a little rant: I love to watch humans being humans. i think thats why i was so drawn to archeology and still am, there is something magical in the mundane. I love that we pick the prettiest sounds to give our children as names, I love that our personalities are crafted little by little by everyone we meet, i love that our souls are just colorful handprints of those we have loved. I love that we have built homes and created nests for years and years and years, I love that you are the product of a Melania of love and intimacy and the features you wear as your own, your cheekbones, your eyes, the way you write a cursive W, have all been passed down like a gift destined to be yours. I love that every single human has stared up at the same stars and was silenced for just a moment, even if it was just once in their lifetime, i love that we have graffiti from people thousands of years ago carving their initials next to those of their lovers, I love how people don't really change, people have always been people: violent, cruel, greed filled, but also aspiring, full of religion and wonder and curiosity, and screaming out with every action and essence of their being I AM HUMAN, I AM HERE ON EARTH.
I think i find solace in watching people be human because i often find myself attacking the human nature in myself. my mistakes, have been made before, this cruelty and rage are the weight of hundreds of years of life and experience and generational trauma before me, this anxiety that wracks my body was given in the womb by my mothers anxiety i have to remember all of this pain doesn't only belong to me, but it is the same for the gentleness as well, the love, the instinct to hold a baby close and rock it to sleep, the familiar roll of bread dough under my hands, and the idea that my smile graced the face of my ancestors centuries before me, and that someone fell in love with it, my features on someone else's face, enough to created a linage of people all leading up to me.
so many times i have questioned if this face is loveable, forgetting that it has already been loved and cherished time and time again by those who wore it before me... those are gifts arent they? They are ghosts of people long gone, still living through your personality, your voice, your features, your laughter, but being haunted isn't so lonely, and those ghosts are what make a house a home. I guess what i meant to say by all of this is that being human is a gift. and i want to appreciate it, not just in other people, but in myself as well.
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Seeing Faces
It’s rare when we get a shipment to deliver that’s not packaged somehow — either in Earth-standard boxes, another world’s version of shipping crates, or a livestock pen of some kind. Even that bunch of alien trees had been thoroughly wrapped at the bottom. But this collection of machinery parts didn’t have so much as a layer of cling-wrap on it. I guess the owners figured these things were sturdy enough not to need it.
They were probably right. The metal chunks were heavy. I tried to guess what they were made for as Blip and Blop muscled the biggest ones onto a hover sled, clearing the way for Paint and me to gather up the smaller pieces. Captain Sunlight bid the customer farewell and shut the cargo bay door.
“I think these look like vertebrae,” I said to Paint. “Greasy vertebra. Ew. I’m going to need a new shirt.” The offworld engine oil of whatever didn’t seem acidic at least, so that was nice. I sighed about the black smears.
“Strange vertebrae,” Paint said, juggling her own armload of odd shapes that didn’t seem to be rubbing off on her orange scales. Not that I was jealous or anything. “There would need to be a dual spinal cord.” She tapped a claw on one of the holes.
“Hm, yeah. There are probably animals like that,” I said. “Or robots, as the case may be.”
Ahead of us, Captain Sunlight opened the door to the appropriate storage hold, then headed off on captainly business. It was impressive how different a vibe she gave off compared to Paint, for all their physical similarities. Both were little lizardy people, but one strode with her lemon-yellow head held high, every inch the authority figure, while the other was Paint. She somehow bounced when she walked, even when weighted down by unwieldy metal things.
“I’ll bet these stack really well,” Paint said. “They look like they interlock. We could probably build a spinal column without them falling over.”
“We probably could,” I agreed. “But I don’t want to be the one responsible for bending one of the flanges because we wanted to test it out.”
“Hm. Yep yep yep. But I maintain that we could.”
“We could.”
The two of us entered the storage hold to find Blip and Blop racing to see who could unload the sled faster. It’s not that the Frillian twins were overly competitive, but they were twins. They’d apparently hatched at the same time, and had been in a low-key competition to see who was better at life ever since. But they smiled while they did it.
“Done!” Blip declared, setting down a lump of metal big enough for Paint to hide behind. She raised her hands in triumph, fins fluttering.
“Doesn’t count,” Blop said as he put down his own piece. “You didn’t line them up right. Mine are tidier.”
They squabbled about this while Paint and I unloaded our metal chunks nearby. I had to kneel to keep from dropping the things. It would be just my luck if they did warp on impact, or bounce off each other and whack me in the shin.
The Frillians took their debate out the door before I finished. They’d already moved on to who could steer the hoversled with the minimum of touching.
“Ha,” Paint said. “They do stack.”
I turned to see only one of the things set on top of another, with Paint ready to catch it if it slid. She took it down before I could say anything.
I just nodded and arranged my own into a reasonable huddle, then wiped my hands on my shirt. It was only when I moved toward the door, with a look back at the big pieces, that I got a good look at the one that Blop had set on its side.
This was the logical place to put it, not sticking out past the rest, but the thing that caught my attention was the shape when seen from this angle. Those two holes could have been eyes, and the flanges were shaped like stubby arms. There were even a couple slots in the middle like nostrils.
I burst out laughing.
“What?” Paint demanded.
“It looks like Zhee!” I said, pointing. “Big bug eyes and everything!”
“What does?” Paint asked. She came to stand next to me, following my arm, but just looked confused. “Where are the eyes?”
“These!” I said, stepping closer and pointing at the holes. “And those are the arms. Isn’t it perfect?”
Paint cocked her head as if slightly tilted vision could unlock the answers. “Arms?”
I repeated myself, but she still looked lost, so I found a notepad and pencil in a storage cupboard —reliable even when the batteries all run out — and sketched what I saw.
“Ohh, I get what you mean now,” Paint said when I showed her. “Those parts are lifted like pincher arms, and those are roughly the same proportion as Mesmer eyes.”
“Yeah, it’s uncanny,” I said.
Paint took the notepad to study it closer. “How did you even notice that?”
“It was pretty easy,” I told her. “It just jumped out at me when I looked from the right direction. Like seeing faces in clouds, you know?”
Paint’s blank expression said that she didn’t know.
“Do you not do that? Find patterns of familiar shapes in random things?”
“No?” she replied. “Is that a thing I’m supposed to be doing?”
“You don’t have to! It’s just something that everybody does on Earth, ever since we’re kids. It’s probably from a long history of watching for camouflaged predators in the bushes. You’ve got camouflage on your planet, right? You must.”
“Yeah, sure,” Paint said easily. “But I guess not that much. I’ve never seen a face in a cloud; that sounds terrifying.”
“Not really; it’s more like feeling smart for spotting something. Well,” I amended. “It could be a little unsettling if you see a skull or something. But that’s rare. There are whole systems of divination about this sort of thing.”
Paint looked like she was about to ask a million questions, but right then the sound of familiar clicking footsteps tapped down the hall.
“Zhee!” Paint called, whirling with the notebook in her hand. “Zhee, look what Robin saw!”
Zhee came into view looking just as eyecatching and purple as usual, halting at the doorway while Paint eagerly explained the conversation we’d just had. Quickly and enthusiastically. With lots of waving the sketch around, and pointing back at the machine part.
I felt like apologizing as he stared with an unreadable alien expression. His antennae weren’t even moving; I couldn’t tell what he thought of it all.
Finally Paint finished talking. “She says it’s probably because her species watches for predators in the bushes. Isn’t that amazing?”
Zhee made a point of looking slowly from the sketch to the metal thing, then to me. I braced myself for judgement.
Instead, Zhee raised his pincher arms into the same pose and declared, “I am the danger that lurks in the bushes.” Then he slunk out of sight, many legs scuttling in a quickstep way that he knew darn well I found creepy.
Paint blinked at the empty doorway, still holding the notebook.
“Aw, man,” I said. “He’s picking things up from Trrili.”
Paint immediately closed the notebook. “We definitely shouldn’t show her.”
“Agreed!” I said.
After a moment of thought, Paint tore the page out and handed it to me, then took the notebook back to the cupboard. I pocketed it with a final glance at the metal vertebra that looked remarkably like a cartoonish Mesmer squaring up for battle.
Someone had left a roll of no-residue marking tape on a box nearby. I grabbed a strip and stuck it onto the metal, with the ends curved up.
Now the thing had a goofy grin that possibly no one would recognize. But if there were any humans on the receiving end of this delivery, they ought to get a good laugh out of it.
~~~
The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come! And I am currently drafting a sequel!
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I swear I have read your big post regarding Peter Parker's neurodivergence and why it is best to avoid labelling him, but he definitely has a weird brain
Can't find it and feel kinda sad about it cuz I deeply related to it
i know exactly which post you're talking about and i can't find it either! i've raked through my archive, and it's just - nowhere to be seen. i think tumblr eated it (it happens.)
really, tumblr's search functionality is so so useless, i don't know what to tell you. there are plenty of keywords i can search to find it that post, but the search functionality actually just does not work!
undiagnosed audhd-addled peter parker, my darling, my light, my life, my everything.
i think peter parker's such an interesting creature to write, because a lot of people will point to a certain behaviour about him and say "this is an autistic thing, right?" but a lot of those behaviours are actually, in my head, tied to certain traumas in peter's life too.
people say "oh, the food thing, peter's a picky eater because he's autistic" and yes, absolutely. but also it's tied to his trauma with his parents.
peter gets overstimulated, and yes, it's an autism thing, but also he was bitten by a radioactive spider and his senses are dialled to 11.
it's a similar case i've found for myself, too – where a lot of friends i have kind of diagnose me because i have autistic traits, but actually - i'm hesitant to claim the label or pursue diagnosis because, actually, i know where these certain behaviours come from, and they come from certain traumas. there are events i can pinpoint in my life and say "yep. that's where this behaviour comes from."
so - i think there's a lot of overlap between trauma and autistic traits. the brain is very complex! i think the reason for that overlap is maybe as simple as the fact that people with autism and people with trauma are both doing the same thing - developing behaviours to protect themselves or soothe themselves. so - i think it's nice to be able to see a character like peter parker, who may or may not be autistic, but recognise behaviours in him and see yourself in him.
people who go undiagnosed for whatever reason - people who are really good at masking - so good, in fact, that they have no idea they might be on the spectrum - everyone and anyone at all can look at peter parker and recognise themselves. because i think we discredit the thought that every single brain does the same thing! develops certain behaviours in order to survive. every brain has that same software - we've just all been faced with different hardships that we need to overcome, and that's were all the differences come in.
autism is a spectrum, i guess - everyone falls into it to some degree. and i think events in your life probably push you along on it. but i don't know, i didn't study brain science. probably what i'm saying is very stupid and uninformed. of course there's brain chemistry involved. but i know people in my life living with autism and certain events in their life have exacerbated certain behaviours or made coping with it a lot more difficult. so maybe trauma is a catalyst.
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Irondad fic ideas #145
Scientists at Stark Industries frequently make groundbreaking discoveries. Since the work is collaborative, they also usually have long lists of acknowledgements at the end when publishing their research
Post-NWH fic where someone notices a pattern in the published research from SI: for a period of several years, nearly every paper, from every department in the company, expressed gratitude to... empty space.
The name is not there. Clearly, it's meant to be. The pattern starts slow, with just a few papers, but it's soon present in every single one, and the praise is effusive. (Even during the Blip, researchers thanked this mystery person posthumously)
Then, not long after the return of half the population, the pattern just stops. No more mentions of the mystery team member. No more gaps in the acknowledgements page
Maybe it wouldn't be a big deal, maybe the whole thing would just stay as a niche mystery in the tech world... Except it can't. This question can't stay a small thing
Because Tony Stark, who has never worked with anyone except for occasionally Bruce Banner, thanks this empty space in his published work too.
Just who exactly is this person?
Bonus:
The media dubs the missing person the "Stark Ghost"
Extra points if this fic follows either MJ, Ned, Pepper, a random curious citizen, a lowly SI worker, or Tony himself as they try to find answers
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