Concept - Blog Posts
Random Concept
Immortals can’t have their minds read.This is because they’ve done everything so many times that everything they do and all their interactions are on autopilot, with little to no thought behind them.
Don't know how to process this thought but I'll die on the hill that is if deer were people the hunters would be gay asf. Like dude, you keep pieces of them on your wall? Gay as hell. You spend hours in a stuffy box just to get a glimpse of one? Gay as hell. You can talk about them for hours? Gay as hell. We need human hunter x human deer content.
and then Arthur decides to teach him, and Merlin just goes along with it (because Arthur is being so patient and gentle, and finding every excuse to hold Merlin’s hand, and Merlin doesn’t want to tell him. because honestly these tutoring sessions are the highlight of his day. and seeing Arthur patiently explaining things is hot)
Merlin, who can, in fact, read: I can't read
My first draft of a starter Pokemon's final evolution: Platytreme (Water/Poison)
I know it's way too early to start thinking this far ahead, but I just can't help it...
Infected (Leon Kennedy/Reader)
Fandom: Resident Evil
Pairings: Leon x Reader, Leon x You
Type: Snippet/Concept
Word Count: 3.4K
Snippet/Summary:
You had nothing; four metal walls in sixty-four square feet of space, a bed, a table with a single chair tucked underneath, and zero windows to consider having anything else.
You didn’t know how many days that you’d been here. There were clocks, old analogs dotting rooms that you’d been in before and presumably rooms that you hadn’t, but there was one in the evaluation room that had been stuck on 8:47 for a while, and you considered them a spot of decoration on otherwise empty walls. You didn’t necessarily trust their accuracy.
But you did trust that the sky fell down every day, and eventually it rose again.
You had nothing; four metal walls in sixty-four square feet of space, a bed, a table with a single chair tucked underneath, and zero windows to consider having anything else.
You didn’t know how many days that you’d been here. There were clocks, old analogs dotting rooms that you’d been in before and presumably rooms that you hadn’t, but there was one in the evaluation room that had been stuck on 8:47 for a while, and you considered them a spot of decoration on otherwise empty walls. You didn’t necessarily trust their accuracy.
But you did trust that the sky fell down every day, and eventually it rose again.
And you did trust in your knowledge that despite a lack of memory, Subject Four was an unconventional name considering that there weren’t any subjects One, Two, or Three. Not that you’d ever seen, nor heard–their existence was not something that would consistently evade your notice–and while your mind was more fog than thought most days, you surmised that you had a good idea of the comings and goings on this side of the wall, even if those on the inside hardly tiptoed around the idea of subtlety.
On the other side of the wall, well, that was questionable.
That was where most of the fog presided, submerging any memories or concepts that you may have had about anything on the outside of here. Sometimes you tried to let your mind wander to it, but then your head hurt and the fog thickened–despite that, the temptations were too much, breaking open just enough that sometimes you thought that you caught a glimpse of something inside. It gnawed at you—an ache at the back of your mind, a tantalizing mystery cloaked beneath the fog.
You had seen glimpses of that world through the small sliver of memory that occasionally pierced through your haze. Blurred images of light cascading through trees, laughter mingled with wind, the scent of something sweet. With every fleeting memory, you would find yourself desperately reaching for it, only for your grasp to dissolve into nothing.
And every night, as you lay on the narrow cot, staring into that unyielding darkness, you grappled with the idea of you, and nothing more. If your mind’s rejection would let you hold on to what little memories there were left to have, if there was much to anything at all, perhaps it was best that you never broke through.
You didn’t remember anyone, even if they would have bothered to come say goodbye.
Regardless, there was a subject four, and you found it extremely baffling that they called you that.
That and their insistence on referring to you as it. It or Four, but never a name and never anything that made you feel even remotely human–rather, an object to be studied, analyzed, and recorded. The way they approached you, with their lab coats and clinical detachment… every interaction was a transaction of data, drained of empathy or compassion.
They’d ask you questions, but their words felt hollow, a rehearsed script designed to elicit responses they already anticipated. At first, you tried to answer, tried to make sense of their inquiries, but over time you had been reduced to mere nods or shakes of your head. Words held too much weight anymore without any kind of significant value.
Each day, when the sky fell and rose again, you awoke beneath the weight of uncertainty—clutching to the conviction that perhaps you could dig through the haze of your past and discover the truth of your existence. And in doing so, you would show them what it truly meant to be alive, to feel beyond a mere label.
Somewhere inside, you were still fierce with rebellion, forged by the simple desire to break free and carve out a world that had not been hushed into submission. Until then, you would remain, waiting for a moment to reclaim what had been stolen. Waiting, while that clock ticked on—stuck, maybe, but not broken. Not yet.
You may not have a concept of time or day, but during certain times of day, usually twice, close to wakefulness and close to sleep, the strong scent of sterile—not the sterilization that naturally stuck to this place, but a strong scent of disinfectant layered over and over on top of one another—you knew that they were coming to take you to the evaluation room, and you knew to stand facing the back wall without them having to tell you.
You would stand there, arms tightly crossed over your chest, feeling the chill of the smooth metal pressing against your bare skin. The cold comforted you even as the anxiety coiled tightly in your stomach, a familiar twist that told you something unwanted was on its way. You could hear the shuffle of feet behind you, the muted whispers of the soldiers punctuating the sterile air like moths flitting about a flame.
The familiar scrape of the viewing window slid open, a grinding of concrete against metal, and the gruff voice of a man that you had “affectionately” referred to as Superior barked at you: “Don’t move!” Usually there was a curse or an insult involved somewhere. You entertained the idea that he was having a better day than normal.
Sterilization filed with them into the room, the familiar bland green and beige that made up their attire obscuring your vision—you often found yourself looking for something different, gloves or a pair of glasses if that would give you an idea as to the weather or the season, but everything in this side of the wall never changed.
At your back, guns were shoved into your space, and while they kept their distance, you didn’t blink. As you’d been taught, you clasped your hands behind you, watching their shadows mill about until you felt one grab your hands.
It was always a sensation that felt similar to a jolt, a spark that made your hands twitch and made Superior’s men tense, but you didn’t retaliate and because you didn’t, neither did they, finishing the routine of clasping handcuffs around your wrists tighter than necessary, and giving the same treatment to your feet. The only part of them that you usually saw, their hands, extended in front of your face to clasp on a muzzle and pull it taut.
On one of the first days that you’d come here, you’d almost made a joke that you wouldn’t bite, but something in you suspected that they wouldn’t find it very funny. While they had never put hands on you in a way that wasn’t necessary, you didn’t want to test that to any kind of extent.
You heard Superior step aside, the scrape of his boots across the floor, but you didn’t turn around until the order to do so was bellowed in your ears, reverberating across the walls with a resounding echo that lingered for a few echoes afterwards.
“Go!” Only when you felt the pressure of the guns off you did you finally rotate, slowly, catching faint glimpses of familiar faces and nothing else. They, with their own routine, immediately stepped behind you, forming a tight arc. Superior didn’t take the front, taking the point behind you instead.
You never felt a relief to stretch your legs, your thoughts always straying from the subtle ache to the rooms that you never got to see on the way to the evaluation room. Their doors were always closed, always quiet. If there were people that came and went, or the people in lab coats that were routinely rotated out, they did it at a time that you didn’t.
You’d tried to catch the eye of Superior multiple times, or of his men, only to be given a harsh, spoken reprimand. They never looked.
Those that did look, different observers on different days, seemed to have a keen sort of interest that felt different.
The evaluation room, a stark contrast to the confines of your cell, was a sterile space flooded with fluorescent light, stripping away any semblance of warmth. It was there that you had been tested for the usual things: cognitive function, memory recall, emotional response. Each session ended with vague theorizations on their part, murmurs of hypotheses that you never listened to. They had you do the same tests, at varying levels of difficulty at varying levels of repetition. It all felt entirely irrelevant.
The questions felt even less so.
How are you feeling today, Subject Four?
Did you sleep well? Did you have any dreams?
What are you thinking about?
They were difficult questions to answer; your mind always felt far away, a separate entity that was also a non-physical thing that you couldn’t see, you could feel, but you could never theoretically reach–if you jumped to grab it, it would always be just above your fingertips. The part of your mind that made the outside observations, and formed the questions, but also the part that had a concept of before.
Besides, if you started asking your questions, you would never stop.
Where were you?
Why did everyone smell like bleach?
What was your actual name?
You’d ask more important things, like what the weather was like outside, if you thought that they would answer. Somehow, that felt harder than asking anything else.
As you were deposited into a chair in the room without your restraints being removed, you found yourself sitting face to face with an observer that you could admit that you liked more than the rest. Dr. Halen always approached you with a kind of gentle curiosity that set her apart from the others–a soft voice and an enthusiasm that hadn’t yet waned after years of experience in her field; but she smelled like the rest, and that was enough for you to group them in the same category. Regardless, her presence did little to erase the chilling atmosphere of the evaluation room. You found it harder to respond to her than to the others.
But sometimes she showed you pictures in books, miniscule things. Flowers in vases, trees, cloudy skies–things that you had no personal, clear picture of. If you hadn’t known before, if it was not a memory that you were sure existed somewhere in the back of your subconscious, you would argue that you’d never seen them at all.
You liked to look though, even if like everything else, they stayed confined to here.
“Subject Four?” Dr. Halen broke through your thoughts. “What are you thinking?”
You shifted slightly in your chair, the coarse fabric of the restraints rasping against your skin, a constant reminder of your confinement. Your heart stood completely still, even as thoughts collided within you. What were you supposed to say?
A flicker of a memory crossed your mind during the pause, something warm, almost tactile. A glimmering lake? Was it a lake, or simply a reflection on the walls of your prison? You squashed the momentary spark, fearing its ephemeral nature. Instead, your gaze darted to Halen’s kind eyes, and you settled on the first response that came into focus, even if it felt hollow.
“Nothing,” you answered, voice muffled.
“It looks like something,” she went on, only appearing amused. “Remember, no thought is too insignificant. It’s a great step towards your recovery to know what you’re thinking, and the more complex, the better.”
Recovery? You wanted to ask. Recovery from what?
“You’ve been making great strides since you got here,” and yet she never mentioned how long ago that had been. You never risked crossing that social threshold to ask. “The other’s are beginning to not think so.” She then clarified. “Your other doctors. They think you’re degrading, but I think that we’ve made a lot of progress in understanding your condition.” You watched her manicured fingers pluck at the corner of her papers, her subtle ticks betraying her certainty.
Your condition? Were you sick?
“So if you have anything on your mind, I’d like you to share it with me,” it sounded somewhat like a plea. “Your thoughts have great value.”
You didn’t think so. You didn’t answer.
Silence settled between the two of you, a beat and then another, with Dr. Halen watching with an anticipation that you didn’t share. You had nothing to say–you didn’t consider much about you complex. She cleared her throat, and you caught the faintest glint of the perspiration dotting her forehead, the way that her throat bobbed and she scratched at the bridge of her nose just underneath her glasses. Both hands gripped the edge of her clipboard and she shifted uneasily in her chair before she continued. Despite her outside demeanor, you noticed the obvious signs of anxiety that flitted around her.
“Let’s try something different,” she suggested. “Instead of thinking about you, let’s think about something… broader. How about the world outside this facility?”
You furrowed your brow, the mere mention of 'the world outside' sent you spiraling. The fog was thickening, wrapping around memories you could not reach. You almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it—how could you possibly think about a world you had no tangible connection to?
“I—” you started, your voice flat. The bloom of obscurity once again settled heavily in your chest.
“I know it’s hard, but if you could picture it—what would you want to see?”
You blinked at her, momentarily caught off guard. The question hung in the air like a challenge. What would you want to see? You were unsure how to answer without sounding foolish, without unraveling into that dark abyss you feared.
“Sunlight,” you answered, almost instinctively.
Her expression suddenly brightened. “Sunlight! What does it look like to you? What does it feel like?”
A flood of sensory memories washed over you—flickering shards of warmth across your skin, the gold and orange hues spilling lazily over lush, green grass, and a distant laughter you could not place. “Bright,” you finally replied, striving to grasp the sensations slipping through your fingers. “
Dr. Halen didn’t break eye contact; in fact, she leaned forward, nodding encouragingly. “Beautiful. And what would you do in that sunlight?”
“Run,” you said, the word escaping before you could contemplate its implications. “Far.”
A few scribbles of pen across paper and her smile broadened, as if you had let slip a treasure directly into her hands that she was eager to unwrap. “And where would you run to?”
“I don’t know...” You didn’t blink. “Just… away.”
“That's a wonderful start,” Dr. Halen continued, her voice now a delicate tone that seemed to cut gently through the lethargy clinging to you. “You’re envisioning a goal. Freedom can be more than just a word, it can become an image—a place.”
You glanced away. A place; a vast unknown beyond your world of metal confines. The world outside was nothing like the stark walls of the facility, yet it was beyond your grasp, swimming in a sea of abstraction.
“What does freedom mean to you?” She prodded gently, and her words felt like halting footsteps echoing through an empty corridor.
You searched the recesses of your mind. Colors spiraled through it—a canvas painted in shades of untethered joy and sorrow intertwined. “To not be… alone,” you finally admitted, and with those words, a tremor of vulnerability prickled down your spine.
Dr. Halen's demeanor softened further, and the walls around you seemed to shift slightly, the oppressiveness of isolation lifting ever so slightly. “You’re not alone, Subject Four. You have thoughts, desires, and you're beginning to articulate them. That’s a step towards something greater than what is here. Do you understand that?"
You blinked. The tension in your limbs released, replaced by a flicker of warmth that blossomed in the still void of your heart. An ember of humanity, perhaps? “I think I do,” you murmured, surprised by the admission.
“Wonderful,” she breathed. “Would you like to explore that more? What else do you desire?”
The words felt dangerous, yet they were laced with promise. You had long since forgotten the thrill of dreaming, of longing for what lay beyond the prison of metal walls. Slowly, a vision began to tease at the edges of your consciousness—the scents of fresh earth, the sounds of rustling leaves, the feel of grass beneath bare feet.
“I want… to feel alive,” you confessed.
“Then we will work on that, together,” she vowed. “Every thought you share brings us closer to understanding you—and understanding what you need.”
Time, you mused quietly—whether it were minutes or hours—had paused while you waded through the depths of perception, between clarity and hazy memories. And now, as the expanse of thought widened before you like an open sky, you found a tenuous pride in admitting your desire: a life unrestrained, with sunlight and freedom—where you could breathe without the oppressive weight of the unknown.
“Tell me more,” she urged softly, and you nodded apprehensively, ready to lift the barriers higher. A flame had sparked—a flicker of hope against the backdrop of uncertainty—and you refused to let it go. This time, you wouldn’t shy away. You would not be just Four, or it. You were a voice, a life wanting to be reclaimed.
“Sometimes it just…” You stopped, eyes flickering to the floor, the stark whiteness of it, sterile and bare, mocking you. “I don’t…” The memories surfacing threatened to drown you. “I don’t remember much.”
Dr. Halen’s eyes softened, and she tilted her head. “That’s alright, Subject Four. We can work on getting those memories back, bit by bit. Remember, it’s a process—”
“No,” you interrupted, almost too forcefully. “You don’t understand. What I mean is…I don’t even know if I had memories. Or what they were.”
Your voice broke the stillness. You could feel the air shift, the intimacy of the moment amplifying your vulnerability. For a heartbeat, the oppressive weight of observation faded, leaving behind only the raw truth of your words.
Dr. Halen paused, carefully gauging the tremor of your affirmation. There was an intensity to her gaze, her lips parted slightly, as though poised to offer something—reassurance, perhaps?
“Do you want to remember?” she asked.
You were taken aback by the question, a deluge of unprocessed emotions surging through you. Do you want to remember? You felt like a wisp trapped in fog, yearning for the warmth and clarity of sunlight but terrified of losing yourself in the process.
“Yes,” you breathed, the word escaping like a desperate prayer. “But I’m scared,” you admitted swiftly, the confession escaping before you could grasp its weight.
Dr. Halen nodded as though she welcomed your fear as an ally rather than a foe. “That’s alright, Four. Fear is part of it. But you’re not alone. We’re in this together.”
Together. The word resonated in those sterile walls, filling the void of your solitude with a fleeting sense of solidarity. For a moment, you dared to believe in the possibility that beyond these metal walls, beyond being labeled as just Four, there was something more waiting for you—a world yet to be uncovered, a name yet to be reclaimed.
“What was it like?” you asked suddenly, your voice shaking with anxious curiosity. “Before this? Before…”
Dr. Halen regarded you thoughtfully, a hint of something akin to nostalgia crossing her features. “It’s hard to say. Each experience is different. Some remember the warmth of sunlight, the laughter of friends, the comfort of home…” she trailed off, her voice softening.
Home. The word brushed against the fog, an ethereal whisper that sent a shiver of recognition through you.
“Do you…do you think I had a home?” you ventured, hesitantly.
A moment of silence enveloped the room. “I believe everyone has a home, Four,” Dr. Halen said, her voice steady. “And even if you can’t remember it right now, it’s still a part of you. We just have to uncover it.”
The idea felt like a flicker of light in the depths of your consciousness, illuminating fragments that almost seemed familiar, yet remained just out of reach. But for the first time, there was a thread, a promise that perhaps you could bridge the chasm between who you had been and who you could still become. Unshed tears threatened to surface, a burning behind your eyes, but they didn’t surface.
And as Dr. Halen smiled gently, you locked onto that glimmer in her eyes—a promise, a spark despite whatever lay underneath that told you that she was still unsure about you somehow. You would try, despite the binding restraints of this place. You would fight against the fog and reach for the light, even when it felt impossibly distant. You were Four, yes, but you were also a whisper of memory, a yearning pulse of identity, waiting for the moment to reclaim it all.
“There’s a new visitor coming in a few days. Did you know that?” She asked after a moment, a wry little smile touching her lips.
The mention of a new visitor pulled you from the tender threads of hope spun between you and Dr. Halen. The thought itself was absorbing, emitting a strange resonance that tugged at the edges of your foggy memories. Curiosity swirled within you, intermingling with apprehension as you grasped for more context than just fleeting thoughts of light and freedom.
“What do you mean, a visitor?” You asked, your voice steady, though you felt the undercurrent of uncertainty ripple through you.
Dr. Halen straightened, her manner still soft but with a hint of clinical seriousness that you recognized all too well. “He’s an outside consultant. His research aligns closely with your condition. They think he might bring a fresh perspective—new insights we might not have considered yet.” She paused, allowing the implications to settle. “His methods may differ from ours.”
Methods. The word echoed ominously in the sterile room. You shifted in your chair, the restraints a constant reminder of your fate as both an object of curiosity and an enigma. It felt disheartening to think that another stranger would now scrutinize you, your thoughts, your vague memories, poking around the sensitive fibers of your mind.
“Is he like the other observers?” You ventured, the fog in your head swirling with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. “Or is he… different?”
Dr. Halen’s gaze softened; she seemed to measure her words before speaking. “He has experience with similar cases like yours but on a more severe scale,” she replied, nodding gently. “He’s done a lot of good work, and he was recommended to us by a higher power. His presence might bring about unexpected changes, both in the study of your case and in the way we approach our methods going forward.”
“Unorthodox,” you echoed, the word rolling off your tongue like a pebble dropped into a still pond. You strained for confirmation in her eyes, hoping for some assurance that this visitor would offer something worthwhile.
“He’s not here to hurt you,” Dr. Halen continued, her tone reassuring, if slightly charged with apprehension too. “It’ll be just like our meetings right now. Think of it like getting a new observer, for example.”
You absorbed her words, even as their meaning danced around the frayed edges of your reality. You had learned to tread carefully in this place; new experiences were a double-edged sword, equally capable of forging paths of understanding or suffering. Who was this new person coming into your life, and what would their scrutiny unearth?
You thought of your fleeting memories—the sunlight, the laughter, the longing for freedom—and wondered if this visitor might help uncover more than just the confines of your mind. “What if he wants to know why I can’t remember?” You asked quietly. “What if he asks me things I can’t answer?”
“We’ll approach it one step at a time,” Dr. Halen urged, her voice steady like the spine of a well-worn book, binding pages of uncertainty. “This is part of the process and we’ll prepare for it together. Trust me, it’s a new experience for us, too.”
“Prepare?” you repeated, your brow furrowing. Uncertainty and fleeting optimism mingled within you like ghosts in a night sky, drifting ever nearer to confrontation.
“Yes,” Dr. Halen said decisively. “Based on his suggestions, there will be some changes with studying your case. You may find that it works out for the better compared to what you’re used to.”
You nodded slowly, though in truth, there was a war within you. The thought of preparing sent shivers through your spine; unease churned within you like the murky waters behind heavy rains. Yet, deep down, nestled beneath the tumult, there was a pulse—fragile but fierce—urging you to engage, to search for the truth that lay dormant within the confines of your mind.
“Do you think he’ll help me remember?” You asked, the question a hesitant whisper, yet holding the weight of something significant.
Dr. Halen regarded you thoughtfully. “I can’t guarantee what will happen. Each interaction is unpredictable. But if you remain open and willing to explore… who knows what may emerge?”
You looked away, thoughts wrestling with the walls of your confinement—the emptiness of the room, the sea of sterile white. Your identity, however nebulous, was something you yearned to unearth. You wanted to explore the edges of your past; you wanted sunlight, laughter, and the promise of feeling alive.
“Maybe,” you said slowly, your voice barely a whisper, “maybe I could try to remember.”
Dr. Halen smiled—a gentle curving of her lips that filled the room with warmth. “That’s the spirit, Subject Four.” There was a sense of solidarity in her affirmation, one that felt both strange and welcoming.
The fabric of your reality shifted ever so slightly; a glimmer flared in the midst of the fog, beckoning you to step closer. In preparing for a visitor whose motives remained nebulous at best, you felt a strange mingling of fear and exhilaration. Whispers of memory and identity lingered just at the periphery—perhaps he could help bridge the chasm you had been struggling against.
“And you think he can help me find…whatever it is I’ve lost?”
“I do,” she replied earnestly. “This is an opportunity, Subject Four. An opportunity to explore not just your memories, but the essence of what you are.”
“Then… I’ll be ready,” you affirmed, your voice gaining strength. The fog still clung heavily in your mind, but its grip felt less suffocating now, thinner like a delicate veil. “Ready to remember.”
Dr. Halen smiled again, and in that moment, you caught a glimpse of who you might become—a whisper of identity, stoked by desire and fueled by the flicker of hope. Perhaps together, you would uncover the life that lay buried beneath those heavy metal walls, rework the fragmented puzzle pieces of your existence into a picture that spoke not just of survival, but of the vibrant essence of living.
~~~~~
Leon S. Kennedy stepped off the transport, the metallic clang of the door reverberating in the sterile hallway that led to the facility's main wing. He’d been in enough labs and research facilities to recognize the scent of antiseptic mingling with the sterile ambiance—an overwhelming mix of clinical precision and the lingering undercurrent of something gone awry. He’d been assigned here on what was supposedly a straightforward evaluation of a subject with unusual cognitive impairments. The details were sparse, and he didn’t buy the official line that this was just another mission; it never was where the government was concerned.
Straightening his posture, he scanned the area. White, tile floors gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, and the walls revealed nothing—just stark metal panels, doors sealed tighter than a bank vault. Leon’s eyes narrowed as he considered his surroundings. He preferred his jobs to have a bit of a wildcard element, something chaotic enough to keep him engaged. But this? This felt more like a job for people in the office, people more attuned at talking in a scientific and clinical sense; he had more field experience, but behind the scenes, ultimately, figuring out the ‘what’ and the ‘why’ wasn’t his concern.
The facility staff were uncharacteristically quiet as they ushered him through a series of checkpoints, their glances betraying a mix of anxiety and curiosity. Leon wasn’t sure if they were worried about what he might discover or if they considered him a threat. He had received a brief on the way—something about a subject exhibiting unusual psychological symptoms. After the nightmare of Raccoon City and all the hell that followed, the idea of a mysterious test subject was enough to kindle skepticism deep within him. No one had bothered to fill him in on the particulars of Subject Four's condition—just the basic protocol: observe, record, and report back.
What kind of twisted science project was this?
He adjusted the strap of his shoulder holster, the weight of his pistol reassuring. As he approached the heavily secured entrance, he was greeted by Dr. Halen, her demeanor professional but with an undercurrent of something unspoken.
"Agent Kennedy," she greeted him with a nod, motioning for him to follow. "Thank you for coming."
"Yeah, well, I'm curious what I'm getting myself into," Leon replied, folding his arms across his chest. He had learned a long time ago that curiosity and caution were often at odds in situations like this.
"You'll be meeting Subject Four," Dr. Halen explained as they walked through the sterile corridors. "The situation is… complex. But we believe your insight could be crucial."
"Complex in what way?" Leon asked, attempting to gauge her trustworthiness. He had pulled information from many sources, and they rarely painted a complete picture.
“Subject Four has been exhibiting significant memory loss, but there are signs of intelligence and emotional depth we didn't anticipate,” she said, her tone somewhat softer now. “We want to understand if this individual is capable of rehabilitation or if they pose a risk.”
He frowned at that. Rehabilitation? It sounded too much like a euphemism for something darker. The name had struck him as odd—in the line of work he had chosen, he had seen humanity stripped away from those subjected to unethical experiments; he’d seen how it could corrode the soul, leaving behind nothing more than shells of the individuals they once were. Empathy was something severely lacking in facilities like this.
The sounds of muffled voices reached them as they approached, and once inside, the room immediately engulfing him in stark, fluorescent light that made everything appear hyper-real–starkly lit, clinical, devoid of color. The table, the chairs, and the sterile instruments scattered about all blended into an intimidating array of clinical objects. Central to it all, however, was a solitary figure restrained yet sitting upright, facing away from him in a manner that suggested both submission and resilience. Leon took a deep breath as he approached it, disabling the safety on his Beretta for good measure. He wasn’t about to walk in unarmed, even if it was labeled as a “low-risk” operation.
Leon frowned as he took in the sight of Subject Four. Even without turning to face him, there was an air of defiance that bubbled just beneath the surface, the faintest hint that this wasn’t just a lifeless specimen in front of him. The figure held an energy—a yearning perhaps—that seemed to speak volumes. It haunted him as though their story had reached out and wrapped around his heart, igniting a sense of urgency.
"Subject Four, huh? Guess that makes me your official welcome committee," he said, his voice laced with a teasing nonchalance he often employed to mask the weight of a situation.
The figure craned their neck back to face him, revealing a pair of eyes that seemed to contain a universe of confusion and longing. The moment their gazes locked, an intensity surged between them—an unspoken understanding that this encounter, while charged with clinical detachment, held the potential for something more profound.
Leon took a step closer, his curiosity piqued. The restraints were a jarring reminder of the situation, yet he noticed the subtle way the subject held themselves; despite their confinement, there was an undeniable spark of resistance. "Mind if I ask for your name?" He ventured cautiously, aware of the layers of meaning hidden beneath a mere title or number.
Subject Four hesitated, the silence stretching out like a fragile thread. "I… I don’t remember my name," they admitted slowly, the words laced with melancholy and a hint of frustration. "They just call me Four."
The air in the evaluation room thickened, a gut instinct warning him that he was stepping into murky waters. Hia gut twisted anew as it brushed against their shoulder. A searing cold washed over him, and the contact sent a jolt through him, the frigid temperature radiating through his fingers like a warning bell. “What the hell?” He said, his voice rising in surprise as they recoiled from his touch, darkness weighing heavily around them.
The memory of the T-Virus haunted him, dredging up dark recollections associated with cold, lifeless beings devoid of humanity.
Leon's mind whirred, memories flooding back to the chaos of Raccoon City, where the line between human and infected had blurred into nothingness.
The instinct to aim his gun flickered to life, guiding him like a beacon through the disorienting haze around him. He leveled the Beretta steadily at Four's forehead, the metallic click echoing loudly in the sterile room.
"What are you?" He demanded, his voice low and commanding. The chaotic symphony of his emotions simmered beneath his calm surface.
Four's eyes widened with bewilderment, their hands gripping the edges of the chair, a cautious gesture that revealed no threat. Confusion etched across their features, deepening lines of vulnerability and desperation. “What do you mean? I—I don’t understand!”
Leon felt a pang of guilt at their fear, but he couldn’t shake the rising tide of anxiety that roiled within him. “You understand enough.” His voice was calm but steely, the weight of his justice felt. “You’re cold—you’re not breathing.” He strongly entertained the absence of a heartbeat but did not act on the decision to check.
“I’m normal!” Four protested, voice trembling, as though they could feel actual fear. “You don’t know me! I don’t remember! Please!”
As Leon maintained his unwavering stance, an inner turmoil twisted within him. There was something deeply unsettling about the disconnect between Four's turmoil and his instinctive distrust. He often found himself sifting through layers of deception, but what lay behind those quiet eyes felt distinct—a heart still struggling to hold on to its humanity amidst the storm.
Still cold, he continued to regard them with suspicion. “What’s wrong with you?” His voice softened against his will, as he searched for answers in the very depths of their gaze, a spark of humanity crossing the divide between them. “Do you have any idea what you are?”
Four blinked, the question hanging between them like a knife poised on a thread. “I’m me,” they replied slowly, a yearning of sorts hanging at the edge of their voice. “That’s all I know. I just want to remember… To understand who I am.”
The conviction in their plea stirred something in Leon. He exhaled slowly. The T-virus—his mind drew another dart of a thought—could have made this subject a ticking time bomb. They could pose a threat if left unmonitored, yet he weighed that against the inexplicable ache of compassion creeping into his chest. How could he condemn them for being an enigma when he himself was standing half past the shadows of guilt and regret?
“Tell me the truth. Have you been infected?” he interrogated sharply, the weapon still trained on their forehead. “This cold… it’s not natural.”
Four shook their head vehemently, eyes shimmering with unshed tears summoned by the weight of fear. "I don't know what you're talking about! I don’t know!” The desperation surged like tidal waves crashing against the shore. “I can’t remember anything! I don’t want to hurt anyone!”
Leon felt his grip on the Beretta loosen as the panic in their voice unveiled raw, protesting humanity. The longing in Four’s pleas—the need to discover oneself paralleled only by his instinct to protect innocents at any cost—pushed against his resolve.
“I don’t know what you are,” he said firmly, voice echoing with taut intensity. “But if you’re anything like what I’ve dealt with before…” He trailed off, glancing at their vulnerable form, eyes wide and full of confusion beneath the cold facade of steel.
Leon’s resolve wavered momentarily. They weren’t attacking; they were… scared. And despite the instinctual need to pull the trigger, he was forced to weigh the possibility of what lay beneath the surface—what those cold walls hid.
Gathering himself, he took a steadying breath, lowering his weapon slightly without breaking eye contact. “Just… tell me if you understand,” he added, his voice softer, tinged with urgency.
His words lingered, hanging in the air thick with tension. Somewhere behind those eyes was a thread of humanity, a battle to be waged against whatever it was that had brought them to this place–whatever unnatural thing had gotten ahold of them. Leon’s instincts brimmed with trepidation, yet he found himself unwilling to sever that connection just yet.
“What’s your real name?” Leon asked, his heartbeat thrumming in time with the tension coiling around them. He kept his grip steady, the weight of the pistol somehow grounding him even as he faced this unknown quantity. There was life in their eyes despite the pallid skin that practically glowed against the white walls of the room.
They stared back at him with bewilderment, as if struggling to grasp the meaning behind his words. “I… don’t know. I’m just… Four.”
“Right,” he muttered, his mind racing. Not a great sign. The name they carried felt like a hollow shell, devoid of context. “You’ve got to tell me what you’re infected with, and why you’re here in the first place.”
Their brows knit together in frustration, and they shifted slightly in the chair as if trying to break free from the bonds that held them back. “Infected? I don’t… I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
Leon’s eyes wandered over them, absorbing the detail of their averted gaze, the way they seemed to retreat further into themselves. He felt his resolve wavering, something akin to sympathy threading through the hard edges of his training. “Look, I don’t want to shoot,” he murmured, voice low, trying to ease the raw edge of the moment. “But I need to make sure you can’t hurt anyone, including yourself.”
Leon’s heart ached with a rush of realization: this wasn’t just some T-Virus casualty. It made sense why he was suddenly involved, he supposed. He’d only hoped for a decrease in the workload after the shit-show involving Ashley Graham. “How long have you been here?”
Their brow furrowed again, and they seemed lost in the depths of their own thoughts. “I don’t know… time isn’t—”
“Of course it isn’t,” he interrupted firmly. “You don’t remember anything?”
“I remember… sunlight,” they whispered, a note of vulnerability creeping into their voice, a flicker of emotion that tore at him. “I’m still… alive,” they insisted, their voice gaining a firmness. “You don’t have to be afraid!”
The statement caught him off guard. Instincts met empathy, and for a flicker of a moment, Leon hesitated, the gun wavering slightly in his grip.
“Listen, we don’t know what you’re infected with—”
“I’m not infected,” they objected, and Leon could see the tendons in their neck strain slightly with their rising frustration–still eerily human. “You’re wrong. I don’t feel sick.”
Despite the unease, Leon couldn’t shake the sensation that this encounter transcended the simple, clinical analysis he had anticipated. He lowered the weapon, the Beretta's weight feeling suddenly onerous in his hand. “Look, I’m not your enemy, okay? But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth. The last thing I want is to be caught in the crossfire of whatever’s going on here.” He gestured towards the walls, as sterile and unyielding as the situation itself.
His skepticism hung in the air like an unwanted cloud, a sharp contrast to the vulnerability radiating from Subject Four. Leon was accustomed to dealing with dangerous situations, but this was different. Subject Four’s plea for understanding felt genuine, tinged with a mix of fear and desperation. He could sense their humanity struggling against the confines of a cold, clinical environment.
“I’m not your enemy,” Leon reiterated, his voice steady but softened, trying to pierce through the fog of uncertainty that enveloped both of them. “I just need to know what I’m working with. You seem… different from what I normally encounter.”
“Different how?” Four asked, their tone cautious. There was a flicker of defiance in their eyes, but it was layered beneath a shroud of confusion that mirrored his own feelings.
“Cold,” Leon replied simply. “Weirdly human. There's something… off. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t exist. I just want to understand where you fit into this whole mess.”
Four looked deeply into his eyes, and for a moment, the fear and uncertainty faded from their gaze, replaced by a glimmer of understanding. “I don’t have all the answers,” they admitted quietly. “But I’ve been here for what feels like forever. They call me ‘Four,’ but it’s like I’ve been stripped of everything else that could define me.”
Stripped. The word resonated with Leon, tugging at the edges of those memories he’d fought to suppress. He thought back to Raccoon City, when countless lost their identities, trapped in their own nightmares. The fear of losing oneself—he understood that intimately.
“Do you remember anything else?” Leon pressed, striving for the clarity he so desperately sought. “Anything at all that could help us figure out what’s happening?”
“Just flashes,” Four replied, their brow furrowing as they sifted through the fragments of their mind. “I remember… sunlight and grass. Laughter, but it feels so distant. I can’t hold onto it; it slips through my fingers. Sometimes, I think I can hear voices whispering in the dark, but they’re gone before I can understand.”
Leon shifted his weight slightly, both intrigued and unsettled by their enigmatic memories. “And what else?”
Four hesitated, gathering their thoughts carefully. “It’s a longing, I suppose. A desire to connect with whatever was out there. But I feel trapped—trapped in this place, in this body that doesn’t feel like mine. I don’t know how to explain it, but the cold… it’s like a barrier between who I was and who I am now.”
That made sense. What didn’t make sense was why they weren’t immediately going for his throat; they didn’t even seem like they had the urge unless that was what the chemical bath was for when he first got here.
He weighed the words of Subject Four, their haunting recollection of sunlight and laughter mingling in a haze of confusion. He remained still, studying the figure restrained before him, unnervingly human yet inexplicably different. The cold still emanated from them, but the more they spoke, the more he felt the flicker of warmth.
A pang of something deeper settled within him as he pondered the implications—all the creatures affected by the T-virus were distinctly different. They didn’t articulate feelings, or fear, or loneliness; they acted upon instinct, pure and unyielding. Four seemed to convey the raw essence of humanity, even if clouded or coated in something alien.
This wasn’t the kind of mission he was accustomed to—interrogating test subjects with vague memories and existential struggles. The world he operated in was one fraught with danger, ambiguity, and moral dilemmas, but this? It felt different, like a cold weight he couldn’t shake, threading through every thought he had about the situation.
“What you’re experiencing… I can’t pretend to understand,” he finally said, voice low yet firm. “But if you’re not infected, then that changes things. But that also raises more questions.”
Four’s gaze bore into him, earnest and pleading. “I want to know who I am. I want to uncover the truth behind all this.”
“Truth is—this isn’t a straightforward mission for me,” he admitted, feeling strangely vulnerable in the sterile room, the weight of his responsibility pressing down on him like an anchor. “I’ve dealt with things that have completely obliterated chances to understand things like this.”
Four nodded slowly, their features betraying a mix of disappointment and understanding. “I know. But I promise, I’m not what you’re afraid of. If you can just help me remember… If you can trust me even a little. They said that you deal with monsters all the time, but I’m not one.”
“Look,” he said, taking a step closer, the distance between them narrowing. “What I can do might not be enough, but I can try to help you.” Leon's voice bore a hint of determination mingled with reluctance; a slight crack in his steadfast façade. The world around them felt sterile with menace, the atmosphere thick with tension that made every breath, every movement tightly coiled with hesitation.
The resolve in their eyes seemed to solidify, and for the first time since he’d stepped into that sterile room, Leon felt the absolute insanity pulling at his conviction.
What the hell had they gotten him into?
How pitiful it must be to be god don’t you think? A ray of sunshine or a dirtied tile of hope? What is more utterly dehumanizing than being kept alive through desires? Doesn’t that make god a woman? Your lovely creatures, whom you created to love, when in reality they are but your hopes, not you theirs, what else will keep you immortal? No, I believe you were human once, and I believe immortality is the greatest curse, because this is what you end up as. A concept that cannot touch, an entity that cannot feel, the saint who cannot learn, a barren figment of what it is to be without curiosity. Wouldn’t you like to be free from it? But then again, if you’re cursed with knowing what is left for us after death, what is left for you?
I was bored and wanted to create a new char, so I asked my friend Sirita to say three random things. She said piano, ninja and moth, so I tried to combine them. The moth char doesn't have a name, a personality or a story yet. But he's small and quiet, and energetic, and likes music (piano music).
Character concepts for a story of mine (which will probably stay inside my head). It's a human and their dog. The human doesn't have a name yet, but the dog's name is Day. They live in an apocalyptic world where heavy masses of dark, dark clouds have covered the sun (humans have at least some kind of light so they can survive, but it's pretty much night all the time), just trying to survive with the help of each other. I've been thinking that there would be a some kind of a gang who they're trying to escape from.
Concept
A small, wooden house. Surrounded by what traditionally would be called an unkept garden. Weeds treated like flowers, grass ankle high and pretty stone circles with even more 'weeds'. A veranda stuffed with herbs in flower pots and a single chair leads to a door, painted cobalt. Inside more flowerpots on every windowsill, hanging from the ceiling and standing in corners. It smells of wet soil and spices and warmth. Furniture is old and made of dark wood, delicate carvings caching the eye. Proofs of witchcraft are everywhere. Spell jars between the flowers on the windowsill, salt lining the entrance, crystals and gems lying around.
Tea water is about to boil, a pretty mug and a nice tea blend ready. Freshly baked cookies are sitting on the table, a book not far away. The cover is really pretty and the writing so relatable it's almost suffocating. But it's calming to know not to be the only one with these problems. There's a small spider in the far away corner that hasn't moved since it had gotten there and probably never will. The sleek form of a cat sneaks around the corner, waiting for her friend to sit down so she could jump on her lap.
It's evening and the frogs are preparing their nightly concert. Crickets are chirping and the chickens returned from their journey through the garden. They are well fed, happy and tired. They know they have nothing to fear. The fox that used to frighten them has found it easier to take the dog food in front of the hole in the fence he snug through. He is never too far away from the cottage. The chickens don't know death by hands, only the long slumber when they are old enough to rest.
The cat has followed her human to the chair on the veranda, purring in their lap. The sun is about to set but it's last light will be enough to read a little longer.
Part of my last animation assignment, I present to you my little guys, Kidney (the pointy one) and Cóbh ( the big ol softie) chilling in their underground kitchen
D’you know what we need?
A Merlin TV show-style series about Thor, Loki, Sif, and the warriors three in their adventures before the events of the Thor movie. Please.
Even if it’s just a mini-series, I need this in my life.
Adventures in Asgard and the other nine realms, the team of six going on quests and battling to keep the peace within them. Odin and Frigga behind them to send them on those journeys, all the while cutting back to them every so often to show some political intrigue, the tense atmosphere of their relationship, and just to what extent they favored Thor over Loki.
Showing the daily lives of Asgardians and, hell, maybe cut to Laufey sometimes and show the events going on in Jotunheim as well? Maybe that point when Loki showed them how to get through to Asgard in the Thor movie wasn’t the first time he’d ever helped the Jotuns? The others just never caught onto most of it, or if they did, they just never told anyone for fear of Loki being exiled or something?
Maybe even show Loki having a thing for Sif, then eventually confessing his feelings only to get rejected as Sif fell for Thor? That’d be interesting! Especially since Sif was in love with him in the comics. (I know people don’t like love triangles, but seriously, they can be done well.)
I mean, especially the warriors three, at the very least. Because we BARELY knew them from their short time on screen, and they definitely deserve some love.
Maybe you could even show a few flashbacks of things that happened with Hela and Odin? That’d be interesting to see! Gives her a bit more character fleshing-out while also possibly giving some context for stuff that happens later? Cutting back between Hela’s time with Odin and the Brother’s time with him?
Bottom line: Someone at Marvel, or Disney, or whoever else- please, make this happen! (Bonus points if, because Marvel was bought by Disney, the series has musical elements to it. Seriously, I will die on this hill, a marvel musical would be amazing.)
Drawing drawing drawing. Catching up on some drawing. Recently been inspired by some games - namely The Last of Us, and my replaying of Guild Wars 2. I don't usually draw from games, so I suppose that should be a testament to how much I loved those games. Sadly there are no octopuseseseses (yet).
The last piece was just me breaking away from all the costume shmostume, industry type art for a bit. Just a bunch of peeps up to something.
Ta da!
For ppl who havent seen the 2019 Oswald show concepts got leaked and i think its important we all reblog and save these images before disney can attempt to burry them we NEED this archived for the artists sake
Og post discovering this (on twitter) and yt vid i assume by the same person GO THANK THEM RIGHT THE FUCK NOW
Here are all the concepts mainly on envariment
Concepts on oswald himself i belive not finalized?
His little gas station to the crowd that still checks things w disney you might know this is the same gas station oz has the the disney theme parks, honestly very fitting though I do find some irony here i'll share in tags cuz its rubberverse related-
Absolutlry beautiful concepts of the outside enviroment you can accualy sense so much passion put into these the colors are so beautiful omg
Notes on the characters! I do find even more irony here i'll again post in reblogs cuz its off topic We can see some oryginal villians for oz That i belive we also saw in the pilot from 2014 i can see the take on them has changed a bit, also the hound driver is so peak oh my god i think i love him
Concepts of some hotel i wonder what was the idea with that Id assume maybe this could have been a place oz stays in while hes in the city cuz we see he's from the outside rather than a part of it either way on speculation i think the concept of it is my personal fav i mean just look at it
Idk whats this related to but oswalds on a sky scrapper at night and i fw with it good for him
And while it is a bigger speculation and the image isnt the most clear-
We see another rabbit in the city in a trolley, i think we can see eyelashes and she def has some hat on (smaller hats are usual for women at disney from what i saw) We see SHE notices oswald and is looking at him with i think a o.o expression so...
Is that suppoust to be fanny??
Humans have screwed up the world beyond what they are capable of repairing. In an act of desperation to mitigate the damage, they decide to genetically modify ravens. Why ravens? They have a similar intelligence to chimps and orangutans, great apes that have significantly larger brains. If the great apes currently running the world cannot solve the problem, then maybe another source of brilliance will guide humans from devastation.
The ravens are given longer life spans, larger bodies, and of course, proportionately sized brains. To allow the ravens to sustain their own culture and ideals, they are nurtured by non genetically modified raven parents but are taught about the human world by human teachers. Raised in secluded fields, jungles, and forests, they are brought up to speed on human technology and advances as they grow up.
As the first generation genetically modified ravens reach maturity and are having their own offspring, human leaders are reluctant to transition to leading with them side by side.
i got the inspiration for this while watching season ten. when cole survived falling into ninjago city, I thought ‘what if cole somehow turned evil from this darkness? that would be so awesome.’
so i took six hours out of my day to draw this. im crying tears of pride and joy.
Lady of Spring - with process!
The final image above. Process is below. Its done in Krita. Trying out portraits after a while, glad about the way it turned out :)
Background study
Пусть будет здесь.
Kayn has some super nice concept art, damn.
Part 1
Pop Shop feat Parker Jones
*Original next slide, doesn’t belong to me*
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First OC insert and not gonna lie I’m proud of it
Part 2
Would you by their merch I would lol
Also who are they staring at and who let them wear that outfit? 😏
Concept:
