EALLY need URGENT help.
I am a high-school student doing the ib. I have to do my chemistry ia, and ive already done my experiment and have data, but i did the experiment a while ago. Its basically the effect of alcohol concentrations in the dissolution of aspirin. Very basic. I used a UV spectrometer to measure absorbance at different times after throwing the pill in the water w alcohol. In the absorbance information, I have a bunch of excel data with the wavelength and absorbance. What should I do with it?
I also noticed my teacher paid extra attentionon the maximum of the second curve of the absorbance data, and checked the absorbance at a certain wavelength. Why is this?
If you can help me by answering my questions, I'd be TRULY thankful. Please.

EALLY need URGENT help.
I am a high-school student doing the ib. I have to do my chemistry ia, and ive already done my experiment and have data, but i did the experiment a while ago. Its basically the effect of alcohol concentrations in the dissolution of aspirin. Very basic. I used a UV spectrometer to measure absorbance at different times after throwing the pill in the water w alcohol. In the absorbance information, I have a bunch of excel data with the wavelength and absorbance. What should I do with it?
I also noticed my teacher paid extra attention on the maximum of the second curve of the absorbance data, and checked the absorbance at a certain wavelength. Why is this?
If you can help me by answering my questions, I'd be TRULY thankful. Please.

Only viable protocol online for spike protein disintegration (Dr. Peter McCullough)
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC10663976/
If you have “breathing in” chest pain / feels like a stretching like feeling, it is the endothelium, spike protein, micro clotting, expect other symptoms of long Covid to follow.
Best Root Cause Solution: Nattokinase, Bromelain, Curcumin - in addition NAC for more dissolution of spike protein 3-12 months, fisetin for flushing of dead cells.
If ANA positive add hydroquilorquine, If chest pain add cholchicine
Not a doctor but I use aspirin as replacement for cholchicine (hard to get) - shows aspirin being effective without cholicine, showing possible same action -
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC9862705/#:~:text=The%20reduction%20in%20mean%20D%2Ddimer%20level%20in%20blood%2C%20was,19%20patients%20with%20co%2Dmorbidities.
For neuronal symptoms: Naltrexone - not root cause
Am I feeling better? Only 3 days in, takes anticoagulant 90 hours for platelets to reform. During this process worse chest pain for me, key signs it’s working according to doctors.
Anecdotal evidence on Reddit and study seem promising.
I and I am sure many of you have been around the block with solving your issues. Covid is so complicated and funny enough I tested everything under the sun to figure my issue out. I even have a 3mm Microadenoma, likely having some correlation to spike protein aswell.
Last notes of advice: have optimal vitamin d - every disease has a negative correlation with it, magnesium is important and I hope a day where we all can be when we were healthy. I will update on this.

I'm about to start clopidogrel soon as part of anticoagulant therapy for suspected micro clots. I've already been taking aspirin for a few months and noticed a significant improvement once I did.
My doctor said that things get worse before they get better, and a long Covid friend said that because clopidogrel dissolves the micro clots and that this dissolution releases their toxins into the bloodstream, there's a flare up of symptoms that can last for months before longstanding improvement.
I wanted to find out what people's experience has been with clopidogrel, or any antiplatelet used as part of anticoagulant therapy? If there was a flare up, how severe was it and for how long did it last?

Entry: 83, Year 1, Summer, day 29 8:51:16 PM, 44 minutes since last entry Kills: 13 Z zombies 5 Z fat zombies 1 Z firefighter zombies 1 Z pupating zombie crawlers 1 Z regenerating zombie medics 1 @ cunning ferals 1 @ crazed survivalist 

​
​
Alright. Alright.
Turns out, trying to scavenge via vehicle in a city where every city is filled with zombies, is a
disastrous and stupid decision that'll end up in my vehicle being destroyed and me being killed.
​
No sooner than I went beyond the blocks I was familiar with, I ran into a wall of the dead thick
enough to stop a car. And it sure stopped my motorcycle.
​
I slammed to a halt, tried to back off, but they noticed me. Too late to back out now. So I fought
then, fucked them up with my knife, set fires, they werent a match. But then a new type of freak
came along; not the zombies, but one of the rioter types, where they're not actually zombies, but
theyre more so just human beings like you and me (why am i writing you? no-one will read
this except for me), except all feral and animalistic. I think they're getting smarter? This one was not
just the usual screaming freak with an axe or pipe, you know, the types I saw during the riots
on TV. Or the smarter ones with spears and armor. This one was...
​
Well, to put it simply, it reminded me of myself. The freak was lithe, obviously a she (she wore a
purse and thigh-high boots). Her physique was toned, she was obviously strong. But when she
approached, she had a flashlight on. Lit up the place like a second sun and forced me to run back
to the motorcycle. By the time i got on, the freak was on me, along with one of the other mutated
zombie freaks, the one made of fused-together bodies. I brawled with both atop a speeding
motorcycle going backwards, the freak stabbing me with her knife, the zombie trying to maul me to
death. Stabbed both up, not before i got cut up pretty bad.
​
So either this freak was like the other rioters, except intelligent enough to fashion her own
weapons... Or she was a survivor like me. I know for sure that whatever this virus is, it doesn't
affect me, clearly. As I haven't become a rioter or become a zombie, i dont feel very zombielike.
But... am I immune or is it just a protracted process, where I'll eventually degenerate into
being like her?
​
This scavenging mission was a failiure. I didn't even come close to the target, I got nothing out
of it except for uncomfortable knowledge. The only way I'll get anywhere is by fighting through the
zombies in my way...Or I sneak around them on foot. That's crazy though. I'm not crazy enough to try
and sneak around that many zombies.
​
​

Entry: 84, Year 1, Summer, day 30 10:30:08AM, 13 hours, 38 minutes since last entry Kills: 31 Z zombies 1 Z zombie cops 10 Z fat zombies 5 d zombie dogs 1 Z smoker zombies 1 Z skeletal zombies 2 Z crawling zombies 1 Z batwing zombies 3 Z pupating zombies 1 Z pupating zombie crawlers 1 @ feral prepper 1 @ crazed survivalists 2 Z dissoluted devourers 

​
OKAY. OKAY. I TRIED AGAIN.
THE FREAKS ARE SMARTER THAN I REMEMBER. IS EAST GILL JUST RIOTER CENTRAL? BECAUSE I
ENCOUNTERED ATLEAST THREE MORE OF THE STRONGER FREAKS, AND ONE OF THEM HAD A GUN.
THEY HAVE A GUN!!!!!!!!!!!!
THEY TRIED TO SHOOT ME. ARE THEY GETTING SMARTER??
HOW DO I EVEN COUNTER THAT?
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Entry: 85, Year 1, Summer, day 30 2:36:41AM, Kills: 4 Z zombies 1 Z fat zombies 2 d zombie dogs 3 z zombie children 1 Z tough zombies 2 Z zombie runners 3 @ feral humans 1 Z brainless zombies 1 Z SWAT zombies 2 z snotgobblers 3 Z zombie hunters 1 @ crazed survivalists 

​
I went east, I run into loads of freaks, i think calling them 'feral' would suit them more. No
point calling them rioters, because the riots have ended months ago, it's clear they're just less
than human by now. So i'll just call them feral for ease and for noting it down.
​
Ditched the car and forgot the whole deep raid stuff in favour of just using a bicycle and cycling in
near pockets of zombies, then fucking them all up. But im seeing a huge, disproportionately large
amount of ferals around here. Along with that, a zombie.
​
It wore makeshift armour, wielded a weapon. It reminded me of myself too vividly. More and more
different types of ferals down east, and Im beginning to understand what happened eastward.
Maybe at some point, survivors of the apocalypse had gathered there. But unlike me, they didn't
manage to hunker down and survive. As they were feral, they must have gotten infected with
whatever the virus was? And they weren't immune like me? As far as I understand it, you first go
feral, with varying degrees of intelligence, then you decline in intelligence and become more
animalistic, until some point you die and you rise up as a zombie, filled with that gross blob stuff?
Will I end up like them? I don't feel any dumber. For all the bullshit of the apocalypse, I learnt loads.
Like, I know how to sew and shoot, I know electronics and marksmanship, I can do loads of stuff that I
couldn't dream of doing before the end of the world. At this point I am convinced I'm immune.
​
I hope Vicky is too.
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Entry: 86 has been torn out 

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Entry: 87, Year 1, Summer, day 32 9:19:13 AM, 1 day, 16 hours, 10 minutes since last entry Kills: 27 Z zombies 1 Z zombie cops 7 Z fat zombies 1 Z firefighter zombies 2 Z zombie soldiers 1 d zombie dogs 

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Tried to scavenge. Failed. Didn't find much except for zombies, which i killed. there's more.
​
Decided to do a bit of target practice with the crossbow. Really, if it was more powerful then I'd
be using crossbows instead of knives. It's okay. I'd use guns if I had enough ammo for it.
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Entry: 88, Year 1, Summer, day 32 9:37:28 PM, 12 hours, 18 minutes since last entry Kills: 94 Z zombies 2 Z zombie cops 9 Z fat zombies 3 Z firefighter zombies 1 Z zombie soldiers 1 Z zombie brutes 5 d zombie dogs 2 Z zombie necromancers 1 Z smoker zombies 2 Z skeletal zombies 4 Z crawling zombies 10 Z decayed zombies 3 X Impossible shapes 7 z zombie children 1 Z shocker zombies 11 Z tough zombies 14 Z zombie runners 2 Z hazmat zombies 2 Z webbed zombies 1 Z zapper zombies 2 Z thorny shamblers 6 @ feral humans 1 Z zombie medics 14 Z brainless zombies 1 Z SWAT zombies 1 @ feral humans 1 Z shady zombies 1 Z zombie snappers 3 Z acidic zombies 1 z anklebiters 2 z howling waifs 1 d skeletal dogs 4 Z grappler zombies 10 Z zombie hunters 7 Z shrieker zombies 1 Z spitter zombies 10 Z boomers 1 Z zombie predators 1 Z slavering biters 1 Z zombie necro-boomers 1 Z batwing zombies 3 Z pupating zombies 1 Z pupating zombie crawlers 1 z flesh-raptors 1 Z garghouls 2 Z screecher zombies 

Okay, a lot of shit happened and I have lots to explain.
​
So, I tried to get to the Craft Shop by foot, fighting through the zombies. It is dangerous and
downright suicidal, but it leaves the area mostly cleared and thus safe. It feels good. Im not someone
who likes sneaking around like a rat. Besides, I like killing zombies, its a moral duty and it makes me
feel better afterwards. Like im the one-man armed wing of a charity organisation. I end their suffering.
I didn't have time to search through all the bodies, but I found an honest-to-god letter, dated
from before the apocalypse. In short, the letter's from a sister to her brother, and she's essentially
telling him to... I presume, get out of town? She ends it with 'you know where to go'. Where is that?
But I got the home address of both the Sister and the Brother. Looks like I got a bit of investigating to
do...
​
I managed to make it to the craft shop, fighting through hordes of zombies, but eventually I had to
run off, followed by zombies the entire way. I tried to hide in a house, which worked, and I
thought I could just relax by the smashed window in the bed. Until the portal storm came.
​
Fucking hell, I had some bad luck. Late at night, surrounded by monsters, my knife dull from
stabbing hundreds of fuckers. And now there was a portal storm. This one was intense, voices
whispering to me, a really scary deep one talking in gibberish. I dipped out after that.
​
Fought through zombies. Fought off creepy incomprehensible shit Im not gonna bother
describing because it's redundant. I got on my bicycle, cycled like mad through the darkness as
the world collapsed around me. There is not much scarier than riding through the dark in a portal
storm, cant see much beyond a few meters. Creatures attacked me, but I was faster.
And before I ran back into my house, I saw a tall figure fading in and out of existence quickly,
staring and pointing at me the entire time. What the fuck?
​
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Entry: 89, Year 1, Summer, day 33 8:04:19 AM, 10 hours, 26 minutes since last entry 

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​
One thing I hate about portal storms is that if you go to sleep, you get some horrific nightmares.
I had a vivid nightmare about being judged for my crimes.
​
I dreamt I was at Nuremburg and I was being tried for genocide and crimes against humanity for
killing thousands of sick people who needed help and all the monsters and tyrants from history
cheered and clapped and sang songs in my honour just outside the court. Sitting in the court was
Vicky, i cried her name and told her i loved her. She looked at me and called me a monster and I
cried and cried.
​
But its just a nightmare. Im not wrong. Im not in the wrong. The world is dead, the human race is
dead, all that's left is me and a few others. I've done the right thing.
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Entry: 90, Year 1, Summer, day 33 10:19:48PM, 14 hours, 15 minutes since last entry Kills: 1 X Impossible shapes 

​
YO WHAT THE FUCK.
A PORTAL STORM CREATURE WAS STILL ALIVE, EVEN AFTER THE STORM.
​
Do you realise what this implies? If I don't go out and kill them, then there'll be monsters
everywhere. Is that why there's huge bugs and blob creatures, did they come through the portals too?
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Entry: 91, Year 1, Summer, day 33 11:06:09PM, 46 minutes since last entry Kills: 9 Z zombies 1 Z skeletal zombies 1 Z decayed zombies 1 Z zombie runners 1 a cockroaches 1 Z brainless zombies 1 @ cunning ferals 1 Z dissoluted devourers 

Went through the craft shop after clearing it of zombies. Empty, apart for a welding torch, some
welding rods and a tank to fuel said torch. Not much apart from that.
But scavenging the corpses I left outside made it worth it. Got two handguns and around thirty
bullets, not that I'm gonna end up using them. Handguns are just not my thing. Guns in general.
They make too much noise and I can do more damage up close with a knife, and knives dont run outta
ammo. Until I get, like, an M4 or something then it's gonna remain like this.
​
I always thought that some amount of survivors were around the eastern areas, and I was proven
right when I came to the milsurp store. It's been ransacked. Moreso, it's been covered with
graffiti, by lots of people. One of them called it 'Sanctuary', a refugee camp perhaps? Doesn't look
it. And graffiti about how the apocalypse was a reckoning from god and only the worthy survived.
Thanks, I guess. I do feel pretty blessed. Some graffiti about crack, about Communists and
China and , most interestingly, about zombies pouring out of a portal. So, they think this
apocalypse is because of the portal storms? Also,some shithead decided to draw a shitty picture of
themselves in looted gear, as if taunting me. Maybe I should be the only man alive, just so this
bullshit doesn't happen. Don't let me catch you on these streets. I'm taking that shit off you.
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Entry: 92, Year 1, Summer, day 34 9:13:58 AM, 10 hours, 7 minutes since last entry 

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I slept somewhere else. In a basement near the Craft Shop. I had a nightmare about being trapped in
an arctic tundra and freezing until I snapped apart layer by layer. I cried and begged for Vicky. The
tears froze into ice as they went down my cheeks.
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Entry: 93, Year 1, Summer, day 34 9:29:08 AM, 15 minutes since last entry Kills: 3 Z zombies 1 d zombie dogs 1 Z decayed zombies 1 @ feral humans 1 Z zombie medics 1 Z shrieker zombies 1 Z boomers 

Climbed a roof and I saw downtown. Wow, what a sight. Urban blocks, downtown, a big office
building. I wish I was there, man. I gotta get there.
​
JUST IMAGINE! Just imagine all the loot... I'm drooling under my helmet.
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Entry: 94, Year 1, Summer, day 35 7:27:03 PM, 1 day, 9 hours, 57 minutes since last entry Kills: 7 Z zombies 1 Z fat zombies 2 Z decayed zombies 1 Z tough zombies 1 Z zombie hunters 2 Z boomers 

​
​
Had another nightmare about the cataclysm. It didn't happen and I was stuck in an office job for
the rest of my life. Fuck that.
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Entry: 95, Year 1, Summer, day 36 4:10:28 AM, 8 hours, 43 minutes since last entry Kills: 13 Z zombies 3 Z fat zombies 1 Z firefighter zombies 1 Z zombie soldiers 

Went scavenging at night. Went north-east, taking a path through suburbs i didnt go through. Found
some weird shit.
​
I don't exactly remember what. I felt weird, like a hazy nightmare, although that could be applied
to every day in the apocalypse. All I remember is that... it was important. And I was driven off by
a huge horde of zombies. They fucked me up bad. Took a few days off to recover.
​
Fucked them up. And fucked up a huge one too. I don't remember. I don't care.
My head hurts. Time for some Aspirin.
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Entry: 96, Year 1, Summer, day 39 2:53:04 AM, 2 days, 22 hours, 42 minutes since last entry Kills: 59 Z zombies 4 d acidic zombie dogs 4 Z batwing zombies 1 Z regenerating zombies 

​
Inspected the Brother's address. Didn't find anything. Plus, i found no bodies in the house. While the
windows were smashed in, that could easily be left by looters before me before they turned like the
rest.
​
Maybe this Brother I read about found this place with his Sister. All that's left is the sisters.
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Entry: 97, Year 1, Summer, day 39 3:04:10 AM, 11 minutes since last entry Kills: 1 Z zombies 2 z zombie children 1 @ feral humans 1 @ feral humans 1 Z brainless zombies 1 Z shady zombies 1 Z boomers 

So a while ago, I found a flyer. Advertising a certain grocery store, somewhere out in the city.
The advert was showing human flesh. What got to me was that it was dated a few days
AFTER shit went down and the evacuation order was sounded.
​
I tried to find that grocery store. This one wasn't it, obviously. But it was filled with
zombies, and graffiti. A repeating message was 'Follow the chemtrails' and 'the government did
this'. Not sure what to think about this. What chemtrails? There's no planes left.
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Entry: 98, Year 1, Summer, day 39 4:09:48 AM, 1 hour, 5 minutes since last entry Kills: 11 Z zombies 1 Z fat zombies 2 d zombie dogs 1 Z zombie necromancers 1 Z crawling zombies 

​
I went gravedigging.
Felt like shit.
​
​
It's not the whole 'stealing from the dead' thing. They don't give a fuck, nobody gives a fuck.
Besides if they were alive they'd understand my situaton. But it's what I found. I dug a grave up and
there was movement, the coffin was smashed open. There were zombies in the grave. When did that
person die? Years before the Apocalypse? And yet it climbs out, zombie, aggressive, murderous, filled
to the brim with the blob.
​
The blob is everywhere. It infected everyone. It's even in the ground. Even when you die, you aren't
safe. And when I die, I'll rise back up and I'll be just like them.
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Entry: 99, Year 1, Summer, day 42 1:33:49 AM, 2 days, 21 hours, 24 minutes since last entry Kills: 9 Z zombies 2 Z boomers 2 Z pupating zombies 1 Z dissoluted devourers 1 d blistered horrors 

These flyers, man. I don't like them. They're giving me clues to things that make my blood run
cold.
​
While scavenging in the night, one of the huge freaks ambushed me. A mess of body parts and fused
corpses, toppling tables, breaking its own bones under its huge weight then rehealing them instantly.
Stabbed it to death no problem. But there was a flyer in one of the corpses pockets.
It showed images of the FEMA camps. The EVAC shelters. The shelters were understocked. There were
also very high-definition photos of mass graves in the FEMA camp.Is Vicky among them? Because I
hope to all hell that she got out the city... I hope that if she did get to the Camps, she escaped before
things went south. Better yet, she avoided them altogether.
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Entry: 100, Year 1, Summer, day 42 3:19:52 AM, 1 hour, 46 minutes since last entry Kills: 1 Z zombies 2 Z fat zombies 1 Z zombie soldiers 1 Z crawling zombies 3 Z tough zombies 1 Z brainless zombies 1 Z zombie hunters 1 Z spitter zombies 2 Z boomers 1 Z skeletal brutes 1 Z listener zombies 1 Z slavering biters 1 Z pupating zombie crawlers 1 Z pupating zombie crawlers 1 Z boomer gluttons 2 Z dissoluted devourers 

​
My Chitin Armor is badass. It's literally made from the bones of those fucking cockroaches i
reckon it saved my life countless times and more importantly it kept the tuxedo Vicky brought me
safe. I like killing cockroaches now, they don't even hurt me anymore, because I'm wearing their
mommy's skin.
​
I gotta move on. I gotta make something new. It's damn near impossible to repair because of how the
chitin shatters once damaged enough. The equipment I need to repair it, i simply don't have
unfortunately. I need a new suit of armor which can be repaired and preferably holds the same
strength and durability the chitin held. I won't be going out for a while. I'll be working.
​
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Entry: 101, Year 1, Summer, day 45 4:10:46 PM, 3 days, 12 hours, 50 minutes since last entry 

​
​
Got myself a new suit. Stitched from kevlar, military hardware I scavenged, assorted plastics,
turnout gear, and insect chitin. GODDAMN I LOOK FINE.
Let's see how tough this baby is.
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Entry: 102, Year 1, Summer, day 46 8:10:45 PM, 1 day, 3 hours, 59 minutes since last entry Kills: 10 O slimes 40 Z zombies 1 Z zombie cops 3 o small slimes 1 Z smoker zombies 5 Z decayed zombies 1 Z webbed zombies 1 O amoebic mold 2 & mi-go 7 Z brainless zombies 1 z snotgobblers 5 Z grappler zombies 1 Z boomers 1 Z huge boomers 1 Z zombie wrestler 1 Z pupating zombies 1 z flesh-raptors 2 Z boomer gluttons 3 Z dissoluted devourers 1 d blistered horrors 1 Z screecher zombies 2 d hulking horrors 

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It's alright.
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Entry: 103 has been torn out 

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Entry: 104, Year 1, Summer, day 46 10:27:34PM, 2 hours, 16 minutes since last entry Kills: 29 Z zombies 3 Z zombie cops 2 Z slavering biters 1 Z batwing zombies 1 Z regenerating zombies 1 z flesh-raptors 

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Saw a zombie wearing a tuxedo with two wedding rings.
That hits hard.
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Entry: 105, Year 1, Summer, day 46 11:49:51PM, 1 hour, 22 minutes since last entry Kills: 2 Z zombies 1 z howling waifs 1 Z boomers 1 @ feral preppers 2 @ crazed survivalists 

​
WHAT THE FUCK.
WENT INTO A BASEMENT AND THEY SHOT ME. THERE WERE FERAL FREAKS IN THE BASEMENT. THREE
OF THEM. THEY SURPRISED ME THEN THEY ACTUALLY SHOT ME WHAT THE FUCK?!
​
Ran through their basement full of guns, grabbed a submachine gun and shot them back. By the time
I killed them, they were already turning into zombies. Bro that is fucked.I know that ferals must be the
the first stages of infection before they become fully zombies. But I didn't meet these guys once. I
inspected their corpses and I didn't recognise them from anywhere.Well, either way, they're dead and
that's that. I'm taking their stuff and putting it to good use.
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Entry: 106, Year 1, Summer, day 47 12:12:29AM, 22 minutes since last entry 

​
I'm fighting less and less giant cockroaches. Went into a basement and all I found was piles
upon piles of roach corpses. Did they die of old age? Did their own biology fail them? Gross.
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Entry: 107, Year 1, Summer, day 47 1:21:01 AM, 1 hour, 8 minutes since last entry Kills: 17 Z zombies 3 Z zombie cops 1 Z fat zombies 1 Z zombie soldiers 2 d zombie dogs 1 Z skeletal zombies 1 Z decayed zombies 2 z zombie children 1 Z shocker zombies 8 Z tough zombies 2 Z zombie runners 3 @ feral humans 1 @ feral humans 1 Z shady zombies 1 z shrieklings 1 z snotgobblers 2 Z grappler zombies 2 Z zombie hunters 1 Z shrieker zombies 3 Z boomers 1 Z slavering biters 1 Z pupating zombies 1 Z boomer gluttons 1 Z dissoluted devourers 1 Z garghouls 

​
Fought zombies. Hundreds of them. They drove me out.
I'll come back tommorow.
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Entry: 108, Year 1, Summer, day 47 2:28:09 PM, 13 hours, 7 minutes since last entry Kills: 52 Z zombies 3 Z zombie cops 11 Z fat zombies 1 Z zombie soldiers 1 Z zombie brutes 41 d zombie dogs 1 Z scarred zombies 1 Z smoker zombies 2 Z skeletal zombies 2 Z crawling zombies 10 Z decayed zombies 14 d rot-weilers 32 z zombie children 1 Z shocker zombies 10 Z tough zombies 4 Z zombie runners 2 Z webbed zombies 2 Z zapper zombies 1 Z thorny shamblers 3 @ feral humans 3 @ feral humans 1 Z zombie medics 8 Z brainless zombies 1 @ feral humans 6 Z acidic zombies 2 z anklebiters 1 z sproglodytes 7 z shrieklings 9 z snotgobblers 4 z howling waifs 4 d skeletal dogs 4 Z grappler zombies 8 Z zombie hunters 2 Z shrieker zombies 1 Z spitter zombies 7 Z boomers 3 Z huge boomers 3 Z listener zombies 4 d barghests 3 Z batwing zombies 7 z flesh-raptors 5 Z dissoluted devourers 

Came back.
Killed.
Although I had to go.
​
Now, along this main road leading into the city center is a museum. I use entirely melee weapons,
considering how rare ammo is and how impractical anything below automatic weaponry is against
hordes. Maybe, they have some old weapons. The past will help me. I'll get some sleep then go.
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Entry: 109,
Year 1, Summer, day 47 3:16:15 PM,
48 minutes since last entry
​
Okay, nevermind. Portal storm coming. I know better than to go out during those. Remember Tabby?
Fuck that. I'll wait outside. See if i can watch the portal storm come.
​
Okay, portal storms come. Put my earplugs in to block out the voices. Man, you aren't even scary.
You're just weird.
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Entry: 110, Year 1, Summer, day 48 9:04:17 PM, 1 day, 5 hours, 48 minutes since last entry Kills: 25 Z zombies 6 Z fat zombies 1 Z zomaptors 1 Z shady pupating zombie 1 Z boomer gluttons 3 Z dissoluted devourers 1 Z skull zombies 

​
​
Killed. Went home. Head hurts. Fishing in the pool. Got nothing.
Don't know what was expecting.
​
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Entry: 111, Year 1, Summer, day 49 4:42:09 AM, 7 hours, 37 minutes since last entry Kills: 34 Z zombies 2 Z zombie cops 12 Z fat zombies 1 Z firefighter zombies 1 Z zombie soldiers 7 d zombie dogs 1 Z smoker zombies 2 d barghests 3 Z pupating zombies 2 Z pupating zombie crawlers 1 z flesh-raptors 1 @ cunning ferals 2 Z dissoluted devourers 1 d blistered horrors 

​
I never forget how lonely I am. I miss Vicky. Only reason why I haven't fucking lost it yet is because of
Buddy. Almost killed myself because of Tabby.
​
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Entry: 112, Year 1, Summer, day 49 4:53:02 AM, 10 minutes since last entry 

​
Atleast I've got Buddy.
That's one positive.
Where you at? Come here, boy.
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Entry: 113, Year 1, Summer, day 51 10:26:01PM, 2 days, 17 hours, 32 minutes since last entry 

​
I got a big book of old historical weapons. I might make a flintlock. Although I'd need an anvil.
Made the tools I needed. Couldn't make an anvil because I need a crucible. Looks like i need to goout
and find it.
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Entry: 114, Year 1, Summer, day 52 2:24:44 AM, 3 hours, 58 minutes since last entry 

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Went over to the gas station way down east, approaching the city center. Drained the place of
all its gasoline. Got a big tank around a third full, yeah, here we go. I can keep one of my cars
running with this. Although I don't even use cars.
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Entry: 115, Year 1, Summer, day 53 12:13:36AM, 21 hours, 48 minutes since last entry Kills: 32 Z zombies 1 Z zombie cops 7 Z fat zombies 1 Z firefighter zombies 1 Z zombie soldiers 2 o small slimes 1 Z zombie brutes 3 d zombie dogs 1 Z zombie masters 1 Z smoker zombies 

Man, the past day? Two days? were a bit crazy. Went out scavenging for gasoline. Got caught up
doing even more scavenging. Went into a basement, and I met a cyborg.
​
Fucking freaky thing. Gross.
​
Also, found an autodoc in said basement, hidden behind a few lockers. Explains the cyborg atleast.
Im speculating that some sort of illegal bodymod operation was going on. Messed about with it but
don't have the slightest idea how to use it. Wont touch it anymore.
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Entry: 116, Year 1, Summer, day 54 8:18:03 AM, 1 day, 8 hours, 4 minutes since last entry 

​
Portal storm.
Not going outside.
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Entry: 117, Year 1, Summer, day 54 8:26:14 AM, 8 minutes since last entry Kills: 10 O Memories 

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I went outside. Took photos. I saw 10 Vickys and I killed them all. Got the photos to prove it. I'm going
to sleep and I want it to all end.
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Entry: 118, Year 1, Summer, day 54 8:37:44 AM, 11 minutes since last entry 

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IT SPOKE TO ME.
I'M NOT FUCKING GOING WITH YOU.
GO AWAY.
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Entry: 119, Year 1, Summer, day 54 12:21:03PM, 3 hours, 43 minutes since last entry 

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They're getting worse. These portal storms are becoming more and more intense as time goes on. A
few months ago I could just go inside and be safe. NOW THEY'RE TALKING TO ME.

For my IA, I am experimenting with the dissolution of aspirin, using colorimetry. I found this method:
1.Use a measuring cylinder to measure 600 cm3 of deionised water into a 1 dm3 beaker. Place a mechanical stirrer in the beaker so that its paddle or fins are well below the surface of the water. Switch the stirrer on and stir the water gently. Record the temperature of the water.

1. Choose a spot about 4 cm below the water surface and about 2 cm from the side of the beaker from which to withdraw samples.
   
2. Drop an aspirin tablet into the water (try to avoid splashing – hold the tablet near to the water surface before dropping). Start the stopwatch and immediately withdraw a 1 cm3 sample. Put it into a boiling tube labelled ‘zero time’.
   
3. Withdraw further 1 cm3 samples every two minutes for 10 minutes and transfer them to boiling tubes labelled ‘2 min’, ‘4 min’, ‘6 min’, ‘8 min’ and ’10 min’. 2 For ‘zero time’ and each of the other samples:
   
4. Add 2 drops of 0.1 mol dm−3 sodium hydroxide solution and warm the mixture for 10 minutes in the 70 °C water bath.
   
5. Allow to cool and add 10 cm3 with 0.02 mol dm−3 iron(III) chloride solution.
   
6. Measure the absorbance of the solution and use it to calculate the concentration of aspirin.
   
   1. Now calculate the concentration of aspirin in the solution from which the sample was taken.

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My question that in step 5, the method says to add NaOH (a base, aspirin is a weak acid) and heat to 70 degrees. WHY?????? The aspirin has already been hydrolyzed in the water. What's the point. Why heat it. Please help!!

Hi all, I am currently studying aspirin rate of dissolution depending on the temperature, and I was wondering about how to get some continuous concentration variation curve. Moreover, I was thinking on measuring the pH variation and then, linking the concentration of Hydrogen with the concentration of Aspirin, getting some kind of curve. Is it even possible ? And how should I describe the relationship between [H+] and [Aspirin] ? Thank you for your help.

How come there wasn't even an attempt to eat the fortress of Ayutthaya when the moon was still looking at the dissolution of the morlock's aspirine tea?

This trip was supposed to be a chance to disconnect and recharge far from civilization, cell phone towers, and billable hours. An opportunity to take stock of my life in the quiet splendor of nature while reconnecting with old friends. Well, if nothing else, I’ve certainly had plenty of time to take stock.
Calling the impetus for this trip a mid-life crisis doesn’t feel entirely accurate, both because I’m not yet middle-aged, and because a gripping term like “crisis” seems entirely too exciting. Perhaps “quarter-life ennui” is the right term. I had been in the work-force post-law school for three years, and had begun to see the rest of my life stretch out before me in a never-ending array of conference calls, memos, and corporate compliance agreements.
What truly inspired the trip, I suppose, was not the realization that the prospect of 40 more years spent in the trenches of corporate law was unacceptably bleak, but that I was coming to accept it wouldn’t be so bad, really. A comfortable life, a privileged life in many respects; it felt like the moment the biting wind fades away, the cold snow becomes a warm blanket, and one teeters on the edge of acceptance, recognizing that freezing to death might not be so bad after all.
I’m aware that thinking of my cushy corporate job as a metaphor for freezing to death is pretty ironic giving that there’s a pretty good chance now that I will actually freeze to death. I suppose I could laugh at it if, you know, I wasn’t worried about freezing to death. Or worse.
I think maybe I have not yet had the inordinate amount of whiskey I need before I’m ready to think about that “or worse.”
The sky was a gunmetal blue when we crossed over the State line into Kittery. By the time we hit Somerset County, 2 ½ hours North on 1-95, it had shifted to a steely gray, the clouds hanging low and oppressive. The first flakes began to fall in Dexter, where we stopped to load up on groceries, beer, and final impulse buys at the Reny’s located within the heart of downtown, surrounded by empty brick buildings and boarded up businesses.
I had lived 18 years of my life in Somerset County, and had spent too many cold hours as a teenager sitting in a car lodged on the side of the road waiting for rescue, to think casually, given the nature of our destination, of continuing on in a snow storm. But the forecast hadn’t called for any snow, and we figured any flurries would soon let up.
We were heading deep into the North Maine Woods. Jason’s family had some ancestral mansion located well within the Unorganized Territory, a perfect spot, according to him, for a week of ice fishing and day drinking. The appeal of dropping off the face of the world, and spending a week in one of the few areas of the country still largely unmapped, where the places were not given names, but numbers, held a deep appeal to me, and apparently to Jason as well.
Jason and I had gone to highschool together and now worked at the same boutique patent law firm in DC. We had somehow convinced our friends, scattered about the United States in the great diaspora common to Maine college graduates, that a week in a secluded house in the Maine woods in January would be both fun, and an ideal reunion experience.
The snow stayed light and intermittent until we turned off the narrow two-lane blacktop road, and onto the gravelly choked confines of the old logging road that led to the house. Our small caravan of cars had to slow to a creep, 4x4 drive engaged and headlights throwing back a screen of darting white static in the darkening evening, as the snow, curiously unmentioned by the weather forecast on WABI TV5 the prior evening, picked up. We discussed turning back, trying again the next day; none of us wanted to risk going off the road this far from emergency services or reliable cellular reception, but decided to press ahead.
I find myself replaying that moment incessantly in my head, imaging the life I’d be living if we’d gone through the onerous process of turning around on the small one-lane road, driven out of the woods, and turned our headlights south. I picture the alternative me, sitting in a motel room somewhere south and east, maybe in Greenville or Dover-Foxcroft, probably feeling pretty discouraged that the trip had fallen apart and trying to figure out a new plan, but sitting in a place with electricity and central-heating, not trapped in a dark crumbing mansion, hemmed in by shrieking winds and endless, remorseless, snow.
Shrieking winds that, sometimes- at night, mostly, when the thoughts in my head begin to feel less like a physiological process at least somewhat under my control, and more like starving rats skittering and clawing in panic- sound like the scratching of claws against wood, and the chittering of unspeakable creatures waiting to feed.
But we didn’t turn back. We pressed on through the snow. The effort of keeping the car within the poorly defined boundaries of what was barely a road required immense concentration, making each tense moment stretch out, but the unchanging nature of the view, restricted to the narrow window of light able to cut through the swirling snow, lent the drive an eerie timeless quality.
We were driving in silence, the only sound the swish of the wipers and the growl of the engine, when an object slammed against the car with a reverberating crash. More crashes followed in quick succession, and I saw a deer leap out of the gloom, its eyes, highlighted by the glare of the headlights, were wide and swiveling wildly within the sockets, foam billowing from the corners of its mouth. It landed with a wrenching smash on the hood and hoofs began beating a staccato drumbeat, splintering the windshield. The animal writhed furiously and I saw panic in its eyes as it finally got free and hurled itself away, running headlong in the direction we had come. More deer, and other small animals, their eyes ablaze in the light, darted past, running in outright panic, heedless of our cars as if fleeing a fire or a predator nipping at their heels. Then they were past us and all was silent again.
“Well, that was strange,” drawled Ramesh, “are all the animals in this State that fucking weird?”
We drove on. After a seemingly immeasurable period of time spent peering through the windshield into a landscape of white static, knuckles white at the wheel, the house came into view. It revealed itself slowly out of the darkness, a black wooden form nestled against the dark outline of a cliff, flanked by tall pines.
Jason was unaware of when exactly the house was built, apparently sometime in the late 19th century at the behest of his rather eccentric great-grandfather, Elisha Chamberlain, a lumber magnate whose vast fortunate had long since been squandered by dissolute family members, bequeathing to Jason’s parents only this last Ozymandiac monument to his wealth.
The local lore was that old Elisha had experienced great difficulty in hiring crews to construct his palace in the North Woods. Apparently, the great untamed forests had so terrified the motley band of French Canadians, Irish emigrants, and urban workhouse “volunteers” employed to hew wood and haul baroque furniture through miles of rocky country and up the turbulent waterways, that they quit faster than they could be hired. Many simply disappeared, walking off the job without even picking up last paychecks, melting away like smoke into the pines.
Elisha, a man who had amassed an inordinate amount of money by underpaying workers, ruthlessly extinguishing business rivals, and exploiting the earth’s resources, had, like many of today’s moguls, conveniently waited until after he stood alone and unchallenged atop his empire of wealth to develop a conscience and devote himself to improving the morals of the Common Man. To that end, the old lumber magnate had apparently had great plans to build a New Jerusalem in the Maine Woods, a utopia where society could be reborn, free from corrupting influences. Unfortunately, soon after the completion of his mansion, intended to be a cornerstone of this new shining city in the woods, Elisha, like his workers before him, simply disappeared into the silent evergreens, and the whole project collapsed.
A whole host of folktales came from the abortive attempt, with the few workers who did not simply walk off the job without a trace, telling of strange sounds and dark supernatural creatures that hunted at night. The verdict of a book, written by a professor from the University of Maine Farmington who collected and catalogued tales of local Maine folklore, was that these supernatural tales and mass disappearances were likely the, relatively common, result of those unfamiliar with the Maine woods spending dark nights in unfamiliar territory and hearing the (admittedly terrifying) cries of ordinary local animals such as loons and wildcats.
Steven’s Jeep slid to a halt in a spray of snow and gravel, the headlights threw the front of the wooden structure into sharp relief against the blackness, revealing dark and rotted steps crawling up to a cavernous set of double wooden doors. The house was rectangular and folded into a seam against the dark cliff that rose above it.
It looked somewhat like a stately 18th century New England church had been airlifted from the center of a tidy small town and dropped unceremoniously, left forgotten in the wilderness to age and warp with the changing seasons.
The slam of car doors sounded faintly through the blowing wind and we paused briefly in front of the towering structure, our shadows cast high and long by the bright headlights, before rushing to get inside out of the cold. The unexpected snowstorm and the weird behavior of the animals had spooked me; I had been living in D.C. since I left for law school and had forgotten how helpless one could feel in the face of a powerful Maine blizzard. But with the heat of a fire crackling in the fireplace, its light amplified by strategically placed kerosene lanterns, the warm burn and comforting glow of several whiskey drinks resting in my stomach, and the sounds of laughter and chatter as we planned out our next few days drowning out the whine of the wind, I began to relax.
I struggled to sleep that night. Recalling how the black heft of the cliffs seemed almost to shimmer and vibrate against the sky when we arrived; how the shadows of the trees in our headlights stretched contorted and deformed across the frosty white ground. The wind howled outside. It felt like… like something unnatural in this place was tearing at the fabric of reality, drawing it tight like the skin on a drum.
The snow continued the next day. Several feet had fallen overnight, and I had to throw my weight against the heavy wooden door in the morning in order to open it against the press. I watched blearily, more than a little hungover, as the snow which had drifted against the door collapsed inward into the house. It fell to the ground with a light whumf, seeming to spread out over the scuffed floor almost hungrily, as if eager to get inside.
I stumbled to the side of the house and rested against the rough bark of a towering pine to relieve myself, watching my breath leave in great white plumes. The mansion was placed on a high point, and the land around it fell away sharply. The clouds hung low and dark in the sky, restricting the view, but I could feel the presence of the thick undeveloped woods spilling away in all directions. I could hear the low roar of the river below, pounding its way through the narrow defile formed between the steep and snow-covered cliffs on either side. When I went back inside Ramesh was puttering around making breakfast on the portable gas grill we’d packed. He flashed me a smile, and handed me a Baxter IPA from a cooler propped open near the grill.
“Try some hair of the dog that bit ya, bud,” he droned in a ridiculously awful attempt at a thick Maine accent.
I groaned and swatted it away, “Ram, I’m not 21 anymore, I need some aspirin, some water, and a nap.”
I fell heavily onto one of the camp chairs we’d brought, the furniture left in the old house had largely been sold, and what did remain looked dangerously fragile and smelled faintly of decay. I felt tired, old, and vaguely depressed. I wondered, briefly, what’d I’d been thinking when Jason and I dreamed up this plan after one-too-many after-work beers, both in that euphoric state between buzzed and drunk where every idea seems stupendous. Did I really think that coming to this old decrepit mansion in the middle of nowhere would be some kind of enlightening Eat Pray Love moment? Instead, I was still depressed and at a loss with what I should do with my life, only now I was depressed in a musty mansion without electricity or running water, instead of in my cozy studio in D.C.
These morose, and, okay, pathetically self-pitying, thoughts were interrupted when Stephen upended my chair, spilling me unceremoniously onto the floor.
“Let’s carpe the shit out of this diem, motherfuckers!”
Ted, who out of all of us was the only one who had remained firmly in place in Somerset County, opening an extremely successful construction business in Skowhegan, had brought his snowmobile trailer along. True-blue central Mainer that he was, he had brought along enough snowmobiles for us all to ride if doubled up.
He drove first, breaking the trail, with Jason sitting behind him shouting directions. It took nearly an hour to make it through the still-falling snow to the frozen lake at the foothills of the ridge. Jason had sworn up and down that long-repeated family lore attested that this lake had the best ice-fishing in the entire State.
Given that it had only belatedly come to our attention that nobody in his immediate family had even been to the mansion since his grandfather passed, and it was less the palatial manor we had been expecting, and more of a creepy old dump, I had begun to grow skeptical of this claim. However, I had to admit that on this point he had not been exaggerating, and soon an array of trout, perches, pikes, and other fish I couldn’t name, lay stretched out on the ice.
Somehow, I had forgotten that ice fishing was largely just standing around a hole in the ice, drinking and waiting. It soon lost its charm. With the snow still picking up, we elected to head back early. I was turning to follow Alex back to the waiting snowmobiles when out of the corner of my eye I saw something move.
Turning slowly in my thick winter clothes, the snow sticking heavily to my boots, I looked in the direction of the movement. Something black and impossibly large moved unctuously underneath the surface of the ice, visible where we’d cleared the snow. I heard a low scraping sound as its many limbs brushed against the surface.
I felt my pulse sounding within the confines of my hat and hood, my mouth seemed suddenly very dry. I heard a low guttural roar come reverberating out of the impenetrable white snow, and let out a short involuntary scream.
Alex turned back to look at me, “Feeling a bit jumpy, Cade?”
I realized that the roar I’d heard was the snowmobile’s engine kicking into life, and let out a wheezy laugh. I guess I was feeling a little jumpy, imagining things. The falling snow pressed in on all sides, the heavy flakes cutting visibility down to a narrow sphere, beyond which it felt any number of things could be lurking just out of sight.
Alex had one too many slugs of Jim Beam on the ice, so I had to drive on the way back. The heavy white pellets bit into faces and exposed skin and forced us to move slowly to avoid toppling into a ravine or hitting a tree. The snowmobile felt unwieldy beneath me, its thick bulk sluggish and slow to respond.
I hadn’t owned a snowmobile growing up, and had only ever driven them when visiting friends. I’d always felt unreasonably jealous of those friends who were gifted snowmobiles for Christmas or birthdays. To me, owning a snowmobile, or an ATV, the other ubiquitous central Maine status symbol, had been a testament to wealth and privilege. It was only when I left Maine and went to law school that I realized these markers of wealth were not seen as such by my classmates. That these people probably looked down on such middle-class toys, that there existed wealth and privilege on a scale I had not previously imagined.
When the hulking shape of the mansion emerged out of the softly falling snow I felt relieved. On the drive I kept seeing, or imagining I saw, images of dark shapes flitting between the trees; something, or somethings, keeping pace with us and eyeing us hungrily. The hair on the back of my neck was standing up, and I felt a cold sweat break out despite the chill.
When we opened the door we saw that snow carpeted the floor and our belongings.
“It must have blown in through gaps in the wall,” said Alex, sounding more confident than he felt.
We didn’t speak much as we quickly swept it out. I tried not to notice how it seemed to resist being pushed out, how the white material seemed to move in ways inconsistent with the wind, as if eager to wrap around our warm bodies.
That night we were all a bit subdued. It was dawning on us that pressing on through the snow had been an extremely stupid decision. The small old logging road leading to the house was undoubtedly not plowed by anyone, and the snow was already too deep to make it back out by car. We anxiously listened to the weather report that came in intermittently through sharp bursts of static on Ted’s portable radio. It was difficult to make out, but we all distinctly heard the weather report on 92.3 say:
“Expect the clear skies across the State to continue for the next few days.”
“What the fuck,” Ram burst out in frustration, “did telling weather by satellite not yet replace reading bird entrails in this sorry State? It’s a full-on blizzard out there!”
He gesticulated wildly toward the heavy stained glass windows that lined the walls, snow sticking eagerly, almost greedily, to their panes. The sun had not yet fallen, but it was dark in the house, the thick blanket of snow allowing only a meager gray light to filter through.
‘Maybe it’s very localized,” said Ted hesitantly, “they might not bother mentioning a small storm out here where hardly anyone lives.”
“Yeah, maybe, I agreed, “but it’s still weird. We checked the weather so many times before coming. The satellites showed nothing for the next few days, not even scattered clouds. Where did this come from?”
Nobody had a good answer, and we all went to sleep shortly after. Now, I’m lying here, trying to convince myself that the scratching and scurrying sounds against the roof and walls are just branches blowing in the wind. That the snow I keep needing to brush off my sleeping bag is just falling randomly through small gaps in the ceiling, not seeking me out.
I started writing this account today. I’m not really sure why. Part boredom, part a slow creeping suspicion that something very odd is going on. This place just… doesn’t feel right. I remember now a weird story recently making the rounds about a small coastal Maine town, Malsumis, that was abandoned by its residents.
I find myself wondering if perhaps there are still unexplored corners of this world, unturned rocks where things dark and inexplicable fester. I think tomorrow we will try to figure out the best way out of here.
….
….
We are all going to die in this place.
We tried to make it out today. We didn’t make 500 yards before they started coming out of the snow.
The morning broke with pale light filtering through the granite gray clouds. The snow hadn’t let up. Ted’s massive truck was buried almost above the hood, and the roofs of our various rented SUVS were barely visible. None of us had brought snowshoes other than Ramesh, who had insisted, much to our derision, in stopping in Freeport to pick up a pair of sticker-new bright orange snowshoes from LL Bean. We elected to ride the snowmobiles back to the main road and deal with our cars and other gear later.
We all paused before heaving open the heavy double doors, a team effort due to the accumulated snow. I think that all of us had the same unspoken, irrational, fear of stepping out into the whirling blanket of snow, but were unwilling to give voice to it. It was an instinctual fear, as if coming from some long-dormant reptilian section of the brain attuned to an ancient threat, a threat long-banished since we learned to wield fire and bend the world to our will, but one that still lay in wait in the dark recesses of the world.
The snow was falling heavily as we pulled away from the mansion, the broken slats leading up to the door lent the building an imbecilic broken smile, as if it watched us leave with manic derision, knowing we would be back.
I was driving behind Ted and Alex, the snowmobile’s single headlight on despite the morning hour, as heavy snow pressed in claustrophobically, blocking the sun and shrouding the tops of the trees in an impenetrable white swarm of flakes. The roar of the engines was loud, and the tang of gasoline strong in the air as we slid onto the open powder of the road and began to gain speed. I could barely make out Alex’s form hunched behind Ted, holding on tightly, but still clearly saw what happened.
I saw a black shadowy form detach itself from a nearby tree and swoop in a fluid moment, almost too fast to follow, toward Alex. The thing’s eyes glowed red and gleaming teeth sprung at all angles from its mouth. Alex was knocked off the snowmobile in a single blow and sprawled heavily at the foot of a tree. Blood spattered Pollack-like across the snow, where it quickly dissipated as if greedily devoured. Alex began to scream, it sounded unlike anything I’d ever heard, high-pitched and inhuman.
He rolled over and started to crawl away from the creature. Unfolding and standing tall above him, it towered nearly as tall as the trees, dark black spikes were arranged along its back and they twitched as if in anticipation.
I sat frozen in my seat, watching in numb horror as Alex pulled himself forward frantically on his arms and legs, looking back in fear, blood still spurted from the claw marks across his chest and disappeared quickly into the heavy snow. White chittering spider-like creatures descended soundlessly from the trees above and landed on Alex. More crawled from behind the trees, their many pale-blue eyes swiveling wildly on stalks. Alex screamed briefly and then was silent.
Ted appeared out of the snow at his side, his eyes wide, and his jaw clamped tight. He raised a small handheld ax high and brought it down on one of the chittering creatures noisily feasting on Alex, it screeched, an inhuman piercing noise that made my ears ring.
My paralysis broken, I swung off the snowmobile, its engine growling in neutral, and ran toward them. Communication between my brain and body seemed to have broken down in some fundamental way and my legs collapsed beneath me, sending me heavily into the packed snow. It seemed to move beneath me, cold and eager, and I let out a wordless groan of revulsion.
Stephen and Jason were running toward Ted and the red, broken, remains of Alex. A loud thud reverberated through the woods, sifting powdery snow from the green pine branches, and I saw a many-toed leg strike the ground next to me. The creature towered above the trees, its upper half lost within the falling snow. An unthinkably large claw like appendage, encased in a blue-white shell, swept down from above and neatly cut Stephen in two, leaving his bottom half to stagger on for a few awkward steps before collapsing gracelessly into the snow in a spray of red.
We all turned to run in unthinking panic. The snowmobile had died while waiting in neutral and I frantically fumbled with my thick gloves, trying to work the pull-start engine. I could see out of the corner of my eye the black-shadow like creature stalking me languidly through the trees, its red eyes smoldering. The engine caught with a roar and I pulled the gas lever before fully onboard, the machine jerking away in a spray of snow, nearly clipping a tree and overturning before I righted myself on it and sped back toward the house. Ted was ahead of me, the spray from his spinning treads splattering against the frame of my snowmobile.
Suddenly, he was twisting in the air, his snowmobile skewing off the road without him as he struggled, ensnared in almost invisible twines of white that stretched across the road cutting off our retreat. Thin ribbons of blood poured down his body as he struggled in the trap and the strands cut into him. The chittering white spider creatures swarmed out from the surrounding trees and his screams were cut short.
In the few seconds within which I saw this happen I yanked my snowmobile to the right, smashing my knee painfully against the hard bark of a pine tree, and skidded crazily around the web and back onto the road. Stephen and Ramesh followed close behind me, sharing a sled together.
I threw myself off the snowmobile, letting it continue on to slam into the side of Ted’s nearly-buried truck, and pelted up the broken stairs, feeling imagined grasping claws and teeth nip at my heels. Ramesh, Stephen and I burst through the heavy doors, swinging them shut with a satisfying thud behind us. Then it was deathly quiet, the only sound our heavy ragged gasps as we caught our breath. Stephen was crying quietly.
We waited to see if the creatures would follow us into the shelter of the house, making an end of it, but they did not.
It continued to snow all day, and I can tell by the fading light that it’s almost night. The scraping, chittering sounds are almost constant now, with the occasional loud thud of impossibly large footsteps reverberating through the mansion. I feel like a mouse trapped in a hole, listening to the swishing tail of a cat that may soon tire of the game, and strike out of boredom.
Stephen hasn’t spoken since we got inside. I think something deep within him might have broken. He has only sat cross-legged in the middle of the building, as far from the sifting snow as possible, rocking back and forth. I think my mind may go at any minute too. It feels like my sanity is being held together by a fraying rope, and when the last few strands go I will drop into the darkness below; it might be a relief.
My mind has dived into two Cades. One Cade has accepted what he saw, that creatures from a nightmare are waiting outside in the snow, and is desperately trying to think of a way to safety. The other Cade knows that things like this simply don’t exist. That the likely explanation is I suffered some type of mental breakdown and am locked in a padded room somewhere, being watched over by serious looking people in white coats, scribbling down progress notes on thick pads. I hope the second Cade is right, but I can feel the cold inside my bones, I can taste the blood in my mouth from where I bit my tongue. I can smell the ancient, rank, smell of creatures not of this world. We need to find a way out.
I tried to talk to Stephen, but he merely laughed wildly. His eyes are bright and large in the gathering doom. “The snow” he whispered softly, forcing me to bend down to hear him, smelling the damp sweat and terror radiating off him, seeing the spittle-flecked lips tremble.
“It’s like we’re bugs in a Venus fly-trap. It waited for us to get too far in, and then it closed the snow around us. We can’t get out. We won’t get out. It’s just waiting.”
He giggled again, and I couldn’t get any more intelligible words out of him.
Ram is pale, his lips bloody from worried gnawing, but he has gathered together all the tools that could be used as weapons and is methodically sifting through our gear. I think, if we can survive this night, he and I will try to escape in the morning. I just hope this is only here. I hope this isn’t the whole world now.
I don’t know the point of even trying to post this; aside from a few intermittent flashes, I’ve had only sporadic service since leaving Greenville, maybe somehow it will go through though. At times the connection comes through loud and clear despite the distance. I’ll leave it trying to connect overnight. If you read this, just know that there are pockets in this world where reality is stretched thin, where things can come through: stay away from them.

[Late post, as explained in the last post.]

In this chapter we come to a problem which, if overlooked, is liable to cause the greatest confusion.

Oh boy, even if it isn't overlooked. The persona. What's the persona? Truthfully, i never really understood it well, but i don't think i realized he defined it here. Or at least when i read it the first time i wasn't ready for it or just didn't remember. I don't know. And then there's all the people who draw diagrams of the psyche and place the persona somewhere. I bet few people could easily define what the persona actually is.
I decided it would be a badgood idea to look at the definitions in volume 6. That is, chapter 10:

It may perhaps seem superfluous that I should add to my text a chapter dealing solely with definitions. But ample experience has taught me that, in psychological works particularly, one cannot proceed too cautiously in regard to the concepts and terms one uses: for nowhere do such wide divergences of meaning occur as in the domain of psychology, creating only too frequently the most obstinate misunderstandings.

The whole paragraph there is worth reading, but then the headache starts. Jung defines exactly what he means, but often i end up more confused than when i started. [Note on the re-read: perhaps i just need to read them more slowly, and when i am interested in that exact term.] Nonetheless, let's look up persona, which is right before paragraph 785:

43a. PERSONA, V. SOUL.

Oh no. Please, no. You're equating persona with soul? Ugh. Fwiw, the V does not mean verb. Jung uses q.v.: abbreviation for (denoting a cross reference) quod vide. That's usually used inside a definition to note that there is more on the mentioned word elsewhere. V alone would seem to mean the word is defined elsewhere, not also elsewhere, just plain elsewhere.
So, off we go to paragraph 797 for the definition of soul, only to find in absolute horror:

48. SOUL. [Psyche, personality, persona, anima.]

Well, those are all the things Jung wants to define here, and indeed anima and psyche point to here as well (anima also points to Soul-Image, the next definition). It becomes clear though that Jung did not want to equate the terms, but rather wanted to differentiate them, and decided to do it all in one place. In a sense, each defines the other, so is a somewhat required approach. It also means the definition won't come easily.
Let's see:

By psyche I understand the totality of all psychic processes, conscious as well as unconscious.

Okay, psyche means the psychic totality of the person.

By soul, on the other hand, I understand a clearly demarcated functional complex that can best be described as a “personality.” In order to make clear what I mean by this, I must introduce some further points of view.

He defines a term with a term, then says its going to get confusing. Anyone have an aspirin?

have enabled us to accept the possibility of a plurality of personalities in one and the same individual.

Here we go. Personality is a construct, and there may be more than one, but "such a plurality of personalities can never appear in a normal individual". This means fully formed, but the "germ" or "traces of character-splitting" can exist in everyone.

One has only to observe a man rather closely, under varying conditions, to see that a change from one milieu to another brings about a striking alteration of personality

He explains in his example:

the social character is oriented on the one hand by the expectations and demands of society, and on the other by the social aims and aspirations of the individual. The domestic character is, as a rule, moulded by emotional demands and an easy-going acquiescence for the sake of comfort and convenience

He ends it off with:

Which is the true character, the real personality? This question is often impossible to answer.

I think it needs no answer. They are both true when we define him by his reactions with society. If we define him by his internal forces, neither are true, they are just masks formed by circumstance and self-preservation.
Well, what do you know, he continues:

In my view the answer to the above question should be that such a man has no real character at all: he is not individual (q.v.) but collective (q.v.), the plaything of circumstance and general expectations.

And further:

Naturally he is individual, like every living being, but unconsciously so. Because of his more or less complete identification with the attitude of the moment, he deceives others, and often himself, as to his real character. He puts on a mask, which he knows is in keeping with his conscious intentions, while it also meets the requirements and fits the opinions of society, first one motive and then the other gaining the upper hand.

So ends the subsection '[Soul as a functional complex or “personality”]'. Now he starts '[Soul as persona]' with paragraph 800:

This mask, i.e., the ad hoc adopted attitude, I have called the persona,⁷⁹ which was the name for the masks worn by actors in antiquity. The man who identifies with this mask I would call “personal” as opposed to “individual.”

Note 79:

Two Essays on Analytical Psychology, pars. 243ff.

Paragraph 243 is the first paragraph in this chapter, and ff, or folio, refers to the following paragraphs, in other words, it says our chapter is where he defined persona as the mask. At this point we can go back to our material, but there is a little more in the next paragraph that seems relevant to the definition:

The two above-mentioned attitudes represent two collective personalities, which may be summed up quite simply under the name “personae.” I have already suggested that the real individuality is different from both. The persona is thus a functional complex that comes into existence for reasons of adaptation or personal convenience, but is by no means identical with the individuality. The persona is exclusively concerned with the relation to objects.

That is, the persona is external. (Meaning it is closely related to Keirsey's Temperaments.)

The relation of the individual to the object must be sharply distinguished from the relation to the subject.

He then defines subject here:

The subject, conceived as the “inner object,” is the unconscious.

So, the persona is the outer mask, but the inner one also has a mask?

Just as there is a relation to the outer object, an outer attitude, there is a relation to the inner object, an inner attitude.

Apparently so. Though, he refers to dreams and whether they can be ignored, so it may not be best defined as a mask. Not sure. In any case, back to our material.
Jung continues the process from earlier where the unconscious had lent some of its power:

By continuing the analysis we add to the personal consciousness certain fundamental, general, and impersonal characteristics of humanity, thereby bringing about the inflation I have just described, which might be regarded as one of the unpleasant consequences of becoming fully conscious.

Then started the confusion:

From this point of view the conscious personality is a more or less arbitrary segment of the collective psyche.

When he says "conscious personality," this seems to be different than consciousness, which is where the ego shines. That is clearly different from the unconscious even if influenced by it. But the personality, that is, the mask he defined in the last chapter as being thrust upon him by external sources, that's actually just a "segment of the collective psyche". It's conscious, not consciousness. We know that we do it (sometimes), perhaps we do not know why, but we accept it and are conscious of it. But this is not the same as consciousness. Okay, i think its clear now. I was really confused when i first read it.

It is only because the persona represents a more or less arbitrary and fortuitous segment of the collective psyche that we can make the mistake of regarding it in toto as something individual. It is, as its name implies, only a mask of the collective psyche, a mask that feigns individuality, making others and oneself believe that one is individual, whereas one is simply acting a role through which the collective psyche speaks.

Wow, i had to read that twice. In toto simply means in total. The mask, as he explains earlier and again here, is formed by society, not by the individual. And although it seems individual, it is actually collective. The last chapter and this one coalesce quite well.
At this point, i am admiring the beauty of that last sentence of his. I am also finding that i cannot think of the formation of the mask and its collectiveness at the same time as realizing it is exactly how the individual acts. It's individual but it isn't. It's collective, but it isn't. Mindbogglingly beautiful.
Jung actually helps with the very next sentence:

When we analyse the persona we strip off the mask, and discover that what seemed to be individual is at bottom collective; in other words, that the persona was only a mask of the collective psyche.

The mask is individual when it is in use, but to study the mask itself we must take it off and only then do we see it's collective nature. He continues:

Fundamentally the persona is nothing real: it is a compromise between individual and society as to what a man should appear to be.

A compromise and:

The persona is a semblance, a two-dimensional reality, to give it a nickname.

I am thinking of the diagrams people use for the psyche. Where does the persona go? At first glance, it should go between the ego and external reality. That is, not surrounding the ego, for it is only used on one side, but it does act as a go-between with the outer world. However, the persona is part of the collective unconscious, so if we place it where it is used, it will not show what it is truly a part of, and vice-versa, if we show where it comes from, it will not be where it is used. And if that was not enough, there can be multiple personae, the "current" one being defined by whom the individual is interfacing with. How in the world do you show that in a simple diagram? Perhaps a diagram of the Jungian psyche would have to decide if it is showing location or showing usage. They are different, and not just for persona, for a lot of things, such as the placement of the ego or inner reality.
That digression helped me digest this idea a bit more. Back to the subject at hand. We were saying the persona is collective. But Jung isn't done. He defined the idea well, but now wants to add a point:

It would be wrong to leave the matter as it stands without at the same time recognizing that there is, after all, something individual in the peculiar choice and delineation of the persona, and that despite the exclusive identity of the ego-consciousness with the persona the unconscious self, one’s real individuality, is always present and makes itself felt indirectly if not directly.

Let's see, the persona is collective, but the individual does have a say in the matter. What is that?

Although the ego-consciousness is at first identical with the persona—that compromise role in which we parade before the community—yet the unconscious self can never be repressed to the point of extinction.

When i read that sentence just now i felt as if it was saying that the persona births the ego as its first step. But that makes no sense with the end. It is saying that persona has no mask at first, the true ego is shown until the unconscious forces itself to be heard and have a stake in these relations to the outer world. (This is perhaps where Keirsey's Temperaments would seem to come from, that although the functions are used consciously, they are more than just that. Hmm...)
Jung then goes off and talks about the unconscious and how it affects things. I like how he explains it here:

Its influence is chiefly manifest in the special nature of the contrasting and compensating contents of the unconscious.

The unconscious, as he always says, compensates. But it also contrasts. The compensation is the other side of things.

The purely personal attitude of the conscious mind evokes reactions on the part of the unconscious, and these, together with personal repressions, contain the seeds of individual development in the guise of collective fantasies.

The personal attitude, by definition, is the choice of the personal over that of the collective. (If that wasn't the case, it would not be personal.) The unconscious compensates with the collective. The opposite is also true. Basically, the compensation of the unconscious is with the suppressed material. When the suppressed material is recognized, the personal choice is balanced, which is called compensation. It's not that the unconscious has a will of its own. It does have forces (such as the archetypes) but it compensates that which was repressed. This can be seen as will to compensate, but it is nothing more than the psychic pressure demanding balance.
The next part speaks about the case at hand, and Jung makes some remarks that today might be considered sexist:

This in itself would not have been a mistake if her intellect had not had that peculiarly protesting character such as is unfortunately often encountered in intellectual women.

I am not sure if he was explaining the effects of the animus, or just an example of the times. In any case, he expands upon it for the rest of that paragraph, finishes up some remarks about the treatment, and then "After this digression, let us turn back to our earlier reflections." The digression segues well, as the story ends with the dissolution of the (bad) persona, and the next paragraph talks about what happens next, which includes collective images and fantasies. But that leads to the next issue, as "The forces that burst out of the collective psyche have a confusing and blinding effect." and:

as the influence of the collective unconscious increases, so the conscious mind loses its power of leadership. Imperceptibly it becomes the led, while an unconscious and impersonal process gradually takes control. Thus, without noticing it, the conscious personality is pushed about like a figure on a chess-board by an invisible player.

Even if it is a problem:

This is how the resolution of the transference, apparently so impossible to the conscious mind, was brought about in my earlier example.

In other words, it is a good thing. He repeats this idea:

The predominance of unconscious influences, together with the associated disintegration of the persona and the deposition of the conscious mind from power, constitute a state of psychic disequilibrium which, in analytical treatment, is artificially induced for the therapeutic purpose of resolving a difficulty that might block further development.

And this helps because:

I regard the loss of balance as purposive, since it replaces a defective consciousness by the automatic and instinctive activity of the unconscious, which is aiming all the time at the creation of a new balance and will moreover achieve this aim, provided that the conscious mind is capable of assimilating the contents produced by the unconscious, i.e., of understanding and digesting them.

If that happens, the individual develops well. If not, "the result is a conflict that cripples all further advance". He finishes:

But with this question, namely the understanding of the collective unconscious, we come to a formidable difficulty which I have made the theme of my next chapter.

Odd note. The first sentence of this chapter talks about "this chapter" and the last sentence uses "next chapter". He doesn't usually do that. And certainly not both in the same chapter.
Overall, this was a small but great chapter, building atop that which was said in chapter 2. The concept of the persona can be confusing, and embedded as it is here in the analysis made it harder to see, but we were able to use the definition from volume 6 for help. When i read this chapter just earlier, i thought i understood it, but as i wrote this up, i realized that only now do i have it clear. It defines the persona, a major player in the Jungian psyche, i found it worth the extra time spent on reflection.

Other discussions
Episode 1 - Pneumococcus
Episode 2 - Scrape wound
Episode 3 - Influenza
Episode 4 - Food poisoning
Episode 5 - Cedar pollen allergy
Episode 6 - Erythroblasts and myelocytes
Episode 7 - Cancer
Episode 8 - Blood circulation
Episode 9 - Thymocytes
Episode 10 - Staphylococcus Aureus
Episode 11 - Heat shock
Episodes 12+13 - Hemorrhagic shock

Background

Hello again! I am a medical doctor currently in residency training in the field of pathology. It's my job to study and categorize all sorts of human disease, usually by studying the effect it has on the human body and particularly its cells. Hataraku Saibou is a series written by Akane Shimizu featuring anthropomorphized human cells battling such disease. The creators seem to have a strong penchant for both accuracy and subtle detail, so I am here to help provide an explanation of and background information for each episode so you won't miss anything obscure. Call me Dr. Eightball ("asshole" didn't stick, nvm). Spoilers follow!
^That's gonna be a copy-pasta at the start of each thread. I was completely floored by the collective interest from my Ep. 1 analysis, and was also impressed by how many additional posters were able to contribute! Since then, I have picked up all of the mangas and nabbed a crunchyroll subscription, so we're going to keep this going. We are still playing catchup but should be up to speed by the start of next week. I do want to pause for a second and welcome our consultant Rathurue, who provided the majority of additional contributions in that thread. Please pay special attention to his (or her) responses!

Character Feature

Platelet
Not my artwork.
When I started this, I had figured that the logical progression would be RBC > neutrophil > platelet, but it's pretty clear the platelet is the star of this episode (not to mention a fan favorite), and so merits next discussion. The platelet is the smallest cell in the human body--that is, if we were to even consider it a cell. Platelets are actually cellular fragments that mature and break off of the very large precursor, the megakaryocyte. They are extremely small--2 to 3 microns in diameters--and have a relatively simple structure. Like the RBC, they have no nucleus, which means they have no regenerative potential. Normal humans should have 150-450 thousand per microliter of blood, or around 0.5-2.5 trillion in total.
The platelet's primary (actually, sole) function is to trigger hemostasis, or clotting. Hemostasis is an extremely complex and highly regulated process with many different moving parts and players. To briefly summarize it, platelets circulate in the blood stream, happily rolling along until they encounter a damaged vessel. Instead of the normal smooth vascular endothelium, they come into contact with exposed subendothelial collagen and von Willebrand factor. Platelets express receptors that help them bind to this substrate (glycoprotein 1b complex, or GP1b). Once bound, they become activated, secreting numerous chemical substances from either alpha granules or dense granules. These substances include proteins that bind more platelets and small molecules cause more activation (examples: calcium, thromboxane-A2, and ADP). Importantly, the use of an NSAID poisons platelets, stopping them from producing thromboxane-A2, and impairing their function. This is (one of many) reasons a patient at risk of cardiovascular disease may take a daily aspirin. And recall that since the platelet has no regenerative potential, there is naught to do but wait for the platelet to be eliminated and replaced with unpoisoned platelets (their lifespan is around 7 days). You may have a relative whose surgery was deferred for a week for such a reason, as it increases the risk of bleeding. The activated platelets express another receptor, glycoprotein IIb/IIIa, which allows them to bind other platelets by linking through a molecule called fibrinogen, which is produced by the liver and floats in the circulating plasma. The platelets and fibrinogen constitute a "platelet plug"--this is the process of primary hemostasis.
A platelet plug is not very sturdy, however, and maturation of the plug requires the effect of coagulation factors, more soluble proteins usually made in the liver. This process is kind of complicated, so let's not get into it. What results is the enzymatic cleavage of fibrinogen into mature fibrin, which is much more sturdy. This is the process of secondary hemostasis.
A few other random thoughts about platelets: There are many diseases that involve platelets (and hemostasis more broadly), whether through inherited defect (Von Willebrand disease, Glanzmann's thrombasthenia, Bernard-Soulier disease) or acquired malfunction (DIC, TTP, ITP, PTP). Unclear if these will come up.. What you should take away is that the platelet initiates and largely controls clotting. I don't have anything insightful to say about their character design, however. The hat, boots, and oversized shirt are not immediately reminiscent of platelet cytomorphology. Their blue theme is probably also stylistic.

Episode 2 - Scrape wound

Intro: A scrape wound, or "abrasion" in typical doctor-speak, is a superficial injury sustained to the epidermis. These injuries can bleed and be painful, but usually do not require special intervention or treatment beyond being kept clean and can resolve by themselves, as we shall see.

• Our protagonist RBC, AE-3806 is on a delivery trip to drop off some nutrients. Capillary 34?! Try 3.4 billion! No wonder she's always getting lost. A note on the nutrients that came up last time: Red blood cells do not generally carry nutrients. They do contain some amount of sugar and amino acids, and their lipid membranes do constitute some usable energy, but by and large "food" is dissolved in plasma. Glucose (the most readily usable energy source for any organ, and especially preferred by nervous tissue and RBCs) is directly dissolved. Amino acids too, if I recall correctly. Lipids tend to be transported in small protein-bound particles (lipoproteins), as their nonpolar nature precludes direct dissolution in plasma, which is aqueous. See?
• A bunch of platelets are transporting...something. We'll learn what later. They have some trouble getting down some stairs--this does not represent any physiologic process to me, probably it's just them being cute. Hopefully a gaggle of platelets moving in a group does not represent a thrombus (clot), that would not be something you'd want floating around...
  • Oh, the big package is fibrin. Well, it's probably fibrinogen, as used fibrin cannot be "recycled" but is instead digested by a series of fibrinolytic enzymes expressed by endothelial cells. These enzymes have been reverse-engineered by us to be used as "clot busters" in stroke and heart attack patients.
• AE3803 and her senpai travel to a superficial vessel in the skin. To briefly summarize, the skin is one large, continuous epithelial lining which functions in thermoregulation, in sensation, but most importantly as a barrier to the external environment. If you were to lose your skin (say, suffer a severe burn), you will find that it becomes difficult to impossible to regulate your internal environment, not to mention inviting a bunch of foreign invaders, as we shall see...
  • Oops, giant scrape wound. We better get used to AE3803 being helpless and saved a lot, as erythrocytes truly do not have any sort of defense mechanisms. In typical fashion, U-1146 is one of the first responders.
• Invasion! We get a glimpse of some new bacteria. I can't begin to identify all of them without some additional cues, but we will get to look at a couple in depth here.
• Staphylococcus Aureus is one of the most common human pathogens. It, like most staph and strep species, is a skin commensal--that is, it normally lives on the surface of your skin, not causing any problems unless it is introduced into a wound. The design of this character gives it away immediately; although it is a gram-positive organism like last week's pneumococcus, staph aureus is known for producing a pigment that gives it a bright golden color, staphyloxanthin (Staph* aureu*s, from the latin "aurum" meaning gold). Also notice the clusters of, uhh, balls on her. This is an allusion to its tendency to form "clusters" in culture. It also causes a huge number of diseases and expresses a wide variety of virulence factors. It can cause skin infections (cellulitis), pneumonia, endocarditis, really it can fuck with any organ it gets into. And alarmingly, it is resistant to a number of antibiotics, a number that is steadily growing.

Staphylococcus Aureus

• The vessels are constricting. This is a normal reflexive process with any sort of vascular damage to minimize blood loss, and its driven by both neural impulse (though someone may wanna check me on that) and chemicals like endothelin.
  • Wish I could read this random cell's shirt, lol. Why is he able to move around freely?
• Oh, more bugs.
• Streptococcus Pyogenes is another common skin commensal related to our friend pneumococcus. It too is gram-positive, though this guy is not blue. Maybe my old theory should be tossed. Like staph aureus, it can cause all manner of infection, though the one you are probably most familiar with is strep throat. We have some visual cues again; the "balls" are arranged in chains this time, reflecting its tendency to form chains in culture.

Streptococcus pyogenes

• Pseudomonas Aeruginosa is another very common bug. This one is, to my knowledge, not a typical skin commensal, but it is ubiquitous in the environment, in soil, etc. Unlike all of the other bugs so far, it is a gram-negative rod, and this guy's green color is due to a pigment involved in binding iron (pyocyanins, pyoverdin). It too can cause a huge variety of infections, and can be notoriously resistant to antibiotics. It also has a distinctive, uh, "grapey" odor.

Pseudomonas Aeruginosa

• Damn valve. We've already been over them (Ep. 1).
  • !!! I'm not sure what is meant by the bug targeting erythrocytes "not carrying nutrients". Again, RBCs do not carry nutrients directly. Anyone?
  • Lmao neutrophils back on the scene. I wanted to point this out last episode, but if the neuts seem single-minded in their pursuit of bacteria, it's because they are. They are actually quite "dumb" and just move towards any foreign antigen and try to eat or kill it.
• Dunno what the branchy-pointy bug or fluffball are yet. I'm inclined to think branchy is a fungus (with a chitinous cell wall).
• Oh, I forgot to describe the process of neutrophil diapedesis earlier. A detailed explanation can wait until I do the neutrophil character highlight, but briefly: In order to reach their target tissues, neutrophils have adhesion molecules that allow them to cling to vascular endothelium and squeeze between them (transmigration). L-selectin is a protein that allows them to bind...I'm not actually sure what specifically ("sulfatides and sulfated polysaccharides", apparently).
• I don't agree with Staph Aureus's assessment that by overcoming local neutrophil response that she'll be able to sneak right on through. A localized infection takes hold, but you can bet that as long as there are still foreign peptides and inflammatory cytokines, the immune system will keep sending soldiers.
• Platelets inbound! Aha, see? GP1b. And I guess the metal things are coagulation factors (reminder that these are normally dissolved in plasma, and generally not directly carried by platelets).
  • Aaaand boom, secondary hemostasis. Oh yeah, although fibrin is the chief protein required for forming a mature clot, any cells in the vicinity will get stuck and incorporated into the clot. The ultimate fate of all of these cells (platelets, entrapped RBCs and anything else) will be to ultimately die and degenerate as the clot matures, until it is either broken up by fibrinolytic enzymes, eaten up by macrophages, or (as scabs do) falls away. Late in the healing process, the normal tissues will regenerate.

Summary

Another fairly humdrum infectious incursion resulting from an abrasion. Again, this probably required no treatment and resolved naturally. I think we can get comfortable with our heroes sticking around for a long time, because they really should have died by now. I do wonder what that little badge represents on AE3806's sleeve means. Maybe it's just meant to invoke the biconcave appearance of a red cell?
https://preview.redd.it/s1samj35e3b11.png?width=70&format=png&auto=webp&s=eb64af62a8dcfe4f0703ab3c2ee64c9545d08dac
By the way, platelets & hemostasis are something of a strong suit of mine, since I cover for a coagulation lab periodically. Ask away if you have any questions.
No citations this time. Can provide review article links for the curious.

Aye drugs, you so fine, you blow my mind. I've been researching drugs ever since I started smoking pot long ago. One insidious thing in the vein of drug use is misinformation, and the innocuous way by which it spreads on and on. I figured it would be cool to go ahead and lay out the present knowledge of my favorite drugs citing scientific research studies, all in the name of propagating wisdom and safe recreation.
Pharmacology
I'll start with my favorite, the lysergamide ergotamine LSD-25 and the substituted tryptamine alkaloid Psilocin with prodrug Psilocybin. The reason to do them both is because of the similarity in their molecular structure, thus receptor site binding and drug profile. These drugs are not physically addicting, there is virtually no withdrawal syndrome when chronic use of these drugs are ceased, and zero reports of deaths as a result of toxicity to the drugs. A 2008 study concluded that, based on US data from the period 2000–2002, adolescent-onset (defined here as ages 11–17) usage of hallucinogenic drugs did not increase the risk of drug dependence in adulthood; this was in contrast to adolescent usage of cannabis, cocaine, inhalants, anxiolytic medicines, and stimulants, all of which were associated with "an excess risk of developing clinical features associated with drug dependence". Likewise, a 2010 Dutch study ranked the relative harm of psilocybin mushrooms compared to a selection of 19 recreational drugs, including alcohol, cannabis, cocaine, ecstasy, heroin, and tobacco.
Psilocybin mushrooms were ranked as the illicit drug with the lowest harm, corroborating conclusions reached earlier by expert groups in the United Kingdom. In one study, administration of gradually increasing dosages of psilocybin daily for 21 days had no measurable effect on electrolyte levels, blood sugar levels, or liver toxicity tests. Nearly 1.7 kilograms (3.7 lb) of dried mushrooms, or 17 kilograms (37 lb) of fresh mushrooms, would be required for a 60-kilogram (130 lb) person to reach the 280 mg/kg LD50 value of rats. Based on the results of animal studies, the lethal dose of psilocybin has been extrapolated to be 6 grams, 1000 times greater than the effective dose of 6 milligrams. The Registry of Toxic Effects of Chemical Substances assigns psilocybin a relatively high therapeutic index of 641 (higher values correspond to a better safety profile); for comparison, the therapeutic indices of aspirin and nicotine are 199 and 21, respectively. Heavy doses of Lsd, 1,000 to 7,000μg per 100ml & 2.1 to 26 ng per ml in serum concentrations of the tartrate salt form, require supportive care, which may include endotracheal intubation or respiratory support. Agitation can be safely addressed with benzodiazepines such as lorazepam or diazepam. Neuroleptics such as haloperidol are recommended against because they may have adverse effects.
Of the 20 drugs ranked according to individual and societal harm by neuropsychopharmacologist David Nutt, LSD was third to last, approximately 10 times less harmful than alcohol. LSD may trigger panic attacks or feelings of extreme anxiety, Review studies suggest that LSD likely plays a role in precipitating the onset of acute psychosis in previously healthy individuals with an increased likelihood in individuals who have a family history of schizophrenia. A recent review suggests that HPPD (as defined in the DSM-IV) is uncommon and affects a distinctly vulnerable subpopulation of users. Hallucinogen persisting perception disorder in which LSD-like visual changes are not temporary and brief, as they are in flashbacks, but instead are persistent. Flashbacks are a reported psychological phenomenon in which an individual experiences an episode of some of LSD's subjective effects after the drug has worn off.
Tolerance to LSD builds up over consistent use and cross-tolerance has been demonstrated between LSD, mescaline and psilocybin. This tolerance is probably caused by downregulation of 5-HT2A receptors in the brain and diminishes a few days after cessation of use. A cross-tolerance can develop between psilocybin and phenethylamines such as mescaline and DOM, and the pharmacologically similar LSD. LSD affects a large number of the G protein-coupled receptors, including most serotonin receptor subtypes, all dopamine receptor subtypes, and all adrenoreceptor subtypes, as well as other sites. Psilocin has no significant effect on dopamine receptors (unlike LSD) and only affects the noradrenergic system at very high dosages. Most serotonergic psychedelics are not significantly dopaminergic, and LSD is therefore atypical in this regard. The agonism of the D2 receptor by LSD may contribute to its psychoactive effects in humans.
LSD binds to most serotonin receptor subtypes except for the 5-HT3 and 5-HT4 receptors, not even present in humans 5-HT5B receptors, also have a high affinity for LSD. Psilocybin is rapidly dephosphorylated in the body to psilocin which acts as a 5-HT2A, 5-HT2C and 5-HT1A agonist or partial agonist. Psilocin exhibits functional selectivity in that it activates phospholipase A2 instead of activating phospholipase C as the endogenous ligand serotonin does, its effects are thought to come from its partial agonist activity at 5-HT2A serotonin receptors in the prefrontal cortex. In humans, recreational doses of LSD can affect 5-HT1A (Ki=1.1nM), 5-HT2A (Ki=2.9nM), 5-HT2B (Ki=4.9nM), 5-HT2C (Ki=23nM), 5-HT5A (Ki=9nM [in cloned rat tissues]), and 5-HT6 receptors (Ki=2.3nM). LSD exhibits functional selectivity at the 5-HT2A and 5HT2C receptors in that it activates the signal transduction enzyme phospholipase A2 instead of activating the enzyme phospholipase C as the endogenous ligand serotonin does. The psychedelic effects of LSD are attributed to cross-activation of 5-HT2A receptor heteromers. Many but not all 5-HT2A agonists are psychedelics and 5-HT2A antagonists block the psychedelic activity of LSD.
LSD like many psychedelics, has been shown to activate DARPP-32-related pathways, it enhances dopamine D2 receptor protomer recognition and signaling of D2–5-HT2A receptor complexes. LSD was found to stay bound to both the 5-HT2A and 5-HT2B receptors for an exceptionally long amount of time, which may be responsible for its long duration of action in spite of its relatively short terminal half-life. The extracellular loop 2 leucine 209 residue of the 5-HT2B receptor forms a 'lid' over LSD that appears to trap it in the receptor, and this was implicated in the potency and functional selectivity of LSD and its very slow dissociation rate from the receptor sites. Aghajanian and Bing (1964) found LSD had an elimination half-life of only 175 minutes (about 3 hours). However, using more accurate techniques, Papac and Foltz (1990) reported that 1 µg/kg oral LSD given to a single male volunteer had an apparent plasma half-life of 5.1 hours, with a peak plasma concentration of 5 ng/mL at 3 hours post-dose.
Psilocin's half-life ranges from 1 to 3 hours, 163 ± 64 minutes when taken orally, or 74.1 ± 19.6 minutes when injected intravenously. Psilocybin is rapidly dephosphorylated in the body to psilocin, which is a partial agonist for several serotonergic receptors. Psilocin has a high affinity for the 5-HT2A serotonin receptor in the brain, where it mimics the effects of serotonin (5-hydroxytryptamine, or 5-HT). Serotonin receptors are located in numerous parts of the brain, including the cerebral cortex, and are involved in a wide range of functions, including regulation of mood and motivation. Psilocin binds less tightly to other serotonergic receptors 5-HT1A, 5-HT1D, and 5-HT2C. The psychotomimetic (psychosis-mimicking) effects of psilocin can be blocked in a dose-dependent fashion by the 5-HT2A antagonist drugs ketanserin and risperidone. Although the 5-HT2A receptor is responsible for most of the effects of psilocin, various lines of evidence have shown that interactions with non-5-HT2A receptors also contribute to the subjective and behavioral effects of the drug. For example, psilocin indirectly increases the concentration of the neurotransmitter dopamine in the basal ganglia, and some psychotomimetic symptoms of psilocin are reduced by haloperidol, a non-selective dopamine receptor antagonist. Taken together, these suggest that there may be an indirect dopaminergic contribution to psilocin's psychotomimetic effects. In contrast to LSD, which binds to dopamine receptor D2, psilocybin and psilocin have no affinity for the dopamine D2 receptors.
History
In Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs, the mushrooms were called teonanácatl, or "God's flesh". Following the arrival of Spanish explorers to the New World in the 16th century, chroniclers reported the use of mushrooms by the natives for ceremonial and religious purposes. According to the Dominican friar Diego Durán in The History of the Indies of New Spain (published c. 1581), mushrooms were eaten in festivities conducted on the occasion of the accession to the throne of Aztec emperor Moctezuma II in 1502. The Franciscan friar Bernardino de Sahagún wrote of witnessing mushroom usage in his Florentine Codex (published 1545–1590), and described how some merchants would celebrate upon returning from a successful business trip by consuming mushrooms to evoke revelatory visions. After the defeat of the Aztecs, the Spanish forbade traditional religious practices and rituals that they considered "pagan idolatry", including ceremonial mushroom use. For the next four centuries, the Indians of Mesoamerica hid their use of entheogens from the Spanish authorities.
Murals dated 9000 to 7000 BCE found in the Sahara desert in southeast Algeria depict horned beings dressed as dancers, clothed in garb decorated with geometrical designs, and holding mushroom-like objects. Parallel lines extend from the mushroom shapes to the center of the dancers' heads. 6,000-year-old pictographs discovered near the Spanish town of Villar del Humo illustrate several mushrooms that have been tentatively identified as Psilocybe hispanica, a hallucinogenic species native to the area. Flemish botanist Carolus Clusius (1526–1609) described the bolond gomba (crazy mushroom), used in rural Hungary to prepare love potions. English botanist John Parkinson included details about a "foolish mushroom" in his 1640 herbal Theatricum Botanicum. The first reliably documented report of intoxication with Psilocybe semilanceata, Europe's most common and widespread psychedelic mushroom involved a British family in 1799, who prepared a meal with mushrooms they had picked in London's Green Park.
LSD was first synthesized on November 16, 1938 by Swiss chemist Albert Hofmann at the Sandoz Laboratories in Basel, Switzerland as part of a large research program searching for medically useful ergot alkaloid derivatives. LSD's psychedelic properties were discovered 5 years later when Hofmann himself accidentally ingested an unknown quantity of the chemical through his fingertips. Hofmann intentionally ingested 250 µg of LSD on April 19, 1943, he said this would be a threshold dose based on the dosages of other ergot alkaloids, he found the effects to be much stronger than he anticipated. Sandoz Laboratories introduced LSD as a psychiatric drug in 1947, then beginning in the 1950s, the US Central Intelligence Agency began a research program code named Project MKULTRA. The project was revealed in the US congressional Rockefeller Commission report in 1975, experiments included administering LSD to CIA employees, military personnel, doctors, other government agents, prostitutes, mentally ill patients, and members of the general public in order to study their reactions, usually without the subjects' knowledge.
In 1957, american banker and amateur ethnomycologist R. Gordon Wasson described the psychedelic visions that he experienced during rituals at the Mazatec village Huautla de Jiménez, in "Seeking the Magic Mushroom", an article published in the popular American weekly Life magazine. Later the same year they were accompanied on a follow-up expedition by French mycologist Roger Heim, who identified several of the mushrooms as Psilocybe species. Heim cultivated the mushrooms in France, and sent samples for analysis to Albert Hofmann, a chemist employed by Sandoz (now Novartis).
In 1959, the Swiss chemist Albert Hofmann isolated the active principle Psilocin and its phosphorylated cousin, psilocybin from laboratory-grown specimens of the entheogenic mushroom Psilocybe mexicana. Hofmann succeeded in finding the synthetic routes to these chemicals, he and his colleagues later synthesized a number of compounds chemically related to the naturally occurring psilocybin, to see how structural changes would affect psychoactivity, and his employer Sandoz marketed and sold pure psilocybin as 'Indocybin' to physicians and clinicians worldwide for use in psychedelic psychotherapy. The new molecules differed from psilocybin in the position of the phosphoryl or hydroxyl group at the top of the indole ring, and in the numbers of methyl groups (CH3) and other additional carbon chains. Two diethyl analogs (containing two ethyl groups in place of the two methyl groups) of psilocybin and psilocin were synthesized by Hofmann: 4-phosphoryloxy-N,N-diethyltryptamine, called CEY-19, and 4-hydroxy-N,N-diethyltryptamine, called CZ-74. Because their physiological effects last only about three and a half hours (about half as long as psilocybin), they proved more manageable in European clinics using "psycholytic therapy"—a form of psychotherapy involving the controlled use of psychedelic drugs.
In 1963, the Sandoz patents expired on LSD, and the increasingly restrictive drug laws of the late 1960s curbed scientific research into the effects of psilocybin and other hallucinogens. Several figures, including Aldous Huxley, Timothy Leary, and Al Hubbard, began to advocate the consumption of LSD. LSD became central to the counterculture of the 1960s, the use of LSD and other hallucinogens was advocated by new proponents of consciousness expansion such as Leary, Huxley, Alan Watts and Arthur Koestler, and according to L. R. Veysey they profoundly influenced the thinking of the new generation of youth. On October 24, 1968, possession of LSD was made illegal in the United States.
By the mid-1960s, the youth countercultures in California, particularly in San Francisco, had adopted the use of hallucinogenic drugs, with the first major underground LSD factory established by Owsley Stanley. In the 1962 Marsh Chapel Experiment, which was run by Pahnke at the Harvard Divinity School under the supervision of Timothy Leary, almost all of the graduate degree divinity student volunteers who received psilocybin reported profound religious experiences. One of the participants was religious scholar Huston Smith, author of several textbooks on comparative religion; he later described his experience as "the most powerful cosmic homecoming I have ever experienced." In a 25-year followup to the experiment, all of the subjects given psilocybin described their experience as having elements of "a genuine mystical nature and characterized it as one of the high points of their spiritual life"
From 1964, the Merry Pranksters, a loose group that developed around novelist Ken Kesey, sponsored the Acid Tests, a series of events primarily staged in or near San Francisco, involving the taking of LSD (supplied by Stanley), accompanied by light shows, film projection and discordant, improvised music known as the psychedelic symphony. The Pranksters helped popularize LSD use, through their road trips across America in a psychedelically-decorated converted school bus, which involved distributing the drug and meeting with major figures of the beat movement, and through publications about their activities such as Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test (1968). On January 1966, in San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, brothers Ron and Jay Thelin opened the Psychedelic Shop.
The Thelins' store is regarded as the first ever head shop, it was opened to promote safe use of LSD. The Psychedelic Shop helped to further popularize LSD in the Haight and to make the neighborhood the unofficial capital of the hippie counterculture in the United States. Ron Thelin was also involved in organizing the Love Pageant rally, a protest held in Golden Gate park to protest California's newly adopted ban on LSD in October 1966. In both music and art, the influence of LSD was soon being more widely seen and heard thanks to the bands that participated in the Acid Tests and related events, including the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane and Big Brother and the Holding Company, and through the inventive poster and album art of San Francisco-based artists like Rick Griffin, Victor Moscoso, Bonnie MacLean, Stanley Mouse & Alton Kelley, and Wes Wilson, meant to evoke the visual experience of an LSD trip. The Grateful Dead were inextricably linked to LSD in the United States, the concerts providing the primary distribution network for LSD through the mid-1990s.
In the United States, psilocybin (and psilocin) were first subjected to federal regulation by the Drug Abuse Control Amendments of 1965, a product of a bill sponsored by Senator Thomas J. Dodd. The law passed in July 1965 and effected on February 1, 1966 was an amendment to the federal Food, Drug and Cosmetic Act and was intended to regulate the unlicensed "possession, manufacture, or sale of depressant, stimulant and hallucinogenic drugs". Despite the seemingly strict provisions of the law, many people were exempt from prosecution. The statutes "permit[ted] … people to possess such drugs so long as they were for the personal use of the possessor, [for] a member of his household, or for administration to an animal". The federal law that specifically banned psilocybin and psilocin was enacted on October 24, 1968. The substances were said to have "a high potential for abuse", "no currently accepted medical use," and "a lack of accepted safety". On October 27, 1970, both psilocybin and psilocin became classified as Schedule I drugs and were simultaneously labeled "hallucinogens" under a section of the Comprehensive Drug Abuse Prevention and Control Act known as the Controlled Substances Act.
The United Nations Convention on Psychotropic Substances (adopted in 1971) requires its members to prohibit psilocybin, and parties to the treaty are required to restrict use of the drug to medical and scientific research under strictly controlled conditions. However, the mushrooms containing the drug were not specifically included in the convention, due largely to pressure from the Mexican government. Most national drug laws have been amended to reflect the terms of the convention; examples include the UK Misuse of Drugs Act 1971, the US Psychotropic Substances Act of 1978, Australia Poisons Standard (October 2015), the Canadian Controlled Drugs and Substances Act of 1996, and the Japanese Narcotics and Psychotropics Control Law of 2002. The possession and use of psilocybin is prohibited under almost all circumstances, and often carries severe legal penalties. However, in many national, state, and provincial drug laws, there has been a great deal of ambiguity about the legal status of psilocybin mushrooms, as well as a strong element of selective enforcement in some places. Most US state courts have considered the mushroom a 'container' of the illicit drugs, and therefore illegal. A loophole further complicates the legal situation—the spores of psilocybin mushrooms do not contain the drugs, and are legal to possess in many areas. Jurisdictions that have specifically enacted or amended laws to criminalize the possession of psilocybin mushroom spores include Germany (since 1998), and California, Georgia, and Idaho in the United States.
Despite the legal restrictions on psilocybin use, the 1970s witnessed the emergence of psilocybin as the "entheogen of choice". This was due in large part to a wide dissemination of information on the topic, which included works such as those by author Carlos Castaneda, and several books that taught the technique of growing psilocybin mushrooms. One of the most popular of this latter group was published in 1976 under the pseudonyms O.T. Oss and O.N. Oeric by Jeremy Bigwood, Dennis J. McKenna, K. Harrison McKenna, and Terence McKenna, entitled Psilocybin: Magic Mushroom Grower's Guide. Over 100,000 copies were sold by 1981. As ethnobiologist Jonathan Ott explains, "These authors adapted San Antonio's technique (for producing edible mushrooms by casing mycelial cultures on a rye grain substrate; San Antonio 1971) to the production of Psilocybe [Stropharia] cubensis. The new technique involved the use of ordinary kitchen implements, and for the first time the layperson was able to produce a potent entheogen in his own home, without access to sophisticated technology, equipment or chemical supplies."
Medicinal and Therapeutic Studies
In the early 1960s, Timothy Leary and colleagues at Harvard University investigated the role of set and setting on the effects of psilocybin. They administered the drug to 175 volunteers from various backgrounds in an environment intended to be similar to a comfortable living room. Ninety-eight of the subjects were given questionnaires to assess their experiences and the contribution of background and situational factors. Individuals who had experience with psilocybin prior to the study reported more pleasant experiences than those for whom the drug was novel. Group size, dosage, preparation, and expectancy were important determinants of the drug response. Those placed in groups of more than eight individuals felt that the groups were less supportive, and their experiences were less pleasant, conversely, smaller groups (fewer than six individuals) were seen as more supportive. Leary and colleagues proposed that psilocybin heightens suggestibility, making an individual more receptive to interpersonal interactions and environmental stimuli. These findings were affirmed in a later review by Jos ten Berge (1999), who concluded that dosage, set, and setting were fundamental factors in determining the outcome of experiments that tested the effects of psychedelic drugs on artists' creativity.
The National Institute of Drug Abuse-funded study, published in 2006, has been praised by experts for the soundness of its experimental design. In the experiment, 36 volunteers without prior experience with hallucinogens were given psilocybin and methylphenidate (Ritalin) in separate sessions; the methylphenidate sessions served as a control and psychoactive placebo. The degree of mystical experience was measured using a questionnaire developed by Ralph W. Hood; 61% of subjects reported a "complete mystical experience" after their psilocybin session, while only 13% reported such an outcome after their experience with methylphenidate. Two months after taking psilocybin, 79% of the participants reported moderately to greatly increased life satisfaction and sense of well-being. About 36% of participants also had a strong to extreme "experience of fear" or dysphoria (i.e., a "bad trip") at some point during the psilocybin session (which was not reported by any subject during the methylphenidate session); about one-third of these (13% of the total) reported that this dysphoria dominated the entire session. These negative effects were reported to be easily managed by the researchers and did not have a lasting negative effect on the subject's sense of well-being.
In a 2007 review psychiatrist William A. Richards stated "[psychedelic] mushroom use may constitute one technology for evoking revelatory experiences that are similar, if not identical, to those that occur through so-called spontaneous alterations of brain chemistry." A 2011 prospective study by Roland R. Griffiths and colleagues suggests that a single high dosage of psilocybin can cause long-term changes in the personality of its users. About half of the study participants—described as healthy, "spiritually active", and many possessing postgraduate degrees—showed an increase in the personality dimension of openness (assessed using the Revised NEO Personality Inventory), and this positive effect was apparent more than a year after the psilocybin session. Although other researchers have described instances of psychedelic drug usage leading to new psychological understandings and personal insights, it is not known whether these experimental results can be generalized to larger populations.
A follow-up study conducted 14 months after the original psilocybin session confirmed that participants continued to attribute deep personal meaning to the experience. Almost one-third of the subjects reported that the experience was the single most meaningful or spiritually significant event of their lives, and over two-thirds reported it among their five most spiritually significant events. About two-thirds indicated that the experience increased their sense of well-being or life satisfaction. Even after 14 months, those who reported mystical experiences scored on average 4 percentage points higher on the personality trait of Openness/Intellect; personality traits are normally stable across the lifespan for adults. Likewise, in a recent (2010) web-based questionnaire study designed to investigate user perceptions of the benefits and harms of hallucinogenic drug use, 60% of the 503 psilocybin users reported that their use of psilocybin had a long-term positive impact on their sense of well-being.
A number of organizations including the Beckley Foundation, MAPS, Heffter Research Institute and the Albert Hofmann Foundation, exist to fund, encourage and coordinate research into the medicinal and spiritual uses of LSD and related psychedelics. New clinical LSD experiments in humans started in 2009 for the first time in 35 years, a renewal of scientific research into the potential medical and psychological therapeutic benefits of psilocybin for treating conditions including obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), post-traumatic stress disorder, social anxiety, cluster headaches, and anxiety related to terminal cancer.
In 2011, Griffiths and colleagues published the results of further studies designed to learn more about the optimum psilocybin doses needed for positive life-changing experiences, while minimizing the chance of negative reactions. In a 14-month followup, the researchers found that 94% of the volunteers rated their experiences with the drug as one of the top five most spiritually significant of their lives (44% said it was the single most significant). None of the 90 sessions that took place throughout the study were rated as decreasing well-being or life satisfaction. Moreover, 89% reported positive changes in their behaviors as a result of the experiences.
Rundown of scientist Dr Robin Carhart-Harris speaking to Laurence Phelan about fighting the establishment, battling preconceptions and breaking down egos
In work published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences for the first time anywhere in the world, 20 British volunteers have had their brains scanned while under the influence of LSD as part of research carried at the University of Cardiff. Professor Nutt was removed from his job as the chair of the Government’s drug advisory council in 2009, after he said that drugs including ecstasy and LSD were less harmful than alcohol and tobacco. “I personally think the neuroscience that’s been uncovered by these drugs is revolutionary. This research is so important it should be funded to the tune of millions,” he said. Dr Robin Carhart-Harris said “What's especially intriguing…is that people can have a very challenging experience yet afterwards they seem to be somehow psychologically refreshed by the experience. That's how they describe it.” there had been no evidence of psychedelic drugs such as LSD triggering psychosis in research studies, although there were anecdotal reports of this occurring through recreational use.
LSD makes the brain more “complete”, the drug breaks down the parts of the brain that usually separate different functions, like vision and movement, creating a more “integrated or unified brain”. They also found that people who are having drug-induced hallucinations “see” with various other parts of their brain, not just the visual cortex that is active in normal vision. "Normally our brain consists of independent networks that perform separate specialised functions, such as vision, movement and hearing - as well as more complex things like attention", “However, under LSD the separateness of these networks breaks down and instead you see a more integrated or unified brain." "Our results suggest that this effect underlies the profound altered state of consciousness that people often describe during an LSD experience. It is also related to what people sometimes call 'ego-dissolution', which means the normal sense of self is broken down and replaced by a sense of reconnection with themselves, others and the natural world. This experience is sometimes framed in a religious or spiritual way - and seems to be associated with improvements in well-being after the drug's effects have subsided."
"Our brains become more constrained and compartmentalised as we develop from infancy into adulthood, and we may become more focused and rigid in our thinking as we mature,” “In many ways, the brain in the LSD state resembles the state our brains were in when we were infants: free and unconstrained. This also makes sense when we consider the hyper-emotional and imaginative nature of an infant's mind." According to results from the same study, which was published in the journal European Neuropsychopharmacology, those effects could be even further encouraged with the use of music. Listening to music while under the influence of the drug led the visual cortex to receive information from the part of the brain that usually deals with mental images and memory and the more it did so, the more people reported seeing complex visions including those from earlier in their lives.
David Nutt interview
Psilocybin, the main psychoactive ingredient in magic mushrooms, sprouts new links across previously disconnected brain regions, temporarily altering the brain's entire organizational framework. These new connections are likely what allow users to experience things like seeing sounds or hearing colors. And they could also be responsible for giving magic mushrooms some of their antidepressant qualities. Typically, brain activity follows specific neural networks. But in the people given psilocybin injections, cross-brain activity seemed more erratic, as if freed from its normal framework, the drug changed how information was carried across the brain. When the researchers looked more closely, however, they noticed that the sparks of activity across the brains of their drugged volunteers wasn't as chaotic as it seemed. Instead, the activity formed distinct patterns, or cycles.
These new connections allow parts of the brain that don't usually talk to one another to communicate. People who use magic mushrooms and see the number 52 as glowing bright blue and red, then, don't see it that way because the drugs have made them crazy. Instead, they associate the number with colors because the brain region that detects and interprets color has been chatting it up with the brain region that processes numbers. When regions of the brain that don't normally talk directly to one another cross signals, the result is a trip. In a 2012 study, Imperial College London neuroscientist David Nutt found that in people drugged with psilocybin, brain chatter across traditional areas of the brain was muted, including in a region thought to play a role in maintaining our sense of self. In depressed people, Nutt believes, the connections between brain circuits in this sense-of-self region are too strong. "People who get into depressive thinking, their brains are overconnected," Nutt told Psychology Today. Negative thoughts and feelings of self-criticism become obsessive and overwhelming. Loosening those connections and creating new ones, Nutt thinks, could provide intense relief.
Johns Hopkins psychologists came to similar findings when they induced out of body experiences in a small group of volunteers dosed with psilocybin. Immediately following their sessions, participants said they felt more open, more imaginative, and more appreciative of beauty. When the researchers followed up with the volunteers a year later, nearly two-thirds said the experience had been one of the most important in their lives; close to half continued to score higher on a personality test of openness than they had before taking the drug. Nick Fernandez, a former cancer patient and psychology graduate student who took psilocybin as part of a New York University study, experienced those same feelings of freedom and positivity. "For the first time in my life, I felt like there was... a force greater than myself," Fernandez told Aeon Magazine. "Something inside me snapped and I experienced a... shift that made me realize all my anxieties, defenses, and insecurities weren't something to worry about."
Psilocybin dramatically transformed the participants' brain organization, Expert said. With the drug, normally unconnected brain regions showed brain activity that was synchronized tightly in time. That suggested the drug was stimulating long-range connections the brain normally wouldn't make. After the drug wore off, brain activity went back to normal. Basically, psilocybin might be temporarily causing users' brains to enter a hyperconnected state, perhaps beginning to explain the strange, sometimes frightening but often enlightening experiences that typify a psychedelic trip. More concretely, it may also help explain why studies have found that psychedelic experiences administered in a calm, physician-assisted environment (essentially the old concept of drug, set and setting) can have striking psychological effects. Studies have shown magic mushrooms might be able to calm the ego and inspire optimism, quit smoking and even help people break free of troublesome personality traits. Patients with terminal diseases have even talked about how psilocybin helped them come to terms with their own mortality. With attitudes on drugs shifting quickly, the study of psychedelics really does seem to have endless possibilities.
The John Hopkins University of Medicine in Baltimore and found that even as little as one mushroom can cause these positive personality changes for up to a year. The end of the abstract for the study published by the Journal of Phychoparmacology concludes that, “Overall, it is difficult to see how prohibition of psychedelics can be justified as a public health measure.” Psychologist Pal-Orjan Johansen of the Norwegian University of Science and Technology said psychedelic use is overall “considered to pose a very low risk.” “Psychedelics can elicit temporary feelings of anxiety and confusion, but accidents leading to serious injury are extremely rare,” he said.
collection of studies
Physiological and Psychological Experience
The psychoactive effects of the drugs evoke eidetic imagery (colored patterns behind the closed eyelids), an altered sense of time (time seems to be stretching, repeating itself, changing speed or stopping), objects and surfaces appearing to ripple or breathe, geometric patterns overlaying walls and other objects and morphing objects (common at medium to high doses), enhanced ability for introspection, regression to primitive and childlike thinking, and activation of vivid memory traces with pronounced emotional undertones intensification of colors and brightness (sparkling), new textures on objects, blurred vision, tachycardia, dilated pupils, restlessness or arousal, euphoria, synesthesia (hearing colours and seeing sounds at high doses), increased body temperature, headache, sweating and chills. LSD causes an animated sensory experience of senses, emotions, memories, time, and awareness, depending on dosage and tolerance. Many of the basic visual effects resemble the phosphenes seen after applying pressure to the eye and have also been studied under the name "form constants". The auditory effects of LSD may include echo-like distortions of sounds, changes in ability to discern concurrent auditory stimuli, and a general intensification of the experience of music.
The user may experience anything from subtle changes in perception to overwhelming cognitive shifts, commonly reported is the inanimate world appears to animate in an inexplicable way; for instance, objects that are static in three dimensions can seem to be moving relative to one or more additional spatial dimensions. Monoamine oxidase inhibitors (MAOI) have been known to prolong and enhance the effects of psilocybin. Alcohol consumption may enhance the effects of psilocybin, because acetaldehyde, one of the primary breakdown metabolites of consumed alcohol, reacts with biogenic amines present in the body to produce MAOIs related to tetrahydroisoquinoline and β-carboline. Tobacco smokers may also experience more powerful effects with psilocybin, because tobacco smoke exposure decreases the activity of MAO in the brain and peripheral organs.
Among the reported symptoms are numbness, weakness, nausea, hypothermia or hyperthermia, elevated blood sugar, goose bumps, heart rate increase, jaw clenching, perspiration, saliva production, mucus production, hyperreflexia, and tremors. LSD is rapidly absorbed, so activated charcoal and emptying of the stomach will be of little benefit, unless done within 30–60 minutes of ingesting an overdose of LSD. The most common immediate psychological effects of LSD are visual hallucinations and illusions (trips), trips usually start within 20–30 minutes of taking LSD by mouth (less if snorted or taken intravenously), peak three to four hours after ingestion, and last up to 12 hours. Negative experiences, referred to as bad trips, produce intense negative emotions, such as irrational fears and anxiety, panic attacks, paranoia, rapid mood swings, intrusive thoughts of hopelessness, wanting to harm others, and suicidal ideation. Good trips are stimulating and pleasurable, and typically involve feeling as if one is floating, disconnected from reality, feelings of joy or euphoria (sometimes called a "rush"), decreased inhibitions, and the belief that one has extreme mental clarity or superpowers. Studies have demonstrated that psilocybin significantly impairs subjects' ability to gauge time intervals longer than 2.5 seconds, impairs their ability to synchronize to inter-beat intervals longer than 2 seconds, and reduces their preferred tapping rate.
Dosages of LSD are measured in micrograms (µg), or millionths of a gram. By comparison, dosages of most drugs, both recreational and medicinal, are measured in milligrams (mg), or thousandths of a gram. For example, an active dose of mescaline, roughly 0.2 to 0.5 g, has effects comparable to 100 µg or less of LSD. Psilocybin comprises approximately 1% of the weight of Psilocybe cubensis mushrooms, atypical recreational dose is 10–50 mg, which is roughly equivalent to 10–50 grams of fresh mushrooms, or 1–5 grams of dried mushrooms. Psilocybin is about 100 times less potent than LSD on a weight per weight basis, and the physiological effects last about half as long.

The bus came to a stop so abruptly that I nearly spilled my coffee. I slapped my hand over the lid at the last second. I succeeded in saving my clothes but earned myself what felt like a first degree burn in the process. A fair enough trade, I guess.
I shook the last few scalding drops of black coffee off my hand and, finally, spared a look forward through the bulletproof windshield to see what had stopped up. Fortunately, it was random security checkpoint and not a wannabe superhero trying to rescue a cat from a tree or something. The week before I was actually late for work for that very reason. Major Blunder had, somehow, managed to launch a minivan into the eighteenth floor of a skyscraper while trying to separate a cat from a tree. He succeeded, after a fashion. The cat was no longer in a tree. Granted, it probably would have been simpler and cause fewer sinkholes if he pulled the cat out and left the tree in place. But the Major has never been one to be accused of shaving with Occam's Razor.
The driver opened the door and a man wearing the full helmet and tactical gear of the Polyhuman Defense and Reconstruction Squad entered the bus.
"May I have your attention please," his muffled voice said through the facial obscuring mask, "We are asking you all to submit to a saliva test. After everyone has provided a specimen you will all be allowed to proceed normally. We thank you for your cooperation."
A saliva test? They were really getting desperate now.
The purpose of the checkpoints, besides adding yet another layer of humiliation to modern living, were mostly a form of theater. The government didn't know what to do about the polyhumans so they made a big pretense that they were doing something. Checkpoints and random security sweeps guaranteed that every resident of the District was screened for polyhumanism at least once a week. The problem with such an approach was that there was no actual test that could distinguish human from polyhuman.
I sat in my seat and sipped coffee as two more uniformed guards entered the bus and started making their way down the aisle. Each one took one half the bus. Forcing every passenger to bite down on a paper strip. The guards made a pretense of studying the strips after removing them from the passengers' mouths before dropping them into a plastic jug one of them was carrying.
It was a waste of time, I knew, but protesting would accomplish nothing. People felt safer knowing that the government was still going through the motions of doing something about the crisis. Since that was about all the government could do, they went all out on it.
Eventually my turn came up and I held my mouth open as the guard shoved the strip in. I bit down. It tasted a bit like aspirin. I opened my mouth again when ordered to do so and he pretended to look at the strip before tossing it into the waste container. The guards moved past me and I went back to sipping my coffee.
The coffee did a lot to wash away the lingering aftertaste of the paper. I wasn't terribly sure what the paper had been coated in. Some laboratory concoction designed more for an unpleasant taste than actual effectiveness. For some reason people associate unpleasantness with effectiveness.The more a salve burned the more it healed. The worst a medicine tasted the faster it worked.
After they worked their way to the end of the bus the two guards quick marched back to the front to talk to the first guard who had entered the bus. He was still standing there at the entrance clearly waiting for something.
"They all test negative for the polyhuman genetic marker," one of the guards told his, presumably, commanding officer. The guard made this statement as if he were addressing his superior, but in a voice that was loud enough to carry all the way to the back of the bus.
"Then let's move out," the commanding officer said.
The guards all marched out of the bus without a second glance and, sure enough, I felt the built up tension on the bus relax. It was as if we were a giant balloon that had been overinflated and now someone was bleeding away the excess pressure. I could almost hear what they were thinking.
"They aren't on this bus after all," ran the collective thought, "We're safe in here."
Seriously. A genetic marker for polyhumanism. How could people just fall for such a blatantly ridiculous lie? Would people really trade their common sense for just the smallest figment of a sense of security? I glanced around the bus at all the relieved smiles and had my answer.
I gulped down the last dregs of my coffee and remained silent.
I was half an hour late for work by the time the bus pulled up in front of the Post-Times building. Although the building was named after the two newspapers that had merged to form it, technically speaking, neither paper still existed. Instead the massive 100 story tall building was home to the single largest media conglomerate that still operated in the District. VanCorp. Television, blogging, and even the serials before movies. We did it all.
I pushed my way through the crowd and through the revolving door. The door itself was so large that, if it was not so perpetually crowded, I probably could have skied through it without clipping myself. Once inside the lobby I saw the 200 inch screen on the far wall was displaying a scene from the northern edge of the district. On the screen, in larger than life hideous detail, I saw a man wearing a white Spandex looking full body suit punch a man wearing a red luchador mask. The man in the Luchador mask flew backwards. I mean that literally. They were both hovering about 200 feet up in the air before the blow landed. The masked man crashed into a badly battered building. On any other building that size he might have crashed through a window and - probably - plowed through an office or two. More than likely killing a few people from the pure kinetic energy of a human sized object flying so fast. However, the two had decided to pick their fight right in front of the former Empire State Building. It was such a favorite spot for slug matches between Polys that it turned out to be easier and more cost effective to simply abandon it rather than maintain the constant upkeep. These days the building doesn't have much glass and the chunks of brick and mortar that do explode out of it fall safely in the three block containment zone erected around the former tallest building in the world.
The camera attempted to locate which one of the human sized holes the masked man had just created as it zoomed it. The cameraman with the telephoto lens was either really observant or really lucky because he managed to capture the moment as the man with the luchador mask came barrelling back out of the building and screaming with rage. As he flew away from the building he seemed to shimmer for a moment. Almost like there was a huge heat source between him and the camera causing the air to ripple. Then he vanished. Well, mostly vanished. The luchador mask was still right where it had been.
I saw Ward Walters standing in front of the television looking more distressed than normal.
"Oh no!" I heard him mutter to himself as I approached, "Collateral Damage and Incogamigo are fighting! They'll tear the city apart."
"Unlikely," I said as I stepped up beside him, "The New Jersey Barricade should keep most of the damage contained."
He almost jumped out of his skin in surprise at hearing me approach. The fact that I can sneak up on him without bothering to sneak is actually kind of depressing. Ward is a Polyhuman. Worse, he fancies himself as a superhero.
Despite the fact that the building is supposed to be filled with the District's best and most distinguished investigative reporters, as far as I can tell I'm the only one who figured out that the guy who does the local high school sports write up is a Poly.
I haven't told Ward that I figured out his secret yet. Mostly because, if I do, he'll probably try to do something embarrassing to try to keep me quiet. Plus, I just feel sorry for the guy. He's a speedster. When in his Poly body he can run at speeds in excess of five hundred miles per hour. Pretty impressive, really. Unfortunately for him, he has a tendency to try to pick fights with "super villains" with a flying superpower. So he mostly spends a lot of time standing on the ground and yelling while waving his arms. Also, his superhero name is - no kidding - "Runs Real Fast Man." I can't turn someone like that into the PDRS. He'd probably start bawling.
"Dennis!" he gasped in surprise as he, finally, remembered how to talk.
"Desmond," I corrected him. Again.
"Desmond," he said, "Right, right. I was just, uh, looking at the video and thinking about what a shame it is."
"Uh huh," I say as I look up at the over muscled figure hovering in front of the wreck of the Empire State Building while trying to slap fight his mostly unseen antagonist, "Real shame."
"Someone should stop them," Ward said. More to himself than to me.
"Ayep," I say as I stand there next to him.
He cleared his throat and then tried to steal a glance at his wristwatch. In his normal human form he was a slight man who barely came up to my shoulder. He shifted from foot to foot nervously causing me to slide discretely to the side so as to prevent his pendulum movements from brushing his gel soaked hair against my sleeve. I wasn't sure how many times I'd have to wash to get that shit out, but it was probably more quarters than I could afford to feed the machine.
I decided to let him off the hook.
"Well, gotta go," I said.
"Oh, don't leave!" he said with obvious relief, "I was just about to invite you to, uh, um."
"Rain check," I tell him, "But you go have fun doing . . . something."
He nodded vigorously and then started running in the direction of the restrooms. I sighed in exasperation.
"The mens room is on the right!" I shouted after him.
"Oh! Thanks for the reminder, Diedriech!" he shouted back as he altered his course. Satisfied that I spared him yet another session of sexual harassment refresher training compliments of the HR department, I set off in search of an elevator.
I stepped off on the nineteenth floor and made a beeline towards my desk. With a bit of luck Gary would be somewhere else."
"Desmond!" Gary shouted before I made it five feet towards my desk.
Shit.
I froze in place and tried to force my face to look appropriately cowed and sheepish.
"I know I'm late, Gary," I began apologizing before I even looked in his direction, "But there was this spot checkpoint and-"
"That's not what I want to talk to you about!" Gary snapped as he stepped in front of me, "I want to talk to you about the work you did on Mark Tuttle's blog post."
I frowned.
"I gave you my assessment," I protested weakly, "You asked me to fact check the post and I did it."
"When I ask you to fact check a post," Gary said slowly, "I expect a bit more detail in the assessment than 'Complete pack of lies. Would not trust the byline in absence of a birth certificate.'"
I took a step backwards. Gary's hairline is about even with the bridge of my nose. Mid forties with a bodybuilder's physique that is well on its way to middle aged obesity. Still, there is something intimidating about the man I just can't put my finger on. Maybe it's the fact that his hair and beard remind me a bit of Lon Chaney's wolf man.
"I . . . I . . . " I stammered helplessly.
"And in the suggestion box I expect more than, 'Just print it on toilet paper and be done with it,'" he added.
"I thought I was being fair," I said.
His scowl deepened. It deepened so much that I was half afraid the lines would snap his face in half.
"You're a fact checker," he reminded me, "Your job is to find out which statements can be verified and which cannot. We bounce it upstairs for the insightful commentary."
What he meant by that was one of the six 24 hour news stations housed in the building. The results of a careful fact checking analysis often decided which station covered it. If, for example, the blog had a liberal slant and was found to be grossly in error we would bump it over to Hardline News, our conservative broadcast, where one of the talking heads would shred it live on the air.. If, however, it had a liberal slant and was found to be largely truthful it would be bumped to a different floor where Moore Reports, a liberal leaning broadcast, would praise the insightful people to its own If the post was not political at all it might go to either Action Newz or one of two different streaming broadcasts of general interest news. If it was celebrity gossip that means it probably will go to Star Power and its talking heads channel.
Whatever the results of a fact check, positive or negative, we could find a way to spin it to feed the tastes of some raving core audience who foamed at the mouth in excitement over their own chosen content while scoffing and denouncing the other five channels content. All while ignoring that the news channels, the social media pages, and even the blogs themselves were all owned by the same media corporation.
Fortunately, Gary's anger tended to be short lived. I saw some of the tension leave his face and thought I had a chance of, maybe, surviving the next few minutes after all.
"Look," he said at last, "You're better than this. You do good work when you aren't throwing a snit. Now shape up. I'm not kidding. I need you to work with George on tonight's Black Reaper story."
I groaned again. Louder this time.
"Gary," I begged, "Please don't do this to me. I am telling you. The Black Reaper is bull shit."
"It's news, Desmond," he reminded me, "And he told everyone he was going to denounce the Mayor himself."
"He always does that when the mayor's approval rating slips," I pointed own, "And he always gives the Mayor time to drive home and make a quick costume change before making these announcements."
"Are you still on that rant that the Mayor is secretly a Poly?" Gary asked wearily, "Because we've been over this. It doesn't check out."
"He's not a Poly," I corrected, "He's just donned a stupid looking mask and is pretending to be a Poly on camera. Why else would he call Mayor Seffarill 'Mayor Sex Appeal'?"
"Lots of Polys are creepy," Gary said with an indifferent shrug, "Remember The Innuendo? When that old woman died of a heart attack he expressed his condolences to the family by telling them that her death would be the second worst thing to happen to her that day. And then he winked at them before flying off with the corpse. Or how about Roofie Lad?"
"The Black Reaper isn't being creepy," I said, "He's a Mayor Seffarill fanboy. And no one is as big of a fan of Seffarill as Seffarill is."
"I think we're getting off topic," Gary said while rubbing his fingers against his temples and sighing with exhaustion, "You and I are in the business of looking for things we can prove. You can't prove that the Black Reaper is the Mayor. So, for now, we focus on what we can prove is true and false about the speech he is broadcasting tonight."
"Fine," I said with a dismissive wave, "But I'm still right about the mayor."
"Sure," Gary said, voice dripping with sarcasm,,"The most powerful man in the entire District invents a boogey man just to keep his numbers up. Like, has that ever happened? Now, forget all this conspiracy nonsense and get back to work fact checking those fringe blog posts. Moore and Hardline are currently arguing about whether the Polyhuman Drone Net is really just being used to watch for Polyhuman activity or if it is being used to spy on average citizens. They both need proof to support their side of the debate."
"Which one is taking which side?" I asked.
"They're both taking both sides," he explained testily, "It's the best way of being right while proving the other one is wrong. Now stop asking silly questions and get back to work."
I went back to work.
I slunked back to my desk and fired up the ancient PC. The general consensus in VanCorp is the the fact checking department doesn't need a lot of computing power as we were mostly accessing public records and other on-line resources. I get paid by the hour so a half hour boot time doesn't generally bother me too much. As the computer wheezed and gasped its way to life, I grabbed a coffee mug with the intention of heading to the coffee machine to replace what spilled this morning. But, as I swiveled my chair around I found myself blocked by a pair of knockout sexy legs protruding from a pair of fuckme heels.
I followed the legs upwards. Up over a miniskirt with the consistency of Saran-Wrap that hugged her hips so tightly you'd think they just came back from being deployed overseas. Up over a narrow waist to a plunging neckline exposing enough cleavage to require a mule and climbing gear to really explore. I didn't want to, but I moved up anyway. As I feared, I saw the glaring face of Action Newz Anchorwoman Maddie Aberworthy.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded as she shoved a sheet of paper in my face. I glanced at the top and saw it was a report I had signed off on two days earlier.
"Sorry?" I asked, "What's the problem? It's a fact check from a statement made by Sam Rose regarding fraudulent spending in public works. I verified that the company hired to perform the construction really is the brother-in-law of the Councilmember Keene."
"Not that part!" she snapped, "This part!"
She tapped a note I made in red ink. "Verified by public records."
"That means I used publically available records to confirm my information," I explained.
"I know what it means," she yelled, "What I want to know is why would you say such a thing? I can't go live with this! It's boring! People want to know that Maddie Aberworthy - that's me in case you forgot - dug down deep to expose the hidden truth. That I risked my life uncovering what no one else could. Get it?"
"You want me to lie on a fact check report?" I asked.
She let out a huff of air.
"Why does this have to be so complicated?" she demanded.
"I can't do that," I explained slowly, "If you thought about it you'd realize exactly why I can't do that."
"And why is that?"
"Because," I said as I pointed back at the hallway, "The 'Artistic License' department is down the hall to the left. Second door past the water fountain."
Her face shifted from one of stormy rage to an embarrassed look of dismay. Once more she looked like the trademark perfectly coiffed darling of the news team. She flashed her perfect teeth at me and darted her eyes in the direction I pointed.
"Did I go to the wrong department again?" she asked.
"It's a big building," I said, "Easy to do."
She nodded once and gave me a coy wink.
"Thanks," she said, "I've had an off day. I had to argue with the accounting department again. They actually had the nerve to suggest that a four star hotel room was not a necessary business expense. As if I could just go to some cheap roadside motel with VP of Broadcasting. This is my career they are talking about!"
"Excuse me," I asked in surprise, "You comp your affairs? You can do that?"
"Well, I can do that," she pointed out, "You? Probably not. But, hey, we still need people like you in this world to . . . uh. Sorry, I forgot what you do around here."
"Fact Checker," I reminded her.
"Oh," she said and thought about it for a second before shrugging, "Yeah, I guess there's room for a few facts in the news. Just don't go overboard. Well, gotta go to Artistic Licensing. Toodles!"
She blew me a kiss and flounced off down the corridor towards AL.
I balled my hand into a fist and counted down from 100 under my breath. Gary was right. I was slipping. It was getting to me again. I could feel it calling to me. Like a pressure behind my eyes. The Other Me was clawing at his cage. Trying to get out. It would be so easy, too. Flip that invisible switch inside my head and then - bang! It'd be all over.
I opened my eyes and saw that, without quite realizing I was doing it, I had already moved my hands into position. Hands on either side of my chest with my palms up and facing each other. I forced myself to stop shoved my arms outwards and flat on my desk. I shot a nervous glance to my cubicle door to see if anyone had spotted what I had been unconsciously doing. For once, though, luck seemed to be with me. I was alone.
A saliva test for Polyhumanism? Dumb and, when you really think about it, completely unnecessary. The only real test for Polyhumanism is to sit back and wait. Sooner or later, we can't help ourselves. We give in and tap that power. And the madness with it.
Most people alive today can tell you exactly where they were on the day of the Cross Potent. The day the sun sang. Or, at least, it did for a small percentage of us.
Scientists still don't know what the Cross Potent really was. It was as if four strangely regular solar flares erupted from the sun all at once. Four T shaped fiery protrusions that framed the sun and cast an eerie red glow on the planet for exactly twenty three hours, nineteen minutes, and fifty four point three seconds. Just shy of a full day of bombarding the planet with this eerie light.
As for myself, I barely remember it. I was only six years old at the time. The crosses first appeared before the sun rose in this hemisphere but reports were coming in from Europe all ready. Half of the experts were warning everyone to stay indoors while the other half were advising the phenomenon was harmless and to go about your daily business. The day started out with people panicking but, after a few hours of apparent nothingness, fear turned into boredom.
Like I said, I barely remember the day itself. I was too young to understand what was going on or why people on the TV seemed to be so upset. I just knew that mom and dad wouldn't let me go outside to play so, I assumed, it had something to do with the weather. However, around noon they finally relented and in my young mind that meant it stopped raining. I ran outside hoping to splash in a puddle or two before my mother stopped me. But after crashing through the front door I found the world outside was exactly as bone dry as I remembered it. Confused, I looked up and saw the strange pattern in the sky. That's when I heard the singing.
Statistically speaking, I was a rarity. So rare, in fact, that reports of the phenomenon were still largely dismissed as hearsay at that point. Less than one person in a thousand said that when they looked up that day they didn't just see the lights but also heard singing. Not like human singing, but something else. To me, it sounded almost like bells being rung under water or, maybe, a badly tuned radio picking up radio interference. Except none of that is quite right either. It was something not quite music but also not quite noise. There was a pattern to it. A rhythm that I could almost but not exactly hear. I thought if I could just focus a bit more and filter through the noise I could actually hear words. Words spoken in an alien language that, somehow, I would still be able to learn. Then, just as suddenly as it happened, it was gone. There were still strange lights in the sky, but now they were silent once more.
The first recorded superhero was a man who called himself Peacekeeper. He wore a gold one piece outfit that covered him from neck to toe. Behind him trailed a white cape with a silver trim. He wore a gold domino mask and had the chiseled good looks of a movie star. He appeared out of thin air someplace in India and rescued a child who had fell on the tracks before an oncoming train. Peacekeeper was soon joined by other heroes. The Blue Scorpion. Lightning Jane. Fracture. All do-gooders who seemed to want to help others. It was almost six weeks before the supervillains showed up.
Triggerman. Blazer. Ice Pirate. Others followed and soon it seemed as if every day there was some sort of fight playing out between the heroes and villains while normal humans sat on the sidelines. Then, about eight months after the Cross Potent, Peacekeeper announced he had a new name and a new costume as well. Gone was the gold leotard. Now he wore a costume made out of bits of cutlery that had been welded - sloppily - into something that mostly covered his torso. All sorts of knives of different shapes and sizes covered his chest and arms. Blades pointed every which way. He called himself "Mr. Knife Guy" and now saved the day by stabbing people. Not just criminals either. Sometimes his solution to stopping a crime was to stab the victim or an innocent bystander.
Triggerman started calling himself the Urinator. His stopped robbing banks and kidnapping millionaires and started exposing himself in public and urinating on statues. It got worse from there. The Ice Pirate, who had a power to freeze water, opened an ice cream parlour and insisted in only being paid in cans of baked beans. Something he insisted would be the new currency once the zombies attacked.
More and more superpowered persons appeared who were neither hero nor villain. More like super weirdoes. Of all people, it was Mr. Knife Guy aka Peacekeeper who helped provide part of the answer about what was going on.
Ever since the first appearance of Peacekeeper, people all over the world were looking for this man's "true identity." Granted, there are a lot of people in the world but a six foot five guy white guy built like a linebacker with Hollywood looks was a much narrower pool to draw from. So, imagine everyone's surprise when a sixty three year old accountant from New Delhi named Pranav Dutta was arrested by police after his neighbor saw the man trying to amputate his own hands in his kitchen. As Dutta was hauled away he screamed about needing to do this to keep from stabbing people.
Naturally, everyone assumed he was simply insane. He looked and sounded nothing like Mr. Knife Guy and, more importantly, trying to chop off your own limbs is seldom the sign of a rational mind. Dutta was interrogated more out of fear that he might actually be a real serial killer rather than the semi-mythical cutlery wearing vigilante thrill killer. During the interrogation the presumed insane Dutta claimed that if he "completed the circuit" he would swap bodies with Mr. Knife Guy body.
What happened next was as tragic as it was inevitable. The authorities demanded a demonstration. After much harassing, Dutta complied. Mr. Knife Guy killed three officers as he tore his way out of the police station that day. Dutta has never been seen next.
It would be another three years before another Polyhuman in his non-super body was captured and more of the story was discovered.
The Poly that was caught the second time was a minor player by the name of Boom Harangue. Boom had the ability to use his voice as a sonic weapon. Boom was caught changing back to human form on a hidden security camera. As such "his" real identity was discovered to be a sixteen year old teenage girl from Idaho named Michelle Riley. Riley was apprehended by local police at her high school and from her we learned the following details.
First and foremost, she too reported she had heard the sun sing on the day of the Cross Potent. Of the dozen cases of Polyhumans that have been apprehended, all reported hearing the sun sing on that day. Secondly, she confirmed something that had been only half seen in the Dutta video. To activate her body swap she had to press her palms together over her chest. Completing the circuit as Dutta described it.
Riley stated that she discovered the trick of swapping her body with Boom's by trial and error. Once discovered she had actually tried to be a superhero at first. However, the longer she spent in the body of Boom the more she felt a change taking place over her own mind. She likened it to losing touch with reality and losing herself within the superpower body.
The term Polyhuman Psychosis was eventually coined to described the condition. The erosion of morality and sanity that came with prolonged use of the superbody. Unfortunately, one part that Riley neglected to mention was that once someone uses the superbody that they become almost immediately addicted to it. Every time a Poly in his or her human body feels stressed or threatened the urge to switch over kicks in. The more time they spend in the superbody the worse the psychosis gets.
That little omission proved to be a crucial one as the new broadcast their findings. Suddenly thousands of people across the globe not only realized they had superpowers, but also the key to unlocking them.
By the time five o'clock rolled around I was more than ready to go home. Unfortunately, I wasn't allowed to clock out until six thirty. So, that wasn't doing me a lot of good.
I flipped through the stack of articles I was still supposed to scour and felt my stomach twist itself into a knot. No matter how savagely I attacked the pile of work in my inbox it always seemed to grow faster than what was in the outbox.
The first article was a supposed history of the dissolution of the United States. A quick glance told me that it was more propaganda and speculation than hard facts. It tried to tie the fact that the United States broke apart due to the rumors that there was at least one Poly secretly working at the highest levels of the government. That much was certainly true. In fact, the witch hunt that took places as various Congressmen and Senators turned on one another to rout out the Poly was supposedly part of what lead to the Mid-Nebraska bombing ten years ago.
The article started out strong with well documented and easily verified facts, but then shot off on a tangent suggesting the Polys were actually responsible for the breakup and that was the goal all along. The former USA broke into four fortified zones that were, in theory, actively trying to contain and repel the Poly menace. The largest of these was made up of what used to be composed of most of the Eastern seaboard. Called the District, it was where I myself lived and worked. I live in the middle part. Near where Washington DC once stood. In fact, the charred remains of the Capitol Building can be seen from the rooftop of my apartment building on a clear day. The other three zones are, in order from largest to smallest, Big Sur, Lake Land, and Big Sky.
Big Sur occupies most of the area west of the Rockies. Lake Land stretched from the Great Lakes down along the Mississippi River. Big Sky is more northerly and near the Reformed Canadian Republic. Although there is some commerce between the zones, population movement between the zones is strictly forbidden. The idea is to contain Polys and prevent them from changing locales. Each zone deals with its own populace and tries to rout out their own Polys. By quarantining and containing Polys to specific zones it was believed it would help Anti-Poly Squads to more easily identify the human counterparts of a Poly.
The article accurately expressed these concepts but then advanced a theory that all this was actually a secondary goal. The real purpose was to evacuate a fifth zone of the country, the so-called NevaZona.
Located in the Sonoran Desert, the article proposed that NevaZona was set up by Polyhumans as a safe zone for other Polys. NevaZona was, according to the article at least, both the smallest but also the most technologically advanced of the walled city-states that had formed from the former USA. The technology boost, so the article claimed, was due to the influx of superpowered thinkers like Dr. Brain, the Mind Basher, and the Cerebral Hemorrhage. Three supers that, I might add, are only rumored to have existed in the first place. None of the official Polyhuman catalogs mention their existence or verify that such a superpower even exists.
The piece was complete garbage and, as usual when I was forced to work on such things, I felt my anger rise. I wanted to hunt down the author and hurt him. Hurt him for wasting my time and injuring the brains of internet users. I pushed the article aside instead and tried to work on the next one in the stack.
This one was, if anything, even worse. This one also concerned Polys. Or, rather, one specific Poly. Apex Earthquake.
Apex Earthquake is what is classified as a "brute." Super strength combined with near invulnerability. In his superbody he is about nine feet tall and his costume is . . . well, he doesn't have one. He walks around in the buff and smashes things with his bare hands while laughing. He's been locked out of the city walls for the past eight years. As far as anyone can tell, he's never reverted back to human during that time. Possibly because he's afraid to slip into his vulnerable state while outside the District's defenses. Naturally, he's gone quite insane since then.
The article was basically a love letter to Apex Earthquake. It tried to paint him as some sort of misunderstood hero and played down his threats to "smash open the gates with my throbbing hard on" as just being the playful taunts of a frustrated champion of peace.
The District does not have a lot of land suitable for agriculture so much of our produce still comes in from Big Sky and Big Sur. We have to track Apex Earthquakes movements by satellite and adjust the flight paths of our food shipments to avoid him or else he'll throw stones and knock the planes out of the air. This article states he likely smells poison and is trying to protect the people inside.
It gets worse from there. The article tries to excuse some of the more misogynistic rants Apex Earthquake has shouted through the walls as just "boyish exuberance" and maintains that the raider patrols he's hunted down and squashed to jelly are just Apex's way of expressing the problems with a police state.
I picked up the third article to see if it was any better.
"Mayor Sefarril is Black Reaper" it read. I perked up a bit until I noticed that the article almost immediately referred to the mayor as a "sexy man of the people" and gave a lot of easily disputed claims. Like claims of Black Reaper sightings that the mayor could not account for his own whereabouts. Except, I knew that every one of those times listed the Mayor was making some sort of public appearance. It was the Black Reaper sightings that were false.
A false flag campaign from the Mayor himself, I summarized. It was easy enough to figure out seeing as how he used his own personalized stationary with the government letterhead.
I shoved this one aside too. Unfortunately, it reminded me that the "Black Reaper" was due to make his speech soon. He had to do it early tonight due to the fact the mayor also had a business dinner scheduled at 7:00. I logged into my computer and jumped to the ViewU stream where the Reaper was supposed to livestream his government approved rant.
I was just queueing up my recording software when my phone rang. This nearly made me scream in surprise. It had been so long since I had heard the thing ring I had completely forgotten what it sounded like. In a media conglomerate as big as VanCorp, the fact check department is surprisingly unpopular and underfunded. It's almost as if facts are no longer important.
I picked up the handset experimentally and held it to my ear.
"Desmond Childress?" I asked. Yes, I realize I wasn't the one who was supposed to be uncertain about my name but I hadn't done this in awhile and I wasn't sure how I was supposed to answer. It didn't matter.
"Run!" the voice shouted at me. It took me a few seconds to realize I recognized it. Ward.
"What?" I asked.
"A raid is coming," he said, "The PDRS is entering the building right now!"
"What are you talking about, Ward?" I asked.
"Shut up!" he said, "Someone tipped them off."
"Tipped them off?" I repeated. I felt my heart sink. How did they know? I was so careful. It couldn't be. I stood up and tried to peer over the cubicle wall by standing on tiptoe. So far the office still sounded quiet.
"Where are you?" I asked as I settled down again and whispered.
"In my apartment," he said, voice cracking, "Oh God. Dennis. I didn't know who else to call. They're going to be here any minute."
Something clicked into place and I felt my gut unclench. He meant his building. Not where I was.
"Ward?" I asked.
"They figured it out," he sobbed, "Dennis. They know it's me! They know I'm a Poly. How could I have been so stupid?"
"Ward?" I repeated, "Are you calling me on a mobile?"
"What? No, I don't have one. Why?"
"You mean they didn't cut your landline?" I asked, "They make a big production of showing up and let you make a phone call?"
Ward is quiet for a moment.
"Uh oh," he says.
I slam the phone back in the base and grab my jacket. I start running for the stairs and completely ignore the elevator. It turned out to be a good call as I heard the elevator ding a moment later followed by the sound of booted feet running. I bounced through the door to the stairwell and half ran and half fell down the stairs. If it was possible to outrun my own terminal velocity I would have done so. I was in trouble. Being accused of being a Poly was bad. But being accused of being a Poly sympathizer wasn't much better. And dumbass Ward had used his one free call to contact me.
I heard the door above me explode open.
"Halt!" A voice shouted. I don't think he saw me. He probably just heard me running and yelled it under the assumption I was doing something wrong.
I pushed open the next door I saw and exited the stairwell. I thought I might be on the sixth floor now but everything got confusing as I darted down the stairs. Fortunately, wherever I was, this floor seemed to be mostly deserted at the moment. I glanced around. No obvious security cameras. I darted away from the stairs and headed towards an empty office. I didn't even bother looking at the name on the door. I wouldn't be there long. I slammed the door shut behind me and looked out the window. The sun was still up. That would make this next part difficult.
I held my hands up next to my chest, palms facing each other, and slammed them together to complete the circuit. For a fleeting second the world went dark as my human body was yanked away from all this. Something warm and soft enveloped me like a blanket. Then I felt the other me rushing forward. I was in neither body and then, all at once, I was in my superbody. I could feel the difference. The world returned and I was once more standing inside a stranger's office building. But I was no longer Desmond Childress. Now Wraith was in the room. And Wraith was not happy.
I was taller as Wraith than as Desmond. Almost seven feet tall. Pale skinned with an athletic body and jet black hair. I reached out with one long nailed finger and try to draw upon the shadows. It was too bright out. Most of my powers relied upon darkness. Well, then we do this the hard way. I ran towards the window and crashed through it.
The window exploded around me. Shards of glass cut into my flesh. Shredding it. I ignored it. The pain stopped almost immediately as the flesh began knitting itself. I am not invulnerable. I am, however, a rapid regenerator. I fell for a few feet before I managed to pass through a shadow cast by another building. That brief moment of darkness was all that I needed to lower my body density enough to become an apparition. I was now floating in the air. With a bit of concentration I was able to orient my body towards the housing district.
First things first, I found myself thinking. I was going to tear that little shit Ward's head off!
I started flying.

For those who didn't see the first poster(test): http://i.imgur.com/PJFVqRw.jpg This is going to take me about a year of work and if people are using it and are learning with it then I will start expanding it to other centuries. I will make it in the form of a dynamic timeline (website) and will also have it in poster format.
ERAS
Industrial Revolution
European Imperialism
France 19th Century
Edo Period, Meji Period
Qing Dinasty
Tanzimat, First Constitutional Era
Russian Empire
The Gilded Age
The Wild West
Austrian Empire
End of Little Ice Age
Famine in the 19th century
EVENTS
Merging of Ireland and GB into the UK
Independence Haiti
Russo-Persian war
Trafalgar
End of the Holy Roman Empire
Finnish War
Creation of the University of Berlin
Independence Latin America
Discovery of Antarctica
Creation of Liberia
Decemberist Revolt
Creation of Belgium
Dissolution of Greater Colombia
Irish Diaspora
California Gold Rush
Taiping Rebellion
Great Exhibition
Crimean War
Convention of Kanagawa
Indian Rebellion 1857
American Civil War
Circassian Genocide
Famine in Finland
Purchase of Alaska
Franco Prussian War
PEOPLE
Napoleon I
Muhammad Ali
Queen Victoria
Edison
Tesla
Alexander II
Clara Barton
Benito Juarez
Franz Joseph I
Abraham Lincoln
Karl Marx
James Clerk Maxwell
Darwin
Pasteur
Marie Curie
Beethoven
Michael Faraday
Bolivar
Monet
Robert Koch
Manet
Van Gogh
Nietzsche
Hong Xiuquan
Bismarck
Arthur Rimbaud
Karl Benz
Mangal Pandey
Joseph Lister
Alexander von Humboldt
Jose de San Martin
Anton Chekhov
Guglielmo Marconi
Graham Bell
Louis Daguerre
John Dalton
Science and Engineering
Morphine
Anesthesia
Aluminum
Oil Refinery
On the Origin of Species
Periodic Table
Aspirin
Steam Engine
Locomotive
Telephone
Telegraph
Internal Combustion Engine
The Rifle
Ironclad ships
Electricity
Light bulb
Photography
tattoo machine
ART
Romanticism
Academic Art
Realism
Impressionism
neo impressionism
symbolism
EXTRAS
Murderers
Funny events
Words invented
living conditions in different countries
entertainment
food

So I've scoured the Internet and several books in search of a proper answer, but alas, I've not found one. I've tested solutions with varying pH's and the time taken for the aspirin to dissolve increases as the pH decreases, but I've found no explanation for it. Any ideas?