill gave the woman a pleading look. "I'm close enough that you can tell I know what you're talking about!"
A look of relief washed over her face. "You know him." Voice low, she asked, "Is it safe to talk?"
Knew him? He was him. But he couldn't claim that without proving it—what would convince her?—telling her something that only he knew?—great, but what? Her face was vaguely familiar—he thought he might've given her a visionary dream once—but he had so many little worshipers and they were so unimportant, most of them blurred together.
So all he could do was say, "It's not safe. Everyone here is an enemy."
She nodded sharply. "Where can we meet?"
Bill paused. "We can't. I'm... trapped."
Her brows creased with worry. "They're keeping you prisoner?"
"Afraid so."
"I could get the police—"
"Everyone," Bill repeated, "is an enemy."
She paused, processing that. Bill's gaze flickered to the clock. Wendy said twenty minutes, thirty tops. She'd been gone twenty-two minutes. "Someone's coming any minute."
"Right." The cultist grabbed Wendy's magazine, tore a corner off a page, and grabbed a pen.
"How did you find me?" Bill asked. Of all the tourist traps in all the tiny towns in all the world, how had she come in hereand walked right up to him? 
"We were told a devotee was here," she said. "Someone sent the address and phone number to the Bahamian art studio."
Bill's mind spun. How? Who the heck would know to do that? The only person who knew he was here who'd come anywhere close to any of Bill's other worshipers was...
Ford? No. Did he?
The cultist shoved the paper in his hand and turned to leave.
Bill grabbed her arm. "Stay out of Gravity Falls," he commanded. "But stay close. Don't go back to Death Valley." Between the sun damage and the tattoo, she had to be one of his Death Valley girls. She looked like their usual prey: disaffected middle class white woman, probably had a dead end job and a mediocre husband and a useless degree from a liberal arts college. Maybe being able to guess where she came from would impress her.
It did. She stopped and turned back and looked at him in amazement—and then looked at him, staring hard at his eye. "You're... hosting him, aren't you?" Her voice fell to a whisper. "No. Are you...?"
"You got me." He smiled wryly—behold him, electric god bound in flesh, how low he's fallen, but at least he still has his good humor, doesn't he? "I always said you had great intuition." (It was a safe bet. He usually told the ladies that they had great intuition. Most of them ate that up, and the ones that didn't were often a little too savvy to sucker.)
It worked. She inhaled sharply. "You are," she breathed. "I knew you'd be a woman. Oh, Mary's a fool." She said this like she'd just won some years-old argument Bill had missed.
Mary, as in Mary-whom-Bill-had-put-in-charge-of-the-Death-Valley-compound Mary? Ha. She was getting on in years; maybe Bill could start a schism, that sounded fun. He opened his mouth to say something about Mary having great leadership but waning clarity of vision—
—when the cultist leaned across the counter, grabbed his collar, and pulled him into a kiss.
Okay. All right. She was one of those cultists. Got it. Got it got it got it. Wow. Definitely a "mediocre husband" convert, those were easy to seduce away with a little warmth and affection—nothing obvious, but get them infatuated with the idea of an unattainable incorporeal ideal lover and they'd chase him to the ends of the earth. Maybe a lesbian in denial that Bill had decided to push further into denial, if her assumption about Bill's gender was anything to go by. He tried to remember what he'd told this one.
He leaned into the kiss.
He'd done this before—in dreams, in puppets—he didn't prefer humans, but he could handle them well enough and earthlings had such pretty eyes. And this body he was stuck in made such insistent demands; a surge of human hormones washed over his brain so powerfully it made him dizzy. She broke the kiss to murmur, "Cipher, my lord—" and he took the opportunity to kiss her eyelid and lie, "I knew if anyone could find me, it would be you." He wished he remembered her name. She tugged his face back down to her lips. She was so eager. Cipher, my lord. Oh, it felt good to be revered again—
The door opened. "Um?"
If Bill had had one ounce of his power, he would have killed Wendy on the spot.
Instead, he seized his cultist's hands, ripped them off his hoodie, and shoved her away. "Whoa, lady! What do you think this is, a kissing booth?!" He laughed angrily. "We don't offer that kind of service here! Either get out, or—or buy a souvenir already!" He pointed at Wendy. "From her. Not from me."
Shocked, the cultist turned toward where Bill was pointing; and then turned back, understanding in her eyes.
Wendy raised her hands defensively, grimacing. "Yeah, no, I'm not serving you either. Just... get outta here."
The cultist met Bill's gaze for just a moment, then walked quickly out the door without a word.
Bill shouted after her, "And do not come back!" and quietly mourned as, for the second time in as many weeks, he had to watch helplessly as he sent away his only hope of getting any action/rescue.
"I am so, so sorry," Wendy said. "I leave for like ten minutes and you get one of the nightmare customers."
How Bill loved nightmares. "Twenty-five minutes, but who's counting."
"Psh, shut up." Wendy reclaimed her post behind the counter. "I think she's been here before, she looks kinda familiar. You okay?"
Bill hoped nobody else in town would recognize her. "I think I'll live after some mouthwash. Terrible breath." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Hey, remember when you said you owe me one? You really owe me."
####
All his cultist had written for him was a phone number. Bill slid his stolen journal from its window hiding spot and copied the number down in two-tone dots and dashes. Plaintext transcriptions were usually tricky, given the vast difference between the language Bill wrote in and the languages humans used—but numbers, at least, were easy. Everyone had numbers.
And then he stared at the scrap of paper, reading the numbers over and over, until he was sure he'd memorized them, just in case he ever lost the journal.
And then he ate the paper.
And then he stacked the two cushions of his makeshift bed on top of each other, planted his face in them, and screamed.
Cipher, my lord. It had felt so, so, so good to be revered again.
His organs twisted with touch-hunger and loneliness.
####
Out in the Bahamas, along the southwest edge of the Bermuda Triangle, were two nut job hermits from Miami. Bill had convinced them that the only way they could purge their sins and purify their souls was by sculpting and selling golden avatars of God into which they could pour their guilt, and they had to keep doing it until they no longer felt guilty (and they would never not feel guilty; they needed so much therapy that Bill had ensured they'd never get). And then he'd convinced them that God's true face was an Eye of Providence in a top hat and bow tie.
Over the years he'd lost a little control over those two—in their desperation to be free of sin, they'd also started sculpting avatars to as many gods as they could find and selling them en masse to afford more art supplies—but hey, as long as his face was still mixed in with the rest, fine. Honestly, he was surprised those nuts weren't dead yet.
Somebody in this house had sent his location to them. And in a moment of what Bill imagined was stunning mental clarity, they had passed on that information to the single least dysfunctional pocket of Bill's top cult in the continental United States. Maybe when Bill was back at full power, he'd drop by the hermits' dreams to tell them they'd finally achieved absolution and could rest. Their decades of out-of-control scrupulosity would probably prevent them from believing him, but hey, he could say he'd tried. He washed his hands of all responsibility over them and their mental illnesses that he'd knowingly deliberately exacerbated for his own benefit. Not his problem.
But the question he came back to, over and over, was who had talked to them.
Bill needed to reach his Death Valley cultist. He needed a phone. Every phone in this house was well-guarded. No one would let him touch one... except, perhaps, whoever had sent the SOS on his behalf.
The only person who made sense was Stanford. Bill didn't think he'd ever told Ford about the nutty sculptors; but in the eighties he had given him the mailing addresses of some niche art dealers who would sell tapestries and statues of an obscure one-eyed god to collectors who could appreciate what they were looking at. Maybe Ford had gotten back in contact with them? Maybe he'd told them where Bill was, and they'd passed the information to the Bahamas?
Maybe Ford's feelings weren't quite so cold toward Bill as he'd been pretending.
Bill liked that idea a lot.
Maybe Bill's birthday gift had swung Ford back around to the side of reason—reminded him just how good he'd had it under a muse and mentor willing to teach him anything his nerdy little heart desired. Or maybe he'd always wanted to come back, and had just needed Bill to say it first.
He probably only pretended he hated Bill because they were surrounded by enemies—everyone in the house thought Ford was looking for a way to destroy Bill, what would happen if they knew the truth?
But the truth was there. Bill could almost seize it in his hands. All those moments where they almost talked like they were friends again, before Ford had to stop himself and leave. That one beautiful little word: jealous. And of course, there was the whole thing with the glass pyramid and the "Mysteries" that Ford had passed on—
—to Mabel.
There was another possibility.
As much as Bill would love if it was Ford, Mabel was the only person in the house who acted like she actually wanted Bill alive. Whatever "Mysteries" Ford was teaching her had something to do with Bill, the pyramid made that obvious. Maybe his lessons included the contact information of everyone else Ford knew who knew Bill? Maybe she'd taken it upon herself to call for help?
It was thin. And it was still dependent upon Ford harboring a secret loyalty to Bill that he was passing on to his great-niece. But that was where things stood: Ford was the only person in the house who definitely knew how to reach Bill's followers, but Mabel was the only person in the house who definitely might want to.
And he had to make completely sure of which one of them it was before he asked for a favor.
####
Ford had missed dinner again.
Fiddleford had sent Ford home with a pile of math. All the calculations he'd done to get the miniature particle accelerator to produce Dontium. By his reckoning, that there jar should've filled with Dontium faster than greased lightning; he just plumb can't understand why it trickled in like cold molasses. (His words.) He'd asked Ford to check his work, see if he'd missed something.
Ford was more than happy to help. It was a much-needed intellectual challenge that didn't involve Bill's underhanded birthday gift. Something that would let him feel like he was making progress. And it was comfortingly familiar. He and Fiddleford had spent weeks checking and re-checking each other's math in the lead up to the portal test, before they knew what a horror they were building.
As soon as Ford had gotten home, he'd put Fiddleford's papers in his underground study before going back to bed. Bill had already admitted he could glimpse the future, although Ford wasn't sure how far; and Ford was growing convinced that Bill's ability to perceive "higher dimensions" let him see through walls like they weren't there. He'd begun keeping Journal 5 and other sensitive materials down in his study at all times, hoping that the distance and layers of dirt and rock would keep Bill from peering in.
And when he'd dragged himself out of bed around noon—an embarrassingly late hour to get up, but he had been awake most of the night—he'd grabbed a quick breakfast/lunch, brewed a pot of coffee to take with him, and gone below to get to work.
He'd only worked seven or eight hours with a couple of reluctant breaks in the middle before his head began pounding too hard for him to ignore. He'd been neglecting his exercise regimen the past few weeks, and his back and neck were letting him know. In his thirties, he'd been able to work fourteen hours days and still want to keep going—and that was even before he'd handed his body over to Bill so he could keep working around the clock. He wasn't as young as he used to be.
He dragged himself upstairs after sunset, when the last ambient light from the sky still faintly glowed through the windows. He could make something quick and simple for dinner, go to bed early, and get up early to continue working. He pushed through the door to the dark living room—
"Hello!"
"Gah!" Ford jumped. "You. What are you doing here?"
Bill was leaning next to the door, a dim silhouette with his elbow on the wall and cheek in his hand. Even in the dark, Ford was sure he could see Bill's wicked grin at his reaction. "I happen to live here."
Ford let out an irritated huff. "Whatever you're up to, I don't have time to deal with it. Find someone else to bother." He pushed past Bill and headed toward the kitchen.
It would have been too much to expect Bill not to follow him, wouldn't it? "Aw, c'mon, don't be like that! Would it kill you to act like you're happy to see me?"
"Probably."
Bill's laugh made Ford's shoulders raise up around his ears. Maybe that was the source of his neck pain.
Bill shadowed him into the kitchen and leaned on the table, watching while Ford rummaged through the fridge. "But seriously, Sixer—who are you trying to impress by giving me the cold shoulder? I'm the only one here. You could afford to treat me like a person for two minutes." When Ford slammed the fridge door, Bill smacked it with the tip of an 8-ball cane. "Hey, have my food privileges been revoked? Give me a turn."
How long had Bill had a weapon? Ford snatched the cane from him, but opened the fridge and left it. "I don't consider you a person. I consider you an incalculably destructive force of pure, brutal chaos." He cracked three eggs in a skillet and opened a cabinet for one of the stove knobs they kept stored where Bill couldn't reach them.
"Flattering!" Bill started pulling out his usual nauseating array of condiments: today was sauerkraut, maraschino cherries, mustard, ranch dressing, and barbecue sauce. (Why did he eat like that? Did his species usually subsist on a mostly liquid diet? Was it the flavors—?) "Hey, make me mac 'n' cheese, wouldja?"
"No."
"Fine. Leave the burner on when you're done, I'll make it myself."
"You're not allowed to use the stove."
"Then how about I sit here drinking mustard while you enjoy a hot meal." Bill waved three eggs at Ford. "At least make me eggs too. Zero extra effort on your part. I'll even crack them for you if you want."
Ford gave Bill a dark look; but he supposed, as one of the people who had agreed that Bill wasn't allowed to cook, he was in no position to complain about Bill begging him to cook on his behalf. He snatched the eggs out of Bill's hand. "How do you want them."
"I haven't eaten enough chicken eggs to have a preference. Whatever you'll complain least about doing."
Poorly scrambled eggs it was. Ford shut the fridge and returned to the stove.
Bill sat on the table and crossed his legs in lotus position while he waited. "But really, what do you get out of pretending you can't stand me! We both know it's an act."
Ford gave him a tired, sour look. "Even for you, you sound delusional."
"I know you don't really hate me."
"I could write an entire dissertation and earn another Ph.D. on the topic of how much I hate you."
Ford hated how excited Bill looked by that. "Would you?"
"No! Why would I waste that much time thinking about you?"
"It seems to me like you're already doing that."
The hair on the back of Ford's neck prickled. Surely Bill just meant Ford's research into how to kill him; but his mind flashed to the miniature grimoire he'd spent all his time poring over—the blueprints of Bill's childhood home—the face he'd absent-mindedly drawn in his journal in the middle of the night and quickly scribbled out. Could Bill still see through that face? Had Ford remembered to blind Bill's eye on the blueprints? What about the eyes drawn in his human faces? Did Bill know about Ford's other studies? What did it matter—nothing Ford was doing was wrong. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Bill's smile slowly widened. "Sure you don't. You might hate me to my face, but behind my back you're as obsessed with me as ever. You might as well lean into it."
You're using avoiding him as an excuse to obsess over him even more in private. "I am not..." Wasn't he? You're acting like a stalker, Sixer.
"Oh, Fordsy, come on." Bill uncrossed his legs, slid off the table, and was across the room faster than Ford had expected. Ford instinctively took a step back and bumped into the oven; Bill reached past him to lean a hand against the edge of the stove, inches from touching him. "You're not hiding it half as well as you think you are. Did you think I wouldn't notice?" He smirked up at Ford, exposed eye wide and eager, utterly fascinated with him. "And bringing Mabel in on it? I'll have to admit, that surprised me. Can't say I disapprove, though."
Ford couldn't tell if the heat on the back of his neck was from Bill's accusations or the stove. "I beg your pardon?" What was he talking about—their conversation in Portland? The blueprints of Bill's home? (Using his great-niece to spy on Bill, lord, what was Ford doing?)
"Quit messing around! The Mysteries, Stanford. You think I don't know I'm the star of that show?" He poked the center of Ford's chest, "There's no way you joined a cult, you're not enough of a team player! What'd you do? Invent your own cult of one? Mixed a little of what I taught you, a little of whatever you learned out in the multiverse? I know you were asking around about me." Bill chuckled. "You want to keep your little rituals private, fine—I think it's cute, really—just tell me one thing I've been dying to know: how much have you told the kid?"
Ford stared at Bill.
Then he laughed in his face. "You really bought that?"
Bill's smile immediately vanished. "What?"
Ford shoved Bill's hands away. "There are no 'Mysteries.' It was a joke."
Bill stepped back, staring at Ford, brows furrowed. "A...? No," he said. "She's got that glass pyramid—"
"She wanted it because it was pretty," Ford said. "I gave her one since I was throwing them all out."
"That's the stupidest story I've ever heard. Then why would she have brought up the Mysteries!"
"Because," Ford said, "I told her, if you asked about the pyramid, she should make up something to confuse you."
Bill's mouth was open, but no words came out. His face had rapidly turned red. Several emotions flashed across his face in quick succession, from shock to confusion to humiliation to a rage so deep it almost looked like disgust. For a moment, from how Bill's fingers were curling like claws, Ford was sure Bill was about to attack him.
But then he clenched his jaw, backed off, leaned on the table, jammed his fists down against the tabletop, and glared at the floor.
Ford turned back to the stove, grinning to himself. Some of the eggs had burned slightly. Those were Bill's now. "What's the matter? Did you forget that humans can lie?"
Bill didn't reply.
"I'm surprised you didn't expect it. I seem to remember we got you with an impressive whopper last year—"
"Shut up."
"Now you don't want to talk?"
"Now you do?"
Good point; he didn't. If he'd finally rendered Bill speechless, he should enjoy it while he could.
He'd have to thank Mabel later for inventing the Mysteries. Sometimes that girl could be genius.
Ford turned off the burner, put the stove knob away, and dumped the eggs onto two plates. He didn't even bother to keep track of which plate had the burned eggs.
He shot a quick, exasperated look at Bill—he'd sat on top of the table again—and dropped a plate next to him. "Here." He grabbed a bag of bread and looked around for the toaster.
Behind him, voice trembling but low and dangerous, Bill said, "Don't look at me like that."
Ford glanced back warily. "Like what?"
Bill violently shoved off the table. There was an awful squeal of sliding furniture. Before Ford could react, Bill was in his face, grabbing him by his turtleneck, dragging him in, forcing him to look up at Bill.
Ford's peripheral vision was filled with gold. They were so close their noses nearly touched.
"Like you don't remember who I am!" Bill stared down with wide-eyed seething rage. "Your muse!" His voice cracked, "Your god!"
Ford stared up at Bill, speechless.
Then he looked down.
Bill was standing on a chair to make himself taller than Ford.
Ford ripped Bill's hands off his sweater. "You were never, ever my god."
Bill stumbled off the chair, catching himself hard on the edge of the table to keep from falling completely. "That's not true!" He heaved himself back onto his feet with a wince. "You worshiped me—"
"I admired you!" Ford jabbed a finger at Bill's chest. "I respected you! I—I even idolized you, but I never worshiped you!"
Bill jabbed a finger back, "You're splitting hairs! You practically turned your study into a temple to me—tapestries, rugs, statues—"
"Because you said it would help me reach you!"
"And it did! That's what shrines are for, genius!"
"It wasn't a shrine! Not to me."
"You're kidding me! All the money you dropped on that gold-plated statue and you expect me to believe that wasn't an act of worship—"
"Do not. Remind me. How much. That stupid statue cost."
"If you didn't build a shrine for worship then what in the world did you build it for!"
"Friendship!" Ford took a shaky breath in. "I thought... I honestly thought you—you—were my best friend." The air in the room trembled with heat. They were standing too close to each other. Ford refused to be the one to back up.
"I was," Bill said. "I still could be if you'd stop being a moron."
Ford laughed in disbelief. "Which is it, were you my god or my friend?!"
"They're not mutually exclusive—!"
"You can't keep your story straight for THIRTY SECONDS!"
"Don't you call me a LIAR, after EVERYTHING I taught you—!"
"In all the years I've known you I don't think you've told me the truth ONCE—!"
Stan flipped on the lights.
They froze and stared at him. They had their hands around each other's throats. Bill had a foot planted on Ford's stomach like he was trying to get a foothold to climb him. They were both covered in egg.
Stan said, "Could you do this in the morning?"
Ford said, "Sure."
Bill said, "He started it."
"I st—?! You started all of this thirty years ago—"
"Guys," Stan said tiredly.
With some effort, Ford unpeeled his hands from Bill's neck.
To his surprise, Bill voluntarily let go as well. Ford snatched up what was left of his plate of eggs, took the loaf of bread—he had lighters, he could toast it downstairs—and left the kitchen, turning the light off as he went.
Stan was waiting out in the entryway. "Heading to bed?"
"No." Ford shoveled a forkful of eggs in his mouth. "Going to be up late." He was too angry to sleep. He could eat, take a painkiller for his headache, and keep working.
"More research?"
"No. Calculations."
Stan's shoulders slumped; but all he said was, "Suit yourself. Don't stay up too late."
Ford glanced back once into the kitchen. Bill wasn't moving. He sat slumped in a chair, elbows on his knees. He'd pulled on his hood. Its eye stared at Ford.
Ford wasn't about to pity Bill over a performative display of angst. He'd fallen for that already.
He returned to his study and mathematics.
####
Bill stared at his plate of eggs. He mechanically pushed them around on the plate until they formed a perfect equilateral triangle. He scooped out an empty white eye in the middle.
He stood, snatched up the plate, and smashed it on the floor.
They thought he was stupid. They thought he couldn't use a stove if it didn't have knobs, as if he was a child! The humans made it easy for themselves to think of him as a child when they treated him like one, "baby-proof the doors" and "no sharp objects" and "don't talk to strangers." He could show them.
He grabbed the stem where one of the knobs had been removed, and twisted. He heard the hiss of gas under the burner. Everyone was asleep. He could fill the house with gas. It would only take a little push to make a spark and set the entire shack ablaze. In the dark room, he could see the first glimpse of future flames flickering yellow-orange in the periphery of his foresight. No one would survive. Who's your god now, smart guy? He'd rise like a phoenix from his own corpse and he'd tear this town apart.
Where was Mabel?
Was she home tonight?
Bill turned off the gas.
He pushed up his sleeve and pressed the fleshy part of his forearm onto the still-hot burner. The pain burned away his jumbled anger so he could think clearly.
Who cared how the nutty sculptors had gotten Bill's address? He was making good progress on lucid dreaming; maybe he'd astral projected across the country to call for help and forgotten it when he woke up. He'd probably saved himself without even remembering it. It didn't matter. The important thing was that they'd received the message; and now, Bill had friends on the outside. Friends who were on his side.
If he could ever contact them again.
Bill would find a way. He didn't need Ford's help. "Never worshiped you." Ha.
He needed fresh air. Even if it wasn't safe to escape yet, he needed to breathe. He carried himself backward through doorway into the gift shop, pulled aside the curtain hiding the ladder to the roof—
The trap door was shut. He stared up in despair.
He shot a glare toward the vending machine, and angrily crossed back into the living room.
The air was so stuffy inside the shack. "Never worshiped you." Liar. If it wasn't worship then what was it?
Bill took himself upstairs. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He lay on his makeshift bed curled up around himself, arms wrapped tight across his stomach, his burn pressed hard against a layer of knit yarn, thighs pulled up against his arms. It was a wholly alien position. It felt unnatural and bizarre. This body had curled like this of its own volition. It seemed like the only thing that briefly smothered the ache of emptiness and the hormonal inferno screaming loneliness through every vein. The loneliness wasn't his. He wasn't lonely. This body was. 
Cipher, my lord.
He hated this body.
He ached to be revered again.
####
It was two in the morning. Ford sat at his desk, pages and pages of math scattered before him, glasses off, hand rubbing his eyes.
He didn't want to be checking a mountain of math like a human calculator. He wanted to be studying strange magic and researching new anomalies. He wanted to be digging through Bill's grimoire.
He wanted to be awed again.
####
(I've been waiting to write/draw Bill screaming his grief over not being worshiped since literally April. I hope y'all enjoyed! This is one of my favorite chapters so far, I'd love to hear what y'all think!!)
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mokulule · 5 months
Text
The Number You Have Called Cannot Be Reached - Part 9
First|Masterlist
Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason) Warnings: angst, depression, canon typical violence.
Jason was not angry he was frustrated. There was a difference. A distinct difference that Jason knew very well.
Ghost kept running. He would steal a thing. Evade some goons, cause he often stole from the rogues. Then evade some bats, lead them in a new direction, sometimes changing overall direction mid chase, there really was no rhyme or reason to it.
And then, when Jason showed up, he’d invariably be standing on another rooftop and disappear. All the while Jason could feel his longing and sorrow, a call for help he wouldn't let Jason answer, and it was frustrating and confusing, but mostly frustrating.
Because Jason was not angry.
He may have snapped at Dick, when he made a joke about his princess being in another castle, but he hadn’t actually laid hands on anyone. He made sure nobody made the mistake of touching him.
He ducked his head, never stuck around and ignored the looks he got. Worry, pity, wariness, Jason flip-flopped how he interpreted the gazes. A loose canon, that’s what they thought he was. But Jason was not. His chest burned, but Jason was not angry. Because he knew the difference, between himself and the pits. He knew. But they didn’t. They didn’t understand and Jason could not explain - not without him sounding unstable. There was no way he could explain things and keep cool. They wouldn’t understand that he kept away for their sake. At best he’d be benched.
Benched, a bitter voice mocked, locked up and thrown in Arkham more like. Criminal, murderer, crazy.
He shook his head. Pushed the thoughts away. He couldn’t allow himself to be benched. He needed to catch Ghost - to make him listen and explain just for a moment so he could understand what was going on with him and the pits.
As long as Jason didn’t cross the line, they wouldn’t try anything. He had to believe that.
Oo o oO
Bruce was at a loss.
If it wasn’t for the fact that Jason hadn’t pointed a gun at any of them, Bruce would have thought they’d gone a year or two back in time. He was tense and curt and kept himself at a distance. Always out of reach.
It wasn’t like he joined their patrols regularly normally, but he could usually be counted on if something big was going down. Now Bruce wasn’t so sure he’d want to ask him if something happened. It seemed like he was nearing breaking point and Bruce feared what way he’d fall.
The thief, Ghost, was at the center of this. Something was going on there, but it was like he was missing crucial information. Jason was downright frantic to catch him.
Danny Fenton. The name was still a dead end. The DNA sample useless. His contact at Star Lab had gotten back to him and informed him they’d had a break in weeks ago, before the thefts started in Gotham - nothing had been stolen, the invisible perpetrator had been found out because of the electromagnetic disturbance his stealth tech gave off, or rather that was what their reports said. The recorded disturbance matched the readings they got off of the Ghost.
It was quite possible there were many more unrecorded thefts before the Ghost came to Gotham. He’d already informed Tim and watched him pale from the realization that they actually had no idea how far the Ghost was with what he was building. If building something was indeed what he was doing with the eclectic mix of parts he’d stolen. Tim had a theory, that much was obvious, but he was not at a point where he felt he had enough evidence to share it.
When Bruce had told him of the Star Lab incident, he’d glanced towards where they’d stored the spectral calibrator, before his shoulders had forcefully relaxed.
Bruce was no slouch when it came to technology, but mostly when it came to operating it. He could infiltrate systems and extract information fine, but it he was honest, the kids were better, and since he rarely worked alone these days, he didn’t get as much practice - he wondered momentarily if this is what it was like growing old.
It was something he’d never expected when he set out on his mission as a young man, growing old that is.
Besides while Bruce had designed a fair few gadgets in his time, and assembled the Bat computer himself back in the early days when it didn’t have near the capabilities it did today, he was not an inventor. Lucius was the one who’d made his more fanciful ideas workable in the early days.
And now he had all these talented kids.
It didn’t matter most of them were adults, they’d always be kids to him. Here he went again getting distracted.
He rubbed his forehead. Point was, Bruce couldn’t see what the parts could be used for but Tim could. And it was something that worried him, which in turn worried Bruce and like always these days his thoughts circled back to his worry for Jason.
He’d given him time, like Dick had said - three weeks so far in fact. And instead of things calming down they’d become worse. The Ghost’s continued escape was winding Jason up, there were no two ways about it. They needed to capture him.
Bruce had to be honest with himself, if it wasn’t for Jason, the Ghost would be very low priority for them. He wasn’t hurting anyone, just a thief. Before the day Jason had tackled the Ghost on the rooftop, he had been low priority. Amusing in fact, with the way he riled up Damian with his continued escapes, it had been low stakes - safe in a way many of their missions weren’t.
But now, Tim was working frantically on ways to capture the Ghost, they’d tried nets of various materials (some even Martians had trouble phasing through) with no success. Barbara was still trying to unearth more information from the phone, also with no success.
Steph and Cass had been steadily and stealthily working on changing the cameras throughout the city connected to Barbara’s network to ones with better filters and built in detectors for electromagnetic disturbances over a certain threshold - a very bothersome process since most of the cameras technically weren’t theirs and had to be indistinguishable from the originals and send visuals to the real owners of the same (low) quality they’re used to in case somebody decided to take a closer look.
Damian was giving him long looks, when he thought he wasn’t noticing. He was hiding something and he’d been sneaking off on his own. Bruce was trying to convince himself to leave it alone. He’d nearly lost Damian in the past because he was too controlling.
Trust, it was something he was trying to practice but it irked at him not to know. What if he got in trouble? He had to forcibly remind himself, it was most likely that Damian was just sneaking off to some wild animal he was hiding and nursing back to health.
Duke had just gotten back from a three month exchange program abroad, he would have to be caught up to speed. Maybe his abilities would give them some additional insight.
Hopefully.
Oo o oO
Jason was not angry, he was livid. Ghost was on another rooftop. About to do his disappearing act, again again again.
“Come back here!” He yelled.
Fear not his own hit him in a sickly yellow haze. He gasped and struggled not to throw up. Ghost was gone again. Of course he was. His one chance and-
“Jason…” the words were quiet, barely audible, Bruce. Jason grit his teeth. Bruce was a fucking hypocrite saying his name in costume like that.
A step forward was heard, a purposefully made sound to announce his approach, and Jason spun.
“Don’t touch me!” His guns were pointed at Bruce. He stood frozen, the hand he’d no doubt been reaching toward Jason was pulled back. It served him right.
Jason didn’t trust him. He should shoot him, teach him not to get too close. He knew Batman’s armor, he knew the weak spots. It would be easy. A rubber bullet wouldn’t kill, but it would hurt.
Jason wanted him to hurt; like he hurt.
He wanted-
He wanted-
He couldn’t remember loading his guns tonight. The realization struck him like a splash of ice water. Rubber bullets or live ammunition?
He didn’t know!
He followed the aim of his still raised guns, pointed at his dad’s chest, the armor could only do so much at such a close distance.
Real bullets or rubber?
Jason took a step backwards in horrified realization. It didn’t matter. Not at this close range. Both would be lethal. He knew that. He knew guns. Why had that even been a question? Why was he still pointing his guns at Bruce?
A wounded sound escaped his throat and he turned and ran.
He’d crossed the line.
-
Poor Jay, huh? Can Danny keep escaping the bats? Will Jason be okay? Tim POV next time, we're in serious need of a plan here, come on Timmers.
Next
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yuurei20 · 26 days
Note
Oh hey! First of all, thanks for all your hard work!
I've been pondering about something lately. I know Lilia calls Silver 'son' during Spectral Soiree but that might be just EN adaptation. Do you remember any instance of Lilia calling Silver 'his son' in JP server? (It caught my attention how he refers to him as 'the child he takes care of' in Diasomnia Book)
Hello hello!! Thank you so, so much for the ask anon, you are amazing, absolutely right, and Lilia's actual wording from Spectral Soiree even repeats in Book 7!
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Not only does Lilia not call Silver his son, but his phrasing insinuates that he comes close and then changes his mind:
Lilia's words trail away before he finishes speaking, but he might have just barely stopped himself from saying, "an admirable son."
That seems to be what EN's interpretation was: the word "son" was even added outright to the English-language game, but Lilia did not actually say it.
I have not been able to find any instance of Lilia calling Silver his son in the original game (and a quick search reveals that is a not-uncommon topic amongst JP players that we all want Lilia to finally say it), but I will keep you posted if anything arises!
(Temporarily breaking this blog's rule of not commenting on Book 7 under the cut, for when Lilia's wording repeats! Small Book 7 spoiler inside ↓)
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During Silver's flashback to his childhood, Lilia uses the exact same word from Spectral Soiree (立派な) to describe "an admirable acorn bracelet" that Silver made for him.
Was Lilia remembering this interaction with child-Silver, and that is why his words trailed off?
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For the curious, I think this is the scene that anon is referencing: During Sebek's flashback to the day his grandfather asked Lilia to train him, Lilia says that 7-year-old Sebek is about the same age as the child he takes care of (has custody of, etc.)--he does not call Silver is his son (though Silver himself does).
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dnd-smash-pass-vs · 26 days
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Creatures formed by the Elder Evils, twisted out from the squirming cracks in reality. This is a warlock of eldritch power merging with a herald of the Far Realms. A magical person-sized sentient mass of star-stuff and unknown worms. It has magic to magically dominate minds and can create a floating spectral hand. Lets be honest here. This is an ALARMINGLY intelligent entity from beyond the stars largely composed of mysterious wriggling creatures. Yeah, it's stronger than an orc and can take hits better than most dragons, but that's irrelevant. You knew your answer to this the second it crossed your screen.
EDIT NOTE: Larva's original meaning was Ghost/Mask. Since the stat just says worms, the lore says they come from worm gods, and it's possessing a creature while wearing a mask, that the name was in reference to that. or in a metaphorical sense. Not insect young. Up for interpretation there so I get it if it makes ya nervous, but I'm presuming this is adult like the creatures its possessing, insofar as an absurdly intelligent Lovecraftian creation can be.
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Hey there!
How is "forbidden" as a prompt for imodna? No parameters!
(Thanks for the prompt! you can read the whole thing here)
Imogen glances away from what she can see of the connection past the push of her rising and falling chest, up to Laudna, smile still gentle and reassuring and meeting her own, and she has a fleeting thought of Laudna's talons growing, of them puncturing into the soft flesh of her stomach before her hand sinks in completely, grip constricting around her insides, suffocating her second brain with a smile lengthening in an artistic splattering of blood as she preens back down at her.
It feels nice - causes Imogen to tenderly giggle and Laudna beams in return, the hand not emblematically imbedded in her stomach giving a thumb to brush along the apple of one of Imogen’s cheeks.
Maybe it’s the angle of the sun - but the colours around them seem to have grown more vivid, more enthralling. The emeralds and jades and peridots and malachites of the moss and the lichens and the shrubs and the fallen branches exaggerated by the diffusing edges of golden light that outline them all, outline Laudna too, where her shape does not overlap with the brass tarp above her head, bejewelled now, trimmed with teardrop diamonds, decorated like the threads of ruby and topaz that embellish her blouse.
Imogen reaches out and touches the embroidery, reads it under her thumb like she has done many times.
chevrons and lines
regimented, blockaded, uniform. Not splitting and bolting and meandering greedily to cover the burgundy fabric
freckled skin
(fuckin’ roots)
Intentional embroidery, her intent
A comforting thing, another good reason to have the material missing on her gloves – not that she’s wearin’ em right now.
A signal passes through her head – a point-less arrow bouncing back and forth off of offal corridors, probably meant to be carrying word of pain, but it only causes the corner of one of her eyes to crinkle, Laudna’s thumb next to it mistaking the movement for the crease of a smile (though maybe that’s also right) and leaving to join Imogen's hand at the front of her own blouse.
She doesn’t say anything - except birdsong, maybe - allows for it to permeate over her closed mouth as the pad of her finger begins the tracing of a scar from where it strikes at tip of Imogen's thumb, which in turn is still interpreting the transcript of Laudna's embroidery as she glides her skin over the ridge of Imogen’s wrist, down her forearm before switching back on herself to follow another fork.  
That makes Imogen shudder, still, despite their attunement, perhaps amplified by it really.
She draws them thoroughly, pattern traced so well that Imogen can feel the ghost of every touch stitching together like a spectral glove enveloping around her hand, as if she is wearing Laudna as her own exterior nervous system.
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leeeeeeeeech · 6 months
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Noted
Beetlejuice lounged on the couch, his spectral feet propped up on the coffee table, and a distinct air of boredom hanging around him like an ominous cloud. Y/n had left for work hours ago, and the Netherworld's most mischievous resident found himself in the rarest of predicaments—he was bored out of his incorporeal mind.
With a theatrical sigh, Beetlejuice contemplated his options. He'd already rattled the walls, rearranged the furniture, and held an impromptu dance party with a troupe of ghostly squirrels. But none of it had alleviated his boredom. He missed the victim of most of his shenanigans. He missed Y/n.
He stood, dramatically dragging himself off the couch with a long groan. That's when he spotted it- a stack of colorful sticky notes on the coffee table. An idea sparked in his mind.
"What better way to pass the time?" he mused aloud, plucking a neon pink sticky note from the stack.
With his spindly fingers, Beetlejuice scribbled a message that could only be described as his unique brand of humor.
He chuckled to himself as he stuck the note to the TV screen, knowing Y/n would be in for a surprise when they got home.
One by one, Beetlejuice continued his sticky note spree. He hid them in various places around the house—the refrigerator, the bathroom mirror, inside the cereal box. Each note carried a silly message or a playful doodle, all designed to make Y/n smile and shake their head when they discovered them.
"Having fun, Beetlejuice?"
Beetlejuice jumped, the sticky note in his hand fluttering to the ground. Before he could say anything, Y/n reached down and grabbed the note, their face scrunching up in disgust as they read it.
"When you're gone there's two holes in me?" They frowned, looking to him. He shrugged.
"You really want me to elaborate?" Y/n quickly shook their head. Looking around, their shoulders slumped.
"How many notes did you make, Bug?"
Beetlejuice grinned, clearly proud of his little project. "Oh, just a couple, you know? Nothing too extravagant."
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He got so much joy out of the following days. Y/n's little laughs when they found a sweet note, or glares of disapproval when a filthy note resurfaced. It was rather entertaining either way. Beetlejuice was relaxing in the living room, watching the Exorcist as Y/n got ready for bed.
"What do you mean I'm not the only one who loves my plushies?!" Y/n's panicked voice carried from the bedroom.
Bj cackled in response. Of course they interpreted it that way. Were they wrong? Maybe. Maybe not.
"WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY PLUSHIES!?!"
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historysurvivalguide · 6 months
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Touchdown! Alien Rock Returned from Billions of Miles Away!
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After traveling billions of miles to Bennu and back, the OSIRIS-REx spacecraft released its sample capsule toward Earth’s atmosphere at 6:42 a.m. EDT (4:42 a.m. MDT). The spacecraft was 63,000 miles (102,000 kilometers) from Earth’s surface at the time – about one-third the distance from Earth to the Moon.
Traveling at 27,650 mph (44,500 kph), the capsule pierced the atmosphere at 10:42 a.m. EDT (8:42 a.m. MDT), off the coast of California at an altitude of about 83 miles (133 kilometers). Within 10 minutes, it landed on the military range. Along the way, two parachutes successfully deployed to stabilize and slow the capsule down to a gentle 11 mph (18 kph) at touchdown
“The returned samples collected from Bennu will help scientists worldwide make discoveries to better understand planet formation and the origin of organics and water that led to life on Earth, as well as benefit all of humanity by learning more about potentially hazardous asteroids”
After years of anticipation and hard work by NASA’s OSIRIS-REx (Origins, Spectral Interpretation, Resource Identification and Security – Regolith Explorer) team, a capsule of rocks and dust collected from asteroid Bennu finally is on Earth. It landed at 8:52 a.m. MDT (10:52 a.m. EDT) on Sunday, in a targeted area of the Department of Defense’s Utah Test and Training Range near Salt Lake City.
Within an hour and a half, the capsule was transported by helicopter to a temporary clean room set up in a hangar on the training range, where it now is connected to a continuous flow of nitrogen.
Getting the sample under a “nitrogen purge,” as scientists call it, was one of the OSIRIS-REx team’s most critical tasks today. Nitrogen is a gas that doesn’t interact with most other chemicals, and a continuous flow of it into the sample container inside the capsule will keep out earthly contaminants to leave the sample pure for scientific analyses.
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salem-witch-history · 2 months
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Specters of What's to Come: The Goodwin Witchcraft Case
Witchcraft accusations were not incredibly rare in 17th century New England, but prosecution was difficult.
By law, two credible witnesses had to testify seeing witchcraft take place for an accusation to be deemed credible. This was difficult to provide, unless an accused witch confessed to the crime. Testimony of others could include witnessing of verbal curses and the presence of "poppets," what we now call voodoo dolls. Spectral evidence, the testimony that an afflicted person saw the invisible shape of a witch, was not supposed to be considered credible. Even in a society that believed wholeheartedly in witches, Puritans knew that people could lie, and many believed that Satan had the ability to take on the form of an innocent person to bring about their downfall. In some instances, accusers and even confessed witches were charged with perjury rather than witchcraft if the evidence was lacking.
There were times, however, when accused witches did meet the death penalty. The last and most newsworthy incident prior to Salem took place in Boston in 1688.
The prosperous Goodwin family had employed an Irish indentured servant named Mary Glover as a washerwoman. Mary, being Catholic and poor, was greatly distrusted, and the Goodwin's 13 year old daughter Martha accused her of stealing clothing. Distraught, Mary told her elderly mother, Ann, of this accusation, and the older woman flew into a rage. After a screaming match in which Ann "bestow'd very bad language" at Martha, the teenager, along with three of her younger siblings, began to suffer from fits deemed to be supernatural in nature.
These fits, described in the book Memorable Providences by Cotton Mather, were identical to what would occur in Salem: the children were struck deaf, blind, and mute, contorted themselves into painful positions, and cried out pitifully or made animal sounds. The extent of the fits were deemed to be beyond what would be expected of epilepsy or other known medical conditions, and too severe to be faked. At times, Mather stated, the children's jaws would dislocate, their tongues drawn out to "prodigious length," and their joints locked with their bodies in an arch.
When Glover was brought in on witchcraft charges, it was unclear whether or not she was competent to stand trial. Glover seemed to understand some English but could not speak it; when it became known that her incomprehensible speech was not Satanic language, but Irish, multiple examiners deemed her technically sane, though she still seemed confused by the proceedings. Robert Calef, who wrote the first exposé on the witch trials, More Wonders of the Invisible World, stated that "Her behavior at her trial was like that of one distracted. They did her cruel." She testified entirely through interpreters.
During the proceedings, the interpreters struggled to contextualize Glover's testimony, seemingly due to being unfamiliar with Catholic worship. She was questioned about small figures found in her home and admitted to praying to them as "spirits," which the interpreters admitted could also have meant saints. The children reacted negatively when Glover handled her homemade statues, signs of spectral interference. She was also instructed to recite the Lord's Prayer; this was a standard test for witchcraft, as Puritans believed that Satan's power prevented witches from praying. Glover was able to recite in Irish and Latin, but not English, and this was taken as further evidence of guilt.
Ann Glover was hanged on November 16th, 1688. Mather related that, visiting her in jail, she had claimed that her death would not relieve the children's suffering, which did come to pass; Martha's bewitchment continued for some time. Although Glover supposedly claimed that someone else was bewitching the children, no other witches were prosecuted, and over time the hysteria faded.
Mather's first-hand account of the incident was published less than a year later, in 1689. It is probable that some residents of Salem owned the book, at at least had heard of the crisis.
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🤔👻 Can Gallifreyans sense ghosts?
Some say that around Halloween, the veil between dimensions is thinner, allowing easier contact between the living and the dead.
Gallifreyans have an incredibly sensitive perception of temporal disturbances, and if this veil really is thinner, then on Halloween, they could more easily pick up on 'echoes' that may be interpreted as spectral activity. In other words, if that ghost is a time echo or a remnant of temporal energy, a Gallifreyan might feel a little bit spooked until they can reason its existence with logic.
But traditional, supernatural, unexplained ghosts? Many Gallifreyans are dismissive of ghosts, but not everything can be explained by wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff ... can it?
Gallifreyan Biology for Tuesday by GIL
→🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (WIP) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine/Monitoring Guides →📝Source list (WIP)
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sighswoon · 3 months
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Writers and artists are often accused of self-centeredness and yet, in their eyes, what they commune with when they shut out from others is not themselves but an entity they are constantly seducing, battling, interpreting. Another human who cannot see this entity only sees one person in their field of vision - an aloof individual in a state of consistent, contrived obsession, like a bee shaken up in a jar, possessed by the burden of an invisible, pushy impulse. If you call an artist or writer self-centered, they will give you a perplexed, defeated look. They will not understand, as they often yearn to be closer to the self in all of its maintenance and tangible pleasures. In their head, they have been toiling away in service to another being their entire lives. Feeling as if they are in a constant state of sacrifice, it is not the self that lays in the center of their reality, but a demanding, spectral visitor latched onto a host.
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