Unknown species

anonymous asked:

There's a bunch of theories about the demon wolf. Whether it's a genetic mutant, an unknown species, a Lazarus Species... Unfortunately, while there is a taxidermy specimen, it couldn't be DNA-tested because there were two institutes battling over ownership of it. Though that information may be a little out of date since it's from the 00's. Stories of wolves like that in the area go back to pre-colonial times though.

Oh! I think I do know of it. The name most people know it as is the Shunka Warak’in.

You were about to make a medical comment, Jim?

So, I was thinking about what a goddamn badass Leonard McCoy is.

Actually, I was thinking about drug shortages. I am a resident in the United States. The United States of America. First world medicine, folks. And sometimes - all too frequently - I have to revise the treatment plan of a healthy patient undergoing elective surgery because I do not have access to the ideal drug.

In other words, I compromise.

That’s a sickening feeling, friends. 

Which brings me back to Bones.

Bones, Chief Medical Officer on a five year mission in deep space, where no man has gone before. Bones, who cares so goddamn deeply. Bones, desperately filing requisition forms for medications that he has no hope of receiving in the foreseeable future. Bones, elbow deep in a unfortunate ensign that caught the wrong end of a blast in engineering, sweat dripping in his eyes, nagging thoughts of, “is his name Jason or Joseph?” Bones, mad as hell because medical takes another budget cut. Bones praying frantically to a god he doesn’t believe in, “oh, please, not again.” Bones, eyeballing a unknown species and making a quick judgment call, based on a hasty heart rate estimate and an eyeballed weight, the effective loading dose of a - probably - renal toxic drug. Bones, hissing at Spock to shut the hell up, all the while making his own calculations. Bones, who years after the mission has ended, bolts up out of a dead sleep in a panic of adrenaline, because endless nights of call have made gentle awakenings impossible. Bones, staring dumbstruck at Starfleet Medical’s supply rooms. Bones, dedicatedly carting his tiny medkit on his hip, facing an alien world with a tricorder and a few hypos. Bones, hiding in his quarters for days, pouring over all of the federation’s published xenophysiology records, searching for a connection, wondering where it went wrong. Bones replaying the day’s scene in his mind, fear still gripping his chest as Jim sleeps peacefully in the biobed. Bones alone in the field, performing a bilateral finger thoracostomy on a blue-lipped yeoman who reminds him a little too much of Joanna (if somebody does not write this fic, I will). Bones, fresh out of med school, feverently murmuring his oath with conviction and wide-eyed naivety. Bones blaming himself. Bones bitching about the unpredictability of genetically modified antimicrobials. Bones needing a goddamn drink. Bones, contemplating the nuances of therapeutic nihilism. Bones, forcing himself to meet Jim’s eyes as Jim officiates a funeral. Bones, calculating pharmacokinetics in his head. Bones, knowing there was nothing to be done, but dammit, what if? Bones, painstakingly documenting his every discovery, every treatment plan, every failure and every triumph, for the next generation of medical professionals. Bones in his office with his head in his hands. Bones, absolutely giddy and shaking with relief, “Don’t be so melodramatic; you were barely dead.”

Practicing medicine is terrifying. Every day, I am horrified at the thought that I will not be able to provide for my patients. I love my field with every breath in my body, but the responsibility is overwhelming, and sobering.

Disease and danger, indeed.

“By golly, Jim, I’m beginning to think I can cure a rainy day.

Yeah, Leonard McCoy. I think you can.


 The amount of lore going into ARMS that has been made available exclusively on a Japanese twitter account is staggering. Let’s try to break down some of it via an internet translator and context clues, shall we?

  • The process that causes “armsification” has evidence dating back at least 1,500 years, but it’s argued that it’s always existed.
  • The ability is not restricted to humans, and has been observed in plants and various animals.
  • The most common age for the activation of the armsification process is 10, but it’s been recorded as happening as old as 74.
  • About 20% of the population is known to have the ARMS ability, but that figure could be higher, as the 20% comes from people who have reported to the ARMS league (more on that later).
  • However, ARMS used to be so rare that they were just considered to be fairy tales. The number of people with the ability (and their popularity) has increased dramatically, but no one knows why.
  • It is possible for someone to have the ARMS ability at birth, but the rate is roughly 1 in every 100,000 people. Kid Cobra is one of these people.
  • When the armsification process happens, it’s usually affected by things that are near the person at the time- so, for example, Min Min’s noodle ARMS and Ninjara’s chain ARMS.
  • The report that explains the previous point makes a point of saying that this is not always the case, and that a certain “exception” fighter is being investigated.
  • The reason that all ARMS fighters wear masks is because the masks (somehow) stabilize their ARMS into a tight spiral shape. The translation for this is difficult to parse, but not having a mask either causes their ARMS to revert to “normal” (possibly long and uncoiled), have crazy uneven spirals, or some combination of the two.
  • The masks were developed by ARMS laboratories in the late 19th/early 20th century (120 years ago, specifically). The creation of the masks allowed for the fighting competition to exist, as the way ARMS work without the masks would make fighting difficult or impossible.
  • The masks are given out for free to anyone with the ARMS ability who reports to the ARMS league. This is why the previously mentioned population figure may be inaccurate, as there may be people who haven’t reported.
  • This reporting appears to either be very informal or intensely private, as nobody actually knows what Kid Cobra looks like under his full face mask. Specifically, it has not been announced or revealed what “tribe” he belongs to (whether this is a weird way of saying “race” or could possibly mean he’s a non-human species is unknown).

On Tuesday, the world learned the name of Khan Sheikhoun, a town in Idlib, Syria, after government forces used what was likely a chemical bomb containing a nerve agent on innocent civilians. Between 70 and 100 people, including dozens of children, were killed in the attack and as many as 500 were injured. Witnesses described the horrors of the aftermath - much too graphic for me to write here. But this is nothing new, it is not the first time President Bashar al-Assad has slaughtered innocent civilians, especially children, in his own country. It is not the first time he has left people laying on the ground foaming at the month until death from use of illegal chemical weapons. It is not the first time the world has been shocked by images from within Syria. It is not the first time global leaders have spoken out and condemned this sort of barbaric extermination… Yet it continues. For 6 years, this war has raged, a war officially between the government and a rebel army, but it is hard to see this as anything besides a war on the innocent Syrian people. The toll is impossible to calculate to an exact number, but most estimates indicate more than 200,000 innocent people, including more than 50,000 children, have been killed to date, and almost 5,000,000 have been displaced. I don’t have the answer, I don’t know what should be done or even what could be attempted, I can’t tell you who did what and recall every detail, but I know one thing, no matter the intricacies, it must stop. Syria is one of several points on this planet which holds the history, known and unknown, of our species, it was once an epicentre of art, discovery, and science - perhaps the oldest civilization besides Mesopotamia, yet it is being destroyed as if it were nothing more than a piece of trash. A jewel in world history has been reduced to ruins. And that is just the past, the future is being decimated as well. With each traumatic injury, with each innocent fatality, the light of Syria’s future weakens. It will take hundreds of years, multiple generations, for Syria to overcome the current suffering, and the scars of today’s battles may never heal. If only we’d think of the children, there is nothing a child could do to deserve the nightmares of war, nothing a child could do to deserve anything close. Adults create war, adults create the weapons that kill, adults create the politics and the fighting, adults create power and money, adults are the cause of and reason for mass conflict, but they do not bear the greatest loss here, it is the children that do. Like I said, I don’t know the answer, I am not even sure of the question, but the motivation to end this all is clear - the innocent children of Syria. My heart aches and shatters for Syrians in the war zone and across the world, I can’t imagine your pain so I won’t even pretend to understand, but I hope you still believe in the goodness of humanity, I hope you still find reason to carry on, and I hope one day, Syria can again be an epicentre of civilization. Most of all, I hope you find safety, and your loved ones find safety. Whether it is peace in Syria or a new home until the fighting ends, I hope you find stability and safety. 

It’s time for #TrilobiteTuesday! Over the last three decades, Morocco has emerged as the somewhat unlikely epicenter of worldwide trilobite discoveries. From Lower Cambrian Fallotaspids to an incredible array of unusual Devonian species—many, like this Drotops armatus, featuring outlandish spines and multi-faceted eyes—the sedimentary strata of North Africa has provided a veritable bonanza of bizarre trilobite types. Dozens of previously unknown species have emerged from the rich Paleozoic soils of Morocco, many requiring the delicate work of preparation artisans to free the specimens from their eons-old rock encasements. And while a dearth of scientific research has been done on the preponderance of material found thus far, there are a growing number of paleontologists around the globe who have recently begun to tackle this daunting, yet fascinating task.

Humans are space orcs

Had this bouncing in my head for awhile now, thought I might share it.

Dr. Glavion'uevuev; Xenoanthropologist
Known to humans as Dr. Smashing!

I have spent a great portion of my life studying humans within their own territory, an honor by no small feat I would say. But during my studies I would regular come across a human concept that when asking for details about it I was usually referred to distant relatives, friends of friends, and foreboding facilities containing organizations whose purposes was more alien to me then the people I was studying.

Of all the unique and wondrous species within the know galaxy that I’ve had the pleasure of studying. There are none as strange and, (perhaps more aptly put) as frightening as humans. They have as many cultures and languages as you can expect from any other species. The rumors of their extraordinary physical capacities and empathetic nature do them no justice.

Being the one in a billion death worlds to produce intelligent life that went beyond its homeworld could be considered a miracle. Even their population being only in the millions during first contact was unusual. Experts originally speculated that it would have been in the tens of billions. However, though humans may appear to be as docile as any other species it was not without sever hardship that they reach beyond their world.

With in my studies I discovered a universal subculture among the many nations within the whole of humanity. But before I can even speak of this culture I must instruct the reader of a peculiar human concept. War: large scale conflict between nations. Not simply a fight with a ferocious beast, not a conflict between small factions, but entire nations at conflict. Due to primitive human behavior war was actually commonplace for their world in all ages of human civilization.

Nations, once large and organized enough, created organizations with the sole purpose of waging war. These organization they created are known as a military. Nations collected large groups of individuals into armies that would make up this military, and the military would be utilized for defending against other nations or attacking them at the discretion of the people, or the ruling faction of the nation they belong to.

This military (due to it being an organization usual segregated or completely disconnected with its parent culture) develops a subculture in almost alien ways from its origins. The parent culture has significant influence on the military culture, simply because military members are produced primarily from the nations own people. However as I said before, this subculture is universal, so certain trends can be utilized to identify this military subculture. Most notable are discipline, obedience, physical fitness, uniforms, unusual training with simulators and real-world practice, durable equipment and weaponry, and (something I find most notable) dark humor.

Though humans have not actually engaged in the practice of war in centuries, they maintain their militaries to this day, the numbers of which making up approximately 0.001% of the current human population. Most of these military organizations are utilized to police trade routes, provide rescues, emergency aid, and other services one would expect from most any other human vessel.

Though more physically imposing then their civilian counterparts (especially when wearing their combat suites and carrying more weight then a tazoid family shuttle) these career warriors are still the empathetic humans we’ve grown to begrudgingly love. However these particular humans are able to change into a completely unrecognizable being. They become the representation of grim death, instantly triggered by unknown forces that give them motivation to do tasks that even normal humans would think impossible to accomplish.

Thankfully these terrifying beings simply help those endangered by unfortunate fate. Like those poor souls of the Necrotic incident of Gorlom 5 late last galactic cycle. Where the humans first revealed themselves to the galactic community. And confusingly when we mistook their military for a second unknown species.

The difference in behavior and technical appearance led to this odd mistake. Their military technology at the time had been perceived as over engineered because of how deadly every part of the vessel had been. It was quite some time after communication was established that they finally convinced us they were the same species.

When I questioned any human why they continue to maintain military forces after so long without their original purpose they most often became quiet, but an old man (a veteran of the military) was willing to speak to me about it. “First contact with an alien species for us wasn’t at Gorlom 5. No… that’s where first contact had finally ended.”, he said these words as he looked at a picture of him and his squad mates. The picture showed them smiling with their various weapons held casually while they wore their damaged and dirty armor, posing on top of a hulking mound of burnt and rotting meat. The picture was from before his unit was sent to Gorlom 5, before his right arm and leg were made of metal, and before he was the only soldier at Gorlom 5 not to be posthumously awarded his Medal of Honor.

Danger In Fiction: The Parasite

‘He stumbled down the path he newly laid, loose papers falling from his messy ink-stained notebook. The Author’s heart was nearly beating out of his chest; frantically writing a way out of the woods and trying to hold back the searing pain of the bullet in his back was proving more difficult than he expected. But he still kept going, scribbling page after page after page to keep his path clear. He’d be out of the woods soon enough. He just need to keep going…

He stopped?…

After a moment he… threw his notebook to the ground. He started to look around the woods, spinning on the spot, his eyes wide and scanning every detail around him.

He spoke suddenly.

“Who are you?! How are you doing this?! Stop it!”

His voice hurt after his screaming beforehand. The pain in his back increased suddenly and he flinched, clutching his back and hissing in agony.


He screamed. The pain subsided-


“Nobody controls me!! Nobody!! I can write things into being!! I am the one in control!!”

Ha ha.

How foolish the Author has become. How little he understands his own power. And how little he knows about how much danger he is currently in if he doesn’t keep moving-

“I don’t care!! Stop narrating me!!… I can write my own way out of this! I don’t need anyone’s help!”

The Author stared at his notebook, for an embarrassingly long time-

“SHUT UP!… Ok, ok.”

He writes…

“The Author… looks up from his notebook to see the path continuing through the woods. The path weaved around trees… as not to give anything following him the chance to catch up with him!”

This was a foolish thing to write-

“Shut up!… he started to follow the path, safe in the knowledge that he would soon he out of the monster infested woods and back to civilisation!”

… The Author followed the path, unaware of what a stupid mistake he’d made.

“What do you mean?”

In the distance behind him was a hungry roar. The ground began to rumble as one of these ‘monsters’ caught his scent and would now proceed to chase him down on this new, completely obvious path.

“What?! No!-”

He started to run. He ran much faster than before, as if the bullet in his back had completely vanished… but the monster was catching up to him. He started to weave around the trees the path had placed, but the monster merely thundered on, ploughing through the trees, and the weaving only slowed the poor Author down. The monster leaped at him- the Author suddenly stopped running- he headed back, trying to run past the monster in the other direction, thinking he could fool the creature…

The Author lay face first into the ground, his notebook torn and pages scattered around him. The monster had gone, thank goodness, but the Author… The monster’s hand had caught him on the way past, dragging its huge razor sharp claws across his face… shredding the skin around his eyes, and nearly his eyes themselves, to a gruesome and unfortunate result. He had his face in his hands, blood dripping through the gaps in his fingers…

He didn’t have to create the monsters. He could have left them out, made a simple path out of the woods. Not mentioned them at all. But he was greedy with his power, and this is what happens when you get greedy.

“…I couldn’t help it… I write horror for a living… I… I couldn’t help it.”

I step out from the darkness, revealing myself to him finally. I had searched for a raucous cry of betrayal that woke me, and I found him, lying in his own blood, growling his every breath in pain. I pitied him. He was betrayed. All he wanted was cooperation. All he wanted was his ‘characters’ to respect him. But he couldn’t control everything. And only now has he finally realised that…

He sat up and lowered his hand from his face. His eyes were a mess. His left eye was ruined; it was difficult to tell which bloody cut was the lip of his eyelid. His right eye… although he could open it, it stung to feel the air rest on his eyeball-


He lay his hands on the ground suddenly. He started to grab at the air, fumble through the ground… He paused…

“I can’t see.”

It was hard to tell through the trickles of blood, but by his shuddering breath, it was clear he was crying.

“I can’t see…”

“I’m blind… I’m finished. I can’t write anymore. I’ve lost everything that means anything to me!!”

He continued to sob heavily.

Now more than ever before did I pity him. Such a wonderful talent should never go to waste. All he wanted was to express his abilities…

I could help him. You see… I have powers too. Like him, I can control what happens, not by writing, but by speaking. He saw for himself. I was the one who helped him get on his feet when he was shot down, I was the one who walked him out of the cabin, I was the one who got him so far… until he took control and screwed himself over- but anyway, I could help him… if he helped me.

I have this power because I am not human, as he guessed. My kind are born with this power… Our name is unpronounceable and our species is unknown. But I guess the best way to describe our kind is… a parasite. Sounds off-putting, I know, but it is true. A parasite meaning, an organism that can only live by the means of another creature…

A host.

The Author’s head raised from his hands. I peaked his interest.

I can give you back your power to bring whatever you want into being. Although you can’t write anymore, you could still narrate! You would become omnipresent, you would know everything that will happen, even without seeing it! You could proudly state what would happen in the next minute, 5 minutes, 5 days, weeks, even 5 years and know you will be correct, for whatever you say will happen will happen! You can get everything back… just let me in.


Thank you, Author.


“The Host took a deep breath in… and out. He stood up, tall and proud, taking in another few breaths… it felt good to feel cold crisp air filling his lungs. He took a long look around him. Through these new eyes… he saw everything. Everything that was going to happen. Everything that will happen. The Host smiled, knowing he would find a new place to start over, new… friends to meet, new places to go, new goals to accomplish.

He turned and walked down the path leading directly out of the woods, leaving the scattered pages of his notebook behind.

And the Host was happy.”’

earth an·gel

/ərTH ˈānjəl/


  1. I threw myself into the void, but the void placed me gently back on shore and said darling you will be remembered, not for who you are, but you failed to be. So, I told the void fuck off and dived right back in, these seawater lungs gulping down lifeblood, this is a stinging baptismal rebirth.
  2. I wake up to fluorescent lights in the hospital, and  desperately rip out needles they injected in me, devil tendrils pulsing in life I do not want. Ten hands hold me down, and I scream this is my last rite, the doctor says that is a classic case of delusions of grandeur to the scared interns and there is a prick on my neck and everything goes dark.
  3. The galaxy is eating me, and this non-oxygenated blood circles in my lungs, making my heart and everything so devastatingly blue blue blue, I am so daringly mortal, in my self-destructive tendencies, that these veins can’t take any more pinprick points before they burst. The galaxy whispers this is how a junkie looks, this is how an angel self-destructs. 
  4. I claw my way out of my own lungs, in a different world, my hospital gown hangs off me as my back bends and breaks, I rise to the ceiling and levitate, the doctor says that is a classic case of demonic possession to the scared interns, my head spins 360, my spine cracks and bees erupt from my mouth I am not a classic case, I am the original Lilith, my serpent tongue speaks. The nurse checks off unknown species on my chart and continues on. 
  5. Gabriel draws me up from the water, and I can swear, he reminds me of someone I know are you Hermes? He smiles in another life some knew me by that name.  In that moment I remember, and I know he is not taking me somewhere I want to be so I rip myself from his grasp, leaving twin bruises on my arms, in another world I was Icarus and the sun was my beloved, but in this one I made my vows with the ocean abyss. Where are you going? He calls after my plummeting body, home home home. 
  6. Is your home not heaven? the sky asks as I descend through it. In another world maybe, but it never truly was. 
  7. I hit the earth hard, dazed and mouth full of soil, I think this is home. With its glided mortality, and chocolate chunk brownie ice-cream. With its blood-soaked kisses, and barbed wire love,with its sunshine lungs and radiation smiles, in its imperfections, this is home in the way the ocean stings against my cut wrists, this is home in the way I have bled for it, this is home in the way it gave me shelter when my wings were gone. This is home in the way it embraced me when all I  had was a cage on my back. Welcome back it says, welcome back. 
  8. Who have you become, the void whispers, she stops and corrects herself what have you become? All I know is that these veins are no longer glowing, that this halo is broken and gone, that these wings cannot fly no longer, all I know is that this earth is my cradle, my mother, my grave. All I know is that I am stronger than ever before. I tell the void fuck off. 
  9. I am no longer what I was before.

A/N: I re-watched Kong the other day and I just felt so inspired. This is based off a request from anon. Slivko makes an appearance too! ;-) Have fun reading!

Words: 1881
Warnings: injury/implied infection

Keep reading

“Chat Noir was currently an interesting shade of red.

A shade that, up until that day, was still unknown to the human species.

In the seat in front of him, Alya gasped loudly, stammering a half-hearted apology, the shame she put in her words not quite reaching her eyes.

The hero face-palmed, his cheeks burning hot, and groaned miserably, “Not again.””

This is a sneak peek of Snap Chat, the drabble I wrote for The Cat, the Bell, and the Wardrobe (Malfunction), the collab I did with @chocoluckchipz @kryallaorchid @midnightstarlightwrites and @eizabet for the birthday of the amazing @edendaphne   !!!

We had a lot of fun writing it!